The haunting of Bhangarh Fort
No one is allowed inside Bhangarh Fort after dark. It’s a government edict and there’s a sign outside the Lahori Gate forbidding it. While the government has never explicitly said why the law stands, any local from Jaipur to Bundi knows the answer. “Because of the ghosts,” they’ll say. “Because of the curse.”
The fort has a new name for those who believe the legends. Bhoot Bangla they call it; “the House of Ghosts.” Bhangarh has earned a reputation as the most haunted place in India and one of the most haunted in the world. The rumors persist that anyone who forgoes the warnings and stays the night in the old abandoned place will end up dead — if they’re ever found at all.
There’s little written evidence to be found about the final days of Bhangarh. The fort, it seems, was abandoned after an attack by invading Mughal forces out of Ajabgarh. But that’s as much speculation as the stories about what lead to its ultimate fate.
The two pervasive legends about Bangarh’s demise are the sort spoken of in hushed tones. The first is that of an old sadhu, or holy man, named Baba Blanath. He had given permission for the town to be built so long as the buildings cast no shadows over his land. The maharaja agreed and all was thought to be well.
When a greedy prince built higher and higher, though, his palace blocked the sun from Baba Balnath’s property. In retribution, he cursed the whole civilization, laying waste to its citizens — every man, woman, and child inside the gates. Baba Balnath, they say, is buried nearby.
The other tale is that of Singhiya, a practitioner of dark arts who was in love with the beautiful princess of Bhangarh, Ratnavati.
Knowing that he was no match for her handsome suitors, Singhaya prepared a potion for the princess that would cause her to lust after him. He put it in a perfume bottle and on her eighteenth birthday, he gave it to her as a gift.
Wise to his trickster ways, Ratnavati took the bottle of perfume and threw it to the ground, dashing it against a stone. Covered in the potion, the boulder lurched forward, rolling after the wizard until it finally caught him, crushing his body. With his dying breath, he cursed Bangarh, a curse that no one — not even Ratnavati — would survive.
Whichever story is told, the ending is the same. The citizens of the fated citadel were doomed to wander the fort in desolation for the rest of time. Now, their resting place is a destination for the adventurous seeking truth beyond the grave.
Intrigued by the stories and reputation, we traveled for two hours northeast of Jaipur in a car with shoddy a/c and seatbelts but no buckles. The only English our driver spoke was the few familiar words that Hindi had long ago assimilated. We rambled down dusty, broken roads through towns whose names won’t easily be found on maps. We arrived in the intense Rajhastani heat, stopping outside the gates and below the sign warning us to leave before dark.
There’s an eerie sense of existence walking through the old marketplace that leads to the palace. For being almost entirely untended, the buildings have survived surprisingly well, but that makes the absence of life feel more abundant and obvious. These were businesses, even homes, where people lived and worked. Then one fateful day, it was a place where they all died.
The old fort sits on the slope of the mountain surrounded by ancient temples now occupied by macaques who wander the grounds in search of food. A dying oasis sits below the fort; what little water is left has turned green and viscous. Banyan trees grow through the old buildings, absorbing the stones and dragging them back to nature.
The once-grand palace, which stood seven stories tall, has been cut down to only four. Wandering too far into the desolate building leads to dark rooms filled with stale air. In the pitch-black is the sound of thousands of rustling bats clinging to the ceiling, waiting for night to feed.
We explored the grounds, searching the sun-bleached temples and the decaying fortress. Again, the pervasive uneasiness of knowing that once upon a time other people had walked the same hallways and prayed to the altars that we stood in front of. People that had likely been killed there for one reason or another.
There were no ghosts that we could find, but Bhangarh is still haunted by the memories of a more opulent time. The great halls have crumbled, the banisters have fallen, the fountains have dried up. Fantastic murals of ruby red and lapis lazuli blue have been cracked and worn down to the stone they were painted on, stripped of their elegance by harsh elements they were never meant to face.
This was once the abode of kings, meant to protect them, their lands, and their people forever. Now, it’s home to the shambling spirits of the dead, and no one dares build too close to the poisoned ground of the lost kingdom. Whether because of unrequited love, a cantankerous old man, or the marauding forces of invading Mughals, Bangarh Fort stands ownerless in the unforgiving desert, being eaten away by time and dust.
