The winter sun cast a gentle glow over Kapurthala as I first glimpsed the palace, its domes shimmering through the haze above the Sainik School grounds, resembling a dream from Europe nestled in the plains of Punjab. Approaching, I felt more like a pilgrim than a visitor, crossing into a different era. I was warmly welcomed by the Principal, Vice Principal, and a teacher from the Sainik School, whose hospitality reminded me that this was still a place of discipline, despite the fading grandeur. They guided me through quiet corridors adorned with frescoed ceilings, dusty chandeliers, and marble staircases worn smooth by years of use. The air was infused with a mix of age and neglect, encapsulating history itself.
Over a century ago, Maharaja Jagatjit Singh of Kapurthala envisioned creating his own Versailles. Born in 1872 and educated under British influence, he possessed a uniquely curious mind—deeply Indian yet distinctly European. During colonial rule, he traveled to Paris, London, and Rome, engaging with artists and diplomats. Captivated by Paris, he not only admired its culture but also saw it as a reflection of his aspirations. Upon returning to Punjab, he brought back plans for a palace that would rival European standards, commissioning renowned French architect M. Marcel in 1900. Materials were sourced globally—marble from Rajasthan, chandeliers from Belgium, and tapestries from Lyon.
Completed in 1908, Jagatjit Palace gleamed amidst manicured gardens, merging Eastern and Western styles, with influences from Versailles and Fontainebleau. Its façades exhibited the beaux-arts style of 19th-century France and exuded an aura of timeless elegance. Known as The Paris of Punjab, it was a testament to a dreamer who aimed to halt time, showcasing French artistry and Punjabi essence. The palace’s façade remains striking even in decay, with neo-classical columns and arched windows reminiscent of both the Seine and Doaba. The domed pavilion, echoing the Louvre, radiates remnants of the Belle Époque. Walking through its portico, I could almost envision the Maharaja, a stately figure in silk and tailored attire, welcoming guests from Europe and India.
Legend has it that during banquets, orchestral music resonated through these halls, accompanied by the fragrance of roses from the gardens wafting to the balconies where guests enjoyed French wine under the stars. Jagatjit Singh was noted as the most cosmopolitan of princes, preferring Parisian cafés over his own realm. He spent considerable time in Europe, returning each winter to Kapurthala laden with art and culture. The court communicated in French, and his palace was humorously dubbed Château Kapurthala. He dined from Sevres porcelain and corresponded with European royals, yet he embraced his Indian heritage, striving to showcase that India too could equal Europe in beauty.
Within the palace, the opulent Durbar Hall was adorned with mirrors and gilded furnishings, featuring a chandelier so vast it needed a dozen men to clean it. Italian frescoes illuminated the space, while carved rosewood thrones awaited royal occupants. Each room encapsulated history. The Maharaja’s study housed leather-bound volumes on European history, poetry, and diplomacy. His music room boasted a grand piano from Paris, where musicians played both Chopin and Tagore. The sprawling estate encompassed 200 acres of gardens, fountains, and sculptures, serving as a declaration of modernity, illustrating that India could match European tastes.
Yet, life within was distinctly Indian, with the rhythm of the court, the secluded zanana for women, and the aroma of jasmine filling the marble corridors at dusk. According to his grandson, Brigadier Sukhjit Singh, the palace bustled with activity—clerks, guards, and musicians creating a vibrant tableau. Evenings transformed the Darbar Hall into a ballroom where the Maharaja presided over dances under glittering chandeliers. A Goan conductor led the court orchestra through waltzes while guests twirled in elegant attire, leaving behind a lingering aura of music and fragrance. Jagatjit Singh’s European inclinations extended to his personal life.
While attending King Alfonso XIII’s wedding in Madrid in 1906, he fell for Spanish dancer Anita Delgado, who was eventually brought to India as Maharani Prem Kaur, his fifth and favored wife. Her arrival infused palace life with flamenco and the spirit of fin-de-siècle Europe. Draped in emeralds, she embodied the palace’s hybrid elegance. Their romance, reminiscent of E.M. Forster’s tales, unfolded against a backdrop of cultural dissonance. The Maharaja’s fascination with Europe reflected a longing for belonging. By the 1920s, his Parisian lifestyle became legendary. He maintained a pavilion in Paris, drank Evian, and commissioned jewels from Cartier.
Daily life in the palace resembled a grand performance, blending Punjabi delicacies with French pastries amid portraits of both French monarchs and Sikh ancestors. Jagatjit Singh’s palace emerged as a bridge between cultures, symbolizing early 20th-century India’s global imagination. However, the opulence masked a melancholic reality; the era of princes was fading, overtaken by independence and the decay of grandeur. Following independence, Kapurthala integrated into the Indian Union, and the aging Maharaja withdrew into memory. The palace, once a symbol of his vision, fell silent, its gardens overgrown and fountains dry. In 1961, the Sainik School was established on the premises, transforming a royal residence into an educational campus.
The laughter of royalty was replaced by the commands of cadets, and the melodies of violins gave way to morning bugles. While the school maintained much of the structure, the palace began to deteriorate, with time and neglect taking their toll. Today, though the Sainik School preserves its essence, the palace stands as a neglected masterpiece—proud yet wounded. As I walked through its quiet halls, guided by the Principal and staff, I sensed their passion for preserving the heritage. Sunlight streamed through stained glass onto a century-old piano. When I pressed a key, a clear note emerged, evoking memories of evenings when guests danced under now-dark chandeliers.
Nearby, a finely crafted clock ticked softly, surrounded by furniture from a bygone era. Artifacts, not mere objects, reflected the consciousness of a prince who sought to blend East with West. Yet, these remnants lay forgotten under layers of dust. How can an ancient nation allow such treasures to fade? The neglect of the palace is disheartening. The Durbar Hall, once a center of authority, now stands in disrepair—its gilded ceiling peeling, frescoes cracked. Chandeliers hang like whispers of light, and time-stained marble floors tell tales of bygone glory. Nevertheless, the spirit of the place remains, echoing memories of royal processions and joyous gatherings.
In the soft Punjab light, the palace retains its magnificence, undiminished by neglect, embodying an old aristocrat’s resilience. Standing in the central courtyard as the sun dipped behind the domes, I felt a deep sense of loss and responsibility. This monument deserves better; preservation is a duty to history. If we allow these frescoes to vanish and these halls to crumble, we will lose more than art; we will lose our memory. As evening fell, I glanced back one last time, seeing the palace glow in the twilight, a dream enduring against indifference. I thought of Maharaja Jagatjit Singh—cosmopolitan prince and dreamer—wondering if he would grieve or smile at the persistence of dreams.
The Jagatjit Palace stands as one of India’s remarkable achievements—a monument to dual worlds and a testament to an imaginative age. Weathered yet vibrant, it symbolizes both a warning and a promise. With care, it can rise again, restoring its music and brilliance. Perhaps one day, the old piano will once again resonate, carrying forth the unbroken dream of a Maharaja who created a piece of Paris in Punjab.
