Brij Khandelwal
Agra’s buildings are not merely bricks, stones, and domes. They are centuries-old narratives; of power and beauty, faith and coexistence, and an instinctive harmony with nature. Over five hundred years, Agra absorbed diverse civilizations and refined them into a distinctive urban and cultural identity. This city once believed that architecture could converse with rivers, gardens, and people. Today, that conversation is fading beneath noise, neglect, and pollution.
Agra became a capital in 1504 under Sikandar Lodi. Thereafter, Babur, the founder of the Mughal Empire, and later Akbar, Jahangir, and Shah Jahan, transformed the city into a centre of architectural ambition. The Yamuna River, clean, wide, and life-giving, was integral to this vision. Its presence shaped not only the city’s geography but also its aesthetics and philosophy. Even the British, centuries later, were unable to ignore Agra’s magnetism and added their own architectural layers.
Medieval historians and travellers marvelled at Agra’s composite culture, its religious plurality, and its ecological richness. Poets, saints, scholars, and merchants travelled here from distant lands, some even from Armenia. It was in Agra that Emperor Akbar experimented with Din-i-Ilahi and Sulh-i-Kul, ideas rooted in tolerance and universal harmony. The Radhasoami tradition later extended this inclusive ethos. Sikh gurus, Christian missionaries, and Sufi mystics all found the city conducive to spiritual inquiry and creative expression.
Yet Agra’s post-Independence journey has been less glorious. It is the story of a historic city caught between an extraordinary inheritance and persistent civic apathy. The struggle of its people, to preserve heritage while battling pollution, congestion, and administrative indifference, remains unresolved.
When Babur first arrived in Agra in the early sixteenth century, he disliked its harsh terrain and climate. His response was revolutionary: gardens. Drawing from the Persian charbagh tradition, he introduced water channels, greenery, and symmetry. Architecture became an act of environmental negotiation, not domination. Agra gradually evolved from a dry settlement into a city of gardens.
Akbar expanded this philosophy at Fatehpur Sikri. Using red sandstone and indigenous craftsmanship from Gujarat and Rajasthan, he created structures that were open, airy, and humane. Chhatris, jharokhas, and jalis reflected both climate intelligence and cultural synthesis. Akbar’s architecture mirrored his worldview, inclusive, grounded, and confident without arrogance.
Under Jahangir, architectural expression acquired refinement and balance. But Agra reached its zenith under Shah Jahan. His passion for white marble culminated in the Taj Mahal, an enduring symbol not just of love, but of mathematical precision, spatial harmony, and urban planning. Positioned along the Yamuna and framed by gardens, the Taj was designed to calm both the senses and the soul.
After Shah Jahan, Agra’s momentum slowed. Political priorities shifted, and architectural ambition waned. During British rule, churches, colleges, and administrative buildings emerged, European in form but often carrying Mughal undertones. Institutions like St John’s College and Agra College still stand as reminders of this hybrid phase.
Modern Agra presents a conflicted landscape. A few contemporary structures attempt to respect the city’s legacy, but most new constructions are anonymous, graceless, and indifferent to context. In a city that gave the world the Taj Mahal, this architectural mediocrity is especially painful.
And yet, Agra’s story is far from over. Mughal mausoleums, colonial-era landmarks, and selective modern interventions continue to coexist. The LIC building at Sanjay Place, designed by a distinguished Parsi architect from Mumbai; the ITC Mughal Hotel, honoured with the Aga Khan Award; and the Oberoi Amar Vilas, all demonstrate that sensitive architecture is still possible. In contrast, much government construction appears clumsy and uninspired. Meanwhile, the old city still shelters grand haveli-style homes, with carved gateways, projecting balconies, and remarkable craftsmanship quietly resisting decay.
Historic buildings do more than recount the rise and fall of empires. They embody ideas of beauty, belief, and coexistence. Agra survives because its architecture still speaks, through marble and sandstone, gardens and gateways, reminding us of a time when cities were imagined as living organisms.
Today, however, the Taj’s marble is yellowing, the Yamuna has turned black, and PM2.5 levels routinely hover between 150 and 300, ranging from “unhealthy” to “hazardous.” And yet, in 2024–25 alone, over 6.9 million visitors came to see the Taj Mahal, 6.26 million Indians and 645,000 foreigners. Agra’s heritage remains powerful enough to draw the world despite the smog.
If the city’s residents reclaim pride in their history and demand accountability, the stones may yet breathe easy again. Agra’s monuments have waited centuries. They can wait no longer.
