It was the peak of the summer season in 2024. Having just wrapped up a business trip, I found myself with some time to spare in the northwestern district of Naogaon. Amidst the hot and sultry weather, I wondered where I could make a quick heritage trip without venturing too far. Some six kilometers southwest of the main township, a near-ruined royal palace emerged as the ideal escapade for a few somber, after-work moments.
Visiting Dubalhati Rajbari offered a profound opportunity to admire a nearly 250-year-old Zamindar estate, yet it stirred a poignant sorrow for a heritage left to fade into neglect. With its grand neoclassical facade—featuring a massive, multi-tiered entrance dominated by towering Roman-style Corinthian pillars and decorative stucco plasterwork—the palace stands as a significant historical monument showcasing the remnants of 19th-century grandeur.
The foundation of this Zamindari was laid during the Mughal era by a salt and molasses merchant named Jagatram Ray. Later, one of his descendants, Raja Krishnanath Ray, secured the formal permanent settlement of the estate from Lord Cornwallis, the colonial administrator who introduced the ‘Permanent Settlement’ (the Zamindari system) in British India in 1793.
Local legend says that because no crops could grow in this marshy (beel) region at the time, the landlords paid their annual revenue to the Mughal court in the form of 22 Kahons of Koi fish (climbing perch). In the ancient counting system, a Kahon was made of sub-units: one Kahon equaled 16 Pons, one Pon totaled 20 Gondas, and each Gonda meant four individual units. Doing the math, 22 Kahons equates to exactly 28,160 fish. This means the early founders had to deliver over 28,000 live climbing perch to the Mughal Nawab annually as their land tax.
Learning this fun piece of folklore while glancing at the massive dighi (water reservoir) in front of the dilapidated palace, I noticed the water was still teeming with fish. I thought to myself, no wonder the Zamindars used fish as currency—the bony things must have been in endless supply.
According to local history, the estate flourished most during the reign of Raja Haranath Ray, a grandson of Raja Krishnanath Ray. In the 19th century, he expanded the palace complex, dug deep ponds for drinking water, and established a local school in 1864.
However, the structure I was admiring is actually a born-again palace. On June 12, 1897, the catastrophic 8.1 magnitude Great Assam Earthquake completely altered the architectural footprint of the estate, reducing much of it to absolute ruins. Originally, the complex featured dominant four-story residential blocks, with the main building recognized as one of the tallest structures in North Bengal. When the top floors completely collapsed during the tremors, the family was forced to scale down, rebuilding and repairing only up to the second and third levels.
During this post-earthquake restoration, Raja Haranath Ray Chowdhury and his successor heavily integrated colonial British styling. They added the towering Corinthian pillars, an upper floral relief pediment, and European-inspired baroque "wedding cake" design elements. At the very top of the front pediment, the crest of the British Royal Family remains engraved—historically marking a token of special favor granted to the Zamindars.
Originally, the complex boasted over 300 rooms organized sequentially around seven inner courtyards designed to balance natural light with royal privacy. The core residential block, known as the Baro Dalan, once rose three to four stories high. Closer to the outer wings sat the Royal Kachhari, which served as the feudal courtroom and administrative office where the Zamindars and their ministers managed the sprawling estate and collected revenues. The complex also featured an ornate open pavilion designated for cultural entertainment and religious festivals, where classical music soirees, dance performances, and traditional Jatra (folk theatre) were regularly staged.
Following the abolition of the Zamindari system in 1950, the royal family relocated to India, leaving the palace abandoned. Today, the structure is severely dilapidated. The plasterwork has stripped away entirely, exposing the underlying bare bricks, and the flooring has degraded back to natural soil and debris over decades of neglect. Large portions of the upper floors and the western wing of the Baro Dalan have completely collapsed. One has to be extremely cautious when walking near or inside the crumbling rooms, as parts of the roofs and walls are highly prone to caving in.
As I walked out of that now-silent, once-vibrant royal palace of yesteryears, I stood for a few moments on the bank of the adjacent grand pond. Gazing at the water, the soft splash of fish broke the surface, perfectly mirroring the last, crumbling vestiges of a bygone Zamindari.
