Sameer Gudhate Presents the Book Review of Bakhtiyarpur: Story of the Destruction of the World’s Intellectual Capital Nalanda by Pankaj Lochan

You know those moments when you stumble on a book that doesn’t just tell a story, but makes you look at the world around you differently? That’s exactly what happened to me with Bakhtiyarpur: Story of the Destruction of the World’s Intellectual Capital Nalanda by Pankaj Lochan. I’ll admit, the first thing that hooked me wasn’t even the pages — it was the haunting irony of a railway station named after the very man who set fire to one of humanity’s greatest learning centres. I couldn’t shake the question: how did we get so comfortable living with names that glorify destruction, while forgetting the saints and scholars who built our heritage?

Lochan, who has already written eleven books but here makes his first foray into historical fiction, takes that unsettling thought and spins it into something remarkable. The book is part history, part memoir, part reflection — woven together with the tenderness of someone who has carried a childhood question for decades until it became impossible to ignore. Instead of dry chronicles, he gives us a story that feels alive, almost like sitting by a bonfire while an elder retells the past with both sorrow and urgency.

The premise is deceptively simple: the ancient land of Magadha, once blooming with Nalanda, Vikramshila, and Odantapuri — universities that drew minds from across the world — falls to flames under Bakhtiyar Khilji. And centuries later, we still carry his name in our geography, as though memory itself surrendered. Lochan doesn’t just reconstruct this fall — he makes you feel it. He makes you walk the ruins, smell the ash, hear the silence where debates once roared.

The writing style is wonderfully balanced: not too ornate, not too plain. There’s a clarity to his prose that makes even the heaviest truths readable, yet it’s layered with enough poetry to stop you in your tracks. One sentence might slice like glass, another might soothe with rhythm. The pacing flows like a thoughtful conversation — steady, with moments that suddenly jolt you awake.

Now, this isn’t a novel with characters you follow through a neat arc. Instead, the central “character” is memory itself — how we treat it, how we neglect it, and how it shapes who we are. Lochan personifies forgotten questions, lets geography speak as witness, and paints the invader’s legacy not with hatred but with unsettling honesty. At times, I found myself underlining not because of facts, but because of the way he made ideas breathe.

Structurally, it doesn’t march like a history textbook. It drifts between personal reflection, oral history, and historical reconstruction. That might bother someone looking for strict chronology, but for me, it worked beautifully — it mirrors how memory itself works: scattered, stitched, yet whole in its own way.

The themes linger long after the book is closed. Civilisational amnesia. Identity. The silent power of names. Reading it, I thought about how casually we drive down roads named after conquerors while temples, teachers, and thinkers remain unnamed. It made me uncomfortable — in the best way. Isn’t that what powerful books should do?

Emotionally, it hits hard. There was a moment when Lochan describes how the libraries of Nalanda burned for months, the air thick with the smell of knowledge turning to smoke. I had to put the book down. It wasn’t just grief — it was a strange mix of anger, shame, and a resolve I didn’t know I had.

Strengths? The emotional authenticity is unmatched. His blend of personal voice with historical weight makes this book both accessible and haunting. The symbolism of Bakhtiyarpur as a living scar is genius. Weaknesses? At times, the repetition of themes felt a touch heavy-handed, though perhaps that insistence was necessary to drive the point home.

Personally, this book felt less like reading and more like being handed a mirror. It reminded me of the quiet ways we let history slip — not because we don’t care, but because we don’t ask. I’d recommend it to anyone who loves history, yes, but also to anyone who’s ever looked around and felt the tug of forgotten roots. If you’ve ever wondered why remembering matters, this book is for you.

Closing the last page, I wasn’t thinking about stars or ratings — I was thinking about questions. About names I pass every day without noticing. About how remembering isn’t just nostalgia; it’s resistance. Bakhtiyarpur is more than a book — it’s a wake-up call wrapped in story. If you’re ready to feel unsettled in the most necessary way, pick it up.

So tell me — when was the last time a book made you look at your own city with new eyes? Because that’s exactly what this one did for me.

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