ASHA: Blast From The Past

Syed Ali Nadeem Rezavi

Much of the contemporary discourse on medieval India remains trapped within the language of conflict. The past is too often reduced to a binary narrative of conquest and resistance, ruler and subject, Hindu and Muslim. Yet such reductive frameworks obscure one of the most remarkable and consequential developments in the history of the Indian subcontinent: the emergence of entirely new cultural worlds through the sustained interaction of Islam with indigenous traditions. The history of Islam in India was never simply a story of political expansion; it was equally a story of translation, adaptation and profound cultural creativity. When Islam encountered the diverse and layered societies of South Asia, neither remained unchanged. Out of this long and complex encounter emerged new languages, literary traditions, devotional practices, architectural forms, legal interpretations and ethical ideals that profoundly shaped the civilisation of the subcontinent. What developed over centuries was not merely a fragile coexistence but the active creation of shared cultural spaces where communities interacted, borrowed from one another and generated hybrid forms of expression that defied simple religious categorisation.

This process unfolded not only in imperial centres such as Delhi, Agra and Lahore but also in regions far removed from political capitals. Bengal, Malabar, Kashmir, Punjab and the Deccan became vital laboratories of cultural exchange. In these regions, Muslims and non-Muslims lived, traded, worshipped and interacted in ways that generated entirely new cultural formations. The interaction was not uniform; it varied according to local conditions, the nature of political authority, the presence of Sufi orders and the existing social and religious landscape. Yet across these diverse regions, a common pattern emerged: Islamic ideas were not imposed from above but were translated, adapted and reimagined through local categories of thought. This process of vernacularisation and cultural translation was one of the most creative forces in South Asian history. As Richard Eaton demonstrates in The Rise of Islam and the Bengal Frontier, 1204–1760, the spread of Islam in Bengal was not primarily a result of conquest but of a long process of cultural adaptation and social integration, in which Islamic institutions became embedded in the agrarian landscape and in the social fabric of rural society (Eaton 1993).

Perhaps nowhere is this process more visible than in Bengal, where the seventeenth-century poet Saiyad Sultan composed the Nabivamsha (The Prophet’s Lineage). This work is arguably the first major text to present Islamic doctrine systematically to Bengalis in their own language, and it represents one of the most ambitious attempts in South Asian history to explain Islam through categories familiar to a non-Muslim audience. The Nabivamsha is a literary milestone in the multi-ethnic, multi-cultural history of Islam, marking a significant contribution not only to Bangla’s rich literary corpus but also to our understanding of Islam’s localisation in Indic culture in the early modern period. The work is divided into two books: the greater part of the first book draws upon the medieval Arabic Qiṣaṣ al-Anbiyāʾ tradition, especially the thirteenth-century collection attributed to al-Kisāʾī, recounting the stories of the prophets from creation onwards; the second book presents a detailed biography of the Prophet Muhammad. Yet Saiyad Sultan did not merely translate these narratives into Bengali. He reimagined them within the intellectual and cultural universe of Bengal, effectively reconstructing Islamic prophetology to include Hindu divinities and sacred traditions. As Ayesha Irani demonstrates in The Muhammad Avatāra: Salvation History, Translation, and the Making of Bengali Islam, figures identifiable as Śiva and the various avatāras of Viṣṇu, including Rāma, appear in the Nabivamsha as agents sent to eradicate evil from the world (Irani 2021). Their inability to establish lasting righteousness prepares the way for the creation of Ādam and the succession of prophets recognised in Islamic tradition. From Ādam onwards, the narrative proceeds through Śiś, Idrīs, Nūḥ, Ibrāhīm, Mūsā, Dāʾūd, Sulaymān and ʿĪsā before culminating in the Prophet Muhammad. Most remarkably, Hari or Krishna himself appears within this sacred history as the only Hindu deity to punctuate the otherwise conventional line of prophets after Ādam.

This was a bold and sophisticated intellectual exercise. Saiyad Sultan was not attempting to merge Hinduism and Islam into a syncretic whole; rather, he sought to create a shared language through which Islamic revelation could be understood within the cultural landscape of Bengal. In doing so, he implicitly expanded the Qur’anic idea of divinely guided communities to include the Hindus of Bengal, presenting them as people who had received partial guidance but awaited the final revelation. The Nabivamsha reveals a society in which translation was not merely linguistic but civilisational, a process through which entire cosmologies and ethical systems were reframed in terms intelligible to a local audience. This act of cultural translation was not dilution but creative reinterpretation, and it enabled Islam to take root in Bengal not as a foreign imposition but as a tradition that spoke to local concerns and resonated with existing worldviews. Irani’s work lays bare the sophisticated strategies of translation used by Saiyad Sultan, a prominent early modern Muslim Bengali intellectual, to invite others to his faith. These premodern works, which articulate Islamic ideas in a regional language, represent a literary watershed and underscore the efforts of rebel writers across South Asia, many of whom were Sufis, to defy the linguistic cordon of the Muslim elite and the hegemony of Arabic and Persian as languages of Islamic discourse.

The desire to establish common intellectual ground produced other remarkable experiments as well. One of the most intriguing is the Allopanishad, a text that attempted to present Allah and Islamic doctrines through the authority of Vedic revelation. Although later scholars, including Rajendralal Mitra, dismissed it as a spurious composition, its historical significance remains considerable. The very existence of such a text tells us something important about the society that produced it: it emerged from a world in which religious traditions were not sealed off from one another but were understood as potentially in dialogue. Its author believed that the language of the Vedas and the language of Islam could be brought into conversation, and that Islamic truths could be validated through the authority of indigenous scripture. Scholars have suggested that the text may have been written in connection with “the Din-i-Ilahi movement” during Akbar’s reign, as part of broader initiatives for religious accommodation under his doctrine of sulh-i-kul (universal peace) (Eliot 1921; Eraly 2000). Swami Vivekananda, while rejecting its authenticity, noted that he was told it was written in Akbar’s reign ‘to bring Hindus and Muslims together’ (Vivekananda n.d.). Like the Nabivamsha, the Allopanishad demonstrates that medieval and early modern India was a place where scholars and thinkers actively searched for points of dialogue and shared authority across religious boundaries. These texts are evidence of a remarkable intellectual openness and a willingness to engage with the religious other on terms that were not merely polemical but genuinely exploratory.

Such interactions were not confined to texts; they shaped everyday life, material culture and social practice across the subcontinent. On the Malabar coast, Muslim communities adopted local architectural forms, social customs and languages while remaining connected to wider Islamic networks stretching across the Indian Ocean. Mosques in Kerala often resembled traditional temple or nalukettu structures, with tiled roofs and wooden carvings, rather than buildings imported from Arabia or Persia. This architectural synthesis was not mere aesthetic borrowing but reflected a deep integration into local society and its patterns of life. In Kashmir, Islamic spirituality interacted with older Rishi traditions, producing a distinctive Sufi culture that drew on both Islamic and indigenous ascetic practices. In Punjab, Sufi shrines became spaces where religious identities frequently overlapped, with Muslims, Hindus and Sikhs visiting the same tombs and participating in shared devotional practices. The verses of Baba Farid, a thirteenth-century Sufi saint, were incorporated into the Sikh scripture, the Guru Granth Sahib, where they continue to be recited and revered. Shared festivals, culinary traditions, agricultural practices and kinship networks further cemented these relationships, creating a social fabric in which religious boundaries were often porous and negotiable.

Among the most important contributions of Islam to this evolving cultural landscape was the narrative of Karbala. Rooted in Shi’i memory, the martyrdom of Imam Husain, the grandson of the Prophet Muhammad, at the hands of the Umayyad forces of Yazid in 680 CE came to exercise an influence far beyond sectarian boundaries. The events of Karbala symbolise resistance against injustice, fidelity to moral principles and the willingness to sacrifice everything in the pursuit of truth. These themes resonated deeply within the cultural environment of South Asia, where stories of duty, sacrifice and righteous struggle already occupied a central place in popular imagination, from the epics of the Mahabharata and Ramayana to regional ballads and folk traditions. When the story of Karbala reached India, it acquired meanings that transcended theology. Imam Husain became not merely a religious figure but a universal symbol of courage in the face of oppression, an archetype of moral resistance whose appeal crossed communal boundaries. Muharram commemorations drew participation from communities beyond the Muslim fold: Hindu artisans built tazias (replicas of the tombs of the martyrs), local rulers patronised commemorative rituals and entire towns took part in processions remembering the tragedy. The appeal of Husain lay in his ethical message; his refusal to submit before tyranny transformed him into a symbol of moral resistance whose significance could be appreciated irrespective of religious affiliation. As the poet Josh Malihabadi wrote: ‘Just let humanity awaken / Every community will say “Husain is ours”‘ (cited in Zaidi 2022).

The participation of Hindus in the commemoration of Karbala has deep historical roots. One of the most remarkable examples is the tradition of the Husaini Brahmins, a caste of Brahmins who trace their origins to the Gandhara region and are more formally known as Mohyals. According to traditions told by both Indian Shi’a and the Husaini Brahmins, in the period prior to 610 CE when the Prophet Muhammad received his first revelations, and in the years leading up to the battle of Karbala in 680, there was a population of Hindus who lived in Arabia, where they worshipped the god Śiva. These Hindus were involved with the Arabs in the extensive trade networks that crisscrossed land and maritime routes between India and the Middle East. The Husaini Brahmins’ ancestor Sultan Rahab Datt is believed to have fought on behalf of Imam Husain’s cause at Karbala. According to one version of the origin story, Rahab Datt and his seven sons journeyed from Mecca in search of Husain and his entourage, but arrived after the massacre. They pursued Yazid’s army, seized the Imam’s head and offered their own sons’ heads in exchange for it. The heroic sacrifice of Rahab’s sons is recounted in a Punjabi kabitt, a poem composed in a four-line quatrain, which narrates the history of the Datt’s settlement in Arabia, their battlefield heroism and their unwavering loyalty to Imam Husain. Following Karbala, the Datts demonstrated their allegiance to Husain’s cause by joining Mukhtar ibn Abi ‘Ubaid al-Saqafi’s rebellion against the Umayyad caliphate, and following their battlefield success, Mukhtar established a quarter in Kufa for the Hindus, the Dair-e Hindiyyah, which exists even today. Upon returning to the subcontinent, they acquired the name ‘Husaini Brahmin’. A popular saying about the Husainis captures their dual identity: ‘Wah Dutt Sultan, Hindu ka dharm, Musalman ka iman, Adha Hindu adha Musalman‘ (Oh Dutt the king / With the religion of the Hindu / And the faith of the Muslim / Half Hindu, half Muslim) (Stracey 1938). As Nonica Dutt, a history professor and Husaini Brahmin herself, has described, the loyalty Husaini Brahmins have for Imam Husain is inscribed on their bodies through the ritual cutting of mundan: ‘On his/her throat s/he bears a line of cutting, which is indicative of the fact that s/he is the descendant of those Brahmans whose throats were cut in the battle of Karbala’ (cited in Hussain 2008). This extraordinary tradition exemplifies how the Karbala narrative was not merely imported into India but was woven into the very fabric of local identities and communities.

Beyond the Husaini Brahmins, Hindu participation in Muharram has been widespread and enduring. In Lucknow, prominent Hindu noblemen like Raja Tikait Rai and Raja Bilas Rai built Imambaras to house alams representing the Karbala event (Sikand n.d.). In Rajasthan, certain Hindu castes stage plays enacting the death of Imam Husain, after which women come out in procession, crying and cursing Yazid for his cruelty, a custom known as pitna dalna (Sikand n.d.). In the village of Mahmudabad in Uttar Pradesh, almost 500 Hindus participate each year in a religious procession two days before Ashura, with women traditionally fasting for three days (AFP 2022). As a young Hindu participant observed: ‘The sacrifice of Imam Hussein in Karbala is an inspiration and we Hindus of Mahmudabad honour this. Although he was killed, it was a victory of right over wrong’ (AFP 2022). In contemporary Lucknow, Muharram continues to draw Hindu participation, though local observers have noted concerns about rising communal tensions (AFP 2022). These traditions testify to the deep roots of Karbala in India’s shared cultural landscape.

In Bengal, Karbala acquired a particularly rich afterlife. Through puthi literature (manuscripts written in Bengali verse), oral performances and popular narratives, the story became woven into the region’s cultural fabric. As Epsita Halder shows in Reclaiming Karbala: Nation, Islam and Literature of the Bengali Muslims, Karbala emerged as one of the central narrative reservoirs through which Bengali Muslims articulated questions of morality, identity and community (Halder 2023). The tragedy was no longer experienced as a distant event in seventh-century Iraq but as part of Bengal’s own emotional and cultural landscape. Halder’s multi-layered study explores what it means to be Muslim in Bengal, examining the nuanced relationship between religion, linguistic identity and literary modernity that marks both Bengaliness and Muslimness in the region. She argues that the Karbala narrative provided Bengali Muslims with a framework for understanding suffering, resistance and redemption that was both authentically Islamic and deeply rooted in local sensibilities. The marsiya tradition in Bengali, unlike its Persian and Urdu counterparts, developed its own distinctive idiom, drawing on local poetic forms and imagery. The story of Husain was told and retold in village gatherings, at religious festivals and in domestic settings, becoming a living tradition that shaped moral consciousness across generations. Halder’s work, which analyses an extensive range of texts and publications across multiple genres, formats and literary lineages, shows how shifts in vocabulary, register and narrative focus need to be understood in the light of theological, political and aesthetic positions and debates.

The influence of Karbala extended into literature, ritual and public culture across the subcontinent. In Awadh, especially under the Shi’i rulers of Lucknow, poets such as Mir Anis and Mirza Dabeer transformed the memory of Husain into one of the most sophisticated literary traditions in South Asia. Through marsiyas (elegiac poems), mourning assemblies and public commemorations, Karbala became an enduring source of ethical reflection and emotional expression. The marsiya tradition in Lucknow reached extraordinary heights of literary refinement, combining classical Persian poetics with Indian vernacular sensibilities and drawing on the rich resources of Urdu. These compositions were performed in public spaces and private gatherings, creating a shared culture of mourning that drew together people from different religious backgrounds. The rituals of Muharram also incorporated local customs and symbols; elephants, horses and elaborate processions became part of the commemorative landscape, reflecting the influence of Indian courtly and popular culture. The Karbala narrative thus became a site of cultural synthesis, where Islamic piety, Indian aesthetics and local traditions converged.

The modern reception of Karbala continued this tradition of cultural translation and political engagement. In 1924, Munshi Premchand, a prolific author in Urdu and Hindi and a supporter of the nationalist movement, published his drama Karbala, a retelling of the seventh-century battle. As evidenced from personal correspondence, Premchand’s intentions for this drama were political: it was to be a vehicle for promoting Hindu and Muslim cooperation through encouraging non-Muslims to recognise the ethical example set by a Muslim past. In his preface to the play, Premchand explained his belief that ignorance of the moral nature of Muslim historical figures (such as Husain) was at the heart of the socio-religious conflict in his present: ‘It is a shame that although we have been living with Muslims for centuries we are ignorant of their past histories. This is the reason for discord between the two communities. We are not aware of the good qualities inherent in the great men of the Muslim community’ (Premchand 1924). Premchand had earlier, in July 1923, published an essay in Prabha titled ‘Hazrat Ali’, presenting a biographical sketch that highlighted Ali’s strength of character, his sympathy for the oppressed, his valour and his sense of justice (Zaidi 2022). In his drama, he developed a new storyline based on a historical legend of Hindu assistance in the Shi’i Muslim fight for justice. He inserted the characters of the Hindu brothers Sahas Rai and Hars Rai, who fight alongside Husain and sacrifice their lives in his cause. At one point, the Imam praises Sahas Rai, calls his religion ‘a true religion,’ and prays for the glory of this religion (Zaidi 2022). The play even includes a Yogi who has come from India to pay his respects to the Prophet. In several scenes, Hindus and Muslims articulate how their religious commitments obligate them to cooperate on a seventh-century battlefield. Muslim voices in Karbala articulate how the terms of their respect for and obligation towards Hindus are mandated by the principles of their Islamic faith, and Hindu characters, inspired by the ethical actions of Muslims, assert that their faith mandates that they join this Muslim cause. The play reveals a moment from north Indian religious, literary and political history when a vision for Indian social unity was articulated by a Hindu author representing a sacred Shi’i Muslim history (Zaidi 2022).

Premchand’s Karbala has since been rendered into English twice, a testament to its enduring significance. The first of these is a critical edition edited, translated and introduced by Professor Nishat Zaidi of Jamia Millia Islamia, published by Oxford University Press in 2022 (Premchand 2022a). This volume includes an extensive introduction, Premchand’s notes and essays in defence of the play, and a comparative analysis of the Hindi and Urdu versions. It was followed by a second translation, introduced by Dr Sami Rafique of Aligarh Muslim University and co-translated with Haris Qadeer, published by the Sahitya Akademi in 2023 (Premchand 2023b). Both editions are excellently produced and have contributed substantially to making Premchand’s vision accessible to English-reading audiences worldwide.

However, the reception of Premchand’s play reveals the obstacles that cultural translation faced in a communalised political context. Premchand’s editor was hesitant to publish the play, fearing it would upset Muslim sentiments. Some Muslims rejected his translation as unfaithful to the historical record and questioned his characterisation of Yazid as an exaggeration. Premchand defended his choices, citing Shi’i scholars like m Amir Ali to show that he had done nothing more than what Muslim authors themselves had done. He went so far as to suggest that the real reason some Muslims found fault with his translation was his identity as a Hindu writer, rather than misrepresentation or historical inaccuracy. In a letter to his editor, Premchand wrote: ‘If Shi’i Muslims read a masnavi or marsiya on the lives of these leaders, why should they have an objection with this drama? Or, is it because a Hindu wrote it?’ (Zaidi 2022). This exchange reveals how the communal context of the play’s production and reception meant that any cultural or political expression was narrowly construed within categories of belonging defined by religious community, which came with it assumptions about language, history and cultural expression. Despite his intentions, Premchand’s work was undercut by the narrow assumptions of religious identity that he sought to challenge.

The issue of linguistic translation further complicated Premchand’s project. In his play, different registers of spoken Hindi and Urdu marked the main characters: the Hindu brothers spoke a slightly Sanskritised Hindi, while the Muslim characters used a heavily Persianised and Arabicised Urdu. Although Premchand claimed to adhere to what is natural or innate (svabhāvikata) in developing the language of his characters, the vast differences in register indicate that he mapped language and vocabulary choice onto his characters’ religious identity, a translation that seemed more relevant to his twentieth-century context than to the seventh-century past. This example illustrates the challenges of translating religious narratives across cultural and linguistic boundaries, where the translator’s choices inevitably reflect their own context and assumptions.

What unites the Nabivamsha, the Allopanishad and the Indian reception of Karbala, both in its premodern and modern forms, is the search for a shared language of meaning. Each represents an attempt to communicate across cultural boundaries without erasing difference; each acknowledges the reality of religious diversity while seeking to create points of connection and mutual intelligibility. These texts and traditions remind us that medieval and modern India was not simply a land of competing religious communities but also a place where people continuously borrowed, translated and adapted ideas from one another. This was not a process of homogenisation but of creative engagement, in which distinct traditions influenced one another while maintaining their own identities. The result was a dynamic and pluralistic culture in which religious boundaries were often fluid, overlapping and subject to negotiation.

This does not mean that conflict was absent. Medieval and modern India witnessed episodes of tension, rivalry and violence, as did all societies. Political ambitions, economic competition and theological disagreements sometimes led to conflict, and instances of temple destruction, iconoclasm and religious persecution are documented in the historical record. Yet conflict alone cannot explain the historical record. Alongside political rivalries and theological disagreements existed centuries of interaction, accommodation and cultural creativity. The same rulers who patronised Islamic institutions often supported Hindu temples and festivals; the same cities that witnessed religious controversy also produced magnificent works of art and literature that drew on multiple traditions. To focus only on conflict is to miss the larger picture of a civilisation that was continuously shaped by exchange and dialogue. Indeed, as Eaton has argued, the spread of Islam in Bengal was not primarily a result of conquest but of a long process of cultural adaptation and social integration, in which Islamic institutions became embedded in the agrarian landscape and in the social fabric of rural society.

Some of the most enduring achievements of Indian civilisation emerged precisely from these encounters. Urdu literature, with its rich vocabulary and poetic traditions drawing on Persian, Arabic and Indic sources, is a testament to the creative power of linguistic and cultural synthesis. Indo-Islamic architecture, from the Qutb Minar to the Taj Mahal, represents a fusion of Persian, Central Asian and Indian building techniques and aesthetic sensibilities. Sufi devotional cultures, with their emphasis on love, music and poetry, created spaces where Muslims and non-Muslims could share in religious experience. Bengali Muslim literary traditions, from the Nabivamsha to the puthi literature of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, testify to the deep integration of Islamic themes within local cultural forms. The widespread appeal of Karbala, extending far beyond Shi’i communities, demonstrates the power of a narrative to transcend its origins and speak to universal human concerns. All of these cultural forms cannot be reduced to a single religious origin; they are products of encounter, translation and synthesis.

The greatest legacy of medieval and modern India was therefore not the triumph of one civilisation over another. It was the emergence of shared cultural worlds that enriched them both, creating a civilisation of remarkable diversity and creativity. In an age increasingly shaped by narratives of separation and conflict, that forgotten history of dialogue, translation and cultural exchange deserves to be remembered and studied. It offers not only a more accurate picture of the past but also a model for thinking about cultural interaction in the present. The history of Islam in India is not a story of confrontation but of conversation, a conversation that produced some of the most vibrant and enduring cultural achievements in human history. The Nabivamsha, the Allopanishad and the Indian Karbala traditions, from the Husaini Brahmins to Premchand’s drama and the Bengali puthi literature, are not merely historical curiosities; they are witnesses to a vision of cultural pluralism that remains relevant and urgent today. They remind us that religious traditions are not fixed and unchanging but are continuously reinterpreted and reimagined in new contexts, and that the encounter with the religious other can be a source of creativity rather than conflict. In recovering this history, we recover not only a more nuanced understanding of the past but also resources for building a more inclusive and dialogical future.

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Further Reading

Cole, Juan R. I. Roots of North Indian Shi’ism in Iran and Iraq: Religion and State in Awadh, 1722–1859. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1988.

Eaton, Richard M. The Rise of Islam and the Bengal Frontier, 1204–1760. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993.

Eliot, Charles. Hinduism and Buddhism: An Historical Sketch. Vol. 2. London: Edward Arnold, 1921.

Eraly, Abraham. Emperors of the Peacock Throne: The Saga of the Great Mughals. New Delhi: Penguin Books, 2000.

Ernst, Carl W., and Bruce B. Lawrence. Sufi Martyrs of Love: The Chishti Order in South Asia and Beyond. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2002.

Halder, Epsita. Reclaiming Karbala: Nation, Islam and Literature of the Bengali Muslims. London: Routledge, 2023.

Irani, Ayesha A. The Muhammad Avatāra: Salvation History, Translation, and the Making of Bengali Islam. New York: Oxford University Press, 2021.

Pinault, David. Horse of Karbala: Muslim Devotional Life in India. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2001.

Premchand, Munshi. Karbala: A Historical Play. Translated, edited and introduced by Nishat Zaidi. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2022a.

Premchand, Munshi. Karbala: A Play. Translated by Haris Qadeer and Sami Rafique, introduced by Sami Rafique. New Delhi: Sahitya Akademi, 2023b.

Rizvi, Saiyid Athar Abbas. A History of Sufism in India. 2 vols. New Delhi: Munshiram Manoharlal, 1978–83.

Stewart, Tony K. Witness to Marvels: Sufism and Literary Imagination. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2019.

Stracey, T. P. Russell. History of the Muhiyals: The Militant Brahman Race of India. 2nd ed. Lahore: Silver Printing Press, 1938.

Syed Ali Nadeem Rezavi

The reign of the Mughal emperor Aurangzeb ‘Alamgir (1658–1707) has long occupied a contentious position in the historiography of medieval India. Few rulers have been subjected to such divergent interpretations. While some nineteenth- and early twentieth-century historians depicted him as the archetype of Islamic orthodoxy whose reign marked the decline of the Mughal Empire, more recent scholarship has sought to recover the political complexities that underlay his decisions. Within this larger debate, Aurangzeb’s relationship with the Shi‘a community has remained surprisingly under-examined. The prevailing assumption has generally been that his personal adherence to Sunni orthodoxy translated into a sustained policy of hostility towards the Shi‘as. Such an interpretation, repeated in both academic and popular literature, rests largely upon selected episodes of sectarian disagreement while overlooking a substantial body of evidence which points towards a more complex and nuanced reality.

This essay argues that Aurangzeb’s relationship with the Shi‘as cannot be understood through the simple categories of tolerance or persecution. He undoubtedly regarded himself as a defender of Sunni orthodoxy and occasionally acted against practices which he considered incompatible with Hanafi jurisprudence. Yet as emperor he repeatedly distinguished between theological disagreement and political loyalty. The Mughal Empire continued to depend upon the services of numerous Shi‘a nobles, administrators and scholars, maintained diplomatic engagement with Safavid Iran, recognised important Shi‘a religious institutions and confirmed grants to Sayyid families and learned divines. Aurangzeb’s conduct therefore reflected not an ideological campaign against Shi‘ism but the pragmatic requirements of governing a composite empire.

The historiography itself requires reconsideration. Sir Jadunath Sarkar’s monumental studies, despite their enduring value as repositories of information, interpreted much of Aurangzeb’s career through the lens of religious orthodoxy. His emphasis upon the emperor’s personal piety often encouraged subsequent historians to explain political decisions primarily in religious terms. Colonial historiography more generally tended to depict medieval India as a succession of religious conflicts, thereby reinforcing the image of Aurangzeb as an intolerant monarch. Later nationalist writings frequently accepted this framework, while recent political discourse has transformed Aurangzeb into a symbolic figure within contemporary debates over India’s past. The cumulative result has been the creation of a remarkably consistent image that has often escaped critical scrutiny.

Recent scholarship has begun to question this interpretation. M. Athar Ali’s seminal study of the Mughal nobility demonstrated that the imperial elite under Aurangzeb remained as ethnically and regionally diverse as under his predecessors. The Iranian element continued to occupy a prominent place within the mansabdari system, and many among these nobles belonged to families whose Shi‘a affiliation was well known. Satish Chandra similarly emphasised that factional politics at the Mughal court revolved principally around patronage, regional interests and succession rather than sectarian loyalties. More recently, Munis D. Faruqui has argued that Aurangzeb’s reign must be interpreted within the larger traditions of Mughal kingship. His principal concern, Faruqui suggests, was not the construction of a confessional state but the preservation of imperial authority over an increasingly complex political landscape. Religious conviction undoubtedly informed Aurangzeb’s worldview, yet it did not displace the practical imperatives of governance.

Perhaps the most immediate challenge to the conventional narrative lies within Aurangzeb’s own family. His mother, Arjumand Banu Begum, the celebrated Mumtaz Mahal, belonged to the Persian family of Asaf Khan, whose origins lay in Safavid Iran and whose cultural affiliations remained closely connected with the Persian Shi‘a world. Even more significant was Aurangzeb’s marriage to Dilras Banu Begum, the daughter of Mirza Badi al-Zaman Safavi and a direct descendant of the Safavid dynasty. She remained his chief consort until her death in 1657 and was the mother of Prince Muhammad Azam, whom Aurangzeb later regarded as one of the principal claimants to the throne. These dynastic relationships do not establish religious sympathy in themselves, but they certainly complicate any attempt to portray Aurangzeb as instinctively hostile towards the Shi‘a community.

The composition of the Mughal nobility provides stronger evidence still. Throughout Aurangzeb’s reign, Iranian nobles continued to occupy some of the highest offices of the empire. They served as governors of major provinces, commanders of imperial armies, ministers, diplomats and financial administrators. Their advancement was determined less by sectarian affiliation than by military competence, administrative experience and personal loyalty to the emperor. Zafar Khan was one such sipahsālār under Aurangzeb. No systematic attempt was made to remove Shi‘a nobles from imperial service after 1658. Indeed, the continuity visible in the composition of the nobility strongly suggests that Aurangzeb consciously retained the cosmopolitan administrative structure created by Akbar and consolidated by Jahangir and Shah Jahan.

This political inclusiveness extended beyond the aristocracy to learned and religious circles. One aspect of Aurangzeb’s reign that deserves greater attention is the continued recognition of Sayyid families and Shi‘a scholars within the framework of imperial patronage. The Mughal institution of madad-i ma‘ash, tax-free revenue assignments granted to scholars, saints and religious dignitaries, was not abolished under Aurangzeb. On the contrary, the emperor undertook a general review of such grants in order to eliminate fraudulent claims while confirming legitimate endowments. The scrutiny applied to these grants reflected fiscal reform rather than sectarian discrimination. Surviving farmāns and revenue documents indicate that recognised descendants of the Prophet, including families associated with Shi‘a traditions, continued to enjoy imperial support where their claims were accepted. Likewise, learned divines whose reputation rested upon scholarship rather than political activity retained their endowments. Aurangzeb’s objective appears to have been administrative regularisation rather than religious exclusion.

The published Akhbārāt-i Darbār-i Mu‘allā, although still insufficiently exploited by historians, reinforce this impression. They reveal an emperor deeply concerned with appointments, pensions, grants and ceremonial observances across the empire. Their notices rarely suggest any general policy directed against the Shi‘a community. Instead, they portray a ruler engaged in the ordinary business of imperial administration, in which Sayyids, scholars and nobles of differing regional and sectarian backgrounds continued to appear as recipients of imperial favour. Where disciplinary action occurred, it was normally linked to questions of political conduct or administrative responsibility rather than confessional identity.

Nor should Aurangzeb’s patronage of Sunni institutions be misunderstood as evidence of hostility towards all others. His sponsorship of the Fatāwā-i ‘Ālamgīrī undoubtedly reflected his desire to strengthen Hanafi jurisprudence within the empire. Yet the compilation itself was intended primarily as a legal manual for judges and administrators. It did not establish a programme for the persecution of Shi‘as, nor did it seek to exclude them from public life. The distinction between affirming Sunni orthodoxy and suppressing Shi‘ism is fundamental. Aurangzeb undoubtedly did the former; the evidence for the latter remains far less convincing than has often been assumed.

Aurangzeb’s relations with the wider Shi‘a world likewise demonstrate that political calculation consistently outweighed sectarian antagonism. The Mughal Empire and Safavid Iran had been rivals since the early sixteenth century, their principal point of contention being the fortress of Kandahar and the commercial routes linking Central and South Asia. These disputes neither originated with Aurangzeb nor acquired a specifically sectarian character under him. Diplomatic embassies continued to be exchanged between Isfahan and Delhi throughout his reign. Persian merchants, physicians, scholars and artisans continued to enter Mughal India, while Indian scholars travelled westwards in search of learning and patronage. Persian retained its position as the language of administration, diplomacy and literary culture within the Mughal Empire, and the cultural prestige of Iran remained undiminished. Had Aurangzeb regarded Shi‘a Iran primarily as a religious adversary, such sustained diplomatic and intellectual exchange would have been difficult to sustain. Instead, relations were conducted according to the conventions of early modern interstate politics, in which dynastic prestige and territorial interests took precedence over confessional differences.

The same distinction between political ambition and religious identity is evident in Aurangzeb’s conquest of the Deccan sultanates. Bijapur and Golconda have often been described as victims of Sunni hostility towards Shi‘a kingdoms. Such an interpretation overlooks both chronology and context. Mughal expansion into the Deccan had begun under Akbar, was pursued under Jahangir and Shah Jahan, and represented one of the enduring objectives of imperial policy. The annexation of Bijapur in 1686 and Golconda in 1687 was therefore the culmination of a century of imperial expansion rather than a sudden sectarian crusade. The conduct of Aurangzeb after these conquests is equally revealing. Neither the Adil Shahi nor the Qutb Shahi administrative class was systematically displaced. On the contrary, numerous officers, secretaries, military commanders and landed magnates entered Mughal service and were incorporated into the imperial mansabdari system. Their experience of governing the Deccan made them valuable servants of the empire, and Aurangzeb displayed little hesitation in employing them. A case in point is Mir Jumla and his son, both of whom rose to high positions and offices. Such a policy would have been inconceivable had Shi‘a affiliation been regarded as an insurmountable obstacle to imperial service. Loyalty to the Mughal throne remained the decisive criterion.

An equally important, though often neglected, dimension of Aurangzeb’s policy concerns the religious landscape of Delhi itself. The shrine of Shah-e Mardan occupies a significant place in this discussion. Established during the reign of Shah Jahan around the relic associated with the sacred footprint of Imam Ali, the shrine gradually developed into one of the principal centres of Shi‘a devotion in the imperial capital. Although the imposing structures visible today belong largely to the eighteenth century, especially the patronage of Qudsia Begum and Ahmad Shah, the institution itself acquired increasing prominence during Aurangzeb’s reign. Pilgrimage continued, Sayyid families remained associated with the shrine, and there is no evidence that the Mughal administration attempted either to suppress its activities or to confiscate its endowments. The continued recognition of Shah-e Mardan is significant because it demonstrates that Aurangzeb distinguished between recognised centres of devotion and activities which he considered politically disruptive or capable of provoking sectarian disorder. The existence and gradual consolidation of such a shrine within the immediate vicinity of the imperial capital would have been difficult to reconcile with the notion of an emperor pursuing an indiscriminate anti-Shi‘a policy.

This broader pattern is also reflected in the administration of religious endowments. Aurangzeb’s reign witnessed a systematic review of madad-i ma‘āsh grants across the empire. The purpose of this exercise was fiscal and administrative. Grants that could not be substantiated were resumed, while those supported by documentary evidence were confirmed. Surviving farmāns and later compilations indicate that Sayyid families, descendants of the Imams, scholars and religious establishments continued to receive imperial recognition where their legal claims were accepted. This process affected Sunni and Shi‘a beneficiaries alike. Rather than abolishing endowments associated with Shi‘a scholars, Aurangzeb sought to integrate them within a more closely supervised administrative framework. The distinction is important. Administrative scrutiny should not be confused with sectarian discrimination.

Aurangzeb’s attitude towards Muharram observances illustrates the same complexity. Contemporary evidence suggests that he objected to public expressions of tabarrā’, the ritual denunciation of the first three caliphs, which Sunni jurists regarded as offensive. On occasions when Muharram processions or public ceremonies threatened to provoke communal violence, the imperial administration intervened. Such interventions have often been interpreted as proof of hostility towards Shi‘ism itself. Yet Mughal authorities had long regulated public ceremonies of various religious communities whenever questions of public order arose. Aurangzeb’s actions therefore reflected a concern for maintaining civic peace as much as theological conviction. Significantly, Muharram commemorations continued throughout much of northern India during his reign, while Shi‘a devotional literature and scholarship experienced no discernible interruption.

Indeed, the intellectual life of the Shi‘a community continued to flourish during the later seventeenth century. Learned Sayyids remained active in Delhi, Agra, Lahore, Kashmir and the Deccan. Persian works on theology, jurisprudence and devotional literature continued to circulate freely. The movement of scholars between Iran and India remained uninterrupted, reinforcing the long-standing intellectual connections that had linked the Mughal and Safavid worlds since the sixteenth century. None of this suggests the existence of a state policy directed towards the suppression of Shi‘a learning.

The cumulative effect of this evidence compels a reconsideration of Aurangzeb’s relationship with the Shi‘as. He was unquestionably a ruler whose personal religious convictions were deeply rooted in Sunni orthodoxy. He supported Hanafi jurisprudence, cultivated Sunni scholars and occasionally acted against practices that he regarded as contrary to accepted doctrine. Nevertheless, his conduct as emperor reveals a consistent distinction between confessional preference and political practice. Shi‘a nobles continued to occupy the highest offices of state. Matrimonial ties linked the imperial family with the Safavid dynasty. Diplomatic relations with Iran remained active. The administrative elites of Bijapur and Golconda were absorbed into Mughal service rather than excluded from it. Shi‘a shrines continued to function, Sayyid families retained imperial recognition, and madad-i ma‘āsh grants continued to be confirmed where legally justified.

Why then has the contrary image become so firmly established? The answer lies partly in the historiography of the Mughal Empire itself. Colonial historians frequently interpreted Indian history through the framework of religious conflict, presenting political developments as the inevitable consequence of sectarian antagonism. Although Sir Jadunath Sarkar’s scholarship remains indispensable for its documentary richness, his interpretation of Aurangzeb emphasised religious ideology to an extent that subsequent historians often accepted without sufficient qualification. Later nationalist and communal narratives further simplified this interpretation, transforming Aurangzeb into a symbol within contemporary political debates rather than a historical figure operating within the constraints of seventeenth-century kingship.

Recent scholarship has rightly begun to move beyond this binary. The works of M. Athar Ali, Satish Chandra, Muzaffar Alam and, most recently, Munis D. Faruqui have collectively restored politics, administration and imperial culture to the centre of the discussion. Their findings suggest that Mughal governance cannot be understood through modern categories of sectarian identity alone. Aurangzeb’s reign was characterised by a continuous negotiation between personal piety and imperial responsibility. His religious convictions were genuine, but they were repeatedly mediated by the practical necessities of governing an empire that depended upon the cooperation of diverse elites.

A reassessment of Aurangzeb’s relations with the Shi‘as therefore leads to a more balanced conclusion. He was neither an advocate of Shi‘ism nor its relentless persecutor. Rather, he was a Sunni emperor who sought to preserve what he regarded as Islamic orthodoxy while simultaneously recognising that the stability of the Mughal Empire rested upon the participation of men drawn from different sectarian, regional and ethnic backgrounds. The distinction between theology and governance remained fundamental to his conception of kingship. It is only by recognising this distinction that Aurangzeb’s relationship with the Shi‘a community can be understood in its proper historical context. The evidence suggests that modern scholarship has frequently mistaken Aurangzeb’s affirmation of Sunni orthodoxy for a programme of sectarian exclusion. In practice, Mughal sovereignty continued to function through political inclusion rather than confessional exclusivity. Aurangzeb’s reign therefore illustrates not the triumph of sectarian government, but the capacity of an early modern empire to reconcile personal orthodoxy with administrative pragmatism.

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Reading List

Primary Sources

Aurangzeb, Adāb-i ‘Alamgiri (Letters of Aurangzeb), edited by A. R. Kulkarni, Pune: Deccan College, 1976.

Ā’īn-i Akbarī, translated by H. Blochmann and D. C. Phillott, Calcutta: Royal Asiatic Society of Bengal, 1927–1949.

Akharāt-i Darbār-i Mu‘allā (Daily Court News), unpublished manuscripts, Sālārjung Museum, Hyderabad, Rajasthan State Archives, Bikaner, and National Archives of India, New Delhi.

Fatāwā-i ‘Ālamgīrī, compiled under the supervision of Shaykh Nizam Burhanpuri, 6 vols, Calcutta: Nawal Kishore Press, 1828–1832.

Ma’āsir-i ‘Ālamgīrī of Saqi Must‘ad Khan, translated by Sir Jadunath Sarkar, Calcutta: Royal Asiatic Society of Bengal, 1947.

Muntakhab al-Lubāb of Khafi Khan, edited by Maulavi Kabir al-Din Ahmad, Calcutta: Asiatic Society of Bengal, 1860–1874.

Secondary Sources

Alam, Muzaffar, The Crisis of Empire in Mughal North India: Awadh and the Punjab, 1707–1748, 2nd edn, New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2013.

Ali, M. Athar, The Mughal Nobility under Aurangzeb, revised edn, New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1997.

Chandra, Satish, Parties and Politics at the Mughal Court, 1707–1740, 4th edn, New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2002.

Dalmia, Vasudha and Faruqui, Munis D., eds, Religious Interactions in Mughal India, New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2014.

Faruqui, Munis D., The Princes of the Mughal Empire, 1504–1719, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012.

Faruqui, Munis D., Aurangzeb ‘Alamgir and the Mughal Empire: A History Retold, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2026.

Faruqui, Munis D., ‘Aurangzeb and the Mughal State in the Seventeenth Century’, in Oxford Research Encyclopedia of Asian History, New York: Oxford University Press, 2021.

Hardy, Peter, Historians of Medieval India: Studies in Indo-Muslim Historical Writing, London: Luzac, 1960.

Hodgson, Marshall G. S., The Venture of Islam: Conscience and History in a World Civilization, vol. 3, Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1974.

Lal, Ruby, Empress: The Astonishing Reign of Nur Jahan, New York: W. W. Norton, 2018.

Metcalf, Barbara D. and Metcalf, Thomas R., A Concise History of Modern India, 3rd edn, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012.

Moosvi, Shireen, People, Taxation and Trade in Mughal India, New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2008.

Richards, John F., The Mughal Empire, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993.

Sarkar, Sir Jadunath, History of Aurangzib, 5 vols, Calcutta: M. C. Sarkar & Sons, 1912–1924.

Sarkar, Sir Jadunath, Mughal Administration, Calcutta: M. C. Sarkar & Sons, 1920.

Streusand, Douglas E., Islamic Gunpowder Empires: Ottomans, Safavids, and Mughals, Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 2011.

Subrahmanyam, Sanjay, Mughals and Franks: Explorations in Connected History, New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2005.

Truschke, Audrey, Aurangzeb: The Man and the Myth, New Delhi: Penguin, 2017.

Journal Articles and Essays

Alam, Muzaffar, ‘The Pursuit of Persian: Language in Mughal Politics’, Modern Asian Studies, vol. 32, no. 2, 1998, pp. 317–349.

Ali, M. Athar, ‘The Passing of Empire: The Mughal Case’, Modern Asian Studies, vol. 9, no. 3, 1975, pp. 385–396.

Faruqui, Munis D., ‘The Forgotten Prince: Mirza Kamran and the Mughal Empire in the Sixteenth Century’, Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient, vol. 48, no. 4, 2005, pp. 487–523.

Karamustafa, Ahmet T., ‘The Origins of the Shrine of Shah-e Mardan in Delhi’, Journal of Islamic Studies, vol. 12, no. 1, 2001, pp. 1–20.

Moosvi, Shireen, ‘The Mughal Empire and the Deccan: A Study in Political Relations’, Proceedings of the Indian History Congress, vol. 52, 1991, pp. 234–245.

Moosvi, Shireen, ‘The Mughal Empire and the Deccan: Economic Factors and Consequence’, Explorations in Pre-Modern Deccan, ed. Syed Ali Nadeem Rezavi, Primus, 2025, pp. 178-200

Nayeem, M. A., ‘The Shi‘a Nobility under Aurangzeb’, Islamic Culture, vol. 51, no. 3, 1977, pp. 187–202.

Qaisar, A. J., ‘The Royal Grants under Aurangzeb: A Study in Administrative Policy’, Journal of the Pakistan Historical Society, vol. 28, no. 2, 1980, pp. 89–106.

Rizvi, Saiyid Athar Abbas. Review of The Religious Policy of the Mughal Emperors, by Sri Ram Sharma. Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society, Vol. 96, No. 1 (1964), pp. 68–69..

Syed Ali Nadeem Rezavi

Sadiq Ali’s A Vindication of Aurangzeb, published in 1916, occupies a distinctive yet largely forgotten place in the historiography of Mughal India. Overshadowed almost immediately by Sir Jadunath Sarkar’s monumental five-volume History of Aurangzib (1912–1924), the work nevertheless deserves recognition as one of the earliest nationalist interventions in the writing of Mughal history. It was initially brought to my notice by my teacher, Professor M. Athar Ali, when he taught us about Aurangzeb decades ago. More recently, it was kindly mentioned by my friend and former colleague, Professor Muhammad Sajjad, who asked my opinion of the work.

At a time when colonial historiography had almost canonised Aurangzeb as the archetype of religious intolerance and oriental despotism, Sadiq Ali sought to challenge what he believed were deeply rooted misconceptions based upon European prejudice and careless scholarship. Although many of his conclusions have not stood the test of time, his insistence upon questioning inherited narratives anticipated later developments in Indian historiography.

The significance of the work lies not merely in its defence of Aurangzeb but in the intellectual climate in which it was written. The early twentieth century witnessed an increasing effort among Indian scholars to reclaim the country’s past from colonial interpretations. European historians had frequently presented the Mughal Empire through moral judgements that reflected Victorian sensibilities as much as historical evidence. Muslim rulers, particularly Aurangzeb, were often portrayed as fanatical despots whose religious intolerance had inevitably brought about the decline of the empire. Such interpretations became deeply embedded in educational curricula and public memory.

Sadiq Ali openly challenged this intellectual orthodoxy. In the very beginning he declared that his principal object was to caution students of Indian history against accepting European historians uncritically, accusing many of them of committing ‘gross and unpardonable mistakes’ in their treatment of Aurangzeb’s reign. Even more revealing is his candid admission that he himself had once accepted those views before undertaking a careful study of Persian and English sources. The work therefore represents an attempt at intellectual emancipation as much as historical revision.

Perhaps the most remarkable feature of the book visible from its beginning is its political purpose. Writing in September 1916, during a period of growing Indian nationalism and shortly before the Lucknow Pact, Sadiq Ali declared that one of his principal objectives was to promote ‘brotherly love among the Hindus, Sikhs and Muslims’. He believed that distorted portrayals of Aurangzeb had contributed to communal misunderstanding and that historical truth could become an instrument of national harmony. This reveals how closely historical writing had become intertwined with the politics of colonial India. For Sadiq Ali, correcting the image of Aurangzeb was not simply an academic exercise but part of a larger nationalist project.

The structure of A Vindication of Aurangzeb differs significantly from conventional historical narratives. Rather than presenting a chronological account of the emperor’s reign, Sadiq Ali organised the work around the principal accusations levelled against Aurangzeb and attempted to rebut them one by one. The chapters examine the reliability of European travellers such as Niccolao Manucci and François Bernier, the war of succession, the imprisonment of Shah Jahan, the execution of Dara Shukoh, the Deccan campaigns, the question of jizya, religious policy, and Aurangzeb’s personal character. The second half of the volume consists largely of replies to criticisms directed against his earlier arguments. The result resembles a lawyer’s defence brief more than a conventional work of history. Actually it reminds me of how M Athar Ali used to project the history of Aurangzeb through his classes when he taught us.

One of Sadiq Ali’s most valuable contributions lies in his treatment of historical sources. Long before the emergence of postcolonial historiography, he questioned the authority that nineteenth-century historians had accorded to European travel accounts. He argued that writers such as Bernier and Manucci often relied upon rumour, court gossip and limited personal observation rather than direct knowledge. Bernier, he observed, spent only a relatively brief period at the Mughal court and had little direct access to Aurangzeb himself. Manucci, whose colourful narratives fascinated European readers, was criticised for his adventurous career, changing professions and dependence upon hearsay. Sadiq Ali therefore insisted that such accounts should be subjected to critical scrutiny rather than accepted as unquestionable historical authority.

In retrospect, this methodological insight was ahead of its time. Modern Mughal historiography has indeed become far more cautious in its use of European travel narratives. Contemporary historians routinely compare Bernier, Manucci and Tavernier with Persian chronicles, administrative documents, correspondence, revenue records and regional sources before accepting their testimony. In recognising the need for such source criticism, Sadiq Ali anticipated an important development in historical method.

Yet the strength of his work also became its principal weakness. Having demonstrated that European accounts contained exaggerations and inaccuracies, he frequently assumed that this automatically vindicated Aurangzeb. Historical criticism, however, requires equal scepticism towards every category of source. Persian court chronicles were themselves products of particular political contexts and cannot simply be accepted because European accounts contain errors. Sadiq Ali often substituted one form of selectivity for another, treating Persian evidence with a confidence that modern historians would regard as excessive.

His discussion of the war of succession illustrates this tendency. He rejected the familiar picture of Aurangzeb as an ambitious prince who deliberately engineered civil war. Instead, he argued that Dara Shukoh’s conduct following Shah Jahan’s illness effectively forced Aurangzeb into armed resistance. Dara, according to Sadiq Ali, monopolised imperial authority, interrupted communications with the provinces and refused every opportunity for peaceful reconciliation. Aurangzeb’s military action is therefore presented as political necessity rather than personal ambition.

Similarly, the imprisonment of Shah Jahan is interpreted in political rather than moral terms. Sadiq Ali argued that Aurangzeb continued to treat his father with respect and ensured his comfort, restricting his liberty only because Shah Jahan continued secretly to support Dara’s cause. He even cited Stanley Lane-Poole’s observations regarding the respectful treatment accorded to the imprisoned emperor. Such arguments were intended to demonstrate that Aurangzeb acted according to political necessity rather than filial cruelty.

His treatment of Dara Shukoh is more problematic. Dara appears as a politically inept prince whose religious eclecticism rendered him unacceptable to orthodox Muslim opinion. Aurangzeb’s opposition is explained not merely in political terms but as a religious duty intended to preserve Islam in India. Such arguments reveal that Sadiq Ali was himself writing from a clearly defined ideological standpoint. His defence of Aurangzeb therefore sometimes reflects contemporary religious apologetics more than detached historical analysis.

The chapters dealing with religion represent the least satisfactory portions of the book when viewed in the light of subsequent scholarship. Sadiq Ali defended the reimposition of jizya as moderate and equitable, interpreted conversion policy as essentially mild, and attempted to minimise or justify temple destructions. Such arguments now appear insufficiently nuanced. Later historians, including Satish Chandra, M. Athar Ali, Muzaffar Alam, Richard Eaton and Audrey Truschke, have demonstrated that Aurangzeb’s religious policies cannot be explained either as simple fanaticism or as entirely benign administration. They reflected a complex interaction of political expediency, legal theory, fiscal considerations and changing imperial circumstances.

The literary style of the work also limited its influence. Sadiq Ali wrote with considerable passion but often sacrificed analytical precision for polemical effect. Chapters contain lengthy quotations, repeated assertions and extended replies to anticipated critics. The second part of the volume is devoted almost entirely to defending earlier chapters against objections. While this approach reveals the author’s determination, it also deprives the work of narrative coherence.

These limitations help explain why A Vindication of Aurangzeb was rapidly eclipsed by Sir Jadunath Sarkar’s History of Aurangzib. Sarkar possessed advantages that few historians of his generation could equal. He had access to an enormous range of Persian manuscripts, Marathi records, European archives and official correspondence. His mastery of languages, extraordinary documentary scholarship and elegant prose combined to produce a work that remained authoritative for decades. His interpretation, whether accepted or challenged, became the unavoidable point of departure for every subsequent historian of Aurangzeb.

Sadiq Ali, by contrast, worked as an independent scholar from Kapurthala without comparable institutional resources or archival access. His work lacked the documentary depth, philological precision and analytical sophistication that characterised Sarkar’s scholarship. Consequently, while Sarkar’s volumes entered university curricula throughout India, Sadiq Ali’s work gradually disappeared from historical discussion.

There is nevertheless an irony in this historiographical story. Although Sadiq Ali’s general defence of Aurangzeb has not been accepted by modern scholarship, several of his methodological criticisms have been vindicated. Historians today no longer treat European travel narratives as infallible. Colonial moral judgements are approached with considerable caution. Aurangzeb is now studied within the political and administrative context of seventeenth-century India rather than solely through nineteenth-century notions of religious tolerance. Modern scholarship rejects both the colonial caricature of Aurangzeb as a fanatical tyrant and the apologetic portrayal of him as a faultless ruler.

Seen from this perspective, this book deserves to be remembered not because it successfully rehabilitated Aurangzeb, but because it represented one of the earliest Indian attempts to challenge colonial authority over the interpretation of India’s past. Its lasting importance lies less in the correctness of its conclusions than in its insistence that historical evidence should be examined independently rather than accepted on inherited authority.

For this reason, Sadiq Ali’s book occupies an important, if neglected, place in the evolution of Mughal historiography. It stands at the intersection of colonial scholarship and emerging nationalist history writing. While Sir Jadunath Sarkar’s monumental achievement inevitably overshadowed it, A Vindication of Aurangzeb remains a significant reminder that the struggle over Aurangzeb’s reputation began not in contemporary political debates but more than a century ago, when Indian scholars first sought to reclaim the interpretation of their own history from colonial hands.

Syed Ali Nadeem Rezavi

This is the second in the series

There are summers that dissolve into memory, and there are summers that carve themselves into a life. For me, the summer following my Higher Secondary results was unmistakably the latter.

Through those long vacation months, almost every evening, my father would dispatch me to meet Professor Zillur Rahman Khan. He was then the teacher-in-charge of the Games Committee, a Professor of Physics, and the son-in-law of Dr. Zakir Husain, former President of India. Dressed nearly always in his flowing flannel Lucknowi pyjama and sherwani, or in a white half-sleeved shirt, he could be found at the Hockey Grounds, quietly observing the evening practice. I would cycle there each evening and sit beside him on the steps overlooking the field as play unfolded. Afterwards, I would walk with him to his home, just beyond the grounds behind the University Post Office.

Those walks became my first real education. He spoke of old Aligarh, of science and books, of people and life—and of whatever else crossed his mind. Every so often, he would pause, pose a question, seek my opinion, or gently challenge my assumptions. I did not realise it then, but he was assessing me far more than he was teaching me. This ritual continued almost daily for nearly two months.

One evening, instead of my accompanying him home, he came with me to ours. Turning to my father, he said, “Let him apply for Zoology, Chemistry, English, or History… but I believe he is best suited for History.” It was precisely the same advice my schoolteacher, Sir Ahmad, had given earlier.

Soon afterwards, my revered father took me to Kothi Badar Bagh to meet Professor Irfan Habib. Curiously, I recall almost nothing of what was said about me that day. My father had been cited in The Agrarian System of Mughal India for a Persian reference, and if memory serves, the entire conversation revolved around Mughal agriculture, zarā’at, and Persian sources. I simply sat there, listening.

A few weeks later, the admission lists appeared. My name figured in three departments: Chemistry, English, and History. Abba told me, “The choice is entirely yours.”

One thing I knew immediately: Chemistry was not for me. I enjoyed English literature, but History had already begun to draw me in a way I could not articulate. When I told my father I wished to study History, I noticed him exhale a quiet sigh of relief. I realised then that, while he had left the decision to me, his heart had been silently hoping for that very outcome.

Once admissions were finalised, Abba walked me across the road from the Maulana Azad Library to a building that had once been his own karam bhūmi. Only much later did I fully appreciate that this was the legendary Department of History at Aligarh Muslim University, which was destined to become my karam bhūmi. As we approached, several teachers were gathered outside. Some agitation or strike was underway, led by a striking young man with dark curly hair, piercing eyes, and a slightly stooping frame. My father quietly said, “Adāb karo.” That young man was Professor Irfan Habib.

He led us into the Head of Department’s chamber, on whose door was inscribed the name of Professor Khaliq Ahmad Nizami. Professor Nizami was away in Syria, serving as India’s Ambassador, and Professor Habib was officiating in his absence. Once we were seated, my father turned to him and, in words that have echoed within me ever since, said:

“Irfan Miyan, aap inse ghar par mil chuke hain. Ye mere sahibzaade hain. Main inko aap ke hawāle kar rahā hoon.”

(“Irfan Miyan, you have already met him at home. He is my son. Today I place him in your care.”)

Looking back now, I recognise that those few simple words altered the entire trajectory of my life.

Only weeks later, on 7 April 1978, my father passed away. But before leaving this world, he had entrusted me to another man.

From that summer in 1978 until today, I have remained under Professor Irfan Habib’s guidance. Through triumphs and disappointments, through moments of recognition and adversity, he was there. I stood beside him when he himself faced suspension under Syed Hamid. Years later, when I was suspended under Lieutenant General Zameeruddin Shah, he stood beside me. Every stage of my academic life bears his imprint. Whatever modest achievements I can claim as a historian owe an immeasurable debt to his guidance, his scholarship, and above all, his unwavering faith in me.

At my retirement, Professor Habib spoke at two of my farewell gatherings. As I listened, I found myself thinking not only of my teacher but also of my father. For a fleeting moment, it felt as though Abba was still watching over me—just as he had on that unforgettable summer afternoon nearly five decades ago.

Today, as I retire, my mind returns once more to that walk into the Department of History, and to those simple words spoken by my father. He had not merely introduced me to a teacher. He had entrusted me to a guardian.

Nearly half a century has passed. My father is gone, but his trust has remained alive every single day of my academic journey. And even today, I feel that I am still holding the hand into which he placed mine all those years ago.

Syed Ali Nadeem Rezavi

This is the fourth in the series on devotional practices of ‘Āshūra.

Among the practices that distinguish the Shīʿī commemoration of ʿĀshūrā from that of many other Muslim communities is the observance of fāqa shikanī, which means abstaining from food and drink without the intention of ritual fasting, rather than observing a voluntary fast on the tenth of Muḥarram. While many Muslims regard this day as recommended for voluntary fasting, Twelver Shīʿa refrain from observing it as a ritual fast, which is known as ṣawm. Instead, they abstain from food and drink for part of the day without intending a religious fast, and then break their hunger during the late afternoon in remembrance of the martyrdom of Imām Ḥusain and his companions at Karbala. This distinction is neither incidental nor merely ritualistic. It rests upon the teachings of the Imams of the Ahl al-Bayt, the historical memory of Karbala, and a profound theology of mourning.

The Qurʾān prescribes fasting primarily during the month of Ramaḍān, as set out in verses 2:183 to 187, while voluntary fasting on other days is recommended in various Prophetic traditions. There is, however, no Qurʾānic injunction specifically prescribing fasting on the tenth of Muḥarram. The recommendation derives from traditions preserved in Sunni collections such as Ṣaḥīḥ al-Bukhārī and Ṣaḥīḥ Muslim, where the Prophet is reported to have fasted on this day after observing the Jews of Madīnah commemorating the deliverance of Prophet Mūsā from Pharaoh. He is also reported to have expressed the intention of fasting both the ninth and the tenth in subsequent years. Shīʿī scholars have never denied the existence of these narrations. Rather, they argue that the martyrdom of Imām Ḥusain in 61 AH, which corresponds to 680 CE, fundamentally transformed the religious significance of the day. Whatever earlier associations ʿĀshūrā may have possessed, the massacre of the Prophet’s grandson permanently changed its moral and spiritual meaning. The day became one of the greatest tragedies in Islamic history, rendering celebration or the observance of a meritorious fast incompatible with its solemn character.

The principal evidence for the Shīʿī practice comes from the teachings of the Imams themselves. Imām Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq is reported in Tahdhīb al-Aḥkām and Wasāʾil al-Shīʿa to have instructed that people should not fast on the day of ʿĀshūrā, and that if they wish, they may abstain from food and drink without intending it as a fast, then eat after the afternoon prayer, for at that time Ḥusayn ibn ʿAlī was martyred hungry and thirsty. Similarly, Imām Muḥammad al-Bāqir advised believers to refrain from eating and drinking until the afternoon and thereafter to break their hunger with water and simple food while remembering Imām Ḥusain. These narrations establish an important legal and theological distinction. The abstention is not ṣawm but imsāk, which means that it is not a ritual fast undertaken as an act of worship, but an expression of grief and solidarity with the suffering endured by the martyrs of Karbala. The intention, known as niyyah, is therefore decisive. One does not seek the reward associated with voluntary fasting. Rather, one symbolically participates in the hunger and thirst that afflicted Imām Ḥusain, his family, and his companions on the banks of the Euphrates.

The prescribed timing of fāqa shikanī itself illustrates this distinction. The traditions do not instruct believers to abstain until sunset, as is the case with a canonical fast. Instead, they specifically state that the abstention should continue until after the afternoon, which is expressed as baʿd al-ʿaṣr, corresponding to the time when Imām Ḥusain was martyred. Classical Shīʿī jurists understood this to mean the latter part of the afternoon, after the ʿAṣr prayer or approximately the time traditionally associated with his martyrdom, which is generally identified as the early afternoon, around midday to mid-afternoon, though some traditions specify the exact hour. Consequently, in Shīʿī communities across Iraq, Iran, the Indian subcontinent, and elsewhere, mourners generally refrain from eating and drinking from dawn until the conclusion of the principal ʿĀshūrā commemorations in the late afternoon. They then perform fāqa shikanī by breaking their hunger with a simple meal, often consisting of water, milk, bread, rice, or other modest food distributed as tabarruk, which means blessed charity. Importantly, this occurs before sunset, thereby distinguishing the practice from a ritual fast. Waiting until Maghrib would make the abstention resemble a formal ṣawm, something the Imams explicitly sought to avoid.

The terminology itself is revealing. The expression fāqa shikanī is Persian and literally means breaking one’s hunger rather than breaking one’s fast, which would be ifṭār. Likewise, the meal taken afterwards is not regarded as an ifṭār in the legal sense, but as the conclusion of an act of mourning. The simplicity of the food recalls the deprivation endured by the people of Karbala rather than celebrating the completion of an act of worship. In Arabic contexts, the practice is sometimes referred to as al-imsāk, meaning abstention, or al-taʿziya bi-al-jūʿ, which means mourning through hunger, though fāqa shikanī remains the most commonly used term in Persian and South Asian Shīʿī communities. Numerous narrations also criticise those who transformed ʿĀshūrā into a day of blessing or rejoicing. Traditions preserved in Al-Kāfī and later compilations attribute to Imām Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq strong criticism of those who regarded ʿĀshūrā as a festival, known as ʿīd. Shīʿī scholars interpreted this as a reference to Umayyad policies which encouraged fasting, feasting, applying kohl, wearing new clothes, and expanding household expenditure in order to commemorate the military victory over Imām Ḥusain while diverting public sympathy away from the Prophet’s family. This political dimension is significant because the fast was not merely a religious recommendation but a tool of statecraft employed by the Umayyads to reframe the tragedy as a triumph.

Classical authorities such as Shaykh al-Mufīd, who died in 413 AH, and Shaykh al-Ṭūsī, who died in 460 AH, therefore maintained that ʿĀshūrā should be observed through mourning, lamentation, recitation of the martyrdom narrative, charity, and remembrance rather than through voluntary fasting. Muḥammad Bāqir al-Majlisī, who died in 1110 AH, in Biḥār al-Anwār, gathered numerous traditions encouraging believers to spend the day in grief, weeping for Imām Ḥusain, reciting Ziyārat ʿĀshūrā, and remembering the unparalleled sacrifices made at Karbala. Contemporary Shīʿī jurists continue this understanding. Grand Ayatollah ʿAlī al-Sīstānī and Ayatollah ʿAlī Khameneʾi both discourage observing ʿĀshūrā as a recommended fast. They instead advise that if believers abstain from food and drink, they should do so without intending a ritual fast and should end their abstention in the late afternoon, before sunset, thereby preserving the distinction between mourning and worship. Many jurists also note that the day is so profoundly marked by grief that treating it as a day of fasting, a practice often associated with joy or gratitude, would be spiritually discordant.

In recent decades, however, a development has emerged in some communities that has drawn criticism from religious authorities. It has become increasingly common for some mourners to break their fāqa even before the Tazias, which are the symbolic replicas of the martyrs’ shrines carried in processions, have been buried at the end of the ʿĀshūrā commemorations. This practice effectively means that participants are eating at the very moment when the final mourning rituals are still underway, and in some cases, exactly at or around the time of the Imām’s martyrdom. The late Allama Saiyid Sibtul Hasan, a distinguished Shīʿī scholar of the Indian subcontinent, was particularly critical of this development. He used to argue strongly against such people, questioning the logic and sincerity of their observance. His criticism rested on a simple but powerful point: if you are observing fāqa as an act of mourning, what type of mourning is it that you are eating exactly before or at the time of the Imām’s martyrdom? For Allama Sibtul Hasan, the very purpose of fāqa shikanī was to share, however symbolically, in the hunger and thirst of Imām Ḥusain at the moment of his supreme sacrifice. To break that abstention precisely when the tragedy reached its climax was, in his view, to drain the practice of its meaning and to reduce it to an empty formality. He maintained that the fāqa should be maintained until the appropriate time after the afternoon, and that eating before the Tazias had been buried, particularly if that fell before or exactly at the time of martyrdom, contradicted the spirit of mourning that the Imams had sought to instil. His criticism reflected a broader concern that ritual observances, when divorced from their intended meaning and timing, risk becoming mere custom rather than genuine expressions of grief and solidarity.

This distinction reflects a deeper theological principle. In Sunni tradition, ʿĀshūrā fasting commemorates divine deliverance granted to earlier prophets, particularly Mūsā. In Shīʿī thought, while those earlier traditions are acknowledged, Karbala has forever transformed the meaning of the day. The tenth of Muḥarram is above all the day on which the grandson of the Prophet, together with his family and companions, gave their lives to preserve justice, truth, and the moral conscience of Islam. The day is not one of divine rescue but of redemptive sacrifice, a sacrifice that, in Shīʿī theology, serves as an eternal standard of resistance against tyranny. Moreover, the practice of fāqa shikanī embodies a distinct soteriological vision, which holds that salvation is not achieved through ritual observance alone but through affective and embodied participation in the suffering of the righteous. By sharing in the hunger and thirst of Karbala, the believer cultivates not only historical memory but also moral solidarity with the oppressed, a central theme in Shīʿī spirituality. The criticism offered by Allama Sibtul Hasan underscores this point: the timing of the abstention is not arbitrary but is intimately bound up with the narrative of Karbala itself, and to disregard that timing is to misunderstand the very purpose of the practice.

Thus fāqa shikanī is not merely an alternative ritual. It is a profound expression of historical memory and theological identity. Hunger is embraced not to earn the reward of fasting, but to share, however symbolically, in the suffering of Imām Ḥusayn. The water drunk in the afternoon recalls those who died thirsty. The simple meal reminds believers that the martyrs of Karbala were denied even the basic necessities of life. Through this practice, the followers of the Ahl al-Bayt preserve ʿĀshūrā not as a day of celebration or thanksgiving, but as the supreme day of mourning in Islamic history, a day on which grief itself becomes an act of devotion, and abstention becomes a form of witness. The careful observance of its proper timing, as emphasised by scholars like Allama Sibtul Hasan, ensures that this act of mourning retains its spiritual integrity and does not degenerate into a meaningless ritual.

Selected References

The Qurʾān, 2:183–187.

Ṣaḥīḥ al-Bukhārī, Kitāb al-Ṣawm.

Ṣaḥīḥ Muslim, Kitāb al-Ṣiyām.

Al-Kulaynī, Alkali.

Shaykh al-Ṭūsī, Tahdhīb al-Aḥkām.

Al-Ḥurr al-ʿĀmilī, Wasāʾil al-Shīʿa.

Muḥammad Bāqir al-Majlisī, Biḥār al-Anwār.

Shaykh al-Mufīd, Al-Muqniʿah.

Shaykh al-Ṭūsī, Miṣbāḥ al-Mutahajjid.

Syed Ali Nadeem Rezavi

This is the third in the series on devotional practices of ‘Āshūra.

For Twelver Shi’i Muslims, Karbala is not merely a historical catastrophe but the defining struggle between truth and falsehood. Alongside profound love for Imam Husain and the Ahl al-Bayt, therefore, developed an equally essential principle: repudiation of those who persecuted them. This is tabarrā, expressed most forcefully through la’n (invoking Allah’s curse upon the conscious oppressors of the Prophet’s family).

To understand why this practice became a religious duty, one must locate it within the broader framework of Shi’i theology, specifically the Usūl al-Dīn (roots of faith) and the twin obligations of amr bil ma’rūf (enjoining good) and nahī anil munkar (forbidding evil). These are not separate ethical exhortations but interconnected pillars that give tabarrā its moral and spiritual weight.

The Theological Framework: Usūl al-Dīn

Twelver Shi’ism identifies five roots of faith: Tawhīd (divine unity), ‘Adl (divine justice), Nubuwwa (prophethood), Imāma (divine leadership), and Ma’ād (resurrection). Each bears directly on the duty to curse the oppressors of the Ahl al-Bayt.

Tawhīd affirms that sovereignty belongs to God alone. To oppose His chosen representatives is to rebel against His authority. ‘Adl demands that justice be upheld and oppression condemned; if God is just, then those who perpetrate injustice cannot be treated with indifference. Nubuwwa establishes the Prophet as the final messenger, and to harm his family is to assault his mission. Imāma asserts that the Prophet’s successors are divinely appointed guides; opposing them is therefore opposing God’s will. Ma’ād ensures ultimate accountability; those who escaped earthly justice will face divine judgement, and the believer’s prayer for that judgement (i.e., la’n) is an act of faith in that final reckoning.

Thus tabarrā is not an optional extra but flows necessarily from each root. To believe in God’s justice is to repudiate injustice. To believe in prophethood is to defend its legacy. To believe in the Imamate is to dissociate from those who sought to destroy it.

The Active Obligations: Amr bil Ma’rūf and Nahī anil Munkar

The Qur’an commands believers to “enjoin what is right and forbid what is wrong” (3:104; 9:71; 31:17). In Shi’i jurisprudence, these are not merely recommended but obligatory upon every believer, according to their capacity. They form the ethical engine of the community, ensuring that faith is not passive but actively engaged in shaping a just society.

Amr bil ma’rūf enjoins love, loyalty, and support for the Ahl al-Bayt; this is tawallā. It affirms their righteousness, upholds their example, and perpetuates their teachings. Conversely, nahī anil munkar forbids the evils they opposed, which necessarily includes condemning those who persecuted them; this is tabarrā. The two duties are inseparable. One cannot genuinely enjoin good without also forbidding evil; one cannot authentically love the Ahl al-Bayt without repudiating their enemies.

Imam Husain’s stand at Karbala was itself the supreme act of nahī anil munkar. He did not rise for political power but to “revive the command of enjoining good and forbidding evil,” as he declared in his famous address. His martyrdom was the ultimate testimony that some evils are so grave they must be opposed even at the cost of life. To curse his killers is therefore to affirm the principle for which he died. It is to say that the evil he opposed remains evil, and that the moral clarity he embodied must not be blurred by time or expediency.

The Meaning of La’n within This Framework

In Islamic theology, la’n does not mean abuse or vindictiveness. Classical Arabic defines it as exclusion from divine mercy. When a believer prays, “O Allah, curse the killers of Husain,” he is not usurping judgement but beseeching God to withhold mercy from those who committed the gravest betrayal. The judgement remains entirely with Him. Within the Usūl framework, this prayer is an acknowledgement of divine justice (‘Adl) and an anticipation of the final judgement (Ma’ād). It is also an act of nahī anil munkar, forbidding evil by calling it by its name and refusing to normalise it.

The Qur’an firmly establishes this principle: “Indeed, Allah has cursed the disbelievers” (33:64); “Upon them shall be the curse of Allah, the angels and all mankind” (2:159); “The curse of Allah is upon the wrongdoers” (11:18). Divine mercy is not unconditional; persistent oppression may place one beyond it. Prophetic tradition reinforces this: the Prophet invoked curses upon land-grabbers, those who cursed parents, usurers, and corrupt innovators. In each case, he did not engage in vulgarity but prayed for divine justice. Notably, early Sunni tradition contains numerous such instances. Ibn ‘Abbās and ‘Umar both reportedly invoked curses upon those who oppressed the Ahl al-Bayt, and the famous hadith, “Whoever wrongs ‘Alī, may Allah curse him,” appears in Sunni canonical collections too. The divergence lies not in the principle but in the historical scope of its application.

Applied to Karbala

Imam Husain was the Prophet’s beloved grandson, a Master of the Youth of Paradise, and the third divinely appointed Imam. His murder, alongside the slaughter of his infant son, nephews, and companions, the denial of water, the desecration of bodies, and the captivity of women and children, constituted an assault upon the Prophet himself and the moral foundations of Islam. To remain silent about such crimes would violate nahī anil munkar; to fail to uphold his example would weaken amr bil ma’rūf.

Thus tabarrā became inseparable from tawallā. In Twelver Shi’ism, both are pillars of faith alongside the Usūl. This dual obligation is rooted in the Qur’anic verse: “Say, ‘I do not ask of you any reward for it except love for my near kin'” (42:23). For Shi’i exegetes, that love necessarily entails enmity towards those who harmed them. Genuine loyalty requires moral dissociation from injustice, as the Qur’an also declares: “You will not find a people who believe in Allah and the Last Day loving those who oppose Allah and His Messenger” (58:22). This finds eloquent expression in Ziyarat Ashura, which invokes curses upon “the first wrongdoer who wronged the family of Muhammad and the last who followed him.” This is not out of personal hatred but moral accountability before God. The formula, “peace be upon you, O Abā ‘Abdillāh, and curse be upon the killers of you,” encapsulates this indivisible pairing.

Beyond theology, the practice functions as an oral historiography. Regular recitation of curses keeps the names, deeds, and genealogies of the oppressors alive across centuries. This is not mere rancour but a form of collective memory preservation, ensuring that the perpetrators of Karbala cannot be rehabilitated or forgotten, and that the moral lesson remains vivid for each generation.

Ethical Safeguards and Jurisprudential Nuance

Critics allege sectarianism, but Shi’i scholars distinguish la’n from sabb (vulgar abuse), which the Qur’an forbids (6:108). Moreover, classical manuals stress that la’n must be free from personal malice, uttered with humility before God, and directed only at those whose guilt is certain; it is not directed at living individuals or those whose inner state is unknown. It is a prayer for God’s justice, not a weapon for sectarian score-settling. As Shaykh al-Mufīd writes, “Cursing is an act of worship, not of temper.” While all Shi’i jurists affirm the permissibility of la’n, opinions diverge on its public expression. Some (for example, Ayatollah Khamenei) caution strongly against it in interfaith settings, prioritising unity and avoiding provocation. Others (for example, Ayatollah Khomeini) permitted more open expression within Muslim discourse. There is also a distinction between la’n as a devotional act (recommended) and as a judicial sentence (which only an infallible Imam may pronounce). Most believers confine themselves to the former.

Importantly, the duty of nahī anil munkar is itself qualified by conditions: it must be performed with knowledge, with the intention of reform, and without causing greater harm. This is why Shi’i jurists have always counselled wisdom in its application. La’n is one expression of forbidding evil, but not the only one. It is appropriate where historical evils are settled and beyond dispute; it is less appropriate where direct engagement or education might yield better results. The principle of amr bil ma’rūf, meanwhile, emphasises that love for the Ahl al-Bayt must be active and constructive, pursued through following their example, studying their teachings, and embodying their ethics in daily life.

The Eschatological and Universal Dimensions

In Shi’i eschatology, the final Imam (al-Mahdī) will, upon his return, exact divine justice and publicly curse the enemies of the Ahl al-Bayt in a universal declaration. Believers’ present recitations are thus seen as anticipatory participation in that ultimate vindication: a way of aligning themselves with the forces of justice before the end of time.

Beyond history, Karbala symbolises universal moral responsibility. To curse Husain’s killers is to reject tyranny wherever it appears. Every Ashura renews the commitment to stand with Husain over Yazid, justice over oppression, and conscience over expediency. This is the living application of amr bil ma’rūf and nahī anil munkar: not static formulae but dynamic principles that demand moral engagement with the world.

La’n complements love. As believers ask Allah to bless the Prophet’s family, they also ask Him to withhold mercy from those who sought their destruction. Mercy without justice is meaningless. The same God who commands amr bil ma’rūf also commands nahī anil munkar. To fulfil one without the other would be to fragment the ethical vision of the Qur’an itself.

Ultimately, invoking divine curse upon the enemies of the Ahl al-Bayt is not vengeance but moral clarity. It affirms that some crimes cannot be neutralised by time or convenience. Karbala endures because it establishes an eternal distinction between oppressor and oppressed. To bless one while indifferent to the other would empty the tragedy of its ethical force. Thus tawallā and tabarrā remain complementary dimensions of Shi’i faith, rooted in the Usūl al-Dīn and animated by the twin duties of amr bil ma’rūf and nahī anil munkar. Together, they preserve both the memory of Karbala and the universal struggle for justice which it continues to inspire.

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Selected References

· Qur’an: 2:159, 3:61, 3:104, 9:71, 11:18, 31:17, 33:33, 33:57, 33:64, 42:23, 58:22
· Al-Kulaynī, al-Kāfī
· Ibn Bābawayh al-Şadūq, ‘Uyūn Akhbār al-Riḍā and al-Amālī
· Shaykh al-Mufīd, Kitāb al-Irshād
· Ibn Ţāwūs, Mişbāḥ al-Zā’ir (early recensions of Ziyārat ‘Āshūrā’)
· ‘Allāmah al-Majlisī, Biḥār al-Anwār, vols. 44–45
· Moojan Momen, An Introduction to Shi’i Islam (Yale, 1985)
· Mahmoud M. Ayoub, Redemptive Suffering in Islam (Mouton, 1978)
· Abdulaziz Sachedina, The Just Ruler in Shi’ite Islam (OUP, 1988)