ASHA: Blast From The Past

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)

Syed Ali Nadeem Rezavi

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

Among the devotional texts of Twelver Shi‘i Islam, few have exercised as profound and enduring an influence as Ziyārat-e ‘Āshūrā. Recited daily by countless believers across the world, and especially during the first ten days of Muharram, it is far more than a prayer associated with the martyrdom of Imam Husain. It is a declaration of faith, a reaffirmation of loyalty to the Prophet’s Household (Ahl al-Bayt), a rejection of oppression, and an ethical covenant binding the believer to the ideals for which Imam Husain sacrificed his life at Karbala. More than thirteen centuries after the events of 61 AH (680 CE), Ziyārat-e ‘Āshūrā continues to shape Shi‘i religious identity, devotional practice and moral consciousness. It transforms the memory of Karbala from a historical tragedy into a living spiritual reality that challenges every generation to define its own relationship with truth and justice.

The Arabic word ziyārah literally means ‘visitation’. In Islamic usage it refers to visiting a sacred person or place in order to offer greetings, prayers and expressions of reverence. Within Shi‘i thought, however, ziyārah possesses a richer theological significance. Visiting an Imam is not regarded merely as paying respects to a revered historical figure, but as renewing one’s allegiance to the divinely appointed guides of the Muslim community. Even when physical pilgrimage is impossible, the believer may perform ziyārah from any place in the world by directing his or her heart towards the Imam. Consequently, Ziyārat-e ‘Āshūrā has never been confined to the shrine of Imam Husain in Karbala. It is recited daily in homes, mosques, imāmbārgāhs and centres of learning across the Shi‘i world, making participation in the remembrance of Karbala accessible to all believers regardless of geographical distance.

According to the accepted Twelver Shi‘i tradition, Ziyārat-e ‘Āshūrā was taught by Imam Muhammad al-Bāqir, the fifth Imam, to his companion ‘Alqamah ibn Muhammad al-Hadrami, while another transmission is associated with Imam Ja‘far al-Sādiq, the sixth Imam. The text was subsequently preserved in the earliest collections of Shi‘i devotional literature, most notably Ibn Qūlawayh’s Kāmil al-Ziyārāt, Shaykh al-Ṭūsī’s Miṣbāḥ al-Mutahajjid and Tahdhīb al-Aḥkām, before being incorporated into later compilations such as Ibn Ṭāwūs’ Iqbāl al-A‘māl and ‘Allāmah al-Majlisī’s Biḥār al-Anwār. While modern scholarship has examined the isnād and textual history of the ziyārah with the same critical methods applied to other early Islamic traditions, its uninterrupted acceptance and recitation within the Shi‘i community for nearly a millennium has conferred upon it exceptional devotional authority. Moojan Momen has observed that the institution of ziyārah occupies a central place in Shi‘i spirituality because it expresses both doctrinal commitment and communal identity, while Liyakat Takim has shown that loyalty to the Imams became one of the defining characteristics of early Shi‘ism.

The structure of Ziyārat-e ‘Āshūrā reveals a carefully developed theological vision. It opens with repeated salutations upon Imam Husain, his family and his companions, acknowledging their sacrifice and affirming their enduring spiritual authority. These greetings are followed by declarations of loyalty towards the Prophet Muhammad and his Household, prayers seeking closeness to God through devotion to them, repeated invocations of divine blessings upon the righteous, and repeated condemnation of those responsible for the oppression and murder of Imam Husain. Finally, the text concludes by praying that the believer may share in the mission of the awaited Imam al-Mahdi, whose appearance will establish justice upon the earth and complete the struggle against tyranny begun at Karbala. This sequence is not accidental. It establishes a theological progression from remembrance to allegiance, from allegiance to moral responsibility, and from moral responsibility to hope for ultimate divine justice. Karbala is therefore not presented as an isolated historical episode but as a continuing moral drama in which every believer participates.

Perhaps the most distinctive feature of Ziyārat-e ‘Āshūrā is its insistence that Karbala transcends history. Unlike historical chronicles, which narrate events confined to a particular place and time, the ziyārah presents Karbala as an eternal criterion distinguishing truth from falsehood. When the believer proclaims, ‘Peace be upon you, O Abu Abdillah’, the greeting is not directed merely towards a figure who lived in the seventh century but towards a living spiritual exemplar whose sacrifice continues to illuminate human conduct. Likewise, when the believer condemns the enemies of Husain, the condemnation extends beyond those historical individuals who participated in the events of 61 AH. It represents the rejection of every political order, ideology or individual that perpetuates oppression, injustice and moral corruption. This understanding explains why Shi‘i scholars have consistently argued that Karbala is not merely remembered but continually relived. Syed Akbar Hyder has demonstrated that ritual remembrance transforms historical memory into a lived moral experience. David Pinault similarly argues that rituals surrounding Karbala are designed not simply to commemorate the past but to renew communal identity through participation in sacred memory. The repeated recitation of Ziyārat-e ‘Āshūrā exemplifies this process by ensuring that every generation encounters Karbala not as distant history but as an ever-present ethical challenge.

Central to the theology of the ziyārah are the complementary principles of tawallā and tabarrā which have been explained in a detailed blog earlier. In concise terms Tawallā denotes love, friendship and allegiance towards God’s chosen servants, while tabarrā signifies dissociation from those who oppose divine guidance. These concepts are deeply rooted in Qur’anic teachings concerning loyalty to righteousness and rejection of injustice. In Ziyārat-e ‘Āshūrā, the repeated salutations upon Imam Husain and the Ahl al-Bayt embody tawallā, whereas the repeated invocations of divine curse upon the perpetrators of Karbala express tabarrā. The practice of la’n, or invoking God’s curse, has frequently been misunderstood outside its theological context. In everyday language the word ‘curse’ often suggests abusive speech or personal malice. Within Islamic theology, however, as explained in a different blog, la’n signifies asking God to withdraw His mercy from those who knowingly persisted in oppression after truth had become manifest. The Qur’an itself repeatedly employs this language in relation to those who reject divine guidance and commit injustice. ‘Indeed, Allah has cursed the wrongdoers’ (Qur’an 33:64). Consequently, the la’n found throughout Ziyārat-e ‘Āshūrā should not be understood as an expression of personal hatred but as a prayer for divine justice against tyranny. Shi‘i theologians have consistently interpreted these passages within this theological framework.

The repeated condemnation of the enemies of Imam Husain also reflects a broader Qur’anic concern for justice. Throughout the Qur’an, believers are commanded not merely to worship God but to uphold justice even against themselves or their own relatives (Qur’an 4:135). Imam Husain’s refusal to legitimise the rule of Yazid was therefore understood not simply as political opposition but as obedience to the Qur’anic imperative to resist injustice. Ziyārat-e ‘Āshūrā transforms this historical decision into a permanent ethical obligation. Every generation must ask whether it stands with Husain or with those who sought to silence him.

Equally significant is the eschatological dimension of the ziyārah. The believer repeatedly prays that God may grant him the opportunity to seek justice alongside the Imam from the Household of Muhammad who will arise to establish divine rule. Classical commentators unanimously understood this as a reference to Imam al-Mahdi. Karbala is thus linked directly with the Shi‘i doctrine of the Imamate and the expectation of the Mahdi’s return. The struggle begun by Imam Husain is not complete. Its fulfilment awaits the final triumph of justice. In this manner, Ziyārat-e ‘Āshūrā unites sacred history with sacred future, reminding believers that the moral struggle against oppression remains unfinished.

The spiritual significance of the ziyārah extends beyond theology into the formation of character. Traditional Shi‘i scholars have consistently recommended its regular recitation as a means of cultivating patience, steadfastness, sincerity, courage and devotion. Repetition gradually internalises these virtues. The believer who repeatedly salutes Imam Husain and condemns injustice is encouraged to embody those same values in daily life. The ziyārah therefore functions not only as remembrance but also as moral education. It seeks to produce individuals whose ethical conduct reflects the principles for which Karbala was fought.

The influence of Ziyārat-e ‘Āshūrā has extended far beyond the Arab world. Throughout Iran, Iraq, the Indian subcontinent, Central Asia, East Africa and the wider Shi‘i diaspora, it has become an indispensable part of devotional life. During Muharram, especially on the tenth day, it is recited collectively in mosques and imāmbārgāhs, while many believers also incorporate it into their daily personal devotions. Its widespread recitation has contributed significantly to preserving the memory of Karbala across diverse languages and cultures. As Kamran Scot Aghaie has argued, rituals associated with Imam Husain have repeatedly served as powerful instruments for constructing religious identity and transmitting moral values across generations. Modern historians and anthropologists have also recognised the broader social significance of such devotional texts. Victor Turner’s influential analysis of ritual emphasised that communal acts of remembrance reshape social identity by linking individuals to a shared moral narrative. In the Shi‘i tradition, Ziyārat-e ‘Āshūrā performs precisely this function. It continually renews the believer’s relationship with the Prophet’s Household while simultaneously reinforcing the universal principles of justice, sacrifice and resistance to tyranny.

Ultimately, the enduring appeal of Ziyārat-e ‘Āshūrā lies in its remarkable ability to unite history, theology and ethics within a single devotional text. It neither confines Karbala to the seventh century nor reduces it to a purely emotional commemoration. Instead, it presents Imam Husain’s martyrdom as the permanent standard by which every age must measure its own moral choices. The believer who recites the ziyārah does not merely mourn the past but pledges allegiance to an enduring vision of justice founded upon truth, sacrifice and unwavering fidelity to conscience. In this sense, Ziyārat-e ‘Āshūrā remains one of the most profound expressions of Islamic devotional literature, preserving not only the memory of Karbala but also the ethical ideals for which Imam Husain gave his life.

References

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