Mughal Town Planning: From Riverfront Gardens to the Sovereign City

Fathpur Sikri: Panoramic Aerial View

The Question of Mughal Urban Planning

The study of urban planning during the Mughal period in India has perhaps yet to receive adequate attention, with most works remaining confined to descriptions of urban centres as sites of commercial activity rather than developing a coherent theory of planning. However, the reigns of Emperor Akbar (1556-1605) and his grandson Shah Jahan (1628-1658) represent particularly fertile periods for such an inquiry, for it was during their rule that three distinct models of imperial urbanism emerged. As Javed Hasan has noted, almost all the major urban centres of historical importance in northern India received their basic imprint in this period. Yet, apart from Fathpur Sikri and Shahjahanabad, it is generally held that no other Mughal town was planned. In this paper, an attempt is being made to describe the broad outlines of Mughal town planning through a study of Agra, Fathpur Sikri, and Shahjahanabad, utilizing plans, poetical descriptions, archaeological surveys, and the identification of masons’ marks to demonstrate that Mughal urbanism was far more sophisticated and deliberate than has often been acknowledged.

Pre-Mughal Traditions and the Mughal Departure

To understand the innovation of Mughal planning, one must first appreciate the traditions it overturned. Students of history and architecture have put forward three major models of pre-modern town planning: the European, the Islamic, and the Hindu. The authors of the Shilpa-sastra categorized town models on the basis of their physical pattern into circular, crescent or half-moon, cross, square, and rectangular types. In each of these pre-Mughal models, the citadel along with the public buildings and the main place of worship was placed at the centre, with roads from all sides leading to them. The full city concentrated its attention on the citadel which was the seat of power, with fortifications surrounding it. There was no other distinguishing or monumental form, the rest of the city being left unfortified and defenceless. In pre-Mughal towns, the city of the inhabitants grew fairly freely, although following by and large the logic of caste or professional hierarchy. The priestly and warrior classes, being closer to the seat of power, were usually placed in areas close to the citadel, while the menial and labouring classes were relegated to the very periphery of the town. Secondly, and most critically for the case of Agra, when a city was to be built on a river bank, it was always to be on the right bank, for amongst the pre-medieval Indians there was a deep-rooted belief that it was an ill-omen to build a city on the left bank of the river.

The Mughal town, on the other hand, appears to have a strong centralizing basis that departed from these traditions. Its colossal hydraulic works for irrigation, the efficient well-planned roads, streets and by-lanes, and the presence of a large number of monumental gardens all point to the desire of the Mughal architects to redesign the urban landscape. Two major sources appear to have informed this new urban design. The first was the Mughal encampment procedure. Discussing a typical Mughal camp, Abul Fazl writes that the imperial quarters were pitched at the centre, with the tents of royal ladies and princes placed at specific distances to the right and left, the karkhanas behind them, and the bazaars at the four corners of the camp. The nobles were encamped on all sides, according to their rank, outside the complex reserved for imperial use. By and large, the plan of a Mughal town was laid down accordingly, with the fort or citadel at the centre, surrounded by the mansions of nobles, and beyond them, the markets and commercial areas.

The second source for Mughal urban design was the chahārbāgh garden with its centripetal symmetry. The axes, joints and modules of a chahārbāgh were turned architecturally, from time to time, into pavilions, platforms, waterfalls, pools, caravanserais, and symmetrical streets. The grids and proportions of a garden were enlarged into the planning of a Mughal town. Like in a chahārbāgh, the town was divided into various distinct divisions revolving around a localized central structure on the one hand and aligned symmetrically with the actual centre on the other. This garden-inspired geometry, combined with the hierarchical logic of the imperial encampment, formed the dual foundation of Mughal urbanism.

Agra: The Riverfront Garden City

Agra, apart from being an administrative centre, was a major commercial centre as well. Though the antiquity of this town is shrouded in mystery, we know that Sikandar Lodi (1489-1517) was the first Muslim ruler who gave it the status of a military headquarters. Subsequently, under Akbar, it was turned into the capital city. Agra apparently developed during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries into a thriving metropolis. However, it was Babur who set the agenda for the development of Agra. The Baburnama is full of references to the Emperor lamenting the existing landscape and his attempts to mould it. It was the desire to reshape the landscape and iron out the chaos on the one hand, coupled with the inherent ancient taboo not to build on the left bank of the river, which led Babur and his successors to get away from the noise and confusion of old Agra and build an uninterrupted sequence of gardens on the free left bank of the Yamuna, which was linked with the city both by boat and by land.

An old plan of Agra dating back to the 1720s, preserved at the Jaipur Palace Museum, depicts around sixteen gardens situated on the left bank of the river. Some of the famous gardens on this side were Aram Bagh (originally Bagh-i Nur Afshan, now known as Ram Bagh), Zohra Bagh, Moti Bagh, Baland Bagh, and Mahtab Bagh. The famous Mahtab Bagh is depicted along with other gardens on the left bank, just opposite the Taj Mahal, where Babur is alleged to have built an astronomical observatory. The right bank of the river was also provided with a long chain of gardens, tombs, and havelis of the nobles of the empire. The plan depicts gardens located between the Taj and the Fort, including an extensive garden with a waterside building of red sandstone known as Bagh Khan-i Alam, and another garden nearby called Tatiyar ka Baghicha, which according to Fuhrer is also known as the Garden of Mahabat Khan.

A glance at the plan goes to prove the assertion of the Dutch traveller Pelsaert that “the breadth of the city is by no means so great as the length, because every one has tried to be close to the river bank, and consequently the water front is occupied by the costly palaces of all the famous lords, which make it appear gay and magnificent, and extend for a distance of 6 hos or 3.5 Holland miles.” Among some of the palaces mentioned by Pelsaert which were situated on the river bank were those of Bahadur Khan, Ibrahim Khan, Rustam Gandhi, Itiqad Khan, Wazir Khan, and Baqar Khan, apart from the quarters of some of the princesses of royal blood. The plan under discussion too depicts around nineteen such havelis, some of which are identified as those belonging to Agha Khan, Khan-i Dauran, Asalat Khan, Mahabat Khan, Hasdan Khan, Azam Khan, Mughal Khan, and Yamtan Khan Rumi. A set of at least eight radial roads can be discerned which converge from all directions towards the main gate of the fort. The city was surrounded by a bed-sandstone and rubble wall which had eight main gates apart from around twenty-five smaller gateways. Towards the west is located the Chaharsuq Darwaza through which the road passed straight towards the fort. This road was lined by a huge market linked with shops on both sides, and beyond it lay the main square of the city known as the Bara or Badshahi Chowk.

An eighteenth-century ghazal from Rajasthan, translated into Hindi by Dr. B.L. Bhadani, provides a vivid description of Agra’s commercial landscape. According to the ghazal, there was a big market in this Chowk where all kinds of goods were available. Provisions like diamonds, semi-precious stones, cloths, and swords were sold here. This market also had a number of shops owned by banya merchants dealing with sweetmeats and other goods. Hawkers too frequented this market. Beyond this was located a Tripolia which again had a variety of shops frequented by a large number of merchants. Nearby was yet another market selling paper, adjacent to which were the grain-market and the cloth-market. To its north was situated yet another market inhabited by sweetmeat sellers, who had their houses in the nearby locality. Adjoining this locality was located the Muhalla Roshan where Jain merchants were residing, and nearby was another locality inhabited by Hindus.

Beyond the lane of the sweetmeat sellers was situated the Jauhari Bazar where precious stones were sold. Adjacent to this pearl market were the innumerable houses of big merchants, and it was here that the Imperial Mint was situated. Beyond the Imperial mint but within the second wall of the town were Hing-ki Mandi and Munga Bazar. The ghazal also mentions Nai-ki Mandi along with a very good market known as Gari-i Siyah, beyond which was the so-called garden of Jodhbai, where all kinds of vegetables were sold. On the other side of the Chaharsuq Bazar and the Badshahi Chowk were the markets selling utensils and dairy products. Towards this side were the houses of cloth merchants and the mansions of nobles. Other localities mentioned are Chhipi para (now known as Chhipitola), Hazrat Mandi, Chirimartola (the locality of bird catchers), Namak-ki Mandi, Loha Mandi, Perfume Market, and Chohatta Bazar. The ghazal also mentions certain gardens like Motibagh and Achanak Bagh which were situated opposite the Itimadud Daulah’s tomb on the left bank of the river.

A survey of Agra town shows that apart from these markets mentioned in the ghazal, there were a large number of wholesale markets in the Tajganj area as well. In the English Factory Records we have constant references to the cotton textile procured by the English and other Europeans at Tajganj. The mercantile area of Tajganj, or Muntazabad as it is known in the Persian sources, had a very large ferry and consequently a number of serais and warehouses. From the above discussion, it would be apparent that the town of Agra, like any other Mughal city, was a well-laid-out township with separate localities for various professions. The citadel, or the Fort, like in a Mughal encampment, was surrounded all around with beautiful gardens and well-laid-out mansions of the noble class. Beyond the residential structures and gardens were the localities of the mercantile classes and the markets. The commercial area, along with the central mosque and the citadel, was protected by fortifications. The lesser-important classes of the merchants and the civilian population too were surrounded and protected by an all-encompassing city wall. Most of the important roads led to the centrally located administrative centre, and most of them were lined with shops or residences of various kinds of people. The left bank of the river was sparsely populated and lined with pretty gardens and tombs of the nobles. The very planning and development of the city of Agra reflects a conscious attempt by the powers that be to protect the commercial importance of the town and an endeavour to bring order into the visual chaos.

Fathpur Sikri: The Encampment City and Its Autonomy

While Agra represented the transformation of an existing settlement into a riverfront imperial capital, Akbar’s most ambitious urban project was the construction of an entirely new city at Fathpur Sikri. Founded in 1571 and serving as the capital until 1585, Fathpur Sikri embodied a different set of planning principles. The city was built on a ridge, not along a river, and its layout drew inspiration not from the waterfront but from the Mughal encampment and the chahārbāgh. However, a closer look at the remains and a reading of the text points to a city that did not develop at one point of time, nor does it appear to have followed a single plan. Fathpur Sikri emerged gradually over a period of years, and as a survey of the site reveals, many changes were wrought in the original plan, if any existed at all.

The initial order to build the shahr was given in 1571, when a compulsory decree was issued that nobody should obstruct anyone who wanted to build a house within the said circuit. In anticipation of a large number of people settling in the new city, the emperor in 1576-77 further decreed that five shops of red stone should be constructed from the royal court to the Agra gate, and close to the darbar a chaharsuq comprising well-decorated shops was built. A Tripoliya, or three-arched structure, of red stone was built towards the bazaar. Arif Qandhari also mentions the order for the building of mosques, baths, and caravanserais in the city, all erected to fulfil the needs of the common people and the commercial classes.

The Jami’ Masjid at Fathpur Sikri was explicitly a public edifice built with an eye to the future citizens. Regarding its construction, Qandhari writes that its court was raised on steps, and subterranean reservoirs were covered and made level with the surface of the courtyard. In some places they were latticed so that whenever it rained, the water collected in the courtyard poured through those lattices into the subterranean tanks. Thus the general public had its need for water fulfilled. My survey of Fathpur Sikri revealed five Akbari markets and at least four serais catering to visiting merchants. Even after Fathpur Sikri ceased to be an imperial town, it continued to flourish as an important commercial centre. In 1581, Hakim Abul Fath Gilani mentions that commerce was better pursued at Fathpur when the town was still the capital. Then in the second decade of the seventeenth century, after twenty-five years of its abandonment as the capital, it had turned into a centre of indigo plantation attracting foreign merchants. Pelsaert mentions the manufacture of carpets that could be woven fine or coarse as required.

This economic resilience is crucial for understanding the difference between Agra and Fathpur Sikri. Agra’s economy, while robust, was intimately tied to the presence of the imperial court and the nobility who maintained riverfront gardens. Fathpur Sikri, by contrast, possessed a remarkable economic autonomy, continuing to flourish long after the court had departed for Lahore. When we examine the actual layout of the two cities, the relationship between palace and noble housing was one of difference rather than emulation. In a typical noble’s mansion at Fathpur Sikri, the entry was through a main gate which opened into a courtyard or a deorhi with sharp bends, frustrating any attempt to peep into the house. This courtyard formed the mardankhana, and through an interconnecting passage one could enter a second courtyard serving as the zanankhana. The plans of the emperor’s mansion and the noble’s mansions were different in utility perception and concept of space, and when one compares a common man’s house with a noble’s mansion, Blake’s thesis of unidirectional copying is not found even remotely substantiated. Furthermore, the noble’s mansions at Fathpur Sikri were mostly confined to one region, namely the top of the north-eastern ridge, arguing against the thesis that they created satellite growth equating to districts and provinces. The imperial city catered to the needs of the nobility, but this would be true for any city. Fathpur Sikri was founded at a junction on the important Agra-Rajasthan-Gujarat route; fancy or reverence for a saintly presence was only a secondary factor. The town continued to flourish even after the court shifted to Lahore. If we accept Blake’s thesis, Fathpur Sikri should have disappeared from the map along with the transfer of capital. That it did not proves that the Mughal Empire was neither a patrimonial-bureaucratic empire in the sense Blake uses the term, nor was Fathpur Sikri an extension of the imperial household.

The Sources and Inspirations of Urban Design at Fathpur Sikri

The Mughal emperors being often on the move, the traditional plan of the Mughal encampment appears to have been the principal inspiration for town planning at Fathpur Sikri. Being one of the first organized towns to develop, Fathpur Sikri appears to have drawn on the various principles used in setting up such camp cities. Even the vocabulary applied by the Persian sources to describe the permanent stone structures is often the same as was used for the temporary portable dwellings. The public audience hall is sometimes referred to as bargah-i am (the large audience tent), the sleeping or retiring room of the emperor as khalwatkada-i khas (the tent of privacy), the haram as saraparda or saraparda-i ismat (the screened-in area of chastity), such being the names also of different categories of tents.

Explaining the plan of a Mughal imperial encampment, Abul Fazl writes that the shabistan-i iqbal (the haramsara), the daulatkhana (the imperial palace or quarters), and the naqqarkhana (the drum house) are all pitched within a distance of 1530 yards. To the right and left of these, and behind them, an open space of 300 yards is reserved for guards. Within the principal enclosure, at a distance of 100 yards from the centre, are pitched the tents of the royal ladies and the princes. Behind the tents, at some distance, the buyutat (karkhanas or workshops) are placed; and at a further distance of 30 yards behind them, at the four corners of the camp, the bazaars. The nobles are encamped on all sides, according to their rank, outside the complex reserved for imperial use. According to this scheme, the central area was reserved for imperial use, flanked by the princes’ area, which was surrounded by that of the nobles. The bazaars and markets were located behind the workshops, that is, at the outer limits of the camp.

At Fathpur Sikri, due to the topography of the site, the camp’s single north-south axis was broken into two constituents: the axis of progression from public to private and the axis of royal appearance. The axis of progression was laid out from north-east to north-west, aligning the diwan-i am, daulatkhana, and the haramsara. The main ceremonial access to the emperor’s sight was obtained by an opening from the Hathipol to the khwabgah, on a north-south axis. Further, like a Mughal encampment, the language of the palace at Fathpur was one of pavilions and enclosures. Large spaces alternated with stone pavilions. As in an encampment, we find that the palace was surrounded by rings of bureaucratic establishments, nobles’ houses, and habitations of the common people. The markets were constructed in a linear fashion along the sides.

Another possible source of its design appears to have been the Mughal garden, the chaharbagh. According to Petruccioli, the centripetal symmetry of the chaharbagh could be an inspiration for the Mughal urban design. The axes, joints, and nodules of a garden were turned architecturally into pavilions, platforms, waterfalls, pools, caravanserais, and symmetrical roads. Thus it was the modular grid that became a systematic design instrument. The town was divided into various distinct divisions revolving around a localized central structure on the one hand, and aligned symmetrically with the main centre, on the other.

For the individual structures and buildings, the inspiration came from a number of traditions. By the time Fathpur Sikri began to be constructed, the traditions of Rajput and Gujarat architecture had already been incorporated in the buildings of the pre-Mughal Muslim rulers of India. At Fathpur Sikri, the dominant influence appears to be that of the Timurid and Gujarati Sultanate architecture. In a number of structures at Fathpur Sikri, the central vaults over the chambers are masked by a flat roof. This may at one level be a combination of the structurally accurate with the visibly trabeate. We have this example in the khwabgah, the emperor’s seat in the diwan-i am, the daftarkhana, the Tansen Baradari, Todarmal Baradari, Hada Mahal, Qushkhana, and the city gateways. Central Asian features are also encountered in the hammams, caravanserais, and pavilions on top of palace buildings where Timurid masonry vaults form the ceilings. The Rang Mahal and complexes around it, the four-storeyed pavilion erroneously known as ‘Panch Mahal’, and the ‘Hawa Mahal‘ adjoining the haramsara are all based on the Iranian and Timurid post-and-beam porches. In Iran, such structures were known as talar and in Trans Oxiana as aiwan. The trabeate construction of these structures is marked by a strong sense of weight and measure. Geometrical precision appears to be the hallmark of Akbari structures. Echoes of wooden architecture are also encountered—the ceilings of the hujra-i Aniptalao and the chaharkhana, the pillars of the Rang Mahal and the so-called Badi Mahal remind us of wooden structures.

The Plan and Layout of Fathpur Sikri

Describing the plan of Fathpur Sikri, Abu’l Fazl writes that a stone masonry fort was erected and several noble buildings arose in completion. Although the royal palace and the residences of many of the nobles are upon the summit of the hill, the plains likewise are studded with numerous mansions and gardens. Adjacent to the town is a reservoir, and on its embankments, His Majesty constructed a spacious courtyard, a Minār, and a polo-ground where elephant fights are organized. In its vicinity is a quarry of red sandstone whence columns and slabs of any dimensions can be excavated. Under His Majesty’s patronage, carpets and fine stuffs are woven and numerous handicraftsmen have full occupation.

Arif Qandhari also points out that when in 1571 orders were issued to begin building Fathpur Sikri, Emperor Akbar ordered it to have a two or three kuroh circumference on the face of the earth, for houses to be built on the top of the hill, and that they should lay out orchards and gardens at its periphery and centre. Trees were planted in the environs which had formerly been the habitat of rabbits and jackals; mosques, markets, baths, caravanserais, and other fine buildings were constructed in the city. Father Monserrate, who visited the court of Akbar in 1580, also gives a very detailed account of the city. He notes that the most noteworthy features of Fathpur are, firstly, the king’s audience chamber, which is of huge size and very beautiful in appearance, overlooking the whole city; secondly, a great building supported on arches around which is a very spacious courtyard; thirdly, the circus where elephants fight; fourthly, the baths; fifthly, the bazar, which is more than half a mile long, and is filled with an astonishing quantity of every description of merchandise, and with countless people.

From these passages it becomes clear that most of the imperial structures and the houses of the influential sections of the nobility were located on top of the ridge; the civic population inhabited the areas below the ridge, where gardens were also located; the vicinity of the lake was adorned with pleasure resorts; there was a brisk commercial activity in the township; the town was oriented towards the lake where was situated the main gateway to the official area; and the whole town, along with its civic population, was placed within fortified walls.

The fortification wall of Fathpur Sikri had eight gateways to the city: the Ajmeri Darwaza, Tehra Darwaza, Dholpur/Gwalior Darwaza, Chandra Pol, Birbal/Bir Pol, Agra Darwaza, Lal Darwaza, and the Dehli Darwaza. As in the case of the Central Asian cities, where the walls encompassed not only the madina or shahristan (the town proper with the palace), but the rabaz (the suburbs) as well, the city wall and gates of Fathpur Sikri contained within them not only the imperial quarters and the houses of the nobility but also the habitation of the common population comprising merchants, traders, professionals, and others. This would suggest a fairly close relationship between the political authority and the commercial classes.

The whole town was intersected by two horizontal roads, one running between Ajmeri Darwaza and Lal Darwaza, and a second connecting Terha Darwaza with Agra Darwaza. A branch of the latter branched off from the Agra Gate and went straight to the eastern opening of the diwan-i am. Two other roads cut the township vertically. These roads were planned on a grid pattern and laid out with stone pieces dressed to wedge shape and set in mortar with their thinner ends projecting downwards. This setting allowed for a smooth surface and gave stability and strength to the road. The main arterial roads were 15.40 metres wide, with a packing thickness of between 34 and 50 centimetres. There were a number of secondary roads that emanated from these arterial roads, which were approximately 3.6 metres in width. Excavations revealed four roads, each with secondary lanes, emanating at right angles from the main road.

These intersecting roads divide the whole town into ten quarters, of which the central was reserved for the imperial establishments and bureaucratic offices. The area between the main roads was reserved for the higher nobility, while another was given to the ‘new’ township of Fathpur. The modern city of Fatehpur is also situated in the same zone. In the open spaces towards the periphery of the town and the banks of the lake were pleasure pavilions, open fields, and gardens. The commercial classes appear to have been settled in the zone where the main road between the Agra Darwaza and the diwan-i am was situated. This was also the area where the main shopping complex was situated.

When one compares the plan of Fathpur Sikri with the plan of the city of London as it existed until 1750, striking similarities emerge. In both the Mughal city and London, the middle class and professional residential quarters adjoined the aristocratic residential quarter. In both, the main shopping complex was situated within the city walls at a distance from the imperial quarters. In both, the industrial area and artisans’ dwellings were located at the farthest point from the imperial quarters, with the bulk of this area situated outside the city walls. At Fathpur Sikri, the areas of indigo cultivation, leather works, and abattoirs were situated either close to the city wall or outside of it. My survey of a structure excavated by the Archaeological Survey of India near the Dehli Darwaza revealed that it was an ironsmith’s cottage comprising two rooms and a masonry furnace. There are, however, points of variance: the amusement and vice area in London was situated adjacent to the aristocratic residential quarter, whereas the Shaitanpura or the brothels at Fathpur Sikri were constructed outside the city limits. Further, if one compares the colonial plan of Lutyens’ Delhi with that of Akbar’s Fathpur Sikri, one is struck by the similarity of the placement of the main shopping complex, Connaught Circus vis-à-vis Akbar’s palace at Fathpur, and the Mall at New Delhi with the broad road marked with shops between Ajmeri Darwaza and the Hathipol at Fathpur.

Residential structures could not but be near the markets. There are at least two residential neighbourhoods within the town mentioned by our sources and one outside its walls. The first of these is the area of Salim Chishti, also known as Shaikhpura or Nayabad, located behind the Jami Masjid. The second residential neighbourhood was that of Khwaja-i Jahan where Mulla Abdul Qadir Badauni used to live. Outside the city walls was the neighbourhood inhabited by the prostitutes known as Shaitanpura. We also hear of Khairpura, Dharampura, and Jogipura situated outside the city limits. We have the testimony of Abu’l Fazl that the residences of the Akbari nobles were situated on the summit of the hill, while the other residential structures were situated below it in the plains. Following the excavations by the ASI and the team from the Centre of Advanced Study in History, Aligarh, it was found that a large number of structures associated with the nobility were constructed on the northern ridge, between the so-called Tansen Baradari and the sarai near the Agra Darwaza. The discovery of clay tablets used by Shi’ites while praying (sijdagāh) in one of the excavated structures in this area suggests that this area was possibly inhabited by members of the Iranian nobility.

Thus, we see that the plan of Fathpur Sikri accords fairly well with that of the imperial encampment described by Abul Fazl. It also duly takes into account the contours of the site: the main mosque and the imperial palaces and offices were placed on the ridge. Water was supplied to this area by lifting it from the lake using a water wheel and then transporting it using aqueducts. The quarters of the civil population were assigned where the lake and wells provided direct access to water. The residences of the nobility and the lower strata were well separated. The planned construction of shops on long avenues, built obviously at imperial expenditure, and then presumably leased out to private shopkeepers is a very notable feature of the planned city, as is the construction of the caravanserais, built again under imperial aegis, to accommodate merchants and travellers. Not only was Fathpur Sikri, then, well planned, there was also a considerable investment of imperial resources in it to ensure that it fulfilled its proper functions as an imperial town of a new empire.

Shahjahanabad: The Sovereign City

It was with Shah Jahan’s construction of Shahjahanabad that the Mughal imperial city reached its fullest and most self-conscious expression. In 1639, Shah Jahan decided to shift his capital from Agra to a new location in Delhi, and over the next decade, he oversaw the creation of a walled city that would serve as the ultimate symbol of Mughal sovereignty. As Stephen Blake has argued in his seminal study Shahjahanabad: The Sovereign City in Mughal India, this city embodied a new model of urbanism that Blake terms the “sovereign city” or “patrimonial-bureaucratic capital.” According to Blake, Shahjahanabad was not merely a collection of buildings but a carefully orchestrated urban environment designed to reflect and reinforce the absolute authority of the emperor. Drawing on Max Weber’s theory of patrimonial-bureaucratic empire, Blake argues that the city functioned as an “enormously extended household” at the micro-level and a “miniature version of the kingdom” at the macro-level. In this model, the palace-fortress stood for the city, and the mansions of great nobles for the provinces, districts, and other subdivisions of the state.

The physical layout of Shahjahanabad exemplifies this vision. At the city’s heart stood the Red Fort, an enormous fortress-palace complex that housed the emperor, his household, and the administrative machinery of the empire. The fort was situated on the banks of the Yamuna River, following the riverfront tradition established at Agra, but with a crucial difference: where Agra’s riverfront was a linear sequence of noble gardens, Shahjahanabad’s riverfront was dominated almost entirely by the imperial palace. The great nobles were not permitted to build directly on the riverfront as they had at Agra; instead, their mansions were located within the walled city, arranged along grand thoroughfares that led from the fort’s gates. This represented a significant centralization of imperial authority, with the emperor asserting exclusive control over the most prestigious waterfront locations. The city was enclosed by a massive stone wall, punctuated by fourteen gates, which served both defensive and symbolic purposes. Within these walls, the urban fabric was organized according to a clear hierarchy: major roads or bazaars formed the primary circulation network, with smaller public streets leading to residential blocks. Within these blocks, narrow lanes called kuchas, galis, or katras formed the basic units of neighbourhood organization, each with its own name and identity. These smaller units often clustered into larger quarters known as mohallas, which were typically structured around religious sanctuaries.

The commercial heart of Shahjahanabad was the Chandni Chowk, a grand boulevard running from the Red Fort’s Lahore Gate to the Fatehpuri Mosque. This was not merely a market street but a carefully designed urban space, lined with shops and caravanserais, that served as the city’s main commercial artery. According to the contemporary chronicler Shaikh Muhammad Waris, the monumental fortress palace, Jama Masjid, Akbarabadi Mosque, and Fatehpuri Mosque, along with the royal bazaars, formed the backbone of the urban master plan conceived and executed by the emperor with a team of dedicated experts. This emphasis on planning and expert knowledge marks Shahjahanabad as distinct from the more organic growth of Agra and the gradual, decree-driven development of Fathpur Sikri. The selection of the site itself was governed by rational criteria: abundance of water and a temperate climate were major considerations. The Yamuna River and the system of canals and reservoirs were vital to the landscape of urban life, and the existing waterways were used and transformed through the laying out of formal gardens into a sophisticated water system derived from the Nahr-i Bihisht.

The provision of water was central to Shahjahanabad’s urbanism. The Shah Nahr, or royal canal, was constructed to bring water from the Yamuna at Karnal, over 150 kilometres away, to the new capital. This canal fed the gardens, fountains, and water channels of the Red Fort and the nobles’ mansions, as well as providing water for public use. The infrastructure of water thus connected the imperial centre to the agricultural hinterland, the garden suburbs, the inner city, and the fort complex in a single integrated hydrological landscape. This sophisticated system, which required ongoing maintenance and imperial oversight, was both a practical necessity and a powerful symbol of the emperor’s ability to command nature itself. The relationship between the emperor and the nobility in Shahjahanabad was complex and carefully managed. Unlike at Agra, where nobles competed directly for riverfront plots, the nobles of Shahjahanabad were housed within the walled city, their mansions arranged along the major thoroughfares leading from the Red Fort. This spatial arrangement reinforced the emperor’s centrality: all roads led to the fort, and the nobles’ residences were positioned along these roads, symbolizing their dependence on and connection to the imperial centre.

Complementary but Distinct: Three Models Compared

If we now compare the three cities, their complementary but distinct characters become clear. Agra’s urban model was linear, terraced, and symmetrical, oriented outward towards the Yamuna. Water was its primary organizing axis and aesthetic medium. The city was designed to be viewed from the river, and the riverfront garden became the ultimate status symbol shared among the nobility. Commerce and finance, while present and significant, were accommodated behind the garden frontages. As Javed Hasan’s analysis of the plan and ghazal demonstrates, Agra was a well-laid-out township with separate localities for various professions, radial roads converging on the fort, and a left bank lined with gardens rather than habitations, all reflecting a conscious attempt to protect commercial importance and bring order to the visual chaos.

Fathpur Sikri, by contrast, was an inland city built on a ridge, oriented not towards a natural feature but towards the intersection of trade routes. Its plan was nucleated, enclosed within an oblong wall that contained the entire urban population. Where Agra’s planning was driven by the river and the chahārbāgh, Fathpur Sikri’s planning was driven by the Mughal encampment, with the palace as a stone transformation of the imperial camp. The city grew gradually through imperial decrees that encouraged voluntary settlement, suggesting a more organic and less rigidly enforced aesthetic regime. Most significantly, Fathpur Sikri’s economy possessed an autonomy that Agra’s never achieved, continuing to flourish as a commercial centre long after the court had departed.

Shahjahanabad represents a synthesis and transcendence of both earlier models. From Agra, it inherited the riverfront orientation and the integration of water as a central organizing principle. But where Agra’s riverfront was shared among the nobility, Shahjahanabad’s was dominated exclusively by the imperial palace, signalling a centralization of authority. From Fathpur Sikri, it inherited the concept of the walled city containing both imperial and noble residences, but where Fathpur Sikri’s walls encompassed a relatively dispersed settlement, Shahjahanabad’s walls enclosed a densely planned urban fabric organized along hierarchical principles. The street system of Shahjahanabad, with its gradation from major bazaars to dead-end alleys, represents a more sophisticated and deliberate approach to urban spatial organization than anything found at Agra or Fathpur Sikri. And the water management system of Shahjahanabad, with its canal bringing water from over 150 kilometres away, represents an unprecedented investment in urban infrastructure.

Conclusion: Mughal Urbanism as Adaptive Art

In conclusion, the town planning of Mughal India under Akbar and Shah Jahan cannot be reduced to a single model or described adequately by any single theoretical framework. Instead, what we find are three complementary but distinct urban models, each responding to different circumstances and embodying different priorities. Agra represents the riverfront garden city, a linear, terraced, and water-oriented imperial capital where aesthetic display along the Yamuna was paramount and where the nobility shared in the privilege of riverfront construction. Fathpur Sikri represents the encampment city, a nucleated, walled, and trade-oriented capital where commercial autonomy and gradual, decree-driven growth were characteristic, and where the city continued to thrive even after the court departed. Shahjahanabad represents the sovereign city, a planned, centralized, and hierarchically organized capital where the emperor’s absolute authority was inscribed in every aspect of the urban fabric, from the monumental Red Fort dominating the riverfront to the carefully graded street system and the sophisticated water management infrastructure.

The sources of Mughal urban design were multiple and varied: the hierarchical logic of the imperial encampment provided the basic template for the spatial organization of the city; the centripetal symmetry of the chaharbagh offered a modular grid for the division of urban space; and the architectural traditions of Timurid Iran, Gujarat, and indigenous India supplied the formal vocabulary for individual structures. At Fathpur Sikri, we see these sources combined in a unique synthesis, resulting in a city that was at once a stone encampment, a monumental garden, and a thriving commercial centre. The archaeological evidence from my surveys, including the identification of five markets, four serais, fourteen step-wells, and numerous residential structures, demonstrates that Fathpur Sikri was not merely an imperial capital but a fully functioning urban centre with a life of its own. The presence of masons’ marks and signatures on the stones of the city further reveals the human dimension of this grand enterprise, allowing us to glimpse the individual craftsmen who actually built Akbar’s vision.

When one compares the plan of these Mughal imperial towns with the plan of the city of London as it existed until 1750, striking similarities emerge that challenge the notion of a uniquely “Asiatic” urban form. In both the Mughal cities and London, the middle-class and professional residential quarters adjoined the aristocratic residential quarter, while the main shopping complex was situated within the city walls. In both, the industrial area and artisans’ dwellings were located at the farthest point from the imperial quarters, with the bulk of this area situated outside the city walls. The Mughal preference for what Rapaport has termed “dispersed capitals” in contrast to “compact capitals” may have reflected the mobile, militaristic character of the empire, as well as the personalistic nature of Mughal sovereignty, where the emperor’s presence rather than any fixed location constituted the true centre of power. When Shah Jahan finally fixed the capital permanently at Shahjahanabad in 1648, he was in effect making permanent what had previously been fluid, transforming the nomadic sovereignty of the earlier Mughals into a settled, monumental, and architecturally codified imperial presence. Together, these three cities demonstrate that Mughal urban planning was not a monolithic or unchanging practice but a flexible and adaptive art, capable of producing radically different yet equally sophisticated models of the imperial city, each integrating commercial vitality with imperial symbolism in its own unique way.

References:

Primary Sources

· Abul Fazl. Ain-i Akbari. Nawal Kishore, Lucknow, 1882.
· Abul Fazl. Akbarnama. Ed. Agha Ahmad Ali and Molvi Abdur Rahim. 3 vols. Calcutta, 1873-87.
· Badauni, Mulla Abdul Qadir. Muntakhab ut Tawarikh. Ed. Ali Ahmad and W. Nassau Lees. 3 vols. Calcutta, 1864-9.
· Babur, Zahiruddin Muhammad. Baburnama. Tr. and ed. A.S. Beveridge. London, 1921 (reprint Delhi, 1970).
· Faizi, Abul Faiz. Insha-i Fayzi. Ed. A.D. Arshad. Lahore, 1973.
· Finch, William R. “Travels of William Finch.” In Early Travels in India: 1583-1619, ed. W. Foster. London, 1921.
· Gilani, Hakim Abul Fath. Ruqa’at. Ed. M. Bashir Husain. Lahore, 1968.
· Jahangir, Nuruddin Muhammad. Tuzuk-i Jahangiri. Ed. Saiyid Ahmad. Ghazipur and Aligarh, 1863-4.
· Lahori, Abdul Hamid. Badshahnama. Ed. K. Ahmad and Abdur Rahim. Calcutta, 1867.
· Monserrate, Father Anthony. The Commentary of Father Monserrate, S.J. Tr. J.S. Hoyland and S.N. Banerjee. London, 1922.
· Mundy, Peter. Travels in Europe and Asia, 1608-1667. London, 1907-36.
· Pelsaert, Francois. Jahangir’s India or Remonstratie. Tr. W.H. Moreland and P. Geyl. Cambridge, 1925 (reprint Delhi, 1972).
· Qandhari, Arif. Tarikh-i Akbari. Ed. and annotated Muinuddin Nadwi, A.A. Dihlavi, and Imtiyaz Ali Arshi. Rampur, 1962.

Secondary Sources

· Bailey, Gauvin Alexander. “The Conquest of Catholic Art: The Mughals, the Jesuits, and Imperial Mural Painting.” Art Journal, Vol. 57, No. 1 (Spring 1998), pp. 24-30.
· Blake, Stephen P. Shahjahanabad: The Sovereign City in Mughal India, 1639-1739. Cambridge University Press, 1991.
· Brand, Michael, and Glenn D. Lowry (eds). Fatehpur Sikri: A Source Book. Cambridge, MA, 1985.
· Gaur, R.C. Excavations at Fatehpur Sikri. New Delhi, 2000.
· Hasan, Javed. “Mapping the Mughal City of Agra.” Proceedings of the Indian History Congress, Vol. 51, 1990, pp. 241-245.
· Koch, Ebba. The Complete Taj Mahal: And the Riverfront Gardens of Agra. Thames & Hudson, 2006.
· Petruccioli, Attilio. “The Process Evolved by the Control Systems of Urban Design in the Mogul Epoch in India: The Case of Fatehpur Sikri.” Environmental Design, No. 1, 1984, pp. 18-31.
· Rezavi, Syed Ali Nadeem. Fathpur Sikri Revisited. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2013.
· Rezavi, Syed Ali Nadeem. “Uniqueness of the Eastern ‘Imperial City’? Testing the Model with Fathpur Sikri.” In Reason and Archaeology, ed. Krishna Mohan Shrimali. University of Delhi.
· Rizvi, S.A.A., and V.J.A. Flynn. Fathpur Sikri. Bombay, 1975.
· Trivedi, K.K. Agra: Economic and Social History of a Mughal City. Primus Books, 2014.

Syed Ali Nadeem Rezavi

Sufism in Medieval India: Doctrine, Practice, and Syncretism

Sufism may be best described as Islamic mysticism or asceticism, which through belief and practice helps Muslims attain nearness to Allah by way of direct personal experience of God.¹ While there are other suggested origins of the term Sufi, the word is largely believed to stem from the Arabic word suf, which refers to the wool that was traditionally worn by mystics and ascetics.² Belief in pursuing a path that leads to closeness with God, ultimately through encountering the divine in the hereafter, is a fundamental component of Islamic belief. However, in Sufi thought this proximity can be realised in this life. This paper examines the core doctrines and practices of Sufism, its metaphysical foundations, and its particular development in medieval India, where it produced a unique synthesis of Islamic mysticism with local religious traditions.

The Structure of Sufi Orders

Sufi orders, known as Tariqas, are found throughout the Muslim world, with each order taking on its own distinct identity based on its practices and structure, and often reflecting the cultural and linguistic context in which it is set.³ While structures vary greatly between different Sufi orders, the basic components are that of the murshid, the spiritual guide, and the murid, a follower who pledges allegiance (bayah) to the murshid.⁴ These spiritual guides derive their authority and legitimacy from a chain of successive tutelage and instruction, the silsilah, which through continuous generations may reach back to a prominent saint or mystic and eventually to the Prophet Muhammad himself.⁵ The role of the murshid is to act as a facilitator to the murid, instructing them on how to experience the divine.

Several key terms define the Sufi spiritual path. Sharia (Islamic law) represents the external path, while tariqa (the Sufi path) is the intermediate spiritual journey. Beyond these lie haqiqa (truth), the inner reality, and marifa (gnosis), which is direct experiential knowledge of God.⁶ The ultimate goals of the Sufi journey include fana (annihilation of the ego) and baqa (subsistence in God).⁷ Sufis further believe in a hidden hierarchy of saints, headed by the Qutb (pole or axis), who is understood to spiritually sustain the world.⁸


Sufi Practices: Dhikr, Sama, and Ritual

A central component of Sufi worship is the rite of dhikr, which involves constant, meditative remembrance of God, done both communally and individually, geared towards cultivating greater connection with the divine.⁹ The concept of dhikr is rooted in the Quran as an instruction to all Muslims to devote time towards specific acts of remembrance and repetition of the names of Allah, praying supplementary prayers, and can be extended to other activities that contribute towards achieving an experiential connection with the divine.¹⁰ Other practices or rituals that Sufis engage in, which vary from order to order, include prayers and fasting, the celebration of the Prophet Muhammad’s birthday (Mawlid), the visitation of, and performance of rituals at shrines and graves, meditation, and abstinence.¹¹

Some Sufi orders use devotional music (sama) and ritual movements, akin to dance, to further enhance the experiential nearness to God they are seeking.¹² This practice is most commonly associated today with the Mevlevi Sufi order’s Dervishes of Turkey, often referred to as the ‘Whirling Dervishes.’¹³ In South Asia, sama evolved into qawwali, a devotional music form popularized by the Chishti order and its celebrated disciple, the poet-musician Amir Khusrau (d. 1325).¹⁴


Sufi Metaphysics: Wahdat al-Wujud and Wahdat ash-Shuhud

Sufi metaphysics is centred on the concept of waḥdah (unity) or tawhid (oneness of God). Two main Sufi philosophies prevail on this topic. Waḥdat al-wujūd literally means “the Unity of Existence” or “the Unity of Being.” Wujūd (existence, presence) here refers to God.¹⁵ This doctrine posits a non-dual state where the illusion of separation between observer and observed is resolved, and it coincides in certain respects with the Indian philosophy of Advaita Vedanta.¹⁶ On the other hand, waḥdat ash-shuhūd, meaning “Apparentism” or “Monotheism of Witness,” holds that God and his creation are entirely separate, with any experience of unity being purely subjective.¹⁷

The Sufi saint most characterized in discussing the ideology of Sufi metaphysics in deepest details is Ibn Arabi (d. 1240). He employs the term wujud to refer to God as the Necessary Being. He also attributes the term to everything other than God, but insists that wujud does not belong to the things found in the cosmos in any real sense. Rather, the things borrow wujud from God, much as the earth borrows light from the sun.¹⁸ From the perspective of tanzih (transcendence), Ibn Arabi declares that wujud belongs to God alone, and in his famous phrase, the things “have never smelt a whiff of wujud.”¹⁹ From the point of view of tashbih (similarity), he affirms that all things are wujud‘s self-disclosure (tajalli) or self-manifestation (zohur). In sum, all things are “He/not He” (huwa/la huwa), which is to say that they are both God and not God, both wujud and not wujud.²⁰ In his book Fusus al-Hikam, Ibn Arabi states that “wujūd is the unknowable and inaccessible ground of everything that exists. God alone is true wujūd, while all things dwell in nonexistence; so also wujūd alone is nondelimited (mutlaq), while everything else is constrained, confined, and constricted.”²¹

Ibn Arabi’s doctrine of wahdat al-wujud focuses on the esoteric (batin) reality of creatures instead of the exoteric (zahir) dimension of reality. Therefore he interprets that wujud is one unique reality from which all reality derives. The external world of sensible objects is but a fleeting shadow of the Real (al-Haqq), God. God alone is the all embracing and eternal reality. Whatever exists is the shadow (tajalli) of the Real and is not independent of God. This is summed up in Ibn Arabi’s own words: “Glory to Him who created all things, being Himself their very essence (ainuha).”²²

In opposition to this doctrine, Waḥdat ash-Shuhūd was formulated by the Persian Sufi ‘Alā’ al-Dawlah Simnānī (d. 1336) and later attracted many followers in India, including Ahmed Sirhindi (d. 1624), who provided some of the most widely accepted formulations of this doctrine in the Indian subcontinent.²³ According to Ahmed Sirhindi’s doctrine, any experience of unity between God and the created world is purely subjective and occurs only in the mind of the believer; it has no objective counterpart in the real world. The former position, Shaykh Ahmad felt, led to pantheism, which he considered contrary to the tenets of Sunni Islam. He held that God and creation are not identical; rather, the latter is a shadow or reflection of the Divine Names and Attributes when they are reflected in the mirrors of their opposite non-beings.²⁴ Abu Hafs Umar al-Suhrawardi and Abd al-Karim al-Jili were also proponents of apparentism. Some reformers have claimed that the difference between the two philosophies differs only in semantics and that the entire debate is merely a collection of “verbal controversies” which have come about because of ambiguous language.²⁵ However, the concept of the relationship between God and the universe is still actively debated both among Sufis and between Sufis and non-Sufi Muslims.

Sufism in Medieval India: Arrival and Expansion

Sufism arrived in South Asia alongside Turkic invasions and the establishment of the Delhi Sultanate (1206–1526). However, it flourished not primarily through state patronage but through the immense spiritual and social influence of Sufi saints, who adapted Islamic mysticism to the Indian context.²⁶ Two major Sufi orders dominated medieval India. The first was the Chishti Order, founded in India by Khwaja Mu‘in al-Din Chishti (d. 1236) in Ajmer (now Rajasthan).²⁷ This became the most popular and indigenized order. The Chishtis emphasized sama (devotional music) to induce ecstatic states despite orthodox criticism, social service and feeding the poor (langar), and accommodation with local traditions.²⁸ They adopted yogic practices including breathing control (habs-i dam), chanting (zikr-i jahri), and inverted seclusion (chilla-i ma‘kus), and they wrote poetry in local languages like Hindavi, Punjabi, and later Urdu.²⁹ Key Chishti figures include Baba Farid (d. 1265), Nizam al-Din Auliya (d. 1325), Nasir al-Din Chiragh-i Dilli (d. 1356), and the poet Amir Khusrau.³⁰ The Chishtis generally stayed aloof from the Sultanate court.

The second major order was the Suhrawardi Order, founded in India by Baha al-Din Zakariyya (d. 1267) in Multan (now Pakistan).³¹ Unlike the Chishtis, this order was more aligned with the state. Suhrawardis accepted royal grants, engaged in political counsel, and emphasized outward piety and knowledge of Islamic law alongside mysticism.³²

Impact on Medieval Indian Society

The impact of Sufism on medieval Indian society was profound and multifaceted. A significant development was the Bhakti-Sufi synthesis, whereby Sufi concepts of divine love (ishq), annihilation (fana), and Wahdat al-Wujud deeply influenced the Bhakti movement. This is especially evident in the poetry of Kabir (d. 1518), Guru Nanak (d. 1539), and Mirabai (d. c. 1550).³³ Furthermore, while Sufism was not the primary method of mass conversion, Sufi shrines (dargahs) became centers of intercommunal devotion. Hindus and Muslims alike visited Sufi tombs to seek intercession (wasila), offer flowers, and tie threads, creating a shared religious space.³⁴ Annual death anniversary festivals (urs) remain major events in South Asia to this day.

Sufis also produced vast mystical poetry (masnavi), biographical dictionaries (tazkiras), recorded discourses (malfuzat), and letters (maktubat), thereby shaping north Indian literary culture.³⁵ The interaction between Sufism and local traditions extended to yoga as well: the eleventh-century Persian text Amritakunda (Pool of Nectar) was translated into Arabic and Persian, and Sufis like Muhammad Ghawth (sixteenth century) integrated yogic postures (asanas) and breath control into Chishti practices.³⁶

The dargah (tomb-shrine) became the focal point of popular Sufism. Devotees offer nazar (votive offerings), recite fatiha (the Quranic opening chapter), and seek blessings. The most famous medieval Indian shrines include Ajmer (Mu‘in al-Din Chishti), Delhi (Nizam al-Din Auliya), and Pakpattan (Baba Farid).³⁷ However, not all Muslims accepted these practices. The Naqshbandi order, especially Ahmad Sirhindi (already discussed as a proponent of Wahdat ash-Shuhud), criticized shrine worship, sama, and the monistic tendencies of Wahdat alWujud.³⁸ Later, modern reformist movements such as Deoband and Ahl-i Hadith (nineteenth to twentieth centuries) condemned popular Sufi practices as bid‘a (innovation).³⁹

Women in Sufism

No discussion of Sufism would be complete without acknowledging the role of women. Early mystics like Rabia al-Adawiyya (d. 801, Iraq) introduced the concept of divine love (ishq) as selfless devotion, moving away from fear-based piety.⁴⁰ In medieval India, figures such as Bibi Jamal Khatun (sister of a Chishti saint) and Bibi Fatima Sam served as spiritual guides, though Sufi orders were predominantly male-led and women’s participation was often limited to devotional attendance at shrines rather than formal initiation into tariqas.⁴¹

Conclusion

Sufism in medieval India created a rich, pluralistic spiritual landscape that blurred boundaries between Hindu and Muslim traditions. By the Mughal period (sixteenth to seventeenth centuries), emperors like Akbar patronized Sufis, while Dara Shukoh translated the Upanishads through a Sufi lens.⁴² Though orthodox critiques persisted, the Sufi emphasis on direct love of God, music, poetry, and saint veneration remains deeply embedded in South Asian Islam to this day. The doctrines of Wahdat al-Wujud and Wahdat ash-Shuhud continue to be debated, and the practices of dhikr, sama, and pilgrimage to dargahs remain vibrant, attesting to the enduring legacy of Sufism in the subcontinent.

Footnotes

  1. Annemarie Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions of Islam (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1975), 3–4.
  2. Reynold A. Nicholson, The Mystics of Islam (London: Routledge, 1914), 1–2.
  3. J. Spencer Trimingham, The Sufi Orders in Islam (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1971), 1–5.
  4. Carl W. Ernst, The Shambhala Guide to Sufism (Boston: Shambhala, 1997), 106–108.
  5. Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions, 99–100.
  6. William C. Chittick, Sufism: A Short Introduction (Oxford: Oneworld, 2000), 10–12.
  7. Chittick, Sufism, 45–47.
  8. Trimingham, Sufi Orders, 132–133
  9. Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions, 167–169.
  10. Quran 33:41–42; see also Ernst, Shambhala Guide, 85–86.
  11. Trimingham, Sufi Orders, 194–196.
  12. Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions, 178–182.
  13. Shems Friedlander, The Whirling Dervishes (Albany: SUNY Press, 1992), 15–17.
  14. Regula Burckhardt Qureshi, Sufi Music of India and Pakistan: Sound, Context and Meaning in Qawwali (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986), 38–41.
  15. Chittick, Sufism, 78–80.
  16. S. H. Nasr, Sufi Essays (Albany: SUNY Press, 1972), 96–98.
  17. Ahmad Sirhindi, Maktubat-i Imam Rabbani, trans. Fazlur Rahman (Karachi: Hamdard Academy, 1978), vol. 1, letter 38.
  18. Ibn Arabi, Fusus al-Hikam, ed. A. Affifi (Beirut: Dar al-Kitab al-Arabi, 1946), 48–49.
  19. Ibn Arabi, Al-Futuhat al-Makkiyya (Cairo: Bulaq, 1911), vol. 2, 312.
  20. Chittick, Sufism, 81–82.
  21. Ibn Arabi, Fusus, 50.
  22. Ibn Arabi, Fusus, 52.
  23. J. G. J. ter Haar, Follower and Heir of the Prophet: Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi (1564–1624) as Mystic (Leiden: Brill, 1992), 84–87.
  24. Sirhindi, Maktubat, vol. 1, letter 52.
  25. Fazlur Rahman, Islam (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1979), 137–138.
  26. Richard M. Eaton, The Sufis of Bijapur, 1300–1700: Social Roles of Sufis in Medieval India (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1978), 15–18.
  27. K. A. Nizami, The Life and Times of Shaikh Nizam-u’d-din Auliya (Delhi: Idarah-i Adabiyat-i Delli, 1991), 12–14.
  28. Nizami, Shaikh Nizam-u’d-din, 45–47.
  29. Carl W. Ernst, Eternal Garden: Mysticism, History, and Politics at a South Asian Sufi Center (Albany: SUNY Press, 1992), 118–121.
  30. Muhammad Habib, Hazrat Amir Khusrau of Delhi (Bombay: Times of India Press, 1927), 56–58.
  31. Trimingham, Sufi Orders, 45–46.
  32. Eaton, Sufis of Bijapur, 23–25.
  33. John Stratton Hawley and Mark Juergensmeyer, Songs of the Saints of India (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988), 37–40.
  34. Eaton, Sufis of Bijapur, 55–57.
  35. Nizami, Shaikh Nizam-u’d-din, 89–92.
  36. Ernst, Eternal Garden, 130–133.
  37. Eaton, Sufis of Bijapur, 112–114.
  38. Yohanan Friedmann, Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi: An Outline of His Thought and a Study of His Image in the Eyes of Posterity (Montreal: McGill University Press, 1971), 63–65.
  39. Barbara D. Metcalf, Islamic Revival in British India: Deoband, 1860–1900 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1982), 109–111.
  40. Margaret Smith, Rabia the Mystic and Her Fellow-Saints in Islam (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1928), 4–6.
  41. Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions, 426–428.
  42. Dara Shikoh, Majma-ul-Bahrain (The Mingling of Two Oceans), trans. M. Mahfuz-ul-Haq (Calcutta: Asiatic Society, 1929), 2–4.

Bibliography

Primary Sources

Ibn Arabi. Fusus al-Hikam. Edited by A. Affifi. Beirut: Dar al-Kitab al-Arabi, 1946.

Ibn Arabi. Al-Futuhat al-Makkiyya. 4 vols. Cairo: Bulaq, 1911.

Quran. Translated by Abdullah Yusuf Ali. Elmhurst, NY: Tahrike Tarsile Quran, 2001.

Shukoh, Dara. Majma-ul-Bahrain (The Mingling of Two Oceans). Translated by M. Mahfuz-ul-Haq. Calcutta: Asiatic Society, 1929.

Sirhindi, Ahmad. Maktubat-i Imam Rabbani. 3 vols. Translated by Fazlur Rahman. Karachi: Hamdard Academy, 1978.

Secondary Sources

Chittick, William C. Sufism: A Short Introduction. Oxford: Oneworld, 2000.

Eaton, Richard M. The Sufis of Bijapur, 1300–1700: Social Roles of Sufis in Medieval India. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1978.

Ernst, Carl W. Eternal Garden: Mysticism, History, and Politics at a South Asian Sufi Center. Albany: State University of New York Press, 1992.

Ernst, Carl W. The Shambhala Guide to Sufism. Boston: Shambhala, 1997.

Friedlander, Shems. The Whirling Dervishes. Albany: State University of New York Press, 1992.

Friedmann, Yohanan. Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi: An Outline of His Thought and a Study of His Image in the Eyes of Posterity. Montreal: McGill University Press, 1971.

Habib, Muhammad. Hazrat Amir Khusrau of Delhi. Bombay: Times of India Press, 1927.

Haar, J. G. J. ter. Follower and Heir of the Prophet: Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi (1564–1624) as Mystic. Leiden: Brill, 1992.

Hawley, John Stratton, and Mark Juergensmeyer. Songs of the Saints of India. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988.

Metcalf, Barbara D. Islamic Revival in British India: Deoband, 1860–1900. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1982.

Nasr, Seyyed Hossein. Sufi Essays. Albany: State University of New York Press, 1972.

Nicholson, Reynold A. The Mystics of Islam. London: Routledge, 1914.

Nizami, Khaliq Ahmad. The Life and Times of Shaikh Nizam-u’d-din Auliya. Delhi: Idarah-i Adabiyat-i Delli, 1991.

Qureshi, Regula Burckhardt. Sufi Music of India and Pakistan: Sound, Context and Meaning in Qawwali. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986.

Rahman, Fazlur. Islam. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1979.

Schimmel, Annemarie. Mystical Dimensions of Islam. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1975.

Smith, Margaret. Rabia the Mystic and Her Fellow-Saints in Islam. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1928.

Trimingham, J. Spencer. The Sufi Orders in Islam. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1971.

Syed Ali Nadeem Rezavi

Indo-Persian Literature in Medieval India (12th to 18th Centuries): A Study of Multilingual Literary Culture in the Persianate World

Introduction

Indo-Persian literature represents one of the richest and most complex literary traditions of the medieval world, with the Indian subcontinent producing a larger body of Persian literature than Iran proper during the same period. Here we trace the chronological development of this tradition from the Ghaznavid period through the decline of Mughal patronage in the 18th century. Perhaps the Indo-Persian literature was not merely an extension of Persianate culture but a distinctive formation characterized by three interrelated features: first, original generic innovations that transformed Persian literary forms; second, deep engagement with Sufi mystical traditions, particularly the Chishti order; and third, sustained interaction with Sanskritic and vernacular literary cultures.

When Sultan Mahmud of Ghazni’s forces penetrated the plains of northern India in the early eleventh century, they carried more than military ambition. Persian, the language of the Ghaznavid court, accompanied the conquerors and would, over the following eight centuries, become “the strongest factor in the unity and coherence of the Muslims of the subcontinent.”¹ Yet Persian’s trajectory in India was neither simple nor unidirectional. It encountered a subcontinent already rich in literary traditions—Sanskrit, Apabhramsha, and emerging vernaculars such as Hindavi, Punjabi, Braj Bhasha, and Awadhi. The resulting literary culture was not a colonial imposition but a creative synthesis, one that produced innovations that would later be re-exported to Iran itself.²

The first source document, Mario Casari’s comprehensive survey of Indo-Persian literature, provides a magisterial overview of Persian literary production in India across all major genres: lyric poetry, narrative and didactic literature, historiography, belles-lettres, religious literature, and scientific works.³ The second document, a sketch of non-Persian literature during the same period, foregrounds the parallel existence of Sanskrit and vernacular traditions, implicitly challenging any reading of Indo-Persian literature as isolated from its Indic environment.⁴ Together, these sources reveal that Indo-Persian literature developed through sustained negotiation with multiple linguistic and intellectual traditions.

This blog proceeds chronologically, tracing the development of Indo-Persian literature through four major phases: the Ghaznavid and early Sultanate period (11th–13th centuries), the Delhi Sultanate’s mature phase (13th–14th centuries), the regional sultanates and the Timurid interruption (14th–15th centuries), and the Mughal period (16th–18th centuries). Within each phase, the paper examines the major literary figures, generic innovations, and the evolving relationship between Persian and Indian literary cultures.

The Ghaznavid Foundations (11th–12th Centuries)

The earliest phase of Indo-Persian literature was centered not in Delhi but in Lahore, which contemporaries sometimes called “little Ghazna.”⁵ The Ghaznavid sultans, though Turkic in origin, had fully adopted Persian as the language of courtly culture, and their Indian territories became a refuge for poets fleeing political instability in Iran.⁶

Abu’l-Faraj Runi (d. 1091), who spent most of his life in Lahore as the panegyrist of Sultans Ibrahim b. Mas’ud and Mas’ud III, is recognized as the first renowned master of the qasida (panegyric ode) in India.⁷ His divan would later influence the great Persian poet Anwari.⁸ More significant for the development of a distinctive Indo-Persian idiom was his younger rival, Mas’ud Sa’d-e Salman (b. Lahore 1046, d. Ghazna c. 1121).⁹

Mas’ud’s career was marked by dramatic reversals of fortune. Imprisoned on suspicion of treason, he composed what became known as habsiyat (prison poems), inaugurating a genre that would have many later examples in Indo-Muslim literature.¹⁰ The theme of imprisonment would appear again in the poems of Ghalib and many writers of the British period.¹¹ More remarkably, Mas’ud introduced into Persian poetry the Sanskrit bārāmāsa genre—poems describing the seasons and months of the year.¹² This early borrowing is crucial evidence that Indo-Persian literature was never a mere transplant but a site of deliberate translation and adaptation from Indian literary models.¹³

The Ghaznavid period also saw the first major Persian treatise on Sufi doctrine written on Indian soil. Hojviri (popularly known in India as Data Ganj Bakhsh), born in Ghazna but settled and died in Lahore around 1071, composed the Kashf al-mahjub (The Unveiling of the Veiled).¹⁴ This work, which remains a foundational text of Sufism in South Asia, established a pattern of mystical-literary production that would become central to Indo-Persian culture.¹⁵

The Delhi Sultanate and the Age of Amir Khusraw (13th–14th Centuries)

The establishment of the Delhi Sultanate in 1206 marked a decisive shift in the center of gravity of Indo-Persian literature. After the Ghurid territorial successes, the new capitals of Multan and Delhi attracted many poets and scholars from Persia and Central Asia.¹⁶ The munificence of the Delhi sultans created unprecedented opportunities for literary patronage.

Minhaj al-Siraj Juzjani (d. 1260) produced one of the earliest Persian universal histories, the Tabaqat-i Nasiri, compiled for Sultan Nasir al-Din Mahmud of Delhi (1246-1266).¹⁷ The work narrates events from the Creation to the Mongol invasion and exemplifies the introduction of historiography—a genre in which Indian traditional culture was lacking—by Muslim conquerors.¹⁸

The most towering figure of this period, and arguably of all Indo-Persian literature, is Amir Khusraw of Delhi (1253-1325).¹⁹ He referred to himself as a “Turkish Indian” (Tork-e hendustani), and his work covers almost all literary genres with a stamp of ingenuity and originality that has few equals in all Persian literature.²⁰

Khusraw’s Innovations in Narrative Poetry

Around 1298-1301, Khusrau composed his response (jawab) to Nizami Ganjavi’s Khamsa (five narrative poems), thereby establishing a vogue that lasted until the dawn of the twentieth century.²¹ His five poems, Matla’ al-anwar, Khusraw o Shirin, Layli o Majnun, Hasht Bihisht, and A’ina-yi Iskandari, drew on Nizami’s themes but with a high degree of refashioning.²² The two khamsas were often regarded as an organic pair, with many manuscripts presenting them together, one written on the margins of the other.²³ Khusrau’s Hasht Bihisht achieved particular fame as the first Persian book to be directly translated into a modern European language (Italian, Venice, 1557).²⁴

Beyond the khamsa tradition, Khusrau wrote five historical masnavis dedicated to individual figures, including the Ashiqa on ‘Ala al-Din Khalji’s son, the Tughluq-nama on Ghiyath al-Din Tughluq, and the Nuh Sipihr, which blended historical, ethnological, and scientific speculations.²⁵

Khusrau and the Ghazal

In the art of the ghazal (lyric), Khusrau, together with his contemporary Hasan Sijzi (d. 1336), is counted among the founders of the Indo-Persian ghazal.²⁶ Both poets were very close to the Chishti circle of Nizam al-Din Auliya’ in Delhi.²⁷ While Hasan was called “the Sa’di of India” because of his sweet, monothematic lyrics, Khusrau’s creation of a didactic style, in which an entire proverbial phrase or sentence is encapsulated within each verse of a ghazal, represents a significant formal innovation.²⁸ More generally, in Khusrau’s lyrical work one can detect the first traces of what would later become the typical Indian Style (sabk-e hendi).²⁹

Khusrau and the Vernacular

Khusrau is also central to understanding Persian’s interaction with Indian vernaculars. In his Nuh Sipihr, he refers to the languages of India—Sindhi, Lahori (Punjabi), Kashmiri, Gujarati, and others—and employs the term Hindavi to denote the vernacular speech of North India.³⁰ His Hindavi compositions, though relatively few compared to his Persian corpus, include riddles (pahelis), songs, and dohas that demonstrate that Persian literary elites were not insulated from local idioms but actively engaged with them.³¹

The Chishti Context

The mystical brotherhoods, especially the Chishti order, had a strong impact on the way Persian developed as a literary medium.³² The malfuzat (collected sayings of the saints), a genre of religious literature, flourished in this environment. Hasan Sijzi’s Fawa’id al-fu’ad, recording the conversations of Nizam al-Din Auliya’, became a model for subsequent works.³³ This literature, while written in Persian, often recorded conversations in Hindavi or reflected vernacular idioms.³⁴

Other Poets of the Sultanate Period

Badr Chach (d. 1346) became renowned for his abstruse and recondite style, which was much appreciated by Sultan Muhammad b. Tughluq and highly prized by subsequent literary tradition.³⁵ A Shahnama was written for Muhammad Tughluq and is ascribed, somewhat doubtfully, to Badr Chach.³⁶

Ziya al-Din Barani (d. after 1360) wrote the important Ta’rikh-i Firuzshahi for Firuz Shah III Tughluq (1351-88), dealing with the history of the Sultanate from 1265 to 1357.³⁷ Following Barani’s death, the work was completed by Shams-i Siraj ‘Afif’s Futuhat-i Firuzshahi, devoted entirely to Firuz’s reign.³⁸

Introduction, Interruption and the Spread Southward

Sultan Muhammad Tughluq’s decision to transfer Delhi’s cultural elite to his second capital, Daulatabad (the medieval Deogiri, 1327), had the unintended effect of spreading Persian culture further south.³⁹ Under enlightened sovereigns and governors, the Muslim courts that flourished in the Deccan between the fourteenth and seventeenth centuries became flourishing centers of cultural production in Persian as well as in Arabic.⁴⁰

The Bahmanid minister Mahmud Gavan (1411-81) epitomizes this Deccan renaissance. His Riyaz al-insha is a masterful collection of letters that exemplifies the high status of Indo-Persian epistolography.⁴¹ The verse chronicle flourished in the Deccan as well: ‘Isami’s Futuh al-salatin (1351), composed for the first Bahmanid ruler ‘Ala al-Din Hasan (1347-58), covers the period from the Ghaznavids to the middle of the fourteenth century.⁴²

The Timurid Interruption and the Lodi Period (15th–Early 16th Centuries)

Timur’s invasion of 1398 marked, especially for northern India, a deep hiatus in cultural activity.⁴³ However, the age of the first six Mughal rulers (1525-1707) represented the heyday of Indo-Persian literature, and the groundwork for this efflorescence was laid during the Lodi period (1451-1526).⁴⁴

Two significant developments characterize this period. First, increasing Hindu interest in Persian under Lodi rule led to the realization of some important new dictionaries. Ziya al-Din Muhammad’s Tuhfat al-sa’adat (or Farhang-i Sikandari, 1510) registered many compounds for the first time.⁴⁵ Shaikh Muhammad b. Shaikh Lad of Delhi’s Mu’ayyad al-fuzala (1519) was divided according to the derivation of words from Arabic, Persian, and Turkish.⁴⁶

Second, knowledge of Persian language and literature began to filter through to the Hindu administrative class.⁴⁷ This development would have profound consequences under the Mughals, when Hindu participation in Persian writing increased dramatically.⁴⁸

Jalal Khan Jamali (d. 1536), the poet of Sikandar Lodi, authored the hagiographical collection Siyar al-‘arifin, which started with Mu’in al-Din Chishti and ended with his spiritual teacher, Sama’ al-Din Kambuh.⁴⁹ His work exemplifies the continued importance of Sufi literary production even as political fortunes fluctuated.

The Mughal Heyday (16th–17th Centuries)

The Mughal period, particularly the reigns of Akbar (1556-1605), Jahangir (1605-1627), and Shah Jahan (1628-1658), represents the apogee of Indo-Persian literature.⁵⁰ The empire was replenished by fresh waves of talented émigrés from Safavid Persia, and the increasing Hindu participation in Persian writing transformed the literary landscape.⁵¹

Akbar’s Patronage and the Translation Movement

Akbar’s reign, besides being the apogee of literary production, was the most significant period of cultural and literary exchange between the Muslim and Hindu worlds.⁵² A remarkable number of works were translated from Sanskrit into Persian and vice versa.⁵³

At the munificent court of Akbar, Ghazzali of Mashhad (d. 1572) served as the first poet-laureate (malek al-shu’ara).⁵⁴ He was followed by Faizi (Abu’l-Fayz, also known as Faizi Fayyazi, 1547-95), who introduced historical themes into his lyrical works.⁵⁵ Both Faizi and Abu’l-Qasim Kahi (d. 1580) were ardent followers of the din-e elahi (Divine Faith) that Akbar is said to have promulgated.⁵⁶ Faizi’s impeccable but cold and somewhat impersonal technique was often contrasted with the more emotional and personal style of the qasidas of ‘Urfi of Shiraz (d. 1591), representing the two antithetic but co-existing components of Mughal poetry.⁵⁷

Faizi was probably the translator of the Kathasaritsagara (The Ocean of the Rivers of Storytelling) by the Kashmiri poet Somadeva.⁵⁸ The popular Singhasan battisi (Thirty-Two Throne Stories) had several Persian versions.⁵⁹

Abu’l-Fazl ‘Allami (d. 1602), Faizi’s brother and intimate friend of Akbar, wrote two indispensable historical works: the Akbar-nama on his emperor’s life and reign, and the A’in-i Akbari, a detailed socio-economic and institutional survey of the empire.⁶⁰ His Mokatebat-e ‘allami also known as Maktūbāt i Allāmi (1606), a collection of documents redacted for Akbar, was published by his nephew and remains a masterwork of Indo-Persian epistolography.⁶¹

The Razmnama and Sanskrit-Persian Translation

The most ambitious translation project of Akbar’s reign was the Razmnama (Book of War), the Persian translation of the Mahābhārata.⁶² These were collaborative enterprises involving Brahmin pandits and Persian scholars, producing interpretive works that reframed Hindu concepts within a Persian-Islamic vocabulary.⁶³ The Rāmāyana was similarly translated, as were portions of the Atharvaveda and other philosophical texts.⁶⁴

Hindu Poets in Persian

During this age, many Hindu poets writing in Persian earned great fame. Raja Manohar Das and Bhupat Ra’i Saw’ai Bigham are mentioned among the notable figures.⁶⁵ Chandra Bhan Brahman (d. 1661), close to Dara Shikoh’s circle, authored simple verses far from the vogue of the Indian Style, as well as the autobiographical Chahar Chaman.⁶⁶

Abdul Rahim Khan-i Khanan (d. 1627), one of Akbar’s navaratnas (nine jewels), composed in both Persian and Braj Bhasha, exemplifying the bilingual literary production that characterized the Mughal court.⁶⁷ His dohas in Braj coexist with his Persian poetry, reflecting a cultural milieu in which linguistic boundaries were fluid.⁶⁸

The Consolidation of the Indian Style (Sabk-e Hindi)

Among the great poets of Jahangir and Shah Jahan’s courts, Talib-i Amol (d. 1626), Qudsi of Mashhad (d. 1656), and Abu Talib Kalim (d. 1650) deserve mention, as does Sa’ib of Tabriz (d. 1677), who spent six years in India.⁶⁹

In this lively context, the so-called Indian Style consolidated its main features into a light lyrical structure: a new kind of imagery, more free in abstractions and connections; a more open poetical language, filled with new coinages, popular expressions, and even foreign words, especially from Hindi; and a wider sphere of subjects conveying moral themes, social criticism, and philosophical and theological arguments.⁷⁰

‘Abd al-Qadir Bedil of Patna (d. 1721) became among the most celebrated authors in all Persian literature, enlivening his vast poetical oeuvre with an original philosophy based on the combination of modern naturalistic queries and a deeply personal attitude to mystical experiences and meditation.⁷¹ His works ‘Irfan, Telesm-e hayrat, and Tur-e ma’refat gave the didactic tradition of masnavi a new philosophical and scientific dimension.⁷²

Lexicography and the Science of Language

India’s greatest legacy in the field of linguistic inquiry into Persian was the production of dictionaries. Jamal al-Din Husayn Inju’s Farhang-i Jahangiri, commissioned by Akbar but completed only in 1612, became a benchmark in this genre.⁷³ Muhammad Husayn b. Khalaf of Tabriz’s Burhan-i Qati’ (17th century), dedicated to ‘Abd Allah Qutbshah of Golconda, circulated widely in both India and Iran.⁷⁴ ‘Abd al-Rashid Tattavi’s Farhang-i Rashidi, according to Tauer, “constitutes the first essay of a critical nature in Persian philology.”⁷⁵

In the 18th century, the increasingly complicated poetical style made new lexicographic works necessary, such as Munshi Muhammad Badshah’s Farhang-i Anandraj and Tek Chand Bahar’s Bahar-e ‘ajam.⁷⁶

Dara Shikoh and Syncretism

Dara Shikoh (d. 1659), the eldest son of Shah Jahan, represents the culmination of the syncretistic impulse in Indo-Persian literature.⁷⁷ His most important book is the Majma’ al-Bahrayn (The Confluence of the Two Seas), a comparative essay that strives to find points of contact between Hinduism and Islam.⁷⁸ He also translated fifty Upanishads into Persian under the title Sirr-i Akbar (The Greatest Secret), claiming that the Qur’an itself referred to these texts as “hidden books.”⁷⁹ Dara left numerous other writings on Sufi subjects, from the Hasanat al-‘arifin (in the malfuzat line) to the Safinat al-awliya’ and Sakinat al-awliya’ (collections of hagiographies).⁸⁰

Sarmad (d. 1659), a Jewish convert to Islam and close to Dara’s circle, authored numerous mystic quatrains.⁸¹ Both Dara and Sarmad were executed under Aurangzeb, marking a decisive rupture.

Aurangzeb and Decline

With Aurangzeb (r. 1658-1707), who suppressed the last great syncretistic experience when he put Dara Shikoh to death, the anti-Hindu and even anti-literary attitude of the empowered, orthodox Naqshbandi order found its political arm, thus progressively undermining the basis of cultural production.⁸² Aurangzeb abolished the title of the poet-laureate.⁸³

After the austere reign of Aurangzeb, poetry took refuge either in an increasingly abstract world of recondite imagery or adopted a more personal and introspective mood.⁸⁴ Ghani Kashmiri (d. 1661) produced highly polished gnomic poetry; Naser ‘Ali Sirhindi (d. 1697) composed intensely spiritual Sufi poems.⁸⁵

Late Mughal Period and the Emergence of Urdu (18th Century)

The 18th century saw Persian gradually yielding to Urdu, which had been developing since the late Mughal period. Yet this period also produced major figures who wrote in both languages.

Muhammad ‘Ali Hazin Lahiji (d. 1766) was the last renowned poet to leave Persia for India.⁸⁶ His Tazkirat al-ahwal (1742) is an important autobiography.⁸⁷

Mirza Asad-Allah Khan Ghalib (d. 1869), “the last classical poet of India,” wrote both in Persian and Urdu.⁸⁸ His work has been described as an “uninterrupted elegy on the end of the Mogul power in India.”⁸⁹

Muhammad Iqbal (d. 1938), the progressive thinker and national poet of Pakistan, wrote deeply political poems in both Persian and Urdu.⁹⁰ His Javid-nama, a journey of initiation into the other world in the form of a masnavi interspersed with ghazals, was explicitly inspired by Rumi’s Masnavi-yi Ma’navi as well as by European literature.⁹¹

Urdu emerged as a new literary language through the cumulative interaction between Persian and vernacular languages. Initially called Rekhta or Hindustani, Urdu drew heavily on Persian vocabulary, literary forms (ghazal, masnavi), and rhetorical conventions, while retaining a grammatical base derived from Hindavi dialects.⁹² The rise of Urdu did not replace Persian immediately; rather, the two coexisted, with Persian retaining its prestige in administration and high culture until it was ousted by English in 1835.⁹³

The Vernacular Interface and the Question of Method

The Parallel Existence of Non-Persian Literature

The second source document, though brief, is methodologically crucial. It reminds us that the fourteenth century saw the gradual disappearance of Apabhramsha, but not the disappearance of literary production in Indian languages.⁹⁴

Thakkar Pheru, a Shrimal Jain from Haryana employed in ‘Ala al-Din Khalji’s mint, wrote works on mathematics, coins, and gems in a Prakrit-inflected Sanskrit.⁹⁵ His Dravyapariksa (1318) and Ratnapariksa (1315) were based on direct observation of the Khalji treasury.⁹⁶ He is also known for his work on mathematics, Ganitasarakaumudi.⁹⁷ Here is a counterpoint to the Persian court chronicles: technical literature produced by a Jain administrator for his son, in a language far from Persian.

The Prithviraj Raso of Chand Bardai, the devotional poetry of Kabir, Nanak, Tulsi, and Surdas, and the continued production of kavya literature in Sanskrit all coexisted with Persian literary production.⁹⁸

Under the Mughals, Braj Bhasha emerged as a major literary language for both devotional and courtly poetry. Narayana’s Svahasudhakarachampu (17th century) and Kalyanamalla’s Anangaranga (16th century, in the tradition of the Kamasutra) exemplify the continued vitality of Sanskrit literary production.⁹⁹

Scientific Literature in Sanskrit

The second document notes the astronomer Nilakantha’s Tajikanilakanthi (1587), an astronomical treatise, and Vedangaraya’s Parasiprakasha (1643), a Persian-Sanskrit glossary.¹⁰⁰ These works demonstrate that the traffic between Persian and Sanskrit was not one-way. The production of bilingual technical dictionaries represents the conceptual labor of translating between fundamentally different knowledge systems.¹⁰¹

Awadhi Sufi Romances

Perhaps the most sophisticated interaction between Persian and vernacular traditions occurred in Awadhi Sufi romances. Malik Muhammad Jayasi’s Padmavat (c. 1540) employs Persian allegorical motifs, particularly the Sufi quest for union with the Divine, within a Rajput setting.¹⁰² Manjhan’s Madhumalati similarly reflects this synthesis.¹⁰³ These texts demonstrate how Persian literary forms were vernacularized, creating a new genre of Indo-Islamic romance literature.

The Problem of Separate Literary Histories

The two source documents, read together, reveal a fundamental problem in South Asian literary historiography. Persian and Sanskrit-vernacular traditions have often been studied in separate scholarly silos. Casari’s article mentions Hindu participation in Persian writing but does not systematically address the reverse movement. The second document lists non-Persian works but does not demonstrate their interaction with Persian literature.¹⁰⁴

A genuinely integrated history would recognize that Indo-Persian literature was not a closed canon but a dynamic field of cultural translation. The Razmnama is not merely a Persian translation of the Mahābhārata; it is an Indo-Persian text produced through collaboration between pandits and Persian scholars, circulating in Mughal courts, and influencing how both Muslims and Hindus understood their shared intellectual heritage.¹⁰⁵

Conclusion

Indo-Persian literature from the 12th to the 18th centuries was one of the world’s great literary traditions. It produced more Persian texts than Iran during the same period. It generated original genres (habsiyat, the jawab tradition, the verse chronicle). It developed a distinctive style (sabk-e Hindi) that transformed Persian poetry. It created monumental works of translation and synthesis that brought Sanskritic and Islamic learning into sustained conversation.

Yet this tradition cannot be understood in isolation. Persian was never the only language of literary production in medieval India. Sanskrit, Apabhramsha, Hindavi, Braj, Awadhi, Punjabi, and eventually Urdu all coexisted with it, influencing and being influenced by it.

The task that remains for scholarship is to write a literary history of medieval India that is neither Persian-centered nor Sanskrit-vernacular-centered, but genuinely multilingual. Such a history would recognize that Amir Khusrau’s experiments with Hindavi, the Persian translations of the Mahābhārata, the Awadhi Sufi masnavis, Rahim’s bilingual poetry, and the lexicographical labors of Vedangaraya are not separate stories. They are episodes in a single, complex narrative: the making of a composite literary culture that was neither Persian nor Indian but Indo-Persian in the fullest sense.

For about eight centuries, Persian represented the strongest factor in the unity and coherence of the Muslims of the subcontinent, and one may add, of the entire elite taken as a whole.¹⁰⁶ But that elite was never solely Persian-speaking. Its literary culture was always already multilingual, and its greatest achievements arose from the creative tension between Persian forms and Indian content, between the language of the conqueror and the languages of the conquered, transformed through centuries of cohabitation into something new.

Endnotes

¹ A. Bausani, quoted in Mario Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature,” in Encyclopaedia Iranica, p. 65. For the statistical claim that India produced more Persian literature than Iran, see Annemarie Schimmel, Islamic Literatures of India (Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz, 1973), p. 1.

² On the “re-exportation” of the Indian Style to Iran, see Ehsan Yarshater, “The Indian Style: Progress or Decline,” in Persian Literature, ed. E. Yarshater (Albany: Bibliotheca Persica, 1988), pp. 405-21.

³ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature,” passim. Casari’s article is itself a masterful synthesis drawing on a vast bibliography in multiple languages.

⁴ “Non Persian Literature” (second provided document), passim. The document’s fragmentary nature, it appears to be notes or an outline, limits its utility but its content is suggestive.

⁵ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.” On Lahore as “little Ghazna,” see also Annemarie Schimmel, Islamic Literatures of India, p. 10.

⁶ On the Ghaznavid patronage of Persian literature, see Julie Scott Meisami, Persian Historiography to the End of the Twelfth Century (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1999), pp. 45-78.

⁷ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.” See also Nabi Hadi, Dictionary of Indo-Persian Literature (New Delhi: Abhinav Publications, 1995), pp. 45-46.

⁸ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.”

⁹ On Mas’ud Sa’d-e Salman, see Sunil Sharma, Persian Poetry at the Indian Frontier: Mas’ûd Sa’d Salmân of Lahore (New Delhi: Permanent Black, 2000).

¹⁰ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.” On the habsiyat genre, see Schimmel, Islamic Literatures of India, p. 11.

¹¹ Schimmel, Islamic Literatures of India, p. 11.

¹² Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.”

¹³ For the theoretical framework of “translation” as a model for understanding Indo-Persian literary culture, see Muzaffar Alam and Sanjay Subrahmanyam, Writing the Mughal World (New York: Columbia University Press, 2012), pp. 310-40.

¹⁴ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.” On Hojviri, see Bruce B. Lawrence, Notes from a Distant Flute: The Extant Literature of Pre-Mughal Indian Sufism (Tehran: Imperial Iranian Academy of Philosophy, 1978), pp. 32-45.

¹⁵ On the long influence of the Kashf al-mahjub in South Asia, see Carl W. Ernst, The Shambhala Guide to Sufism (Boston: Shambhala, 1997), pp. 120-25.

¹⁶ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.”

¹⁷ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.” See also C. A. Storey, Persian Literature: A Bio-Bibliographical Survey, vol. 1 (London: Luzac, 1927), pp. 65-72.

¹⁸ On the introduction of historiography to India, see Stephan Conermann, Historiographie als Sinnstiftung: Indo-persische Geschichtschreibung während der Mogulzeit (932-1118/1516-1707) (Wiesbaden: Reichert, 2002), pp. 15-30.

¹⁹ On Amir Khusraw, see Sunil Sharma, Amir Khusraw: The Poet of Sultans and Sufis (Oxford: Oneworld, 2005); also Mohammad Habib, Hazrat Amir Khusraw of Delhi (Bombay: D. B. Taraporevala Sons, 1927).

²⁰ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.”

²¹ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.” On the jawab tradition, see N. M. Khan, “Jostari dar nofuz-e Nizami dar shabh-e qarra,” in M. Sarwat, ed., Majmu’a-ye maqalat-e kongera-ye bayn-al-melali nohomin sade-ye tawallod-e hakim Nizami-e Ganjawi, vol. 3 (Tabriz, 1993), pp. 373-99.

²² Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.”

²³ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.”

²⁴ A. M. Piemontese, Amir Khusrau da Delhi: Le otto novelle del paradiso (Rome: Istituto per l’Oriente, 1996), pp. 143-61.

²⁵ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.”

²⁶ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.” On Hasan Sijzi, see Lawrence, Notes from a Distant Flute, pp. 78-95.

²⁷ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.” On the Chishti order’s support for poetry and music, see K. A. Nizami, The Life and Times of Shaikh Nizam-u’d-din Auliya (Delhi: Idarah-i Adabiyat-i Delli, 1991).

²⁸ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.”

²⁹ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.” On the Indian Style, see Shafi’i-Kadkani, Sha’er-e a’ina-ha: barresi sabk-e hendi va sh’er-e Bidel (Tehran: Agah, 1988), pp. 151-64.

³⁰ Sharma, Amir Khusrau, pp. 102-10.

³¹ Francesca Orsini, Before the Divide: Hindi and Urdu Literary Culture (New Delhi: Orient Blackswan, 2010), pp. 45-60.

³² Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.”

³³ Lawrence, Notes from a Distant Flute, pp. 56-77.

³⁴ Orsini, Before the Divide, pp. 45-60.

³⁵ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.”

³⁶ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.”

³⁷ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.” See also Storey, Persian Literature, vol. 1, pp. 75-82.

³⁸ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.”

³⁹ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.”

⁴⁰ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.” On Deccan courts, see N. Devare, A Short History of Persian Literature at the Bahmani, the Adilshahi, and the Qutbshahi Courts (Poona: S. R. Publishing, 1961).

⁴¹ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.” On Indo-Persian epistolography, see M. Mohiuddin, The Chancellery and Persian Epistolography under the Mughals: Babur to Shah Jahan (Calcutta: Iran Society, 1970).

⁴² Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.”

⁴³ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.”

⁴⁴ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.”

⁴⁵ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.” On the lexicographical tradition, see S. Naqawi, Farhang-nevisi-e farsi dar Hend-o-Pakestan (Tehran: Intisharat-i Danishgah-i Tehran, 1962).

⁴⁶ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.”

⁴⁷ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.”

⁴⁸ On Hindu participation in Persian writing, see Sayyed Muhammad ‘Abd-Allah, Adabiyat-e farsi dar miyan-e henduvan, trans. Muhammad Aslam Khan (Tehran: Intisharat-i Danishgah-i Tehran, 1992).

⁴⁹ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.”

⁵⁰ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.” On the Mughal literary culture, see M. A. Ghani, A History of Persian Language and Literature at the Mughal Court, 3 vols. (Allahabad, 1929-30).

⁵¹ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.”

⁵² Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.”

⁵³ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.”

⁵⁴ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.”

⁵⁵ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.” On Fayzi, see Ghani, History of Persian Language, vol. 2, pp. 45-89.

⁵⁶ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.”

⁵⁷ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.”

⁵⁸ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.”

⁵⁹ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.”

⁶⁰ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.” On Abu’l-Fazl, see Shireen Moosvi, The Economy of the Mughal Empire c. 1595: A Statistical Study (Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1987).

⁶¹ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.”

⁶² On the Razmnama, see Audrey Truschke, Culture of Encounters: Sanskrit at the Mughal Court (New York: Columbia University Press, 2016), pp. 85-120.

⁶³ Truschke, Culture of Encounters, pp. 85-120.

⁶⁴ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.”

⁶⁵ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.” See also N. S. Gorekar, “Persian Poets of India,” Indo-Iranica 16/2 (1963), pp. 66-85.

⁶⁶ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.”

⁶⁷ On Rahim’s bilingualism, see Allison Busch, Poetry of Kings: The Classical Hindi Literature of Mughal India (New York: Oxford University Press, 2011), pp. 120-45.

⁶⁸ Busch, Poetry of Kings, pp. 120-45.

⁶⁹ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.”

⁷⁰ Shafi’i-Kadkani, Sha’er-e a’ina-ha, pp. 151-64.

⁷¹ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.” On Bidel, see A. Bausani, Storia delle letterature del Pakistan (Milan: Nuova Accademia, 1958), pp. 59-61, 76-86.

⁷² Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.”

⁷³ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.” See Storey, Persian Literature, vol. 2, pp. 412-20.

⁷⁴ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.”

⁷⁵ F. Tauer, “Persian Learned Literature to the End of the 18th Century,” in J. Rypka, History of Iranian Literature (Dordrecht: D. Reidel, 1968), p. 431.

⁷⁶ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.”

⁷⁷ On Dara Shikoh, see Bikrama Jit Hasrat, Dara Shikuh: Life and Works (Calcutta: Visva-Bharati, 1953); also Supriya Gandhi, The Emperor Who Never Was: Dara Shukoh in Mughal India (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2020).

⁷⁸ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.”

⁷⁹ Dara Shikoh, Sirr-i Akbar, ed. M. Mahfuz-ul-Haq (Calcutta: Asiatic Society, 1929).

⁸⁰ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.”

⁸¹ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.”

⁸² Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.”

⁸³ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.”

⁸⁴ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.”

⁸⁵ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.”

⁸⁶ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.”

⁸⁷ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.”

⁸⁸ Gorekar, “Persian Poets of India,” p. 82.

⁸⁹ J. Marek, “Persian Literature in India,” in Rypka, History of Iranian Literature, p. 731.

⁹⁰ On Iqbal, see Annemarie Schimmel, Gabriel’s Wing: A Study into the Religious Ideas of Sir Muhammad Iqbal (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1963).

⁹¹ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.”

⁹² On the emergence of Urdu, see Shamsur Rahman Faruqi, Early Urdu Literary Culture (Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2001), pp. 32-40; also Ralph Russell and Khurshidul Islam, Three Mughal Poets: Mir, Sauda, Mir Hasan (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1968).

⁹³ Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature.” Persian was the official language of the empire from 1582 to 1835.

⁹⁴ “Non Persian Literature,” second document.

⁹⁵ “Non Persian Literature.”

⁹⁶ “Non Persian Literature.”

⁹⁷ “Non Persian Literature.”

⁹⁸ “Non Persian Literature.”

⁹⁹ “Non Persian Literature.”

¹⁰⁰ “Non Persian Literature.”

¹⁰¹ On bilingual lexicography, see Mario Casari and Fabrizio Speziale, “La scienza islamica in India,” in S. Petruccioli, ed., Storia della Scienza, vol. 2 (Rome: Istituto della Enciclopedia Italiana, 2001), pp. 908-28.

¹⁰² On Jayasi, see Aditya Behl, Love’s Subtle Magic: An Indian Islamic Literary Tradition, 1379-1545 (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2012).

¹⁰³ Behl, Love’s Subtle Magic, passim.

¹⁰⁴ This is not a criticism of either source; they have different purposes. Casari’s article is a comprehensive survey of Indo-Persian literature; the second document appears to be notes toward a different project.

¹⁰⁵ Truschke, Culture of Encounters, pp. 85-120.

¹⁰⁶ Bausani, quoted in Casari, “Indo-Persian Literature,” p. 65.

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Alam, Muzaffar, and Sanjay Subrahmanyam. Writing the Mughal World. New York: Columbia University Press, 2012.

Bausani, A. Storia delle letterature del Pakistan. Milan: Nuova Accademia, 1958.

Behl, Aditya. Love’s Subtle Magic: An Indian Islamic Literary Tradition, 1379-1545. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2012.

Busch, Allison. Poetry of Kings: The Classical Hindi Literature of Mughal India. New York: Oxford University Press, 2011.

Casari, Mario. “Indo-Persian Literature.” In Encyclopaedia Iranica (excerpt provided).

Casari, Mario, and Fabrizio Speziale. “La scienza islamica in India.” In Storia della Scienza, vol. 2, edited by S. Petruccioli, pp. 908-28. Rome: Istituto della Enciclopedia Italiana, 2001.

Conermann, Stephan. Historiographie als Sinnstiftung: Indo-persische Geschichtschreibung während der Mogulzeit (932-1118/1516-1707). Wiesbaden: Reichert, 2002.

Devare, N. A Short History of Persian Literature at the Bahmani, the Adilshahi, and the Qutbshahi Courts. Poona: S. R. Publishing, 1961.

Faruqi, Shamsur Rahman. Early Urdu Literary Culture. Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2001.

Gandhi, Supriya. The Emperor Who Never Was: Dara Shukoh in Mughal India. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2020.

Ghani, M. A. A History of Persian Language and Literature at the Mughal Court. 3 vols. Allahabad, 1929-30.

Gorekar, N. S. “Persian Poets of India.” Indo-Iranica 16/2 (1963): 66-85.

Hadi, Nabi. Dictionary of Indo-Persian Literature. New Delhi: Abhinav Publications, 1995.

Lawrence, Bruce B. Notes from a Distant Flute: The Extant Literature of Pre-Mughal Indian Sufism. Tehran: Imperial Iranian Academy of Philosophy, 1978.

Marek, J. “Persian Literature in India.” In History of Iranian Literature, edited by J. Rypka, pp. 711-34. Dordrecht: D. Reidel, 1968.

Mohiuddin, M. The Chancellery and Persian Epistolography under the Mughals: Babur to Shah Jahan. Calcutta: Iran Society, 1970.

Naqawi, S. Farhang-nevisi-e farsi dar Hend-o-Pakestan. Tehran: Intisharat-i Danishgah-i Tehran, 1962.

Orsini, Francesca. Before the Divide: Hindi and Urdu Literary Culture. New Delhi: Orient Blackswan, 2010.

Schimmel, Annemarie. Islamic Literatures of India. Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz, 1973.

Shafi’i-Kadkani, Muhammad-Reza. Sha’er-e a’ina-ha: barresi sabk-e hendi va sh’er-e Bidel. Tehran: Agah, 1988.

Sharma, Sunil. Amir Khusraw: The Poet of Sultans and Sufis. Oxford: Oneworld, 2005.

Sharma, Sunil. Persian Poetry at the Indian Frontier: Mas’ûd Sa’d Salmân of Lahore. New Delhi: Permanent Black, 2000.

Storey, C. A. Persian Literature: A Bio-Bibliographical Survey. London: Luzac, 1927-.

Tauer, F. “Persian Learned Literature to the End of the 18th Century.” In History of Iranian Literature, edited by J. Rypka, pp. 419-82. Dordrecht: D. Reidel, 1968.

Truschke, Audrey. Culture of Encounters: Sanskrit at the Mughal Court. New York: Columbia University Press, 2016.

Yarshater, Ehsan. “The Indian Style: Progress or Decline.” In Persian Literature, edited by E. Yarshater, pp. 405-21. Albany: Bibliotheca Persica, 1988.

Syed Ali Nadeem Rezavi

When Hate Attacks History: From the Bamiyan Buddhas to the Demolition of Mughal Heritage and the Assault on Iran

Across the world, monuments stand as silent witnesses to the long and often complex histories of civilizations. They embody the artistic labour of generations and preserve the layered memories of societies that have risen, interacted, and transformed over centuries. When such monuments are destroyed, the act is rarely neutral. It is almost always a political gesture, an attempt to rewrite the past by obliterating its visible traces. The recent damage to historic sites in Iran during military strikes once again reminds us how vulnerable humanity’s cultural heritage remains to ideological aggression and militarized power. When viewed alongside two earlier acts of cultural vandalism, the demolition of the Babri Masjid in India in 1992 and the Taliban’s destruction of the Bamiyan Buddhas in Afghanistan in 2001, the disturbing parallels become unmistakable.

Iran possesses one of the most continuous and richly layered civilizational landscapes in the world. From Achaemenid ruins and Sasanian reliefs to Safavid mosques and Qajar palaces, its monuments reflect more than two millennia of cultural creativity. Structures such as the Golestan Palace in Tehran or the historic complexes of Isfahan represent not merely national symbols but global cultural treasures. Yet in contemporary geopolitical conflict, such heritage becomes dangerously exposed. Military strikes undertaken by powerful states in pursuit of strategic objectives frequently occur in or around historic urban centres, and the resulting shockwaves, fires, and structural damage do not distinguish between military installations and centuries-old monuments. Whether the destruction is intentional or dismissed as “collateral damage,” the effect remains the same: irreplaceable fragments of human history are placed at risk by the calculations of modern warfare. The willingness with which cultural landscapes are exposed to destruction reflects a troubling assumption—that the imperatives of military power can override the universal value of humanity’s heritage.

If wartime damage often occurs under the cloak of strategic necessity, the destruction of the Bamiyan Buddhas in Afghanistan was a more nakedly ideological act. In March 2001, the Taliban regime deliberately dynamited two colossal sixth-century statues that had stood for over fourteen centuries in the Bamiyan valley. These statues were not merely religious icons; they were testimonies to Afghanistan’s historical role as a crossroads of civilizations along the Silk Road. The Taliban justified their destruction in the language of religious orthodoxy, claiming that the statues represented idolatry. Yet the ideological logic behind the act was unmistakable: the Buddhas embodied a plural and cosmopolitan past that the regime sought to erase. By reducing them to rubble, the Taliban attempted to eliminate visible reminders of a cultural history that did not conform to their rigid ideological worldview. The destruction therefore represented not simply iconoclasm but an attempt to obliterate historical memory itself.

A comparable impulse to reshape the past through the destruction of monuments was visible in the demolition of the Babri Masjid in Ayodhya on 6 December 1992. Built in the sixteenth century during the Mughal period, the mosque had stood for centuries as part of the architectural and historical landscape of North India. Yet in the late twentieth century it became the focal point of an aggressively mobilized political movement that sought to recast the monument as a symbol for of historical grievance. Through sustained propaganda and mass mobilization, organizations associated with the ideology of Hindutva transformed the mosque into a political target. When a mobilized crowd demolished the structure in full public view, the act was celebrated by its perpetrators as the correction of history. What was in fact destroyed, however, was not merely a mosque but a historical monument that had borne witness to centuries of cultural coexistence in the subcontinent. The demolition marked the triumph of mythologized narratives over historical scholarship and unleashed waves of communal violence that scarred the social fabric of India.

Although the contexts differ: United States-led military operations in Iran, ideological extremism in Afghanistan, and majoritarian mobilization in India, the underlying logic linking these acts of destruction is disturbingly similar. In each case, monuments become targets not because of their physical presence but because of the historical meanings they carry. Cultural heritage often embodies plural and layered pasts that resist simplistic narratives of identity. For ideological movements and militarized states alike, such complexity can be inconvenient. The destruction of monuments thus becomes a means of simplifying history, of erasing reminders of diversity, coexistence, and shared cultural inheritance.

There is also a profound hypocrisy in how such acts are justified. Those responsible frequently cloak themselves in the language of moral righteousness while committing acts that violate the most basic principles of cultural preservation. The Taliban claimed to defend religious purity while annihilating one of the world’s greatest artistic legacies. The mobs that demolished the Babri Masjid proclaimed historical justice while destroying a monument that had stood as part of India’s historical landscape for centuries. Powerful states conducting military strikes invoke strategic necessity while dismissing the damage inflicted upon historic sites as unfortunate collateral loss. In each case, rhetoric serves to mask what is fundamentally an act of cultural vandalism.

The losses inflicted by such acts are immeasurable. Monuments represent centuries of craftsmanship, artistic imagination, and collective memory. When they are destroyed, no reconstruction can restore the historical authenticity that has been lost. The Bamiyan Buddhas cannot be recreated in their original form; the Babri Masjid cannot be returned to the landscape of early modern India; and the damage inflicted upon Iranian heritage sites threatens a civilizational continuum that has endured for millennia. What disappears in such moments is not merely architecture but the tangible presence of history itself.

These episodes reveal a disturbing reality of the modern world: cultural heritage has increasingly become a battlefield upon which ideological and geopolitical struggles are waged. Instead of being protected as the shared inheritance of humanity, monuments are treated as expendable symbols within larger political agendas. The stones of Bamiyan, the ruins of Ayodhya, and the endangered heritage of Iran together remind us that the destruction of monuments is rarely accidental; it is almost always the product of deliberate human choices driven by power, ideology, or the desire to impose a singular narrative upon the past.

It is therefore imperative to condemn unequivocally all attempts to destroy cultural heritage, whether carried out in the name of religion, nationalism, or geopolitical domination. The deliberate targeting or reckless endangerment of historic monuments represents not only an attack upon a nation’s past but upon the cultural inheritance of humanity itself.

The Zionist-fascist aggression that places Iran’s historic sites in peril today must be condemned with the same moral clarity with which the world condemned the Taliban’s destruction of Bamiyan and the demolition of the Babri Masjid by the Hindutva goons. Cultural heritage belongs to all humankind, and any ideology or power that seeks to erase it stands condemned before history.

• Syed Ali Nadeem Rezavi

Technological Developments in India, c. 800–1200 CE: Economy, Society, and Historiography

The study of technological developments in India between 800 and 1200 CE has been closely tied to broader historiographical debates about the character of early medieval Indian society and economy. Historians such as D. D. Kosambi, R. S. Sharma, B. D. Chattopadhyaya, Burton Stein, and Irfan Habib have approached the period from different perspectives, but they broadly agree that technological change must be examined within the larger processes of agrarian expansion, regional state formation, and the growth of artisanal production. Unlike the dramatic technological revolutions associated with early modern Europe, technological change in early medieval India was largely incremental and cumulative. Yet these gradual transformations played a significant role in expanding the productive capacity of the economy and integrating regional societies into wider networks of trade and exchange.

One of the most important technological foundations of early medieval economic change was the widespread use and refinement of iron technology, particularly in agricultural implements. The significance of iron in the agrarian expansion of the subcontinent had already been highlighted by D. D. Kosambi, who argued that the diffusion of iron tools facilitated the clearing of forests and the extension of cultivation into new regions. R. S. Sharma later developed this insight further in his influential work Indian Feudalism, where he linked the spread of iron ploughshares and axes to the establishment of new agrarian settlements, particularly in eastern India and the Deccan. According to Sharma, the proliferation of land grants to Brahmanas and religious institutions often led to the colonisation of forested areas, a process that depended materially upon the availability of iron tools for clearing land and cultivating heavy soils. The increasing use of iron ploughshares enabled cultivators to work dense alluvial soils more effectively, thereby expanding the agricultural frontier and increasing the production of surplus.

While Sharma interpreted these developments within a broader framework of feudalization and ruralisation, later historians such as B. D. Chattopadhyaya have emphasized the regional diversity of these processes. Chattopadhyaya has argued that the expansion of agrarian settlements was not simply a result of top-down land grants but also involved complex interactions between local communities, political authorities, and ecological conditions. Technological change—particularly the use of iron tools and improved cultivation techniques—played a crucial role in enabling these transformations. The spread of agriculture into forested and marginal regions fundamentally altered the landscape of early medieval India, contributing to the emergence of new villages, local markets, and regional political centres.

Closely connected with agrarian expansion were developments in irrigation technology, which allowed cultivators to stabilise agricultural production in environments subject to seasonal rainfall variability. Early medieval inscriptions and literary sources refer to several devices used for lifting water from wells and rivers. Among these was the araghatta, a mechanical water-lifting device consisting of a rotating wheel fitted with a chain of earthen pots that raised water from wells through continuous motion. The araghatta appears in both textual descriptions and iconographic representations and seems to have been widely used in northern India. Other water-lifting devices included the shaduf, a counterbalanced lever mechanism, and the charasa, a leather bucket raised by animal power. Such devices enabled irrigation from wells and small reservoirs and were particularly important in semi-arid regions where rainfall was unreliable.

In South India, irrigation technology reached a particularly sophisticated level during the period of the Chola dynasty. Large artificial tanks and reservoirs were constructed to collect monsoon water and distribute it to agricultural fields through canals and sluice systems. These irrigation works were often managed collectively by village assemblies, which organized the maintenance of embankments and the regulation of water distribution. Burton Stein has emphasized that such irrigation systems were central to the functioning of the Chola state and to the prosperity of the Kaveri delta. The technological complexity of these hydraulic systems illustrates the close relationship between engineering knowledge, local institutional organization, and agricultural production.

Metallurgical technology also reached notable levels of sophistication during the early medieval period. India had long possessed an advanced tradition of iron and steel production, and this expertise continued to flourish between the ninth and twelfth centuries. One of the most remarkable products of Indian metallurgy was crucible steel, commonly known as wootz steel. This high-carbon steel was produced by heating iron with carbonaceous materials in sealed crucibles, allowing the metal to absorb carbon and acquire exceptional hardness and flexibility. Wootz steel was widely exported to West Asia, where it became famous for its use in the manufacture of high-quality blades. Medieval Arabic writers frequently praised Indian steel for its superior quality, and the material eventually became associated with the celebrated Damascus swords of the Islamic world.

The production of such steel required considerable technical knowledge, including control over furnace temperatures, fuel composition, and cooling processes. As Irfan Habib has emphasized in his studies of medieval Indian technology, the manufacture of wootz steel demonstrates the existence of highly specialized metallurgical skills among Indian craftsmen. These techniques were transmitted through artisanal traditions and often remained confined to particular regions or communities.

Metalworking extended beyond iron and steel to include the production of copper and bronze objects. The casting of bronze sculptures in South India reached extraordinary levels of technical and artistic excellence during the Chola period. Using the lost-wax casting method, artisans produced bronze icons of remarkable elegance and precision. The creation of such sculptures required detailed knowledge of mould preparation, alloy composition, and casting techniques. These bronzes not only served religious purposes but also testify to the sophisticated metallurgical practices of early medieval India.

Another area in which technological skill was prominently displayed was architecture and construction, particularly in temple building. The early medieval centuries witnessed a remarkable proliferation of monumental temples across the subcontinent. Builders developed advanced techniques for quarrying, transporting, and shaping large stone blocks, as well as for constructing complex superstructures. The temples of Khajuraho, Bhubaneswar, and Thanjavur represent some of the most impressive examples of early medieval architecture.

The Brihadisvara temple at Thanjavur, constructed in the early eleventh century under Rajaraja I, stands as a striking example of engineering skill and architectural planning. Built largely of granite—a material not readily available in the immediate vicinity—the temple required the transport and assembly of massive stone blocks. Scholars have suggested that long earthen ramps may have been constructed to raise these blocks to the upper levels of the temple tower. Such projects required not only technical expertise but also the mobilization of large numbers of skilled artisans and labourers.

Technological developments were equally important in the sphere of textile production, which remained one of the most important sectors of the Indian economy. India had long been renowned for its cotton textiles, and early medieval artisans continued to refine the techniques of spinning, weaving, and dyeing. Vijaya Ramaswamy has shown that textile production relied upon highly specialized craft communities whose skills were transmitted through hereditary training. Indian artisans developed sophisticated dyeing techniques using vegetable dyes to produce textiles of vivid colours and intricate patterns. Techniques such as resist dyeing and block printing were widely practiced in western India, while weaving centres in Gujarat, Bengal, and the Deccan supplied both domestic markets and overseas trade.

Maritime technology also played an important role in sustaining long-distance trade during the early medieval centuries. Indian shipbuilders constructed large ocean-going vessels capable of navigating the monsoon routes of the Indian Ocean. Many of these ships were built using the technique of sewn-plank construction, in which wooden planks were stitched together with coir ropes rather than fastened with metal nails. This technique allowed ships to remain flexible and resilient during long voyages. Knowledge of monsoon wind patterns enabled merchants to undertake regular voyages linking Indian ports with those of Southeast Asia, China, and the Middle East. Such maritime connections contributed significantly to the circulation of goods, technologies, and cultural influences across the Indian Ocean world.

Despite these achievements, historians have debated the broader implications of technological change during this period. R. S. Sharma once argued that the early medieval economy exhibited signs of decline in long-distance trade and urban activity, partly due to the rise of feudal structures. In contrast, scholars such as B. D. Chattopadhyaya and Irfan Habib have suggested that while certain regions may have experienced economic contraction, others witnessed significant growth and technological development. Habib has emphasized that technological innovations in medieval India were often gradual refinements within established craft traditions rather than sudden breakthroughs. The absence of large-scale mechanization should therefore not be interpreted as technological stagnation; rather, it reflects the specific social and economic conditions under which technology developed.

In conclusion, the centuries between 800 and 1200 CE witnessed significant technological developments in agriculture, irrigation, metallurgy, architecture, textiles, and maritime activity. These developments were closely connected to the expansion of agrarian production, the growth of craft industries, and the increasing integration of India into wider networks of trade and exchange. As historians such as Kosambi, Sharma, Chattopadhyaya, Stein, and Habib have demonstrated, technological change in early medieval India cannot be understood in isolation from the social structures and economic processes that shaped it. Instead, technology formed an integral part of the evolving relationship between society, environment, and production in early medieval South Asia.

References

Chattopadhyaya, B. D. The Making of Early Medieval India. Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1994.

Habib, Irfan. Technology in Medieval India c. 650–1750. New Delhi: Tulika Books, 2008.

Habib, Irfan. Medieval India: The Study of a Civilization. New Delhi: National Book Trust, 2007.

Kosambi, D. D. An Introduction to the Study of Indian History. Bombay: Popular Prakashan, 1956.

Ramaswamy, Vijaya. Textiles and Weavers in Medieval South India. Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1985.

Sharma, R. S. Indian Feudalism. New Delhi: Macmillan, 1980.

Stein, Burton. Peasant State and Society in Medieval South India. Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1980.

Chaudhuri, K. N. Trade and Civilisation in the Indian Ocean. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985.

• Syed Ali Nadeem Rezavi

Karbala is the DNA of Shiʿi Identity

Muhammad taught humanity the path of justice;

Husain ensured that path would never perish.

Karbala as the DNA of Shiʿi Identity

Among the many historical events that have shaped the religious and emotional universe of Islam, few have exercised the enduring influence of the tragedy of Karbala. For the Shiʿa, Karbala is not merely an episode in early Islamic history; it is the central moral drama that defines their worldview, their ritual life, and their collective memory. To say that Karbala is the DNA of the Shias is therefore not merely a metaphorical flourish. It reflects the profound manner in which the narrative, symbolism, and ethical message of Karbala permeate Shiʿi theology, ritual practice, historical consciousness, and political imagination.

The Historical Moment

The event of Karbala occurred in 680 CE (61 AH) when Imam Ḥusayn ibn ʿAlī, the grandson of the Prophet Muḥammad, refused to acknowledge the legitimacy of the Umayyad ruler Yazid ibn Muʿāwiya. Ḥusain’s refusal was not a mere political rebellion but a moral protest against what he perceived as the corruption of the Islamic polity. Accompanied by a small group of family members and companions, he was surrounded by the forces of the Umayyad governor of Kufa on the plains of Karbala in present-day Iraq. On the tenth day of Muḥarram—ʿĀshūrāʾ—Ḥusain and his companions were killed after days of thirst and siege, while the surviving women and children were taken captive.

While the immediate historical significance of Karbala was limited in military or political terms, its symbolic power proved immense. The death of the Prophet’s grandson under such circumstances was perceived by many as a moral catastrophe for the Muslim community. Among the Shiʿa, however, the event came to represent the eternal struggle between justice and tyranny.

Karbala as Moral Archetype

For the Shiʿa, Karbala functions as a moral template that transcends time and place. Imam Ḥusayn is not remembered merely as a historical figure but as the embodiment of resistance against injustice. His stand is interpreted as a conscious act of martyrdom intended to preserve the ethical integrity of Islam. In Shiʿi devotional literature, this moment becomes the paradigmatic example of the Qurʾanic injunction to “enjoin good and forbid evil.”

Thus Karbala is not simply remembered, it is constantly reinterpreted. Every generation is invited to ask: who is the Ḥusain of our time, and who is the Yazid? The story becomes a moral grammar through which contemporary events are understood. This interpretive flexibility explains why the symbolism of Karbala has been invoked in various historical struggles, from medieval sectarian conflicts to modern political movements.

Ritual Memory and Collective Identity

If Karbala is the genetic code of Shiʿi identity, its rituals are the mechanisms through which that code is transmitted from generation to generation. The annual commemoration of Muḥarram, culminating in the rituals of ʿĀshūrāʾ and Arbaʿīn, constitutes one of the most elaborate cycles of religious mourning in the world.

Majālis (mourning assemblies), mars̱iya poetry, noha recitations, taʿziya passion plays, and processions serve not merely as acts of remembrance but as reenactments of the tragedy. Through these rituals, believers are emotionally and spiritually transported to Karbala. The participants become witnesses to the suffering of Ḥusain and his companions, and in doing so they renew their allegiance to his cause.

This ritualized memory creates a powerful sense of community. The Shiʿa across different cultures, whether in Iran, Iraq, South Asia, Lebanon, or the diaspora, share a common emotional vocabulary rooted in Karbala. The lamentations of Muḥarram thus function as a cultural and religious adhesive binding together disparate communities.

Karbala in Shiʿi Theology

The theological significance of Karbala lies in its connection to the doctrine of Imamate. In Shiʿi belief, the Imams are not merely political leaders but divinely guided authorities who safeguard the true interpretation of Islam. The martyrdom of Imam Ḥusain therefore represents the suffering of legitimate authority at the hands of illegitimate power.

Over centuries, Shiʿi scholars developed a rich theology of martyrdom centred on Karbala. The martyrdom of Ḥusain is understood as redemptive in a spiritual sense: his sacrifice awakened the conscience of the Muslim community and ensured that tyranny would never go unchallenged. This idea is captured in the famous maxim often attributed to Shiʿi devotional tradition: “Every day is ʿĀshūrāʾ and every land is Karbala.

Cultural and Literary Expressions

The narrative of Karbala has generated an immense literary and artistic tradition. Persian, Arabic, and Urdu literatures are replete with elegiac poetry commemorating the tragedy. The mars̱iya tradition of Lucknow, perfected by poets such as Mir Anis and Mirza Dabeer, elevated the story of Karbala into one of the most sophisticated forms of classical Urdu poetry.

Similarly, the dramatic performances of taʿziya in Iran and South Asia transformed the narrative into a form of sacred theatre. Visual arts, calligraphy, and shrine architecture, especially at Karbala and Najaf, have also been profoundly shaped by this tradition. Through these mediums, the story of Ḥusayn has been woven into the cultural fabric of Shiʿi societies.

Karbala and Political Consciousness

Karbala has also played a significant role in shaping Shiʿi political thought. The symbolism of resistance embodied in Imam Ḥusain has frequently been invoked during periods of oppression. In modern times, the Iranian Revolution of 1979 famously mobilized the imagery of Karbala, portraying the struggle against tyranny as a reenactment of Ḥusain’s stand against Yazid.

Yet the political interpretation of Karbala is not uniform. For many believers, the lesson of Karbala lies not in revolutionary activism but in moral steadfastness and spiritual resistance. The event thus accommodates a spectrum of interpretations ranging from quietist piety to militant opposition.

Conclusion

To describe Karbala as the DNA of the Shiʿa is to recognize that it functions as the foundational code from which Shiʿi identity derives its meaning. It shapes theology through the doctrine of martyrdom, ritual through the commemorations of Muḥarram, literature through elegiac poetry, and politics through the symbolism of resistance.

More than a historical memory, Karbala is a living narrative. It provides a moral compass that continues to guide the ethical and spiritual life of Shiʿi communities across the world. Through centuries of repetition in ritual, poetry, and collective memory, the message of Imam Husain: resistance to injustice and fidelity to truth, remains embedded in the very cultural and spiritual genome of the Shiʿa.

“Muharram is the month in which justice rose up against oppression, and truth confronted falsehood.”

• Ayatollah Khomeini

• Syed Ali Nadeem Rezavi