I
I, Abul Mansur Kamaluddin of Nishapur, begin in the name of the Merciful God this travelogue of mine which I have called The Marvels and Strange Tales of Hindustan. In the preface I have mentioned how my honourable mother, that august lady of royal Sassanian lineage married my father, an Arab apothecary settled in Khorasan. Since my lady mother is fiercely proud of being a Persian (a weakness shared by all her compatriots), she wanted me to study in Merv, or Balkh or Herat, or even go to Samarkand and join the observatory of Ulugh Beg. But I am more interested in history and linguistics. A professor of Tunis who was taught by a student of the great Ibn-i-Khaldoon had come to Baghdad, so off I went to Iraq and, in due course, I received my black gown of graduation and my turban of scholastic eminence.
Now it happened that I met a bunch of dark-eyed Spaniards who had come from Granada for the pilgrimage at Mecca, and had wandered on to Baghdad in search of a livelihood. They belonged to a Sufi Brotherhood of Spain which had its own lodge on the west bank of the Tigris. They were staying in the rabat and often met me in an eating-house by the river. Among themselves they spoke in Spanish which had a lot of Arabic words in it. They wrote Spanish in Arabic script. They were full of their past glories and achievements and had very little to show for the present era. One evening they said, “For seven hundred years we were the teachers of benighted Christian Europe whose students flocked to the universities of Cordoba, Malaga and Seville. Or they went to the Muslim universities of Sicily . . .”
“Did all this stop the Christians from warring against you?” I countered. “And how did the theosophy of your Ibn-ul-Arabi help? Did it bring about peace and harmony between Christians and Muslims? The fact is, dear friends, that power politics has no use for mysticism and scholarship and so on.” I was a student of Ibn-i-Khaldoon and had also been impressed by Ibn-i-Tammaya’s anti-mystical, anti-Shia arguements. There are always brilliant arguments for both sides of a question. And I, as a son of a Shia mother, am also attracted by the rationalism of the Muatazzalites. The pull of contradictory or different ideologies has always bothered me.
The Andalusians looked very unhappy and fell silent. To make matters worse, an oily Levantine (they are always called oily) acquaintance of mine came along and joined us. The Greek owner of the restaurant brought him food. A number of Jews were squatting close by talking of their new warehouse in Anatolia. That gave me an idea. I said, “This being the Age of the Turks why shouldn’t I go to Granada and teach Turkish there?” I enquired of the Levantine if he knew of a good ship which could carry me to the shores of the Caliphate of Hispania.
“Hispania!” the man repeated in surprise. “That country is full of political turmoil. Sooner than you expect, the Cross may replace the Crescent in Spain. Forget it.” He leaned forward and whispered with a cheery wink, “If you want to know—in the West we Christians are on the ascent, in the East, the Turks—the Saljuks, the Memluks, the Ottomans. In India the Turks have been merrily setting up kingdom after kingdom for the last three hundred years. Go to the Orient, sonny boy. You have lost Spain for good.”
I felt very angry but kept quiet. My Andalusian friends would have wept.
“India,” the Phoenician continued, “yes, that is the land of tomorrow. Egypt has already become the biggest buyer of Indian cotton. All Europeans, the Genoese, the Venetians want to trade with India. You listen to this ancient mariner—this is the Year of Grace 1476, Anno Domini.” Piously he made the sign of the cross and went on, “If you are twenty-four now, you will be rich in no time once you get there. Commerce and industry are flourishing out there like nobody’s business!” He waved his pudgy hands which sparkled with rings . . . “Diamonds of Golconda! I have just sailed back from Gujarat. You take the high road to the North.”
“I am not a businessman. Most Khorasani traders go to India,” I replied evenly. “I only know the theories of Ibn-i-Khaldoon and the philosophy of Rhazes and other such subjects which do not bring in big money.”
“No matter. I am told there are colleges in the southern Sultanates as well as in Multan, Lahore, Jaunpur, etc. You could easily get a lecturership. You could even be appointed a qazi in some Indian Sultan’s administration.”
City lights twinkled over the Tigris. There are eye-witness accounts of the Holocaust when the waters of this very river turned black with the ink of tens of thousands of books that the heathen Mongols threw into it when they destroyed the libraries of this city. Athens fell once again with the Fall of Baghdad in the year 1258 of the Christian calendar. We never recovered after 1258.
Now, by the Grace of Allah, even the ferocious Tartars and the Khans of all the Russias have embraced Islam. As my mother says, Iran civilised them. Though in the far east the Mongols have misguidedly taken to the worship of the colossal stone, in Central Asia and the land of the Afghans the followers of the But1 have long accepted the True Faith.
After the Phoenician left one of the Andalusians said ruefully, “Do you know, Brother Kamal, a qazi of Toledo once wrote that the Indians, Greeks, Romans, Arabs and Iranians had cultivated knowledge while the people of northern Europe were uncouth barbarians. A time may soon come when those barbarians will rule the world.”
Talk about the loss of Spain was vastly depressing. The poor, forlorn Spaniards left for their rabat. I walked back to my hostel thinking seriously about betaking myself to Al-Hind.
I had read my Al-Beruni and my Al-Idrisi but also looked up Avicanna’s encyclopaedia for his physiographic studies, and Al-Beruni for his mathematical geography. The books by early travellers were interesting but out of date, and so were the world maps prepared in colour by early Arab-Persian astronomer-geographers. Arab learning and the sciences have come to a standstill. Like the Spaniards we have also started harping on the past. I bought an astrolobe and a portable hourglass from a shop selling travel gear. Since people are constantly going on long journeys the souks are full of travel goods. That is why I was surprised when I first came to India and learnt that the Hindus do not go abroad for fear of losing caste—whatever they mean by that. Although I have read that the ancient Hindus and Buddhists travelled far and wide, carrying their learning with them wherever they went.
From the souk I proceeded to the governor’s secretariat. I had been told that from the time of Mohammad bin Tughlaq all foreigners’ documents were thoroughly scrutinised at border check-posts in India. While I was talking to the Armenian official in charge a carrier pigeon flew in and perched smartly on the clerk’s desk. “On His Majesty the Memluk Sultan’s Service from Cairo,” the Armenian Christian grinned. I wished this pigeon network extended up to Nishapur so that I could inform my parents of my imminent arrival.
II
Nishapur is teeming with poets. They are generally very angry with the world at large, and get together in taverns to criticize the government and the clergy which is always hand-in-glove with the authorities. That is one reason why the anti-government Sufis have always been popular with the poets. One evening a versifier cousin took me to his favourite haunt, a tavern run by a seedy hawk-nosed Zoroastrian. Young fire-worshippers called Moghbachas, or sons of the Magi, were serving the drinks. “Are you not fond of the Daughter of Grapes?” a winsome Moghbacha asked me archly. (Unfortunately, like the ancient Greeks, many people in Iran are also that way inclined.) I replied in the negative. A lot of Hafiz was being quoted by the patrons who sat around on the carpets. Opium was being smoked in a nearby den. A lovely Circassian slave-girl was dancing. The Quran and the Prophet say freeing slaves is an act of piety, for they are also entitled to buy their freedom. Some even become kings . . . Male slaves from the Caucasus were trained as soldiers, gained power and established political dynasties. Look at the Slave Kings of India and the Memluks of Egypt!
The ancient Zoroastrian observed the tavern with his hooded eyes. Like the Phoenician he, too, had seen the ebb and flow of Time. The Zoroastrians of Iran have always made me sad. Once they were the masters of this land, now they are reduced
to wine-sellers. The rest have fled to India carrying their holy fire with them, as the Jews once wandered from country to country, carrying their Ark. And in recent times our Sufis and scholars escaped to India with their books to avoid persecution by the conquering heathen Mongols. In Persian poetry the Tavern signifies free thinking. Moghbacha is the saqi. The handsome, swashbuckling Turk has become the metaphor for the heartless beloved.
So to Dehli, where the stylish, dashing Turk has been replaced by Syeds and Afghans.
The international caravan-serai of Nishapur was bustling with a bewildering variety of races. Burly, fur-clad Russians, fur-hatted, cocky Turkmans and dagger-happy Georgians. Kowtowing Chinamen trading in jade, silk and chinaware. Camel-trains were leaving in all directions and all manner of beasts of burden were being loaded with merchandise and passenger luggage. It was like Noah’s Ark and the Tower of Babel rolled into one. The moneychangers’ din was nerve-racking. I booked a saddle-seat on a quaint-looking Central Asian camel. My father said to me, call your brothers and cousins over too, when you get a job in India.
III
The Iranians were great name-givers. ‘Roos’ was the name they gave to the landmass beyond the Oxus because the Volga was a sparkling river, and roshan in Persian meant bright. They called the region where I arrived from across the Khyber Pass after a long and tedious journey, the Punj-ab—Five Waters. The Iranians also referred to the inhabitants of Hind as Hindu and they called the country Hindustan. The word Hindu has come to mean black in Persian. In his famous oft-quoted couplet, Hafiz of Shiraz said, Ba-khaal-i-hinduash bhakhsham Samarkand-o-Bokhar-ra—I can give away Samarkand and Bukhara in exchange for the black mole on her cheek!
In these regions the infidels were not black. They were fair and even light-eyed. As we journeyed south the sun became stronger and we saw some Hindus. Many camel-stations later we reached Kaithal, a small, dusty town on the road to Dehli. In Lahore a Punjabi Mussalman joined the train and became my friend. He was going to Dehli on business. We stayed overnight in the local caravan-serai, and in the evening I went out for a walk accompanied by my Punjabi friend. We passed by a tank where a lot of heathen females were bathing, wrapped only in a length of unstitched cloth. Nobody looked at them.
A grey ruin attracted my attention. It was covered with nettles and brambles and a strange melancholy pervaded the atmosphere. A cowherd passed by. He told us that the jeevan-lila of Sultan Razia had come to an abrupt, untimely end at this spot.
Jeevan-lila. The mystic drama of life, my companion explained. I was struck by the phrase, used by an illiterate peasant. Isn’t everybody’s life a ‘mystic drama’? “Even illiterate Hindus seem to have a philosophical bent of mind because of their belief in karma—” my India-expert said to me. He also told me about Razia, this remarkable woman monarch who styled herself Sultan, instead of Sultana. She was killed in tragic circumstances as she rested under a tree with her husband, on her way to Dehli. Murdered right here, where we stood, more than two hundred years ago. Her cabinet of forty ministers had disapproved of her enlightened policies. “She was very popular with us Jats and Khokars,” the cowherd said.
“It was an infamous victory for her opponents. They say robbers murdered her, but in fact it was a politically motivated assassination,” my Punjabi friend remarked.
The cowherd continued, “Sultan Razia wanted to abolish the poll-tax which we Hindus have to pay in lieu of military service. Wait . . .” He went into his hut nearby and brought back a silver coin. “I found it here in the fields. Take it as a memento of Kaal—Time—”
I took the coin from him and thanked him with my Persian courtesy. He looked surprised for he was obviously not used to being thanked for anything. I gazed at the coin. Sultan Razia’s name was embossed on one side and the obverse carried the image of a goddess.
“This is the goddess Lakshmi,” the cowherd said simply and walked away with his buffalo.
I marvelled at this woman who knew how to rule over a vast empire and a people who belonged to a very different religion and were generally hostile to the Turks. She belonged to the Turko-Iranian tradition of able female monarchs, though the world knows little about them.
I pocketed the coin and returned to the serai. India had already started teaching me a lot of lessons.
Dehli or Dilli, is the seat of Bahlol Lodhi, the first Afghan king of North India. Being the capital city it is full of intrigues, political factions and rumours. Scribes, unemployed writers and poets seeking official patronage gather in taverns and bhatiar-khanas and discuss politics. Frequent attacks by the kings of Jaunpur are a constant source of irritation but life goes on, regardless.
In a crowd of devotees, I ran into an old Sufi acquaintance from Nishapur. He took me to his hostelry situated in the dargah complex. A beautiful kiosk of red sandstone. “Ibn-i-Batuta also stayed here!” the dervish chuckled. Then he told me that he was living in a big Sufi lodge in Jaunpur in the east, and was returning after a few days. It transpires that, like North Africa and the lands of the Turks, India too has an efficient and vibrant Sufi network with hospices, schools and free-kitchens maintained by land grants given to them by kings and noblemen. In the time of Sultan Firoze Tughlaq there were one hundred and forty khanqahs in Dehli alone. There must be many more now.
“Why don’t you come along? That place has become the new academic capital of this country and a resplendent centre of high culture. There is a university, countless colleges and thousands of ulema and writers. Everybody is flocking to Jaunpur where even the king is a famed musician. The Sultans of Jaunpur claim descent from the Prophet. Allah knows best. They marry their daughters to Syed dervishes. Why, a promising young Syed that you are, you may even wed a princess of Jaunpur some day if you are lucky! I know the king and shall take you to meet him.”
1 The Buddha. Later the word ‘but’ (pronounced as in ‘put’) came to mean any idol.
11. The University Town of Jaunpur
The carriage fare from Dehli to Jaunpur is only one tanka1 bahloli. However, I bought a fine Arab horse and named him Toofan. My Persian dervish, being a poor man, rode his humble mule. Together we set out towards the east.
Jaunpur is called Sultanate-i-Sharq or the Eastern Kingdom. It was founded about seventy-six years ago by Malik Sarwar, also a former slave and a provincial governor, who took advantage of Timur’s sack of Dehli and became independent.
“This Sultan business is good business,” quoth my dervish, trotting alongside on the highway. “The modus operandi is simple and to the point. Wherever the government at the centre loses its grip over the provinces you gather enough military strength and a few allies, usually Hindu Rajput chieftains, and declare your independence. Then you obtain a firman from the nominal Caliph of Islam who resides in Cairo. According to this decree of the figurehead pontiff you become his deputy caliph and the Friday sermon in the cathedral mosque and all the mosques of your realm is read in your name, instead of the reigning monarch’s at Dehli. You mint your own currency and send out your own envoys. You assume the grandiose titles of the ancient Kings of Iran till you are replaced, often violently, by another dynasty.
“Had there been kingship in Islam there would have been the law of primogeniture too, but as it is the sons get an equal share in their father’s property. If it is a royal throne it stands to reason that all the brothers must fight to obtain it.”
The ascetic took a deep breath. “Great bloodshed continues because of kingship.” In Jaunpur, after Malik Sarwar, his adopted son Mubarak succeeded to the throne and after Mubarak, his brother Ibrahim who was a good king. He was a nephew of Khizr Khan, the founder of the fake “Syed” dynasty of Dehli. Ibrahim Shah’s army consisted of crack regiments of Rajputs and Iraqis. These Sultans of Jaunpur are addicted to attacking Dehli, which they do with monotonous regularity.”
As we approached Jaunpur I was struck by its beautiful landscape. The lofty domes, minarets and golden spires of idolhouses were visible in the distance.
/> “When Firoze Shah Tughlaq was on his way to fight Sultan Sikander of Bengal, he stopped here and founded this city,” my hermit informed me. “Ibrahim Shah had a massive regiment of war-elephants that were looked after by the Corps of Veterinary Surgeons. He was also a great builder. When he invaded Dehli the Syed king sued for peace and married his daughter, Bibi Raji, to Ibrahim Shah’s son, Prince Mehmud Khan. Her father died and her no-good brother, Allauddin Alam Shah abdicated in favour of Bahlol Lodhi. When Mehmud Khan became king, Bibi Raji told him, “If you don’t attack Dehli I will lead the army myself. That throne belongs to my family. My brother was a fool to quit.” So Mehmud laid seige to the capital at the time when Sultan Bahlol was away at Sirhind. Bahlol’s aunt, Bibi Masto, was officer-in-charge of the fort. Only a few members of the Lodhi family were present inside. Bibi Masto dressed the women up in men’s uniforms and sent them up to the ramparts. From a distance they looked like soldiers. Then she ordered the few men inside the castle to keep shooting arrows from time to time at the enemy so that they would think the fort was well defended.
“Sultan Bahlol returned to Dehli and the ensuing battle ended in some confusion. Bibi Masto was still holding the fort when news was brought to her that the Sharqi soldiers were running away. She asked the messenger whether they were running towards the tent of their king or in the direction of their own camp. “Their own camp, madam,” she was told. Whereupon Bibi Masto ordered the battle-drums to be played at once. The sound of the victory drums further unnerved the Sharqi troops. Mahmood Sharqi returned to Jaunpur, but he invaded Dehli unsuccessfully again before he died. Bibi Raji crowned her favourite son Bhikan, Sultan Mohammed Shah. The Prince was probably born after a great deal of prayers and was given away as a token bhiksha to some fakir. But look what he did to his own family when he became king! He had a nasty temper and turned out to be an awful ruler. Bibi Raji was well versed in statecraft. Like the mothers of the Sultans of Turkey she also wielded enormous political power. She doted on her son, Mohammed Shah, and also feared him because of his despotism. When he had his brother, Prince Hasan assassinated, he told her, ‘Your remaining sons will also meet the same fate if you don’t stop interfering in my affairs, Mama.’
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