by Raza Rumi
Dara was a keen painter and architect, a skilled calligrapher and poet all rolled in one. The Dara Shikoh album is a collection of paintings and calligraphy which he commissioned in the 1630s as a present for his wife, Nadira Bano Begum, and compiled around 1641-42. After Nadira Bano’s death, the album was taken into the royal library and the inscriptions connecting it with Dara Shikoh were deliberately, but fortunately, not completely erased. One painting in the album, currently in London, is signed and dated by the artist, Muhammad Khan, AH 1043 (or circa CE 1633). One is glad it survived almost intact but it ought to be in Delhi, not London.
By the time I reach the artefacts in the archaeological museum, I am a little tired, not so much physically as psychologically. The two galleries display relics excavated from various sites in Delhi with a timeline as fascinating as the city—the Harappan era walking into the medieval age. The sculptures are interesting but poorly displayed.
Desperate, I finally find a mark of Dara and the sensation is both overawing and sad. I am informed that the room which houses the current library was probably used by Dara Shikoh as his study. I am not interested in the books; it is ironic that British rulers used this space for ‘official’ purposes (read divide and rule policy), the direct antithesis of what Dara had envisioned for India.
It is a humid morning and there is stillness. But I detect another kind of silence too, the one that has doggedly followed Dara for centuries and permeates the cacophonous noises of hatred and communal discord not just in India but across South Asia.
Dara’s love of learning can be traced to his great ancestor Babar. This was transferred to his daughter, Gulbadan and to Akbar the Great who, though illiterate, had a library that was unmatched in his era. Carrying the tradition forward, Dara represents the apex of shared learning. In line with many Sufis, he pondered on the possibility of Hindu religious icons being prophets of God as mentioned in the Quran17 and also on the innate divinity of Hindu scriptures. So, from Dara’s point of view, the Vedas and the philosophy of the Upanishads were in harmony with the Holy Quran.
The most well-known of Dara’s works is Majma-ul-Bahrain completed when he was forty-two years old. It was a pioneering effort to dig out the similarities between Sufism and certain strands of Hindu thought. He describes this treatise as ‘a collection of the truth and wisdom of two truth-knowing groups’.
From the veranda, I can see a group of saffron-clad yogis pass by. Dara had written that ‘mukti’ was closest to the Sufi pursuit of annihilation or ‘fana’ of the human self in God. Similarly, the Sufi concept of ‘ishq’ or love was in sync with ‘maya’ in Hindu terminology. ‘From love’, says Dara, ‘was born the “great soul”, alternately known as the soul of Mohammed to the Sufis and Mahatman or Hiranyagarba to the Hindus’.18
The ‘great secret’ of the Upanishads—the existence of a formless God—was close to the Quranic concept of tauheed. Dara’s earlier visits to Kashmir had introduced him to Mullah Shah, whom he referred to as ‘the tutor of tutors’. Under the deep guidance of this sage, he delved into ancient scriptures such as the Torah of the Jews, the Gospels of Jesus, the Psalms of David and ancient Hindu texts.
This library, now decrepit, must have played a part. Expansive rooms and inner chambers have altered history but Dara could not change its course. He, however, laid some foundations for a future that could be different from the past. If only his legacy was appreciated in full measure. I think of this impossibility of the possible and leave the grand room.
In 1657, Dara was appointed as Regent to look after the affairs of the Empire because of his father’s illness. But Emperor Shah Jahan’s illness became a cue for his sons to begin a war of succession. Aurangzeb quickly made a coalition with Murad and defeated Dara Shikoh at the famous Battle of Samogarh. Aurangzeb’s superior military campaign, intelligence networks and support from his sister, Roshanara, were the strengths that enabled him to capture the throne in 1658. He then imprisoned his father, Shah Jahan, in the fort at Agra where he died eight years later.
Dara, despite being a brave warrior, was not inclined by nature towards a martial life. Earlier, in 1639, 1642 and 1653, he had suffered defeat in expeditions against the Persians. His final defeat came in 1659 at the hands of Aurangzeb in Deorai (near Ajmer). Dara sought refuge in Dadar (in today’s Pakistan) but, sadly, his host, Malik Jiwan, betrayed him and handed him over to Aurangzeb’s officials. Aurangzeb humiliated Dara by parading him in disgrace through the streets of Delhi. Bernier,19 an eyewitness to the scene, wrote:
When the unhappy Prince was brought to the gates of Dehli, it became a question with Aureng-Zebe, whether… he should be made to pass through the capital… that he ought to be seen by the whole city; that it was necessary to strike the people with terror and astonishment, and to impress their minds with an idea of the absolute and irresistible power of Aureng-Zebe.
The hapless residents of Delhi, yet again marginal players in the power game, saw a drama unfold in front of their eyes:
… the wretched prisoner was therefore secured on an elephant; his young son, Sipah Shikoh, placed at his side, and behind them, instead of the executioner, was seated Bahadur Khan (one of the royal generals)… Dara was now seen seated on a miserable and worn-out animal, covered with filth; he no longer wore the necklace of large pearls which distinguish the princes of Hindoustan nor the rich turban and embroidered coat; he and his son were now habited in dirty cloth of the coarsest texture, and his sorry turban was wrapt round with a Kachemire (Kashmir) shawl or scarf, resembling that worn by the meanest of the people.
…The people had for some time inveighed bitterly against the unnatural conduct of Aureng-Zebe… The crowd assembled upon this disgraceful occasion was immense; and everywhere I observed people weeping and lamenting the fate of Dara in the most touching language… From every quarter I heard piercing and distressing shrieks, for the Indian people have a very tender heart… men, women and children wailing as if some mighty calamity had happened to themselves. Javan Khan rode near the wretched Dara; and the abusive and indignant cries vociferated as the traitor moved along were absolutely deafening. I observed some Fakires and several poor people throw stones at the infamous Pathan; but not a single movement was made, no one offered to draw his sword, with a view of delivering the beloved and compassionated Prince. When this disgraceful procession had passed through every part of Dehli, the poor prisoner was shut up in one of his own gardens…20
Dara had to die; there was no other choice for Aurangzeb. Dara Shikoh’s popular support was formidable and he would have been a constant threat. And, prodded by their sister Roshanara, who hated Dara, the decision was confirmed. Legitimacy was bought through a fatwa by the court Ulema who declared Dara to be a heretic punishable by death.
Nazir, a slave who had an axe to grind with Dara, was entrusted with the task of killing him. Anecdotes suggest that Dara’s head was sent to the emperor and also to his beloved sister, Jahanara, in Agra, who fainted at the sight. That head, which once dreamt of universal understanding and the seeking of truth, was tossed out as a war victory. His headless, wretched body was buried at Humayun’s tomb.
Several days later, I make my first trip to Humayun’s Tomb. A World Heritage Site and the architectural inspiration for the Taj Mahal, this tomb stands in Nizamuddin East bravely facing the winds of time. It is a monument that can make any city proud. The magnificence of the tomb strikes me the moment I enter via the two-storey gateway. Enclosed by high walls on three sides, the tomb is placed in the centre of a square garden. Intersected by watercourses and woven with gardens much like the Quranic ‘paradise’, the tomb is calm despite the chattering hordes of school children. Built by Hamida Begum, Humayun’s wife, this was yet another splendid edifice that Mughal rulers and nobles sought to erect in pursuit of an elusive immortality.
Unlike the Taj that radiates cheerfulness, Humayun’s Tomb is aglow with melancholy. Perhaps it reflects the tragic lives and deaths of Humayun and Dara Shikoh. A late
r king, Bahadur Shah II and Hamida Begum are also buried here. This was also the site where Bahadur Shah Zafar was captured nearly a century later and thousands of displaced Delhi Muslims took refuge in 1947.
The tomb, a complex of Mughal buildings, was aesthetically the first Mughal composition of its kind in India because Babar died too early and hardly built anything and Humayun was constantly in wars or exile. The Herat-based architect, Mirza Ghiyas, followed the Chahar Bagh (square garden) style of Persian architecture taking eight years to complete it.
The Aga Khan Trust for Culture has facilitated the conservation of Humayun’s tomb and this is what makes it probably the best preserved Mughal monument in Delhi. Better even than the Red Fort which has served as a symbol of statehood after 1947. The conservation work has allowed for the watercourses to be alive once again, the walkways to appear delightfully intricate and the marble domes to reflect sunlight.
The tomb and the surrounding causeways are magical. Cast in red sandstone, the mausoleum emerges from a seven-metre high square terrace raised over a series of cells which are accessible through arches on each side. The graves are in the centre of this complex. The tomb’s elevations are decorated with marble borders and panels. The classic marble perforated screens or jalis are found at both ends. The arched alcoves, corridors and the high double dome reflect the Persian touch while the kiosks on all sides, endowing it with a pyramidal outline from a distance, are quintessentially Indian.
The central hall is a bit uninspiring. Originally, it was adorned with tasteful furnishings. The English merchant, William Finch, visited the building in 1611 and described it thus:
…spread with rich carpets, the tomb itself covered with a pure white sheet, a rich semiane (coloured tent) overhead, and in front, certain bookes on small tressels by which stand his sword, tucke (turban) and shooes.
On the south-western side of the tomb is the interesting structure dedicated to Humayun’s barber, aptly called, Nai-ka-Gumbad (Barber’s Dome). It stands on a raised platform and is reached by seven steps from the south. The building is square in plan and comprises a single section covered with a double dome. Earlier, Mohammad Bin Tughlaq bestowed his barber with his own fort, Nai ka Kot or Barber’s Fort, near Adilabad. Delhi’s rulers had their lavish quirks!
South of the main pathway leading to Humayun’s Tomb is the pleasing gateway that leads to a walled enclosure called Arab-ki-Sarai. This was supposedly built by Humayun’s widow for the 300 Arab merchants she is said to have brought with her from a pilgrimage to Mecca. But another opinion holds that Arab-ki-Sarai might possibly have been an enclosure that housed Persian workers and craftsmen who were engaged in building Humayun’s Tomb. Within the eastern enclosure of the Arab-ki-Sarai is Afsarwala Tomb and Masjid. Further west on the main pathway is the gateway to the rather barren Bu Halima’s garden. Coloured tiles, traces of which still remain at the entrance facing Humayun’s Tomb, combined with the use of sandstone, both set in plaster, make it charming. Further south stands the octagonal tomb of Isa Khan, a nobleman in the court of Sher Shah. At the northeastern corner of Humayun’s tomb are the remains of the quarters used by Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya.
The Mughal Emperors who reigned after Humayun established a tradition of visiting this tomb. Akbar would visit it almost each time he was in Delhi and the tradition continued until the last king. The garden was a symbol of sovereignty while the tomb denoted the establishment of a dynasty and thus Humayun’s tomb had a profound metaphorical significance as well.21 It intersects between the two impulses of fortifying sovereignty and the continuation of a dynasty. With the creation of this tomb, the Mughals had established a statement which proclaimed their revival of Delhi and the Muslim Empire that frittered away under the later Sultans.
Interestingly, Humayun’s Tomb was a mixture of Islamic and Hindu elements. The use of marble merges with local sandstone, arches integrate with temple designs and astrological features woven into the architecture. The Mughals were possibly chiselling their knowledge from Hindu astrologers into stone.
Dara Shikoh, the most sophisticated representative of Mughal inclusiveness, is literally and symbolically buried here. Bahadur Shah Zafar’s capture by a British captain, leading to the former’s dethronement and the subsequent massacres of Mughal heirs started from this point—a moment that also encapsulated the formal end of the Mughal Empire.
8
Those Who Stayed
I
n October of 1650, Emperor Shah Jahan laid the foundation stone of what he wanted to be ‘the finest mosque in the world’, the Jama Masjid. Constructed under the supervision of the Persian architect Fazil-Mir-Saman, it was a masterly composition in symmetry and simplicity. An impressive range of cartographers, calligraphers, architects and workers (it is believed that over 5,000 workers toiled for six years) collaborated to create the splendid mosque.
Accompanied by a friend, I enter the mosque from the main gate (presently gate number 1) facing the Matia Mahal market and mount the magnificent red steps that culminate at the grand entrance. The basement wall, over nine metres high, is made of imposing red sandstone. Its delicately crafted domes, minarets, arches and pinnacles, like Lahore’s Shahi mosque, which was built a few decades later, beckon and converse with the visitor. The inlay work, symbolizing the toil of hundreds of artisans, day and night, is delicate. The roof, adorned with honeycomb carving and inlaid within the red sandstone, and the perching roof edges on the façade, enhanced further by small arches, symbolizes the orderliness of Islam.
I imbibe the grandeur of the main central hall—grand and echoing—shaded by a vaulted roof and supported by towering pillars and squinches. The central part of the ceiling is ornamented by typical geometrical designs of floral patterns in concentric circles. These patterns typify the multiple strands of Islamic art that evolved in Persia and Central Asia. There are allusions to the Bird of Paradise denoting the migratory nature of souls. Paradise is an artistic landscape, and also a celebration of good deeds done in the temporal world. Unlike other Mughal monuments, the decorations on the arches and minarets are simple and dignified, testifying to the essential simplicity of the Islamic mode of worship.
During the Mughal era, the Imam of Jama Masjid was an important imperial appointment. Syed Abdul Ghaffoor Bukhari was appointed as the first Imam-ul-Sultan.1 Over time, this institution became politicized and adopted an overtly conservative stance. Since Independence, the Imams have been a key ally of the Indian state whose patronage ensures a linear hereditary succession and a monopoly over Muslim discourse. Lording it over the ghetto whose inhabitants struggle for survival, these Imams want to be in the limelight, issuing fatwas on Muslim women’s status and their limits, and dictating the overall conduct of the Muslim population. The struggle to keep medievalism intact is palpably evident, serving thus to only reinforce the Muslim stereotype in popular media and contemporary mythologies.
On one of my visits, I wander into Urdu bookshops, looking for a pictorial autobiography of the Urdu author, Qurratulain Hyder. Behind me resounds the khutba or sermon emanating from the Jama Masjid. Forceful in tone, it articulates a regressive worldview and hardcore conservatism. That such stuff is being aired in secular India is remarkable in itself; it keeps the local population intoxicated with a fossilized vision of Islam. The Imam is making references to ‘non-believers’ as if lack of faith was the main reason for the poverty of the population of Old Delhi. His rabid proclamations are aired while customers casually stroll around the Urdu bazaar that has less bookshops than meat shops. The Urdu Bazaar is as threatened as the language itself, and has come to represent the ultimate stereotype of the illiterate, meat-obsessed Muslim.
Visiting the Jama Masjid is a must if one is in Delhi. The last time I was there with a friend, we dared to enter a little tea stall next to a series of chicken shops that was more a den of flies but promised good tea. The tea as it turned out was not all that bad.
A man sitting next to our table started up a convers
ation by asking me where I was from. His name was Abdul Ashraf and he was visiting from Gujarat to follow up on a court case. Obviously, this was most interesting—meeting up with a real victim of Modi’s Gujarat. So I prodded him to talk of the dislocation, of camps, and of the general state of affairs in Gujarat.
To my utter surprise and embarrassment, (maybe because I was with a Hindu friend), Abdul’s lack of coherence and his recourse to a religious theology while speaking about political or everyday life questions was shocking. Abdul quoted several sayings of Prophet Mohammad which promised ‘justice’ in the afterlife so that the suffering of the temporal world was somehow the ‘fate’ of pious Muslims. Our ‘pious’ Muslim, Abdul, had recently been fired from his factory job and his union had challenged the dismissal in the Supreme Court of India. So ‘justice’ was perhaps a reference to that and piety, a path leading to wish-fulfilment. I could make little sense of what he said despite the familiarity with theological references. However, Abdul did not mention Modi, communalism and the violence that may have jolted his life. After all, he was living in a big camp when I asked him about the riots.
Perhaps Abdul was too terrified to speak up? Or the violence and personal struggle for a livelihood had impaired his coherence? His inability to rationalize his plight in the context of modern India synchronized with the gems of the retrograde sermon being poured into the ears of ‘believers’ from the blaring loudspeakers of Jama Masjid.
Sixty years ago, just after Independence, a dejected and wounded Maulana Azad made an impassioned speech on the stairs of the Jama Masjid. He cried:
Think for one moment. What course have you adopted? Where have you reached and where do you stand now? Haven’t your senses become torpid? Aren’t you living in a constant state of fear? This fear is your own creation, a fruit of your own deeds.2