Warmth of the wet Indian summers began to wane as autumn made its onset at the ramparts of the Red Fort. The civil war of succession between the sons of emperor Shah Jahan had just ended in Alamgir’s favour. The hunt for Dara Shukoh and his loyalists was still on from the streets of the Chandni Chowk to the farthest corners of Hindustan. The Jama Masjid stood in silence witnessing the gruesome conflict for the peacock throne. A morning of a new sun had arisen on the shores of Mughal India.

This was the year of 1660.

Aurangzeb, now the emperor of Hindustan, was returning from Jama masjid after attending the Friday prayers when he saw the naked Sarmad, mentor of Dara Shukoh, lying in a state of ecstasy (majnun) on its stairs. He abused Sarmad’s unholy presence defiling his pure mind of prayer and ordered him to cover himself with a blanket lying nearby. Sarmad asked him to pass the blanket to him. He picked it up.

The legend holds that to his horror, Aurangzeb saw the severed heads of all his siblings and relations killed during the civil war lying beneath the blanket, with fresh blood flowing from them. Aurangzeb never saw eye to eye with Sarmad from that day onwards.

Serai Of Serendipities

The markets of central Delhi have been abuzz with exchange of ideas, symbols, goods, and serendipity for quite a long time in Indian history. The narrow lanes of Chandni Chowk have been run down with a constant carnival of the foreign and exotic that the element of surprise itself here has acquired its own distinct shade of sepia-tainted antiquity.

The premise behind my wandering in these narrow labyrinths of Delhi was to soak myself in its urban antiquity and cure myself of an ache of a different dimension: to make myself at ease again with writing poetry despite the plethora of inspiration clogging within my head.

So many wanderers, mystics, and adventurers must have roamed across the same streets of Delhi in pursuit of giving a meaning to a journey that was supposedly going nowhere. Yet, when they did make something out of peregrination of finding purpose, the city that was supposed to be a serai in the journey became a home to their newfound meaning.

The social geography of Delhi underwent roughly seven epochs of urbanisation under the reign of various dynasties, from the Pandavas to the British. The contours of such transition were, however, shaped by these serendipitous settlements of these enlightened strangers who continued to shape the dynamics of culture and its symbolic forms through their interaction with the common folk and people of prestige alike.

I heard a faint humdrum of collective voices a few lanes away from me as I sat beside the qibla of Jama masjid to take respite from Indian summers. I did not need to see to confirm that it was a prayer in session. Albeit of a different kind.

Before I knew it I was staring at the flamboyant red dargah of shaheed Sarmad with a colourful commotion of voices and people around it. Rehman, a nearby shopkeeper, just took it as his cue and came to offer me a chance to look at his worn-down collection of translated rubaiyats of the man of the ungodly hour.

The Singer of Half Shahada1

Warm evening of a waning loo on the streets of Delhi. People have flocked together to watch the spectacle at the city square with fingers between their teeth. After issuing several farmans to comply with the religious diktat but to no avail, emperor Aurangzeb had finally ordered a man’s execution right in public display. A council of qazis stood in stern disgust as one fakir, completely naked, walked briskly towards his own executioner.

For the final time, the qazis asked him to finish reciting the Shahada with the promise of obtaining amnesty from the imperial court. An uncomfortable silence ensued for some time before the fakir uttered: La Ilaha.

An incomplete phrase of the verse La Ilaha Il Allah, meaning there is no god except Allah. This is the verse of Shahada which is a fundamental oath of every Muslim towards practicing Islam. The wrath of maulanas came with complete fury on the destitute fakir. They asked him why he couldn’t just finish it and let go of the matter itself.

The fakir replied,

“As of now I haven’t yet found mercy of his existence in my soul, so I sing the half shahada. The day I’ll find him, you won’t need to do any of this. For in the name of God it is good to live with one’s conscience rather than to lie and live in denial.”

Maulanas gave the go-ahead to his execution, one swift blow decapitating Sarmad’s head with immediate effect.

There are several iterations of what happened ahead in the poems, lore, and memories of people that continue to live around Jama Masjid to this day. One prominent version is that Sarmad’s head continued to finish the shahada as the body was carried on the steps of the Jama Masjid before being buried in the flamboyant red dargah not very far from there.

This was the year of 1661, two years after the conclusion of the great war of succession for the peacock throne.

The Struggle For The Throne

In 1659, prince Alamgir moved decisively against the crown prince Dara Shukoh in the imperial capital of Shahjanabad and proclaimed himself the next emperor of Hindustan. His military genius and the politics of court aside, Alamgir’s victory represented another undercurrent brewing within the Islamic thought in India: the question of maintaining orthodox Islamic sanctity in the face of rising syncretic figures and cross-culturalism in India. Projecting himself to be a champion of Islamic orthodoxy, Alamgir pitted his war of succession against his brothers and most importantly, against Dara Shukoh as the necessary jihad to put the house of Islam once again in order.

Several influential members of ulema in Delhi, Lahore, and Agra thus helped Alamgir in this holy war against his father Shah Jahan and Dara Shukoh. In the aftermath of it as the next emperor, Alamgir went as far as inviting some of the most prominent Islamic scholars of the Muslim world to Delhi to augment the compilation of the ideal text to run, maintain, and govern an Islamic state in Hindustan, the Fatawa-Al-Alamgiriyyah.

In the first session of this vast council of maulanas, prince Alamgir who had now become emperor Aurangzeb, proclaimed total death to the enemies of the faith, apostates, and spiritual imposters who polluted the minds of simple Muslims like that naked fakir who poisoned the mind of prince Dara2.

He was referring to Sarmad Kashani.

The Great Trial

One of the gravest allegations against Sarmad made by the clergy and the royal throne was spreading ideas of apostasy in the name of free thought among the royalty and subjects alike. The most prominent victim of his influence was pointed out to be the erstwhile crown prince Dara Shukoh, a royal in favour of free speech and sidelining of shariah in order to augment a new age of thought in Hindustan.

Most importantly, Sarmad was a poster boy of a profligate lifestyle which received royal patronage at the cost of hurting the modesty of religious orthodoxy, a phenomenon which Aurangzeb had considered his mission to wipe off from Hindustan.

Sarmad’s association with Dara served another purpose for Aurangzeb. The long-drawn war of succession which had taken a toll on the royal treasury and upended political relationships with different political houses needed a sound justification to ensure legitimacy of the reign. It was also well-known that Aurangzeb had made a move against his father and emperor Shah Jahan, whose consent as the previous reign was necessary to ensure legitimacy of his rule.

This required on Aurangzeb’s part a deliberate attempt to stain his brother’s legacy in order to gain political sympathy for his regime so that he could acquire much-needed legitimacy. He managed to stain his brother’s image for posterity. The Alamgir-Nama’s portrayal of Dara Shukoh as a power-hungry, scheming infidel bent on destroying his brothers and Islam in India became quite influential.

Bakhtawar Khan’s Mirat-i Jahan Numa reiterates Alamgir Nama’s phrasing while discussing Dara Shukoh. The widely read Khulasat-al-Tawarikh attributed to Sujan Rai Bhandari, a Khatri munshi in Aurangzeb’s service, is more favourable to Alamgir than Dara Shukoh. Khafi Khan’s Muntakhab-ul-Lubab on Dara, takes a similar line. The one near-contemporary source to connect Dara and Sarmad is Sher Khan Lodi’s Mirat-ul-Khayal, which observes that Dara preferred the company of mendicants, madmen and lovers and therefore drew Sarmad into his circle.

Sarmad of Kashan

Very little is known of Sarmad’s early life from historical sources. From Sarmad’s correspondence with various historical figures much later in life we learn about his Jewish faith of birth and Armenian ancestry.

Situated in the northern part of Isfahan province, Kashan is one of the oldest cities of Iran. It has been a gateway to the central Iranian deserts for several centuries. The city, especially under the Safavids, gained prestige and became one of its favored summer retreats, and a favorite of Shah Abbas I in particular. With almost eight thousand years of human settlement and a long history of commerce, Kashan became home to prominent native merchants engaged in the pan-Eurasian silk route trade, where they built the now-famed trading-cum-residency houses deeply aligned with traditional Persian values.

Sarmad’s Jewish fraternity must have emigrated from Baghdad to Kashan for fairly long by the time of Shah Abbas’s coronation, for they enjoyed access to the imperial court via special farmans and expended large sums for building public spaces and philanthropy in the city.

Thus, born into a life of relative wealth and privilege to a family of Persian-speaking Armenian Jews, Sarmad was fluent in Armenian, Persian, Hebrew and Arabic. He was formally trained in the traditional Jewish synagogue education where he went on to acquire the status of a Rabbi, a religious figure and a teacher of the Jewish law.

A Restless Rabbi

Sarmad’s life was one of interesting contrasts: He lived in a fairly cosmopolitan setting with access to people of influence and repute yet, his wanderings in the city often led him to mingle with the myriad classes of people rich and poor alike who frequented the city in pursuit of trade and opportunities. His exposure to such varied perspectives of humanity expanded his intellectual canvas but never truly came in conflict with his core education in the customs of Bene Israel, a code of ancient practices of the Talmud, a school of Jewish mysticism.

As Mir Dulfikar Ardestani would later account in his towering work on comparative religions Dabistan-i-Mazahib, “despite swornly forsaking Judaism for accepting the ways of Islam, the naked Qalandar (Sarmad) would cite the ancient Talmudic ways of Judaism as a justification of his outrageous ways of life.”

‘According to the Jews’, said Sarmad, ‘God is a material substance and the human body is a symbol of His materiality.’ Such a man, reflected Alamgir, had been a great friend and spiritual advisor of his brother.

Sarmad’s wandering among the rich and the wretched, and his own spiritual meanderings produced ideas which mainly got channelised in his two intellectual pursuits. First was his tendency to compare and draw parallels between his Jewish faith and other philosophies, a spectrum of ideas from Judaism, Islam, and Hinduism, and use it to compose poetry in Persian inspired by the meters of Omar Khayyam. The second was his attempts to translate major Jewish scriptures such as Torah into Persian.

Shiraz And The Sufi Light

The pursuit of trade and mysticism took Sarmad across the cities of the Iranian renaissance where he finally met Mullah Sadra in Shiraz and was surprised to know that the great thinker was already aware of few of his works. The conversations between Mullah Sadra and Sarmad were later recorded by Ardestani in Dabistan, the eventuality of which was Sarmad’s initiation into the Ishraqi school under Mullah Sadra and his conversion to Islam.

The cities of Shiraz, Isfahan, and Kashan housed some of the most prominent spiritual thinkers and cultural movements of its time, the compounding of whose influence would usher in a new golden age of thought in the country.

Iran during this period was arguably witnessing one of the deepest cultural renaissances in its history.

The era was marked by the works of Mullah Sadra, a Shi’ite alim considered one of the chief figures of Iran’s cultural renaissance in the 17th century. Contemporary scholars on eastern philosophy like Oliver Leaman have considered Sadrian philosophy to be the single-most important development in Islamic thought in the past four hundred years.

For several years, Sarmad accompanied Sadra and Mir Findiriski across cities and learned the ways of transcendent theosophy or the Al-Hikma, which he found to have several parallels with monastic ideas of Vedanta in Hindu thought and the Talmud from Judaism. A true outcast from everywhere, it is possible that he faced an exile from his community due to which he might not have married, although his trading activities continued unabated.

A young Shia convert, Sarmad was not very particular with the diktats of the Islamic clergy. His first brush with authorities came over his continuation of his translation of Torah into Persian even after his conversion to Islam, which later on became more problematic as Mullah Sadra’s safe haven for him ended due to his passing away, and his outright critical opinions of the Islamic clergy becoming sharper.

Prolonging of his woes with ulema and a general plateauing of his spiritual journey in Kashan produced in him a desire to go beyond and see more. The right opportunity came for him in the lucrative trade of high art and precious stones in Hindustan from Kashan in the light of conflict in Qandahar between the Mughals and Safavids. Sarmad didn’t waste any more time in making a move.

Evening at Sindh

Sarmad reached the shores of Sindh with his goods where soon with his guild he began to establish himself in the capital city of Thatta. Due to good understanding of Shiite customs and a command over Persian language, Sarmad made inroads into the ways of the trade and got introduced to the world of Qalandars, Mazaris, Bhakts, and Yogis in the city. Most of his guild’s trade was directed towards the Shiite sultanates of Deccan where through correspondence his reputation as a sound trader of quality goods began to get cemented. India was truly a new world for Sarmad in a sense where steep idolatry existed within the underbelly of the orthodoxy of Islamic rule.

It was in this town of Thatta where he received another epithet of ‘Shah’, due to his fondness for the company of mystics and his deep intellect. It was in one of such chance meetings with a group of Yogis where his desire to see idolatry in person prompted him into wandering around a Hindu settlement one evening.

A strange voice in the service of the presiding deity of a local temple captivated Sarmad’s attention, which he later recalled in his poems, ‘an angelic call of a divine union.’

Nothing remained the same for Shah Sarmad after that evening.

The Boy Who Sang to Vishnu

What Sarmad heard was an aarti at the local temple, where a boy named Abhai Chand sang aartis and other devotional hymns dedicated to Bhagwan Vishnu every evening. Sarmad didn’t waste any time in finding Abhai and confessing his love towards him. Although Sarmad’s fame as a foreigner of intellectual repute had reached the ears of the local populace by then, a confession of such kind was still a horrifying shock for the boy as well as his family. Sarmad would dejectedly follow the trails of Abhai to the temple every evening and listen to his soothing voice of singing bhajans in the praise of Bhagwan Vishnu. In desperation born out of his evergrowing attachment for the boy, Sarmad reached his home and asked his father for his hand in union. Horrified at the proposal, Abhai’s father threatened Sarmad of dire consequences if he raised alarm with the authorities for apostasy and homosexuality and asked him to leave Abhai alone.

Sarmad never returned to his accommodation in Thatta. The sudden disappearance of Sarmad caused problems for his associates in trade as well as concern for those who’ve come to appreciate his outlook. The search parties that went in his search found him in a state of what Sarmad himself would refer to as divine intoxication.

Completely naked, matted hair and overgrown nails, lying at the porch in front of Abhai’s house. Only seeking a glimpse of Abhai’s presence.

The Sarmad of Kashan had become a Qalandar for a boy!

The news spread like a wildfire in the city, with everyone discussing the affair. Eventually people began to flock to Abhai’s home to catch a glimpse of the Qalandar, maybe ask a few questions. Among those who came to talk to Sarmad one day were a few faces which seemed familiar to him. Abhai’s father accompanied him and came to talk to him and enquire about his intentions. The resultant conversation could be best summed up with this rubai by Sarmad which he dedicated to his protege and his love of life, a young boy who sung bhajans at the temple every evening.

According to Dabistan, just like a sanyasi, Sarmad shed his clothes, and remained naked as the day his mother bore him. In this state of naked patience he once waited at his beloved’s door. When Abhai’s father finally realised the purity of Sarmad’s love, he let him in.

So moved was his father with Sarmad that he himself gave Abhai’s hand in union to him, blessing both of them for a sound spiritual journey, together.

Sojourns in Hindustan

Sarmad and Abhai eventually left Thatta to travel inwards into Hindustan, in pursuit of Sarmad’s trade and search for meaning. Very few accounts prevail of their journey, yet it is highly likely that they must’ve wandered in the vicinity of Sindh, in Multan and Punjab for quite some time. Sarmad used to frequent Lahore as attested by his pending accounts of trade mentioned in Dabistan.

In the attainment of his union Sarmad became so intoxicated that he could never wear any cloth or veneer of pretensions anymore. Abhai reciprocated Sarmad’s ardor and the two became inseparable.

Later in conversation with Dabistan’s author at Hyderabad, Sarmad would justify his actions by saying that the Bani Israel did not consider it necessary to clothe the private parts, and that indeed the prophet Isaiah too roamed naked in his final years. Isaiah was an early prophet in the Abrahamic faiths, author of the book of Isaiah which according to the Islamic tradition prophesies the arrival of Jesus and Mohammad.

The duo made their way across India, during which they translated Torah along with Old and New Testament into Persian, before heading towards Deccan. Sarmad had developed his fair share of repute and connections in Deccan, where he finally seemed to secure patronage from Shaikh Mohammad Khan, a senior noble attached to the Qutubshahi ruler of Golconda. Here Sarmad wrote poetry in Khan’s praise, which received acclaim in the court and gained attention of Dulfikar Ardestani, the claimed author of the Dabistan-i-Mazahib as mentioned before.

A Jew at Golconda

Curious to meet a Jew in person for the first time, Dulfikar writes about Sarmad’s superficial conversion to Islam as in his own poems he warns Jews against converting themselves. Sarmad also reveals about the source of his knowledge of Indian philosophies to be the teachings of Mir Findiriski, a close associate of Mullah Sadra who himself had travelled to India several times and interacted with thinkers here.

Sarmad seemed to develop fame for producing short-styled poetry too in Hyderabad at this time, short couplets in the style of Omar Khayyam in which he gave predictions using his mystic abilities. One such poem predicting his patron Shaikh Mohammad’s death on the way to pilgrimage in Mecca came true, which further spread his fame far and wide.

The paradox of his prophecy coming true was immense fame in the region yet the loss of his liberal patron. The time spent at the Qutubshahi court introduced Sarmad to myriad ideas of theosophy through the works of Ibrahim Adil Ali Shah, as well as oral compendiums of Sanskrit poetry and devotional hymns for various Hindu gods composed in the regional languages.

Sarmad along with Abhai spent considerable time in learning, discussing, conversing and debating various spiritual ideas among themselves and with other minds of similar inclination.

It is at this juncture that Sarmad let go of all his worldly possessions and became a faqir of true sorts. The duo of a naked faqir with a boy of dazzling beauty gradually spread through various capitals of India, often through the riveting couplets composed by Sarmad at this time where he enmeshed his affection for Abhai with the state of divine intoxication he was constantly in.

An interesting point to note about Sarmad’s journey is the absence of a spiritual mentor or a sheikh in his life altogether. Although he studied extensively under Mullah Sadra and others, his Sufi metaphysics came to take shape from his own enquiries into the spiritual matters. Based on these realities and his infatuating devotion to Abhai Chand, many scholars have pointed out the possibility of Sarmad turning into a Hindu during his travels in Deccan.

Substantial Hindu influence on his poetry could be seen from here, which remained earlier only passive remarks:

A Bridge to Dara

Many parts of his journeys in India are untraceable and one can only make assumptions about his stopovers before finally settling down in Delhi. One primary source of tracing it could be the correspondences as well as written reception on his poetry recorded in various cities. Even though it is unclear exactly when he visited Lahore from Deccan, one prominent nisba is registered in his name in the ‘Great Anthology of the Poets of Punjab’, Tazkira Shu‘arā’-i Punjab. Nisba is a brief sketch of a poet’s life and times attached with his poetry to give more factual context for the audience, for an immersive literary experience.

Here is what his nisba in Tazkira says about Sarmad’s relation with prince Dara:

“Despite that fact that he was a sultan and a son of a sultan, Dara studied the ‘irfān. He kept friendship with Sa‘id Sarmad and had a genuine liking and friendship with Mulla Shah Badakhshani.”

Mollah Shah Badakhshani was the spiritual head of the Qadiriyyah Silsila and was a successor to Mian Mir, one of the greatest figures in Indian Sufism. It is quite likely that Badakhshani introduced Sarmad to Dara as both of them were fellow disciples of Mian Mir.

Arriving at ‘New’ Shahjanabad

Francois Bernier notes in his ‘Voyages’ of a naked fakir who flaunted his profligate lifestyle on the streets of Delhi completely unfazed by the wrath of authorities. It is unclear when exactly he arrived in Delhi. Yet, in a very short spiral of time he gained fame as the Majzub who roamed around the staircases of Jama Masjid, often brushing with the wrong shoulders in discussing and debating religious matters before and after the times of namaz.

This was a time of relative peace for the empire, where it sought to recoup its huge expenditures incurred in massive campaigns in Qandahar, Deccan and elsewhere. Prince Dara had returned from the Qandahar campaign, dejected and lost from the heavy losses.

Prince Dara was always accompanied in his spiritual endeavours by his elder sister Jahan Ara Begum, who eventually took the role of first lady in the imperial court as emperor Shah Jahan dawned into old age. As the crown prince with many responsibilities delegated in the hands of his sister, Dara began to dedicate his energy towards fulfilment of his great spiritual vision of compiling a vast compendium of spiritual thought from all world religions.

The vision of Din-i-Ilahi or ‘divine religion’, as manifested by his predecessor emperor Akbar had captured Dara’s imagination since his childhood. These universalist tendencies in Dara’s spiritual thought predictably turned him towards Al-Hikma of Mullah Sadra as well as the Vedanta from the influence of figures such as Baba Lal Das.

Dara made an exceptional decision of getting initiated into Qadri school under Mian Mir rather than the order of Chistis traditionally followed by his lineage. This decision was later considered by the faction of Alamgir as one key development in growing infidelity within Dara, as Chistis were staunch opponents of Shirk being accepted in the name of syncretism.

The Mingling of Oceans

Sarmad likely came to Dara’s attention initially as a credible source of Jewish mysticism as well as Al-Hikma due to his past with Mullah Sadra. Along with Father Bussé, Sarmad became a key teacher/source for Dara in understanding the precepts of Old and New Testament, as well as the metaphysics of Bani Israel. It was later during Dara’s sojourns in Lahore with Mian Mir and Badakhshani that he came across the Rubaiyats of Sarmad, and had hearty conversations with him on his couplets in Lahore and Delhi.

What began as an endeavour to learn Jewish mysticism soon blossomed into a close friendship, with Sarmad and Abhai becoming frequent visitors in the royal palace.

This was a time when Dara was seeking to recreate Akbar’s Ibadatkhana albeit on a much larger scale. Prince Dara with the help from his siblings Shah Shuja, Jahan Ara and approval from his father began redeveloping central Delhi with public spaces for spiritual dialogue as well as providing permanent residencies to the voices who contributed in it. Sarmad and Abhai were allotted a modest home on the banks of Yamuna during this time, and subsequently they became regular contributors in the council working for compilation of the Majma-ul-Bahrain or Samudrasangam, a towering work on world spirituality rising above sectarian and religious differences and comprising perspectives of almost all major world religions, an intellectual feat hitherto unheard of in world history.

Niccolao Manucci in his book writes:

“Dara held to no religion, when with Mahommedans, he praised the tenets of Muhammad, when with Jews, the Jewish religion; in the same way, when with Hindus he praised Hinduism. This is why Aurungzebe styled him a kafir (infidel). At the same time, he had great delight in talking to the Jesuit fathers on religion, and making them dispute with his learned Mahommedans, or with Cermad [Sarmad], an atheist much liked by the prince. This man always went naked, except when he appeared in the presence of the prince when he contented himself with a piece of cloth at his waist.”

Sarmad became a key figure in helping Dara develop his metaphysics of universalist monism, for which he remained ever thankful and indebted to him.

As for Sarmad, he proclaimed Dara to be the true reign of Hindustan in ‘both the worlds, here and there’, and went on to give prophesy of his victory in the war of succession against Alamgir.

The Fiery Aftermath

There were several incidents between Sarmad and Aurangzeb in the aftermath of the latter’s succession. Being aware of Sarmad’s earlier prophecy of Dara’s victory, Aurangzeb left no opportunity to hurl cruel derision so as to demoralize him into leaving Delhi altogether.

Prince Dara’s beheading and a parade of his severed head across the streets of Delhi prompted Sarmad to truly leave all aspects of pretension against the orthodoxy and he began to romanticize the very idea of martyrdom for a higher truth.

A series of tragedies had knocked the doors of poor Sarmad by this time. Aurangzeb had unleashed his wrath on the sympathisers of Dara both in matters of power and spirit, whose primary brunt was borne by the followers of the Qadiri silsila and other spiritual minds which came to make Delhi their home under his tutelage.

When Abhai Vanished

Now reaching a ripe age of seventy, Sarmad might’ve considered moving out of Delhi, perhaps to Lahore to spend rest of his days in company of Mian Mir and Mohammad Badakhshani, the Qadri Sufis who were now destined to live a life of house arrest under the orders of Aurangzeb.

Before he could make a decision, his separation from Abhai Chand took the last ounce of sense from his mind and Sarmad began to live a life of majnun, or divinely intoxicated, at the stairs of Jama Masjid.

Some say he died, others claim he fled. Abhai vanished from Delhi like he never existed.

Angels. Shaitan. Bhagwan Ram and Rishi Vashishtha. Abhai Chand. These were some of the figures who began to pay him a visit in his dreams and began conversing with him, after which Sarmad would ‘wake up’ and proclaim the kind of ecstatic speech which prince Dara would surely have recorded in his works of intimate theosophy such as Hasanat-ul-Arifin, had he been alive. It was Dara’s intimate journal of spiritual utterances for personal reference humbly titled, ‘the aphorisms of the knowers of God.’

Sarmad was soon summoned to the imperial court where the charges of apostasy were read out against him in front of the Emperor, by scholars and religious leaders. When Aurangzeb taunted him with his prediction of Dara attaining the crown, Sarmad replied that he had attained the crown of the eternal kingdom.

The religious scholars were consulted since being naked in itself was not a reason for death and he was asked to recite the shahada. Sarmad responded with ‘La Ilaha’; There is no God.

Blossom of a Serai

A young poet of Urdu after an enamouring Mushaira in Agra was asked about the inspiration behind his writing. Ghalib took his sweet time to narrate the ordeals of Sarmad in Delhi for another hour.

Shortly after independence, as India’s first education minister, Maulana Abul Kalam Azad referred to shaheed Sarmad’s universalism as one elixir to soothe the wounds of partition and heal the young nation with compassion.

Long sojourns in search of love and meaning. Ecstasy of the spirit blurring bounds of love. Locking horns frequently with the Maulanas and Qazis. Penchant for a romantic death. Exquisite poetry.

Such attributes are attached to Mansur Al-Hallaj of Baghdad, one of the greatest sufis considered to exist in the annals of Islam. He was famously executed in the caliphate of the ninth-century for voicing himself in his proclamation Ana’l Haqq, or simply ‘I am the Truth’.

For some a sign of his annihilation of ego; for others an act of apostasy. Both Hallaj and Sarmad became influential figures in theosophical thought. Communicating ideas through poetry, posthumously. Hallaj’s Anal Haqq became key in the development of the system of ecstatical utterances or the shatiyat, a feature of classical Sufism born in the Islamic golden age. Sarmad became a bridge for the commingling of the oceans of religions, the samudrasangam.

One was crucified for Anal Haqq; the other, for La Ilaha.

Several poets, mystics, lovers have brought out the parallels between Sarmad and Mansur Al-Hallaj, and their eulogies gave rise to another title on Sarmad, Hallaj-al-Thani or Mansur-i-Sani, the ‘second Hallaj’; a majnun who let all sense flow out of him in spiritual ecstasy and sought execution in place of compromise.

In the Company of Lovers

It was in the summer of 2020 when I first ended up wandering around the crimson-red dargah of shaheed Sarmad in the hopes of curing my own drought of articulating the volley of several inarticulate thoughts plaguing my head. From Rehman’s torn copy of Sarmad’s rubaiyat, I have progressed to tracing down several of his couplets over the course of the past few years.

I will share here one rudimentary attempt of mine to hop in the company of all those lovers and poets across times who counted Sarmad as an inspiration.

Aditya Raj Sinha is an independent writer, poet, and entrepreneur based in New Delhi. He has worked in screenwriting and research, and has served as a creative voice behind several visual projects catering to digital audiences. His interests include the intersection of religion, philosophy, and history in shaping cultural narratives.

Further Readings

• Dabistan-i-Mazahib, various authors

• Shaheed Sarmad, Maulana Abul Kalam Azad

• Rubaiyat-e-Sarmad, translated by Syeda Saiyidain Hameed

• Sarmad: Life and Death of a Sufi, Natalia Prigarina

• The Emperor who never was: Dara Shukoh in Mughal India, Supriya Gandhi

• Dara Shukoh: The man who would be King, Avik Chanda

• Aurangzeb and his times, Zahiruddin Faruki

• Dara Shukoh, Kalika Ranjan Qanungo

• Travels in the Mogul empire, Francois Bernier

• A Venetian at the Mughal Court: The life and adventures of Niccolo Manucci, translated by Elisabetta Gnecchi Ruscone

• Mirat-ul-khayal, Sherkhan Lodhi

• Riaz-ul-Shua’ra, Ali Quli Valeh Daghistani

• A History of the Sikhs: Volume I, Khushwant Singh

The year was 1731. She tried to shriek, but the sound died within her, trapped in a body that no longer obeyed her will. She felt that her own body had become a prison, an unfathomable whirlpool, where her soul was entrapped, slowly giving way to the commands of the universe.

No cry could pierce the thick walls of the palace and reach the world beyond her own fractured consciousness. The illness had claimed her completely. Each passing minute was getting tougher. She felt the stone walls of the royal chamber closing in, as though the palace itself sought to swallow her whole. She pondered the irony of her situation. The same palace that had once been a living dream for her, every day of which she had cherished, had now become worse than any gaol (Jail) in hell.

Feeble and weak beyond recognition, she lay there, a shadow of the woman she had been in all her forty years. As she waited for death to swallow her whole, her mind went back to the time when she was a dancer, and to the day when she met Swargadeo (a title meaning “Lord of the Heavens” adopted by Ahom monarchs) Shiva Singha, the day when he made her the Chief queen and the day of her coronation.

What a spectacle it was to behold! The air in the Rang Ghar (the royal sports and cultural pavilion of the Ahom kings) grew thick with incense and expectation. She walked in all her majesty, draped in a white silk Sador Mekhela (traditional two-piece attire worn by Assamese women), bordered with intricate motifs of gold. She looked nothing less than the Goddess after whom she would fashion her own name: Pramateswari – for she was considered as fierce and powerful as Durga herself.

She could still feel the weight of the Sador (the upper garment) embroidered with pure gold, and the heavy gold ornaments against her neck. The nobles, attendants and subjects all bowed before the new Queen: Bar Raja Phuleswari.

Phulmati And The Dance Of The Divine

Phuleswari, also known as Phulmati, was born in the Nat caste of dancers and is referred to as one of the Natis or temple dancers, similar to the Devadasis (women historically dedicated to the lifelong service, worship, and artistic traditions of a temple deity). She used to dance in a temple dedicated to Lord Shiva. Life was tough, and rewards were few, but she was a fighter.

She was considered to be the most beautiful woman in her community. They used to say that even the Gods would be captivated by her charm. Mortals and Gods alike, they would say, would be spellbound by the power in her eyes and the effortless grace of her every movement, as she danced and swirled.

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It was a full moon night. She was dressed in yellow, her youthful body bejewelled in heavy gold ornaments, each piece intricately carved with patterns of vines and lotuses that caught the moonlight and flashed with every breath she took. Beads of sweat gathered along her slender neck and shone with a pure white brilliance that made them look like a living garland of pearls. With deep reverence she prostrated fully before the Lord, her forehead and palms pressed to the cool stone floor; then she rose only far enough to bow once more and touch the earth in the sacred Bhumi Pranama. And then began the dance of the Divine.

The beats of the Dhol and Nagara, coupled with her impeccable dance moves, created an ambience of divine exhilaration. Each soul who witnessed it fell into a trance. It was otherworldly, beyond comprehension.

Among those mesmerised by Phuleswari’s grace was the Ahom Swargadeo, Shiva Singha himself.

Shiva Singha, eldest son of Swargadeo Rudra Singha, ascended the Ahom throne after the death of his father in 1714. He devoted great energy to the spread of the Devi tradition, elevating the worship of the Goddess to a central place in the spiritual life of the kingdom. Under the guidance of Parbatiya Gosain, the chief priest who established a lasting lineage of Shakta worship in Assam, the young king immersed himself in the rituals and philosophies of the Shakta path.

Shiva Singha’s reign would, however, be remembered for more than religious fervour. In a move without precedent in the history of Ahom sovereignty, he transferred the absolute authority of governance into the hands of his queens. This extraordinary shift began in 1722 with the meteoric rise of Phuleswari, whose beauty, intelligence, and spiritual presence had already captured the Swargadeo’s imagination and would soon reshape the very nature of power in the kingdom.

While Phuleswari was performing her dance before Lord Shiva, Shiva Singha was seated on a throne adorned with lion motifs at the end of each armrest. He was invited there by the chief priest of the temple. He was spellbound by the dance, and by the dancer. A month later, they got married.

The Rise Of The Queen: Pramateswari

A few years after his marriage to Phuleswari, the royal astrologer of King Shiva Singha predicted that the king had Chattra Bhanga Yoga (literally, the breaking of the ‘Royal Umbrella’, symbolising the loss of royal throne) which would afflict the king if he continued to rule. This astrological combination was considered highly inauspicious. In traditional Indian political symbolism, the chhatra (royal umbrella) represented the king’s sovereignty, authority, and the very legitimacy of his rule. The predicted “breaking” was interpreted as a sign that the king would lose his throne, the kingdom would face ruin, and the great Ahom lineage itself might disappear without a trace. But the situation could be reversed if the king transferred the ruling authority to someone else. The king, apprehensive, transferred the reins of government to his chief consort, Phuleswari.

This transfer of power elevated Phuleswari to the status of the Chief queen with real authority. Under the strong influence of the Shakta Brahmin Parbatiya Gosain, Krishnaram Bhattacharya, she used her authority to promote Shaktism aggressively as the preferred tradition of the state.

Phuleswari’s aggressive propagation of Shaktism over the then-prevalent Shankara Vaishnavism (also known as the Ekasharan Namadharma tradition) that had gained prominence in the region, especially among the people belonging to the lower rungs of society because of Shrimanta Shankardeva’s preaching of an egalitarian social order, deepened the schism between the faith of the ruler (which was Shaktism or the worship of the Goddess) and that of a considerable section of the subjects (which was essentially centred around the worship of Krishna as an avatar of Vishnu).

A Tilak Of Blood

Phuleswari’s strong patronage of Shaktism placed her in direct opposition to the deep roots of Vaishnavism in the state. While the persecution of Vaishnava Gosains started from the time of Gadadhar Singha (1681–96), Phuleswari took a more aggressive approach and promoted the Shakti way of faith, centring around the Goddess.

The queen came under the influence of the Parbatiya Gosain, Krishnaram Bhattacharya, under whose guidance, she became a staunch Shakta Panthi.1 She started organising grand Pujas dedicated to the worship of Goddess Durga. It was at one of these Pujas in Rangpur that among the invitees, the Vaishnava Mahantas – including the head of the Mayamara Satra (Vaishnavite monasteries and socio-cultural centres in Assam central to the Ekasharan tradition), Chaturbhujdeva – were forced to bow before the Goddess, accept Prasad and wear Tilak from the blood of animals sacrificed during the Puja. This greatly hurt the sentiments of the already persecuted Vaishnava Mahantas.2

Later, in 1769, Ragha Moran and Naharkhora Saikia (key leaders of the Moran community) had to bear the brunt of the Ahom might. They were insulted, flogged, and paraded on the pretext of non-supply of war elephants. This was the immediate cause of the Moamaria rebellion. The faith of the Morans and Mataks (ethnic communities of Upper Assam) in the Ahom monarchy was long abraded due to the excesses imposed on them under the Paik system, which was aggravated by the religious persecution they were subjected to, as most of them were followers of one of the many orders (Sanghatis) that had mushroomed after the death of Shankardeva. The Paik system was a compulsory corvée labour and conscription system that formed the economic and military backbone of the Ahom kingdom.

Morans and Mataks were closely related socio-religious groups primarily inhabiting the eastern parts of Upper Assam, especially the forested and riverine tracts of present-day Tinsukia, Dibrugarh, and adjoining areas. They also constituted a good part of the peasantry, which, in turn, formed the backbone of the Paik system. The Paik system was the mainstay of the Ahom army, which depended on a sort of floating militia of foot soldiers known as Paiks. These Paiks were bound by a contract with the state whereby all able-bodied men aged roughly fifteen to fifty-five had to render compulsory military service to the state, in exchange for two Puras of land.

The great rebellion of the ‘Moamarias’, a name derived from the Mayamara Satra, was unprecedented. It laid bare the fact that the Ahom monarchy was perhaps not as invincible as everyone thought it to be, and it too could be challenged. The rebellion exposed and accelerated the internal fragility of what had long appeared a resilient monarchy.

It was the culmination of an array of grievances of the preceding decades that found expression after being provoked by the insult meted out to the Mahantas.

In the course of all of this, Phuleswari’s role in the entire conflict cannot be discounted. She became the flagbearer of Shakta worship during the time positioning herself as the emblem of the new Shakta orthodoxy that slowly became the norm of the state.

Now, as she lay paralysed against the upholstery of her bed, the comfort of the silken bedspread did absolutely nothing to ease her pain. But her mind wandered back and forth across the moss-covered terrains of memory. She was overcome by a whole matrix of emotions, ranging from pride to guilt – pride with regard to her achievements as the first great queen of the Ahoms who minted coins in her name and brought about a series of changes in the administrative machinery of the state, guilt about the part she played in the contestation between the two traditions of faith – court-sponsored Shaktism on one side and the egalitarian, popular Vaishnavism of the Satras on the other, which did not remain a purely theological dispute. It deepened existing social and political fissures.

But the list of her achievements was nonetheless too substantial to be just overlooked. She was aware of that, and she bowed before the Goddess once again, after whom she had named herself. One last struggle to draw breath, a sudden indescribable seizing of the chest — and it was over. Phuleswari would remain a pioneering figure whose name would be remembered for breaking new ground in Ahom queenship, yet she would also stand as a reminder of how religious zeal at the helm of administration could alienate the periphery and help prepare the ground for later upheaval.

Bar Raja Ambika

After the death of Phuleswari in 1731, her sister became Bar Raja or Chief queen. Phuleswari’s tenure as Bar Raja in a way presented the picture of a de facto co-regency in the kingdom, and to prevent any fuss over the power vacuum, Shiva Singha married her sister, Draupadi, and named her Ambika.

The coronation ceremony of Ambika was as splendid as that of her sister. The office-bearers of the kingdom bowed before the new queen, the formal investiture rites were performed, and the king proclaimed Ambika as the new Bar Raja and his co-regent.

Ambika’s aim was to create a niche for herself, so that people would remember her not as a shadow of the king or her late sister, but in her own right. She started meticulously analysing the various areas that required attention. She found that a large temple complex was among the most promising undertakings. This would help in propagating the Shakta tradition while also beautifying the region. She commissioned the construction of the temples of Shiva Doul, Vishnu Doul, and Devi Doul near Joysagar tank in Sibsagar. The Shiva Doul at 104 feet remains the tallest Shiva temple in the region. It has a multi-tiered Shikhara and a Kalasha at the apex of the structure. The temples reflect an assemblage of the Indian Nagara style and the Nilachal style architecture, peculiar to the region.

The construction of the temples used brick, stone, and lime-based mortar. The priests say the masons also mixed a paste of black lentils into the lime mortar; its adhesive properties are credited with the durability of the three-hundred-year-old complex. When she commissioned the temples, the queen could hardly imagine that hundreds of years later, the temple complex would still be generating revenue for the state, being a heritage site to reckon with.

Ambika, along with her husband, also commissioned the writing of a significant work in Assamese literature known as the Hastividyarnava.

The text arises out of a disciplined and meticulous study of earlier Sanskrit treatises (such as the Hastyāyurveda of Pālakāpya, Mātaṅgalīlā of Nīlakaṇṭha, and other related works), coupled with a long and sustained practical observation of the behaviour of elephants in the Brahmaputra valley. It celebrates a long-standing tradition among the Ahoms and indigenous communities of elephant catching, training, and mobilising, with a sustainable community of Mahouts or elephant trainers existing in the region to this day. Sukumar Barkaith, the author of the text, synthesised Sanskrit theoretical knowledge with vernacular practices, tribal remedies, and terms drawn from Assamese, Tai-Ahom, and even Persian, producing a pragmatic manual rather than pure theory.

Ambika, in all her grace, carried on the administration and was as devout a Shakta as her sister. Despite the relative stability of her tenure, historians have repeatedly criticised the crown’s heavy patronage of one tradition of faith over another. This deepened the grudge of the Vaishnavas against the state.

The Queen Who Opened The Palace Gates

Ambika passed away in 1738 after a brief illness, the cause of which remains unknown. Ahom Buranjis have recorded her death without mentioning violence, poisoning, or intrigue, suggesting a natural death. King Shiva Singha then raised Enadori to the position of Bar Raja and gave her the name Sarbeswari. This maintained the institutional continuity of the powerful queenship that had characterised Shiva Singha’s later reign. Sarbeswari held the office until the king’s death in 1744.

Enadori commenced her rule with a different system of administration. She began to patronise the arts and crafts on an unprecedented scale. She opened the gates of the palace to accommodate young girls from nearby villages who had a knack for art, specifically weaving. She invited them into the very heart of the palace. There, under the guidance of skilled attendants and the queen herself, they learnt to spin fine yarn and weave the silks that clothed both royal and common households. One corner of the palace became akin to a grand workshop where girls belonging to all sections of society, irrespective of caste or birth, could develop their skills in weaving, spinning, art, and music.

Those with a gift for music and melody were taught the songs and instruments of the land, and learnt to strum and hum its tunes. Yet Sarbeswari’s vision stretched beyond the valley. She sent messengers far across the subcontinent to gather specimens of the richest brocades and the most delicate floral motifs then in fashion in distant courts and markets. Her aim was to enable local weavers to study, replicate, and creatively adapt these patterns in their own work. These patterns she brought home, placing them before the palace weavers so that they might copy, adapt, and invent anew, weaving foreign elegance into the living tradition of muga, pat, and eri — Three famous cultivated silk varieties native to the state of Assam.

Historians such as S. K. Bhuyan would later call this an exemplary act, for it was uncommon in those days for a queen to draw ordinary women into the sacred space of the palace and place the tools of art and livelihood in their hands.

Under Sarbeswari’s care, the royal looms hummed with fresh energy, and the skill of Assamese weavers was enriched by designs that had travelled great distances. Even as she ordered the minting of distinctive octagonal coins and raised a temple at Sibsagar in memory of her mother-in-law, Keri Rajmao, her most lasting gift remained the quiet classrooms of the palace courtyard — where young girls learnt not only to weave cloth but also to carry forward a craft that would outlive kings and queens alike.

Three Crowns, One Kingdom

The queens left an indelible mark on the history of Assam, the legend and life of the community, if not so much on the pages of the Ahom Buranjis, where they are mentioned only in passing in the section celebrating the rule of Shiva Singha. The same is true of traditional writings on the period by scholars native to the land. However, tales and lore have kept their legend alive.

But the scanty references that we have to Phuleswari’s and Ambika’s contributions to the administrative structure of the Ahoms across tale and lore are generally replete with praise for the relative stability established during the period, especially with regard to their contribution to Hindu-Ahom cultural fusion as a source of religious stability and social cohesion.

However, more critical and realistic evaluations, including those of E. A. Gait, present a different picture. Gait, a British official and historian, wrote the classic A History of Assam, first published in 1906. Gait emphasised that the period under Shiva Singha, shaped in part by the influence of his queens, produced limited structural reform.

The long-standing Paik system of conscription, as has been mentioned before, continued to suffer from inefficiencies, and the lower strata of society experienced growing alienation, which, in turn, contributed to the uprising of the Moamarias against the state. At the same time, scarce resources were redirected towards elaborate constructions even as fiscal pressures mounted, leaving deeper administrative and economic weaknesses that were largely unaddressed.

But on the whole, the distinctive imprint left by the three queens cannot be overlooked. Phuleswari, the pioneering figure, broke convention by ascending the throne and issuing coinage in her own name, thereby asserting female sovereignty in a realm long dominated by male rulers, so much so that the historian S. K. Bhuyan compared her to the Mughal empress Nur Jahan.

Ambika followed as a builder of both stone monuments and sacred texts, embedding religious patronage into the physical and intellectual landscape of the kingdom. Enadori, or Sarbeswari, in turn, nurtured artistic expression and supported livelihoods, extending royal concern into the cultural and everyday spheres of Ahom life. Together they introduced a fresh strand into the historical fabric of the Ahom polity.

These women demonstrated that authority once reserved exclusively for kings could be claimed, refined, and enlarged by queens whose origins lay outside the traditional centres of power - one rising from the dancer’s floor, another from a sister’s supporting role, and the third from the ordinary setting of a village courtyard. They broke convention within the confines of the palace and ruled in their own right, in conjunction with but also independent of the dominant authority of the king. Hence their title Bar Raja, meaning ‘Great King’, implies that their authority stood structurally above the king’s and that he had little authority over them.

Their accomplishments endure not merely in the temples they raised, the scriptures they sponsored, or the coins that bore their names, but also in the collective memory of a people who continue to recall the Bar Rajas. In the popular imagination these queens are remembered as rulers who governed with purpose, created lasting cultural assets, and ultimately bequeathed a richer and more complex legacy than the one they inherited.

The ‘cornucopia’ (a symbol of endless abundance) they nurtured was not merely symbolic. It encompassed fertile lands, sacred rituals, culinary traditions, and a harmonious blending of local and pan-Indian elements, displayed in temple architecture, brocade patterns and textiles, which enriched Assamese society.

Dr Swaswati Borkataki is from Guwahati, Assam, India. She is a student of history and a researcher specialising in the socio-cultural and political history of North East India. She was awarded her PhD in 2025 from Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi. Her research interests include orality, cultural history, food, Krishna Bhakti in Assam, and gender studies. She is currently a post-doctoral fellow at ICSSR. She regularly contributes opinion pieces to leading publications such as The Assam Tribune, East Mojo, Mainstream Weekly, The Sentinel, The Print, FII and the like.

Further Readings

• Sharma, D. (2022). Buranji in Northeast India: A 13th century history project of Assam. Rupkatha Journal on Interdisciplinary Studies in Humanities, 14(2), 1–11.

• Ghosh, S. (2022). "Two kings" in the Tungkhungia court? Love and courtly culture in early eighteenth-century Hindustan. Comparative Studies of South Asia, Africa and the Middle East, 42(2).

• Baruah, S. L. (2005–2006). Sectional president's address: State, patriarchy and women in medieval Assam. Proceedings of the Indian History Congress, 66, 264–295.

• Bhuyan, S. K. (Ed.). (1933). Tungkhungia Buranji: Or, a history of Assam, 1681–1826 A.D. Oxford University Press.

• Laskar, I., & Ansari, S. (2021–2022). Illustrated manuscripts at Auniati Satra of Majuli Island, Assam. Heritage: Journal of Multidisciplinary Studies in Archaeology, 9, 1116–1139.

• Gait, E. A. (1933). A History of Assam (3rd ed.). Thacker, Spink and Co.

• Kuruvachira, J. (2013, July 12). The Hinduisation of the Ahoms. Neptune18.

The roaring neighs of Turkish stallions pierced through the plains of northern India, raising dust and instilling alarm and fear in the minds and hearts of a beleaguered populace. This was the Indian subcontinent in the thirteenth century CE. The throne of Ḍhillikā (Delhi) had already succumbed to invasions from Ghor, as had the opulent Gahadvalas of central India with their capital at Varanasi. Loyalists of the Turkish Ghurids were installed to administer the subjugated territory, laying the foundations of the 'Delhi Sultanate' – an ambitious imperial formation that actively sought to extend its frontiers and consolidate its political authority. It was not the first time that the subcontinent had witnessed a political invasion or foreign rule. In fact, it had previously fended off intrusions from Śakas, Hūṇas and various other formidable 'foreign' powers who had made their entrance into the subcontinent from the same north-western corridors, but had gradually assimilated into its civilisational matrix.

What was relatively unfamiliar, however, was the sharper religious dimension that sometimes accompanied the assertion of the new political order, particularly where local religious practices came into conflict with the convictions of ruling elites. The new rulers were fervent to overwrite the faith of this bewilderingly diverse race of image-worshippers whose practices they deeply abhorred. One dynasty succeeded the previous one. The Khiljis succeeded the Mamluks, and Ghiyasuddin Tughlaq founded the Tughlaq dynasty by replacing the Khiljis. Political and religious tensions, however, continued unabated.

Ghiyasuddin’s eldest son, Prince Jauna Khan (who succeeded to the throne as Muhammad bin Tughlaq) led violent expansionist campaigns in the peripheral regions. Out of rampant terror and fear of loss of religion, Harisingh Dev, a Kṣatriya chieftain of Ayodhya,1 retreated into the forest and went incognito. The vulnerable city gradually became a military station of the Delhi Sultanate. Over the course of decades, some thousands of the city’s residents were coerced into converting to Islam, including Harisingh’s nephew Gaj Singh and his family. For decades, these converted masses, led by Gaj Singh, went from place to place, visiting the pandits of yore and requesting for the means of their purification and a way to return to the Hindu fold,2 but to no avail. The scholars offered no solace, remarking that once someone had fallen from dharma, they were permanently polluted and could not be absolved. Not finding any hope or solution to their plight, they grew despondent.

Meanwhile, in a quiescent cavern on the Panchganga Ghat in Kashi, the city that illuminates all,3 resided a radiant yogi, the resounding sound of whose conch tore through the ears of the tyrants, and whose form exuded transcendental brilliance. His glimpse bestowed immense comfort upon the suffering populace. This was none other than Swami Rāmānanda, the progenitor of the stream of Rāma-Bhakti in medieval north India. When the suffering Gaj Singh heard of the glories of this saint who had even admitted a Muslim, Kabīra, into the Vaiṣṇava fold, he gathered hope. He arrived in Kashi, and humbly pleaded their case. "Fear not, O son", said the effulgent saint, "the fall from dharma under duress or situations of emergency does not lead to permanent degradation.4 Thirty days from now, I shall come to Ayodhya and redeem you all. Observe a fast, and wait for my arrival.” As if resuscitated, the Kṣatriya bowed in reverence and returned to Ayodhya.

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Rise Of The ‘Second Sun’

A Kanyakubja Brahmin couple resided in the holy city of tīrtha-rāja (‘king’ of all holy places) Prayag, where the Ganga and Yamuna make a confluence with the invisible Saraswati, giving the place the name ‘Triveṇī’. Austere and pious, Punyasadan Vajapeyi and his wife Sushila5 were devout in their observance of dharma and worshipped Veṇī Mādhava6 with great devotion, and carried in the abyss of their heart the wish of having an offspring as luminous and auspicious as Rāma. One day, they supplicated at the feet of Veṇī Mādhava. As a signal of divine succour, the dakṣiṇāvartī (clockwise) conch of Veṇī Mādhava fell into Sushila’s outstretched veil, assuring that their prayer was heard and a divine being would soon be born.

The seventh of the waxing phase of the lunar month of Māgha in Vikrama Saṁvata 1356 (1299-1300 CE)7 arrived. Coincidentally, it was also Makar Sankranti, the auspicious day of the solar calendar marked by the sun’s ascent into Capricorn. Sixty six thousand holy tīrthas were covertly present in the city.8 In the biting cold, Prayag was beaming with huge crowds of devotees flocking to the confluence of the holy waters, while ascetics made their residence in humble hamlets in the floodplain to perform kalpa-vāsa (month-long residence in Prayag during the winter month of Māgha while observing austere vows). Vedic scholars began reciting auspicious incantations, and an ethereal energy filled the ambience of Punyasadan Vajapeyi’s home. Under such extremely auspicious astronomical arrangements, the propagator of Rāma-Bhakti and an embodiment of Rāma himself9 was born from Sushila’s pious womb.

After the janma-saucha (period of ritual pollution following birth) was over, the Nāma-karaṇa sacrament was performed, and the brilliant child was named ‘Rāmadatta’.11 Some months later, in an auspicious hour, Anna-prāśana ceremony was held and the child was offered a number of preparations, of which he only accepted kheer (rice pudding) made with the milk from superior cows. For his whole life, he is said to have lived only on kheer.12

The Divine Conch Reverberates!

One morning, as his father sat in meditation before the home altar, the child Rāmadatta sneaked in, picked up the divine conch and blew it resoundingly, such that everybody who heard entered a state of momentary trance. Upon regaining external consciousness, the parents rushed to find the young boy with the conch in his hand. At the same time, a divine speech reassured them and instructed them to gladly give the conch to the boy. Thenceforth, the luminous Rāmadatta would blow the conch every day at dawn, noon and dusk, bringing transcendental joy to all pious beings.13

The Journey To Kashi

At the age of five, Vājapeyi Ji began imparting Vālmki Rāmāyaṇa and the Gitā to Rāmadatta, which the erudite boy memorised and recited with great precision. After some time had passed, the Upanayana saṁskāra was performed. The brahmachari Rāmadatta was given the sacred thread and initiated into the Gāyatrī mantra, and was customarily instructed to "go to Kashi for the study of scriptures." Rāmadatta rose from his seat and began proceeding towards Kashi. As is the custom even today, the relatives pleaded with the brahmachari to convince him to turn back. However the truthful Rāmadatta was undeterred, and the parents ultimately relented. Rāmadatta was brought to Kashi, where he began his Vedic learning at Śrī Maṭha,14 the seminary of Swami Rāghavānanda,15 an illustrious Vaiṣṇava renunciate, on the Panchganga Ghat in Kashi.

Panchganga derived its name from the presence of ‘five holy waters’. A purāṇic shrine, the temple of Bindu Mādhava ruled its skyline; it was among the five key tīrthas in Varanasi’s pilgrim geography.16 The French merchant Jean-Baptiste Tavernier, who toured ‘Benares’ in 166517, described it as the "most imposing structure along the Banaras waterfront." In its vicinity, he spoke of the presence of a Vedic seminary with ‘a temple of Rāma’,18 which very possibly stood in the place of the then extinct Śrī Maṭha, lost during the destruction of Kashi’s riverscape by Sikandar Lodi in late Fifteenth century CE.19 A re-inception of the Śrī Maṭha was completed in the twentieth century around a modest but intact marble shrine of Swami Rāmānandācārya’s sandals (pādukā).

From Rāmadatta To Rāmānanda

After successfully completing his education in the Vedic scriptures, the samāvartana saṁskāra (graduation ceremony) was done. While the parents expected the brahmachari to prepare for married life ahead, as do all others, Rāmadatta’s heart brimmed with renunciation, devotion and intense empathy for the society. The tyranny of the times and the suffering of his people invoked the purpose of his birth. He sat humbly at Swami Rāghavānanda’s feet, and requested to become a renunciate. The all-knowing spiritual master accepted, and with the consent of the venerable mother-father, initiated Rāmadatta into the Śrī Vaiṣṇava tradition with the pañca-saṁskāras (five sacraments) – which included branding the shoulders with heated metal seals (tapta-mudrā-s) of Bhagavān’s divine weapons (āyudha, mainly dhanur-bāṇa, i.e. bow-arrow and śaṅkha-cakra i.e. conch-discus),20 applying the vertical Tilak mark (Ūrdhva-puṇḍra) on the forehead and eleven other spots on the body, awarding of a Vaiṣṇava name, imparting of the six-syllable Rāma Tāraka Mantra, and tying Tulasi beads around the neck.21 With great elation, Swami Rāghavānanda then initiated his extraordinary disciple into the renunciate22 order, and named him ‘Rāmānanda’. He also blessed him with divine yogic abilities.

A Fellowship Beyond Birth And Caste

With the ascent of the radiant Rāmānanda as its Ācārya, Śrī Maṭha manifested itself as the ‘grand Gomukha’23 from where the Rāma-Bhakti-gaṅgā (Ganga of devotion to Rāma) began to flow and inundate the northern lands. Soon, word spread about the austerities, yogic potencies and devotional discourses of Swami Rāmānanda. Deserving seekers began to come and take dīkṣā from him.

Besides Anantānanda and many other Brahmin disciples like Sukhānanda, Surasurā, Narahari, Bhāvānanda, Yogānanda and Gālavānanda, Swami Rāmānanda also graced Pīpā who was the Rajput king of Gagron, Dhannā who was a Jat agriculturist, Sena who was a barber of Bāndhavagaḍha as well as Kabīra (Kabīra) who was raised in the family of Muslim weavers24 and Raidāsa (Ravīdāsa) who was born in the family of tanner-cobblers, both of them being his two most well-known disciples. Quite revolutionarily, he initiated women as disciples, three of whom are known through the Bhaktamāla – Padmāvati as well as wives of Pīpā and Surasurā. Not only did Swami Rāmānanda award Vaiṣṇava dīkṣā, he even initiated many of them into the renunciate order (Bairāgīs) regardless of their birth, considering their renunciation and devotion as the foremost qualifications.

The Glory Of The Rāma-Tāraka Mantra

The Ācārya revealed the meaning of the name ‘Rāma’, "The Supreme Absolute Truth Who is infinitely blissful, and in Whom wise yogis take delight and merge their minds, He is called Rāma.”25 He further elaborated on the glories and the spiritual succession of the Rāma mantra that had been received by him from his preceptor Swami Rāghavānanda, and had now been passed on to his disciples –

Hearing the discourses on the divinity of Rāma’s name, form and attributes, the disciples were ecstatic. In a state of devotional trance, Sena composed and sang an offering to his beloveds, Guru and Govinda –

The Promise Fulfilled

Gaj Singh, the nephew of Ayodhya’s exiled chieftain, and the numerous forced converts of Ayodhya awaited the arrival of the divine saint who had promised to come to their rescue. On the said day, the miraculous Swami Rāmānanda, flanked by Anantānanda and many other prominent disciples, arrived in Ayodhya. After taking darśana at the birthplace of Rāma, he arrived at the banks of the Saryu, where along with the king and all his kinsmen, many hundreds of forcibly converted Hindus lined up in the waters of the holy river Saryu. At that time, the Swami blew his miraculous conch, and led a loud chant of ‘Śrī Rāma-nāma’ and behold! The marks of conversion29 diminished from their bodies. Then, anointing their foreheads with the illustrious Vaiṣṇava tilaka and placing Tulasi beads around their necks, the benevolent Ācārya imparted the all-purifying and all-liberating supreme Rāma Mantra to all the initiates, marking their return to dharma. Thus, the inhabitants of Ayodhya who had become “mlecchas” under force and had been deserted by a rigid orthodoxy, were not only embraced by Swami Rāmānanda but also bravely restored into the mainstream.30 With Tulasi beads around their necks, their tongues uttering the name of Rāma, and the vertical Tilaka markings on the forehead, even the polluted ones became purified as Vaiṣṇavas under the influence of Rāmānanda.31

Pīpā, Gagron And The Call To Renunciation

At the earnest request of his illustrious disciple Pīpā, Swami Rāmānanda graced his province of Gāṅgarauna (Gagron) in Rajasthan, residing there for some time with his disciples. Pīpā was overwhelmed at the sight of his guru. In divine ecstasy, he exclaimed –

Pīpā expressed his desire for renunciation to his spiritual master, and was initiated into the Bairāgī order. When Swami Rāmānanda prepared to leave for Kashi, Pīpā’s youngest queen, Sita Sahchari Ji, who was equally detached from mundane leisurely life, was also allowed to join the retinue.

A Sacred Geography Of The Digvijaya

To spread his social programme of universal welfare through devotion and self-surrender (prapatti) to Rāma, Śrī Rāmānandācārya resolved to tour the country with his entourage of disciples.33 Leaving from Kashi, they arrived at the mouth of the Ganga on the shores of the ‘Eastern Sea’. After taking a bath in the Gangasagar tīrtha34 on the Sagara island where the hermitage of Sage Kapil had once stood before it submerged in the sea, Swami Rāmānanda revived the holy tīrtha by consecrating an idol of sage Kapil, along with images of Goddess Ganga and King Sagara.

The retinue then reached Puri, where they took darśana of Lord Jagannātha, followed by Veṅkateśvara at Tirupati, Varadrāja at Kanchi, Raṅganātha at Srī Rangam, Rāmeśvara in Rameshwaram, Padmanābha in Anandapuram (Thiruvananthapuram), Janārdana in Varkala. After residing briefly in Mysore, the group crossed Maharashtra and reached Prabhasa region in Gujarat, where they took darśana in Dwārakā and Somanātha.35

When the retinue arrived at Arbudācala (Mt. Abu, Rajasthan), Sursurānanda inquired about various vital aspects of Vaiṣṇava dharma, such as the ideal mantra, the prescribed methods of meditation, the symptoms of a Vaiṣṇava, their activities, their places of residence. The luminous Ācārya, seated on the Vyāsa-āsana, replied in detail to each of these spiritual inquiries. This conversation came to be canonised in the form of ‘Śrī-Vaiṣṇava-Matābja-Bhāskara’.36 Born out of his answers to these spiritual inquiries by Sursurānanda, it encapsulated his magnanimous vision that would lead to ‘the success and spread of the sect across the length and breadth of the subcontinent’.37 Finally, travelling through Chitrakoot, Haridwar, Vrindavan, Prayag, Mithila and Ayodhya, he returned with his retinue to Kashi.

Who May Take Refuge?

Not only did the compassionate Swami Rāmānanda defend dharma against totalitarian tyranny, but he also attempted to emancipate a suffering Hindu society that had become infested with sectarian infighting and internal alienation. He declared emphatically in the Śrī-Vaiṣṇava-Matābja-Bhāskara:

The door to Rāma’s sanctuary was thrown open to every human. There was no gatekeeping to devotion.

The great Ācārya did not stop here. In a clearly revolutionary declaration for the existing social order, Swami Rāmānanda advised that Vaiṣṇavas born in lower varṇas should be served with reverence.39 By establishing that Rāma was pleased by someone who serves his devotees, who are all venerable irrespective of their birth or their social standing, he bolstered the worldview wherein devotion, not birth, reigned supreme.

Bhakti Over Birth

By incorporating people from virtually all social locations in the generous distribution of the Rāma Mantra, Swami Rāmānanda kindled a characteristic transformation in northern India, heralding the arrival of a prolonged current of Bhakti. Besides, the hagiographies are also replete with narratives of his display of mystic powers to subdue hostile adversaries viz. Tāntrikas, Kaulas, Aghorīs etc as well as his dialogues with stalwarts from various schools of philosophy, from Vedantīs to Yogīs and Jainas. According to Pitambar Datt Barthwal, many vernacular compositions are attributed to him, one of them being a mystic incantation by the name Ādhyātma Rāmarakṣā. Besides, Swami Rāmānanda also composed the popular Āratī of Hanuman, ‘Aratī kīje Hanumān lalā kī, duṣṭa-dalana Raghunātha kalā kī’.40

After gracing the world in his earthly form for a long lifetime, Swami Rāmānanda passed the final instructions to his disciples, and departed to Sāketa (the heavenly abode of Lord Ram). As is the case for his birth, the date and year of his disappearance are also highly contested. Agastya Saṁhitā and Prasaṅga Pārijāta give 1411 CE and circa 1458 CE respectively as the year of his disappearance.41

The Rāmānandī Hagiographical Tradition

In northern India, hagiographical texts predominate in medieval literature pertaining to religious sects and saints, the basic structure of which was laid out by the Bhaktamāla (fl. 1580-1624 CE) and its commentaries.42 A highly celebrated text containing anthologies and life sketches of devotees of all four ‘yugas’ and across sects, it was composed by Nābhādāsa, who was fourth in the disciplic lineage from Swami Rāmānanda, from the distinguished Rāmānandi seat of Galta near Jaipur. Soon after, the Bhakta-Paracaī texts were composed by Anantadāsa (fl. 1588), who was also a Rāmānandi and a disciple of Nābhādāsa’s godbrother Vinoda Dāsa. 43 According to Lorenzen, the ‘explosion’ of hagiographies during this period was owing to the increasing reliance by devotional communities centred on their founders as sources of divine authority.44

Rather than mistaking hagiographies for ‘mere panegyric accounts’ glorifying the ‘saints’ of their respective guruparamparās,45 it is important to understand their role as exemplars, as mirrors to larger historical context shaping the lives of their subjects, and as ‘multiple lenses through which a particular historical time and larger attitudes of the period towards the past and present of that period could be seen’.46 Moreover, the contradictions between memory and history, in which memory stands for orality and subjectivity and history for literacy and objectivity, so often highlighted in memory studies in the case of hagiographies, is not always tenable.47

Prasaṅga Pārijāta And The Recovery Of Traditional Memory

In the 1930s, the librarian Balak Ramji Vinayaka came across an ancient manuscript of a text named ‘Prasaṅga Pārijāta’ in the stacks of Sarnath Library, written in the extinct literary language of Paishachi. The author ‘Chetana Das’ introduced himself as a disciple of Swami Rāmānanda, and stated the completion of the text to Samvat 1517 (circa 1461 CE). Composed in 108 aṣṭapadīs (ritual stanzas of eight couplets) each with a phala-śruti (merit), the text came with a warning that pre-empted its publication for a long time –

The text was eventually brought to light in a literary conference in Lucknow, not without troubles, and later published for the first time from Ayodhya in 1951. Although replete with supernatural elements, and despite a bleak sense of chronology, Prasaṅga Pārijāta seems to have inspired many twentieth-century works of Hindi literature, viz. the poetic hagiography ‘Śrī-Rāmānandāyana’ by Swami Srī Jayaramadeva (1940 CE), later reworked in prose ‘Śrīmad-Rāmānandācārya-Carita’ and the novels ‘Śaṅkhanāda’ and ‘Kāśī Mārtaṇḍa’ (both in Hindi, with later English translations), thus contributing to collective narrative memory of Swami Rāmānanda amongst the Rāmānandīs.

In Sanskrit literature, the first contemporary hagiography appears to have been Śrīmad Rāmānanda Digvijayaḥ (lit. ‘The Triumphal Tour of Śrīmad Rāmānanda’, first published in 1928) by Bhagavad-dasa Brahmachari alias Swami Bhagwadacharya, followed by Śrī Ācārya Vijaya of Gosvami Harikrishna Shastri, a scholar of Vallabhacharya’s Puṣṭimārga. ‘Śrī Rāmānandācārya Caritam’ (2022) by Swami Rambhadracharya remains the most recent Sanskrit work on Swami Rāmānanda.49

The ‘Historical’ Rāmānanda

The paucity of veritable records, the conflicting accounts of hagiographical narratives, the explicit ambiguity on Swami Rāmānanda’s periodisation as well as the absence of “a hard biography” has invited the speculation marks from Western scholars such as Richard Burghart and William Pinch on his historicity, suggesting him to have been a “conjectured” by the Rāmānandis for legitimising claim to an independent identity. This runs utterly disregardful, if not oblivious, of the fact that not only does he feature in the compositions of his disciples of the ‘Sant Mat’, namely Sena, Pīpā and Kabīra,50 but is remembered in the hagiographic accounts of the Kabīra-panth and the Ravidāsa Rāmāyaṇa of the Ravidāsīs.51

A composition of Swami Rāmānanda is also included in the Adi Granth Sahib,52 the Sikh holy scripture beside many compositions of Kabīra, Ravīdāsa, Saina (Sena) and Dhanna, where they are referred to as ‘Bhagats’. The Sikh hagiographies of Bhai Gurdas also recollect the anecdotes of the aforementioned devotee disciples, with particular description of Kabīra’s initiation from Rāmānanda.53

The earliest known hagiography, the Bhaktamāla, has also recounted Swami Rāmānanda by listing his distinguished spiritual progeny, through whom he erected a spiritual ‘bridge’ to deliver innumerable ‘refugee’ souls (prapanna-s) –

‘Living’ In Memory And Geography

While traversing parts of Rajasthan, including Jaipur and Sikar, in the course of my fieldwork for this project, as well as in my previous peregrinations to Vrindavan, Ayodhya, Chitrakoot, Kashi, and Prayaga, especially during the Mahākumbha of 2025, I could somewhat fathom and admire the vast presence of the Rāmānandi ascetics and mendicants throughout the length and breadth of the northern plains, and much more pronouncedly in the holy cities. In the eighteenth century, the Rāmānandis were at the forefront of the militarisation of Vaiṣṇava ascetics into regiments, in the wake of various forms of threats to Vaiṣṇava religious places and communities.55 The new complex of Shri Ram Janmabhumī Temple renders homage to the great saint by naming one of its entrances ‘Jagadguru Rāmānandācārya Dwāra’. It bears witness to the significant role played by Rāmānandi ascetics56 in the history of the Rāma Janmabhumī.

The order of ascetics founded by Swami Rāmānanda came to be known as Bairāgī, a denomination which later came to include ascetics of four major Vaiṣṇava sects. The Tazkirat-ul-Fuqra,57 an Urdu text that gives accounts of the various denominations of ‘faqirs’ (mendicants and mystics, both Muslim and Hindu) describes —

Gorgani further describes in his ‘account of Rāmānanda, his sect, and followers’59 – "They apply a yellow tilaka on their foreheads, wear a necklace of tulsi mālā, and chant the name of Rāma. Their core belief is that God is One and Rāmacandra is his incarnation (avatāra)."

A more well-known Persian text of 17th century CE, the Dabistan-i-Mazahib or ‘School of Religions’, describes the four sects of the Bairāgīs, and mentions that “Whoever among the Hindus, Muselmans, or others, wishes, is received into their religion; none are rejected, but, on the contrary, all are invited.”60

A Living Legacy Of Unbounded Love

Reflecting on how Swami Rāmānanda is remembered in the collective memory, both sectarian followers and the polemics in academia would agree to perceive him as the pioneer of a broad, inclusive devotional stream that swayed and advantaged individuals and communities across castes, tongues, genders and geographies. Swami Rāmānanda brought about the actualisation of the principle of spiritual egalitarianism through unalloyed devotion (Bhakti) and complete self-surrender to God (Prapatti), which was also enshrined by Rāmānuja in his illustrious Sanskrit commentaries. The philosophical ‘synthesis’ of Swami Rāmānanda lies in making the Supreme Being, Para-brahman Śrī Rāma (in both His personal manifestation as well as His omnipresent being) a ‘domestic asset’ – available and accessible to all individuals — not merely in principle, but also in lived experience and everyday performance.

The vision didn’t remain confined to principles enshrined in philosophical texts, but indeed percolated in practice through numerous lineages of preceptors and saints that sprang from his followers. Of Swami Rāmānanda’s twelve prominent disciples, Raidāsa (Ravīdās) was revered as guru by not only the unprivileged castes, but also by disciples like Mīrā Bāī and queen Jhālī Bāī, both belonging to royalty in erstwhile Rajputana. While Kabīra was accepted as guru by Raja Vir Singh Baghel61 of Kashi, Sena (Saina) was accepted as their guru by the royal family of Bandhavgarh principality in Madhya Pradesh.

“Rāmānanda stood at the dawning of a new age of religiousness all over North India, an age in which full participation in a life of devotion was not the prerogative of the elite few, but the claim and faith of all – the illiterates, the downtrodden and the outcastes.”62 In his being converge three luminous characteristics – the distribution of pure devotion, the defence of dharma, and the emancipation of those on the periphery.

PE Burchett observes with regards to the Bairāgīs, “While contributing to the expansion of a broad Bhakti public and sensibility; they took part in a vibrant transreligious culture of song and performance; they participated in a shared grammar of asceticism and pragmatic power (embodied in charismatic saints); and they engaged in new aesthetic trends and the expansion of vernacular Hindavi beyond the oral and popular realms into the written and literary-courtly spheres.”63

In this way, the legacy of Swami Rāmānanda and the Rāmānandi Bairāgīs is manifold. It flourishes not only in the pilgrim places and sacred nodes of the subcontinent like Ayodhya, Mathura, Prayaga or Puri. Rather, it has permeated the very veins of rural north, central and western India. Whether it be their direct physical presence, or intangible role in the lila traditions inspired by the magnum opus Ramcharitmanas, or in memory, like Tulsidas’s Hanuman Chalisa and Kabīra’s couplets. Having diffused into all four corners of the subcontinent, the Rāmānandi sect is a vibrant, indelible element of Bharat's socio-religious traditional milieu. The second sun shines still, drawing one and all into the boundless light of Bhakti.

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Nitin Maan is from Delhi, India. He is currently doing a PhD in Geography from Delhi School of Economics, University of Delhi. His research revolves around the sacralisation, hydrology and conservation of Kunds in the Govardhan sacredscape. His areas of interest include sacred landscapes, TEK, pilgrimage studies and Bhakti literature.

Acknowledgements: The author is deeply grateful to Swami Harishankar Vedanti Ji, abbot of Siyaram Ki Bagichi, a modest ashram in Jaipur that houses around twenty-five elderly sadhus and young students. Despite limited resources, Maharaj Ji remains actively engaged in documenting and publishing valuable literature of the Rāmānandī sampradāya, often at his own expense. He is also involved in legal efforts concerning important Rāmānandī sites in Rajasthan.

The author visited the ashram without prior contact but Maharaj Ji generously answered his questions and engaged him in discussions on the chronology of Rāmānandi hagiographies and contemporary perceptions of the Bairāgi community. He also provided important hagiographical works and archival material for this research, while kindly arranging accommodation and meals.

The author is also grateful to Acharya Jaikant Sharma Ji, Professor in the Department of Vyākaraṇa at LBS Sanskrit University, Delhi. A scholar of the Rāmānandī tradition, he has authored a commentary on the Śrī-Vaiṣṇava-Matābja-Bhāskaraḥ. Conversations with him introduced the author to several academic works that proved useful for this research.

The author also thanks Smt. Aparna Patel Ji, a Rāmānandi from Gujarat, for sending copies of Prasaṅga Pārijāta and Kāśī Mārtaṇḍa, both of which were valuable to this study.

He is also grateful to Pramod Marathiya Ji of Jaipur, who generously accompanied him to several locations in the city during fieldwork.

Lastly, the author remains most grateful to his revered Gurudeva, who kindly initiated him into the magnanimous Śrī Rāmānandī Sampradāya.

References

Traditional Sources:

Agastya-Saṁhitā. Translated by Bhavnath Jha. Mahavir Mandir Prakashan, 2009.

Amarakoṣaḥ, by Amar Simha.

Bījaka, by Kabīra Dāsa. Vārāṇasī: Kabīravāṇī Prakāśana Kendra, 2022.

Jagadguru Śrī-Rāmānandācārya-Carita, by Svāmī Śrī Jayarāmadeva. Vrindavan: Śrī Rāmānanda Pustakālaya, 1999.

Matsya Mahāpurāṇa. Gorakhpur: Gitapress, 2020.

Pīpā Dera Nā Kījie, by Dr Navalakiśora Bhābhaḍā & Dr. Manoja Kumāra Makavānā. New Delhi: Indira Gandhi National Centre for Arts, 2024.

Prasaṅga Pārijāta, by Swami Chetandas. Translated by J.L. Gupta ‘Chaitanya’. Rishikesh: Shri Swami Ramanand Sant Ashram, 2010.

Rāmānanda kī Hindī Racanāye, by Pitambara Datt Barthwal. Kashi: Nagari Pracharini Sabha, 1956.

Skanda Purāṇa. Gorakhpur: Gitapress, 2018.

Śrī-Ācārya Vijayaḥ, by Gosvāmī Harikṛṣṇa Śāstri. Jaipur: Hansa Prakashan, 2011.

Śrī Bhaktamāla, by Nābhādāsa. With Bhakti-rasa-bodhinī Commentary by Priyādāsa. Gorakhpur: Gitapress, 2018.

Śrī Rāmānandācārya Caritam, by Swami Rāmabhadrācārya. Citrakūṭa: Śrī-Tulasī Pīṭha Saṁsthāna Nyāsa (2022).

Śrīmad-Rāmānanda-Digvijayaḥ, by Bhagavad-dāsa Brahmacārī. Jaipur: Śrī Rāmānandīya Virakta Vaiṣṇava Maṇḍala Samiti, 2018 [1984].

Śrī-Rāmānandārcana-Paddhati, Gaṇeśa Dāsa ed. Vrindavan: Śrī Rāmānanda Pustakālaya, 1999.

Śri-Vaiṣṇava-Matābja-Bhāskaraḥ, by Svāmī Rāmānandācārya. Trans. and commentary by Dr Ramadhar Sharma, ed. Chitrakoot: Jagadguru Rāmabhadrācārya Viklanga Viśvavidyālaya, 2018.

The Language of The Adi Granth: Phonetic transcription of the entire text, by Harjeet Singh Gill. Patiala: Punjabi University, [2016] 2019.

The Mahabharata of Krishna-Dwaipayana Vyasa. Vol. 4. Oriental Publishing Company, 1886.

Urdu/Persian Sources

Akhtar, Ahmad. Tazkirat-ul-Fuqra (تذكرة الفقراء). Lucknow: Fakhr-ul-Matabi, [1896] 1904. Internet Archive. https://archive.org/details/in.ernet.dli.2015.155554

Dabistan i Mazahib. Translated by David Shea and Anthony Troyer. London: Oriental Translation Fund of Great Britain and Ireland, 1843. Internet Archive.

https://archive.org/details/in.gov.ignca.35579/page/n5/mode/1up?q=Ramanand.

Foreigners’ Accounts

Tavernier Jean B. Travels in India, trans. and ed. Valentine Ball, 2 vols. (London: Macmillan and Co., 1889).

Secondary References

Agrawal, Purushottam. “In Search of Ramanand: The Guru of Kabīra and Others.” Ancient to modern (2008): 135-170.

Arnold, David, and Blackburn, Stuart, eds. Telling lives in India: Biography, autobiography, and life history. Indiana University Press, 2004.

Bakker, Hans. Ayodhya. Egbert Forsten, 1986.

Bhattacharyya, Haridas ed. The Cultural Heritage of India, Volume IV. Ramakrishna Mission Institute of Culture, 1956.

Burchett, Patton E. A Genealogy of Devotion: Bhakti, Tantra, Yoga, and Sufism in North India. Columbia University Press, 2019.

Burghart, Richard. “The Founding of the Rāmānandī Sect.” Ethnohistory (1978): 121-139.

Eck, Diana L. Banaras, city of light. Columbia University Press, 1999.

Farquhar, J. N. “The Historical Position of Ramananda.” Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society 52, no. 2 (1920): 185–192

Gupta, Divay. “Kashi Vishvanatha Kshetra in Historic Context, a Narrative landscape in Varanasi, India.” International Journal of Architectural Heritage 07, no. 02 (2024): 1-18.

Grierson, George A. “Ramanandis, Ramawats.” In Encyclopaedia of Religion and Ethics, edited by James Hastings, vol. 10, 570–571. Edinburgh: T&T Clark; New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1918.

Jain, Meenakshi. Flight of Deities and Rebirth of Temples. Aryan Books International, [2019] 2025.

Jain, Meenakshi. Rama and Ayodhya. Aryan Books International, [2013] 2019.

Lorenzen, David. “Hindu Sects and Hindu Religion: Precolonial and Colonial Concepts.” in Knowing India, edited by Cynthia Talabot, 251-278. New Delhi: Yoda Press, 2011.

Lorenzen, David N. Kabīra legends and Ananta-das’s Kabīra Parachai. SUNY Press, 1991.

Majumdar, A. K. “Kashmir.” In The Delhi Sultanate, edited by R. C. Majumdar, 372–86. Vol. 6 of The History and Culture of the Indian People. Bombay: Bharatiya Vidya Bhavan, 1960.

Pinch, William R. Peasants and Monks in British India, University of California Press, 1996.

Pinch, William R. “Reinventing Ramanand: Caste and History in Gangetic India.” Modern Asian Studies 30, no. 3 (1996): 549-571.

Sastri, K. A. Nilakanta. A History of South India: From Prehistoric Times to the Fall of Vijayanagar. 4th ed. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1975.

Shackle, Christopher. “Survey of Literature in the Sikh Tradition.” Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014.

Shah, Amita. Kāśī Mārtaṇḍa. Translated by Praveen Chauhan and Apurv Agarawal. Shri Swami Abhiram Parivar, 2017.

Wilson, Horace Hayman. A Sketch of the Religious Sects of the Hindus. Vol. 16. Asiatic Society, [1828] 1832.

“The whole of Medapāṭa (modern Mewar in southern Rajasthan) has been burnt by Hammira’s warriors.”

The “Hammira” in question is none other than Sultan Iltutmish of Delhi, whose armies advanced into western India in the early decades of the 13th century. These words are spoken by Kamalaka, a royal spy, as he arrives at the court of King Viradhavala, the powerful Vāghelā ruler of Gūrjara-deśa (modern Gujarat), at Dhavalaka (modern Dholka). He brings devastating news from Mewar. The land has been overrun, its people slaughtered, and panic has spread everywhere. What follows is one of the most vivid literary descriptions of invasion to survive in medieval Sanskrit literature.

The scene appears in Hammiramadamardana (“The Crushing of Hammira’s Arrogance”), a Sanskrit drama composed around 1220 AD by the Jain poet Jayasiṃha Sūri. The title uses Hammira, the Sanskrit rendering of the Arabic title amir, as the name for Sultan Iltutmish.1 Although the play celebrates Viradhavala and his court, it preserves something rarer than the memory of a royal victory. It preserves the fear and uncertainty experienced by those who witnessed the invasion.

Kamalaka’s message is not a military report. He does not tell Viradhavala how many soldiers marched, how many forts were captured, or how much territory changed hands. Instead, he describes what the catastrophe looked like to those who lived through it. The Turkish warriors who entered Mewar seemed less like ordinary men than figures from a nightmare. Their eyes blazed like sparks from the fire that consumes the world at the end of time (pralaya). Their deep roars were so terrifying, Kamalaka says, that pregnant women miscarried at the sound. Shouting “Kill! Kill!” they swept across the land like a forest fire. The language is dramatic, but that is precisely the point. Kamalaka is not concerned with military details. He wants Viradhavala to grasp the terror that has engulfed Mewar. To the people of Mewar, the invaders did not merely appear dangerous. They seemed like Death personified entering the land.

It was through Kamalaka that the cries of Mewar reached Dholka, where Viradhavala and his trusted ministers, the Jain brothers Vastupāla and Tejaḥpāla, confronted the crisis. Remembered not only as accomplished administrators and diplomats but also as great patrons of temples, literature, and learning, the brothers occupy the centre of the drama. To understand why this drama tells the story in this way, we must first step into the world in which it was composed. That world was Gūrjara-deśa.

The World Behind The Drama

Gūrjara-deśa, roughly corresponding to modern Gujarat, was one of the wealthiest and most culturally vibrant regions of medieval India. From the 10th century onwards, it was ruled by the Caulukyas, better known as the Solankis, from their capital at Aṇahilapāṭaka (modern Patan). Their kingdom emerged as one of the foremost powers of western India and became renowned for its prosperity, artistic achievements, and patronage of learning.

The Caulukya age produced some of the finest monuments of medieval India. The magnificent Rani ki Vav at Patan and the Sun Temple at Modhera still stand as enduring reminders of the dynasty’s architectural brilliance. The kingdom recovered from the famous raid of Maḥmūd of Ghazni under Bhima I and later flourished under Kumārapāla, whose reign became renowned for its patronage of Jainism, learning, and scholars such as the celebrated polymath Hemacandra.

By the beginning of the thirteenth century, however, the political landscape had begun to change. Although the Caulukya king Bhima II still occupied the throne, much of the kingdom’s authority had passed into the hands of powerful feudatories. Among the most influential were Lavaṇaprasāda and his son Viradhavala of the Vāghelā family, who governed from Dholka and gradually became the dominant political force in Gujarat.2

Serving these Vāghelā chiefs were the celebrated Jain brothers Vastupāla and Tejaḥpāla. They were distinguished statesmen, skilled diplomats, and extraordinary patrons of religion, literature, and architecture. Their most famous monument, the Luna Vasahi temple at Mount Abu, remains one of the finest masterpieces of medieval Jain architecture. Even as political power shifted, Gujarat continued to flourish as a centre of artistic and intellectual life.3

It was in this world that Jayasiṃha Sūri lived and wrote. A disciple of Śri Vira Sūri, the ācārya of the Śri Suvrata temple at Bhṛgunagari (modern Bharuch), he belonged to Gujarat’s rich Jain intellectual tradition. His connection with Vastupāla and Tejaḥpāla began with an act of patronage. Seeking golden flags for the Jain shrine Śakunikāvihāra at Bharuch, he approached Tejaḥpāla, who fulfilled the request with the approval of his elder brother Vastupāla. Moved by their generosity and devotion, Jayasiṃha composed the Hammiramadamardana in their honour.4

More than eight centuries have passed since then. The Śakunikāvihāra no longer survives as a Jain shrine, and a mosque now occupies the site. The drama, however, endured. Jealously preserved in Jain manuscript collections, the drama still offers one of the most vivid Sanskrit accounts of invasion to survive from medieval India. But Kamalaka’s terrifying report from Mewar is only the beginning of the story. To understand why the invasion unfolded as it did, we must first look at the political crisis facing Gūrjara-deśa in the 1220s.

The Storm Gathering Around Gujarat

In the early decades of the thirteenth century, Gūrjara-deśa occupied a strategic position in western India. To its north lay the expanding Delhi Sultanate. To the south stood the powerful Yādava kingdom of Devagiri. To the east were the Paramāras of Mālava. Surrounded by ambitious neighbours, Viradhavala’s court faced the prospect of war on several fronts.

The greatest threat came from Hammira, the Sultan of Delhi, whose armies were steadily advancing towards Gujarat. To the south, Siṃhaṇa, the ambitious Yādava ruler of Devagiri, had formed an alliance with Saṅgrāmasiṃha, the ruler of neighbouring Lāṭa and an old rival of the Vāghelās. From the east, Devapāla of Mālava added further pressure. Powerful enemies closed in from every direction, and the future of Gūrjara-deśa appeared deeply uncertain.

The crisis revealed Vastupāla’s greatest strength. He relied not only on armies but also on diplomacy. He secured the support of the rulers of Marudeśa (modern Marwar) and Saurāṣṭra, while numerous local chiefs rallied to Viradhavala’s side like streams flowing into the ocean, strengthening the power of Gūrjara-deśa. Vastupāla also turned diplomacy into a weapon. Through a network of spies, he sowed distrust between Siṃhaṇa and Saṅgrāmasiṃha. Their alliance soon collapsed. Fearing Siṃhaṇa’s growing power, Saṅgrāmasiṃha abandoned him and sought Viradhavala’s protection. Siṃhaṇa, in turn, redirected his attention towards Devapāla of Mālava. One by one, the coalition surrounding Gūrjara-deśa began to unravel. Only one danger remained. Hammira continued his march towards Gujarat, and the road to Gūrjara-deśa first passed through Medapāṭa. It was there that the full force of the invasion would first be felt.

Where Are The Warriors?

The diplomatic successes of Vastupāla could not prevent Hammira’s army from reaching Mewar. The ruler of Mewar, Jayatala (also called Jaitrasiṃha), had chosen not to join Viradhavala’s alliance. Isolated from Gujarat’s coalition, his kingdom was left to face Hammira’s advance alone. As the invading army swept through the region, Mewar suffered a catastrophe that became the darkest memory of an invasion preserved in the Hammiramadamardana.

Returning to Viradhavala’s court, the royal spy Kamalaka reported the devastation that had unfolded in Mewar. Faced with Hammira’s advance, Jayatala fled the battlefield.5 With their ruler gone, the people of Mewar were left to confront the invading army alone. Kamalaka’s account is striking because it is not concerned with the movements of armies or the fate of kings. Instead, it turns our attention to ordinary people caught in the violence of war. Children, cowherds, brāhmaṇas, cows, and women are all said to have been slaughtered without distinction. Amid the carnage, the terrified people cried:

“Protect us! Protect us! Run! Run! All the people are being killed by these scoundrels, as if they are the very presiding deities of death. Nowhere in the three worlds does even a single spark of a kṣatriya flare up. The rasa of courage smiles in no one’s heart. The glory of valour has fallen into some blind well!”

Fear and helplessness now dominate the narrative. Kamalaka repeatedly returns to one painful question: where were the kṣatriyas, whose duty was to protect society? At this point the manuscript itself has suffered damage. About six lines of the play, each containing roughly forty-five letters, have disappeared because the ink has faded. Yet when the text becomes legible again, the cries of the people continue without interruption:

“Surely this goddess Earth now bears no offspring of warriors! No kṣatriya woman, anywhere, has given birth to a son who grieves at the sufferings of others!”

Kamalaka’s account then takes an even more painful turn. Despite these desperate cries, not a single young kṣatriya stepped forward. No one, with limbs throbbing with eagerness, rushed out to defend the people. The silence of those expected to protect society becomes almost as haunting as the violence itself. Mewar, abandoned by its ruler and without defenders, was left to endure the invasion alone.

Kamalaka’s description now becomes even more graphic:

“The men of Hammira, without the slightest fear in their hearts, tore through people’s bellies with sharpened swords and drank the gushing wine of blood. Chunks of liver became relishes to savour it. Their beards and hair were stained with blood. Out of sheer terror of those impure-birth men, the people cried out: ‘O father! O son! O beloved! O fawn-eyed girl! O brother! O sister! O warrior! O good lord!’ Thus, among the distraught people, cries rang out to one another. Whose heart did not split at such cries?”

The imagery is deliberately shocking. Rather than merely recording that people were killed, Kamalaka dwells on the horror of the violence and the grief of families torn apart. The repeated cries of fathers, mothers, children, brothers, and sisters transform the account from a description of battle into a lament for an entire community.

The horror did not end with the slaughter. Kamalaka goes on to describe the desperate choices people made when every hope of escape had vanished. Some believed that death at the hands of men they regarded as impure offered no blessed course (gati) beyond this life. Rather than meet such a fate, husbands and wives leapt into wells with their crying children tied around their necks. Others, believing that there could be no gati without cremation, set fire to their own houses, crowded with their families, and entered the flames themselves. Still others, unable to bear the slaughter of their loved ones, placed nooses around their necks and took their own lives even as their families cried out.

Yet Kamalaka’s account does not end in despair. If kings and professional warriors had failed, ordinary people did not. In the midst of the enemy’s sword blows, some men threw themselves forward to shield their wives, who had rushed to protect their terrified children. Others, filled with the rasa of righteous anger, hid their weeping families behind them and, with bodies aflame with defiance, plunged into the ocean of enemy troops, becoming like sparks of the submarine fire (vaḍavāgni). Heroism, the play suggests, belonged not only to kings but also to nameless men and women whose courage survived only in memory.

Moved by such courage, Viradhavala offers his own reflection on who truly deserves to be called a warrior:

“When valiant men grow fearful,
when the king himself is broken,
when fame has sunk,
he who, seeing the people stricken with terror,
leaps toward the enemy with energy,
even when restrained by friends, kinsmen, and wife,
he alone is a warrior.”

The play’s definition of heroism is striking. A true warrior is not simply one who bears arms or occupies a throne. He is the one who chooses to protect others when everyone else has lost heart.

Then came the voices of children left behind in the chaos.

“Mother, mother, I will also come with you!” some called out. “Mother, where are you going, leaving me hungry and thirsty?” others cried. “Father, you always take me with you into the city. Why are you leaving me today?”

When Hammira’s warriors began to slaughter even the children, Kamalaka, disguised among the Turuṣka soldiers and moved by compassion, shouted aloud:

“Run! Run! Viradhavala, the lord whose valour spans the three worlds, has arrived to protect the people!”

The deception worked. Already fearful of Viradhavala’s reputation, the attackers scattered in every direction, allowing the children to escape. It is a fitting conclusion to Kamalaka’s narrative. The same spy who first brought news of the catastrophe also became the means by which innocent lives were saved. But the story does not end with the drama. Did anyone outside the play remember the destruction of Mewar?

Pura-Bhanga: The Breaking Of A City

The answer appears in stone. The Chirwa inscription of 1273 CE, issued during the reign of Samarasiṃha, the grandson of Jayatala, remembers an earlier conflict with a Sultan (suratrāṇa). Composed barely two generations after the events, it preserves an independent memory of the invasion and lends historical weight to the literary account preserved in the Hammiramadamardana.

The Chirwa inscription remembers the event with a single but evocative expression: pura-bhaṅga, literally, “the breaking of a city.”6 In Sanskrit literary usage, the phrase means far more than a military defeat. It evokes the destruction of an entire city under attack. The Kāvyaśikṣā of Vinayacandra Sūri (c. 1225–1275 CE) explains such a scene in striking terms:

The fort is being made to fall. The palaces are being burnt down. Hundreds of trees are being broken. Ponds are being destroyed. The people, adorned with cosmetics and necklaces and afraid of being captured by enemies, leap into wells carrying their children.7

The similarities with the Hammiramadamardana are remarkable. The inscription does not repeat Kamalaka’s dramatic narrative, nor does it recount the horrors of the invasion in detail. Yet both sources preserve the memory of the same catastrophe. One remembers it in stone, the other in literature. Together they show that the sack of Mewar was remembered long after the invasion itself ended.

What makes the Hammiramadamardana especially remarkable, however, is not simply that it remembers the invasion. Medieval Sanskrit inscriptions and literary works often describe conflicts with Muslim rulers. Many of these sources emphasise the desecration of temples, the suffering of brāhmaṇas, or the disruption of Vedic rites. As historian Cynthia Talbot has observed, these themes recur in several early fourteenth-century Andhra inscriptions.8

The Hammīramadamardana, however, takes a noticeably different approach. Rather than dwelling on the destruction of temples, the disruption of Vedic rituals, or the concerns of religious institutions, Kamalaka’s account lingers over the suffering of ordinary people. Frightened families, abandoned children, mothers, fathers, cowherds, brāhmaṇas, and other townspeople occupy the centre of the narrative. Whether this distinctive perspective reflects Jayasiṃha Sūri’s own Jain background cannot be stated with certainty. Yet it is striking that the play presents the invasion not merely as a political or religious crisis, but as a profoundly human tragedy. In doing so, the Hammiramadamardana preserves something rarely encountered in medieval Sanskrit literature: not merely the memory of an invasion, but the memory of how that invasion was experienced by ordinary people.

Crushing Hammīra’s Arrogance

The suffering of Mewar does not mark the end of the story. According to the drama, it strengthens Viradhavala’s resolve to confront Hammira and defend Gūrjara-deśa. The political ground for this response had already been prepared by Vastupāla through diplomacy and carefully forged alliances.

The play’s most dramatic episode centres on a daring espionage mission. Tejaḥpāla’s spy, Śighraka, disguises himself as an agent connected with Khapparakhāṇa, a figure whose exact identity remains uncertain. He is said to travel to Bagadādi (Baghdad), where he convinces the Caliph that Hammira has defied his authority. Enraged, the Caliph issues a written order commanding that Hammira be brought before him in fetters. Carrying this order, Śighraka approaches Khapparakhāṇa as the Caliph’s messenger, setting in motion the final blow against Hammira.

Whether this remarkable episode preserves any historical memory is impossible to determine. No known contemporary source records such a mission, and the journey to Baghdad is almost certainly a literary embellishment. Yet the episode reveals how the playwright understood power. Intelligence, diplomacy, and political strategy, rather than military strength alone, are presented as the means by which even a formidable enemy could be overcome.

The strategy succeeds. Khapparakhāṇa’s forces advance from one direction while Viradhavala marches from another, leaving Hammira trapped between two enemies. As the armies close in, Viradhavala challenges his adversary:

“By the grievous sins of destroying women’s unborn children,
brāhmaṇas, and temples,
Hammira has caused immense suffering.
Bent upon a miserable destiny,
does he not seek expiation
by bathing at the tīrtha
of the edge of my sword?”

The challenge is revealing. Viradhavala condemns Hammira not merely as a political rival but as one who has violated the moral order through violence against the innocent and the sacred.

The drama concludes with Hammira’s flight from the battlefield, fulfilling the promise of its title, Hammiramadamardana (“The Crushing of Hammira’s Arrogance”). The historical basis of this episode remains uncertain. Contemporary Persian chronicles do not mention a defeat of Iltutmish in Mewar or Gujarat. Some modern historians have suggested that this silence may reflect an unsuccessful expedition that ended in withdrawal rather than victory, but the evidence remains inconclusive.9 Like many courtly dramas, the Hammiramadamardana undoubtedly reshapes historical events into a literary celebration of its royal patrons.

Why This Drama Still Matters?

The Hammiramadamardana is undoubtedly a courtly drama. It celebrates Viradhavala and honours Vastupāla and Tejaḥpāla. Yet it also preserves something rarely encountered in medieval Sanskrit literature: an extended literary portrayal of how invasion was experienced by those caught in its path. At the same time, it advances a political vision. The rulers of Marudeśa, Mewar, Gūrjara, Mālava, Lāṭa, and Devagiri are portrayed as divided and often in conflict with one another. Within the world of the drama, the fate of Mewar illustrates the dangers of political disunity, while diplomacy and cooperation are presented as the surest means of resisting external threats.

More than eight centuries later, the Hammiramadamardana remains remarkable not simply because it remembers an invasion, but because it imagines what invasion felt like for those who experienced it. Through Kamalaka’s voice, the drama preserves fear alongside courage, grief alongside political ambition, and the suffering of ordinary people alongside the deeds of kings. Whether every scene reflects historical fact or literary imagination, the play offers one of the most powerful portrayals of war in medieval Sanskrit literature. That is what makes this forgotten Sanskrit drama worth reading even today.

━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━

Alok Kumar is from Varanasi, Uttar Pradesh, India. He holds a postgraduate degree in Sanskrit from Chinmaya Vishwa Vidyapeeth, Ernakulam, and is currently a Research Fellow at the Chinmaya International Foundation. His research focuses on Sanskrit literature, particularly historical kāvyas, Sanskrit drama, Indian poetics, and the study of unpublished and lesser-known Sanskrit texts and manuscripts.

Further Reading

• Hammiramadamardana of Jayasiṃha Sūri, ed. Chimanlal D. Dalal, Central Library, Baroda, 1920.

• B. J. Sandesara, Literary Circle of Mahāmātya Vastupāla and Its Contribution to Sanskrit Literature, Bharatiya Vidya Bhavan, 1953.

• Asoke Kumar Majumdar, Chaulukyas of Gujarat: A Survey of the History and Culture of Gujarat from the Middle of the Tenth to the End of the Thirteenth Century, Bharatiya Vidya Bhavan, 1956.

• Gulab Chandra Choudhary, Political History of Northern India from Jain Sources (c. 650 A.D. to 1300 A.D.), Sohanlal Jaindharma Pracharak Samiti, 1954.

• Basile Leclère, “Ambivalent Representations of Muslims in Medieval Indian Theatre,” Studies in History 27, no. 2 (2011): 155–195.

A Gosain Walks into the Council

Warren Hastings, the first Governor-General of Bengal, was a very worried man in the year 1774. While the English East India Company (henceforth EIC) had successfully established its military control over Bengal through the Battle of Buxar in 1764, and legitimized it through the grant of the ‘Diwani’ by Mughal Emperor Shah Alam II in 1765,1 there were several challenges still lying ahead in the path of British expansion in India. Tensions with Mysore, Awadh and the Marathas were recurrent, and the prospect of war with all of them was looming on the horizon.2 News from the American colonies on the other side of the Atlantic was not welcoming either, with the colonists defying British authority through the Boston Tea Party of 1773. Besides harming the legitimacy of the British Parliament, this was a damaging blow to the financial health of the EIC as well,3 for reasons which we shall soon discover.

On 29^th March, 1774, however, Hastings was to receive news which was not directly related to any of these developments. Much to his pleasant surprise, a ‘Hindoostanee pilgrim’ named ‘Porungheer Gossein’ (Purangir Gosain) met him in Council and delivered a letter from the highest authority in Tibet at that time, the Panchen Lama.4 This letter was to change the course of history, for it paved the way for not just the establishment of diplomatic relations between British India and Tibet, but laid the foundations for the future Himalayan policy of the British Raj; which continues to have significant repercussions till this day in the form of Sino-Indian tensions over border disputes.

But why was this letter written, and what was it all about? Why was a Hindu monk, a Gosain, carrying letters for a Buddhist Lama from Tibet?

A Kingdom in Crisis

Cooch Behar, a district currently situated in the extreme north-eastern corner of Bengal in the foothills of the Himalayas, was once a considerable kingdom with an enviable historical legacy. Its founder was Vishwa Singha, the son of a Mech chief and his Koch wife, who established his sway over a vast portion of territory in North-Eastern India – from the foothills of Bhutan to the Karatoya river in the south, from the eastern portions of the Nepalese Terai in the west to the Garo Hills in the east.5 His two sons — Nara Narayan and Shukla Dhwaj (popularly known as Chilarai) — took Cooch Behar to its greatest height. They not only defeated the Afghan Sultanates of Bengal repeatedly and protected the frontiers of the state, they also expanded it by defeating the rulers of the Ahom, Tripuri and Jaintia kingdoms.6 The rise of the Cooch Behar kingdom in the 16^th century was a major political development which shook Eastern and North Eastern India, forcing all major powers in the region, including the mighty Mughal Empire, to take notice.

By the 18^th Century, however, this once mighty dynasty was merely a shadow of its former self. Most of its territory had been lost due to the expansion of the Mughal Empire from the south and the Ahom State from the east.7 This decline had occurred over the course of the 17^th Century, the period in which Bhutan emerged as a militarily and politically unified state under the leadership of Zhabdrung Ngawang Namgyal -- venerated and officially recognized as Bhutan’s founding father.8 As Cooch Behar descended into political chaos due to internecine rivalry among different factions of the ruling family, Bhutan saw an opportunity and exploited the situation by offering support to one faction against the other. For example, in the 1730s, when the incumbent and childless ruler Upendra Narayan (c. 1714-63 CE) refused to announce the name of his nephew Dina Narayan as the future king, Dina Narayan allied with the Nawab of Murshidabad and conspired to take over the kingdom. Upendra was able to thwart this conspiracy and the Nawab’s military, only through the help rendered by the Bhutanese army.9

It is quite evident that the rulers of Cooch Behar had become helplessly dependent upon Bhutan in the late 17^th and 18^th Century for their own defence, and they repaid their debt to Bhutan through substantial territorial concessions in what is now known as the ‘Duars’, roughly corresponding to the Alipurduar and Jalpaiguri districts in today’s West Bengal. Bhutan, therefore, did not just territorially expand; it made Cooch Behar its vassal state. A Bhutanese representative was attached to the Cooch Behar court with a military escort for ostensibly diplomatic purposes, but he actually functioned as an instrument of Bhutan to crush any challenge to Bhutan’s power in Cooch Behar.10

Things came to a head in 1770 CE, when the Raja of Cooch Behar, Dhairjendra Narayan (1765-70, 75-83 CE), had his brother and minister, Ram Narayan, assassinated. Ram Narayan was a trusted ally of Bhutan in the Cooch Behar court, and therefore Bhutan decided to punish the Raja. The Bhutanese forces captured Dhairjendra Narayan along with some of his other ministers. He was taken to Bhutan and imprisoned, and another member of the family, Rajendra Narayan, was coronated as Raja.11 In 1772 CE, even this ruler passed away, and when time came for the installation of a new king, there was a complete breakdown of relations between the two states. While Bhutan favoured the installation of a distant cousin of the deceased king, named Brijedra Narayan, who was in Bhutanese custody and would thereby function effectively as a Bhutanese puppet; the royal family favoured the coronation of Dhairjendra’s son, Dharendra Narayan (1772-75 CE), as the next Raja of Cooch Behar. When the royal family ignored Bhutan and proceeded to implement its wish, a massive Bhutanese army invaded the Cooch Behar kingdom in 1772 CE. The kingdom was captured and a puppet ruler installed on the throne; with the Bhutanese commander acting as the real authority behind the throne. The royal family had to flee Bhutan and take refuge in adjacent Rangpur, which was British-controlled territory. They sought the help of the British for expelling the Bhutanese.12

The Fall of Cooch Behar

The British, following their conquest of Bengal in 1757, had been looking for an opportunity to expand their commercial interests. The Himalayas, as we shall see in the subsequent section, became extremely crucial for the EIC given its vibrant trade and the connectivity it promised with Tibet and China. As a region located in the foothills of the Himalayas, therefore, Cooch Behar became critical to the pursuit of the EIC’s Himalayan policy; this was especially true given Bhutan’s involvement with the conflict. The British hoped that by helping Cooch Behar they might get to open a diplomatic channel with the Himalayan polities like Bhutan and Tibet. Therefore, after a prolonged negotiation, the Anglo-Cooch Behar Treaty was concluded in 1773 CE. As per this treaty, Cooch Behar acknowledged the paramountcy of British power and agreed to fund the British military expedition to evict the Bhutanese. Cooch Behar also agreed to pledge half of its revenues, in perpetuity, to the EIC. In return, the British promised to undertake the responsibility for defending Cooch Behar anytime called upon to do so by the Raja, provided he paid for such future expeditions. Therefore, this treaty ended up making Cooch Behar a subsidiary power, or a protectorate of British India.13

Warren Hastings sent a company of troops under the command of Captain Jones to expel the Bhutanese from Cooch Behar. The ensuing conflict, which is now known as the Anglo-Bhutan War of 1773-74, resulted in a crushing defeat for the Bhutanese,14 who were then forced to rope in the Tibetan Government to mediate in the dispute. The Third Panchen Lama of the Tashilhunpo monastery at Shigatse, who was known to the British as ‘Teshoo Lama’, was the senior-most authority and the Regent in Tibet back then – given Dalai Lama’s minor age.

Named Lobsang Palden Yeshe (1738- 1780 CE),15 this remarkable individual was known for his extensive trade operations and widespread intelligence and diplomatic networks. Quite eager to open up relations with the new and ascending power in India, while also trying to curb their influence in the Himalayan backyard of Tibet, the Panchen Lama wrote to Hastings on behalf of the Bhutanese. Through this letter, which was conveyed to the British by Purangir Gosain, the Panchen Lama agreed with the British view on Bhutan’s conduct and mentioned that he had reprimanded the rulers of Bhutan for the invasion. At the same time, he also sought some reprieve for Bhutan and indicated to the British in a subtle way that Tibet would not tolerate any further British encroachment upon Bhutan’s territory, particularly in the Hills. He presented himself as a peacemaker or arbitrator between both the parties.16

Through this letter, Warren Hastings saw a chance to implement his own ambitious policy. Therefore, at the Tibetan request, he decided to treat the Bhutanese with ‘leniency’. Following this, a treaty was negotiated between Bhutan and the EIC on 25 April, 1774. Under its terms, all lands belonging to Bhutan, which had been conquered by the British during the war, were returned to Bhutan. Bhutan was required to release Dhairyendra Narayan, the former Raja of Cooch Behar. Bhutan also agreed to not encroach upon British territory, or territory under British protection. Finally, the treaty also called for trade to be re-established with the Bhutanese.17

Monks, Merchants, and Mountains

The British desire to open up commercial relations with Bhutan, and thereby with Tibet, can be rightly understood as the driver of its diplomatic and military intervention in the dispute between Cooch Behar and Bhutan. However, without an understanding of this trade and its connections with diplomacy and religion in the first place, we will never be able to comprehend the British efforts to craft its Himalayan policy along such lines.

Cooch Behar and Bhutan enjoyed close relations of trade, diplomacy, and culture in the pre-colonial period. In the 18^th century, there are reports of a grand annual fair taking place in Rangpur (now in Bangladesh), where Bhutanese traders came in caravans to trade with Bengal. The Duars or hill passes, in the foothills of the Himalayas, were used as commercial highways. This fair took place usually in the months of January-April, when it was conducive for the Bhutanese to travel to and from the hills due to the hospitable climate. The Bhutanese imported cotton and silk textiles, spices, tobacco, indigo, dried fish, betel leaf, and areca nuts from Bengal, and exported to Bengal horses, musk, yak tails, gold dust, Tibetan wool, Chinese silk and even silver.18

As can be evident from the list of the commodities that Bhutan exported to Bengal, the products were primarily Tibetan and hence, Bhutan was a crucial carrier of Tibetan trade during this period. This gave rise to a triangular trade between Tibet, Bhutan and Bengal, which was primarily conducted through the current-day Kalimpong District. Tibetan merchants from Lhasa, Shigatse, Gyantse and Phari exchanged products like sheep, ponies, wax, soda, blankets, Chinese tea, salt, wool, musk and yak tails for the Indian products, primarily cotton and silk textiles, which the Bhutanese brought from the plains of Rangpur and Cooch Behar.19

Such trade relations of Bhutan, both with Tibet and Cooch Behar, were closely connected to diplomacy. For example, in 1690, Prince Rupa Narayan (1693-1714 CE) of Cooch Behar visited Bhutan and was officially received by the 4^th Temporal ruler of Bhutan, Tenzin Rabgye, and on this occasion, presents comprising gold, silver, silk and horses were exchanged as a sign of goodwill.20 Bhutanese monks also went to Tibet regularly in search of the reincarnated soul of their spiritual leader, the Zhabdrung or Dharma Raja.21 Such occasions involved trading with the Buddhist monasteries of Tibet, and a colonial official, named Francis Buchanan-Hamilton, speaks of a caravan sent every year by the Deb Raja of Bhutan to Lhasa by which goods to the value of thirty to forty thousand Rupees, chiefly cloth, pearls, and corals from Bengal, were exchanged for tea.22 This tea, in turn, was procured by Tibet from China. In the market town of Xining, on the western frontier of China, Tibetans exchanged their own and Indian products, as listed above, with Chinese tea, silk and porcelain.23 There was a popular culture of tea drinking in Bhutan and Tibet as testified by contemporary British observers.24

This example of Bhutanese trade and diplomacy also shows how religion was connected to the process. Shigatse in Tibet, which is the site of the famous monastery of Tashilhunpo and is also the seat of the Panchen Lama, the second highest religious authority in Tibet after the Dalai Lama, was known for its vibrant trade. It served as a major centre of the Trans-Himalayan trade because of its favourable location, with roads from here connecting Lhasa (the Tibetan capital) with Punakha (the Bhutanese capital) and even the Kerong Valley (Nepal). It was known for its fine bazaar which saw the active presence of merchants from China, Tibet, Bhutan, Central Asia, Nepal, Afghanistan and even Kashmir.25

Similarly, in Cooch Behar, temples and festivals functioned as conduits of trade. For example, during the Shiv Ratri Festival of February/March, a fair was organized in Jalpesh, where the Shiva temple of Jalpeshwar is located. Traders from across North Bengal and Bhutan gathered in the fair and exchanged their commodities, the Bhutanese being particularly known for bringing their ponies, yak tails, blankets, and silver knives for trade.26

Given the presence of Tibetan Buddhist monasteries as active participants in this trade, and the critical role played by Shigatse as a trading entrepot, it was no wonder that one of the protagonists of our story – Lobsang Palden Yeshe (1738-80 CE), the 6^th Panchen Lama of Tibet – took an active interest in it. The trade was important to the Panchen Lama not just for the revenue it yielded to him; it also gave him an incentive and a conduit to conduct diplomacy with several polities. For example, he was in active correspondence with Chait Singh, the ruler of Varanasi, with whom he maintained diplomatic channels via two Gosain monks, named Gosain Kishenpuri and Sobha Ram.

The Panchen Lama was interested in the Buddhist holy site of Bodh Gaya and had a commercial interest; besides, he wanted to gain information about the new political developments in India, like the rise of the British power. Chait Singh was equally eager to balance both the British and the Gorkhas to survive politically, and reap dividends from the pilgrim and commercial traffic.27 Singh’s rebellion against the British in 1781, which resulted in the British losing control over the Varanasi region for some time, reveals his political acumen in the face of adversity.28 We witness the same diplomatic skills in the Panchen Lama, who was adept in conducting diplomacy with both the British and the Chinese Qing Empire.

The Secret Lives of Hindu Monks

On the Indian side, the Hindu Gosain monks closely paralleled the role played by Buddhist monasteries in this trans-Himalayan trade. Widely known for going on pilgrimages to sites across the subcontinent, especially during ritual occasions like Kumbh Mela, the Gosain monks were not mere spiritual mendicants. As part of the wider network of Dasnamis who are more popularly known as Naga Sanyasis,29 they carried out extensive trade and commerce during their pilgrimages.30 Their extensive travels and contacts, moreover, gave them knowledge about different societies and polities – which could be utilized for purposes of both political and military intelligence, as well as for diplomatic negotiations.

GW Forrest, British official and historian, who edited three volumes of documents related to the foreign policy of the early colonial state, described the Sanyasis in similar terms as follows:

The Tibetan monastic heads, like the Dalai Lama and the Panchen Lama of Shigatse, recognized the immense potential of the Gosains and lavishly granted them hospitality. When the British initiated contact with the Tibetans, for example, they saw that “no less than 300 Hindoos, Goseins, and Sunniasses” were fed daily by the Panchen Lama.32 Therefore, if the British were to establish commercial relations with Tibet and China, they had to resort to the help of Gosains and the Lamas who could be the only crucial intermediaries in such affairs.

The Rise of Purangir Gosain

The British were aware of the Trans-Himalayan trade from the moment they set foot in the Indian subcontinent. The EIC perceived it as an alternative source of revenue to redress the adverse balance of the China trade.33 The increase in consumption of tea in Britain from 100 lbs in 166434 to 22 million lbs by 1800,35 and the lack of any demand in China for British products which were being manufactured in greater quantities due to the Industrial Revolution, resulted in a massive outflow of silver to pay for this Chinese tea.36 The EIC, which had a monopoly over the China trade, realized that to prevent the outflow of silver they could either come up with a product that the Chinese needed, or, they could gain the silver from other sources. A need was also felt for establishing direct diplomatic relations with the Imperial Court in Peking (current-day Beijing) to negotiate favourable trade concessions at the port of Canton. Access to the Trans-Himalayan trade and the interior markets of China could be a catalyst to both these processes.37

This realisation convinced the Court of Directors of the EIC of the need for opening some kind of commercial and diplomatic relation with the hill states which lay on Bengal’s northern frontier. In 1771, the Court of Directors approved EIC’s plan for participating in the Trans-Himalayan trade and suggested ways through which the markets in places like Northern Bengal and Assam could be utilized to find a market for British products, like broadcloth, copper, iron, lead, etc., in Bhutan and Tibet.38

Purangir Gosain was one of the few individuals who could enable the British to implement this program. His life provides an insight into the activities and nature of Sanyasis in 18^th Century India. As his name indicates, he was initiated into the Giri sect of Dasnami Sanyasis, who also are known by the honorific Gosain;39 and some historians have argued that he probably came somewhere from the Gangetic Plains and was initiated into the order at Joshi Math in present-day Uttarakhand.40 He probably became acquainted with the Panchen Lama through his pilgrimage and trading activities in Tibet, because of which, he was chosen as the emissary through whom the Panchen Lama wrote the letter to Warren Hastings. Purangir not only fulfilled his mission, but subsequently guided the Bogle (1774-75), Hamilton (1776-77) and Turner (1783-84) Missions to Bhutan and Tibet. These missions were both diplomatic and commercial in nature, for the EIC hoped to not just establish a secure frontier with its Himalayan neighbours but to also expand commercial opportunities by trading with them. No one could have been better in guiding such missions other than a Gosain, who possessed these diplomatic and trading connections. Commenting on Purangir Gosain’s abilities, Samuel Turner, who was appointed to lead the 1783-84 Mission to Tibet, made the following observations:

Purangir’s success was so phenomenal that he even accompanied the Panchen Lama in 1779-80 to Beijing, in order to make representations on behalf of the British to the Chinese Emperor Qianlong;42 and he led a commercial mission to Tibet in 1785 as a British envoy in his own right.43 The amount of trust that he gathered from both sides is evident in the fact that when the British gave land to the Tibetans near Calcutta for construction of a monastery and dormitory for Buddhist traders and pilgrims coming to India, the responsibility of maintenance of the property was vested in Purangir Gosain.44 Till his death in 1795, which occurred during a raid on the monastery by a band of dacoits, Purangir remained dedicated to the diplomatic and commercial responsibilities that he was entrusted with by both the Tibetans and the British.45

The First Briton in Tibet

The achievement of the successive missions which were sent by Warren Hastings to Tibet were modest but nevertheless significant. The objective of these missions was to open trade and communications with Bhutan, and through it, if possible, with Lhasa. In the process, these Missions also ended up revealing much about the geography and society of the Himalayas to the Europeans, many of whom were not even sure about the exact location of Tibet and its contours. George Bogle’s Mission, which set out for Tibet in May 1774, and reached the Panchen Lama’s palace in December 1774, was the most remarkable from this perspective.

Though other Europeans had been to Tibet, this was arguably the first interaction of the British with Tibet. Bogle remained in Tibet for five months. The Lama was interested in all that Bogle had to tell of the outside world, especially about the rise of British power in India and the scientific and technical developments of Europe. Bogle, in turn, was impressed by the sanctity and wisdom of the Lama, particularly his keen knowledge of political affairs and trade. Building this relationship was the greatest achievement of Bogle’s mission.46 The Panchen Lama’s mediation was crucial in reviving the Indo-Tibetan trade, particularly in terms of convincing the Bhutanese to effectively play their role as intermediaries. As a result of this mission, a commercial treaty was signed between EIC and Bhutan in 1775 CE, allowing Indian merchants to freely travel through Bhutan while moving from Bengal to Tibet, and vice versa. As an additional concession to Bhutan, the EIC promised that no European merchants will be allowed to enter Bhutan.47

Bogle’s Mission and the new commercial treaty, therefore, ignited a warm phase in Anglo-Bhutanese and Anglo-Tibetan relations. The rapport which Bogle had established with the Panchen Lama of Tibet and the Deb Raja of Bhutan pleased Hastings, and he was determined to sustain the momentum. This was evident in the grant of land to the Tibetans near Calcutta, which was placed in charge of Purangir Gosain as we have already discussed. In 1779, Bogle was sent to Shigatse for a second time, not so much in the immediate hope of improving Indo-Tibetan trade than to exploit the relationship existing between the Panchen Lama and the Emperor of China. The Panchen Lama tried to intercede on behalf of the British with the Chinese Emperor during his visit to China next year, with Purangir as a representative of the EIC. However, the Panchen Lama died in China in 1780, and the following year Bogle, whose friendship with the Panchen Lama had given Hastings hope that this would open the door to Lhasa, also died.48

Despite the loss of an experienced man like Bogle, Hastings’ policy towards the Himalayan states did not radically change. In 1783, on the occasion of the installation of the new Panchen Lama, Samuel Turner was despatched to Shigatse, along with Purangir Gosain, and entrusted to carry the good wishes of the Company.49 On his return, and acting on his advice, Hastings circulated an advertisement inviting Indian merchants to join in an ‘adventure’ in trade with Tibet through Bhutan. The party of merchants were asked to assemble in Rangpur in February 1785, with goods likely to find a suitable market in Tibet. In 1785 the ‘adventure’ took place under the leadership of Purangir Gosain, and from it a reasonably profitable trade resulted. By the time the merchants and Purangir Gosain returned to India to report on the success of their venture, Hastings had already left for England.50

Even after the departure of Hastings, the EIC did not give up its attempts of establishing a commercial and diplomatic relationship with Tibet. The possibility for opening up direct contacts with China was increasing gradually, and this is evident from the fact that in 1789 there was a proposal to send Purangir Gosain to China with instructions for “obtaining either the seed or plant of the Tea, with promise of a suitable reward in case of success in procuring the proper kind and delivering it in a state of vegetation to the Chief at Rungpoor, and if possible, with a native practised in the cultivation.”51

And the Doors Closed…

Unfortunately, these developments were impeded by the Tibet-Gurkha War of 1788-92. The war led to Chinese power expanding in the Himalayas, after the Tibetans appealed to Peking for help.52 The Tibetans had initially appealed to the EIC for help, keeping in mind the promises of friendship and cooperation that had been made by the previous British Missions, but the incumbent Governor-General, Lord Cornwallis, refused to be dragged into a potential Himalayan war for fear of antagonizing the Gurkhas.53 The consequences of these geopolitical developments were to the disadvantage of British diplomacy. The Chinese were able to defeat Nepal and make it their tributary.54 Moreover, the Chinese suspected the British of having helped the Gurkhas while the Tibetans resented the lack of help from the British side. The Chinese also managed to establish a series of military posts along the Himalayas, thereby causing a decisive shift in the political alignment of the Himalayan states, including Bhutan.55

As a result of these developments, the Indo-Tibetan trade came to a complete halt. Suspicious of British intentions, the Chinese blocked the passage of Indian goods and travellers through the Himalayan passes which were now under Chinese control. Even the Hindu Gosains, who had been so active in the Trans-Himalayan trade and enjoyed much respect from the Buddhist establishment, were seen as British spies and thereby barred from entering Tibet.56

Though the early efforts of the EIC at establishing commercial relations with Tibet failed due to such developments, the Missions and, most importantly, the actions of Purangir Gosain himself, continued to remain invaluable for the future formulation of the British Raj’s policy on the Himalayas. Without having access to critical information on the geography, society and even politics of these regions through local intermediation, the British could never have ‘explored’ the Himalayas.

━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━

Sukrit Banerjee is from Kolkata, West Bengal, India. He is currently pursuing PhD in Modern History from Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi. His research focuses on the process of colonial border making and frontier policy in the Eastern Himalayas from 1772-1947.

Bibliography

Primary Sources (Unpublished)

• National Archives of India (NAI), External Affairs, 1864, File No. 198, ‘Letter from Ashley Eden, late Envoy to Bhutan, to HM Durand, Secretary to Govt. of India, Foreign Dept.’, 20^th July, 1864.

• NAI, Bengal Public Consultation No. 17 of 13 Jan. 1790, enclosing Lt.-Col. R. Kyd to E. Hay, 21^st Dec. 1789.

• West Bengal State Archives, Govt. of Bengal, Revenue Department, August 1868, Pro. No. 96.

Primary Sources (Published)

• Munshi Joynath Ghosh, Rajopakhyan or The History of Kooch Behar, Translated by R Robinson, Baptist Mission Press, Calcutta, 1874.

• CU Aitchison, A Collection of Treaties, Engagements and Sanads: Relating to India and Neighbouring Countries, Vol. 2, Office of the Superintendent of Government Printing, Calcutta, 1929.

• CR Markham (Ed.), Narratives of the Mission of George Bogle to Tibet, Trubner and Company, London, 1876.

• RH Phillimore (Ed.), Historical Records of the Survey of India, Vol. I (18^th Century), Surveyor General of India, Dehradun, 1945.

• GW Forrest (Ed.), Selections from the Despatches, Letters and other State Papers preserved in the Foreign Department of the Govt. of India (1772-1785), Vol. I, Superintendent of Government Printing, Calcutta, 1890.

• Kishen Kant Bose, An Account of Bootan (1816), Translated by D Scott, in Political Missions to Bootan, Calcutta Secretariat Press, Calcutta, 1865.

• Samuel Turner, An Account of an Embassy to the Court of Teshoo Lama in Tibet, W Bulmer and Co., London, 1800.

• John F Gruning, Eastern Bengal and Assam District Gazetteers: Jalpaiguri, Pioneer Press, Allahabad, 1911.

Secondary Sources

• Sekhar Bandyopadhyay, From Plassey to Partition and After: A History of Modern India (2^nd Edition), Orient Blackswan, 2015.

• Nick Robins, The East India Company: The World’s Most Powerful Corporation, Pluto Press, 2012.

• Karma Phuntsho, The History of Bhutan, Penguin Random House, 2013.

• Luciano Petech, ‘The Missions of Bogle and Turner According to the Tibetan Texts’, Toung Pao (Brill), Vol. 39, No. 1, 1950.

• GD Bysack, ‘Notes on a Buddhist Monastery at Bhot Bagan in Howrah’, Journal of the Asiatic Society of Bengal, Issue No. 1, 1890.

• Alastair Lamb, Britain and Chinese Central Asia: The Road to Lhasa, 1767-1905, Routledge and Kegan Paul, London, 1960.

• Roy Moxham, A Brief History of Tea: The Extraordinary Story of the World’s Favourite Drink, Constable and Robinson, London, 2003.

• Jadunath Sarkar, A History of Dasnami Naga Sanyasis, Sri Panchayati Akhara Mahanirvani, Allahabad.

• Bernard S. Cohn, “The Role of the Gosains in the Economy of Eighteenth and Nineteenth Century Upper India,” The Indian Economic and Social History Review, Vol. 1, Issue No. 4, 1964.

• Françoise Pommaret, ‘Ancient Trade Partners: Bhutan, Cooch Bihar and Assam (17^th-19^th Centuries)’, Journal Asiatique, Vol. 287, 1999.

A disfigured and grotesque corpse of an old man lay suspended from the walls of Madurai, inviting relentless, buzzing swarms of flies around its rotting form. The corpse bore the marks of an unimaginable cruelty and torture inflicted upon the helpless old man before his breath was stolen. His flesh had been meticulously flayed from his bones and his organs were hollowed out of its abdomen and crudely stuffed with coarse straw before being roughly stitched back together. Pinned on the city walls like a horrific war trophy, it was tied with a heavy rope and left to swing mercilessly in the air.

Ibn Battuta, who stumbled upon this agonizing spectacle in 1342, recoiled in absolute horror and revulsion. Yet, beneath the flies and the straw lay a terrible truth buried in a long layered history carried by the mutilated body. This helpless skeleton was none other than Vira Ballala III, the last sovereign of the Hoysala Empire, who had perished fighting the Madurai Sultan, Ghiyath-ud-din Shah, during the catastrophic Battle of Kannanur.

It was a shattering end for a man who belonged to the proud Hoysala dynasty, a royal house that had ruled a majestic realm stretching from the banks of the Krishna River in the north all the way down to the sacred lands of Srirangam in the south during its heydays. Yet the last great monarch of the Hoysalas was denied even a funeral pyre, his body was left hanging instead as a trophy of conquest and a warning to the conquered. The same dynasty that had raised the unrivalled temples of Somnathpura, Belur, and Halebidu, architectural wonders that no neighbouring power could match, failed to save its own king from this fate. This is the story of that fall: How the Hoysalas, for all their splendour, met an adversary sharper and more resolute than themselves, and vanished from the history of peninsular India.

Strike it, Sala!: The Origins

The Hoysalas began as a hill-dwelling group living in the Malenadu region of Karnataka. They rose into prominence during the 10th century as attraction for a settled life in the plains arose in their heart. They started taking control of the plain area, limiting themselves to the region of South Karnataka in their initial days. However, the rustic hill-leaders soon gained prominence over the local farmers and merchants of the plains. As fortune smiled on them, they claimed illustrious descent from the legendary Yadu declaring themselves as belonging to the legendary Yadava race and referred to themselves as “Lords of the excellent city of Dvaravati (Dwaraka)”.

The historical record of the Hoysala’s early phase is obscure but one legend appears in every account of their origin. It went on to become the defining feature of Hoysala temple architecture. The tale is related to a heroic deed of king Sala, believed to be the founder of the dynasty. When the young prince named Sala was studying under a Jain guru at Sosavur (Saśakapura), in the modern day Chikamagalur district in modern-day Karnataka, a fierce tiger attacked the hermitage. The Jain ascetic handed Sala a rod or wand, commanding in Old Kannada: “Hoy, Sala!” (“Strike, Sala!”)1. Sala struck and killed the beast, and the family adopted this as their name and emblem. The sculpture depicting Sala slaying the tiger can be seen in almost every temple built by the Hoysalas.

The Destroyer of Dhara

After the demise of the mighty Rahstrakutas, Western Chalukyas became the dominant power in southern India under their ambitious king Tailapa. The Hoysalas served them as loyal vassals in their early years, fighting to expand their overlords’ frontiers. During these years, one of the major military feats most celebrated in Hoysala records, was sacking of the Paramara capital of Dhara, near Ujjain in modern-day Madhya Pradesh. This daring raid was led by Hoysala prince Ereyanga, son of Vinayaditya, on the orders of Chalukyan monarch Someshvara II who was facing a military threat from his northern neighbour Jayasiṃha, the successor to the celebrated Paramara King Bhoja of Malava.

Ereyanga marched his battle-hardened Kannadiga forces out of the Mysorean plateau traversing the Deccan to reach the Paramara capital of Dhara situated almost 800 miles north of the Hoysala homeland. He successfully laid siege to the fortress, breached its defences and razed it to ground. It was not a small feat as Dhara was considered an almost impregnable fortress and the ultimate “pride of Bhoja”. This spectacular exploit broke the back of the Paramara offensive and provided the absolute foundation for the Hoysala military reputation across the medieval peninsula. This daring exploit was celebrated in several Hoysala inscriptions, the spectacular triumph was echoed in an inscription, thus2:

Ereyanga was crowned king of Hoysalas after the demise of his father Vinayaditya, but his reign was short-lived and he died in 1102. His death coincided with the final collapse of the old, cautious policy of remaining a passive vassal under the Western Chalukyas. Emboldened by their growing military might, Hoysalas began to entertain the temptation of being an independent and sovereign power. However, the Chalukyas of Kalyani were still strong enough to prevent any such misadventure. They grew increasingly wary of the rising Hoysala power.

The first attempt to shake off Chalukyan allegiance came under Vishnuvardhana, son of Ereyanga, who ruled the Hoysala territories until 1142. He liberated the southern plateau of the Kuntala country from the centuries-old yoke of the Tamil Cholas in 1116, defeating the Chola forces in battle of Talakad. The Hoysala army completely routed the Chola commander and Vishnuvardhana proudly assumed the title of Talakadu-gonda (“Taker of Talakad”) and minted gold coins celebrating the victory. He marched further east and captured Avani, Kolalapura (Kolar), and Nangali expanding the Hoysala frontier. It appeared that the Hoysalas were now formidable enough to assert their complete sovereignty.

However, with the death of Vishnuvardhana, Hoysala’s ambitions were plagued by passivity and dejection. The new monarch, Narasimha I, lacked the military foresight required to carry forward his father’s legacy. His reign was a deeply disappointing period marked by internal unrest, feebleness, and deference. Naramsimha’s son, Vira Ballala II, was so annoyed by his father’s meekness that he launched a rebellion against him in 1173. He raised a massive independent militia, marched on the capital, and forced his aged father to abdicate.

The Refuge of the Entire Earth

The reign of Vira Ballala II was arguably the golden period for the Hoysala dynasty. He played a patient game of diplomacy with the Chalukyas. When the last Chalukyan monarch Someshwara IV proved entirely incompetent and feeble, the Maratha dynasty of the Sevunas (Yadavas of Devagiri in modern day Maharashtra), who were earlier vassals to the Chalukyas, threw off the vassalage and annexed their capital, driving the weak Emperor into permanent retirement.

The decline of Chalukyas proved to be a boon for Hoysalas, but they were soon threatened by the mighty Yadavas of Devagiri, under their king Bhillama V, who sought to claim sovereignty over the Kuntala country. Bhillama marched his large army towards the Tungbhadra river to seal off the northern Karnataka region. Ballala II marched north to meet them which led to a pitched battle between two former vassals of the Chalukyas near the village of Soratur, in Gadag district. The Hoysala forces completely crushed the Yadavas, and Ballala II pursued the retreating yadava general all the way till Lokkingundi, in Gadag district. Following this triumph, Ballala II crowned himself as sovereign of the independent Hoysala empire and assumed a grand title befitting an independent Emperor: Samasta-Bhuvanāśraya (“Refuge of the Entire Earth”).3 He established Dwarasamudra as the undisputed capital of the Karnataka Empire, asserting supreme rule over the entire territory spanning from the Arabian Sea across to the Raichur doab, with the Krishna River serving as his recognized northern imperial boundary.

A Kingdom Divided

The rising fortunes of the dynasty fell into slumber with the death of Vira Ballala II. The declining Chola power enticed the Hoysalas towards the Tamil plains, where they began meddling in the bitter rivalries between Cholas and Pandyas, often providing military support to the former. The Hoysala king, Someshwara, found himself so drawn to his Tamil territories that he established a new capital at Kannanur, in Tiruchirapalli district. Before his death, he divided his vast kingdom between his two sons. The Southern/Eastern Kingdom centered around Kannanur, comprising Tamil Plains was given to his son Ramanatha. Meanwhile, the traditional home-lands of the Hoysalas, governed from the old capital of Dwarasamudra, was given to his other son Narasimha III.

The division proved catastrophic for the Hoysala dynasty, triggering a prolonged civil war among the two brothers. The conflict took a toll on the empire’s military strength, prompting several ambitious chieftains to launch open rebellions. The reign of Narasimha III was marked by gradual rupture of the Hoysala authority. He died in September 1291, passing a fractured and economically exhausted kingdom to his 28-year-old son, Vira Ballala III.

Vira Ballala III, the protagonist of our story, was a youthful and resilient king who achieved the reunification of his empire. He united the Tamil plains of the Hoysalas with their ancestral region centred at Dwarasamudra without a bloody confrontation in 1301. Ballala III must have felt an immense sense of pride in this feat, perhaps believing that the glorious days of the Hoysala dynasty were finally returning. However, little did he realize that the ultimate fate of his kingdom was already being decided by a rapidly changing political landscape far to the north in Delhi.

Coming of the Storm

The new Sultan of Delhi, Alauddin Khalji had raided the Devagiri(present-day Daulatabad in Maharashtra) kingdom in 1296, acquiring enormous wealth that ultimately helped him to overthrow his aged uncle and crown himself emperor. He was informed that the southern kingdoms had accumulated vast fortunes within their temples and palaces. He ordered his trusted slave general, Malik Kafur, to launch an invasion against the Yadavas of Devagiri. Malik Kafur crushed the Yadavas and laid their country to waste, gaining enormous wealth from the defeated monarch. He again returned to Southern India in 1310, this time striking the Kakatiyas of Warangal. After a prolonged siege, the Kakatiyas(present-day Telangana), led by Pratap Rudra, finally submitted to the might of Khaljis. He surrendered his entire accumulated ancestral treasury, 100 strong war-elephants, 12,000 horses, and agreed to transmit a heavy annual tribute (Jizya) to Delhi. Malik Kafur once again marched back north with an immense booty laden on hundreds of camels.

Following the subjugation of Yadavas of Devagiri and Kakatiyas of Warangal, the Hoysalas remained the only dominant power in southern India that had not yet encountered the Khalji menace. The northern borders of the Hoysalas kingdom were unprotected and even after the fall of their neighbours Vira Ballala III failed to make any adequate preparation for the defence of his capital. He seemed to be unaware of the developments taking place in his vicinity and made no efforts to enhance either his strategic intelligence or defence. The inevitable campaign was about to come. Alauddin ordered Malik Kafur to once again march into the deep south to strip the independent Hindu kingdoms of their legendary temple wealth.

At this precise juncture, the Hoysala Emperor Vira Ballala III had marched his main army south into the Tamil plains to exploit a bloody civil war raging between the Pandya brothers, Sundara and Vira Pandya. In doing so, he displayed clear military ineptitude and was caught completely off guard. Upon hearing that Malik Kafur was marching towards Dwarasamudra, he immediately rushed back towards his capital, but it was too late. Though Ballala III managed to reach his capital in time, his main army was still stationed faraway in the Tamil plains. After a rapid 12-day journey from Devagiri, Malik Kafur reached Dwarasamudra on 26 February, 1311. He promptly besieged the local fort which was surrounded by a large protective water body. Ballala’s officers urged him to put up a fight, but the king, upon learning that the invading Muslim army had already subdued every other monarch on his frontier, decided to opt for diplomacy.

Spare My Janeu

Ballala was left with no viable choice but to surrender, knowing that resistance would mean the trampling of his temples and the potential extinction of the imperial family. Helpless, he sent his ambassador to the Muslim camp offering submission. Malik Kafur offered few terms to the Hoysalas king: they could accept Islam, or they could pay a tribute (Jizya) under the protection of the state (zimmah). If they accepted neither of these choices, they would be killed. Mortified by the idea of abandoning the faith of his ancestors, Ballala agreed to pay all his accumulated wealth and an annual tribute to the Muslim monarch. The old king, who was now nearing 50 years of age, spoke meekly to Malik Kafur, “I will keep nothing except my Hindu faith and the sacred thread (zunnar), which I wear round my body.”4 To ratify the peace treaty, son of Vira Ballala traveled to Delhi. Alauddin treated the Hoysala crown prince with leniency and returned him with robes of honour in 1313.

The primary objective of Malik Kafur was completed, he left Dwarasamudra and marched further south to Malabar, but the fate of Hoysalas was effectively sealed. This sudden raid produced abject terror among all Hindu kingdoms in southern India. Such incursions became frequent, and succeeding muslim monarchs continually crossed the Vindhyas to replenish their depleted coffers. The Hoysalas, like their neighbours, were unable to face the wrath of mobile Muslim cavalry that danced down from Delhi time and again. The obsolete defence techniques and the geographical advantage could no longer be used to protect the rich domains of the south.

The house of Khaljis fell into great confusion after the death of Alauddin, and for some years, the troublesome raids into southern India ceased. Veer Ballala III utilized this opportunity to rebuild his capital which had faced destruction during the siege in 1311, and dedicated himself to restoring law and order throughout his kingdom. He may have believed that the northern menace was drawing to a close, but this was far from the case.

The Tughlaqs, who rose into prominence after the fall of Khaljis, could not afford to lose the lucrative wealth that Southern India promised. Muhammad bin Tughlaq ascended the throne of Delhi in 1325 and fundamentally altered the policy that Alauddin had previously maintained toward the southern peninsula. Unlike the Khaljis, who were content to leave the southern kingdoms in possession of their dominions so long as they acknowledged the suzerainty of Delhi, Tughlaq followed the policy of exterminating Hindu rule in the south. He annexed Devagiri completely and renamed it to Daulatabad. He also conquered Warangal and got rid of the Kakatiya rule bringing the Telangana region under the direct administration of Delhi. The Hoysalas remained the only prominent Hindu power left in the south that had not been entirely wiped, though considerably weakened by recurring raids.

The Skin of a Rebel

Southern India was in a state of utter chaos and tumult by this time. Muhammad bin Tughlaq had established several Muslim garrisons in all prominent cities of the region. Veer Ballala III, who was over 60 by then, must have been thoroughly exhausted as he was constantly changing his location to save himself from the imperial wrath. He exercised caution, but he nevertheless was caught amidst a political storm that directly embroiled him with the Tughlaq sultan. In 1326–27, Malik Bahadur Gurshasp, a high-ranking officer in the army of Delhi, broke into open rebellion against Sultan Muḥammad bin Tughluq. After being soundly defeated by the Sultan’s general, Khwaja Jahan, Gurshasp fled southwards across the Tungabhadra River to the mountain state of Kampli, located in northern Karnataka, where Kampiladeva received him with open arms and granted him political asylum. The Sultan’s imperial army swiftly pursued the rebel, completely investing the royal forces at the strategic hill-fortress of Kummata. Recognizing that his garrison was on the verge of starvation, the fiercely honourable Kampiladeva ordered the palace women to commit sati and arranged for Gurshasp to be conveyed via a secret route to the Hoysala court, assuring him that King Vira Ballala III would protect him.

Kampiladeva then rushed out into the battlefield to perish heroically, and his historic fortress was entirely demolished by the imperial forces. When the fugitive Gurshasp arrived at the Hoysala court, Vira Ballala III was too terrified of the overwhelming destructive power of the Tughluq army to assume the dangerous responsibility of keeping him. He knew that if he chose to offer refuge to the rebels, his clan would face complete annihilation. He arrested Gurshasp and returned him in chains to the advancing Tughlaq general. Thus betrayed, the captive Gurshasp was escorted back to Delhi where he met a ghastly and brutal end. He was flayed alive, his skin was stuffed with straw to be paraded across the provinces, and his cooked flesh was served to his own traumatized wife and children.

The cruel actions of Muhammad bin Tughlaq deeply terrorized his own governors, ultimately backfiring as rebellions broke out in several of his distant provinces. The powerful Muslim governor of Malabar Jalaluddin Ahsan Shah, revolted in 1335 and established the Madurai Sultanate as an independent Muslim power in the deep south. Exploiting the vast, six-month traveling distance from Delhi and the domestic distractions plaguing the Tughlaq central government, Ahsan Shah established himself at Madurai and began ruling the southernmost parts of Tamil land. This expansion brought him into direct, inevitable confrontation with the Hoysala ruler Vira Ballala III, who still controlled large portions of northern Tamil Nadu.

The Final Struggle

Ballala saw a final hope to revive the fortune of his illustrious lineage, he started making arrangements to completely banish the muslim yoke from southern India. Repeated destructive Tughluq invasions left the ancestral capital of Dvarasamudra heavily fractured and ruined. The presence of a strong Muslim garrison in Maharashtra prevented him from any northward expansion. Though now nearing eighty years of age, Ballala still dreamt of recapturing the golden days of his dynasty. He decided to leave his ancestral capital and shifted to Tiruvannamalai, in Tamil Nadu, to deal with the growing power of the Madurai Sultanate. He started making extensive military preparations to prepare for a final struggle with the Madurai Sultan. Ballala had lived a long and full life, witnessing the sudden upheavals that had taken southern India by surprise. He must have cherished the memories of his ancestors and heard stories of the great exploits of Hoysala king Ballala II. The enduring prestige of his clan was motivating him to undertake a major military expedition at the age of eighty.

Ibn Batutta provides us with a vivid description of the confrontation between Veer Ballala III and the Madurai Sultan Ghiyath-ud-din Shah, as he visited Madurai shortly after the battle. He informs us that Veera Ballala Deva laid siege to the fortress of Cobban (Koppam), one of the grandest and strongest positions the Madurai Sultanate held on the Coromandel Coast. His objective was to retake the entire coastal area from the Sultanate. Hoysala’s army heavily outnumbered the Muslim garrison inside the fort and the victory appeared well within their reach.

He is the Hindu King!

Ballala held the siege tenaciously for ten months and ultimately the garrison’s provisions had dwindled to fourteen days’ supply. The besieged defenders wrote desperately to Sultan Ghiyath-ud-din, pleading for reinforcements. Ballala, sensing their desperation, offered them a truce. He promised a safe conduct out of the town for the Muslim garrison in exchange for the peaceful surrender of the fort, granting them a duration of two weeks to consider the proposal. The besieged soldiers referred the terms of the truce to the sultan at Madurai through a letter. The letter was read out and the Muslim soldiers wept after knowing the hardships faced by their brethren at the hand of Balalla. They knew that if Ballala succeeded in capturing the fort, he would soon march upon Madurai itself. They resolved to sacrifice their lives for victory and marched swiftly toward the fortress of Koppam near Kannanur.

Meanwhile, Ballala’s vast military camp lay carefree during their afternoon rest, having sent their horses out to graze. The Hoysala soldiers stumbled out in disorder after seeing the massive muslim army advancing toward them. They mistaken the imperial army for regular robbers. The Hoysala army was quickly overwhelmed, and chaos prevailed throughout the camp as soldiers fled to save their lives. When the Madurai Sultan himself arrived at the vanguard of his force, the Hoysala army sustained the worst defeat in its history.

Veer Balalla III attempted to mount his horse and escape, but Nasiruddin, the Sultan’s nephew, overtook him and would have killed him on the spot, not knowing who he was. Perhaps such a swift end would have been fortunate for the old king. Instead, a slave yelled out: “He is the Hindu King!”5. Ballala was taken alive to Ghiyath-ud-din who received him with apparent consideration and promised his release. However, the cruel Sultan had other motives. After extorting the king’s remaining wealth, elephants and horses, the Sultan had him killed and flayed. His skin was stuffed with straw and the old king was hung upon the walls of Madurai where Ibn Battuta later saw it suspended.

The Father of Shiva

Thus ended the illustrious house of Hoysalas, a dynasty once renowned for its immense wealth and architectural splendour. Veer Ballala III was survived by his son, who ruled for a short and turbulent reign, but the execution of Ballala III dealt the ultimate fatal blow to the Hoysalas. They would never recover from this shock. Today, they are remembered primarily for their magnificent temples that continue to amaze visitors, though few are aware of the tragic fate that befell the last monarch of the family that built those sacred shrines.

Yet, even after several centuries, King Ballala still lingers in the popular memory of the people through architecture and rituals. Veera Ballala III built the Vallala Maharaja Gopuram, an ornamental gateway, between 1328 and 1331 CE in Arunachaleshwar Temple in Thiruvannmallai. A statue of him still stands inside that gateway and flowers are offered to the great king every day. This is a remarkable instance of a medieval warrior-king receiving devotional honour.

He survived in the legendary imagination that still honours him in the environs of Thiruvannmallai. The Arunachala Puranam, composed two centuries after his death, tells that the ageing king, victorious in a hundred battles yet troubled by the absence of a worthy heir, was visited by a wandering ascetic who was Siva himself in disguise. The god, moved by his devotion, appeared briefly as an infant in the queen’s arms before vanishing and promised him: “I myself became your son. Hence, at the time of your death, I will perform the vedic ritual for you.” It is a vow the temple has never allowed to lapse. Every year, in the month of Masi (February), the priests of the Arunachaleswara Temple still gather to announce anew the death of King Vallalan, and his image is borne in procession to the village of Pallikonda Pattu, where Lord Shiva himself had once presided over his funeral rites.

Nearly seven centuries after his flayed body hung from the walls of Madurai, the warrior-king who defied sultanates and held the dharma against the tide of empire has not been reduced to an inscription on stone. He lives in our long memory as a king so profoundly beloved that Shiva himself fulfils his ancient promise year after year, performing a father’s rites, honouring the fallen monarch amidst the same mountains and temples he died to protect.

Acknowledgement note: I am grateful to Dr. Jay Vardhan Singh, PhD in Ancient Indian History from Jawaharlal Nehru University, for his generous help in locating valuable sources on the Hoysala dynasty. His insights and fascinating anecdotes on the expansion of Muslim rule into the Deep South added considerable depth and richness to this article.

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Pushkar Chaudhary is from Bihar, India. He is currently pursuing M.A. in Persian Language from Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi. He takes a keen interest in Indo-Persian literature, socio-religious movements, identity formation, and Indic historical narratives. He has built a substantial body of research grounded in primary sources, archival study, and multilingual scholarship across Hindi, English, Urdu, and Persian.

Further Readings

• South India and her Muhammadan Invaders by S Krishnaswami Aiyangar (1921)

• The Early Muslim Expansion in South India by N Venkataramanyya (1942)

• The Hoysalas: A Medieval Indian Royal Family by J Duncan M Derrett (1957)

• The Hoysala Vamsha by William Coelho (1949)

• Karnataka through the Ages by RR Diwakar (1968)

• The Hoysala Dynasty by B Sheikh Ali (1972)

• Khazainul Futuh, translated with notes by Muhammad Habib (1931)

• History of Khaljis by Kishori Sharan Lal (1950)

• History of the Rise of Mohamedan Power in India by John Briggs (1829)

• The Rehla of Ibn Batutta, translated by Mahdi Husain (1953)

  Footnotes

I remember that when I was a small kid, I used to narrate a brief account of Rāmāyaṇa for all the guests who came to our home. My mother narrated it to me once, and it became an inherited memory. A long civilisational memory that has stayed with me since then in multiple ways and practices. As individual memory acts as a guide for the individual, civilisational memories are a compendium of experiences and realisations from hundreds of millions of people who have lived before us. They reach us as generational lessons and (in our case) rituals that have filtered through the cruel sieve of the past. Eminent scholar Vidyaniwas Mishra notes that the characters in Itihāsa-Purāṇa narratives are not merely historical figures; rather, they become ‘Bhāva Puruṣa-s’ for eternity. They live among us, for we do not celebrate the birthdays of Rāma and Kṛṣṇa. Rāma and Kṛṣṇa are born every Rāmanavamī and Janmāṣṭamī. What does this mean? Let me explain this with the help of an experience of mine in Ayodhya.

I was in Ayodhya for a week during the Rāmajanmabhūmī Prāṇa-Pratiśṭhā with my suhṛid, Pushkar Raj. In the Kanak Bhawan Temple, my fellow traveller asked (more like told) me, “Do you know that Rāma jī’s court used to be held here?” An elderly man dressed in a dhoti, passing by, remarked, correcting him with a calm demeanour. “His court is still held here. Rāma still resides here.” The gentleman disappeared in the crowd. I even wrote a research paper to make sense of this experience. But that does not concern us now. The long memory of Rāma as the king of Ayodhya and his journeys has served many purposes for the Indian people. However, none of these purposes has allowed homogenisation of that long memory. The Rāmāyaṇa has been told and retold in countless recensions and varying deśa-kālas.

Itihāsa-Purāṇa tradition is a living entity that thrives on memory, allied with the cultural apparatus of tīrtha (pilgrimage), art forms, etc., rather than plain nostalgia without cultural continuity. Hence, the tradition did not facilitate monolithic utopian visions like those of the contemporary Western historiographies. Monolithic ideologies breed nostalgia. Nostalgia breeds pangs of separation which many a times result in systemic violence. The subject starts to look for permanent solutions in a utopian future rather than in her/his own deśa-kāla-paristhitī (spatial-temporal contextualities). I may be generalising too much, but please bear with me. These statements may ring some bells…

Adam and Eve were expelled from the Garden of Eden. Now the Son of God, who died for our sins, will come again for the judgement day, and the believers will go to eternal heaven. (The same story, with a few variations, applies to Islam.)

The march of civilisation from a primitive society to the capitalist system has put the “noble savage” in chains. The socialist system (like the second coming of Christ) will facilitate a permanent change, ushering in an eternal communist society (heaven on earth).

Every kind of erasure, cultural or ecological, is justified in the name of a utopian future. This has been a feature, rather than a bug, of contemporary Western historiography. An aspirational future (coupled with a specific narrative of the past which justifies it) which no one can decipher but the theory or the theology. The march of history becomes the God on whose altar every ideal, tradition and god can be sacrificed. Historiography, in contemporary India, also seems to be constrained by the chains of the same worldview. Hence, in today’s world of normative crossroads, the study of the Indian pasts with a novel, yet grounded, approach becomes indispensable. We need a systemic solution to a systemic problem.

However hard to believe, given the contemporary ideological desecration of history as a discipline in India, writing about the past is a responsible enterprise. Kalhaṇa, in his 12th century work Rājataramgiṇī, compares a poet-creator (historian) with Prajāpatī (the Cosmic Creator) because “Who else but the kavi-prajāpatīm, who are skilled in producing beautiful creations, are capable of bringing the past times back before the eyes of men?” Kalhaṇa was a 12th-century Kashmiri historian and poet, one of the earliest and most significant historical chronicles of the Indian subcontinent, documenting the rulers and history of Kashmir from ancient times to his own era. Kalhana notes that time devours everything, and the only force capable of defeating time is the memory preserved by the poet-historian. But works of such importance demand particular qualifications of the one who undertakes them. Kalhaṇa explains:

Historical study in India needs to be brought out of the silos of emotional and modern political contexts. It needs fieldwork-based research corroborated by popular memory as well as primary sources. Acharya Hazari Prasad Dwivedi shares an interesting anecdote that points to a prominent feature of traditional Indian historical sense-making: the tendency to assimilate the unfamiliar into known mythic narrative. This feature may aid in the attainment of the four Puruṣārthas, but it is a serious impediment to the study of history. Al-Beruni had noted the same tendency centuries earlier. In his essay Purānī Pothiyā̃, Dwivedi narrates:

Sir William Jones sent an impression (a copy) of Ashoka’s inscriptions to the then governor of Banaras, asking that he have it read by some pandit there. One pandit read out the inscription, declaring it to be a record of Yudhishthira’s secret exile, and even prepared a forged manuscript in the old scripts. For a long time that forged manuscript misled scholars.

We need to recognise and document memory as it exists in India, in its own idiom and cultural world. Ours is not an antiquarian endeavour, for, whether visible or not, the past survives in the present. Memory ensures that the past has not passed. It lives on as rituals, journeys, stories, gatherings, habits, writings, art forms, beliefs, and language. It exists as an entity which is as true or as mystic as the phenomenon of time. The essays/research articles on history we wish to publish would not merely be chronological accounts of dry historical facts. They may include them, but they are not constrained by the shackles of deśa-kāla alienating historicism. Grounded as they are in a living tradition, such narratives might be called ever-contemporary – sanātana.

This initiative is not an orgy of pain, alienation, anger, hatred and revenge. It is surely difficult to overcome the pain of loss that cultural colonialism endures, but not impossible. In an academic visit to Cape Town (RSA) a few years back, I noticed something revelatory. In the International Conference on Indigenous Knowledge Systems, the African participants, while reading a paper, reciting a poem or singing a song, were very passionate about the whole affair. They were making loud ‘humm’ noises whenever some painful experience of cultural loss was narrated. They were singing songs of cultural pain together. It was an amazing experience. At first, I felt a bit disappointed at the academic situation back in India. Why aren’t we that passionate? Why don’t we feel such uncontrollable bursts of pain? Why do we not sing songs of cultural loss in our academic events? I guess I know the answer now.

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It was my last evening in Cape Town. While sitting on the slopes of Signal Hill during sunset, with Table Mountain and the Lion’s Head peak to my left and the vast horizon of the oceanic convergence of the Indian Ocean and Atlantic Ocean straight ahead, I started reading an essay by Nirmal Verma. I was alone on that spot of the hill. Some teens were sitting some 50 metres down to the left on the slope. The sun was setting on the western horizon slowly. It was a heavenly experience. I wanted to catch a glimpse of the sun while it touched the sea. There was time. I was going through the pages while catching glimpses of the panoramic view in between. Verma wrote that the cultures that are one with nature think in terms of symbols and myths, and the cultures that alienate ecology think in concepts and theories. It struck an epiphany.

Between the Lion’s Head and the ocean was the affluent, upscale suburb of Camps Bay – the den of Western modernity. The sun sets there. Interestingly, Table Mountain and the adjoining Lion’s Head have been sacred spaces for the indigenous people of the southern tip of Africa – the Khoisan tribes. They were uprooted and exploited by the Dutch and the later British colonisers. There survives a negligible trace of their culture. Their symbolism survives as artefacts like the stone paintings Natalie does and sells outside the old Parliament building. She says she learnt the art form from her grandfather. She even narrated that there are sacred water bodies on the top of the Table Mountain range that very few people know about. A negligible number of Khoisan people are allowed to visit there. You need a special permit to do so. Natalie had that permit. Nonetheless, the native culture was gasping for breath. Western modernity remained the only true God.

Hence, barring a few scholars, most of the participants in the conference were presenting theories and concepts to make sense of colonisation and decolonisation. There were no stories, no gods, and no aspirations (other than the political ones). They were sad because they had lost something which they knew they would never get back. It was an emotion grounded in nostalgia. The same is not true for the Indian situation. Here, the culture is not lost. We are a wounded civilisation, as enunciated by Naipaul, for sure. But we are living. From Amarnath to Kanyakumari, and from Hinglaj to Tipureshwari, India still speaks in myths and symbols. Modernity is not the only God. It is one among many. This is why we do not witness such strong emotional outbursts in our IKS events or traditional settings. The continuity of tradition gives assurance and calmness to the practitioner.

However, that does not mean that there is no work to be done. There is rampant cultural erasure and misrepresentation in Indian academia and popular media regarding our pasts. The Long Memory is thus the active documentation of the ongoing transmission of our civilisational consciousness. The juxtaposition of these two words is deliberate. ‘Long’ signifies the deep antiquity and the unbroken continuum of the Bharatiya civilisation, which stands in stark contrast to the ‘short memory’ of modern political timelines, electoral cycles, or alienating historicism. Furthermore, we consciously choose the word ‘Memory’ (Smṛti) over ‘History’ (Itihāsa in the purely empirical, modern sense). Modern history often preoccupies itself with the dead, archived past (a past that has definitively passed). Memory, however, is lived, embodied, and inherited. It is the conscious retention of a civilisation’s soul across aeons. Sanātanam Punarnavaḥ.

The Long Memory is a Substack platform recovering India’s understudied histories and historical epistemes. Most historical writing is either too academic to reach general readers or too polemical to inform them. We aim for the middle: rigorous research into neglected chapters of India’s past, written with depth but made for the lay reader. Academic rigour and good writing belong together. Emerging Indian historians need the craze for methodological and analytical rigour like a James Prinsep, in addition to sahṛdayatā for Indian traditions like an Ananda K. Coomaraswamy and empathic criticality for its peoples (living and dead) like a Dharmapal. We aim to bring about a long-awaited change in Indian historical scholarship.

Placing memory at the centre of this enterprise is not a modern imposition on the tradition. The tradition begins there. Consider how the canon is arranged: beside śruti, ‘that which is heard’, sits smṛti, ‘that which is remembered’. The eternal is kept alive in time by the whole remembered body of Dharmaśāstra, Itihāsa and Purāṇa. To say ‘tradition’ is already to say ‘memory’. This project understands that what holds for ātman holds for a civilisation as well. A people is not freed by becoming something new. It is freed by remembering what it never stopped being. The Long Memory is an intellectual initiative designed to fill the gap in rigorous, accessible scholarship devoted to recovering India’s forgotten or neglected narratives. It serves as a serious platform for emerging scholars committed to investigating history through context-sensitive lenses. The name ‘long memory’ is a reminder that despite colonial disturbances and reconstructions, the native genius lives on.

For India, decolonisation cannot necessarily mean revivalism. We want the readers and writers of ‘The Long Memory’ to be part of a journey of recognition, of Pratyabhijñā (self-recognition). “Upon regaining memory”, proclaims the Chāndogya Upanishad (7.26.2), “there is complete liberation.” In Bhagavadgītā (10.34), Kṛṣṇa names memory among His own splendours – smṛtir medhā dhṛtiḥ kṣamā – counting it with fame, speech and intelligence as a glory of the divine. We are legatees of a living civilisation, of living memories. We understand that a culture is lived, hence preserved, and not the other way around. The recognition of the memories that still live, of the traditions and spaces that have continued despite all barbaric desecrations, is our sole prerogative. This project is a celebration of the living memory, not a bereavement of the dead past. Why celebrate? Because Rāma still resides here. We need the eye to see him.

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Arjun Anand is from Dharamshala, India. He is an early career researcher who holds a Doctorate degree from Jawaharlal Nehru University. His research interests encompass (but is not limited to) contemporary Indian intellectual history, political theory, Hindi Literature and Itihāsa-Purāņa. He is the Associate Editor of ‘The Long Memory’ Project.