Click HERE for part 1 of this post
This
is, to my knowledge, the only instance when Humayun’s reforms, more
specifically the division of courtiers into three groups, which were assigned
separate days for recep tion (Qānūn: ff. 34-37), and into twelve classes
symbolised by arrows of different materials
(Qānūn: ff. 43-47), are acknowledged as purposeful attempts at centralizing and stabilizing power, instead of being dismissed as eccentricities. However, Streusand mistakenly assigns them to “Humayun’s brief second reign in Delhi”, and interprets them as the product of Humayun’s bitter experience with his brother Kamran, mistaking the consequence (i. e., Kamran’s refusal to submit) for the cause (Humayun’s reform). This is quite emblematic of the extent to which, in Mughal historiography, old ideas and old schemes die hard, among which that of Humayun’s exile as a palyngenesis of sorts.
In the context of Humayun’s attempts at increasing his control over rival factions, the institution of the “Carpet of Mirth” (another of the elements usually dismissed as “eccent ricities”) is also worth mentioning (Qānūn: ff. 110-113), divided into concentric circles representing the Elements and the celestial spheres, where courtiers, and the sovereign himself, sat not according to rank, but to astrological considerations (for example, officers of Indian background and Shaykhs would sit in the circle of Saturn; the King himself in the circle of the Sun; etc.). Khwandamir’s remark that “for such people, as always wish to sit at the head of an assembly [...] there can be no rivalry when they come to this carpet” sup ports the hypothesis that one of Humayun’s main concerns was the tension between different groups.
Returning to our initial question, that of Humayun’s self-perception while at the Safavid court, there are at least two episodes in the sources which may help us define it. The first is an incident which temporarily alienated Tahmasp’s sympathy, as he heard that Humayun had once assigned him (presumably, according to scholarship, while performing divination rites) eleven low-quality arrows, while assigning to himself twelve first-quality ones. Humayun’s reply on this occasion is quite indicative of his self-perception: he maintained that the reason had to do with kingdoms – Khurasan being one third of the world, while Hindustan two (Tadhkīra: ff. 75-75b).
There might have been other reasons, too: as I mentioned earlier, Humayun’s status as the legitimate heir of the Timurid throne must also have played a part in this ‘game’. If, indeed, it is a pastime that is here referred to: divination was, at that time, a far more serious affair than an “amusement”, as Tahmasp’s own Fālnāma testifies48; and there is reason to wonder whether the arrows meant here are not of another kind altogether: the reference to arrows of higher and lower quality in this passage, coming in different numbers, may have something to do with Humayun’s division of imperial servants (and, ultimately, of society) into classes symbolised by arrows of different materials (Qānūn: ff. 43-44).
And precisely the passage in the Qānūn referring to the twelve arrows symbolising ranks in Humayun’s system may help us flesh out the incident a little. The text specifies that the arrow of gold was reserved for the king; that of silver, for his relations, brethren and all the Sultans in the employment of the Throne. Assigning Tahmasp an arrow of the second rank thus signified considering him on the same level as Humayun’s relatives and other subject rulers. This is wholly consistent with the perception Humayun’s grandson Jahangir seems to have had of his own Safavid contemporary, Shah ‘Abbas the Great, whom he affectionately called “brother” in correspondence, but who is portrayed in a famous mini- ature from the St. Petersburg Muraqqa‘49 as a person of smaller stature, enveloped in Jahangir’s protective embrace (and luminous aura), and standing on a lamb that, for all its Golden Age resonance, is evidently frail and weak when contrasted with the lion under Jahangir’s feet.
The same idea about the respective status of Iran and Hindustan finds expression in Gulbadan’s account of Hamida’s reaction to the feast given in her honour by Tahmasp’s sister, Sultanam. When asked if the tents erected for the occasion were also found in Hindustan, the Begam quoted a proverb meaning that whatever is found in Iran, is found in twice as large a number in Hindustan (Humāyūnnāma: f. 59a). The nature of the source, which was not meant for circulation, but only to provide material for Abu al-Fazl’s official account, and the intimacy existing between the two women, reflected in the freshness of the dialogue (involving a third party, Sultanam’s aunt, whom we imagine as an elderly lady requiring additional explanation), all seem to make the account quite reliable. Moreover, the episode is in accordance with the character of young and outspoken Hamida, who had dared refuse betrothal to the Emperor, and had fiercely kept her stand for a while (Humāyūnnāma: f. 43). It is also consistent with Babur’s statement on the far greater num ber of stone-cutters that were in his employ in Agra as compared to those who had been working at the construction of Timur’s Great Mosque in Samarkand (Bāburnāma: f. 291b); a remark which is by no means disrespectful, but reflects a common view on the wealth of Hindustan.
And precisely when we look at art history, it is most interesting to wonder whether the contacts Humayun developed with painters from Tahmasp’s atelier, whom he invited over to his court, first in Kabul, then in Hindustan, were indeed only a reflection of his will to emulate a superior cultural milieu, as scholarship has so far maintained, even in recent times.50 Sure, it was a fortunate coincidence for Humayun to be in Tabriz around the time the atelier was being dismantled; but, unlike those scholars who seem to imply that he was overwhelmed with the splendour of Tahmasp’s court and tried to imitate it as far as pos sible, I believe the Emperor’s approach to the Shah’s painters, in the light of all the evid ence of his former activity as a patron, was more subtle and complex. In a sense, we may even say that he followed in the footsteps of Timur when he recruited them (and, most likely, other men of culture as well), although, in this particular case, not as booty from a military campaign. In fact, even then, he but pursued the cultural policy conceived at the outset of his reign, when he had divided his courtiers into three groups, one of which was that of the Ahl-i Murād (artists, particularly musicians, according to Khwandamir’s account), who were given equal attention and respect as the other two, with two days of the week reserved for their reception (Qānūn: ff. 34-37); and even more clearly with the foundation of Dīnpanāh. The name of the city and the circumstances of its building imply that he had in all likelihood aimed at gathering there the best minds of his time, so as to make it, we may infer, a sort of second Samarkand: a shelter from the uncertainties of the Timurid homeland and from the persecutions of Safavid Iran. Humayun, in this sense, may indeed have become the receptacle of Timurid nostalgia, as Maria Szuppe has observed. As I note elsewhere (Parodi, forthcoming), he seems to have deliberately sought to construct an ideology of power based on the great achievements of former Timurid rulers: he founded (or rather, re-founded) a city, like Timur; patronized and practised astronomy, like Ulugh Beg (had he had the time, he would probably have commissioned an observatory)51; and all the attention he devoted to artists and poets was most probably an attempt at re-creating the atmosphere of Sultan-Husayn’s Herat, that he had been born too late to see.
For all these reasons, we may presume that Humayun faced Tahmasp with a certain sense of superiority: he most probably conceived of himself as the scion of a much older and more prestigious lineage, besides which he could boast, like his royal host, a religious and perhaps even saintly descent; moreover, he had been the ruler of a much larger and wealthier country, and last but not least he was a more mature man. In the text of his letter to Humayun, as given in the Akbarnāma (f. 217),52 Tahmasp exhorts the Mughal Emperor to regard him as a “younger brother” (barādar-i khurd). Whether the expression is genuine or not, it may be inferred, from this reference, that this is how the Safavid Shah was perceived from the Mughal side.
The implications of this ‘sense of superiority’ are not irrelevant, and concern the art history domain directly: by securing the services of Tahmasp’s chief painters, Humayun probably conceived of himself as taking another step in his cultural policy, by bringing the best artists of his time back ‘home’, where he thought they belonged, that is, in the service of the Timurid dynasty.
In this connection, Humayun’s choices and skills in the visual arts, and the arts of the book in particular, should be analysed. And indeed, when Humayun’s misfortunes are taken into account, they provide a good match for Tahmasp’s. The Mughal emperor never had the opportunity to see his cultural aspirations develop systematically, but we have enough evidence to make ourselves a clear idea of his interests and taste as a patron of the arts. In both Khwandamir’s and Gulbadan’s accounts, for example, the attention devoted to items of clothing, carpets, tents and pavilions made of impermanent materials indicates that Humayun had a particular fondness for textiles. As for his interest in the arts of the book, there are numerous clues in contemporary sources, part of which have previously been collected and analysed by Chandra (1976: 10-15); Avashty (1967: 22-24), on the other hand, has gathered evidence on Humayun’s formation. All available information confirms the idea that Humayun was reputed a connoisseur. Zayn Khan (Tabaqāt-i Bāburī: f. 73), on the occasion of Babur’s seizure of the Milwat fort, whose treasures included the library of Ghazi Khan, a renowned book-lover, says Humayun assisted Babur in reviewing the books and received part of the most precious ones.53 Later, Babur would put him in charge of the inspection and first inventory of the treasury in Agra soon after the victory over Ibrahim Lodi (Bāburnāma: f. 268-268b). In both cases, we get the impression that Babur was both busy with more important matters, i.e., directing military operations, and confident that Humayun would do an excellent job in his absence.54 After his accession to the throne, we find Humayun grieving the loss of a precious Tīmūrnāma illustrated by Bihzad during a surprise attack on his camp in the course of the Gujarat campaign55; and rejoicing, in 1550, when two camel-loads of precious books, once seized by Kamran, were recaptured (Akbar nāma I: f. 305). On another occasion, when Kamran attacked the royal camp and retired to the fort of Taligan, we are told that Humayun immediately inquired about the library (which, we may infer, was travelling along with the camp), and was reassured that it was safe (Tadhkīra: f. 99). Then there is Haydar Mirza’s account. Haydar was Babur’s maternal cousin (their mothers were sisters) and a leading intellectual in his time; his is a firsthand account of Humayun, with whom he shared some of the most difficult years (Tārīkh-i Rashīdī: ff. 364-365)56:
Humayun, as he was the eldest, was the greatest and most distinguished of Babur’s sons. I have seen few persons possessed of so much natural talent and excellence as he: but in consequence of his having dissolute and sensual men in his service, and of his intercourse with them, and with men of mean and profligate character, such as in particular Moulana Muhammad Farghari, and others like him, he contracted some bad habits, as, for instance, the use of opium; and the business which, as a prince, he should himself have managed, he left to them. Nevertheless, he had many excellent qualities. In battle he was steady and brave; in conversation, ingenious and lively; and at the social board, full of wit. He was kind-hearted and generous. He was a dignified and magnificent prince, and observed much state; insomuch that, though I came into his service at Agra, in his broken fortunes, when people said his pomp and style were no longer what they had been, yet, when the army was arrayed for the Ganges campaign, at which time the superintendence devolved upon me, the number of artisans who accompanied him was seventeen thousand, from which the extent of the other branches of his establishment may be imagined.
The account is especially important when we consider that Haydar wrote his work while an independent ruler in Kashmir, and never lived to see Humayun regain the throne of Hindustan; thus, unlike those who wrote at Akbar’s behest, he cannot arouse the least suspicion of flattery.
A more controversial question is that regarding Humayun’s personal involvement and skills in calligraphy and painting. His father Babur had been a proficient calligrapher, and had devoted considerable effort to the schooling of his children in this art.57 He had even devised a calligraphic style, the Bāburī script.58 Accordingly, it would seem that Tahmasp’s brother Sam Mirza considered Humayun’s handwriting perfect.59 However, this is in con trast with a letter Babur sent to Humayun, who had then just returned to his governor’s post in Badakhshan, in 1529. The text of the letter is included in the Bāburnāma (f. 349- 349b) and expresses Babur’s disappointment over Humayun’s lack of clarity:
As I asked, you have written your letters, but you didn’t read them over, for if you had had a mind to read them, you would have found that you could not. After reading them, you certainly would have changed them. Although your writing can be read with difficulty, it is excessively obscure. Who has ever heard of prose designed to be an enigma? Your spelling is not bad, although it is not entirely correct either. [...] Your handrwriting can be made out somehow or other, but with all these obscure words of yours the meaning is not entirely clear. Probably your laziness in writing letters is due to the fact that you try to make it too fancy. From now on write with uncomplicated, clear, and plain words. This will cause less difficulty both for you and for your reader.
It is hard to believe that Babur could speak in this tone to a son who was twenty-one, had just experienced fatherhood, and had been his choice general and connoisseur until shortly before, unless there was some serious reason. On the basis of Haydar Mirza’s testimony, we may hypothesize that Humayun’s bad performance, and Babur’s reprimand on this particular occasion, are the reflection of the addiction to opium the prince was developing. No definitive assessment of his ability as a calligrapher may, however, be drawn from such contrasting evidence.
As for the Emperor’s direct involvement in painting, he appears to have practised the art under the direction of Mir Sayyid ‘Ali and Khwaja ‘Abd al-Samad,60 and to have attached great importance to his son’s schooling in this art, also entrusted to the two Iranian masters (see Akbarnāma II: f. 42). In a famous miniature, the adolescent Akbar is depicted while presenting a painting by his master to Humayun.61 The fruits of this effort are seen in the prominent role painting was to play under Akbar as a means to reveal the mysteries of Creation (see Brand & Lowry 1985: 123-128).
But the most striking (and most relevant) episode related to painting in Humayun’s biography is that reported by Jawhar (Tadhkīra: ff. 53-53b): a beautiful bird flew into the royal tent while the Emperor was waiting for his clothes to dry up (that was just before he left Hindustan for Iran, and he was apparently so destitute at that time that he did not have an appropriate set of spare clothes with him). The Emperor had the bird captured, person ally cut off some of its feathers, then ordered an artist to draw its likeness, after which it was released. Most amazingly, the episode occurred at the time when Humayun’s fortunes were at their lowest, and his family (including the pregnant Hamida, for whom a few days earlier a horse had been procured with difficulty) had found temporary hospitality with the Raja of Umarkot. That he could afford to have a painter with him is a truly revealing sign of how important art and beauty were to him.62
Interestingly, Milo Beach (1987a: 27-37) points out how paintings having animals (birds or quadrupeds) as their exclusive subject appear to have no direct forerunners in Iranian painting, but are an original Mughal creation. He suggests that this might have occurred through an inspiration from Chinese paintings, as the use of fabric instead of paper in those which seem to be the earliest examples would seem to indicate. Some of the paintings may date to Humayun’s reign and, from what we may infer from Jawhar’s account, they represent a genre practised before Humayun’s contact with the Persian court. Beach also quotes a passage in Jahangir’s memoirs where Humayun’s grandson, himself a connoisseur and an avid collector of painting, says that “Although His Majesty Firdaus-Makani (Babur) wrote in his memoirs of the shapes and forms of some animals, apparently he did not order the artists to depict them” (Jahāngīrnāma: f. 85). This may represent an implicit acknow ledgement of Humayun’s role in introducing the practice. As for the way Humayun may have come into contact with Chinese paintings, I dare suggest that this might have occurred through contacts with the Kashgar court, which were of some relevance in Humayun’s times: not only had Haydar Mirza spent several years there, before serving under Kamran and Humayun, but the Khan of Kashgar himself, Abd al-Rashid Khan, who was possibly a relation to Humayun,63 exchanged embassies with the Mughal court: the copy of a letter Humayun sent to him in 1553 along with gifts from his kitābkhāna is preserved in Bayazid Bayat’s work.64 It is thus not too far-fetched to hypothesise that Chinese paintings had made their way to Humayun’s court, either through Haydar Mirza, whose personal involvement in painting (see note 56, above) may have drawn him to collect, or even practise, the genre; or as diplomatic gifts from the Kashgar court, with which there may have been exchanges long before the documented embassy.
Beach also notes that all remaining examples of painting which may be ascribed to Humayun’s reign celebrate contemporary events, or portray actual people from Humayun’s court (including, in at least a couple of instances, the child Akbar).65 All of these trends – the interest in contemporary events, the celebration of dynastic power and the sheer delight in the beauty of nature – were to continue under Humayun’s descendants, and represent yet another instance in which Humayun appears to have been to a great extent the actual ‘founder’ of the Mughal empire, at least from the point of view of ideology and ceremonial.66 Neither the interest in contemporary events and their protagonists, repres enting a direct Timurid legacy, nor the depiction of animals and plants as an exclusive subject, which may be interpreted as the logical consequence of Babur’s and Humayun’s interest in nature, were inspired by contacts with the Persian court. On the contrary, it may be argued that the Mughal approach would later exercise an influence on Safavid painting, as a result of the contacts between the courts of ‘Abbas I and Jahangir, promoting a shift away from the images of idealised beauty and towards a greater (though still highly controlled) ‘realism’. This is not to diminish, much less to deny, the role played by Safavid masters in the creation of the early Mughal style under Humayun and Akbar; but only to contribute a further dimension to the understanding of early Mughal painting, in terms of perception and expectations on the part of patrons.
The originality of Humayun’s approach has been acknowledged before, and it is worth recalling Dickson and Welch’s comment about Princes of the House of Timur (1981: 198)67:
Its non-Safavi elements [...] stem from a deliberate attempt to come closer to observed facts. [...] actual portraits ha[ve] become the norm, in part probably because of the miniature’s subject, which is in fact the earliest known example of a Mughal darbār, or group portrait.
A great deal more work is needed in order to amplify and articulate this suggestion. My impression, which will have to be put to the test through additional research, is that the whole of the painting’s composition owes as much to Safavid inspiration (comparable Safavid scenes are far more idealised and show less interest in landscape)68 as to images of majlises held in the open air or on garden-terraces in the Timurid tradition, especially those depicted according to the conventions of late Herat school.69
To sum up, the relationship between Tahmasp and Humayun stands out as an example of how Safavid-Mughal relations in general appear to have been only superficially explored, sometimes repeating commonplaces first established when the Timurid dynasty, its cul ture, history and art, as well as the earliest phase of its Indian branch, were far less known than their Iranian counterpart.
In fact, contacts between Iran and the Indian Subcontinent – not just with the Delhi-Agra region, but also with the Deccan, particularly under the Bahmanids and their successors – have for centuries been deeper and more complex than has been shown and explored so far (and, of course, are not limited to the Islamic period).
The encounter of the two emperors was certainly of great consequence, at least for Humayun, as it provided him with military support and some of the best artists of the time. The present essay’s aim is not to deny this; rather, to temper the statements often found in scholarship, and to inquire deeper into the motives behind Humayun’s attitudes and actions.
Besides this, I have attempted to suggest how Humayun appears to have set the grounds for some of Akbar’s later political choices, ceremonial and ideology. This is implicitly acknowledged by Abu al-Fazl, who repeatedly refers to Akbar as the heir of the sarīr-i humāyūnī, an expression the late Henry Beveridge renders literally as “Humayun’s throne” (Akbarnāma: f. 6 and passim). Although essentially conceived as a pun on the meaning of “humāyūn”, “imperial” or “auspicious”, the expression is emblematic of the importance attached to the Emperor’s figure within the framework of Akbar’s ideology of power.
Last but not least, the second Mughal emperor has long been judged only according to ‘positive’ considerations, such as his “political failure” before Sher Shah, and the fact that he spent the greater part of his reign away from India, the country to whose history he is perceived to belong. His story, still largely unwritten, is there to remind us that, when interpreting past civilizations (and, arguably, our own), analyses based on economic and military considerations alone do not suffice. And continuing to ask questions is far more important (and far more exciting, by the way) than living with comfortable answers.
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SHOKOOHY & SHOKOOHY (1988): Shokoohy, Mehrdad & Nathalie H., ͤiṣār-i Fīrūza – Sultanate and Early Mughal Architecture in the District of Hisar, India, London: Monographs on Art Archaeology and Architecture, 1988.
SZUPPE (1992): Szuppe, Maria, Entre Timourides, Uzbeks et Safavides. Questions d’histoire politique et sociale de Hérat dans la première moitié du XVIe siècle, “Studia Iranica”, Cahier 12, 1992.
The St. Petersburg Muraqqa‘ (1996): The St. Petersburg Muraqqa‘ – Album of Indian and Persian Miniatures form the 16th through the 18th Century and Specimens of Persian Calligraphy by ‘Imād al-Hasanī (facsimile edition), Lugano: ARCH Foundation / Milano: Leonardo Arte, 1996.
THOMPSON & CANBY (2003): Thompson, Jon & Canby, Sheila R. (eds.), Hunt for Paradise: Court Arts of Safavid Iran 1501-1576 (catalogue of the exhibition), Milano: Skira, 2003. WELCH (1972): Welch, Stuart Cary, A King’s Book of Kings – The Shah-Nameh of Shah Tahmasp, New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1972.
WELCH (1985): Welch, Stuart Cary (ed.), India – Art and Culture 1300-1900, catalogue of the exhibition, New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art / Ahmedabad: Mapin Publishing, 1985.
WESCOAT (1990): Wescoat, James L., Jr., “Gardens of invention and exile: the precarious context of Mughal garden design during the reign of Humayun (1530-1556)”, Journal of Garden Design, X:2, April-June 1990, pp. 106-116.
YIH (s.d.): Yih, T. D., “Fifteenth century copper coins (dangi) from Kashgar”, in <http://icg.hotchili.info/assikka21/Kashgar.htm>
SUMMARY
The importance of the Mughal Emperor Humayun’s sojourn at the Safavid court (1543-44) for the formative phase of Mughal court ideology and patronage has been stressed by several authors. However, few efforts have been made to explore the issue in detail. The aim of the present paper is to evaluate those elements in Mughal court ceremonial and in the domain of artistic choices which can be interpreted as Safavid suggestions, as well as those that are more likely the legacy of his Timurid ancestry, or his original creation, but have not so far been acknowledged as such. Specific attention is devoted to the court’s paraphernalia, among which the Tāj-i ‘Izzat stands out, that is, the headgear designed by Humayun for himself and his followers, which – it is here proposed – could represent a Mughal response to the Safavid Tāj-i Haydarī.
PLATES
Fig. 1. Portrait of Humayun. Detail from the painting known as Princes of the House of Timur (British Museum 1913. 2-8. I).
Fig. 2. Akbar presenting a miniature to Humayun. Detail of a miniature from the Muraqqa‘-i Gulshān (Gulistan Palace Library, Tehran).
Foot notes
1 According to Jawhar (Tadhkīra: f. 36), the royal party had by then been reduced to forty men and two women (including the emperor’s wife, Hamida); they were soon joined by other dignitaries and servants of Humayun, including Jawhar himself (who had remained behind with the child Akbar). This may account for some discrepancies in the numbers given in later sources.
References to contemporary sources, wherever possible, are made by folio number in the present paper, so as to allow readers to check them against the Persian text and/or one of the available English translations. See note 21 for further specifications.
2 The letters Humayun exchanged with the Shah at each stage of the journey are preserved in several manuscripts: see Ray (1948) for their text, English translation and discussion. 3 The verses were dictated by Humayun and engraved on Ahmad Jami’s cenotaph on the occasion of the emperor’s second visit to the shrine (Dec. 29th, 1544), on his way back to Qandahar and Kabul (see Ray 1948: 18, 45).
4 The only essay specifically devoted to Humayun’s Iranian sojourn is Ray (1948). Other monographs dealing with the Emperor’s history and figure, which receives only minor attention in general works on Mughal history (see the meagre chapter in Richards 1993: 9-12), are Erskine (1854), Banerji (1938), Prasad (1955), Avashty (1967), Lal (1978) and, more recently, Bakhshi and Sharma (2000).
5 As is testified by the letters subsequently exchanged by the two monarchs, as well as Tahmasp’s letter of condolences to Humayun’s son and successor Akbar (see Ray 1948: 62), witness to the Shah’s firm intention to maintain good relationships with the Mughals.
6 Several scholars have discussed this issue: see especially Chandra (1976: 12-26). Okada (1992: 62-75) includes a chapter devoted to the two most important masters, Mir Sayyid ‘Ali and Khwaja Abd al Samad, who successively led the Mughal atelier. Extensive notes on the artists involved may be found in Dickson and Welch (1981).
7 As is shown by the lavishly illustrated copy of the Gūy u Chawgān the young Shah copied in his own hand in 931 H. (1524-5 A.D.) for his former guardian and future grand vizier, Qadi-i Jahan, and the new Shāhnāma project that took shape soon after his arrival at court (Thompson & Canby 2003: 80- 82).
8 The vicissitudes may be followed through the Tadhkīra.
9 Humayun was born in Kabul on the fourth of Dhu’l-Qa’da, 913 a.H. (March 6, 1508) (Bāburnāma: f. 215b); Tahmasp in Isfahan, on 26 Dhu’l-Hijja, 919 (February 22, 1514) (Savory & Bosworth 2000: 108).
10 As a young man, and probably before taking on to opium (before 1526, he had not even tasted wine: see. A. S. Beveridge’s note to the Bāburnāma, 1921: 546), Humayun appears to have been a capable and brave general (see Tārīkh-i Rashīdī, ff. 364-65). His military career may be followed through the Bāburnāma and the Tadhkīra-i Humāyūn va Akbar. See also Avashty (1967: 27-31).
11 The blinding of Kamran was the ultimate consequence of the escalation of tension between the brothers: Humayun was once seriously wounded and believed dead (Tadhkīra: ff. 107-112) and Hindal, their youngest brother, eventually fell in the struggle while defending Humayun’s camp (Tadhkīra: ff. 117-117b). Soon after the latter occurrence, Kamran’s full brother and main ally, Askari, was exiled to Makka, while Kamran escaped and was only captured in August, 1553. See Tadhkīra: ff. 122b-124b for an impressive firsthand account of the episode (Jawhar was assigned as a valet to Kamran on the eve of his blinding), and A. S. Beveridge’s foreword to the Humāyūnnāma (1902: 48-49) for further details.
12 See for example Qānūn: ff. 52-57, 61-70, 110-111; Humāyūnnāma: ff. 22b, 24-28, 66-66b, 83.
13 As I point out elsewhere (Parodi, forthcoming), this seems to have been his most relevant achievement in the eyes of his descendants: in allegorical portraits from the 17th century, he is often depicted with compasses in his hand, while Babur usually holds his autobiography, the Bāburnāma. According to the Humāyūnnāma: f. 43b, Humayun calculated himself the most auspicious hour for his marriage with Hamida Banu.
14 Although verses by Humayun are quoted in several sources, there seems to be only one surviving anthology of them; this is usually referred to as «Humayun’s dīwān». The manuscript, first mentioned by Ray 1948: 37, n. 4, who says it had been shown by Prof. Sayyid Hasan Askari at the Indian History Congress in Calcutta in 1939, was later seen by Avashty (1967: iii) in the waqf library of a village in Bihar, and is currently preserved at the Khuda Bakhsh Library in Patna. It is, however, not a full dīwān, as is usually assumed, but only a limited selection of Humayun’s poems (I am indebted to Diego Giolitti, who is currently working on the Ms., for this information).
15 See Tadhkīra: ff. 53-53b. A more detailed discussion of Humayun’s patronage of the arts will be given in the conclusive part of the present paper.
16 On Tahmasp’s patronage, see Canby (1999: 40-79), Thompson & Canby (2003); on Humayun’s, Asher (1992: 32-38), Koch (1991: 35-42), Beach (1987a: 5-49), Chandra (1976: 10-29). See also Haydar Mirza, quoted below.
17 Jawhar relates an interesting anecdote on this subject (Tadhkīra: ff. 76-76b).
18 See Shokoohy & Shokoohy (1987: passim), Koch (1991: 35-42) and Asher (1992: 32-38) for archi tecture; Beach (1987a: 5-49) and Richard (1994) for painting.
19 See the scant number of pages devoted to his reign in such comprehensive works as Richards (1993: 9-12); not to mention the negative assessment of his reign given by such pioneering studies as Erskine (1854) and Banerji (1938), on which virtually all subsequent scholarship appears to rely, even in recent times (a notable exception being represented by Avashty, 1967). I have recently tried to bring in material for a more balanced picture: see Parodi (forthcoming), which includes a discussion of Humayun’s importance in the Akbarnāma (see also note 27, below).
20 See for example Humāyūnnāma: f. 43, recording Hamida’s opposition to the prospect of marrying Humayun and the way she was forced to accept; and ibid.: ff. 30-31, describing a fiery controversy between Humayun and his wives; or Tadhkīra: ff. 43b-45, 62, 109b-110, and passim, relating the Emperor’s suffering from wounds, cold and hunger.
21 A new Persian/English edition by Wheeler M. Thackston of these three books of memoirs is forthcoming (see Bibliography); for the reader’s convenience, previous editions have also been included in the Bibliography, although, for Jawhar’s Tadhkīra, there is only an abridged and outdated English translation made by Mj. Charles Stewart in 1832.
22 See also the works mentioned in note 4. This paper only aims at offering some reflections, based on a re-examination of sources on the Mughal side; a study of Safavid sources shall be a necessary complement to it.
23 Most of these had been lost in the disastrous defeats at Chausa and Qanauj (see Banerji 1538: 228- 248).
24 See also Thackston’s remarks in his preface to the most recent English edition of the Bāburnāma (1996: 18): “Babur found everything about the subcontinent, other than its riches, distasteful. A Timurid prince accustomed to the society of Transoxiana and the beautiful landscape and climate of Kabul, he disapproved of almost everything he saw in Hindustan and longed to return to his beloved Kabul, a trip he made only posthumously”. I elsewhere underscore how Mughal sources appear to indicate Humayun, not Babur, as the real ‘founder’ of the empire (Parodi, forthcoming).
25 On the troubled situation of the former Timurid empire in the second decade of the sixteenth century, see Szuppe (1992). For the same events in a Shaybanid perspective, see Haidar (2002).
26 On Babur’s alliance with Isma‘il, see A.S. Beveridge’s note to her English version of the Bāburnāma (1921: 352-356), based essentially on the Tārīkh-i Rashīdī and the Qānūn (the Bāburnāma unfortunately presents a lacuna in this section). See also Beveridge, in Humāyūnnāma: 91. Babur’s precedent was, in fact, a mixed blessing for Humayun, as Babur had been charged of treachery by his Persian allies.
27 The late emperor is described as the “founder of the canons of justice and equity [...]; water-gate for the rivers of learning [...]; both a king of dervish-race and a dervish with a king’s title [...]; throne of the sphere of eternal mysteries; alidad of the astrolabe of theory and practice [...] a holy spirit and a sacred light” (AkbarnāmaI: f. 121), “this externally and internally great man, who saw in the eyes of truth and was capable of contemplating mysteries” (I: f. 165); and “such a perfect personality, worthy of the true khilāfat, and whose like as a superintendent of things external and internal it would be hard to find in the course of revolving cycles” (I: f. 203). For more references to the Emperor’s superior powers, prefiguring those ascribed to Akbar, see Parodi (forthcoming: note 66).
28 Haydar Mirza indicates that Humayun had considerable charisma and charm: see the passage quoted below.
29 The girl was, of course, Hamida Banu, later the venerable Queen Mother known by the title of “Maryam Makani”. She was much younger than Humayun, and probably already betrothed to the emperor’s brother, Hindal; they both fiercely opposed the marriage, but to no avail. We are lucky that Gulbadan (who was one of Hamida’s best friends) recorded the details of this incident for us (Humāyūnnāma: 149-151), along with scores of other zenāna gossips and anecdotes that give life to otherwise dull official records of events.
30 On Isma‘il and his patronage of the arts, see Canby (1999: 8-19).
31 Qānūn (Persian edition, 1993: 283-286, “Introductory description of the amber turban, the crown and the clothing”). I am thankful to Diego Giolitti for providing a fresh and annotated translation of this passage: notes 32 through 34 are based on his suggestions.
32 Tāja-bāf, an otherwise unknown type of cloth, is mentioned as a kind of plain silk in the Ā‘īn-i Akbarī (I: 99). As for heft rang, ‘seven-coloured’ or ‘multicoloured’, it has no particular meaning in the dictionaries that were consulted: see Loghghatnāme-ye Dehkhoda. The words hafturang and haft awrang refer, on the other hand, to the constellation of the Great Bear. Interestingly, Haft Awrang being the title of Jami’s celebrated mystical work, a reference to it may be implied as well.
33 Cf. Shahbazi (1993: 424), about the contemporary Safavid Tāj: “During the struggle for political and ideological supremacy in Persia Soltan-Haydar and later his son Shah Esma‘il I (907-30/1501-24) endowed the red felt cap with a new significance: The opening was narrowed to fit snugly around the forehead and the tip (gol “flower” […]) elongated into a “bottleneck”; the inside was often reinforced with metal (to serve as a helmet); twelve vertical gores (tark), symbolizing devotion to the twelve Shi‘ite imams, encircled the hat; and a white turban of silk or wool was then wrapped around it in twelve bands. This entire headgear was called tāj, and only the military followers of the early Safavids were entitled to wear it [...]” A comparison, both formal and ideological, with the Safavid Tāj is essential to the understanding of the Humayuni headgear (see below).
34 This is a reference to abjad numbers. Note also that there appears to be a deliberate wordplay on tāj/tāja and ‘izz/‘izzat.
35 Colours were of paramount importance in Humayun’s ceremonial, being symbolic of the properties of different planets (see Qānūn: ff. 72-77; ff. 110-112.).
36 It is worth recalling that Baini Prasad’s translation (Qānūn 1940: 49-50) was very unclear on this point, placing the V-shaped vents “in each fillet”, thus making the identification impossible. On the importance of the Tāj-i ‘Izzat as a forerunner for other symbols of “mystical affiliation” or “special honour” reserved to the Emperors’ closest followers, like Akbar’s shast and Jahangir’s shast u shabha,see Parodi (2004a). I am currently writing a book on early Mughal painting, part of which is devoted to a detailed analysis of dress code and ceremonial.
37 Canby 1999: 10 and note 2. For a description, see also note 33, above.
38 The colour green is certainly not a casual detail: several years before the dream, Khwandamir explicitly mentions green as Humayun’s favourite colour, due to its connection with the Prophet Muhammad and with Khizr (Qānūn: f. 76). For this reason, and in accordance with astrological considerations, Humayun used to wear green or white clothes on Mondays and Fridays (ibid.). Participants to a Nawroz excursion preceding, and connected with, Akbar’s circumcision feast were also required to dress in green (Humāyūnnāma: f. 66). The figure of Khizr was to remain of importance under Humayun’s successors (see Beach & Koch 1997: 204-205).
39 Sher Khan is also reported to have had premonitory dreams (see Bakhshi & Sharma 2000: 230). 40 See below, and compare the reference to the khilāfat in Akbarnāma (note 27, above). 41 See Parodi (2004a) and note 27, above.
42 See Loghghatnāme-ye Dehkhoda, quoted in Nizami (1989: 134).
43 On the Dīn-i Ilāhī, see Parodi (2004a), which includes a discussion of the shast and clues of its survival under Akbar’s successors. See also note 36, above.
44 Qānūn: f. 71; tr. by Diego Giolitti.
45 See for example the painting known as Princes of the House of Timur (British Museum, 1913. 2-8. I), illustrated in Canby (1993) and briefly discussed below (Fig. 1 in this essay is a detail from it), or Humayun and Hindal in a Landscape (f. 15r from the “Berlin Album”, presently in Berlin, Staats bibliothek Preussischer Kulturbesitz), illustrated in Welch (1985: 145). The two paintings, along with others, are the object of a book I am currently writing: see note 36, above.
46 See Parodi (forthcoming) for a discussion in relation to Humayun’s tomb.
47 Gulbadan tells us that Babur took his children along in the campaign (Humāyūnnāma: 91).
48 See Thompson & Canby (2003: 122, 124-129).
49 Now at the Freer Gallery of Art, Washington, 45.9r ; illustrated in The St. Petersburg Muraqqa‘ (1996: Pl. 201).
50 See for example Elgood, in Canby (1994: 21): “Humayun, wishing to emulate Persian artistic tradition, would surely have jumped at the chance to employ a person with such experience [Mir Sayyid ‘Ali]”. There is actually reason to wonder whether the very concept of “Persian painting tradition” had some place in Humayun’s mind. There are categories we grew up with, such as “Persian”, “India”, or “Mughal”; we tend to use them because they are so familiar to us: they are part of a code long-established in scholarly practice, which comes in handy when we speak among ourselves; however, lest we also speak for ourselves, an effort on the part of us all is needed in order to refine our lexicon (and related categories), especially with reference to patronage and the perception of art by its contemporaries.
51 According to the Akbarnāma (I: f. 220), he visited the one in Tabriz.
52 A different text is preserved in other sources. These, however, date no earlier than the mid eighteenth century (see Ray 1948: 67-8 and 101-2).
53 On this occasion, according to Zayn Khan, Babur calls Humayun ṣadr al-kitāb. This was formerly translated as “true judge of books” and interpreted as a recognition of his competence in this matter (cf. English translation by S. H. Askari, Delhi 1982: 57-8); however, more recently, C. Adle has demonstrated it to be a playword based upon chancellery language that Zain Khan uses in order to maintain a certain balance between the rival brothers: Humayun is called ṣadr al-kitāb (proem of a letter or treatise) and Kamran, ṣadr al-khiṭāb (addressing chapter in a book or letter). See Adle (2000: 192-193) for further details.
54 He was also extremely fond of his son: when he himself arrived at the Agra fort (f. 268b), Humayun offered him a diamond of extraordinary size, whose value had been assessed at “the whole world’s expenditure for half a day”, and Babur gave it right back to him (f. 268b). This diamond was later given by Humayun to Tahmasp in return for his military support. See Amini (s.d.), for its identification with the celebrated Koh-i Noor, now with the British Crown.
55 The episode is discussed in Chandra 1976: 10 and note 9.
56 The Bāburnāma (ff. 11-11b) gives a vivid account of the strong relationship existing between him and the Miranshahi Timurids, and at the same time of his assertive and independent character: “After his father [Muhammad-Husayn Kürägän Dughlat] was killed by the Uzbeks, he came and joined my retinue for three or four years. Later, he requested permission to go to the khan in Kashgar. “Everything returns to its source – pure gold, silver, or tin.” As of this date, it is said that he has repented and discovered the right path. Calligraphy, painting, arrows, arrow barbs, string grip – at each of these he has a deft hand. He also has poetic talent. I have received a petition of his, and his composition is not bad”. After failing to reach Tibet, purportedly to destroy the temple at Lhasa (perhaps the “discovery of the right path” mentioned by Babur is a reference to this episode), Haydar joined Kamran in Kabul and, when the latter rebelled, defected to Humayun. Probably due to cultural and temperamental affinities, Haydar developed a sincere attachment to the latter, and remained at his side until the Emperor chose to seek asylum in Iran. Haydar, who had advised him to try his chance in Kashmir, went there instead and gained the throne effortlessly, but was murdered by political opponents in 1551, before Humayun could achieve a stable position either in Kabul or Hindustan (see Barthold 1986: 317).
57 The gifts mentioned in note 58, below, and particularly in the case of Hindal, testify to this; see also Avashty (1967: 23-24), with bibliography, for Humayun’s formative years. According to Bakhshi and Sharma (2000: 47), the latter had reportedly made Badakhshan a centre of learning and the arts already in his youth; however, no source is quoted in support of this statement.
58 Though no specimens survive, the script is known to us from Babur’s mention of it in his memoirs, among the gifts sent to his sons in 1529 (Bāburnāma: f. 357b): to Humayun, along with congratulatory gifts for the birth of a son, were sent “occasional poems written in the Baburi script”; to Kamran, gifts for his marriage and “letters written in the Baburi script”; and to Hindal, then a child of ten, along with clothes, a dagger, a jewel-studded inkwell and a mother-of pearl inlay box (presumably a pen-case, which would have been appropriate), “a copy of the individual letters of the Baburi script”. The passage is relevant for at least two reasons (so far, it would seem, unnoticed): the first is that the khaṭṭ-i Bāburī, it may be inferred, was a very recent invention; this may account for its complete disappearance, as not enough specimens of it were probably in existence at the time of Babur’s death. The second is that Humayun, unlike his brothers, was sent complete poems written in the new handwriting especially for the occasion. This probably signals some sort of hierarchy in the gifts: specifically, an acknowledgement of Humayun as the eldest and, since the birth of a heir, the most important among Babur’s sons. A superior status of Humayun in the cultural domain, established during the conquest of Hindustan, may also have been taken into account.
59 Mahfuz-ul Haq, quoted in Chandra (1976: 10).
60 Tārīkh-i Khandān-i Tīmūriyya, f. 298 of the Patna Ms., quoted in Chandra 1976: 12 and note 16. 61 The miniature, part of the Muraqqa‘-i Gulshān, is presently in the Gulistan Palace Collection, Tehran (illustrated in colour in Canby 1994: 20). Fig. 2 in the present essay is a detail from it. See Beach (1987a: 9-11) for a discussion in relation with the Akbarnāma passage.
62 When I presented this paper to the Conference, Dr. Abolala Soudavar pertinently observed that the episode might as well be a literary motif. However, due to the specific nature of the source, which spares no details as to Humayun’s misfortunes (and misconducts: see for example Tadhkīra: f. 46 for his obtaining remittance of a debt in exchance for water), and considering Haydar Mirza’s statement regarding the number of craftsmen employed by the Emperor during his Bengal cam paign, I think it can be regarded as genuine.
63 The history of Eastern Moghulistan in the fifteenth and sixteenth century is not well documented, the main source being Haydar Mirza’s Tārīkh-i Rashīdī. The area was contended between the Chagatai Moghuls (related to the Mughals) and the Dughlats (Haydar Mirza’s clan). According to some of the sources, Said Khan, who restored the Chagatai power in 1516 and the father of Humayun’s con temporary, Abd al-Rashid, was the son of Ahmad Khan, Babur’s maternal uncle (see Yih, s.d.; Barthold & Spuler 1997: 698 is of no great use for this period). Ahmad Khan, whom Babur calls “the Little Khan” (Kichik Khan) as opposed to his elder brother Mahmud “the Great Khan” (Ulūgh Khan), ruler of Tashkent, is the protagonist of an interesting episode which testifies to the kind of rela tionship existing between the Miranshahi Timurids and their Chagatai relatives (Bāburnāma: ff. 102b 103b, discussed in Parodi 2004b: 245-6).
64 The letter was analysed by Dickson and Welch (1981) in the chapters devoted to the artists it mentions: Mulla Dust, whom they still regard to be the same as Dust Muhammad, Mir Sayyid ‘Ali and Khwaja Abd al-Samad.
65 See Beach (1987a: Figs. 1 and 10). On a further instance proposed by Beach, for the miniature illustrated in Fig. 8, cf. Robert Skelton’s objection (in Canby 1994: 45) that the animal represented is not a nīlgai and cannot, therefore, be connected with the episode of Akbar’s first killing at a hunt, mentioned in the Akbarnāma (I: f. 351). It is even more doubtful that Akbar originally faced Humayun in Princes of the House of Timur (British Museum, 1913. 2-8. I).
66 See Parodi (2004a) and Parodi (forthcoming).
67 Cf. notes 46, above, and 69, below.
68 I am thinking of examples like a ca. 1540 binding, now in London (British Library, Or. 1374), showing an enthroned figure and attendants in a garden, or the magnificent appliqué presently in Budapest (Museum of Applied Arts, no. 52.2801, 1); the latter in particular, despite the difference in technique, may be a pertinent parallel for Humayun’s Garden Party, since both were probably part of reception paraphernalia. Both the binding and the Budapest textile were recently exhibited in Milan and are illustrated in Thompson and Canby (2003: 7.10 and 12.18 respectively).
69 See the examples illustrated in Lentz & Lowry (1989: 258, 260-261 and passim).
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