Hidden Caliphate: Sufi Saints beyond the Oxus and Indus 9780674269385

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Hidden Caliphate

H I DDE N C A L I PH AT E Sufi Saints beyond the Oxus and Indus

e WA L E E D Z I AD

H A RVA RD UN IV ERS IT Y P R E S S Cambridge, Massachusetts & London, England 2021

Copyright © 2021 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America First printing

Design: Graciela Galup Cover art: Getty Images 9780674269378 (EPUB) 9780674269385 (PDF) The Library of Congress Cataloged the printed edition as follows: Names: Ziad, Waleed, 1980– author. Title: Hidden caliphate : Sufi saints beyond the Oxus and Indus / Waleed Ziad. Description: Cambridge, Massachusetts : Harvard University Press, 2021. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2021012943 | ISBN 9780674248816 (cloth) Subjects: LCSH: Muslim saints—Asia, Central—History. | Muslim saints—Asia, Central—Biography. | Muslim saints—Pakistan—History. | Muslim saints—Pakistan—Biography. | Sufism—Political aspects—History. | Caliphate—History. | Islam and politics—History. | Da‘wah (Islam)—History. Classification: LCC BP189.4 .Z53 2021 | DDC 297.6/10958—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021012943

For my family

Contents



Note on Transliteration

Introduction: Beyond the Great Game

ix

1

1 A Persianate Cosmopolis

29

2 The Reviver of the Second Millennium

61

3 Transporting Sacred Knowledge

91

4 How Peshawar Revived Bukhara’s Sanctity

111

5 The Saint and the Khan

137

6 Peshawar in Turmoil

160

7 Guardians of the Caravans

190

8 The Diplomat-Saints of Ferghana

207

9 From Swat to Kabul

222

Conclusion: The Sage of North Waziristan

246



Appendix A: Key Reigns and Events by Region, 1700–1900

265



Appendix B: Patterns of Reproduction of Practical Sufi Handbooks

273

Notes

287

Acknowledgments

337

Index

341

Note on Transliteration

As terms, personal names, and place names may be pronounced in various ways in the source languages, this book employs a simplified transliteration system that privileges readability, modified from the International Journal of Middle East Studies guidelines. Commonly used words like Sufi, khan, amir, and ulama are not translated or transliterated. Names of individuals and works of literature are presented without diacritics, while terms in Arabic, Persian, Urdu, Chagatai, or Pashto appear with minimal diacritical marks to reflect, where possible, pronunciation according to the language and genre of the text or oral history. Place names are represented in their common modern forms.

Hidden Caliphate

Introduction Beyond the Great Game

e

I

n 1821, the English explorer William Moorcroft reached Ladakh, a Buddhist mountain kingdom bordering Tibet to the north. Moorcroft, who began his career as a veterinary surgeon, was recruited by the East India Company to locate superior horse breeds for the Company’s use and needed access to the fabled horse markets of Bukhara. He was accompanied by Mir ‘Izzatullah, his talented secretary, whose family had migrated from Bukhara to northern India two generations earlier. We might have thought that Moorcroft’s journey depended on the goodwill of political powerbrokers who controlled (in theory) the borders and roads. But in fact his journey was made possible by a bāt.inī, or “hidden,” caliphate, a network of Sufi scholar-saints with whom Mir ‘Izzatullah was affiliated. Mir ‘Izzatullah suggested that they approach a certain Shah Niyaz— a Sufi born in a princely family of Tashkent, who had migrated first to Kashmir, then Yarkand in China. Shah Niyaz had been dispossessed of his Kashmiri properties after the Sikh occupation of 1819 and sought refuge in the relatively peaceful region of Ladakh, where he became a confidant of the Buddhist chief minister. Mir ‘Izzatullah’s suggestion proved fruitful: Shah Niyaz graciously offered to refer Moorcroft to Mian Fazl-i Haqq of Peshawar, the son and spiritual successor of one of Peshawar’s greatest saints, who could facilitate his journey. From Ladakh, Moorcroft traveled on horseback about 1,300 kilometers westward to Peshawar, via Kashmir and northern Punjab, where he met Fazl-i Haqq, an approachable, mild-mannered holy man who proved eager

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to help. Fortuitously, Fazl-i Haqq himself needed to travel to Bukhara to meet with the king, Amir Hayder, who was not just a devoted disciple of his father Fazl Ahmad Peshawari but had been appointed as one of his spiritual deputies. Moorcroft seized the opportunity. He offered to finance Fazl-i Haqq’s journey to Bukhara, in return for good references to the various rulers en route, who all venerated the Peshawari saint. Fazl-i Haqq agreed. Some weeks later, however, due to a combination of mischief and miscommunication, Moorcroft found himself in a bind, detained by Mir Murad Beg of Qunduz, the famously obstinate ruler of an autonomous state south of the Amu Darya, known to Europeans as the Oxus River. Eventually, again through Fazl-i Haqq’s network, Moorcroft was referred to Khwaja Qasim Jan, the venerated Sufi patriarch of Qunduz, who had considerable clout with the mir, who happened to be his son-in-law. After prolonged deliberations, the Qunduzi Sufi managed to negotiate Moorcroft’s release in return for a payment to the mir. The Englishman finally succeeded in reaching Bukhara, becoming one of the few Europeans to have ventured into this legendary metropolis.

But this book is not about Moorcroft. In fact, he is no more than an incidental character in a much larger story that has been overlooked because, both during and after the nineteenth century, European writings on the region across which Moorcroft traveled have only been concerned with religious figures insofar as they seemed relevant to colonial interests. Hidden Caliphate views this world from an entirely different perspective, that of the religious network that made Moorcroft’s journey possible in a time of political fragmentation. It reveals an interconnected Persianate cosmopolis that persisted into the early twentieth century. This sphere of exchange stretched across the Indus and Amu Darya well into the Inner Asian Steppes and western China: regions mediated through a shared Persian cultural-linguistic tradition and historical memory even as British, Russian, and Chinese imperial expansion encroached. Each of the real protagonists of my story—Mir ‘Izzatullah, Shah Niyaz, Khwaja Qasim Jan, Fazl-i Haqq, Bukhara’s king Amir Hayder, and thousands more—belonged to a vast, intricate network of scholar-mystics known as the Naqshbandi-Mujaddidi (or simply Mujaddidi, literally meaning “revivalist”) order. Each had undergone a rigorous course of education and spiritual training spanning well over a decade at premier institutions of higher learning in cities like Bukhara, Kabul, Peshawar, and Delhi. The Mujaddidis followed a comprehensive “exoteric” curriculum ranging from Persian poetry, ethics, and logic to medicine and jurisprudence, before graduating to the higher “esoteric” or “hidden” sciences. Through carefully crafted courses

Introduction 

 3

on meditation, they learned to activate metaphysical energy centers mapped onto the physical body. These practices enabled an inward spiritual journey toward God and a return to the created world. With the knowledge and wisdom they gained, they became fit to lead others in spiritual development as well as worldly affairs. Mujaddidi scholar-saints composed one of the principal corporate groups in regions as disparate as Kashgar and Kazan. In fact, their bāt.inī khilāfat was arguably the most extensive Muslim scholastic-religious network of the seventeenth to early twentieth centuries. The Mujaddidis fused Persian, Arabic, and vernacular literary traditions; mystical virtuosity; popular religious practices; and the urban scholastic domain into a unified, yet flexible, articulation of Islam that provided coherence to diverse Muslim communities across wide-ranging territory. They also articulated some of the most effective social responses to the decline of Muslim political power and the ascendance of European colonialism; by the late nineteenth century, they had even inspired the region’s principal Muslim reformist movements. This book asks how the Mujaddidis were able to establish this remarkable parallel form of popular leadership, which transcended and outlived contemporary political structures, surviving to the present day. It follows the emergence and evolution of their trans-Asiatic networks, which bridged intellectual, economic, and religious domains across the fragile states of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, on both sides of the Indus River and Amu Darya. At the same time, it shows how the contemporary Persianate world order—its cosmopolitan urbanites, pastoralists, and agriculturalists; its petty princes, tribal chiefs, and landed gentry alike—relied on this overarching network for stability, communication, and mediation both between competing parties and between the visible and invisible realms. Through this examination, I offer a new way of conceiving sovereignty in the Muslim world prior to the twentieth century. I argue that people across central and southern Asia understood authority structures to inhere in a two-tiered paradigm, the z. āhirī (manifest) and bāt.inī (hidden) caliphate. In this hierarchical model, which draws from terms deployed by the Sufis themselves, the hidden caliphate of Sufi networks maintained a transregional balance, positioned above the outer caliphate, the political authority made up of an amalgam of small fractured states. This model is markedly different from prevailing traditional visions of Islamic sovereignty, and certainly from more modern conceptions of so-called Islamic nation-statehood. And it challenges our understanding of the relationship between state, subject populations, and sacerdotal sphere. This book, then, explores sovereignty not from the perspective of rulers, governors, armies, and bureaucracies but from the vantage point of Sufi communities. And in doing so, it is grounded

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not in contemporary political theories or courtly literature but in the lived realities of Sufis who navigated this sphere, revealing their pivotal place in sustaining a transregional order in a time of decentralization and political transformation.

The Naqshbandi-Mujaddidi order had originated several generations earlier with Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi (d. 1624), a widely revered Hindustani mystic. Sirhindi articulated the metaphysical concept of millennial revival (tajdīd-i alfī) of Islam: that, a thousand years after the Prophet Muhammad’s passing (1602), a restoration of the prophetic period’s essence would be executed by a saint of the highest credentials. Sirhindi was himself popularly designated the Mujaddid-i Alf Sani, or reviver of the second millennium. In modern historiography, he remains one of the most respected yet controversial Muslim thinkers. Today, a surprising range of Sunni socioreligious movements from Anatolia to Southeast Asia—including Salafi fundamentalists, modernists, and Sufi traditionalists—incorporate him and the Mujaddidi order into their intellectual lineage. Meanwhile, in South Asia, nationalist narratives view Sirhindi as the progenitor of the “two-nation theory,” which ultimately spurred the creation of the separate states of India and Pakistan in 1947. In modern Turkey, his theology is considered an inspiration for the ruling Justice and Development Party. Needless to say, his place in history remains contested, with heated debates centering mainly on his political legacy. Remarkably, however, very few of Sirhindi’s writings have any direct relevance to the domain of politics and statecraft; only seven of the 536 epistles that comprise his magnum opus, the Maktubat, or Collected Letters, reference contemporary politics. The bulk of his work outlines a complex philosophical and cosmological system, synthesizing exoteric and esoteric Islamic sciences into a cohesive system. This required rearticulating the contours of shari‘a to encompass external law, doctrine, and the mystical path. In effect, Sirhindi created a discursive space where the ecstatic mystic could communicate with the sober jurist, ultimately institutionalized in his hometown, Sirhind, between Lahore and Delhi. His college drew scholars and Sufis from across the Persianate world and repackaged an array of diverse pedagogies for onward travel.1 This study centers on Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi’s legacy in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, a time of drastic political transformations in the Persianate world. The great regional empires—the Mughals at Delhi and the Safavids at Isfahan, as well as the Uzbek Ashtarkhanid kingdoms at Bukhara and Balkh—were gradually disintegrating. The early eighteenth century not only witnessed deurbanization in certain regions, tribal

Introduction  N

KHIVA

 5 KYRGYSTAN

Tashkent

Khoqand

UZBEKISTAN

MINGS OF KHOQAND

Bukhara Am

u ar

Yarkand

CHINA

ya QU

Mazar-i Sharif MAIMANA

Mashhad

TAS

H

R KU

GA

U ND

KO Kabul

Herat

Z BA

N

DURRANI HERAT

HIS

DA

A SW Thana

R

DE

a

KH

S AN

OF

KA

LAT

RA

OF TE UR P IRA AM AWAL H BA

Shikarpur

SH

MI

R

Lahore

Sirhind

JAT

PAKISTAN

Kalat

KA

SIKH EMPIRE

Dera Ismail Khan

d

lm

T

r

Indus R ive

er

iv

Qandahar

n

He

SH

Peshawar

DURRANIS OF QANDAHAR, KABUL AND PESHAWAR

IRAN

KH

AN

TAN

AFGHANISTAN

QAJAR IRAN

ALTISHAHR (Qing Gov.)

D

TURKMENISTAN

Kashgar

MANGHIT KHANS TAJIKISTAN OF BUKHARA

MUGHAL EMPIRE Delhi

Bareilly

NAWABS OF AWADH

I N D I A

TALPUR MIRS OF SINDH Hyderabad Thatta

A r a b i a n

S e a

TH

AR

0 0

250 km 250 miles

Map 1  Political geography of the Hindustan, Khurasan, and Transoxiana, c. 1800

“breakouts,” and revolts but also corresponding reorientations of overland Asiatic trade passages. The Iranian soldier of fortune Nadir Shah Afshar (r. 1736–1747) turned this volatile milieu to his advantage and rapidly assembled territory extending from the Caucasus to Delhi. But Nadir Shah’s imperial project proved ephemeral. After his death, his domains fragmented into petty feuding principalities; weak successor states at Shiraz, Khiva, Khoqand, and Bukhara eventually emerged through tribal consolidation and warfare. China’s Qing dynasty absorbed Altishahr (now southwestern Xinjiang province). Simultaneously, Nadir Shah’s erstwhile Afghan commander in chief, Ahmad Shah Durrani, consolidated power at Qandahar by skillfully engineering an alliance of Afghan tribes. Ahmad Shah briefly succeeded in carving out a so-called Durrani Empire from Nadir Shah’s eastern provinces. But by

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1800 this short-lived Afghan empire, too, collapsed into an array of successor states ranging from Herat in northwestern Afghanistan to Sindh in southern Pakistan.2 Virtually all these emergent ruling elites lacked popular legitimacy, maintaining limited sovereignty only through delicate negotiations with tribal elites and provincial potentates. By the first half of the nineteenth century, many of these nascent polities were reduced to buffer states in what came to be known in Western imperial parlance as the “Great Game” for dominance of Asia.3 Contemporary European accounts describe this period as one of cultural and intellectual decay, setting the stage for British and Russian colonial “corrective” intervention. They recount the isolation and ruination of cities like Kabul, Qandahar, Kalat, and Bukhara. When viewed solely through the lens of formal ruling structures, this indeed seems to have been the case. However, contemporary Persian, Arabic, Chagatai, Tatar, Urdu, Pashto, and Sindhi sources tell a remarkably different story, intimately bound with the intricate network of shrines, khānaqāhs (centers for Sufi practice), and madrasas associated with various Sufi orders from Hindustan and Khurasan, which were expanding their reach in this turbulent period as far as Transoxiana, Kazan, Kashgar, and Istanbul. Foremost among these Sufis were the heirs of Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi, now known as the NaqshbandiMujaddidis. From their base at Sirhind in the Mughal heartlands, they penetrated rural and pastoral-nomadic communities and emerging regional capitals like Khoqand in the Ferghana Valley and Hyderabad on the Indus in lower Sindh. By the first half of the nineteenth century, this Sufi suborder formed the dominant Sunni institutional network in the Persianate world. Although this study spans the seventeenth to twentieth centuries, I focus on the period between the death of Nadir Shah in 1747 and the ascendancy of Afghanistan’s “Iron Amir” ‘Abd al-Rahman in 1880. It is at this time, following the Second Anglo-Afghan War, that many links across the two rivers were effectively severed, and the authority of the Sufis was most directly challenged. Excavating this story problematizes several persistent myths about the political landscape of this region and the Muslim world at large. Notably, in addition to exploring the dual manifest / hidden caliphate as an alternative way of understanding how a decentralized region managed itself prior to the twentieth century, it also dislocates Great Game narratives, including their geographical concepts of South and Central Asia’s supposed natural frontiers. I argue instead for the persistence of a Persianate world in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, encompassing Iran, Hindustan, Transoxiana, Khurasan, and beyond, and explore the interplay of cosmopolitanism and vernacularization within this ecumene. In parallel, I respond to

Introduction 

 7

enduring debates on the nature of lived Islam before colonialism. What did the sacerdotal domain look like before colonial interventions and modern transformations, before British and Russian bureaucrats and orientalists imposed their own definitions on Sufis and the ulama (scholars)?

Manifest and Hidden Caliphates From Afghanistan’s historian-laureate ‘Abd al-Hayy Habibi to the acclaimed historian of the Arab world Albert Hourani, scholars have acknowledged that Sirhindi and his successors inspired new directions in Muslim culture and community. However, the structure and function of the Mujaddidi networks and the basis of their transregional authority remain a source of considerable controversy.4 The cultural-political order obtained in the Persianate sphere of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries was distinct from the three most familiar paradigms of Islamic sovereignty. The first of these is the originary caliphal model, effectively merging religious and political authority. This model was largely conceived by jurists, and it disregarded political realities after the end of the Rightly Guided caliphate (632–661), the tragedy at Karbala in 680, and certainly after the fall of Fatimids of Egypt and the Abbasid Caliphate at Baghdad in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, respectively. But it still informs scholarly discourse on Muslim statehood. The second commonly available model is the bifurcated sultanate, premised on an understanding that states breaking off from the caliphate had no explicit religious ambitions and presided over societies comprised of associational or confessional religious organizations. In this model, religious organizations embodied sacred legitimacy and occupied a space functionally and physically separate from the state sphere. The so-called secular sultans would patronize religious functionaries, instrumentalizing them to rubber-stamp their kingship and buttress their own credentials among a believing population.5 A third paradigm of sovereignty, the quadripartite circle of equity (a favorite of classical Muslim political theorists), is also inadequate to describe the Persianate environment in the period under scrutiny. Originating in Zoroastrian ideals of kingship, in this model, a monarch preserves a balance between mutually supportive classes, namely the religious hierarchy, the military, cultivators, and artisans. This model, however, fails to account for the limited sovereignty of state regimes, the transregional movement of human capital, and the complexities within the ulama and Sufi classes. Understanding the Mujaddidis and how authority operated in this region and period depends on recognizing the radical change that occurred in the

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eighteenth century. As older imperial and state structures broke down, local ruling elites from Hindustan, Khurasan, and Transoxiana effectively entrusted scholastic and social services to Sufi orders, whose popular authority appealed to urban intelligentsia and tribal and rural populations. These Sufis generated institutional networks separate from the fiscal-military institutions of state and possessed greater resilience and longevity. Their khānaqāhs, madrasas, and shrines formed a superstructure that enabled a transregional knowledge economy to provide coherence to the politically fragmented region through a constant flow of texts, practices, and human capital. In tandem, their rural institutions and land endowments spurred agricultural production. As in prior centuries, ruling elites did not confine themselves to a parallel “secular” space. Rather, they were active participants in the Sufi khānaqāhs; their participation as patrons and disciples was inextricably tied to the practices of power. As such, my work is an inquiry into the nature of a “fibre,” to use Joseph Fletcher’s term, which held together parts of Eurasia and enabled horizontal continuities in the precolonial and early colonial periods.6 How was this fibre fashioned? Relying on Sirhindi’s pioneering theological interventions—specifically, on reconciling divergent Sufi pedagogies and the shari‘a—the Mujaddidis represented themselves as a synthetic tradition, both transregional and local. Accordingly, they were able to absorb preexisting sacred communities and spaces, and inevitably became a point of convergence for urban ulama, Sufis, and intelligentsia; popular shrine-based Sufism; and the tribal and highland religious spheres. A diversified support and capital base meant that they were not restricted to any one region or dependent on localized sources of income. As Sufi saints, scholars, popular poets, and jurists, the Mujaddidis assumed the role of arch-intermediaries in a dynamic and fragile environment. They were called upon to mediate between urban and tribal elites and subjects, antagonistic polities, colonial and local authorities, and agrarian and highland communities.7 They led interregional trade caravans across the spectacular terrain of the Khyber Pass and Amu Darya, and, when required, even raised armies. Their institutions became public spaces furnishing a suite of social services well beyond exoteric and esoteric education and popular religious rituals. They were soup kitchens, caravanserais, and safe houses, as well as loci for trade, negotiation, and diplomacy. They were also sites for the production and propagation of didactic, polemical, and historical texts that helped define the contours of Persianate Islam in this period.8 The expansion of Mujaddidi khānaqāh networks went hand in hand with the mid-eighteenth-century political upheavals in the Mughal heartlands and contributed to a dramatic reorientation of trans-Asiatic religioscholastic and commercial networks. Ulama and Sufis forcibly displaced

Introduction 

 9

from Mughal centers including Sirhind, Sialkot, Lahore, and Delhi were encouraged by rulers and tribal elites to relocate toward Khurasan, Transoxiana, and beyond. Correspondingly, cities like Kabul, Qandahar, Bukhara, Srinagar, Shikarpur, Thatta, and Peshawar emerged as sacred-scholastic hubs for new north-south networks through which ulama and Sufis from as far afield as Bukhara, Baluchistan, and Altishahr could access scholarship and literature from across the Mughal Empire. The short-lived Durrani Empire was a critical catalyst for these reorientations. By the early nineteenth century, Mujaddidi institutions in Durrani territories linked Hindustan’s towns with scholastic networks as far north as Siberia. A rapid movement of scholars into urban, tribal, and rural areas generated literary production in Persian, Arabic, and local languages including Pashto, Chagatai, Tatar, Sindhi, and Punjabi. But this revival of Durrani urban centers like Kabul and Peshawar as scholastic entrepôts in the late eighteenth and nineteenth centuries has been largely erased from historical memory. These developments have, it seems, been eclipsed by Great Game narratives that relegate these regions to the status of barren “frontiers” or isolated “buffer states” straddling British and Russian imperial spheres of influence. Why were Sufis solicited by the Durrani Afghans, Uzbeks, and their contemporaries, and what incentives did the Mujaddidis have to accept their invitations? It is helpful to view the story through the framework of “religious economy”—that is, analogizing the complex religious environment to a marketplace, with multiple firms, producers, and consumers; competition and collusion; and the generation and distribution of spiritual capital.9 After Nadir Shah’s death, his former lands witnessed an intense competition among successor polities for cultural, social, and symbolic capital. On the demand side of this religious economy, each of the nascent states— whether the Durrani Empire, Khoqand, Khiva, Kalat, Bukhara, or smaller regional polities—required a scholastic and spiritual institutional base. Such institutions could generate the fragile new states’ bureaucracies and judicial apparatus, and in turn attract further cultural capital. Moreover, since most of their ruling families lacked historical legitimacy, Sufis and their institutions provided symbolic capital to strengthen the new dynasties. The local populations, likewise, required a range of religious services. Especially in a time of political turmoil, resettlement, and migrations, there was a high demand for blessings, faith healing, practical and spiritual guidance, and charity. Moreover, both the state and its subjects were in need of political, commercial, and suprarational mediation. This was best provided by an outside party with significant transregional, historically

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embodied social capital across rural, highland, pastoral-nomadic, and urban environments, including long-standing patronage structures and networks. Particularly at a time of gradated and limited sovereignty across this region, intermediaries became essential in continuing systems of exchange.10 On the supply side, the Mujaddidis had some distinct advantages among the vast number of players in the unregulated post–Nadir Shah religious marketplace. The college at Sirhind and its subsidiaries had produced generations of scholar-mystics with expertise in law, scholastic theology, and Sufism. They inherited the centuries-old symbolic authority of the Naqshbandi order. Moreover, they personified the academic rigor of an urban Mughal high-cultural institutional environment. These Sufis, trained in the Mughal cosmopolitan milieu, could then fulfill the above areas of demand. And by the mid-eighteenth century, having lost their center at Sirhind, and many of the awqāf (charitable endowments) that undergirded their network, due to regional conflicts, the Mujaddidis needed both material resources and a support base to continue to propagate their teachings and methods. A transregional, hierarchical social-religious-political structure emerged from this dynamic situation. Sufi networks essentially formed a potent supraregional cultural space, providing both sacred and practical brokerage functions for and between multiple layers of society. The Mujaddidis and their contemporaries in the eighteenth- to nineteenth-century Persianate ecumene, then, were fashioned—and fashioned themselves—to meet the challenges of trans-Asiatic political and market reorientations. This is not to say that they were entirely novel in character. They shared certain characteristics with earlier Sufi orders and other corporate and functional groups that have received some scholarly attention—for example, the munshī secretarial class, also cultural intermediaries who provided continuity amid political flux and could be transposed horizontally from one polity to another. Not unlike the Sufis, their specific blend of education and grasp of contemporary political and social realities meant that the secretarial class could easily transition between the Mughal court, successor states, and the British East India Company. It is indeed remarkable that even rival states often patronized the same munshīs or Mujaddidi networks at a time of constantly shifting frontiers and looming threats from greater powers. Although in their own literature the Mujaddidis saw themselves following in the footsteps of past mystics, in certain key ways they were very different from Sufis of earlier centuries. Their networks were far more widespread and institutionalized, guaranteeing exoteric and esoteric education of the highest available caliber. Thanks to Sirhindi’s intellectual

Introduction 

 11

legacy, they could fast absorb and synthesize earlier communities and their writings, practices, and philosophies. Much of this was of course facilitated by the realities of their age; the fractured environment needed binding agents and required the Mujaddidis to perform a broader array of functions than most Sufis who came before them. The expanded functionality of the Sufi networks can be viewed as an outgrowth of the idea of sacred kingship in the Timurid, Safavid, Ottoman, and Mughal eras. Charismatic empire builders like Shah Isma‘il Safavi and the Mughal emperor Akbar came to embody a form of sovereignty that fused worldly power and sacrality. Notions of sovereignty were grounded in millenarian epistemology and in the corresponding figure of the Sufi shaykh or pīr—meaning elder, guide, or master—as a heroic savior, heralding a new epoch in the history of mankind.11 By the eighteenth century, two structural transformations had taken place. First, the great empires had broken down, replaced with polities governed by new rulers lacking in sacred legitimacy. Therefore, the Mujaddidis and their contemporaries became even more critical in embodying and sustaining the sacred domains. As successors of Sirhindi, the Mujaddidis, in particular, fashioned themselves as the agents of a perpetual millennial renewal. Second, Sirhindian ontology had established a Sufi domain that encapsulated both z. āhirī and bāt.inī (exoteric and esoteric) scholastic functions, thereby expanding the domain and strength of the Sufi institutions to include juristic and spiritual functions. The structure of hierarchical sovereignty was upheld by a notion circulating within the Mujaddidi and other Sufis orders of the z. āhirī (or apparent, outer, or manifest) and bāt.inī (or inner or hidden) caliphate. This dual model of sovereignty had been articulated centuries earlier by foundational Sufi thinkers like the Andalusian mystic Ibn al-‘Arabi in the twelfth century. Delhi’s eighteenth-century Mujaddidi polymath Shah Waliullah (d. 1762) lays out their respective functions: And the caliphate is manifest and hidden. Thus, [the domain of] the Manifest Caliphate is establishment of jihad, and justice, and h.udūd,12 and levying the tithe and the land tax on whoever is the rightful [recipient]. And indeed the ones who are just, carry the burdens of this within the countries of Islam. And [the domain of the] Hidden Caliphate is teaching the Holy Book, wisdom, and spiritual purification [cleansing of the ego-self] with the light of the hidden, with harsh preaching, and the attractions of the [saintly] association. As the Almighty said: “Verily, Allah conferred favor on the believers, when He sent a messenger from among them, reciting on them his verses and purifying them and teaching them the book and wisdom, although before they were in clear error.” [al-‘Imran, 164] . . . and the Prophet (peace by upon Him) said: “The ulama are the inheritors of prophets.” And the caliph is naught expect

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he who . . . preserves the Holy Book and the sunna, and provides training in laws of conduct [salūk, or wayfaring] and nurtures the people of good conduct [sālikīn, or spiritual wayfarers].13

On the surface this model resembles the bifurcated sultanate / religious domain paradigm. But in substance it is very different. First, there is a strict hierarchy between the two caliphates. The hidden caliphs are responsible for higher metaphysical functions of governance, while the manifest caliphs are purely responsible for the material, worldly aspects of governance. Second, in the Sufi sense, the word caliphate in general signified much more than temporal rule or a functional clerical category; it was imbued with mystical notions of personal spiritual realization, Ibn al-‘Arabi’s “perfect” human being who “governs the affairs of the world and controls them by means of the divine Names.”14 Through their piety, service, and self-realization, the hidden caliphs (khulafā’, plural of khalīfa, meaning “successors”) were divinely appointed to manage affairs on a metaphysical level, to perform cosmic functions well beyond the reach of the everyday believer, and to guide humankind in the exoteric sciences as well as the esoteric sciences of spiritual perfection. As God’s vicegerents, they were the keepers of hidden knowledge. Some, like the ones introduced in this study, were indeed public figures, but others remained anonymous. Although the hidden / manifest caliphate model became pronounced in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, it also applied in degrees to earlier periods. Thus, this model not only offers a paradigm that makes sense of our period on its own terms but also a lens by which to critically evaluate other models scrutinized in recent scholarship of early modern Muslim states: sacred kingship, or the state as “military-administrative household,” or notions of bargaining, balance, cooperation, and competition between multiple loci of political power.15 And it allows us to appreciate the transition between these older models of sovereignty and later discourses on Pan-Islamism or divine sovereignty that have animated intraMuslim debates in the last two centuries. It illuminates, too, how modern constructs of the so-called Islamic state have both leveraged and entirely refashioned preexisting notions of religion, state, and subjecthood.16 The Mujaddidis and their contemporaries rarely concerned themselves with matters of practical governance and worldly, secular sovereignty in their own discourse. Even when engaging with the court, they maintained a symbolic distance in both their public performance and epistolary correspondence. For this reason, we find a myriad of Mujaddidi tracts on spiritual wayfaring and meditation, rather than “mirrors for princes,” manuals on statecraft, or opinions on military and chancery matters. In

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their biographies, political events (even great upheavals) are relegated to footnotes, while the primary functions of Sufis as teachers and spiritual guides are detailed and extolled. Contemporary rulers, too, acknowledged this hierarchy not only through symbolic performances exhibiting subservience to the Sufis, or through generous grants to their institutions, but as committed Sufi disciples and practitioners. On the practical level, there were notable exceptions to the general principle of avoiding the state and military sphere. The system of hierarchical sovereignty was sustained through intermittent bargaining acts between states, local power brokers, and the Sufi networks, with each party exerting pressure on the other. Political pressures often induced realignments of Sufi networks, as we will see throughout. When rulers became intolerable and threatened the Sufi orders or their constituencies, as in the Anglo-Afghan Wars, Sufi networks could even mobilize their resources to undermine the ruling classes. And, in some liminal regions lacking political leadership, they even assumed direct political control—but this was, in their own literature, seen as a burden, an ancillary function to their primary vocation of spiritual guidance.

Pieces of a Chessboard The first casualties of this story are the Great Game narratives, starting with romanticized first-hand accounts of European adventure, heroism, and espionage in inhospitable, hostile territory. In these narratives, the lands from the Indus westward exist primarily as imperial buffer zones. Despite their exaggerated depictions and blatantly racialized tone, these tales continue to shape our conceptions of Transoxiana, Khurasan, and to a lesser extent Hindustan in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. It is surprising that, while other “great power”–centric narratives in regional historiography have been substantially scrutinized and impugned, secondary literature still mostly perceives this region as a collection of isolated princedoms with limited agency at the mercy of the three great powers: Lord Nathaniel Curzon’s “pieces of a chessboard upon which is being played out a game for the dominion of the world.”17 The continuing political sensitivity of this region only perpetuates such paradigms. The first Great Game histories were composed in the nineteenth century by political and military officials serving in various arenas where the British-Russian rivalry was playing out. These works were driven by policy objectives; it was in their best interest to rebrand “local questions” as imperial concerns, with their narratives of the complex internal dynamics

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of this area providing ammunition for their arguments that their home countries should focus more on this putative imperial battleground.18 The second phase of Great Game histories of the region appeared against the backdrop of the First World War and the Bolshevik revolution. These works, classical diplomatic accounts, zero in on individual colonial actors and their motives.19 The third phase corresponded to the growth of Russian studies in the United Kingdom and the United States during and after the Cold War. Among these works were the first substantive histories of Afghanistan and the khanates of Transoxiana. But the focus remained overwhelmingly political, and contemporary British and Russian archival materials were the anchoring sources. These histories were unable to critically integrate locally produced literature with colonial European histories and travelogues. Nor could they break away from colonial and postcolonial borders and conceptions of sovereignty.

Imagined Frontiers Hidden Caliphate is also an antidote to another enduring legacy of colonial “Great Game” histories—that is, the skewed geographic boundaries separating South Asia from Central Asia, with Afghanistan wedged awkwardly in between. These conceptualizations were informed by some assumptions deeply rooted in the colonial imagination. When British colonial administrators partitioned the region, they followed the ancient Greeks, in defining the Amu Darya or Oxus River as the “border between civilization and barbarism.”20 Transoxiana, to the river’s north, was accordingly the domain of lawlessness and despotic government.21 Likewise, the Afghan tribal belt, demarcating the limits of British India, was seen as another natural frontier. As British and Russian zones of influence materialized in the late nineteenth century, with the Oxus as the dividing line, these concepts were reinforced. And the simultaneous formation of the Afghan state after Amir ‘Abd al-Rahman (d. 1901) ensured that historians approached Central Asia, Afghanistan, and British India (a precursor to the later category “South Asia”) as distinct and isolated geographic units. This compartmentalized approach to the region persisted, obscuring complex relationships on and between both sides of the Indus and the Amu Darya in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Even today, most studies approach religious revival and activism in regions like rural Sindh, the Peshawar Valley, or urban Bukhara as localized phenomena, rather than connecting them to broader trends in the greater Persianate world.22

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A corresponding, and equally imperially inflected, historiographical pronouncement was that the eighteenth century was Hindustan, Khurasan, and Transoxiana’s “dark century,” ultimately rescued by an enlightened European colonial renaissance. A tradition of histories and ethnographies, going back to John Malcolm’s History of Persia (1815), James Mill’s History of British India (1826), and Mountstuart Elphinstone’s Account of the Kingdom of Caubul (1815), held that the demise of the great Safavid, Mughal, and Uzbek empires went hand in hand with economic, intellectual, and cultural decline.23 This argument assumed many forms in the twentieth century, generally maintaining that political fractures and reorientations in the eighteenth century were the product of deficient administrative policies in imperial centers.24

A Persianate Ecumene If we are to finally move away from this racialized, colonial take on this sweep of land, the false mythology of boundaries and regional decline, how can we define it instead? For the purposes of this book, I suggest that one alternative descriptor, “Persianate,” is a more legitimate category of inquiry for the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. In his 1970s magnum opus, Venture of Islam, Marshall Hodgson offered a concept of a Persianate ecumene stretching from Bengal to the Ottoman Empire. A shared Persian koine, with all its underlying cultural-linguistic tradition and historical memory, held this zone together. Yet for Hodgson and later scholars, this Persianate arena of exchange disappeared after the Middle Ages.25 The persistence, cohesion, and limits of a Persianate domain in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries is still contested. But an emerging body of scholarship evidences robust economic linkages between Transoxiana and Hindustan in this period. We now know that these linkages were accompanied by large-scale economic growth and urbanization, and began to fade only with the rise of Russian and British colonialism after the mid-nineteenth century.26 However, religious and intellectual exchange in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries remains largely unexplored. And notions of intellectual isolation have not been systematically critiqued. Relevant sources from the period have scarcely been scrutinized. There is, in particular, a dearth of microhistorical studies tracing the contours of Sufi and ulama networks that could provide the basis for exploring broader trends.27 In this respect, interrogating Mujaddidi sources from both sides of the Oxus and the Indus is highly revealing. Despite political dissolution

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after the collapse of Nadir Shah’s imperial project, the region evidently remained culturally, intellectually, and economically integrated. Intellectual traffic flowed both east to west and north to south; a wide array of economic classes were engaged in each locale. Without such a transregional inquiry it is difficult to perceive the existence of scholastic and religious superstructures—like the Mujaddidis—that ensured the persistence of a Persianate zone at least until the late nineteenth century.28 Significantly, Mujaddidi sources also demonstrate that a range of social currents in the urban and tribal spheres, generally treated as distinct moments in local histories, actually formed part of an interconnected web of social-intellectual-religious movements. This web encompassed movements ranging from anticolonial resistance campaigns in the Peshawar Valley, to Bukhara’s nineteenth-century renaissance, to the development of the Muftiate at Orenberg in Russia, an institution devised by the Romanovs to oversee Muslim religious affairs. Such movements cannot be understood in isolation. The Durrani Empire became the fulcrum of these trans-Asiatic networks. This study is therefore as much a history of Persianate Sufism as it is a history of the Afghan Empire, reclaiming the pivotal place of its chief cities in sustaining inter-Asian scholastic and economic exchange. Although the empire covered most of modern-day Afghanistan and Pakistan, the nascent fields of Afghanistan and Pakistan studies ironically treat it as an ephemeral transitory phase between the Mughal and Safavid collapse and British colonialism. There is a dearth of literature on the religio-scholastic dynamics of the empire and, frankly, of Afghanistan and Pakistan themselves until well into the twentieth century. Even studies on the Afghan Mujaddidis, arguably the most widespread Sufi tradition in Afghanistan, are concerned with their political involvements at the expense of their broader scholastic and social functions and pedagogies.29 Hidden Caliphate, instead, demonstrates that Sufi networks like the Mujaddidis, transacting within the Persian literary medium, perpetuated a supraregional Persianate cultural and political order centered on the Afghan dominions. Fusing terms from Hodgson and Sheldon Pollock, I refer to the zone in which the Mujaddidis transacted as a Persianiate cosmopolis. The term polis signifies the political dimension of this ecumene, while Persian suggests the role of language in, to borrow Pollock’s description of Sanskrit, “producing the forms of political and cultural expression that underwrote this cosmopolitan order.”30 By establishing shrines, khānaqāhs, and madrasas, the Mujaddidis sustained a Hindustan-Khurasan-Transoxiana zone of sacred authority through networks of pilgrimage, trade, and literary production. Their circulating texts, miscellanies, and genealogies in Persian and its vernaculars

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generated a shared knowledge economy and sacred memory. This study uses Mujaddidi biographies, hagiographies, and genealogies to map the fluid contours of this world and the conceptual spaces of sacro-cultural exchange. Often revolving around the motif of travel and pilgrimage, these texts provide a unique window into how local actors conceptualized macrospaces, centers, and frontiers. Moreover, the patterns of reproducing and distributing these texts provides a map of the circulatory spaces of underlying knowledge systems. The results demand a reevaluation of the interplay between the cosmopolitan and local or vernacular in the Persianate cosmopolis. The Mujaddidis no doubt embodied transregional cosmopolitanism.31 However, a localization of Mujaddidi identity was required to become properly embedded in each node of their transregional network. This study therefore considers the processes of cosmopolitan transculturation, asking how communities adopted sacred identities and pedagogies that affiliated them with distant, often personally unfamiliar, cosmopolitan structures.32 A hybrid local and cosmopolitan identity was in fact necessary to the expansion of the network. Each node within the Mujaddidi network was oriented locally, regionally, and transregionally. For example, literature on cosmology and wayfaring was intended for audiences from Bukhara to Punjab; devotional poetry was composed in Arabic, Persian, and assorted vernaculars; and biographies and genealogies fused local Afghan and Uzbek tribal saints with great regional luminaries like Sirhindi. Mujaddidi shrine architecture employed vernacular media and was integrated into local sacred landscapes, forming a part of transregional and local pilgrimage circuits across the cosmopolis. At a broader level, therefore, this study suggests that the emergence of Sufi vernacular identities within the Persianate cultural-linguistic-sacred umbrella in fact sustained the broader Persianate sphere in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. The forging of real and imagined communities of scholars and mystics with shared hagiographical narratives helped the region survive internecine conflicts between fledgling states. It even insulated them, at least temporarily, from some of the ruptures of colonialism.33

Islam before the Twentieth Century Hidden Caliphate also offsets some lingering presumptions—both scholarly and popular—on the nature of Islam and the religious sphere prior to colonialism. Most studies on the period acknowledge that the Mujaddidis were critical in redefining and preserving Muslim identity in a time

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of crisis. But they fail to adequately grasp the doctrinal and institutional characteristics of the order.34 The Mujaddidi legacy also remains contested, particularly given the seemingly inexplicable spectrum of social movements that have cited Sirhindi as a decisive influence. Much of the leadership of modern Muslim revivalist movements were products of Mujaddidi khānaqāhs and madrasas, and actively engaged Mujaddidi ontologies. The range includes the Indian modernists of Aligarh University;35 the reformist Deoband madrasa36 (one branch of which famously spawned the Taliban); and the Jadidis in Central Asia and Russia who pushed for modern educational reforms.37 The Sufi Barelvi Indian “traditionalist” movement deploys Sirhindi’s theology to defend Sufi shrine practices against fundamentalist critiques, arguing that Sufism is bound to the shari‘a.38 Concurrently, Mujaddidi discourses on the primacy of the shari‘a, censuring wayward religious practices, have been adopted by both modernists and Salafis to critique Sufi traditions—ironically, including the Mujaddidis.39 Since Sirhindi’s name signifies authority and orthodoxy, modern religious movements have scrambled to fit him into their lineages—often selectively engaging his writings, often overemphasizing the few discourses with political, social, or communalist undertones. Looking beyond these ideological narratives requires a dramatic shift in focus. To date, historians have placed much emphasis on late nineteenthand twentieth-century Mujaddidi-inspired revivalist movements. However, studies of the critical developmental period of the network before the mid-nineteenth century are lacking. Primary texts produced within the tradition as well as contemporary sources remain underutilized. Specifically, Persian, Arabic, and vernacular sources have not been adequately reconciled with European records to provide a holistic picture from both within and outside of the Sufi sphere of activity. “Moolahs,” “Holy Men,” and the “Soofee” Sect In exploring these uncharted domains, this study displaces certain rigid categorizations of Muslim religious authority in the region. For example, let us consider Mountstuart Elphinstone’s seminal account of Kabul in the first decade of the nineteenth century, which he wrote when he was a British envoy to the city. This account continues to inform our understanding of the regional religious sphere. In reference to Peshawar and Kabul, Elphinstone divided religious functionaries into three discrete categories. The first were the “Moollahs,” a diverse array of religious officials responsible for youth education, the practice of law, and the administration of justice. The second category were holy men, including Sayyids, “Derweshes,”

Introduction 

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“Fakeers,” and “Kulunders.” Their domain was that of miracles, occult sciences, prophesizing, astrology, and geomancy. The third category included the “Soofees,” a minority “sect” who considered the world to be an illusion.40 In later colonial and postcolonial historiography, ulama and Sufis continued to inhabit separate domains.41 Popular Sufis were conceived of as a syncretic, heterodox class on the fringes of society espousing quietist, pantheistic beliefs, and shunning normative Islamic practices. On the other hand, so-called orthodox ulama were viewed as generally intolerant of popular culture and were often politically active.42 Although these characterizations are patently based on nineteenthcentury European conceptions of religious orthodoxy and mysticism, they have an enduring legacy. In more recent literature, urban and “tribal” or “folk” Islam, or Sufis and the ulama, are also generally treated as mutually exclusive categories.43 Although there may be some discursive merit to these categorizations, this study shows that in practice these worlds largely overlapped. The Mujaddidis fit into none of Elphinstone’s three categories yet comprised aspects of all three. They were intimately engaged in social and political affairs; taught hadith and jurisprudence; partook in ascetic, mystical practices; and were revered as miracle-making holy men. Their literary production, as I will discuss, reflected a knowledge system inspired by Sirhindi in which mystical theology and praxis coexisted and complemented jurisprudence and scriptural study. Since the 1970s, a body of scholarship has challenged these earlier compartmentalized paradigms, addressing the sociopolitical dimensions of Sufi leadership. This work has shown how Sufis were engaged on multiple levels, from providing spiritual and personal guidance, to the practice of politics and warfare, to shaping collective memory and identity. These studies have also highlighted the overlapping spaces occupied by ulama and Sufis. They point out that Sufis and jurists often wrote both of shari‘a and intoxicated states, and institutional linkages existed between shrines and the intellectual world of the urban ulama. Hidden Caliphate develops from this newer work, building on studies of the sociology of sainthood and Sufi institutions that take new critical approaches to hagiographies and didactic texts. For example, I use biographies to explore the evolution of paradigms and archetypes of sainthood and draw from cultural anthropological approaches in mapping transregional religious networks.44 I also rely on urban and architectural history to conceptualize how Mujaddidi institutions and shrines were physically integrated into social environments, how they adapted to urban transformations, and how shrines and other architectural forms served as tools for communal and identity formation.45

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I also offer a novel perspective by exploring how individual networks adapted and refashioned themselves in disparate urban, rural, and highland environments, amid a range of sociopolitical challenges unique to their respective areas. Responding to the antiquated paradigms of ulama versus Sufi or wandering dervish, or orthodoxy versus heterodoxy, this approach reveals how the multiple functions of the Mujaddidis—whether as jurists, poets, or even political leaders—coexisted and interacted.46 In this study, the terms Sufi and ‘ālim (singular of ulama) do not denote different classes but rather specializations within a single class of scholar-mystics. For example, among the Mujaddidis were those who were designated primarily as exoteric scholars. Though they had studied and even attained certifications in esoteric sciences, their day-to-day functions were carried out within the colleges. They were foremost jurists or academics. Others were primarily masters of esoteric sciences. They in turn had studied exoteric sciences but achieved higher degrees and licenses specifically for teaching forms of meditation and spiritual wayfaring. Beyond Political Sufism and “Neo-Sufism” Another anachronistic assumption that originated in colonial scholarship is that the Mujaddidis, in their emphasis on shari‘a, were forerunners of Islamic fundamentalism: that while the bulk of Sufi orders were concerned with esoteric matters and cultural production, the Mujaddidis were mostly occupied with political activism in defense of a dogmatic theology. In much the same way, two armed movements of the nineteenth century, in particular, contributed to scholarship on the Mujaddidis with a focus on political involvement and anticolonial resistance. The first was the rebellion of the Caucasian Mujaddidi leader Imam Shamil (d. 1871), which looms large in Russian historiography.47 The second was the Mujahidin movement of Sayyid Ahmad of Rae Bareli (d. 1831), who captured the imagination of British historians after briefly setting up a theocracy in Peshawar. Similarly, Turkish historiography on the Mujaddidis was colored by the 1925 Kurdish Shaykh Sa‘id rebellion to revive the caliphate, which shook the early Republic. It was on account of this rebellion that religious organizations were restricted in Turkey for much of the twentieth century. Both because these episodes loomed large and because of the general human tendency to want to ground and legitimate one’s ideas in authoritative personalities, it is perhaps not surprising that Sirhindi was co-opted as a political revolutionary in the twentieth century by Muslim modernists in the service of preconceived political and ideological objectives. In his 1919 work Tazkira, Abu’l Kalam Azad (d. 1958), a leader of the Indian

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independence struggle, reinvented Sirhindi as a defiant rebel against a morally corrupt Mughal state. Azad employed Sirhindi’s life as an allegory and model for the project of Indian nationhood.48 Sir Muhammad Iqbal (d. 1938), poet-laureate, philosopher, and progenitor of the idea of Pakistan, further claimed in his poetry and philosophical treatises that Sirhindi was the forefather of a pan-Islamic Muslim community. Broadly based on Iqbal’s claim, nationalist historians in the emerging states of India, Pakistan, and Bangladesh credited Shaykh Ahmed Sirhindi as a progenitor of communalism in South Asia.49 The stakes of these anachronistic, politically driven readings go well beyond the Mujaddidi order and have generated far-reaching assumptions about the nature and contours of Islam between the demise of the great Muslim empires and the twentieth century. In recent decades, this notion has worked its way into an idea that the Mujaddidis were the gateway into fundamentalist “political Islam.” A generation of scholars suggested that starting in the eighteenth century the Muslim world witnessed a precolonial redefinition of religious identity through reformist “neo-Sufi” movements, especially the Mujaddidis. The characteristics of supposed neo-Sufism included a rejection of ecstatic practices, in particular connected to Ibn al-‘Arabi; an emphasis on the prophetic model and hadith; hierarchically structured mass organizations; and, ultimately, the will to act politically and militarily. In line with this framework, most secondary literature treats the Mujaddidis as the paradigmatic neo-Sufis, precursors to today’s fundamentalist movements.50 Hidden Caliphate categorically rejects the “neo-Sufi” hypothesis.51 I demonstrate, instead, that Mujaddidi literary production did not lean toward literalism and a rejection of ecstatic Sufism but rather integrated localized religious practices and the works of Sufis including Ibn al-‘Arabi, the ecstatic martyr-saint al-Hallaj, and Rumi, as well as local saints. Mujaddidi Sufis also incorporated multiple Sufi pedagogies. Far from being fundamentalists or “Islamists” in the modern sense, the Mujaddidis offered an indigenous response to their politically and socially fractured environment. Likewise, many other contemporary Sufi orders accepted Sirhindi as the Millennial Reviver and employed Mujaddidi meditative techniques in their practices. In this context, this study will analyze how the Mujaddidis absorbed and shaped other contemporary mystical traditions. So, providing an alternative reading of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, this study suggests that the management of the z. āhirī caliphate was not the Mujaddidi’s main object. Rather, they intervened in it only as necessary to create stability for their real project: synthesizing, reformatting, and disseminating existing pedagogies through institutions that harmonized revealed, rational, and esoteric sciences. As such, to look to the Mujaddidis

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for the ancestors of today’s fundamentalist movements is a fool’s errand. At the same time, tracing their quite literal descendants in the twentieth and early twenty-first century, as the book’s epilogue suggests, gives us a very different perspective on religious experience in this region than is commonly found in Western media and academic sources.

The Sources The fieldwork underlying this study has been carried out at sacred spaces, private collections, and libraries in over fifty towns and villages in contemporary Afghanistan, Pakistan, and Uzbekistan. I spent extended periods in Mujaddidi, Qadiri, and Chishti khānaqāhs observing day-to-day functions and their engagement with their host communities. Many of the khānaqāhs in this region host libraries; some contain manuscripts and even feature publishing houses. In Pakistan and Afghanistan, for instance, there are several hundred independent libraries associated with notable families, Sufi orders, and other religious institutions that have cataloged manuscript, lithograph, and printed book collections. Many also publish older material and material in translation and produce new works on Sufism. In response to the specter of Talibanization, there has been a rise in grassroots interest in Sufism as a countercurrent, resulting in a prolific market in edited classical Sufi texts and histories from across South and Central Asia. The process of tracking down sources for such a study is fraught with challenges. Many historical libraries have been dispersed, sold, or destroyed; for instance, only fragments of Fazl Ahmad Peshawari’s library is still intact, in a remote khānaqāh in the village of Thana in the Malakand Agency not far from the Pakistan-Afghanistan border. Fortunately, some of the key regional libraries like the Kabul Archives, Peshawar University, Islamia College Peshawar, Punjab University (specifically, the Iqbal Mujaddidi library), Uzbekistan State Archives, Al Beruni in Tashkent, Ganj Baksh in Islamabad, and the India Office collection have preserved khānaqāh literary productions. Given the turbulent history of the last two centuries, the nodes within my study yield asymmetrical data. Naturally, urban centers like Peshawar or Sirhind have more available sources. For more remote khānaqāhs like Zakori (300 kilometers south of Peshawar), we are limited to brief hagiographies and polemical tracts. This asymmetry, however, is not necessarily an insurmountable problem. Different categories of sources—such as juristic texts, polemical texts, correspondence, poetry collections, or oral histories—can provide thoroughly original insights into the workings of

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the network that may not be apparent in traditional sources like biographies and chronicles. There is no doubt that the sources produced within the Mujaddidi Sufi tradition provide unique perspectives into the contemporary social and intellectual landscape. Although hagiographies and biographies (t. abaqāt, manāqib, or tadhkira) have tremendous historical value, there are serious limitations to these genres.52 Using them as historical tools requires an acute familiarity with forms and genres, cultural contexts, themes, narrative devices, and functions.53 In fact, reading them against the grain is possible only after a survey of the entire Naqshbandi hagiographical literary tradition and an appreciation for the milieu of each respective text. Despite the shortcomings of each genre, collectively they can furnish a more sophisticated picture of the religious-scholastic domain. Hagiographies are not histories per se; they can be didactic devices, or a mode of legitimation through appropriating (and frequently reforming) the past. This genre serves as a means of defining tradition, often through the deployment of familiar literary tropes and motifs. Read in this way, hagiographies can affirm how the Mujaddidis conceived of their own history at each stage. Even the organizational structure of each text reveals how Sufis continuously reconfigured their identities and genealogies. In such sources, however, sociopolitical dynamics are generally glossed over. For the producers and consumers, the primary function of the Sufi saint was the provision of fayz (divine effulgence, or emanation), barakat (blessings), and guidance, rather than building institutions or forming political alliances in this ephemeral physical world. Successes and failures were predetermined through God’s will, and events were mediated through past prophets and saints. As such, insights into the economic foundations and politics of the khānaqāhs can only be gleaned through indirect references. Hagiographers maintain strict adab (etiquette, or decorum) regarding other Sufi orders, even those vying for the same resources. And, as referenced earlier, saintly subjects’ political attachments are underplayed. In hagiographies, for instance, migrations due to political exigencies or in search of economic opportunities are often framed within the rubric of pilgrimage. Saints of the past welcome new saints into their sacred domains, so that they may spiritually revive the locale. In their episteme, pilgrimage and distributing divine emanations are the key drivers of a journey; all other circumstances are perceived as peripheral. Some of these lacunae can be contextualized through royal chronicles and histories. However, chronicle sources are essentially official panegyrics and accounts of war, and do not do justice to the realm of khānaqāhs and madrasas, which lies beyond the state sphere.

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Fantastical and supernatural occurrences are woven into hagiographic narratives. It is difficult to extricate journalistic, biographical accounts of saints from the idealized tropes of sainthood. Dreams and visions form part and parcel of every saint’s life. Although it is critical to challenge the historicity of accounts when required, I will not always attempt to segregate the fantastical from the historical. However spectacular, hagiographic narratives allow insights into how figures were popularly received and remembered. They provide a window into contemporary religious and geographic imaginations, and into the prevailing value systems and ethical premises of the eighteenth- and nineteenth-century Persianate cosmopolis.54 And hagiographical narratives sometimes overtly reflect contemporary political dynamics, in ways that it might be easier for us to see when we look at those written in our own time, the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. For instance, Afghan texts on the Mujaddidis written during the Soviet-Afghan War portray the order as a political or militarily oriented lineage, while productions from 2001 onward feature apologetics for Sufism against the rising tide of militant Wahhabism. Works on theology, Sufism, or metaphysics, as well as poetry (ghazals, masnavīs, and other poetical forms) produced by Mujaddidi Sufis, on the other hand, rarely concern contemporary political realities. They can, however, provide insights into their worldview and the manner in which knowledge systems were processed and transported. Among the didactic works, the genre known as maktūbāt (Collected Letters) poses several challenges. In past scholarship, selecting historically “relevant” references has generated skewed representations of the Mujaddidi project. However, the epistles can provide a detailed map of networks and elucidate the types of debates and theological concerns circulating in the Persianate intellectual sphere. Administrative documents like teaching licenses or charitable endowment deeds can shed light on the institutional realities and dayto-day mechanics of the network. Architectural evidence from funerary complexes is invaluable in this respect as well but must be handled with caution, as shrines have undergone substantial transformations due to urbanization and conflict over the last two centuries. Sources produced outside of the Mujaddidi khānaqāhs are likewise important to contextualize the above genres. These include city histories, shrine catalogs, biographical dictionaries, poetic biographies, and biographies of ulama and Sufis. These older genres have mushroomed in the twentieth century, but they present many of the same challenges as the hagiographies and oral histories upon which they are often based. British, Russian, and French sources from the eighteenth and the first half of the nineteenth centuries present another set of challenges. First,

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administrative documents are scarce, as most of the region covered in this study lay beyond the direct political purview of the great European empires at this time. Travel accounts, personal notes, and correspondence of administrators and spies do provide perspectives on the economic and political landscape that are missing from local sources. That said, most visitors had a rudimentary (at best) understanding of the religious and scholastic domain through which they traveled. In addition to the biases against Muslim religious functionaries discussed at length in recent literature, European sources obscure complex dynamics. They often overlook the bodies of knowledge proliferating in Afghan or Bukharan cities and the institutions through which these were disseminated. For instance, while English accounts contain ample references to shrines and mosques, the khānaqāhs, which feature so prominently in contemporary Persian sources, are absent in these narratives. There are exceptions, however, like Nikolai Khanykov and Eugene Schuyler, who visited such institutions and furnished accounts of belief and praxis. For later periods, Gazetteers, land records, and other official reports occasionally contain scattered references to Sufi guides, their landholdings, and their political engagements. Ethnographic work can fill in critical gaps where the sources fall short. I visited affiliated khānaqāhs throughout Pakistan and Afghanistan, often over extended periods of time, to understand rituals, the day-to-day functions of khānaqāhs and their economy, and the way in which the space of the madrasa, mosque, khānaqāh, and shrine are engaged; how the institutions have transformed amid urban development in cities like Peshawar and Kabul; and how they’ve responded to modern ideologies and fundamentalist critiques. I regularly accompanied Sufis on local pilgrimage circuits to observe how sacred geography is mapped. I witnessed the process through which shrines of ancient saints—occasionally even of prophets— are interwoven into the same narrative as Mujaddidi shrines, and how the sacred geography comfortably absorbed pre-Islamic sites, like Buddhist cave complexes, with refashioned narratives. I also recorded oral histories, not just from Mujaddidi Sufis but from a range of Sufi orders, from pilgrims, and from local communities whose day-to-day lives intersected with the khānaqāhs and shrines, specifically in Kabul, Mazar-i Sharif, Dera Ismail Khan, Khoqand, Swat and Malakand, Waziristan, and Peshawar. Oral histories are naturally replete with complexities, often built around recurring tropes that at times mirror narratives from scripture or biographies of famous saints. But like the written sources, they provide insights into self-representation, notions of morality and ethics, the intersections of competing narratives, and the way in which hagiographical narratives are constructed.

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This book is divided into two major parts. Chapters 1–3 provide historical background, tracing the regional political, economic, and social reorientations of the eventful eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, and discuss the sacred landscape of the Persianate world. Chapter 1 follows the dynamic processes through which new states gradually arose in the half-century after Nadir Shah’s death. The following decades, from 1800 onward, witnessed two conflicting processes. On the one hand, the new states consolidated, but on the other, all faced intense political pressures from at least one of three great colonial empires. Later chapters reveal how these grand processes intrinsically shaped the Sufi networks. The second chapter turns to the sacred landscape of the Persianate world. Stepping back to the early seventeenth century, it introduces Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi and the key contributions that came to define the Mujaddidis. This discussion links Sirhindi’s theology to the social movement that it inspired, particularly in its synthesis of the Sufi path and shari‘a. Then it traces the early development of the Mujaddidi institutional network based at Sirhind until the mid-eighteenth century, setting the stage for the case studies that follow. Chapter 3 looks at the curriculum inspired by Sirhindi and the mechanisms of efficient transregional knowledge transfer within Mujaddidi institutional networks. The discussion thus introduces the core educational functions and pedagogies of every Mujaddidi institution. The second part of the book is grounded in social history, but I work extensively with methods familiar to religious studies, sociology, and anthropology, specifically in those places where I substantiate historic analysis with ethnographic fieldwork. Chapters 4–9 comprise a sociohistorical case study of a Mujaddidi subnetwork spanning Hindustan, Khurasan, and Transoxiana: that of Fazl Ahmad Ma‘sumi Peshawari, popularly known as “Hazrat Jio Sahib” (d. 1816), the progenitor of an extensive Sufi lineage that carried Sirhindi’s teachings westward. Fazl Ahmad, introduced in Chapter 4, was a descendant of Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi’s older brother. He settled at the Durrani winter capital of Peshawar, circa 1776. He traveled regularly to Bukhara, via Kabul and Mazar-i Sharif. His voyages are mapped out in Map 4. The khanatebuilder of Bukhara, Shah Murad (r. 1785–1800), became a devoted disciple and, eventually, a deputy. By the end of his life, Fazl Ahmad’s network encompassed several hundred deputies, who supervised khānaqāhs and madrasas from Balkh to Khoqand and Ghazni to Kashmir. These were sustained by grants from the Durrani sultans and their Barakzai successors; the khans of Bukhara; the mirs of Badakhshan and Qunduz, now in northeastern Afghanistan; and other regional powerbrokers.

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Fazl Ahmad was among the most prominent of several thousand Mujaddidi Sufis who established their presence in Khurasan, Transoxiana, and beyond. Each one set up new institutions or affiliated itself with older institutions—including shrines—with preexisting symbolic capital. These institutions were generously patronized by local rulers and governors, who, in effect, outsourced the scholastic and spiritual apparatus of their nascent polities to the Mujaddidis and other Sufis. Through these institutions, the Mujaddidis were effectively able to import a set of doctrines and philosophies from Sirhind, which then interfaced with localized ritual practices, theologies, and sacred historical memory. Though all of the Sufis who migrated westward administered their own institutions and managed their own congregations, they perceived themselves as part of a single network in which texts, students, poetry, and practices constantly circulated. My study of this subnetwork begins in roughly 1747 and continues into the late nineteenth century, to the cusp of the Russian, British, and Chinese annexation of Hindustan, Khurasan, and Transoxiana. This time frame modifies established periodizations of the history of South and Central Asia, which tend to separate the precolonial from the colonial period, generally at 1800. The pivotal point in my narrative is not the Russian or British arrival but the death of Nadir Shah and the disintegration of his empire, which inaugurated a new political, social, and religious order throughout the region. At different times during this period, each node of the subnetwork developed its own identity and flavor as it adapted to the transformations and crises of the age. The stories emerging from each node highlight specific characteristics of the network that sometimes endowed it with resilience or, alternatively, prevented it from adequately responding to contemporary challenges. In Bukhara, the Mujaddidis helped engender a new form of sacred kingship where monarchs became active participants in the khānaqāhs (Chapter 5). At Peshawar, they mobilized their institutions and scholastic talents to deracinate the puritanical proto-Wahhabi Mujahidin movement that occupied the city in the 1820s, in the process redefining the contours of orthodoxy and heresy (Chapter 6). In Dera Ismail Khan and Ghazni, they merged the high-cultural Persianate tradition with an Afghan tribal saintly network (Chapter 7). In Ferghana, their functions as arch-intermediaries became formalized into a new role of diplomat-saint (Chapter 8). The Peshawar branch of the lineage later took refuge in the highlands to the north, where members became an Afghan saintly tribe, the “Hazaratkhel.” As diasporic saints, they were called upon to mediate political disputes in Swat and Malakand (Chapter 9). And in the conclusion, we briefly meet the last active familial descendants, who kept the order afloat in Waziristan amidst the rise of the Taliban and one of the bloodiest wars of the last few decades.

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The geographic scope of this study centers on western Hindustan, Transoxiana, and Khurasan, although case studies touch upon regions as far afield as Kazan, Siberia, and Kashgar.55 These regions, which in Great Game–influenced analysis embody the eighteenth- and nineteenth-century decline paradigm, are long overdue for historiographic interventions as well as for basic research into events and persons. For this reason, the microhistories recounted here require a comprehensive examination of the sociopolitical milieu of each respective locality. Each regional history comes into conversation with the history of the Persianate world at large, while I also highlight regional distinctions. These differences help us better appreciate how the Mujaddidis navigated disparate political and social landscapes, and how they helped maintain a regional social fabric as state structures fell into cyclical turmoil.

1 A Persianate Cosmopolis

e

I

n most scholarship, the Persianate world’s eighteenth and nineteenth centuries seem uncomfortably caught between the decline of the great Muslim empires and the crystallization of European and Chinese colonialism. Consequently, these important centuries of turmoil and change have been relegated to an intermediary historical status. But reexamining this time and place on its own terms, not solely as a postlude or a prelude to empire, discloses a unique blend of political, social, economic, and environmental conditions that fostered a space where capital was readily available, and pilgrimage and commercial routes were active—but where states with varying modes of sovereignty remained fragile and insecure. (See Appendix A for a timeline of key events and royal chronologies.) In this dynamic but unstable environment, Sufi networks, notably the Mujaddidis, stepped in as arch-intermediaries, conferring a degree of coherence to this region. The evidence for this story compels us to consider the Persianate zone as an explicit cultural-political unit, instead of retelling “South Asian,” “Middle Eastern,” or “Central Asian” history. In this chapter, I establish a new three-part periodization of Persianate history following the breakup of the Mughal, Safavid, and Uzbek empires. Each stretch, spanning roughly half a century, corresponds to the periods of growth, institutionalization, and rupture within Sufi networks we will investigate later. If the first half of the eighteenth century generally saw gradual fracturing of imperial centers and the rise of provincial powers, then this process was both epitomized and hastened by Nadir Shah’s ascendency

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in the 1730s. His systematic eradication of established elites generated widespread crises of authority, disrupting the patronage systems that upheld older religious institutions and sacred lineages. The half-century after his death in 1747 was a period of reconsolidation, state-building, and gradual reurbanization. Inner-Asian trade routes were reoriented to reflect the political reshuffle, but commercial activities nevertheless flourished. Finally, the third phase, corresponding to the first half of the nineteenth century, saw some emergent states consolidate their holdings and new capital cities flourish, while Russia, Britain, and Qing China simultaneously encroached.

The Sufi, the ‘Ālim, and the Munshī In the late 1970s, as part of the Western scholarly wave of civilizational and world history, Marshall Hodgson introduced the concept of a “Persianate sphere,” stretching from Anatolia to Hindustan, and emerging out of the fragmented political climate of the late first millennium. Hodgson asserted that the eastern Islamic world adopted Persian as a shared language of literature, politics, etiquette, and even religious discourse. And this development, he claimed, had “more than purely literary consequences: it served to carry a new overall cultural orientation within Islamdom [sic].”1 Given its geographic sweep, this area was naturally far from uniform. It was made up of numerous composite cultures inspired by Persian linguistic and cultural modalities, patronized by a multitude of actors within and outside of the courts. Each state or region within this zone advanced its own vernacularized Persian tradition, and each subtradition continued evolving over the course of centuries.2 Over the last few decades, the “Persianate” or “Islamo-Persianate” sphere has been variously defined. Its coherence, characteristics, and life span remain contested. At a basic level, it is the shared linguistic zone that came into being after the Samanid and Ghaznawid dynasties (active in the ninth to twelfth centuries ce) promoted Persian as a courtly and literary language. Eventually, shared language gave rise to a shared body of literature and knowledge and a shared historical memory. Persian was versatile and adaptable: it effortlessly absorbed Arabic and Turkish vocabularies and ultimately cultural memories, imagery, tropes, and symbols. Vernacular literatures that subsequently emerged in the Persianate cosmopolis— whether Chagatai, Tatar, Pashto, Urdu, or Seraiki—were modeled after Persian, relying on its linguistic patterns. These new literary traditions were, in effect, an extension of the larger Persianate sphere.

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The durability of Persian language and culture was not a by-product of strong political centers or state institutions but rather was due to an enduring bureaucratic culture and the secretarial (munshī) class. The Islamization of the broader Iranian cultural sphere and the writing of Persian using the Arabic rather than Pahlavi alphabet were essential in transforming Persian into a civilizational lingua franca.3 These developments fused a broader Persian culture with a unifying faith tradition, as the religious scholars, or ulama; the Sufis; and the secretarial class provided the necessary continuity that allowed a Persianate ethos to flourish.4 The institutionalization of Sufi culture and lineages after the twelfth century was closely interwoven with the development of the Persian language. Sufi imagery and motifs were infused throughout Persian poetry.5 Sufi orders’ transregional networks, institutions, and festivals became loci for the production of literature and rituals as well as vehicles for their transmission at the popular level. Drawing heavily from Iranian imagery and mythology, such vehicles integrated notions of divinity, prophethood, and millennialism into the broader Islamo-Persianate tradition, both among Sunnis and Shi‘a.6 Sufism was complemented by evolving interactions between Iranian and earlier Islamic political cultures. As early as the eighth century, the eastern Islamic world adopted aspects of Iranian patrimonial models of state and kingship. Central here was the autocratic shah, who exercised “independence from any priestly or other human legitimizing agency,” possessing farr-i shāhī (kingly glory).7 This notion of king and state as agents of balance and justice was grounded in the Persian concept of the circle of equity, correlated and supported by the Prophetic tradition and Qur’anic principles of equity.8 The emerging Persianate models of governance and kingship were enshrined in several forms. These included the tenth- and eleventh-century Shahnama, Abu’l Qasim Ferdowsi’s “Book of Kings,” which functioned as a codified body of historical and mythological memory. In addition, the dominant Sufi orders endowed this region with conceptions of sacred or messianic kingship in close relationship with the institution of sainthood. As Turkic elites exerted their influence, Turkic and Chinggisid (descending from Genghis Khan) models of authority were further brought into this admixture. The bureaucratic class acted as the transmitters of Persianiate conceptions of royalty and justice within the Islamic context. Into the nineteenth century, the Persian language “provided the vocabulary that served as the medium not only for the continuation of protocols of administration, diplomacy, and public life .  .  . but also for important cultural features

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relating to administration and social norms for the whole society.”9 And the ulama—whether working with the state or independently—supplied the scholastic and judicial backbone and performed in both Arabic and, increasingly, Persian. In this way, they brought together shari‘a as a “universally accepted legal framework” and the Persian literary canon.10 The Persian language (and its associated cultural repertoire) did not simply sustain an elite culture. The production of epics, lyrical and mystical poetry, manuals of ethics, political didactic works, mystical treaties, passion plays, and elegies all carried Persian well beyond the court. The ethical systems of Nasir al-Din Tusi (1201–1274) and Sa‘di Shirazi (1210– 1291/92) circulated well beyond the urban sphere. And Islamo-Persian adab—roughly translated as “moral conduct” or “refinement”—provided behavioral models that ensured “security of public interaction” across multiple social strata.11 Sufis played an important part in this process. The composition of poetry and malfūz. āt (discourses) in the Persian language, and the development of musical forms like Qawwali, transformed Persian cultural production into an integral part of popular culture that, in Hindustan and Iran, transcended even religious boundaries.12 Even the Persianate political ethic was performed at the popular level. In the Mughal Empire, for example, protest and forms of popular negotiation involving both Hindu and Muslim populations deployed Persianate symbols and language, and appealed to Islamo-Persianate concepts of kingship, subjecthood, and justice.13 This Persianate ethos was further perpetuated through the constant two-way migration of poets, artists, architects, and scholars between Bengal and Istanbul, as well as traders who could readily operate in Iran, Transoxiana, Khurasan, and Hindustan. Sacro-Cultural Spheres Delineating the boundaries of the Persianate sphere, at any stage, has proved difficult. For one thing, Persian influence remained in flux throughout the centuries. For another, the geographic limits of Persianate space are dependent on the specific criteria deployed for determining cultural and civilizational coherence. This study takes the eighteenth-century “Persianate cosmopolis” as the regions in which Persian remained the dominant language of political, cultural, and religious discourse. Defined as such, the Persianate cosmopolis comprised the Caucasus and Volga, Iran, Khurasan, Transoxiana, Altishahr, and Hindustan. This zone transgresses “natural” geographic boundaries such as the Zagros, the Karakum Desert, the Hindu Kush, and the Indus and Amu rivers. That said, however, the evidence also suggests the existence of multiple,

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coincidental, network-dependent domains within the larger Persianiate cosmopolis, which I will call “sacro-cultural spheres.” For instance, as a Sunni network, the Mujaddidi sacro-cultural sphere almost entirely bypassed central Iran. Instead, it incorporated lands even farther west, including much of the Ottoman Empire, Mecca and Medina, and Southeast Asia. Within the larger Mujaddidi universe, every Mujaddidi subnetwork defined its own limited sacro-cultural sphere. In a sense, these spheres collectively made up the physical, visible register of the larger hidden caliphate. Certainly, each region within this broader Persianate cosmopolis featured distinct ethnic compositions, economic foundations, and political structures. But, given common commercial and scholastic circuits, with constantly exchanging goods, human capital, and texts, the cosmopolis as a whole underwent macrolevel economic and political changes.

The Great Empires in Peril, 1700–1750 At the turn of the eighteenth century, the Persianate cosmopolis was dominated by three great powers: the Safavids of Iran, the Mughals (or Timurids) of Hindustan and Khurasan, and the Ashtarkhanid Uzbeks at Bukhara and Balkh. Border regions such as Herat, Balkh, Merv, and Qandahar remained contested. From ideological, demographic, and geographic standpoints, these states were clearly distinct. The Safavid Empire had evolved out of a martial Sufi order, espousing an Imami Shi‘i ruling ideology; the Ashtarkhanid Uzbeks were a Sunni dynasty, among the last descendants of Genghis Khan in Transoxiana; and the Mughals were Sunnis governing a majority Hindu population. By 1700, the total population of the Uzbek and Safavid territories, at five million each, was negligible compared to the Mughal Empire, which boasted a population upward of 150 million.14 Moreover, environmental conditions in parts of the Mughal Empire allowed for large-scale production of cash crops. Despite sophisticated irrigation systems, the more arid regions of the Iranian plateau and the oases of Transoxiana had comparatively limited yields. The economic advantage of Transoxiana, instead, lay in the region’s superior horse breeds, which supplied Iran, Hindustan, and lands beyond. Despite linguistic, ethnic, and religious differences, the three empires shared a common Islamo-Persianiate court culture. All began as nomadic Turkic states but gradually sedentarized. They retained elements of Islamic and Persian models of governance, as well as nomadic steppe models. Borders were porous, so the flow of knowledge and scholarship between the

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empires continued unabated despite political contestation on their frontiers. Smaller states in their neighborhood, like Khiva, Badakhshan, Ferghana, and Yarkand, were also integrated into regional commercial and cultural networks. The connectedness of this Persianate world meant that the three empires’ authority was eroded in parallel by a common set of economic, social, and political currents. The early eighteenth century was a time of weak imperial centers, the result of the gradual empowerment of court factions, new corporate groups, and regional elites. The Mughal Empire, for example, witnessed destabilizing civil wars and court intrigues immediately following the forty-nine-year reign of Emperor Aurangzeb (r. 1659–1707), during which its territory reached its geographic limits. In the late Safavid period, weak governance and instability became pronounced, evidently engendering corruption and financial crises. In the Ashtarkhanid domains, meanwhile, internal threats emerged from the Uzbek amirs and atālīqs, the “royal tutors” who were also their chief advisors. From the midseventeenth century, both groups had exercised considerable autonomy. Another significant trend at this time was imperial fragmentation, both through the rise of independent governors and from what C.  A. Bayly has called the “tribal breakout.”15 The emergence of autonomous, often refractory confederacies undermined all three empires. These comprised both tribal and agrarian corporate groups. In the Mughal domains, the primary threats came from the Sikhs, Jats, and Maratha confederacies. Rebellions became a recurring feature during the long reign of Nasir-al Din Muhammad Shah (r. 1719–1748), who presided over a fragmenting empire. The Marathas occupied parts of Gujarat, Rajasthan, and lands farther east, reaching Delhi by 1737. The Sikhs began a protracted rebellion after the assassination of their tenth guru by Mughal forces in 1708. Concurrently, Afghan cavalry bodies called Rohillas (meaning “people of the hills”) migrated in phases into Hindustan, part of a longer-term trend of Afghan tribes entering Mughal territories in search of land and military service opportunities. Notable among these migrants was Daud Khan, who secured land revenue rights between Delhi and Lucknow in 1721, inaugurating a dynasty of Rohilla Afghan princes under titular Mughal authority.16 At about the same time, the Safavids, too, fell prey to a series of revolts and tribal rebellions in Baluchistan, Dagestan, Kurdistan, Luristan, and elsewhere. The Safavid dynasty was effectively brought to an end with a Ghilzai Afghan rebellion at Qandahar, culminating in the devastating capture of Isfahan by the Ghilzais in 1722. Ashtarkhanid authority, meanwhile, fragmented as a combined result of internal political disputes and tribal pressures. The Uzbek Ming tribe

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steadily increased its influence in the eastern region of Ferghana. In 1709– 1710, the Mings defeated a dynasty of Naqshbandi Khwajas, a hereditary Sufi lineage then ruling over Ferghana as client rulers of the Ashtarkhanids, and founded a khanate at Khokand. Several years earlier, Badakhshan in the Pamir Range had also broken away from the Ashtarkhanids, falling to another Naqshbandi Khwaja lineage originating near Samarkand. To the west, Khiva was likewise threatened by various tribal confederacies and by the notorious Turkmen raiders who also posed a constant threat to Iran. The central provinces of Bukhara faced debilitating Kazakh raids, resulting in large-scale deurbanization. Towns like the once flourishing metropolis of Samarkand were virtually abandoned. By the time of Abu’l Fayz Khan (r. 1711–1747), the situation was dire: the authority of the khan of Bukhara barely extended beyond his palace complex. Intriguingly and somewhat counterintuitively, it seems that agrarian and tribal revolts in this period should not be viewed as a symptom of economic and political decline but rather as a critical transformative feature of state-building in the broader Muslim world. In his seminal study on Awadh and Punjab, Muzaffar Alam argued that the administrative strength of the Mughal state and consequent unprecedented economic prosperity in the provinces were paradoxically responsible for imperial disintegration. Demands for provincial autonomy arose from the newly emboldened elites who had most benefited from the imperial umbrella. Similarly, the court factions that enervated royal authority in all three polities derived their strength from imperial prosperity in the previous decades.17 Meanwhile, the “tribal breakout” was also a by-product of increasing wealth and prosperity and the persistence of profitable trade routes. Tribal confederacies such as the Ghilzai Afghans became increasingly prosperous by controlling overland trade that linked the three empires. And tribal leadership had long since been integrated into the imperial systems of the Mughals, as well as the Safavids and Uzbeks. Out of this situation the emergent Turkmen, Uzbek, Afghan, and Maratha tribal confederacies, among others, were able to eventually consolidate their power as wealthy and independent successor states.18 In the midst of these assorted crises, Nadir Shah Afshar rose to prominence in the 1730s, drastically altering the fate of all three states. With an army of tribal confederacies, Nadir Shah’s brief but extremely consequential reign may be understood as part of the so-called tribal breakout. He belonged to the Qirqlu Afshar Turkmen, whom the Safavids had settled in their western domains specifically to prevent Uzbek raids. After the Ghilzai Afghan capture of Isfahan, Nadir Shah entered the service of a local potentate in eastern Iran. Not long after, his military prowess was recognized and

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he became the chief military commander of Tahmasp II (d. 1740), son of the deposed Safavid Shah Husayn. He waged successful campaigns against the Afghans, eventually restoring his patron to Isfahan. In the course of this project, he recruited Afghan soldiers who would eventually constitute the backbone of his military machine. He also pursued relentless campaigns against the Ottomans and Russians who had taken Safavid territories in the wake of the Ghilzai occupation. Eventually, in 1732, Nadir Shah was confident enough to overthrow his patron Tahmasp II. In February 1736, Nadir Shah convened an assembly of political and religious leaders at the plains of Mugan in Azerbaijan, compelling the men to acknowledge him as sovereign. Safavid rule was now formally over. Two years later, he besieged and entirely razed Qandahar. In the vicinity he erected the new city of Nadirabad, where he transferred Qandahar’s dislocated population and the Abdali Afghans who formed a core of his army. Now with aspirations of world conquest, he invaded the Mughal Empire through Kabul and Lahore, and at the battle of Karnal in 1739, he reduced Emperor Muhammad Shah to vassal status. The same year, he carried out a notorious plunder of Delhi, from which the city never quite recovered. Having returned Muhammad Shah to the Mughal throne, Nadir Shah appropriately bestowed on himself the title of Shāhanshāh, “king of kings.” In Transoxiana, Nadir Shah also displaced the ruling houses of Bukhara, Balkh, and Khiva. The former were Ashtarkhanids, while Khiva was controlled by a Kazakh “Arabshahi” dynasty also descended from Genghis Khan. In 1737, Nadir Shah’s son occupied Balkh, removing its last Ashtarkhanid ruler and leaving a power vacuum later filled by the Afghan Empire. The Ashtarkhanid khan at Bukhara capitulated three years later, but remained in place, nominally independent. To ensure compliance, Nadir Shah appointed the Uzbek royal tutor Rahim Bi as his de facto representative. Soon after, he turned toward Khiva, where he murdered the king and replaced him with his vassals. These, however, were soon overthrown by internal forces. The final years of Nadir Shah’s reign were mired in crises like this, likely enhanced by his declining mental and physical health. His radical political, fiscal, and religious policies sparked rebellions, even in core regions of the empire like Shiraz. Eventually, in 1747, the Shāhanshāh’s fed-up officers assassinated him, setting off a new period of disorder. Nadir Shah left a legacy of rupture. This, and the crises of authority it engendered, are critical to appreciating the Mujaddidi expansion following the Shāhanshāh’s death. At the political level, he had privileged certain tribal groups at the expense of others and upset earlier balances, leaving power vacuums across Transoxiana, Khurasan, Hindustan, and Iran. The former ruling families of Iran, Balkh, Bukhara, and Khiva were overthrown.

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Though the Mughal emperor was restored at Delhi, he had to contend with a devastated capital city, large-scale Afghan settlement across his realm, and recalcitrant governors and tribal factions. The Mughals also permanently lost their western provinces of Kabul and lower Sindh. The Shāhanshāh had experimented with a range of daring administrative, military, and fiscal policies, openly contravening established practices. In an effort to centralize and regularize taxation and administration, he ordered rigorous cadastral surveys, and in areas like Balkh (formally governed through an appanage system), he appointed his own governors and fiscal agents. Soldiers and bureaucrats were paid fixed salaries instead of revenues from land tenure. Subdued populations were occasionally conscripted or employed as forced labor. On the monetary front, his invasion of Hindustan drained precious metals from the Mughal heartlands. Although their westward flow allowed Nadir Shah to cancel taxes in Iran for three years, this failed to yield economic prosperity or even revive the manufacturing industry. At the close of his reign, Iran was mired in a severe financial crisis. In desperation, Nadir Shah shifted the heavy financial and human resource burdens of his empire onto subject populations. Equally momentous were the crises of political and religious legitimacy that stemmed from his brazen ideological experiments. As a usurper to the Iranian throne, Nadir Shah consciously reinvented himself in the image of the legendary conqueror Timur (d. 1405). This meant adopting forms of legitimacy suited for what he hoped would be a universal Muslim empire that subsumed the Ottomans, Uzbeks, and Mughals. So he emphasized his Turkmen identity and accordingly evoked a supposed shared “Turkmen” heritage of the Ottomans, Uzbeks, and Mughals.19 Early in his career, Nadir Shah was avowedly Shi‘a. But at the plains of Mugan, he publicly abandoned his earlier convictions. He felt that a more inclusive imperial ideology could better appeal to the Sunni-majority regions in his empire and places that he eventually hoped to subdue. In an effort to transcend the Shi‘a–Sunni divide, he controversially called for the incorporation of Shi‘i legal thought as the “Ja‘fari” school of jurisprudence alongside the four Sunni schools. Additionally, he censured contentious practices within Shi‘ism, such as the ritual cursing of caliphs. These aims were consecrated in 1743, when delegations of loyalist ulama from Iraq, Iran, Khurasan, and Transoxiana assembled at Najaf and signed a document accepting the Ja‘fari as the fifth school of jurisprudence. In his endeavor to co-opt the sacerdotal sphere, Nadir Shah pursued an aggressive policy to rein in independent ulama. He was particularly hostile toward the Shi‘i religious elite; accordingly, Shi‘i charitable endowments were suspended until the last year of his reign.20 His impact on Sunni religious

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institutions was more ambiguous, and often indirect. For instance, the removal or weakening of imbedded political elites adversely impacted religious institutions’ patronage structures. In some cases, Nadir Shah forcibly uprooted recalcitrant religious elites. In one theatrically brutal episode, he crushed a millenarian religious rebellion at Mazar-i Sharif and had the rebel saint buried alive in a tower built from the skulls of his disciples. For the most part, however, ulama and Sufis who demonstrated their loyalty or entered into covenants with Nadir Shah were left unmolested. The overall economic impact of Nadir Shah’s interregnum is difficult to gauge, as many of the primary sources are more concerned with his military exploits. Even prior to his accession to the throne, the Ghilzai Afghan uprisings were reportedly disturbing trade between Iran and Hindustan. Certainly, Nadir Shah’s violent suppression of dissent, forced recruitment, and extractive fiscal policies had a deleterious effect on agricultural production in Iran and Khurasan.21 His campaigns likewise disrupted the Iranian manufacturing industry and uprooted Hindustani and Armenian trading diasporas in Iran. The devastation of major Mughal cities like Delhi probably accelerated the dislocation of trade routes through the northwestern Mughal provinces and farther into Khurasan and Iran. In regions like Punjab, artisans, urban communities, and peasants alike were adversely impacted by his campaigns.22 However, some regions benefited from his reign; for example, much of the bullion that Nadir Shah had taken to Hindustan made its way toward Russia, generating further purchasing power north of the Amu Darya. And demand for military horses probably increased exports from Transoxiana.23

(Re)Forming States: Rupture and Continuity, 1747–1800 Nadir Shah’s ten-year dominion had a twofold effect on the region. Naturally, his invasions severely crippled existing states, while empowering tribal confederacies. This hastened decentralization processes that had been well underway since the first half of the eighteenth century. Also, by dislodging long-established forms of political and religious leadership, his interregnum made space for novel and often innovative models of authority. A new political equilibrium, albeit unstable, emerged in two phases over the next half-century. Immediately after Nadir Shah’s death, Mughal successor states, local elites, and tribal confederacies scrambled to profit from the sudden power vacuum. Among these unstable emergent polities, the Afghan Empire established itself in the center of the Persianate world as a hinge that brought the region

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together. At this stage it was known as the Durrani Empire, as its founder styled himself durr-i durrān, alternatively meaning “pearl of the age” or “pearl of pearls.” Eventually, petty states crystalized out of tribal confederacies and other corporate groups. These blended compromise, negotiation, and often intense and performative violence to co-opt or suppress other tribes and competing factions. The landscape eventually featured an array of states, including larger khanates, tribal principalities, shrine-states, and theocracies governed by sacred lineages. These new states were inherently fragile, and most lacked historical legitimacy. Insecure and anxious, new ruling elites sometimes adopted earlier symbols of Persian or Chinggisid kingship, or they preferred to stay under the familiar umbrella of the titular Mughal rulers at Delhi. This second state-building phase witnessed the reurbanization of older cities like Bukhara, Shiraz, and Kabul, and the enlargement of cosmopolitan hubs like Shikarpur and Qandahar along reoriented trade routes. The revived cities attracted poets, scholars, and bureaucrats, who helped develop vernacular cultural and literary identities. But while these small polities jostled with each other, competing for manpower and resources, new, more formidable players appeared on the Persianate horizons. From the mid-eighteenth century, British, Russian, and Chinese presence gradually eroded the edges of the Persianate world, encroaching through the steppes, Bengal, and Altishahr. Some frontline states suffered, while others like Khoqand, bordering China and Russia, found commercial opportunities by accessing European and Chinese markets. An Afghan Empire The Durrani Empire is the best candidate for the true successor state of Nadir Shah’s shaky empire. It was founded by an Afghan of the Sadozai clan, Ahmad Shah Abdali (later, Durrani), one of Nadir Shah’s principal cavalry commanders. Within a year after Nadir Shah’s death, he embarked upon his first invasion of the Mughal Empire, occupying Lahore and Sir­ hind. In 1757, he took Delhi, and four years later in a decisive victory at Panipat (ninety kilometers north), he routed the Maratha tribal confederacy that was contending for control of Hindustan.24 Toward the west, in 1749 he secured Mashhad in Iran, which was then ruled by Nadir Shah’s grandson. He then took Badakhshan in 1751. Within ten years, Ahmad Shah governed a vast informal empire between Transoxiana, Hindustan, and Iran that included major entrepôts of the Inner-Asian transit trade. This empire was a sedentary-nomadic polity, built upon alliances with pastoral nomadic groups and tributary relationships with local elites who exercised varying degrees of independence. The

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Durrani state also benefited from close ties with Afghan chieftaincies in Hindustan. However, central authority at Qandahar remained weak, and sustaining the empire proved difficult. Even during Ahmad Shah’s reign, uprisings were common, and Lahore and chunks of Hindustan fell to Sikh military bands. Under Ahmad Shah’s son, Timur Shah (r. 1772–1793), the empire continued to fracture. Facing internal pressure from powerful Durrani tribes based at Qandahar, Timur Shah shrewdly transferred the capital to Kabul in 1775–1776 (with Peshawar as a winter capital), reorienting his base of support to Persian-speaking Tajiks and the Shi‘i Qizilbash whom Nadir Shah had settled in Kabul. Externally, he faced resistance from tribal factions and local rulers in Khurasan, Kashmir, Baluchistan, Sindh, and Lesser Turkestan (south of the Amu Darya), and slowly he lost effective control of each of these regions. The Sikhs secured most of Punjab at this juncture. A period of internecine warfare followed Timur Shah’s death in 1793. By the end of the reign of Timur’s son Zaman Shah (1801), rival Durrani principalities had surfaced at Kabul, Peshawar, Ghazni, Qandahar, and Herat. But since Timur Shah and Zaman Shah had invested generously in the administrative and bureaucratic infrastructure of Kabul and Peshawar, the chief cities remained relatively stable and prosperous.25 However, new power centers in Iran further threatened the Durrani western flank. Initially, Karim Khan, a chieftain of the Iranian Zand tribe, set up a state at Shiraz. This state was later supplanted by Aqa Muhammad Khan of the Qajar tribe, who, enthroned at Tehran in 1796, inaugurated the Qajar dynasty. The Mughal Successor States Nadir Shah and Ahmad Shah’s invasions of Delhi were catastrophic for the Mughal Empire. Both wealth and human capital drained westward. The Mughals lost their western provinces to the Afsharids and later the Durranis, who carved out much of Punjab, Sindh, and Kashmir. The Mughal centers never fully recovered, and for the next half-century faced internal unrest, exacerbated by continued encroachment from the British East India Company at Bengal. The Company was no doubt the chief beneficiary of the distressed political climate of Hindustan. Several types of successor states appeared at this time. The first were independent kingdoms under Mughal governors or military officials, which transitioned from prebendal to patrimonial landholdings, continuing a process that had started after Aurangzeb’s death in 1707. Nadir Shah’s invasion expedited this process by shaking up the center, allowing powerful new dynasties to emerge at Bengal, Awadh, the Deccan, and the Carnatic.

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The second were “warrior states” under the Rohillas, Jats, Marathas, and Sikhs—by-products of the tribal breakout. Tribal confederacies eventually coalesced into states through a process similar to what was unfolding in contemporary Iran and Transoxiana. The Marathas recovered fast after their defeat at Panipat; in fact, the Maratha maharaja of Gwalior became the de facto protector of the Mughal Empire in 1784. Rohilkhand, under the Rohilla Afghans, benefited from the Durrani presence, and the Rohilla Nawab Najib al-Dawla was even briefly awarded control of Delhi after Ahmad Shah’s occupation in 1757. But Rohilkhand’s glory was short-lived. By 1774, Awadh had absorbed it with assistance from the East India Company. The Sikhs likewise secured pockets of the Mughal Empire, operating through decentralized military bands called misls. Misls were led by independent chieftains; however, all formed part of a collective body called the Sikh khalsa. It, too, developed an equivalent of a hidden and apparent caliphate: the Akali (“immortal”) Nihangs were consecrated saint-warriors positioned above and transcending the various Sikh chieftaincies. The Akali order both held liturgical offices and formed the khalsa’s elite brigades.26 The misls were eventually consolidated under Ranjit Singh (d. 1839), who challenged the Durranis in the Punjab, occupying Lahore in 1799. Lahore henceforth became the capital of a new Sikh state. Meanwhile, the western fringes of the Mughal Empire—Sindh, Bahawalpur, Kalat, Gwadar, Makran, and Las Bela in Baluchistan—all came under the Durrani umbrella. But by Timur Shah’s reign, all of these regions pulled themselves away from the Durranis, becoming autonomous states. The Ashtarkhanid Successor States Although Nadir Shah exercised minimal control over Bukhara and Khiva, and Khoqand remained beyond his sphere of influence, his political manipulations destabilized the states to the north of the Amu Darya. In Bukhara, the Manghit Uzbek royal tutors-cum-advisors deposed and murdered the Ashtarkhanid ruler Abu’l Fayz Khan in 1747, effectively bringing the Chinggisid line to an end, although the Manghits maintained puppet Ashtarkhanid monarchs for several decades. In 1753, after solidifying his rule, the Manghit royal tutor Muhammad Rahim Bi (d. 1758) adopted the title khan and pursued a vigorous policy of autocratic centralization. Muhammad Rahim Bi eventually extended his domain from Bukhara to Khojand and Tashkent. His cousin Shah Murad (r. 1785–1800) deposed the last of the Ashtarkhanid puppets and declared himself amir of Bukhara. He is generally credited for Bukhara’s administrative regularization and the development of robust legal procedures and institutions.

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The Uzbek Ming subtribe of Khoqand similarly profited from regional instability following Nadir Shah’s invasion as well as from the Chinese defeat of the Zhungars, whose military was stationed in Altishahr to the east. Amid the upheavals, the Ming Uzbeks consolidated their hold over Ferghana and adjoining territories. Irdana Bi (r. 1751–1770) declared himself khan and, prudently, made Khoqand nominally subject to Beijing, then ruled by the Manchu Qing dynasty. This generated tremendous profits from trade with Kashgar, as the khanate positioned itself commercially between Russia, Hindustan, and China. Profits were reinvested into Khoqand’s military apparatus and large-scale irrigation projects, further enriching the Ferghana region.27 In the hazy interstices of the larger khanates, an eclectic range of polities took form. For example, the shrine administrators at Mazar-i Sharif assumed state functions, establishing a virtual shrine-state equipped with a small army.28 The ruler of nearby Tashkurgan emerged late in the century as a regional powerbroker, paying symbolical homage to Bukhara. At the same time, he often allied himself with the Durranis at Kabul. Badakhshan was comprised of multiple theocratic principalities, both Naqshbandi and Isma‘ili. These principalities passed between local saintly lineages and another powerful regional polity, the Qataghan Uzbek khanate of Qunduz. Reurbanization The process of political consolidation and state-building that followed in the long wake of Nadir Shah went hand in hand with urbanization, often at the expense of former imperial capitals and older centers of trade. The population of Mughal imperial capitals like Delhi, Lahore, and Agra declined substantially. In their place, Lucknow, Banaras, and the towns of Rohilkhand expanded into centers of cultural and economic activity. Older Mughal commercial ports, including Surat, Maslipatnam, and Dhaka, similarly lost their position to East India Company ports like Bombay, Madras, and Calcutta.29 Each principal town underwent a distinct process of urban transformation. In general, however, the emergent ruling families incorporated local notable families and landholders in their governing apparatus and attracted merchant communities who could bolster trade. Newly empowered regional elites and merchant families were eager to invest in urban development projects. Naturally, distinctive vernacular architectural and artistic forms emerged in virtually every town. Similar processes were at work farther to the west. Under Karim Khan Zand, the population of Shiraz mushroomed, surpassing even the former Safavid capital of Isfahan. Karim Khan furnished Shiraz with caravanserais

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and palaces, and even restored the tombs of the classical poets like Sa‘di and Hafiz. Then, at the close of the century, the Qajar shahs again reoriented Iran’s resources, this time to their new capital, Tehran. In the Durrani Empire, Ahmad Shah erected yet another new city of Qandahar (which came to be known by his name, Ahmadshahi), adjacent to the former city decimated by Nadir Shah in 1738. Ahmad Shah’s successor Timur Shah turned his attention to enhancing and ornamenting his new twin capitals of Kabul and Peshawar. Many of the artisans and scholars brought to Qandahar by his father resettled comfortably in the new capitals. Even smaller states like Badakhshan followed suit. Badakhshan’s principal town Fayzabad grew into a bustling and prosperous mart at the crossroads of Khurasan, Hindustan, and Altishahr, and an important node in the slave trade to China. Bukhara and Khiva too were repopulated. Meanwhile, the khans of Khoqand constructed several new towns, including Aq Masjid near the Syr Darya, to manage trade from Russia, Tashkent, Bukhara, and Khiva. Refashioning Sovereignty Nadir Shah’s aspirations to forge a new Turkic Islamo-Persianate universal polity were not ultimately realized, but his vision had several lasting impacts. First, it shook the foundation of well-established forms of political and religious authority. Nadir Shah’s example effectively emboldened local leaders to assert their autonomy against the old imperial centers and ruling elites. But most of these new local rulers lacked independent historical legitimacy. The post–Nadir Shah states were ethnically diverse, yet all adopted Islamo-Persianate models of governance and functioned within established political vocabularies and models of sovereignty. Throughout the process of political fragmentation in Hindustan, new rulers of successor states still required the Mughal emperor to consecrate their positions. Although politically and financially autonomous, their domains were still “provinces” of the Mughal Empire. The symbolic Mughal umbrella also allowed successor states to continue benefiting from Mughal communication and transportation networks, and the uniform and dependable monetary system.30 The general “compact of rule” that governed the Mughal, Safavid, and Ashtarkhanid states remained intact. The whole region, by and large, had shared notions of good governance, justice, and adab, responsibilities of rulers and subjects, notions of fairness, power relations, and political participation.31 Persian remained the dominant language of literary and administrative culture. Even states like Sindh and Khoqand that developed vernacular literary identities in the eighteenth century stuck with Persian as the primary language of governance. The Persian-speaking literary, administrative, and secretarial

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classes maintained their transferability, relevance, and market value. They ensured continuity and mobility, navigating between courts and perpetuating Persianate cultural norms and aesthetics. In the mid-eighteenth century, a similar pattern was underway in Transoxiana, Khurasan, and Iran. New ruling houses often maintained members of older royal lineages as puppet sovereigns and avoided using traditional titles like khan and shah. Bukhara’s de facto kings Rahim and Daniyal remained atālīqs or “royal tutors” of the Ashtarkhanids; the rulers of Khiva were ināqs, or advisors; and the rulers of Khoqand kept their tribal designation bī. In Iran, Karim Khan Zand styled himself vakīl al-ra‘āyā—“deputy of the people”—on behalf of a Safavid puppet ruler. Only later in the century were ruling families confident enough to formally depose the older dynasties and usurp their titles. Even at this stage, however, the new dynasties felt the need to link themselves to historical empires. Agha Muhammad Khan Qajar was crowned with the sword of the Safavid Shahs; the Uzbek Manghits of Bukhara fabricated Chinggisid lineages; while Eltuzer Khan of Khiva declared himself heir to the Khwarizmshah dynasty, which had ruled Khiva in its proverbial golden age over five hundred years earlier. In this regard, the Durrani Empire was exceptional. Ahmad Shah adopted Nadir Shah’s idea of universal kingship in conjunction with other earlier models of legitimacy. Such a hybrid ideology sustained a tribal-sedentary empire that required Afghan tribal loyalty and incorporated semiautonomous principalities in former Mughal lands and across the Amu Darya.32 On one hand, Ahmad Shah appealed to Afghan solidarity, which engendered the loyalty of both Qandahari tribes and sedentary Afghan principalities of Hindustan. On the other, he understood that legitimacy could not be limited to Afghan-specific traditions and needed to absorb the still-active symbols of legitimacy of the Safavids, Uzbeks, and Mughals. In a letter to the Ottoman emperor Mustafa III, for example, Ahmad Shah expressed that he was granted a divine mission to restore the sultanates of Iran, Hindustan, and Transoxiana, and build a pan-Islamic empire.33 When required, Ahmad Shah also appealed to pan-Islamic sentiments. In 1763, for example, in his role as protector-sovereign, he tried to forge an alliance with the khanates north of the Amu Darya and Kazakh tribes to wage an offensive against the Chinese who had recently occupied Altishahr. He even claimed that the battle of Panipat would ostensibly restore the Mughal sultanate, which had fallen into the hands of non-Muslim rulers. But Ahmad Shah was pragmatic. Given his universalizing political philosophy and commercial interests, he concurrently encouraged Hindu traders to settle in his domains. The Durranis became well known for their remarkably liberal policies toward non-Muslim subjects.34

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Their rivals, the Sikh empire at Lahore, devised yet another exceptional model of sovereignty. This empire had evolved out of an ideologically driven anti-Mughal religious movement and mobilized a new set of specifically Sikh royal symbols. As a symbolic assertion of power, the Sikhs regularly desecrated Muslim places of worship. But the empire still hosted a large Muslim population and maintained Persianate administrative institutions and court etiquette; Sikh silver rupees were minted on the Mughal standard, with Persian legends. Each of the new ruling households also appealed to localized models of authority, investing heavily in regional cultural production—whether in secular architecture or literature, or in the sacerdotal sphere. Some states patronized vernacular literary traditions, albeit within Persianate literary forms. Bukhara, Khoqand, and Khiva promoted Chagatai Turkish, which in the latter two states became the principal language of literature and bureaucracy. Sindh and Punjab witnessed the efflorescence of Sindhi and Punjabi Sufi poetry and other high literary forms. Similar developments took place among Afghans; Ahmad Shah Durrani himself set the trend through his own dīvān of Pashto poetry. Hybrid state ideologies, meanwhile, incorporated regional historical symbols. The khans of Khoqand styled themselves as descendants of Babur, the founder of the Mughal Empire, who happened to have been born in Ferghana three centuries earlier. In Iran, Fath ‘Ali Shah Qajar introduced a “Kayanid” crown, referencing Iran’s mythological past, and even commissioned Sasanian-style rock reliefs.35 In this time of state consolidation, it was not uncommon for rulers to also assume new models of austere kingship based on Islamo-Persianate Sufi or warrior-king models. As a means to foster popular legitimacy, some rulers publicly shunned the extravagance typically associated with Persianate courts. This is apparent in the case of Karim Khan Zand, who preferred a rug over a throne, and Ahmad Shah Durrani and Shah Murad of Bukhara, who modeled themselves after Sufi dervishes. These kings insisted on simple garments and earned their own keep through menial labor; Shah Murad apparently earned two rupees a day stitching fabric. Finally, all these new states adopted a range of religious ideologies, often reflecting the diversity of their subject populations and regional political dynamics. Increasingly, ruling elites required the services of ulama and Sufis to construct their tailored religious ideologies. Mystics and scholars were thus in high demand across the region. For example, the Shi‘i nawābs at Awadh, of Iranian origin, charitably patronized Imami Shi‘ism. However, Awadh’s court notables often supported Sunni institutions, while court rituals incorporated Hindu symbolism. Similarly, in Rohilkhand, bordering Awadh to the west, the Rohilla Afghan nawābs ruling over a largely Hindu population

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developed a distinctive Hindu-Muslim syncretic culture to notable success; within two generations of their settlement in Hindustan, they were celebrated as popular indigenous sovereigns despite their Afghan origins. Meanwhile, the khans of Bukhara, who clashed with Iran on their southwestern frontiers, assumed a strong anti-Shi‘a stance; their annual raids into Qajar territories were marketed as religiously sanctioned warfare. On the other hand, Ahmad Shah Durrani attempted to build an empire that would transcend confessional divisions. Like his predecessor Nadir Shah, he strove to incorporate Shi‘ism as a fifth school of Islamic jurisprudence alongside the four accepted Sunni schools. Not surprisingly, most of the emergent states pursued liberal policies toward non-Muslim trading communities. They particularly encouraged the Armenian, Jewish, and Hindu merchants who formed the backbone of the financial and trading classes. Russia, China, and Britain: A Steady Encroachment In the first half of the eighteenth century, the political influence of Russia, China, and Britain in the Persianate world was slight. But from the 1750s, these three external empires began to exert political, military, and fiscal control over the Kazakh steppes, Bengal, and Altishahr, respectively. As early as 1717–1718, Peter the Great organized a military campaign to occupy Yarkand, Khiva, and Bukhara, amid rumors of gold in Yarkand and in the hopes of accessing Hindustani trade routes. Local forces soundly defeated the Russian armies, however. Russia now shifted its strategy to constructing defensive forts along the Irtysh in Siberia, primarily to fend off nomadic raids. By the 1730s, a series of frontier forts known as the Orenberg line functioned as military, diplomatic, and commercial outposts connecting Transoxiana and Russia. Toward the eastern fringes of the Persianate world, by the mideighteenth century the Qing dynasty had occupied Zhungaria, Altishahr, and Tibet. Naqshbandi Khojas (or Khwajas), descendants of the revered Samarkandi Sufi Makhdum-i ‘Azam (1461–1542), had previously held the oases of Altishahr. After expelling the Khojas, the Qing pursued a policy of indirect rule via local begs, who managed civil administration and were supervised by officials dispatched from Beijing. Intermittent resistance to Qing rule continued among local populations, with mixed success.36 At about the same time, in the 1750s and 1760s, the British presence in Hindustan become more pronounced. A turning point in British expansion into the Mughal Empire was the 1757 battle of Plassey, in which the East India Company defeated the nawāb of Bengal and gained effective control over the province. Later in 1764, the Company overwhelmed a joint organized

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resistance effort from the Mughal emperor and the rulers of Awadh and Bengal in the battle of Buxar. Following this victory, the Mughal emperor was forced to cede revenue collection rights for Bengal to the Company. The East India Company continued to expand its reach through the latter half of the eighteenth century, governing through direct administration or through the subsidiary alliance system. The latter, as formalized by Governor General Lord Wellesley (r. 1798–1805), dictated that the Company would provide weak successor states with military protection in return for stipulated payments. This system was inherently unstable, yielding debt traps and forcing princely states to extort heavy payments from their populations. This invariably generated tensions between landholders, peasants, and nawābs. A variety of treaty arrangements were also made between the Company and local rulers, generally providing some level of autonomy. In the process of expanding their empires in the eighteenth century, Russia, China, and England were forced to contend with questions of governance and subjecthood with regard to the vast Muslim populations that they had rapidly incorporated, as did, in a slightly different key, the new states already examined. Each of the emerging empires chose to allow a degree of self-governance in religious and legal affairs, and each supported cadres of religious scholars who would act as intermediaries between the colonial state and local populations. The experiments in mixed judicial and religious systems during this period were to have a profound impact on Muslim identity politics and the relationship between the ulama and Muslim populations throughout the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.

Nomads, Trading Firms, Horses, and Cloth: 1700–1800 The impact of eighteenth-century political developments on economic growth and trade patterns remains somewhat obscure. Earlier scholarship held that decentralization corresponded to economic decline.37 However, it is now clear that the eighteenth century instead witnessed an overall economic “realignment.” In fact, trade between Transoxiana and Hindustan may have increased in this period.38 Overland trade remained vigorous, and tribal confederacies played a new and important role in facilitating trade. Ironically, as previously mentioned, the fragmentation of the Mughal Empire was probably a result of greater concentrations of wealth in the provinces, areas that could more convincingly assert their autonomy from the old imperial centers. In the latter part of the century, two processes were at work. First, the successor states that emerged post–Nadir Shah actively encouraged

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regional trade. In particular, the Afghan states—the Durrani Empire and the Indo-Afghan principalities in Hindustan—benefited from the flow of goods between Transoxiana and Hindustan. These trade routes enabled the development of new urban centers like Shikarpur, which became fulcrums of rerouted commercial activity. Second, Chinese, Russian, and British expansion further advanced via the two-way longitudinal commerce between Hindustan, Russia, and China. Transregional merchant communities managed this trade and were certainly the principal beneficiaries of the evolving economic order. The reoriented web of trade routes constituted the same domain where Sufi networks such as the Mujaddidis were operating, and we will soon examine the role of religious networks and pilgrimage in fortifying these highways. The overland north-south trade that tied together the Persianate world in the eighteenth century had evolved from robust commercial exchange between the Mughals, Safavids, and Uzbeks in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. The main overland routes between Transoxiana and Hindustan flowed either between Kabul and Lahore through the Khyber Pass or between Qandahar and Multan through the Bolan Pass. The rise of the European-dominated sea trade in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries barely impacted this overland trade; it was still more economical to travel by land between Isfahan and Lahore. Moreover, overland trade within the Mughal Empire dwarfed trade beyond its territories. Inner-Asian trade too continued unabated, particularly since products from the steppes were still required throughout Iran, Khurasan, and Hindustan.39 Although trade from the Mughal provinces into the steppes and China was quite varied, it was primarily driven by Hindustani agricultural goods, textiles, and other products, in exchange for livestock and animal products from the steppes. For over two thousand years, high-quality horses from Transoxiana were the principal commodity imported via the Khyber Pass. This trade may have actually expanded in the eighteenth century, as newly emerging Indian states required fresh supplies for their cavalries every seven to ten years.40 Textiles like Kashmiri shawls and raw cotton were Hindustan’s principal exports, carried overland to Bukhara and onward to Siberia and Muscovy. The trade balance in the eighteenth century ultimately remained in favor of Hindustan. The Afghan states were in the best position to benefit from the invigorated north-south trade of the mid-eighteenth century. The Durrani Empire controlled some of the major entrepôts in the overland trade, such as Balkh, Herat, Qandahar, and Kabul. And the Durranis, along with their vassal state Sindh, connected Inner-Asian trade routes to maritime networks via Kabul, Qandahar, and the port cites of Thatta, Karachi, and

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Toward the Caspian Sea and Orenberg

Turkestan

Khiva

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Toward Orenberg and Siberia

KYRGYSTAN

Tashkent Khoqand

Osh

UZBEKISTAN

Kashgar

Bukhara

TAJIKISTAN

Am

Yarkand

u

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D

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ya

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Mashhad

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Kabul

AT Leh

Peshawar

Herat

AFGHANISTAN

KA

SH

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AK

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Qandahar

Ri

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Indus

ve

r

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Ghazni

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PAKISTAN

Dera Ismail Lahore Khan

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Sirhind

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Bareilly

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I N D I A Hyderabad

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Umarkot Karachi A r a b i a n

S e a

Thatta

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250 km 250 miles

Map 2  Principal trade and pilgrimage routes, c. 1800

Lahri Bandar. They also remained closely affiliated with the Rohillas and other Afghan principalities in Hindustan. Many of these Afghan rulers had begun their careers as horse merchants, and collectively they controlled a flexible, informal empire reaching from the Peshawar Valley into north India. Together, the Durrani and Indo-Afghan kingdoms had a dual base in pastoral nomadism and sedentary agriculture, and with this advantage, they built up their own commercial networks. Although the Durrani state may not have been actively involved in this informal empire, it certainly benefited from its credit and taxation.41 Under the Durranis, Qandahar reaffirmed its position as a vital fulcrum between Iran, Transoxiana, Khurasan, and Hindustan. Kabul served as another important hub, connecting Qandahar through Ghazni to the south and Peshawar and Lahore to the east via the Khyber Pass. North of

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Kabul, trade routes continued through Balkh to either Bukhara toward Khiva, or Tashkent. From Tashkent, Hindustani, Afghan, Bukharan, and Khoqandi caravans transported goods as far as Orenburg. Trade from Kabul and Qandahar into Hindustan passed through several Hindustani Afghan principalities. With the Mughal political crisis of the early eighteenth century, the Grand Trunk Road linking Bengal with Kabul through the Mughal cities of Agra, Delhi, Sirhind, and Lahore declined. Other routes emerged across some of the affluent Mughal successor states: through Rohilkhand via Awadh and Farrukhabad to Rajpur and Jaipur, or through Bareilly via Najibabad and Haridwar, and into Kashmir. A northern route also connected the Durrani Empire and Hindustan to Altishahr from Kashmir (under Durrani control), through the Karakorum mountain range into Yarkand. At Yarkand, routes from China, Tibet, Hindustan, and the Himalayan state of Ladakh were joined by those leading to Kashgar. Yarkand also connected Tashkent and Kashgar to Badakhshan in the Pamirs, and Kashmir to the south. With its incorporation into the Chinese economy, more caravans also traveled through Samarkand and Bukhara via Tashkent into Kashgar. Tashkent thus served as a connecting point for Balkh, Kashgar, and Orenberg, and the khanate of Khoqand greatly benefited from Russian and Chinese trade. A sequence of rejuvenated marts appeared along all of these routes and others. Capital became readily available, and the new towns attracted populations from surrounding districts. Governing elites further invested in the transportation and security infrastructure required to maintain these commercial thoroughfares. As alluded to above, the expansion of China and Russia also provided increased economic opportunities for intermediary states. The fortified towns of the Orenburg line became trading centers, hosting regular fairs that brought Bukharan, Kazakh, and Afghan merchants northward.42 By the 1740s, Russia dispatched official caravans to Khiva and Bukhara, and provided fiscal incentives to traders from Hindustan and Transoxiana.43 The British presence on Hindustan’s coast did not deeply impact overland trade throughout most of the eighteenth century. Though Mughal port cities lost out to Bombay, Madras, and Calcutta, Hindustani merchant communities still benefited from the export trade.44 That said, the extractive policies pursued by the East India Company after it achieved revenue-collecting rights had a disastrous impact on Bengal, while the subsidiary alliance system brought dependent successor states like Awadh to financial ruin. By the end of the century, the British had substantially cut into the Hindustan-Khurasan-Transoxiana trade. Particularly after the Rohilla Afghan states came under Company rule, the Afghan empire lost

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its direct links into Hindustan. In addition, the rising British monopoly on military resources reduced Hindustani demand for Afghan mercenaries and horses. Many mercenary contingents, in fact, were now bereft of employment, generating the problem of Pindari raiders faced by early nineteenth-century Hindustan.45 But throughout the eighteenth century, whether in Khurasan, Hindustan, or Transoxiana, the trading classes were the primary beneficiaries of all this activity, navigating with ease across rapidly changing political boundaries and linking markets across the Persianate world and beyond. The political reorientations of the eighteenth century went hand in hand with changes in the structure of these trading classes. With the fragmentation of political power, greater opportunities arose for preexisting autonomous trading communities. Ruling elites, for their part, invested significant resources to protect traders and facilitate trade through road infrastructure, caravanserais, and low-tariff regimes. Despite political rivalries, governments would communicate with each other to ensure that caravans were allowed safe passage.46 Two distinct groups made this Persianate trade possible: pastoral nomads and merchant communities. Alongside Armenians and Tajiks, Hindustani merchant classes had been active in managing transregional trade since the Mughal period. In the eighteenth century, two Hindu communities, the Shikarpuris and Multanis, emerged as dominant corporate trading groups. They had permanent settlements and agents in virtually every commercial mart from Yarkand to Astrakhan, even in Saint Petersburg. Having devised an efficient system of bills of exchange to transfer money, they deployed their capital in interest-oriented moneylending ventures that helped finance the civil and military apparatus of the newly emerging states.47 Among the nomads were the powindas (generally Afghan or Aimaq), who carried merchandise between the Indus and Bukhara during their annual migrations in heavily armed caravans. Kazakh and Uzbek tribes likewise transported goods between Bukhara and Russia. Although distinct in scope, ideology, and structure, there are several key parallels between the trading communities and the Mujaddidi Sufi networks that are the main subject of this book. First, the two networks almost entirely overlapped in their geographical scope; each had a presence in regions as disparate as Kalat, Qandahar, Herat, Ghazni, Balkh, Kabul, Shikarpur, Yarkand, and Orenburg.48 The Sufis and the merchants alike formed mobile diaspora communities across these great distances. Second, both groups were beneficiaries as well as facilitators of the realignments and connectivity that characterized this period. Third, Sufi networks were intimately engaged with both nomadic traders and Hindustani merchants.

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In many cases, trade activities sustained the Sufi networks; Sufi saints often accompanied the caravans as intermediaries and deployed Hindu trading communities to secure capital or deliver correspondence.

Centrifugal and Centripetal Tendencies: 1800–1850 By the turn of the nineteenth century, most of the former Mughal Empire was effectively under British rule. Rising successor states like Awadh and Hyderabad were absorbed into the British sphere of influence through subsidiary alliances or occupation. Further north, a Russian presence was well established in the steppes through the Orenburg line of forts, as well as in Georgia and the Caucasus. The Qing Empire had already secured Altishahr and Zhungaria; rebellions against Chinese rule became less frequent. This new geopolitical situation left a cluster of states and principalities huddled precariously between the great empires. The larger among these were Qajar Persia, Khiva, Bukhara, Khoqand, the Afghan states (Kabul, Qandahar, and Herat), Punjab under the Sikhs, Kalat, Sindh, and the Maratha states. As before, smaller polities occupied the spaces between. The next fifty years witnessed two opposing currents. On the one hand, rulers of the more powerful intermediate states consolidated their power and absorbed some of their weaker neighbors. Simultaneously, however, they faced increasing pressure from Britain, Russia, and China. This effectively prevented further expansion of their domains, and eventually eroded their independence and stability. By mid-century, they had been reduced to the status of buffer states, and the three imperial powers readily exploited regional ambitions toward their own ends. The process of state consolidation underway in the late eighteenth century continued into the early nineteenth century. It was, however, rife with contradictions. Despite developing bureaucratic-military infrastructures, spurring urban growth and cultural revivals, the states remained inherently unstable. Very few systematically adopted modernizing reforms. And, despite the looming presence of European colonialism, the influence of European technology and ideas remained minimal. In Transoxiana, centralized monarchies with institutionalized bureaucracies gradually and intermittently arose, particularly under Amir Nasrullah (r. 1827–1860) of Bukhara, Muhammad Rahim Khan of Khiva (r. 1806–1826), and ‘Alim Khan (r. 1798–1810) of Khoqand. The entire region benefited from increased sedentarization. Khiva and Khoqand in particular invested heavily in agricultural works, and all three states actively

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promoted commerce. By the third decade of the nineteenth century, all three had witnessed unprecedented economic and cultural revitalization. In the Durrani regions, the situation was complicated by rivalries within the ruling household. These rivalries intensified with the death of Timur Shah in 1793 and escalated in the first two decades of the nineteenth century. Rival principalities emerged in Kabul, Peshawar, Ghazni, Qandahar, and Herat. The Barakzai subclan of the Durranis, who served as ministers, benefited from the internal tensions. By 1826, Dost Muhammad Khan, son of the erstwhile Barakzai chief minister Payinda Khan, proclaimed himself amir at Kabul. Durrani control over the empire’s remaining domains eroded over time. The Qajars captured (and lost) Herat several times, and from 1795 to the 1840s, the city became a recurring battleground between the Afghans and Persians. Bukhara extended its influence over several contiguous Uzbek principalities toward the Amu Darya, which then shifted back and forth between Bukhara and Kabul’s sphere of influence. Toward the east, the Sikh ruler Ranjit Singh took Multan, Kashmir, and the Derajat between 1818 and 1821. Eventually, in 1834, the Durrani winter capital Peshawar also fell to the Sikhs. Sindh and Baluchistan had already severed ties with the Durranis in the last decades of the eighteenth century under the Talpurs and khans of Kalat, respectively, and gradually phased out tribute payments to Kabul. Dost Muhammad Khan, therefore, assumed control over a state limited to the Kabul Valley, the Hazarajat, the Hindu Kush, and the Sulaiman mountains. As the ruler of Kabul, he was still recognized as the senior sovereign among the Barakzais. However, Qandahar was independently governed by his younger brother, while Herat remained under the Durrani-Sadozais. Steering the New States From Hindustan to Iran, the state-building process went hand in hand with continued urban renewal and cultural and literary revival. Under Fath ‘Ali Shah Qajar, Tehran transitioned to a royal capital featuring extravagant palaces and public buildings. Similar processes were at work in the three capitals of the Sindhi Talpur domains, and at Kalat and Khoqand, where vernacular literature flourished. The Sikh ruler Ranjit Singh rebuilt Lahore and other towns in his domains. This period also witnessed investments in education not seen since the seventeenth century. In Bukhara, Amir Hayder (r. 1800–1826) and Amir Nasrullah both founded new madrasas and restored older ones. At the time of his visit to Bukhara in 1833, Alexander Burnes counted 366 colleges, serving a population of 150,000.49 Allah Quli Khan (r. 1825–1842)

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of Khiva and ‘Umar Khan (r. 1810–1822) and Muhammad ‘Ali Khan (r. 1822–1842) of Khoqand similarly invested in imposing monuments and madrasas. In the same period, notable families of Shi‘i scholars in Iran achieved heights of influence under patronage of the Qajar state.50 Despite this visible efflorescence, these states were inherently weak. The precarious situation of each ruling dynasty was only exacerbated by interference from the colonial powers. Ruling elites, therefore, devised complex modes of bargaining, negotiation, and consensus building to manage opposing factions. At Kabul, for instance, Dost Muhammad Khan was able to establish his authority over entrenched tribes controlling trade routes into Kabul with a balance of force and conciliation. The tribal khans were allowed to act as “miniature kings,” veritable intermediaries between the tribe and state.51 Within his capital city, Dost Muhammad Khan relied on support from the Persian Shi‘i Qizilbash as balancing agents. As bureaucratic classes became more entrenched, tensions often developed between rulers and their administrators, with varying outcomes. This was sometimes managed through “viziericides” and the regular replacement of administrative officials well into the late nineteenth century. Though such maneuvers preserved royal authority, they also stunted potential bureaucratic reforms. In each of these states, meanwhile, organized military forces either replaced or supplemented the older tribal militias, albeit to varying degrees. Iran was the first to upgrade its armies along European lines, followed, in the wake of the First Anglo-Afghan War, by Ranjit Singh and Dost Muhammad Khan. In Bukhara, Amir Nasrullah too set up a regular army and artillery unit. Neighboring Khokand established an effective mercenary army, which by mid-century had advanced into the steppes and challenged Chinese supremacy. These regularized armies allowed for internal consolidation. Through extreme coercive force, states could subdue and incorporate refractory tribal populations, from the Zands, Bakhtiaris, and Kurds in Iran to the Khitay-Qipchaq who revolted in Bukhara. Regularized armies also sometimes allowed these states to pursue expansionist policies. Larger states occasionally absorbed neighboring autonomous regions. At other times, such interstitial regions became unstable sites of protracted wars; Merv, Balkh, and Herat, for example, remained contested by Bukhara, Khiva, Iran, and the Durranis. As we will see, such conflicts often drew in religious actors. Under Amir Hayder, Bukhara engaged in war with Khoqand and Khiva, and under his successor, Amir Nasrullah, Bukharan military expansionism reached its heights. Many Ashtarkhanid breakaway regions were reincorporated into the khanate. In the first two decades of the nineteenth century, the Khoqand khanate almost doubled, allowing its Ming Uzbek khans to

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secure important caravan routes to Russia. By 1826, Khoqand was confident enough to back military adventurism against China in Altishahr. Meanwhile, Khiva expanded into the Kazakh steppes under Allah Quli Khan.

The “Great Game” Alongside these internal developments, the pressures on the fragile new states from the rivalry between Britain, Russia, and China became more pronounced as their zones of influence drew closer over the course of the nineteenth century. Russian geopolitical objectives clashed with Britain’s and to a lesser extent China’s; intermediary states were pulled into this great-power rivalry, either unwittingly or of their own volition. In the nineteenth century the British and Russian empires continued their earlier expansionism. However, as the corridors separating the empires narrowed, they increasingly devised elaborate strategies to dominate or pacify the buffer regions. The struggle for Khurasan, Hindustan, Transoxiana, and the Iranian plateau that came to be known as the Great Game was one dimension of a global rivalry, played out primarily between Russia, England, China, and France, for domination over the Eurasian heartland. The Game deeply impacted the areas that were at stake, first by preventing the development of strong independent states in the region, and eventually by bifurcating the Persianate world into British and Russian spheres of influence, a system with geopolitical consequences to this day. This Anglo-Russian rivalry can be roughly separated into three phases, characterized by shifting dominance: Russia gradually became ascendant from 1800 to 1828, Britain retaliated from the 1830s to 1860s, and Russia once again embarked on an expansionary trajectory from the 1860s.52 Opening Acts The thirty years following Napoleon’s 1798 invasion of Egypt saw a shift in the global balance of power, setting the stage for a century-long conflict over Eurasia. Initially, Russia and Britain were tentatively allied against France. From 1798 to 1806, Russia occupied the south Caucasus and Georgia, approaching Qajar Iran. The East India Company, meanwhile, defeated its last rival coalitions in Hindustan and, in 1803, conquered Delhi. The Mughal emperor became a virtual puppet, and a series of British missions arrived in the region to check potential French and Russian aggression. Among the empire’s earliest agents were John Malcolm at Tehran

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in 1800 and Mountstuart Elphinstone at Kabul in 1808, who compiled a valuable study on Kabul and Peshawar. Stage two (1807–1812) began with the Franco-Russian treaty of Tilsit, compelling the East India Company to plan defenses against a potential invasion of India. As part of this effort, in 1809 Britain entered into a treaty of “eternal friendship” with Sindh, and likewise expressed an interest in protecting Baluchistan’s northwest frontier. During the third stage (1813–1818), the French empire was defeated, while British forces finally secured their Indian possessions by suppressing the Pindaris raiders unsettling Hindustan. By 1820, Russia and Britain were separated only by nomadic tribes and unstable principalities.53 Over the next decade, Russia continued its aggressive expansionary policy, gradually eroding the Ottoman and Persian empires. Following the Russo-Persian treaty of Turkmenchai in 1828, Russia secured the Caspian Sea region and parts of present-day Armenia and Azerbaijan, while effectively bringing Iran into its orbit. Further east, a series of rebellions against China in Altishahr also occurred from 1822 to 1827. Jahangir Khoja, a descendant of the ruling Naqshbandi Khojas of Altishahr, in exile in Khoqand, mounted an invasion of Altishahr before suffering a total defeat at the hands of Chinese armies. In the next decades, numerous Khoja revolts were organized—often backed by Khoqand—which led to severe Chinese reprisals against the local population of Altishahr and an increased Manchu military presence in today’s Xinjiang. A Conscious Rivalry After Turkemenchai, British policymakers felt the need to retaliate against Russia’s spectacular gains. Many feared that Russia would soon occupy Khiva. British concern over Central Asia at this juncture is evidenced by Alexander Burnes’s famous exploratory mission to Kabul and Bukhara (1830–1833), to which I will return in Chapter 6. Now convinced that Britain required a defensive border, Foreign Secretary Palmerston (1830– 1841) assumed an aggressively expansionist stance, opening multiple fronts and experimenting with a variety of methods to expand British hegemony. Not all were successful; still, in the next thirty years, Britain had defeated China, Egypt, Persia, Kabul, Sindh, Baluchistan, Punjab, Lower Burma, Aden, and Hong Kong. Among these experiments was Britain’s notoriously short-lived occupation of Afghanistan. Palmerston and Auckland, who was governor general of the East India Company, felt that any potential Russian entry into Hindustan could be prevented only by installing a pro-British government at Kabul. Threatened by the territorial ambitions of Dost Muhammad Khan, Britain

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entered into a tripartite treaty in 1838 with the Sikh ruler Ranjit Singh at Lahore and an exiled Durrani, Shah Shuja‘ al-Mulk. Backed by their new allies, British armies marched into Kabul, placed Shah Shuja‘ on the throne, and appointed a political agent there. But the plan backfired: by 1841, a general uprising ensued. Afghan forces expelled British troops from Afghanistan, and Dost Muhammad Khan was summarily restored as the amir in 1843. Unlike Palmerston, his conservative successor, Robert Peel (1841–1846), sought conciliation with Russia. But both parties continued to absorb additional buffer states deeper within Asia. Russia subjugated Kazakh tribes in the steppes, approaching Khiva, while Britain occupied Sindh, Baluchistan, and Punjab. Concurrently, after Ranjit Singh’s death in 1839, Britain took advantage of political fissures in the Punjab. After two Anglo-Sikh wars, in 1845–1846 and 1848–1849, British forces annexed both the Punjab and Peshawar, and subsequently sold Kashmir to one of Ranjit Singh’s courtiers. Meanwhile, to offset the costly campaigns in Punjab, Sindh, and Afghanistan, Britain began annexing subsidiary states farther east in Hindustan. With Peshawar firmly under British control after 1849, Dost Muhammad Khan gave up claims to his former eastern provinces. Instead, he entered into an alliance with Britain, enshrined within the 1855 Treaty of Peshawar. This treaty provided him with a subsidy and formalized Kabul’s status as a buffer state. Having secured financial support and a stable relationship with British India, the amir was free to embark on ambitious expansionary campaigns, occupying the Hindu Kush, Amu Darya, Kunar, Herat, and Qandahar.54 Russia, meanwhile, more or less simultaneously embarked upon a series of military expeditions into Khoqand and Khiva as both khanates were expanding their domains northward. Russia also set up additional forts to secure the steppes and, in 1853, successfully took the strategically located towns of Aq Masjid and Samirch’e from Khoqand. The Watershed of Crimea The tensions building in the Ottoman Empire during the first half of the nineteenth century culminated in the Crimean War (1853–1856), the only major military engagement between Russia and Britain during the century. Although neither side gained a decisive victory, it drastically altered Great Game dynamics. The British press and public opinion conceived of it as the formal beginning of a British-Russian rivalry. Perhaps more important, however, the war’s prosecution revitalized Russia, which expanded its reach farther southward into Asia with yet more ambition and intensity.55 In Crimea’s immediate aftermath, Britain embarked upon two more successful and strategic military engagements. The first was the Perso-British

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conflict over Herat, known as the “key of India,” in which Britain supported Dost Muhammad Khan against Iran to secure Herat within Kabul’s orbit.56 The second military victory was the suppression of the Sepoy Rebellion that swept across India in 1857. This uprising, the most widespread revolt against British occupation, began as an Indian sepoy (soldier) mutiny at Meerut, seventy kilometers from Delhi, but eventually reached Peshawar and Bengal. After the revolt was suppressed, the Government of India Act of 1858 transferred the East India Company’s possessions, including its armed forces, to the British Crown. In response to Britain’s expansion, Tsar Alexander II initiated a sequence of campaigns, securing the Caucasus and the Amur region, and organized expeditions to Khurasan, Afghanistan, and Kashgar in a quest for commercial opportunities and military intelligence. In 1858, he also dispatched a trade mission to Khiva and Bukhara led by Count Nikolai Ignat’ev, presaging Russia’s future conquest of the region. The tsar was ultimately committed to building a barrier against the British from the Black Sea to the Pacific, and to this end assumed a more aggressive foreign policy. In 1865, Russian forces occupied parts of Khoqand and Bukhara, including Tashkent, the region’s largest city. At Tashkent, Russia established an administration for its new acquisitions under the authority of Governor General Konstantin von Kaufman (d. 1882), popularly dubbed the “halfemperor” of Central Asia. After a series of humiliating defeats in 1866, Amir Muzaffar of Bukhara concluded a peace with Russia, and Bukhara effectively (though not officially) became a protectorate of the empire. Then, in 1873, Russian forces reached Khiva and reduced the khanate to protectorate status. Khoqand, however, was directly occupied in 1876 and annexed to Russia. As Russia encroached upon Khoqand, a series of uprisings against Chinese rule led by the local Hui Muslim populations broke out across neighboring Altishahr. Khoqandi military commander Ya‘qub Beg took advantage of the turmoil surrounding the rebellions and occupied parts of Altishahr in 1865. Kashgar briefly became the seat of Ya‘qub’s independent amirate of Kashgaria. After Ya‘qub’s death in 1877, however, Chinese armies securely reoccupied the region and reorganized it as Xinjiang province. Throughout this period, Russia and Britain took advantage of internal rivalries within the buffer states. Conversely, local powerbrokers were also able to manipulate the great-power rivalry to advance their own objectives. Kabul, for example, was able to retain Herat by capitalizing on British fear of Russian influence in Iran. Even autonomous zones within Badakhshan appealed to Russia to manage disputes with aggressive neighboring states.

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In the process, also, the remaining buffer states were exposed to European technology and reforms, albeit in much smaller doses than Bengal or the Ottoman heartlands. Toward the second half of the nineteenth century, Afghanistan under Sher ‘Ali, Iran under Nasir al-Din Shah, and Bukhara under Amir Muzaffar introduced modern technologies including printing presses, postage stamps, and news services. During the first half of the nineteenth century, European encroachment also drastically changed the regional economic landscape. British advances into the northern and western provinces of the Mughal Empire continued to adversely impact the horse trade. An important component of this decline was the gradual shift from cavalry-based armies to smaller, more efficient infantry units.57 Additionally, low-cost machine-made British textiles flooded the Hindustani market. This development became particularly pronounced after the Charter Act of 1813, through which the East India Company lost its trading monopoly. The balance of trade shifted rapidly in favor of Britain, reducing Hindustan to a supplier of raw materials and a consumer of British finished products at a premium. Reliant on British demand, the economy became susceptible to market fluctuations in Europe. Even internal demand for luxury goods eroded as Hindustani courts declined and older military regiments were disbanded.58 Russia rapidly adopted British cotton-spinning technology, so that by the 1840s Transoxiana too had switched from Hindustani finished textiles to machine-made Russian cloth. Initially, Russia continued importing raw cotton from Hindustan through European middlemen, but this also came to an end as Russia transformed Transoxiana into a cotton-producing area in the latter half of the nineteenth century.59 Despite such dislocations, the mercantile classes connecting Hindustan and Transoxiana, like the Shikarpuri merchants, continued their operations—albeit to a limited extent—and some were able to take advantage of the situation. Ultimately, however, the reorientation of commercial circuits toward new imperial centers deeply impacted mobility north and south of the Amu Darya, stifling both commercial and Sufi networks.

The ramifications of this sweeping political and economic change were far greater even than this chapter has suggested, paving the way for a new paradigm of sovereignty. This environment of rising and falling polities, vibrant trade routes, locally potent elites, and encroaching empires was the very same that enabled the growth of Sufi networks to which I now turn. In fact, the situation necessitated a hidden caliphate that could tie this patchwork world together. Each of the states faced crises of legitimacy; kings were simply unable to decisively claim sacred right to rule. Programs

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to refashion the sacred around the court—like Nadir Shah and Ahmad Shah’s ambitious attempts to bridge Shi‘ism and Sunnism—never really gained traction. So, as we will see, Sufis became a necessary part of the emerging social order. In fact, it would not have been possible without the two-tiered structure: the outer caliphate of shaky but dynamic states and the inner caliphate invisibly, but crucially, weaving the world together. So far, we have largely surveyed the trade routes and shifting frontiers of political history. But this territory was also something else: the tangible portion of the sacred landscape, both apparent and hidden, which Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi and his Mujaddidi successors traversed.

2 The Reviver of the Second Millennium

e

T

he Naqshbandi-Mujaddidi tradition was one of several that emerged from the vibrant spiritual and intellectual environment of the Persianate world. The Mughal Empire in particular was home to a slew of eclectic religious movements, some with political aspirations, and a mass of competing millenarian expectations, especially as the Islamic year 1000 approached. This disorderly spiritual market place troubled Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi, a gifted theologian and Sufi who left a promising career with the Mughal bureaucracy. Sirhindi responded with a new interpretation of millennial revival, accompanied by an original cosmological framework building on the work of the great Andalusian mystic Ibn al-‘Arabi (d. 1240). He thus marked out a new orthodoxy that became the core of the Mujaddidi theological and institutional project and transformed the contours of Islam in the Persianate world. Three among Sirhindi’s many contributions defined the Mujaddidi order and spurred the rapid expansion of its networks. These were the key ingredients of the great revival, the building blocks of their hidden caliphate. First, he demonstrated an ability to synthesize opposing theologies. He offered a new philosophical paradigm that mediated between ecstatic Sufi orders and sober jurists who disparaged mysticism. Grounding Sufism in the prophetic example and shari‘a, or divine law, served to circumscribe a new normative yet flexible Sunni orthodoxy. Through his “form of juristic Sufism,” Sirhindi sought to rein in Sufis who overstepped scripture and Islamic law or misused Sufi teachings for worldly benefit, simultaneously

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compelling “self-aggrandizing ego-driven jurists” to acknowledge the necessity of the Sufi path.1 Second, Sirhindi systematically laid out the path of Sufi wayfaring. This inspired a streamlined curriculum combining exoteric and esoteric sciences, drawing from the insights of multiple Sufi orders. His teachings were disseminated through integrated educational institutions that served as both colleges and centers for Sufi practice. Third, his ideas on millennial revival, and his own role in cosmic millennial transformations, helped produce a community of followers with a common direction toward renewing Sufi practices. This also crystallized Sirhindi’s works as sources of authority for the Mujaddidi Sufis. The figure of Sirhindi and his writings became the pivotal elements of the emerging network. As we will see, Sirhindi and his immediate successors built a paradigmatic khānaqāh at Sirhind, so famous that the city itself became known as the Dār al-Irshād, the “Abode of Guidance.” This khānaqāh set the standard for future Mujaddidi institutions. But amid the political crises of the mid-eighteenth century, Sirhind was repeatedly plundered. The Sufis residing there emigrated in waves, often resettling in faraway places where they saw themselves as the revivers of the spirit of Sufism—among them Fazl Ahmad, the pivotal figure of this book. This period heralded a new sort of religious economy, where Sufi networks became an indispensable fiber that could hold the fragmented world together.

The Science of Excellence Tas.awwuf, “Sufism,” is the mystical dimension of Islam. It is essentially an experiential concept, and Sufi literature often mentions its ineffable nature. The term can apply to a state of heightened awareness of God, or to the science of purifying the heart and eliminating the nafs (ego or lower self) through a range of practices including supererogatory prayer, dhikr (literally remembrance, referring to recitation of the names of God, prayers, or other formulas), khalwa (seclusion), ethical conduct, social service, and, in some traditions, sacred movement and music. According to Sufi traditions, the science of Sufism traces to the Prophet Muhammad and his companions ‘Ali ibn Abi Talib and Abu Bakr. Sufi sources point to a hadith laying out the place of Sufism in the broader Islamic universe. In it, the archangel Gabriel defined the religion of Islam as comprised of three dimensions: islām (submission), īmān (faith), and ih.sān (perfection or excellence), the latter of which signifies Sufism.2 From the ninth century onward, Sufi pedagogies were formalized into distinct schools of mysticism (referred to as t.arīqa, or paths), enshrined

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in a rich corpus of literature ranging from poetry and biographies to textbooks and manuals on ethics and chivalry, or methods of meditation. Mystical practice was institutionalized in parallel with other core Islamic sciences, such jurisprudence, scholastic theology, and philosophy. By the eleventh century, it had been synthesized with these other sciences. As such, despite an emphasis in early European scholarship on antinomian trends in Sufism, Muslim jurists and Sufis since this period have generally regarded Sufism as an integral component of Islam, complementing rather than contravening the shari‘a, or religious law.3 By the eleventh century, transregional Sufi orders began to proliferate. Each traced its origins to the Prophet Muhammad through a silsila, a chain of Sufi masters. Each one also formalized practices of initiation through bay‘a, or oaths, taken by the disciple, as well as principles of succession (khilāfat) within the order. The practice of appointing multiple successors (khulafā’) allowed each order to proliferate. Most accepted women as disciples, and in some cases, even as khulafā’. These orders were not sects or closed communities. It is better to think of them in terms of today’s university communities. They had their own pedagogies, collective identities, and culture but closely collaborated with other orders, even sharing students and teachers. Prominent Sufis set up their own centers, known variously as khānaqāh, takkiya, zāwiya (corner or assembly), dargāh (doorway), or ribāt. (frontier castles). The khānaqāh was the space where Sufi knowledge and rituals would be produced, imparted, and performed. Larger khānaqāhs also included a mosque; a madrasa for exoteric education; and kitchen and lodging facilities for disciples, travelers, and the needy. Over time, khānaqāh complexes often incorporated shrines to associated saints, transforming the institutions into pilgrimage sites and public spaces. All these activities were made possible through charitable endowments or through the generosity of initiates, often supplemented by community members and philanthropists. In their ideal form, Sufi orders and their khānaqāhs, like mosques, transcended ethnicity, race, and class divisions. In fact, a broad ethnic composition of disciples, and the presence of a diversity of classes, from mendicants to the nobility, was a mark of honor in Sufi biographies. At the same time, however, certain khānaqāhs were known to draw particular ethnic groups. And certain Sufi orders were associated with specific corporate groups or trading communities, like the Bektashi order in the Ottoman Empire that attracted members of the Janissary corps. Though some Sufi paths restricted succession and initiation to Muslims, others accepted disciples and devotees from a variety of faith traditions. The khānaqāh of the eleventh-century Persian Sufi Abu’l Hasan Kharaqani, for instance, famously bore the inscription: “Whomever comes to this house,

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give him food, and do not ask about his faith.”4 To indicate the magnanimity and widespread authority of the Sufi teachers they memorialize, hagiographies often point to non-Muslims attending ceremonies or approaching a Sufi for guidance. Unlike mosques, which host the standard ritual prayers, khānaqāhs were sites where transregional Islamic traditions intersected with vernacular Islamic practices, symbols, and sacred traditions. As an illustrative example, the Peshawari Mujaddidis (Chapter 4) regarded themselves as heirs to their particular thousand-year Sufi lineage, as well as to several canonical Sufis from Ibn al-‘Arabi of Murcia to ‘Abd al-Qadir Jilani of Baghdad, whose theologies were invoked in their khānaqāh. In conjunction, they venerated the many local saints and poets of the Peshawar Valley. In this manner, the shrines of both universally and locally revered Sufis formed an integrated network of pilgrimage sites that bridged multiple Sufi paths across the Muslim world. The transregional Sufi lineages that mushroomed over the course of the millennium could also often be indigenized wherever the lineage settled. For example, the Hadrami Sayyids of the ‘Alawi Sufi lineage were venerated as local saints in regions across the Indian Ocean rim, but they maintained an active memory of their origins in Yemen.5 Places of origin were important insofar as the Sufis were the transmitters of esoteric or exoteric knowledge and blessing from their places of origin to their adopted localities. Since Sufi orders were critical vehicles for the establishment of Islam from West Africa to Southeast Asia, artistic and literary expressions were often intertwined with Sufi traditions. The textual tradition of Sufi scholarship and the domain of shrines and popular veneration of saints were inseparable; khānaqāhs could act as loci for the production of both popular religio-cultural practices and high literature.6 Poetry was the critical medium for transmitting complex metaphysical concepts to broader populations and served as a regular pedagogical tool within the khānaqāhs. Although for the first four centuries of Islam Sufi literature was largely in Arabic, afterward Sufis played pivotal roles in the development of vernacular literature, particular poetry. These writers included Yunus Emre in Turkish, Rahman Baba in Pashto, and Shah ‘Abd al-Latif Bhitai in Sindhi. Similarly, local musical forms emerged around shrines and khānaqāhs, such as those of the Chishti Sufi order in Hindustan. Pathways to Enlightenment At the height of the Mughal, Safavid, and Uzbek empires in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, four Sunni Sufi orders loomed large in the

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sacred landscape: the Suhrawardiyya, the Qadiriyya, the Chistiyya, and the Naqshbandiyya. The Mujaddidis later incorporated all four into their sacred genealogy, absorbing some of their practices and seminal texts. ‘Abd al-Qahir Abu Najib Suhrawardi (d. 1168) institutionalized the earliest of these four orders to make its way into Khurasan and Hindustan. For Abu Najib, the physical and spiritual realms were interconnected; physical habits could help perfect the inner condition and were in fact essential for seekers to reunite with the divine during their lifetimes. From the outset, the Suhrawardis endorsed political engagement, fostering connections with the caliphs at Baghdad and even the Delhi Sultans. They attracted generous endowments, setting up lasting institutions that were sites for literary and cultural production. Although the order was focused along the Indus, Suhrawardi texts, methodologies, and philosophies had permeated most Sufi orders in Khurasan and Transoxiana by the seventeenth century.7 Meanwhile, another school emerged out of Baghdad, spearheaded by ‘Abd al-Qadir Jilani (d. 1166). After studying Hanbali jurisprudence, ‘Abd al-Qadir met his Sufi guide, and, as tradition relates, wandered for twentyfive years. Late in his life, he founded a sizable madrasa and khānaqāh in Baghdad. He was no doubt a charismatic preacher, and his collected sermons became classics on morals, ethics, and mysticism. Within a few generations, his Qadiri order attracted a vast following; by the fourteenth century, it was well entrenched in Khurasan and Hindustan. ‘Abd al-Qadir became famous as a kind of arch-saint and reviver of Islam, with tremendous miraculous powers. A plethora of myths tell of his progeny, wandering as far as the Indus and probably beyond. As a result, centuries later we still have shrines for his grandchildren in Jalalabad, in eastern Afghanistan; for his son adjacent to the royal fort at Hyderabad, Sindh; and so on.8 The order featured elaborate meditative practices, with vocal dhikr, sometimes accompanied by percussion and rhythmic movements. Another order emerged when, in the late twelfth century, Mu‘in al-Din (d. 1236) left Chisht, in the vicinity of Herat, for Lahore, Delhi, and Ajmer in Rajasthan with his followers, bringing Islam to the Indo-Gangetic region. Their message appealed to lower castes, and they welcomed non-Muslims into the order. The Chishtis preached an egalitarian message based on three precepts: “generosity like that of the ocean, a mildness like that of the sun, and modesty like that of the earth.”9 For Mu‘in al-Din, any physical possession could compromise a seeker’s relationship with God; therefore, social services and charity became the order’s cornerstone. The Chishti service ethic profoundly impacted the flavor of Sufism in Hindustan. Mu‘in al-Din and his successors appointed a vast network of

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deputies, each with well-delineated spiritual “territories” corresponding to geographic zones, and the order became the most widespread across the Mughal Empire. It relied on samā‘—using music, poetry, and popular songs as devotional tools, sometimes accompanied with dance. It is not surprising that Chishti shrines became immensely popular public spaces. The order’s appeal was so strong that the holy book of the Sikh faith, the Guru Granth Sahib, incorporated verses from Baba Farid al-Din, one of the poles of the Chishti tradition. Unlike the Suhrawardis, the Chishtis mostly preferred asceticism and were openly averse to the corrupting potential of earthly political power. But, over time, as with all Sufi orders, some Chishtis maintained close ties with the Mughal court and built powerful institutions with vast landholdings.10 Another order worth mentioning is the Kubrawi, an offshoot of the Suhrawardi order originating in Transoxiana, later absorbed by the Naqshbandis and the other lineages. Kubrawi pedagogies formed the basis for the Naqshbandi paradigm of sacred travel, cosmology, and meditative practices. The founder of the lineage, Najm al-Din Kubra of Khwarizm (d. 1145) composed mystical treatises on the ten stages of spiritual travel for novices, and on the etiquette of disciples. He refined the concept of mystical physiology, providing detailed maps of the stages of mystical growth and the nature of ecstatic experiences. Like other Sufis before him, Najm al-Din held that humans are a microcosmos, containing everything that exists within the macrocosmos. We are comprised of metaphysical subtle bodies that correspond to transcendental realms—even to names and attributes of God—and through which divine emanations can reach us. By exploring our inner selves through meditation and awakening our subtle faculties, it is possible to spiritually ascend and access divine qualities. To assist in this process, Najm al-Din formalized methods of dhikr, channeling breath, and concentrating upon the divine names as a means for mystical awareness, all of which shaped Naqshbandi practice. He also elaborated on color symbolism, which coincided with varying stages of mystical awareness.11 The Way of the Masters The fourth great order was, of course, the Naqshbandi. Biographers divide its history into developmental stages, defined, respectively, by three saints: ‘Abd al-Khaliq Ghujdawani, Baha’ al-Din Naqshband of Bukhara, and Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi. The first stage is called the Tariqa-i Khwajagan (“the way of the masters,” referring to proto-Naqshbandis). ‘Abd

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al-Khaliq Ghujdawani (d. 1220), among the early “masters,” laid out the eight principles of the order. Its pedagogies, practices, and principles were more clearly defined a century and a half later under Baha’ al-Din Naqshband (d. 1389), from whom the order derives its name. He added three principles, for a total of eleven: awareness of breathing; awareness of steps, or one’s own path; travel in the homeland; solitude in society; remembering; returning; protecting; keeping [God] in memory, or concentration; awareness of time; awareness of numbers; and awareness of the heart. Each corresponded to meditative breathing practices, states of consciousness, and ideal behavior for spiritual wayfarers. Awareness of time meant being attentive to the changes in one’s own inner state; awareness of numbers meant counting of repetitions of phrases of dhikr. “Solitude in society” implied being actively engaged in social affairs, but in a state of detachment, God-consciousness, and inner tranquility.12 Compared with the other three orders, the Naqshbandis preferred sobriety, generally avoiding music or sacred movement. They even performed dhikr silently. Disciples learned to imprint the dhikr upon their hearts in silence, a deeper—and more challenging—meditative technique than loud invocations. This was a controversial stance, since the Naqshbandis claimed that their dhikr “by heart,” free from sounds and letters, was more scripturally sound than dhikr “by tongue,” and more efficient by making remembrance a constant activity at every moment. Their other tools included the s.uh.bat (an intimate conversation between master and disciples) and tavajjuh, a focus of “two partners upon each other that results in experiences of spiritual unity, faith healing, etcetera.”13 Tavajjuh is often compared to an alchemical process, a red sulfur through which the master can affect the disciple’s state, or even transmit divine secrets. The order prided itself on its advanced pedagogy of spiritual wayfaring, encapsulated in the oft-quoted phrase, “the inclusion of the end in the beginning.” Naqshbandis, in other words, claimed to begin their spiritual travel where other orders ended their paths.14 As early as the fourteenth century, the Naqshbandis developed a mutually beneficial relationship with the Chagatai Mongol kings of Transoxiana. But the order reached its political and cultural zenith under the Timurids after the late fourteenth century. The Naqshbandi Sufi Khwaja ‘Ubaydullah Ahrar (d. 1490) was arguably one of the most influential figures in the Timurid Empire, “de facto ruler of much of the eastern Timurid kingdom.”15 Under his guidance, the order spread beyond Transoxiana across Hindustan, Anatolia, Iran, and Arabia. His contemporary ‘Abd al-Rahman Jami, the leading poet-theologian of the time, compiled Nafahat al-Uns, the defining Naqshbandi biography. Both Husayn Bayqara

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(d. 1506), the Timurid ruler of Herat who came to represent refined kingship, and his equally famous advisor, the early Turkic poet Mir ‘Ali Sher Nawai (d. 1501), were Naqshbandi devotees. Jointly, they patronized the order and its sacred institutions. It was under the Timurids that the Naqshbandi order reached Kabul and the Mughal heartlands. In fact, from the period of Khwaja Ahrar onward, the Naqshbandis forged political, sacred, and commercial networks between Hindustan and Transoxiana.16 When the founder of the Mughal Empire, Zahir al-Din Babur, conquered Kabul in 1504, Khwaja Ahrar’s son, Muhammad Amin, accompanied him. Two generations later, Ahrar’s successor, Khwajagi Amkanagi (d. 1599), dispatched Baqi Billah, his promising Samarkandi deputy, to the Mughal capital at Delhi. By the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, the four great orders were by no means hermetically sealed communities. They coexisted and overlapped with each other, as well as with minor Sufi orders, Sayyid communities, and local sacred lineages. By this time, a multitude of orders had emerged in Hindustan. The sacred landscape featured itinerant ecstatic Qalandari dervishes, who prided themselves on challenging normative tradition, often wearing eclectic attire, chains, or body piercings, or indulging in intoxicants. Then there were followers of the naked ascetic Sarmad Kashani, a Jewish convert to Islam. Among the Afghans of Waziristan were the pantheist millenarian Rawshaniyya, who rebelled against the Mughal emperor Akbar (r. 1556–1605) and were in turn challenged by the great Afghan Chishti master Akhund Darviza Nangarhari (d. 1638, akhund meaning scholar). Sayyid lineages often became associated with one of the major Sunni orders but crossed Shi‘i and Sunni confessional boundaries. In addition, every order deeply imbibed classic Persian Sufi texts, absorbing the teachings of figures like Hujwiri, Ibn al-‘Arabi, Sana‘i, ‘Attar, and Rumi. Although Sunni Sufi biographical traditions generally do not mention theological correspondence between Sunni and Shi‘i Sufis and ulama, there appears to have been a considerable amount of exchange. Venues for dialogue ranged from the Mughal court to shared shrine spaces. Debates and the production of refutation literature were key arenas of exchange, where each side aimed at controverting the other on the basis of its own traditions, which required detailed study of a large corpus of Shi‘i and Sunni literature. Theological differences did not preclude the development of a composite Shi‘a-Sunni culture at courts, shrine spaces, and other public venues. Both Sunnis and Shi‘a laid claim to the Prophet Muhammad’s family and the Imamate, and even partook in shared rituals including mourning assemblies in honor of Imam Husayn in the month of Muharram.17

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On the Eve of the Islamic Millennium Another tradition that gained currency in the Persianate world—and specifically in medieval Hindustan—had to do with the millennium. Through the compilation and translation of Zoroastrian texts and Persian mythology in the early centuries of Islam, millenarian eschatology entered into Islamic literature, poetry, and spiritual traditions.18 By the twelfth century, millenarianism was interwoven with Muslim eschatology and the Islamic calendar. In Sufi literature, the turn of the hijri millennium (1591 ce) became associated with the coming of the Mahdi. Even scholars from the Hejaz composed fatwas and treatises on his imminent arrival.19 A handful of Hindustani movements arose out of these apocalyptic discourses. Such communities evoked Iranian eschatology and Sufi practices, and generally grew around charismatic leaders with an almost prophetic aura. Although most consciously rooted themselves in the Islamic scriptural tradition, they were controversial figures, and many of their contemporaries wrote them off as deviants. The most conspicuous millenarian group was the Mahdavi, led by Sayyid Muhammad of Jaunpur (d. 1505), then an independent state between Delhi and Bengal. Sayyid Muhammad declared himself the awaited Mahdi and inaugurated a religious movement that, somewhat surprisingly given its claims, gained currency throughout Hindustan. Unlike many other millenarians, Sayyid Muhammad was an avowed pacifist, which meant that contemporary rulers tolerated him and his aggressive proselytization campaigns. After his death, his followers claimed that he had only temporarily departed and would reappear at the turn of the Islamic millennium. When this came and went, the movement tapered off. But the Mahdavis had left their mark, popularizing the notion that Islam needed rejuvenation at the turn of the millennium. Since the age of prophecy was already sealed with the Prophet Muhammad, this rejuvenation would come at the hands of an inspired, near-prophetic figure.20 The millenarian tradition became part of popular culture and crept into intellectual and spiritual discourses, reaching the Mughal court. The Mughal emperor Akbar saw himself as a millennial restorer. In the Akbarnama, the vizier Abu’l Fazl ‘Allami clarified Akbar’s claims through the verses of the twelfth-century poet Khaqani: They say that after every thousand years of the world; There comes into existence a true man; He came before this, ere we were born from nothingness; He will come after this when we have departed in sorrow; . . . Every now and then, the world is saturated with wretches; Then a shining soul comes down out of the sky.21

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And so, in 1581, ten years before the turn of the millennium, Akbar initiated the Dīn-i Ilahī, a courtly cult comprised of eighteen of his closest nobles. Like other contemporary movements, it incorporated Zoroastrian symbols, which had by this stage become an integral part of Perso-Islamic traditions but derived most of its principles from Islamic scripture. The cult assigned Akbar a status akin to prophethood or divinity. Akbar appropriated Ibn al-‘Arabi’s concept of Insān al-Kāmil (the Perfect Man), referring to himself as the khalīfa of God, while disciples greeted each other with “Allāhu Akbar, Jallā Jallālahu.” Although the phrase typically means “God is Great, Splendid is his Glory,” the first part can be alternatively read “Akbar is God.”22

The Reviver of the Second Millennium It is within this environment of millenarian consciousness and eschatological expectations of cosmic changes that Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi appeared on the scene, offering a new and radical conception of millennial renewal. Sirhindi become popularly known as the Mujaddid of the second Islamic Millennium, a clear challenge to competing millenarian claimants, including the emperor himself. Sirhindi’s own spiritual journey is a highly complex one, as are his intellectual contributions. His father, Shaykh ‘Abd al-Ahad, was a Sufi master in the Chishti and Qadiri traditions, and he belonged to an important religious family in the Mughal town of Sirhind. In 1564, the year of Sirhindi’s birth, the town was one of the wealthiest cosmopolitan centers of the Mughal Empire.23 It served as a commercial mart on the Delhi-Lahore highway, on—as one nineteenth-century English gazetteer put it—“the route from Persia to Tartary by which the conquerors of Hindostan advanced.”24 At its height, it boasted 360 mosques, wells, serais, and shrines.25 Like other chief cities in the empire, Sirhind had long-standing sacred associations. According to popular legend, a neighboring village hosted the graves of several pre-Islamic prophets.26 The mythological origins of the city were also tied in with Hindustan’s sacred lineages. Sirhind was supposedly founded by the sultan of Delhi, Firuz Shah Tughluq, in 1361, at the behest of Jalal al-Din Surkh-Posh Bukhari, a famous Suhrawardi saint of Uchh. The foundation was then entrusted to Sirhindi’s ancestor, the Chishti saint Rafi‘ al-Din, whose family had migrated from Kabul. Regardless of its origins, by the sixteenth century the city had certainly produced several leading Mughal theologians.27 Sirhindi’s father, too, had founded a khānaqāh in the city. Sirhindi was initially educated at

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Sirhind and Sialkot, farther west in Punjab, receiving training in the Chishti, Qadiri, and Suhrawardi orders under his father. At the same time, he studied exegesis, scholastic theology (‘ilm al-kalām), hadith, logic, philosophy, and jurisprudence under leading scholars of Punjab, Kashmir, and Badakhshan.28 Early in his career, Sirhindi joined Emperor Akbar’s administration at Agra. He worked closely with Faizi, the poet laureate, and also met his equally eminent brother Abu’l Fazl, the architect of the Dīn-i Ilahī. The eclecticism of Akbar’s court bothered him, as did the unconstrained range of contemporary religious movements. His early writings exhibit a concern with Sunni orthodoxy and reviving the centrality of prophethood, and he laments the “declined” state of Islam in Hindustan. After his return to Sirhind, his interest shifted more toward mysticism. His father, along with another Qadiri master, granted him permission to guide disciples in both Chishti and Qadiri paths. At this stage, he wrote a mystically oriented text on the Islamic creed, with a focus on the concept of the prophethood of Muhammad, influenced heavily by the works of Ibn al-‘Arabi.29 Then, in 1599, Sirhindi met the Naqshbandi master Khwaja Baqi Billah. Baqi Billah had left Samarkand and Kabul for Delhi and attracted a network of followers across the Mughal Empire. This meeting had a profound impact on Sirhindi’s life. He was drawn to the Naqshbandi path, and within only a few months he received permission to guide disciples along it. He then returned to Sirhind as a Sufi teacher, in time drawing thousands of students. It was during this later period of his life that Sirhindi developed his radical ontological, epistemological, and eschatological theories. His work was compiled in at least eight books, the most important of which were his Maktubat, or Collected Letters. The collection featured detailed discourses on doctrine, Naqshbandi Sufi practices, cosmology, and ontology.30 Naqshbandis regarded the Maktubat as the order’s pivotal text, and it was eventually translated from Persian into Ottoman Turkish and Arabic. An important companion work was Sirhindi’s Mabda’ o Ma‘ad (“The Origin and the Return,” 1600–1610), which contained Sufi discourses intended for advanced disciples. In these and other writings, Sirhindi provided step-by-step lessons on Sufi practices and Islamic dogma, complete with evaluations and pointers on recognizing traps and challenges.31 Sirhindi’s classification of mystical experiences was nothing short of encyclopedic. He painstakingly cataloged the different varieties of guides, spiritual stations and annihilations, and divine emanations, among other categories. In some of his

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most paradigmatic discourses, he classified spiritual guides—from ecstatic wayfarers to exemplary guides—and their respective pedagogical abilities. Among the pathbreaking intellectual contributions contained in these works were his writings on unity of witnessing, shari‘a and the Sufi path, definitions of prophethood and sainthood, methods of meditation and spiritual training, and reflections on millennial revival.32 Although Sirhindi has received considerable scholarly attention in the last century, his literary works have presented scholars with several challenges. First, Sirhindi’s Collected Letters, as Buehler put it, is primarily “a practical manual for a science of Reality, with a carefully articulated methodology” intended for spiritual adepts.33 Only a very small number of epistles are concerned with mundane sociopolitical matters. The majority contain esoteric discourses, which are only to be understood experientially when a Sufi reaches certain states of mystical consciousness.34 In these letters, Sirhindi employs a technical vocabulary, ontological framework, and suprarational logic that are difficult for the uninitiated to grasp. Plus, his letters exhibit seemingly contradictory views depending on the recipient. To complicate matters further, the identities of many of these recipients are unknown, and the original letters to which Sirhindi replies are unavailable. These challenges are compounded by the fact that anti-imperialist and nationalist ideologues, particularly in twentieth-century South Asia, approached the Collected Letters from a political lens, appropriating Sirhindi as a forefather of Muslim political and communal consciousness. Grand metanarratives of Sirhindi’s legacy were woven by historians such as Pakistan’s I. H. Qureshi and India’s S. A. A. Rizvi, who regarded his work as a sociopolitical project aimed at cleansing Islam of Hindu accretions. Later scholars overturned this paradigm. They argued instead that Sirhindi should be regarded as a synthesizer who brought Sufi practices (including those considered antinomian) and the urban juristic traditions into a single system supported by rational argument, scripture, and mystical experience.35 Unity of Witnessing Central to this synthesis were Sirhindi’s groundbreaking writings on wah.dat-i shuhūd, unity of witnessing. His intervention resolved longstanding tensions between the Sufis who followed Ibn al-‘Arabi and the ‘ulama’-i z. āhir, scholars grounded in the exoteric sciences.36 This proved to be a strategic advantage for his order, allowing it to bridge seemingly incongruous religious experiences and philosophies. It eased the propagation of the order, but not without serious tensions.

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Ibn al-‘Arabi’s theological discourses on the Qur’anic concept of divine unity, or tawh.īd, and the relationship between the wujūd, or existence of God and creation, provided a foundation for later Sufi visions of being. Ibn al-‘Arabi’s cosmology was generally referred to by his successors through the phrase wah.dat-i wujūd (literally, “unity of being” or “unity of existence”).37 Ibn al-‘Arabi suggested that there is really only one existence, and through a five-stage process of self-determination (ta‘ayyun), distinctions emerge in existence, multiplicity proceeds from unity. The final determination, according to Ibn al-‘Arabi, is the physical determination (ta‘ayyun-i jasadī).38 As early as the fourteenth century, Ibn al-‘Arabi’s work became popular in Hindustan through various mediums, including the poetry of Fakhr al-Din Iraqi and Jami and the teachings of Sufi saints. Most Sufis in Hindustan, including the Chishtis, Qadiris, and Naqshbandis, wholeheartedly endorsed the doctrine of wah.dat-i wujūd.39 In Hindustan, as elsewhere, Sufis often equated wah.dat-i wujūd with the state of fanā’, where the seeker becomes aware of God’s existence as the only true existence. The seeker’s own existence is, accordingly, “annihilated” in the reality of God. Ibn al-‘Arabi’s work became popularly linked to ecstatic utterances in a state of mystical annihilation, and with the expression hama ū ast, or “All is Him”—meaning that God is everything and any separation between creator and created is merely an illusion.40 The implications of this went further: differences in faiths were also, by extension, illusory. Some evoked wah.dat-i wujūd to integrate Sufism and the Vedanta school of Hindu philosophy. Even Emperor Akbar’s Dīn-i Ilahī appropriated Ibn al-‘Arabi’s notions of divine unity and of the Perfect Man, the latter of which he conveniently applied to himself. On the opposing end, some Sufis and jurists lamented that wah.dat-i wujūd was being exploited as an excuse to disregard the shari‘a. It encouraged monistic theosophies and false claims of knowing God and led followers to pursue altered states of consciousness—through psychological means or stimulants—claiming unity with the divine. Among the detractors was the Kubrawi Sufi ‘Ala’ al-Dawla Simnani (d. 1336). He proposed an alternative, styled wah.dat-i shuhūd, or unity of witnessing. Simnani classified the state of mystical unity with God as a subjective experience that accompanied the intoxicated state that Sufis went through called kufr-i t.arīqa, literally Sufi “infidelity.” This intoxication, however, was only temporary, preceding a higher station of sobriety. Other Sufis—like the fifteenth-century Chishti master Sayyid Muhammad Gesudaraz from the Deccan, who wrote of the primacy of shari‘a over h.aqīqa, the divine truth learned from the mystical path—built on this concept. By Sirhindi’s time, a vibrant debate on these ideas had gripped Hindustan, playing out across the colleges and shrines.41

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In a series of letters, Sirhindi responded to Ibn al-‘Arabi’s theory of determination, proposing an alternative.42 He challenged Ibn al-‘Arabi in select areas: for example, Sirhindi argued that God’s attributes cannot be identical with his essence. Sirhindi’s complex yet reverential relationship with Ibn al-‘Arabi is evidenced in an oft-referenced letter: Oh God! What can I do in this battlefield? It is the Shaykh with whom I sometimes fight and sometimes agree. It is he who laid down the foundations of the theory of gnosis and elaborated on it. It is he who spoke in detail about Unity and Union and who explained the emergence of Multiplicity. . . . It is he who established the stages of Existence. . . . The Sufis who preceded him . . . only hinted at [these matters] and did not elaborate. Most of those who come after him chose to follow in his footsteps and used his terms. We latecomers have also benefited from the blessings of that great man and learned a great deal from his mystical insights. May God give him for this the best reward!43

Sirhindi argued that Simnani’s wah.dat-i shuhūd was a more precise term for the experience of unity with the divine. Sirhindi was by no means opposed to Ibn al-‘Arabi, nor did he dismiss wah.dat-i wujūd or sukr (mystical intoxication) as antithetical to Islam. Rather, he adapted Ibn al-‘Arabi to offer a revised perspective, often summarized as hama az ū ast, “all is from Him”—that is, acknowledging an ontological separation between the creation and created.44 For Sirhindi, perceiving God’s nature in all things is purely subjective, because the existence of creation is simply not identical with the existence of God, as pantheistically inclined mystics would suggest.45 Sirhindi classified wah.dat-i wujūd as one of the three stages of the mystical journey. Drawing from his own experiences, he explained that after passing through the stage of wah.dat-i wujūd and another stage called z. illīyyat (adumbration), one reaches the highest stage of ‘abdiyyat (servanthood), where the duality of God and creation becomes clear.46 He expounded on this in an epistle describing God as far above the grasp of reason and of kashf (unveiling, or spiritual insights). In the end, neither God nor God’s attributes are knowable.47 Sirhindi further argued that all is from Him and all is Him are reflections of the same concept. But the former is preferable since it conveys a more realistic ontology.48 Other discourses in the Collected Letters deal explicitly with the type of mystical unveilings that Sufis experience in the intermediate state of intoxication, the wah.dat-i wujūd phase. In one letter, for example, Sirhindi explains that even mystics as great as Ibn al-‘Arabi can err in their spiritual insights, just as mujtahids (legal interpreters) can make mistakes in legal reasoning. Both should be excused. He urged readers not to take literally Sufi ecstatic utterances that seem at odds with the shari‘a; rather,

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they should be understood as legitimate expressions to be interpreted allegorically. He thus contextualized ecstatic utterings, explaining that they belonged to a particular stage of the spiritual path toward servanthood. To Sirhindi, the often-problematic sayings of ecstatic mystics like al-Hallaj (d. 922)—who famously said, “I am the Truth”—or Bayazid Bistami were legitimate in the framework of Sunni Islam. At the same time, though, Sirhindi vehemently criticized fellow Sufis who interpreted statements like these as a method of overriding the shari‘a. In light of this, it was preferable, and safer, to follow theologians who adhered to shari‘a and derived their understanding of the existence and attributes of God exclusively from revelation. Revelation was infinitely more reliable than any intuition or mystical unveiling.49 Millennial Renewal and Cyclical History In an epistle composed in 1610, Sirhindi introduced the notions of millennial changes and the renewal of the second millennium, both derived from an early Islamic concept of renewal, or tajdīd.50 This became a defining motif for successive Mujaddidis, who saw themselves as the engineers of a perpetual renewal that would regulate the Muslim community until the second coming of the Prophet Jesus. The renewal tradition forms an integral part of an Islamic conception of the cyclical nature of human history, with inevitable periods of decay followed by moments of revival. From a scriptural standpoint, this cycle of reform is interwoven into the Islamic understanding of the historical development of religion and the role of prophethood. The role of prophets was not only to guide and establish divine law in every community but also to renew the previous messages according to their context. Each prophet, after all, lived in a different time and place, with specific spiritual and cultural requirements. And since humankind was innately forgetful, each of the 124,000 prophets was sent as a reminder and reviver of God’s law, culminating in the seal of the messengers, the Prophet Muhammad.51 The purpose of renewal, then, is to implement and revive the special essence of the prophetic period.52 One prophetic tradition indicates that a mujaddid will appear every century to revive the faith, renewing the link of the Muslim community to early Islam. Mujaddids are, in effect, successors to the prophets. In the Islamic eschatological tradition, the final mujaddid is the Mahdi, who redeems humanity before the Day of Judgment and heralds the second coming of Jesus, the Messiah.53 Despite its orientation to an ideal past, renewal is not a conservative notion. Applying the prophetic model to vastly different Muslim societies

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requires innovative approaches to Islamic scriptures. This can yield novel and dramatically different interpretations of shari‘a on a spiritual, theological, social, or political level, provided it conforms to the essential spirit of the prophetic tradition and revelations. The mujaddids’ job is far from straightforward: they have to appropriately confront contemporary challenges.54 The mujaddid honorific was generally bestowed on prominent mystics, scholars, and jurists.55 Among them was Imam al-Shafi‘i (d. 820), who made groundbreaking contributions to jurisprudence. The paradigmatic mujaddid was the Sufi theologian Abu Hamid al-Ghazali (d. 1111). His magnum opus, appropriately titled the Revival of the Spiritual Sciences, synthesized spiritual and juristic aspects of faith, reconstructing the religious sciences on the foundation of Sufism and providing a philosophical framework for mysticism.56 Sirhindi holds a special place on the list of mujaddids. Not only was he deemed important enough to be a renewer par excellence but he himself elaborated on what renewal really entailed at the close of the Islamic millennium. His writings on millennial changes and renewal were rooted in his understanding of prophecy, history, and eschatology. He synthesized popular renewal and millenarian traditions, scriptural references, and Sufi concepts with his personal spiritual insights. Referring to Islamic tradition, Sirhindi explained that the initial function of renewal was performed by the prophets. If practices arose that required correction, God would summarily dispatch a steadfast prophet with his particular shari‘a, tasked to (re)guide humankind to its original state of purity.57 The last of these renewers was the Prophet Muhammad, and he brought with him the sharī‘at-i Muhammadī, the most complete path or law. In one letter, Sirhindi wrote about the controversial Sufi concept of “sharing prophetic perfections” (kamālāt). The majority of the prophets, he explained, were followed by their disciples. These disciples were not prophets but rather shared and inherited some of the perfections of prophethood on the basis of love. The caliphs Abu Bakr and ‘Umar, for example, inherited perfections from Moses and Abraham, ‘Uthman was associated with Noah, and ‘Ali was associated with Jesus.58 After the Prophet Muhammad’s generation, however, very few followers were able to inherit these perfections. An inevitable decline thus set in, due, Sirhindi wrote, to an imbalance between the Prophet’s worldly and spiritual tasks.59 He was after all no longer physically present to guide humanity. This decline, according to Sirhindi, will be permanently reversed only with the coming of Mahdi and Jesus. However, although Sirhindi deplored the moral and social decay that had set in at the turn of the

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millennium, he did not perceive his world as preapocalyptic. Rather, he offered a modified eschatology that shared many features of the Zoroastrian tradition. The Prophet Muhammad, like Zoroaster, was to be followed by an intermediate millennial reviver who arrested the process of decline until the final renewal. Another special feature of Sirhindi’s millenarianism set him apart from other Muslim millenarian movements. Sirhindi’s millennium was not the Islamic year 1000, based on the hijri calendar. Instead, he dated the thousand years from the death of the Prophet Muhammad, meaning that the millennium was the year 1011 / 1602–1603 ce. To Sirhindi, this year was the beginning of the last stage of history, the last millennial renewal. “It is hoped that [the perfections of prophethood] will be renewed afresh and generally practiced after a thousand years have passed. . . . God be contented as the presence of the Mahdi outwardly and inwardly communicates this exalted process.”60 Cosmic Changes, Millennial Offices In Sirhindi’s writings, the turn of the millennium was a dynamic time, rife with crises, cosmological changes, and renewal. These millennial changes would be mediated by three spectacular offices: the Mujaddid-i Alf Sani (the renewer of the second millennium), the fard az afrād-i ummat-i ū (the individual from his [the Prophet’s] community, or common believer), and the qayyūm-i zamān (the eternal or everlasting of the age). Sirhindi defined these roles progressively, generally within personal and esoteric correspondence with close disciples. He drew his identification of each role from his own spiritual insights and from broader Indo-Persian traditions, supported by Islamic scriptural references. Each of these cosmic offices was said to have been inherited by later Mujaddidi saints, and undergirded the legitimacy and authority of the order. But it is important to note that, in contrast with much twentieth-century scholarship on the Mujaddidis that saw their revival as a political project aimed at reforming the Mughals and other states, within Mujaddidi cultural logic these three roles represented foremost spiritual and cosmological functions, without clear manifestations in the social or political realms. They were premised on a complex cosmology and became part and parcel of a renewed Sunni orthodoxy and conception of shari‘a. Sirhindi explained that the cosmological changes of the end of the millennium were related to esoteric Sufi conceptions of the Realities (H . aqā’iq). In Mabda’ o Ma‘ad, Sirhindi disclosed the hierarchy of the Realities in his divine cosmology: the Reality of the Kaaba being the highest, followed by

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the Reality of the Qur’an, and then by the Reality of Muhammad. These realities are levels at which God can be experienced, beyond even what is possible through journey within the cosmos or within the self. The Reality of the Kaaba is greater than that of even Muhammad, who in his physical form after all bowed toward the physical Kaaba, acknowledging that it was but a manifestation of its metaphysical Reality. The Reality of the Qur’an is linked to divine speech, which is an attribute of God, and therefore below the Reality of the Kaaba that is beyond any attributes. The hierarchy underwent a transformation at the end of the first millennium, and these cosmological changes also had dire implications in our material world. The knowledge of this transformation came to Sirhindi as an inspiration from God and had never before been revealed.61 In a discourse drawing from the mystical meanings of letters, Sirhindi explained that a thousand years after his passing the Prophet Muhammad became a purely spiritual being, “Ahmad” (“the most praised”), no longer involved in the affairs of the world. The Reality of Muhammad ascended to the level of the Reality of the Kaaba. As a result, the world was left bereft of prophetic guidance, ridden with infidelity and innovation. People diverted from the true path and abandoned the prophetic example, while ulama became avaricious from their inner impurities.62 Sirhindi warned that “this exalted gnosis and these most perfect knowledges, that none of the people of God have spoken about with clarity, have become manifest after one thousand years. . . . This is a time similar to those which, on account of being filled with such darkness, demanded the emergence of steadfast prophets from among the people, to renovate a new shari‘a. . . . In this way, after every century a mujaddid from among the ulama [meaning the ones of divine knowledge, rather than simply implying jurists] of this people is appointed [by God] to enliven the shari‘a. Particularly so after a thousand years. . . . At that time an ‘ālim and gnostic of perfect knowledge is required who performs the duties of the steadfast prophets of past nations.”63 Unlike with prophets, the mujaddid’s renewal did not involve change or innovation. It was about strengthening the divine law and ta’yyad-i millat, confirming the religion.64 Sirhindi defined the mujaddid of the second millennium as the arch-intercessor and inheritor of the prophetic perfections— indeed, “all of the divine effulgence and blessings that in this time members of the community receive is through the intermediation of the mujaddid.”65 And significantly, the mujaddid was also the successor to the Imamate. What would his leadership look like? Different periods required varying degrees of renewal, and the severity of the millennium warranted a removal of even positive bid‘at (innovation), which would have been considered perfectly harmless at other moments in history. This was required to ensure that the

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millennial generation became the best generation, conformed to that of the prophetic era. But in Sirhindi’s writings, the material outcomes of the millennial revival are not detailed. It is unclear how long the period of revival lasted, or whether it was an ongoing process until the Mahdi’s time.66 Another office that accompanied the advent of the millennium was that of the common believer, a mediator between the Prophet, God, and the Muslim community.67 The common believer had two responsibilities. First, he played a mediating role with respect to the Prophet Muhammad and his perfected state of intimacy with God at the turn of the millennium. He would subsequently fulfill the Prophet’s worldly duties and provide guidance to the community.68 Near the end of his life, in 1618–1619, Sirhindi introduced the third millennial office, the qayyūm-i zamān, the “everlasting of the age.” The qayyūm had no precedent in Islamic thought. Alluding to Ibn al-‘Arabi’s “Perfect Man,” he was a perfect knower, the highest of saints, who had reached the stage of perfection and guidance, combining attention to God with attention to fellow men. The role of the qayyūm went beyond the mediatory role of the common believer: he was an intermediary between God and all of creation, “like a minister to a king and the business of created beings is conducted through him.”69 In the writings of Sirhindi and his contemporaries, each of these functions related more to suprarational, cosmic transformations than with reforming any explicit social norms or influencing political actors. However, Sirhindi’s ideas were incorporated in a series of spiritual and ritual practices performed by his followers. It can be argued, borrowing from John Collins’s definition of millenarian movements, that Sirhindi’s millennial schema and its associated symbols were employed by the Mujaddidis to “codify [their] identity and interpretation of reality.”70 And the roles gave form and shape to Sirhindi’s, and his followers’, understanding of his own cosmic place. Sirhindi openly stated that he was the common believer and that he had achieved the station of qayyūm.71 Though he did not explicitly identify himself as the Mujaddid-i Alf Sani, it is hinted at in his letters. The first direct reference appeared in his earliest hagiography, composed by his disciple Hashim Kishmi. According to Kishmi, ‘Abd al-Hakim Sialkoti (d. 1656), a leading jurist of the time, had suggested to Sirhindi that he should no longer keep his status as Mujaddid-i Alf Sani a secret from the people. Sufism and Shari‘a The cosmic millennial upheavals were the catalysts that entrusted Sirhindi with charge of renewing the essence of shari‘a. In his millenarian discourses,

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he underscored the sharī‘at-i Muhammadī, the law or path of the Prophet Muhammad, as a necessary corollary to the Sufi path. His work became an important contribution to a centuries-long debate on the precise relationship between Sufism and shari‘a. Sirhindi’s notion of shari‘a was a complex one, far removed from modern conceptions of a system of normative laws enforced at the state level.72 To premodern Muslims like Sirhindi, shari‘a did not signify a codified canonical body of law. Rather, it was a collective, scholarly, human enterprise to interpret rules, etiquette, and norms of religious behavior from divine sources, particularly from the Prophet Muhammad’s life. It was an intimate practice: emulating the Prophet in his actions and deeds was an act of devotion to him. So Sirhindi’s discourses on the Prophet’s shari‘a were grounded in Sufi notions of the perfection of the Prophet Muhammad and the stations of spiritual intimacy with him. But they also served to accentuate the necessity of outwardly spiritual practices and jurisprudence. For Sirhindi, then, the jurists played a vital role. They helped believers interpret shari‘a, which was the touchstone for correct behavior and the foundation of any spiritual journey. For Sirhindi, shari‘a was a multivalent term encompassing outward acts of worship, faith, and the Sufi path. Without all three dimensions, shari‘a simply could not be realized, and it was difficult to reach God by simply obeying outward commands and prohibitions. Spiritual companionship and initiation into a Sufi order were necessary. In fact, the truth of shari‘a could only be understood and internalized after a mystic experienced the state of annihilation and then entered the station of wayfaring in God. Shari‘a also had an outward dimension, tied to the prophetic example. To Sirhindi, every minute detail of the Prophet Muhammad’s life carried spiritual significance, even his manner of tying a turban. Sirhindi’s biographer accordingly describes, in painstaking detail, how he followed the Prophet’s example and Hanafi legal tradition, from his late-night vigils to how he brushed his teeth with a traditional miswāk stick.73 His call for the millennial renewal of shari‘a targeted two groups. The first were jurists who followed only the superficial aspects of the shari‘a, about whom he quipped: “For a worm hidden under a rock, the sky is the bottom of the rock.”74 The second targets were those involved in “incorrect” Sufi practice, more concerned with amassing wealth and pursuing altered states of consciousness than with fighting egos. Accordingly, a vast number of Sirhindi’s letters outline precise guidelines for Sufi practices in conformity with scripture, the prophetic example, and jurisprudence. In Sirhindi’s view, any Sufi insights or practices had to be in harmony with these sources.75

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The foundational place of shari‘a in Sufism was by no means a new concept. It had been articulated hundreds of years earlier. But Sufis like Sirhindi’s contemporary ‘Abd al-Rahman Chishti responded to his circumscribing of Sufism within norms of jurisprudence. ‘Abd al-Rahman argued that the Sufi’s shari‘a was proper conduct and in line with following the Sufi master, who could access truths inaccessible to others. This formula had far more weight than blindly following a juristic tradition. So in this way, ‘Abd al-Rahman rejected Sirhindi’s notion of juristic Sufism and, in doing so, indirectly called into question his millenarian claims.76 Though Sirhindi was widely regarded as a saint by his disciples, his millenarian teachings (and self-image) were undoubtedly controversial. In his autobiographical Tuzuk-i Jahangiri, the Mughal emperor Jahangir, Akbar’s son, referred to the Collected Letters as a heretical text. On account of some of Sirhindi’s claims and visions, Jahangir had Sirhindi summoned to court and imprisoned at Gwalior Fort. Just a year later, however, he was released. The precise nature of Sirhindi’s relationship with the emperor remains unclear, as Jahangir bestowed gifts upon Sirhindi after freeing him and later mentioned him with much reverence in his autobiography. Hagiographies even claim that Jahangir became his disciple. Later, however, during Emperor Aurangzeb’s reign (1658–1707), the Collected Letters was proscribed for its heterodox contents.77 Sirhindi’s writings also elicited unfavorable responses from contemporary ulama. Later biographies mention that ‘Abd al-Haqq Muhadis Dehlavi, Hindustan’s foremost jurist, criticized Sirhindi’s millenarian discourses. ‘Abd al-Haqq was incidentally also a disciple of Sirhindi’s teacher Baqi Billah, yet he found Sirhindi’s writings troublesome. He went so far as to draw parallels between Sirhindi and the Mahdi claimant Sayyid Muhammad of Jaunpur. The notion of the common believer also drew criticism, as it implied that the Prophet Muhammad in fact required Sirhindi for his own spiritual progress.78

Khānaqāhs and Madrasas: Building the Order’s Infrastructure Sirhindi’s principal successor at Sirhind was his third son and deputy, Khwaja Muhammad Ma‘sum (d. 1668). Muhammad Ma‘sum deserves credit for the central khānaqāh in Sirhind, which he inaugurated to impart teachings and practices spelled out in Sirhindi’s writings. This khānaqāh became the model for the order’s future institutions.

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At first, Sirhindi had instructed his disciples within a central mosque. This space became insufficient as more students descended upon the city.79 His son considerably extended the foundations of the old mosque and eventually transformed the institution into a pilgrimage center with integrated scholastic, pilgrimage, and commercial functions.80 He also introduced a typical Mughal water reservoir and waterfall system, and enlarged the land on which Sirhindi’s tomb was built, allowing for larger-scale pilgrimage activities and spiritual exercises. A sizable plot (3.5 square kilometers) to the north and west of the tomb, gifted by the owner, was allocated among Muhammad Ma‘sum’s sons, who constructed their own residential complexes, which also housed guests. An adjacent field was converted into a grand bazaar, now known as the Sandalpura bazaar, which served visitors and spurred commerce. To its east was a complex of buildings specifically designated for teaching circles and meditation. The site continued to grow apace. According to the eighteenth-century biography Rawzat al-Qayyumiyya, the Mughal emperor Shah Jahan visited the tomb and financed several structures in the manner of those built in his royal fort of Shahjahanabad at Delhi. From generation to generation, more elaborate shrines were constructed within this growing complex, with Sirhindi’s tomb (known as the Rawza-i Sharīf, literally “the noble garden”) as the pivotal site.81 Within its vicinity were the tombs of his ancestor Rafi‘ al-Din, the legendary founder of Sirhind, and shrines to Sirhindi’s sons Muhammad Sadiq and Muhammad Ma‘sum, impressive examples of Mughal funerary architecture featuring elaborate mosaics. Over a century later, the mausoleum of Zaman Shah Durrani, the Afghan emperor, was also constructed in this complex, incidentally sponsored by another Afghan ruler, the nawāb of the north Indian state of Rampur.82 Over time the khānaqāh became a site for the production of didactic and hagiographical literature, as well as devotional poetry. Sirhindi’s Collected Letters established a precedent; successive Sufis produced compilations of epistles and malfūz. āt (teachings and memoirs), among them Muhammad Ma‘sum and his brother Muhammad Sa‘id. Further, several remarkably detailed accounts of Sirhindi’s life, including Hazarat al-Quds (by Khwaja Badr al-Din Sirhindi) and Zubdat al-Maqamat (by Muhammad Hashim Kishmi Badakhshi), established a tradition of lengthy biographies, preserving and shaping historical memory while communicating ideals of Sufi behavior. These were produced in virtually every generation thereafter in every branch of the order, with Sirhindi as the focal figure. Sirhindi’s grandson ‘Abd al-Ahad Wahdat—a poet and writer of some forty volumes, including vernacular poetry in Urdu—also contributed one of the first systematic ma‘mūlāt (practical) texts, formalizing Sirhindi’s teachings

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into a usable guidebook form. Collected letters, biographies, and practical texts remain the favorite genres within the order even today and are produced far more systematically within Mujaddidi institutions than in other regional Sufi traditions. At the same time that the khānaqāh at Sirhind was expanding its reach, another associated institution was established at Delhi by the Mujaddidi scholar Shah ‘Abd al-Rahim. Over the next century his Madrasa Rahimiyya became the most important center of exoteric sciences in Hindustan, complementing the Mujaddidi khānaqāhs. Shah ‘Abd al-Rahim was succeeded by his son, Shah Waliullah (1703–1762), often regarded as the most influential philosopher and theologian of eighteenth-century Hindustan. Shah Waliullah was widely referred to as the mujaddid of the twelfth Islamic century, due to his groundbreaking universal philosophical paradigm that relied on empirical analysis, revelation, and reason to synthesize traditional Islamic disciplines, particularly philosophy, theology, sociology, law, Sufism, and history.83 His work extended well beyond the Mujaddidi order. However, as Hamid Algar argues, “his interest in expounding the spirit and wisdom of the sharī‘a, expressed in his magnum opus, H . ujjatullāh al-Bāligha, may be regarded as a prolongation, or even fulfillment, of the practical and theoretical interest in the primacy of the sharī‘a shown by . . . Khwāja Ah.rār and Shaykh Ah.mad Sirhindī.”84 Generations of Leadership Sirhindi’s appointment of his sons among his principal deputies established a precedent for hereditary and nonhereditary initiatic principles of succession. Select members of Sirhindi’s family with scholastic and administrative expertise tended to preside over the khānaqāh at Sirhind.85 Members of the family received formal education in the revealed and rational sciences at the khānaqāh complex, from Sirhindi Sufi guides or from ulama who resided at Sirhind. Some were sent to centers of learning in larger cities like Delhi. Soon after commencing their education in the revealed and rational sciences, they would begin basic Sufi practices. Although the Sirhindi Sufis were trained in hadith and jurisprudence, they generally referred legal questions to the ulama within their network while focusing their own efforts on teaching mystical practices. Corresponding to the concept of the Imamate, Sirhindi’s descendants embodied greater sacred capital than solely initiatic lineages and were considered more authentic links to Sirhindi himself. Mujaddidi initiates who were hereditary descendants of sacred lineages (whether Sirhindi, Sayyid, or Ahrari Khwajas, descended from ‘Ubaydullah Ahrar) often sought

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multiple initiations both from members of their immediate families and from other Mujaddidi teachers. These Sufis would evoke the authority of their family lineages and often inherit their institutions and any underlying property, while claiming spiritual or scholastic allegiance to their initiatic lineages. The appointment of sons as principal successors had clear advantages for the institutions and families: it ensured managerial and financial continuity. Such appointments eased the process of succession and authority transfer, as well as the transfer of personal property intended to sustain the khānaqāh and the household. Since many day-to-day expenses were met through personal gifts and grants to the Sufi masters, these would be inherited by their offspring. In an ideal scenario, such gifts, stipends, or land grants would be reallocated for charitable purposes by the son. Within the mosques or khānaqāhs, the Sufi masters were often appointed as mutawalīs, or custodians, enshrined within detailed waqf or charitable endowment documents. The custodian would be responsible for allocating revenues deriving from charitable endowments, as well as collecting and transferring tithes from tenant farmers if the land was leased out. Alternatively, they would directly manage the cultivation of endowed land and benefit from the harvest. Land revenues supported institutional administration, faculty, and functionaries, and covered expenses for food, construction, and repairs. The net profit would then accrue to the custodian, for his or her personal expenses, or be placed in an escrow account to defray future unexpected expenses. Endowment documents from this period generally stipulate that the position of the custodian should pass on to a capable and responsible son. It could then, barring malpractice, remain within the family for generations. The Second Generation: Sirhind to Mecca, Istanbul, and Kashgar The introduction of the Mujaddidi order as the fiber connecting the Ottoman, Mughal, and Uzbek empires began with Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi but came largely through the efforts of his two key deputies, his son Muhammad Ma‘sum and Adam Binori (d. 1644), of Sayyid and Afghan heritage. The biographies claim that Muhammad Ma‘sum alone had over a hundred thousand disciples and four thousand deputies, who brought his teachings as far as Istanbul.86 Students came from as far as Badakhshan and Sindh to study at Sirhind. After receiving ijāzatnāmas, or licenses, they often returned home to establish their own centers.

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Within Sirhindi’s lifetime, Mecca and Medina became important points for the expansion of the order. As the most meaningful sites in the sacred imagination of every Sufi order, Sufi masters who went on hajj often stayed in the two cities for months or years, teaching and studying. And the concentrated divine potency of Mecca’s holy sanctuary and Medina’s dome of the Prophet enabled some of their most profound spiritual insights and transformations. Sirhindi appointed four accomplished deputies in the Arabian Peninsula, and three of his sons consolidated their networks while on hajj.87 Adam Binori also spent his last years guiding disciples in the holy cities. By the early eighteenth century, several older Naqshbandi texts, as well as Sirhindi’s works, were translated into Arabic. The Mujaddidis became part of the sacred fabric of the two holy sites: in the nineteenth century, one of Medina’s most important madrasas was founded by Sir­ hindi’s descendant Shaykh Muhammad Mazhar (d. 1883). From Mecca and Medina, the order traveled across the Indian Ocean trade routes and eventually became the dominant Sufi tradition in regions as disparate as Indonesia and Mozambique. Jerusalem, the holiest city for Muslims after Mecca and Medina, and a key stopping point on the hajj voyage, was another location where Sufis met and exchanged ideas. The city featured a seventeenth-century Naqshbandi Uzbek khānaqāh, with an adjacent Afghan khānaqāh, as well as an Indian lodge for Sufis and other pilgrims.88 Sirhindi’s teachings came to Ottoman lands through a number of channels. The first transmitters were Murad al-Bukhari (d. 1720) and Jarullah Juryani (d. 1707), disciples of Muhammad Ma‘sum. Bukhari and Juryani established networks and khānaqāhs across the empire, particularly in Istanbul, Damascus, and the Arabian Peninsula.89 Muhammad Ma‘sum’s disciple Hajji Habibullah Bukhari, meanwhile, brought the Mujaddidi order into Bukhara. At the same time, Thatta became another Mujaddidi stronghold. Rawzat al-Qayyumiyya lists several kings of Yemen, Bukhara, Badakhshan, and Kashgar who pledged their allegiance to the Sirhindi Mujaddidis. Though the author of Rawzat is liberal in his definition of pledges and association, in some cases his hagiographic claims are confirmed by surviving correspondence between contemporary Sufis from Sirhind and regional monarchs. As Mujaddidi communities became more influential, they were on occasion drawn into factional politics. Older spiritual powerbrokers often became their chief critics. Habibullah Bukhari’s presence in Bukhara was apparently deemed so controversial by established Sufi lineages that a mob attempted to assassinate him. Makhdum Adam Thattavi, who instituted the order in lower Sindh, also clashed with landowning Sayyid families. He, too, had to circumvent an assassination attempt. Even at

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Sirhind, Rawzat al-Qayyumiyya mentions an enigmatic episode (unfortunately, without sufficient background) in which the governor of Sirhind virtually went to war with the Sirhindi Mujaddidis allied with the people of the town. In another instance, the Mughal emperor Shah Jahan went so far as to exile Adam Binori to Hijaz when he became concerned that “ten thousand Afghans” had joined his entourage.90 In each case, we can guess that the Mujaddidis probably threatened well-endowed, deeprooted local sacred lineages. In fact, rulers may have even purposefully deployed Mujaddidis to offset the influence of entrenched Sufi pressure groups or rival political factions backed by other Sufi orders or scholarly networks. Most famously, the Sirhindi Mujaddidis were involved in a succession struggle of epic proportions between Shah Jahan’s sons Aurangzeb and Dara Shikoh. Contemporary sources relate that the Sufis of Sirhind agreed to support Aurangzeb and that Aurangzeb visited Muhammad Ma‘sum there after his father’s death in 1666. Some sources go on to claim that Aurangzeb became his formal disciple. Earlier historians often assumed that Aurangzeb’s “orthodox” policies—like banning music, commissioning a fatwa collection, and reinstating the jizya, or capitulation tax on nonMuslims—were a result of his Mujaddidi inclinations. So in the postindependence South Asian popular imagination, the Mujaddidis are still seen as the group that pushed the empire toward Sunni orthodoxy. But questions remain as to whether the Mujaddidis influenced court politics in this period and as to whether Mujaddidis were even particularly concerned with policy-level changes at all. More recent scholarship has questioned whether Aurangzeb was truly Muhammad Ma‘sum’s disciple through the course of his reign. It also seems likely that the Mujaddidi influence on Mughal politics has been exaggerated; after all, Aurangzeb imposed the jizya the same year he proscribed Sirhindi’s Collected Letters. Regardless of the nature of the relationship between the Mughal household and the Mujaddidis, each successive emperor provided generous land grants to the Mujaddidis and often called on members of Sirhindi’s family to reside at Delhi.91 The Four Qayyūms The inextricable links between the Mughal household and the Mujaddidi lineage at Sirhind are in fact reflected in the periodization implicit within Mujaddidi hagiographies. A seminal four-volume biography, Rawzat alQayyumiyya, appeared soon after Nadir Shah’s invasion and the ensuing crisis that engulfed the Mughal Empire.92 The author identified Sirhindi and

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three successive generations of his initiatic and hereditary descendants as the four qayyūms. The period of the four qayyūms—probably an allusion to the four caliphs at Medina—later became synonymous with a spiritual Golden Age. In this Golden Age, Mujaddidi hereditary and spiritual succession were combined, and they centered at the pivotal node of a growing network. Significantly, the last of the qayyūms, Muhammad Zubayr, died in 1740, only months after Nadir Shah’s sack of Delhi. The periodization connects the loss of Mughal control over Hindustan to the departure of the exalted spiritual guardian, the fourth qayyūm. In Rawzat, Mujaddidi ascendency in the Mughal heartlands was embodied in the four qayyūms; when Delhi suffered, the order too ruptured and scattered. And, as with the end of the Rightly Guided caliphate in Medina and the subsequent expansion of Islam, Nadir Shah’s rupture provided an opportunity for the growth of the Mujaddidi order. In the story according to Rawzat al-Qayyumiyya, Nadir Shah’s entrance recalls the Mongol invasion. The fourth volume, dedicated to the fourth qayyūm Muhammad Zubayr, goes into considerable detail about the invasion and the demise of the great Mughal Empire. In the narrative, the qayyūm plays a role in mediating and softening the wanton violence surrounding the invasion. The fate of the Mujaddidis and the Mughal emperor Muhammad Shah are deeply intertwined. In one episode, Muhammad Zubayr offers a special prayer to protect the Mughal emperor, which keeps him safe from the devastation as long as the qayyūm is alive.93 The text also implies that Nadir Shah’s ravages were precipitated by moral decay and a dearth of good deeds among the people, who neglected the advice and warnings of the qayyūm. Nadir Shah is a reprehensible character in this story. But, in a classic hagiographic trope, even he acknowledged the sanctity of the Sirhindi saints, and the saints helped temper his wrath. The author narrates that Nadir Shah had decided to put all of Sirhind to the sword. As he was planning his assault, a mysterious figure entered his presence and entreated him to spare Sirhind and keep the Sirhindi Sufis content if he wished to secure the city. The man then disappeared. Nadir Shah, puzzled, inquired about the Sufis at Sirhind and was told they were Sirhindi’s progeny. Nadir Shah accordingly repented and sent seven riders to summon the saints to him. Two descendants of Sirhindi, Mawlawi Farrukhshah and Rafi‘ al-Din, agreed to meet the conqueror. Nadir Shah awarded them three kos (approximately eleven square kilometers) of land around Sirhind and asked them to assure the townspeople that no harm would befall them. He presented one of them with a robe of honor and declared Sirhind Dār al-Aman, the abode of peace. The Afsharid armies were barred from entering the city. Later, Nadir Shah even dispatched a gift-bearing delegation to Muhammad Zubayr.94

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This account suggests how the Mujaddidis made sense of this chaotic period. It also tells us that Nadir Shah and the Mujaddidis probably negotiated. The fourth volume of Rawzat is based on eyewitness accounts and tends to become more precise with regard to historical details. Moreover, it was written for an audience that experienced the invasion. It is thus quite likely that the Sirhindis agreed to accept Nadir Shah’s sovereignty on behalf of the townspeople. If this was the case, then Nadir Shah probably chose to strategically preserve the Mujaddidis to bolster his image as protector of Sunni subjects, as he had done with other sacred lineages. The Mujaddidis could then have served as intermediaries between Nadir Shah and their host populations.

Rupture and Emigration The Mujaddidis were secure, but only for a short while. Nadir Shah’s invasion was the beginning of a much greater rupture, which entirely uprooted the Mujaddidis at Sirhind. Following Nadir Shah’s death, Sirhind became the site of a fierce conflict between the Mughal, Sikh, and Rohilla armies. This conflict devastated the city: Sirhind changed hands several times, suffering with each successive occupation.95 Amid these conflicts, in 1748 Ahmad Shah Durrani embarked on the first of nine invasions of the Mughal Empire and occupied Sirhind. However, in 1763–1764, Sikh armies took the town, along with the Durrani territories of Lahore and Multan. Sirhind had special significance for the Sikhs. Half a century earlier, in 1705, Mughal-Sikh clashes had broken out in the city, during which two sons of Guru Gobind Singh, the tenth spiritual-political leader of the Sikhs, were martyred by the Mughal military officer stationed at Sirhind.96 The symbolic significance of Sirhind as the site of this martyrdom meant that the city’s inhabitants faced particularly harsh treatment from the Sikh armies. The Sikhs razed much of the city, and a large part of the surviving population dispersed.97 The contemporary Mujaddidi master of Delhi, Mirza Mazhar Jan-i Janan (d. 1781), described the destruction of places of worship and the disinterring and defiling of corpses—including those of the Mujaddidis. In a letter to fellow Sufi Mullah Muhammad Yar, he wrote: “The . . . cruelty and excesses of the Sikh kāfirs have left the blessed city of Sirhind desolate. And these ill-fated ones have martyred the shrines of our saints, and the Sahibzadas have scattered to cities here and there.” He then explained that a group of Sufis from Sirhind were migrating to his town, and appealed to him to support the refugees.98 In a similar vein

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Qazi Nur Muhammad, who accompanied Ahmad Shah Durrani in his seventh invasion of 1764–1765, related in detail the state of Sirhind in his Jangnama. With nostalgia and sorrow, he described the destruction of the burj-i awliya’, the tower of saints, which he likened to Baghdad, indirectly alluding to the famous sack of Baghdad under the Mongols. When the king [Ahmad Shah Durrani] arrived at Sirhind, all, whether notables or commoners, longed to see this city He approached the city, that from far was destroyed, Like Baghdad without the palace of Karakh The whole city lay in ruins; no man, not even a bird, was to be seen there except the owl All of the houses and all of the khānaqāhs, All of the mosques and madrasas, pools and wells Were, from the turning of the heavens, destroyed; There were homes, houses full of dust. I saw shrines of a great many saints; I performed pilgrimage, with truth and purity As so many saints lie here resting, they call Sirhind the tower of the saints When I performed the pilgrimage of the shrines; shrines that were grand buildings The breeze of heaven emanated from each one; You will say it emanated from the abode of eternity itself From all of these I beheld a grand shrine; of the exalted Reviver of the Second Millennium The signs of which could be read by the discerning, from the holy dust of the place.99

Sirhind thus rapidly lost its importance as a trading and pilgrimage center. Even its sacred relics were transferred to other towns.100 From the late 1740s onward, the Mujaddidis and their disciples fled the city in waves, setting up new khānaqāhs in areas where they were given refuge. Although the Mujaddidi order had already been introduced as far as Bukhara and Istanbul by the seventeenth century, it was at this time that it most rapidly expanded westward, eventually administering more khānaqāhs than any other Sufi order from the Indus to the Volga. Within Hindustan, many Mujaddidi Sufis moved out of larger cities, which had become battlegrounds in the political struggle. Smaller towns in places like Rohilkhand allowed for more continuity and security. That said, several important khānaqāhs emerged in some of Hindustan’s larger cities.101 Delhi hosted two important khānaqāhs, due to the efforts of two of its principal poets and Mujaddidi teachers, Khwaja Mir Dard (d. 1785) and Mirza Mazhar Jan-i Janan.102 Mirza Mazhar was an esteemed Persian and Urdu poet, regarded up to the present as one of the “four pillars” of

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Urdu poetry. At Delhi, he assembled a dynamic community of Mujaddidi disciples. His deputies included such figures as Qazi Sanaullah Panipati, one of Hindustan’s foremost exegetes. His chief deputy Shah Ghulam ‘Ali Dehlavi (d. 1824) commissioned the Khānaqāh-i Mazhariyya at his tomb in 1781, which remained Delhi’s principal Mujaddidi Sufi center until 1857.103 Shah Ghulam ‘Ali’s students, in turn, came from across the Durrani Empire and as far afield as Transoxiana, the Volga, and Kashgar. His Kurdish disciple, Mawlana Zia’ al-Din Khalid, propagated the order in the Ottoman Empire. The subsequent decades witnessed a flourishing of Naqshbandi-Mujaddidi-Khalidi (after Mawlana Khalid) institutions across Anatolia and as far as the Balkans, Southeast Asia, the Caucasus, and Kazan. Eventually, the Khalidi branch of the Mujaddidis incorporated many of the khānaqāhs of older Naqshbandi lineages in the Ottoman Empire. In Istanbul alone, the Khalidi branch built or acquired more than fifty khānaqāhs over the course of the nineteenth century, making it arguably the most widespread order in the city.104 The tradition built around Sirhind and Sirhindi, then, had lost its central node, its point of origin. But ironically, the subsequent migrations generated the most rapid expansion the order had ever witnessed as his exiled disciples spread Sirhindi’s teachings. Sirhind maintained its central place in the Mujaddidi imagination, along with Bukhara and other cities where the great Naqshbandi saints had left their mark. But new centers began to emerge where Sirhindi’s descendants settled, which now drew students in lieu of Sirhind. Many of these descendants left Mughal territories altogether and were welcomed in the Durrani Empire, which at this stage stretched from Kashmir through Sindh to Herat. Among these Sirhindi migrants was Fazl Ahmad Ma‘sumi (d. 1816), the progenitor of a vast Mujaddidi suborder that carried Sirhindi’s teachings westward.105 Sirhindi’s teachings were repackaged into a curriculum for the Mujaddidi khānaqāh and madrasa networks. The writings of Fazl Ahmad and his contemporaries allow a glimpse into how the Mujaddidi curriculum rapidly and efficiently disseminated complex exoteric and esoteric knowledge systems, a key component enabling the expansion of the order.

3 Transporting Sacred Knowledge

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T

he Mujaddidi migrants carried an intricate system of sacred knowledge from Hindustan to Khurasan and onward to Transoxiana. This chapter follows the diffusion of this knowledge economy through the lens of two manuals of Sufi practice written in Persian at the turn of the nineteenth century. Compiled by the two most prominent branches of the Mujaddidi Sufi order in the Afghan twin capitals of Kabul and Peshawar, these manuals and their handwritten, lithographed, and printed reproductions reveal how intellectual and devotional capital flowed westward and northward, all the while adapting to widely disparate parts of a politically decentralized Persianate world: from the oasis cities of Bukhara and Khoqand, to the Afghan grazing pastures and the Kazakh Steppe, to mountain kingdoms like Swat and Badakhshan. And as we will see, the two texts shed light on broader questions regarding the transmission and transformation of religious-knowledge systems in the early modern world.1 The importance of these sorts of manuals goes well beyond understanding the Mujaddidi order. Often dismissed as formulaic esoteric productions, they can help resolve long-standing disputes on the contours of Islam in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. They suggest this was not a period of dogmatic or literalist reform, signaling a shift toward political Islam and fundamentalism, as many have assumed. It was a time when previous pedagogies and knowledge systems were synthesized, reformatted, and widely disseminated to bring a common language of shari‘a and

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Sufism to the Muslim world. The pinnacle of these knowledge systems was mystical attainment and gnosis of the hidden world. Fazl Ahmad Peshawari, the protagonist of the following chapters, wrote the first manual. The head of another closely related Mujaddidi branch, Khwaja Safiullah, authored the second, parts of which were later combined with Fazl Ahmad’s work. Like Fazl Ahmad, he migrated from Sirhind to Peshawar, and from there to Kabul. Around 1776, he became the principal Sufi master of a vast Mujaddidi subnetwork, with a famous khānaqāh at Shor Bazaar in the heart of Kabul. Here, he attracted a sizable following across the social spectrum. This included the Durrani ruler Zaman Shah (r. 1793–1800), whose coronation turban Khwaja Safiullah tied himself. The Shor Bazaar khānaqāh soon became the hub for a network reaching Yarkand, Badakhshan, Baluchistan, Sindh, and the Afghan belt. Over the course of the century, this network intersected with Fazl Ahmad’s, with shared students and even intermarriages between branches of the family.2 These two Sufi texts are part of a novel, compact genre of Mujaddidi teachers’ manuals that merged Sirhindi’s mystical theology and practice.3 Before the advent of a regional print culture, they were easily replicable tools for the efficient transfer of complex knowledge systems in the form of a regularized curriculum. Such a curriculum could then be easily carried elsewhere via deputies. The two texts I consider here are the most widely reproduced products of each suborder and have been methodically studied by disciples right up to the present.4 I situate them in the broader exoteric and esoteric curricula within Mujaddidi madrasas and khānaqāhs and examine how they were produced, consumed, taught, and compiled. I track the distribution of the manuals, paying attention to how they were reproduced and how they interfaced with other literature to form a distinctive yet integrated transregional knowledge system. I investigate, as well, how they synthesized some of the sciences pioneered by Sirhindi, like cosmology, meditation methods, and systems of divineenergy transfer. This genre was particularly well suited to the sociopolitical realities of the eighteenth century. It was an efficient way to introduce Mujaddidi pedagogies to new urban centers and autonomous tribal states that needed a transregionally accredited intellectual and sacred infrastructure. The manuals helped foster a uniform yet flexible cosmological and methodological system, which rooted Sirhindi’s writings as the canonical texts. They provided a unified form of mystical practice and a shared sacred vocabulary that facilitated the flow of human capital and texts across a vast territory. In each new region, these texts enabled the Mujaddidi order to absorb localized sacred practices and institutions, while maintaining a stable shared system at the center.

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Initiates’ Early Education: The Exoteric Sciences As we have seen, during and after Sirhindi’s lifetime, Mujaddidi Sufi masters and their deputies regularly set up new institutions and built their own networks. Sometimes they affiliated themselves with existing Sufi circles like older Naqshbandi communities, simply supplementing earlier pedagogies with state-of-the-art sacred practices; in other cases they began from scratch. In addition to formal disciples, a wide cross-section of society would visit the khānaqāhs for collective meditative practices, rituals, celebrations, and prayers, and to solicit advice from the Sufi master. But whether in Sirhind or beyond, Mujaddidi institutions produced students versed in both exoteric revealed and rational sciences and esoteric Sufi sciences. In an ideal case, students first completed, or at least made substantial progress in, the revealed and rational sciences under the tutelage of reputable scholars. Only then could they embark upon their formal khānaqāh education. Basic exoteric education began at four years, four months, and four days at the neighborhood maktab. Such primary schools were often financed by voluntary contributions and catered to a cross-section of classes. Though curricula varied geographically, the basic aim was to impart literacy in Arabic, Persian, and local languages and introduce students to religious practice and theology; etiquette and good behavior; and classical literature and poetry, from Hafiz, Rumi, and Sa‘di, to the highly complex verses of Mughal Delhi’s Mirza Bedil (d. 1720), to vernacular poets. At Peshawar, primary education commenced with the Arabic alphabet, followed by Sa‘di’s ethical writings, and concluded with the Qur’an, Persian classics, and Arabic grammar. In Bukhara, meanwhile, students spent seven years at the maktab studying the alphabet, the Qur’an, the farz-i ayn (legal obligations according to Islamic law), Chahar Kitab (on principles of Islamic belief), Maslak al-Mutaqin (a versified treatise on Hanafi religious duties), Dozbi, and the poetry of Hafiz and Mirza Bedil. In communities with predominantly Uzbek populations, five Turkic books were also added. In Sindh, the curriculum was supplemented with a study of Sindhi, including religious treatises and commentaries, folktales and stories of saints, prophetic biographies, and basic theological tracts, while in Kashgar and Yarkand, students also studied Chagatai poetry.5 Around age fifteen or sixteen, students started their higher education.6 Madrasas in larger towns like Peshawar, Bukhara, or Kabul naturally tended to be better resourced, so students traveled from afar to attend. Madrasas were occasionally affiliated with a particular Sufi order: instructors could be initiated by Sufi masters like Fazl Ahmad, and trustees or custodians assigned to madrasas could belong to sacred lineages. Plus, madrasas were often attached

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to shrines or mosque complexes. And sometimes, khānaqāh and madrasa educational activities would be held within the same physical space. Most madrasa students probably followed an iteration of a contemporary Arabic, Persian, and vernacular curriculum, depending on faculty access and local requirements. Peshawar’s madrasas offered law, logic, and scholastic theology, with more advanced students proceeding to study ethics, metaphysics, history, poetry, and medicine. At Bukhara, the madrasa curriculum comprised 137 books, covering similar subjects supplemented with some Turkic literature. Sindh’s madrasas added astrology and numerology, as well as Sindhi material. The length of study was not fixed; some students pursued their education for over twenty years. Madrasa graduates were eligible to work within local bureaucracies and government, or as legal experts, professors, or mosque functionaries.7 Advanced students wishing to continue on to the esoteric sciences would then seek initiation with a Sufi guide. The process varied, even among different Mujaddidi circles. In Fazl Ahmad’s lineage, initiation was a ritualized process where the master had to determine, through a special prayer of supplication, whether the disciple was suited for the master and the spiritual path.8 Biographies indicate that initiates required a robust education in scholastic theology, jurisprudence, and hadith at the very least, meaning that they should have completed several years at a madrasa. Requirements varied, however—descendants of Sirhindi who grew up around Sufis could even begin basic esoteric practices while pursuing their primary education. In one of his well-known tracts, Shah Waliullah lays out the type of pedagogies employed in the khānaqāhs of the time.9 According to him, after initiation the first function of the guide was to ensure that the disciple was intimately familiar with Islamic doctrine. The second function was to work closely with the disciple on improving his or her character: on avoiding dishonesty, anger, vanity, jealousy, grave and minor sins, and malice, all while building an attraction to religious ritual practices. In the process, the guide closely monitored the disciple’s day-to-day social interactions, imparting the rules of etiquette along the way.10 Concurrently, the student was also issued a daily recitation called a wird. Only when the disciple’s inner state and outward behavior had been adequately refined did the hidden or esoteric practices (ashghāl-i bāt.inī) commence.

Manuals for the Esoteric Sciences The esoteric sciences lay at the core of the khānaqāh curriculum. Over the next two centuries, Khwaja Safiullah and Fazl Ahmad Ma‘sumi’s manuals

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on these teachings and practices were reproduced in a variety of forms from Transoxiana to Hindustan. Khwaja Safiullah’s 1783 Makhzan al-Anwar fi Kashf al-Asrar (“Treasury of the Lights in the Revelation of Mysteries”) and Fazl Ahmad Ma‘sumi’s Risala dar Bayan-i Tasawwuf (“Treatise on the Expression of Sufism,” with various other titles), written about 1800, are concise texts synthesizing disciplines that were variously written, oral, experiential, or performed. They are alike in articulating a concordance between the core cosmology of the Sufi path and its associated mystical practices. Makhzan is divided into eight chapters. The first is an overview of Mujaddidi cosmology, the principles of spiritual wayfaring, the concept of the lat.ā’if (subtle centers for divine energy reception), and an outline of the Mujaddidi Sufi path. Chapters 2 to 5 present Mujaddidi meditative practices (with some additional discussions on metaphysics), and Chapters 6, 7, and 8 detail the meditative practices of the Qadiri, Chishti, and Suhrawardi Sufi paths, which practitioners are also expected to learn. Fazl Ahmad’s Risala is shorter (ten pages or less in most reproductions), but with similar contents: an introduction; an overview of initiation; Mujaddidi meditative exercises, with an outline of the Sufi path in relation to Mujaddidi cosmology; corresponding practices of the Qadiri and Chishti Sufi paths; and finally, principles of ethical conduct.11

table 3.1  Contents, Makhzan al-Anwar, Khwaja Safiullah Sirhindi-Kabuli Introduction Chapter 1

Autobiographical notes on the author, and an introduction to the text On the stages of the Naqshbandi path The rationale for placing travel in the world of divine command above the world of creation (four reasons)

Chapter 2

On the practices and adhkar (pl. of dhikr) of the Naqshbandi path (through five lat.ā’if in the world of divine command)

Chapter 3

On the dhikr of affirmation and negation (five types)

Chapter 4

On murāqaba in the Naqshbandi tradition and its methods (seven methods)

Chapter 5

On the perfections of prophethood and messengerhood, and perfections of the great prophets and the perfections that are beyond this, and some notes on the gnosis of the Reviver of the Second Millennium (Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi)

Chapter 6

On the practices and adhkar of the Qadiri path (four types) On the various methods of murāqaba of the Qadiri path (eight methods)

Chapter 7

On various adhkar and meditative practices of the Chishti path

Chapter 8

On various adhkar and meditative practices of the Suhrawardi path (two types)

Prayer / invocation

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table 3.2  Contents, Risala dar Bayan-i Tasawwuf, Fazl Ahmad Ma‘sumi Peshawari Introduction Section 1

The process of initiation into the Naqshbandi, Qadiri, and Chishti orders

Section 2

On the practice of dhikr (awareness of the heart); methods of aligning the heart to attain fanā’ al-qalb (annihilation of the heart); dhikr through the lat.ā’if and their association with colors, realities of prophets, and points on the body; reaching the stations of vilāyat al-sughrā (lesser intimacy), sayr il-allah (travel to God), and then to the stage of ‘ilm al-yaqīn (knowledge of certainty)

Section 3

On the practice of affirmation and negation; awareness of numbers; end of travel to God; reaching the stations of haqq al-yaqīn or yād dāsht and ayn al-yaqīn; attaining fanā’ al-nafs (annihilation of the ego-self); attaining baqā’ allah (subsistence in God); reaching the stations of istahlāk and izmahlāl

Section 4

Compulsory and supererogatory prayer

Section 5

Daily meditation and recitation exercises (awrād and vazā’if) of the Qadiri and Chishti paths and their benefits

Section 6

Pointers on moral excellence

Both the Makhzan and the Risala engaged three core intellectual and experiential esoteric disciplines: Mujaddidi cosmology and its corresponding paradigm of spiritual travel, the science of subtle bodies and energy transfers, and meditative practices. All three were derived from Sirhindi’s detailed and technical methodologies of sayr o sulūk (mystical travel and wayfaring), in turn developed from earlier originators ranging from Ibn al-‘Arabi to ‘Ala al-Dawla Simnani. In the Mujaddidi system, the authorized master guides the seeker through spiritual practices that channel divine energy (fayz) and enable spiritual travel (safar). The seeker advances through maqāms, or stations, corresponding to successive emanations or manifestations in the Mujaddidi cosmological structure. This not only enables higher levels of awareness but also allows the seeker to improve his or her character. Intimacy between master and disciple builds through the mechanisms of rābit.a (connection) and tavajjuh (orientation or focus).12 Spiritual Travel The principles of spiritual travel or wayfaring were in this way tied to Sirhindi’s cosmological frameworks, adapted from the teachings of Ibn al‘Arabi (Chapter 2).13 Sirhindi’s theory of determination begins with the absolute divine undifferentiated essence, beneath which are five intellects, the final being the world of corporeal bodies.14 In Sirhindi’s cosmology the

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finite world has an existence apart from God, but God is the only necessary being.15 The Mujaddidi mystical path is expressed as a cyclical journey of ascent and descent. In the first stage, the Sufi wayfarer travels through all that is created and contingent on the way to God. This stage ends in the experience of annihilation, or fanā’, where everything except God ceases to exist, known as the lesser intimacy.16 In the second stage, travel in God, the wayfarer distinguishes different emanations or manifestations within God, such as divine names, attributes, aspects, and essence. This second stage culminates in baqā’ (subsisting) and is known as the greater intimacy. After this point, two stages of descent take the spiritual wayfarer back to the world of creation. Now the wayfarer regains consciousness of identity, temporality, and duality—that all is from God but remains separate from God. Thus, the Mujaddidi wayfarer, by this point transformed into a living saint, returns to the created world in order to guide communities from a superior spiritual vantage point.17 Subtle Bodies The two texts also discuss the science of mystical physiology, centered on the lat.ā’if (singular lat.īfa). Variously translated as “subtleties,” “subtle bodies,” or “subtle centers,” the concept of lat. īfa roughly corresponds to that of the chakra in Tantric Buddhism. These metaphysical entities act as vehicles to facilitate spiritual travel.18 According to Sirhindi, human beings—who exist both in the material and the immaterial world—are composed of ten such lat. ā’if. Five of these are located in the ‘ālam-i khalq (material world, or world of creation), which are the four elements (fire, earth, air, water), in addition to the nafs (ego-self). Five are located in the ‘ālam-i amr (world of divine command). These are the qalb (heart), ruh (spirit), sirr (secret), khafā’ (hidden), and akhfā’ (most hidden) and are known collectively as the “five jewels.”19 Each lat.īfa is associated with a specific location on the human physical body and is a recipient of divine energy.20 Each lat.īfa is also associated with a specific color and connected to a source of divine energy, which emanates from different stages in the Mujaddidi cosmological structure.21 Further, the divine energy for each lat.īfa is mediated by a prophet. The authority (vilāyat) of each lat.īfa, therefore, is said to be “under the feet” of a particular prophet, and upon traversing each lat.īfa, the disciple is said to have taken on a disposition or temper associated with that prophet. In some Mujaddidi pedagogies, each subtle body is also associated with a character trait, and the travel through that lat.īfa builds good character

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table 3.3  Correlating Mystical Physiology in Risala dar Bayan-i Tasawwuf and Makhzan al-Anwar Lat.īfa and Color Association

Physiological Location and Prophetic Association Risala

Makhzan al-Anwar

Qalb—yellow

2 fingers under left breast (Adam)

3 fingers under left breast (Adam)

Ruh . —red

2 fingers under right breast (Abraham)

1 finger under right breast (Abraham and Noah)

Sirr—white

Between the middle of the chest and the qalb (Moses)

2 fingers over right breast (Moses)

Khafā—black

Between the middle of the chest and the .ruh (Jesus)

3 fingers above left breast (Jesus)

Akhfā—green

In the middle of the chest (Muhammad)

In the middle of the chest (Muhammad)

while purging negative traits (e.g., the secret lat.īfa purges greed, and the spirit lat.īfa helps develop patience and prevents anger). Hence, the role of the Sufi teacher using such texts as Makhzan and the Risala is to give disciples awareness of these subtleties and then activate the lat.ā’if so as to allow the flow of divine energy that enables spiritual travel. Sirhindi did not outline the practices associated with the latt.ā’if in writing, presumably transmitting them during training sessions instead.22 Meditative Praxis Meditative practice is the next discipline with which Makhzan and the Risala acquaint readers. There are three categories of meditation. Dhikr, the remembrance of God, is the first and simplest practice to activate the subtle bodies. The aim, according to the manuals, is to make the practice imprinted on the heart so that it becomes constant and unintentional, like breathing.23 It can be performed individually or in a group, with disciples seated on their knees in a circle and the master seated among them, guiding each cycle of silent recitations. Nafī wa athbāt, meaning “negation and affirmation,” is in practice a breath-channeling exercise, involving the recitation of “Lā ilaha il-allah” while holding and channeling the breath through specific parts of the body (“Lā ilaha” is the negation, “il-allah” is the affirmation). The negation and affirmation are repeated multiple times (always an odd number of times) in single breaths.24 The third category is murāqaba, an exercise in which the disciple, seated on his or her knees, visualizes the presence of the Sufi master, concentrating on the place of

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the heart and imagining it to proclaim “Allah.” This is intended to purify and refine the subtleties in the world of divine command and is best performed after the predawn and late afternoon prayers, when divine energy is most potent. “When this lesson becomes ingrained,” a descendant of Sirhindi explains, “the name of God emanates from the heart itself, then from every vein, and every hair.” Variations of these forms are practiced by other Sufi orders around the world and allow the spiritual wayfarer to traverse the different stages of the path toward God. As mentioned earlier, Mujaddidi practices tend toward sobriety: meditation is generally silent, and most suborders refrain from using musical instruments. Each method of meditation encompasses multiple forms of practice with varying degrees of complexity. Different types are prescribed for the seeker to reach successively higher stages of the cosmological structure. Initially, each practice is performed by activating a specific subtle center as an energy receptor—for example, dhikr in the subtle center of the heart (qalb). To start, master and disciple face each other, seated on their knees, with knees touching and eyes closed. The master places two fingers over the disciple’s heart and, through his or her spiritual focus, awakens the heart subtle center, and the dhikr in that subtlety begins. Each subsequent subtlety is activated through a similar practice. However, at higher stages, when all the subtle centers are activated, the entire body can travel as a united lat.īfa.25 These and other related spiritual practices are also expressed in terms of the eleven Naqshbandi guiding principles laid out centuries earlier. The Manuals and the Mechanics of Knowledge Transfer For whom and what were these texts meant? The two manuals form part of a broader ma‘mūlāt (practices) genre, produced within the order to correlate exercises with the key metaphysical and ontological concepts detailed by Sirhindi and his successors.26 Sirhindi’s short text Mabda’ o Ma‘ad (“The Origin and the Return”) may be considered a precursor to this genre, featuring concise and systematically presented discourses on aspects of the Sufi path.27 However, Makhzan and the Risala depart significantly from these earlier practical tracts. They seem to make up a subgenre that, while not entirely novel, began to proliferate in the later eighteenth century. Earlier works on practices contained similar pedagogical discussions, but these were packaged within biographies or contained more detailed expositions of metaphysical and cosmological concepts. The two user-friendly texts under scrutiny here, by contrast, presented complex esoteric topics without excessive detail.

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In their introductory passages, the authors inform us (if in formulaic terms) of their purpose.28 Fazl Ahmad’s text, for instance, begins as follows: Some of my friends have beseeched this lowly faqīr, servant of the threshold of the One, Fazl Ahmad, that he write down the lessons of the Naqshbandi path in an ordered manner from start to finish. Since Hazrat Mujaddid-i Alf Sani [Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi], and his venerable son, Hazrat ‘Urwat alWuthqa [Khwaja Muhammad Ma‘sum] (may God sanctify their secrets) and their other sons and deputies generally and in detail have presented the path in their epistles and treatises, there is no need to explain or write any further. However, as to answer the petitioner, a few lines without excess, wastage, or weariness regarding the blessed Naqshbandi path should be written so as to be of benefit to wayfarers in the path.

From their tone and contents, it becomes clear that these didactic manuals are primarily meant for Sufi deputies who are guiding others in meditative practices. The contents are clear and concise—indeed, highly compressed. This is especially true as compared with the bulk of earlier Mujaddidi literary production, which comprised weighty and often intimidating collections of epistles, biographies, and specialized theological treatises. The texts, for example, do not explain the source of meditative practices or esoteric sciences (except occasionally citing Sirhindi) and do not reference hadith or Qur’anic verses to justify the acceptability of the practices from a scriptural point of view. However, the audience was still expected to have a preexisting grasp of Sufi technical vocabulary and, in particular, of the ontological frameworks of Sirhindi and Ibn al-‘Arabi, as well as Sunni doctrine and the science of divine-energy reception (‘ilm-i lat.ā’if).29 The almost-complete absence of marginalia also implies that these were teaching aids rather than works to be critically commented upon or disputed.30 Both texts claim to have been composed at the behest of disciples. Several copies of the Risala name a certain Mullah Muhammad as a principal issuer of the request. This mullah, from the village of Kanrah in the mountainous Doaba region north of Peshawar, does not show up in Fazl Ahmad’s biographical literature. He does not appear to have been among the noteworthy deputies of, or even deeply engaged with, Fazl Ahmad. He was, probably, the ideal consumer. By virtue of his title, we know that he had some proficiency in jurisprudence, theology, and other exoteric sciences. He had likely come to Peshawar to pursue esoteric studies with Fazl Ahmad and attained a license to teach. Having completed his course of study, he now required a teaching aid that he could carry back to his remote village.31 In establishing new teaching circles, Sufis like Mullah Muhammad would likely have commissioned copies of these manuals, along with other documentary tools32

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and earlier canonical Sufi texts. Given the brevity of the two manuals, the cost of their reproduction would have been insignificant.33 However, their readership circles expanded, including prospective students and disciples on the Sufi path. Patterns of reproduction indicate that a broader literate class—elite and nonelite—including Sufis in other orders and suborders, read the manuals. The opening chapter of Khwaja Safiullah’s Makhzan al-Anwar, for example, contains an extensive, effusive eulogy of the Durrani emperor Timur Shah, highly unusual for a Sufi didactic text. This implies that among the text’s intended audience were members of the court, even the emperor himself, who, the biographies tell us, held Khwaja Safiullah in great esteem.34 The structure and tone of these two texts and their imitators and competitors suggests how the Mujaddidi Sufis were able to expand institutionally across a vast territory while maintaining pedagogical cohesion. In the decades that followed their composition, similar Persian tracts appeared in Hindustan and Khurasan.35 Notably, several manuals were composed at the celebrated Mujaddidi Mazhariyya khānaqāh in Delhi, which appointed deputies as far as the Ottoman Empire.36 More localized suborders also produced similar works. For example, ‘Usman Padkhabi (d. unknown), a popularly venerated saint based in Logar, south of Kabul, produced a practical treatise around 1820, while Mian ‘Abd al-Hakim (d. unknown), based in Qandahar, produced another such work.37 The genre of the manual was essential in generating a synthetic system of theory and practice that facilitated knowledge transfer across fragmented polities. Step-by-Step Guides to Spiritual Progress Fazl Ahmad’s biographies narrate anecdotes where, in accordance with the process outlined in the Risala, new disciples were prescribed basic practices relating to the heart subtle center immediately after initiation. For example, one biography relates the case of Damullah Akhund Jan Tashkendi, who was assigned exercises to develop the heart subtle center, which he failed to carry out. The guide, we are told, closely monitored the student’s effort and progress, and reprimanded him for laxity.38 The biographies of Khwaja Safiullah also reference s.uh.bat, structured lessons in religious sciences, and murāqaba. Some activities catered to select disciples while others were popular affairs open to the public. The biographies mention in hyperbolic terms that Khwaja Safiullah’s elder brother hosted regular murāqaba sessions attracting more than twelve thousand people (a recurrent number signifying “many”), while the attendance of murāqaba after Friday prayers would be even greater.39 We can assume the

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large-scale murāqaba sessions may have taught introductory dhikr of the heart subtle center, while the individualized sessions after sunrise and night vigils were intended for select students. Essentially, the manuals formalized these khānaqāh pedagogies into written form, serving as a franchise guide for esoteric practices. A noteworthy feature of the two texts is the matter-of-fact, step-by-step manner in which the stages of the spiritual path are presented, with benchmarks and pointers given for both the teacher and the disciple. It is for this reason, perhaps, that a later biography of Fazl Ahmad refers to his Risala as an “elegant text.”40 The Risala first walks the teacher and disciple through the initiation process, outlining the recitations, prayers, and esoteric practices required to ascertain whether the student is suited to the teacher as well as to solidify the student-teacher bond. Then, Fazl Ahmad explains, the teacher should systematically show the disciple the location of each of the subtle centers (lat.ā’if), and the training commences. At this stage, the disciple is instructed on how to perform dhikr in the five lat.ā’if and in the world of divine command, culminating in the station of lesser intimacy and the beginning of the annihilation (fanā’) of the ego-self. Having accomplished this arduous feat, the wayfarer begins the meditation of negation and affirmation, which leads to greater intimacy, annihilation, and subsistence in God. For each exercise and stage on the path, Fazl Ahmad furnishes details that range from how to channel breath and the appropriate posture during meditation to the unveilings and character traits that the wayfarer should anticipate along the path.41 Departing from earlier practical texts, Fazl Ahmad also provides an ideal, although somewhat flexible, time frame for spiritual progress through each stage of the journey. For example, he informs his readers that “after passing through three forty-day cycles of meditation or seclusion, the wayfarer begins his education in the spirit subtle center.”42 But he cautions his readerinstructors that “there are some disciples who are impacted in the first session of tavajjuh, and some only later. However, in the case of those who are impacted later, this is not an indication of their [lack of] aptitude. Therefore the teacher should not withdraw his spiritual concentration from them.”43 Khwaja Safiullah’s Makhzan follows a similar pattern, albeit with theoretical discussions interspersed with practices. For example, he provides supplementary meditative methods (such as the types of practices accompanying each phase of spiritual travel). His categorizations of the spiritual journey depart from Fazl Ahmad’s, as do his discussions on spiritual attainments resulting from various practices. Also, more so than Fazl

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Ahmad, Khwaja Safiullah furnishes additional experiential details that include visions and inspirations that should be expected so that wayfarers can better recognize stages on their spiritual journeys. Standardization and Categorization The two manuals, then, formalized the kinds of practices mentioned in the biographies, engendering a transregional system of praxis bound by a shared cosmology and terminology premised on Sirhindi’s works. The emphasis on cosmology, and on tracing spiritual states beyond what most adepts could attain, served as a means to conventionalize Sirhindi’s synthetic cosmological system. This kind of standardization allowed for the exchange of practices and pedagogies that operated within this wider framework. The guidebooks concurrently spelled out a multigenerational Mujaddidi canon based around Sirhindi’s Collected Letters and other writings. This, in turn, solidified the networks around the figure of Sirhindi, giving coherence and a sense of identity within the transregional Mujaddidi community.44 Both Makhzan and the Risala provide comparative descriptions of the practices of other Sufi paths.45 However, these practices were reframed within a Mujaddidi classification system, thus securing a form of epistemic hegemony over other Sufi traditions. The basic meditative programs and spiritual pathways of each order are laid out as legitimate systems for disciples to learn and experience. The authors make no value judgment regarding the different methodologies, but the Mujaddidi system is plainly proffered as overarching the others. Notably, Khwaja Safiullah opens with a discourse on the exalted nature of Naqshbandi methodology. He explains that the order’s practices enable students to reach higher levels of the cosmological structure. He also briefly mentions the significance of the Naqshbandi spiritual inheritance from the caliph Abu Bakr and advantages of silent dhikr over vocal and ecstatic practices. In doing so, he points to implicit limitations of other Sufi paths, and, explicitly, of “yogis, Brahmins, and practitioners of Greek philosophy” who travel in the created world and do not venture onto the path of travel within the self. This discussion draws from Sirhindi’s discourses on the preeminence of the Naqshbandi path, specifically on the concept of “the end in the beginning.” While other Sufi traditions travel in the external world, culminating in the world of divine command and annihilation of the self, the Naqshbandis begin their journeys in the world of divine command.46 This type of “bundling” of Sufi orders under a Mujaddidi umbrella was typical of the eighteenth century, across both Transoxiana and the Mughal

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Empire. Beyond sharing spiritual exercises, bundling had far-reaching practical ramifications. Previously entrenched Sufi lineages with extensive landholdings were tied to localized kinship networks. Absorbing them into the Mujaddidi order realigned the older Sufi orders away from communal structures and toward transregional supraethnic communities built around shared ritual practices and beliefs.47 The (re)production of the two manuals in this chapter indicates that a similar process was underway in the Durrani Empire and its satellite polities in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. The other Sufi orders considered in the two manuals reflect the sacred landscapes of their authors’ particular networks. Fazl Ahmad included Naqshbandi, Qadiri, and Chishti methods. These were the dominant Sufi orders from Peshawar to Bukhara. Along with these three, Khwaja Safiullah added the Suhrawardi order (referred to as the Suhrawardiyya-Kubrawiyya). This may have appealed to his disciples along the lower Indus in Sindh, a Suhrawardi stronghold since the thirteenth century. Khwaja Safiullah also designated Naqshbandi practices as those of the Naqshbandi-Ahrariyya—that is, associated with Khwaja ‘Ubaydullah Ahrar, the preeminent fifteenth-century Naqshbandi mystic of Samarkand. However, the practices in question were distinctively Naqshbandi-Mujaddidi. Classifying them as Naqshbandi-Ahrari may indicate an attempt to appropriate the sacred landscape of Kabul, which featured significant Ahrari charitable endowments and prominent Naqshbandi pilgrimage sites, some dating to the Timurid period. Khwaja Safiullah’s lineage would certainly have absorbed Kabul’s preexisting Naqshbandi-Ahrari networks via initiation and institutional affiliation.48 The two texts outline the practices of each order as different dimensions of a unified and fluid system, framed using Mujaddidi cosmological terminology. Both Fazl Ahmad and Khwaja Safiullah describe the other orders’ systems of murāqaba and dhikr in the same framework as the Mujaddidi ones: that is, as if they are supplementary practices. They also map out the mystical physiology of each order, deploying Sirhindi’s terminology and conceptualization of the lat.ā’if.49 At the same time, readers are presented with a neat concordance between meditative practices and stages in spiritual wayfaring according to Mujaddidi, earlier Naqshbandi, and universally recognized Sufi classifications.50 This concordance would have helped translate the stages of the Mujaddidi path to practitioners previously exposed to pre-Mujaddidi Naqshbandi or non-Naqshbandi Sufi practices, emphasizing compatibility with other Sufi teaching systems circulating around Kabul and Peshawar. Such discourses would certainly have eased the incorporation of older Sufi communities into the Mujaddidi superstructure.51

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Teaching through Verse For Khwaja Safiullah, Fazl Ahmad, and other authors of such handbooks, the medium of verse became a familiar bridge between subtle experiential phenomena and the everyday world of the reader. Both Sufi masters, for example, relied extensively on Rumi’s Masnavi as a pedagogical tool to elucidate stages in Sirhindi’s paradigm of spiritual travel, or metaphysical concepts such as divine love and the journey within the self.52 Charitable endowment records for other khānaqāhs in Bukhara mention that it was typical for such institutions to allocate some revenues for a Masnavikhwān, a reciter of Rumi’s Masnavi, “who, after the morning prayer, presented one story from the Masnavi.”53 Biographies also tell us that Fazl Ahmad regularly relied on Mirza Bedil Dehlavi’s verses in his lectures—much to the chagrin of his literalist contemporaries who were irked by Bedil’s abstruse, provocative style.54 Khwaja Safiullah, who was a poet of some repute, also composed his own verses to help explain difficult concepts and propagate them forward. Examples in Makhzan include his verses and poems dedicated to his own master and to Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi, didactic tools to help his readers along while also demonstrating his poetic aptitude.55 As a companion piece to Makhzan al-Anwar, Khwaja Safiullah also wrote a short tract in verse on the practices of four Sufi orders, meant to be memorized by his disciples.56 Through such writings, Khwaja Safiullah, under the pen name “Safi,” institutionalized poetry as a defining tradition within his lineage. This lineage produced several celebrated poets in each generation, writing in Persian and Arabic, as well as in vernacular languages in regions where they settled (notably, Pashto, Turki, and Sindhi).

Reproducing, Distributing, and Vernacularizing Hidden Knowledge These manuals were packaged in one of three forms: as self-standing manuscripts; as part of miscellanies for the use of ulama, Sufis, or khānaqāh libraries; or as parts of larger didactic texts or biographies. The way in which they were reproduced and reassembled provides a window into their use, circulation, and reception. It also conveys how Mujaddidi and associated Sufi orders interfaced and came to be regarded as a single continuous tradition spanning the politically fragmented Persianate world of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. I have located copies of Fazl Ahmad’s Risala produced in Khoqand, Bukhara, Punjab, Erzerum, Kabul, and the Afghan tribal belt (totaling

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Khiva

Hidden Caliphate KYRGYSTAN

Tashkent

Khoqand

UZBEKISTAN Bukhara Samarqand

TAJIKISTAN

Am

u

TURKMENISTAN

D

ar

CHINA

ya

BADAKHSHAN

Balkh

A SW Thana

Kabul Herat

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Peshawar

Indus

Qandahar

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I N D I A Makhzan al-Anwar of Khwaja Safiullah Risala of Fazl Ahmad Peshawari Record of manuscript production

Hala Tando Saindad A r a b i a n

S e a

0 0

250 km 250 miles

Map 3  Manuscript circulation, 19th–20th centuries

eleven manuscripts and four printed editions), and copies of Khwaja Safiullah’s Makhzan al-Anwar produced in Sindh, Punjab, Kabul, and Logar (totaling eight manuscripts and one printed edition). Most date from the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The manuscripts are detailed in Appendix B. In most cases, it is unclear who commissioned these copies. However, two copies of the Risala bear the personal seals of Fazl Ahmad and his son Mian Fazl Qadir (also known as Ghulam Qadir or ‘Abd alQadir) at Bukhara, and so were presumably copied at the behest of the father and son themselves.57 Often these manuals were reproduced alongside more comprehensive tracts on Mujaddidi cosmology and the science of the subtle centers. For instance, Makhzan often accompanied Sirhindi’s discourses,58 earlier Naqshbandi classics,59 or anonymous Mujaddidi cosmological and philosophical

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Figure 3.1a  Seal of Fazl Ahmad Peshawari (dated 1225 hijri) (Peshawar University MSS 339)

Figure 3.1b  Seal of Ghulam Qadir Ma‘sumi (dated 1235 hijri) (IVANRUz, Tashkent MSS Nr. 2572)

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tracts.60 Such evidence implies the two texts were intended to be supplemented by earlier specialized literature on related subjects. The manuals were also often reproduced along with selections from poetic collections. In several cases, for example, Makhzan was copied along with poems by Khwaja Safiullah and his son ‘Abd al-Baqi in the ghazal and rubā‘ī quatrain forms.61 The two manuals were also regularly packaged with texts from contemporary branches of the Mujaddidi order, indicating how extensively literary production across various suborders became part of a transregionally shared tradition. For example, we find the Risala of Fazl Ahmad packaged with discourses from the Mujaddidi khānaqāh founded at Delhi by Shah Ghulam ‘Ali Dehlavi.62 In two other manuscripts, Fazl Ahmad’s Risala accompanies the discourses of Sufi Allah Yar of Bukhara (d. 1720), as well as a genealogy of the Dahbidi Sufis.63 These were among the principal Naqshbandi lineages of Bukhara and Samarkand, respectively, and their own networks occupied an overlapping religio-intellectual space with the khānaqāhs of Fazl Ahmad in the same region. Tensions were certainly not unknown between these Naqshbandi suborders, especially since all three at various stages supplied the Sufi masters of the ruling kings of Bukhara. The manuscripts, however, indicate that their teachings at least were considered compatible. Perhaps the most surprising is a nineteenth-century copy produced at Bukhara or Khoqand that combines four texts: Fazl Ahmad’s Risala, a tract on Hanafi law called Sharaf al-Sadat by a well-known jurist Shahab al-Din Dawlatabadi (d. 1445), an anonymous eschatological tract called Qiyamatnama (literally, “The Story of the Last Days”), and a theological tract by Bayazid Ansari (d. 1585), the rebel-saint of Waziristan. One might assume that juxtaposing such incongruous materials would evoke irreconcilable tensions. After all, Bayazid Ansari (to his followers, Pir-i Rawshan, the “Enlightened Master”) had rebelled against the Mughal emperor Akbar and inaugurated a millenarian tradition declared heretical by virtually every Sufi of the Peshawar Valley. To most Sufis, he was more famous as Pir-i Tarik, the “Dark Master,” and according to Elphinstone, his following had all but disappeared by the early 1800s.64 But it appears that his works were still being reproduced by individuals who engaged Fazl Ahmad’s Mujaddidi discourses, suggesting that boundaries between orthodoxies and heterodoxies were far from clear-cut.65 Perhaps in this case the common thread of eschatology—with Fazl Ahmad representing Sirhindi’s own millenarian tradition—brought these apparently disparate works together. Finally, we see these texts operating together in some manuscripts. Several years after Fazl Ahmad’s death, his heir Fazl-i Haqq commissioned Nizam al-Din Ansari, son of the custodian of the shrine of Imam ‘Ali at Mazar-i

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Sharif, to compose a biography of his father.66 Nizam al-Din chose to insert Fazl Ahmad’s Risala within the biography. A generation later, Imam Muhammad Husayn Zakori, the son of Fazl Ahmad’s deputy at Dera Ismail Khan, produced another Mujaddidi biography, in which he also inserted the Risala, supplemented with his own discourses on the Sufi path. Remarkably, after copying Fazl Ahmad’s Risala, Imam Muhammad Husayn Zakori added: “Since Hazrat Sahib [Fazl Ahmad] has not included the Suhrawardi order in his Risala, this impoverished one, for the benefit of the wayfarers, will present [a section] from Makhzan al-Anwar of Hajji Khwaja Safiullah Mujaddidi.” A section of Makhzan was thus appended to the Risala as a natural continuation of Fazl Ahmad’s discussion on comparative practices. By the 1840s, the two texts were apparently recognized as compatible, both forming part of a larger transregional body of Sufi knowledge. It is indeed curious that these manuals—and others referenced in the previous section—were deemed so compatible despite experiential variations in the methodology and cosmology. How, for example, would a disciple of Fazl Ahmad feel comfortable using Khwaja Safiullah’s methodology when the location of the sirr (secret) subtle center was different by several finger widths, and the prophetic association too was different? We can speculate that the readership would have recognized the phenomenological nature of the disciplines.67 Regardless, the evidence demonstrates that practicing Sufis at the time were quite capable of flexibly appropriating what they found useful from supposedly distinct subtraditions. These manuals give us a window into the prevailing value systems and ethical premises of the eighteenth- and nineteenth-century Mujaddidi sacrocultural sphere. This provides a corrective to so many modern thinkers who have misinterpreted Sirhindi and the Mujaddidis as primarily political reformers. These manuals, the most reproduced works of their respective suborders, demonstrate that contemporary scholars and Sufis were primarily concerned with intellectual, moral, and spiritual development at the individual level, more than social or political reform. Within this worldview, shari‘a, jurisprudence, ethics, and etiquette were all necessary components of an ideal Muslim curriculum. But this curriculum aimed at realizing the potential of humanity as the vicegerent of God, and suprarational sciences were placed at its pinnacle. The process of the standardization and dissemination of the Mujaddidi framework made possible through these texts may also be seen as an extension of broader religious developments during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. This period witnessed a trend toward the standardization and widespread transfer of Islamic knowledge. Earlier in the eighteenth century, Lucknow’s Farangi Mahal madrasa drew up a new curriculum balancing the

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revealed and rational sciences. This curriculum, called the Dars-i Nizami, was then disseminated across Hindustan and even reached the Ottoman Empire. Around the same time at Delhi’s Madrasa Rahimiyya, Shah Waliullah institutionalized another prescribed syllabus that stressed hadith and employed a specific method of dialectics and textbook study.68 Looking beyond the Persianate world can also help us position these Mujaddidi handbooks in the broader history of religious efflorescence. In an attempt to interpret the nature of eighteenth-century sociointellectual currents in the Muslim world, in 1988 Albrecht Hofheinz proposed that eighteenth-century Sufi practices did not stray from earlier Sufi traditions. He argued instead that they were used in a broader context for much larger groups of people, resulting in institutionalization, increased literary output, and “emancipation from traditional authority.” Hofheinz drew an analogy to the European Christian Pietist movement, which emphasized individual piety through ascetic practices while employing new media like pamphlets and hymns for mass propagation.69 The Mujaddidi case no doubt bears some similarities. But, unlike Pietism, these handbooks suggest that Mujaddidi literary production and institutional growth was not premised on a reaction against traditional authority or legal scholasticism. Rather, the Mujaddidis brought earlier Sufi or juristic traditions under their canopy. This was a response to the sociopolitical realignments of the eighteenth century and a strategy to benefit from the opportunities accompanying imperial fragmentation and the emergence of new localized states in the decades either side of 1800. We might draw a closer parallel between this expansion of the Mujaddidi order in the late eighteenth century and the rise of institutionalized Tantric Buddhist esotericism that had occurred in the same region a thousand years earlier. As in the eighteenth century, that prior period witnessed rising feudalism and political decentralization. Key developments took place in response, including the growth of monastic institutions; the codification of rituals with complex mandala images; and the production of new, synthetic, esoteric texts that imparted methods of reciting mantras while still relying on firm master-disciple bonds. Like the later Mujaddidi khānaqāhs, the new Tantric institutions developed regional vernacular identities while establishing a core cosmology and set of practices. Also mirroring the Mujaddidi case, these institutions, texts, and practices ultimately facilitated the penetration of Tantric Buddhism from India to Central Asia and China, through many of the same routes traversed by Sufis like Fazl Ahmad.70

4 How Peshawar Revived Bukhara’s Sanctity

e

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he scholar-saint Mian Fazl Ahmad Ma‘sumi (1744–1816), popularly known as Hazrat Jio Sahib Peshawari, was among Sirhindi’s most exceptional spiritual descendants.1 Fazl Ahmad’s hidden caliphate spanned the region from Bukhara and the Ferghana Valley to Waziristan and Punjab. He attracted a range of adherents, including ascetics, celebrated scholars, and local rulers. The story of his network in many ways exemplifies mid-eighteenth-century Mujaddidi sublineages: migration from the Mughal heartlands; Durrani patronage; and a westward movement of saints, scholars, books, cosmologies, and blessings into Khurasan and Transoxiana. How was Fazl Ahmad able to tie together the social fabric of this politically disjointed region, and against what pressures? As we saw earlier, the half-century after Nadir Shah witnessed a regional reconsolidation both violent and vibrant, with ambitious state-building projects emerging throughout the Persianate world. Economic growth and improved transport infrastructure during this time provided Sufi orders with a modicum of stability. During the first half of the nineteenth century, reurbanization in regional capitals including Bukhara, Tashkent, Kabul, and Peshawar accelerated the expansion of Sufi networks, as did bureaucratization in some of the maturing states. However, internal and external pressures further eroded the remainder of Ahmad Shah Durrani’s empire, sporadically transforming Khurasan’s cities into theaters of tribal and factional politics. At the same time, British and Russian expansionism became a tangible

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reality—compromising the integrity of the region and fracturing the Mujaddidi hidden caliphates. Fazl Ahmad’s caliphate, like all such larger enterprises, was made up of many local entities, each with its own story, its own way of responding to the crises and opportunities of the nineteenth century. The next few chapters will explore five such stories—of Peshawar, Bukhara, Zakori, Khoqand, and Swat—for which nineteenth-century records survive, asking how the network’s economic and institutional fabric, along with the transregional authority of its scholar-saints, allowed it to adapt and reshape itself locally. We will see how the network was deployed for diplomacy and commerce; its capacity for managing center-periphery relations and rapid tribal military mobilization; how the exoteric scholars in Fazl Ahmad’s network were marshaled to articulate and preserve Sirhindian conceptions of Islamic orthodoxy; how the network worked with and incorporated local spiritual lineages to enhance its reach; and how it worked in partnership with rulers to evolve conceptions of sacred kingship. In each of these stories we will also see the inherent vulnerabilities of the network. The pressure of geopolitical transformations ultimately severed and devitalized it. Fazl Ahmad’s lineage practically disappeared by the early twentieth century, with only vestiges remaining today. His core khānaqāh at Peshawar never recovered from the Sikh occupation. Other Khurasani sublineages collapsed in the wake of the Afghan Amir ‘Abd alRahman’s catastrophic religious and economic policies. Since the Sufi network was largely sustained through Transoxiana-Hindustan trade circuits, it fell into trouble when these were drastically rerouted in the latter part of the century. And, with the demarcation of British and Russian spheres of influence, the khānaqāhs north of the Amu Darya were permanently cut off from the Peshawar circuit. But before we return to the network’s nodes, we will begin with the life story of their originator.

A Sirhindi Saint Goes West Fazl Ahmad, born into Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi’s family in 1744, was a product of the scholastically and spiritually active milieu of late Mughal Sirhind. Fazl Ahmad’s father Niyaz Ahmad was a descendant of Sirhindi’s older brother.2 His grandfather, Mir Safar Ahmad, was the author of a seminal Mujaddidi biography, Maqamat-i Ma‘sumi. Fazl Ahmad’s mother, Dilras Begum, also considered a saint, was of both Mujaddidi and Sayyid descent. Mujaddidi biographies sketch out interlocking physical and spiritual genealogies, reinforcing Fazl Ahmad’s connection to the Prophet Muhammad and to Sirhindi.

Ghulam Qadir d. 1271 / 1854 Bukhara

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Bukhara

Fazlullah

Fazlullah, Sirhind

Mir Safar, Sirhind

‘Ubaydullah, Sirhind

Muhammad Parsa, Sirhind

Fazl-i Haqq d. 1254 / 1838 Peshawar

d. 1231 / 1816

Peshawar

Fazl Mahmud

Hazrat Jio Peshawari

Fazl Ahmad Ma‘sumi

Niyaz Ahmad, Sirhind

Sh. ‘Abd al-Qadir, Sirhind

Naqshband-i Sani,Sirhind

Muhammad Rasa, Sirhind

Muhammad Amin, Sirhind

‘Abd al-Razzaq, Sirhind

Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi Kh. Muh. Ma‘sum, Sirhind

Khwaja ‘Abd al-Ahad

Figure 4.1  Genealogy of Fazl Ahmad Peshawari

Initiatic Genealogy

Khwaja Baqi Billah

Khoqand

Fazl Wahhab

Familial Genealogy Fazl Ahad d. 1286 / 1869 Khoqand

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For several years, Fazl Ahmad served Muhammad Rasa, both his Sufi master and maternal grandfather.3 Like other apprentices, he studied the revealed and rational sciences, including jurisprudence and scripture. He also received intensive training in advanced Mujaddidi Sufi practices. After the death of Muhammad Rasa, he studied the Chishti and Qadiri traditions for six months with Mir Sayyid ‘Abdullah Bukhari, also based in Sirhind.4 He obtained licenses and was assigned as the deputy of both teachers, then taught for several years at the khānaqāh in Sirhind.5 Piecing together a character sketch of the saint must be approached with caution. Like all biographies to some degree, the Sufi hagiographers offer their own personal observations and secondhand stories against the backdrop of ideals—in this case the examples of the Prophet and Sirhindi, so meticulously spelled out in their own biographical literature. With that said, Fazl Ahmad’s chief biographer, Nizam al-Din Ansari from Balkh, describes him as a man of “medium height, wheatish complexion, long nose, slender fingers, long beard, thick eyebrows, dark eyes, a handsome face, and well proportioned,” but “exceedingly thin” on account of fasting most days of the week.6 Like other contemporary Mujaddidi masters, he lived simply, ate simply, and wore plain white garments. In the biographies, Fazl Ahmad comes across as mild mannered, sociable, and cheerful, with a radiant personality and a keen sense of humor. He was deeply invested in community affairs, taking an interest in day-today issues faced by his disciples. His secretary ‘Abd al-Rahim recollected that Fazl Ahmad was a problem solver. He tried to avoid conflict wherever possible and sought pragmatic solutions. His disciples describe him as soft-spoken and measured in speech, but not detached and reclusive. We are told that in his youth, he manifested the quality of jalāl—literally, divine majesty, implying a harsh and even intimidating intensity. But later this turned into the divine quality of jamāl, or beauty, meaning that he exhibited tenderness, and rarely expressed anger. He could be emotional at times, as when hearing about the suffering or death of community members and friends. He was very particular on matters of adab, we are told, often training disciples on good behavior, whether in social interactions or in the etiquette of sitting in an assembly, but with good humor; several stories culminate with Fazl Ahmad smiling when the lesson was finally learned. He was famous for his magnanimity, distributing supplies to needy visitors. In one instance, mirroring other Sufi accounts, he even gave away his prayer mat and the shirt off his back to a traveler. Fazl Ahmad generously gifted land to scholars and poets for their subsistence, and one disciple was specifically commissioned to issue grant documentation.7

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Following Sirhindi, throughout his career Fazl Ahmad stressed the interdependence of Sufism and shari‘a in spiritual growth and ultimately, in attaining intimacy with the Prophet. Echoing eschatological themes, the biographies stress that Fazl Ahmad’s Mujaddidi pedagogy, grounding Sufism in shari‘a and the prophetic example, was most appropriate for this “time of chaos.”8 His disciples have left detailed firsthand accounts of his day, reflecting this ethos. He led a highly disciplined life, both ascetic and practical, sleeping only four hours a day. Lessons on Sirhindi’s Collected Letters were a core part of his curriculum. In between lessons and group meditation, Fazl Ahmad pursued his own spiritual practices, dealt with financial matters, and managed day-to-day affairs of the community.9 Like so many other Sufis, Fazl Ahmad’s family fled in the wake of the political crises and wars of the mid-eighteenth century. Both Fazl Ahmad’s father and brother were killed in battle against Sikh militias who eventually occupied Sirhind. One of his earliest recollections was set against the backdrop of a Sikh campaign: Fazl Ahmad related to his disciples that he was seated at the mouth of a well, reciting chapters from the Qur’an, when table 4.1  A Day in the Life of Fazl Ahmad Peshawari (from Imam Muhammad Husayn Zakori, Rawzat al-Awliya’, 185–188) Tahajjud (late night) Tahajjud prayers Post-tahajjud

Sleep, upon prayer mat

Fajr (pre-dawn)

Sunna prayer in house; leading compulsory congregational prayer at khānaqāh

Post-fajr

Murāqaba (guided meditation)

Sunrise

Qur’anic recitation; Ishrāq (sunrise) prayer Personalized tavajjuh with disciples (individualized meditation) Lessons and lectures on jurisprudence, Qur’anic commentary, and Prophetic traditions Brief siesta until afternoon prayer

Early afternoon

Leading communal prayers and additional recitations at mosque Lectures on aspects of jurisprudence Lecture on Sirhindi’s Collected Letters Meditation in seclusion chamber within his mosque

Late afternoon

Leading communal prayer Dam (faith healing) for disciples and broader community

Sunset

Leading prayers Breaking fast with disciples or family

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a Sikh warrior attacked him with a spear. He was divinely protected, and the spear was not able to penetrate him.10 In the mid-1760s, Fazl Ahmad migrated to Peshawar via Lahore, Sialkot, and Chhachh Hazara, accompanied by his mother and surviving family members.11 He established himself at a humble mosque in Peshawar’s Kaka Jama‘dar quarter.12 Here, he earned a favorable reputation among the people of the town by supplying vast quantities of free bread from his langar during a harsh drought. The biographies relate that during this time his circle of disciples grew exponentially, and he eventually inaugurated an independent khānaqāh near Yakatut gate in the southeast side of Peshawar (ca. 1770).13 The new khānaqāh was in a neighborhood that eventually came to be known as Muhalla Fazl-i Haqq, after Fazl Ahmad’s son Mian Fazl-i Haqq. In Fazl Ahmad’s khānaqāh, scholars from “Bukhara, Samarkand, Balkh, Kabul, Ghazni, Herat, Kashmir, and Badakhshan” eventually “received initiation into the Mujaddidi path, and often returned to their homelands to propagate the teachings.”14 In one case, we are told of a qutub, one of the great spiritual axes of the age, traveling six hundred kilometers from Multan to visit Fazl Ahmad.15

Khanaqah-i Fazl Ahmad

Madrasa-i Ganj Darvaza (Hafiz Daraz)

Peshawar figure 4.2 Fazl Ahmad’s khānaqāh at Yakatut Gate, Peshawar (Detail from the Thirty-Seventh Report of the Calcutta Corresponding Committee of the Church Missionary Society Being for the Year 1855 [Calcutta: Sanders, Cones & Co., 1856], with author labels)

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Peshawar’s distinctive position in the Durrani Empire allowed it to host a religio-scholastic infrastructure where ideas and pedagogies could gestate and travel northward. In the mid-1780s, Fazl Ahmad embarked upon the first of five journeys to Bukhara, via the Khyber Pass, Kabul, and Mazar-i Sharif, setting up khānaqāhs and teaching circles en route.16 Upon arriving in Bukhara, he established another khānaqāh, where the celebrated state-builder Shah Murad (r. 1785–1800) and his son and successor Amir Hayder (r. 1800–1826), in addition to numerous ulama and nobility, became his devoted disciples. Contemporary biographies tell us that by the end of his life, Fazl Ahmad’s disciples numbered in the thousands on both sides of the Amu Darya. His own travel route sheds light on how his network was able to permeate and link Khurasan and Transoxiana. Fazl Ahmad had extended

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stays in cities, towns, and villages en route to Bukhara and Peshawar like Kabul and Balkh, and the pilgrimage sites of Mazar-i Sharif and the shrine of Baha’ al-Din Naqshband outside Bukhara. These visits were an opportunity to guide students in person and to solidify and expand networks in each location.17 Ultimately, Fazl Ahmad appointed over six hundred deputies, evenly divided between Transoxiana and Khurasan, with several in the Punjab and other parts of Hindustan.18 Of these, at least 129 names, including five of his sons,19 can be gleaned from biographies.20 The sheer number of licenses issued and the appointment of multiple deputies in single locales distinguishes this sacred network from most others. Like Shah Waliullah, Fazl Ahmad was an institution builder. He apparently employed multiple teachers of esoteric sciences in his principal khānaqāhs, with the profile of these appointees illustrating the geographic and socioeconomic diversity of his students. They ranged from the rulers of Bukhara to the Afghan Imam Muhammad Raza, formerly a goatherd.21 By cultivating deputies with scholastic, literary, and lineage-based credentials from both urban and rural backgrounds, Fazl Ahmad ensured that his lineage would have broad-based appeal. The majority of these men had received a formal education in the religious sciences and were established preachers, jurists, and educators.22 Several were prolific writers and poets. Others were directors of important mosques and madrasas—such as Mawlana Asadullah, the instructor at the Kalabad Madrasa in Bukhara, or the apparently very tall Hafiz Daraz (d.1847), who managed one of Peshawar’s leading madrasas.23 Some were also hereditary members of other established Naqshbandi lineages, like the Juybari, Dahbidi, and Ahrari Khwajas of Transoxiana and the Hazarat of Shor Bazaar, Kabul, Qandahar, and Peshawar. Such appointments reinforced bonds between different subgroups of the greater order. The author of Fazl Ahmad’s principal biography, similarly, was a member of the Ansari family of Mazar-i Sharif and son of the custodian of the shrine attributed to Imam ‘Ali ibn Abu Talib.24 After Nadir Shah’s death, the Ansaris became the de facto governors of the most important shrine-state and sacred nucleus of the Amu Darya region and Transoxiana. As Fazl Ahmad’s circle grew, his khānaqāh complex become its own microcosmos. As in a cosmic map, sequential spheres radiated out from a garden in the center. In the early years of the khānaqāh, the garden featured at least one grave, dated 1184 hijri (1770–1771), marked by a spectacular carved marble stone—supposedly of Bukharan manufacture—of an unknown figure, Mir Muhammad Wali, now called the “Prince of Balkh.” Some say he came from Transoxiana to join Fazl Ahmad. The garden later

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became the site of Fazl Ahmad’s tomb, with its intricately carved wooden balusters and a wooden veranda where pigeons assembled. Close companions were later buried in the garden around the central shrine: the grave of the esteemed scholar Hafiz Daraz next to the “Prince of Balkh” to the west, along with several others now swallowed by urban sprawl; three deputies’ graves to the south; to the east the graves of his physician, as well as Lal Badishah and his family, Sayyids who may have accompanied Fazl Ahmad back from Bukhara. The next sphere was the surrounding walkway, which led northwest to Kochi Bazaar, west to Meena Bazaar and Sabza Mandi, and east to Ghalla Mandi. In other words, the principal old commercial centers of Peshawar were just minutes away. Today, as in the saint’s day, a narrow alley ascends from the garden northward, feeding into the main thoroughfare and leading straight to Yakatut Gate. Around the walkway to the east is the mosque, which appears prominently in the biographies (the building was said to weep when Fazl Ahmad left for Bukhara), and Fazl Ahmad’s modest home, which opened into the mosque courtyard. To the north, south, and west were the homes of Bukhari Sayyids.25 The bigger khānaqāhs like the one at Peshawar, along with smaller regional ones, became hubs for subnetworks. For example, the khānaqāh at Zakori in Dera Ismail Khan appointed deputies across the Afghan pastoral belt, between Dera Ismail Khan and Ghazni, and into Bannu and Yusufzai territories.26 Similarly, the Khānaqāh-i Sahibzada, inaugurated by Fazl Ahmad’s son Ghulam Qadir at Bukhara, appointed deputies in Tashkent, Kazan, and Siberia. Khānaqāhs and shrine complexes took a variety of forms, conforming to local requirements and architectural norms. Fazl Ahmad’s son Fazl Ahad’s khānaqāh at Khoqand was built in a popular nineteenth-century style patronized by the local Ming Uzbek kings. One of the more intriguing sublineages was founded by Mian Khuda Baksh, or Faqir Jhilli (d. 1860, supposedly at age 135), from Bhera in central Punjab—who apparently had jinns under his control—and his son-in-law, a Bukhari Sayyid. Their lineage still boasts a vibrant shrine culture, distinct from the other Naqshbandis but typical of their native area, now featuring Qawwali music performances, Punjabi poetry citing Fazl Ahmad, and pop art.27 As with other Mujaddidi lineages, Fazl Ahmad’s disciples could become deputies in multiple Sufi orders when they mastered the practices and knowledge associated with each path.28 Integrating multiple orders allowed for flexibility, enabling the Mujaddidis to incorporate an array of practices and philosophies and to bring formerly distinct Sufi communities within the Mujaddidi umbrella. This ultimately helped foster cohesive transregional networks like that of Fazl Ahmad.

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At Peshawar With Peshawar’s position as an important Mughal entrepôt, the Mujaddidi order gained a foothold there soon after its emergence in Sirhind. Sayyid Adam Binori, one of Sirhindi’s principal successors, had several deputies who settled in the region, including Nur Muhammad Peshawari, Hajji Bahadur of Kohat, and Hajji Muhammad Isma‘il Ghuri Naqshbandi, who disseminated Mujaddidi teachings across the Peshawar Valley in the late seventeenth century. And another of Binori’s famous deputies in Punjab, Shaykh Sa‘di Lahori, initiated some of Peshawar’s eminent religious leaders into the order.29 Since Peshawar had not undergone the same depopulation and devastation as Kabul and Qandahar, respectively, in the eighteenth century, the order was able to gradually expand and mature. It was, therefore, able to leverage from the living legacies of regional Sufi luminaries, the beloved saints of the Afghans like Pir Baba Buner (d. 1583), Akhund Darviza, and Panju Sahib (d. 1636).30 Fortunately, even Nadir Shah’s invasion did not drastically destabilize the Peshawar Valley. His forces had occupied Peshawar but let the Mughal governor Nasir Khan retain his position as the governor of Peshawar and Kabul. Administrative continuity allowed for an easy transition from Mughal to Afsharid to Durrani hegemony.31 Especially following the Durrani occupation in 1747, the Peshawar Valley become a direct beneficiary of the political turmoil in the Mughal heartlands. Sufis from across Hindustan, including many Mujaddidis, fled in waves and transplanted themselves in the cities and even tribal areas.32 Ahmad Shah Durrani also offered land and stipends to local Sufis and jurists within the valley to expand their own institutions.33 Famously, on his return from his campaigns in Hindustan, he issued parcels of lands in the Peshawar Valley, Bajaur, and elsewhere to Pir ‘Umar of Chamkanni, a village seven kilometers east of Peshawar, from whom he had earlier sought blessings. Until the twentieth century, the Chamkanni lineage reported the largest landholdings in Pakistan’s Northwest Frontier Province.34 The situation became even more promising after the 1770s, when Timur Shah Durrani chose Kabul and Peshawar as his dual capitals. The sister cities profited from a rejuvenated north-south trade, and accordingly, land grants to Sufis mushroomed. Peshawar became the regional nerve center for scholarship. An 1855 Missionary Society report related that “for many generations” Peshawar “has held its place as the religious capital of these countries, and the centre of Mahomedan learning and education. Questions of a religious character are sent from Caboul, and the neighbouring countries to be decided here; and large numbers of students still flock

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together from all parts for instruction, and live in the mosques supported by the charity of the people, whilst they are taught without any charge by the Moolahs.”35 So, under the Durranis, Fazl Ahmad acquired regular streams of revenue to finance his khānaqāhs and more than cover operating expenses. These included food distribution, stipends, lodging costs for students, and provisions for travelers and the needy. From the “kings of Khurasan,” we are told, Fazl Ahmad received an annual stipend (in the form of madad-i ma‘āsh, or rent-free land to scholars) of thirty thousand rupees,36 plus twenty thousand rupees in the form of jāgīrs, or land grants (presumably converted khālis.a lands, which were administered directly by the state).37 Hafiz Muhammad Fazil Khan, who traveled across the Amu Darya in 1812 with the East India Company’s agent Mir ‘Izzatullah, observed that one of Balkh’s profitable irrigation channels was named after Fazl Ahmad’s son, Ghulam Qadir.38 The income of the channel had been allocated by the king Mahmud Shah Durrani (r. 1801–1803, 1809–1818) to the Sirhindi saints. Several other Durrani princes who regularly visited the khānaqāh may have also financed Fazl Ahmad. Durrani investment and the westward migration of Hindustan’s scholarly classes generated closely knit Sufi networks. Disciples set up madrasas and khānaqāhs that provided esoteric and exoteric education, venues for theological debate and literary production and reproduction, and an array of basic social services. In these institutions, philosophies and pedagogies from across Hindustan and Khurasan had the opportunity to coalesce, ready for onward travel to Transoxiana’s open markets. These lineages were intimately connected with several (now legendary) sociopolitical movements among the Afghans. Among Fazl Ahmad’s disciples was ‘Abd al-Ghafur (the “Akhund of Swat,” d. 1878), the anticolonial spiritual leader and de facto ruler of the Swat valley,39 while another disciple and deputy was Sayyid Amir al-Utmanzai (the “Kotah Mullah,” d. 1877), who vied with the Akhund for influence over the valley.40 Fazl Ahmad also appointed several Sufis from Khwaja Safiullah’s Peshawar-Kabul-Qandahar-based lineage as deputies—meaning that the two leading Durrani Mujaddidi lineages were interconnected, probably even sharing disciples. While in Kabul, Fazl Ahmad also stayed at Khwaja Safiullah’s Shor Bazaar khānaqāh, and his disciples retained their association with this khānaqāh over several generations.41 Fazl Ahmad’s deputies included several outstanding jurist-theologians of Peshawar, whose madrasas and mosques became satellites of his khānaqāh.42 Of note were Hafiz Daraz and Hafiz Muhammad ‘Azim (d. 1859), who challenged the Mujahidin movement of Sayyid Ahmad of Rae Bareli (d. 1831).

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Babaji Sahib Jhanda d. 1884

Hafiz Shu‘ayb Tordher d. 1232/1816

Hazrat Muhammad Siddiq

Shaykh Junayd Peshawari b. 1069/1658

Shaykh Ahmad Daudzai Qadiri Multan, d. 1712

Akhund of Swat d. 1295/1877

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d. 1275/1859

Hafiz ‘Azim

Nur Muhammad Peshawar d. 1059/1649

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Pir ‘Umar Chamkanni d. 1190/1776

M. Isma‘il Ghuri

Hazratji Attock

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Hafiz M. Ahsan Daraz d.1263/1847

Fazl Ahmad Peshawari d. 1231/1816

‘Abd al-Ghafur Peshawari d. 1112/1704

Nur Muhammad Peshawari d. 1059/1649

Sayyid Amir Kotah d. 1295/1877

Fazl-i Haqq Peshawari d. 1254/1838

Haji Bahadur Kohat d. 1099/1688

Mian Qazi Idris Qandahari

Hazratji Qandahari d. 1214/1799

Hazratji Peshawari d. 1175/1761

Figure 4.3  Cross-section of the principal Naqshbandi-Mujaddidi lineages (with Qadiri, Chishti, and Suhrawardi affiliations) of the Peshawar Valley, late 17th–19th centuries

Mian ‘Abd al Hayy, Sindh (Hyderabad)

Shaykh Sa‘di Lahori, Lahore d. 1696

Shaykh Adam Binori d. 1053/1644

Hazarat of Qandahar, Peshawar, and Shor Bazar Kabul

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Commerce, Diplomacy, and Sainthood Aside from furnishing Peshawar’s scholastic and religious foundations, Fazl Ahmad and his contemporaries played other critical roles in bringing coherence to a region where governance was highly decentralized. The antiquarian-cum-military defector-cum English agent Charles Masson noted that caravans through the Khyber would be accompanied by holy men who, acknowledged by tribal authorities, could negotiate safe passage and tolls: At this day [1840s], it is possible for a kaffeela [caravan] to pass, by first sending a Syud or some such person to the principal men, when an agreement is adjusticed. It is usually stipulated to pay one rupee for every person on foot, and two rupees for every horse or beast of burden—yet so many instances of perfidy, have occurred, that few kafillas unless particularly strong chose to venture and if they do, they are so anxious to clear the durrad, that they do not halt in it, even for the purpose of cooking victuals.43

Masson in fact pointed out that, given security constraints, certain trade routes could only be traversed accompanied by Sufi masters. Likewise, Mountstuart Elphinstone noted a caravan from Kabul to Bukhara led by a “Sahebzadda [saint] of Sirhind.”44 Though Fazl Ahmad’s biographies do not explicitly mention commerce, the personal recollections of his secretary, ‘Abd al-Rahim Peshawari, point to his ambitious commercial and financial enterprises.45 Many of his narratives are in fact set against the backdrop of caravan journeys. We are told that when Fazl Ahmad initially traveled to Peshawar from Sirhind he was joined by the tribes of Chhachh-Hazara (near today’s Attock), who became his followers. Although the biography is sparing in detail, this suggests that Fazl Ahmad was selected to lead an Afghan nomadic powinda caravan during its annual migration from the Hazara region into Khurasan. ‘Abd al-Rahim related another instance that found Fazl Ahmad traveling with a caravan from Peshawar to Kabul. Much to his surprise, the caravan was molested by Afghan tribesman. “It was unusual,” ‘Abd al-Rahim noted, “that Afghans would trouble the caravan in the presence of the saint.” Apparently, they recognized their mistake; shortly thereafter, a tribal leader arrived with a hundred horsemen to safely escort the caravan through the Khyber. In a later story, we are told that a deputy had been explicitly sent by Fazl Ahmad to lead a caravan into Hindustan.46 The association of saints and caravans was not solely a matter of mutual security. The road traversed by Fazl Ahmad and his disciples was a central artery of the north-south trade route through Russia, Transoxiana, and Hindustan. These were the very same highways taken by the Shikarpuri Hindu merchant families. In fact, one of Fazl Ahmad’s messengers between

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Peshawar and Bukhara was a Hindu merchant of Shikarpur.47 Pilgrimage sites frequented by Fazl Ahmad and his disciples, like those of Khwaja Baha’ al-Din Naqshband and Imam ‘Ali at Mazar-i Sharif, hosted fairs, venues for commercial activities.48 Several of Fazl Ahmad’s disciples were personally involved in the sale and transfer of merchandise, like the Naqshbandi Juybari Sufis of Bukhara in previous centuries. We are told that one deputy traveled from Muzaffarabad in Kashmir to Peshawar every year or two, carrying gifts for Fazl Ahmad, including a maund (about one hundred pounds) of walnut oil, a quantity clearly intended for sale or distribution.49 Most of the biographical stories involving travel or commerce draw attention to the dangers of the journey, whether thievery, banditry, or criminality among tribal populations.50 Managing trade and transferring significant amounts of capital in a time of chronic insecurity was far from straightforward. It required sophisticated communications and financial mechanisms, coupled with transregional secretarial functions. The revenues from Fazl Ahmad’s lands in disparate locales from the Peshawar Valley, Jalalabad, Laghman, and Mazar-i Sharif to Bukhara needed to be transferred rapidly to finance the operation of khānaqāhs and madrasas hundreds of kilometers away. Fazl Ahmad’s letters and biographies, accordingly, indicate that he appointed several individuals to manage widespread communication, trade, and financial activities. For instance, Imam Raza Zakori managed the caravan trade from Peshawar to the Derajat plains into Khurasan, while Fazl Ahmad’s sons and trusted disciples were deputed to deliver correspondence between the court of Bukhara and Peshawar. His secretary ‘Abd al-Rahim Peshawari was tasked with preparing deeds for the transfer and sale of land (such as subgrants to disciples), managing construction on his property, and collecting land revenues. In one case, he specifically traveled to the Derajat to collect revenues on land granted by Mahmud Shah Durrani. The revenues from this grant, he explained, were reserved for Fazl Ahmad’s kin, for “scholars and Sufis, and widows and orphans.”51 ‘Abd al-Rahim was also responsible for settling disputes, often concerning financial matters. In a specific instance, he acted as Fazl Ahmad’s vakīl or representative in a dispute over a village that had been gifted by Mahmud Shah but claimed by another party.52

Fazl Ahmad’s networks along the interregional highways, and his widespread spiritual reputation, positioned him as a natural mediator, a fiber connecting rulers, traders, religious figures, and even foreign agents.53 His diplomatic services were a vital component of the contemporary religious economy. Services went far beyond assisting merchants—the shrines and

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khānaqāhs in this network often became safehouses and neutral spaces where political negotiations could take place. Although Fazl Ahmad had political alignments, his general ethos, as presented in the primary sources, was one of impartiality, as befits the diplomatic and mediatory function of the Mujaddidi masters. This strategic neutrality is enshrined within the Mujaddidis’ own biographical and theological textual tradition. To provide an example, ‘Abd al-Rahim recollected the following somewhat embarrassing episode: Sometime near the end of Timur Shah Durrani’s reign, I was told to visit the governor of Peshawar, who at the time was a [Shi‘a] Qizilbash. When I approached him with my request, however, the governor was displeased. For an hour, we quarreled, exchanging harsh words, eventually addressing each other with the pronoun “tū” [meaning “you,” rather than the respectful pronoun shumā]. My meeting with him certainly did not go well. I returned and told the shaykh [Fazl Ahmad] what had transpired. He scolded me: “You are at fault for using the word ‘tū.’” Upon which I responded: “Well, he, likewise used the word ‘tū.’” The shaykh again replied: “He is the governor; did you not say you are a faqīr?” “He is a Qizilbash heretic!” I exclaimed. He then said: “Imam Rabbani [Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi] addressed epistles to a Hindu. The title of the epistles is such and such. In both cases he referred to the Hindu using the pronoun ‘shumā.’ The governor is certainly not a non-believer and calls himself a Muslim. He performs the Friday prayer. He follows the precepts of the shari‘a. Well, what has happened, has happened. Now do not go there again. He will call upon you.” And the next day, the governor sent a man to see me. Fazl Ahmad instructed me that I should first perform istikhāra prayer [the prayer of guidance], and then go to see the governor, but that I should not use ‘tū’ in any circumstances. When I came to the governor, he was most gracious, and apologetic for what had passed between us. In the end, my request was fulfilled.54

This story is meaningful on several fronts. First, we learn about latent communal tensions in Peshawar during the Durrani period. Popular resentment against the Shi‘a Qizilbash elite probably needed to be managed by the political and religious leadership. Second, Fazl Ahmad explicitly stated that the Shi‘a constitute neither nonbelievers nor apostates, on the basis of their adherence to shari‘a. Third, he relied on Sirhindi’s discourses to advise his disciple to maintain proper etiquette in intercommunal interactions, even in the face of irreconcilable theological differences (i.e., Hinduism and Islam). This is particularly surprising, since in these letters Sirhindi harshly critiques Hinduism; in recent years, the very same letters have been cited to argue for an inherently intolerant Mujaddidi ethos. But

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figure 4.4  Muhalla Fazl-i Haqq (Photo by Waleed Ziad)

this episode’s etiquette, widely applied, would have provided Mujaddidi Sufis like Fazl Ahmad with a competitive advantage in navigating interethnic and intercommunal difference throughout the Persianate cosmopolis. Indeed, this complete package of diplomatic, educational, and economic services allowed this Mujaddidi lineage ease of entry into Transoxiana.

At the “Dome of Islam” On account of its ancient scholastic and sacred heritage, Fazl Ahmad’s second base of operations was known as the “Dome as Islam,” the “Abode of Glory,” and “Bukhara the Noble.” Like Peshawar, the city offered

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ample opportunities for scholars under the patronage of the Manghit Uzbek khans, notably Shah Murad (r. 1785–1800), who struggled to reassert Bukhara’s position as the political and educational center of Transoxiana.55 Durrani Khurasan served as an ideal springboard for these developments. With its age-old reputation as a seat of learning, Bukhara had spent the previous two centuries cultivating a unique model of ChinggisidPersian sacred kingship, emphasizing personal commitments to mystical praxis, scholarship, and sober asceticism, a role that Shah Murad consciously embodied. Several pre-Mujaddidi Naqshbandi lineages had historically dominated the religious and scholastic landscape of Bukhara, notably the Dahbidi Khwajas, the progeny of the Naqshbandi saint Makhdum-i ‘Azam (d. 1542), and the Juybari Khwajas, descended from Muhammad Islam Juybari (d. 1563), a disciple of Makhdum-i ‘Azam. Throughout the seventeenth, eighteenth, and nineteenth centuries, the official position of Shaykh al-Islam of Bukhara was reserved for the Juybaris.56 As in Peshawar, however, the Mujaddidi branch of the Naqshbandi order had been introduced to Bukhara within the first generation after Sirhindi. Hajji Habibullah (d. 1699–1700), a disciple of Sirhindi’s son, Khwaja Muhammad Ma‘sum, was one of the first to propagate the order. Nevertheless, the Mujaddidis had trouble taking root.57 The order’s initial entry placed it in direct conflict with Bukhara’s entrenched religious elites. According to the Mujaddidi hagiography Rawzat al-Qayyumiyya, Hajji Habibullah was dispatched to Bukhara by Khwaja Muhammad Ma‘sum specifically to dispel criticisms of the Mujaddidi path that had already taken hold in Bukhara prior to his arrival. We are told that he faced fierce opposition, to the extent that he was even accused of blaspheming the prophets! At one stage, a large crowd gathered to apprehend him, eventually dispelled by the forces of the Ashtarkhanid ruler ‘Ubaydullah Khan (r. 1702–1711). This episode may have represented a chapter of the Bukharan khan’s ongoing struggle against the tribal aristocracies allied with the Juybari Khwajas. Hajji Habibullah and the Mujaddidi order would likely have been promoted by the Bukharan state to offset older lineages with tribal affiliations, the same process happening concurrently in Sindh and elsewhere.58 Transoxiana also suffered sustained political and environmental crises in the first half of the eighteenth century. The result was large-scale deurbanization and the degeneration of the scholastic apparatus of Bukhara. Then, in 1740, Nadir Shah’s occupation of Bukhara dealt a crippling blow to the Chinggisid Ashtarkhanid dynasty. The Ashtarkhanid khans, who controlled only the immediate environs of the city of Bukhara, were effectively replaced by their Uzbek royal tutors from the Manghit tribe. These

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early Manghit rulers began to reconsolidate Bukhara’s power, subdue recalcitrant tribes and provincial potentates, and rebuild and repopulate the city. They also renewed patronage to Bukhara’s Sufis and intelligentsia. Many took the opportunity to travel via the now-reinvigorated trade routes to study with Mujaddidi masters and scholars in Durrani territories.59 After completing studies in Peshawar, Kashmir, or Kabul, they often returned to Bukhara. Notably, Musa Khan, a Naqshbandi Dahbidi Khwaja (d. 1776), traveled to Durrani Kashmir in the mid-eighteenth century and received a license in the Mujaddidi order from Muhammad ‘Abid Sanami, a descendant of Sirhindi. Equipped with a new corpus of Mujaddidi teachings, he returned to Transoxiana, and the Dahbidis henceforth became a Mujaddidi lineage. After the 1770s, many Sufis from Transoxiana also came to Kabul, like Niyaz Quli Turkmen (d. 1820–1821). He studied with wellregarded master Fayz Khan at Kabul’s Masjid-i Uzbekan, which catered to students from Transoxiana and the Volga and Kama regions deeper into Russia. On returning to Bukhara, Niyaz Quli established an exemplary madrasa (the impressive gateway that still survives is now known as the Chor Minor).60 Concurrently, several Hindustani Sufis and scholars also traveled northward and established khānaqāhs in Bukhara. Through this process, older lineages in Transoxiana were gradually subsumed under the Mujaddidi umbrella.61 However, during the reign of Daniyal Ataliq (r. 1758–1785), the khanate of Bukhara once again began to crumble. Later chronicles describe a period of rampant corruption, with madrasas having fallen into decay. It was at this stage that Fazl Ahmad came to Bukhara, arriving two or three years after Shah Murad’s accession and establishing himself at the historic Mirakan mosque in a quarter of the same name near Qarakul gate. The street hosting Fazl Ahmad’s mosque and khānaqāh eventually became known as Guzar Mian, “Mian’s lane,” referring to the saint’s epithet.62 Fazl Ahmad was fortunate to be awarded the Mirakan, as it factored prominently in the spiritual landscape of the city throughout the Shaybanid, Ashtarkhanid, and Manghit periods. Khanykov, who came to Bukhara in 1841–1842, listed “Mir Akan” as one of the eight principal “Maschidi Juma” (Friday congregational mosques) of the city. Two decades later, another traveler, Armenius Vambery, mentioned it as one of Bukhara’s four notable mosques.63 The institution was situated on the southern edge of Bukhara, a convenient half hour by foot from the royal fort. It was located in a newer neighborhood that hosted several khānaqāhs and shrines of prominent eighteenth-century Sufis of Bukhara. The Mirakan college dated back to the seventeenth century and was associated with the Mirakan Khwajas of Samarkand and Bukhara, among the

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principal spiritual lineages of the two cities.64 As such, it was remarkably well endowed; a mid-seventeenth-century record specifies just two grants amounting to 160 and 500 .tanābs (approximately 3,600 square meters), located in two districts in the vicinity of Bukhara.65 This early endowment document shows that it was granted a multifunctional designation: “masjid [mosque] madrasa-i Mirakan, known as khānaqāh,” and in nineteenth-century sources, it continued to be referred to by all three terms.66 Like other Sufi institutions in Bukhara, it clearly served all three purposes. The architecture and layout of the Mirakan made it adaptable for various specialized requirements of the Mujaddidi order. According to the records, it comprised two separate enclosed structures: a mosque-madrasa and a khānaqāh located to the west, both constructed of mud brick.67 The mosque-madrasa was located on the main street within the quarter, surrounded by residential complexes. It featured a courtyard, where prayers were held, and a single-story arcade lining the courtyard, probably with central īwāns, or vaulted portals, on each side. Friday prayers and sermons could draw diverse audiences from the southern quarters of the city and beyond. Fazl Ahmad often appointed one of his deputies as imam to deliver the Friday sermons. Cells around the courtyard served as living quarters and spaces for guests to dine and rest. Biographies also mention a separate langarkhāna, or soup kitchen, which served the indigent of Bukhara, disciples, and travelers. The Mirakan also featured private and semiprivate spaces for the saint. The courtyard cells included spaces where Fazl Ahmad could meet his guests. There was also a seclusion chamber, or chillakhāna, located within the mosque space, which could house at least five people. Fazl Ahmad performed his own spiritual practices here daily. It also served as a space for imparting advanced Sufi practices such as murāqaba to students, or for extended seclusions. Finally, Fazl Ahmad’s home was located in one of the residential buildings adjacent to the mosque. Occasionally, disciples were invited to his house for further discussions on esoteric topics.68 The Ascetic Sovereign It was at the Mirakan that Fazl Ahmad initiated the young ruler, Shah Murad. Shah Murad had already been introduced to the Mujaddidi path. Offering an idealized depiction of the ruler, the Uzbek royal chronicles and Mujaddidi hagiographies relate the following narrative. From a young age, Shah Murad had expressed a commitment to Sufism and religious scholarship and was initiated into the Mujaddidi order under Shaykh Safar (d. ca. 1785). Shaykh Safar belonged to the earliest Bukharan Mujaddidi lineage of Hajji Habibullah Bukhari. After his initiation, the

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young prince sought only the company of Sufis and learned men. He abandoned all trappings of royalty and engaged in manual labor. According to one narrative, he refused to accept the mantle of kingship until pressured by the community to assume the position and rectify the ills of his father’s reign. Two or three years after his accession, in 1200 / 1787–1788, Shah Murad was initiated by Fazl Ahmad. Shah Murad, we are told, would attend Fazl Ahmad’s assembly every morning and evening, spending several hours in the khānaqāh.69 From the outset, according to the hagiographies, the king was attentive to his master’s requests on matters of religion. Akhund Mullah Asadullah, a teacher at the prominent Kulabad madrasa in Bukhara, and deputy of Fazl Ahmad, relates a revealing episode that occurred on his master’s first visit to the city. Fazl Ahmad heard Qur’anic recitation delivered by the students of a certain Mullah Nazar Baqi Qari and concluded that there was a technical mistake. Looking into this further, he soon discovered that this mistake was being repeated by reciters across the city. He summarily reminded Shah Murad, as “protector of the recitation of the word of God,” that it was his duty to rectify this error. The king obliged, holding an inquiry. We can infer that Fazl Ahmad saw it as his duty to reform religious knowledge and practices of a city that had suffered scholastic and religious decline. Although this inquiry was initially unfavorably received by Bukhara’s scholars, it would have established Fazl Ahmad’s expertise in the religious sciences.70 The Mujaddidi sources go on to explain that eventually the young king excelled in tavajjuh and other practices. Consequently, he, and later his son Amir Hayder, were appointed among Fazl Ahmad’s deputies, with permission to guide students on the Sufi path.71 Cementing bonds yet further, Shah Murad presented his daughter in marriage to Fazl Ahmad’s son, Mian Fazlullah.72 The presence of Fazl Ahmad and his contemporaries amplified a preexisting ethos of divinely guided kingship in Bukhara.73 Shah Murad’s conspicuous patronage of esoteric and exoteric education reinforces this point; he also initiated judicial, fiscal, administrative, and legal reforms to strengthen the shari‘a and “eliminate unlawful innovations.” Activities like gambling, alcohol, and tobacco were likewise purged. He repealed all taxes, duties, and tolls except the religiously stipulated zakat and ‘ushr (land tax), and actively promoted trade, enriching Bukhara as a commercial hub connecting Russia, China, and Khurasan. Additionally, he replaced the darbār (court) with a council of forty ulama.74 Shah Murad’s support of Mujaddidi institutions as a part of his reforms certainly served his state-building aims. It would have helped legitimate his rule in Islamic terms, particularly since he, as a Manghit Uzbek, did not

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hail from the historically recognized lineage of Genghis Khan. At the personal level, the king also modeled himself in the image of the Sufi-scholar. He retained the habit of a dervish; wrote treatises, including a book on jurisprudence; made his living through sewing and embroidery; and reserved only four dirhams a day for his family expenses. He even supposedly made himself accessible to the population, giving “audience daily to all comers.”75 From Shah Murad’s reign onward, a modified model of sacred kingship emerged. Conscious of their non-Chinggisid origins, the Manghits synthesized Persianiate models and steppe traditions within a Mujaddidi ethical consciousness. They specifically alluded to the Mujaddidi conception of renewal of the shari‘a, through a focus on both inner and outer dimensions of the faith. Later court chronicles often begin entries on the reign of Shah Murad with the prophetic tradition of tajdīd, the centennial renewal of the faith through a mujaddid, or renewer.76 Shah Murad is referred to explicitly as the mujaddid of the century. These chronicles present the reign of his father, Daniyal, as an archetypal period of decline and disorder. Subsequently, after meeting a dervish, Shah Murad assumes the throne, appropriately in the year 1200, and revives the sunna. The ideal king is still the Perso-Turkic empire builder, administrator, and military commander. But to this is added the humble Mujaddidi scholarascetic who walks the streets with his head low, simply dressed, carrying a walking stick; gives daily lectures on exegesis, law, and doctrine; and guides his own students in advanced meditative practices. He is the accessible ally of the masses, the Sufi miracle worker (the dust of whose grave has healing qualities), and a magnanimous patron of khānaqāhs and madrasas, a king who stripped off the gold from Amir Timur’s mausoleum in Samarkand and donated the proceeds to scholars and Sufis. The Mujaddidis themselves embraced these Bukharan ideals of kingship and sainthood as embodied by Shah Murad. In hagiographies from Fazl Ahmad’s and other lineages, Shah Murad was the exemplary dervish-king conforming to a Sirhindian model, a benchmark for other rulers of the age.77 Shah Murad patronized education to such an extent that Bukhara again became a regional seat of learning. Under his son, Amir Hayder, the state supported several thousand students.78 In particular, institutions associated with the Mujaddidis flourished. Shah Murad generously supported Fazl Ahmad and his deputies’ institutions not just in Bukhara but also in Peshawar and elsewhere. As with the Durranis, support comprised fixed monthly stipends, annual donations, direct land grants, and land revenue assignments, as well as charitable endowments assigned to specific institutions. Fazl Ahmad and his sons received revenue from land in Bukhara, Kasbi,

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Balkh, and Qarshi, in addition to other regions. They further expanded his capital through the purchase, sale, and lease of mills in Transoxiana.79 As Bukhara’s madrasa and khānaqāh infrastructure rapidly developed, the Durrani state began providing stipends for students to study there.80 Elphinstone mentions that as of 1808, an extensive scholastic exchange existed between Peshawar and Bukhara. At the time of his visit to Peshawar, still more students were coming from Bukhara to Peshawar than vice versa.81 Fazl Ahmad’s institutions formed part of this exchange. With the scholastic and economic opportunities generated by Shah Murad, Fazl Ahmad also became a nexus through which scholars from well-established religious and intellectual centers in Hindustan and Khurasan could interface with scholars from Bukhara and Transoxiana at large.82 It is no coincidence that several of his companions who taught for extended periods of time in Transoxiana were natives of chief towns in the Punjab, notably Sialkot, an important economic and literary center from Emperor Akbar’s time onward. The city had a reputation for theology and hadith studies, producing well-recognized scholars, some of whom taught revealed and rational sciences to Mujaddidi Sufis. These included the polymath ‘Abd al-Hakim Sialkoti, who had produced a Persian translation of the compilation of legal opinions, Fatawa-i Alamgiri, which inspired Shah Murad’s Bukharan fatwa collection. Other figures were Fazil Lahori, who first endowed Sirhindi with the title “Mujaddid-i Alf Sani,” and the hadith scholar Mullah Afzal Sialkoti, who taught both Shah Waliullah and Mirza Mazhar Jan-i Janan.83 Within Transoxiana, accomplished scholars from such Mughal college towns were in high demand. Fazl Ahmad’s network indicates that at this time, the overall movement of human capital was westward. Although Fazl Ahmad’s Khurasani and Hindustani disciples often settled in Transoxiana, we do not hear of any of his students from Transoxiana moving permanently east in the capacity of deputies—a trend all too common in the early part of the eighteenth century and before. Disciples from Transoxiana, did, on occasion, join Fazl Ahmad in his journeys to Peshawar and stayed for extensive periods of time at his khānaqāh, only to return to teach in Transoxiana.84 A shared Persian language, and its corresponding religio-cultural modalities and symbols, ensured that the credentials of deputies from Hindustan and Khurasan would be recognized across Transoxiana. Fazl Ahmad appointed several Punjabi and Peshawari deputies at Balkh, Samarkand, Bukhara, Aqcha, Khiva, and Khoqand. Some of the Punjabi migrants were even acknowledged as native saints of Transoxiana within their lifetimes. Among them was La‘l Beg Samarkandi, from Qasba Darvish in Punjab, whose grave, along with his son’s, became locally revered shrines in

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Samarkand.85 In regions where the Persian language was not commonly understood, securing a foothold could naturally be challenging. An early biography relates the unfortunate story of Qazi Ghulam Husayn of Wazirabad, Punjab, who was appointed at Khiva. Distressed, he left soon after his arrival, as the people spoke neither Persian nor Hindustani.86 Interlocking Lineages Eventually, Fazl Ahmad’s lineage became deeply embedded within both Peshawar and Bukhara’s Mujaddidi networks. The hagiographies make it clear that he and his contemporaries perceived themselves as parts of an integrated Mujaddidi tradition. Consciously, they forged initiatory and marriage ties and absorbed practices and literature of their contemporaries.87 For example, Fazl Ahmad married into the family of Habibullah Bukhari, and in 1814, his grandson, Fazl Rahim, was even buried in Habibullah’s funerary complex.88 This effectively generated interlocking lineages and sacred spaces with Bukhara’s oldest Mujaddidi branch. Relations between Fazl Ahmad’s lineage and the Dahbidis were particularly extensive. Hagiographies of both lineages generally treat the other with reverence. At least four of Fazl Ahmad’s principal deputies in Bukhara were also initiated by Musa Khan Dahbidi and his successors. In one of his discourses, Fazl Ahmad specifically praises the spiritual stature of Musa Khan and the high caliber of his students.89 In the presence of entrenched local lineages, Fazl Ahmad’s spiritual and familial descent from Sirhindi was integral in establishing his place in Bukhara. He was one of few direct descendants to settle in the city at this time. For several generations, he and his family were known by the distinctly Hindustani titles s.āh.ibzāda or mian. (Even in Khoqand today, people living in the vicinity of his son’s khānaqāh are aware of the family’s Peshawar origins and descent from Sirhindi.) As such, he was positioned to enhance and revive the religious sciences in the city, while reinforcing Mujaddidi ontology, specifically through daily lessons on the Collected Letters. There were also moments of serious tension between disciples of other lineages and Fazl Ahmad’s. But although multiple initiations may have generated difficulties, Fazl Ahmad’s hagiographical narrative reinforces that earlier lineages passed on disciples to him legitimately, by spiritual consent of the masters. A story about a certain Damullah90 ‘Adil, for example, illustrates this phenomenon: I was previously a disciple of Hafiz Khudayar. At the time of his death, he entrusted me to his disciple, Damullah Qawzi, who trained me for a year. One

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day, Damullah Qawzi informed me that Hazrat Ishan [Fazl Ahmad] has arrived from Peshawar to Bukhara. “I will take you to him and entrust you to him; an order to this effect has been spiritually communicated to me from Hafiz Khudayar.” But this was unacceptable to me. I told him: “I am your disciple. Why are you turning me over to another?” Some days later, I made the pilgrimage to the shrine of Khwaja Baha’ al-Din Naqshband (may God sanctify his secret), accompanied by my teacher Damullah Qawzi, and Akhund Mullah Nafs Bukhari, who was a disciple of Akhund Mullah [Safar, Shah Murad’s first spiritual guide]. And Hazrat Ishan [Fazl Ahmad] had also come to the shrine, and was seated in the h.ujra [room] of the mosque of the shrine. Mullah Nafs and I paid our respects to him, and summarily left the room. Hazrat Damullah Qawzi, however, remained seated next to Hazrat Ishan. We then began to reflect upon whether or not we should become his disciples. At night we made ablutions and prayed the istikhāra prayer, and went to sleep. At that point, I saw that both Hafiz Khudayar and Mullah Safar were present with me. They sternly rebuked me and Mullah Nafs: “Oh beloved fools, they are one and one is them, and arise so that we take you to Hazrat Ishan.” These two saints then took our hands and brought us to the grave of Khwaja Buzurg [Naqshband], and thereupon entrusted us to Hazrat Ishan [Fazl Ahmad]. They said: “We are offering these two spiritual sons of ours to you in servitude. We hope that you will accept them as servants of your exalted threshold, and that you will give them training and guidance.” When I woke from the dream, I learned that Mullah Nafs had had exactly the same dream. Together, we decided that after the afternoon prayer we will visit the holy shrine of Hazrat Naqshband. Just then, someone approached us and said: “Hazrat Ishan is looking for you, you must go to him.” When we came to him, Hazrat Ishan told us, with a smile: “Khalifa Khudayar has entrusted Mullah ‘Adil to me, and Mullah Safar has entrusted Damullah Nafs to me.” Thereupon, he repeated our dream to us . . . and we were initiated by him.91

Such narratives not only eased the transition of disciples from Bukharan sacred lineages to that of Fazl Ahmad but would have helped disciples view the multiple branches and lineages of the order as part of a unified spiritual path. In this narrative, the transfer is authorized and mediated by Khwaja Naqshband himself. In spite of the efforts of Habibullah Bukhari, Musa Khan Dahbidi, and others, however, the Mujaddidi path had detractors in Bukhara, just as in Kabul and elsewhere. On his first visit to Bukhara, in fact, the local theologian Akhund Mullah Mu‘allim Shah Balkhi came to Fazl Ahmad’s khānaqāh to challenge him on his teachings while the saint was providing an explanation of “the book of his great grandfather” [i.e., the Collected Letters]. As fate would have it, the contender was quite taken by his

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lecture and become his disciple. In a far less fortuitous encounter, another well-known scholar—Imla Shakir Buni—came to the Mirakan and rudely objected to Fazl Ahmad’s lectures on the Collected Letters. After the lectures, he left for another madrasa, but died on the way.92 The nature of the objections are not clarified, but we can imagine that they echoed some of the critiques issued at this time by Sa‘ad al-Din Ansari, from a competing Qadiri lineage at Kabul, who questioned the efficacy of Sirhindi’s techniques of wayfaring, his ideas on cosmology, and of course his millenarian claims.93 At the very least, the Bukharan stories indicate continued controversy and debate surrounding pre-Mujaddidi Naqshbandi and Mujaddidi teachings. In general, however, biographies give the sense that Fazl Ahmad preferred to take accommodating stances when it came to such disputes. One of his discourses concerns a debate characteristic of the theological divide within eighteenth- and nineteenth-century Bukhara: the appropriateness of vocal dhikr, against which his contemporary Mujaddidis Niyaz Quli Turkmen and Musa Khan Dahbidi’s successor Muhammad Amin had taken a strong position.94 Someone had apparently spread the rumor that Fazl Ahmad was opposed to vocal dhikr. In response, he pointed out that vocal practices were perfectly legitimate provided certain ethical conditions are met: the practitioners must be free from negative traits (duplicity, falsehood, backbiting, etc.) and the place where the vocal dhikr is performed must also be free from corruption and oppression. He concluded with a reminder that all Sufi paths are upon truth, as long as they abide by the tenets of shari‘a. Two years after his departure from Bukhara, at age eighty-four, Fazl Ahmad passed away in Peshawar in 1816. He and his mother, and later his sons Fazl Mahmud and Fazl-i Haqq, were buried at his khānaqāh, in adjacent graves in the center of the garden courtyard. After the death of the latter, his disciple Yar Muhammad Khan Barakzai (governor of Peshawar and brother of Amir Dost Muhammad Khan) invested several thousand rupees in a permanent shrine in the garden of the khānaqāh complex. The shrine and khānaqāh complex are still visited by devotees and those seeking physical or spiritual healing.95 With patronage from both sides of the Amu Darya, Fazl Ahmad’s lineage rapidly spread across Transoxiana, to Tatarstan, Siberia, and western China. His disciples’ stories highlight the degree to which Sufi lineages such as Fazl Ahmad’s integrated the regions north and south of the Amu Darya. His sons and grandsons were venerated as saints in Khurasan, Transoxiana, Kazan, and beyond, referred to by a series of culturally specific appellations: Hazrat Jio, Hazratji, Sahibzada,96 Mian Buzurg, Ishan Pir, and Katta Hazrat.

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Even Fazl Ahmad’s hagiographical tradition bears witness to a zone of religio-intellectual exchange integrating Khurasan, Hindustan, and Transoxiana. Within these texts, references to the Kokaltash madrasa of Bukhara and the prominent Sufi lineages of Makhdum-i ‘Azam are seamlessly interwoven with references to Hindustan’s Mujaddidi and Chishti traditions. It is noteworthy that within the early biography, Tuhfat al-Murshid, death dates of deputies are provided according to the Islamic hijri calendar—with the addition of the Turkic calendar of twelve animals (horse, hare, rooster, and so on), depending on which side of the Amu Darya the disciple lived. This exchange persisted even after the dissolution of the Durrani Empire, and the resulting period of internecine war in the first decades of the nineteenth century.

5 The Saint and the Khan

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azl Ahmad’s legacy in Bukhara continued long after the death of his disciple, the khan Shah Murad, in 1800. An intimate and unusually well-documented relationship afterward emerged between the Sufi master and the new king, Amir Hayder. This episode gives us a rare glimpse into the overlapping domains of sovereignty and sainthood in Manghit Bukhara. As Bukhara’s special flavor of sacred kingship continued to evolve, claims of political power were bound to the pursuit of sacred knowledge—both exoteric and esoteric—and undergirded by millenarian notions of cyclical renewal. Both the Mujaddidi Sufi masters and ulama upheld and even institutionalized this model of sacred kingship. The Mujaddidis are today popularly regarded as the drivers of the Mughal emperor Aurangzeb’s shari‘a-oriented policies. On the other side of the Islamic world, many also see the hand of the Mujaddidis in shaping Ottoman reforms that invoked scripture like the Gulhane edict and ‘Abd al-Hamid II’s Pan-Islamism.1 But there simply is no direct evidence of just how Mujaddidi Sufis influenced the state. Because Sirhindi emphasized shari‘a, writers have assumed that whenever a ruler embraced the Mujaddidi order, the result would be some form of state-enforced “shari‘a.” In Amir Hayder and Fazl Ahmad’s relationship, however, we can observe the complex contours of the relationship between saint and sovereign, and it becomes clear that they were much less concerned with matters of statecraft and legislation than with a relationship circumscribed by three roles with only a glancing effect on governance.

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KAZAKHSTAN

KYRGYSTAN Namangan

Tashkent

KHOQAND

U Z B E K I S T A N

Khoqand Jizzakh

Kattakurgan

Dahbid

Bukhara

BUKHARA

Samarqand

Osh

Khojand Ura Tepe

Shahrisabz

A

Qarshi

Hissar-i Shadman

TAJIKISTAN

m

u

D

ar

ya

TURKMENISTAN Balkh

QUNDUZ

BADAKHSHAN

A F G H A N I S T A N

0 0

Kabul

100 km 100 miles

Map 5  Bukhara and Khoqand

The association between Amir Hayder and Fazl Ahmad was primarily a hierarchical master–disciple relationship, aimed at Amir Hayder’s personal spiritual progress and his development as a Sufi guide. Also, Fazl Ahmad was a mediator between the king, his subjects, and the world beyond Bukhara on the basis of his widely accepted authority and diplomatic competence. Third, there were economic dimensions to their relationship: Amir Hayder patronized Fazl Ahmad’s institutions, and the two were even commercial partners. Fazl Ahmad was not, however, interested in matters of day-to-day governance, justice, or legislation according to the prophetic example. Neither did he advise Amir Hayder on the intricacies of Islamic law, as the Mujaddidis are often assumed to have done. From the moment he first arrived in Bukhara, Fazl Ahmad clearly benefited from his association with the ruling family. He could at once

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solidify his ties to Bukhara and buttress his reputation as a reliable mediator across the Amu Darya and the Indus. And, both Shah Murad and Amir Hayder provided him much-needed capital for his Khurasani khānaqāhs at a time of political flux generated by the breakup of the Durrani Empire. The relationship also had distinct advantages, spiritual and material, for Amir Hayder. His affiliation with Fazl Ahmad undergirded his image as a divinely guided ascetic-king. There is no doubt that Amir Hayder was genuinely inclined toward Sufism, but this image helped bind the ulama classes and subjects to the monarch in the capacity of spiritual guide. Amir Hayder’s father had after all been raised to an almost mythical status as a reviver of the thirteenth Islamic century. Correspondence between Amir Hayder and Fazl Ahmad’s deputy in Peshawar, Hafiz Daraz, further reveals that Mujaddidi Sufi masters and ulama had complementary functions visà-vis the royal sphere. The specialized exoteric ulama in the Mujaddidi network (that is, those, like Hafiz Daraz, more competent in jurisprudence, hadith, scholastic theology, medicine, and related sciences) helped project the image of the scholar-king both in Bukhara and abroad, enhancing the king’s persona as Sufi disciple and guide. Bukhara was no doubt unique among the post–Nadir Shah states. Shah Murad and Amir Hayder were not simply devotees and patrons but Sufi deputies themselves. However, this pattern of sacral kingship, with a specific role for the Sufi master as a guide and mediator divorced from the minutiae of statecraft, is emblematic of a broader regional shift toward new models of royal and saintly authority, encouraged by the permeation of Sufi orders—especially the Mujaddidi—into every aspect of the daily life led by everyone from peasants to the court. Other rulers of the age followed a similar path, to various degrees. The relationship between Mir Murad Beg of Qunduz and Khwaja Qasim Jan makes for one comparison. Several decades before, Ahmad Shah Durrani had been devoted to his Sufi master Sabir Shah Majzub and presented himself as an ascetic king, rejecting the flair of the traditional Persian monarch. Likewise, the khans of Kalat, mirs of Sindh, and others fashioned themselves as Sufi devotees, while manipulating symbols particular to the Sufi khānaqāh. The relationship of the Sufi master and the divinely guided monarch had its limitations, however, particularly since the two roles were overlapping and contested. In the post–Nadir Shah political order, regional monarchs and Sufi masters vied for supremacy, forging, breaking, and reforging alliances to survive in a highly competitive environment.

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The Crown Prince Meets the Sufi Master The earliest story about Amir Hayder in Fazl Ahmad’s biographies is related by Damullah Muhammad ‘Iwaz, circa 1807. ‘Iwaz was a Bukharan disciple of Fazl Ahmad who had accompanied him on several journeys. His tale of the providential encounter between the crown prince and Fazl Ahmad sets the stage for the intimate yet hierarchical relationship between the master and sovereign. One time, he [Fazl Ahmad] was travelling from Bukhara to Feshawar [Peshawar], and passed through Nasaf [now Qarshi, 160 kilometers southeast of Bukhara]. The people of this region were all among his devotees. At that time the son of the deceased amir, the lover of the ulama, the sympathizer of the fuqarā’ [here meaning saints], the mine of forbearance and modesty, the scholar of the science of the word of God, Sayyid Amir Hayder Tora, was the governor of this state. . . . He was hardly twenty years old, but despite his youth, when Fazl Ahmad arrived he fell at his feet, and entered into the order of Hazrat Ishan [Fazl Ahmad]. And he made appropriate preparations to receive Hazrat Ishan. And Hazrat Ishan showed him clemency and kindness. He told him that “by the will of God, you will achieve greatness.” And several of the servants of Hazrat attest that he has great foresight. After offering him advice on this Sufi path he told him [Amir Hayder] that he will succeed his father. At the time, he tied a turban around the head of Amir Hayder. And Amir Hayder always keeps this turban between his breast and garments. I too have seen this with my own eyes. Occasionally, Amir Hayder wears the turban when he prays. Then Hazrat Ishan left Nasaf for Balkh. And some time after he left, Amir Hayder’s father died. . . . All the ulama and notables and Sufis of Bukhara the Noble held firm so that Amir Hayder could come from Nasaf, so that he could lead his father’s funeral prayers as the imam. And afterward all the ulama, and elites, and notables, and Sufis gave him allegiance. . . . And always he gave lessons in Qur’anic commentaries and hadith and jurisprudence, and was engaged in dhikr.2

In this narrative, authority of kingship and discipleship are intertwined. The story intimates that Amir Hayder received both through his Sufi master during a single encounter; both his spiritual and worldly achievements were in effect superintended by the master. The hidden turban embodied the relationship. Unlike Amir Hayder’s formal public turban of kingship, it remained concealed—and yet was everywhere understood to exist and to enhance Amir Hayder’s stature. Fazl Ahmad’s grant to the king concerns sacred esoteric knowledge, distinct from the public domain of statecraft.3 Their relationship is enshrined in another rather humorous anecdote. When Fazl Ahmad later came to Bukhara, we are told, Amir Hayder

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would come daily to the khānaqāh. He would wait in a queue outside the seclusion chamber to receive tavajjuh, or spiritual focus or transmission, from his master. Given the number of disciples, they would enter in shifts for personalized sessions. Recognizing the king’s busy schedule, Fazl Ahmad gave Amir Hayder a special dispensation, allowing him to come ahead of the line. The next day, the king arrived and asked one of the disciples, Khwaja Mansur (a scion of one of the notable Khwaja families of Bukhara, incidentally responsible for managing the queue), if he could go on ahead. Khwaja Mansur spoke harshly to him, grabbed him by the collar for breaking the etiquette of the khānaqāh, and ordered him to sit down. The king humbly sat and waited, until Fazl Ahmad heard about the incident and summoned him. Fazl Ahmad apologized for what had happened, and the khan broke into tears, thanking God that in his realm was such a Sufi master who had no equal. Fazl Ahmad responded that he was grateful that in his time there was a king who awarded such respect to a poverty-stricken faqīr.4 This hagiographical story reveals an unusual idealized relationship between the Sufi master and the pious king, honored for his humility and his consent to the abuses of discipleship. The khānaqāh, too, is offered as a space beyond social hierarchies. These types of narratives undergirded both the authority of the saint and the khan. Both in effect confirm each other’s credentials. Sacred Kingship The stories I have recounted reflect themes that run through all contemporary accounts of Amir Hayder’s reign, whether court chronicles, Sufi hagiographies, or European travel accounts. Following in his father’s footsteps, Amir Hayder perpetuated a model of kingship where the monarch was at once the Sufi, the scholar, the imam, and the dispenser of justice. His popular legitimacy was premised on his piety and humility, his commitment to the scholarly classes and Sufis, and his governance according to the prophetic example. Not only did Amir Hayder excel at the esoteric and exoteric sciences like his father but he went a step further by becoming a Sufi guide and lecturer of some caliber. Amir Hayder’s daily routine, public performances, dress, and court rituals all modeled this role. He woke at midnight for tahajjud (voluntary night prayers) and engaged in vigils until the predawn prayers. At dawn, he gave lessons in exegesis and hadith. Twice a day, he held sessions in the audience hall, where, with law books at his side, he would meet with petitioners and adjudicate cases. Sources also remind readers that he had

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memorized the Qur’an and was well versed in law. At noon, ulama were called in for a discussion on scholarly matters, in which the king would often take part. Twice a day, he also led prayers at the court. In the late afternoon, and following the night prayers, he would return to his devotions. He fasted every other day, and on Wednesdays he traveled to the shrine of Khwaja Baha’ al-Din Naqshband on foot. On Fridays, he even delivered the sermon at the congregational mosque.5 Why did he choose such a rigorous routine? Chroniclers and biographers alike praise his earnest piety and desire for justice (while occasionally faulting him for keeping a hundred concubines). Contemporary European visitors, notably Armenius Vambery and Moorcroft, however, claimed that his overt religiosity masked his ineptitude at governing.6 Even chronicle sources point out that his inclination to scholasticism and the Sufi path, rather than military endeavors, went hand in hand with instability and uprisings throughout his domains. And his reign did see the significant loss of territory to Khoqand and Khiva.7 Whatever the truth here, his policies certainly attracted students to Bukhara and generated popular support not just within the khanate but throughout the Sunni Persianate cosmopolis. According to Vambery, his demeanor—walking with his head low and carrying a walking stick through the streets—endeared him to the people.8 The later chronicler Danish claims that his reign represented a high point of knowledge in the history of Islam.9 Under Amir Hayder, Bukhara boasted upward of eighty colleges and regained its reputation as the “Dome of Islam.”10 Shah Murad and Amir Hayder’s reputations for piety, scholarship, and generosity traveled far in Sufi and scholarly circles throughout Khurasan and Hindustan. In Mujaddidi biographies he and his father had a distinctive position above and beyond their contemporaries. The author of Tuhfat al-Murshid relates the following: It has been narrated the kings of Khurasan including Mahmud Shah, Shah Zaman, Shah Shuja‘, Shah Ayyub, Shah Sultan ‘Ali, Shahzada-i Jahan, and Prince Kamran, would visit Hazrat Jio [Fazl Ahmad] for ziyārat [pilgrimage] and tavajjuh after the evening prayers, however the kings of Turkestan, Amir Murad Ma‘sum Ghazi and his son Amir Hayder, would come to the service of Fazl Ahmad daily, for tavajjuh and to take fayz [divine effulgence].11

Even the Mujaddidi hagiography Rawzat al-Awliya’, written 1,500 kilometers away in Dera Ismail Khan, noted that Shah Murad and Amir Hayder “served their Sufi master day and night.”12 The biographies tell us that from the outset of his royal career, Amir Hayder kept regular contact with Fazl Ahmad. After some time, Fazl

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Ahmad sent the king a license from Peshawar, granting him permission to impart the teachings of the Mujaddidi order predicated on Amir Hayder’s steadfastness on shari‘a and the Sufi path and Fazl Ahmad’s istikhāra, or supplication to God.13 Whenever Fazl Ahmad visited Bukhara, Amir Hayder, like his father before him, would make daily visits to the Mirakan khānaqāh. And when Fazl Ahmad was in Peshawar, they would correspond through letters, often dispatched by his sons or designated messengers. At all times, we are told, Fazl Ahmad would also keep a close watch on him through a combination of tavajjuh and reports from disciples in Bukhara. The routine correspondence between the monarch and the saint is attested to in Tuhfat al-Murshid, which mentions letters ranging from an inquiry on the numbers of deputies that Fazl Ahmad had appointed to a letter informing the saint of Shah Murad’s death.14 Fortunately, a large collection of 123 of these letters written by Fazl Ahmad to Amir Hayder were compiled in a Saint Petersburg miscellany. They attest to Fazl Ahmad’s role as an arch-mediator: between the king and God, and between the sovereign and his subjects.15 The bulk of the letters relate to theological matters, either practical issues on performing or teaching devotional practices or theoretical discussions on points of Sufism, law, or philosophy. Others are petitions on behalf of third parties, including clemency applications, requests for the monarch to intercede in a marital conflict, or inquiries into potential injustices.16 Several letters concern financial dealings between the Sufi master, his sons, and the king. Some are requests for money or other forms of support, such as donations to sustain Sufis in Peshawar. Others concern the purchase and lease of mills, the receipt of grants, and appeals for assistance in paying off debts.17 Several letters contain admonitory moral advice on kingship. This is most often generic advice, reminding the ruler to act in accordance with the sunna or to exercise wisdom, justice, mercy, and clemency, the types of expectations of the manifest caliph outlined by Shah Waliullah. Only on rare occasions did Fazl Ahmad (at least by letter) counsel the king on specific matters of governance. In one instance he advised the king not to overtax the population and to protect both poor and wealthy subjects.18 In addition to these letters, we also have a letter composed by Muhammad Ahsan Wa‘iz (known as Hafiz Daraz Peshawari) to Amir Hayder, responding to a scholarly query. Hafiz Daraz, originally from Punjab, was the rector of one of Peshawar’s key madrasas, which attracted students from Peshawar and its environs, Afghan tribal areas, Samarkand, Bukhara, Herat, Kabul, Qandahar, and Ghazni. Like Fazl Ahmad, he maintained

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close links with Transoxiana’s religious leadership.19 We can assume that additional correspondence of a similar nature would have taken place between Amir Hayder and Hafiz Daraz, and perhaps other ulama of Peshawar, although it does not survive. The Command of the Faithful’s Queries If we contrast Hafiz Daraz’s and Fazl Ahmad’s responses to queries from the Bukharan king, we get an original and intimate perspective on the parts played by the Mujaddidi jurist and Sufi master, respectively, in fashioning the Manghit model of sacred kinship. Fazl Ahmad’s letters include several responding to questions posed by Amir Hayder. In one, for example, Fazl Ahmad engaged five questions.20 Firstly, Amir Hayder expressed his frustration in guiding his own students. He asked his master why some students were able to achieve h.uzur-i qalb (literally, presence of the heart) when engaging in tavajjuh, while others were not. Fazl Ahmad responded that spiritual progress and h.uzūr-i qalb, like all matters, are dependent on God and on the degree of kasb (acquisition) of the wayfarer. Then, he acknowledged the khan’s limitations. He recommended that Amir Hayder take only a few students at a time, engage in tavajjuh, and pay close attention to their progress. Only gradually should he accept any more students.21 The second question was a discussion on the practice of dam and the use of a string in this practice. Dam, literally meaning “breath,” is a form of faith healing, with Qur’anic verses recited and “blown” upon the patient. Apparently, there were some objections to the use of a string in this practice among the ulama. Fazl Ahmad informed Amir Hayder that he himself engaged in this healing practice, but that he should ultimately get an opinion from the ulama—meaning theologians and jurists—as to its appropriateness.22 The third question Amir Hayder posed concerned teaching durūd, recitations of praise on the Prophet Muhammad, and issuing daily liturgical practices (wird) to students. Fazl Ahmad responded that he had given the khan permission for both, and that he should not hesitate to teach these recitations to wayfarers.23 The fourth question was another practical one, regarding whether one could give tavajjuh to menstruating women. Apparently, there were different opinions on the matter, but Fazl Ahmad said it was permissible provided the recipients were in a state of ablution and adhered to certain other ritual practices.24 The final question concerned Damullah ‘Iwaz, the author of the brief biography above—specifically, whether he should be guiding students.

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Although Damulla ‘Iwaz was of good character, Fazl Ahmad pointed out that he had not taught in twenty years, and it might be difficult for him to start teaching again.25 At the end of these responses, Fazl Ahmad told Amir Hayder that he should not hesitate in asking such questions. In fact, it was essential for him to do so. This letter gives us several important insights into the Sufi-ruler dynamic. For one thing, it reveals that the king had received licenses from Fazl Ahmad for multiple practices, such as tavajjuh, dam, the recitation of durūd, and teaching the wird. These letters did not concern higher theoretical points of travel and wayfaring or cosmology—the type of issues dealt with in the Sufi manuals aimed at deputies. Amir Hayder’s questions instead all touch on practical teaching matters and were not intended to demonstrate the king’s mastery over Sufi sciences. In this and other letters, the disciple-king did not hesitate to confess his own confusion, incompetence, and lack of knowledge. Other questions touch on spheres of authority. The question regarding Damullah ‘Iwaz, for example, is noteworthy because it means that the king played some regulatory role in the teaching of Sufism in Bukhara. Fazl Ahmad, in the Mujaddidi pattern, also referred the king to exoteric ulama for the ultimate authorization of a spiritual practice, thereby circumscribing his own authority by acknowledging a distinction between the practitioners of law and the Sufi master (himself). The hierarchy between saint and sovereign was made even more apparent in another letter, in which Fazl Ahmad chastised the king for his lack of commitment to the Sufi path. Fazl Ahmad had heard that Amir Hayder said that “in his heart he wished to engage in s.uh.bat [didactic conversation between master and disciples], but that the people will not let him.” The implication is that the king was supposed to visit the khānaqāh more often to benefit from s.uh.bat, possibly from Fazl Ahmad’s son Ghulam Qadir, whom he had appointed. Fazl Ahmad responded: “From these words, I was amazed as to how he could use the people as an excuse.” He went on to say that it was clear that the king did not deem these practices to be of benefit. He then warned Amir Hayder that there were two important conditions for the Sufi path: following the shari‘a and developing love for the teacher. “If, God forbid, he [the wayfarer] does not fulfill these two obligations, whatever states he reaches, it will be of no benefit.” Fazl Ahmad went so far as to say that he had considered withdrawing his own tavajjuh from the king. But out of mercy, he would continue.26 A quite different source is also suggestive about Amir Hayder’s and the Mujaddidis’ self-construction. An early nineteenth-century collection of miscellany at the Islamia College in Peshawar contains a single letter, in

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Arabic, from Hafiz Daraz to Amir Hayder, khan of Bukhara. Apparently, Amir Hayder had dispatched an earlier letter with certain theological questions—also in Arabic—which Hafiz Daraz’s scribe copied meticulously. Hafiz Daraz’s response was intended not only to address the king’s questions but to become a didactic tool “for the benefit of students.”27 The exact circumstances are unclear. Hafiz Daraz indicated only that the messenger also informed him, systematically, “elegantly,” and “in detail,” of the state of affairs in Bukhara. He responded, in prose and verse: I found out from him [the emissary] that the king is unique in virtue. . . . I am in a state of ecstasy. I hope one day circumstances will allow me to visit you. I had decided to leave my home, and come to the presence of the generous king. . . . However, because of my family obligations, and a lack of resources, I concluded that leaving now would harm my family. Also, I haven’t finished writing a book, so will not be able to come. The book will reach you after it is complete.

Later in the letter, Hafiz Daraz was more direct. He addressed the king as “‘azīz” (respected or beloved) and enjoined Amir Hayder to provide him with financial support, as the state of affairs at Peshawar was becoming difficult. (This seems to be a long-term problem for Hafiz Daraz, indicating perhaps that turmoil in Peshawar under the Sikhs took its toll on scholars. In the margins of his commentary on Sahih Bukhari, he also makes a request for donors to help him pay off his debts.)28 There is no doubt that Amir Hayder was aware of the reputation of Hafiz Daraz’s mosque, madrasa, and networks in Peshawar. As a sister institution to Fazl Ahmad’s Yakatut khānaqāh (where Hafiz Daraz delivered weekly lectures), his mosque at Ganj Darwaza also attracted students from Bukhara to Hindustan. In fact, many of Fazl Ahmad’s disciples received their foundational education from Hafiz Daraz. Amir Hayder’s embassy to Hafiz Daraz, coupled with this letter, would among other things have served to establish the king’s standing among the ulama of the crumbling Afghan kingdom. Hafiz Daraz’s choice of epithets for Amir Hayder clarifies that through his association with Fazl Ahmad, Hafiz Daraz was likewise already aware of the king’s reputation. In addition to typical praise regarding his justice and majesty, Amir Hayder was addressed specifically as “the master of the revealed and rational sciences, the one who has mastery over applied jurisprudence and law; acting according to shari‘a; perfect in the path [t.arīqa], the one who has achieved the truth [al-h.aqīqa].”29 It seems, then, that (probably at Fazl Ahmad’s request) Amir Hayder courted Hafiz Daraz. The original letter may have been a means of initiating a conversation with the scholar and even assessing his capacity to

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address complex theological arguments. The king composed questions to Hafiz Daraz in the latter’s capacity as an academic, not as a Sufi guide or a legislator. All questions were theoretical rather than practical and were structured in dialectical form, asking Hafiz Daraz to reconcile opposing views. These questions had likely emerged in Bukhara’s scholastic domain, perhaps in debates held at the court. The varying array of queries is remarkable; Amir Hayder posed no fewer than seventeen questions to Hafiz Daraz, covering Qur’anic commentary, grammar, the phonetics of pronunciation and elision, reconciling prophetic genealogies, logic (concerning chains of causality and effects, the concept of nonexistence, general statements, and exclusions), philosophy (like the division of knowledge into abstract and concrete, and action and the awareness of action), hadith interpretation, jurisprudence (purely theoretical questions on ritual cleansing, manumission, and divorce), scholastic theology (on contradictory questions surrounding takfīr), and medicine (on seasonal digestion and phlegm, and the practice of medicine when the physician himself has ailments). Within these questions, the king quoted several books of commentary and hadith.30 The responses were clear and systematic. In most cases Hafiz Daraz displayed his intellectual prowess by quoting additional texts of hadith and exegesis.31 Comparing the responses from these two Peshawari Mujaddidi teachers is revealing. First, the Mujaddidis—the Sufi masters and ulama in Fazl Ahmad’s network—helped Amir Hayder develop his expertise and reputation as an educator and Sufi. In the performative act of posing questions, Amir Hayder acknowledged the role of the Sufi and scholar as teachers, in a sense solidifying a hierarchy in the contemporary knowledge economy. Conversely, however, both Fazl Ahmad and Hafiz Daraz were evidently acutely aware of their financial dependence on the king. Second, the letters clarify that both the Sufi master and the ‘ālim were probably not involved in issues of law making, governance, or military leadership, beyond universal appeals to justice and occasional mediatory requests for clemency. In other words, their relationship to the king was distinct from state-appointed ulama and judicial functionaries. Third, the letters provide us with a glimpse into the specialized roles of the Mujaddidi Sufis and exoteric ulama in fashioning Bukhara’s model of sacred kingship. Fazl Ahmad’s responses occasionally touched upon theological and juristic matters but did not concern the intricacies of exoteric knowledge; he even asked the king to refer to jurists for authoritative opinions. Hafiz Daraz’s correspondence, on the other hand, did not concern esoteric questions on Sufi cosmology, philosophy, or even discourses on Sirhindi’s Collected Letters. The tones of the letters, too, reflect the two

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functions. Though adhering to conventions of honor and respect, Fazl Ahmad’s correspondence shows his more intimate relationship with Amir Hayder; he freely criticized and chastised the king, or congratulated him on his achievements. Hafiz Daraz’s tone was academic and reflected the formality of an intellectual engagement. This dynamic between the king, the saint, and the theologian is markedly different from the legalistic notion that secular kings bargained with the ulama for legitimacy. The conjunction of kingship and sainthood was no recent development. In fact, it had come to fruition in the sixteenth century, in Iran under Shah Isma‘il and in the Mughal Empire under Akbar. Both declared themselves messianic, millenarian figures, deploying tropes and symbols of sainthood to undergird their legitimacy. In many ways, Bukhara’s model of sacred kingship can be compared to the millennial sovereignty of the sixteenth century.32 But it was distinct from Isma‘il and Akbar’s model, probably because of the Sirhindian intervention. In Bukhara the concept of the ruler as centennial reviver was undergirded by Sufi esoteric practices and gnosis, but bound within the shari‘a, and therefore both Sufis and the exoteric ulama became its joint custodians. Bedil Dehlavi Is “Appropriate for the Winehouses” The relationship between the saint and sovereign, however, was not insulated from the hypercompetitive post–Nadir Shah political and spiritual milieu of the region. Fazl Ahmad does not factor into mainstream chronicle narratives of factional politics in Transoxiana, with the exception of one revealing episode concerning the contested Bukharan border regions of Hissar-i Shadman (Hissar) and Ura Tepe. Although the facts surrounding this incident are cloudy, it is highly suggestive about how the domains of spiritual and political contestation overlapped in the early nineteenth century. Specifically, this incident exposes rivalries between well-entrenched Sufi lineages in Transoxiana and the Hindustani newcomers who vied for regional support. In this case, the zones of contestation were buffer regions that remained outside the jurisdiction of either Bukhara or Khoqand. It is in such zones where political rivals recognized the value of Sufi networks and their patronage structures. Here both Sufis and monarchs sought strategic alliances to use temporal or spiritual authority to their advantage. This episode also shows us the practical limits of Fazl Ahmad’s writ. He was still an outsider in Bukhara’s spiritually saturated environment. In fact, the episode may provide clues about how his lineage’s hold gradually weakened in Transoxiana.

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The backdrop is a protracted war between Bukhara and Khoqand over Ura Tepe and Hissar, the semi-independent fracture zones situated between the two expanding khanates. Ura Tepe, a town between Bukhara and Khoqand, was inhabited by Yuz Uzbeks and therefore ethnically tied to Khoqand.33 It had posed a problem since the early Manghit period. Bi Fazil (1749–1785), the Yuz overlord of Ura Tepe, in alliance with the ruler of Hissar, held off Rahim Khan of Bukhara. After Rahim Khan’s death, Bi Fazil established himself as a regional khan, ruling over Ura Tepe, Khojand, Jizak, Khatirchi, Kattakurgan, and Samarkand, and even threatening Bukhara itself. Hissar, meanwhile, was not only a strategic entry point into Transoxiana but an intermediary point between Khoqand and Bukhara. Moreover, it hosted an important regional pilgrimage site, the shrine of Khwaja Baha’ al-Din Naqshband’s Sufi disciple Mawlana Ya‘qub Charkhi. In the late eighteenth century, Allah Birdi Taz, a minor king of Kurgan Tepe, occupied the town. Allah Birdi Taz was a ruler in his own right but assisted Shah Murad in his campaigns against Timur Shah Durrani.34 Through the efforts of Shah Murad, Ura Tepe was subsumed under Bukhara, and Hissar was reduced to tributary status.35 Amir Hayder, however, lost control over many of the peripheral areas that his father had secured, at times maintaining authority only over the core regions of Bukhara and Qarshi. He assigned parts of Bukhara’s domains to semi-independent clients, while facing insurrections from all sides. The subsidiary status of Ura Tepe and Hissar under Bukhara gradually gave way, particularly as Khoqand extended its influence westward under its ruler ‘Alim Khan. Against this backdrop, the Bukharan historian Khumuli gives an enigmatic, somewhat enchanted version of the events leading to Amir Hayder’s protracted war over Ura Tepe. In this telling, Amir Hayder transfers his allegiance from Fazl Ahmad to Muhammad Amin of the Dahbidi-Mujaddidi lineage. The Dahbidis were descendants of the Naqshbandi luminary Makhdum-i ‘Azam and presided over their family shrine complex in the village of Dahbid outside of Samarkand. Musa Khan Dahbidi, the great Sufi master of this lineage of the eighteenth century, was initiated into the Mujaddidi branch of the Naqshbandis.36 Khumuli details the exploits of Musa Khan’s disciple, Muhammad Amin (d. 1813), who was appointed as the chief deputy at Dahbid in 1795. In 1805, Muhammad Amin came to Hissar with a large contingent of followers, on pilgrimage to its historic shrine.37 The Dahbidi Khwajas had old links to Hissar and were well known among the townsmen. Fazl Ahmad, too, had some disciples in the vicinity.38 According to Khumuli, several of Fazl Ahmad’s followers informed Amir Hayder that the true purpose of Muhammad Amin’s visit to Hissar was to foment insurrection. The king

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naturally became furious and desired retribution. As is hagiographically appropriate, Muhammad Amin was unfazed by the king’s intimidation, or by the warnings of his followers who advised him not to return to Dahbid, under Bukhara’s jurisdiction. On reaching Dahbid, he learned that the king had sent someone to arrest or punish him, but he refused to respond. The threats intensified. In a dramatic response, after morning prayers in Dahbid, Muhammad Amin entered into murāqaba, lifted his head, and exclaimed, “Oh Muhammad ‘Alim [king of Khoqand], take Ura Tepe!”39 And so it happened that ‘Alim Khan marched upon Ura Tepe and occupied the town. How can we make sense of this? The chronicle sources attest to the complex political dynamics of these intermediate states between Khoqand and Bukhara. In Mantakhab al-Tarikh, we are told that in about 1805–1806, Amir Hayder vanquished Hissar and replaced the then-independent ruler with his own client. This suggests one plausible interpretation of Khumuli’s tale: that Muhammad Amin was suspected of gathering forces at Hissar to depose the Bukharan client, probably in favor of a Khoqandi client.40 Conversely, Fazl Ahmad’s followers may have represented opposing interests in Hissar, favoring Bukhara. At this time, Ura Tepe was also governed autonomously by a Bukharan client named Baba Divan Begi. His son-in-law murdered him in a coup and inclined toward Khoqand. Furious, Amir Hayder had the usurper assassinated and replaced with yet another Bukharan client, then later directly occupied Ura Tepe. He secured the area by settling four thousand Bukharans around city and dispersed the native Yuz Uzbeks. On hearing this news ‘Alim Khan of Khoqand in 1806 mobilized his forces and marched upon Ura Tepe, imprisoning over three thousand Bukharans and installing his clients. Khumuli’s narrative implies that Muhammad Amin instigated (whether spiritually or otherwise) ‘Alim Khan’s conquest, and may have been supported by the displaced Yuz Uzbeks, who were ethnically tied to Khoqand. This led to a protracted war, in which the city changed hands several times over the next decade.41 Khulumi goes on to say that Amir Hayder was, however, still disturbed by Muhammad Amin’s alleged treachery. After all, the king had favored this Sufi master in the past. Several years after Khoqand’s occupation of Ura Tepe, Amir Hayder visited Dahbid, for the stated purposes of paying respects to the shrines there. There were other motives, however. In a direct affront to Muhammad Amin, the king instated one of Fazl Ahmad’s disciples, Ishan Khwaja,42 as the chief deputy with jurisdiction over the shrine at Dahbid. But within an hour of the appointment, Ishan Khwaja mysteriously died, a shock to all those present. The king went to sleep

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that night distraught and apparently had elaborate dreams, in which he repented. Upon waking, he pledged himself to Muhammad Amin. Not long after, the two met again at the shrine of Khwaja Baha’ al-Din Naqshband, and the king formally became his disciple. Khumuli tells us that meanwhile, Amir Hayder’s earlier master Fazl Ahmad was forced to leave Bukhara “for various reasons” and that his offspring “have devoted themselves to the service of Islam in Ferghana, Bukhara, and Hindustan.”43 Then, in a curious aside, he tells us that a reliable source related to him that Fazl Ahmad was forced to leave Bukhara because of his love for the poetry of Bedil Dehlavi. Apparently, in a Sufi gathering Muhammad Amin declared that Bedil’s poetry was not appropriate for Bukhara, telling Fazl Ahmad, “your poet does not suit this country . . . he is appropriate for the wine houses, the Qalandars, and the idle ones.”44 Thereafter, Fazl Ahmad was forced to return to his native Peshawar. This accusation evokes a broader story of fissures in Bukhara’s religious milieu. It is an unusual criticism, particularly since Bedil was regularly recited and reproduced in early Manghit Bukhara. Shah Murad was particularly fond of his verses, and Khumuli, himself a disciple of the Dahbidis, quotes Bedil at length in his history. It is possible that this incident belies a deeper rivalry.45 Regardless, a later nineteenth-century Dahbidi biography does contain a short entry on Fazl Ahmad that states that Amir Hayder may have actually requested that he leave Bukhara, a shocking turn of events in this intimate relationship.46 As the conflict around Ura Tepe was unfolding, Fazl Ahmad and Amir Hayder engaged in correspondence that hints at a broader dimension of this conflict. At least five letters point to strained relations, in particular between Amir Hayder and Ghulam Qadir, Fazl Ahmad’s eldest son and deputy at Bukhara. In one letter, Fazl Ahmad assured Amir Hayder that his son did not have ill intent toward him, and he asked the ruler to put aside any misgivings. Within the same letter, he offered him more tavajjuh and prayed that God would help Amir Hayder vanquish the enemy— presumably, Khoqand—again. In three letters, Fazl Ahmad reiterated his son’s innocence, this time specifically mentioning that his son was not involved in the recent conquest of the fortress of Ura Tepe. He also asked the ruler’s permission for Ghulam Qadir to travel to Peshawar, implying that his son’s movements were restrained in Bukhara.47 At the same time, we learn that his younger son (presumably Fazlullah) had been denied permission to make a pilgrimage to Samarkand.48 The situation intensified. In a later letter Fazl Ahmad also indicated that some slander had been issued against Ghulam Qadir and himself. He asked permission to leave for Mecca and Medina, which effectively meant

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self-exile. In a final letter, he pleaded with Amir Hayder once again, this time requesting Ghulam Qadir’s permission to come to Balkh to visit his family, as he and his kin had been separated for a long time. We learn that Ghulam Qadir was forbidden from coming to Bukhara, on account of the discord between him and the king.49 In light of these letters, it appears that the accusations of treachery against Muhammad Amin may have been spearheaded by Ghulam Qadir. The events at Dahbid may have resulted from a counteraccusation to the effect that Ghulam Qadir and his followers were responsible for Khoqand’s conquest of Ura Tepe. Whatever the truth behind these accusations, the Dahbidis emerged as a dominant lineage in Bukhara. Fazl Ahmad did eventually travel for hajj, although it is unclear whether he reached Mecca and Medina. And the saint and the king must have eventually reconciled, as they continued corresponding until Fazl Ahmad’s death in 1816.50 The Ura Tepe incident, then, may well be a defining chapter in the ongoing scholastic and spiritual transformations that impacted Bukhara starting in the mid-eighteenth century. At least three of Fazl Ahmad’s influential deputies there had previously been affiliated with the Dahbidis, and even Shah Murad pledged himself to Fazl Ahmad only after initiation by two Sufis belonging to prominent lineages of Transoxiana. Indeed, Hindustani Mujaddidis like Fazl Ahmad may have positioned themselves to supersede earlier lineages, representing authenticity and a direct genealogical link with Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi. As we have seen, Fazl Ahmad and his disciples initially represented the infusion of a Hindustani highcultural orthodoxy into a Bukharan setting that had lost much of its scholastic rigor. Both the Ura Tepe incident and the Bedil accusation may have been a response from the entrenched lineages, who challenged Fazl Ahmad through discourses of orthodoxy versus orthopraxy, loyalty versus treachery, and indigeneity versus otherness. The borderlands—Hissar, Ura Tepe, Shahr-i Sabz, and others—were arenas where these differences could be acted out in tangible political forms. Through his admonitory words regarding Bedil, Muhammad Amin designated Fazl Ahmad as a profligate outsider who did not comprehend the strict socioreligious mores of Bukhara, and who had introduced base heterodoxy from his native land. Fazl Ahmad’s memory at Bukhara may have afterward been deliberately erased. It is significant that Tuhfat al-Za’irin, the biographical encyclopedia of Bukhara published at the turn of the twentieth century, contains no entry on Fazl Ahmad or his family and mentions him only once, as the erstwhile Sufi guide of Amir Hayder.51 This incident also challenges a standard view of Sufis as factional adherents in Transoxiana’s politics.52 Both Muhammad Amin and Ghulam

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Qadir had a broad base of support and were not bound by fixed political or spiritual affiliations. It appears that their scholastic or spiritual role superseded their political involvements, such that Sufi families were allowed to be patronized by conflicting factions. Muhammad Amin may well have instigated ‘Alim Khan. But apparently, this did not preclude later spiritual bonds between Amir Hayder and Muhammad Amin. Moreover, Amir Hayder did not withdraw his financial support from either Fazl Ahmad or Ghulam Qadir, the latter of whom eventually resettled in Bukhara. In this vein, it is also difficult to assume that the two competing Mujaddidi lineages were necessarily antagonistic or in open ideological conflict. Despite the strong evidence for a struggle over influence and financial support, the hagiographies, personal writings, and correspondence maintain mutual respect. Though Khumuli faulted Fazl Ahmad’s followers for misleading the king, and faulted Amir Hayder for believing the rumors, Fazl Ahmad himself was consistently praised and addressed with honor. Similarly, in his own writings Fazl Ahmad praised Musa Khan Dahbidi on account of his disciples, naming several deputies at the “level of perfection.”53 Muhammad Amin, however, was not among those named. This hagiographical silence is perhaps rooted in the past tensions.

Toward Tatarstan and Siberia Whatever tensions surrounded the Ura Tepe incident were short-lived. By 1825, Ghulam Qadir and his brothers Mian Fazlullah (who was married to Amir Hayder’s sister) and Fazl Ahad were all teaching at Bukhara. Contemporary sources tell us that Ghulam Qadir was a well-regarded h.āfiz. (Qur’an memorizer), scholar, Sufi master, and poet, and refer to him as either “Mian Sahib,” “Sahibzada,” or “Mian Kalan.”54 He established a second khānaqāh for the order in the vicinity of Mirakan, the “Khānaqāh-i Sahibzada,” in the eponymous “Sahibzada” neighborhood. As of the late nineteenth century, it was one of nine notable mosques in Bukhara hosting Friday prayers.55 Under Amir Hayder’s son and successor, Amir Nasrullah (r. 1827–1860), his son Mian Fazl Malik was appointed the preacher of the historic Jami‘ (Cathedral) Mosque of Bukhara in the center of the city in 1834–1835.56 Like his father, Ghulam Qadir cultivated his own community of disciples, traveling several times between Peshawar and Bukhara. Although his immediate family was based at Bukhara, he had married a daughter of the Qazikhels, one of Peshawar’s notable scholarly families.57 These marital ties, in addition to his family base in Peshawar, presumably kept his

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figure 5.1  Jami‘ Mosque (Masjid-i Kalan), Bukhara (Photo by Waleed Ziad)

Khurasani linkages alive. Like his father several decades earlier, he too was called upon to mediate between Khurasan and Bukhara. One such incident occurred during the First Anglo-Afghan War in 1841, when the king of Kabul, Amir Dost Muhammad Khan, and his sons had sought refuge in Bukhara. This was after British forces had dethroned him and reinstalled Shah Shuja‘ at Kabul. Upon arriving in Bukhara, Dost Muhammad Khan and his party were detained by Amir Nasrullah, who had no intention of supporting the deposed king. Dost Muhammad Khan eventually managed to escape to Khurasan, but his sons Akbar Khan and Sultan Ahmad Khan were apprehended by the notoriously contumacious Amir Nasrullah. They managed to conceal themselves and took refuge with “Ishan Sahibzada” (Ghulam Qadir). Ghulam Qadir later accompanied them to visit Amir Nasrullah and secured a guarantee from the amir, allowing the two princes to stay among the Sufis at their khānaqāh. After some time in the khānaqāh, Amir Nasrullah ordered the exiles to come before him and apprehended them for three months. Their uncle, the elderly Sufi master and de facto Afghan vizier ‘Abd al-Shukur (Hazrat Sahib Butkhak), “for whom the amir of Bukhara had absolute devotion,” then visited Bukhara.58 Amir Nasrullah released the two princes at his behest. They returned to the khānaqāh, and from there, managed to escape to

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Kabul. This incident highlights the continuing role of Sufis in transregional diplomacy and the practical limits of their intercession.59 Despite his Khurasani origins, it appears that Ghulam Qadir’s network was largely oriented eastward and westward.60 A Mujaddidi genealogical chart from the early nineteenth century,61 designating Ghulam Qadir as the “Mujaddid of his time,” listed eight deputies, whose titles include Samarkandi, Kulabi, Bukhari, Khwarizmi, Tashkendi,62 Balkhi, and Qunaqi. In addition, the genealogical chart lists eleven family members, also probably sons and grandsons based in Bukhara.63 Beyond Transoxiana, Ghulam Qadir’s networks expanded among the Volga and Siberian Tatars.64 This was part of a broader commercial and scholastic reorientation of Kazan and Siberia toward Bukhara from the eighteenth century onward. Although students from these regions had been coming to Bukhara from the seventeenth century, the Mujaddidi revival in Manghit Bukhara spurred a similar revival farther north. The catalyst in the Volga-Urals region was the establishment of the Ecclesiastical Assembly for the Muhammadan Creed at Ufa (now in Russia, north of Kazakhstan, 540 kilometers east of Kazan) in 1788, which spurred the demand for accredited scholars. The assembly was an outgrowth of Empress Catherine II’s imperial vision of enlightened cameralism and religious pluralism. It was intended as a centralized body to administer and regulate the myriad of Muslim religious institutions and functionaries in Russia, with an appellate function to challenge local decisions.65 The assembly was later transferred to Orenberg, four hundred kilometers to the south. Both Ufa and Orenberg had strategic importance to Russia, serving as trade entrepôts into Transoxiana and protective forts against the steppe nomads. The initial establishment of the assembly fortuitously corresponded with the expansion of Bukhara’s religious apparatus under Shah Murad and Amir Hayder. For their education, Volga Tatars and Bashkirs— another Turkic ethnic group settled near the town of Ufa—came primarily to Bukhara but also to Khwarizm, Samarkand, Panjikent, and Kabul, and farther into Hindustan and Altishahr. Among these destinations, Bukhara possessed tremendous symbolic capital, particularly as it housed the shrine of Baha’ al-Din Naqshband. Tatar and Bashkir student-pilgrims would stay for extended periods, often attaining multiple licenses in exoteric and esoteric sciences.66 In 1803, Alexander I allowed Bukharan merchants to travel through Russia on the way to hajj, further strengthening the Bukhara–Orenberg link. Meanwhile, by the late eighteenth century, the Mujaddidis in western Siberia partially replaced and leveraged from older Yasawi communities. This order traced back to the pioneering twelfth-century poet-saint of

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the Turkic language, Ahmad Yasawi. It was one of Transoxiana’s oldest orders, with ancient links to the Naqshbandis. In the sixteenth century, Bukhara’s king ‘Abdullah Khan dispatched Yasawi Sayyids from Bukhara and Urgench (near Khiva) to the last Mongol khan of Sibir, several years before the Russian occupation, to “educate the Siberian people in the religion of Islam.”67 One of them married into the khan’s family, so afterward the lineage claimed dual Chinggisid and Sayyid descent. With this established Bukharan Sufi tradition, it is not surprising that at the turn of the nineteenth century, Sufi classics and Mujaddidi literature were actively studied in Siberia. A respected Siberian scholar Suyunch Baqi, a non-Mujaddidi Naqshbandi, had authored a versified tract on theology, shrine visitation, and early Islamic history, in which he inserted Sirhindi’s dhikr formula. And a late-eighteenth-century miscellany from the Vagai district contains excerpts from al-Ghazali, Turkish translations of Rumi, several Naqshbandi classics (of Ya‘qub Charkhi, Jami, and others), Turkish translations of parts of Adab al-Murid by Murad al-Bukhari (who introduced the Mujaddidi order in Ottoman lands), and extensive sections from Sirhindi’s Collected Letters, along with copies of Mujaddidi licenses.68 Three principal Sufi lineages served the Volga and Siberian Tatars and Bashkirs in the early nineteenth century. The first two were those of Niyaz Quli Turkmen and Khalifa Husayn, who had studied with Musa Khan Dahbidi’s deputy Muhammad Siddiq. The third were the “Sahibzada Ishans,” Ghulam Qadir and his son Mian Fazl Malik, who had appointed at least ten deputies in the Volga-Urals region and Siberia. One of Ghulam Qadir’s more well-known deputies was the Volga Tatar Sufi ‘Ali Ishan bin Sayfullah al-Tuntari, whose scholastic voyage illustrates how Tatarstan had been effectively pulled into the Hindustan-Transoxiana circulation network by the early 1800s. Al-Tuntari was initiated by Ghulam Qadir on his return trip from Delhi, Lahore, Peshawar, Kabul, and Qandahar, after which he resettled in his native village, where he served as both scholar and Sufi.69 Undoubtedly, Ghulam Qadir’s most acclaimed disciple from among the Volga Tatars was the preeminent educational reformer and prolific historian Shahab al-Din Marjani (d. 1889), who came to Bukhara in 1838, stayed at the Khānaqāh-i Sahibzada, and acquired a license from him.70 Ghulam Qadir’s notable Siberian deputies included Zayn al-‘Abidin bin ‘Abdullah Uruski, his son Najm al-Din Ishan Aluri, and Suyunch Baqi’s son Khwaja Virdi (d. 1855), all three from around Tobolsk, one of the two scholarly centers in Siberia (along with Tara, another historic settlement five hundred kilometers southeast). Tobolsk was founded soon after

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the Russian occupation near the former capital of the Sibir Khanate and served as the administrative center of western Siberia in the early 1800s. In these decades, many Siberians traveled long distances for their education, largely to Bukhara and also to Mecca, Istanbul, and Yarkand. Of all the wayfarers and knowledge seekers in Fazl Ahmad’s broader network, there is no doubt that these disciples had the hardest time: the journey to Bukhara was some three thousand kilometers, about the distance from Bukhara to Bengal. Siberian biographies tell us that Khwaja Virdi was involved in an unusual debate that uniquely concerned Siberian religious scholars. Like several of his colleagues, he neglected the night prayer in the winters: Siberian days last only several hours, so was the last prayer really necessary? Another colleague brought him multiple texts until he was finally satisfied that the prayer was indeed compulsory.71

Marjani wrote in his memoirs that when Ghulam Qadir died in 1855, most of Bukhara attended his funeral procession. And his subnetwork continued to evolve, even as the Great Game progressed. In 1865, Russian forces took Tashkent and in the next year advanced onto Jizzakh, within Bukhara’s orbit. The ulama of Bukhara and Samarkand appealed to Amir Nasrullah’s son, Amir Muzaffar (r. 1860–1886), demanding war. Faced with internal pressures, Amir Muzaffar met the Russians in battle and, as a result, surrendered both Khojand and Samarkand. Bukhara was forced to pay heavy reparations, boundaries were formalized, and Russian merchants obtained equal trading rights within the khanate. Although by this stage Tashkent had already been incorporated into the Russian Empire, Bukhara was allowed formal autonomy. For Russia, a pliant Bukharan state could provide a useful buffer against the British sphere of influence and lessen the financial and military burden of governing yet another occupied territory. In 1873, however, Bukhara officially became a Russian protectorate.72 Ironically, this proved useful for Amir Muzaffar, who could now expand his territory at Khiva’s and Khoqand’s expense with Russian approval. Russian troops were meanwhile available to suppress internal disturbances. In 1885, the Russian customs boundary was extended to include Bukhara, and a political agency negotiated relations with Russia. These measures meant greater northward trading opportunities, and as a result the amir governed a more centralized and well-policed state than any of his forbears. It is hard to say whether Bukhara’s scholastic apparatus declined during the protectorate period. Certainly, the ulama lost some of their autonomy; Amir Muzaffar’s administrative centralization reforms yielded a

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state-supported and hierarchical class of ulama.73 Marjani, and later social critics like the famed Tajik Jadidi Sadr al-Din Ayni, commented on the depressed state of madrasas at the turn of the century. But this lament, coming from both colonial authorities and reformists, should not be taken at face value. On one hand, there was corruption within certain madrasa establishments, where even living quarters and teaching posts were rented out. But the most stable madrasas in the khanate were often those dependent on Sufi orders, specifically those that featured shrines attracting pilgrims. Such institutions still received steady streams of income from devotees.74 There is no doubt that Bukhara’s scholastic and sacred networks were severed through the course of the late nineteenth century. In nascent Afghanistan, Amir ‘Abd al-Rahman’s policies undermined trade and circulation with neighbors, including Bukhara. Also, the gradual isolation of Kazan and Siberia from Transoxiana began about this time. As Russia became more politically and economically dominant in Inner Asia, it engaged Tatars and Bashkirs to provide many of the commercial and intermediary services previously offered by Bukharan merchants. Bukharans in Siberia and Astrakhan on the Caspian Sea began to lose their privileges as early as the 1830s. Over time, the political, economic, and religious interests of Tatars and Bashkirs became further oriented toward Russia and away from the historic trading strongholds of Transoxiana. Religious establishments in Russia were sustained by a growing Tatar bourgeoisie, while the more elite ulama came under the Orenburg Muslim Spiritual Assembly, which the Russian government oversaw. Starting midcentury, a fierce anti-Russian resistance movement was being waged in the Caucasus. Many of the chief instigators belonged to a Mujaddidi suborder. This resistance movement led to the popular Russian legend of Sufi orders as hotbeds of fanaticism. Hajj pilgrims coming through Russia were no longer allowed to leave major cities, and in 1844, Tsar Nicholas directed officials to “prohibit completely the entry across our borders of any figures of Muhammadan ecclesiastical rank” if they had received religious education abroad.75 Traditional ulama and Sufis also came under criticism from within Muslim communities as reformist and modernist ideologies—often influenced by Russian orientalism—permeated the Tatar and Bukharan intelligentsia. Advocates of educational reform, known as the “Jadidis,” critiqued corruption and decadence within the religious leadership and sacred spaces. This may have eroded Bukhara’s sacred standing among Tatars and other Russian Muslims. However, many Jadidis belonged to Sufi orders and were careful to distinguish between “authentic” and “corrupted” Sufi practices.76

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Marjani relates that in the late nineteenth century, Ghulam Qadir’s grandson, Mullah Fayz Bakhsh (d. 1852), the son of Mian Fazl Quddus, left for Kazan and settled there.77 Later, we hear of a Nur ‘Ali bin Hasan al-Buawi, the imam in Buinsk, in Kazan (d. 1920) who received several licenses from Bukhara, including one from Mian Fazl Malik (who by the turn of the century was designated by the native term Bukhari).78 Despite the dramatic reorientations induced by Russian expansion, and despite Muslim modernist censuring of Sufism, then, at least some Bukhara-Volga linkages survived within Fazl Ahmad’s network into the protectorate period, demonstrating its resilience under tremendous pressure.

6 Peshawar in Turmoil

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F

rom Transoxiana and Russia, we now turn back to Peshawar, to continue Fazl Ahmad and his son Fazl-i Haqq’s story after the gradual demise of the Durrani sultanate. Peshawar’s strategic position as a gateway into Hindustan did not bode well for the city in the first half of the nineteenth century. It passed first from the Afghan Durrani sultans of the Sadozai clan to the Afghan Barakzai chiefs, or sardārs, then to indirect Sikh rule via the Barakzais, followed by a full-fledged Sikh direct occupation, and finally faced annexation into British India. Between the first two phases— that is, in the late 1820s—Peshawar also became the staging ground for the Mujahidin movement, a short-lived but important militarized theocratic project spearheaded by the theologian Sayyid Ahmad from Rae Bareli that shook up the religious landscape of the Peshawar Valley and beyond. This chapter provides a glimpse into how Fazl Ahmad’s hidden caliphate survived in this period of internecine conflict and transition into Sikh and British rule. Three episodes in particular vividly illustrate the mechanics and practicalities of the network: the role of Fazl-i Haqq in facilitating William Moorcroft’s pioneering journey to Bukhara; Fazl-i Haqq’s military mobilization against the Sikhs in 1823; and the opposition movement (circa 1826–1829) to Sayyid Ahmad and his Mujahidin, engineered by two of Fazl Ahmad’s principal deputies. Each gives us a distinct lens into the complexities of the Mujaddidi sacro-cultural sphere, showing how, in a time of deepening instability, the Mujaddidi khānaqāhs and networks emerged as sites of bast (refuge), negotiation, diplomacy, and military and ideological mobilization.

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Peshawar Contested In 1792, Zaman Shah Durrani emerged temporarily victorious in the struggle to succeed Timur Shah. After securing Kabul and Peshawar, he turned to Hindustan in the hopes of restoring Durrani territories lost to the Sikhs and other rivals. But his campaigns ultimately proved futile, draining his treasury in the process. On the domestic front, Zaman Shah’s principal opposition came from his half-brother Mahmud Shah. In 1799, Zaman Shah succeeded in driving his rival into exile in Bukhara, but only for a brief period. Mahmud Shah soon occupied Herat, then moved south-eastward toward Peshawar, which was governed by Zaman Shah’s full brother Shah Shuja‘. Mahmud Shah first deposed Shah Shuja‘, then turned back to Kabul and drove Zaman Shah out in 1801. With Kabul in his control, Mahmud Shah confidently declared himself sultan. The governorship of Peshawar went to his son Kamran, while Fath Khan, a son of Timur Shah’s distinguished chief minister of the Afghan Barakzai clan, Payinda Khan, became Mahmud Shah’s principal advisor.1 Several peculiar narratives in the early biographies suggest that Fazl Ahmad played a minor part in these events, helping to secure Mahmud Shah at Herat, Peshawar, and Kabul between 1799 and 1801, and managing the transition from Zaman Shah to Mahmud Shah. The chief biography Tuhfat al-Murshid relates: In the time of war between Mahmud Shah and Zaman Shah in Herat, Mahmud Shah was vanquished and took refuge at Bukhara. The king of Bukhara [Shah Murad] awarded him respect. Fazl Ahmad, at the time, was based at Bukhara. And Mahmud Shah came to visit Fazl Ahmad every night, requesting his prayers that he become the heir to his father. Fazl Ahmad, however, kept turning him away. Finally, he told Mahmud Shah: “You are a person of cruel nature. If you were to assume power, you would be a cruel and unjust ruler. And if I were to pray for you, I would be party to this cruelty.” Upon hearing this, Mahmud Shah swore that he would not violate or abuse the people if he were to become king. Fazl Ahmad made Mahmud Shah promise that when God granted him kingship, he must not violate the shari‘a. Mahmud Shah agreed, adding that if he were to transgress the shari‘a, Fazl Ahmad should offer a prayer against him. Fazl Ahmad however responded that he could not utter a prayer against anyone. The next night Fazl Ahmad prayed, and told Mahmud Shah to return the night after to Herat. The governor of Herat fled without a fight, and Mahmud Shah advanced to Qandahar. As he approached Kabul, Zaman Shah, who was in Peshawar, became anxious, and marched toward Kabul to face Mahmud Shah. Mahmud Shah defeated him between Qandahar and Kabul, and Zaman Shah was forced to flee to the mountains. Mahmud Shah thus secured the throne of Kabul.2

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A second account relates that (presumably early) in the reign of Mahmud Shah, Fazl Ahmad offered protection to several Afghan chiefs and deputies allied with the deposed king, Zaman Shah. This group is specifically identified as “enemies of Mahmud Shah,” who had fled from Herat and Qandahar to seek refuge at the khānaqāh in Peshawar. Soon after, Fazl Ahmad led a caravan escorting this group of Afghan chiefs, along with notable ulama, from Peshawar to Kabul. The narrator ‘Abd al-Rahim accompanied this caravan. Since Kabul was then Mahmud Shah’s capital, we can only assume that the group was seeking amnesty from the new ruler.3 ‘Abd al-Rahim also provides another story involving a commander of Zaman Shah who eventually became the governor of Peshawar. Apparently, before his appointment, he used to solicit prayers and guidance from Fazl Ahmad. Upon becoming governor, however, he turned arrogant and refused to assist ‘Abd al-Rahim, relating to some injustice. ‘Abd al-Rahim related the story to Fazl Ahmad upon the latter’s return from Bukhara. The Sufi master responded that he did not wish to waste his time praying for the governor and hoped that again God would make him “require our prayers.” Only days later, Zaman Shah was dethroned by Mahmud Shah, and the governor fled to the home of Fazl Ahmad, seeking refuge.4 It is difficult to definitively interpret these stories. They do, however, tell us that there was palpable tension in the air. It seems that negotiations were constantly taking place between Fazl Ahmad and the ruling princes. We also learn that Fazl Ahmad’s institutions and residences at Peshawar and Bukhara served as safehouses for both Mahmud Shah and Zaman Shah’s factions during periods of transition. Given the ample references to Mahmud Shah’s devotion to Sufi masters, he probably did visit Fazl Ahmad at Bukhara. At the very least, the first story suggests that Fazl Ahmad shifted his allegiances and endorsed Mahmud Shah’s sovereignty, albeit reluctantly. And Mahmud Shah likely acknowledged the spiritual authority of the saint, as corroborated by reports that Mahmud Shah and his Barakzai allies later provided generous support to Fazl Ahmad’s institutions. In turn, Fazl Ahmad may have deployed his own influence to secure popular allegiance to Mahmud Shah, specifically from ulama and Afghan chiefs at Kabul and Peshawar, or from Afghan or Aimaq factions with whom he was associated, although the sources are silent on this matter.5 Fazl Ahmad may even have acted in an intermediary capacity between Shah Murad and Mahmud Shah. Soon after Mahmud Shah’s arrival in Bukhara, Zaman Shah dispatched an emissary to Shah Murad, demanding his extradition. Shah Murad was in a bind, as it was neither appropriate to harbor a rebel nor to violate the sanctuary he had provided. It was finally

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agreed that Mahmud Shah would set off on hajj (a protected journey), after which he was to change course and head back to Herat. Mahmud Shah’s presence in Fazl Ahmad’s khānaqāh suggests that he may have initially chosen to seek refuge with a noncontroversial divine, equally revered by all parties. It would not be unrealistic to even assume that the hajj arrangement was planned under the guidance of the Peshawari saint.6 Mahmud Shah’s first reign was short-lived. In 1803, his half-brother Shah Shuja‘ deposed him and secured Kabul. After several years, in 1809, Mahmud Shah again took the throne, this time with the help of his erstwhile (and future) chief minister, Fath Khan Barakzai. Fath Khan forced Shah Shuja‘ into exile at Ludhiana, where the deposed king was compelled to take refuge with the British political agent. Mahmud Shah was now beholden to his chief minister, who seized the opportunity to obtain positions for his own sons across the Durrani dominions. The region from the Derajat to Hashtnagar, north of Peshawar, which included the city of Peshawar, was divided among five of his sons. Another son, Dost Muhammad Khan, got Kabul, while Mahmud Shah was relegated to the status of a titular king at Herat. In 1818, Mahmud Shah’s son Kamran directly challenged the Barakzais and rather imprudently had Fath Khan assassinated. A rebellion ensued, and Mahmud Shah and Kamran were both forced to retreat to Peshawar. Each of the former Durrani regions become semi-independent polities under the Barakzai chiefs. Four sons of Fath Khan jointly claimed Peshawar, and the city changed hands repeatedly. The instability bred corruption and poor governance; law and order broke down.7 These internal fissures created an opportunity for the Sikh adventurer Ranjit Singh, who had established his capital at Lahore several years earlier. As the Sadozais and Barakzais clashed, Ranjit Singh occupied Attock on the Indus in 1814, then Kashmir in 1818, and then began his approach to Peshawar. After several decisive battles, the Sikhs defeated Afghan armies at Nowshera (forty kilometers east of Peshawar) in 1823. In a shrewd move, Ranjit Singh chose to retain the Barakzai chief Yar Muhammad as the governor of Peshawar. But the region was devastated, and much of Peshawar, including the Bala Hisar fortress, the seat of government, was razed. The loss of revenues and fiscal burdens imposed by the Sikhs would certainly have had a debilitating impact on funds available for mosques, madrasas, and khānaqāhs. Peshawar’s infrastructure also suffered, and contemporary accounts stress perpetual malgovernance and insecurity, and the cancellation of land grants. On the other hand, some endowments appear to have remained intact, and most of Fazl Ahmad’s deputies appear to have remained in the city.

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Fazl-i Haqq’s Caliphate in an Age of Turmoil Fazl Ahmad had appointed at least ten deputies in the city of Peshawar, including two sons. His fourth son, Fazl-i Haqq, designated as “Mian Awliya’,” succeeded him as the preeminent deputy at the khānaqāh.8 We know little about the activities of these deputies between the death of Fazl Ahmad in 1816 and the battle of Nowshera in 1823, which effectively transformed the region into a Sikh protectorate. Despite accounts of Fazl-i Haqq’s influence in Persian and Urdu biographies and European accounts, we find only disconnected references to his activities during this period.9 However, there are two episodes in the primary sources that reveal how he employed his father’s network to respond to contemporary challenges and sociopolitical fluctuations. From an early age, Fazl-i Haqq was able to benefit from the transregional scholastic resources cultivated by his father. He received an education in the revealed and rational sciences from over a dozen scholars from Khwarizm, Bukhara, Peshawar, Kabul, and Hindustan. Among these was his father’s deputy Hafiz ‘Azim, who tutored him in sciences ranging from hadith and rhetoric to Rumi’s Masnavi. For the esoteric sciences, however, his father was his sole teacher. Throughout the course of his education and deputyship, Fazl-i Haqq compiled a rich library of rare books on both exoteric and esoteric subjects, presumably also acquired from Transoxiana, Khurasan, and Hindustan.10 He also inherited his father’s transregional spiritual authority. While his father was alive, he was already playing an active role in managing the affairs of the central khānaqāh at Peshawar.11 He reinforced and expanded his father’s networks, traveling to Bukhara at least twice to meet with the king Amir Hayder. En route he solidified connections with the Ansari custodians of Mazar-i Sharif by appointing Nizam al-Din Balkhi Mazari, the son of the chief custodian of the shrine, as a deputy and principal biographer.12 Mohan Lal Kashmiri, the Persian secretary of the British agent Alexander Burnes, visited Peshawar in May 1832 and described Fazl-i Haqq as the “murshid [guide] of all the Transoxiana and Peshawer people.”13 Among his disciples was the Barakzai ruler of Peshawar, Yar Muhammad Khan.14

Commerce, Espionage, and Sainthood Fazl-i Haqq was able to deploy his father’s network as a platform for communication and patronage in this time of political flux, as can be seen in his engagement with the celebrated—and infamous—British officers, agents,

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and explorers William Moorcroft (d. 1825) and Alexander Burnes (d. 1841). Since Moorcroft was trained as a veterinary surgeon, the East India Company hired him to seek out horses for its vast military needs. To this end, from 1819 to 1825, he embarked on a mission to Central Asia, hoping to access to the fabled horse markets of Bukhara. Mir ‘Izzatullah, a Company agent and scholar, joined him on his journey. As was typical, Mir ‘Izzatullah had both long-established Sufi affiliations and intimate ties to the Mujaddidi order. His family had migrated from Bukhara sixty years earlier—probably at the same time as the Dahbidis—and likely had preexisting Naqshbandi affiliations. By 1821, the pair had reached Leh, the capital of Ladakh, a Buddhist mountain kingdom bordering Tibet to the north. Here, Mir ‘Izzatullah directed Moorcroft to a Mujaddidi master, Khwaja Shah Niyaz, a man “about sixty years of age, of rather low stature and somewhat corpulent.” Shah Niyaz made an overwhelmingly positive impression on Moorcroft, who described him as having an “expressive and prepossessing countenance . . . possessed of strong understanding, cultivated more highly than I expected in a Peerzada [Sufi master], and of a friendly, benevolent, and apparently liberal disposition.”15 Shah Niyaz, who became integral to Moorcroft’s journey, hailed like Fazl Ahmad from a family with roots across the Persianate cosmopolis. Several generations earlier, they had been the hereditary rulers of Tashkent. Before embracing the Sufi path, his father Khwaja ‘Abd al-Rahim was embroiled in transregional family politics and court intrigues spanning both sides of the Amu Darya. Having quarreled with his brothers, he left for Lahore and later Delhi, where he became closely associated with the Mughal ruler, Muhammad Shah. There he met Muhammad ‘Abid Sanami, the great-grandson of Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi, and was eventually appointed as a deputy of Muhammad ‘Abid’s student, the famed Musa Khan Dahbidi of Samarkand. He then shuttled between Hyderabad (Deccan), Lahore, Kashmir, Yarkand, Tashkent, Samarkand, and Bukhara; was patronized by the rulers of each region; and was even offered a restitution of his lands in Tashkent. Eventually, he found himself in Kashmir, where the Durranis issued him grants to establish madrasas and charitable organizations. He died at age 101 in 1785–1786, passing on his substantial resources and transregional prestige to his son and deputy.16 Shah Niyaz proved to be a worthy successor to his highly accomplished father, from whom he first received Sufi training. Later, he also trained in Bukhara under Musa Khan Dahbidi’s deputy Muhammad Amin, whom we encountered earlier. Despite his wealth, he retained a humble, friendly disposition—corroborated by Mir ‘Izzatullah and Moorcroft—and was

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skilled at both poetry and nastāliq calligraphy, the elegant and sophisticated script in which Persian was written. The hagiographies relate that he held impressive gatherings attracting scholars and rulers alike. Three or four times, he led a “princely procession” across Transoxiana, where, like Fazl Ahmad Peshawari, he was received by local elites and provided with generous gifts and endowments for his institutions.17 While at Bukhara, he must have become acquainted with Fazl Ahmad, and we can assume that on several of his journeys, either at Peshawar or Bukhara, he met with Fazl-i Haqq and developed a congenial relationship with his fellow Mujaddidi master. Some years afterward, Shah Niyaz resettled at Yarkand, then under Chinese rule. There, in 1812, he first met and befriended Mir ‘Izzatullah, who had been dispatched there by the British government. When the Sikhs occupied Kashmir in 1819, however, Shah Niyaz lost his land there and migrated to Ladakh, where he had resided for thirteen months when Moorcroft arrived.18 Probably due to a long-term association with Leh (on the route from Yarkand to Kashmir), Shah Niyaz became a trusted confidante of the khalun, the chief minister of Leh, and convinced him to welcome Moorcroft with civility. He also deployed his regional influence to negotiate safe passage and living arrangements from Kashgar to Khoqand and Bukhara for the Company mission.19 However, the route through Khoqand was not deemed secure at the time. This was about the time the Naqshbandi exile prince Jahangir Khoja led expeditions from Khoqand into Chinese Yarkand. As such, Shah Niyaz also referred Moorcroft to his acquaintance (and fellow Mujaddidi Sufi) at Peshawar, Fazl-i Haqq, who could help him get to Bukhara.20 Fortuitously, Moorcroft had recently met with and gained the confidence of Maharaja Ranjit Singh at Lahore. In exchange for Fazl-i Haqq’s reference, Moorcroft agreed to petition Ranjit Singh to restore the familial lands of Shah Niyaz in Kashmir. Moorcroft eventually fulfilled his side of the bargain, and Ranjit Singh returned six thousand rupees worth of land to Shah Niyaz.21 In accordance with this complex settlement, Moorcroft left for Peshawar and met Fazl-i Haqq.22 As luck would have it, Fazl-i Haqq was already planning to travel to Bukhara at the behest of Amir Hayder. Moorcroft offered to finance his journey, as long as he would provide references (verbally or in the form of letters) to the relevant princes along the way, many of whom were Fazl Ahmad’s followers. The Sufi master agreed to furnish letters addressed to his devotees, including Mir Murad Beg of Qunduz, Baba Beg at Tashkurghan, and other rulers west of the Hindu Kush, and to inform Amir Hayder of Moorcroft’s imminent arrival at Bukhara. He even

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carried gifts and letters of introduction to these rulers on behalf of Moorcroft. Fazl-i Haqq was to be joined by Wazir Ahmad, another Sufi (who may have been his disciple) and a friend of Mir ‘Izzatullah.23 This was the very same journey on which Fazl-i Haqq requested Nizam al-Din Balkhi Mazari at Mazar-i Sharif to compose a biography in honor of his father.24 Logistics prevented Fazl-i Haqq’s letters from reaching Mir Murad Beg, the ruler of the autonomous state of Qunduz south of the Amu Darya. Upon arriving in the mir’s territory, Moorcroft found himself under suspicion of espionage and was detained for several months. These accusations were not without cause, as Moorcroft’s journey took place against the backdrop of British expansion in Hindustan and interference in Kabul’s affairs. Reports of British interference had rapidly reached Qunduz. Moorcroft had also secured letters of recommendation for the mir from Mahmud Shah Durrani and his leading officials, as well as the late ruler of Khulm, another nearby state south of the Amu Darya. Each of these letters were rejected by Murad Beg, who cast aspersions on the characters of the issuers. He did, however, offer to accept a letter from his Sufi master Fazl-i Haqq, “whose testimony he [Mir Murad Beg] admitted would be decisive.”25 Eventually, both Moorcroft and Mir Murad Beg dispatched messengers to Bukhara and managed to acquire letters from Fazl-i Haqq attesting to Moorcroft’s good character. Reluctantly, Mir Murad Beg allowed Moorcroft to continue his journey, albeit after payment of a heavy fine. This, too, had been negotiated by Fazl-i Haqq’s associate, the Sufi Wazir Ahmad, who had returned from Bukhara to aid the imprisoned Moorcroft.26 Later in the journey, however, Moorcroft was again detained by Mir Murad Beg. At this stage, Wazir Ahmad suggested that he appeal to Khwaja Qasim Jan, a venerated holy figure of Qunduz, referred to as the “patriarch of Qataghan Uzbeks.”27 Khwaja Qasim Jan had considerable clout with Mir Murad Beg, who was his son-in-law. Khwaja Qasim Jan, was, incidentally, another Hindustani Mujaddidi, now settled at Taliqan in the kingdom of Qunduz, and also engaged as a merchant in the slave trade to Yarkand. He was a disciple of a famous Sufi, Timur Khan Bajauri (or Bajavari), who was in turn a disciple of the poet-saint Mirza Mazhar Jan-i Janan of Delhi.28 Khwaja Qasim Jan held a hearing in Moorcroft’s case that exemplified the institutionalized neutrality expected of the Mujaddidis and the mechanics of their intermediary functions. Khwaja Qasim Jan’s house, several hours from the town, was evidently a bast, a refuge or safehouse, much like Fazl Ahmad’s khānaqāhs. At this house, Khwaja Qasim first invited Moorcroft into a circular chamber, asked him to freely state his case,

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and then asked him some pertinent questions. At this stage, Moorcroft offered Khwaja Qasim some gifts, which he immediately returned, politely informing Moorcroft that they would tarnish his reputation as an arbitrator. Some days afterward he held a follow-up session in which the accusing parties and Moorcroft were all asked to give a deputation in an audience chamber. After a lengthy hearing, and a handsome payment to the ruler, Khwaja Qasim Jan negotiated Moorcroft’s release, and Moorcroft finally proceeded to Bukhara.29 Several years later, the English spy Alexander Burnes found himself in a similar predicament. While in Peshawar, he too was referred to Fazli Haqq to facilitate his travels through Transoxiana. Specifically, Burnes noted that Fazl-i Haqq’s influence was well known in Peshawar and that “he boasts a horde of disciples toward Bokhara, nearly as numerous as the inhabitants.” He went on to say: He received me with kindness, and tendered his services most freely, offering letters of introduction to all the influential persons in Tartary. He had heard that I was of Armenian descent, though in the English employ, nor did I deem it necessary to open his eyes on the subject. I thanked him for his kindness with all the meekness and humility of a poor traveller, and he proceeded to give his advice with a considerable degree of kindness.30

Fazl-i Haqq further counseled Burnes not to mention his English origin during his travels, as the English were known to be “political intriguers” and to “possess boundless wealth.” The saint prepared his epistles, which he sent to us; they were addressed to the king of Bokhara and the chiefs on the Oxus, five in number, who owned him as their spiritual guide. We were described as “poor blind travelers,” who are entitled to protection from all members of the faithful. They abounded in extracts from the Koran, with other moral aphorisms enlisted for the occasion on our behalf.

Burnes’s secretary Mohan Lal Kashmiri, too, was able to procure a missive from Fazl-i Haqq, via an acquaintance.31 But prior to his departure, Elphinstone’s former assistant and intermediary Mullah Najib came to Burnes in confidence and told him that Fazl-i Haqq was responsible for the difficulties Moorcroft faced during his travel in Transoxiana. This was presumably a reference to Moorcroft’s detainment at Qunduz, although Moorcroft’s own account does not intimate that Fazl-i Haqq had any role to play in this encounter. Heeding Mullah Najib’s advice, Burnes destroyed the letters.32 The stories of Moorcroft and Burnes are incredibly revealing, on a number of fronts. Even as the Afghan domains were crumbling, and amid

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tensions between the Sadozais, Barakzais, and the khanates of Transoxiana and lesser Turkestan, Fazl-i Haqq—and, for that matter, his associates Shah Niyaz and Wazir Khan—were recognized as figures who could make or break the highly sensitive tours of foreign agents. Both the teacherdisciple relationship and horizontal associations between different Mujaddidi branches were a basis for negotiation and mediation. Fazl-i Haqq acted a mediator between foreign travelers, tribal authorities, and local potentates. Within limits, his assurances could assuage justified suspicions on the part of regional ruling elites. And unlike local rulers who could issue letters of recommendation only to their allies, Fazl-i Haqq’s letters carried weight among warring polities. This was clearly a formalized function of the Sufi master, with letters issued by a secretary following a very particular format. These incidents also give us an intimate sense of how the networks functioned. Each Sufi was able to facilitate and negotiate at a transregional and local level. Shah Niyaz connected Moorcroft to Fazl-i Haqq, who reached out to local rulers south of the Amu Darya. When the problem become too sensitive given the local politics of Qunduz and the avarice and suspicions of Mir Murad Beg, Moorcroft was passed on from Wazir Ahmad to a local Taliqani Sufi who could better micromanage matters at Qunduz, given his marriage alliances with the ruling family. They also reveal the monetary and patronage-based informal transactions that comprised the transregional transactional economy of the Mujaddidis and their associates. As seemingly impartial intermediaries and judges, they were endowed with greater authority and freedom of action and hence could safely provide refuge even to foreigners, whether in Ladakh or Qunduz. Sufi masters thus provided a highly valuable function for their host polities, at the very least providing a safe space for transactions and negotiations. It is also quite interesting that aiding suspect colonial officials was evidently not deemed problematic for any of the Sufis involved. There could be several reasons for this. Their ability to assist East India Company employees may have been a function of the safehouse tradition and their well-acknowledged intermediary function. Also, as Shah Niyaz insinuated, there was an awareness within the network that the British were a power to be reckoned with. Playing a conciliatory role could have been a way to build informal links to ensure their own survival amid changing political circumstances. This highlights an important point regarding Mujaddidi and broader Sunni attitudes toward European Christian visitors at this early stage. These attitudes were to change substantially after the AngloAfghan conflicts. Before the British-led invasion, however, there was a genuine curiosity regarding both the English people and the Christian religion.

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One of Fazl-i Haqq’s teachers at Peshawar, the respected Sufi-scholar Mian Haji Ahmad, had in fact dispatched a messenger to Elphinstone during his visit to Peshawar, indicating his keen interest in comparing belief and praxis: I forgot to say that Meer Mohammed Ally came today with two written questions from Haujee Meean the great faker [faqīr]. One was respecting the present state and [illegible] . . . appearance of Jesus Christ and the other regarding the severities used by our Fakeers. I told him they used none but he owned that would never satisfy the Haujee. . . . I then told him of fasts penance . . . and flagellation. . . .33

All this said, the intrusion of Mullah Najib, who cast doubt on Moorcroft, and Moorcroft’s second detainment at Qunduz, point to the limitations on the mediatory authority of Sufi masters. Intermediary roles were clearly contested, with local actors vying for this privilege. Mullah Najib, in fact, had performed a similar office for Elphinstone, and he likely viewed Fazli Haqq as a potential threat. Also, Mir Murad Beg’s suspicions and the prospect of financial gain superseded the demands of Fazl-i Haqq, who was far away at Bukhara. Even Khwaja Qasim Jan could not prevent the payment of fines to Mir Murad Beg, although he did manage to negotiate substantial reductions.

Mobilizing the Ghāzīs A second revelatory incident rests on an enigmatic reference in Fazl Ahmad’s chief biography Tuhfat al-Murshid. The biographer tells us that at the time of Sikh expansion toward the Peshawar Valley, Fazl Ahmad approached Mahmud Shah Durrani, insisting on taking part in the fight against the invading armies. Mahmud Shah, however, refused the offer. He told Fazl Ahmad that he was far too valuable, and the people of Peshawar required his spiritual guidance. This incident was probably meant to have occurred at the time of the Sikh capture of Attock in 1814. The biography goes on to say that although Fazl Ahmad never entered the battlefield, his son Fazl-i Haqq organized a major campaign against the Sikhs, with no less than one hundred thousand of his followers and disciples. They were joined by the people of Yusufzai, Swat, and Buner (and, according to a later biography, Mohmand and Tirah) and fought with “guns, swords and spears, and eventually, even resorted to sticks, stones, and earth.”34 Despite the odds, they were ultimately victorious, with fourteen to fifteen thousand Sikh casualties against five thousand Muslim casualties.

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No other contemporary source explicitly references any such campaign led by Fazl-i Haqq. I would therefore be inclined to dismiss this reference as a hagiographical invention were it not that this biography dates to 1824, very soon after such an event would have occurred. Fazl-i Haqq was still active in Peshawar at the time, and it would have been difficult to entirely fabricate an event when news—especially of war of this scale—could travel rapidly in the Peshawar Valley. Further, the recruitment of Yusufzais and other mountain tribes as ghāzīs (soldiers of the faith, or auxiliary troops) was common in Sikh-Afghan conflicts from the late eighteenth century onward.35 Discounting the numbers (which are certainly exaggerated, as in most chronicles and hagiographies), we can look for such an event between 1814 (the Battle of Attock) and 1824 (when the biography was completed). It is possible that Fazl-i Haqq was engaged in the first phase of a decisive battle of Theri near Nowshera.36 Kuniya La‘l’s Tarikh-i Punjab, which contains a detailed account of Ranjit Singh’s campaigns, mentions an instance of largescale intertribal mobilization against the Sikhs where “thousands from the mountains of Swat and Buner, and from the areas of the Afridis, Khattaks, and others” participated as ghāzīs.37 When a son of Payinda Khan, ‘Azim Khan, took Kabul in 1822, he was determined to reconquer Attock from the Sikhs. He launched a mass mobilization campaign across Kabul and Peshawar, appealing to religious sentiments. His agents dispatched messages to rally populations in the name of restoring Islam to areas that had been taken by the Sikhs. Upon hearing of this, Ranjit Singh began preparing his forces at Lahore. In March 1823, large contingents of tribal levies and ghāzīs had gathered at the Theri hills. The ghāzīs were to be joined by the regular forces of ‘Azim Khan, en route from Kabul. Both Moorcroft and Alexander Gardner, an eccentric American mercenary in the Sikh army, mentioned twenty thousand soldiers, identified as “Khattak and Yusufzai” from “Swat, Bannu, Bajaur, and other mountainous districts.”38 Ranjit Singh decided to move against the ghāzīs before ‘Azim Khan could arrive, and he mustered a force of twentyfour thousand, both regular troops and Akalis. The ghāzīs, positioned at a height, dealt a crushing blow to the Akali forces. La‘l relates that they showered the Akalis with bullets and hurled down large boulders, which accords with the hagiographic account of using stones and earth. Several leading Sikh officers lost their lives during this maneuver. The ghāzīs followed the retreat, apparently inflicting many casualties, and came down to the fields, where they confronted a weakened Sikh army.39 Upon witnessing the retreat, Ranjit Singh mobilized his regular armies and surrounded the ghāzīs on the Theri hills. The tribal forces and ghāzīs

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were overwhelmed and retreated in turn, though many were hunted down. ‘Azim Khan’s army was unable to join them, being blocked by Sikh forces. Fearing further losses, the Kabuli armies retreated without aiding the ghāzīs. The total casualties in the episode are estimated at 3,000 Afghans and between 2,000 or 2,500 Sikhs.40 The campaign was ultimately a defeat for the Afghans, which may account for why the biography is sparing on details regarding the location and date of the battle.41 That said, this event provides yet another example of the intermediary role of the Sufi masters as social mobilizers in regions where the writ of both Peshawar and Kabul was limited. Fazl-i Haqq or his disciples could have traveled through the highland regions preaching and assembling an army of disciples and other irregulars. Mobilization was probably facilitated by Fazl Ahmad’s deputies among the highland Afghans, which included religious leaders among the Utmanzai, Yusufzai, and Utmankhel tribes, as well as at least two deputies from Bannu further south. In other words, his networks were robust enough for rapid mobilization across vast pastoral nomadic and highland zones. Mian Muhammad ‘Umar Chamkanni had played a similar function a generation earlier, so the role of Sufis as military mobilizers would have been well established in the region.42 We know from several sources that the Sufi master Sayyid Akbar Shah of Sitana (d. 1853), who later became king of Swat, was the chief mobilizer of the ghāzīs in the Theri-Nowshera battles.43 Sayyid Akbar Shah was a descendant of Swat’s patron saint, Sayyid ‘Ali Tirmizi (Pir Baba Buner), and an important landholder with extensive land grants in the Hazara region. From his base at Sitana, west of the Indus, he had marshaled his disciples in various parts of Swat against the Sikhs. Moorcroft, who reported on the incident very soon after it occurred, compared this to Peter the Hermit’s mobilization “to confront the enemies of the Christian religion in the distant fields of Palestine.” He went on to mention that “mullahs” and “clan chiefs” were the “minor leaders of the less lettered peasantry who arranged themselves under the banner of their religious leader with little less of careful preparation for the context in which they were about to engage than characterized by the followers of the cross in the first crusade.”44 Multiple Sufi masters were therefore collaborating in the ghāzī mobilization effort under Sayyid Akbar Shah, probably including Fazl-i Haqq. Logistical preparation could also be circumvented, given the authority of the Sufi leaders who could readily secure supplies as required from their associates and devotees en route to battle.45 Moorcroft gives the impression that the recruits were “ambitious of obtaining the honor of victory and rewards of martyrdom in fighting” and, as such, did little regarding food and ammunition. However, it seems the ghāzīs were prepared with a

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two-day ration of unleavened bread. Moreover, they relied on local populations, who were bound by tradition to provide for traveling ghāzīs and scholars. The burden of supplying provisions would have fallen to chiefs and khānaqāhs at each stage. Following the Afghan defeat at Nowshera, Ranjit Singh entered Peshawar in March 1824. Fazl Ilahi, an octogenarian descendant of Fazl-i Haqq, relates that his ancestor refused to stay in Peshawar when the Sikhs arrived; he migrated first to his family’s lands at Tangi, north of the city. Apparently, after he had left, a Sikh assessor investigated his properties and found that Fazl-i Haqq had extensive lands and innumerable shops. But after being assured by the people of Peshawar that he was committed to “service and was of a [high spiritual] station,” the “Sikh mashar” [leader, or elder] told the saint that he could resume his spiritual activities. An 1876 British Confidential Report on Swat places the migration sometime after 1822 (maybe even after the defeat at Nowshera) and further claims that Fazl-i Haqq left for Tangi after the Sikhs ceased his allowances. But Fazl-i Haqq returned to Peshawar some years later and was probably based there for the rest of his life.46

The Mujahidin “Heresy” Although Peshawar’s civil governance was retained by the Barakzai chiefs when the Sikhs arrived in 1824, a period of continuous minor military action ensued as Hari Singh Nalwa, the Sikh commander, enforced Sikh authority in the countryside. In the midst of these ongoing conflicts, however, perhaps the most serious—even existential—threat to the Mujaddidis of the Peshawar Valley came, surprisingly, from within Hindustan’s scholarly circles. This was the at once celebrated and notorious movement of Sayyid Ahmad of Rae Bareli (1786–1831). In the late 1820s, this north Indian theologian briefly set up a puritanical theocratic state in the Peshawar Valley. With the support of his “Mujahidin” army, he rejected certain established legal traditions and Sufi practices, while liberally declaring his opponents heretics. His movement was variously known as the “Tariqai Muhammadiyya” (Path of Muhammad) and the “Rah-i Nubuwwat” (Path of Prophethood). To detractors, they were the “Ahl-i Zalal” (people of error) and, still worse, “Wahhabis.” Among Sayyid Ahmad’s critics were two of Fazl Ahmad’s preeminent Peshawari deputies, Hafiz Daraz and Hafiz Muhammad ‘Azim, styled “Bahr al-’Ulūm,” “the sea of knowledges.” These two were among Peshawar’s principal theologians and had been appointed by their Sufi master to

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deliver weekly sermons at his khānaqāh. Both were originally from Punjab, having settled in Peshawar under the Durranis. Hafiz ‘Azim was the preacher at the congregational mosque and college of Khwaja Ma‘ruf.47 Three of Swat’s most famous Sufis—the Akhund of Swat, Sayyid Akbar Shah (ruler of Swat until 1857), and Sayyid Amir of Kotah—were among his students in the revealed and rational sciences. Hafiz Daraz was of course one of Fazl Ahmad’s principal Mujaddidi deputies in Peshawar and one of the city’s premier theologians.48 Buttressed by regional Naqshbandi, Qadiri, and Chishti communities, these two deputies spearheaded the theological charge against the encroaching Mujahidin movement in the Peshawar Valley. Their involvement gives us a clear picture of how Sayyid Ahmad’s theocratic project challenged the Mujaddidis. Conversely, the Mujaddidi Sufis, with their arsenal of theological methods, institutions, and political alliances amassed over the late eighteenth century, were poised to provide an ideological rebuttal to the Mujahidin. It was perhaps the Mujaddidis’ declared inheritance of Sirhindi’s legacy, their historical claim to uphold shari‘a, and their stress on jurisprudence and theology that positioned them to articulate a coherent response to what, in turn, they regarded as Sayyid Ahmad’s “heresy.” In the process, they were able to spell out their own conceptions of orthodoxy and orthopraxy. Examining the Mujaddidi response to the Mujahidin also provides new perspectives for analyzing the rise and fall of Sayyid Ahmad’s legendary movement. His state-building project has captured the imagination of countless colonial administrators and historians. Even today, the movement is variously viewed as the first faith-driven anticolonial insurgency, the prototypical ulama-led theocracy or “Islamic state,” and the precursor to the Taliban.49 Sayyid Ahmad’s jihad is now popularly understood as a clash between orthodox Islam and Sikh and British expansion, or between Sayyid Ahmad’s reformism and local Afghan political interests or cultural mores. In this epic conflict, the local religious leaders are brushed off as passive actors, beholden to Sayyid Ahmad or Peshawar’s Afghan leadership. But this episode must be reexamined as an internal Sunni theological struggle between the now-predominant Sufi-ulama networks, notably Mujaddidi, and the Mujahidin—a challenge to the hidden caliphate from within. This was the first systematic clash between the Sunni religious establishment and what later evolved into the Ahl-i Hadith and Indian Wahhabism. Sayyid Ahmad is certainly the most thoroughly contested and debated figure among early nineteenth-century Hindustani religious leaders. He was in many ways a by-product of Hindustan’s Mujaddidi environment—though

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eventually he spun off in a quite different direction. He was in fact a descendant of a Mujaddidi saint, Sayyid ‘Ilmullah. Sayyid Ahmad spent much of his youth at the shrine in Rae Bareli. Like so many other Sufis, he later left for Delhi to pursue his studies under Shah Waliullah’s son, the preeminent hadith scholar Shah ‘Abd al-‘Aziz. Soon after, he joined the army of Amir Khan (d. 1834), an Afghan Pindari soldier of fortune who raided parts of Hindustan until he was assigned the province of Tonk in Rajasthan by the East India Company. After a brief but celebrated career as a charismatic soldier-scholar, Sayyid Ahmad once again returned to Delhi. By this time he had amassed a following, which even included two grandsons of Shah Waliullah, Shah Isma‘il and Shah ‘Abd al-Hayy.50 While at Delhi, Sayyid Ahmad began preaching a radically new doctrine, the “Tariqa-i Muhammadiyya.” This path offered simplified methods of devotion, among other benefits, and set itself in opposition to contemporary Sufi practices that were deemed “deviant.” The doctrine was enshrined within several tracts composed by Sayyid Ahmad and his ideologue Shah Isma‘il, notably Sirat al-Mustaqim (“The Straight Path,” 1818) and Taqwiyat al-Iman (“The Strengthening of Faith,” parts of which may have been composed as early as 1798–1799). By the late twentieth century, the latter had become the canonical text of the Wahhabi and Ahl-i Hadith movement in South Asia. The methodology, terminology, and even critiques offered by the Tariqa-i Muhammadiyya relied largely on earlier Sufi paradigms and theologies. In fact, Sayyid Ahmad never severed his ties with Sufi communities and continued to initiate disciples into the Naqshbandi, Qadiri, and Chishti orders. The Tariqa-i Muhammadiyya itself, fascinatingly, reformulated the Mujaddidi tradition. Much of Sayyid Ahmed’s theology was grounded in Sirhindi’s critiques of wayward Sufism, but he offered an extreme interpretation of these views. His authority as a teacher, too, was based on the Sufi master-disciple paradigm.51 There were, however, several key areas where he departed from earlier practices and theologies. The differences appear minor at first, but their implications were considerable. First, he was harshly critical of what he deemed innovative spiritual practices. These included excessive reverence for Sufi guides, immoderate practices surrounding pilgrimage rites, belief in the intercession of saints and prophets, and meditative practices that required visualizing the master. He also condemned certain customary practices, like pride in genealogy or lineage and proscriptions on the remarriage of widows.52 He also displaced the khānaqāh as a site of instruction, as well as the existing curricula. The Tariqa-i Muhammadiyya contained an implicit critique of the complexities of contemporary Sufi practices. Sayyid

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Ahmad instead advocated for simple contemplative exercises that could be performed by lay worshippers. According to him, the Qur’an and hadith needed to be made accessible to the masses. In his system, initiation too was straightforward, and he and his deputies traversed Hindustan, organizing teaching circles and rapidly initiating and imparting methods of practice to large audiences.53 It is for these reasons that the movement received the derogatory label “Wahhabi” as early as 1821. The puritanical Arabian Wahhabi movement was fresh in everyone’s mind. The Wahhabis had just been overwhelmed by Egyptian and Ottoman forces two decades earlier and dubbed heretics for their wanton violence against and excommunication of other Muslims. The extremism of Sayyid Ahmad’s ideology—rejecting certain Sufi practices, traditions, and schools of jurisprudence and liberally declaring opponents heretical, along with their later militarization—reminded other Sunnis of this episode, and indeed many years later self-declared Wahhabis looked to him for inspiration. But Sayyid Ahmad denied this and consistently called himself a staunch Sunni and follower of the Hanafi school of law.54 After several years of missionary activity in Hindustan, Sayyid Ahmad departed for Mecca with a cohort of disciples. Following his return in 1824, he embarked upon a protracted religious-military campaign against the Sikhs, which lasted until his death in 1831. After some deliberation, he decided that the Peshawar Valley and the Yusufzai regions to its north were the most appropriate staging grounds for this project. The region’s almost exclusively Muslim population was at the frontier of Sikh expansionism. Further, the Yusufzai territories remained a yāghestān, a “rebel land” free from Barakzai or Sikh interference. And, with only scattered points of entry into the Peshawar Valley and Swat from Punjab, these highland regions could be more easily defended.55 Sayyid Ahmad’s recruitment efforts took him through Sindh and on to Qandahar, Ghazni, and Kabul. He endeavored to mobilize ruling elites, merchants, landowners, religious leaders, and other classes. He was warmly received, given both the appeal of his stated mission and on account of a tradition of providing for itinerant ulama. He was even promised support by several rulers. Others, like the chief of Qandahar, looked upon him as a financial burden and a threat, and prohibited their own soldiers from joining the Mujahidin. By the time Sayyid Ahmad reached Peshawar in November 1826, he was supposedly accompanied by an army of three hundred devoted followers who saw him as a messianic figure, and he was financed by a network of sympathizers across Hindustan.56 But some of Peshawar’s ulama were more suspicious of Sayyid Ahmad’s motives and theology from the outset.

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Refutation of the Refutation The foundational text of the movement, Shah Isma‘il’s Taqwiyat al-Iman, had reached Peshawar by the early 1820s. Likewise, even before Sayyid Ahmad embarked on his jihad, word had spread regarding his proposed campaigns against the Sikhs at Hazara east of the Peshawar Valley. It is likely that Sayyid Ahmad had sent a letter to the ulama of Peshawar, announcing his objectives. In response, Hafiz Daraz, already regarded as one of Peshawar’s chief jurists, composed a tract refuting the “people of error,” that is, the Tariqa-i Muhammadiyya, who were “conflating matters of truth and falsehood.” His tract, therefore, was intended as a corrective that parsed out truth from falsehood and as a scholarly defense of prevalent Sufi theologies and practices.57 This tract exemplifies the competitive advantage of networks like Fazl Ahmad’s, which encompassed regional khānaqāhs and Peshawar’s ulama establishment. As one of Peshawar’s principal hadith scholars and popular preachers, Hafiz Daraz was uniquely positioned to compose a theologically sound rebuttal, grounded in contemporary social and political realities. He was able to produce a locally appropriate and palatable version of what was gradually becoming a region-wide theological attack. The message was disseminated through the pulpit and through the very same ulama and Sufi networks used to mobilize auxiliary troops against the Sikhs in earlier years.58 Although the Mujahidin and the Tariqa-i Muhammadiyya are not explicitly mentioned, readers would have recognized this tract as a direct response to the second chapter of Taqwiyat-i Iman. Taqwiyat was essentially a polemic meant to guide a broad segment of the population in differentiating “true monotheism” from “polytheistic and wayward practices.” Taqwiyat’s original manifestation was in Arabic, entitled Radd al-Ashrak (“Refutation of Idolatries”), and presumably geared toward a scholarly audience. However, it was soon after translated into simple Urdu prose for accessibility. Similarly for populist purposes, Shah Isma‘il based his arguments not on complex theological discourses but on simple, digestible excerpts from the Qur’an and sunna.59 In chapter 2 of Taqwiyat al-Iman, Shah Isma‘il outlines four categories of unpardonable shirk (association or idolatry): • Idolatry

in Knowledge: God is the only possessor of true, hidden knowledge. As such, when a worshipper believes that anyone other than God possesses hidden knowledge or knows what is in his thoughts, and calls upon that person for help, or imagines that person’s image, he is committing idolatry.60

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• Idolatry

in Disposition: When a worshipper believes that any entity other that God is capable of exercising authority or providing or giving health or obviating calamities, and calls upon him and makes vows in his name, he is committing idolatry.61 • Idolatry in Worship: Anyone who performs worship in the name of any entity but God (like prostrating before graves or offering sacrifices at shrines) is committing idolatry.62 • Idolatry in Daily Habits: If anyone, in his daily routine, invokes the name of any entity apart from God, or takes oaths and vows in the name of a prophet or saint, he is committing idolatry. This includes even naming one’s children the “servant” of the prophet, or of an imam.63 On a theological level, Shah Isma‘il’s four categories could be construed simply as extreme forms of Mujaddidi positions. Hafiz Daraz, however, evidently recognized that the Tariqa-i Muhammadiyya implied a highly practical program that challenged the entire spiritual, economic, and social edifice that the Mujaddidis and their contemporaries has constructed over the course of centuries.64 At the foundational level, Taqwiyat deemphasized the exalted position of prophets and saints, a direct affront to the theological system upheld by the Sunni Sufis. Virtually all orders in the region were premised on prophetic intimacy and forging a relationship of love and dependence with the messengers, in particular the Prophet Muhammad, as well as saints, both living and dead. Moreover, Hafiz Daraz alluded to the direct social and economic consequences of each of the four points. He implied, to begin with, that idolatry in knowledge was an assault on the authority of the Sufi master, premised on access to hidden knowledge. Shah Isma‘il’s objection could be extended to Mujaddidi meditative practices, which were premised on intangible forms of communication and knowledge transfer, especially meditation, which required visualizing the image of the master.65 Hafiz Daraz also focused on Shah Isma‘il’s condemnation of charity bestowed at celebrations of the Prophet Muhammad’s birth and on the death anniversaries of saints. He probably saw this condemnation as a threat to the economic foundations of the khānaqāh and shrine tradition. Many of the social services surrounding shrines were sustained through donations, and the festivals were key in transforming the shrines (and associated khānaqāhs and madrasas) into public spaces attracting a broad base of devotees, well beyond active disciples.66 Rejecting intercession, meanwhile, would have undermined both the esoteric and exoteric function of the Sufi masters as intermediaries, a critical function that empowered

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their networks in a time of political decentralization and instability, as we have seen. Finally, Hafiz Daraz’s response to the accusation of idolatry in daily habits argued for the validity of invoking the prophets and Sufi saints, a ritual that enshrined their sanctity in the daily lives of worshippers and at congregational prayers. Loud invocation expressing devotion to venerated figures was a ritual arena where the contestation between Sayyid Ahmad and the entrenched Sufi-ulama was made publicly visible. Through such invocations, champions of Sufi orders could proclaim and defend their theological stances. Hafiz Daraz’s colleague Hafiz ‘Azim was well known for his bold recitations of “s.alāt wa-s salām ‘alayka, yā Rasūl” (blessings and peace upon you, oh Prophet!), followed by sermons focusing on prophetic love, of which Sayyid Ahmad’s sympathizers publicly disapproved.67 Mobilizing his rhetorical skills, Hafiz Daraz thus fashioned a refutation that mirrored Taqwiyat in structure and polemical nature, aimed at a theologically grounded, yet lay audience. In its simplicity and discursive style, it departed significantly from his other extant works, complex commentaries on jurisprudence and theology.68 Moreover, and unlike the document against which it argued, the tract was composed in Persian rather than in Arabic or Urdu, so it was presumably meant for a Peshawari audience. Hafiz Daraz appealed to this local audience to reject not Shah Isma‘il’s abhorrence of idolatry but his assumptions about their own practices. Were matters indeed as Shah Isma‘il described them, Hafiz Daraz admitted, society would be engaged in idolatry. But ultimately, he claimed, Muslims were aware that any hidden knowledge or intermediary power derives from God. For example, every Muslim is aware that God is the authoritative judge. Likewise, any donations made at the death anniversary of a saint are ultimately made in the cause of God.69 Shah Isma‘il thus insultingly misrepresented the intent behind the practices he condemned, which were not meant to deny God’s primacy. Following Shah Isma‘il’s lead, Hafiz Daraz then turned to the Qur’an and hadith, relating how each of the questionable concepts—intermediation, dedications to prophets, or modes of access to divine knowledge like wah.ī (revelation) and ilhām (inspiration)—are clearly enshrined in the scriptures. Here, he referenced notable books of Hanafi jurisprudence like Sharh-i Ashbah and Durr al-Mukhtar, and generally accepted sources of hadith like Sharh-i Sudur, Mawahib Laduniyya, Imam Malik’s Muwatta, ‘Ayn al-‘Ilm, Sahih Bukhari, and Tirmizi. He also made scattered references to popularly recognized works like the thirteenth-century Qasida Burda, the poem of the cloak, an epic paean for the Prophet, and works of the Cairene Sufi polymath Suyuti.70

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Near the end of the tract, his tone changed, and he directly attacked Shah Isma‘il himself, citing the legal classic Durr al-Mukhtar. He told readers that the act of proclaiming a Muslim to be a kāfir or unbeliever— whether the proclaimer has probable cause—actually renders the accuser an unbeliever. In effect, Hafiz Daraz both condemned takfīr (declaring someone an unbeliever), the hallmark of Sayyid Ahmad’s movement, and at the same time consigned him and his followers to the same category.71 The Question of the “Abode of War” The last section of Hafiz Daraz’s tract, which addresses the question of jihad, may be the most unusual. This could be a response to a chapter in Shah Isma‘il’s other work, Sirat al-Mustaqim, on the necessity of jihad against the Sikhs.72 Hafiz Daraz wrote: They have asked whether the country of Hazara [under Sikh rule] constitutes dār al-h.arb [the abode of war] or not. I declare that, according to Hanafi doctrine, it is not the abode of war. Because, in Durr-i Mukhtar,73 it has been clearly related that [a region] does not become the abode of war except under three circumstances: when orders of idolatry are issued; when it is in contact / liaises with the abode of war; and where there are no Muslims or ahl-i dhimma [protected non-Muslim communities] remaining in safety. And according to some sources it also applies when non-believers of ill-character appoint an unbeliever as a judge, and he enforces laws of the people of unbelief. And in Abu’l Mukarim it is related in Sharh Mukhtasar Fiqh, according to Hanafi doctrine, that [a dār al-islam, or abode of Islam] can become an abode of war only when none of the customs or practices of Islam remain, and [all traces] are entirely extinguished. Or, in the words of others, where practices of Islam are prevented, an abode of Islam can become an abode of war. And, there is no doubt that in the country of Hazara and Lahore, too, some of the customs of Islam still remain. Therefore, these countries, according to the school of jurisprudence of Imam Abu Hanifa, do not constitute an abode of war.74

The bold, unequivocal nature of this proclamation is somewhat surprising, given that contemporary biographers of Fazl Ahmad and his disciples provide accounts of the deprivations of the Sikhs and their destruction of Muslim places of worship. Why then, in the early biography Tuhfat al-Murshid, is Fazl-i Haqq’s attack on the invading Sikh armies treated as an act of heroism, while this document claims that an attack on the Sikhs controlling Hazara and Lahore is unjustified? Most likely, Hafiz Daraz’s argument was produced in accordance with political realities after 1823. Yar Muhammad Khan certainly would not have wished to provoke the Sikhs so soon after the recent

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defeat at Nowshera and the subsequent, uncomfortable armistice. As a result, the argument would have appealed to the chiefs of Peshawar, solidifying links between Hafiz Daraz, his network, and the ruling faction. Hafiz Daraz’s tract must have helped shape local public opinion prior to Sayyid Ahmad’s arrival, explaining why, after extended stays in Ghazni and Kabul, Sayyid Ahmad spent only three days in Peshawar. Walter Bellew (d. 1892), who had served as a medical officer in the Peshawar Valley and Yusufzai regions in the 1860s, furnishes a detailed account of this period. He tells us outright that, “At Peshawar, not meeting with the active support he anticipated, the Sayad moved on to Yusufzai, where he met a friendly reception from the chiefs of Hund and Zihdih, and was also on good terms with the Sayads of Buhnair.”75 It is conceivable that there was already popular resistance to Sayyid Ahmad’s presence within the city, to the extent that the chiefs felt confident in preventing any prolonged stay there.76 Factionalism in Peshawar At the time of Sayyid Ahmad’s appearance in the Peshawar Valley in late 1826, it had transformed into a theater of complex and fierce factional politics. The players included the chiefs of Kabul and Peshawar, each of whom vied for supremacy. There were also local tribal and landholding powerbrokers, many of whom had recently been subdued by the Sikhs. This dynamic was further complicated by the arrival of Sayyid Ahmad’s Mujahidin. As Robert Nichols explains, the events that ensued reflected the ultimately opposing tendencies of a “comprehensive, anti-Sikh, conservative religious reform movement and a regional, clan based reaction to Sikh advances.”77 Added to this were the interests of well-established networks of religious leaders. These networks strove to preserve their support base, their disciples, and land grants—all potentially undermined by Sayyid Ahmad’s ideological-political program. The Sufis and ulama ultimately deployed Peshawar’s factional politics and their own juristic and sacred authority to their advantage, aligning with the Afghan chiefs (and indirectly, the Sikhs) to drive out Sayyid Ahmad. After Sayyid Ahmad’s brief sojourn in Peshawar, his first base of operations was at Charsadda (thirty kilometers northeast of Peshawar). Most of this region was notoriously mismanaged, ill-governed, and financially distressed from the excesses of both the Sikhs and the Afghan chiefs. It was therefore not difficult for Sayyid Ahmad to build up a local base of support. Several tribal chiefs joined him, and he won the support of a handful of notable Sufi lineages—including Sayyid Akbar Shah at Sitana, who had

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recently led the ghāzīs at Nowshera. This is a reminder that Sayyid Ahmad’s recruiting methods would have been a familiar phenomenon. Only three years earlier, in 1823, spiritual leaders had mobilized the tribal levies against the Sikhs, relying on their symbolic authority. Sayyid Ahmad appealed to the same populations and even won the allegiance of disciples from within these lineages. According to Fazl Ahmad’s descendant ‘Abdullah Jan Faruqi (1910–2004), Fazl-i Haqq’s family members and some of their disciples initially joined the war effort because “at this stage, they were not aware of Sayyid’s Ahmad’s beliefs.”78 They were at the time probably still in Tangi, which was near Charsadda, and not privy to the debates at Peshawar. It is difficult to tell who actually joined the movement; later biographers of the Mujahidin liberally added names to the lists of devotees (although Fazl-i Haqq was never mentioned), while many early supporters denied their involvement after the movement proved to be theologically and politically problematic. For example, Fazl-i Haqq’s disciple Sayyid Amir of Kotah, who later became a revered Sufi leader, served briefly as a judge under the Mujahidin. For the remainder of his life he had to answer for this and respond to charges of harboring Wahhabi leanings. Eventually, with support from Yusufzais and other clans, Sayyid Ahmad’s Mujahidin managed to defeat the Sikh armies at Attock in December 1826. Following this victory, a number of chieftains, notably Khadi Khan of Hund (on the Indus, ninety kilometers east of Peshawar), and even the governors of Peshawar agreed to provide varying degrees of support. Sayyid Ahmad was eventually designated as the imam. This title, in effect, created a parallel and unprecedented form of theocratic sovereignty superseding the secular rulers of the region. The Mujahidin collected tithes and implemented rules to enforce the shari‘a, which were often at odds with Afghan cultural practices. At this stage, Sayyid Ahmad realized he could use some more support for his new theocracy, so he reached out to some of the very same princes who bankrolled Fazl Ahmad’s network. He sent a delegation bearing letters to solicit the kings of Chitral and Badakhshan; Qunduz’s Murad Beg; and, most importantly, Amir Hayder. Sayyid Ahmad was aware of the amir’s magnanimity toward scholars and his attachment to the Mujaddidis, so he prefaced his lengthy epistle with his own family credentials, that he was a descendant of the Mujaddidi saint “‘Ilmullah, a deputy of Adam Binori.” He hoped to solicit Amir Hayder’s support for his jihad, but to no avail. In fact, the amir’s advisors warned him that the delegation’s request “appears to be an English plot” and “a deceitful trap,” begging the question as to whether they may have received intelligence from Peshawar’s Mujaddidi network.79

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Soon after he became imam, the Sikhs defeated Sayyid Ahmad at Shaidu, seventy kilometers east of Peshawar. Many of his followers lost confidence in the movement. Previous allies, including Khadi Khan and the governors of Peshawar, turned on him, eager not to incur the further wrath of their Sikh overlords. Sayyid Ahmad decided to punish the treacherous Khadi Khan. Sayyid Ahmad asked the young ascetic Akhund ‘Abd al-Ghafur (later, the Akhund of Swat, 1793–1878), a disciple of Fazl Ahmad and student of Hafiz Daraz who had developed a reputation for piety in the Yusufzai region, to help broker peace. However, this turned out to be a ruse, and upon Khadi Khan’s arrival, Sayyid Ahmed had him assassinated. Regardless of the facts behind this episode, it seems to have adversely impacted the Akhund’s standing, and in the hagiographic accounts we are told that he was forced to relocate. But it was a particularly disastrous choice for Sayyid Ahmad, who earned a reputation for treachery among many of the religious leaders of the region.80 Attacking the Imamate Around this time, another intriguing tract was issued from Peshawar. This document was anonymous but was probably again authored by Hafiz Daraz.81 This time the tract was composed in Arabic, as a kind of “internal memorandum” for the ulama. This document represents a second phase in the campaign against the Mujahidin, seeking to mobilize elite religious scholars to attack the political aims and methods of Sayyid Ahmad’s imamate. It began with a reference to an unnamed but obvious man from among the agents of mischief, who was expelled from Hind [north India] to Sindh, on account of his heinous words and deeds. Thus, he was forced to wander from country to country until he found a residence in the remote mountains and ravines, and now without a home, he and his troupe of followers wander. They are akin to those bedouins that in the Qur’an are characterized by their lack of faith and by the discord that they create. . . . And he claims that he is a Sayyid, and he claims sainthood [wilāyat], and seeks for himself the imamate of all of these lands. And he narrates to people his false visions. And he tells them that he has come to establish the strong faith.82

The tract then clarifies why Sayyid Ahmad’s claims are unjustifiable on theological grounds. It is noteworthy that within this refutation, the author defines characteristics of an ideal democratic imamate, not common discourse at the time. Most Sunnis and Shi‘i ulama could not conceive of a piously guided imamate until the advent of the Mahdi. Sayyid Ahmad’s own messianic political claims as such had apparently opened up this space of discourse on good governance.

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We are told immediately that there is no evidence of Sayyid Ahmad’s descent from the Prophet Muhammad. His claim to be the rightful imam is also invalidated because he had shed Muslim blood and illegally looted possessions. The tract then argued at length about the invalidity of murder and theft, referring to the perpetrators of such deeds as depraved evildoers. A true imam has to be unanimously agreed upon by the people and cannot indulge in injustice such as seizing the wealth of the common people for his own needs and depriving them of their rights. The tract then argued that Sayyid Ahmad had despoiled Muslim land and corrupted the prevailing order, all in the name of reform. He had further engendered discord between believers, rather than bringing the believers together as a just leader should. The author buttressed these criticisms with condemnations of discord and indiscriminate violence derived from the Qur’an, prophetic narrations from the core hadith, and theological texts such as Sharh al-Muwafiq by al-Sharif al-Jurjani and the Masnavi of Rumi. The tract also, ominously, quoted successive prophetic narrations to the effect that someone who indulges in such heinous deeds deserves death. The author, for all intents and purposes, declared Sayyid Ahmad a rebel and enjoined scholars to support his arrest and execution. His tract paved the way for the third stage in the offensive against the Mujahidin: issuing popular pamphlets and deploying pulpits as a means to disseminate propaganda against the movement. Still, Sayyid Ahmad did manage to neutralize and vanquish some recalcitrant chiefs and governors, occasionally laying waste to regions that opposed his authority. In one such encounter, Yar Muhammad Khan was mortally wounded and died on September 4, 1829. Finally, after defeating the governors of Peshawar at the battle of Mayar outside of the city, Sayyid Ahmad was ready to take Peshawar. At the time, it was ruled by Sultan Muhammad Khan, a younger brother of the deceased Yar Muhammad Khan. The new ruler faced a predicament. He viewed Sayyid Ahmad as a destabilizing force who would invariably erode his authority and provoke Sikh retaliation. But he was hesitant to challenge him directly. Sayyid Ahmad had demonstrated both his military prowess and popular appeal. His religious rhetoric, promises of justice, shari‘a, and defense against the Sikhs had made it difficult for local rulers. With limited legitimacy or credibility, the Afghan chiefs could not hope to drive him out unless they successfully mobilized public opinion against him. Here, the ulama and Sufis proved most useful. Soon after the battle of Mayar, Sayyid Ahmad was popularly accused of tyranny and violence, and the public perceived his campaigns against Hund and Yar Muhammad Khan negatively. It appears that Hafiz Daraz

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and Hafiz ‘Azim, as well as other ulama of Peshawar, had a key part to play in this propaganda campaign. On September 9, 1829, Sayyid Ahmad addressed a letter to Hafiz Daraz, Hafiz ‘Azim, and several others, intending two outcomes. The first was to refute the claims of tyranny and injustice laid against him, and the second was to make it clear that Yar Muhammad Khan was actually the tyrant, a man who transgressed the laws of Islam despite all efforts to align him to the “straight path.” Sayyid Ahmad also claimed that Yar Muhammad Khan had been licensed by the Sikh ruler Ranjit Singh to wage war against his Mujahidin forces. The letter also solicited the ulama to ensure that Yar Muhammad’s successor, Sultan Muhammad Khan, accepted the authority of the Mujahidin. If you indeed assume the office [as established by] the Prophet, and also deem yourselves responsible for educating [the people] regarding the laws of God, then heed to your posts! Just as you assume guardianship of the people of this world, tell him [Sultan Muhammad Khan] of the injunctions of God Almighty. So that he enters upon the right path through words, preaching, and advice. So that we are free from further attacks and fighting. So that we can return to our affairs of jihad, and engage ourselves entirely in such affairs, night and day. In sum: If a righteous response is received quickly and without hesitation, then all well and good. But if the response is otherwise, or if a response is not received, then be prepared for a different sort of proclamation. And to whatever degree possible, defend your lives, although note that this will be of naught in front of the Lord Almighty. And the injunction of He who is empowered to wipe out the tyrant will be realized, beyond our understanding or comprehension. . . .83

Here, Sayyid Ahmad appeals to the ulama in their capacity as advisors to Sultan Muhammad Khan. This letter, therefore, suggests that they were probably behind the accusations and that their intercession could help ensure Sayyid Ahmad’s authority. The letter is harsh and threatening, with Sayyid Ahmad bold enough to declare himself on the path of God and supported by divine decree and command. Such a discourse blatantly challenged the authority of the religious and scholastic establishment. At the City Gates On his victory march to Peshawar in October 1829, however, Sayyid Ahmad was less than confident of popular and official support. He decided that at this critical juncture it would be best to conciliate his vanquished foes as well as the people of Peshawar. Accordingly, he allowed Sultan Muhammad Khan to retain his post as governor. The two parties agreed to meet outside the city to negotiate the terms of peace.84 At this stage,

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Sayyid Ahmad was acutely aware of another set of accusations that had been issued against him, regarding his purported “Wahhabi” ideology and his irreverence for saints. His biographies emphasize that en route to the meeting, Sayyid Ahmad paid his respects at the shrine of Akhund Darviza, publicly proclaiming his respect for regional Sufi customs. During this meeting, Sultan Muhammad Khan showed Sayyid Ahmad a fatwa (or “some other kind of official attested document”) with several stamps affixed to it, addressed to the Afghan chief. It was on the basis of this document, Sultan Muhammad Khan explained, that he had “gone astray” and dared to challenge Sayyid Ahmad. The document stated the following: Sayyid Ahmad, along with his followers, has gone to Afghanistan. His stated purpose is jihad, but this is, in actuality, a ruse. They [the Mujahidin] are enemies of our religion, and he [Sayyid Ahmad] has initiated a new faith. They accept neither saints nor holy ones, and denounce them all. The British have sent him here in order to spy on you and carry information back to them. Do not engage him. He will ensure that your country is wrested away from you. By whichever means possible, finish him off. If you are slow in this regard, you will be left with nothing but regrets.85

Sayyid Ahmad immediately dismissed the document as slander, handing it to Shah Isma‘il for safekeeping—lest any of his followers become so riled up by reading this that they resort to inappropriate conduct. Based on the content, the “fatwa” was apparently issued by Peshawar’s ulama, notably Hafiz ‘Azim and Hafiz Daraz.86 It had clearly damaged Sayyid Ahmad’s reputation. Subsequently, Charles Masson related, “the saiyad conducted himself moderately during his stay [at Peshawar], discussing points with the mullahs, and convincing them that he was not a Wahhabi, as, it would seem, they had accused him of being.”87 Some of their discussions clearly devolved into heated confrontations; in one such case, Hafiz Daraz, now having lost his eyesight, also lost his temper, knocking Shah Isma‘il’s turban off his head, while his opponent kept his cool.88 Sayyid Ahmad’s biographies, too, stress that he made efforts to conciliate the ulama and other officials, particularly those that had opposed him. They relate, for example, an episode concerning Fazl Ahmad’s deputy, Hafiz ‘Azim, also a teacher of Sultan Muhammad Khan. Two of Sayyid Ahmad’s followers apprehended him and inquired about his role in issuing the fatwa against Sayyid Ahmad, declaring him to be an unbeliever. Hafiz ‘Azim, in an effort to exonerate himself, claimed only that he gave “them” (the anonymous writers) his seal, and they affixed it to the document (implying that he was coerced). Sayyid Ahmad’s followers warned him that “In the day of judgement, this will be counted as one of the greater sins, so

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it is certainly better that you are punished in this life.” As the story goes, Sayyid Ahmad received word of this encounter and expressed disapproval of his followers’ behavior. He summoned Hafiz ‘Azim and assured him that he “had no quarrel with the ulama.”89 Regardless, although Sayyid Ahmad apparently did not wish to further alienate the ulama of Peshawar, he did implement certain reforms that would have been perceived as an affront to them. For example, his followers began preaching at key congregational mosques, including the famed Mahabat Khan mosque, Peshawar’s central place of worship. City preachers and ulama would therefore have been stripped of their assignments. Also, Sayyid Ahmad appointed two agents to patrol the streets to ensure that the locals were praying and not violating the shari‘a, however Sayyid Ahmad defined this in his capacity as imam. Those who openly opposed the movement were intimidated or punished.90 Perhaps as a result, the

figure 6.1  Mahabat Khan Mosque, Peshawar (Photo by Waleed Ziad)

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accusations continued unabated, with Fazl Ahmad’s deputies Hafiz Daraz and Hafiz Muhammad ‘Azim taking the lead. Shah Isma‘il also wrote two letters to the ulama of Peshawar, again addressed first to these two figures, in addition to half a dozen other ulama. One letter followed soon after their arrival in Peshawar, dated October 8, 1829, while another was written after their retreat from the city, dated April 11, 1830. It becomes clear that they had again made accusations of violence, heresy, and English collaboration against Sayyid Ahmad aligning with the fatwa referenced earlier, adding that his followers brazenly call him the “Mahdi” and that he rejects established schools of jurisprudence and Sufism.91 Following Shah Isma‘il’s letter of October 8, Sayyid Ahmad issued two further responses to the same ulama of Peshawar. He responded on October 18 that his family was well respected in Hindustan and strictly followed Hanafi doctrine. In a subtle maneuver, he pointed out that it is normal, in the field of jurisprudence, for there to be differences in judgment, and to give preference to certain traditions above others. He appealed for those with doubts to approach him directly, rather than engaging in slander. He further wrote that he had never assaulted anyone in violation of shari‘a, but that his attacks against hypocrites and apostates were a divinely ordained blessing. Jihad against tyranny was a religious obligation and would continue until the Day of Judgment. This seemingly conciliatory letter, then, concealed veiled threats against the recipients. The ulama were indirectly accused of hypocrisy and apostasy, and Sayyid Ahmad made his obligations in such a case all too clear.92 Several weeks later, Sayyid Ahmad announced his departure to Panjtar, a hundred kilometers east on the Indus, which had become his base of operations. He appointed his companion, Mawlawi Mazhari ‘Ali, as judge, to maintain order in Peshawar in his absence.93 Just days later, on November 17, a popular uprising broke out, engineered by Sultan Muhammad Khan, and all of Sayyid Ahmad’s agents in Peshawar were assassinated. Several months later, others were appointed, but a second uprising occurred, spurred on by a population that resented Sayyid Ahmad’s prohibitions on Afghan cultural practices and the tithe that he imposed. The masses were now armed with religious justifications for removing the Mujahidin.94 Several weeks later, increased pressure from the Yusufzais and Sikhs forced Sayyid Ahmad to relocate further eastward toward Kashmir. Finally, in 1831, Sikh armies inflicted a crushing defeat on the Mujahidin at Balakot, where Sayyid Ahmad and Shah Isma‘il, along with 1,300 of their followers, were killed.95 By mobilizing their theological arsenal and appealing to political elites and the general population, then, as well as strategically allying with the

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Sikhs, the ulama were largely successful in purging the Peshawar Valley of the Mujahidin. For several generations, the term Wahhabi became enshrined as a derogatory term among the Sufis and ulama, carrying with it the implications of heresy. The term was used as an underhanded means of slandering opponents for the next century. In the process of refutation and sociopolitical activism, the Mujaddidi networks used manuals, fatwas, and sermons to articulate their own boundaries of faith and infidelity, orthodoxy, and orthopraxy. Though two centuries earlier Sirhindi had critiqued Sufi practices that contravened the shari‘a, the nineteenth-century Mujaddidis identified religious purism as a far greater, even existential, problem. Such excesses, in the form of the Tariqa-i Muhammadiyya or Wahhabism, were themselves defined as heterodoxies and heresies. Based on their strategies we can conclude that Hafiz Daraz and Hafiz ‘Azim deemed Sayyid Ahmad a more potent threat to their ideology and socioeconomic base than the Sikhs. This is one of the few cases in which the Mujaddidis appealed to political authorities to directly prevent the spread of an ideology and its associated practices. From a broader perspective, then, this Peshawari attack on the Tariqa-i Muhammadiyya was an early manifestation of a Mujaddidi-led defensive campaign that swept the Persianate world.96 And it demonstrates that as the Persianate world fractured politically, the Mujaddidi hidden caliphate remained intact. Such Sufi networks were still the fibers that connected both sides of the Amu Darya and Indus, and their authority still superseded the manifest caliphate of local khans and princes. But as the nineteenth century wore on, the network’s vulnerability to the new Great Game imperial order became apparent: not only from the new colonial powers but from local elites who manipulated the imperial struggle to their advantage. Such vulnerabilities become all too apparent on the fringes of colonial rule, as at Dera Ismail Khan, south of Peshawar, another emerging node in Fazl Ahmad’s network.

7 Guardians of the Caravans

e

A

very different type of network was emerging in the southern reaches of Fazl Ahmad’s hidden caliphate. This was due to the efforts of an unlikely deputy, Imam Muhammad Raza Zakori, who forged the most durable subnetwork based in the Derajat plains between the Indus and the Sulaiman mountain range, now on the Pakistan-Afghan border. In the gaps between the expanding Sikh state and later British Empire and the fractured Barakzai Afghan dominions, Imam Muhammad Raza’s hidden caliphate among the independent Afghan migratory tribes was mostly insulated from the political intrigues that disturbed neighboring populations. This is a story about the Mujaddidis’ adaptation to a nomadic-sedentary tribal environment. In particular, it bears witness to the synergetic relationship forming between Fazl Ahmad’s urban, high-cultural, textual Mujaddidi tradition and a popularly revered clan-affiliated Sufi lineage. Imam Raza’s authority and mediatory structures allowed Fazl Ahmad’s network to access otherwise hazardous caravan trading routes between Sindh and Ghazni. Fazl Ahmad, meanwhile, provided a transregional intellectual and spiritual network of human capital and texts, endowing the Zakori khānaqāh with the clout and institutional capacity to become a regional center of excellence in exoteric and esoteric education. As the lineages merged, the collective memories of the transregional Mujaddidi order were skillfully synthesized with tribal mythologies.

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N Kabul

Peshawar

A F G H A N I S T A N Ghazni Margha (Unc. location)

WAZIR

Shilgar Janikhel, Katawaz

KHATTAK

Bannu

Wana

SULAYMANKHEL

MIANKHEL

Gomal Pass

Lakki Marwat Khushab

Kot Dawlat

GA N

WAZIR

NIAZI

DA PU R

MARWATS

Daraban

Zakori

Paharpur Dera Ismail Khan

BABAR Zhob

Zakori shrines

P

A

K I

S

T

A

N

Dera Ghazi Khan 0 0

50 km

Towns and villages hosting deputies and disciples Powinda migration routes Route between Dera Ismail Khan and Peshawar

50 miles

Map 6  Faqir Sahib Zakori’s network between Peshawar and Ghazni

A Saint among the Powindas Hazrat Imam Muhammad Raza (1776–1857), better known as Faqir Sahib, was born in the village of Zakori, three hundred kilometers south of Peshawar. He belonged to a venerated family of scholar-saints of the Zakori-Husaynkhel-Miankhel t.ā’ifa, or clan, of the greater Afghan Lodi tribal confederacy.1 Faqir Sahib’s semi-independent Miankhel clan was based in the vicinity of the Dera Ismail Khan, one of three fortified cities and entrepôts founded in the fifteenth to sixteenth centuries dominating the vast plains of the Derajat.2 In the later eighteenth century, Dera Ismail Khan served as a trading post connecting Multan and Sindh to Ghazni and Peshawar, in the upper

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part of the Durrani Derajat provinces. Faqir Sahib’s native Zakori is only one kilometer to the west of the city.3 Unlike the settled Yusufzais of Swat, the Miankhel were a mixed nomadic-sedentary clan, one of several comprising the Lohani subgroup that had moved from Ghazni to the upper Derajat in the sixteenth century.4 The Miankhels settled over a 650-square kilometer tract to the west of Dera Ismail Khan, between two other clans, the Gandapurs and Babars. Though a portion of the clan (the “plains Miankhel”) was settled in the towns of Daraban5 and Musazai, the majority was among the migratory Afghans commonly known as powindas, pastoral nomads who dominated trade between Hindustan and Bukhara.6 At the start of each winter, they would transport camel loads of commodities from Khurasan via the Gomal Pass, down the Indus toward Sukkur. During the summer months, they returned toward Ghazni, Kabul, and Qandahar and onward to the Amu Darya and beyond, to Tashkurghan, Qunduz, and Bukhara. They generally reached Bukhara by August, trading along the way. Twice a year, then, the Miankhels and other powinda caravans would pass through the bazaars of Dera Ismail Khan.7 The powindas, along with other commercial families from towns like Shikarpur, actually benefited from the Russian and British colonial presence in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. They become vehicles through which British manufactures were imported into Transoxiana. The Miankhels were the wealthiest of these groups, controlling some of the most valuable trade with Bukhara. At entrepôts like Kabul and Bukhara, they would cross paths and trade with Kazakh nomads who were in turn transporting goods between Russia and Bukhara. The trading and landholding Miankhels essentially formed one large community, and it was not uncommon for landholders to occasionally leave their lands to pursue commercial activities at Kabul or Bukhara. The Miankhel caravans eventually provided the economic foundation and defined the geographic scope for this new Mujaddidi subcaliphate, which was headquartered in their permanent landholdings. Blessing the Caravans The Miankhels had a hereditary khan, but he had limited authority. Leadership, along with spiritual protection, often came from blessed lineages like Faqir Sahib’s. Such families may have also managed their commercial affairs and relations with other clans. Although based mostly at Zakori, Faqir Sahib’s family, being Miankhel powindas, also spent considerable time in Ghazni at winter camps. Their family shrines dotted villages in between

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Dera Ismail Khan and these two cities, wellsprings of blessings for the passing caravans. Both Faqir Sahib’s paternal and maternal grandfathers were among the beloved saints of the Miankhel. In times of hardship, local Afghans would invoke the names of his maternal grandfather and his brothers.8 Faqir Sahib’s mother and father, too, were venerated as saints. His mother, in particular, was a renowned spiritual personality, designated Rabi‘a-i Waqt (“the Rabi‘a of the time,” a reference to the great eighth-century female saint Rabi‘a of Basra) on account of the prophetic intimacy she had attained from over fifty years of fasting and dhikr. Although Faqir Sahib’s father, Shaykh Ahmad Khan, spent most of his years in the wilderness in solitude and meditation, and spoke few words, his sanctity was well known along the highway between Ghazni and Dera Ismail Khan.9 The principal biography of this lineage, Rawzat alAwliya’, mentions no Sufi order affiliation for any member of Faqir Sahib’s family. Rather, members derived their authority from their status as spiritual leaders of their illustrious clan. They were among the tribe-affiliated saints.10 Like the order-based Sufi lineages, Faqir Sahib’s family represented a confluence of exoteric and esoteric knowledge. But the environment in the open plains was quite distinct from the more formal, sober, and scholastic setting of Fazl Ahmad’s Peshawari khānaqāh. For one, Faqir Sahib’s family milieu was one of extravagant miracles. His father’s khānaqāh, we are told, was frequented by lions and a host of other wild animals, who came for several hours at a time to attain spiritual guidance.11 At Dera Ismail Khan, the 1883–4 District Gazetteer reported, at least “if any confidence may be placed in common report, the age of miracles has by no means yet gone by.”12 A fantastical anecdote concerning Faqir Sahib’s maternal great-uncles bears witness to the subtle relationship between asceticism, God-intoxication, and adherence to the shari‘a. As in other contemporary traditions, spiritual attainments had to be circumscribed within the bounds of shari‘a, but represented a higher form of wisdom. One of his uncles [Mullah Kani] was a famous malang [a person lost in God] who wore nothing except a piece of cloth covering his loins, even during the winter months. He had great mastery over his ego. Whosoever came in his presence, he could tell them what their state was, and what he said to them would invariably occur. . . . On one occasion, in a state of spiritual intoxication, he uttered words on divine unicity contravening the exoteric shari‘a. On hearing this, his brother [Mullah Mawla Dad, a well-known jurist] approached him with his sword in hand, intending to execute him. Before his brother could go any further, the God-intoxicated Mullah Kani himself fell apart into four pieces. In surprise, his brother turned back. A few moments later, Mullah Kani called out to him, asking him why he had tried to kill him.13

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Although Mullah Mawla Dad wrote commentaries on books of jurisprudence and studied under a locally acclaimed akhund, or scholar, the shari‘a knowledge of other members of the family may not have been grounded in the world of textual commentaries and chains of scholarly transmission. The hagiographies tell us that Faqir Sahib, for example, remained illiterate. Juristic or theological knowledge within most of the family may have been transmitted orally rather than through formal schooling and texts. This is understandable, given that such saintly families lived modest lives, as was the case in most other Afghan pastoral or highland communities. We don’t know how wealthy Faqir Sahib’s family was, but we are told that he was a goatherd in his youth and accompanied his clan on its biannual migrations. Probably his family members’ resources were connected to the collective wealth of the clan, and they actively partook in its commercial activities. Meeting of Two Spiritual Spheres The hagiographical account tells us that at age twenty-five (in 1801), Faqir Sahib heard that a great saint was arriving in Ghazni, en route from Bukhara to Peshawar (via Herat, Qandahar, Ghazni, and Kabul).14 The young man made his way to Ghazni to meet the saint, none other than Fazl Ahmad Peshawari. But the saint, blessed with spiritual insights, was already expecting him. Upon their first meeting, Fazl Ahmad recognized Faqir Sahib’s potential. He requested that the young man accompany him to Kabul. Faqir Sahib was delighted and, for a while, stayed with his newfound Sufi guide at the Masjid-i Bala at Shor Bazaar in Kabul. During this time, he performed spiritual practices and developed a close relationship with the Kabuli Mujaddidis at Shor Bazaar. ‘Abd al-Baqi, the son of Khwaja Safiullah of Kabul, in fact, later praised Faqir Sahib’s spiritual focus: it was so potent that his very gaze could make even birds lose consciousness. After Kabul, Faqir Sahib joined his master at Peshawar for nine years and occasionally traveled between Dera Ismail Khan and Peshawar during this period.15 While at Peshawar, Faqir Sahib continued to train in spiritual practices, attaining licenses in the Mujaddidi, Qadiri, and Chishti traditions from Fazl Ahmad, and the Suhrawardi order from another unspecified source.16 Hagiographies speak of his magnanimity and commitment to the needy and his distribution of food and charity, particularly in times of shortage or drought. We are told that each night, after his late-night tahajjud prayers, Faqir Sahib would leave Peshawar to help those in need outside the walls; the gate of the city would miraculously unlock and lock itself behind him.17

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Fazl Ahmad also regularly commissioned him to conduct trade between Hindustan and Khurasan, and likely provided him the necessary contacts to expand his trade network. The powinda trading caravan become intimately linked to Faqir Sahib’s own spiritual journey toward sainthood, a means through which he was able to heal and guide others along the path.18 Many hagiographic anecdotes about Faqir Sahib are framed within the context of caravan travel and its associated anxieties. Unsurprisingly, these voyages are represented as a means for service and transmitting blessings, with trading as merely as an ancillary activity: When Hazrat Faqir Sahib was young, Fazl Ahmad sent him to accompany a caravan to Hindustan. One night, the caravan stopped in an area fraught with dangers. All night, the people of the caravan stayed awake and stood watch, out of fear of bandits and thieves. In this dark night, a female dog was spotted in the wilderness, crying out with a voice that sounded like a call for help. It approached each of the members of the caravan and cried out to them. When it reached Faqir Sahib, his heart was filled with compassion, and he realized that the dog’s despair was not without a purpose. With faith in God, he followed the dog. His companions warned that he would surely perish in this dreadful area, adding that the caravan had to depart the next morning. Faqir Sahib responded: “If I live, we will meet again. If not, send my parting greetings to my relatives.” He bid them farewell, and followed the dog until he reached a place where several puppies lay weeping with hunger and thirst. He realized then that the cry of the dog was on account of her children. He brought water in a pot for the puppies with his blessed hands. Because there was no bread, he inserted his finger in his throat, regurgitating whatever food he had not digested. The dogs ate until they were full. His deed was accepted by God; the attraction of Truth entered his heart. The occupations of this world were forsaken, and he became concerned only with matters pertaining to the hereafter.19

This story contains familiar tropes: the saint wandering in the wilderness, and self-sacrifice in the service of God’s creation. But Faqir Sahib’s story invokes the initiatic narrative of Baha’ al-Din Naqshband, the eponymous founder of the Naqshbandi order, against the backdrop of the powinda caravan. According to Naqshbandi hagiographies, five centuries earlier Baha’ al-Din Naqshband had also achieved his spiritual breakthrough through caring for a feral dog. Through other anecdotes, we learn of Faqir Sahib relieving the anxieties of travelers, healing the blind, extracting water from stone, and performing a host of other enchanted services during these trading journeys. At this time, Faqir Sahib began building his own network of disciples, particularly among Afghan tribes along the powinda trading routes. This effectively brought parts of Ghazni, the Derajat, Bannu, and western Punjab under

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Figure 7.1  At the khānaqāh and shrines of Zakori Sharif, Zakori, Dera Ismail Khan (Photo by Waleed Ziad)

Fazl Ahmad’s broader hidden caliphate. Eventually, in 1810, Faqir Sahib permanently left Peshawar and resettled at Zakori, where he expanded his khānaqāh and soup kitchen.20 Faqir Sahib would have witnessed increasing political crisis and instability on his return to Dera Ismail Khan, but this may indeed have allowed him the space to cultivate his spiritual authority. At the turn of the nineteenth century, the Derajat, like other territories on the frontiers of Durrani imperial power, had transitioned into an autonomous region. The Miankhels and other clans became effectively independent and were not subject to tribute. Like Peshawar, and unlike Swat, the Derajat was on a major economic and military highway and suffered considerably with the slow collapse of the Durrani sultanate. In 1792, the king Timur Shah had awarded the governorship of the broader region to a Sadozai Afghan courtier, Nawab Muhammad Khan (d. 1815). The governor had his own ambitious. He gradually asserted his independence and managed to subdue several recalcitrant regional chiefs who had taken advantage of weakening Durrani authority. By 1813, he had subdued the Miankhel, annexed some of their territories, and forced them to pay tribute, which, unsurprisingly, proved to be highly unpopular.21

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Immediately after Nawab Muhammad Khan’s death in 1815, Sikh armies personally led by Ranjit Singh marched upon the Derajat, demanding tribute from his successor, Hafiz Ahmad Khan (d. 1825). In 1821, Hafiz Ahmad Khan succumbed to the pressure but was allowed to retain the town of Dera Ismail Khan and a comfortable land grant. The remainder of the country was parceled out to nonresident landholders and was managed by their appointed agents, called h.ākims. Meanwhile, Sikh officials called kārdārs managed the khalsa lands—that is, the lands directly owned by the Sikh state. The following years under Hafiz Ahmad’s son, Sher Muhammad, were fraught with chaos and economic strife, given heavy fiscal demands from the Sikhs at Lahore and constant feuds between the h.ākims and kārdārs. Charles Massy, writing about 1890, relates that Sher Muhammad’s “revenues were eaten up by a swarm of rapacious and lawless followers, and he had further to meet the extortionate demands of the Sikhs. The cultivating and trading classes were in consequence ground down with ever-increasing exactions.”22 Surprisingly, however, Faqir Sahib’s network grew rapidly in this period. This indicates that his economic base was not tied to regional productivity and surplus but rather to the powinda trade. Significantly, Faqir Sahib’s earliest biography, written by his son, makes no mention of notable governors or maliks at Dera Ismail Khan, nor do they feature in any anecdotes. During this period, we can assume that neither the governors nor their subsidiaries had the inclination or capacity to support religious or social welfare foundations among the powindas.23 On the other hand, the powinda trade flourished from the eighteenth to the mid-nineteenth century. The breakdown of the Durrani Empire, after all, had little impact on Transoxiana’s demand for Hindustan’s textiles and cotton and the English goods sourced from the same location.24 Also, Faqir Sahib’s trading activities must have further benefited from his association with Fazl Ahmad’s commercial network at Bukhara, Balkh, Kabul, and elsewhere. Political and economic troubles became even more acute with the direct Sikh annexation of Dera Ismail Khan in 1836. That year, the Sikh prince Nawnahal Singh led raids toward Bannu (between Peshawar and Dera Ismail Khan), annexing Dera Ismail Khan and Tank, sixty kilometers east toward Ghazni. Nawab Hafiz Ahmad’s Afghan troops were disbanded, but the governor retained nominal control over Dera Ismail Khan.25 Faqir Sahib’s son Imam Muhammad Husayn writes that at this time religious activities were severely disrupted, but the Zakori khānaqāh surprisingly flourished. In fact, much like Fazl Ahmad’s khānaqāh at Peshawar, Faqir Sahib’s soup kitchen at Zakori continued distributing food to the poor amid general economic distress.26

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Imam Muhammad Husayn writes that when the Sikhs arrived in Dera Ismail Khan, they adopted an antagonistic policy toward Muslims. “If anyone delivered the call to prayer, he would be blown out of a cannon and his home would be ransacked. Faqir Sahib, in public contravention of this ban, delivered the call to prayer. Soon after, Nawnahal Singh arrived with his troops and surrounded the khānaqāh. Faqir Sahib stood his ground, gave the call to prayer, and led a prayer in congregation.”27 The Sikhs, naturally, were stunned at his bravery. Humbled, Nawnahal Singh requested a prayer from Faqir Sahib, so that he could eventually rule Lahore. Faqir Sahib rebuked him, informing him that that Lahore was not in his fate. Just as the saint had intimated, Nawnahal Singh died several months later. This narrative is difficult to interpret. It could be that, as it suggests on its surface, the Sikh authorities found Faqir Sahib’s institutions to be too influential to disrupt, or actually extended their reverence to him in the hope of conciliating the population, which is possible given the complex confessional landscape of Punjab and the Derajat. It is also possible that, as in Peshawar, they pursued a laissez-faire policy vis-à-vis Faqir Sahib and other Sufis, as long as they did not directly interfere with revenue collection. In this case, the hagiographical story would be essentially baseless, serving only to enhance Faqir Sahib’s already-outsized reputation. In any case, there are no later references to political upheavals in biographies of Faqir Sahib’s lineage. This is indeed curious, as there were significant political changes in the subsequent decades. From 1837 to 1845, Sawan Mal was appointed as the Sikh governor over the region and brought about a period of relative stability. Shortly afterward, however, the Second AngloSikh War broke out and the British occupied the entire region.28 Reshaping the Caliphate Perhaps on account of his spiritual authority and institutional support from Fazl Ahmad, Faqir Sahib’s circle of deputies and disciples now extended well beyond the Miankhel clan. It encompassed multiple Afghan and non-Afghan regions along both the Derajat-Ghazni powinda trade routes and the route connecting the Derajat to Peshawar. Throughout his career, Faqir Sahib appointed over a hundred deputies, in addition to his five sons.29 Over a dozen clans and subclans were represented among these men, mostly situated south of the Peshawar Valley.30 The sixty-seven deputies listed in his biography originate from a zone covering Khushab (Punjab), Ghazni and Logar, northward to Bannu and Lakki, and regions within the Derajat across the Indus in the direction of Sindh.31

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Like Fazl Ahmad, Faqir Sahib appointed several locally established ulama among his deputies. A recent biography, in fact, remarks on the preponderance of ulama among his followers, despite Faqir Sahib’s inability to read or write. These ulama would presumably have provided exoteric education and juristic credentials, supplementing Faqir Sahib’s training in Sufism. Among his close companions were two ulama from the nearby town of Paharpur, Mawlawi Khuda Baksh and Gul Muhammad, who probably hosted spiritual gatherings.32 Another deputy from Khushab, Punjab, had written a well-known commentary on Rumi’s Masnavi, while at least one, ‘Abd al-Jabbar Wardak, had his own circle of followers. The khānaqāh at Zakori remained the central institution in Faqir Sahib’s (and by extension, Fazl Ahmad’s) network south of the Peshawar Valley. It attracted scholars from different parts of Hindustan and Afghanistan, now that it had become part of the larger Mujaddidi network. Through both scholarly and literary exchange, the khānaqāh became linked to Mujaddidi institutions from Kabul to Delhi. For example, the death of the great Mujaddidi master Shah Ghulam ‘Ali Dehlavi of Delhi was reported in Zakori soon after it occurred, probably via traveling disciples. Two tracts refuting Wahhabism authored by Faqir Sahib’s sons reference at least fifty books of hadith, Qur’anic commentaries, jurisprudence, fatwas, and Sufism in Arabic, Persian, Urdu, and Pashto, all of which they had accessed at Zakori. This makes it clear that by the midnineteenth century, the khānaqāh had become an important educational center, hosting a notable library containing works well beyond the theological classics. Eighteenth- and nineteenth-century texts originating from Delhi to Anatolia had made their way to the remote library of a man who could not read.33 Three elaborately carved marble tombstones that remain at the khānaqāh testify mutely to this cosmopolitanism. They are typical Durrani-style vertical tombstones, a type common for elite grave sites in Qandahar, Kabul, and Peshawar. The tombstones are topped with five rosettes and feature Qur’anic and Persian inscriptions, some versified. One belongs to a Yar Muhammad from a mullah family of the Miankhel Zakoris and is dated 1260 / 1844. Another features eight couplets from the poet Farid al-Din ‘Attar’s Book of Wisdom, around a central prayer-niche-like ornament. The artistic and funerary and literary traditions were thus linked with the broader Persianate world. Shepherding the Tribes Faqir Sahib’s expanded network was more than a resource for the educated classes. His intertribal affiliations allowed him to perform mediatory functions, much as other branches of Fazl Ahmad’s network were

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doing, but in a very different context. Hagiographic anecdotes clarify that Faqir Sahib mobilized his spiritual authority to facilitate not truces but trade—specifically, to protect trade routes from cross-tribal banditry and excessive taxation. His toolkit included both negotiation and supernatural intervention. A century earlier, rulers had invested significant resources in suppressing banditry, and despite political rivalries, royal courts would communicate with each other to ensure protection of caravans. However, when the Durrani umbrella collapsed, powindas had to contend with both highway robbers and capricious tax collectors.34 The powinda caravans were heavily armed for protection.35 Company officer J. S. Broadfoot remarked that caravans would join others for safety in numbers. However, he also pointed out that “when Afghans are robbed and cannot help themselves by force, they negotiate.”36 This is where Sufis who were part of broader networks like Faqir Sahib’s were required, as witnessed along the Khyber Pass. In one case, we are told that Faqir Sahib convinced a thief to return stolen goods after the wrong man was accused of the crime.37 In another case, in the village of Mandi, a Miankhel Afghan had stolen chattel from the Gandapur Afghans who had settled to the north. The two clans had been engaged in ongoing hostilities, on account of which the chief of the Gandapur made preparations for war.38 Faqir Sahib approached the chief and requested twice that he refrain from mobilizing his troops, as “war with other Muslims was not advisable.” He assured the chief that he would convince the Miankhel robbers to return their goods. But the stubborn chief refused, and Faqir Sahib became upset. The chief soon after found himself in a dangerous situation (he and his horse were drowning) and he repented. The story implies that the chief was forgiven and war was averted.39 A rather humorous episode related by Faqir Sahib’s son suggests that he may have also negotiated the excessive and arbitrarily enforced taxes and duties collected on the highway. Through supernatural means (supplemented perhaps by some mild intimidation), Faqir Sahib apparently avoided paying taxes on noncommercial items: One year, Faqir Sahib was travelling from Khurasan to Hindustan along with the Miankhel. When they reached the border of Khurasan, a revenue collector appointed by Kabul demanded taxes from the caravan. The tax collector noted that Faqir Sahib had brought some fine linen for the Sufis at Dera Ismail Khan. He demanded a quantity of muslin be paid as tax. Faqir Sahib insisted that this was not intended for trade, and therefore not subject to tax. After much insistence, Faqir Sahib cast his boots at the tax collector, who immediately fainted. When he regained consciousness, he apologized to the saint and let the caravan pass.40

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Faqir Sahib’s lineage had probably performed these sorts of mediatory functions before their Mujaddidi affiliation. But his association with Fazl Ahmad’s vast network now authorized him to negotiate within a much wider geographic zone. Miankhel-Mujaddidis Faqir Sahib’s position at the confluence of the transregional Mujaddidis and the Afghan Miankhel eventually became enshrined in the family’s official biography Rawzat al-Awliya’ (“Garden of the Saints”), an intriguing and unique document. The author, Faqir Sahib’s son Imam Muhammad Husayn, weaves a new type of genealogy that effectively brings together Fazl Ahmad’s Mujaddidi lineages with Imam Raza’s Afghan genealogy. Rawzat al-Awliya’ begins like any Mujaddidi hagiography, with entries on the Prophet Muhammad and the four Rightly Guided caliphs, followed by biographies on the Naqshbandi Golden Chain of saints up to Fazl Ahmad. But the next entry, dedicated to Faqir Sahib, moves backward in time to begin with biographies of two generations of saints within his family: his mother and father, uncles, and grandfathers. After this, the author inserts a section from Ni‘matullah Heravi’s eighteenth-century Afghan genealogy, Tarikh-i Khan Jahani, on the mythical origins of the Miankhel Afghans.41 This text was the earliest and most influential work on Afghan genealogy, commissioned by an Indo-Afghan notable in the Mughal court. It is organized according to the principle that the tribe is the main marker of Afghan identity. The Tarikh-i Khan Jahani presents entries on Afghan saints not according to Sufi lineage but by their tribal association.42 In the subsequent section, Imam Muhammad Husayn reverts to the standard method, tracing Faqir Sahib’s Qadiri and Chishti genealogies back through Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi. The Tarikh-i Khan Jahani insertion gave the hagiography a way to rationalize and systematize the meeting point of the transregional and local sacred traditions. In many ways, this whole biography reconciles two representations of sainthood and collective identity. Faqir Sahib is represented both as part of a chain of disciple-teacher relationships going back to the Prophet Muhammad and as a saint presiding over and defining (and being defined by) his Afghan clan.

Guidance of the Seekers As Faqir Sahib embraced Mujaddidi pedagogies and broadened his sphere of influence, he did not go uncontested. Though rivalries are absent in the

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Zakori official biography, two polemical tracts also produced within the khānaqāh reveal the competitive environment in which Faqir Sahib and his followers operated. They clearly faced challenges in establishing their authority in the Derajat. In the mid-nineteenth century, Faqir Sahib’s elder son and successor, Imam Muhammad Hasan Zakori, composed a tract within the Radd-i Wahhabiyyat (“Refutation of Wahhabism”) genre entitled Hidayat al-Talibin, “Guidance of the Seekers.” The text aimed at refuting certain claims (or queries and challenges) offered by detractors and was intended for an erudite audience of ulama familiar with basic theology, jurisprudence, and Sufism.43 Hidayat al-Talibin was supplemented by a commentary by Imam Muhammad Hasan’s younger brother, Muhammad Gul, intended for a broader readership.44 The brand of Wahhabism that was the purported target of both texts has some curious features. Both texts open by explicitly censuring “a wayward sect” that considers itself to be morally upright, and which denies the existence of saints—not unlike the tracts issued by Hafiz Daraz against Sayyed Ahmad and his Mujahidin.45 However, Wahhabis were not the only antagonists addressed in these texts. A closer examination shows that the claims to which the brothers responded originated from three distinct camps. The first were factions that may have been influenced by some brand of Wahhabism or the Ahl-i Hadith. These groups declared their opponents to be among the disbelievers on various grounds. As in Peshawar, elements of the so-called Wahhabi movement appeared in Dera Ismail Khan toward the middle of the nineteenth century, probably as remnants of Sayyid Ahmad’s missionary circles, which had dispersed after their defeat at Balakot. The second group of antagonists against which Faqir Sahib’s sons wrote were those ignorant in matters of Sunni dogma and broader Sufi practices. These individuals adhered to certain Afghan and other local customary practices that they believed to be scripturally rooted. Finally, the last group was followers of other Sufi orders, specifically of the seventeenthcentury luminary Akhund Darviza Nangarhari, who famously opposed the Rawshaniyya movement in the Peshawar Valley. In fact, even the title of Imam Muhammad Hasan’s tract, Hidayat al-Talibin, is framed as a response to Akhund Darviza’s more famous practical text, Irshad al-Talibin, meaning the same thing. Some of these Sufi orders were engaged in loud dhikr and other practices regarded as inappropriate innovations by most Mujaddidis. The queries and challenges these three groups issued were varied. One complaint, for example, concerned whether it was permissible for a Sufi deputy to be unlettered. This was probably a direct challenge to Faqir Sahib. Others accused the Zakori Sufis of performing certain rites and

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adhering to social norms that violated their understandings of the shari‘a. These included the practice of initiation in general, and in particular the initiation of women and youth. Other questions were raised regarding the necessity of shaving the head and the permissibility of loud dhikr.46 The brothers responded to their antagonists in part by placing all of them in the ubiquitous but amorphous Wahhabi category, drawing on the term’s local association with an undesirable heterodox, if not heretical, history. The Dera Ismail Khan District Gazetteer (1883–1884) attests that the local branch of “the Wahabi religion was started some years ago at Paniala [fifty kilometers north of Dera Ismail Khan], where a few members of the sect are still to be found, but they are gradually dying out.”47 Second, by employing the Refutation of Wahhabism genre, they delineated their own boundaries of orthodoxy and orthopraxy. Among Mujaddidis and other Sufis, this genre was often used as a tool to circumscribe ideological leanings. The brothers exhibited their own expertise in hadith and jurisprudence to neutralize their opposition, challenged custom on religious grounds, and lent credence to their own protocols of social conduct. In a discussion on whether women could be initiated into a Sufi order, Muhammad Gul advanced an extensive argument challenging norms surrounding the status of women as a whole in the Derajat. Relying on Durr al-Mukhtar, Fatawa-i Alamgiri, and other authoritative texts, he argued that women cannot be confined to their homes, that they may converse with men, and that they should attend religious gathering and lectures.48 Third, the texts highlight the authority of the Zakori Sufis as preeminent scholars of both exoteric and esoteric sciences, without necessarily stigmatizing other Sufis, as in the discussion on Akhund Darviza in the first refutation presented in Hidayat al-Talibin. Some groups in the region were apparently employing Akhund Darviza’s Sufi classic Irshad al-Talibin as an authoritative source for religious rulings. According to Imam Muhammad Hasan Zakori, this was not appropriate. Authoritative texts should reference or be derived from authoritative and well-accepted texts, at the very least the canon of six books of hadith, six books of jurisprudence, six of the principles of jurisprudence, and six books of Sufism and ethics. The latter, the author explained, included the Collected Letters of Sirhindi and those of his son, in addition to the more well-known ‘Awarif al-Ma‘arif, Ta‘aruf, al-Ghazali’s Ihya’ al-‘Ulum al-Din, and Rumi’s Masnavi. Imam Muhammad Hasan, then, affirmed two core Mujaddidi texts as part of a universally accepted Islamic canon in the process of denouncing Akhund Darviza’s Irshad al-Talibin as unsound. At the same time, Imam Muhammad Hasan did not outright condemn Akhund Darviza and his followers. Rather, he referred to biographies (for example, a famous

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nineteenth-century work Khazinat al-Asfiya’) that clearly stated that Akhund Darviza was a saint of high stature, acknowledging that he purged the Rawshaniyya heresy. However, Imam Muhammad Hasan warned readers that being of saintly character did not render him an authority on scriptural, theological, or juristic matters.49 Finally, the Zakori Sufis’ polemical texts represented their own way as a path of moderation, positioning themselves as legitimate upholders of Sunni doctrine. In the opening of Hidayat al-Talibin, the true Sunni path was laid out as one devoid of extremism, be it the extremism of the Wahhabis, of the Shi‘as who reject the caliphate of Abu Bakr, or of selfaggrandizing Sufis who overstep the bounds of shari‘a. In the discussion on the permissibility of using tobacco—chillum va nisvār, either water pipes or chewing tobacco—Muhammad Gul established that there is a difference of opinion on the matter: some claim it is forbidden while others consider it permissible. In summary, Muhammad Gul stressed that the employment of the term kāfir (unbeliever) for tobacco users was simply unreasonable because of this disagreement and generated unnecessary conflict. Throughout the text, he harshly proscribed the practice of declaring anyone an unbeliever, echoing the ulama of Peshawar two decades earlier.50

From Transregional Network to the Spaces in Between The Zakori khānaqāh was not the only by-product of Dera Ismail Khan’s unlikely cosmopolitanism. In the late 1840s, a gifted Afghan Mujaddidi Sufi, Dost Muhammad Qandahari, founded another major khānaqāh there. Dost Muhammad was a disciple of Delhi’s famous divine Shah Ahmad Sa‘id, who presided over the famed Khānaqāh-i Mazhariyya. On his annual travel from Qandahar to Delhi, Dost Muhammad accompanied a caravan of Nasir Afghans and Memon nomads, twice a year stopping at their home base near Dera Ismail Khan. In 1857, his master Shah Ahmad Sa‘id issued the first fatwa of jihad against the British at Delhi and fled the city, pursued by British agents. Dera Ismail Khan’s “in-betweenness”—a relatively autonomous place of safety between emerging Afghanistan and British India—made it an attractive temporary destination. He moved there in 1857, before eventually settling in Mecca and Medina.51 Faqir Sahib died that same year, at age seventy-six, and was laid to rest at his khānaqāh. This was henceforth designated as the family shrine complex for the Sufi masters of Zakori Sharif, and it remains a notable pilgrimage site in the Khyber Pakhtunkhwa province, attracting pilgrims

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from both sides of the Pakistan-Afghanistan border.52 Faqir Sahib’s son Imam Muhammad Hasan, known as Lala Sahib, succeeded him. Imam Muhammad Hasan was a notable preacher, a writer on matters of Sufism and jurisprudence, and the author of the above-mentioned Hidayat alTalibin. His brothers Imam Muhammad Husayn (d. 1897)53 and Hazrat Gul Muhammad Sahib were also educators and Sufi guides at the khānaqāh.54 Imam Muhammad Hasan was later succeeded by his own son, Imam Muhammad ‘Abd al-Qadir Faqir (d. 1919). Though the lineage enhanced its prestige in the Derajat after Faqir Sahib’s death, its geographic scope gradually reduced. Pilgrims still trickled in from Ghazni, but the lineage devoted its efforts to building a following along the Peshawar-Derajat routes, specifically at Dera Ismail Khan, Lakki Marwat, and Bannu. One reason for this was likely that the TransoxianaIndia caravan trade began losing its foothold in the mid-nineteenth century. The demand for Central Asian horses dwindled, and Great Game politics dealt a crippling blow to the trade. Cotton and indigo imports into Transoxiana had made up a significant portion of the trade carried by the powindas, but this declined following the Russian introduction of American cotton varieties into Transoxiana. Then, in the 1880s, Afghanistan’s Amir ‘Abd al-Rahman formed state-level trade monopolies and taxed the flow of goods and cash through Afghanistan. This drastically reduced the profitability of the fruit trade and ultimately undermined nomadic traders. Established traders who had previously handled wholesale buying and selling in India reduced their shipments through Afghanistan. Another major turning point came in 1895, when the Russian customs frontier was extended to Bukhara. These impediments to trade would naturally have limited the economic potential and geographic reach of the Miankhel caravans.55 The Zakori family attained a vast spiritual following but did not factor prominently in the political life of Dera Ismail Khan until the twentieth century. ‘Abd al-Qadir Faqir’s son and successor, Muhammad ‘Abd al-Latif, also known as Pir Sahib Zakori Sharif (1913–1978), commandeered the spiritual authority of the lineage as a means for social mobilization toward what became the India and Pakistan independence movements. He is recognized as a key figure in the All-India Muslim League in the North West Frontier. As early as 1936—at age twenty-one—we find him among the chief agitators in the political-military movement following the “Islam Bibi incident” spearheaded by the notorious Faqir of Ipi in Waziristan. This anticolonial movement was a response to a British court’s decision to invalidate the marriage of a Waziri Afghan boy to a converted Muslim girl at Bannu. The court ruled that the girl had been coerced into her conversion from Hinduism, inducing

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a rebellion across the North West Frontier. Later, as part of the civil disobedience movement, Pir Sahib Zakori was arrested at Bannu for leading a procession against British rule. His followers responded by voluntarily demanding their own arrest in thousands across the North West Frontier. The Zakori family’s monumental cemetery, with its adjacent mosque, remains an important holy site of the Derajat. It is dominated by four graves—those of Imam Reza, Imam Muhammad Hasan, Imam Muhammad Husayn, and ‘Abd al-Qadir. But the activities of the khānaqāh have all but ceased. The center of gravity has now shifted to a few other locations, notably Bhor Sharif, 130 kilometers north in the direction of Kohat and Peshawar. This khānaqāh had also been set up on the fringes of British influence, at Isa Khel, by Imam Muhammad Hasan’s deputy, Fath-i Muhammad Bhorvi (b. 1828). And we now return to Transoxiana, to the northeastern limits of Fazl Ahmad’s network, over 1,400 kilometers north, beyond the Hindu Kush and Pamir mountain ranges, into the Ferghana Valley. Here we find an equally prominent khānaqāh, that, like Zakori, fell prey to the dramatic political transitions of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.

8 The Diplomat-Saints of Ferghana

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W

hen Khoqand emerged on the world stage under ‘Umar Khan (r. 1810–1822), the center of gravity of Fazl Ahmad’s hidden ca­ liphate shifted east, from Bukhara into the Ferghana Valley where the khanate was centered. Two Sufis from this noble lineage loomed large in the spiritual life of the khanate’s chief cities Khoqand and Tashkent. These were Fazl Ahmad’s son, Fazl Ahad, and his nephew, Mian Khalil Sahibzada (d. 1869). Other disciples carried the order further eastward, and through their efforts the Mujaddidi order remains a visible tradition in China’s Xinjiang province. As in Bukhara, the deputies at Khoqand attracted the king’s attention. The last great khan of Khoqand, Khudayar Khan, who reigned off and on from 1845 to 1875, took Fazl Ahad as his spiritual guide. Thus this sacred lineage in the Ferghana Valley became intertwined with the khanate’s cultural and political maturation from semisedentary Uzbek origins into a Perso-Islamic empire negotiating between China, Russia, Khurasan, and Hindustan. The auspicious arrival of Fazl Ahad and the construction of his khānaqāh are defining moments in Khoqand’s royal chronicles. In the early nineteenth century, as the khans competed with the local hegemon at Bukhara, they creatively advanced themselves as descendants of the Timurid-Mughal emperor Zahir al-Din Babur. The arrival of Fazl Ahmad’s lineage brought a touch of both the Mughal sacred legacy and Bukhara’s scholastic sphere. The “s.āh.ibzādas” occupied a unique literary position, playing a decidedly more prominent role in Khoqand’s royal histories than in other royal

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chronicle traditions, particularly in their capacity as mediators. We can thus get a new perspective into the world of the Mujaddidi diplomat-saints. Within Transoxiana, both Fazl Ahad and Mian Khalil were often appointed as ilchīs, or ambassadors, between the urban merchant communities, the Uzbeks, and the nomadic Qipchaq, Kazakh, and Kyrghyz populations. These functions even became formalized with Mian Khalil’s appointment as ambassador to Saint Petersburg in 1841–1842.

Khoqand on the Eurasian Map From the eighteenth century until the Russian occupation in 1876, Khoqand was an interchange between China, the Mughal Empire, and Russia. Bolstered by Inner-Asian commercial growth and large-scale agricultural development, Khoqand emerged as a formidable regional power and locus of cultural and intellectual activity.1 In the early eighteenth century, the Ming Uzbek tribal chiefs of the Ferghana Valley had broken off from Bukhara. Their new autonomous state was blessed with a geopolitically auspicious location, and at the same time partially protected by natural fortifications. Gradually, the Ming Uzbek chiefs settled and organized themselves into a more urbane Persianate polity. To consolidate their position, they founded the town of Khoqand in 1740 as their capital. Two hundred kilometers to the northwest was Tashkent, which had become independent of Bukhara after 1784 under a local Kazakh governor. Tashkent profited from the Russian establishment of Orenberg in 1735 and grew into a thriving center of artisanal production and trade, exporting cotton, silk, and other goods northward into the steppes and farther into Russia.2 But tensions persisted between the city populations, sedentary Uzbeks, and nomadic groups, whether Kazakhs toward Tashkent, the Qipchaqs and Zhungars toward the east, or the Kyrghyz.3 Over the course of the nineteenth century, Khoqand’s merchants emerged as pivotal actors in the transit trade connecting Orenberg and Kashgar in Altishahr. Afghan and Hindustani merchant diasporas likewise settled throughout Ferghana.4 Merchant communities brought Hindustani goods though the Durrani Empire into Tashkent, following the same routes that Hindustan’s Sufis also took to the khanate. At the same time, better irrigation systems generated surplus cotton, which met an increasing Russian demand. The khanate was also a direct beneficiary of the 1758–1759 Chinese occupation of Altishahr, the six oasis cities in today’s Xinjiang. The Khoqandis strategically accepted Chinese suzerainty, which had little impact on their autonomy but gave them direct access to Chinese markets.5

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In the late eighteenth century, as Khoqand coalesced politically, a local religio-cultural identity began to emerge. This was Khoqand’s state-building period, analogous to Bukhara’s under Rahim Khan, Shah Murad, and Amir Hayder. Narbuta Bi (r. 1774–1798) corralled local lords into Khoqand’s orbit and began attracting Bukharan literary and religious personalities, among them Naqshbandi Sufis.6 At about this time, a certain Sayyid ‘Abdullah Khan Tura from Marghilan (or Marghinan), Khoqand’s silk capital toward the east, traveled from Kashgar to Hindustan. There, he was inducted into the Mujaddidi order from Muhammad ‘Abid Sanami (who was also Musa Khan Dahbidi’s master) before returning to Marghilan to teach.7 Narbuta Bi’s successor, ‘Alim Khan (r. 1798–1810), was less concerned with patronage of the arts or scholarship. But, through military reorganization and conscription, he aggressively consolidated his authority. During his twelve-year reign, Khoqand expanded to encompass most of the Ferghana Valley, including Tashkent. ‘Alim Khan also took it upon himself to regulate the sacred domain. Royal chronicles say that he clamped down on “morally corrupt” Sufi orders—and presumably those that challenged his authority. He himself was a practicing disciple in the Yasawi tradition and attended their vocal dhikr on a weekly basis. Some of the ideals of sacred kingship at Bukhara and Kabul had filtered into Khoqand during ‘Alim Khan’s tenure; one contemporary observer reported that “Aulum Khan . . . affects to be a Sofee.” (Although, he added, “He does not teach like the King of Bokhara. He can read but is no great Moollah.”)8 Since Khoqand lagged behind Bukhara, students from cities like Tashkent often sought higher education elsewhere. A firsthand account from this time follows one Khoqandi scholar who left for Bukhara for his higher education, then went to Kabul for Sufi training in the Naqshbandi tradition.9 Fazl Ahmad’s deputies included at least eight from the khanate (Tashkent, Khojand, and Khoqand) who stayed regularly at the Mirakan khānaqāh at Bukhara.10 Among his most acclaimed disciples was a Khoqandi Sufi and scholar of shari‘a, ‘Abd al-Rahim Marghinani (d. 1816–1817, Marghinan), who established his own following in eastern Ferghana.11 The Mujaddidis at Khoqand had a somewhat unique flavor: a potent Yasawi legacy there led some to incorporate vocal practices and sacred movement. ‘Alim Khan’s martial and political successes allowed his brother and successor ‘Umar Khan the resources and freedom to invest in a distinctive cultural-religious enterprise. Departing from the Turkic Steppe model of governance, ‘Umar Khan invented a connection to the Timurids, specifically to the founder of the Mughal Empire, Zahir al-Din Babur, born in Ferghana over three centuries earlier. ‘Umar Khan’s hybrid titles elevated him as both pādishāh, or king in the old Persian sense, and Amīr

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al-Muslimīn, the “Commander of the Muslims.” On the one hand, he represented himself as a pious patron of religious scholarship. Like Shah Murad, for instance, he canceled all taxes deemed contrary to Islamic law and established the position of Shaykh al-Islam, a state religious official. He assigned the position to an Ahrari Naqshbandi member of his family. On the other hand, he embodied the ideals of high-Persianate kingship, with lavish court rituals and hunting expeditions.12 Among his principal legacies were large-scale irrigation projects. Revenues went to the ulama, Sufis, and tribal aristocracy and toward social welfare infrastructure, making his reign Khoqand’s proverbial golden age.13 Unlike his brother, ‘Umar Khan had a thorough madrasa education. Impressed by contemporary developments in Bukhara, he sponsored mosques throughout the khanate, including the spectacular Masjid-i Jami‘ at Khoqand, with its imposing central dome-topped minaret, ninety-eight carved wooden columns, and truly experimental paneled painted ceiling. A Russian traveler recorded a hundred Khoqandi mosques in 1829 and estimated four hundred in the khanate at large.14 ‘Umar Khan’s institutional patronage attracted and retained scholars, poets, intellectuals, and historians with generous stipends.15 He even tried to court Mir ‘Izzatullah, who traveled through Khoqand on behalf of the East India Company in 1812–1813. The prime minister, he said, “tried to induce me to make a prolonged stay in Kookan by offering me the post of Principal in the College at that place.”16 ‘Umar Khan also hoped Sirhindi’s hallowed bloodline would grace his khanate, and he extended an invitation to Fazl Ahmad Peshawari. However, members of this family did not arrive until several years later, in the reign of Muhammad ‘Ali Khan, known as Madali Khan.17

The Diplomat-Saints Madali Khan’s (r. 1822–1842) early years saw continued progress and even greater stability. Prudently, he brokered peace with Bukhara in 1825, then turned his attention east to Altishahr, previously governed by the Naqshbandi Khoja dynasty, some of whom had fled to Khoqand after the Qing Chinese occupation. Madali shrewdly supported military campaigns under the banner of one of the exiled Khojas. By 1832, he was able to exert enough pressure on the Qing government to secure the right to appoint an aqsaqal, meaning “elder” or agent, in Altishahr.18 In 1827, in the fifth year of his reign, Fazl Ahad left Bukhara for Khoqand. The royal chronicles record that he received a warm welcome and attracted a sizable following. Among Khoqandis, he was “Hazrat Ishan Sahibzada,”

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“Mian Buzurg,” or “Katta Hazrat,” the hybrid titles—the Turkic “katta,” or great; the Hindustani “mian”; and the Persian “buzurg”—very much reflecting Khoqand’s cosmopolitanism.19 In the seminal Khoqandi chronicle Tarikh-i Shahrukhi, his arrival also becomes a defining moment in the khanate’s own story. Khoqand, in effect, had come of age; the arrival of a descendant of Sirhindi mediated the process by which Ferghana was transformed into a spiritual center, with its own sacred identity.20 In the time that Muhammad ‘Ali ibn ‘Umar was the guardian of Ferghana, and the governing king; Hazrat Sahib left his home in Bukhara, and affixed the heavenly seal of divine law in this country, in this land; The date was 1242, [when] this land was ennobled by the arrival of the spiritual pole of the age.21

About the same time, Fazl Ahad was joined by his cousin, Mian Khalil Sahibzada, a Sufi guide with a special talent for diplomacy, and possibly by some members of Ghulam Qadir’s family.22 With their proven track record in mediation, it is not surprising that from 1841 to 1842 Mian Khalil was dispatched to Saint Petersburg on behalf of Madali Khan. This very notion of the diplomat-saint was built on the trans-Asiatic prestige of the Mujaddidis. The first official contacts between Khoqand and Russia dated to 1812, when ‘Umar Khan dispatched an embassy to Orenberg that successfully secured trading privileges for Khoqandi merchants along the Siberian line of Russian forts. This spurred the already-existing trade through the Kazakh Steppes. More and more of Khoqand’s merchants settled at Semipalatinsk, now in northeastern Kazakhstan, and elsewhere in the steppes. Khoqandi pilgrims also regularly traveled through Tashkent, the steppes, and Kazan to the Caspian and Istanbul, and onward to Mecca and Medina.23 In 1828–1829, another mission to Saint Petersburg negotiated a border between Khoqand and Russia’s spheres of influence: the Chu River, running through today’s northern Kyrgyzstan and southern Kazakhstan. This was a particularly sensitive time, since Russia was proceeding southward from the Orenberg line, while Khoqand was expanding northward into Kazakh territory. The khans of Khoqand endeavored to simultaneously secure their new possessions, avoid conflict with Russia, and maintain trading privileges with Orenberg. In light of these two earlier embassies, Mian Khalil was tasked with renegotiating the Russia-Khoqand frontier and securing good relations with the Russian emperor amid tensions with Bukhara and China. His mission was meant to provide Khoqand the freedom to expand its political and

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economic horizons. Madali Khan sent a letter to Tsar Nicholas, specifying that he was dispatching Mian Khalil to seek friendly relations with Russia in matters pertaining to trade and security, and mentioning that Mian Khalil had the official state designation of naqīb. Mian Khalil managed to secure a three-hour private meeting with Tsar Nicholas.24 In the course of this historic journey, he wrote a Memoir on the Final Events in Khokand, now housed in the Russian Foreign Policy Archives in Moscow.25 Another chronicler provided more details: His Majesty the Emperor [Tsar Nicholas], showing his respect and attention to him, as his merits and wisdom deserved, favoured him over the ambassadors from Iran, Khorezm, and other countries. He gave him a seat in front of them, met all his requests and desires and sent him back exalted and happy. The basis of love and friendship between the two padishahs [kings] became so strong, that there was no protest when . . . the governor of Tashkent crossed the Chu River, built fortresses up to Ulugh Taq in the north and Qapal in the east, made local nomads the subjects of Kokand and Tashkent and levied zakat and other taxes on them. The possessions of Kokand expanded to their greatest and highest degree of development.26

War at Home and Abroad Toward the end of his reign, Madali Khan became increasingly unpopular. According to most accounts, his character underwent a dramatic change. The American traveler Eugene Schuyler relates that he “gave himself up to complete licentiousness, making enemies of the leading clerics.”27 Notoriously, he executed his trusted mingbāshī, or prime minister, and married two stepsisters as well as his stepmother! Fazl Ahad openly disapproved; we are told that the Sufi reprimanded the king: “You have become a dog, you have married your mother.” And so the king retorted: “Then leave this place of dogs!”28 Fazl Ahad was thus sent into exile in 1839. He left for hajj for two or three years, returning only after Madali Khan’s death.29 The consequences of Madali Khan’s incest did not stop here. The Bukharan Amir Nasrullah dispatched envoys to Khoqand, accusing Madali Khan of offenses against Islam. Madali Khan imprisoned them and rashly initiated a campaign against Bukhara. The century-long hostilities between Bukhara and Khoqand again escalated, drawing in powerful tribal factions that hoped to gain something from the turmoil, notably the Qipchaqs and the Alay Kyrghyz. Among the key battlegrounds were Khoqand, Ura Tepe, Tashkent, and Khojand, about 160 kilometers to the south.30

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Naturally, Bukhara took advantage of the discontented tribal factions and elites. In the spring of 1842, urged on by the disaffected Khoqandi clergy, Amir Nasrullah again sent an army against Khoqand. Madali Khan escaped but was captured and put to death by Bukharan troops.31 We may wonder whether Fazl Ahad’s criticisms provided a religious pretext for Amir Nasrullah’s intervention in Khoqand, although the sources do not call into question Fazl Ahad’s loyalties to the Khoqandi khan. After the occupation, Amir Nasrullah appointed his own governor at Khoqand, but his heavy-handedness made him quickly unpopular. The townsmen—called the Sarts—turned to the Qipchaq nomads, a powerful Turkic confederation in the northeastern fringes of the khanate, for support. The Qipchaq armies swept in and drove out the Bukharans, restoring the integrity of the khanate, but installed their own puppet ruler, Sher ‘Ali. They eventually even turned on the Sarts who had originally called them in. A Qipchaq chief, Musalman Quli, became the prime minister, while the Sarts were systematically removed from all influential positions. The disenchanted Khoqandi Sart townsmen now turned to another nomadic confederation, the Alay Kyrghyz, who assassinated the puppet king and replaced him with their own client in 1845. Musalman Quli and his Qipchaq contingent retaliated, murdered the new client ruler, and installed a thirteen-year old prince, Khudayar Khan, as king. Musalman Quli now emerged as de facto ruler and settled his Qipchaq forces in Khoqand, once again displacing the Sarts.32 During this period of turmoil, Fazl Ahad, as well as Mian Khalil, returned to Khoqand. Chronicles relate that Fazl Ahad returned from hajj in 1842 to find that the city had been ravaged. We are told that he received a popular welcome and consoled the people in the wake of difficulties, guiding them in the Naqshbandi path.33 In fact, both Fazl Ahad and Mian Khalil appear intermittently in the Khoqandi chronicles in reference to the various crises that followed Madali Khan’s death. In each case, they are depicted as mediators between multiple factions—in one case even on behalf of the German botanist and explorer Adolf Schlagintweit, who inspired part of Rudyard Kipling’s story, The Man Who Would Be King.34 The details of each incident and the cast of characters involved are complex, but the range of actors on behalf of whom both Fazl Ahad and Mian Khalil negotiated—and the fact that they were sometimes called upon by opposing factions—is noteworthy. In 1847, for example, we find Mian Khalil negotiating between the Qipchaqs and Sarts, in a sequence of events that ultimately empowered the former. Mian Khalil’s role is rather unflattering. At the time, Tashkent was held by a certain Sarimsaq Khan, a prince and potential contender for the

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khanate. Musalman Quli appointed Mian Khalil as ambassador to deliver a message to Sarimsaq, beseeching him to come to Khoqand and become king. Apparently, the message bore a forged seal of the young puppet king Khudayar Khan. The chronicles relate that on account of Mian Khalil’s reputation “as a descendant of Imam Rabbani [Sirhindi]” Sarimsaq agreed, but the treacherous Musalman Quli had him murdered en route, probably because he hoped to take Tashkent himself. Chroniclers claim that Mian Khalil was unaware of the ploy.35 In subsequent years, the turmoil at Khoqand became unbearable, so Mian Khalil left for Tashkent. There again, we find him as a mediator, this time on behalf of the opposing Sart faction. Some religious and political leaders of Tashkent approached him for prayers and support. Some months later, in July, Musalman Quli besieged Tashkent. This time a leader of the Sart faction sued for peace—on the condition that Mian Khalil be designated as the mediator.36 In both sources, Mian Khalil’s legitimacy explicitly rested on his noble lineage. In fact, chroniclers preface virtually every reference to Fazl Ahad or Mian Khalil with his descent, often identifying Sirhindi as the author of the famous Collected Letters. Certainly, the figure of Sirhindi and his magnum opus carried enormous symbolic capital by this time. Khudayar Khan eventually wrested himself away from the Qipchaq hold. He ordered a general massacre of the Qipchaqs, and in early 1853, their leader Musalman Quli was also executed. The violence inaugurated yet another period of instability, in which Khoqand again changed hands several times. In this phase, the two key contenders for power were Khudayar Khan and a Kyrghyz commander, ‘Alim Qul, who served as regent to several kings. In the meantime, the Russian Empire expanded its reach into Khoqand, beginning with General Petrovsky’s occupation of the northern Khoqandi fort of Aq Masjid in 1853. When a pair of chroniclers urged the appointment of a wise statesman who had the capacity to effectively negotiate with the Russians, both referred to Mian Khalil’s earlier embassy as the ideal diplomatic mission. Sometime after 1853, one of these chroniclers convinced the prime minister to ask Khudayar Khan to appoint Mian Khalil once again as ambassador, as he “has spent ample time in Rum [the Ottoman Empire], and has lived there, and in Russia, and knows the system and manner [nizām and nasq, or culture of the court] well.” But some of the king’s advisors were apparently averse to Mian Khalil. Instead, an inexperienced merchant was chosen. The chronicler lamented that his correspondence lacked all the necessarily diplomatic protocols. “In front on anyone with intellect, this

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letter was inappropriate. . . . Even a ten year old would feel shame at reading it.”37 About five years later, the second chronicler recommended four names to his overlord ‘Alim Qul as potential emissaries to Russia, explaining to him: People are not equal. They differ in scope of intelligence, sharpness of intellect and in understanding. When in the time of Muhammad ‘Ali Khan the Martyr his worship Miyan Khalil Hazrat went with an embassy to Saint Petersburg, all of [his] murids [disciples], devotees, and friends, of whom there were very many, from among the Noghay [a Turkic community primarily settled in the north Caucasus] and other tribes within the Russian territory, asked permission from their governors and went out in crowds to meet him. Thus the Russian leaders learnt of his prestige and position. On his arrival he, being extremely clever and sage, and following the advice of his friends who were versed in the local customs, conducted himself in accordance with those customs and went home in great honor and dignity. As these four persons have many friends and companions among the prominent merchants of Russia, and as they themselves are very clever and reasonable men, they are predestined [for the embassy].38

Both narrators sketch out the desirable qualities of the diplomat-saint that was by now a common feature of regional diplomacy. Mian Khalil’s aptitude was a clear function of his Sufi training and affiliations. He had many devotees and contacts who could vouch for him and exert their influence in Russia. Like other Mujaddidis, he had broad-based networks among the Russian Tatars. He was in fact married to the daughter of a Tatar religious leader.39 He also leveraged the contacts of a member of the family based at Kazan, Mullah Fayz Baksh. Two very famous figures of time—the great Tatar scholar Shahab al-Din Marjani and the Kazakh historian and ethnographer Valikhanov—recall his stay at Kazan en route to Saint Petersburg. Apparently, he ended up in such heated debates with Muslim theologians there that he had to leave the city.40 But aside from these scholarly scuffles, the chroniclers also praise Mian Khalil’s ability to imbibe local customs and adapt to the etiquette of a foreign court. Such skills were specifically cultivated by the Mujaddidis within their khānaqāhs: informally by watching elders interact, and formally through training in adab and futuwwat (chivalry). In later years, in Khoqand’s sacred-historical imagination, the success of Mian Khalil’s embassy became linked to his spiritual prowess. The hidden caliphate and international diplomacy were intertwined. In one account, Tsar Nicholas at some time fell ill, healed only with the potency of Mian Khalil’s prayer.

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Popular history relates that it was on this basis that the emperor asked Mian Khalil to personally escort him to Saint Petersburg.41 This merger of Sufism and diplomacy was by no means unique to Khoqand. By the mid-nineteenth century, many states relied on Sufis—particularly Naqshbandis—as ambassadors. These diplomat-saints could leverage their transregional caliphates to solicit support from faraway governments or even to negotiate treaties. Fifty years earlier, the Durrani emperor Zaman Shah had dispatched a Kabuli Mujaddidi, Shah Ghufranullah, to Bukhara and Khoqand as an emissary, probably to secure support in the succession struggle at Kabul.42 The Khoqandi adventurer Ya‘qub Beg, who set up his amirate at Kashgar in the 1860s, had appointed the Naqshbandi Sufi Ya‘qub Khan Tora as ambassador to the Ottoman Empire and British India.43 Khoqand’s ambassador to the Ottoman emperor Mahmud II (1808–1839) was a descendant of the Juybari Naqshbandis, and in 1864, two other Khojas were dispatched to Lahore and Kashmir, respectively.44 Even the East India Company relied on Sufis. Among them was Khwaja Ahmad Naqshbandi, the son of Shah Niyaz whom Moorcroft met in Ladakh. In 1852, Khwaja Ahmad was dispatched on a sensitive mission to the courts of Yarkand, Khoqand, Bukhara, and Kabul to search for a missing British subject.45 He even recruited his disciples to collect information in places like Bukhara.46 As matters grew ever more tangled back home, the two Sirhindi Sufis regularly intervened on behalf of Khudayar Khan, although they apparently could not solve his problems with prayer alone. The presence of the lineage in both Bukhara and Khoqand allowed for negotiations between the rulers of the two khanates. In 1861–1862, for example, Khudayar Khan had briefly taken refuge at Bukhara. In this instance, his allied Sart factions left for Bukhara to secure his release and, to do so, appealed to Fazl Ahad.47 Khudayar Khan returned to Khoqand. But soon after, in the town of Ferghana eighty kilometers east of Khoqand, ‘Alim Qul and his Kyrghyz forces defeated him in battle. So Khudayar Khan appealed to Fazl Ahad, and other leading ulama, to provide reinforcements from Khoqand. Fazl Ahad was pulled in for military mobilization and directly joined the war effort.48 A year later, Khudayar Khan approached the Bukharan king Amir Muzaffar for military assistance against ‘Alim Qul. Amir Muzaffar sent his army to secure Khudayar Khan’s place at Khoqand. Upon arriving at Khoqand, however, the Bukharan ruler “sent all the renowned ulama ahead of him to Bukhara.” First on the list was Fazl Ahad, followed by the Shaykh al-Islam and the chief judge. Mian Khalil was also with them. These ulama essentially served as a guarantee to ensure that Khudayar Khan maintained his peace with Bukhara. They were probably also involved in brokering

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this new arrangement between the erstwhile enemies. Fazl Ahad and Mian Khalil settled at the Mirakan madrasa in Bukhara among their extended family, and they probably taught there in the interim.49 According to Tarikh-i Shahrukhi, when Khudayar Khan was awarded control of Khoqand for a fourth time in 1866, he established shari‘a, enlivened the commercial life of the city, brought warring parties together, and placed competent people in office. Confident that Khudayar Khan was restoring peace at Khoqand, Fazl Ahad sought permission from Amir Muzaffar to return to Khoqand.50 Despite continuous internal crises and the gradual encroachment of Russian forces, Khudayar Khan, like his predecessors, continued patronizing religious institutions.51 It was during this time that Fazl Ahad’s network gained its most solid foothold within Khoqand. The king became Fazl Ahad’s devotee, and likely his disciple. As Khoqand’s chief sage, Fazl Ahad now presided over public ceremonies like the funeral prayers for the queen mother.52 Meanwhile, Fazl Ahad’s network mostly served the khanate of Khoqand and its affiliated regions toward Osh, now in Kyrgyzstan, and Altishahr. His four main deputies were based within the khanate, in Tashkent, Khoqand, Marghinan, and Shahidan.53 In 1867 (according to some sources 1862),54 Fazl Ahad completed a monumental complex situated in the Bekbacha quarter,55 just a short walk from the royal palace and presumably financed through endowments from Madali and Khudayar Khan. It is today the most well-preserved monument within Fazl Ahmad’s broader network. Unlike at Peshawar (and like Bukhara’s Mirakan), it featured a fully functional and separate madrasa and khānaqāh. The building of the Madrasa-i Sahibzada, as it came to be known, was deemed important enough to warrant two panegyrics in the rhyming qas.īda poetic form in the official chronicle.56 It offered a full suite of exoteric and esoteric courses, and the general public also came for blessings and faith healing. The Madrasa-i Sahibzada comprises three quadrangles, with twentyfour rooms, allowing for a segregation between the exoteric and esoteric departments. Each quadrangle was constructed in the form of a fourīwān structure, that is, with four vaulted arches facing a central courtyard, each with a monumental vaulted īwān flanked by multiple domed cells. Two quadrangles housed dormitories and classrooms. Within the first courtyard is a minaret with a thick, tapering cylindrical shaft capped by a rotunda with eight arches, a miniature of the iconic Minar-i Kalan that towers over Bukhara, but topped with a dome, like the minaret on ‘Umar Khan’s Masjid-i Jami‘ in Khoqand. This was a distinctly local feature, appealing to norms of religious architecture within Transoxiana and alluding to the Minar-i Kalan, which dominated Bukhara’s cityscape and

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Figure 8.1  Courtyard of the Madrasa-i Sahibzada, Khoqand (Photo by Waleed Ziad)

Khoqand’s most famous mosque. The third courtyard was designated as the “khānaqāh of Sahibzada Hazrat” (Fazl Ahad), with a seclusion chamber and kitchen. Fazl Ahad’s tomb was later located there. The larger complex also included residential areas for his family. The author of the chronicle Tarikh-i Jadid-i Tashkent (“The New History of Tashkent”) provides a detailed account of his stay at the khānaqāh during the month of Ramadan in 1868–1869.57 It describes a range of scholastic activities and Sufi rituals and practices. The author was accompanied by at least eleven scholars from Tashkent. They performed seclusion, daily recitations, and supererogatory night prayers and received lessons on the subtle centers and other subjects. Later, he related the story of a young scholar who stayed there, studying astrology, logic, h.akmiyya, principles of jurisprudence, and a philosophical text titled Tract on the Proof of the Necessary Existent.58

The Amu Darya Becomes a Frontier In the years following the occupation of Aq Masjid, Khudayar Khan faced an existential threat. After the Crimean War, Russian expansion become markedly more aggressive. In 1864, Russian forces took Turkestan and Awliya’ Ata, now in southern Kazakhstan, followed by Tashkent in 1865.

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Within two years, the occupied territories were reorganized as the Turkestanskaya Oblast under a permanent governor general, Konstantin von Kaufman. Shortly thereafter, in 1869, Fazl Ahad died. Royal chronicles relate that Khudayar Khan arrived with a retinue of senior officials and personally oversaw the burial.59 They feature detailed, emotion-laden accounts of the burial, narrating the king’s lamentations over the loss of his spiritual guide, with poems in the qas.īda and the rubā‘ī forms in honor of the saint. But this was not the only loss the ruler faced. The erosion of Khoqand’s territory was further exacerbating internal tensions. Regular uprisings provided a convenient opportunity for Russia to intervene, and in 1876, Khoqand was formally occupied. The khanate was abolished and incorporated into Russian Turkestan.60 As in Bukhara, the impact of the occupation on the religious sphere was equivocal. On the one hand, the Russians saw themselves as rescuing the region from the barbarity and inherent fanaticism of Islam. Within this worldview, Sufi brotherhoods were the subjects of intense suspicion. However, von Kaufman preferred a policy of nonintervention (ignorirovanie) in religious affairs. The most effective mode of countering Islam was by ignoring its institutions and instead cultivating Russian culture, education, and economic growth. At the same time, the Russians wanted to minimize local resistance. So as each region was occupied, Russian forces promised to maintain charitable endowments, prevent oppression, and allow subjects to live according to Islamic law. Ulama and Sufi lineages were even promised tax exemptions. Eugene Schuyler, who visited Tashkent after the occupation, found that Sufi institutions were still quite active. He visited a khānaqāh of a certain Ishan Sahib Khwaja (maybe Fazl Ahad’s son Ishan Sahibzada) that featured an elaborate vocal dhikr ceremony. He commented on the liberality and accessibility of such institutions and was surprised that he, a Christian, was freely allowed to observe the rituals.61 On the other hand, though such private institutions were preserved, the Russians abolished state-affiliated religious posts. They also regulated hajj and the distribution of Muslim literature from abroad. And, although they did not openly tamper with endowments, disputes over endowment management provided the colonial administrators ample opportunities for intervention and often excuses to seize vast estates.62 Meanwhile, in the first decades of Russian rule, Khoqand’s economy was further reoriented northward, particularly with the advent of the telegraph and the Transcaspian Railway, which reached Tashkent. Radical changes came about with the Statute of 1886, which granted cultivators the right to possess land, generating a new class of smallholders. New cotton crops in Tashkent

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transformed the economy, and Turkestanskya Oblast became Russia’s main source of raw cotton.63 Though the popular authority of religious leaders and their endowments remained intact, then, albeit more closely regulated by the 1886 statute, financing for their institutions was increasingly compromised. By the turn of the century, colonial administrators had noted a rapid decay in the quality of Islamic institutions.64 Parallel homeschooling institutions became more widespread as madrasas lost revenues. Fazl Ahad’s network of disciples does not seem to have been drastically impacted by Russian encroachment. The rectorship of the khānaqāh at Khoqand passed on to Fazl Ahad’s son Fazl Quddus (known as Hazrat Ishan Jan), the eldest of fourteen sons. The Madrasa-i Sahibzada remained an important college in the city. Some of Khoqand’s leading literary figures were associated with the order. Among Fazl Ahad’s disciples were Mullah Niyaz Muhammad Khoqandi (d. after 1878), the author of Tarikh-i Shahrukhi, as well as Muhammad Salih Khoja Tashkendi, the author of Tarikh-i Jadid-i Tashkent (written in 1887). The most famous scholar based at the khānaqāh was undoubtedly the reformist poet Muqimi (Muhammad ‘Ali Khwaja Mirzakhwaja, 1850–1903), considered a fountainhead of modern Chagatai or Uzbek literature.65 Muqimi spent the latter part of his career based at the khānaqāh, which is now partly a museum; his writings are exhibited in what was once his chamber.66 Mian Khalil, too, had a broad network of disciples at Khoqand, Tashkent, and elsewhere. One of them was Ishan Salimsaq Khwaja Ishan, a teacher of exoteric and esoteric sciences, who was well known for his study of music, the six maqāms [melodic modes], and poems in the qas.īda form.67 Like other contemporary Sufis, he brought together the vocal and silent meditative traditions, having studied qas.īdas at the shrine complex of Ahmad Yasawi in the town of Turkistan (now in southern Kazakhstan). Fazl Ahmad’s disciple ‘Abd al-Rahim Marghinani also left a potent legacy in the east, toward Kyrgyzstan and China’s Xinjiang province. His deputy Muhammad Ishan institutionalized the lineage at Osh (now in Kyrgyzstan), where it flourished for two more generations under the leadership of Muhammad Salih al-Din al-Niyakani and Qamar al-Din Ushi. A Chinese Turkic-Persian Sufi practical text, Manba‘ al-Asrar, or “Source of Secrets,” indicates that this lineage combined three Mujaddidi traditions originating from Peshawar, Delhi, and Dahbid, as well as the lineage of Khwaja Nazar Huwaida-i Chimyani (1703–1780). Chimyani was an Afaqi Khoja, the Naqshbandi lineage that once ruled over Altishahr.68 Starting in the late nineteenth century, many lineages from the Ferghana Valley resettled in Xinjiang. Now administratively integrated within Qing China, the region nevertheless provided greater opportunities for Sufis than

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Russian Khoqand. The bulk of the migrations occurred during the quartercentury-long rebellions against Russian rule known as the Basmachi revolts. These began in Ferghana in 1916, when the Tsarist administration announced that it would conscript its Central Asian subjects into labor units. A year later, the revolts expanded into an anti-Soviet insurgency across Transoxiana. Sufis and other religious leaders played an active role, particularly since the Soviets confiscated their endowments and closed madrasas. Qamar al-Din Ushi left Khoqand and, in 1926, established himself in Kashgar. His son Ayyub Qari established the Chong Madrasa in 1945, which became the most prestigious Naqshbandi-Khafiyya (that is, the ones who perform khafī, or silent dhikr) institution in Xinjiang, with branches across Xinjiang, at Gulja, Urumchi, Turfan, and elsewhere.69 The suppression of the Basmachi revolts represented a turning point. The drastic impact of contemporary geopolitics on Sufi mobility can be illustrated through the case of Naqshbandi Sufi Hajji Sabir of Ishtirkhan near Marghilan (b. 1870s). Hajji Sabir’s father was Mir ‘Abdullah, a local silk trader who had benefited from Khoqand’s economic efflorescence and had made a fortune transporting Marghilani silk to Tashkent, en route to Kashgar. At the age of twenty, Hajji Sabir is said to have had a prophetic dream, compelling him to go on hajj by foot. He bequeathed his properties to his wife and began a six-year-long voyage of self-discovery. His first sojourn was at Herat, where he met his spiritual guide and was initiated into the Naqshbandi order. For several months, he stayed at his master’s khānaqāh, sweeping the premises daily, while studying exegesis, recitation, and hadith with ulama based there. With his master’s blessings, he then went for extended periods to the shrines of the imams at Mashhad and Karbala, and at ‘Abd al-Qadir Jilani’s shrine in Baghdad. After three years in Medina and Mecca, he returned to Marghilan via Afghanistan. Some years later, Soviet forces occupied Ferghana, and the Basmachi revolts swept across Transoxiana. Hajji Sabir was regularly harassed by Soviet troops; like other landholders, his properties were confiscated, and he was put to work on a cotton plantation. Several times he was called in for questioning and asked to report on any subversive religious activities within his broader community. Knowing that he faced execution unless he cooperated, he escaped with his family on a raft across the Amu Darya. The family permanently left Ferghana and resettled at Hazrat Imam in Qunduz, then a frontier town between Afghanistan and the Soviet Union. The Amu Darya was now transformed into a true frontier, severing the Transoxiana–Khurasan scholastic nexus that had long sustained Mujaddidi networks like Fazl Ahmad’s.70

9 From Swat to Kabul

e

T

he story of Fazl Ahmad’s last familial lineage begins at Peshawar under the Sikhs. With the area firmly pulled into Ranjit Singh’s empire, and soon afterward absorbed into the East India Company’s domains, the locus of Fazl-i Haqq’s networks shifted northward into Yaghestan, the “free”—or literally, the “hostile”—“territories.” This geographically isolated space lacked any central political authority and was subordinate neither to Lahore, Kabul, nor Calcutta. In this remarkably different Yusufzai Afghan tribal environment, Fazl-i Haqq’s successors carved out novel spiritual-political roles, shaped by a new set of political and social exigencies. As this book has argued, the Mujaddidi project was not essentially concerned with statecraft but rather with spiritual guidance, travel, and wayfaring. But as we will see, in the interstitial yāghestāns of the fragmenting Persian world, Sufi masters sometimes become chiefs or princes by default, drafted to fill political vacuums and provide some leadership, to balance tribal factions and keep the peace. As the Mujaddidi hidden caliphate transitioned from urban centers to tribal peripheries, these more remote places, in turn, became new loci for reoriented networks. Fazl-i Haqq’s successors became the “Hazratkhel”— a combination of the Sufi term of respect h.azrat and tribal suffix khel. They occupied a liminal position in the Yusufzai social and political structure, a localized, yet ultimately “foreign” third-party class who could act as impartial arbitrators in a politically fractured region. As such, they became a sacred-strategic link between Kabul, Peshawar, and the Swat Valley. The

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network enabled imperial actors to assert their influence in the free territories, but also assisted the various Yusufzai khanates in negotiations with their imperial neighbors, an intermediary role that persists to the present day. At the same time, however, the period of centralization developing from an informal alliance between the ruler of an emerging Afghanistan, on the one hand, and the British, on the other, put increasing pressure on the network’s economic sustenance, prestige, and spiritual-political power.

A Parcel of Paradise The area called Yaghestan had had tremendous spiritual significance for at least two thousand years. At its center is the Swat Valley, historically called Oddiyana, which in Buddhist tradition is a practically mythical parcel of paradise, famous for its natural beauty and breathtaking valleys. The whole region is dotted with stupas commemorating the before- and afterlives of the Buddha, many of which have maintained their sanctity across millennia. In the early 1500s, the spiritual stature of the region was enhanced with the arrival of Sayyid ‘Ali Tirmizi, a Kubrawi Sufi from the Amu Darya region. Pir Baba, as he become known, supposedly came to Hindustan with Babur, the founder of the Mughal Empire. He served in the Mughal army, trained in Sufi practices at Ajmer, then settled in the Buner Valley, south of Swat, marrying into the Yusufzai Afghans. The biographies see him as a reformer, challenging false Sufi claimants—like the millenarian Rawshaniyya movement—and setting up madrasas to ground spiritual traditions in rigorous scholasticism.1 Yaghestan comprised the larger geographic divisions of Bajaur, Utmankhel, Mohmand, Dir, Swat, and Buner, with the latter three dominated by settled Yusufzai agriculturalist clans. The lower Yusufzai territories had been incorporated into the Sikh and British domains with much difficulty during the first half of the nineteenth century. But throughout the late eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, the territories north of the Kabul River and west of the Indus remained outside of the jurisdiction of the dominant powers—whether Sadozai, Barakzai, Sikh, or British. Fortuitously, mountain ranges on all sides safeguarded Yaghestan from the well-trodden invasion routes from Khurasan to Hindustan. This is precisely why Fazl Ahmad’s descendants were invited to resettle here. The governance of Yusufzai clans was more hierarchical than among other Afghans, but still decentralized, with considerable power in the hands of self-governing village communities and clans (khels), overseen by hereditary maliks, who managed external relations, and jirgas, councils of

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AFGHANISTAN Khanate of Asmar

Khanate of Dir Khanate of Jandol

Khanate of Pashat Khanate of Khar

BAJAUR

Thana

Khanate of Nawagai

Khanate Aladand of Aladand

Khanate of Sam Ranizai

P

A

Saidu (Akhund of Swat)

SWAT

K

I

S

BUNER

T

A

N

N

Peshawar 0 0

20 km 20 miles

Map 7  Political geography of Yaghestan, mid-19th century

elders and maliks.2 In the first half of the nineteenth century, larger areas of Buner, Swat, and Dir were also dominated by a dozen local khanates. Occasionally, their uneasy relationships became violent feuds. The khanates were linked by strategic marriages, but pursued independent foreign policies, at various stages allying themselves with Lahore, Peshawar, or Kabul. Apart from the hereditary khans, there were also several prominent landholding Sufi lineages. Some were shrine custodians with minor landholdings, primarily providing spiritual guidance or exoteric and esoteric education. Other lineages had evolved into states, like the khans of Dir who were descendants of the seventeenth-century Mujaddidi Sufi Akhund Baba. Among other celebrated spiritual powerbrokers of the time were

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Shahu Baba of Dir, the s.āh.ibzādas of Miankili (at Bajaur, descendants of Pir Baba of Buner), the Akhunds of Pishat (a Mujaddidi lineage descended from a deputy of ‘Umar of Chamkanni), and most prominently, the Akhund of Swat. More so than in other regions, Swat’s principal religious families were bound through an intricate network of marriage alliances.3 This phenomenon of combined religio-political leadership was quite widespread in the various intermediate “free” spaces across Khurasan. In the first decade of the nineteenth century, the East India Company news writer Sayyid Najaf ‘Ali reported that several pīrzādas (implying Sufi guides, or their descendants) also exercised political sovereignty in small principalities en route from Peshawar to Kabul, while a British traveler, Lieutenant Macartney, remarked that “Eusufzye” regions were often “governed by their Moolahs who are learned and zealous in religious matters.”4 In the hagiographies, such leadership posts were represented as a burden for the Sufis, a necessity, pulling them away from their real work, and desire for isolation and anonymity. These holy personalities and their offspring were called astānādārs, literally the keepers of the threshold, or astānā, signifying the place where a Sufi master congregated with his disciples. Their essential function among the Yusufzai resembled what they did in other parts of the Persianate world. But the relationship that evolved between the village community and Sufi lineages was quite distinct, as was their role as mediators in the absence of region-wide legal structures. Astānādārs were universally revered across Yaghestan. During his stay in these regions, Bellew observed that even khans would rise in the presence of the astānādār. Since Yusufzai territories had shared landholdings within clans, astānādārs received land in the form of perpetual gifts from the community as a whole rather than from single wealthy patrons. When allotting land, community councils would designate one area as a rent-free “sairai” for the astānādārs, with the remainder distributed among clan households. A Sufi lineage’s settlement within the Yusufzai region would thus have necessitated a buy-in from the maliks and their communities.5 All parties understood that the land was given in return for mediatory services, as well as for education, blessings, and social-service facilities like soup kitchens. The astānādārs wore distinctive white turbans as identifying marks, signifying their transcendence above the tribe and clan, and allowing them to safely “cross sides” to mediate in times of feuds. They lived and intermarried within their host clans, but they remained outsiders to the Afghan tribal organizational framework. One of the few anthropologists of Swati society, Charles Lindholm, even suggested that a segmented community made of small-scale village leaders simply could not

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have existed without a religiously sanctioned mediatory class. The council managed internal conflicts, while the astānādārs, also titled pīrs, mians, and s.āh.ibzādas, managed intertribal and interclan conflicts.6 In the absence of central political authority, the astānādārs had a related function: to initiate direct political or military action when required. They were expected to rally populations and to raise irregular military forces from among their disciples and client tribes, as we have seen at the battle of Nowshera.7 In at least three wars between Swat and Dir, the astānādārs were responsible for organizing military units and provided united leadership for Swat.8 These ancillary functions of mediation and mobilization ultimately derived from their sacred authority, embodied in their teachings, their holy sites, and the confidence in which society held them. The astānādārs also presided over shrines, which, as elsewhere, were important public spaces imparting blessings and protection against disease, infertility, poverty, and other afflictions. The spiritual landscape of the Peshawar Valley and Yaghestan was dominated by three major pilgrimage sites: Pir Baba of Buner, Kaka Sahib in the Khattak region, and Jandah at Peshawar. Each Yusufzai village also hosted two or three shrines. Lesser shrines and Sufi lineages were often linked through folklore, marriage, or by other means to the three regional spiritual anchors and their descendants.9 The result was an interconnected network of shrines and shrine families, with pilgrimage routes comprising shrines tied to local mythologies; shrines associated with Kubrawi, Chishti, Qadiri, or Naqshbandi saints and scholars; and the three great pilgrimage sites. Bellew observed that across classes, and for both men and women, Fridays were designated days for shrine visitation. Entire villages would empty out to the pilgrimage sites. These places, along with saints’ houses, were considered sacred and therefore inviolable. So when required, they could be used for asylum or even for storing valuable goods, such as grain or equipment.10

Who Was the “Akond of Swat”? As the Barakzais gradually lost control of Peshawar and Kabul’s central authority weakened under Dost Muhammad Khan, Yaghestan became further isolated from its neighboring states. This corresponded to an increasing need for Sufi guidance and mediation. The political upheavals of the first half of the nineteenth century ultimately paved the way for the emergence of the Akhund of Swat and the formation of a new political equilibrium in the region premised on Sufi moral authority.

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The Yusufzai territories were generally wary of the advancing Sikh armies, but minimized their direct involvement in outside politics. Isolation was a means of self-preservation. As referenced earlier, the Yusufzai irregular brigades often fought alongside the regular Afghan armies. There were several strategic Afghan campaigns against the Sikh in which Yusufzais actively participated, with Barakzai-Yusufzai relations often mediated by tribal leaders and Sufis like Fazl-i Haqq. In 1827, several clans from Bajaur and Swat zealously participated in Shah Isma‘il and Sayyid Ahmad’s jihad against the Sikhs. As in Peshawar, support for the Mujahidin was short-lived given theological differences and the opposing political interests of local khans. In the 1830s, the Sikhs at Peshawar maintained communication with the Yaghestan tribes, but due to security constraints, limited their revenue-collecting missions to the lower Yusufzai regions. More and more, Yaghestan became a place of refuge for individuals or communities who were compelled to leave Peshawar for a variety of reasons, political or otherwise.11 Maliks and khans hedged their bets, often making diplomatic overtures to the Sikhs or the Barakzais. Dir and Chitral even received allowances and land grants in the Peshawar Valley from its Sikh governors. Amid these developments, an erstwhile disciple of Fazl Ahmad, ‘Abd alGhafur, rose to prominence. Later known as the Akhund of Swat, he was arguably the region’s most beloved personality of the nineteenth century. Originally from a poor family of Gujjar pastoralists, at age eighteen he devoted himself to religious studies. He came to Peshawar for further education and spiritual training, and became a student of Hafiz ‘Azim, who regularly took him to visit his master Fazl Ahmad at the Yakatut khānaqāh. Although later biographies claimed that ‘Abd al-Ghafur would walk from Swat in hot weather to join Fazl Ahmad at Peshawar, it is unclear whether he actually became Fazl Ahmad’s formal disciple. According to Gulha-i Chaman, a biography compiled by ‘Abdullah Jan Faruqi, after four years of study of the revealed and rational sciences under Hafiz ‘Azim, ‘Abd al-Ghafur approached Fazl Ahmad for initiation. Fazl Ahmad performed the istikhāra prayer of guidance and found, unfortunately, that he did not have spiritual permission to induct him as a disciple. He instead provided him with a daily recitation of repentance and dismissed him. Bellew, however, related a different narrative. He claimed that one day in Fazl Ahmad’s presence, ‘Abd al-Ghafur entered into an ecstatic state, screaming so loudly that he was asked to leave the khānaqāh. Regardless of the exact circumstances under which he left Fazl Ahmad, ‘Abd al-Ghafur maintained his affection for the saint and his family.12 Eventually, ‘Abd al-Ghafur met the celebrated Sufi master Shu‘ayb Tordher in nearby Swabi, toward the Indus banks, who inducted him into the Qadiri, Naqshbandi, Chishti, and Suhrawardi orders.13 ‘Abd al-Ghafur

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remained with his teacher until his death (in 1816 or 1819), after which he embarked on a life of asceticism at a village near Hund on the Indus.14 Popular traditions relate that he spent twelve years in a hut by a riverbank, drinking only water and eating wild plants. During this period of seclusion, his sanctity became apparent to people far and wide. Occasionally, local elites called on him to mediate their conflicts. When Sayyid Ahmad treacherously murdered Hund’s malik in ‘Abd al-Ghafur’s own home, he left, and for several years afterward, wandered through the Swat region, attracting disciples. By 1835, his reputation had reached Amir Dost Muhammad Khan at Kabul, who called upon him to mobilize the Yusufzais and other tribes of Yaghestan against the Sikhs in an effort to win back Peshawar. ‘Abd al-Ghafur organized a sizable tribal contingent that joined regular troops at the mouth of the Khyber. Dost Muhammad Khan’s campaign was ultimately a failure, and ‘Abd alGhafur retreated into Swat, settling in the mountain village of Saidu. By this stage, he had received considerable Yusufzai land in Swat and Mardan, and he established a khānaqāh and soup kitchen at Saidu where five hundred devotees ate daily.15 He was regularly consulted for religious opinions and before long was the most esteemed spiritual leader among the eastern Afghans. In time, the valley’s people relied on him to ensure stability and balance political interests. In fact, it eventually became impossible for Swat’s political leaders to govern without his authorization, or for other Sufis to provide spiritual counsel without his blessings. Although ‘Abd al-Ghafur did not assume direct political power until the late 1850s, he did organize disciples, known as shaykhs, who acted as an on-call police force. Throughout, he retained his ascetic lifestyle.16 In 1863, when the British attempted a campaign in the region, ‘Abd alGhafur led the resistance and inflicted a decisive defeat at Ambela south of Swat. When he passed away in 1876, London newspapers carried a brief note mentioning his death. It was unintelligible to the public, who knew neither what akhund meant nor where Swat was located. In response to this note, the limericist Edward Lear published a nonsensical poem that opened with the verse, ‘Who, or why, or which, or what, is the Akond of Swat.” Its absurdity highlights the extent of the “otherness” of this region in the English imagination, the virtual inability of London to comprehend the figure of the Akhund, and hence how sacred-political authority operated in the frontier regions of British India.

The Hazratkhel Sometime after Fazl-i Haq’s death, Akhund ‘Abd al-Ghafur invited his sons to settle at Thana in Swat, near the legendary birthplace of Padmasambhava,

229

Fazl Latif Malakand d. 1889

Fazl Ghaffar Malakand d. 1918

Fazl Mahdi Malakand d. 1877

discipleship

Mian Gul ‘Abd alKhaliq d. 1893

Mian Gul ‘Abd alHannan d. 1887

Akhund ‘Abd al-Ghafur, Saidu d. 1877

discipleship

Hafiz Shu‘ayb Tordher d. 1816

Figure 9.1  Fazl Ahmad and Akhund ‘Abd al-Ghafur’s lineage in Yaghestan

Fazl Hayy Malakand d. 1887–1888

Fazl Hadi Malakand d. 1860

Fazl-i Haqq Peshawar d. 1838

Fazl Ahmad Ma‘sumi Peshawar d. 1816

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the founder of Tibetan Buddhism. In a region already under the Akhund’s (now very visible) hidden caliphate, these Sufis played a specially tailored role in preserving the balance of power, in a sense complementing the Akhund’s authority. They brought with them the spiritual and symbolic capital needed to generate stability in a precarious buffer zone. Like their forebears, they also transported Mujaddidi teachings to this isolated locale. The precise circumstances of the migration are unclear, although the sons and their families were undoubtedly fleeing from a serious political threat, as the choice of Yaghestan as a destination attests. The decision could not have been an easy one. Although Fazl Ahmad and his son Fazl-i Haqq had appointed deputies from Khyber to Swat, they did not have a significant base of support or landholdings in the area where they finally settled.17 The biographies produced within the lineage suggest that the family was fleeing the Sikh occupation of Peshawar (1834), understandable given Fazl-i Haqq’s involvement in mobilizing ghāzīs at Nowshera. An 1884 Confidential Report, however, mentions that the family left Peshawar for Thana following the British occupation in 1849. Perhaps they were seen as Barakzai partisans.18 None of the family remained in Peshawar. Fazl-i Haqq’s three sons migrated together, led by the eldest Fazl Hadi (or ‘Abd al-Hadi), Fazl-i Haqq’s spiritual heir at Peshawar. He was joined by his younger brothers Fazl Mahdi (d. 1877) and Fazl Latif (or ‘Abd al-Latif), and several dozen disciples. The oral histories relate that that they were joined by a “tribe of Habshis,” servants of the khānaqāh—literally, this means “Abyssinian,” but probably refers to darker-skinned Hindustanis who had joined them from Sirhind. Upon leaving Peshawar, Fazl Hadi entrusted the khānaqāh and all the land in the Peshawar Valley to them, but they preferred to join what the family called the hijrat, an allusion to the Prophet’s migration to Medina. This was tantamount to seeking refuge in an untainted region in a time of widespread moral and political turmoil.19 Thana was a well-irrigated mountainous area, belonging to the Khankhel clan.20 To the west was the neighboring minor khanate of Aladand. Together they were a perpetually unstable territory between Swat, under the Akhund’s sphere of influence, and the khanate of Dir. Tensions had existed between Dir and Swat for decades. The chief local authorities were the khans of Aladand, whose political allegiances wavered between their neighbors. As minor liminal zones within a larger liminal zone, Thana and Aladand became popular destinations for dislodged khans or fugitives from Swat; Thana itself was a well-recognized site of intertribal negotiations.21 Naturally, it would have been expedient to have a transregionally recognized family of outside mediators with

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historical links to the Akhund to help stabilize this volatile space, while edging it into Swat’s orbit. There may have been another reason for the Akhund’s choice to bring Fazl-i Haqq’s family to Thana. The village of Thana contained one principal shrine, featuring a ten-meter-long grave attributed to a certain Ghaws Baba, whose actual name had been long forgotten. Although Ghaws Baba’s shrine is ancient, in local folklore its discovery was connected to either to a historical landholding family in Thana or to Pir Baba of Buner, who, according to local folklore, saw a light emerging from it that rose to the sky. Though it was revered locally, there was no khānaqāh affiliated with the site.22 This means, also, that there were probably no qualified Sufi teachers or ulama families based in the region. None of the few educated “qazi families” of Thana ran madrasas, and books were exceedingly rare. Fazl Hadi and his brothers could help fill the vacuum. At the time of Fazl Hadi’s arrival, two independent maliks, Pasand Khan and Arsala Khan, oversaw Thana. Both were under the Akhund’s influence and may have been his devotees. The Akhund enjoined them to welcome the brothers. At his behest, the maliks and elders provided financial support to build a khānaqāh and designated the villages of Thana and neighboring Bakhta as a perpetual tithe, equivalent to six thousand rupees per year.23 Three-fourths were allocated for the needy—the poor and widows—while one-fourth sustained the family and their activities. In agreeing to provide land revenue, the people of Thana would explicitly have acknowledged the sanctity of the family and acquiesced to its role as mediators.24 Initially, the family was not keen on staying, hoping to eventually shift to Kabul. It recognized the contentious political situation. But Fazl Hadi’s family members became incorporated into the sacred landscape of Swat and Malakand. The Akhund held them in esteem on account of his connection to Fazl Ahmad and Hafiz ‘Azim, and because alone among the other Mujaddidi lineages in the region, they belonged to Sirhindi’s family. The public was aware of their exalted spiritual status and descent; even the Report on Bajaur refers to them as the “Sirhindi” s.āh.ibzādas. The Akhund regularly came to Thana to pay his respects. Gradually, the local khanates followed suit, such that Thana acquired a significant position in Yaghestan’s sacred topography. The family, in turn, still acknowledges the Akhund’s support and “affection.”25 The Akhund even gave his daughter in marriage to Fazl Rashid (‘Abd al-Rashid), the son of Fazl Latif, solidifying their place in Swat’s sacred landscape.26 However much respect they were given, their place was circumscribed by the religious-political realities of their new home. They were no doubt

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among the chief Sufi lineages of Swat, but Fazl Hadi and his brothers deliberately did not build up a base of local disciples. Even today, their disciples are concentrated south of Peshawar. Oral histories clarify that Thana was already the under “spiritual guidance” of the Akhund, and his caliphate had to be honored. So the absence of local disciples assured the family’s new role as impartial “outside” arbitrators. And across the Persianate zone, as far as Sindh and Khoqand, Sirhindi’s descendants often, similarly, became multigenerational outsiders. While remaining outside any formal Afghan tribal structure, the family was separately incorporated into the clan system as the “Hazratkhels”; its village in the Thana was known as Garhi Hazratkhel. Following in the footsteps of his ancestors, Fazl Hadi was an ascetic who taught Sufi sciences and wrote Persian verses in ghazal form. This was compiled as the Divan-i Hadi, and later published and distributed in Malakand and Swat.27 Fazl Hadi was buried at the village of Bakhta, ten minutes by foot from Garhi Hazratkhel. His tomb became an important multigenerational shrine, a memorial of the migration. Members of all families who traveled with him—including the “Habshis”—were eventually buried there. This garden shrine is now dominated by the enclosed tombs of Fazl Hadi and his son Fazl Ghaffar. Fazl Hadi’s youngest brother, Fazl Latif, meanwhile, apparently had an aptitude for solving political disputes and built close ties with Swat’s nobility. According to Colonel Plowden, who met him in 1875, Fazl Latif was “the second man in Swat to the Akhund in influence and reputation . . . a well educated man, and thoroughly acquainted with both Persian and Urdu. He has the reputation of being shrewd and intelligent. . . . Though ambitious, he is not greedy or grasping, and being very hospitable has obtained a great hold on the minds of people.”28 The two brothers inaugurated two sublineages with distinct spiritual and political trajectories. Within a few years of the migration, Garhi Hazratkhel featured an extensive khānaqāh and mosque complex, which also housed Fazl-i Haqq’s famous library. Based on surviving manuscripts, we can assume that Mujaddidi texts on Sufism, cosmology, and travel and wayfaring were taught. The shine complex, the khānaqāh, and the residences of the Hazratkhel were all regarded as sacred spaces and therefore inviolable, an important spatial component of their mediatory services on behalf of the Akhund. This proved critical in early 1851, when the death of the khan of Aladand led to a violent succession struggle between two members of his family, Sherdil Khan and Sohbat Khan. Eventually the Akhund interceded, dividing the lands in question equally between them. The struggle,

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however, did not cease, and Sherdil Khan sought sanctuary in the house of Sayyid Muhammad Mian, “a grandson of Hazratji” (i.e., Fazl Ahmad). But Sohbat Khan broke protocol. He violated the sanctity of the house, and so was murdered by Sherdil Khan, who eventually took refuge once again at the house of Fazl Latif at Bakhta. After some time, the Akhund pardoned him and appointed him as khan of Aladand. The astānādār’s houses, then, served as places of asylum, allowing time and space for political settlements to be made. Sherdil Khan relied on two local safehouses belonging to the same lineage, allowing the Akhund time to intercede and negotiate a settlement.29 Some years later, Fazl-i Haqq’s lineage also stepped in, in a far more consequential ongoing struggle between the Akhund of Swat and Sayyid Amir, the “Kotah Mullah.” Sayyid Amir, from the village of Kotah in Swabi, was also a student of Hafiz ‘Azim, and he was initiated into the Mujaddidi order by Fazl-i Haqq and another Mujaddidi master, Yar Muhammad Kabuli.30 Early in his career, Sayyid Amir had joined Sayyid Ahmad’s jihad, even serving as a judge under the short-lived Mujahidin regime.31 He eventually distanced himself from the movement and gained a considerable following of disciples in the plains areas of Swat. But in light of his past, the Akhund, who as we have seen was not favorably disposed to the Mujahideen, felt that his spiritual influence in Swat had to be curtailed. The Akhund’s followers circulated rumors that Sayyid Amir harbored “heretical” ideas and that he was either a Wahhabi or a follower of the millenarian rebel Pir-i Rawshan. They waged a vigorous village-by-village propaganda campaign against him, with a host of dubious accusations surrounding his beliefs. These ranged from naïve accusations (like “the Kotah Mullah believes that God lives in a well, seated on a rock”) to more sophisticated ones challenging his commitment to Sunni doctrine.32 Sayyid Amir had to confront this crisis, so in 1857, as the Great Rebellion was sweeping India, he embarked on a four-month voyage through Swat with his companions. The stated purpose of the journey was as follows: On Monday, the twelvth of Muharram, Mawlana, the pivot of the world and of the worlds, and ghaws [arch-saint, literally “helper”] of the people of his time, left for Swat to visit and pay respects to the lamp of the Mujaddidi family, Hazrat Fazl Hadi son of Fazl-i Haqq Sahib son of the spiritual pole of the age, beloved of the praised one, the follower of the sunna of the Prophet, peace be upon him, his excellency Hazratji Sahib Peshawari, the grandson of Imam Rabbani Mujaddid-i Alf Sani, Ahmad Sirhindi (may God sanctify his secret), which is the pīrkhāna [the household of the spiritual guide] of Hazrat Sahib [i.e., Sayyid Amir].33

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But a detailed travel account left by his companion Safiullah reveals that the strategic aim was to establish his Sunni scholarly credentials among the people of Swat and to negotiate an end to hostilities with the Akhund. Sayyid Amir’s first major destination was Bakhta, the Hazratkhel village near Thana. A week into the journey, he crossed paths with the Akhund, who had just returned from visiting Fazl Hadi, at nearby Abuha.34 Sayyid Amir and his companions spent two weeks at Bakhta, Thana, and Aladand, and he led prayers at Bakhta, systematically paying his respects at the pilgrimage sites, performing Sufi practices and seclusions, and giving lectures on theology. He also met with Fazl Hadi at least three times. Ten days later, he arrived at the historic capital of Swat, Mingora, toward the east, where he entered into intensive negotiations with the Akhund. After Sayyid Amir spent several days at Mingora and Saidu (the Akhund’s base of operations), the Akhund dispatched a letter, acknowledging their friendship and denying any connection to the allegations made against him. This public document served as both an acknowledgement of Sayyid Amir as a legitimate religious leader and a confirmation that his beliefs were within the bounds of Sunni doctrine. This truce, unfortunately, was short-lived. But this episode leaves us with some insights into Fazl Hadi’s sacred function in Swat. Pilgrimage could become a site of mediation; sacred geography could be deployed by both parties in their negotiations. Like Ahmad Shah Durrani’s invasion cum pilgrimage account, Jangnama, this account frames negotiation as a pilgrimage through dozens of sacred sites. The detailed travel narrative must have been meant to confirm Sayyid Amir’s belief in the saints, which had been questioned by his detractors. The intricacies of the negotiations are not spelled out, but it is clear that Fazl Hadi at Bakhta was the designated intermediary. Since Fazl Hadi embodied the shared sacred genealogy of both competing Sufi masters, it was only appropriate for him to facilitate talks. His khānaqāh at Thana appropriately bookended the episode, marking the starting and finishing points of the negotiation-pilgrimage journey.35

Turning to Kabul While settling into their new environment, Fazl Hadi and his brothers maintained contact with the Barakzai chiefs of Kabul and Peshawar. As a result, they became the means through which Kabul and Peshawar could safely negotiate with Yaghestan. In addition to tithes furnished by the maliks of Thana, Fazl Hadi secured a generous allowance of 2,500 rupees from Dost

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Muhammad Khan. He also received a thousand rupees each from the three Barakzai chiefs who had supported the family at Peshawar, and who in turn had been granted tithes in Bannu (two hundred kilometers southwest of Peshawar) and other regions by Ranjit Singh. Most probably, these allowances had been established before the migration to Swat, with their precise rationale unclear. The Barakzais were devoted to the family, and given the preponderance of deputies and disciples at Bannu and nearby Kohat, perhaps the chiefs expected the family to invest in khānaqāhs and madrasas, and to provide local political support where needed. Gulha-i Chaman mentions that after the British occupation of Peshawar in 1849, the family members relinquished their lands in the Peshawar Valley. The author explains that they could have reclaimed their lands but chose to forsake them, because they did not want to depend on the British government. This, indeed, suggests a deliberate political choice: the lineage chose to support Barakzai Kabul over British Peshawar.36 In lieu of these now irretrievable lands, Dost Muhammad Khan agreed to provide an extensive land grant in the village of Hayderkhani in Laghman, west of the Khyber Pass, equivalent to 5,500 rupees. This effectively bound Fazl Hadi to Kabul and also reoriented the network’s main route from Thana to Kabul via Laghman, circumventing British-held Peshawar. Subsequent events illuminate the complex mediatory role that Fazl Hadi, Fazl Latif, and their successors assumed, with all its challenges, tensions, and opportunities. Kabul’s first serious demands on Fazl Hadi were issued in 1857. Just two years earlier, Dost Muhammad Khan had agreed not to challenge British India. In turn, the British offered him a regular stipend, which he needed to prevent his new state from fracturing. His brother Sultan Muhammad Khan (now also based at Kabul), however, entertained alternative plans. He hoped the Sepoy Mutiny, which broke out that same year, would destabilize the British government in the Peshawar Valley. Several other prominent Sufis and members of the ulama, including the Mujaddidi Hafiz Ji, son of the Mīr Wā‘iz. , or chief preacher, at Kabul, shared his ambitions. Sultan Muhammad Khan wrote to Fazl Hadi requesting that he mobilize the people of Swat in a jihad against the British government. Fazl Hadi must have shared this letter with the Akhund. The Akhund categorically forbade him to respond, probably so as not to disrupt the delicate power balance emerging between Swat and the British Empire. Irate, Sultan Muhammad Khan reportedly “made unfavorable representations to the amir” (Dost Muhammad Khan), who immediately discontinued Fazl Hadi’s land grant. Fazl Hadi, then, was evidently accountable to the Akhund above all, even at the expense of his financial well-being.

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There may have been some enduring tension as a result of this episode, as Fazl Hadi made plans to resettle in Afghanistan several years later, but he died in 1860, before the plans could be realized.37 Fazl Hadi’s successor Fazl Hayy (d. 1887–1888) traveled to Kabul to convince Dost Muhammad Khan to resume the land grant.38 They finally agreed on a reduced fixed allowance of two thousand rupees, under the condition that he and his brother Fazl Ghaffar (d. 1919) move to Kabul. The pair relocated to their land at Haydarkhani in Laghman, immediately north of Char Bagh (south of Mehtarlam), in the fringes of Kabul’s orbit. An influential branch of Kabuli Mujaddidis, part of Khwaja Safiullah’s family, was also based here. Fazl Ahmad’s lineage was thus effectively reconnected with the Kabuli Mujaddidis, who had built an important khānaqāh at Char Bagh serving Laghman and Jalalabad. The two families became further integrated as Fazl Hayy’s sister married Zia’ Ma‘sum, the leading Sufi master of Char Bagh.39 This confluence of events, then, generated a Mujaddidi stronghold in a strategic entry point into Afghanistan. With mediation from the Kabuli Mujaddidis of Char Bagh, Fazl Hayy and Fazl Ghaffar were welcomed by the local khans. They set up their own institutions and facilities for feeding the poor and orphans. The brothers got back to teaching, and sometime later three of Fazl Hayy’s sons become kadkhudas, chiefs of villages in the vicinity. Though the biographies furnish no further details regarding their activities in Laghman, we can assume that they played a series of intermediary roles on behalf of the

Figure 9.2  Shrine and khānaqāh of Zia’ Ma‘sum, Charbagh, Laghman, Afghanistan (Photo by Waleed Ziad)

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 237 Thana (Khanaqah and Shrine of Fazl Ghaffar)

Haydarkhani, Laghman (Khanaqah, mid 19th Century – 1886)

AFGHANISTAN Peshawar (Shrine of Fazl Ahmad Peshawari)

Kohat

P A K I S T A N

Khost

N

Karak Bannu Idak (Khanaqah, mid 20th Century)

0 0

50 km 50 miles

Map 8  Reorientation of Yaghestan network, late 19th and early 20th centuries

weakened government at Kabul, which had only tenuous political and financial links with Laghman and Jalalabad.40 From the 1840s to the 1870s, constant foreign and domestic pressure enervated the Barakzai principalities; raising both armies and revenue became exceedingly difficult. The Barakzais exercised limited control beyond the main highways. Most of their nominally controlled territories were actually governed by tribal and religious leaders, whom Dost Muhammad Khan and his successor Sher ‘Ali Khan had failed to effectively co-opt. Their conciliatory policies, as evidenced in the previous section, provided religious leaders greater political and financial independence to build constituencies where the writ of Kabul and Qandahar was limited.41 For the Hazratkhel, this was a period of intense flux. The geographic scope of their hidden caliphate was substantially reoriented in response to these political realities. The network now ran along the Afghan tribal

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fringes of Barakzai and British territory. This was in effect a new spiritual opportunity. The two principal khānaqāhs at Thana and Laghman were joined by a significant following in Bajaur and Nangarhar, and sources also allude to disciples at Bannu, Kohat, and Waziristan, where the British had maintained a policy of noninterference. On the other hand, there are only two references after the midnineteenth century to links with Transoxiana. We are told that one of Fazl Ahad’s sons, Fazl Tawwab, in fact left Khoqand for Swat. Also Fazl Ghaffar received his esoteric education and license not from his father Fazl Hadi at Thana but rather from Fazl Ahad’s successor at Khoqand, Fazl Quddus.42 Despite the dislocations of the mid-nineteenth century, the Khoqandi lineage was apparently able to communicate with Thana. Fazl Quddus may have, in fact, traveled to Thana or met Fazl Ghaffar at Kabul or Laghman.43 But this was probably the last significant exchange across the Amu Darya. The “Iron Amir” Circumstances changed radically with the Second Anglo-Afghan War and the accession of Amir ‘Abd al-Rahman in 1880. This was undoubtedly one of the key episodes that fractured Fazl Ahmad’s hidden caliphate, severing the surviving links north and south of the Amu Darya. The war’s geopolitical backdrop was an intensifying struggle between Russia and Britain. Russia occupied Tashkent by 1865 and was eyeing Afghanistan, at the time in Britain’s orbit. Britain switched to a “forward policy,” and in November 1878 sent thirty thousand troops to formally take Afghanistan. The subsequent treaty of Gandamak in May 1879 ceded Afghan foreign policy—in addition to the Kurram Valley and the Khyber (where some of Fazl Ahmad’s followers were based)—to Britain. This occupation escalated into the Second Anglo-Afghan War. During this crisis, the British government offered Kabul to ‘Abd al-Rahman, the exiled nephew of Sher ‘Ali, who had been living in Russian-occupied Samarkand. He was declared amir at Kabul in July 1880, and his ready acquiescence to Britain’s imperial oversight engendered widespread consternation across the country. In return, however, he was promised arms and a sizable stipend for defense against foreign incursions. Sher ‘Ali’s son, Ayyub Khan, led the resistance to the new amir. As was typical, the Sufi-ulama were among the chief mobilizers. We don’t know if Fazl Ahmad’s followers were directly involved, but their associated Mujaddidi lineages definitely were. Several of these Sufis issued a fatwa at Qandahar in support of Ayyub, declaring the British puppet ‘Abd al-Rahman

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a traitor.44 Though the war was a military defeat for Britain, with the last troops withdrawing in 1881, they emerged the political victors. ‘Abd alRahman, meanwhile, carried on the conflict with Ayyub, with the British backing him in absentia. The Mujaddidis at Thana found themselves in a difficult position after the Qandahar fatwa.45 In response to it, ‘Abd al-Rahman redoubled his efforts to win ulama support against Ayyub Khan.46 Toward this end, the amir requested that the Akhund of Swat’s son, Mian Gul—who aspired to become the king of Swat—come to Kabul to publicly acknowledge his sovereignty. He further demanded that Mian Gul deploy his father’s reputation to convince the Afghan ulama that revolt constituted a violation of Islamic law. Mian Gul was accompanied by a delegation of leading, politically astute Yaghestani astānādārs, including Muhammad Sa‘id of Miankili (in Bajaur), Mullah Khalil of Mohmand, and Fazl Latif.47 Collectively, they were expected to win over the ulama of Kabul as well as the tribal and religious leadership in their respective jurisdictions. Mian Gul, Muhammad Sa‘id, and Mullah Khalil acquiesced in return for generous stipends, although it is unclear where Fazl Latif stood. Eventually, through similar arrangements, the amir managed to secure support of four hundred ulama against Ayyub Khan. Just two weeks later, however, the amir, wary of Mian Gul’s influence in Kabul, sent him back to Swat. His pension remained intact, however. Fazl Latif probably accompanied Mian Gul on the return journey. The war continued until Amir ‘Abd al-Rahman defeated Ayyub in October 1881. But rebellions continued across his nominal territory. With his sizable British stipend, Amir ‘Abd al-Rahman relied on brute force to neutralize the opposition movements. His aim was consolidating political and fiscal power at Kabul for the first time in the region’s recent history. This vision was key to Britain’s objective of establishing a robust buffer state that would not be swayed by internal pressures. The stipend initially amounted to 33 percent of internally generated revenue.48 Much of it, however, flowed back into British India for the purchase of military and industrial raw material and equipment, along with technical support. Stage by stage, as rebellions were broken, local power brokers were deprived of their autonomy and reoriented toward the central government.49 Amir ‘Abd al-Rahman even resorted to genocide in territories that traditionally lay outside Kabul’s reach, namely against the Hazara Shi‘a of the Hazarajat and the pagans of Kafiristan. Through the next decade, “Afghanistan” emerged as a coercively unified entity wedged between Russian Central Asia and British India. On the parallel economic front, the amir ensured that Afghanistan remained undeveloped, without the required

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infrastructure to make colonialism profitable. This underdevelopment was a strategic asset. Throughout this process, potentially troublesome Sufi leaders were systematically purged or subdued. Those who had approved the fatwa in favor of Ayyub Khan were summarily executed. Even in areas beyond his control, like Swat, the amir placed excessive demands upon the astānādārs, effectively disrupting their relations with their constituencies and allied tribes, and compromising their mediatory positions. The year after Ayyub’s defeat, in 1882, Fazl Latif was summoned again to Kabul. Ironically, he was accused of secretly performing services on behalf of the English government, and his allowance was summarily revoked.50 It is difficult to know exactly what transpired, but the case of his associate Muhammad Sa‘id of Miankili may suggest a framework. Muhammad Sa‘id had accepted an annual allowance from ‘Abd al-Rahman, and two years later was asked to bring the khans of Dir and Bajaur (who were either spiritually or politically indebted to him) to pay homage to the amir. This request severely damaged his standing in Yaghestan, and the tribes of Bajaur suspected—quite rightly—that Muhammad Sa‘id was aiding the amir to annex their territories. Perhaps Fazl Latif was offered a similar ultimatum that compromised his position vis-à-vis his support base at Laghman, Jalalabad, the Peshawar Valley, and Swat.51 Amid the intrigues and sedition that characterized Amir ‘Abd alRahman’s reign, Fazl Hayy and Fazl Ghaffar also returned from Laghman to Thana in 1886, to the elation of their followers in Swat. They had most likely been forced back, since their ties to Laghman were severed from then onward. Both the departure from Laghman and the accusations against Fazl Latif should be seen as part of the amir’s ongoing strategy to erode the power base of the Sufis and independent tribal actors, rendering them dependent on the central state. The family may have also fallen out of favor for sedition against the amir, whose repressive tactics had resulted in further uprisings throughout the country. These were often engineered by religious leaders bound to tribal populations. Most famously, in the 1880s Mullah Mushk-i ‘Alam and his son Mullah Karim Andar led the Ghilzai rebellion, while the Akhund of Swat’s disciple Hadda Sahib of Nangarhar supported the rebellion of the Safis of Kunar.52 Given their ties to several Afghan tribes from Khyber to Jalalabad, Fazl Latif and Fazl Ghaffar may have participated in an uprising or refused to back the amir in carrying out his purges. Gulha-i Chaman does not specify what occurred, but it includes a vitriolic section accusing Amir ‘Abd al-Rahman of being a British agent and condemning his murder of three Sufi masters connected to the Kabul Mujaddidi lineage,

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‘Abd al-Rahman Akhundzadeh, Muhammad ‘Umar Jan Mujaddidi, and his son ‘Abd al-Baqi. The family oral narratives are also clarify that their ancestors opposed the amir.53 Co-opting the Hidden Caliphate As the amir quashed rebellions, he undertook a broad-ranging project to restructure and reorient the country’s religious apparatus toward the court at Kabul. On account of their loyal base of support, financial holdings, tax exemptions, and salaries, the new country’s spiritual leadership—specifically the Sufi orders—posed an existential threat to the amir’s authority. With the support of British money and weapons, he took novel, radical steps against them. More so than any ruler before him, he flagrantly contravened customary notions of the inviolability of the sacred-scholastic domain. These were the very conventions that had formerly undergirded the intermediary role of the Mujaddidis in times of crisis. ‘Abd al-Rahman’s policy was premised on a new conception of religion and state. His project was couched in Islamic terminology, stressing the need for shari‘a in Afghanistan. Earlier rulers had frequently invoked justice and shari‘a, but their reform efforts were rarely to the detriment of the established scholarly-religious networks. Rather, earlier monarchs empowered the ulama-Sufis as independent actors who could provide a set of required services for state and society at large. In a sort of protomodern project, by contrast, Amir ‘Abd al-Rahman assembled a committee of ulama to compile handbooks and pamphlets on religion that rationalized his centralizing policies. These materials were put together under the amir’s close scrutiny; as a result he became the de facto source of sound Islamic doctrine. The handbooks defined the duties of Muslim subjects, which included knowing the commands of shari‘a, working hard for one’s livelihood, observing contracts, and paying alms. They also appealed to anticolonial sentiments and the fear of threats to Afghanistan’s sovereignty. The amir thereby co-opted the rhetoric of the participants in the AngloAfghan War, while simultaneously subjugating the former ghāzīs and receiving financial support from Britain. He argued that his subjects were bound to obey the ruler, pay taxes to strengthen the “Islamic state,” and participate in jihad in the frontier regions. Friendship with non-Muslims or their associates, and even communications with Muslims living in a non-Muslim territory, were deemed blasphemous. And the amir refused to allow foreign Sayyids or other holy personalities to settle in Afghanistan, publicly declaring such figures either avaricious frauds or European agents. He struck a further blow against the independent role of Sufi shrines and

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saints by overturning their right to grant asylum, an ancient custom that had long enabled negotiations between central and peripheral authorities. Again adopting religious rhetoric, he claimed that allowing criminals to escape prosecution by hiding in shrines was contrary to the Islamic concept of justice.54 In 1883, only three years after his coronation, Amir ‘Abd al-Rahman initiated an examination policy that, under the guise of increasing academic standards, required religious functionaries to acknowledge the amir and his ulama committee as the purveyors of their own authority. Even the most influential Sufi families were subject to the exam policy, and the amir personally carried out many of these interviews. Grants were generally subject to annual renewal, provided that the recipient adhered to required conduct. Through this process, multiple lineages were stripped of their land and independent authority. If a religious leader was approved, state appointed muh.tasibs (supervisors of bazaars and commercial transactions) and spies were assigned to keep an eye on his activities and assure that he was loyal to Kabul. These agents would report on any deviations from the state-sponsored doctrine. The amir’s new doctrine specifically forbade any forms of religious social organization, particularly Sufi orders, which were seen as a principal threat to the state. Concentrating religious authority and resources also necessitated a multipronged attack on endowments, as well as state grants, voluntary charitable contributions, and alms to religious leaders. Though invoking an idealized past in which Sufi leaders like Khwaja Baha’ al-Din Naqshband were “pious” and “hardworking,” he justified economic attacks against their followers by echoing a contemporary popular (largely Sufi) narrative of decline. The ulama of his own time were, according to the amir, lazy beggars and extortionists, feeding on an ignorant population.55 In a series of sweeping measures, ‘Abd al-Rahman eroded the centuries-old economic autonomy of both the Sufis and ulama, severely disrupting their networks. Even ulama and Sufi land ownership rights were overturned. Tithes granted to religious families could no longer be sold or transferred. These lands, moreover, were no longer exempt from taxes and could be repossessed by the state at the amir’s discretion. In an especially bold move, he also ordered the appropriation of all charitable endowments. The proceeds were reallocated to the upkeep of mosques and mosque functionaries; the amir was now the arch patron.56 These drastic new policies were not altogether unsuccessful. Political control became so consolidated that for the first time in Kabul’s history, the amir’s eldest son succeeded him after his death without contestation. However, the suppression of the religious sphere and tribal leadership created

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widespread agitation. In many ways the amir’s brutality strengthened religious figures, who came to represent legitimate authority in a time of tyranny, injustice, and colonial domination. Despite the repressive measures, shrines maintained some symbolic capital. And Sufi networks, officially out of favor, often turned into underground secret societies or limited their activities until the opportunity arose after Amir ‘Abd al-Rahman’s death.

Charms, Talismans, and Defense against the Dark Arts The Thana khānaqāh was beyond the direct reach of these policies, but they certainly dealt a crippling blow to disciples and deputies remaining in Afghanistan, and in fact all the Mujaddidis remaining in Amir ‘Abd alRahman’s territory. Many went into exile. After the break from Kabul, the Hazratkhel network underwent drastic reorientations. Near the end of the nineteenth century, Malakand was brought into the British orbit first through the establishment of a postal system and, later, the Malakand Expedition in 1895. This is often seen as one of the last phases of the Great Game. (The expedition was incidentally Winston Churchill’s first combat operation.) The resistance movement at Malakand was led by Mastan Mullah, a popular saint. Along with other ulama of the region who had issued a fatwa of jihad against the British, Fazl Ghaffar played a military leadership role, mobilizing his disciples and tribal regiments against the British.57 Following this campaign, Malakand retained its autonomy, but a political agent was appointed there to mediate between the British government and the tribal authorities. Despite the upheavals, the Hazratkhel continued their core duties of spiritual guidance. A year after the expedition, one of these, Muhammad Ma‘sum, produced an intriguing text entitled Begging Basket, part of a miscellany incorporating Arabic religious formulae alongside devotional Pashto and classic Persian poetry. It illuminates some of the day-to-day functions of these Sufis, and the very eclectic esoteric knowledge systems integrated by the lineage, tailored for the quotidian anxieties of the people of Yaghestan. The book meticulously lays out verbal charms, elaborate rituals, and prayers for specific results like spiritual revelations, long life, safety from calamities, success in worldly affairs—citing classic texts or, simply, reliable tradition. Mujaddidi litanies feature prominently, but most recipes are from Sufis of other great orders, like the Suhrawardi saint Sayyid Baqir ibn ‘Usman al-Bukhari (d. ca. 1687) or Muhammad Ghaws Gwaliari (d. 1562), who authored a seminal text on licit magic, Jawahir-i Khamsa.

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Figure 9.3  Protective amulet, for health and averting calamities, with verses of Abu Zar Buzjani, as quoted in Jami’s Nafahat al-Uns. Property of Abrar ul Haq, Aladand Dheri. (Photo by Waleed Ziad)

The first chapters provide recitations appropriate for each Islamic month. Afterward, we encounter a plethora of charms for health, naming specific illnesses and afflictions of virtually every body part. These generally consolidate traditional remedies, Greco-Arabic medicine, charms, and talismans. Other charms are for protection against sorcery and black magic. Several are battle charms: from becoming invisible to one’s enemies, to fortifying a fort, to defeating an oppressor. One cannot help but wonder whether these were actually applied the year before against British forces. Several are

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aimed at finding lost items, like one for revealing buried treasure (probably quite useful, since most local villages were situated above ancient Buddhist sites). In some sections, invocations and rituals become even more unusual, quite uncharacteristic of other Mujaddidi texts. Through simple combinations of Qur’anic formulae and talismanic magic squares numerologically representing them, we learn how to control everything from jinns, giants, and fairies to lions, snakes, and even wind. At the close of the text the compiler provides several elaborate mandala-like talismans, a reminder of the pervasiveness of the ancient occult and esoteric sciences that formed an indispensable component of Islamic knowledge systems before the modern period.58

Conclusion The Sage of North Waziristan

e

T

he stories of Fazl Ahmad Peshawari and his lineage that we have followed through this book represent only a fragment of the larger hidden caliphate, a network that helped shape the Persianate sacro-cultural sphere and left traces on almost every Muslim social movement of the subsequent two centuries. Each branch of Fazl Ahmad’s lineage reveals how the dissolution of older empires, the birth of new states, and the encroachment of colonialism allowed new opportunities for local Mujaddidi communities. In each story, we witnessed how Sufi masters and their ulama partners leveraged Sirhindi’s redefinition of Sunni-Sufi orthodoxy to absorb new communities and to reshape their sacred horizons. As selfprofessed agents of a divine order, the Mujaddidi members of the hidden caliphate surmounted and intersected the space of the court and ruling elites across multiple terrains. By shifting focus away from courts, battlefields, and great power centers toward individual khānaqāhs and the personalities that inhabited them, this book has gone beyond Great Game and civilizational decline paradigms to study this region and period from the perspective of one of its most important corporate groups. By assembling scattered sources ranging from theological, juristic, and biographical texts to teachers’ manuals, oral histories and legends, material culture, and endowment deeds and colonial recollections, we have been able to understand how individual Mujaddidi institutions blended into their own unique environments, while attempting to make sense of the morphology of their trans-Asiatic hidden caliphate at large.

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Collectively, these sources map out a vast domain of exchange and circulation of scholarly, sacred, and diplomatic goods and services. They speak of interconnectedness, as when the efforts of Fazl Ahmad and his colleagues in the Durrani heartlands helped regenerate the scholastic life of Bukhara, which in turn spurred a literary renaissance among the Volga Tatars and in the Ferghana Valley, ultimately reaching into present-day China and Russia. Through the mosaic of these tales we can appreciate how the complex Mujaddidi network’s architecture yielded competitive advantages in adapting to and shaping the realities of the age, whether social, intellectual political, economic, or metaphysical. The Mujaddidis, like trading communities of the time, were “cross-cultural brokers”: they operated an institutional web that mediated between starkly disparate places and cultures. They both traversed and defined Eurasian circulation zones, operating at the interface of the transregional and the vernacular to bridge seemingly incongruous worlds. Within its own cultural logic, their hidden caliphate provided a set of divinely ordained services: the provision of fayz; guidance on spiritual and worldly matters; and esoteric and exoteric education, ranging from philosophy, grammar, and poetics to law. Mujaddidis also provided mediatory services, negotiating between states, tribes, and rural powerbrokers; managing trade along often hazardous roads; providing amenities for travelers; offering venues for cultural and literary production; providing counseling services to the general public; or furnishing neutral spaces to resolve conflicts within and between communities. The Mujaddidi network sustained a knowledge economy, not just by transporting literature and pedagogies but through the circulation of intelligence and data concerning all sorts of opportunities and challenges across the zones of exchange. Several categories of goods and services—tangible and intangible— circulated through these networks. Foremost was human capital: scholars, saints, their families, their students, their adherents, their employees, and their agents. Mujaddidi Sufis and disciples were always on the move, by choice or by necessity; deputies were often dispatched to distant countries in good times, while others fled into exile, temporarily or permanently, as political situations changed. Tangible goods, notably literature, cash and other financial instruments (including revenue derived from land and other investments), and commercial goods, circulated alongside the network’s people. Intangible goods included barakat and fayz, and the priceless knowledge of pedagogies and curriculums, not to mention commercial and diplomatic information. And then there was the symbolic capital, including the authority and legitimacy embodied by the saints.

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In sociological terms the Mujaddidi network was essentially a circulatory regime with multiple centers. These many nodes, with their overlapping orbits, offered the flexibility to survive shocks, whether political, economic, or ideological. In the face of local reorientations or great power politics, the hidden caliphate could remold itself by shifting its center of gravity or by mutating to respond better to the circumstances at hand.1 Before the 1760s, the Mujaddidis had a nodal center at Sirhind, with many dispersed radiating nodes. In Mujaddidi sacred memory, Sirhind was part of a chain of spiritual oases from which the Naqshbandi order was rejuvenated, taking its place alongside Medina, Bastam, Hamadan, Bukhara, and other towns. Sirhind’s significance was predicated on the figure of Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi, the reviver of the second Islamic millennium, and his blessed descendants and disciples who settled there. Its scholastic reputation in turn derived from the cluster of institutions that nurtured Mujaddidi philosophies and practices. The Mujaddidi network was, however, markedly distinct from other contemporary networks like, for example, the Armenian, Shikarpuri, or Multani merchant networks. Its most vibrant expansion followed the demise of its central node in the upheavals of the mid-eighteenth century; the order was thereafter propagated by the subsequent emigration of Sirhind’s Sufis, and alternative nodes appeared, a few of which even paralleled Sirhind in symbolic and institutional eminence. After the 1760s, the Mujaddidi network was sustained in its decentralized form only by the memory of Mughal Sirhind as the exemplary Dār al-Irshād, or abode of guidance. It thus suggests how diasporic cultures can both thrive and, over time, inevitably fragment as branches’ ability to maintain contact fades. The expansion and variation were made possible as older pilgrimage sites and spiritually potent localities—whether Peshawar, Bukhara, or Mazar-i Sharif—were absorbed into the greater network. These preexisting places were enhanced by the presence of Mujaddidi saints who settled there, whose shrines later adorned their ancient sacred landscapes. Virtually all popular shrines could thus be incorporated into a Mujaddidi pilgrim’s sacred vocabulary. This latitudinarian attitude toward holy sites was not limited to any particular order; it was a universal Islamic phenomenon from the Maghreb to Hindustan, allowing for a great degree of pluralism and flexibility. For this reason, even today a Qadiri, Chishti, or Naqshbandi Sufi on pilgrimage through a region like Nangarhar in eastern Afghanistan might visit unaffiliated popular shrines; graves of martyrs from the seventh century to the Soviet-Afghan War; cave shrines (often Buddhist complexes with later Muslim affiliations); shrines of the families of the ‘Alid Imams; shrines of ‘Abd al-Qadir Jilani’s descendants;

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Mujaddidi funerary complexes; and shrines of historical or folkloric soldier-saints like Hadda Sahib, who challenged the British in the late nineteenth century, or Sarkundi Baba, who fought valiantly even after his head was severed. This eclectic practice suggests why the Mujaddidi Sufis had little trouble transplanting themselves into new locales. Virtually every place had a sacred history, and the wide historical span of the Naqshbandi order tied them into an array of spaces from Istanbul to Indonesia. A two-tiered leadership structure gave the Mujaddidi network further institutional coherence and flexibility. The upper tier were Sirhindi’s lineal descendants who were licensed as deputies on the basis of scholarly and spiritual merit, alongside their institutional leadership skills. Designated as h.azrat, s.āh.ibzāda, or mian, they were a privileged class, akin to Sayyids, reinforcing a natural connection to the town of Sirhind and the person of Sirhindi. They were, to quote a contemporary deputy at Malakand, spiritual “grid stations.” The second, much larger tier were on the other hand likened to “transformers.” These were licensed deputies who were not part of the family, originating from across the Persianate world and beyond. The Mujaddidis, like their Sufi contemporaries, prided themselves on transcending ethnicity, whether in disciples or marriage. Some members of the network originally belonged to older Sufi, scholarly, or Sayyid lineages, but many were talented nonelites whose scholarship and devotion over years bound them to the network. The network’s regional and scholastic variation gave it an organizational structure that also resembled a matrix. On one axis was regional expertise. Deputies were assigned to specific locations, where they cultivated deep roots in the local community and often built their own subnetworks. On the other axis were different forms of technical expertise: some deputies specialized as jurists or educators in revealed or rational sciences; others specialized in certain types of meditation and spiritual guidance. What was the force that held such a disparate network together, that engendered cooperation across Eurasia? The Mujaddidis had no overarching leadership or appellate body.2 Their principal binding agent was Sirhindi, to whom they were tied by initiation. All network participants—even competing lineages—saw themselves as executors of Sirhindi’s millennial revival. Their genealogy, in turn, was embodied over generations through chains of teaching licenses. These licenses assured a modicum of scholarly and mystical excellence and formed a basis for trust within the network. The teaching license attested to an intangible spiritual bond between disciple and master, and to rigorous training in Sirhindi’s model of travel and wayfaring. In this sense, the Mujadiddis were both an informal and formal network. They were linked by a common culture, etiquette, and

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epistemology, and the conception of a shared lineage, but also through these written licenses and through the performance of initiation.

Fracturing of the Links A recently printed Mujaddidi genealogical tree at Fazl Ahmad’s shrine in Peshawar illustrates how distinct branches are interconnected in the order’s consciousness even today.3 The branches cover modern-day Pakistan, Afghanistan, and India—with Fazl Ahmad’s branch occupying a prominent place in the center. Other celebrated lineages depicted on this tree are those of Shor Bazaar, Kabul, and the Khānaqāh-i Mazhariyya at Delhi, where the Indian Muslim reformer Sir Sayyid Ahmad Khan spent his youth. The lines repeatedly intersect, reinforcing the connection to Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi. At the end of each branch are green leaves representing living masters, bearing witness to the order’s appeal in ethnically and culturally diverse regions even today. What stands out in this modern representation, though, is the complete absence of Transoxiana, representing the breaking of the historical chains built over a century by Fazl Ahmad and his deputies. How did this happen?

Figure c.1  Mujaddidi genealogical tree, at the shrine of Fazl Ahmad Peshawari, Peshawar, 2015 (Photo by Waleed Ziad)

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There was no single, identifiable point at which the Mujaddidi networks were severed. Rather, internal politics, changing trade patterns, the great power conflict, and colonial policies weakened the underlying structure of singular nodes and damaged the network at large. The Mujaddidis’ distributed structure allowed for flexibility and rapid expansion but carried with it inherent weaknesses. A lack of a formal organization meant they were ill-equipped to formulate a transregional response to the major crises of the late nineteenth century. They had limited capacity for transregional mobilization in the face of large-scale incursions, colonial educational and legal reforms, or compromised endowments. And they simply lacked the resources to place adequate pressure on modern militarized and centralized bureaucratic regimes. It is also true that as the networks covered more territory, they became more dispersed and localized, and the weaker the links became—a common vulnerability of matrix organizational structures. Each sublineage sought its own political alliances, which meant they were sometimes drawn into local rivalries. There were no firm regulatory structures, so more unqualified and unscrupulous scholars could set up their own institutions. There were no robust mechanisms for preventing Sufi lineages from becoming family fiefdoms over generations. Such reallocations of resources and redeployment of authority toward financial gain made Sufi orders more vulnerable to criticism by detractors over time. The combination of “binding agents” and historically grounded popular authority that had once been potent enough to enable even trans-Asiatic diplomacy and trade was also highly vulnerable to the absorption of much of the region by Britain, Russia, and China. Through the nineteenth century, all Mujaddidi lineages were impacted by this new situation, regardless of whether they resisted colonialism or acquiesced to the new status quo. The success of Sufi orders like the Mujaddidis was partly premised on a common appreciation of their exalted positions, credentials, and authority. As long as rulers and subjects acknowledged the hidden caliphate, the Mujaddidis could carry on their mediatory functions, and it was in the interest of urban, rural, and pastoral nomadic elites alike to patronize them and ensure their integrity, which enabled cooperation and communication in times of political crisis. However, when the new colonial ruling elites and their clients did not acknowledge the basis of their authority and dismissed the Sufi masters as vestiges of a bygone primitive order, their functions, institutions, and finances were all compromised. The erosion of the network in the face of colonialism and modernity became inevitable. The first half of the nineteenth century had witnessed significant reorientations of the sweeping networks built in the previous century. Peripheral communities were severed from their parent institutions. But this period

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also afforded the Mujaddidis the opportunity to expand their reach well beyond urban centers and develop new forms of institutional organization, carving out creative roles to help manage social and political dislocations. And, as we saw, the encroachment of colonial powers at this stage was not altogether disruptive. Some patronage structures gradually eroded, and the Sikhs, acting as British clients, dislodged many Mujaddidi networks as they entered the Peshawar Valley and the Derajat. But by and large, the expansion of Russian and British influence continued to open up new trading opportunities for merchants across this region, and exchange across the Amu Darya and the Indus persisted. Bukhara became the principal destination for Tatar scholars; Khoqand now mediated trade and pilgrimage circuits from Orenberg to Kashgar. Despite an overbearing Chinese military presence, even Altishahr became a land of new opportunities for foreign mystics. And the popular authority of Sufi masters remained intact almost everywhere. It was only in the latter part of the century, as Russia, China, and Britain solidified their spheres of influence, that the networks suffered and mobility was stifled. Direct colonial rule often led to the persecution of Sufis who were deemed threatening and resulted in the confiscation of endowments, as after the British conquest of Peshawar in 1849 and the Russian occupation of Tashkent in 1865. Older sources of patronage dried up. The Great Rebellion of 1857 had a devastating impact; the head of the Delhi’s famed Khānaqāh-i Mazhariyya, along with other Sufis who had joined the resistance, were killed or sought refuge elsewhere. Where Mujaddidi institutions remained operational, they were gradually sidelined as both funds and the demand for Sufi mediation diminished. New landholding policies also impacted their autonomy and made endowments vulnerable, and administrative reorganizations sometimes made Sufi lineages dependent on the colonial government. More so than the direct occupations, however, the transformation of Afghanistan into an isolated buffer state over the course of the century damaged Sufi communication networks. Amir ‘Abd al-Rahman’s appropriation of endowments, and persecution and co-option of religious leaders, represented the most brazen state-level challenge to the sacerdotal sphere. In tandem, larger economic reorientations weakened north-south linkages and further enervated towns like Bukhara and Peshawar. British India became more directly tied to the English markets, while Russian Turkestan became a raw material supplier to Russia. This was the result of decades-long efforts on the part of the two great colonial powers to broaden their spheres of commercial influence through various means. For instance, the introduction of American cotton into Tashkent spelled the

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end of Transoxiana’s reliance on Hindustan’s raw materials and finished goods. South of the Amu Darya, ‘Abd al-Rahman’s trade monopolies and appointment of commercial agents bypassed the traditional banking and trading communities that lubricated the north-south networks. Increasingly aggressive customs regimes and border policing transformed the Amu Darya and the Khyber Pass into frontiers rather than conduits. It is impractical to look for any collective Mujaddidi response to nonMuslim colonialism. They were neither anti- nor pro-colonial in any contemporary sense. Occasionally, Mujaddidis mobilized armies against European or Sikh invaders, or, like Fazl Hadi, left for Yaghestan, outside the purview of the British Empire. But more often they tacitly accepted and adapted to a non-Muslim presence. Fazl-i Haqq at Peshawar and Shah Niyaz at Leh readily agreed to assist English agents in their missions. Others, like Shah Niyaz’s son Khwaja Ahmad, even became active collaborators and informants. The Mujaddidis’ passive toleration of non-Muslim rule, although that rule eventually led to their decline, was not, in fact, that unusual or inexplicable. Rather, it reflected precolonial Persianate conceptions of political and religious sovereignty. The Mujaddidis, and their Sufi colleagues, saw themselves as set apart from the protean prevailing political order, interacting with it to be sure, but beyond it in the most important matters. Collectively, they were the hidden caliphate, hovering above the inherently unstable manifest caliphate. Even in those rare instances where Mujaddidi masters wielded direct political power, their core function—as they and their followers saw it—was to guide humanity to realize their potential to become vicegerents of God. Even defective rulers could be mobilized toward this cosmic objective; in this worldview, the political order was just a reality to be managed. In this way, the Sufis were not unlike their contemporary bureaucratic class. Bureaucrats too graciously welcomed each new generation of patrons while maintaining their identity as the upholders of an ancient secretarial culture. This attitude was evidenced in the Mujaddidi order’s own literary production. As arch-mediators, they were impacted by, and often embroiled in, the transformative processes of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. The structure of their networks, and their functions, no doubt changed in this process, as we have seen. However, their literary output of epistles and theological tracts barely acknowledged these changes. The Sikh invasion of Hindustan was no more than a nuisance that received passing reference in biographies; the British occupation of places like the Derajat engendered no polemical tracts. This “conscious aloofness” from the temporal or political domains was critical to the success of their endeavors. To

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a certain degree, it sheltered them from being bound to any one political entity. When required, they would reorient their networks, or act as intermediaries between colonial authorities and subject populations. Only in dire circumstances, when their host communities were directly attacked, or where their sources of authority were existentially threatened, did the Mujaddidis mobilize forces in jihad against the British, Russians, or Chinese.4

The Last Lineage The Mujaddidi Sufis’ serene confidence that they were fundamentally beyond the vagaries of changing political and cultural winds, however, did not give them the tools they needed to formulate effective responses to the critiques they faced in the colonial period. Many of the most drastic changes to Mujaddidi institutions—and Sufi institutions at large— happened not during the period covered in this book but over the course of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. Colonial, modernist, and fundamentalist critiques and the emergence of secular nationalism greatly devalued Sufism, particularly among the region’s elites. For the first time, such ideologies systematically cast doubts on the validity of Sufi epistemologies and authority structures. Most Mujaddidi Sufis were unable to make the esoteric sciences intelligible to modern, colonized audiences. This book briefly touched upon a much larger story of the Sovietization of Central Asia and the impact of the Basmachi revolts on the religious landscape of Bukhara and Khoqand. By 1922, the Soviets had already started regulating endowments and Islamic courts, and expressed an open contempt for the ulama and their institutions. Over the next decade, charitable endowments were nationalized and madrasas and mosques closed down, while religious leaders were exiled, persecuted, or deported; many fled across the Amu Darya and into Xinjiang. A 1929 Law on Religious Associations stipulated that religious communities could neither engage in charitable nor educational activities. Yet some Sufi lineages were able to preserve the teachings of their ancestors, but only in limited spheres, taking on very few students, and often operating underground. After 1943, the state relaxed earlier restrictions. The Soviet government set up four Spiritual Administrations of Muslims tasked to organize Muslim practice and occasionally issue fatwas in support of Soviet policies. Incidentally, the largest of these at Tashkent was headed by members of a prominent Naqshbandi lineage. The historic Mir ‘Arab Madrasa in Bukhara was even reopened for the express purpose of training religious functionaries. In tandem, modern fundamentalist ideas crept into religious circles. One

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group of scholars ironically calling themselves the Mujaddidis (here meaning revivers generally rather than referring to the Sufi order) spoke out against Sufi practices, like shrine visitation, saintly intercession, and celebrations of the Prophet’s birth. Similarly in China, there were two developments in the first part of the twentieth century that severely weakened the remaining Sufi institutions. In 1934, following a sequence of rebellions across Xinjiang, the Association for Promoting Uyghur Culture was established, which assumed control over land endowments connected to shrines. Then in the 1950s, Chinese land reforms led to widespread confiscation of land, crippling the khānaqāhs. The shrine of Afaq Khoja at Kashgar, which dominated the sacred landscape, was stripped not only of its landholdings but its poles and banners, and converted into a museum. The independence of religious leaders was further compromised as the state kept ulama under close surveillance and occasionally employed them to carry out social reform programs. However, as Communists restricted activities of madrasas and the ulama, unofficial religious activities of popular Sufi circles actually expanded. South of the Amu Darya in Afghanistan, key Mujaddidi lineages boldly reasserted their independence after Amir ‘Abd al-Rahman’s death. The Mujaddidis remained the most widespread Sufi order in Afghanistan, enmeshed in Afghan politics over the next century. Khwaja Safiullah’s descendants—the Hazarat of Shor Bazaar, Char Bagh, and Kohistan—played leading roles in anti-British and Pan-Islamic agitation under Amir Habibullah (1901–1919), culminating in the Third Anglo-Afghan War in 1919. Under King Amanullah (1919–1929), the Mujaddidi master Fazl ‘Umar of Shor Bazaar gained both fame and notoriety in opposing the king’s westernizing and pro-imperialist stances. When, in 1928, Amanullah was replaced by a charismatic rebel leader known as Bacha Saqao (the son of a water carrier), another Mujaddidi Hazrat Sahib Kohistani performed the rebel’s coronation ceremony. Afterward, they were less involved at the court level, but khānaqāhs stayed active and Sufi popular authority remained intact—so much so that the Mujaddidis became key mobilizers in the anti-Soviet jihad of the 1980s. Many of them were martyred after the Soviet-backed Saur revolution in 1978, although after over a decade of war, a member of their family, Sibghatullah Mujaddidi, became the first post-Soviet invasion head of state in Afghanistan. In British India too Sufis maintained their presence after the trauma of 1857, but their relative influence diminished over the years. At the subaltern level, the loss was profound. The societal coherence and social services provided by Sufi networks was critical for the welfare of the population

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at large. A few of the exiled Mujaddidis of Delhi returned in the 1880s and revived the Khānaqāh-i Mazhariyya. The Sirhind shrine complex was also expanded after the 1920s mainly as a pilgrimage site. New institutions arose in princely states like Hyderabad and Rampur, and across Punjab. Some Mujaddidi Sufis took strong stances against ideological opponents— whether Christian missionaries, Hindu revivalists, or Wahhabi-linked movements. Many lineages set up social welfare and voluntary associations, like Jama‘at ‘Ali Shah’s (d. 1951) Association of Sufi Servants. Others became involved in the Indian independence movement. The mass appeal of Sufism did not lessen postindependence, but reforms in India, Pakistan, and Bangladesh targeted Sufi landholdings. Even the historic Chamkanni khānaqāh lost its vast lands during Pakistan’s 1959 land reforms. Overall, however, in South Asia, the antitradition, western-inflected elite classes relegated the shrines and khānaqāhs to the status of popular religion. Though the serious pursuit of esoteric knowledge at khānaqāhs became a rarity, many shrines remained popular sites of pilgrimage and entertainment. The Hazratkhel Sahibzadas at Thana are the last functional Sufi lineage from among Fazl Ahmad’s many descendants. Having lost their connection to Laghman and Kabul, they renewed their attention to offering spiritual guidance and social services to Afghan tribes, particularly at Bannu and North Waziristan south of Peshawar. This last episode of the story is remarkable in its own way. These regions have become synonymous with lawlessness, Talibanization, and terrorism—unlikely places for meditation or spiritual introspection. But Bannu and Waziristan, like Malakand, remained beyond the direct jurisdiction of both British India (and later Pakistan) and Kabul. Fazl Ahmad’s descendant ‘Abdullah Jan Faruqi deserves much of the credit for setting up lasting Sufi institutions in these places. His father Fazl Ghaffar passed away when he was young, so he did not have the opportunity to attend school for more than a year. But the oral histories tell that he was steadfast in his spiritual practices, performing regular murāqaba at his ancestral shrines in Thana. Then, one day, his father’s deputy Shuja‘ al-Nur arrived from Waziristan and recognized the young man’s potential. After intensive training in Waziristan, ‘Abdullah Jan returned to Thana to manage the khānaqāh. In 1967, his deputies called him back to Waziristan, to a place called Idak, about thirty-five kilometers from the Afghan border. It was sparsely populated, mostly by the Dawar tribe, who made a living on subsistence agriculture and were still better off than the Waziri pastoralists who lived all around them. Fights over scarce resources were all too common. Waziristan had a rich Sufi past, birthing two great movements, the Rawshaniyya plus one of Kabul’s great Qadiri orders in the eighteenth century.

Conclusion 

 257

Figure c.2  The young ‘Abdullah Jan Faruqi (taken at the palace of the Wali of Swat) (Courtesy of Javad ullah Jan Faruqi)

But beginning in the late nineteenth century, many of the better-known Sufi masters were forced into battle as the British made unceasing and brutal efforts to occupy this region. Among these soldier-Sufis was Mawlawi Gulab Din, a disciple of the Akhund of Swat, who, from his khānaqāh at Hayderkhel (just five kilometers from Idak), won several battles and even pulled together a cottage armaments factory to fend off the British. His deputy Mullah Payvand (d. 1913), once called the “crown-less king of Waziristan,” settled at Idak among the Dawars, and in 1894, with two thousand followers, won one of the most decisive victories against British forces at Wana.5 By the time ‘Abdullah Jan arrived, Waziristan was part of Pakistan’s Federally Administered Tribal Areas, where, like nineteenth-century Yaghestan, the state had no jurisdiction. A hundred-year-old British treaty had kept the tribes independent as a buffer against Afghanistan, depriving the

258 

 

Hidden Caliphate

area of economic and social development. The tribes at Idak offered ‘Abdullah Jan twenty-five acres of land. But three were enough for his needs, he told them. It proved a difficult place to work. But ‘Abdullah Jan’s disciples built a mosque and khānaqāh for him at Idak, while also raising funds for a congregational mosque in Thana, opened in 1969.6 The Idak mosque was named the “Mosque of the Lata’if,” and around the ornamented prayer niche were inscribed the names of the five subtle centers: “heart,” “spirit,” “secret,” “hidden,” and “most hidden,” each surrounded by a rosette of the corresponding color. In the meantime, ‘Abdullah Jan studied Persian, Urdu, and Arabic, in addition to his native Pashto, well enough to compose in all four languages.7 In 1978, he translated Fazl Ahmad’s Risala into Urdu, which he published (alongside the edited Persian original) in Thana, in pamphlet form, with a list price of eight rupees. This was part of an ongoing effort by the lineage to propagate its teachings in an environment where skepticism of Sufi practices was steadily growing. The Risala was deemed appropriate for a lay-reading public requiring basic guidance and methodology, without being burdened by the intricacies of theology.8 ‘Abdullah Jan’s grandson relates that “with some hard work, in the fortymile area all around, most people became devoted to him.” He also attracted thousands of disciples from Bannu, Karak, Kohat, and Khost in Afghanistan. Within these tribal regions, he appointed about eighty deputies.9 At Idak, “from morning to the late afternoon, people would come— the elderly would come, along with the sick, the children. It was like a mela [fair],” his grandson remembers. His personal letters make it clear that training disciples was his primary concern. Like his ancestor Fazl Ahmad, he meticulously managed their meditation and spiritual affairs even when they were far away. For example, in a response to a female disciple (who had complained that her spiritual practices were becoming too timeconsuming) he provided suggestions on which techniques to prioritize, in her case meditation of the subtle centers, murāqaba, and some other recitations. This was supplemented by an exposition on the internal effects of different practices.10 He also reprimanded students who were inattentive to their practices, helped them through progressive spiritual stations, and encouraged those who had fallen sick. And he performed miracles, supporting those who needed help, finding jobs, and offering prayers. The custodians of Fazl Ahmad’s shrine recall when a blind man asked him for an amulet or prayer and was set up with a job as a secondary school teacher.11 Then, in the 1990s, the story took a dramatic turn. Waziristan was no longer a free tribal region where the lineage could safely practice. It became the epicenter of one of the bloodiest wars of the modern age. Like his ancestors, ‘Abdullah Jan had to mediate, but the circumstances had

Conclusion 

 259

now changed. The Afghan war brought in artillery the likes of which had never been seen locally before, so minor tribal feuds become severe. Cannons and mortars replaced swords and rifles. His family members recall a bloody war—probably over land—between the Dawars and the Waziris in 1990–1991, when the Afghan Civil War was in full force following the Soviet withdrawal. ‘Abdullah Jan was in Swat, but the chiefs of Waziristan called him in. Dramatically, “he came, dressed in white, into the battlefield. Both sides stopped fighting. He brought the two sides together, and negotiated peace.” As a symbolic gesture, twenty Dawari dead were buried outside his home.12 Managing tribal affairs became part and parcel of the family’s lives. Like his grandfather, ‘Abdullah Jan’s grandson reports, “I also sit in the jirgas in Waziristan. The work is not easy; it entails a lot of responsibility. You have to know all about the tribe. There are land problems, domestic problems, murder cases. We make peace between the parties, then we offer a prayer, then our elders come to a decision.”13 But the situation did not improve: “The Saudis came in and began distributing money. Regular people started turning to Wahhabism. As our Prophet, peace be upon him, had said, our community will fight over money. . . . New religious groups arrived and made our work difficult, calling out Sufi practices as innovations or idolatry.”14 In response to these disturbing developments, ‘Abdullah Jan wrote a stern letter concerning a certain imam who led prayers at their mosque in Thana who harbored Wahhabi leanings: My reason for not wanting to pray behind Imam Muhammad Tahir is due [to my] faith. It is out of respect for the Prophet, upon him be peace. It is because of respect for the Lord. I have no personal enmity towards him. Because he is ghayr muqallid,15 of the Wahhabi faith. And he is a Panjpiri [a militant Salafi group which emerged in Swabi, east of Swat]. These three terms, ghayr muqallid, Wahhabi and Panjpiri are synonymous.  .  .  . They are khārij [outside] from the schools of jurisprudence. They are among those that have left the People of the Sunna and the Community. This faction has insulted the grandeur of the great prophets and noble saints. They have assumed an oppositional and separatist attitude. This faction follows Ibn Taymiyya and ‘Abd al-Wahhab Najdi. These people want to bring upon us a new faith. Those who are not aligned with their tenets, they see as infidels. Those verses that have been written [intended] for infidels, they have applied to Muslims. This faction are the enemies of the prophets and the pious ones. They deny their dignity and their miracles. They call the holy tomb of the Prophet the greatest idol (we seek refuge with God). From God, we seek the capacity of adab, the one who lacks adab stays bereft of the favor of God. To explain all of these insolent acts, I will require a whole other book. The great Sunni

260 

 

Hidden Caliphate

scholars and learned ones have written extensive books in refuting this faction. Our respected ancestor Hazrat Mujaddid-i Alf Sani [Sirhindi] had, in his time, challenged this faction. Because they had taken over Akbar’s court (like Abu’l Fazl and Faizi). Those who had created a new faith for Akbar in the name of Dīn-i Ilahī. It is for this reason that the state, with its strength, imprisoned him at the Gwalior Fort. The Dark Sufi Master [Bayazid Ansari, founder of the Rawshaniyya], of this same faction, was challenged by Pir Baba Buner (God’s mercy be upon him). Whose disciple Akhund Darviza pursued them up to Peshawar and killed this Dark Master and eliminated [the movement]. With Sayyed Kotwal [Sayyid Amir of Kotah] of this same faction, [Akhund] Swat Sahib challenged him. And having defeated him, he eliminated this movement.16

In this condemnatory letter, ‘Abdullah Jan wove an unconventional historical narrative that connected the Kharijites, Akbar’s Dīn-i Ilahī, the Rawshaniyya rebellion, the Mujahidin movement and Sayyid Amir of Kotah, and contemporary militant Wahhabism—soon to refashion itself as the Taliban—as a single perennial movement that bred strife and undermined prophethood and sainthood. And he affirmed the mission of the Mujaddidis and their contemporaries as guardians of a Sunni orthodoxy that privileged Sufism and condemned takfīr, echoing Hafiz Daraz 150 years earlier. Later in the letter, he declared that he did not approve of the conflict and strife engendered by the Wahhabis, whether in his village, at Thana, in the Federally Administered Tribal Agencies, in Pakistan, or in the Muslim world as a whole. Through the 2000s, the ideological war escalated. The Taliban destroyed and damaged shrines across Waziristan.17 But the work at the khānaqāhs went on. ‘Abdullah Jan and his disciples continued managing their two publishing houses, in Idak and in Malakand, publishing

Figure c.3  Sufis at the Mosque of the Lat. ā’if, Idak, North Waziristan (Courtesy of Javad ullah Jan Faruqi)

Conclusion 

 261

‘Abdullah Jan’s Sufi writings and original Persian and translated works of his forefathers, as well as earlier Naqshbandi saints. As a protection from ideological detractors, ‘Abdullah Jan also produced easily digestible materials for lay audiences, like a poster entitled “Proofs of Sufism according to the Qur’an” listing eighteen Sufism-related terms, next to supporting scriptural references and corresponding spiritual benefits. Among them were the Sufi path, intercession, meditative formulas on repentance, praises on the Prophet, and the name of the divine essence, negation and affirmation, murāqaba, and rābit.a.18 Under ‘Abdullah Jan’s rectorship, Thana too continued to grow as an important pilgrimage site for the people of Bannu, Karak, Waziristan, and the Afghanistan border regions. It is no wonder that his dīvān, Afkar-i Sharifi, features verses in Urdu, Pashto, and Persian, and along with Sufi themes, includes patriotic ghazals extolling the states of Swat, Afghanistan, and Pakistan, effectively taking on three regional identities.19 Although ‘Abdullah Jan’s family are Fazl Ahmad’s last lineal deputies, other Mujaddidi orders continued to grow through the twentieth century until today. But more important than the continuity of these lineages themselves is that Sirhindi’s legacy continues to shape the Muslim world. The authority structure of the Mujaddidi order and their institutions, and their pedagogies and critiques, worked its way into the leading Muslim social movements from Turkey to Indonesia. Even among China’s Uyghurs, the practical Sufi text Manba‘ al-Asrar, composed by Ayyub Qari from Fazl Ahmad’s initiatic lineage and drawing on the teachings of Fazl Ahmad’s Risala, is still distributed. The most recent production was copied by hand, in a schoolchild’s ruled notebook, and is still circulating among Ayyub Qari’s network across Xinjiang.20 Even in these times and places where the continuation of Sufi belief and practice is under threat, the legacy of the hidden caliphate remains potent, outlasting the transient political order of each age.

Appendix A Appendix B Notes Acknowledgments Index

Appendix A Key Reigns and Events by Region, 1700–1900

This is a general historical guideline and does not reflect territorial shifts between polities or subregional political transitions.

266  Hindustan 1700

1658–1707: Aurangzeb ‘Alamgir

1710

1719–1748: Muhammad Shah

 

Appendix A

Khurasan

Altishahr 1679–1759: Naqshbandi Ishanate of Kashgaria

1720 1730

1739: Nadir Shah attacks Delhi

1738: Nadir Shah razes Qandahar; occupies Kabul

1740

1748–1754: Ahmad Shah Bahadur

1747–1772: Ahmad Shah Durrani

1750

1754–1759: ‘Alamgir II

1757: Qing occupation

1759–1806: Shah ‘Alam II 1760

1761: Third Battle of Panipat

1770

1762–1778: Odui as governor of Yarkand 1772–1793: Timur Shah Durrani

1780

1790

1799: Ranjit Singh takes Lahore

1793–1801: Zaman Shah Durrani

1800

1806–1837: Akbar II

1801–1803: Mahmud Shah Durrani 1803–1809: Shah Shuja‘ al-Mulk Durrani 1809–1818: Mahmud Shah Durrani

1810

1818–1823: Ayyub Shah Durrani

Appendix A 

 267

Bukhara

Khoqand

Iran

1702: ‘Ubaydullah Khan (Ashtarkhanid)

1709: Naqshbandi Khojas defeated

1694–1722: Sultan Husayn (Safavid)

1709–1721: Shahrukh Bi (Ming) 1711: Abu’l Fayz Khan (Ashtarkhanid)

1737: Nadir Shah occupies Balkh

1721–1733: ‘Abd al-Rahim Bi (Ming)

1722: Ghilzais capture Isfahan

1733–1746: ‘Abd al-Karim Bi (Ming)

1736–1747: Nadir Shah Afshar

1751–1770: Irdana Bi (Ming)

1751–1779: Karim Khan Zand

1740: Abu’l Fayz capitulates to Nadir Shah 1747–1758: Muhammad Rahim Bi, Ataliq & Khan (Manghit) 1758–1785: Daniyal Ataliq (Manghit)

1774–1798: Narbuta Bi (Ming) 1785–1800: Shah Murad (Manghit)

1789–1797: Agha Muhammad Shah Qajar 1797–1834: Fath ‘Ali Shah Qajar 1798–1810: ‘Alim Khan (Ming)

1800–1826: Amir Hayder (Manghit)

1810–1822: ‘Umar Khan (Ming) (continued)

268  Hindustan 1820

 

Appendix A

Khurasan

Altishahr

1822–1824: ‘Azim Khan (Barakzai) at Kabul

1826: Jahangir Khoja instigates rebellion

1823: Sikhs defeat Afghans at Nowshera 1826–1839: Dost Muhammad Khan as amir (Barakzai) 1823–1829: Yar Muhammad (Barakzai) as governor of Peshawar 1829: Sayyid Ahmad of Rae Bareli at Peshawar 1830

1837–1857: Bahadur Shah II

1834–1849: Sikhs annex Peshawar 1839–1842: First AngloAfghan War; Shah Shuja‘ al-Mulk Durrani

1840

1842–1845: Akbar Khan (Barakzai)

1845: Yusuf Khoja rebellion

1845–1863: Dost Muhammad Khan (Barakzai)

1846–1847: Vali Khan Khoja rebellion

1849: British conquest of Peshawar 1850 1860

1857: Sepoy Mutiny

1853: Sayyid Akbar Shah as king of Swat 1863–1866: Sher ‘Ali Khan (Barakzai)

1864–1865: Tungan Revolts

1866–1867: Muhammad Afzal Khan (Barakzai)

1865–1877: Ya‘qub Beg Ataliq Ghazi

1867–1868: Muhammad ‘Azam Khan (Barakzai) 1868–1879: Sher ‘Ali Khan

Appendix A 

 269

Bukhara

Khoqand

1827–1860: Amir Nasrullah (Manghit)

1822–1842: Madali Khan (Ming)

Iran

1834–1848: Muhammad Shah Qajar

1845–1858: Khudayar Khan (1st and 2nd reign) (Ming)

1848–1896: Nasir al-Din Shah Qajar

1858–1862: Malla Khan (Ming) 1860–1886: Amir Muzaffar (Manghit)

1862–1865: Khudayar Khan (3rd reign) 1863–1865: ‘Alim Qul as regent 1865: Russian occupation of Tashkent 1867: Formation of Turkestanskaya Oblast 1866–1875: Khudayar Khan (4th reign) (continued)

270  Hindustan 1870

 

Appendix A

Khurasan

Altishahr

1879–1880: Second Anglo-Afghan War

1877: Qing annexation

1879: Ya‘qub Khan 1880

1880–1901: Amir ‘Abd al-Rahman

1890 1900

1901–1919: Habibullah Khan

Appendix A 

 271

Bukhara

Khoqand

1873: Bukhara as Russian protectorate

1876: Russian annexation; khanate abolished

1886–1910: Amir ‘Abd al-Ahad (Manghit)

Iran

Appendix B Patterns of Reproduction of Practical Sufi Handbooks

274 

 

Appendix B

Makhzan al-Anwar, Khwaja Safiullah Date

Details on Production

1299 hijri

Kabul Scribe: NA Ownership: NA

Mid to late nineteenth c.

Sindh Scribe: NA Ownership: NA

1845

Sindh Scribe: Abd al-Rahman b. Ni‘matullah Halai Ownership: NA

Ca. 1900

Sindh Scribe: NA Ownership: NA

1928

Kabul? Scribe: NA Ownership: NA

Appendix B 

 275

Location of Manuscript

Contents of Miscellany

Archif-i Milli, Kabul 13/17

Single Scribe Ma‘dan al-Asrar, Khwaja Safiullah Makhzan al-Anwar, Khwaja Safiullah Anonymous Naqshbandi tract on lat. ā’if (Arabic) Medical prescriptions for enhancing sexual performance Anonymous poetry on the five lat. ā’if of the world of divine command Ta‘vīzāt and numerological diagrams

Central Library, Jamshoro

Single Scribe Makhzan al-Anwar, Khwaja Safiullah Theoretical tract on NaqshbandiMujaddidi cosmology and lat. ā’if, Anonymous (17 pp)

Central Library, Jamshoro, 34307

Single Scribe Makhzan al-Anwar (titled Anwar-i Safi), Khwaja Safiullah Mabda’ o Ma‘ad, Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi Numerological tables and verses on the death of the writer’s pīr, Sibghatullah Rashdi (Pir Pagaro I, d. 1845) (26 pp) Ghazaliyat, ‘Abd al-Baqi Mujaddidi

Institute of Sindhology, Jamshoro, 844

Makhzan al-Anwar, Khwaja Safiullah

South Waziristan1

Makhzan al-Anwar, Khwaja Safiullah

1. Employed as a reference for printing text in Waziristan by Muhammad Jalal al-Din Mujaddidi.

(continued)

276 

 

Appendix B

Date

Details on Production

Early nineteenth c.

Location of Production: NA Scribe: NA Ownership: NA

1291 hijri

Location of Production: NA Scribe: Mirza Nur al-Ghaznayn Ownership: NA

Unknown

Unknown

Nineteenth c.

Bukhara? Scribe: NA Ownership: property of Mullah Sayyid Akram Ishan Makhdum

2006

Printed in Wana, South Waziristan, by Qari ‘Abd al-Qayyum Logari

Appendix B 

 277

Location of Manuscript

Contents of Miscellany

Al-Beruni, Tashkent, 6901

Single Scribe Ghazal, Khwaja Safiullah (5 pp) Ma‘dan al-Asrar, Khwaja Safiullah Tract on tajdīd and cosmology, Anonymous (32 pp) Makhzan al-Anwar, Khwaja Safiullah Ghazal, Khwaja Safiullah (1 pp) Dar Bayan-i Manzil ke Sahib-i rah ast, Anonymous Rubā‘īyāt

Dr. Iqbal Mujaddidi Collection, Lahore, R.No.26 (original in Daudi Collection, Lahore)

Single Scribe

Dr. Iqbal Mujaddidi Collection, Lahore, R.No.189

Makhzan-i Asrar, Khwaja Safiullah

Makhzan al-Anwar, Khwaja Safiullah Ma‘dan al-Asrar, Khwaja Safiullah

Ma‘dan al-Jawahar, Khwaja Safiullah Makhzan al-Anwar, Khwaja Safiullah Kulliyat, Kh. Ghulam Muhiyy al-Din Qasuri Dhikr al-Salihin (biography of Khwaja Ghulam Nabi Lillahi) Halat-i Mawlana Basharatullah Bahraichi Risala-i-Tasawwuf Divan-i Sarwari, Shaykh Sarwar, disciple of ‘Umar Chamkanni

Al-Beruni, Tashkent, 3410

Single Scribe Makhzan al-Anwar, Khwaja Safiullah Risala-i Ya‘qub Charkhi

Print Edition

Introduction, Muhammad Ibrahim Mujaddidi b. Muhammad ‘Umar Makhzan al-Anwar, Khwaja Safiullah

278 

 

Appendix B

Risala dar Bayan-i Tasavvuf, Fazl Ahmad Ma‘sumi Peshawari Date

Details on Production

Ca.1225 hijri

Peshawar Scribe: Muhammad Chiragh Ownership: Seal of Fazl Ahmad Peshawari, 1225 hijri

Early nineteenth c.

Bukhara Scribe: NA Ownership: Seal of Ghulam Qadir Ma‘sumi, 1235 hijri (on Risala only)

1224 hijri

Erzerum, Anatolia Scribe: Muhammad Sadiq b. Mustafa Erzerumi, 1262 hijri

1337 hijri

Koh-i Daman, Kabul Scribe: Ghulam Habibi Nawabi, Kulali Sadat

Appendix B 

 279

Location of Manuscript

Contents of Miscellany

Peshawar University, 339

Single scribe Risala, Fazl Ahmad Marginalia on Naqshbandi order Prayers of Uways Qarani Bab dar Bayan ankay ‘alam-i Chahar Fasl

Al-Beruni, Tashkent, 2572

Multiple Scribes 769-page miscellany, covering various theological and juristic topics, including Fazl Ahmad’s Risala (XXVI), Hizb al-Bahr, Risala dar Waqf, Risala dar Istasna, Fatawa-i Aminiyya, Kalamat-i ‘Ali b. Abu Talib

Bodleian, Oxford, Pers. e. 48

Single Scribe (Erzerumi) Naqshbandi genealogy up to Fazl Ahmad Introduction, Erzerumi Risala, Fazl Ahmad Biography of Fazl Ahmad, Damullah ‘Iwaz Baqi (1809) Autobiographical notes of Erzerumi Prayers (Arabic and Turkish) Tract on Naqshbandi wayfaring by the scribe (Arabic)

Khānaqāh-i ‘Ala’ al-Din, Kabul

Risala, Fazl Ahmad (entitled Suluk Hidaya fi Fazl Ahmad)

(continued)

280 

 

Appendix B

Date

Details on Production

Early nineteenth c.

Bukhara? Scribe: NA Ownership: Stamp of Habibullah Khwaja Sudur, 1272 hijri

Early nineteenth c.

Khoqand Scribe: NA Ownership: NA

1283 hijri

Bukhara (or Khoqand) Scribe: Damullah Taghyaiquli ibn Rahman Quli

Appendix B 

 281

Location of Manuscript

Contents of Miscellany

Al-Beruni, Tashkent, 2900

Single Scribe 600-page miscellany, covering various historical, theological and juristic topics. Within this compilation is an imbedded tract by a single scribe, containing: Haft shart, Anonymous (0.5 p) Risala, Fazl Ahmad (Suluk-i Sahibzadagan) (XXXVII) Malfuzat, Shah Ghulam ‘Ali Dehlavi (3 p)

Al-Beruni, Tashkent, 12288

Single Scribe Risala, Fazl Ahmad Isharat-i Latifa Ra’iqa o Asrar-i Daqiqat-i Fa’iqa, Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi Kitab Maslak al-Mutaqin, and two additional tracts on Sufism, Sufi Allah Yar ibn Allah Quli Mantakhabat-i Rasa’il-i Imam Rabbani, Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi Vasiyatnama, ‘Abd al-Khaliq Ghujdavani

Al-Beruni, Tashkent, 9310

Single Scribe Sharaf al-Sa‘adat (rizvan allah ta‘ala), Shahab alDin Dawlatabadi Nazihatnama, Bayazid Ansari Risala, Fazl Ahmad (written at behest of Hajji Ni‘matullah Bukhari, Khadim-i Khandan-i Sadiq) Qiyamatnama (continued)

282 

 

Appendix B

Date

Details on Production

Ca. 1275 hijri (date of second miscellany; first miscellany undated)

Bukhara Scribe: NA Ownership: Stamp of Mullah ‘Abd al-Wajid Sadar Qazi

Appendix B 

 283

Location of Manuscript

Contents of Miscellany

Al-Beruni, Tashkent, 500

Compilation of 2 miscellany, 1 scribe per miscellany Scribe 1 Vasiyatnama, Sufi Allah Yar Bukhari Risala-i Ya‘qub Charkhi Vasiyatnama, ‘Abd al-Khaliq Ghujdavani Risala, Fazl Ahmad (requested by Mullah Ahmad of Kankara, from Tepe Doaba in environs of Peshawar). Vasiyatnama, Shirazi Vasiyatnama, ‘Umar Suhrawardi Tariq-i Khatam Istakhara, Hazrat Akhund Mullah Niyaz Chuqmaqi Scribe 2 Sharh-i Hizb al-Bahr Tariqa-i Tavajjuh-i Hazrat Khwaja o Khulafa’-i An Risala dar Bayan-i Khirqa Tariq-i Khatm-i Khwajagan Sharh-i Akhir Hizb al-Bahr Shajra, Ishan Hajji Darvish (Dahbidi) Dar Bayan-i Tariqa Mujaddidiyya, Shah Ghulam ‘Ali Dehlavi Risala, Shah Ghulam ‘Ali Dehlavi Risala, Shah Ghulam ‘Ali Dehlavi Risala-i Darvish Muhammad dar Bayan-i Muraqabat wa Dawa’ir, Shah Ghulam ‘Ali Dehlavi Risala dar Bayan-i Ashghal Mashaykh Jilaniyya Tracts on Sufi orders (comparative), Shah Waliullah Dehlavi (continued)

284 

 

Appendix B

Date

Details on Production

1246 hijri

Location of Production: NA Scribe: NA Ownership: NA

Ca. Mid-nineteenth c.

Swat or Malakand?

(originally written Ca. 1825)

Scribe: NA Ownership: Khānaqāh-i Fazliyya

Ca. 18501

Zakori, Dera Ismail Khan Scribe: NA Ownership: Khānaqāh-i Zakori

1912

Lahore

1935

Peshawar

1399 hijri

Malakand Agency, Thana

Ca. 2005

Malakand Agency, Thana

1. I have not reviewed this manuscript and only know of its existence through the custodians at Zakori.

Appendix B 

 285

Location of Manuscript

Contents of Miscellany

Dr. Iqbal Mujaddidi Collection, Lahore, R.No. 196 (original in Kitābkhāna-i Milli Tehran)

Two tracts are composed in two different hands and placed together. Scribe 1 Risala Tariqa-i-Naqshbandiyya, Shah Ghulam ‘Ali Dehlavi Scribe 2 Risala (Sabaqha-i Tariqa-i Naqshbandiyya), Fazl Ahmad Ma‘sumi Tract on dates of death celebrations of various Sufi masters, with focus on Fazl Ahmad Ma‘sumi Hidayat al-Talibin, Muhammad Salih Kulabi (collection of daily prayers of Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi)

Khānaqāh-i Hazratkhel, Malakand Agency

Single Scribe Tuhfat al-Murshid, Biography of Fazl Ahmad (incorporating Risala, Fazl Ahmad) Biographical tract (on Fazl Ahmad), Hafiz Muhammad Sa‘id Tasarrufnama (Biography of Fazl Ahmad), ‘Abd al-Rahim b. Khan Muhammad Peshawari

Khānaqāh-i Zakori Sharif

Rawzat al-Awliya’, Biography of NaqshbandiMujaddidi order from Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi to Imam Raza Zakori (incorporating Risala, Fazl Ahmad and Makhzan al-Anwar, Khwaja Safiullah, last chapter on Suhrawardiyya)

Print Edition

Tuhfat al-Murshid, Biography of Fazl Ahmad (incorporating Risala, Fazl Ahmad)

Print Edition

Rawzat al-Awliya’ (incorporating Risala, Fazl Ahmad)

Print Edition

Risala-i Fazliyya (containing Fazl Ahmad’s Risala and two addition tracts by Fazl Ahmad on supererogatory practices and ethnical / spiritual advice)

Print Edition

Tuhfat al-Murshid, Biography of Fazl Ahmad (incorporating Risala, Fazl Ahmad) Urdu Translation by ‘Abdullah Jan Faruqi

Notes

Introduction 1. Marshall Hodgson, The Venture of Islam, vol. 2 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1974), 293–294. I employ the contemporary Persian terms Hindustan, Khurasan, Transoxiana, and Altishahr in lieu of terms such as Central Asia and South Asia or Afghanistan and India, which represent later European conceptualizations of this region. Hindustan corresponds roughly to modern-day northern India and eastern Pakistan. Khurasan encompasses modern-day Afghanistan, northwestern Pakistan, and northeastern Iran. Transoxiana translates “Mawarannahr” (literally, what is “beyond the river”), designating the regions between the Amu Darya (Oxus) and the Syr Darya, corresponding to modern-day Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, Kyrgyzstan, and southwest Kazakhstan. Altishahr (literally, the six cities—generally, Kucha, Aksu, Ush-Turfan, Kashgar, Yarkand, and Khotan—or the Tarim Basin) refers to the southwestern portion of the modern Chinese province of Xinjiang. 2. The terms Afghan, Pashtun, Pakhtun, and Pathan all signify the Afghan ethnolinguistic group. For the sake of consistency, I use Afghan. 3. The term Great Game, as popularized by Rudyard Kipling, refers to the Anglo-Russian rivalry over Persia and Central Asia. 4. Albert Hourani, “Shaikh Khalid and the Naqshbandi Order,” in Islamic Philosophy and the Classical Tradition, ed. Richard Walzer et al. (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1972), 89–101; ‘Abd al-Hayy Habibi, Tarikh-i Mukhtasar-i Afghanistan, vol. 2 (Kabul: Da Chapulu Mu’asisa and Anjuman-i Tarikh, 1346 / 1967–68), 137.

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Notes to Pages 7–12

5. For a discussion and critique of this model, see Shahab Ahmed, What Is Islam? The Importance of Being Islamic (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2015), 218–223. 6. Joseph Fletcher, “Integrative History: Parallels and Interconnections in the Early Modern Period,” in Studies on Chinese and Islamic Inner Asia, ed. Beatrice Forbes Manz (Hampshire: Variorum, 1995), 33. 7. Arthur Buehler, Sufi Heirs of the Prophet: The Indian Naqshbandiyya and the Rise of the Mediating Sufi Shaykh (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1998), 65–81. 8. I agree with Shahab Ahmed that we should not view Islam and its underlying institutions through the conventional modern categories sharply delineating religion, politics, law, and scripture. Ahmed, What Is Islam?, 73. 9. For a discussion on religious economies and spiritual capital, see Nile Green, Bombay Islam: The Religious Economy of the West Indian Ocean, 1840–1915 (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 8–12; Michael Furquhar, Circuits of Faith: Migration, Education, and the Wahhabi Mission (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2017), 10–18. 10. On “overlapping sovereignty” in Transoxiana, see chapter 2 in James Pickett, “The Persianate Sphere during the Age of Empires: Islamic Scholars and Networks of Exchange in Central Asia, 1747–1917” (PhD diss., Princeton University, 2015). 11. Azfar Moin, The Millennial Sovereign: Sacred Kingship and Sainthood in Islam (New York: Columbia University Press, 2012), 1–8. In the Ottoman context, too, Sufi ideals and theories of unified authority shaped notions of kingship. Hüseyin Yilmaz, Caliphate Redefined: The Mystical Turn in Ottoman Political Thought (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2018), 3. 12. Literally, limits or boundaries, referring to a set of mandated penalties according to Islamic law. 13. Shah Waliullah Dehlavi, al-Tafhimat al-Ilahiyya (Bijnore: Madina Barqi Press, 1936), 12–13. 14. William Chittick, “Ibn ‘Arabi’s Own Summary of the Fusus: The Imprint of the Bezels of Wisdom,” Journal of the Muhyiddin Ibn ‘Arabi Society, vol. 1 (1982): 35. 15. See, for example, Jane Hathaway, “Households in the Administration of the Ottoman Empire,” Journal of Turkish Studies 40 (December 2013): 127–149; Leslie Pierce, The Imperial Harem: Women and Sovereignty in the Ottoman Empire (New York: Oxford University Press, 1993); Karen Barkey, Bandits and Bureaucrats: The Ottoman Route to State Centralization (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1994); Muzaffar Alam, The Crisis of Empire in Mughal North India: Awadh and Punjab, 1707–48 (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2013). 16. See, for example, SherAli Tareen, Defending Muhammad in Modernity (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2020); Cemil Aydin, The Idea of the Muslim World (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2017); Muhammad Qasim Zaman, “The Sovereignty of God in Modern Islamic Thought,” Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society 25, no. 3 (2015): 389–418.

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17. George Nathaniel Curzon, Persia and the Persian Question (London; New York: Longmans, Green & Co., 1892), 3–4. 18. Early works included British books and propaganda pamphlets published in response to Russia’s gradual expansion toward Persia after the Congress of Vienna, notably Sir Robert Wilson’s A Sketch of the Military and Political Power of Russia in the Year 1817 and John Malcolm’s A History of Persia (1815), which aimed to increase awareness of the potential threat posed by Russia, and Russia’s capacity to manipulate political instability in Persia. Another paradigmatic tract was England and Russia in the East (1875) by Sir Henry Rawlinson (an East India Company officer in Persia and Afghanistan, and later a member of Parliament). Lord George Nathaniel Curzon echoed Rawlinson’s concerns in his volumes on Central Asia (1889) and Persia (1892). Similar alarmist works were published in Russia, appealing for greater recognition of the Central Asian question. Notable Russian works were Major General D. I. Romanovskii’s Notes on the Central Asiatic Question (1870), and Mikhail Afrikanovich Terentev’s Russia and England in Central Asia. Both tracts were translated into English and published in Calcutta in the 1870s. 19. From the 1920s to the 1950s, historians relied largely on British sources, focusing on imperial strategic considerations at London and Saint Petersburg, and domestic public opinion vis-à-vis Russia. The Eastern Question, which is the contest over Ottoman domains, and the Great Game for Central Asia were viewed separately, both subsidiary to Russia and Britain’s European concerns. Historians including J. A. R. Marriott, Harold Temperley, and Charles K. Webster produced detailed narratives of Russo-English diplomatic history in the post-Vienna system, based primarily on personal papers and periodicals. Later historians like J. H. Gleason examined the Great Game to reflect upon Cold War concerns. 20. Jonathan Lee, The “Ancient Supremacy”: Bukhara, Afghanistan and the Battle for Balkh, 1731–1901 (Leiden: Brill, 1996), xviii. 21. Geoff Watson, “Images of Central Asia in the ‘Central Asian Question’ c. 1826–1885,” in Walls and Frontiers in Inner Asian History, ed. Craig Benjamin and Samuel Lieu, Silk Road Studies VI (Turnhout, Belgium: Brepols Publishers, 2003), 138. 22. See Senzil Nawid, Religious Response to Social Change in Afghanistan, 1919– 29: King Aman-Allah and the Afghan Ulama (Costa Mesa, CA: Mazda Publishers, 1999); Robert Nichols, Settling the Frontier: Land, Law and Society in the Peshawar Valley, 1500–1900 (Karachi: Oxford University Press, 2001); Sarah Ansari, Sufi Saints and State Power: The Pirs of Sind, 1843–1947 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992); Warren Fusfeld, “The Shaping of Sufi Leadership in Delhi: The Naqshbandiyya Mujaddidiyya, 1750–1920” (PhD diss., University of Pennsylvania, 1981). 23. See, for example, John Malcolm, The History of Persia: From the Most Early Period to the Present Time, vol. 2 (London: John Murray, 1829), 155–156; George Forster, A Journey from Bengal to England: Through the Northern Part of India, Kashmire, Afghanistan, and Persia and into Russia by the Caspian-Sea (London: R. Faulder, 1798), 94–99.

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Notes to Pages 15–16

24. Muzaffar Alam and Sanjay Subrahmanyam, Writing the Mughal World: Studies on Culture and Politics (Ranikhet: Permanent Black, 2011), 3–4. This view became embedded in the colonial historiographical project, specifically through Henry Miers Elliot and John Dowson in their seminal eight-volume translations of Indo-Muslim histories. For later works, see William Irvine and Jadunath Sarkar, Later Mughals (Calcutta: M.C. Sarkar & Sons, 1921); Jadunath Sarkar, Fall of the Mughal Empire, 3rd ed. (Calcutta: M.C. Sarkar & Sons, 1964); Satish Chandra, ed., Essays in Medieval Indian Economic History, Indian History Congress Golden Jubilee Year Publication Series, vol. 3 (New Delhi: Munshiram Manoharlal Publishers, 1987); M. N. Pearson, Merchants and Rulers in Gujarat: The Response to the Portuguese in the Sixteenth Century (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1976). 25. Hodgson, Venture of Islam, 293–294. 26. See Jos Gommans, The Rise of the Indo-Afghan Empire: C. 1710–1780 (Leiden: Brill, 1995); Scott Cameron Levi, The Indian Diaspora in Central Asia and Its Trade: 1550–1900 (Leiden: Brill, 2001); Claude Markovits, The Global World of Indian Merchants, 1750–1947: Traders of Sind from Bukhara to Panama (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000). 27. Exceptions include, among others, Simon Digby, Sufis and Soldiers in Awrangzeb’s Deccan: Malfuzat-i Naqshbandiyya (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2001); Hamid Algar, “From Kashgar to Eyüp: The Lineages and Legacy of Sheikh Abdullah Nidai,” in Naqshbandis in Western and Central Asia: Change and Continuity, ed. Elizabeth Ozdalga (Istanbul: Swedish Research Institute, 1999): 1–15; Hamid Algar, “Shaykh Zaynullah Rasulev: The Last Great Naqshbandi Shaykh of the Volga-Urals Region,” in Muslims of Central Asia— Expressions of Identity and Change, ed. Jo-Ann Gross (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1992), 112–133; Jo-Ann Gross, “The Naqshbandiya Connection: From Central Asia to India and Back (16th–19th Centuries),” in India and Central Asia: Commerce and Culture, 1500–1800, ed. Scott Cameron Levi (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2007), 232–259; Michael Kemper, Sufis und Gelehrte in Tatarien und Baschkirien, 1789–1889: Der islamische Diskurs unter russischer Herrschaft (Berlin: Klaus Schwarz Verlag, 1998); Lale Can, “Connecting People: A Central Asian Sufi Network in Turn-of-the-Century Istanbul,” Modern Asian Studies 46, no. 2 (March 2012): 373–401. 28. On mobility and circulation, see Mana Kia, Persianate Selves: Memories of Place and Origin Before Nationalism (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2020); Gagan Sood, India and the Islamic Heartlands: An Eighteenth-century World of Circulation and Exchange (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016). 29. For more textured social histories of the religious environment of Afghanistan and the Peshawar Valley, see James Caron, “Sufism and Liberation across the Indo-Afghan Border: 1880–1928,” South Asian History and Culture 7, no. 2 (2016): 135–154; Nile Green, “Tribe, Diaspora, and Sainthood in Afghan History,” Journal of Asian Studies 67, no. 1 (2008): 171–211; Robert McChesney, Waqf in Central Asia: Four Hundred Years in the History of a Muslim Shrine, 1480–1889 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1991).

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30. Sheldon Pollock, “Cosmopolitanism, Vernacularism, and Premodernity,” in Global Intellectual History, ed. Samuel Moyn and Andrew Sartori (New York: Columbia University Press, 2013), 61. 31. Sebouh David Aslanian, From the Indian Ocean to the Mediterranean: The Global Trade Networks of Armenian Merchants from New Julfa (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2010), 5–6. 32. To this effect, I draw upon Pollock’s conception of the global and the local “not being stable and sharply defined, but rather as constantly changing repertories of practices,” each shaping the other. Pollock, “Cosmopolitanism,” 59. 33. See Sheldon Pollock, The Language of the Gods in the World of Men: Sanskrit, Culture, and Power in Premodern India (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006); Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism (London: Verso, 1991). As a corollary to this subject, this study also challenges a body of secondary literature that claims that the rise of vernacular identities and languages in this region— whether Turkic, Urdu, or Pashto—ultimately undermined the Persianate ecumene. See, for example, Moazzam Anwar, “Urdu Insha: The Hyderabad Experiment, 1860–1948,” in Literacy in the Persianate World: Writing and the Social Order, ed. Brian Spooner and William Hanaway (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2012), 299. 34. This lacuna has been referenced in Hamid Algar, “A Brief History of the Naqshbandi Order,” in Naqshbandis: Cheminements et situation actuelle d’un ordre mystique Musulman: Actes de la table ronde de Sèvres, 2–4 Mai [1985], ed. Marc Gaborieu, Alexandre Popović, and Thierry Zarcone (Istanbul: l’Institut francais d’etudes Anatoliennes d’Istanbul, 1990), 3–44. 35. For a discussion on the Mujaddidi influence on Sir Sayyid Ahmad Khan, see Christian Troll, Sir Sayyid Ahmed Khan: A Reinterpretation of Muslim Theology (Delhi: Vikas Publishing House, 1978), 28–57. 36. The Dar al-‘Ulum Deoband was founded in 1866 in British India, with the aim of producing Muslim scholars specializing in the revealed sciences, particularly in Qur’anic exegesis and hadith. Although the institution was founded by two Sufi masters, Deobandis tended to eschew popular shrine-based Sufi practices. Through a branch schools model, Deobandi madrasas spread rapidly across South Asia. See Barbara Metcalf, Islamic Revival in British India: Deoband, 1860–1900 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1982), 125–135. 37. See Adeeb Khalid, The Politics of Muslim Cultural Reform: Jadidism in Central Asia (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998). 38. Founded by the Qadiri Sufi Ahmad Raza Khan of Bareilly (1856–1921), the Barelvi movement emphasized personal devotion to the Prophet Muhammad and the Sufi saints; an adherence to the prophetic example; and traditional, shrine-based mystical practices in accordance with the mandates of shari‘a. See Usha Sanyal, Devotional Islam and Politics in British India: Ahmad Riza Khan Barelwi and His Movement, 1870–1920 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1999). On fundamentalist critiques, see Fazlur Rahman, Revival and Reform in Islam: A Study of Islamic Fundamentalism (Oxford: Oneworld Publications, 1999).

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Notes to Pages 18–21

39. For example, refer to Abu’l ‘Ala Mawdudi, Tajdid o Ahya’-i Din (Delhi: Markazi Maktaba Islami, 1997). 40. Mountstuart Elphinstone, An Account of the Kingdom of Caubul, and Its Dependencies, in Persia, Tartary, and India, vol. 1 (London: R. Bentley, 1839), 272–274, 288. 41. See Ignác Goldziher, Muhammedanische Studien (Halle: Max Niemeyer, 1889). 42. A. L. Dallapicolla and S. Zingel-Ave Lallemant, eds., Islam in Indian Regions (Wiesbaden: Steiner Verlag, 1993), 1–6. 43. In this respect, my work is informed by Vincent Cornell’s study on sainthood in the Maghreb, which questions perceived divisions between urban doctors of shari‘a and rural saints. Vincent J. Cornell, Realm of the Saint: Power and Authority in Moroccan Sufism (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2010). 44. See Carl W. Ernst and Bruce B. Lawrence, Sufi Martyrs of Love: Chishti Sufism in South Asia and Beyond (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2002); Michael Gilsenan, Saint and Sufi in Modern Egypt: An Essay in the Sociology of Religion (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1973). 45. See May Schinasi, Kaboul 1773–1948: Naissance et croissance d’une capitale royale, Series maior 13 (Naples: Università degli studi di Napoli “L’Orientale,” Dipartimento di studi asiatici, 2008); Ethel Sara Wolper, Cities and Saints: Sufism and the Transformation of Urban Space in Medieval Anatolia (University Park, PA: Penn State University Press, 2003). 46. In this sense, this work builds on Ahmet T. Karamustafa, God’s Unruly Friends: Dervish Groups in the Islamic Later Middle Period, 1200–1550 (Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 1994); Richard Maxwell Eaton, Sufis of Bijapur, 1300–1700: Social Roles of Sufis in Medieval India (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1978); Nile Green, Indian Sufism Since the Seventeenth Century: Saints, Books and Empires in the Muslim Deccan (New York: Routledge, 2006). 47. See Moshe Gammer, “Shamil in Soviet Historiography,” Middle Eastern Studies 28, no. 4 (1992): 729–777. 48. Abu’l Kalam Azad, Tazkira (Lahore: Maktaba-i Ahbab, 1919), 264. 49. See Ishtiaq Husain Qureshi, The Muslim Community of the Indo-Pakistani Subcontinent (The Hague: Mouton and Co., 1962), 149–159; Saiyid Athar Abbas Rizvi, Muslim Revivalist Movements in Northern India in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries (New Delhi: Munshiram Manharlal, 1993), 203–260. 50. See John Obert Voll, Islam: Continuity and Change in the Modern World (Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University Press, 1994); John Spencer Trimingham, The Sufi Orders in Islam (New York: Oxford University Press, 1971), 105–132; Rahman, Revival and Reform, 166–203. For a discussion and critique of the neo-Sufi hypothesis, see Albrecht Hofheinz, “Illumination and Enlightenment Revisited, or: Pietism and the Roots of Islamic Modernity” (lecture, University of Bergen, September 19, 1996). 51. As such, it adds to a growing body of literature that has challenged the neoSufi hypothesis. See Buehler, Sufi Heirs; Green, Indian Sufism; Dina LeGall, A

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Culture of Sufism: Naqshbandis in the Ottoman World, 1450–1700 (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2005), 4–6; Ahmad Dallal, “The Origins and Objectives of Islamic Revivalist Thought, 1750–1850,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 113, no. 3 (1993): 341–359. 52. See Jawid Mojaddedi, The Biographical Tradition in Sufism: The Tabaqat Genre from Al-Sulami to Jami (Richmond, Surrey: Curzon Press, 2001), 177–181. 53. John Renard, ed., Tales of God’s Friends: Islamic Hagiography in Translation (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2009), 1–2. 54. John Renard, Friends of God: Islamic Images of Piety, Commitment, and Servanthood (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2008), 1–9. 55. The Mujaddidi network was far more expansive than regions covered in this study, penetrating the Ottoman Empire and Southeast Asia. Extending the study to encompass these regions would certainly provide an even richer understanding of the network’s texture and adaptability.

1. A Persianate Cosmopolis 1. Marshall Hodgson, The Venture of Islam, vol. 2 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1974), 293–294. 2. Muzaffar Alam, “The Culture and Politics of Persian in Precolonial Hindustan,” in Literary Cultures in History: Reconstructions from South Asia, ed. Sheldon Pollock (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003), 187–188. 3. B. G. Fragner, Die “Persophonie”: Regionalität, Identität und Sprachkontakt in der Geschichte Asiens, ANOR 5 (Berlin: Das Arabische Buch, 1999), 78. 4. Saïd Amir Arjomand, “The Salience of Political Ethic in the Spread of Persianate Islam,” Journal of Persianate Studies 1, no. 1 (June 1, 2008): 5. 5. Hodgson, Venture of Islam, 304. 6. Abbas Amanat, Resurrection and Renewal: The Making of the Babi Movement in Iran, 1844–1850 (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1989), 15–16. 7. Abbas Amanat, Iran: A Modern History (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2017), 6. 8. Arjomand, “Salience of Political Ethic,” 9–11. 9. Brian Spooner and William L. Hanaway, “Introduction: Persian as Koine: Written Persian in World Historical Perspective,” in Literacy in the Persianate World: Writing and the Social Order, ed. Brian Spooner and William Hanaway (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2012), 3. 10. Ibid., 16. 11. Arjomand, “Salience of Political Ethic,” 17; Spooner and Hanaway, “Introduction,” 25. 12. Muhammad Aslam Syed, “How Could Urdu Be the Envy of Persian (rashk-iFarsi)! The Role of Persian in South Asian Culture and Literature,” in Literacy in the Persianate World: Writing and the Social Order, ed. Brian Spooner and William L. Hanaway (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2012), 289. 13. Farhat Hasan, State and Locality in Mughal India: Power Relations in Western India, c. 1572–1730 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 52.

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Notes to Pages 33–39

14. Scott Cameron Levi, The Indian Diaspora in Central Asia and Its Trade: 1550–1900 (Leiden: Brill, 2001), 19; John Richards, The Mughal Empire (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 290. 15. See C. A. Bayly, “India and West Asia, c. 1700–1830,” Asian Affairs 19, no. 1 (February 1, 1988): 3–19. 16. See Mustafa Husain Nizami, Tarikh-i Rohilkhand, 1707–1775 (Tarikh-i Gul-i Rahmat of Saadat Yaar Khan) (Bareilly: Mustafa Husain Nizami, 1986); Sugata Bose and Ayesha Jalal, Modern South Asia: History, Culture, Political Economy, 3rd ed. (London, New York: Routledge, 2011), 40. 17. See Muzaffar Alam, The Crisis of Empire in Mughal North India: Awadh and Punjab, 1707–48 (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2013). 18. Jos Gommans argues that the notion of a tribal breakout is inherently flawed. Rather, the emergence and ascendancy of tribal groups was a by-product of a long-term process wherein the great empires strove to incorporate and capitalize on tribal elements to enhance their fiscal and military apparatuses. Through the eighteenth century, these empowered tribal groups exerted their independence from imperial centers. Jos J. L. Gommans, The Rise of the Indo-Afghan Empire, c. 1710–1780 (Leiden: Brill, 1995), 176–177. For additional treatments of this process, see Richard Tapper, ed., The Conflict of Tribe and State in Iran and Afghanistan (London: Croom Helm, 1983); Ann Lambton, “The Tribal Resurgence and the Decline of Bureaucracy in the Eighteenth Century,” in Studies in Eighteenth Century Islamic History, ed. Thomas Naff and Roger Owen (Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 1977), 108–129; André Wink, Land and Sovereignty in India: Agrarian Society and Politics under the Eighteenth-Century Maratha Svarajya (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986). Arash Khazeni has suggested that environmental factors may have been partially responsible for the expansion of tribal groups, specifically in the case of the Turkmen in the Qara Qom region. Arash Khazeni, “The River’s Edge: The Steppes of the Oxus and the Boundaries of the Near East and Central Asia,” in Is There a Middle East? The Evolution of a Political Construct, ed. Abbas Amanat, Michael Bonine, and Michael Gasper (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2011), 151. 19. Ernest Tucker, Nadir Shah’s Quest for Legitimacy in Post-Safavid Iran (Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 2006), 10. 20. Muhammad Umar, Islam in Northern India during the Eighteenth Century (New Delhi: Munshiram Manoharlal Publishers, 1993), 175. 21. Gavin Hambly, “An Introduction to the Economic Organization of Early Qajar Iran,” Iran 2 (1964): 71–72. 22. Scott Cameron Levi, “India xiii. Indo-Iranian Commercial Relations,” Encyclopaedia Iranica, 2004, http://www.iranicaonline.org/articles/india-xiiiindo-iranian-commercial-relations. 23. Levi, Indian Diaspora, 237–240; Gommans, Rise of the Indo-Afghan Empire, 29. 24. Eventually, the Durrani Empire controlled the former Mughal dominions of Punjab (including Sirhind and Lahore), Baluchistan, Multan, Kashmir, Sindh, and the Derajat.

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25. Christine Noelle, State and Tribe in Nineteenth-Century Afghanistan: The Reign of Amir Dost Muhammad Khan (1826–1863) (Richmond, Surrey: Curzon, 1997), 2–3. 26. See Francisco José Luis, “Discourse, Praxis and Identity in Pre-Reformist Sikhism: A Study of the Nirmala Order,” (PhD diss., SOAS, University of London, 2012), 93–105. 27. Hodong Kim, Holy War in China: The Muslim Rebellion and State in Chinese Central Asia, 1864–1877 (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2004), 21–23; Scott Cameron Levi and Ron Sela, Islamic Central Asia: An Anthology of Historical Sources (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2010), 245. 28. Robert McChesney, Waqf in Central Asia: Four Hundred Years in the History of a Muslim Shrine, 1480–1889 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1991), 217–247. 29. Bose and Jalal, Modern South Asia, 43–44. 30. Alam, Crisis of Empire, 16–17. 31. Hasan, State and Locality, 54. 32. McChesney, Waqf in Central Asia, 209; Gommans, Rise of the Indo-Afghan Empire, 46–47. 33. Gommans, Rise of the Indo-Afghan Empire, 47. 34. Mountstuart Elphinstone, An Account of the Kingdom of Caubul, and Its Dependencies, in Persia, Tartary, and India, vol. 1 (London: R. Bentley, 1839), 262–268. 35. See Abbas Amanat, “The Kayanid Crown and Qajar Reclaiming of Royal Authority,” Iranian Studies 34, no. 1/4 (January 1, 2001): 17–30. 36. Kim, Holy War in China, 8–10. 37. V. V. Bartol’d, “A Short History of Turkestan,” in Four Studies on the History of Central Asia, trans. Vladimir Minorsky and Tatiana Minorsky, vol. 1 (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1956), 66; Jadunath Sarkar, History of Aurangzib, Mainly Based on Persian Sources (Calcutta: M.C. Sarkar & Sons, 1912), xi–xxvi; Irvine and Sarkar, Later Mughals, 377–379; Hambly, “Introduction,” 71. 38. Levi, Indian Diaspora, 23. 39. Muzaffar Alam, “Trade, State Policy and Regional Change: Aspects of Mughal-Uzbek Commercial Relations, c. 1550–1750,” Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 37, no. 3 (1994): 203; Niels Steensgaard, “The Route through Quandahar: The Significance of the Overland Trade from India to the West in the Seventeenth Century,” in Merchants, Companies and Trade: Europe and Asia in the Early Modern Era, ed. Sushil Chaudhury and Michel Morineau (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 55–73. 40. Gommans estimated that the overland horse trade was three times greater than the total exports from Bengal to Europe via the British and Dutch East India Companies in the eighteenth century. Jos Gommans, “The Horse Trade in Eighteenth-Century South Asia,” Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 37, no. 3 (1994): 236–240. Other commodities included fruit, musk, furs, falcons, corals, indigo, sugar, and slaves. See also Alam, “Trade, State Policy and Regional Change,” 208.

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Notes to Pages 49–63

41. Alam, “Trade, State Policy and Regional Change,” 208; Gommans, Rise of the Indo-Afghan Empire, 46. 42. This was a viable alternative to a Caspian trade route via Astrakhan. Gommans, Rise of the Indo-Afghan Empire, 28. 43. Audrey Burton, “The Economy. Production and Trade. Part Two: Trade,” in History of Civilizations of Central Asia, ed. Chahryar Adle and Irfan Habib, vol. 5 (Paris: UNESCO, 2003), 414. 44. Bose and Jalal, Modern South Asia, 43; Barbara Metcalf and Thomas Metcalf, A Concise History of Modern India, 3rd ed. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), 49. 45. Gommans, Rise of the Indo-Afghan Empire, 178–191. 46. Alam, “Trade, State Policy and Regional Change,” 211, 215. 47. Levi, Indian Diaspora, 1–4. 48. Ibid., 176–178. 49. Sir Alexander Burnes, Travels into Bokhara, vol. 1 (London: J. Murray, 1834), 302–305. 50. Kabul and Qandahar were exceptions to this case, however. Both were severely impacted by internecine conflict. Many of the burgeoning madrasas of the late eighteenth century ceased operations, and there were few additions to the urban landscape. 51. Noelle, State and Tribe, 297. 52. See Edward Ingram, In Defence of British India: Great Britain in the Middle East, 1775–1842 (London: Cass, 1984); Malcolm Yapp, Strategies of British India: Britain, Iran, and Afghanistan, 1798–1850 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1980); David Gillard, The Struggle for Asia, 1828–1914: A Study in British and Russian Imperialism (London: Methuen, 1977). 53. Gillard, Struggle for Asia, 17. 54. Noelle, State and Tribe, 293–294. 55. Gillard, Struggle for Asia, 95. 56. Henry Rawlinson, England and Russia in the East: A Series of Papers on the Political and Geographical Condition of Central Asia (London: J. Murray, 1875), viii. 57. See Gommans, “Horse Trade in Eighteenth-Century South Asia.” 58. Bose and Jalal, Modern South Asia, 56; Metcalf and Metcalf, Concise History of Modern India, 75–77. The period from the 1820s to the 1840s witnessed an economic depression, with a fall in the value of the rupee and a reduction in the supply of silver. 59. Levi, Indian Diaspora, 259.

2. The Reviver of the Second Millennium 1. Arthur Buehler, Revealed Grace: The Juristic Sufism of Ahmad Sirhindi (1564–1624) (Louisville, KY: Fons Vitae, 2011), x, 31, 43. 2. Hadith 50 in Muhammad ibn Isma‘il al-Bukhari, Sahih al-Bukhari, trans. Muhammad Muhsen Khan, vol. 1 (Riyadh: Darussalam, 1996), 80–81. 3. John Spencer Trimingham, The Sufi Orders in Islam (New York: Oxford University Press, 1971), 1–30.

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4. Muhammad Nazir Ranjha, Tazkira-i Qutb-i ‘Alam Hazrat Khwaja Abu’l Hasan Kharaqani (Lahore: Jami‘at Publications, 2008), 36. 5. See Engseng Ho, The Graves of Tarim: Genealogy and Mobility Across the Indian Ocean (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006). 6. Nile Green, Indian Sufism Since the Seventeenth Century: Saints, Books and Empires in the Muslim Deccan (New York: Routledge, 2006), xiv. 7. Qamar al-Huda, “Shahab Al-Din Suhrawardi,” in Medieval Islamic Civilization, ed. Josef W. Meri and Jere L. Bacharach, vol. 2, L–Z (New York; London: Taylor & Francis, 2006), 776; Annemarie Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions of Islam (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1975), 244–246. 8. Bruce Lawrence, “Abd-al-Qader Jilani,” Encyclopædia Iranica, I/2, pp. 132– 133; http://www.iranicaonline.org/articles/abd-al-qader-jilani; ‘Abd al-Hayy Khakrub and custodians of the shrine of Sayyid Gulabshah, Jalalabad, June 2013; Shaykh ‘Usman Naqshbandi, Hyderabad, Sindh, July 2012. 9. The precepts are attributed to the ninth-century Sufi Bayazid Bistami. 10. Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions, 345–347; Carl W. Ernst and Bruce B. Lawrence, Sufi Martyrs of Love: Chishti Sufism in South Asia and Beyond (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2002), 1–5. 11. Arthur Buehler, Sufi Heirs of the Prophet: The Indian Naqshbandiyya and the Rise of the Mediating Sufi Shaykh (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1998), 65–81, 106–109; Jamal Elias, The Throne Carrier of God: The Life and Thought of ‘Alā’ ad-dawla as-Simnānī (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1995), 148–150. 12. Warren Fusfeld, “The Shaping of Sufi Leadership in Delhi: The Naqshbandiyya Mujaddidiyya, 1750–1920” (PhD diss., University of Pennsylvania, 1981), 85–90; Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions, 363–365; Buehler, Sufi Heirs, 58–59, 234. 13. Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions, 366. 14. Buehler, Sufi Heirs, 121. 15. Hamid Algar, “A Brief History of the Naqshbandi Order,” in Naqshbandis: Cheminements et situation actuelle d’un ordre mystique Musulman: Actes de la table ronde de Sèvres, 2–4 Mai [1985], ed. Marc Gaborieu, Alexandre Popović, and Thierry Zarcone (Istanbul: l’Institut francais d’etudes Anatoliennes d’Istanbul, 1990), 6–10. 16. See Simon Digby, Sufis and Soldiers in Awrangzeb’s Deccan: Malfuzat-i Naqshbandiyya (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2001); Richard Foltz, “The Central Asian Naqshbandi Connections of the Mughal Emperors,” Journal of Islamic Studies 7, no. ii (1996): 229–239. 17. Muhammad Umar, Islam in Northern India during the Eighteenth Century (New Delhi: Munshiram Manoharlal Publishers, 1993), 221–224. 18. Anders Hultgard, “Persian Apocalypticism,” in The Continuum History of Apocalypticism, ed. Bernard McGinn, John Collins, and Stephen Stein (New York: Continuum, 2003), 36. 19. Saiyid Athar Abbas Rizvi, Muslim Revivalist Movements in Northern India in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries (New Delhi: Munshiram Manharlal, 1993), 74.

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20. Ibid., 105; Abu’l Fazl ‘Allami, The Ain-i Akbari by Abu’l-Fazl Allami, trans. H. Blochmann and H. S. Jarrett, vol. 3 (Calcutta: Asiatic Society of Bengal, 1907), 373; Annemarie Schimmel, Islam in the Indian Subcontinent (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1980), 76. 21. Abu’l Fazl ‘Allami, The Akbarnama of Abu-l-Fazl, trans. Henry Beveridge, vol. 1 (Calcutta: Asiatic Society of Bengal, 1907), 142. 22. Aziz Ahmad, Studies in Islamic Culture in the Indian Environment (New York: Oxford University Press, 1964), 160–171. 23. Sirhind was incorporated in the province of Delhi. 24. Walter Hamilton, The East Indian Gazetteer, vol. 2 (London: Parbury, Allen and Co., 1828), 568. 25. Subhash Parihar, “Historical Mosques of Sirhind,” Islamic Studies 43, no. 3 (2004): 481. 26. Muhammad Nazir Ranjha, Tarikh-o Tazkira-i Khanaqah-i Sirhind Sharif (Lahore: Jami‘at Publications, 2011), 65. 27. Ibid., 71. 28. Shaykh Mohammad Ikram, Muslim Civilization in India (New York: Columbia University Press, 1964), 166–167; ‘Allama Badr al-Din Sirhindi, Hazarat al-Quds, trans. Hafiz Muhammad Ashraf Mujaddidi Naqshbandi (Lahore: Qadri Rizvi Kutub Khana, 2010), 362–364. 29. J. G. J. ter Haar, Follower and Heir of the Prophet: Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi (1564–1624) as Mystic (Leiden: Het Oosters Instituut, 1992), 23–27. 30. The Collected Letters were compiled into three volumes under his guidance between 1616 and 1622. Sirhindi’s doctrinal writings specifically concerned the Sunni Hanafi school of jurisprudence and the Maturidi school of theology. 31. For example, see Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi, Maktubat-i Imam Rabbani, vol. 1 (Karachi: Educational Press, 1972), 341–342, 353 (Epistle 1:212, 1:218). 32. Buehler, Revealed Grace, 208, 216; ter Haar, Follower and Heir, 137. 33. Buehler, Revealed Grace, xv. 34. Ibid., 83. 35. See Yohanan Friedmann, Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi: An Outline of His Thought and a Study of His Image in the Eyes of Posterity (Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1971); ter Haar, Follower and Heir; Buehler, Revealed Grace. 36. Ter Haar, Follower and Heir, 130–131, 162. 37. The varying understandings of the term are partly due to the fact that wujūd cannot be translated directly, since Semitic languages feature no verb “to be.” Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions, 267. 38. Burhan Ahmad Faruqi, The Mujaddid’s Concept of Tawhid (Lahore: Institute of Islamic Culture, 1989), 88–89; A. Ateş, “Ibn Al-‘Arabī, Muh.yi ’l-Dīn Abu ‘Abd Allāh Muh.ammad,” ed. P. J. Bearman et al., Encyclopaedia of Islam Online (Leiden: Brill, 2004), http://www.encislam.brill.nl; Fakhruddin ‘Iraqi, Divine Flashes, trans. William C. Chittick and Peter Lamborn Wilson (New York: Paulist Press, 1992), 14. 39. Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions, 357. 40. Ibid., 283. This expression predates Ibn al-‘Arabi, having been used by Farid al-Din al-‘Attar in the late twelfth century.

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41. Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions, 368–369; Schimmel, Islam in the Indian Subcontinent, 53; Rizvi, Muslim Revivalist Movements, 37–39, 262. 42. Sirhindi, Maktubat-i Imam Rabbani, vol. 2 (Karachi: Educational Press, 1972), 419–420, 430–446 (Epistle 2:1, 3:67, 3:74, 3:76). 43. Friedmann, Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi, 64–65. 44. David Damrel compares Sirhindi with ‘Abd al-Quddus Gangohi, a Chishti proponent of wah.dat-i wujūd, and commentator on Ibn al-‘Arabi. Damrel noted strong parallels between Sirhindi’s thought and that of the Chishtis, blurring conceptions of two separate currents in South Asian Islam. David Damrel, “The Naqshbandi Reaction Reconsidered,” in Beyond Turk and Hindu, ed. David Gilmartin and Bruce B. Lawrence (Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 2000), 176–198. 45. William Chittick, “Wahdatal-Shuhud,” Encyclopaedia of Islam (Leiden: Brill, 2002). 46. Sirhindi, Maktubat, vol. 1, 81–91 (Epistle 1:30, 1:31); Faruqi, Mujaddid’s Concept of Tawhid, 96. 47. Further to this, Sirhindi stated that expressions of wah.dat-i wujūd and wah.dat-i shuhūd are a reflection of degrees of religious consciousness: the wujūdī is in the state of ‘ilm al-yaqīn (knowledge of certainty), while the shuhūdī is at the stage of ‘ayn al-yaqīn (eye of certainty). Sirhindi, Maktubat, vol. 1, 113; vol. 2, 5 (Epistle 1:43, 2:1). 48. Ibid., vol. 2, 475–479 (Epistle 3:89). 49. Ibid., vol. 1, 89, 111–115 (Epistle 1:31, 1:43); ter Haar, Follower and Heir, 120. 50. Sirhindi, Maktubat, vol. 1, 329–335 (Epistle 1:209). 51. According to a hadith, 124,000 prophets were sent to guide mankind, beginning with Adam and encompassing the biblical prophets. Ahmad bin Muhammad bin Hanbal, Masnad Ahmad ibn Hanbal, trans. Muhammad Zafar Iqbal (Quetta: Maktaba Rahmaniyya, 2008), Hadith no. 21257. 52. Friedmann, Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi, 13–14. 53. Ibid., 8. 54. Ella Landau-Tasseron, “The ‘Cyclical Reform’: A Study of the Mujaddid Tradition,” Studia Islamica no. 70 (1989): 79–80, 107; J. G. G. Jansen, “Tajdid,” Encyclopedia of Islam, New Edition (Leiden and London: Brill, 2000), 61–62. 55. Landau-Tasseron suggests that the centennial mujaddid was not a welldeveloped concept in earlier centuries but rather was employed as an individual title of reverence. Landau-Tasseron, “Cyclical Reform,” 84. 56. Abu Hamid al Ghazali, On Disciplining the Soul & On Breaking the Two Desires, Books XXII and XXIII of the Revival of the Religious Sciences, trans. T. J. Winter (Cambridge: Islamic Texts Society, 1997), xv–xvii; Ira Lapidus, “Islamic Revival and Modernity: The Contemporary Movements and the Historical Paradigms,” Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 40, no. 4 (1997): 444–448. 57. Sirhindi, Maktubat, vol. 1, 333 (Epistle 1:209). 58. Ibid., vol. 1, 410 (Epistle 1:251). 59. Friedmann, Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi, 16.

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Notes to Pages 77–81

60. Buehler, Revealed Grace, 259. 61. Ter Haar, Follower and Heir, 147–150; Friedmann, Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi, 14–15; Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi, Mabda’ o Ma‘ad o Ta’ayyad-i Ahl-i Sunnat (Istanbul: Hakikat Kitabevi, 2000), 72–73. 62. Buehler, Revealed Grace, 78; Friedmann, Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi, 16. 63. Sirhindi, Makbutat, vol. 1, 390 (Epistle 1:234). 64. Sirhindi, Maktubat, vol. 1, 333 (Epistle 1:209). 65. Ibid., vol. 2, 20–21, 584–586 (Epistle 2:4, 3:123). 66. Friedmann, Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi, 17; Sirhindi, Maktubat, vol. 1, 333, 455 (Epistle 1:209, 1:261). 67. Discourses on the Common Believer engaged the Sufi concept of khilla, the highest form of love, which is responsible for creation of the universe. 68. Ter Haar, Follower and Heir, 163; Friedmann, Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi, 19. 69. The function of the qayyūm was grounded in the concept of God’s trust, mentioned in the following verse of the Qur’an, “Surely we offered the trust to the heavens and the earth and mountains, but they refused to be faithful to it and feared from it, and man has turned unfaithful to it; surely he is unjust, ignorant.” Sirhindi defined the divine trust as the “qayyūmiyyat of every object which God awarded to the Perfect Man . . . All the angels, spirits, and human beings and every other object look toward him for assistance.” Sirhindi, Maktubat, vol. 2, 208–211 (Epistle 2:74); ter Haar, Follower and Heir, 138, 153–155; Ahmad, Studies in Islamic Culture, 184. 70. John J. Collins, The Apocalyptic Imagination: An Introduction to Jewish Apocalyptic Literature (Grand Rapids, MI: Wm. B. Eerdmans Publishing, 1998), 10. 71. Buehler, Revealed Grace, 24–25; Faruqi, Mujaddid’s Concept of Tawhid, 4. 72. Sirhindi’s emphasis on the revival of shari‘a has been often anachronistically interpreted in secondary literature as advocating a state-implemented legal code. See Abdul Haq Ansari, Sufism and Shariah: A Study of Shaikh Ahmad Sirhindi’s Efforts to Reform Sufism (Leicester: Islamic Foundation, 1986); Buehler, Revealed Grace, 43–49. 73. Buehler, Revealed Grace, 43, 82–90; Carl Ernst, “The Daily Life of a Saint, Ahmad Sirhindi, by Badr al-Din Sirhindi,” in Islam in South Asia in Practice, ed. Barbara D. Metcalf (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2009), 158–165. 74. Buehler, Revealed Grace, 97. 75. Ibid., 30–32; Algar, “Brief History,” 21–22. 76. Muzaffar Alam, “The Debate Within: A Sufi Critique of Religious Law, Tasawwuf and Politics in Mughal India,” South Asian History and Culture 2, no. 2 (2011): 143. 77. Nur al-Din Jahangir, The Tuzuk-i-Jahangiri; or, Memoirs of Jahangir, trans. Alexander Rogers, vol. 1 (Delhi: Munshiram Manoharlal, 1968), 87–89; Ahmad, Studies in Islamic Culture, 184–185; Yohanan Friedmann, “The Naqshbandis and Awrangzeb: A Reconsideration,” in Naqshbandis: Cheminements et situation actuelle d’un ordre mystique Musulman: Actes de la table ronde de Sèvres, 2–4 Mai [1985], ed. Marc Gaborieu, Alexandre Popović, and

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Thierry Zarcone (Istanbul: l’Institut francais d’etudes anatoliennes d’Istanbul, 1990), 219. 78. Friedmann, Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi, 88–89. 79. Khwaja Muhammad Ihsan Mujaddidi Sirhindi, Rawzat al-Qayyumiyya, ed. Pirzada Iqbal Ahmad Faruqi, vol. 2 (Lahore: Maktaba Nabawiyya, 2002), 96–98. 80. The space that the old mosque occupied was marked as a sacred space, analogous to a similar space in the Prophet Muhammad’s mosque at Medina designated as a parcel of paradise. 81. The shrine that exists today dates from 1929. 82. Fauja Singh, Sirhind through the Ages (Patiala: Phulkian Press, 1972), 139– 140; Ranjha, Tarikh-o Tazkira-i Khanaqah-i Sirhind Sharif, 121–137. 83. For comprehensive treatments of Shah Waliullah’s work, see Shah Waliullah Dehlavi, Hujjat Allah al-Baligha, trans. Marcia K. Hermansen (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1996), xv–xl; Umar, Islam in Northern India, 31–39; Fazlur Rahman, Revival and Reform in Islam: A Study of Islamic Fundamentalism (Oxford: Oneworld Publications, 1999), 171–202. 84. Buehler, Sufi Heirs, 73; Algar, “Brief History,” 26; S. Moinul Haq, Islamic Thought and Movements in the Subcontinent (711–1947) (Karachi: Pakistan Historical Society, 1979), 408; Shaykh Mohammad Ikram, Rud-i Kawsar (Lahore: Ferozsons, 1958), 533–543. 85. At Sirhind, there do not appear to be clear guidelines for inheriting leadership of the khānaqāh and the Mujaddidi lineage. 86. Despite the obviously exaggerated numbers, several hundred names can be identified in primary sources. 87. Muhammad Iqbal Mujaddidi, “‘Alami Satah par Silsila Naqshbandiyya Mujaddidiyya ka Asr o Rasukh,” in Armaqan-i Imam Rabbani, vol. 2 (Lahore: Sher-i Rabbani Publications, 2008), 93–95. 88. See C. Snouck Hurgronje, Mekka in the Latter Part of the 19th Century (Leiden: Brill, 2007); Thierry Zarcone, Sufi Pilgrims from Central Asia and India in Jerusalem (Kyoto: ASAFAS—Kyoto University, 2009). 89. Itzchak Weismann, The Naqshbandiyya: Orthodoxy and Activism in a Worldwide Sufi Tradition (New York: Routledge, 2007), 73–75. 90. Mufti Ghulam Sarvar Lahori, Khazinat al-Asfiya, vol. 1 (Kabul: Ansari Kutub Khana, 1994), 630–631. 91. See Khaliq Ahmad Nizami, “Naqshbandi Influence on Mughal Rulers and Politics,” Islamic Culture 39, no. 1 (1965): 41–65; Friedmann, Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi, 216–219; Friedmann, “Naqshbandis and Awrangzeb”; Buehler, Sufi Heirs, 69–71. 92. Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions, 370. Rawzat is an unusual biography, in that it is replete with references to contemporary court politics and details the impact of political upheavals on the Sirhindi Sufis. S. M. Ikram contends that it was composed to forge a narrative for Sirhindi’s descendants in response to a biography on Adam Binori’s lineage, Manaqib al-Hazarat. Ikram, Rud-i Kawsar, 304–308. 93. Khwaja Muhammad Ihsan Mujaddidi Sirhindi, Rawzat al-Qayyumiyya, ed. Pirzada Iqbal Ahmad Faruqi, vol. 4 (Lahore: Maktaba Nabawiyya, 2002), 285–286.

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Notes to Pages 87–92

94. Ibid., 269, 306. 95. Shah Ghulam ‘Ali Dehlavi, Maqamat-i Mazhari, trans. Muhammad Iqbal Mujaddidi (Lahore: Urdu Science Board, 2001), 48; Ganda Singh, Ahmad Shah Durrani: Father of Modern Afghanistan (London: Asia Pub. House, 1959), 115–118. From 1710 onward, Sirhind was thrice plundered by Sikh armies, who briefly occupied the city and appointed their own governors. 96. ‘Aziz al-Din Vakili Fufalzai, Timur Shah Durrani (Kabul: Anjuman-i Tarikh-i Afghanistan, 1333 / 1954–1955), 679; Singh, Ahmad Shah Durrani, 135. 97. Mir Safar Ahmad Ma‘sumi, Maqamat-i Ma‘sumi, ed. Muhammad Iqbal Mujaddidi, vol. 1 (Lahore: Zia’ al-Qur’an Publications, 2004), 242. 98. Muhammad Na‘imullah Bahraichi, Ma‘mulat-i Mazhari, trans. Muhammad Latif Nayrvi (Lahore: Karmanvala Book Shop, 2009), 181–182; Ma‘sumi, Maqamat-i Ma‘sumi, 242–245; Dehlavi, Maqamat-i Mazhari, 50–51; Singh, Ahmad Shah Durrani, 135. 99. Qazi Nur Muhammad, Jang Nama, ed. Ganda Singh (Amritsar: Sikh History Research Department, 1939), 166–167. 100. As of the census of 1881, the population of Sirhind had diminished to 5,401. Singh, Sirhind through the Ages, 115. 101. When the situation at Sirhind settled at the turn of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, the khānaqāh there also resurfaced, although primarily as a pilgrimage site rather than as a scholastic center. The Sikh ruler of Patiala Maharaja Karam Singh provided a grant in the early nineteenth century for the upkeep of the Mujaddidi shrines, indicating the relationship significantly improved over time. Singh, Sirhind through the Ages, 139–140. 102. Several descendants of Sirhindi had already settled in Delhi following the first Sikh occupation of Sirhind in 1710, while others like Muhammad Zubayr spent extended periods of time in Delhi, often upon the invitation of the Mughal rulers. Dehlavi, Maqamat-i Mazhari, 49–50, 191. 103. Fusfeld, “Shaping of Sufi Leadership,” 155; Muhammad Nazir Ranjha, Tarikh o Tazkira-i Khanaqah-i Mazhariyya Dehli (Lahore: Muhammad Riyaz Durrani, 2010), 61, 64, 112. 104. Arthur Buehler, “Mawlana Khalid and Shah Ghulam ‘Ali in India,” Journal of the History of Sufism: The Naqshbandi-Khalidiyyah Sufi Order 5 (2008): 199–214; Mujaddidi, “‘Alami Satah,” 97; Hourani, “Shaikh Khalid,” 95–98. 105. Mujaddidi, “‘Alami Satah,” 96–97.

3. Transporting Sacred Knowledge 1. Chapter 3 is informed by arguments first developed in “Transporting Knowledge in the Afghan Empire: A Case Study of Two Naqshbandi-Mujaddidi Sufi Manuals,” in Afghanistan’s Islam, ed. Nile Green (Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2016), 105–126. 2. Khwaja Haji Muhammad Fazlullah, ‘Umdat al-Maqamat (Hyderabad, Sindh: Nu‘mani Publishers, 1355 / 1936–1937), 451, 490–495; ‘Aziz al-Din Vakili Fufalzai, Timur Shah Durrani (Kabul: Anjuman-i Tarikh-i Afghanistan, 1333 / 1954–1955), 682. For a detailed biography, see Waleed Ziad, “From Yarkand

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to Sindh via Kabul: The Rise of Naqshbandi-Mujaddidi Sufi Networks in the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries,” in The Persianate World: Rethinking a Shared Sphere, ed. Abbas Amanat and Assef Ashraf (Leiden: Brill, 2019), 132–134. 3. It was a development on a larger, older manual genre used by many Sufi orders. 4. Remarkably, the most recent reproductions were published within the last few decades in Waziristan and Malakand, the borderlands between modern-day Pakistan and Afghanistan. Khwaja Safiullah Sirhindi, Makhzan al-Anwar fi Kashf al-Asrar (Wana, South Waziristan: Jadid Kutub Khana, 1428 / 2007– 2008); Fazl Ahmad Ma‘sumi Peshawari, Rasa’il-i Fazliyya, ed. ‘Abdullah Jan Faruqi (Thana, Malakand Agency: Idara-i Naqshbandiyya Garhi Hazratkhel, 1399 / 1978–1979). 5. Mountstuart Elphinstone, An Account of the Kingdom of Caubul, and Its Dependencies, in Persia, Tartary, and India, vol. 1 (London: R. Bentley, 1839), 249–250; Nikolaï Vladimirovitch Khanykov, Bokhara, Its Amir and Its People, trans. Baron Clement A. de Bode (London: J. Madden, 1845), 274–275; Richard Burton, Sindh and the Races that Inhabit the Valley of the Indus (Karachi: Oxford University Press, 1973), 134–137; Ildikó Bellér-Hann, Community Matters in Xinjiang, 1880–1949: Towards a Historical Anthropology of the Uyghur, China Studies, vol. 17 (Leiden; Boston: Brill, 2008), 326–329. 6. In many cases, single institutions, whether mosques, madrasas, or khānaqāhs, served multiple functions. In fact, the three terms are often used interchangeably in primary sources. 7. Elphinstone, Account of the Kingdom of Caubul, 249–250; Khanykov, Bokhara, 278–292; Burton, Sindh, 137–148. 8. The Sufi master would perform two cycles of the istikhāra prayer, then he would direct his focus to his own heart to receive the response. Imam Muhammad Husayn Jio Sahib Zakori, Rawzat al-Awliya’ fi Ahwal-i Asfiya’ (Zakori, Dera Ismail Khan: Nijaruz Bazaar Press, 1333 / 1914–1915), 190. 9. Shah Waliullah Dehlavi, Rasa’il-i Shah Waliullah Dehlavi, vol. 1 (Lahore: Tasavvuf Foundation, 1999), 52–55. 10. Ibid., 55. 11. In several manuscripts, sections of the Risala are redacted and supplemented with discussions on supererogatory prayers. However, the general framework is the same. 12. Warren Fusfeld, “The Shaping of Sufi Leadership in Delhi: The Naqshbandiyya Mujaddidiyya, 1750–1920” (PhD diss., University of Pennsylvania, 1981), 83–85; Arthur Buehler, Sufi Heirs of the Prophet: The Indian Naqshbandiyya and the Rise of the Mediating Sufi Shaykh (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1998), 112; J. G. J. ter Haar, Follower and Heir of the Prophet: Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi (1564–1624) as Mystic (Leiden: Het Oosters Instituut, 1992), 78, 84. 13. A detailed diagram of the cosmological framework can be found in Arthur Buehler, Revealed Grace: The Juristic Sufism of Ahmad Sirhindi (1564–1624) (Louisville, KY: Fons Vitae, 2011), 32–36.

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Notes to Pages 96–98

14. The first intellect is known as the Muhammadi Reality; the second consists of the names and attributes; the third contains the world of divine command and the world of image exemplars; and the fourth is the material world, or the ‘ālam-i ajsām. Buehler, Sufi Heirs, 114–115. 15. In his Collected Letters, Sirhindi states that the first two levels of determination (unity being conscious of itself and of its attributes, s.ifāt-i tafs.īlī), according to Ibn al-‘Arabi’s model, should be contingent, rather than necessary. He argues that they are not identical although the relationship is beyond human comprehension. According to Sirhindi, God first created the s.ifāt-i wujūd, or quality of existence, and the remaining qualities in his being (s.ifāt-i ‘ilm, s.ifāt-i qudrat, etc.). In opposition to the s.ifāt-i wujūd is its antithesis, the ‘adam-i mah.ad. or pure nothing, as well as the opposites of all the s.ifāt. God then casts a shadow, or z. ill of the pure wujūd or existence into its ‘adam, with which finite existence is created. Burhan Ahmad Faruqi, The Mujaddid’s Concept of Tawhid (Lahore: Institute of Islamic Culture, 1989), 88–89. 16. Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi, Mabda’ o Ma‘ad o Ta’ayyad-i Ahl-i Sunnat (Istanbul: Hakikat Kitabevi, 2000), 11–12; Fazl Ahmad Ma‘sumi Peshawari, “Majmu‘a-i Rasa’il-i Mujaddidiyya,” Dr. Iqbal Mujaddidi collection, University of Punjab, Lahore (Kitabkhana-i Milli Tehran), MSS R. 196, 1246 / 1830–31, 9. 17. Sirhindi, Mabda’ o Ma‘ad, 12–14. In Mujaddidi texts, this wayfaring is also represented by traversing successive spheres through the cosmological structure. In the first stages of the path, the seeker is said to traverse the “circle of contingent existence,” which represents the human macrocosm. The circle is represented in manuals as a physical circle, split in half. The two halves, the world of creation and command, respectively, are separated by a line, which is the ‘arsh (divine throne). From there, the seeker enters into the sphere of lesser sainthood, and on to higher spheres where he or she experiences realms of reality progressively approaching the true essence of God. Abu Sa‘id Dehlavi, Hidayat al-Talibin (Patiala: Samana Publishers, 2005), 6. 18. The concept of the lat.ā’if, as Arthur Buehler notes, can be traced to Junayd al-Baghdadi and Abu Hamid al-Ghazali, but the Kubrawi order can be credited with the first detailed expositions on the subject. Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi provided the most systematic treatment on the concept that was further developed by his successors. Buehler, Sufi Heirs, 106–109. 19. Khwaja Safiullah Sirhindi, “Anwar al-Safi,” University of Sindh Central Library, Jamshoro, MSS 34307, 1845, fol. 8a–9a. One Kabuli manuscript features a map of the lat.ā’if on the human body. Khwaja Safiullah Sirhindi and Anonymous, “Majmu‘a,” Archif-i Milli, Kabul, MSS, 1299, 1881–82, fol. 111a. 20. The position and color association of each lat.īfa varies according to the pedagogy of the teacher. Peshawari, “Majmu‘a,” 3–8; Sirhindi, “Anwar al-Safi,” fol. 12a–14b. 21. For example, the akhfā’ lat.īfa receives its divine energy specifically through the bridge between God’s essence and creation. 22. Buehler, Sufi Heirs, 105, 235. 23. Peshawari, “Majmu‘a,” 5.

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24. Sirhindi, Mabda’ o Ma‘ad, 72; Sirhindi, “Anwar al-Safi,” fol. 16a–20b; Peshawari, “Majmu‘a,” 9–10. 25. The highest form of recollection is that of power (dhikr-i sultānī), the culmination of successive stages of dhikr that engages the entire body. Sirhindi, “Anwar al-Safi,” fol. 14b–15a; Dehlavi, Hidayat al-Talibin, 10. 26. Buehler, Sufi Heirs, 234–240. The concepts found within these works are enumerated in Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi’s Maktubat, Mabda’ o Ma‘ad, Ma‘arif-i Laduniyya, and other writings. Yohanan Friedmann, Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi: An Outline of His Thought and a Study of His Image in the Eyes of Posterity (Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1971), 1–6. 27. Mabda’ o Ma‘ad features discussions on stages of the Sufi path, the relationship between master and disciple, the subtle centers, cosmology, gnosis, and related topics. Unlike the later handbooks, Sirhindi’s discourses are not organized in a sequential, intuitive manner, and they do not contain specifics on practice. 28. Peshawari, “Majmu‘a,” 1. 29. Concise practical manuals had been produced earlier in Sirhind and elsewhere; for example, see ‘Abd al-Ahad Wahdat Sirhindi, “Kuhl al-Jawahir,” Maktabah Mujaddidiyya, Original in private library, Istanbul, MSS, 1309 / 1891–92; Mir Nu‘man, Risala-i Suluk (Hyderabad, Sindh: Al-Mustafa Publications, Old University, 2002). The latter text in fact may have served as a model for later works. However, there are substantive differences between earlier manuals and those produced in the late eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Notably, the later works contain far more comprehensive, instructionoriented descriptions of practices (from initiation onward) with experiential details. Further, they often include comparative sections on practices associated with other orders (as in Makhzan and the Risala). 30. Variances in patterns of reproduction of the two manuals may hold clues into differences in the manner in which each was engaged. Though copies of Makhzan tend to be fairly standard, the Risala was produced in a more fluid and dynamic manner. The substance in each of the Risala copies I have reviewed remains essentially the same, but discourses are amended and redacted in different reproductions. This implies that there was no regularized or centralized copying system for the Risala and that deputies or other readers copied the text based on their individual requirements. Additionally, Makhzan may have served as both a didactic and reference text, with more theoretical discourses accompanying practical discussions and with clear headings and textual divisions. 31. A similar handbook issued from Delhi several decades later indicates that this type of text was to be provided to students so that when they traveled, they could take it with them for educational purposes and as a blessing. Dehlavi, Hidayat al-Talibin, 2–3. 32. For example, a template license (in the name of “khalīfa falān falān,” meaning “whoever it may be”) designates Fazl Ahmad and his son ‘Abd al-Qadir at Bukhara as the source of the license. This document would presumably have been used by deputies to issue written licenses to their own representatives.

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Notes to Pages 100–102

“Ijazatnama and Shajra-i Mujaddidiyya (citing ‘Abd al-Qadir, khalīfa of Fazl Ahmad Ma‘sumi),” Kitabkhana-i Ganj Baksh, Islamabad, MSS 8901, early 19th c. 33. The Risala and Makhzan may have been both authorially circulated and user-published texts. Biographies imply that Fazl Ahmad employed secretaries and scribes. 34. Sirhindi, “Anwar al-Safi,” fol. 6a–7a. 35. Few practical tracts appear to have been issued from the Peshawar and Kabul valleys prior to the nineteenth century. Akhund Darviza had written two didactic and practical tracts (Irshad al-Talibin, and Irshad al-Muridin), while two other such tracts were also composed by the early Mujaddidi and Qadiri master of Peshawar Shah Muhammad Ghaws (d. 1739) (Risala dar Bayan-i Kasb-i Suluk va Bayan-i Tariqat o Hadiqat). Akhund Darviza’s works were widely copied in the eighteenth century and studied within several Sufi orders including the Naqshbandis. In Khurasan at large, the practical genre does not appear to have been popular as a self-standing genre. For example, biographies relate that the early Mujaddidi Sufi, Muhammad Yahya Attocki (d. 1718) excelled at meditative practices like h.abs-i dam (capturing or holding breath), but no writings are known on such subjects. Even the celebrated Mujaddidi lineage of Peshawar Valley, that of Mian Muhammad ‘Umar Chamkanni (d. 1776), produced no such didactic texts. Rather, the Chamkanni Sufis produced poetry in Pashto on doctrine, the history of the Prophet, and other subjects as a means to make such knowledge accessible to local Afghan populations, in addition to works in Persian and Arabic. Faqir Muhammad Amir Shah Qadiri, Tazkira-i ‘Ulama’ o Mashaykh-i Sarhad, vol. 1 (Peshawar: ‘Azim Publishing House, 1972), 34–35, 64–67, 85–88; Muhammad Hanifi, Hayat-i Asar-i Hazrat Mian Muhammad ‘Umar Chamkanni (Peshawar: Islamiya College Peshawar and University of Peshawar, 1987), 303–333. 36. Ghulam ‘Ali Dehlavi, Aydah al-Tariqa (Kundiyan, Mianwali: Khānaqāh-i Sirajiyya Naqshbandiyya-Mujaddidiyya, 2011); Dehlavi, Hidayat al-Talibin; Shah Ahmad Sa‘id Dehlavi, ‘Arba Anhar (Karachi: Sayyid Sabir ‘Ali, n.d.). 37. Muhammad ‘Usman Padkhabi, “Majmu‘a-i Rasa’il,” Archif-i Milli, Kabul, MSS, 1302 / 1884–85; Khwaja Muhammad Na‘im Siddiq, ‘Ulama,’ Mashaykh o ‘Urafa’-i Logar (Kabul: Bunyad-i Hazrat Shaykh Sa‘ad al-Din Ahmad Ansari, 1391 / 2012–13), 86; Mawlana ‘Abd al-Hakim Jio Sahib, “Ta‘lim al-Murid,” Kitabkhana-i Ganj Baksh, Islamabad, MSS 12951, Ahmadshahi (Qandahar), n.d.; Mawlana ‘Abd al-Hakim Jio Sahib, “Risala dar bara-i Tariqa-i Naqshbandiyya,” Kitabkhana-i Ganj Baksh, Islamabad, MSS 5844, Ahmadshahi (Qandahar), 1316 / 1898–99. 38. Nizam al-Din Balkhi Mazari, Tuhfat al-Murshid dar Manaqib-i Qutub-i Zaman Ghaws-i Jahan Hazrat Jio Sahib Shah Fazl Ahmad Ma‘sumi (Lahore: Fayz Ahmad, 1913), 111. 39. Fazlullah, ‘Umdat al-Maqamat, 423. 40. Zakori, Rawzat al-Awliya’, 194. 41. Peshawari, “Majmu‘a,” 12. 42. Ibid., 6.

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43. Ibid., 5. 44. Makhzan even includes a discussion on Sirhindi’s role as the revival of the second millennium. Sirhindi, “Anwar al-Safi,” fol. 24b–25a. 45. Ibid., fol. 33a–42b; Peshawari, “Majmu‘a,” 18–20. 46. Sirhindi, “Anwar al-Safi,” fol. 8a–12a; Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi, Maktubat-i Imam Rabbani, vol. 2 (Karachi: Educational Press, 1972), 360–364 (Epistle 1: 221). 47. Devin DeWeese, “‘Dis-Ordering’ Sufism in Early Modern Central Asia: Suggestions for Rethinking the Sources and Social Structures of Sufi History in the 18th and 19th Centuries,” in History and Culture of Central Asia, ed. Baxtiyor Babadzanov and Yayoi Kawahara (Tokyo: University of Tokyo, 2012), 263–265. 48. Stephen Dale and Alam Payind, “The Ahrari Waqf in Kabul in the Year 1546 and the Mughal Naqshbandiyya,” in India and Central Asia: Commerce and Culture, 1500–1800, ed. Scott Cameron Levi and Muzaffar Alam (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2007), 215–227. 49. Sirhindi, “Anwar al-Safi,” fol. 33a–42b; Peshawari, “Majmu‘a,” 18–20. 50. The Sufi masters point out, for example, that the station of greater sainthood corresponds to the common Sufi concepts of h.aqq al-yaqīn (truth of certainty) and subsistence in God, as well as Ghujdavani’s yād dāsht (keeping in memory). 51. In the case of another similar Mujaddidi practical handbook of ‘Usman Padkhabi, composed several years later in Logar, the systematization of multiple orders became even more pronounced. Padkhabi provides a separate chapter for each of the suborders with which he is affiliated: Mujaddidiyya-Binori, Mujaddiyya-Mazhariyya, Shattariyya, Chishtiyya, Chishti-Nizamiyya, and Suhrawardiyya. Each section is encyclopedically laid out, introducing genealogy, the system of lat.ā’if with their associated positions and colors, and modes of meditative practice for each suborder. Padkhabi, “Majmu‘a-i Rasa’il,” 122–262 (Risala 3). 52. The library at the Mujaddidi Khānaqāh-i ‘Ala’ al-Din in Kabul contains several notebooks of a Mujaddidi deputy in Kabul produced in the early twentieth century. Custodians of the khānaqāh relate that these notebooks reflect older pedagogies from the khānaqāh. This can reasonably be deduced based on scattered descriptions of khānaqāh teachings in biographical narratives and through miscellanies produced in such institutions. On one page of the ‘Ala’ al-Din notebook, for example, the notes weave verses from Rumi’s Masnavi with Sirhindi’s ontological principle of wah.dat-i shuhūd and an exposition on the Sufi concept of the “eye of the heart.” The Sufi master at the khānaqāh provided each deputy with a notebook to be used as a teaching tool, including daily recitations, poetry, hadiths, and stories of saints. Anonymous, “Untitled (khalīfa’s notebook),” Khānaqāh-i ‘Ala’ al-Din, Kabul, MSS, 1349 / 1930–31, fol. 8. 53. See, for instance, “Waqfiya-i Masjid-i Kalta Minar kay al-hal mashhur ast be Masjid-i Mirkan Khushika Bi,” Central State Archives of the Republic of Uzbekistan, MSS 323.1.494, 1100 / 1688–89.

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Notes to Pages 105–109

54. Mullah Juma‘a Quli Khumuli, “Tarikh-i Khumuli,” Institut Vostokovedeniya Akademii Nauk Respubliki Uzbekistan (“IVANRUz”), MSS Inv. Nr. 37 / VI, n.d., fol. 326b–327a. 55. Sirhindi, “Anwar al-Safi,” fol. 29a–32a. 56. Khwaja Safiullah Sirhindi, “Masnavi Chahar Jui,” Dr. Iqbal Mujaddidi Collection, Punjab University (original in Daudi Collection, Lahore), MSS R. No. 108, n.d. “Chahar Jui” means “Four Streams.” 57. Fazl Ahmad Ma‘sumi Peshawari, “Risala-i Asbaq-i Tariqa-i ‘Aliya-i Naqshbandiyya,” in miscellany, Peshawar University, MSS 339 (95 / 131), 1225 / 1810–11; Fazl Ahmad Ma‘sumi Peshawari and Various, “Majmu‘a,” IVANRUz, MSS 2572, Bukhara, early 19th c. Both appear to be professionally produced scribal products. In the Peshawar manuscript, bearing Fazl Ahmad’s seal (the seal is dated 1225 ah), the scribe referenced in writing the presence of Fazl Ahmad’s seal. The scribe, who identified himself as Fazl Ahmad’s disciple Muhammad Chiragh, must have witnessed his teacher affix his seal to the manuscript. 58. Many of the references are from Mabda’ o Ma‘ad and selections from the Collected Letters. 59. This includes the Risala-i Ya‘qub Charkhi and the discourses of ‘Abd alKhaliq Ghujdawani. In two cases we find the license certificate of ‘Abd alKhaliq Ghujdawani, which undoubtedly served as a model or prototype for an initiatory certificate. 60. See, for example, Sirhindi and Anonymous, “Majmu‘a”; Khwaja Safiullah Sirhindi and Anonymous, “Makhzan al-Anwar (with treatise on cosmology and subtle centers),” University of Sindh Central Library, Jamshoro, Sindh, MSS, mid 19th c.; Khwaja Safiullah Sirhindi, “Anwar al-Safi.” 61. See, for example Khwaja Safiullah Sirhindi and Anonymous, “Majmu‘a,” IVANRUz, MSS Inv. Nr. 6901, early 19th c. 62. Various, “Majmu‘a-i Rasa’il (Property of Mullah ‘Abd al-Wajid Sadar Qazi),” IVANRUz, MSS Inv. Nr. 500, Bukhara, early 19th c.; “Majmu‘a (Property of Habibullah Khwaja Sudur),” IVANRUz, MSS Inv. Nr. 2900, probably Bukhara, 1272 / 1855–56; Peshawari, “Majmu‘a.” One compilation also contains Shah Waliullah’s tracts on comparative Sufi practices. 63. Various, “Majmu‘a-i Rasa’il”; Fazl Ahmad Ma‘sumi Peshawari, Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi, Abu’l Khaliq Ghujdavani, and Sufi Allah Yar b. Allah Quli, “Majmu‘a-i Rasa’il,” IVANRUz, MSS Inv. Nr. 12288, early 19th c. The latter manuscript from Khoqand may have been produced by disciples of Sufi Allah Yar, a disciple of Bukhara’s first prominent Mujaddidi master. Nasir al-Din Hanafi al-Bukhari, Tuhfat al-Za’irin (Bukhara: Novo Bukhara, 1910), 63, 71–72; Khumuli, “Tarikh-i Khumuli,” fol. 322b–328a. 64. Elphinstone, Account of the Kingdom of Caubul, 274–275. 65. Shahab al-Din Dawlatabadi et al., “Majmu‘a-i Rasa’il,” IVANRUz, MSS Inv. Nr. 9310, Khoqand, 1283 / 1866–1867. 66. Robert McChesney, Waqf in Central Asia: Four Hundred Years in the History of a Muslim Shrine, 1480–1889 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1991), 250–251; Mazari, Tuhfat al-Murshid, 2.

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67. It is noteworthy that one of the first Mujaddidi writers of practical manuals, ‘Abd al-Ahad Wahdat, provided multiple locations for the lat.ā’if in his manual, pointing out that variances were due to the respective station of the practitioner. See Sirhindi, “Kuhl al-Jawahir.” 68. Muhammad Umar, Islam in Northern India during the Eighteenth Century (New Delhi: Munshiram Manoharlal Publishers, 1993), 273–275, 283–288. 69. Albrecht Hofheinz, “Illumination and Enlightenment Revisited, or: Pietism and the Roots of Islamic Modernity” (lecture, University of Bergen, September 19, 1996), 15–19. 70. Ronald Davidson, Indian Esoteric Buddhism: A Social History of the Tantric Movement (New York: Columbia University Press, 2002), 117.

4. How Peshawar Revived Bukhara’s Sanctity 1. His given name was Ghulam Ahmad. Today he is popularly referred to as “Hazrat Jio Baba,” and “Hazrat Ji Sahab.” Jīo is an archaic term of respect, often applied to saints from Punjab to the Peshawar Valley. Chapter 4 is informed by arguments first developed in “H . azrat Jīo S.āh.ib: How Durrani Peshawar Helped Revive Bukhara’s Sanctity,” in Sufism in Central Asia: New Perspectives on Sufi Traditions, 15th–21st Centuries, ed. Jo-Ann Gross and Devin DeWeese (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 2018), 119–161. 2. See Nizam al-Din Balkhi Mazari, Tuhfat al-Murshid dar Manaqib-i Qutub-i Zaman Ghaws-i Jahan Hazrat Jio Sahib Shah Fazl Ahmad Ma‘sumi (Lahore: Fayz Ahmad, 1913), 3–6; Mir Safar Ahmad Ma‘sumi, Maqamat-i Ma‘sumi, ed. Muhammad Iqbal Mujaddidi, vol. 1 (Lahore: Zia’ al-Qur’an Publications, 2004), 329–349. 3. See Imam Muhammad Husayn Jio Sahib Zakori, Rawzat al-Awliya’ fi Ahwal-i Asfiya’ (Zakori, Dera Ismail Khan: Nijaruz Bazaar Press, 1333 / 1914–1915), 163. 4. Mir Sayyid ‘Abdullah Bukhari was the disciple of ‘Abd al-Ahad (Mian Gul), son of Muhammad Sa‘id, son of Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi. I am grateful to Kashif Chauhan for this reference. 5. There are some discrepancies in the sources regarding Fazl Ahmad’s licenses. First, Tuhfat al-Murshid relates that he attained a license only in the Naqshbandi path from Muhammad Rasa and in the Qadiriyya and Chishtiyya from ‘Abdullah Bukhari. Both Rawzat al-Awliya’ and Makhazin al-Taqwa imply that Fazl Ahmad was also given a license in the Suhrawardi order. Second, though later biographies cite Muhammad Rasa as Fazl Ahmad’s direct teacher, two contemporary licenses cite Fazl Ahmad as the immediate deputy of ‘Abdullah Bukhari, who in turn is listed as the deputy of Muhammad Rasa. See Ahmad Abu’l Khayr al-Makki, Hadia-i Ahmadiya (Kanpur: Matba‘a-i Nizami, 1313 / 1895–1896), 62–63; “Shajra-i Mujaddidiyya of Fazl Ahmad Ma‘sumi,” in miscellany, Kitabkhana-i Ganj Baksh, Islamabad, MSS 3992, early 19th c., 113–114; “Ijazatnama and Shajra-i Mujaddidiyya (citing ‘Abd al-Qadir, khalīfa of Fazl Ahmad Ma‘sumi),” Kitabkhana-i Ganj Baksh, Islamabad, MSS 8901, early 19th c., 260; Mir Husayn b. Shah Murad, “Makhazin

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Notes to Pages 114–118

al-Taqwa,” IVANRUz, MSS Inv. Nr. 5, n.d., fol. 64b–65a; Mazari, Tuhfat al-Murshid, 6–7. 6. Mazari, Tuhfat al-Murshid, 35–36. 7. See Muhammad Shafi‘ Sabir, Shakhsiyat-i Sarhad (Peshawar: University Book Agency, n.d.), 65–66; ‘Abd al-Rahim bin Khan Muhammad Peshawari, “Tasarrufnama,” in miscellany, Khānaqāh-i Hazaratkhel, Thana, Malakand Agency, MSS, mid 19th c., fol. 3a. 8. Mazari, Tuhfat al-Murshid, 4. 9. Zakori, Rawzat al-Awliya’, 182, 185–188. According to the biographies, his teaching circles accommodated up to one hundred companions. At busy times, students would have to enter in shifts. 10. See ‘Abd al-Qadir Sahib Naqshbandi Mujaddidi, Tuhfat-i Awliya’ (Delhi: Hami Islam, Munshi ‘Abd al-Samad, 1330 / 1911–1912), 16–17; Mazari, Tuhfat al-Murshid, 45; Muhammad Iqbal Mujaddidi, “‘Alami Satah par Silsila Naqshbandiyya Mujaddidiyya ka Asr o Rasukh,” in Armaqan-i Imam Rabbani, vol. 2 (Lahore: Sher-i Rabbani Publications, 2008), 97; Mir Safar Ahmad Ma‘sumi, Maqamat-i Ma‘sumi, 354; Zakori, Rawzat al-Awliya’, 166. 11. See Mazari, Tuhfat al-Murshid, 5. 12. Situated in today’s Darugha kachehri. 13. Javed Iqbal, custodian of the khānaqāh and shrine of Fazl Ahmad, Peshawar, May 2015; Sabir, Shakhsiyat-i Sarhad, 65–66. 14. Zakori, Rawzat al-Awliya’, 166. 15. Mazari, Tuhfat al-Murshid, 109. 16. Based on hagiographies, epistles, and chronicles, we can infer that he was based in Bukhara after circa 1787, in 1793, circa 1799, and 1806, and he returned from his last trip to Bukhara in 1814. He also left for hajj during the reign of Amir Hayder (after 1800), but most probably was unable to complete the journey. See Mazari, Tuhfat al-Murshid, 112, 190; Zakori, Rawzat al-Awliya’, 166; Anke von Kügelgen, “Sufimeister und Herrscher im Zwiegespräch: Die Schreiben des Fadl Ahmad aus Peschawar an Amir Haydar in Buchara,” in Muslim Culture in Russia and Central Asia, vol. 3: Arabic, Persian and Turkic Biographical Manuscripts (15th–19th centuries), ed. Michael Kemper, Anke von Kügelgen, and Aširbek Muminov (Berlin: Klaus Schwarz Verlag, 2000), 231; ‘Abd al-Qadir, Tuhfat-i Awliya’, 20–21. 17. ‘Aziz al-Din Vakili Fufalzai, Timur Shah Durrani (Kabul: Anjuman-i Tarikh-i Afghanistan, 1333 / 1954–1955), 274–275; Zakori, Rawzat al-Awliya’, 227–229. 18. The exact number is uncertain. In a letter to Amir Hayder, Fazl Ahmad mentions appointing eight hundred deputies. Mazari, Tuhfat al-Murshid, 144–145. 19. Fazl Ahmad had ten sons with several wives; four died young. See ibid., 131–144; Zakori, Rawzat al-Awliya’, 214–215; Kügelgen, “Sufimeister und Herrsscher,” 232–233; Abu ‘Abd al-Rahman ‘Abdullah bin Muhammad ‘Arif al-Bukhari, Tarikh al-Bukhara wa Tarjumat al-‘Ulama’ (Orenberg: Basama Khanasi, 1908), 3–4. 20. Mazari, Tuhfat al-Murshid, 131–170; Zakori, Rawzat al-Awliya’, 215–217; Shah ‘Abdullah Badakhshi, Armaqan-i Badakhshan (Tehran: Bunyad-i Mawqufat-i Doctor Mahmud Afshar, 1385 / 2006–2007), 111–113; Sabir,

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Shakhsiyat-i Sarhad, 167–171; ‘Abd al-Halim Asar, Ruhani Rabita aw Ruhani Tarun, vol. 2 (Peshawar: University Book Agency, 2004), 780–783; Fikri Seljuqi, Risala-i Mazarat-i Herat (Herat: ‘Abd al-Halim Muhammadi, 1386 / 2007–2008), 249; “Shajratnoma,” Central State Archives of the Republic of Uzbekistan, 323.2.90, early 19th c. 21. Zakori, Rawzat al-Awliya’, 228. 22. Kügelgen, “Sufimeister und Herrsscher,” 342–345. (Teil C-a Nr. 71, fol. 96a–97b) 23. Faqir Muhammad Amir Shah Qadiri, Tazkira-i ‘Ulama’ o Mashaykh-i Sarhad, vol. 1 (Peshawar: ‘Azim Publishing House, 1972), 128. 24. Mazari, Tuhfat al-Murshid, 2, 171–175; Robert McChesney, Waqf in Central Asia: Four Hundred Years in the History of a Muslim Shrine, 1480–1889 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1991), 250–251. 25. Jawad Ullah Jan Faruqi (Khānaqāh-i Hazratkhel), Gulab Niyaz Khan (deputy at Idak, North Waziristan), Javed Iqbal, Peshawar, December 2019. 26. Dera Ismail Khan is an entrepôt on the trading route between Multan and Ghazni. Fayzullah Mansur, Mahr-i Safa: Hazrat Pir Muhammad ‘Abd al-Latif Zakori Sharif (Lahore: Muslim League Writers Academy, 2004), 27–49. 27. ‘Ata Muhammad Qadri, “Hazrat Pir Sayyid Saydan ‘Ali Shah Naqvi Bukhari,” Hakim al-Ummat (December 2015): 42–43. 28. Sufi masters could be affiliated with multiple orders (with separate initiatory genealogies presented in their biographies), but one order would be generally designated as their primary affiliation. See “Ijazatnama and Shajra-i Mujaddidiyya,” 260–261; Mazari, Tuhfat al-Murshid, 177–179. 29. See Mufti Ghulam Sarvar Lahori, Khazinat al-Asfiya, vol. 1 (Kabul: Ansari Kutub Khana, 1994), 630–636, 647–657; Faqir Muhammad Amir Shah Qadiri, Tazkira-i ‘Ulama’ o Mashaykh-i Sarhad, vol. 2 (Peshawar: ‘Azim Publishing House, 1972), 267, 369, 444; Sabir, Shakhsiyat-i Sarhad, 29–43. 30. The biography of the Chishti master Panju Sahib highlights how eighteenthand nineteenth-century Sufis from the Peshawar Valley conceived of themselves as following these and other earlier regional luminaries. In fact, Panju Sahib’s shrine and adjacent mosque were expanded in the Durrani period in 1798, indicating a renewed interest in Peshawar’s earlier Sufi heritage. This shrine complex held a prominent place in the spiritual landscape of the Peshawar Valley. See Mir Ahmad Shah Rizvani Peshawari, Tuhfat-i Awliya’ (Lahore: Matbu‘a-i Mufid-i ‘Am Press, 1321 / 1903–1904). 31. Ahmad Hasan Dani, Peshawar: Historic City of the Frontier (Peshawar: Khyber Mail Press, 1969), 117. 32. Mujaddidi, “‘Alami Satah,” 96–98. 33. Biographical dictionaries of the Peshawar Valley also reference several Sufis and scholars, such as Shaykh Habib Sahib and Shah ‘Abdullah Biyabani Nawshahi, who settled in Peshawar after serving with the Durrani armies or relocated to Peshawar from Kabul and other parts of the Durrani Empire. See Sayyid Amjad Husayn, ‘Alam May Intikhab Peshawar (Peshawar: Dar alAdab, 2003), 144; ‘Ijaz al-Haqq Quddusi, Tazkira-i Sufiya-i Sarhad (Lahore: Markazi Urdu Board, 1966), 357–359.

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Notes to Pages 120–123

34. See Sabir, Shakhsiyat-i Sarhad, 61–62; Quddusi, Tazkira-i Sufiya-i Sarhad, 454–455. 35. By 1878, however, the educational apparatus of Peshawar had all but disappeared. See Munshi Gopal Das, Tarikh-i Peshawar (Lahore: Koh-i Nur Press, 1878), 701–711; The Thirty-Seventh Report of the Calcutta Corresponding Committee of the Church Missionary Society Being for the Year 1855 (Calcutta: Sanders, Cones & Co., 1856), 83. 36. Of this amount, twenty thousand rupees had been directly allotted to Fazl Ahmad, while Mahmud Shah Durrani allotted ten thousand to his son Fazl-i Haqq. 37. These villages were assigned to either Fazl Ahmad or to his sons, and included twelve villages in the Peshawar region, three in Doaba (the fertile triangle near the confluence of the Swat and Kabul rivers), and two in Jalalabad (to Ghulam Qadir and Mian Fazl-i Haqq). See Mazari, Tuhfat al-Murshid, 34–35; Kügelgen, “Sufimeister und Herrsscher,” 247–248. 38. Hafiz Muhammad Fazil Khan, Tarikh-i Manazil-i Bukhara (Srinagar: Centre of Central Asian Studies, 1981), 4, 27. 39. Akhund ‘Abd al-Ghafur set up an independent polity at Swat under Sayyid Akbar Shah in 1849 and assumed direct control after 1857. See Abdul Wadud, The Story of Swat as Told by the Founder Miangul Abdul Wadud Badshah Sahib to Muhammad Asif Khan (Peshawar: Ferozsons Limited, 1963), xlii; Quddusi, Tazkira-i Sufiya-i Sarhad, 551; ‘Abdullah Jan Faruqi, Gulha-i Chaman (Thana, Malakand Agency: Idara-i Naqshbandiyya Garhi Hazratkhel, 1967), 60–61. 40. Quddusi, Tazkira-i Sufiya-i Sarhad, 561–564; ‘Allama Mullah Safiullah, Nazm al-Durrar fi Salik al-Sayr (Delhi: Matba‘ al-Faruqi, late 19th c.), 9–10. 41. Two notable grandsons of Khwaja Safiullah’s older brother were among Fazl Ahmad’s deputies in Peshawar. Mazari, Tuhfat al-Murshid, 156, 189; Khwaja Haji Muhammad Fazlullah, ‘Umdat al-Maqamat (Hyderabad, Sindh: Nu‘mani Publishers, 1355 / 1936–1937), 189, 434; Shah Ghulam ‘Ali Dehlavi, Maqamat-i Mazhari, trans. Muhammad Iqbal Mujaddidi (Lahore: Urdu Science Board, 2001), 49. 42. The practical implications of the affiliation between khānaqāhs and madrasas are not always clear. 43. Charles Masson, “Masson Collection: Papers of Charles Masson (1800–53),” British Library, India Office Records and Private Papers, B98, 1828, fol. 24. 44. Mountstuart Elphinstone, “Papers of Mountstuart Elphinstone: Accounts of Afghanistan and Central Asia, Etc.,” British Library, India Office Records and Private Papers, MSS Eur F88 / 372, 1808, fols. 67–68. 45. See ‘Abd al-Rahim Peshawari, “Tasarrufnama,” fol. 2a–2b. 46. Another possibility is that khānaqāhs may have been deliberately promoted by local rulers as way-stations for travelers. In the wake of political crisis in Khurasan and Transoxiana in the early eighteenth century, the official caravansarai network facilitated by the courts at Delhi and Bukhara deteriorated. Masson mentioned staying at several khānaqāhs and shrines between Hindustan and Kabul. Audrey Burton, Bukharan Trade 1558–1718, Papers on Inner

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Asia 23 (Bloomington: Research Institute for Inner Asia Studies, Indiana University, 1993), 25; Charles Masson, “Masson Collection: Papers of Charles Masson (1800–53),” British Library, India Office Records and Private Papers, E163, 1828, (b), 2; ‘Abd al-Qadir, Tuhfat-i Awliya’, 15–16. 47. Kügelgen, “Sufimeister und Herrsscher,” 232–233. 48. Meer Izzut-oollah, Travels in Central Asia by Meer Izzut-Oollah in the Years 1812–13, trans. Captain Henderson (Calcutta: Foreign Dept. Press, 1872), 58. 49. See ‘Abd al-Qadir, Tuhfat-i Awliya’, 28–29. 50. Ibid., 16, 22–23, 29–30. 51. Ibid., 17–18. 52. Ibid., 22–23. 53. Kügelgen, “Sufimeister und Herrsscher,” 249–250. 54. ‘Abd al-Rahim Peshawari, “Tasarrufnama,” fol. 8b–9a. 55. The Manghits effectively ruled as atālīqs (royal tutors) from 1747 to 1785 and assumed the title khan from 1785 to 1920. 56. See William Erskine, “Erskine Papers: Oriental Chronology and Geography,” British Library, India Office Records and Private Papers, MSS Eur D 28, 1810, 140; Nikolaï Vladimirovitch Khanykov, Bokhara, Its Amir and Its People, trans. Baron Clement A. de Bode (London: J. Madden, 1845), 246. 57. See Khwaja Muhammad Ihsan Mujaddidi Sirhindi, Rawzat al-Qayyumiyya, ed. Pirzada Iqbal Ahmad Faruqi, vol. 2 (Lahore: Maktaba Nabawiyya, 2002), 133–136. 58. Devin DeWeese, “‘Dis-Ordering’ Sufism in Early Modern Central Asia: Suggestions for Rethinking the Sources and Social Structures of Sufi History in the 18th and 19th Centuries,” in History and Culture of Central Asia, ed. Baxtiyor Babadzanov and Yayoi Kawahara (Tokyo: University of Tokyo, 2012), 263–265. 59. See Nasir al-Din Hanafi al-Bukhari, Tuhfat al-Za’irin (Bukhara: Novo Bukhara, 1910), 71–72; Robert D. Crews, For Prophet and Tsar (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2006), 31–32. 60. See Riza al-Din bin Fakhr al-Din, Asar, vol. 2 (Kazan, 1900), 145; Muhammad Ibrahim Khalil, Mazarat-i Shahr-i Kabul (Kabul: Anjuman-i Nasharati Danish, 1383 / 2004–2005), 64–65; Khalil Ahmad Sirhindi, “Takmila-i Rashahat,” Dr. Iqbal Mujaddidi Collection, Punjab University, MSS R. No. 135 (original at King Abdul Aziz Fahad Library, Madina, MS No. 902 / 51), 1249 / 1833–34, fol. 38b. 61. Anke von Kügelgen, “Die Entfaltung der Naqsbandiya Mugaddidiya im mittleren Transoxanien vom 18. bis zum Beginn ees 19. Jahrhunderts,” in Muslim Culture in Russia and Central Asia from the 18th to the Early 20th Centuries, vol. 2, ed. Allen Frank, Michael Kemper, Anke von Kügelgen (Berlin: Klaus Schwarz Verlag, 1998), 142; Baxtiyor Babadžanov, “On the History of the Naqšbandiya Muğaddidiya in Central Māwarā’annahr in the Late 18th and Early 19th Centuries,” in Muslim Culture in Russia and Central Asia from the 18th to the Early 20th Centuries, vol. 1, ed. Michael Kemper, Anke von Kügelgen, and Dmitriy Yermakov (Berlin: Klaus Schwarz Verlag, 1996), 391–398.

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Notes to Pages 128–131

62. Maqsud ibn Nasr Bukhari, “Rawayat al-Quds,” Private Collection of Kamilxon Kattayev, Samarkand MSS, 19th c., 279. An earlier endowment deed for the Mirakan provides some indications regarding Fazl Ahmad’s appointment upon his arrival in Bukhara. “Waqfiya-i Khanaqah Madrasa Mirakan,” Central State Archives of the Republic of Uzbekistan, MSS 323.1.1186, 1077 / 1666–67; “Bayan-i Madrasa-i Mirakan va Mawqufat-i An,” Uzbekistan National Archives, MSS 323.1.1186, 1071 / 1660–61. 63. Arminius Vambery, Travels in Central Asia (Cambridge: Cambridge Scholars Press, 1864), 363–364; Khanykov, Bokhara, 103. 64. The Mirakans were one of the five families who were awarded positions of honor in the Bukharan court from generation to generation. Yuri Bregel, The Administration of Bukhara under the Manghïts and Some Tashkent Manuscripts, Papers on Inner Asia 34 (Bloomington: Research Institute for Inner Asian Studies, Indiana University, 2000), 22–23. 65. The endowment provided for several full-time functionaries, including a mullah imam who would lead prayers; a khat.īb for Friday prayers; three h.uffāz., who would recite the Qur’an before Friday prayers; a mu’azzin; and a sweeper, as well as for expenses for cleaning and lighting and building repairs. 66. “Waqfiya-i Khanaqah Madrasa Mirakan.” 67. In one hagiographic episode, a disciple searches for Fazl Ahmad, first at the “khānaqāh” then in his “havelī” (house), and finally finds him in the “h.ujra (cell) of the madrasa,” implying that each space was distinct. Mazari, Tuhfat al-Murshid, 111–112. 68. Ibid., 125. 69. Shah Murad was also initiated by Jan Muhammad Kulabi, the deputy of the Mujaddidi master Sufi Allah Yar. Zakori, Rawzat al-Awliya’, 174–175; alBukhari, Tarikh al-Bukhara, 54–55, 111–112; Mir Husayn, “Makhazin alTaqwa,” fol. 15a, 30b–31a, 63b–65a. 70. Zakori, Rawzat al-Awliya’, 169–170, 179. 71. Mir Husayn, “Makhazin al-Taqwa,” fol. 63b–64a; Zakori, Rawzat alAwliya’, 166–167; Kügelgen, “Sufimeister und Herrsscher,” 326–330. (Teil C-a Nr. 28, fol. 56a–58a) 72. Mazari, Tuhfat al-Murshid, 135. 73. See Arminius Vambery, History of Bokhara from the Earliest Period down to the Present (London: Henry S. King & Co., 1873), 283, 313, 328, 336, 338, 343, 345. 74. For details, see Mirza Shams Bukhari, Tarikh-i Bukhara, Khoqand, o Kashgar (Tehran: Ayna-i Miras, 1377 / 1998–99), 113; Erskine, “Erskine Papers,” 138–139; Kügelgen, “Sufimeister und Herrsscher,” 240–241. 75. Erskine, “Erskine Papers,” 138–139; Bukhari, Tarikh-i Bukhara, Khoqand, o Kashgar, 116. 76. See Mir Husayn, “Makhazin al-Taqwa,” fol. 2b–3a; Mirza ‘Abd al-‘Azim Sami, “Tuhfat-i Shahi,” IVANRUz, MSS Inv. Nr. 2091, n.d., fol. 58a–60b. 77. Izzut-oollah, Travels in Central Asia, 61. Khanykov refers to Shah Murad as “Ishan-Morad-Bey” (Khanykov, Bokhara, 3), while Mirza Shams Bukhari mentions that the people referred to him with the appellation

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“h.azrat” (Bukhari, Tarikh-i Bukhara, Khoqand, o Kashgar, 116.). Shah Murad and Amir Hayder are among the only contemporary rulers in Hindustan, Khurasan, or Transoxiana to be awarded their own entries in Sufi biographical dictionaries. See Fazil Khan, Tarikh-i Manazil-i Bukhara, 37–38, 42–43; al-Bukhari, Tuhfat al-Za’irin, 94–96; Bukhari, “Rawayat al-Quds,” 287. 78. Mir ‘Izzatullah claimed there were eighty colleges in Bukhara as of 1812–13, containing forty to two hundred or three hundred rooms each, while Khanykov estimated between 180 and 200 madrasas in Bukhara under Amir Nasrullah (r. 1826–1860), and the number of students enrolled at 15,000 to 16,000. Izzut-oollah, Travels in Central Asia, 63; Khanykov, Bokhara, 294; Jo-Ann Gross, “The Naqshbandiya Connection: From Central Asia to India and Back (16th–19th Centuries),” in India and Central Asia: Commerce and Culture, 1500–1800, ed. Scott Cameron Levi (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2007), 249; Munshi ‘Abd al-Karim, Waqi‘at-i Durrani, trans. Mir Waris ‘Ali Sayfi (Lahore: Punjabi Adabi Academy, 1963), 80. 79. Others rulers of the Amu Darya region devoted to Fazl Ahmad probably included Murad Beg of Qunduz and Mir Sultan Shah of Badakhshan, who patronized two deputies and family members of Fazl Ahmad. Mazari, Tuhfat al-Murshid, 35; Kügelgen, “Sufimeister und Herrsscher,” 245–249, 346–347 (Teil C–a Nr. 93, fol. 118b–119a); William Moorcroft and George Trebeck, Travels in the Himalayan Provinces of Hindustan and the Panjab; in Ladakh and Kashmir; in Peshawar, Kabul, Kunduz, and Bokhara: From 1819 to 1825, vol. 2 (London: J. Murray, 1841), 447; Badakhshi, Armaqan-i Badakhshan, 111–113; Izzut-oollah, Travels in Central Asia, 63. 80. Mirza ‘Abd al-Qadir Qadiri Kashmiri (quoted in ‘Aziz al-Din Vakili Fufalzai, Durrat al-Zaman fi Tarikh-i Shah Zaman [Kabul: Anjuman-i Tarikh-i Afghanistan, 1337 / 1958–59], 403) mentions that Zaman Shah Durrani provided stipends to Durrani students to study at madrasas in Bukhara, notably the Kokaltash. 81. Mountstuart Elphinstone, An Account of the Kingdom of Caubul, and Its Dependencies, in Persia, Tartary, and India, vol. 1 (London: R. Bentley, 1839), 250. 82. A genealogical chart of Fazl Ahmad’s deputies prepared at Bukhara indicates who frequented the Mirakan khānaqāh. Of fifty-six names, twenty-one are Hindustanis and Peshawaris, some of whom accompanied Fazl Ahmad to Transoxiana. The remaining thirty-five are Bukharis, as well as migrants from Khoqand and Khojand. “Shajratnoma.” 83. The Mughal emperors, particularly Aurangzeb, invested heavily in Sialkot’s scholastic infrastructure. Like other Punjabi towns, after 1764 Sialkot was occupied by the Sikhs and became a battleground for competing Sikh misls and the Durranis. Rashid Niyaz, Tarikh-i Sialkot (Sialkot: Maktaba Niyaz, 1957), 40–52, 77–95; Annemarie Schimmel, Islam in the Indian Subcontinent (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1980), 100. 84. Mazari, Tuhfat al-Murshid, 175–180. 85. Ibid., 156. 86. Ibid., 188.

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Notes to Pages 133–142

87. See Kügelgen, “Die Entfaltung der Naqsbandiya Mugaddidiya,” 145–147. 88. Mazari, Tuhfat al-Murshid, 143. 89. Mazari, Tuhfat al-Murshid, 99, 152–170; Mullah Juma‘a Quli Khumuli, “Tarikh-i Khumuli,” IVANRUz, MSS Inv. Nr. 37 / VI, n.d., fol. 328a. 90. “Damulla” and “Akhund Mullah” were scholastic designations used primarily around Transoxiana. 91. Mazari, Tuhfat al-Murshid, 116–117. 92. Ibid., 108–109. 93. Sa‘ad al-Din Ansari, “Mi‘yar al-Kashuf,” Private collection, copy of original manuscript (held by Kabul bookseller), MSS, Peshawar or Kabul, 1999 (copy date), 9–11, 19. 94. Khumuli, “Tarikh-i Khumuli,” fol. 327b. 95. Gopal Das, in Tarikh-i Peshawar (1878) provides a “list of those pilgrimage sites and mosques which the people of Peshawar consider blessed.” Fazl Ahmad’s is one of fifteen. His annual death anniversary still draws pilgrims from across Pakistan and Afghanistan. Das, Tarikh-i Peshawar, 148–149. M. Zaman Khokhar, Peshawar Say Quetta Tak: Daman-i Koh may Qadimi Tarikhi aur Ruhani Maqamat (Gujarat, Punjab: Yasir Academy, 2003), 229. 96. The terms pīrzāda and s.āh.ibzāda refer to the progeny of a Sufi master.

5. The Saint and the Khan 1. See Ilber Ortayli, “The Policy of the Sublime Porte towards Naqshbandis and Other Tariqas during the Tanzimat Period,” in Naqshbandis in Western and Central Asia, ed. Elizabeth Ozdalga (Istanbul: Swedish Research Institute, 1999), 67–72; Butrus Abu-Manneh, “The Islamic Roots of the Gülhane Rescript,” Die Welt Des Islams 34, no. 2 (1994): 173–203. 2. Damullah ‘Iwaz Baqi, “Anonymous (Biography of Fazl Ahmad Ma‘sumi),” in “Tariqa-i ‘Aliya-i Naqshbandiyya,” Bodleian Library, Oxford, Ms. Pers e.48, Erzerum, 1809, fol. 51a–52b. 3. Amir Hayder did not seriously pursue the Sufi path until well after his coronation. Mir ‘Izzatullah tells us that upon Shah Murad’s death, Amir Hayder “surrounded himself with all the pomp and circumstance of royalty.” Two years later, however, he underwent a transformation, assuming a demeanor of piety and simplicity, and replacing his titles “Sayyid Amir Hayder Padishah-i Ghazi” with “Amir al-Muminin Amir Hayder.” His mother was Abu’l Fayz Khan’s daughter, through which he claimed Sayyid and Chinggisid descent. Meer Izzut-oollah, Travels in Central Asia by Meer Izzut-Oollah in the Years 1812–13, trans. Captain Henderson (Calcutta: Foreign Dept. Press, 1872), 67. 4. Imam Muhammad Husayn Jio Sahib Zakori, Rawzat al-Awliya’ fi Ahwal-i Asfiya’ (Zakori, Dera Ismail Khan: Nijaruz Bazaar Press, 1333 / 1914–1915), 188–189. 5. Izzut-oollah, Travels in Central Asia, 65–67; Abu ‘Abd al-Rahman ‘Abdullah bin Muhammad ‘Arif al-Bukhari, Tarikh al-Bukhara wa Tarjumat al-‘Ulama’ (Orenberg: Basama Khanasi, 1908), 76; Ahmad Makhdum Danish, Risala-i

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Mukhtasar az Tarikh-i Sultanat-i Khanadan-i Manghitiyya (Stalinabad, Tajikistan: Dawlati Tajikistan, 1960), 26–28. 6. William Moorcroft, “Moorcroft Collection: Bokhara and Return from Bokhara,” British Library, India Office Records and Private Papers, MSS Eur D 254, 1824, 17–19. 7. Danish, Risala-i Mukhtasar, 26–27; Arminius Vambery, Travels in Central Asia (Cambridge: Cambridge Scholars Press, 1864), 362–363. 8. Vambery, Travels in Central Asia, 363. 9. Danish, Risala-i Mukhtasar, 28. 10. Izzut-oollah, Travels in Central Asia, 63. 11. Nizam al-Din Balkhi Mazari, Tuhfat al-Murshid dar Manaqib-i Qutub-i Zaman Ghaws-i Jahan Hazrat Jio Sahib Shah Fazl Ahmad Ma‘sumi (Lahore: Fayz Ahmad, 1913), 31–32. 12. Zakori, Rawzat al-Awliya’, 215. 13. Anke von Kügelgen, “Sufimeister und Herrscher im Zwiegespräch: Die Schreiben des Fadl Ahmad aus Peschawar an Amir Haydar in Buchara,” in Muslim Culture in Russia and Central Asia, vol. 3: Arabic, Persian and Turkic Biographical Manuscripts (15th–19th centuries), ed. Michael Kemper, Anke von Kügelgen, and Aširbek Muminov (Berlin: Klaus Schwarz Verlag, 2000), 326. (Teil C-a Nr. 28, fol. 56a) 14. Mazari, Tuhfat al-Murshid, 100, 144–145. 15. Kügelgen, “Sufimeister und Herrsscher,” 249–250. 16. Ibid., 244–245, 339–341. (Teil C-a Nr. 24, fol. 50a–51a, Teil C-a Nr. 65, fol. 90b–91b) 17. Ibid., 245–248, 346–347. (Teil C-a Nr. 93, fol. 118b–119a) 18. Ibid., 240–241. 19. Faqir Muhammad Amir Shah Qadiri, Tazkira-i ‘Ulama’ o Mashaykh-i Sarhad, vol. 1 (Peshawar: ‘Azim Publishing House, 1972), 122–127. 20. Kügelgen, “Sufimeister und Herrsscher,” 327–330. (Teil C-a Nr. 28, fol. 56b–58a) 21. Ibid., 327–328. (Teil C-a Nr. 28, fol. 56b–57a) 22. Ibid., 328–329. (Teil C-a Nr. 28, fols. 57a–57b) 23. Ibid., 329. (Teil C-a Nr. 28, fol. 57b) 24. Ibid., 329–330. (Teil C-a Nr. 28, fols. 57b–58a) 25. Ibid., 330. (Teil C-a Nr. 28, fol. 58a) 26. Ibid., 334–338. (Teil C-a Nr. 57, fols. 84b–86b) 27. Hafiz Ahsan Peshawari, “Letter to Amir Hayder of Bukhara,” in miscellany, Islamia College, Peshawar MSS, n.d., fol. 211a. 28. Ibid., 211a–211b; Hafiz Ahsan Peshawari, “Manh al-Bari fi Sharh Sahih Bukhari,” Peshawar University, MSS 393, 1206 / 1791–92, fol. 3a (margin). 29. Peshawari, “Letter to Amir Hayder of Bukhara,” fol. 211a–211b. 30. Ibid., fol. 211b–213a. 31. For example, referring to Abu Zakariyya Yahya al-Fara’ (d. 822–823), Abu Ishaq al-Zajaj (d. 923), Ibn Sahman, Baydawi, Bukhari, and Imam Shafi‘i. 32. Azfar Moin, The Millennial Sovereign: Sacred Kingship and Sainthood in Islam (New York: Columbia University Press, 2012), 1–14.

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Notes to Pages 149–152

33. Izzut-oollah, Travels in Central Asia, 64. 34. William Erskine, “Erskine Papers: Oriental Chronology and Geography,” British Library, India Office Records and Private Papers, MSS Eur D 28, 1810, 149–151. 35. Mirza Shams Bukhari, Tarikh-i Bukhara, Khoqand, o Kashgar (Tehran: Ayna-i Miras, 1377 / 1998–99), 17; Nikolaï Vladimirovitch Khanykov, Bokhara, Its Amir and Its People, trans. Baron Clement A. de Bode (London: J. Madden, 1845), 3. 36. Tuhfat al-Za’irin mentions that his successor, Muhammad Siddiq, helped Shah Murad break separatist tendencies in contested regions. Nasir al-Din Hanafi al-Bukhari, Tuhfat al-Za’irin (Bukhara: Novo Bukhara, 1910), 139. 37. Khumuli was a disciple of Muhammad Amin. Baxtiyor Babadžanov, “On the History of the Naqšbandiya Muğaddidiya in Central Māwarā’annahr in the Late 18th and Early 19th Centuries,” in Muslim Culture in Russia and Central Asia from the 18th to the Early 20th Centuries, vol. 1, ed. Michael Kemper, Anke von Kügelgen, and Dmitriy Yermakov (Berlin: Klaus Schwarz Verlag, 1996), 393, 396. 38. Mazari, Tuhfat al-Murshid, 134. 39. Mullah Juma‘a Quli Khumuli, “Tarikh-i Khumuli,” IVANRUz, MSS Inv. Nr. 37 / VI, n.d., fol. 313b–314b. 40. Muhammad Hakim Khan, Mantakhab al-Tawarikh, ed. Yayoi Kawahara and Koichi Haneda, Studia Culturae Islamica 95, vol. 1 (Tokyo: Research Institute for Languages and Cultures of Asia and Africa, 2009), 387. 41. Ibid., vol. 1, 395; Muhammad Hakim Khan, Mantakhab al-Tawarikh, ed. Yayoi Kawahara and Koichi Haneda, Studia Culturae Islamica 81, vol. 2 (Tokyo: Research Institute for Languages and Cultures of Asia and Africa, 2006), 68–71; Erskine, “Erskine Papers,” 150; Izzut-oollah, Travels in Central Asia, 53–54. Eventually, in 1807, Ura Tepe fell to a descendant of ‘Ubaydullah Ahrar, who ruled it independently, paying titular homage to Bukhara. 42. Ishaq Khawaja was the son of Qazi Khwaja Ishaqi and had been awarded an endowment (for a khānaqāh and madrasa) at Dahbid under Rahim Khan while Musa Khan was in Hindustan. Majzub Namangani, “Tazkira-i Majzub Namangani,” IVANRUz, MSS Inv. Nr. 2662 / 2, n.d., fol. 15b. 43. Khumuli, “Tarikh-i Khumuli,” fol. 326b; Mazari, Tuhfat al-Murshid, 106. 44. Khumuli, “Tarikh-i Khumuli,” fol. 326b–327a. 45. Mir Husayn b. Shah Murad, “Makhazin al-Taqwa,” IVANRUz, MSS Inv. Nr. 5, n.d., fol. 58b–59a; Khumuli, “Tarikh-i Khumuli,” fol. 326b. 46. Maqsud ibn Nasr Bukhari, “Rawayat al-Quds,” Private Collection of Kamilxon Kattayev, Samarkand MSS, 19th c., 279. 47. Kügelgen, “Sufimeister und Herrsscher,” 284–286. 48. Ibid., 232–233. 49. Ibid., 300, 308. 50. Babadžanov, “On the History of the Naqšbandiya Muğaddidiya,” 231. 51. al-Bukhari, Tuhfat al-Za’irin, 94–95. 52. See Babadžanov, “On the History of the Naqšbandiya Muğaddidiya,”; Devin DeWeese, “‘Dis-Ordering’ Sufism in Early Modern Central Asia: Suggestions

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for Rethinking the Sources and Social Structures of Sufi History in the 18th and 19th Centuries,” in History and Culture of Central Asia, ed. Baxtiyor Babadzanov and Yayoi Kawahara (Tokyo: University of Tokyo, 2012). 53. Mazari, Tuhfat al-Murshid, 98–99. 54. I am grateful to James Pickett for bringing to my attention a reference to Ghulam Qadir in the Tazkirat al-Shu‘ara of ‘Abd al-‘Azim Shar‘i. 55. Among the mosques that hosted Friday prayers were Mir ‘Arab, across from the Kalyan Minar and the khānaqāh-madrasa of Niyaz Quli Turkmen. al-Bukhari, Tarikh al-Bukhara, 2–3, 15–16; Kügelgen, “Sufimeister und Herrsscher,” 286, 308; Thierry Zarcone, “Le Qadiriyya en Asie centrale et au Turkestan oriental,” ed. Thierry Zarcone et al., Journal of the History of Sufism: The Qadiriyya Order 1–2 (2000): 322–323. 56. al-Bukhari, Tarikh al-Bukhara, 3. 57. Munshi Gopal Das, Tarikh-i Peshawar (Lahore: Koh-i Nur Press, 1878), 660–680. 58. Fayz Muhammad Katib Hazarah, The History of Afghanistan: Fayz Muhammad Katib Hazarah’s Siraj Al-Tawarikh, trans. Robert McChesney and Mohammad Mehdi Khorrami, vol. 1 (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 280–281. 59. Khan, Mantakhab al-Tawarikh, vol. 1, 514–515; Munshi Mohan Lal, Life of the Amir Dost Mohammed Khan of Kabul, vol. 2 (London: Longman, Brown, Green, and Longmans, 1846), 339. 60. The sons of Fazl Ahmad may have been purposefully allocated separate geographies, with Fazl-i Haqq inheriting the Khurasani and Hindustani caliphate. 61. The genealogical chart lists both Ghulam Qadir and his brother Mian Fazlullah together, as a single node, implying that they managed a combined network. 62. During an investigation of Sufis of Tashkent, Lykoshin noted a certain Artuq Khwaja Ishan, who was initiated by Mian Ghulam Qadir, and engaged in silent dhikr. This Ishan had five hundred disciples, and among his deputies was one ‘Abd al-Qadir Khwaja in Siberia. Zarcone, “Le Qadiriyya,” 324; Thierry Zarcone, “Les confréries soufies en Sibérie (XIXe siècle et début du XXe siècle),” Cahiers du Monde Russe, 2000, 290. 63. “Shajratnoma,” Central State Archives of the Republic of Uzbekistan, 323.2.90, early 19th c. 64. Zarcone, “Le Qadiriyya,” 322–325; al-Bukhari, Tarikh al-Bukhara, 3–4, 15–16. 65. Robert D. Crews, For Prophet and Tsar (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2006), 51–55. 66. Allen J. Frank, Bukhara and the Muslims of Russia: Sufism, Education, and the Paradox of Islamic Prestige (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 106, 110–112. 67. Alfrid Bustanov, “Notes on the Yasaviya and Naqshbandiya in Western Siberia in the 17th–Early 20th Centuries,” in Islam, Society and States across the Qazaq Steppe (18th–Early 20th Centuries), ed. Niccolo Pianciola and Paolo Sartori (Vienna: Osterreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2013), 83–88; Alfrid Bustanov, “The Sacred Texts of Siberian Khwāja Families. The Descendants of Sayyid Ata,” Journal of Islamic Manuscripts 2 (2011): 95.

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Notes to Pages 156–164

68. Alfrid Bustanov, The Book Culture of Siberian Muslims (Moscow: Mardjani Publishing House, 2013), 88–90, 112–116. 69. Zarcone, “Les confréries soufies en Sibérie,” 287–291; al-Bukhari, Tarikh al-Bukhara, 4, 24–26; Riza al-Din bin Fakhr al-Din, Asar, vol. 2 (Kazan, 1900), 266; ‘Abdullah bin Muhammad ‘Arif al-Mu‘azi, al-Qatrat min Bihar al-Haqa’iq fi Tarjumat Ahwal Mashaykh al-Tara’iq (Orenberg, n.d.), 27–29, 62–63. 70. Salih bin Sabit, Marjani (Kazan: Ma‘arif Matba‘si, 1333 / 1914–1915), 71–72. 71. Alfrid Bustanov, “‘Abd al-Rashīd Ibrāhīm’s Biographical Dictionary on Siberian Islamic Scholars,” Kazan Islamic Review 1 (2014): 12, 14, 67. 72. Adeeb Khalid, The Politics of Muslim Cultural Reform: Jadidism in Central Asia (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998), 46–48. 73. Ibid., 66. 74. Stéphane A. Dudoignon, “La question scolaire à Boukhara et au Turkestan russe, du « premier renouveau » à la soviétisation (fin du XVIIIe siècle-1937),” Cahiers du monde Russe 37, no. 1 (1996): 133–210. 75. Crews, For Prophet and Tsar, 72, 74. 76. Frank, Bukhara and the Muslims of Russia, 151–153, 161. 77. Shahab al-Din Marjani, Mustafad al-Akhbar fi Ahwal Qazan wa Bulghar, vol. 2 (Kazan: Tipografiya Imperatoroskago Universiteta, 1900), 257. 78. Ibid., 106–107.

6. Peshawar in Turmoil 1. Henry Walter Bellew, A General Report on the Yusufzai (Lahore: Sang-e-Meel Publications, 1977), 78–80. 2. Nizam al-Din Balkhi Mazari, Tuhfat al-Murshid dar Manaqib-i Qutub-i Zaman Ghaws-i Jahan Hazrat Jio Sahib Shah Fazl Ahmad Ma‘sumi (Lahore: Fayz Ahmad, 1913), 171. 3. ‘Abd al-Rahim bin Khan Muhammad Peshawari, “Tasarrufnama,” in miscellany, Khānaqāh-i Hazaratkhel, Thana, Malakand Agency, MSS, mid 19th c., fol. 2a–2b. 4. ‘Abd al-Qadir Sahib Naqshbandi Mujaddidi, Tuhfat-i Awliya’ (Delhi: Hami Islam, Munshi ‘Abd al-Samad, 1330 / 1911–1912), 24–25. 5. See Mazari, Tuhfat al-Murshid, 112. 6. Jonathan Lee, The “Ancient Supremacy”: Bukhara, Afghanistan and the Battle for Balkh, 1731–1901 (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 108–110. 7. Gazetteer of the Peshawar District (1897–1898) (Lahore: Government of Punjab, 1898), 64–65; Ahmad Hasan Dani, Peshawar: Historic City of the Frontier (Peshawar: Khyber Mail Press, 1969), 126. 8. Mazari, Tuhfat al-Murshid, 133; ‘Abdullah Jan Faruqi, Gulha-i Chaman (Thana, Malakand Agency: Idara-i Naqshbandiyya Garhi Hazratkhel, 1967), 51. 9. This is probably due to the family migration to Yaghestan. 10. Faruqi, Gulha-i Chaman, 49–50. 11. Mazari, Tuhfat al-Murshid, 129; Anke von Kügelgen, “Sufimeister und Herrscher im Zwiegespräch: Die Schreiben des Fadl Ahmad aus Peschawar an Amir

Notes to Pages 164–170 

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Haydar in Buchara,” in Muslim Culture in Russia and Central Asia, vol. 3: Arabic, Persian and Turkic Biographical Manuscripts (15th–19th centuries), ed. Michael Kemper, Anke von Kügelgen, and Aširbek Muminov (Berlin: Klaus Schwarz Verlag, 2000), 233. 12. Mazari, Tuhfat al-Murshid, 3. 13. Mohan Lal, Travels in the Panjab, Afghanistan, & Turkistan, to Balk, Bokhara, and Herat; and a Visit to Great Britain and Germany (London, Wm. H. Allen & Co., 1846), 56. 14. Munshi Gopal Das, Tarikh-i Peshawar (Lahore: Koh-i Nur Press, 1878), 149. 15. William Moorcroft, “Ninth Fasciculus of a Journal from September 16th to Oct 21st 1820 in the Country of Ladakh,” British Library, India Office Records and Private Papers, MSS Eur.D.244, 1820, 33–35, 70. 16. Pir Hasan Shah Khoihami, Tazkira-i Awliya’-i Kashmir (Lahore: Mushtaq Book Corner, 2015), 142–145; William Moorcroft and George Trebeck, Travels in the Himalayan Provinces of Hindustan and the Panjab; in Ladakh and Kashmir; in Peshawar, Kabul, Kunduz, and Bokhara: From 1819 to 1825, vol. 1 (London: J. Murray, 1841), 242. 17. Khoihami, Tazkira-i Awliya’-i Kashmir, 150–152. 18. Ibid., 150–151. 19. Moorcroft and Trebeck, Travels in the Himalayan Provinces, vol. 1, 241–242; Moorcroft, “Ninth Fasciculus,” 5–6. 20. Gary Alder, Beyond Bokhara: The Life of William Moorcroft (London: Century Publishing, 1985), 315. 21. Eventually, however, when life became difficult in Kashmir due to further Sikh expeditions, Shah Niyaz moved to Kabul, where he died in 1829. Moorcroft, “Ninth Fasciculus,” 5. 22. William Moorcroft, “From Kashmir to Peshawar, 1823,” British Library, India Office Records and Private Papers, MSS Eur.D.249, 1823, 89. 23. Alder, Beyond Bokhara, 330. 24. Mazari, Tuhfat al-Murshid, 2. 25. Moorcroft and Trebeck, Travels in the Himalayan Provinces, vol. 2, 440. 26. Alder, Beyond Bokhara, 337. 27. He spoke Hindustani (Urdu) and Persian, implying that his family members were recent migrants. Ibid., 340. 28. Khalil Ahmad Sirhindi, “Takmila-i Rashahat,” Dr. Iqbal Mujaddidi Collection, Punjab University, MSS R. No. 135 (original at King Abdul Aziz Fahad Library, Madina, MS No. 902 / 51), 1249 / 1833–34, fol. 42b. 29. Moorcroft and Trebeck, Travels in the Himalayan Provinces, vol. 1, 463–476. 30. Sir Alexander Burnes, Travels into Bokhara, vol. 1 (London: J. Murray, 1834), 106–107. 31. Ibid., vol. 1, 107; Lal, Travels, 56. 32. Burnes, Travels into Bokhara, 106. 33. Mountstuart Elphinstone, “Papers of Mountstuart Elphinstone: Accounts of Afghanistan and Central Asia, Etc., Peshawar,” British Library, India Office Records and Private Papers, MSS Eur F88 / 362, 1808, 220. 34. Mazari, Tuhfat al-Murshid, 112–113; Faruqi, Gulha-i Chaman, 51.

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Notes to Pages 171–175

35. There are ample references to ghāzīs fighting alongside various Afghan chiefs, for example in the Afghan-Sikh battles over Kashmir of 1812–1814. The composition of ghāzī brigades is not specified, although they likely consisted of disciples and irregulars from among tribes committed to a Sufi master, who often both mobilized and commanded the forces in battle. 36. Hubert Digby Watson, Gazetteer of the Hazara District, 1907 (London: Chatto & Windus, 1908), 126–127; Gazetteer of the Peshawar District (1897–1898), 70. 37. Kanhiya La‘l, Tarikh-i Punjab (Lahore: Sang-e-Meel Publications, 2009), 303. 38. William Moorcroft, “From Kashmir to Peshawar, 1823,” British Library, India Office Records and Private Papers, MSS Eur.D.250, 1823, 18–26. 39. La‘l, Tarikh-i Punjab, 306; Alexander Haughton Campbell Gardner and Hugh Wodehouse Pearse, Soldier and Traveller: Memoirs of Alexander Gardner, Colonel of Artillery in the Service of Maharaja Ranjit Singh (Edinburgh: W. Blackwood, 1898), 306–307; Gulshan Lall Chopra, The Panjab as a Sovereign State (1799–1839) (Lahore: Uttar Chand Kapur & Sons, 1928), 28. 40. La‘l, Tarikh-i Punjab, 308; Gardner and Pearse, Soldier and Traveller, 306–307. 41. Lepel Henry Griffin, Ranjit Singh (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1892), 209. 42. Mazari, Tuhfat al-Murshid, 178–179. 43. Although Sayyid Akbar Shah was a Chishti-Kubravi Sufi, he likely had close affiliations with Fazl Ahmad’s lineage. 44. Moorcroft, “From Kashmir to Peshawar,” 18–26. 45. Given Fazl-i Haqq’s reputation and sizable properties in Peshawar and its environs (at Swat, Bajaur, and other places), it is even possible that he was enlisted by his disciple Yar Muhammad Barakzai (then the leading chief of Peshawar) to reach out to figures like Sayyid Akbar Shah. 46. Fazl Ilahi, Thana, Malakand, December 2019; T. J. C. Plowden, Selection from the Records of the Government of Punjab and Its Dependencies. Confidential Series No. A VIII, Report on the Leading Persons & State of Factions in Swat. no. 63, Mardan, February 8, 1876 (Lahore: Civil Secretariat Press, 1877), 38. 47. Near Peshawar’s Ganj Darvaza. 48. Faqir Muhammad Amir Shah Qadiri, Tazkira-i ‘Ulama’ o Mashaykh-i Sarhad, vol. 1 (Peshawar: ‘Azim Publishing House, 1972), 128–138. 49. See, for example, David B. Edwards, Before Taliban: Genealogies of the Afghan Jihad (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002). 50. Marc Gaborieu, “Criticizing the Sufis: The Debate in Early-NineteenthCentury India,” in Islamic Mysticism Contested: Thirteen Centuries of Controversies and Polemics, ed. F. de Jong and Bernd Radtke (Boston, Mass.: Brill, 1999), 453. 51. Ibid., 458, 467; Saiyid Athar Abbas Rizvi, Shah ‘Abd al-‘Aziz—Puritanism, Sectarian Polemics, and Jihad (Canberra: Marifat, 1982), 508. Later refutations of Sayyid Ahmad–inspired theologies (placed under the rubric “Wahhabism”) authored by Mujaddidis clearly distinguish between Sayyid Ahmad’s theology and Mujaddidi theology. For example, Abu’l Hasan Zayd Faruqi of

Notes to Pages 175–180 

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Delhi clearly distinguished Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi’s tajdīd (revival) from the “movement of Wahhabi revival” inspired by Sayyid Ahmad. See Zayd Abu’l Hasan Faruqi Mujaddidi, Mawlana Isma‘il aur Taqwiyat al-Iman (Lahore: Sher-i Rabbani Publications, 2001). 52. Gaborieu, “Criticizing the Sufis,” 460. 53. Sana Haroon, Frontier of Faith: Islam in the Indo-Afghan Borderland (New York: Columbia University Press, 2007), 181, 187. 54. Gaborieu, “Criticizing the Sufis,” 458–459. 55. Ghulam Rasul Mahr, Sayyid Ahmad Shahid (Karachi: Shaykh Ghulam ‘Ali and Sons, n.d.), 265–266. 56. Ibid., 310–311; Rizvi, Shah ‘Abd al-‘Aziz, 487; Bellew, General Report on the Yusufzai, 85. 57. Hafiz Ahsan Peshawari, “Risala-i Radd-i Wahhabiyya,” Dr. Iqbal Mujaddidi collection, University of Punjab (originally held with Agha Sayyid Tajammul Hussain, Yakatoot, Peshawar), MSS R. 238, Peshawar, 1250 / 1834–35, 1–2. 58. The surviving copy of the tract is dated 1834 and produced by Murid Hasan Faruqi, perhaps a Mujaddidi disciple of Hafiz Daraz. 59. Shah Isma‘il Dehlavi, Taqwiyat al-Iman (Meonath Bhajan, UP: Maktaba Na‘imiyya, n.d.), 13–18; Gaborieu, “Criticizing the Sufis,” 456. This method prefigured that of the later Ahl-i Hadith and Indian Wahhabis, who were deeply inspired by Shah Isma‘il’s theology. 60. Dehlavi, Taqwiyat al-Iman, 27–38. 61. Ibid., 39–40. 62. Ibid., 53–60. 63. Ibid., 67. 64. Peshawari, “Risala-i Radd-i Wahhabiyya,” 1–2. 65. Ibid., 2–4. 66. Ibid., 7. 67. Qadiri, Tazkira, 135. 68. These include a commentary in Persian on the Sahih al-Bukhari hadith collection, which the author claimed to be the first commentary in Persian on this text. Hafiz Daraz’s commentary was aimed at making Sahih al-Bukhari accessible to students and scholars, and it also served as a guidebook to the study of hadith, with features such as biographies of the imams of the four schools of jurisprudence. Hafiz Ahsan Peshawari, “Manh al-Bari fi Sharh Sahih Bukhari,” Peshawar University, MSS 393, 1206 / 1791–92, fol. 1b–2a. Another of his works was a commentary on logic, in Arabic. Hafiz Ahsan Peshawari, “Hashiya-i Hafiz Daraz Peshawari,” Peshawar University, MSS 40 / 131, early 19th c., n.d. 69. Peshawari, “Risala-i Radd-i Wahhabiyya,” 13. 70. Ibid., 16–20. 71. Ibid., 28. 72. Rizvi, Shah ‘Abd al-‘Aziz, 506. 73. Imam ‘Ala’ al-Din al-Haskafi’s Durr al-Mukhtar fi Sharh Tanwir al-Absar and its eighteenth-century commentary Radd al-Mukhtar ‘ala al-Durr al-Mukhtar by ‘Allama Sayyid Muhammad Amin ibn ‘Abidin al-Shami comprised standard works of Hanafi jurisprudence in Hindustan.

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Notes to Pages 180–192

74. 75. 76. 77.

Peshawari, “Risala-i Radd-i Wahhabiyya,” 26. Bellew, General Report on the Yusufzai, 86. Mahr, Sayyid Ahmad Shahid, 316–324. Robert Nichols, Settling the Frontier: Land, Law and Society in the Peshawar Valley, 1500–1900 (Karachi: Oxford University Press, 2001), 89–94. 78. ‘Abdullah Jan Faruqi, “Maktubat-i Sharifi,” Idak Khānaqāh, North Waziristan, MSS, 1397 / 1977, 128 (Letter 283). 79. Sayyid Ahmad Shahid, Makatib-i Sayyid Ahmad Shahid (Lahore: Maktaba Rashidiyya, 1975), fol. 24a–29a; Nawab Muhammad Wazir Khan, Waqa’i‘-i Ahmadi (Lahore: Sayyid Ahmad Shahid Academy, 2007), 1466–1479. 80. Bellew, General Report on the Yusufzai, 86–90, 104. 81. Anonymous, “Untitled (tract on Sayyid Ahmad of Rae Bareli),” in miscellany, Islamia College, Peshawar, MSS, Peshawar, n.d., fol. 217b–221a. 82. Ibid., fol. 217b–218a. 83. Sayyid Ahmad, Makatib, fol. 118b–120a. 84. Mahr, Sayyid Ahmad Shahid, 657–659. 85. Ibid., 659. 86. Ibid., 661. 87. Charles Masson, Narrative of Various Journeys in Balochistan, Afghanistan and the Panjab: Including a Residence in Those Countries from 1826–1838, vol. 3 (London: Richard Bentley, 1842), 79. 88. Muhammad Ashraf ‘Ali Thanvi, Arwah-i Salasa (Hikayat-i Awliya) (Karachi: Maktabah ‘Umar Faruq, 2009), 80. 89. Masson, Narrative of Various Journeys, 79. 90. Mahr, Sayyid Ahmad Shahid, 661. 91. Ibid., 660; Rizvi, Shah ‘Abd al-‘Aziz, 496. 92. Sayyid Ahmad, Makatib, fol. 115b–118b. 93. When Sayyid Ahmad was relocating to Panjtar, he was hosted by the Bibi of Chamkanni, a female Sufi guide and successor to Mian ‘Umar who presided over the Chamkanni khānaqāh. This implies that there was no universal Mujaddidi or Sufi reaction against him. 94. Nichols, Settling the Frontier, 99. 95. Bellew, General Report on the Yusufzai, 93. 96. Butrus Abu-Manneh, “Khalidiyya and Salafiyya in Baghdad after Shaykh Khalid,” Journal of the History of Sufism: The Naqshbandi-Khalidiyyah Sufi Order, 2008, 21–40; Itzchak Weismann, “The Politics of Popular Religion: Sufis, Salafis, and Muslim Brothers in 20th-Century Hamah,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 37, no. 1 (2005): 39–58.

7. Guardians of the Caravans 1. Imam Muhammad Husayn Jio Sahib Zakori, Rawzat al-Awliya’ fi Ahwal-i Asfiya’ (Zakori, Dera Ismail Khan: Nijaruz Bazaar Press, 1333 / 1914–1915), 221. 2. The two others being Dera Ghazi Khan and Dera Fateh Khan. 3. Pir Sajid Zakori, Murad al-Murshid: Hazrat Faqir Sahib Zakori (Zakori, Dera Ismail Khan: Pir Sajid Zakori, 2013), 14.

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4. The leading clans are Marwats near the town of Marwat, the Daulat Khel and Tators around Tank, and the Miankhel in the Kulachi-Dera Ismail Khan region. Sher Muhammad Khan, Tawarikh-i Khurshid-i Jahan (Quetta: Maktaba Khayriyya, 1311 / 1893–94), 227–228; Gazetteer of the Dera Ismail Khan District, 1883–84 (Lahore: Arya Press, 1884), 25–26. 5. Three-quarters of the settled population lived at Daraban and employed Jat tenants for cultivation. Gazetteer of the Dera Ismail Khan District, 1883–84, 71–72. 6. Jos Gommans, The Rise of the Indo-Afghan Empire: C. 1710–1780 (Leiden: Brill, 1995), 21. 7. Gazetteer of the Dera Ismail Khan District, 1883–84, 76–79, 199. 8. His material grandfather was Mullah Luqman bin Shah Husayn Zakori. His brothers were Mullah ‘Isa and Mullah Daud. 9. Both parents’ graves, located in Shilgar (in the villages of Khadukhel and Bilalkhel, Ghazni), were local sites of pilgrimage. Zakori, Murad al-Murshid, 15–16. 10. Nile Green points out that “saints and legends associated with [such figures] also acted as badges of urban, regional, or ethnic pride in a manner not altogether dissimilar to the patron saints of medieval Europe.” Nile Green, “Tribe, Diaspora, and Sainthood in Afghan History,” Journal of Asian Studies 67, no. 1 (2008): 187. 11. Zakori, Rawzat al-Awliya’, 218. 12. Gazetteer of the Dera Ismail Khan District, 1883–84, 55. 13. Zakori, Rawzat al-Awliya’, 220–221. His shrine is at Margha, between Qandahar and Ghazni. 14. Zakori, Murad al-Murshid, 12–13. 15. Zakori, Rawzat al-Awliya’, 234–236. 16. He may have received the Suhrawardi teachings from a Sufi master in the Derajat, which was more closely connected to the early Suhrawardi tradition of Multan. 17. Zakori, Rawzat al-Awliya’, 234. 18. The link between trade and religious education was well established during this time. Alexander Lehmann noted in 1852 that merchants traveling from India to Bukhara would often settle in Bukhara for extended periods to study at the city’s madrasas. The same may have been true for Peshawar. Alexander Lehmann, Reise Nach Buchara und Samarkand in den Jahren 1841 und 1842, ed. Georg von Helmersen (Osnabrück: Biblio Verlag, 1969), 197. 19. Zakori, Rawzat al-Awliya’, 227. 20. Zakori, Murad al-Murshid, 13. 21. Gazetteer of the Dera Ismail Khan District, 1883–84, 71–72. 22. Charles Francis Massy, Chiefs and Families of Note in the Delhi, Jalandhar, Peshawar and Derajat Divisions of the Panjab (Allahabad: Pioneer Press, 1890), 555. 23. The District Gazetteer of 1883–1884 notes that for faqīrs, pīrs, and religious institutions, small cesses were put in place by native rulers (and maintained since annexation). However, these grants were considerably smaller than those in Swat. Gazetteer of the Dera Ismail Khan District, 1883–84, 99.

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Notes to Pages 197–201

24. The powinda trade continued to expand after the establishment of the Orenberg line of forts and the formation of a commercial company at Orenberg to improve trade with Central Asia and India. Scott Cameron Levi, “India, Russia and the Eighteenth-Century Transformation of the Central Asian Caravan Trade,” Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 42, no. 4 (1999): 553. 25. Gazetteer of the Dera Ismail Khan District, 1883–84, 39. 26. Faqir Sahib’s hagiographical stories often feature the trope of service and healing in the face of food shortages and chaotic circumstances; for example, helping a poor man finding his buried money. 27. Zakori, Rawzat al-Awliya’, 240–241. In a later hagiographical episode, two Sikhs entered the khānaqāh with ill intent and ended up converting to Islam. 28. Gazetteer of the Dera Ismail Khan District, 1883–84, 36–38. 29. The five sons were all schooled in the exoteric and esoteric sciences. Fayzullah Mansur, Mahr-i Safa: Hazrat Pir Muhammad ‘Abd al-Latif Zakori Sharif (Lahore: Muslim League Writers Academy, 2004), 32. 30. These are the Miankhel, Mastikhel, Kharoti, Miani, Michankhel (or Machankhel, part of Khattak, near Mianwali), Yusufzai, Tatarkhel, Mullahkhel, Kakalzai, Kakar, Niyazi Khattak, Bahadurkhel Khattak, Waziri, Manjahikhel, and Wardak. 31. Distinct locations are Paharpur, Khushab (Punjab), Ghazna, Bannu, Lakki, Kutvaz in Janikhel, Kunarmi, Logar, Palyane, Mandi, Murat, Baday or Bada, Chudhavan, Gomal Bazaar, Mitta, Dera Ismail Khan, Dolavalay, Nar, Chahan, Rahman, Kot Dawlat, Sikandar, Kahavar, and Kichi. 32. The latter authored several books, including Kitab Jami‘ Ta‘lilat dar ‘Ilm-i Sarf (on morphology), Fatawi Jami‘ al-Fawa’id, and Sharh Khulasa Kidani (on jurisprudence). 33. The refutation tracts, for example, cite works from Delhi’s Khānaqāh-i Mazhariyya and ‘Abd al-‘Aziz Dehlavi’s fatwas, and from the Ottoman Qur’anic commentary Tafsir Ruh al-Bayan. 34. Muzaffar Alam, “Trade, State Policy and Regional Change: Aspects of Mughal-Uzbek Commercial Relations, c. 1550–1750,” Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 37, no. 3 (1994): 211, 215. The powindas paid grazing dues to the Durrani governors in the Derajat in the latter part of the eighteenth century. It is unclear how regularly these were enforced in the early part of the nineteenth century. 35. Gommans, Rise of the Indo-Afghan Empire, 21. 36. J. S. Broadfoot, “Report I: On Parts of the Ghilzi Country, and on Some of the Tribes in the Neighborhood of Ghazni,” in Royal Geographic Society Supplementary Papers, vol. 1 (London: J. Murray, 1886), 365. 37. Zakori, Rawzat al-Awliya’, 239. 38. Gazetteer of the Dera Ismail Khan District, 1883–84, 71–72. 39. Zakori, Rawzat al-Awliya’, 239–240. 40. Ibid., 243–244. 41. Ibid., 220–221; Green, “Tribe, Diaspora, and Sainthood,” 183–184, 187–188.

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42. According to the Tarikh-i Khan Jahani, the Miankhel can be traced back to the legendary king Shah Husayn Ghuri, whose sons gave rise to the Lodi, Shiyani, Niyazi, and Dotani clans. The text also ties in the Zakori clan with the rest of Miankhel and neighboring clans. 43. Imam Muhammad Hasan Zakori, Hidayat al-Talibin (Zakori, Dera Ismail Khan, n.d.), 1–3. 44. Muhammad Gul bin Imam Raza Zakori, “Sharh-i Hidayat-i Talibin,” Dr. Iqbal Mujaddidi Collection, Punjab University, MSS M. No. 36, 1840, fol. 1b–2a. 45. Ibid., fol. 1b. 46. Ibid., fol. 30b–47a. 47. Gazetteer of the Dera Ismail Khan District, 1883–84, 55. It may be on account of such refutations issued by the local spiritual leadership that the fledgling “Wahhabi” movement was unable to take root in the Derajat. 48. Muhammad Gul Zakori, “Sharh-i Hidayat-i Talibin,” fol. 3b–7b. 49. Zakori, Hidayat al-Talibin, 3–7. 50. Muhammad Gul Zakori, “Sharh-i Hidayat-i Talibin,” fol. 48b–52a. 51. Muhammad Zayd Siraji Mujaddidi, ed. Fuyuzat-i Sirajiyya: Tazkira-i Khanaqah Musa Zai Sharif (Dera Ismail Khan: Maktaba Sirajiyya Mujaddidiyya, 2013), 50–65. 52. Also, his brother was buried near the village of Tikan, west of Dera Ismail Khan, and his younger brother led prayers there, indicating there may have been a mosque associated with the family there. 53. A later biography points out that Imam Muhammad Hasan was adept at simple prose that could be read by the public. He also wrote Rawzat al-Awliya’. 54. Mahr-i Safa attributes the following works to Imam Muhammad Husayn: Adab al-Muridin, and what seem like comparative works on Sufi orders, Salasil-i Sitta and Salasil-i ‘Arba. 55. Levi, “India, Russia,” 553.

8. The Diplomat-Saints of Ferghana 1. Susan Nettleton, “Ruler, Patron, Poet: ‘Umar Khan in the Blossoming of the Khanate of Qoqan, 1800–1820,” International Journal of Turkish Studies 2.2 (1982–1): 127; Scott Cameron Levi, “India, Russia and the EighteenthCentury Transformation of the Central Asian Caravan Trade,” Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 42, no. 4 (1999): 540–541. 2. Jeff Sahadeo, Russian Colonial Society in Tashkent, 1865–1923 (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2007), 14. 3. Nettleton, “Ruler, Patron, Poet,” 129; Scott Cameron Levi, “The Ferghana Valley at the Crossroads of World History: The Rise of Khoqand, 1709– 1822,” Journal of Global History 2, no. 2 (2007): 223; Sahadeo, Russian Colonial Society, 14–15; Meerza Raheem Chaghatai, “Notes on Ferghauna, March 1st,” British Library, India Office Records and Private Papers, MSS Eur D 28, 1810, 201. 4. T. K. Beisembiev, “Farghana’s Contacts with India in the 18th and 19th Centuries (According to the Khokand Chronicles),” Journal of Asian History (1994): 127.

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Notes to Pages 208–211

5. Levi, “Ferghana Valley,” 224. 6. Nettleton, “Ruler, Patron, Poet,” 127–131. 7. Sherzodhon Mahmudov, “The Role of Sufis in Diplomatic Relations between The Khanate of Khoqand and India,” in Sufism in India and Central Asia, ed. Nasir Raza Khan (New Delhi: Manakin Press, 2017), 43. 8. Meerza Raheem Chaghatai, “Notes on Ferghauna, March 1st,” 202–203; Levi, “Ferghana Valley,” 227–228; Vladimir Petrovich Nalivkin, Histoire du khanat de Khokand, trans. Aug. Dozon (Paris: Libraire de la société asiatique de l’école des langues orientales vivantes, 1889), 114. 9. W. H. Wathen, “Route of Usbek Pilgrims,” Jounal of the Asiatic Society of Bengal 3 (1834): 382. 10. Tuhfat al-Murshid relates, for instance, that Damullah Akhund Jan Tashkendi and Khalifa Bahadur Shaykh Tashkendi traveled regularly from Tashkent along with other ulama to visit the khānaqāh at Bukhara. 11. Their relationship was such that upon Marghinani’s death, Fazl Ahmad is said to have lamented that now “my own soul has left my body.” Nizam al-Din Balkhi Mazari, Tuhfat al-Murshid dar Manaqib-i Qutub-i Zaman Ghaws-i Jahan Hazrat Jio Sahib Shah Fazl Ahmad Ma‘sumi (Lahore: Fayz Ahmad, 1913), 162–163. 12. Nettleton, “Ruler, Patron, Poet,” 129. 13. Levi, “Ferghana Valley,” 228. 14. Nettleton, “Ruler, Patron, Poet,” 135. 15. ‘Alam Makhdum Hajji, “Tarikh-i Turkistan,” Peshawar University, MSS 583, 1927, 53; Fazil Beg, “Mukammil-i Tarikh-i Ferghana,” IVANRUz, MSS No. 5971, n.d., 75. 16. Meer Izzut-oollah, Travels in Central Asia by Meer Izzut-Oollah in the Years 1812–13, trans. Captain Henderson (Calcutta: Foreign Dept. Press, 1872), 52. 17. “Rabboniylar Sulolasi va ‘Maktuboti Rabboniy’ Asari Xusususida,” Khoqand Museum, MSS, 2014. 18. Eugene Schuyler, Turkistan: Notes of a Journey in Russian Turkistan, Khokand, Bukhara, and Kuldja (London: Sampson Low, Marston, Searle, & Rivington, 1876), 342–343. 19. Mullah Niyaz Muhammad Khoqandi, Tarikh-i Shahrukhi (Kazan: Taba‘khana Madrasa-i al-Kubra, 1885); Mazari, Tuhfat al-Murshid, 136. 20. Written in 1872–1873, Tarikh-i Shahrukhi was the last official chronicle of the Khoqand khanate and as such was widely read. T. K. Beisembiev, Kokandskai Istoriografia (Almati, 2009), 1225–1226. 21. Khoqandi, Tarikh-i Shahrukhi, 113. 22. A Khoqandi book of chronograms mentions Ghulam Qadir’s sons Fazl-i Ilahi (d. 1269) and Ahmad Khan, and a certain Ghulam Mujaddid Sahibzada (d. 1261). Imam ‘Ali Qari Qunduzi, “Tavarikh-i Manzuma,” Institut Vostokovedeniya Akademii Nauk (“IVAN”) of Tajikistan, MSS No. 204, n.d., fol. 140a, 275a–275b, 360a–360b. 23. Wathen, “Route of Usbek Pilgrims,” 379–380; Allen J. Frank, Bukhara and the Muslims of Russia: Sufism, Education, and the Paradox of Islamic Prestige (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 60; Komatsu Hisao, “Khoqand and Istanbul: An

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Ottoman Document Relating to the Earliest Contacts between the Khan and Sultan,” Asiatische Studien: Zeitschrift der Schweizerischen Asiengesellschaft 60 (2006): 979. 24. Abu ‘Ubaydullah Muhammad Tashkendi, “Khulasat al-Ahwal,” IVANRUz, MSS No. 2084, fol. 121b–122a. 25. Beisembiev, “Farghana’s Contacts with India,” 127–128; Sherzodhon Mahmudov, “Muhammad Khalil Sakhibzade the Leader of Naqshbandia-Mujaddidia in Khoqand Khanate and His Embassy Activity,” Kyrgyz Respublikasy Osh Mamlekettik Universiteti, Arashan gumanitardyk institutunun ilimiy jurnaly 17–18 (2015): 176–178. 26. Muhammad Yunus Djan Tashkandi, The Life of Alimqul: A Native Chronicle of Nineteenth Century Central Asia, ed. T. K. Beĭsembiev (Richmond, Surrey: Curzon Press, 2003), 30–31. 27. Schuyler, Turkistan, 343; A. Igamberdiev and A. Amirsaidov, Istoria Kokandskogo Xanstva—XVIII Century-1876 (Tashkent: Davr Press, 2007), 142–144. 28. “Rabboniylar Sulolasi.” 29. While at Medina, he built a community of followers and even founded a madrasa for the study of jurisprudence and hadith. Ibid.; Khoqandi, Tarikh-i Shahrukhi, 123–132; Mahmud Hakim Sayfani Tashkendi, “Khulasat alTavarikh,” IVAN of Tajikistan, MSS No. 1220, 1332 / 1913–14, 22a–23b. 30. Nikolaï Vladimirovitch Khanykov, Bokhara, Its Amir and Its People, trans. Baron Clement A. de Bode (London: J. Madden, 1845), 308–314. 31. Laura J. Newby, The Empire and the Khanate: A Political History of Qing Relations with Khoqand C. 1760–1860 (Leiden: Brill, 2005), 210–211; Schuyler, Turkistan, 343–344. 32. Schuyler, Turkistan, 344–349. 33. “Rabboniylar Sulolasi.” 34. Hermann Schlagintweit, “Official Reports on the Last Journeys and the Death of Adolphe Schlagintweit in Turkistán: Collected by Hermann and Robert Schlagintweit,” Madras Journal of Literature and Science, New Series, IV, XX (1859): 13; Khoqandi, Tarikh-i Shahrukhi, 177–179; Schuyler, Turkistan, 347–348; Tashkendi, “Khulasat al-Ahwal,” fol. 100a–101b. 35. Schuyler, Turkistan, 348; Khoqandi, Tarikh-i Shahrukhi, 177–179; Tashkendi, “Khulasat al-Ahwal,” fol. 106b–107b; ‘Alam Makhdum Hajji, “Tarikh-i Turkistan,” 72–73. 36. Tashkendi, “Khulasat al-Ahwal,” fol. 101a–101b, 227a. 37. Ibid., fol. 121b–121a; Schuyler, Turkistan, 350–351. 38. Tashkandi, Life of Alimqul, 61. 39. Ibid., 21–22. 40. Beisembiev, “Farghana’s Contacts with India,” 127–128; Shahab al-Din Marjani, Mustafad al-Akhbar fi Ahwal Qazan wa Bulghar, vol. 2 (Kazan: Tipografiya Imperatoroskago Universiteta, 1900), 257. 41. “Rabboniylar Sulolasi.” 42. ‘Aziz al-Din Vakili Fufalzai, Farhang-i Kabul-i Bastan, vol. 1 (Kabul: Riyasat-i Intisharat-i Kutub Bayhaqi, 1387 / 2008–09), 194.

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Notes to Pages 216–219

43. Thierry Zarcone, “Political Sufism and the Emirate of Kashgaria (End of Nineteenth Century): The Role of the Ambassador Ya‘qub Xan Tura,” in Muslim Culture in Russia and Central Asia from the 18th to the Early 20th Centuries, vol. 2, ed. Allen Frank, Michael Kemper, Anke von Kügelgen (Berlin: Klaus Schwarz Verlag, 1998), 153–165. 44. Mahmudov, “Role of Sufis in Diplomatic Relations,” 47–48. 45. J. Dowson, “Route from Kashmír, via Ladakh, to Yarkand, by Ahmed Shah Nakshahbandi,” Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society of Great Britain and Ireland 12 (1850): 372. 46. Khwajah Ahmud Shah Nukshbundee Syud, “Narrative of the Travels of Khwajah Ahmud Shah Nukshbundee Syud,” Journal of the Asiatic Society of Bengal 25, no. 4 (1856): 344–356. 47. Muhammad Salih Khwaja Tashkendi, “Tarikh-i Jadid-i Tashkent,” IVANRUz, MSS Inv. Nr. 7791, 1887, fol. 561a. 48. Tashkandi, Life of Alimqul, 51. 49. Tashkendi, “Tarikh-i Jadid-i Tashkent,” fol. 569b. 50. Khoqandi, Tarikh-i Shahrukhi, 277–280; Tashkendi, “Tarikh-i Jadid-i Tashkent,” fol. 568a; Tashkendi, “Khulasat al-Tavarikh,” fol. 28a–28b. 51. Robert D. Crews, For Prophet and Tsar (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2006), 249–250. 52. Tashkendi, “Tarikh-i Jadid-i Tashkent,” fol. 740b–741a. 53. The chronicles mention deputies and students only from within the Khoqand khanate, rather than from Bukhara and elsewhere in Transoxiana, who were served by the older Mirakan khānaqāh at Bukhara. 54. According to the Tarikh-i Shahrukhi, building commenced during the reign of Malla Beg Khan (r. 1858–1862) and came to a close under Shah Murad Khan (r. 1862). 55. Toward Isfara Guzar. It is now situated on Muqimiy Street. 56. “Sahibzada Hazrat Madrasa,” Qoqon, Ministry of Culture and Sports, n.d.; “Rabboniylar Sulolasi”; Khoqandi, Tarikh-i Shahrukhi, 231–232. 57. All the ulama who accompanied him bore the title “mullah,” or “makhdūm,” including Fazl Ahad’s deputy ‘Abd al-Majid Imam Tashkendi. 58. Tashkendi, “Tarikh-i Jadid-i Tashkent,” fol. 740a, 743b–744a. The latter is presumably a work drawing on Ibn Sina’s philosophy, possibly authored by Nasir al-Din Tusi. 59. Khoqandi, Tarikh-i Shahrukhi, 296–300; Tashkendi, “Khulasat al-Tavarikh,” fol. 28a–28b; Mirza ‘Alim Mirza Tashkendi, “Ansab al-Salatin va Tarikh al-Khavaqin,” IVANRUz, MSS No. 1314 / I, 1884, fol. 125b–128b; Tashkendi, “Tarikh-i Jadid-i Tashkent,” fol. 743b–744a. 60. Adeeb Khalid, The Politics of Muslim Cultural Reform: Jadidism in Central Asia (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998), 46. 61. Schuyler, Turkistan, 158–159; Stéphane A. Dudoignon, “La question scolaire à Boukhara et au Turkestan russe, du « premier renouveau » à la soviétisation (fin du XVIIIe siècle-1937),” Cahiers du monde Russe 37, no. 1 (1996): 137.

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62. Crews, For Prophet and Tsar, 242–244, 253, 269–272, 275; Khalid, Politics of Muslim Cultural Reform, 52. 63. Khalid, Politics of Muslim Cultural Reform, 62–65. 64. Crews, For Prophet and Tsar, 288. 65. He was a close associate of Mian Qadr (1856–1926, known as “Kabirakhan,” a son of Fazl Ahad) as well as Sotvoldi Khan, the son of Mian Khalil. 66. “Rabboniylar Sulolasi”; “Sahibzada Hazrat Madrasa.” 67. Tashkendi, “Tarikh-i Jadid-i Tashkent,” fol. 1028b–1029b. 68. Shaykh Muhammad Mazhar, the deputy and son of Shah Ahmad Sa‘id at Delhi, also initiated Salih al-Din and Qamar al-Din (Chapters 2 and 7). He may have met him in the Hijaz, where Ahmad Sa‘id fled after 1857. Salih al-Din was also initiated into the lineage of Muhammad Amin Dahbidi (which had clashed with Fazl Ahmad’s at Ura Tepe). Ayyub Qari, “Manba‘ al-Asrar,” MSS, Yarkand, (composed 1356 / 1941), 146; Thierry Zarcone, “Sufi Families Private Archives: About Some Unknown Sources for the Intellectual History of Sufi Lineages in 20th Century Xinjiang,” in Studies on Xinjiang Historical Sources in 17–20th Centuries (Tokyo: Toyo Bunko [Oriental Library], 2010), 140–161. I am grateful to Rian Thum for providing me with a copy of Manba‘ al-Asrar. 69. Thierry Zarcone, “The Sufi Networks in Southern Xinjiang during the Republican Regime (1911–1949): An Overview,” in Islam and Politics in Russia and Central Asia (Early 17th–Late 20th Centuries), ed. Stéphane A. Dudoignon and H. Komatsu (London: Kegan Paul, 2001), 123, 127. 70. Hatice Shermat (daughter of Hajji Sabir), May 2016.

9. From Swat to Kabul 1. Faqir Sayyid ‘Abd al-Ahad Shah Tirmizi Sayfi Naqshbandi, Tazkira-i Sadat-i Tirmizi (Lahore: al-Wasa’iq, 2013), 101–111. 2. Henry Walter Bellew, A General Report on the Yusufzai (Lahore: Sang-e-Meel Publications, 1977), 203–204; Christine Noelle-Karimi, State and Tribe in Nineteenth-Century Afghanistan: The Reign of Amir Dost Muhammad Khan (1826–1863) (Richmond, Surrey: Curzon, 1997), 138–145. 3. For example, Sayyid Muhammad’s daughter was married to the Akhund’s elder son, while the Akhund’s other son was married to Shahu Baba, a highly influential Sufi of Dir. F. B., Selections from the Records of the Government of the Punjab and Its Dependencies—Confidential Series No. A XII. Report on Bajaur, Etc. (Lahore: Punjab Government Secretariat Press, 1884), 35. 4. Mountstuart Elphinstone, “Liet. Macartney’s Routes—Kabul to Yarkand,” in “Papers of Mountstuart Elphinstone: Accounts of Afghanistan, Etc., 18–24,” British Library, India Office Records and Private Papers, MSS Eur F88 / 373, 1808, 219–220; Syyud Najuf Ullee, “Syyud Najuf Ulee’s Jouney from Peshawar to Cabul,” in “Papers of Mountstuart Elphinstone: Accounts of Afghanistan, Etc.,” British Library, India Office Records and Private Papers, MSS Eur F88 / 373, 1808, 7–8. 5. Bellew, General Report on the Yusufzai, 188.

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Notes to Pages 226–231

6. Fredrik Barth, Political Leadership among Swat Pathans (London: Athlone Press, 1965), 59; Noelle-Karimi, State and Tribe, 139; Charles Lindholm, “Contemporary Politics in a Tribal Society: Swat District, NWFP, Pakistan,” Asian Survey 19, no. 5 (May 1979): 489. 7. Barth, Political Leadership among Swat Pathans, 60–61. 8. Noelle-Karimi, State and Tribe, 144. 9. Bellew, General Report on the Yusufzai, 225. 10. Ibid., 207–217. 11. F. B., Report on Bajaur, 25–26. 12. Bellew, General Report on the Yusufzai, 102–103; Faqir Muhammad Amir Shah Qadiri, Tazkira-i ‘Ulama’ o Mashaykh-i Sarhad, vol. 1 (Peshawar: ‘Azim Publishing House, 1972), 133. 13. Hafiz Muhammad Shu‘ayb Tordher, Mirat al-Awliya’, trans. Mawlana Vali al-Nabi (Tordher, Khyber Pakhtunkhwa: Sahibzada ‘Abd al-‘Aziz, 2014), 26– 39; ‘Ijaz al-Haqq Quddusi, Tazkira-i Sufiya-i Sarhad (Lahore: Markazi Urdu Board, 1966), 559–560. 14. Abdul Wadud, The Story of Swat as Told by the Founder Miangul Abdul Wadud Badshah Sahib to Muhammad Asif Khan (Peshawar: Ferozsons Limited, 1963), xlii. 15. Muhammad Asif Khan, Tarikh Riyasat-i Swat va Savanih Hayat-i Bani-i Riyasat-i Swat Hazrat Miangul Gul Shahzada Abdul Wadud Khan Bacha Sahib (Peshawar: Ferozsons Limited, 1958), 83. 16. Bellew, General Report on the Yusufzai, 106–107. 17. ‘Abdullah Jan Faruqi, Gulha-i Chaman (Thana, Malakand Agency: Idara-i Naqshbandiyya Garhi Hazratkhel, 1967), 58. 18. The religious environment of Peshawar underwent drastic changes after the occupation, as Christian missionaries were introduced, protected by authorities, and polemicized against by the city’s ulama and lay population. The Thirty-Eighth Report of the Calcutta Corresponding Committee of the Church Missionary Society Being for the Year 1856–7 (Calcutta: Cranenburgh, Military Orphan Press, 1858), 113; The Thirty-Seventh Report of the Calcutta Corresponding Committee of the Church Missionary Society Being for the Year 1855 (Calcutta: Sanders, Cones & Co., 1856), 83. 19. Gopal Das, writing in the 1870s, confirms that none of the family was in Peshawar at the time, and that all were based in Swat. Munshi Gopal Das, Tarikh-i Peshawar (Lahore: Koh-i Nur Press, 1878), 148–149. Sahibzadas Fazl Ilahi, Imdad al-Ghaffar Faruqi (presiding Sufi master at Khānaqāh-i Hazratkhel), and Jawad ullah Jan Faruqi, Thana, Malakand Agency, April 2015, December 2019. 20. The name Thana, meaning military or police post, was on account of a fort located on the mountain above. 21. F. B., Report on Bajaur, 29. 22. Shahbaz Muhammad (a local historian, whose family members were the custodians of the Ghaus Baba shrine), Thana, Malakand, May 2015. It is possibly adapted from a pre-Islamic structure. 23. Faruqi, Gulha-i Chaman, 59–60. This tithe was intact as of the 1880s and continued into the twentieth century.

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24. F. B., Report on Bajaur, 55, 60; T. J. C. Plowden, Selection from the Records of the Government of Punjab and its Dependencies. Confidential Series No. A VIII, Report on the Leading Persons & State of Factions in Swat. no. 63, Mardan, February 8, 1876 (Lahore: Civil Secretariat Press, 1877), 38; Fazl Ilahi, Thana, Malakand Agency, December 2019. 25. Faruqi, Gulha-i Chaman, 61–63. 26. Fazl Latif’s second son, Fazl ‘Umar, in turn was married to the daughter of another of Swat’s principal religious personalities, Sayyid Muhammad Akhundzada, whose father was a Mujaddidi Peshawari deputy of Pir ‘Umar of Chamkanni. 27. Shah Fazl Hadi, “Divan-i Hadi,” Khānaqāh-i Hazratkhel, Thana, Malakand, MSS, n.d. 28. Plowden, Report on the Leading Persons & State of Factions in Swat, 37–38. 29. F. B., Report on Bajaur, 57. 30. This Mujaddidi lineage was passed from Naqshband-i Sani to Muhammad Zubayr to Ziya’ullah Kashmiri to Siraj al-Din and Muhammad Afaq to Yar Muhammad Kabuli. Al-Hajj Sahibzada Muhammad Ashraf, Savanih Hayat Sultan al-Awliya’ Hazrat Sayyid Amir Sahib, al-Ma‘ruf Hazrat Ji Sahib Kotah (Swabi, Mardan: Sahibzada Book Foundation, 1998), 146. 31. Ibid., 192–229. 32. ‘Allama Mullah Safiullah, Durr-i Asrar, trans. ‘Abd al-Razzaq Kawsar (Swabi, Mardan: Sahibzada Book Foundation, 1985), 402–418. 33. Ibid., 282. 34. Ibid., 288. 35. ‘Allama Mullah Safiullah, Safarnama-i Swat, trans. Sahibzada Muhammad Ashraf (Swabi, Mardan: Sahibzada Book Foundation, n.d.), introduction. 36. Faruqi, Gulha-i Chaman, 60. 37. Noelle-Karimi, State and Tribe, 288; F. B., Report on Bajaur, 55. 38. Fazl Hadi had four sons. The eldest was Fazl Hayy, followed by Fazl Ghaffar, Fazl Ghafur, and Fazl Akbar. Both Fazl Ghafur and Fazl Akbar moved to Aladand Dheri. ‘Abdullah Jan Faruqi, “Shajra-i Nasab,” Idak Khānaqāh, North Waziristan, MSS. 39. Her sons were Hazrat ‘Abd al-Qadir and Hazrat Mianji (of Parvan, north of Kabul). 40. Faruqi, Gulha-i Chaman, 79–83. 41. Asta Olesen, Islam & Politics in Afghanistan (London: Routledge, 1995), 56; Noelle-Karimi, State and Tribe, 288. 42. ‘Abdullah Jan Faruqi, “Shajra-i Nasab-i Awlad-i Hazrat ‘Umar Faruq-i ‘Azam (R) Khandan-i Hazratkhel,” Khānaqāh-i Hazaratkhel, Thana, Malakand Agency, MSS, 1425 / 2004–05, Khānaqāh-i Hazaratkhel. 43. As such, the genealogy of the principal lineage that continued at Thana includes two generations at Khoqand. ‘Abdullah Jan Faruqi, Afkar-i Sharifi (Thana, Malakand Agency: Idara-i Naqshbandiyya Garhi Hazratkhel, n.d.), 54–55; ‘Abdullah Jan Faruqi, Gulha-i Chaman, 48. 44. Fayz Muhammad Katib Hazarah, The History of Afghanistan: Fayz Muhammad Katib Hazarah’s Siraj Al-Tawarikh, trans. Robert McChesney and Mohammad Mehdi Khorrami, vol. 3 (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 7–8.

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Notes to Pages 239–245

45. Sultan Mahomed Khan and Amir ‘Abd al-Rahman Khan, The Life of Amir Abdur Rahman: Amir of Afghanistan (London: John Murray, 1900), 225. 46. M. Hasan Kakar, Government and Society in Afghanistan: The Reign of Amir ‘Abd Al-Rahman Khan (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1979), 76–79. 47. These three individuals whom Fazl Latif accompanied were all provided with increased stipends. Mullah Khalil’s stipend increased from 2,500 to 4,000 rupees, while Mian Gul received 15,000. F. B., Report on Bajaur, 52. 48. Shah Mahmoud Hanifi, Connecting Histories in Afghanistan: Market Relations and State Formation on a Colonial Frontier (New York: Columbia University Press, 2011), 10, 100–102. 49. Ashraf Ghani, “Production and Domination: Afghanistan, 1747–1901” (PhD diss., Columbia University, 1982), 402. 50. Mian Gul’s acquiescence to Amir ‘Abd al-Rahman was largely aimed at securing his position in Yaghestan. Amir ‘Abd al-Rahman provided him with an annual stipend, two guns, and two horses, supplemented by thirty-five thousand rupees from allied sardārs. This provided Mian Gul with ample supplies for an expedition against his rival, the khan of Dir, whom he finally defeated in 1883. As the undisputed powerbroker in Thana and Aladand, Mian Gul also clashed with Fazl Latif, who was forced to flee to British-controlled Peshawar. The choice of Peshawar as a place of exile indicates that Fazl Latif had a working relationship with the administration there. It is noteworthy that unlike Mullah Najm al-Din of Hadda, Mullah Khalil, and others, who encouraged antiBritish uprisings in Swat, Bajaur, and Mohmand, Mian Gul did not challenge British authority, partly as his livelihood depended on trade with Peshawar. Fazl Latif may have taken a conciliatory stance vis-à-vis the British administration at Peshawar for similar reasons. 51. Hazarah, Siraj al-Tawarikh, vol. 3, part 1, 70; vol. 3, part 2, 540. 52. In the case of the Ghilzai rebellion, Mullah Khosa issued a fatwa of jihad against the Ghilzai and summoned five hundred ulama for support. The ulama did not openly oppose the amir’s authority, but they refused to actively support him. It is possible that Fazl Hayy and Fazl Ghaffar fell out of favor due to their stance here. 53. Faruqi, Gulha-i Chaman, 79–80. Imdad al-Ghaffar Faruqi and Jawad ullah Faruqi, Thana, Malakand, April 2015. 54. Ashraf Ghani, “Islam and State-Building in a Tribal Society. Afghanistan: 1880–1901,” Modern Asian Studies 12, no. 2 (1978): 273–278. 55. Senzil Nawid, “The State, the Clergy, and British Imperial Policy in Afghanistan during the 19th and Early 20th Centuries,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 29, no. 4 (1997): 592. 56. Ghani, “Islam and State-Building,” 274; Asta Olesen, Islam & Politics in Afghanistan, 72. 57. Faruqi, Gulha-i Chaman, 83; Fazl Ilahi, Thana, Malakand, December 2019. 58. Muhammad Ma‘sum, “Zanbil-i Gadai,” in miscellany, Ibrar al-Haq Alladand Family, Aladand Dheri, Malakand, MSS, 1901. The owner identified the author as Hazratkhel, and the manuscript bears the seals of several descendants of Fazl Hadi.

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Conclusion 1. On networks and circulation, see Claude Markovits, Jacques Pouchepadass, and Sanjay Subrahmanyam, Society and Circulation: Mobile People and Itinerant Cultures in South Asia, 1750–1950 (London; New York: Anthem Press, 2006), 2–3; Sebouh David Aslanian, From the Indian Ocean to the Mediterranean: The Global Trade Networks of Armenian Merchants from New Julfa (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2010), 13–15; Francesca Trivellato, The Familiarity of Strangers: The Sephardic Diaspora, Livorno, and Cross-Cultural Trade in the Early Modern Period (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2012). 2. Aslanian, From the Indian Ocean, 187. 3. Muhammad Mas‘ud Asdaq Khan, “Shajra-i ‘Aliya-i Tariqa-i Naqshbandiyya Mujaddidiyya” (Gujranwala: ‘Alami Majlis Fathiyya Mujaddiyya Naqshbandiyya, 2000). 4. Ironically, while Russian and British Christian rule was not overtly critiqued in the Mujaddidi narratives, Amir ‘Abd al-Rahman was vehemently impugned by Sufis for his blatant violations of the sacerdotal sphere. There was an implicit understanding that a Muslim ruler was expected to maintain his respect for tradition, while non-Muslim rulers were simply not held to that standard. 5. Mawlavi Gul Muhammad Kabuli, Aradat al-‘Ashiqin (Kabul: Intishirat-i Shaykh Ahmad Jam, 1392 / 2013), 16–17; Gul Ayyub Khan Sayfi, Tarikh-i Bannu o Waziristan (Peshawar: Self-pub, 1997), 172–173, 180. 6. ‘Abdullah Jan Faruqi, “Maktubat,” Idak Khānaqāh, North Waziristan, MSS, Idak, n.d., 8. 7. He studied Persian verse and prose from the village paysh-imam in Malakand; a teacher from Deoband, Mawlawi ‘Abd al-Ghani, provided higher education in Arabic, jurisprudence, grammar, morphology, and other subjects. 8. Fazl Ahmad Ma‘sumi Peshawari, Rasa’il-i Fazliyya, ed. ‘Abdullah Jan Faruqi (Thana, Malakand Agency: Idara-i Naqshbandiyya Garhi Hazratkhel, 1399 / 1978–1979). 9. ‘Abdullah Jan Faruqi, Risala-i Inkishaf (Idak, North Waziristan: Idara-i Naqshbandiyya Hazratabad, 2010), 75–76; ‘Abdullah Jan Faruqi, Afkar-i Sharifi (Thana, Malakand Agency: Idara-i Naqshbandiyya Garhi Hazratkhel, n.d.), 105–107. 10. Faruqi, “Maktubat-i Sharifi,” North Waziristan, MSS, Idak, n.d., Letter 207. 11. Faruqi, “Maktubat,” 4–5, 22, 28, 32; Gulab Niyaz Khan, Peshawar, December 2019; Jawad ullah Jan Faruqi, Thana, Malakand, December 2019. 12. Jawad ullah Jan Faruqi, Thana, Malakand, December 2019. 13. Ibid. 14. Ibid. 15. One who does not engage in taqlīd or follow an established teaching of another, implying a rejection of tradition, whether in jurisprudence or Sufism. 16. Faruqi, “Maktubat,” 60–62. 17. Jawad ullah Jan Faruqi, Thana, Malakand, December 2019. 18. ‘Abdullah Jan Faruqi, “Thubut al-Tasawwuf b’il Qur’an,” Idak Khānaqāh, North Waziristan, MSS, Idak, 1415 / 1994–95.

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19. Imdad al-Ghaffar Faruqi, Thana, Malakand Agency, May 2015; Faruqi, Afkar-i Sharifi, 99–103. 20. Ayyub Qari, “Manba‘ al-Asrar,” MSS, Yarkand, (composed 1356 / 1941); Thierry Zarcone, “Sufi Families Private Archives: About Some Unknown Sources for the Intellectual History of Sufi Lineages in 20th Century Xinjiang,” in Studies on Xinjiang Historical Sources in 17–20th Centuries (Tokyo: Toyo Bunko [Oriental Library], 2010), 141, 149.

Acknowledgments

My initial interest in Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi’s thought began over a decade ago, sparked via the scholarship of Arthur Buehler (especially his masterful exploration of the Collected Letters) and Yohannan Friedmann, as well as my sister Homayra Ziad’s work on the Mujaddidi poet-saint Khwaja Mir Dard. Over the course of my doctorate at Yale, I became increasingly fascinated by Sirhindi’s legacy, how the Mujaddidis became so pervasive from China to the Ottoman Empire, and how so many modern social movements cited him as their inspiration. It was Muhammad Iqbal Mujaddidi who first introduced me to the protagonist of this book, Fazl Ahmad Peshawari, and invited me to access his own incomparable library. Then, often accompanied by the formidable bibliophile-scholar Kashif Uddin Chauhan (either in person or virtually), I traveled to six countries and over fifty towns and villages, following the footsteps of Fazl Ahmad and his progeny—across the Indus, the Khyber Pass, and the Amu Darya. This research simply would not have been possible without guidance and hospitality at every stage. Foremost, I am indebted to my mentors at Yale: Abbas Amanat, Frank Griffel, and Alan Mikhail. It has truly been an honor to work with them. And, to my dear friends and teachers, Abd al-Hayy ‘Khakrub’ Faqir, Sayed Dawood Misbah, Mobin Ahmad, and Rizvan Ahmad for their sincere friendship and invaluable support, and for ensuring that my fieldwork has been a fulfilling adventure. At the Kamel Center for the Study of Islamic Law and Civilization at Yale Law School, I am deeply grateful to Owen Fiss, Anthony Kronman, and Bradley Hayes for taking me on as a Research Fellow, during which much of the writing was carried out. And, at UNC-Chapel Hill, a special thanks to Carl Ernst and Cemil Aydin for all their guidance.

338 

 Acknowledgments

Fazl Ahmad’s descendants and successors in Peshawar, Malakand and Waziristan have encouraged (and inspired) me at every stage, especially Pir Imdad al-Ghaffar Faruqi, Pir Fazl Ilahi, Jawad ullah Jan Faruqi, Waheed ullah Faruqi, Asad ullah Faruqi (Khānaqāh-i Hazratkhel, Thana, Malakand), Gulab Niyaz Khan (Idak, North Waziristan), and Ibrar ul Haq Faruqi (Aladand Dheri). For facilitating my research in Afghanistan, I am indebted to President Ashraf Ghani and Mukhtarullah Mukhtar, Ghulam Nabi Farahi (Deputy Minister of Information and Culture) and Helaman Ghaznawi (Ministry of Information and Culture), Nancy Dupree (ACKU, Kabul University), Jibrael Amin (ACKU, Kabul University), Omar Sharifi, Sultan Barakzai, Zafar Daqiq, and the staff at the American Institute of Afghan Studies, Mohammad Azizi (AIMS), Aref Niazi, and Saifullah Khan. At the Kabul National Archives, I am thankful for the cooperation of Sakhi Monir and Abdul Rashid Osman, in addition to others who supported my research there. For their hospitality and assistance, I am also grateful to Mir Muhammad Arham (Abdullah Ansari, Herat), Qari Sayqal (Khānaqāh-i Pahlavan), Ishan Atiqullah Khan Ansari and Ustad Amar al-Din Khan Ansari (Mazar-i Sharif), Khwaja Muhammad Na‘im Siddiq and others at the Khānaqāh-i Mujaddidiyya Qila‘ Javed, and the custodians at Tamim Sahib Ansari, Khānaqāh-i Mujaddidiyya-Sayfiyyah (Parvan, Aybak, Kabul, and Herat), Khānaqāh-i Mawdudi Chishti (Herat), the shrine-khānaqāh of ‘Abd al-Baqi at Shor Bazaar, and Khānaqāh-i ‘Ala’ al-Din (Kabul). At the Al Beruni Center for Oriental Studies, Tashkent, I am grateful to Bakhrom Abdukhalimov, Bakhtiyor Abidov, Abdul Sattar Jumanazarov, Baxtiyor Babadžanov, Fayzullaxon Otaxonov, and Bahodir Musametov, and Sherzodhon Mahmudov at the Academy of Sciences, for their generosity and friendship. I am deeply indebted to Nigora Ohundedaeva (Foreign Relations Department, Academy of Sciences), as well as to the staff at the Khoqand Museum. In Khyber Pukhtunkhwa, Pakistan, I am grateful to Zubair Khan (Peshawar), Shah Nawaz Khan at Malakand, Pir Sajid Zakori (Khānaqāh-i Zakori, Dera Ismail Khan), Sahibzada Muhammad Ashraf (Khānaqāh-i Kotha, Swabi), Pir Noor-ulHaq Qadri (Khānaqāh-i Qadiriyya, Landi Kotal, and Pakistan’s Minister for Religious Affairs), Haji Arshad Iqbal Qadri, Taqi Hassan (Amir Shah Qadiri Library), Sahibzada Sirajuddin (Khānaqāh Musazai), Muhammad Imran Bhorvi (Khānaqāh Bhor Sharif), and the custodians at Khānaqāh-i Hajratji Peshawari and Hazrat Jio Sahib Peshawari, and the khānaqāh of Mullah Nasim at Dir. At Peshawar University, I would like to thank my friends at the university library, Tahir Jan Umarzai, Habib ur-Rahman, and Mian Ataullah, and Tahsin Ullah at Islamiya College Peshawar. For supporting my research in Punjab, Pakistan, I would like to thank Fakir and Shahnaz Aijazuddin, Syed Siraj Uddin (National University of Modern Languages), Muhammad Nazim Bashir (Mujaddidi Foundation), Kamil Khan Mumtaz, Taimoor Khan Mumtaz (Hast o Neest), Nazir Ranjha, Mujahid Kamran and Haseeb Ahmad Piracha (Punjab University), the librarian and custodian at Khānaqāh-i Sirajiyya (Kundian), and Qaiser Shahzad (International Islamic University). At the Ganj Baksh Library, Islamabad, I am especially grateful to Agha Qahraman

Acknowledgments 

 339

Suleimani and Mehdi Agha, and their staff for their professionalism, and management of a superb institution and treasure trove. In addition to the above, for their generosity, discussions, brainstorming sessions, and timely interventions through the course of the project, I would like to thank Adel Allouche, Sajida Alvi, Barbara Ambros, Assef Ashraf, Reza Aslan, Zebunnisa Bangash, Brandon Bayne, Daniel Beben, Arthur Beuhler, David Brophy, Alfrid Bustanov, James Caron, Zayra Badillo Castro, Andrew Charles, Andrea Cooper, Devin DeWeese, Allen Frank, Michael Gilsenan, Nile Green, Jo-Ann Gross, Kasturi Gupta, Juliane Hammer, Umar Hayat, Micah Hughes, Farrukh Husain, Hafeez Jamali, Shaykh Farhat Jouini, Marcy Kaufman, Ranin Kazemi, Arash Khazeni, Kwangmin Kim, Lauren Leve, Scott Levi, Kathryn Lofton, Francisco José Luis, Robert McChesney, John Miller, Asfar Moin, Robert Nichols, James Pickett, Kishwar Rizvi, Amos Rothschild, Omid Safi, Ali Saigol, Eric Schluessel, Ron Sela, Syed Shafqat Ali Shah, Pir Mudassir Shah, Ali Gibran Siddiqi, Gagan Sood, Uktambek Sultanov, Rian Thum, Jennifer Van Vleck, and Matluba Wakefield. And special gratitude to Catherine Osborne for her editorial talents. I gratefully acknowledge the funding sources for my fieldwork in Afghanistan, Pakistan, Uzbekistan, and the United Kingdom. This project was made possible through the Social Science Research Council International Dissertation Research Fellowship, the MacMillan Center at Yale International Dissertation Research Grant and Summer Research Fellowships, the Center for South Asian Studies at Yale Summer Research Fellowships, The Barakat Trust, Oxford, The Smith Richardson Foundation World Politics and Statecraft Fellowship, the American Institute of Pakistan Studies Junior Fellowship, and the Department of Religious Studies at UNC-Chapel Hill. Finally, I would like to thank Saada and Ali Bilgrami, Lynda and George Carlson, and my family, to whom this work is dedicated: Ayah Nur and Ibrahim Tajdar; Matole, Homayra Ziad, and Zeenut Ziad, my academic interlocutor through this decade-long process; and Ziad Alahdad, who guided me in creating the framework of this project.

Index

‘Abd al-Ahad Wahdat Sirhindi, 82, 305n29, 309n67 ‘Abd al-Baqi Mujaddidi Kabuli, 108, 194, 275 ‘Abd al-Hakim Sialkoti, 79, 132 ‘Abd al-Hamid II, 137 ‘Abd al-Haqq Muhadis Dehlavi, 81 Abdali Afghans, 36, 39 ‘Abd al-Jabbar Wardak, 199 ‘Abd al-Qadir Jilani, 64–65, 221, 248, 283 ‘Abd al-Qahir Abu Najib Suhrawardi, 65 ‘Abd al-Rahim Peshawari, 114, 123–125, 162, 285 ‘Abd al-Rahim Marghinani, 209, 220 ‘Abd al-Rahman Akhundzadeh, 241 ‘Abd al-Rahman Chishti, 81 ‘Abd al-Shukur. See Hazrat Sahib Butkhak ‘abdiyyat, 74 ‘Abdullah Jan Faruqi, 182, 227, 256– 261, 285 Abu’l Fayz Khan, 35, 41, 316n3 Abu’l Fazl ‘Allami, 69, 71, 260 Abu’l Hasan Zayd Faruqi, 322–323n51 Abu’l Kalam Azad, 20–21 adab, 23, 32, 43, 114, 156, 215

Afaqi Khojas, 46, 56, 166, 210, 220, 255 Afghan Civil War, 259 Afkar-i Sharifi (Faruqi), 261 Afridi, 171 Ahl-i Hadith, 174, 175, 202, 323n59 Ahmad Raza Khan of Bareilly, 291n38 Ahmad Shah Durrani: establishment of Durrani Empire, 5–6, 39–41, 43; invasion of Hindustan, 88–89; model of sovereignty, 44–46; and Sufis, 120, 139, 234 Ahmad Yasawi, 156, 220 Ahrar, Khwaja ‘Ubaydullah, 67, 104, 318n41 Ahrari Khwajas, 83, 104, 118, 210 Aimaq, 51, 162 Ajmer, 65, 223 Akali Nihangs, 41, 171 Akbar, Jalal al-Din: millenarianism and Dīn-i Ilahī, 69–70, 73, 260; sacred kingship, 11, 148; Sirhindi’s response, 71, 260. See also Rawshaniyya Akhund ‘Abd al-Ghafur of Swat, 174, 225–232, 312n39, 331n3; as Fazl Ahmad’s disciple, 121, 227; and Sayyid Ahmad of Rae Bareli, 183, 228; and Sayyid Amir of Kotah, 233–234, 260.

342 

 Index

Akhund ‘Abd al-Ghafur of Swat (Continued) See also Hadda Sahib (deputy); Mian Gul (son); Mawlawi Gulab Din (deputy) Akhund Darviza Nangarhari, 120, 186; campaign against Rawshaniyya, 68, 260; Irshad al-Talibin, 202–204, 306n35 Akhund Mullah Mu‘allim Shah Balkhi, 134 Akhund Mullah Nafs Bukhari, 134 Akhunds of Pishat, 225 ‘Ala’ al-Dawla Simnani, 73–74, 96 Aladand: Hazratkhel, 333n38, 334n50; khanate of, 230, 232–233; Sayyid Amir at, 234 Alay Kyrghyz, 212–213 Alexander I, 155 Alexander II, 58 al-Ghazali, Abu Hamid, 76, 156, 203, 304n18 al-Hallaj, Mansur, 21, 75 Aligarh University, 18 ‘Ali Hujwiri, 68 ‘Ali ibn Abi Talib, 62, 108, 118, 124 ‘Alim Khan, 52, 149–150, 153, 209 ‘Alim Qul, 214–216 Allah Birdi Taz, 149 Allah Quli Khan, 53–54, 55 al-Sharif al-Jurjani, 184 Altishahr: definition, 287n1; Khojas, 46, 220; Khoqand campaigns, 55–56, 58, 210; Qing occupation, 5, 39, 42, 44, 46, 52; Sufis traveling to, 155, 252; trade with, 43, 50, 208. See also Kashgar; Yarkand Ambela, 228 Amir ‘Abd al-Rahman, 14; commercial policies, 158, 205, 253; intrusion in Swat, 239–240, 334n47, 334n50; suppression of Sufis, 6, 112, 238–243, 252, 255, 335n4 Amir Habibullah, 255 Amir Hayder: as disciple and deputy of Fazl Ahmad, 117, 130, 137–153, 310n18, 316n3; and Fazl-i Haqq, 2, 164, 166; patronage of education, 53, 131, 155; sacred kingship, 315n77, 316n3; and Sayyid Ahmad of Rae Bareli, 182 Amir Khan of Tonk, 175 Amir Muzaffar, 58, 59, 157–158, 216– 217

Amir Nasrullah, 52, 53, 54, 153, 154, 212–213, 315n78 Amu Darya: exchange, mediation, and travel across, 117, 121, 135–136, 139, 189, 192, 238, 252; as frontier, 112, 218–221, 253 Anglo-Sikh Wars, 57, 198 animals, 193, 195, 245 Ansaris of Mazar-i Sharif, 108–109, 114, 118, 164 Aqa Muhammad Khan Qajar, 40 Aq Masjid, 43, 57, 214, 218 aqsaqal, 210 Arabic language: literary production, 3, 9, 17, 64, 71, 105, 146, 183, 199, 243, 306n35; Maktubat translation into, 71, 85; and the Persianate, 30–31, 32; study of, 93–94, 258, 335n7 Arabshahi, 36 architecture: Madrasa-i Sahibzada, Khoqand, 217–218; Mirakan, Bukhara, 129; Sirhind khānaqāh, 82; Yakatut, Peshawar, 118–119 Armenian merchant diaspora, 38, 46, 51, 248 Arsala Khan, Thana, 231 Ashtarkhanid Uzbeks, 4, 33–36, 41–42, 43, 44, 54, 127, 128 Association for Promoting Uyghur Culture, 255 astānādār, 225–226, 233, 239–240 Astrakhan, 51, 158, 296n42 astrology, 19, 94, 218 atālīq, 34, 44, 313n55 ‘Attar, Farid al-Din, 68, 199, 298n40 Attock, 163, 170–171, 182 Aurangzeb ‘Alamgir, Muhiyy al-Din, 34, 40, 81, 86, 137, 315n83 Awadh, 35, 40, 41, 45, 47, 50, 52 Awliya’ Ata, 218 awqāf, 8, 10, 37, 63, 65, 84, 104, 105; Amir ‘Abd al-Rahman’s policies, 242, 252; colonial policies, 219–221, 251, 252, 254, 255; Fazl Ahmad’s lineage, 129, 131–132, 163, 217, 314n62, 314n65, 318n42 Ayyub Khan Barakzai, 238–240 Ayyub Qari, 221, 261 Baba Beg, 166 Baba Divan Begi, 150 Babars, 192

 Index  Babur, Zahir al-Din, 45, 68, 207, 209, 223 Bacha Saqao, 255 Badakhshan, 34, 35, 39, 42, 58, 182; commerce, 43, 50; patronage of Sufis, 26, 85, 315n79; ulama of, 71, 84, 92, 116 Bajaur, 120, 171, 223, 225, 227, 238, 239, 240, 322n45, 334n50 Bakhta, 231–234 Bala Hisar, Peshawar, 163 Balakot, 188, 202 Balkh: Fazl Ahmad’s network, 116, 118– 119, 132; and Ghulam Qadir, 121, 152, 155; Nadir Shah’s occupation, 36, 37; trade networks, 48, 50, 51 Baluchistan, 34, 40–41, 53, 56, 57, 92, 294n24 Bannu: and Fazl Ahmad’s familial lineage, 235, 238, 256, 258, 261; military mobilization, 171–172; and Zakori network, 119, 195, 198, 205–206, 326n31 baqā, 96–97 barakat, 23, 247 Barakzai, 26, 53, 160–164, 173, 226– 227, 234–238 Barelvi movement, 18, 291n38 Bashkir, 155, 156, 158 Basmachi Revolts, 221, 254 bast, 125, 160, 162, 167, 169, 233 bāt.inī khilāfat, 1, 3, 6–14 bay‘a, 63, 80, 83–84, 93–96, 101–102, 104, 249–250; into multiple lineages, 133, 311n28; Tariqa-i Muhammadiyya, 175, 176; of women and youth, 203 Bayazid Ansari. See Rawshaniyya Bayazid Bistami, 75, 297n9 Bektashi, 63 Bellew, Walter, 181, 225–227 Bengal, 32, 39, 40, 46–47, 50, 295n40 Bhera, 119 Bhor Sharif, 206 bid‘at, 78–79, 130, 175, 202, 259 Bi Fazil, 149 Bolan Pass, 48 buffer states, 6, 9, 13, 52, 55, 57–59, 148, 239, 252 Buinsk, 159 Bukhara: arrival of Fazl Ahmad, 128– 129; early Naqshbandi and Mujaddidi

 343 Sufis at, 127–128; Ghulam Qadir and Volga and Siberian networks, 153–157; interlocking and competing lineages at, 133–135, 148–153; Russian protectorate and Soviet Union, 157–159, 205, 254–255; sovereign as Sufi, scholar, and patron, 129–133, 137, 138–148; trade routes: 48, 50, 51, 192. See also Abu’l Fayz Khan; Amir Hayder; Amir Nasrullah; Fazl Ahmad Ma‘sumi Peshawari; Rahim Bi; Shah Murad Bukhari Sayyids, 119 Buner, 170–171, 223–226 Burnes, Alexander, 53, 56, 168 Buxar, battle of, 47 Calcutta, 42, 50 calligraphy, 166 caravan trade, 50–52, 192, 205; caravanserais, 312n46; and Sufis, 8, 123–124, 162, 190, 192–195, 200, 204 Caspian Sea, 56, 158, 211, 296n42 Catherine II, 155 Caucasus, 5, 20, 32, 52, 55, 58, 90, 158, 215 Chagatai khanate, 67 Chagatai (language), 45, 93, 220 Chamkanni, 120, 256, 306n35, 324n93 Char Bagh, Laghman, 236, 255 charitable endowments. See awqāf Charsadda, 181, 182 Charter Act of 1813, 59 Chhach-Hazara region, 116, 123, 172, 177, 180 chillakhāna, 115, 129, 141, 218 Chinese expansion. See Altishahr; Kashgar; Qing empire; Yarkand Chinggisid, 31, 39, 41, 44, 127, 131, 156, 316n3 Chishti, Sufi order, 65–66, 68; and Mujaddidis, 95–96, 104, 114, 136, 194, 201, 307n51, 309n5; in Peshawar and Swat, 226, 227, 311n30, 322n43; Sirhindi’s inheritance of, 70–71; wah.dat-i wujūd, 73, 299n44 Chitral, 182, 227 Chong Madrasa, 221 Churchill, Winston, 243 Chu River, 211–212 circle of contingent existence, 304n17 circle of equity, 7, 31 Cold War, 14, 289n19

344 

 Index

Collected Letters (Sirhindi). See Maktubat cosmology, 17, 66, 71, 73, 77–78, 95–97, 103, 106, 232 cotton, 48, 59, 197, 205, 208, 219–220, 221, 252 Crimean War, 57 curriculum, 2–3, 93–94 Curzon, Lord Nathaniel, 13, 289n18 customs regimes, 157, 205, 253 cyclical time, 75–77

Dir, 223–227, 230, 240, 334n50 Divan-i Hadi (Fazl Hadi), 232 divine throne, 304n17 Dost Muhammad Qandahari, 204 dream narratives, 24, 134, 151, 221 Durr al-Mukhtar (Haskafi), 179–180, 203, 323n73 Durrani Empire, 48–50, 127–128. See also Ahmad Shah Durrani; Mahmud Shah Durrani; Timur Shah Durrani; Zaman Shah Durrani

Dahbid, 150–151, 220, 318n42 Dahbidi Khwajas, 108, 118, 127, 128, 133–135, 149–153, 156, 165, 209, 283, 331n68 dam healing, 115, 144–145 Damullah ‘Adil, 133–134 Damullah Akhund Jan Tashkendi, 101, 328n10 Damullah Muhammad ‘Iwaz, 140, 144– 145, 279 Damullah Qawzi, 133–134 Danish, Ahmad Makhdum, 142 Daniyal Ataliq, 44, 128, 131 Daraban, 192, 325n5 dār al-h.arb, 180 Dara Shikoh, 86 “dark century,” 15 Dars-i Nizami, 110 Daud Khan Rohilla, 34 Dawar, 256–257, 259 Delhi: 18th century, 34, 36–42, 50, 55; Sufis and ulama, 65, 68, 71, 83, 86–89, 156, 175, 220, 302n102, 305n31, 331n68. See also Khānaqāh-i Mazhariyya; Shah Ghulam ‘Ali Dehlavi; Shah Waliullah Dehlavi Deoband madrasa, 18, 291n36, 335n7 Dera Ismail Khan, 109, 311n26, 326n31. See also Zakori Derajat: Afghan rule, 163, 294n24, 326n34; Sikh occupation, 53; Sufi networks, 124, 195–198, 202–203, 252. See also powindas; Zakori determination. See ta‘ayyun deurbanization, 35, 127 dhikr, 62, 66; silent, 67, 95–99, 102–104, 156, 221, 305n25, 319n62; vocal, 65, 135, 202, 203, 209, 219 Dīn-i Ilahī, 70, 71, 73, 260 diplomat-saints, 124–125, 207–208, 211–216

Eastern Question, 289n19 East India Company: agents in Central Asia, 1–2, 121, 165–166, 210, 225; expansion, 40, 41, 42, 46, 47, 55–59, 222; and Sufis, 169, 216–217; trade, 50, 51, 59. See also Burnes, Alexander; Great Game; Moorcroft, William Ecclesiastical Assembly for the Muhammadan Creed at Ufa, 155 ecstatic mysticism, 4, 21, 61, 68, 72–75 ego-self. See nafs 1857 Rebellion. See Sepoy Rebellion 1886, Statute of, 219–220 Eighteenth century political fragmentation, 33–38 Elphinstone, Mountstuart, 15, 18–19, 56, 123, 170 Eltuzer Khan, 44 enlightened cameralism, 155 eschatology, 69–71, 75–79, 81, 108, 115, 183, 188 Faizi, Shaikh Abu’l-Faiz ibn Mubarak, 71, 260 fanā’, 73, 80, 96, 97, 102–103 Faqir Jhilli, 119 Faqir of Ipi, 205 Faqir Sahib. See Zakori, Imam Muhammad Raza Farangi Mahal, 109–110 Farid al-Din Ganj Shakar, 66 Fatawa-i Alamgiri, 86, 132, 203 Fath-i Muhammad Bhorvi, 206 Fath Khan Barakzai, 161, 163 fayz, 23, 96, 142, 247 Fayz Khan Kabuli, 128 Fazl Ahmad Ma‘sumi Peshawari, 26, 111–112; at Bukhara, 126–135, 137– 153; commerce, diplomacy, and mediation, 123–126, 161–163; correspondence with Amir Hayder, 144–145,

Index  147–148, 151–153; deputies and institutions, 117–119, 121, 135–136; at Peshawar, 116, 121, 164; at Sirhind, 112–115. See also Amir Hayder; awqāf; Mirakan mosque; Risala; Shah Murad Fazl ‘Umar Mujaddidi of Shor Bazaar, 255 Federally Administered Tribal Areas, 257 Ferghana, 34–35, 42, 45, 111, 151, 207– 221 First World War, 14 frontier: imagined, 6, 14; making of, 205, 218–221, 253 futuwwat, 215 Gabriel (archangel), 62 Gandamak, treaty of, 238 Gandapur, 192, 200 Ganj Darwaza, mosque, 116, 146 Gardner, Alexander, 171 Garhi Hazratkhel, 232 Gesudaraz, Sayyid Muhammad, 73 Ghaws Baba, Thana, 231 ghazal, 24, 108, 232, 261, 275, 277 ghāzīs, 170–173, 182, 230, 241, 322n35 Ghaznawid, 30 Ghazni, 49, 51, 116, 119, 143, 190–198, 205; shrine sites, 325n9, 325n13 Ghilzai, 34–36, 38, 240, 334n52 Ghujdawani, ‘Abd al-Khaliq, 66–67, 281, 283, 307n50, 308n59 Ghulam Qadir. See Mian Fazl Qadir Gomal Pass, 192 Government of India Act of 1858, 58 Great Game, 6, 9, 13–14, 55–59, 157– 158, 205, 243, 287n3, 289n18, 289n19 Gulha-i Chaman (Faruqi), 227, 235, 240 Gulhane edict, 137 Guru Gobind Singh, 88 Gwaliari, Muhammad Ghaws, 243 Habibullah Bukhari, 85, 127, 129, 133– 134 “Habshis,” 230, 232 Hadda Sahib, Najm al-Din, 240, 249, 334n50 hadith, 19, 62, 110, 132, 299n51; kings of Bukhara, proficiency in, 140, 141, 147; Mujaddidi Sufis, study of and expertise in, 21, 71, 83, 94, 139, 147, 164, 179, 221, 307n52, 323n68, 329n29. See also Radd-i Wahhabiyyat

 345 Hadrami Sayyids, 64 Hafiz Ahmad Khan, 197 Hafiz Daraz Peshawari: and Amir Hayder, 139, 143–144, 146–148; as Fazl Ahmad’s deputy, 118, 121; grave of, 119; opposition to Sayyid Ahmad of Rae Bareli, 173–174, 177–181, 183– 186, 188–189, 323n58 Hafiz Ji, son of Mīr Wa‘iz. of Kabul, 235 Hafiz Khudayar, 133–134 Hafiz Muhammad ‘Azim Peshawari, 121; opposition to Sayyid Ahmad of Rae Bareli, 173–174, 179, 185–189; students of, 164, 227, 233 Hafiz Muhammad Fazil Khan, 121 Hafiz Shirazi, 43, 93 hagiographies, 19, 22–25, 82, 86–87, 136, 225; and Afghan genealogy, 201; and Amir Hayder, 140–141; and parallel Sufi lineages, 133; and Shah Murad, 131, 142 hajj, 85, 152, 163, 211, 212–213, 221, 310; Russian regulation of, 155, 158, 219 Hajji Bahadur Kohati, 120 Hajji Muhammad Isma‘il Ghuri Naqshbandi, 120 Hajji Sabir of Ishtirkhan, 221 hama ū ast and hama az ū ast, 73–74 Hanafi, school of jurisprudence: and accusations against Sayyid Ahmad, 176, 179–180, 188, 323n73; in curriculums, 93; reproduction of texts, 108; and Sirhindi, 80, 298n30 H.aqā’iq, 77–78 Hari Singh Nalwa, 173 Hashim Kishmi, 79, 82 Hashtnagar, 163 Haydarkhani, Laghman, 236 Hayderkhel, North Waziristan, 257 Hazrat Jio Sahib Peshawari. See Fazl Ahmad Ma‘sumi Peshawari Hazratkhel, 222, 228–240, 243–245, 334n50; in Waziristan, 256–261 Hazrat Sahib Butkhak, 154 Hazrat Sahib Kohistani, 255 Herat, 48, 52, 57; contestation in, 33, 40, 53, 54, 58, 161–163; Sufis, 65, 68, 90, 116, 143, 194, 221 Hidayat al-Talibin (Dehlavi), 305n31 Hidayat al-Talibin (Zakori), 202–205 hidden caliphate. See bāt.inī khilāfat Hinduism, 73, 103, 125

346 

 Index

Hindu Kush, 32, 53, 57, 166, 206 Hindu merchant diaspora, 38, 46, 51, 123–124, 208 Hissar-i Shadman, or Hissar, 148–150, 152 Hodgson, Marshall, 15–16, 30 horse trade, 1, 33, 38, 47–49, 51, 59, 164–165, 205, 295n40 Husayn Bayqara, 67–68 h.uzur-i qalb, 144 Hyderabad (Deccan), 52, 165, 256 Hyderabad (Sindh), 6, 65 Ibn al-‘Arabi, 11, 21, 64, 68, 298n40; and Sirhindi, 61, 71–74, 79, 96, 100, 299n44, 304n15. See also Insān alKāmil; ta‘ayun; wah.dat-i shuhūd Idak, North Waziristan, 256–261 idolatry, 177–180, 259 Ignat’ev, Nikolai, 58 Ignorirovanie, 219 ijāzatnāmas, 20, 24, 84, 156, 249–250, 305n32, 308n59; Amir Hayder, 143, 145 ‘ilm al-kalām (scholastic theology), 24, 63, 71, 83, 94, 100, 132, 139, 147, 156, 234, 298n30 Imam al-Shafi‘i, 76, 317n31 Imamate (‘Alid), 68, 78, 83 Imamate (Sayyid Ahmad in Peshawar), 182–183 Imam Husayn, 68 Imam Mahdi, 69, 75–77, 79, 81, 183, 188 Imam Shamil, 20 Imla Shakir Buni, 135 imperial fragmentation, 33–38, 40–42 ināqs, 44 indigo, 205, 295n40 Indus River, 2, 3, 51, 139, 192, 252; as imagined boundary, 13–14, 32 initiation. See bay‘a innovation. See bid‘at Insān al-Kāmil, 12, 70, 73, 79, 300n69 intoxication. See sukr Iqbal, Sir Muhammad, 21 Irdana Bi, 42 Irshad al-Talibin (Akhund Darviza), 202– 203, 306n35 Irtysh, 46 Isfahan, 4, 34–36, 42, 48 Ishan Khwaja, 150–151 Ishan Sahib Khwaja, 219

Ishan Salimsaq Khwaja Ishan, 220 Islam Bibi incident, 205 Islamic state, 12, 174, 241 Isma‘ili, 42 Istanbul, 84–85, 89, 90, 157, 211 Jadidi, 18, 158 Ja‘fari, school of jurisprudence, 37 Jahangir, Nur al-Din, 81 Jahangir Khoja, 56, 166 Jalalabad, 65, 124, 236–237, 240, 312n37 Jalal al-Din Surkh-Posh Bukhari, 70 Jama‘at ‘Ali Shah, 256 Jami, ‘Abd al-Rahman, 67, 73, 156, 244 Jami‘ Mosque, Bukhara, 153 Jami‘ Mosque, Khoqand, 210, 217 Jandah, 226 Jan Muhammad Kulabi, 314n69 Jarullah Juryani, 85 Jawahir-i Khamsa (Gwaliari), 243 Jerusalem, 85 Jesus, 75, 76, 98, 170 jirga, 223–224, 259 Junayd al-Baghdadi, 304n18 jurisprudence, 174, 176, 179–180, 194, 203, 218, 259, 298n30, 323n68, 326n32 Justice and Development Party, Turkey, 4 Juybari Khwajas, 118, 124, 127, 216 Kabul: 19th century, 18, 52, 53–54, 56–58, 154–155, 161–163, 171–172, 181; as Durrani capital, 40, 43, 120; Nadir Shah, 36, 37; Sufis and ulama, 9, 68, 70, 71, 92, 93, 104, 106, 116–118, 121, 123, 128, 135, 155–156, 209, 216, 234–238; trade, 48–50, 192. See also Amir ‘Abd al-Rahman; Hazratkhel; Khwaja Safiullah Kabuli Sirhindi; Shor Bazaar, Hazarat of Kafiristan, 239 Kaka Sahib, 226 Kalat, 41, 52, 53, 139 Kamran Shah Durrani, 142, 161, 163 Karim Khan Zand, 40, 42–43, 44, 45 Karnal, battle of, 36 kashf, 74 Kashgar: 20th century, 255; Amirate of, 58, 216; curriculum at, 93; Mujaddidis, 85, 90, 209, 221; trade, 42, 50, 208, 252

Index  Kashmir: Durranis, 40, 294n24; Sikhs, 53, 57, 163, 188, 322n35; Sufis and ulama, 1, 71, 90, 116, 124, 128, 165– 166, 216; trade, 48, 50 Kazakh, 35, 36, 44, 46, 55, 208, 215; merchants and trade, 50, 51, 192, 211; Russian occupation, 57, 218 Kazan, 90, 119, 135, 155, 158–159, 211, 215 Khadi Khan, 182–183 Khalifa Husayn, 156 khalsa, 41, 197 khalun of Leh, 166 khalwa, or seclusion, 62, 102, 115, 129, 141, 218, 234 Khan, Sir Sayyid Ahmad, 250 Khānaqāh-i Mazhariyya, Delhi, 90, 101, 204, 250, 252, 256, 326n33 Khānaqāh-i Sahibzada, Bukhara, 119, 153, 156 Khanykov, Nikolaï, 25, 128, 315 Kharaqani, Abu’l Hasan, 63 Khattak, 171, 226, 326n30 Khitay-Qipchaq, 54 Khiva: Fazl Ahmad’s network, 132, 133; political developments at, 54–55, 56, 57, 58, 157; Yasawi Sufis, 156 Khojand, 41, 149, 157, 209, 212, 315n82 Khoqand: conflict with Bukhara, 54, 148– 152; Fazl Ahmad’s network, 119, 132, 133, 207, 210–218, 220–221, 238; Russian occupation, 57, 58, 157, 218–221, 254; statebuilding and expansion, 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 52–53, 54, 55, 208–210; trade, 50, 208, 211–212. See also Altishahr: Khoqand campaigns; Ferghana; Tashkent Khost, 258 Khudayar Khan, 207, 213–219 Khulm, 167 Khumuli, Mullah Juma‘a Quli, 149–153, 318n37 Khushab, 198, 199, 326n31 Khwaja ‘Abd al-Rahim, 165 Khwaja Ahmad Naqshbandi, 216, 253 Khwaja Badr al-Din Sirhindi, 82 Khwaja Baqi Billah, 68, 71, 81 Khwajagan, 66–67; khatm, 283 Khwaja Mansur, 141 Khwaja Ma‘ruf, madrasa, 174 Khwaja Mir Dard, 89 Khwaja Muhammad Ma‘sum Sirhindi, 81–82, 84–86, 100, 127

 347 Khwaja Nazar Huwaida Chimyani, 220 Khwaja Qasim Jan, 2, 139, 167–168, 170 Khwaja Safiullah Kabuli Sirhindi, 92; family and descendants, 121, 194, 236, 255, 312n41. See also Makhzan alAnwar Khwaja Shah Niyaz Kashmiri, 1–2, 165– 166, 169, 216, 253, 321n21 Khwaja Virdi, 156–157 Khwarizm, 66, 155, 164; Khwarizmshah, 44 Khyber Pass, 48–49, 117, 123, 228, 230, 238, 240, 253 King Amanullah, 255 Kipling, Rudyard, 213, 287n3 Kohat, 120, 235, 238, 258 Kokaltash Madrasa, 136, 315n80 Kotah, 233 Kotah Mullah. See Sayyid Amir alUtmanzai Kubrawi, Sufi order, 66, 73, 104, 223, 226, 304n18 Kuniya La‘l, 171 Kurgan Tepe, 149 Kurram Valley, 238 Kyrghyz, 208, 212–214, 216 Ladakh, 1, 50, 165–166, 216 Lahore: 18th century, 36, 40, 42, 49, 294n24; as Sikh capital, 41, 45, 53, 88, 166, 180, 197, 198; Sufis, 65, 165, 216; trade routes, 48–50 Lal Badishah Bukhari, 119 La‘l Beg Samarkandi, 132–133 lat.ā’if, 66, 95–104, 106, 109, 304n18; lessons on, 218, 258; mosque of, in Wazirisitan, 258–261; tracts on, 95–96, 275, 304n19, 305n27, 307n51, 308n60, 309n67 Lear, Edward, 228 Leh, 165–166, 253 Lodi Afghans, 191, 327n42 Lohani, 192 Logar, 101, 106, 198, 307n51, 326n31 Mabda’ o Ma‘ad (Sirhindi), 71, 77, 99, 275, 305n27, 308n58 Madali Khan, 210–213, 217 Madrasa-i Sahibzada, Khoqand, 217– 218, 220 Madrasa Rahimiyya, Delhi, 83, 110 magic, 243–245 Mahabat Khan mosque, 187

348 

 Index

Mahdavi, 69, 81 Mahmud Shah Durrani: and Fazl Ahmad, 142, 161–163, 170; grants to Fazl Ahmad’s lineage, 121, 124, 312n36; and Moorcroft, 167 Makhdum Adam Thattavi, 85 Makhdum-i ‘Azam, 46, 127, 136, 149 Makhzan al-Anwar (Khwaja Safiullah), 94–99, 101–106, 108–109, 274–277, 285, 303n4, 304n19 maktab, 93 Maktubat (Sirhindi), 4, 71–74, 103, 203, 214, 298n30, 304n15; genre, 24, 82– 83; teaching of, 115, 133–135; objections to, 81, 86, 134–134; reproduction of, 156. See also cosmology; lat.ā’if; ta‘ayyun Malakand, 22, 27, 228–235, 238, 243, 284–285, 303n4 Malakand Expedition, 243 Malcolm, John, 15, 55, 289n18 ma‘mūlāt texts, 82–83. See also Makhzan al-Anwar; Risala Manba‘ al-Asrar (Ayyub Qari), 220, 261 Manghit Uzbeks, 41, 44, 127–131. See also Amir Hayder; Amir Muzaffar; Amir Nasrullah; Shah Murad maqāms, 71, 79, 80, 96, 102, 258, 304n17, 307n50 Maratha confederacy, 34, 35, 39, 41, 52 Marghinan, or Marghilan, 209, 217, 221 Mashhad, 39, 221 Masjid-i Uzbekan, 128 Masnavi (Rumi), 105, 164, 184, 199, 203, 307n52 Masson, Charles, 123, 186, 312n46 Mastan Mullah, 243 Maturidi, 298n30 Mawlana Asadullah, 118, 130 Mawlawi Gulab Din, 257 Mawlawi Mazhar ‘Ali in Peshawar, 188 Mayar, battle of, 184 Mecca, 85, 151–152, 157, 176, 204, 211 medicine, Greco-Arabic, 94, 139, 147, 244 Medina, 33, 85, 87, 151–152, 204, 211, 221, 230, 329n29 meditation. See murāqaba; dhikr; nafī wa athbāt Merv, 33, 54 Mian ‘Abd al-Hakim Qandahari, 101 Mian Fazl Ahad, 119, 153, 207–208,

210–214, 216–220, 238, 330n57, 331n65 Mian Fazl Ghaffar, 232, 236, 238, 240, 243, 256, 333n38, 334n52 Mian Fazl Hadi, 230–238, 253, 333n38, 334n58 Mian Fazl Hayy, 236, 240, 333n38, 334n52 Mian Fazl-i Haqq: and British officers, 1–2, 164–170, 253; anti-Sikh mobilization, 170–173; commissioning biography, 108; grants, 312n35, 312n37; library, 232; at Peshawar, 116, 135, 164, 227, 230, 319n60, 322n45. See also Hazratkhel Mian Fazl Ilahi, 173 Mian Fazl Latif, 230–233, 235, 239–240, 333n26, 334n47 Mian Fazl Mahdi, 230 Mian Fazl Mahmud, 135 Mian Fazl Malik, 153, 156, 159 Mian Fazl Qadir, 211, 319n54, 319n61, 328n22; and Amir Hayder, 145, 151– 153; grants to, 121, 312n37; networks in Tatarstan and Siberia, 153–157, 159, 319n62; seal of, 106–107, 278. See also Khānaqāh-i Sahibzada Mian Fazl Quddus, 159, 220, 238 Mian Fazl Rahim, 133 Mian Fazl Rashid, 231 Mian Fazl Tawwab, 238 Mian Fazlullah, 130, 151, 153, 319n61 Mian Gul, 239, 334n47, 334n50 Mian Khalil Sahibzada, 207–208, 211– 217, 220, 331n65 Miankhel, 191–193, 196, 198–201, 205, 325n4, 326n30, 327n42 Miankili, 225, 239–240 Mill, James, 15 millennial revival. See tajdīd-i alfī mills, 132, 143 Mingora, 234 Ming Uzbeks, 34–35, 42, 54, 119, 208 Mirakan mosque, Bukhara, 128–129, 135, 143, 153, 209, 217, 314n62, 314n64, 314n65, 315n82, 330n53 Mir ‘Ali Sher Nawai, 68 Mir ‘Arab Madrasa, Bukhara, 254 Mir ‘Izzatullah, 1–2, 121, 165–167, 210, 315n78, 316n3 Mir Murad Beg, 2, 139, 166–170, 182, 315n79 Mir Safar Ahmad Ma‘sumi, 112

Index  Mir Sayyid ‘Abdullah Bukhari, 114, 309n4, 309n5 Mirza Bedil Dehlavi, 93, 105, 151–152 Mirza Mazhar Jan-i Jahan, 88, 89–90, 132, 167 Mohan Lal Kashmiri, 164, 168 Mohmand, 170, 223, 239, 334n50 Moorcroft, William, 1–2, 142, 160, 165– 172, 216 Muftiate, 16 Mugan, 36, 37 Mughal Empire: 18th century, 8–9, 33– 52; Sufism in, 10, 61, 64–70. See also Akbar; Aurangzeb ‘Alamgir; Babur; Delhi; Jahangir Khoja; Lahore; Muhammad Shah; Shah Jahan; Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi; Sirhind Muhammad ‘Abid Sanami, 128, 165, 209 Muhammad ‘Ali Khan. See Madali Khan Muhammad Amin Dahbidi, 135, 149– 153, 165, 331n68 Muhammadi Reality, 78, 304n14 Muhammad Ishan, 220 Muhammad Islam Juybari, 127 Muhammad Rahim Bi, Khan (Bukhara), 36, 41, 149, 318n42 Muhammad Rahim Khan (Khiva), 52 Muhammad Rasa Sirhindi, 114, 309n5 Muhammad Sa‘id, Miankili, 239–240 Muhammad Salih al-Din al-Niyakani, 220 Muhammad Salih Khoja Tashkendi, 220 Muhammad Shah, Nasir al-Din, 34, 36, 87, 165 Muhammad Siddiq Dahbidi, 156, 318n36 Muhammad ‘Umar Jan Mujaddidi, 241 Muhammad ‘Umar of Chamkanni, 120, 172, 333n26 Muhammad Yahya Attocki, 306n35 Muhammad Zubayr Sirhindi, 87, 302n102, 333n30 Mu‘in al-Din Chishti, 65–66 Mujaddidi, Sufi Order. See NaqshbandiMujaddidi Mujaddid-i Alf Sani. See Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi; tajdīd-i alfī Mujahidin movement. See Sayyid Ahmad of Rae Bareli Mullah Afzal Sialkoti, 132 Mullah Fayz Bakhsh, 159, 215 Mullah Kani, 193

 349 Mullah Karim Andar, 240 Mullah Khalil of Mohmand, 239, 334n47 Mullah Mawla Dad, 193 Mullah Muhammad Yar, 88 Mullah Mushk-i ‘Alam, 240 Mullah Najib, 168, 170 Mullah Nazar Baqi Qari, 130 Mullah Niyaz Muhammad Khoqandi, 220 Mullah Payvand, 257 munshī secretarial class, 10, 31, 43–44, 253 Muqimi, Muhammad ‘Ali Khwaja Mirzakhwaja, 220 Murad al-Bukhari, 85, 156 murāqaba, 95, 98, 101–102, 104, 115, 129, 256, 258, 261 Musa Khan Dahbidi, 128, 133–135, 149, 153, 156, 165, 209, 318n42 Musalman Quli, 213, 214 music, 32, 62, 64, 66, 119, 220; Naqshbandi avoidance of, 67, 86, 99 Muslim modernism, 4, 18, 20, 158, 159, 254 mystical physiology, 66. See also lat.ā’if Nadir Shah Afshar: empire building, 5, 35–38; and Mujaddidis, 87–88; new model of sovereignty, 37, 60; post-Nadir Shah order, 5–6, 9, 16, 26–27, 38– 46, 120, 127, 139 nafī wa athbāt, 98, 102, 261 nafs, 11, 62, 96–97, 102 Najaf, 37 Najib al-Dawla, 41 Najm al-Din Ishan Aluri, 156 Najm al-Din Kubra, 66 Nangarhar, 238, 240, 248 Naqshband, Khwaja Baha’ al-Din, 66– 67, 195, 242; shrine of, 118, 124, 134, 142, 149, 151, 155 Naqshbandi, Sufi order: early development, 66–68; eleven principles, 67; Naqshbandi-Khafiyya, 221. See also Ahrar, ‘Ubaydullah; Naqshband, Khwaja Baha’ al-Din Naqshbandi-Mujaddidi, Sufi order, 2–4; binding agents, 249–250; as “crosscultural brokers,” 247; emigration from Sirhind, 88–90; fracturing links, 250–256; institutional growth, leadership, and expansion, 81–86; network

350 

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Naqshbandi-Mujaddidi (Continued) structure, 248–249; three core disciplines, 96–99; as transregional “fibre,” 8–11; views on Christians, non-Muslim rule, 169–170, 253–254. See also ma‘mūlāt texts; Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi; wah.dat-i shuhūd Narbuta Bi, 209 Nasaf (Qarshi), 132, 140, 149 Nasir Khan, 120 Nawab Muhammad Khan, 196–197 Nawnahal Singh, 197–198 negation and affirmation. See nafī wa athbāt Neo-Sufi, 20–22 Nicholas I, 212, 215, 158 Ni‘matullah Heravi, 200 Niyaz Ahmad Sirhindi, 112 Niyaz Muhammad Khoqandi, 220 Niyaz Quli Turkmen, 128, 135, 156, 319n55 Nizam al-Din Ansari, 108–109, 114, 164, 167 Noghay, 215 North Waziristan, 256–261 Nowshera, battle of, 163, 164, 171–173, 181, 182, 230 Nur ‘Ali bin Hasan al-Buawi, 159 Nur Muhammad Peshawari, 120 Orenberg, 16, 50, 52, 208, 211, 252, 326n24; Muslim Spiritual Assembly, 155, 158 Osh, 217, 220 Ottoman Empire: European expansion, 56, 57, 289n19; Mujaddidis, 33, 85, 90, 101, 137, 156, 214, 216, 326n33; and Nadir Shah and the Durranis, 36, 37, 44; Sufism, 63, 288n11 Paharpur, 199, 326n31 Palmerston, Henry John Temple, 56–57 Pamir Range, 35, 50, 206 Panipat, battle of, 39, 41, 44 Pan-Islamism, 12, 21, 137, 255 Panjpiri, 259 Panjtar, 188, 324n93 Panju Sahib, 120, 311n30 Pasand Khan of Thana, 231 Pashto, 45, 64, 243, 258, 261, 306n35 pastoral nomadism, 39, 49, 51, 119, 172, 192, 227, 251, 256. See also powindas Payinda Khan Barakzai, 53, 161, 171 Peel, Robert, 57

Persianate cosmopolis, 16, 17, 30–33 Peshawar: British occupation, 57, 58, 230, 235; contestation from Zaman Shah to Barakzais, 53, 161–163; educational infrastructure, 93–94, 128, 132; Fazl Ahmad at, 116–117, 120– 126, 194; Fazl-i Haqq at, 164–170; Sayyid Ahmad of Rae Bareli, 173–189; Sikh occupation, 53, 222, 227, 228, 230; trade routes, 49, 124, 191; treaty of 1855, 57. See also Hafiz Muhammad ‘Azim Peshawari; Mian Fazl-i Haqq; Hafiz Daraz Peshawari; Yakatut gate Peter I, 46 pilgrimage, 23, 48–49, 175, 234, 248; sites, 63–64, 104, 118, 124, 149, 155, 204–205, 226, 261, 316n95; Sirhind, 82, 89, 256, 302n101. See also hajj Pindari, 51, 56, 175 Pir Baba Buner. See Sayyid ‘Ali Tirmizi Pir-i Rawshan. See Rawshaniyya Plassey, battle of, 46 poetry, as a pedagogical tool, 64, 66, 73, 105, 306n35, 307n52 powindas, 51, 123, 191–200, 205, 326n24, 326n34 prophethood, 31, 71–72, 75, 76, 77, 260 Prophet Muhammad: renewal and the millennium, 4, 69, 75–81; sacred genealogy and descent, 112, 184, 201; and Sufism, 62–63; devotion to, 68, 144, 178, 291n38; Sunna, 80 Punjab: British occupation, 56, 57; Nadir Shah, 38; post-Nadir Shah, 40–41, 45, 294n24; Punjabis in Khorasan and Transoxiana, 132–133, 143, 174; Sufis and ulama, 71, 105–106, 118–120, 195, 198–199, 256, 315n83. See also Sikhs Punjabi (language), 9, 45, 119 Qadiri, Sufi order: 65, 73, 114, 135, 194, 227, 256, 291n38, 306n35, 309n5; practices, in manuals, 95–96, 104; and Sirhindi, 70–71, 201 Qajar, 40, 43, 44, 45, 46, 52–55 Qalandari, 68, 151 Qamar al-Din Ushi, 220–221, 331n68 Qandahar: Barakzai, 53, 57, 176; Durrani, 40, 43, 44, 52, 53, 161; early 18th century, 33, 34; fatwa, 238–239;

Index  Nadir Shah’s occupation, 36; trade and powinda routes, 39, 48–51, 192; Sufis and ulama, 101, 118, 121, 143, 156, 204, 296n50 Qarshi. See Nasaf qas.īda, 179, 217, 219, 220 Qataghan Uzbek, 42, 167 Qawwali, 32, 119 qayyūm al-zamān, 77, 79, 300n69; four qayyūms, 86–88 Qazi Ghulam Husayn, 133 Qazikhel, 153 Qazi Nur Muhammad, 89 Qazi Sanaullah Panipati, 90 Qing Empire, 5, 42, 44, 46–47, 52, 210, 220; trade, 48, 50 Qipchaq, 208, 212–214 Qizilbash, 40, 54, 125 Rabi‘a al-Adawiyya, 193 Radd-i Wahhabiyyat, 177, 183–185, 189, 201–204, 322–323n51, 326n33, 327n47 Rae Bareli, 175 Rafi‘ al-Din Kabuli, 70, 82 Rampur, 82, 256 Ranjit Singh: expansion into Afghan territories, 57, 163, 171–173, 197, 222, 235; Moorcroft, 166; statebuilding, 41, 53, 54, 163 Rawshaniyya, 68, 108, 233, 256; and Pir Baba Buner and Akhund Darviza, 202, 204, 223, 260 Rawza-i Sharīf, Sirhind, 82 Rawzat al-Awliya’ (Zakori), 115, 142, 193, 201, 285, 327n53 Rawzat al-Qayyumiyya, 82, 85, 86–88, 127 Realities. See H.aqā’iq religious economy, 9–10 Rightly Guided caliphate, 7, 87, 201 Risala (Fazl Ahmad Peshawari), 95–105; reproduction, 105–109, 258, 278–285 Rohilkhand, 41, 42, 45–46, 50, 89 Rohillas, 34, 41, 45, 49, 50, 88 rubā‘ī, 108, 219 Rumi, Jalal al-Din: commentary, 199; courses in, 93, 164; as source of theology, 184, 203; in Sufi pedagogy, 21, 68, 105, 307n52; translations, 156. See also Masnavi Sa‘ad al-Din Ansari, 135 Sabir Shah Majzub, 139

 351 sacred kingship, 11, 112, 127, 129–133, 137, 141–148, 209 sacro-cultural spheres, 17, 32–33 Sa‘di Shirazi, 32, 43, 93 Sadozai. See Durrani Empire Sadr al-Din Ayni, 158 Safavid empire, 4, 11, 15, 33–36, 43, 44, 48 safehouse. See bast Sahih al-Bukhari, 179, 323n68 Saidu, 228, 234 sairai, 225 Salafism, 4, 18, 259 samā‘, 66. See also music; Qawwali Samarkand: Amir ‘Abd al-Rahman at, 238; and Fazl Ahmad’s network, 116, 132–133, 143, 155; Russian occupation, 157; Sufis, 35, 46, 68, 71, 104, 108, 128, 149, 151, 165; Timur’s mausoleum, 131; trade, 50 Samirch’e, 57 Sarimsaq Khan, 213–216 Sarmad Kashani, 68 Sarts, 213–214 Saur revolution, 255 Sawan Mal, 198 sayr o sulūk, 96, 222, 232, 249 Sayyid ‘Abdullah Khan Tura, 209 Sayyid Adam Binori, 84–86, 120, 182, 301n92, 307n51 Sayyid Ahmad of Rae Bareli, 20, 173– 189, 202, 227–228, 233 Sayyid Akbar Shah of Sitana, 172, 174, 181–182, 312n39, 322n43 Sayyid ‘Ali Tirmizi, 120, 172, 223, 225, 226, 231, 260 Sayyid Amir al-Utmanzai, 121, 174, 182, 233–234, 260 Sayyid Baqir ibn ‘Usman al-Bukhari, 243 Sayyid ‘Ilmullah, 175, 182 Sayyid Muhammad of Jaunpur. See Mahdavi Sayyid Najaf ‘Ali, 225 Schlagintweit, Adolf, 213 scholastic theology. See ‘ilm al-kalām Schuyler, Eugene, 25, 212, 219 seclusion chamber. See chillahkhāna Second Anglo-Afghan War, 6, 238–239 Semipalatinsk, 211 Sepoy Rebellion, 58, 204, 233, 252, 255 Shah ‘Abd al-‘Aziz Dehlavi, 175, 326n33 Shah ‘Abd al-Hayy Dehlavi, 175 Shah ‘Abd al-Rahim Dehlavi, 83

352 

 Index

Shah Ahmad Sa‘id Dehlavi, 204, 331n68 Shah Ghufranullah Mujaddidi, 216 Shah Ghulam ‘Ali Dehlavi, 90, 108, 199, 281, 283, 285 Shah Isma‘il Dehlavi, 175, 177–180, 186, 188, 227, 323n59 Shah Isma‘il Safavi, 11, 148 Shah Jahan, Shahab al-Din, 82, 86 Shah Muhammad Ghaws Peshawari, 306n35 Shah Murad: as ascetic sovereign, 45, 129–132, 139, 142, 314n69, 314– 315n77; and Dahbidi Sufis, 152, 318n36; as disciple of Fazl Ahmad, 117, 127–129, 143; patronage of learning, 132, 155; relations with Durranis, 161–162; statebuilding and expansion, 41, 149 Shah Shuja’ al-Mulk Durrani, 57, 142, 154, 161, 163 Shah Waliullah Dehlavi, 83, 110, 132, 175; on manifest and hidden caliphate, 11–12, 143; on Sufi pedagogy, 94, 283, 308n62 Shahab al-Din Dawlatabadi, 108, 281 Shahab al-Din Marjani, 156, 157, 158, 159, 215 Shahnama, 31 Shahr-i Sabz, 152 Shahu Baba of Dir, 225, 331n3 Shaidu, 183 shari‘a: Barelvi, 18, 291n38; and the Persianate, 32; revival of, 131, 300n72; and Sayyid Ahmad of Rae Bareli, 187– 189; Shi‘a, 125; Sirhindi, 4, 8, 19, 20, 61–62, 72–81; and statecraft, 137, 241; and Sufism, 63, 109, 115, 143, 145–146, 148, 193–194, 204 Shaykh ‘Abd al-Ahad Sirhindi, 70 Shaykh Ahmad Khan Zakori, 193 Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi, 4–11, 17–18, 20–21, 61–62, 70–85. See also Maktubat; shari‘a; ta‘ayyun; tajdīd-i alfī; wah.dat-i shuhūd Shaykh al-Islam, 127, 210, 216 Shaykh Muhammad Mazhar, 85, 331n68 Shaykh Sa‘di Lahori, 120 Shaykh Safar Bukhari, 129, 134 Shaykh Sa‘id rebellion, 20 Sher ‘Ali Khan Barakzai, 59, 237–238 Sherdil Khan of Aladand, 232–233 Sher Muhammad Khan, 197 Shi‘a: Nadir Shah, 37; polemics, 204; and

state ideology and patronage, 33, 45– 46, 54; Sunni-Shi‘a relations, 68, 125. See also Awadh; Qizilbash Shikarpur, 39, 48, 51, 59, 123–124, 192, 248 Shiraz, 36, 39, 40, 42–43 Shor Bazaar, Hazarat of, 92, 118, 121, 194, 250, 255 Shu‘ayb Tordher, 227–228 Shuja‘ al-Nur, 256 Sialkot, 71, 116, 132, 315n83 Siberia: Sibir Khanate, 156–157; Sufis, 119, 135, 153, 155–158, 319n62; trade, 46, 48, 211 Siberian Tatars, 155–157 Sibghatullah Mujaddidi, 255 Sikhs: Derajat, 197–198, 326n27; at Kashmir, 166; mobilization against, 170–173; at Peshawar, 146, 160, 163, 222, 227–228; sack of Sirhind, 88–89; Sayyid Ahmad of Rae Bareli, 176–177, 180–185, 188–189; statebuilding, 34, 40, 41, 45, 53, 315n83 Sindh: curriculum, 93–94; literary developments, 43, 45, 64; Mujaddidis, 85, 92, 104–106; political developments after the Mughals, 37, 40, 41, 53, 56, 57, 139, 294n24; trade routes, 48–49 Sirat al-Mustaqim (Shah Isma‘il), 175, 180 Sirhind: khānaqāh, 62, 81–82; sack of, 88– 89 Sitana, 172 Sohbat Khan of Aladand, 232–233 Southeast Asia, 4, 33, 64, 90, 293n55 sovereignty: gradated, 10; after Nadir Shah, 43–46, 59–60. See also bāt.inī khilāfat; sacred kingship Soviet Union, 221, 254–255; SovietAfghan War, 24, 248, 259 spiritual stations. See maqāms Steppes, 2, 39, 46, 48, 52, 54, 55, 57, 91, 155, 208, 211 subtle centers. See lat.ā’if Sufi Akhund Baba, 224 Sufi ‘Ali Ishan bin Sayfullah al-Tuntari, 156 Sufi Allah Yar, 108, 281, 283, 308n63, 314n69 Sufism: beyond Neo-Sufism, 20–22, 109– 110; bundling and interlocking lineages, 103–104, 133–134; development of, 62–64; economic activity, 8, 52,

Index  123–124, 138, 143, 162, 190–195, 200; four Persianate orders, 65–68; and military mobilization, 13, 170– 173, 216, 228, 235, 238, 243, 254, 255; overlapping domains of ulama and Sufis, 18–20. See also shari‘a: and Sufism s.uh.bat, 67, 101, 145 Suhrawardi, Sufi order, 65, 66, 95, 104, 109, 227, 283; and Mujaddidis, 70–71, 95, 104, 109, 194, 285, 307n51, 309n5, 325n16; occult sciences, 243 sukr, 19, 73, 74, 193 Sulayman mountains, 53, 190 sultanate, 7, 12 Sultan Muhammad Khan Barakzai, 184– 186, 188, 235 Suyunch Baqi, 156 Swabi, 227, 233, 259 Swat. See Akhund ‘Abd al-Ghafur; Malakand; Thana; Yaghestan Syr Darya, 43, 287n1 ta‘ayyun, 73–74, 96–97, 304n15 Tahmasp II, 36 tajdīd-i alfī, 4, 11, 21, 62, 69, 70, 75–81, 249 takfīr, 147, 180, 260 Taliban, 174, 260 Taliqan, 167, 169 Tangi, Charsadda, 173, 182 Tantric Buddhism, 97, 110 Taqwiyat al-Iman (Shah Isma‘il), 175, 177–179 Tara, 156 Tarikh-i Jadid-i Tashkent (Tashkendi), 218, 220 Tarikh-i Khan Jahani (Heravi), 201, 327n42 Tarikh-i Punjab (La‘l), 171 Tarikh-i Shahrukhi (Khoqandi), 211, 217, 220, 328, 330 Tariqa-i Muhammadiyya, 173–178, 189 Tashkent: independence from Bukhara and incorporation into Khokand, 208– 209, 211–214; Russian occupation of, 58, 157, 218–219, 238, 252; Sufis and ulama, 119, 165, 209, 217, 220, 254, 319n62, 328n10; trade, 43, 50 Tashkurgan, 42, 166, 192 Tatarstan, 135, 155–157, 159. See also Kazan

 353 tavajjuh, 67, 96, 102, 115, 130, 141– 145, 151, 283 teaching licenses. See ijāzatnāmas textiles, 48, 59, 197 Thana, 22, 228–240, 243, 256–261, 334n50 Thatta, 9, 48, 85 Theri, battle of, 171–172 Third Anglo-Afghan War, 255 Tilsit, treaty of, 56 Timurid Empire, 11, 33, 67–68, 104, 207, 209 Timur Khan Bajauri, 167 Timur Shah Durrani, 40–41, 43, 53, 101, 120, 125, 149, 161, 196 Tirah, 170 Tobolsk, 156–157 trade: trans-Asiatic, 32, 35, 38–39, 42– 43, 47–52, 59. See also caravan trade; Hindu merchant diaspora; horse trade Transcapian Railway, 219 “tribal breakout,” 34–35, 41, 294n18 Tuhfat al-Murshid (Mazari), 136, 142, 143, 161, 170, 285 Tuhfat al-Za‘irin (al-Bukhari), 152, 318n36 Turkestanskaya Oblast, 219, 220 Turkey, 4, 20 Turkistan, 220 Turkmen, 35, 37, 294n18 Turkmenchai, treaty of, 56 Tusi, Nasir al-Din, 32, 330n58 two-nation theory, 4 ‘Ubaydullah Khan, 127 Ufa, 155 ‘ulama’-i z. āhir, 72, 80 ‘Umar Khan, 54, 207, 209–211 universal kingship, 44 Ura Tepe, 148–153, 212, 318n41 Urdu, 82, 89–90, 177, 232, 258, 261, 285 ‘Usman Padkhabi, 101, 307n51 Utmankhel, 172, 223 Vagai, 156 Valikhanov, Shoqan, 215 Vambery, Armenius, 128, 142 Venture of Islam (Hodgson), 15 vernacularization, 3, 16–17, 30, 42, 43, 45, 53, 291n33; Sufis, 64, 82, 105– 110. See also curriculum Volga Tatars, 155–156, 247 von Kaufman, Konstantin, 58, 219

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 Index

wah.dat-i shuhūd, 72–75, 299n47, 307n52 Wahhabi: 20th–21st century, 24, 256, 259–260, 323n59; Derajat, 202–204, 327n47; and Sayyid Ahmad of Rae Bareli, 173–176, 182, 186, 189, 199, 322n51. See also Radd-i Wahhabiyat Wana, 257 Wazirabad, 133 Wazir Ahmad, 167, 169 Wazir Akbar Khan, 154 Waziristan, 25, 68, 108, 205, 238, 256– 261, 275–276, 303n4 wird, 94, 144–145 Xinjiang, 5, 56, 58, 207–208, 220–221, 254–255, 261, 287n1 Yaghestan, 222, 223–231, 234, 239–240, 243, 334n50. See also Malakand; Thana Yakatut gate, Peshawar, 116, 119, 146, 227 Ya‘qub Beg, 58, 216 Ya‘qub Charkhi, 149, 156, 277, 283, 308n59 Ya‘qub Khan Tora, 216 Yarkand, 1, 34, 46, 50, 51, 92, 93, 157, 165, 166, 167, 216, 287n1

Yar Muhammad Kabuli, 233 Yar Muhammad Khan Barakzai, 135, 164, 180, 184–185 Yasawi, 155–156, 209 Yusufzai, 119, 222–223, 225–228, 326n30; and Sayyid Ahmad of Rae Bareli, 176, 181–183, 188; war mobilization, 170–172 Yuz Uzbeks, 149–150 Zakori, 22, 119, 191–192, 196–197, 199, 204–206 Zakori, Imam Muhammad ‘Abd al-Qadir Faqir, 205–206 Zakori, Imam Muhammad Hasan, 202– 206, 327n53 Zakori, Imam Muhammad Husayn, 109, 115, 197–198, 201, 205–206 Zakori, Imam Muhammad Raza, 118, 124, 190–205, 285 Zakori, Muhammad ‘Abd al-Latif, 205 Zaman Shah Durrani, 40, 82, 92, 142, 161–162, 216, 315n80 Zayn al-‘Abidin bin ‘Abdullah Uruski, 156 Zhungars, 42, 46, 52, 208 Zia’ al-Din Khalid al-Baghdadi, 90 Zia’ Ma‘sum, Char Bagh, 236 Zoroastrian, 7, 69, 70, 77