Muslim Cosmopolitanism in the Age of Empire 9780674286894

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Musli m Cosmopolita n ism i n the Age of Empir e

Muslim Cosmopolitanism

in the Age of Empire

Seema Alavi

Cambridge, Massachusetts London, England 2015

Copyright © 2015 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America First printing Library of Congress Cataloging-­in-­Publication Data Alavi, Seema. Muslim cosmopolitanism in the Age of Empire / Seema Alavi.   pages cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-­0 -­674-­73533-­0 1. Cosmopolitanism—​Islamic countries. 2. Cosmopolitanism—​India. I. Title. JZ1308.A4115 2015 297.092'254—​dc23   2014030725

For my parents, Roshan and Shariq Alavi

Con t e n t s

Preface  ix Map: Muslim networks in the nineteenth century  xiii

Introduction 

1

1 Muslim Reformists and the Transition to English Rule

32

2 The Making of the “Indian Arab” and the Tale of Sayyid Fadl 93 3 Rahmatullah Kairanwi and the Muslim Cosmopolis

169

4 Haji Imdadullah Makki in Mecca

222

5 Nawab Siddiq Hasan Khan and the Muslim Cosmopolis

267

6 Maulana Jafer Thanesri and the Muslim Ecumene

331

Conclusion

368

Abbreviations  409 Notes  411 Acknowledgments  473 Index  475

Pr e fac e

I first became familiar with the Arabic script as a child in the north Indian city of Lucknow. Although I could not read Arabic, I learned to read the script, because I was taught to read the Koran by rote. My teacher was a maulvi who came home every morning to read the Koran with me. In the evenings I studied Persian and Urdu, written in the nastaliq script, from my grandmother. My afternoons were spent in the local Catholic missionary school, where I learned English from an Irish nun. Lucknow is the modern capital of the Indian state of Uttar Pradesh. Indians today associate Lucknow with the courtly culture of Awadh. The city, which is situated by the River Gomti and boasts elegant architecture from a past era, also played an important role in the violence that ensued during the uprising of 1857, an important event that shaped the lives of the men whose stories I will draw on in the following pages. Hindi, written in the devanagari script, is the state language in Uttar Pradesh, and I learned that too. As I moved from one culture to another, from the sounds and cadences of one language to another, from the shapes of one writing system to another, in the course of a single day there seemed to be no apparent contradictions. I registered the differences. But they were collectively an integral part of my little world.

ix

PREFAC E

One of my childhood frustrations was that I could never make my cultural world fit into the territorial and political contours of nation­states as marked in geographical maps. My childhood world was both wildly cosmopolitan and disappointingly parochial. Although I was multilingual, my ability to move from one place to another was rather limited. I was no globe-­t rotting jetsetter—​nor, really, were most Indians during the 1960s, a time when international tourism was within the reach only of the elite few. Was life experienced similarly by Indian Muslims in an earlier time? This book is an attempt to understand the cultural world of Indian Muslims in the Age of Empire. I have tried to place Indian Muslims in the interconnected and vast Asian continent that was both carved up and sewn together by the Western Empire. Moving beyond bina­ ries such as nationalism and imperialism, the Muslim umma and the European empire, Islam and Christianity, or simply the East and the West, I want to show how the cultural universe of Muslims was actually shaped. British, Ottoman, and imperial networks encouraged the creation of a pan-­Islamic global public sphere. I call this the new Muslim cosmopolis. Forged at the crossroad of empires, the Muslim cosmopolis had a scripture-­oriented core and a politically reformist shell inspired by Ottoman tanzimat—​t he administrative and constitutional reforms introduced between 1839 and 1876 to modernize the empire. European imperial tools—​steamships, the telegraph, the printing press—​made the quick circulation of ideas within the Muslim cosmopolis possible. At the heart of the imperial assemblage that framed Indian Muslim lives stood the key figure—​t he individual. In this book, I have consciously shifted our focus away from hazy state policies and administrations and foregrounded the individual. The trajectories of the five lives we will follow reveal that pan-­Islamism depended more on imperial networks than on the caliph. The book traces pan-­Islamic networks forged by émigrés who made use of earlier merchant and Naqshbandi Sufi routes that linked the Ottoman world to Mughal India. It shows how these early modern Muslim connections intensified due to the support they received from European empires. The dependence on the British and Ottoman Empires lent an intellectually and politically reformist hue to this x

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book’s Naqshbandi Sufi protagonists. The book elaborates on the successes of individuals as they made imperial borders porous in an age when international law hardened political boundaries. In the chapters that follow, the spotlight is on the underbelly of empires where Muslim cosmopolitans were most active. From this unusual location, Indian Muslims questioned the straitjackets of religious and territorial identities that British rule tried to impose upon them. At the same time, individual actors exploited British imperial networks to build pan-­Islamic connections that would one day outlast the empire itself. What did it mean for Indian Muslims to be part of this new global Muslim community? This is a question that is rarely answered in the current literature, which tends to emphasize an unending clash between nationalism and pan-­Islamism in Muslim South Asia. Those who did not participate in the overdetermined clash, such as the five Muslim men whose careers I follow, fell off the pages of history. History did not seem to be able to make sense of such characters. This, then, is the story of what happens offstage, off the page, where a new Muslim network was born in the aftermath of 1857—​ buttressed by European empires, yet resolutely opposed to them.

xi

ME

D

E IT

RR

A

EA

N

SEA

1600

E

N

R

T

U

R

S

A

S

L

I

BAY OF B E NG A L Andaman Islands

O C E A N

Haiderabad

I N D I A N

KERALA/ MALABAR

ARABIAN SEA

NORTH-WEST FRONTIER Sittana Lahore Deoband PUNJAB Ambala Muzaffarnagar Meerut Delhi Aligarh AWADH Agra SINDH Rae Bareilly Hyderabad Karachi Patna Bhopal Calcutta Surat Bombay

C AFGHANISTAN

ARAL SEA

Muslim networks in the nineteenth century

Kilometres

800

Provinces

LF

Muscat

GU

DHOFAR

Gulf of Aden

YEMEN

N

0

RED

Mecca

CASPIAN S EA

P E R S I A

Baghdad

SIA

Aden

Medina

Damascus

S YR I A

Jeddah

A Lebanon

SE

SEA OF MARMARA

BLACK SEA

BOSPHORUS STRAIT

Istanbul

SUDAN

Cairo

N

PER

S

ACHEH

A

A

I

P A C I F I C O C E A N

I N D O N E S I A

A

S EA O F J APAN

I n t roduc t ion

Soon after the mutiny-­rebellion of 1857 that shook British rule in India, Haji Imdadullah Makki, the Muslim holy man from north India, took refuge in the house of his disciple Rai Abdullah Khan, a zamindar in the Ambala district. Wanted for his role in the 1857 unrest, he was on the run from the British police, who were hot on his trail with an arrest warrant. As he sat hiding in a small shed next to Rai Sahib’s horse stable, the police zeroed in on him. On the pretext of buying a horse, they ordered that they be let into the stable and the adjoining shed. Rai Sahib shuddered as he envisaged the penal consequences he would face if the holy man were discovered in his house. But when the door was unlocked, all that the police found there were a prayer mat spread out on the bed and a water pot with water for drinking and ablutions. There was no trace of Haji Imdadullah Makki. Rai Sahib was visibly moved by this supernatural deed of his revered guest. The police made some inquiries and left, apologizing for the inconvenience they had caused Rai Sahib. When a much-­relieved Rai Sahib reentered the shed, he found Haji Imdadullah sitting on his prayer mat, completing the last recitation of his prayers.1 A few days after this incident, Imdadullah bid a tearful adieu to his disciples and fellow scholars and started on his journey to Mecca, 1

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where he wanted to seek permanent refuge. From the Punjab, via Pak Patan, Hyderabad, and Sindh, in western India, he reached the port of Karachi. Here he boarded a ship to escape to Mecca.2 In the 1860s, his fellow scholar Maulana Jaffer Thanesri, also convicted of supplying money and men to the 1857 rebels, was not as lucky. He was convicted, arrested, and deported to the penal colony in the Andaman Islands. He described his journey to the Andamans as follows: After two days we were made to board a pedal boat on the river Sindhu, 5 Kos from Multan. We sat in rows with our shackles and handcuffs . . . ​and reached Kotarsi. From here we boarded a train to Karachi . . . ​After a week in Karachi we got into a sailing boat called Baglah to go to Bombay. The first thing that struck us was the sea and a range of ships.3 According to Thanesri, the port at Bombay was like a “jungle of ships.”4 He noted: The ship that carted us from Bombay to the Andamans was owned by the English . . . ​its entire staff of orderlies and officers were white. And none of them understood Hindustani. The only interlocutor was one Anglophone convict called Motilal Babu. The English spoke only to him. I did not understand a word of English. There were separate diets for the Muslims, Hindus and Punjabis. There was dry fish, rice and lentil for the Muslims, gram for the Hindus, and wheat bread for the Punjabis.5 His excitement on seeing the sea and myriad ships at the Bombay port became one of the most electrifying moments of his journey. Thanesri was surprised to find that the ship had Muslim orderlies. He was not at all surprised when in his words, “They showered us with utmost hospitality when they realized that we were religious scholars.”6 At about the same time, a very revered scholar, Maulana Rahmatullah Kairanwi, similarly hounded by the police for his 1857 2

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anti-­British activities, made a successful escape to Mecca. He, too, had an arrest warrant issued for him, and an award of Rs.1,000 was offered for anyone who gave information about him.7 He disguised himself, changed his name, and left on foot from his home in Kairana, near Meerut, for Delhi and then proceeded to Surat. From there he took a sailing boat to Jeddah. His huge estate in Kairana, where both his family and workers lived, was confiscated by the British and put up for auction. The British clampdown on Muslim men of religion after the 1857 mutiny-­rebellion saw many fugitives like Imdadullah Makki, Thanesri, and Kairanwi sail across the Indian Ocean and the Bay of Bengal to escape the arm of British law. Since the 1830s, the port city of Bombay had become a popular gateway to Mecca, Cairo, and Istanbul for scores of Muslim notables and religious scholars. As these men fled India following the northwest frontier disturbances that had made the British suspicious of men of religion, ships from Bombay carted them across the Indian Ocean to Ottoman cities.8 In the decades that followed 1857, many fugitive scholars with arrest warrants avoided Bombay for fear of being caught and instead boarded ship from Surat. But those that did visit Bombay were mesmerized by its charm. Its sailing ships excited them, and the sheer scale and number of docked ships waiting to depart intimidated them, invoking the metaphor of the jungle. Additionally, they were worried about the direction of the wind, which determined whether these ships would even be able to sail across the Indian Ocean.9 On board, the Muslim orderlies of the English ship owners introduced them to the new dynamics of the British-­Indian relationship. Crossing the seas was hazardous as well as enchanting. It transformed lives for good. The ships that carted these Muslim holy men and religious émigrés offered them the material experience of travel in the Age of Empire. Sea journeys afforded them access to the long-­standing mercantile networks between the Ottoman and British Empires. These networks, though increasingly controlled by the diplomatic efforts of legal and political experts, intersected with the web of brokers, agents, entrepreneurs, pilgrims, and holy men, as well as the families of religious scholars. The journey across the Indian Ocean familiarized them also with imperial fault lines, 3

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as enacted in anti-­British protests in Jeddah and Cairo, and also with Islamic intellectual hubs in the Mediterranean world, all of which they tapped to further their agendas and widen their political vision. The fact that the imperial networks that connected British India with Ottoman cities facilitated much of this port life made the ship itself the conduit to the new and exciting world that was being forged between empires. Its importance as a critical connector that lent a special agency to the individual was heightened by the conjunctural moment at the end of the century—​a moment that brought existing commercial links between the Indian Ocean and Mediterranean worlds in close correspondence with shared anti-­British sentiments, and at the same time elicited a call for individual moral reform to meet the challenges of the age. The easy mingling of the seafaring cultures and the religious, economic, and political networks that were specially visible at harbors and ports is an apt metaphor for the cosmopolitanism that each of the émigrés that this book discusses embodies—​each in his own specific way. Harbors and ports from where émigrés departed (like Bombay, Surat, and Karachi on the western coast of India) and cities where they relocated (Mecca, Cairo, and Istanbul) are the obvious sites of this conjuncture. Within India, the penal colony at the Andaman Islands in the Bay of Bengal, where the arrested convict émigrés were lodged, constituted the eastern, sea-­facing site of their cosmopolis; and the rugged northwestern frontier bordering Afghanistan, where many of them collected to strategize, constituted its nonseafaring end. It is across these sites that scholar fugitives and unlucky convicts constructed a vast cosmopolis, both within India and in the interstices of the British and the Ottoman Empires. This book explores the specific kind of cosmopolitan sensibility that defined this new cosmopolis, which was itself sustained by international trade and the economic networks that stretched across the Indian Ocean. It details the making of this sensibility via the stories of five Indian Muslim men of religion who were on the proverbial “wrong side” of the 1857 mutiny-­rebellion against British rule in India. These included a famous Moplah rebel of Arab origin and Sufi background 4

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in the Malabar region of south India accused of murder and rioting in the 1852 Moplah revolt; two clerics known for their provocative public debates with Christian missionaries on matters of religion; the nawab of the princely state of Bhopal, accused of writing seditious religious literature; and a rabble-­rouser reformist activist from the Punjab. Condemned as “outlaws” or “fanatics” by the administration, they escaped from India and moved across the Indian Ocean world. Once outside the borders of British India, their stories fell off the pages of South Asian history. This book picks up where other stories end and shows how the 1857 experience moved across empires via refugees and émigrés. It picks up their trail as they dispersed and networked across various imperial fault lines in the decades that followed 1857. It analyzes their journeys as they traveled out of India, either literally or in their imagination, and paused at the Asian intersections of nineteenth-­century empires. The constellation of the British and Ottoman Empires is viewed as an “imperial assemblage,” and it provides the context within which to study Muslim interconnectedness as forged by these émigrés. Bringing together their biographies, written reflections, journeys, images of the port city and of their lives on the ship, intellectual networks, and imperial politics, the book highlights the ways in which “runaways” carved out a Muslim cosmopolitanism at the cusp of the British and Ottoman Empires. This cosmopolitanism was partly “traditional” in that it derived from the Koran’s precepts and from the prescriptions of the Hadith (Traditions of the Prophet), it invoked the Islamic principle of consensus to reconcile cultural differences among Muslims, and it positioned itself in the “Islamicate” centers of Cairo and Istanbul and in the Islamic heartland of Mecca. However, this cosmopolitanism was also “new” because it built on an Ottoman imperial vision as articulated in the global aspirations of Caliphs Abd-­al Aziz (r. 1861–1876) and Abd-­al Hamid II (r. 1876–1909), who were the patrons of many of these Indian émigrés. And it used the printing press and Ottoman intellectual energy as deployed by the reformist bureaucrats and moderate ulema in response to the political and financial crisis faced by the empire. The reformists advocated political and moral reform in sync with contemporary ideas of science, reason, and rationality. 5

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These men, ousted from the core of the empire by Abd-­al Hamid II, who had little patience with them, located themselves in its Arab provinces, where most Indian émigrés landed. At the same time, Muslim cosmopolitanism also remained dependent on British imperial webs, transportation systems, and modes of communication and information dissemination. This transimperial cosmopolitanism was articulated as a cultural and civilizational view: a universalist Muslim public conduct based on consensus in matters of belief, ritual, and forms of devotion.10 This cosmopolitanism was unique because it conceptualized the Muslim cosmopolis as an intellectual and civilizational zone that transcended political borders, territorial confines, and cultural particularities. And yet its protagonists were very aware of its imperial framing. They sought to encompass the “imperial assemblage” within their capacious global cosmopolis. Self-­driven and career oriented, its creators were individuals who were well aware of its specific socioeconomic dependence on imperial networks and the imperially framed commercial world that sustained them. This cosmopolitanism was neither pan-­Islamic in a caliph-­centric way nor entirely anti-­British. Its protagonists were as much a part of the Ottoman liberal reformist circles as they were aware of their dependence on imperial networks. Indeed, it was the entanglement of the Muslim cosmopolis and world empires that made this cosmopolitanism attractive to Caliph Abd-­al Hamid II, who used it as the bedrock of his pan-­Islamism. It was neither inspired by Western Enlightenment, nor was it a component of secular, “colonial modernity.” This was a cosmopolitanism of the age of empires that had its own claim to a universalist ethics and even notions of hospitality (pace Kant), but based on Islamic scripture and a tanzimat-­inspired notion of proper public conduct, and embedded in nineteenth-­ century imperial politics and economic frames of reference. It at once transcended imperial borders in unconventional ways and yet was derived from them. Indeed, it did not reject entirely the territorial borders that continued to define the identity of its protagonists. This is precisely why the twentieth-­century nation-­states that altered both international commerce networks and recast the imperial terrain in new avatars offered a space where elements of this 6

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cosmopolitanism could linger, waiting for the right moment to ignite. Indeed, it soon became the basis of a global Muslim sensibility that competed with the increasing power of the idea of the nation in the period of high nationalism. Hence we may think of it as the basis for or the prehistory of the idea of transnationalism in the twentieth century.

The “Indian Arab” and the Muslim Cosmopolis The book begins the story of its transimperial actors with the Arab diaspora in India that emerged between the British and Ottoman Empires and that contributed to the making of the Muslim cosmopolis. Labeled by the British as “Indian Arabs,” these individuals carved out an ecumene between British and Ottoman societies, exploiting to their advantage the imperial rivalries and fault lines of the time. They forged intellectual and political webs between empires and made imperial borders porous. Diaspora studies centered on South and Southeast Asia have looked at immigrants in these regions from Iran, Afghanistan, and the Hadramawt area of the Arabian Peninsula. These wide-­ranging studies have enriched our understanding of the premodern trans-­ Asian “cosmopolitan” world that was knitted together by merchants, warriors, scholars, and Sufi saints. Identities were hybrid, fluid, multiple, and contingent on the specific dynamics of diaspora societies.11 Most diaspora scholars view the European colonization of host societies as having fissured the premodern cosmopolitan world. As colonial regimes “ordered” societies into a legal-­political format, the identities of immigrants were strained as they delinked from their cultural matrix. They were increasingly defined in distinct ethnic terms.12 But were immigrants in the nineteenth century mere pawns in the hands of colonial powers that refashioned their host societies? Did colonial categorizations and ethnic markings sever their wide trans-­Asian connections? Was an imposed “indigenization” from above the only option for them? Or did they continue to operate in the trans-­Asian region but in new roles as transcultural “diplomats,” 7

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“brokers,” and people who used their new ethnic marking to further their own ambitions? This book looks at some of these issues as it tracks down Muslim men of Arabic extraction or orientation, located in India, for whom the Indian government constructed the novel category of “Indian Arabs.” At one level, this categorization was a forced indigenization from above. It marked their difference from Indian society in terms of their ethnic uniqueness. Itinerant Arabs were suspect in British India for various reasons: they allegedly preached a reformist form of conservative Islam; they were seen as Ottoman subjects; and most important, they maintained links with the world outside, nurtured global aspirations, and did not correspond neatly to the legal definition of the Indian subject. Indian Arabs unmindful of British attempts to territorially root them continued their forays outside India, which they in no way viewed as contravening their subject status within India. Indeed, they considered their unique trans-­ Asiatic legacy emblematic of the connected histories of the British and Ottoman societies. The case study of Sayyid Fadl, a fugitive from the Malabar region of south India, shows how in the late nineteenth century these Indian Arabs used the new imperial networks—​t he transportation and communication highways—​and tapped into imperial rivalries to spread their own networks across Asia. They kept their scripture­based core intact and cannibalized the repertoire of “modern” empires to carve out an ecumene that stretched across the British and the Ottoman Empires. Far from being pawns or the unsuspecting victims of the forced indigenization of their British masters, such men made careers using both the old and the new referents that connected the Western empires in Asia. They maintained their stake in the older kinship, trade, commerce, and information networks, which had from the premodern age knitted together the political economies and cultures of the Indian Ocean and the Mediterranean worlds. But they cleverly used the new imperial networks as well. The nineteenth-­century trans-­Asian rivalries between Britain on the one hand and Russia, Persia, and the Ottomans on the other proved particularly useful for them. They cashed in on the fear psychoses of the British administration in India and used imperial 8

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fears and anxieties to further their careers. Also noteworthy was their engagement with the new bargaining chips that functioned as liaison points between empires: the office of the political resident and that of the consul. The story of Sayyid Fadl shows how the use of the new while holding on to the old allowed these men to subvert British efforts to tame them. By the late nineteenth century, they had spread their networks across Asia and had forged global links. Their networks flourished because British colonial rule benefited from them. The fact that these runaway “Indian Arabs” and “fanatics” were British subjects gave the administration official sanction to meddle in their trans-­Asian affairs. At one level, British interest in them was couched in the more genuine concern for the activities of British subjects overseas. But the monitoring of their activities and the intervention in their affairs also provided entry points into the larger imperial politics that framed them. Particularly significant was the issue of British interference in Ottoman rights to sovereignty in the trans-­Asian region. The British countered the Ottoman claim to political sovereignty in the region by voicing their concern for the “Indian Muhammadan subjects” located in their territory. Their protection of the Indian Arabs went a long way in denting the pan-­Islamic undertones of Ottoman political sovereignty.

Muslim Cosmopolitans on the Move Chapter 1 lays out the intellectual environment in post-­Mughal India that made individuals migrate and become crucial connectors in the imperial assemblage. It maps the specific intellectual context that powered the movements of such émigrés. Most of these men traced their intellectual genealogies to the Delhi Naqshbandi Sufi Shahwaliulla. They interpreted his eclecticism and compromise between the Sufi Ibn-­i-­Arabi’s inclusive wahdat-ul-wajud (unity of being) and Sirhindi’s conservative wahdat-ul-shahud (unity of existence) to refashion their lives. Many of them collected at the northwestern frontier and fashioned their activism in tandem with the Sikh, Afghan, and Persian societies that they accessed with ease. 9

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The last of these multilingual gentlemen legatees of the Mughal Empire aspired to careers outside Hindustan when the going got tough for them in British India. They wished to forge Muslim unity across the Indian Ocean and the Mediterranean world so as to set up an alternate cultural imperium that would challenge the Western predominance in the region. This global thrust was a consequence of the Mughal crisis and the readjustment of the Mughal scholarly elite to British rule. What facilitated their mobility was the legacy of global networks forged during the thirteenth century by Naqshbandi Sufis, networks that had in fact knitted together early modern empires. Mughal India was very much integrated in these networks, which stretched across Central Asia, the Ottoman Empire, and the Arab world in the Indian Ocean area.13 Sufis and texts straddled the Indo-­Persian and the Ottoman cities with ease. In the fifteenth century, Abd ur Rahman Jami of Herat (1414–1492), one of the finest commentators on Ibn-­i-­Arabi, was widely read and popular in both the Ottoman world as well as in India.14 His status as an “honorary Ottoman” in the sixteenth century was confirmed when Taskoprizadet (d. 1561) included him in his biographical compendium of Ottoman scholars.15 And evidence of his Indian following is indicated by the fact that the Arabic translation of his Nafahat al-­Uns was prepared by an Indian Naqshbandi scholar, Taj al Din Zakariya Dehlavi (d. 1640).16 Indeed, by 1802, Khalid Naqshbandi, of Kurdistan in north Iraq, who boasted of the influential madrasas and networks he had established throughout Ottoman society, visited the Delhi madrasa of Shahwaliulla and studied with his son, Shah Abd-­al Aziz.17 The significance of India in this global Naqshbandi network was again evident when Sulayman Sa’duddin translated Maktubat-­i Imam Rabbani, the Persian work of the Indian Naqshbandi sheikh Ahmad Sirhindi, into Ottoman Turkish in 1751. Such movements of Sufi intellectuals and texts underlined the intellectual ferment that welded together early modern empires. Naqshbandi global networks facilitated the mobility of Mughal legatees in the aftermath of 1857. And Shahwaliulla’s legacy of consensus and compromise, in the context of a diverse Indian society, became an asset in their relocation in Ottoman cities. Indeed, they 10

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exported their accretive Shahwaliulla tradition to the Mediterranean world and wrote consensus literature with greater confidence from the security of their new location. Indeed, cities like Istanbul, with a tradition of producing consensus literature in the context of the growth and social diversity that characterize urban centers, allowed them to write uninhibitedly about the unity of the umma, or community. Their integration into the Mediterranean world was evident in the circulation of many printed Arabic and Ottoman Turkish translations of Indian Naqshbandi literature originally written in Persian. An Ottoman Turkish translation of Sirhindi’s Maktubat was published in Istanbul in 1866, and Muhammad Murad al-­Manzalawi’s Arabic translation of the same text, Maktubat al-­Durar al-­Maknunat al-­Nafisa, was printed in the city in 1899. Because they were multilingual gentlemen, the Indian émigrés were able to carve out an intellectual niche for themselves in the Arabic-­speaking Mediterranean world. They were proficient not just in Mughal Persian, but in Arabic as well as in the north Indian vernacular Urdu. This gave them an edge over others in an age of unprecedented mobility. It made it easy for the last of these gentlemen scholars to straddle the Indo-­Persian Urdu-­speaking societies and the Middle Eastern Arabic world with ease. The book’s subsequent chapters use the biographies and written reflections of people living and moving between empires to bring the individual to the forefront of the discussion of the making of Muslim cosmopolitanism. This archive also enables a rare insight into the workings of imperialism. It reveals how official borders were made porous by the initiative of individuals who used the infrastructure of modern empires to intensify and make more pronounced the earlier Naqshbandi global connections. The hitherto untold tales of fugitive mullahs and runaways as they negotiated imperial fault lines and borders reveal the workings of imperial politics from below—​an aspect that remains ignored in mere political economy analyses of imperialism. Indeed, the book retells via individual tales the story of imperial politics and the making of a cosmopolitan sensibility across its assemblage. Current scholarship on modern Indian social and cultural history has moved beyond both a nation-­state-­centric colonial-­nationalist 11

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frame of analysis and a metropolis-­centric imperialist historiography.18 The influential subaltern school of South Asian history has brought the nationalist frame closer to the local peasant societies, and C. A. Bayly and other revisionist scholars have narrowed the gaze on the interstices of the state and society to unravel the nuances of British rule.19 In recent years, the history of modern India has increasingly been of interest to empire studies. Historians of the British Empire have brought the colony and the metropolis into the same analytical frame and argued that colonizers and colonized were mutually constituted.20 They have argued for a more complex understanding of imperialism as it unfolded in Asia and Africa by focusing on the “webs of empire” as they intersected across Britain and its controlled territories.21 Imperial history has also focused on the individual as the key connector between the multiple spatial sites of empire. David Lambert and Alan Lester, Maya Jasanoff, and Dane Kennedy have focused on “imperial careers” across empire, bringing colonized spaces and the metropolis into the same analytical frame without privileging either.22 Others have highlighted the potential of the biography to become the archive for writing global history.23 And yet in the “new imperial” history of empire, despite the stress on the spatial mobility of the individual and the salience of “global moments,” the canvas remains the British Empire and its preoccupation with the tightening of its imperial borders, via land surveys, scientific knowledge, cartography, consular webs, official postings, unprecedented bureaucratization in governance practices, and documentation networks.24 This “hegemonic” frame of empire is accepted as a fait accompli and shapes models of modernity, cosmopolitanism, and global history.25 Indeed, the historiographical myopia is not only geographical but also racial: the individuals with careers usually all end up being Britons—​w ith a few obvious exceptions. This book shifts the focus away from the British territories and puts the spotlight on the interstices—​t he overlapping space between British and Ottoman societies. It argues that the contours of global history need to be redrawn at the porous intersection of the British and Ottoman Empires. It questions empire-­based global history and puts the spotlight instead on a world shaped by networks forged 12

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by émigrés who were beyond imperial control.26 It rewrites global history by focusing on British subjects (rather than Britons) as key individual players who by virtue of their roles at the imperial interstices are able to offer refreshing insights into the working of empires from the inside. Indeed, the very careers of transimperial subjects who straddled imperial regimes, either physically or even in their imaginations, problematize selfhood and identity, political subjecthood, and religious affinities. Transimperial subjects who invoked knowledge of their parent territory and used kin, religion, and ethnic networks in host regimes were the critical connectors between empires.27 They became part of imperial politics, exploited the institutional overlaps in competing regimes, cashed in on political rivalries, and shaped their own careers, marking borders where none existed and undoing the established political and legal boundaries. This larger politico-­cultural and socioeconomic context between empires is the canvas on which the role of transimperial subjects as agents of change in the long history of imperialism stands out. Chapters 2 to 6 foreground the individual in the connected histories of the Ottoman and British Empires, writing the story of imperialism from below.28 They narrate the stories of individual Muslim careers so as to decenter both the European narrative of imperial expansion as well as the Eurocentric way of studying cosmopolitanism as a constituent of colonial modernity and Enlightenment ethics. Each of these chapters puts the spotlight on an individual scholar: Sayyid Fadl, Maulana Rahmatullah Kairanwi, Maulana Imdadullah Makki, Siddiq Hasan Khan, and Maulana Jafer Thanesri. These men are the cosmopolitan actors of the book—​men who moved across the imperial assemblages and used the imperial knowledge, strategies, and rivalries of the nineteenth century to their advantage. They carved out a spiritual and civilizational space between the British and the Ottoman Empires and projected it as their cosmopolis. Here, they articulated a cosmopolitanism that was in sync with the reformist and scientific spirit of the times. This was a cosmopolitanism that forged widespread Muslim connectivity. It derived both from British as well as Ottoman commercial, transportation, counselor, communication, and print networks. Indeed, imperial networks offered the base on which earlier forms of Muslim 13

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connectivity and its repertoire of knowledge and communication skills were easily grafted: diplomacy, kinship ties, and the writing of commentaries on Islamic theological works and its sacred texts. Their lives detailed here offer a fresh perspective on politics and society in the high period of Indian nationalism and global imperialism. They draw our attention to a global history that does not necessarily correspond to the contours of the British Empire. While this connective-­history methodology of looking at global history is pioneering for the study of the “Age of Empire,” it is not so novel for historians of the early modern world. Shifting the focus away from Portuguese and Spanish imperial strides in the sixteenth century, the Ottomanist Giancarlo Casale has argued that the period was the turning point where Ottoman and Mughal global aspirations and political maneuverings made the political history of the century a wider-­ambit “world history.”29 Others, like Cemal Kafadar, critique the nationalist and simplistically ethnic Turkish identity narratives of the early Ottoman Empire by locating early modern Turkish self-­representations in the elastic and competing physical and cultural geographies of the Eastern Roman Empire—​ Rum. These shifting and competing notions of the lands of Rum produced a layered identity for the Turks that mirrored the global reach of their empire. It defied the later simplistic nationalist narratives of reified Turkish identity often produced in response to the globalization drives of the twentieth century.30 Other early modernists have focused on the individual as a key connector who laid out the contours of the global imperial gaze, made transimperial connections possible, and produced layered cultural and ethnic identities. Natalie Zemon Davis, for example, examines the writings of al-­Hasan al-­Wazzan, the sixteenth-­century North African traveler and diplomat from Fez who was captured and presented to Pope Leo X in Italy by a Spanish pirate. Davis argues that al-­Wazzan’s work reflects his negotiation of two cultural worlds: he used techniques taken from the Arabic and Islamic repertoire and combined them with European elements to carve out a niche for himself between two rival imperia. In the process, he made simple ethnic representations of his identity problematic.31 Muzaffar Alam and Sanjay Subrahmanyam have argued that South Asian studies should 14

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focus similarly on connected histories as mediated by individuals who traveled to India from the European, Iranian, Central Asian, and Ottoman worlds, and vice versa.32 For Europeanists, the pioneering work of Natalie Rothman is significant as it makes a strong critique of studying early modern European history without also examining the crucial institutional, political, and cultural overlaps with Europe’s border-­sharing neighbor, the Ottoman Empire.33 And Mana Kia and Stefan Reichmuth have similarly pointed at careers in the early modern Iranian world and at the case of the eighteenth-­century Arab intellectual Zabidi, respectively, to reflect on the workings of an embracive non-­European worldview that has often been ignored in our predominantly British-­ and European-­ centric global history map.34 For modern Indian history, it was Leila Fawaz and C. A. Bayly who first offered the conceptual frame for studying nineteenth-­ century identity formation and politics in the larger geopolitical and sociocultural interstice of British and Ottoman imperial rivals. They pioneered the idea of viewing the Indian Ocean and Medi­ terranean interstice as the locale in which to study the wider history of nationalisms in the Age of Empire. They focused on the imperial networks of the steamship, the printing press, and the telegraph, along which, post 1850, nationalism was “globalised.” Borders were redefined and reworked and identities reformulated as individuals negotiated the interstices between the Middle East, Europe, and South Asia.35 Later, Sugata Bose invited us to view the Indian Ocean as the interregional arena that bridged the geographic and conceptual gulf between the British and the Ottoman Empires and enabled people to move across imperial formations. His Indian Ocean exploration makes us rethink issues of patriotism and nationalism from the viewpoint of the diasporic public sphere.36 This book picks up the lead of this recent scholarship to capture the making of Muslim cosmopolitanism as émigrés from British India sought refuge in the Ottoman world at a moment of acute political crisis. It takes its cue from Dutch and Middle Eastern scholars who have begun to study imperialism and nationalism via porous borders that were negotiated both officially and surreptitiously by individuals. The hugely influential thesis of Eric Tagliacozzo on the 15

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“porous borders” between the Dutch Indies and the British-­controlled territories that made contraband smuggling a major avenue for making careers and forging identities has revealed the limitations of working within the official frames of empires. Tagliacozzo’s thesis highlights the role of the individual in studies that explore the history of imperialism bottom-­up. Within the field of Middle Eastern studies, Julia Clancy-­Smith’s study of contraband economies in nineteenth-­century Tunisia and Algeria reveals a “subterranean world of transactions running counter to the aims of imperial states—​ and to those of North African elites.”37 Her case study examining the remarkable career of Khayr al-­Din al-­Tunisi—​an Ottoman Mamluk of Circassian slave origins who was posted in Tunis and who rose to become the major “modernist” reformist intellectual and educationist of French Tunisia—​is revealing. It shows the potential of the individual in brokering empires and shaping society and politics from the shadows of empire.38 Making a similar case for South Asian history, this book shows that individuals made impervious borders porous, dented claims of foolproof paper tiger empires, and shifted action to the shadows of empire, where they used imperial politics to their advantage. Chapter 2 shows how Sayyid Fadl played the rules of extraterritoriality in very unconventional ways. His interesting life, which straddled British India, the Arab provinces of the Ottoman Empire, and Istanbul, reveals the significant role ethnically marked and legally stigmatized Muslim subjects could play in shaping both British India’s relations with its Muslim population at home as well as its politics with its Asian imperial rivals abroad. The mid-­nineteenth-­century “global moment”—​famously known as the era of worldwide revolts that rocked imperial cities ranging from British Delhi, Agra, and Meerut to Ottoman Jeddah, Cairo, Damascus, Alexandria, and Tunis—​offered a tailor-­made occasion for mobility and transimperial support. Chapters 3 and 4 focus on Muslim émigré scholars who made the most of the opportunities that emerged in the “age of revolts.” They operated at the cusp of empires, negotiated imperial fault lines, made borders porous, and shaped the history of imperialism even as its heavy fist impacted them. This larger ambit of spatiality and the imperial littoral ­renders 16

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weak the claims of both the British “new imperial histories” and the nationalist narratives to offer wide analytical frames, even if they expand their ambit from the core-­periphery confines to the larger analytical frame of the “webs of empire.” It also makes the claim that the history of the British Empire is the paradigmatic history of the world look very hollow. The lives examined here, when taken together, show how what can be called the “spirit of 1857” played out in a global context.39 Very much like the diasporas of Loyalists in North America who used the defeat of 1776 and the spirit of 1783 to carve out global careers that were self-­driven and diverse and that both mirrored and shaped the complexities of the British Empire, the 1857 émigrés also used imperial highways of communication and shaped imperial politics, stamping it with what we can call the “spirit of 1857.”40 The life and times of each actor in the book show that 1857 may have been a war lost for the rebels but that it generated not simply a widespread anti-­British mood but also a public debate on the interpretation of religious scriptures and tradition and discussions on individual authorship, literary styles, appropriation of scientific inquiry, public service, and definitions of loyal subjecthood. It brought home the value of new forms of communication technology like the telegraph and the printing press. The conjuncture of new communication technology and political revolution also meant that 1857 became global news in a very short time.41 As news of this cataclysmic event spread globally across the telegraphic cables and via steamships and newspapers, its impact was felt in other British colonies. Responses varied and triggered many new debates on power relations between the colonies and London. Jill Bender explores the career of Sir George Grey, the British colonist in the Cape Colony who sent troops and help to colleagues in India to quell the rebels without London’s permission. His independence triggered official debate on the relations between imperial career diplomats and the government. Later, in New Zealand, he tried to curtail and control the Maori locals using the Indian experience of his colleagues who handled the aftermath of 1857 with proven highhandedness.42 Again, Britain had to handle the Irish nationalists who, inspired by 1857, mobilized against British rule.43 17

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Britain and its colonies were not the only sectors that felt the heat of 1857. Its tremors were felt also in the Russian Empire. Czar Alexander II tried to exploit this moment of British weakness for his own imperial designs in Persia and India.44 More importantly, discontented subjects in the Ottoman cities of Tunisia, Cairo, Damascus, and Istanbul were inspired to get into political action by Hindustani émigré rebels as well as by news items on the Indian unrest published in national dailies.45 The rebels of 1857 and runaway militant Sufis in Egypt (like the Sufi Ahmadullah Shah, who was prominent in the 1857 revolt in Lucknow, or Shaykh Ibrahim, also a militant Lucknow Sufi, who settled in Asyut in north Egypt) lent to Ottoman territories the Indian anti-­imperial experience. Such rebels, to use Juan Cole’s phrase, “fought 1857 in Egypt.” They and their literature continued to be welcome in Egypt in the two decades leading up to the fall of Egypt to the British in 1882.46 Indeed, 1857 precipitated a moment of unprecedented connectivity between the Ottoman and the British worlds. Indian Muslims, dislocated during the mutiny-­rebellion, were at the forefront of this connectivity. They experimented with educational, political, reform­ ­ist, and social packages that were being tried out by subject populations in the Ottoman Arab and African provinces in a period aptly called the Age of Revolutions. The Ottoman bureaucrat scholar and Tunisian intellectual Khayr al-­Din al-­Tunisi’s tanzimat-­inspired reformist “Fundamental Pact” was perfected in 1857, and his educational project inspired the Indian educationist Sir Sayyid Ahmad Khan. This made it more than evident that at certain moments in the long nineteenth century, the ideas and actions of career brokers such as Tunisi could have global resonance.47 In the intellectually agile postmutiny context of political and moral reform in India, it was no surprise that news of Khayr al-­Din, in distant Tunisia, became more relevant than at any other time. This conjunctural moment ensured that Tunisi’s 1867 major Arabic work on constitutional reforms, Aqwam al-­Masalik li Ma’rifat Ahwal al-­Mamalik (The Surest Path to Knowledge of the Condition of Countries), written with an eye to an audience in the European and Ottoman world, impacted Indian reformists as well. The Indian educationist reformer Sir Sayyid Ahmad Khan, located in distant 18

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Aligarh and Delhi, found Tunisi’s ideas compelling.48 Given the range of languages into which this book was translated, and the large number of Ottoman and European cities in which subsequent editions of this book were published, its ideas reached India in no time. The commercial and intellectual links between India and European and Ottoman circles must have enabled this transmission with ease: the book was serialized in Istanbul newspapers, and a shorter introduction to the book—​muqaddima—​penned by Tunisi soon had French, Ottoman Turkish, Persian, and English translations for a widespread audience.49 Tunisi’s career revealed the critical role such individuals played in the connected histories of empires spread over diverse geographies. Sir Sayyid Ahmad Khan was impacted by these Ottoman reformist ideas even if he remained steadfastly located in India as a loyal British subject. But there were others, like the protagonists of this book, who experienced such currents firsthand as they relocated them­ ­selves in Ottoman cities. Such fugitive scholars became the prin­­ cipal carriers of the “1857 mood” outside British India. Paradoxically, the “spirit of 1857” only firmed up in the decades that followed the crushing of the mutiny-­rebellion. In this period of increased surveillance, the expanded print culture and transport facilities not only sustained the public debate on freedom and the intricacies of empire, but enabled migration and exported the 1857 mood to the Ottoman territories. Ottoman caliph Abd-­al Aziz and his successor Abd-­al Hamid II, driven by their own imperial ambitions, hosted Indian émigrés and energized their networks. Muslim émigrés used their new location and royal patronage for their own careering. They emerged as cosmopolitan actors who pushed the umma to unite as a universalist civilizational force at the intersection of empires. This constituted their cosmopolis. The coming together of the Muslim cosmopolis and world empires offered a perfect global canvas that made pan-­ Islamic networks inviting for Caliph Abd-­al Hamid II, and not only for reasons of piety. Muslim émigrés exported their brand of cosmopolitanism back to Hindustan via immigrant traders, scholars, pilgrims, and publishers who maintained a steady link between British India and the Ottoman cities. The cosmopolitanism nurtured between 19

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the two empires hugely impacted seminaries and Muslim politics in India. Its principal craftsmen, the Hindustani émigré scholars, made the most of their location at the cultural melting pot of Mecca to reach out to both their intellectual peers back home as well to the wider audiences outside the British territories. Chapters 3 and 4 put the spotlight on two fugitive Muslim scholars—​ Maulana Rahmatullah Kairanwi (1818–1900) and Imdadullah Makki (1817–1899)—​who escaped to Mecca in the aftermath of the mutiny­rebellion and used Istanbul’s hospitality and imperial rivalries, as well as the anti-­British sentiment in the region, to create their own political space in the area. Imdadullah used his new location in Mecca, tapped its long history of intellectual and economic connections with South Asia, and exploited the mid-­nineteenth-­century “imperial moment” to fashion his cosmopolitanism as an urbane civility based on universalist Muslim virtuous conduct. This conduct was derived from both the Islamic scriptures and its tradition of consensus. He invoked Islamic consensus to bring the local diversities of practice and custom onto one platform. The public conduct that he advocated was the standardized version of varied customs and sectarian traditions; also noteworthy was its outward-­looking scientific orientation, which characterized the Ottoman reformists of the time. While he tapped into this Ottoman legacy, he also brought his own Naqshbandi brand of inclusiveness to bear on the region. This enabled him to carve out an intellectual niche for himself. His teacher and close associate Kairanwi similarly grafted his cosmopolitanism—​itself a unifying, universalist, civilizational entity—​onto the imperial networks that framed his new geographical space in Mecca and Istanbul. Chapter 3 shows how he used to his benefit his position in Mecca as well as the city’s earlier contacts with Indian Naqshbandis to fashion a cosmopolitanism that had the scriptures as its base and that was informed by a very tanzimat-­ inspired pragmatic and scientific outlook. This cosmopolitanism offered a readymade template for attracting Muslims as it stretched as a discursive civilizational space between the British and the Ottoman Empires. It offered an alternate civilizational world with which to counter the British imperial design. Thus Hindustan 20

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c­ ontinued to be Kairanwi’s main focus even though he located in Mecca and had a global orientation. Intellectual ideas, disseminated via books from Hindustan, sustained his cultural ecumene. His newly founded madrasa, Saulatiya, and its students and scholarly productions played a pivotal role in sustaining his intellectual and political world. The madrasa became the nodal point from which books written in India circulated, via itinerary teachers and students, in the Hijaz, the Ottoman Arab provinces, and as far as Southeast Asia. These chapters show how Indian cosmopolitans gravitated to Istanbul primarily for the advantages that it offered as the fulcrum of temporal power. Their moves made it clear that the caliph was also viewed as the sultan of an exceptionally vast and religiously and ethnically diverse subject population. His clout derived from his political significance and not merely from his perceived spiritual position. His non-­Muslim Greek and Armenian Christian subjects may have variously viewed the Muslim identity of the sultan.50 But there was no doubt that the empire had an international reputation for ethnic and religious inclusion even when Sultan Abd-­al Hamid II, for reasons of political expediency, waved the caliph card and pushed to the fringes the tanzimat reformists who lent a legal frame to inclusion. Not only did the Ottoman sultan have Greek and Armenian bureaucrats, but his Christian delegates also defended his civilized rule during the 1893 Chicago World Parliament of Reli­ gions.51 This international image of tolerance and accommodation explains the drift toward Istanbul of Muslim cosmopolitans like Kairanwi and Imdadullah, who fled from British tyranny. They flocked to Ottoman cities to strategize their moves in tandem with the liberal intellectual currents and with the support of its globally influential Muslim sultan. On his part, Sultan Abd-­al Hamid II viewed émigrés from British territories as potential assets in his imperial designs. He was always welcoming to them. The spirit of 1857 fired the Muslim imaginary and made even those who could not physically escape to the Ottoman world connect to the intellectual and civilizational cosmopolis between empires. Chapter 6 focuses on Maulana Jafer Thanesri (1838–1905), who spent eighteen years as a convict at the penal colony in the 21

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Andaman Islands (1866–1884) for leading a group of rebels in Delhi during 1857. On his release, he relocated and established himself as a scribe in the Punjab administration. Unlike Kairanwi, he did not manage to escape to the Ottoman territories. But this did not stop him from envisaging a Muslim cosmopolis stretched across empires. The mutiny located him at the intersection of the British imperial networks and its cultural web as reflected in the power of the English language, British styles of decorum and conduct, and the Islamic intellectual imperium. The latter became more accessible than before because of the growing networks of transportation, communication, and print culture that were increasingly available to subject people. Thanesri’s idea of homeland (mulk) developed as he straddled these worlds with ease—​not physically but via news from visitors, literary productions, and other communication avenues available to him because of his status as a British convict in the Andaman penal colony. The chapter shows how his imaginary straddled empires and how he envisaged an embracive civilizational space that spilled out of British India. Because he exhorted Muslims to unite globally, he posed a challenge to the colonial regime. Thanesri’s brand of cosmopolitanism and his sense of self as a member of a larger world—​rooted firmly within and yet reaching outside British India—​remained dependent on imperial networks. This made his responses to the British presence more than a narrow anticolonial political struggle. Indeed, the interplay of both the imperial and Indo-­Arabic repertoires shaped his Indo-­Persianate sense of self and complicated his nuanced struggle against British rule.

Imperial Cities and Muslim Cosmopolitans This book brings the Ottoman imperial cities that offered refuge to 1857 Muslim fugitives center stage in the discussion on the making of Muslim cosmopolitanism: Mecca, Cairo, and Istanbul. Via the study of individual careers located in these cities, the book shows how in the Muslim perspective such non-­British-­controlled centers called the shots in determining the course of global politics and world history. Shifting the gaze away from London and the British 22

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imperial centers such as Delhi and Calcutta, the book proffers a new definition of the global as something that was non-­British or non-­ Eurocentric. Azyumardi Azra portrays the Ottoman-­controlled cities, Mecca and Medina, as epicenters of Muslim intellectual networks that knitted together the religious scholars of the British, Dutch, and Ottoman Empires. These were sites where the moral and cultural reconfiguration of Muslim thought and vision was attempted via fresh interpretations of the Hadith tradition.52 This had a long history going back to the thirteenth century. But the nineteenth-­ century challenge of Western imperial expansion intensified this urge for moral reform. Egyptian and Indonesian scholars in Mecca contributed to the trend as they too sought to reconcile differences between different intellectual currents within Islam and looked for remedies for the ills of their respective societies. They brought textual Islam, as represented in the Prophet’s tradition of the Hadith studies, and Sufi Islam, as represented in the varied tariqas or brotherhoods, into close union.53 Indian reformists located in Mecca were also part of this endeavor for moral reform. Indeed, the Mecca-­based Indian reformists trained many of the scholars from the Dutch Indies and Ottoman Egypt. For instance, Sibghat Allah, the Indian Sufi scholar who exported to the Arab world both the Shattariyyah and the Naqshbandi Sufi orientations that reconciled the Shariat to Sufi practice, had students (including Ahmad al Shinawi) from Cairo as well as scholars from Acheh.54 Michael Laffan’s description of the Jawi or Indonesian scholarly ecumene that originated in the city reveals the agility of Mecca’s intellectual life. The two seventeenth-­century Jawi scholars in Mecca, Ibrahim al-­Kurani and Ahmad al-­Qushashi, trained a host of students in one popular form of jurisprudence associated with Imam Sha’fai—​t he Shafi jurisprudence. They reconciled this form of juridical tradition to mysticism.55 This trend only intensified in the nineteenth century with the specter of “modern” empires loom­ ­ing as a grave civilizational challenge to the Muslim world. Banten in Java and Acheh in Sumatra became the feeders for intellectual migrants in Mecca. Muhammad Al-­Nawawi of Java, who migrated to Mecca in 1855, represented one such reformist neo-­Sufi case in 23

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point.56 Ahmad Khatib, who landed in the Hijaz in 1881, was initiated into the Naqshbandi order, and studied with the Meccan cleric Ahmad Dahlan, was another such case in point.57 Similarly oriented migrant scholars from Istanbul, Cairo, and Delhi were present in Mecca, and collectively they made the region an intellectual hub. Their location in Ottoman-­controlled Mecca, where they enjoyed the patronage of Caliph Abd-­al Hamid II, known for his welcoming stance toward transimperial Muslim scholars, also exposed them to the global aspirations of the Hamidian imperial vision. Their cosmopolitanism emerged as a neat balance between the Arab intellectual thrust toward the scriptures and the Ottoman reformist pull toward a scientific “modern” orientation with its Hamidian imperial frill. They attempted to unite the community, or umma, as a civilization that was both rooted in scripture and embedded in imperial networks that crisscrossed the Ottoman and British Empires. Indeed, these nineteenth-­century networks, grafted as they were onto earlier connections forged by scholars, Sufis, and traders, enabled Muslim cosmopolitanism to reach out to societies across the Indian Ocean and the Mediterranean world. Chapters 3 and 4 bring out the critical role of Mecca in the making of Muslim cosmopolitanism. Chapter 3 reflects how on reaching Mecca, Kairanwi discovered that the city already had a rich Indic intellectual legacy that laid the groundwork for a Hadith-­centric reconciliation of mysticism and jurisprudence.58 This enabled him to extend an embracive arm that stretched across the imperial divide to unite the umma as a civilizational force. At the same time, he was lucky that the anticaliph resentment in the city—​which grew as pilgrims and travelers suffered Hamid’s inept administration—​gave him a much-­desired conduit through which to ally with the caliph’s political adversaries and intellectual critics. He used these adversaries to bargain for concessions from Istanbul and to cushion his fugitive existence. Indeed, he used them to access Caliph Abd-­al Hamid II and in turn use him to his advantage. The collapse of the constitutional tanzimat reforms in the 1830s had been followed by the coming together of religion and a scientific, forward-­looking reformist project in many of the African and Arab provinces of the Ottoman Empire. Students, bureaucrats, and religious scholars 24

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impacted by this post-­tanzimat effort to bring religion back onto the agenda of “secular” reform critiqued the caliph as they tried to make sense of the political and financial crisis of the empire. Caliph Abd-­al Hamid II had shunted many reformists, including the Salafis, out of Istanbul and away from the core of the empire. The Salafis collected in the Arab and African provinces, and their presence created the perfect political and intellectual terrain for similarly oriented Indian reformists like Kairanwi. Not surprisingly, Kairanwi’s own efforts were hugely informed by the intellectual energy and activity of the caliph’s adversaries—​t he “modernist” reform that was emanating from the Arab and African provinces of the empire (Cairo, Syria, Lebanon, and the Hijaz). Indeed, he lent his voice to their political critique of the caliph so as to make himself recognized in the intellectual circles of Ottoman society. At the same time, he continued to use Caliph Abd-­al Hamid II as a patron whose association offered him clout vis-­à-­v is both the British and the local Hijaz administration, which was under Ottoman rule. Chapter 4 reveals how Mecca also became a crucial site for Imdadullah’s cosmopolitanism. The connected worlds of the British and Ottoman Empires offered an arena of new possibilities, which Imdadullah used at Mecca. From the vantage point Mecca offered, he developed his relationships with his intellectual peers in Hindustan, connecting with and influencing them in new and complex ways. The chapter discusses the making of several of his texts in Mecca in close intellectual consultation with his colleagues in India. His peers visited Mecca under different pretexts and carted his manuscripts back home for revision and publication. His literary productions reveal his unique thought process in bringing Muslims together around a standardized mode of conduct. Indian scholar émigrés and their ideas also found wide appeal and circulation in the intellectual circles of Ottoman Cairo. Juan Cole and Michael Laffan have highlighted the emergence of nineteenth-­century Cairo as yet another intellectual metropole where the role of Islam in carving out the “modern world” became a hot topic of scholarly discussion. The famous cosmopolitan Persian scholar-­traveler Jamaluddin Afghani and his student Abduh used the Cairene intellectuals’ Parisian intellectual experiences to advocate 25

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positivist and rational, moral, and political reforms that centered on the individual self and that were in sync with the Koran and the Hadith. They argued that this would unite Muslims as a civilization across the globe. This echoed the reformist ideas that were being voiced in Mecca by the post-­tanzimat Salafi intellectuals and by Indic-­impacted Indian reformists Rahmatullah Kairanwi and Imdadullah Makki. The nineteenth-­century Indic reformist idea about the rational individual who legitimated science and reason with scriptural sanctity and offered an inclusive political platform rubbed shoulders in Cairo with the Hamidian imperial vision of modernity. Abd-­al Hamid II, his overtly Islamic profile notwithstanding, leaned on the politically pragmatic reformist project of the liberal intellectuals and the moderate ulema that brought religion and scientific rationality together. Ottoman and Indic reformists also shared this predicament with their Southeast Asian counterparts in the city. And for each one of them this sentiment could either spill into nationalism or else spread out of territorial borders and carpet itself across the imperial divide to weld together the Muslim global cosmopolis. In the case of the Jawi intellectuals in Cairo, it boiled down to a form of nationalism.59 Jawi intellectuals trained in Mecca, like Ahmad Khatib, sent their sons to Cairo to shape this intellectual project of national unity. But after the fall of Cairo to the British in 1882 the city also became the epicenter of Malay and Indonesian intellectuals who stopped here en route to the Hijaz and worked out new ideas of Jawi unity as a nationalist project.60 The protagonists of this book show that for the Indian émigré scholars Cairo was a center for articulating more than a simplistic anti-­British nationalism. The city was different from Mecca as it carried the political legacy of its rebel Ottoman military commandant and self-­styled khedive (independent ruler), Muhammad Ali (1769–1849), who had strived to establish the regional autonomy of Egypt and the surrounding areas of the Eastern Mediterranean. He had wanted to break away from the Ottoman Empire and emerge as the leader of an independent regional power. His economic, educational, and political reforms had sought to establish state monopolies and had looked toward France and the Western model of 26

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enlightenment for inspiration. His political aspirations had been cut short by the Ottoman Empire. Yet Cairo remained both a seat of liberal reform as well as a hotbed of regional aspiration that posed a political challenge to the Ottomans throughout the long nineteenth century. The lasting legacy of Muhammad Ali was the very relaxed intellectual climate in Cairo, where Islamic reform was most closely aligned with scientific reason and rationality. Indian scholar émigrés used Cairo’s reformist and revolutionary energy to spell out a more ambitious transimperial civilizational space for Muslims. They hoped that this space would compete with the formidable British and Ottoman imperia that carpeted the region. Chapter 5 looks at Nawab Siddiq Hasan Khan (1832–1890), nawab consort of the begum of the princely state of Bhopal, who was an important figure in the scholarly circles of Cairo. His books, with their transimperial gaze, fit in well with both the anti-­British political mood as well as the reformist sentiment in the city. He was not in the good books of the British administration and was accused of seditious writings. Despite being under surveillance, he did not escape from India. He did not feel the need to do so. He was not convicted in any court of law and had the advantage of his royal connection. Although he was located in India, he nonetheless plugged into and contributed to Imdadullah and Kairanwi’s transimperial cosmopolitanism. His intellectual ambit extended to Cairo. He used the challenges and opportunities of nineteenth-­century imperialisms and reconfigured them to suit his own particular interests. The new imperial and maritime world of his age firmed up the earlier intellectual contacts between Hindustan and West Asia and expanded his long-­distance reach. He used his Indo-­Persianate intellectual legacy, his regal family connections, as well as imperial networks to construct an embracive cosmopolitanism that straddled the British and Ottoman Empires. The chapter shows how this scripture-­based cosmopolitanism, energized by his literary productions, connected to the civilizational ambits of Imdadullah Makki and Rahmatullah Kairanwi in the Ottoman territories. It shows, moreover, how this cosmopolitanism contributed to the growing strength of the notion of universalist Muslim public conduct and how this conduct emerged as a welding force across empires. Siddiq 27

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Hasan fashioned his own “international relations” using his distinct Arabic learning and gentlemanly status. He connected to trans-­ Asian intellectuals by flaunting this special status. His reformist ideas found resonance in the anti-­British and religiously surcharged atmosphere of Cairo. With his knowledge of Arabic and his reformist religious training, his books became part of the Cairene intellectual circles. Scholars from Cairo and Mecca sent their sons and students to Bhopal to train with him. The careers of Muslim intellectuals like him, when viewed from outside the lens of the influential British Empire and its cultural and intellectual ambit, raise questions about the definition of what constitutes nineteenth-­century global history when considered solely from the vantage point of British imperial history. His career brings to the fore the multiple imperial centers outside British-­controlled territories, which became defining hotspots of action in the age of “modern” empires. Chapter 5 thus argues that being outside cultivated “Britishness” offered greater space for maneuvering. Siddiq Hasan’s long reach to imperial centers like Cairo in the Ottoman territory revealed the crucial role of cities outside the British Empire in calling the shots in world history. The lives captured here thus enable us to understand the new contours of world and global history as articulated from the Ottoman imperial centers of Istanbul, Mecca, and Cairo. In the imperial assemblages of the late nineteenth century, Arabic rather than English was the universal lingua franca. The knowledge of Arabic offered a longer rope to connect with Muslim subjects of other imperial powers, the Dutch and the Ottoman in particular. The careers charted in this book fill very important lacunae in Ottoman studies as they highlight the role of Istanbul and other imperial cities like Mecca and Cairo in the fashioning of a non-­ European model of modernity. Ottomanists have paid little attention to the critical role of their imperial centers in carving out an alternate “modern” world. The incorporation of nineteenth-­century Ottomans into the world economy, albeit as a peripheral partner, has been suggested as their early brush with the “modern” economy.61 If so, it was one that led to the “peripheralisation” of the Ottoman empire as older networks, the ethnic and religious 28

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equations that sustained them, and the connections with political class were radically altered.62 This peripheralization thesis has been hotly contested.63 Tom Reiss has highlighted how the “modernism” of nineteenth-­ century Istanbul was reflected in its racial and ethnic mix—​its nightclubs, mosques, and literary societies—​which endeared itself to Jewish Orientalists (including, notably, Arminius Vambery) who earned the honorific of pasha from Sultan Abd-­al Hamid II for their scholarly services in the city. Indeed, the post-­tanzimat modernism reflected in their writings encouraged later Jewish Orientalists like Lev Nussimbaum, a Russian émigré Jew in Istanbul, to lament the death of the empire in the wake of the single-­minded nationalism of the 1920s. And yet so struck was he by the modernity of Istanbul that he adopted the exotic yet “modern” Muslim-­prince identity and later converted to Islam in the Ottoman Embassy in Berlin in the final days of the empire (1923).64 The new works on Ottoman modernity critiqued the Western-­ style modernity projects of political elites. But they kept religion out of the new models that they offered.65 This book picks up the lead from Selim Deringil, who introduced Islam into the political reform of modernity with a discussion of Caliph Abd-­al Hamid II’s project of social engineering. This forced people to subscribe to a normative standard of values that were a mix of old notions of loyalty to the caliph and new migrant notions of loyalty to the country (vatan). Traditional religious motifs and vocabulary, alongside an emphasis on science and progress, went into the making of the Ottoman modernity project. The post-­tanzimat education system propagated such hybrid ideas and claimed Islamic origins for them.66 The making of the new Ottoman subject showcased Istanbul and other cities as symbols of Ottoman modernism. The protagonists of this book fit into the Islam-­driven modern imperial vision of the late nineteenth century that appropriated moral and political reform and attributed to it Islamic origins and history. Indeed, the experience of Indian reformists fit into the Hamidian project of social engineering—​and that explains Hamid’s constant invitation to all the protagonists of this book to help in his project. Indeed, Kairanwi became a royal guest in Istanbul on 29

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various occasions, and as Chapter 3 shows, wrote one of his most influential books, Izharul Haq (The Truth Revealed), which articulated his cosmopolitanism, in Istanbul under royal patronage. Even when he returned to Mecca, his brother remained in the city as the librarian of the imperial library. Chapter 2 shows the famous Moplah Sayyid Fadls’ wide-­ranging intellectual and political contacts in the upper echelons of Istanbul society. And both Imdadullah Makki and the nawab consort of Bhopal, Siddiq Hasan Khan, were widely read in Istanbul, as they were in other Ottoman imperial cities like Cairo.

Cosmopolitanism Hijacked? This book offers a unique take on the nineteenth-­century global embrace of Muslims. It brings 1857 fugitive men of religion, who located in the Ottoman territories or else remained confined within the surveillance structures of British India, center stage to the creation of Muslim cosmopolitanism. It argues that the transimperial networks they created were a response to the “official nationalism” sponsored by the British Empire that imposed territorially rooted subject identities and borders in Asia via the passport, census and land surveys, and legal and consular regimes.67 Over the decades, Muslim connections shaped and acquired a momentum of their own as individuals harnessed both the experience of the Indo-­Persianate cosmopolitan gentleman and the long tradition of commercial and intellectual contacts between Hindustan and the Middle East to the new imperial highways of communication and print capitalism. Careers of individuals like Siddiq Hasan, Rahmatullah Kairanwi, Imdadullah Makki, and others discussed in this book show that Muslim cosmopolitanism was entrenched in the challenges and opportunities offered by nineteenth-­century imperialisms. It was constituted of individual attempts to reconfigure these imperialisms so as to better align them with self-­driven particularistic interests. Historians of the British Empire have shown through the study of individual careers that the British imperial experience and its intellectual legacy and networks continued to guide careers and had crucial postcolonial trajectories.68 But what is less known is that the 30

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individual-­driven Muslim cosmopolitanism also left a compelling legacy that continues to shape the politics of the contemporary Arab Muslim world. The cosmopolitanism of the multilingual, Indo-­Persian Mughal elite, with its Arabic scriptural core and “modern” orientation, could spin out of control and be used by political elites for their vested interests. In the twentieth century, the Wahabi-­oriented Muslim regimes in Saudi Arabia hijacked it and used its scriptural core to spin a hardened version of Islam. Its most obvious ramification was the leveling of its multilingual character and the spread of a narrowly tailored, exclusive Wahabi reformist tradition across the Islamic societies of twentieth-­century nation-­states. Madrasa Saulatiya, estab­ l­ ished by Kairanwi as the center of an embracive reformist Islam with a strong Indic intellectual strand, is today the center of disseminating a very purist form of textual Islam that is patronized by the Abd-­al Wahab−impacted Saudi ruling house. The new predicaments of the Arab world and the looming American challenge of the late twentieth and early twenty-­first centuries both intensified the Arabicization of the eclectic Muslim cosmopolis and hardened its core at the expense of its tanzimat-­inspired modern orientation. And in classic dialectical fashion, the American war against Wahabism has only served to strengthen (and ideologically tighten and globally elevate) that which it fights. And yet, as the recent spurt of Muslim responses in the “Arab Spring” shows, the fringe was never completely extinguished. Across the globe, it continues to connect and inspire Muslims waiting for the right moment to ignite.

31

1 M usl i m R e for m is t s a n d t h e T r a nsi t ion to E ngl ish Ru le

During the late eighteenth century, the Naqshbandi Sufi Shahwaliulla’s madrasa at Delhi became the center of Arabic learning of both the religious and secular kind. Even though heavily influenced by the trends streaming in from Arab lands, the seminary continued to uphold the eclecticism of the Indo-­Persianate literary culture. Reformist scholars of the seminary, often labeled by the British as “Wahabis,”1 produced texts in Persian like the Sirat-­i-­ Mustaqim, which combined the Sufi doctrine with the monist doctrine of tauhid or belief in one Allah and His Prophet. Their literature catered to the Persian-­k nowing elite and called for the moral reform of Muslim society to meet the challenges of the time. In the early nineteenth century, reformist literature increasingly spilled out of its elite encasement and became accessible to ordinary people. While the Persian Sirat was translated into the north Indian vernacular Urdu, a range of new texts were also written and printed in this local language. However, in its popular printed form, new Urdu texts like the Taqwiyat al-­Iman and the Nasihat-­i-­Muslimin (1823–1824) forefronted the Koran, the Hadith (Traditions of the 32

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Prophet), and the individual as the ideal interpreter. The Sufi dimension of the original doctrine with its stress on the mediator—​t he spiritual leader—​was either sidelined or was conspicuous by its absence.2 This chapter argues that the sidelining of the interlocutor, the shift to the canon, and the focus on the individual was part of a larger process of Mughal crisis: the disintegration of the Indo-­ Persianate imperium of the late eighteenth century. As the Mughal Empire and its successor states moved into oblivion, so did the ­Indo-­Persianate concept of the royal body and court society as the embodiment of knowledge of all kinds. In this period of transition, both religious and scientific knowledge spilled out of their bodily trappings—​royal, sacred, and profane. There was a greater stress on the individual and his ability to create a doctrine that ensured universal appeal. British presence of course made it politically expedient that the doctrine be premised on easy accessibility, simplicity of style, and rationality, which enabled global connections.3 The Arabic-­scripture-­based tradition thus came to the forefront of South Asian religious discourse as a template whose universal appeal could meet best the new requirements of the early nineteenth century. The Delhi Naqshbandi Sufi Shahwaliulla best epitomized this Indian brand of Arabic orientation. He and his multilingual disciples produced texts in Urdu that exemplified the Hindustani elites’ interpretation of the Arabic tradition. He signatured a specific brand of Arabicism that stressed Muslim exclusivity via unity and compromise between the more liberal Sufi saint Ibn-­i-­Arabi and the conservative Naqshbandi Sufi sheikh Ahmad Sirhindi. This formula of compromise produced an India-­specific Arabic tradition with its stress on the individual, scriptures, monism, and social leveling, even as it left the space for intermediaries—​now cast as spiritual mentors—​ who mediated between the individual and the text. However, the forefronting of the scripture and the individual meant that religious knowledge was slowly disembodied from its hitherto inaccessible encasings: the person of the king, the body of the Sufi saint, and single-­copy Persian manuscripts. Religious dictums now came in easy-­to-­read Urdu printed books and pamphlets that were open to 33

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individual interpretation. They were a far cry from the Persian reform­­ist texts, like the Sirat, as their tenor was Arabicist: individual­centric, austere, simple, prescriptive, exclusive, and with a claim to uni­ ­versality. Arabic (and all that it embodied), which had so far enjoyed only symbolic significance as a language of rituals and scholarship, was disseminated into society via Urdu texts. The familiarity with and signification of Arabic language and tradition had always existed in the subcontinent. It had always been the language of Islamic scholarship in the eighteenth-­century madrasas of Hindustan, and one of symbolic ritual observance. Now it was brought center stage as the new referent that enabled the individual to envisage a new Muslim global imperium. Indeed, the regal, hyperbolic, eclectic Indo-­Persianate world of the late eighteenth century was slowly giving way to the Arabicist tradition of the early nineteenth century, characterized by a relatively somber, prescriptive exclusivity within Hindustan combined with a desire for a global hegemony via the universal appeal of the scriptures. Thus the stress in reformist ideology on a singular Allah is not just a case of a response to corruption in society or Islam, or to British presence.4 Rather, it is symptomatic of larger societal churnings related to the disintegration of the Indo-­Persianate culture and of the attempt to forge an alternate political imperium for Muslims via the universal appeal of the scriptures and individual agency. This is best reflected in the fact that the religious and moral prescriptions in these texts often use the royal court by way of illustrations and allegory. Very much like the intentions of a typical royal court, the Urdu literature too created a discourse of unity. However, this was no longer structured on the Persianate norm of the king maintaining an efficient social balance in an eclectic society, but on an aggressive Arabicist prescriptive Islam, which unified via compromise and leveling rather than balancing. The idea of social leveling stood in contrast to the Persianate idea of social balancing.5 Social leveling was committed to create a unified umma, or community. The Islamic textual dictum of tauhid was the key conceptual leveler. This became the main ideological plank of the reformists. Early nineteenth-­century authors like Khurram Ali and Ismael Shahid justified this ideology using the verses of the Koran. Thus 34

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the Arabicist tradition disseminated by elite Urdu reformers is heavily textual—​mainly Koran oriented with a focus on only select Hadiths. It is Protestant in the sense of urging people to establish a direct link with Allah—​w ithout interlocutors. It believes in the undisputed supremacy of Allah over all prophets and other intermediaries. And it is critical of any efforts to place any interlocutor in a position above Allah. Such efforts are defined as shirk (heresy) and are seen as sinful. Elite reformers of the Urdu texts upheld Shahwaliulla’s compromise formula but leaned more toward the conservative Naqshbandi Sufi sheikh Ahmad Sirhindi side of exclusivity rather than toward Ibn-­i-­Arabi’s brand of eclecticism. The shift in reformist literature from a Persianate inclusivity to an Arabicist exclusivity was gradual. The drift can be discerned as we move from one of the earliest compendiums of early nineteenth­century reformist literature in Persian, the Sirat-­i-­Mustaqim of Sayyid Ismael Shahid, to his later more definitive Urdu text, Taqwiyat al-­Iman, and finally to the more derivative, shorter text of Khurram Ali called the Nasihat-­i-­Muslimin. These surveys of Urdu reformist literature also unraveled the critical significance of the multilingual Mughal legatees, as they were able to use their exceptional linguistic range to reach out to the Arabic tradition and popularize it in the local language, Urdu. In so doing, they tapped into the hitherto unused global referents in their last-­ditch effort to survive.

Urdu Reformist Texts and the Interpretation of the Arabic Tradition In 1818, Ismael Shahid compiled the Persian text Sirat-­i-­Mustaqim. This was a compendium of the sayings and guidance of his spiritual mentor and the foremost reformist of his time, Sayyid Ahmad Shahid. Harlon O. Pearson claims that the first Persian version was published in 1825, during the lifetime of Sayyid Ahmad.6 Its fuller versions and editions in Urdu, however, were published after the death of the Sayyid Ahmad in 1838. The text represents Sayyid Ahmad Shahid and his Tariqa-­i Muhammadiya (The Muhammadan Way) as transoceanic therapy for the social and political crises facing 35

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Muslim society. It is also significant because the author invokes the Islamic tradition of I’tedal (mutual trust) and ijma (consensus) to extend a long embracive arm to all four Sufi sects even as he highlights the salience of the scriptures and tauhid as the core around which the global community of Muslims would unite. The Urdu rendition of the text, completed in the first half of the nineteenth century, continues with the Persianate eclecticism of the original version. Shah Ismael’s preface claims that the work is a compilation of Sayyid Ahmad’s sayings as heard and related to him by his companions. The text also includes essays based on Sayyid Ahmad’s sayings memorized and penned by his companion Maulana Abd al-Hai. What is more important is that the author underlines the fact that even though the book stresses the exceptional status of Allah and the Prophet and the love and devotion of the individual to them, it does not ignore the Sufi brand of love mediated via the spiritual mentor. Indeed, the text devotes an entire section to the forms of devotion of the Chishtiya, Qadariya, and Naqshbandiya Sufi orders and attempts to arrive at a consensus in their devotional practices.7 Thus the Urdu translation upholds the eclectic tenor of the original Persian text, with its closeness to the elite Indo-­Persian genre of literature that stressed social inclusivity, while it maintains the power balance in society. As we move from the masterpiece Sirat to Ismael Shahid’s own more definitive Arabic/Urdu text Taqwiyat al-­Iman, the change in stance toward a prescriptive exclusivity is evident—​and so too is the sharpened focus on the individual as the interpreter of texts and the maker of his destiny. Written in 1825–1826 as a popular reader in Hindustani, the Taqwiyat is an easy-­to-­read text of 141 pages. Originally penned in Arabic, it was translated by Ismael Shahid himself into Urdu. In sharp contrast to the Sirat, it trims the reformist tradition of its Persianate Sufi eclecticism. It uses the Koran and the Hadith to dismiss local custom and rituals, labeling them as shirk or heresy. Instead, it invites people to believe in one God (tauhid). According to the author, the relationship between the individual and the holy texts is the singular frame to fit all social action. And tauhid was the only solution to end the ignorance of Muslim society in India.8 36

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The book has an introduction that speaks to ordinary people who think that they are not knowledgeable enough to understand the books of God—​t he Koran and the Hadith. Ismael Shahid strived to make the scriptures user friendly as a way of popularizing his interpretation of the Arabic religious canon. He resolved to popularize the scriptures and thus chose to write in the local language of Urdu despite his firm intellectual rooting in Persian and Arabic. He disembodied religious knowledge hitherto locked in esoteric languages: Persian and Arabic. The result was the production of his text the Taqwiyat al-­Iman in the simple, easy-­to-­read vernacular Hindustani—​ or Urdu. In the text he demystifies the canon and reiterates that to know the Koran one does not require any special scholarly skills. Indeed, he uses excerpts from the holy book to project it as a great social leveler. He invokes the relevant Koranic verses to dismiss the popular idea that the holy books are difficult to understand by ordinary people. He cites the Koran again to argue that God had said that it was not difficult to understand the holy book but hard on the conscience to follow it. He quotes the Koranic verse Jamiah, which underlines the fact that the holy book was revealed for ordinary people. He argues that the Prophet had arrived with the Koran to “guide the innocent, to make the ignorant understand, and to impart knowledge to the non-­k nowledgeable.” He concludes that the sacred books are user friendly, as God sent his Prophet with them to “purify the impure, make the ignorant knowledgeable, drive the fools towards sanity and put the derailed back onto the right path of faith.”9 Shahid warns that if despite this Koranic injunction pointing to the socially embedded nature of the holy book people continued to distance themselves from such literature, it would amount to denying God’s words and declining His blessings. Ismael Shahid defines faith (iman) as comprising tauhid and Itbai Sunnat (the belief in Prophet Muhammad). According to Shahid, to include others in the company of God is shirk; to deviate from Sunnat is biddat.10 He states in the introduction that his book is a compilation of verses from the Koran and the Hadith that explain tauhid and Sunnat and elaborate on the ills of shirk and biddat.11 The Taqwiyat is divided into two parts: the first focuses on tauhid and 37

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highlights the consequences of indulging in shirk; the second explains Sunnat and urges people to stay away from biddat. The text offers a compelling critique of rituals and spiritual mentors. It lends agency to the individual as the maker of his destiny. The text is interactive in tone, and the narrative is in the form of a questionnaire. It opens with a section titled “Tauhid Va Shirk Kei Bayan Mein” (Explaining Tauhid and Shirk). Here Shahid lists things that comprise shirk: dependence on pirs (holy men); spurious prophets, imams, and angels; and christening children in ways that socially asso­ ­ciate them with holy men, saints, and prophets. According to Ismael Shahid, naming someone Ali Baksh (disciple of Ali), Pir Baksh (disciple of any holy man), Hussain Baksh (disciple of Hussain), or Ghulam Muhiuddin (slave of Muhiuddin) amounts to shirk.12 He explains that many people who lean on holy men (or maulvis) and referents other than Allah for spiritual succor say that they should not be slotted in the shirk category because they do not equate their mentors with God. Instead they see these holy figures as creatures of God who they merely use to access God. To such arguments Ismael Shahid replies that if people hold onto only the books of Allah and His Prophet they will not need anyone’s mediation in their reach to God.13 In the next two sections, Ismael Shahid lists certain rituals that can be performed only for God. He argues that customs like sijda (prostration), standing with hands folded, spending money on the name of anyone else except Allah, and fasting for anyone else except Allah amounts to shirk, as these are rituals exclusively reserved for Allah. This exclusive package also includes the Islamic pilgrimage—​ haj. This spiritual journey is only to the house of Allah in Mecca—​ the kaaba. The circumambulations (tawwaf) ritual is also done exclusively around the kaaba. Pilgrimages, offerings, and circumambulations around any other house or grave amount to shirk.14 There are sections in the book called “Afsal Shirk Sei Bachnei ka Zikr” (Ways to Protect Oneself from Shirk). Here Shahid elaborated on how one can inadvertently slip into the wrong side—​shirk. According to him, Islam is a way of life and should constitute the daily routine of the individual. The everyday life of Muslims can be easily framed in tauhid and protected from shirk. Tauhid protects 38

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the individual from a range of sins: forgetting the Muslim prayer nama (the fasting regime), not observing Islamic dietary codes, being discourteous to parents, and denying one’s wife and children their due.15 Urdu texts that derived from the Taqwiyat sharpened the spotlight on the individual as the agent of change. The Nasihat-­i-­ Muslimin is an important case in point. It can be called a derivative text that is heavily influenced by the social-­leveling trend as reflected in the vernacular reformist literature of its age. Written in 1825, at about the same time as the Taqwiyat, it too exemplifies the tauhid-­ based social-­leveling process that dented the Persianate social balancing tradition of the Mughal era and inaugurated the Arabicist interlude of the early nineteenth century. Authored by Maulana Khurram Ali, a disciple of the Delhi Naqshbandi Shah Abd-­al Aziz, this is one of the early reformist doctrinaire texts, written in simple, easy-­to-­read Hindustani-­Urdu. Its target audience is society as a whole and not just Muslims. It catered to jahil (ignorant/illiterate) Muslim youth, as well as to idol-­worshipping Hindus. The author urges readers to read the text out loud and to spread the message far and wide to those who cannot read and to those who indulge in ahmaq (insane) activities. Such activities are defined as the customs and rituals of Hindus, belief in esoteric texts and inaccessible fulcrums of power, venerating Sufis saints, regional cultural observances of Muslims, and Persianate eclecticism in general. The Sufi aspect of the Persianate ideological legacy of Shahwaliulla and Shah Abd-­al Aziz is conspicuous by its absence. Instead tauhid—​ belief in only one Allah and turning to him as the sole provider—​is the central pillar of the text. The text quotes select Koranic ayats, or injunctions, to justify its reliance on tauhid. It is a diatribe against all embodiments of sacred knowledge: saints, Sufis, and cult worship. It designates worship of such knowledgeable men as shirk, or anti-­ Islam. Allah is the sole embodiment of all knowledge—​sacred and profane. Thus only He is to be worshipped. Significantly, even the prophets, including the last one, the Prophet, are demystified and humanized, and located firmly below Allah in the hierarchy of power. The reliance on the Koran as the word of Allah is salient in the text. Only select Hadith that are in conformity with the Koran 39

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and Shariat are seen as credible. The text lays out the new Arabicized reformist orientation with its individual-­centric gaze at its best. It divides the world between the insane (ahmaq) and the sane. The former are those who deviate from the path of tauhid. They are to be brought to the right path (sirat-­i-­mustaqim). Predictably, the ahmaq population is largely concentrated in the subcontinent, where they are said to have gone astray due to the Hindu cultural influence. Not surprisingly, the text focuses on this geographical space as the hub of reformist activity. The sixty-­nine-­page printed text is divided into five sections. The first section, provocatively titled “Shirk Kis Ko Kehtei Hain” (What Is Called Shirk), explains the concept of shirk to mean the worship of and dependence on many referents of authority. Ali defines it against tauhid—​belief in one God. He elaborates on its meaning by quoting instances of the adulation of pirs and prophets. Also defined as shirk are individuals’ claims to creation and sharing with Allah what are His exclusive roles: procreator, producer of food and rain, and protector.16 Ali argues that that Koran was revealed to counter shirk and that the prophets of God fought battles with the infidel to wipe out this menace.17 He quotes the Koran to show that Allah created all, and even angels and prophets can never speak or know more than He. Thus the position of Allah is all powerful and supreme, and mortals in seeking help for their problems should approach no one else except Him.18 The second section, written in an interactive question-­and-­answer format, ridicules those who commit shirk. Titled “Shirk Karnei Walon kee Himaqat ka Bayan” (Description of the Foolishness of Those Who Do Shirk), it calls Muslims who turn to dead saints for help jahil (ignorant/illiterate), and it uses common logic to ridicule their acts by pointing out that those they venerate were themselves dependent for their existence on Allah. Ali wonders how such people could determine life-­and-­death issues of others if they were themselves not in control of their own lives.19 Ali asks: Who in fact are the jahils, or the ignorant? And why does the Koran prohibit seeking help from idols but not from auliyas (holy people) and pirs (Sufi masters)? To this self-­posed question Ali replies that the Arabic word for Koran is Min-­dun-­i-­allah—​t hat is, don’t ask for help from anyone 40

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except Allah. And this injunction extends to all helpers: idols, proph­ ­ets, and auliyas. He further clarifies that God himself said that even the Prophet had no power over his own life.20 Ali challenges the spiritual mentors of jahils to cite a single creation of their own as compared to the entirety created by Allah. Deviants (that is, those who have strayed from the Koran in belief in one Allah) are seen as bereft of intelligence, and their actions are derogatorily called fool­ ­ish. The text advocates a social regime centered on Allah to bring society to the “proper” path. This is laid out in the form of prescriptive norms that are to be observed exclusively for Allah: sijdah (prostration), rozah (fasting), zabah (the slaughter of animals), and mannat (the promising of specific certitudes so that one’s prayer will be granted). The third section compares God’s exceptional status as the sole referent of Muslim rituals to the exclusive privileges that kings held in medieval times. Ali draws on this regal allegory to argue that just as a king alone can sit on the throne, Allah too is unique in His exclusivity. And just as a king will lay out a prescriptive regime, Allah has advocated a cultural regime that underlines His position as the highest reference point of legitimacy for Muslims. Thus the act of prostration can be observed only in reference to Him. Ali cites the Koran to say that such an act of reverence could not be observed in reference to the sun, moon, or to anyone who did not have the power of creation. Keeping in view the Hindu influence on Indian society, he forbids prostration at graves and bowing to Muharram taziyas (replicas of tombs of Shia imams). Ali also reprimands those Muslims who, influenced by Hindu rituals, observe the fasting regime not just in observation of Allah’s wish but in order to reach out to the prophets and saints. According to him, fasting in the name of people other than Allah or for certain hours in the day is a Hindu custom and thus heresy or shirk.21 Again, replying to a popular query of “misguided” people who ask why they should be prohibited from the ritual of sijda (prostration) when the angels had bowed to Adam, he draws on Islamic history. He argues that earlier sijda was a valid ritual to be observed freely, but that later, in the days of the Prophet, it was banned and reserved only for Allah.22 41

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The text devotes an entire section to Hindu-­inspired customs that are listed as shirk and need to be avoided. This section, called “Rusumat-­i-­Shirk ka Zikr” (Discussion of Customs That Can Be Described as Shirk), once again spell out Koranic injunctions in relation to Indian society. It lists some of the common customs observed in Hindustan that amount to shirk, for example, finding auspicious dates for marriages from Brahmins or ideal dates for travel. Also forbidden are names that announce a person to be the murid (follower of a prophet or saint). Such discipleship as indicated in names makes a person defy the Koran. And for such a person there is only hell after his death.23 Ali hits out hard at the Hindu influences that he feels have increased instances of shirk in Muslim society. He targets the Brahmins for having led Muslims astray. He argues that the innocent get carried away by the predictions of Brahmins. Referring to Brahmins in a disparaging way, he notes that they forget that if they were really all that knowledgeable about the future then they would have first taken care of their own welfare and not be seen in tattered clothes going door to door for alms and help. He also cautions people against reciting mantras from the Hindu tradition like the Hanuman Chalisa and Loha Chamar ­eulogies.24 The final section lists the punishments given to people who commit shirk. According to Ali, the future of such people is only in hell.25 Titled “Shirk ki Buraai aur Shirk Karnei kee Saza ka Bayan” (The Ills of Shirk and Punishment for It), this section lists shirk as one of those sins that Allah rarely forgives. It calls it an evil and argues that its harmful effects are listed in the Koran and Hadith. He concludes that he is pained to see people in Hindustan wallowing in un-­Islamic customs. It is for their moral reform that he made up his mind to write this book in an easy-­to-­read Hindustani script. He has even translated the relevant Koranic and Hadith verses in Hindustani so that the “ignorant could benefit.”26 In order to make the text easy to understand and popular he has appended to it a few verses in praise of the Prophet, as he feels that those will enhance its appeal. The Hindustani elites’ interpretation of Arab Islamic tradition narrowed and trimmed Arabic tradition to tightly fit the Koran and 42

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certain Hadiths. Through the use of the vernacular Urdu and an interactive, question-­and-­answer approach focusing on Indic rituals and customs, Ali’s text incorporated the South Asian version of Arab tradition into Indian society. This literary style ensured that the text was not confined to elite scholars. In his conclusion, Ali appeals to all Muslims to read the Nasihat-­i-­Muslimin and spread its message to those who are illiterate. He also lays out the etiquette to be observed by readers for dissemination of the text far and wide. He wants them to read it with polite decorum and affection and to explain it “gently, slowly and patiently” to the audience. He was convinced that if they observed this style it would have an impact on society. People would understand tauhid and stay away from shirk.27 He exhorts instructors to carry on their mission with dedication, as doing so would earn them more dividends in the house of God than even their namaz and rozah. He concludes his book by emphatically reiterating that the literate and the scholarly (alim and fazil) had the responsibility to carry the message of tauhid to society. If they failed, the jahil would take over and destroy religion.28

The Reformist Ecumene and Political Entrepreneurship The salience of the individual in the reformist literature lent a newfound agency to ordinary people who interpreted the Arabic canonical texts, the Koran and Hadith, to suit their local interests and aspirations. Indeed, the reformist literature freed people from the shackles of ritual and figures of religious authority. It empowered them with interpretative powers that enabled Muslim networks to spread across the Indian subcontinent and beyond. The reformist ideal of tauhid retained its centrality in these networks. But even as this ideal energized individuals to connect to Muslims globally, other forces—​private trade interests, political brokerage, and career concerns—​pushed Muslim reformists to spread their networks across South and Central Asia and the Arab provinces of the Ottoman Empire. Muslim networks upheld the Arabicist-­reformist Islam. But the reformists were not only in the business of upholding or indeed 43

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propagating tauhid. They performed multiple roles: they could preach to earn a living. At the same time, they were not entirely bereft of political ambitions and interpreted the Arabicist tradition to further their own temporal ambitions. They acted as power brokers ready to assist their political patrons, and they provided a handy pool of military labor for state-­building. Within India, the Tonk state relied on their services completely. And on the northwest frontier they played no small role in the imperial rivalries between Russia, Persia, and Afghanistan, on the one hand, and the British Empire on the other. Indeed, reformists constituted the crucial link that connected the politics of the Central Asian region to that of the subcontinent and, moreover, that defined British relations with the Sikhs and with Afghan rulers. No doubt the reformists were energized to engage in political activism by the Arabicist endeavor to create a universal umma united by tauhid. This in turn energized their followers to engage in political activism. New reformist knowledge that gave agency to the individual and that fired his imaginary to forge a global Muslim community—​umma—​had been streaming into India from the Arab lands since the late eighteenth century. The Naqshbandi Delhi Sufi Shahwaliulla opened doors both to such ideas and to men from the Arab lands. By the early nineteenth century, learned Arab men had set up learning centers as far south as Mysore and Bangalore. They established an intellectual connect between India and the Arab lands, which contributed to the making of the Arabicist worldview in India. Thus, for instance, in 1839 Subedar Muhiuddin, a soldier who was examined because he had converted to the monist fold, revealed that he had enjoyed the company of many learned men of Islam, including one in Bangalore named Sibhukutullah Shah, who had come from Arabia and had settled first in Mysore and then moved to Bangalore. Shah clarified that this Arab was not a trader but a hafiz (one knowledgeable in Koran, which he could recite from memory) who traveled around reading the Koran for God. He was respected for being a hafiz and accepted whatever money people passed on to him. Subedar Muhiuddin had been indoctrinated into the Sunnat jamat (those who accept only the sayings of the Prophet) by the likes of the Arab visitor. 44

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Evidence of knowledge of the Arab world that streamed into India from the late eighteenth century via migrations of Arab learned men was most apparent when Muhiuddin claimed that he was aware of the Arab reformer Ab-­dal Wahab, from whose name the word “Wahabi” was derived. Muhiuddin stated that he had no knowledge of all of his reforms, but he did approve of the ones where Abd-al Wahab ordered all houses and tombs at Mecca to be built lower than that of the Kaaba and the Prophet’s tomb. In all probability, Muhiuddin’s close association with the Arab learned man Sibhukutullah Shah had made him aware of Abd-al Wahab and his reforms. Interestingly, Muhiuddin was happy to be called “Wahabi” because it was an Arabic word and according to him an epithet of God. He was aware too that it was used reproachfully in regard to his people, but he did not mind since it was the name of God and he was proud of it.29 The idea of contributing to the making of a united umma fired the imaginations of many Muslims. The early nineteenth-­century reformists led by Sayyid Ahmad Shahid of Rae Bareilly were charged with this fervor as well. Even those among their ranks who did not agree with the antiritual agenda of the reformists, like Shah Muhammad Ishaq Dehlavi, were keen to participate in the political battle for the creation of the umma. Dehlavi participated in the jihad of Shah Ismael and Sayyid Ahmad against the Sikhs even though he disagreed with aspects of their rigid monist ideology.30 Since the reformists aimed to create a united umma that was welded together by tauhid, the new political culture they espoused was both global and Arabicist in its orientation. However, the drive toward this alternate culture also opened up spaces for personal advancement, profits from trade and diplomacy, and the fulfillment of temporal ambitions. These private interests lent reformist activity a special momentum and trans-­Asian appeal.31 After the assassination of Sayyid Ahmad at the hands of the Sikhs, the larger goal of establishing a universal umma may have temporarily receded. But the Arabicist orientation and the material dividends that it offered continued to be attractive. This ensured that the Arabic canonical literature—​t he Koran and the Hadith—​ remained the highest reference point of authority, knowledge of Arabic language and literature became desirable for a gentleman, 45

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and the Prophet along with his twin cities of Mecca and Medina retained their exceptional status. During the 1830s, these reference points were harnessed to market-­driven ideas of profit making and earning dividends, ideas that energized reformers. Indeed, to participate in the market of trans-­Asian diplomacy and to trade knowledge of the Arabicist religious tradition and that of the Arab lands became an asset. It offered instant connectivity to the world outside and was used by reformist entrepreneurs to fire imaginations and recruit clientele to further their temporal ambitions. More than ever before the Arabicist tradition attracted popular attention. In the early nineteenth century, reformists cashed in on this Arabicist worldview. Religion for them was not so much doctrinaire preaching and proselytizing but the upholding of an Arabicist tradition with its alternate notion of an ideal society. By the 1830s, they had become one more active contestant in ongoing contestations over multiple notions of politics and society that engaged Persian­ ­ate, Arabicist, and European players. Their participation energized the subcontinental market, already riveted with older notions of Persianate politics and state-­building and newer European ideas of social and political sustenance. The reformists emerged as a critical trans-­Asian military labor force whose movement and career choices expanded the space the Arabicist tradition had come to occupy in the region. This wider framing of the religious reformers in early nineteenth­century geopolitics demystifies them and makes them ordinary human beings with career and profit concerns that marked the market-­driven politics of the time. It puts into context the poaching of sepoys of the Madras army by “Wahabi” reformist preachers in 1839. These preachers wooed sepoys as they too needed professional armed soldiers to enhance their clout in the military labor market.32 In the same year, the magistrate of Nellore reported that parties of reformist Muslims from his area, led by ex-­servicemen of the administration, left for Sindh to fight for the amirs after hearing sermons at the local mosque that instigated them to fight the infidels.33 He also intercepted many Persian letters sent to people in his district by their reformist friends and relatives urging them to quit their present masters and join other regional armies to fight the infidels. 46

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The fact that temporal ambitions and benefits rather than merely religion determined reformist choices was most evident when recruits had no qualms in joining the Company army as sepoys if it suited them. Thus the followers of Nasiruddin, an important reformist leader, joined the Bengal army when they were left in Shikarpur while their master marched with his contingent to Kabul. The English Company regiment was in the area to fight and defeat them. But they joined its ranks because “all of them at that time were in need of food and employment.”34 In this labor market, there were also cases of white military officers who switched sides and joined the reformist contingents. Thus one white military officer convert rechristened Muhammed Sadauk became a Muslim at Haiderabad and joined the reformist contingent as it marched to Sindh on the frontier. He later became a gunner in Shuja-­ul Mulk’s army.35 The reformist movement in the early nineteenth century was like a moving labor camp that disseminated an Arabicist worldview as it straddled across and then expanded beyond the subcontinent.36 T. E. Ravenshaw, in a memorandum on the reformists, whom he called “Wahabis,” insisted on seeing them as religious bigots who took their name and inspiration from Abd-­al Wahab of Nejd in Arabia.37 But their activities as significant contestants in the fluid political culture of the period reveal that they were certainly a more complex phenomenon. They reinvented the Arabicist tradition with a range of motivations, and challenged the older Persianate encasements of knowledge and power. They not only threatened Company power, but opened new possibilities for regional satraps both within and outside Hindustan to consolidate power using the military and ideological arsenal they offered.38 The regional polities of Haiderabad, Arcot, and Mysore in the south and Tonk in central India emerged as their main patrons. Outside India, Afghanistan, Persia, and Russia patronized them. This nonreligious impetus, which was mutually beneficial to both the reformists and regional satraps, laid out the Arabicist network far and wide. The state of Haiderabad is one such case in point. In Haiderabad, the nizam’s brother Mubarazdaula emerged as the patron and financier of reformist migrants. It was a well-­k nown fact that his interest stemmed purely from temporal ambitions, and he 47

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patronized their Arabicist worldview in exchange for their support of his political ambitions. He needed their assistance in his maneuverings to take over the reins of the state. Haji Ismael, one of the reformist loyalists referred to in the records as “Wahabi,” made Mubarazdaula’s intentions very clear: MoobarizooDaulah ordered Mahomed Abbas [the nephew of Maulvi Salim who had converted him to Wahabism] to go and reside in Secundrabad . . . ​He also ordered Mahomed Abbas to excite and entice the men belonging to the regiments and others into joining this sect. The object of this was that whenever MoobarizooDaulah rebelled and sallied forth, all these people might be called together and at his command be prepared for this holy war and assist him in seizing on the Assuphea state. And whatever time he might wish to set forth from his house, the whole of these persons might be with him.39 Mubarazdaula had been converted to the reformist doctrine in the 1830s by one Maulvi Salim, who visited him from Hindustan. His quick and easy entry into the reformist fold revealed that he understood the political advantage of extending patronage to this vast labor resource. Indeed, from his palace in Haiderabad he ran a virtual subpolitical culture dependent solely on his reformist followers. He had recruits like Haji Ismael employed at a salary of twenty rupees per month. Maulvi Salim, who had introduced him to the spiritual and temporal wonders of the doctrine, received a salary of one hundred rupees per month. An additional fifty rupees per month was given to him to run his madrasa. Others, like Sayyid Abbas, received thirty rupees per month. Large gatherings of reformists were often invited for banquets hosted by Mubarazdaula. Their support boosted his strength and political confidence. Indeed, his patronage to them was part of his larger political plan to seize the nizamat for himself and declare war against the nizam. Thus Haji Salim, one of his loyal supporters, notes that in addition to collecting the reformist émigrés as his private militia, he arranged to assist them in the event of a war: he “procured 18 horses and had them trained in order that when he mounted they might be able to 48

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go 30–40 cose.” Ismael reports that Mubarazdaula had also bought two male and female camels with the same objective, and trained these animals personally.40 He was also in the business of poaching soldiers, infiltrating the sepoy regiments located at Secundrabad and Nagpur so as to get professionally trained sepoys to defect to his army. He used the reformist doctrine to bond with them.41 His obsession with political power was most evident when he obtained a silver seal and had it engraved, announcing his title as the Raeesul Musalman—​t hat is, the head or protector of the Muslims.42 It was more than evident that his patronage of reformists was part of a larger game to fulfill his temporal ambitions. He was confident of the support of the nawabs of Kurnool and those of Tonk. He said that they were his allies and that they had pledged their support to him both in his local battles regarding the Haiderabad state and in his larger ambition of becoming the king of Hindustan by defeat­ ­ing the English Company. When asked about what he would do with the nizam when he became king, he replied, “I will kill him or confine him and allow him something for his subsistence.”43 Despite all the rhetoric of unity of the umma and the social uniformity of the tauhid doctrine, the power equation between the patron Mubarazdaula and the reformist recruits was hardly that of equals. The disconnect between Mubarazdaula—​f ueled by his uncontrollable political ambition—​and his recruits was evident when his supporter Haji Ismael reacted to Mubarazdaula’s political desire to “slaughter the English . . . ​and establish the true faith and become King” by explaining, “I am a poor man and . . . ​I could say nothing to this plan.”44 The British resident in Haiderabad, I. S. Fraser, saw Mubarazdaula’s actions in purely political terms. He saw him as a political threat to both the nizam and the English Company. This had been the general view of his predecessors as well. However, they had seen his activities as harmless in the immediate term because he was focused more on religious reform and missionary activity than on politics. Thus despite the nizam bringing it to their notice, they had chosen not to interfere. But in 1834 Fraser was forced to take serious notice of Mubarazdaula because of the intensity and scale of his reformist recruitment and political mobilization. Fraser was also particularly 49

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concerned because Mubarazdaula’s actions had a close similarity and chronological proximity to the recent incident at Balakot in which Sayyid Ahmad Shahid had lost his life—​but only after he had whipped up substantial anti-­British hysteria in Hindustan.45 Fraser played down British hysteria over the religious indoctrination and proselytizing activities of the reformists. His main concern was the immense political value and resource base such reformists provided for the political ambitions of regional satraps, many of whom, like Mubarazdaula, were attempting to fill the vacuum created by the cracks in the Indo-­Persianate tradition.46 Fraser was aware that both within India and outside it there were many contenders for the resources the reformists offered. He thus saw them as a political force creating “sedition” and disturbing “public order.” He observed: “I make a distinction between the religious and political parts of this question, and desire it to be generally known that my disapproval is directed not to the conversion of men from other modes of faith to that of the sect of wahabees, but to the political intrigues and designs under whatever cloak they may be carried on to disturb the peace and tranquility of the country.”47 He ordered the removal from all cantonments in his jurisdiction “the faqueers, moulvees, and others who have introduced themselves there in considerable numbers, and have been endeavoring to seduce the Sepoys to wahabeeism and conjointly with it in all probability to sedition.”48 Fraser impressed upon the nizam that his brother Mubarazdaula was not at fault due to his religious orientation. But he had to pay a price for his political ambitions and the threat to Company power and “public peace” that these ambitions posed. Fraser was alarmed at the energy reformist recruits added to the vibrant labor market that was tapped for state-­building by all regional satraps. He knew that in the course of serving their many employers they had laid out a cultural network that was Arabicist in its orientation. This cultural grid was ever expanding and corresponded to the temporal map of their physical movement within and outside Hindustan. He thus invested time, money, and energy to investigate fully the activities of what he called the “wahabi confederacy.” The confederacy was dangerous not because it was simply anti-­British. Rather, its more far-­reaching implications scared 50

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Fraser. He saw it as laying the foundation of a new cultural grid—​an Arabicist imperium—​to counter the English imperial frame. In the nizam he found a supportive ally. But he also deputed his assistant, Mr. Malcolm, as special investigator. Significantly, Malcolm was assisted by his “trustworthy” confidant—​a Persian who was a resident agent at Haiderabad for a Bombay merchant. This was no casual choice. Fraser seems to have understood the Arabicist underpinnings of the “Wahabi menace.” Their networks could be best spied upon and dented by someone from the rival and competing Persianate imperium. Fraser never failed to remind his bosses that his choice had paid off, as the Persian agent had managed to get information of the “Wahabis” that “no other native of Haiderabad could have equaled.”49 Fraser always kept the Persian happy, awarding him with Rs. 2,000 for his findings and paying another Rs. 1,000 to his subordinate. The nizam played a delicate balancing role as he came under pressure from Company officials to clamp down on Mubarazdaula and lock him up as a state prisoner in the Golconda fort. He issued orders for his removal to the fort. But Mubarazdaula refused, as the “air of the fort did not agree with him.” He was willing to be under arrest at any other place. Significantly, he denied all allegations, and in the true mold of a jobber entrepreneur showed no concern about how his arrested fellow reformists (maulvis) were to be treated. He said he had no connection with them and thus he was not concerned.50 He continuously urged the nizam to prove the charges and promised to walk to the Golconda fort himself once the charges were proven.51 The nizam was furious and ordered that Mubarazdaula’s supply of food and water be stopped. He also had many of the maulvis associated with Mubarazdaula arrested and the seal engraver seized. A massive hunt was also launched for all the correspondence that passed through this reformist network.52 However, the nizam had taken on a difficult task. Things were tough for him not only because Mubarazdaula was his brother and he was concerned about his health and comfort. The nizam also realized that Mubarazdaula was an important link in the network of regional satraps who were knitted together by the Arabicist cultural grid laid out by warrior reformists who doubled as traders and 51

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­ ilitary labor. These included the nawabs of Kurnool in the Tamil m territory, of Arcot in the Karnatak region, and of Tonk in Rajputana area.53 The issue was not just about one man but about the Arabicist tradition and the fast-­expanding networks that this man epitomized. Fraser understood this more than anyone. The “Wahabi sedition” was not just about taming a bunch of religious bigots and containing the anti-­British hysteria. It was a far more colossal task of confronting an alternate imperium that challenged the Western imperial frame with its call for the global unity of Muslims. In the process of serving the temporal ambitions of regional satraps, the reformists had disseminated an Arabicist worldview that called for a united umma and that laid out a cultural grid that offered an alternative third front in the face of the declining Persianate and rising European imperia. Reformists were not just power brokers and commanders. They doubled as traders and merchants as well. Indeed, it is no coincidence that their traveling routes from northern, eastern, and southern India to the northwest frontier corresponded with important trad­ ­ing routes that linked Central Asia to India. Indian reformists connected Calcutta, Patna, Delhi, and Tonk in the northern belt, and Haiderabad, Vellore, and Mysore in the south to Central Asia via their hubs in the northwest frontier. On these routes they identified themselves more as traders and military labor than as ghazi (religious warriors). The ghazi was primarily an identity imputed to them by the British records, as indeed was the label “Wahabi.” And no matter how much the British records reiterate the “Wahabi” desire to have “ghaza preached and the Muhammedan sway re-­established in India,” their agendas were not so noble, selfless, or simplistic.54 In a letter addressed to an important reformist leader, Hussein Ali Khan of Azimabad (Patna), the writer identified as Ikramullah, located in Sittana on the northwest frontier, refers to his party of warriors as the kafileh (trade caravans) and the Hindustani reformists from Azimabad as the Toojar Mushruk (or tajir mashriq, merchants from the east). He directs them to come with their muiouzar (implements). Significantly, the journey to the northwest frontier region of Swat where the supposed fight for the rule of Islam was to reach its culmination is referred as toojaruth or tijarath (trading).55 In 1852, P. Melvill, secretary to the Board of Administration, referred to them as 52

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“traders,” and hastened to clarify that “for such they call themselves.”56 This is not to argue that in the early nineteenth century the mobilization for a “holy” war on the frontier was absent. But there were other interests and contacts of a commercial nature that were also being welded that sustained the interest in the “holy” war. These economic ties across Hindustan, the frontier, and beyond increased the bargaining power of the reformists, provided an economic base to their Arabicist orientation, and energized their military prowess in the region. In the words of the actors themselves, the routes they moved on from east to west were easy to access because of the support and sustenance they received from weavers, traders, rich merchants, and the trading agents of their political patrons: nawabs of Tonk and Arcot and the nizam of Haiderabad’s brother, Mubarazdaula. These financiers, their commercial networks, and hundi agents (dealers in mercantile notes of credit) provided the economic underpinning to reformist networks. Their political mentors also sent donations to the Sittana region on the pretext of maintaining the tomb of Sayyid Ahmad.57 Abdul Karim, a discharged sepoy in the Haiderabad region who had become a reformist convert, described the financial support he received as he traveled from Haiderabad to the frontier region, Sindh, and back. Most of the help came from his trade contacts: Abdul Hadee [his companion] received a hundi on Bombay for Rs. 1000—​f rom Mubarazdaula . . . ​After a few days we reached Poonah, and halted for five days at a makan [house] . . . ​and dined with Sayyid Aslam—​a carpet maker, a friend of Abdul Hadee . . . ​His chief friends in Bombay were Muhammad Saleh, a Bora, now in the city, a hakim named Mahomed Cassim . . . ​ Few hundred yards distant from Sholapur we [were told] that Saib [English] would seize Hadee . . . ​Abdul Hadee went by a round about road to the house of a weaver [ julya] a Musalman whose name I do not know.58 He concludes that it was finally with the help of the weaver and his servants that his party could clandestinely get back to Golconda. 53

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Reformists, doubling as merchants, traveled the trade route with arms, food, and women from Patna (Azimabad). They moved via Delhi, Meerut, Tonk, Bombay, Pune, and Karachi to Rawalpindi, Sittana, and the Swat region on the northwest frontier. From the northwest frontier they traded with Central Asia and liaised with Afghan and Persian colleagues. In separate studies, Stephen Dale, Muzaffar Alam, and Claude Markovits have shown the existence of a vibrant trade network between Central Asia and India in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. The presence of Hindu and Muslim Multani merchants, Khatri traders, and Afghan Lohani trading communities knitted the Central Asian khanates of Samarqand and Bukhara to Hindustan in the early modern period.59 Arup Banerji has demonstrated that Indian merchants were present in the Russian trade towns of Astrakhan and Moscow. These resident communities of merchants had moved to Russia via Iran in the early modern period.60 They traded in Russian leather and fur with Persian carpets and fruits. Slaves, calico, and indigo from India were traded for Central Asian fruits and horses. The activities of these trading communities were facilitated by sophisticated banking networks that relied on hundis, or mercantile notes of credit, as the mode of transaction. Benjamin Hopkins has shown evidence of the continuation of a vibrant slave trade during the nineteenth century between the Punjab, Central Asia, and Company territories.61 In the nineteenth century, reformists tapped into these established commercial networks and emerged as important players in the ongoing trade. Trade in military implements, food items, and slave women kept their religious networks bustling with activity. This is understandable in view of the support the reformists were bound to receive from the Indian Muslim mercantile diaspora that was already in residence in the Central Asian khanates and Russia—​and indeed, that had been there since the sixteenth century. The earliest available accounts of Multanis in Central Asia recount two Muslim men of religion: Maulana Omar Multani ibn maulana Abd-­al Wahab Multani and Baba Multan ibn Ali. Both held immovable property in Bukhara. The financing of textile production in the Samarqand area was also in the hands of Muslim traders of similar background. Janab Sheikh Saadi Multani was one such case in point.62 54

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By the mid-­nineteenth century, many of the important merchants on this route were maulvis converted to the reformist fold. In 1852, two “head merchants,” Maulvi Rabi Abdulla and Maulvi Rubboo Abdul Majeed, created a stir in their circle when they went missing en route to Rawalpindi from Ludhiana. They were carrying a cargo of “implements of all sorts . . . ​and a cart full of women.” They were supposed to return after selling the cart and the bullocks along with their cargo at Rawalpindi.63 The same year, Maulvi Mian Ali and Maqsud Ali of Patna set off from the city with merchandise toward Ludhiana en route to the northwest frontier. Their contingent included Maulvis Diyanutullah, Abdul Ghumeree, Muhammad Nazir, and Abdul Karim. They all carried a large quantity of arms and gold mohurs.64 The merchant reformists also carried handwritten letters, which were of paramount importance. These vital documents contained information about family members, espionage reports, and confidential news from reformist networks that linked Indian polities to the world outside. The reformist and commercial networks were so entangled that these personal letters were delivered at designated trade depots or commercial spots and shops. Thus, for instance, Khurram Ali, a trading agent at Rawalpindi, instructed his contact in Ludhiana to address his next letter to the following address: “In the town of Rawalpindee; the mundee bazaar, near the shops of the cloth merchants; at a tailors shop.” He advised his contact that the envelope addressed in this way might be delivered to Munshi Bukshullah, and that only if he received a positive response from him should he then venture to send letters to the merchants at this address.65 Rawalpindi was the nodal point for dak (post or mail) from Hindustan. Here one Maulvi Khoom Ali, a native of Azimabad who was a tailor and had taken to trade in perfume along with working at his tailor’s shop in Rawalpindi, acted as the main collecting point. He handled the correspondence between Patna and Sittana along with his tailoring and perfumery business. According to him, Maulvis Fayaz Ali and Kurur Ali at Sittana corresponded with Maulvi Ilahi Baksh, father-­in-­law of Maulvi Vilayat Ali of Patna, and with many others in the city. Khoom Ali had a well-­organized 55

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system by which letters came to him by dak. The maulvis would deposit three to four rupees with him to handle their dak. He had employed one Karimuddin, who carried the dak from Rawalpindi to Sittana. Indeed, there was a well-­laid-­out network of correspondents along the trade route from Patna to Sittana in the Swat region. Most correspondents were traders as well, and came from locations throughout the region:66 Allahabad Maulvi Abdulla Ambala Maulvi Mugheesuddin, who taught at a madrasa Amritsar Syed Akbar Shah, who lived in Sundhoo musjid Bara Tabureed Khan Benares A tailor who had a shop near the Burmah Bridge Delhi Mirza Amir Beg, who operated from near the Akbarabad mosque Dewal Hakim Magheesooddeen Farukhabad Maulvi Khuda Baksh, near Cantonment Bazaar Jullundar Golshera Khan Kapurthala Kah Khan, a sepoy in the Raja’s service Karnal Hafiz Qutubuddin Ludhiana Maulvi Abbas Ali of Dacca Merut Mundar Baksh Khoom Ali also maintained that arms such as swords, a few matchlocks, and pistols, all concealed in bales of goods (khoorjee), passed through this trade route.67 The 1864–1865 trial in Patna of one of the “Wahabi” reformists, Maulvi Ahmadullah of Sadiqpur, and its review by the High Court in Calcutta confirmed the fact that a vibrant political economy sustained the Arabicist worldview of the reformists. Maulvi Ahmadullah was sentenced to transportation for life by the High Court on grounds of abetting a religious conspiracy to wage war against the queen. The conspiracy was allegedly hatched in Sadiqpur in the Patna region by a bunch of maulvis. They had conspired to supply money and arms to the followers of Sayyid Ahmad Shahid, who after their leader’s assassination had formed a colony outside British India in the Sittana area of the Mahabun Hills on the northwest frontier. The case was a perfect example of a reformist using British 56

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banking, print, postal, and transportation networks to establish his trans-­Asiatic links and to mastermind a political economy that furthered his Arabicist worldview.

The Political Economy of the Reformist Networks The trial of Maulvi Ahmadullah, a lower-­level functionary in the British administration, revealed the intersection of the Islamicate and imperial networks that fueled the political economy of the reformists. Ahmadullah was tried first in the lower court at Patna and later at the Calcutta High Court for his role in collecting money and men from Hindustan and inciting a jihad against the British government on the frontier with Afghanistan. He was convicted and sentenced to life imprisonment. The model trial of Ahmadullah confirmed the worst fears of the British officials about the nexus of trade, information, politics, and religion. Recruits, money, letters, and books moved across Hindustan into the northwest frontier using both the older financing systems, based on networks of family, servants, and kinship, as well as the new postal, banking, and print networks introduced by the British administration. Many even exploited the privileges of rank held in the government to energize these networks. In 1853, Ahmadullah had been appointed a member of the Patna Committee of Public Instruction. He continued to be a member of various government committees until 1860 when he was appointed deputy collector and income tax assessor at a salary of Rs. 250 per month. In the words of T. E. Ravenshaw, magistrate of Patna, Ahmadullah “was in office during the greater part of the time this treason was being carried on.” Ravenshaw was horrified that the “business of the committee of treason at Sadikpore was carried on simultaneously with his employment as Deputy Collector.”68 During the Ambala trials, which took place in 1864, Ravenshaw became suspicious of Ahmadullah’s role in sustaining a political economy that itself sustained reformists in Sittana. At the trial, several of his relatives and close associates were clearly implicated in supporting the network of men, money, and books that linked the core of British 57

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rule in Bengal to its outer peripheries in Sittana in the northwest frontier. These included his brother Yahiya Ali; his nephew Abdul Rahim; his banker, Elahi Baksh; and Abdul Ghafur, his confidential servant and treasurer.69 The handwriting in many of the letters compared with that of Ahmadullah. This correspondence indicated his role in transactions between Hindustan and the frontier involving both money and recruitment. It also indicated the working of networks that offered possibilities to make money and earn profits even as preparations went on for the “holy war.” Thus a letter addressed to Ahmadullah from an opium gumashta (commercial agent), Yusuf Hussain, refers to him as the custodian of a Zakat Fund and urges him to make a donation from it to a third party on the frontier. Another letter, found at the house of Jafer Thanesri, clearly mentions a dishonored draft of Rs. 500, which was money collected by him in Patna for remittance to Sittana.70 The links of Ahmadullah to the Ambala convicts became clear when a search of his house revealed the entire proceedings of the trial, along with forms for providing counsel and the preparation of defense for his colleagues. The discovery of all the relevant government papers on the trial, which he had obtained from Patna officers by using his official position, revealed how dependent such networks were on the colonial infrastructure. Subsequently, Ravenshaw had Elahi Baksh, the banker and main agent of the reformists implicated in the Ambala trials, transferred from the Ambala jail to Patna, as his name appeared in almost every letter. He became the chief witness on whose evidence Ahmadullah’s complicity in the conspiracy was proven and punishment accorded.71 The trial of Ahmadullah became famous for the detailed evidence upon which it was based. This included proof about collection of money, religious sermons, letters written and destroyed, and handwriting samples of the Sadiqpur maulvis in Patna. Substantial evidence existed that linked activities on all these fronts to the war on the frontier. Evidence also suggested that the people involved in this political economy were not just full-­t ime maulvis. Rather, it included those who combined their religious fervor with their other roles as merchants, bankers, middlemen, brokers, and traders. The trial became a precedent or model to be followed in all future ­convictions 58

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of maulvis from Bengal and other regions. The British viceroy to India, Lord Mayo, who was determined to put down the “Wahabi” menace, believed that by the sheer transparency and weight of evidence that underpinned it, “the Mahomedan community approve[d] of the action of Government.”72 He regretted the delay in bringing other such men to trial for want of sufficient evidence of the Patna kind.73 In 1868, R. Thompson, officiating secretary and the official in charge of legal affairs, feared that in the case of the Malda and Rajmahal reformists, or “Wahabis,” even though the government had evidence of money collection in Bengal, it did not have evidence to prove its transmission to the frontier. Thus it was difficult to conduct the trial of the maulvis after the pattern of the Ahmadullah trial.74 Despite the evidence of sophisticated banking, commercial, postal, and print networks that constituted the reformists’ political economy, British officials like T. E. Ravenshaw, the Patna commissioner, believed that in the final analysis the movement was driven by the Koranic injunction that “he who believes and leaves his village to fight for God will be respected.” Ravenshaw believed that the reformists, whom he called “Wahabis,” interpreted this to mean that they were bound to go to the frontier to wage jihad, and thus they combined this sacred injunction with the information-­gathering strategies of “modern” empires to expand their networks. An exasperated Ravenshaw wrote in his memorandum that the problem of the frontier “had its roots in Patna whence these frontier disturbances ha[d] been fomented and supplies of men and money regularly transmitted to the Hills by the family of maulvis residing in Sadikpore whose influence and agencies have extended over the greater part of the Lower Bengal, Behar, the North West Provinces and the Punjab.”75 The reality of the reformist web, and the mobility of the reformists, as we saw earlier, was far from the simplistic assumptions of Ravenshaw. The reformists’ networks thrived because of varied incentives. The religious and material interests of people were not necessarily separate. People used their businesses, rank, and professional status in the colonial bureaucracy to engage in what was seen as “religious work” if it suited them. Indeed, imperial networks 59

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enabled them to dig their heels deeper into new terrains within and outside India. It was the combination of the imperial and the Islamicate niches and openings that shaped their success in both the material as well as the religious spheres. For instance, all the letters from Bengal used the British postal service but were not addressed to or received directly by the person concerned. Instead, they were received through the shop of one Sheikh Aman or Amanee, a bookseller of Patna. They were addressed to him under feigned names. For instance, letters for Ahmadullah used the aliases Ahmad Ali or Muhiuddin. Likewise, letters from up-­country or friends on the fron­ t­ ier were received through the shop of Elahi Baksh.76 Ahmadullah’s cook, Hussain Ali Khan, was a key person to whom many letters were covertly addressed.77 Maulvi Jafer Thanesri, a petition writer for the lower courts in the Punjab, and Mahomed Shuffee, meat contractor to the British regiments, were the chief agents who coordinated correspondence to and from the frontier.78 Reformists were quick to tap the mercantile and banking networks—​connections forged during the sixteenth to eighteenth centuries that continued to sustain the commercial links between India and Central Asia—​to their advantage. Merchants, bankers, and moneylenders already involved in the commercial ecumene provided the readymade ground needed by the multitasker reformists. Elahi Baksh, the main banker of the core committee of the maulvis, was a shoe merchant, and he doubled as a financier and remitted money to the frontier at great profit. He went to Delhi on his own business and was often requested to diversify his plans and travel to Thanesar to remit money to Maulana Jafer Thanesri.79 Thanesri’s account books had entries for all remittances received.80 Elahi Baksh remitted to Sittana gold mohurs and hundis valued at Rs. 4,000. These were credited to the accounts of Delhi merchants Samunt Ram and Sheo Baksh.81 Indeed, Manohar Das, a Delhi shroff who had turned witness, revealed to the High Court that he had given Elahi Baksh hundis for more than Rs. 100,000. The money for these had been received from Ahmadullah. Information regarding hundis and updates on their creditworthiness or lack of it went back and forth between Patna, the Punjab, and the frontier using the newly laid postal and telegraph networks. The reformers also employed a 60

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network of false names and aliases to guard against detection while using these imperial information highways.82 In 1865, Jafer Thanesri, the chief conduit for hundi transfers at Ambala, sent information via dak regarding hundis he had sent to Patna to enable his men to buy fruit and supplies. He used the telegraph to convey his anguish over an uncashed hundi of Rs. 500.83 Merchants of Ambala—​Kunj Lal and Sobun Lal—​cashed hundis received from Delhi.84 Ravenshaw was convinced that colonial information and money-­remitting networks that had kept the older commercial routes energized had now made it easy for the reformist networks to function. The money transactions were large, as revealed by Elahi Baksh’s account books. A large sum of Rs. 26,000 in drafts was sent through him, independent of other remittances, in gold mohurs that were delivered by private messengers.85 Alongside imperial networks, connections based on religious injunctions on piety and charity also underpinned these networks. Ravenshaw, the Patna commissioner, reported a sophisticated method of money collection adopted by agents of Ahmadullah who worked at the district level. Donations came from the devout under the Islamic charity categories of zakat (alms given as charity accord­­­ ­ing to Koranic injunctions), khyrat (deeds of charity), fitterah (alms given on the occasion of Eid), and afeefa (charity given to seek for­ giveness).86 Skins of goats killed at festivals were also sent as zakat.87 J. O’Kinealy, officiating magistrate at Maldah, detailed the moral economy that framed the money transactions. He reported that in Bengal subscriptions were of four kinds: mote, phetra [ fitterah], zakat, and a subscription at a higher rate subscribed to by those who desired to “lay claim to extra-­ordinary zeal.” He noted that mote, meaning a handful, was a term used to express the voluntary contribution of two handfuls of rice per day for the support of jihad. Ultimately the rice would be sold and the proceeds devoted in part for the intended purpose. Fitterah was a yearly subscription paid on the day of the Eid festival. It was supposed to represent the price of two seers of wheat for each member of the family. Zakat was a yearly voluntary contribution by a Muslim of two and a half percent of his ­property value in money and was paid at about the same time as ­fitterah.88 61

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The deposition of a recruit, Asmatula Sheik, also revealed that collections were meticulously organized, keeping the status of the families in mind. An organized village-­and district-­level collection system operated with subordinate sirdars who worked for the chief, called Nasir sirdar. He in turn passed the collections on to his boss, Ibrahim Mundal of Islampur.89 Not just supplies but money, recruits, and books, along with clothing for wives who were at the frontier, also moved across this sophisticated network, which sustained the moral and political economy of men of religion. Thus, for instance, on the day after Ramzan it was customary for Nasir to gather from each Muslim family the price of two seers of wheat per head—​fitterah. But if a family was very poor then it paid the price of two seers of barley, and a family of average wealth paid two seers of wheat. The rich paid zakat at two and a half percent on their goods. They also made a donation called Ilahi.90 Networks of Islamic charity intersected with intellectual circuits that energized the movement of reformists across the subcontinent and beyond. Witnesses from Bengal revealed that they stopped at Patna en route to Sittana, where they were promised a meeting with one elusive imam: at Patna they camped in the house of Abdul Rahim for intellectual uplift. This house was referred to as the kafileh (caravan). The name resonated the critical correspondence between the commercial routes and the spread of the Arabicist worldview across the territory they carpeted.91 Abdul Rahim’s house was connected by a private passage to the house of Ahmadullah. He also heard many of the religious discourses and lectures delivered by reformist preachers. From Patna the Bengali recruits made their way across imperial highways to Sittana. Throughout their journey they were supplied with money and help from agents like Abdul Ghafur at Patna and Muhammad Jafer Thanesri at Thanesar in the Punjab. Other agents took charge of them as they moved via Rawul Pindi and Mulka to the frontier. The eastern Bengal Wahabi leaders held meetings and discussions on “religious controversies” with the Patna leaders. Long consultations were held and books and strategies exchanged. The reformist textbook Tutwaa was widely circulated in the region. Written in easy-­to-­understand Bengali and authored by Haji Badruddin, who supported the Patna maulvis, and 62

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Maulvi Mirza Jan Rahman of Dacca, this book was published in 1851 and spoke of Sayyid Ahmad Shahid as imam and gave the history of his war on the frontier. It urged all Muslims to follow the commands of the imam.92 Other books included Tusseer Moradiya, printed at Misrigunge in East Bengal in 1863. This was a commentary on aspects of the Koran exhorting people to move in the manner of the Prophet if they had to contend with unbelievers.93 And this Islamicate intellectual connectivity did not in any way dilute the inspiration derived from the organizational format of the British military regiments. A sophisticated English-­military-­inspired regimen of drill, clothing, and commissariat marked the disciplin­ ­ing of reformist recruits as they assembled at the frontier. Most of them were drilled and armed.94 On reaching the frontier, many were compelled to work as tailors, water carriers, woodcutters, and mule drivers. They constituted the “commissariat” that supplied varied services to reformists on the move. Many could not take the hard labor and ran away.95 Lall Muhammad, a witness questioned by W. Ainslie, judge at the sessions court at Patna, revealed that while en route to Sittana he followed a regimentalized routine. He stopped at the Sadiqpur house of Maulvi Wilayat Ali and attended religious lectures. His next stopover was at Thanesar, where he and his companions were each given two rupees by Maulana Jafer Thanesri. After this long journey, in which food, money, and religious discourse flowed freely, he reached Sittana. Here, he was happy to stitch clothes for the recruits. Others in his troupe were similarly drilled and trained.96 Another witness, Ayenuddin, also reported a similar passage to Sittana. He also noted that two-­t hirds of the two to three thousand people at the frontier were Bengalis who were trained in military drill.97 The same impression emerges from the depositions of Sadruddin Sheik—​a Bengali recruit—​who deposed to J. O’Kinealy, the magistrate of Maldah. He ended up as a cook in Sittana, where, he observed, “1000 men with guns and canons drilled regularly.”98 At the time of the destruction of Sittana in 1858, British officers were struck by the regimentalized existence of the Hindustanis. Lieutenant Colonel Mason commented years later that “all were dressed in their best for the occasion, mostly in white but some of the leaders wore velvet cloaks.”99 He was surprised to find that they 63

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were “drilled on [the British] system and somewhere clothed like the Sepoys of the old Indian army.”100 And very much like the urban spaces—​t he cantonments—​of the British army, the reformists, on the move, also built their townships in the Mahabun Hills. At Malka, they had a maulvis’ hall of audience, barracks for soldiers, stables, and a powder manufactory. And of course, Sittana, their colony on the Mahabun Hills, had an old-­ style fort.101 Their regimented organization, which functioned under the autocratic command of its leader, corresponded to a military regiment. The sect had a khalifa, who functioned as the commander. Yahya Ali, the brother of Ahmadullah, was made the khalifa when Shah Muhammad Hussain (a disciple of Sayyid Ahmad) died. They also had a manager, very much like the military commissariat officer, who looked after their finances and logistics. Ahmadullah was made the general manager of all the property and expenses of the reformists. However, he had to improvise the system and work under false names because all this while he continued to hold the position of income tax assessor for the British government. He therefore managed the money under the names of his agents Elahi Baksh and Abdul Ghafur. In 1860, when Elahi Baksh was sent to discuss the modalities of financial transactions with Jafer Thanesri, even he used a false name to conceal his real identity. They burned letters when they heard of potential raids and worked their way through imperial networks, sabotaging them along the way to serve their ends.102 The well-­k nit committee that ran the show included Maulvi Ahmadullah, president and general manager; Maulvi Yahiya Ali (Ahmadullah’s brother), priest and correspondent; Abdul Rahim (a relative), assistant to Yahiya Ali; Abdul Guggoor (Ahmadullah’s confidential servant), treasurer; and Elahi Baksh, the banker.103 Elahi Baksh deposed that no money in his hands could move without the orders of Ahmadullah. Poaching men and materials from the British military regiments posted in the area was commonly reported. The Fourth Regiment of Native Infantry at Rawalpindi was frequently “tampered” with. The regiment’s munshi, Mohamed Waliullah, who had allegedly joined the reformists, was tried and convicted.104 He was from Fuarrukhabad, where he said that he had been approached in a 64

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mosque by a man who urged him not to go to the frontier on duty but should instead think about the mission he was being sent on. The man also gave him two stacks of letters to mail. Waliullah later said that since he was a government servant he did not mail these but just kept them in his house.105 Eventually these letters got him into trouble. He was found in possession of the stacks of letters; these were from Hindustan and had been sent to soldiers, exhorting them to desert and to join the Sittana congregation. However, Waliullah confessed to being a disciple and gave vital information about Wilayat Ali and his ideological commitments on the frontier. Other public servants, like Badrul Islam, who was attached to the army at Hoshiarpur as an extra assistant, also figured in these letters. He denied having any links with the men moving from Hindustan to the frontier, but he was known as a “fanatical Wahabi” who had threatened the orthodox Muslims of a mosque in Hoshiarpur who disagreed with his ideology. He had said that he would forcefully enter their mosque and storm it with a regiment of Muslim soldiers of the irregular cavalry if they opposed him. No proof, however, of his links to the émigrés from Hindustan was ever established.106 The émigrés also attacked the Guide Corps camp in order to obtain supplies and men.107

Reformists, Asiatic Empires, and Tribal Polities During the 1830s, reformist networks both within and outside India had relatively less success in spreading their reformist ideology, and more in projecting themselves as power brokers in larger trans-­Asian imperial politics. Their long arm extended beyond the northwest frontier into Central Asia, the Sikh territory, Kabul, and Persia. This was familiar terrain, as from the sixteenth century both Hindu and Muslim merchant diasporas, originating from India, existed all across Central Asia, Russia, and Persia.108 Reformists derived their confidence from these preexisting trade networks between India, Central Asia, and the Lohani Afghan mercantile community. In 1852, their settlements in the Sittana area of the Swat region were mainly sustained via trade with the Yusufzai tribes. Captain James Abbot, the 65

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deputy commissioner at Hazara, repeatedly reported on these activities with concern, noting, for example, the “large supplies of wheat taken daily from the Yusufzyee country on camels to Sittana where godowns ha[d] . . . ​been made for its reception.”109 The Yusufzaees often helped reformists, like Ursula Khan, to kidnap merchants and plunder their caravans. Despite the outward show of support to the British by some clan chiefs, the perpetrators were able to get away because of the popular support they had in the region.110 Reports of money and goods for the reformists—​and strategic ties and alliances with them—​also came from the amirs of Kabul and Sindh and the Maharaja Gulab Singh of Punjab and Russia.111 These trans-­Asian imperial players tapped the reformists to fight their geopolitical battles. During the late 1820s, Britain had invested in Qajar Iran so as to control overland access to India. But the Persian-­Russian peace process in the 1830s soured these relations, and the British turned to Afghanistan as a buffer state between Russia and their territory in India. Thus in the l840s Persia and Russia were very much united over Qajar Iran’s designs on Herat. They were aware that the reformist resource base, if effectively tapped, would be an asset. Similarly, the rivalries between the Sikhs and Afghanistan also fueled the military and economic bargaining power of the reformists. Additionally, the general anti-­British sentiment that encased these trans-­Asian imperial rivalries ensured the wide range and the longevity of the reformist grid. Since the 1830s, reformists from Patna had found a safe haven in Sindh. For instance, Maulvi Nasiruddin and his contingent were a bone of contention between the British resident at Sindh and the Sindhi amir. The British threatened to break off all assistance to Sindh until Nasiruddin was expelled. Even after he was officially expelled, there were reports that he still operated on the borders of Sindh with the tacit support of the amirs.112 Again, in 1841 the Persian court at Isphahan made news when an agent from the amirs of Sindh was spotted there pleading with the king for an anti-­British alliance and for commercial contacts, on the grounds of their shared Arab lineage—​t he Prophet. Revealing his reformist thrust, the agent invoked the Prophet as the universal referent to unite the Muslims: “You are now the King of Persia, and of the faithful and 66

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our Prophet is the same as yours. Why should people of a foreign religion and more specially the British be allowed to insinuate themselves into our country?”113 He promised help from his side in the Persian occupation of Herat in Afghanistan in case Persia was willing to assist the amirs of Sindh. Persian assistance also meant having the help of its ally Russia as well. Indeed, the fear that the reformists could provide fodder not only for the temporal ambitions of regional satraps within Hindustan but for those of Britain’s more menacing Asian imperial rivals—​Persia, Russia, Afghans, and the Sikhs—​gave Fraser’s fear of localized sedition caused by the reformists a wider trans-­Asian mapping. Abbot, the deputy commissioner at Hazara, was worried that “a few hundreds of these enthusiasts in the strong country of Huzara and joined by all the dis-­affected here [might] at any moment of trouble from Sikh or Doorani prove a serious nuisance and expense.” In 1849, he reported the arrest of an Afghan—​an agent of the Durranis—​who was mingling with the reformists and openly instigating them to rally behind their leader in his political fight against the British. The Afghan played on their hope of establishing a united umma, claiming that “all the Muhammedan powers ha[d] conspired to attack Peshawar after the fast of Ramzan.” He hoped to mobilize support by playing the unity card. Abbot was thus convinced that old conspirators were not at rest and that the presence of the reformists had only fanned their political ambitions. Abbot’s fears were not entirely unfounded. Trade, strategic politics, and most important, the invocation of a shared Arabicist-­scripture­centric tradition did constitute a formidable trans-­Asian cultural grid. Captain Burnes, on a mission to Kabul and Central Asia, spent most of his time writing voluminous reports on the “intrigues” between Persia, Russia, and Kandahar against the British. According to Burnes, Kandahar was an important hotbed of these confabulations. The exchange of envoys between these courts always heightened his frenzy. But he was most disturbed when he viewed the possibility of these powers tapping the reformist networks for their political gains.114 In 1839, M. Cubbon, the commissioner at Bangalore, reported that even before the British defeat in the Anglo-­Afghan War a 67

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­ eneral impression existed across south India that the government g was in imminent danger from enemies on the northwest frontier and beyond. The fear of a Russian invasion topped this rumor chart. But this invasion was also expected to take place in conjunction with France—​and in some versions of the rumor, with Turkey, Persia, and Kabul. Equally strong was the feeling that there was an “internal confederacy” that encouraged the enemy. And all fingers pointed to the agile labor market constituted by the reformists.115 People were convinced that once the invasion was complete older dynasties would be restored and land assessments and revenue demands would be reduced to one-­tenth of their current level. Cubbon believed that the south was particularly prone to such rumors because of the “constant intercourse, which is carried on between the Persian Gulf and the coast of Malabar.”116 He was clearly alluding to the Arabicist economic and cultural grid that from the eighteenth century had linked the trader-­warrior reformists of India to the intellectual and economic networks that operated from the Arab lands. Sittana, nestled in the Mahabun Mountains in the northwest frontier region of Swat, confirmed the worst fears of the British as far as the trans-­Asian potential of the reformists was concerned. Soon after Sayyid Ahmad Shahid embraced death at the battlefield in Balakot, this region became the congregating point for reformist Hindustanis: they would walk all the way from Patna in the east, cross the Indus at Attock, and travel to this spot. The Utmanzais had given this village as a muafi grant to the sayyids of Tiringi on their first appearance in the region. Sayyid Akbar Shah, who was a highly respected man in the area and viewed as an enemy of the Sikhs, held it. He was linked to Hindustani men of religion as he had served as treasurer and counselor to Sayyid Ahmad Shahid of Rae Bareilly. Thus, after Shahid’s assassination, Akbar Shah allowed his followers to congregate around him. They soon established a colony and constructed a fort near Sittana called Mandi. The spiritual leader, the akhund of the region, proclaimed Akbar Shah the king of Swat soon after the British annexation of the Peshawar valley. Thus the Hindustani colony under Akbar Shah posed a challenge to the British. During 1857, activity in Sittana only confirmed British 68

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fears. Indian rebels flocked to the mountains of Swat and supported Akbar Shah. He also received help in the form of men and money provided by rebellious princes and recalcitrant individuals from Hindustan. Six hundred sepoys from the Fifty-­Fifth Native Infantry stationed there also joined the reformist colony in Sittana.117 Akbar Shah worked under the authority of a tribal head: the akhund. The latter was the fountainhead of tribal custom and religious authority, and his writ prevailed in the region. Political power rested with Akbar Shah. He was an influential character who was popular with the reformists. He was widely believed to be the recruiting and diplomatic agent of regional satraps, notably the Sikhs (led by Chuttar Singh), the Durrani Afghans, and the nawab of Tonk, Muhammad Khan. British officers in the region, like Major H. P. Burn, feared that Akbar Shah could use the Sittana base to assist the Sikhs in their anti-­British endeavors. Referred to as “avaricious and intriguing,” Sayyid Akbar was keenly observed by the British as a key player in the trans-­Asian imperial rivalries.118 Religious preaching may have encouraged the migration of reformists to the frontier. But these émigrés were successful because they plugged into and benefited from tribal politics. They assisted with tribal state-­building by providing support to chiefs who resisted making revenue payments to the new British authorities. Thus in 1857 Mubaraz Khan, of the Khundu Khel tribe, invited the Hindustani émigrés and Maulvi Inayat Ali to his village in Chinglai. At this time, some of the disaffected border villages that had defaulted on revenue payments appealed to Mubaraz Khan and the Hindustanis to come to their aid and “begin a war for Islam.”119 The defaulting village of Sheikh Jana was accordingly occupied by 250 Hindustanis reformists who arrived there on orders from Mubaraz Khan of Chinglai. The village of Narinji also enlisted the support of these men in their fight against the British. It is not surprising that when the British destroyed and occupied the village they discovered a reformist maulvi from the north Indian town of Bareilly well entrenched in the local tribal society.120 After the British takeover and destruction of Panjtar, Chinglai, and Mangal thanas, it was discovered that Hindustani reformists had been allowed by the tribal chiefs to construct fortifications of “large stone and fine timber.” They lived in the security of these 69

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fortifications along with their leader, Inayat Ali, who also had a separate fortified house here.121 And once dispersed from Sittana, after its destruction by the British army in 1858, they continued to survive in the region, taking sides in tribal feuds to carve out a niche for themselves.122 This was most evident when, after being refused permission by their former hosts, the Utmanzais, to reoccupy Sittana, they were welcomed by the Amazai tribe in the village of Malka, located close to Sittana on the slopes of the Mahabun Hills.123 And by 1861 they had regrouped with local support in a village called Siri just above Sittana. From there they pillaged Hindu traders in the Hazara area to sustain their political economy.124 In 1863, they reoccupied Sittana and started negotiating with the chiefs of Ambala in British territory, provoking the Indian government to dispatch the Ambala expedition. And so entrenched were they in local politics that even after this British-­led campaign, which expelled them from Malka, dispersing them, they found refuge in the area by making payments for their settlements in the Tangor and Batora regions. Significantly, they were welcome as long as they contributed to the economy through their payments and offered military support when needed. But their new hosts did not let them build there and took money from them. The reformists resented this, as the British clampdown on their financial networks across Hindustan had created a cash shortage for them.125 Again, after the akhund of Swat expelled them from the region, they continued to find support in different tribal factions as they were seen as a source of useful labor that could be of use in tribal warfare as well as in combating the British. Thus in 1868 Judba and Tikari chiefs offered them help. The latter wanted their help against the British and gave them asylum in his fort and land in the Tikari valley.126 Finally they settled on payment of rent of Rs. 800 a year at Maidan near Palosi. The Hassanzais tribe allowed them to stay and erect buildings that were surrounded by a mud wall and flanked by towers forming a kind of fort. About six to seven hundred of them lived there on the condition that they pay rent and help in the tribal expeditions against the British.127 But in 1888, at the time when the Hassanzais wanted their support during the Hazara expedition, the reformists backtracked, as they could not fight breechloaders. And once their ­military 70

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backbone was broken, the British moved in to burn down their fort and settlement in Maidan without a “blow being struck in its defence.” But all was not lost. Aware of their critical value as sources of labor and money, the Amanzais offered them a home. They settled on the slopes of the Mahabun Hills after they had lost their material and political clout.128 These reformist émigrés were sustained by a remarkable political economy that they had crafted with the help of their political patrons within and outside India. More than the message of religious reform, it was the attraction of being integral to a market tapped by both Indian and trans-­Asian satraps that kept intact both their own interest in the frontier and others’ interest in them. Continuous supplies of information, food, and arms kept their settlement growing and indeed knitted them into the politics of trans-­Asian powers. Their towering leaders, Maulvis Wilayat Ali and Inayat Ali (brothers and blood relations of Sayyid Ahmad Shahid) worked zealously in the Sittana region and were keen on obtaining material benefits and a principality for themselves on the Indus. Lieutenant Colonel Mason noted that Inayat Ali derived a rich income from all the contributions that he “appropriated” from India.129 But more importantly, via recruitment and conciliation the reformists wanted to participate actively in the trans-­Asian politics at the frontier to enhance their material and career prospects.130 Indeed, Sittana was the melting pot for the trans-­Asian rivalries, and Indian reformists were very much at the center of it. Abbot was convinced that the Sittana recruits were in the service of one Sayyid Abbas—​an active agent of both the Sikhs and the Durranis.131 Many Afghan clan leaders had joined the congregation along with their cavalry contingents, as they constituted an important military labor market that regional satraps tapped. Gul Muhmmad Khan, Omar Khan, and Deedar Azam Khan were some of the important Afghans who had joined the reformists with their cavalry contingents; these included anywhere from five hundred to six thousand horsemen and large numbers of footmen.132 H. B. Lumsden, the commanding officer of the Corps of Guides, had time and again intercepted their correspondence with the Russians as well.133 71

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The Sittana reformist colony bothered the British not only because their trans-­Asian rivals and regional satraps tapped into it. More alarming was the report that the reformists were happy to sell their services to anyone who cared to restore the Mughal emperor. Many of the reformists promised to restore the emperor if there were enough incentives to do so. One maulvi, Abdullah Pirzadah of Amroha, in Hindustan, was particularly active in stirring up the people in the Hazara area and his religious brethren to act for the Mughal emperor’s restoration.134 He whipped up his recruitment drives in the region by displaying Mughal parwanas (decrees) that claimed the help of Dost Muhammad of Afghanistan. The reformists flaunted the parwana as proof of their influential connections in polities outside British India. They argued that they had agreed to help the amir of Kabul obtain his wizarat (imperial fiscal ministry) in light of his efforts to restore the Mughal emperor to his throne. Like Fraser, the Haiderabad resident, the British top brass too saw the reformists’ issue not merely as one more instance of religious fanaticism. They were concerned because of its political implications. They viewed the Arabicist orientation of the reformists as an alternate, if objectionable, political culture and less as an aspect of a religious tradition per se. Thus when they used the word “fanatic” to refer to the reformists, it had a political connotation rather than a religious one. Lord Dalhousie, the governor general of India in 1852, was clear that the local magistrates in Hindustan and the northwest frontier had misplaced and exaggerated fears about the religious dimension of the frontier problem. He advised them not to take any hasty action against people on religious grounds. Underlining the insignificance he attached to the religious dimension of the reformists’ proselytizing efforts, he remarked: “The party at Sittana whose insignificance of which I have expressed my conviction is rather confirmed than otherwise by all that is now transpiring are no doubt doing their best to induce Musalmans in India to join in a holy war. They have been doing so for years. And letters now detected seem to me to show that their efforts have met with little success . . . ​nevertheless I have not treated the affair with disregard although I attach little importance to it.”135 72

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H. P. Burn, the deputy secretary to the Board of Administration, also cautioned the deputy commissioner of Lahore, Major Abbot, to act calmly and to distinguish between the real political offenders and “peaceful pilgrims” en route to Sittana. He advised Abbot, “We should not only be tolerant but openly show that we do not look to seats or distinction of creed, but simply deal with men as loyal or disloyal, as friends or hostile to us.”136 The Fort St. George government in Madras reflected a similarly cautious approach to what it saw as a political rather than a religious issue.137 Indeed, it did not wish to be harsh on public servants suspected of “Wahabi” leanings, “lest any measures of proscription such as withdrawal of pensions or interdiction from employment in public service might be colored by the disaffected as to appear in the light of a religious persecution.”138 The governor general approved this plan of action. But reiterating its bracketing of the issue of fanaticism as a political matter, it recommended serious action against sepoys and army personnel involved in such “fanatical” endeavors. These were to be viewed as acts of sedition in the military and warranted court-­martial. The government also recommended a review of the existing military laws to deal with the cases of roving offenders, like the Wahabi preachers, who could not be pinned down to any one cantonment.139 In the civilian administration, reformist activities were also handled as a “public order” issue that merited charges of “sedition” and “disloyalty.” However, the disturbances to “public order” and acts of “sedition” were difficult to control because the trader-­warrior reformists’ entan­ ­­glements energized the political economy of the region. Military campaigns proved ineffective. In 1872, the men of the Kubbal and Judoon tribes—​who had earlier allied with the British to prevent Sittana from resurfacing—​burned it down completely. Gujjars and other cultivators occupied the few remaining huts temporarily.140 Later, however, it was discovered that the Gujjars and the Hindustani émigrés both benefited from intratribal wars between the Kubbal and Judoon. Neither of the tribes honored their agreement with the British, and when it suited them they encouraged the reformers to rebuild their huts, a mosque, and a hamlet in the northern part of Sittana. And they were quick to reestablish a political economy. 73

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Residing in the hamlet were six Tinawals, six Gujjar families, a Tur Khan, and Lohar. They cultivated the land and passed on a share of the produce to the reformists, popularly called sayyids.141 Émigrés benefited also from tribal feuds related to the political ambitions and family wars of the ruling family of the neighboring Swat region. The Shah family had been the original owners of Sittana and had given it to the reformists. Mubarak Shah, the son of the former ruler of Swat, and his nephew Shah Mahmud were at war over their share of the proceeds of the lands at Sittana. Shah Mahmud, who wanted to make headway for himself in the region, encouraged the Gujjar and other tribes to resettle in the area. Kubbal Jirga, who was connected to Mubarak Shah by marriage, warned him of Shah Mahmud’s plans. This family feud resulted once again in the destruction of Sittana. Mubarak Shah’s men burned and destroyed Sittana to free it for occupation.142 And as late as 1895, Lieutenant Colonel Mason echoed earlier fears that the reformists were still, as he put it, “a factor for mischief in any complications which may arise with independent tribes in the Peshawar and Hazara frontiers.”143

The Reformists, the Arms Trade, and the Imperial Networks The reformists on the frontier also used imperial transportation, technology, and information highways to attach themselves to the Indian Ocean political economy—​in particular the arms trade. Possession of sophisticated arms not only strengthened their military labor potential on the frontier but also offered them support across the Indian Ocean world, where European and local arms firms, merchants, dealers, brokers, and middlemen flourished because of rising demand for their goods. The frontier warriors obtained access to the new rifles and military technology of Euro­pean powers via a network of profit-­seeking European firms and their local collaborators. And thus paradoxically the commercial networks of modern empires sustained the reformist ecumene, even as private European firms maximized their profits and expanded their business by ­tapping 74

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into earlier networks of trade that linked the Central Asian, Russian, and Persian region.144 Timothy Robert Moreman has argued that in the 1880s and 1890s a huge demand for modern rifles on the northwest frontier stimulated a lucrative arms trade in which ammunition and rifles arrived from a range of sources, including Afghanistan and the Persian Gulf. A domestic arms industry was also growing within the tribal territory.145 A series of punitive expeditions in the post-­1857 period and subsequent enlistment of tribals in the Indian army and the Punjab frontier police had familiarized people with modern rifles and made them appreciate their value. The exposure to colonial armies had also opened up new contacts that enabled the theft and smuggling of arms from the government arsenals to the frontier.146 The Persian Gulf connection to the frontier shows that the warrior-­t rader reformists did not merely rely on contacts in the government within India but that they had access to wider trans-­Asiatic imperial networks. A 1899 report on the arms trade, written by L. H. E. Tucker, the inspector general of police in Punjab, and Colonel W. Hill, assistant adjutant general for musketry, revealed that rifles made in London, Brussels, Germany, France, and Italy were easily available in the frontier region. Hill describes an instance when a man brought a rifle to him with “Fracis Times & Company, 27 Leaden Hall Street, London” stamped on it; according to Hill, the man said that “he [could] obtain any number of same pattern price of trade mark rifles delivered at Maskat in between 40–50 Rupees.” The man claimed that the selling price of the rifle in the frontier would be Rs. 300. They could be put into any bundle or bale of goods suited to camel or mule transport and carted.147 Most of these rifles came from the Muscat sultanate in the Indian Ocean. Tucker was told in the Tank area of the frontier that “local traders have no difficulty in proceeding by rail and sea to Maskat or Makran coast to purchase arms.”148 Indeed, in the Gulf, Muscat was the principal emporium where European arms dealers stored their wares. From Muscat, the arms were shipped in dhows across the Gulf to waiting caravans on the Mekran and Persian coasts for transit further northward into Afghanistan and the northwest frontier markets. 75

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The Indian Ocean trade route for arms did not work in a vacuum. It was framed by imperial networks of steamships, consulates, legislation, and politics. And it was powered from within by a network of European commercial firms and their string of local traders, dealers, middlemen, and brokers. If political dividends and rivalries marked the imperial frame, the commercial networks were driven by profits from trade. And these many networks, taken together, constituted an ideal web that frontier warriors used to energize their own trans­Asiatic networks. In 1897, the British government seized two thousand rifles of Belgian origin at the port of Bushier in southern Persia. These rifles were built to size so as to fit the cartridges used in British rifles. The officers had reason to believe that these rifles were being sent to the Persian Gulf for the ultimate use of the northwest frontier tribes. The trade was called “illicit,” and the Belgian government was asked not to protect it. However, the Belgians said that the rifles were “sporting ones” and hence harmless. It was soon discovered that the rifles had been manufactured in Liege, Belgium, on the order of a British firm, Messrs. Fracis Times and Company. Based on that information, the Belgian government claimed that it was unable to stop the manufacture of the rifles.149 British officers like F. R. Plunkett reported of other British firms who had placed similar orders at Liege and said that the supply from England of solid cartridges of the “British government pattern” was in great demand.150 Firms like Messrs. Eley Bros. Limited, an ammunition manufacturer of London and Liege, supplied the Belgian firm Messrs. Dresse, Laloux & Cie with three thousand solid 577/450 cartridges of the British government pattern for the purpose of trying the rifles they had made or were making.151 British shipping companies, seeking to profit from the arms trade and unmindful of imperial politics, continued to ship rifles to Muscat and then Persia en route to Afghanistan and the northwest frontier. The British steamer Baluchistan was active on this route, carting cargo of as many as five thousand rifles and one million cartridges for “illicit importation” into Persia.152 And despite British-­imposed restrictions on arms traffic in Persia, the trade continued because of the tax revenue that it generated for the local government and the employment that it 76

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created.153 The main distribution point was Shiraz; in 1896, thirty thousand rifles were reportedly distributed there.154 The profits of trade were attractive not only for Persian traders and the local government, but for European and Asian arms firms. They struggled to keep the trade alive. Since 1884, A. & T. J. Malcolm had been the sole importers of arms, but others now crowded the lucrative market: Fracis Times entered the market in 1891, followed in 1894 by Livingstone, Muir and Company and H. C. Dixon and Company. Another firm, Malcolm Brunker and Company, reportedly bought arms in England for native importers. Fracis Times was the largest of these companies, and started as agents for Persian firms. As the business became profitable, they expanded and grew, and they soon took over as direct importers. They flourished as they energized local commercial houses. They competed with them as well as used them as local associates. The first local house to enter the trade was Haji Ali Durbash, which did business with A. & T. J. Malcolm and another firm, J. C. P. Hotz and Son. Other local firms included Sayyid Ghulam Ali; Khal Nejaf Bin Ghalif in partnership with Sayyid Shoban Koreh; Sayyid Muhammad Reza; Mirza Golam Hussein; and Muhammad Sheffee. Of these, Ghalif was the largest importer. Their orders were placed through H.  C. Dixon, who also worked for several other smaller businessmen. Other independent Persian importers also bought arms through firms in England, including H. C. Dixon and Com­ pany, Fracis Times and Company, David Sasoon and Company, C. J. Sassoon, Livingstone Muir and Company, and J. C. P. Hotz and Son. The firms chiefly exported their wares from ports in Manchester, Liverpool, and Cardiff; very few steamers were loaded with arms in London. The exported rifles were generally Martinis and Lee Metfords and were marked as “hardware.” The ships did not go via India because of its strict vigilance. Rather, goods were sent to the Persian port of Bushier and checked by the customs office there.155 A fascinating commercial network that was powered by Western capital and imperial networks and that depended on Asian economic, social, and political camaraderie made the arms trade a success story. The history of operations of one of the oldest British firms in this 77

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trade, Fracis Times and Company, reveals the wide ambit of commercial networks that were sustained by both local and imperial institutions and that ensured the arming of the northwest frontier tribes. All the efforts by the British government to put an end to this trade failed, as the entanglement of private profits and imperial priorities were complex. Fracis Times and Company included three partners: Fracis Times, of England, and Nassarwanji Dossabhoy and Dorabji Edalji Dharwar, both originally from Bombay. Nassarwanji generally traded between England and the Persian Gulf and had offices in Bushier and England. Times and Dharwar were located in England. The firm was also a commissioning agent. Their Indian contact in Bombay was a man called Dadabhai Chothia, a Parsi and an independent merchant whose office was in Hornby Road Fort. The firm used a string of steamers—​t he Turkistan, the Afghanistan, and the Baluchistan—​for its operations in the Gulf. At its major ports or importing stations it relied on local merchants and traders for its operations. Thus in Bunder Abbas its staff was almost entirely composed of Persian subjects, including Haji Muhammad Sharif Alavi, Sayyid Abdur Rahim Awazi, Haji Ali Aga Hussain Lari, Haji Mehdi Lari, Haji Hussain Galadari Awazi, Haji Nakhoda Ali, and Aga Hussain Lari. The staff also included three people from Shikarpur: Kishandas, Sakaram, and Lakhu. In Muscat, Fracis Times relied on a string of British Indian subjects: two that have been identified are Ratansi Parshotam, a Kutchi Bhattia, and Damodhar Dharamsi, whose caste is not known. The Bunder Abbas Persian merchants moved via a chain of agents and contacts between Bombay and Persia, selling their wares and taking orders along the way. Thus the merchant Aga Hussain Lari traded in Bunder Abbas but also lived in Bombay and carried on his transactions in Bunder Abbas via his agent from Shikarpur, named Tekchand (alias Waliram). These merchants and their agents joined with caravans of Afghan traders at Bunder Abbas once a year and at Kirman and Yezd every month. The goods then passed via Meshd and Herat into Afghanistan. They were concealed in other goods so as to escape the restrictions imposed by the Persian authorities. Afghan traders carted dry fruits and ghee to Persia for sale, and in return bought tea, sugar, cloth, and so forth. But the principal trade was in arms and ammunition, 78

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which reached Kirman and Yezd from Bushier. The merchants also went to Bunder Abbas from Muscat, Bushier, and Lingah in native boats. It was believed that they smuggled arms into the boats concealed in bags containing dry limes. Fracis Times and Company had no direct dealings with Bombay. They traded only with the Persian Gulf, and the arms transacted by this firm reached the frontier only via Persia.156 English firms like Fracis Times were not the only ones that operated across such trans-­Asiatic networks. Indeed, others who dealt with consignments from non-­British subjects also operated with relative ease across these networks, as most of the restrictions on the carting of arms were placed only on British and Persian subjects. In 1898, the case of a German trading company based in Bremen, Germany, came to light when its goods were confiscated at Muscat. Its manager explained that these should be released as they were the consignment of one J. D. Barth of Bremen, a German subject. He had shipped them to Gopalji Walji, his agent in Muscat.157 Walji was able to retrieve this consignment after he had clarified that he was not dealing with a British subject but a German one.158 Both English and European firms and their local agents as well as private entrepreneurs relied on a variety of local middlemen who belonged to a range of ethnicities and religions. Thus one Ghulam Khan, a British subject, carried on his trade between Bunder Abbas and Persia with the help of two Hindu Indians, one of whom was named Hind Raj and another whose name was not known, and one Muslim called Abdul Rasul, who was a native of Hyderabad, Sind. They spanned out between Shikarpur, Muscat, and Bunder Abbas. They had contacts with agents in Tevaz, located a few miles from Bunder Abbas. These men helped them transport arms to the northwest frontier via Baluchistan.159 Arms also moved from Muscat to the other side of the Arab coast bordering the Red Sea. Kuwait and inland Arabia were the destinations for this trade. These were also the entry points for the arms to enter Afghanistan. Even though this trade was on a small scale, it also involved a string of British and non-­British subjects. Najaf-­bin­Ghalib, a Kuwaiti wholesale trader, took advantage of not being a British subject and spearheaded this trade.160 In this sector of the 79

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arms trade, small dhows operated very often with “Mogul” or Indian Muslim nakhodas (operators). And thus Captain Cox, a British army officer posted in Muscat, reported that one of the nakhodas of Ghalib’s dhow was called Ibrahim, a Mughal, and the other was also a Mughal, called Ahmad.161 Similarly, Somali traders with French protection kept the arms afloat on the west coast of Africa.162 Jibuti, in the control of the French, offered a safe haven for the arms traffic between it and the ports of the African and Arabian coast.163 Italian and Ottoman attention was drawn to the importation of arms from Arabian ports under their control.164 Although British subjects were involved in this trade, the trading zone was largely under French and Ottoman control. This made it difficult for the British to restrict it. This free flow of arms across imperial highways and the Indian Ocean commercial networks ensured that most of the tribes of the Persian region became armed, and it was they who passed the arms on to Afghanistan and British India. The British vice consul relied on the Persian government to curb the traffic, and the latter deputed their own man, Malik Tujar, to assist the vice consul. In one such joint search at Bushier, 4,826 rifles and about 1 million rounds of ammunition were seized.165 The Persian sadr-­i-­azam noted that he was one with the British in this antiarms trade campaign, as his tribals were becoming more heavily armed than his army. He maintained that his “government ha[d] always sought to prevent the arming of the tribesmen as well as the inhabitants of the towns and frontiers.”166 And yet the war minister of Persia, Nahib-­es-­Sultaneh, encouraged the imports for his own use as “arms intended for the use of the Shah’s government.”167 Not content with restrictions at Persia, the India Office pressured the Foreign Office to impose restrictions at Muscat—​t he port from which the arms went in dhows to Bushier and southern Persian ports. The consul at Muscat was empowered to make rules that made it compulsory for British subjects to register at the consulate all arms imported or owned by them.168 C. G. F. Fagan, the consul at Muscat, notified all British subjects that the importation of arms into Persia and British India was forbidden and illegal. He threatened offenders both with confiscation of their wares and with 80

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punishment.169 The independent kingdom of Bahrain was brought on board with its chief, Esa bin Ali Al Khalifa, agreeing to have British and Persian warships searched and to confiscate arms in ships bearing the Bahrain flag and other vessels using Bahrain waters.170 And indeed, one set of confiscated arms from Fracis Times and their Parsi partners indicated the magnitude of the imports: 3,800 rifles valued at £12,000 and other arms worth £700, all seized on board the ship Baluchistan—​and this was independent of a stock of arms seized at Muscat, valued at £9,000.171 Efforts were also made to get Kuwait and Turkey to join the antiarms effort, and especially to at least make Turkey declare that importing arms to its territory was illegal. This would strengthen Muscat’s efforts to stop its subjects from indulging in the traffic under the excuse that the arms were intended for Turkey.172 But still as late as 1901 camp diaries of British army officers in the frontier region indicated that Afridis could move across Afghanistan, reach Muscat and buy arms with no difficulty, and get back to their homes.173 Officers revealed a clandestine route that traders in Muscat adopted to dodge the British-­imposed ban on arms trade. Dealers obtained permits from Muscat authorities. And under cover of these permits the arms were put on board native craft, which landed surreptitiously at unfrequented places near Linga, Bandar-­i-­reig, Jask Bundar, Ormuz, Bundat Abbas, and Kishni and Gwadar. At these places the rifles were sold to tribesmen via whom they found their way into Baluchistan and Afghanistan. At Bunder Abbas traders hid these rifles in their compounds until they were required for sale to Afghan and other traders. And once the deal was set they were secretly taken and handed over to the purchasers.174 This network was sustained with an eye on profits. Business houses did not wish to be drawn into imperial wars, even as they made a fortune traversing imperial highways. Steamship companies were quick to plead ignorance about the contents of their consignments if they were accused of violating rules and carting forbidden items. They were also clear that they were nonactors in the imperial rivalries that framed much of the arms traffic. Thus the Anglo-­ Arabian and Persian Steamship Company of Bishopgate Street, London, which carted many of the Belgian-­made rifles to the Gulf, 81

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when accused by the British and Persian governments of transporting arms despite restrictions, was quick to wash its hands of any controversy. The company quickly declared that it had no knowledge of the contents of their containers and that it had, as they reported, “no wish to be parties to landing in Persia goods which the Government of Persia does not wish to have imported.”175 The same was the case with Bucknall Brothers of Leadenhall Street, London, which also said that it “ha[d] no other interest or concern in the matter other than to collect the freight due on the shipment.”176 Indeed, in 1899 representatives of numerous bodies of arms manufacturers and traders in Britain who traded with Persia and other parts of Asia complained to the Marquess of Salisbury about the hardships they faced because of British strictures against their businesses abroad. They lamented that their businesses had suffered because, as Bucknall Brothers put it, “their property in Persia and elsewhere was taken possession of by Representatives of the British Government without . . . ​any valid ground.”177 Fracis’s Parsi partner Gopalji Walji and his colleagues in Muscat, Damoder Dhurmsee Ruttonsee Pushotum, K. P. Lodhavalla and Company, and Dhunjee Morarji, petitioned the consul about their hardships, noting the trade they had lost to Arab hands due to the introduction of new regulations on British subjects in the arms business. They revealed that since they were now required to make weekly reports on the sale of their arms and ammunitions, listing the quantity and quality of the imports along with the names, residences, and nationalities of buyers, they were losing customers who sought anonymity. The Arab dealers had to give weekly reports to the sultan, but they did not need to divulge the locality or nationality of the buyers, and thus customers preferred to transact with them. Gopalji regretted that the result of British policy had been, as he reported, to “drive the trade away from us and thrust it upon other adventurers who are day by day getting firmly established in the trade as manifested by monthly imports.”178 Complaints also poured in from manufacturers of sports guns in Britain whose businesses in Persia had also been affected by the new stringent measures enforced on British subjects dealing in arms in the region. In 1899, C. G. Bonehill pleaded that his business in 82

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Persia be exempted, as his guns, as he described it, were “purely sporting arms, such that are never made for military purposes and are totally different from military rifles, being for purpose of shooting furred and feathered game.”179 H. M. Durand, in the Foreign Office, reminded him that as per the Persian government’s rule even the import of such sporting guns was illegal.180 And thus it was on the networks of trans-­Asiatic commerce involving British, European, and Asian capital and proceeding along imperial highways that arms reached the northwest frontier colonies of “Wahabis.” According to a statement of Ghazi Khan Inayatullah Khan, a head constable, several Pathans arrived at the port of Bunder Abbas, where he was then camped, and bought rifles with ease. He reported that a Pathan named Ghulam Khan purchased two Martini-­Henry rifles and four hundred rounds of ammunition from a Memon named Haji Muhammad Hasan, who paid 280 Irani rupees for them. Another Pathan, named Hakim Khan, also purchased a Martini rifle and two hundred rounds of ammunition from Ghulam Khan, paying 140 Irani rupees for them. The constable also reported roving caravans of traders with as many as forty rifles that were up for sale in areas like Meshed. These could be bought by anyone, and he too bought two from one such caravan for 320 Irani rupees. However, the constable reported that due to the strict new measures it was difficult to smuggle these into Afghanistan as the wazir would not allow it. The kotwal at Herat, Afghanistan, also confiscated his rifle.181 Both L. H. E. Tucker, inspector general of police at Punjab, and Colonel W. Hill, assistant adjutant general for musketry, argued in their reports that European arms and ammunitions reached the northwest frontier tribesmen from the Persian Gulf and Muscat. They reported twenty packets of ball ammunition with a Brussels label in the house of one Mir Saka—​t he headman of Pasni in Makran. On analysis at the DumDum small arms factory, these were found to have been manufactured in Brussels. Similarly, three arrested Pathans at Ormara near Karachi had in their possession a Martini-­Henry carbine and several rounds of ammunition. These belonged to the Powindahs tribe near Ghazni, which said they had purchased twenty rifles in Muscat but had been attacked in Makran 83

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and lost them.182 Hill reinforced Tucker’s findings, and added that the profits were so high in this trade that the price of a rifle delivered in Muscat was between Rs. 40 and Rs. 50, and its selling price on the northwest frontier about Rs. 300.183And Captain Roos Keppel, posted on the northwest frontier, revealed that the trade was carried on by Ghilzai and Kabul traders who had large consignments of these rifles as they moved downward in the winter months in their caravans. Keppel’s investigations—​conducted via an Afridi orderly who posed as a buyer—​revealed that the price of a rifle ranged from Rs. 600 to Rs. 450 depending on the supply. Most were manufactured by firms in Britain and Europe. The two bought by Keppel’s orderly were manufactured by Fracis Times and the British South Africa Company. It was these critical traders who supplied the arms to the northwest frontier tribals in British India.184

The Making of the Market-­Driven Reformist Doctrine The reformists, while performing multiple roles, reinvented the Arabic-­scripture-­driven tauhid doctrine to suit their market-­driven interests. This created an India-­specific Arabicist cultural grid that corresponded to the networks of their political and commercial activity. It was spread out like a net from Calcutta and Patna in the east, to Delhi, Tonk, Haiderabad, Vellore, Madras, Mysore in the south, and to Swat, Sittana, and Sindh in the northwest. By the mid­nineteenth century, this grid had expanded to connect to the Central Asian region, as a result of the reformists’ participation in the imperial rivalries of Britain, Russia, and Persia; and it had stretched as well to the Hijaz and Ottoman regions as the reformists migrated there in the postmutiny period. Here, as we will see in subsequent chapters, it connected with similar kinds of Arab and Ottoman intellectual currents. The nineteenth-­century Arabicist grid had the self-­interpretation of the scriptures and tauhid as its core. But as it expanded in response to political ambitions, profits of trade, the trans-­Asian market for military labor, and engagement with British colonial rule it also began to embrace the cult of the saint. In combining the reformist 84

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protestant core with the significance of the saint the Arabicist grid of the Indian brand reflected the original Naqshbandi formula of Shahwaliulla: compromise and accretion to unite the umma. Para­ doxically, this trans-­Asian Arabicist grid forged by émigré reformists was more in line with the elite Persian Sirat-­i-­Mustaqim than with the later derivative Urdu reformist literature—​which reduced its eclecticism to a narrow definition of tauhid that was both antisaint and anticustom. But unlike the elite reformist literature, the inclusivity of the Arabicist grid was based on the concept of social leveling; in this sense, it differed as well from the Persianate model of inclusivity, which was based on social equilibrium. The urge to learn Arabic acquired heightened intensity as individuals inspired by the idea of self-­interpretation became primary movers of change. One of the most evident impacts of reformist activism was the centrality of the individual—​t hat is, the émigré reformer who popularized a way of life and action that was constructed via his response to the political and social pressures of the military labor market. This activism was an on-­t he-­spot individual construct rather the product of dictates issued from above by elite literate leaders and pedantic texts. Such a flexible and accommodative means of social and political engagement, which had scriptural sanctity as well, stood in contrast to the rigid and exclusive regime articulated in normative Urdu texts like the Nasihat, discussed at the beginning of this chapter. Thus in 1839 one Muhammad Ali, a Tamil speaker, migrated from Nellore to Haiderabad, as the latter offered a more conducive locale in which to learn Arabic. He registered at the school of Mubaruzdaulah Bahadur in Haiderabad, and in two years he became proficient in the language. At the madrasa he heard of the recruitment drives of Maulvi Nasiruddin of the Shah Abd-­al Aziz family and his march to Sindh to fight the amirs and establish the Arabicist stronghold. The thought of temporal power and privileges so charged Muhammad Ali that he set out to join Maulvi Nasiruddin. He justified using all fair and foul means to achieve victory at the battlefront by reinventing the Koranic injunctions on war ethics. He explained his rationale in a letter to his cousin: “They [Muslims] should quit the places of their enemies [where they reside and work], abandon their 85

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peace and pleasures, undergo toil and render themselves worthy of Gods regard. For God has ordered the robbery of the property of these infidels and the carnal enjoyment of their daughters without nikah. What injustice is there in this country that those who do such things should be made criminals and punished.”185 This ideological orientation was a far cry from Koranic war ethics as espoused in the Urdu reformist literature on the subject. The only two reformist texts on jihad—​t he Risalah I-­Jihad by Khurram Ali and the Targhib-­I-­Jihad by a maulvi of Kanouj—​both urge the reader to take guidance from the Koran and the Hadith when at war with the infidels. And neither of these texts advocates the injunctions put forth by Muhammad Ali. Indeed, even the Sirat-­i-­Mustaqim mentions the duty of jihad only incidentally along with other basic duties of Islam.186 Muhammad Ali’s contribution to the making of the reformist doctrine thus evolved in the context of larger political contestations that had a global extraterritorial hue, and in which he was an active contestant. And he was not the only participant in the creation of such an ideology. The same year Abdul Qadir, a dismissed sepoy of the Nellore region, complained to the magistrate that he was exhorted and threatened by reformist preachers (he too called the reformists “Wahabis”); these preachers brought pamphlets from the local mosque urging people to pursue jihad and promising that “those who acted thus, God would exalt, that God would give them celestial nymphs in heaven, and the daughters of these infidels might be enjoyed without nikah.” Readers were further assured “that by so doing fame will be acquired in this world and in the next.” Qadir complained that these men threatened him that they would neither follow his corpse nor allow him a decent burial if he did not join them. He said that he had information that these preachers had the support of the nawab of Haiderabad, who was luring them with money to the tune of Rs. 10,000 and inviting them to Haiderabad to consolidate under him and fight the infidels.187 And the reinterpretation of the doctrine was not just restricted to jihad. Another deposed sepoy, a “Wahabi” convert, invented a novel concept of “pure” and “impure” Muslim to justify his son reading the khutba in a mosque. In response to objections being raised about 86

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people reading the namaz behind him (as they were asadullahs, or those who had not directly descended from the Prophet, in contrast to the sepoy namazis, who could claim direct descent from the Prophet), he replied that a pure Muslim was one who had suckled his mother only after she had bathed (ghusal) after sexual intercourse with her husband (that is, the person’s biological father). Only his son met this test and thus he was the pure Muslim.188 Likewise, an anonymous letter circulating in Ludhiana in 1852 interpreted the Koran to justify the recruitment drives of a reformist entrepreneur. It said that it was binding “on all Muhammedans to leave their wives and children and come join [the reformers].” And it exhorted, “Those who cannot come should join us with their wealth and protect the families of those who come.”189 It concluded by underlining that the “Wahabi” doctrine stated that “those who give to ghazis are themselves ghazis, and those who protect ghazis are ghazi.” The historicization of reformist doctrine as it evolved in the nineteenth century reveals its particularistic Arabicist flavor: it is monist in its many variations and yet saint and cult oriented; it swings between sainthood and prophethood; and it is driven by the prospect of a universal umma while at the same time remaining rooted in local authority structures like the Sufi silsilahs (brotherhood). With their stress on individual action in matters sacred and profane, the reformist texts are by all standards this-­worldly. The Koran and the Sunnat are continuously invoked and interpreted by the reformists to justify their individual actions, which are geared toward acquiring power, prestige, and profits. And the cult of the saint is created to garner greater support for their market-­oriented polit­­ ical and military agendas. It is this unprecedented agency that the reform­ists give to the individual that propels their doctrine far ahead of the normative Urdu texts—​which, paradoxically, had introduced the salience of the individual in interpreting scriptures. Indeed, the reformist texts themselves pale in front of the individual and his interpretation of them. In the ultimate analysis, the interpreter acquires greater credibility in society than even his own text. In 1839, H. Montgomery, superintendent of Astagram in Mysore, stated that the reformist doctrine had limited appeal when disseminated via the literature of Maulvi Ismael (who had compiled the 87

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Sirat) and the Urdu literature that derived from it. The Urdu texts were popularly perceived to be so Allah-­centric that they even rejected the salience of Prophet Muhammad. One man, Mahomed Ali Sahib, in charge of the gumbaz in Bangalore, said that he was incensed at the reformists, claiming, “[They] reject the Prophet Muhmmad and think him no better than any other man. And they are enemies to all mankind except their own.”190 It was thus not surprising that when a Bombay maulvi named Akbar Ali quoted a reformist author and his texts in his sermons at Bangalore he was treated with such “disapprobation from the assembly that he was obliged to disavow the sect and join the rest of the company in cursing all who belonged to it.” Ultimately, the sermons of a fakeer in Mysore proved more successful than the dissemination of literature by the maulvi. The fakeer did in fact enlist one hundred or so followers, but he too was generally detested.191 Again, one maulvi from Rampur, Maulvi Muhammad Sayyid, recruited many followers for the “Wahabi” sect in Mysore because he instructed disciples not so much in textual tauhid as in “fakeeree Ilum” (exercise of devotion and self denial).192 Indeed, reformist literature and the people who cited its austere dictums were so resented in parts of south India that people turned hostile to them and refused to offer namaz behind those who were rumored to be reformists or “Wahabis.”193 In light of this hostility, fakeers, saints, and mahdis had to be harnessed to reformist doctrine to make it popular and appealing. Beginning in the 1830s, the warrior monist-­t raders circulated rumors, pamphlets, and letters about martyred reformist leader Sayyid Ahmad Shahid across Hindustan and beyond; in doing so, they created the cult of the saint for him. In sharp contrast to the strict monist ideals and long dictums against cult and saint worship in the Nasihat (1825), the pamphlet literature of the 1840s and 1850s (coupled with rumor mongering) indicates that the movement was kept alive precisely as a result of the cultivation of sainthood for Sayyid Ahmad. As far south as Madras and Bangalore, the stories of Sayyid Ahmad’s haj and of “conflicts” in Hindustan made the rounds in various versions. Some projected him as a “seditious” character.194 Others glorified his valor and supernatural powers. In 1849, James 88

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Abbot, the commissioner of Hazara, collected information about people flocking to Sittana to ascertain if, as per a rumor they had heard, the martyred Sayyid Ahmad of Balakot had really come back to life. Abbot reported that a few years earlier a similar fable had led to a large-­scale movement of people in the direction of Khozan, where the sayyid had been slain. An inflated goat hide dressed out with a turban and cloak was exhibited to the devout in the obscure twilight of the cavern and passed off as the sayyid. Nobody was allowed to approach the figure as it was said to cause offence to the martyr. The gathering was dispersed only when a nonbeliever dared to violate the injunctions, moved close to the figure, and tore off the turban to reveal the impostor.195 In 1852, a letter ostensibly written by the dead Sayyid Ahmad Shahid from the other world to his followers Inayat Ali, Wilayat Ali, and Nassiruddin and to Muslims in general found wide currency across Hindustan and in the northwest frontier region. One of the key features of the letter was that it presented the sayyid as the interlocutor and chief intermediary between man and Allah. This was a far cry from the kind of direct individual relation the sayyid himself advocated between man, God, and his Prophet. Speaking in a manner reminiscent of the Sufi malfuzat (conversations), the sayyid (who refers to himself as the “fakeer”) explains to Muslims his assess­­ment of Allah and the Prophet’s sentiments toward the people of Hindustan and his own critical role as the go-­between who clarifies Allah’s and the Prophet’s false impressions and ensures that they will unleash their bounty on the Muslims of Hindustan. In the Persianate style, God is projected as a king, the embodiment of all sacred and profane matters, and the sayyid is the chief lieutenant who helps God maintain social harmony by clearing up all of his misconceptions. Thus the sayyid writes in the letter: “For a long time this faker (I) has seen that the Prophet is displeased with people of Hindustan. God forgive them. Do not be dis-­heartened for want of cash. Collect man and appoint people to collect money and now there will be no difficulty from want of money as God will provide me from his secret treasury.”196 Very much in the tauhid tradition, the sayyid also urges people to gather together for prayers as commanded by God. He recommends 89

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as preferred the prayer of tu-­ujjud, offered four hours before daybreak; makes mandatory both morning prayers and prayers of dependence; and urges people to recite the kalima (belief in Allah and Muhammad as his Prophet). At the same time, in the shirk tradition that is critiqued in the Sirat, he issues a challenge to his friends, and in particular one Khuda Baksh: he tells his friends that if they doubt his existence, he can prove it by restoring to Baksh a penholder that he had given him when he was alive and at Muzafarnagar.197 The sayyid also refers to his contact with the Delhi Sufi saint Nizamuddin Chishti, who figures in the letter as a significant observer who does not approve of dissension within Muslim ranks. Depositions of public servant converts like munshis and sepoys suggest that the reformist leaders had painted Sayyid Ahmad as a mehdi (savior who would emerge to rectify all ills of society). And this cult of the saint, or mehdi, who would one day surface and solve all the problems and issues of Muslim society, was kept alive by the reformists to retain the support of the masses and make them endure the temporary hardships of living in tribal areas, often under tribal authority and customs. Thus one munshi, Waliullah of Farrukhabad, claimed that the reformist leader Wilayat Ali while at the frontier was always “waiting for his peer” and that “he [did] not get along with the akhom [religious authority] of Swat, but [was] making a show of friendship.” He concluded that the akhom wanted Wilayat Ali to serve the political leader of Sittana Sayyid Akbar but that Wilayat Ali and his clan were “wait[ing] for some great man to come.”198

The Colonial Grid and the Reformist Diaspora By the late nineteenth century, the Arabicist grid that originated in India and that was constructed via individual action and response to trans-­Asian politics stood in sharp contrast to the reformist popular literature in Urdu. Indeed, as we saw above, it completely ignored the rigidly monist doctrine of the Urdu texts. In contrast, it had a flexible, individual-­centric interpretation of Koranic injunctions and combined tauhid with a freshly constructed cult of the saint and the mehdi. In terms of its inclusivity it was thus closer to the 90

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Persianate Sirat-­i-­Mustaqim, which also combined tauhid with Sufi doctrines. But having been produced via individual actions as reformists struggled with the new world order, it lacked the Sirat’s pedantic and elitist Persianate style dictums aimed at maintaining social equilibrium. Rather, the India-­specific Arabicist grid aimed at social leveling and thus went a step ahead of the Sirat in its inclusivity as it created and disseminated the cult of the saint and the idea of a mehdi, or savior—​even as it theoretically adhered to belief in tauhid, the Prophet, and the critique of rituals. The Arabicist grid fired the imagination of Muslims as being part of a global Arabicist imperium. In the late nineteenth century, it was this Arabicist grid as created by South Asian intellectuals, merchants, and warriors that came into contact with the colonial administration, as its actors were identified as some of the main instigators of the 1857 mutiny-­ rebellion. The British clampdown on these actors, their migration to the Hijaz and the Ottoman Arab provinces to escape the British administration, their new status as marked convicts who were transported across India and beyond to penal colonies, and the use of their labor in penal colonies in the Bay of Bengal added fresh and new dimensions to the Arabicist grid. Indeed, British colonialism gave it a new lease on life. During the late nineteenth century, British rule began to offer physicality to the Islamic global imaginary. At one level, colonial presence with its print capitalism, greater opportunities for travel across sea and land, and wider communication networks facilitated travel and access to Muslim cultures and made the Islamic imaginary physically real at least for the privileged. But this physicality also brought home the reality that the global so far envisaged as the empire of Islam had given way to the Western-­dominated global. This elicited envy as well as the urge to access this novo−global empire, which corresponded in terms of its sheer scale and political influence to the Islamic imaginary. The fact that this empire was “colonial” of course created its own dynamics for the Muslims. But their take on it was also derived from the ambivalence in their minds between an Islamic global imaginary and the reality of life within the British Empire with its control of capital and culture. The 91

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reformers used the colonial infrastructural and intellectual grid, along with its legal vocabulary, English language, print capitalism, and political rhetoric, to access this new empire, to reach out to the Islamic imperium, and to contest the imperial grid once they were sufficiently fortified intellectually and politically. Indian reformists were not the only ones who perfected this kind of brokerage. The following chapter shows how Indian Arabs also followed this route to make careers for themselves. Driven by the nineteenth-­century thrust on individual agency, such men laid out a vast transimperial cosmopolis that was neither entirely caliph-­ centric nor anti-­British in its global reach.

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2 T h e M a k i ng of t h e “ I n di a n A r a b” a n d t h e Ta le of Sayy i d Fa dl

Most of the arabs living in India were from Hadramawt, Yemen. They traced their genealogies to Tarim, which was known for its long-­standing tradition of Islamic learning, and whose residents included ulema, Sufis, and sayyids, many of whom had overseas links. The region had a long history of migration to Africa and Asia: people would leave Hadramawt to engage in trade, to seek work as soldiers, or to spread Islamic learning.1 During the sixteenth century, members of the sayyid families established hospices in several Indian Ocean regions. In India their presence was marked in Delhi, Gujarat, Deccan, and Malabar. They soon established themselves as influential ulema in Indian society because of their Arabic learning and their association with the sacred sites of Islam.2 However, it was not uncommon to find Arabs in multiple roles: as traders, as warriors, and as Sufi saints. In the late eighteenth century, Haiderabad, in the eastern Deccan region, became the center of large-­scale Arab immigration. By the middle of the nineteenth century, the city attracted Hadramis both from within India and from Yemen and had an Arab population that 93

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surpassed that of any other Indian province.3 They enjoyed high positions in the administration of the nizam as soldiers, mercenaries, and scholars. For instance, al-­Sayyid al-­Mujahid Abd al rahman ibn Muhammad al-­Zahir became the jamadar in the nizam’s irregular forces. Sayyid Ahmad al-­Aydarus (1899–1962), rose to become commander in chief.4 And Habib Aydarus set up a school for Islamic studies at Nanded. By the mid-­nineteenth century, a large body of Arabs were domiciled in the Haiderabad state. The nizam had a considerable force of Arab soldiery that traced its origins to the Hadramawt region. Arabs moved with ease between Haiderabad and their homes in the Hadramawt area of southern Yemen. Many came to Haiderabad to work, and then would send money to their families as well as visit the Hadramawt area to invest in land and property. Salaries and remittances always flowed back and forth. Family networks were tapped to get fresh recruits for the nizam’s army. Many Arabs settled and married in the Deccan. Their descendants were called Mowullud. Such Indian Arabs forged strong bonds between the Deccan and the Hadramawt areas. Their links with Hadramawt meant that they were also naturally drawn into the factional politics and wars in their homeland.5 Haiderabad had four different classes of Arabs: those enrolled in the regular levies of the native government and who had undergone military training; undrilled members of the Arab infantry who were in the service of the government; guards entertained by amirs and private persons throughout the country; and, finally, those who were not in anyone’s pay at all. According to Sir Salar Jung, the prime minister of the nizam, there were more than eight thousand Arabs in the state. Most of these were Deccani born.6 The Malabar region too boasted several influential Hadrami families, such as that of the famous Sayyid Alawi and his more famous son Sayyid Fadl (1823–1901), who preached Islam and gained notoriety for rebelling against the British. In the following section, we will discuss Sayyid Fadl’s interesting career as a marked “Moplah rebel,” considering it as an example of how these Arab immigrants used British paranoia and trans-­Asian rivalries and threats to further their careers. 94

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The opening of the Suez Canal in 1869 enabled the British to exert firmer control over Persian Gulf commerce. For instance, Britain now controlled Qajar Iran’s export and import trade, which was integrated, albeit in a subordinate way, in the global economy.7 However, later in the century Britain felt the heat as its imperial rivals—​Russia, Germany, and the Ottomans—​enticed Iran, Baghdad, and other Asian powers to build railways so as to recapture and control trade in the Persian Gulf. Britain turned its attention toward the southwest rim of the Arabian Peninsula as imperial contestations over the Persian Gulf ports intensified.8 Britain now wanted to control not just the Gulf but also the entire rim of the Arabian Peninsula from Bab al-­Mandab to the Gulf of Basra. Two events signaled the beginning of the larger political net that Britain intended to spread in the Arabian Peninsula region: through clandestine deals with Mubarak al Sabah of Kuwait, the kingdom of Kuwait was brought under British protection; and in 1889, through a brutal takeover, Bahrain was also brought under British protection. These areas were significant as they had important harbors and ports for the lucrative slave trade. But they were also attractive because they were arenas where the relatively weak Ottoman political sovereignty could be dented, and thus they offered huge political dividends. A proactive Britain hoped to tame the ambitions of Russia, Germany, and France as it secured “treaties of protection” with the smaller emirates that dotted the rim. British interest in the southwest rim of the Arabian Peninsula brought it in direct contact with Arab traffic across Asia. This region, as we saw above, had a history of entanglements with the political economy and geopolitics of India.9 The Hadrami diaspora that originated from here was linked to India via trade, family ties, saints, and politics. British Indian subjects of Arab Hadrami origin had family, property, and emotional and political investments in this area of the Arabian Peninsula. The connection of the Hadrami Arabs to India offered Britain a readymade justification to intervene in the region, ostensibly to protect the interests of its Arab Muslim subjects. The Bombay government used the pretext of concern for Muslim subjects of Arab origin to legitimize its active involvement in the region. Its administrative ambit was extended to cover the 95

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Gulf so as to oversee and protect British interests in the region. These interests included the monitoring of its Muslim subjects of Arab origin whose lives were inextricably linked with the development of the Arabian Peninsula’s politics. The Bombay government and British Muslim subjects in particular thus became the chief agents via whom British imperial rivalries were played out in the Arabian Peninsula. The Bombay government emerged as the chief player in this imperial plot. Indeed, in 1839 the surreptitious way in which it signed a treaty with the “illiterate” Lahj tribal chief of Aden, wrested the harbor from Ottoman control, and brought the area under its protection aroused international condemnation and concern.10 Both the Ottomans and the Russians were outraged at the entry of Britain into the already hotly contested arena of Asian imperial rivalries. The British presence was marked by the creation of the new office of a political resident at Aden who would oversee British interests in the region.11 As the years rolled by, he was invested with increasing power to interfere and mediate in the affairs of the Indian subjects caught in Arabian feuds. Critics accused Britain of trying to control the waterway and convert it into its exclusive preserve, and of ignoring the fact that the whole Arabian side of it was under Ottoman sovereignty. And they were not wrong. It was the issue of Ottoman political sovereignty that had brought Britain into the region. Indeed, the “Mahomedan subjects” became the medium via which British imperial rivalries with the Ottoman played out. By the late 1880s, British political designs had become so blatant that the Ottomans were forced to react. In this period of economic depression, they did not invest in a fleet or an armed presence to counter British designs. Instead, because they were near bankruptcy, they leaned on the authority of the caliph. They tried to influence Indian Muslims via caliphal authority. The British reacted by asserting their political sovereignty based on their stated aim of protecting Indian Muslim interests.12 Muslims of Arab origin who lived in India became the main agents by whom Britain was set to play out its imperial rivalries with the Ottomans. The Bombay government was chosen to be at the vanguard of this engagement. Its long administrative arm reached 96

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Arab tribes in Muscat, Yemen, and the Arabian Peninsula. Its political agent at Aden monitored tribal activities. For instance, as early as 1823 a large group of Arab tribals of the Beni Boo Ali Arab clan had been deported to India to be lodged at the Bombay prison because they had converted to “Wahabism” and posed a serious menace in the Muscat region. They were therefore physically removed and shifted to Bombay to prevent their damaging doctrine from spreading in the Arabian Peninsula. As it happened, most of them died in prison of cholera and smallpox.13 But during the late nineteenth century, British attention zeroed in on the movement of Arabs between the Haiderabad region of the Deccan and the southwest rim of Arabia. British interest in their movement and routes began to create fissures in the Arabs’ vibrant trans-­Asian cosmopolitan culture, which, as we have seen, went back to premodern times. The Hadrami Arabs in their capacity as soldiers, merchants, scholars, and saints had a long history of interaction with Haiderabad. We saw above how their movements as well as their intellectual and emotional investments in the Deccani state of Haiderabad enriched its political culture.14 All this was set to change. The British administration coined the new category of the “Indian Arab” to describe the problem of the huge number of Arabs—​both immigrant and Deccan born—​who resided in the Haiderabad region and who had families and connections in Arabia. This categorization was accompanied by the negative stereotype that singled out Arabs as the cause of all corruption and lawlessness in Deccani society. This negative casting aimed in no small measure to mark their difference with the native Deccani society that framed their lives and identity. According to Charles B. Saunders, the resident at Haiderabad, the Arabs not in the service of local polities were the “most truculent and dangerous specimens of humanity.” But together with those in the service of the nizam they could, he claimed, be used as a formidable irregular force. This was because they were, as he put it, “hardy, fanatical, fond of plunder and equally regardless of their own lives and the lives of others.”15 They could—​along with the Rohillas, Baluchis, and Africans who also lived in Haiderabad—​ inflict heavy losses on their enemies. They had an art of digging 97

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vaults or rifle pits in the center of streets and squares in which they could ensconce themselves in relative safety. And they were armed with a variety of weapons: matchlocks, powder horns, rifles, pistols, swords, spears, daggers, and knives.16 It was a well-­k nown fact that Sir Salar Jung had a useful body of organized Arab infantry in his service. They were kept separate from the regular army of the state about twenty-­four miles from Haiderabad in a village called Mahesaram.17 Saunders was of the view that Arabs had grown roots in Haiderabad also because it provided them with opportunities for quick money-­ making, often through fraudulent means: “They roll property, lend money at enormous rates of interest, and indulge in all kinds of petty and illicit traffic with the result of growing rich and respectable fast.”18 Indeed, the nizam’s government itself had often borrowed large quantities of money from them. Saunders pointed out that many influential members of the community had risen to favor in the service of the nizam or his minister. Chiefs like Ghalib Jang, Mukaddam Jang, Barak Jang and his half brother Al Bin Umar were some cases in point. In fact, it was because of the large amounts of money that Arabs had loaned to the local government and the influence of many members of the Arab community that the extreme step of deporting the “whole race” from the Deccan was postponed. Saunders noted that the British resident as well as the nizam’s minister were tired of the “plunder of towns and villages” by roving groups of Arabs.19 But the outright deportation of Arabs was prevented due to the entanglement of the Arab community itself in the larger running of the nizamat. Starting in 1872, special identity passes were issued to Arabs to mark them out as separate from Deccani society. Measures were taken to restrict the hitherto unrestricted entry of Arab immigrants. Earlier immigrants could sail to Bombay without any documents and on arrival obtain a pass from the police commissioner and British resident in the city. This document permitted them to move onward to Haiderabad. But beginning in 1872, the permission of the Haiderabad government, conveyed through the British resident posted in the city, as well as the sanction of the political agent at

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Aden became the prerequisite for any travel to India. Initially, these regulations were difficult to implement. They remained limited to matters of policy. In practice not a single Arab ever applied for a passport via this method. Saunders was convinced that the introduction of the new railways in the region facilitated the illegal immigration of Arabs into Haiderabad.20 Arabs, as Ottoman subjects, resorted to obtaining passports from the Turkish consul general at Bombay in order to enter India and move toward Haiderabad. The police officers at Bombay did not recognize these as valid documents and instead looked for permission letters from the political resident at Aden. Even though a passport system for foreigners moving in India was not in force in India, the Foreign Department had adopted some restrictive measures for Arabs moving to Haiderabad because, as one official put it, “When they come they tended to stimulate and keep alive feuds of their fellow tribesmen in Southern Arabia.”21 The government of India reiterated these rules each time the Ottoman consulate complained about the harassment of Ottoman subjects by police officers in Bombay. There was little or no support for such regulations from the nizam. He was not in favor of any restrictions on the movement of Arab immigrants. He saw them as an integral part of Deccani society. Indeed, he saw them as men of status because of their association with the sacred sites and the language of Muslims, and therefore he maintained that they required no special identification. In fact, in 1890 he strongly resisted any move to equate the Arabs with the Rohillas—​who needed passes from police officers at the entry point of every new territory they visited. The nizam agreed that passes should be issued for Arabs seeking to enter British territory. But he drew the line when it came to Haiderabad because he recognized the special status of Arabs as critical players in the political economy of Haiderabad; and he regarded them as doubly valuable because of their origins in the “sacred soil of Arabia.”22 He remarked in a letter to the resident at Haiderabad: “The Arabs on the other hand who are generally wealthy men and hold the highest ranks in the army hold jagirs and mansabs, are held in esteem by the

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Government and with regard to the connection which Mahomedan have with the sacred soil of Arabia, the Arabs are held by all the Musalman sects in veneration and esteem.”23 However, toward the beginning of 1880s a new concern cropped up: this was the exodus of the Arabs from India, with “treasure and military stores,” to their own country. It was by monitoring Indian Arabs when they returned to their home countries and participated in the politics and society of the Arabian Peninsula that the British obtained an entry point into the region. The returning Hadrami, now a marked Indian Arab, was a British subject. He became the agent through whom Ottoman political sovereignty, which in this period of economic crisis leaned heavily on the caliph, could be effectively countered. The concern for the Indian Arab also became an important medium through which the nizam’s political economy and power could be challenged. It was quite evident that arms, money, and recruitment supplies from Haiderabad were being used by Indian Arabs and other ambitious Arab residents, who tapped their networks to fight factional wars in southwest Arabia, particularly in Makulla and Shehr in the Hadramawt area. Some Arab chiefs with contacts in India were trying to emerge as independent rulers of these estates and wished to be treated like the independent regional princes of India. The influential Jang brothers (Barak and Nawaz) in the government of the nizam were one such important case in point. The Jang brothers and other ambitious Arab chiefs shifted British attention away from their intrigues within India and more toward their activities outside. As the British viewed it, the affairs of these men outside India were being sustained by Indian contacts—​Indian Arabs who had returned to their home countries—​and thus had a bearing on developments in India. The involvement of Indian Arabs in Arabian feuds provided the British with a legitimate excuse to intervene in the region and to fight its Asian rivals in a backhanded way. Here, British political sovereignty—​which hinged on the protection of Indian Muslim interests—​competed with caliph-­centric Ottoman political sovereignty. Muslim subjects of Arab origin caught in the middle of the imperial crossroad of competing sovereignties benefited as they 100

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made the most of both. As these two sovereignties competed, the conduits for communication and contact between India and southwest Arabia only strengthened, both as a consequence of British efforts to monitor “Indian Arabs” and as a result of the activities of these men themselves—​who relied on money and labor from Indian contacts to fight their battles in Arabia. Moreover, Indian potentates, like the nizam of Haiderabad, took sides and pressured the Bombay government to aid their Arab protégés. Makulla and Shehr, two very important port cities in southwest Arabia bordering Yemen in the Dhofar area, are important cases in point. Both were riveted by battles for power and control as they were very important depots for the lucrative slave trade that moved from eastern Africa via Jeddah to the Western world. Makulla was also an important coal depot. Therefore, the British and Ottoman stakes in these cities were high. Indian Arabs who nurtured political ambitions could exploit imperial rivalries in the region and carve out a niche for themselves. Barak Jang Bahadur, an influential member in the nizam’s service, had a brother in Shehr, Nawaz Jang, who had ambitions of ruling the port city and taking over Makulla as well. His career became a cause of concern for the British. They wanted to have the sole right of monitoring and controlling Nawaz Jang’s activities, as this offered them a point of entry into the larger theater of European empires that included Ottomans. When they stepped in to help Nawaz Jang, they did not want his brother Barak Jang or the nizam to have any role in the wars at Shehr. Thus Nawaz Jang became the key player in the imperial rivalries in the region. Indeed, his entanglement with the political economy and culture of Haiderabad as well as with the geopolitics of the Arab region made him the ideal individual around whom British-­Ottoman and British­nizam politics could be played out. In 1877, Salar Jang, the nizam’s minister, admitted to a close contact between one of his officials—​Barak Jang—​and his brother in Shehr, Nawaz Jang. The latter, while flaunting political ambitions in the Shehr region, maintained his Deccani links as he continued to occupy a position in the Arab force in Haiderabad as well. It was widely believed that Nawaz Jang depended on payments from Indian Arabs, as they pumped money into the Arab economy, and 101

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on arms from Haiderabad in order to pursue his political ambi­­ tion of becoming the sultan of the port city of Shehr and to expand into Makulla (which was under British protection) on the Hadramawt coast. Initially, the British mounted pressure on the nizam’s minister, urging him to ensure that that his colleague Barak Jang would sever all ties with Haiderabad. The minister deflated the pressure by arguing that his colleague did not know of the political ambitions of his brother, Nawaz Jang. Barak Jang, he argued, thought that his brother was merely residing in Shehr with his elder brother Abdulla—​who was the chief there. Despite repeated pleas from the British, the nizam refused to take action against Barak Jang. Under further pressure, he agreed to remove Nawaz Jang from the rolls of the Arab force in Haiderabad.24 He also warned Barak Jang to refrain from fanning his brother’s political ambitions. The nizam was reminded of the prohibitory orders in force in the Hadramawt region preventing any attacks on Makulla. He asked Barak Jang to comply and to send any related information he might have so that more explicit government orders could be issued if required.25 Barak obviously refuted all charges against his brother, especially one concerning money ($30,000) and men that Nawaz allegedly had received from Haiderabad. He asked for an inquiry to uncover the truth. He alleged that it was in fact the chief of Makulla and his tribal allies who were wreaking havoc in Shehr. Repeated requests from Shehr to the British agent at Aden to stop these attacks had gone unheeded. Indeed, the British had pledged not to interfere in the matter. In his efforts to resolve the problem, Barak appealed to the British sense of justice.26 The British on their part reiterated their concern about the flow of money and material supplies from Haiderabad to Shehr. At the same time, they again pledged their noninterference in the region. In the same breath, the British resident stated that the political agent at Aden could, if he desired, “mediate or intervene with friendly advice” for the settlement of the dispute.27 Indeed, the British resident at Aden was the nodal point for the representation of British interests in the region. But his interven­­ tion in local disputes had the effect of fissuring the cosmopolitan 102

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trans-­Asiatic world of Arab immigrants. His presence signaled an abrupt disjunction in the well-­k nit world of the Hadramis, a world in which they had straddled multiple Asian regions with ease. Their resistance to the tearing apart of their world came in the form of their insistence that the nizam of Haiderabad rather than the British resident at Aden solve their disputes. Barak Jang encouraged this sentiment and urged that the Haiderabad political setup—​t he government of the nizam—​be central to any resolution. He thus underlined and reaffirmed the links between the Deccan and the rim of Arabia, as well as the long reach of Britain’s Muslim subjects. He felt that the British suffered from amnesia or lived in denial of the historic politico-­economic ties that knitted southwest Arabia to the Deccan—​and that even if they recognized the connection, they wanted to sever it. He also felt that his personal status would rise if the nizam’s government were involved in the Arabian entanglements. But his plans failed, as the nizam did not back him. The nizam urged him to sack Nawaz Jang—​to remove him from the official roll of the military force—​and also to sever all connections with him as per the orders of the British government.28 The British were incensed at the temerity of Nawaz Jang and other Indian Arab subjects who wished to become independent rulers outside British territory and yet retain their rights in India, maintaining family ties, managing property, and retaining travel privileges. British notions of territorial-­f ramed subjecthood and neat ethnic categorizations had no space for such extraterritorial forays of subject people. Indeed, their official categories created fissures in a hitherto cosmopolitan premodern world where to be Hadrami as well as Deccani posed no problem. Indeed, the porous borders and the fluid and well-­k nit political economies of the premodern world encouraged multiple identities. While this seemed natural to Indian Arabs, it was unacceptable to the British government. But the Indian Arabs too held on to their world and were unwilling to give in just yet. Nawaz Jang, backed back by his brother in Haiderabad, Barak Jang, played hide and seek with the political agent at Aden, buying time and seeking permission for a visit to Haiderabad. He said his visit was necessary as he wanted to round up his affairs there and bring back his family to Shehr.29 He stated 103

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that he only wanted to profit from the gains he had made in the war with Makulla and had nothing against the British. But his explanations did not satisfy the British. An angry British resident, Sir R. Meade, suggested that if Barak Jang wanted to retain an authoritative position in connection with Shehr he should withdraw from his current position in Haiderabad. C. B. E. Smith, assistant resident at Haiderabad, held a similar view: “The evils of the state of things will be enormously increased if [Arab Indians’] leaders occupy the position of independent chiefs in Arabia, and a political association is thus established between Haiderabad and that country which may lead to serious difficulties and complications in the future.”30 At the same time, Barak Jang was also warned by the resident that only the political agent at Aden and the British resident there would mediate and that Nawaz Jang should report only to them and submit his case only to them. He was reminded that the Haiderabad government was no intermediary in the Arabian disputes, even if it was interested in the affairs of their people.31 Throughout the 1870s, Francis A. E. Loch, the political resident at Aden, reported that Barak Jang would not cooperate either by submitting the case of his brother to the resident or by making his brother accept the mediation of the resident. For his part, Barak Jang hedged: he was always more inclined to involve Haiderabad in the resolution of the dispute and wanted the British resident at Haiderabad to intervene, but he also suggested that Nawaz Jang visit Haiderabad to explain his case. Even as Nawaz Jang and his brother resisted British attempts to crack their connected worlds, they did not hesitate to make the most of the imperial highways and the new forms of connections that they offered. And this was possible because Nawaz Jang tied his foreign relations into the international power games of “modern” European empires. And thus despite almost disowning Nawaz Jang for challenging their political sovereignty, the British were happy to use him to dent Ottoman political sovereignty in the region. And Nawaz Jang, sensitive to this British imperial agenda, was happy to play along as long as it suited his purpose. Aware of British imperial interests in the region, he underlined the fact that he had rejected friendly overtures from the Ottomans as well as from the rebel 104

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Moplah chief Sayyid Fadl—​t he self-­styled chief of Dhofar who was hostile to the British.32 This did not stop British demands that Nawaz Jang relinquish his official position in the nizam’s service, restrict his visits to Haiderabad, and have his family return to Shehr. They wanted him to sever all ties with India as a consequence of his becoming an independent chief of an Arabian state. Yet these demands did not stop the British from using him in their trans-­ Asian political games. Thus in November 1877 the British used Nawaz Jang’s services to get information about the real deal between Sayyid Fadl and the Ottoman government.33 And while they used Nawaz Jang, they were also happy to extend him help in his political fights. They offered him assistance in his local battles and feuds for supremacy in Shehr. They agreed to prop him up as the chief agent over his brother in the city. Notwithstanding the neat ethnic categorization of Indian subjects, the harsh reality was that Indian Arabs were part of the wider imperially embedded Muslim networks that knitted together Western empires in Asia. The British recognized the connect between the “Mahomedan population” in India and the wars in the southwest Arabian Peninsular rim. In 1878, Loch, the political agent at Aden, wanted the Shehr-­Makulla dispute to end and offered British help to the latter because, as he put it, he did not want these disputes to have “ripplers effect in the Muhammedan population in India.”34 Paradoxically, there was at one level an acceptance of the connect, while at the same time administrative acumen and the demands of governance in India required that it be ignored. It was considered politically expedient that the British ask for the severing of relations between southwest Arabia and India. And yet people like Nawaz Jang who connected the two worlds were both a liability and an asset. As an Indian Arab, Nawaz Jang could be used to counter the claims that the Ottomans had a monopoly over Muslims both in India and elsewhere. But in order to justify interventions in his affairs, the British had to legally frame him as an Indian subject; this meant that he had to be delinked from his larger ancestral moorings and his life and career in his homeland, which stretched beyond India. Significantly, the interventions of the British political resident in the disputes of Shehr and Makulla amounted to 105

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intrusions in what was basically the Arab rim of the Ottoman territory. These interventions happened with the aid of Indian Arabs, like the Jang brothers, who were mediators between the British and Ottoman imperial rivals. Indeed, meddling in their affairs increased the clout of the resident. But if Loch depended on such “little men” to gnaw into Ottoman political sovereignty, the Ottoman government (the Porte) also leaned on them for support. Loch was concerned that the Porte would use Sayyid Fadl—​t he deported Indian Arab Mopilla rebel from southern India—​as their agent to counter British endeavors. After all, the events in Makulla offered an ideal imperial flashpoint of the sort that career brokers like Fadl loved to exploit. Loch’s fears were aggravated on news that Fadl was in Istanbul, and more important, that at the request of the nakib of Makulla the port town had been placed under his supervision. Loch’s report was that Fadl was on his way to Makulla.35 Such imperial contests offered a boost to the careers of middlemen like Nawaz Jang and Fadl. In the late nineteenth century, the British campaign for the suppression of the slave trade diminished the authority of slave merchants and notables in the region. It made the independent Arab chief vulnerable. This was the best time for British intervention in the region. It is no surprise that in the 1870s their political agent at Aden was encouraged to take an active interest and mediate in the affairs of the Indian Arabs. This also meant it was a boom time for middlemen like Nawaz Jang, who could now play a useful role in furthering British politics vis-­à-­v is the Ottomans. The Bombay governor, Richard Temple, also thought this was the time to extend help to the chiefs and buttress the power of the agent at Aden and that of the Bombay government itself.36 It was widely believed that Ottoman expansion in the southern rim of Arabia could be controlled by propping up independent Arab chiefs—​w ith Indian connections—​like Nawaz Jang. His kingdom, Shehr, was seen as a potential ally. The British drew their confidence from their experience with a similar independent Arab state—​Makulla—​t hat had been “saved” by Loch, the political agent at Aden, from Turkish troops.37 Since 1878, Makulla’s allegiance to the British had been complete. But the British always viewed with concern the slightest 106

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vacillations of Makulla toward any other political power, including the British ally Muscat. Indeed, it was Nawaz Jang’s invasion of Makulla that triggered British intervention in his affairs. The Shehr-­Makulla dispute paused with a British-­induced two-­ year truce. In this period, Barak Jang agreed to have the Aden resident serve as mediator. But he also was able to have introduced a clause that allowed him to appeal to the Bombay government if he was not satisfied with the outcome of the case. This was his last-­ ditch effort to balance his flexible extraterritorial politics with the more territorially rooted system that the British were putting in place in India. In 1881, the English were once again actively involved in the affairs of these two port kingdoms because the chief of Shehr—​a figure they supported and to whom they had given a military title because of his critical role in their imperial rivalries in the region—​ attacked the port of Broom and wrested it out of the control of Makulla. A truce was called through the intervention of the British resident at Aden, and the chief, or nakib, of Makulla was asked to pay the Shehr chief $5,000 yearly. Makulla agreed to the British diktat, but its chief was not keen to let his enemies, the Al Kaieti tribes, take over Broom. The port town was then forcibly taken over by the British and an agreement was signed between the Kaieti tribals and the British; this agreement bound all members of the Kaieti family “not to sell, mortgage or otherwise dispose of the least portion of the territories now or hereafter subject to the Kaitie family—​above all to any foreign power.”38 A second agreement made it obligatory for the Kaieti family to pay to the ousted nakib of Makulla, at the request of the British government, “such sum as they determine,” the necessary funds being made available by the payment of a lump sum (from $100,000 dollars available in the government treasury, controlled by the British), which was to be kept aside for the nakib.39 By intervening in Broom affairs, the British became the arbiter of disputes in what was basically Ottoman domain. This was a political gain that also carried with it the baggage of related problems. The followers of the deposed nakib of Makulla became a liability to the British. While the sultan of Zanzibar, Sayyid Bargash, offered 107

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refuge to the nakib and his family in his country, he did not want the nakib’s followers and slaves. And since it was dishonorable for an Arab to abandon his retinue, the nakib could not accept the invitation.40 As the British ship carrying this troupe—​which included about seven hundred people—​docked at Aden, the Bombay government panicked. It was determined not to let this Arab retinue disembark there. J.  B. Peile, the acting chief to the government of Bombay, was so eager to ship these people out of Aden that he suggested they be “shifted back in dhows to Makulla and the Jemadar told to protect them” until a home was found for them.41 Loch, also worried about the outbreak of cholera in the region, implemented a dispersion plan. He boarded the members of the retinue in eight buggalows and sent the fleet to anchor off Little Aden. The remaining followers of the nakib were moved to Huswah. Out of these, seventy were sent back to Makulla, twenty were allowed to remain in Aden, and 550 migrated on their own to Lahej. The sultan of Lahej welcomed them, as many of these men were good farmers. Others were slaves with families whose labor could also be used in farming; some slaves were also employed as soldiers. One hundred and fifty of the 550 followers entered Aden and dispersed. Of the settlement money left with the British by the chief of Shehr, the nakib was given Rs. 5,000 in cash. A sum of Rs. 16,500 of the settlement money had been used to pay for food for the retinue while they were docked in Aden. Loch took another Rs. 30,000 from the settlement money, in payment for six buggalows. He concluded that the remaining Rs. 166,000, if invested in the government, would give the nakib an income of Rs. 500 per month.42 Loch regretted that the nakib, in violation of his promise, had finally landed with a portion of his followers in Zanzibar—​much to the chagrin of the sultan.43 But he was confident that he would not let any help flow from the British side to the nakib. He enforced a blockade in the region to prevent the nakib of Makulla from obtaining any supplies and, what was more important, “to stop anyone landing especially Sayyid Fazl.”44 The temerity of the resident in intervening and hoisting a British flag in both Broom and Makulla after the truce was noted with ­disdain and alarm in the Arab press. News items protested his 108

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i­ ntervention, as these areas were part of Ottoman territory.45 They were particularly incensed when it was decided that in any future fights the resident at Aden would have the last word.46 The Arabic newspaper Burham, published in Alexandria, noted in its issue of 6 October 1881 that the British had seized Broom. It observed, “[The British] hoisted their flag there and at Makulla, where they store coal, although they are not ignorant of the rights of the Porte in the Arabian Peninsula which contains many Holy places consisting of the Hijaz.”47 The newspaper lamented that this was not the only instance of this kind. It regretted that “they have done many others like this, the remembrance of which brings burning in the heart.” It blamed the aggression on the resident and expressed its hope that the “English government [would] agree with [their] opinions and blame the resident for his interference in affairs in which he ha[d] no concern.” It appealed to the Porte to take notice of the resident’s actions and to pay heed to the governor of Makulla, who, it said, had “asked the Ottoman government with a ‘firman’ [for] a flag to be hoisted in this country.”48 The British officers remained alert to the “contingency of the Turkish flag being hoisted at Makulla and Broom.”49 As tempers flared, the Indian Arabs increasingly became key players in the imperial contestations around Shehr and Makulla. They dipped their fingers in these muddy waters and made the most of imperial fault lines. They played critical roles as middlemen brokers. Their actions established vast Muslim networks in the shadow of the imperial infrastructure. The Jang brothers had enabled the British to set foot on the fringes of Ottoman territory in the Arab Peninsular rim. But intervening in the Jangs’ affairs also put the British on the trail of another Indian Arab: Sayyid Fadl. Pursuing Sayyid Fadl allowed the British to enter into the politics of the gateway to Istanbul: the Hijaz. In 1881, it was widely believed in British circles that Sayyid Fadl—​ the Indian Arab the British had deported to the Hijaz in 1852 for inciting peasant rebellion in Malabar in southern India—​was in Istanbul. Indeed, he had been chosen by the Porte to be stationed at Makulla to counter British political sovereignty in that port town. Loch, the resident at Aden, reported in a letter to the Bombay 109

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­ overnment that he had news that the Porte had appointed Fadl as g governor of the Hadramawt region, in which Makulla and Shehr were located. Loch further noted that with an eye to assert its own power in the region through Fadl that the “Motasarif at Hodeida had been directed by the Moshir of Taiz to salute Sayyid Fadl on his arrival [t]here.”50 A series of telegraphs regarding Sayyid Fadl that were sent between the Aden residency and the government of India’s Foreign Department indicate the importance Britain attributed to the “little men” in imperial politics. Their movements were continuously tracked. Through telegraphs, Loch was in touch with merchants in Jeddah, who reported that Fadl was still in Istanbul. His son, located at Mecca, had said that his father would leave for the Hadramawt area only after “Haj Eid.”51 Loch was worried because at the same time it was rumored in Hodeidah that Fadl had actually left Istanbul for Yemen, “with instructions to enquire into the administration of that country and of the Hadraumat.” In another communication to the Bombay government, Loch reported that he also had heard that the Porte was in touch with Fadl via telegrams and was keeping him informed of political moves in the area. Loch indicated that Fadl had been “asked to halt at whatever place the telegram [might] reach him and there await further instruction.”52 C. Gonne, chief secretary to the government of Bombay, summed it up best: “The only orders at present given with reference to Sayyid Fadl are that in common with all others he shall not be permitted to land at either of the blockaded ports.”53

Sayyid Fadl (1824–1901) Sayyid Fadl, the outlawed fugitive Indian Arab, played the British and Ottoman rivalries to his advantage. His interesting life—​which took him into India, Arabia, and Turkey—​shows the significant role ethnically marked and legally stigmatized Muslim subjects could play in shaping British India’s relations both with its Muslim population as well as its European imperial rivals in Asia. It also reveals the vast networks such individuals could establish between empires, 110

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thereby making hollow the claims of these empires to have foolproof borders. Sayyid Fadl’s own son, Sayyid Ahmad Fadl, recorded the life and times of his father in an important book called Al-­Anwarul Nabwiyat­wal-­Asrar ul Ahadita (Light of Prophet and Secrets of Hadith). Expressing his deep desire to produce a written genealogy and history of his family, Sayyid Ahmad Fadl remarked that he was “keen to record the famous events (ahwal) of his father’s times so that they become part of history.”54 According to this biography, Sayyid Fadl Alawi ibn Sahl Pukoya Tangal (1824–1901) was born in Malabar in 1824. He was the son of Sayyid Alawi (1749–1843), who had migrated from the Hadramawt area into the Malabar region of southwest India at the age of seventeen. Sayyid Fadl’s father, Sayyid Alawi had joined the Alawiyya tariqa (a Sufi order) established in Malabar by two Alawi leaders, Muhammad Hamid al Djafri and Sheikh Hasan al Djafri. The Alawiyya tariqa originated outside Hadramawt in the Iraq region; from there migrants brought it to Tarim in southern Yemen. From Iraq the tariqa picked up the ideas of Prophetic descent and an organized Sufi way, and made them its defining features. Sayyid Ahmad Fadl offers a genealogy that traces the family to Imam Husain and his father, Hazrat Ali.55 To this were added the local customs, rituals, and the saint culture of Tarim. The Alawiyya tariqa thus constituted an amalgamation of traditions picked up in the course of its journey across the Middle Eastern world. It flowered in the mosques, shrines, music, and landscape of Tarim. As it came to be identified with Tarim, the region was slowly converted from the Alawis’ “destination,” as Enseng Ho has put it, “to the seat of their origin.”56 In the thirteenth century, the shifting of trade routes in the Indian Ocean from the Persian Gulf to the Red Sea area enabled the expansion of the Alawiyya tariqa out of Tarim into the larger trans­Asian diaspora. The shift to the Red Sea opened new trading zones, linking cities in fresh ways all the way from China to Europe. Significantly, the key players involved throughout the Asian areas of this route were Muslim merchants who operated from Muslim polities: Alexandria, Cairo, Jeddah, Aden, Cambay, Calicut, and Pasai.57 This route thus quickly became identified with Muslim merchants 111

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and states. Enseng Ho has shown that this transcultural Muslim ecumene and its cultural exchanges were crucial to the formation of the Alawi way both at home and in the diaspora. Trade links enabled the mobility of religious scholars and ideas as well.58 Scores of immigrants settled in India. But they continued to have contact with their homeland—​and not just hypothetically and genealogically but physically. For instance, some of them, like Sayyid Jifri or Jufri Tangal, returned to Arabia and became muftis in Mecca.59 It is along these networks of trade and ideas that the family of Sayyid Fadl thrived. They bridged these routes and made careers as transcultural men who manipulated the politics of this trans-­Asian world. The family represented one of the many cases of Hadrami religious men who moved to India during the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries to become teachers and scholars of the Shafi jurisprudence. The Zamorin welcomed them, and many set up institutions of learning in Malabar even as they maintained their ties with their home. Indeed, many received honorific titles—​like tangal—​f rom the Zamorin and rose to positions of high status in local society.60 Fadl’s father, Sayyid Alawi, headed the tariqa in Malabar after the death of the founders, the Alawi brothers. Sayyid Alawi is considered one of the greatest saints of Malabar due to his learning, piety, and miraculous deeds. He was also the founder of many mosques in Ernad and Walluvanad. His shrine at Mambram became a site of pilgrimage and rituals that ranged from individuals being blessed as shahids (martyrs) after an act of violence to being celebrated once they had died in the cause of Islam.61 The shrine soon became a pilgrimage site, and the Fadl family its patron saint. Presiding over its many rituals gave the Fadl family a level of authority akin to that of the local clergy—​t he ulema. Sayyid Fadl was thus born into this religiously influential family.62 As an adult, he was quick to use these contacts to politically mobilize Muslim peasants to violent yet religiously sanctified protest against their British-­supported Hindu landlords.63 In 1852, the Indian government, on the recommendation of Malabar commissioners Henry Conolly and Thomas L. Strange, deported Fadl to the Hijaz. He was so penalized for allegedly having incited Muslim peasants to violent protest against the British land tenure system 112

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and its beneficiaries, the Hindu landlords. Later Fadl was also accused of being complicit in the murder of Conolly.64 In the Hijaz and later at Istanbul, he thrived on a huge trans-­Asiatic network of contacts. He is identified in British records as the “Moplah rebel,” an “outlawed fanatic,” and a “seditious wahabi.” He nurtured the political ambition of becoming the independent ruler of Dhofar, a semi-­independent region in southwest Arabia whose tribes accepted the political sovereignty of the sultan of Muscat. This brought him in close contact with the Ottoman government, which he hoped would support him with an eye on extending its own control in southwest Arabia. These plans predictably brought him into confrontation with the British, who viewed his involvement in the area as an Ottoman ploy to challenge their hold in southwest Arabia. Caught at the cusp of two imperial rivals, Fadl made it his career to play on their fears, phobias, and political ambitions. His career blossomed because it corresponded with a new phase of trans-­Asian tension among imperial powers: Britain, the Ottomans, and Russia. In the late nineteenth century, the pre−Crimean War (1856) bonhomie between the British and the Ottomans was fading and giving way to anti-­Ottoman sentiment in London. The defeat of Russia in the Crimean war considerably lessened what had been the escalating Russophobia in British minds, and thereby decreased the political relevance of the Ottoman Empire. For many years the Ottomans had been British allies, mainly because the British feared the Russians. The Ottomans were seen as a bulwark against Russian expansion. The loss of a key European ally was bad enough for the Ottomans, but worse was to follow on the domestic front. The late nineteenth­century tanzimat reforms that aimed to find a place for the Ottoman Empire as a “secular” polity in the league of European nations triggered a serious backlash. Both in the core as well as on the fringes of the empire the removal of religion from government and the intro­ ­duction of uniform laws and equality for all gave rise to ethnic nationalisms and upheavals that pitted bureaucrats (the Porte) against the imperial court (the sultan).65 Both the internal and external problems fragmented the central administration. This led to corruption, as decentralization, coupled with weakened institutions, enhanced the power of governors and 113

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military commanders in the outlying provinces of the Balkans, Anatolia, Syria, and Egypt. As the economic crisis loomed, the tussle between the bureaucrats and the imperial court intensified. Riveted by internal and external problems, the Ottoman gaze shifted sharply from its core Levant area to the Arabian Peninsula and the Persian Gulf. Much of this area had always been under the indirect governance of the Ottomans—​left to local governors (sheriffs) with little central control and scant official attention. But if the opening of the Suez Canal in 1865 made the area very attractive to European and Asian powers, the Ottomans too turned to it for their own advantage. This region attracted their attention more than before as they battled the conservative backlash at the core and ethnic nationalisms in the eastern European part of their empire. This new arena of imperial contestation became what we might call a dealing ground for Fadl, who was above all a transcultural broker. He used the Ottoman and British tensions to further his ends. While he tried to negotiate the best deal for himself with these trans-­Asian imperial rivals, they saw him as a transcultural broker and middleman whose wide networks and contacts they could tap to further their ends. In the process Fadl became an important ­t ranscultural figure whose career and writings embodied the larger trans-­Asian ramifications that Indian outlaws could bring to politics. He wrote some nineteen tracts in Arabic during the course of his lifetime. These ranged from religious ones, to political exhortations in support of the caliph, to ones more socially embracive that were written to glorify the Alawiyya Sufi tariqa. In other words, his writings reflected the wide canvas of his operations. Thus the two texts he wrote while in Malabar, The Fundamentals of Islam and Learning to Avoid Unbelievers, reflected his purist and exclusionist beliefs that sanctified the kind of violence that he was inciting at that period in Malabar.66 Later works written from Istanbul on the Alawi tariqa and his father’s miracles were more inclusive. Out of these two, the Tarikat al-­Hanifa (first edition published circa 1878; second edition published 1899) and Tanbih al-­Ukala (1881) are more politically opportunist. Located in Istanbul, where he enjoyed royal patronage, he refers to Abd-­al Hamid II as the caliph of Islam. In Tanbih 114

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al-­Ukala, at the bottom of each of the first eighteen pages he cites two traditions about the need to obey the caliph. He states, “Whoever despises the Sultan is despised by God. Whoever betrays the Sultan is betrayed by God.” In the margin on page 13 he says that to “obey Sultan Abdul Hamid is religiously necessary for he is the Caliph of God on earth.”67

The “Runaway Arab” as the Transcultural Broker In separate studies, Stephen Dale, K. N. Pannikar, and Conrad Wood have focused on Sayyid Fadl’s Indian career in the Malabar district of modern-­day Kerala (1824–1852). They see Fadl more in the mold of a pan-­Islamic visionary who, like Jamaluddin Afghani in north India, had a focused anti-­British stand based on a pan-­Islamic ideal.68 These studies see both him and the British commissioners who evicted him from India, Henry Conolly and Thomas L. Strange, as being single minded in their agendas: the latter saw Fadl as the disrupter of peace, and the former was convinced that his agenda was to uproot the British-­supported Hindu landlords and land tenures in Malabar. Fadl’s career after 1852, when the Indian government deported him to the Hijaz (from where he moved to Istanbul), reveals that his mission was not that simplistic. Fadl’s pan-­Islam was neither simply Muslim welfare oriented nor merely caliph fixated, anticolonial, and anti-­European. It was also not necessarily linked to any exclusive identity at cross-­purposes with territorial nationalism.69 Ayesha Jalal has compellingly established that pan-­Islam and territorial nationalism coexisted, as in the case of Afghani.70 But brokers like Fadl moved beyond these issues to embed their pan-­Islamic activism and identity in trans-­Asian networks that derived from imperial politics and commerce. Fadl built a symbiotic relationship between trans-­Asian European empires and the Muslim cosmopolis. Examin­ ­ing his career enables us to move beyond thinking of the cultural empire of Muslims and Western political and commercial empires in terms of a simple dichotomy. The Asiatic careers of transimperial subjects like Fadl show that the wide contacts that these men had in various Muslim societies across Asia were neither consistently 115

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anti-­European nor territorially patriotic. These men were also not exclusivist to the extent of advocating the establishment of a universal caliphate.71 Bereft of any explicit political agenda (such as ­promoting territorial nationalism or Muslim universalism) and oper­ ­ating totally within a late nineteenth-­century historical context of imperial rivalries, such men were at best opportunistic. They effectively embedded their international relations within those of imperial powers in order to carve out a trans-­Asiatic niche for themselves. Thus Fadl made the most of the tensions generated both within and between “modern” empires as large parts of Asia came under European colonial influence. Like most individuals coping with the European presence, Fadl too tapped into the Muslim normative theory that privileged the caliph as the temporal and spiritual head. Indeed, his fellow Hadramis displaced from their homeland had tended to lean on Ottoman help to legitimize their hold on foreign soil. Michael Laffan has shown how Hadramis in colonial Indonesia leaned increasingly on the Ottoman caliph to create a niche for themselves in Indonesian Muslim society. They needed the caliphal shoulder as they were marginalized as “foreign Orientals” both by the Dutch and by local Muslims, who were not impressed by their claims to Arab sayyid superiority.72 Fadl too used the caliph in similar self-­aggrandizing ways. Unlike theorists and intellectuals who combined territorial nationalism with Islamic universalism to fight imperialism, Fadl remained noncommittal to both. He moved across the Muslim world from Acheh to Morocco, Egypt, Hijaz, and Turkey, tapping not just the normative imaginary of Muslim subjects but playing also on similar sentiments of Asian rulers—​like the caliph—​who had huge political ambitions. Indeed, he played with the global ambitions of Britain as well when he urged it to step in as the overseer of Muslims. Thus Fadl tuned his own individually driven international relations to those of “modern” empires and carved out a vast trans-­Asiatic ecumene. The transimperial cosmopolis that he carved out flourished because imperial powers depended heavily on his networks. Indeed, they leaned on him because he could be an asset to their diplomatic 116

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maneuvering—​a skill that he himself perfected at the consulates. Indeed, his role as a professional broker ensured that Fadl, despite being stigmatized as a “fanatic” and an “outlaw” by the British commissioners in Malabar, was never completely discarded by them. They realized his potential and leaned on him heavily to navigate the politics of the transimperial Muslim world empires that he very aptly represented. Similarly, the Ottoman government—​at a time when it was in the midst of serious domestic upheavals brought on by the financial crisis—​was keen to use him as its agent to negotiate its international relations. Fadl’s career and his amazing trans-­ Asiatic contacts reflect the operation of a Muslim cosmopolis that was propped up on trans-­Asiatic networks of diplomacy, brokerage, kinship, and the profits of trade. The intellectual underpinning of this grid lay in the Arab version of Islam that venerated the holy texts as well as in people who were linked to the sacred genealogy of the Prophet and who had contacts in the sacred geography of Arabia. This intellectual underpinning was not simplistically caliph-­centric. Fadl’s slippery movements across Asia were successful because he moved beyond the caliph to seek help for his Asian careering. As Ayesha Jalal has shown, there never was any consensus on recognizing the caliph as the undisputed head of the Islamic umma.73 Indeed, his status, even in normative Muslim thought, became increasingly ambiguous, as traffic to his territories increased and Muslims experienced hardships under his rule. As colonial regimes improved travel as well as contact between Muslim subjects and the Hijaz and Istanbul, Muslims’ hopes that the caliph would become a global leader were dashed. And the inability of the caliph to match up to the expectations—​indeed, the fantasies—​of Muslims provided the perfect vacuum that career middlemen like Fadl rushed to fill. Fadl tapped into the international relations of imperial powers and used their networks and strategies rather than looking to the caliph for help. In the late nineteenth century, the Arabian Peninsula was an ideal ground for runaways like Fadl for other reasons as well. In this period, the Ottoman gaze had shifted away from the Levant and toward the Arabian lands. Sultan Abd-­al Hamid II (1876–1908), after his success in the Russo-­Turkish war, turned his back to the 117

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West and concentrated on Asia as a new arena in which to realize his political ambitions. Faced with the conservative reaction to the “secularizing” tanzimat reforms, and the loss of territory to European powers later in the century, he made the caliphate and “back to Islam” the pillars of his rule. By promoting himself as the center of religious-­political authority for Muslims throughout the world, he hoped to entice Muslim subjects of European powers to recognize his authority. He turned his political gaze to the Hijaz, and in particular to its neighboring Ottoman territories, and to Istanbul—​ important sites for these Muslim subject populations. And as these Muslim subjects of European regimes became the focus of Fadl’s attention, he hoped that the regimes would be cautious in their policies toward the Ottomans. The diversion of the Ottoman gaze into Asia was not good news for either the British or the Dutch colonial regimes. The opening of the Suez Canal in 1869 had made this region attractive to European powers. Predictably, the area soon became a hotbed of imperial tensions and competing political sovereignties. It was here that the European powers, the Ottomans, and the Arabian polities competed over “Muslim subjects,” seeking to showcase their benevolence for Muslims globally and to earn dividends locally. In addition, the Indian Muslim population in the area drew the interest of the Indian government to the Arabian Peninsula. Ironically, Fadl proved to be an asset in Britain’s imperial politics in the region. Fadl’s “outlawed” status notwithstanding, he was a highly prized “Mahomedan subject” and “Indian Arab” whose transimperial profile and wide influence was both despised and used by the British. His many trans-­Asian contacts—​located across the region from Acheh in Indonesia, to India, to Morocco, and to Istanbul—​made him an ideal “subject” over whom Ottoman and British political sovereignties and contested claims of “responsibility” for Britain’s Muslim subjects could be both tested and showcased. At the same time, Sayyid Fadl, well aware of the imperial contest over his identity, subjecthood, and transcultural reach, made the most of his unique context. He furthered his career and became the independent ruler of Dhofar and maintained his administration, exploit­ ­ing the trans-­Asian imperial rivalries over him. When eventually 118

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ousted from Dhofar, he played an even more central role as a broker. In this capacity, he often assumed greater significance than the consular staff, who were constrained by ethical codes of conduct. Fadl’s extraterritorial ties had yet greater influence, for they put in place a vast network that was later open to use by a range of ideologues across Asia.

Sayyid Fadl as the Ruler of Dhofar In 1876, Sayyid Fadl occupied Dhofar and declared himself its ruler, claiming the sanction of the Ottoman government for his rule. Dhofar was a tract of country in Hadramawt, in Yemen, not far from Shehr where, as we have seen, Fadl had played the role of a mediator.74 Dhofar exemplified how the trans-­Asian networks worked, with myriad players that ranged from imperial powers to tribal chiefs. Sayyid Fadl’s remarkable journey—​born and brought up in a Malabar Sufi family of Arab descent and rising to become an independent ruler of an Arabian principality, a leader who commanded respect in both Meccan and Istanbul high society—​was enabled by the connections he forged early on between British and Ottoman societies. And he established these connections using imperial networks as well as his religious and kinship ties. Ironically, the imperial rivals—​Britain, which claimed him as her subject; the Ottoman government; and Mecca, the fulcrum of spiritual power—​were all complicit in building Fadl’s exceptional political career. He first acquired power in the region by taking advantage of tribal feuds in which he intervened on the invitation of one faction—​t he Al Ghurrah—​to “settle” matters. He had met his hosts at Mecca, where the haj pilgrimage was a meeting point not just for spiritual camaraderie but also for sorting out political matters.75 Loch, the political resident at Aden, later expressed the view that Fadl had used his Sayyid descent and his Sufi spiritual upbringing to make himself appealing and credible in the eyes of the local tribes, even though he was an outsider. At the same time, Fadl’s propaganda about his alleged proximity to the Porte and their approval of his political ambition reinforced the popular impression that he was a 119

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man of influence in the region. Loch in fact had wanted a British vessel to dock near Dhofar so that the people who had been “deceived” into believing him would get a real sense of how the world outside regarded him.76 Loch’s misgivings notwithstanding, Fadl consolidated his hold by playing politics with the feuding tribes in the region. He used the people of Dhofar to fight the Garah Bedouins of the interior. He also extended his influence over the Mahrah tribes for a considerable distance westward. He ruled over the entire Al Ghurrah tribe, which was located between Daurghot to the west and Rasmus to the east. Inland, about three days’ journey from the coast, there were about 3,500 members of this tribe who also acknowledged him as their ruler. The Al Kathiris, numbering about 2,000, in the northern frontier of the Al Ghurrah, also acknowledged his rule. But the independent Al Kathiri tribe, with about 3,000 members and occupying the country up to the confines of Soor, did not acknowledge him. He had no contact with the tribes eastward of Dhofar. The Bedouins did not acknowledge him either.77 Once he consolidated his hold in the region, he made the town of Salahah his capital. Dhofar had immense agricultural potential. The area produced gum, olibanum, myrrh, aloe, and cotton. The annual production of olibanum was valued at $30,000. Dhofar also produced wheat, bajri, jowari, and pulse sufficient for the wants of the people. But expertise was needed to exploit it to the fullest. Fadl tried to use his trans-­ Asian contacts to do just that. For instance, the country had an abundance of rubber trees but no one who knew how to make rubber. Fadl asked his wazir, Sayyid Abdal Rehman bin Hosain bin Sahl, to go to British India and bring back people who knew the procedures for the manufacture of rubber. Similarly, eager to earn commercial profits, he sent his wazir to Bombay to urge the British government in India to send their steamers to dock at his ports once a month as they moved from Aden to Bombay. He was also happy to negotiate with European companies for these benefits. And as an inducement for the British agent at Aden to agree to this arrangement, he said that if the amount of freight on each shipload of cargo did not amount to $200, he would pay that sum regardless. And in the event 120

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of the freight exceeding that amount, all of it would be paid to the shipping company.78 Indeed, D. F. Carmichael, the chief secretary to the government of Madras, reported that he had information that Fadl was “turning his attention to the useful development of the resources of the country [Malabar].” He had obtained specimens of minerals as well as manufactured products from Malabar, articles such as “stone axes, coconut scrapers, arrow root cloth etc.” Carmichael was happy with this development and in fact felt that “it was quite unnecessary and indeed undesirable that he should be disturbed.”79 Fadl relied on profits from trade at the harbors that dotted Dhofar. He charged an ad valorem duty of 5 percent on all imports and exports at each of the ports. There were about sixty civil and military persons scattered in various villages who acted as tax collectors.80 It was also reported to Loch that even though people resented paying this tax they paid because, as he put it, the “Sayid [was] considered a learned man” in the area.81 Indeed, Fadl’s wazir always referred to him as a “saint” and a “holy person, especially when he was urging someone to pay heed to him.82 Fadl loved to play on the “holy man” card. He relied on various versions of Islam for state-­building. Indeed, he used it as it suited him best to further his temporal ambitions. Thus in 1877 when he found that people were suffering from a scarcity of food, rising prices, and economic hardships because of the spread of a fatal disease in the cattle and because of drought conditions, he explained it to the people in religious terms. He said that had they paid the two and a half percent alms in accordance with the precepts of the Koran they would have been saved from these troubles. Using this religious card, he went on to benefit economically as he began collecting alms from the people. The use of this religious ploy also helped him stall the march of some of the distressed who were looking toward the sultan of Muscat to come and rescue them.83 Following the Islam of the Koran and the Hadith to the letter, Fadl ended up imposing on the people a very austere and monist form of Islam—​ associated with the Naqshbandiya Sufi order in India—​which offered no space for alternative modalities like magic and sorcery. Thus in 1878 some eighty individuals of the Al Ghurrah tribe—​ 121

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Fadl’s main supporter—​were imprisoned on charges of practicing magic. In accordance with the narrow juridical interpretation of Islamic law, they were put to torture until they confessed.84 Fadl faced tribal opposition, very much like the case of the more famous Naqshbandi Sufi warrior of the northwest frontier—​Sayyid Ahmad Shahid—​who earned the wrath of the frontier tribes once he began to impose on them his monist Islam−driven political culture. Indeed, the Al Ghurrah—​to this point his hosts and loyal supporters—​were so incensed by the torture of their members on charges of practicing magic that they revolted. A few of their leaders assembled at Morbah and arranged a meeting of the tribe at Thakah. They agreed to test the waters by committing small outrages in order to ascertain if any steps would be taken to prevent such acts. First they killed some twenty to thirty head of cattle, which went unnoticed. Finally, they took the extreme step of slaying one of Fadl’s she-­camels. Fadl was sufficiently provoked and clamped down on them heavily.85 Again, very much as with Sayyid Ahmad Shahid, antagonism with the tribals also developed because Fadl began to interfere in their tribal political economy. Thus, for instance, at the heart of his conflicts with the Al Ghurrah tribe was the digging of a canal in order to water his fields. This meant diverting a river to his advantage. The angry Al Ghurrah tribe rebelled, as their lands were deprived of water supply. They were suppressed. But Fadl never again dared to reopen the channel for fear of provoking their anger.86 However, despite the reaction of the Al Ghurrah tribe, Fadl did not meet the same brutal fate as Sayyid Ahmad Shahid of the northwest frontier.87 This was largely because Fadl played on his trans-­ Asian contacts, his loose idea of an extraterritorial grid, which in this case encompassed his propaganda about the support he had from the Porte as well as his friendly overtures to the British. And thus tribes like the Al Kathiris stood by him. The Al Kathiri tribals were smaller in number than the Al Ghurrah. They thus allied themselves with Fadl out of self-­interest and supported him. They remained steadfast in their support because he had convinced them that he had the support of the Porte.88 However, the clash of the 122

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tribal notions of temporal power with those upheld by Fadl became Fadl’s ultimate undoing. His reliance on his extraterritorial contacts also backfired. The rival tribal chiefs looked to imperial powers in the region to garner support against Fadl. Since he had flaunted the idea that he had Ottoman support, they turned to Britain’s ally, the sultan of Muscat, to protect them from Fadl’s atrocities. They hoped to cash in on British-­Ottoman rivalries to further their ends. The chief of the Al Kathiri tribe, Awadh Bin Abdulla Sayid Bin Mobarak ul Shamfari ul Kathiri, appealed to Loch’s translator, Saleh Jaffer, for help. He detailed Fadl’s atrocities toward the Al Kathiris and how they in turn had dethroned him and driven him away. But Awadh Bin Abdulla said he was afraid of Fadl’s Ottoman connections and feared his return. He wanted the British to send them a cannon, a gunner, ammunition, powder, lead, and some money so that they might defend themselves and their subjects. He said that the English would obtain a reward from God for these “favors they would do to the Musalmans.”89 The sultan of Muscat was always willing to play upon any fears the tribal chiefs had about Fadl’s huge trans-­Asian influence, especially with regard to the Porte. He never failed to remind the chiefs about his misconduct in Malabar, his lies and deceptions and his expulsion from India because of his conduct. The sultan reiterated that Fadl’s “present doings [were] in accordance with his habits.” With these warnings he once again affirmed that Dhofar and its people were under his protection.90 In 1879, when Fadl was on one of his many trips to Istanbul, some local chiefs urged the sultan of Muscat to move into Dhofar. He obliged. And this resulted in Fadl’s formal expulsion from his kingdom.91 Soon after, the sultan of Muscat swiftly moved in his people and put in place his administration. He sent two officers to Dhofar to assist the sheikh in restoring order. One of them, Suleiman bin Sowey, was to remain at Dhofar as vali (governor), of course with the approval of the chiefs.92 He was later replaced by another man, Mussullim bin Bedwee, who was familiar with Dhofar, having lived there earlier. The new vali was asked by the sultan to undo the damages inflicted on the tribals by Fadl. These included reduction of custom duties, repair of irrigation canals for the use of the people, 123

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and the utilization of the collected revenue in Dhofar, rather than being remitted to Muscat.93 The expulsion made Fadl a permanent fixture in Istanbul. Once located in the city, he exploited the global aspirations of Sultan Abd-­al Hamid II to be regarded as the caliph of the Muslim world. He tailored his international relations to that of both Britain and the Ottomans to further his interests. At the same time he never stopped cashing in on his high sayyid status and kinship ties to spread his net far and wide.94

Sayyid Fadl’s Cosmopolis Premodern Asian empires (Russia, Ottoman, and Mughal) had ambassadors posted in each other’s courts to maintain diplomatic ties. At the same time their news writers—​t he akhbar nawis—​fanned out in society and kept their ears to the ground so that they could report on a range of matters to their parent courts.95 In the nineteenth century, benign court ambassadors gave way to European and British consuls and vice consuls with special rights and privileges, as the “modern” empires reworked international relations within new norms of responsibility and accountability. In this period of heightened trans-­Asian commercial and political contact—​contacts mediated by Europeans—​special amnesties or favors had to be offered to facilitate economic and political cooperation. This was the “capitulatory era” of favors granting economic, commercial, judicial, and per­ ­sonal liberties to foreign nationals who traveled, traded, and resided in the vast trans-­Asiatic Ottoman, Russian, and Indian territories. Consuls soon began to give away these rights and privileges to their protégés. The protégés served as guardians, governors, and judges of their consular districts.96 The British consulates assumed fresh significance in Ottoman territories like the Hijaz, where British and European Muslim ­subjects from South and Southeast Asia milled around on a daily basis, formed permanent enclaves, and congregated in large numbers annually for the haj. The consulates emerged as critical sites where the Ottoman, Arabian, and European empires competed over 124

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Muslim subjects, each using these subjects to reveal a new, benevolent face to the world. This was a way to dent each other’s political sovereignty. At the same time, the consuls acquired immense political powers, engaging in surveillance and espionage, as the pilgrim traffic to the Hijaz made the region “suspect” in the European imagination as a place of anti-­West “sedition” and “intrigue.” They carried on political espionage by hiring Muslim vice consuls and dragomans.97 Britain had a range of consuls and vice consuls scattered all over the Hijaz, Aden, and Istanbul. It spent vast amounts of money in maintaining them and their network of agents—​t he dragomans. These were interpreters and translators who were often locally recruited and who operated through their contacts across trans-­ Asia. They protected British interests and aided the administration in non-­British territory. But these middlemen also played an important role in projecting the benevolent face of the government to the Muslim population in India. Thus in 1882 when Abdur Razzack was appointed vice consul at Jeddah he was seen as a multiedged sword. The creation of the new position of the vice consul itself was meant to showcase British concern “in providing protection and aid to its Muslim subjects performing pilgrimage to holy places of Arabia.” The appointment of a “trustworthy” Muslim to that post further underlined the trust that Britain placed in its Muslim subjects.98 But Muslim vice consuls were also tools via which “trustworthy information” about global Muslim networks was tapped and “public opinion” molded. The secretary to the government of India clarified to Razzack the nature of his job as follows: “Her majesty’s Consul at Jeddah to whom you will be subordinate may wish to avail himself of your assistance in obtaining trustworthy information regarding the course of affairs and of public opinion in Mecca and neighboring places.”99 Vice Consul Zohrab’s report on the establishment of the consulate at Jeddah laid out the priorities of this office. He enumerated his duties as being both political and commercial in nature. They included suppressing the slave trade and assisting and protecting Muslim subjects on pilgrimage. But it was his political duties that he unabashedly privileged. Predictably, these centered on surveillance 125

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of runaway Muslim “fanatics” and mutineers, all of whom, according to Zohrab, had found refuge in the Hijaz. He wrote: “The Hijaz harbors many men who having become obnoxious to the government of their own countries have sought refuge in the province. Many of the mutinous of 1857 escaped in this manner the punishment they merited. These political refugees should be all discovered and their activities and movements watched.”100 The diplomatic privileges enjoyed by the vice consuls were bound within certain rules and ethics related to extraterritoriality and accountability. Thus, for instance, Zohrab clarified that he had to work within the parameters of the sheriff of Jeddah’s administrative rights and privileges. He observed: “The Consul had to be in constant correspondence with high sheriff since his correspondence bears more of a political character. To watch the actions and movements of suspected persons who have made the hijaz home. And to watch course of events in his province which besides being under a dual government is disaffected and is attached to the rest of the Empire by a thread so weak that the slightest shock will sever it.”101 In contrast, the politics of a broker, such as Sayyid Fadl, appeared remarkably seamless and free from responsibilities and accountability. And this immediately made Fadl an asset to imperial actors even though the political rhetoric that defined him as a “fanatic” and “outlaw” continued. This was more than evident in the first few British reactions to Fadl’s meteoric rise. A Khojah merchant (from the western coast of India) who traveled the trans-­Asian grid that stretched across India, Afghanistan, the Arabian Peninsula, North and East Africa, and Istanbul visited Dhofar in 1876. He reported to the translator of the political agent at Aden on the excellent administration of Sayyid Fadl. He was struck by the remarkable administration of justice in Dhofar that was dispensed by Fadl’s son Saleh with ease. Commenting on the popularity of Fadl within Dhofar, as well as his wide influence and outreach, he said that one faction of the feuding tribal chieftains of Dhofar had met Fadl in Mecca while on pilgrimage and had invited him to “settle the district.” He noted that Fadl also indicated to him his wide transimperial contacts: Fadl had said that even though he had no idea why the British government was always inquiring about 126

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him, he did know that he had the sanction of the Ottoman sultan for his new administration.102 This report on Fadl, which represented him as the independent ruler of Dhofar operating with Ottoman sanction, created alarm in British circles. The Foreign Department at Simla urged the secretary of state for India to confirm with the Porte if Fadl’s claim was correct. W. F. Prideaux, the political resident in the Persian Gulf, conveyed to the government the sultan of Muscat’s counterclaims regarding Fadl’s status in Dhofar. Even though Prideaux himself was not convinced about Muscat’s claims, he was nevertheless appalled at the temerity of one of their “outlawed” subjects in becoming an independent ruler in southern Arabia.103 It is significant that it is from this moment of Fadl’s self-­proclaimed independence that British records dropped the “Moplah priest” identifier and begin to refer to Fadl as a “dangerous wahabi,” a “dangerous fanatic,” and an “outlaw.” Indeed, Prideaux found him more despicable than the “Wahabis” when he said that Fadl, “whose tenets go far beyond Wahabeeism, and whose aims and views are, if I may use the expression, those of an ‘irreconcilable’ to Christianity and British rule, cannot but prove prejudicial to British interests in south Arabia.”104 And yet so significant and crucial was the role of middlemen like Fadl that Prideaux was against any move that would antagonize permanently the “dangerous fanatic.” He therefore negated and questioned all claims of the sultan of Muscat and urged the government of India to move cautiously and refrain from aiding the sultan of Muscat in reestablishing his suzerainty over Dhofar. In 1877, he wrote: “The presence of the Moplah priest Sayyid Fadhl in that district is objectionable for many reasons; but the influence of that religious leader will probably expire with his life; while the troubles attendant on the sovereignty of Muscat being involved with the rights of the Chiefs of Hadramant would in all likelihood be ­perennial . . . ​[ The chiefs] would probably resent any active efforts on the part of Sayyid Turki to assert dominion over them.”105 In 1877, the Foreign Department informed Marquess of Salisbury, the secretary of state for India, that they saw no reason why they should support the claims of the sultan of Muscat over Dhofar.106 127

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And yet Loch, the political resident at Aden, wanted some action in the form of stationing a British vessel near Dhofar so that the tribes Fadl had deceived into believing in his widespread influence would begin to doubt his claims. Loch was of the opinion that British pressure on the Porte to clarify their stand on Fadl would also help dent Fadl’s authority, call his bluff, and “go far toward checking the formation of a hotbed of religious fanaticism—​strongly imbued with intensely inimical feelings toward the British government in India.”107 Loch understood very well that Fadl had developed his trans-­Asiatic contacts and legitimated his rule in Dhofar by his dependence on imperial networks. Loch wanted to send a signal to Fadl’s clientele that Fadl’s claim of wielding clout with the British was unfounded. He thus always declined to respond to Fadl’s requests for help on the seas against Ottoman ships. By track­ ­ing his movements and proposing to station a government vessel in the neighborhood of Dhofar, Loch hoped, as he put it, to “undeceive the Arabs of Dhofar and Morbat regarding the position held outside of Arabia by their self elected ruler.”108 Indeed, C. V. Aitchison, secretary in the Foreign Department, went a step further and thought even the stationing of a British vessel would add to Fadl’s self-­proclaimed status and importance in imperial politics. He suggested that it would be good if the resident at Aden from time to time were to let the Arab tribes know, as he stated in a letter, that “the British Government can hold no communication with an outlaw from British territories, who, if he were to return, would be liable to detention as a prisoner.”109 Luckily for Loch and Aitchison, a tribal uprising in Dhofar, supported, as we noted earlier, by the sultan of Muscat, resulted in Fadl’s eviction from the region a few years later. British misgivings of him notwithstanding, neither Fadl nor the imperial powers were willing to sever relations with each other. Indeed, they lived a mutually beneficial existence, relying on each other in their efforts to dig their heels deep into trans-­Asian politics. If Fadl’s ecumene depended on imperial politics, the fact that “modern” empires were leaning on him was equally striking. Indeed, the dynamics of imperial politics, and particularly those between Britain, Russia, and the Ottomans, shaped the career of Fadl in no 128

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small measure. After all, he lived during the post−1856 Crimean War period when British attitudes toward the Ottomans had shifted from friendship to antagonism; as discussed above, anti-­Turkey sentiment had escalated in London because of diminished Russophobia following the Russian defeat at Crimea. The loss of this key European ally went hand in hand with the tanzimat reforms of the period. These were intended to get the empire good press and allies in Europe by uniting the empire around a nondenominational “secular” and inclusive ideology, one that emphasized being Ottoman rather than Muslim. A universal law and equality for Muslims and non-­Muslims were the cornerstones of this new identity—​as was the idea of integrating an older form of constitutionalism, as reflected in the effort to consult community leaders in decision making. The tanzimat reforms had their shortfalls: they triggered ethnic nationalisms in the peripheries of the empire and added fresh dynamics to the already fragile link between the Ottoman center and the periph­ ­ery. They threatened also the religious lobby, which demanded Islamic constitutionalism with Islamic jurisprudence at the center of any uniform law. This internal turmoil was compounded not just by the loss of Britain as an ally but also by the additional need to combat Britain’s increasing influence, especially after the 1869 opening of the Suez Canal in what were Ottoman fringes: Yemen and the Persian Gulf and southern rim of the Arabian Peninsula. These areas, already seething with ethnic nationalisms or at the least influenced by them, offered a fertile ground for British intervention. Indeed, internal and external pressures created a vicious cycle of problems. The fear of Britain gave legitimacy to rulers like Abd-­al Hamid II who wanted to bring back Islam as a uniting force and to undo the progress brought about by the reforms. In the 1880s, Abd-­al Hamid II brought back Islam as a legitimating ideology to check the rising tide of ethnic nationalism. He hyped the pan-­Islam card and used it to unite the empire. This back-­to-­Islam propaganda suggested that Ottoman power should lean on caliphal authority rather than on economic or political might. This imagined political significance of the caliph had more takers outside the Ottoman Empire than within it. Particularly susceptible were the British and Europeans. Indeed, 129

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Abd-­al Hamid II played and manipulated British fears of a globally embracive caliph to further his own political ambition.110 Sayyid Fadl’s career as a transcultural middleman was framed in this larger trans-­Asian context, when the Ottoman gaze was shifting away from the Levant and into the hitherto peripheral areas of empire: the Arab Peninsula and the Persian Gulf areas. This brought it into a head-­on collision with British political ambitions in the region. Fadl developed his international career in this imperial interstice. He played imperial tensions to his advantage. Even when he was living in Istanbul (after his expulsion from Dhofar), he maintained his contact with the British resident in the city. In 1880, the British resident in Istanbul, in a letter to the Marquess of Salisbury, reported his meeting with Sayyid Fadl and made note of the friendly overtures Fadl had made toward the British. In fact, Fadl had said that he was desirous of establishing commercial relations between Dhofar and India and in drawing British shipping to his ports. But most noteworthy was his praise of the British government in India as an exemplar of the “respect” and “justice and protection” it offered to the Muslims.111 Fadl said he brought to the notice of the Ottoman sultan the British niceties and familiarized him with the efficient redress mechanisms for Muslims that operated in India. He urged the sultan to follow the British model in Istanbul. It has been argued that such overtures by Fadl were meant to please the British so that they could help him reclaim Dhofar.112 But his political ambitions far exceeded the control of Dhofar. Fadl was playing the part of a transimperial broker. This promised huge dividends in the age of imperial rivalries—​an age when the caliph, Abd-­al Hamid II, nurtured global aspirations and projected himself as the sole custodian of Muslim interests. This brought him into direct conflict with Britain, which had its own global appetite. The fact that Fadl was consciously playing on these imperial tension zones was clear as he made his overtures to the British from Istanbul. In Istanbul, Fadl sought political legitimacy for his rule in Dhofar from the Ottoman caliph. Fadl had in fact come to Istanbul after his ouster from Dhofar to renew a farman that would legitimate his authority in his kingdom and bring him firmly under Turkish political sovereignty.113 He was also in need of additional 130

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troops—​which he hoped to get from the Ottomans—​in order to manage his affairs effectively in his kingdom. But that did not stop him from complaining to the British ambassador at Istanbul about the Omani governor at Dhofar who had hoisted the Ottoman “red flag with a crescent.” Playing on the anti-­Ottoman sentiment of the ambassador, Fadl asked for his help to recapture Dhofar and fly “the national flag of Dhofar, green with a pentagonal centre.”114 According to Fadl, this was the best way to counter the red flag. Again, even while he leaned on the British, he relied also on Ottoman support to reoccupy Dhofar. He egged on the Ottomans to help him as a way of reclaiming their own political sovereignty, which they had lost to the British puppet—​t he sultan of Muscat—​who now presided over Dhofar. In 1886, with the tacit approval of the Ottoman caliph, Fadl attempted to reconquer Dhofar. This campaign was led by Fadl’s son Sayyid Muhammad Fadl. He tailored his father’s policy of cultivating international relations to the global aspirations of the Ottomans so as to expand his trans-­Asiatic networks. He used both the imperial networks as well as his father’s influence in the upper echelons of power in Istanbul to spread out his political ambit toward Dhofar. According to T. S. Jago, the British consul at Jeddah, initially Sayyid Muhammad was denied permission by the Turkish governor general, Usman Pasha, at Jeddah, to proceed to Dhofar. But he had traveled from Istanbul to Jeddah to complete this job for his father. Interestingly, Sayyid Muhammad used the latest mode of speedy communication between Jeddah and Istanbul—​t he telegraph—​to get in touch with his father in Istanbul. Fadl pulled rank and used his contacts in Istanbul to pressure the governor general to allow his son to proceed to Dhofar.115 And once permission was granted, his son used the imperial transportation networks and boarded a British pilgrim ship—​filled with “indigent pilgrims”—​ with “an armed party and military stores” to be conveyed to Dhofar.116 This was a clever move because the presence of so many pilgrims on board made action difficult for the British and provided Sayyid Muhammad with a bargaining chip. A weary sultan of Muscat appealed to the British for help. His wali at Dhofar was ill equipped to handle Sayyid Muhammad. He 131

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feared that a successful reconquest of Dhofar would lead to “fresh disturbances.”117 The British government was sympathetic to the sultan’s request, as Fadl’s family had the political clout with which to reestablish Ottoman political sovereignty. A string of telegraphic communications between the political resident at Aden and the Bombay government revealed how seriously the British government viewed this attempt to reconquer Dhofar. And this was because they viewed Fadl as a middleman broker whose reconquest of Dhofar was in effect an effort to restore Ottoman political sovereignty. A troubled Loch reported that the pilgrim ship carrying Sayyid Muhammad had four hundred soldiers on board and that it intended to arrive at Rasoot.118 The ship, the Metapedia, was loaded with arms and ammunition, and the Bombay government asked the resident at Aden to stop it from leaving the port.119 A. G. F. Hogg, the political resident at Aden, searched the vessel and found arms and ammunition of European manufacture, as well as Arab matchlocks, swords, and daggers.120 But the government agreed that the detention of the ship was “embarrassing,” as the Metapedia was full of indigent pilgrims. Nevertheless, the ship was detained on the grounds that it had no doctor on board.121 The pilgrims grew mutinous due to the delays and for want of rations, so the ship was supplied with 3,500 rations in accordance with the manual for guidance of officers of ships carrying pilgrims in the Red Sea.122 Using a pilgrim ship for political ends paid dividends for Sayyid Muhammad. The problems regarding the pilgrims on board indicated that he had made a clever move. Significantly, even while cleverly using imperial networks, Sayyid Fadl never let go of his own repertoire of family, kinship, and soldiering contacts to establish his sway in the region. His retinue included one hundred Arab soldiers who formerly had been in the service of the sheriff of Mecca and whose unit had been recently disbanded, as well as sixteen family members and personal attendants of his father, Sayyid Fadl.123 No number of excuses from Sayyid Muhammad that he was on way to Dhofar to repair the watercourses there satisfied the British.124 Further telegrams from Loch indicated that Sayyid Muhammad intended to “establish himself at Dhofar under the [authority of]

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Porte.”125 The political resident in the Persian Gulf was most ­worried about Sayyid Muhammad’s use not just of imperial highways but also of a British pilgrim ship. This was viewed as the ultimate use of the imperial repertoire of resources—​in this case, used by Sayyid Muhammad to carve out his own transimperial niche. The resident wanted Sayyid Muhammad to be immediately “prevented from proceeding in a British vessel to Dhofar.” He recommended that Fadl be sent back to Jeddah, as his “filibustering expedition under British flag” would create the false impression “of the countenance of the British government to the proceeding.”126 The tension only eased when the resident at Aden reported that the Metapedia had been searched and “a large quantity of arms and ammunitions seized.” Section 26 of the Arms Act was invoked, and the resident reported in a telegram that Sayyid Muhammad “elected to land but ha[d] not decided regarding his destination.”127 Hogg, the political resident at Aden, decided to keep Sayyid Muhammad on Flint Island until he made up his mind about his return to Jeddah.128 British apprehensions about Sayyid Muhammad playing the broker for the Ottomans was confirmed, as Hogg reported, when soon after electing to land he “declared himself an officer of the Turkish government sent specially to rule Dhofar under the Porte.” Sayyid Muhammad stated that he possessed firearms and orders to the above effect.129 Both Sayyid Fadl and his sons Sayyid Muhammad and Sayyid Sahil Fadl continuously moved between Jeddah and Istanbul, playing on the imperial rivalries and networks that framed this region. As they carved out their family’s career as middlemen they exploited fault lines, switched sides, and caused considerable unease to imperial powers.130 The British government was particularly incensed by their moves. Yet it never hesitated to use Fadl if it suited them. Fadl made use of the British critique of the caliph. This changed his profile in British eyes from a dreaded “outlaw” to a useful Muslim subject whose authority was used to sanctify their critique of the caliph. Even as he leaned on the Ottomans for legitimating his power he made it clear to the British resident at Istanbul that he had come to meet him because he was skeptical of the future of the Ottoman Empire:

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according to him, it had a good pasha but a corrupt administration. It was significant that he viewed the British as the preferred political sovereign in the Muslim world in the likely event of the Ottoman collapse. He noted in a letter that “the condition of the Turkish Empire was very critical, and in the event of a general collapse taking place he wished to have the friendship and to be under the protection of England, to whom all the Arabs looked as a just and righteous power.”131 What is significant, however, is that by faulting the Ottoman sultan in his duties as the caliph (which Fadl defined specifically as offering “justice and impartiality to all classes of his subjects”) and by praising the British government on precisely these fronts, he questioned Ottoman claims to be the overseer of Muslims globally. Indeed, the critique of the Ottomans as “failed caliphs” as far as overseeing the Muslim populations of the world became the key trope in Fadl’s interlocution with the British. Fadl’s son Sheikh Seid Sachel [Sahil] Effendi, who carried a letter from his father to the British resident in Istanbul, reiterated his father’s “devotion to England.” Fadl emphasized in particular his “admiration for her rule in India.” This was a country, he felt, where “the Mahomedan populations were treated with the most perfect justice and impartiality and were perfectly content with their state.”132 This compliment was in fact an indirect indictment of the Ottomans for failing to deliver on this front. But this did not mean that all was lost for Fadl as far as the Ottomans were concerned. In the same breath, Effendi revealed the honors and status that his father enjoyed at the Ottoman court and the powerful influence he wielded over the sultan. At the same time, he also was quick to add that Muslims like him were attached to the British not only because the civil and religious rights of Muslims were so well protected under them but also because of the English government’s sincere friendship toward the Ottoman Empire, the only “refuge of Islamism on account of the caliphate and of the protection of the saints which the latter has under its care.”133 This “balancing” diplomacy—​which both used and critiqued the caliph—​was to become the signature of career transimperial subjects like Fadl.

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Debating the Caliph Fadl’s remarkable balancing act also indicated how well he was entrenched in both the British and the Ottoman worlds. Indeed, his views on the caliph resonated across the imperial divide, where Muslim subjects debated the “ideal caliph” profile. This was particularly true in the Hijaz, which was the melting pot of ethnic groups who gave the region its cosmopolitan veneer.134 Indeed, the huge Muslim congregations in the area, enabled by the discovery and expansion of the steamships and railways, gathered there because of the sacred geography of Mecca: pilgrims and visitors were attracted to the area because of the tales of the Prophet as a saint, his miraculous powers, and the therapeutic healing properties of the water from the holy fountain at Mecca (zamzam). This conjunction of modernity and enchantment that brought Muslims from all over the world together produced a lively debate on both religion and politics. This was bound to happen as the congregation itself had formed as a result of the efficient management of Islamic pilgrimage by “modern” empires. The debates on politics had both territorially framed as well as transimperial resonance. Predictably, they spilled into the religious arena. And this indicated once again the centrality of religion in technology and in capitalist-­driven “secular” modernity, both of which had enabled people in such large numbers, wearing the identities of territorially stamped subjects, to congregate. People discussed their experiences of living as colonial subjects with their country cousins—​people they rarely met in such large numbers back home. They compared their lives and circumstances to subject populations of other empires. But they moved beyond their own experiences to discuss the caliph and commented on his performance as the “protector” of all Muslims.135 Indeed, it was their journey to the caliph’s own seat in Hijaz that made him a subject of physical scrutiny and review. Paradoxically, this close experience of the caliph’s administration was enabled by European powers who facilitated travel to Mecca for their Muslim subjects. The failure of the caliph to discharge his temporal responsibilities disappointed 135

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pilgrims from around the world. His inefficient officers and the hardships in Mecca made pilgrims doubt his claims to lead Muslims globally. Debates on the ideal caliph became a hot topic of discussion in the Muslim congregation at the Hijaz. Debates regarding the ideal caliph were not new. Ever since the inception of classical empires, philosophers, political theorists, and jurists engaged with the issue in different contexts. The premodern concerns had revolved chiefly around the ethnic origins of the caliph: the Arab versus the Turk debate. These concerns continued even when Muslims lost political sovereignty to European powers in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. In India this disjunction increased the symbolic significance of the caliph in normative Muslim thought. He began to be perceived, more than ever before, as the spiritual head of the umma. Indeed, the new technologies that enabled speedier transportation and communication created a fresh set of contingencies that pushed the old debates in new directions. The debate now was about who would be the ideal overseer of Muslim interests in the new world order of “cosmopolitan modernity” as represented in the Hijaz. This was the site where religion, politics, and technological advancements had an interdependent existence.136 As the Ottoman caliph was reviewed, his monopoly was challenged, and not only as a result of the upsurge of ethnic Arabs in the Hijaz. Rather, this challenge grew out of a new conjunction that developed in the late nineteenth century, one that brought Islam and capitalist-­driven modern nation-­states, represented by their Muslim subjects, face to face at imperial intersections like Mecca. The challenge that European nation-­states posed to the caliph only intensified, as every year the crowds in the Hijaz increased, drawn there by additional means of transportation and medical facilities, as well as by the offer of travel documents being offered by colonial regimes who had tasted the profits of haj management.137 The Ottoman caliph, as represented by his corrupt staff in the Hijaz, paled in comparison to the protective overtures of the European colonial rulers toward their subjects. The hajis of British India as well as those from the Dutch East Indies shared their views on Ottoman corruption. The caliph increasingly seemed inept in his administration—​apathetic and inefficient.138 136

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In the late nineteenth century, the caliph’s management was up for criticism in every possible account of the Hijaz. For the Indo­ nesians and Malays, the corruption and inefficiency of his administration diluted their misgivings about their own Dutch colonial rulers. Christiaan Snouck Hurgronje, the German convert who penned in detail his observations on the Hijaz, noted that the disillusioned Jawahs “obey the officials of the local government . . . ​often directly contrary to the wishes of the population. But here they are Moslims and fear Allah . . . ​The illustrious power of the [caliph’s] government however displays itself much more brilliantly in Constantinople than in Mekka.”139 In Java, Muslim secret societies mushroomed. These societies liaised with Medina-­based societies that were calling for the removal of the caliph, as, they claimed, he had “forfeited by his bad government and his indifference to true Musalman interests all claim to the support of his core­ ligionists.”140 The Indian critique of the caliph’s performance frames British reports not just on pilgrim traffic but also on general affairs in the Hijaz. From Zohrab, the British vice consul in Jeddah, complaining about the Ottoman officers’ apathy toward stopping slave trade141 to the more detailed tirade about Ottoman officers by his successor, Abdur Razzack, the litany of grievances is endless. Razzack wrote copious reports detailing the hardships of Indians on account of corruption in the caliph’s administration. Reporting on the cholera epidemic of 1882 and the inefficient ways of quarantining pilgrims by the Turkish government, Razzack noted: “A great deal of heart burning exists at the enforcement of this quarantine, and many a future pilgrim will be put off coming to the haj until better times.” Complaining about the failure of the Porte to provide good ventilation, latrines, and luggage storage facilities, he remarked that the Indian pilgrims were appalled and disillusioned by the sultan of Rum (Constantinople). He felt that many more would have loudly complained about this once they returned to India “but ha[d] not added their voices to swell the charges from apparent sympathy with the Turkish government.”142 Indeed, Razzack was so obsessed with his critique of Ottoman corruption and apathy that he saw even their positive gestures in a negative light. Thus he felt that Osman 137

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Pasha, the vali of Hijaz, who had made efforts to improve the water supply to Jeddah, had done so not out of concern for people but “from a desire to perpetuate his name, his ambition being excited by a proposal emanating from his adulator to call such an aqueduct by his name.”143 Razzack was infuriated that the officers of the grand sheriff were extorting pilgrims. They not only picked on Indian pilgrims but on the Malay and Javanese as well. He demanded the refund of pilgrim money unduly taken on the pretext of taxation of their goods, camel hires, and so forth.144 Ottoman custom officers refuted these charges on the grounds that only goods brought by pilgrims for purpose of trade were taxed. In 1893, Mohammad Arif, collector of customs at Jeddah, argued with Razzack, claiming that “the enormous amount thus imported is well known to experienced persons like yourself and to exempt these imports from duty would be to deprive the holy places [Mecca and Medina] of their revenue . . . ​and it is well known that with the exception of the Javanese all pilgrims sell in the streets and markets of this place whatever provisions they bring with them.”145 As these charges and refutations flowed, Razzack became involved in a heated tirade against the grand sheriff of Mecca, whom he accused of encouraging corruption for his personal gain. In 1894, an angry Razzack protested the reinstitution of the post of Sheikh ul Mashaiekh, who took over the job of arranging camel hires and steamers for all pilgrims. He was suspicious of the corrupt incumbents who currently held this post: Yousuf Kattan, deputed for Javanese and Malay pilgrims, and Hassan Daood, deputed for the Indians. He felt both were corrupt and worked as agents for the sheriff, who, he maintained, was complicit in the illegal profits they made by overcharging pilgrims for camel hires. With statistical evidence in hand, he complained about their “brutality” and “inhumanity” to British subjects and demanded their dismissal.146 The critique of the caliph foregrounded his role as the Ottoman sultan as well. It brought to light the fact that notwithstanding his spiritual authority he had failed in his managerial and administrative duties as the sultan who supervised haj pilgrim sites. European nation-­states encouraged public discussion of the caliph as the failed sultan. They contrasted his performance to their own relatively 138

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e­ fficient management of pilgrims. Indeed, their freshly discovered technologies in disease control, printing, and transportation (especially steamships), revolutionized connections to the Hijaz. As pilgrim traffic increased from the territories under their control, the European nation-­states stood out as patrons of their Muslim subjects. They competed with the Ottoman sultan in the management of pilgrims and deflected attention from his spiritual persona by highlighting his poor performance. On the basis of his shoddy track record as the overseer of haj pilgrimage, they urged people to ask what constituted an ideal caliph. As the temporal powers of the caliph were embedded in religious claims it was indeed religious authority that was being discussed in a public space, a sphere that itself was produced by the “modernizing” drives of European nation-­states. The good caliph was now seen as one who was not merely a symbolic spiritual mascot but one who displayed managerial skills. This new definition of “caliph” opened the doors for many contenders. The debate about the caliph was steered in a new direction with the coming together of technological advancement and the European political management of spirituality. As efficiency, benevolence, and proficiency became the new yardstick by which to judge the caliph, the race for his position became very competitive. Compared with the mismanagement and corruption of the caliph’s government, the “modern” European nation-­states seemed beacons of light and hope. The Ottoman caliph in his role as the administrative overseer of Muslims paled when compared to the European colonial masters of Asian Muslims. Nation-­states were quick to lap up this sentiment and used the welfare of Muslim subjects as a ploy to advance their domestic political agenda. Thus, Abdur Razzack’s bleeding heart, showering concern for all pilgrims, was the perfect mascot for British concern for the well-­being of Muslims globally and Indian Muslims in particular. Even though initially European states favored the demand for an Arab caliph, their support of him in this case was different because it did not involve older ethnic tensions that were derived from the perceived superiority of the Arab race. Instead, the Arab sheriff’s privileged genealogy notwithstanding, he was the preferred caliph 139

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also because he was perceived to be a better, less corrupt, and more efficient manager and overseer of Muslim material interests. Now that so many Muslims physically visited Hijaz, the real rather than the imagined efficacy of the temporal and spiritual head of Islam was up for scrutiny. In other words, the conjunction of the modern capitalist infrastructure and of European management of religion and the sacred space of Islam posed new challenges and offered new competition to the temporal and spiritual head of Muslims. The Arabs were the preferred substitutes. But there was nothing to stop the European modern nation-­states from joining the race In the new climate, the demand for an Arab caliph was the loudest. Some British intellectuals invoked the old debate about the ideal caliph, which was based on the ethnic origins of the holder of the office: the Arab versus the Turk. They used Islamic history and “tradition” to argue that precedent dictated that the caliph had to be from the elite Quraish Arab tribe to which the Prophet belonged. In 1877, Neil. B. E. Baillie, the author of several books on Muslim law, spoke at the Royal Asiatic Society, where he declared as “Kharejite heresy” the acceptance of a Turk as the caliph. He sent his paper to the lawyers of Bengal and the Northwest Provinces for a ratification of his position.147 But within Muslim circles the debate about the caliph was not due merely to matters of ethnicity, genealogy, or sacredness. Such issues had become irrelevant as the Muslim imaginary acquired physicality via the infrastructural networks of the European nation-­states. For the Muslim subjects, the debate about the perfect caliph was about his administrative efficacy. Such demands now had a trans-­Asian resonance, given the relatively greater connectedness and shared experience of being a Muslim that the cosmopolitan modernity of contemporary nation-­states had enabled. Thus, for instance, in 1881 an influential Javanese pilgrim reported from Java that people in his country were disenchanted by the “bad government” of the caliph and his “indifference to the Musalman interests.” The people “disliked” the caliph and felt that “he had forfeited all claims to the support of his coreligionists.” The pilgrim added that the people were certain of the caliph’s “speedy fall” and the takeover of his empire by the Russians. The Javanese concluded that people were dissatisfied not just with the current 140

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pasha, Abd-­al Hamid II, but also with the sultans who, he said, had “for some years past governed Turkey.”148 The Javanese pilgrim alluded to the fact that his disillusioned countrymen had been in communication with a “widely extended” secret society “embracing Musalmans of all nationalities” that was based in Medina. Its object was to restore the caliphate to the Arabs of the Hijaz. Abdullah Pasha had created the society when he was the sheriff. The present sheriff, Abdul Mutalib, was not on its rolls. The society had a ritualistic regimen to ensure that its members would be welded into a firm group. Each member on admission had to swear on the tomb of the Prophet to maintain secrecy and to promote the objects of the society.149 Such secret societies, with their trans-­Asiatic connections, created an anticaliph mood across Asia. The societies were very political in nature. And they created a peculiar dilemma for the European nation-­states: how to control the public sphere produced by the religion-­centric modernity, a sphere that they themselves patronized. Thus, although the anticaliph discussions in the societies were to be encouraged, the dilemma was where to put a halt to these discussions. Of particular concern to the British was the “exchange of opinions to discuss plans to criticize the action of European governments and form combinations to resist the supremacy of the Christian powers.”150 Not surprisingly, the British vice consul in Jeddah was asked to keep an eye on the trans-­Asian activities of such societies.

Private Careers and Imperial Politics Secret societies were the product of “secular” modernity and its brush with spiritualism and enchantment. Propped up by the information and technological boom of the period and sustained by the rapid movement of men, money, and ideas, they best represented the centrality of religion in things “modern.” According to the consulate reports, these were suspicious zones of sedition where pan-­ Islam as a religious reaction to European influence was perfected and the search for a global leader of the umma launched. And yet 141

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these were also the arenas where the caliph was critiqued and the brokers who decentered him given a free hand. The extraterritorial nature of these societies was anathema to the British consulates. And yet there was an acceptance of their many uses. Indeed, it was a challenge to curtail their networks, to tame them and at the same time keep them alive. Zohrab, the British vice consul, took the surveillance of Muslim networks very seriously, as he was convinced that they were dangerous and that there was no other country offering “such security and facilities as the Hijaz” for political discussions.151 He was convinced that whereas in any other country such a large congregation of Muslim representatives from all over the world would attract public attention and thus provoke fear in the minds of delegates, this was not the case in the Hijaz. Here, as he noted in a letter, politics was discussed “without fear of betrayal” and strategies were developed to resist the European “Christian powers”—​even if the congregation was ostensibly a religious one.152 Zohrab’s correspondence reflected commonly held fears within the British administration about the haj pilgrimage. And these fears, even though exaggerated, were not entirely unfounded. It was well known that many “rebels” from the 1857 mutiny-­rebellion in India had found refuge in the Hijaz.153 Zohrab was of the view that any such “political refugees” who might stir up trouble be identified and their “activities and movements watched.”154 The Foreign Department also believed that most of these men, including, for instance, Maulana Rahmatullah Kairanwi, were “merely tools in the hands of others,” that is, of other powers.155 It is significant that Zohrab continued to stereotype these societies as cradles of pan-­Islam, even though some of them were explicitly anticaliph and pessimistic about the establishment of global Islamic rule. In 1879, Zohrab reported on the functioning of another secret society from Mecca, which, like the one in Medina, was said to have communication with “every Musalman community through­ ­out the world.” This had on its agenda the replacement of the inept caliph by someone more capable of protecting Muslim interests. Zohrab was confident that its literature—​which exhorted Muslims around the globe to overthrow both the rule of Christians and that 142

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of the caliph—​had heavily influenced the anti-­British revolt in Algeria. The society was definitely pro-­Arab and composed of sheikhs, mullahs, and sheriffs. An important item on its agenda was to “withdraw from the Sultan his title of the temporal head of the Mussalman faith.” The society was troubled by the failure of the caliph to establish a good administration and couched its tirade against him in vitriolic rhetoric that accused him of colluding with the Christian powers in the Crimean War (1853–1856). The society wanted the caliph to quit because it claimed that his new allies were the European powers (Britain and France) with whose help Russia had been defeated in the Crimean War. They saw him as a puppet in European hands and thus insisted that “he could not continue to be the true representative of the Prophet.” That mantle, they argued, must be laid on other shoulders.156 Zohrab was pleased with the anticaliph agenda of the society, even if he feared its anti-­European stance. Indeed, so intense was the anticaliph mood in these societies that they also discussed the shifting of the temporal seat of Islamic power from Istanbul to Damascus. Damascus was, however, not found suitable to be the “future seat of the head of Islam” on the grounds that it was not a “safe” place because it was “in easy reach of European influence.” Medina was preferred as the “center of faith” because of its remoteness from Europe and above all because of the “sacredness of the city and the purity of its Musalman character.”157 Similar reports of global Muslim networks that discussed alternate spaces locating the seat of Muslim temporal power, and alternate candidates for holding that seat, streamed in from Dutch subjects in Mecca and from Turkish officers in the region. One such officer told Zohrab that the Turks were aware that the authority of the sultan was now only nominal. He predicted, on the basis of bazaar gossip picked up by his wife, that “grave events” leading to a massacre of Turks would soon take place in Arabia. The officer had sent away his family to Istanbul anticipating trouble.158 Indeed, local agents informed Zohrab that the caliph was considered so unacceptable in Arab areas that if “he dare[d] to suppress the trade [in slaves] there would be serious trouble.” But if the high sheriff, the spiritual head, did so, the Bedouins and others would obey him and carry out 143

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his wishes without any resistance. The Arabs, the officer added, “hate[d] the Turks.” But they “venerate[d]” the high sheriff.159 These ideas posed a peculiar dilemma for the government of India. It welcomed the critique of the caliph that these societies generated, because through their cross-­border contacts they were able to take that critique onto a global stage. At the same time, the government was always fearful of such discussions slipping into anti-­ European sentiment. The government responded through its effort to “tame” the loose public sphere that had produced such discussions. It found that the transimperial brokers, like Fadl, were particularly handy to perform this job. And it closely monitored middlemen, like Fadl, who straddled the Asiatic networks of secret societies, pilgrimage routes, and commercial highways. It tapped them for information, and their ideas on Muslim societies and the caliph were selectively picked up and given a new spin. Thus, for instance, the British played on those anticaliph sentiments articulated by Fadl that suited them. They popularized Fadl’s scandalous suggestion that the British could do a better management job than the caliph as the overseer of Muslim interests. Indeed, they aimed to be the European front-­r unner in this race for the new caliph, even if it meant being an overseer without the title of the caliph. They allied themselves closely with the sheriff at Mecca as the din for an Arab as the preferred choice for the caliph gained momentum globally. The sheriff was the ideal ally as he was the fountainhead for this new pro-­Arab caliph sentiment. During the 1880s the British saw the Arab alliance as critical to pulling Hijaz out of Turkish control and bringing it into their own ambit. They were convinced that the political dividends earned by insinuating themselves as the overseer of the sacred lands of the Muslims was the best way to dent Ottoman political sovereignty.160 This would catapult them instantly to the position of the global protector of Muslims. They also saw this as a good way to bring the government closer to its Muslim population in India. On his part, the sheriff of Mecca, very much like Fadl, hoped to personally benefit by supporting the global aspirations of imperial Britain. He had his own axe to grind and was happy to support the British as the global Muslim overseer as this was the way he could 144

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get rid of Turkish rule. Indeed, he was even willing to use his religious authority to sanctify the new role of the British as the “the firm friend and able protector” of Muslims all over the world. Indeed, the experience of the British administration in India and the rights and privileges enjoyed by the Indian Muslims were showcased to market the idea of the British being the best overseers of the Hijaz and thereby of the Muslim world. The sheriff was reportedly keen to send his emissaries to war-­torn Afghanistan in the 1880s so as to explain to the Afghans the ways in which Britain’s Muslim subjects all over the world enjoyed equality with all other religions. He asserted, therefore, that the “Musalman religion requires for its support the aid and protection of England—​t he only power that places all religions on an equality, and protects all without distinction.” Indeed, he was said to have taken his stand to the extreme when he willingly announced to those Afghans who opposed the English that “he as the Religious Head of the Faith, declares him to be an opponent of the faith, in other words a traitor to his religion.”161 Zohrab, the British consul at Cairo and Jeddah, urged the British to cash in on the sentiments of the sheriff, to help him oust the Turks and then to establish their own influence and protection over the Hijaz. He argued that this strategy had immense political dividends—​as the sheriff and the Hijaz were the path to the heart of the Muslims globally.162 He was convinced that this was the only way England might get “supreme influence over the whole Mussalman world.”163 Zohrab attributed the positive image of Britain in the Hijaz solely to the effective handling of its “Muslim subjects” who were located there. This new role of “protector” picked up in the 1870s when the brief friendship between Russia and Turkey rekindled Russophobia in British official circles. And thus Muslim subjects who had left India became the crucial site from which Britain envisaged launching its career as a protector of global Islam. Zohrab often compared the relative benefits enjoyed by Britain’s Muslim subjects to their other coreligionists in the area, as for instance, when he claimed, “Ninety percent of the Arab population would vote for the separation from Turkey. The majority of the inhabitants of the towns have visited either India or the Straits Settlements and 145

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are thus able to judge from compassion and form an opinion on what the government they live under ought to be.”164 He underlined further the favorable sentiments in the area when he reported that the Arabs, tired of Ottoman corruption and the instabilities it caused to their lives, were keen on becoming British subjects and obtaining new passports. According to him they were willing even to live in India if this was the only way to become subjects of the empire. In reply to his query of how the “holy land could pass to the stranger and unbeliever,” he was told, “It would not be to the stranger but to the real friend of the Mohamedan, and as in India so in the Hijaz the Mussalman would be more free to exercise his religion, and it would be more venerated than it is under the Turk.”165 Zohrab’s agent in Mecca also reported that the sheriff had obtained the sanction of the ecclesiastical department—​t he ulema—​ in exchange for his friendly overtures toward and favorable opinions on the English. Thus, for instance, the ulema approved of the British conduct in the Afghan war and praised it for being “generous” and the Afghans as being “treacherous.”166 The sheriff was of the view that Mecca was the ideal forum from which one could determine what was the best European nation-­state. Mecca was the city where Muslim subjects from all the European colonies gathered and compared their experiences as subject people. Invariably, the British Muslim subjects seemed happiest. They always expressed gratitude at the “freedom they were allowed in the exercise of their religion, the manner in which they were treated and the way their interests were protected.” They found the British government neither unjust nor oppressive.167 The ball did not stop there. British consuls in Jeddah contrasted the exceptional protection of their Muslim subjects and the relatively better conditions in which they lived in Hindustan to their misery in the Ottoman-­r uled Hijaz. They also highlighted the anticaliph sentiment of the secret societies and the critique of the caliph by brokers like Fadl. It helped the British game plan if Indian Muslim subjects appeared as beleaguered subjects in the Hijaz—​people who had invested in its economy and yet received harsh treatment. Consuls in Jeddah hoped that the care for their subjects in the Hijaz would not only improve their pro-­Muslim image globally, but also 146

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earn dividends back in India. Time and again Abdur Razzack, the British vice consul in Jeddah, highlighted the contribution of Indian merchants in improving the water canals of the Hijaz, an achievement that had gone a long way in improving the sanitation of the city. In one of his many detailed reports on the 1882 cholera epidemic in Mecca, Razzack praised Hajis Abdullah Arab and Abdul Wahid Wahdana, merchants from Calcutta, for their “personal efforts and liberality for such a blessing as the water which now runs through the Zobeidah Aqueduct.” He was of the view that but for this aqueduct the water of the city would have been so unclean that it would have led to disease. Razzack strongly refuted the charge that cholera had come to Mecca via a passenger ship, the Shelley, which had sailed from India. He underlined that the analysis of the epidemic in Calcutta had shown that it was related to sanitation and hygiene. And because the Indian merchants had contributed to cleaning the water system of Mecca “the entire Mahomedan world should be grateful to the Indian merchants in Mecca and elsewhere” for their generous donations that made it possible for the clean water to flow in the Zubaida Aqueduct.168 Indeed, merchant Seth Abdul Wahid and his colleague Mirza Amir Beg not only donated lavishly but also located themselves in Mecca, where they supervised the construction at the aqueduct site as well as coordinated donations from Muslim notables and com­ ­mercial elites of India. People from as far as Meerut in the North­­ west Provinces sent large amounts of money to them. In 1880, one Sheikh Ilahi Baksh of Meerut wanted the consul at Jeddah to ensure that his donation of Rs. 10,000 was not being misappropriated at Mecca.169 Subsequent investigations revealed that the merchants had a well-­administered committee and an establishment consisting of people from Hindustan with whom they worked. A well-­t rained, educated person from Roorkee, in the Northwest Provinces, assisted Abdul Wahid with the accounts. They were also assisted by a supervisory committee of “gentlemen from Hindustan now resident in Mecca.”170 The showcasing of Muslim subjects such as the Calcutta merchant Abdul Wahid not only projected the image of Indian Muslims as beleaguered heroes but also put the spotlight on the benevolent 147

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and considerate attitude of the British government toward Muslims of the world. And this brought the British government into direct contest with the Porte. Indeed, taking on the Porte was one of the main reasons for British interest in the Muslim cause. Thus in 1884 a difficult situation arose Abdul Wahid, an Indian Muslim, was recognized by the Porte for his services in cleaning up the canal system at Mecca and was honored by being awarded the Order of the Osmanieh, fourth class, by the Ottoman pasha.171 The Indian government refused him permission to accept the award. This was a clear case of competing imperial claims over a subject. Such competitions over immigrant subjects were significant as they indicated how imperial rivalries were fought over Muslim subjects who straddled frontiers and cultures using the very imperial networks that clashed over them. But this mutual dependence of Muslim trans-­ Asian networks and “modern” empires was also the key to the longevity of both parties. Muslim rulers and notables were also important donors for various philanthropic projects in Mecca. And they too constituted critical sites of imperial contestation. Thus, in 1885 the nawab of the Muslim princely state of Rampur in northern India contributed Rs. 70,000 for constructing an extension from the Zubaida Aqueduct to the city of Manna so as to supply it with fresh water. Indeed, the nawab also promised a contribution toward improving the supply of water to Jeddah by extending the Zubaida Aqueduct to the city. He made that contribution contingent, however, on the vali also collecting money locally from the inhabitants of Mecca and Jeddah.172 Abdur Razzack showcased the philanthropy of such elite Muslim subjects of the British Empire and underlined the deep connec­­ tion between Britain and Muslims globally. The Porte was quick to strike back. The Porte reacted to increasing British influence on its “Muslim” constituency by calling on Indian Muslim notables and community leaders to support its endeavors. Thus in 1896 it sent emissaries to Rampur to “test the feelings of native Muhammadan states.” That year the commissioner of Rohilkhand reported that a Turk calling himself Hashim Effendi had arrived at Rampur. He claimed to be the emissary of the Porte and tried to establish contact with the 148

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nawab so as to “test” his feelings toward the Porte. In this particular instance he was supposedly snubbed by the nawab.173 Indeed, the expanding British influence in the Hijaz consciously spilled from “benevolence” and concern for its Indian Muslim subjects to a cautious tilt toward the larger Muslim constituency of the caliph. This of course was a sensitive game, as the Porte was always ready to strike back. For instance, Abdur Razzack had proposed to establish a hospital in Jeddah or Mecca for pilgrims; discussions of his proposal centered on the suspicions that such an act of philanthropy would trigger in the Porte, since the hospital would find it impossible to limit its medical services only to Indian Muslims. In a report, Razzack described his concerns, noting, while it would not be advisable to reserve the affording of relief only to Indians as it would lead to race distinctions not proper in a country where all are of one caste and creed . . . ​and it would be difficult to draw the line between the Indians and Arabs, Turks and Blacks who form the majority of the inhabitants of these places . . . ​it might lead the Turkish government to show a susceptibility proportioned to the amount of influence which the British Government is likely to obtain by the supplying of a desideratum which would be gladly welcomed by all classes of people, rich and poor, Indians, Arabs Turks and all other nationalities which congregate during the haj.174 Razzack was afraid of incurring the wrath of the Porte, which might then obstruct the project. He therefore suggested a relatively “quiet and unostentatious” alternative: medical help could be offered to Indian pilgrims at their own quarters and lodging houses. He demanded that he be provided additional native Muslim doctors to help him if he had to move around with his chest of medicines. He toyed with the idea of establishing a dispensary, rather than a hospital, as it would be low profile, and, he hoped, would create fewer objections from local authorities. But he feared that even this would be looked “upon with an envious eye,” as he phrased it, “by one or two Turkish doctors who are here, as they would be to some extent thrown into the shade when the dispensary became popular.”175 In 149

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the end he advocated the least ostentatious method, which was working from his house offering “semi-­private” relief and medical help free of cost to those who came there. He was of the view that since it was “invidious to make distinctions between Indians and other races in the distribution of such a charity or medicines and medical advice,” this “semi-­private” unit of his, even if attended by Turks, Africans, and Arabs, would not provoke too much reaction from the Porte as it would not be loud and bold in its statement. However, the government of India was more shrewd in its planning. It wanted the hospital to be established to display its benevolence, but it also wanted to piggyback on the efforts of Muslim notables and the “wishes of the richer Indians.” Responding to Razzack’s report, the government made it clear that these influential Indian Muslim notables could help to overcome the objections of the Porte and at the same time make it possible for the sheriff to be brought on board. The government was also willing to contribute liberally to such a hospital, if rich Indians were willing to take the initiative and first provide financing. Nor did it have objections to the creation of a dispensary at Razzack’s residence.176 The secretary to the government of India made it clear that while the government was all for increasing its influence and showing its benevolent face in the Hijaz, it did not want to “lose prestige” if permission for setting up the hospital or dispensary was denied by the Porte. Thus, it wanted to bring on board influential Indians in Mecca who had collected money for such a hospital, rich notables in India, and the sheriff. Indeed, it wished to use them at the forefront of its ­mission.177 And this again showed how the conflation of imperial international relations with the global aspirations of Muslim émigrés was crucial to the development of Muslim trans-­Asiatic networks. Indeed, it showed the imperially embedded nature of such networks.

Fadl and the Imperial Contest over Muslim Subjects Imperial rivalries offered amazing possibilities to Sayyid Fadl. The imperial contest over Muslim subjects, the challenges posed by 150

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Muslim secret societies, the positive sentiment toward European nation-­states generated by poor Ottoman rule, and the debates over Islam’s spiritual and temporal head in the international public domain energized Fadl and brokers like him. In 1880, Fadl created a stir in British circles when Al Jawaib, an Arabic newspaper from Istanbul, reported that the sultan of Turkey had bestowed on Fadl the honorary title of “wazeer.”178 The Aden residency suggested that the government of India might “deem fit to take further steps in drawing attention to Port of the antecedents of Fazl.”179 News about Fadl was carefully scrutinized in British circles—​and there was plenty of information on him. He had built enough clout for himself at critical imperial cross-­sections, like the Hijaz, to be always in the news. A newsletter of 1880 created further concern when it reported that Istanbul had granted him a pension and asked him to live in Mecca for good.180 The same year he jumped into the contentious arena of British and Ottoman efforts to monopolize influence over Muslims globally. He aligned himself with the Ottoman pasha, and wrote in a lofty tone to the sultan of Muscat, who had driven him out of Dhofar. As he described his planned return to Dhofar to rectify the un-­ Islamic conspiracies and intrigues that had resulted in his overthrow by the tribes, his tone was that of an Islamic monarch. He not only legitimated his self-­styled Muslim leadership by claiming to have the support of the Ottoman sultan but said that he was proceeding to Dhofar “with the orders of the Sublime Porte.” He mapped his individuated international relations onto Caliph Abd-­al Hamid II’s foreign policy. Like the caliph, he referred to Istanbul as the “Empire of Islam.” He informed the sultan of Muscat of his arrival in Dhofar and ended his letter in a tone reminiscent of Caliph Abd-­al Hamid II, who had projected a Muslim image of himself globally to deflect attention from his domestic crises. He concluded, “And I ask of God prosperity for myself and the Mussalmans.”181 In 1888, he created a stir in British official circles with the news that he had brokered a deal between the Porte and some Indian Muslim merchants of Bombay who lived in Medina. The former had offered to influence the Indian hajis not to use any other steamships except Turkish ones to travel to Mecca. This was seen as a way 151

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of denting British commercial interests in the region. A Bombay merchant, Abdullah Arab Moonuffer, who had originally lived in Bombay but had recently become a Turkish subject and now resided in Medina, visited Istanbul. Here, he used Fadl’s influence to reach out to the sultan and proposed that if he received the sultan’s sanction and help he could, he claimed, “induce the head of the Mahommedan community in India to advise their co-­religionists not to come on the pilgrimage to Mecca, and [not] to take passage in any but Turkish steamers.” These, he argued, could be dispatched by the Porte to Bombay and Calcutta for transporting pilgrims.182 Abdulla Arab, working in conjunction with Fadl, was not content with only sabotaging British commercial interests. He also hinted that he could help in restoring the waning authority of the caliph as the spiritual head of all Muslims. He proposed that Indian pilgrims once in Turkish ships should be “considered under the protection of the Turkish Government and treated as its own subjects.” Abdulla Arab played on the sultan’s wishful thought that his authority as the caliph drew all Muslims to him, despite his corrupt administration and apathy toward their problems. He convinced the sultan that British Indian subjects would happily become subjects of the Porte, since, as he described it, “they would be glad to be under the special protection of the head of the Muhomedan religion and would have nothing to do with the British government until their return to India again.”183 Of course, this latter suggestion impressed the sultan as it fed his political appetite to be called the “Caliph of the faithful.” His reputation, due to his corrupt officials, had suffered a severe beating in the Hijaz region. And in the late nineteenth century, the Hijaz, rather than the Levant, was critical to the Ottomans commercially as well as politically. Indeed, the political significance of the Hijaz was great given the Porte’s desperate efforts to hold on to its “world power” status by projecting the caliph as the global overseer of all Muslims. Hijaz, with its location as the central meeting point for Muslims, was the Porte’s window to the world. The might of the fledgling empire, increasingly based on the caliph’s authority rather than on a burgeoning economy, could be showcased from here to the larger Asian and European world. The Ottoman sultan thus 152

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happily agreed to send Turkish steamers and extend protection to Indian pilgrims if Abdullah Arab could first go to India and obtain the cooperation of the chiefs of the Muslim community there. Sayyid Fadl, with his wide network of contacts in India, supplied him with letters of introduction addressed to the all-­important Muslim heads of regional states, and Abdulla Arab proceeded with these to Bombay. A clearly alarmed British Foreign Office appealed to the government of India for help: “[We] trust,” it stated, that “the Indian government will take such measures as they may think proper in dealing with this man . . . ​his object is not only to deprive British shipping of Indian pilgrim traffic but to undermine the influence of the British government with its Mahomedan subjects in India.”184 But if Fadl encouraged the sultan’s political ambition and tuned his international relations to it, he also provided grist for British propaganda on the pasha as the “failed caliph.” He wished to benefit also from the British imperial mood in the region, and fanned their aspiration to lead the Muslim world. Thus, for instance, the British were quick to latch on to Fadl’s critique of the caliph and his suggestion that they could be better managers of Muslim interests. They saw his critique as symptomatic of general Muslim discontent over poor Ottoman administration, a trend that was conveyed to them by their consuls, like Zohrab, who closely monitored secret societies in the Hijaz area. Fadl’s suggestion that Muslim interests could be better protected by the British in the wake of Ottoman collapse was a welcome one, even if it came from a “fanatic Mahomedan.” Indeed, it was such deft diplomacy that made the “fanatic Mahome­ ­ an” slip into the role of the respectable transimperial middleman d with ease. It also entrenched the Asiatic networks of such middlemen in imperial plots and rivalries. The British encouraged Fadl to continue to work within the niche he had carved out for himself as a trans-­Asian middleman. Indeed, the British resident noted in a letter that he saw Fadl so fully in the role of a middleman and broker that each time the latter wished to meet he thought it might have been “suggested by the [Ottoman] Sultan.”185 He always emphasized to Fadl that his government wished the Ottoman sultan well only because of its concern for the “well being of Muslims and the cause 153

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of Islam.” On his part, Fadl claimed that the British were concerned about Ottoman maladministration and the sultan’s failure to deliver to the Muslims as their caliph. The resident wanted Fadl to convey these thoughts to the sultan. He observed, “If he [Fadl] gave such counsel [about Ottoman maladministration] to the Sultan, and they were followed he would be rendering good service to His Majesty and his people as well as to Islam.” The resident reiterated the significance the British gave to the well-­being not just of its Muslim subjects but of Islam generally and noted that they were concerned that the Ottoman Empire was failing in its duties of being the Muslims’ overseer. He wanted Fadl to communicate this to the sultan, saying in so many words, “Should the opportunity occur if he would repeat to His Majesty what I had said.” Fadl was only happy to be an interlocutor and replied that “his majesty had frequently spoken to him of me as his true friend, and of England as his best ally.”186 Indeed, the “outlawed Malabar rebel” and “fanatic” Fadl thrived on his role as a transimperial interlocutor and middleman between the British and the Ottoman Empires. He exploited the international relations of imperial powers even as he continued to rely on his core repertoire of religion, kinship, and rank. He used his sayyid card—​his direct descent from the Prophet—​to legitimize his self-­styled authority to comment on the failed caliph and to suggest his replacement. At the same time, he plugged into British Ottoman tensions over the control of the southwest rim of Arabia—​ the Dhofar region in the Hadramawt. He almost brought Britain and Turkey onto a collision course with his claims that he had Ottoman backing to reassert his hold over Dhofar—​f rom which he had been expelled by the British ally, the sultan of Muscat. The British supported the sultan of Muscat’s political sovereignty in the region. And even though they had their doubts about his hold over Dhofar they were generally unforgiving of any Ottoman intervention into his territory. Indeed, the India Office always feared that the Porte was inclined to use Fadl in the Arab area “as an agent.”187 Thus, for instance, Fadl’s claims that the Ottomans would help him with ships and troops to reestablish his hold over Dhofar in the Hadramawt area 154

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were viewed by the India Office as a ploy by which the Porte would extend Ottoman sovereignty over the region using Fadl as their agent. Even though the British did not entirely support the claims of the sultan of Muscat, who had wrested back Dhofar from Fadl, they were with him on this issue. This was because they were suspicious of Fadl and saw him as the conduit for Ottoman political expansion. Fadl combined his traditional repertoire of skills with those of “modern” empires to fashion his international career. He used his religious sayyid card to project an image of himself as someone who embodied all the virtues of an ideal Muslim leader. This helped him launch his career as the “ideal” consultant in Asian politics. He understood that what enabled his success as an ideal ruler was that he offered a unique model of Asian Muslim politics. His political model involved reaching out to the highest reference point—​t he caliph—​but extended also to include customary Arab law and jurisprudence. Thus in 1880, while urging the sultan of Muscat to give Dhofar back to him, he argued his case by using his ideal Muslim ruler card. He invoked both Arab jurisprudence and Turkish political authority to argue that he was best suited to rule Dhofar. He lent to Istanbul the signature of a sacred space normally associated with Arab lands. He called it the “Empire of Islam” and invoked the religious authority associated with it to strengthen his claim over Dhofar. Thus, in contrast to the misgivings he usually expressed about the caliph’s maladministration, he now reported that “news with respect to the Empire of Islam both private and public [was] in every way satisfactory,” and that he had brought his case to be reviewed in Istanbul, as that was the locus for justice that was binding on all Muslims. And yet while he was seeking justice in the “sacred” house of the Turkish caliph, he delved also into Arab custom and law for legitimacy. He invoked his regard for Arab custom and law as the defining agents that would ensure the Islamic way of social harmony. As he built his political career, he drew on and combined both Ottoman and Arab reference points of authority. He claimed that he had always been a vali of the Ottomans in Dhofar, had raised the Ottoman flag in his kingdom, and had maintained good neighborly 155

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relations with Muscat as per Arab customs and laws of good governance. The combination of Ottoman political sovereignty and Arab jurisprudence ensured his “gathering together under one banner . . . ​ the disjointed (different sects) of Islam.” He represented himself as the leader of all Muslims and said justice for him and restoration of his kingdom of Dhofar was his objective as he asked of God prosperity for “[him]self and the Musalmans.”188 And yet the British saw him as the archetypal transcultural middle­ ­ an, who could negotiate for them with the Ottomans, the Arabs, m and the Indians. But he was to be handled with care as they remembered him, after all, as the “dangerous intriguer,” the “Muhammedan fanatic,” and the “Moplah rebel.” They always viewed his moves as important, as they believed that these had significant repercussions on the policy shifts of the Turkish government in other parts of Arabia. In a letter sent to the Foreign Office, the government made its intentions clear: “The Government of India appear to attach importance to Sayyid Fadl’s proceedings which have indeed some bearing on those of the Turkish government in other parts of Arabia. Lord Cranbrook would be glad if Sir H. Layard were instructed to report to her Majesty’s Government such further information as he can obtain in regard to them and to the relations which exist between the Porte and the Sayyid.”189 In 1881, the India Office was alarmed at rumors that the Porte had nominated Fadl to serve as the new sheriff of Mecca once the existing occupant died. They were shocked at the temerity of the Porte to so elevate an “Indian outlaw.”190 However, this rumor was soon quashed by the revelation of the sheriff’s brother, Rafik Pasha, who lived in Istanbul. He pointed out that only members of two chosen families—​t he Auwn and the Zed—​represented in one case by Auwn Pasha and in the other by Abdul Mutalib, the present holder of the office, could be elevated to the post of sheriff. This of course disqualified Fadl, and consequently British fears about him abated.191 Nevertheless, the fact remained that the Porte had appointed him to the rank of mushir—​a position higher than that of grand sheriff. This proved detrimental to Fadl as it infuriated the sheriff and made him his enemy. Yet it helped in the larger games that the Ottoman rulers were playing over Fadl, as they used him to 156

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settle scores and conduct their diplomacy with the British. This appointment was, in the words of the British resident, “actuated by a feeling against England.” Fadl was, after all, a middleman with­ ­out whose trans-­Asian contacts imperial rivalries would have lost their sting. And sure enough, Fadl’s friendly and encouraging overtures toward the British as he brokered between them and the Ottomans only complicated matters for the Porte and made it anxious. In 1878, Fadl caused a stir in Istanbul when he sent an appeal to Loch at Aden. Fadl noted that he appreciated the efforts Loch had made to extend British administrative control to those parts of the Arabian southern rim where the Ottomans had failed to provide any effective control. He spoke in particular about the ships flying Turkish red flags. These ships were unregistered and had owners who claimed Arab descent; the ships visited free ports and engaged in loot and plunder. These big ships also ransacked small ships (buggalows) that had themselves wrecked and plundered goods. Fadl complained that ships with Turkish flags “even sell those whose skin is black.” Engaging his diplomat skills at their best, he expressed his concern over British intervention in this part of Arabia: it would, he said, “lead to the advantage of the High Government in the latters dominion where it does not organize any government, as the peninsula of Arabia; and we thank the English Government for offering its good offices and exertions in the advantage of the High Government Turkish nation.”192 Fadl was always happy to broker for the Ottomans even as he kept his communication and relations with the British intact. He not only negotiated for the pasha with the British but with other Asian sovereigns like the sultan of Muscat or the Arab chieftains of the Hadhramawt as well. Indeed, he helped whet the huge political appetite of the Ottomans. And this was also his way of furthering his own political fortunes. In 1879, Fadl proposed to the Ottoman sultan that four thousand troops and three vessels of war be placed at his disposal. He said that with this force he would help establish the authority of the pasha both in the Hadhramawt region as well as in Muscat, after dislodging the control of the Muscat sultan. Both the Hadhramawt area as well as Muscat were crucial arenas for Fadl, 157

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as he had earlier established himself as an independent sultan in Dhofar—​a Hadramawt principality—​k nown to be under the sovereignty of Muscat. The sultan of Muscat of course had disputed his claims and had reasserted himself as the sovereign of the region. Fadl played on Ottoman political ambitions in order to further his own ends in the region. He hoped to put Muscat and the Ottomans onto a collision course and then reap the benefits. The Ottoman sultan was so smitten by Fadl’s plot that he was ready even to name the Ottoman governor of the Hadhramawt region once it came under his control. But the geopolitics of nineteenth-­century trans-­Asia were very interdependent, involving many rulers and overlapping political sovereignties. It was difficult for Fadl to have a clear path to achieving his political goals. In Ottoman-­controlled Hijaz, the British had as their ally the Arab sheriff of Mecca. His brother, Sheikh Oun, lived in Istanbul and belonged to the inner circles of the sultan. The sheriff intervened and quashed Fadl’s plans. He asked his brother, Sheikh Oun Rafik Pasha, to warn the Ottomans about Fadl. He brought to the notice of the Ottoman ruler the grave political dangers he was making himself vulnerable to if he followed Fadl’s plans. Echoing British views and conveying their veiled threat to Turkey, without mincing words he warned the Ottomans that “Sheikh Fadhl was a dangerous adventurer, that he would be quite unable to carry out his promise of even reducing Hadramawt, and much less Muscat, and bringing them under the authority of His Majesty, and that any attack by the Sheikh on the dominions of the Imam of Muscat with Turkish troops would inevitably lead to serious complications between England and Turkey.”193 This had the desired effect, and no troops or warships were ever supplied to Fadl. But Fadl was too important a broker to be dumped for good. In Istanbul Fadl was no ordinary visitor or clandestine spy. Instead, he flaunted his high status—​his sayyid card—​and was the royal guest of the sultan and stayed in the house of the imperial chamberlain, Osman Bey.194 His regal reception on his arrival in Istanbul made headlines in the local press and caused much anxiety to the Bombay government, who monitored his every move. Francis Loch, the political resident at Aden, was quick to report to Bombay the details 158

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of the welcome Fadl had received in Istanbul. He wrote: “Captain Mehemt Bey, one of the sultan’s Aides-­de-­camp, went on board to receive him on behalf of his majesty and he was conducted at once to the imperial villa at Kloiz Kiosk, where he had an audience of the Sultan . . . ​he is a guest of his majesty during his stay in the residence of the Imperial Chamberlain Osman Bey.”195 The resident at Istanbul was urged to confirm the veracity of these reports. But he in turn pleaded helplessness as the sayyid tag that Fadl carried made him a man of status in Istanbul and no one was willing to report on him.196 Fadl’s clout in the Ottoman world was not just a matter of British paranoia. It was recorded and propagated by his own son, Sayyid Ahmad Fadl, in his biography of Sayyid Fadl, the Al-­Anwarul. This text reveals that prior to Fadl’s arrival in Ottoman Egypt one courtier of Pasha Al Khidvi Abbas I told his master that he had dreamed that the clerics of Egypt (Awliya-­i-­Misr) had set out with lanterns in their hands. On being asked the reason of this spectacle he was told that they were waiting to welcome a visitor who was related to the ashraf-­i-­Alawi Husaini clan. Al Khidvi said that this dream was a premonition of the arrival of a saint. On subsequent inquiry it was found out that Sayyid Fadl Alawi had arrived in Egypt that very night and was staying in a beautiful locality. Ahmad bin Fadl notes in the biography that Al Khidvi visited Sayyid Fadl Alawi and offered his respect and extended all hospitality. He also wished to know the purpose of his visit. On hearing that he was looking for a place to stay, Al Khidvi asked Sayyid Fadl to chose a palace for himself and his family and also to acquire land for subsistence so that he might live in comfort. Sayyid Fadl was grateful and thanked him. But that offer could not stop him from proceeding to the ultimate seat of Ottoman power—​Istanbul. His son records with great aplomb that in Istanbul he was received with great fanfare by Sultan Abd al Majid.197 This royal reception enhanced his power, and he returned to Mecca in 1865 with added clout. He later proceeded to Dhofar, where he was pronounced its ruler. His biography notes his return to Istanbul in 1878 after the fall of Dhofar. It details his clout in the city. Here he worked closely with the people in the upper echelons of power and associated himself 159

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with projects that were for the welfare of the people. The sultan invariably accepted his suggestions.198 Fadl remained involved in pious acts in Istanbul and often went to the valley close to Mecca for solitude and meditation.199 Often monarchs and rulers of other countries consulted with him on matters of diplomacy. One of his suggestions that is mentioned with pride in his biography is that of introducing railway tracks in the Hijaz area. This helped pilgrims during haj and contributed to the development of the area.200 His son unabashedly stresses Fadl’s love for the Ottoman caliphate (Daulat-­i-­Osmania) and how he worked hard to strengthen it. If there was any attack on the caliphate or Islam he felt very bad and prayed to God for help. His son writes that he always claimed that it was entirely possible to combine piety (taqvia) and politics, and that he would give the example of the Ottoman ruler Suleiman the Magnificent to prove his case.201

Fadl and Pan-­Islam The British and the Dutch regimes continued to view the trans-­ Asiatic networks of Muslims as “pan-­Islamic,” a term that for them meant “anti-­European” and “caliph oriented.” Anthony Reid, discussing the Dutch case, has argued that in the late nineteenth century “pan-­Islam” connoted a religious reaction to growing European influence in Asia, as well as a quest for a global movement to restore power to Muslims. According to the colonial regimes, all Muslims saw the Ottoman caliph as a global referent for this Islamic leadership.202 In the case of India, Ayesha Jalal has convincingly argued that pan-­Islam was a British phobia—​a creation of the Anglo-­Indian and Hindu press only. It was based on their usage of the normative Muslim theory that privileged the caliph. The reality, as borne out in the actual lived experience of Muslims, was more contingent on individual action that balanced the symbolic sovereignty of the caliph with Muslims’ own territorially framed lives. This balancing act produced myriad forms of universalisms.203 We saw above that the discussions in the trans-­Asiatic Muslim circles were far more complex than that indicated by either Anthony Reid’s analysis or 160

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official British analysis. The increasing contact with the caliph, and the caliph’s power structures, by hajis and visitors to the Hijaz and Istanbul dashed any hope of his providing the promised leadership to the global community of Muslims. Middlemen like Fadl cashed in on these sentiments and used them selectively to bolster their careers. They also tuned their international relations to those of “modern” empires, using imperial fissures and tension zones to insert themselves into imperial politics. They laid out a complex web of transimperial contacts that were imperially embedded, even as they relied on traditional repertoires of religious aspiration, kinship, and rank. Fadl’s transimperial contacts were expansive. No amount of British monitoring could tame them. In 1880, the resident at Istanbul reported that Fadl was to be feared not only because he had political networks, but because he had commercial webs that he used for his political ends. Indeed, the resident was worried about Fadl’s contacts with English commercial agents in Istanbul, with whom he wished to form a trading company in order to make money. One Mr. Ede, an Englishman in Istanbul, was always suspect in the resident’s eye because of his commercial dealings with Fadl and plans for trading in the Hadramawt area.204 But Fadl had other trans-­Asian contacts as well that were equally if not more alarming. Indeed, although these contacts might offer profits from trade, their real benefit to Fadl was in the military labor and diplomatic avenues that they provided. Fadl exerted influence over the vast trans-­Asian military labor market as a military entrepreneur who could recruit with ease men from as far east as Acheh in Indonesia, Egypt and Morocco in North Africa, Kabul in Afghanistan, and Istanbul in Turkey; he could also find laborers from among the Arab tribes in the Persian Gulf area and from immigrants from India. In each of these places, local entrepreneurs via whom he could influence Muslims were tied to him through marriage relations, professional deals, shared tribal affiliation, or Islamic bonds. The well-­k nown rebel Sayyid Abdul Rahman-­ul Zahir, the principal instigator of the Acheh rebellion, which in 1876 caused the Dutch government heavy losses in life and money, was an Arab by descent. 161

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He was a Hadrami Arab, who like Fadl had been born in India. Even though settled in Indonesia, he was a regular visitor to the Malabar Coast. Two of his six wives hailed from this region,205 and one of them was the sister of Sayyid Fadl. Fadl played a critical role in introducing Zahir to the Ottoman officialdom. He emerged as an important individual in Acheh politics who, like Fadl, brokered with the Ottomans to safeguard the interests of the Javanese Muslims. He encouraged the Javanese to experience the corrupt administration of the caliph in the Hijaz, and he punctured their illusions about the caliph’s pivotal role as their global leader. In the process, Acheh’s dependence on Zahir increased and the caliph-­centric pan-­ Islamic bubble began to give way to more embracive, imperially embedded Muslim networks. Transimperial brokers, like Zahir, energized such networks and made them all-­powerful.206 Zahir was a religious and legal reformer who had reached Acheh in 1864 after interesting stints in Europe, Egypt, Arabia, Malaya, and India. Zahir played the perfect middleman between the sultan of Acheh and the Ottoman sultan at the time of the 1873 Acheh War with the Dutch. He pleaded to the latter for help and protection. Zahir’s sayyid Arab pedigree and his claim to have wide-­reaching contacts made him the perfect broker. The Muslims of Acheh believed that by offering them Ottoman protection Zahir could bring them relief from Dutch exploits. Their first reality check of the caliph as a global Muslim leader ended in failure. Muslims were disappointed when a much-­enfeebled Ottoman Empire refused help because none of the other major imperial powers were willing to support it.207 Zahir did not give up easily as he needed to keep his own reputation as a middleman intact. He pulled out an 1850 firman from the archives that declared Acheh as a protectorate of the Ottomans. This was an effective face-­saving move for him. The caliph in a very gentle and nonpersuasive way stated that he had political sovereignty over Acheh. This claim was dismissed instantly by Holland. Soon the Porte dismissed Zahir with a minor decoration for himself and a vizirial letter for his sultan that summed up Turkey’s attempts to help Acheh.208 Zahir thus lost out to the Dutch without substantial forthcoming Ottoman support. Once the Dutch had crushed 162

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his rebellion, they paid him a monthly stipend of $1,000. He was allowed to move and settle wherever he liked. The Ottoman bubble had been burst, but Zahir had successfully shifted the discussions away from the importance of the caliph as the savior, to middle­ ­men brokers such as himself. In Penang and Singapore, the Muslim community followed the developments in Acheh with interest. In both settlements, financial and material help for the Achehnese and for men like Zahir who could broker for them was always forthcoming.209 As the focus turned to middlemen like Zahir, the British also shifted into an alarmist gear. After all, Zahir was Fadl’s brother-­in­law. It was clear that Fadl’s networks extended via his family ties into Dutch Indonesia as well. In 1879, Brigadier Francis Loch, the political agent at Aden, reported his visit to the area and his journey to Mecca, where he proposed to stay for a year. Loch had had news from his residency interpreter, Saleh Jaffer, that while at Aden Zahir had been in touch with Fadl and that he also had with him a huge retinue. Loch feared that as the two shared the same “restless and active spirits and natures” and as they were related in marriage they might pool their men and resources and create a problem in the Dhofar region. Loch, mindful of the “clever” character of these “men of spirit and action,” feared that they might represent themselves as having the support of Turkish troops. This might help Fadl to reinstall himself in Dhofar and make relations between Turkey and England tense.210 The British resident at Istanbul also worried about Fadl’s wide network in India and Afghanistan. He was particularly worried when Fadl’s predictions about “troubles” in India and his convictions about the inability of the Afghan warlord, Ammer Abdurrahman, to maintain himself unaided at Kabul proved correct, as was reported in the press.211 But more worrisome were of course Fadl’s contacts in India. After all, that was where he had grown up after his father migrated to Malabar from the Hadramawt area. Even though Malabar commissioners Henry Conolly and Thomas L. Strange insisted that they had gotten rid of the Fadl problem by deporting him and his family to Arabia, they could not extinguish his extended family networks in India. Stephen Dale has argued that Fadl’s influence and contacts 163

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continued to shape Muslim politics in India until the early twentieth century.212 One of the reasons for Fadl’s influence was that in the Hijaz he was in constant touch with visiting Malayali Muslims. The British resident then at Aden, Captain Haines, felt that the deportation of Fadl to Arabia had helped him as it made him a living martyr. He was known to have carried on a correspondence with people in Malabar as late as 1900.213 Haines also reported that when Fadl was at Mocha (northwest of Aden), Indian Muslims regularly arrived there to do him homage. Later when Fadl shifted to Mecca, the British vice consul reported that he exerted a huge influence on pilgrims from both India and Hadramawt.214 And despite Conolly’s claims of having purged Fadl’s family from Malabar, his circle of relatives was far too huge to be completely washed out. In 1881, the commissioner of Calicut introduced to the consul at Jeddah the son of one of his nephews who wished to travel to Mecca. This man, Sayyid Hassan ibn Sayyid Ahmad Jifri of the Putiamaliga house in Calicut, wanted to travel to the Hijaz because his father and other family members there had died of cholera.215 This desire, of course, would not have discounted the rituals and ceremonies of martyrdom at Mambram that perpetuated and kept alive both Fadl’s and his father’s memory and ­ideology.216 Fadl’s status in India loomed large also because of news as well as rumors of the importance he enjoyed in the Hijaz and Istanbul. Thus, even though Fadl had been deported from India, the security personnel in India understood the clout he wielded in the Hijaz and recognized the networks that connected him throughout trans-­Asia. In 1881, Ahmad Gorukul Khan Bahadur, inspector of police in the Madras presidency, who had played a key role in cracking down on the “turbulent population of Malabar”—​as a letter from the chief secretary described it—​and thereby “incur[ed] the enmity of Syud Fazl the deported priest,” feared for his life as he prepared to make a trip to the Hijaz. He submitted his passport to the chief secretary, asking for adequate provisions for his “personal safety” and “protection” from Fadl. Fully realizing the seriousness of the problem, the secretary promptly forwarded his request to the British consul at Jeddah.217 164

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In the late nineteenth century, news of Fadl’s potential and clout as a broker who would protect the interests of the Muslims trickled along with stories about the inept and powerless caliph. The hopes of people shifted from the caliph to intermediaries like Fadl. In 1879, it was widely believed in India that Fadl was in touch with Indians in Istanbul, that he shared their anti-­British sentiments, and that at one time had “contemplated going to Afghanistan to oppose the English.”218 In Istanbul, Fadl found an agile intellectual public sphere. The city had a vibrant community of “runaway” Muslim mullahs, rebels, and renegades of all hues. Much to the chagrin of the British government, they had escaped the British clampdown in India and lived under royal patronage in the city. Indeed, as we will see in the following chapter, Maulana Rahmatullah Kairanwi was one such case in point. He enjoyed royal patronage as he pursued his scholarly work as well as political activism. The latter derived from his vast trans-­Asian contacts established via his many activities: politics, travel, pilgrimage, dissemination of religious knowledge, establishment of seminaries, exercise of miraculous powers, and creation of social welfare schemes for the immigrant populations in the Hijaz in particular.219 Likewise, in 1880 the resident reported the huge influence Fadl had in Turkey, where mosques were being used as a recruiting ground for him. The resident had seen that in the mosque of Sultan Mehemed a sheikh was preaching that in exchange for Fadl’s assistance in recovering Dhofar, “every Mussulman should arm himself.”220 Reports of men and money pouring in from Morocco also sent shivers down the India Office spine.221 Fadl’s close connections with the Ottoman sultan’s chamberlain, Osman Bey, was of course always a source of concern for Muscat, the British, and independent Arab chiefs, especially because Bey was known to be, as one letter described it, “one of the most fanatical and mischievous men about the Sultan’s person.” The charge of “fanaticism” was something that the British could never wash away as far as Fadl was concerned. And therefore his friendship with Bey was always suspect in their eyes. The Hijaz, especially Jeddah, was an arena where it was believed that Fadl had many contacts with the Indian population. Fadl’s 165

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s­ on-­in-­law Abdul Rahman, who frequented Mecca and who was known to be “both active and intelligent,” was particularly instrumental in keeping these contacts alive. And there was always a concern about the extent of influence Fadl had over the Indian population back in India.222 A detailed memorandum submitted by the British resident in Istanbul to the government indicated that Fadl did have networks and influence in India. The India Office was always asked by officers posted in Istanbul to keep tabs on Fadl regarding his influence on the Muslims of India.223 In 1880, Fadl’s proposed visit to Mecca to meet with the sheikhs who were gathering there to strengthen the position of the caliph caused alarm in British circles because there were intelligence reports that Fadl would also be meeting with the Indian pilgrims and soliciting their opinions on the caliphate and global issues.224 The government of India was equally concerned at the links he had forged with the viceroy of Egypt as he garnered support for his claims on Dhofar.225 Indeed, urgent telegrams were sent in 1880 to the British Agent at Aden and to the vice consul at Jeddah warning them of the seditious character of Fadl, who threatened to visit Jeddah.226 From 1880 until his death in 1901 Fadl contributed to the intellectual and political energy of Istanbul and helped establish it as the hub of a vast Muslim network that was both Islamist as well as cosmopolitan. The network was slippery and contingent on the individuals, circumstances, and institutions that used it. Thus Fadl could use this transcultural network to build his political career as an independent ruler of Dhofar. In doing so, he could critique the Ottoman caliph, suggest that the English could do a better job as the protectors of Muslims, but at the same time extol the sultan and his imperial capital—​Istanbul. He called the sultan’s territories the “Empire of Islam” and referred to Istanbul as the sacred space of Islam. Even more striking was his praise of the British, whom he said were better than the Ottoman caliph at protecting the religious and civil rights of Muslims, and his simultaneous urgings to the Ottoman sultan that foreign encroachments on Muslim territory would be stopped, as he was reported to have stated, only by a “union of the people of Islam.” And he announced, “By the aid of this great 166

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cause . . . ​we shall promote the patriotism of all Mussulmans and gain the admiration and approval of our co-­religionists.”227 This was indeed the best example of the tilting of the global networks toward a caliph-­centric pan-­Islamism. Indeed, in Fadl’s writings from Istanbul his identification of the caliph as the undisputed head of the Muslim networks was unquestioned. In two of his works, Tarikat al-­Hanifa (1899) and Tanbih al-­Ukala (1881), he refers to Sultan Abd-­al Hamid II as the caliph of Islam and praises his rule. In Tanbih al-­Ukala he cites two traditions about the need to obey the caliph. He states, “Whoever betrays the sultan is betrayed by God.”228 Dale sees Fadl as being influenced by the model provided by Jamaluddin Afghani—​t he Persian rebel who was a pan-­Islam vision­ ­ary. And maybe the links between them were there. But Fadl was certainly weak on politics and strong on personal aggrandizement. Unlike Afghani, who saw the strengthening of the caliph as an end to his extraterritorial politics, there is no such agenda evident in Fadl’s career. If anything, he and others in his network, like Zahir in Acheh, overshadowed the caliph through their ability to negotiate with the range of Asian and European imperial powers that framed Muslim lives in the period. He was in the end a typical transcultural and transimperial entrepreneur. And there were many other Muslim British subjects in the Hijaz and Istanbul, many of whom were fugitive mullahs who had reached Ottoman territories as they escaped the British crackdown on them after the mutiny. Of course, like Fadl, all these were grouped together as “outlawed fanatics” by the British. Yet there was no doubt that in the late nineteenth century such outlawed Muslim subjects themselves constituted formidable trans-­Asian networks that the British were better off using rather than dismantling if they wanted their political sovereignty in the region to attain the durability and geographical expanse that they desired. Fadl and his network were crucial for the globalization of the concerns held by Muslim subjects. He was revered as a martyr in Malabar even decades after he had been unceremoniously deported from there. Fadl represented networks that were global rather than simply pan-­Islamist in the procaliph manner. This at one level made it easy 167

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for the British to tap their potential. But Muslim networks were slippery. They had the potential to switch gears. Transcultural middlemen like Fadl who energized these networks could become the rabid mullah and the Muslim fanatic when it suited them. For the British and other imperial powers, these were not imagined fears but real dangers of relying on late nineteenth-­century Muslim networks. Sayyid Fadl was the best case in point, as was Maulana Rahmatullah in a different kind of way, as the next chapter will unfold.

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3 R a h m at u l l a h K air a nw i a nd the M usl i m Cosmopol is

Maulana Rahmatullah Kairanwi (1818–1892), the 1857 scholar rebel and close associate of Sayyid Fadl, was born in Kairana in the Muzaffarnagar district of modern Uttar Pradesh. He traced his intellectual genealogy to the Delhi Naqshbandiya Sufi Shahwaliulla and his disciple Sayyid Ahmad Shahid of Rae Bareilly.1 After an initial stint of home schooling with his scholarly father, Maulvi Khalil Allah, he moved to Delhi and Lucknow. At Delhi his private teachers were Maulana Imam Baksh Sahbai of the Delhi College. In Lucknow he was taught by Mufti Saad Allah. He had contacts and initiations with numerous Chishti and Naqshbandi khanqahs (hospices) as well.2 After the death of his father, he set himself up in Kairana, where he established a madrasa. In 1852, at the time of the Delhi College conversion controversy, he was requested by the ulema to take up the missionary challenge. This gained him political visibility and brought him to the notice of the local administration. He gained further notoriety in British circles during the mutiny of 1857. He was one of the rebel leaders from Kairana. At the Jama 169

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Masjid in Kairana, every evening the mujahids—​t hose people engaged in jihad, in fighting for a good cause—​assembled, and before they were given any orders the following announcement was made: “Mulk khuda kaa. Hukm maulvi Rahmatullah ka.” (The country belongs to God. And the orders of Maulana Kairanwi are followed.) Kairanwi’s role in 1857 was therefore quite explicit, and he was on the official hit list. But with the assistance of local Gujjar families he managed to flee from Kairana and escape arrest.3 He had an arrest warrant issued for him, and an award of Rs.1,000 was offered to anyone who gave information about him.4 Kairanwi wished to flee to Mecca. He disguised himself, changed his name, and left on foot for Delhi and then traveled toward Surat. From there he took a sailing boat to Jeddah. In Kairana his huge riyasat where his family and workers lived was confiscated by the British and put up for auction. Kairanwi can be placed in the galaxy of early nineteenth-­century Muslim reformists who we discussed in Chapter 1. Like them, he too used the print and the vernacular Urdu to reach out to the Indian masses with literature offering advice, and in particular about individual adjustment to the new British political sovereigns.5 He was also one of the last of the multilingual gentlemen: he wrote simultaneously in Arabic, Persian, and Urdu with an eye to an audience outside India. Much of Kairanwi’s writings were framed in the late nineteenth-­century Salafi intellectual tradition of Ottoman and Arab reformist thought. Indeed, he combined the Indian reformist emphasis on the salience of the individual with the Ottoman Salafi tradition that foregrounded science and rationality as the frame for individual action. In line with the Salafi tradition, he aimed at inclusivity and used the scriptures as an accretive template that could accommodate diversity. And very much in tune with their fears, he was also apprehensive of Western ascendancy and wished to achieve the unity of the Muslim umma across the British and the Ottoman Empires. He urged his audience to embrace science and rationality, as these were integral to their Islamic heritage. According to him, Islamic scriptures had universal appeal across the Muslim world. They were the ideal means by which to level differences and unite Muslims. 170

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Kairanwi’s writing career in India developed during the debates he had with the Christian missionaries on the authenticity and reliability of their religious texts. His main debating partner was one Carl Gottlieb Pfander (1803–1868), a German evangelical missionary. In several books that he compiled during his public debates with the missionaries in Agra and Delhi, he refuted Pfander’s claim as to the textual superiority and authenticity of Christian religious texts. Instead, he privileged the Koran and attributed to it a permanence and protection from tahrif lafzi (the practice of changing words). The idea of hifz (memorizing) and the production of hafiz i-­Koran (those who had memorized it), made the Koran superior as its embodied nature protected its original form. No human agent could tamper with the text. Indeed, it preserved its revealed innocence for posterity. In contrast, the human agency that produced many textual versions of the Bible, including the Torah, disembodied their revealed knowledge, making it vulnerable to corruption. Most of the books of Kairanwi develop this theme and lay out the endemic connectivity that the Koran lends to its followers. These books bring to the forefront the embodied nature of the Koran, and they showcase it as a global connector, since it lies engrained in the hearts and minds of all Muslims. Kairanwi’s books offer a historicist intellectual underpinning to the nineteenth-­ century Muslim networks. According to him, his books are exceptional because they are embedded in the Koran. Such ideas were penned first in his books the Ijaz-­i-­Iswi and Izalatul al-Shakuk, both of which he wrote in India even before he set himself up in the Hijaz and Istanbul. He developed his ideas further in the Izharul Haq, which he wrote from Istanbul in 1865. Even before Kairanwi moved out of India, he publicly debated the Christian missionaries in Agra and Delhi and wrote a critique of their texts in his book the Ijaz-­i-­Iswi. This book, written in Persian for an Indian audience, was published in Agra in 1854. It was later translated into Urdu. It deals with tahrif lafzi in the Christian and Jewish books, and underlines their inferior status as compared to the permanence of Koranic knowledge, which is unchanging. Kairanwi argued that Christian and Jewish religious texts had no tradition of hifz, which made them vulnerable to change. Kairanwi privileged 171

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the Koran over such “inferior” texts because its contents were change­ ­less and embodied in an unalloyed form in the hearts and the bodies of believers. The Koran was transmitted through their movements and had the unique privilege of being transmitted as a memorized text. The transmission of the Koran by way of individual mobility and word of mouth enabled the establishment of the trans-­Asiatic Muslim networks. Kairanwi’s second book, Izalatul al-Shakuk (1853), extended further his argument about Muslim global connectivity. This book was a reply to twenty questions posed by Christians to Muslims. It was written in Urdu so as to reach out to an Indian audience. Indeed, Kairanwi wanted not just the ulema but ordinary people to become aware of the thrust of his public discussions. The book is also known by its other title, Sawalat Kairanwi. In its preface, Kairanwi notes that the book was his response to questions published in a Hindi newspaper, challenging Muslims to reply. Initially, he was reluctant to respond to things he had already engaged with in his various discussions (munazra) with the Christian missionaries. But he soon realized that the Christians had added more queries to this list and wanted a response from Mirza Ahmad Fakruddin, the son of the Mughal emperor Bahadur Shah Zafar. The emperor passed the list on to him, as he was the best respondent in matters of theol­ ­ogy. He had no choice but to pen this book. The issues were of interest to him, and he was motivated to write because the Christian missionaries challenged the Muslims to reply.6 However, the book did not remain confined to the twenty-­questions format, because before its publication not only did the Christians add more questions but Kairanwi participated in the public debates with Pfander in Akbarabad. He thus also included some of that discussion in the book. In 1,116 pages, the two-­volume book defends the Koran as the singular text that offers evidence of the Nabuwat or Prophethood of Muhammad and his ability to perform miracles. And of course it also shows in copious detail the changes introduced in other religious books of the past and present. In the book, Kairanwi separates the questions on the Koran from the questions about miracles and answers them individually. The discussion is triggered by a Christian 172

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query about the Koran validating the miracles of the Prophet. Kairanwi reiterates the salience and exceptional status of the Koran and the Prophet. This is exemplified in their innate potential to establish global connections among Muslims.7

Kairanwi’s Cosmopolitanism at the Cusp of Empires Kairanwi’s cosmopolitanism was exemplified in the discursive space that he carved out between empires, a space that showcased Mus­­ lims as a civilizational force. He grafted this cosmopolitanism onto the imperial networks that were a feature of his new location in the Hijaz and Istanbul. He used imperial fault lines to maneuver the diplomatic connections between the British and Ottoman Empires to his advantage.8 His ability to negotiate with both the British and Ottoman consular offices and play them against each other was the best such case in point. In his new identity as a fugitive subject of the British Empire, he became a significant actor in the trans-­Asiatic politics of the nineteenth century, a sphere that involved the British, Arab polities, the Ottomans, and the Russian Empire. As he worked his way through the networks of imperial rivalries, he engineered his career by tapping into the Islamic repertoire of communication skills and older forms of Islamic connectivity—​t he scriptures and the oral tradition through which they were disseminated. In the process, he laid out critical Muslim intellectual networks between the British and Ottoman Empires. The entanglement of Muslim networks with Western empires turned pan-­Islamic connectivity away from its caliph-­centric orientation. It also made pan-­Islam attractive to a range of Ottoman liberals and non-­Muslims, even as Muslim networks retained their Islamic intellectual core. In Mecca, Kairanwi attended the darrs (classroom lectures) of Sayyid Ahmad Dahlan, who taught the Shafi jurisprudence. Kairanwi always asked Dahlan intelligent questions, and the latter was so impressed by him that he met him separately one day to find out his background and details. This was the first time Kairanwi had an opportunity to tell Dahlan about his discussions and public debates with Pfander: the Islam versus Christianity debate, the issue of the 173

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1857 rebellion against British rule, and the problems of the Indian Muslims who lived in the shadow of the British raj. This meeting was followed by an invitation to Dahlan’s house the following day. Dahlan asked Kairanwi to set up his own study circle at the Kaaba in Mecca, and had his name included in the list of the ulema of the sanctum sanctorum of Mecca. This not only gave Kairanwi a newfound status in the global hub of Mecca, but it also made his financial situation in the city secure.9 Soon Kairanwi’s lectures became very popular and his students obtained high positions. He remained continuously in touch with Indian affairs via pilgrims who came every haj season. Kairanwi’s presence in Mecca predictably drew the attention of the British consulate. After all, he was in British records a marked 1857 outlaw—​a mutiny convict against whom there was an arrest warrant. But his darrs and later the madrasa he established also alarmed Turkish officials, who feared that if the British continued to be interested in the madrasa, they might make it their point of intervention in the region. Or, the consulate worried, the madrasa might become a nodal point for foreign influence, and as such might oppose Turkish rule in the region. They were not sure what the madrasa’s political orientation would be in the event of an imperial clash of interest. Thus Kairanwi’s intellectual nest became the flash point in the region where British and Ottoman political sovereignties were poised to assess each other.10 There were, however, moments when both the British and the Ottoman officials agreed on the suspicious character of Kairanwi’s madrasa. They both viewed it as unacceptable and categorized it as the beginning of a “movement of a stranger who represented an outside country.” Such moments of collective concern occurred when Turkish military men held positions of influence in the Hijaz. Thus at one point the governor of Hijaz Nuri Pasha—​a Turkish military man who always remained suspicious of Kairanwi’s madrasa—​sent a damaging report on Kairanwi to Caliph Abd-­al Hamid II (r. 1876–1909). He had prepared the report in consultation with the British consulate at Jeddah. Kairanwi retaliated by sending his own details to the caliph. Both for intellectual as well as political reasons he received a positive response 174

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from Abd-­al Hamid II, who read both the reports and invited Kairanwi to visit Istanbul. He even asked the governor to arrange for Kairanwi’s travel.11 Kairanwi reached Istanbul in 1883 via imperial networks—​in this case, a network characterized by consular cooperation. Ottoman reformists were familiar with Kairanwi’s writings even before he visited Istanbul. The news of his debates with Christian missionaries in Delhi and Agra circulated in Istanbul. Indeed, he had visited the city in 1864 on the invitation of Caliph Abd-­al Aziz (r. 1861–1876). This Ottoman sultan, with no claims to be the global leader of Muslims, had invited him to learn about his views on the missionary Pfander’s claim that he had defeated him in a religious debate in Agra. And this, as we shall see below, resulted in his writing Izharul Haq while in Istanbul. However, the second visit, in 1883, was different. This visit was in response to an invitation from Caliph Abd-­al Hamid II following a British consular complaint regarding Kairanwi’s dealings in Mecca. The caliph realized that Kairanwi epitomized the entanglement of Muslim networks with Western Empires, and that this lent him immense political value. That is, Abd-­al Hamid II was not attracted to Kairanwi merely because of his caliphal duty to Muslims. On his part, Kairanwi too was not interested in Istanbul simply because it was the seat of caliphal power. Rather, the camaraderie that developed between the two men is a case in point of the Ottoman sultan’s attempt to access the imperially embedded pan-­Islam networks of Kairanwi, and the latter making the most of the sultan’s interest in reinforcing them. On this visit, Kairanwi traveled to Istanbul along with the head of the madrasa, Maulvi Hazrat Noor, and his brother Maulana Badrul Islam. In his diary, Kairanwi details the royal treatment he received as he traveled from Mecca to Istanbul, and his royal reception at the hands of the highest-­ranking officials, such as Nasim Bey. He also received a khilat (robe of honor) from the caliph and lived as a state guest. He was given Rs. 5,000 (hazar qarash) and the title of payah harmain sharif. When he met the caliph it was quite clear that he was a state guest, not only because of the respect that the caliph had for his scholarship and his status as a ulema of the haram sharif, but also 175

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because he wanted to learn from him the details of British rule in India. Kairanwi wrote in his diary: “The Turkish Sultan shook hands with me and said that he was very eager to hear about my circumstances and that is why he had invited me. And he will talk to him in details [about India and his madrasa] at leisure.”12 Kairanwi returned to Mecca after several months of royal treatment at Istanbul. During his stay in the city he was not only exonerated of all wrongdoing but also established a cordial relationship with the caliph. When he departed, he left behind his brother, Badrul Islam Kairanwi, as his permanent contact at Istanbul. The caliph had requested that Badrul Islam Kairanwi remain, and he was in turn honored with the charge of the Hamidiyah library. This is Turkey’s largest royal library, and it had been established by the sultan himself. Kairanwi’s brother was made its director—​a great honor. He remained permanently lodged in Istanbul throughout his life.13 Kairanwi himself returned to Istanbul several times for discussions. He had a social circle in the city as he had lived there previously, for long stretches, to write his book Izharul Haq. On several occasions he visited the city for eye treatment. On all occasions he was always treated as a state guest. But despite his regal treatment, he always yearned to return to Mecca, where he wanted to breathe his last.14 Even while in the Ottoman cities, he never let go of his connection to India, and at one time requested to be sent back home just one last time. In 1883, the British consul in Jeddah received two letters from Kairanwi in which he pleaded that he wished to go back to India. The consulate made inquiries into his case through its dragomans and through reliable Indian agents and found his behavior during his residence in Mecca “perfectly unobjectionable.” They recommended to the government that Kairanwi be allowed to go back to India. Their decision was based on the reports of two Indians in the city, Hassan Johar and Hafizuddin. These men had known the maulana for twelve years, and the consulate trusted them. The consulate said that notwithstanding “his real or supposed share in 1857,” his stint in Mecca had been very uneventful. In a letter, the consulate reported: “[He is] much respected, it appears as a man the morality of whose life is in conformity with his religion . . . ​he lives 176

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very quietly and has no connection with public affairs religious or political.” The consulate was of the view that its act of generosity would be appreciated not just by Kairanwi but also by influential people in Mecca.15 The government of India denied the request, basing its decision on the report of the government of the Northwest Provinces, in whose jurisdiction Kairanwi’s village Kairana, in the Muzaffarnagar district, was located. They agreed with the secretary of the Northwest Provinces, who reminded them of Kairanwi’s disloyal conduct in the mutiny at Meerut. They noted that Kairanwi had been charged with complicity in the murder of a number of persons whose relatives recognized him, and that therefore the lieutenant governor and chief commissioner could not promise him safe conduct to India.16 The secretary quoted from the charge sheet he had prepared on the 1857 rebels, noting that Kairanwi had been accused of violence at Thana Bhowan. He was said to have accompanied the reformist Inayat Ali Khan in the attack on the government offices at Shamli. At the time, Khan had been worried about the fate of the large numbers of people locked in the mosque and the camp and had turned to Kairanwi for advice. Khan reportedly instigated Kairanwi to commit violence by commenting, “Pigs must not be suffered in masjid.” The authorities considered this statement tantamount to a sentence of death when the slaughter commenced. As the charge sheet described it, the commissioners had never seen “Muhammadans killing Muhammadans inside their own place of worship.” And according to the charge sheet, Kairanwi was definitely “a leader and instigator.”17 The government did not want Kairanwi back in India. But they worried about his activities in the Hijaz. They were not content with the Jeddah consul’s favorable report on him. Indeed, they saw him as one of the many spokes in the wheel of “sedition” that operated in the holy city of Mecca. The Foreign Office echoed the fears and anxieties of Zohrab, the Jeddah consul, who saw “Muslim secret soci­­ eties” brewing trouble for the British all over the Hijaz and beyond. They saw Mecca as the hub of the production and circulation of dangerous anti-­British “Wahabi” literature. They feared, as they described it in a letter to the consul at Jeddah, that Kairanwi’s return 177

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would energize “politico-­religious movements which starting from the head quarters of Islam would very soon reach the Mahomedans of India.” Moreover, they wanted to “obtain accurate information on the personality, motives and influence of their leaders.” It came as no surprise that their list of “Wahabi” suspects included Maulana Kairanwi. In 1888, H.  M. Durand, in the Foreign Department, wanted information about Kairanwi, who, he said, “we have reason to believe is engaged in preaching sedition to and circulating seditious papers among our subjects at the Haj.” He wanted “all available information” about him and about the “motive power which works him if he is merely a tool in the hands of others.”18 Kairanwi played on British suspicions about him to insert himself into Ottoman society. From 1864 to 1900 he moved continuously between Mecca and Istanbul (1864–1900) and built his intellectual resources. In Mecca, his focus remained his darrs and madrasa. Kairanwi’s lectures, writings, and madrasa activities provided the intellectual underpinning of his imperially derived cosmopolitanism—​a cosmopolitanism that flourished at the cusp of empires. The long reach of his thought was evident when it connected to the larger trans-­Asiatic wheel of reforms; these reforms were of both the Islamic and Western radical kind, and they were sweeping through the Ottoman provinces. This intellectual energy, often known as the Arab renaissance, was triggered in Istanbul and its Arab provinces (Syria, Lebanon, and Cairo). Here, during the late 1860s, reformist ulema and bureaucrat scholars reeled under the shock both of the financial crisis and of the obstacles to reform imposed first by Caliph Abd-­al Aziz and then by Abd-­al Hamid II. These reformers and scholars attempted to understand the imperial crisis, the failed administrative (tanzimat) and constitutional reforms of the empire, and the ascendancy of an autocracy that legitimated itself using caliphal authority.19 But the reformists were energized by the more immediate threat of Western ascendancy in and around the Ottoman territories, especially after the Russo-­Turkish war of 1877. Both the moderate ulema as well as reformist bureaucrats who had lost favor in Abd-­al Hamid’s Istanbul converged in the provinces (Syria, Lebanon, and Egypt)—​away from the Ottoman core—​ to fashion moral and political reforms that would connect Islamic 178

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societies, unite Muslims globally, and highlight the accretive civilizational heritage of Islam. Privileging this more material, lateral connectivity, rather than the caliph as the normative figurehead, was eventually meant to desacralize autocracy at Istanbul. The reform­ ­ists in the provinces urged the umma to unite politically and showcase its civilizational heritage: science, modernity, reason, interpretation, and emulation. Differences of Islamic belief and practice had to be subordinated to this new reformist agenda, and the scriptures were chosen as the ideal template with which to unite the Muslims. This resulted in the demystification of the Koran and the Hadith and a generous interpretation of their content so as to accommodate Mus­ ­lim diversity. It also decentered the caliph. The return to the scriptures, and reliance on“traditional” or “clas­­ sical” Islamic principles of consultation, reason, and rationality to interpret them, became the popular route to an inclusive political reform. The reformists argued that science and modernity always had a place in classical Islamic society. These were not borrowed Western concepts. As unity of the umma, with a specific political intent, became their motto, they added commentaries to the scriptures that made the Islamic engine more inclusive. Thus Shihabuddin Alusis in Baghdad added Sufi dialectics and Razi’s natural science to his commentaries on the Koran. Islamic reformists, deeply immersed in scripture, established trans-­Asiatic networks that stretched from Syria, Lebanon, and Cairo to Morocco and India. Alusis, for instance, traveled to Cairo and read the exegesis of the Indian scripturalist reformer Siddiq Hasan Khan. He also sent his son to India to train with him. Indeed, these trans-­Asiatic reformers all converged in their untiring devotion to the thinker Ibn Taymiyyaah, who emphasized to them the religious and political significance of ijtihad (interpretation and independent judgment), emulation, reason, and revela­­tion. Through their magazines, journals, and societies, these Islamic reform­ ­ists had already created a vibrant public sphere in the Ottoman territories and beyond—​long before Abd-­al Hamid II clamped down on them and on the constitutionalist bureaucrats in the empire who opposed his “back to Islam” policy.20 Their networks offered a ready ground for reformist Ottoman bureaucrats and Indian men of religion who cared to connect. 179

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The Salafis in the Arab fringes of the empire also found willing allies in the secondary school graduates—​products of a secular education. These students became the first Arabicists who allied with Salafis and pioneered movements for educational and political reforms: Arab cultural revival, an inclusive renaissance, political rights, and later autonomy if not independence.21 Of course, the Salafis and the Arabicists (a group that also included many former Ottoman constitutionalist bureaucrats) both perpetuated as well as departed from each other’s ideas, especially in the context of education. The Salafis advocated reason, rationality, and Sufi doctrine. But they remained more concerned with reforming Muslim belief and practice. On the other hand, the Arabicists were more political and moved beyond belief and practice to urge intellectuals to make their agendas more appealing and to present them in contemporary terms, even if it meant moving beyond the Islamic heritage formula.22 Nonetheless, they both contributed to create a vibrant atmosphere of change and reform. Ottoman provinces in Syria, Lebanon, and Egypt were at this time the melting pot of reformist ideas of all hues. If Islamic liberalism and ideas of unity swept the region, triggered by the administrative and political turmoil in Istanbul, so too did French ideas of patriotism, which demonstrated how to think of a united Muslim world comprising different nation-­states.23 Also noteworthy was the influence of Western radical politics, which itself urged people to rise across Asia, transcending religious and linguistic barriers, and to unify against the ascendancy of Western capitalism. Ilham Makdisi has shown the catalytic role that Arab theater in the Ottoman provinces played in triggering a unique kind of moral and political reform; like the religious reformists, it aimed at pushing people to unite across class, ethnicities, and sects. This meant transcending the self and focusing instead on matters of public interest. This movement from the self to public interest was indicative of progress, civilization, and the unification of all types of people—​t hat is, the creation of a social body. This was the beginning of a new radical transnational politics and society, and it was linked to theatrical performances. According to Makdisi, this was yet another ideological route to creating unity and fostering introspection at a time 180

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when Western ascendancy loomed large in the background. The movement of people across Ottoman provinces—​Syria, Egypt, and Lebanon—​and the development of a transimperial social bond and a popular culture that went beyond local issues encouraged Ottoman theaters to deal with radical themes. Many actors, like Aziz Eid, were Freemasons and had links with radical intellectuals. They performed plays such as The Masons in Cairo. Popular theatrical themes like the French Revolution radicalized thought in no small measure and prepared the ground for the Ottoman Revolution.24 It is worth noting that the scripturalists, the Arabicists, and the radical reformists—​all imbued with the idea of trans-­Asiatic unity, progress, and civilization—​intersected politically and strategically, even if they had their own very different ideological bases and material contexts. Indeed, the pioneer of Arab theater in the Ottoman provinces, Marun al-­Naqqash (1817–1855), who introduced the Western literary genre of drama into Arab lands in the mid-­ nineteenth century, maintained close links with Jamaluddin Afghani, the most radical Muslim reformist of the 1870s and 1880s. Afghani, who above all stressed the principle of unity as a political ploy against Western ascendancy, reached out to universal reference points like the caliph even as he leaned on the non-­Muslim support base in India to serve his political agenda of ousting the Western powers from the region. Makdisi shows that Afghani viewed the establishment of an Egyptian theater as the most effective way of promoting radical ideas and raising the political consciousness of the populace.25 Kairanwi used this intellectual moment to harness Indian interests to the trans-­Asiatic reformist movement. Indeed, he impacted this movement with some very India-­specific reformist intellectual energy—​Naqshbandiya Sufi spirituality, whose most characteristic feature was the compromise it offered between the more Sufi-­ inclined wahdat-­ul-­wajud (unity of being) and the Shariat-­inclined wahdat-­ul-­shahud (unity of existence). It attempted to unite diverse Muslim sects and ideologues by bringing together their different literary productions: the Sufi masnavis, Hadith texts used in India, and Kairanwi’s own book Izharul Haq, which talked about the exceptional historicity, poetics, meter, and rhythm of the Koran. 181

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The combination of the scripture-­oriented Naqshbandiya hard line with the more culturally alloyed Chishtiya Sufi outlook had been the defining feature of Mughal political culture. Emperor Akbar, weary of the global networks of the Naqshbandiya across Central Asia and the Ottoman Empire, shored up his social base internally by engaging with and encouraging the Chishti Sufis in Delhi, Agra, and Ajmer. This led to the very Indic practice of multiple initiations into diverse Sufi brotherhoods. Kairanwi, the archetypal Mughal gentleman, was also initiated into both the Naqshbandiya and the Suhrawadiya Sufi brotherhoods. He exported to Mecca this Mughal gentlemanly practice of cultural tolerance and accommodation. In Mecca, Kairanwi found a rich intellectual legacy; through this intellectual heritage, the groundwork had already been laid for a reconciliation of mysticism and of the scripture-­based jurisprudence represented by the Naqshbandiya Sufis. Since the fifteenth century, India had been integral to Naqshbandi global networks, which had connected early modern Asian empires. The popularity in India of Abd ur Rahman Jami of Herat is one example of how the eclectic Indic reformists rubbed shoulders with the Naqshbandis from the Mediterranean Arab-­Ottoman world. This interaction only intensified in subsequent centuries and can be seen in the long residence in 1802 of Khalid Naqshbandi of Kurdistan at the Delhi madrasa of Shahwaliulla. At the same time, Indian Naqshbandis also had an impact on the Arab world. During the seventeenth century, South Asian Sufi scholars like Sibghat Allah (from Ahmadnagar and Bijapur in India) and Tajuddin al Hindi (from Gujarat) exported to the Arab world the Shattariyyah and Naqshbandiya Sufi orientations, respectively, which reconciled the Shariat to Sufi tassawuf.26 Indeed, the translation of their Persian works into Arabic and the introduction in Mecca of the famous Shattariyyah text Jawahir-­i-­ Khamsah of Ghauth al Hindi went a long way toward producing the “neo-­Sufism” that brought mysticism and Islamic jurisprudence together—​in both cases by sharpening the focus on the life of the Prophet and his teachings, that is, the Hadith studies.27 Kairanwi cashed in on this Indic legacy and used the infrastructure of modern Western empires to reinforce the earlier 182

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Naqshbandi-­driven trans-­Asian, transimperial networks and make them more pronounced. Michael Laffan argues that the idea of Indonesian nationalism based on a modern Islamic state was conceptualized in Cairo. Both the press and the anti-­British political movement in the city created a more conducive environment in which the runaway Javanese Muslims could work out their anti-­Dutch activism. Mere caliph-­ sponsored pan-­Islam failed to create the desired anti-­Dutch sentiment. The caliph, located in faraway Istanbul, did not fire the Javanese political imaginary or offer the pivot around which to organize their political energy. Things had to happen over and above him in Cairo.28 In India, exiled “outlaws” in Mecca and Istanbul also deflected pan-­Islam aspirations away from the caliph. But unlike the Cairo-­based Indonesian runaway nationalists, Indian “outlaws” are hard to categorize as nationalist or even as pan-­ Islamists. Their aspirations were more global and were oriented toward laying out more diffuse, widespread networks that sprawled over and derived from both Western imperial and older forms of connectivity: imperial rivalries; consulates; print, telegraph, and madrasa networks; the pilgrimage; teachers and students; and public debates, oratory, and written texts. These networks stretched between the British and the Ottoman Empires and constituted the reformers’ cosmopolis. It was here that they carved out their civilizational space to unite Muslims and meet the Western political challenge. Caliphal pan-­Islam had little role in the creation of this Muslim cosmopolis. Kairanwi’s career shows that he contributed to the creation of this cosmopolis and articulated his global aspiration in its discursive space. He desacralized the caliph and scrutinized instead his global reputation as the formidable sultan of an ethnically and religiously diverse empire. British colonial rule helped Kairanwi in this task. Because it enabled large numbers of subject people to travel physically to the Hijaz—​where they then experienced firsthand the caliph’s corruption—​British rule played a critical role in busting his imagined universal appeal. Kairanwi highlighted the caliph’s corrupt administration even as he leaned on him for help. He then moved in to fill the gap with his vast networks once the caliph had 183

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been exposed and reduced in popular perception to just another indifferent Asiatic ruler. And while Kairanwi played his imperial game, both the British and Dutch governments continued to magnify caliph-­centric pan-­Islamic fears and paid less attention to the challenge posed by the freshly constructed global Muslim ­cosmopolis. Kairanwi also tapped into the tensions within the Ottoman Empire. He exploited the friction between the Ottoman center and its provinces and benefited from the modernist reform that simmered in its Arab and African cities: Cairo, Syria, Lebanon, and Mecca. And yet he continued to claim Caliph Abd-­al Hamid II as his patron. This association offered him clout vis-­à-­v is both the British and the local Meccan administration. He maintained this balancing act because the foreign relations policy of Abd-­al Hamid II fit favorably with his own global aspirations. Both aimed at reaching out to the global Muslim society with their message of unity. Azmi Ozcan and Selim Deringil have shown how Hamid’s domestic crises—​t he grave financial crisis, the defeat at the hands of Russia in 1877, and the loss of the Balkans—​enabled him to become the protector of Muslim subjects around the world. He used Indian Muslims, in particular, as pawns to influence British policy toward the Ottomans. The printing press both in Turkey and India was mobilized to keep Ottoman issues and the caliph himself continuously at the center of Muslim public discourse so as to pressure the British government to attend to the needs of Indian Muslims.29 Kairanwi benefited from this Ottoman imperial vision. The correspondence of Ottoman foreign relations to his own global agenda helped him to lay out his cosmopolis between empires. The aim of his cosmopolitanism was to unite Muslims globally around the scriptures. But he benefited also from the reformist intellectual energy that simmered in the provinces and shaped the Ottoman imperial project. His madrasa was a microcosm of his cosmopolitanism: traditional at the core with its r­ eliance on the Koran and the Hadith, and impacted by the Ottoman-­ tanzimat-­inspired Salafi intellectuals in its orientation. It showcased the making of a social body based on the principles of unity, progress, and civilization, all embedded in the divine scriptures but 184

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reaching out to referents in scientific and technical education, rationality, emulation, and Sufi tassawuf.

Madrasa Saulatiya and the Meccan Reformists’ Indic Stamp In 1879, Abdur Razzack, the British vice consul, reported that Kairanwi had established a madrasa at Mecca. Kairanwi raised the funds for the madrasa from donations received by people who came for the haj. Initially the madrasa was for Indian children only. It made steady progress, and some distinguished scholars found residence there. Soon, on the intervention of the sheriff, Arab children were also allowed in the madrasa. The syllabus included the Koran, theology, and allied sciences. Razzack noted that the madrasa and Kairanwi were highly respected not just by “people high and low,” but also by the Turkish governor general of the Hijaz, Halat Pasha. On one occasion the pasha visited the madrasa and “kissed the hands of the maulvi, who kissed him in return, and then shook hands with all who were standing.” The pasha was so impressed by the madrasa and Kairanwi’s involvement in it that he stayed in the institution for several hours and patiently heard the students walk up to him in pairs and recite the Koran. Razzack said that it was a major spectacle and that many hajis also came to see the show.30 In 1885, Razzack reported that Kairanwi’s private madrasa, which received funds from India, stood out as a beacon of hope and light in the Hijaz region, where the state of education was otherwise dismal.31 The pasha’s respect for Kairanwi was striking because his government was known for its general neglect of education in the Hijaz. Razzack said the bad state of education was largely due to the apathy of the Turkish government toward learning. He lamented that the high traditions of learning that the region had been known for in the period of the classical caliphates had dissipated rapidly under Turkish rule. The ulema struggled to preserve their knowledge and disseminated it from their homes, from the portals of the haram, or from small private madrasas that they set up on their own.32 185

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After arriving in Mecca in the early 1860s as a fugitive from India, Kairanwi soon got involved in the affairs of the muhajirs (migrants) in the city. He was particularly incensed at the shoddy treatment they received at the hands of the Arabs, and noticed that there were no proper facilities for their accommodation, livelihood, and religious as well as scientific education. Having himself gone through the rigor of a standardized syllabus in the madrasas in India he was surprised that religious education for the youth in Arabia was unstructured, followed no set syllabus, discouraged any dialogue (as it adopted the vaaz or sermon style of communication), and was casual and teacher-­centric. Students read grammar, jurisprudence, commentaries, and the Hadith and yet did not show any intellectual sheen. In Arabia the students completed the text Tafseer Jalaleen—​ usually taught in Hindustan in just one year—​in seven years. Kairanwi was also bothered by the fact that despite the Hijaz’s reputation as the fountainhead of Islamic learning and as a scholarly center that attracted students and learned men from across the world, there were no facilities at all there either for the intellectual growth or the physical comforts of the muhajirs. Also missing were any adequate educational facilities—​both vocational and religious—​ for their children.33 Instead of reforming the existing system, Kairanwi decided to set up his own madrasa in front of the Kaaba. His critique of the intellectual environment of the Hijaz became the blueprint for the madrasa’s objectives. He wanted his madrasa to be the pride of the world—​a truly international school that would hire religious teachers proficient in different languages, admit students from all over the world, and boast of a syllabus that covered both religious and scientific education.34 He wanted to set up a vocational school for muhajir children, and to this end he held several meetings with a cross section of people. Initially, he started a madrasa called Madrasa-­i-­Hindi in the mosque of the Kaaba. Here he taught the Koran, the Hadith, and jurisprudence. One of his ardent disciples, Faiz Ahmad Khan, a notable of Aligarh who attended his lectures at the Kaaba, offered the first floor of his big house for the madrasa. The foundation of the madrasa was laid in his house, and an appeal was soon issued for donations. Since the house could not hold all the students, only 186

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those who read the Koran and Hadith were transferred there and the rest continued to study at the original madrasa.35 Kairanwi’s muhajir-­centric madrasa was bound to be popular with trans-­Asian visitors and pilgrims to the Hijaz. Donations came freely from muhajirs, visiting hajis, and Muslim landed elite in India who gifted their properties in the area to Kairanwi.36 But the largest endowment came from the widow of a Bengal zamindar, Begum Saulat-un Nisa, who in 1882 had inherited the entire property of her husband, Latafat Husain. She had heard of Kairanwi because of his widely publicized debates that had been held in Delhi and Agra with the Protestant missionary Pfander. She agreed to donate lavishly to his madrasa after having heard, during a pilgrimage to Mecca, that there was no other place except this madrasa where the children of muhajirs could have a decent education. Using the funds Begum Saulat-un Nisa donated, the madrasa constructed a new building, which was named Madrasa Saulatiya after her.37 However, the funds were exhausted before the most vital feature—​water tanks for stor­ ­ing rainwater for drinking and ablutions—​was put in place; this worried the begum, who donated even the money she had kept for her return journey to India to address this problem. And once she returned to India she sent fifty rupees per month for the specific purpose of ensuring an adequate water supply for the madrasa students and teachers.38 The madrasa for muhajirs fit into the reform initiatives of exiled Ottoman reformists and moderate ulema in the provinces of Syria, Lebanon, and Egypt that we noted in the previous section. Like them, Kairanwi also used the scriptures as the template onto which he was happy to add instruction in science and rationality, both of which had the legitimacy of tradition. Indeed, the Delhi Naqshbandiya Sufi silsila (brotherhood) of Shahwaliulla, which had laid out Islamic heritage in similar ways, became the foundation of the madrasa’s curriculum. Kairanwi’s madrasa was unique in the Hijazian context because its syllabus followed the rational-­sciences-­oriented Darrs-­i Nizamiya education format popular in Hindustani seminaries.39 And not surprisingly, the madrasa soon became the center of the characteristically inclusive India-­specific Arabicist grid that was fast enveloping late nineteenth-­century trans-­Asia. 187

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Most striking of Kairanwi’s contribution was the eclectic intellectual base of the madrasa. This reflected the carryover to Mecca of the Naqshbandiya Sufi legacy, known for its spirit of accommodation and compromise. In Delhi it had combined the individual-­ centric movement sirat-­i-­mustaqim (the right path or adherence to the Koran and the Prophet) with an emphasis on the significance of the sheikh as the moderator of individual prescriptive practice. Kairanwi carried into Mecca Shahwaliulla and his disciple Sayyid Ahmad Shahid’s intellectual legacy, which tried to compromise with Sufism as long as it was framed within the scriptural prescription. At the inauguration of the madrasa, Kairanwi and his companion Imdadullah Makki read from the Bukhari sharif and the Masnavi sharif—​texts that were popular in Hindustani religious circles that combined monism with Sufi spirituality—​but that were relatively less known in the Arab world.40 Kairanwi was able to introduce the Naqshbandiya tradition into the education system because the region was familiar with this Indic stream of thought.41 He also benefited from the fact that the intellectual energy at the madrasa was in tune with reformist Islamic currents, notably the Salafi ideas, which were sweeping through late nineteenth-­century South and West Asia. Like the Salafi intellectuals, Kairanwi also combined religious and scientific education. He made the syllabus broad and inviting with a view to forging the unity of the “enlightened” umma. He integrated the study of scriptures with commentaries on law, lessons on Ilm-­i-­Hayat (the planetary sciences), and technical education. He kept pace with the late nineteenth-­century Ottoman and Arab liberal reformist stress on combining religion and technical education and introduced technical entrepreneurial skills like craftsmanship (dastakari) in the madrasa. He also introduced modern disciplines and areas of learning like Ilm Al-Riyazi (knowledge of mathematics), Ilm Al-­munazara (knowledge of the art of debating), Ilm Al-­mantaq (knowledge of logic), Ilm Al-­falsafa (knowledge of philosophy) and ulum Falkiya (astronomy). His syllabus showcased the accretive Islamic heritage, which had always accommodated eclectic learning. He made it clear that his innovations were neither Western derived nor an innovation, but well within the realm of acceptable Islamic tradition. 188

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Kairanwi broadened the scope of learning and introduced a sprinkling of learning from all four Islamic schools of legal thought. In contrast to the tradition in Arabia, where the syllabus focused mainly on the Mu’atta of the legist Imam Malik, he introduced the teaching of a Hadith written by the Shafite legist Imam Bukhari, called the Bukharisharif in the Madrasa Saulatiya. In Hindustan, this Hadith is still regarded as the most authentic because it claims to be a compendium of only those sayings and observations of the Prophet that were narrated directly by him to his close companions, and were not passed on via several layers of interlocutors. The introduction of this text into the curriculum of the Madrasa Saulatiya was even more interesting given the fact that Kairanwi himself claimed to be a Hanafite. Along with this, other texts, such as the Masnavi sharif, were also included. Lectures on the latter were given at the madrasa by Maulvi Imdad-­ul-­mulk. Thus, the madrasa included quite an eclectic intellectual spread. It clearly reflected the South Asian seminary tradition of never pronouncing as wrong any of the four schools of law prevalent in India, even though one could claim allegiance to only one of them. In the Hijaz, this eclecticism proved particularly useful, as the idea was to introduce a curriculum that would have trans-­Asian appeal. Kairanwi strived to attract the muhajirs of all countries, people who spoke different languages and whose diverse religious and worldly requirements had to be accommodated. The madrasa received a steady supply of books from Hindustan. Taking advantage of imperial networks and the rivalries that energized them, the madrasa arranged to receive books printed in Cairo and Istanbul. And thus a vibrant print ecumene underpinned the madrasa and made it the hub of the trans-­Asiatic Muslim networks that Kairanwi had laid out. Books like the Ruh Nisar and those penned by Muhammad Ali Monghyri arrived at the madrasa from India. The Azaltah Alaawaham, produced in India, was also taught there.42 Literature from India stamped the Indic seal on the nineteenth-­century Arab liberal reform that emanated from the Ottoman provinces in the Middle East. And this Indian seal was characterized by the Shahwaliulla emphasis on compromise and accommodation. Indeed, it was a momentous day when Kairanwi 189

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began his darrs on Shahwaliulla’s book Hajutullah al Baligha (Detailed Discussion), which talks about the wisdom of the Islamic Shariat and its innate potential to accommodate social and cultural diversity. He also lectured at length on astronomy and on Ibn-­K haldun’s literature.43 Also noteworthy was the inclusion of his own books (published in India and Istanbul), which encouraged a dialogue between Muslims and the Christian world. Much of this dialogical literature grew out of Kairanwi’s debates with Christian missionaries in Delhi, Agra, and Istanbul. Thus his own masterpiece, Izharul Haq, a written version of his debate with Pfander that alludes to the exceptional intellectual heritage of Islam, was on the syllabus.44 In this text, Kairanwi demystifies the Koran by highlighting its exceptionality in terms of its poetic meter and rhythm, rather than its mere revealed nature. This demystification of the Koran was also meant to make it this-­ worldly and thus enhance its innate potential to connect Muslims around the world. Books like Izharul Haq were clearly the product of Ottoman patronage of an Indian Muslim. And thus not surprisingly, the British Foreign Office saw the literary productions and print ecumene of Kairanwi not just as seditious but as fully supported by the Ottoman sultan, who, the Foreign Office maintained, was doing so with a view to challenge British political sovereignty in India. In 1888, Colonel Henderson said that his spy confirmed that Kairanwi was summoned a second time by the pasha to Istanbul, “and was instructed to again distribute seditious books among the pilgrims.” He also reported that the sultan advanced him money to establish a press for printing such books.45 Even as Kairanwi depended on imperial networks to sustain the discursive Muslim civilizational space he had laid out between empires, he never let go of the older forms of Islamicate connectivity. Thus, for instance, the Islamic form of connection via the fann tajveed (mode of pronunciation), hifz (memorizing), and qirrat (recitation) became the focus of his attention at the madrasa. He appointed an Egyptian qari (reciter of the Koran), a man who had been chosen in the time of Abdul Hamid Pasha as the best orator out of five hundred contestants, to teach his Hindustani students 190

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the art of Koranic qirrat (recitation). The students picked up the skill fast. One of his Hindustani students, Qari Abdulla, was characterized by the Egyptian teacher as “being the best in the Arab world.”46 Hazrat Thanawi, of the Deoband fame, practiced his qirrat with guidance from Qari Abdullah. Regular practice made him so perfect that when he recited the Koran crowds collected below his window and people could not make out whether it was his voice or that of Qari Abdullah. The madrasa soon became a center that encouraged students from all over the world to perfect the art of qirrat and use it as a global connector.47 The madrasa paid special attention to perfecting pronunciation, the art of memorizing, and recitation skills. Most qaris in Lucknow, Bhopal, Deoband, Multan, and other parts of India that are today known for this talent owe their training to Kairanwi’s madrasa.48

Madrasa Saulatiya and the Making of Muslim Cosmopolitanism Kairanwi’s cosmopolitanism had the scriptures as its base and a tanzimat-­inspired pragmatic, scientific outlook. It stretched as a civilizational space between the British and the Ottoman Empires. The Madrasa Saulatiya played a pivotal role in keeping its discursive space alive. As we saw above, the madrasa became the nodal point from which books written in India circulated in the Hijaz and the Ottoman Arab provinces. They continued their onward journey to Southeast Asia via itinerant teachers and students who linked the madrasa to the larger Asian world outside. Students played a critical role in the formation of Muslim cosmopolitanism. Kairanwi’s students included his own brother’s grandson—​Sayyid—​whom he groomed to take charge of the madrasa after his death.49 But his ambit was not confined to family members. It included learned alims from Egypt, like Qari Ibrahim Saad, a specialist in the Koran, who attended the lectures on the Bukhari Sharif with rapt attention and taught the Koran to the students at the madrasa. His notable students who later fanned out into the world included Sheikh Alqara, Hazrat Qari Abdullah Makki, and Qari Abdul Rahman Allahabadi 191

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(Hazrat Qari Abdullah Makki’s brother).50 The reputed teacher from Egypt remained associated with the madrasa throughout his lifetime. Javanese scholars from Southeast Asia attended his lectures, studied at the madrasa, and then went back home to set up madrasas that were similarly oriented.51 Aboe Bakar Djajadiningrat (the informant and close associate of the Dutch Orientalist Christiaan Snouck Hurgronje, who had been deputed in the Hijaz area by his government to study the relationship of the Hijaz to the Javanese) was a Naqshbandiya Sufi who had been educated in the tradition of Kairanwi by one of his students, Abd Allah Zawawi.52 Djajadiningrat had many Javanese students who were similarly trained. A range of Javanese scholars in Mecca were students of the reformist scholar Sayyid Ahmad Dahlan, who was also Kairanwi’s contemporary and intellectual comrade. Many others from the Indonesian archipelago were influenced by Kairanwi’s scholarship because of their contact with Cairo, where many of Kairanwi’s former students held influential positions.53 Indeed, many of Kairanwi’s students, such as Sheikh Abdulla Siraj, Sheikh Ahmad Ali Hasan, and others, became muftis, qaris, and teachers in the Kaaba and in other mosques and madrasas in Mecca and Taif, and in the madrasas in Hindustan and Karachi.54 Branches of the Madrasa Saulatiya were also established in Calcutta. In fact, Begum Saulat-un Nisa went back to Bengal after her haj and established a branch of the madrasa in her village in the district of 24 Parganas.55 She allocated a part of her estate as waqf property so that the financial dealings of the madrasa and the mosque attached to it would be looked after. She deputed her older brother, Maulvi munshi Abdul Samad, as the mutawali (caretaker) of these buildings. After his death, his son, Munshi Muhammad Abdullah, took over the madrasa.56 Significant financial networks underpinned much of this trans-­ Asiatic intellectual energy. There was always a large number of Indians with property and money in the Hijaz who had influential contacts with Muslim notables back home. Indeed, notables like the nizam of Haiderabad and the begum of Bhopal owned houses in the Mecca-­Medina region. They were ever-­w illing donors. Thus, for instance, the learned scholar Imdadullah Makki, an important student and companion of Kairanwi who also taught at the Madrasa 192

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Saulatiya, was offered a house to stay in Mecca by the Haiderabad state that owned several properties in the area. Help generously flowed from other sources as well. And thus Imdadullah moved from the nizam’s property when he had a better offer. He eventually decided to take up the offer of one of his Indian disciples, who bought a house for him in the residential area called Hartah Albab.57 And of course, every year hajis from India flocked to Mecca, made donations, and exchanged religious and political news with the alims of the madrasa. Imdadullah not only met and exchanged news with ordinary hajis, who always visited him in large numbers, but once hosted a feast for a large contingent of ulema from Hindustan.58 Kairanwi saw India as integral to the cosmopolitan world he had carved out between empires. He maintained his links with India not merely because of his interest in the anticolonial struggle. Rather, Indian financial, intellectual, and emotional resources were critical for the conceptualization of the embracive transimperial Muslim civ­­ ilizational space that Kairanwi was helping to establish. Even though he was located in Mecca, Kairanwi was always worried about the future of Indian Muslims and searched for the best way they could cope with their new British rulers. Very much like his contem­­porary Arab and Ottoman reformists, who energized the Mediterranean intellectual atmosphere while in exile, Kairanwi too saw education as the way to both resurrect and strengthen the accretive civilizational heritage of Muslims. He pledged to make this legacy the core of his brand of cosmopolitanism, even as he depended on important imperial networks to sustain its vast edifice. This was no narrow territorialized anticolonial fight. It was a more ambitious struggle for civilizational survival. He was convinced that Muslim religious, educational, cultural, and historical heritage would be best preserved through a big educational program that combined religious education with scientific knowledge and technical skills. This sentiment underpinned the expansion of the Madrasa Saulatiya. But Kairanwi exported his educational model to Hindustan as well. Indeed, in 1866 his madrasa became the inspiration for establishing a Sunni Muslim seminary in a mosque in the city of Deoband. This seminary later moved to a new building and became the famous Darul ulum Deoband, which hosted students from all 193

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over the world. Both Kairanwi and his close associate in Mecca, Imdadullah Makki, maintained close ties and contact with all the ulema associated with the early years of the Deoband seminary: Maulana Hazrat Abid Husain, Maulana Muhammad Qasim Nanatawi, Maulana Zulfiqar Ali, and Maulana Yaqub Nanatawi. Nanatawi, the first president of the madrasa, was his khalifa (spiritual guide and mentor).59 Imdadullah Makki sent one rupee per month to the madrasa, for an annual payment of twelve rupees.60 Kairanwi also maintained a continuous correspondence with the ulema of Deoband, participating in all their intellectual discussions and urging them to stay in India as their “initiatives for the community [ijtimai kaam] were more valuable than their migrating and living in Mecca.” In a letter to Abid Husain in Deoband he reiterated the value of the Deoband initiative: “It is in your interest to stay on in Deoband and serve the madrasa in the way Allah wants you to do.”61 In another letter, written to Maulana Rafiuddin, he cautioned against corruption creeping into the madrasa in the form of favors or concessions being given to some people. He strictly forbade such favors.62 At the same time, he was always eager that the Deoband and Saulatiya madrasa at Mecca should work in a spirit of intellectual camaraderie and that they should have student exchanges. He invited the son of Maulana Nanatawi, Maulana Hafiz Muhammad Ahmad, to enroll at Madrasa Saulatiya for further education.63 He kept in touch with his murids and suggested appropriate religious rituals for them to solve their problems. He referred to himself as a fakeer, allowed his followers to take bait (oath) on him, and via his writings offered one of the most accommodative frames of Islam, aiming to have the widest possible reach. Kairanwi’s embracive ambit, which, as we have seen, followed the Shahwaliulla formula of striking a compromise between the scriptures and Sufi practice, became his lasting legacy. It was carried forward and articulated most clearly by his student and close associate Imdadullah Makki. Makki wrote eight very important books in Urdu, Arabic, and Persian. Most of them, like his commentaries on the Masnavi Maulana Rum and Ghiza-­i-­Rooh, read like the Sufi texts that aimed at uniting different sects of Muslims—​t he texts whose goal was to forge transimperial bonds by pitching Islam as an 194

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inclusive philosophy of harmony.64 Writing in Urdu for a larger audience, Makki talked to people about Satan and his dealings (satan kei waswasa), the defects of the spirit (nafs kei mughalte), and the results of ignorance and backwardness ( jihalat kei natayaj). Using different examples, he emphasized the significance of spirituality, which enables one to transcend difference and unite people.65 The next chapter details some of the texts that Imdadullah Makki wrote while in Mecca, such as the Faislah Haft-i-Maslah (Verdict on Seven Issues). Written in Arabic and translated in Makki’s lifetime into Urdu, this book focused on seven mooted customs and rituals that caused friction between different sects of Muslims. Makki wanted a consensus on these issues for the sake of forging Muslim unity.66 In Makki’s view, the moderator or sheikh played a key role in building consensus. Makki combined the monist emphasis on tauhid (belief in one God) and the holy scriptures with the Sufi stress on the spiritual leader as the moderator of individual practice. Makki’s discussion of the balance between scripture and Sufi practices that the scripture sanctified became the foundation of the signature lectures that he delivered at the Madrasa Saulatiya.67 His lectures and books are a far cry from the mujadid (renewer or renovator) reformist literature of the early nineteenth century that, as we saw in Chapter 1, privileged only the holy text and individual interpretation, and ignored the moderator and other Sufi frills. Istanbul in the late nineteenth century welcomed men of all religions. One of its visitors was the German evangelical missionary Carl Gottlieb Pfander. He was the missionary with whom Kairanwi had already debated in Agra and Delhi. After his stint in India, Pfander lived in England for six years, visited Germany and Switzer­ land, and was eventually sent to Istanbul by the Bible Society of London to engage in missionary activity. Here, he earned notoriety for publicly referring to his victory in the debates with Kairanwi and other Muslim ulema of Delhi and Agra.68 He claimed that the Muslims of India were converting to Christianity in large numbers because he had defeated their ulema in religious debates. The caliph asked his governor in Jeddah to verify from the Indian hajis and visiting ulema if the missionary’s lofty claims were correct. The caliph, Abd-­al Aziz, wanted a full report from his governor in 195

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Jeddah. When the governor presented this request to the sheriff of Mecca, Sheikh ul Muslamin, he was told that the chief Indian debater, Maulana Rahmatullah Kairanwi, was a migrant in Mecca and in a position to verify the missionary’s claim. The sheriff introduced Kairanwi to the governor, who discussed the matter with him and sent his report to Istanbul. The caliph was also interested in meeting Kairanwi because British complaints about him reached Istanbul regularly. These adverse reports, as we saw above, resulted in his several visits to the city to offer explanations to the caliph. But the most crucial visit happened in 1864, on his receipt of the governor’s report.69 Kairanwi lived in the city royally and attended the caliph’s gathering every night after the last night prayer. Here, he explained the details of his debates with Pfander. During these close encounters, Kairanwi also related to the caliph the general state of affairs of the Muslims in India, especially after the British clampdown on them after the 1857 mutiny-­rebellion.70 It was in the course of these discussions that the caliph suggested that Kairanwi should relate his experiences and discussions with the missionary in the form of a book. The Turkish administration offered to translate and publish the book in Turkish and other languages. Kairanwi began to write this book in 1864 in Istanbul. He agreed to live in Turkey until the book was finished. He labored on it night and day and included in it not just the Agra-­Delhi public debates but also all the other themes that he had discussed with Pfander. In total, there were five debatable themes. The general thrust of the book was on the obsolete nature of Christianity and the superficial nature of the Bible (Injeel).71 He completed the book in 1864 in a period of only six months. He titled it Izharul Haq (The Truth Revealed) and presented it to Khairuddin Pasha. Izharul Haq laid out the blueprint of Muslim cosmopolitanism. Its production, which had relied on Ottoman patronage, revealed how dependent this cosmopolitanism was on imperial networks. The dedications in the book, to varied individuals, revealed that although Kairanwi was using the caliph’s network to further his own global aspirations, he was by no means ignoring other Muslim networks. Significantly, the book is dedicated to the Arab Sheikh ul ulema of 196

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Mecca, much to the chagrin of the Ottoman caliph—​t he amir ul mominin. Kairanwi explained it as follows: “This book is a purely religious service. And thus it should remain free from any worldly interest. Besides, the Sheikh ul ulema himself had asked me to pen down my debate. And I had started my initial researches there. And if he had not introduced me to the amir of Mecca I would have never been able to reach Istanbul. So he is mainly responsible for the writing of this book.”72 His deft diplomacy was evident when he continued to enjoy royal patronage in Istanbul, despite dedicating the book to the sheriff of Mecca. He interacted with Turki ulema and religious scholars. He responded to their concern that the new generation doubted Islamic learning due to the influence of Western education. In 1865, at their request, he wrote a book on issues like basharat wa nabuwat (the divine message and Prophethood) and hasar wa nasr nazur va wahi (revelations of God’s message). This book, entitled Tanbihat, was also published in Istanbul, under the orders of Khairuddin Pasha. In the 1880s, Caliph Abd-al Hamid II showed a keen interest in him, and Kairanwi was invariably treated as his royal guest. As we saw above, in 1883 Kairanwi stayed in Istanbul for a year, and in recognition of his writings was honored with numerous exalted titles by the pasha. He was honored with the title of payah harmain (pillar of Kaaba and Masjid-­i-­Nabawi) and presented with a medal called Majidi darja doam. He also received a khilat and a monthly pension, and was asked to reside in the royal guest house (shahi mehmankhana).

Cosmopolitanism Sketched Kairanwi wrote the Izharul Haq in Arabic. It is a compilation of the debate between him and the Christian missionaries; in it, he pleads for the superiority of Islam over Christianity and Judaism. He does so by representing the Koran as a positivist, rational text that could play the role of a connector in the larger civilizational victory that Muslims had to win over the West. Kairanwi’s aim was to present the book as an exemplar of Muslim faith in rationality, reason, and 197

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scientificity. He showcased the Koran as a text subject to positivist scrutiny and not merely a sacrosanct divine revelation. He hoped to lend scriptural sanctity to Muslim “modernity” by demystifying the Koran. Kairanwi was convinced that the Koran was exceptional because its spirituality lay within an appealing shell of reason and rationality. This unique combination enabled the text to be the critical factor that would unite Muslims in empires around the world so that they could then function as a civilizational force against Western ascendancy. The aim of Izharul Haq is to prove the exceptional status of the Koran and the Hadith on the basis of their historicity and to prove the ahistorical nature of the Bible, the Torah, and other revealed books. These were lower in the hierarchy of revealed texts as they lacked the sanctity of evidence and authorial legitimacy.73 The book lays out Kairanwi’s use of the scripture as the exceptional connector and accretive platform on which the global appeal of Islam could be showcased. Izharul Haq demystified the Koran by attributing to its revealed wisdom a worldly author: the Prophet. It wrapped it in this-­worldly evidence subject to historical scrutiny and brought it closer to everyday life. This focus on the individual and the worldly context (dunyadari) was to become the signature of the India-­specific Arabicist grid, as it allowed for flexibility of thought and action, even while acknowledging the unique status of Islam and the exceptional powers of Allah and the Prophet. Izharul Haq revealed Kairanwi’s use of “modern” norms of authorship and scientific objectivity to frame religious writing. His literary format was grounded in the scriptures, framed in an Ottoman-­ tanzimat-­inspired modern vision, and sustained by imperial networks. Like the tanzimat-­impacted Ottoman reformists, Kairanwi too saw “modern” norms as Islamicate and not European in origin. He used the Islamic reformist language of the Salafi intellectuals of the Ottoman Arab provinces, who stressed reason, logic, and scientificity, to scrutinize the religious literature of Christians, Jews, and Muslims. He concluded that judged by such an Islamic yardstick of “modernity,” the Koran outshone all other literary productions. The Izharul Haq offered a methodology that framed the religious texts of the people of the book (ahl-­i-­kitab) in distinct “modern” 198

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norms that were scientific, positivist, and objective. It privileged texts on the basis of authenticity, verifiability, veracity of facts, and accountability of the author. Kairanwi, very much like positivist history writers, was intolerant of any inconsistencies between the original manuscript and the text itself, as well as between different versions of the text. According to Kairanwi, a superior text was one that is unchanging: untarnished by the introduction of any changes in words, meanings, or points of emphasis. And thus in this sense, the revealed text of the Muslims, the Koran, seemed to him to be most authentic as it had remained unchanged—​based on words of God rather than on different versions of written documents vulnerable to individual intervention. The first few sections of the book downgrade Christian and Jewish religious literature on the grounds that they lack scientificity and historicity. Kairanwi uses this point as the basis for his critique throughout the book. The opening chapter is called “Bible Mein Tahreef kei Dallael” (Evidence of Changes in the Bible). In it, Kairanwi enumerates two types of changes: The first is a change of words, which means adding new words and substitut­ ­ing one word with another. The second is a change of meaning, which means offering varied interpretations that diverted attention from the real meaning of the word.74 Kairanwi states that Prot­ estants wrongly deny that new words have been inserted in the original Bible. But the second kind of change caused by numerous interpretations of the Bible cannot be denied as it has created in-­ house factions within Christianity: Christians, he states, accept the fact that the Jews changed interpretations and explanations in those verses from the ancient times that refer to Jesus Christ. Protestants allege that the followers of the pope made changes as well. And the Cath­olics, of course, counter these allegations and level the same charge against the Protestants. He concludes that these in-­house circles of allegation within Christianity prove that changes were made and that therefore he does not need to provide further proof.75 Kairanwi elaborates on the types and impact of the change of words in subsequent versions of the Bible. According to him, changes were introduced by substituting words and figures for those that appeared in the original. For instance, all three original 199

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manuscripts of the Bible change the number of years that denote the period between Adam and the storm of Noah’s fame, as compared to the Koran. In contrast, he underlines the privileged status of revealed texts like the Koran. Kairanwi dismisses the notion that the Torah was in the same august league as the Koran. He argues that the Torah of the Jews is definitely not the one that Moses had seen in his dream and that therefore it was an unreliable text.76 The original text was destroyed and subsequent editions were compiled by the Prophet Azra, who produced it from the unreliable manuscripts available to Christians. Speaking about the finality of the damage done by the introduction of changes, Kairanwi states that once these changes were introduced, subsequent prophets could not rectify them and absolve the text of its adultery.77 Subsequent chapters of the Izharul Haq continue to disprivilege Jewish and Christian literature on the basis of factual authenticity. Kairanwi elaborates also on the addition of new words in subsequent versions of Christian texts, which thus has made them different from the form in which they originally appeared. According to Kairanwi, this was usually done in order to make these texts widely acceptable. He cites the example of eight books in the Christian world that in ancient times (ahad i-­ateeq) had been regarded as unacceptable. But after tactful additions were made to the original texts, the Roman Catholic Church slowly included these books in the acceptable corpus of literature. The Latin version of these books had been tampered with most. These included the Kitab-­i-­Asteer, Kitab-­i-­Barook, Kitab-­i-­Yahoodiyat, Kitab-­i-­Taubiya, Kitab-­i-­Danish, Kitab-­i-­Pandkalisa, Makabe-­Een kee Pehli Kitaab, and Makab Een kee Doosri Kitab. Kairanwi showed how this tampering helped enhance their popular appeal. But this was by no means a smooth ride. At one meeting of Christian theologians called in Constantinople by the emperor, it was decided that of these books only Kitab-­i-­ Yahoodiyat would be considered acceptable and the others declared objectionable. In a later conference in Lodeshia, one of the objectionable books, Kitab-­i-­Asteer, was declared to be acceptable, along with the Kitab-­i-­Yahoodiyat. In a third conference, in Carthage, which was attended by 127 ulema including the famous Christian 200

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theologian Augustine, all of the other books on the list were declared to be acceptable. In three further conferences, held in Trent and Florence, this list was further endorsed, and they were regarded as accepted Christian texts until 1200. The Protestant movement once again stopped their publication and declared that they were unacceptable. Only one book, Kitab-­i-­Asteer, was allowed to be published in one volume in a heavily edited version.78 However, these books were not considered unacceptable by Jews, and they continued to be appreciated by Catholics. And for Prot­ estants and some Jews there could be no greater proof of change than the fact that the books they had considered for so many years to be unacceptable for all Christians were suddenly acceptable to one group of Christians. This showed that the texts of their ancestors were unreliable. And, Kairanwi claims, similar methods might also have been adopted to make the Bible acceptable as the ultimate truth.79 Further changes were introduced when the Roman Catholic Church translated these books into Latin. The Protestants’ anger notwithstanding, these books, with all their changes, began to be regarded as the authentic religious books of Christians. Indeed, Kairanwi alleges that given the tradition of tahreef lavzi (the practice of changing words) even the book that is known today as the Injeel of Jesus (Anjeel Masee)—​t he first Injeel that Christians regard as their ancient (qadeemi) text—​is in reality not the one that Christ authored. Kairanwi claims that the original, written in the Abrani language, was altered by Christians to the extent of it becoming useless. And he stated that there is a general understanding among Christians that the Injeel that was in circulation was a translation of the original. But Kairanwi doubts even this claim, since, as he points out, Christians do not have the certificate of its translation. Interestingly, Kairanwi invokes “modern” norms of individual authorship and accountability and ridicules the fact that Christians do not even know the name of the translator of the text. Reflecting his own entrenchment in the literary production norms of “modern” empires, in which authorship is salient to the text, Kairanwi states that no book could hold any significance if its author were unknown. Merely guessing its writer was not enough. He questions Protestants who argue that Jesus himself was the 201

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translator.80 He invokes the new systematized norms of ­individuated authorship and points out that Christian religious books whose authors or even the translators are not known cannot be treated as reliable or authentic. Thus Christian claims flaunting such literature as sacrosanct lack merit.81 Kairanwi argues that if Christian and Jewish texts fall below this line of “modern” scientificity, objectivity, empirical scrutiny, and logic, then it follows that their readers cannot be “modern” and honest individuals. He launches his attack on the Christian clergy, again using this yardstick of “modernity.” According to him, the Christian clergy has misled people into believing that only Muslims have alleged that Christian texts were “adulterated.” He reiterates his claim that both the opponents and supporters of Christians and Jews have said that they have introduced changes into their texts and that they were in the habit of making such interventions even in their aasmani kitab (revealed books). Kairanwi uses information from newspaper editors and writers to show that even Jews introduced changes into their religious texts. Quoting a newspaper story, Kairanwi writes that one day a sultan, Shah Talmai, asked for the Torah from the Jews. Their religious leaders were scared to present it to him. This is because it had many tenets that the sultan denounced (munkar). So about seventy men of religion got together and changed the objectionable verses. In his book, Kairanwi wonders whether one could rely on the authenticity of such a text if it had been tampered with so readily.82 Indeed, he blames the Jews for destroying the earlier versions of the Bible in the seventh and eighth centuries and thus being complicit in making the text inauthentic. He cites Kini Scott to argue that the Jews destroyed the old version of the Bible—​t he version based on the manuscripts of the seventh and eighth centuries—​because its tenets did not conform to their beliefs. The Bible currently available, then, is not authentic because it is based on the manuscripts of the later period. According to Kairanwi, the Bible had even been changed in response to the expansion of Islam in the eighth century. And since it kept changing with the times, it cannot be relied on as an authentic text.83 But, Kairanwi insists, the onus of tehreef (changing words) is by and large on the Jews, who completely distorted books of the 202

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ancient times and deleted from them the good news of the arrival of Jesus that those books had announced.84 According to Kairanwi, both the process of writing the text as well as the technique of copying also produce changes. The possibility of the error of oversight is always there. Often the copyist mistakenly thinks that some things are worthless and deletes them, even though they are not. At times in his urge to create consistency he smoothes out the text by tampering with inconsistent or opposing sentences and makes them conform to each other. This type of change is most evident in the Bible where the letters of Polius have been tampered with. And finally, the anxiety and lack of knowledge of the writer is always there to reckon with.85 Kairanwi lashes out at the idea that the popularity rather than the veracity of a text proves its authenticity. And he refutes the Christian claim that the global popularity of the “revered books” proves that their content has remained unchanged. Kairanwi challenges this claim by contending that time and again Jews themselves have said that these books have been changed. He wonders what the point is of raising this issue again and bringing in the issue of the books’ popularity.86 He contrasts these texts to the Koran, which, he argues, was embodied in every Muslim’s heart in the same way as its words are inscribed on its pages.87 He invokes the Islamic oral tradition of learning to bring to the fore the exceptional stature of the Koran. He privileges the memorizing of the Koran over the writing and reading traditions associated with the Christian and Jewish books and views that as the reason why the Koran has remained untainted and free from the charge of tehreef, or change. He cited the example of the Al-­Azhar seminary in Cairo, where, he says, “one will find at least 1000 people at any point of time who are hafiz or one who has memorized the Koran.” He states that there is not even a single small village in Misr (Egypt) where one cannot find a hafiz. In contrast, in the whole of Europe one will not find even a single person who is hafiz-­i-­Injeel (those who have memorized the Bible), or one who can compare to any hafiz-­i-­Koran (those who have memorized the Koran) of Egypt.88 This is even more surprising since European societies are relatively well off and have far more resources than their Muslim 203

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counterparts. And yet he has not heard of a single person who said that he is the hafiz of the Bible, let alone that of the Torah and other books. Kairanwi challenges the Jews to produce even ten such people in the world. He states that it is appalling that no one in the whole of Europe can compare to the people of one little village of Egypt in memorizing the religious texts. He ridicules the religious leaders of Christians and states that in this respect, “The padres of the Christians are worse than even the mules and donkey owners of Egypt.”89 He rubs in the superiority of Islam over Christianity and Judaism by underlining the fact that it is to the credit of the Prophet Muhammad and his miraculous powers that at any point of time in the world one can find at least one hundred thousand hafiz-­i-­Koran, whereas in the Jewish community it is said that only Prophet Azra was so gifted.90 Kairanwi gives several anecdotes to prove that the oral tradition of learning by rote is the reason for the wide popularity of Islamic literature. He notes that one day an English officer saw children in a madrasa in Saharanpur, India, reciting the Koran from memory. On inquiry, their teacher told him that these kids were all hafiz-­i-­ Koran. The Englishman called on one thirteen-­year-­old and tested him. The boy excelled, and the officer was so impressed that he said, “I vouch that no other book is so blessed.”91 Kairanwi applies nineteenth-­century standards of historicity to prove the scientific nature of Islamic religious texts. He refutes the Christian claim that the early manuscripts of the Bible were written before the Prophet and that they are very similar to Muslim manuscripts of the Koran. He states this is yet another canard because, according to Kini Scott and other writers, there is not a single manuscript that predated the tenth century. He notes that the earliest manuscript, called the Codex, is dated variously as being from the tenth and eleventh centuries,92 and that the Abrani manuscript was based on it. He concludes that he is not interested in proving if the early nuskhas (manuscripts) of the Christian texts are pre-­Prophet or not. He argues that even if one were to accept that many manuscripts, like the Codex, predate the Prophet, the fact remains that they are open to change, and indeed prove further that Christian

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literature is unauthentic because of the layers of changes to which it has been subjected.93 Kairanwi condemns Christian and Jewish literature for falling flat on yet another “modern” literary principle: consistency and neatness of narrative style. He considers the existence of exaggeration or hyperbole in the Bible as proof of its dubious veracity. Kairanwi gives many examples from the Bible to prove that the hyperbolic claims in the text make it fall short on the nineteenth-­ century literary authenticity yardstick.94 In the final section of his book, he critiques the Christian idea of the Holy Trinity. In this section, called “Khuda Teen Naheen” (There Are No Three Gods), he invokes the Islamic concept of One God and sarcastically highlights versions of the Bible where the word God (khuda) is used for angels ( ferishtas) at least fourteen times. This is clearly unacceptable to Kairanwi.95 Indeed, Kairanwi notes, in some versions of the Bible the word khuda is used for ordinary people and for Satan as well. He also cites instances where God is described in terms of an animate figure with a face and limbs. He then invokes reason, scientificity, logic, and rationality to challenge some of the basic beliefs of Christianity. One of these is that according to the Roman Church two pieces of bread can become the body and blood of Christ and therefore can be converted into Christ. Kairanwi said that no matter what Roman Catholics say the fact of the matter is that the bread tastes like bread, and when it is stale it has all the traits of stale bread, and has no indicators of possessing any human traits at all. So this claim, according to Kairanwi, is ridiculous.96 Carrying forward his critique of the bread representing the body and blood of Christ, he states that if this were so then Christians are worse than Jews. The latter just tortured Christ once, whereas the former eat him every day and drink his blood at mass.97 He also questions the belief that Christ had the ability to be physically present at different places at the same time. Again, invoking science, logic, and rationality, Kairanwi asks that if Christ was human like all of us, if he ate, drank, slept, and feared Jews, and if he had all human qualities, then how is it logical to expect that he could appear simultaneously at different places?98

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Again using the nineteenth-­century narrative style—​a style that is straightforward, structured, well reasoned, logical, and easy to comprehend—​K airanwi critiques those sermons of Jesus that lack cohesiveness and are difficult to follow. He cites numerous instances where ambivalence, incredibility, and abridgement prevail in the sermons of Jesus, at times so heavily that even his close associates and students could not understand what he was saying until he himself explained. Some of these sermons were explained by him and some remained ambiguous and therefore inexplicable. These can be found in the Bible, making it a difficult and an illogical text. Kairanwi illustrates this with an anecdote in which the Jews asked Jesus to perform any miracle. He replied by telling them to pull down their sacred site and then saying that he would rebuild it in three days. They could not understand him, and asked how that would be possible as it took them forty-­six years to build. Even Christ’s students could not understand what he was saying. Only when Christ was resurrected from the dead did people understand what he meant and the unique prowess he had.99 Kairanwi asks that if the students of Jesus could not understand him, then what does that say about the Jews? Again, when Jesus told the Jews that they should eat the bread as it was his body and all of his virtues would be transferred into them, they did not understand him. Even some of his Christian students were appalled and separated from him as they thought that he was exhorting them to eat him.100 Kairanwi states that because of the abridged nature of Christian texts a lot of things remain unclear. One of these confusing points has to do with the Day of Judgment—​ when will it come? Indeed, matters are even hazier because the real Bible was missing. And the Greek translation, in which all kinds of changes were made, and whose writer and translator are unknown, remains the only source of information.101 Carrying forward his scrutiny of Christian literature—​still using as his yardsticks the “modern” notions of simple narrative style, logic, rationality, and veracity of evidence—​K airanwi introduces a special section called “Tasleet kaa Aqeeda Aqal kee Kasauti Par” (Christian Doctrines That Do Not Pass the Test of Rationality). Here he once again talks about the myths related to Christ and his 206

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miraculous powers. According to Kairanwi, only illiterate Christians believe in these illogical myths associated with Christ.102 Although Kairanwi is harsh toward Christian texts and their ­irrationality—​texts, he claims, that attribute exceptional and often outrageously ridiculous powers to Christ—​he never comes down heavily on the person of Jesus Christ. In fact, he uses his interpretation of the words of Christ to question the logic of Christian doctrine, particularly the idea of the Holy Trinity. He cites the Bible to argue that Jesus said to God that people should consider Him as their one and only God (khuda-­i-­wahid) and regard his own self (yesu masih) as the messenger. Kairanwi states that this proves that Jesus himself felt that people should regard God as the only divine one (wahid haqiqi) and him as his Prophet. He never said that people should regard him as part of the Trinity (teen aqoom wala) and hence sacrosanct and a god in his own right. Kairanwi repeats that Jesus did not even say that he is both man and God, or that he is a god with a human body.103 He cites numerous other instances from the Bible to prove that Christ himself said on numerous occasions that there is only one God.104 Kairanwi once again uses reason and logic to question the Christian belief that Christ’s death by crucifixion absolved or washed off people of all sins. He argues that this was untrue because the original sin according to the Christian belief was committed by Adam, and that it is ridiculous to believe that Christ or anyone of Adam’s children should be made to repay for his sins and be absolved of it by crucifixion. Each man has his own quota of sins to deal with. One crucifixion cannot wash off the sins of the world.105

Secularizing of the Koran First published in Arabic in Istanbul in 1865 by the imperial printing press, the Izharul Haq was soon translated into Turkish as well by Hareddin Pasha, the grand vezier.106 Once published in Istanbul, the Izharul Haq traveled across the imperial grid to have many different lives in regions that corresponded to the conceptual and discursive civilizational space that Kairanwi had laid out between 207

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empires. It was subsequently translated into Gujarati and Urdu in India, and several editions were printed simultaneously in Egypt. Indeed, Edward Wilmot Blyden, the well-­k nown father of pan-­ Africanism who later became interested in Islam, reported seeing it during his stint in Sierra Leone: “We saw a copy of this book [Izharul Haq] in the hands of a West African Mohammedan at Sierra Leone, who was reading and commenting upon it to a number of his co-­ religionists.”107 Its English translation launched it out from the Muslim world into the whole of Europe.108 It created a stir in London. In 1894, the Times wrote, “As long as people continue to read Izharul Haq Christianity will never prosper in the world.”109 One of the lasting impacts of the text was its take on the Koran as a book entrenched in the positivist literary tradition that characterized the age of empires. According to Kairanwi, the Koran meets the highest standards of poetic license as well as scientificity, even though it is a revealed text. In the fifth section of Izharul Haq, entitled “Koran Kareem Allah kaa Kalam Hai” (Koran Is the Book of God), Kairanwi highlights the wondrous virtues of the text. He discusses twelve proofs that show that the Koran is the revealed text of the world (kalam-­i-­almi). He defines its exceptional divine status as a revealed text in positivist terms. Thus for him the Koran is unique not merely because it is revealed. Instead, it is exceptional because of its maturity of words, narration, and transmission style—​balaghat. Its appealing verse makes it stand out from all the poetry and poets of the world. It is unmatched to any other manmade text or narrative. In this way, Kairanwi judges the Koran using “this-­worldly” poetic norms. This stamp of scientificity, reason, rationality, poetics, and methodology in matters of religion was one of the characteristic features of the late nineteenth-­century Islamic diasporic literature from Istanbul. Kairanwi fit the Koran into this diasporic literary genre. He demystified it as he lent to it an author and brought it in line with nineteenth-­century positivist literature. He measured it on the yardstick of the poetic production norms of his times. He explained that balaghat meant the use of the correct choice and apt number of words. And, he stated, the Koran’s narrative style makes 208

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a perfect fit to balaghat norms. It reaches that high point of eloquence.110 According to Kairanwi, the Koran excels in eloquence because its verses are based on truth. Its verse is all encompassing and unparalleled in its appealing narrative style. Again, as compared to other poets and littérateurs, whose verses begin to fall in grace if there is repetition, the Koran stands as eloquent as ever despite its repetitive narration of the life and times of the Prophet. It can list several points of good etiquette (akhlaq) in a single verse and yet remain pristine in its freshness, unlike other texts that look drab when their authors package a mouthful of such virtues into a single verse. Finally, whereas every poet has his own specialized themes and seldom moves beyond that, the Koran covers a wide range of themes and yet remains steadfast in its eloquence.111 The Koranic verses that outshine in eloquence include ones on temptation, deterrence, threat, and sermonizing.112 Kairanwi is of the view that the melodious sweetness in the text has an empowering effect on its verse.113 Kairanwi describes the elements of the Koran’s enchanting poetics that make it kalam-­i-­alami: exceptional composition (ajib tarkib), novel and well-­formed verses, a narrative style that reflects heavenly truth (ilm-­bayan kei daqaiq aur irfani haqaaiq parr mushtamal hona), beautiful and pristine couplets (husn-­i-­ibarat aur pakizah ashaar), and excellent, methodical arrangement of words (behtarene tartib). According to Kairanwi, this poetical style surprised even the best of the littérateurs. The purity of style ( fasahat) and the eloquence (balaghat) of the Koran are deliberately raised to a high pitch so that no one could ever have a chance to say that it has any element of borrowed or plagiarized elements. It was also important to make its poetics exceptional so as to distinguish this book—​God’s book—​ from anything penned by human beings (insaani kalam).114 Kairanwi notes that many specialists of the Koran had openly challenged littérateurs to produce anything similar to its eloquent and poetic verses. But their urging did not yield any positive results. According to Kairanwi, the widespread appeal of the Koran is due to its poetic elegance, melody, and the sweetness of its verses. He cites a tradition that says that when Abu Jahal (a tribal leader and enemy of Islam) heard the Koran he went to his nephew Walid to admonish 209

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him. Walid replied, “I can say in the name of God that none of you know the beauty and poetic value of couplets more than me. And I can vouch that what Muhammad says is unmatched with respect to any couplet.”115 Kairanwi refutes claims by proponents of the mutazalli tradition that the Koranic verses were familiar to people before Prophet Muhammad was born, and that Muhammad’s arrival only made them appear fresh or new. He argues that it is possible that people were familiar with some of its tenets. But its real impact is in its entirety. Its case is similar to that of a rope that when reduced to single strand is of no use. But when woven together with myriad strands it can serve important functions such as docking a ship or tying a huge elephant.116 Kairanwi scrutinizes the Koran for its historicity, and it comes out with flying colors. He claims that the Koran is unique because it offers information about the past directly from the Prophet’s mouth. The agency of the Prophet in decoding the past is remarkable considering the fact that he was illiterate and did not have the privilege of attending formal lectures and education—​darrs, tadris, or majlis—​ and had idol and pagan worshippers in his company. Even the books that were available then were either unreliable, like the Bible and the Torah, or very ordinary as they were not in the revealed category. Kairanwi attributes the vast compendium of history and knowledge of the past events contained in the Koran to the Prophet’s intellect and exceptional prowess.117 Again, continuing his emphasis on demystifying the Koran, he stated that it is an agile text that was written in response to societal concerns. It refutes the various conspiracies and canards that nonbelievers spread about Islam. Kairanwi thus presents the text as an organic and live entity that was divinely revealed but that is also in sync with the issues of its time. It offers solutions and responds to all kinds of criticism heaped on Islam to produce a canon based on reason and rationality. This characteristic is best exemplified in the chapters on jurisprudence, which reflect its stress on logic and ­reason.118 Kairanwi enumerates the Koran’s many medical virtues, in particular its prescriptions for health and well-­being. He then gives anecdotes about discussions between men of Islam and Christian 210

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padres and physicians; in these, the Christian padres and physicians assert that the Koran is lacking in medical knowledge. In defense of the Koran, one Husain bin Ali stands up to the Christian physician and recites a verse of the Koran that encapsulates the essence of its medical dictums: khao aur piyo aur israf na karo (eat, drink, and do not waste). The physician is not satisfied, and asks if the Prophet had anything to say about Islamic healing. And Ali replies that the Prophet in just a few words has encapsulated the entire discipline of medicine. He then recites the words of the Prophet: “Meidah amraz kaa ghar hai aur perhaiz sab sei barri dawa hai. Badan ko who cheezein dau jiska tumnei isko aadi banaya hai.” (The liver is the home of diseases. And abstinence is the best medicine. Give to the body only those things that you have made it used to having.) The Christian physician is so impressed that he says words to the following effect: “Your Prophet and your Book have made the famous physician Galen [Jalenoos] irrelevant. And they have provided us knowledge which is essential for good health.”119 Kairanwi not only underlines the scientific and rational profile of the Koran, but also points out its rhythm and melody, the features that make it easy to memorize—​hifz-­i-­Koran. Kairanwi shows that children, students, and all kinds of Muslims can memorize the Koran very easily. He states that even in their day and age, and even when Islam faced very difficult challenges, there were at least one hundred thousand Muslims in certain areas who knew the Koran by heart (hafiz) and who could write it from memory at any point of time (qalam-­band). He compares this to the situation in Europe, where, he states, it is difficult to find people in such large numbers who know the Bible by heart. And this is despite the fact that the Christian world is far better off and wealthier than the Muslim one and has a longer learning tradition.120 Kairanwi argues that the Koran has survived over the years because of its easy-­to-­memorize style. He states that its recitation is an ongoing process and it will continue to be a living tradition until the Day of Judgment. The Koran is the only text that has recorded the miracles of all the prophets of Islam. No other book can make such a claim. It has about two thousand small muajzahs (miracles), and these collectively have stood the test of time and have remained 211

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unchanged for the last 1,400 years.121 Kairanwi states that the Koran is exceptional also because of its endearing qualities. The more one reads it the more it is endeared to the heart. One never gets tired of reading or hearing it. This is in contrast to other texts that if repeatedly read will tire as well as bore the reader. Kairanwi elaborates on the aesthetic appeal of the Koran, a quality that is best proven by its popular reception. He discusses the special way in which it is received and the impact it has on those who hear it. He notes that people are awestruck on hearing its verses. He states that the recitations of the Koran (tilawat) have a special register and meter that not only touch the aesthetic sensibility of the listener and reader but that impact the heart. He claims that this meter is so effective that even if people do not understand its meaning it still impacts their heart and mind through its sheer rhythm. And he states that many people have accepted Islam the first time they heard the tilawat. He cites an anecdote about a Christian man who heard the Koran and was so dumbfounded by the melody and rhythm of its verse that he started weeping. When he was asked why he was crying, he replied that he was in awe of its rhythm and that he had experienced a special kind of reverence and awe when he heard the Koran, which brought tears to his eyes.122 According to Kairanwi, the eloquence and rhythm of the Koran is enough to convert to Islam even the most ardent Jewish theologians who care to hear and debate it. Kairanwi argues that all this proves that the Koran is a miracle. It is so because it is a book of God’s praise (kalam-­i-­khudawandi). There are three reasons for its greatness and value: its beautiful, hyperbolic words (alfaz fasih), the fine arrangement of its words and its appealing composition (tartib aur talif pasandidah), and the purity of its chapters (mazamin pakeezah).123 In his discussion, Kairanwi combines the “this-­worldly” charm of the Koran with its surreal appeal. He describes its ability to prophesize (peshingoi). Kairanwi lists twenty-­one prophecies of the Koran that came true. One of these was that God has said that people will enter the masjid-­i-­haram one day with either tonsured heads or short hair. And that did happen when the learned ones (sahaba) entered the holy Kaaba in Mecca.124 He cites another instance when God promised those who were believers and maintained good deeds, 212

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offered prayers, and did not worship anyone except Allah that he would provide them caliphates in this world, make their religion very strong, and convert their fearful existence into a peaceful one. Kairanwi points out that this promise too was fulfilled to the letter even in the lifetime of the Prophet. Muslims conquered Mecca in his lifetime and soon expanded to other Arab lands like Yemen, Bahrain, and Africa (mulk-­i-­habsh). Non-­Muslims in Syria accepted Islamic rule and agreed to pay the jaziya or tax on non-­Muslims. In the years to come Muslims spread to other cities of Syria and to Persia. In the Ahad-­i-­Faruqi, this process of expansion continued. The whole of Syria (Sham), Egypt, and Persia became Muslim. In the time of the Usmani caliphate, Islam spread as far west as Andalusia in southern Spain. Muslims continued to pray and God kept his promise. In the caliphate of Ali, even though no fresh lands were added, the prosperity continued.125 Kairanwi interlaces this section with his replies to the Christian missionaries, who in their book Mizan-­ul-­Haq alleged that many of these examples were not prophesies of God but just intelligent and thoughtful comments of the Prophet as he addressed his community. According to Kairanwi, if that were the case, some of these prophecies would have been proved wrong. But the fact that all were proved correct shows that they were promises of God.126 The last section, consisting of about a hundred pages, is called khatimah (conclusion). In it, Kairanwi proves that the Koran is an exceptional text and a muajzah—​something that astounds both through its narrative as well as through its narrative style. They are what make the Koran a truly this-­worldly book with other-­ worldly charm. According to Kairanwi, the Koran contains verses that are a response to the social problems prevalent in Arab society. The prophets were blessed with the traits of balaghat and muajzah (the power of miracles) because they lived in times when people falsely claimed to have exceptional God-­like powers. The only way such individuals could be contained was to give real prophets unique divine qualities; worldly mortals would then realize that they were nothing when compared to those who had divine connections (minjanib allah) and the power to perform miracles. Kairanwi cites anecdotes about Moses, who shocked and outdid the magicians of 213

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his time with his exceptional powers; of Jesus Christ, who dumbfounded the medical professionals (fan-­i-­tibb) by curing lepers and the blind; and of Prophet Muhammad, who stunned into silence the professionals of his time—​men who prided themselves on their elegance and oratory (Zaban dai aur fasahat aur balaghat)—​by displaying exceptional eloquence (Qurani balaghat) in reciting the Koran. All these categories of professionals soon began to believe that the Koran and its prophets were exceptional and that the book itself was a muajzah.127 Kairanwi demystified the tale of the Koran’s revelation and explained the process as a natural response to the prevalent social ills. According to him, the Koran was not revealed in one go (ek dam kyon nazil nahin hua). Rather, it arrived in installments. He said that the Prophet was not literate and therefore he might not have been able to absorb the entire revelation if it came as one whole. He memorized it because it came in installments. Soon it became Sunnat (the Prophet’s way) to memorize the Koran. Kairanwi commented that it was good that the Koran came in installments also because it offered an alternate way of life, which would have been difficult for pagans to accept all of a sudden in its entirety. The Prophet initially introduced only the tauhid. His meetings with the angel Gabriel, who brought him verses of the Koran, relaxed him, and gave him the stamina (taqwiyat) to spread the message (tabligh). The Koran came gradually and dealt with everyday issues. It responded to the immediate problems of the people. And through this gradual process of revelation, it prepared people for its ultimate message of bestowing prophethood on Muhammad. Finally, because the revelation was delivered in installments, it enabled the angel Gabriel to maintain his significance and status as the exalted mediator between God and the Prophet, or the apostle. This might not have been possible if the Koran was delivered all at once.128 Thus, according to Kairanwi, the Koran, notwithstanding its exceptional status as a revealed text, conformed to the highest this-­ worldly literary standards: poetics, eloquence, meter, rhythm, and relevance to societal issues. Its repetitions were meant to impress upon a range of pagan worshippers the value of its tenets. The repetitions were also important in terms of textual aesthetics: brevity 214

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(ikhtisar), empowerment (tatwil), and eloquence (balaghat). Indeed, its exceptional eloquence made the Koran different from any other insani kitab (nonrevealed book).129 Even as he highlighted the this-­ worldly objectivity of the Koran, Kairanwi never ceased to point out that it was as wondrous as a miracle.130 He emphasized the point that the Koran had had a distinct production style that made it different from those sacred Jewish texts that had combined the oral and the written traditions at tremendous cost to veracity. These books were revealed to Moses on Mount Tur, and although he compiled them, the explanations later included in the books remained a very important part of the oral tradition that was passed from one notable and companion of Moses to another. The Jewish books were meant to be read along with their commentaries, which were based on the oral tradition (zabani rawayait).131 According to Kairanwi, Muslims could not believe in those sections of these texts that were based on zabani rawayait, as these were liable to change and interpretation. They had been written neither on the basis of eyewitness accounts nor of revelation.132 Kairanwi privileged the Koran over the Bible and Jewish religious texts mainly because it was the only text that had been memorized by hundreds of thousands of people all over the world. Embodied in the hearts of people, the Koran remained changeless and a perfect global connector. It was indeed the most useful text with which to unite Muslims. Kairanwi gave the example of the Al-­Azhar Uni­ versity in Cairo, where, he claimed, at any one point of time there would be more than a thousand people who had memorized the text—​hafiz-­i-­Koran. Indeed, according to Kairanwi, in Egypt even the donkey and cart drivers were hafiz-­i-­Koran. This was not the case with any of the Christian or Jewish books. Kairanwi claimed that this proved that the words of the Koran impacted people and made them want to memorize and remember it. And, he stated, this was not the case with books of other religions.133 Kairanwi also discussed the making of the Hadith tradition in Islam. He noted that Muslim notables and men of learning were reluctant to compile Hadith text as they were scared that it might get confused (mustabah) with the Koran. But some of their students, such as Imam Zahri, initiated the process of compiling collections. 215

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Imam Malik, for instance, who was born in Mecca, Abd-­al Rahman in Syria, and others in Basrah began to collect the traditions of the Prophet and organize them into compilations. Through this process, written texts, called the Hadith, were produced. Imam Bukhari commented on these and picked for discussion only those traditions that were correct and in his view worthy of intellectual debate. He rejected the weaker ones. And most sahabah (notables and companions of the Prophet) built genealogical traditions that linked the contents of the compiled books to the Prophet.134 Kairanwi emphasized that the Koran was a more significant and central text than the Hadith for three reasons: First, relatively less human agency was involved in the production of the Koran. Its copyists did not change it even by a single word. It exists exactly as it was revealed to the Prophet. In contrast, the Hadith had been recorded using Arabic words chosen by its compilers in their wisdom to connote what they remembered of the sayings of the Prophet. Second, the Koran is fixed in its final word. To deny any part of it is sin. Third, the Koran’s words are diktat or orders (ahkam). They need to be obeyed. This is not the case with the Hadith.135 Kairanwi defined authenticity using the literary norms of “modern” empires that put a premium on rationality, authenticity, and individual accountability. But, very much like the tanzimat-­ inspired Salafi intellectuals, with whom he interacted, he claimed Islamic origins for these norms. In the hierarchy of authentic knowledge, he accorded the highest status to the Koran. And even as he subjected Islamic literature to scrutiny based on these norms, Kairanwi also defined its exceptional cosmopolitan character on the grounds of its reliance on and deep roots in oral tradition. Thus Kairanwi’s cosmopolitan literature is unique because of its dependence on both the Ottoman reformist “modern” styles and the more traditional Islamic oral tradition of memorizing and narration.

The Politics of Kairanwi This chapter has argued that Kairanwi redefined what it meant to be Muslim and to belong to a global Muslim community in the late 216

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nineteenth century. His career revealed that modern pan-­ Islamic activism was far from being merely caliph-­centric. Instead, it was cosmopolitan, as it lay entangled in pan-­Islamic networks that had the scriptures as their core even as they remained embedded in imperial spaces and politics. Kairanwi demonstrated pan-­Islam’s intellectual core through his eclectic syllabus at the Madrasa Saulatiya and through his writings, in which he debated with Christian theologians and offered a historicist, positivist, and rational rendering of the Islamic religious texts. His emphasis on the Koran’s poetic meter, its rhythm, its narrative style, its rendition (qirrat), and its exceptional status as a book that was widely memorized (indeed, as a book that was memorized by more people than any other book) enabled him to demystify it and make it this-­worldly. In the case of the Koran, the art of memorizing fixed the text in the hearts of people and preserved it for posterity. This was in contrast to Jewish and Christian literature, which had no such tradition of memorizing or an exceptional poetic and narrative style. Indeed, the human agency involved in writing and transmitting those texts had introduced change into them. Thus, the unchanging Koran, embedded in the hearts and memories of people, became the basis for an intellectual grid that existed across empires and that provided the perfect global canvas upon which cosmopolitan pan-­Islamic networks could flourish. These webs were energized by the hafiz-­i-­ Koran who straddled worlds and thereby created a discursive Muslim civilizational space between empires. But the deep entanglement of the Koran’s readers and commentators with trans-­Asian Western empires meant that the Muslim cosmopolis was also attractive to liberal Ottoman sultans as well to temporal British leaders. And this imperial interest also meant that Muslim cosmopolitanism remained connected with politics of the Indian subcontinent, and to its defining elements of homeland, language, and ethnicity. Indeed, it sustained itself by playing the imperial politics game to its advantage. Kairanwi too never shied away from direct political action as he moved across Asia in a period of imperial rivalries. Thus he urged the Ottoman sultan not to give permission to the English to establish themselves in Aden in order to obtain coal for their steamers. 217

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He argued that this was a crucial area and that if the English established themselves there it would become the launchpad from which they would spread throughout the whole region. The sultan did not pay heed to his advice and sure enough suffered the consequences.136 It was also a popular perception in India that the Madrasa Saulatiya, even though located at the imperial crossroad at Mecca, was tuned to and responsive to Indian affairs. And Kairanwi encouraged this image because he saw India as integral to his transimperial political and intellectual networks. In 1899, the Azamgarh newspaper the Liberal reported that the manager of the madrasa told them that it had once refused funding from the sultan of Turkey on the grounds that “it looked only to natives [Indians] for aid.” The editor concluded that this gesture showed how “closely this literary institution [was] connected with them.”137 According to the editor, the madrasa received funds from India even after the maulana’s death in 1893. This of course reflected the connections between the Muslim cosmopolitan world and India. But the fact that a range of Muslim and a few Hindu newspaper editors raised funds for the madrasa indicated also the significant role the Indian Muslim cosmopolitans played in energizing the print culture back home. Indeed, the Muslim cosmopolis, via its literary productions, demand, clientele, and dissemination of books, kept the printing presses in India busy. It was no surprise that media barons and printing houses generously financed the Muslim cosmopolis. Thus in 1899 it was reported in the Liberal that Munshi Asad-­ud-­din, the proprietor of the Naiyar-­i­Asfi newspaper in Madras and the proprietor of the Wakil newspapers in Amritsar, collected funds for the upkeep of the intellectual hub of Muslim cosmopolitanism, Madrasa Saulatiya. Equally interesting was the collection of funds by Munshi Amba Prasad, the ­proprietor of the Jami-­ul-­Ulim newspapers. He was inclined to contribute a large portion of his profits from the sale of his books to the funds of the madrasa. The Liberal exhorted all Muslims to “loosen strings of their purse and help the institution situated at the center of the Muhamedan world.”138 Kairanwi saw India as integral to his trans-­Asian networks, which were, as we have seen, dependent both on imperial webs of communication and on the repertoire of traditional knowledge and of 218

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communication skills. He wanted to pull Indian Muslim politics out of its narrow territorial “nation”-­bound groove and locate it in the wider public sphere of books, ideas, and littérateurs that existed between empires. Kairanwi always opposed the idea of Muslims joining the Indian National Congress. His response to an invitation by Nawab Amar Ali Khan rais Basudah to join the Congress was reported in the press as follows: “He replied that he was not familiar with the objectives of the Congress. But even if these objectives are good for a variety of reasons I consider the Congress harmful for the Muslims.”139 But the fact that the Muslim notables of the Congress still considered him worthy to be included in the party and to take an integral role in their affairs, even though he lived in the Hijaz and Istanbul, shows how the cosmopolitan Muslim networks intersected with the territorially bound idea of the nation. It has been argued that in the nineteenth century the politics of expediency made Muslim men of religion disprivilege the normative Muslim thought that had earlier fixed their cosmopolitan imaginary around the caliph and inclined them toward exclusivity within India. Until the Khilafat movement, when this normative thought resurfaced, Muslims developed new and individual ways to balance their lives with the British as political sovereigns and the caliph as the spiritual referent in Istanbul. In this way they could balance territorial nationalism with universalism and carve out an exclusive identity for themselves.140 The trans-­Asian intellectual and institutional networks of Kairanwi gave physicality to the extraterritorial imaginary and deflected it from the single referent of the caliph. It offered Muslims more substantive networks that depended on global imperial webs and that were derived from the Islamicate repertoire of knowledge and of communication skills. Now it was not only a question of territorial nationalism coexisting with an imaginary universalism, but of the two physically intersecting and energizing each other. Thus the intellectual grid of Kairanwi not only injected life into the trans-­Asiatic movements of career brokers and entrepreneurs like Sayyid Fadl, but also intersected with political parties and people who operated within the confines of the territorial idea of the nation. 219

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And thus Kairanwi’s trans-­Asian networks were always a part of Muslim lives (not just normative thought) whenever Muslims needed to use them to tap the world outside. In 1890, when a terrible famine engulfed the Arab lands and Indian Muslims wanted to send help, it was the names of Kairanwi and his associate Imdadullah Makki that were most often cited as the reliable sinews that connected India to the trans-­Asiatic world outside. The editor of the Mushir Qaiser of Lucknow wrote in its issue of 12 February 1890: “The famine is severe . . . ​many rich Muslim of Hind do not know about this yet . . . ​otherwise by now help would have come from Calcutta, Mumbai, Rampur, Junagarh, Tonk, Bhopal, Patna, Delhi etc. . . . ​One can send money and food via the resources of Rahmatullah Kairanwi and Imadadullah Makki.” Indeed, the editor also mentioned in further reports that since very little was known about the actual conditions in the Hijaz, readers should tap the networks of Kairanwi and lean on him for news and information.141 Equally noteworthy were the efforts of Kairanwi’s Deoband colleagues, Maulvis Muhammad Qasim (1833–1877), Muhammad Refiud-­Din, Muhammad Abid, and Muhammad Yaqub (d. 1886), who sent money to Turkey via Kairanwi’s contacts at the time of the Russo-­Turkish War in 1877.142 These instances reveal what it meant to be a Muslim in late nineteenth-­century India and to belong to a global Muslim community that was accessible via imperially embedded pan-­Islamic networks. Even if the caliph was not popularly viewed as the sole connector of this global Muslim community, British fears of his imagined influence and the occasional Ottoman invocations to his spiritual clout kept him relevant. For example, a newspaper in Istanbul, the Urdu-­language Paik-­i-­Islam, printed by the runaway Indian Mus­ ­lim Nusrat Ali Khan, was financed by the Ottoman government for its procaliph stance. In retaliation, the British sponsored a London­based Syrian Christian, Lauis Sabunki, who published an Arabic journal, Al-­K halife, that questioned the authority of the caliph. The protests of the Ottoman government led to the journal’s closure. But this compliance by the British did not stop the Ottoman ambassador in London, Masurus Pasha, from supporting an Arabic-­Persian newspaper, al Gayrat, that was published by an Indian Muslim from 220

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Delhi. This newspaper was not anti-­British, but it emphasized the importance of the caliphate. The next chapter, an examination of Kairanwi’s close associate Imdadullah Makki, reveals how transimperial subjects like these runaway mullahs continued to maintain intellectual and financial links with the subcontinent and make borders porous. But even as these men straddled empires, there were Muslims who were firmly framed within the territorial idea of India and so reconciled to India’s British sovereigns that they always opposed men like Kairanwi. Notable among these was Sir Sayyid Ahmad, as we will see in Chapter 6.

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Imdadullah Makki (1817–1899) was born in Thana Bhuwan, in the Muzaffarnagar district of modern Uttar Pradesh. He belonged to the famous Faruqi family, which boasted of having learned alims like Maulana Ashraf Ali Thanawi in its ranks.1 He was the third son of Hazrat Sheikh Abdullah and Bibi Hasini. His mother died when he was only seven years old. In accordance with her wishes that he should be well looked after and not coerced into anything, he got off lightly as far as initial schooling was concerned. He obtained no formal schooling. He was self-­taught. And with some help from local mentors and teachers he memorized some parts of the Koran. He used the same informal training to study the basics of the Persian language. He read an eclectic selection of books. These included popular texts penned by Naqshbandi Sufi reformists, such as Taqwiyat-­al Iman, the Masnavi of Maulana Rum, Hasan Husain wafqah Akbar Imam Azim Ali Hanifa, and Maskutah wa al Masabih. He also studied with a diverse group of teachers. He read the Taqwiyat with Maulana Rahmat Ali Thanawi, Hasan Husain with Maulana Abdul Rahim Nanautawi, and Maskutah with Maulana Sayyid Muhammad Qalandar Jalalabadi. His teachers for the Masnavi of Maulana Rum 222

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were Maulana Abdul Razzaq Jhanjhanwi and Maulana Abul Hasan Kandhli.2 Some of the key founding members of the famous Deoband seminary in north India were his relatives and intellectual peers: Asharaf Ali Thanawi, Muhammad Qasim Nanautawi (1833–1877), and Rashid Ahmad Gangohi (1829–1905). They all hailed from the qasbahs (country towns) of the upper Doab region of modern Uttar Pradesh. Imdadullah’s mother was from Nanautawi, the hometown of Muhammad Qasim Nanautawi, and his sister had married into the family of Asharaf Ali Thanawi, who was also from the same qasbah. Thus his association with Nanautawi and its scholars went back to his childhood when he visited the area to meet his relatives.3 Scholars from this area had been private students of the famous Delhi College teacher Mamluk Ali. Some influential ones, like Rashid and Qasim of the Deoband seminary, were influenced by Imdadullah’s Sufi orientation. He is said to have introduced Qasim to Sufism and the art of bookbinding.4 But he always acknowledged their mentorship and went to great efforts to obtain the oath of allegiance (bait) with Qasim.5 Imdadullah moved to Delhi at the age of sixteen and studied with Mamluk Ali Nanautawi. He had studied Persian and showed interest in Sufism from a very early age. And this interest developed further in Delhi. He read sections of the Persian text Gulistan with Maulana Ahmad Ali Muhadas Saharanpuri. He also read sections of the Zulekha with the same teacher. His attention was particularly drawn to the Masnavi of Maulana Rum, which was taught to him by Maulana Abdul Razzaq Jhanjhanwi and Maulana Sheikh Abul Hasan Kandhalwi. This text remained his source of inspiration throughout his life.6 Beyond providing him with the opportunity merely to read texts, his Delhi stint was significant also because it brought him the guidance of the well-­k nown Naqshbandi reformist Sufi Nasir-­ud-­Din Dihlawi, the successor of the famous reformist Sayyid Ahmad Shahid of Rae Bareilly. He took an oath with him and was initiated into his mujadid silsila. Once in the fold of the mujadids he developed a close relationship with his teacher Miyanji Nur Muhammad Jhanjhanwi. The fact that Jhanjhanwi was also a mujadid khalifa 223

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of Sayyid Ahmad bonded them. And after Nasir-­ud-­Din died Jhanjhanwi became his pir (holy man or spiritual mentor).7 He took the oath of allegiance with this man, who was originally a Chishtiya Sufi of Lohari, after a dream in which the Prophet himself urged him to seek his guidance.8 In 1845, he left for his haj (pilgrimage) after a dream in which the Prophet invited him to visit Mecca. On his visit to Mecca, he met the learned alims of the city, including Hazrat Shah Muhammad Ishaq Muhajir Makki and Sayed Qudrat-­ullah Benarsi.9 Both of these Hindustani scholars were known for their miracles.10 Ishaq advised him to observe humility and avoid eating food prohibited in the holy scriptures. He also learned a form of meditation from him.11 Significantly, he was advised by Ishaq to return to Hindustan and to come back to Mecca only once he had completed his undone work there. On the same trip, in Medina, he met Shah Ghulam Murtaza Jhanjhanwi, who was later called by the last name of Madani. He also met Maulana Shah Gul Muhammad Khana, a resident of Rampur who had lived in Medina for the last thirty years and was a keeper of the Prophet’s tomb.12 He too offered him training in forms of salutations and meditation that gave him the sensation of the Prophet himself making an appearance and handing him a cap as headgear. He recounted that the Prophet gestured to him to return to Hindustan.13 He complied and returned home in 1846. Back home, in Bayanah, Imdadullah lived an ascetic life in a mosque called Pir Muhammad Wali. He emerged as an important religious leader to whom people flocked in large numbers to take bait, the oath of allegiance. And his intellectual genealogy, which stretched back to Sayyid Ahmad of Rae Bareilly, invested him with the zeal to disseminate his worldview using the new opportunities offered by colonial rule: print, telegraph, and modern ­t ransportation. But after 1857, once the clampdown on the descendants of Sayyid Ahmad began, he too came under fire from the British administration. As things got tough for him, he escaped to Mecca.14 He left India in 1859 after an arrest warrant was issued against him.15 He reached Mecca via Karachi.16 In Mecca he stayed initially at the Rabat Daoudia, in the guesthouse of one Seth Ismael. Later the Haiderabad state offered him accommodation. He finally settled 224

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in a house in Harta Albab that was bought for him by one of his disciples.17 It was in Mecca that he met Rahmatullah Kairanwi, the fugitive scholar from Kairana we discussed in the last chapter.18 This meeting proved critical as it signaled the beginning of a lasting intellectual bond that later proved critical in connecting Indian Muslim cosmopolitanism to similar intellectual currents in the Hijaz and other parts of the Ottoman world, a task already undertaken by Kairanwi.19 In Mecca, Imdadullah cashed in on the “imperial moment” of the late nineteenth century that made the region an important cross section in imperial politics. Here, paradoxically, competing imperial claims over diverse Muslim subjects and their networks also offered an ideal ground in which to invoke the Islamic principle of consensus in order to unite the umma. It was around this concept that Imdadullah began to establish Muslim virtuous conduct as a form of inclusive cosmopolitanism. Mecca offered the perfect ­political, intellectual, and cultural platform that Imdadullah was looking for.

Mecca, the Cradle of Muslim Cosmopolitanism The role of Cairo as a cosmopolitan center that attracted runaway Muslim nationalists and reformists in the nineteenth century has been well documented by Michael Laffan, Juan Cole, and Azyumardi Azra.20 Even though no such nuanced study of Mecca exists, the career of Imdadullah Makki demonstrates that it was certainly more than the cradle of a political economy triggered by haj. Nor was it merely the seat of the inclusive type of Naqshbandiya mujadidya scripturalist reform that was connected with the Salafi purist reformists of the Middle East.21 In documents available in colonial Dutch and British archives, it is seen as a multiethnic melting pot of Muslim pilgrims as well as a seat of sedition and the hub of an anti-­Western politics. Both the Dutch ethnologist Christiaan Snouck Hurgronje as well as the British assistant consul in the city, Abdur Razzack, regarded it as the cradle of a virulent and divisive Islam.22 225

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And yet in Mecca a kind of Muslim cosmopolitanism was crafted by Kairanwi and Imdadullah that bridged the sectarian and Sufi silsila divide, forging unity through the invocation of the Islamic principle of trust and faith (i’temad) and consensus (ijma). Kairanwi and Imdadullah selectively picked from aspects from all Islamic traditions. Imdadullah’s Sufi order in Mecca earned its authority by estab­­ lish­ing a middle ground for the four different Sufi families of the Naqshbandiyas, Qadariya, Chishtiyas, and Suhrawardiya. Imadadullah upheld the organizational principles of the Sufi khanqhas (hospices), which were based on hierarchies derived from models of family patriarchies. He adopted their prescriptive norms to suit his interests. But he stamped this local eclectic mix with the universalism of tauhid (belief in one Allah and the last Prophet) and the texts identified with it: the Koran and the Hadith. These universal templates exemplified the continued usage of Shahwaliulla’s intellectual legacy. Indeed, Imdadullah never failed to trace his intellectual genealogy to this Delhi Naqshbandi Sufi. The legacy proved handy at a time when the Prophet was represented by the reformists as an ideal individual and exemplar whose life offered a model that could be emulated to negotiate better the European challenge.23 And indeed, this mix of Sufi organizational format, localized devotion, and emphasis on the Prophet, the Koran, and the Hadith became ever more useful as contact between the British and Ottoman worlds increased in the late nineteenth century. The Prophet emerged as a model to be emulated as tales about him and his miraculous powers filtered in from Ottoman-­controlled Mecca and Medina. And as regional flavors of his appropriation gathered momentum so did the awareness of his universal appeal as a connector that could link Muslims to the world outside. His significance was realized in the early nineteenth century itself when Sayyid Ahmad Shahid of Rae Bareilly used him to launch his universalist Tariqa-­i-­Muhammadiya (the way of the Prophet) as a transnational therapy to combat European intrusions.24 Imdadullah and Kairanwi took forward this idea of the global unity of Muslims that centered around the Prophet. Imdadullah’s location at the heart of the Prophet’s homeland—​ Mecca—​gave him a unique advantage. He along with Kairanwi 226

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physically met Muslims from all over the world from whom they learned about the anti-­European struggles elsewhere and with whom they shared their own experience of British rule. Mecca offered a ready audience of Muslim subjects who had the shared experience of living in the shadow of Western imperialism. More important, Mecca was a bridgehead into the Ottoman world, where similar ideas of unity were being toyed with by Salafi reformists in the cities of Baghdad, Damascus, and Cairo. They benefited also from the temporal moment of the late nineteenth century. The period from the 1850s to the 1880s until the fall of Egypt to Britain in 1882 constituted a unique moment—​a moment in which borders between empires hardened but also one that paradoxically allowed for greater connectivity via new print, communication, and transportation technologies, especially the telegraph and the steamship. In this period of high imperialism, the imposition of “official nationalisms” (being British Indian or Ottoman) created new tensions for merchants and other members of business communities who had traditionally crossed borders with ease to earn their livelihood. At the same time, European intrusions in South Asian and African political economies challenged the livelihood of peasants and urban workers alike.25 The state-­sponsored hardening of national identities could slip very quickly into a religious gear in societies that were strong on primordial caste, sect, and religious referents. And thus the resentments against European powers in Ottoman Africa, the Hijaz, and British India often took on the color of Muslim-­Christian clashes. Paradoxically, print capitalism, the telegraph, and new kinds of industrial technology that fueled resentment by upsetting the traditional social order also fueled dissent. These technologies became the grid across which news, political experiences, runaways, and professionals from British India could move to the Hijaz and to Arab and African territories of the Ottoman Empire, and vice versa. And thus it was no coincidence that the events of 1857 in India coincided with the 1856–1858 anti-­Christian riots in Jeddah, the 1860 riots between Druze and Christians in Damascus, and the 1870s riots in Egypt (which culminated in the 1882 Alexandria riots). There was a connectedness to these riots that rested on and reinforced the 227

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c­ onnected histories of the British and Ottoman Empires. Juan Cole calls this imperial moment of unprecedented connectedness “the age of secondary revolts.” People who experienced the events of 1857 were active in the riots in Cairo,26 and in Jeddah the wealthy Indian merchant Faraj Yusr, who was pro-­British, was attacked. In the Hijaz, Indian migrants known or suspected to have had a role in leading the riots were always under surveillance. In the Arab peninsula, more than ten thousand Indians had returned to Mecca in the decade that followed 1857, and they instigated protests.27 In the context of this “imperial moment” it is not surprising that Imdadullah found a ready niche for himself in Mecca as an 1857 fugitive. Imdadullah’s location in the city that was a global Muslim metropolis encouraged him to forge an alternate Islamic imperium as a spiritual and civilizational space between empires. This became strategically critical in combating the British imperium. The movement of people from Ottoman and the British cities to Mecca offered him the rare opportunity to connect with like-­minded religious scholars and intellectuals from Delhi, Deoband, Baghdad, Damascus, Istanbul, and Cairo. He taught at the Madrasa Saulatiya of Maulana Kairanwi, where he met scholars from all these cities. Kairanwi helped him maintain his links with Istanbul as well.28 His interactions with Muslims across the globe made it possible for him to burrow through fast-­hardening imperial borders and make them porous. Imdadullah’s writing career flowered in Mecca as he sought to further his agenda of uniting the umma by invoking the Islamic concept of achieving consensus regarding contentious issues that divided the community. This invocation of consensus had roots in his Indo-­Persian upbringing. The Mughal emperor, Akbar, viewed the Naqshbandi global networks that connected the Central Asian, Ottoman, and Mughal worlds with suspicion whenever he faced any political crisis. His orientation toward the Chishtiya Sufis, who embedded his empire in Indian society, was a way to balance the perceived Naqshbandi threat. It marked the Mughal tradition of consensus that was invoked at moments of imperial crisis.29 Indeed, even in periods of political stability Akbar aimed at establishing consensus between different Sufi brotherhoods so as to highlight 228

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the universal dimension of his religious tradition. This Mughal legacy of compromise and social harmony enabled Indo-­Persian gentlemen to straddle all four Sufi brotherhoods and to perform multiple initiations. Imdadullah, himself the last of the Mughal gentlemen legatees, was a case in point. It is thus not surprising that in Mecca he smoothly slipped into the Ottoman tradition of writing consensus literature in the context both of social diversity and of the political need to unite the umma.30 Unfettered from the British imperial frame and away from his dissenting peers in Hindustan, he wrote consensus literature with greater confidence and robustness. This resulted in the publication of several books that were written in Mecca but in active consultation with scholars in India. They found wide circulation in the connected world of the British and Ottoman Empires and were understandably multilingual—​penned in Persian, Urdu, and Arabic. These included the Zia-­ul-­Qulub in Persian with an Urdu translation; the Sharah Faisla Haft Mas’ala in Arabic with a later Urdu translation, the Faislah Haft-i-Maslah; the Masnavi Maulana Rum in Persian; the Ghiza-­i­Ruh in Urdu; and the Jihad i-­Akbar in Urdu. His books articulated an inclusive cosmopolitanism as an early form of transnationalism that had global aspirations. They reveal that, temporally, Muslim cosmopolitanism was launched during the 1857 unrest that saw Indian Muslims cross over to Ottoman Mecca. Spatially, this cosmopolitanism maintained its intellectual links with India, even as it grew out of debates conducted in the scholarly circles of the Ottoman cities of Mecca, Istanbul, Cairo, and Baghdad. It carved out an alternate civilizational imperium at the cusp of the British and Ottoman Empires. The text, Zia-­ul-­Qulub, in Persian with an Arabic and Urdu translation, which we discuss below, exemplifies best this brand of cosmopolitanism. Imdadullah wrote the Persian text Zia-­ul-­Qulub (Light of the Heart), originally titled Marghob Dil, in Mecca in 1857.31 According to him, he was persuaded to write such a text by Hafiz Muhammad Yusuf, who was of the Chishti sect.32 The preface states that the book was written because its patron, Muhmmad Yusuf, asked Imdadullah to pen down three forms of devotion—​ashghal, azkar, and maraqabat— ​identified with the Chishti silsila. This compendium was meant for 229

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the benefit of the people in Hindustan who were deprived of Imdadullah’s company after his migration to Mecca. Yusuf was convinced that such a compilation would also be useful for posterity. Imdadullah was reluctant to write this book as he lacked confidence in his scholarly abilities. As he stated, “Yeah martabah sheikh kamil va mukamal ka hai.” (This is the task of the scholarly and the perfect.) However, he also noted that “God gave him the strength and inspiration to undertake the task.”33 The original Persian text was published in Hindustan by the private printing press of Muhammad Abdul Rahman Khan.34 The choice of Persian suggests that it was intended to reach out to his constituency in Hindustan. It was followed by an Urdu translation, intended for a wider circulation in Hindustan. But the audience in the Middle East was also very much on Imdadullah’s agenda. In a letter to Ashraf Ali Thanawai, Imdadullah requested that the Zia-­ul-­Qulub be translated into Arabic and sent back to the Hijaz for wider circulation in the Arabian, Egyptian, and Central Asian societies, where people did not know the Persian and Hindustani languages.35 The publication of the text in multiple languages, its production site, and the timing of its publication showcased Imdadullah’s efforts to carve out a Muslim cosmopolitanism with transimperial aspirations. His quest for global connectivity was a response to the “official nationalism” stamped on Muslim subjects by the imperial powers. The official imposition of “national” identities had heightened as countries sharpened their political contours by setting up consulates across the globe and introduced their flag-­bearing steamships, quarantine procedures, personal identification papers, travel documents, and hospitals at imperial crossroads, and in particular, at the Muslim pilgrimage site at Mecca.36 Imdadullah used the text to reach a middle ground by bringing different Sufi silsilas and sects of Muslims together. The Urdu version of the Zia-­ul-­Qulub is a sixty-­four-­page text that goes beyond the brief that Yusuf gave to Imdadullah. It articulates a form of Muslim public conduct as an urbane civility based on a virtuous disposition as sanctioned by the Shariat. The guide, or murshid, had a pivotal role in fashioning this conduct as a form of inclusive 230

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c­ osmopolitanism. The text breaks new ground in Muslim intellectual history as it dilutes the late nineteenth-­century trend toward the individuation of prescriptive religion: individual interpretation of the Koran and the Hadith and self-­moderation in forms of devotion. And yet it does not discard this tendency toward individuation entirely. Indeed, the text reaches a middle ground in bringing different Sufi silsilas and sects of Muslims together.37 The Delhi Naqshbandiya silsila of Shahwaliulla, with its Arabicist worldview, had encouraged individuation of religion, even as it borrowed from the Sufi organizational format of the hospice and adopted the practice of the oath of allegiance to its leader. Its notable legatees, like the reformist Sayyid Ahmad Shahid, continued to combine the scriptures with the Sufi emphasis on initiation into the silsila with the oath of allegiance to the guide. However, this allegiance was to be a very private, individual affair. They shunned as heresy (biddat) any public form of devotion centered on pir, murshid, or khalifa. The individual’s reliance on moderators in matters of devotion was discouraged.38 Instead, they encouraged devotees to model their lives in accordance with the Koran, the Hadith, and the life of the Prophet alone (tariqa-­i-­Muhammadiya). In contrast, Imdadullah underlined the supremacy and the salience of the guide over self-­interpretation of scriptures. He argued that when God wished to give someone direction the blessed one shuns all his sinful acts and turns toward Him. But a guide should mediate this relationship with God, as the individual himself is incapable of forging a direct relationship. And thus he should hand himself over to some murshid kamil, or the perfect guide. Imdadullah, very much like the medieval Indo-­Persianate political theorists who invoked the analogy of the ideal physician to define the perfect king, compared the perfect guide to the best of the physicians. He described him as the physician of the soul and followed the format of devotion (saluk) prescribed by him.39 According to him, the perfect guide should take care of the internal well-­being of the individual, very much like the physician who cures the physical ailments of his patients. Imdadullah presented the guide as an exemplar of Islamic virtuous conduct, which he saw as a form of urbane civility that is universalist in its reach. According to him, Islamic public conduct as 231

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modeled on that of the guide should be embracive and inclusive within the theological frame. Thus the guide/physician should be an epitome of good conduct. He should uphold the Shariat and tariqat and should follow the Koran and the Sunnat. According to Imdadullah, the physician-­like guide has to first cure the inner diseases of jealousy, pride, cheating, and envy. It is only once these are replaced by good conduct that the grace of God will arrive.40 Thus, the murshid and the Islamic notion of consensus (ijma) and mutual trust (i’temad) become the key to forging the unity of the umma, and this consensus is based on a standard form of virtuous public conduct. Imdadullah described the varied prescriptive formats offered by different Sufi silsilas to get close to God: akhyar ka tariqa, ashab mujahidat va riyazat ka tariqa, Shatariya tariqa. In each of these the guide played a critical role in shaping proper conduct. But it is important to note that the book aimed to synthesize the four main Sufi sects around a prescriptive conduct and arrive at a common meeting ground in their forms of devotion to God (zikr). Imdadullah built a consensus on Muslim virtuous conduct based on tolerance and recognition of internal difference. This became the universalist template that united the umma. This form of urbane civility constituted Imdadullah’s cosmopolitanism. He was successful in forging a compromise public conduct as he like many others of his peer group had multiple initiations into Sufi silsilas. This inculcated in him the spirit of tolerance. He had been initiated into the Naqshbandiya mujadidya silsila by his guide Nasiruddun Dehlavi, and into the other three by his later pir, Mian Nur Muhmammad Jhanjhanwi. And thus the book has chapters on all four Sufi sects. The first chapter focuses on the Chishti prescriptions and describes how to take oath of allegiance and perform different forms of devotion: ashghal, azkar, and maraqabat. The text elaborates on the different ways in which to perform zikr (celebrating God). This was to be done by expressing devotion to a range of superior entities associated with the Chishtiya Sufi silsila: zikr ism zat, zikr nafi va asbat, shaghal Sultana nasi, and so forth.41 It also includes discussions on forms of meditation (marqabat aur anwarat) associated with the members of the silsila. The second section concentrates on similar 232

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prescriptions for forms of devotion prescribed by the Qadariya ­silsila, including prescriptions for forms of devotion to God—​zikr—​ like ism zat, and meditation styles of the Qadariya Sufi order. Dif­ ferent forms of revelations like those announced after the call for prayer are also described.42 The third section describes the prescriptive norms of the Naqshbandi Sufis. It ignores their reformist doctrines and instead focuses on prescriptions that overlap with the other Sufi silsilas: meditation, augury or reliance on omens, forms of celebration of God like the zikr jarub, the rituals for concluding the devotion to revered elders, and the rituals for the visit to the Prophet’s tomb.43 The fourth chapter lays out consensual universal norms on the recitation of the Koran and bodily comportment to be followed during prayer. These norms constitute a type of Muslim virtuous public conduct that would unite the culturally diverse umma.44 The prescriptions for the visit to the Prophet’s tomb constitute another set of standardized norms of conduct intended to unite the sects. Imdadullah represents these prescriptions as exemplars of the community’s ability to arrive at a consensus on such matters.45 The text also takes many other mooted rituals and forms of conduct that traditionally divided the Muslims and builds a consensus around them. Imdadullah suggests a standard, common format of devotion (saluk) for all Muslims, and recommends three sets of public conduct to sort out differences and unite the umma. The first way of saluk includes public conduct centered around fasting, prayers, Koranic recitation, haj, and jihad. The second standardizes conduct by urging the individual to give up undesirable actions and adopt good conduct. In a discussion of the last form of saluki, Imdadullah reaches out to his reformist colleagues by emphasizing the individual, self-­ driven way to reach God. According to him, here one avoids the company of good people, renounces austerity and abstinence, and engages in individuated forms of devotion that are self-­driven—​like chanting the praises of God in a self-­g uided way—​zikr.46 In the conclusion, Imdadullah prescribes some select Koranic recitations, which he wants people to remember and follow as his lasting intellectual legacy. The book ends with praises and a discussion of his two Deoband associates and relatives, Maulanas Rashid 233

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Ahmed Gangoi and Qasim Nanautawi. He praises them and prays that their good work will go a long way to light up the world.47 The Zia-­ul-­Qulub is significant because here the focus shifts from the self and the individual to the guide as a moderator of virtuous conduct. A more important point is that the moderator mediates not only between the individual and God but between the local and the universal by setting standardized universal formats of devotion. These offer a middle ground between diverse Sufi orders and sects of Muslims and also provide a global reach. And thus the book reaches out both to the regional flavors of Sufi orders as well as to the Koran and the Hadith, which have global appeal. This combination of the local and the global constitutes the formula that produces a standard norm for ideal public conduct, which in turn will connect Muslims globally and unite them locally. This model of Muslim virtuous conduct is a form of cosmopolitanism that is a theologically framed form of urbane civility. Imdadullah wrote this book to balance the local with the universal templates of Islam. He made the scriptures the meeting ground for all four Sufi orders, as did the reformists with their focus on the individual and the self-­ interpretation of the Koran and the Hadith. In its attempts to forge unity by accommodating dissent within the Muslim community the Zia-­ul-­Qulub is an archetypal nineteenth­century text that showcases Muslim concerns and strategies in the face of new challenges. It shows that the most common response of Muslims was to balance the local with the global and the particular with the new stress on standardization and professionalization of religious norms. Imdadullah’s unique position as an 1857 refugee in Mecca enabled him to standardize devotion and ritual as a form of universalist Islamic virtuous conduct. At this site of Ottoman-­British rivalry he used his Indo-­Persian gentlemanly upbringing, which gave him a command of Urdu, Persian, and Arabic, to negotiate to his advantage the imperial borders. Mecca enabled him to write a text like the Zia-­ul-­Qulub, through which he could aspire to lay out transimperial connections as a form of cosmopolitanism that embodied Muslim virtuous conduct based on the Islamic principle of consensus (ijma). His cosmopolitanism leveled the differences between 234

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the four main Sufi orders, and brought on board the scripturalist reformists as well, by advocating a consensual public conduct that everyone accepted. This prescriptive conduct embraced customs and rituals of diverse sects and Sufi brotherhoods and was based on the principle of compromise. Its wide ambit included devotion to God, recitation of Koran, and visits to tombs of saints (zikr, tilawat, and ziyarat). This form of urbane civility based on tolerance and recognition of difference constitutes Imdadullah’s cosmopolitanism, one that is accretive and global as well as locally grounded. In the book, Imdadullah defines zikr as a stage in which the individual forgets everyone except God and obtains peace of heart (zahuriyat qalb) by submitting himself to Him. According to him, there are many forms of zikr. Any deed ( fail) or practice (amal) to address and remember God is zikr. These include both the universal templates of Islam like prayers (namaz), salutations and blessings (durud), and recitation of Koran (tilawat) as well as local Sufi forms of devotion. And thus zikr includes many different types. By his embracive definition of zikr, Imdadullah connects the local forms of devotion to standardized universal connectors of Islam that are derived from the scriptures: the namaz, durud, and tilawat. He argues that there are several types of zikr depending on varied forms of rituals prescribed by different Sufi sects to celebrate God. He describes those followed by the Naqshbandiya, Chishtiya, Suhrawardiya, and Qadariya Sufi orders. These include zikr jarub, zikr arah, zikr hadadi, and zikr qalandari. Each of these, he explains, has different bodily deportments. And yet they are all connected to the same universal referent, Allah. He describes the comportment regime specific to each Sufi order and makes a plea for one consensual format of a standardized Muslim public conduct, one that would link the local rituals of devotion to the global as represented in the universal reference point of God and the scriptures. Imdadullah describes in detail the bodily deportment prescribed by each of the four Sufi orders to express devotion to God. Their local variations notwithstanding, they all reach out to a common reference point: belief in One God and his Prophet. According to him, the Qalandariya Sufi order (Tariqa Ism-­i-­zat Qalandari) has the following deportment format: the person should sit and bow his 235

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head, bringing it to his knees. He should bring his head close to the naval and utter the name of Allah before raising it up.48 Imdadullah then explains the bodily deportment called zikr Jarub, also prescribed for the celebration of God. In this format, the individual conveys his faith in God and the Prophet (kalima) by moving his head from the side of his left knee and turning it to the right, taking it right up to his shoulder. And then, bending his head toward his waist, he utters the kalima with all his strength and continues to do so.49 The procedures of zikr hadadi follow a different body deportment wherein the person has to hold his breath and utter la ilaha (One Allah) taking the head up to the right shoulder. Then both shoulders and both hands have to be raised and the entire kalima recited out loud. Next, placing both hands alongside his legs, the person should clasp his thighs and then sit down. This zikr is related to Imam Hadi and is the most difficult to perform.50 Imdadullah stresses that the variations in body deportment notwithstanding, all forms of zikr are directed toward pleasing One Allah. And this common referent brings these diverse forms of deportment regimes—​ all of which constitute zikr—​together. Imdadullah combines the local and the universal, and emphasizes the role of the guide for all the forms of zikr, their local flavors notwithstanding. At the same time, he is quick to show that these local variations apart, there are certain universal forms of devotion that override all regional particularities: prayers, recitation of the names of God, and the recitation of Koranic verses (namaz, durud, and tilawat). These do not require a guide and are entirely self-­directed. Imdadullah argues that the guide is the mediator not just between God and the individual but also between the local and the global. The text stresses the significance of the guide because he is the agent who makes localized renditions of devotion connect to standardized norms of universally acceptable conduct. For instance, zikr—​t he celebration of God—​can have local ritualistic variations, but when moderated by the guide zikr can make all the devotees connect to the singular universal reference point—​one God or Allah. Imdadullah compares the guide to a physician. Both are agents of well-­being. In the context of late nineteenth-­century theology as well as medicine, both needed to reach out to universal 236

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standardized referents even as they zealously guarded and showed sensitivity to the local in the healing of the body spiritually and physically. The text makes this analogy to the nineteenth-­century physician at several points. Indeed, Imdadullah was known for comparing the guide to the physician and his hospice to the hospital, the guide in charge of spiritual well-­being and the physician taking care of physical health.51 Imdadullah wanted his model of Muslim public conduct to become a universal template that would connect Muslims globally. It was his ardent desire that his Zia-­ul-­Qulub, which embodied this template for prescriptive conduct, be disseminated far and wide. He wanted people in the British and the Ottoman worlds to read it and comment on it so that he could refine further his universalist model of public conduct. His temporal and spatial location gave him access to older repertoires of connectivity—​migrant networks and multilingual communities from the Indo-­Persian culture—​as well as to new forms of connectivity via the imperial networks of steamship transportation, telegraphic communication, and print capitalism. He reconfigured these networks to disseminate Muslim virtuous conduct as a universal referent and to unite the umma around it. He called his book the murshid-­i-­kamil (the perfect guide). He wanted people to keep it close to them as a companion text, much in the way they kept talismans close to their body. For instance, in a letter to Maulana Abdul Wahid Bengali, Imdadullah refers to the text as a perfect guide—​murshid-­i-­kamil. He advises Bengali to keep it close to him all the time in the manner of a talisman, and he asks Bengali to write to him or to his peers Maulvi Qasim and Maulvi Rashid Ahmed Gangoi if any clarification is required.52 The exceptional status that he accorded to his book is reminiscent of the ways reformists talked about the Koran and the Hadith. And very much like them, he too emphasized that his book was a guide to be used for both the physical as well as the spiritual well-­being of people. He highlighted the sections in the text that offer prescriptions for physical ailments like constipation. The remedies that the book offers rest on the assumption that such ailments are caused by unregulated forms of devotion that make the individual neglect his physical health.53 At the same time, he encouraged Hakim Ziauddin 237

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in Deoband to ask his students to freely consult Zia-­ul-­Qulub for any clarifications they might need on matters of devotion. In letters he wrote to Hakim Ziauddin, Imdadullah specifically asks him to let the students train themselves in the art of taking bait and in the conduct of zikr, using the prescriptions noted in the text.54 Even though written in Mecca, the language of the original text is Persian, which indicates that his target audience continued to be the Indo-­Persian literate audience back in India. The choice of Persian revealed that Imdadullah exercised restraint in circulat­ ­ing his eclectic text from the Arab heartland of Mecca. This was a city where even after the fall of the Wahabi control (1819) and the establishment of Ottoman rule the climate of religious scholar­­ ship was heavily influenced by reformist Sufi doctrines of both the Mediterranean Salafi and the South Asian Naqshbandiya kind—​ both of which relied heavily on individual interpretation of doctrinaire texts to reach out to the world outside, and which minimized reliance on mediator guides and public devotions to them. The individual, they argued, could use universal templates like the sacred texts and the Prophet to connect to the world outside, overriding the local magnetic pull of diverse forms of Sufi devotions and practice. In contrast, for Imdadullah, Muslim transimperial outreach was a kind of cosmopolitanism that was exemplified in a universalist public conduct that depended on the direction and guidance of a leader. It delved into the local even as it connected to the universal referents of the Koran and the Hadith. It based itself on consensus within a theological frame. Imdadullah targeted readers in the Hijaz and the Ottoman territories as well. He was keen that an Arabic version of the text also be prepared and circulated in the Mediterranean world. But this had to be done with care. His caution is reflected in the fact that he had the Arabic translation published in Hindustan. His letters to Maulana Ashraf Ali Thanawi reveal the range of private publishers he engaged and his excessive monitoring of the publication even as he gave a free hand to his Deobandi peers to make corrections to the translation. He urged Thanawi to have the book translated and published at the earliest time possible by the private press of his acquaintance Abdul Rahman Khan. Imdadullah informed Thanawi that the 238

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­ anuscript had been dispatched via Maulvi Muhammad Husain m Allahabadi, who also had promised to have it published. He gave Thanawi the following instructions: Aapp kei pir bhai ahl-­i-­Arab jo ji yahan makkah mukarramah aur madineh munawwarah aur Misr va Ddaghistan vaghaira Arab kei mulk mein hain bawa jah nawafiq honei zaban farsi aur hindi kei go naa seekhnei aur tarikh saluk vaghaira sei mutaasrin bina bar aasani va tashil kei qabl azeen tarjumah arabi risalah Zia-­ul-­Qulub-­musannifah faquir, azizum maulvi Muhammad Husain sahib Allahabadi taba karnie ko lei gaye hain. The people of Arabia, living in Mecca, Medina, Egypt, Daghistan, etc. do not know the Persian and Hindavi languages and are unfamiliar with its history and conduct. It is for their convenience that the Zia-­ul-­Qulub [manuscript] has been taken by the scribe Muhammad Husain Allahabadi [to Hindustan] for publication in its Arabic translation.55 Imdadullah asked Thanawi to have at least one to two hundred copies published, and he promised payment at the earliest opportunity. He requested that Thanawi take particular care of the paper and the binding of the copies. He insisted that Thanawi and the publishers should not hesitate to consult him in case any clarification was required.56 In subsequent letters he continued to inquire about the status of the publication and emphasized the urgency of sending the Arabic version quickly to the Hijaz. He stressed the urgency of obtaining the copies because, as he stated, “[The] religious Shaikhs or notables of Arabia, Syria, and Istanbul [were] anxiously awaiting its arrival” (aksar mashaikh-­i-­Arab va sham va istanbol iskei muntazir hain).57 The Zia was translated into Arabic in Deoband. In a letter to Thanawi, Imdadullah urged him to have the translation published soon and to dispatch it to him at the earliest. He promised to send one hundred rupees via any acquaintance going to Deoband.58 Even on his deathbed in 1898, Imdadullah wrote to Thanawi in anguish that despite hearing news for the last two years that the translation of the Zia was ready he had not received a single copy.59 239

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The Zia-­ul-­Qulub encapsulated Imdadullah’s brand of Muslim cosmopolitanism. Indeed, he designed it as the bridgehead that would connect the local forms of devotion with the universal templates: belief in one God, or Allah; the Prophet; and the Koran and the Hadith. The guide (murshid) is the chief interlocutor who enables the individual to remain entrenched in the local and to reach out to universal referents. The text shifted the focus from individual agency to the mediator guide, and from doctrinaire texts to advisory guidance literature like itself. It synthesized the local Sufi orders and regional customs with the Koran and the Hadith to prescribe Muslim public conduct that had global appeal. Imdadullah’s cosmopolitanism was the bedrock from which transimperial Muslim networks emanated. The laying out of such networks was his response to the “official nationalism” engineered by Western imperial powers in South and West Asia. Imdadullah made imperial borders porous through his cosmopolitanism, which nurtured Muslim transimperial aspirations. Imdadullah wanted the book to be widely circulated in Hindustan as a popular guidebook. In a letter to his peer, Maulvi Wahid Khan of Deoband, he revealed that he wrote the book in accordance with the wishes of his relatives in Hindustan. He called the book a collection of verses on the celebration of God (azkar), devotion (ashghal), and forms of meditation (maraqabat). He sent it to Hindustan so that people could consult it with ease and solve their daily problems. He wanted Wahid Khan to collect the text from Maulvi Ismael Saharanpuri and have it copied and keep it with him as his guide and overseer (uskee naqal karr walein aur apnei pass mahfuz rakhein aur apnaa peshwa banaein). He drew Wahid Khan’s attention, in particular, to the forms of conduct (tariqa saluk) that he had listed. He recommended them to the learned as the most beneficial, and wanted them to be widely disseminated to all men of religion (maulvi-aur mausufon ko tahsil karein).60 Indeed, he reiterated that the book was comprehensive and that it offered guidance for appropriate conduct and comportment: prescriptive rituals for the visit to the Prophet’s tomb and all other kinds of devotion. In a series of anxious letters to Wahid Khan, he asked if the published book had reached him. He informed Wahid Khan that copies of it were with Maulanas Rashid 240

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and Qasim and could be collected if required. He wanted Wahid Khan to regard Zia-­ul-­Qulub as murshid-­i-­kamil (perfect guide) and to designate it as the talisman of his hospice (khanqah kee taaweez banayein).61 He wanted his book to be designated murshid and hadi raah (guide and companion). He wanted to keep it away from undesirable people (na-­ahal).62 In response to another letter from Wahid Khan ask­ ­ing for advice about an ailment (marz malum), Imdadullah recommended that Walid Khan consult the Zia-­ul-­Qulub, which listed dif­­ferent types of zikrs that offer cures.63 He advised Wahid Khan to feel free to write to him and ask for any clarification that he might require.64 The transimperial networks that ensured the book’s publication and wide circulation also enabled its production. It was written in Mecca but with input from and in consultation with scholars in India. Its manuscript straddled the British and Ottoman worlds, using networks of scribes, financiers, private printing press owners, and scholars who connected the two empires. It was finally published in Meerut, in North India, in 1867 and translated in the lifetime of Imdadullah into Urdu as Tasfitah Alqalub by Maulana Nizamuddin Ashaq Kairanwi and Maulvi Muhammad Beg. The Urdu version was published from Delhi after his death in 1910. Since then it has appeared in several editions.65 Imdadullah sent the manuscript of Zia-­ul-­Qulub to Maulvi Rashid of Deoband for a thorough review before he finalized it. In several letters to Rashid he expressed concern about its safe receipt in Deoband. He sent the manuscript via Haji Ismael Saharanpuri, who had visited him. He explained to Rashid that the manuscript was a compilation of forms of devotion (azkar va ashghal) of the Chishtiya and other Sufi orders that came to his notice via the elderly wise men of the Qadariya and Chishtiya orders. He wanted him to read it from beginning to end without any reservations and add or delete whatever he thought was necessary. He gave him free license to change words and inappropriate phrases and quickly begin to use the final corrected version. (“Isko awwal sei akhir tak baghor mutala kar kei jo kutch kam va zyada karna manzur ho yaa alfaz va abarat ghair muhawara ho durust kar kei kaam mein layein.”)66 In another 241

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letter to Rashid he expressed relief on having heard the news that the Risala Zia-­ul-­Qulub had reached Hindustan safely. He wanted Rashid and others to read it carefully and prayed that God would make it acceptable and beneficial.67 The book was published in Meerut by the city notable Maulvi Abdul al Hakim, who was the brother of Abdul Karim Rais and Sheikh Ilahi Baksh, the thekedar (contractor) of Meerut. In a letter to the Deoband maulana Qasim Naunatawi, Imdadullah stated that these men should be supplied with the manuscript of Zia-­ul-­Qulub as they had shown interest in its publication. They had also written to him promising that they would get it published according to his wishes and that they would then send the published book to the Deoband maulvis Qasim and Rashid. Imdadullah accepted the offer and asked Maulvi Qasim to personally take the manuscript to Meerut and hand it over to Munshi Mumtaz Ali, who would oversee its publication in Maulvi Abdul al Hakim’s press. Imdadullah was particularly concerned that Maulvi Qasim take care that the form and content of the manuscript remain unchanged in the course of its publication. He remarked, “Apnei samnei puri sahat aur hashiyah waghiara kei ihtemam sei munshi Mumtaz Ali sahib kei chapahkhanei mein chapwah lein.” (Under your direct supervision get it published in the printing press of Munshi Mumtaz Ali Sahib.)68 At the same time he also authorized him to change whatever words he thought inappropriate, and to remove whatever he thought was unnecessary.69 He wrote several letters that inquire about the delay in the manuscript reaching Meerut, and that reiterate the eagerness of Maulvi Abdul Hakim to publish it with his own money. In a letter to Qasim, Imdadullah expressed total faith in him and requested that he look into the contents of the manuscript and have it published under his aegis and scrutiny.70 The book was finally published in Meerut in 1867.71 The history of the book’s publication reveals the vibrant network of ideas that moved via migrant scholars, printing networks, and financiers across the British and Ottoman worlds. Migrant populations of religious scholars, traders, and professionals who connected the British and Ottoman worlds became the conduit for Imdadullah’s constant intellectual transactions with Hindustan. They ensured 242

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that the intellectual capital generated by him in Mecca reached both the specialists and laymen in Hindustan who enriched it through their input. These individuals also ensured that his book would have the widest possible dissemination via the many private printing presses maintained by the elite merchant community and the gentry in Hindustan. Most important, they established a permanent link between, on the one hand, the narrowly scripture-­centric reformist scholars of Deoband and, on the other, Imdadullah, whose views were relatively eclectic even if his intellectual journey had begun in Deoband. Imdadullah’s unique circumstance and location enabled him to engineer a Muslim cosmopolitanism that was a far cry from the exclusive scripturalist agenda of the scholars from the Deoband seminary (Deobandis). His literature offered a universalist model of Muslim conduct as an adhesive for the unity of the umma across the Indian Ocean and the Mediterranean world. It connected the regions as a civilizational and spiritual continuum, making the impervious imperial borders irrelevant.

The Masnavi Rum Imdadullah’s other texts and publications had a similar spatial and temporal history. Most of them were written in Persian in Mecca in interaction with the people of Hindustan. They were sent back to Hindustan for final comments, translation into Arabic, and publication. And like the Zia-­ul-­Qulub they straddled the British and Ottoman worlds via the networks of scholars, scribes, financiers, and publishers that brought the two empires together. The Masnavi Rum—​one of Imdadullah’s most favorite texts—​is a case in point. In Mecca, Imdadullah was known for his lectures on the Masnavi.72 Indeed, his lectures (darrs) made him famous not just in Mecca but in the entire Ottoman world. Scholars from Ottoman-­controlled Arabia, Turkey, and North Africa attended his darrs. People from British India attended as well.73 He was involved from a very early stage in his career in understanding the most complex sections of the text. He would note down his thoughts on and reactions to the 243

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text. The Masnavi was popular in the Chishti Sufi order, into which Imdadullah was initiated very early in his career. Most elders of this order had made the text their routine reading. He had attended lectures on the Masnavi given by Shah Abdul Razzack, who himself was privileged to have studied the text from Maulvi Abul Hasan Kandhalwi. He was a special teacher because his father, Majid mufti Ilahi Baksh, claimed that he had read the Masnavi under the direction of Maulana Rum himself.74 Very much as with Zia-­ul-­Qulub, after Imdadullah migrated to Mecca his followers in India asked him to publish the Masnavi afresh with his comments. And again, very similar to his experience in publishing the Zia-­ul-­Qulub, the Masnavi with his commentary was sent back to India by one of his Hindustani visitors. But it was reportedly misplaced. On Imdadullah’s request, it was located by Rashid Gangoi, who sent it back to Imdadullah. It was returned to Hindustan for publication by Maulvi Ahmad Hasan Kanpuri.75 Imdadullah was willing to dispatch one hundred rupees to Hindustan via any reliable visitor for the speedy publication of the Masnavi. Keeping a hand in the production process in Hindustan, he made it evident in his letters to Thanawi that Qari Ahmad Makki and others from Hindustan had kept him aware of the latest news about its production.76 In another letter, Imdadullah sought the help of Asharaf Ali Thanawi in getting the book published at the earliest opportunity, and pointed out that he had identified errors in the earlier editions of the book. He was thus anxious that his edited version should have no errors and should be sent to him for final approval. He wanted his original manuscript to be preserved by Thanawi and Ahmad Hasan as it would bring them ­prosperity.77 Imdadullah explained the difficult parts of the text in its margins. He clarified to Thanawi that these notes were his own interpretations of the text. He was aware that others might not necessarily appreciate his notes in the margins. And in certain places they were repetitive as well. He said that he was happy to send his original manuscript to Hindustan in case it was required.78 In another letter to Thanawi he requested that he look at the content of the manuscript and supervise its publication. He wanted him to take due 244

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care of the quality of the paper and of the book’s production.79 The book in its translated Urdu form with Imdadullah’s comments was finally published by a private publishing house called Matbai Nami in Kanpur. Imdadullah was very satisfied when he received the published Masnavi. In a letter to Asharaf Ali Thanawi, he conveyed his hope that the text would reach the pinnacle of success.80 Only two volumes of the text were published in his lifetime. The rest were completed later. He was delighted to receive four copies of the second volume, but he expressed his anxiety about not receiving the third volume. He was also concerned that he had incurred a loan of Rs. 1,500 on the publication of the earlier two volumes.81 Imdadullah, in his letters to associates like Hakim Muhammad Zia, invariably mentioned the Masnavi as a text that was a vital read for one’s peace of mind. He commented, “Sufiyah kee kutab akhlaq ka mutalah masl tarjuman haya al uloom va kimiya-­i-­sadat va masnavi sharif kabhi kabhi karte raho agar talb khuda aaye. Jo kutch apnei buzurgon sei paya hai talim karo.” (Whenever you want to remember God, read the Masnavi. And educate yourself from the knowledge you have inherited from your elders.)82 He also recommended the published book highly to Thanawi and said that once it was finalized and printed it would benefit the general public as well as its publisher and those who assisted in its preparation.83

Faislah Haft-i-Maslah The text Faislah Haft-i-Maslah (Verdict on Seven Issues) exemplified best the Islamic cosmopolitanism that Imdadullah wished to achieve. Written in Arabic in Mecca, this was Imdadullah’s last effort to reconcile warring Muslim sects and make them arrive at a common meeting ground. He developed a consensual standardized Muslim public conduct that aimed to weld together Muslims across British and the Ottoman societies and create for them a shared civilizational and spiritual space. The Faislah Haft-i-Maslah focuses on issues of custom and ritual that were controversial and caused friction between different sects 245

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of Muslims. Imdadullah makes it very clear that he is suggesting a compromise on these mooted issues to arrive at a middle road and end once and for all the sectarian disagreements. (“Aur koi sahib iss tehrir kei jawab kee fikr na karein maqsud mera munazara karna naheen.”)84 He identifies seven such issues that divide Muslims—​ five that are amli (practical) and two that are ilmi (intellectual). The amli issues include mouloud (celebration of the birth of the Prophet), fatihaa (prayer for the dead), murrawaja (customs), urrs (celebration of the cult of the saint), and samai or qawwali (collective singing in praise of God and the Prophet). The ilmi ones are Imkaane Nazeer and Imkaane Kazab. The former, Imkaane Nazeer, concerns the revealed truth about the exceptional status of the last Prophet; the latter, Imkaane Kazab, looks at the falsehood about the existence of any­ ­one apart from Allah, who is imperishable (fanna mumkin naheen). Imdadullah makes it very clear that he does not want people to waste too much time quarreling over these issues. He wants no further discussion or debate on these matters; his stated goal is for people to arrive at a consensus, because of the urgent need for Muslims to achieve unity.85 Imdadullah was of the view that history and historicity could aid Muslims in arriving at a consensus on matters of faith. He was of the view that all the contentious practices could be easily accommodated within Islam as each of them had a long history in Islamic societies. Thus in his book, with a view to minimizing disagreements, he offers history and a historicist claim as the way to distinguish between truth and falsity. He asserts that his opponents are not false but need to provide more evidence for their claims to be taken seriously.86 He declares that the mouloud ritual (the celebration of the Prophet’s birth) that divided the community amounts to zikr-­i-­khuda (the celebration of God). He cites ayayte karima (a verse from the Koran) to observe that yaad i-­Ilahi (remembrance of God) is not limited or confined to any specific sect, time, or place. Rather, it is universal and can be performed anytime and anywhere: Likhte parh te, bolte, chalte, sote, jaagte, khare, baithe raza-­i-­ ilahi kei husul ke liyei yaad i-­ilahi mein masruf va mashgul rahna aur zindagi ke har mamle kisi na kisi tarah khuda ka 246

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naam zaban per aatei rahna yeah sab zikr-­i-­ilahi hee kee suratein hain aur Islami zindagi ki jaan hain. Zikr of God and the core of an Islamic way of life include several conditions. They entail that one indulges in the remembrance of God at all times: when one is studying, walking, sleeping, awake, standing, sitting. In all matters of life the name of God should always be uttered. Since the celebration of the Prophet and that of God complement each other, the remembrance of the Prophet is also equally universal.87 However, it is conditional on absolute faith in one God (iman). No amount of praise of the Prophet in the absence of iman will bear fruit. Indeed, it will be invalid. Imdadullah cites the Koran to say that praise of others besides Allah is not bad. In fact, those things that are approved in the eyes of God are the law of the religion.88 According to Imdadullah, people of religion (including spiritual leaders and those who claim to be their associates) may be praised and celebrated, as this is within the limits of Shariat. Indeed, such praise has an exalted position within it.89 However, Imdadullah clarifies that mouloud cannot be equated with prayers and Ramadan fasting in the hierarchy of Islamic essentials. Indeed, its placement in that category amounts to biddat (heresy).90 Similarly, the celebration of the Prophet’s life needs to be delinked from the rituals of distributing sweets and dates that have assumed centrality in the mouloud.91 He laid out a regime of proper conduct (adab) to be followed at the mouloud. The ceremony should focus on the narration of Prophet’s birth (zikr-­i-­wiladat). And while this is being done adequate arrangements that ensure regimentalized comportment are to be observed. These include arrangements for sitting on the floor (qayam farsh farush ka ehtemam), use of fragrances (khusbu va attar), the cleaning and beautification of the house and locality in which it is being performed (makan va maqam kee arastagi), distribution of sweet meals (taqsim shirini), feasting for those present (hazrin kee dawat), arrangements for a podium and stage (menber va takht va chauki), recitation of the Koran (tilawat), recitation of the names of God (qirrat-­i-­durud sharif), and the announcement for the gathering (ijtima). According to Imdadullah, 247

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if these observances are maintained and if mouloud is performed on the twelfth day of the month in which the Prophet was born (rabiawwal), it is even better.92 In the Faislah Haft-i-Maslah, Imdadullah restores mouloud to the legitimate pantheon of Islamic rituals and beliefs but lays out a specific code of conduct for it (an adab) so as to shear off its ritual frills. However, he hastens to add that his codified mouloud regime does not constitute the essential practices of Islam. This means that it does not hold the same status as prayers and fasting.93 And yet Imdadullah goes on to say that if his adab on mouloud is followed it will lead to a divine glow in the eyes, pacify the heart, cleanse the thoughts, refresh one’s meditation and prayers, and bring prosperity.94 Again, he clarifies that he does not privilege any one adab over the others in the performance of the mouloud. Indeed, if the entire regimen is followed then prayers will be best fulfilled.95 In the past, the adherence to these rituals by certain sects of Muslims had incensed the reformists. Imdadullah tries to arrive at a compromise by emphasizing that mouloud in its unrestrained format is unacceptable. Imdadullah redefines heresy (biddat) to make it more embracive. He does not view it merely as deviation from the singular path of tauhid. Instead, his definition introduces into the domain of religion things that had hitherto been left out if it. According to Imdadullah, celebration of Allah and the Prophet, in any form, was always very much part of religion. And thus belief in the diversity of rituals and custom in reaching out to Allah does not amount to biddat. In the book, Imdadullah’s new interpretation of biddat opens up space for accommodating local custom. However, he does not spell out what he regards as nonreligious. But given his disinterest in politics, it would seem that he preferred to put that in the nonreligious sphere. Thus, for instance, politics—​f rom which Imdadullah wanted to consciously steer clear—​could involve biddat if it were mixed with religion.96 The book was a far cry from both the textual monist literature of the early nineteenth century, which, as we saw in Chap­ ­ter 1, deemed any form of ritual heretical. It was also removed from the rigidity of the Meccan doctrine as articulated by both the South Asian Naqshbandiya mujadadi reformists located there as well as the 248

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Salafis of the Mediterranean. Rather, it reflected a unique strand of the India-­centric Arabicist grid as it was reformulated in the Meccan political, social, and intellectual context. The second issue that Imdadullah takes up is that of prayers for the dead (fatiha). Very much as he did with the mouloud, he cites various Hadith texts to prove that fatiha amounts to the performance of a good deed, like reading the Koran, reciting the kalma or durud (salutations to God), or doing a good act, with the object of passing on the spiritual reward to the dead. To bring the opponents of fatiha onto common ground with those who upheld it, he removed some of the accepted but extraneous customs and rituals attached to it. For instance, according to Imdadullah, it is not necessary that the fatiha to the dead be recited with food laid out, with the intention that the food will later be distributed to the poor. At the same time, Imdadullah acknowledges the concerns of the opposing camp by adding that there is no harm if food is involved in the ritual.97 He challenges those who oppose fatiha and who have attempted to prove by citing history and the Shariat that it is improper. In fact, he states that it is inappropriate to deny something that has been sanctioned by God and his Prophet.98 Again, as with the case of the mouloud, he invokes the Hadith to elaborate upon the long history of the ritual. He lays out a regimen of proper comportment for it, based on a typology he has built for the ritual. He sanctions as appropriate three kinds of fatiha: The first is when fatiha is recited over food that is distributed with the intention that the merits collected through this gesture will go to the dead. The second kind of fatiha is when the food is distributed with the intention of benefiting the dead and the recipients told to first recite the fatiha and then consume the food. In the third kind of fatiha, the recipients of the food are told that they should bless the dead after they have eaten the food (baksh dein).99 Imdadullah standardizes the fatiha ritual as universal Muslim virtuous conduct. He uses his unique position to delve into both the history of Islam in the Mediterranean belt as well as its expansion in the Indian Ocean world. He cites various Hadith that are critical of the rigid anti-­fatiha stand of the Wahabiya to reinforce the Islamic ideal of tolerance. The Hadith he chooses to challenge the rigid 249

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stand on ritual taken by the scriptural reformists are those that invoke reason, rationality, and logic.100 In an interesting section, Imdadullah engages with critics in the Hijaz who have opposed his effort to create an inclusive Muslim public conduct as a kind of urbane civility based on standardized comportment. Predictably, the strongest critique had come from the Arab Wahabiya, who were no longer a political factor in the area, but who were still very much a presence intellectually. In this section, Imdadullah challenges the Wahabiya on their rigid stand against the rituals of faith. And his critique invokes not just the relevant Hadith traditions that were framed in the Middle Eastern world, but also the history of Indian Islam as it developed across the Indian Ocean. He dismisses the Wahabiya claim that rituals like fatiha are emulations of Hindu customs and thus invalid. He elaborates upon the history of Indian Islam and highlights the influential impact it has had on Hinduism rather than the other way around.101 He picks specific allegations, such as the Wahabiya canard that Muslims emulate the Hindu custom of Vedic recitations in the practice of the fatiha. He counters this by arguing that the Vedic recitations have never been an identity marker or symbol of Hindus. And thus it is wrong to say that this art of recitation has impacted the Muslim ritual of fatiha. Moreover, Muslims recite the Koran during fatiha, and this is different from the reading of the Vedas. He concludes that if one went by the Wahabiya logic then even Islamic fasting is forbidden and so is haj, as they too are allegedly influenced by the Hindu rituals of fasting (vrat) and pilgrimage (tirath).102 Imdadullah refers to an incident in which Rashid Ahmed Gangoi was asked if reciting the fatiha with hands held toward God was rewarding and legitimate. He replied that reading the fatiha with this body deportment was akin to the Hindu custom of reading the Vedas on the death anniversary of their dear ones with hands extended toward God.103 The answer revealed that Gangoi considered the ritual un-­Islamic. Imdadullah expresses shock that such a comparison could be made between the recitation of the Koran and the reading of the Hindu Vedas. He thus replies that if this is Gangoi’s frame of mind then by the same logic the Muslim month of fasting should be seen as a reaction to the Hindu fasting and the 250

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haj as an influence of the Hindu pilgrimage.104 Also by the same logic, the Deoband madrasa should be closed because that too is similar to the Hindu seminaries (pathshala). The only difference is that the Koran is read at Deoband whereas the Vedas are the preferred text at the pathshala.105 He exhorts people against adopting Wahabi rigidity and cautions them against their divisive ways. Soon after offering this note of caution against Wahabiya extrem­ ­ism, Imdadullah reverts to his characteristic reconciliatory tone and concludes that he advocates taking the middle road and does not encour­­age confrontation. He explains this to mean that while the act of offering food to the poor and reciting the Koran over the food is not sinful, it is also not a necessary prerequisite for performing the fatiha. The latter is complete even without the offering of food for the benefit of the dead.106 Imdadullah offers a similar kind of compromise in his discussion of urrs (an annual congregation at the tombs, or mazar, of religious notables to celebrate their birth). He justifies urrs by highlighting its practical and political side. According to him, urrs is valuable because it provides Muslims with the opportunity to congregate and meet likeminded people. The congregation thus becomes a source of blessings and prosperity. Imdadullah justifies urrs mainly because it enables Muslim congregation, and within this congregation unity can be achieved through standardized patterns of devotion that are globally recognizable. Imdadullah’s endorsement of urrs was due primarily to its salience as a site that enabled unity and connectivity across the umma via virtuous conduct. He understood the political advantage of con­­ gregations because he was located in Mecca—​t he biggest melt­ ­ing pot of the Muslim umma. From within this ideal location Imdadullah attempted to construct a Muslim self that was accretive and embracive and that upheld urbane civility as a universal Mus­ ­lim public conduct. He hoped to unite the umma across empires around this conduct and meet the European civilizational challenge. Imdadullah’s standardized public conduct, produced at it was in Ottoman-­controlled Mecca, framed his cosmopolitanism. This focused on non-­British imperial centers and aimed to rewrite global history around Ottoman cities. His compromises on urrs, as on 251

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mouloud and qawwali, are geared toward the making of this multi­ faceted globalism. In the Faislah -i-Maslah, Imdadullah took on board the opponents of urrs by introducing a range of qualifications for the performance of the ritual. He takes specific ritual acts associated with urrs to strike a balance between warring factions. According to him, there is nothing wrong in the performance of the ritual provided it is celebrated within certain Shariat rules. Thus, for instance, he opposes any observance that mars the sanctity and soberness of the occasion. According to him, qawwali on its own is fine. But it is objectionable if marked by opulence, fairs, and merrymaking on the graves of the holy men. He reiterates that mere congregation at the grave of any holy man in a sober manner is not invalid. He cites the example of the movement of caravans to Medina for the ziyarat (paying of respect) of the Prophet as proof that Islam does not ban congregations that gather to pay homage at the graves of holy men.107 And thus he concludes that urrs is permissible as long as it is framed within Shariat prescriptions.108 Imdadullah writes at length in the book about his own personal regime of devotion to his guide (pir) so as to lay out the format for proper public conduct that will appeal to all warring factions. This is his way to strike a compromise on the issue of urrs. He notes that every year he prays for heavenly rewards for his guide and leader. He calls this a form of homage, which he strongly recommends to Muslims. He enumerates the format for this homage as follows: first there is recitation of the Koran (Koran khani), and then mouloud is recited. He says he is not in favor of unnecessary opulence and showing off (zawaid amur). Nor has he ever had the occasion of being in a qawwali. At the same time, he never objects to these forms of devotion.109 He argues that they can be included as forms of devotion and homage to guide and leaders. Imdadullah makes a strong plea to his readers to be tolerant and to accept and accommodate difference. Throughout his writings he gives anecdotes that plead for the spirit of tolerance and compromise. For instance, he argues that if someone is a fraud then he is bad. But it should be first proved that he is so. Such is the spirit of patience and tolerance every individual should exercise. He argues 252

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that those who are strictly against rituals should be regarded as upholders of the traditions of the Prophet (kamal-­i-­itibai sunnat) and those who do observe the rituals should be seen as followers of the traditions of their spiritual elders (ahl-­i-­mujadid). He pleads to people that they should not contradict each other or oppose each other.110 Rather, they should accept with dignity the ritual observances of others. The fourth issue that he discusses in detail is that of inviting those not oriented to Allah to join the ranks of believers (maslah nida-­i-­ ghair Allah). He argues that that this is not improper and sinful provided people are being called only for the purpose of religious discussions, or for the inculcation of a deep emotional connect with God that leaves them saddened on separation.111 But if the purpose is not to disseminate the message of love and peace, and there is no messenger (murshid), nor is there a way to get across the message, then the invitation to become a believer is invalid.112 He argues that mere exhortations toward faith without any thought and method could amount to heresy (shirk). But one has to be careful in so designating it because it is possible that God can help take the message across to the person. He concludes that the invitation to Islam is more a matter of belief and secret knowledge than a rigid Shariat diktat.113 The book ends with a discussion of the sanctity of congregations for prayers ( jama’t i-­saniyah). He pleads to Muslims to shed animosity on this divisive debate around collective ( jamat) versus individual prayer. He argues that even though the collective prayers are more disciplined and regimentalized, one should not create differences on account of this. Every individual should respect the other’s choice of prayer. Imdadullah was a strong advocate of flexibility in human action. He thus urged his followers to shun their rigid stand and offer prayers as it suited them.114

Imdadullah, the Deobandi Sufi with a Difference Imdadullah’s literature transferred to Mecca the Indian brand of Sufi spirituality. In the tradition of Shahwaliulla, this combined the 253

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monist emphasis on belief in one God (tauhid) and the holy scriptures with the Sufi stress on the spiritual leader as the moderator of individual practice. And this Indic tradition flowered in Mecca because, as mentioned above, the city had been home to the Delhi Naqshbandiya mujadids since the late eighteenth century. But Faislah’s extraordinary spirit of accommodation and its advocacy of compromise within the tradition on the issue of both the desirability and forms of public devotion went far beyond the Delhi Sufi Shahwaliulla’s gentle blend of tauhid with the Sufi organizational format. It was also, as we will see, a step ahead of the Deobandi tradition that carried forward Shahwaliulla’s combination of tauhid with its stress on the scriptures, and the Sufi emphasis on the allegiance to the sheikh or leader as the mediator between God and the individual. Imdadullah’s stress on consensus as the bedrock for his standardized virtuous Muslim conduct reflects not just the adaptability of both his Delhi and his Deoband intellectual legacies, but their capacity to evolve. Perhaps his location in Mecca as a 1857 refugee, his interaction with the Ottoman officers in the Hijaz, and his religious and political exchanges with Muslims from all over the world offered him a wider intellectual and cultural arena for constructing a far more embra­ ­cive Muslim cosmopolitanism than Shahwaliulla or the Deobandis could ever achieve in Hindustan. Indeed, Ottoman Mecca emerged as a critical hub from which Imdadullah could nurture his global aspiration in a way that was not possible from British-­controlled territories. Imdadullah used Mecca’s critical location at the interstice of the British and Ottoman imperial space to maintain a steady intel­­ lectual contact with his intellectual peers in British India. He relied on books from India to impact the Mecca region with the Indian Naqshbandi mujadidi form of Islam. He delivered lectures in the Madrasa Saulatiya established by his intellectual peer, the Naqshbandi Sufi Maulana Rahmatullah Kairanwi. But he moved ahead of his Indian colleagues in his effort to end intratradition conflict. His aim was to forge the unity of the umma across the imperial assemblage. His quest to establish an ideal form of consensual public conduct triggered an obsessive drive to be both in the knowhow of the Hindustani intellectual and literary 254

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productions as well as to send his own writings to India for peer review. At the same time, he was keen to hold discussions with the Meccan religious littérateurs. He desired to create a form of standardized conduct that could weld the South Asian and Middle Eastern Muslim worlds together. He tapped into the thriving networks of traders, pilgrims, visitors, littérateurs, and scholars who bridged the Indian Ocean and the Mediterranean worlds. Such networks predated the imperial connections of the nineteenth century. The age of steamship, print, and consular webs hardened borders officially, but that did not mean the end of these porous zones of the past. Indeed, imperial networks made this Asian underbelly of empires even more vibrant. Imdadullah cashed in on the movement of men and books between the British and Ottoman worlds to further his own agenda of constructing his much-­desired united umma around a universally agreeable public conduct. His book supply from India included the Koran with commentaries in its margins by Abdullah bin Abbas. These commentaries, which explained and gave the context of Koranic verses, were in popular demand in the Hijaz. In several letters that Imdadullah wrote to Maulvis Qasim and Yaqub of Deoband, he indicated the demand for this particular edition of the Koran in the Hijaz. He noted that people were willing to pay him in advance for these copies with commentaries. However, he agreed to accept payment only after the receipt of the copies.115 In addition, books like the Tafsir or commentaries on the scriptures of Hafiz Ilahi Baksh Saharanpuri also reached him. His letters indicate that visitors to the Hijaz carried these books back and forth from Hindustan and that some of these books, like the Tafsir (which was carried by one Hafiz Abdullah), were written in Hindustan in consultation with Imdadullah himself. In a letter to Maulvi Rashid Ahmad of Deoband, Imdadullah confirmed that the Tafsir included his suggestions to its author, Ilahi Baksh.116 He also repeatedly asked for the translated copy of another book, Tanveer, to be sent to him.117 His keen involvement in the publication of Tanveer is evident when at his request a few sample pages of it were sent to him for approval before its final publication. He approved of its good print, size, and quality of paper.118 He insisted that the book should be sold and not distributed free. 255

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Imdadullah revealed his keen sense of publishing entrepreneurship with his suggestion that a free book would be less likely to be read and taken seriously than one that readers needed to purchase.119 Imdadullah also sent his other books, like the Hakm, to Deoband for translation. His letters include several reminders to Thanawi to arrange for the publication of the Hakm. For this he was again willing to send one hundred rupees via visitors who could connect him to Hindustan.120 His book Faislah Haft-i-Maslah, which we discussed in the last section, was also published and translated in Hindustan with a supplement, and he anxiously awaited its arrival in Mecca. He also repeatedly inquired why only one copy of the Kulliyat Imdadiya had reached him.121 Imdadullah was in regular correspondence with the ulema of Bhopal with regard to book exchanges.122 Even on his deathbed, in Mecca, he worried about his book collection. He invited Thanawi to visit him one last time and carry back his huge collection of books to Hindustan.123 The intellectual exchange in which Imdadullah participated was most evident when he sent his own compilation, Zia-­ul-­ Qulub, to Maulvi Rashid via Maulvi haji Ismael Saharanpuri, who visited him in Mecca. What is more important is that he urged Maulvi Rashid to read it from beginning to end and to add material to overcome any shortcoming. He also gave him the license to correct any inappropriate word or phrase.124 He deputed Thanawi as his representative in Hindustan and asked him to make it clear to the Deobandi maulvi, Ishaq Ali, that if the maulvi needed any clarifications on the Zia-­ul-­Qulub he should feel free to contact him in Mecca. Thanawi remained his conduit for all intellectual discussion with the scholars of Hindustan.125 His letters to his members of his peer group back home, like Hakim Ziauddin, reveal his interest in several magazines and booklets published from Hindustan.126 He also received the book Qaul Faisal an Aziz and read it from beginning to end and commented on it.127 This intellectual exchange ensured that his brand of cosmopolitanism with its global aspirations was exported to Hindustan. The balance between scripture and Sufi practices and the middle ground that he struck on forms of public devotion became his unique signature in Mecca. Indeed, it is from there that he continued to 256

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influence his peers in Hindustan and convince them about the benefits of Muslim cosmopolitanism. This made him distinct from his peers and contemporaries in Deoband. He was always pained to hear of factional conflicts at the Deoband seminary, and his correspondence with Thanawi reveals his readiness to intervene for the sake of consensus and peace.128 Barbara Metcalf has shown how scholars at the Deoband seminary stressed the basic commitment to the idea of tauhid and focused on the study of scriptures (the manqulat). At the same time, the seminary adopted the Sufi format as part of an effort to forge social relationships between fellow Deobandis. Membership in more than one Sufi order was permissible so as to encourage unity and minimize conflict. Thus teachers claimed multiple initiation into the Chishti, Naqshbandi, Qadari, and other Sufi orders and followed select rituals from each of them. The famous Deoband scholar, Rashid Ahmed, claimed descent from Chishti saint Abdul Quddis Gangohi, but kept alive memory of other saints as well. Most Deobandis traced their intellectual genealogy to the Naqshbandi Sufi order of Shahwaliulla. They selectively appropriated the Sufi ritual of bait and forms of zikr. And they rejected other aspects of Sufi practice such as public devotion to leaders, objectionable literary productions, and ritual observances at graves and khanqhas. According to these scholars, such forms of devotion were reserved only for God, who had exceptional powers. Metcalf argues that through a selective appropriation of the Sufi way the Deobandis ended up with their own exclusive club—​a Sufi order characterized by the nineteenth-­century stress on a single spiritual guide, or leader. Metcalf shows that the tradition of the nineteenth-­century Sufi order with a single guide, the sheikh, gave way to the emergence of a new form of Sufism with fresh spiritual guides from within the ranks of the Deobandi scholars. This Sufi tradition had the scriptures as its core, was leader oriented, and had social hierarchies that mirrored the traditional Sufi orders that bonded via the oath of allegiance to a single leader. It was unique because it was created by shearing off the gamut of Sufi rituals and the wide range of their devotional forms. The Deobandi brand of Sufism was exclusive as it eliminated difference within the Muslim community by establishing 257

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a standardized conduct that balanced local Sufi-­impacted custom and ritual with scriptural legitimation.129 In this sense, Imdadullah emerged as a very important Sufi guide to the Deobandis, most of whom took the oath of allegiance to him.130 Imdadullah’s wide-­arm inclusivity stood in contrast to the Deobandi exclusivity. This difference was due to his being located in Mecca and to the global aspiration that framed his objectives and strat­­egy. But that did not deter his devotees in Deoband from regarding him as their sheikh. Metcalf explains this phenomenon narrowly in terms of the concept of the Sufi sheikh, which she suggests was different in the nineteenth century than it had been in earlier times. According to Metcalf, this devotion derived more from an attachment to the individual per se, rather than to the values of his entire order. She argues that it was the affinity of the heart that was the link (qalbi munasabat). And thus Rashid Ahmad trusted Imdadullah immensely and pledged allegiance to him despite the latter upholding customs and practices abhorred by the Deobandis.131 Perhaps there is a wider history of imperialism and its negotiation by individuals located at the cusp of empires that needs to be foregrounded to explain this extraordinary compatibility between the Deobandis and Imdadullah. The connected worlds of the British and Ottoman Empires in the nineteenth century had given new twists to the earlier histories of networks of traders, scribes, and pilgrims who had connected the Indian Ocean and Mediterranean worlds; these new networks offered an arena of new possibilities that could be used by individuals located at the interstices of empires. Thus Naqshbandi mujadids from the Delhi and Deoband intellectual lineage, like Imdadullah, could evolve, connect, and influence in new and complex ways their intellectual peers in Hindustan. As we have seen, Imdadullah’s Faislah struck a conciliatory chord, a middle path of accommodation in matters of Sufi devotion and public rituals like urrs, mouloud, fatiha, and zikr. In contrast, the fatwas or diktats of the Deobandis on these rituals put them to the test of scriptural scrutiny. They were allowed only if they fit into the Deobandis’ rigid, scripturally sanctioned code of public conduct.132 Yet even though Imdadullah on many occasions contravened Deobandi public conduct by his participation, for instance, 258

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in the mouloud at Mecca, he never lost his stature in the Deobandi circles. This was an indication of his success in disseminating his cosmopolitanism, with its global aspirations to decenter the Brit­ ­ish imperial hold over Indian Muslim subjects. His peers in Hindu­ ­stan ignored many of his contraventions in view of this larger objective. In one of his many letters to his confidant, Maulvi Yaqub of Deoband, Imdadullah urged the scholar to incite his students to engage in continuous intellectual struggle to achieve their aims. This, he said, was the true definition of the highest form of jihad: the jihad-­i-­Akbari.133 According to Imdadullah, such a lofty objective could be achieved if unity became the mantra for Muslims. This mantra could be followed only through an eclectic mixture of the scriptures and Sufi devotion. Imdadullah’s book Zia-­ul-­Qulub advocated such a mixture and laid out the format for consensual Muslim public conduct. He promoted his Zia-­ul-­Qulub in Hindustan as an advisory guide that offered a solution to all controversial issues that divided Muslims. Indeed, he recommended that its contents, rather than verses from the Koran (as was normally the case), be used as talismans to be distributed by Sufi sheikhs. He shifted the focus from more popular texts like the Koran and the Tibb-­i-­Nabawi—​texts that, in the nineteenth-­century climate of individuated religion, focused on the Prophet as the guide and model to be followed. Instead, he put the spotlight on his own book, Zia-­ul-­Qulub, as the perfect guide (mushir-­i-­kamil) that could take care of both the spiritual and the physical well-­being of its readers. He claimed to have sent the Zia-­ul-­Qulub to his devotees in Hindustan. His correspondence reveals that he sent the master copy to Maulvi Yaqub and urged him to copy it and keep it in his safe custody. He advised him to use it as his guide and adviser. He wanted him to acknowledge the book’s exalted status and to keep it away from his opponents. He reiterated that in the book he had laid out the norms of proper conduct and behavior (tariqa saluk). He urged Yaqub to spread its message and assured him of good results. The usefulness of the book in resolving everyday life issues was evident when Imdadullah made a suggestion to a young man who complained of distraction on seeing a beautiful woman. The answer 259

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given in the book was to concentrate on the love of God.134 In letters to Abdul Wahid Khan, Imdadullah indicated that the saluk, or conduct, as prescribed in the Zia-­ul-­Qulub also included “proper” rituals and decorum to be followed when one paid homage at the Prophet’s mausoleum (tarkib ziyarat). Imdadullah claimed that it had advice and solutions for all kinds of issues, and that it was the perfect guide (kamil murshid). And in another letter to Khan, Imdadullah reiterated his wish that the book be regarded as the guide to the singular right path (murshid wahadi raah). He wanted it to be kept away from non-­Muslims. According to him, this was a book of knowledge that needed to be discussed by the scholarly elite of Mecca and Hindustan. Eminent fellow scholars like Fazl-­i-­Haq, who was lodged at the Andaman penal colony, were familiar with the knowledge contained in the book, and Imdadullah was happy to have an ongoing discussion with such men of learning.135 And in response to Wahid Khan’s query about a particular kind of ailment, Imdadullah once again referred him to the Zia. He instructed, “Keep following the Sultan-­I-­ Nasir devotion that is listed along with its procedures in the Zia al qalb.”136 Imdadullah’s correspondence made it clear that he wanted an ongoing discussion of the book with Khan and other intellectuals in Hindustan.137 Imdadullah was always anxious about the safe delivery of his eclectic texts, like the Zia-­ul-­Qulub, the Masnavi, and others, to Hindustan. Indeed, he had these books published in Hindustan and monitored their wide circulation in the intellectual circuits. In a letter to Maulvi Qasim and Yaqub, he expressed concern about the safe delivery of his manuscripts to Hindustan. He wrote, “Inkee [manuscripts] raseedon sei itlass bakshein.” (Please inform me about the receipt of these texts.)138 He also urged them to send a copy of the manuscript to Maulvi Sheikh Ilahi Baksh thekedar Meerut for the purpose of its publication and wider distribution.139 And in another letter he expressed concern about a report he received from Maulvi Abdul Hakim, resident of Meerut, that the Zia-­ul-­Qulub had not reached him. He wanted Qasim and Yaqub to deliver the book to Hakim personally. He offered the names of alternate publishers in case of any delays in the publication of his books. He noted that if Abdul Hakim was unable to publish it then Maulvi Muhammad 260

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Ahsan should do so as “he too ha[d] shown willingness to publish it.” But he insisted that no fewer than one hundred copies of the book should be published and that it would cost one hundred rupees to do so.140 The Zia was not the only text whose journey in Hindustan Imdadullah followed. This was true of most of the books that he wrote while in Mecca. He was always keen that his books be circulated far and wide, and he entrusted the job of copying and circulating them to his confidant in India, Hakim Ziauddin. Even while located in Mecca, Imdadullah continuously suggested names of copyists he trusted. For instance, he wanted women like Hamshirah Bi Sahibah and Bi Khairana, as well as a relative, Umat al Jaib, to be asked to copy his text. He urged Ziauddin to ask other people as well to copy it and to make the Zia their regular companion.141

Imdadullah, the Muslim Bridgehead It is significant that Imdadullah not only maintained regular correspondence with his peers in Hindustan but also inspired them to establish the famous Sunni Muslim seminary at Deoband. Imdadullah financed it, and he also impacted it with his Meccan brand of cosmopolitanism. Imdadullah always referred to himself as fakir or Muslim ascetic in his correspondence with the Deoband scholars. Despite his differences with Deoband intellectuals vis-­à-­v is the limits of orientation to Sufi rituals, he continued to work with them and never gave up his efforts to influence them. As we saw in the previous section, he constantly engaged in intellectual discussions with them. Indeed, he was also in touch with his own family madrasa in Thana Bhuwan near Deoband. Even when on his deathbed he wrote to Thanawi to ask him to visit his madrasa and mosque and revitalize them.142 Imdadullah drew the attention of the Deoband stalwarts like Maulvi Rashid, Ahmad Hasan, Maulvi Qasim Naunatawi, and others to the merits of his prescriptive book on Sufi devotions, the Zia-­ul-­Qulub. Deobandis were also initiated into multiple Sufi silsilas but limited their participation: they adopted the organizational 261

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format of hospices and Sufi orders but kept away from ritual practices centered around the leader. Indeed, they sheared Sufism of its many ritualistic frills and tailored it narrowly to the Koran and Hadith. In contrast, Imdadullah drew his Deobandi peers toward certain forms of devotion that were murshid or leader-­centric. For instance, he insisted that Maulvi Rashid carry on with the zikr and shaghal (bodily practice) regime that he recommended, as that was beneficial. Indeed, he also recommended specific forms of meditation to him. He advised him that for peace of mind after the morning or the dusk prayers he should meditate and imagine that he was sitting in front of his murshid. He should visualize that something from the murshid’s heart was going into his heart. Imdadullah promised that he too would think the same from his end at Mecca.143 He highly recommended his Zia-­ul-­Qulub to his peers for regular consultation, as much of his Sufi devotional prescriptions were listed in it. In various letters to Maulvi Abid Hasan, he reiterated the significance of the Zia-­ul-­Qulub as a prescriptive guide for devotions that should be consulted at Deoband. He urged people there to consult it, to seek clarification on it from Maulana Rashid, and if in doubt to write to him directly for clarification.144 At the same time, in letters to Wahid Khan in Deoband he reiterated the significance of the right path (mustaqim) and the significance of the murshid and pir as the guides to lead one to that path.145 Once again, he urged the Deoband maulvis, Rashid and Qasim, to relent on the issue of mouloud and to create a consensus or agreement (itifaq) between different sects on it. He preferred this to their rigid stand that fanned dissent (ikhtilaf) and highlighted difference (nafsaniyat). He urged Maulvi Rashid to deliberate on this issue according to his advice and to adopt a middle path.146 And along with his commitment to Sufi devotions and public rituals like the mouloud, he encouraged equally the dissemination of the scholarly disciplines of the Hadith, of the Koran, and of the jurisprudence that was the hallmark of the Deoband seminary. He wrote to Maulvi Sayyid Ahmed of Deoband that he was very pleased to learn of the syllabus and to receive an update on the academic work of the seminary students, who were learning the Hadith, commentaries on the Koran, and jurisprudence. But once again he urged 262

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that the students combine theological studies with internal meditation. Indeed, he considered this as essential.147 But this did not stop him from expressing his satisfaction to Maulvi Rashid about the lectures that he had given on the Koran and Islamic theology at the seminary.148 Indeed, in a letter to Sayyid Muhammad Abid Hasan (later principal of Deoband) he suggested that it was better that Hasan remain in Deoband to teach the students rather than go to Mecca. He clearly considered the teaching of theology of extreme significance.149 Apart from his correspondence with Deoband and his meetings with hajis from Hindustan, Imdadullah also interacted with the Hindustani Naqshbandi mujadids who were already located in Mecca: Sheikh Yahya Pasha Waghistani Hanafai Naqshbandi mujadidi, Hazrat Sheikh Faisi Shazili, Hazrat Sheikh Ibrahim Rashidi Shazli, Sheikh Ahmed Dahan Makki, and others.150 They informed him that no individual should ignore any Sunnat or tradition of the Prophet. And thus they asked him to marry, as that was also one of the Sunnats.151 In Mecca, Imdadullah gained another important and unique platform from which to disseminate his cosmopolitanism, one that he was also able to connect to Deoband. This was the Madrasa Saulatiya at Mecca that, as we noted in Chapter 3, had been established by the Naqshbandiya mujadid Rahmatullah Kairanwi. This madrasa had made an impact in the region by exporting not just the Shahwaliulla kind of eclectic Islam, but that had carried its accretive spirit forward by introducing into its curriculum nineteenth-­ century texts like the Izharul Haq that interpreted the Koran and showcased its knowledge according to “modern” notions of reason, science, and rationality. Rahmatullah was personally not as much of an ascetic Sufi nor as oriented personally toward the Chishtiya and Suhrawardiya silsilas as Imdadullah. Indeed, he had his differences with Imdadullah on the ways in which to connect with peers in Hindustan. For instance, unlike Rahmatullah, Imdadullah considered the collection of money for him in Hindustan unacceptable and even offensive (khilaf marzi), and preferred to call himself a fakir or ascetic who united the umma through a spiritual consensus on mooted issues.152 Yet Madrasa Saulatiya shared Imdadullah’s 263

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broad vision of a Muslim cosmopolitanism that struck a middle ground on matters of rituals and customs that divided Muslims. The madrasa and its founder Rahmatullah, very much like Imdadullah, advocated a universalist Muslim conduct based on consensus. Imdadullah was happy to deliver lectures at Madrasa Saulatiya to the students of Rahmatullah. Indeed, Imdadullah encouraged a healthy flow of students from Deoband to Mecca. He hoped that they would become the conduit by which the Meccan reformist spirit of the Rahmatullah brand and his cosmopolitanism based on standardized forms of public conduct would reach Hindustan and transform its reformist seminaries. In a letter to Hakim Muhammad Ziauddin, Imdadullah stated that he had received some students from Hindustan who had come to stay with him and study in Mecca. These included Maulvi Muhammad Muhiuddin Moradabadi, Maulvi Allahdad Punjabi, Maulvi Rahim Baksh, and Mullah Murad Sahib. He explained that they had come only for the search for truth and would stay with him for a year.153 And in another letter that described the regular flow of people from Hindustan, Imdadullah noted that Hafiz Ahmad Hasan had expressed a desire to visit Mecca that year. Imdadullah wanted most of these Hindustani students and visitors to study at the Madrasa Saulatiya. He wrote to Ziauddin that if possible he should send also the son of the scholar Maqsud Ahmad to Mecca. He wanted the boy to study at the Madrasa Saulatiya and recommended that fifty rupees from the account of Maulana Rashid Ahmad or Ahmad Hasan be given to him for travel expenses.154 And in many other letters, Imdadullah advised Ziauddin how to pass on to his students what he had learned from his elders. In other words, Imdadullah not only stressed the significance for students of manqulat and scriptural knowledge, but he also put a premium on devotional aspects that were passed on orally from the older generation to the younger.155 Imdadullah, who had arrived in Mecca before Kairanwi, warmly welcomed the latter on their first meeting. They performed the tawwaf and sai together and later met at Imdadullah’s house to discuss their circumstances and course of action while in Mecca.156 Kairanwi was always part of Imdadullah’s gatherings, which brought the umma together spiritually and made its members aware of ­political 264

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matters in Hindustan. Indeed, Imdadullah became so close to Kairanwi that when Kairanwi would leave Mecca to take extended trips to Istanbul, Imdadullah would miss him. In a letter to Rashid Ahmad Gangoi of Deoband, he expressed his wish that Kairanwi would return to Mecca quickly: “Aur maulvi Rahmatullah sahib bhee Istanbul mein tashrif rakhtei hain. Khuda tala maulvi sahib ko jald layei.” (Maulvi Rahmatullah is in Istanbul. I pray to God that he returns at the earliest.)157 The gentle blending of Sufi devotion, which borrowed from all four orders, and the Shahwaliulla brand of Naqshbandi reformism became the signature of Imdadullah’s lectures and discussions at the Madrasa Saulatiya. According to Imdadullah, this blended approach was the best way to cope with the new circumstances of the time. The presence of the sheikh as the moderator was significant, as he was the interpreter of religion who would enable Muslims to cope with the changing times without abandoning their religious beliefs and practices. Imdadullah invoked the Islamic tradition’s fundamental capacity for change and resilience, which could be deployed via human agency, as the political formula for all Indian Mus­­ lims. This was a far cry from the reformist doctrines of the early nineteenth-­century Urdu texts written by followers of Shahwaliulla, such as Inayat Ali and Khurram Ali. They, as we saw in Chapter 1, privileged the holy text only, and the individual reading of it, and ignored the Sufi frills. Indeed, Imdadullah Makki’s formula, which combined devotion and azkar (the repeated praise of God) with a commitment to the right path (hidayat) or showing the right way (irshad) eventually became the transimperial political formula for Muslims living under European influence. This produced a system that offered a way out of living under foreign occupation and interpreting religion accordingly for guidance. Imdadullah co-­opted the Sufi way of seeking guidance from a sheikh when endeavoring to interpret normative religion, rather than simply relying on independent judgment. He emphasized that without the murshid one should not follow the tariqas of azkar or that of any form of devotion. He equated the role of the murshid with that of the physician. He argued that just as medicine should not be taken without the guidance of a physician so 265

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also the guidance of a leader is needed in spiritual matters.158 He further underlined this point by noting, “The sufi way is useful only when it is applied in a certain way in a certain amount.”159 Thus the company of the spiritual guide (sohbat sheikh) became the signature of what came to be regarded as the Imdaduddin brotherhood: Silsila Imdadiyah.160 Imdadullah was eager to learn from the Mecca ulema. Significant Islamic traditions like the ilm-­i-­tajvid or the art of recitation of the Holy Koran was something that hugely attracted his attention. This tradition was very much part of the Muslim public conduct that would weld the Muslim sects together. Qari Ahmad Makki, whose madrasa was in Mecca, was a specialist in the art of recitation. His madrasa, which was a branch of the Madrasa Saulatiya, was located in Mohulla Jiad in Mecca. It specialized in the art of recitation or the ilm-­i-­tajvid and hifz. At any point in time it had sixty-­five students, including Arabs, Turks, Hindustanis, and others who specialized in the ilm-­i-­tajvid. The Hindustani seminaries were particularly weak in this training. The Arabs looked down on Hindustani ulema and often refused to offer prayers behind them. But the training of Hindustanis in the Meccan madrasas, like that of Ahmad Makki, began to change things. Differences were soon bridged. Imdadullah hoped that Muslims would unite around such a common professional form of recitation of the Holy Koran. And students from Hindustan benefited from this madrasa and other, similar branches of Saulatiya.161 Again relying on the newly emergent Urdu press in Hindustan, Imdadullah urged Thanawi to publicize these madrasas in the press. He wanted Thanawi to have a letter he had written detailing the work of the madrasa published in the Urdu newspaper Nurul Anwar or in any other widely circulated newspaper so that his formula for establishing a system of universal public conduct—​ one that would connect Muslims—​be propagated widely. He also requested that Thanawi write an article on the madrasa and publish it in Hindustan.162

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If Rahmatullah Kairanwi and Imdadullah Makki contributed to the Muslim cosmopolis from Mecca, there were others who energized it from their Indian locations. Nawab Siddiq Hasan Khan (1832–1890) was an important case in point. He was a reformist scholar of the scriptures popularly known as the Ahl-­i-­Hadith. He came from a poor background and arrived penniless in Bhopal. He established himself in the city not through his modest job but through his marriages, initially to the daughter of the prime minister and then to the widowed ruler herself. Like most scripture-­ oriented scholars, Siddiq Hasan was also categorized as a “Wahabi” by the British. In fact, given the cordial and reliable relationship the British had with his wife Shahjahan Begum of Bhopal, his “seditious” activities were a cause of deep concern and anxiety for the British residents at Indore in Bhopal. Nawab Siddiq Hasan Khan was never convicted by any law court and had the advantage of being the nawab consort of the begum of the princely state of Bhopal. His fate in British India was thus different from the other protagonists examined in this book who had to flee to escape the British clampdown. His biography, journeys, and intellectual forays reveal how he used the challenges and opportunities of nineteenth-­century 267

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imperialisms and reconfigured them to suit his own particular interests. At the same time, he used his Indo-­Persianate intellectual legacy and his regal family connections to construct an embracive cosmopolitanism as a civilizational space that stretched between the British and Ottoman Empires. He traced his intellectual genealogy to the Delhi Naqshbandi Sufi Shahwaliulla, whose legacy—​t he spirit of compromise—​he lived with for his entire life. He encouraged ijtihad (interpretation and independent judgment) in legal or theological issues, knowledge of the Koran and the Hadith, and an abhorrence of pirs and saint worship. He made the Koran accessible to people by making it available in Persian and Urdu. His birthplace was Rae Bareilly, in Awadh, where Shahwaliulla’s well-­k nown disciple Sayyid Ahmad Shahid had been born. Indeed, Siddiq Hasan’s father, Sayyid Awlad Hasan, was a strong supporter of Sayyid Ahmad Shahid and accompanied him to Afghanistan and the northwest frontier to fight his famous jihad.1 On arrival in Bhopal he initially worked with Sayyid Jamail-­al Din Khan, the prime minister of Bhopal, as his personal bodyguard. But he was soon sacked because of his alleged involvement in religious debates of an inflammatory nature. Soon after, he found employment with the nawab of Tonk and lived with the relatives of Sayyid Ahmad Shahid in Tonk. After an eight-­month stay in Tonk he was invited back to Bhopal by the prime minister; given his intellectual orientation, he was commissioned to write the history of Bhopal.2 He soon won the favor of the begum of Bhopal and rose to become first the chief scribe and later the nawab consort with the titles of Mir Dabir and Khan conferred upon him. Barbara Metcalf argues that like most reformists Siddiq Hasan desired a unified umma welded together by a singular interpretation of the scriptures. She views this forced exclusivity as having created dissension and sparked protest from within the umma.3 However, his activities outside of British India convey a more nuanced picture of the nawab. It is in Bhopal that Siddiq Hasan Khan met with the ulema from across Asia, and it was here that his exclusivist scripturalist stance acquired a trans-­Asiatic inclusivity. At the court of Bhopal, he first met the ulema from Yemen and read under their supervision the works of Ibn Taimiyyah and Shawkani. These two 268

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famous scripturalist reformists of the Arab world advocated the application of individual interpretation and reason to the scriptures. Very much like Shahwaliulla, they too encouraged Muslim unity based not on a singular meaning of the scriptures. Rather, they advocated an inclusivity based on individual judgment on matters of law and theology. In 1869, en route to Mecca on his first pilgrimage, Siddiq Hasan read more of their literature in Hudaydah, the port city of Yemen, and in Mecca. He made friends and intellectual contacts in Yemen who linked the region to Bhopal in important ways. Thus, for instance, one of the region’s most prolific scholars, Sheikh Zayn al Abidin, visited him later in Bhopal and became the qadi of Bhopal. His friendship with other Yemeni scholars, such as Husain ibn Muhsin, also proved long-­lasting.4 On his return to Bhopal he was a changed man. No more an emulator or muqallid, he started writing books against taqlid (emulation) and the followers of Abu Hanifah. He followed with certain reservations the intellectual legacy of Arabicists like Ibn Taimiyyah, Shakani, and Abd-­al Wahab and Indic monists like Shahwaliulla and Sayyid Ahmad Shahid. Like them he highlighted the salience of ijtihad and its application to the Koran and Sunnah for guidance. He critiqued taqlid and biddat.5 The emphasis on scriptures and ijtihad constituted an intellectual reformist current that connected modernist ulema and reformist bureaucrats of the middle-­eastern and North African provinces of the Ottoman Empire to similarly oriented scholars in India. Indeed, Indian reformists were being hounded by the British administration in India at a time when their Istanbul peers, out of favor with Sultan Abd-­al Hamid II, were finding it tough to survive intellectually in the Arab provinces of Syria, Lebanon, and Egypt. They were being hounded by the administration for their alleged role in the 1857 mutiny-­rebellion. Many of them, as we saw in Chapters 3 and 4, were located in the Hijaz and Istanbul, from where they contributed to the intellectual energy of the Arab and African Ottoman provinces and reached out as far east as Acheh in northern Sumatra. Through their books and students they created viable trans-­Asiatic networks. Siddiq Hasan Khan became a particularly influential spoke in this trans-­Asiatic web when in 1871 he married Shah Jahan Begum, the 269

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ruler of Bhopal, and became the nawab consort. He had by now a handsome jagir worth Rs. 75,000 a year, the title of Mu’tamad al Mahaman, a free press, and an efficient team of ulema of the royal court of Bhopal. More important, he had the title of nawab with all the privileges that it entailed duly conferred on him at a specially held durbar in 1872. He used all these to his advantage and wrote some eighty books on his reformist ideas simultaneously in Arabic, Persian, and Urdu. The books were published in India, Istanbul, and Egypt.6 Their publication in multiple languages indicated that he had in mind his trans-­Asiatic audience. The thrust of most of his literature was on consultation, self-­ judgment, reason, and rationality. These were to replace ijma (consensus) and qiyas (analogy), which were very critical to the legal schools of jurisprudence, especially to that of the Hanafites. The Hanafites accused him of causing dissension within the community because of his different stance. Maulana Abd-al Hayey Lakhnawi, a prolific scholar of the Hanafi school, was his worst critic. A lively dialogue went on between them, with Maulana Hayey criticizing the nawab in various magazines and journals and in a book called Ibraz al Ghayy. The nawab responded in a book called Shifa’ al-­Ayy an-­ma Awradahu al Shaykh Abd al Hayy.7 In fact, he challenged the intellectual prowess of Abu Hanifa and questioned his knowledge of Arabic. He also questioned the Hanafite belief that Abu Hanifa had ever met or narrated any Hadith on the authority of the Prophet’s four companions. If the nawab provoked the Hanafites and other schools of jurisprudence, he also incurred the wrath of the British, who saw his literature as “seditious,” anti-­British, and having the potential to stir pan-­Islamic sentiments against their rule. In fact, this became one of the reasons why he was deposed by the British in 1885.8 The nawab’s critics concentrated their attacks on five specific books: Maw’izah Hasanah, Hidayat al Sail, Girbal, Iqtirab al Sa’ah, and Tarjuman-­i-Wahabiyah. They argued that the nawab incited people to jihad against British rule. In contrast, his defenders argued that the charges were untrue because quite apart from the fact that the nawab never had such anticolonial sentiments, these books were really the translations and abridgements of the works of other 270

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scholars, and therefore even if they contained objectionable parts they were not necessarily the views of the nawab.9

Siddiq Hasan Khan’s Literature and the Imperial Moment What was the nawab’s literature all about? He negotiated the ­scriptures with human judgment (ijtihad), reason, and rationality to forge a progressive social body—​a civilizational frame that would function as a formidable force alongside the Western global imperium. He shared this idea with the Salafi scripturalist reformers and Ottoman reformist bureaucrats in Syria, Lebanon, and North Africa. The territorial confines of India and its many exclusive intellectual and administrative markers, were they of schools of jurisprudence or colonial rule, stifled him. He wished to work beyond their confines. He was successful in breaking out of British India and connecting to the Ottoman world via his scholarly books because he used to his advantage the “imperial moment” of the postmutiny decades (1860– 1880), which has been called the period of “secondary revolts.”10 In this period, both the British and the Ottoman Empires showed exceptional concern for the Muslim subject, even if for different rea­­ sons.11 The late nineteenth-­century “imperial moment” was marked by Britain’s aggressive imperialism: during this time, Britain conquered new lands and laid out new consular, transport, print, and communication networks, which linked it to the Ottoman world. But these connections, especially after the Russo-­Turkish war (1876), aimed at pushing the Ottomans out of the European global club—​a place they had occupied since the time of the Crimean War (1856). It produced the Gladstonian-­style racial and religious profiling of Muslims and a clampdown on men of religion, especially after the 1857 mutiny-­rebellion in India. British imperialism was matched by a similarly zealous modernization of roads and railways and by the print and communication revolution in the Ottoman Empire. There were other parallels as well. The 1860s revolt in the Balkans threatened Istanbul as much as 1857 had challenged the British in India. But the two empires had 271

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mismatched political and economic trajectories. Istanbul in the late 1870s was going through its worst political and financial crisis. This was reflected in the loss of territory to Britain, Russia, and France, as well as in opposition to the tanzimat reforms. Also noteworthy was the constitutionalist and Islamic modernist reform in its Arab provinces. In response, the beleaguered empire piloted the idea of Islamic solidarity based not only on traditional religious and ethnic principles but on tanzimat-­inspired notions of equity, justice, the rule of law, and constitutional ideas of protecting minority rights. This kind of Islamic solidarity or pan-­Islam marked the modernization and centralization efforts of Sultan Abd-­al Hamid II, who also nurtured aspirations for global leadership of the Muslim world.12 Thus the late nineteenth-­century “imperial moment” made Mus­ ­lim subjects critical to both empires—​albeit for different reasons. In the Hamidian era, the Ottoman Empire offered a welcome umbrella to Muslims globally. It offered a readymade ground across which men like Siddiq Hasan could move and connect to the modernist reformist ferment in the Ottoman world. These men used both imperial print and telegraph networks, as well as older communication networks, and invoked the Islamic tradition of consensus to unite Muslims against an ascendant Europe. As they straddled empires they crafted a literary sphere that was conceptualized in civilizational terms. This manifested itself as standardized Muslim virtuous conduct. This was a form of cosmopolitanism that they hoped would override territory and unite Muslims across empires. Nawab Siddiq Hasan fashioned his own “international relations” using his distinct Arabic learning and the gentlemanly status that emanated from it. He looked for trans-­Asian connectors flaunting this special status. His persona appealed to and his politics corresponded with the foreign relations agendas of the Ottoman Sultan, Abd-­al Hamid II, who was eager to represent himself globally as a Muslim protector: the caliph. And thus even if his Arabic-­oriented education brought him onto the British official radar, he managed to cash this demerit card at imperial crossroads, where he was able to exploit transimperial rivalries. Siddiq Hasan moved one step ahead of the English-­educated Muslim intellectuals, like Sir Sayyid 272

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Ahmad Khan, and those of the Buddhist and Hindu traditions who depended on British imperial networks alone to connect to the world outside. Instead, he used these as well as the webs of influence spread out by Ottoman Turkey. He had access to the Ottoman imperial networks because he flaunted his traditional learning and the difficulties that his intellectual pedigree created for him in British India. He thus exploited imperial fault lines and laid out a vast network of men and literature that upheld the scripturally sanctioned idea of Muslim unity as a distinct civilizational force. Siddiq Hasan played on internal fissures within these empires and their important fault lines outside to exploit their competing print cultures. He reworked his repertoire of older knowledge and defended it using the referents of “modern” empires: print technology and individual accountability. Indeed, Siddiq Hasan Khan’s cosmopolitanism was deeply dependent on the networks of imperial assemblages that stretched across the Hijaz, Turkey, North Africa, and India. Indeed, this wider imperial constellation constituted the bedrock of the vast literary ecumene he had laid out between empires. His public sphere of books and journals could never be successfully extinguished by the British government because it had roots in the connected worlds of imperial rivals in the age of globalization. Very much like the Indo-­Muslim gentlemen, he wrote simultaneously in Arabic, Persian, and Urdu and aimed at a trans-­Asiatic audience to forge a new kind of unity in the umma.13 It is ironical that one of his texts, the Tarjuman-­i-Wahabiyah, which was labeled as “seditious” by the British administration, offered the best explanation of his trans-­Asiatic forays and his disinterest in narrow anticolonialism. The Tarjuman-­i-Wahabiyah is often cited as a text in which Siddiq Hasan Khan defended himself against the charge of being a Wahabi. It is used by Barbara Metcalf and others to show the India-­centric credentials of Khan and his denial of any genealogical link to the Wahabis of Nejd. But Siddiq Hasan Khan objected to the term “Wahabi” being used against him not only because of its anti-­British connotations and political implications, but because he found it too rooted in geography and space. This was the kind of territorialization and confinement that he did not wish to be stifled by. 273

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The book opens with his discussion on the Nejd Wahabis. Siddiq Hasan critiques the idea that the Wahabis had stamped Islamic universalism with territorial localism and pulled it back to the constraints of geographical space and rigid norms. He was not against these norms per se. But he resented the territorial marker on them. Indeed, in the book he refers to the discomfort of the Prophet himself with any kind of hard territorialization of Islam. He cites the Hadith of Ibn Umar and describes an occasion when Prophet Muhammad was giving his blessings to Yemen and Shaam (Syria) and someone said that he should pray for Nejd also. The Prophet initially kept quiet. But when the request was repeated thrice he expressed his disapproval of the Nejdi way of localizing Islam. He refused to bless Nejd because, according to him, “This [would] only create strife and raise unnecessary issue[s] and [would] offer an ideal playing field for the Satan [to create strife in the Muslim world].14 Siddiq Hasan’s text is critical of those who believe in pir and fakir worship and who mislead people by labeling those who believed in One God or tauhid as Wahabi or as the follower of Abd-­al Wahab of Nejd. His critique largely drew from the fact that being called Wahabi connoted a kind of territorial closure. This was in stark contrast to his effort to create an embracive transimperial ecumene for Muslims that would unite them globally. In the late nineteenth century, Asiatic empires were so politically entangled in rivalries and so mutually fearful and anxious of each other that they offered interesting geographical and cultural spaces over which trans-­Asian connections could be grafted and a vast public sphere created. As Siddiq Hasan observes, Those who worship one God object to being called wahabis in the Abd al Wahab kind of way not only because of his belonging to a different nation and all its politic, but because they consider God as the ruler and protector of the whole world and this [universalist] stance is blunted if they are said to be followers of a territorially rooted Abd al Wahab. Main kahta hoon kee iss baat ko jaanei do kee yeah doosre mulk kee baat hai Hindustan kee naheen. Kalam ismei hai kee yeah firqah jo ek khuda ko manta hai aur sarare jahan ka hakim 274

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aur malik hai usko wahabi kehna aur Muhammad bin Abdul Wahab kee tarraf iss firqah ko mansub karna mahaz ghalat hai aur jhooth hai.15 In the book, he critiques the term “Wahabi” on account of its narrow, localized connotation and its fixity in the confines of geographical space. He notes its inability to offer any useful universalist grid with which to unite Muslims. Indeed, in different parts of India the word had localized connotations. He points out that in the Deccan anyone against intoxication is a Wahabi; in Bombay anyone who takes the name of Sheikh Qadir is a Wahabi; in Awadh a Wahabi is one who does not adhere to or follow any of the new forms of religion; in Delhi those who raise objections to grave worship are Wahabi; in Badayun those who do not follow the dictats of grave keepers are Wahabi. But in Mecca a Wahabi is one who follows the people of Nejd (ahl-­i-­Nejd).16 He concludes that the term does not only connote an anti-­British sentiment. Instead, it has varied localized connotations and origins. He strongly himself objected to be called a Wahabi since he found unappealing the various geographical constraints imposed by that label. Siddiq Hasan looked for connectors with which to unite Muslims across the imperial assemblages of his time and arrived at an interesting interpretation of the Adam-­centric creation of a multiracial world. In his book, he argues that Adam was created from mud of different colors and varieties that was picked up from different places. This phenomenon explains the multiracial nature of mankind that owed its origins to him ( jaisee mitee thee vaisee rangat aayee).17 Siddiq Hasan viewed Adam as the universal reference point—​a connector—​ via which one could reach out to people located in varied geographical spaces. This became a continuous refrain in his work, one that he invoked to connect to Muslims outside British India. Indeed, Adam becomes the means—​t he conduit—​by which to move across imperial assemblages spread out in uniquely situated geographical and political spaces: the British territories, the Ottoman world, the Arab provinces, and the Russian imperial spaces. Adam thus occupies a key position in Siddiq Hasan’s metanarrative on the Muslims in India. Siddiq Hasan located Muslims in the 275

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wider fold of world history rather than trace their histories simplistically to the Prophet. This made him stand out from other reformists who began their story of Indian Muslims with the Prophet. Siddiq Hasan’s narrative begins with Adam and moves through different imperial assemblages: the classical caliphates, the Mongol Empire, the Turkish sultanates, the Mughal Empire, and the British Empire. Siddiq Hasan claims that of this assemblage British rule was the best because it offered “peace, comfort and freedom . . . ​to people of all religions. Hindus and Muslims to practice and live their religion as they wanted” (aman aur asaaish aur azaadi hukumat­i-­angrezi mein tamam khalaq ko naseeb hui, kisee hukumat mein naa thee).18 The Tarjuman also quotes extracts from one of Siddiq Hasan’s other books called “seditious” by the British: the Hidayat al Saa’il Ila Adillatil Masaa’il. This book is in the genre of fatwa or Islamic diktat collections. In it, Siddiq Hasan explains that it is in the question-­ and-­answer format, providing responses to queries on Islamic prescriptive norms on prayers, fasting, and so forth. These questions had been addressed to him, and he had been asked to provide appropriate answers. Most of the questions are on the issue of heresy (biddat), emulation (taqlid), and interpretation (ijtihad) in the tradition.19 In reply to a question inquiring about Muhammad Abdul Wahab Nejdi and his beliefs and seeking clarification on his Sunni credentials, Siddiq Hasan explains that the Sunnis of Hindustan are different from Nejdis as they adhere to very different legal schools. He notes that the latter are followers of Imam Hambal and therefore Hambalis, whereas in Hindustan it is the Hanafi school that prevails. Significantly, he also excludes Nejdis from the Hindustani Sunnis because they do not fit into the imperial assemblage that sustains his embracive cosmopolitanism. This scripture-­centric world­ ­v iew was the trans-­Asian glue with which Siddiq Hasan aimed to unite the umma. He summarizes this outlook in the Tarjuman: “In India ever since Islam has come its subjects followed the religion of their King—​and thus followed the Hanafi schools.” According to him, “alim, fazil and qazis all came from the Hanafi school.” Together, they compiled the Fatawa-­i-­Alamgiri. Shahwaliulla and his grandson Ismael Dehlawi fine-­t uned the Hanafi sect and purged 276

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it of unnecessary rituals. They tailored it tightly around the Koran and the Hadith.20 The Fatawa-­i-­Alamgiri was compiled by the Mughal emperor Aurangzeb and later codified by the British. By invoking the Mughal emperor and the compilation of the Fatawa via British patronage, Siddiq Hasan located the making of the Indian brand of Hanafi jurisprudence in very different sets of imperial frames. (Indeed, it is within these imperial frames that his cosmopolitanism, as a scripture-­driven Muslim form of conduct, would move in the years ahead.) He further explains that important clerics of the Hanafite orientation have a wide vision that cannot be stifled and contained by adherence to a leader like Muhammad Abd-­al Wahab, who was territorially rooted and outside the more organic imperial grid.21 And yet his response to another set of questions in the Hidayat on the religious sanctity of Muslims living under British “rule of law and justice” are revealing, as he did not see the Shariat as integral to the political and legal culture of British India. He draws a clear distinction between the two. These passages, earmarked by Sayyad Muhammad Rashid, the assistant district superintendent of police in Delhi, clearly reveal the separation in his mind between the two separate legal imperia: the Islamic and British. In reply to a question on Muslim subjects being “satisfied with their infidel rulers,” he responds, “Such Muslims are faithless. And in case they call the infidel rulers just and lovers of justice they are heretic and guilty of great sin.”22 He cites extracts from another book he authored, entitled Mawaidul Awaid min Deunal Akhbar wal Fawaid. This was a collection of the sayings of the Prophet. Here, he declares jihad, in the way it was used against the British government in 1857, as un-­Islamic and refers to it as merely fitna (strife). Very much like the Indo-­ Persianate gentry of his time and reminiscent of the Delhi poets Ghalib and Azurdah’s condemnation of what went on in the name of jihad, he too calls the 1857 jihadis “rioters and plunderers,” and their jihad a “riot of the fools” (bewaquf aur jahil kaa jihad). In this book, he offers tenets from the Hadith that discount jihad as a requirement for the good Muslim. And he lays out the qualifications of people who are certified in accordance with the precepts of Islam to 277

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declare jihad. Siddiq Hasan maintains that none of these conditions were followed in 1857, and therefore it was a mere riot—​which he clearly disapproved of. Siddiq Hasan wrote the Tarjuman to defend his position vis-­à-­v is the charges of sedition leveled against him by the British administration. His defense was interesting as it disapproves of nonimperial constellations, localizations, and territorial frames. Instead, it approves of assemblages that could be used to connect to the world between and across empires. And of course the British Empire, with its vast infrastructural sinews, was one that was viewed by Siddiq Hasan as a particularly useful conduit to this world. It is noteworthy that he devotes a whole chapter in his Tarjuman to caution Indian princes and nawabs not to break their agreements and treaties with the British. He invokes the Hadith to argue that God and the Prophet desire that treaties and agreements should not be violated on flimsy grounds for the sake of preserving peace.23 He was even prepared to intervene in the colony of Muslim “jihadis” on the northwest frontier, and conveyed to them that their taking of arms against the British was un-­Islamic. He was disappointed when his request to the lieutenant governor of Punjab to send his messages across to Hazara was ignored.24 He argued that the British Empire, for all its faults, should be allowed to function. And he was not the only one of his peer group who was aware of the huge potential that lay in the British infrastructural sinews. Jafer Thanesri, his colleague confined in the Andaman penal colony, also used this British imperial grid to reach out to the world in his own specific ways. Late nineteenth-­century India was going through a phase of “individuation of religion.” Francis Robinson and others have argued that it was left to the individual to make judgments about legal and scriptural matters.25 But for people like Siddiq Hasan Khan and his contemporaries Maulana Rahmatullah Kairanwi and Imdadullah Makki, who had global aspirations, the scriptures were not just for individual reform and purification but for knitting together a more embracive umma. They used the scriptures to legitimate the idea of unifying the umma across the late nineteenth-­century assemblages. The most prominent dissensions in global Muslim society were around the issue of legal schools of jurisprudence. It was not surprising that the 278

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thrust of much of Siddiq Hasan’s commentaries on jurisprudence was to highlight their points of consensus and agreement and to legitimate these points via the scriptures. In 1868, Siddiq Hasan wrote an important book called Alikhtawa ala Maslaul Istawa (Existence of God on Heaven) that was published in Lucknow. In this book, he highlights the basic points of agreements between the four legal schools of Muslim thought: Hanafi, Maliki, Shafi, and Hambali.26 He argues that these schools differ from each other on more than three hundred issues. But there are also some issues based on Tradition (Hadith or the sayings of the Prophet) on which they come together so much so as to form a unique consensual religion called Muhadiseen. And thus he decided to write the Alikhtawa as a book of the Muhadiseen. It relies on the Hadith to highlight the consensual points between the four legal schools of thought.27 Siddiq Hasan meant to work out the Alikhtawa as a text that would forge global unity across the varied empires through its advocacy of a consensual form of Muslim conduct based on the scriptures. He wrote the book in 1867 in Arabic with a global audience in mind. It was titled Intiqad Fi Sherhal Etiqad. The following year it was translated into Urdu as the Alikhtawa. Its opening chapter describes in detail the Koranic verses that establish the singularity of God in heaven (wahdaniyat). The second chapter moves to the Hadith texts and analyzes sections from it that again talk about the same idea of one God and his abode in heaven. Subsequent chapters confirm the same idea via the teachings of learned people, many of whom formed the legal schools of jurisprudence: Imam Abu Hanifa, Imam Ma’lik, Imam Sha’fai, Imam Ahmad, Abul Hasan Ashari, Imam Ali Bin Mehdi, and Hafiz Abu Baker. After establishing a consensus among all these teachings on this first idea of wahdaniyat, he shifts the discussion to the supremacy of the one singular God over all his creation. Once again, he legitimates it based on the scriptures and the sayings of the Islamic legists. Siddiq Hasan uses these points of unanimity legitimated by the Koran, the Hadith, the Prophet’s companions, and qayas (supposition)—​despite their many differences—​to bring the umma together. The book details these points of agreement and uses them as referents of Muslim unity. He concludes by 279

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commenting that he wants young boys and girls to read the book so that they can become active in the forging of this unified umma.28 If scriptures formed the template for building unanimity among warring schools of jurisprudence, they performed no less a role in forg­ ­ing the universal norms of bodily deportment and discipline and notions of morality. And these prescriptions for bodily deportment and morality constituted the cosmopolitanism of Siddiq Hasan. This cosmopolitanism was scripture based and transcultural as it united Muslims across the empires. He published from his own printing press in Bhopal a series of texts on akhlaq (morality and body discipline and deportment). The subjects of these texts ranged from universal prescriptions on hygiene, well-­being, rituals about performing prayers (namaz), pilgrimage, marriage, and relations between men and women.

Fathul Mughees ba Fiqhul Hadith Siddiq Hasan wrote another book in 1881 called the Fathul Mughees ba Fiqhul Hadith (Seeking Blessings in the Light of Hadith) on bodily comportment. He published this book using his own private press in Bhopal. As with many of his other books that were written both for a global audience as well as for readers in Hindustan, this too was originally written in Arabic and simultaneously translated into Urdu. He uses the Hadith (Tradition) to lay out his prescriptive norms on proper religious conduct, matters of purity and pollution, dietary regimes, hygiene, and well-­being. He argues that these norms not only connected Muslims across cultures and geographical spaces but also earned them the blessings of God. He quotes different Hadith to lay out norms on purity and pollution called najasat, the purgatory called qaza-­i-­hajat, the social regime for the menstrual cycle, and the ablution regime for prayers, and the correct way to drink water and to bathe.29 These bodily deportment prescriptions are followed by details about prayer rituals, both private and public—​such as the Friday prayer, the Eid prayers, and the prayer for the dead (the namaz-­i-­janaza).30 Finally, the book establishes a strict prescriptive regime for customs like the payment of 280

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zakat (charity), healing directives, divorce norms, interest on loans, and much more.31 Significantly, the section on bodily deportment and discipline also includes loyalty to the king (Itait-­i-­Badshah) as part of its recommended universalist social regime.32 This underlined once more that men like Siddiq Hasan were embedded in the imperial ethos and moved across imperial assemblages. They used various imperial assets like the printing press and communication networks to forge transimperial Muslim connections. A few years later, in 1883, Siddiq Hasan published another text, called Terazul Khumrat min Fazail ul Hajwal Umra (Benefits of Haj and Umra).This seventy-­t wo-­page book was originally written in Persian and simultaneously translated into Urdu. He again used the Hadith to highlight the salience of the haj and umra (pilgrimage to Mecca and Medina during the time when the annual haj is not being performed) in the life of Muslims. He quoted from the Hadith extensively to detail bodily deportment (attire, method of circumambulations, and social hygiene) that was to be observed in the sacred space of the pilgrimage.33 Establishing universally acceptable standards for dress (unstitched cloth), bodily deportment, and discipline, along with the norms for circumambulations and prayers, helped him to lay out unifiers, despite all the dissensions within Muslim society. Siddiq Hasan was happy to circulate this type of prescriptive literature both within as well as beyond Hindustan so as to reach out and establish the unity of umma. One of Siddiq Hasan’s most interesting books, in terms of prescriptive deportment literature with transimperial appeal, deals with the relationship between men and women. This 164-­page text, entitled Salaho Zatealben ba bayan Malezaujen (Discussion regarding Relationship between Spouses) delineates a universal code for spousal relationships that is derived from the scriptures—​t he Koran and the Hadith. Siddiq Hasan cites a range of Koranic tenets and Prophetic traditions to legitimate his strictures on how men should relate to women and vice versa. He quotes the prophet Ibn Saud, who said that it was lethal to gaze at women.34 Like Ibn Saud, Siddiq Hasan also denounces the practice of social intermingling between sexes and meeting women in seclusion.35 He upholds the prophet’s definition of “good and virtuous” and “bad and evil” women and Ibn 281

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Saud’s importance to the man who was lucky enough to attain a good woman. Siddiq Hasan cites him as having said, “Blessed is a man who should get a woman, house and conveyance and doomed is one who gets an evil woman and a bad dwelling or a combination of these.” He quotes Ibn Saud again to describe a good woman, whom he saw as one who was peace loving, brought good blessings of God, and had pleasant mannerisms and looks. He describes a woman of bad character to be just the opposite: unpleasant, arrogant, and untrustworthy.36 Siddiq Hasan wants these definitions to be used as universal referents across cultural and geographical space. Siddiq Haasan arrives at universal referents for the definition of the “best” woman by invoking a certain tradition of the Prophet. He cites the Prophet’s companion Abu Harira, whose views impacted him in no small measure: “[The] Prophet has said women on camel back and those of Qureish clan are the better ones.” Hasan clearly lays out his preference for women of the Prophet’s very own Qureish clan. He represents Qureish women as the ideal type of spouse, along with those who, according to the scriptures, “are on camel back, kind to children and take care of their husbands and property.”37 In the book, Siddiq Hasan cites numerous Hadith texts to legitimate his universalist civil code of conduct code, in this case as it framed issues of marriage, divorce, alimony, and inheritance. He invokes the Shariat to break the localized customs and rituals Muslims observed in these matters. He wished to formulate a code of conduct that would be implemented across the imperial assemblage. Thus, for instance, in a chapter devoted to questions of alimony, he relies on the scriptures to state that if men decide in their heart not to pay alimony despite having agreed to it on paper they will be sinners and categorized as rapists (zani).38 In another chapter, he safeguards men from getting roped into the payment of alimony higher than they can afford.39 Subsequent chapters cite the scriptures generously and detail prescriptions for marriage and related rituals like feasting and celebration. They also explain the significance and importance of marriage. Thus, for instance, in a chapter entitled “Bayan mein Walima ke” (Description of Wedding Feast), he cites the scriptures to argue that it should be modest and not compulsory for all to attend.40 282

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In another chapter, entitled “Haq-­i-­Zauja” (Rights of a Wife), he cites numerous Prophetic traditions that declare that men have rights over their wives; these rights are primarily related to matters of maintenance and good conduct.41 In a separate chapter that details such rights, he declares that a wife may not deny sexual relations with her husband at any point in time.42 Other chapters detail his diktat to men on the importance of providing financial maintenance for their wife and children.43 He offers support for each such prescription by referring to the scriptures, and expresses hope that local customs regarding maintenance will be discontinued. Similarly, he devotes several chapters to etiquette and education of children (tahzeeb aur talim aulad kee). Once again giving scriptural sanctity to his transcultural dictums, he notes that the Prophet said that “the man who brings up his children in good etiquette or adab and education will go to heaven.44

Siddiq Hasan and the Imperial Assemblage Ulrike Stark has argued that the imperial assemblages of the nineteenth century were also empires of print.45 Middlemen like Siddiq Hasan exploited not just the “international relations” of empires, but tapped also into the print cultures of rival powers to fashion their own self-­driven cosmopolitanism. Muslim cosmopolitanism benefited as the books and periodicals Muslims produced from printing presses across diverse imperial cities circulated across the assemblages. This literature fed into the empires’ existing fears, phobias, and foreign policy concerns. Muslim cosmopolitans could bloom if their agendas corresponded with the imperial mood of the host city. Many reformers used internal fault lines of empires for personal aggrandizement. They tapped into the tensions between the core and the periphery that riveted both the British and the Ottoman Empires. And thus a print ecumene emerged that was driven by individuals, embedded in both inter-­and intraimperial fault lines, and sustained via the deft handling of the international relations of empires. Siddiq Hasan played on imperial fissures between empires and exploited the print cultures of rivals to create a vast literary ecumene. 283

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At the same time, he tapped into the northwest frontier politics within the British Empire as well. Within India he hooked onto the movement of Muslim men of religion from the settled plains of Bengal to the northwest frontier.46 The frontier with Afghanistan always remained a trouble zone for the British government. At one level, the government encouraged tribal polities, even at the risk of fanning Islamic revivalism, to create a buffer zone against Russia. But at the same time there was always a fear of the frontier’s potential to destabilize British power.47 Siddiq Hasan used this imperial tension to his advantage. The deputy commissioner of police in Calcutta, one Mr. Lambert, prepared a memorandum on the circulation of Siddiq Hasan’s literature. He saw a clear link between the author of this literature and Muslim reformists whom he called “Wahabi.” He followed the official view of seeing reformist émigrés as “fanatic Wahabis” who were charged with the spirit of jihad—​or with conducting an anti-­British war from the frontier. He had followed the “fanatics” ever since the “jihad” of Sayyid Ahmad Shahid at the frontier that involved religious men from Awadh, Bihar, and Bengal. He was convinced that the “Wahabis” were the conduit for the wide circulation of the nawab’s literature and that their contributions kept the nawab’s public ecumene energized. According to Lambert, the headquarters of the “Wahabis” in Calcutta was the house of Maulvi Abdul Rahim in Dhobiparra. Abdul Rahim was formerly a regimental munshi in the First Bengal Cavalry. Along with his colleagues Abdulla of Sealdah, Hyder Ali and Ataulla of Misregunje, and Muhammad Ahsan of His Excellency’s bodyguard, he had distributed the nawab’s book in the region. The agent of the nawab was a man called Sheikh Ahmad—​a native of Surat—​who had returned to Calcutta after a long stint in Mecca. He distributed the books in India via a string of contacts: in Benares, through a maulvi of Delhi; in Dinapur, through Maulvi Ibrahim; in Arrah and Patna, through Maulvi Badi-­ul-­ Juman; in Nuddea, through Haji Abdul Rashid; in Rangoon, through Ismael, a Wahabi of Surat; and in Dacca, through Abdul Rashid, a hide merchant.48 Lambert collected his information on Siddiq Hasan and his network with the assistance of the police inspector of Calcutta, Azizuddin. 284

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He argued that the nawab’s literature percolated not only in different geographical spaces within and outside India but also in government institutions like the army. And this was because the army was not impervious to “Wahabi” intrusion. Indeed, Siddiq Hasan’s literature had resulted in a lot of Muslim conversions to “Wahabism” in the military. Azizuddin discovered that Maulvi Abdul Rahim—​ the head of the Calcutta “Wahabis”—​was formerly a regimental munshi in the First Bengal Cavalry. He served the army for some time in the Punjab and was removed on account of his seditious character. After his military appointment ended, he became a “Wahabi” preacher and traveled to Swat and Sittana on the frontier. He finally married a woman in Dhobiparra and settled there. It is interesting that in Dhobiparra he preached from the nawab’s texts and indoctrinated a range of people, including not just maulvis but ordinary folks like tailors and washermen, into this new form of reformist ideology. Of course, the literature talked more about the idea of unity using the scriptures as its template. But Lambert was most bothered by the many references to jihad.49 The nawab was proud of his traditional learning and the gentlemanly status that it gave him. He used his gentleman card to straddle British networks at home and imperial crossroads abroad. The regal persona helped him justify his writings and movements. The British always described Siddiq Hasan as a fanatic but also “something of a scholar” who could “read Arabic.”50 He was also known to fund religious education of a certain kind. He sent monthly contributions to “Wahabi” schools in Ghazipur in eastern Awadh.51 Indeed, his propensity to fund religious education and to publish and disseminate his books widely alarmed the British. They were worried about his Arabic compilations that appeared in the bazaars of Calcutta. Even if it was widely believed in official circles that most people did not read Arabic in India, the fact that the nawab penned such literature and circulated it was a cause of grave concern. As Sir H. Dayly, the agent to the governor general in central India, put it, “There is always a mulla here and there to turn such publications into the vernacular for the benefit of the people at prayer time.”52 Siddiq Hasan’s literature moved with ease along the networks of émigré men of religion also because this power engine was oiled 285

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with merchant money. His agents were clearly supported and sustained by Muslim merchants from India. They did not rely on money received from the nawab for their services. In 1886, one Maulvi Abdulla, alias Abdul “Rhyman” (Rahman), traveled across Dacca, Calcutta, and Madras, carrying with him the nawab’s literature. He was supported by both his family and merchants, and he used the merchant contacts of his father, Maulvi Sheikh Ibrahim, to disseminate the nawab’s books. Sheikh Ibrahim had settled in Madras after his deportation from Mecca. He lived and preached at the big mosque in Triplicance in a house that belonged to the merchant Muhammad Pasha. He worked as his translator. The commissioner of police in Madras reported that Maulvi Sheikh Ibrahim had received a parcel of books “wrapped in cloth” prior to Abdulla’s travels.53 Ibrahim had friends in “respectable” circles of the Dacca nawabi and uncles who worked with the Deldwar zamindars. A hide merchant of Dacca, Haji Rashid, had dispatched a parcel to Ibrahim’s address in Madras.54 This was the same merchant who had hosted Abdulla in Dacca.55 The nawab’s book agent, Maulvi Abdulla, was clearly using his father’s useful contacts because at Madras he had stayed with Muhammad Pasha, the merchant employer of his father.56 Reports from the Punjab Police Department also confirmed the nexus between the nawab’s book dissemination and the merchant networks. In 1885, D. McCracken of the Punjab police was shocked to discover eight hundred copies of the nawab’s Persian book Hidayat al Saa’il in the possession of Fakirulla, a bookseller of Lahore.57 Published ten years earlier in Bhopal, this book was viewed by the British as the most seditious of Siddiq Hasan’s writings because of its supposed exhortations to jihad. Siddiq Hasan put up a spirited self-­defense even as the British officers debated how to penalize him and withdraw the book from circulation. He said he had had only three hundred copies printed and that none were sent or sold out of Bhopal. Irrespective of the truth of this statement, the fact remained that books had traveled outside Bhopal via existing commercial networks. And thus commercial profit and not just ideological commitments had powered their distribution and sale. However, the material and the intellectual concerns were not always separate. They often 286

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operated in mutually beneficial ways. Thus the bookseller Fakirulla smuggled out a huge consignment of the book the Hidayat al Saa’il to Batala when the British cracked down on Siddiq Hasan’s publishing efforts. Fakirulla’s brother, Abdul Rashid, transported the package, which weighed “one maund.”58 The books were sent to one Maulvi Muhammad Kamaruddin of Batala via the nawab’s “Wahabi” agent at Lahore, Maulvi Muhammad Husain.59 Merchants and bankers assisted Siddiq Hasan in other ways as well. Lepel Griffin pointed out to the vast amounts of Bhopal state money that Hasan used to finance his printing and other operations and to pay for his legal defense. His agents were known to have brought hundis for as much as Rs. 1 million from his private bankers—​t he Goculdas firm in Jabalpur. These were to be cashed at the kothis (headquarters) of bankers Sewa Ram, Khushalchand, and Gopaldass Motiram in Burra Bazar, Calcutta. Griffin was incensed that Bhopal state money was being used for “secret intrigue and corruption.” Griffin, in view of earlier reports of Siddiq Hasan’s attempts to bribe lower functionaries in the Foreign Office, wanted the government to issue a stern reprimand to the begum whose “foolish infatuation” with the nawab made all this possible.60 These commercial networks that sustained Hasan’s literary and other agendas alarmed the British, even after Hasan had been deprived of “all share in the government of the state in consequence of his having published a seditious book.”61 Ironically, it was British networks that sustained Siddiq Hasan’s book distribution. The imperial postal and telegraph departments became useful conduits that energized and expanded his burgeoning world of print. The easy availability of the postal network helped his network of agents. The Punjab police intelligence reports revealed that several mosques advertised his books after the Friday prayers and promised to organize quick postal delivery for them. In the Chinian mosque, Maulvi Muhammad Hussein of Lahore announced that Siddiq Hasan was making a “charitable distribution of his religious works.” He made it clear that the books would be forwarded to any address on receipt of remittance to cover postage.62 The introduction and expansion of print technology in India and the private presses that became available to local elites became the 287

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main engine that powered Siddiq Hasan’s literary ecumene. Print capitalism did not revolutionize society to create “imagined com­ munities.”63 But it did give opportunities to individuals to publicize their interpretations of Islamic tradition and disseminate it far and wide. Hasan’s books were printed in imperial and private printing presses in Bhopal. Books like the Fathul Mughees ba Fiqhul Hadith, discussed earlier in this chapter, were published by the imperial press, the Matba-­i-­Shahjahani, in Bhopal. All the copies of Hasan’s Girbal (History of Bhopal) were printed by the Bhopal imperial press under the management of Maulvi Badiuzzaman. Likewise, private presses that were owned by Hasan’s entrepreneur friends and agents were also involved in the production of his literature. Periodicals like Mauj-­i-­Nashadda that carried his religious and political views were printed in the press managed by his friend Maulvi Abdul Karim.64 Some of his agents had printing presses that were used to publish his writing in other cities of Hindustan as well. Lucknow was one such city that produced quite a lot of his books. The Matba Gulshane Awadh, a private printing press in Lucknow, published several of his books including Alikhtawa ala Maslaul Istawa. Ranzat-­ul-­Nadiya (The Fresh and Magnificent Garden) is a work on Wahabi jurisprudence written by Muhammad bin Ali bin Muhammad of Yemen that has a commentary by Siddiq Hasan. In 1873, soon after the nawab wrote the commentary, Muhammad Ali Baksh Khan of Lucknow published it at the Motbah-­i-­Alavi press in Lucknow.65 Two other books by Siddiq Hasan, the Tarjuman and the Terazul Khumrat Min Fazail ul Hah Wa Umaram, were produced at the Mufid-­i-­Aam press in Agra. Siddiq Hasan also wielded considerable influence in the newspaper and periodical world of north India. It was widely believed in British circles of Bhopal that he funded and supported a vibrant chain of “wahabi journals and newspapers” and that he attempted to bribe a great majority of Indian newspapers. Lepel Griffin reported that the proprietor of the Punjabi press at Lahore, Maulvi Muhammad Shamshuddin, had passed on to him two letters that he received for publication from Hasan. In both these letters he had critiqued the British government.66 The editor of the Fatiya-­i-­Hind of Meerut as well as the Pioneer also claimed that Hasan had offered a bribe to 288

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them in return for publishing select news reports on people under a cloud in Bhopal.67 A minister who had defected from the Bhopal state, Nawab Abdul Latif Khan, revealed that Hasan subsidized a large number of Urdu journals using funds from the Bhopal treasury. He paid vast amounts of money to people for writing articles in the press that praised him and his ideology and trashed his opponents: the Hanafites, Chris­ tians, and political rivals.68 Editors of some English-­language newspapers, like the Statesman, the Indian Mirror, the Mahomedan Observer, and Amrit Bazar Patrika, who were also paid money by the begum to write in favor of Siddiq Hasan, reported that of all of them, the largest amount of money was paid to Amir Ali, the editor of the Mahomedan Observer. He was given Rs. 20,000. The editor of the Urdu Guide of Calcutta also received Rs. 2,000. One of Hasan’s agents, Abdul Ali, was deputed to supply them with information.69 Khan concluded that despite Hasan’s favors to the newspaper editors, he did not necessarily receive preferential treatment. The Muslim society of Bhopal resented his imposition of the “Wahabi” ideology on their madrasas and mosques and his abandonment of the Muhammadan law and its Hanafite strand in favor of his single­minded monism. They loathed his brand of cosmopolitanism, which he justified in the name of unity of the umma. They also resented his desire to become amir-­al mominin—​commander of the faithful and leader of the Muslims of the world.70 And there were elements of the Urdu press that commented on his “misdeeds” and echoed the popular resentment against him. Many Urdu periodicals exhorted the government to take action against him.71 Colonel H. Wylie, the political agent at Bhopal, elaborated on Hasan’s unpopularity with the Hanafite segment of Bhopal society. Commenting on the mood of the city soon after Hasan’s death in 1890, Wylie noted, “There is no excitement in Bhopal about the death, and it will be viewed with satisfaction in the state generally.”72 Indeed, even when Hasan was critically ill, many Indian newspapers did not absolve him of all suspicions and misdeeds. They suspected him of being complicit in the murder of Mirza Fazl Beg, the diwan of the heir apparent, and one of her loyal supporters, by a “wahabi ruffian” called Alimuddin. One self-­styled “anti-­Wahabi” newspaper 289

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accused Hasan of the murder of Alimuddin when he died, and lambasted the Urdu press that had supported Hasan’s “mischief through­ ­out India as well as in Bhopal.” It praised Lepel Griffin and attacked Urdu press editors who had critiqued him in the past.73 To underline how much Hasan was disliked in the city, one article mentioned that even on his deathbed the only friend he could summon was an outsider from the city of Lucknow: Sheikh Asghar Ali, the well-­ known perfume dealer of Lucknow, was specially called to be at Hasan’s bedside as he had no one in the city who was close to him.74 And after Hasan’s death, T. L. Petre, the first assistant agent to the governor general for central India, proposed to overhaul his administration by purging it of all “Wahabi”-­oriented kazis and muftis and substituting them with Hanafite-­inclined ones. Petre argued that this was only appropriate given the fact that the city’s population was Sunni of the Hanafi juridical persuasion.75 As his books triggered official wrath and created discontentment in society, they became the subject of a wider political discussion, one that established the definition of a transimperial cosmopolitan author. Indeed, print technology and the print culture ensured that debates on Hasan’s writings moved beyond the confines of sectarian concerns on Islamic rituals and prescriptions to a broader political domain. Issues of subject loyalty, leadership, the individual, and the contours of the community itself began to be publicly discussed. In 1887, the Education Society’s press, in Byculla, Bombay, reprinted a fifty-­one-­page pamphlet in defense of Siddiq Hasan that had been originally published by the Ishat-­us-­Sunnah, described by the British administration as the “Mahomedan Journal of Lahore.”76 This pamphlet offered an appeal from the supporters of the nawab to Lord Dufferin (the viceroy) and Lepel Griffin that urged them to drop the charges of corruption, exhortations to jihad, and publication of seditious literature that had been slapped on the nawab. The pamphleteers attributed these charges to undue and out-­of-­context complaints about him leveled by the Hanafite Muslims. They wanted the government to understand, in particular, his publications in the “proper” context. The pamphlet moved away both from sectarian blame-­game politics as well as narrow anticolonial grievances to publicly debate and 290

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redefine the connect between the individual and community and the latter’s link with the world beyond the confines of British India. It redefined both subject loyalty and the community in embracive ways that combined older Islamicate forms of and approaches to writing with new imperially framed norms. The Islamicate core enabled the individual to reach out to the world outside while adherence to the new norms of individual accountability underpinned his loyal status. The pamphlet offered a definition of a cosmopolitan author by combining the norms of Islamicate literary styles with the repertoire of the “modern” empires. It represented Siddiq Hasan as the archetypal cosmopolitan who was both imperially embedded as well as marked by tradition—​a new kind of loyal subject. The pamphlet began by offering the clarification that it did not blame the government for its harsh treatment of Siddiq Hasan. Instead, it targeted his opponents within the community—​t he Hanafites. It regretted the “conduct of our own co-­religionists” who justified this harshness and “advised the authorities to go a step further . . . ​and ban the Nawab or transport him to Rangoon or some other island.”77 But as it began to refute the charges of his “seditious publications” and support of the mahdi, or spiritual leader, it left the Hanafite coreligionists and their hostility to him far behind. Instead, it drew attention to notions of the community, leadership, individual propriety, loyalty, trustworthiness, leadership, and veracity. It redefined all these concepts in reference to the norms of “modern” empires. And it located Hasan’s vast print ecumene—​which included his books and agents—​firmly within this imperial frame of sociality. It saw no contradiction between the two. And it concluded that Hasan adhered to all imperial norms of “public order” and of the print culture despite employing the approach of Islamic encyclopedic texts that paid little attention to referencing and borrowed freely without always acknowledging. The pamphlet underlined that Hasan had a dissemination network that spilled across and beyond British India. He was thus undoubtedly beyond suspicion. The pamphlet refuted the charge that Hasan supported the mahdi by raising doubts about the evidence that had been gathered from his agent Din Muhammad. It also raised doubts about the reliability of Din Muhammad and cast aspersions on his integrity by noting 291

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the number of cases against him in the Bhopal courts. It argued that his hostility toward Hasan stemmed from the latter’s refusal to support his dubious dealings.78 By so discrediting Din Muhammad, the pamphlet represented Hasan as participating in the British idea of “public order.” On the issue of seditious literature, the pamphlet absolved Hasan of any wrongdoing. It contrasted his approach to writing, borrowed from the Islamic style of writing encyclopedic texts, to the British notion of authorship, which was based on individual responsibility and accountability. The pamphleteers argued that in his books Hasan followed the premodern style of writing big-­canvas texts that freely borrowed from other authors, and that he had done so in order to carve out a gentlemanly status. They pointed out that this was different from the British style of authorship, in which the notion of individual accountability remained salient. According to them, it was unfair to judge the nawab by nineteenth-­century imperial norms. He had a strong case in his favor as he could not be held responsible for the opinions of those that he merely cited. The pamphlet urged that he be absolved of all wrongdoing. The pamphleteers maintained that the individual was less accountable in premodern times, when literature produced under one name unabashedly relied on the works of many others. Authors of premodern Islamic literature wrote encyclopedic texts that borrowed extensively from a range of sources without necessarily acknowledging them. The pamphlet argued that Hasan followed the premodern encyclopedic style of writing; the citations in his books were not his views. Rather, his books were a compendium of knowledge that he culled from other authors. He wrote these books, they claimed, to “show his universal knowledge of every doctrine without reference to its correctness or otherwise.”79 And thus as per the new “modern” norms of individual responsibility, he could not be blamed for views that were not his but merely citations of others. The pamphlet placed his books within the individual-­centric norms of the new print culture and absolved him of blame by making him unaccountable for the views he had merely catalogued. His Arabic book of sermons (khutbas), Dewan Khutab or Mizat-­i-­Hasna, printed in Egypt and later in India, was one of the books chosen by 292

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the pamphleteer to discuss his “traditional” style of writing and its location in the new individual “authorship” culture of British India. The pamphleteers argued that the khutba on jihad was not his view but a mere citation from Maulvi Muhammad Ismail, who had compiled most of the writings of the martyred mujahid Sayyid Ahmad Shahid of the Battle of Balakot fame. They defended Hasan by pointing out that “the Nawab according to an ancient custom collected the khutbas of the ulema, including that of Maulvi Ismail on jihad, and caused the collection to be printed in India” under his own name.80 They highlighted his “loyal subject” status by underlining the fact that when objections were raised about the contents of the book he quickly followed the rules of the new print culture and withdrew the book. Indeed, he destroyed all the copies of the book in India. And when the book was republished in Egypt, the khutba of Maulvi Ismael on jihad was withdrawn.81 Using similar logic, they refuted the charge that in his book Hidayat al Saa’il he declared India dar-­al harb (land of infidels) and that it thus warranted jihad. The pamphleteers stated, “It is not true that the Nawab is their author . . . ​but the passages in question are written by others, the Nawab having simply quoted them.”82 They showed that he had lifted passages from the Yemeni treatise the Banuian by Hussan-­bin-­Jalal. They contrasted Hasan’s “traditional” writing style with the imperially framed print world in which he operated. “The Nawab’s work,” they stated, “is not distinguished for research . . . ​he is in the habit of inserting everything in his works without any reference as to its truth, expediency or otherwise . . . ​ this is also apparent in the discussions of some religious and scientific issues.” They went on to argue how his use of this premodern writing style in the new print world had gotten him into trouble with not just the government but with other religious scholars or ulema as well. The Lucknow ulema, notably Maulvi Abdul Hai, “severely took him to task for some doctrines of his, and compelled the Nawab to acknowledge the soundness of their criticism . . . ​he was obliged to admit that he had simply copied certain authors and could not vouch for the correctness of their statement or compro­ mise.”83 Indeed, according to the pamphleteers the congruence of the older style of writing and the techniques of dissemination with 293

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the new imperially framed print culture made Hasan’s transimperial literary forays into Egypt and Istanbul understandable. He published from these locations and made full use of the imperial and private printing presses that knitted together the imperial assemblages. Yet he continued to hold on to his own writing style, which paid no attention to referencing cited texts. And Hasan’s ability to straddle the “old” and the “new” norms of print culture were at the core of his inclusive agenda. The pamphleteers argued that his loyalty should not be questioned just because he had an embracive agenda that reached out to Muslims outside British India. Indeed, his loyalty was embedded in his trans-­Asian grid, which was energized by the new imperial networks of print, diplomacy, and political strategies. In this wider context, Hasan’s controversial book Tarjuman, far from inciting trouble, stood out as an exemplar of the way in which Hasan defined the term “Indian Wahabis.” This was for him a political and pejorative phrase that borrowed not just the name but also its damaging connotation from the culturally exclusivist and politically anti-­British movement of Abd-­al Wahab of Nejd. In contrast, he distanced himself (and others like him labeled as Indian Wahabis) from any form of restriction and upheld a more inclusive trans-­ Asian approach—​one in which his own loyalty to British India was a significant constituent.84 Similarly, in another work, Mawaidul Awaid, written two years before the Tarjuman, he makes a similar distinction: “To call those Indian Muhammadans who do not worship tombs and pirs and prohibit people from unlawful acts by the name wahabi is entirely false for several reasons: In the first place they do not represent themselves as such, on the contrary they call themselves Sunnis in opposition to Shias . . . ​If there was anything of wahabeeism in their creed they would call themselves by that name and should not resent the epithet.”85 The pamphleteers also quoted from the Iqtrab us Sait. This was a text that was written under the name of Hasan’s son Nurul Hasan, even though his rivals suspected that Hasan himself was its author. They pointed out that Hasan states clearly that Muslims do not regard even the rulers of the two Muslim kingdoms Turkey and Morocco as their imams or caliphs, as that status is reserved for 294

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someone from the Arab tribe of Qureish. And the fact that Hasan maintained this Arab orientation made the pamphleteers wonder how one could agree to the allegation that he was orienting the people politically toward the arrival of the mahdi.86 In their defense of Hasan, the pamphleteers refashioned the concept of community and delinked it from the leader, giving the community autonomy. They argued that the community viewed the nawab as one of its “distinguished member[s]” and wanted his titles, honors, and salutes restored. But that did not mean that they regarded him as a prophet or imam and blindly followed him. His significance was “both on account of his social position and theological learning,” they argued, and they claimed that “he [did] not occupy the same position in the eyes of the Ahl-­i-­ Hadis as the Prophet.” And since he did not have a spiritual position the community would never follow him blindly. This was a clever strategy intended to protect the community from blame in the event the government continued to press its charges against the nawab. Significantly, the definition of community as autonomous also helped the pamphleteers to distance it not just from the nawab but also from other provocative figures that he had cited in his works. These included Maulvi Nazir Hussain, the late Maulvi Ismael, and Maulvi Abdula of Ghazni. They zeroed in on Maulvi Ismael, the most provocative of these figures, and argued that “common people [might] find fault with what maulvi Ismael said and did.”87 They quoted an Amritsar maulvi who said that Ismael’s jihad with the Sikhs was a disturbance and not a jihad, and that his “work the Sirat-­i-­Mustaqim and the Mansab-­i-­Imamat [were] now generally condemned while the accounts of holy men given by him [were] openly denied.”88 Indeed, the writer of the pamphlet, who represented not just his view but that of a range of people who urged him to write, gave his own example to show how he, being part of the community, had continued to have a difference of opinion with Maulvi Nazir Hussain, whose student he was. These differences were on matters of religious prescription. Underlining further the autonomous functioning of the Muslim community and its delink from leaders, he mentioned also how he was “not at one with the late Sheikh Abdulla Ghaznawi as regards the attributes of God.”89 295

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Through all these examples the writer of the pamphlet underlined the liberal strands and tradition of tolerance within the Muslim community, concluding that it was “wrong to say that the Nawab [was] the mouth piece of a community distinguished for its liberal views.”90 Finally, the delink between the community and Hasan notwithstanding, the pamphleteer reiterated his respect for Hasan because he “encouraged learning by causing a large number of ancient works on various subjects to be printed at great cost and by compiling works based on ancient works.”91 He concluded with the plea that Hasan be understood in his proper context—​t he quintessential cosmopolitan—​and be absolved of all charges against him. At the same time he reiterated that Hasan and the community were two separate entities. And this defense of Hasan was also meant to make that distinction clear so as to “prevent discredit being thrown on the whole community on his account.”92

Siddiq Hasan and the Imperially Embedded Cosmopolis Siddiq Hasan used the print culture to carve out international relations that benefited from the imperial moods of rival European powers. Exploiting the British-­Ottoman tensions in particular, he managed to write and publish his literature simultaneously from India, Mecca, Medina, Istanbul, and Cairo. At the same time, his agents also bought books by other authors located in these Ottoman cities; these books were republished at the Shahjahani imperial printing press in Bhopal.93 Imperial assemblages were also empires of print. And thus imperial rivalries translated easily into “printing wars.” Indian cosmopolitans like Siddiq Hasan took advantage of these imperial hostilities. This careering trend was not confined to elites like Hasan. Many other lesser-­k nown individuals, also with global aspirations, ventured into these transimperial printing rivalries. Many failed. But those whose moves coincided with the “international moods” of host cities became successful. The publication of the Urdu newspaper the Paik-­i-­Islam in Istanbul by an Indian Muslim was an important case in point. This was published simultaneously in Urdu and Turkish in Istanbul with 296

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the knowledge of the Ottoman government. Sait Pasha, the prime minister, had sanctioned its publication.94 It was printed at the imperial printing office at public expense and the editor received a subsidy. The first issue, dated May 1880, provocatively referred to the sultan as the “Caliph of India.”95 Its object as described by its Indian editor, Nusrat Ali Khan, was to forge a close relation between Indian Muslims and the Ottoman government. The British embassy in Istanbul noted that a large number of copies of the first issue of the paper had been sent to India. Muslim princes and notables had been particularly chosen as recipients in order to promote an “Islamic Union” that was hostile to British rule. Ambassador Henri Layard wanted the newspaper immediately banned. He was of the view that the newspaper was a threat to British interests in India as well as in Central Asia as it had messages such as “Those who do not obey the Caliph do not obey God.” He saw this paper as a prelude to agents being sent by the Ottoman government to incite Indian Muslims. Layard’s report was so alarmist that it was discussed in the British cabinet and parliament.96 London pressured the Indian government to protest to the Ottoman government and put an end to this newspaper.97 The Foreign Office’s fears regarding this newspaper were later found to be exaggerated, as Paik-­i-­Islam had an insignificant readership that was confined only to Bombay, Madras, and Calcutta, and its editor was an unknown entity.98 But it was significant that imperial phobias and networks had been exploited by an ordinary Delhi individual to tap into the print culture in Istanbul and thereby make a career. Nusrat Ali Khan, the adventurous editor, was a resident of Bombay, where he earned a small salary as the correspondent to a Delhi newspaper, the Nasrat-­ul-­Akhbar. This paper was edited by one Maulvi Nasrat Ali. In Istanbul, Nusrat Ali Khan passed it off as his own newspaper. His fraud worked for some time. But soon he was exposed, as some Indian Muslims in the city revealed the truth. In subsequent years he tried to work his way back into Istanbul society by pretending to be a man of some influence in India.99 Nusrat Ali Khan may have dreamed of forging a trans-­Asian jour­ nalistic career by tapping into imperial networks. But men like him were equally critical pawns in the hands of empires. The empires 297

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used these men to get even in their propaganda wars against each other. Thus at about the same time as the Paik-­i-­Islam controversy was occurring, one Louis Sabunji, a minister in the Syrian Church, started the publication of an Arabic newspaper, Al Khalifa, in London. The first issue concluded that the Ottoman claim to caliphal supremacy was fiction. It also accused the Ottomans of ill treating Arabs and urged the latter to rise in revolt. The paper was reported to have had a wide circulation in India.100 The Ottoman government requested that Britain ban the Al Khalifa in its territories, and Britain complied with this request.101 But not content with this and aware that the British Press Act had rendered the ban less than foolproof, the Ottoman ambassador, Musurus Pasa, countered Al Khalifa’s claims by establishing a procaliphate newspaper. It was here that the independent Indian careerists in Istanbul proved handy. Musurus Pasa also urged Abdul Rasul, an Indian Muslim from Delhi who lived in London, to publish his own newspaper in the city. It was published simultaneously in Arabic and Persian and called the Al-­Gayrat. It received a subsidy from the Ottoman government. It did not publish anti-­British material but stressed the importance of the caliphate for the Muslim world.102 The newspaper soon extended its circulation to India. The Indian authorities found its tone “objectionable,” but it was never banned.103 Imperial rivalries helped Siddiq Hasan disseminate his books across Asia even as he held on to older forms of connectivity to spread his ideas: loyal agents, family and courtly contacts, and public discussion, lectures, and debates. The Foreign Office was always concerned about any information about the circulation of Hasan’s books in the Ottoman territories and beyond. In 1881, Major Prideaux, located in Aden, caused a stir in official circuits when he reported that Siddiq Hasan’s works were mentioned in the bibliographical list of the Turkish, Arabic, and Persian works printed in Constantinople during 1877–1879. The list was published in the last number of the Journal Asiatique.104 The tension in British circles was palpable, even if they downplayed the potential of this literature to stir trouble in India. Siddiq Hasan’s main conduits of distribution were his agents. These men went back and forth from India, the Hijaz, and the 298

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Ottoman Arab provinces. They tapped into imperial assemblages and used its political networks, printing techniques, and diplomatic strategies. Maulvi Badi-­ul Zuman, a native of Lucknow and a friend of the nawab, who had returned from a long stint in Mecca to settle in Bhopal, was one such crucial agent. He used his experience and contacts to circulate Hasan’s books in Calcutta, Benares, and Tajpur in Bihar. His contacts in the Hijaz also helped in the movement of books there. Similarly, Sheikh Ahmad, a native of Surat who had lived in Mecca for several years and who had returned at Hasan’s request, became a key man in carrying the literature to Rangoon, Dacca, and the entire Bengal region.105 In 1885, Abdur Razzack, a British vice consul at Jeddah, followed four men from Bhopal who had arrived from Bombay in the ship Rachompton and dis­­appeared in Mecca: Maulvi Abdul Bari, Munshi Asad Ali, Muhammad Husain Khan, and Munshi Salamatullah. These men were allegedly close to Hasan and were ostensibly carrying his books and periodicals for distribution to the Indian hajis in Mecca. Razzack managed to track the first three of these men, but the last one was untraceable. These men were said to be in correspondence with a famous Wahabi maulvi from Nejd who was also on his haj. And this Nejdi connection brought them onto the radar of the Turkish authorities as well. The Turkish officials arrested them. However, no papers of any importance were found on them. Razzack was of the view that probably the more important of their documents had already changed hands.106 However, a large number of books were found with these men. And when read by the ulema at Mecca, on the orders of the Turkish officials, it was discovered that Hasan authored most. Indeed, one of these volumes, authored by him, was seen to be “distinctly wahabical.” Razzack reported that this particular volume as well as related pamphlets had been in circulation in Mecca even before the arrival of these men.107 He also reported that three other men from Bhopal had started for Mecca in the company of Hasan’s agent Ismael Surati. But soon they went “over to the other side” (North Africa) and opened up communication with the mahdi of Sudan’s son-­in-­law Osman Digha. Razzack reported the movement of many “disaffected people from India, relics of 1857 and of the later wahabi 299

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movement” in and around Mecca. He was of the view that it was via these men that literature and letters circulated between India and the Hijaz. Hasan’s intervention used as well as energized this vast literary ecumene. Razzack suggested political surveillance as the only solution to this problem.108 Indeed, his political espionage revealed that Siddiq Hasan had hired a reliable person in Mecca to keep himself informed about this ecumene. His people moved with books and letters back and forth from Hindustan to the Hijaz, and most were headed toward Bhopal. One Maulvi Ibrahim, a resident of Mecca, always corresponded with him and his colleagues Maulvi Badri-­uz zaman, Maulvi Moinuddin the cheese maker, and Abdur Rashid of Dacca. He sent his son Hafiz Abdur Rahman as a special messenger to these people. Kurban Ali, Maulvi Akhan, and Tamizuddin accompanied him. They had letters and documents addressed to the nawab and others in Bhopal.109 Siddiq Hasan left no aspect of imperial politics and space untouched when it came to building his public sphere between empires. With the exile of the last Mughal emperor to Rangoon, after the mutiny of 1857, the city had become a site of many Indian dissenters. Siddiq Hasan took advantages of this crevice in the British Empire and dispatched his agents there with his books. In 1885, Ziakhut Ali and his agent Ishmail, who were known as his men in the area, prepared the ground for the reception of his books and ideas.110 He found Ishmail a home in the Ottoman Hijaz after the British police harassed him on his visit to Bhopal. Later, he smuggled him out of Bhopal for refuge in Mecca.111 He was successful because of his clout with the Ottoman administration in the Hijaz. And back in Mecca, where the British and Ottoman imperial networks crisscrossed, his Indian agents often eluded British surveillance and posed as Turkish subjects. They enjoyed Ottoman protec­­tion until the British detected and exposed them, and their fraud was brought to light. In 1886, T. S. Jago, a vice consul at Jeddah, reported the case of two Indians, Maulvi Ibrahim of Bengal and Maulvi Ahsan of Meerut, who had Turkish passports and who had been arrested in Mecca on suspicion of being involved in “treasonable” correspondence with the mahdi party in Sudan. These two men had lived in Mecca for years as Turkish subjects. They had licenses from the 300

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Ottoman administration to act as religious conductors to Indian pilgrims. On their arrest they were found in possession of the mahdi’s proclamations and many works on Wahabism. On their arrest, placards appeared that exhorted people to kill the governor general. In response, the British authorities requested that their Ottoman counterparts dispatch the two men back to India. Their work passes and passports were withdrawn,112 and they were exiled from Mecca and deported back to India. Merchants played a critical role in the sustenance of Hasan’s agents in the Hijaz. Indian merchants did not merely sell merchandise in the Hijaz. They were important conduits through which money, books, letters, and periodicals circulated in the public sphere. Abdur Razzack was convinced that two Mecca-­based Indian merchants, Abdul Hamid and his brother Abdul Rashid, not only sold their wares but that their “business was a cover for some secret purposes.” Other merchants had accompanied Abdul Hamid on his journey from India, and they had all dispersed on arrival and lived in separate lodgings. Hamid took “great care of the letters he received from India and of those he sent in reply.” Razzack discovered that Hamid was in touch with a Gujarati firm of Indian merchants who were natives of Pattan in Gujarat. And this mercantile firm had secret dealings of a political nature with the son-­in-­law of the Sudan mahdi Osman Digha. Indeed, this firm served as the financial sinews for the Sudan leader’s activities, as money from India and the Hijaz was remitted through it. Significantly, this trans-­Asian rhythm was sustained using both imperial networks as well as the territorial identity markers that empires lent to their subjects. Both of the merchant brothers on arrival at Jeddah in 1886 registered themselves at the British consulate as British subjects. They soon proceeded to Mecca and set up a shop in the city. The older brother went back to India for a few years and the younger one continued to manage his business in Mecca. Significantly, when the younger brother later left for Bombay, he wanted Razzack to renew the certificate of registration that had been issued to him in 1886. He also asked for a letter to show that “he was a trader and a harmless” person. He argued that he needed this to avoid a baggage search at Bombay by the police. Razzack did 301

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give him the letter but noted his nervousness and thus informed the Bombay authorities to search him, as, he reported, Abdul Rashid “[might] be the bearer of important letters.”113 Indeed, intelligence about men officially on haj pilgrimage who went missing and their occasional reappearance in Egypt kept the British consulates on their toes. Investigations often revealed that their disappearance was linked to their collection of money in India for the mahdi. Sayyid Abdul Rahman and Abdul Hamid were two such cases in point of men who collected money from the “wahabi community in India for the mahdi in Sudan.”114 Not surprisingly, Mecca became the ideal location for Siddiq Hasan—​t he hotspot from which he could power his trans-­Asian ecumene with ease. His wife owned property in the city: a house (which was often in the middle of legal disputes) and several charity houses. These offered both physical support and also the notional excuse for Siddiq Hasan’s many forays into the city.115 The cosmopolitan character of the city enabled him to slip in his books and publications via agents who masqueraded as merchants, pilgrims, and pilgrim controllers. They slipped in and out and dodged authorities as they maneuvered the entangled networks of Ottoman and British surveillance. He had his main and subsidiary agents spread out all over the city. Plus he had at his disposal the networks of other Indian Muslim men of religion who, as we saw in the previous two chapters, had exploited imperial fault lines and print techniques to carve out niches for themselves in the city. Thus, for instance, he received help from Maulana Rahmatullah Kairanwi, as well as from Kairanwi’s madrasa and networks, even if they were always under official surveillance. Indeed, Muslim networks forged by such scholar émigrés kept the British officials busy. The Foreign Department’s H.  M. Durand was willing to spend money on vice consuls for political espionage on Maulana Kairanwi as well as on the agents of Siddiq Hasan, such as a man named Ahmad Muhammad. The latter coordinated with his Cairo agent Sheikh Ahmad Halbi, of Aleppo, and circulated Hasan’s books in the Hijaz.116 In 1888, Duran urged Jago, a vice consul in Jeddah, to get information about Rahmatullah Kairanwi, who, he said, “[was] engaged in preaching sedition to, and circulating seditious papers among our 302

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subjects at the haj.”117 And Abdur Razzack, another vice consul, submitted a proposal that asked for permission and funds with which to set up an establishment in Mecca where he could camp and make contacts and friends in the region so as to gain their confidence and thereby get information on Kairanwi and others like him.118 Of course, the subtext of such requests was the British fear that scholar émigrés might not only influence Indian Muslims back home with their reformist ideology, but more dangerously, encourage them to become the conduit for Ottoman intervention. These fears were not entirely misplaced, as much of this trans-­ Asian activity derived from and was sustained by imperial networks and their fault lines. The new age of print offered an advantage to these fugitive reformists. It lent additional zest to their energy at the crossroads of empires. Print helped forge trans-­Asian communities on a much wider scale than before. But these were not entirely imagined communities. The self-­driven global links forged by traveling middlemen, agents, brokers, and merchants mediated the production and distribution of books and created a community of readers. When the global agendas of individuals corresponded to those of the Ottoman government, not only was access to imperial printing presses and subsidies forthcoming, but it also became easy to transport printing presses and techniques to distant lands.119 Imperial tensions ensured a steady flow of men and techniques across the British-­Ottoman territories. Such networks constituted the material base on which wider conceptual communities of readers emerged. In 1885, Griffin reported the story of one of Hasan’s emissaries, Din Muhammad, who was dispatched to Sudan to test the political waters. Sudan was an interesting crossroad where a spiritually powered Muslim network linked the rulers to the world outside. This network offered a spiritual and temporal conduit to the powerful Senoussi sect. Hasan plugged into this ecumene, hoping to use it to distribute his literature. Hasan had it easy in the region because the Senoussi sect adhered to a form of reformist, puritan Islam that preached monism, austerity, and simplicity. It used that simple plank to assimilate a range of other Muslim orders in the region. The founder of the sect, Sidi Mahommed-­bin-­Ali-­es-­Senoussi, was a religious sheikh of renown in North Africa and the Hijaz 303

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who preached against the abuses of Mohammedan religion. Sidi Muhammad warned all men of the advent of the mahdi or Messiah who would cure their ills. He first implied and then openly taught that this promised mahdi would be found in the person of his son. From 1837 to 1883, the sect had grown from one mission, to 120. These were spread out across Africa and Asia and constituted a vast ecumene that straddled the British and Ottoman Empires. These missions were located in Cairo, Timbuctoo, Algeria, Senegambia, Morocco, Tunis, Tripoli, Cyrenaea, Wadai Kingdom, Dongola, and Darfour, as well as in the Hijaz, Mesopotamia, the Somali coast, and India.120 The missions were not just preaching hubs but also local centers of religious and civil government. The chief of the sect appointed their heads, but they administered justice locally, levied taxes, and sustained themselves through profits they made from the slave trade and agriculture. They opened up new caravan routes across central Africa and controlled the slave traffic of North Africa. They presided over a vibrant political economy that kept them going. Indeed, the economy sustained their global networks and fired their temporal ambitions. Their chief, much to the chagrin of the Ottoman caliph, often called himself the caliph. In 1861, they asserted their importance by daring to excommunicate the Sultan Abd-al Mejid of Istanbul, who had opposed them. By 1882, of course Sultan Abd-­al Hamid II, eager to improve his image in the Mus­ ­lim world, pandered to their spiritual powers and clientele by conferring honors on the chief, giving him arms, and granting him trading privileges.121 The headquarters of the brotherhood was in the vilayet of Bengazi, in which province the imperial authority was divided between the sultan and the grand master of the order, Sidi Muhammad al Mahdi. Siddiq Hasan was very keen to interlace his print-­derived public sphere with the spiritual and temporal ecumene of the Sudan chief. He shared most of their reformist ideology even if the sheikh’s fixation on his son as the promised mahdi created some problems for him. But it was not the mahdi but the ecumene that attracted him to the Sudan polity.122And his agent Din Muhammad became his critical link. Din Muhammad was a Hindu convert to Islam who was employed in Bhopal as the favorite servant of Queen Kudsia Begum. 304

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He continued in palace service on a pension of thirty rupees a month even after her death.123 In 1885 Hasan trusted him enough to use him as his agent whom he dispatched to Sudan to test the political waters for an anti-­British alliance with the mahdi. Griffin was of the view that he wished to contribute to the anti-­British sentiment there and aid the mahdi in the event of a show of strength. Din Muhammad was given Rs. 1,000, promised a similar amount on return, and arrears of salary. Hasan alleged that Din Muhammad had returned from the Hijaz and never reached Sudan. Din Muhammad, however, claimed to have arrived in Sudan from Cairo by road. He stayed there for a month and made contact with Osman Digha, the son-­in-­law of the mahdi. But he could never meet the mahdi and returned with a concocted story gathered from bazaar gossip, much to the wrath of his master, Hasan. In order to delay his arrival at Bhopal and impress upon his master that he had had a long stint in Sudan, he detoured from Cairo toward Haiderabad and Rangoon, obviously confident of obtaining help from existing Muslim networks.124 On his return, the very angry Hasan paid him only one hundred rupees. The case became public when Din Muhammad petitioned to the begum for redress; she asked him to give a deposition at the magistrate’s office. Hasan, who feared that his transimperial intrigues would be exposed, offered Din Muhammad a compromise. Hasan promised to pay him his money and asked him to leave India for Mecca. Hasan also asked him to send a forged letter from Mecca that declared him dead. However, Din Muhammad revealed all to Griffin, as he did not like the terms of the agreement that Hasan had suggested. But scared of Hasan’s wrath, he tried to escape from India to Jeddah. Din Muhammad had a vast array of contacts in Bombay as well as in the Hijaz, largely on account of Hasan’s network. In Bombay he reportedly stayed with one Nur Muhammad, a noted Wahabi and perfume seller.125 And, of course, in Jeddah and Mecca he hoped to find a safe refuge by using the Muslim networks that thrived on Ottoman-­British rivalries and that had sustained his career all these years. Din Muhmmad tapped into Hasan’s vast networks, which extended from the Hijaz to Rangoon and from Bombay to the Northwest 305

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Provinces. This web of contacts included agents, brokers, merchants, booksellers, and maulvis. Griffin reported that Din Muhammad hooked onto Muslim networks in the Northwest Provinces, as he was unable to escape to Jeddah because of the heavy surveillance of the Bombay government. The frontier offered the most popular escape route for those who could not leave by ship from Bombay. Din Muhammad revealed that he had been instructed by the Hasan to tap his Northwest frontier contacts. His revelations exposed the critical ties that existed between his mentor, Hasan, and the colony of “Hindustani fanatics” and “Wahabis” at Hazara and Palosi, both of which bordered the Afghanistan border.126 These people offered him refuge. He reported to Griffin that he was “supported free of charge” at the Hazara shrine of Kunar near Amb and welcomed at the Wahabi colony at Palosi. He stayed with Sayyad Ahmad Pirzada of Kunar for three months. Nawab Akram Khan of Amb was not that welcoming. And he went several times to Maidan near Palosi, as he later reported, to “interview the Hindustani Mullahs and to tell them about his mentor Nawab Sadik Hasan.”127 On his arrest he had on him letters from one Karim Khan, a Kanauj resident who resided at the frontier colonies, as well as one from a student who had been staying on the frontier and had shared a house with him. The contents of the letters revealed that Din Muhammad played the middleman between the frontier mullahs and their supporters in Bhopal and Hindustan. He enabled a steady flow of men, money, and wherewithal that moved between Hindustan and the northwest periphery. The letters, which were addressed to Din Muhammad, showed concern about his whereabouts and made inquiries about his return from Kunar. One of the letters urged him to bring “certain books, and a printing press” and “any other books that may be of use to this community.” There was also a request for a lantern.128 Griffin tracked Din Muhammad’s movements to Lahore, where his contacts with local people were more than evident. He had stayed in that city with Muhammad Ali, a tinker in the Laukar Bazar area. The Lahore police soon arrested him.129 An experienced officer recorded his deposition and he was directed to proceed to Indore for further interrogation by Griffin. 306

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Even though Griffin was aware of the lies that Din Muhammad was prone to tell, he did believe his word on the existence of influential networks across the British and Ottoman territories. British officials had tracked him on the very routes that he listed. Moreover, even though Din Muhammad denied the motives that Griffin attributed to his movements, he never disclaimed having actually visited, as Hasan’s emissary, the cities that dotted the networks. Also, after he lodged his complaint against Hasan, he gave a deposition to the kotwal and requested the settlement of the expenses he had incurred during his travels.130 Griffin was convinced that Din Muhammad was just one of the many such agents that constituted the trans-­Asian and African world of Siddiq Hasan—​a world that Hasan admitted was financed by the Bhopal treasury. Not only did Din Muhammad have his own agent, Abdul Kaiyum, who connected with him at different places, but other full-­t ime agents were also involved. Din Muhammad named Maulvi Nazir Hussain as another such “Wahabi” agent of Hasan; he received one hundred rupees a month from the state treasury. Griffin was always baffled by the complex world of Hasan’s agents as they crisscrossed empires. His simplistic understanding of their networks perhaps enabled the agents to prosper. According to him, the agent Nazir Hussain was expelled from Arabia by the Turkish authorities, who found him “troublesome.”131 That once again did not explain how Nazir Hussain would later be able to reenter the area. Ottoman Hijaz, as the critical crossroads of imperial networks, was a safe haven for many “outlawed” men and their emissaries. Siddiq Hasan’s turncoat emissary Din Muhammad did not take refuge there because he was outmaneuvered by the British, who had maintained surveillance of him. But he did maintain a presence in the region, and, taking advantage of imperial tensions, traveled to North Africa and Burma. The easy availability of print technology and the profits derived from it made it relatively easy for Britain’s Muslim subjects to straddle empires. Din Muhammad, as the emissary of Hasan, took advantage of imperial networks and established other agents across the Ottoman territories in Arabia and Africa. As early as 1870, an important adherent of Hasan, Abdulla Khan Ghazi, left India for Mecca and settled there. He acted as the nodal point 307

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for scores of other “servants” and emissaries that came from Bhopal to correspond with the mahdi of Sudan. One Ismael of Surat, whose father was also involved in disseminating Hasan’s books in distant lands, was located in Sudan to act as coordinator. The governor of Hijaz, Osman Pasha, often intercepted these letters. These interceptions, which involved the fate of “little men” caught in big wars, resulted in a good deal of political tension. The British felt that the letters to Sudan were meant to convey to the mahdi that he had supporters in India and that they were willing to join his endeavors.132 Sheikh Ahmad Halbi of Aleppo was Siddiq Hasan’s trusted agent at Cairo. He stored Hasan’s books that were printed at Cairo; these were worth Rs. 80,000. The fear of the British surveillance made their distribution and import to India difficult. But with the support of the Ottoman administration a small number of them were smuggled to Mecca. A Bhopal agent, Ahmad Muhammad, who lived in a rabat (charity house) of the begum in the city, distributed them to visiting Indian and other hajis.133 The case of the four Bhopal hajis who left for Mecca “unexpectedly” in the 1880s revealed the dependence of Hasan’s networks on both the imperial and the local webs that liked Indian royal courts. All these men were of modest means and employees of the Bhopal state. The state exchequer paid for their haj, and of course in return they promised to be the critical link in the transimperial chain that connected Siddiq Hasan to the Hijaz and North Africa, that linked him to Afghanistan and czarist Russia via the Northwest Provinces of India, and that even extended his long arm eastward into Burma and Indonesia. Maulvi Abdul Bari’s unexpected journey to Mecca on state money raised eyebrows, as he was a man of modest means, received a salary of only Rs. 30 per month, and had a family of ten to support. But he was Hasan’s link with the northwestern frontier nest of “Hindustani fanatics”—​Muslim men of religion accused of sedition after the 1857 mutiny-­rebellion. In return for the financial help he received, he was expected to take this frontier connection forward into the Hijaz. If royal favor enabled his haj, the imperial networks facilitated his journey. He traveled on a British passport on an English steamer and used consular assistance. And once in the Hijaz, he hoped to exploit 308

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Ottoman interest in British subjects so as to lay his net far and wide. The same story applied to Munshi Asad Ali, an assistant faujdari (a local official who helped to maintain law and order) of modest means. He received Rs. 150 from the state and Rs. 50 from the British as a pension and had a family of forty to support. He used his daughter-­ in-­law, who was the daughter of Hafiz Surati, a close friend of Siddiq Hasan, to get the necessary wherewithal to proceed on haj. The return favors were the same as those expected from Maulana Bari.134 Maulvi Salatmullah, who was known for his “Wahabi” views at the Jama Masjid and received Rs. 30 per month from Siddiq Hasan, was unexpectedly dispatched to Mecca. He too was expected to be one of the critical links in Hasan’s transimperial chain. Finally, the abrupt departure for haj of Muhammad Hussain Khan—​a record keeper for the Bhopal state and a former army officer of the Awadh nawab Wajid Ali Shah—​also fit into Hasan’s style of using both local royal and imperial networks to establish his transimperial contacts. Khan, a known mutineer, openly condemned the British as his estates had been sold when the decrees of his creditors were executed. He openly espoused the cause of the mahdi of Sudan and was happy to enlist support in his favor. His departure for Mecca, with Rs. 5,000 from Hasan, made it evident that he had larger plans in this Ottoman-­controlled city, where he intended to establish himself as the Bhopal agent.135 The memorandum on these men from one of the Bhopal men, S. Ahmad Raja, stated that traveling on the pretext of haj these men were to serve as interlocutors between imperial rivals, straddle their networks, and graft their webs over imperial ones. Significantly, Raja also brought to notice the critical ways in which these men would maneuver not just the Ottoman but the Russian Empire as well. He observed: “Some of them have gone out to give instructions to the Mahdi and Osman Digha through their agents at Mecca to open communications with the Russians. Some others have been commissioned to keep the Wahabis of Hodeida and Yemen prepared for jihad and acknowledges the Nawab consort of Bhopal as their spiritual leader [imam]. Some others have been sent out to gather important news at the British Consulate and communicate them where necessary.”136 309

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Indeed, “letters, books and other papers” were an important part of the wherewithal these men carried to ideologically firm up the ecumene that lay embedded in imperial connections. And much of this literature was generated via their access to the printing presses in Istanbul and Cairo. These were available to them because they were seen as critical pawns in imperial wars. They benefited from the close fit between their own agendas and imperial international moods. Indeed, close on the feet of these departures Hasan also requested a sum of Rs. 800,000 from the begum so that he himself could proceed to Mecca on his pilgrimage. Raja was of the view that Hasan wished his four haji emissaries to lay the ground for him in the region and that he wanted to settle permanently in Hodeida or somewhere close. He concluded that Hasan wished that his imamat be recognized by the “Wahabis” in the region. Regardless of the motives behind the spurt of these “unexpected” travels, the fact remained that a specific kind of Muslim cosmopolitanism was being scripted: this was ideologically rooted in the scriptures, it upheld the universalist code of public conduct, and it remained physically embedded in imperial networks and their print technologies. It was not surprising that the very imperial networks that sustained this cosmopolitanism were used to clamp down on it whenever necessary. Thus Raja urged Griffin to close in on these men, and offered the following instructions: “You may enquire of the passport office or office of Pilgrim Protector at Bombay on what steamer have the Bhopal pilgrims left for Mecca in order to communicate to the Consul at Jeddah what steamer he is to search for.”137 Indeed, it was these imperial tensions and print wars that enabled Hasan’s books to be printed simultaneously from both private presses as well as the state-­owned ones in Delhi, Bhopal, Lucknow, Cairo, and Istanbul. We noted in the previous section the range of imperial and private presses in Bhopal and other cities across Hindustan that published his books. He had similar access to private presses in Cairo and Istanbul as well. For instance, when Inspector Azizuddin was in Calcutta, he had purchased nine of the nawab’s books for nineteen rupees; of these books, two had been printed in Istanbul (Has-­ul-­Manul and Lakat-­ul-­Izlan), one in Egypt (Al-­Rajat-­ul-­Nadea), and the rest in Bhopal. They were all in Arabic.138 Hasan, even while 310

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tapping imperial networks, never let go of his courtly contacts that he had amassed by marrying the begum of Bhopal. Thus in 1882 the nawab of Basoda revealed to the British that he had been asked by Siddiq Hasan to carry a load of books for him to Istanbul. On his part, he handed over these books to the British officer Colonel W. Kincaid.139 Thus both his royal pedigree and the contacts that it brought to him, as well as the imperial networks, enabled Siddiq Hasan to glide across an array of geographical and cultural assemblages. Indeed, this larger cosmopolitanism rather than a narrow anticolonial arena was his canvas. As was evident from his writings surveyed in the section above, he was interested in a nonconfrontational life that enabled him to connect to other imperial assemblages spread across Asia: Ottoman, Russian and Dutch. And there were still many in official circles who did not consider the movement of his men and books moving across empires worrisome.

The British View of Muslim Cosmopolitanism One of the reasons that the imperially stoked and individually driven Muslim cosmopolitanism survived was that the Indian government refused to recognize its complexity. They always regarded it as a “law and order” problem or as an “international Muslim conspiracy” that had to be surgically handled. Thus British officers in Bhopal considered Hasan less of a menace if he wrote for an audience abroad in Arabic. And his transimperial gaze came as a relief to officers in Bhopal who saw it as proof of his disinterest and lack of potential to stir religious fanaticism in India. General H. D. Dayly, agent to the governor general of central India, always went by the views of his contact in Bhopal, Shahamut Ali, who quelled any alarm regarding Siddiq Hasan’s literature. Dayly stated emphatically, “If in Arabic it [the literature] must have been intended for circulation in Arabia or Constantinople, scarcely a man in Central India would be able to read it.” And Dayly was convinced that because Hasan’s most scandalous text exhorting people to jihad was written in Arabic, it had limited or no appeal or 311

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audience in India. People in Indore and Malwa were not even aware of this book. And thus Britain’s friendship and loyalty toward Bhopal could be maintained and Hasan merely warned. Dayly was of the view that no drastic action was necessary, as it was not worth it.140 Indeed, many officials thought that Hasan’s vast transimperial clout could be of help in the event of a Russian invasion. Siddiq Hasan played on these imperial anxieties, assuring the British officer that there would be no trouble in India from Muslim elites if the Russians arrived: “Inshaallah yehan balwa nahin hoga.” (God willing there will be no trouble here.)141 Even Griffin, an arch critic of Siddiq Hasan, was relatively less alarmed about his transimperial forays. He saw a disconnect between British India and the Muslim world abroad. He prepared a note for the begum on some of the most objectionable books of the nawab. Here, he mentioned that Hasan’s compilation of khutbas in Arabic, Diwan-­ul-­K hutab-­lil-­Sanat-­il-­K amila, could be ignored, as it was “published in Arabic, which is an unknown tongue to the great majority of the people of Hindustan, and the book was primarily intended for circulation in Egypt and Arabia.”142 The book was recalled, and Hasan was let off with a warning. When the government of India panicked on account of the discovery of a provocative compilation of khutbas allegedly authored by Hasan, Griffin responded with a rare calm, indicating that the problem lay elsewhere. He stated, “Nawab Sadik Hassan was rather in his publication looking to Mecca and Constantinople than to India, hoping to be accepted at the head-­quarters of Islam as a bold and capable defender of the faith.”143 He reinforced his argument by pointing out that of the five hundred copies of the khutbas printed, three hundred had been sent to Mecca, one hundred to different places in India for sale, and that only the remaining hundred were in Bhopal either in the nawab’s library or in the press. Griffin, even when he recommended action against Hasan, was less fearful of his global ambitions. Indeed, he was convinced that Hasan’s influence was not so great in Hindustan. He felt his literature was geared toward his effort to be, as he put it, “a champion of Islam, and [to] be accepted at Mecca and Constantinople as the prin­ cipal defender of the faith in Hindustan.”144 Griffin was invariably 312

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more worried when he considered the possibility that Siddiq Hasan’s target audience was in British India. Thus the Persian Hidayat al Saa’il incensed Griffin to the extent of his urgently recommending that the government take stern action because “not a single copy was found in Bhopal,” but was “meant for circulation in the North-­ Western Provinces and the Punjab”—​t he hotbed of “Indian fanat­­ ics.”145 For similar reasons his Urdu books the Ghubal-­i-­Tarikh-­I Bhopal (History of Bhopal) and the Tarjuman-­i-­Wahabiya (An Inter­ preter of Wahabism) alarmed Griffin because they were written in the local vernacular; the latter had an English translation as well. Sayyid Akbar Alim, third assistant to the second minister in Bhopal, had translated the text into English. Griffin listed it as “seditious” even though, as we saw in the discussion of the book above, the Tarjuman was Hasan’s self-­defense in response to being labeled a Wahabi. He represented himself as a loyal Indian. The more he framed himself within the confines of British India to underline his loyalty, the greater he irked Griffin, who then saw his literary ecumene as a direct threat to British political sovereignty. Griffin, unable to trash the Tarjuman for seditious phrases, condemned it on grounds of its mistimed publication. He wrote, “I would only say that this praise of Wahabiism and the discussion of the pros and cons regarding it were an unfriendly act towards the British Government . . . ​such a discussion was eminently out of place when the British government were in Egypt engaged in warlike operations of extreme difficulty with the mahdi.”146 He argued that when seen in the context of his 1884 book Iktirabussa, written under the name of his son Nurul Hasan, the objections to Tarjuman stood out even more. According to Griffin, Hasan sidestepped the tenets of the Hadith and instead listed the distinguishing features of the promised mahdi, or savior. Griffin was incensed at Hasan’s suggestion that the Sudan mahdi was the promised one who people believed would arrive to save Muslims globally from Western domination. According to Griffin, this proved Hasan’s anti-­British sentiment and demonstrated that he was attempting to incite people against the British.147 Indeed, both the domestically produced and consumed literature of Siddiq Hasan and the literature produced for the audience in the 313

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Ottoman territories were, as we argued at the beginning of this chapter, part of the same transimperial ecumene. Hasan had nurtured this public sphere so as to move out of the confines of space and territory and wage his larger civilizational battle against Western ascendancy. Yet Griffin insisted on viewing the print ecumene of the nawab as split into two segments: the Indian and the foreign. He did understand the nawab’s Wahabism as a scripturally derived ideol­ ­ogy that was aimed at uniting the umma across empires. But he viewed that ideology as distinct and separate from his writings and actions in India. These were viewed in a very narrow colonial frame and often stamped as anti-­British. In 1885, Griffin wrote, “He [the nawab] is a fanatical Muhammadan, and is by popular report a wahabi; although writes various books, both to show that he is not so, as also to show that wahabeeism as properly understood is a distillation of all the virtues.”148 Griffin always warned that the nawab, as he described it, “helps those Muhammedans who try their strength with the British government like Arabi Pasha and the Mahdi.” He was convinced that flows of men and money were maintained between Bhopal and these men.149 Other British officers also failed to understand Hasan’s complex networks. Lieutenant Colonel W. F. Prideaux recognized the nawab’s cosmopolitanism. But he reduced it to the question of his ego, noting, “He is a bigoted Muhammadan and a man of great vanity. It would appear from his writings that he is desirous of enhancing his reputation for sanctity amongst his co-­religionists, and at the same time posing before the eyes of foreigners as a great temporal prince.” He reacted to the objectionable passages on jihad in publications from Bhopal like the Mawaz-­ul-­Hasnota or the Ranzat-­ul-­Nadiya. But he doubted if they were meant for inciting trouble in India. He hinted at the global audience Hasan was trying to reach via this literature using his rank and status as a “loyal” subject of royal background. He said that this was particularly clear from the “string of pompous titles which he gives himself in the books printed at Constantinople, ending with the unusual designation of Malik Mamlakah Bhopal—​K ing of the Kingdom of Bhopal.”150 In contrast, Siddiq Hasan refused to have his transimperial cosmo­­politanism split into two. He saw himself as a cosmopolitan 314

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i­ ntellectual who was embedded in an imperially framed world. He followed its norms but at the same time was very conscious of his royal pedigree. He always defended himself when accused of his untoward intellectual forays into Istanbul and Afghanistan. He argued that he was a “scholar and could read Arabic” and that that itself should explain why he was connected to the intellectual ferment in the Ottoman lands and beyond.151 He flaunted his Indo-­ Persian gentry background and marriage into the princely family of Bhopal, which had made it easy for him to connect to the varied cultural spaces offered by empires outside British India. Thus, for instance, when quizzed about his compilation of an objectionable text—​Divan-­ul-­K hutab-­lil-­sanat-­il Kamila, published by Maulvi Abdul Majid Khan in Bhopal in 1879—​t hat exhorted people to jihad he was noncommittal. But he did justify his links with the world outside on the grounds of being a scholar who knew Arabic and thus a natural member of the literary ecumene that connected imperial assemblages across Asia—​t he Dutch, the British, the Ottoman, the Arab, and the Russian imperial grid. Indeed, Hasan’s self-­defense was a plea to be viewed as a cosmopolitan actor, which he argued was perfectly compatible with his loyal subject status in India. He acknowledged his contribution to the wider literary public sphere, having taken it upon himself to supply reprints of books authored by Indian scholars. He denied any narrow anti-­British agendas and professed his loyalty to the British government. Indeed, he used its individual-­centric norms to argue that the objectionable sections in his books were not his but those of authors he had merely cited. He claimed that on the basis of individuated authorship norms he could not be blamed for the views of others. He vehemently denied that he was the author of the controversial sections on jihad in his books. He pointed out that they were extracts from other Indian authors like Ismael Shahid and reprints from books given to him by Arab friends like Qazi Zainul Abidin. They had brought these books with them during their visits to Hodeida in Arabia. He reiterated that he merely reprinted such literature and reproduced its extracts in his compilations. Indeed, he not only disclaimed any alleged sympathy with the objectionable passages in his 315

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books, but also contrasted them to those authored by him. Regarding those of his books that did not cite others, he said that he was “breathing a spirit of loyalty and expressly denouncing jihad.”152 Significantly, he agreed to withdraw these books from circulation within India when the British administration persisted in their objections. But neither did he offer to remove them from the wider ecumene between empires, nor did the British government make any such demand. The political agent in Bhopal reported that the nawab was “cooperating in the withdrawing of these books” from India. He stated that Hasan had handed him fifteen copies that he had been able to procure in Bhopal. He also ensured that no mosques in Bhopal had any copies with them.153 Significantly, Siddiq Hasan’s self-­defense to Lepel Griffin on five of his particularly objectionable books underlined his contention that India was part of the Muslim cosmopolis between empires. He also added that it came as a rude shock for him to know that there was an official distinction between the norms that operated in the imperially embedded Muslim public sphere and those that defined the territorial confines of British India. He proved his innocence by representing himself as the cosmopolitan who was oblivious to the legal framing of British India as separate from the Muslim cosmopolis. According to him, India was integral to the larger Muslim literary public sphere. He said, “Since I have come to Bhopal I have devoted most of my time to literary pursuits, translating and compiling books. Had I known that such works are prohibited by English law, I would have abstained from this occupation.”154 Indeed, in his defense of the book Hidayat al Saa’il he denied being its author. He said he was the compiler and had contributed only two questions to the text. These refuted Wahabism and the idea that India was a dar-­al harb or the land of the infidels that justified the waging of jihad. And on both these scores he argued against protagonists who demarcated the world by reducing it to territorial closures. He reiterated that Indian Muslims could not be Wahabis as the latter were ideologically and territorially rooted in the Nejd. In contrast Indian Muslims were part of the broader intellectual and cultural constellations. Similarly, India was very much part of the Muslim public sphere and thus could not be a “land of the infidels.”155 316

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Siddiq Hasan sarcastically asserted the intellectual superiority of the Muslim cosmopolitanism in relation to the relative dullness of British India that reduced intellectual synergy to matters of “public order.” He reminded the British of the longstanding critical link of India to the world outside. He said, “The practice of refuting one another’s religion is carried on among Muhammadans and Chris­ ­t ian men of learning; and religious books are compiled, and discussions on religious matters are made by others in other places in India; but no disturbance of the peace appears to have been created thereby.”156 In a similar vein he defended his other two controversial books, the Tarjuman-­i-­Wahabiya and the Aktar-­ab-­us-­saat. The former, he argued, delinked Indian Muslims from their Nejdi coreligionists, who took pride in the constraints of their ideological and territorial space. In contrast, the Tarjuman located them as loyal subjects with transimperial contacts. Hasan did not see these two issues as mutually contradictory. Similarly, in Aktar-­ab-­us-­saat he refuted the claims of the mahdi of Sudan to be the real mahdi because such a much-­awaited cosmopolitan figure could never be territorially stamped. He called him the “imposter.”157 Thus Siddiq Hasan’s defense amounted not just to his public declaration of being a cosmopolitan intellectual. He also went ahead and demarcated as his Muslim cosmopolis the imperially embedded Muslim public sphere that he traversed. He did not in any way see his loyalty compromised as a result of his participation in this cosmopolis. Indeed, he saw all Indian Muslims as loyal subjects even as they straddled the imperial assemblages and carved out a niche for themselves using imperial networks: printing presses, consulate protection, and imperial rivalries. He regretted that British law regarding publishing in India got in the way of forging such networks. In his defense, he remarked, “I have always been engaged in translating and compiling books, but never had any occasion to study the British laws in force in India. If I had, I would never have attempted to translate such books as were supposed to be written against the government of India, and to carry out orders emanating from the Residency and the Agency.”158 He used the rules of “modern” empires: historicity, objectivity, and 317

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reason to justify some of his other publications. He defended his Girbal using these referents. He argued that the book was written at the request of the begum. It was a text on family etiquette and the begum’s visit to Calcutta. It would withstand any historical scrutiny. He compared Girbal to the chronicle on the Mughal emperor Akbar penned by the imperial historian Badayuni. Both were based on official documents that would stand up under scrutiny.159 Siddiq Hasan always defended himself by making a distinction between his conduct in British India and his connection to the public sphere outside. It is significant that despite his not so hidden transimperial agenda, the British administration was reluctant to engage with him as a Muslim cosmopolitan. Indeed, his activities within India were under more scrutiny than his doings outside. Ironically, this reluctance to engage with Muslim transimperial cosmopolitanism and instead to treat it as a simplistic “Muslim conspiracy” lent it a fresh lease on life. People and texts across the imperial assemblages of British India and the Arab territories of the Ottoman Empire moved with ease, with Siddiq Hasan as the interlocutor between the two empires. In 1881, the government of Bombay sought permission from the government of India to allow an Arab, Muhammad bin Ibrahim Alkusaiyar, who had arrived from Linga, in Arabia, to proceed to Bhopal. He wanted to meet Siddiq Hasan, to whom he was bringing a load of Arabic books on the doctrine and tenets of the Wahabi faith.160 A comment he reportedly made confirmed the centrality of the nawab in the transimperial public sphere: according to the commissioner of police, he said that “he pursued in his native country some works of Muhammad Sadik Hassan which induced him to come to India for the purpose of further prosecuting the studies of his creed at Bhopal under the care and protection of Muhammad Sadik Hassan.”161 The list of books he carried included treatises on the Nejd Wahabis and their doctrine, as well as commentaries on the Hambali branch of the Sunni sect that they followed. More significantly, he carried the Fathul Majid, a book on tauhid (belief in one God), by Abdur Rahman bin Hassan, the great grandson of Abd-­al Wahab, the founder of the Wahabi faith. He also had in his possession Kitabut-­tufi by Suleiman bin Abdul Kawi Tufi, a book on the 318

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Hambali legal school of the Sunnis, and Tathirul Atekad, a book on Wahabi tenets by Muhammad Ibn Ismael-­Amir.162 The government of India allowed the Arab to travel to Bhopal and merely warned the nawab to be careful in dealing with him.163 This made it evident once again that it did not view the nawab’s transimperial ecumene as a grave threat. However, they were alarmed when after interacting with a range of the nawab’s scholarly friends in Bombay, like Maulvi Inayatullah and Hidayatullah of Byculla mosque, Muhammad bin Ibrahim Alkusaiyar left for Hodeida without going to Bhopal.164 Indeed, Siddiq Hasan was able to carve out his literary ecumene between empires precisely because of the British denial that its linguistic and theological referents and its literature struck any chord with Indian Muslims. The administration was convinced that Arabic and Middle Eastern influences would have limited or no impact on Indian Muslim society. Lepel Griffin and others in Bhopal had a blinding India-­centric gaze when it came to Muslim society—​a limited perspective which only benefited men like Siddiq Hasan. Griffin wanted tough action against Siddiq Hasan, measures that would bring both the charges of maladministration and seditious literature to the forefront. This, he felt, was the best way to balance the politics of setting an example of him without alienating completely their ally the begum. And yet, as he stated, he was convinced that the “writings of the Nawab ha[d] less influence than might be supposed.” And this was because he felt that “dogmatic and polemical books are not much read in India . . . ​where dogmatic theology attracts much less attention and interest than in Arabia, Central Asia and Turkey.” He also had a dim view of the popularity of the Arabic language in India. According to him, “Outside the narrow circle of mullahs, Arabic is hardly known.” He noted that the boys of the higher classes learned it when young but never used it and soon forgot it.165 While this may have been true to some extent, Griffin underestimated the Indian impact on the transimperial Muslim public sphere. This interstitial space was constantly energized by men and by literature that originated in India, moved across imperial networks, and reached Istanbul, Mecca, and Cairo. Ironically, British officers viewed Muslim cosmopolitanism as a distant other that was less of a 319

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threat to public order and British rule in Hindustan. And thus, for instance, Griffin saw Siddiq Hasan’s books, for which he had been reprimanded in 1881 on the charge of sedition, as a “comparatively venial offence,” as the books were “primarily intended for circulation in Arabia and Turkey.”166 Griffin was less worried about their impact as long as the targeted audience was not in India. And yet despite British reluctance to engage with Muslim cosmopolitanism, many of its actors dipped their fingers in local Bhopal affairs as brokers who snooped around for trouble spots so as to intervene. In 1895, the case of a man called Sheikh Zia-­ul-­Haq came to light. Zia-­ul-­Haq had published a pamphlet in English called The Reign of Terror in the Bhopal State, a diatribe against one of the begum’s ministers that highlighted his corruption. Both the begum and the Foreign Office ordered an inquiry into his affairs, as well as measures against him. It was found that he was a native of Hapur, west of Delhi, and had made a career straddling imperial and Muslim interests in Persia where he offered to act as liaison for the British government. In Persia he was regarded as “an adventurer” and a “suspicious character.” In Bhopal, he posed as the official emissary of the British government and was thrown out when it was revealed that he was an imposter. Then he popped up in Mylapur, Madras, from where he helpfully sent messages to the English reporting about one Rajab Ali, who he said was “writing a seditious book called the Eastern Question.” He was always untraceable in Madras. The Foreign Office was convinced that he had joined forces with Sajjad Hussain to fight “out battles in Bhopal by writing this damaging text.”167

Muslim Cosmopolitanism in the Twentieth Century The British administration recognized the embracive world of Muslim cosmopolitanism, carved out by men like Siddiq Hasan, even if they downplayed its India connection. They viewed the Muslim cosmopolis simplistically as a public sphere that represented caliph-­centric pan-­Islam. They believed that Indian Muslims were attracted to the cosmopolis only because of the caliph. This was a 320

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connection that always aroused their suspicion. They viewed with concern any Muslim reformist who returned to Bhopal from the Arab provinces of the Ottoman Empire. They felt vindicated when in the high period of the Indian Khilafat movement the political conspiracies in the Hijaz were traced to Bhopal. In 1916, the arrest at Nainital of Maulvi Khalil Ahmad of Saharanpur, who had recently returned from Jeddah, caused a stir in both Muslim as well as official circles. It was alleged that the maulvi had contacts in Arabia and India with those who were involved in a “serious Muhammedan conspiracy” against the British government. Though not a conspirator himself, he was said to have had knowledge of the plots of his associates.168 On his return from Jeddah he had dined with Mirza Abdul Samad, military secretary to the begum. The Muslims in the upper echelons of Bhopal society expressed “grief and consternation” at his arrest. Khalil Ahmad was released after investigations, but his links with the alleged conspirator, Maulana Mahmud Hasan of Deoband, always kept him under official surveillance. C. E. W. Sands, of the Crime Intelligence Office, was of the view, as he later put it, that it “was quite natural that some Muhammedan gentlemen in Bhopal should be connected with such eminent maulvis as Khalil Ahmad of Saharanpur and Mahmud Hasan of Deoband both of whom have a sizable and wide circle of murids, ex-­pupils and friends in Upper India.”169 British officials always put under the scanner people with links to the Delhi-­based Nazarat-­ut-­Muarif ul Korania, the educational center of the begum’s son Obaidullah. They were alarmed that the Bhopal government funded it.170 Obaidullah was the main conduit between the world of traveling maulvis and Bhopal. Indeed, he was unrelenting in his efforts to pull seminaries like Deoband into the center of the Muslim cosmopolis. We saw in Chapter 4 that Deoband always had a tremendous scholarly presence and link with the Muslim world outside. But Obaidullah wanted to make this con­ nection politically active and dependent on an array of imperial assemblages. His forays into the madrasa at Deoband were both welcomed and resented by the scholars there. In 1916, one Maulvi Sayyid Muham­ ­mad Murtaza Hasan, the son of Hakim Bunyad Ali of Chandpur, 321

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Bijnor, reported that he had seen Obaidullah in Deoband. More important, he witnessed Maulana Mahmud Hasan tie a pagri (headgear) on Obaidullah’s head. Sayyid Muhammad Murtaza Hasan remarked on the respect and honors that Obaidullah received at the seminary and his involvement in event management. Obaidullah was also appointed naib nazim of Jamayatul Ansar. He gave financial assistance to students at Deoband and obtained the madrasa’s assistance for setting up his own school, the Nazratul-­Muarif ul Korania in Delhi. His followers at Deoband included a range of maulvis from all over India who had links to the Hijaz. These included Sheikh Ahmad of Bhagalpur and Ahmad Hasan of Kairana.171 With the influential Maulvi Ahmad Hasan on his side, Obaidullah decided to pull Deoband into transimperial Muslim politics. He suggested that the institute close down in support of Turkey’s war in the Balkans and indeed collect funds for the Balkan War. This was opposed by many maulanas of Deoband including Habibur Rahman, who argued that Deoband “was a religious school and the view of the government was unknown.” This implied that it was not common for the seminary to take independent political stands. In his drive to pull Deoband out of its narrow territorial groove, Obaidullah flaunted his own vast transimperial contacts. He cited his support networks not just in the Hijaz but also among the ­maulanas of the northwestern frontier and Kabul.172 Significantly, Obaidullah’s transimperial world corresponded with that of his step-­father Siddiq Hasan. At about the same time, the youngest son of the begum, Hamidullah, had become involved in Muslim nationalist politics that had a procaliph orientation. He caused concern as he had reportedly become “intimate with the brothers Muhammad Ali and Shaukat Ali” who were rallying Indian help for Turkey. In 1915, M. R. Burn, chief secretary to the government of Uttar Pradesh, reported to the government of India that the Ali brothers and Hamidullah had met at Aligarh and that the latter had collected funds for them and had given them Rs. 2,000.173 Their overt expressions of pro-­Turkish sentiment were in tune with the responses of many Muslim organizations, like the All India Muslim League and the Khuddam-­i-­K aba, that were led by educated elite Muslims. 322

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These organizations were incensed at British support of the Arab revolt (1914–1916), which had ended Turkish control of Arabia and resulted in the sheriff of Mecca being made custodian of the Holy Places. Predictably, the All India Muslim League, the Khuddam-­i-­ Kaba, and various other societies and Muslim organizations adopted an “uncompromising attitude” toward the grand sheriff’s actions. In response, the British tapped “influential Muslims” and urged them to mold opinion in their favor. The foreign secretary wrote to all officers across India that they should convey the following ­argument in the best possible way to Indian Muslims before an opinion crystallized among them: “That to be pro-­Turk is to be anti-­British, since the allies of our enemies must be our enemies, and the enemies of our enemies must be our friends. The Turks by their own action brought themselves into the former category . . . ​ the Arabs on the other hand have long been attempting to throw off the oppressive Turkish yoke which the Indian pilgrims have themselves experienced.”174 They were asked to explain that the Arabs had become friends of the British by becoming “enemies of our enemy.” And thus the British government would offer them assistance if they so desired. But at the same time, the British government pledged that the “Holy Places will be more than ever immune from molestation by Christian naval and military forces.”175 Even as the British worked through the supposed contradiction of Indian Muslims taking on the roles of both loyal nationalists and Ottoman sympathizers, the begum of Bhopal’s stand on the issue revealed that it was entirely possible to lean both ways. She and her subjects refused to condemn Turkey or to applaud the Arabs and their British mentors. Yet her alliances and loyalty to the British remained intact. She was constrained by her political alliances with the British within India even as she was integral to the vast Ottoman­supported Muslim cosmopolis carved out by her husband. Torn between the pressures of local territorial politics and the pull of trans-­Asian cosmopolitanism, she best exemplified the case of people at the crossroads of the “national” and the “transnational.” The latter for her was far more diffused and flexible than the notion of caliph-­centric pan-­Islam suggests. But her dilemma and ­ambivalence 323

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revealed as well that the caliph was also integral to the imperially embedded Muslim cosmopolis. The begum’s supposedly ambivalent stand gave the debate on “Muslim opinion” about Ottoman Turkey and the caliph a new turn, one that drew more from the dynamics of the Muslim cosmopolitanism of her husband and less from the mere simplistic caliph-­ centric Pan-­Islam as understood by the British administration. At the start of the Arab revolt in 1914, the begum framed herself within the parameters of her commitment to British rule and expressed her regret over the Ottoman government’s alliance with Germany, which had made it the enemy of the British. She did not think the Arab revolt was anything new or surprising since the Arabs had been dissatisfied with Ottoman rule for some time. And she was therefore not surprised that they freed themselves from “the yoke and ranged themselves on the sides of their co-­religionists in India, Egypt and many parts of the world who [were] fighting on the side of the allies.” She described the Arabs as her friends and the results of their fight as “favourable to Islam.”176 However, she tactfully realigned the Arabs and their British and other allies toward the Muslim transimperial cosmopolis. She did so by arguing that it was via British imperial networks that her Muslim subjects could access the transimperial cosmopolis. She argued that the embedding of Muslim networks in Western imperial webs made Britain and her allies integral to the Muslim cosmopolitan world. And thus the Arabs had only “ranged themselves on the side of their co-­religionists in India, Egypt and many other parts of the world who [were] fighting on the cause of the allies.”177 Very much in line with the rhetoric of Muslim cosmopolitans like Sayyid Fadl or Maulana Kairanwi, who as we have seen had carved their trans-­ Asian networks by exploiting imperial politics, she too considered it appropriate to support the Arab revolt against Turkey by invoking the critique of the hajis from the British and Dutch colonies who had experienced the corrupt Turkish administration. She exploited imperial politics regarding the shoddy Ottoman management of the haj, remarking, “With the expulsion of the Turks the Hijaz will again be open to pilgrimage, and there will be no risk of interference with pilgrims; and the pledge given by the British Government 324

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at the outbreak of the war absolutely guarantees the immunity of the Holy Places and Jeddah from attack or molestation by the British naval and military forces.” Indeed, in her conversations with O. V. Bosamquet, agent to the governor general in central India, she seemed firmly centered in the Muslim cosmopolitan world as laid out by her late husband, Siddiq Hasan. She mapped this cosmopolis onto the political alignments laid out by Britain and its allies against Turkey. As we saw above, she viewed this political network as integral to the Muslim cosmopolis and identified Britain and its allies as political sovereigns of Muslim subjects. According to her, this status gave them a place in the Muslim cosmopolis. She thus called the alliance between the British and the Arabs one between “co-­religionists.” And even while she emphasized the new political networks as being in line with Muslim cosmopolitanism, she insisted that the “war [was] not a religious war.” She referred to the caliph as an ordinary Asian ruler—​t he sultan—​who had lost prestige because of his diminished political clout and territory. And thus, very much like other Muslim cosmopolitans discussed in this book, she too had a very desacralized view of the Ottoman caliph. The begum attributed the caliph’s significance more to the temporal power that he wielded—​as a sultan—​over a large part of the Muslim world rather than to his self-­proclaimed spiritual status. She emphasized the significance of temporal power in leading the Muslim community and concluded that the sheriff of Mecca, despite his being the custodian of the Holy Places, would be popularly viewed as the caliph only if he expanded his temporal clout.178 And until the sheriff reached that position of strength, the Ottoman sultan, despite having been ousted from the custodianship of the Holy Places, would continue to be seen as the caliph because he wielded immense power. Indeed, she observed, “The Turk if driven [out] from Europe will still be the khalifa if he has the power even though it be an empire purely Eastern and out of Europe.”179 And by the same logic she argued that “if help [was] given to the sheriff at close of the war, and he were made the sultan of Turkey he would then be the khalifa. No one would have a word to say against such an arrangement.” But she emphasized that as long as there was an 325

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Ottoman Empire with a powerful temporal head, anyone else who was appointed head of the Holy Places would be looked upon only as the “vali of Mecca and Medina.” Her late husband and other cosmopolitans had seen the Ottoman sultan as a powerful imperial reference point that marked one significant border of the Muslim cosmopolis as it stretched over the imperial assemblages. Echoing their sentiments, she remarked, “Islam looks on the sultan of Turkey as a sort of vakil to the court of Europe, and would be gravely hurt if that vakil were removed from Europe. But Islam would not care a button if the sultan were removed to be replaced in Istanbul by the Arab.”180 The begum’s use of the language and sentiment of Muslim cosmopolitanism was quite remarkable as she balanced her political constraints, as expressed in her alliance with the British, to her larger connection with the world outside. Her responses echoed those of the scholarly elite protagonists and founders of Muslim cosmopolitanism. Like them, she too wished to distance the Indo-­Persian elites like herself (the raees) from the views of the Indian Muslim League, which she said was composed of “barristers, doctors and people of that class.” And she described these people as “few in number and without influence.” She said her views were also distinct from people of “very ordinary (if not low) birth” who had made remarks about the Arab revolt.181 However, the British were so fixated on caliph-­centric pan-­Islamism that they viewed the begum’s complex cosmopolitanism as a “change of stand” made under the influence of her son Hamidullah, who was known to be friendly with the procaliph Ali brothers.182 The begum’s reluctance to address her public on the issue of support to the caliph until she had studied and gauged the situation in detail only added to British fears. And yet despite their caliphal gaze, D. Gray, the viceroy, did rely on the Muslim cosmopolis to influence opinion in favor of the British on the issue of the transition in the Hijaz. Gray hoped that the returning pilgrims, satisfied from a “pilgrimage free from the usual scourges of epidemic, disease, robbery and extortion [would] tend to soften Indian Moslem opinion towards the new regime.”183 He thus inadvertently shared the idea of the Muslim cosmopolitans who desacralized the caliphate and spoke about Muslim ­connectedness 326

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across the imperial assemblage—​but an assemblage that they envisioned as being informed by ideas of good governance and directed by a sultan with the political clout to lead the umma. And the reactions of most Muslim notables and rulers only underlined further how quickly the caliph was de-­centered as the desire for an effective Muslim leader with temporal power gained momen­ ­t um. Thus, for instance, the nawab of Tonk approved of the sheriff of Mecca’s revolt, but “doubted his strength” to pull through. The nizam of Haiderabad also did not outright condemn him. He waited to see if he would fully succeed. Political organizations that were invested in anticolonial politics were the most vociferous critics of the sheriff. These included not just the Indian Muslim League but also the Punjab Muslim League and organizations in the Northwest Provinces.184 The begum had a nuanced view of the Arab revolt that reflected her understanding of Muslim cosmopolitanism. But the Arab Bulletin, a British collation of views from the Arab Bureau, insisted on view­ ­ing the Indian Muslim reaction to the revolt as hostile. It argued that Muslims in India were angry because, as they described it, the revolt “weakens the strongest of the independent Moslem states on which Indian Moslems consider that their existence as an independent political entity in India depends.”185 The report saw Mus­ ­lim orientation toward Turkey as a reaction to their fear of Hindu domination in the event of Britain not responding to their demands for separate electorates and resorting to other ways of safeguard­ ­ing the interests of minorities. And thus it concluded that “look­ ­ing around for some counterpoise to Hindu majority the Muslims remembered that they were members of an Islamic brotherhood extending beyond the limits of India and decided that their one hope lay in the sovereign Moslem states—​Turkey, Persia and Afghanistan.”186 Significantly, while the report itself indicated that these other countries together constituted the arena of Muslim politics and movement, it continued to focus on the singular appeal and significance of Turkey in the Muslim cosmopolis. And this singularity of Turkey’s position in Muslim lives was problematic. Although the report was accurate to the extent that Muslim cosmopolitanism was 327

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rooted in the imperial assemblages of which Turkey was an important part, it exaggerated Turkey’s significance in defining Muslim politics. Muslim cosmopolitanism was more diffused than the report suggested; it embraced many imperial networks and referents, and it did not hinge only on Ottoman Turkey. Indeed, not only imperial Persia, as mentioned in the report, but imperial Russia and Britain sustained Muslim cosmopolitanism. And the report in fact inadvertently alluded to this when it defined pan-­Islamism as caliph-­centric: it stated that international relations of both imperial Britain and Ottoman Turkey under the Islamicist sultan Abd-­al Hamid II encouraged caliph-­centric pan-­Islamism. The report further suggested that the imperial duo of Britain and Russia had so oriented Muslim cosmopolitanism: “When we were pro-­Turk and anti-­ Russian, we, too rallied Indian Moslems to the Prophet’s standard, filling their minds with novel ideas regarding the ottoman caliphate. The Sunnis having no universal leader in India easily came to recognise the Turkish Caliph as their Caliph and to pray for him as such.” In this, Abd-al Hamid II, anxious as he was to resuscitate the caliphate in order to check the liberal reformers in Turkey, encouraged them. Thus Turkey came to be regarded as their refuge.”187 The report also suggested that Muslims were upset that the new custodian of the Holy Places was not an independent power but a stooge of the British. Other articles in the Bulletin set up Arabia as the alternate site of Muslim cosmopolitanism but did not shed the Turkey-­centric approach altogether. They justified the Arab takeover of the Holy Lands on the grounds of correcting an imbalance that had robbed the traditionally “superior” Arabs of their historical role in guid­ ­ing the Muslim world.188 And thus one universal site of reference for Muslim cosmopolitanism (Istanbul) was set to be replaced by another one in Mecca. Contributors saw the Arab loss of control of the spiritual sites as the main reason why they had not been able to flower into a formidable political force. And thus their fall from their traditional role as the “conqueror” and “civilizing force” to a “subjugated” race needed to be corrected. And yet they felt that all was not lost for Turkey. As an article in the Bulletin stated, “The ruling house of Mecca owes its elevation and present wealth to an 328

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Albanian Pasha of Egypt and its present head to appointment by the Porte.”189 Provocatively titled essays appeared in the Bulletin entitled “Arabia: The Next Caliphate,” which cautioned the British to handle carefully their political sovereign status. They warned that Muslim cosmopolitanism, Arab-­centric as it now was, was not merely about spiritual authority. They urged the British to shed the official pretense that the caliphate was only about spiritual power. The truth, the Bulletin argued, was that the caliphate “combine[d] temporal and spiritual dominion over Moslems in general.” And thus even if Muslims did not see the caliph merely as a pope or spiritual head but as a political sovereign, they should be sure “to regard him so.” And the article concluded: “Thus our sovereignty and that of the caliph vis-­à-­v is our Muslim subjects in India will not be compromised.”190 Another article highlighted the sovereign powers of the caliph along­­ side his spiritual ones by reminding the government of the recitation of the name of the caliph as the “sovereign of all Mohammedans’ in the khutbas. His name was followed by the name of the ruling political sovereign of the territory.191 Contributors recognized the complex dynamics and functioning of Muslim cosmopolitanism. For instance, they cautioned the government not to confuse the actual nature of the Islamic caliphate with the European conception of it as being merely the “spiritual chief” of all Muslims.192 They argued that in his political avatar the caliph played a key role in shaping Muslim cosmopolitanism between empires. They thus considered it important that the caliph be an Arab and allied to the British. This would ensure that the British would oversee transimperial Muslim cosmopolitanism. The Bulletin goes into the history of the caliphate tradition only to prove that the original caliphate was Arab. And in the sixteenth century, the Ottoman emperor, Selim I, defeated the Abbasid caliph, who was anyway debased because he was non-­Arab, and set himself up as the first Turkish caliph: he was thus the “pseudo Caliph.”193 Later, Abd-­al Hamid II improvised upon this title, combining temporal and spiritual powers during his negotiations of various treaties with czarist Russia. This was part of a tradeoff for a similar protectionist role Russia was to play with Christian minorities in Ottoman 329

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territories. And of course, Abd-­al Hamid II played on this further and institutionalized it by compiling in his name Arabic khutbas in which he appeared as the monarch of the Muslims of the world. The author of the article argues that the European concept of the caliphate as a mere spiritual point had been exploited by Turkey to make inroads into the subject populations of European powers and to “acquire excessive influence over Moslem subjects of other states and specially in British possession.”194 These contributions to the Bulletin revealed that the British government was in denial of the complexity of Muslim cosmopolitanism as it stretched between empires and covered multiple imperial centers. In contrast, the begum of Bhopal was very much in sync with its dynamics and spoke its language, making her an enigma for her allies in India—​t he British.

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Travel across the Indian Ocean to the Ottoman world was not the only way Indian Muslims carved out their cosmopolitanism to posture against British imperial drives. Moments of crisis fired the Muslim imaginary and enabled notions of self and identity to cross the borders of British India and connect with the Muslim cosmopolis laid out by émigrés. This chapter focuses on Maulana Jafer Thanesri (1838–1905) as one such important case in point. Jafer Thanesri was born in 1838 in Thanesar, in the Punjab. His father was a farmer. He was a disciple of the famous mujahid Sayyid Ahmad Shahid. Even though he remained committed to the Wahabi movement of Sayyid Ahmad, he rose to status via service as a clerk and petition writer for the zamindars and other needy people in his locality. He was known as a legal consultant in his area, and amassed considerable property by rendering legal advice to clients.1 Thanesri participated actively in 1857. In Delhi he headed the mujahideen who moved to the city and actively assisted their leader, Inayet Ali, in exhorting to rebellion the Nausherah and the Mardan regiments of sepoys posted on the Afghanistan border. He returned to the Punjab only after the defeat of the rebel forces in Delhi. But even on his return he actively supported the Wahabi movement 331

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against the British in the border areas. His home in Thanesar was the headquarters of the anti-­British mujahids and a critical conduit for sending money and men to support their war in Afghanistan.2 He was arrested in 1863 for conspiring to smuggle funds to the anti­British mujahideen in Afghanistan. He was initially sentenced to death. But in 1866 his punishment was commuted to life in penal transportation, which meant deportation to the Andaman Islands. He spent nearly eighteen years in the penal colony, where on account of his knowledge of Urdu and Persian he was appointed as Naib Mir Munshi, or clerk in the office of the local court superintendent and chief commissioner. In 1884, he returned to the Punjab with a new wife, children, and considerable wealth and social status. Thanesri was always keen to record his experiences and has several publications to his credit. By his own account he began to pen his experiences in 1862 on being harassed by the British in the postmutiny decade. However, his manuscript is said to have fallen into the hands of the government during his court trial in Ambala. William Hunter incorporated parts of it in his book The Indian Musalmans. He resumed writing afresh in the 1880s on his return to the Punjab after eighteen years in the Andaman Islands. His writings focused on his life and time in the Andamans. His memoir was first published in the late 1880s as the Tawarikh-­i-­Ajaib.3 In 1895, incensed by Hunter’s damaging portrayal of his role and that of the other “Wahabis” in the mutiny, he wrote the first comprehensive biography of the founder of the Wahabi movement, Sayyid Ahmad Shahid of Rae Bareilly. This was published as the Sawaneh Ahmadi.4 And while in the Andaman penal colony he began to write, along with Major M. Prothero, the deputy commissioner of the island, a gazetteer-­style history of the islands. This book is titled the Tarikh­i-­Port Blair (History of Port Blair). It has information on the customs, religions, languages, and flora and fauna of the islands. Thanesri helped both in the collection of material as well as in the compilation of the volume. Later, at the request of Sardar Ghail Singh, the circuit superintendent of Port Blair, he translated it into Urdu.5 He called the Urdu version the Tarikh-­i-­Ajeeb. There has been relatively less interest in exploring how the experience of convicts in their new identity as “transportable” and 332

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­­ “criminally marked” subjects transformed their own sense of belong­ ­ing. Even lesser attention has been paid to charting out their imaginary, which transported them beyond their immediate location and triggered a kind of felt patriotism.6 A notable exception is Jamal Malik’s analysis of the prison literature of Maulana Fazl-­i-­Haq, a mutiny convict imprisoned in the cellular jail at the islands. But this too is more a study of imprisonment than of long-­distance travel as a convict. Nevertheless, Malik sees in Haq’s predominantly Arabic literary productions the attempt to create an “imagined community” that spilled beyond the territorial and connected to the Islamic imperium with Mecca as its pivot. Malik interprets the preferred use of Arabic by Haq, and the dispatch of his text by his son to Mecca, the hub of the Muslim world, as proof of his desire to establish a transimperial identity. He concludes that Fazl-­i-­Haq’s writings in the universal language of Arabic and their export to Mecca created a historical memory that connected the territorial to the extraterritorial.7 Unlike Haq, who was locked in a cell from which he imagined a world beyond, Thanesri’s observations are more ethnographical, as he was not caged in a cell but belonged to the category of convicts who were integrated into the colonial administration as low-­level functionaries. He worked as a scribe in the jail administration. He describes both his travel to the Andamans and his observations of the island in great detail. Unlike Kairanwi and Imdadullah Makki, he did not manage to escape to the Ottoman territories. But this did not stop him from envisaging a Muslim cosmopolis stretched across empires. His imaginary straddled empires, and via his writings he envisaged an embracive civilizational space that spilled out of British India and challenged the colonial regime through its call for Muslim unity across the imperial assemblage.

Thanesri and the Making of His Mulk, or Nation British “rule of law” rubbed on the everyday lives of people even if it did not always improve it. It offered employment opportunities in the army and low-­level clerical jobs in colonial offices and the courts 333

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of law. It opened fresh opportunities for travel and mechanisms to address law-­and-­order issues and to redress inheritance and other societal grievances. The network of government jobs created a positive impression of opportunities that existed across the length and breadth of British India and marked its administrative boundaries. This created a sense of belonging that went beyond the immediate locality and the “patrimonial agrarian patriotism” or “felt community” of the early nineteenth century. It was culled from the British administrative and legal framework—​sarkari amaldari—​and its claim to uphold a just society where the rule of law prevailed. Both the praise of this colonially marked edifice as well as the critique of its rough edges reinforced the idea of the proto-­nation as carved out by the administrative frame of the British government. Thanesri’s memoir, the Tawarikh-­i-­Ajaib, which he wrote in the 1880s after his release, provides a critique of his own arrest in Aligarh, an account of his travel to Delhi and Ambala as a convict, the description of the atrocities committed against his brothers, children and wife that preceded it, and the subsequent hounding of Wahabis. It reflects how he internalized the state’s vocabulary of the rule of law and often lamented its violation. The critique of the British legal and administrative framework served to define his own sense of belonging within a system that had a distinct legal frame and wider territorial reach. Thanesri believed that it was relatively easy for individuals to move across British India as it was tightly knit through roads, rail, and a network of administrative and legal offices. He was confident that as the literate and experienced scribe of the Persian office he could obtain employment in any other such office within British-­controlled territory.8 The larger canvas of British India and its opportunities widened his sense of belonging. And this administrative frame with its standardized norms of service and conduct framed his notion of homeland. However, the freshly construed homeland—​his proto-­nation—​ had its limitations. This was evident when Thanesri arrived in Bombay, Karachi, and Sindh. It was difficult for him to culturally identify with these cities. He was surprised to see the dress, languages, and the people of Karachi: “In this mulk munshis and clerks wear very high caps . . . ​we had always thought that in angrez ­amaldari 334

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there would always be an Urdu and Pharsi daftar. And because of our expertise in munshigiri we would get the job of writer anywhere and spend our jail years peacefully. But we were mistaken. In Multan the Urdu and Pharsi daftar had finished. In mulk Sindh we saw only daftar of Sindhi zabaan. Even though the Sindhi alphabets are similar to Pharsi, but we could not understand the language.”9 The cities made him feel inadequately trained as a scribe. Indeed, his pride in being a clerk and scribe soon disappeared. Nonetheless, the administrative and legal structure of the state became the reference against which he defined his own sense of belonging. This was most evident at the time of his trial, when his battery of lawyers asked for the trial to be abandoned on the grounds that it was illegal, as their client had operated from outside his “home territory.” They identified his home clearly within the sarkari amaldari, by which they meant the government’s administrative and legal ambit. They emphasized that both Thanesri and other Wahabis had carried on their allegedly “criminal” activities from the Punjab, which was outside the frame of the British administration. This being the case, Section 121 of the penal code did not apply to them, as it was not applicable for battles fought from outside the sarkari amaldari.10 Thanesri experienced the hollowness of the British rule of law when his lawyers’ plea was rejected. His sense of outrage at the fragility of the “rule of law,” with which he identified, was again illustrated when at the time of his trial at the Sessions Court in Ambala, the judge urged him to ask for forgiveness. Thanesri retorted that he “wanted justice,” and, he told the judge, “that does not appear to be flowing from you.”11 The continued violation of the “rule of law” continued to agitate Thanesri both before and after his trial. He was convinced that within the ambit of the colonial administrative territory, with which he completely identified, the rule of law was hollow and the system corrupt. His descriptions of corruption as well as his passionate plea to rectify the system’s flaws reflected his sorrow at the violation of his newborn sense of self that was framed within British legal and administrative paradigms. He lamented that both his mother and brother Mohammad Sayyid were arrested and tortured. His younger brother, on being tortured and threatened with death by hanging, 335

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revealed his hideouts. This triggered a wide-­scale harassment of his friends and relatives in Ambala, which included a search of the house of Muhammad Shafiq, his close associate. Thanesri revealed how the criminal justice system was abused by arm-­t wisting innocent people with dire threats until they complied with official dictates and agreed to give false evidence. His relatives Maulvi Muhammad Taqi and Muhammad Rafi were arrested. They were asked to reveal the details or else face the gallows. Later they were freed when they agreed to become informers. They became the government’s witness for the trial of Muhammad Shafi, who was falsely implicated and arrested in Lahore.12 Their help also proved useful in arresting Maulvi Yahya Ali, Maulvi Abdul Rahim, Ilahi Baksh, Miyan Abdul Ghaffar, and other Wahabis.13 In Ambala, Thanesri himself was given the choice to be freed and was offered positions and status if he became a government witness. His noncompliance resulted in his physical torture and threats of death by hanging.14 His younger brother Muhammad Sayyid was coerced to become the government’s witness for his trial. He was given money and threatened with death by hanging if he did not comply. But at the time of the trial he broke down and resigned from his position as witness.15 In the Tawarikh-­i-­Ajaib, Thanesri describes the arrest of thousands of Muslims in Bengal for their involvement with the Wahabis. He notes also the bribes that many of them paid to buy their release. Many also agreed to become the government’s informers and witnesses.16 The best case in point was that of Ishwari Prasad, the police inspector of Patna, who throughout the trials of the Wahabis (1863– 1873) remained loyal to the British. In return for this he was made a deputy collector. Many like him amassed favors—​jagirs, zamin­ daris, and fortunes—​by their participation in the abuse of the rule of law.17 The state’s corruption was commercialized. It was up for sale in the market. Thus, for instance, one arbitrator along with a witness was always ready for service. He would sell his services to the best bidder who would pay him the largest bribe. And he would secure the evidence of his witnesses tailored to the best interest of his clients.18 Thanesri made sense of the violations of the rule of law and the indignities perpetrated on his companions across British India, 336

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whose legal confines he identified as his homeland, or mulk, through the moral and spiritual succor of Islam. Thus his territorially defined homeland—​mulk—​became morally and spiritually framed in the Islamic way from the very start. In his memoir he comments on his own arrest, noting, “The four months in jail helped me spiritually.” He adds that he “was grateful to Allah for putting [him] through this test of patience.” The unfairness of the corrupt system was comprehensible to him only as a fight for Allah kee raah (right path). He could withstand its trauma only through his belief that it was a trial of his patience and perseverance. God had subjected him to this torture so as to test his commitment to Islam.19 On May 1864, when the court announced his punishment as death by hanging, he was happy at the thought that he would be a martyr and thus acquire the highest possible status in the eyes of God. He offered the following explanation to the Europeans, who often wondered why he and his colleagues were looking happy even after hearing their death sentence: “In our religion being tortured in the service of Allah and killed gets us the status of martyr. And that makes us elated.”20 Similarly, when the judge announced his death sentence, Thanesri responded by defining his sense of self not just as a member of the sarkari amaldari, which for him was his mulk, but also of another administration, that of Allah. The two for him were inextricably connected. He retorted, “The work of giving and taking life is God’s, and not in your hands. He is the Almighty who has the power to kill you before my death.”21 His entire text is dotted with descriptions of the miracles and the barakat (blessings) that occurred in prison as a result of the confinement of so many learned scholars of Islam with spiritual powers.22 According to him, their divine administration ran parallel to that of the British legal and administrative frame; it became only more pronounced each time the latter was perceived to be unfairly violated.

Travel and the Political Profile of the Mulk Travel of men of religion in the early nineteenth century across Hindustan and to and fro from Yemen and South East Asia predates 337

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the era of European colonialism.23 The Islamic political imperium that controlled the Indian Ocean until 1800 ensured that such traffic continued with few obstacles. Indeed, men of religion and their texts were very much part of the literary ecumene that knitted precolonial India to Iran and Central Asia.24 Historians have argued that the movement of men, texts, and ideas did not abruptly end in 1800—​t he beginning of the landmark decade of Western global expansion over what was an Islamicate world order.25 However, the period did see travel increase in scale; it also inaugurated changes in the administration of moving people and in the modes of transport. The consolidation of colonial rule in India in the mid-­nineteenth century also meant that the conditions of travel and its magnitude underwent significant transformations. If at one level the move­­ ment of people increased in volume and expanse, it also became a routine, codified, and narrowly monitored. Most significantly, travelers began to be marked with the new legally recognized identities of convicts, offenders, pilgrims with official passes, and so forth. New identities inaugurated an era of novel experiences. Thus long before the commencement of the passport regime, which inscribed the nation-­state identity upon individuals, colonial subjects had already reworked their self-­identities as a result of their changed political context.26 The travel and deportation of mutiny convicts, especially Muslims, revealed fresh dynamics of travel. Since the official explanation of the mutiny-­rebellion put the spotlight on the Muslim rebels, the crackdown on them was the heaviest. Indeed, from the 1830s, following the jihad call of Sayyid Ahmad Shahid of Rae Bareilly, the state was always suspicious of “Wahabi” movements. It arrested and imprisoned these so-­called Wahabis in large numbers. This only intensified the movement of Muslim men of religion across India, especially from Bengal to the new resistance areas in the northwest region bordering Afghanistan. But the mutiny-­rebellion of 1857 introduced a new element into this movement. It created the category of a “mujahid wahabi convict,” a marked colonial subject who moved across the length and breadth of India and abroad as a consequence of his legally sanctioned deportation and transportation to the penal colony of the Andaman Islands and as indentured labor to 338

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the Park Straits, Burma, and the islands of the Indian Ocean. Or he left British India as a fugitive runaway to the Arab provinces of the Ottoman Empire.27 Thanesri too traveled long distances that he had never traversed before. His memoir, the Tawarikh-­i-­Ajaib, is a travelogue that details his experiences as he moved from Aligarh via much of northern and eastern India to the Andaman Islands in the Bay of Bengal. He had never traveled the length and breadth of India. He himself was impressed at the extraordinary amount of travel he did as a British convict. He was excited at the new experiences he collected while covering a vast geographical space. In 1886, on his return to Ambala, after eighteen years of imprisonment in the Andamans, he remarked: “I realized that from here via Bombay to Kaala Paani, and then back via Calcutta to Ambala I had covered two thousand miles.”28 This for him constituted his first-­t ime round tour of what he had begun to define as his country—​what he refers to as Hind: “Kul Hind ka tawaaf ho gaya thaa.” (I had circumambulated the entire Hind.)29 Indeed, his new job in the Ambala magistrate’s office after his release and return to the city enabled him to continue with his travels as far east as Calcutta and as far west as Lahore. In 1886, he also contemplated traveling to London to pursue a legal case.30 As we saw above, Thanesri’s travel and transportation along the networks of rivers, roads, and railways spread out by the British government, and his transfer from one jail and court and its associated offices to another, ensured that he experienced different geographical and linguistic regions. It cultivated in him the sense of belonging to a wide and culturally diverse territorial confine that was administratively and legally framed by British institutions. He referred to this bounded entity as Hind or Hindustan. He identified with its flora and fauna; its fragrances and natural surroundings symbolized the essence of home. Travel across British India lent him a sense of “felt community” or attachment to the soil, and a political orientation. Ironically, this political profile was defined in opposition to the very colonial state that had precipitated it in the first instance. Thanesri’s Tawarikh details his journey from the Ambala prison, where he was locked up on being convicted in 1862, to the Andaman Islands where he spent eighteen years as a convict. The text details 339

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his long travel to the islands via Lahore, Sindh, Bombay, and Karachi. At one level, this journey—​undertaken with the help of imperial transport and communications—​offered him his first-­ever geographical tour of the country and its diverse people. It helped him reconfigure what he understood to be the territorial and cultural contours of his identity. But at another level, the indignities that he faced as a convict, the injustice and unfairness that he observed on account of race and color, and the compromises that he had to make on his elite class status all combined to give his “felt patriotism” a distinct anticolonial political profile. Travel as a convict across the country introduced him to a range of people with whom he felt connected because of the shared experience of living under British administration. The crowds of British subjects who surrounded him slowly lent his sense of belonging an anticolonial patriotism. Each time Thanesri and his colleagues were shifted from one jail to another there were crowds of sympathetic people of all religions who cheered in solidarity and support. They were a noticeable presence at his first entry into the Ambala jail on being convicted by the Sessions Court of the city. He describes them in the following words: “Thousands of people men and women had collected in the kutcheri [legal court] to hear the verdict. They were shocked and crying, and many accompanied us to jail.”31 In 1865, on his death punishment being commuted to life imprisonment, he made a memorable journey by road from Ambala to Lahore. During this journey, he breathed the fresh air and observed in detail the diverse flora and fauna of the country. He purchased his favorite snacks from the street, where people gathered to greet and watch the marching convicts. He describes his sense of enjoyment: “Harr din Eid aur harr raat shabe barat ho gayee.” (Every day was as joyful as the festival of Eid, and every night as colorful and bright as the festival of the night of the dead.)32 Thanesri and his companions’ popularity due to their status as British convicts was most apparent in the bazaars in the city of Thane, near Bombay. Some of his companions attempted to loot some sweet (mithai) shops as they marched through the bazaar to the jail. The shopkeepers were not incensed. Indeed, some of them handed them sweets. It was even more significant that many of them were not even Muslims.33 Thanesri’s 340

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more personal individual encounters with staff in the jails and the courts gave him an occasion to bond with people of regions and religions whom he had rarely encountered prior to his arrest and movement across the country. Thus in the Lahore central jail he was touched by the sympathetic welcome and care he received from a Hindu Kashmiri daroga.34 In Karachi he was bewildered by the new styles of headgear worn by Hindu and Muslim scribes. He describes it as follows: “Iss mulk mein barri barri unchee topiyaan munshi aur clerk, aur barri barri unchee pagriyaan Hindu mahajan pahantei hain.” (In this mulk, munshis and clerks wear tall caps, and Hindu mahajans [money lenders] wear high headgear.)35 He engaged with people who spoke different languages and came from cultural milieux different from his own. On the ship that brought him to Bombay he reserved special praise for a Muslim orderly who served him well because he was a maulvi.36 He reserved special accolades for a Muslim police officer of the rank of naib daroga at the Thane jail who looked after him well, and also for the marine Sepoys who very respectfully escorted him in the ship that took him to the Andamans.37 Individuals of different religions and regions whom he met during his travels familiarized him with the multifaceted nature of his mulk. And the multireligious crowds on the streets reminded him of the common thread that, at least politically, knitted him to this diversity. His observations on the variety of flora, fauna, languages, and cultures, garnered as he traveled on the newly laid out networks of roads, railways, and ships, reinforced his “felt community” identity. These observations also brought home the fact that there was a palpable anticolonial sentiment across the board that held this diversity together. This political connectivity surpassed the physical connections established by the new networks of roads, legal offices, telegraph, and railways. In the Tawarikh he reports this diversity with enthusiasm, often peppering it with a critique of the British infrastructure. For instance, he describes the pleasures of being in the fresh air as he took a boat ride to Karachi on the Darya-­i-­Sindh (River of Sind) and observed with excitement the hitherto unknown plants and vegetables that he saw on the banks. But he is equally critical of the colonial infrastructure along which he moved and 341

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with which he identified. The Tawarikh records his complaints about the sheer number of people in the trains, who were “stuffed into one compartment like animals.”38 The ship journey from Karachi to the Andamans was also unpleasant for him, and he notes the overcrowding and the seasickness of fellow passengers.39 However, his “felt community” got a fillip each time he encountered novel landscapes and cultures within the administrative and legally framed contours of his mulk. Of course, Bombay, with its novel fruits and vegetables, building styles, dresses, languages, and people, never ceased to surprise and excite Thanesri. He appreciated the beauty and the wealth of the Parsi men and women he met for the first time in the city. He observes: “The people of this community are beautiful with light skin and are also wealthy. They belong to the community of fire worshipers.”40 He remarks also on the high-­rise buildings, the mounds of salt around, and the coconut trees with their fresh fruit. He was seeing each of these items for the first time in his life. He describes with excitement the saree styles he noticed in the city and the Hindus’ headgear, which he had never encountered before.41 Once Thanesri arrived in the Andamans, the flora and fauna, climate, seasons, people, religions, and lifestyles all served as reference points against which he was able to articulate his “felt community” identity, his mulk—​t he territorial, ecological, and cultural contours of the administratively defined mainland that he had left behind—​ more sharply than ever before. Not only did he begin to refer to this mulk as “Hind,” but he also gave it a specific location in the territorially vast, administratively welded, and culturally diverse mainland that he had left behind. And he profiled his proto-­nation against the ecological and cultural contours of the Andaman Islands. Thus the home on the mainland that he has left behind, his “Hind,” is contrasted to the penal colony in terms of its topography and seasons, which are different from those on the island. He describes the hardships unknown on the mainland and remarks, “People of Hind often do not realize the hardships that island people face.”42 He gives his own example to show how difficult it was for him to commute between islands. It was only the power of prayers that saved him from the bad weather conditions. Again, he defines Hind by describing its stark 342

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contrast to the flora, agricultural products, and vegetation of the islands: “In the jungles here you get a variety of wood that is different from the wood of our mulk.”43 He also views the island as different from his mulk because it had a different aab-­o-­hawa (environment). And that made it healthy (sahat baksh), a place less conducive to the fevers and diseases that ravaged his mulk.44 Thanesri comments on the range of seasons in his mulk, which he contrasts to the island’s relatively consistent weather. This was similar to the chait and baisakh season of Hind.45 He contrasts the tribals of the island, whom he describes derogatorily as forest dwellers ( jangli) and as belonging to a naked and wild community (dahshi nangi madar zaat qaum), to the relatively civil and cultured people of Hind.46 Indeed, so conscious was Thanesri of the differences between the people, flora, and fauna of the island and that of the mainland that as early as 1879 he translated into Urdu the English hand­­ book The History of Port Blair, which he had compiled with Major M. Protheroe. This book was written with the desire that the “people of Hind” could get to know about the life on the island.47 In the Urdu version of this text, Tarikh-­i-­Ajeeb, as we will see below, he consistently refers to his mulk as Hind. And he always represented Hind as a distinct administrative, territorial, and ecological entity that culturally was not just different but superior to the island against which its profile was constructed.

Civility, Race, Class, and the Making of the Mulk The official involvement of the convicts in the “settlement” and the ethnographic exercises conducted on the islands made them complicit in the British “civilizing” mission. They used and internalized the official vocabulary and definitions of the ecology, culture, and civilization of the island people. However, they cannibalized these concepts in fresh ways and lent them new meanings. Thus, unlike the British ethnographers who articulated their culturally loaded ethnic categories via comparison with Western societies, Thanesri’s referent was the mainland Hind. The island society was defined in contrast to Hind. In the process, Hind too was colored with a 343

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s­ pecific civilizational and racial profile. And this was very different from that carved out by his British masters. Thanesri’s The History of Port Blair or the Tarikh-­i-­Ajeeb (History of the Wondrous) shows how he engaged with the British-­derived notions of civility, race, and class. He negotiated these using both the Islamic as well as the tribal society’s referents. In the process, British notions of civility and culture were ascribed with fresh meanings. The Tarikh-­i-­Ajeeb is very significant because it is more than just an Urdu translation of an English handbook. Thanesri coauthored the English original, which was written in the format of a gazetteer. He reproduced in its preface a letter from Major M. Protheroe to the chief commissioner that recommended his release and threw light on the authorship of the book. In the letter, Protheroe states: “I have received great assistance from Saikh Sayyid Mohamed Jaffer No. 11450, head munshi in the southern district, in the preparation of this work he has labored most willingly at it during his leisure hours, and his intimate acquaintance with the numerous Settlement orders of the past twelve or thirteen years has proved very useful in its compilation. He has also unaided translated the whole of the work from English into Urdu.”48 The Urdu text, published in 1879, is 228 pages long and consists of two parts. The first part is confined to describing incidents in the Andaman Islands and the customs, habits, religions, and languages of the people. It has maps, charts, and sketches by Thanesri. The second part includes the Urdu equivalents of the words and phrases popularly used in the island. This part was written with the intention of helping British officers and others in the Andamans to learn and become familiar with Urdu; it also aimed to help the book make sense to the people of Hind. The text reveals that Thanesri’s conception of his mulk evolved as a consequence of his active involvement and participation in the British “settlement” of the islands. Britain’s imperial project of expanding agricultural land by cutting down forests, as well as its “civilizing” agenda, colored Thanesri’s sense of self and belonging in no small measure. As we saw above, his transportation across the vast British-­controlled territory before he entered the islands made him see his mulk as the administratively marked mainland that he had left behind. And like the British officers, he begins 344

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to call it Hind. And like them, he too defined it in geographical and ecological terms as different from that of the islands. In the Tarikh-­i-­Ajeeb, the ecological framing of the mulk reaches it culmination. Thanesri articulates his “felt community” identity as he demarcates his mulk as ecologically unique and distinct from the flora and fauna of the islands. Very much like a British settlement officer, as he assesses the benefits of retaining certain types of forests he details also the varieties of wood and forest products available in the islands. In the process, he defines more firmly the ecological contours of his mulk against that of the islands. For example, he observes, “Here the Samagango wood is as weighty and strong as the Saal and Sakhoo wood of our country [hamare mulk].” Similarly, in describing the seasons, he remarks, “The cold and the hot seasons are like our mulk’s chait and baisakh conditions.” (Sardi aur garmi hamare mulk kei chait—​baisakh kee kaifyat rahtee hai.)49 He even contrasts the mosquitoes of the islands to those in his mulk. Again, he notes that “the luab i-­ababeel [saliva of the swallow] is the specialty of this place and is used by people of other countries [mulk] like China and Burma for enhancing sexual prowess [quwat-­i-­baah].”50 He attributes the recent diminution in the occurrence of fevers and skin diseases to the clearance of jungles and expansion of cultivation. He also defines his mulk in terms of commonly found diseases. He glorifies the benefits of British imperial expansion as he describes its impact on the health of the islanders, and he contrasts the health­ ­f ul conditions on the island to the ravages of disease in the mainland. He notes, “Infectious diseases like smallpox, cholera, enteric fevers that destroy our mulk are not even heard of here.” And he remarks that different types of diseases were experienced on the island as compared to his mulk: mainly diseases of the lungs and some cases of fevers.51 Thanesri’s mulk is not just ecologically and geographically distinct but culturally unique as well. And this cultural profile also derived from his close association with the British. He was never reluctant to participate in the British mission to “civilize” the islanders. Like the British, he found the appearance and lifestyle of the islanders not just different but loathsome. In the Tarikh-­i-­Ajeeb, he describes the people of the islands not just in terms of their 345

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appearance but also as being culturally less civilized than the people of his mulk. Thus in his narrative the mulk emerges as an epitome of civility: civilized and thus culturally superior to the island. He uses the word wahashi (wild) to describe the islanders. According to him, both in their looks as well as in their lifestyle they exhibit traits that are unfamiliar to him and never found in the people of his mulk. He describes their features and notes that people cover their face with hair and are ferocious looking (darawni shakl). He is curious to know where these “junglees” came from and how they ended up on the island. He calls their lifestyle wahshiyaana (wild) and their personality bahayam sirat (wild-­beast-­like nature and character). He wonders if they were born like that and if this has always been their condition or if at some time, as he put it, “like our people they too were cultured and civilized [shayasta].”52 Unlike the British officers, Thanesri did not view the “taming” and the “civilizing” of island people as merely an exercise to make them loyal colonial subjects. But he too wished to acculturate them to the norms of civility that he identified with his mulk. He sympathetically noted that they hated imperial expansion into their ancestral mulk (abai mulk and mauroosi mulk). But they felt helpless in the face of the heavy-­handed state. Eventually these “wild beasts” (bahayam sirat) succumbed politically and became loyal subjects (farmaanbardar). Thanesri viewed the settlement of the islands by the British as a civilizing mission that was meant to bring the islanders up to par with the norms followed in mainland Hind. This meant joining the mainstream as represented by the people of his mulk. He notes in his book that “[the islanders] began to learn English and Hindustani; they cultivated their lands and some went to school, church and some others offered namaz.”53 Indeed, Thanesri included the Urdu equivalents of local words in the Tarikh-­i-­Ajeeb so that it could function as a bridge text that would culturally integrate the islanders within Hind. It offered the officers and locals of the islands an easy Hindustani self-­instruction manual. Thus, Thanesri’s understanding of the “civilizing” and “settling” of the locals involved much more than that of the British, who linked civility only to the making of the loyal subject. 346

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Thanesri’s contribution to the hierarchy of colonial knowledge on India was distinct from that of his British masters even though he worked for the jail administration on the island. For instance, he held a particularistic and historicist view on race. This was in contrast to the British view, which initially grew out of their successful political conquest, and later leaned on scientific explanations to justify the dominance of the West. Instead, his was a historicized understanding that explained the particularities of Asian societies in terms of their specific historical experiences as revealed in their genealogies. Thus he described the people of the mainland in terms of their long histories and genealogies, and he contrasted those histories and genealogies to those of the islanders. He produced an ecological and racial profile of Hind as the antithesis or the “other” of the island society. He categorized Andaman society as one of African slaves (habshi ghulam). This nomenclature was embedded in and reflected his knowledge of African slaves and their history of contact with India. More to the point, it showed his awareness of a widely prevalent view of the islanders’ lowly antecedents, one that was based on their physical appearance: body, facial features, skin color, and height. Thus, the racial contours of his mulk were embedded in the separate histories of the mainland and island societies. Indeed, central to his views on race was his own Indo-­Persianate obsession with class. This preoccupation intersected with the mid-­ nineteenth-­century British idea of race as a political or biological given. Thanesri was always critical of the fact that in official circles class-­based discrimination, with which he had little issue, had been replaced by the new referent of race—​which meant skin color. He resented the favors given to low-­class mixed-­race Eurasians simply because of their lighter skin color. He and his colleagues loathed the white officers most when they mixed the low-­ and high-­class islanders irrespective of skin color. He was not that resentful when they discriminated on the grounds of skin color alone. The Tarikh-­i-­Ajeeb, like the Tarikh-­i-­Port Blair, gives the minutest details of the islanders’ physical attributes: four feet six inches tall, pro­ ­truding eyes (aankhein ubhree), dark skin (siyaahposh), round head, and curly hair (ghungrale baal). Thanesri, as the ethnographer, refers to his subjects as habshis (black African slaves). And like a typical ­ethnographer 347

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who made comparisons with other well-­k nown societies, Thanesri saw similarities between the islanders’ physical appear­­ance and that of the real habshis. Such comparisons reveal that Thanesri’s view of race was not confined to the white-­versus-­black obsession of his British colleagues. Instead, it was a deeply historicist view that explained racial profile and difference by drawing on the knowledge of the long histories and genealogies associated with subject populations. In the Tarikh-­i-­Ajeeb, he even offers a genealogical link between the islanders and the original African slaves (habshi ghulam), claiming that accord­ ­ing to legend the latter were stranded on the islands when their ship broke down, and that the islanders were the descendents of this stranded population. However, he cautions against arriving at a speedy conclusion, as there were no words from the habshi lexicon in the islanders’ language. In addition, he asserts, their lips too are not as thick as those of African slaves. Moreover, he observes, the islanders have their own specific qualities and identity, despite their similarities with the habshis. And he notes that they are certainly different from those of “any other mulk: Habsh, Hind, Madras, Burma or Lanka.”54 In the course of making these comparisons, he ascribed a racial profile to his mulk that was different from that of the islands. And this difference was striking because unlike the islanders, the people of Hind did not have a genealogy that connected them to the “disdainful” African slave identity. The Andaman islanders were also different because they were not of the Indo-­Persianate elite class with which Thanesri identified the people of the Hind. The concern for social class always intersected with Thanesri’s views on race. In this he differed from his British associates. But very much like his urbane Indo-­Persianate contemporaries, Maulana Fazl-­i-­Haq and the Delhi poets Mirza Ghalib and Azurdah, he too was critical of discrimination purely on the grounds of skin color. However, racial discrimination was acceptable to him if the issue of class was considered along with skin color. His own views on people of color (siyapoost), whom he defined as distinctly low class and thus different from him, were no better than those of his colonial masters. And he would not have hesitated to endorse any inequitable regulations on people of color were it not for the risk that he himself might mistakenly suffer. 348

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Thanesri was critical of British race discrimination mainly because it ignored class. He lamented that colonial jails, for instance, grouped together people of color, irrespective of class. He did not like the idea of being locked up with Hindustanis of lower class and caste. In the Tawarikh, for example, he remarks: “Hind kei jail khaano mein sharifon kee barri pareshaniyan hain . . . ​hamarei desiyon kei madarij [classification] kaa koi lihaaz naheen hai. Kaalei kaalei sab ek samajh kar Raja, nawab, mahtar, chamar sabb ko ek hee laathi sei haanktei hain.” (The jails of Hind are inconvenient as they do not show any sensitivity to class and group together the respectable with the lowly.)55 He envied the Europeans and Eurasians who even in jail were treated like sahibs and not made to comingle with the lowly: “Magar kot patloon walon kee kahin bhe izzat hai. European aur doghlei donou mashal sahib logon kei wahan bhee chain karr tei hain.” (But people who wear coat and pants [the English] are respected everywhere. Europeans and Eurasians are also treated with respect like [English] sahibs.)56 Even in the Andaman Island penal colony he regretted that “muazas [respectable] Hindustanis who had hundreds and thousands of servants in their good days, for no reason were grouped together with lowly black people [siyaah posh]. And like the choore chamar [low castes] of Hind they too were made to eat leftover bad food, and labor with ordinary people.”57 Thanesri contrasts the dismal treatment of high-­class Hindustanis to that meted out to the Europeans and Eurasians (doghle kale kalootei). He regretted that despite the ethnically mixed and therefore low origins of the latter and the often low class of the former they were fairly treated. Indeed, they were seen as being on par with those in coat and trousers (patloon) or the pure white men (gorre) who headed the regiments of the black (kaaliya) Christians. He was envious that such fair-­skinned convicts were allotted bungalows and servants; they even received a salary of fifty rupees a month once they had their identity cards (which he called licenses). He was very disturbed when he noticed that men like Mr. Later, who had dark skin but who also had a European name and dressed in coat and pants, began to be treated lavishly on the island, receiving a bungalow, a clerical job in the deputy commissioner’s kutcheri, and more. 349

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In contrast, the raja of Jagannathpuri, because of his black face (kaala chehra), had to labor and live with the ordinary low people (choore chamar).58 The racial undercurrents in Thanesri’s “felt community” identity led him to identify his mulk as one of an exclusively high-­class Indo-­Persianate society. Thanesri’s mulk was carved out of the colonial frame. Its racial and cultural profile was no doubt influenced by the views of British officers. However, his notion of race was distinct. Unlike his British officers, his concept of race reflected a heightened sense of class and historicity. Thus important differences remained between him and the officers, even though he acquired the professionalism of the average British ethnographer. The most important difference was his religious conviction. He shunned all the late nineteenth-­century theories that offered feeble scientific explanations of racial difference. He was convinced that racial difference could be explained, as he put it, “only as the power and will of God” (qudrat-­i-­khuda), who produced a range of differently colored creations (makhlooq) all over the world (rang rang aur tarah tarah kei makhlooq jangah jangah paida kiye).59 He distanced himself from the colonially informed political and scientific explanations, stating, “To understand and explain God’s creation through the power of reason and seek proofs for it is useless.” (Iss maqam parr aql ko daurana aur sabuton kaa talaash karnaa mahaz fuzool hai.)60 Indeed, not just a belief in God in the abstract but a highly historicized Islamic view of belief, faith, and identity shaped the cultural and racial profile of his mulk. The Islamic frame, rather than the Western intellectual and political imperium, intersects with Thanesri’s ethnological observation and sociological understanding. Indeed, he places the islanders’ version of their history and genealogy in a Koranic frame. Thus, he writes in the Tarikh-­i-­Ajeeb that the habshis of the Andaman Islands believe in the Koranic revelations, which offer an explanation of the continuation of life despite the mass destruction caused by floods. In the islanders’ stories of migration to the island he sees fragments of the Koranic view on the ongoing cycle of life.61 He mentions a story that the islanders told him about their arrival on the islands, which reminds him of the cyclical view of life underlined in the Koranic narrative of Noah’s ark. He notes that the islanders told 350

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him stories about the boats of their ancestors, which landed on the Andaman Islands after they had been displaced from their homeland following torrential storms and flooding. Their ancestors, in ways that are reminiscent of the prophet Noah, made a boat and remained on it for many days. When the water receded their boat floated and docked near the Andamans. Once on the islands, they had no source of fire. A yellow bird, Lorotoot, which flew into the air and reached the palace of the god Pagoga, saw their inconvenience. Pagoga was cooking over a fire. The bird picked up an ember (chingari) in his beak and began to fly back. But it accidentally fell on Pagoga, who was burned. In anger, he pulled a burning log from the fire and flung it in the direction of the bird. By chance it landed on the mountain where the ancestors of the islanders were sitting waiting for some source of fire. They were thrilled to get fire. And since then they have been very reverential to the bird Lorotoot, who helped them.62

From “Felt Community” to Anticolonial Patriotism Thanesri was a literate munshi before his arrest and deportation to the Andaman islands. He worked as a lower functionary in the administration of several zamindars and local courts and helped people write their petitions. In the Andamans, as a colonial convict, he learned how to speak, read, and write English as well. In 1872, his teacher was one Ram Swarup, an English speaker. Thanesri’s linguistic skills were perfected in the company of the English officers to whom he taught Persian, Urdu, and the Nagari languages. Knowledge of English not only improved his status in the colonial administration but also his financial position. He was the only Muslim who knew English, and thus he began to write petitions and appeals in English for the Muslims on the islands. He earned thousands of rupees through this service. According to Thanesri, he had an income of at least one hundred rupees a month from performing this task.63 Apart from monetary benefits, this linguistic skill enabled him to help Muslims represent their cases adequately and in the proper format for court and trial proceedings. As a result of his 351

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valuable assistance, many Muslims were acquitted and many had their death punishments annulled.64 This made him very popular and much sought after on the islands. It also imbued him with the spirit of activism, inspiring him to fight for the rights and privileges of his people and to use the assets he had acquired from the colonial apparatus. He was so successful in this task that the British worried that he might use it to incite people against them. On the day of his release, the administration issued an order that forbade any government functionary from offering help to the natives in the drafting of petitions.65 Learning the English language created an interesting paradox for Thanesri. In the Tawarikh he writes that English was attractive to him, that it allowed him to rise in the administration, and that helped him to accumulate global knowledge. It introduced him to a range of literature that was hitherto unknown to him. Indeed, it made him fully aware of the realities of world power and dominance. He underlines the benefit of the English language, which he saw as the window into world civilization and history and as an instrument of power and control. He states, “Angrezi zaban ilm aur fanon kaa ghar hai. Jo angrezi naheen jaanta woh bilaa shubha duniya kei halaat sei bakhubi mahir naheen hai. Aur bina angrezi seekhie pakka duniya dar naheen ho sakta.” (English is the abode of knowledge and scientific and other skills. One who does not know English can never be an expert on world affairs. And without learning English no one can be worldly wise.)66 Thanesri feared the detrimental effect of the English language and the power that it embodied could have on the Islamic world order, its cultural etiquette, and its moral underpinnings. He saw that literature in English questioned a way of life framed by Islam—​ the way of life he defended—​even as he zealously protected his status and position in the colonial administration. He was of the view that the English language was harmful and lethal for religion. According to him, any individual who learned English would definitely—​as in his case—​read all the available literature in it. This would make that individual go astray if he had not read his own Koran, the Hadith, and texts on the Prophet. Thanesri argued that the English language made people independent, irreligious, and 352

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uncultured.67 He cited his own distraction from prescriptive Islam and spirituality as a result of becoming influenced by English literature. He said that he began to miss his early morning—​tahujat—​ prayers, which he had always offered with dedication, and even missed his Friday prayers. He had lost interest in the reading of the Koran and Hadith, and had forgotten the verses and chapters that he had memorized earlier. According to him, the only thing he passionately wanted to do was to read English books. He said that Satan had overpowered him and he was just a small distance away from infidelity or kufr. He tried to resolve his internal conflict by withdrawing once again into his spiritual self to pray to God to make him see the light: “dua maangta kee aye aankh waalei mujh andhei kaa haath pakar.”68 This worked, and finally the spiritual and moral frame of Islam rescued him and brought him to the right path. When he fell sick with a painful boil on his leg, he attributed his bad luck to his going astray from prescriptive Islam. He prayed for his recovery and promised to return to the right path on being cured. And as he became healthy he resumed his prayers and readings as per the Islamic dictates for all believers. From then on, he strived to maintain the delicate balance between the colonial knowledge paradigm represented by English and that of his tradition and moral reckoning.

The Islamic and the Western Entanglement There was no doubt that colonial rule with its print and communication innovations made access to Islamic societies and literature easy for Muslims. But it also brought to the forefront the new challenges of the times. At one level, colonialism with its print capitalism, greater opportunities for travel across sea and land, and wider networks of communication facilitated travel and access to Muslim cultures and made the Islamic imaginary physically real, at least for the privileged. But this physicality also brought the realization that the global stage was dominated by the ascendant Western powers. And this realization evoked envy as well as the urge in some to access the British Empire for the fulfillment of their global 353

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a­ spirations. This was viewed as one way to take on the empire’s cultural challenge. The fact that this empire was “colonial” of course created its own dynamics for Muslims. But their take on it derived also from the ambivalence in their minds between an Islamic global imaginary and the reality of life within its successor—​t he mid-­nineteenth-­ century Western empires with their control of capital and culture. Indian Muslims, as we saw above, used the colonial infrastructural and intellectual grid, along with its legal vocabulary, print capitalism, and political rhetoric—​as well as the English language—​to access this new empire as well as to reach out to the Islamic imperium. They hoped to contest the colonial grid once they were sufficiently fortified intellectually and politically via this particular style of outreach. Thus, for instance, Thanesri used the newly introduced print media to represent the hitherto demonized Muslim leaders as ideal figures whose conduct would unite the community globally. He recast the much-­maligned mujahid Sayyid Ahmad Shahid of Rae Bareilly as the nonaggressive individual, modeling him on the figure of the Prophet. This was in contrast to the British myth about Sayyid Ahmad Shahid as the aggressive anti-­British rebel of Balakot; indeed, the British viewed Ahmad Shahid’s movement against the Sikhs as his jihad against the colonial state.69 In contrast, Thanesri’s biography of Sayyid Ahmad Shahid encased his career in India in a compellingly benign mold. Thanesri framed him in the global movements of self-­purification like the Tarika-­i-­Muhammadiya (the Muhammedan Path), and modeled his charisma and lifestyle on the Prophet. Thanesri challenged colonial propaganda against him and his followers by coloring these local figures with the universalist spiritual hue associated with the upholder of universal peace, the Prophet. He highlighted the transimperial nature of Sayyid Ahmad’s spiritual appeal and alluded to the immense potential he and other such individuals had in mustering global support for Muslims in their fight against the Western powers. Indeed, he argued that men like him combined exceptional Prophet-­like spiritual appeal with temporal ambitions that straddled empires. Thus they needed to be handled with care. Thanesri’s recasting of regional figures in universalist frames began 354

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to add a fresh, outward-­looking veneer to his “felt community” identity that had so far been articulated in the specificities of ecology and nature. The Sawaneh, or biography of Sayyid Ahmad Shahid, articulated a patriotism that was subtly anticolonial, territorially rooted, and yet outward looking, racially profiled, and burdened with a concern for class.70 It produced an Islamic identity that was culled from within the networks of colonial rule even as it remained firmly rooted in the spiritual and moral frame of Islam. This was Thanesri’s contribution to the imperially embedded cosmopolis that his peers, discussed in earlier chapters, had forged between empires.

Sir Sayyid’s Territorial-­Bound Vision versus the Cosmopolitan Gaze of Thanesri Thanesri, very much like Kairanwi, took on both the political and intellectual challenges of his time. He responded to the demonization of Muslims by rewriting the history of the famous mujahid Sayyid Ahmad Shahid. He represented the sayyid as a global figure who commanded spiritual and temporal influence across the globe and did not nurture narrow anticolonial sentiment. The biography of Sayyid Ahmad Shahid earned him his share of critics and opponents. Sir Sayyid Ahmad Khan, the Muslim intellectual who saw the future of Indian Muslims in the administrative confines of British India and had very definitive territorialized idea about “loyal subjecthood,” was the best case in point. Sir Sayyid’s definition of loyalty improvised on the ashraf (gentlemanly) culture of Mughal society, which urged people to become gentlemen in the service of empire. Sir Sayyid reinvented the concept with the promise of jobs in the new British-­sponsored service sectors: the kutcheri or court culture.71 According to him, Islam needed to be diversified and its scientific spirit highlighted to encourage Muslims to learn English and the rational sciences so that they could fit into the territorialized space of the colonial kutcheri culture.72 Muslims could best display their loyalty as critical constituents of empire who fit into the territorialized space of the British administration. 355

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Sir Sayyid refuted William W. Hunter’s damaging treatise The Indian Musulman, in which he labeled Muslim men of religion as Wahabis and held them solely responsible for the mutiny-­rebellion of 1857. He refuted Hunter’s charge regarding Indian Muslims’ innate ideological indisposition and disloyalty to the British. In contrast, he showed that Muslims believed that the two cultures could coexist. He asserted, “The purification of our faith and our loyalty to the government under whom we live and serve are perfectly compatible.”73 His arguments firmly located Indian Muslims within the confines of British India—​t hey were a perfect fit both materially as well as ideologically. And such political and administrative confines framed his definition of the “loyal subject.” The same outlook colored Sir Sayyid’s approach to the practice of religion: “Mahomedans are bound to obey an infidel ruler,” he noted, “as long as he does not interfere with their religion.” And thus it followed that the freedom of religion that Muslims enjoyed in British India ensured that they would always remain loyal subjects.74 Sir Sayyid territorialized Indian Muslims not just within British India but also narrowly within Indian distinct schools of legal jurisprudence that were protected by colonial rulers. This allowed him to delink the anti-­British tribal warfare on the northwestern frontier from what Hunter saw as the “financial and religious Muslim networks” of Hindustan. According to Sir Sayyid Ahmad, the two were distinct because the latter were Shaifites and the former Hanafites. Indeed, he tried to dispel British suspicions about the hostility of the Muslim frontier tribes as well. He highlighted the fact that they were anti-­Sikh and not anti-­British. In fact, Sir Sayyid went a step further to argue that Sayyid Ahmad Shahid of Rae Bareilly and his network of men facilitated the supply of men and money to the frontier from Hindustan only to defeat the Sikhs and thereby facilitate the annexation of Punjab.75 Indeed, he maintained that Sayyid Ahmad of Rae Bareilly was a mediator who worked with both the Sikhs and the tribals and lost his life in the process. Sir Sayyid argued that the frontier tribes in fact assassinated Sayyid Ahmad. He emphasized that the Hindustani Muslims at the frontier were forbidden by their religion to fight the British as they enjoyed religious freedom and had “no complaints.” Indeed, 356

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they had left their families in British India, and this was indicative of the mutual trust between the Hindustani Muslims and the British. Sir Sayyid territorialized Muslim loyalty within the confines of British India. He vehemently denied any allegation that Muslims violated its rule of law. He framed Muslim lives and notions of loyalty within the confines of the British legal and administrative service culture and its new educational ethos. According to him, “enlightened” Muslims occupied this exclusive domain.76 He argued that Hunter’s charge that Muslims were incensed at the introduction of the new education policy that left Muslims unprovided for was true only for those Muslims who were uneducated and not “enlightened.” The same was true as far as the introduction of the new legal apparatus was concerned. Sir Sayyid expressed faith in the legal system, which he claimed Muslims could access in order to seek redress for their grievances regarding education or any other matter. Sir Sayyid was convinced that the lack of “sympathy and confidence” that was building between Muslims and the British rulers, rather than any innate religious ideological block, was preventing the mass production of “loyal Muslim” subjects. And thus the onus was on the British to create mutual goodwill that would energize their education and service culture—​assemblages within which “loyal Muslim” subjects could be groomed so as to have an easy fit in the larger territorialized frame of British India.77 Indeed, in his two books, Asbab-­i-­Baghawat-­i-­Hind (Causes for the Revolt in India) and Tarikh Sarkashi-­i-­Zilla Bijnor (History of the Revolt in the District of Bijnor), Sir Sayyid had attributed Muslim resentment to their not being fully integrated into the kutcheri culture, which they very much wanted to enter. Thus, he saw the nonparticipation of Indians in the legislative council of the viceroy as one of the main reasons for the “accumulation of misunderstandings” that culminated in the rebellion. These resentments and “misunderstandings” revolved around administrative glitches rather than any direct opposition to British policy per se; they included Muslim anger at the introduction of the village schools, British educational interventions, and the zamindari auctions. Sir Sayyid maintained that if these administrative, educational, and 357

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legal bodies were crafted with sensitivity they could accommodate Muslims and make them “loyal subjects.”78 Sir Sayyid saw Muslims as loyal subjects because their faith was compatible with British rule—​or, as he put it, “the government under whom we live and serve.” But interestingly, this compatibility was not so much between a religious tradition and a “secularizing modern nation-­state.” In contrast, he saw British rule as inherently “Christian.” And thus in Sir Sayyid’s refutation of Hunter he did not champion Muslim loyalty by showcasing any innate “progressive” willingness on the part of Islam to adapt to the “modernizing” agendas of British rule. Instead, he highlighted the similarities between Islam and Christianity and built the notion of loyalty around the natural affinity between Christians and Muslims. He argued that this shared bond and affinity made the Muslim colonial experience very different from that of the Hindus. Sir Sayyid occasionally spoke about the poor and those who were outside the confines of British India, even if he was mostly concerned with the issues of urban, middle-­class, and educated Indian Muslims. His concerns were in tune with the British interest in pauper pilgrims abroad. These impoverished pilgrims, who reached Mecca and then languished after the haj for want of finances, drew the concern of Sir Sayyid. And this concern tied in with the self-­ serving British concern about such pilgrims, who, as Radhika Singha has shown, were the product of an “institutional and discursive process.” As part of this process, “resources were stripped away from undoubtedly poor pilgrims and stigma and incapacity tagged to them.”79 Hoping to bring the concept of Muslim charity into the service of the British administration, Sir Sayyid proposed a scheme to collect money from Muslims at the district level and recommended setting up a coordinating center in Aligarh to have a fund ready to finance the return of pauper pilgrims.80 He offered to solicit the help of the Aligarh-­based haji Muhammad Ismael Khan, who had networks in Mecca, to obtain information about the needy pauper pilgrims. Sir Sayyid argued that knowledge of pauper pilgrims could save the government from the deceit and corruption that might result if the news spread that it was willing to buy return tickets to India for abandoned pilgrims. Of course, he wanted the 358

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central committee at Aligarh to coordinate with the Muslim native states via their political agents to contribute to this initiative. He hoped to get government sanction for his proposal.81 Sir Sayyid’s agenda for Indian Muslims contrasted with that of Kairanwi in the sense that the former considered both Islam and Christianity narrowly within the framework of colonial India and interpreted them so as to forge ruler-­subject loyalty. And the latter, as we saw in Chapter 3, highlighted the differences between Islam and Christianity unmindful of the territorializing confines of British rule. Ironically, Kairanwi’s interpretation of the Koran and Islamic literature stood out as more embracive of scientificity and inclusivity than that of the “modernist” Sir Sayyid, who leaned on the British administration to teach and train Muslims in Western forms of knowledge. Kairanwi’s notion of subject loyalty was also more complex than that of Sir Sayyid Ahmad. Even though Kairanwi, unlike other Muslim cosmopolitans such as Siddiq Hasan Khan, never wrote about subject loyalty, he did not also disclaim his British subject status. Nor did he see his trans-­Asian forays as incompatible with his subjecthood. But clearly subject loyalty for him did not only mean co-­optation into the new colonial kutcheri culture. A twentieth-­century biography of Sir Sayyid Ahmad, Hayat-­i-­ Javed (authored by the famous contemporary poet Altaf Husain Hali), reveals that Sir Sayyid did not agree with ulema such as Kairanwi, who saw Islam and Christianity as incompatible because the texts of the latter had been altered and tampered with. Sir Sayyid made a detailed study of Christian literature himself and wrote a commentary on the Bible showing that it was in agreement with the Koran and the Hadith.82 In contrast to Kairanwi, he argued that changes introduced into translations or in subsequent editions of the text did not impair the original or make it redundant. And he invoked Islamic scholars like Shahwaliulla of Delhi and Imam Fakhr ud Din Razi to prove that the only kind of textual falsification to be found in the Bible is that to which Christian commentators had already admitted. And it is only in these places that the text differs from the Koran and the Hadith.83 These falsifications were the Christian belief in the Holy Trinity, the rejection of the Holy Prophet, and expiation of sins.84 And thus Sir Sayyid denied any 359

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inherent falsification in Christian literature, apart from that which had been accepted by commentators, and showed that in the original version the Koran and Bible were similar. He underlined his position and warded off opposition to his stance by insisting that he was interested in upholding the truth only. Hali quotes Sir Sayyid as saying, “I do not believe in the Trinity of God since I observe it nowhere supported or even established in the Scriptures. I am certain that the Muhammedan faith is true and that its veracity and existence are founded in the Holy Bible itself.”85 He disseminated these ideas via his journal, Tahzib ul Akhlaq, which aimed to reform Muslim religious thinking with the definitive objective of making Muslims “loyal subjects” attuned to the new administrative culture introduced by British rule.86 Sir Sayyid did not like Kairanwi’s critique of Jewish and Christian literature. According to Altaf Husain Hali, he did not agree with the charges of tehrif lafzi (changing words) that Kairanwi leveled against Christians and Jews in his book Ijaz-­i-­Iswi. He even thought that the different views that Muslims and Christians had regarding the issue of script boiled down merely to a difference in words.87 He did not directly question Kairanwi’s privileging of the Koran over the books of other religions, but he was not entirely impressed by this viewpoint. In contrast to Kairanwi, who highlighted the religious differences between Islam and Christianity, Sir Sayyid wrote his commentary of the Bible so as to highlight the similarities between the Koran and Bible and to soften the Muslim attitudes toward Christians. He tried to show that the Bible did not contradict the Koran and the Hadith.88 Sir Sayyid’s interventions infuriated the Muslims. But they won him accolades in the Christian world. Garcin de Tassy called his commentary (tafsir) of the Bible neem masihi kitab. This meant that even though its writer was not a Christian yet, his psyche (that is, his nafs) was innately inclined to embrace the spirit of Chris­ tianity. The English writer Matthew Arnold was delighted with Sir Sayyid’s commentary. He felt that if a Muslim could write and validate the truth about the Bible then Christians would not have too much difficulty in proving the Koran wrong. Hali made fun of this claim.89 But Arnold’s contention became popular, and Muslims 360

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were so angry with Sir Sayyid that he had to abandon his tafsir ­midway.90 It is in this context that Thanesri’s biography of the famous scholar-­warrior Sayyid Ahmad Shahid becomes significant. This biography represented him as a trans-­Asian figure with immense charismatic powers. Thanesri created this near-­Prophet-­like profile of Sayyid Ahmad Shahid in response to Hunter’s Indian Musalman. The biography was also meant to counter Sir Sayyid Ahmad’s contention that all Muslims were loyal subjects committed to the idea of India as enshrined in British legal and administrative parlance. The production of such literature fit well with Kairanwi’s efforts to carve out a trans-­Asian cosmopolitan profile for Muslims that was not narrowly anticolonial but that had global ambitions of establishing a civilizational alternative to the Western imperium. Thanesri kept the debate on Muslim trans-­Asian cosmopolitanism alive despite tough opposition within the community by the likes of Sir Sayyid.

Challenging Colonial Knowledge and the Production of Sawaneh Ahmadi Thanesri’s politics were entrenched in the interstice of the colonial discursive frame and global Islam. His “felt community” identity evolved into a patriotism that looked for a civilizational discursive space for Islam even as it remained rooted in Hindustan. It derived both from the colonial and the Islamic frames. Through this brand of politics Thanesri hoped to offer his best service to the cause of Muslims. He was convinced that they had been harshly treated by the state, especially after the publication of William Hunter’s damaging treatise The Indian Musalman in 1871.91 Thanesri was always perturbed by Hunter’s negative portrayal of the Muslims during the mutiny, and in particular with his remarks on the men of religion whom he derogatorily labeled as Wahabis. He lamented that even though Sir Sayyid Ahmad Khan had also refuted the Indian Musalman it continued to be influential and defined the English mindset on Indian Muslims.92 It is no surprise that one of the first books in English that he began to read, once he had mastered the 361

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English language, was Hunter’s Indian Musalman. He claimed to have obtained with great difficulty the second edition of this volume from Calcutta for seven rupees. The reading of the text convinced him that the British would never release people like him from the penal colony. This was because Hunter had underlined the fact that on release the Wahabis would return to Hind and destroy the English government or the sultanate angrezi. He was even more disturbed when he learned that Hunter had been made the close associate of the governor general, which would allow him to influence policy decisions.93 Thanesri refuted Hunter’s allegation that the Wahabis had killed the British during the mutiny. He cited cases of people who had actually helped the British, such as Nazir Hasan, who in 1857 had saved the life of an English lady named Mrs. Leeson.94 The most important measure he took in response to Hunter was the publication in 1895 of the first elaborate Urdu biography of the mujahid Sayyid Ahmad Shahid, whom the British regarded as the founder of the anticolonial Wahabi movement.95 The biography, the Sawaneh Ahmadi, aimed to “correct” British apprehensions about mujahids. This comprehensive masterpiece was divided into five parts, and detailed the life, travel to the haj, and politics of the foremost mujahid of the early nineteenth century: Sayyid Ahmad Shahid. Thanesri represented Sayyid Ahmad as a spiritual man with Prophet­like universal appeal. According to Thanesri, Sayyid Ahmad used his spiritual clout to further his temporal power, as in the case of his war with the Sikhs. Thanesri saw no direct connection between Sayyid Ahmad’s travel to Arabia for the haj and the influence on him of the anti-­British Arab leader Abd-­al Wahab. This was significant because Hunter had claimed that Sayyid Ahmad’s militancy against the Sikhs triggered the jihad against the British. The Sawaneh Ahmadi was written in direct response to Hunter, and with the express purpose of trying to convince the government and the public that far from declaring a war against the British, Sayyid Ahmad Shahid had on at least twenty occasions exhorted his disciples and people not to oppose the English.96 Thanesri ­reconstructed the life and the politics of Sayyid Ahmad Shahid to convey to the British both the innocence of the men of religion that 362

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Hunter had derided, as well as to indicate to them the immense potential these men wielded in society on account of their spiritual powers. Indeed, the biography of Sayyid Ahmad Shahid sought to rehabilitate him in the model of the Prophet, firmly linked to the global movement: the Muhammedan Path or the Tarika-­i-­ Muhammadiya. This global encasement of Sayyid Ahmad had been carried out in his lifetime as well. The Sirat-­i-­Mustaqim, a compilation of his religious discourses, put together by his followers Shah Ismael and Maulana Abdul Hayee prior to his haj pilgrimage in the 1820s, represented him as an imam in the likeness of the Prophet. In the late nineteenth century, when Muslim nationalists created the myth of his aggressiveness and highlighted his anti-­British posture, the stress on his Prophetic piety was significant. This specific portrayal challenged both the traditional setup represented by the nationalist ulema, and the colonial state. Indeed, the text cast him as a global actor. It added fresh points of emphasis to his global appeal by its focus on his movement of self-­purification, Tarika, and on his individual spiritual and supernatural powers. According to Thanesri, these individual acts of miraculous powers underlined his extraterritorial appeal in ways that went beyond the ambit of the Tarika, which itself was a global phenomenon. Thus Thanesri rewrote the history of the foremost mujahid in India in a way that both allayed British fears about the Muslims and simultaneously challenged the colonial power by countering their construction of what was widely believed as “damaging knowledge” of the Muslims. It also displayed the global contours of Muslim influence that could be given a political twist if required. In terms of the Urdu literary genre, the Sawaneh Ahmadi marked the beginning of the writings of historical biographies that very much in the tazkira tradition glorified their subject; but unlike the tazkira they focused narrowly on the individual rather than his genealogy. The text was written in the style of medieval Islamic literature, which did not always show reverence to the sources and authorities from which it borrowed information. It was written in simple Urdu and used as its source unreferenced accounts of Sayyid Ahmad’s contemporaries. It was also written in consultation with 363

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English books, which again were not acknowledged. It is noteworthy that Thanesri threw out of the window issues regarding the authenticity of his sources, the references he used, and the acknowledgement of authors he cited. Indeed, in his introduction he honestly addresses his use of sources: I have written this book with great effort and consultation with the different writings which were written by those who have actually witnessed the events . . . ​whatever books I have consulted unfortunately I have not put the dates and so I felt difficulty in arranging the events. But I have travelled a lot and consulted some English books also. Though I do not claim recording of events strictly date wise. Still I have made every effort to be correct in my recording of events. But still there is no doubt that the book is more authentic on the subject and better than previous biographies.97 The text effectively shifts the focus of Sayyid Ahmad Shahid’s life and career away from the British and toward the Sikhs in Punjab. This was significant, as most late nineteenth-­century Muslim writers were complicit in the creation of the nationalist myth that underlined the anticolonial stance of this martyr of Balakot. In contrast, Thanesri’s text begins with the atrocities of the Sikhs against the Muslims. He argues that the Sikhs had been so cruel that society had been eagerly waiting a savior. The arrival of Sayyid Ahmad was widely welcomed, and he was perceived as the awaited one. It was therefore not surprising that the rescue of the Muslims from Sikh cruelty remained the foremost agenda of Sayyid Ahmad. Thanesri quotes him as saying, “The jihad of Sayyid sahib was only against the cruel Sikhs, who had wrecked havoc on the Muslims of Punjab.” 98 And this fight too was not to obtain the badshahat (political control) over the Punjab. It was only to stop them from torturing Muslims. The text cleverly avoids any discussion of the sayyid’s anti-­British activities. Instead, it represents him as a universally popular leader whose powers lay not so much in political wisdom as in his extraordinary role as the reformer and the fountainhead of barakat (blessings). He was the archetypal performer of karamat (miracles). This 364

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made him popular across the length and breadth of the country and helped him consolidate his temporal alliances. The biography deftly alludes to the political orientation that the sayyid could give to his immense spiritual power when required. But Thanesri confines his political role to his interventions in the Shia-­Sunni disputes in Rae Bareilly, Hindu-­Muslim conflicts in the area, and of course the Sikh atrocities on the Muslims. He explains through several undated anecdotes involving anonymous men in dialogue with the Sayyid that the latter always explained to his clientele that he could not declare jihad on the British because, as Thanesri describes it, “his main task was the spread of belief in One God, tauhid-­i-­ilahi, and the sarkar angrezi allowed them to do that without any hindrance. There was thus no justification for declaring jihad on the British.”99 Thanesri skips the anti-­British role of the sayyid in his narrative and casts him more as a Prophet-­like miraculous healer and man of barakat or supernatural powers. At the same time, he also showcases him—​and by implication all the mujahids—​as an individual who posed a formidable challenge to the political powers of his day. Indeed, he shows how the powers of the sayyid were all the more exceptional and fearsome because his spirituality linked him to the world outside India. His conduit to the world beyond British India was the puritanical Tarika-­i-­Muhammadiya. This was a global phenomenon because of its exhortations to follow the path of the Prophet, a universally acceptable figure. Thanesri, however, places particular emphasis on Sayyid Ahmad’s individual spiritual powers, which knitted him to an even wider clientele than his puritanical Tarika could ever do. Thanesri explains that Sayyid Ahmad combined spiritual with worldly stamina. This made his exceptional transimperial spiritual appeal and potential understandable. His power to perform miracles and to bring about barakat welded together a constituency of Shias, Sunnis, and even Hindus, as well as zamindars, native officials, and Indian and English traders.100 Officials of the Awadh state often used his services in solving Shia-­Sunni conflicts in the region. Hindu milk traders of Tonk came to pay their respects to him, and the pious of Benares were also his murids (followers). The latter 365

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often asked him respectfully to leave the city when they feared that his prayers and zikr (his devotion to God—​w ith which they personally had little issue) in the city would anger their gods.101 His powers extended beyond India as well. Thanesri describes how Sayyid Ahmad always obtained help miraculously from unknown sources when in trouble abroad. Thus help came to him from God in Aden when he needed assistance in his travels in the region; and he was also helped on the ship when en route to Jeddah to perform the haj.102 Thanesri argues that Sayyid Ahmad often used his spiritual power for furthering his political ambition and acquiring influence. Thus it is no surprise that in Thanesri’s account he made a trip for the holy pilgrimage or haj before he declared his political war—​jihad—​ against the Sikhs. Thanesri shows how the sayyid consolidated his social base during his long, winding travel across Hindustan—​a jour­ ­ney punctuated with many stopovers and meetings with people—​ and during his equally eventful journey by road from Jeddah to Mecca. Throughout the journey, he displayed his exceptional spiritual powers by performing miracles and healing, which drew a range of people to him. According to Thanesri, it was Sayyid Ahmad’s use of the spiritual to further his temporal ambitions, rather than the influence of the anti-­British Arab Wahabi leaders, that explains his strategic decision to go on haj with his followers before the Sikh campaign. Thanesri describes the long boat ride that Sayyid Ahmad took from Rae Bareilly to Calcutta: he added murids and consolidated his cross-­country support, and he used his spirituality to mobilize support for his anti-­Sikh politics. According to Thanesri, the sayyid had made it clear that this haj was a necessary preparation for his jihad against the Sikhs. Rather than being merely a religious obligation, the haj was crucial for building social and political contacts. Sayyid Ahmad’s combination of spiritual and worldly powers could not have been better displayed. The Sawaneh Ahmadi challenged the wider politics of the colonial state. It was of course written to protect Muslim interests. But it went beyond that as it countered the very production of colonial knowledge on which British power was dependent. The Sawaneh showed how print culture and access to the English language and 366

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institutional resources made available by colonial rule could be effectively used to generate fresh and useful knowledge about Islam and its leaders. And this knowledge could be used to effectively counter the colonial constructions of people, histories, and events. Thus print capitalism and access to the wider domain of knowledge that could be accessed through imperial networks enabled Thanesri to rewrite the history of Islam in nineteenth-­century India. His history offered an effective challenge to the colonial constructions of Indian Islam and Muslims as illustrated, for instance, in W.  W. Hunter’s Indian Musulman. The portrayal of Sayyid Ahmad in the Sawaneh as a leader not unfavorably inclined to the British stood in sharp contrast to the more popular anti-­British image of him that had been disseminated both in colonial writings and in later nationalist Muslim literature of the early twentieth century. Yet the pro-­ British image of Sayyid Ahmad notwithstanding, the text is extremely significant as it challenged the knowledge base of colonial rule by countering the texts generated by its officials. Sir Sayyid Ahmad Khan had countered Hunter’s text by writing and publishing Asbaab-­i Baghawat-­i-­Hind and Tarikh Sarkashi-i-Zilla Bijnor. But Thanesri’s attack was unique because unlike Sir Sayyid Ahmad he did not represent Mus­­lims as inherently loyal subjects, with narrowly vested interests, who could be taken for granted once they were incorporated into the colonial administrative system. Thanesri’s response to Hunter was closer to that of Maulana Kairanwi, who as we saw in the previous chapter wanted to carve out for the Muslims a discursive civilizational space between empires. Like Kairanwi, Thanesri used imperial networks to effectively counter the rise of Western influence in Asia. Thanesri also highlighted Sayyid Ahmad Shahid as a global persona and demystified his overt anticolonial aggression. He hinted at Muslim readiness to engage with British rule even as his vision exemplified a wider global orientation that straddled empires. Both the colonial and the Islamic global frame were critical to Thanesri’s subtle response to the Western challenge.

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In an 1887 letter to the Russian czar asking for asylum in Russia, Dalip Singh, the last maharaja of Punjab, referred to himself as “an unfortunate Indian prince” and as “a monument of British injustice.” He did not seek any financial support, as he claimed that the funds he received from India made him self-­sufficient.1 As a boy, Singh had been brought to England after the annexation of the Punjab in 1848 and raised by Queen Victoria. In the 1880s, as an adult, he schemed to return to India to overthrow British rule. In a letter he wrote to Katkoff, the Russian military party chief, he repeated the circumstances of his case and requested letters of introduction that would ensure that his baggage would be passed across Russian-­controlled Central Asia into Tehran in Persia.2 And in his correspondence with his cousins in Pondicherry, he expressed his hope of reaching Russia and indicated that he was confident of obtaining the support of the czar.3 In a personal letter sent from Russia to his children, he wrote about his stay in the most flattering ways, calling it a “sportsman’s paradise.” He remarked, “I cannot tell you how happy I am to find myself in Russia. There is plenty of grouse shooting, and fine salmon fishing in the north of Russia, and if not better employed I mean to indulge myself in some first rate sport. The woodcock shooting on the coast of the Black Sea is very good and so is simple wild fowl 368

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shooting in the Crimea.”4 The shift to Russia was also a critical strategic move in his political struggle. He observed, “Money from India, in spite of the stupid British government’s forbidding will flow to me like water now that I am in Russia.”5 He was confident that his move to Russia would be seen by his countrymen, as he framed it, as “a proof of my sincerity.” This would result in their sending large sums of money to support his political plans.6 In subsequent letters to his children he asked them to look after their financial affairs: he instructed them to sell their paintings or jewels and not to bother him, as he had dedicated his life to the overthrow of the British rule in India. He wrote, “Look upon me as dead. But I will never swerve from my purpose or I would not be the son of the Lion of the Punjab whose name I dare not disgrace.”7 The news that Dalip Singh had asked the czar to enlist his son Victor in the Russian army alarmed the British Foreign Office.8 It was equally concerned that the Russian interior minister had allowed Dalip Singh to enter Russia without a passport. Russia had granted this favor so that Singh, like other Indian princes caught between imperial rivals, could return it when required. F. H. Villier of the Foreign Office thought that the Russians were taking advantage of Singh. He remarked, “There is an inclination to get Duleep Singh under Russian influence so as to make use of him.” 9 But Dalip Singh was no unsuspecting victim. He hoped to further his political ambitions by exploiting transimperial networks. In Moscow, Dalip Singh was in close touch with Katkoff, the military party chief. Indeed, Katkoff was so confident of his long-­term association with Dalip Singh that he advised him to give up the fake name listed on his passport: Patrick Casey.10 And when Katkoff died in 1887, Dalip Singh was distraught, calling it “a great blow to our plans.”11 In an age of imperial rivalries, the going was not smooth for Dalip Singh in Russia. Rumors occasionally floated that he was in touch with the British viceroy and that his intentions were dubious. But he always denied these and emphasized that he had been the loyal subject of the British Empire up until the time that he had been deported from Aden while en route to India, on the charge of having engaged in suspicious activity. He was now convinced that Russian rule was the most desirable for India. He reiterated that he had no desire to 369

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be a sovereign again as he was now too old. He asserted, “I have no ambition whatever and were I not persuaded fully in my mind that Russian rule would benefit my countrymen I would not for a moment seek to be avenged on the English but would bury myself in utter oblivion to brood over my wrongs.”12 Dalip Singh’s career moves rested on more than imperial patron­ ­age. His passage from Paris to Moscow was enabled by a string of agents that included Russians, Europeans, and Indians. They intersected with Muslim cosmopolitans who had forged trans­imperial careers. Dalip Singh traveled via Cologne and Berlin as he moved from Paris to St. Petersburg. In Egatkahum he was met by one Greene­ ­ erg, a Russian agent. In the event of any difficulty, Greeneberg had b instructions to send a telegraph to General Bogdanovitch, the minister of the interior. Dalip Singh had to preserve his incognito status until he became a naturalized Russian.13 The well-­k nown journalist-­spy Nicholas N. Notovich, who served several masters, was also a close associate of Dalip Singh. It was with his assistance that Dalip Singh worked out a plan of entry via the Gilgit Passes into Kashmir. And Kashmiri Muslim Abdul Rasul was his most trusted agent; he co-­coordinated for him in the British and Ottoman territories. Indeed, Abdul Rasul straddled with ease the Muslim transimperial webs that permeated the rigidly demarcated official borders.

Dalip Singh in the Muslim Cosmopolis As discussed in Chapter 1, the northwest frontier of British India that bordered Afghanistan and the Central Asian territories of the Russian Empire constituted the western end of the Muslim cosmopolis. Maulvis, merchants, scribes, agents, and political mentors dotted the landscape and moved over land from the Punjab via the northwest frontier to Afghanistan, Persia, and the Russian territories in Central Asia. This area constituted the critical intersection of the British, Persian, and the Russian Empires and was a hotbed of commercial and political rivalries in the late nineteenth century. Muslims exploited this geopolitical space to their advantage. They laid out an attractive military labor and espionage resource base in 370

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the region. We have seen how this pool of Muslim émigrés could be tapped by anyone with transimperial ambitions. Jamaluddin Afghani, the most well-­k nown Muslim transnational, used such networks with aplomb. But Muslim networks across empires were a valuable resource for other non-­Muslim actors as well. Dalip Singh was a prime case in point. Indeed, in 1887, one Captain Andrew Hearsey compared Dalip Singh with Jamaluddin Afghani—​based on the Russian czar’s earlier friendly overtures to Dalip Singh, which had resulted in Singh’s stay in Moscow and movement to Crimea and other parts of the Russian Empire. Hearsey wrote: “The permission [of the czar] to reside in the Crimea is, to my mind significant. Dalip will be less exposed to inquisitive journalists there than in Moscow and can receive more easily any emissaries from India . . . ​t he game played with the maharaja is not unlike that played with Djamal-­ed-­Dine [Jamaluddin] with whom I have not yet ascertained if he has yet been in communication.”14 The Foreign Office was concerned also about the relations between Dalip Singh and Ayub Khan, the Afghan chieftain. Indeed, it saw him tapping the same imperially embedded Muslim networks as those used by the Afghan chiefs and Jamaluddin. Its 1887 note on Dalip Singh observed, “Should Ayoub get into Russia, the trio to be watched will be Ayoub, the Shaik Djamal-­ed-­Dine and Duleep.” It pointed out that “Djemal is a man of great ability and energy.”15 And later in the year the Foreign Office expressed concern at the fact that Dalip Singh was, as they described, in “relations with Ayub Khan and Sheikh Djemal-­ed-­ddin [the Afghan journalist] an able and energetic man.”16 British fears were not entirely off track. Dalip Singh indeed did tap into the imperially embedded Muslim cosmopolis that touched the eastern fringes of the Russian Empire. The eastern frontier of the Russian Empire—​which bordered Central Asia, with its Muslim nomadic and pastoral populations—​was an ideal area in which to look for Muslim support. From the 1860s to the 1880s, czarist Russia, like most other imperial powers, had to face the impact of the Ottoman caliph-­centric pan-­Islam. The Russian state dealt with Muslim “fanaticism” on the frontier by a combination of military 371

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coercion and “tolerance.” On the eastern frontiers of the Russian Empire, bordering Turkistan, “tolerance” implied the permission to Muslims to carry on with their Islamic practice and rituals of faith. At the same time, restrictions were put on the implementation of the Sharia in public institutions and spaces. The governor general, Konstantin von Kaufman (posted in the region from 1867 to 1881), generated an ethnic chart of the frontier society and differentiated Muslims on the basis of their habits and customs. This “colonial knowledge,” which created a specific form of ethnicity for Muslims, served to co-­opt them into the administration and dilute the harshness of the colonial onslaught.17 This “Catherinian compromise” that implied the policy of “toleration” spearheaded Islamic liberal reforms on the fringes of empire. The imperial policy of accommodation was accompanied by the emergence in Central Asia of modernist reform that was in sync with the reformist ferment all over the Muslim world. The jadids, as the reformists were called, operated within the imperially framed political challenges of their time. They responded to them by introducing Koran-­sanctioned reforms in the education, science, hygiene, and health sectors. Very much like modernist reformers globally, they saw the lack of knowledge as the crux of the problem facing the colonized Muslim society of Central Asia. The jadids not only echoed the reformist sentiments of the Mus­lim world but also had contacts with them. It is of no little significance that the Persian text of the Bukharan jadid Abdurrauf Fitrat, Tales of an Indian Traveller, had an Indian Muslim protagonist. Fitrat wrote this text as a student in Istanbul. It is a fictional travelogue of an Indian Muslim who visited Bukhara during his haj and severely indicted the Muslim society for its lack of knowledge and for its backwardness.18 At the same time, the southern frontier of Russia, the Crimean area, saw the emergence of the jadidi modernist reformer Ismael Bey Gasprinskii (1851–1914). He was educated in the Russian military academy and in France and the Ottoman Empire and was committed to modernizing his Turkic Muslim society so as to keep pace with the changing world. He urged the Russians to invest in the Muslims without assimilating their culture as per the imperial policy of Russofication. He urged the state to 372

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maintain Muslims as a distinct ethnic entity. His influence was widely felt throughout Turkic Russia, as well as in Turkey, Egypt, and the Muslim society of India.19 The Muslim frontier of the Russian Empire, with its reformist energy and contacts with the Muslim world outside, offered a fertile playing ground for similarly oriented transimperial brokers from the British and the Ottoman territories. In Moscow, Dalip Singh prepared a draft proclamation that laid out his political aspirations and plan of action in India. Issued from Moscow, this document showed that he was clearly in tune with the rhythms of the Muslim transimperial ecumene. He reached out to its actors by invoking the memories both of the long-­dead Mughal Empire that nurtured them and of the British government that had hounded them out of India. Additionally, he pointed at the great benefits that could come their way if they exploited the British-­ Russian imperial rivalry and sided with Russia. Dalip Singh’s usage of the existing imperially framed networks and his efforts to lay out new ones in the shadow of sparring imperial rivals were reminiscent of the strategies adopted by the Muslim cosmopolitan protagonists of this book. Like them he hoped to straddle empires—​to use the old links and to carve out new connections. He allayed Muslim fears that Russia had ever been their enemy, and urged them to look at the facts of the case. He asked, “Was it Russia or was it England that supplanted the glorious Mogal [Mughal] Empire of India founded by the great Muslim Emperor Baber and ruled over by his descendants for some three centuries, and which of the aforesaid great powers was it that banished the last of that illustrious race to die a miserable death on one of this lands in the Bay of Bengal after the fall of Delhi now just about thirty years ago?”20 He reminded the Indian Muslims of the good track record of the Russian Empire in treating its Muslim subjects in Central Asia: Russia had “frequently appointed some of their officers of high rank,” he noted in his proclamation, “such for instance as generals in her army and governors of provinces conquered by her.” And he asked them, “Can a single instance of the kind be pointed to in British India?”21 He exhorted Indian Muslims to shed their biases against the Russians and cash in on the imperial rivalries. He stated, “Fear nothing from the Russians 373

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who we assure you from our experience are most kind hearted and sympathetic people and entirely different to accursed haughty English­ ­men.”22 And of course the Foreign Office was more than aware that a transimperial actor such as Dalip Singh could become a “tool” in the hands of the Russian Empire.23 Dalip Singh felt dejected and lonesome in Russia after the death of his military man Katkoff. He appealed to the czar for a passport and permission to stay in the country for good as a private individual. The appeal was couched in a language reminiscent of Muslim trans-­imperial brokers, who also could never decouple themselves from imperial networks and their politics. In a letter to the czar he said that based on the desire of the princes and people of India he had hoped to broker an alliance between Russia and India: “I ventured to reach you in order to lay the crown of Hindoodstan at your feet . . . ​but Y.I.M [Your Imperial Majesty] did not condescend to place it on your brow and become the liberator of some 250,000,000 helpless beings although I cannot (as a patriot) but lament their fate.”24 The Russian end of the Muslim cosmopolis added new phobias to the existing British obsession with the Ottoman Empire. In the early nineteenth century, both Russia and France, Britain’s two enemies, had a huge influence in the court of Tehran. As had long been feared, the imperial city became the conduit through which Russia and France would make inroads into India. In 1817, Claudius James Rich, the British resident in Baghdad, expressed concern that Russian officers had reached Kurdistan on the frontier of Persia and Turkey via their influence in Tehran. He felt that this could be the route by which the Russians might enter India and then engage in espionage. But of greater concern was the employment of Bonaparte’s officers in Tehran, who were out of favor in France and heavily prejudiced against the British. Rich feared that from Iran they would move to Afghanistan and then penetrate into India. He wanted cooperation with the Russian embassy to expel these men from Tehran.25 But relations with Russia were hardly smooth enough to make such a request. By the late nineteenth century, the Muslim question was quite central to British-­Russian relations. British India was nervous about the Muslim reaction to its overtures to Russia, 374

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especially after the Ottoman defeat in the Russo-­Turko war of 1877–1878. Indeed, in 1885, the Hungarian professor of languages at Budapest, Armenius Vambery, commented on the British caution regarding Russia and highlighted the dangers Russia posed to its Indian possessions and British commerce. He also indicated that Muslim states such as Haiderabad, Bhopal, and Bhawalpur were favorably inclined toward the Russians and might support an Indian invasion. This was a possibility because of the anti-­Ottoman policy of the British, which shifted Muslim support toward the Russians.26 This Muslim equation vis-­à-­v is Russia may or may not have been entirely true, but it did indicate the crucial role Indian Muslims played in larger imperial politics.27 Indeed, the intersection of the Russian, the Ottoman, and the British imperial and intellectual grid increased the options available to Indian Muslims to negotiate their British masters. They tapped into the politics of the Persian courts and played on Russophobia to further their ends in British India. In 1892, an Indian Muslim at the Persian imperial capital at Isphahan published a letter in the Meerut Urdu newspaper Tuti-­i-­Hind. He referred to a speech delivered by another Indian Muslim in Iran, Zia ul Haq, at the Royal Mosque in Tehran. Haq, born and brought up in Hapur in the Meerut district, severely criticized the Russian influence in Persia and warned the people that they would suffer ill treatment of their religion and women at Russian hands. Twenty thousand Persians heard the speech and got excited. The government reacted by arresting Haq. He was removed from the mosque and taken to Bushire. He was told never to return to Persian territory. Later, reports in the Urdu press revealed that Haq had been employed in the service of the municipal board at Gujarat. However, he had embezzled Rs. 300 and absconded in order to avoid punishment. The paper reported that he had criticized Russian rule in order to win the goodwill of the government of India. He hoped to be pardoned for his criminal offence.28 But it was by no means an exclusively elite world. Nor was it, as the case of Dalip Singh showed, a Muslim world alone. Given the relative easy flow of Muslims on the transimperial networks, non-­ Muslims tried to tap the networks as well—​either via Muslim agents or often via those who masqueraded as Muslims. But this could cut 375

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both ways. Muslim transimperial runaways could lean on non-­ Muslim clients to further their agendas. Given the presence of non­Muslim actors in the geographical spaces these runaways traversed, they often disguised themselves as Sikhs or Hindus to escape the British arm of law, which was particularly harsh on them. In 1888, MacLean, the British agent at Meshed in Iran, reported that the body of a “supposed” Sikh had been brought to his city from Khaf. The “Sikh” feared his capture and had killed himself with opium. Investigations revealed that he was a Muslim and had been a water carrier (bhishti) by trade. He had come to Persia with an Afghan, who robbed him. He came overland via Quetta, Nushki, and Kerman and claimed to have accidentally wandered into the Persian Empire. He was en route to join Dalip Singh at Bokhara in Russia. That the ostensible Sikh might have been a Muslim transimperial actor from the Gangetic valley became evident when MacLean reported that he “had the appearance of a Patna Muhammadan.” This was the category of Muslim rebels who, as we saw in Chap­ ­ter 1, had collected on the northwest frontier to rethink their relations with the new British political sovereigns and link up with the world outside British India.29 MacLean suspected the man to be a native of Dinapur or Patna, from where such “fanatics” came, and certainly not from the Punjab as he claimed. MacLean was of the view that either he was an emissary from the northwest frontier colony of Muslim rebels or else the bearer of a letter from India to the Russian agent in Meshed. A Hindu fakir from whom MacLean hoped to get more information accompanied him.30 The identity of the “supposed” Sikh notwithstanding, it was clear that he was from Hindustan and was using Dalip Singh to straddle empires. The fact that he disguised himself as a Sikh also revealed the entanglement of Muslim networks with those of Dalip Singh’s Sikh supporters. It also revealed how Dalip Singh’s men leaned on Muslim agents as they traversed the critical intersections of the British, Persian, and Russian Empires—​overland routes that linked the Punjab via the northwest frontier to Afghanistan, Persia, and the Russian territories in Central Asia. In 1888, W. J. Cuningham reported the arrival in Meshd, Iran, of three Hindustanis en route to Moscow. They carried letters and presents for Maharaja Dalip 376

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Singh. Their names were Mah Singh, Sawal Singh, and Wadu Singh. They moved across the interstices of empires with the help of their Muslim merchant contacts from Amritsar-­Muhammad Shah and Saifuddin. At Bunder Abbas and Karman in the Persian Empire, they had Hindustani Muslim agents: Gulab and Marwand. They moved overland from Gilgit to Wazirabad, Ferozpur, Dehra Ismael Khan, and Kharam to Lus Beyla. They were expected to make the return journey via Bokhara.31 Muslim agents and merchants at the imperial crossroads not only intersected with Hindu and Sikh actors but also with imperial staffers, such as the Russian Cossacks, for assistance. Russian warrior middlemen were a visible presence in the Muslim cosmopolis between empires. Nawab Hasan Ali Khan, the British agent at Meshd, reported that he had seen two Sikhs in disguise accompanied by two Cossacks riding with them.32 Indian Muslims worked closely with Cossacks and took on roles as Russian spies. For instance, Haji Abdulla Peshawari, the forty-­t hree-­year-­old emissary of Nawab Hasan Ali Khan, was a resident of Bokhara and a Russian spy. He doubled as a tea merchant, moving between his place of birth, Peshawar, and his residence in Bokhara with tea for sale. He also acted as an agent who helped navigate Sikhs, Hindus, and other non-­Muslim actors across imperial crossroads. Thus the two Sikhs, disguised in Turkoman clothes, were reported to have been in close touch both with the Cossacks as well as with him. Hasan Ali Khan reported that they had met him at least twice. Abdulla Peshawari, who knew Russian well, acted as their interpreter as they moved across these areas with the hope of connecting with Dalip Singh.33 Nawab Hasan Ali Khan was able to collect this information via his own Punjabi-­speaking emissary, who was Multan born and bred. This man masqueraded as a merchant and followed them up to the Russian frontier. He reported that a Russian agent accompanied the Sikhs and their Muslim agents all the time.34 Muslim agents, disguised as merchants, traveled freely between British India and the Russian Empire. In 1889, the khan of Kalat dispatched an agent called Shalkalla, disguised as a merchant, to connect with the Russians in Central Asia and help them advance into India.35 377

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The Russian adventurer Notovich was an important agent of Dalip Singh. He was seen as an important and useful “adventurer” in British circles. He was said to speak French and English and was on friendly terms with a diverse range of people. He claimed to have with him valuable letters from British officers, including Colonel Herbert at St. Petersburg, Colonel Ridgway at Herat, and Colonel Trotter at Constantinople. One report noted, “[He has several] voluminous MS [manuscript] books containing he says the secret reports of English officials in India on the railways . . . ​t he march to the frontier, the military strength etc.”36 He also maintained correspondence with Indian rajas. As proof of his links with these rajas, he flaunted photographs of them with dedications to him.37 Notovich visited India in 1887 and claimed to have bribed a lower functionary in the Foreign Office to obtain maps of the Kashmir region. He boasted of contacts in the British administration. And as proof he said he had notes on the situation in India, which he had gotten from one Mr. O’Connor, who occupied an official position at Simla. Notovitch also brought back to Moscow letters for Dalip Singh from a pandit of Lahore called Gopi Nath. These contained promises of financial assistance.38

Abdul Rasul, Dalip Singh’s Kashmiri Muslim Agent Non-­Muslim actors found it easy to operate in the Muslim cosmopolis via their networks of Muslim agents. In particular, the trust that Dalip Singh and his cousins had in Punjabi Muslims was extraordinary. Gurbachan Singh and his brothers considered them the “most loyal people,” whom he could ask to do anything. He claimed, “They have faith in me.”39 And it was this trust, coupled with the advantages of relying on Muslims, that led to Abdul Rasul being selected to serve as Dalip Singh’s trusted agent. Indeed, Dalip Singh relied on his Muslim Kashmiri agent Abdul Rasul to tap into the Muslim transimperial ecumene. Abdul Rasul was a native of Srinagar in Kashmir and the son of Haig Abdul Karim. His career profile was very much like the cosmopolitan protagonists of this book: he was a former agent of the Ottoman Empire, 378

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a multilingual who had learned Russian while working in Moscow for Dalip Singh. He was only twenty-­six years old when he decided to work for Dalip Singh.40 He straddled the overlapping British– Ottoman worlds to garner support for his master across the Muslim cosmopolis. He was well qualified for this job, as he was a typical Muslim middleman who had made a transimperial career. He had lived in Egypt for six years and was in Turkish government service in Istanbul until the conclusion of the Russo-­Turkish war of 1877– 1878. After the war he moved to England where for many years he was the companion and secretary to a Muslim lawyer, Mirza Pir Baksh, who lived in Russell Square in London. Abdul Rasul’s rich experience in the Ottoman world attracted British officers to him, and in 1882 he accompanied Lord Wellesley as an interpreter to the Egyptian Expeditionary Force. He was, however, sent back to England, as it was discovered that he had maintained secret links with the enemy.41 After his fall from the British circles, he was referred to as the “bigoted Mohammedan,” “sharp and suspicious.” He was described in British official discourse as a man of “medium height, Arab features marked by small pox, scar like burn on left cheek dividing closely cut grisly beard.”42 The British detective Azizuddin described him aptly: “His only occupation is to serve as the go-­between to further intrigues of one government against the other.”43 Clearly, Abdul Rasul was a middleman cultural broker like Sayyid Fadl, Kairanwi, and Imdadullah Makki, and he soon became Dalip Singh’s principal agent, serving as his interlocutor with the Ottoman, Russian, and French Empires. He had contacts across empires. In Russia he was the close friend and associate of the Muslim military commander General Alikhanov. Together they lobbied for Dalip Singh with the czar and strategized on invading India via the Gilgit passes in the Hindu Kush ranges bordering Kashmir. Abdul Rasul had used his Muslim card to lay out a network and support base in Russia. The Muslims of Moscow had welcomed him into their circle and had sent a carriage to take him to the city’s mosque. He had made alliances with influential Muslims while in Moscow: Sikandar Khan of Herat; General Alikhanov, the governor of Pendjeh; and Musa Khan, the prince of Kazan and aide-­de-­camp to the czar.44 379

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In Paris, he was close to Asad Pasha, the Turkish ambassador to Paris, who introduced him to the upper echelons of the French government. The French used him to “bribe” the Ottomans in forming a close alliance with them. A British report noted that he was sent “by express train to Constantinople from Paris with money and letters to Muhammad Pasha, the Circassian chief aide-­de-­camp to the sultan.” The Ottoman alliance was crucial in France’s Nile Wars with the British. With the Ottomans on their side, the French used Abdul Rasul to further their ends in Sudan. Rasul was close to Zubair Pasha of Egypt, who was related by marriage to Sheikh Senousi of Alexandria. This made it easy for the French to transmit money to Sudan, as it was sent via Sheikh Senousi’s firm. The French consul at Alexandria encouraged Sheikh Senousi in his political game plans. Abdul Rasul was said to be at the bottom of all these networks, as he was always in touch with a Frenchman in Paris—​ through his friend Asad Pasha—​who controlled the French operations in Sudan.45 He also approved of the idea of Volpert—​t he French convert to Islam stationed at Djalfa—​who wanted to send Muslim missionaries to India via Mecca to stir up trouble in British India. Rasul thought the plan was feasible if the chief of Mecca accredited the missionaries.46 In Egypt, Abdul Rasul networked with Indian émigré rebels and helped distribute their literature. He was friendly to one of the protagonist of this book, Nawab Siddiq Hasan Khan of Bhopal, and distributed his books in the region.47 He never failed to hook on to itinerant Indians who moved across imperial crossroads, entering the fuzzy subimperial culture of agents and middlemen. In 1888 Abdul Rasul befriended one Lal-­din, a Kashmiri from Jammu, who was en route from Medina to Istanbul. Lal-­din “ran away” from India and was on his way to Istanbul, where he hoped to present the sultan with shawls, rice, and a Koran and to ask him to intercede on his behalf in obtaining a position in the maharaja of Kashmir’s service.48 Rasul was in regular correspondence with him and planned to meet him in Egypt so that he could assist in arranging Dalip Singh’s plans to return to India via Kashmir.49 Abdul Rasul was seen as a significant player in the French, Egyptian, and Sudanese ­support

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base for Dalip Singh, and his links with Istanbul were strong due to his friendship with Asad Pasha. In Paris, Abdul Rasul established critical connections between the Muslim cosmopolis and other transimperial networks. Thus he connected with the Irish Fenians, who were happy to connect with any anti-­British activity. His links with them brought him into the purview of the Russian military party. Abdul Rasul’s main contact with the Russian military party was a man called Ivanoff—​t he Russian consul in Cairo.50 Ivanoff warmed up to Abdul Rasul when he heard of his contacts both with the Irish and the Muslim trans­ imperial actors. The Russian party was particularly keen to use Abdul Rasul’s relations with Zubair Pasha in Egypt and with the Sudanese to stir up trouble in Sudan. They employed him to incite the Sudanese to block the Suez Canal. In Cairo, Abdul Rasul lived in style in Hotel d’Alexandria, where he held meetings with both Zubair Pasha and the Russians. Osman Digha, the son-­in-­law of the Sudanese chief, was in constant touch with him, and he was supplied with Russian gold and money from Cairo.51 The coming together of the imperially embedded Muslim cosmopolis with Russian and French imperial politics only strengthened the former. And middlemen brokers like Abdul Rasul emerged as the beneficiaries. In a letter in Turkish that the Foreign Department found in his private papers, Abdul Rasul referred to Dalip Singh’s plans to solicit the help of the Russians and the Ottomans so as to return to the Punjab. Rasul considered himself suitable to be the interlocutor between empires. He claimed to have contacts with Asad Pasha, the Ottoman envoy in Paris. He was also a friend of Zubair Pasha in Egypt, who connected him to the French, and he had links with Ivanoff, the Russian consul in Cairo, as well as with General Alikhanoff, his chief ally in Moscow.52 Indeed, Abdul Rasul was said to receive an allowance from Russia through “a musahib” of the czar.53 As he noted in the letter, he considered the imperially framed assemblage critical for the sustenance of the Muslim cosmopolis: “If then Turkey considered seriously this important consideration allying herself ostensibly with Russia and secretly with the maharajah, not only perhaps would great benefit result with regard to the

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Egyptian and Bulgarian questions, but increased bonds of union would result between Muslamans of India and Central Asia. My feeling of devotion to Islam did not allow me to remain silent while such reflections passed through my mind.”54 Abdul Rasul made it clear to Dalip Singh that he regarded it as a “duty of conscience” and “of the utmost necessity” to submit this proposal to the sultan of Turkey.” The English had reason to fear the coming together of the self-­driven Muslim subimperial networks and the Ottoman, Russian, and French Empires. The English feared that Zubair Pasha, emboldened with this support, might become another U’rabi, the military general who had led the social and political revolution against Ottoman control in the late nineteenth century—​except that this time the guns would be turned against their English rulers. And the letters that Abdul Rasul was known to carry between Mukhtar Pasha, the Turkish commissioner in Egypt, and Dalip Singh did not make things easy for the English.55 The British detective Azizuddin always created a stir in official circles when he intercepted letters from Dalip Singh to the Ottoman sultan that were invariably transmitted via Abdul Rasul. The Cairo police chief, Captain Martyn Fenwick, discovered a document in Turkish in Abdul Rasul’s hotel room. The translator revealed that it was “some kind of proposal to the Sultan, a memorandum of the Maharaja’s history, written around six months previously.”56 In 1889, Abdul Rasul left for Egypt en route to India with $100that he had received from Dalip Singh. His mission was to deliver letters seeking the support of Zubair Pasha of Egypt and the maharajah of Kashmir. He also carried letters for two other Indians, one of whom was married to the daughter of Ranjit Singh’s son Shere Singh. Abdul Rasul sailed in a French steamer as a second-­class passenger, hoping to get financial and moral support in India and Egypt.57 And in Cairo a police raid of his room revealed more letters in his possession from Zubair Pasha. Two of these were sent to him at his Paris address and indicated that Zubair Pasha was the main conduit for his correspondence with India. Zubair Pasha was the forwarding agent for letters that Abdul Rasul dispatched to India.58 Zubair Pasha lived in Cairo under Abdul Rasul’s patronage and interacted with rebellious and “dis-­affected” Egyptians who were clearly in 382

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touch with similar “rebels” in India. The British correspondent reported that from Cairo, Abdul Rasul was to “proceed to India with credentials and recommendations to the disaffected elements there.”59 Abdul Rasul did make that trip, and from his Fitzroy Square address in London, and later from Paris, he remained in touch with Dalip Singh and kept him abreast of the chain of communications that he coordinated across the span of “disaffected” people from India to North Africa.60 Indeed in an Arabic letter sent via Abdul Rasul to him, Zubair Pasha offered to work closely with Dalip Singh. The main selling point of this offer was the connected nature of Muslim politics across Asia and Africa that Zubair Pasha claimed to control. He urged Dalip Singh to “throw himself entirely upon the Mussulman element promising an insurrection in Egypt simultaneously with one in India.” He also mentioned the sympathy he had with the anti-­English movement of Mukhtar Pasha, the Turkish commissioner in Egypt. Alluding to the connected worlds of the Ottoman and British Empires that were straddled by Muslim trans­ imperial agents and brokers, he begged Dalip Singh “not to waste his time in Russia but to go to Mecca and thence to Busoorah whence he could enter India in disguise.”61

Indian Rulers, Imperial Russia, and Irish Nationalists in the Muslim Cosmopolis Dalip Singh had Muslim agents located in the Ottoman territories as well. Yet another Muslim agent of Dalip Singh, Mustafa Effendi, helped him connect with the Muslim networks as they lay embedded throughout the Russian and Ottoman imperial worlds. Effendi was located in Istanbul, where he constituted an important link with the Muslim networks spread out across the Ottoman world. He was an influential man who was in charge of the sultans’ burial ground and who also received payment from the Russians. Effendi was a friend of the famous Muslim transimperial broker Jamaluddin Afghani, who was located in Moscow, and he worked as the middleman between Dalip Singh and the rebellious Afghani who straddled the British and Ottoman territories with ease.62 Another Muslim agent, 383

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Latifur Rahman, based in London, was said to be in constant touch with Abdul Rasul and with a Bengali Muslim law student in London who supported Dalip Singh. Latifur Rahman oriented Dalip Singh to the Irish camp. It was widely believed in British circles that due to his continuous association with the Irish Fenians, Dalip Singh had become a “Fenian in heart.”63 Other Muslim agents included a range of merchants. Merchants from Kabul and Qandahar who traveled across the northwest frontier to the Punjab carried Dalip Singh’s messages across to the Sikhs. One of the “greatest and [most] respectable” Kabul merchants, a man who lived for the last seventeen years in the Punjab, told Major General M. Dillon, posted in the region, that such merchant emissaries ensured that the Sikhs of Rawalpindi as well as Ambala would welcome Dalip Singh. Indeed, they met in private assemblies to discuss their support for him. They sent him messengers via Quetta and Kandahar. Dalip Singh reciprocated their friendly overtures. The Kabul merchant asserted that he too was part of their private assemblies in Rawalpindi and Ambala, and that they spread love and support for him.64 The French agents of Dalip Singh also worked with Muslim contacts. One of them, called Volpert, was a young man of twenty-­t hree or twenty-­four years of age. He toured extensively across India, traveling to Pondicherry, Bombay, Baroda, and Ahmadabad. He attended a parade of the native infantry regiment in camp and saw the gaekwar’s troops. He visited the court of Udaipur and met the diwan. While in the area he also stopped at Chittor, Jaipur, and the Amber Palace. He also visited Agra, Gwalior, Calcutta, and Lucknow. While in Lucknow, he entered into a discussion with a native government official about the benefits of an alliance with Russia. This officer began to make inquiries that alarmed Volpert so much that he instantly departed for Pondicherry and from there back to France.65 While in India, Volpert worked through a Muslim translator, Sheikh Sultan, and a Muslim agent from Azamgarh called Abdul Ghafur, who was the son of a butcher of the city. Abdul Ghafar passed as mukhtar (leader) and practiced in Azamgarh. He was a man with many roles: he wrote for many vernacular newspapers and wrote anonymous petitions; he was employed by various 384

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badmashes (bad characters) in the city; he traded in hides; he worked as an immigration agent; and he managed the estates of a large zamindar, Tej Pratab Singh, in the Atraulia district of the northwest Azamgarh district. Abdul Ghafar had spent some years in jail on a forgery charge. For a long time he was thought to be a Russian agent. But it was disclosed that he was in effect acting on behalf of Dalip Singh, whom he had met in Paris.66 Dalip Singh used Muslim agents to connect with Muslim princes of Haiderabad and Awadh, and also with Muslims of the Punjab, many of whom had worked in the court of his father, Ranjit Singh. Hussain Khan, a faithful and favorite servant of Ranjit Singh, was one such case in point. In 1885, Dalip Singh wrote to him, eliciting his support and establishing a special bond with him on account of his long association with his family and their shared Indo-­Persianate culture. He greeted him in the Muslim way and said, “I send you salam alaikum for I now follow the precepts of Baba Nanak who considered all religions to be alike before the almighty, for we are all His servants.”67 He also recited for him the kalima (God is one and Muhammad is his Prophet) in Arabic and claimed that he knew some Arabic and had read the English translation of the Koran. In 1887, Dalip Singh’s agent, Arur Singh, who had arrived in Calcutta from Moscow via Odessa, Istanbul, and Colombo, revealed that he was in India to collect money and allies for his master. Abdul Rasul’s Muslim contacts in India helped him move along the networks of Muslim princely states. He had already visited the Indian state of Haiderabad and had letters for the king of Awadh and circulars for the native princes that promised “deliverance from British yoke.”68 Abdul Rasul was the mutual friend of the Awadh nawab’s school friend. This was his contact in Awadh. He regretted not having used this connection when Arur Singh was denied an appoint­ ­ment with the nawab.69 The Haiderabad state was also tapped for support. In a letter that Dalip Singh wrote to Sirdar Diler Jang in Haiderabad state, he assured him of coming back to India, as he stated, “to release my brother princes from the yoke of the accursed English rule.” He tried his best to establish alliances with the Muslim regional rulers and cautioned Diler Jang against giving the British government any aid. He offered friendly advice and reminded 385

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him that the British had been known to switch alliances in India. He noted, “[The British] praised and petted the Sikhs who saved the Indian Empire in 1857, and now I understand are making friends with you Mussalmans in order to play the same game.” He urged the Haiderabad state to be wary of the English as their object was “to make the Hindoo and Muhummedans enemies and so gain power for themselves.”70 Once he had established the right connections, he asked the Haiderabad state for financial help and urged them to “assist in every way.”71 The geographical space from which he hoped to get widespread support in India corresponded to the areas of Muslim networks that spread from Calcutta in the east to the northwestern frontier areas bordering Afghanistan. He pointed the nizam’s attention to a letter from India. It reported: “The people are more than anxiously awaiting Y. M [Your Majesty’s] arrival in or near Afghanistan. We can safely assure Y. M. beyond doubt that as Y.M reaches Kandahar or Caubul an open rebellion will take place in Scinde, the Punjab, North Western provinces [i.e., North India from Indus to Calcutta].”72 Dalip Singh claimed to understand very well the predicaments of the nizam of Haiderabad and other Indian princes, as they were, as he said, literally “in the palm of the government of India.” He was particularly sympathetic to the nizam of Haiderabad and considered him and other Muslims to be trustworthy allies. In a letter written from Moscow, he advised his cousins, “Do not mistrust the Mohummedans. They will all co-­operate with me when the time comes if it ever does. The Nizam is heart and soul with me, but he is obliged to appear loyal to the English in order to save himself.”73 His cousins agreed that the Indian princes were all “injured in heart by the English government . . . ​t hat all of them [wanted] to throw over the British yoke.”74 The support of Indian princes was critical as it made Dalip Singh’s position in Russia more secure. In other words, the princes themselves became the points of connection in the imperial assemblages across which Dalip Singh hoped to move. All the Indian princes contacted were asked to send some token to convince the czar of their loyalty.75 Dalip Singh was also required to obtain from them written assurances of support, which were to be sent to Russia as 386

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proof that his Indian support base was in place. He also hoped to appoint an agent in each princely state to coordinate correspondence. The czar also wanted him to make arrangements for a Russian officer in India who would verify his claims of the support he had from Indian princes.76 Dalip Singh needed the cooperation of Indian princes not only to establish and maintain his own personal inroads into India but also to assure the czar that he too had support within India. In fact, this was Dalip Singh’s major concern, as he was acting as their “international” representative. He wrote to his cousin, “I should be both largely helped and supported in order to convince the imperial government that the Indians are really in earnest.”77 He said that huge difficulties would arise in the plan if he was “unable to give the imperial government a proof.” And he added, “Unless a substantial one is soon forthcoming I am certain to fail in the mission I am working out on behalf of my countrymen.”78 He complained that he could not give the names of the princes, as that would lead them into trouble with the English government. In desperation he called the princes gadhay (donkeys) if they did not understand the gravity of the situation and act accordingly.79 But the most important Indian princely state from the point of view of Dalip Singh’s return to India was Kashmir. Dalip Singh was confident that the Muslim transimperial networks that he used would connect with Kashmir with ease. His main agent was Abdul Rasul, who, as we have seen, was a Kashmiri Muslim with wide-­ ranging connections in the region. But Kashmir was important for other reasons as well. Kashmir was predominantly (over 90 percent) Muslim. It was strategically located vis-­à-­v is the Russian empire. It was an important conduit through which the imperially embedded Muslim cosmopolis could interlock with its arteries across India. It was the biggest native state of British India, ruled by a compliant Dogra (Hindu) dynasty, although the British resident effectively controlled it. To its north were the Hindu Kush mountains with the famous Gilgit passes. And these mountain ranges linked Kashmir to Russian Turkestan. Kashmir thus had an ideal geographical and ethnic profile for a Muslim-­Sikh alliance. In 1889, Dalip Singh sent Abdul Rasul as his emissary to the maharaja of Kashmir. He urged the Kashmir maharaja, “Receive 387

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our messenger with kindness and concern.” He reminded the maharaja that if he cooperated with him, then the maharaja could “be sure of [Russian] assistance later on.”80 British detective Azizuddin reported that Abdul Rasul had a plan worked out for Dalip Singh’s success in Kashmir. As per the advice of the Russian military party, he was to create disturbances in Kashmir on behalf of the Russian military party, and that would force the party to pressure the czar to attack the English. The critical part was to have the maharaja of Kashmir on the side of Dalip Singh, as that would win Sikh ­support.81 Diwan Lachman Das, a former minister of the Kashmir state, was the key link in Dalip Singh’s endeavors to make inroads into Kashmir. He kept in touch with Dalip Singh’s cousins in Pondicherry and was reported to have sent them Rs. 30,000 for the maharaja. In 1887, it was reported that he had dispatched a private servant of his, named Ghulam Hussain, to Pondicherry to coordinate with Dalip Singh’s cousins in the city. In 1888, he was reported to be in secret correspondence with Russia. And the same year it was said that, on the pretext of going to England, he intended to visit France and Russia to meet Dalip Singh.82 A series of letters written by the maharaja of Kashmir revealed that he was in constant contact with Russia as well as Dalip Singh. On the Russian side, the plan for the entry into India from Kashmir was in the hands of General Alikhanov. He was a Muslim who had wiped out an Afghan force at Pendjeh that was en route to Herat. And the occupation of Pendjeh had brought the Russian Empire into direct contact with the British one. Because the general was Muslim, it was virtually ensured that he would quickly become a close confidant of Abdul Rasul. The British spy Azizuddin confidently noted that “he had interested himself in Dalip’s behalf through the influence, so he says of Abdul Rasul.”83 According to Abdul Rasul, their joint plan was to make demonstrations in force against Herat, but direct the real attack toward Kashmir through the Gilgit passes. Alikhanoff wanted Abdul Rasul to leave Moscow and locate himself at some point within the reach of the Indian frontier. His Indian contacts were equally widespread: Diler Jang was his man in Haiderabad. He also had contacts with Holkar. In 388

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1891, Abdul Rasul was in touch with Suchet Singh, the wealthy Sikh from the Chamba region of the Punjab, for financial reasons. But the English were convinced that this was to blackmail the raja.84 The district superintendent of Ambala, Mr. Warburton, lumped the Muslim ecumene, which he called “wahabi associations,” with the national congress, Singh Sabhas, Hindu Sabhas, Arya Samaj, as well as with the Kuka sect, because Dalip Singh’a agents used these networks to operate within India. He considered them all equally “dangerous political elements and movements intended to increase disloyalty in the people against the British.”85 J. B. Lyall, the lieutenant. governor of Punjab, also grouped the Sikhs and the Muslims of Punjab together as the “warlike tribes” who could hold out against stronger “races” in the midst of the “tumult and anarchy” that would follow in the case of the Russian overthrow of British power. He was confident that this would not be the case in the other parts of India, where the people, particularly the “educated” ones, would curtail any such anarchy.86 And while some British officers could see the “wahabi associations” connect with other pan-­Indian organizations, they were less sure of how the Muslim cosmopolis, spread across the imperial assemblages of Russia and the Ottoman Empires, would connect with the Muslims and non-­Muslims of India. The general consensus was that Muslims in particular held a dim view of the Russian Empire. And Dalip Singh’s plan of riding piggyback on the Muslim cosmopolis, embedded as it was in Russian imperial networks, would backfire in India. B. E. Gowan, commanding the regiment of the Fourth Sikhs, felt that the fact that Dalip Singh would come with Muslim mercenaries from Central Asia, who worked for the Russians, would not please the Sikh population, because, as he stated, they “bear an undying hatred to a Mahomedan.” But more important, he argued that even the Muslims would not be happy, as the accounts they had heard of the Russian treatment of Muslims were very bad. He concluded that Muslim soldiers of his regiment were convinced that the Russians “oppressed people . . . ​and had no respect for the zenana [women’s quarter].” Gowan said that he had understood that the Muslim soldiers would stand by the British should Russia invade India.87 389

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The 1891 visit of the czarevitch to India provoked a lot of comment in the Urdu press. However, the vernacular selections prepared by government agents included only those items that proved that the Muslims were indifferent to or negative toward the Russians. The Alam-­i-­Taswir of Kanpur published a railway carriage conversation between some Muslim men and a Russian officer regarding the czarevitch’s India visit. To the Russian officers’ provocative comment that his countrymen were “wild and barbarous,” the Muslim officers reacted that the Russians could not say this was true about the “able politicians and enlightened men” that were conversing with them. But they refrained from expressing their opinions about the Russians as a nation. When finally forced to answer, they replied that the Russians were the most “uncivilized people among the European nations” and supported this contention by referring to the misbehavior of Russian sailors at a Parsi club at Bombay.88 A later edition of the newspaper reported that the “Muhammedans condemned Russian rule over Muhamedans as oppressive and tyrannical” and that they also objected to the sentence in the governor of Crimea’s address to the czar that expressed a hope that the czar would subdue the Turks and put up the Holy cross in place of the crescent at the top of St. Sophia mosque.89 News items from the Urdu newspaper from Moradabad, Hamidul Akhbar, which “adverted to the suppression of certain verses in the Quran by the Russian government,” were highlighted to show Russian religious intolerance.90 News items in the Hindustan of 17 June 1891 that made it clear that the natives were not in the mood to change masters and that they were aware of the tyranny of the czar over his subject population were given huge publicity via the vernacular selections.91 Cartoons in the Oudh Punch depicting Muslim­dominated regions under the devious gaze of the Russian Empire helped popularize the negative sentiments Indian Muslims held of Russia. In contrast, these cartoons presented the British Empire in a good light. Thus the September 1891 issue of the Oudh Punch from Lucknow carried the cartoon of a Russian bear lovingly embracing a “Musalman” who was marked as Central Asia. The cartoon had the British lion standing close by and quietly looking on.92 A later issue of the magazine represented Herat as a mouse protected by a 390

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British lion and Russia as a cat lying in wait for an opportunity to seize the mouse.93 Similarly, news items in the Lucknow newspaper Shokh-­i-­Oudh critiquing Russia for encouraging the publication of a new newspaper in Shiraz, Persia, called Aftab-­i-­Hind, were widely circulated because they showed how outraged Indians in general and Muslims in particular were about Russia trying to obtain news of India via this paper.94 Comments from the diary of the British Peshawar commissioner regarding the atrocities of the czar on the Muslim population of Turkestan were dutifully reported to the India Office so that Turkestan Muslims could be cycled back into Indian society. In 1888, the news that the czar had issued an order that no landed property was to be appropriated as wakf (charitable land grant) by private persons in Russian Turkistan, for the support of mosques and shrines, was noted with concern. Also promptly noted for wide circulation in India was the news that each woman wearing a veil was directed to pay a yearly tax of ten rupees. Women without veils were exempted.95 The British government refused to extend any cooperation to Russia if it threatened the welfare of its Muslim subjects. Thus in 1899 the Russian request for the establishment of a consulate in the northwest frontier region of India, bordering Central Asia, for helping the passage of its Muslim pilgrims was turned down by the Bombay government. It was seen as a “pretext of spreading dis-­affection and intrigue.”96 The British officials were convinced that Muslims were not favorably inclined toward Russia. They were equally sure that Muslims and Sikhs were separate religious categories that could never come together. A Punjabi Muslim orderly of an English military officer reported to his master that the Sikhs of Punjab were excited at the news that Dalip Singh was in Herat with a Russian army waiting to enter India. The officer minimized the scare with the wishful thought that “the Mahomodan feeling seems to be against him.” He took great solace from the comments of his orderly, who said, “Why have you no Mahomedan regiments as well as Sikh ones? We don’t care about Dhuleep Singh, and are quite ready to fight him.”97 Similarly, H. M. Henderson was convinced that the “Muhamedans of the Punjab have no sympathy whatever either with the Sikhs or 391

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with Dalip Singh.” He was of the view that this loss of sympathy had come about due to the Dussehra and Muharram riots and to the introduction of local self-­government in the Punjab.98 In 1891, after Dalip Singh’s plot had been foiled, Suchet Singh had Abdul Rasul arrested for stealing documents. In response, Abdul Rasul filed a case against Dalip Singh for claims. He was hopeful that he could blackmail Dalip Singh and create a scandal. But Dalip Singh appeared indifferent. He complained that Abdul Rasul, while intoxicated, had threatened to shoot him.99 The Indian princes, who in the end failed to rise to the occasion, disillusioned a very sick and disenchanted Dalip Singh. In August 1890, after he had determined to go back to England, he had his wishes conveyed to his son: “His highness has learned from sad experience that all his immense sacrifices in the cause of his countrymen have been in vain. He believed in the sincerity of the promises and representations sent to him from India. He has been told that they were empty words.”100 However, the charges and countercharges in this endgame could not detract from the fact that the network of agents and contacts that Muslim cosmopolitans had spread out between empires remained a critical resource base for all kinds of people who cared to use it. The coming together of the Muslim transimperial ecumene with other pan-­nationalists was most evident in Dalip Singh’s proposal to set up a colony of Irish Fenians on the northwest frontier. The Times correspondent in Moscow said that he had reports of telegraphic communications between his city and an important and well-­k nown point on the Afghan frontier. He was keen to follow this “Indo-­ Muscovite” intrigue piloted by Dalip Singh and the Russian military party chief Katkoff on the northwest frontier.101 In Paris, Dalip Singh was in constant touch with Irishmen. The Irish journalist John Brenon was known to have often sought interviews with him. He made promises to raise his concerns in Parliament.102 Dalip Singh interacted with the Irish not only to hatch conspiracies but also to use them to mail personal letters from England and Ireland in order to avoid British surveillance in Paris.103 Letters to Dalip Singh from an Irishman who was a lieutenant colonel in the British Army and initialed his letters with a capital “C” were found in the possession of his agent Arur Singh.104 392

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Dalip Singh’s interactions with the Irish led to a plot in which the two military parties of Irish nationalists drew up a proposal for the establishment of an Irish military colony near the northwestern Indian frontier. They hoped to lodge six hundred to six thousand Irishmen in the colony. They hoped that would attract eleven thousand to thirteen thousand Irish deserters from the British army. The colony was to be commanded by a close associate who would follow instructions from the imperial government of Russia. It was hoped that this colony of Irishmen would be ready to march in the service of any deposed native sovereign and place him on the throne.105 Dalip Singh’s letters to his cousins in Pondicherry, intercepted by the British government, revealed that the military party in Russia had persuaded him to go to France and enter into relations with the Irish and American parties in Paris. He was asked to be their emissary to the Russians and to ask for their help.106 Dalip Singh was confident that the frontier with Afghanistan, which was home to Muslim rebels from British India, would be the best location for such a colony, as it would reflect the rebellious spirit of the Irish deserters. He was keen on establishing this colony despite the reservations of his cousins who warned that it might be counterproductive, as it could encourage the English government to offer the frontier rebels liberty and home rule. This would most certainly disconnect them from the other trans-­Asian actors. This would not be a very favorable situation for Dalip Singh.107 The Foreign Office also looked into information that said that Dalip Singh had contacts with the Irish secret societies. But this could not be confirmed.108 Again, a news item in the Times indicated that Dalip Singh had traveled to Russia under the name of the well-­ known Irish Fenian, Patrick Casey. The Times correspondent believed that Dalip Singh had lost his passport and belongings in Berlin and was in dire straits. The article claimed that Dalip Singh had chosen the Irish disguise because while in Paris he might have gotten Casey’s Irish passport.109 That this was true was revealed years later, when Dalip Singh, comfortably lodged in the Hotel Dussaux in Moscow, joked about his fake identity to his son. He wrote, “The English resident here and the embassy think that I am Casey who was connected with affairs in Ireland some time back. It is very amusing.”110 393

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Casey was a member of the Fenian council in Paris and a suspect in the failed dynamite attack planned for the London celebrations of Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee. He was a card-­carrying Irish rebel hero who had been involved in the huge explosion at the Clerkenwell House of Detention in 1867. The attack was intended to free his brother. But instead, it had caused vast damages to the London working class. Afterward, he and his three brothers had fled to Paris, as London had become too dangerous for them. There, they settled down to a life of journalism, boozing, and revolutionary politics.111 Casey claimed to know Dalip Singh “intimately.” In an interview with the Paris correspondent of the Morning Advertiser, he revealed Dalip Singh’s contacts in Russia, his political ties with the Irish Fenians, and his ties to the Russian military party and its leader, Katkoff, in Moscow.112 John Brenon, an Irish journalist and politician, was said to be in touch with Dalip Singh. He often arranged appointments with him and according to the Times correspondent, had promised to “agitate his pretensions before parliament.” Dalip Singh consented to meet him, but in one such 1890 meeting he failed to show up.113 However, his links with the Irishmen in the British Indian army were on a firmer footing. He was confident of getting the support of fifteen thousand Irishmen in the British army in India.114

Dalip Singh and the Spirit of 1857 The spirit of 1857, as we saw in earlier chapters, had charged the transimperial Muslim ecumene in no small measure. It had triggered the movement of Muslims to the northwestern frontier and to the Ottoman world outside, and it had made them sensitive to rebellions in Dutch Acheh in the north of Sumatra and in Ottoman Egypt in North Africa, as well as to the Mahdi movement in Sudan. Dalip Singh, very much like the Muslim cosmopolitans, strategized his return to India inspired by the spirit of 1857; indeed, modeled his own efforts on the rebels’ strategies. He leaned on all the critical actors of this rebellion and hoped to draw on their networks, which he was convinced had not been extinguished, despite the failure of 394

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1857. He invoked both the spirit and the model of protest epitomized by 1857 to energize the transimperial Muslim networks. He used these invigorated networks to work his way into British India. Indeed, 1857 had shown how individuals could use imperial networks to make transimperial forays and forge political alliances outside India. The mutiny-­rebellion of 1857 had become the benchmark for a particular kind of transimperial politics. In 1889, Dalip Singh wrote to his cousins in Pondicherry, who were coordinating his plans there. He asked, “Can you not get up another mutiny as in 1857 of the Hindustani troops, when I land with some 10,000 European volunteers. If this could be effected, I think the thing will easily be done.”115 The Indian princes had played a major role in 1857. With this model in mind, he wrote, “But before you start anything let me have reliable information as to how far the princes are really with us.” He wanted to lean on the princes for support, as that would broaden his social base instantly. This had been the case in 1857 as well. And he offered his cousins the following assurance: “I shall have say at least 5,000 volunteers . . . ​ 10,000 Irish in India—​Sikhs and Punjabees in the British service 40,000.Total 55,000 men—​not by any means a bad little army. But if the native princes rise, we might have another 100,000 men.”116 He issued an appeal to the native princes in which he urged them to raise money for the purchase of arms and ammunitions. He said he needed 3 to 4 million pounds sterling placed at the disposal of the Committee of Organization in Europe. He made the princes aware that both in Europe and in America there were supporters waiting to participate in this new mutiny-­rebellion in India.117 And in 1887, he arranged to have circulated in the Sikh regiments copies of his proclamation detailing the unjust treatment he had received at the hands of the British.118 There were also unconfirmed reports from his Pondicherry cousin Sardar Gurbachan Singh that an Irish major was being dispatched from Ireland to win over the Irish troops in the British Indian army.119 Gurbachan Singh and another Pondicherry cousin, Narinder Singh, encouraged Dalip Singh to emulate the 1857 model. They told him “that all Sikhs in the Indian army were ready to join the majesty” and that a “certain sirdar ha[d] also visited Pondicherry 395

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with the assurances of loyalty to the Maharaja.” According to his cousins, the Sikhs were so enthusiastic about supporting Dalip Singh that two of them, accompanying a German baron who had visited Haiderabad, had traveled to Europe in order to meet him.120 They were sure that if a European army landed in India with a view to fighting the British, and if the chances of success were bright, the people would willingly join the uprising. Dalip Singh was also confident of getting money from local bankers and from private individuals in India if the actual war situation developed. Dalip Singh’s cousins felt that the chances of success might incite an 1857-­style mutiny in the Bengal army. The cousins were of the view that since this army consisted largely of Punjabis, its loyalty could be relied on. The assistance of Irish officers could only make their case stronger. One British officer, H. M. Durand, feared that given the post-­1857 dependence of the government on the Sikh regiments, “any disaffection among our Sikh troops in the face of a Russian advance would paralyze our operations and make our position a very critical one.”121 Dalip Singh’s cousins, with the 1857 model in mind, did not have much hope in the Bombay and Madras armies, which, they said, had “low caste” people of no proven record of bravery. They wished to invoke the same sort of powerful rumors that in 1857 had stoked the fire of rebellion. They felt that the European army that would accompany the maharaja should at once capture an important town and defeat its small garrison. They hoped that when the news of this momentous event “spread out . . . ​certainly all of India [would] be in a blaze.”122 They suggested Burma as the possible site of this event: “The Burmese are active,” his cousins stated, “and our Punjabees muster there in large numbers . . . ​and if we could drive the English out of Burma we will not have difficulty in reading down the English raj in India.”123 His cousins invoked the symbolism of Burma, which was immortalized in popular memory as the exile station of the last Mughal emperor, Bahadur Shah Zafar, who had led the 1857 rebels. They felt Burma was ideal as the first site to be occupied because they could depend on its local chiefs for military support. They claimed to have the head prince “Myngoonmin” of Burma with them at 396

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Pondicherry. They believed that he was a popular figure and was in correspondence with other notables of Burma who were willing to join Dalip Singh in support of the cause.124 The prince received a pension of 25,000 francs from the French government. The fact that he was ready to join the plot was evident when on his request it was agreed to change his location from Pondicherry to Saigon. He felt this was closer to Burma and it would be easy for him to mobilize his resources and men from Saigon should the need arise.125 This change of residence fit Dalip Singh’s plans very well. Again, very much in the way the 1857 mutineers had used religious and spiritual symbols, Dalip Singh’s cousins hoped to use his “spiritual position” to galvanize support in India. They wrote to him in particular about the Kuka community of Sikhs, whose spiritual leaders had sent him presents as a mark of their support and respect. The Kuka could muster at short notice eighty to ninety thousand men for Dalip Singh.126 However, one of the crucial differences between 1857 and 1890 was the emergence of the Nationalist Congress party in India and the ideas of liberty and freedom encased in its representative and constitutional forms of government. The return of monarchs was certainly not the flavor of the times. And thus the cousins were careful to update the 1857 model, adding fresh suggestions to it. For example, they offered the following advice to Dalip Singh: “Show sympathy with the Congress in some way or other in such a manner that the feelings of those who do not like representative system may not be wounded.” However, they felt that Dalip Singh had no real reason to worry about the Congress because, as they put it, “The people support Congress because they think it is one of the plans to overthrow the British rule and not because it advocates the cause of self government, for a very great majority of the people do not want constitutional government.”127 Also, unlike 1857, where the restoration of the Mughal emperor to the throne was the common agenda of all mutineers and rebels, the Pondicherry cousins wanted Sikh rule and not that of the Mughals or any other native prince. Thus, even though they were happy to tap into the Muslim cosmopolis for the restoration of Dalip Singh as the maharaja of Punjab, they were quick to reassure him 397

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that the restoration of the Mughals was no longer a popular idea in Hindustan. They wrote to him that they had allayed the anxiety of a trustworthy servant of Ranjit Singh who had expressed the common fear that anarchy would ensue after British rule ended. He had expressed his anxiety that the fall of the English government might be followed by the “renewal of the Mohammadan power which the Hindoos do not like.”128 The cousins had offered the trusted servant the following reassurance: once Dalip Singh “lands in India with a European force and succeeds in driving out the English,” they told him, “no other native Prince can resist the Sikh government.”129 And yet 1857 was so etched in popular memory that the rumors of Dalip Singh’s return triggered familiar sentiments of the Hindu-­ Muslim unity that had characterized that momentous event. Thus, for instance, it was reported from Lahore that “one Devi Dial [Dayal] was going about the bazaars saying the throne of England had been shaken, and that Dalip Singh would return and Hindus and Muhammadans unite, when he would become himself again.”130 Again, the kind of hostility toward Christians and missionaries that figured in the bazaar gossip of north India during 1857 was conspicuously prevalent in the Punjab as news of Dalip Singh’s return to end English rule spread. In 1887, Mr. Warburton, the district superintendent of police in Amritsar, said that he had been warned by a “Mission lady” that of late the behavior of the Sikhs had changed in the villages. She reported, “They are defiant and insolent now to Mission ladies and order them out of their houses saying we do not want you; in a short time you will see what will happen.”131 Mr. Youngson, a missionary, reported that when he asked a government employee, Sikh Sardar of Sialkot, if he would go against Dalip Singh were he to approach India by way of Russia, he answered no. According to him, three Sikh soldiers had said to his preachers in the bazaar, “When Dalip Singh comes, we shall cut your heads.”132 Captain Andrew Hearsey feared that if Dalip Singh invoked 1857, he would also tap into the resentments that the organizational structure of the mutinous Bengal Army had generated. One resentful group consisted of the Anglo-­Indian and Eurasian officers who had been denied promotions and pushed to the fringe irregular 398

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r­ egiments because of their mixed blood. Hearsey was sure that these men would, as he described it, “willingly join the Russian army and carve their fortunes with their swords as their fathers did before.” He feared that once Dalip Singh was able to put together an army of twenty to twenty-­five thousand Punjabis and Sikhs officered by Anglo-­Indian and Eurasian gentlemen, things would get tough for the British.133 In 1887, the government of India conducted surveys of the Sikh regiments to figure out their “state of feeling” about Dalip Singh.134 Most of the commanding officers allayed fears of any trouble. Lieutenant Colonel E. Collen, secretary to the military department, concluded, “There is very little present excitement.” And yet, because of the 1857 precedent, officers felt that the statements of sepoys had to be accepted with a certain degree of reservation. They argued that soldiers seldom speak the truth to their commandants. G. Chesney, military member of the viceroy’s coun­ ­cil, was of the view that this was true because, as he explained, “when the mutiny began every Colonel was ready to swear by the loyalty of his regiment, till it broke out.”135 On the eve of Dalip Singh’s proposed return, the comparison of contemporary Punjab society with Indian society in 1857 remained a constant backdrop of all official discussions on the issue. According to one line of reasoning, if based on the British experience in 1857 sepoy reports were not always to be relied on, there was reason for calm in other instances where circumstances appeared to differ from those of 1857. Officers argued that unlike the mutiny, where the unemployed class took to arms, in the Punjab there was “no large unemployed class trained to arms.” Officers such as Colonel W. I. Bax felt that the priestly class was satisfied with the spread of Sikh religion under English rule and that the classes serving the army and government were also happy with the government. Thus Punjab society was very different from that of North India in 1857.136 Bax and his colleagues expected trouble only from a small group of badmashes (bad characters)—​people who, as in the case of the mutiny, were active only because they had nothing to lose and everything to gain. Lieutenant Colonel H. S. Marshall, commanding the Twenty-­Eighth Regiment Punjab Infan­ ­t ry, put it in so many words. He felt that as in 1857, trouble might be expected from “certain classes of low Mahomedans, Hindoos and 399

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Sikhs, in fact among all ‘badmashes’ who have everything to gain and nothing to lose in the event of a disturbance in the country.”137 Most significant, however, was the British fear of the restoration of Muslim rule that the mutiny of 1857 had generated. And thus J. B. Lyall, secretary to the government in the Punjab, feared that an invasion of India led by Dalip Singh with Russian support might get the backing of the Muslims. He remarked, “If they thought our power was collapsing, [the Muslims] would be under great temptation to join the northern invaders in order to plunder India and to tyrannize over the Hindus.”138 Of course, the 1857 mutiny-­rebellion remained a significant benchmark not only for Muslim cosmopolitans with global aspirations but also for those who wished to underscore their rootedness in the territorial confines of British India. Indeed, some defined their loyalty to British India by distancing themselves from the transimperial Muslim networks and from figures like Dalip Singh who tapped into them. In 1892, Suchait Singh, of Chamba in the Punjab, petitioned the Foreign Office for the payment of a monthly stipend of Rs. 5,000 that had been promised to him by the government charter of 1848. He highlighted his loyalty to the government in terms of his role in saving several Englishwomen and children in 1857: “During the Indian mutiny he gave shelter to hundreds of English women and children, who but for his protection, would have been massacred . . . ​he captured and delivered over to the British authorities, at Dalhousie, five hundred rebel Sepoys although they were his fellow countrymen . . . ​during the Cabul war he asked for leave to fight against the enemy of England.”139 He contrasted his “loyalty” to Dalip Singh’s “treachery,” which he described in terms of his reaching out to and connecting with the Muslim cosmopolis that was spread across the imperial assemblage. He was upset that while he was left to languish, “favors [were] lavished upon others whose treachery on England ha[d] been proven.” He offered the following example: “Maharaja Duleep Singh plotted against England with Russia, he declared himself the humble subject and servant of her emperor . . . ​he endeavoured by proclamation and emissaries to stir insurrection in India . . . ​although a traitor [he] is royally pensioned by England.”140 400

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Earlier, in 1886, Dalip Singh himself used 1857 as a metaphor for Sikh loyalty when he pleaded with the Marquess of Salisbury for justice. He argued that it was never his intention to settle in England permanently. He was encouraged to do so by the British government and prevented from returning due to the mutiny in 1857. He reclaimed his jewels and estate and complained about the broken promises regarding his status and maintenance money. In so doing, he underlined his loyalty by his reference to the great service of the Sikh army in quelling the 1857 mutiny-­rebellion. He said that in 1857, contrary to the trouble they had posed at the time of the annexation of the Punjab, the Sikhs took “a noble revenge on their former foes, by being instrumental in preserving for the English their Indian Empire during the memorable Mutiny of that year.” He reminded the marquess that if the Sikhs had not responded to Sir John Lawrence’s appeal, the English might have lost India. He referred to the reports sent by Lawrence in 1858 that praised the loyalty and valor of the Sikh army in “reconquering Hindostan.”141 Reminding the marquess of the loyalty of Sikh soldiers in Sudan in 1885, he argued, “It is incumbent on the British government above all things to treat with justice, if they cannot show generosity, the deposed monarch of the Sikh people.”142

Muslim Cosmopolitanism and Its Many Usages This book has highlighted the dynamics of Muslim cosmopolitanism as it functioned at the underbelly of empires. In the shadows of “modern” empires, transimperial actors, like the Muslim cosmopolitans of this book, laid out a web of contacts that made borders porous. Agents, family connections, religious and ethnic bonds, texts, students, and madrasas constituted the networks that connected empires. If the new techniques of mapping, surveys, surveillance, and identification made political boundaries rigid, the simultaneous reliance of imperial governments on middlemen and runaway cultural brokers made them pervious. This created a very agile subimperial culture at the underbelly of the imperial assemblage constituted by Britain, Ottomans, and czarist Russia. This 401

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cultural empire of Muslims—​t heir cosmopolis—​could be tapped by anyone with global aspirations. The book has argued that the Muslim cosmopolis was vulnerable and open to various pulls and usages in the age of empires. Its creators and protagonists being Muslim men of religion, and its Islamic intellectual core notwithstanding, it attracted a range of individuals who plugged into its networks with ease and pushed it in a variety of directions. Its Ottoman tanzimat-­inspired “secular” and “modern” orientation and its imperially embedded nature lent it the malleability and openness that made it a useful conduit for all. Dalip Singh is the best case in point as a non-­Muslim actor who energized the Muslim cosmopolis and opened up fresh interstices with the Russian and the Irish nationalist diasporas. But if actors such as Dalip Singh appealed to the Muslim cosmopolis for help and widened its political and geographical embrace, the British and the Ottoman Empires refashioned themselves effectively as its guardians. They kept its networks alive despite its suspicious actors. Paradoxically, the imperially embedded nature of the Muslim cosmopolis became its lifesaver, even as its protagonists remained the much sought-­after “outlawed fanatics” of British India. This book has shown how each one of the Muslim cosmopolitans derived (directly or indirectly) from imperial networks and benefited from their rivalries. If imperial politics enabled Kairanwi and Imdadullah Makki to find a new patron in Sultan Abd-­al Hamid II in Istanbul, those same politics also enabled Siddiq Hasan Khan to amass a huge intellectual readership and clientele in Cairo. Sayyid Fadl, the Indian-­Arab rebel, made his political career as he used imperial webs and became the much-­in-­demand interlocutor and broker in the Ottoman-­British political tussle. Ottoman-­controlled Mecca became the safe refuge for each one of the Indian fugitives. Here, under the nose of the British consulate, and with its full knowledge, they set up seminaries and established political and intellectual contacts with the Islamic hubs in the Mediterranean area, even as they continued to maintain their links with British India. And finally, the story of Jafer Thanesri, the unfortunate protagonist abandoned in the Andaman penal colony, reveals how British imperial networks introduced a physicality to his Islamic 402

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global imaginary. This enabled him to connect with and contribute to the cosmopolis between empires even if he remained located in the Andaman Islands. Indeed, it is this symbiotic relationship between the modern Western empires (including the Ottoman Empire) and the pan-­ Islam networks that helps resolve many seeming contradictions in the existing scholarship on twentieth-­century pro-­Ottoman Indian Muslims. It is no surprise that many of them saw no contradic­­­ tion in being subjects of the British Empire, agitating for their rights within India, and yet advocating their loyalty to the Ottoman caliph. In this period of high nationalism, the Muslim cosmopolis enabled their anticolonial activism to spill out of British India and to influence intellectuals in the Ottoman Empire and its formerly controlled hubs of Mecca, Cairo, and Baghdad—​cities that also faced the Western challenge. Indian Muslims supported the Ottoman cause abroad even as they continued to dig their heels firmly into British Indian society. From British India’s poet-­philosopher Muhammad Iqbal to the congressman Muhammad Ali Jinnah, and from the famous Indian Khilafatists, the Ali brothers, to the Delhi­based medic Mukhtar Ahmad Ansari, there are endless examples of Indian Muslims who galvanized support for the Ottoman Empire during the Balkan crisis of 1912–1915.143 And the scholarly Con­­ gress man and the most vocal Indian Muslim nationalist, Maulana Abul Kalam Azad, advocated the Ottoman cause in his journal Al Hilal even as he carved out a political space for his community within India. Azad was born in 1888 to Maulana Khairuddin, an Indian Naqshbandi Sufi émigré settled in Mecca. He shared his intellectual and social background with the cosmopolitan protagonists of this book. His father (b. 1832) migrated to Mecca at a very young age with his maternal grandfather, who was one of the many Muslim scholar émigrés who fled India in the decades that followed the northwestern frontier disturbances in the 1830s and 1840s. Indeed, Khairuddin’s life in Mecca in the decade before the 1857 uprising reveals the intellectual agility of the city and the imperial networks that connected it to the intellectual hubs at Istanbul, Cairo, and Baghdad. It is not surprising that post-­1857 Mecca became the 403

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refuge of Indian reformists and scholar émigrés who fled to the city to escape the British clampdown. They happily integrated into the vibrant intellectual climate of the city. Here, away from the intellectual constraints of British India and the confines of their subject status, they felt intellectually liberated. This made their in-­house debates shriller. Thus, Khairuddin used his new location not only to debate freely with the Indian scripturalist reformists, the ahl-­i-­ Hadith, who opposed his Sufi rituals and customs. But in addition, he accompanied like-­minded Sufi scholars such as Sheikh Ahmad Dahlan to Istanbul to throw his intellectual net wider.144 The city became his conduit to the wider Muslim intellectual world—​t he cosmopolis—​t hat lay embedded in imperial networks. Azad’s intellectual genealogy firmly placed him in the Muslim cosmopolis even though he returned to India with his father in 1902 at the age of fifteen. Indian historiography extols him as a fiery Indian nationalist and stereotypes him as the ideal Muslim anticolonial Congress man. Very few studies view his politics and highlight his rough edges within the Congress Party in the context of the larger Muslim cosmopolis that framed much of his life and time in India. As an Indian Muslim nationalist, he made most of the Muslim cosmopolis, straddling it seamlessly to balance his territorial anticolonial struggle with a fight for the cultural empire of Islam. This book has shown that British India constituted one end of this empire and that the other end was firmly within the territorial ambit of the Ottoman sultan. Thus for Azad the fight to free Calcutta and Delhi from colonial injustices was naturally routed through Ottoman imperial cities and took form in his continued support for the sultan. He traveled across Turkey, Egypt, and Iraq to connect with anti-­ imperial activists across the globe. Paradoxically, the imperially embedded pan-­Islamic networks became Azad’s greatest asset in his anticolonial struggle against Western hegemony. Indeed, even if his appeal for global Muslim unity in the fight against imperialism is seen as jihad, then this call was very much embedded in the Muslim cosmopolis that Western empires supported.145 The imperially embedded nature of pan-­Islam also helps us understand better why the later Khilafatists appealed to the raj for help to restore the authority of the caliph. Like many other Indian 404

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Muslims in British India, the Khilafatists also saw the defense of the caliphate not merely as a spiritual cause. Nor was it a simple strategy with an eye to a more long-­term anticolonial agenda. Instead, their dependence on the raj and their negotiations with the allied powers to save the caliphate together constituted an attempt to save the cultural empire of Islam. The political isolation of the Ottomans at the hands of the Allied powers in the 1920s threatened not just the empire but also the Muslim cosmopolis it nurtured. Indian Muslim cosmopolitans who traversed this cosmopolis put up a fight to save it. The defense of the caliph was also a fight for the sultan, who, as the representative of a formidable Western empire in Asia, was one of the important pillars of the cosmopolis. The fight to protect the temporal power of the caliph, who had a global reputation of being the sultan of an ethnically and religiously diverse population that stretched across Asia and Europe, is often ignored in the Khilafatists’ story. The support for him was a fight to save an important investor in the cultural empire of Muslims. Using the same logic, it was natural for the Khilafatists to turn for help also to the cosmopolis’s other Western imperial stakeholder—​t he British Empire. This book has shown effectively how the management of travel to Mecca, in particular by Britain and other European powers gave physicality to the Islamic vision of a global world controlled by the caliph. The travel to Mecca exposed the reality of this world and the caliph and triggered a lively debate on the contours of the Muslim world and the questions of its leadership. This book has argued that Muslim cosmopolitanism and its protagonists used such debates to enhance their position vis-­à-­v is the imperial powers. The cosmopolitan actors of this book also enticed Western powers by suggesting that some of them, such as the British Empire, could do a better job of overseeing the Muslim world than the corrupt Ottoman caliph had done. Their play between empires ensured that the Muslim cosmopolis, despite all the fears and phobias it elicited in the British and European official circles, was there to stay. Indeed, it was in the interest of the British and Ottoman Empires to keep it energized as a fertile arena they could tap for intelligence, espionage, and the brokering of global politics. And the Muslim cosmopolitans’ unique blend of their reformist, scripture-­oriented core 405

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and their “modern,” tanzimat-­inspired worldview and leanings on Western imperial networks also explains why for the Ottomans the shift from empire to republic, or the move from Istanbul to Ankara, was not a very painful one. There was no major conflict between the imperially embedded and reformist-­driven pan-­Islam that framed the later empire and the Western reformist orientation of the republic. It is for similar reasons that for the Indian Muslims who played in this particular brand of pan-­Islam, their endorsement of the first Turkish nationalist head of the republic, Mustafa Kemal Ataturk (1881–1938), was as enthusiastic as their earlier support for the sultan had been. Before the winds of identity politics that ended in the partition of India on religious lines clouded the intellectual horizons of the country, scholars and statesmen such as Iqbal and Jinnah supported Ataturk. Later, however, as they were entrusted with the onerous task of building a new nation forged in the name of religion, his political model seemed less useful. The same was the case in Iran and Afghanistan. The interdependence between Muslim cosmopolitanism and the imperial powers in the age of empires has had an afterlife. Neo­ imperial powers, such as the United States of America, at appropriate political moments appeal to the Muslim world’s Islamic scriptural core. At other times, such powers fan the Muslim world’s tanzimat-­inspired “secular” political orientation. The American support of the royal ruling house of Saudi Arabia—​which upholds hard-­line Sunni Wahabi Islam—​alongside its support for the “Arab Spring” in Egypt, Tunisia, and the countries of the United Arab Emirates is an important case in point. Such American responses do not seem that inexplicable when seen in the long history of bonhomie and mutual dependence between imperial networks and the Muslim ecumene that derived from them.

406

Abbreviations Notes Acknowledgments Index

Abbr e v i at ions

consult. Consultations. F Papers for areas outside or on the borders of British India. British Library, London. FDS Foreign Department, Secret. FD/PC Collections of the Foreign Department, Political Consultations. National Archives of India, New Delhi. FD/SC Collections of the Foreign Department, Secret Consultations. National Archives of India, New Delhi. FO Foreign Office Collection. Public Records Office, Kew, London. IOR India Office Records. IOR Neg. India Office Records, Microfilm Negatives. India Office Records Collection. British Library, London. IOR/R Records of the British Agencies and Residencies in the Persian Gulf. Foreign Department Records. British Library, London. L/Mil Military Department Proceedings. British Library, London. L/PS Secret Letters and Enclosures from India (Secret and Political). India Office Records Collection. British Library, London. L/R Crown’s Representative, Nepal. Kathmandu Residency Records, 1792−1872. India Office Records Collection, British Library, London. NAI National Archives of India, New Delhi. R/1 Crown’s Representative, Political Department. Indian States Records, 1881−1947. India Office Records Collection. British Library, London. R/2 Crown’s Representative, Indian States Residency Records, 1789−1947. India Office Records Collection, British Library, London.

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1. Hakim Maulana Muhammad Ashraf Ali Thanawi, Imdad al-­Mushtaq Ali Ashraf al Khalaq (Delhi: Maktaba Burhan, 1981), 28–30. 2. Ibid., 32. 3. Maulana Jafer Thanesri, Tawarikh-­i-­Ajaib (Karachi: Salman Academy, 1962), 122–126. Except where noted, all translations are my own. 4. Ibid., 125. 5. Ibid., 129. 6. Ibid., 125. 7. Maulana Asir Adravi, Mujahid Islam: Maulana Rahmatullah Kairanwi (Delhi: Farid Book Depot, 2004), 288–289. 8. Muslim Congressman Maulana Abul Kalam, Azad’s father, and Maulana Munawauddin, his great-­g randfather, were some of the émigrés who left from Bombay, along with other notables, to settle in Mecca years before 1857. Azad had a Meccan mother and was born in the city; he spent the first fifteen years of his life there. See Azad ki Kahani khud Azad ki Zabani, as dictated to Abdur Razzaq Malihabadi (Calcutta: Hali Publishing House, 1959; repr., Delhi: Ateqad, 2008), 38, 40. Citations refer to the 2008 edition. 9. Thanesri, Tawarikh, 125, 129. 10. E. Simpson and Kai Kresse, eds., Struggling with History: Islam and Cosmopolitanism in the Western Indian Ocean (New York: Columbia University Press, 2008), xix. I borrow this idea from Kresse and Lambick, who use the concept of urbane civility as a form of comportment that bonded port city societies together as cosmopolitan centers. 11. Migrants had varied experiences in host societies. For some, like the Arabs, the association of their place of origin with the sacred spaces of

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Islam offered quick naturalized status in Muslim host societies and reinforced a firmer link with their past. But this was not the case for all. Many non-­Arabs could not achieve a speedy naturalized status in host societies. For them, their names, titles, and memory of ancestry remained reminders of parent societies. See Omar Farouk Bajunid, ed., special issue on Arab communities and networks in South and Southeast Asia, Asian Journal of Social Science 32, no. 3 (2004). 12. For a comparison of Malaysia, Penang, where this happened, and Kedah, where it did not, see Sharifah Zaleha, “History and the Indigenization of the Arabs in Kedah, Malaysia,” Asian Journal of Social Science 32, no. 3 (2004): 401–423. 13. Muzaffar Alam argues that it was the fear of the Naqshbandiya global networks and the influence they had in Central Asian and Ottoman societies that made Emperor Akbar suspicious of them and more inclined toward the relatively indigenized and localized Chishtiya Sufi orders. Muzaffar Alam, private conversation, New Delhi, 20 July 2014. 14. Syed Athar Abbas Rizvi, A History of Sufism in India: Early Sufism and Its history in India to 1600 A.D. (Delhi: Munshiram Manoharlal, 1978), 104, 206, 396. Abd ur Rahman Jami of Herat had visited the Ottoman Empire. He was the descendent of Abdul Karim al Jili (1365–1428), who had visited India and popularized Ibn-­i-­Arabi via his commentaries. 15. The biographical compendium is entitled Al Shaqa’iq al-­Nu’maniyya fi’Ulama-­al-­Dawlat al-­Uthmaniyya. 16. See Hamid Algar, Jami (New York: Oxford University Press, 2013), 132; Muzaffar Alam, “Jami in the Indo-­Muslim World,” paper presented at A Worldwide Literature: Jami (1414–1492) in Dar-­al-­Islam and Beyond, College de France and University of Chicago, Paris, 14–15 November 2013. 17 Albert Hourani, “Shaikh Khalid and the Naqshbandi Order,” in Islamic Philosophy and the Classical Tradition: Essays Presented by His Friends and Pupils to Richard Walzer on His Seventieth Birthday, ed. Samuel Miklos Stern, Albert Hourani, and Vivian Brown (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1972), 89–103. For Naqshbandis who connected Central Asia to the Ottoman and the Mughal Empires, see Hamid Algar, “The Naqshbandiya Order: A Preliminary Survey of Its History and Significance,” Studia Islamica 44 (1976): 123–152. 18. Tony Ballyntine, Webs of Empire: Locating New Zealand’s Colonial Past (Wellington, U.K.: Bridget Williams Books, 2002). 19. C. A. Bayly, Rulers, Townsmen and Bazaars: North Indian Society in the Age of British Expansion, 1770–1870 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983). 20. Ann Stoler, Carnal Knowledge and Imperial Power: Race and the Intimate in Colonial Rule (Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2002); Catherine Hall, Civilising Subjects: Colony and Metropole in the English Imagination, 1830–1867 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002),

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1–22. Hall examines nonconformists and Baptist missionaries in British Caribbean Jamaica between 1830 and 1867 as a basis for understanding antislavery discourse and racial relations in the United Kingdom’s metropolitan center of Birmingham. 21. Ballyntine, Webs of Empire; David Lambert and Alan Lester, eds., Colonial Lives across the British Empire: Imperial Careering in the Long Nineteenth Century (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006). Ballyntine shows how the analytical category of the Aryan produced by British Orientalists in India traveled across imperial networks to British colonies in the Pacific; here, it was used by indigenous communities to construct their genealogies and fight their battles of survival. For a discussion of the telling of local tales as imperial narratives that traveled across empires, see Thomas Metcalf, Imperial Connections: India in the Indian Ocean Arena, 1860–1920 (Ranikhet: Permanent Black, 2007), 9; Durba Ghosh, Sex and the Family in Colonial India: The Making of Empire (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006). 22. Lambert and Lester, Colonial Lives across the British Empire, 1–11; Maya Jasanoff, Edge of Empire: Lives, Culture, and Conquest in the East, 1750– 1850 (New York: Knopf, 2007), 4–6; Dane Kennedy, The Highly Civilized Man: Richard Burton and the Victorian World (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2005), 1–9. 23. See, for example, Linda Colley, The Ordeal of Elizabeth Marsh: A Woman in World History (New York: Pantheon Books, 2007), xxiii–xxvi. Colley maintains that the travels and experiences of Elizabeth Marsh—​an itinerant Jamaican-­born traveler and writer—​within and across British-­ controlled territories were a consequence of the “global moment” of the late eighteenth century in which Britain’s imperial drives intensified travel. Colley argues that by 1800 Britain offered the most enduring imperial grid along which careers were shaped. 24. Richard Drayton, Nature’s Government: Science, Imperialism, Britain, and the “Improvement” of the World (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2000); Stoler, Carnal Knowledge and Imperial Power. 25. For a critique of the exceptionalism of the British Empire in writing world history, see Antoinette Burton, “Getting outside the Global: Repositioning British Imperialism in World History,” in Race, Nation and Empire: Making Histories, 1750 to the Present, ed. Catherine Hall and Keith McLelland (Manchester, U.K.: Manchester University Press, 2010), 199–216. 26. For a discussion of empire-­based global history, see Frederick Cooper and Jane Burbank, Empires in World History: Power and the Politics of Difference (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press), 2010. 27. E. Natalie Rothman, Brokering Empire: Trans-­imperial Subjects between Venice and Istanbul (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2012), 11–15. 28. Partha Chatterjee, A Princely Imposter? The Kumar of Bhawal and the Secret History of Indian Nationalism (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2002), 379–380. Chatterjee focuses on the individual and on

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individual careering as a basis for studying the “secret history of nationalism.” 29. Giancarlo Casale, “Global Politics in the 1580s: One Canal, Twenty Thousand Cannibals, and an Ottoman Plot to Rule the World,” Journal of World History 18, no. 3 (2007): 267–296. 30. Cemal Kafadar, “A Rome of One’s Own: Reflections on Cultural Geography and Identity in the Lands of Rum,” in Muqarnas: An Annual on the Visual Culture of the Islamic World, vol. 24, ed. Gulru Necipoglu and Sibel Bozdogan (Leiden: Brill, 2007), 1–20. 31. Natalie Zemon Davis, Trickster Travels: A Sixteenth-­Century Muslim between Worlds (New York: Hill and Wang, 2006), 13. 32. Muzaffar Alam and Sanjay Subrahmanyam, Indo-­Persian Travels in the Age of Discoveries, 1400–1800 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 1–44; Stefan Reichmuth, The World of Murtada al-­Zabidi (1732–91): Life, Networks and Writings (Cambridge, U.K.: Gibb Memorial Trust, 2009). 33. Rothman, Brokering Empire, 8–11. Rothman views the Venetian Empire’s multicultural fabric as being made up of “trans-­Empire subjects” who straddled the Ottoman and Eastern Mediterranean worlds. Identities of political selfhood, religious confession (and loyalties), gender, class, and wealth were mediated by these “straddling” subjects’ specific negotiations of imperial crossroads. 34. Reichmuth, The World of Murtada al-­Zabidi; Mana Kia, “Imagining Iran before Nationalism: Geo-­cultural Meanings of Land in Azar’s Atash­k adeh,” in Rethinking Iranian Nationalism and Modernity, ed. Kamran Aghaie and Afshin Marashi (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2014) 89−112. 35. Leila Tarazi Fawaz and Christopher Alan Bayly, Modernity and Culture: From the Mediterranean to the Indian Ocean (New York: Columbia Uni­ versity Press, 2002), 7–11. 36. Sugata Bose, A Hundred Horizons: The Indian Ocean in the Age of Global Empire (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2006), 1–35. 37. Eric Tagliacozzo, Secret Traders, Porous Borders: Smuggling and States along a Southeast Asian Frontier, 1865−1915 (New Haven, CT; Yale University Press, 2009), 2−20; Julia A. Clancy-­Smith, Mediterraneans: North Africa and Europe in an Age of Migration, c. 1800–1900 (Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2011), 344. 38. Clancy-­Smith, Mediterraneans, 315–341. 39. The bulk of scholarship on 1857 views it as a window through which to understand the longer genealogy of the nation and nationalist sentiment. See Christopher Alan Bayly, Origins of Nationality in South Asia: Patriotism and Ethical Government in the Making of Modern India (Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2001). Bayly equates the Hindustani patriotism of 1857 with the Mughal imperial patriotism that hinged on shared attachment to land, institutions, and historical memory. See also Rajat K. Ray, The Felt Community: Commonality and Mentality before the Emergence of Indian Nationalism (New Delhi: Oxford University Press,

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2003), 357–464. Ray views 1857 as precipitating a unique form of patriotism that grew out of and at the same time modified the Mughal imperial legacy through a sharpened recognition of the religious categories of Hindus and Muslims, who were united via a common attachment to land. He calls this sentiment the “felt community.” 40. I borrow the idea of the “spirit of 1857” from Maya Jasanoff’s book Liberty’s Exiles: American Loyalists in the Revolutionary World (New York: Knopf, 2012). Jasanoff traces the movement of British Loyalists during the American Revolution to argue that anti-­British sentiment, the complexities of empire, and public debates on the efficacy of the British Empire and on issues of freedom were triggered in diverse locations via the movement of Loyalist exiles. 41. Crispin Bates and Marina Carter, introduction to Mutiny at the Margins: New Perspectives on the Indian Uprising of 1857, vol. 3, Global Perspectives (New Delhi: Sage, 2013), xvii–xxvi. 42. Jill Bender, “Sir George Grey and the 1857 Indian Rebellion: The Unmaking and Making of an Imperial career,” in Bates and Carter, Mutiny at the Margins, 2:199–218 43. Robert John Morris, “Bowld Irish Sepoy,” in Bates and Carter, Mutiny at the Margins, 3:98–119. 44. Elena Karatchkova, “The Russian Factor in the Indian Mutiny,” in Bates and Carter, Mutiny at the Margins, 3:120–133. 45. M. Sullivan Hall, “Fenians, Sepoys and the Financial Panic of 1857,” in Bates and Carter, Mutiny at the Margins, 3:87–97; Juan R. Cole, Colonialism and Revolution in the Middle East: Social and Cultural Origins of Egypt’s ’Urabi Movement (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1993), 196–197. 46. Cole, Colonialism and Revolution, 196–197. 47. Clancy-­Smith, Mediterraneans, 331. 48. Ibid. 49. Ibid. 50. For the inclusion of Greek subjects in the Ottoman Empire before 1857, see Christine M. Philliou, Biography of Empire: Governing Ottomans in the Age of Revolution (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2011); for a discussion of the contradiction between Sultan Abd-­al Hamid II and his Greek and Armenian subjects, see Selim Deringil, The Well-­Protected Domains: Ideology and the Legitimation of Power in the Ottoman Empire, 1867–1909 (London: Tauris, 1998). 51. Cheragh Ali, Modernist Islam 1840–1940: A Sourcebook, ed. Charles Kurzman (New York: Oxford University Press, 2002). For pro-­ Ottoman speeches at the Chicago conference, see Umar F. Abd-­Allah, A Muslim in Victorian America: The Life of Alexander Russell Webb (New York: Oxford University Press, 2006). 52. Azyumardi Azra, The Origins of Islamic Reformism in Southeast Asia: Networks of Malay-­Indonesian and Middle Eastern “Ulama” in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 2004), 13, 21. Azra argues that intellectual connections across

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empires and the moral and cultural reawakening in the wake of Western imperial expansion were not new. Rather, these intellectual contacts had a long history that can be dated to the thirteenth century, with intensified connectivity in the seventeenth to eighteenth centuries. 53. Ibid., 15. 54. Ibid., 13–15. 55. Michael Laffan, Islamic Nationhood and Colonial Indonesia: The Umma below the Winds (London: Routledge, 2002), 20–21. 56. Azra, Origins of Islamic Reformism, 8–31. 57. Laffan, Islamic Nationhood and Colonial Indonesia, 106–108. 58. Azra, Origins of Islamic Reformism, 13, 21. The translation of the Persian works of Sibghat Allah and Tajuddin al Hindi into Arabic and the introduction of the famous Shattariyyah text Jawahir-­i-­ Khamsah of Ghauth al Hindi into Mecca went a long way toward producing a “neo­Sufism” that brought mysticism (tassawuf) and Islamic jurisprudence ( fiqh) together, in both cases by sharpening the focus on the life of the Prophet and his teachings—​t he Hadith studies. 59. Laffan, Islamic Nationhood and Colonial Indonesia, 125–130. Hadhrami Jawi intellectuals, sons of Indonesian elites who studied in Cairo, leaned toward the Ottoman caliph for Muslim unity. The Ottoman imperial vision and the reformist agenda were symbolized by their attire—​Western-­style suits and fez caps—​which summed up their ideas of Islam in the modern world. 60. Ibid., 134–141. 61. Immanuel Wallerstein and Resat Kasaba, “Incorporation into the World Economy: Change in the Structure of the Ottoman Empire, 1750–1839,” paper presented at Congress International d’Histoire Economique et Sociale de la Turquie, Universite de Strasbourg, 1–5 July 1980, 1–32. 62. Resat Kasaba, The Ottoman Empire and The World Economy: The Nine­­ teenth Century (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1988), 3–6. 63. Michael J. Reimer, “Ottoman-­Arab Seaports in the Nineteenth Century: Social Change in Alexandria, Beirut and Tunis,” in Cities in the World System, ed. Resat Kasaba (Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1991), 149, 135–156. Reimer argues for the resilience of local political economies in Arab port cities like Cairo, Alexandria, and Beirut. The shift to a world economy induced changes in local economies, “modernizing” the connections between port and hinterland via new canals, roads, railways, and telegraphs. 64. Tom Reiss, The Orientalist: Solving the Mystery of a Strange and Dangerous Life (New York: Random House, 2005), xxi, 231. 65. Bernard Lewis, The Emergence of Modern Turkey (New York: Oxford University Press, 1968), 404–412; see also a critique of Lewis by Resat Kasaba, “Kemalist Certainties and Modern Ambiguities,” in Rethinking Modernity and National Identity, ed. Sibel Bozdogan and Resat Kasaba (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1997), 15–36. Kasaba found such models restrictive, divisive, and linear.

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66. Selim Deringil, “The Struggle against Shiism in Hamidian Iraq: A Study in Ottoman Counterpropaganda,” in The Ottomans, the Turks and World Power Politics (Istanbul: ISIS Press, 2000), 70; see also his Well-­Protected Domains, 16–67. 67. For the official nationalism of the Anderson kind with specific reference to India, see M. Goswami, Producing India: From Colonial Economy to National Space (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004). 68. A. Burton, The Postcolonial Careers of Santha Rama Rau (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2007), 1–20.

chapter 1 ​Muslim Reformists and the Transition to English Rule









1. The British labeled Indian reformists “Wahabi,” as they had unsubstantiated and unproven ideas that these men were linked to the eighteenth-­century Arab reformist Abd-­al Wahab, who had politically resisted British intrusions in the Hijaz region. Throughout this book, I will refer to these men as reformists. 2. Marc Gaborieau, “Sufism in the First Indian Wahabi Manifesto: Sirat­i-­Mustaqim by Ismael Shahid and Abdul Hayy,” in The Making of Indo­Persian Culture, ed. Muzaffar Alam, Nalini Delvoye, and Marc Gaborieau (Delhi: Manohar, 2000),  154–155. Marc Gaborieau and Harlan Otto Pearson view Persian reformist literature as integral to the hyperbolic Indo-­Persianate literary genre. Like most literature of this genre, the reformist literature was also inclusive and combined Sufi doctrines with a stress on canonical texts like the Koran and the Hadith. Gaborieau and Pearson maintain that the shift to the canon and the individual was triggered by the reform movements that emerged in response to the perceived corruption in Muslim society; the newly arrived print culture helped because it made it easy for reformists to disseminate their texts. 3. Francis Robinson makes this point about the stress on the individual in regard to the greater significance of the Prophet in the late nineteenth century. See his “Religious Change and the Self in Muslim South Asia since 1800,” in Islam and Muslim History in South Asia (New Delhi: Oxford University Press 2000), 105–121. 4. Marc Gaborieau, “Late Persian Early Urdu: The Case of Wahabi Literature (1818–1857),” in Confluence of Cultures: French Contributions to Indo-­Persian Studies, ed. Françoise Delvoye (New Delhi: Manohar, 1995), 170–191; Harlon Otto Pearson, Islamic Reform and Revival in Nineteenth-­Century India: “The Tariqah-­i Muhammadiyah” (New Delhi: Yoda Press, 2008). 5. See Muzaffar Alam, The Languages of Political Islam: India 1200–1800 (Ranikhet: Permanent Black, 2004). 6. Pearson, Islamic Reform and Revival, 82. 7. Ismael Shahid, Sirat-­i-­Mustaqim (Lahore: Abdul Aziz Tajir Kitab, 1818), 7–8.

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8. Ismael Shahid, Taqwiyat al-­Iman (Lahore: Bait al Koran, 1825–1826), 7. Shahid’s translation was later retranslated back into Arabic by Muhammad Abduh and published under the title Risalah-­i-­Tauhid (Cairo: Al-­Qahirah al-­Matba’ah al-­‘Amirah, 1906). 9. Ibid., 20. 10. Ibid., 21. 11. Ibid. 12. Ibid., 24–26. 13. Ibid., 26–27. 14. Ibid., 32–34. 15. Ibid., 38–39. 16. Khurram Ali, Nasihat-­i-­Muslimin (Lucknow: Nadwa Book Depot, 1999), 11. 17. Ibid. 18 Ibid., 15. 19. Ibid., 20. 20. Ibid., 21. 21. Ibid., 34. 22. Ibid., 33–34. 23. Ibid., 36. 24. Ibid., 37. 25. Syed Ismael’s Taqwiyat al-­Iman follows the same format. Both Ismael’s Taqwiyat al-­Iman and the later translation of it (see note 8) are still used in madrasas today as part of the curriculum. They too popularize the Arabicist way of life. 26. Ali, Nasihat, 40. 27. Ibid., 41. 28. Ibid., 42. 29. Ltr. no. 4, Subedar Muhiuddin Khan, 22 August 1839, FDS 1839, consult. 20, November 1839, no. 66, file A, FD/SC. 30. A good biography of Dehlavi is Maulana Hakim Syed Muhammad Ahmad Barkati, Hayat Shah Muhammad Ishaq Muhaddat Dehlavi (Delhi, 1992). 31. See Ayesha Jalal, Partisans of Allah: Jihad in South Asia (Ranikhet: Permanent Black, 2008), chapter 1, for the temporal ambitions of Sayyid Ahmad Shahid. 32. Ltr. no. 264, R. Clarke, secretary to government of India, Fort St. George, to H. T. Prinsep, secretary to government of India, Fort William, 18 June 1839, FDS 1839, consult. 10, July 1839, no. 20, file A, pp.1–3, FD/SC. 33. Magistrate Nellore to R. Clarke, secretary to government of India, Fort St. George, 2 June 1839, FDS 1839, consult. 10 July 1839, no. 21, file A, p. 3, FD/SC. 34. Examination of Abdul Karim, 31May 1839, FDS 1839, consult. 10 July 1839, no. 21, file A, p. 23, FD/SC. 35. Ibid., 25.

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No t e s t o pag e s 47 – 51







36. For a discussion of the social composition of the Wahabis and their activism, see Qayamuddin Ahmad, The Wahabi Movement in India (Delhi: Manohar, 1994). 37. T. E. Ravenshaw, Memorandum, Selections from the Records of the Govern­ ­ment of Bengal, no. 42, Papers Connected with the Trial of Maulvi Ahmadullah of Patna and Others for Conspiracy and Treason (Calcutta: Alipore Jail Press, 1866), 116–139 (hereafter cited as Bengal Government Records). 38. This is similar to the agendas of warrior ascetics in north India. See William R. Pinch, Warrior Ascetics and Indian Empires (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 59–103. 39. Tr. of a deposition given before Maj. Gen. Fraser, officiating resident, Haiderabad, 11 June 1839, FDS 1839, consult. 10 July 1839, no. 23, file A, p. 4, FD/SC. 40. Ibid., 5. 41. Ltr. no. 9, Maj. Gen. Fraser, officiating resident, Haiderabad, to secretary to government of India, 4 June 1839, FDS 1839, consult. 10 July 1839, no. 113, file A, p. 5, FD/SC. 42. Tr. of a deposition given before Maj. Gen. Fraser, officiating resident, Haiderabad, 11 June 1839, FDS 1839, consult. 10 July 1839, no. 23, file A, p. 6, FD/SC. 43. Ibid., 12. 44. Ibid., 8. 45. Ltr. no. 9, Maj. Gen. Fraser, officiating resident, Haiderabad, to secretary to government of India, 4 June 1839, FDS, consult. 10 July 1839, nos. 114−115, file A, p. 15, FD/SC. 46. The government of India at Fort William also played down the clampdown on the religious activities of the Wahabis. Reacting to such complaints, it urged caution to public officers in their efforts to seize and indict persons under suspicion of propagating a religious creed. The government was, however, keen on taking strict action against any attempt to “seduce the troops from their allegiance.” Military law was, however, found lacking in handling such cases. See secretary to government of India to secretary to government of India, Fort St. George, 14 August 1839, FDS 1839, consult. 14 August 1839, no. 31, file A, FD/SC. 47. Tr. of a deposition given before Maj. Gen. Fraser, officiating resident, Haiderabad, 11 June 1839, FDS 1839, consult. 10 July 1839, no. 23, file A, p. 13, FD/SC. 48. Ibid. 49. Ibid., 8. 50. Ltr. no 13, tr. of note received from nizam’s minister by Maj. Gen. Fraser, officiating resident, Haiderabad, 1 June 1839, FDS 1839, consult. 10 July 1839, nos.114–115, file A, pp. 62–63, FD/SC. 51. Ltr. no. 17, tr. of note from nizam’s minister to Maj. Gen. Fraser, officiating resident, Haiderabad, 1 June 1839, FDS 1839, consult. 10 July 1839, nos. 114–115, file A, p. 73, FD/SC.

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52. Tr. of a note received from nizam’s minister by Maj. Gen. Fraser, officiating resident, Haiderabad, 27 May 1839, FDS 1839, consult. 10 July 1839, nos. 114–115, file A, p. 33, FD/SC. 53. Ltr. no.19, Maj. Gen. Fraser, officiating resident, Haiderabad, to chief secretary to government of India, Fort St. George, 12 June 1839, FDS 1839, consult. 10 July 1839, no. 23, file A, FD/SC. 54. Ltr. no. 227, H. P. Burn, deputy secretary to Board of Administration, to H. M. Elliot, secretary to government of India, Lahore, 9 August 1849, FDS 1849, consult. 29 September 1849, nos. 41–44, file A, p. 13, FD/SC. 55. Enclosure in ltr. no. 86, Ikramullah of Sittana to Husain Ali Khan of Azimabad, 26 July 1852, political proceedings, 15 October 1852, Foreign and Political Department, file no. 86. 56. Ltr. no.1057, P. Melvill, secretary to Board of Administration, to Allen, esq., officiating secretary to government of India, Lahore, 23 October 1852, FDS 1852, consult. 26 November 1852, nos. 63–69, file A, p. 9, FD/SC. 57. Lt. H.  B. Lumsden, commander of Corps of Guides, to Lt. Col. G. Lawrence, deputy commissioner, trans-­Indus, Peshawar, 14 Sep­ tember 1849, FDS 1849, consult. 27 October 1849, nos. 54–55, p. 3, FD/SC. 58. Examination of Abdul Karim, 31 May 1839, FDS 1839, consult. 10 July 1839, no. 21, file A, p. 23, FD/SC. 59. Stephen F. Dale, Indian Merchants and Eurasian Trade, 1600–1750 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 45, 58, 67; 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): 202–227; Claude Markovits, “Indian Merchants in Central Asia: The Debate,” in India and Central Asia: Commerce and Culture, 1500–1800, ed. Scott C. Levi (Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2007), 93–122. 60. Arup Banerji, Old Routes: North Indian Nomads and Bankers in Afghan, Uzbek and Russian Lands (Gurgaon: Three Essays Collective, 2011), 189–190. 61. Benjamin D. Hopkins, “Race, Sex and Slavery: ‘Forced Labour’ in Central Asia and Afghanistan in the Early 19th Century,” Modern Asian Studies 42, no. 4 (2008): 629–671. 62. Banerji, Old Routes, 46. 63. Ltr. no. 20, Khurram Ali of Rawalpindi to Meer Abbas Khan of Ludhiana, FDS 1852, consult. 26 November 1852, nos. 63–69, file A, p. 53, FD/SC. 64. Ltr. no. 28, Abu Abdul Rahim of Azimabad to Abbad Ali of Ludhiana, 3 Rujub 1268 [22 April 1852], FDS 1852, consult. 26 November 1852, nos. 63–69, file A, p. 53, FD/SC. 65. Ltr. no. 27, Khurram Ali of Rawalpindi to Meer Abbas Khan of Ludhiana, 3 Rujub 1268 [22 April 1852], FDS 1852, consult. 26 November 1852, nos. 63–69, file A, p. 53, FD/SC.

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No t e s t o pag e s 56 – 62







66. Ltr. no. 42, deposition of Maulvi Khoom Ali, resident of Azimabad, living in Mandi bazaar Rawalpindi, 3 Rujub 1268 [22 April 1852], FDS 1852, consult. 26 November 1852, nos. 63–69, file A, p. 63, FD/SC. 67. Ibid. 68. No. 403, T. E. Ravenshaw, magistrate of Patna, to commissioner of Patna division, 9 May 1865, Bengal Government Records, 113. 69. Ibid., 107. 70. Ibid., 89, 108–109. Ahmadullah was charged for abetting war against the government by the High Court, Calcutta. He was given the punishment of transportation for life. 71. Ibid., 110. Ahmadullah was lodged at Ravenshaw’s premises and not in the Patna jail. Ravenshaw later asked for his acquittal on account of his services rendered. 72. Lord Mayo to Duke of Argyll, India Office, Calcutta, 8 March 1871, Photo Eur. 464, f. 260. 73. Lord Mayo to Duke of Argyll, India Office, Calcutta, 10 January 1871, Photo Eur. 464, ff. 86–87. 74. Ltr. no.179, R. Thompson, officiating superintendent and remembrancer of legal affairs, to officiating junior secretary to government of Bengal, 30 October 1868, Bengal Jud. 1859, Wahabi Report, November 1868, pp. 120–143, esp. 134–135, Bengal Judicial Proceedings, British Library, P/433/25. 75. Ravenshaw, Memorandum, Bengal Government Records, 134. 76. High Court of Judicature at Fort William in Bengal, 13 April 1865, trial of Maulvi Ahmadullah, C.  B. Trevor and G. Loch, Bengal Government Records, 97, 114. 77. Ravenshaw, Memorandum, Bengal Government Records, 133. 78. Ibid., 136. 79. Judgment by William Ainslie, sessions judge, Patna, Bengal Government Records, 69. 80. Ibid., 70. 81. High Court of Judicature at Fort William in Bengal, 13 April 1865, trial of Maulvi Ahmadullah, C.  B. Trevor and G. Loch, Bengal Government Records, 96. 82. Judgment by William Ainslie, sessions judge, Patna, Bengal Government Records, 73. 83. Ibid., 98–100. 84. Exhibit no. 18B, Kunj Lal and Sobun Lal statement, attached with documents of witness to prosecution, Bengal Government Records, 21. 85. Ibid., 138. 86. Ravenshaw, Memorandum, Bengal Government Records, 131. 87. Ibid., 138. 88. Ltr. no. 168, J. O’Kinealy, office magistrate, Maldah, to under secretary to government of Bengal, 20 October 1868, Bengal Jud. 1868, Wahabi Report, November 1868, pp.  120–143, Bengal Judicial Pro­ ceedings, British Library, P/433/25. 89. Ibid.

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No t e s t o pag e s 62– 6 6









90. Ibid. 91. High Court of Judicature at Fort William in Bengal, 13 April 1865, trial of Maulvi Ahmadullah, C.  B. Trevor and G. Loch, Bengal Government Records, 93. 92. Ltr. no. 168, J. O’Kinealy, office magistrate, Maldah, to under secretary to government of Bengal, 20 October 1868, Bengal Jud. 1868, Wahabi Report, November 1868, pp.  130–131, Bengal Judicial Pro­ ceedings, British Library, P/433/25. 93. Ibid., 120–143. 94. High Court of Judicature at Fort William in Bengal, 13 April 1865, trial of Maulvi Ahmadullah, C.  B. Trevor and G. Loch, Bengal Government Records. 95. Ravenshaw, Memorandum, Bengal Government Records, 136. 96. Judgment by W. Ainslie, sessions judge, Patna, Bengal Government Records, 68. 97. Ibid. 98. Deposition attached to ltr. no. 168, J. O’Kinealy, office magistrate, Maldah, to undersecretary to government of Bengal, 20 October 1868, Bengal Jud. 1868, Wahabi Report, November 1868, pp.  120–143, Bengal Judicial Proceedings, British Library, P/433/25. 99. Lt. Col. A. H. Mason, Report on Hindustani Fanatics Compiled in Intelligence Branch, Quarter Master General’s Department, 1895, p. 7, L/Mil/17/13/18. Hereafter Report on Hindustani Fanatics. 100. Ibid., 9. 101. Ibid., 11. 102. High Court of Judicature at Fort William in Bengal, 13 April 1865, trial of Maulvi Ahmadullah, C.  B. Trevor and G. Loch, Bengal Government Records, 96. 103. Ravenshaw, Memorandum, Bengal Government Records, 137. 104. Ibid., 132–133. 105. Ltr. no. 16, deposition of Waliullah of Farrukhabad, n.d., FDS 1852, consult. 26 November 1852, nos. 63–69, file A, pp. 36–37, FD/SC. 106. Ltr. no. 1057, P. Melvill, secretary to Board of Administration, to Allen, esq., officiating secretary to government of India, Lahore, 23 October 1852, FDS 1852, consult. 26 November 1852, nos. 63–69, file A, pp. 3–6, FD/SC. 107. Ravenshaw, Memorandum, Bengal Government Records, 134. 108. See Banerji, Old Routes, for an excellent survey of India/Central Asian and Russian trade networks. 109. Ltr. no. 38, James Abbot, deputy commissioner, Hazara, to Maj. G. Lawrence, deputy commissioner, Peshawar, Hazara, 19 July 1849, FDS 1849, consult. 29 September 1849, nos. 41–44, file A, FD/SC. 110. See the case of Ursula Khan, who abducted and assaulted twelve merchants. He could never be captured. H. B. Lumsden, commander of Corps of Guides, to Lt. Col. G. Lawrence, deputy commissioner, trans-­Indus, Peshawar, 20 September 1849, FDS 1849, consult. 27 October 1849, no. 53, file B, p. 5, FD/SC.

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No t e s t o pag e s 6 6 – 71

111. Lt. H.  B. Lumsden, commander of Corps of Guides, to Lt. Col. G. Lawrence, deputy commissioner, trans-­Indus, Peshawar, 14 September 1849, FDS, consult. 27 October 1849, nos. 54–55, file B, p. 3, FD/SC. 112. See FDS files, consult. 27 November 1839, nos. 41, 43, file A, FD/SC. Also see Foreign Political consult. 14 March 1838, no. 65, file A. 113. Ltr. from the acting assistant resident in the Persian Gulf, 11 August 1840, FDS1841, consult. 1 February 1841, nos. 1–2, file A, para. 8, FD/ SC. 114. Abstract, Capt. Alexander Burnes, mission to Kabul, September 1837, nos. 65–67, 20 October 1837, p.113, FD/PC. 115. M. Cubbon, commissioner, Bangalore, to officiating secretary to governor of India, with governor general, 28 September 1839, FDS 1839, consult. 20 November 1839, no. 59, FD/SC. 116. Ibid. See also Enseng Ho, Graves of Tarim: Genealogy and Mobility across the Indian Ocean (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006). 117. Mason, Report on Hindustani Fanatics, 3. 118. Ltr. no. 49, Capt. James Abbot, deputy commissioner, Hazara, to G. I. Christian, secretary to Board of Administration, Punjab, 10 July 1849, FDS 1849, consult. 29 September 1849, nos. 41–44, file A, FD/SC. 119. Mason, Report on Hindustani Fanatics, 4–5. 120. Ibid., 5. 121. Ibid., 6. 122. For a description of the destruction of Sittana, see ltr. no. 102, Capt. James, in charge of telegraph office, Allahabad, to G. F. Edmonstone, Lahore, 7 May 1858, FDS 1858, consult. 28 May 1858, no. 569, file A, FD/SC. 123. Mason, Report on Hindustani Fanatics, 6. 124. Ibid., 7. 125. Ibid., 12. 126. Ibid., 13. 127. Ibid., 14. 128. Ibid., 15. 129. Ibid., 3. 130. The British were very aware of this. See P. Melvill’s comments on the matter, in ltr. no. 1057, P. Melvill, secretary to Board of Administration, to Allen, esq., officiating secretary to government of India, Lahore, 23 October 1852, FDS 1852, consult. 26 November 1852, nos. 63–69, file A, p. 8, FD/SC. 131. Enclosure in ltr. no. 47, Capt. James Abbot, deputy commissioner, Hazara, to Maj. G. Lawrence, deputy commissioner, trans-­Indus, Peshawar,10 July 1849, FDS 1849, consult. 29 September 1849, nos. 41–44, file A, p. 19, FD/SC. 132. Tr. of a deposition of Uzum Khan, 1 August 1849, FDS 1849, consult. 29 September 1849, nos. 41–44, file A, p. 22, FD/SC. 133. Lt. H.  B. Lumsden to Lt. Col. G. Lawrence, deputy commissioner, trans-­Indus, Peshawar, 14 September 1849, FDS 1849, consult. 27 October 1849, nos. 54–55, p. 3, FD/SC.

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No t e s t o pag e s 72– 75

134. Ltr. no. 227, Maj. H. P. Burn, deputy secretary to Board of Administration, to H.  M. Elliot, secretary to government of India, Lahore, 9 August 1849, FDS 1849, consult. 29 Sept. 1849, nos. 41–44, file A, p.14, FD/SC. 135. Minute by governor general in council, 7 September 1852, 15 October 1852, no. 91, FD/PC. 136. Ltr. no. 701, Maj. H. P. Burn, deputy secretary to Board of Administration, to Maj. James Abbot, deputy commissioner, Lahore, 9 August 1849, FDS 1849, consult. 29 September 1849, nos. 41–44, file A, pp. 24–25, FD/SC. 137. Ltr. no. 300, R. Clarke, secretary to government of India, Fort St. George, to H. I. Prinsep, secretary to government of India, Fort William, 9 July 1839, FDS 1839, consult. 14 August 1839, no. 29, FD/SC. 138. Ibid. 139. Government of India, Fort William, to secretary to government of India, Fort St. George, 14 August 1839, FDS, consult. 14 August 1839, no. 31, FD/SC. 140. Ltr. no. 15, D. C. Macnabb, officiating commissioner and superintendent, Pashawar division, to L. H. Griffin, office of the secretary to govern­ ­ ent of Punjab, 13 April 1872, no. 104-­A, June 1872, pp. 6–7, FD/PC. m 141. Ibid. 142. Ltr. nos. 130–843, D. C. Macnabb, officiating commander and superintendent, Peshawar division, to L. H. Griffin, officiating secretary to government of Punjab, 25 April 1872, no. 106-­A, June 1872, FD/PC. 143. Mason, Report on Hindustani Fanatics. 144. Banerji, Old Routes. 145. Timothy Robert Moreman, “The Arms Trade and the North West Frontier Pathan Tribes, 1890–1914,” Journal of Imperial and Common­ wealth History 22, no. 2 (1994):  187–216, http:/dx.doi.org/10.1080 /3086539408532925. 146. Ibid.,  194–202. Moreman shows how in this period the government retaliated by tightening the Arms Act and by introducing new regulations to curtail the flow of arms: restrictions on passes for arms, requirements for registration of rifles, curbs on gifts of arms, and so forth. These steps resulted in the mushrooming of new arms factories in the Tirah and Dir areas, which were staffed by armorers trained in India and Kabul. 147. Enclosure no. 1 in ltr. no. 34 of 1899, Col. W. Hill, assistant adjutant general for musketry, to secretary to government of India, 1 December 1898, Foreign Department, L/PS/7/111. 148. Enclosure no. 2 in ltr. no. 4, L. H. E. Tucker, inspector general, Punjab police, to secretary to government of India, Foreign Department, 5 February 1899, L/PS/7/111. Tucker noted how he was told that arms from the Persian Gulf passed from hand to hand and that people could buy them in the valley of Helmand in Afghanistan and sell them to

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wazirs. The wazirs admitted that they had bought Martini rifles from the tribals but thought they were ones stolen from government arsenals. Tucker said he never saw the Gulf arms here, but political officers in the region vouched that they had seen them. In addition, in many depositions people from the region said that they could buy arms without any problem at Muscat when they returned from their pilgrimage in Baghdad. 149. No. 253, Sir F. Plunket to Marquess of Salisbury, 27 December 1897, part 1, correspondence respecting trade in arms in Persia, Muscat, etc., FO881/7093. 150. Ibid. 151. Enclosure no. 254 in ltr. 61, R. Menzies, vice consul, to Sir F. Plunkett, 21 December 1897, part 1, correspondence respecting trade in arms in Persia, Muscat, etc., FO881/7093. 152. No. 68, Marquess of Salisbury to Sir P. Currie, 30 December 1897, part 1, correspondence respecting trade in arms in Persia, Muscat, etc., FO881/7093. 153. No. 122, C. Hardinge to Marquess of Salisbury, Tehran, 31 December 1897, part 1, correspondence respecting trade in arms in Persia, Muscat, etc., FO881/7093. Hardinge reported that the governor in Bushire derived a large revenue by imposing a duty from 8 percent to 10 percent ad valorem upon imported items or by levying a tax of 3 tomans (12 shillings) on each rifle. 154. Ibid. 155. Enclosure in ltr. no. 124, memorandum by Lt. Col. Picot, part 1, ­correspondence respecting trade in arms in Persia, Muscat, etc., FO881/7093. 156. Enclosure no. 2 in no. 151, H. Kennedy to E. C. Cox, 16 August 1899, part 2, further correspondence respecting the traffic in arms, FO881/7463. 157. Enclosure no. 5 in no. 11, Dr. Hauck, imperial German consul, to British consul, Muscat, 19 June 1898, part 3, further correspondence respecting the traffic in arms in the Persian Gulf, FO881/7578. 158. Enclosure no. 7 in no. 11, Gopalji Walji to German Persian Trading Company, 15 July 1898, part 3, further correspondence respecting the traffic in arms in the Persian Gulf, FO881/7578. 159. Report on the Recent Importation of Martini Henry Rifles into Persia by Ghulam Khan—​a British Subject, 27 August 1901, part 5, further correspondence respecting the traffic in arms in the Persian Gulf, 1902, FO881/8199. 160. Enclosure no. 6 in no. 20, Capt. Cox to Lt. Col. Meade, 24 June 1900, part 3, further correspondence respecting the traffic in arms in the Persian Gulf, FO881/7578. 161. Enclosure no. 7 in no. 20, Capt. Cox to Commander Phillipps, 11 January 1900, part 3, further correspondence respecting the traffic in arms in the Persian Gulf, FO881/7578.

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162. No. 153, Acting Consul General Cordeaux to Marquess of Landsdowne, 25 November 1901, part 4, further correspondence respecting the traffic in arms in the Persian Gulf, FO881/7986. 163. Enclosure no. 3 in no. 94, Brigadier General Maitland to government of Bombay, 26 September 1901, part 4, further correspondence respecting the traffic in arms in the Persian Gulf, FO881/7986. 164. Enclosure no. 15, Lt. Col. Swayne to Acting Consul General Cordeaux, 31 January 1902; enclosure no. 16, government of India to government of Bombay, 13 January 1902, part 5, further correspondence respecting the traffic in arms in the Persian Gulf, 1902, FO881/8199. 165. Enclosure in ltr. no. 124, memorandum by Lt. Col. Picot, part 1, ­correspondence respecting trade in arms in Persia, Muscat, etc, FO881/7093. 166. Enclosure no. 2 in no. 123, sadr-­i-­azam to C. Hardinge, 18 December 1897, part 1, correspondence respecting trade in arms in Persia, Muscat, etc., FO881/7093. 167. Enclosure in ltr. no. 124, memorandum by Lt. Col. Picot, part 1, ­correspondence respecting trade in arms in Persia, Muscat, etc., FO881/7093. 168. No. 128, India Office to Foreign Office, 9 February 1898, part 1, ­correspondence respecting trade in arms in Persia, Muscat, etc., FO881/7093. 169. Enclosure no. 2 in ltr no. 146, notification of C. G. F. Fagan, consul, Muscat, 13 January 1898, part 1, correspondence respecting trade in arms in Persia, Muscat, etc., FO881/7093. 170. Enclosure no. 3 in no. 315, proclamation of chief of Bahrain, 6 February 1898, part 1, correspondence respecting trade in arms in Persia, Muscat, etc., FO881/7093. 171. No. 315, A. Godley, India Office, to Foreign Office, 9 August 1898, part 1, correspondence respecting trade in arms in Persia, Muscat, etc., FO881/7093. 172. No. 112, Foreign Department (secretary) external to G. F. Hamilton, secretary of state for India, 30 July 1903, L/PS/7/156. 173. Enclosure no. 2 in no. 37, extracts from camp diary of Col. Yate, n.d., part 5, further correspondence respecting the traffic in arms in the Persian Gulf, 1902, FO881/8199. 174. Enclosure no. 16 in no. 9, Mr. Gell to government of Bombay, 16 June 1902, part 5, further correspondence respecting the traffic in arms in the Persian Gulf, 1902, FO881/8199. 175. No. 63, Anglo-­Arabian and Persian Steamship Company, London, to Foreign Office, 28 December 1897, part 1, correspondence respecting trade in arms in Persia, Muscat, etc., FO881/7093. 176. Enclosure no. 1 in no. 146, Messrs. Bucknall Brothers to India Office, 18 February 1898, part 1, correspondence respecting trade in arms in Persia, Muscat, etc., FO881/7093. 177. No. 72, C. A. Bleckly and others to Marquess of Salisbury, 18 January 1899, part 2, further correspondence respecting the traffic in arms,

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FO881/7463. The petitioners denied that their arms were being used by the Afridis against the British in India. 178. Gopalji Walji and Co. to political agent and consul, Muscat, 3 March 1903, L/PS/7/156. 179. C. G. Bonehill, manufacturer, to H. M. Durand, 29 April 1899, part 2, further correspondence respecting the traffic in arms, FO881/ 7463. 180. Enclosure no. 4 in no. 139, H. M. Durand to C. G. Bonehill, 23 June 1899, part 2, further correspondence respecting the traffic in arms, FO881/7463. 181. Enclosure no. 46, copy of statement of head constable, third grade, Ghazi Khan Inayatullah Khan, 22 October 1898, part 2, further correspondence respecting the traffic in arms, FO881/7463. 182. Enclosure no. 1 in no.112, government of India to G. Hamilton, 23 February 1899, part 2, further correspondence respecting the traffic in arms, FO881/7463. 183. Enclosure no. 2 in no. 112, Col. Hill to government of India, 1 December 1898; enclosure 5 in no.112, Col. Tucker to government of India, 5 February 1899, part 2, further correspondence respecting the traffic in arms, FO881/7463. 184. Enclosure no. 6 in no. 150, Captain R. Keppel to H. S. Barnes, 16 August 1899; enclosure no. 3 in no. 150, Captain R. Keppel to government of Punjab, 2 August 1899, part 2, further correspondence respecting the traffic in arms, FO881/7463. 185. Tr. of a Persian letter from Muhammad Ali to his cousin Abdul Nabi in Nellore, 9 November 1838, FDS 1839, consult. 10 July 1839, no. 21, file A, p. 7, FD/SC. 186. Pearson, Islamic Reform and Revival, 77. 187. Tr. of a deposition of Abdul Qadir, of Nellore, 31 May 1839, FDS 1839, consult. 10 July 1839, no. 21, file A, p. 16, FD/SC. 188. Ltr. no. 4, examination of Subedar Muhiuddin Khan, 22 August1839, FDS 1839, consult. 20 November 1839, no. 66, file A, FD/SC. 189. Ltr. no. 43, abstract of a letter found in Ludhiana, n.d., FDS 1852, consult. 26 November, nos. 63–69, p. 74, FD/SC. 190. Ltr. no. 1, examination of Muhammad Muhiuddin Ali Khan, 9 September 1839, FDS 1839, consult. 20 November 1839, no. 63, FD/ SC. 191. Ltr. no. 398, H. Montgomery, acting superintendent, Astagram division, Mysore, to secretary to the commissioner for the government of the territories of the raja of Mysore, Bangalore, 30 July 1839, FDS 1839, consult. 20 November 1839, no. 61, FD/SC. 192. Ltr. no.1, examination of Muhammad Muhiuddin Ali Khan, 9 Sep­ tember 1839, FDS 1839, consult. 20 November 1839, no. 63, FD/SC. 193. Ibid. 194. Ibid. 195. Ltr. no. 227, Maj. H. P. Burn, deputy secretary to Board of Administration, to H.  M. Elliot, secretary to government of India,

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with governor general, Lahore, 9 August 1849, FDS 1849, consult. 29 September 1849, nos. 41–44, file A, FD/SC. 196. Ltr. no.2, Sayyid Ahmad to Muslim people, specially to Maulvi Wilayat Ali, Ramzan Ali, Imamuddin and Hafiz Nasseruddin, Inayat Ali, etc., FDS1852, consult. 26 November 1852, nos. 63–69, file A, p.  17, FD/SC. 197. Ibid. 198. Ltr. no. 17, deposition of Waliullah of Farrukhabad, FDS 1852, consult. 26 November 1852, nos. 63–69, pp. 36–37, FD/SC.

chapter 2 ​The Making of the “Indian Arab” and the Tale of Sayyid Fadl







1. Omar Khalidi, “Sayyids of Hadramawt in Early Modern India,” in special issue on Arab communities and networks in South and Southeast Asia, Asian Journal of Social Science 32, no. 3 (2004): 329–352. See also Omar Khalidi, Muslims in the Deccan: A Historical Survey (New Delhi: Three Essays Collective, 2006); Enseng Ho, Graves of Tarim: Genealogy and Mobility across the Indian Ocean (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006). 2. Khalidi, “Sayyids of Hadramawt,” 330. Khalidi shows that the sayyid families taught the Shafi school of jurisprudence rather than the Hanafi, which was prevalent in India. 3. Omar Khalidi, “The Hadhrami Role in the Politics and Society of Colonial India, 1750s to 1950s,” in Hadrami Traders, Scholars, and Statesmen in the Indian Ocean, 1750s−1960s, ed. Ulrike Freitag and William Gervase Clarence-­Smith (Leiden: Brill, 1997), 67–81. 4. Omar Khalidi, “Memoirs of General El-­Edroos of Hyderabad,” Quarterly Journal of the Pakistan Historical Society 42, no. 2 (1994): 182–213. 5. Minute by the governor of Bombay, 17 August 1878, FO78/3615. 6. Charles B. Saunders, Political Report Haiderabad (Haiderabad: Deccan, 1872, 1873, 1874). 7. Juan Cole, “Religious Dissidence and Urban Leadership: Bahais in Qajar Shiraz and Tehran,” Journal of Persian Studies 37 (1999): 123–142. Cole shows that the opening of the Suez Canal posed a political challenge to the Iranian state as a result of an energized Bahai faith. The Suez opening benefited rich Bahai merchants, who amassed fortunes and established trans-­Asian trade houses in Bombay and Hong Kong. These wealthy merchants attracted artisans to the Bahai faith and stressed its egalitarian virtue vis-­à-­v is Shi’te elitism. They turned their barbs against the Shi’te state, which they hinted was responsible for the artisans’ plight. 8. C. E. Farah, “Beginning of Imperial Rivalries in the Persian Gulf,” in Arabs and Ottomans: A Checkered Relationship (Istanbul, 2002), 531–551. 9. Ho, Graves of Tarim.

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10. C. E. Farah, “Reaffirming Ottoman Sovereignty in Yemen, 1825–40,” in Arabs and Ottomans, 487–500. Initially the British tried to punch holes in the legal claims of the Ottomans on Aden. When they failed to make any headway, they instead sought a political solution, working with tribal chiefs to end Ottoman control—​an approach that was pursued with success. 11. Farah, “British Challenge to Ottoman Authority,” 467–486. 12. For a discussion of British management of Muslim pilgrims in Ottoman Hijaz via passport regulations, see Radhika Singha, “Passport, Ticket, and India-­Rubber Stamp: The Problem of the Pauper Pilgrim in Colonial India, 1882–1925,” in The Limits of British Colonial Control in South Asia: Spaces of Disorder in the Indian Ocean Region, ed. Harald Fischer-­Tine and Ashwini Tambe (London: Routledge, 2009), 49–83. 13. File no. 23296, pp. 23, 39–43, Boards Collection F/4/895. 14. For an engaging discussion on the issue of the Dutch officials controlling their porous borders to check contraband smuggling, see Eric Tagliacozzo, Porous Borders: Smuggling and States along a Southeast Asian Frontier, 1865−1915 (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2005); see also Saunders, Political Report Haiderabad. 15. Saunders, Political Report Haiderabad, 189. 16. Ibid., 190 17. Ibid., 192 18. Ibid. 19. Ibid., 196. 20. Ibid., 197. 21. Ltr. no. 13, Foreign Department, government of India, to Marquess of Hartington, secretary of state for India, 6 February 1882, f. 371, part 1, L/PS/7/31. 22. Ltr. no. 1714, tr. of rookah from nizam’s minister to the resident, 7 July 1890, file no. 652 of 1890, Haiderabad Residency Political Office, “Rules Regarding Arabs and Rohillas in H & H Territory,” p. 59, IOR/ R/2/80/176. 23. Ibid. 24. Enclosure no. 3 in ltr. no. 157, Col. R. J. Meade, resident, Haiderabad, to T. H. Thornton, office of the secretary to government of India, Foreign Department, Haiderabad, 24 February 1877, FO78/3615. 25. Nizam’s minister to Barak Jang Bahadur, 29 November 1876, FO78/3615. 26. Barak Jang Bahadur to nizam’s minister, n.d., FO78/3615. 27. Ltr. no. 160, rookah to nizam’s minister from resident, Haiderabad, 26 January 1877, FO78/3615. 28. Rookah from nizam’s government to Barak Jang, 30 Muharram, 1294 Hijri [13 February 1877], FO78/3615. 29. Ltr. no. 181-­1057, Francis A. E. Loch, political resident, Aden, to C. Gonne, secretary to government of Bombay, 24 September 1877, FO78/3615.

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30. Ltr. no.1657A, Capt. C. B. E. Smith, first assistant resident, Haiderabad, to C. Gonne, secretary to government of Bombay, 6 September 1877, FO78/3615. 31. Ltr. no. 3352, Col. Meade, resident at Haiderabad, to C. Gonne, secretary to government of Bombay, 5 February 1877, FO78/3615. 32. Capt. F.  M. Hunter, first assistant political resident, Aden, to Brig. Gen. Francis A. E. Loch, political resident, Aden, 19 September 1877, FO78/3615. 33. Abdullah Bin Omer Al Kaieti to Francis A. E. Loch, political resident, Aden, 10 November 1877, enclosure in ltr. no. 252-­1429, Francis A. E. Loch to C. Gonne, 11 December 1877, FO78/3615. 34. Francis A. E. Loch, political resident, Aden, to C. Gonne, secretary to government of Bombay, Political Department, 26 October 1878, FO78/3615. 35. Ltr. no. 1560A, Francis A. E. Loch, political resident, Aden, to E. G. Hulton, naval officer, 19 October 1881, f. 61, part 1, L/PS/7/33. 36. Minute by the governor of Bombay, 17 August 1878, FO78/3615. 37. Ltr. no. 224-­1410, Francis A. E. Loch, political resident, Aden, to C. Gonne, secretary to government of Bombay, Political Department, 26 October 1878, L/PS/7/33. 38. Ltr. no. 323-­1697, Francis A. E. Loch, political resident, Aden, to J. B. Peile, acting chief secretary to government of Bombay, Political Department, 28 October 1881, ff. 42–43, L/PS/7/33. 39. Ibid. 40. Ltr. no. 343-­1792, Maj. Gen. Francis A. E. Loch, political resident, Aden, to J.  B. Peile, acting chief secretary to government of Bombay, Political Department, 21 November 1881, f. 47, part 1, L/ PS/7/33. 41. Enclosure no. 19 in ltr. no. 343-­1792, J. B. Peile, acting chief to government of Bombay, Political Department, to Maj. Gen. Francis A. E. Loch, political resident, Aden, n.d., f. 50, part 1, L/PS/7/33. 42. Ltr. no. 368-­1952, Maj. Francis A. E. Loch, political resident, Aden, to J.  B. Peile, acting chief secretary to government of Bombay, 15 December 1881, f. 52, part 1, L/PS/7/33. For details of the investment of this money, see ltr. no. 47, secretary of government of India, Foreign Department, to Earl of Kimberley, secretary of state for India, 2 April 1883, ff. 15–17, part 1, L/PS/7/36. 43. Ltr. no. 60, Lt. Col. S. B. Miles, British consul general, Zanzibar, to Francis A. E. Loch, political resident, Aden, 8 February 1882, f. 65, part 1, L/PS/7/33. 44. Ltr. no. 1560A, Francis A. E. Loch, political resident, Aden, to E. G. Hulton, naval officer, 19 October 1881, f. 61, part 1, L/PS/7/33. 45. Tr. of an extract from the Arabic newspaper Sanaa, 20 Shawal 1298 [20 August 1881], f. 35, part 1, enclosure no. 3 in ltr. no. 294-­1558, Maj. Gen. Francis A. E. Loch, political resident, Aden, to C. Gonne, chief secretary to government of Bombay, Political Department, 15 October 1881, FDS 1882, no. 66, 14 July 1882, no. 2, part 1, L/PS/7/33.

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46. Tr. of an extract from the Arabic newspaper Burham, Alexandria, 6 October 1881, part 1, f. 36, enclosure in ltr. no. 294-­1558, Maj. Gen. Francis A. E. Loch, political resident, Aden, to C. Gonne, chief secretary to government of Bombay, Political Department, 15 October 1881, FDS 1882, no. 66, 14 July 1882, no. 2, part 1, L/PS/7/33. 47. Ibid. 48. Ibid. 49. Enclosure no. 4 in ltr. no. 5373, C. Gonne, chief secretary to government of Bombay, Political Department, to C. Grant, secretary to government of India, Foreign Department, 4 November 1881, f. 37, part 1, L/PS/7/33. 50. Ltr. no. 303-­1607, Maj. Gen. Francis A. E. Loch, political resident, Aden, to C. Gonne, chief secretary to government of Bombay, Political Department, 24 October 1881, f. 37, L/PS/7/33. 51. Ltr. no. 318-­1653, Francis A. E. Loch, political resident, Aden, to J. B. Peile, secretary to government of Bombay, 1 November 1881, f. 39, L/ PS/7/33. 52. Ibid. 53. Enclosure no. 4 in ltr. no. 5373, C. Gonne, chief secretary to government of Bombay, Political Department, to C. Grant, secretary to government of India, Foreign Department, 4 November 1881, f. 37, L/ PS/7/33. 54. Sayyid Ahmad Fadl, Al-­Anwarul Nabwiyat-­wal-­A srar ul Ahadita (manuscript copy, n.d.), 2. 55. Ibid., 3. 56. Ho, Graves of Tarim, 60–61. 57. S. Tufan Buzpinar, “Abdulhamid II and Sayyid Fadl Pasha of Hadramawt: An Arab Dignitary’s Ambitions (1876–1900),” Journal of Ottoman Studies 13 (1993): 47. 58. Ibid., 49. 59. Syed Hamid bin Syed Boobaker Moonuffer to Abdul Razzack, vice consul, Jeddah, 27 October 1889, part 2, FO685/2. There were a large number of Muslims with Arab names and genealogies going back to Hadramawt who had become indigenized in the society of Malabar, which they considered home. The dual status of such Arab émigrés often created problems for imperial powers. Consider the case of Syed Hamid bin Syed Boobaker Moonuffar, who though clearly a Hadramawt Arab had lived in Calicut, which he considered his home. In 1889, while in Mecca, he petitioned the Indian government asking for help to get back home to Calicut. He said he had come to Mecca for haj and that the Indian government had denied him permission to return. He had at that time lived in Mecca for forty years and still yearned to get back to Calicut. 60. Khalidi, “Sayyids of Hadramawt.” 61. Stephen F. Dale, Islamic Society on the South Asian Frontier: The Mappilas of Malabar, 1498–1922 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1980), 127–137. The shrine still exists.

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62. Buzpinar, “Abdulhamid II and Sayyid Fadl Pasha,” 227–239. Buzpinar talks about Fadl’s attempts to become the independent ruler of the Dhofar region in Hadramawt area of Arabia—​t he region between Oman and Aden. This area was controlled by Muscat. Fadl hoped in vain to get Ottoman support for his political ambition. But given the danger of a British reaction to Ottoman interference in southwest Arabia, Abd-­al Hamid II could not oblige Fadl. However, given Fadl’s high standing in Muslim society, Abd-­al Hamid made him a guest at Istanbul. It is there that Fadl lived, wrote several books, connected with Muslims from all over the world, and, in 1901, eventually died. 63. Stephen F. Dale, “The Hadhrami Diaspora in South-­Western India: The Role of the Sayyids of the Malabar Coast,” in Freitag and Clarence­Smith, Hadrami Traders, Scholars, and Statesmen, 175–184. 64. Dale, Islamic Society on the South Asian Frontier, 156–158; Conrad Wood, The Moplah Rebellion and Its Genesis (New Delhi: People’s Publishing House, 1987),  49. Fadl’s son Ahmad bin Fadl, who records his biographical details, mentions his migration to Mecca in 1851. He does not, however, mention the deportation. See Fadl, Al-­Anwarul, 3. 65. M. Sukuru Hanioglu, A Brief History of the Late Ottoman Empire (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2008); Suraiya Faroqui, The Ottoman Empire and the World around It (London: I. B. Tauris, 2004). 66. Dale, “Hadhrami Diaspora,” 179. 67. Buzpinar, “Abdulhamid II and Sayyid Fadl Pasha,” 239. 68. Dale, Islamic Society on the South Asian Frontier, 6; K. N. Panikkar, Against Lord and State: Religion and Peasant Uprisings in Malabar, 1836−1921 (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1989), 2−20. Wood, Moplah Rebellion, 45–46. 69. Anthony Reid, An Indonesian Frontier: Acehnese and Other Histories of Sumatra (Singapore: Singapore University Press, 2005), 226–248. Reid also views pan-­Islam in the nineteenth-­century Acehnese context as being a reaction to increasing European influence in the region. It was basically anti-­European and colonial and thus linked to nationalism. 70. For Afghani see Ayesha Jalal, Partisans of Allah: Jihad in South Asia (Ranikhet: Permanent Black, 2008), 176–191. 71. See Ayesha Jalal, Self and Sovereignty: Individual and Community in South Asian Islam since 1850 (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2000), 191–192. Jalal debunks the idea of pan-­Islam, calling it a construct created by non-­Muslims to voice their fear and anxiety of Muslim politics. She argues that the issue of Muslim universalism as caliph-­centric was part of normative theory only. Territorial nationalism could coexist with Muslim universalism in many different combinations. The caliph was not the only consensual reference point of universalism. 72. Michael Laffan, Islamic Nationhood and Colonial Indonesia: The Umma below the Winds (London: Routledge, 2002), 123. 73. Jalal, Self and Sovereignty, 188–195

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74. Under secretary of state in Foreign Office to India Office, 9 June 1879, FO78/3615. 75. See Christiaan Snouck Hurgronje, Mekka in the Latter Part of the 19th Century: Daily Life, Customs and Learning: Muslims of the East Indies Archipelago, vol. 1, 2nd ed. (Leiden: Brill, 2007), 262–265. Hurgronje offers fascinating details of political discussions that the pilgrims from India and Indonesia ( jawahs) had about their European political masters and the strategies they worked out to come to terms with new circumstances. For secret societies of all political hues in Mecca, see Consul Zohrab’s letter book, 1879, political, no. 1, Zohrab, vice consul, Jeddah, to consulate, Jeddah, 6 August 1879, ff. 381–386, FO685/1. 76. Ltr. no. 230-­1317, Francis A. E. Loch, political resident, Aden, to J. Jardine, officiating secretary to government of Bombay, 20 Novem­ ­ber 1877, FO78/3615. 77. Ibid. 78. Enclosure no. 4 in ltr. no. 250-­1556, Francis A. E. Loch, political resident, Aden, to C. Gonne, secretary to government of Bombay, Polit­­ ical Department, 22 November 1878, FDS 1878, p. 2, FO78/3615; see also ltr. no. 230-­1317, Francis A. E. Loch, political resident, Aden, to J. Jardine, officiating secretary to government of Bombay, 20 November 1877, FO78/3615. 79. Enclosure no. 3 in ltr. no. 10, D. F. Carmichael, chief secretary to government of Madras, to J. Jardine, acting secretary to government of Bombay, 9 January 1878, f. 615, L/PS/7/17, IOR Neg. 31123. 80. Ltr. no. 11/70, Francis A. E. Loch, political resident, Aden, to secretary to government of Bombay, Political Department, 15 January 1878, FO78/3615. 81. Enclosure no. 4 in ltr. 250-­1556, Francis A. E. Loch, political resident, Aden, to C. Gonne, secretary to government of Bombay, Political Department, 22 November 1878, FDS 1878, FO78/3615. 82. Sayid Abdal Rehman bin Hosain bin Sahl to Hasan Ali Rajab Ali, agent to high government, 13 Shawal 1295 [9 October 1878], FDS 1878, FO78/3615. 83. Ibid. 84. Ltr. no. 11/70, Francis A. E. Loch, political resident, Aden, to secretary to government of Bombay, Political Department, 15 January 1878, FO78/3615. 85. Ibid. 86. Ltr. no. 3-­9, Francis A. E. Loch, political resident, Aden, to C. Gonne, secretary to government of Bombay, Political Department, 3 January 1879, FDS 1879, FO78/3615. 87. See Jalal, Partisans of Allah. 88. Ltr. no. 11/70, Francis A. E. Loch, political resident, Aden, to secretary to government of Bombay, Political Department, 15 January 1878, FO78/3615. 89. Awadh Bin Abdulla, sheikh of the Kathiri tribe at Dhofar, to Saleh Jaffer, 18 Mohurram 1296 [11 January 1879], FDS 1879, FO78/3615.

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90. Enclosure no. 6 in ltr. no. 42-­208, Toorkee Bin Saeed bin Sultan, imam of Muscat, to Sheikh Awadh bin Abdulla of Dhofar, 31 October 1878, FDS 1878, FO78/3615. 91. India Office to the under secretary of state, Foreign Office, 9 June 1879, FDS 1879, FO78/3615. 92. Enclosure no. 8 in ltr. no. 57, Lt. Col. S. B. Miles, political agent and consul, Muscat, to Lt. Col. E. C. Ross, political resident in the Persian Gulf, 20 February 1879, FDS 1879, FO78/3615. 93. Enclosure no. 91 in ltr. no. 62, Lt. Col. S. B. Miles, political agent and consul, Muscat, to Lt. Col. E. C. Ross, political resident in the Persian Gulf, 27 February 1879, FDS 1879, FO78/3615. 94. Nakib Omer, saleh of Makalla, to Francis A. E. Loch, political resident, Aden, 5 February 1879, FDS 1879, FO78/3615. Fadl also tapped the independent states of Makulla and Shehr for help. 95. C. A. Bayly, Empire and Information: Intelligence Gathering and Social Communication in India, 1780−1870 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996); Michael Fisher “The Office of Akhbar Nawis: The Transition from Mughal to British Form,” Modern Asian Studies 27, no. 1 (1993): 45−82. 96. T. C. Prousis, British Consular Reports from the Ottoman Levant in an Age of Upheaval, 1815–1830 (Istanbul: Isis, 2008), 16. 97. Bayly, Empire and Information. 98. Ltr. no. 363, secretary to government of India to secretary to Abdur Razzack, Jeddah, 14 August 1882, III Misc. 1873–1882, FO685/1. 99. Ltr. no. 457, secretary to government of India to Abdur Razzack, Jeddah, 25 August 1882, III Misc. 1873–1882, FO685/1. 100. Consul Zohrab’s letter book, 1879, Report on the Establishment Required to Carry on the Duties of His Majesty’s Consulate at Jeddah, political, Zohrab, vice consul, Jeddah, to consulate, Jeddah, ff. 445–446, FO685/1. 101. Ibid., f. 451, FO685/1. 102. Ltr. no. 28-­154, Brig. Gen. J. W. Schneider, political resident, Aden, to C. Gonne, secretary to government of Bombay, 7 February 1876, FO78/3615. 103. Ltr. no. 661-­137, Capt W. F. Prideaux, Office of the Political Resident in the Persian Gulf to T. H. Thornton, Office of the Secretary to Government of India, Foreign Department, 5 July 1876, FDS, no. 36, 4 September 1876, FO78/3615. This was similar to the British views about Nawaz Jang and other Indian Arabs from Haiderabad claiming independent status in the southwest rim of Arabia. 104. Ibid. 105. Ltr. no. 130, Lt. Col. W. F. Prideaux, political resident in the Persian Gulf, to T. H. Thornton, Office of the Secretary to Government of India, Foreign Department, 18 May 1877, FDS, no. 20, 25 June 1877, FO78/3615; see also Lt. Col. S. B. Miles, political agent, Muscat, on his investigations into the claims over Dultan by the sultan, his punching of holes into all the claims, and his doubts regarding the veracity of

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these claims, in ltr. no. 210, Lt. Col. S. B. Miles, political agent and consul, Muscat, to Lt. Col. W. F. Prideaux, Office of the Political Resident in the Persian Gulf, 10 May 1877, FDS, no. 20, 25 June 1877, FO78/3615. 106. Ltr. no. 20, Foreign Department to Marquess of Salisbury, secretary of state for India, 25 June 1877, no. 2, 30 January 1877, FO78/3615. 107. Ibid. 108. Ltr. no. 230-­1317, Francis A. E. Loch, political resident, Aden, to J. Jardine, officiating secretary to government of Bombay, 20 November 1877, FO78/3615. 109. Enclosure no. 2 in ltr. no. 109P, C. V. Aitchison, secretary to government of India, Foreign Department, to J. Jardine, secretary to government of Bombay, 14 January 1878, f. 614, L/PS/7/17, IOR Neg. 31123. 110. For an excellent account of the late Ottoman Empire, see Hanioglu, Brief History of the Late Ottoman Empire. 111. Ltr. no. 1098, resident, Istanbul, to Marquess of Salisbury, 12 February 1880, FO78/3615. 112. Buzpinar, “Abdulhamid II and Sayyid Fadl Pasha.” 113. Ltr. no. 1098, resident, Istanbul, to Marquess of Salisbury, 12 February 1880, FO78/3615. 114. J. G. Lorimer, Gazetteer of the Persian Gulf, Oman and Central Arabia, vol. 1, part 1 (Calcutta: Superintendent Government Printing Press, 1915), 599. The British refused Fadl permission to return to Dhofar. 115. Ltr. no. 32, T. S. Jago, vice consul, Jeddah, to Sir W. A. White, British ambassador, Constantinople, 16 December 1885, f. 1098, L/PS/7/49. 116. Ltr. no. 46, government of India, Foreign Department, to Earl Kimberley, secretary of state for India, 16 March 1886, f. 1089, L/ PS/7/49. 117. Ltr. no. 27, Lt. Col. S. B. Miles, political agent and consul, Muscat, to Col. E. C. Ross, political resident in the Persian Gulf, 18 January 1886, f. 1095, L/PS/7/49. 118. No. 46, abstract of contents of a dispatch to the secretary of state for India, 16 March 1886, enclosure in telegram no. 3, government of Bombay to Foreign Department, 14 January 1886, f. 1091, L/PS/7/49. 119. Telegram no. 9, Foreign Department to government of Bombay,18 January 1886, f. 1091, L/PS/7/49. 120. Ltr. no. 26-­95, Brig. Gen. A. G. F. Hogg, political resident, Aden, to chief secretary to government of Bombay, 20 January 1886, f. 1097, L/ PS/7/49. 121. Enclosure in telegram no. 3, political secretary, Bombay, to foreign secretary, Calcutta, 14 January 1886, f. 1093, L/PS/7/49. 122. Ltr. no. 26-­95, Brig. Gen. A. G. F. Hogg, political resident, Aden, to chief secretary to government of Bombay, 20 January 1886, f. 1097, L/ PS/7/49. 123. T. S. Jago, consul, Jeddah, to Brig. Gen. A. G. F. Hogg, political resident, Aden, 16 December 1885, f. 1098, L/PS/7/49.

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No t e s t o pag e s 132–137

124. No. 46, abstract of contents of a dispatch to the secretary of state for India, 16 March 1886, enclosure in telegram no. 3, government of Bombay to Foreign Department14 January 1886; enclosure in telegram no. 8, government of Bombay to Foreign Department,16 January 1886, f. 1091, L/PS/7/49. 125. Telegram no. 4, resident, Aden, to Foreign Department, 15 January 1886, f. 1091, L/PS/7/49. 126. Telegram nos. 6 and 7, political resident in the Persian Gulf to Foreign Department, 16 January 1886, f. 1091, L/PS/7/49. 127. Telegram no. 12, government of Bombay to Foreign Department, n.d., f. 1092, L/PS/7/49. 128. Ltr. no. 26-­95, Brig. Gen. A. G. F. Hogg, political resident, Aden, to chief secretary to government of Bombay, 20 January 1886, f. 1097, L/ PS/7/49. 129. Ibid. 130. T. S. Jago, consul, Jeddah, to Brig. Gen. A. G. F. Hogg, political resident, Aden, 16 December 1885, f. 1098, L/PS/7/49. Jago reported that Sayyid Saleh had arrived in Mecca from Istanbul in 1880, and that he had continued to live in Mecca since then. 131. Ltr. no. 1098, resident, Istanbul, to Marquess of Salisbury, 12 February 1880, FO78/3615. 132. Ltr. no. 164, resident, Istanbul, to Marquess of Salisbury, Constan­ tinople, 6 February 1880, FO78/3615. 133. Ltr. no. 164, conversation with Fadl’s son reported by resident, Istanbul, 19 February 1880, FO78/3615. 134. Nile Green uses the phrase “cosmopolitan modernity” in describing Bombay to argue for the city’s postsecular enchantment; he suggests that Hijaz was characterized by a similar ambience. See Green, Bombay Islam: The Religious Economy of the Western Indian Ocean, 1840–1915 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011). 135. Hurgronje, Mekka in the Latter Part of the 19th Century, 262–265. 136. Green, Bombay Islam. 137. Singha, “Passport, Ticket, and India-­Rubber Stamp,” 49–83. 138. Abdur Razzack, Report on Mecca Pilgrims: Sanitation and Medical Report, 1879, W-­4087, British Library. 139. Hurgronje, Mekka in the Latter Part of the 19th Century, 260. 140. British consulate, Jeddah, to Earl K. G. Granville, 8 February 1881, Records of the Hijaz, 1798–1925, ed. A. L. P. Burdett (Slough: Archive Editions, 1996), 3:727–729. 141. Consul Zohrab’s letter book, 1879, political, Zohrab, vice consul, Jeddah, to consulate, Jeddah, 14 May 1879, ff. 204–206, FO685/1. 142. Abdur Razzack, Report on Haj, 1882, part 1, p.  8, FO881/4845. For other forms of harassment of Indians at the hands of Turkish officials, see Report from Moncrieff to Consulate, 24 October 1882, FO78/3421. Razzack complains of excess taxation on Indians. See also Abdur Razzack’s report on Cameroon Island—​t he place of the quarantine during the cholera epidemic—​a nd the difficulties faced by Indian

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­pilgrims, Misc. 1873–1882, FO685/1. For problems of looting faced on the roads leading to the holy cities, see Abdur Razzack’s detailed report sent to Earl Granville, 7 September 1883 and 15 September1883, in Burdett, Records of the Hijaz, 4:247–288. 143. Abdur Razzack to Consul T. S. Jago, Jeddah, March 1885, f. 2, FO881/5113. 144. Abdur Razzack to government of India, 26 October 1893, Misc. 1897– 1900, FO685/3. For Ottoman refutation of these charges, see Muhammad Arif, collector of customs at Jeddah, to British consul, Jeddah, 2 July 1891, Misc. 1897–1900, FO685/3. The Ottomans refuted these charges, arguing that only full bags of food (rice, biscuits, beans, lentils, etc.) brought by pilgrims from all countries for purposes of sale and trade were taxed, not “half full” bags, which were seen as goods for personal consumption. 145. Muhammad Arif, collector of customs, Jeddah, to acting British consul, Jeddah, 3 October 1873, Misc. 1897–1900, FO685/3. 146. Abdur Razzack to vali, Taif, 11 July 1894, Misc. 1897–1900, FO685/3. 147. Neil B. E. Baillie, Is the Sultan of the Turks the Caliph of the Mussulmans and Successor of the Prophet? (London, 1877), 12. 148. Consul at Jeddah to Earl Granville, 8 February1881, in Burdett, Records of the Hijaz, 3:727–729. 149. Ibid. 150. Consul Zohrab’s letter book, 1879, political, no. 1, Zohrab, vice consul, Jeddah, to consulate, 6 August 1879, f. 445, FO685/1. 151. Ibid. 152. Consul Zohrab’s letter book, 1879, political, no. 1, Zohrab, vice consul, Jeddah, to consulate, 6 August 1879, ff. 445–446, FO685/1. 153. H.  M. Durand, Foreign Department, to T. S. Jago, consul, Jeddah, part 2, FO685/2. Durand constantly pressured Jago to supply news and to keep tabs on mutiny rebels who were located in Jeddah. He was particularly curious about information on Maulvi Rahmatullah Kairanwi—​ a mutiny convict. Kairanwi was said to be preaching sedition and circulating seditious literature among British subjects at the haj. 154. Consul Zohrab’s letter book, 1879, political, no. 1, Zohrab, vice consul, Jeddah, to consulate, Jeddah, 6 August 1879, ff. 446–447, FO685/1. Hurgronje offers an interesting account of the political discussions in the Indonesian and Malay pilgrim camps both about pilgrim views on Dutch powers as well as their evolving sense of self as they came to terms with the larger political context in which they lived; see Hurgronje, Mekka in the Latter Part of the 19th Century, 262–265. According to Hurgronje, while by and large the Dutch subjects appreciated their rulers, the British Indian subjects were vocal about their many grievances vis-­à-­v is their rulers. 155. H.  M. Durand, Foreign Department, to T. S. Jago, consul, Jeddah, part 2, FO685/2. 156. Consul Zohrab’s letter book, 1879, political, no. 1, Zohrab, vice consul, Jeddah, to consulate, Jeddah, 6 August 1879, f. 383, FO685/1.

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No t e s t o pag e s 143–151

157. Ibid., political, no. 1, Zohrab, vice consul, Jeddah, to consulate, Jeddah, 6 August 1879, f. 384, FO685/1. 158. Ibid., political, no. 1, Zohrab, vice consul, Jeddah, to consulate, Jeddah, 6 August 1879, ff. 385–386, FO685/1. 159. Ibid., political, no. 3, Zohrab, vice consul, Jeddah to consulate, Jeddah, 26 April 1879, f. 138, FO685/1. 160. The British participation in the Ottoman critique was triggered by the movement of subject people into the Ottoman-­controlled Hijaz. As the Ottoman monopoly on overseeing all Muslims globally began to be questioned, the British tried to fill the vacuum. 161. Zohrab, vice consul, to Marquess of Salisbury, Cairo, 9 January 1880, in Burdett, Records of the Hijaz, 3:249–250. 162. Ibid, 253–265. 163. Ibid., 265. 164. Ibid., 261–262. 165. Zohrab to Mr. Alston, Cairo, 12 January 1880, in Burdett, Records of the Hijaz, 3:272–273. 166. Zohrab to Marquess of Salisbury, 28 February 1880, in ibid., 280–281. 167. Ibid., 281. 168. Abdur Razzack, Report on Haj, 1882, part 1, FO685/1. A copy is also included in FO881/4762. 169. A. L. Lyall, secretary to government of India, to Col. O. L. Burne, secretary, Political and Secret Department, India Office, 16 August 1880, FO685/1. 170. Ltr. no. 108, Office of the Magistrate of Meerut to commissioner of Meerut, 24 May 1880, FO685/1. 171. T. S. Jago, consul, Jeddah, to Earl Granville, Foreign Office, Mecca, January 1884, FO78/3649. 172. Abdur Razzack to Consul T. S. Jago, March 1885, FO881/5113. 173. Ltr. nos. 22–23, extract from letter from commissioner of Rohilkhand, 10 October 1896, Foreign Department, confidential B, internal branch, secret B, proceedings 1897, R/1/11263. 174. Abdur Razzack, Report on the Proposal of an Indian Hospital in the Hijaz, 1883, part 1, FO685/2. 175. Ibid. 176. Memorandum for Consul Razzack, relative to establishment of a hospital at Jeddah, 1883, FO685/2. One of the objections of the government to the hospital was that it would be used by the indigent and pauper pilgrims as a permanent lodging place. 177. Remarks of secretary of the government of India, Foreign Department, on Dr. Razzack’s Report on the Proposal of an Indian Hospital in Hijaz, 1883, FO685/2. 178. Ltr. no. 221, secretary, Foreign Department, to Marquess of Hartington, secretary of state for India, 12 October 1880, f. 1583, part 6, L/PS/7/26. 179. Ibid., f. 1585, part 6, L/PS/7/26. 180. Political resident, Aden, to secretary to government, Bombay, Aden residency, 16 February 1880, ff. 1520–1521, part 5, L/PS/7/24.

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No t e s t o pag e s 151–163

181. Ltr. no. 190, Foreign Department to Marquess of Hartington, secretary of state for India, 24 August 1880, f. 805, part 4, L/PS/7/26. 182. Ltr. no. 15, confidential, Foreign Office, to government of India, 3 December 1888, part 2, FO685/2. 183. Ibid. 184. Ibid. 185. Resident, Istanbul, to Marquess of Salisbury, Constantinople, 6 February 1880, FO78/3615. 186. Ibid. 187. India Office to under secretary of state, Foreign Office, 12 March 1880, FO78/3615. 188. Tr. of a letter, Sayyid Fadl, amir of Dhofar, to Sayyid Toorkee, amir of Muscat, 13 May 1880, FO78/3615. 189. India Office to under secretary of state, Foreign Office, 6 September 1879, FO78/3615. 190. Foreign Office, 3 February 1881, FO78/3615. 191. Resident, Istanbul, to India Office, 8 February 1881, FO78/3615. 192. Sayyid Fadl Moplah, government of Dhofar, to government of Aden, 20 Ramzan 1294 [8 September 1877], FO78/3615. 193. Resident, Constantinople, to Marquess of Salisbury, Constantinople, 13 December 1879, FO78/3615. 194. For Fadl’s stay as the guest of Abdulhamid II at Istanbul, see Buzpinar, “Abdulhamid II and Sayyid Fadl Pasha.” 195. Ltr. no. 192/916, Aden residency to secretary to government at Bombay, 5 June 1879, FO78/3615. 196. Memorandum of Hugo Marometh, 30 August 1879, Istanbul, FO78/3615. 197. Fadl, Al-­Anwarul, 4. 198. Ibid., 5. 199. Ibid. 200. Ibid., 7. 201. Ibid., 11. 202. Reid, Indonesian Frontier, 226–248; Laffan, Islamic Nationhood and Colonial Indonesia, 114–141. 203. Jalal, Self and Sovereignty, 190–194. 204. Resident, Constantinople, to Marquess of Salisbury, Constantinople, 7 April 1880, FO78/3615. 205. Anthony Reid, “Habib Abdur-­Rahman az-­Zahir (1833–1896),” Indonesia 13 (April 1972): 37–59. 206. Ibid. Reid offers a detailed account of Zahir’s brokerage across the European, British, and Ottoman power centers. 207. Reid, Indonesian Frontier, 237, 241. And yet hopes of Ottoman help lingered. In 1890, a Turkish warship in Singapore created excitement as it revived hopes of protection. Letters from Acheh were sent to its Turkish commander, but clearly nothing came out of this. 208. Ibid., 238. 209. Ibid. Some Singapore Arabs launched an appeal among their compatriots in the straits settlements and Java, which was said to have

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raised 100,000 Spanish dollars for the Achenese cause by the end of 1874. 210. Enclosure no. 6 in ltr. no. 42-­208, Brig. Francis Loch, political resident, Aden, to secretary to government of Bombay, Political Department, 4 February 1879, FDS 1879, FO78/3615. 211. Resident, Constantinople, to India Office, 20 January 1881. 212. Dale, Islamic Society on the South Asian Frontier, 157, 166. Fadl tried to return to India after his deportation to Arabia in 1852 but was stopped by consuls at Jeddah. His group of companions arrived in India and were promptly arrested by Conolly. Two were deported. Several other attempts by his grandnephews in 1895 to return were also stalled. 213. Ibid., 166–167. It was this living martyr status coupled with the correspondence he engaged in with the people of Malabar that made Fadl a suspect in the murder of Conolly. 214. India Office, Moplah Outrages Correspondence, 5:391. 215. Logan, commissioner, Calicut, to consul, Jeddah, 29 December 1881, III Misc. 1873–1882, FO685/1. 216. Dale, Islamic Society on the South Asian Frontier 168. The nercca ceremony that commemorated the shahids of 1848 was enacted at Fadl’s father’s shrine at Mambram every year until the early twentieth century. 217. Ltr. no. 348, chief secretary to British consul, Jeddah, 5 July 1881, III Misc. 1873–1882, FO685/1. 218. Resident, Constantinople, to Marquess of Salisbury, Constantinople, 13 December 1879, FO78/3615. 219. Seema Alavi, “Fugitive Mullahs and Outlawed Fanatics: Indian Muslims in Nineteenth Century Trans-­Asiatic Imperial Rivalries,” Modern Asian Studies 45, no. 6 (2011): 1337–1382. 220. A. Block to India Office, 14 December 1880, FO78/3615. 221. Resident, Istanbul, to India Office, 6 January 1881, FO78/3615. 222. Ltr. no. 307, resident, Therapia, to Earl Granville, 31 August 1880, FO78/3615. 223. Resident, Therapia, to Earl Granville, 21 September 1880, FO78/3615. 224. Resident, Therapia, to W. P. Burrell, 9 September 1880. FO78/3615. 225. Resident, Therapia, to Earl Granville, 21 September 1880, FO78/3615. 226. Resident, Therapia, to Earl Granville, 22 September 1880, FO78/3615. 227. Ltr. no. 156, Lord Dufferin to Earl Granville, Constantinople, 4 March 1882, IOR L/PS/3/252. 228. Buzpinar, “Abdulhamid II and Sayyid Fadl Pasha,” 239.

chapter 3 ​Rahmatullah Kairanwi and the Muslim Cosmopolis

1. Avril Powell, Muslims and Missionaries in Pre-­mutiny India (Surrey, U.K.: Routledge, 1993), 221–222. Powell observes that both Kairanwi and his father had stints as mir-­munshis in the service of Maharaja Hindu Rao and that the maharaja had earlier given refuge to followers

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of Sayyid Ahmad Shahid. This may have influenced him in favor of their monist Tariqa-­i-­Muhammadiya ideology. 2. See ibid., 221, for a detailed biographical account of Kairanwi. 3. Maulana Asir Adravi, Mujahid Islam: Maulana Rahmatullah Kairanwi (Delhi: Farid Book Depot, 2004), 288–289. 4. Ibid., 293. 5. Marc Gaborieau, “Late Persian Early Urdu: The Case of Wahabi Literature (1818–1857),” in Confluence of Cultures: French Contributions to Indo-­Persian Studies, ed. N. Françoise Delvoye (New Delhi: Manohar, 1995), 170–191; Harlon Otto Pearson, Islamic Reform and Revival in Nineteenth-­Century India: The “Tariqah-­i Muhammadiyah” (New Delhi: Yoda Press, 2008). 6. Mahmud Ahmad Zafar, Rahmatullah Kiranvi aur un ke Mu ‘asirin (Lahore: Tahqiqat, 2007), 185–187. 7. Ibid., 188–206. 8. This is in contrast to what Azmi Ozcan argues about the role of Rahmatullah Kairanwi, Shibli Nomani, and other Indians hosted by Sultan Abd-­al Hamid II. According to Ozcan, there was a simple connect between patronage and these men working for the “spread of Ottomanism.” Ozcan also notes that the sultan lamented the marginalization of the Indian Muslims in British India and stepped in to support them. In return, their propaganda strengthened him by improving his relations with his own subjects at home and vis-­à-­v is the British. See Azmi Ozcan, “The Ottomans and Muslims of India during the Reign of Sultan Abdulhamid II,” in The Turks, ed. Hasan Celal Guzel, Cem Oguz, Osman Karatay, and Murat Ocak (Ankara: Yeni Turkiye, 2002), 4:299–303. 9. Ibid., 302–303. Dahlan was the intellectual patron of a range of diverse scholars from the Malay-­Indonesian and Egyptian worlds as well. He became the epicenter for Muslim networks across the Ottoman and British territories. 10. Adravi, Mujahid Islam, 318; Zafar, Rahmatullah Kiranvi, 480–481. 11. Adravi, Mujahid Islam, 319. 12. Maulana Muhammad Salim, Risala Nida-­i-­Haram, Karachi, April−May 1851 [Shaban Hijri 1380], cited in Adravi, Mujahid Islam, 322–323. Adravi also notes the royal treatment (shahana istiqbal) and the award of Rs. 5,000 and gifts, including a precious rosary that Kairanwi received from the caliph. 13. Adravi, Mujahid Islam, 324. 14. Ibid., 326–330. 15. British consulate, Jeddah, to secretary to government of India, 22 June 1883, part 1, FO685/2. 16. Junior secretary to government of Northwest Provinces and Oudh to secretary to government of India, Foreign Department, 3 September 1883, part 1, FO685/2. 17. Extract from the list of persons eminent for disloyalty in the district of the Meerut Division, 24 November 1858, part 1, FO685/2.

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No t e s t o pag e s 178 –184













18. Foreign Department to T. S. Jago, consul, Jeddah, 27 July 1888, part 2, FO685/2. 19. David Dean Commins, Islamic Reform: Politics and Social Change in Late Ottoman Syria (New York: Oxford University Press, 1990), 90–92. Midhat Pasha, the author of the constitution that was abandoned by Abd-­al Hamid II, was one such Turkish bureaucratic reformer who allied with the salafis in Syria. 20. Ibid., 24–29. 21. Ibid., 89–103. Tahir al-­Jaza’iri was one of their principal leaders. Arab renaissance societies emerged all over to give an articulate voice to what so far had been the ad hoc Salafi idea of liberalism. 22. Ibid., 99. 23. For an excellent discussion of the emergence of Cairo as a different sort of Islamic intellectual hub than Mecca or Istanbul, see Michael Laffan, Islamic Nationhood and Colonial Indonesia: The Umma below the Winds (London: Routledge, 2002), 127–133. Laffan shows that caliph-­centric pan-­Islam had little appeal in Indonesia because of distance and language constraints. However, late nineteenth-­century Cairo saw new ideas of Islamic unity. An active press and nontraditional schools, plus the growing anticolonial movement against British occupation, made Cairo the harbinger of an Islamic unity. This was premised differently from that imagined in the pan-­Islam of Istanbul or the amorphous modernist ideas of civilizational unity of the umma that emanated from the Ottoman provinces and Mecca. Javanese reformist literature began to be published from Cairo. In the case of the Java, Cairo saw the transition from pan-­Islam to territorial nationalism. 24. Ilham Makdisi, “Theater and Radical Politics in Beirut, Cairo, and Alexandria: 1860–1914” (occasional paper, Center for Contemporary Arab Studies, Edmund A. Walsh School of Foreign Service, George Washington University, 2006), 8–18, 23–24. 25. Ibid., 11–12. For Afghani, see A. Hourani, Arabic Thought in the Liberal Age, 1798–1939 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1962), 103–129; Nikki R. Keddie, An Islamic Response to Imperialism: Political and Religious Writings of Sayyid Jamal ad-­Din “al-­Afghani” (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1968). 26. Azyumardi Azra, The Origins of Islamic Reformism in Southeast Asia: Networks of Malay-­Indonesian and Middle Eastern “Ulama” in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 2004), 13, 21. 27. Ibid. 28. Laffan, Islamic Nationhood and Colonial Indonesia, 114–141. 29. Azmi Ozcan, Pan-­I slamism: Indian Muslims, the Ottomans and Britain (1877–1924) (Leiden: Brill, 1997), 40–63, 74–78, 111–126. Ozcan shows how even the collection of funds at the time of the Russo-­Turkish War in 1877 was intended to impact British policy. It was not implemented for financial benefit. However, only the latter objective was realized. Even investments in the vernacular press in India and the setting up of

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consulates were geared toward tapping the Indian Muslim as a pawn in larger imperial fights. See also Selim Deringil, “Legitimacy Structures in the Ottoman Empire: Abd al-­Hamid II, 1876–1909,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 23, no. 3 (1991): 345–359. 30. Abdur Razzack, Report on Mecca Pilgrims: Sanitation and Medical Report, 1879, p. 121, W-­4087, British Library. 31. Abdur Razzack, “Report on Educational Facilities in the Hijaz in 1885,” in Records of the Hijaz, 1798–1925, ed. A. L. P Burdett (Slough: Archive Editions,1996), 4:402. 32. Abdur Razzack, “Report on Educational Facilities in the Hijaz in 1885,” 383–403. 33. Eik Mujahid Maimar (Mekka: Markazi daftar Darul Uloom haram Saulatiya, n.d.), 36–37, 46–47. 34. Zafar, Rahmatullah Kiranvi, 463. 35. Ibid., 465, 468–469. 36. Adravi, Mujahid Islam,  313. Faiz Ahmed Khan of Aligarh gifted Kairanwi a part of the house that he owned in Mecca. A Patna raees, Mir Wahid Husain while on haj donated a substantial amount of money with which a hostel for fifty students was built. In addition, Kairanwi bought the malba (debris) of a library located in the courtyard of the haram for Rs. 1,500. 37. Maulana Muhammad Masud Shamim Kairanwi, “Mecca Muazamah Almi Tareekh kaa Eik Roshan Baab” [Mecca the Brightest Chapter of Global History] (unpublished typescript, in private collection, n.d.), 70–71. 38. Zafar, Rahmatullah Kiranvi,  474–475. The story goes that Begum Saulat-un Nisa dreamed that she was in a beautiful house in heaven, but that it had no water supply. She experienced immense thirst and kept looking for water. This dream inspired her to donate the rest of her money to Kairanwi’s madrasa so that it would have proper water facilities. 39. For a discussion on the making of the Dars-­i Nizamiya in Awadh, see Francis Robinson, The Ulama of Farangi Mahal and Islamic Culture in South Asia (London: C. Hurst, 2001), 46–55. 40. Zafar, Rahmatullah Kiranvi, 472–473. 41. Robinson, Ulama of Farangi Mahal, 240–251. 42. Zafar, Rahmatullah Kiranvi,  483, citing the Safar-­i-­Hijaz of Maulana Sarf-­u l Haq. 43. Ibid., 517. 44. Ibid., 484. 45. Nos. 1–8, Col. P. D. Henderson’s note, 21 July 1888, Foreign Department, secret 1, proceedings June 1889, R/1/1/98.4. 46. Zafar, Rahmatullah Kiranvi, 482. 47. Ibid, 482–483. 48. Ibid., 521. See list of fourteen qaris. These include Qari Abdul Rahman of Allahabad, Maulvi Suleiman of Bhopal, Qari Mizan Shah of Nadwat ul-­Ulama, Lucknow, and Qari Abdul Malik of Madrasa Furqania in Lucknow.

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49. Ibid., 484. 50. Ibid., 473. 51. Laffan, Islamic Nationhood and Colonial Indonesia, 38. 52. Ibid., 61. Abd Allah Zawawi was the son of the famous qadi of Jeddah, Muhammad Salih Zawawi. 53. For Javanese scholars in Mecca and Cairo and the Arabic press reportage on their Arabic and scholarly potential, see Michael Laffan, “ ‘Another Andalusia’: Images of Colonial Southeast Asia in Arabic Newspapers,” Journal of Asian Studies 66, no. 3 (2007): 689–722. 54. Zafar, Rahmatullah Kiranvi, 518–520. See the list of names of his students and their placements. 55. Kairanwi, “Mecca Muazamah Almi Tareekh kaa Eik Roshan Baab,” 74. 56. Muhammad Abdullah converted the madrasa into an English middle school. It soon it became a government school, which is how it exists even now. At different times several Muslim luminaries of Bengal, such as Sufi Qadri Muhammad Mustaqim, remained associated with it. Begum Saulat-un Nisa set up other schools and cheap hotels for the poor Muslim students of Calcutta and helped a lot in spreading the knowledge of the Koran and Arabic learning in the region. Zafar, Rahmatullah Kiranvi, 474–475. 57. Basir Ahmad, Tazkirah Haji Imdadullah Muhajir Makki (Delhi: Kitab Bhawan, 2005), 50. 58. Ibid., pp. 51. Financial networks between Indian Muslims and Palestine waqfs as well as between trusts of Indian royalty and Shia ulema of Iraq and Iran provided the base for social relations and political manipulations across the imperial assemblages of the nineteenth century; these have been documented by Omar Khalidi and Meir Litvak, respectively. See Omar Khalidi, “Indian Muslims and Palestinian Awqaf,” Jerusalem Quarterly, no. 40 (2009/2010): 52–58; Meir Litvak, “Money, Religion, and Politics: The Oudh Bequest in Najaf and Karbala, 1850–1903,” Journal of Middle East Studies 33, no. 1 (2001): 1–21. 59. Ahmad, Tazkirah Haji Imdadullah Muhajir Makki, 52–53. 60. Ibid., 53. 61. Nisar Ahmad Faruqi, Marqumat-i-Imdadiyah (Delhi: Maktab Burhan, 1979), 77. 62. Maktubat Akabar Deoband (Deoband: Miraj Book Depot, n.d.), 29. 63. Zafar, Rahmatullah Kiranvi, 502–503. 64. Ahmad, Tazkirah Haji Imdadullah Muhajir Makki, 121–142. 65. Ibid., 130. 66. Imdadullah Makki, Faislah Haft-i-Maslah. Tausihhat wa Tashreehat, translated into Urdu by Mufti Muhammad Khalil Khan Barkati (Delhi: Faruqia Book Depot, 1974), 49. 67. Ahmad, Tazkirah Haji Imdadullah Muhajir Makki, 85–86. 68. Adravi, Mujahid Islam, 305. 69. Zafar, Rahmatullah Kiranvi, 306. 70. Ibid., 306.

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71. Ibid., 307–308. 72. Maulana Muhammad Salim, Risalah Nida-­i-­Haram (April−May 1951): n.p. 73. Rahmatullah Kairanwi, Izharul Haq, 6 vols. (Qatar: Al-­shuun-­al Islamia, 1864), translated into Urdu by Maulana Akbar Ali as Bible Sei Koran Takk, 3 vols. (Karachi: Maktaba Darul ulum1968). 74. Kairanwi, Bible Sei Koran Takk, 2:1. 75. Ibid., 2. 76. Ibid., 23. 77. Ibid., 24. 78. Ibid., 34–35. 79. Ibid., 36–37. 80. Ibid., 99. 81. Ibid., 99–101. 82. Ibid., 135. 83. Ibid., 136–137. 84. Ibid., 139. 85. Ibid., 141–143. 86. Ibid., 166. 87. Ibid., 167. 88. Ibid. 89. Ibid., 168. 90. Ibid. 91. Ibid. 92. Ibid., 186. 93. Ibid., 191–194. 94. Ibid., 264–265. 95. Ibid., 254–255. 96. Ibid., 270–271. 97. Ibid., 273. 98. Ibid., 271–272. 99. Ibid., 276. 100. Ibid., 277. 101. Ibid., 281. 102. Ibid., 303. 103. Ibid., 309. 104. Ibid., 310–316. 105. Ibid., 323. 106. Ozcan, Pan-­I slamism, 18. 107. Edward Wilmot Blyden, “Muhammedanism and the Negro Race,” Frasers Magazine, 1 November 1875, repr. in Edward Wilmot Blyden, Christianity, Islam and the Negro Race (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1967), 3. 108. Ibid., 309. 109. Adravi, Mujahid Islam, 309. 110. Kairanwi, Bible Sei Koran Takk, 2:358. 111. Ibid., 358–362.

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112. Ibid., 362–363. 113. Ibid., 380. 114. Ibid., 372. 115. Ibid., 378. 116. Ibid., 384–385. 117. Ibid., 408. 118. Ibid., 408–409. 119. Ibid., 409–413. 120. Ibid., 414–415. 121. Ibid., 412–413. 122. Ibid., 415. 123. Ibid., 417. 124. Ibid., 386. 125. Ibid., 387. 126. Ibid., 393–395. 127. Ibid., 418–419. 128. Ibid., 421–422. 129. Ibid., 422–423. 130. Ibid., 425–427. 131. Ibid., 504–508. 132. Ibid., 527–528. 133. Ibid., 532–533. 134. Ibid., 535–537. 135. Ibid., 537–538. 136. Zafar, Rahmatullah Kiranvi, 514–515. 137. Selections from the vernacular press in the Northwest Provinces and Oudh, 1899, in the Liberal, 8 August 1899, p. 426, L/R/5/76. 138. Ibid. 139. Ibid., 515. 140. Ayesha Jalal, Self and Sovereignty: Individual and Community in South Asian Islam since 1850 (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2000). 141. Quoted in Zafar, Rahmatullah Kiranvi, 516. 142. Ozcan, Pan-­I slamism, 69–70. Their names figure only in Ottoman documents, as probably they sent the money and kept a low profile for fear of making the British government suspicious. Indian Muslims had formed many other societies as well to send money to Turkey. These included Anjuman-­i-­Islam at Bombay. It soon spread branches to Delhi, Haiderabad, Lahore, Calcutta, and Lucknow. Hindus from Madras, Allahabad, and Amritsar also contributed to the Ottoman relief fund, which showed that these efforts were not really about the caliph but about support for an Asian imperial power.

chapter 4 ​Haji Imdadullah Makki in Mecca

1. Basir Ahmad, Tazkirah Haji Imdadullah Muhajir Makki (Delhi: Kitab Bhawan, 2005), 13. For Makki’s links with the Thanawi family, see Hakim Maulana Muhammad Ashraf Ali Thanawi, Imdad al-­Mushtaq

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Ali Ashraf al Khalaq (Delhi: Maktaba Burhan, 1981), 1–6.This is a description of the life and times and malfuzat of Imadadullah Makki. 2. Ahmad, Tazkirah Haji Imdadullah Muhajir Makki,15; Thanawi, Imdad al-­Mushtaq, 6. 3. Thanawi, Imdad al-­Mushtaq, 6. 4. Barbara D. Metcalf, Islamic Revival in British India: Deoband, 1860–1900 (Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2002), 76. 5. Thanawai, Imdad al-­Mushtaq, 17–19. 6. Ahmad, Tazkirah Haji Imdadullah Muhajir Makki, 16. 7. Ibid., 17. 8. According to one version, Qudus had taken an oath on Sayyid Ahmad and had thus been initiated into the Naqshbandi order. Ibid., 18–19, 21. 9. Thanawi, Imdad al-­Mushtaq, 12–13. 10. Ibid., 12. 11. Ibid., 13. 12. Ibid., 14. 13. Ibid. 14. Metcalf thinks that Imdadullah’s migration to Mecca was not due to the events of 1857, and that the movement of émigrés like Imdadullah is explained with reference to the 1857 unrest only in later nationalist historiography. But this does not seem to be the case, as arrest warrants were issued for him and Kairanwi. Their later requests for return to India were denied because of police cases against them in Meerut. Metcalf, Islamic Revival in British India, 76. 15. Thanawi, Imdad al-­Mushtaq, 27–30. 16. Ahmad, Tazkirah Haji Imdadullah Muhajir Makki,  49; Maulana Asir Adravi, Mujahid Islam: Maulana Rahmatullah Kairanwi (Delhi: Farid Book Depot, 2004), 301. 17. Adravi, Mujahid Islam, 301; Ahmad, Tazkirah Haji Imdadullah Muhajir Makki, 49–50. 18. Adravi, Mujahid Islam, 301. 19. Seema Alavi, “Fugitive Mullahs and Outlawed Fanatics: Indian Muslims in Nineteenth Century Trans-­Asiatic Imperial Rivalries,” Modern Asian Studies 45, no. 6 (2011): 1337–1382. 20. Michael Laffan, Islamic Nationhood and Colonial Indonesia: The Umma below the Winds (London: Routledge, 2002); Juan R. Cole, Colonialism and Revolution in the Middle East: Social and Cultural Origins of Egypt’s ’Urabi Movement (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1993); Azyumardi Azra, The Origins of Islamic Reformism in Southeast Asia: Networks of Malay-­Indonesian and Middle Eastern “Ulama” in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 2004). 21. For an excellent discussion of the Hijaz under Ottoman rule, see Saleh Muhammad Al-­Amr, The Hijaz under Ottoman Rule, 1869–1914: Ottoman Vali, the Sharif of Mecca, and the Growth of British Influence (Riyadh: Riyadh University Publications, 1974), 60–110.

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22. Christiaan Snouck Hurgronje, Mekka in the Latter Part of the 19th Century: Daily Life, Customs and Learning: Muslims of the East Indies Archipelago, vol. 1, 2nd ed. (Leiden: Brill, 2007). For a British report on the secret societies of all political hues in Mecca, see FO 685/1, Consul Zohrab’s letter book, 1879, ff. 381–386. 23. Seema Alavi, Islam and Healing: Loss and Recovery of an Indo-­Muslim Medical Tradition, 1600–1900 (Delhi: Permanent Black Press, 2008), 216–235. 24. Maulana Syed Abul Hasan Ali Hasani Nadvi, Sirat Sayyid Ahmad Shahid, 7th ed. (Lucknow: Academy of Islamic Research and Publica­­ tions, 1986; originally published 1939); Sayyid Muhammad Mian, Ulema-­i-­Hind kaa Shandar Maazi, vol. 2 (Delhi: Kitabistan, 1957). 25. Juan R. Cole, “Of Crowds and Empires: Afro-­Asian Riots and European Expansion, 1857–1882,” Comparative Studies in Society and History 31, no. 1 (1989): 106–133. For Jeddah riots triggered by the slave trade controversy, see William Oshenwald, Religion, Society and State in Saudi Arabia: The Hijaz under Ottoman Control, 1840−1908 (Ohio: Ohio University Press, 1984), 137–144. 26. Cole, Colonialism and Revolution in the Middle East, 196–197. Militant Indian Sufi Ahmadullah Shah, who had been active in the 1857 riots in Lucknow, led the crowds in Cairo as well. 27. Cole, “Of Crowds and Empires,” 9. 28. Alavi, “Fugitive Mullahs and Outlawed Fanatics.” 29. Muzaffar Alan, private conversation, New Delhi, 20 July 2014. Professor Alan is working on the Naqshbandi networks and their impact in Mughal political culture. 30. Katib Celebi wrote Mizan ul Hak in Istanbul in the seventeenth century. This was a perfect consensus text, written to unite the umma in the face of the diversity and growth of an urban city. 31. Imdadullah Makki, Tazqiat-­ul-­Qulub, translated into Urdu by Syed Abdul Mateen as Zia-­ul-­Qulub (Delhi: Matba-­i Mujtaba, 1927), 3. 32. Mateen, Zia-­ul-­Qulub, 2–3. 33. Ahmad, Tazkirah Haji Imdadullah Muhajir Makki,124. 34. Ltr. no. 6, Maktubat-­i-­Imdadiya [Letters Written to Maulana Ashraf Ali Thanawi] (Lucknow: Maktaba Ahmadi, 1915), n.p. Hereafter Maktubat. 35. Ibid. 36. Radhika Singha, “Passport, Ticket and India-­Rubber Stamp: The Problem of the Pauper Pilgrim in Colonial India, 1882–1925,” in The Limits of British Colonial Control in South Asia: Spaces of Disorder in the Indian Ocean Region, ed. Harald Fischer-­Tine and Ashwini Tambe (London: Routledge, 2009), 49–83. 37. Mateen, Zia-­ul-­Qulub, 3. 38. Francis Robinson, The Ulama of Farangi Mahal and Islamic Culture in South Asia (London: C. Hurst, 2001), 240–251. 39. Mateen, Zia-­ul-­Qulub, 5.

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40. Ahmad, Tazkirah Haji Imdadullah Muhajir Makki, 124–125. 41. Ibid., 125. 42. Mateen, Zia-­ul-­Qulub, 50–59. 43. Ibid., 59–75; Ahmad, Tazkirah Haji Imdadullah Muhajir Makki,126. 44. Mateen, Zia-­ul-­Qulub, 75–107. 45. Ibid., 83. For example, Imdadullah urges people to bathe, to use perfume, to imagine the Prophet sitting in front of them, and so forth. 46. Ibid., 5. 47. Ibid., 127. 48. Ibid., 15. 49. Ibid., 23. 50. Ibid., 24. 51. Ahmad, Tazkirah Haji Imdadullah Muhajir Makki, 114–115. 52. Ibid., 128–129. 53. Ibid., 109–111. 54. Nisar Ahmad Faruqi, Marqumat-­i-­Imdadiya [Writings of Imdadullah] (Delhi: Maktab Burhan, 1979), 70. Hereafter Marqumat. 55. Ltr. no. 8, n.d., Maktubat. 56. Ibid. 57. Ltr. no. 11, n.d., Maktubat. 58. Ltr. no. 30, 1896, Maktubat. 59. Ltr. no. 41, 1898, Maktubat. 60. Marqumat, 85. 61. Ibid., 87. 62. Ibid., 88. 63. Ibid., 93. 64. Ibid., 87. 65. Ibid., 130. 66. Ibid., 55. 67. Ibid., 65. 68. Ahmad, Tazkirah Haji Imdadullah Muhajir Makki,130; Marqumat, Imdadullah to Qasim and Rashid, 43–45. 69. Marqumat, 45. 70. Ibid., 53. 71. Ibid., 130. 72. Ahmad, Tazkirah Haji Imdadullah Muhajir Makki, 140. 73. Marqumat, 9. 74. Ibid., 12. 75. Ahmad, Tazkirah Haji Imdadullah Muhajir Makki, 138–139. 76. Ltr. no. 34, 1896, Maktubat. 77. Ltr. no. 18, 1895, Maktubat. 78. Ltr. no. 11, 1894, Maktubat. 79. Ltr. no. 19, n.d., Maktubat. 80. Marqumat, 38. 81. Ltr. no. 42, Maktubat. 82. Marqumat, 105.

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83. Ltr. no. 18, 1895, Maktubat. 84. Imdadullah Makki, Sharah Faisla Haft Mas’ala, translated into Urdu by Mufti Muhammad Khalil Khan Barkati as Faislah Haft-i-Maslah: Tausihhat wa Tashreehat [A Book on Seven Controversial Issues] (Delhi: Faruqia Book Depot, 1974), 49. 85. Ibid. 86. Ibid., 128–129. 87. Ibid., 58. 88. Ibid., 67. 89. Ibid. 90. Ibid., 72. 91. Ibid. 92. Ibid. 93. Ibid. 94. Ibid. 95. Ibid., 73. 96. Ibid., 43. 97. Ibid., 134. 98. Ibid. 99. Ibid., 136. 100. Ibid., 140. 101. Ibid., 143–144. 102. Ibid, 144. 103. Ibid., 143. 104. Ibid. 105. Ibid. 106. Ibid., 145. 107. Ibid., 184. 108. Ibid., 189. 109. Ibid., 204. 110. Ibid. 111. Ibid., 226. 112. Ibid., 233. 113. Ibid. 114. Ibid., 272–273. 115. Marqumat, 47. 116. Ibid., 55. 117. Ltr. no. 11, Maktubat. 118. Ltr. no. 17, 1895, Maktubat. 119. Ltr. no. 18, 1895, Maktubat. 120. Ltr. no. 30, 1896, Maktubat. 121. Ltr. no. 46, 1898, Maktubat. 122. Ltr. no. 50, 1899, Maktubat. In this letter, Imadadullah was also informed that Hafiz Muhammad Yusuf had died. 123. Ltr. no. 38, 1897, Maktubat. 124. Marqumat, 55. 125. Ltr. no. 34, 1896, Maktubat.

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No t e s t o pag e s 256 – 265







126. Marqumat, 61. Risal Hafiz sahib Raham allah. 127. Ibid., 68. 128. Ltr. no. 16, 1895, Maktubat. 129. Metcalf, Islamic Revival in British India, 99–102, 156–159. 130. Ibid., 161–162. 131. Ibid. 132. Ibid., 149–152 133. Marqumat, 16. 134. Ibid., 84–86. 135. Ibid., 88–89. 136. Ibid., 93. 137. Ibid., 87. 138. Ibid., 43. 139. Ibid., 45. 140. Ibid., 53. 141. Ibid., 97. 142. Ltr. no. 36, 1897, Maktubat. 143. Marqumat, 51. 144. Ibid, 115. 145. Ibid., 70. 146. Ibid., 113. 147. Ibid., 65. 148. Ibid., 76. 149. Ibid., 77. 150. Ibid., 111–112, letter to Ziauddin, in which he says that he gets news via hajis and whatever he can’t write he asks the returning hajis to convey (zabani hajaj kei malum hoga). 151. Thanawi, Imdad al-­Mushtaq, 33. Imdadullah thus was married to the granddaughter of Bibi Nurun Calcutvee, who was the wife of Syed Haider Ali. His wife was called Bibi Khadija, daughter of Haji Shafat Khan Rampuri. She was an orphan and had been brought up by her grandmother. 152. Marqumat, 119. In a letter to Hakim Muhammad Ziauddin, Imdadullah objects to the fact that relatives and associates had collected funds for him in Hindustan and sent them across to Mecca. He says this is the second time that this has happened. He accepted it the first time, but he expresses his displeasure at their making it a practice. He says that the fakir wants the welfare of people not their money/assets. (“Fakir aan azizon kee bahbudi chahta hai unkei mal par nazar nahin hai. Haq tala unhei khush aur khurram rakhei.”) He repeats that he is happy only if they are on the right path (rah-­i-­rast) and prays for their well-­ being. He is not interested in anything else. 153. Ibid., 109. 154. Ibid., 108. 155. Ibid., 121. 156. Adravi, Rahmatullah Kairanwi, 301. 157. Marqumat, 37.

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158. Ahmad, Tazkirah Haji Imdadullah Muhajir Makki, 76–77,101–102. 159. Ibid., 102. 160. Ibid., 113–115. 161. Ltr. no. 7, 1892, Maktubat. The madrasa had one qari and one hafiz, besides Qari Ahmad Makki, who taught Ilm-­i-­tajvid and dinyat. 162. Ibid.

chapter 5 ​Nawab Siddiq Hasan Khan and the Muslim Cosmopolis







1. Saeedullah, The Life and Works of Muhammad Siddiq Hasan Khan: Nawab of Bhopal (1832–1890) (Lahore: Muhammad Ashraf, 1973), 13. 2. Ibid., 14. 3. Barbara D. Metcalf, Islamic Revival in British India: Deoband, 1860–1900 (Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2002), 268–271. 4. Saeedullah, Life and Works of Muhammad Siddiq Hasan Khan, 43. Khan remained with these new friends for twelve days, during which he read the Hadith with Husain ibn Muhsin. He also read the works of Muhammad ibn Ismail al Amir al Yamani. 5. Ibid., 14. 6. Ibid., 14–15. 7. Ibid., 93–94. 8. Ibid., 54–72. 9. Ibid., 60–61. 10. Juan Cole uses this phrase to comment on the anti-­Christian or anti-­ European riots in Jeddah, Lebanon, Cairo, Damascus, and Alexandria between 1860 and 1880. Juan R. Cole, “Of Crowds and Empires: Afro­Asian Riots and European Expansion, 1857–1882,” Comparative Studies in Society and History 31, no. 1 (1989): 2. 11. For a strong case for locating nineteenth-­century South Asian and Ottoman history in the connected worlds of the British and Ottoman Empires, see Dina Rizk Khoury and Dane Keith Kennedy, “Comparing Empires: The Ottoman Domains and the British Raj in the Long Nineteenth Century,” Comparative Studies of South Asia, Africa and the Middle East 27, no. 2 (2007): 211–244. For a comparison of Ottoman and Indian political economies, see C. A. Bayly, “Distorted Development: The Ottoman Empire and British India, circa 1780–1916,” Comparative Studies of South Asia, Africa and the Middle East 27, no. 2 (2007): 332–344. 12. Cosmopolitan Ottoman regimes in Lebanon and Syria were encouraged by Abd-­al Hamid II, who wanted his image as a Muslim sovereign to project ideas of benevolence, justice, and the rule of law. Such ideas were seen in the mutasaffariya of Lebanon, in Egyptian semiautonomous rule under Ottoman sovereignty, and in Syria, where Muslim and Christian landowning bureaucrats formed the Ottoman government. See Engin Deniz Akarli, The Long Peace: Ottoman Lebanon, 1861–1920 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993), 35, 38; Hasan Kayali, “Greater Syria under Ottoman Constitutional Rule: Ottomanism, Arabism, Regionalism,” in The Syrian Land in the 18th and 19th Century:

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No t e s t o pag e s 272– 282







The Common and the Specific in the Historical Experience, ed. Thomas Philip (Stuttgart: Berliner Islam Studies, 1992), 28; Philip S. Khoury, Urban Notables and Arab Nationalism: The Politics of Damascus, 1860–1920 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 26–46. 13. Of the extraordinarily large number of works attributed to Siddiq Hasan Khan, some eighty-­four were in Urdu and focused on akhlaq, deportment, and morals. Fifty-­four of his works were in Arabic, including seventeen on Hadith, and forty-­t hree were in Persian. Metcalf, Islamic Revival in British India, 278. 14. Siddiq Hasan Khan, Tarjuman-­i-­Wahabiyah (Agra: Matba Mufid-­i­Aam, 1884), 26. 15. Ibid., 27. 16. Ibid., 45. 17. Ibid., 9. 18. Ibid., 12. 19. Siddiq Hasan Khan, Hidayat al Saa’il Ila Adillatil Masaa’il (Bhopal: Matba’ Raisul Mataabi Shahjahani, 1875),  3–4, 10–15. These fatwas generally denounce emulation, rituals, and celebrations. They advocate a tightly tailored regime as per the scriptures. 20. Khan, Tarjuman, 16. 21. Ibid., 17. 22. Translation of Hidayat al Sail by Sayyad Muhammad, assistant district superintendent of police, Delhi, FDS 1, July 1886, R/1/1/33. 23. Khan, Tarjuman, 32–35. 24. Ibid., 91. 25. Francis Robinson, “Religious Change and the Self in Muslim South Asia since 1800,” in Islam and Muslim History in South Asia (New Delhi: Oxford University Press 2000), 105–121. 26. Sayyid Siddiq Hasan, Alikhtawa ala Maslaul Istawa (Lucknow: Matba Gulshan-­i-­Awadh, 1869). 27. Ibid., 1−4. 28. Ibid., 1–28. 29. Siddiq Hasan Khan, Fathul Mughees ba Fiqhul Hadith (Bhopal: Matba-­ i-­Shahjahani Press, 1883), 5–13. 30. Ibid., 10–17. 31. Ibid., 27–37. 32. Ibid., 47. 33. Siddiq Hasan Khan, Terazul Khumrat min Fazail ul Hajwal Umra (Agra: Matba Mufid-­i-­Aam, 1883 [1301 Hijri]), 19–32, 54–55. 34. Siddiq Hasan Khan, Salaho Zatealben ba bayan Malezaujen (Agra: Matba Mufid-­i-­Aam, 1883), 4–5. 35. Ibid., 6–7. 36. Ibid., 9. 37. Ibid., 12. 38. Ibid., 21. 39. Ibid., 77. 40. Ibid., 78.

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No t e s t o pag e s 283– 28 6







41. Ibid., 24. 42. Ibid., 95. 43. Ibid., 45–51. 44. Ibid., 57. 45. Ulrike Stark, An Empire of Books: The Naval Kishore Press and the Diffusion of the Printed Word in Colonial India, 1858−1895 (Ranikhet: Permanent Black Press, 2007). 46. Different motives have been attributed to this migration, which started in the late eighteenth century. According to the British, the Muslims migrated in order to wage a jihad against them. According to others who participated, it was to fight the Sikh powers. And still others argue it was to establish Islamic temporal power over the tribal fringes of empire. See Benjamin D. Hopkins and Magnus Marsden, Fragments of the Afghan Frontier (New York: Columbia University Press, 2011), 75–100; Ayesha Jalal, Partisans of Allah: Jihad in South Asia (Ranikhet Delhi: Permanent Black, 2008), 58–113. 47. Hopkins and Marsden, Fragments of the Afghan Frontier. 48. Memorandum by Mr. Lambert, deputy commissioner of police, Calcutta, regarding circulation of certain Wahabi books by the nawab consort of the begum of Bhopal, in demi-­official letter from H. Cockrell, secretary to Bengal government, 12 February 1881, Foreign Department, secret 1, proceedings July 1886, nos. 65–79, R1/1/32. 49. Memorandum from Mr. Lambert, Foreign Department, 1881, in ­demi-­official letter from agent to governor general, central India, R/1/1/32. 50. Demi-­official letter from Sir H. Daly, agent to governor general, central India, 20 January 1881, Foreign Department, secret 1, proceedings July 1886, nos. 65–79, R/1/1/32. 51. No. 46, 16 November 1889, Northwest Provinces, abstract of political intelligence, 1890 Foreign Department, secret 1, proceedings April 1890, nos. 4–16, R/1/1/106. 52. Demi-­official letter from Sir H. Daly, agent to governor general, central India, 20 January 1881, Foreign Department, secret 1, proceedings July 1886, nos. 65–79, R/1/1/32. 53. No. 3, l no. 20, Col. T. Weldon, commissioner of police, Madras, to Foreign Department, 17 November 1886, Foreign Department, secret 1, proceedings December 1886, nos. 1–3, R/1/1/48. 54. Demi-­official letter from A.  B. Barnard, deputy commissioner of police, Calcutta, 14 October 1886, Foreign Department, secret 1, proceedings December 1886, nos. 1–3, R/1/1/48. 55. Lt. Col. A. R. Wilkinson, to G. S. Forbes, Police Office, Calcutta, 6 November 1886, Foreign Department, secret 1, proceedings December 1886, nos. 1–3, R/1/1/48. 56. Telegram no. 3989, Foreign Department, Simla, to chief secretary, Madras, 9 November 1886, Foreign Department, secret 1, proceedings December 1886, nos. 1–3, R/1/1/48.

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57. Demi-­official letter from D. McCracken, Punjab Police Inspector Gen­­eral’s Office, Simla, 18 July 1885, secret 1, July 1886, nos. 84–195, R/1/1/33. 58. Demi-­official letter from D. MacCracken, Punjab police, to secretary, 7 October 1885, secret 1, July 1886, nos. 84–195, R/1/1/33. 59. D. MacCracken to H. M. Durand, 7 October 1885, secret 1, July 1886, nos. 84–195, R/1/1/33. 60. Lepel Griffin to H. M. Durand, 10 March 1886, secret 1, July 1886, nos. 84–195, R/1/1/33. 61. Extract from political abstract of intelligence, Punjab police, no. 86, 26 September 1885, secret 1, July 1886, nos. 84–195, R/1/1/33. The suggestion that the nawab be deported from India was not considered feasible given the relations with the begum of Bhopal. But based on information in Lepel Griffin’s report on the misgovernment of Bhopal, he was removed from positions of power in the state. He was deprived of his title and salute and directed to sever his connections with the affairs of the state. 62. Extract from political abstract of intelligence, Punjab police, no. 17, 1 May 1886, Lahore, no. 2 of 17 April, secret 1, July 1886, nos. 84–195, R/1/1/33. 63. Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism (London: Verso, 1983). 64. No. 101, enclosure E to Bhopal memorandum, translation of private revelations made by Syed Akber Ali, late kotwal of Bhopal state, 23 September 1885, Foreign Department 1890, secret 1, proceedings April 1890, nos. 4–16, R/1/1/106. 65. Demi-­official letter, 21 June, forwarded copy of book called Ranzat ul-­ Nadiya, Foreign Department, secret 1, proceedings July 1886, nos. 65–79, R1/1/32. 66. Lepel Griffin to H. M. Durand, 10 March 1886, secret 1, July 1886, nos. 84–195, R/1/1/33. 67. Ibid. 68. Nawab Abdul Latif Khan, former minister to Lepel Griffin, political agent, 4 June 1886, Foreign Department 1886, secret 1, proceedings August 1886, nos. 22–28, R/1/1/39. 69. Nawab Abdul Latif Khan, former minister to Lepel Griffin, political agent, 6 June 1886, Foreign Department 1886, secret 1, proceedings August 1886, nos. 22–28, R/1/1/39. 70. Nawab Abdul Latif Khan, former minister to Lepel Griffin, political agent, 4 June 1886, Foreign Department 1886, secret 1, proceedings August 1886, nos. 22–28, R/1/1/39. 71. Ibid. 72. Demi-­official letter from Col H. Wylie, political agent, Bhopal, 27 February 1890, Foreign Department, secret 1, proceedings April 1890, nos. 4–16, R/1/1/106. 73. Extracts from Indian newspapers, “Reis and Rayyet,” “Anarchy in Bhopal,” 15 February 1890, Foreign Department 1890, secret 1, proceedings April 1890, nos. 4–16, R/1/1/106.

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No t e s t o pag e s 29 0 – 29 8









74. Ibid. 75. No. 124, translation of a kharita (an official or imperial order) addressed by T. L. Petre, agent to the governor general, central India, to begum of Bhopal, 16 February1886, Foreign Department, secret 1, proceedings April 1890, nos. 4–16, R/1/1/106. 76. Affairs in Bhopal: A Defence of the Nawab Consort, Bombay, 1887, secret 1, proceedings April 1890, nos. 4–16, R/1/1/106. 77. Ibid., 1. For its initial diatribe against the Hanafites, see also pp. 2–3. 78. Ibid., 4. 79. Ibid., 12–13. 80. Ibid., 5. The pamphleteers argued that the preconditions for launching jihad did not exist in India, and thus the nawab was sure that the publication of Dewan Khutab would cause no harm there. 81. Ibid., 6. 82. Ibid., 7. 83. Ibid. 84. Ibid., 17–22. 85. Ibid., 28. 86. Ibid., 31. 87. Ibid., 49. 88. Ibid. 89. Ibid. 90. Ibid., 50. 91. Ibid. 92. Ibid., 51. 93. Claudia Preckel, Begums of Bhopal (New Delhi: Roli Books, 2000), 129. 94. Azmi Ozcan, Pan-­I slamism: Indian Muslims, the Ottomans and Britain (1877–1924) (Leiden: Brill, 1997), 117–118. Ozcan cites both Foreign Office and Ottoman sources in discussing this newspaper’s distribution. 95. Ltr. no. 212, Foreign Department to Marquess of Hartington, secretary of state for India, 1880, f. 1251, part 6, L/PS/7/26. 96. Hansard Parliamentary Debates, Commons, vol. 256, 3rd series, 31 August 1880. 97. Foreign Office to India Office, 11 July 1880, L/PS/3/227; Ozcan, Pam Islamism, 119–20. Ozcan details the reaction of the Urdu press on the ban on the Paik-­i-­I slam. The progovernment papers, like Koh-­i-­Noor and Oudh Akhbar, as well as the Aligarh Institute Gazette, refuted the provocative claims of the Paik about the caliph. Others, like the Sahnsul Akhbar, supported the Paik’s stand on the significance of the caliph for all Muslims. 98. Foreign Office to India Office, 11 July 1880, L/PS/3/227. 99. Ltr. no. 212, Foreign Department to Marquess of Hartington, secretary of state for India, 1880, f. 1252, part 6, L/PS/7/26. 100. Ozcan, Pan-­I slamism, 120. Iran had banned Sabunji’s newspapers at the request of the Ottoman government. Sabunji had published two other

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newspapers before Al Khalifa. But these, Al-­Nahla and Mirat-ul-Akhbar, were not anti-­Ottoman. 101. See Foreign Office, 888/4341. See also Ozcan, Pan-­I slamism,  120. Ozcan argues that the British complied in exchange for the stoppage of the Paik-­i-­I slam. 102. Ozcan, Pan-­I slamism, 120. 103. Ibid., 121.Ozcan suggests that this was because the government thought that a paper published in London would have less impact on Muslim opinion than one like the Paik, which was published in Istanbul. 104. Demi-­official letter from Maj. Prideaux, 22 March 1881, Foreign Department, secret 1, proceedings July 1886, nos. 65–79, R1/1/32. 105. Memorandum from Mr. J. Lambert, 10 February 1881, Foreign Department 1881, in demi-­official letter from agent to governor general, central India, R/1/1/32. 106. Abdur Razzack, vice consul, Jeddah, to secretary to government of India, Foreign Department, 12 October 1885, part 2, FO685/2. 107. Ibid. 108. Ibid. 109. Abdur Razzack, vice consul, Jeddah, to secretary to government of India, Foreign Department, 6 November 1885, part 2, FO685/2. 110. Col. W. Kincaid to Sir Lepel Griffin, 26 September 1885, secret 1, July 1886, nos. 84–195, R/1/1/33. 111. Ibid. 112. T. S. Jago, vice consul, Jeddah, to secretary to government of India, 15 February 1886, part 2, FO685/2. 113. Abdur Razzack, vice consul, Jeddah, to secretary to government of India, Foreign Department, 24 October 1889, part 4, FO685/2. 114. No. 723, junior under secretary to government of India to British consul, Jeddah, 2 April 1889, part 4, FO685/2. 115. No. 233, Lt. Col. H. Wylie, political agent, Bhopal, to British consul, Jeddah, 15 March 1888, part 3, FO685/2. 116. H. M. Durand, Foreign Department to T. S. Jago, vice consul, Jeddah, 27 July 1888, part 3, FO685/2. 117. Ibid. 118. Abdur Razzack’s estimate totaled Rs. 578 a year for his Mecca establishment. It included rent for a house (Rs. 200); pay of a doorkeeper (Rs. 84); pay of a Persian scribe to keep confidential correspondence (Rs. 144); and presents, charities, and other incidental expenses (Rs. 150). See his memo enclosed in government of India, confidential draft, Jeddah, 7 January 1888, part 4, FO685/2. 119. For example, Kairanwi was given money by the Ottomans to set up a printing press in Mecca. 120. Memorandum by Mr. Portal on the religion of Sheikh Mahomed bin Ali Senoussi-­el Mahdi, 27 July 1885, part 4, FO685/2. 121. Ibid. 122. Interestingly, the British tried to both suppress and befriend the Sudan chief because of his control of the slave trade and his cooperation in

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their attempts to stop it. See enclosures in memorandum by Mr. Portal on the religion of Sheikh Mahomed bin Ali Senoussi-­el Mahdi, 27 July 1885, part 4, FO685/2. 123. Note on Din Muhammad, enclosed in no. 41P-­242, Lepel Griffin, agent to governor general, central India, to H. M. Durand, secretary to government of India, Foreign Department, 22 June 1886, Foreign Depart­ ­ ent1886, secret 1, proceedings August 1886, nos. 22–28, R/1/1/39. m 124. Ibid. 125. Lepel Griffin to H. M. Durand, 22 December 1885, secret 1, July 1886, nos. 84–195, R/1/1/33. 126. No. 41P-­242, Lepel Griffin, agent to governor general, central India, to H.  M. Durand, secretary to the government of India, Foreign Department, 22 June 1886, Foreign Department 1886, secret 1, proceedings August 1886, nos. 22–28, R/1/1/39. 127. Note on Din Muhammad, enclosed in no. 41P-­242, Lepel Griffin, agent to governor general, central India, to H. M. Durand, secretary to government of India, Foreign Department, 22 June 1886, Foreign Department1886, secret 1, proceedings August 1886, nos. 22–28, R/1/1/39. 128. Ibid. 129. Ibid. 130. See Din Muhammad’s correspondence with the nawab’s agent, Abdul Kayum, and his petition to Lepel Griffin, 10 December 1885, in Foreign Department 1886, secret 1, proceedings August 1886, nos. 22–28, R/1/1/39. 131. No. 41P-­242, Lepel Griffin, agent to governor general, central India, to H. M. Durand, secretary to the government of India, Foreign Depart­ ­ment, 22 June 1886, Foreign Department 1886, secret 1, proceedings August 1886, nos. 22–28, R/1/1/39. The story was more complicated, as Din Muhammad and his networks constituted a political economy of their own. It was certainly more than a law-­and-­order issue. 132. J. Lambert, esq., to H.  M. Durand, foreign secretary, 11 May 1886, Foreign Department 1886, secret 1, proceedings August 1886, nos. 22–28, R/1/1/39. 133. Confidential letter from Alexandria, 2 April 1888, Foreign Department, secret 1, proceedings June 1889, nos. 1–8, R/1/1/98. The Foreign Department was always eager to know of the extent to which Indian hajis were influenced by seditious literature and ideas. They wanted Vice Consuls Abdur Razzack and Jago to be paid extra to collect this kind of intelligence. Abdur Razzack sent information about two of the nawab’s books in circulation in the Hijaz. See demi-­official letter from Abdur Razzack, acting consul, Jeddah, to secretary, 17 July 1888, Foreign Department, secret 1, proceedings June 1889, nos. 1–8, R/1/1/98. 134. Extract from a letter from H. S. Ahmad Raja to Lepel Griffin, n.d., Foreign Department 1886, secret 1, proceedings August 1886, nos. 22–28, R/1/1/39.

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135. Ibid. 136. Ibid. 137. Ibid. 138. Memorandum from Mr. J. Lambert, 10 February 1881, Foreign Department 1881, in Demi-­official letter from agent to governor general, central India, R/1/1/32. 139. Col. W. Kincaid to Sir Lepel Griffin, 26 September 1885, Foreign Department, secret 1, July 1886, nos. 84–195, R/1/1/33. 140. Lt. Gen. H. D. Daly, agent to governor general, central India, to A. C. Lyall, secretary to government of India, Foreign Department, Indore, 8 February 1881, Foreign Department 1881, R1/1/32. 141. Col. W. Kincaid to Sir Lepel Griffin, 26 September 1885, secret 1, July 1886, nos. 84–195, R/1/1/33. 142. No. 94, note of Lepel Griffin on the nawab’s writings, translated into Hindustani and delivered to begum on 28 August 1885, Foreign Department, secret 1, July 1886, nos. 84–195, R/1/1/33. 143. Ltr. no. 20P-­110, Lepel Griffin, agent to governor general, central India, to secretary to the government of India, Foreign Department, 30 March 1881, Foreign Department 1881; demi-­official letter to Lepel Griffin, agent to governor general, central India, 22 February 1881, R/1/1/32. 144. Lepel Griffin, agent to governor general, central India, to H. M. Durand, secretary to government of India, September 1885, Foreign Department, secret 1, July 1886, nos. 84–195, R/1/1/33. 145. Ibid. 146. No. 94, note of Lepel Griffin on nawab’s writings, translated into Hindustani and delivered to begum on 28 August 1885, Foreign Department, secret 1, July 1886, nos. 84–195, R/1/1/33. 147. Ibid. 148. Lepel Griffin, political resident, Indore, to H. M. Durand, 17 May 1885, Foreign Department 1890, secret 1, proceedings April 1890, nos. 4–16, R/1/1/106. 149. Ibid. 150. Lt. Col. W. F. Prideaux to A. C. Lyall, 9 March 1881, Foreign Department 1881; demi-­ official letter to Lepel Griffin, agent to governor general, central India, 22 February 1881, R/1/1/32. 151. Gen. Sir H. D. Daly, agent to governor general, central India to A. C. Lyall, secretary to government of India, Foreign Department, 20 January 1881, Foreign Department, secret 1, proceedings July 1886, nos. 65–79, R1/1/32. 152. No. 68, Col. P.  W. Bannerman to Lepel Griffin, agent to governor general, central India, 21 March 1881, Foreign Department 1881; demi-­official letter to Lepel Griffin, agent to governor general, central India, 22 February 1881, R/1/1/32. 153. No. 333, political agent, Bhopal, to agent to governor general, central India, 23 May 1881; demi-­official letter to Lepel Griffin, agent to governor general, central India, 22 February 1881, R/1/1/32.

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154. Translation of Nawab Siddik Hasan’s defense against the charges brought against him. Enclosed in demi-­official letter from Sir Lepel Griffin to H. M. Durand, 19 September 1885, secret 1, July 1886, nos. 84–195, R/1/1/33. 155. Ibid. 156. Ibid. 157. Ibid. 158. Ibid. 159. It is significant that he chose Badayuni and not Abul Fazl as a point of comparison. The former was a devout Muslim critical of the syncretic court culture of Akbar. 160. No. 4657, government of Bombay to secretary to government of India, 28 September 1881, and no. 1354, secretary to government of India to Bombay government, 17 March 1881, Foreign Department, secret 1, proceedings July 1886, nos. 65–79, R1/1/32. It was later reported that Siddiq Hasan himself refused to meet this Arab, and he returned to Arabia. 161. Ltr. no. 2721, Sir F. H. Souter, commissioner of police, Bombay, to C. Gonne, chief secretary to government, Bombay, Political Depart­ ment, 24 September 1881, Foreign Department 1881; demi-­official letter to Lepel Griffin, agent to governor general, central India, 22 Feb­ ­r uary 1881, R/1/1/32. 162. Ibid. 163. Ltr. no. 2407, E. P., secretary to government of India, Foreign Depart­ ment, to agent to governor general, central India, 8 Octo­­ber 1881, Foreign Department 1881; demi-­official letter to Lepel Griffin, agent to governor general, central India, 22 February 1881, R/1/1/32. 164. Ltr. no. 778, Sir F. H. Souter, commissioner of police, Bombay, to J. B. Peile, acting chief secretary to the government, Bombay, Political Department, 14 March 1882, Foreign Department 1881; demi-­official letter to Lepel Griffin, agent to governor general, central India, 22 February 1881, R/1/1/32. 165. Lepel Griffin, agent to governor general, central India, to H. M. Durand, secretary to government of India, 25 September 1885, Secret 1, July 1886, nos. 84–195, R/1/1/33. 166. Ibid. 167. For Zia-­u l-­Haq, see R/1/1/1247. 168. No. 3046-­A, C. R. Curland, Crime Intelligence Office, to J. B. Wood, secretary to government of India, 26 September 1916, R/1/1/1154, IOR 931. 169. C. E. W. Sands, Crime Intelligence Office, to O. V. Bosanquet, agent to governor general, central India, 26 October 1917, R/1/1/1154, IOR 931. 170. Ibid. 171. Statement of Maulvi Sayyid Muhammad Murtaza Hasan, son of Hakim Bunyad Ali of Chandpur, Bijnor, 5 October 1916, R/1/1/1154, IOR 931. At Deoband he was once declared a heretic because he said that

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­ on-­Muslims could get salvation provided they made clear that they n had not had the opportunity of embracing Islam. 172. Ibid. 173. Ltr. no. 1177, M. R. Burn, chief secretary to government of United Provinces, to H. Wheeler, secretary to government of India, Home Department, 14 November 1914, R/1/1/1124, IOR 936. 174. Ltr. no. D.O. 785:W, A. H. Grant, foreign secretary to government of India, Foreign and Political Department, to L. Davidson, chief secretary to government of Madras; L. Robertson, secretary to government of Bombay, Political Department; J. H. Kerr, chief secretary to government of Bengal; R. Burn, chief secretary to Agra, Oudh, United Provinces; chief secretary, Assam, Punjab, Burma, Baluchistan, North­ west Provinces; etc., 4 July 1916, file no. 4, 19/6. Secret. Arab revolt against Turkey: reluctance of begum of Bhopal to make a public announcement, R/2/418/1. 175. Ibid. 176. Ibid., read from the announcement by the begum of Bhopal, file no. 4, 19/6. Secret, R/2/418/1. 177. Ibid. 178. Ibid., F. MacDonald to O. V. Bosanquet, agent to governor general, central India, Bhopal, 12 July 1916, file no. 4, 19/6. Secret, R/2/418/1. 179. Ibid. 180. Ibid. 181. Ibid., F. MacDonald to O. V. Bosanquet, agent to governor general, central India, 16 July 1916, file no. 4, 19/6. Secret, R/2/418/1. 182. Ibid. 183. Ltr. no. D.O. 725:W, D. Gray, viceroy, Simla, to O. V. Bosanquet, 11 November 1916, secret, file no. 4, 19/6. Secret, R/2/418/1. 184. Telegram P no. S. 3565, viceroy, Simla, to secretary of state for India, 4 July 1916, secret, file no. 4, 19/6. Secret, R/2/418/1. 185. ABF, “Indian Muslims and the Hijaz,” Arab Bulletin, no. 34, in Arab Bulletin: Bulletin of the Arab Bureau in Cairo, 1916–1919, ed. Robin Leonard Bidwell, vol. 1, 1916 (Buckinghamshire, U.K.: Archive Editions, 1986), 521. 186. Ibid. 187. Ibid., 523. 188. DGH, “Arabs and Turks,” Arab Bulletin, no. 48, in Arab Bulletin: Bulletin of the Arab Bureau in Cairo, vol. 2, 1917, 173–177. 189. Ibid., 177. 190. DGH, “Arabia: The Next Caliphate,” Arab Bulletin, no. 49, in Arab Bulletin: Bulletin of the Arab Bureau in Cairo, vol. 2, 1917, 191–192. 191. “The Caliphate,” Arab Bulletin, no. 101, in Arab Bulletin: Bulletin of the Arab Bureau in Cairo, vol. 3, 1918, 286–290. 192. “The Caliphate,” Arab Bulletin, no. 102, in Arab Bulletin: Bulletin of the Arab Bureau in Cairo, vol. 3, 1918, 299. 193. Ibid., 300–301. 194. Ibid., 303.

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Chapter 6 ​Maulana Jafer Thanesri and the Muslim Ecumene









1. Maulana Jafer Thanesri, Tawarikh-­i-­Ajaib (Karachi: Salman Academy, 1962), 36. 2. Ibid. 3. Ibid. Eleven thousand copies were printed, and sold at a price of Rs. 4 and 50 paise. 4. Maulana Jafer Thanesri, Sawaneh Ahmadi (Delhi: Matba-­i-­Faruqi, 1895). 5. Maulana Jafer Thanesri, Tarikh-­i-­Ajeeb, translated from English (History of Port Blair) into Urdu by Jafer Thanesri (Lucknow: Munshi Neval Kishore Press,1879), available in Jamia Hamdard Library, New Delhi, PNo. 15287. Second edition published 1892 in Karachi; the sixth part of the book is deleted from the later edition. 6. For a state-­centric analysis of convicts and penal colonies, see Satadru Sen, Disciplining Punishment: Colonialism and Convict Society in the Andaman Islands (Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2000); Clair Anderson, The Indian Uprising of 1857–8: Prisons, Prisoners and Rebellion (London: Anthem Press, 2007). For Thanesri as a symbol of changing notions of family and domesticity in the colonial era, see Satadru Sen, “Contexts, Representation and the Colonized Convict: Maulana Thanesri in the Andaman Islands,” Crime, History and Societies 8, no. 2 (2004): 117–139. Sen looks at the experience of Thanesri more from a sociological point of view, taking into account the impact of labor performed at the penal colony on Thanesri’s professional career and social standing, as well as the reconfigurations of family, Hindu-­Muslim relations, and domesticity. 7. Jamal Malik, “Letters, Prison Sketches and Autobiographical Liter­ ature: The case of Fadl-­e-­Haqq Kahirabadi in the Andaman Penal Colony,” Indian Economic and Social History Review 43, no. 1 (2006): 88–89; Seema Alavi, “Muslim Jihadis and Hindu Sepoys: Rewriting the 1857 Narrative,” Biblio 12, nos. 3−4 (March−April, 2007): 10−12. 8. Thanesri, Tawarikzh, 130, 127–128. Upon arrival at Andaman Island, Thanesri was relieved to know that here as well his services as a munshi would be needed in the sarkari daftars. But earlier, upon arrival at Bombay, in Thane, he was surprised that the colonial daftars used no Persian or Urdu, but only Marathi. Thus despite his training in one daftar, there were limitations to his finding a job. 9. Ibid., 123. 10. Ibid.,  95. Of course, the governor general rejected this plea on the grounds that even if this were true, the trial would have to proceed as the convicts were a threat to the sarkari amaldari. 11. Ibid., 95. 12. Ibid., 72, 78. 13. Ibid., 79. 14. Ibid., 77. 15. Ibid., 90–91.

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No t e s t o pag e s 336 – 343







16. Ibid., 79. 17. Ibid., 80–81. 18. Ibid., 82–83. 19. Ibid., 91. 20. Ibid., 103. Thanesri’s sentence was converted from death by hanging to life imprisonment because the English did not want him to achieve the status of a martyr. 21. Ibid., 97. 22. Ibid., 109. 23. Enseng Ho, The Graves of Tarim: Genealogy and Mobility across the Indian Ocean (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006). 24. Muzaffar Alam and Sanjay Subrahmanyam, Indo-­Persian Travels in the Age of Discoveries, 1400–1800 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007). 25. Michael N. Pearson, The World of the Indian Ocean, 1500–1800: Studies in Economic, Social and Cultural History (London: Ashgate, 2005). Pearson seems to suggest that 1800 marked the end of the Islamic hegemony of the world order. 26. Ho, Graves of Tarim, offers an excellent discussion on the conflict that earlier genealogically derived identities of Yemeni travelers had with those inscribed later via national passports. 27. Barbara Metcalf gives a fascinating account of heightened pilgrimage traffic in the postmutiny period; see her essay “The Pilgrimage Remembered: South Asian Accounts of the Haj,” in Muslim Travellers, Pilgrimage, Migration, and the Religious Imagination, ed. Dale F. Eickelman and James Piscatori (London: Routledge, 1990), 85–107. See also Anderson, The Indian Uprising. 28. Thanesri, Tawarikh, 211 29. Ibid., 211. 30. Ibid., 215–216. In London Thanesri hoped to meet William W. Hunter to apprise him of the situation in India. 31. Ibid., 97. 32. Ibid., 117. 33. Ibid., 127. 34. Ibid., 119. 35. Ibid., 123. 36. Ibid., 125. 37. Ibid., 129. 38. Ibid., 122. 39. Ibid.,125. 40. Ibid., 126. 41. Ibid. 42. Ibid., 151. 43. Ibid., 133. 44. Ibid., 134. 45. Ibid., 135. 46. Ibid., 136.

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No t e s t o pag e s 343– 356







47. Thanesri, Tarikh-­i-­Ajeeb, preface, 3–4. 48. Ibid., preface [English], n.p. 49. Ibid., 8. 50. Ibid., 6. 51. Ibid., 7. 52. Ibid., 12–13. 53. Ibid, 15. 54. Ibid., 16. 55. Thanesri, Tawarikh, 128. 56. Ibid. 57. Ibid., 147. 58. Ibid. 59. Thanesri, Tarikh-­i-­Ajeeb, 16. 60. Ibid. 61. Ibid., 17. 62. Ibid., 18–19. 63. Thanesri, Tawarikh, 175. 64. Ibid. 65. Ibid. 66. Ibid., 176. 67. Ibid. 68. Ibid., 178–179. 69. For an insightful discussion on many ideas of jihad in the subcontinent, see Ayesha Jalal, Partisans of Allah: Jihad in South Asia (Ranikhet: Permanent Black Press, 2008). See also nationalist ulema biographies: Ghulam Rasul Mehr, Syed Ahmed Shahid (Lahore: Kitab Manzil, 1952); Maulana Syed Muhammad Mian, Ulema-­i-­Hind kaa Shandar Maazi, vol. 2 (Delhi: Maktab-­i-­Mehmoodiya, 1957); Maulana Syed Abul Hasan Ali Hasani, Nadwat-­ul-­Ulama (Lucknow: Nadwat-­u l-­Ulama, 1975.). 70. For an excellent discussion of this in modern Muslim liberal thought, see Jalal, Partisans of Allah; Ayesha Jalal, Self and Sovereignty: Individual and Community in South Asian Islam since 1850 (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2000). 71. Thanesri was literally referring to jobs in the vast legal apparatus that the British were laying out, but he was more generally conveying the idea of service in the British administration. 72. David Lelyveld, Aligarh’s First Generation: Muslim Solidarity in British India (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press), 1978. 73. Sir Sayyid Ahmad Bahadur, On Dr. Hunter’s “Our Indian Mussulmans Are They Bound in Conscience to Rebel against the Queen” (London, 1872), 73. 74. Ibid., 10, 86–87. Sir Sayyid enumerated the many religious liberties that Indian Muslims enjoyed in British India: the call for prayer, refuting Christian literature, converting Christians to Islam. He further replied to Hunter that it would not be the religious duty of any Muslim to “renounce the aman of the English.”

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No t e s t o pag e s 356 – 36 4











75. Ibid., 25–28. 76. Ibid., 90–95. 77. Ibid., 94–100. 78. See Sir Sayyid Ahmad Khan, Causes of Indian Rebellion, translated from Urdu by Jaweed Ashraf (Delhi, 2007); Sir Sayyid Ahmad Khan, History of the Bijnor Rebellion, trans. Hafeez Malik and Morris Dembo (Delhi: Idarah Adabiyat, 1982). 79. Singha shows how begging one’s way to pilgrimage began to be seen by modern states as a form of professional mendicancy and an anachronism in the modern regime of international travel. Radhika Singha, “Passport, Ticket and India-­Rubber Stamp: The Problem of the Pauper Pilgrim in Colonial India, 1882–1925,” in The Limits of British Colonial Control in South Asia: Spaces of Disorder in the Indian Ocean Region, ed. Harold Fischer-­Tine and Ashwini Tambe (London: Routledge, 2009), 49–83. 80. Sir Syed Ahmad Khan to A. P. MacDonnell, secretary to government of India, Calcutta, 9 March 1890, part 4, FO 685/2. 81. Ibid. 82. Altaf Husain Hali, Hayat-­i-­Javed: A Biographical Account of Sir Sayyid (Delhi: Qaumi Council, 1979), trans. K. H. Qadiri and David J. Matthews (Delhi: Idarah-­i-­Adabiyat, 1979), 74–87. 83. Ibid., 77. 84. Ibid., 78. This tract on Christianity pleased neither the Muslims nor the Christians. The Christians did not like their Holy Trinity idea being called falsification, and the Muslims did not like the fact that Sir Sayyid had denied any tahrif lafzi (charges of changes and falsification) in Christian texts. 85. Ibid.,  81, 119–121. Sir Sayyid wrote another book while in England called Khutbat-­i-­Ahmadiya to show the compatibility between Christi­ anity and Islam. 86. Ibid., 122–131. 87. Hali, Hayat-­i-­Javed, 211. 88. Maulana Asir Adravi, Mujahid Islam: Maulana Rahmatullah Kairanwi (Delhi: Farid Book Depot, 2004), 69. 89. Hali, Hayat-­i-­Javed, 119. 90. Adravi, Mujahid Islam, 70. 91. Many other Muslims, like Sir Sayyid Ahmad Khan, also refuted Hunter’s charges regarding the Muslims. 92. Thanesri, Sawaneh,  82–83. He laments the fact that the British hate Wahabis more than they do the Afghan maulvis who have assassinated many of their officers—​a nd that they have done so because of the influence of Hunter’s text. 93. Ibid., 186. 94. Ibid., 82–83. 95. Thanesri, Sawaneh, 335–337. 96. Ibid. 97. Ibid., 5.

465

No t e s t o pag e s 36 4 – 373

98. Ibid., 335–337. 99. Ibid., 91. 100. An English indigo trader of the Rae Bareilly area came to him for ziyarat and offered him food and money; see ibid., 61. For traders of Mirzapur and zamindars, see 62–63. 101. Ibid., 92. 102. Ibid., 75. Camels arrived on their own at the port of Aden to carry him to the city, and then disappeared before he could even pay their drivers.

Conclusion



1. Copy of a letter addressed to the czar by Dalip Singh, March 1887, L/ PS/20/H/3/9. 2. Copy of a letter from Dalip Singh to Katkoff, n.d., L/PS/20/H/3/9. 3. Copy of a letter from Dalip Singh to Sardar Trekar Singh, 20 March 1887, L/PS/20/H/3/9. 4. Dalip Singh to Victor D. Singh, n.d., L/PS/20/H/3/7. 5. Ibid. 6. Ibid. 7. Dalip Singh to children, 21 May 1887, L/PS/20/H/3/7. 8. Correspondent from Paris, 7 June 1890, L/PS/20/H/3/7. 9. F. H. Villier to Maitland, 14 April 1887, L/PS/20/H/3/7. 10. Dalip Singh to unknown addressee, Moscow, 17 April 1887, L/PS/20/ H/3/7. 11. Dalip Singh to unknown addressee, Moscow, 2 August 1887, L/PS/20/ H/3/7. 12. Dalip Singh to unknown addressee, Moscow, 17 June 1887, L/PS/20/ H/3/7. 13. Foreign Office information about Dalip Singh, sent to India, 23 March 1887, L/PS/20/H/3/9. 14. Capt. Andrew Hearsey, letter concerning Dalip Singh, 9 August 1887, L/PS/20/H/3/9. 15. Letter concerning Dalip Singh, 29 August 1887, L/PS/20/H/3/9. 16. Dalip Singh papers, communicated by Foreign Office, 12 September 1887, L/PS/20/H/3/9. 17. Daniel R. Brower, “Islam and Ethnicity: Russian Colonial Policy in Turkestan,” in Russia’s Orient: Imperial Borderlands and Peoples, 1700– 1917, ed. Daniel R. Brower and Edward J. Lazzerini (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2001), 115–135. 18. Adeeb Khalid, “Representations of Russia in Central Asian Discourse,” in Brower and Lazzerini, Russia’s Orient, 188−202. 19. Edward J. Lazzerini, “Local Accommodation and Resistance to Colonialism in Nineteenth-­Century Crimea,” in Brower and Lazzerini, Russia’s Orient, 169−187, esp. 179. 20. Dalip Singh, draft proclamation, Moscow, 22 October 1887, L/PS/20/ H/3/9.

466

No t e s t o pag e s 373– 378









21. Ibid. 22. Ibid. 23. Ibid., Foreign Office to Edward Bradford, 20 November 1888, L/ PS/20/H/3/9. 24. Dalip Singh to czar, n.d., L/PS/20/H/3/9. 25. C. J. Rich, resident at Baghdad, to chairman of Secret Committee of Court of Directors, 10 June 1817, Baghdad letters, L/PS/9/79. 26. Arminus Vambery, The Coming Struggle for India (London: Cassell, 1885), 125–128, 130–133, 138–164. 27. The 1891 official India visit of the czarevitch triggered a range of reports on the Russian government in the Urdu press of north India. Hardly any report indicated the Muslim inclination toward Russia. The Nairang of Agra reflected on Russian atrocities toward Jews and the silence of European nations—​who always raised concerns for the Christians in Ottoman lands. The Hamidul Akhbar of Moradabad alluded to the religious intolerance of the Russian government. It warned those who were inclined to them that it had tampered with Muslim religious texts in its territories. And the Alam-­i-­Taswir from Kanpur reported how Muslims saw the Russians as the most uncivilized people among European nations. See selections from vernacular texts received up to 24 March 1891, pp. 205–206, L/R/5/68; and selections from vernacular texts received up to 10 February 1891, p.  97, L/R/5/68. 28. Tuti-­i-­Hind, Meerut, 8 October 1892, selections received up to 12 October 1892, p. 373, L/R/5/69; Tuti-­i-­Hind, Meerut, 16 October 1892, selections received up to 16 October 1892, p. 389, L/R/5/69. 29. No. 8, telegram no. 77, MacLean to foreign secretary, Simla, 29 July 1888, IOR/R/1/1/99. 30 No.11, telegram no. 110, MacLean, on special duty to Khurasan frontier, to H. M. Durand, secretary to government of India, Foreign Department, IOR/R/1/1/99; see also no. 12, tr. of a letter from Malik Marwarid, agent, to Gen. MacLean, 27 July 1888, IOR/R/1/1/99. 31. No. 21, demi-­official letter from W. J. Cunningham to Lt. Col. R. P. Nisbet, 12 December 1888, IOR/R/1/1/99. 32. No. 23, Nawab Hasan Ali Khan, Meshd agent, to Brig. MacLean, 5 October 1888, IOR/R/1/1/99. 33. Ibid. 34. Ltr. no. 28, extract from Nawab Hasan Ali Khan, Meshd Agent to Brig. MacLean, 15 October 1888, IOR/R/1/1/99. 35. Foreign Department, secret 1, proceedings July 1889, nos. 44–45, R/1/1/100. Copy of a special branch political diary for the week end­ ­ing 25April 1889 maintained by Political Agent H. M. Temple, R/1/1/100. 36. Correspondent from Paris, 24 May1890, L/PS/20/H/3/7. 37. Ibid. 38. Correspondent from Paris to Foreign Office, 20 May 1890, L/PS/20/ H/3/7.

467

No t e s t o pag e s 378 – 382













39. Gurbachan Singh and cousins to Dalip Singh, 26 February 1889, L/ PS/20/H/3/9. 40. No. 45, E. Baring, Cairo, to viceroy, 24 April 1888, p. 6, R/1/1/77. 41. M. H. Durand to Col. Edward Bradford, 23 April 1888, Foreign Department, secret 1, proceedings May 1888, nos. 41–49. Particulars regarding Abdul Rasul, an emissary of Maharaja Dalip Singh at Cairo and information about Soudan intrigues carried on by certain Egyptian, Turkish and French officials, p. 7, R/1/1/77. 42. No. 24, secretary of state to viceroy, 30 September 1889, p.  373, L/ PS/20/H/3/9. 43. Christy Campbell, The Maharajah’s Box: An Imperial Story of Conspiracy, Love, and a Guru’s Prophecy (London: HarperCollins, 2000),  330. According to Aziz, he had been used by the French in bribing the Turkish court in their anti-­British deeds in Egypt. 44. Ibid., 318. 45. M. H. Durand to Col. Edward Bradford, 23 April 1888, Foreign Department, secret 1, proceedings May 1888, nos. 41–49, R/1/1/77. Particulars regarding Abdul Rasul, an emissary of Maharaja Dalip Singh at Cairo, and information about Soudan intrigues carried on by certain Egyptian, Turkish, and French officials, p. 7. 46. Foreign Office, 29 July 1889, L/PS/20/H/3/9. 47. No. 41, Munshi Azizuddin to foreign secretary, 2 April 1888, Abbat’s Hotel, Alexandria, p. 2, R/1/1/77. 48. Ibid., p. 4. Lal-­din wanted to be restored to the position he had held in the service of the late maharaja of Kashmir, and he wanted the sultan of Turkey to pressure the British government to help him. 49. Ibid. 50. Azizuddin, attaché to Foreign Department, government of India, to Sir E. Baring, consul general, Egypt, 28 March 1888, Foreign Department secret 1, proceedings June 1888, nos. 16–21, R/1/1/79; proceedings of Maharajah Dalip Singh and of his emissary Abdul Rasul in Egypt in connection with the Soudan intrigues, enclosure 2 in no. 157, Cairo, 28 March 1888, p. 2, R/1/1/79. 51. Proceedings of Maharajah Dalip Singh and of his emissary Abdul Rasul in Egypt in connection with the Soudan intrigues, enclosure 2 in no. 157, Cairo, 28 March 1888, p. 3, R/1/1/79. 52. Azizuddin, detective, to foreign secretary, 14 May 1888, Foreign Department, secret 1, proceedings August 1888, no. 13–16, particulars of an interview with Abdul Rasul an emissary of Dalip Singh at Cairo, R/1/1/82. Alikhanoff was of the view that the attack should target Kashmir, even though the forceful demonstration was at Herat. 53. Tr. of a letter from Amrik Singh, Cairo, 20 May 1888, R/1/1/82. 54. Tr. of a letter written in Turkish and found in the private papers of one Abdul Rasul, p. 5. R/1/1/79. 55. Correspondent from Paris, 10 January 1891, L/PS/20/H/3/9. 56. Campbell, Maharajah’s Box, 331.

468

No t e s t o pag e s 382– 38 9



57. C. A. Hopessad to Maitland, 7 October 1889, pp.  375–376, Duleep Singh, demi-­official correspondence, 1885–1890, L/PS/20/H/3/7. 58. Foreign Office to Lord Cross, 31 December 1889, p.  382, Duleep Singh, demi-­official correspondence, 1885–1890, L/PS/20/H/3/7. 59. Correspondent from Paris, 10 January 1891, p.  480, Duleep Singh, demi-­official correspondence, 1885–1890, L/PS/20/H/3/7. 60. Correspondent from Paris, 11 April 1891, pp. 484–485, Duleep Singh, demi-­official correspondence, 1885–1890, L/PS/20/H/3/7. 61. Correspondent from Paris, 7 July 1889, Duleep Singh, demi-­official correspondence, 1885–1890, L/PS/20/H/3/7. 62. H. M. Durand to Edward Bradford, Political and Secret Department, India Office, London, 9 September 1887, L/PS/20/H/3/7. 63. H. M. Durand to Edward Bradford, 28 April 1888, L/PS/20/H/3/7. 64. Extract from a letter from Maj. Gen. M. Dillon to Sir Y. Roberts, September 1887, L/PS/20/H/3/7. 65. H. M. Durand to Edward Bradford, 4 February 1888, L/PS/20/H/3/7. 66. Ibid. 67. Dalip Singh to Husen Khan, 7 October 1885, L/PS/20/H/3/7. 68. H. M. Durand to Edward Bradford, 19 August 1887, L/PS/20/H/3/7. 69. Tr. of a letter from AS [detective], 23 May 1888, Foreign Department, secret 1, proceedings August 1888, nos. 13–16, R/1/1/82. 70. Dalip Singh to Sirdar Delour Jung, 19 May 1887, L/PS/20/H/3/9. 71. Ibid. 72. Dalip Singh to nizam, 30 October 1887, L/PS/20/H/3/9. 73. Dalip Singh to cousins, 27 November 1887, L/PS/20/H/3/7. 74. Gurbachan Singh, Narinder Singh, and Gurdit Singh to Dalip Singh, 26 February 1889, L/PS/20/H/3/7. 75. Ibid. 76. Ibid. There was, however, no proof that any positive response had been obtained from any of the Indian princes. 77. Dalip Singh to Gurbachan Singh, 18 November 1887, L/PS/20/ H/3/7. 78. Ibid. 79. Ibid. 80. Dalip Singh to maharaja of Kashmir, 2 October 1889, L/PS/20/ H/3/9. 81. Campbell, Maharajah’s Box, 333. 82. H. M. Durand to E. Bradford, 11 March 1889, L/PS/20/H/3/7. 83. AS [detective] to foreign secretary, 24 May 1888, Foreign Department, secret 1, proceedings August 1888, nos. 13–16, R/1/1/82. 84. Correspondent from Paris, 17 May 1891, L/PS/20/H/3/9. 85. Andrew Hearsey, memorandum, 15 June 1887, pp.  34–35, L/PS/20/ H/3/9. 86. Minute by J. B. Lyall, lieutenant governor, Punjab, 18 June 1887, L/ PS/20/H/3/9. 87. B. E. Gowan, commanding Fourth Regiment, to Maj. Gen. W. K. Elles, adjutant general, India, 10 June 1887, L/PS/20/H/3/9.

469

No t e s t o pag e s 39 0 – 393











88. Alam-­i-­Taswir, Kanpur, 3 February 1891, selections from vernacular newspapers published in Northwest Provinces, Oudh, Central Provinces, and Rajputana, received up to 20 January 1891, pp. 97–98, L/R/5/68. 89. Alam-­i-­Taswir, Kanpur, 10 February 1891, selections from vernacular newspapers published in Northwest Provinces, Oudh, Central Prov­ inces, and Rajputana, received up to 17 February 1891, p.  116, L/R/5/68. 90. Hamidul Akhbar, Moradabad, 12 March 1891, selections from vernacular newspapers published in Northwest Provinces, Oudh, Central Provinces, and Rajputana, received up to 24 March 1891, p.  206, L/R/5/68. 91. Hindustan, 17 June 1891, selections from vernacular newspapers published in Northwest Provinces, Oudh, Central Provinces, and Rajputana, received up to 18 June 1891, p. 419, L/R/5/68. 92. Oudh Punch, Lucknow, 3 September 1891, selections from vernacular newspapers published in Northwest Provinces, Oudh, Central Prov­ inces, and Rajputana, received up to 17 September 1891, p.  637, L/R/5/68. 93. Ibid., p. 638. 94. Shokh-­i-­Oudh, Lucknow, 16 February 1883, selections from the vernacular press received up to 22 February 1883, pp. 158–159, L/R/5/60. 95. Secretary to government of India to Secret Political and Secret Department, London, Peshawar confidential diary, no.1, 7 January 1888, f. 403, L/PS/7/52. 96. Northwest Provinces selections, no. 2, 1899, L/PS/7/111. 97. Col. J. E. Waller, commanding Nineteenth Punjab Infantry to Maj. Gen. W. K. Elles, Adjutant General, India, 9 August 1887, L/PS/20/ H/3/7. 98. H. M. Henderson, memorandum, L/PS/20/H/3/7. 99. Dalip Singh to Foreign Office, July 1891, Paris, 1891, p. 499, L/PS/20/ H/3/9. 100. Dalip Singh to Prince, 15 August 1890, L/PS/20/H/3/9. 101. Moscow correspondent, “The Maharajah Dhuleep Singh,” Times (London), 26 May 1887, L/PS/20/H/3/9. 102. Correspondent from Paris, 1 June 1890, L/PS/20/H/3/9. 103. Dalip Singh to his son the prince, 15 June 1887, L/PS/20/H/3/7. 104. H. M. Durand to Edward Bradford, 19 August 1887, L/PS/20/H/3/7. 105. Ibid. 106. P. D. Henderson, memorandum, L/PS/20/H/3/7. 107. Gurbachan Singh, Narinder Singh, and Gurdit Singh to Dalip Singh, 26 February 1889, L/PS/20/H/3/7. 108. Dalip Singh’s letter, Foreign Office correspondence, 19 May 1887, pp.  90–96, L/PS/20/H/3/7; memorandum, 1 November1887, L/ PS/20/H/3/7. 109. Moscow correspondent, “The Maharajah Dhuleep Singh,” Times (London), 26 May 1887, L/PS/20/H/3/9.

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No t e s t o pag e s 393– 4 0 0



110. Dalip Singh to son, Moscow, 17 April 1887, L/PS/20/H/3/9. 111. Campbell, Maharajah’s Box, 104. 112. Ibid., 275–276. 113. Correspondent from Paris, 24 May 1890, L/PS/20/H/3/7. 114. Dalip Singh to cousins, 7 January 1889, L/PS/20/H/3/7. 115. Ibid. 116. Ibid. 117. Dalip Singh’s appeal, “Brother Princes and People of India,” L/PS/20/ H/3/7. 118. W. M. Young, note by the secretary to the government of Punjab, 16 June 1887, L/PS/20/H/3/7; comments on Mr. Durand’s demi-­official on Dalip Singh, 8 June 1887, L/PS/20/H/3/7. 119. P. D. Henderson, memorandum, L/PS/20/H/3/7. 120. Summary of letter from Gurbachan to Dalip Singh, 1 January 1889, L/ PS/20/H/3/9. 121. H. M. Durand to lieutenant governor, Simla, 22 July 1887, L/PS/20/ H/3/7. 122. Gurbachan Singh, Narinder Singh, and Gurdit Singh to Dalip Singh, 26 February 1889, L/PS/20/H/3/9. 123. Ibid. 124. Gurbachan Singh, Narinder Singh, and Gurdit Singh to Dalip Singh, 7 May 1889, L/PS/20/H/3/9. 125. Correspondent from Paris, 28 January 1889, L/PS/20/H/3/9. 126. Gurbachan Singh, Narinder Singh, and Gurdit Singh to Dalip Singh, 7 May 1889, L/PS/20/H/3/9. 127. Gurbachan Singh, Narinder Singh, and Gurdit Singh to Dalip Singh, 26 February 1889, L/PS/20/H/3/9. 128. Gurbachan Singh, Narinder Singh, and Gurdit Singh to Dalip Singh, 4 February 1890, L/PS/20/H/3/9. 129. Ibid. 130. Andrew Hearsey, memorandum, 15 June 1887, p. 30, L/PS/20/H/3/7, 131. Ibid., p. 34. 132. Letter from Mr. Youngson, a missionary, 3 February 1887, section 2, “Opinions of Various Officers Regarding Sympathy with Dalip Singh on the Part of the Sikh Soldiers,” p. 5, L/PS/20/H/3/7. 133. Andrew Hearsey, memorandum, 15 June 1887, p. 38, L/PS/20/H/3/7. 134. “State of Feeling in Certain Sikh Regiments about Maharajah Dhulip Singh. Replies from Commanding Officers, June 1887,” L/PS/20/ H/3/7. 135. G. Chesney to Lt. Col. E. Collen, 21 June 1887, L/PS/20/H/3/7. 136. Col. W. I. Bax, commanding Eleventh Bengal Lancers, to Maj. Gen. W. K. Elles, adjutant general in India, 11 June 1887, L/PS/20/H/3/7. 137. Lt. Col. H. S. Marshall, commanding Twenty-­Eighth Regiment, Punjab Infantry, to Maj. Gen. W. K. Elles, adjutant general in India, 1 August 1887, L/PS/20/H/3/7. 138. Ibid., p. 44. 139. Suchait Singh to Foreign Office, 17 June 1892, L/PS/20/H/3/9.

471

No t e s t o pag e s 4 0 0 – 4 0 4

140. Ibid. 141. Duleep Singh, demi-­official correspondence, 1885–1890, L/PS/20/ H/3/7; Dalip Singh to Marquess of Salisbury, 16 January 1886, L/ PS/20/H/3/7. 142. Ibid. 143. M. Naeem Qureshi, Ottoman Turkey, Ataturk, and Muslim South Asia (Karachi: Oxford University Press, 2014), 23–40. 144. Azad ki Kahani khud Azad ki Zabani, as dictated to Abdur Razzaq Malihabadi (Calcutta: Hali Publishing House, 1959; repr., Delhi: Ateqad Publishers, 2008), 45, 50. Khairuddin, like many of the cosmopolitan actors discussed in this book, enjoyed the patronage of Caliph Abd-al Majid. He stayed in Istanbul for two years and received a government scholarship. His time in the city was spent in the company of scholars, in libraries, and copying books that interested him. He developed a long-­lasting friendship with Sheikh ul Islam Sheikh Mosi in Istanbul. His Istanbul connections took him to other intellectual hubs in Konya, Egypt, Syria, and Iraq. In Baghdad he shared the intellectual camaraderie of the famous Alusi scholarly family. He initiated Sheikh Abd-al Rahman, Naqib al Sharaf, of Iraq, to the Naqshbandi Sufi order, and the Naqib initiated himself into the Qadariya order. 145. For Azad’s definition of jihad as an anticolonial struggle against Western injustices, see Ayesha Jalal, Partisans of Allah: Jihad in South Asia (Ranikhet: Permanent Black Press, 2008), 192–202.

472

Ack now ledg m e n t s

The research for this book was done in New Delhi and Lucknow in India, in Cambridge and London in the United Kingdom, and at Harvard University in the United States. In New Delhi, the staff of both the National Archive of India and the Jamia Millia Islamia Library offered support and cooperation, for which I am grateful. In Lucknow, Mr. Obaidur Rahman helped me explore the rich collections at the Shibli Library at the Nadwa ut Ulema seminary. The award of the Cambridge-­Singhvi Fellowship in 2009 enabled me to access the rich records at the Cambridge University Library and the Centre of South Asian Studies, Cambridge, United Kingdom. The British Library and the Public Records Office at Kew offered a much-­needed trove of Urdu tracts and official records on émigrés. The prestigious Radcliffe Fellowship at Harvard in 2009−2010 enabled me to use the rich Urdu collections at the Widener. The book was written in the peace and quiet of the Radcliffe Institute at Harvard. During my yearlong stint on campus, I made many friends in the Middle Eastern Studies Department who helped me analyze better the connected histories of the British and the Ottoman Empires. I owe a huge intellectual debt to Professor Cemal Kafadar, who very kindly permitted me to sit in on his delightful lectures on the early Ottoman Empire. His galaxy of students—​all accomplished Ottoman scholars in their own right—​helped me navigate the complex world of the later empire. I am particularly indebted to Professors Cemil Aydin, Dana Sajjid, and Ilham Makdisi for their help. I was lucky to get valuable insights from some of the most admired Middle Eastern scholars in America: Professors Juan Cole, Leila Fawaz, Enseng Ho, and Michael Laffan. Sunil Amrith and Eric Tagliacozzo introduced me to the study of émigré lives and their lesser-­k nown world at the underbelly of empires. In the United Kingdom, my friend from my student days at Cambridge, Timothy Harper, familiarized me with the enigmatic world of transimperial actors via his own insightful studies on Southeast Asia and its global outreach.

473

AC K NOW LEDG M ENTS

During my many research stints at Cambridge University, Professors C. A. Bayly and Joya Chatterjee enriched my work with their valuable suggestions. Professor Francis Robinson of Royal Holloway College offered much-­needed direction at the initial stages of my research. This book has been influenced by compelling recent research in South Asian studies that has urged me to think beyond the binaries of nationalism and communalism and of nationalism and pan-­Islamism. I am particularly indebted to Professors Ayesha Jalal, Sugata Bose, Kris Manjapra, and Syed Akbar Hyder for their intellectual input. Their effort to see the making of Indian nationalisms beyond the borders of the nation-­state shaped this book in no small measure. I am also grateful to Professor Muzaffar Alam, who provided me with valuable references that enriched the discussion of premodern India in this work. Professors Antoinette Burton and Maya Jasanoff shared with me many valuable references from their own work on the British Empire. Professors Upinder Singh, William Pinch, Margrit Pernau, and Sajjad Rizvi, as well as my journalist cousin based in Muscat, Sabeena Sagheer, took time out of their busy schedules to read and comment on different parts of this book. Farina Mir, Benjamin Hopkins, Sunil Sharma, Robert Travese, Durba Ghosh, and Neeti Nair made valuable suggestions at numerous presentations that I made in the United States at Harvard University, Michigan University, George Washington University, Cornell University, Boston College, and Tufts University. I wish to thank the Indian Council of Historical Research, New Delhi, for a travel grant in 2012 that enabled me to visit the British Library in London. I am grateful also to Uma Bhattacharya, who very kindly agreed to create the map for me at short notice. At Harvard University Press, my thanks to Sharmila Sen, commissioning editor, and her colleague, Heather Hughes, for their patience and supportiveness. Kathleen Richards, who led the production team, made the last stages of this project smooth and tension free through her professionalism and gentle manner. My copy editor Anne Sussman’s exceptional talent and sensitivity in preserving the essence of my arguments was truly remarkable. I am grateful to both her and Kathleen. I also wish to put on record that sections of this book are informed by themes developed in earlier essays that have appeared in Modern Asian Studies (2011), in the Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient (2011), and in Mutiny at the Margins: New Perspectives on the Indian Uprising of 1857, volume 3, Global Perspectives, ed. Crispin Bates and Marina Carter (New Delhi: Sage, 2013). My loving friends in Delhi, London, and Boston have, as always, stood by me through the often lonesome journey of research and writing. My special thanks to Upinder Singh, Farhat Hasan, Radhika Singha, Ravi Vasudevan, Hari Vasudevan, Rukun Advani, Meena Bhargava, Farida Khan, Uma Singh, Jaideep Gupta, Vidya Raghunathan, Shohini Ghosh, Sabeena Gadihoke, Sheena Jain, Katherine Prior, Simon Dunkley, Colm O’Higgins, Tomoko Stein, Cynthia Becker, Elaine Witham, Sugata Bose, Ayesha Jalal, Vijay Pinch, and Jos Gommans. My nieces Maryam and Ayesha not only provided hours of welcome joy and mirth to break the routine of writing but also helped me with their computer skills. Finally, I owe special gratitude to my parents, Roshan and Shariq Alavi, for their love, affection, and unflinching support.

474

I n de x

Abbas I, Al Khidvi, Pasha, 159 Abbot, James, 65–66, 67, 71, 73, 89 Abdul Rahman-ul Zahir, Sayyid, 161, 162–163, 167 Abdul Wahid, Seth, 147, 148 Abdul Wahid Bengali, Maulana, 237, 260 Abdullah, bin Abbas, 255 Abu Hanifa, 270. See also Hanafi jurisprudence Acheh, 23, 161–162, 163, 269. See also Indonesia; Java Aden, 99, 111, 120, 125, 217, 429n10; British political resident in, 96, 97, 98–99, 125; British treaty with, 96; ­resident’s role in Ottoman territories, 102–103, 105–109, 128, 132, 151, 163, 164, 166 Afghani, Jamaluddin, 25–26, 115, 167, 181, 371, 383 Afghanistan, 44, 47, 66, 145, 163, 165, 268, 331–332, 327; and arms trade, 75, 76, 79, 80–81; and reformists, support for, 71 Ahmad, al-Qushashi, 23 Ahmad Dahlan, Sayyid, 173–174, 192, 404, 441n9 Ahmad Fadl, Sayyid 111, 159–160; Al-Anwarul Nabwiyat-wal-Asrarul Ahadita, 111, 159–160 Ahmad Shah, Sayyid, 63 Ahmad Shahid, Sayyid, 35–36, 45, 50, 56, 63, 68, 169, 188, 223, 226, 231, 268, 269,

293, 331, 332, 338; British opinion of, 354, 362; Jafar Thanesri’s biography of, 354–355 (see also Sawaneh); sainthood for, 88–90; Sayyid Ahmad Khan’s views on, 356; and Tariqa-i Muhammadiya, 35, 226, 231, 354, 363, 365; and wahabi movement, 331, 332, 362 (see also Wahabis); and war on frontier, 63, 122, 284. See also Sirat-i-Mustaqim Ahmad Sirhindi, Sheikh, 9, 10, 11, 33, 35 Ahmadullah, Maulvi, 60, 61, 62, 421n70, 421n71; trial of, 56–59, 60 Ahmadullah Shah, Sufi, 18 Ainslie, W., 63 Akbar, 182; and Chishtiya Sufis, 228–229 Akbar Shah, Sayyid, 68–69 Aktar-ab-us-saat, Siddiq Hasan’s defense of, 317 Al-Anwarul, 159–160 Al-Gayrat, 298 Al Ghurrah tribe, 119, 120, 121–122 Al Kaieti tribe, 107 Al Kathiri tribe, 120, 122, 123 Al Khalifa, 298 Al-Khalife, 220 Alam, Muzaffar, 14, 54 Alawi, Sayyid, 111, 112 Alawiyya tariqa, 111–112 Alexander II, Czar 18 Ali, Inayat, 70, 71

475

i n de x

Ali, Khoom, 55–56 Ali, Khurram, 35, 39; Nasihat-i-Muslimin (see Nasihat-i-Muslimin) Ali, Muhammad, 26–27; and Koranic war ethics, 85–86 Ali, Wilayat, 89, 90 Alikhanov, General, 388 Alikhtawa ala Maslaul Istawa (Existence of God on Heaven), 279–280, 288 Alkusaiyar, Muhammad bin Ibrahim, 318–319 All India Muslim League, pro-Turkish sentiment, 322–323 Allah, Sibghat, 23 Alusis, Shihabuddin, 179 Andaman islands, 4, 2, 21, 332, 338, 339, 342, 343, 345, 347–348, 350–351, 403; settlement as civilizing mission, 343, 344, 345, 346 Anglo-Arabian and Persian Steamship Company, 81–82 Aqwam al-Masalik li Ma’rifat Ahwal alMamalik, 18–19 Arab Bulletin, 327–328 Arab caliph, demand for, 139–140, 141, 144 Arab jurisprudence, 155–156 Arab Renaissance, 178, 180, 442n21 Arab revolt, 323, 327–328 Arab theater, 180–181 Arabian Peninsula, 117; British involvement in, 95–96, 100, 129; and BritishOttoman imperial rivalry, 96, 130; and Muslim cosmopolitanism, 328–329; Ottoman interest in, 114, 117 Arabic language, 28, 45, 85, 319; dissemination via Urdu texts, 33–34, 35; language of Islamic scholarship, 34 Arabicist cultural grid, 51–52; and British colonialism, 91; and cult of saint, 84–85, 87, 88, 90, 91; and idea of social levelling, 34 (see also Social leveling, concept of); India specific, 33, 84–85, 90–91, 98; self-interpretation and tauhid at core of, 84 (see also Tauhid). See also Reformists Arabist Islamic tradition, 34, 35, 269. See also Arabicist cultural grid; Reformists Arabs, 328; Begum of Bhopal’s support of, 324–326; and British, 106, 144, 146, 323; imperial networks and, 8, 105; and

Turks, 144, 145, 146. See also Hadrami Arabs; Indian Arabs Arms trade, 424n146, 424n148; arming of Persian tribesmen, 80; British restric­­ tions on, 80, 81–83, 424n146; British subjects’ role in, 79–80; European commercial firms and, 75–79; Francis Times and Company and, 76, 77–78, 81; imperial networks and, 76; Persian traders and, 76–77; profit motive and, 81, 82; Somalis and, 80; trans-Asia network and, 76, 79 Asad Ali, Munshi, 309 Asbab-i-Baghawat-i-Hind (Causes for the Revolt in India), 357, 367 Aurangzeb, 277 Awadh, bin Abdulla, 123 Azad, Abul Kalam, Maulana, 403–404 Aziz, Abd-al, Caliph, 5, 19, 175, 178, 195 Aziz, Abd-al, Shah, 10, 39 Azra, Azyumardi, 23 Badayuni, 318, 460n159 Bahadur, Barak Jang, 100, 101, 102, 103–104, 105, 106, 107, 109 Bahadur, Nawaz Jang, 100, 103, 104, 105–106, 109; invasion of Makulla, 107; political ambitions of, 101–102 Bahai faith, 428n7 Bahrain, 81, 95 Baillie, Neil. B. E., 140 Baksh, Elahi, 58, 60, 61, 64 Banerji, Arup, 54 Barak Jang. See Bahadur, Barak Jang Bargash, Sayyid, 107, 108 Bari, Abdul, 308 Bayly, C. A., 12, 15 Begum of Bhopal, 267, 326, 330; and Arab revolt, view of, 327; Arabs, support to, 324–325; and British, alliance between, 323, 324, 325; and caliph, desacralized view of, 325–326; and Muslim cosmopolitan world, 326, 327; and Turkey, ambivalence towards, 323–326 Bender, Jill, 17 Bey, Osman, 158, 159, 165 Biddat (heresy), Islamic concept of, 37, 38, 231, 247, 248 Blyden, Edward Wilmot, 208 Bombay, 2–3, 4

476

i n de x

Bose, Sugata, 15 Britain: imperial ambitions in Arabian Peninsula, 95–96 (see also Arabian Peninsula); and Russia, relations between, 113 (see also Russia); and Turkey, relations between, 328 (see also Turkey). See also British British: and Al Kaieti tribe, 107; Arab Muslim subjects of, 95–96, 100 (see also Indian Arabs); and Arabian Peninsula, intervention in, 95–96, 100, 129; and Arabs, 106, 144, 146, 323; and Begum of Bhopal, 323, 324, 325; Broom, intervention in, 107, 108, 109; consulates, significance in Ottoman territories, 124– 125; empire, “hegemonic” frame of, 12; and Handrami Arabs of Haiderabad, 97; Hijaz, influence in, 148–150; imperialism, and the Ottoman Empire, 271–272; and Makulla-Shehr dispute, 106–107, 108; Muslim cosmopolis and, 326, 405; and Nawaz Jung (see Bahadur, Nawaz Jang); and Ottomans, 9, 13, 96, 100–101, 106, 113, 129; and politics of Hijaz, 109; as protector of Muslims, 96, 100, 144–145, 146; rule of law, 333– 334; and Sheriff of Mecca, alliance between, 143–145, 146; subjecthood and ethnic categorization, notion of, 103, 105; and Sultan of Muscat, support for, 154, 155; surveillance networks of, 125–126, 142, 228, 300, 302, 306, 308, 392, 321, 401; and Syyid Fadl, relationship between, 130, 131, 133–134, 151, 153–155 Broom, British intervention in, 107, 108, 109 Bucknall Brothers, 82 Bukhari, Imam, 189, 216 Bukharisharif, 188, 189 Burn, H. P., 67, 69, 73 Burn, M. R., 322 Cairo, 3, 4, 5, 22, 25–27, 30, 225; and Javanese nationalism, 183, 442n23 Caliph, 21, 219, 220, 329, 442n23; Arab unacceptability of, 143; Begum of Bhopals’ desacralized view of, 325– 326; challenge from European nationstates, 136, 139; desacralization of, 183–184; ethnic origins, debates on, 136, 140; ideal, debates on, 135–136,

139–140; Indian Muslims’ support for, 403–405; status of, ambiguity regard­ ­i ng, 117; as temporal and spiritual head of Muslims, 115, 116, 160, 161, 167, 329; tradition of, 329–330 Carmichael, D. F., 121 Casale, Giancarlo, 14 Casey, Patrick, 393–394 Chishti, Nizamuddin, 90 Chishtiya Sufis, 36, 181, 182, 226, 228–229, 232, 235, 241, 412n13 Clancy-Smith, Julia, 16 Codex, 204 Cole, Jaun, 25, 228 Conolly, Henry, 112, 113, 115, 163, 164, 440n213 Consensus. See Ijma Consulates, setting up of, 230 Consuls, powers of, 124, 125 Cubbon, M., 67–68 Cuningham, W. J., 367 Dale, Stephen, 54, 163, 167 Dalhousie, Lord, 72 Dalip Singh, Maharaja, 368, 386, 389, 391, 397, 392; and Abdul Rasul (see Rasul, Abdul); agents of, 383–385; and Ayub Khan, links with, 371; British fears regarding, 398–400; and Irish, links with, 392–394; Kashmir, importance of, 370, 387–388; Muslim princes and, 385–387; and Muslim cosmopolis, 370–377, 402; new mutiny, call for, 395–396; political ambitions, 369– 370, 373; return to India, plans for, 395–399; Russia, move to 368–370, 371, 374; Russia, support for, 373–4; and spirit of 1857, 394–401; and trans­ imperial networks, 375–377 Damascus, 143 Darul ulum Deoband. See Deoband madrassa Davis, Natalie Zemon, 14 Dayly, General H. D., 312 Deccan, 103; and Hadramawt, con­­ nection between, 94 (see also Haiderabad) Dehlavi, Shah Muhammad Ishaq, 45 Dehlawi, Ismael, and the Hanafi sect, 276–277 Delhi Naqshbandiya Sufi Shahwaliulla. See Shahwaliulla

477

i n de x

Deoband madrassa, 193–194, 223, 243, 251, 254, 321–322; and Imdadullah Makki, 228, 238, 240, 241–243, 255, 256, 257, 258–259, 261–262, 263, 264; Sufi format, adoption of, 257–258, 261–262; syllabus at, 262; tauhid and scriptures, stress on, 257 Deobandi Sufism, 257–258 Deringil, Selim, 29 Dhofar, 105, 118–123, 128, 130, 159; annex­ ­ation by Sultan of Muscat, 123–124, 131; Sayyid Fadl’s claim over, 126–127, 155–156, 158; Sayyid Fadl’s efforts in reclaiming of, 130–133, 151, 154, 163, 166 Digha, Osman, 299, 301, 305, 309, 381 Din Muhammad, 291–292, 303, 304–308 Diwan-ul-Khutab-lil-Sanat-il-Kamila, 292–293, 312; Siddiq Hasan’s self-­ defense of, 315–316 Djajadiningrat, Aboe Bakar, 192 Dragomans, role of, 125 Durand, H. M., 178, 302 Durud (salutations and blessings), 235, 236, 249 Effendi, Mustafa, 383 Effendi, Seid Sachel, 134 Egypt, 18, 23, 26, 180. See also Cairo Eid, Aziz, 181 European commercial firms, and arms trade, 75–79 Fadl, Sayyid, 5, 8, 9, 13, 16, 94, 105, 106, 109–115, 126, 144, 146, 151, 154–155, 156, 159, 324, 402, 440n213; and Abd-al Hamid II, 114, 115, 116, 124, 151–153, 167, 432n62 (see also Caliph, critique of, below); and Abdullah Arab Moonuffe, 152, 153; and al Ghurrah tribe, 121–122; and al Kathiri tribe, 120, 122, 123; antiBritish activities in Malabar, 112–113, 115, 123; and Arab jurisprudence, 155– 156; biography of, 111, 159–160; British, friendly overtures towards, 130, 131, 134, 153–155, 166; British, global ambitions and, 116, 117, 118, 130; British reaction to rise of, 127–128; British surveillance of, 110; and as broker for Ottomans, 106, 113, 117, 133, 155, 156–157, 158, 160; caliph, critique of, 133–134, 135,

153, 154, 166; caliph, as Islamic head, views on, 115, 116, 167; cosmopolis of, 124–141; deportation to Hijaz, 112–113, 163, 164; Dhofar campaign, 131–133 (see also Dhofar); Dutch Indonesia, influence in, 163; Fundamentals of Islam, The, 114; as governor of Hadramawt region, 110; Hijaz, influence in, 164, 165–166, and imperial contest over Muslim subjects, 150–160; imperial interest in, 117, 118, 119, 126; and impe­­ rial networks, 128, 130, 132; imperial politics, role in rise of, 128–129; Indian Muslims, influence on, 163–165, 166; Istanbul, stay in, 30, 109, 114, 124, 130, 151–152, 155, 158, 159–160, 164, 165, 166–167, 432n62; and Jamaluddin Afghani, 167; Learning to Avoid Unbe­ lievers, 114; and Moplah revolt, 5, 112– 113; and Makulla, supervision of, 106; and Osman Bey, 165; Ottoman Porte, contacts with, 113, 119; and pan-Islam, 160–168; pan-Islamic activism and trans-Asian networks, 115–116; political ambitions of, 113; political model, 155; as ruler of Dhofar, 118–124, 126– 127 (see also Dhofar); Sayyid Ahmad Fadl’s biography of, 111–112, 159–160; Sayyid card, use of, 154, 155, 158, 159; self-representation as leader of Muslims, 156; and Sultan of Muscat, 151, 157, 158; Tanbih al-Ukala, 114, 115; Tarikat al-Hanifa, 114; and trans-Asian Muslim network, 167–168; and trans-Asian military labor market, 161; as trans­imperial broker, 114, 116–117, 119, 130, 153–154, 156–157; transimperial cosmopolis of, 116–117, 161; transimperial rivalries and, 113–114, 115–119, 129–131, 133, 156–167; tribal feuds, role in, 119, 120, 122–123; tribal opposition to, 122–123; Turkey, influence in, 165; use of Islam in state building, 121; writings of, 114–115 Fadl, Sayyid Ahmad, 159–160 Fagan, C. G. F, 80 Faislah Haft-i-Maslah (Verdict on Seven Issues), 195, 245–253, 256, 258; Arab Wahabiya extremism, critique of, 250– 251; biddat, redefinition of, 248–249; consensus, advocacy of, 245, 246, 254, 258; Fatawa-i-Alamgiri, 276, 277; Fathul

478

i n de x

Mughees ba Fiqhul Hadith (Seeking Blessings in the Light of Hadith), 280–283, 288; fatihaa, discussion of, 246, 249–251; I’temad (faith), Islamic principle of, and Muslim unity, 226, 232; invitation to Islam, 253; mouloud (celebration of Prophet), discussion of, 246–248; m ­ urrawaja (customs), discussion of, 246; qawwali as a form of devotion, 246, 252; urrs (celebration of the cult of the saint)¸ justification of, 246, 251–252, 258 Fatihaa, 246, 249–251 Fawaz, Leila, 15 Fazl, Sayyid, 108 Fazl-i-Haq, Maulana, 260, 333 Fitrat, Abdurrauf, 372 Fitterah, Islamic concept of, 61, 62 Francis Times and Company, and arms trade, 76, 77–78, 81 Fraser, I. S., 67; and reformists, view of, 49–50; and Wahabi network, investigation of, 50–51, 52 Gangohi, Abdul Quddis, 257 Gangohi, Rashid Ahmed, 223, 241, 255, 257, 258, 261, 262, 263, 265; and Zia-ulQulub, 256 Gasprinskii, Ismael Bey, 372–373 Ghiza-i-Rooh, Imdadullah Makki’s commentary on, 194 Ghubal-i-Tarikh-I Bhopal (History of Bhopal), 313 Girbal (History of Bhopal), 270, 288, 318 Global history, and non-European worldview, 14–15, 28 Global moment, 12, 16, 413n23 Gray, D., 326 Grey, Sir George, 17 Griffin, Lepel, 290, 310; and Din Muhammad, 303, 305, 306–307, 319, 320; and Siddiq Hasan, report on, 287, 288, 303, 305; Siddiq Hasan’s literature, views on, 312–313, 314; and Tarjumani-Wahabiya, criticism of, 313 Gulab Singh, Maharaja, 66 Hadramawt region, 93, 102, 110, 111, 157, 158; British intervention in, 100–101; and Deccan, connection between, 94. See also Dhofar; Makulla

Hadrami Arabs, 93, 94, 95, 97, 103 112; as British subjects, 100; and Ottoman caliph, 116. See also Indian Arabs Hafiz, 45, 203, 204, 211 Hafiz-i-Koran, 171, 203, 204, 211, 215, 217 Hai, Abd-al, Maulana, 36 Haiderabad, 47–48, 85; Arab migrants in, 93–94, 97, 98–100. See also Bahadur, Barak Jung; Bahadur, Nawaz Jung; Nizam of Haiderabad Haj, 124, 233, 281; Caliph’s vs. European management of, 136–139 Hajutullah al Baligha, 190 Hakm, 256 Halat Pasha, 185 Hali, Altaf Husain, 359, 360 Hambal, Imam, 276 Hamid, Abdul, 301, 302 Hamid II, Abd-al, Caliph, 5, 6, 21, 25, 26, 29, 151, 152–153, 167, 184, 269, 272, 304, 329, 402, 441n8, 452n12; administration in Hijaz, criticism of, 135–136, 137–139 (see also Sayyid Fadl’s critique of, below); back to Islam policy, 117– 118, 129; caliph­­ate, institutionalization of, 329–330; caliph-centric pan-Islamism, 328; global ambitions of, 5, 124, 129– 130, 184, 272; Indian emigrés, patronage of, 19, 21, 24; mismanagement of haj pilgrims, Indian critique of, 137–139; mod­­ernization efforts, 272; pan-Islamic networks and, 19, 175; and Rahmatullah Kairanwi, 174–176, 184, 190, 217–218; and Sayyid Fadl, 114–115, 127, 151, 157– 158, 166, 432n62; Sayyid Fadl’s critique of, 133–134, 135, 153, 154;tanzimat reforms, opposition to, 21, 178, 179. See also Caliph Hamidiyah library, 176 Hamidullah (son of Begum of Bhopal), support for Turks, 322, 326 Hanafi jurisprudence, 270, 276–277, 279 Hanafites, opposition to Siddiq Hasan, 270, 289, 290, 291 Haq, Zia ul, 375 Hasan, Abid, Maulvi, 262 Hasan-al, al-Wazzan, 14 Hayat-i-Javed, 359–360 Hayey, Abd-al, Maulana, 270 Hearsey, Captain Andrew, 399–400 Hidayat al Saa’il Ila Adillatil Masaa’il, 270, 276–277, 286–287, 293, 313, 316, 453n19

479

i n de x

Hifz, 171, 190. See also Hafiz; Hafiz-iKoran Hijaz, 21, 118, 144, 145, 146, 307; British consulate in, 124–125; British influence in, 109, 148–150; British Muslim subjects in, 167; caliph’s administration, criticism of, 135–136, 137; cosmopolitanism of, 135; distribution of Siddiq Hasan’s books in, 298–301, 302; ideal caliph, debates on, 135–136; Indian merchants contribution in, 147; political discussions in, 142; political refugees in, 126, 142; political significance for Ottomans, 152; Sayyid Fadl’s influence in, 164, 165–166 Ho, Enseng, 111, 112 Hogg, A. G. F., 132, 133 Hunter, William, 357, 358; The Indian Musalman, 332, 356, 361–362 Hurgronje, Christiaan Snouck, 137, 192, 225 Ibn Taimiyyah, 179, 268–269 Ibn-i-Arabi, 9, 10, 33, 35 Ibrahim, al-Kurani, 23 Ibrahim, Shaykh, 18 Ijaz-i-Iswi, 360 Ijma (consensus) Islamic tradition of, 5, 6, 10–11, 20, 36; Imdadullah Makkis’s emphasis on, 20, 225, 226, 228–229, 238, 252–253, 254–255; moderator’s role in, 195; Mughal tradition of, 228–229; and Muslim unity, 85, 226, 228–229, 232, 233, 234–5, 238, 272 Ijtihad (independent judgment), 179; Siddiq Hasan’s emphasis on, 268, 269, 271 Iktirabussa, 313 Ilm-i-tajvid, Islamic tradition of, 266 Imdadullah Makki, Haji, 1–2, 3, 13, 20, 26, 30, 220, 221, 222–225, 243, 266, 402, 451n151; balance between scripture and Sufi practice, 195, 256, 262; belief in universalism of tauhid, 226; biddat, redefinition of, 248; book exchanges with India, 254, 255–256; consensus ­l iterature of, 194–195, 229; cosmopolitanism of, 20, 25, 229, 232, 234–235 238, 240, 243 251–252, 254, 256; and Deoband seminary, 194, 223, 243, 257– 258, 261; and Deobandis, correspondence with, 228, 238, 240, 241–3, 255,

256, 258–259, 261–262, 263, 264; Faislah Haft-i-Maslah (see Faislah Haft-i-Maslah); global connectivity of Muslims, quest for 230; guide (murshid), emphasis on, 195, 230–232, 234, 236–237, 240, 253, 254, 262, 265–266; Hakm, 256; and Hazrat Shah Muhammad Ishaq Muhajir, 224; Hindustan, influence in, 256; and Hindustani Naqshbandi mujadids, inter­ ­action with, 263; and imperial networks, dependence on, 240, 255; intellectual exchange with Hindustan, 243, 255–256; and Islamic principle of consensus, stress on, 20, 225, 226, 228–229, 238, 252–253, 254–255; Jihad i-Akbar, 229; Jihad, definition of, 259; and Madrasa Saulatiya, 228, 263, 264, 265; Masnavi Maulana Rum, 194–195, 229, 243–245; Masnavi of Maulana Rum, influence of, 222, 223; Mecca, migration to, 2, 224, 225, 226–227, 228, 447n14; model of conduct as basis of muslim unity, 237 (see also Zia-ul-Qulub); publication of books in Hindustan, 260–261; and Rahmatullah Kairanwi, relationship between, 225, 228, 263, 264–265; and Saluk (devotion), discussion of common format, 231–232, 233, 259, 260; Sharah Faisla Haft Mas’ala, 229; and Sufi devotional prescriptions, 262 (see also Ziaul-Qulub); and Sufi order in Mecca, 226; Sufi orientation, 223, 226, 232; Sufi Shahwaliulla’s influence on, 226; and unity of umma, 254–255; Zia-ulQulub (see Zia-ul-Qulub) Imkaane Kazab, 246 Imkaane Nazeer, 246 Imperial borders, hardening of, 227, 228 Imperial expansion, and Islamic reform, 23 Imperial history, hegemonic frame, 12 Imperial moment, of post mutiny decade, 20, 228, 271, 272 Imperial networks, 3–4, 15, 22, 24, 57; Arabs and 8, 105; and arms trade (see Arms trade); and Muslim connectivity, 13–14; and Muslim cosmopolitanism, 6, 20, 22, 24, 27, 310; and reformists, 59–60, 61, 64 (see also Reformists); as response to “official nationalism, 30 Imperialism, 12; and Muslim cosmopolitanism, 30–31; and Naqshbandi global

480

i n de x

connections, 11; and official nationalism, 227; role of individuals in study of, 15–16; study via porous borders, 15–16 Indian Arabs, 8, 92, 93–110, 431n59; and Arabian feuds, involvement in, 100–101; British categorization of, 97; British interest in, 9; and British-Ottoman rivalry, 96, 101; Charles B. Saunders’ view of, 97, 98, 99; exodus from India, concern regarding, 100; Haiderabad, influence in, 98, 98, 99–100; imperial networks and, 8, 105; imperial rivalries and, 8–9, 100–101; and Muslim cosmopolis, 7–9 Indian Musalmans, The, 332, 361–362, 367 Indian Muslim League, 326 Indonesia: caliph-centric pan-Islam, limited appeal in, 183, 442n23; Hadrami migrants, and the caliph, 116; Sayyid Fadl’s influence in, 163. See also Acheh; Java Indonesian nationalism, 183 Indonesian scholars in Mecca, 23–24 Indo-Persian imperium, disintegration of, 33, 34 Injeel of Jesus (Anjeel Masee), 201 Intiqad Fi Sherhal Etiqad. See Alikhtawa ala Maslaul Istawa Iqtrab us Sait, 294 Irish Fenians, in Northwest frontier, 392–393 Islam, Arab version of, 117 Islam, Badrul, 65 Islamic charity, categories of, 61–62 Islamic reform, and imperial expan­­sion, 23 Islamic schools of jurisprudence, 279–280 Ismael, Haji, 49, 241, 256 Ismael Shahid, Sayyid, 35, 36–37, 87, 295; Nasihat-i-Muslimin (see Nasihat-iMuslimin); Sirat-i-Mustaqim, 32, 34, 35– 36, 37, 85, 86, 91, 295, 363; Taqwiyat ­al-Iman (see Taqwiyat al-Iman) Istanbul, 3, 4, 5, 22, 18, 20, 28, 30; British consul at, 125; crisis in, 272; Fadl’s stay in (see Fadl, Sayyid); as hub of Muslim networks, 166; Indian cosmopolitans in, 21; Jewish orientalists in, 29; opposition to tanzimat reforms, 272; Rahmatullah Kairanwi’s visit to, 175–176, 197; as sacred space, 151, 155; as symbol of Ottoman modern­­ism, 29; tradition of consensus literature, 11. See also Turkey

Itbai Sunnat (the belief in Prophet Muhammad), 37, 38 I’tedal (mutual trust), and Muslim unity, 36 I’temad, and Muslim unity, 226, 232 Izalatul al-Shakuk, 171, 172–173 Izharul Haq (The Truth Revealed), 30, 171, 175, 176, 181, 190, 196, 197–207, 263; aesthetic appeal of Koran, comments on, 212; authenticity of Bible, comments on, 202–203, 205; Bible, historicity of, 204; Christian beliefs, critique of, 205–207; Christian religious literature, critique of, 199–200; demystification of Koran, 190, 198, 208–211, 214, 217; English translation, 208; Hadith tradition, discussion of, 215– 216; Hafiz, importance of, 203, 204, 211; Injeel of Jesus (Anjeel Masee), comment on, 201; Islamic oral tradition, comments on, 203–204, 211, 215, 216; Koran and Jewish texts, difference between, 215; Koran as exceptional text, focus on, 198–199, 203, 208–209, 212, 213–215, 216; Koran vs. Hadith, 216; Koran, historicity of, 210; Koran, poetic style of, 209–210; Koranic proph­­ ecies, discussion on, 212–213; literary format, 198; medical virtues of Koran, comments on, 210–211; memorization style of Koran, 211; and Muslim cosmopolitanism, 196; oral tradition of learning, discussion of, 203, 204; royal patronage, 196; scientific nature of Islamic religious texts, 204; Torah, ­critique of, 200, 202; trans­­lations of, 207–208; transmission style (balaghat) of Koran, comments on, 208–209; unreliability of Christian religious texts, commentary on, 201–202 Jadidi reformist, 372 Jalal, Ayesha, 115, 117, 160 Jami, Abd ur Rahman of Herat, 10, 182, 412n14 Jasanoff, Maya, 12 Java, 23, 140–141; Muslim secret societies, 137, 141; territorial nationalism in, 26, 442n23 Jawahir-i-Khamsah, 182 Jeddah, British consulate at, 125–126

481

i n de x

Jhanjhanwi, Miyanji Nur Muhammad, 223–224 Jihad, 86; Imdadullah Makki’s definition of, 259; Siddiq Hasan’s views on, 277–278 Jihad-i-Akbari 259 Kafadar, Cemal, 14 Kairanwi, Badrul Islam, 176 Kairanwi, Rahmatullah. See Rahmatullah Kairanwi, Maulana Kashmir, 387–388 Katkoff, 368, 369, 374, 392 Kemal Ataturk, Mustafa, 406 Kennedy, Dane, 12 Khairuddin, Maulana, 403–404, 472n144 Khalil Ahmad, Maulvi, 321 Khan, Abdul Wahid, 260, 262 Khan, Mubaraz, 69 Khan, Muhammad Hussain, 309 Khan, Nawab Hasan Ali, 377 Khan, Nusrat Ali, 297 Khan, Rai Abdullah, 1 Khan, Siddiq Hasan. See Siddiq Hasan Khan, Nawab Khan, Sir Sayyid Ahmad. See Sayyid Ahmad, Sir Khatib, Ahmad, 24, 26 Khayr al-Din, al-Tunisi, 16, 18–19 Khilafatists, 404–405 Khuddam-i-Kaba, pro-Turkish sentiment, 322–323 Kia, Mana, 15 Kitabut-tufi, 318 Koranic war ethics, 85–86 Kuwait, 95 Lachman Das, Diwan, 388 Laffan, Michael, 25, 116, 183 Lambert, David, 12 Layard, Henri, 297 Lebanon, 25, 178, 180, 452n12 Lester, Alan, 12 Loch, Francis A. E.: and Makulla-Shehr dispute, report on, 104, 105–6, 108, 109–110; and Sayyid Fadl, report on, 119–120, 128, 132–133, 157, 158, 163 Lohani Afghans, 54, 65 Madrasa Saulatiya, 21, 31, 185–190, 263, 264, 266; books from Hindustan, 189–90, 192; curriculum at, 187, 188–189, 190,

217; Darul ulum Deoband and, 193– 194; financial support for, 192–193; hafiz and qirrat, emphasis on, 190–191; Imdadullah Makki and, 228, 263, 264, 265; and India, connection with, 218–219; India-specific Arabicist grid, center of, 187; Javanese scholars at, 192; Muslim cosmopolitanism and, 191–196; Naqshbandiya Sufi tradition, influence of, 187, 188; Salafi ideas, influence of, 188; trans-Asiatic Muslim networks and, 189; and Wahabi tradition, 31 Mahdi of Sudan, 295, 302, 304, 305, 313, 314 Mahmud Hasan, Maulana, 321 Makdisi, Ilham, 180 Makki, Ahmad Imdadullah, madrassa of, 266 Makki, Imdadullah Makki. See Imdadullah Makki, Haji Maktubat al-Durar al-Maknunat alNafisa, 11 Maktubat-i Imam Rabbani, 10 Makulla, 100, 101, 102; and Indian Arabs in, role in, 109; Nawaz Jung’s invasion of, 101–2, 107; and Shehr dispute, British intervention in, 105, 106–107, 108–9 Malabar, 112, 117, 121, 431n59; Sayyid Fadl’s anti-British activities in, 112–113, 115, 123 Malik, Jamal, 333 Maliki School of jurisprudence, 279 Mambram, Sayyid Alawi’s shrine at, 112 Mansab-i-Imamat, 295 Markovits, Claude, 54 Marun, al-Naqqash, 181 Masnavi, of Maulana Rum, 188, 189, 222, 223 Masnavi Rum, Imdadullah Makki’s commentary, 194–195, 243–245 Mason, Lt. Col., 63, 71 Mauj-i-Nashadda, 288 Mawaidul Awaid min Deunal Akhbar wal Fawaid, 277, 294 Mayo, Lord, 59 Meade, R., 104 Mecca, 3, 4, 5, 22, 23–24, 146, 149–150, 227, 238, 302, 405; anti-British literature, British concerns regarding, 177– 178; anti-caliph sentiments in, 24–25; anti-Western politics in, 225; cholera

482

i n de x

epidemic, Abdur Razzack’s report on, 147; as cultural melting pot, 20, 226– 227; debates on ideal caliph, 135–136; exceptional status of, 46; Imdadullah Makki’s stay in, 2, 25, 224, 225, 226–227, 228, 253–255, 447n14; Indian brand of Sufism in, 253–254; Indian fugitives in, 402, 404; Indian philanthropic projects in, 148; Indian reformists in, 23; Indone­­ sian scholars in, 23–24; Muslim cosmopolitanism in, 23–24, 225–226; religious scholarship in, 238; secret society, anticaliph agenda of, 142–143 Medina, 23, 46, 143, 226; Muslim secret society in, 137, 141, 142 Mediator/interlocutor, 254, 265; decline in importance of, 33, 34, 35, 238. See also Murshid (guide), importance of Mehdi (saint), cult of, 87, 88, 90, 91 Melvill, P., 52 Metapedia, ship, 132, 133 Metcalf, Barbara, 257, 268, 273 Mizan-ul-Haq, 213 Montgomery, H., 87 Moonuffe, Abdullah Arab, 152–153 Moreman, Timothy Robert, 75 Mouloud (celebration of Prophet), 246–248, 252, 258, 262 Mowullud, 94 Mubarazdaula, 47–50, 51 Mughals, 10, 33, 35, 72; ashraf culture of, 355; global aspirations of, 15; and Naqshbandi global network, 10; political culture of, 182; and tradition of consensus, 228–229; and tradition of social balancing, 34, 39, 85 Muhadiseen, 279. See also Alikhtawa Muhammad Fadl, Sayyid, Dhofar campaign, 131–133 Muhammad Murad, al-Manzalawi, 11 Muhammad Yusuf, Hafiz, 229–230 Muhiuddin, Subedar, 44–45 Mujahid Wahabi convict, category of, 338–339. See also Wahabis Mulk (homeland), idea of. See Thanesri, Jafer Murshid (guide), importance of, 195, 230– 232, 234, 236–237, 240, 253, 254, 262, 265–266. See also mediator/interlocuter Muscat, 96; and arms trade, 5, 79–80, 81, 83–84, 425n148 Mushir Qaiser, 220

Muslim cosmopolis, 4, 6, 19, 402, 405–406; and India, connection between, 217– 218; Arabicization of, 31; British and, 326, 405; extent of, 4; imperial interest in, 217; imperial networks and, 183, 402; Indian Arabs and, 7–9; Jafer Thanesri and, 333 (see also Thanesri, Jafer); Rahmatullah Kairanwi and, 183 (see also Rahmatullah Kairanwi, Maulana); Sayyid Fadl, and, 124–141; transasian networks and, 117. See also Muslim cosmopolitanism Muslim cosmopolitanism, 3–7, 9–11, 13, 15, 24, 30, 31, 310, 327–328; Arabcentric, 328–329; Begum of Bhopal and, 326; British view of, 311–319, 320–321; Caliph Abd -al Hamid ll and, 6; émigrés’ role in making of, 5, 15, 13, 19–20; fugitive scholars and, 30; Imdadulah Makki and (see Imdadulah Makki, Haji); impe­­ rial networks and, 6, 13–14, 24, 196, 310, 402; and imperial powers, interdependence, 405–406; imperialism and, 30–31; Izharul Haq as blueprint for, 196 (see also Izharul Haq); Jafer Thanesri and, 22, 361; and Muslim connectivity, 13–14 (see also Muslim cosmopolis); Mutiny of 1857 and, 229; of Mecca, 24; Ottoman imperial cities and, 22–30; Ottoman imperial vision and, 5, 6; print culture and, 5, 11, 13–14, 22, 30, 91, 92, 283; Rahmatullah Kairanwi and, 20–21, 173–85, 191; and Siddiq Hasan (see Siddiq Hasan Khan, Nawab); and transnationalism, 6–7. See also Muslim cosmopolis Muslim émigrés, 3–6, 9–11, 12, 16–17, 19; as agents of change, 13; and BritishOttoman connectivity, 18, 19–20; British surveillance of, 302–303; in Cairo 25, 26, 27; Caliph Abd -al Hamid’s patronage of, 5, 19, 21; as carriers of 1857 spirit, 17, 19; global aspirations, and transAsiatic networks, 150; imperial networks, access to, 3–4; and Muslim cosmopolitanism, making of, 5, 15, 13, 19–20; and Naqshbandi Sufi network, 10. See also Reformists; indiviual émigrés Muslim subjects, imperial rivalries over, 148, 150–160 Muslim universalism, 160, 432n71; and ter­­ ritorial nationalism, coexistence, 219

483

i n de x

Notovich, Nicholas N., 370, 378 Nuri Pasha, 174 Nussimbaum, Lev, 29

Mutiny of 1857, 1, 2, 3, 5, 21–22, 91, 338– 339, 396, 397, 400, 414n39; and antiChristian riots, connection between, 227; global impact of, 17–18, 19; Jafer Thanesri and, 331, 332; Muslim cosmopolitanism and, 229; Rahmatullah Kairanwi’s role in, 169–170; Siddiq Hasan’s views on, 277–278; and transimperial politics, 394–395 Nafahat al-Uns, 10 Naqshbandi mujadids, 254, 258, 263 Naqshbandi Sufis, 23, 33, 36, 85, 121, 182, 222–223, 226, 233, 235; and compromise, spirit of, 188; global networks of, 10–11, 182–183, 228, 412n13; and individual interpretation, emphasis on, 231, 238; and scripture-based jurisprudence, 182. See also Shahwaliulla, Sufi Nasihat-i-Muslimin, 32, 35, 39–43, 85; Arabicized reformist orientation, 40; Hindu customs and rituals, criticism of, 42; prescriptive norms for Allah, 40; saint worship, dictums against, 88; Shirk, discussion of, 40, 41, 42, 43; sijda, discussion of, 41; tauhid, focus on, 39, 40, 42, 43 Nasiruddin, Maulvi, 66, 86 National identities, imposition of, 227, 230 Nawaz Jang. See Bahadur, Nawaz Jung Nazarat-ut-Muariful Korania, 321, 322 Nejd Wahabis, 274–275, 276, 277. See also Wahabis “Neo-Sufism,” 182 Nizam of Haiderabad, 49, 102, 103; and Arabs, 93, 99–100, 101; as ally of British, 51; Dalip Singh, and, 386; and ShehrMakulla dispute, 103, 104. See also Mubarazdaula Northwest frontier, 3, 4, 9, 10, 52, 53, 56, 59, 268, 284, 306, 338, 370–371; arming of, 74–76, 78, 83–84 (see also arms trade); British fears regarding, 284; disturbance in, Patna connection, 56, 58, 59; Irish Fenian colony, proposal for, 392–393; and Muslim men of religion, migration to, 284, 338, 454n46; Ravenshaw’s memo on, 59; reformists in, 3, 9, 10, 44, 54, 57–60, 65–66, 69 (see also Reformists; Sittana); religious dimension of problem, Lord Dalhousie’s views, 72

Oath of allegiance to sheikh, Sufi emphasis on, 223, 224, 231, 254, 257 Obaidullah, and Deoband madrassa, 321–322 Official nationalisms, imposition of, 240 O’Kinealy, J., 63 Ottoman caliph. See Caliph; Hamid II, Abd-al, Caliph Ottoman imperial cities, 10. See also Cairo; Istanbul; Mecca Ottoman reformists, 20, 175, 193, 198, 272; Abd-al Hamid II opposition to, 269; agenda of, 178–179 Ottoman territories: Aden resident’s role in, 105–106, 107, 108–109; British consulates, significance of, 124–125 Ottomans, 21, 96, 272; Arabian Peninsula, interest in, 114, 117; and British, 9, 13, 96, 100–101, 106, 113, 129; British critique of, 144–147, 438n160; and British empire, imperial networks between, 3–4; from empire to republic, 406; Indian Arabs and, 106; Indian Muslims and, 403, 441n8; modernity of, studies on, 28–29; and Muslim cosmopolitanism, 5–6, 405–406; patronage of Indian émigrés, 19; political isolation, 405; reformists in, 5–6 (see also Ottoman reformists); and revolt of 1857, 18; Sayyid Fadl and, 119, 133, 151, 154, 155, 156–157, 160 (see also Fadl, Sayyid); Siddiq Hasan’s connection to, 272–273; and tanzimat reforms, 113, 114, 118, 129, 178, 272. See also Caliph; Hamid, Abd-al, Caliph Paik-i-Islam, 220, 296–297 Pan-Islam, 160, 173, 432n71; as British phobia, 160; and Caliph Abd-al Hamid II, 19; caliph-centric, 183, 328; cosmopolitan nature of, 217; Muslim cosmopolitanism and, 6; and nationalism, 403, 432n69; Sayyid Fadl and, 160–168; secret societies and, 141–142 (see also Secret societies)

484

i n de x

Pearson, Harlon O., 35 Peile, J. B., 108 Persian Gulf commerce, British control over, 95 Persian reformist literature, 417n2 Petre, T. L., 289 Pfander, Carl Gottlieb, 190, 195; and Rahmatullah Kairanwi, debates between, 171, 175 Porous borders, 7, 111, 240, 243, 401; and multiple identities, 103, 221, 255; and study of imperialism 15–16 Prideaux, W. F., 127, 298, 314 Print technology, 19; and dissent, 227; and Muslim cosmopolitanism, making of, 5, 11, 13–14, 22, 30, 91, 92, 283; and trans-Asian communities, 303. See also Siddiq Hasan Khan, Nawab Prothero, Major M., 332, 344 Public conduct, Islamic notion of, 6, 20, 27, 254, 255, 264, 266. See also Faislah Haft-i-Maslah; Zia-ul-Qulub Qadariya Sufi order, 36, 226, 233 Qajar Iran, 66; British control over trade, 95 Qari Abdulla, 191 Qasim Naunatawi, Maulana, 194, 220, 223, 234, 237, 242, 255, 260, 261, 262 Qawwali as a form of devotion, 246, 252 Qudrat-ullah Benarsi, Sayed, 224 Qureish tribe, 140, 282, 295 Rahim, Abdul, Maulvi, 284, 285 Rahman, Latifur, 384 Rahmatullah Kairanwi, Maulana, 2–3, 13, 20, 26, 142, 165, 169–170, 173, 183, 186, 226, 278, 302, 324, 402, 437n153, 440n1; and Abd-al Hamid II, 174–176, 184, 190, 196–197, 217–218; British suspicions regarding, 177–178, 302– 303; concern for muhajirs (migrants) in Mecca, 186, 187, 189; contact with Deoband seminary, 194; cosmopolitanism of, 20–21, 173–85, 191; darrs at Mecca, 174, 178; debates with Christian missionaries, 171, 172, 175, 190, 217; definition of authenticity, 216; demystification of Koran, 214, 217; desacralization of caliph, 183–184; Ijaz-i-Iswi, 171–172; and Imdadullah Makki,

c­ onnection between, 225, 228, 263, 264–265; and Indian National Con­ gress, opposition to 219; influ­­ence of Sufi brotherhoods, 182; Izalatul alShakuk, 172–173; Izharul Haq (see Izharul Haq); Jeddah consul’s report on, 176–177; links with India, 193; literature of, British reaction to, 190; madrasa at Mecca, 174, 178, 184, 185– 187, 443n36 (see also Madrasa Saulatiya); and Mutiny of 1857, 169–170, 177; and Ottomans, 175, 178, 181, 184; pan-­ Islamic network and, 173, 175; politics of, 216–221; relocation in Mecca, 20–21, 24–25, 173–174, 177, 182; royal patron­ ­age, 29–30; and Sayyid Ahmad Dahlan, 173–174; Sayyid Ahmad Khan, difference of views, 359, 360; as state guest in Istanbul 175–176, 197; stress on education of Muslims 193; superiority of Koran, emphasis on 171–172 (see also Izaltah Alshakuk; Izharul Haq); tahrif lafzi in Christain books, criticism of, 171; Tanbihat, 197; trans-Asian networks and, 218–220; transasiatic politics, role in 173; writings of 170, 171–172 See also individual books Raja, S. Ahmad, 309–310 Rangoon, 284, 299, 300, 305 Ranzat-ul-Nadiya, 288 Rashid, Abdul, 301–302 Rasul, Abdul, 370, 378–383, 385, 387, 388, 392; contacts in India, 388–389; trans­ imperial connections, 379–382; and Zubair Pasha, 380, 381, 382, 383 Ravenshaw, T. E., 47, 57–59 Rawalpindi, 55 Razzack, Abdur, 139, 148, 149–150, 225, 303; cholera epidemic in Mecca, report on, 147; distribution of Siddiq Hasan’s books, report on, 299–302, 458n33; Indian haj pilgrims, report on, 137–138, 185; Ottoman corruption, report on, 137–138; as vice consul at Jeddah, 125 Reformist doctrine, 34; and alternate Muslim imperium, creation of 34; Arabicist flavor, 33, 87; centrality of individual, 33, 85; historicization of, 87; limited appeal, 87–88; reinterpretation of, 86–87; tauhid at core of, 84–85 (see also Tauhid, ideology of)

485

i n de x

Reformist literature, 32, 34, 43, 85, 88, 195, 417n2; Arabicist tradition, shift to, 33–34, 35–43; centrality of individual in, 33, 36, 43, 44, 85, 87; Koranic war ethics in, 85–86; and Muslim unity, 34. See also Nasihat-i-Muslimin; Sirat-iMustaqim; Taqwiyat al-Iman Reformists, 13, 55–56, 60, 66–67, 72, 179, 269; Abd-al Hamid II patronage of, 24; Afghans, support of, 71; Arabicist tradition and, 44, 46, 47, 48, 72; and arms trade, 74–84; and colonial infrastructure, 92; and cult of the saint or mehdi, 87, 88, 90, 91; demystification of Koran, 179; financial/economic support, 53, 54; and imperial networks, 59–60, 61, 75; and India specific Arabicist cultural grid, 84–85; I. S. Fraser’s view of, 49–50; and Islamic intellectual circuit, 62–3; and labor market, 50; and mercantile and banking networks, 60–61; Mubarazdaula’s patronage of, 47–48, 49; Mughal emperor’s restoration, ­support for, 72; and Muslim mercantile diaspora, 54–55; and Naqshbandiya Sufi spirituality, 181; and networks of Islamic charity, 61–62; northwest frontier politics, role in, 57–59, 71 (see also Sittana); personal ambitions of, 45, 46–47; poaching of men and materials, 64–65; poaching of sepoys, 46–47; political activism, 43, 44, 45; political economy of network, 57–65; political value of, 50; as power brokers, 65; regimentalized routine of, 63–64; regional rulers and, 51–52; of Sittana (see Sittana); T. E. Ravenshaw’s memorandum on, 47; and tauhid doctrine, 43, 44, 45, 84–85 (see also Tauhid, ideology of); townships of, 64; as traders, 52–54; and trading networks, 53, 54–56; and trans-Asian Arabicist grid, 85; as trans-Asian military labor force, 46–47; trans-Asian potential, British fears regarding, 67–68; and trans-Asian rivalries, 44, 66–68; tribal politics, role in, 65–66, 69–71, 74; and unity of umma, 179; and Wahabis, 88, 284, 417n1 (see also Wahabis); and western radical politics, influence of, 180 Reichmuth, Stefan, 15 Reid, Anthony, 160

Reign of Terror in the Bhopal State, The, 320 Reiss, Tom, 29 Religious traffic, and colonialism, 337–338 Revolt of 1857. See Mutiny of 1857 Rich, Claudius James, 374 Risalah I-Jihad, 86 Robinson, Francis, 278 Rothman, Natalie, 15 Russia, 8, 55, 65, 66, 67, 71, 113, 140, 284, 309, 312, 328, 329, 390–391, 467n27; British fears regarding, 67, 68, 374–375; British treaty with Aden, reaction to, 96; and “Catherinian compromise,” 372; and Crimean war, 113, 129, 143; and Dalip Singh, 368–370, 371, 373– 374; impact of 1857 revolt, 18; Indian Mus­l ims and, 389–391; Muslim frontier of, 371–373; Muslim transimperial networks and, 377–378; and Ottomans, 329 Sa’duddin, Sulayman, 10 Saint, cult of, 84–85, 87, 88, 90, 91, 246. See also Urrs Salafis, 25, 26, 227, 238; and Arabicists, 180 Salaho Zatealben ba bayan Malezaujen (Discussion regarding Relationship between Spouses), 281–283 Salar Jung, Sir, 94, 98, 101–102 Salatmullah, Maulvi, 309 Saluk (devotion), 231–232, 233, 259, 260 Sarkashi zilla Bijnor, 367 Saulat-un-Nisa, Begum, 187, 192, 443n38, 444n56 Saunders, Charles B., views on Indian Arabs, 97, 98, 99 Sawalat Kairanwi. See Izaltah Alshakuk Sawaneh Ahmadi, 332, 354–355, 361–367; political power of Sayyid Ahmad, 365, 366; pro-British image of Sayyid Ahmad, 362, 367; rehabilitation of Sayyid Ahmad, 363; Sayyid Ahmad’s jihad against Sikhs, 364, 366; style of, 363; transimperial spiritual appeal of Sayyid Ahmad, 354, 365–366 Sayyid Ahmad, Sir, 221, 355–361, 272–273; anti-British muslim sentiments, views on causes, 357–358; and Christian

486

i n de x

l­ iterature, study of, 359–361, 465n84; and haj pilgrims, concern for, 358–359; Indian Musulman, response to, 367; ­loyalty, definition of, 355–356, 357; Muslim frontier tribes, views on, 356; Muslim loyalty, views on, 357–358; and Ottoman reformist ideas, 18–19; and Rahmatullah Kairanwi, difference of views between, 359–360; religious freedom under British, views on, 356, 464n74; and Sayyid Ahmad Shahid, 356 Sayyid Fadl Alawi. See Fadl, Sayyid Secret societies, 151, 153, 177; anti-caliph agenda, 137, 141, 142, 143, 144, 146; British surveillance of 141, 142–143, 144; as cradles of pan Islamism, 141–142 Selim I, Emperor, 329 Senousi, Sheikh, of Alexandria, 380 Senousi, Sidi Mahommed, 303–304 Senoussi sect, 303–304 Shafi jurisprudence, 23, 112, 173, 279, 428n2 Shaghal, 262 Shah, Mahmud, 74 Shah, Mubarak, 74 Shahjahan, Begum of Bhopal. See Begum of Bhopal Shahwaliulla, Sufi, 9, 33, 35, 44, 85, 169, 187, 188, 226, 254, 268, 269; brand of Arabicism, 33; and consensus or compromise formula, 10–11, 33, 35, 85, 188, 189; Deoband and, 254, 257; and Hanafi sect, 276–277; and individuation of religion, 231; madrasa at Delhi, 10, 32, 182; and Madrasa Saulatiya, 187, 263. See also Naqshbandi Sufis Shattariyyah Sufis, 182 Shawkani, 268–269 Shehr, 100, 101, 106, 109; arms flow to, British concerns over, 102; and Makulla dispute, British intervention in, 105, 106–107, 108–9; Nawaz Jang’s political ambitions in, 101–102 Sheriff of Mecca, and British, alliance between, 143–145, 146, 158 Shirk ( heresy), concept of, 35, 36, 37–39, 40, 41–42, 43 Siddiq Hasan Khan, Nawab, 5, 13, 27–28, 30, 179, 267–272, 287, 309, 402, 455n61;

487

Adam, views on, 274–275; agents of, 307, 308–310; Alikhtawa ala Maslaul Istawa (Existence of God on Heaven), 279–280; and Arabicists, interaction with, 269; biddat, critique of, 269, 276; book distribution through imperial networks, 287–288; and British, 270, 285, 315; and British imperial grid, importance for 278; British objection to books of, 270, 312–313, 314, 316; cosmopolitanism of, 22, 27, 268, 273, 280, 311, 314–316; cosmopolitanism, British view of, 311–313, 318–320; and Delhi Naqshbandi Sufi Shahwaliulla, 267; and Din Muhammad, 303, 304–307; dissemination of literature, 285–286, 298–300; distribution of books in Hijaz, 298–301, 302; Education Society’s pam­­ phlet in defense of, 290–296; encyclopedic style of writing, 292–294; Fathul Mughees ba Fiqhul Hadith (Seeking Bless­­ ings in the Light of Hadith), 280–281; Girbal, defense of, 288, 318; Griffin’s charges, self-defense to, 315–318; Hanafi opposition to, 270, 289, 290, 291; Hidayat al Saa’il Ila Adillatil Masaa’il (see Hidayat al Saa’il Ila Adillatil Masaa’il); Ijtihad, emphasis on, 268, 269, 271, 276; and Indian Muslims, defense of 316–317; Iqtirab al Sa’ah, 270; Islamic jurisprudence, commentary on 279–280; khutbas, compilation of, 292–293, 312; literature of, 27, 28, 270, 271; and Mahdi of Sudan, connection with 302, 313 (see also Din Muhammad); Maw’izah Hasanah, 270; Mawaidul Awaid min Deunal Akhbar wal Fawaid, 277, 294; Mecca, connection with, 302; merchants’ role in dissemination of books, 286–287, 301; mutiny of 1857, views on, 278; as nawab consort, 269–270; newspapers and period­ ­icals, influence on, 288–289; and north­­ west frontier politics, 284; Ottomans, connection with, 272–273; pirs and saints, dislike of, 268; prescriptions for bodily deportment and morality, 280–283; printing of books, 287–288, 310; public sphere of books, 273; and Rahmatullah Kairanwi, 302; Salaho Zatealben ba bayan Malezaujen (Discus­ sion regarding Relationship between Spouses), 281–283; scriptures as a

i n de x

Siddiq Hasan Khan, Nawab (continued) ­u nifying force, comments on, 278–280; sedition charges, defense against (see Tarjuman-i-Wahabiya); Sudan, links with, 295, 302, 304–305, 308, 309, 313, 314; taqlid, critique of, 269, 276; Tarjumani-Wahabiya (see Tarjuman-i-Wahabiya); Terazul Khumrat min Fazail ul Hajwal Umra (Benefits of Haj and Umra), 281; and trans-Asiatic network, 269–270; and transimperial Muslim public sphere, 318–319; and transimperial networks, 307–309, 310; and transimperial print­ ­i ng rivalry, 296–298; and unification of umma, 268, 275, 276; unpopularity in Bhopal, 289–290; use of print culture, 283, 296–311; W. F . Prideaux’s opinion of, 314; Wahabis, connection with, 267, 284–285, 294; works of, 453n13 (see also individual works); Yemeni ulema, interaction with, 268–269 Sikhs, 66, 67, 68, 69, 362, 364, 391, 395; Sayyid Ahmad’s jihad against, 45, 295, 354, 356, 362, 364, 366. See also Dalip Singh, Maharaja Silsila Imdadiyah ( Imdaduddin brotherhood), 266 Sindh, 47, 53, 66–67, 85, 334, 335 Sirat-i-Mustaqim, 32, 34, 35–36, 37, 85, 86, 91, 295, 363 Sittana, 63, 89; British apprehensions regarding reformists of, 72–73; as center of trans-Asian rivalries, 71; intratribal wars in, 73–74; reformists’ colony in, 64, 65–66, 68–69, 70 Slave trade, 54, 95, 101, 106, 125, 137 Smith, C. B. E., 104 Social leveling, concept of, vs. social balancing, 33, 34, 39, 85, 91 Stark, Ulrike, 283 Strange, Thomas L., 112, 115, 163 Subrahmanyam, Sanjay, 14 Sudan, 303, 313, 380, 381, 457n122; Siddiq Hasan’s links with, 299, 300, 301, 302, 304–305, 308, 309 Suez Canal, 95 114, 118, 129, 428n7 Sufi sheikh, 258; oath of allegiance to, 223, 224, 231, 254, 257 Sufi silsilahs (brotherhood), 87, 182; Deobandis and, 261–262

Sufism, Indian brand of, 253–254. See also Naqshbandi Sufis; Shahwaliulla, Sufi Suhrawadiya Sufis, 182, 226 Sultan of Muscat: and Al Kathiri tribals, 123; British support for, 131–132, 154, 155; capture of Dhofar, 123, 131; Sayyid Fadl and, 151, 157–158 Syria, 180 Tafsir, 255 Tagliacozzo, Eric, 15–16 Tahrif lafzi, (the practice of changing words), 171 Tahzib ul Akhlaq ( journal), 360 Tales of an Indian Traveller, 372 Tanbih al-Ukala, 114, 167 Tanbihat, 197 Tanveer, 255 Tanzimat reforms, 6, 18, 24–25, 31, 129, 178, 272; and rise of ethnic nationalism, 113, 114, 129 Taqwiyat al-Iman, 32, 35, 36–39; demystification of Koran, 37; rituals for God, 38; shirk, category in, 38–39 Targhib-I-Jihad, 86 Tarikat al-Hanifa, 167 Tarikh-i-Ajeeb (History of the Wondrous), 332, 343, 344–351; concept of mulk, 345–348, 350; ethnographic observations of Andaman islanders, 347–348, 350–351; significance of, 344. See also Thanesri, Jafer Tarikh-i-Port Blair. See Tarikh-i-Ajeeb Tarikh Sarkashiy-i-Zilla Bijnor, 357, 367 Tarim, tradition of Islamic learning in, 93, 111 Tariqa-i Muhammadiya (The Muhammadan Way), 35–36, 226, 354, 363, 365 Tarjuman-i-Wahabiya, 270, 276; defense of, 294; Griffin’s objections to, 313; Indian Wahabis, definition of, 294; Nejd Wahabis, discussion on, 274– 275, 276, 277; Siddiq Hasan’s self-­ defense in, 273, 277–278, 313, 317 Tasfitah Alqalub, 241 Tathirul Atekad, 319 Tauhid, ideology of, 32, 34, 37, 39, 40, 42, 43, 89, 91, 214, 226; and Muslim unity, 36, 38, 39, 44, 45; reformist reinvention of, 84–85

488

i n de x

Tawarikh-i-Ajaib, 332, 334–337, 349, 352; English language, discussion of, 352– 353; Thanesri’s account of travel to Andaman islands, 339–343; Thanesri’s critique of his arrest, 334, 335–336, 337 Temple, Richard, 106 Terazul Khumrat min Fazail ul Hajwal Umra (Benefits of Haj and Umra), 281 Thanawi, Asharaf Ali, 191, 223, 238–239, 244, 245, 256, 257, 261, 266 Thanesri, Jafer, 2, 3, 13, 21–22, 60, 62, 63, 64, 278, 331–333, 335, 402, 403; biography of Sayyid Ahmad Shahid (see Sawaneh Ahmadi); class, views on, 347, 348, 349; commutation of sentence, 463n20; criticism of British rule of law, 335–337; deportation to Andaman Islands, 2, 22, 331, 332; and English language, 352–353; felt community identity, 340–343, 344–345, 355, 361 (see also mulk, below); felt patriotism, anti-colonial profile, 339, 340; Hunter’s Indian Musalman, response to, 361–362; linguistic skills of, 332, 351–352; mulk (homeland), idea of, 22, 334–335, 337, 342–351; and 1857 mutiny, 331, 332; and race, views on, 347, 348, 349–350; representation of Hind vs. Andaman islands, 343–344; Sawaneh Ahmadi (see Sawaneh Ahmadi); settlement of Andamans as civilizing mission, 345, 346; Tarikh-iAjeeb (see Tarikh-i-Ajeeb); Tarikh-i-Port Blair (see Tarikh-i-Ajeeb); Tawarikh-iAjaib (see Tawarikh-i-Ajaib); and transAsian cosmopolitanism, 361; trial of, 335, 336; and Wahabi movement, 331, 332; writings of, 332–333. See also individual books Thompson, R., 59 Tilawat, 212, 235, 236, 247 Tribal politics, and reformists, 65–66, 69–71, 73–74 Tucker, L. H. E., 75, 83 Tufi, Suleiman bib Abdul Kawi, 318 Turkey, 68, 145, 154, 165; anti-arms efforts in, 81; and Britain, relations between, 129, 158, 328; significance in Muslim cosmopolis, 327–328. See also Istanbul; Ottomans Turkish identity, 14

Tusseer Moradiya, 63 Tutwaa, 62–63 Urrs (celebration of the cult of the saint), 246, 251–252, 258. See also Saint, cult of Vambery, Armenius, 375 Vice consuls, role of, 125, 126, 302–303 Villier, F. H., 369 Volpert, 380, 384 Wahab, Abd-al, of Nejd, 31, 45, 47, 274, 277, 294, 362, 417n1. See also Wahabis Wahabis, 31, 32, 45, 47, 59, 83, 86, 88, 275, 284–285, 294, 362, 389, 406, 417n1, 419n46, 465n92; extremism of, cri­­ tique in Faislah Haft-i-Maslah, 250–251; I. S. Fraser’s investigation of, 50–51, 52; Jafer Thanesri and, 331, 332, 334, 335, 336, 361; Siddiq Hasan and, 273, 274, 284–285, 294, 306, 309, 310, 314, 316–317; state suspicions regarding, 338. See also Wahab, Abd-al, of Nejd Wahdat-ul-shahud (unity of existence), 9, 181 Wahdat-ul-wajud (unity of being), 9, 181 Wahid Khan, Maulvi, 240, 241, 260, 262 Waliullah, Mohamed, 64–65 Wilayat Ali, Maulvi, 71 Wylie, Colonel H. 289–290 Yaqub Nanatawi, Maulana, 194, 220, 255, 259, 260 Yusufzai tribe, 65–66 Zafar, Bahadur Shah, 72, 396, 300 Zakat, 61, 62, 281 Zayn al Abidin, Sheikh, 269 Zia-ul-Haq, Sheikh, 320 Zia-ul-Qulub, 229–243, 256, 262; Arabic translation, 238–239; bodily deportment formats, discussion of, 235–236; circulation in Hindustan, 240–243; and Deobandi scholars, 261–262; discussion of zikr, 232, 233, 235–237, 238, 241, 247, 257, 258, 262; emphasis on consensus, 232, 233, 235; focus on Chishti prescriptions, 232; forms of devotion of Qadariya silsila, 233, 235; importance of guide (murshid), 230–232, 234, 236– 237, 240, 253, 262; as murshid-i-kamil

489

i n de x

Zia-ul-Qulub (continued ) (perfect guide), 237–238, 240, 241, 259– 260, 262; norms of virtuous public conduct, 230, 231–233, 234–235, 237, 238, 240, 259–260; prescriptive norms of Naqshbandi Sufis, 233; promotion in Hindustan, 259–261; publication in India, 241–242; review by Maulana

Rashid, 240–241, 256; synthesis of Sufi sects, 230, 231, 232, 233, 234, 240 Zikr. See under Zia-ul-Qulub Zohrab, and surveillance of Muslim netwoks, 125–126, 137, 141, 142–143, 145–146, 153, 154, 177 Zubaida Aqueduct, 147, 148 Zubair Pasha, 380, 381, 382, 383

490