Water and Historic Settlements: The Making of a Cultural Landscape 2022013361, 2022013362, 9780367723682, 9781032324616, 9781003315148

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Water and Historic Settlements

This book explores the manner in which human societies understood and managed scarce water resources. Focusing on the arid, rain shadow region of Marathwada, it documents the panoramic history of this region’s most important resource – water. It shows how water delineates the establishment of political authority, marks the intersection of networks of trade and pilgrimage and is the bearer of identity through community memories. The book foregrounds how, as a material as well as a ritual and symbolic element, water flows across the boundaries of caste, sect and religion, bringing communities together and linking the past with the present. It not only analyses textual and archaeological sources but also focuses on oral narratives and their potential to provide consensual as well as alternative narratives of the historical and cultural landscape of Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad. It also shows how water has been framed in myriad forms in human history – as a ritual, allegorical element present in the myths and cosmology that order the sacred geography of pilgrimage centres, as a physical tangible presence manipulated through human technology to sustain the population and finally, as a subliminal driver for historic agency, its often hidden, underground presence underwriting the region’s vitality over the past millennium. A nuanced history of water over millennia, this book will be of great interest to scholars and researchers of environmental history, historical geography, South Asian studies, heritage studies and environmental studies. Yaaminey Mubayi is a historian who has worked in the area of cultural heritage and community development over the past 20  years. Her work includes studies of craft, local histories, community memories, traditional knowledge and indigenous ecologies. She has published widely in these areas, and her previous book, Altar of Power – The temple and the state in the land of Jagannatha, came out in 2005. She lives with her family in New Delhi, India, and, in recent years, has focused her energies on teaching, research and writing.

Water and Historic Settlements The Making of a Cultural Landscape Yaaminey Mubayi

First published 2023 by Routledge 4 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2023 Yaaminey Mubayi The right of Yaaminey Mubayi to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Maps used in this book are historical and for representational purposes only. For current boundaries please refer to Survey of India maps. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Mubayi, Yaaminey, author. Title: Water and historic settlements : the making of a cultural landscape / Yaaminey Mubayi. Description: Abingdon, Oxon ; New York : Routledge, [2023] | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2022013361 (print) | LCCN 2022013362 (ebook) | ISBN 9780367723682 (hardback) | ISBN 9781032324616 (paperback) | ISBN 9781003315148 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Water and civilization—India—Marathwada. | Water—India—Marathwada—Religious aspects. | Cultural landscapes—India—Marathwada. | Marathwada (India)— Historical geography. | Marathwada (India)—Religion. Classification: LCC DS485.M493 M37 2023 (print) | LCC DS485. M493 (ebook) | DDC 954/.79—dc23/eng/20220511 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022013361 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022013362 ISBN: 978-0-367-72368-2 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-032-32461-6 (pbk) ISBN: 978-1-003-31514-8 (ebk) DOI: 10.4324/9781003315148 Typeset in Sabon by Apex CoVantage, LLC

Contents

List of figuresvii Prefaceviii Acknowledgementsxi

Introduction: Foregrounding water within the cultural landscape of Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad – a methodological approach

1

Overview of historical developments in Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad 5 Delineating the cultural landscape of Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad 20 1 Water and settlements – historical development of the region vis-à-vis the political economy of the Deccan; networks of trade and patronage

41

Daulatabad – a layered historical narrative  44 Politics of patronage – the water cisterns of Ellora caves  50 Takaswami ashram – a modern reuse of a cave cistern  54 2 Water and sacrality – sacred geography and networks of pilgrimage

59

Sacred geography and the inflow of people and ideas  61 Water as the embodiment of fertility and healing powers 68 Calling the monsoon – the Panchami festival in Verul  75 3 Water and memory – community identities as the past remembered; memories as carriers of values, beliefs and practices Re-covering “Malik Ambar ki Pipeline” – reconstructing the past through community memories  84

83

vi  Contents Malik Ambar: the slave who became a sultan  102 Imagining the region: locating community memories in space  105

Conclusion: A unique cosmopolitanism

111

Cosmopolitanism unfolding in the Deccan landscape  113 The Kitab-e-Nauras of Ibrahim Adil Shah: a kaliedoscopic vision of Deccan cosmopolitanism  118 Bibliography125 Index130

Figures

I.1 I.2 I.3 1.1 1.2 2.1 2.2 2.3 3.1 3.2 3.3 3.4 3.5 3.6 3.7 3.8 3.9 3.10 3.11 3.12 3.13 3.14 3.15 3.16 3.17

Aurangabad district map 3 Thomas Daniell, “Mountain of Ellora” 26 Sketch by James Fergusson (1808–86) of the Lanka Cave (behind the Kailash Temple) at Ellora 27 Landscape at Khuldabad 41 Takaswami ashram 54 Suryakund 64 Dargah of Shaikh Jalaluddin Ganj-e-Rawan 66 Grishneshwar tirtha 70 “Malik Ambar” period steps 86 Sluice holes in the steps 87 Channel under embankment, Mavsala talaab 88 Land given to Bhils as marfat89 Abpashgdara, the lowest of Malik Ambar’s cascading lakes 90 Remains of ceramic pipeline encased in stone 91 Pipes embedded in stone wall 91 Overland stream 92 Fruit orchard, now a grazing ground for Bhils 94 Jalali Baba dargah 95 Remains of bund wall 96 Waterfall 97 Remains of pleasure pavilion 98 Remains of pleasure pavilion 99 Our guide 100 Portrait of Malik Ambar 103 Children playing in Dharma talaab 108

Preface

Dawn is coming. Venus, the Morning Star, hangs like a lamp in the lightening sky. The morning breeze carries the plaintive notes of the Muezzin as he recites the Salah al Fajr, the morning call to prayer. As the last tremulous refrain dies away, the morning hush is once again broken by a stronger sound, the chime of temple bells announcing the morning arati at Grishneshwar. The sky behind the massive bulk of the Charanadri hill turns gold, throwing into relief the dark mouths of the Ellora caves, passages into the past. This is my unwavering impression of Ellora, where yesterday lives on in today, where diverse communities celebrate their shared past and commemorate a negotiated present. Lying at the confluence of multiple trade and pilgrimage routes, this arid region of Marathwada located in the rain shadow of the Western Ghats has been a theatre of historic activity over the past two millennia. Bound in the south east by the medieval fortress of Daulatabad and in the east by the Sufi town of Khuldabad, Ellora possesses a peculiar combination of geo-political and spiritual significance that has preserved its relevance to multiple historic generations. But the key to this endurance is the ability of its community to survive in a resource scarce environment. This is its contribution to human civilisation. And the beauty of this quality lies not in its uniqueness, but in its ubiquity across the historic sites of the Deccan. The Indian sub-continent, with its perennial rivers, heavy monsoon rains and substantial groundwater reserves, has not exactly been a water-scarce civilisation historically. Yet the seasonality of its rainfall, the sporadic availability of water in all but the glacier-fed rivers of the north and the large sections of arid terrain bereft of permanent water sources have created pockets of deprivation, both spatial and temporal. The resulting dearth of a continuous supply of water has led to a fascinating preoccupation on the part of human societies with the precious resource, from a felt need for water to sustain human lives and livelihoods to a ritual element, symbolising cosmic transformations from the mundane to the sacred. It is also frequently the repository of the collective memories of communities in a region, giving rise to a shared consciousness of the past and the creation of a collective identity. The book explores the manner in which human societies understood

Preface ix and managed scarce water resources in an arid, rain shadow region of Marathwada and the extent to which water underwrote continuous historical settlements in the area for over a millennium. A pitiless sun blazes from an incandescent sky, baking the earth below. Heat rises from the ground in waves, making the air shimmer. A single tree stands silhouetted against the horizon, thorny branches raised in supplication. Deep cracks appear in dry fields as if the earth were opening its thirsty mouth to the sky. Few experiences can match the intensity of an Indian summer. The moment of expectancy, awaiting the first drops of rain on the parched soil, has been transformed into the most sublime poetry and music, celebrated in myth, ritual and folklore. That first drop is an answer to prayer, a moment of absolution, a manifested epiphany. “Lingered for a moment upon her eyelashes, struck her lip, burst into spray upon falling onto her breast, and then slid over the folds of her stomach, coming to rest at her navel. the first raindrop of the Monsoon” (Kalidasa, Kumarasambhavam, in Santhosh Alex, “The First Raindrop of Monsoon and other Vignettes” – https://kochipost.com/?p=10822). As the turgid clouds burst open, releasing their pent up waters, causing the soaking soil to foam and eddy, the cycle of life is perfectly consummated. “But in love our hearts are as red earth and pouring rain. Mingled beyond parting” (Sangam poem, in Santhosh Alex, “The First Raindrop of Monsoon and other Vignettes” – https://kochipost.com/?p=10822). For the Indian sub-continent, the monsoon is more than seasonal rain. It symbolises life and livelihoods for the millions of cultivators who depend on this cyclical source of water for their crops. Throughout history, it has organised economic, social and cultural life, ordering the movement of traders along sub-continental routes, structuring the ritual cycles of pilgrimages and festivals in major temple centres. It is a prominent feature of the Baramasa genre of Indian aesthetics, the song of the seasons, vividly represented in paintings, music and poetry. The rolling, thunderous notes of the Raga Malhar immediately transport the listener to the season of lightning and rain. In the emotion of Viraha, popular in folk and classical dance and music, the absence of the lover is premised on his inability to travel home to his beloved during the monsoon. The unique fragrance of the first raindrops on dry soil, the sweet taste of fresh mangoes, fruit of the rains – the monsoon speaks to all the human senses in the sub-continent. The convergence of the sensory poetics of the monsoon with the geographical landscape of peninsular India is iconically portrayed in Kalidasa’s Meghaduta. The journey of the cloud messenger, from Ramagiri (Ramtek) at the foot of the Vindhyas to Alakapuri in the Himalayas, meticulously maps the regions, topographies, rivers, lakes, the people, their lives and lifestyles, covered by the duta.1 The Sandesakavya (messenger poetry), a genre of which Meghaduta is a part, through its grand sweep of the region’s cultural geography, provides an ideal setting for the unfolding of the story’s narrative. The fact that the main protagonist is a cloud links its journey

x  Preface across the sub-continent with the unfolding of the monsoon season, adding another seasonal dimension to the account. This tradition of fusing culture, politics, language and livelihoods with the geographical landscape resonates with the eco-cultural regions of Maharashtra: Khandesh, Marathwada and Vidarbha. Set on the leeward side of the Sahyadri mountains, Marathwada receives the dregs of the monsoons after they have deposited the bulk of their moisture along the Konkan coast. Since it has no perennial rivers other than the Godavari, the seasonal rain is critical for sustaining the majority of its agrarian population. Throughout its history, therefore, kings and communities alike have conserved and managed precious water resources in order to survive the frequent droughts caused by the failure of the monsoons. In the historic landscape of Ellora– Khuldabad–Daulatabad, located in the modern district of Aurangabad, successive regimes have devised ingenious systems of water conservation in response to felt needs through the centuries. This book will explore the way in which water, as an element and an idea, was a significant preoccupation governing the lives of local communities.

Note 1 Mirjam Westra, “Exploring the Geographical Data of the Meghadūta Reconstructing the Route of the Cloud,” Masters Thesis, Faculty of Theology and Religious Studies, Rijksuniversiteit Groningen, 2012, pp. 3–7.

Acknowledgements

The butte fortress of Daulatabad looming through a rain-spattered window, rising like a massive ship from a sea of green. Pilgrims sheltering from the sun under a gigantic peepul (Ficus Religiosa) tree, a row of dark entrances to the Ellora caves in the background. The silvery stream of the Yelganga dancing over rounded rocks down the steep slope of the Charanadri Hill in the monsoon, releasing torrents of water over the entrance of Cave 29. The landscape at Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad is a feast for the senses. I can taste the flavours even today, the raw mangoes and ripe figs sold by the roadside at Daulatabad. The robust crispness of Thalipeeth at Kachru’s home, a mixed grain pancake cooked in an earthen pan on a woodstove, its crusty surface caramelised with hot ghee. It tastes best when Kachru’s wife pops it in my mouth with her own hands, giggling as she says this is not meant to be eaten yourself! Yusuf, the epitome of Deccani tehzeeb, brings an ornate brass jug and basin so I can wash my hands and wipe them on the towel on his shoulder. Platters of fried fish, mutton curry and the most impossibly fine and soft chapatis follow, while his wife and children file in at my urging but refuse to eat until I am done. Things are more informal at Sabir’s place, where his wife, Razia, presides over dinner and the entire family. His daughters show me their schoolbooks and inform me that the younger one wants to join the police while Sabir talks at length about his family’s participation in village festivals. Kachru, Yusuf, Sabir and many others  – they have painstakingly and generously uncovered layers of the historic landscape for me, bringing me into the fold of their lives in Ellora– Khuldabad–Daulatabad. They are my family in that place, and every trip there is a homecoming. Professor R.S. Morwanchikar first introduced me to the significance of water in shaping the patterns of historic settlements in Ellora–Khuldabad– Daulatabad. Despite his fragile health, he tramped over the uneven ground along the Ghat road and revealed the vista of Malik Ambar’s cascading lakes spread below us. The blue-green waters of “Abpashdara” talaab captivated my imagination and guided my journey into the region’s past, along its abundant waterways, to the first pastoralist nomads who had established their camps on the verdant slopes of Mhaismal plateau. They must

xii  Acknowledgements have first experienced the pulsating trickle of water drops from the damp earthen sides of the Girija talaab, drops that become the rivers Yelganga and Girija. His lilting cadence and powerful words shaped an entire world in my imagination, where nomadic Banjaras moved through the rocky mountain passes, where the mighty fortress of Daulatabad emerged to dominate the surrounding countryside, supported by links with far-off garrisons, creating an entire catchment area for strategic defence that formed the core of empire in the Deccan. The Morwanchikars’ beautiful home, Parijat, is my sanctuary – I make a beeline for it as soon as I land in Aurangabad. Within its cool book-lined interiors, I taste Mrs Morwanchikar’s sabudana khichri and drink water from a steel pot poured straight into the mouth, Indian style, and the spirit of Ellora seeps into my consciousness. Professor Morwanchikar has been my guide along this journey, a Guru in many forms. I would like to acknowledge the role of the Site Management Plan for Ellora caves, commissioned by the Archaeological Survey of India in 2008, owing to which I first entered the region and was fascinated by the presence of water. As a member of the project team set up by the Cultural Resource Conservation Initiative (CRCI), I  am grateful for the freedom to explore various facets of the landscape and its community that contributed to my developing alternative perspectives of the area. A Senior Academic Fellowship from the Indian Council for Historical Research (ICHR) in 2013 enabled me to continue my study. I want to thank Dr Torsten Fischer, Director of DFG (German Research Foundation), Dr Doris Hillger and her team at South Asia Institute (SAI), New Delhi, for their generous support in enabling the development of ideas through contact between experts in Germany and India. A multi-disciplinary workshop supported by the DFG, SAI and the ICHR was held in Ellora in 2013, attended by scholars from Germany and India, including Professor Hermann Kulke, Professor Mattias Grottker, University of Lubeck, Professor Burkhardt Vogt, German Archaeological Institute, Professor Gita Dharampal-Frick, SAI, Professor Jorg Gengnagel, SAI, Professor Upinder Singh, Delhi University, Dr  Rohan D’Souza and Dr  Ranjeeta Datta, JNU. I  am grateful to them all for contributing their thoughts on the subject. Ranjeeta, in particular, has been a constant source of support and encouragement over the past decade, often pulling me back on track when I faltered. In 2019–20, a Fulbright-Nehru Fellowship enabled me to spend a year at Mount Holyoke College, USA, where I could finalise my research while teaching a seminar course on the subject. A memorable event during my tenure, there was a dialogue with Dr Maya Peterson, a brilliant young scholar and author of Pipe Dreams – Water and Empire in Central Asia’s Aral Sea Basin, an event organised by the McCulloch Centre at Mount Holyoke. It is a precious memory indeed as Maya was snatched away cruelly a few months later. My time in South Hadley was stimulating, reflective and intellectually invigorating. Long chats over coffee and dinner with Indira Peterson and Ajay Sinha led to many eureka moments in my manuscript. Kavita

Acknowledgements xiii Khory, Sohail Hashmi and Suzanne Mrozik generously gave their time and ideas to enrich my arguments. Most of all, my students opened my eyes to new perspectives, and their enthusiastic response to my rather eclectic presentations infused me with fresh energy. My grateful thanks to Aakash Chakrabarty for believing in my work and Brinda Sen and the editorial team at Routledge for their valuable support and feedback that have enhanced this manuscript tremendously. My family has been my constant companion on this journey. My parents, Ashok and Niti, have travelled to Ellora with me, providing muchneeded support and encouragement for my half-formed ideas. My husband, Taveesh, is my rock – nothing is impossible or unbelievable, as far as he is concerned. My children, Kaatyaayani and Amartya, have grown up with stories and dinner-table discussions about Malik Ambar and Ibrahim Adil Shah. The journey has been long, and now the time has come for it to end, not in conclusion, but to pause and embark on an exploration of myriad other paths that have opened along the way. This book is an opportunity for readers to participate in my experience of alternative perspectives of Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad. Life is full of surprises, and voices from the past constantly whisper to us. Stop and listen to some of them.

Introduction Foregrounding water within the cultural landscape of Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad – a methodological approach

My first view of the Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad region was from the air, as I  huddled against the window of a twin engine ATR-72 during an early morning Jetlite flight to Aurangabad. As the aircraft dipped and turned in a slow arc towards the west, the vast sculpted landscape of the Deccan was slowly unveiled beneath. Suddenly all the random thoughts running through my mind, still slightly stupid and sleepy from the early departure, were extinguished, evaporating like mist in the sunlight. I was wide awake, focused, eyes riveted on the scene below. Green table-topped plateau lands, sharply defined scarp edges stratified in shades of brown, fantastic conical hills amidst lighter green sown valleys and here and there, embedded like jewels in the basaltic folds of the surrounding highlands, emerald green pools of water.   Driving up the ghat road past the massive brooding colossus of Daulatabad fort, the ground to the right suddenly gave way to a steep trench at the bottom of which the turquoise depths of the Abpashdara (Hiranya lake), winked and sparkled in the morning sun.

There are some places where one can watch the drama of history unfold, century by century, like turning the pages of a book. Circumstances, events, experiences, like signposts, catch the eye of the traveller into the past. Then they are engulfed within an ever-expanding imagination where they link and mingle, falling into historically intelligible patterns. The landscape begins to speak, telling of the relationship between man and the environment. Grey clouds over flat brown plateau-tops express the significance of seasonal rain to a parched countryside. Green verdant slopes with brimming pools of water at their base reveal the evidence of human labour in constructing mud walls to hold in the life-giving resource. Caves and temples carved out of black Basalt invite streams of devotees and pilgrims that flow in to worship at the many shrines, or simply pass through. The landscape at Ellora– Khuldabad–Daulatabad has been a locus for human activity over the past two millennia. The settlements of Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad laid out within a territorial radius of 10 kilometres in the Aurangabad district, constitute a DOI: 10.4324/9781003315148-1

2  Introduction micro-region characterised by specific ecological, political and socio-economic factors that contributed to their pattern of historical evolution. Situated in the rain shadow of the Western Ghats in the Marathwada region of the Deccan plateau, the three sites along with associated settlements such as Verul, Kagazipura and Sulibhanjan villages and the pastoralist hamlets of Talawadi and Shardulwadi occupy a series of micro-watersheds within the Upper Godavari river basin.1 The region is covered by a rock type known as the Deccan Trap, formed from ancient volcanic extrusions that possess the ability to hold and transport large quantities of groundwater owing to the presence of sub-surface air pockets.2 Situated within the wider landscape of the Upper Godavari catchment area, the sites are a product of particular historical processes, for instance, their location along a key sub-continental trade route, their strategic position vis-à-vis military expansion by northern and southern powers and the convergence of different religious and ethnic groups, that have influenced their pattern of evolution over the past two millennia. Water has played an important role in defining this pattern, underpinning the relationship between man and the environment. The story of Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad is about Water and History. It is about the manner in which the presence of water underwrites the existence of historic sites, settlements and communities in this arid region of Marathwada, deep within the Deccan plateau. The role of water in the making of a historic landscape is explored from different perspectives: as an essential resource present in nature, as an instrument for the application of evolving technologies of conservation and as a ritual element, embodying sacredness through its power to heal and cleanse. Water, through its quicksilver ability to change form while retaining its essential nature, is a common thread moving across the land, underground and overground, crossing the boundaries of the sacred and the profane, traversing the margins of religion and community. It defines the landscape of Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad. The region is one of great historical significance, being a nodal point along a major trade and pilgrimage route linking the Gangetic north to the Deccan, the Dakshinapatha. It is also associated with the conservation and management of water, demonstrated by the numerous wells, tanks and reservoirs and also illustrated in the local religious cults, myths and sacred sites. The temple of Siva-Ghrishneshwar, located in Verul village, is designated as one of the 12 Jyotirlingas, a network of Saivite shrines. It is an important Jaina place of pilgrimage, as well as one of the largest clusters of Sufi dargahs in the region; Khuldabad being known as “the valley of saints.”3 Thus, the region of Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad is a focal point for the convergence of a variety of sacred sites, which have grown, not diminished, in significance over the past one and a half millennia. As Carmel Berkson informs us: At different periods and with varying intensity . . . Ellora was a thriving centre of life. Traders, scholars and teachers . . . monks and pilgrim

Introduction 3 devotees . . . worshiped, communicated and came to know and understand one another.4 An overview of the region’s physical environment and terrain sets the stage for the unfolding of the drama of history. Its ecology is premised on the particular nature of the rock covering the area, which, along with the topography, river drainage and rainfall patterns, generates a specific ecology of water, both surface and groundwater, that characterises the region. This creates the contextual particularities of Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad that influenced the evolution of historic settlements, and continues to dominate the development needs of the area. The Deccan plateau, constituting the largest part of peninsular India, extends across eight Indian states, from the Satpura hills of Madhya Pradesh to Tamil Nadu. Its name is an anglicisation of the Urdu term Dakhan, itself derived from the Sanskrit Dakshina (south). Bound in the west by the Sahyadri range of the Western Ghats and the Eastern Ghats in the east, the plateau slopes gently from the north-west to the south-east, the higher hills of Maharashtra giving way to gently undulating plains in Telengana and Karnataka.5 Aurangabad district is located in the northern Deccan and consists

Figure I.1 Aurangabad district map Source: https://cultural.maharashtra.gov.in/english/gazetteer/aurangabad/mahmap/MAPAURAN GABAD.htm

4  Introduction of nine sub-divisions (talukas), of which Khuldabad taluka contains the three sites, the Ellora cave complex, Devagiri or Daulatabad fort and the Sufi town of Khuldabad. A number of hill ranges, offshoots of the Sahyadris, are located in the northern part of the Aurangabad district. The Satmala range cuts across from east to west, and the Ajantha hills run along the north-western boundary of the district. The Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad region lies between the Verul hills and the Chawaka range towards the centre of the district. The Ellora caves are carved out of an outcrop of the Verul range known as the Charanadri hill, extending for 2 kilometres in the north-south direction. The rocky, hilly terrain in the region, characterised by extrusive surfaces like scarps, plateau plains and rugged slopes interspersed with verdant valleys transforms into flat alluvial plains of the Upper Godavari as one moves southwards into the talukas of Gangapur, Vaijapur and Paithan. The northern highlands of Khuldabad taluka constitute the headwaters of rivers like the Shivna, Dudhna and Purna, major tributaries of the Godavari. Most of the Aurangabad district is covered by a rock formation known as Deccan Trap, consisting of layers of Basalt. The Trap is made up of ancient lava flows indicating intense volcanic activity towards the close of the Cretaceous period (145–160 million years ago).6 The rock formation enables the penetration and transmission of water and explains the presence of rock-cut cisterns for collecting and storing rainwater adjacent to the Ellora caves. It also justifies the prolific use of wells and baolis (stepwells) by the public in the area, both of which effectively tap the groundwater reserves within the vesicular sections, joints and fracture planes of the Deccan Trap.7 Since all the rivers are monsoon-fed, rainfall penetrating the porous Trap and creating substantial groundwater reserves is the main source of water and a lifeline for agriculture in the region. In the post-monsoon period, water can be found at a depth of 0–5 metres but in the pre-monsoon dry season, groundwater levels can fall to 25 metres below ground level.8 Water conservation, therefore, is a critical need for human survival.9 The presence of talaabs or reservoirs illustrates a human response to the particular combination of rainfall and topography – the tendency of heavy seasonal rain leading to a high rate of run-off water on the undulating terrain. Therefore, the capture of surface run-off in talaabs located at the base of slopes and scarps is an important feature of water management in the area. The natural process of water collection was invariably reinforced by building mud-brick or stone bund walls, creating permanent reservoirs for water storage. This combination of climatic factors, topographical features and human intervention defines the specific engagement between communities and the environment in Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad. It displays a deep understanding of ambient water resource conditions, the nature of the rock, groundwater behaviour and seasonal particularities of the monsoon on the part of local communities throughout the region’s history. This understanding played an important role in the pattern of its evolution, from

Introduction 5 structural developments at Ellora and Daulatabad to the establishment of multi-religious pilgrimage centres.

Overview of historical developments in Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad constitutes a defined space possessing certain integrative aspects that are the result of its geographical, historical and cultural features. Casting a squint-eyed glance at Benedict Anderson, the “imagined” community at Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad depicts certain patterns of cohesion based on a shared experience of their environment and history. This section explores the historical narrative of the region within the context of the wider landscape of the Deccan. It regards the structural shifts and processes of change that impacted the lives of communities, leading to the particular patterns of state formation and societal arrangements that characterised the region. The region’s physical location at the intersection of the Sahyadri hills and the Deccan plateau, makes it a rocky, hilly terrain that is a natural watershed with limited arable land. The presence of the Dakshinapatha, a primary sub-continental highway opening into peninsular India provided access to the coastal seaports as well as the mineral-rich zones of the southern Deccan and was an important source of the region’s wealth. The Dakshinapatha corridor afforded an opening for the passage of people, products and ideas, linking the peninsula with western and eastern Asia. This created a cosmopolitan zone, a meeting place where diverse ethnicities, cultures, trades and belief systems converged. It was this cosmopolitan quality that underpinned the variety of communities and institutions in the area. The region possesses iconic historic structures, the Ellora caves, a World Heritage site and Daulatabad fort are just a few amongst them. The presence of temples, dargahs, talaabs, ashrams, walled towns and multiple community settlements point to the region being a scene of intense activity since early historic, possibly even pre-historic times. Today, the local residents belong to different religious and sectarian groups but are deeply aware of the antiquity of their environment. The recognition of the Ellora caves and Daulatabad fort as protected heritage sites generating tourism-related livelihoods is an important aspect of this consciousness. However, the presence of other shrines and pilgrimage centres, their associated myths, practices and sacred geographies depict a long-standing identification of the area with historical and ritual activity. The region of Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad emerged from the wider landscape of the Deccan that had witnessed human settlements since prehistoric times. Although lack of archaeological investigation in the region limits the proof of remains, the beginning of habitation in the western Deccan can be traced to Paleolithic and Mesolithic settlements in the Upper Godavari basin. There is well-documented evidence of early stone age tools

6  Introduction at Gangavadi near Nashik and Neolithic settlements at Daimabad (Ahmadnagar district) and Inamgaon in the Bhima valley. In the Chalcolithic phase characterised by the spread of Jorwe culture over much of the Deccan, we can observe the beginnings of long-distance trade. Items of exchange included gold and ivory from Karnataka and conch shells and haematite from the coastal areas of Gujarat and Konkan. The clustering of human settlements and their interlinking through networks of exchange laid the foundation for the pattern of historical development in the region in later times. The Mauryan period (c. 3rd century bc–1st century ad) was important for the development of trade networks and the beginnings of urbanism in peninsular India. The territories of Ashmaka (Ahmadnagar), Mulaka (Aurangabad) and Rishika (Khandesh) were well-known amongst the region’s mahajanapadas (chiefdoms). The western ports of Bhrigukaccha (Bharuch) and Shurparaka (Sopara) were recognised as significant centres of trade, as the presence of Buddhist stupas and Ashokan edicts indicate. Longdistance trade along the Dakshinapatha would certainly have begun by now, and the discovery of silver coins and Roman punch-marked coins illustrates the linkages with the western ports. In association with this trend, there was a growing prominence of merchant guilds that also began to play a role in ownership and management of land. As Shaw et al. demonstrate, through their research on central India,10 this led to “monastic landlordism” by the Buddhist Sangha and formed the social and economic base for the spread of Buddhism and Jainism. The Dakshinapatha gained in significance under the Satavahanas (2nd century bc–3rd century ad), a successor state to the Mauryas and an important power in the Deccan. Ruling from their capital at Paithan, their reign was underscored by increased trade and commercial prosperity, illustrated by the large numbers of coins found, including Roman coins. Buddhism and Jainism flourished at this time, establishing far-flung networks of patronage across the sub-continent in consonance with powerful merchant guilds. The Ellora region’s involvement in this phenomenon is illustrated by the reference to Bhogyavardhana (Bhokardan, an ancient manufacturing centre about 80 kilometres from Ellora) in donative inscriptions found at Sanchi. This was also the period in which the early Jaina shrines in Devagiri were constructed, displaying the growing importance of the region, nourished by the trade and monastic traffic along the Dakshinapatha, in the commercial and political ecosystems of the sub-continent. Buddhism continued to thrive under the Vakatakas (3rd–5th centuries ad), successors to the Satavahanas in the Deccan, during whose reign the cave complex at Ajantha was constructed. The close of Vakataka rule ushered in the early medieval period of Indian history, characterised by agrarian expansion and the takeover of forest areas by settled societies. This period saw the negotiation of social and political authority between caste Hindu society, forest tribes and pastoralist-nomadic groups. These processes, involving a reorganisation of rights over land, renegotiation of social

Introduction 7 hierarchies and a reworking of institutional frameworks, particularly those pertaining to religious establishments, created an environment of great social and political flux. A large number of dynasties rose to power, some of them descended from dominant tribal or pastoralist groups, all competing for control over territory. When the agrarian frontier expanded into forest areas, many independent tribes, mostly hunter-gatherers, were disempowered and marginalised. They were either pushed deeper into inhospitable jungle areas or barren, dry zones or else engulfed by caste Hindu society and placed within its lowest orders. While Buddhism was at its peak in the 6th–7th centuries, its decline was already on the horizon, with a resurgent Brahmanism using the narrative capabilities of Puranic myths to take over local cults and autochthonous deities within its pantheon. This was done not only by the imposition of a dominant ritual order but often by the acceptance of local practices and traditions as forms of Brahmanical belief. Patronage given to tribal cults by Hindu dynasties was a means of legitimising their rule amongst local communities and expanding their popular base, as Kulke’s work on the Jagannatha cult has shown.11 Further, royal support for temples and tirthas (pilgrimage centres), especially those located on hills and passes associated with tribal and pastoralist groups, could be a way of appropriating strategic locations by agrarian kingdoms. This argument could also apply to shrines linked with market centres and trade routes, the combination of trade and pilgrimage providing an ideal medium for disseminating royal authority. All these factors could have influenced the growth of Ellora as a centre of sacred activity and royal patronage. Thus, as Sahu points out, historic regions were shaped by contestation over status, power and authority between differentiated territorial entities at varying levels of social, political and cultural organisation.12 The historic landscape at Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad illustrates many of the processes discussed earlier. The presence of pastoral-nomadic groups settling in successive waves, as well as the presence of forest tribes like the Bhils, points to negotiations over social status and access to resources like land and water with the settled agricultural communities. This would have established the social infrastructure necessary for sequential dynasties to patronise excavations at Ellora. It is interesting to note that several such dynasties, like the Kalachuris, Chalukyas, Rashtrakutas and later, the Yadavas, trace their origins to Abhira (pastoralist) clans, thereby giving credence to the notion of the integration of pastoralist groups as powerful political entities within the Brahmanical caste order. Owing to its location along a major sub-continental trade route, with numerous travellers transiting the region, Ellora was clearly a preferred site for emerging dynasties seeking popular validation amongst trans-regional populations. However, the local cult of Shiva Grishneshwara along with its tirtha (sacred pool) was also gaining in popularity as a pilgrimage destination by the 6th century. The Kalachuris who succeeded the Vakatakas were

8  Introduction devotees of Shiva in his form as Lakulisa (of the Pashupata sect), associated with linga (phallus) worship. The excavation of the earliest caves at Ellora, 19, 28 and 29 was undertaken by Krishnaraja Kalachuri (535–575 ad); therefore, strongly resonated with the presence of the Grishneshwara linga nearby. Simultaneously, Ellora was of interest to the Buddhist trading communities as well. The practice of establishing vasas (monsoon retreats) for itinerant monks was popular amongst Buddhists and Jainas, although the notion of forest dwellings and ashramas was common amongst mendicants since the later Vedic period. The earliest such cave retreats were excavated in the Nagarjuni and Barabar hills in Bihar, c. 3rd–2nd centuries bc. The movement of monks along the Dakshinapatha would have taken the practice into peninsular India, where subsequently, cave architecture flourished in the Deccan under the patronage of wealthy Buddhist and Jaina merchant guilds. Early vasa complexes in the western Deccan include those at Bhaja, Bedsa, Karle, Kanheri and, closer to our region, at Ajantha, Aurangabad and Pitalkhora. At Ellora, however, the technique of carving and ornamentation, particularly in the later Buddhist caves, 10 and 11, is of a far higher order than those seen in previous structures. Malandra suggests a two-fold reason for this leap forward13 – first, Buddhist merchant organisations in the 7th–8th centuries were powerful corporate entities with far-flung networks linking the sub-continent with south-east Asia and China. Cave development at Ellora was enriched both economically and technologically through these networks. Owing to the scarcity of inscriptions at Ellora, this can only be inferred through references found at Sanchi and Bharhut, both sites with prolific inscriptional evidence. Second, Malandra claims that the Rashtrakutas also patronised cave excavation at Ellora. This indicates a deep interest in supporting the trans-continental trade networks on the part of the Rashtrakutas, who were themselves beneficiaries of lucrative trade linkages with south-east Asia and the Arab world. Juxtaposed with Ellora’s growing significance as a Saivite pilgrimage centre, the Rashtrakutas linked their emerging political ambitions with patronage of a multi-religious pilgrimage centre, thus garnering popular support from diverse communities. The 7th–8th centuries was a time when the Rashtrakutas were aspiring to come out from beneath the shadow of the Chalukyas and establish their independent rule in the Deccan. In his Elapur grant, Chalukya Vijayaditya (705–06 ad) expresses concern that Dantidurga, a Chalukya feudatory, was becoming increasingly powerful by patronising excavations at Ellora.14 This indicates Rashtrakuta’s patronage of Buddhist caves as well – it is logical to infer that from mid-7th century onwards, excavation work was underway in both Buddhist and Brahmanical caves at Ellora. By the time Dantidurga threw off the Chalukyan yoke and declared independence in 753 ad, the Rashtrakutas could claim Ellora as a “religious capital,” affirming their influence over the pilgrimage centres and its multiple community networks. As Carmel Berkson informs us,

Introduction 9 By the time the Buddhist caves were carved at Ellora, and 800-year old tradition had produced a vocabulary which was familiar to artists. Although Buddhist art at Ellora is the mere vestige of a great and vital tradition, it served the purpose of keeping alive the spirit and institutions for a brief period before their final demise.15 Ellora attained the zenith of its glory under the rule of the *Rashtrakutas in the 8th century. In 741–42 ad, according to his Ellora inscription, Dantidurga granted land to Gujarati Brahmanas at Elapura, after bathing in the sacred pool (“tirtha”) at “Guhesvara” (Grishneshwara). This was when he was not yet an independent ruler. The inscription highlights the fact that the Rashtrakutas aspired to legitimacy over the region by patronising the tirtha and its cult.16 Though he did not yet bear the full title of a king, Dantidurga had already assumed the royal prerogative of making land grants in his own name. The Dasavatara cave inscription of 750 ad17 announces the emergence of Dantidurga as an independent ruler, having conquered his Chalukya overlord (“vallabha”), as well as the rulers of Kanchi, Kalinga, Kosala, Malwa, Lata, Tauka and others. The inscription also mentions that he “approached with his army and staid (sic) at this temple,” perhaps to display his military strength and oversee the construction that he had sponsored. This was the first time that Ellora had been linked with a ruling dynasty. Dantidurga’s personal presence at the complex has inspired scholars like T.V. Pathy to surmise that Ellora was a religious capital of the Rashtrakutas, and to speculate about the larger extent of the town of Elapura that may have existed at the time, possibly under the present town of Khuldabad.18 Ellora was also richly patronised by Krishnaraja (757–72), Dantidurga’s uncle and successor, who is credited with the construction of the Kailasanatha temple (Cave 16), a masterpiece of skill and creativity. The Kathakalpataru (10th century), an early Marathi text, recounts the story of a Rashtrakuta king, Elu, whose queen Manikavati wished to build a magnificent temple of Shiva. She vowed that she would not touch any food until she saw the temple’s finial (kalasha). The king invited several famous temple builders but they all expressed their inability to complete the work in such a short time. Finally, an architect named Kokasa from Paithan agreed to undertake the task. He began by carving the finial, then proceeded to construct downwards, a technique used in cave excavation. The story highlights the innovative skills and quick thinking on the part of the architect from Paithan. The Kailasa temple is similar to the Virupaksha temple at Pattadakal, a contemporary structure, illustrating the shared building vocabularies of the time that could be transmitted over long distances in a remarkably short time.19 Finally, the story demonstrates the high level of personal commitment to the * “Unpublished report on Ellora History for Ellora Site Management Plan” submitted to CRCI, 2009

10  Introduction shrine that drove the Rashtrakutas to create the magnificent structure at the multi-cultural site. The gradual sharpening of focus on Ellora in the early medieval period can be read as an amalgam of social, economic and political processes characteristic of the time. Competing dynastic interests, the region’s strategic location along an arterial trade route, validation of royal authority by patronage to a local Saivite cult, all these are characteristic patterns of an early medieval political economy. What sets Ellora apart from many other sites, however, is the sheer scale of religious diversity, with three of the subcontinent’s religions represented in the cave complex. Malandra argues for the existence of “reduplicative” shrines at Ellora,20 wherein the Buddhist caves represented Bodh Gaya, the Kailasa temple depicted Mount Kailasa, and the Parsvanatha cave on Charanadri hill symbolised an important Jaina pilgrimage centre. The complex duplicated the primeval cultic centres sacred to the Buddhist, Jaina and Brahmanical communities. This trend of accommodating diverse communities within the regional landscape, sometimes competing, sometimes overlapping, continued through Ellora’s historical trajectory. Such a co-existence of a variety of social and political organisations, multiple denominational institutions, different religions represented by their pilgrimage centres, pastoralists, tribes, caste Hindu social hierarchies and later, Islamic communities, can only be what Aloka Parasher-Sen, in her study of early states in the Deccan, terms “unruly.” The relative isolation of settlements owing to rocky dry terrain, their connection to transcontinental trade networks via lucrative trade routes, water scarcity overall yet the collection of water in pockets, sacred sites negotiated between multiple communities, all are conditions that cannot be explained by axiomatic frameworks like the tribe-caste continuum. They must be analysed as a particular pattern of resource sharing, a unique cosmopolitanism. The marginalisation of the Ellora caves from the political mainstream of the region was a fallout of the decline of the Rashtrakutas, following their defeat by the Paramaras of Malwa in 972 ad. The region was not one of relevance to the Pallavas and Chalukyas, successors to the Rashtrakutas in the Deccan. Instead, the focus of political activity shifted from Ellora to Devagiri with the rise to power of the Yadavas, former feudatories of the Rashtrakutas and the Chalukyas. Claiming descent from the Puranic hero Yadu, with possibilities of their origin in Karnataka, the Yadavas established a quintessentially Marathi state located in Marathwada with Devagiri as its political capital. This was the only period when Devagiri was the primary capital of a major Deccan kingdom. Richard Eaton, in a persuasive argument, advocates the importance of “secondary centres,” fortified urban core areas that managed the agrarian hinterland and mediated the collection of trade and agricultural revenues under ruling dynasties in the Deccan.21 The landscape, with its scarp and butte surfaces, enabled the establishment of forts on hill-tops and promontories, allowing an unrestricted view of the surrounding countryside. The

Introduction 11 proliferation of dynasties at the dawn of the medieval period, all competing for arable land and profitable trade routes, led to struggles for control over the “secondary centres,” causing them to become frontier zones between rival kingdoms. The evolution of Devagiri, from being the primary capital of the Yadavas to becoming a significant secondary centre, is a process characterised by important changes in architectural infrastructure, military technology and the impact of the incursion of the Delhi sultanate into the region. Apart from becoming an arena for the encounter between peninsular India and the northern plains, the region’s development also reflected political conflicts between competing Deccan powers against the backdrop of inflows of religious and cultural ideas from western Asia and the Middle East. Why did the Yadavas, with their former base at Ambejogai (Beed district), decide to adopt Devagiri hill, 160 kilometres away, hitherto a Jaina religious centre with about 12–14 temples, several kunds (sacred tanks) and a flourishing market town as their capital? It could have been on account of its favourable geo-political location along the Dakshinapatha and the defensive potential of the hill providing the security necessary for a royal capital. It is clear that the Yadavas were familiar with the region, as previously they had sponsored the excavation of Jaina caves at Ellora. It was no surprise, therefore, that Bhillama V had the base of the hill scarped to make it almost vertical, installed a variety of defence infrastructures like fort walls, bastions and gateways and constructed a chain of dry masonry tanks on the hills opposite to service an enhanced civil and military establishment within the fort.22 They renovated many of the temples in Devagiri and built a large palace and residential establishment in the Mahakot area at the base of the hill. A larger urban settlement named Kataka spread out and covered the area until Khuldabad. The Yadava court hosted a rich array of literary figures and the first great works in Marathi, such as the Jnaneshwari, the Mahanubhavi text Lilacharitra, Sanskrit works like Hemadri’s Chaturvarga Chintamani, Sharangadeva’s Sangeeta Ratnakara and the mathematical text Lilavati by Bhaskaracharya, were composed during this period. While consolidating their authority at Devagiri, the Yadavas were engaged in military conflicts with other Deccan powers such as the Kakatiyas of Warangal, the Hoysalas of Dwarasamudra (Halebid), the Shilaharas of Kolhapur and others. Many of these were defeated and under Bhillama, his son Jaitugi and grandson Simhana, Yadava territory extended from the river Narmada to the Tungabhadra in the south. The kingdom was renowned for its great wealth, acquired via trade along the Dakshinapatha. This attracted the attention of the northern powers. Alauddin, nephew of Delhi Sultan Jalaluddin Feroz Khalji, while on an expedition to Bhilsa in Madhya Pradesh, learnt of the great riches of Devagiri and decided to launch a raid on the fort. In 1296, in a well-planned manoeuver, he marched southwards with a force of 4000 cavalry and 2000 infantry, reaching Devagiri where he besieged the Yadava ruler Ramachandradeva within the fort. Ramachandra,

12  Introduction ill-prepared for the attack, capitulated within a week and sued for peace, offering quantities of gold, silver and jewels along with a promise of annual tribute in exchange for his life. By 1307, when the tribute had not been paid for several years, it was learnt that Shankaradeva, Ramachandra’s son, was plotting rebellion against Delhi. Alauddin, now Sultan of Delhi, sent a large force under his ace general, Malik Kafur, who easily overran the Yadava forces and took Ramachandradeva to Delhi as hostage, along with another massive treasure. Devagiri was annexed to the Delhi sultanate by Malik Kafur and used as a base to launch an attack on the Kakatiyas of Warangal in 1310.23 The conquest of Devagiri by Alauddin Khalji opened the door to northern incursions into the Deccan. It created a pattern of inter-relationships between the north and the south that later led to the shift of capital from Delhi to Devagiri by a subsequent Sultan, Muhammad Bin Tughlaq. The defeat by Delhi dealt a deathblow to the power and glory of the Yadavas. Sultan Qutbuddin Mubarak Shah, who succeeded Alauddin Khalji, marched to Devagiri to quell a rebellion by Harpaladeva, Ramachandra’s son in law, who had laid claim to the throne. According to Ziauddin Barani, a contemporary chronicler, Harpaladeva was captured, flayed and beheaded, his severed head displayed on the ramparts of the fort.24 Qutbuddin ordered the demolition of several temples in the citadel and their remains were used to construct the monumental Jami mosque. The city was renamed Qutbabad and reduced to a “vanquished capital,” as Mate puts it.25 Eaton and Wagoner offer an interesting perspective on these developments at Devagiri. In the Deccan, conquering armies had traditionally destroyed temples and religious buildings of defeated kingdoms – it was a way of delegitimising the latter’s authority over the land and asserting their own. By rebuilding the mosque with the remnants of the temples, the new structure re-embodied the sacred power and identity of the fallen kingdom. It was a rite of passage – a re-invention of the new state with the elements of the old.26 Devagiri, renamed Qutbabad, was celebrated in this verse by Amir Khusro: Oh! Auspicious (Mubarak) city of the king of happy dominions which received the name of Qutbabad from the Qutb (pivot) of the world! When infidelity (kufr) prevailed in it, demons (dev) tormented its inhabitants and that is why the ancient Deo called it Deogir.27 With the occupation of Devagiri, Delhi had stamped the Deccan with its presence. The state was placed under the administration of a Naib Vazir (governor) and the kingdom divided into districts governed by Turkish officers. The practice of placing officials and nobles from the north in positions of authority in the Deccan had a deep and lasting impact on its society. It led to the creation of a Deccani nobility, those with roots and relationships in local society, their identity coalescing around a shared resentment against

Introduction 13 the northern establishment and its more recent migrants from west Asia, particularly Persia. An additional dimension to the encounter between the northern plains and the Deccan was provided by the advent of the Sufis. Around the time of Alauddin Khalji’s siege of Devagiri, two Sufi saints, Hazrat Momin Arif and Shaikh Jalaluddin Ganj-e-Rawan, had established their khanqahs in the vicinity of the fort. Over the next several decades, large numbers of Sufis migrated into the region, Shaikh Burhanuddin Gharib and Shaikh Zainuddin Shirazi prominent amongst them. They were disciples of Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya of the Chishti lineage, based in Delhi. The advent of the Sufis into Devagiri (Deogir) set up alternative, longer-lasting paradigms for the encounter between the Deccan and north India. It definitively exposed the local population to the new religion of Islam, along with Sufi ritual practices. There has been a long-standing debate amongst scholars about the Sufis being motivated to migrate to the Deccan at the behest of Delhi sultans, to legitimise their authority and increase the Islamic population base through conversion. However, Carl Ernst, in his seminal work on the malfuzat (hagiographies) of the Sufis of Khuldabad, argues against such a stance. He proves that most of the Sufi saints of Delhi resisted the move to Devagiri, for which many were executed by the sultan. Ernst points to the tension between influential Delhi saints like Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya and Khwaja Nasiruddin Chiragh-e-Dehli, who had resisted efforts by the sultans to control their spiritual influence over the populace. In keeping with this trend, Shaikh Burhanuddin Gharib established his khanqah beyond the boundaries of the citadel of Devagiri, now Daulatabad. Nizamuddin Auliya did send his disciple, Muntajibuddin Zar Zarizar Bakhsh, to Daulatabad, followed by his brother Burhanuddin Gharib. Ernst, however, suggests that the reason was to spread the influence of the Chishti order: the granting of the “wilayat” of Deogir to Muntajibuddin was not a means to validate the sultan’s reign. If anything, the Sufi establishment was an alternative centre of power, rivalling the sultan’s temporal authority. On the subject of conversion to Islam, Ernst describes the complex terms of the interaction between the Sufis and the non-Muslim local communities in the Deccan. The idea of proselytisation as viewed in modern discourse is heavily influenced by the activities of Christian missionaries filtered through colonial accounts in gazetteers and other sources. Using census statistics for the region in the 19th century, the numbers of Muslims in the local population do not support large-scale conversion by the Sufis or any other group. Unlike the Christian missionaries, who had religious conversion as their core agenda, the Sufis appear to focus on establishing the ideological supremacy of Islam, with accounts of the saints “defeating” religious frauds, charlatans (frequently termed “idol worshipers”) and “ignorant” folk.28 Ernst also contests Eaton’s argument that the Sufis were regarded as warrior saints (Babas, Ghazis) and did not conform to some pacifist ideal of

14  Introduction non-violent piety. Ernst suggests that the Chishti saints of the Deccan were urbane, scholarly folk, interested in esoteric learning, not part-time soldiers or military leaders. The warrior saint may be a trope acquired from bardic legends about local heroes (the common motif of the viragal, or hero stone, comes to mind) or martyred Turkish warriors, whose tombs had become destinations for local pilgrims. Travel, to propagate the glory of god and search for the soul’s destination (muqam), visions and dreams where important questions were answered were largely the underlying principles for Sufi migration into the Deccan. Jean de Thevenot, the 17th-century French traveller, describes the idyllic landscape at Khuldabad, then called Rauza. When I  arrived there, I  discovered a spacious Plain of well-cultivated land, with a great many villages and Bourgs amidst Gardens, plenty of Fruit trees and Woods . . . very fair Tombs several storeys high . . . I  alighted near a large court paved with the same stones  .  .  . at first I found a little Mosque, where I saw the Bismillah of the Mahometans writ over the door . . . there was no light into the Mosque . . . but there were many lamps burning in it, and several old Men that were there, invited me to come in.29 The town of Khuldabad was named after the Mughal emperor Aurangzeb, who was given the title of “Khuld Makan” (he whose abode is eternity). Previously, it was called Rauza, or garden, a generic term for a Sufi settlement derived from a mausoleum of saints. The town houses the tombs of a multitude of saints, Nizamshahi rulers and the Asafjahi Nizams of Hyderabad, prominent devotees of the saints and significant historical personages like Malik Ambar, the Habshi (Abyssinian) Vakil-us-Saltanat (prime minister) of the Nizamshahi sultanate. Khuldabad is located on a plateau overlooking the Ellora caves that were probably a site for a pre-Yadava township, Elapura, or the Yadava settlement of Kataka. There are a number of tanks and talaabs in the area and several temples and edifices from the Chalukya, Rashtrakuta and Yadava periods. Aurangzeb fortified the town with a stone wall with seven gates. Mohammad Bin Tughlaq succeeded his father Ghiyasuddin to the throne of Delhi in 1325. Fears of Mongol invasions were high at this point, and the young sultan decided to shift his capital to Deogir, a move that he anticipated would also secure the sultanate’s Deccan territories and provide greater access to the wealth garnered by the trade routes. Ernst suggests that the sultan’s ambition of conquering Khurasan drove him to raise taxes in Punjab in order to collect the required capital. He assumed that the removal of the elite establishment from Delhi would result in greater cash liquidity in the north. Either way, the move was not meant to deprive Delhi of the status of capital but to establish a second capital at Deogir, thereby expanding his sphere of authority.

Introduction 15 Elaborate preparations for the move were made at Deogir. These included revamping the fort’s defence infrastructure  – the old-fashioned square Yadava ramparts were replaced by a double line of ramparts in lime mortar masonry, with rounded bastions and turrets. The moat around the Mahakot was widened and deepened. A new township, later named Ambarkot, was built to accommodate the Delhi population. It had a counter-scarp and glacis (slope) along with a second moat built to protect it from attack. Another fort wall with gates and bastions encircled the new complex. Fresh water bodies, such as the Hauz-e-Qutlugh (named after Qutlugh Khan, the sultan’s tutor, who was appointed governor of the new city), were constructed along the hills to the north-west. The road from Delhi to Deogir was renovated, lined with fruit trees and resting points (sarais) installed along the entire distance of 650 miles. The fort was renamed Daulatabad, the city of wealth. Essentially, the move was aimed at relocating the elite classes and intelligentsia of Delhi to Daulatabad. These included several Sufis who were anticipated to be propagandists, legitimising the sultan’s authority over his new dominions. This did not quite happen, as seen in Ernst’s discussion earlier. In fact, there was simmering resentment within the transplanted population, many having suffered the loss of property and family members during the move. Rebellions broke out in Telengana and Ma’abar, a plague epidemic erupted in the Deccan and there was famine in Punjab. The plan to increase revenue exaction seemed to have backfired and the Khurasan campaign had to be put off. A cornered sultan had to reverse his decision and allow the Delhi residents to return to their homes in 1335. Daulatabad returned to being a provincial capital of the Delhi sultanate. In the short term, the move was a disaster as it unravelled the sultan’s plans for territorial domination. In the longer term, however, it brought to the surface certain patterns and faultlines that had a deep impact on the Deccan’s political landscape. Eaton has discussed the twin strategies deployed by Delhi sultans to govern their peninsular territories. The northern half of the Deccan, between the Narmada and Krishna rivers, was “colonized” and directly administered by governors appointed in urban centres and garrison forts under immigrant officials called Iqtadars (landowners) to rule over the countryside. In these territories, coins were minted in the sultan’s name, demonstrating his sovereign authority over the land. South of the river Krishna, however, Delhi’s dominance was looser in nature, a form of “indirect rule,” with tribute-paying kingdoms like the Hoysalas, and other local chiefdoms under native chieftains who entered Tughlaq administration as tributary amirs.30 The Muslim nobility with provincial allegiances became a problematic faction for subsequent rulers. Since their advent into the Deccan in Khalji times, Muslim settler colonists had begun to acquire a local “Deccani” identity that made them resent the authority of the imperial heartland to the north, which they increasingly saw as oppressive and tyrannical. This sentiment gathered momentum in the late 1340s and finally exploded in open rebellion. Deccani Muslim nobles rallied

16  Introduction around Zafar Khan, a former Tughlaq governor, who led the rebels to capture first the imperial fort at Gulbarga (1346) then Daulatabad in 1347. He was crowned in the Jami Mosque in Daulatabad and assumed the title of Alauddin Hasan Bahman Shah. In the same period, the region south of the Krishna also threw aside their allegiance to the Delhi sultanate and a new dynasty under the brothers Harihar Sangama and Bukka Raya established the Vijayanagara empire. The political geography of the Deccan was reconfigured once again. Interestingly, the Sufis of Khuldabad played an important role in legitimising the Bahmani kingdom. According to an anecdote, Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya had just finished meeting with Sultan Muhammad Bin Tughlaq at his khanqah in Delhi, when he discovered Zafar Khan waiting outside for an audience. The Shaikh is believed to have prophetically remarked, “one sultan has left my door, another is waiting there.” The statement is acknowledged by Abdul Malik Isami, a contemporary chronicler who actually witnessed the coronation of Zafar Khan in Daulatabad, and is used to demonstrate the role of the spiritual power of saints in the assumption of temporal authority by kings. In his “Futuh-us-Salatin” Isami states, “although there may be a monarch in every country, yet it is actually under the protection of a fakir.” Hazrat Nizamuddin’s khirqa (robe), believed to have been worn by the Prophet himself the night he ascended to paradise, had been passed down to his disciple, Shaikh Burhanuddin Gharib, who took it with him when he migrated to Khuldabad. Upon his death, the robe passed on to his disciple Shaikh Zainuddin Shirazi, who apparently draped it on Zafar Khan during his coronation in 1347. The spiritual authority of the Sufis, transmitted through a holy vestment, transformed a rebel movement into a legitimate kingdom.31 The Bahmani sultans can be credited with converting the citadel at Daulatabad into a formidable defensive fortress. A variety of protective features were installed to repulse any sort of invasion. The sides of the hill were scarped until they were vertical, to a height of 90 feet, creating an Ark Killah (acropolis), making it virtually impregnable. A moat was cut into the solid rock at its base. The ramparts and moats around Ambarkot and Mahakot, begun in the Tughlaq period, were completed by the Bahmanis. The high level of defensiveness of the structures reflect the conflict and insecurity of the times. The spectacular Chand Minar, towering over the countryside, was constructed by Ahmad Shah Bahmani as an emblem of his authority, symbolising his freedom from the yoke of Delhi. The nature of warfare also underwent fundamental changes in this period, particularly with the introduction of artillery. Fort defences had to take into account fire power and the range and trajectory of the invaders’ cannons. These were tackled by thick mortar bound stone ramparts and several concentric walls with deep moats between them. The scarp, too, was a device that made it virtually impossible for enemy shells to land inside the citadel.32 The sheer scale of fortifications at Daulatabad designated it a significant defensive establishment and provincial centre under the Bahmani sultanate.

Introduction 17 Meanwhile, the schism between the Deccani nobility and the westerners, predominantly of Arab and Persian origin, was growing. At a cultural level, this relationship was deeply complex, even ambivalent. Following Timur’s invasion and conquest of Delhi in 1398, Sultan Firuz Shah Bahmani immediately sent ambassadors and lavish gifts to the Turkish conqueror, whose military might and spectacular court in Samarqand had inspired awe and admiration throughout the Islamic world. Timur reciprocated by referring to Firuz as “son” and sent him a belt, sword, slaves and horses.33 Such diplomatic overtures acknowledged not only Timur’s military authority over northern India by the Bahmani sultanate but also his leadership of the Persianate world. The Deccan sultans’ admiration for Timurid architecture influenced their building works in Bidar and Firuzabad. Mahmud Shah Bahmani even extended a lavish invitation to the Persian poet Hafiz to settle in his dominions, a request that was almost accepted. The Deccan sultans definitely aspired to assume some aspects of the Persianate cultural complex, as Eaton shows. However, within the functioning of the Bahmani state, the rivalry between the westerners and the Deccani nobility grew more acrimonious, leading to the wrongful execution of Mahmud Gawan, the wise and capable prime minister (wazir), himself of Persian origin, who had tried to prevent the growing discontent. In 1481, a treacherous plot was hatched by the Deccanis, accusing Gawan of treason, for which the gullible sultan ordered the wazir’s execution. Eaton argues that the rivalry between the two factions was unavoidable – the Deccanis were a legitimate group who had supported the rebellion against Delhi and enabled the founding of the kingdom. The westerners also could not be ignored if the Bahmanis were to stay connected with the wider Turko-Persianate world that dominated sub-continental politics. The Bahmani kingdom fell into a state of paralysis that was only broken when it disintegrated into five successor sultanates led by the provincial governors. The first to carve out a separate kingdom was Malik Ahmad, governor of Junnar, who founded the Nizamshahi sultanate in 1490. Initially his capital was Junnar, his provincial headquarters. In 1494, however, he shifted to a new capital city, Ahmadnagar and, in 1499, captured the key fort of Daulatabad.34 Imad-ul-Mulk, governor of Berar, founded the Imadshahi sultanate with its capital at Elichpur, while Yusuf Adil Khan, governor of Bijapur, declared independence at roughly the same time. Qasim Barid Shah, the Bahmani sultanate’s wazir (prime minister), consolidated his control of territories around Bidar and established the Baridshahi state, while Quli Qutb Shah, governor of Telengana, set up the Qutbshahi sultanate headquartered at Golconda. The five sultanates were extremely heterogeneous in terms of territorial extent, political power and ideological and ethnic attributes. Within the Adilshahi dynasty of Bijapur, for example, the founder Yusuf Adil Shah, an immigrant from Anatolia, was a Shia and declared the Shi’ite faith as Bijapur’s state religion. His son, Ismail, was even more of

18  Introduction a zealot – he acquired a completely Persianate identity, seldom spoke Deccani and employed only westerners. His son Ibrahim, on the other hand, reversed this trend, converted to the Sunni faith of most Deccani Muslims and installed 24 Chalukya period columns at his citadel’s entrance, proclaiming his Deccani identity to the world. Meanwhile in Golconda, Ibrahim Qutb Shah ascended the throne supported by a conglomerate of westerner and Telugu nobles, following his exile at the court of the neighbouring Vijayanagara empire. The wealthy, diamond-producing sultanate was characterised by what Eaton terms a curiously “hybridized” culture, marked by the fusion of Persian and Telugu, Shia and Sunni, Muslim and Hindu, west Asian and Deccani cultural and social forms expressed through literature, architecture and the visual arts. This trend of fusion underpinned Deccan society as a whole during this period and can be exemplified by the Kitab-e-Nauras, the book of nine rasas, highlighting the multi-cultural ethos of the Deccan, attributed to Sultan Ibrahim Adil Shah of Bijapur. Despite their internecine conflicts, like the ongoing rivalry between Ahmadnagar and Bijapur and their conquest of the smaller states of Berar and Bidar in this regard, the period is characterised by a flowering of art, literature and spectacular architecture, born from the cross-fertilisation of cultures and ethnicities within the crucible of the Deccan. Eaton points out that boundaries between states, including those with the massive Vijayanagara empire, were porous, enabling considerable interaction between parties. For instance, Rama Raya, the son of a prominent Vijayanagara general, began his career in the armies of the Golconda sultan. During a skirmish with Bijapur, he fled back to Vijayanagara, where, through a series of political manoeuvers, succeeded in installing himself as de facto ruler and regent of the puppet king, Sadasiva. Riding the wave of success, he plundered territories belonging to Ahmadnagar, Bijapur and Golconda. The sultanates decided to collaborate in this instance and their combined forces defeated the mighty Vijayanagara army at Talikota in 1565. Thereafter, they looted the city of Vijayanagara, a debacle from which it never recovered. The use of the hilly Deccan terrain, as well as artillery for defensive manoeuvers by the sultanates, was an important factor in their victory. Impregnable forts like Daulatabad were important assets in the prevailing climate of cultural efflorescence coupled with frequent armed conflicts between the Deccan powers. The Nizamshahi layer at Daulatabad reflects this paradox. There was strengthening of defences with the construction of inner fortifications known as Kalakot, enclosing a number of “luxurious” palaces, as Mate puts it. Large audience halls with patterned gardens and fountains indicate the residence of a substantial royal establishment. An elaborate water system captured run-off from the surrounding hills to sustain a large civil and military population within the fort. The Chini Mahal, embellished with delicate blue and yellow tiles, exemplifies the Nizamshahi period at Daulatabad.35

Introduction 19 The presence of a large population of Habshis, Ethiopian slaves transported to the sub-continent via Arab trade, was a significant factor in Deccan society at the time. Malik Ambar, a slave who rose to become the Vakil-us-Saltanat (prime minister) of the Nizamshahi state, was a singular personality who left a deep and lasting impression on Deccani society and its historical narrative. Enslaved as a child in the 1550s, he was bought into the service of several masters, the last of whom sold him to Chingiz Khan, the Peshwa of the Nizamshahi sulatanate, who was himself a former slave from Ethiopia. Released into freedom on the death of his master, Ambar joined the military forces of Bijapur, then returned to Ahmadnagar in 1595 to resist Mughal incursion. After Ahmadnagar fell in 1600, Ambar gathered a sizeable militia and continued to defy Mughal domination. He married his own daughter to a Nizamshahi prince, Murtaza Nizam Shah, and installed him on the throne at Daulatabad, which functioned as a quasi headquarters for the sultanate under Malik Ambar. His successful resistance so frustrated the Mughal emperor Jahangir that he commissioned a portrait of himself shooting arrows at the severed head of Malik Ambar, a fantasy that was never realised.36 One of the primary reasons for Ambar’s success against the Mughals was his adoption of the tactics of guerilla warfare (bargigiri), and another, his adept management of the military manpower available to him. Two categories deserve mention here. First, he admitted growing numbers of Habshi slaves into the Nizamshahi forces – by 1610, Eaton informs us, Ambar commanded an army of 50,000, 10,000 of whom were Ethiopians. The cohorts of skilled Habshi soldiers were a valuable asset as they had no prospect of returning home to their country of origin  – the Deccan was their only home and their loyalty was completely vested in their Deccani commanders. Ambar’s other prized ally were the Marathas. The Bahmani sultans had started the practice of mobilising hereditary territorial chiefs, the Deshmukhs, for the twin tasks of revenue collection and military support. Maratha cavalry, called Bargirs, regularly joined the forces of the Nizamshahi and Bijapur sultanates, and the heads of Maratha clans were given land grants and titles such as “Sardeshmukh” (chief of Deshmukhs) by the sultans. Ambar intensified this practice, incubating the Marathas and skilling them with the techniques of guerilla warfare. This enabled the Ahmadnagar forces to harass the cumbersome Mughal armies, mounting short deadly attacks on them and then melting away into the surrounding hills. The grandfather and father of Shivaji, Maloji and Shahji Bhonsle, were in the service of the Nizamshahis, and Shahji continued to resist the Mughals even after Malik Ambar’s death in 1626. Eaton aptly terms the Nizamshahi state under Malik Ambar a “joint Habshi-Maratha enterprise.”37 In Malik Ambar, the Mughals had come up against a formidable opponent indeed. His resistance to the northern forces was premised not only on building effective military assets like the Maratha Bargirs but also putting in place strategic economic

20  Introduction and social infrastructure, such as important land reforms, building public works and defence infrastructure at Daulatabad and the construction of the new city of Khadki, envisioned as his new capital. In 1632, Daulatabad fell to Mughal forces under Shah Jahan after a protracted siege.38 It was converted into a base to carry out campaigns against the powerful sultanates of Bijapur and Golconda and further imperial expansion into the Deccan. His son Aurangzeb was stationed for many years as governor of the Deccan. With his capital at Khadki, renamed Aurangabad, he, nevertheless, spent considerable time at Daulatabad. Following his death in 1707, the fort passed into the hands of the Marathas for a brief period, then came under the rule of the Nizams of Hyderabad. The remains of Aurangzeb are buried in a simple grave in the Sufi town of Khuldabad, according to his last wishes. Meanwhile, in Verul, Ghrishneshwar continued to grow as a pilgrimage centre of local and regional importance through the second millennium ad. However, it acquired sub-continental significance during the religious revival undertaken by the Holkars in the 18th century. Its refurbishment, along with other shrines of national importance like Varanasi and Bodh Gaya, was part of an effort by the Maratha dynasty to establish a panIndian legitimacy for their rule, and emphasise the role of Deccan cults in the national religious scenario. According to J.B. Seely, an early British traveller in the region, the Holkars maintained a large establishment at Ellora.39 They used to rent the caves for religious purposes and raised funds by collecting an entrance fee. This practice seems to have continued till the beginning of the 20th century. It is in the year 1951 that the Government of India declared the Ellora caves to be monuments of “national importance”; two years later, they came under the control and supervision of the Archeological Survey of India.40

Delineating the cultural landscape of Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad The idea of a cultural landscape is a complex, even problematic one. It has been debated from the perspectives of multiple disciplines, as a “useful bridge” between anthropology and archaeology, as a “synthetic” man-made spatial system to serve a community.41 The landscape at Ellora–Khuldabad– Daulatabad is presently deeply impacted by the discourse on cultural heritage, with the cave complex at Ellora being nominated as a World Heritage site by UNESCO and Daulatabad fort and other smaller sites on the list of the Archaeological Survey of India. There is a rich corpus of literature on individual sites as well as the region, but very little that deals with microlevel interactions between local communities and their physical and cultural environment. Local voices that contribute to the expression of the region’s identity have not been heard. This is the gap that this study aims to fill, if not comprehensively, then in some measure.

Introduction 21 The role played by water in delineating the cultural landscape of Ellora– Khuldabad–Daulatabad is a seminal aspect of this study. In a predominantly arid region, water is equally significant by its absence as by its presence, the former engendering creative structural methods for its collection. However, water is also present as a ritual element in the landscape, the sacred pools commemorating its healing and cleansing qualities and powers of potency. It is the bearer of people’s memories, linking past to the present through associations of remembrance. While water may not be the raison d’etre of the existence of the historic region, it is essential for its survival. It is useful to carefully examine some of the terminologies that will be commonly used in this study. The following section addresses some key phrases that underpin the arguments that follow to unravel their etymology and also clarify the architecture of ideas that has structured the perspective that this book has to offer. So, concepts like community memories, language as contested identity, the evolution of space into place, factors constituting a cultural landscape, the very idea of the Deccan, all need to be placed within their epistemological contexts and judiciously, if not always objectively, applied. The title of this book refers to a very specific territorial entity, a triangular space enclosed by three significant historic sites, the cave complex at Ellora (7th–12th centuries), the fort of Devagiri/Daulatabad (13th century onwards) and the Sufi town of Khuldabad that was possibly an earlier settlement but assumed the identity of a Rauza,42 a collection of Islamic religious establishments following the shift of the Tughlaq capital in 1327. This is a constructed space identified for the purpose of this study. It does not correspond to any established category, not being an administrative unit, nor are the settlements linked by any single religious narrative. Indeed, Ellora– Khuldabad–Daulatabad are singular sites with their own trajectories of evolution as historic precincts, a quality that this study will bring out. Yet there are deeper linkages between the three settlements. Their proximity to one another (being a few kilometres apart) places them within a particular geographical setting, a rocky hilly environment with pockets of arable land, the vesicular nature of the rock surface enabling the collection of rainwater runoff in talaabs at the foot of slopes. Apart from the similarity in terrain, the location of the settlements along the Dakshinapatha ensured their continuing relevance in terms of trade, political aspirations of ruling dynasties and the movement of ideas and religious beliefs carried by travellers along the route. What were the implications of this pattern of evolution for local inhabitants? Is there a local consciousness of a shared identity that is reflected in people’s beliefs and practices in Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad? What are the implications of the identity for the historic evolution of the region? Identity, myth and memory: bearers of community consciousness Over the past decade of my engagement with the region, one of the most rewarding outcomes has been the close relationships I have developed with

22  Introduction some of the local residents. We often speak on the phone, wish each other on festivals and, once in a while, discuss matters relating to the caves or the fort. Most importantly, when I arrive in Aurangabad (the nearest rail head), I long to reach Ellora and be at home amongst them, amongst the familiar faces, exchanging news and gossip, catching up on all that had happened in my absence. Over the years I have seen circumstances change, the impact of a growing Hindu-Muslim polarisation become more acute. Having said that, there has been a strong sense of belonging and local identity amongst the local community that extends beyond settlement boundaries. When Yusuf from Ellora says “I am from here,” “here” means Ellora–Khuldabad– Daulatabad. “Here” does not include Aurangabad. The idea of a person’s identity being derived from a particular physical environment has a long history, going back to Aristotelian topos and the Roman genius loci, the “spirit of a place” both referring to a sense of belonging in a certain space. Harold Proshansky, the environmental psychologist, has extended the reach of the term “place” from simply a geographical location to people’s experience of a particular environment or landscape.43 Place identity, or a sense of belonging to a geographical space, is fundamental to self-identity of individuals. “Place” as opposed to “space” implies strong emotional ties between a person and her physical environment. Memories are a key aspect of creating such a sense of belonging attached to a particular space. For instance, when Sadiq and Kachru from Ellora were asked how much water flowed in the Yelganga in the past, they recalled swimming in the stream as children, with the water level reaching their chest. The river established a natural association with their childhood. The relation between space, memory and identity was proposed by Maurice Halbwachs in the 1920s. He argued that certain locations were important in the narrative of a community’s memories owing to an association of ideas with it. For example, indigenous people in America were removed from their villages and their homes destroyed in order to facilitate their conversion to Christianity. While their homes existed, their memories were strong, as was their religious identity.44 Once the “home space” was gone, the shared consciousness unravelled and memories faded, leaving people open to seeking an alternative structure, in this case, to conversion. However, who selects what must be remembered, and who interprets the memories? Halbwachs points out that it is individuals who remember, but social groups who determine what is memorable and how it will be remembered. Social memory, therefore, is a result of selection by a particular group and is subject to its agenda. Peter Burke argues that in order to overcome the problem of historical relativism, the historian needs to study memory as any text, that is, critique its reliability and provenance like a document. She should also identify the principles of the selection of the memory and explore their variance over different historical contexts.45 But memories are powerful transmitters of ideas, often designed to shape the thinking of future generations. They can include textual records but

Introduction 23 encompass a much wider array of sources, oral traditions, commemorative rituals, monuments and memorials, images and art. A history of memory would include an enquiry into the manner in which the modes of transmission have evolved over time, as well as considering the purpose and agenda of the memories and how that has changed. Additionally, memory can have the added aspect of emotion attached to it, which requires an examination of forms of expression of community memory, such as myth and ritual. This is not a simple process, as the past has many dimensions. Jacques le Goff has argued at amongst pre-literate societies, the individual’s past parallels the collective past.46 He suggests that myths and rituals create an oppositional pattern of connectivity between past and present – mythical history is separated from the present by a vast chasm of time but paradoxically conjoined with it through the seasonal periodicity of ritual. This contradictory pattern enables different layers of the past to co-exist and be called upon as required. He provides the example of the Nuer of the Upper Nile region of Sudan, who view their past in different temporal layers. At the first level, the recent past is seen as something that quickly vanishes as “former times.” Beyond that, historic time is seen through the lens of important events or personalities that have left their mark on the calendar of history, floods, wars and, in the case of this study, a significant figure like Malik Ambar. The third layer is at the level of traditions, when time is incorporated into a mythical complex. Finally, there is the level of pure myth, usually concerned with the founding of civilisation, cosmogony, etc.47 This returns us to Halbwachs’ statement that humans use one another, possibly multiple generations, to organise the structure of their phenomenological experience – “We are whatever we remember ourselves to be.”48 The “we” is difficult to define and could subsume multiple social identities, including the co-existence of rival memories and contradictory narratives. It could even include the suppression of inconvenient memories. Group identity, therefore, is created from past events that have penetrated the collective consciousness through sharing, negotiation and contestation. Consensus is rare and ephemeral – arising usually in a situation of threat or confrontation. Myths and rituals represent expressions of group identity accessed through the medium of collective memory. In this context, one might recall Durkheim’s theory that ritual makes social reality intelligible through metaphorical and symbolic forms.49 Ritual actions can be interpreted as embodying cultural values expressed through elaborate narratives or myths. A mythic narrative exemplifies a ritual arrangement of actions, characters, events. Both myths and rituals are performative in nature, with cultural meanings encoded in posture, gesture, language and costume. This study engages with ritual performance in Ellora, elaborating the ways in which the annual event is closely interwoven with the local social ecosystem, linking it with cosmic phenomena like the monsoon.

24  Introduction Language is an important signifier for identity. Returning to the subcontinent, scholars like Sumit Guha have argued that the development of vernacular languages in the Deccan was linked to the emergence of regional political identities in the medieval period, roughly between the 10th and the 14th centuries.50 So the beginnings of Telugu in Andhra were connected with the rise of the Kakatiyas, Kannada was linked to the Chalukyas of Kalyani and Marathi with the Yadavas of Devagiri. Old Marathi texts like the Jnaneshwari or the literature of the Warkari saints and Mahanubhavis testify to the prolific use of the language in the Upper Deccan. The peninsular region in the medieval period was truly a heteroglot landscape, with multiple linguistic groups proliferating as well as interacting with one another. Richard Eaton, in his recent prodigious volume on the interaction between the Sanskritic and the Persianate worlds in the Indian sub-continent,51 argues that the two linguistic ecosystems were more porous than modern discourse has made them out to be. The sub-continent had been exposed to a number of linguistic influences from the west, through trade with the Arabs and west Asia since early historic times. In the 16th century, the Mughal emperor Akbar had declared Persian to be the official language of administration, making it a platform from where the diversities of Indian society could be negotiated. The spread of Persian over the sub-continent, penetrating even vernacular records and local transactions, was largely owing to its nonsectarian character, making it the ideal lingua franca for the region. Even the Marathas, known for their linguistic dogmatism, regularly used Persian terms and titles in their official records, which were in Marathi. The advent of the Sufis into the Deccan in the 14th century onwards, however, paved the way for their propagation of the more colloquial Hindavi or Urdu amongst local communities. For one, it was a vernacular that both Hindus and Muslims could communicate in, and the use of the Arabic script enabled the inclusion of a number of Perso-Arabic words. Bhakti poets like Tukaram, writing in Marathi, referred to it as Dakshinatya Yavani, or the language of the Muslims.52 Dakhani Urdu, as it came to be known, was extensively spoken across the Deccan by the time of the Marathas in the 17th century. Owing to the fact that it provided access to administrative records, Brahmanas, usually the keepers of village records and agrarian communities, also became familiar with it. Today, it is an intrinsic part of the linguistic landscape of Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad, along with Marathi, its rich cadence and expressive phrases, like “maaloomaat” (knowledge) instead of “jaankaari” (information) that my northern ear is more attuned to, never cease to fascinate me. The next section attempts a deep dive into the idea of a landscape, exploring its origins and evolution through the lens of different disciplines. The objective is to arrive at a conception of the Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad region as a cultural landscape, an artificially constructed space characterised by particular relationships between human inhabitants and their environment. At the core of these is the region’s geo-political location within the

Introduction 25 heart of the Deccan, a factor affecting its climate and topography, its economic and social networks, its political significance and its pattern of smallscale settlements. Exploring the landscape How do we approach the landscape of Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad? How do we define its spatial boundaries, its cores and hinterlands, the political, social and religious networks that connected it with other parts of the sub-continent and beyond? How do we study the historical transformation of settlements in the region, their structural remains depicting evolving technologies and usage patterns in alignment with political and cultural changes over time? Answers to such questions may open more avenues of enquiry than they may lead to conclusions. However, the questioning process is important as it will initiate an approach and methodology for contextual studies of Indian historic sites in times to come. What are the common threads that link the various layers of the historic landscape of Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad, vertically, through time and horizontally, via the inter-related settlements, institutions and monumental structures scattered over the countryside? There could be several – the location, the strategic geo-political positioning that made the region indispensable for human habitation over two millennia, the related significance of the sub-continental trade routes, particularly the Dakshinapatha, a corridor of connectivity between the Gangetic north and the plains of the Godavari in the peninsular south. The inflows of people and ideas via this corridor enabled the establishment of pilgrimage centres for almost all the major religious traditions of ancient India. The “window” to the South, or Khadki, that gave the region its name and caused Daulatabad to be an impregnable fortress, jealously controlled and guarded by military garrisons under the Bahmanis, Nizamshahis and Mughals. Yet it is the one factor, resource availability, particularly the presence of water, that links the geographical, historical, architectural and community-based significance of this region and highlights the essential telos of the landscape of Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad. Before exploring the Ellora landscape, it is useful to examine the origins of the term and its varied applications in different disciplinary contexts. According to its Wikipedia definition, “Landscape” refers to visible features of an area, its landforms and how they integrate with man-made structures, often created over long periods of time, reflecting a living synthesis of people and place that underpins local identity. Its usage in the English language appeared around the 16th century, imported from the Dutch landschap (a unit of human settlement) with its German roots in landschaft. In England, the landskip became associated with schools of painting depicting idyllic natural scenery. Even these early representations, however, were not without deeper meanings “hidden under layers of the commonplace,” as Schama puts it. The image of the “cathedral grove,” for instance, hints at Christian

26  Introduction tropes like the evergreen Fir and the idea of Resurrection, and even earlier impressions of Nordic tree worship via the Tree of Life.53 Two fundamental aspects of landscape were clear even from such early conceptualisations, in respect to a large-scale visionary perspective, enough to have a strong visual impact in terms of its features, yet not so large as to recede into abstract data. The other aspect evident from early usage was the importance of an external observer, whose perception led to experience and understanding of the landscape. But whose perspective was it that represented the view of the landscape? The earliest representations of the Ellora region were focused on its exquisite historic structures by British artists and architectural historians in the 19th century. The notion of a landscape as a visual representation of space, primed with aesthetic underpinnings, is a deeply problematic one, especially in the context of colonial depictions of India. Thomas Daniell was an English landscape painter, who spent seven years in India in the 1790s, along with his nephew William, also an artist. Some of the most iconic representations of the Ellora landscape have been provided by the Daniells, whose paintings were vastly influential in the portrayal of the “picturesque aesthetic” in India. Picturesque alludes to an aesthetic category that came into vogue during the last decades of the 18th century. It came to represent a way of perceiving and recording reality in places travelled by the artist and invariably applied to landscapes as a subject of

Figure I.2 Thomas Daniell, “Mountain of Ellora” Source: Wikimedia Commons (https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Thomas-Daniell-Moun tain-of-Ellora-3.jpg)

Introduction 27 portrayal. It has been argued that the “picturesque aesthetic,” as applicable to landscapes, is underpinned by politics of class, gender, knowledge and land ownership. The last category is seminal to an understanding of the colonial landscape as depicted in Daniell’s images of Ellora. The scenes consist entirely of physical features and structures, empty of human life and activity. The “human vacuum” thus depicted served to legitimise the appropriation of the spaces by the colonial government.54 Interestingly, the waterfall at Cave 29 appears to have made a deep impression on the artist. From a frontal perspective of the landscape that the picture provides, the flowing stream seems to connect the different levels of the countryside like a thread linking the layers of the landscape. The waterfall exists to this day and is a popular attraction for visitors. Archaeological research and scientific exploration in India was an intrinsic part of the colonial project55 of control over society through information gathering. Viewing the country as mere “scenery,” divorced it from its social, political and cultural context and reduced it to a backdrop for colonial interventions. Nayar and others have discussed the role of the “scholar-colonial” in establishing intellectual control over the sub-continent by mapping and documenting its architectural and archaeological remains and structures, interpreting its past for contemporary audiences.56 Thus, the “seminal” 19th-century publications on Ellora by Burgess and Fergussons were underpinned by a sense of authoritative, “rational,” “secular” and detached understanding of India’s past.57 In fact, in Guha-Thakurta’s

Figure I.3 Sketch by James Fergusson (1808–86) of the Lanka Cave (behind the Kailash Temple) at Ellora Source: https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/b/b4/Ellora_by_Fergusson.jpg

28  Introduction analysis, the term authoritative could be replaced with appropriative. She points out that British officers and civilians “randomly lifted sculptures for decorating public places and private homes and also frequently carried them outside India’s borders to be sold abroad.”58 Fergusson’s representation of the Ellora caves is much in alignment with the aforementioned trend. The buildings are depicted in intricate and graphic detail, highlighting their technical perfection. The human figures too appear as part of the scenery, inert and passive; their role in the picture seems to be to display their native costumes and portray their “otherness” to a European audience. The absence of any European in the image highlights the superior position of the “colonial scholar” as a technical specialist, documenting a scenario from which he is removed and aloof. Thus, Ellora’s landscape was a passive scene of past glory, significant because of ancient structures “discovered” and documented by colonial scholars. The term’s embeddedness in land revenue vocabulary made it a natural object for control and manipulation by political authority. The idea of landscape has undergone considerable evolution since its earliest roots in agricultural history in Europe, where it denoted a defined space acted on by human agency, developing as a man-made system functioning to serve human communities.59 Its other identity as a representational form in literature and painting still depicts a space that is acted on and lived within but can be viewed in more abstract terms. Its significance in terms of local ecologies and human economic endeavours remains but is overlaid by a history of human engagement with physical, ecological and ritual elements in the environment. Such a record of human interactions through space and time can be viewed as a Palimpsest, to borrow another term from the visual arts, a record of human interventions where material and cultural transformations carry the imprint of past associations and activities. In other words, Cultural Landscapes are spaces focused on people and the experiential, social, epistemological and emotional dimensions of their existence. Archaeology of Cultural Landscapes, or Landscape Archaeology, is an emerging field concerned with how people visualise the world, how they engage with one another across spaces, how they choose to manipulate their surroundings and how they are subliminally driven to do things in accordance with their locational surroundings.60 It acknowledges that it is not only people who change the landscape through their actions but are also changed by the landscape. Adopting the Landscape Archaeology approach enables a multi-dimensional understanding of the rich and textured landscape of Ellora-Khuldabad- Daulatabad. It allows an examination of the numerous sites, settlements and structures that dot the countryside as well as the historical events, myths, legends, community memories and oral traditions that link them in a dynamic narrative. The approach is far from problem free, however. From 1992 onwards, the concept of Cultural Landscape has been adopted by UNESCO as a category for nomination of significant regions onto the list of World Heritage

Introduction 29 sites. For one, the prescriptive terminology of the nomination process itself undermines a nuanced approach to the space. Consider, for example, the language of the criteria under which a region may be described as a cultural landscape – to be an outstanding example of a traditional human settlement, landuse, or sea-use which is representative of a culture (or cultures), or human interaction with the environment especially when it has become vulnerable under the impact of irreversible change.61 The idea of “an outstanding example of a traditional human settlement” imposes undue pressure on the process of identification of a cultural landscape owing to its influence on official discourse. The “nature/culture” binary, a common trope of the World Heritage nomination process, is another drawback for recognising more subtle shades of meaning that define the two categories in a cultural landscape. Thus, the notion of the Cultural Landscape, a bureaucratic construct, can often subvert the significance of the cultural landscape, a living reality. Such an approach does not take into account the views of the inhabitants, an important criticism raised by the Norwegian school of Ecophilosophy. As argued by Sven Arntzen, attempts to “protect” cultural landscapes involve preserving them like museum artefacts or monuments without taking into account the “insider” perspective of the residents. The ecophilosophical view of complex cultural landscapes, based on an intrinsic and dynamic interaction between human inhabitants and their ecological environment, is that it embodies a distinct historical narrative. The meaning that the landscape presents to its inhabitants is anchored in this narrative. The choice to either continue or disrupt the narrative rests with the inhabitants. “Protection” as an outside intervention is tantamount to disrupting the natural flow of the region’s narrative, according to this view.62 The view that a landscape can be altered, even completely changed by force using state authority is a familiar phenomenon even in current times. The top-down nature of decision making, drawing lines across maps without knowing the lived reality of the places in question, has been painfully obvious in the experience of the Partition of the sub-continent. On a smaller scale, the case of the construction of Quabbin reservoir in Massachusetts, the main source of water for the entire Boston area, by submerging four towns presents an interesting perspective of the issue of environmental protection. The project was driven by the interests of powerful private sector lobbies who wanted a reliable and long-lasting water supply for Boston. The site was selected notwithstanding the fact that the area was settled with a substantial urban population, a tributary of the Connecticut river, the Swift, was dammed, and the entire area flooded to create the reservoir. The populations of four towns, Dana, Enfield, Greenwich and Prescott, were compensated (not adequately) and resettled, but they lost their homes

30  Introduction along with the memories of their ancestors, as a number of cemeteries were also destroyed.63 The reservoir is now a major wetland and forest reserve, attracting numerous species of birds and wildlife and a popular recreational spot for local communities. But its origins in violent displacement of the local population engender questions about the agendas behind policy decisions – whose interests were served by the move and who had the power to choose? A layer of the region’s history lies submerged under 45 feet of water at Quabbin. The notion that a cultural landscape is actually a record of past events and processes, a palimpsest of human activity through the centuries, takes us back to Schama’s “moments of recognition . . . when a place suddenly exposes its connections to an ancient and peculiar vision of the forest, the mountain or the river.”64 His “excavator of traditions” stumbles upon some aspect of an area’s history, then proceeds to chip away at it, uncovering layers of a cultural design that leads her deeper into the past. This study’s experience of the landscape at Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad follows a somewhat similar trajectory, exploring the past through a dialogue with the present. And what is water’s role in this design? Once again we are drawn to Schama’s recollection of the Platonic conceptualisation of all waters symbolising the circulatory system of Nature, which was viewed as anthropomorphic in form.65 He argues that rivers carried great currents of myths and memories that linked people with their origins. The fundamental quality of water, its fluidity, allows it to transcend the layers of time and the boundaries of space. Water’s ability to flow makes it the ideal medium to express patterns of human interaction, political and economic processes, the development of ideas and the movement of thoughts. As the philosopher Theodor Schwenk puts it, “water makes the invisible visible.”66 He writes about the eddies and undercurrents rising and falling under the plain surface of water, like historical trends, events and processes colliding, moving away in opposition, running parallel to one another within the landscape. He argues that water has a will that shapes the living organisms within it, a rhythm of movement that propels and guides their transition through space and time. We observe a similar role for water within the landscape at Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad, of sustaining settlements, bringing people together at certain locations, channelling the inflows and outflows of pilgrims and bearing within it the myths and memories of local communities. The following section will explore how water has influenced the development of historic landscapes in South Asia through the existing literature on the topic. Since the Deccan is of particular interest in this study, it may be interesting to begin by recalling Ferishta’s conceptualisation of the region in terms of language and kinship. “Dakan was one of four sons of Hind.”67 This anthropomorphic image of the land paves the way to an understanding of its cores and hinterlands, the ever-evolving edges where cultures merge and coalesce, the diverse voices and identities that speak from within it and

Introduction 31 the circulation of water-bearing and transmitting these identities, connecting as well as dividing sites and communities. Water and historic landscapes in South Asia – a review of the literature The study of historic landscapes is still an emerging field in India, and cases like the Sanchi Survey Project of the University College, London, have contributed tremendously to the construction of the fundamental frameworks for this perspective. The project examines the spread of Buddhism from its centre of origin in the Gangetic plains into central and western India, and observes the manner in which it established itself by negotiating with existing groups and settlements for control over land and water resources in the early centuries of the first millennium. Julia Shaw, one of the lead researchers for the project, proposes that while large metropolitan centres like Sanchi and Vidisha have been studied for decades in terms of their “grandiose” architecture and sculpture, these studies have been, for the most part, in isolation from surrounding small settlements and hamlets. This has left several questions unanswered, such as what were the ways in which the religious establishment interacted with local communities, set up economic and political networks of reciprocity and put in place relationships of exchange.68 One of the primary objectives of the project was to examine the history of irrigation methods in the region as a means of determining forms of authority over agricultural production. The project suggests that the Buddhist Sangha assumed the position of “monastic landlord” vis-à-vis the local populations, sponsoring the construction of dams in order to influence agriculture, particularly irrigation, for rice cultivation. They also patronised the local Naga dynasty, whose sculptures are associated with the construction of the water bodies. This provides valuable information about the devolution of power between pan-Indian corporate institutions like the Sangha and local political entities.69 It also illustrates the manner in which the religious beliefs inter-penetrated existing societies, by establishing relationships of dominance and reciprocity. A valuable perspective of the manner in which pre-modern societies relate to water has been provided by Anne Feldhaus, who explores the religious nature of rivers in Maharashtra.70 Feldhaus’ canvas is necessarily large in terms of a cultural landscape, following the basins of the Narmada and Godavari, two of the peninsula’s largest rivers, but engages effectively with the significance water holds for communities in the region. She foregrounds the complex gendered identity of rivers, symbolised as female, and their expressed qualities of abundance, fertility, healing and life-giving against the backdrop of their role as circulating between the material and spiritual worlds. Feldhaus also adds a valuable component, community voices, to her study, which includes both textual and ethnographic sources. She incorporates popular myths, legends, ritual practices and festivals into a richly

32  Introduction textured narrative of gender-based religious practice with a focus on rivers, an essential resource in the region. Feldhaus’ perspective is invaluable as an exploration of pre-modern mentalities (values, beliefs, behaviour) within which space people’s relationship with water may also be classified. Feldhaus’ work on pilgrimage and the development of regional consciousness focuses on the practices of two Bhakti movements of Maharashtra, the Warkaris and the Mahanubhavs.71 The latter, in particular, can be credited with creating some of the earliest literary works in the Marathi language, such as the Sutrapath, the Sthanapothi and various mahatmyas from the 13th century onwards. The Mahanubhavs are an exclusivist monastic sect, inspired by their founder, Chakradhar Swami’s injunction to renounce all attachment to home, village and family. The emphasis on travel is primarily to achieve such a level of detachment. However, travel also gives rise to experience, and the Mahanubhav texts are a voluminous record of places, particularly pilgrimage centres, constructing a Marathi regional identity within a religious framework. Feldhaus goes on to examine the complex patterns of perceived connectivities that underlie the formation of a region in Maharashtra, proposing that people create regions in their imaginations by viewing places as the homes of relatives, as familiar pause points along pilgrimage routes, through association with the lives of saints. Such perceptions are reinforced by pilgrimages, the cyclical circulation of divine images, people and objects creating patterns of association that are periodically reaffirmed in popular consciousness. An understanding of the Deccan landscape, however, warrants an insight into the manner in which larger, regional level political and economic processes evolved in relation with micro-level exploits and events, displaying the multi-faceted tapestry of peninsular society. Richard Eaton’s prodigious work on the region walks the reader through an eventful journey encountering the extensive interaction between the vast Persianate and Sanskritic linguistic-cultural complexes that he terms “cosmopolis.”72 The roles played by a variety of influential individuals, Sufis like Muhammad Gesu Daraz, the Habshi slave sultan Malik Ambar, the warrior queen Tarabai, the “social bandit” Papadu and others in developing the diverse elements that constituted the multi-cultural society of the Deccan.73 In collaboration with Philip Wagoner, Eaton has explored the encounter between the Persianate and the Sanskrit cosmopolises in terms of the ways in which Delhi sultans, after defeating their Deccan counterparts, engaged with the region’s built environment.74 Contesting the oft-repeated polemical argument about temple destruction by Islamic rulers, Eaton and Wagoner suggest a more nuanced approach to the issue. Using a wide range of evidence from across the Deccan, they argue that temples were culturally and politically significant structures, and not simply destruction, but a range of reactions, including occupation, reuse, patronage, rebuilding and rehabilitation, in addition to the destruction, were adopted towards them by the sultans. Such reactions were related to the political and social context of the sites and illustrate the

Introduction 33 larger phenomenon of inter-penetration by the two cultural cosmopolises, not so much the destruction of one by the other. An alternative to the political authority of the various sultanates that held sway over Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad following the shift of his capital from Delhi to Daulatabad by Mohammad Bin Tughlaq, the Sufis of Khuldabad represented a different kind of power. Carl Ernst, in his seminal work examining the malfuzats (oral discourses), land grants and hagiographies of the different dargahs, including those of Shaikh Burhanuddin Gharib and Shaikh Zainuddin Shirazi of the Chishtiyya order of Delhi, along with older establishments of Shaikh Muntajibuddin Zar Zarizar Bakhsh and Shaikh Jalaluddin Ganj-i-Rawan, has skillfully crafted a narrative of the Sufis’ role in establishing Islam in the Deccan.75 Using an array of sources ranging from local biographies of the Khuldabad saints to imperial farmans of the Mughal emperors, Ernst traces the networks of influence established by Shaikh Burhanuddin Gharib linking Khuldabad with Burhanpur (named after him), Delhi and Ajmer. The Sufis also acted as a check on the temporal authority of the sultans, indicated by the fact that Shaikh Burhanuddin kept his establishment a distance away from the political centre at Daulatabad, a practice popularised by the Delhi Sufis as well. The Sufis’ relationship with the local population, largely non-Muslim, was premised on their performance of miraculous deeds, such as infusing a lake (Pariyon ka talaab) with healing properties, causing silver shoots to sprout from the earth in times of famine (Shaikh Burhanuddin Gharib) and mediating a conflict between a deceased saint (Sarmad) and a Mughal emperor who ordered his execution (Aurangzeb) purely through visions (Shaikh Zainuddin Shirazi). In gratitude, Aurangzeb decided to be buried at the feet of the saint; his simple grave is a protected monument by the Archaeological Survey of India. There are believed to have been 1400 Sufis who migrated to the region around the time of the advent of the Tughlaqs, some of whom, like Muhammad Gesu Daraz, moved further south to Gulbarga, Bijapur and other Deccan cities to create substantial Sufi establishments there. While 1400 may be an apocryphal number, the numerous dargahs in the area indicate the extensive popularity of the Sufis. Their association with water bodies (Khaksar talaab, Pariyon ka talaab) indicates their role in agricultural practices, particularly irrigation. While textual evidence on the subject is scarce, the saints’ origins in western and Central Asia may have led to the inflow of hydraulic technology from these regions. A paradigm shift in water usage took place following the advent of the Sufis. The earlier practice of in situ water collection in talaabs, wells and baolis gave way to the introduction of water transportation systems via channels, a trend that reached its peak during the time of Malik Ambar in the 17th century. Some credit for establishing these connections can go to the Sufis. If the presence of the Sufis hints at the possible linkages between the Deccan and western Asia, Geri Malandra’s proposition that Ellora was part of a wider network of Buddhist thought and institutions is rigorously

34  Introduction investigated and emphatically stated.76 She views the later Buddhist caves as representing a highly evolved “cutting edge” product, in alignment with the evolution of philosophies in sites as far away as Sanchi in central India, Ratnagiri in Odisha and even China and Japan. Carvings in Caves 10–12 at Ellora depict a Mandala – a ritual-spatial entity, a sacred design representing esoteric ideas in architectural form. The mandala was transposed into a sculpted medium to enable ritual usage, that is, a Buddha image was placed in a particular position to facilitate circumambulation, the performance of pradakshina. Malandra states that the Buddhist caves at Ellora represent a millennium of development of philosophical thought and excavation skills, a process that she identifies in part from other sites like Kanheri, Aurangabad, Pitalkhora, etc. The process reached its pinnacle at Ellora, where politics, geography and religion converged to create a powerful regional tirtha (crossing – pilgrimage place). She hypothesises that the construction of the later Buddhist caves received substantial interest and patronage from the Rashtrakutas, who, through the expansion of their influence over the trading zones of the Arabian Sea and the Indian ocean, came into contact with a pre-existing “world system,” a network of religion and trade linking the Arab countries with India, southeast Asia and China. Buddhism was an established part of this network. Ellora is a sacred centre with reduplicative shrines representing the most significant pilgrimage centres of Hinduism (Kailasha), Buddhism (Bodh Gaya) and Jainism (the Parsvanatha temple at Charanadri) developed under the aegis of the Rashtrakutas. We now return to the idea of a landscape in the Indian sub-continent with a view to examining some of the fractures and faults that existed within the social fabric and the manner in which these have deepened over the centuries, sometimes revised, but invariably to the detriment of the poor and the disempowered. Sumit Guha has investigated the relationship between the forest communities and the agrarian populations of the Deccan over almost a millennium. He argues for the existence of an “internal frontier” between the forest (jangal) and the agricultural villages, wherein jangali (of the forest) was considered a pejorative term since ancient times. Many forest and pastoralist tribes, however, negotiated positions of power for themselves, from ruling dynasties like the Yadavas and Gurjaras to the itinerant Banjaras, who became participants in mobile commercial networks linking settled communities with the forests. Guha emphasises the role of the colonial administration in building upon such disjunctures, usually based on caste, adding racial stereotypes about “primitive” aborigines who were incapable of living in civilised society, and, more importantly, governing themselves.77 In a critique of Guha’s work, Vinita Damodaran states that the marginalisation of forest communities had been in progress long before the advent of the British and faults him for not emphasising this point enough.78 Citing the work of Rosalind O’Hanlon and Chris Bayly, Damodaran notes the

Introduction 35 gradual loss of status by pastoralist and tribal groups in the second millennium and their assimilation into the ranks of low-caste agricultural labourers. By the 17th and 18th centuries, there was a resurgence of the authority of Brahmanas and Kshatriyas linked to the rise of the Marathas, who savagely repressed the Bhil tribes of Khandesh (north central Maharashtra). The British entered this environment with its complex interweaving of caste and politics and imposed their own racial stereotypes based on physical appearance, occupations, habits and behaviour on it. The European ideal was at the top of the pyramid and Brahmanas and Kshatriyas close beneath them. The Bhils, in this reckoning, were simply regarded as sub-human – they were compared to the primitive bedrock of Deccan society, a geological metaphor for understanding local society, wherein successive layers were inherently superior to the previous ones.79 Ajay Skaria’s research on the lively goth narratives of the Bhils offers an apt rejoinder to the colonial perspective. The stories are about the Bhils’ mobility, their shifting cultivation, seasonal migration, hunting, gathering and fishing activities, all acts which are portrayed with tremendous enjoyment of their lifestyle. They drank alcohol distilled from mahua flowers, ate all kinds of meat including beef, saw themselves as brave and free from the various taboos that plagued the lives of caste Hindu society. They viewed their lives as superior to that of the plains people, whose settlements they would raid or exact certain forms of tax. Skaria builds a narrative of “wildness” as inherent in the Bhils’ existence, thereby turning the dominant pejorative jungali on its head. He sees the three worlds of hills, forests and plains as inter-penetrating one another, an equilibrium that the British found threatening. By curtailing the Bhils’ mobility, criminalising their activities and forcing them to “settle down,” the colonial administration also curtailed their freedom. Skaria’s argument does not engage with the pre-colonial powers hostile to the Bhils, such as the Marathas, with whom the Bhils’ practice of raids and taxes was clearly a point of conflict. Nevertheless, his narrative provides a valuable insight into the forest landscape that shaped their jungali identity.80 In the month of June in Ellora, the sun blazes down on a baking countryside. Earth in the fields has cracked and fissured, crumbling into dry black clods with mysterious spaces between them, spaces that appear to travel down into the underworld. The talaabs have shrunk into dark muddy pools unable to submerge a single buffalo. The slopes of the scarps have turned brown and leafless branches stretch their thirsty arms to the sky in supplication. In this season of merciless heat, when Nature is at its most vengeful, a great river of pilgrims flows through the landscape, the Warkaris on their annual pilgrimage to Pandharpur. Chants of “Vitthala! Vitthala!” are carried on the hot breeze. The men’s bright turbans and women’s colourful sarees flash defiance at the oppressive heat. The Pandharpur yatra is believed to call the monsoon – streams of Warkaris make their way across Maharashtra to compel the heavens to release the rains.

36  Introduction A group of pilgrims shelters from the afternoon sun, sitting on a platform within the generous arch of a basalt gateway to Daulatabad fort. Mellifluous notes of their kirtana, “Mazhe maahir pandhari . . . ” to the accompaniment of the silvery chimes of cymbals, pour out of the structure and disperse into the still air while passersby stop and listen, spellbound. This book attempts to uncover the dialogue between human beings and their environment in the cultural landscape of Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad. It aims to re-vision the past through the memories and impressions of those present, memories filtered through layers of experiences that have shaped people’s view of the past. This is not an uncritical exercise in relativism, passing off subjective notions as history. The arguments are constructed around people’s beliefs and practices, reading them like texts from various angles. The past and present are engaged in a dialectical process of self-reflection that enables us to understand how historical layers overlapped and converged to produce the present reality, a drama enacted in the theatre of Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad. The first chapter explores the geo-political significance of the location of Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad in the midst of flat-topped plateau lands and hilly offshoots of the Sahyadri ranges. The region lies within the catchment area of the Upper Godavari river basin, the volcanic soil of the Deccan Trap providing for pockets of arable land amidst the rocky terrain. The three sites developed along the linear axis of the Dakshinapatha, a vital lifeline for sub-continental trade bringing in a variety of travellers, monks, pilgrims and conquerors in addition to merchants and traders. The three sites and their surrounding settlements grew in response to the impulses of the trade route, with some acquiring a greater significance owing to a convergence of political and religious factors. The chapter examines the layered evolution of Devagiri, later renamed Daulatabad, from a small hamlet important to the Jaina community to become a citadel of sub-continental significance, replacing Delhi as capital for a brief period. It investigates the factors underpinning the establishment of Ellora as a sacred centre for three major religions, identifying the particular patterns of patronage that gave it both local and trans-regional support across dynastic boundaries. At the end, it examines the support networks that sustain a local ashram, its aims and activities interwoven with the aspirations of the community. Water provision is an important aspect of these institutions, the construction of water bodies a fundamental part of the patronage. The second chapter probes the region’s associations with sacrality, examining the different dimensions of its character as a tirtha, a place of pilgrimage. From a wider perspective, it first explores the landscape in terms of the inflows of groups and communities, transmitting knowledge and beliefs and linking it with far-flung regions and cultures. It then delves into the sacred geography of the region articulated through Puranic texts and local myths. Finally, it deep dives into an exploration of a local festival, expressing the community’s self-imagined identity, the negotiation of social hierarchy in

Introduction 37 a ritual context, illustrated through a Puranic narrative aimed at causing an abundant monsoon. The community’s relationship with water expressed through myths and legends, runs like a common thread through the chapter highlighting the meaning the element holds for people in cosmological terms. Water as the bearer of community memory forms the theme of the third chapter. It focuses on an interaction with community members in the “revelation” of an important hydraulic system constructed by Malik Ambar to transport water to Daulatabad fort. The experience of the “pipeline” is similar to a journey into the minds of the residents, encountering their beliefs and values along the way to understanding their self-image and identity. The interaction is expressed in the informal language of impressions, almost like a journal. An attempt is made to articulate the voices of the community members in describing their historic environment in their own words. The experience resonates with Ivan Illich’s premise regarding the well of Mnemosyne, the Greek goddess of memory, a taste of whose waters bestows “civilizational memory” upon the drinker and is thus a prerogative of poets and musicians. The cultural landscape of Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad is an “experienced” space, where sight, smell, touch and taste play an important role in evolving an understanding of the ways in which human communities have engaged with their environment over time. Water as an element has mediated this engagement, by bringing together multiple groups to negotiate the sharing of this essential resource. If the region’s presence along the Dakshinapatha has enabled diverse communities to settle in this strategic location, the terms of their co-existence have been defined by access to and sharing of this vital reserve.

Notes 1 Watershed: 4E4C5   Microwatersheds: 4E4C5b5 Talawadi, Khaksar; 4E4C5c4 Mhaismal, Khultabad, Talawadi; 4E4C5c3 Verul; 4E4C5d8 Parts of Verul, Palaswadi, Mhaismal   Watershed: 4E4C2   Microwatersheds: 4E4C2r4 Daulatabad, Kagazipura; 4E4C2r8 Mavsala   Microwatershed Atlas of India, Soil and Land Use Survey of India, Department of Agriculture, Cooperation and Farmers Welfare, Ministry of Agriculture and Farmers Welfare, Government of India, 2019. (https://slusi.dacnet.nic.in/ dmwai/MAHARASHTRA/District/AURANGABAD.html) 2 Manohar Sinha, Geoscientific Studies for the Conservation of Ellora Caves, Archaeological Survey of India, New Delhi, 2011. 3 Approximately 1,400 Sufis are believed to have migrated from Delhi to Khuldabad at the time when Mohammad Bin Tughlaq shifted his capital to Daulatabad in 1327. Their tombs lie scattered across the Khuldabad landscape. See Kashshaf Ghani, “Tomb Complexes in Khuldabad,” Overview, 16 November 2016, www.sahapedia.org/tomb-complexes-khuldabad 4 Carmel Berkson, Ellora: Concept and Style Abhinav Publications, New Delhi, 1992, p. 31.

38  Introduction 5 Ibid., p. 2. 6 The section of the Trap out of which the Ellora caves are carved is called the Upper Ratangarh Formation, wherein the lava flows are layered in a pattern termed Compound Pahoehoe (a combination of a top vesicular stratum, a middle massive section and a bottom vesicular layer with well-developed tubular cavities called basal pipes) Sinha, op. cit., p. 27. 7 Gazetteer of India, Maharashtra State Gazetteer, Aurangabad District. 1977 (Revised edition) https://cultural.maharashtra.gov.in/english/gazetteer/aurangabad/CHAP01/GEOLOGY.htm. 8 U.S. Balpande, “Groundwater Information Aurangabad District,” Central Ground Water Board, Ministry of Water Resources, Government of India, 2013. 9 Pradeep Purandare, “Water Governance and Droughts in Marathwada,” Economic and Political Weekly, Vol. 48, No. 25 (22 June 2013). 10 Julia Shaw and John Sutcliff, “Water Management, Patronage Networks and Religious Change: New Evidence from the Sanchi Dam Complex and Counterparts in Gujarat and Sri Lanka,” South Asian Studies, Vol. 19, No. 1 (2003), pp. 73–104. DOI: 10.1080/02666030.2003.9628622. 11 Hermann Kulke, Kings and Cults: State Formation and Legitimation in India and Southeast Asia, Manohar Publishers, New Delhi, 2001. 12 B. P. Sahu, “Recent Perspectives of the State and Debates in Early Indian History,” Indian Historical Review, Vol. 39, No. 2 (2021), pp. 145–162 13 Geri H. Malandra, Unfolding a Mandala: The Buddhist Cave Temples at Ellora, State University of New York Press, Albany, NY, 1993. 14 Ibid., p. 9. 15 Berkson, op cit., p. 35. 16 S. K.  Dikshit, “Ellora  Plates of Dantidurga,” Epigraphia Indica, Vol. XXV (1940), p. 29. 17 James Burgess, “Report on the Elura Cave Temples and Brahmanical and Jaina Caves in Western India,” in Archaeological Survey of Western India, Vol. V. Trubner & Co, London, 1883, p. 88. 18 T.V. Pathy, Elura: Art and Culture, Sterling Publishers, New Delhi, 1980. 19 M. K. Dhavalikar, Ellora: A Monumental Legacy, Oxford University Press, New Delhi, 2003, pp. 44–45. 20 Malandra, op. cit., p. 13. 21 Richard Eaton, India in the Persianate Age, University of California Press, Oakland, CA, 2019. 22 M. S. Mate and T.V. Pathy, Daulatabad: A Report, Pune Deccan College Postgraduate and Research Institute, Marathawada University, Aurangabad, 1992. 23 Riyaz Ahmad Ansari, “Medieval Daulatabad: A  Complex Cultural Study,” Ph.D thesis submitted to the Department of History, Dr. Babasaheb Ambedkar Marathwada University, Aurangabad. 1984. Chapter  1. http://hdl.handle. net/10603/103128. 24 Ibid. 25 Mate and Pathy, op. cit. 26 Richard Eaton and Philip Wagoner, Power, Memory, Architecture: Contested sites on India’s Deccan Plateau, Oxford University Press, New Delhi 2014. 27 Ansari, op. cit., p. 41. 28 Carl Ernst, Eternal Garden: Mysticism, history and politics in a South Asian Sufi centre. Oxford University Press, New Delhi, 2004, pp. 100–110. 29 Ibid., p. XXIII. 30 Eaton and Wagoner, op. cit., pp. 26–28. 31 Eaton, India in the Persianate Age, op. cit., p. 95. 32 Mate and Pathy, op. cit.

Introduction 39 3 Eaton, India in the Persianate Age, op. cit., pp. 154–155. 3 34 Ibid. 35 Mate and Pathy, op. cit. 36 Yaaminey Mubayi, “Malik Ambar ki pipeline,” Medieval History Journal, Vol. 23, No. 2 (November 2020). 37 Eaton, India in the Persianate Age, op. cit. 38 Dipanjan Mazumdar, “The Fortress of Daulatabad,” 12 December 2016, www. sahapedia.org/the-fortress-of-daulatabad 39 J.B. Seely, The Wonders of Ellora or the Narrative of a Journey to the Temples or Dwellings Excavated out of a Mountain of Granite at Ellora in the East Indies, London, 1824. 40 Pathy, op. cit., p. 5. 41 Veronica Strang, “Uncommon Ground: Landscape and Social Geography,” in Bruno David and Julian Thomas (eds) Handbook of Landscape Archaeology, Routledge, New York, 2016, pp. 51–60. 42 The term Rauza is of Arabic origin, denoting a garden of paradise. It is usually used to refer to a Sufi establishment, comprising the tomb of a saint (dargah), a shrine along with a compound for gathering of devotees during commemorative events associated with the saint (Urs). Khuldabad is regarded as a powerful spiritual centre infused with the collective energy of numerous Sufis who settled here. It is located in proximity to Daulatabad, a political centre that drew ideological legitimacy from it. In that sense, Daulatabad lay in the ideological ‘shadow’ of Khuldabad. 43 In Eman Assi, “Memory and Place,” 16th ICOMOS General Assembly and International Symposium: ‘Finding the Spirit of Place  – between the Tangible and the Intangible’, 29 September–4 October 2008, Quebec, Canada. 44 Peter Burke, “History as Social Memory,” in Peter Burke (ed) Varieties of Cultural History, Cornell University Press, New York, 1997, pp. 43–59. 45 Ibid. 46 Jacques le Goff, History and Memory (Translated by Steven Rendall and Elizabeth Claman), Columbia University Press, New York, 1988, pp. 51–55. 47 Ibid. 48 In Patrick James Christian, “History, Memory, Conflict: The Collective Memory of Maurice Halbwachs,” Conference presentation, Nova Southeastern University Presentations on History, Memory, Conflict. Fort Lauderdale, FL. Vol. 1. February 2012. Also, Maurice Halbwachs, On Collective Memory (Translated by Lewis A. Coser), University of Chicago Press, Chicago, 1992. Chapter  1. “Space and Collective Memory.” 49 In Paul Connerton, How Societies Remember, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1989. 50 Sumit Guha, “Transitions and Translations: Regional Power and Vernacular Identity in the Dakhan, 1500–1800,” Comparative Studies of South Asia, Africa and the Middle East. Duke University Press, Vol. 24, No. 2 (2004), pp. 23–31. 51 Eaton, India in the Persianate Age, op. cit. 52 Guha, “Transitions and Translations,” op. cit. 53 Simon Schama, Landscape and Memory, Vintage Books, New York, 1996, p. 14. 54 Pramod K. Nayar, English Writing and India, 1600–1920: Colonizing Aesthetics, Routledge, New York, 2008, pp. 95–96. 55 Mary Louise Pratt, Imperial Eyes: Travel Writing and Transculturation, Routledge, New York, 1992. 56 Pramod K. Nayar, Colonial Voices: The Discourses of Empire, Wiley-Blackwell, West Sussex, 2012

40  Introduction 57 James Burgess, The Cave Temples of Ellora, Cambridge University Press, 1883 (reprint 2013). 58 Tapati Guha-Thakurta Monuments, Objects, Histories: Institutions of Art in Colonial and Post- Colonial India, Columbia University Press, New York, 2004. 59 Strang, op. cit. 60 “Landscape archaeology concerns the intentional and the unintentional, the physical and the spiritual, human agency and the subliminal.  .  .  . Landscapes implicate social order and gender . . . rhythms of work and play, daily routines.” Bruno David and Julian Thomas (eds), Handbook of Landscape Archaeology, Routledge, New York, 2016 “Introduction” 61 UNESCO Criteria for inscription on World Heritage list, https://whc.unesco.org/ en/criteria/ 62 Sven Artzen, “Cultural Landscapes and Approaches to Nature – Ecophilosophical Perspectives,” (2004), www.semanticscholar.org/paper/CULTURAL-LANDSCAPEand-APPROACHES-TO-NATURE-%E2%80%93-Arntzen/4bfea27a68522431 136dbcf04197561f1ecbe5dc, accessed 12 December 2020 63 Susan C. Schueller, “The Quabbin Reservoir – A Brief History of Greater Boston’s Watershed,” Presented in The New England Waterworks Association 133rd Annual Conference, Rockport, Maine. September 2014. 64 Schama, op. cit., p. 16. 65 Ibid., p. 247. 66 Theodor Schwenk, Sensitive Chaos: The Creation of Flowing Forms in Water and Air, Rudolf Steiner Press, East Sussex, 1965. 67 Richard Eaton, A Social History of the Deccan, 1300–1761. Eight Indian Lives, Cambridge University Press, New York, 2005 “Introduction.” See earlier reference. 68 Julia Shaw, “Landscape, Water and Religion in Ancient India,” Archaeology International (2006–2007), pp. 43–52. 69 Shaw and Sutcliff, op. cit. 70 Anne Feldhaus, Water and Womanhood: Religious Meaning of Rivers in Maharashtra, Oxford University Press, New Delhi, 1995. 71 Anne Feldhaus, Connected Places: Region, Pilgrimage and Geographical Imagination in India, Palgrave Macmillan, New York, 2003. 72 Eaton, India in the Persianate Age, op. cit. 73 Eaton, A Social History of the Deccan, op. cit. 74 Eaton and Wagoner, op. cit., p. 40. 75 Carl Ernst, Eternal Garden: Mysticism, History and Politics at a South Asian Sufi Centre, State University of New York Press, Albany, 1992. 76 Malandra, op. cit. 77 Sumit Guha, Environment and Ethicity in India, 1200–1991, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1999 78 Vinita Damodaran, “Review of Sumit Guha, Environment and Ethicity in India, 1200–1991. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1999.” Journal of Political Ecology, Vol. 7, No. 1 (2000). 79 “The ethnology of this part of the Dekhan has a great resemblance to its geology. First of all, and older than all, are the remnants of tribes that originally peopled the continent of India  .  .  . we may justly liken them to the granite rocks that underlie the trap . . .” C. Lyell, Principles of Geology, quoted in Guha, Environment and Ethicity in India, op. cit., p. 13. 80 John M. MacKenzie, “Review of Ajay Skaria Hybrid Histories: Forests, Frontiers and Wildness in Western India Oxford University Press, New York, 1999,” American Historical Review, Vol. 106, No. 1 (February 2001), p. 153.

1

Water and settlements – historical development of the region vis-à-vis the political economy of the Deccan; networks of trade and patronage

Figure 1.1 Landscape at Khuldabad Source: Yaaminey Mubayi

Standing on top of Sulibhanjan hill, one gets a spectacular view of the surrounding landscape. Layers of meaning are encoded within its terrain and topography. The flat table-topped highlands enclosing verdant valleys, the talaabs at the base of the slopes where natural water collection was reinforced with man-made bunds and check dams and the hilly terrain providing an organic defensive mechanism against attacks by predatory powers. The Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad region has evolved through a geo-political logic of its own, a combination of the linearity of the Dakshinapatha along which it was located and the concentric circularity of its area of influence DOI: 10.4324/9781003315148-2

42  Water and settlements and networks of patronage. Both characteristics underwrote its continued significance as a historically important region from the first millennium onwards. The following discussion examines the strategic significance of the Ellora– Khuldabad–Daulatabad region as a factor of its geo-political position as a doorway to peninsular India. Its location on the Dakshinapatha ensured that it was linked with the flow of ideas, commerce and political ambitions of rulers from the north and the south. The historical narrative of the Deccan was shaped by such diverse but connected factors as the decline of Roman trade and the rise of competing dynastic powers in the early Medieval period. This led to a shift in the power centre from the fluvial plains of the Godavari to the Sahyadri highlands, a game-changer for Ellora– Khuldabad–Daulatabad. The surge in the region’s significance, from a series of small settlements along a sub-route of the Dakshinapatha on the way to Paithan to a full-blown dynastic capital along with a multi-religious centre of pilgrimage, reflects the changing political and economic conditions in the first millennium ad. The conventional chronology of developments in Ellora–Khuldabad– Daulatabad has been set aside in this chapter, and a thematic understanding of events attempted. In any case, it appears simplistic to suppose that the Ellora cave complex predated settlements on Devagiri hill and regard the sites as evolving in a consecutive manner. The sustained presence of the Dakshinapatha as a corridor of connectivity in the region forms the focal point of this argument. Drawing from this, Devagiri hill, along with other settlements, was an established hamlet on this commercial route since the start of the first millennium ad. The influence of Jaina trading communities on the settlements may be discerned by the number of Jaina shrines and monastic caves in Devagiri, prior to the advent of the Yadavas. These communities remained influential, independent of the ruling dynasties, judging from their contribution to the excavation of the Jaina caves at Ellora even after the decline of Rashtrakuta power in the region. The cave complex at Ellora, too, most probably did not emerge in a vacuum. The presence of a Swayambhu linga (self-manifested) along with a sacred pool (tirtha) indicated a growing autochthonous Siva cult that had already established a sacred centre, based on which the Kalachuris constructed the earliest group of Saivite caves at Ellora. The Buddhist caves were sponsored by merchant communities, once again highlighting the Dakshinapatha’s cosmopolitan influence in the region. The entry of the Rashtrakutas into this already established sacred centre reinforced their authority as an independent dynasty of significance in the Deccan. Their construction of the Kailasa temple (Cave 16) was an act of triumph, commemorating their power over the region. It also brought together diverse cultural linkages, the similarity with Pallava and other southern edifices (Pattadakal, Mahabalipuram), indicating their bringing craftsmen from those areas to carry out construction works at Ellora.

Water and settlements 43 Thus, there was no dearth of skilled artisans in the region when the Yadavas executed the first stage of fortifications at Devagiri hill. The political landscape of peninsular India had witnessed the rise and fall of multiple dynasties in the first millennium, the Satavahanas, the Vakatakas, Chalukyas, Rashtrakutas and others. The long-standing tripartite conflict between the Palas of Bengal, the Gurjara Pratiharas of Rajasthan and Gujarat and the Rashtrakutas of Manyakheta (Malkhed), lasting from the 7th–10th centuries, had reverberations in the Deccan as well. Within this context of competing powers in the early medieval period, the Yadavas rose as the first Marathi-speaking dynasty of the Deccan. Starting out as feudatories of the Rashtrakutas in the late 9th century, then shifting their loyalties to the Western Chalukyas by the 12th century, they became independent rulers of an empire that covered most of Marathwada from Devagiri to Nashik, and from the Narmada to the Godavari.1 Bhillama V was the first Yadava ruler to establish his capital at Devagiri in 1187, utilising both its strategic location along the Dakshinapatha and its potential as a defensive citadel, guarding his territories further south into the interiors of the Deccan. The defensive potential of the fortress of Devagiri was put to the test as the famed wealth of the Yadavas attracted the attention of Alauddin Khalji, the Delhi Sultan. His Deccan campaign was aimed at bringing under his sway the dynasties that controlled the Dakshinapatha and its trade networks. His successful raid of Devagiri fort in 1294 ad secured him a vast treasure and also brought the region under the control of the Delhi sultanate. This opened the door to Muhammad Bin Tughlaq establishing his imperial capital at Devagiri, renamed Daulatabad in 1327. While this plan failed owing to logistical difficulties in protecting the Sultanate’s northern borders, it led to the entry of the Sufis into the Deccan, who had an important cultural and religious impact on the region. The process of Sufi migration generated linkages with western and Central Asia and enabled the flow of ideas and technology from there. Techniques of water provision also evolved as a result of the contact with Persia and Baghdad. This chapter explores the strategic significance of the region displayed through the political core of Devagiri/Daulatabad as it developed as a defensive centre along the Dakshinapatha. Arrangements for its protection under the Yadavas extended outwards within a radius of 150 kilometres, an aspect that is brought to light through accounts by local historians. The linear dimension of the Dakshinapatha contributed to the evolution of the Ellora caves, bringing together a variety of donor interests to sponsor excavations that were remarkably similar in form and proportion but equally diverse in their motive and purpose. The motif of water provision appears to be a constant in the construction of the caves, wherein cisterns for collecting rainwater and run-off are provided in each case. One such cave, just beyond the protected complex, is still utilised as a water provision facility. The Takaswami ashram is premised on the charitable notion of providing

44  Water and settlements drinking water to pilgrims, which constitutes a fundamental ideal of compassion and altruism in this arid region. Water conservation evolved in scope and scale in the Ellora–Khuldabad– Daulatabad region from in situ collections in cisterns, talaabs and wells during the Yadava period to its transportation across long distances via streams, reservoirs and channels during the Bahmani and Nizamshahi periods. The hydraulic works of Malik Ambar aimed at providing large quantities of water to Daulatabad fort illustrate the growing requirements of the Nizamshahi military and civil establishment by the early 17th century. Most of these were maintained subsequently by the Mughals and the Nizams of Hyderabad following their takeover of the fort and the region.

Daulatabad – a layered historical narrative The complex history of Deccan society and politics has been viewed from numerous perspectives, art historical,2 historical,3 geographical4 and those of political architecture.5 However, a truly diachronic account of the microregion of Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad is incomplete without the voices of local community members, sharing inherited memories, lived knowledge and experienced realities that define their identity. This section explores different dimensions of the evolution of Daulatabad as a core defensive centre of tremendous geo-political significance through the early medieval and medieval periods. The argument is based on primary accounts of conversations with Professor R.S. Morwanchikar, eminent Deccan historian and resident of Aurangabad. The conversations are offset by references to texts like the Lilacharitra of the Mahaanubhavi sect, comments by Mr. B.D. Shah, a resident of Kagazipura village and other community sources. The geo-political development of Daulatabad is closely linked with its position along the Dakshinapatha, a corridor of interwoven routes and pathways navigating the highlands and plateaus of Khuldabad before arriving at the riverine countryside of Paithan. James Wescoat, in his analysis of “geo-cultural formation” in the western Deccan, views the fluvial plains of the Godavari at Paithan as a conducive environment for the development of urban centres in the early historic period at the time of the Satavahanas. Cities like Paithan and Nashik were nodal centres of trade and manufacturing, linked with long-distance Roman trade through ports like Bhrigukaccha and Shurparaka. They were also networked with sacred river crossings (tirthas) and confluences (sangams) like Brahmagiri and Tryambakeshwar that became important temple centres and further strengthened the correlation between trade and pilgrimage. The old Satavahana town of Junnar in the hinterland of Nashik, with a large rock-cut monastic cave complex accompanied by an extensive network of water-harvesting cisterns and channels, is one example.6 In the highlands towards the northwest, particularly within the catchment area of the Purna and Dudhna, tributaries of the Godavari, smaller settlements emerged that supported the trade networks. Their evolution, spatially

Water and settlements 45 and temporally, set into motion conditions and processes that coalesced to form the powerful fortified complex at Daulatabad. Daulatabad evolved as a nodal centre along the Dakshinapatha corridor following numerous developments orchestrated by successive dynasties in the region. Approaching Daulatabad through time and space, it is useful to pause at another settlement about 25 kilometres away near Aurangabad. The hamlet of Harsul was established in Satavahana times to service the merchants’ caravans as they paused on the way to Paithan. In the words of Professor Morwanchikar, Satakarni I – he constructed that talaab, Harsul, just outside Aurangabad . . . Buddhist caves are opposite (the lake) . . . you also have to think of Satavahana period and their way of travel . . . by bundi (palanquin) or camel or horse, (along with their goods) . . . the caravans have to halt there . . . so it was a halting place. It has been recorded in inscriptions in the Kanheri caves, as a mention of Rajatalaka is found there.7 The construction of a water tank indicates the provision of essential resources for sustaining trade and merchant traffic by the Satavahanas. The building of a cave complex suggests the presence of a residential community or lay population that could have supported monastic activity in the vicinity. The reference to “Rajatalaka” is interesting, as it signifies an ancient name for the region stated in a Satavahana period inscription found in the Kanheri caves in Mumbai.8 The combination of a water body and a sacred complex appears to clearly identify the presence of a settlement along the trade route that later became part of the larger complex of Aurangabad. The city of Aurangabad, so named after the Mughals shifted their administration here from Daulatabad, was originally a Yadava settlement named Khadki (window). There was a Yadava settlement here named Khadki . . . artisans used to live here, those who constructed the Aurangabad caves and other structures under the patronage of the Vakatakas . . . it was a convergence of trade routes, which later led to the development of cultural phenomena.9 The smaller-scale Buddhist chaitya at Harsul, built in Satavahana times, later grew into a larger complex of 12 caves under the Vakatakas, indicating continuous settlement activity at the site.10 Indubitably, the hamlet of Harsul was the seed that grew into the town of Khadki by the time of the Yadavas in the 9th–10th centuries. Largely populated by skilled craftsmen, who were in demand for various building activities in the region, its position along a major trade route was convenient for the workers and their patrons alike. Daulatabad developed later . . . was discovered by the Yadavas. Paithan was the main destination of the Dakshinapatha . . . all the trade routes

46  Water and settlements used to pass abutting Paithan, on the banks of the Godavari . . . upto Majhalgaon, Beed. There they crossed Godavari and proceeded towards other towns like Dharashiv (Osmanabad) and Sholapur. What were the geo-political motivations behind the settlements? What were the intentions of the rulers? What was the geo-potential of these sites? (this determined the patronage to different urban centres and their development at different times) Another important point . . . From Ahmadnagar to Ambejogai there is one community’s domination, that is (the) Banjaras. They are so named because they are ‘Vanik Jaras’ (Vanik – trader, Jara – doers or helpers) . . . it is with their help that they (the merchants) were able to cross the hills and forests of Balaghat. The role of the nomadic Banjaras in enabling the passage of merchants’ caravans through the forests and passages of the hilly region of Balaghat is a fascinating lynchpin in the complex pattern of trade in the ancient Deccan.11 It illustrates the finely tuned balance between the mobility of the nomadic tribes and the stability of the settlements in delineating the structure that sustained local, regional and trans-national economies. It further clarifies the manner in which the network of urban centres and rural settlements in the Deccan, held together by the trade routes, operated. Contemporary settlements of Banjaras and other pastoralists are found in Ellora today. Interactions with these communities reveal alternative dimensions to the lives and livelihoods of the region’s residents, often at variance with the settled agrarian society of the village. This will be discussed further in the next chapter. The rise of the Seuna Yadavas in the 10th century as the primary Marathispeaking dynasty of Marathwada was a significant event for the region. Early medieval geo-politics created conditions, wherein defence became a primary factor motivating the establishment of settlements. The fluvial plains around Paithan were unable to provide the required defensive infrastructure to withstand attacks by hostile powers in a post-Vakataka world.12 The Yadavas began their career as feudatories of the Rashtrakutas and later shifted their allegiance to the western Chalukyas. When Bhillama V, a powerful monarch who simultaneously threw off the Chalukyan yoke and shifted his capital from Paithan to Devagiri in 1187 ad, he set in motion the establishment of a substantial kingdom extending up to Nashik.13 The territory came to be called Seunadesa after the Yadavas for centuries afterwards. The Yadavas, particularly Bhillama, his son Jaitugi and grandson Singhana, were ardent supporters of the arts, and Devagiri was a centre of great literary activity.14 The city also became famous for its riches, accumulated as a result of its position on the trade route, which later attracted the Delhi Sultan Alauddin Khalji. Prior to Yadava occupation, the hill of Devagiri was populated by several Jain temples, mostly rock-cut caves, indicating a link with Jain trading communities as well as royal dynasties that may have patronised their

Water and settlements 47 construction and upkeep.15 A few wells were sufficient to supply water to the temples and devotees. The Yadavas, however, changed the landscape irrevocably. They were drawn to the hill for its defensive potential and the possibility of surveillance of the surrounding countryside that it afforded them. Kataka was a residential zone and Devagiri was a defensive zone in times of emergency (during the reign of the Yadavas) . . . every successive dynasty tried to add something new to the defensive technology . . . new war machines  .  .  . therefore the defensive walls came into existence . . . Kataka was in present day Nandrabad, between Khuldabad and Sulibhanjan . . . most of Nandrabad is constructed out of the stone remains of Kataka . . . I will cite you another example, Bhamergarh near Dhulia (Dhule) and Pemgiri in Ahmadnagar (district) . . . were contemporaries of the Yadavas (and under their control) . . . then Ankai-Tankai (twin forts on adjacent hills near Manmad) . . . there was a full-fledged water system (at Ankai-Tankai), tanks also, caves also . . . there were 17 forts around Devagiri . . . they were in support of (Devagiri’s) defence mechanism  .  .  . they were a defence chain. Devagiri was not alone! The enemy had to come either from Manmad side or the other side . . . Devagiri was actually located on the paths connecting (routes from) the northeast and the northwest . . . Kataka was the residential area, and other activities, political activities like the Raja Darbar (royal court), was in Devagiri, which was fully protected.16 The Yadavas carried out the first sequence of fortifications at Devagiri, which consisted of scarping the slope of the hill until the walls were vertical, rising 50 metres above the ground with a deep moat at the base.17 The skill required to perform this feat can only suggest that the excavation was the handiwork of talented craftsmen, possibly those located at Khadki (Aurangabad) or those that had constructed the Ellora caves. Using the entire hill itself as a fortified settlement indicates a strong drive for establishing a powerful defensive structure at Devagiri on the part of the Yadavas. The existence of a defensive ring of smaller forts around Devagiri within a 150 kilometre radius is an interesting insight not commonly found in the discourse on the site. While the practice of feudatory support for core political strongholds, both in terms of military assistance and revenue, was well-established in medieval India, Devagiri’s location at the convergence of two routes from the north established its strategic importance as a bulwark against invasions from the north. Its significance as a stronghold defending the Deccan and the important trade routes to the western ports must be emphasised. M.S. Mate has identified the fortified township of Mahakot, at the base of Devagiri hill, as Kataka and the inner citadel of Kalakot as the political

48  Water and settlements centre of Devagiri.18 Rock-cut cisterns collecting rainwater like the Hathi Taka and Moti Taka and step wells like the Saraswati baoli were constructed by the Yadavas within the fort to provide water for the resident population. Additionally, they constructed a series of at least 27 talaabs (tanks) across the surrounding hills to capture and utilise rainwater run-off and sustain a growing population, including residential settlements and also merchants and pilgrims that passed along the trade route. One of these, the Mavsala talaab on the hill opposite Devagiri, was subsequently developed into a spectacular water system by Malik Ambar in the 17th century and will be examined in some detail later in the book. The construction technique used in making the tanks as well as temples and other buildings is called Hemad Panti, named after the talented minister of the Yadavas who promoted its usage in Devagiri. It involves fitting together carefully dressed blocks of stone without mortar, easily recognisable by the solid-looking gateways with rectangular entrances.19 The Yadavas laid the foundations for the establishment of an extensive water provision system to sustain a growing political and economic establishment at Devagiri. Subsequent dynasties enhanced these systems in accordance with changing political requirements, structural developments and the inflow of new ideas and technologies through a growing influence of western Asia. The shift of his capital from Delhi to Daulatabad by Muhammad bin Tughlaq in 1327 led to a dynamic encounter between the cultures of the Deccan and of the Persianate north.20 Substantial infrastructure was generated by the sultan to enable the move, including a brand new treelined road from Delhi provided with sarais and other facilities, officials and immigrants were given land grants and placed in charge of forts and Yadava chieftains were absorbed into Tughlaq administration as iqtadars (holders of revenue assignments). The sultan’s tutor, Qutlugh Khan, was appointed governor of Daulatabad fort and the Mavsala talaab was named Hauz-eQutlugh or Qutlugh talaab after him. Tughlaq rule at Daulatabad also facilitated the arrival of the Sufis, Shaikh Muntajibuddin Zar Zarizar Baksh and his brother Shaikh Burhanuddin Gharib, both of the Chishtiyya order and Shaikh Jalaluddin Ganj-e-Rawan from Baghdad prominent amongst them.21 The latter’s dargah is located on the edge of Pariyon-ka-talaab (lake of fairies) in Sulibhanjan, while the Rauza talaab provides water to the twin dargahs of Shaikh Burhanuddin and his disciple Shaikh Zainuddin Shirazi in Khuldabad. The Sufis were given substantial grants of land to settle down in the region, and their imprint on the landscape can be seen in hydraulic structures like the elaborate system of valves and air shafts to allow the inflow and exit of water from talaabs like Khaksar, adjacent to the dargah of Hazrat Shah Khaksar Qadri in Khuldabad.22 At the local level, there may have been resistance to the Sufis acquiring overlordship over agricultural land and water sources, a factor hinted at in the legend of Sona Bai and Shaikh Muntajibuddin Zar Zarizar Baksh.23 The equation of water with gold in the story makes an

Water and settlements 49 interesting point about the value of the element in local perception. Water was no less valuable than gold in the arid region. With the advent of the Bahmanis, fundamental differences in the approach to water provision and usage came into play. Formerly, towns and cities developed on the banks of rivers where water could be easily accessed. Now, we observe the evolution of a site like Devagiri that was far away from any perennial river. Instead, water from natural springs or talaabs was collected and transported to where it was required, through channels and aqueducts.24 This was a seminal change in the approach to water provision, usually carried out with state support, that altered the Deccan landscape forever. When the Bahmani kingdom disintegrated into the five sultanates, Deccani water systems truly came into their own. Medieval townships like Ahmadnagar and Bijapur, contemporaneous with Daulatabad, offer models for the evolution of water systems under Islamic rule. Ahmadnagar received water from ten sources within a radius of 10 kilometres, brought to the city by underground aqueducts. Bijapur collected water from 14 sources through underground channels.25 The water was used for public consumption as well by the royal palaces as well as gardens – the latter was a unique contribution of the Islamic sultanates, illustrative of Persian cultural influences on the Deccan.26 Daulatabad was well networked within the complex of Deccan kingdoms and benefited by association with travellers, scholars, Sufis, engineers and architects moving along the trade route towards the other cities. At Daulatabad, wells continued to provide water for small-scale domestic consumption as before. However, during Bahmani and Nizamshahi times, a system of terracotta and stone channels was installed on the slope of the Northern Ghats that collected run-off and transported it to various tanks and cisterns within the fort. Most of these were underground channels, hence resonating with the systems found at Ahmadnagar and Bijapur, hinting at similar architectural influences, many of which were from Persia. The presence of a Persian Wheel in the Haji Qattal neighbourhood in Mahakot reinforces this trend.27 Smaller-scale innovations in water conservation mechanisms within the fort notwithstanding, to Malik Ambar, the dynamic Vakil-us-Saltanat of the Nizamshahis, that credit must go for the establishment of a truly large-scale water provision system for Daulatabad fort. Employing the features of the local terrain, he used a natural dyke about 2 kilometres to the northeast of the fort to construct a system of three reservoirs, separated by earthen and stone bunds, cascading into one another. Within the narrow valley of the dyke, he also puts in place several ceramic and stone channels, some of them underground, along with air vents to avoid airlocks, to direct the flow of water into the fort. The fundamental principle underpinning the water system is a critical understanding of the behaviour of water at diverse levels, including issues of silt, and the use of the natural terrain, slope and gravity in transporting a large quantity of water to the fort.28 Mate indicates some

50  Water and settlements evidence of a sewage system as well, with domestic waste-disposal measures and wastewater drains.29 Malik Ambar’s hydraulic systems at Daulatabad mark the pinnacle of water management at the site. Subsequent regimes like the Mughals and Nizams of Hyderabad did not make any significant additions or modifications to the structures.

Politics of patronage – the water cisterns of Ellora caves Having traversed the hilly landscape within which the butte fortress of Daulatabad is ensconced, we now turn to an earlier development along the trade route, one whose origins and purpose are less easy to explain given its lavish scale in terms of the high level of skill of the craftsmen, the time taken to execute and the diverse sources of patronage. The cave complex at Ellora, about 10 kilometres north of Daulatabad, was constructed between the 6th and 10th centuries and enfolds three distinct religious groups, Buddhist, Brahmanical and Jain. Excavated out of a mesa escarpment on a rocky spur extending for 2 kilometres in the north-south direction, Ellora predates the Yadava citadel of Devagiri by several centuries. Yet, it is argued, the descendants of its craftsmen created the mammoth scarp at the fort, thus indicating that there were settled communities of craftspersons in the vicinity.30 What could have motivated a series of patrons to sponsor the building of such a complex? The scarcity of donative inscriptions at Ellora further obfuscates the nature of patronage of cave excavation, making its purpose more ambiguous. The caves are liberally equipped with water cisterns, an aspect that has not been discussed in the many studies on the site in any detail. The cisterns could indicate a link between patronage and usage of the caves, demonstrating what was envisioned as a role for the structures by their sponsors. The group of 34 caves along the mesa escarpment at Ellora represent three distinct religious communities, Brahmanical, Buddhist and Jaina. While the Buddhist caves were clearly monastic and educational in nature, the Jaina structures were commemorative in nature, with a combination of royal and merchant patronage. The Brahmanical caves, particularly those built by the Rashtrakutas, bear a distinct stamp of political authority, linking the rise of a dynasty with patronage to a local Saivite cult. Deeper insights may be gained by exploring the wider landscape of the western Deccan, where the Satavahanas had generated a strong political momentum since the 2nd century bc. The role of the Dakshinapatha in facilitating overseas trade has already been discussed and patterns of sponsorship emerge that could shed light on the situation at Ellora. Cave complexes such as those at Bhaja, Bedsa, Kanheri, Karle and, closer home, at Pitalkhora and Aurangabad, indicate vigorous patronage to Buddhist monastic establishments provided by groups of merchants, lay followers and royalty in the early centuries of the first millennium.31 Julia Shaw has argued that the Buddhist Sangha played an important role in the development and

Water and settlements 51 management of agrarian lands in central India during the time of the Guptas, and “monastic landlordism” was a common phenomenon.32 The role of the Sangha, clearly, as a powerful corporate entity with access to substantial wealth and political support, was a significant element in the Buddhist networks of patronage in western India as well. The cave complex at Ellora, like its predecessors, was located on one of the trade routes that formed the Dakshinapatha. The link with trade clearly underwrote the interest of merchant guilds in sponsoring cave building at the site. Besides, the presence of settlements at Aurangabad and in the Devagiri region indicates that the Ellora complex did not come up in isolation. It was part of a network of Buddhist monastic establishments linked by merchant movement along trade routes and with sufficient support amongst the local community. An inscription on the balcony of the Vishwakarma cave (Cave 10) illustrates this point through a well-known saying – All things proceed from cause; this cause has been declared by the Tathagata; all things will cease to exist; this is that which is declared by the great Sramana. (Buddha)33 The mantra is also found on stone slabs near Sarnath and on copper-plate grants at Kanheri and is echoed in inscriptions in Afghanistan, Nepal, Tibet and China, indicating links of ideas between these sites and Ellora. There is another dimension to Ellora’s significance as a sacred centre. It was already known as a tirtha (pilgrimage place) owing to the presence of a sacred pool and its association with the Saivite cult of Ghrishneshwar. This may be the reason the site was selected by the Kalachuris, a Saivite dynasty to launch the first phase of cave excavation at Ellora in the late-500s ad. Caves 19 through 29 were excavated prior to the creation of the Buddhist caves and clearly resonate with contemporary developments at Elephanta. Thus, the Buddhist caves were built within an already established complex, infusing it with added meanings, linking it with wider networks and alternative communities. The entry of the Rashtrakutas into this scenario raises interesting questions about political and cultural changes occurring in the Deccan in the early medieval period. The rise of the Rashtrakutas as a ruling dynasty after throwing off the yoke of the Chalukyas has been linked with their patronage to construction activities at Ellora, causing scholars like T.V. Pathy to surmise that Ellora may have been an early capital city.34 Malandra has referred to it as a “ritual capital” of the Rashtrakutas, viewed as such even after they moved their political centre to Malkhed.35 Thus, the Rashtrakutas brought in the force of political authority to Ellora, acquiring religious legitimacy by patronising a local Saivite cult, Ghrishneshwar, and enhancing it by constructing the monumental rock-cut temple of Kailasa. The power

52  Water and settlements and dynamism of their approach is reflected in the tone of the Dasavatara cave inscription of Dantidurga (752 ad). Placing his feet on the necks of his enemies and Vallabha (the Chalukya king Kirtivarman II) having become tributary was overcome, and Sandhubhupa, Kanchi, Kalinga, Kosala, Sri Sailadesa, and besides Malwa, Lata (Gujarat), Tauka rajas were subjugated, whence he took the name of Srivallabha.36 The mood is triumphant; the defeat of the Chalukya overlord motivates his conquest over a large swathe of territories that would form the Rashtrakuta kingdom. The fact that this was inscribed in the Dasavatara cave at Ellora indicates that the site was symbolic of Rashtrakuta legitimacy and authority. The temple of Kailasa, perhaps initiated by Dantidurga but inaugurated by his successor, Krishna I, is a true manifestation of Rashtrakuta achievement, crowning their emergence as a substantial political power in peninsular India. The five Jaina caves are smaller in scope and scale, their sponsorship a combination of royal patronage and support by merchant communities. Later, Rashtrakutas like Amoghavarsha I  was himself a Jaina; however, there were links of patronage with Jaina establishments at Devagiri. Hence the Ganesh Leni group of caves, above Cave 29, was built with Yadava support. The water cisterns at Ellora were built along with the original cave excavations. They are partially underground, protected by an overhang of rock and usually found on one side of the cave entrance. The main source of water would have been rainwater infiltration and run-off collected through channels etched into the rock. Wescoat37 has explained that the siting and upper slope design of the caves directed water, tapped from small springs and run-off along the cliff face, into drainage channels on either side of the caves, emptying into the cisterns. Cave numbers 1, 2, 8, 10, 12, 14, 15, 16, 17, 19, 21, 25, 27, 19, 30 and 34 are provided with such cisterns. The Prakrit term for cistern is Podhi, with Paniya Podhi denoting a drinking water cistern and Snana Podhi a cistern for bathing. There are references to Podhis at other Buddhist cave sites in Maharashtra, such as Bhaja, Bedsa, Kanheri, Pitalkhora, etc. They were constructed by a variety of donors including monks, nuns, jewellers, traders, even housewives. However, there are no inscriptional references to the sponsors of the Podhis of Ellora, not even in the Buddhist caves. One wonders if the practice of constructing Podhis was so much a part of the tradition of cave excavation that they were installed as a routine procedure, regardless of whether they were the monastic structures constructed by Buddhist merchants or the triumphal imperial edifices erected by the Rashtrakutas. Buddhist, Brahmanical or Jaina – the Ellora caves are universally provided with water cisterns.

Water and settlements 53 The Archaeological Survey of India recently conducted an investigation of the carrying capacity of the Ellora cave cisterns. Table 1.1 lists the caves along with the volume of water their cisterns could hold.38 Interestingly, Cave 29, the capacious Dumar Lena, does not have a dedicated cistern. Kailasa, Cave 16, predictably for its size and significance, has two. However, the presence of two cisterns in the relatively modest Cave 25, Kumbharwada, seems inexplicable. Owing to their monastic nature and also their congregational role, one would have imagined that the Buddhist caves would have had a greater requirement for water than some of the Brahmanical structures. The unnumbered groups, Ganesh Leni and Jogeshwari, also have water cisterns and open storage areas, as they are directly aligned with the flow of the Yelganga. There are Ghat steps leading down to a rock-cut pool at Jogeshwari, indicating ritual usage of the water, possibly at festivals. Currently, the annual Navaratri festival is celebrated at Jogeshwari, for which a number of local residents and devotees congregate at the caves and offer ablutions on the Ghats. It is clear, however, that there was a felt need for water provision at the cave complex, whether it was for monks living in situ, students and lay persons and even devotees and visitors to the Brahmanical caves. Provision of potable water was an intrinsic part of cave architecture in the subcontinent and not unique to the Deccan. Neither was it a practice only in ancient times. Local informants at Ellora revealed that potable water from the cistern at Cave 10 was stored in clay pots and used for drinking by staff members of the Archaeological Survey of India until about 15–20 years ago, indicating that the custom of maintaining the cisterns had survived till the Table 1.1  Cave Number

Capacity (in Litres)

Cave No 2 Cave No 10 Cave No 11 Cave No 12 Cave No 14 Cave No 15 Cave No 16

35,0322 17,284 60,857 1,40,000 10,6150 38,7935 2 cisterns: 1. 8,30664 2. 1,74740 1,42,974 1,32,300 1. 14,2972 2. 17,5500

Cave No 17 Cave No 21 Cave No 25 Cave No 29 Cave No 30

90,7207

Source: Courtesy ASI, Aurangabad Circle, 2013

54  Water and settlements recent past. Sadly, the practice has now disappeared, and the cisterns have virtually faded from the consciousness of current users of the site. Often, more prominent cisterns that are open to the sky are full of plastic water bottles and other garbage discarded by tourists. An irony that reveals the disconnect between the original nature and purpose of the site and its contemporary avatar, created through the imposition of a new identity, that of monumental heritage catering to tourists. Perhaps the purpose and functioning of cave cisterns can be more clearly seen in another site, outside the fence that cordons off the World Heritage area. The next section will explore this aspect at the neighbouring Takaswami ashram, a relatively recent form of reuse of an ancient cave complex.

Takaswami ashram – a modern reuse of a cave cistern At the base of the Charanadri hill, just outside the fence that cordons off the World Heritage site, is a small structure built around two partially constructed caves along with their cisterns. This is the Takaswami ashram, taka meaning water tank. It was established in the early 20th century by a sadhu (mendicant), who came from Cuddapah (Kadapa) in Andhra Pradesh along one of the many paths that had formed a pilgrimage network linking Ellora with other temple centres in the Deccan.

Figure 1.2 Takaswami ashram Source: Yaaminey Mubayi

Water and settlements 55 In one of the caves, there is a shrine dedicated to Datattreya, a favoured local deity associated with several monastic establishments in the region. (There is an important Datta Mandir in Sulibhanjan, where famous saints like Janardan Swami and Eknath are believed to have meditated.) The original Takaswami (his name is not known) established the ashram in order to conserve and use the water collected in the cisterns, providing drinking water to pilgrims on the pedestrian path that went up the scarp towards the Gauri temple in Mhaismal. Today, the rainwater collected in the cisterns is augmented with piped water, as the water table has fallen and rainfall is not sufficient to fill the tanks. The entrance to the caves and the cisterns is protected by iron gates, and scum and other impurities in the water are regularly cleaned. The purpose of the establishment appears to be focused on conservation and maintenance of the water in the cisterns. Considerable effort is made by the ashram inmates to care for the water tanks. The principle of service underwrites most of the ashram’s activities, and many residents of Verul village perform voluntary service at the ashram, working in the vegetable gardens and caring for the cattle at the gaushala (cow shelter). Over the past decade, the ashram has grown considerably from the rudimentary structure it originally was. Its reach and popularity appears to have been enhanced as well, judging from the growing numbers of volunteers. The manner in which the ashram has engendered support from the local community may illustrate a trend in Ellora whereby the Buddhist and other structures established linkages with the resident population. The Takaswami ashram is a good example of the process by which the Ellora region attracted itinerant monks and holy men travelling along welltrodden pilgrimage routes across the peninsula. Thus, it formed a cluster of sectarian institutions of which the multi-religious caves themselves are a representation. The sectarian hub, locally known as “Santanchi bhoomi” (land of saints) was part of a network of pilgrimage routes, interlinking with other such networks and forming a pattern across peninsular India. This aspect will be explored in greater detail in the next chapter. The trope of water provision underpins the activities of such sectarian institutions at Ellora, from ancient to modern times. In an arid climate, offering water to pilgrims and devotees is regarded as the epitome of charity. In the words of Kachru Jadhav, Verul resident and volunteer at the ashram, the ashram is doing good work here. They are genuinely concerned about our problems, the drought (sukha), the starving cattle. I love to come here and perform service (seva) in the garden and gaushala. If I do not come here every morning, my day does not go well.39 The involvement of the local community through the link of seva, service, is a powerful driver for the ashram’s growth as a popular institution in the region. It fuels the ashram’s expansion – a permanent building with a larger

56  Water and settlements shrine and hall for darsana (audience) has been constructed over the past decade, and the agricultural property has increased as well. However, there is a deeper dimension to the service of water provision that the Takaswami ashram depicts, which is that it demonstrates the fundamental significance of the presence of water at the site. Water is, without doubt, a precious resource in the region, but it is available if one is able to conserve it and redistribute it for public good. The availability of water is an important quality of the Ellora region – it is frequently referred to in Puranic sources and inscriptions as Sivalaya Tirtha, associated with the sacred pool of Grishneshwar temple. The region’s identity as a tirtha is crystallised around the presence of water. The essential nature of water is imbued with the quality of sacredness, thus acquiring the status of a tirtha. This feature of the region will also be discussed in the next chapter. There are certain incongruities about the region. Despite its strategic location along the Dakshinapatha, Daulatabad fort along with its associated localities, the cave complex at Ellora and the Grishneshwar pilgrimage centre remained linked but disparate and relatively small-scale settlements. The grandeur and structural sophistication of the caves belies their isolated surroundings. The massive scale and political significance of Devagiri/ Daulatabad are not reflected in an equally elaborate urban context to it. As Malandra puts it, Ellora-the site and the village never became as complex as the southern temple towns. Yet, it is possible to infer from the growth of the tirtha itself that this development depended on and then reinforced the concentration of resources across an entire region and a division of labour that depended on those resources, analogous to the triangular system of sacred kings, religious systems and local productive relations that transformed places like Tanjavur or Puri into a thriving urban, religious centre.40 Instead, the area remains comparatively rural, the historic structures and hamlets scattered across the countryside. Perhaps the rocky and hilly terrain did not encourage the growth of urban settlements beyond a point, perhaps limited arable land and water resources obstructed the development of complex social structures that underlie larger metropolitan centres. As it is, Ellora was created as a pinnacle of human skill, and remained so, while Daulatabad can be said to be a stepping stone towards the founding of Aurangabad, a truly elaborate city.

Notes 1 Riyaz Ahmad Ansari, “Medieval Daulatabad Complex: A Cultural Study,” PhD thesis submitted to the Dept of History, Babasaheb Ambedkar Marathwada University, Aurangabad, July 2017, http://hdl.handle.net/10603/103128.

Water and settlements 57 2 James Fergusson and James Burgess, The Cave Temples of India, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1880 (reprinted 2013); Carmel Berkson, Ellora: Concept and Style, Abhinav Publications, New Delhi, 1992 3 M.K. Dhavalikar, Ellora, Oxford University Press, New Delhi, 2003; Richard Eaton, A Social History of the Deccan, 1300–1761: Eight Indian Lives (The New Cambridge History of India), Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 2005. 4 James Westcoat, “Human Use of Landforms on the Deccan Volcanic Plateau: Formation of a Geocultural Region,” Geomorphology (2018), https://doi. org/10.1016/j.geomorph.2018.08.044 5 Richard Eaton and Phillip Wagoner, Power, Memory, Architecture: Contested sites on India’s Deccan plateau, 1300–1600, Oxford University Press, New Delhi, 2014. 6 Westcoat, op. cit., pp. 6–8. 7 Conversation with Professor R.S. Morwanchikar, July 2019. 8 Dulari Qureshi, “Aurangabad Cave Temples: An Overview,” 15 March 2017, www.sahapedia.org/aurangabad-cave-temples-overview The inscription reads ‘Rajatalaka Paithana path asana chulika yu kuti kodhi’ which can be translated as ‘In the paragana or taluka of Paithan called Rajatalaka (ancient Aurangabad) a small temple (kuti) and hall (kodhi) were erected at the Vihara of Sevaja.’ 9 Conversation with Professor R.S. Morwanchikar, July 2019. 10 Dulari Qureshi, op. cit. 11 The term Banjara is believed to have its origins in the Persian phrase “Berinji Arind,” meaning dealers in rice. It is also related to the Sanskrit term Banij and Baniya, meaning trader. They are an Indo Aryan language-speaking nomadic people, believed to have come into the sub-continent from Central Asia. They trace their ancestry to Lord Krishna, ascribing their nomadism to cow-herding activities related to the Yadavas. They were regarded as criminal tribes by the British and were notified under the Criminal Tribes Act of 1871. Their association with trade is clearly indicated, however, and their role in enabling the passage of caravans in the Balaghat region throws light on the diverse dimensions of the nuances of Deccan trade routes. Babu Chinna Jamia Nayaka, “The History of the Banjara Tribal People,” AK Sinti Roma und Kirchen in Baden Wurttemberg, Dalit Solidaritat in Deutschland, www.sintiroma.org/weltweit/ dalit/12-the-history-of-banjara-tribal-people 12 Westcoat, op cit., p. 8. 13 Ansari, op. cit. 14 Under the Yadavas, great Marathi works, like the Jnaneshwari of Jnaneshwar and the Mahaanubhavi text, Lilacharitra by Chakradhar Swami, were composed. Sharngadeva wrote the Sangita Ratnakara, a major contribution to the performing arts. Hemadri, a jurist and administrator, Bhaskaracharya and eminent astronomer and many other poets and writers flourished. Ansari, op cit. 15 According to Ansari, Devagiri was a Jaina Jnana bhandara (library) established by Prithvidhar, a Paramara dynasty minister. It was a significant centre of Jaina monastic activity in the 11th-12th centuries. Ansari, op. cit. 16 Conversation with Professor R.S. Morwanchikar, July 2019. 17 Dulari Qureshi, Fort of Daulatabad, Bharatiya Kala Prakashan, New Delhi, 2004. 18 “On the plain ground towards the eastern side, is a large fortified area known as Mahakot, also known as Katak in Marathi literature.  .  .  . Encompassed within the Mahakot but situated closer to the foot of the hill is a much smaller fortified area known as Kalakot, containing the ruins of some palaces and audience halls.”

58  Water and settlements M.S. Mate, “Daulatabad  – An Archaeological Interpretation,”  Bulletin of the Deccan College Research Institute, Vol. 47/48 (1988), pp.  207–226.  JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/42930226, accessed 19 December 2020. 19 Aurangabad District Gazetteer, 1884, pp. 12–13. 20 Richard Eaton and Phillip Wagoner, Power, Memory, Architecture: Contested Sites on India’s Deccan Plateau, 1300–1600, Oxford University Press, New Delhi, 2014, pp. 26–27. 21 Kasshaf Ghani, “Tomb Complexes at Khuldabad,” Sahapedia, 16 November 2016, www.sahapedia.org/tomb-complexes-khuldabad. 22 The air shaft, typical of medieval Islamic water systems in west Asia, consists of a brick and lime mortar hollow tower open to the sky. Water from terracotta pipes came into a miniature settling tank at its base and inlets and outlets were arranged so that sedimentation could take place and clearer water could flow out further along the pipeline. Mate, op. cit., p. 48. 23 According to the legend, once the Shaikh sent his attendant to the well to fetch water for his ritual ablutions (wazu). The attendant was prevented from doing so by Sona Bai, the daughter of the local Hindu chieftain, who declared that the Shaikh could take the water if it turned to gold! When the attendant went back and reported the matter to the Shaikh, he said “so be it,” gave his handkerchief to the attendant and asked him to drop it into the well. As soon as the handkerchief touched the water, it turned into flowing gold. Sona Bai was so impressed by the power of the Shaikh that she became his disciple, converted to Islam and became an adept mystic. She is buried next to the saint under a jasmine tree within the dargah compound. Ghani, op. cit. 24 Mate, op cit., p. 46. 25 Ibid. 26 Ali Akbar Husain, “Indo-Iranian Gardens: Garden sites in the Deccan in Southern India,” Manzar Journal, No. 33 (Winter 2016). 27 Mate, op. cit., p. 47. 28 The system will be discussed in detail in Chapter 3. 29 Mate, op. cit., pp 48–49. 30 James Westcoat, “Human use of landforms on the Deccan Volcanic Plateau: Formation of a geocultural region,” Geomorphology (2018), p. 8. https://doi. org/10.1016/j.geomorph.2018.08.044. 31 Gethin Rees, “A Hiatus in the Cutting of Buddhist Caves in the Western Deccan,” Ancient Asia, Vol. 2, No. 119 (December 2010), www.researchgate.net/ publication/286242205_A_Hiatus_in_the_Cutting_of_Buddhist_Caves_in_the_ Western_Deccan, accessed 23 December 2020. 32 John Sutcliff, Julia Shaw, and Emma Brown, “Historical Water Resources in South Asia: The Hydrological Background,” The Hydrological Sciences Journal, Vol. 56, No. 5 (July 2011). 33 M.K. Dhavalikar, Ellora: A Monumental Legacy, Oxford University Press, New Delhi, 2003. 34 T.V. Pathy, Elura: Art and Culture, Sterling Publishers Pvt. Ltd., New Delhi, 1980, pp. 10–13. 35 Geri Malandra, “The Mandala at Ellora,” Journal of the International Association of Buddhist Studies, Vol. 19, No. 2 (Winter 1996), p. 13. 36 James Burgess and Bhagwanlal Indraji, Inscriptions from the Cave Temples of Western India, Government Central Press, Bombay, 1881, www.indianculture. gov.in/inscriptions-cave-temples-western-india-descriptive-notes-c, accessed 26 December 2019. 37 Wescoat, op. cit., p. 8. 38 Information received from ASI Aurangabad Circle, 2013. 39 Conversation with Kachru Jadhav, May 2015. 40 Ibid.

2 Water and sacrality – sacred geography and networks of pilgrimage

The idea of pilgrimage involves a journey to a sacred centre. Owing to its location along a major travel route, Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad attracted pilgrims of various denominations, Buddhist, Jaina, Hindu and later Muslim. Known for the pilgrimage centre of Grishneshwar, the region’s identity as a tirtha grew beyond the Saivite shrine, expanding to encompass many other sacred sites, linking it with diverse and far-flung networks across the sub-continent and beyond. While the region itself did not grow into a major urban centre, it subsumed a variety of religious and sectarian institutions and remained associated with sacred activity. The landscape at Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad, even today, contains a multiplicity of sacred spaces, often overlapping in terms of their significance to the local community. Ellora was a tirtha with a difference. Traditionally, a tirtha is a place of river crossing, or a confluence of two streams, as was Paithan on the Godavari.1 In either case, the presence of water was essential to the notion of crossing the river or sea of existence (Bhava Sagar), a seminal idea underlying the performance of a tirtha yatra, or pilgrimage and its associated rituals. At Ellora, the association with water was achieved by the presence of a sacred pool, the fountainhead of the cult of Siva Grishneshwar and the stream of the Yelganga flowing down the escarpment out of which the caves are carved. Around this core of liquescence, as it were, multiple sacred complexes developed: the Buddhist-Brahmanical-Jaina caves, the temple of Grishneshwar, the Jaina shrine of Parsvanatha on Charanadri hill. Numerous ashrams and monastic institutions like the Datta temple at Sulibhanjan and the Mahanubhavi ashram at Ellora added to the region’s sacred geography. Following the advent of the Tughlaqs at Daulatabad, important Sufi saints established their khanqahs in the vicinity. Thus, sacrality at Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad assumed a cosmopolitan quality, overriding boundaries of community and religious denomination. The quality of sacredness at Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad was premised on the movement of people and ideas along the trade and pilgrimage route. On one hand, the tirtha was a space for the expression of multiple identities by diverse groups, pilgrims and travellers alike, while on the other, DOI: 10.4324/9781003315148-3

60  Water and sacrality it generated a collective consciousness underpinned by an awareness of the region being a sacred space. Geri Malandra suggests that despite the existence of pan-Asian networks underlying the patronage of the Buddhist caves, Ellora was essentially a regional pilgrimage centre. In her words, travel to these regional sites can be regarded as a complex s surrogate for the journey to the source and the heartland of the faith . . . where “reduplicative shrines,” may imitate major pilgrimage centres. This phenomenon of spatial transposition or regional substitution has often been noted in the context of Indian pilgrimage to sacred sites. . . . In this way; regional sites can substitute for national ones. Ellora exemplifies such transformations, effected by the interaction of geography, politics, and religion, that create an important regional tirtha. It must then be viewed within the context of the universal sacred systems to which its architecture, sculpture, and religious practise refer.2 The Kailasa temple at Ellora, therefore, may be regarded as a duplicate Mount Kailasa, the mythical abode of Siva, while the Buddhist caves are believed to have replicated Bodh Gaya.3 An inscription in the Parsvanatha cave, dating back to the 13th century, reinforces this assumption. “In Sri (Va)radhanapura was born Ranugi . . . his son was Galugi whose wife was Svarna, dear to the world. From those two sprang four sons, Chakresvara and the rest. Chakresvara was chief amongst them, excelling through the virtue of liberality. He gave on the hill that is frequented by the Charanas, a monument of Parsvanath, and by this act of liberality he made an oblation of karma. Many huge images of lordly Jinas he made, and converted the Charanadri into a holy tirtha, just as Bharata made Mount Kailasa a tirtha. The unique image of faith, of firm and pure convictions, kind, constant to his faithful wife, resembling the tree of paradise in liberality, Chakresvara becomes the protector of pure faith, a fifth Vasudeva.4 The addition of multiple religious shrines to the sacred centre as duplicates of important pilgrimage sites enabled the regional population to gain access to the essence of the sites in spirit, if not in actual presence. While it may not have been possible for an average resident of Marathwada to visit Mount Kailasa or Bodh Gaya, a pilgrimage to Ellora could fulfil their spiritual aspirations fairly adequately.5 Thus, the region constituted a sacred space within which a variety of religious and sectarian institutions established their presence – a multi-layered tirtha. The term sacred geography aptly describes the network of shrines present in the region, belonging to different sects and denominations. Each depicts the particular origin myth that locates it within the landscape, yet is linked to other sites along wider networks of sacrality. This chapter delves into the sacred geography and cultural identity of the Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad

Water and sacrality 61 region as it evolved through the second millennium ad. It argues that the element of water was a primary factor underpinning the establishment of sacred centres as well as the delineation of pilgrimage routes that linked them. The three sections in this chapter explore different dimensions of sacrality in the region. The first section carries out an overview of the landscape, examining the patterns of migration of different groups into the region, ranging from nomadic pastoralists like the Banjaras to the Sufis. The local ecology like pasture, forests and water bodies is an important factor that underwrites the establishment of settlements and institutions. The second section investigates the diverse aspects that define the pilgrimage centre of Grishneshwar described in the Verul Mahatmya, a local text. Through numerous Puranic myths that link indigenous traditions and beliefs with overarching Brahmanical ideology, a local cult was subsumed within a panIndian framework. Here, too, the landscape is an important factor in defining the region’s significance, and the relationship between the Grishneshwar tirtha and the Yelganga is an essential factor underpinning the complex’s sacrality. The final section engages with a fundamental aspect of water provision in the region  – the monsoon. It explores the Panchami festival in Verul, an event directly related with the successful arrival of the rains. The festival is premised on the performance of a mythic occurrence affirming fertility and abundance in the land – the marriage of Shiva and Parvati. The coming together of different social groups in the village to perform established roles ensuring the creation of order from chaos leads to a successful culmination – a bountiful harvest. The chapter is based on personal interactions with members of the local community in Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad. Their voices are the strongest expression of the survival of local beliefs and the evolution of institutional traditions over the centuries. Community perceptions have been cross-referenced by textual sources and secondary literature whenever possible, but a substantial part of the analysis of local practices is based on the voices of the people.

Sacred geography and the inflow of people and ideas “Where water, forests and hills converge, sages come to meditate”6

Any attempt to understand the peculiar nature of the multi-sectarian tirtha of Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad must focus on its geo-political location along a travel route. The constant movement of people along the passage of the Dakshinapatha lies at the core of the region’s settlement pattern. As Carmel Berkson puts it, Nomadic hunters or pastoral tribes arrived from various converging trails; they halted at hillside crossways, which became established as sacred environments. Forest in the vast plains, abundant streams and

62  Water and sacrality underground sources of water and natural caverns provided refreshment and shelter. The goddess dwelled in the sacred mountain, and she was propitiated with sacrifices to satisfy her insatiable demands for vegetative offerings and for animal and human blood. Recent excavations have established definitely the existence ten thousand years ago of migratory tribes as well as settlements in Maharashtra. Numerous late paleolithic tool finds here suggest that Ellora might well have been such a crossing of the ways in prehistoric times.7 The reference to “crossing” also indicates the idea of the tirtha: it usually alludes to the crossing of rivers; however, the convergence of routes may also be imagined to be a tirtha. The movement of pastoralist-nomadic groups like the Banjaras in the Upper Godavari river basin since ancient times has been mentioned in the previous chapter. There are several Banjara settlements, or Tandas, in the Ellora region as well. A Tanda is an occupational neighbourhood attached to a village, relationally termed Wanda. The Tanda-Wanda relationship is recognised as symbiotic association of mutual reliance while maintaining their distinct social and cultural identity. Verul Tanda, Palaswadi Tanda and Shardulwadi are some of the pastoralist settlements in the region. They are recognised under the Scheduled Tribes Act and governed by the Gram Panchayats of the villages. Today, contemporary tanda residents claim to have their origins in Rajasthan – they believe their ancestors were warriors in the armies of wellknown heroes like Maharana Pratap. Despite being classified under the Scheduled Tribes Act, they assert a quasi-Rajput identity, having adopted the surname “Rathod.” One informant declared that they migrated to the Deccan “fourteen generations ago,” escaping poverty and constant wars in their original home. Another said that they found water and grazing land in abundance in this region, hence decided to settle here. Following the promulgation of the Hyderabad Land Tenancy laws in 1960, they were given land as an incentive to settle down and abandon their nomadic lives. Their primary occupation is still breeding livestock – they sell milk products and cow dung fuel to the village. However, most households own about two acres of land where they cultivate jowar, bajra, sugarcane and cotton. Additionally, they also perform contract labour in other areas including Ahmadnagar.8 Tanda residents, or Banjara Samaj as they call themselves, claim that “Bahmans” (Brahmins) from their ancestral home near Chittor (Rajasthan) used to periodically visit them and apprise them of their origins. Other than these updates, they have lost all links with their homeland. However, their rituals and festivals are quite distinct from those practised by the Marathi communities around them. They celebrate Holi, Teej and Gangaur, occasions clearly associated with practice in Rajasthan. Having said that, residents of Palaswadi Tanda are followers of Sewalalji Maharaj, a saint from “Paura” (Yavatmal district of Maharashtra). The saint was originally from Andhra Pradesh, once again highlighting the sacred geography linking

Water and sacrality 63 Marathwada with Andhra. He is believed to be a disciple of Guru Nanak, the first Sikh Guru; however, the Banjaras are not Sikhs. Their following of Guru Nanak as a Bhakti saint is more resonant of the far-flung networks of monastic mystical traditions that covered the sub-continent and linked places as far apart as Andhra Pradesh and Punjab. The Banjara settlements illustrate the movement of people and their cultural practices along established routes since ancient times. The nomadic tribes may be successors to early pastoralists that migrated into the region in search of pasture and water following pre-historic patterns of transhumance. The seasonal movement of these tribes may be one of the early defining avatars of the Dakshinapatha. The names of some localities, such as Mhaismal, implying an association with buffaloes (Sanskrit Mahisha), may refer to early pastoralist settlements in the region. As a tanda resident put it, “there was always enough water and grasslands for our animals in Ellora.” The identity of the region as a multi-sectarian tirtha is further illustrated in the presence of the Mahanubhavi ashram in Ellora. The establishment, located very close to the cave complex, is believed to date back to the visit of Chakradhar Swami, the founder of the Vaisnava sect, in 1268 ad. The saint and his disciples spent some time in the caves and their experiences are recorded in the Lilacharitra, an early Marathi Mahanubhav text. The visit of Chakradhar Swami, who was from Bharuch in Gujarat, once again demonstrates the importance of trade routes in the linking of pilgrimage sites with commercial centres and the dissemination of cultural influences in a wider region. On the flat table-topped Sulibhanjan hill sits an innocuous-looking temple locally known as Datta Mandir. Belying its contemporary structure, it is a sacred site of great significance and antiquity, having hosted famous mystics like Eknath and Janardan Swami in the 16th century. Dedicated to Lord Dattatreya, the great monk-deity of Maharashtra, even today, it is a site where itinerant sadhus (hermits) and bairagis (mystics) halt in their travels and meditate. There are two springs next to the temple, Suryakund and Chandrakund, where the Sun and Moon gods are believed to have practised austerities and infused the water with healing properties. The term “kund” connotes a sacred pool, usually fed by a spring, its water used for ritual purposes. Suryakund is visited by occasional travellers, usually from local villages who come for a dip in its waters on Makara Sankranti, an annual solar festival. Datta Mandir and Suryakund illustrate a flourishing monastic network in the region, denoting it as Santanchi Bhumi or the land of saints in local terms. Despite its seeming isolation, it is recognised as a site of great spiritual significance, being associated with well-known Bhakti saints since medieval times. The priest at the Datta Mandir called it Tapovan – a space where jal-jangal-pahaad (water, forest and hills) are found, there is ekaant, or solitude. Saints come to meditate in such places, according to him.9 He

64  Water and sacrality also specified that the water of Suryakund is considered sacred and not used for irrigation. There are no fields in the vicinity. It is interesting that water used for ritual purposes was regarded as distinct from that which could be used for domestic and agricultural needs. The Grishneshwar tirtha is another example of sacred water which serves a ceremonial purpose. The Sufis, who migrated to the region following the advent of the Tughlaqs in the 14th century, added to the area’s sacred geography by introducing Islamic networks of pilgrimage. At the foot of the escarpment of Sulibhanjan hill lies the Pariyon ka Talaab or Lake of Fairies. Adjacent to the talaab is the Dargah of Shaikh Jalaluddin Ganj-e-Rawan, a Sufi saint of the Suhrawardi order who is believed to have migrated to the region from Baghdad over 800 years ago.10 The reservoir has a stone boundary wall believed to date to the Tughlaq period. It is encircled by stone steps on three sides. The tank has an average depth of 70 feet and is nearly 200 yards in circumference. The bund confining the water is thrown across a deep ravine and is 210 feet in breadth at the top. A broad flight of 40 steps leads down to the water on the north side, and there is a smaller flight of steps to the south. The water in the tank is replenished by feeder channels and smaller bunds built in the surrounding hills to catch the run-off and channelise it into the water body.11

Figure 2.1 Suryakund Source: Yaaminey Mubayi

Water and sacrality 65 According to legend, the saint who was a disciple of Sheikh Shahabuddin Suharwardi of Baghdad was given a stick (asa) and enjoined to travel eastward, stopping and settling in a place where the stick would sprout leaves (Muqam). Following his travel through Iran and Delhi, he came south and finally the stick sprouted at this spot, a sacred space next to the reservoir. The original tree still grows in the courtyard and its fruit has magical properties. The tree is native to Baghdad, not local. It is similar to the Bakula (Mimusops elengi) with perennial fruit. Childless women are given five berries to cure their condition. The fruit is packed and sent to all parts of the world, where it is in demand. A eunuch once mocked the saint and ate the fruit; however, he too had a child, and the graves of the eunuch and his child lie in the compound.12 Shaikh Jalaluddin is credited with performing several miraculous feats that are well-known in the region, including defeating a “demon” named Azar, whom he imprisoned under a stone in the dargah compound. The stone’s resemblance to a Siva linga may indicate conflict with a local Saivite shrine, which was taken over by the Shaikh. His “feats,” then, were primarily actions aimed at converting local residents to Islam. In the words of Sabzawari, an 18th-century Persian writer, “he defeated the people of infidelity and sorcery. . . . He first revealed the sign and practice of Islam and made firm the pomp of the faith of Muhammad.”13 The name of the reservoir derives from an incident when the saint saw a group of fairies flying overhead and commanded them to land their “takht” (seat) in the lake. They did so, and the water was infused with their magical healing properties, curing disease and childlessness. Numerous pilgrims, Muslim and Hindu, mainly women, come to the Dargah and take a dip in the lake. The largest number come in January, when the festivals of Eid-eMilad (the Prophet’s birthday) as well as Makar Sankranti are held. The Urs (date of passing) of the saint held in October also attracts a large number of pilgrims. Shaikh Jalaluddin Ganj-e-Rawan was one of the earliest Sufis to have migrated into the region, opening the doors to many others that followed. According to the hagiographical traditions of the dargahs of Shaikh Burhanuddin Gharib and Shaikh Zainuddin, both in Khuldabad, 1400 Sufis migrated to the region during Muhammad Bin Tughlaq’s shift of his capital from Delhi to Daulatabad. While this may be an apocryphal number, it highlights two very important aspects to Sufi settlement in the region. First, it symbolises the large scale of their influence over the region, particularly over the administration of agricultural land, given the number of farmans for land grants by rulers to sustain the dargah establishments.14 Second, it illustrates the inflows of cultural influences from the north and from Central Asia, Persia and the Arab world. Shaikh Jalaluddin’s story, with its origin in Baghdad, and his long journey to Khuldabad, following his master’s orders, culminating in the flowering of a dead branch, is full of layers of meaning.

66  Water and sacrality

Figure 2.2 Dargah of Shaikh Jalaluddin Ganj-e-Rawan Source: Yaaminey Mubayi

It speaks of the germination and growth of Sufi Islam in the inhospitable environment of the Deccan, overcoming the obstacles of hostile local belief systems (symbolised by the demon Azar) and triumphantly establishing its spiritual dominion over the landscape. Fatima Maryam has argued that amongst the many Sufis that entered the Deccan by way of Daulatabad and Khuldabad, there were those who were from Delhi, such as the disciples of the Chishti Shaikh Nizamuddin Auliya,

Water and sacrality 67 the Junaidis and Shattaris, and some who belonged to “alien” orders, such as Naqshbandis, Qadiris and Nimatullahis, who were from Persia, Central Asia and other regions outside the sub-continent. Thus, the Sufis brought multiple influences into the Deccan, from north India as well as from western Asia, enriching Deccan society in terms of ethnic and linguistic diversity and architectural and technological knowledge. Peninsular India, while never isolated, became better connected to central and west Asia, and networks of connectivity were revitalised, travel routes were activated. Daulatabad and Khuldabad became a Sufi hub along a corridor that led to other cities of the Deccan, including Bidar, Bijapur, Gulbarga, most of which also became important Sufi centres. The account of Hazrat Bande Nawaz Gisu Daraz, who moved from Delhi to Daulatabad to Gulbarga, where he finally settled, is well known. Shaikh Burhanuddin Gharib, a direct disciple of Nizamuddin Auliya, along with associates like his younger brother, Shaikh Muntajibuddin Zari Zarizar Bakhsh and his disciple, Shaikh Zainuddin Shirazi, led a powerful Sufi lobby in the region. While shifting to Daulatabad along with Sultan Muhammad Bin Tughlaq in 1327, Burhanuddin is believed to have prophesised the founding of the city of Burhanpur on the banks of the river Tapti. The city was built by Sultan Nasir Khan Faruqi in the 1380s. The Faruqi sultans were followers of Shaikh Burhanuddin Gharib, whose tomb was located in Khuldabad – they named their new city after him and dedicated the revenue from two villages in the region, Bhadgaon and Kandalah, for the maintenance of the dargah establishment in Khuldabad. When Burhanpur was annexed by the Mughals in 1601, Akbar enhanced the grant, adding the villages of Bhusawal and Adilabad to the revenue settlement for the dargahs of Burhanuddin and Zainuddin. Thus, the Chishtiya establishment at Khuldabad was linked with Burhanpur through reciprocal relationships of status and privilege – where the symbolic dominance of the Shaikh, expressed through his prophecy, was upheld by the material networks of land grants. The augmenting of these grants by the Mughal emperor Akbar served to legitimise his takeover of Burhanpur in popular perception, receiving the saint’s blessing of his rule, as it were.15 Sacred geography and the movement of people along established paths over millennia are essential factors in the pattern of development at Ellora– Khuldabad–Daulatabad. Rather than focusing on a single sect or religious denomination, as in the case of other pilgrimage centres, the region has seen the inflow and settling of saints and members of diverse sectarian communities. The aspect critical to the peculiar nature of the tirtha that is Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad is its multiculturality. Possibly arising from its important strategic location, its political significance from a defensive perspective, its commercial importance overlaid by the circulation of diverse travellers from far-flung areas, the region became a conglomeration of multiple sectarian institutions. From pastoralist-nomadic tribes to the itinerant sadhus who meditate at Suryakund, from the Mahanubhavis to the Sufis of

68  Water and sacrality north India and west Asia, the region has attracted travellers through the millennia, many of whom settled here and generated the multi-layered social fabric that we experience today. This may not always have been a cordial establishing of relations with the prevailing society, however. The legend of the demon trapped under the linga-shaped stone in the dargah of Shaikh Jalaluddin Ganj-e-Rawan, and the story of Sonabai and Shaikh Muntajibuddin Zar Zarizar Bakhsh (discussed in the previous chapter) indicates competition, even conflict over land, water and resources on the part of the new entrants. The Sufis came in with the force of political authority behind them, but this may not have prevented local interests from voicing their dissent against their dominance. Traces of conflict with local communities are also reflected in the Banjaras’ narrative of arrival into the region. Thus, the incoming groups would certainly have negotiated their entry into Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad, and force and military dominance would also have been used to establish their presence. Water availability was an essential pre-requisite for settling the communities and institutions alike. The pastoralists clearly expressed that their preference for the region was based on access to water and grassland, while the Sufis ensured that water provision for their establishments was carried out by the construction of talaabs. Water assumes a greater significance through ritual usage, as seen in Suryakund and Pariyon ka Talaab, where it is believed to have magical qualities, and ceremonial bathing is the norm. In the next section, the ritual and healing qualities of water in the region will be explored in detail. The next section examines a major core of pilgrimage activity today, the jyotirlinga shrine of Siva-Grishneshwar and its tirtha, the sacred pool that is fundamental to its eminence in the region.

Water as the embodiment of fertility and healing powers After exploring the wider landscape, we turn to focus on a contemporary pilgrimage centre in Ellora, the Grishneshwar temple and tirtha, a bustling, vibrant institution that energises the region both socially and economically. Grishneshwar is regarded as one of the jyotirlingas, 12 “self-manifested” autochthonous lingas, a list that includes Tryambakeshwar (Nashik), Mahakaleshwar (Ujjain), Somnath (Gujarat), Kedarnath (Uttarakhand) and others. An important temple at the local and regional levels, its location on the jyotirlinga network of shrines gives it a pan-Indian significance, a fact that was enhanced by its restoration by Ahilyabai Holkar in the 1830s. Today, it is one of the reasons that Ellora is well networked by road, railway and air routes across the country. It is also located along a path followed by the Warkaris, pilgrims to the temple of Vitthala in Pandharpur, about 350 kilometres away. Thousands of Warkaris arrive in the region in the month of June, paying their respects at

Water and sacrality 69 Grishneshwar en route to Pandharpur. Their annual pilgrimage reaffirms the sacrality of the tirtha and commemorates its links with other sacred centres. Their movement along the established pilgrimage paths energises the sacred geography of the region. The tirtha, comprising the pool and the autochthonous linga along with its cult, almost certainly pre-dated the caves at Ellora. In fact, it was possibly the reason the Kalachuris chose to excavate their Saivite caves at this spot in the 7th century. The earliest inscriptional reference to the tirtha is found in the 8th-century copper plates of Dantidurga, where he is said to have bathed in the “Guheswara” (Grishneshwar) pool before granting land to Brahmins.16 The Baroda inscription of Karkaraja II (812 ad) affirms the presence of a “Sivalaya” (Siva temple) in the hills of Elapur, referring to Ellora, where Krishna I  constructed the Kailasa temple. Thus, Ellora had prior associations with the Saivite cult of Grishneshwar before the Rashtrakutas chose to make it their religious capital. The temple structure is more difficult to date, one version having been constructed by Maloji Bhonsale in the 17th century, according to local informants. A baoli of the period in the temple compound is proof of that possibility. However, the jeernoddhara carried out by Ahilyabai Holkar is more interesting in its aspirational multi-dimensionality. She is known to have sponsored restoration works at important pilgrimage sites of the subcontinent, including Gaya, Puri and Varanasi. Her patronage of Grishneshwar, a less significant site of regional importance, seems to be an effort to raise its stature to that of the larger pilgrimage centres. Perhaps its growing importance as a jyotirlinga in the later medieval period motivated her to associate herself with the site and legitimise her role as a royal patron of religious structures. The Grishneshwar tirtha is a striking-looking structure, impressive in its symmetry of steps and pavilions. Travellers like John Seely have praised its elegant proportions. This splendid tank is a square of 151 feet, which gradually lessens on going down the flight of steps, of which there are five on each side of the square. Each flight is terminated by a pavement or platform, whence commence the succeeding series of steps. . . . At this last step was the water; but the steps I  could still see for some distance lower down. I was informed they extended many feet below the surface of the water, until the square became very contracted. The upper pavement of the tank is encompassed by a stone wall, three feet in height. The stone employed in forming this beautiful tank is of a grey, bluish colour. On the fourth pavement are built eight light and airy temples, of a square figure, open at the sides, the domes supported by four carved pillars: one is placed at each angle, one again half way between the extremities, and opposite to each other. They contain a Ling, pointing to the N.W. On the third pavement grows a large tree at each angle, enclosed by a

70  Water and sacrality

Figure 2.3 Grishneshwar tirtha Source: Yaaminey Mubayi

small stone wall. The view of the tank form the last flight of steps is very fine, and I  observed Brahmanas and Brahmanees promiscuously bathing, nearly in a state of nature. The retirement of the place, and the beauty of the country, added much to the effect. Such lovely spots are rarely met with.17 The reference to ritual bathing at the tirtha, albeit “promiscuously,” by Seely, illustrates a flourishing pilgrimage culture in the region in the early 19th century. Some decades later, James Burgess described some of the ceremonies carried out at the site18: At the village Ahalyabai constructed a square kund or tank, surrounded by an outer wall about ten feet high in the inside- the level of the water being considerably below the ground. Inside this wall a broad platform goes quite round, from which the flight of steps the whole length of each side descend to the water, and on these steps are built four small shrines. This kund is the Sivalaya or the abode of Siva; and round it the image- a large silver mask dressed in a Maratha turban-is carried in procession in

Water and sacrality 71 a palankin at the Sivaratri festival, and bathing in its water is regarded as meritorious. To the east of the kund, in a square walled enclosure, is the temple, built by the same princess, and dedicated to Siva as Grisnesvara. The essence of sacrality at Ellora emerges out of the interaction between the immobility of the Sivalaya Kund and the flow of the river Yelganga. The stream cascades past the Jogeshwari and Ganesh Leni caves and pours down the scarp of the Charanadri hill next to the Dumar Lena. The spectacular visual imagery could have contributed to the development of the sacred geography of the area, the caves forming the backdrop to the bustling activity of Grishneshwar. The Yelganga flows past the stone steps of the Grishneshwar ghat, where devotees perform rituals, linking the temple with the cave complex, before joining with the Shivna near Lakhni village in Khuldabad. The point is picturesquely made in a remark by a local informant You know how when a movie is screened in a theatre, there is a small projector on one side, and the picture is projected on a giant screen in front? Well, the Sivalaya and the caves are like that. The movie is running in the temple, and the screen is Kailash (Cave 16). This reference to the myths and rituals associated with the Grishneshwar cult being visually represented in the carvings drives home the point that the temple is a focal point of sacred activity in the region. However, the landscape, too, plays an important role in defining the region’s ritual identity. There are several references in Puranic literature to the city of Elapura (identified with Ellora) and the Sivalaya tirtha. The Sahyadri Khanda of the Skanda Purana refers to a king Ela who ruled over a city of ten settlements that was named after him, hence Elapura.19 The king is believed to have received the blessings of the river Ganga and given grants of land to Brahmins. This may indicate the spread of Brahmanical influence in the region, a process that would have certainly included the appropriation of the cult of Grishneshwar.20 The river Yelganga is a significant motif in highlighting elements of sacrality in the landscape – its name, Ila, or Ela, identifies it as a goddess, the point where it falls down the escarpment at Dumar Lena is known as Dharatirtha. Micaela Soar refers to the Puranic myth in this way – “beyond Varanasi . . . is the Dharatirtha which is very hard to attain where Ela rises like Ganga from the peak of Himalayas.”21 The reference to Varanasi, regarded as the most holy tirtha, and the comparison with the Ganga, enhance the growing importance of the region as an important centre of Brahmanical worship. The Puranic myth reflects the phase when the Saiva cult was taking over local belief systems. “It describes a Saiva king, marked with the emblems of Siva, entering Sivalaya accompanied by the fanfare of a fourfold army and

72  Water and sacrality the five drums.”22 As Soar remarks, “The myth may be seen to legitimise a two-fold takeover of the local tirtha by the rising Brahmanical aristocracy, the combined power of the priests and the kings (and illustrates the process of Ksatriyaization described by Kulke in Orissa).”23 The role of a popular literary medium by which local beliefs and community allegiances were assimilated into an overarching Brahmin-Kshatriya ideological system was performed by the mahatmya. The mahatmyas represent a genre of literature aimed at attracting pilgrims by glorifying a particular temple centre. Starting from the mythical/legendary origins of a temple, its history, the spiritual leaders associated with it, the mahatmyas provide the mythical-cum-historical narrative needed to establish the primacy of a sthala (centre) in the Vaisnava or Saiva tradition. In terms of influencing public beliefs, Puranic literature in general and the mahatmyas in particular played a more popular role than religious canonical texts that were more concerned with ritual, theology and doctrine. As cyclical events reaffirmed the sacrality of the temple site, festivals and their background stories were incorporated into the mahatmyas. They attracted pilgrims, devotees and patrons to the centre. The mahatmyas are later texts, possibly compiled after the 15th century, when there was a well-developed institutional network linking pilgrimage sites in place. The mahatmyas were instruments for the assimilation of local myths into Puranic Brahmanical accounts, bridging the gap between the “local and the global,” the Great and Little traditions, as it were. It is in this context that the Verul Mahatmya, the local text extolling the virtues of the pilgrimage centre, must be examined. The account available to us today was compiled by one Vinayakbuwa Topre, a local Brahmin from Verul in 1844. However, the stories it recounts were a part of earlier narratives found in older texts, including the Puranas, indicating that the mahatmya formed the coping stone of a process of evolution of the pilgrimage centre through the 2nd millennium ad. For instance, the name of the area changed through the ages, according to the text, from Shivalaya in the Krita and Treta Yugas to Elapura in the Dwapara and finally Nagasthana in Kaliyuga. The modern name, Verul, is derived from the local term for Naga, snake – Varul. The association with snakes may imply the significance of water to the region as indicated by an important stream in Ellora, the Nagjhari. Water is of immense consequence in determining the region’s significance, especially its qualities of cleansing and healing. The Verul Mahatmya recounts the myth of king Ela, who, while hunting near the sage Gautama’s ashram, accidentally shot and killed some animals that were dear to him. Full of rage, the sage cursed the king with a terrible skin disease, causing worms to infest his body. The repentant king begged the sage’s forgiveness, saying that he had killed the animals by accident. However, the deed was done, and the curse could not be revoked. In despair, the king returned home and told his queen Manikavati of the incident. She immediately

Water and sacrality 73 went to the ashram and prayed to the sage, asking for mercy for her husband. Pleased with her devotion, the sage mitigated the curse, saying that while the disease would remain during the day, at night, the king would be healthy and worm-free. One day, while the king was once again hunting in the forest, he suddenly felt a terrible thirst and drank from a pool of water that he found nearby. As the drops of water fell on his body, his skin disease was cured. Amazed at the miraculous cure, he hurried home to his wife and brought her to the pond. At that instance, sage Gautama appeared before them and advised them to pray to Lord Brahma at the spot. The deity, pleased with their devotion, appeared before them and blessed them. Thus, the pool came to be known as Brahmasarovar, and the area was called Elapura, after king Ela. An earlier reference to the story is found in the Kathakalpataru, a Marathi text of the 15th century, composed by Krishna Yajnavalkya. Here, the king is named Yelurai and his queen is Manikavati. The queen prays at the jyotirlinga shrine of Grishneshwar for the health of her husband. While hunting in the forest of Mhaismal, the king bathes in a pool and is cured of the disease. The story continues with the queen desiring a temple to be constructed commemorating Lord Siva Grishneshwar. She declared that she would not eat until she saw the pinnacle (shikhara) of the temple. In a quandary, the king hired Kokasa, a master craftsman from Paithan, who shrewdly constructed the temple from the top down, beginning with the pinnacle. This was the Manikeshwar cave at Ellora, also known as the Kailasa temple. The story clearly links the pool, the jyotirlinga shrine and the Kailasa cave in a collective dynamic of sacrality, delineating the sacred geography of the pilgrimage centre. The story is repeated in the Verul Mahatmya with minor variations – the master sculptor, Kokasa, is referred to as the son of Vishwakarma, the divine architect, illustrating an effort to link local traditions with pan-Indian institutions propagated through Puranic literature. The healing property of water is a ubiquitous motif in the region, as is observed in the miraculous waters of the Pariyon ka Talaab and Suryakund. Water as a curative element plays an important role in attracting pilgrims and devotees to the sites, where it is worshipped as a transformative substance, curing disease through immersion. Its association with Saivite mythology is demonstrated through another story in the Verul Mahatmya, wherein Siva and Parvati were playing a game of dice in Kailasa. Parvati won, and Siva, deeply insulted, left her and came to the forest of Mhaismal. Parvati went in search of him, assuming the persona of a Bhil woman (Bhilni). She found him in Verul, and while walking together, she complained of thirst. Siva struck the ground with his trident, and a spring emerged, which was later named the Shivalaya tirtha. The transformative quality of water takes on a larger dimension when it overrides boundaries of gender. Another myth about king Ela reveals that he was changed into a woman, Ila, when he entered the sacred forest of Mhaismal. The forest was blessed by Shiva and Parvati (refer to the earlier

74  Water and sacrality myth) and no male could enter it. As Ila, the king served Parvati faithfully. Meanwhile, owing to a disagreement with Shiva, Parvati refused to return to Kailasa and remained in her Bhil form in Mhaismal. The gods were concerned at Shiva’s anger and Parvati’s recalcitrance. They sent the river goddesses, Ganga, Yamuna, Saraswati and Godavari, to find her and bring her back to Kailasa. The goddesses met Parvati in the forest of Mhaismal. Their tears flowed during the reunion, forming the river Yelganga. Before leaving for Kailasa, Parvati gave Ila her male gender back and advised her to revive the Brahmasarovar, which had dried up over the years due to neglect. King Ela, now resplendent as a male, obeyed the goddess and established his kingdom, Elapura, near the revitalised Brahmasarovar. The myth is replete with complex symbolism about the fluidity of gender and its association with water. King Ela became Ila owing to the blessing (or curse?) of Shiva and Parvati, the site for the transformation being a forest. The reference to Parvati assuming the form of a Bhil woman recalls the long association of the region with the nomadic Bhil tribes. More importantly, her form as a Bhil places her outside the Brahmanical caste hierarchy, hence beyond the patriarchal boundaries of feminine behaviour that are a part of the hierarchy. In a way, Shiva could not reach (“find”) her as the region she had retreated to was at the frontiers of Brahmanical society. Hence the river goddesses, more conducive to flow and movement in addition to being female, were sent to fetch her. Their tears at their reunion may also indicate regret at recalling Parvati into the fold of patriarchal control. The birth of the river Yelganga from the tears accompanies the re-transformation of Ila into Ela. The forest of Mhaismal can be seen to be a dangerous place, where norms of gender, a mainstay of Brahmanical society, are fluid and can be overturned. King Ela, now a male, was charged with the duty of establishing civilisational norms by revitalising the Brahmasarovar and settling his kingdom in the region. Thus, the area was brought under Brahmanical control, as depicted in the story. It is interesting to delve into the background of the character of Ila, an androgynous figure found in several Puranic sources as well as the Ramayana and the Mahabharata. In one version, Ila was a daughter born to Vaivasvata Manu, the progenitor of the human race, who was changed into a son, Sudyumna, as desired by his parents. In the Ramayana, Ila was a king who accidentally entered a grove sacred to Parvati and was, therefore, changed into a woman. The similarity in names and events clearly indicates that the Verul Mahatmya myth draws closely upon a pre-existing tradition, one that has gender fluidity at its core. However, the association with water as the river goddesses as well as the origin of the river Yelganga skillfully delineates the sacred geography specific to the Verul region, focusing a general tradition onto a particular region. The inclusion of the Brahmasarovar or the Shivalaya tirtha into this framework highlights the role of Shaivite mythology in legitimising the appropriation of tribal and non-Vedic areas and populations by Brahmanical ritual authority.

Water and sacrality 75 The trope of gender transformation in the Verul Mahatmya opens the door to a discussion on the role of women in the worship of Shiva at the Grishneshwar tirtha. According to the myth, a Brahmin, Sudharma, lived in Verul along with his two wives, Sudeha and Ghusma. The latter, Ghusma, was a devotee of Lord Shiva, worshipping him by immersing 108 clay lingas into the tirtha waters every day. Sudeha, the elder wife, was childless but Ghusma gave birth to a boy who was accomplished in every way. Filled with jealousy, Sudeha murdered the child one night and threw his dismembered body into the tirtha. Next morning, Ghusma was devastated by the loss but continued her worship by offering the clay lingas. Pleased with her devotion, Shiva appeared at the tirtha and restored her dead child to life. When he was about to punish the errant Sudeha, Ghusma stopped him. Instead she asked him to reside in the area forever. Hence he appeared as the swayambhu linga at Grishneshwar. The myth focuses on Ghusma’s devotion, which is the reason for the establishment of the temple. An alternative name for the temple is Ghusmeswar, after Ghusma, highlighting the importance of women’s worship in establishing the significance of the Saivite cult in the region. The simplicity of the ritual performed by Ghusma, as an act of personal piety, though underwritten by stereotypical qualities of feminine virtue: fecundity, devotion and forgiveness, indicates the local nature of the tradition. It is clearly an indigenous story extolling the life-giving qualities of the waters of the Grishneshwar tirtha, linked with the Saivite tradition. The myth is aimed not only to attract pilgrims into the sacred centre but also to project the region’s sanctity and ritual status outwards, resonating throughout the jyotirlinga network. The Verul Mahatmya performs the intricate act of interweaving local traditions with wider pan-Indian belief systems, using stereotypical characters and plots to generate an elaborate cultural tapestry that validates the site as part of a macro-level tradition. The Verul-Grishneshwar complex is regarded as a site of great ritual power. So far, we have considered ways in which the site is approached from the outside, through pilgrimage networks that link it with other sacred centres, both the Saivite jyotirlinga network and sectarian institutions in the vicinity. There is, however, an alternative approach  – the manner in which the Verul community views itself, its own sacrality and its influence over cosmic phenomena. The following section explores this aspect in some detail.

Calling the monsoon – the Panchami festival in Verul24 The Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad region had been reeling under a drought for the past seven years. Monsoon rain had been scanty, and one by one, the talaabs were running dry. Even the waterfall of the Yelganga at Dumar Lena had been reduced to a trickle. The region is no stranger to drought and the subsequent water scarcity. How does it respond to the situation?

76  Water and sacrality As a sacred centre, Verul is a site of spiritual power and is customarily regarded as such by neighbouring villages. In a sense, such sites are accountable for the well-being of the region as a whole. At such times of adversity, the community of Verul comes together to perform a ceremonial procedure of assertion of the site’s ritual power, and a miracle happens. The Panchami festival is unique to the village of Verul. It is a performance of several ritual events, origin myths, divine manifestations interspersed with local histories. It involves multiple social groups, each playing a role in the procedure for curing the calamity afflicting the region. The local residents’ faith in the effectiveness of the festival as an incentive to a bountiful monsoon, underwrites its annual performance every year in the month of June, just prior to the rains. This account of the festival of Panchami emerged through an intense discussion with Sabir Sheikh, a Muslim resident of Verul and an enthusiastic participant in the celebrations. The week-long festival begins each year on the Thursday following Akshay Tritiya (“Akha Teej”), in the month of Vaishakha (end May). The festival of 7 nights ends on the following Wednesday. On the first night, the soang (persona) of Ganpati is brought out, on the second night as well. On the third night Ganpati appears along with Sharada (Saraswati, a goddess associated with Ganesha). On the fourth night a Rakshasa (demon) appears, and a fight is enacted and the Rakshasa is defeated. On the fifth night once again Ganpati appears, followed by other gods like Datta (Dattattreya), Khandoba, Balaji etc. The same night, at about 3–4 am, Mahadev (Shiva) and Parvati appear in full costume (saaj). Shankar Bhagwan plays saripat (dice) with a raja. The raja has no special soang- the villagers themselves become the raja. During the game, Shankar Bhagwan first loses his shawl, then his clothes, and when he has nothing left, he even loses his wife to the raja. After losing his wife Parvati, Shankar becomes bechain (restless). The raja is nervous at having won the goddess in a game, as she is the Mother (Ma). So she assumes the form of a Bhilni, a local Bhil woman. Armed with a bow and arrow, she is led in procession around the village for several hours. Meanwhile, the restless Shiva searches for her and finally finds her at the Balaji temple, where their marriage takes place. The date is important as it signifies the pre-monsoon period, a time full of potential, when cosmic processes can be influenced to provide a favourable outcome for the community. The night-time performance of the ritual is interesting in its unconventional complexity. Night is a time for the breaking down of barriers between good and evil, the divine and the mundane. In terms of mobilising cosmic forces, the night is seen as more favourable, more powerful, as opposed to the more formal routine rituals performed in daylight. On the first night of the festival, a lamp is lit outside the Balaji temple (near Mhaismal), and drums are beaten, ostensibly to frighten away

Water and sacrality 77 wild animals, as the area is heavily forested. An atmosphere of wildness, of being beyond the secure boundaries of ordered society and its familiar norms, is created. In this unpredictable environment, the mythic drama is enacted. Shiva plays dice (saripat) with a local raja. Echoing a similar situation in the Mahabharata, he loses his wealth, weapons, his clothes and finally his wife, Parvati, to the raja. Shiva is unsettled by the turn of events, but Parvati is furious. She assumes the form of a Bhilni, a tribal woman, an attitude that threatens the very existence of the world. One by one, the gods come to appease her but to no avail. Finally, they decide the only way she can be made to revert to her benevolent form is through her re-marriage with Shiva. The marriage takes place in front of the Balaji temple (where the lamp had been lit initially). Once that is achieved, order is restored and in time, an abundant monsoon ensues. The theme of dice is a ubiquitous one, resonant not only with the Mahabharata but also with the Puranic myth about the disagreement between Shiva and Parvati, resulting in the latter retreating into the Mhaismal forest as a Bhilni. (The myth is recounted in the Verul Mahatmya. See the previous section of this chapter.) The incident is depicted in the carvings at the Ellora caves, indicating a long-held tradition popular in the region. The Bhilni is clearly a motif of uncontrolled feminity, commonly found in myths and popular perceptions. It symbolises the goddess’s assumption of a form beyond the pale of established norms, thus inducing terror and fear of social chaos. Her return to her conventional status is illustrated by the process of “marriage,” symbolic of establishing control over the unfettered feminine through sexual dominance. The marriage of Shiva and Parvati, annually affirmed through the festival, is an auspicious occurrence par excellence that acts as a cosmic trigger to release the monsoon rains. It is another popular tradition depicted prolifically in the cave carvings at Ellora. An alternative dimension to the situation is offered by Sabir in his account – the raja has compunctions in accepting the goddess owing to her position as the Mother (Ma). However, when Parvati assumes the persona of a Bhilni, she becomes acceptable to the raja as an acquired possession. The Bhils are a familiar group to the local community, their untouchable status possibly causing their objectification and exploitation. By assuming a Bhil identity, Parvati becomes part of an outcast group, breaking the mould of her sacred personality. This perspective diverges from the Brahmanical ideal exemplified by the divine couple, Shiva and Parvati. The myth strives to restore status quo by bringing back Parvati into her divine, hence high-caste group. It is interesting to speculate on the idea of a soang, which is not merely a cosmetic appearance for the purpose of a drama. It involves the assumption of the personality of the deity by the character. As Sabir goes on to say, A young boy assumes the soang of Parvati, with a bow and arrow in his hands (because Bhils are hunters, shikaris). The costume includes an

78  Water and sacrality elaborate headdress and ornaments. When the Bhilni emerges (from one of the village houses), there is great jubilation, setting off fire crackers and sprinkling of water to settle the dust in the lane. The entire village used to contribute gold to adorn the Bhilni. If someone did not offer gold, it would be stolen. There would be a robbery in the house. The Bhilni, wearing her gold ornaments, was protected by my grandfather (Dadaji, indicating an ancestor). He was given the title of “Havaldar” (policeman) on account of his role as protector of the goddess. He used to receive a share of the harvest because of his status as Havaldar. Now I perform that service. Clearly, the women of Verul do not participate in the Panchami performances. The celebrations take place at night; they are public gatherings, with popular professional performers adding colour to the celebration. Consumption of bhang (an intoxicant) and alcohol is part of the proceedings. A young boy, therefore, assumes the soang of Parvati/Bhilni. He must belong to a Brahmin family, and it is believed that the boy will be married within two years of his performance in the Panchami festival. The role of Shiva is also performed by a Brahmin, a Vaidya (healer). The soangs of Devi and Shankar can be assumed only by Brahmins – no one else can perform that role. The role of Shankar is executed by people from the family of Bundoo Vaidya, the current performer. Bundoo Vaidya is a siddha (enlightened, spiritual) man. Once after performing puja in the temple (Grishneshwar temple), he was walking past the Shivalaya Kund (tirtha) carrying the puja thali in his hands. Suddenly, he dropped the thali and ran towards the Baba Shah Dawal dargah. About 150–200 people ran after him, realizing that this was not a normal occurrence. He had been possessed by a spirit. The spirit spoke through him, asking the people why they had abandoned the dargah? More people should go to the dargah. Bundoo Vaidya has great spiritual power. The ensemble of divine personas in the Panchami festival reinforces a dominant social framework, wherein the central divine characters must be essayed by Brahmins. The character of Shiva is played by a Brahmin Vaidya, his abilities as a healer considered appropriate for the role. His psychic powers are indicated by his talent for channelling spirits, which makes him an appropriate bearer of the soang of Shiva. This account serves to strengthen popular opinion about the credibility of the soangs and also builds a bridge with the dargah tradition through a narrative legitimised by the words of a “spirit” spoken through Bundoo Vaidya. In fact, the assumption of the soangs by designated members of the village community is more like a form of possession than simply the enactment of a role in a drama. Hence the characters belong to families with a tradition of assuming the ritual personas – their link with the Panchami ceremonies is a hereditary one.

Water and sacrality 79 The soang of Shankar must be assumed by a member of the Vaidya family. If the current incumbent has no son, the responsibility goes to a cousin or a brother in the paternal line . . . other Brahmin families have different levels (in the village hierarchy)  – Shukla has his own level, Joshi has his own level  .  .  . they have different tasks in the management of the village and the temple functions. They (high caste Brahmin families of Verul) are not actively involved in the operation of the Panchami festival – they make a perfunctory appearance during the arrival of the Mahadev soang (on the fifth night), contribute some money, then leave. They do not take part in the dancing and other activities (possibly drinking and watching the nautanki). The account refers very clearly to an elaborate social hierarchy in the context of which the festival is celebrated. The festivities involve contact with Bhils and other groups considered to be untouchable, hence high-caste Brahmins are unwilling participants. They cannot refuse to attend the function, though, demonstrating the strength of community solidarity over a popular event. Moreover, despite their recalcitrance, their presence endorses their exalted status, a factor that they could be unwilling to let go of. Hence their appearance at an “appropriate” occasion, the entry of Shiva, is in keeping with their lofty position in the social hierarchy. More interesting is the role played by the Bhils and the Muslims. Apart from the soang of Parvati/Bhilni, which is assumed by a Brahmin, the Bhils play an important role in the enactment of the festival narrative. When the Devi emerges as a Bhilni with her bow and arrow, the Bhils do not allow her feet to touch the ground (out of respect). They place their hands on the floor, one before the other, so that she can walk on their palms. They light small lamps and sweep the ground with their hands so that it is free of insects and small stones that might hurt the feet of the Devi. . . . Once, long ago, some Bhils from the Satkund Tanda (near Mhaismal) kidnapped the soang of the Devi. The soang was wearing a lot of gold jewelry, and the Bhils took him to the bank of a stream, deep in the forest, and stole all the jewelry. Since then, a Muslim (Sabir’s ancestor) was appointed Havaldar to protect the soang of Devi. This service has always been performed by a member of my family and now, it is my time to serve as Havaldar. Ever since Devi emerges from the house in the village, I  lift her on my shoulders and protect her from being pushed and jostled by the crowd. I  carry her for 3–4  hours in procession around the village, and once the marriage with Shiva is over, I remove the jewelry and keep it safely in my pockets. She usually wears about 100 grams of gold, and everyone is assured that it is safe with me. The soang is usually made to drink bhang, so he is tired and sleepy after the ceremony. The weather is quite hot, and we let the boy sleep in a cool room and recover from the proceedings.

80  Water and sacrality The role of the Bhils in placing their palms on the ground for the goddess to walk on signifies their submission to the higher social authority of the upper castes. It is an acknowledgement of their lower status in the caste hierarchy of the village. However, their presence and participation in the festival are clearly essential for its successful completion, an ironical situation since the goddess herself assumes a Bhil form in the narrative. The story about the kidnapping of the soang by the Bhils of Satkund Tanda (the locality is named after seven kunds, or water bodies, found in the Mhaismal forest) and the robbery on the banks of a stream, thereafter named Shringar Nala (stream of adornments) may be an apocryphal one, based on the prevailing stereotype that Bhils are thieves. However, it illustrates the social vulnerability of the Bhils, socially ostracised and forced to retreat into the jungle, where they kidnap and rob the divine persona of a goddess that has assumed their identity. In this situation, a Muslim Havaldar was appointed as protector of the goddess – a fascinating mechanism to involve a community that is otherwise considered beyond the horizon of Hindu social structures. There may be specific reasons for the Muslim community’s participation in the festival – it may relate with an actual “Havaldar” in the past who might have been called upon to protect the valuables worn by the soangs at the event. The origin of his family’s service is not clear in Sabir’s account. However, what is evident is that the festival’s significance is cultural and not religious in orthodox terms – its calls for participation by all the social groups that constitute the village community. This is demonstrated by the variety of soangs of multiple deities that appear as the entourage of the central divinities, Shiva and Parvati. Thus, we see Khandoba, a deity with tribal origins absorbed into Saivite mythology, worshipped by pastoralists and tribals, and Dattattreya, another syncretic deity unique to Maharashtra. The display of these popular figures attracts their devotees and adds to the widespread appeal of the festival. As Sabir puts it, Once I was reprimanded by a member of my community (Mazhab) for participating in this ceremony. The festival came up during the month of Ramzan, and I  was told that this was not an appropriate activity during this period of austerity. I said, I am doing the work of god. God is one, whether one sees him as a Muslim or as a Hindu. What does it matter if he manifests as the Devi? I am protecting her divine form. After me, my son will perform the service. The goddess’s Bhil identity also throws an interesting side-light onto the prevailing ideas of purity-pollution, another trope that the festival embodies. As a Bhil woman, she enters a ritually polluted domain and cannot be a divine consort to the Brahmanical deity, Shiva. Her interactions with the Bhils and the Muslims during the ceremonies prior to her re-marriage to Shiva illustrate the process by which the realms of pollution are negotiated

Water and sacrality 81 and subjugated to once again reaffirm the primacy of ritual purity, symbolised by the re-emergence of Parvati in her Brahmanical form. Interestingly, the role of Shiva is essayed by a Vaidya, a caste commonly associated with medicinal traditions, healing and, by inference, with exorcism as well. The Vaidya is regarded as an appropriate character to perform a kind of ritual exorcism on the polluted goddess, restoring her “purity.” Panchami is essentially about generating fertility in the land, symbolised by the marriage of Shiva and Parvati, an occasion that ensures the occurrence of an abundant rainy season leading to a bounteous harvest. It is an agricultural festival, enacted in a ritually powerful space, being unique to the Ellora area. It reinforces the ritual dominance of the Verul temple complex in the region as not only an important pilgrimage centre but also a space with an inherent power to perform miracles through the synchronised performance of a mythic narrative by its communities. The aim of the performance is to restore order out of chaos, to achieve civilisational well-being through a process of social turmoil. In the end, the status quo is secured and demons are put to rest. An interesting aside on the festival was provided by Sabir – other villages besides Verul are beginning to perform Panchami owing to its co-relation with the monsoon. During the past seven years of drought, desperation for rain has caused them to perform the ceremony that they believe will end their trouble. It remains to be seen whether the performance in places other than Verul will be equally effective, whether the festival’s efficacy is a formula that can be applied in different contexts, or whether Verul does indeed have the unique ability to create miracles. A deep dive into the region of Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad reveals the significance of the space as a point of convergence of different sectarian traditions and their pilgrimage networks. Varied religious institutions are scattered across the landscape, diverse in their denominations and functioning, yet they are connected by the common aspect of sacrality. Owing to the proximity of multiple sacred centres, the local communities view the region as “Santyachi Bhumi,” land of saints. Water is a constant presence, contiguous to the temples and dargahs, necessary for their physical sustenance. It is also a symbolic element interwoven into the sacred landscape, expressed through myth and ritual. In the Panchami festival, it is a defining feature of the pilgrimage centre’s ritual significance and its ability to influence cosmic phenomena.

Notes 1 James Wescoat, “Human Use of Landforms on the Deccan Volcanic Plateau: Formation of a Geocultural Region,” Geomorphology, (2018). https://doi. org/10.1016/j.geomorph.2018.08.044. 2 Geri Malandra, Unfolding a Mandala: The Buddhist Cave Temples at Ellora, State University of New York Press, Albany, NY, 1993, p. 11. 3 Ibid., p. 13.

82  Water and sacrality 4 James Burgess and Bhagwanlal Indraji, “Ellura Inscriptions,” in Inscriptions from the Cave Temples of Western India, Central Government Press, Bombay, 1881, pp. 99–100. 5 This argument is based on a conversation and an unpublished paper by Ranjeeta Datta, Associate Professor, CHS, JNU. 6 Conversation with priest at Datta temple, Suryakund, Shulibhanjan. 7 Carmel Berkson, Ellora Concept and Style, Abhinav Publications, New Delhi, 1992, p. 26. 8 Conversations with residents of Verul Tanda, Palaswadi Tanda and Shardulwadi. May 2009, April 2014. 9 Conversation with the Pujari at Datta Mandir, Sulibhanjan, May 2014. 10 Conversation with the Khadim at the Dargah of Shaikh Jalaluddin Ganj-eRawan, May 2014. 11 Aurangabad District Gazetteer, 1884. 12 Conversation with the Khadim at the Dargah of Shaikh Jalaluddin Ganj-eRawan, May 2014. 13 Carl W. Ernst, Eternal Garden. Mysticism, History and Politics in a South Asian Sufi Centre, Oxford University Press, New Delhi, 2004, pp. 233–235. 14 Carl W, Ernst, “Royal Policy and Patronage of Sufi Shrines in Mughal Revenue Documents from Khuldabad,” in A.R. Kulkarni, M.A. Nayeem and T.R. de Souza (eds) Medieval Deccan History: Commemoration Volume in Honour of P.M. Joshi, Popular Prakashan, Bombay, 1996, pp. 76–91. 15 Yaaminey Mubayi, “The Power of Prophecy  – The Symbolic Link between Burhanpur and Khuldabad,” in S.D. Mande and N.K. Dewda (eds) Burhanpur – A City of Hydraulic Wonders, unpublished manuscript, 2017. 16 Interview with Jayaram Poduval, “Ellora Caves: Carvers, Techniques and Influences,” Sahapedia, 28 December  2016, www.sahapedia.org/ ellora-caves-carvers-techniques-and-influences 17 John B. Seely, The Wonders of Ellora or the Narrative of a Journey to the Temples or Dwellings Excavated out of a Mountain of Granite at Ellora in the East Indies, London, 1825, pp. 123–124. 18 James Burgess, Report on the Antiquities in the Bidar and Aurangabad Districts. Archaeological Survey of Western India, Vol. III., W.H. Allen and Company, London, 1878, pp. 82–83. 19 M.K. Dhavalikar, Ellora  – A  Monumental Legacy, Oxford University Press, New Delhi, 2003, p. 7. 20 Micaela Soar, “The Tirtha at Ellora,” in Ratan Parimoo, Deepak Kannal and Shivaji Pannikar (eds) Ellora Caves: Sculpture and Architecture (Collected papers of the University Grants Commission seminar), Books and Books, New Delhi, 1988. 21 Ibid., pp. 83–84. 22 Ibid. 23 Ibid., p. 82. 24 This section is based on detailed discussions with Shri Sabir Sheikh, resident of Verul and his family.

3 Water and memory – community identities as the past remembered; memories as carriers of values, beliefs and practices

In the previous chapters, two important perspectives of the region’s significance have been delineated. First, the location of Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad along a key sub-continental route established networks of connectivity that linked the region with other centres of political, commercial and religious activity. Second, the landscape at Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad contained a number of pilgrimage centres belonging to different communities, the largest one being the tirtha of Shiva Grishneshwar at Verul. Both approaches regard water as a pivotal element in the region to sustain settlements and also as a ritual component defining the area’s sacrality. Both view the presence of water in an instrumental manner, as a medium for achieving something else. This chapter engages with the presence of water in the region as an intangible, allegorical part of the landscape, symbolic of the human relationship with the environment. Water is the bearer of community memories, sculpting images of their collective past and carrying them forward into the present. The chapter opens with an account of Malik Ambar ki pipeline, an elaborate system devised by the great Abyssinian polymath to direct water from an older talaab along a 2 kilometre dyke into Daulatabad fort. The system was revealed by members of the local community through a process of “remembering” their past, drawing together diverse strands that formed their identity  – skills, knowledge, memories, anecdotes and local history. The insights emerging from this exploration lead to an understanding of the visceral connect between people and their environment that creates a cultural landscape. Diverse elements of the pipeline: water bodies, trees, streams, waterfalls collectively constitute an elaborate water system created by Malik Ambar but are individually significant as well, each telling their own story. Malik Ambar, the pivotal personality who dominated the political landscape of the Deccan for several decades in the 16th–17th centuries, was a fascinating character whose life illustrated the networks that linked the Indian peninsula with Africa through Arab trade. From his early life as a slave in Mecca and Baghdad to his rise through the echelons of power in India, becoming the de facto ruler of the Nizamshahi sultanate, Ambar’s spectacular career embodied the multi-cultural society of the Deccan. His DOI: 10.4324/9781003315148-4

84  Water and memory numerous talents included the skills of bargigiri (guerilla warfare), land revenue administration and city planning, but his ability as a hydrologist was best expressed in the elaborate water systems that he created in the new city of Khadki, later renamed Aurangabad. The pipeline at Daulatabad is another example of Ambar’s hydraulic systems, the most ambitious of all the water provision measures at the fort. The third section raises questions about the manner in which the presence of water underpins local identity in the region. Water’s ability to create an interface for utility and symbolism to flow into one another is explored through the writings of philosophers like Ivan Illich and Simon Schama. Illich’s example of the Greek myth of the well of Mnemosyne that bears the memories of civilisation establishes an apt framework for examining the ways in which people relate to their environment in Ellora–Khuldabad– Daulatabad. Water as a bearer of the community’s memories, often overriding barriers of caste and religion, highlights its significant role in shaping the cultural landscape.

Re-covering “Malik Ambar ki Pipeline” – reconstructing the past through community memories I was born in a country of brooks and rivers, in a corner of Champagne, called le Vallage for the great number of its valleys. The most beautiful of its places for me was the hollow of a valley by the side of fresh water, in the shade of willows. . . . My pleasure still is to follow the stream, to walk along its banks in the right direction, in the direction of the flowing water, the water that leads life towards the next village. . . . But our native country is less an expanse of territory than a substance; it’s a rock or a soil or an aridity or a water or a light. It’s the place where dreams materialize; it’s through that place that our dreams take on their proper form. . . . Dreaming beside the river, I gave my imagination to the water, the green, clear water, the water that makes the meadows green. I can’t sit beside a brook without falling into a deep reverie, without seeing once again my happiness.  .  .  . The stream does’nt have to be ours; the water does’nt have to be ours. The anonymous water knows all my secrets. And the same memory issues from every spring. Gaston Bachelard L’Eau et les Reves. Essai sur l’imagination de la matiere1

The brimming surface of the Mavsala talaab sparkled in the morning sunlight. The water covered all but the first few stone steps dating to the Yadava period. A  dilapidated Tughlaq period building known locally as “Rang Mahal” (referred to as a “summer palace” in the district gazetteer) stood on the edge of the talaab. I walked disconsolately along the bund wall of the talaab, trying to figure out the location of the elaborate water system

Water and memory 85 that I had heard about. My friends from Verul, Yusuf and Sabir, who had accompanied me on this quest were as much in the dark as I was. About 2 kilometres to the southwest, the hulking massif of Daulatabad loomed over the landscape. As I peered in its direction, I could only make out a half-acre of rudimentary bean cultivation, giving way to thorny bramble bushes and then a sparse patch of trees leading up to Hiranya lake2 before the outer battlements of the fort began. Nothing resembling a water transportation system built by Malik Ambar in sight! A man squatted at the talaab’s edge, tinkering with a submersible pump that appeared to be malfunctioning. I  passed him twice without noticing him. As I approached for the third time, he called out. “What are you looking for?” Vaguely irritated by what I thought was an unnecessary intrusion, I muttered something about old water channels. The man got to his feet and ambled over to where I stood. “Are you looking for Malik Ambar’s pipeline?” (Malik Ambar ki pipeline dhoondh rahi hain aap, madam?) I stared at the man in amazement. “How do you know about Malik Ambar?” I  demanded, conscious of my arrogance at posing such a question. Here I was, an outsider to the region, surprised that he, a local resident, would know so much about its past! In all honesty, I believe my amazement was based on his knowledge of Malik Ambar, not so much his waterworks, which he may have encountered. The easy confidence with which he enunciated the name “Malik Ambar” displayed a familiarity with the historic personage of four centuries ago, as if it was a family member that he was referring to. “The pipeline used to take water from here, Mavsala talaab, to Daulatabad fort,” he enunciated in a rich Dakhni accent, pointing towards the fort. “Yes! Yes! That is what I  am looking for! Can you show it to me please?” I  was very excited. Meeting Mr. B.D. Shah was an answer to a prayer. “Yes, of course I will show you. But first, let us take a look at Mavsala talaab.” He led the way to the edge of a flight of steps leading into the water. “See, these steps are newer than the others. They belong to Malik Ambar’s time. The older ones were constructed by the Yadavas,” he pointed out. I looked closely. The steps in question certainly looked like they were made of a different rock than the Yadava steps. Other than that, I had no way of knowing whether they were constructed by Malik Ambar or not. See here. There are rope marks scratched into the rock (on the older steps). Earlier, water would be taken out of the talab with a bucket or container tied to ropes pulled by bullocks. Later, the water was made to flow out through channels under the embankment. See here, there are holes in the new steps. Stone or wooden poles were inserted into them to prevent the water from flowing out. There is a channel under the steps through which water would flow out if the sluice holes were opened.

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Figure 3.1 “Malik Ambar” period steps Source: Yaaminey Mubayi

We peered into the holes and, sure enough, there were a few inches of stagnant water under the steps. The channel ran under the embankment wall and there was a gate on the other side, which could have been opened to allow the water to flow out. “When water was released from Mavsala, it would collect in a narrow valley and flow towards Daulatabad.” Stone and mud-brick walls were built across the valley floor at three places, creating lakes that would overflow, one into the other.

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Figure 3.2 Sluice holes in the steps Source: Yaaminey Mubayi

Then we were joined by a short, slim gentleman, a Bhil who Shah introduced as Balaji Muralidhar Sonavane, his old friend. “His family held the marfat for maintaining the area around the pipeline,” he explained. “He was given a plot of land for the purpose.” This was the small cultivated area near the talaab that I had seen. We rested for a while near the Rang Mahal, and Shah regaled us with his version of the fall of the Yadavas following the famous siege by Alauddin Khalji. Rai Ramachandra’s son, Shankaradeva was away hunting when the Delhi forces reached Devagiri. When he heard of the attack, he rushed back but was captured by the invaders in the forest some distance away from Devagiri. The Yadavas could not recover from this calamity. Despite some traces of hyperbole in the account, I  was impressed by the factual accuracy of the narrative. “How do you know all this?” I  asked him. “This is our place, our history. These were our people. How would I not know about them?” he responded. “The Yadavas built this (Mavsala) talaab to provide water for Devagiri fort.” I had not thought of it, but the

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Figure 3.3 Channel under embankment, Mavsala talaab Source: Yaaminey Mubayi

realisation came to me that this would have been one of the many ways in which Devagiri’s resources would have been augmented to support a growing civil and military establishment, highlighting its transformation from a small hamlet along a sub-route of the Dakshinapatha to a full-fledged citadel of one of the major kingdoms of the Deccan.

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Figure 3.4 Land given to Bhils as marfat Source: Yaaminey Mubayi

Shah then advised us that a better way to explore the water system was to go around the valley or dyke, via the main highway and climb down the escarpment at Hiranya lake (Abpashdara), the last surviving water body of the three cascading lakes. As we stumbled along a sloping, rocky path, the clear blue waters of Abpashdara sparkled in the sunshine. Shah led the way along the edge of the lake, back towards the head of the valley and Mavsala talaab, pointing out the dark channels etched into the escarpment walls where feeder channels would empty seasonal rainwater into the lake. As we reached the embankment that edged the lake across the valley floor, he stopped and pointed to a large lump of what looked like rubble. I looked closely – it was a piece of ceramic or clay pipe about five-inches wide, encased in lime mortar. There were other such pieces lying about on the valley floor. “There were many such pipes carrying water through the valley. Some are embedded in the valley floor, some are attached to the walls,” Shah informed us. Now that he pointed it out, stone cladding encasing the clay pipes, with openings at intervals, was clearly visible on the sides of the dyke.

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Figure 3.5 Abpashgdara, the lowest of Malik Ambar’s cascading lakes Source: Yaaminey Mubayi

The ceramic pipes were definitely a mechanism for transporting water collected from a variety of sources  – overflow from the talaabs (including Mavsala), surface and underground run-off and rainwater collections. A  natural stream ran along the side of the valley wall, joining with the waters of Abpashdara. It appeared to be a channel for transporting run-off collected from the adjacent slopes and would probably be more abundant during the rains.

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Figure 3.6 Remains of ceramic pipeline encased in stone Source: Yaaminey Mubayi

Figure 3.7 Pipes embedded in stone wall Source: Yaaminey Mubayi

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Figure 3.8 Overland stream Source: Yaaminey Mubayi

We stopped to rest beside the stream in the shade of some fruit trees. The trees appeared to be more numerous on the sides of the valley and were largely fruit-bearing. I asked Mr. Shah about it, and he replied: An orchard (bagh, bageecha) of fruit trees was planted by Malik Ambar along the water pipeline. See, you can still see the guava, mango, jamun and sitaphal (custard apple) trees around us. It was meant to protect the water system as well as provide refreshment and shade to visitors.

Water and memory 93 I wondered at the aesthetic of generosity on the part of Malik Ambar that would have motivated the preservation of a complex water system in such a bounteous manner. Was it actually so, or just a creation of Shah’s imagination? It certainly added to the sustainability of the complex, and the trees would preserve the water catchment system around the pipeline. The recreational component added by the fruit orchard enhanced the quality of the space, giving it a new dimension. “Murlidhar’s ancestors were directed to look after the orchard. The plot of land that you saw was given to them as marfat (payment in exchange for service) for performing this duty.” Shah was alluding to the plot of beans that we had seen next to Mavsala talaab. “Nowadays, no one comes here except some Bhils, who graze their cows and buffaloes in this valley. You see this hole in the ground?” I saw a small depression, maybe eight inches deep, amidst the thorny undergrowth. When they are thirsty, they don’t drink water directly from the stream. They find a damp patch on the ground a little distance from the stream and dig a hole with their hands. In about an hour or so, water from the stream filters into the hole and fills it. They drink the clear water and leave the remainder for others who will follow them. These holes are called jheeras. (Jheera is a generic Deccani term for a small water body, a spring or streamlet. It was much later that I discovered the existence of a Gurudwara Nanak Jheera Sahib in Bidar, an even more arid part of the Deccan where Guru Nanak is believed to have miraculously discovered a spring.) Moving on, we passed under a massive Banyan tree that I could not help admiring. Shah had a story about that too. This is not simply a tree – it is the dargah of Jalali Baba, one of the 1400 saints who came to this place along with the Delhi Sultan (Muhammad Bin Tughlaq). The Bhils believe that the saaya (shadow) of the saint protects this place, and offer their respects to the Baba. When the Baba is happy, there is a beautiful fragrance in the air, but he sometimes gets angry if a bad person passes under the tree. Jalali Baba is an apocryphal name for a multitude of Sufi saints and even non-Sufi mendicants across the sub-continent. The name is associated with a person of quick temper or authoritarian bearing. It is believed to refer to a sect of Sufis who venerate God in his authoritarian (Jalali) form. The saints are often associated with different fragrances, their presence is illustrated by the perfume of flowers that pervades the air. The worship of this particular version of Jalali Baba by Bhils, however, was a unique occurrence in my experience. It indicated a broader view of sacred sites and spaces, where a Banyan tree, considered holy by Hindus, was believed to be the shrine of a

94  Water and memory

Figure 3.9 Fruit orchard, now a grazing ground for Bhils Source: Yaaminey Mubayi

Sufi saint and worshipped by aboriginal tribes. As if it is spaces themselves that are imbued with the quality of transcendence, and sacred associations with it are not confined to a particular sect or religion. After tasting some of the fruit from the trees, we moved further up the dyke and reached a bridge-like stone structure with multiple arches and pillars, like an aqueduct. Thickly encased in thorny bushes and brambles, the section that still remained was about 20 feet in length. There were multiple arched openings in the wall, the size and shape of which indicated that they were a 16th–17th century construction. Subsequent research revealed that the structure was possibly the remains of a bund wall that enclosed one of the three cascading lakes that had formed the water system. Adjacent to it, a small waterfall streamed down the rocky wall of the valley, its water flowing into the stream that we had passed. Yusuf and Sabir immediately squatted under the gush of cool water, cupping their hands and drinking. “There is a small Bhil settlement up there,” Shah pointed upwards to the source of the waterfall about 15 feet above the valley floor. “There is a well there whose water was used to supplement the waterfall in dry months.” I wondered how he knew the practices of Malik Ambar’s time so well, the planning and the execution of water conservation procedures

Water and memory 95

Figure 3.10 Jalali Baba dargah Source: Yaaminey Mubayi

so long before his lifetime. The confidence in his voice expressed a deep understanding of the working of the landscape and its elements, the people and historic structures, in consonance with his observation and experience of contemporary water usage. “Murlidhar and I used to play in this waterfall when we were children. We used to climb up to the top of the valley and come sliding down on the rocks through the water. Got a lot of scraped elbows and knees, but it was fun! (‘mast mazaa aata tha’)” Shah reminisced. We used to think that there was a cave behind the waterfall where some royal treasure (khazana) was hidden. We imagined that it was guarded by poisonous snakes and thorny bushes, but there was a rumour that there were swords and spears made of ashtadhatu (8 metals – a precious amalgam including gold and silver) and piles of gold coins. Shah’s narrative conjured up images of a happy, carefree childhood, a blend of playfulness and comfort with the terrain. It added another dimension to his knowledge of the landscape, the trope of “play” introducing a visceral link with his surroundings and bringing his memories to life.

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Figure 3.11 Remains of bund wall Source: Yaaminey Mubayi

The theme of hidden treasure is a common one, illustrating the ancient quality of the site and introducing a sense of mystique about its functioning. Shah did not really believe in the treasure  – it simply made the area seem important, bringing alive the historical context of the fort and the stories of ancient kings. It also added another identifier in the ancient complex of ruins and structural remains – a way to know and claim their past. The layering of personal memories over received recollections of several centuries ago makes for a deep engagement with the landscape for Shah and Murlidhar. They effortlessly negotiated between the recent past and older, historic events, constructing a palimpsest of human activity focused on “Malik Ambar ki pipeline.” Adjacent to the waterfall, Shah pointed out the remains of a double-storeyed stone structure nestled into the valley wall with two flights of steps leading to an arched doorway. As we carefully climbed up the narrow steps and entered the dilapidated building, Shah explained that it was a chamber for royal ladies to relax and watch the spray of the waterfall as it fell past, a “summer palace” as he termed it in English. “How did they reach here?” I asked incredulously. “There are steps cut into the valley wall. They could be carried down in palkis (palanquins).” I examined the crenelated arches

Water and memory 97

Figure 3.12 Waterfall Source: Yaaminey Mubayi

of the openings in the wall that appeared to indicate a 17th-century vintage. “Madam, it looks inaccessible right now, but when the Nizamshahis ruled in Daulatabad, these places were quite well-connected with pathways and passages leading to it.” I stood in the centre of the room and slowly pivoted around, taking in the collapsed ceiling with traces of paintings on it, fissured stone walls with tree roots thrusting through the cracks, and tried to

98  Water and memory

Figure 3.13 Remains of pleasure pavilion Source: Yaaminey Mubayi

imagine a painted feminine chamber, silk curtains across arched windows billowing in the breeze, perfume, music and laughter and, seen through a wide opening on one side, a rainbow spray of water. Once again the recreational aspect of water in the landscape adds an alternative dimension to human engagement with terrain. The water transportation system was not simply a mechanical arrangement of structural features. There were elements of leisure, fun, even frivolity in Malik Ambar’s creation, interwoven with its utilitarian objective. The fact that it was the elite that enjoyed the waterfall in Malik Ambar’s period and now, following the depredations of time, local communities have claimed its waters, is not without a hint of irony. However, Shah’s narrative remains faithful to the memory and associations of Malik Ambar, whose personality is firmly stamped on his water system. Shah’s account of Malik Ambar ki pipeline was much more than a technical interpretation of the functioning of a historic water transportation system. Our journey to the headwaters of the system was a journey into the minds of local communities, travelling into their past and understanding their relationship with their landscape. Every tree, every rock, every streamlet was recognised – it had a story to tell that connected it with the lives of

Water and memory 99

Figure 3.14 Remains of pleasure pavilion Source: Yaaminey Mubayi

people. I wondered how the loss of any element would impact this perspective. Would it be like the death of a family member? Mircea Eliade discusses the establishment of the significance of a place as an act of recognition – by which sacred space is created. [T]he religious experience of the nonhomogeneity of space is a primordial experience, homologizable to a founding of the world. It is not a matter of theoretical speculation, but of a primary religious experience that precedes all reflection on the world. For it is the break effected in space that

100  Water and memory

Figure 3.15 Our guide Source: Yaaminey Mubayi

allows the world to be constituted, because it reveals the fixed point, the central axis for all future orientation. When the sacred manifests itself in any hierophany, there is not only a break in the homogeneity of space; there is also revelation of an absolute reality, opposed to the nonreality of the vast surrounding expanse. The manifestation of the sacred ontologically founds the world. In the homogeneous and infinite expanse, in which no point of reference is possible and hence no orientation can be established, the hierophany reveals an absolute fixed point, a center.3

Water and memory 101 The different elements in the landscape revealed by Shah are like manifestations of the sacred, breaking the homogeneity of profane space through knowledge, recognition and relationships with the local community. They are reference points through which local residents, including the Bhils, orient themselves, their past and their present. In this sense, Malik Ambar ki pipeline represents a primordial state or order. Experiencing it can be homologous to “a founding of the world.” The Bhils are, once again, a prominent presence in the story, through both their settlements in the vicinity and the singular character of Murlidhar Sonawane, Shah’s childhood friend who played an important role in the narrative. The existence of Bhil settlements highlights the isolation of Malik Ambar’s pipeline within a remote, forested area away from the mainstream villages and peri-urban settlements of Ellora and Khuldabad. Their small hamlet above the valley of the pipeline, with its tiny huts, a small field of soybeans and chicken pens where they rear poultry and a few goats, tells its own story of extreme deprivation. They graze cows and buffaloes belonging to the Banjaras and other wealthier communities, in order to supplement their livelihoods. Manufacturing country-made liquor, an illegal activity, is another source of income for the Bhils, owing to which they are frequently rounded up by the local police. Theirs is a life truly lived on the edge – the edge of the law, the edge of ordered, settled community existence, the edge of Brahmanical beliefs and animism, between the village and the forest. In the miasma of this liminal state, Shah’s memories of childhood joy and playfulness rush by like a breath of fresh air, enlivening but intangible, gone in an instant. The tension between the settled village and the “wild” forest, enacted in the landscape of Malik Ambar’s pipeline through the presence of the Bhils, can be observed from various angles. The takeover of land by the state, using the might of its political authority, is a common occurrence. One such episode in recent history, involving the successive remodelling of a forest landscape owing to political concerns, has been discussed in great depth by Simon Schama.4 He describes the Nazi crackdown on the Polish forest of Bialowieza, which had become a centre of anti-German resistance during World War 2. Hundreds of partisans were rounded up and executed, villages were evacuated and the area cleared to make way for the setting up of a wildlife reserve. The Soviets, following the Nazis, continued the practice of genocide to deal with any impending signs of rebellion in the local population.5 The use of force to convert forests from centres of resistance to wildlife reserves, from sites of popular struggle by indigenous communities to statecontrolled animal sanctuaries, resonates closely with the situation of Indian forest tribes. The marginalisation of Bhil tribes by caste Hindu society in India, followed by colonial policies of criminalisation of such indigenous communities, driving them into the dwindling forests, has been analysed in exhaustive detail by scholars.6 This trend is also observed to some extent in Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad today.

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Malik Ambar: the slave who became a sultan Malik Ambar’s construction of an imperial water system in a forested valley would have involved the takeover of a piece of land under the power of royal authority, perhaps dispossessing its indigenous inhabitants. In this context, however, Shah’s narrative presents an alternative picture  – of a friendship between an agriculturist and a forest dweller since childhood, bridging the gap between jungle and village by shared memories of playing in water. What is ironical, however, is that Malik Ambar and his royal establishment are long gone, and the forest along with its inhabitants have returned to claim the landscape. Let us now turn to Malik Ambar, that enigmatic figure in Deccan history, whose association with the region is premised on a complex concatenation of factors. His origins in east Africa, a region referred to as Al Habsh (thereby giving rise to the Indic term for Africans, Habshi), occurred at a time of great confusion and disorder in that region. The Adal Sultanate that had controlled large areas of southern Ethiopia diminished in power by the 15th–16th centuries. This led to invasions by hostile Oromo tribes and their enslavement of large numbers of the local populations, which were primarily engaged in agriculture. The southern Ethiopian province of Kembata resisted Oromo domination at first but eventually fell into infighting and fragmentation. Meanwhile, Arab slave traders carried out raids in the countryside, searching for potential merchandise to feed the lucrative markets of the Indian sub-continent.7 Piecing together Dutch, Arabic and Mughal sources, a rough sketch of Ambar’s early life has been attempted by Jonathan Gil Harris. Born in Kembata in, it is believed, 1548 or thereabouts, his birth name was Chapu, and he was sold into slavery by impoverished parents at an early age. His early childhood in Kembata, however, may have instilled in him a familiarity with the terrain of the Rift Valley in Africa, a knowledge that would have stood him in good stead when negotiating a similar topography in the Indian Deccan. It would have helped him develop the skills of bargigiri (guerilla warfare) that he so effectively used against the bulky and conventional Mughal forces. His experience of the east African landscape would also have influenced his understanding of the water landscape of Daulatabad, enabling him to develop the complex water systems that he constructed here and in the new city that he established around the ancient hamlet of Harsul – Khadki, later renamed Aurangabad. Sold and resold into slavery, he experienced the Middle Eastern landscape through life in various cities, moving from Harar in east Africa to the Yemeni port of Mocha to Mecca in Arabia, finally settling in the household of one Mir Qasim al Baghdadi in Baghdad, then the epicentre of high culture in the region. Baghdadi reared him like a son, converting him to Islam and naming him “Ambar” (Ambergris  – a precious stone). A  wealthy trader, Baghdadi took the young Ambar with him on a voyage to India, where he

Water and memory 103

Figure 3.16 Portrait of Malik Ambar Source: https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/4/46/Portrait_of_Malik_Ambar.jpg

was sold into the service of one Chingiz Khan (also referred to as Mirak Dabir), the Peshwa (prime minister) of the Nizamshahi sultanate. Chingiz was also from east Africa, a Habshi, and as part of his household, Ambar was exposed to the unique nature of Deccan society, with its ethnically heterogeneous nobility comprising “westerners” of Iranian origin and Deccanis or “locals” who were of Afghan and Turkish stock.8 The Habshis were a

104  Water and memory substantial and powerful component of this amalgam, playing important roles in the military polities of the Deccan sultanates of Bijapur and Ahmadnagar. The Marathas, an indigenous landowning class, were equally an important part of this complex and were later mobilised by Ambar to take forward his agenda for consolidation of Deccani political identity against northern invasions by the Mughals. After the death of Chingiz Khan, Ambar was granted freedom by his widow and set about establishing his career as a military leader, negotiating the complicated relationship between the kingdoms of Ahmadnagar and Bijapur. After several years spent in service of the latter, he returned to Ahmadnagar in the late 1590s amidst great turmoil. The ruler, Sultan Ibrahim Nizam Shah had been killed and the Mughals had besieged the fort. Chand Bibi, the aunt of the sultan who was married into the Bijapur royal family, assumed leadership of the Nizamshahi troops and put up a spirited defence. Ambar fought alongside her with his army of Arab and Habshi soldiers and, in several battles, even repulsed the Mughal forces. Later, however, Chand Bibi was killed by her own troops following a misunderstanding and Ahmadnagar fort fell to the Mughals in 1600. The young sultan Bahadur Nizam Shah was imprisoned in Gwalior, and Malik Ambar melted away into the countryside, attempting to revive the wavering fortunes of the Nizamshahi sultanate.9 He built up his own militia of prized cavalrymen consisting mainly of Habshis acquired through the Arab trade networks. Following the death of the Mughal emperor Akbar in 1605, Ambar revived the Nizamshahi sultanate by establishing the capital at Junnar and installing a young scion of the dynasty, Murtaza Nizam Shah on the throne. He later married his daughter to the young sultan and himself became the regent and Peshwa (prime minister). In 1612, he once again shifted the capital to Daulatabad and constructed the city of Khadki around the ancient town of Harsul. The city was known for its waterworks, particularly the Neher-e-Ambari, a unique system that captured the run-off from the surrounding hills. Until his death in 1626, at the ripe old age of 80, Malik Ambar managed to hold off the Mughals and prevented them from taking control of the Deccan. Malik Ambar embodied the multi-cultural spirit of the Deccan in many ways, drawing to himself members of his own Habshi community and the indigenous Marathas, transforming them into a powerful fighting force and creating a core of resistance to Mughal invasions from the north. Richard Eaton has referred to the Ahmadnagar sultanate under Malik Ambar a “joint Habshi-Maratha enterprise.”10 The Marathas were a local high-caste landowning community, and it was by allying with them that Ambar was able to reach the grassroots level and generate popular support for his leadership. In the Verul-Daulatabad region, for instance, Maratha chiefs like Maloji Bhonsle and Lakhuji Jadhav were handpicked by Ambar to provide support for his military and administrative enterprises. Ambar’s incubation

Water and memory 105 of key Maratha leaders had far-reaching consequences – Maloji’s son Shahji was Ambar’s loyal supporter and his grandson, Shivaji, acquired a legendary status in the Deccan’s fight against the Mughals during the reign of emperor Aurangzeb. The Marathas’ use of the techniques of Bargigiri, guerilla warfare, as well as their systems of land revenue measurement and classification11 were derived from Malik Ambar’s methods of warfare and administration. Ambar’s collaboration with the Marathas, premised on mutually beneficial arrangements, has left an enduring impression on the landscape at Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad. Memories of Malik Ambar and members of the Bhonsle family abound within the cultural landscape of Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad. Their association finds tangible expression through their memorials, located in close proximity to one another. The cenotaphs (chhatris) of the Bhonsles – Maloji and his brothers, Venkoji and Vithoji, lie in the vicinity of the Grishneshwar tirtha in Ellora. The ruins of the Garhi (mansion) of Maloji Bhonsle, now a state government-protected site, are nearby. A few kilometres away in Khuldabad stands the tomb of Malik Ambar, a monument protected by the Archaeological Survey of India. Carved out of the local rock, Basalt, the structures are similar in appearance, their grey colour and austere domes and arches resonating with one another. Local residents enthusiastically recount tales of the Bhonsles as well as Malik Ambar, stories that are often heavy with hyperbole but equally replete with a sense of ownership of the historic personages. They are regarded as representing a burgeoning Deccani identity and resistance to northern domination – hence they are local heroes. It was only in the late 20th century that this identity assumed a religious colour in the arena of national politics, of Hindu Marathas opposing the Muslim Mughals. By then, Malik Ambar, a Muslim Habshi, had been increasingly marginalised in the narrative.

Imagining the region: locating community memories in space My experience of Malik Ambar ki pipeline was a kind of revelation of Shah and Murlidhar’s lifelong relationship with their environment, embodied in a stream of water. There was a story about every rock, every tree, every bush that denoted a personal association with the space. The pipeline constituted a landscape constructed from their personal memories, underpinned by the personality of Malik Ambar, after whom it was named. Ambar’s historic status somehow validated the landscape, giving credence to their own, more recent experience of it. The interwoven layers of memory are stitched together by water that enlivens them through its constant tangible presence. If the water was to disappear, the memories would fade away. The association of memory and space through the medium of water underlies the local community’s imagination of their identity. Ivan Illich

106  Water and memory discusses the two inter-related aspects of imagination, as form (or space) and as formless “stuff,” which gives experiential expression to the form. The form and matter of our imagining cannot be understood separately because one cannot exist without the other.  .  .  . But in both beneath the mass of images, verbal variations, moods, tactile experiences and lights that shape water in our imagination, there is a stable, dense, slow and watery fertile stuff that obscurely vegetates within us. It beyond the reach of any one of our separate senses: “its black flowers bloom in matter’s darkness,” and become visible when imagination lets them “sing reality.” The time has come for historians to “begin listening to the sonority of these dormant waters” (Bachelard), to become sensitive to the history of matter.12 Water is a pervasive, though often invisible presence, in the landscape of Malik Ambar’s pipeline. It influences the shape and structure of the landscape, the narrow valley with steep sides to capture rainwater, elements like the stream and waterfall, the man-made ceramic channels demonstrate its flow through the space. The overarching experience of the landscape is dominated by the idea of water, albeit interspersed with briefer encounters with phenomena like Jalali Baba’s dargah, that link the space with a wider narrative of Sufi shrines and Bhil settlements. Such encounters are sensory in nature, Jalali Baba manifesting through fragrance, fruit trees appeasing the sense of taste, the touch of the waterfall cooling the skin. All these are significant in that they are linked to a memory, the memories of previous visits, of childhood for Shah and Murlidhar. One might recall the earlier reference to Bachelard’s essay, I cannot sit beside a stream without . . . picturing my youthful happiness . . . it does not have to be the stream from home. . . . The nameless waters know all of my secrets. The same memory flows from all fountains.13 Simon Schama speaks of the flow of rivers being similar to the circulation of blood in the body, the reason they are referred to as bodies of water.14 He draws from Plato who imagined the circle to be the perfect form, underlying the universal law of circulation that governed all nature. Like blood, which constantly flows back into its point of origin in the heart, carrying various substances of life, rivers, too, were carriers of myths and memories that swept back into the first point of creation in the womb. Like the transmutation of blood and water in the body, flowing rivers carried within them the “vitality and mortality” of heroes, empires, nations and gods. Malik Ambar’s “pipeline” carries within it memories of a carefree childhood, legends of hidden treasure interwoven with older recollections of a 17thcentury Deccan hero, besieged forts, and an expansive royal establishment

Water and memory 107 complete with picnics by the waterfall. All these reminiscences converge within the “womb” of identity, a point of origin where space and belonging come together. The “womb” is also a place for the convergence of life and death, past and present. Shah brings the past to life through his memories and also gives them contemporary relevance. Illich writes about the well of Mnemosyne, where the waters of the river Lethe carry the memories of the souls who have crossed over to the realm of Death. In her clear waters, the residues of lived-out lives float like the specks of fine sand at the bottom of a bubbling spring. Thus a mortal who has been blessed by the gods can approach this well and listen to the Muses sing in their several voices what is, what was and what will be. Under the protection of Mnemosyne, he may recollect the residues that have sunk into her bosom by drinking from her waters. When he returns from his journey, . . . he can tell what he has drawn from this source . . . by taking the place of a shadow, the poet recollects the deeds which a dead man has forgotten. In this way, the world of the living is constantly nourished by the flow from Mnemosyne’s lap through which dream water ferries to the living those deeds which the shadows no longer need.15 By recalling the historic past and retelling it in his own words, Shah has tapped into the well-spring of civilisational memory, bringing a bygone age to life and placing it in the present. Mnemosyne is a Titan goddess, indicating that water was present before the birth of the gods. She is the mother of the nine Muses and famously presented Hermes with his lyre. Her association with music and poetry (forms of oral expression) recalls a time prior to the invention of the written word. Before tradition was frozen in writing, thought and memory were entwined in the fluid contours of speech. Like water, it flowed, in constant motion, elusive, irretrievable, irreplicable. It is this intangible quality of the past that Shah’s expression brought to life through his description. There is little about his account that can be replicated in writing – it can only be described as an experience. Fundamental to the experience was the place within which it occurred. The local community’s engagement with their physical environment is critical to the construction of their identity. For instance, the interaction with water, its images, metaphors, memories appeared to flow into the formation of their self-image. Their ideas about the space and their place in it, their ability to locate meaning and identity in their environment, led to the formation of a cultural landscape. The sensory dynamics of their experience of the space, the impressions of taste, smell and touch associated with it, caused the place to become the most elemental form of embodied experience. For those of us on the outside, the dyke was a historic site full of archaeological

108  Water and memory

Figure 3.17 Children playing in Dharma talaab Source: Yaaminey Mubayi

remains, an agricultural plot for the local administration, an interesting recreational space for tourists. But for local residents, it was living memory. This image of childhood and the pure, unadulterated joy of playing in water illustrates this point. Water is the pivotal element at the intersection of sensory experience and identity, the embodiment of memory, enabling the formation of a cultural landscape. Dharma talaab, where the children are playing, is a large-ish man-made water body adjacent to a historic garden in Khuldabad, Bani Begum Bagh. Today, the talaab is critical to service the needs of the local community – its water is used for domestic purposes, cooking, washing, bathing, even washing of cattle. On any given day, a number of buffaloes lie serenely submerged in one corner of the lake. As Yusuf informed me, the government is supposed to provide water via pipelines from Takli (a local dam and hydel project on the river Shivna in Kannad district, about 16 kilometres away). But in summer, the water supply comes about once a week. How are people to survive? How much water can they store? The talab gives us water for our needs. Cooking, washing, buffaloes swimming, children playing  – the talaabs of Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad are cultural fluidscapes connecting the material, social and metaphorical. They are zones of congregation for the community, particularly women, the mainstay of domestic organisation.

Water and memory 109 Some, like Dharma talaab, are used by diverse communities, Hindus and Muslims, as well as a variety of castes. Water, by virtue of its essential nature, flows over boundaries of caste and religion, in this case. It is a receptacle for shared beliefs and values, a medium for interaction with the environment for the community. In conclusion, the “water landscape” of Malik Ambar ki pipeline reflects the memories and identity of local residents. An experience of the water system was a revelation of not only the historical structures assembled by Malik Ambar but also was overlaid by personal memories of the residents based on their lifelong experience of the space. Ambar is regarded as a local hero, his early experiences in the Kembata region of Ethiopia as well as Mecca and Baghdad informed his career as a significant leader of one of the most powerful Deccan sultanates. His skills as a soldier, administrator and hydrologist left their mark on the political landscape of the Deccan, while his incubation of the Marathas led to their evolution as a force to be reckoned with in the sub-continent in the centuries to come. The entwined history of Ambar and the Marathas is reflected in the contiguous structures of their memorials, standing out against the evening sky at Ellora and Khuldabad. The revelation of Malik Ambar ki pipeline by B.D. Shah was a journey into the collective past of the community. It displayed an awareness of the region’s history that was far beyond the factual  – it was, in fact, visceral in nature. Shah’s identification of different elements of the landscape highlighted the complex interactions between communities, Hindus, Muslims and the tribal Bhils within a given space, creating a rich amalgam of beliefs and experiences that underlay the region’s identity. The literal embodiment of the space by multiple communities led to the creation of a true cultural landscape. The depth and diversity of such a landscape are also brought out by the fluidscapes of the talaabs, where utility meets metaphorical meaning, and an epiphany of sensory experience occurs, embodied in the joy of childhood play.

Notes 1 Quoted in Simon Schama, Landscape and Memory, Vintage Books, New York, 1995, p. 244. 2 Well-known locally because of a popular resort and “water park” at the edge. Its older name, according to the gazetteer, is Abpashdara. 3 Mircea Eliade, The Sacred and the Profane, Harcourt, Brace & World Inc., New York, 1954, p. 21. 4 Schama, op. cit., p. 61. 5 Another example of the creation of a reserved forest over settled townships, leading to the evacuation of thousands of inhabitants, can be observed in the establishment of the Quabbin reservoir in Massachusetts, USA, in the 1960s. The project was initiated by an elite industrialist lobby to create a massive lake supplying water to the city of Boston. It caused several towns to be submerged, driving their residents from their homes. Susan Schueller, “The Quabbin Reservoir:

110  Water and memory A  Brief History of Greater Boston’s Watershed,” Conference paper, The New England’s Waterworks Association’s 133 Annual Conference, September 2014. In Researchgate, www.researchgate.net/publication/271272909_The_Quabbin_Reservoir_-_A_Brief_History_of_Greater_Boston’s_Watershed/citations, accessed 13 February 2020 6 Madhav Gadgil and Ramachandra Guha, This Fissured Land: An Ecological History of India, Oxford University Press, New Delhi, 1992. 7 Jonathan Gil Harris, The First Firangis: Remarkable Stories of Heroes, Healers, Charlatans, Courtesans and Other Foreigners Who Became Indian, Aleph Book Company, New Delhi, 2015, pp. 95–115. 8 Ibid., pp. 101–103. 9 Radhey Shyam, Life and Times of Malik Ambar, Munshiram Manoharlal, New Delhi, 1967, pp. 115–125. 10 Richard Eaton, A Social History of the Deccan, 1300–1761. Eight Indian Lives, Cambridge University Press, New York, 2005, p. 123. 11 G.T. Kulkarni, “Land Revenue Settlement under the Nizamshahis (1489–1636) – With Special Reference to Malik Ambar,” Proceedings of the Indian History Congress, Vol. 52 (1991), pp. 369–377. 12 Ivan Illich, H2O and the Waters of Forgetfulness, The Dallas Institute of Humanities and Culture, Dallas, 1985. 13 Gaston Bachelard, Water and Dreams: An Essay on the Imagination of Matter (Translated by Edith R. Farrell), The Pegasus Foundation, The Dallas Institute of Humanities and Culture, Dallas, 1983. 14 Schama, op. cit., p. 247. 15 Illich, op. cit., pp. 31–32.

Conclusion A unique cosmopolitanism

The afternoon sun slants between the caves at Ellora, casting long shadows across the green lawns. Their morning shift over, two men climb on to a motorcycle and turn out of the exit towards their homes in the village. Sadiq, the driver, his helmet balanced uselessly and precariously on the back of his head, stops in front of a hawker selling vegetables in front of Grishneshwar temple. Finding his son lounging at a tea shop nearby, he hurls a few abuses at the boy, followed by an injunction to be home by dinner. His neighbour and friend of forty years, Gajanan sits on the back seat, busy speaking into a cell phone. Expertly maneuvering the bike through the crowded lanes, Sadiq drops Gajanan home before riding off to his own house a few minutes away. Sadiq and Gajanan both work as part of Archaeological Survey of India staff at the cave complex. Gajanan’s son has just completed a degree in business management at a well-known college in Pune and has received a job offer from a reputed multi-national company. Gajanan is pondering various offers of marriage that are coming in for his son, hoping to select the most favourable. Sadiq’s elder son was educated in the madarsa (religious school), an act of piety on the part of his family. He is proud that his son is a “Hafiz” (one who has memorized the quran) and will be employed as a teacher in the school for a monthly stipend of Rs. 2000. It is not sufficient to support even the boy himself, and the father tries to arrange for odd-jobs for him to supplement his income. The younger son has completed a diploma in computer science and has a well-paying job with a company in Aurangabad. The elder son is married and has three daughters already. He sits quietly in a corner of the house, dressed in a traditional salwar-kameez, a cap on his head, a look of despair and resignation in his young eyes as his jeans-clad brother dashes out to his car on his way to work. “We gave him to the madarsa, that is the custom,” Sadiq explains, glancing at the older boy. In a lower voice, he adds, “the masjid (mosque) will protect us if there is any problem.” Sadiq’s reaction is a common one in the region which has seen a growing religious polarisation over the past few decades. Aurangabad parliamentary constituency fields a candidate belonging to the Shiv Sena, a Hindu Right Wing party. The local Muslim community in Ellora has become increasingly marginalised, drawing closer to mosques and religious institutions and are suspicious of mainstream professional opportunities. Young people are becoming radicalised and increasingly polemical voices are calling out

DOI: 10.4324/9781003315148-5

112  Conclusion to them from mosques and madarsas. The relationship between Sadiq and Gajanan, a common phenomenon in an area where Muslims and Hindus were roughly 50% of the population each, could become increasingly rare. “I am a citizen of the world” (Diogenes, 4th century B.C.)

Diogenes was a Greek philosopher of the Cynic school. When asked where he was from, he claimed that he was a “cosmopolitan,” a “citizen of the world” rather than belonging to a particular state. Diogenes’ declaration affirmed his commitment to membership (citizenship) of a particular group – it was not an anarchist statement. But the defining principles of the group were Reason and universal human values, not the primordial collectivism of birth, religion and caste. His principles of cosmopolitanism were inherited by the Stoics and later adopted by Kant in his celebrated work “To Perpetual Peace – A Philosophical project.” The cosmopolitan ideal of reason underpinning personhood forms the fundamental moral core of Kant’s “kingdom” of free rational beings, “equal in their humanity,” a profoundly influential idea during the Enlightenment. Martha Nussbaum views Kantian cosmopolitanism as an inherently moral stance, denoting the right of all human beings to common participation in law, polity and the “cosmopolis,” an implicit structure of claims and obligations regardless of whether or not there is an actual political organisation to promote them. Kant upholds the right of all human beings to communal possession of the earth’s surface, peaceful mutual relations regulated by public laws – a cosmopolitan constitution.1 Nussbaum’s view of cosmopolitanism is through the lens of social and political philosophy, as an essentially moral imperative underpinned by rationality and liberalism. It influenced the creation of the Universal Declaration of the Rights of Man (1789) and later the United Nations Charter, the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, amongst many international covenants between nation-states. Cosmopolitanism is brought into the realm of everyday interactions by Kwame Anthony Appiah, who deems conversations as the basis for engagement across borders, cultures and religions. Appiah believes in a central idea about a universal truth but is sceptical about absolute truths that negate the possibility of a dialogue. He suggests that cultures do not conflict with one another – interests do.2 The cosmopolitan approach involves a sincere attempt at understanding the context of the other person’s actions, bringing to mind the following lines by Ali Sardar Jaffri: “Guftagu band na ho, baat se baat chaley, Subah tak shaam-e-mulaqaat chaley, Ham pey hansti hui yeh taaron bhari raat chaley”

Conclusion 113 (May conversations never cease, may one thought lead to another, the evening meeting lasts till morning, may the starry night forever smile down upon us) The poem, written to commemorate a dialogue between India and Pakistan, is reminiscent of Appiah’s cosmopolitan beliefs, which emphasise the importance of individuals in establishing universal understanding. Kantian cosmopolitanism has been critiqued from different perspectives as it implies a particular view of the ideal human possessing the required qualities of mature reason. Joel Kahn and others view this as a masculinist ideal, observing that Kantian cosmopolitanism is basically a mask for white, male privilege. There is no room for the feminine, the domestic and the vernacular in this essentially Eurocentric vision.3 Appadurai has viewed cosmopolitanism, released from its white, western moorings, as primarily a signifier for human mobility, embodied in exile, migration, pilgrimage and even tourism. The key aspects of such undertakings would be experience and encounter on the basis of which people engage with one another. Another way to view this would be to acknowledge that cosmopolitanism need not be a permanent state – people may not constantly act in a ration, universalist manner. But there can be multiple, little cosmopolitanisms, a variety of situations where cosmopolitan thinking may rise to the surface. Cosmopolitanism is sometimes confused with multi-culturalism, which involves the co-existence of racial, religious or cultural groups and is manifested in customary behaviour, values, patterns of thinking and modes of communication. Multi-culturalism is premised on the preservation of intrinsic differences, it implies disparate status and power inherent in groups based on their collective identities. Such collectivist power presupposes primordial associations of race, religion, caste, etc. Cosmopolitanism calls for bridging such disparate identities; it involves uncovering layers of meaning in human interactions, leading to a nuanced, contextual understanding of commonly held values and beliefs that sustains a dialogue between individuals.

Cosmopolitanism unfolding in the Deccan landscape The political and social landscape of the Deccan can be viewed in terms of a network of multi-cultural institutions creating favourable conditions for cosmopolitan trends and processes to manifest. Cosmopolitanism materialises in interactions, values, attitudes and forms of expression. It is often discerned in forms of human creativity, language and poetry, architecture, music and the visual arts. In spatial terms, such manifestations come together to form a cosmopolis, an ordered state comprising disparate interacting elements that change and evolve through the interactions. Before proceeding with an exploration of the Deccan cosmopolis, it may be useful to examine the origins of the term and probe the manner in which it could apply to the region under discussion.

114  Conclusion Stephen Toulmin, in his panoramic survey of the rise of Modernity in Europe, situates the idea of cosmopolis in 16th–17th century Humanism. The two major roots of the term, “cosmos” and “polis,” both refer to states of order, natural and human. When Ouranos (the universe without order) became Cosmos (the ordered universe), its elements assumed their assigned roles. The earth, moon and stars moved along their orbits, tides rose and fell, plants and animals lived and died. Different terrestrial activities are part of an organic whole. The human capacity to comprehend and interpret the natural order has ensured its survival in an ordered universe. Polis, the other kind of order, comprises collective human enterprise like agriculture and irrigation. Cosmopolitanism links order in human society with the natural order. The point where human and natural concerns meet, that nexus, in spatial terms, is the cosmopolis.4 Sheldon Pollock has visualised the dichotomy between the cosmopolitan and the vernacular – marga and deshi – in terms of the spread of Sanskrit across the sub-continent in the first millennium ad. He views the Sanskrit cosmopolis as a space where there was a common language of circulation used by traders, literati, priests, monks and adventurers. So there were Chinese travellers studying Sanskrit grammar in Sumatra, Sri Lankans writing literary theory in the Deccan, Khmer princes writing poetry in Ankgor. A great diffusion of ideas, cultural forms and political practices took place via the medium of Sanskrit, crossing boundaries of race, region and ethnicity without political conquest or the use of coercive power. The Sanskrit cosmopolis was a potentially infinite world because it expanded by the absorption of ideas. Pollock’s view tends to gloss over restrictions on learning the language, usually based on caste, class and gender but brings home the universal quality of the modes of expression that underlay the dissemination of cultural and political forms, effectively making Sanskrit the cosmopolitan lingua franca of the sub-continent. The development of vernacular languages began with the dawn of the second millennium ad, a “profound historical transformation in literarycultural practices,” as Pollock terms it. In the Deccan, the coalescing of regional political identities, for instance, the kingdoms of the Chalukyas of Kalyani, the Yadavas of Devagiri and the Kaktiyas of Warangal created the geo-political context for the emergence of Kannada, Marathi and Telugu, respectively. These vernaculars had been incubated under the overarching umbrella of Sanskrit previously and now emerged as a definitive political and literary medium, having adopted many Sanskritic features such as idioms and literary models. Since these vernaculars were defined in spatial terms, they were viewed as deshi, or desha-bhashas, regional languages. However, their association with elite courtly culture imbued them with cosmopolitan qualities that characterised the particular polyglot society of the Deccan. For instance, the same ruler would issue inscriptions recording land

Conclusion 115 grants in two or more languages in order to render them intelligible to the local population. The evolution of Deccani, predominantly by the Sufis, was a cross-cutting theme across the regional centres of the Deccan. Lacking association with any particular area, Deccani or Dakhani was a language of interaction between the Sufis and their followers in the urban and peri-urban centres such as Bidar, Gulbarga, Bijapur, Golconda, Daulatabad and Khuldabad. It was also adopted by the local nobility as an expression of their indigenous Deccani moorings vis-à-vis Persian, the other cosmopolis that subsumed peninsular India in the second millennium. Richard Eaton has extended Pollock’s idea of a Sanskrit cosmopolis, a trans-regional set of ideas, rules of grammar, styles of kingship and courtly culture, literature, aesthetics, architecture, music and poetry that travelled using the medium of language in the first millennium, to include Persian in the second millennium. The Persianate cosmopolis had its origins in the civilisational dimensions of New Persian, an amalgam of pre-Islamic Persian and the Arabic script brought into the Iranian plateau by Arab conquerors in the 7th century. The hybrid language, along with its idiom and literary content, was adopted by writers in Eastern Iran, Central Asia and Afghanistan and eventually penetrated the sub-continent by the 11th century. The Persianate cosmopolis was built on the basis of a prolific literary corpus by writers from across central and western Asia and eventually India as well. These included Firdausi (Iran), Nizami (Georgia), Jami (Afghanistan) and Amir Khusro (India). Like the Sanskritic world that preceded it, the Persianate cosmopolis had a placeless, trans-regional quality and was rooted in an elite language of official discourse. Both discussed and critiqued religion but transcended the claims of any single religion or denomination. Both included people from different ethnic and religious backgrounds. Following the Mongol invasion of Iran and Central Asia in the 13th century, Persian became the lingua franca of a vast swathe of territory from China to the Caucasus, enabling commercial transactions along the Silk Route and facilitating the travels of international globe trotters like Marco Polo and Ibn Battuta. Not linked to any single imperial power, the Persianate cosmopolis nevertheless affirmed certain fundamental values with important implications for the structure of state authority. For instance, the diminishing importance of the Caliphate in Baghdad led to the separation of religious and temporal power, the latter being vested in the figure of the sultan. The fundamental principle upholding the sultan’s authority in his realm was viewed to be justice: The sultan’s justice manifested in his military power, material wealth and social mores. This idea, detached from race, religion and ethnicity, penetrated Hindu kingdoms in India as well. For example, the kings of Vijaynagara assumed the title of Hindu-Raya-Suratalah (Sultan amongst Hindu kings), so powerful was the imagery associated with the figure of Sultan.

116  Conclusion Eaton and Pollock’s view of a linguistic “cosmopolis,” an area influenced by overarching values, norms and standards of behaviour conveyed by a particular language sits interestingly besides the cultural landscape at Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad. In light of Pollock’s binary of marga and deshi, the micro-region of Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad embodies many aspects of the deshi tradition, its settlements and institutions situated within a specific geographical setting. It was the fountainhead of the first Marathispeaking kingdom under the Yadavas, a factor that went on to denote the entire territory as the “house of the Marathas,” Marathwada. The presence of the autochthonous cult of Shiva-Grishneshwara characterised by a swayambhu (spontaneously emerged from the ground) linga, as well as other sites of miraculous occurrences, such as Pariyon ka Talaab, illustrate the fact that local institutions are profoundly entrenched in the physical landscape. The region’s terrain and topography, allowing the availability of water and arable land in pockets, also circumscribed the spread of human settlements. This called for sharing of essential resources by different groups, necessitating dialogue and negotiations between communities. Such a finely tuned network of interaction is held in balance by mutual need – each party prefers to hedge their risk by sustaining the dialogue. The particular terrain found in the region also had another dimension – providing a corridor of connectivity with peninsular India. Movement – of travellers, monks, pilgrims, traders, soldiers, poets, philosophers, bearing their ideas and ideologies  – was the byword for the region. The flow of people through the area required the constant negotiation of diversity, of thought and action. The local settlements supported, and were sustained by, such movement. The mobility of people infused the region with a cosmopolitan spirit, enabling Sufi pilgrims to intermingle with Jyotirlinga devotees, Warkaris en route to Pandharpur and Jainas worshipping at the Parsvanatha temple. The pluralistic patronage extended to the construction of the Ellora caves by Buddhist traders’ guilds, and the Rashtrakutas were premised on trans-continental trade networks that facilitated the construction of a multireligious temple complex. The reduplicative shrines belonging to different religions and sects – Brahmanical, Buddhist and Jaina, are, in themselves, collectivist in nature, embodying the primordial beliefs of their faith. It is their proximity to one another, however, involving the negotiation of shared space, that indicates an underlying pattern of cosmopolitan thinking. The evolution of Devagiri-Daulatabad from a marginal Jaina temple centre to the capital of the Delhi sultanate before becoming a significant defensive establishment under the Deccan sultanates and the Mughals is underpinned by its strategic location along the arterial north-south trade corridor. As the headquarters of the Yadavas, it embodied the deshi ethos of a quintessentially Marathi empire, influenced, perhaps by the wider Sanskritic cosmopolis. Under the Bahmanis and Nizamshahis, however, its cultural moorings shifted, and it became part of a larger realm signified by the Persianate world, a shift enabled in no small part, by the increased flow of

Conclusion 117 people from central and western Asia, via the maritime as well as the overland routes. The advent of the Habshis into the Deccan and the role played by Malik Ambar in defending a Deccani sultanate by resisting Mughal domination brings out a peculiar paradox of conflicting cosmopolitan and deshi claims. An Ethiopian by birth, Ambar identified himself with the Deccan and left behind his legacy with the Marathas, an indigenous land-owning elite. Granted that Habshi influence over Deccan polity did not last longer than a century, Ambar nevertheless stamped the landscape at Daulatabad with his administrative reforms and building works, particularly his water system. We see an interweaving of cosmopolitan and deshi aspects here, Ambar, the erstwhile foreigner, bringing his own knowledge and experience of Ethiopian terrain and the water management practices of Baghdad and Yemen into the Daulatabad region. The terms of adaptation of these practices into the Deccan landscape, the acceptance of similarities and accommodation of differences implies a dialogic quality to the interactions. Assumptions of power are inherent in Ambar’s role as vakil-us-saltanat, his administrative and public works would certainly have been executed under the authority of his position. However, the manner in which he is remembered by the local community, his buildings and water systems accepted and owned as part of their landscape depicts the manner in which a “foreigner” became a local hero. Cosmopolitanism, in the Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad region, with its multi-cultural collectivisms, is found in the terms of negotiation between groups, the platforms created for sharing space and resources. The spirit of service that underlies, for example, the establishment of the Takaswami ashram, highlights this cause. By providing drinking water to strangers, the ashram fulfils a deeply felt need for performing public service without any primordial associations of religion, caste, denomination or gender. Thirst and fatigue are basic human conditions, common to all. The ability to engage with the “other” to understand the context of their aspirations and beliefs is brought out most evocatively in the experience of Malik Ambar’s pipeline. The idea of zheeras, hand-dug holes to access groundwater, left behind for subsequent travellers, conveys an immensely nuanced relationship of reciprocity between the individual, the environment and the community. It is premised on going beyond the satisfaction of one’s own needs to anticipating the needs of others, all in alignment with the sustainable use of existing resources. The Banyan tree that is worshipped as the “dargah” of Jalali Baba is also worshipped by the Bhils, grazing their cattle in its vicinity. The narrative draws from Sufi traditions of sacrality around the tombs of saints and extends the idea into the domain of the forest along with the forestdwelling Bhils, a marginalised community. The cosmopolitan quality of the phenomenon wherein the Baba expresses his favour towards his devotees by exuding a fragrance and extending his protective shadow (saaya) is at

118  Conclusion once ethereal yet genuinely felt. The ephemeral nature of such engagements does not negate their validity to the people involved – moreover, it bridges boundaries between communities by calling on universalist ideals of the protective powers inherent in Nature. Perhaps the most vivid exemplar of cosmopolitan principles is seen in the image of two young boys playing in the waterfall. The childhood friendship between Shah and Sonawane, a Muslim and a Bhil, the spatial locatedness of the waterfall, a tributary of the larger historic water channel designed by Malik Ambar, are elements of a backdrop. In the foreground is an expression of pure joy, the artless delight of children’s play, augmented by the touch of cool flowing water on a hot summer’s day. The scene’s cosmopolitan quality can be most acutely discerned in these impressions of universal emotions detached from social and cultural conditions. Shah and Sonawane could be any two children playing in a waterfall anywhere on earth. At that moment, like Diogenes, they were citizens of the world.

The Kitab-e-Nauras of Ibrahim Adil Shah: a kaliedoscopic vision of Deccan cosmopolitanism Water is the ideal bearer of a cosmopolitanism such as this. While being located in space, it flows across it, crossing boundaries yet retaining the possibility of being contained. Water is a scarce resource in the hot, arid reaches of the Deccan. Its preciousness makes it a conceptual entity, symbolising life, beauty even spirituality. Its fruitful, generative qualities made it a focal feature of the paradise gardens of Persia, another arid plateau region, that were replicated in the architecture of the Deccan sultanates. The Qutbshahis of Golconda, for instance, built their royal gardens around water tanks, using valleys and hollows in the terrain to hold the water bodies while the high points provided panoramic views of verdure. The Husain Sagar lake in Hyderabad is a case in point.5 The Adilshahi sultans of Bijapur installed a sub-terranean qanat (underground water channel), built by Iranian experts, to supply water to the city. The water was stored in tanks (hauz) that were surrounded by lush gardens. There were pleasure pavilions enclosing pools with perforated ceilings through which water could be sprayed, simulating a monsoon shower. Decorative wall brackets and water spouts on the walls, hidden channels transporting water indoors and prolific paintings decorating the walls of khwabgahs (sleeping chambers) depict a celebration of water and its fluid, life-giving properties. Eaton has viewed the Deccan as an arena for the encounter between the Sanskritic and Persianate cosmopolises, a perspective based on the remarkable proliferation of architecture, music, poetry, dance, painting and forms of courtly culture that took place in the 16th and 17th centuries. Perhaps it was this prevailing state of “encounter” – between cultural worlds, between ethno-linguistic groups, Deccani and Westerner – that created the strange relationship of polarisation yet inter-penetration between the sultanates.

Conclusion 119 While there were frequent occasions of strife and contestation between them, they also cooperated, usually against a common enemy. Frequently they provided havens of refuge for nobles and royal scions fleeing persecution in their own kingdoms. Ibrahim Adil Shah (1571–1627), sultan of Bijapur, was a product of this unique environment of conflict and concord that characterised the Deccan under the sultanates. Having succeeded to the throne at the age of 9 following the death of his uncle, Ali Adil Shah, Ibrahim grew up under the regency of his aunt Chand Bibi, a princess of Ahmadnagar and the widow of Ali Adil Shah. There were amicable relations between them, and when, in 1597, Chand Bibi requested his help to quell the infighting between rival groups of nobles in Ahmadnagar, Ibrahim readily complied. Following her death in 1600, Ibrahim joined forces with Malik Ambar against the Mughals and successfully managed to prevent them from acquiring complete control over the Deccan. The collaboration soon broke up, however, and Ibrahim allied with Jahangir, a fact that so enraged Ambar that he marched on Bijapur and defeated the combined Mughal and Adil Shahi forces, sacking the newly built city of Nauraspur, Ibrahim’s pride and joy.6 As a literary figure, Ibrahim Adil Shah was a towering personality of his age, composing music and poetry in both Persian and Dakhani. He patronised poets and artists from the Safavid court in Persia, such as Mir Hasan Askari, Aqa Muhammad Nami, Muhammad Riza Shakebi and others. In addition, he had a deep interest in Sanskrit literature and aesthetics and Hindu mythology and patronised a number of Hindu artists, absorbing from them knowledge about Rasa theory and aesthetics via texts like the Sangita Ratnakara of Sharngadeva. He welcomed the musicians moving out of the declining Vijaynagara empire and learned from them the nuances of various ragas and raginis along with their visual representations in painting. His fascination for the term Nauras, with its Persian as well as Indic implications, indicates his catholicity of thinking and sophistication of vision. The Kitab-i-Nauras is a collection of songs in the Dakhani language, set to different ragas by Ibrahim. The book reveals his knowledge of music and skill in poetry, as well as his familiarity with Hindu mythology, rituals and customs. A creation of Ibrahim Adil Shah’s multi-faceted genius, the Kitab-i-Nauras is like a drop of water, holding within it an ocean of aesthetic, stylistic and linguistic expressions. The term Nauras has meaning in both Persian and Sanskrit, hence, perhaps its adoption as a favourite catchphrase by Ibrahim in various contexts. In Persian, it symbolises ideas of “freshness,” “budding” and “blossoming,” while its Sanskrit connotation associates it with the Navarasa, nine emotions listed in classical literature on dance, music, art and aesthetics. Using this pivotal term, Ibrahim Adil Shah amalgamated Persian and Sanskritic aesthetic ideals that resonated with the two cultural cosmopolises of the sub-continent in his time. The language of the text is Dakhani that draws from the folk and vernacular idiom of the region. The

120  Conclusion text is a collection of simple poetic compositions set to different ragas and raginis by the author – they are meant to be sung. Many of the songs are invocations to the Hindu deities Ganesha, Shiva and Saraswati, the goddess of learning, whom the author regards as his spiritual mother. For example, the Goddess of Learning (Saraswati) resembles the pure raindrops of Sewati (a phase of the moon when it is in the fifteenth mansion) which produce pearls in shells. (Song no. 24) the author compares Saraswati to a beautiful ivory sculpture on which account Ganesha has represented himself as an elephant. (Song no. 37)7 The Megh Nakshatra (lunar mansion in Indian astrology) which is a season for heavy rains resembles Ganesh (Ganpati) in all respects, the lightning is the tusk and the thunder is the bell and the rainbow is the forehand of Saraswati. (Song no. 24) Saraswati is a white jasmine flower. Ibrahim havin put on a garland bows his head before her and offers his prayers. (Song no. 37) The whole song is a beautiful description of Ganesh. A portion of his radiant face resembles the clear sun of the spring season, the spot in the moon is out of jealousy having been roused after hearing his praises. Ibrahim’s songs in praise of Ganesh would be sung by the musicians of his court. (Song no 38) The author sings the prayers of Saraswati and Ganesh who have illumined the path of learning, now he addresses them as his mother and father and invokes them to bestow their blessings on him. (Song no. 37) Ibrahim’s paeans in praise of Saraswati depict his admiration for her as the goddess of learning, music and the arts, pursuits that evoked his deepest reverence. He views Saraswati as the embodiment of the perfection and purity of knowledge, associating her with “pearls in shells,” a beautiful ivory sculpture, a white jasmine flower, the rainbow after a storm and all such images of faultless accomplishment. He compares Ganesha with a rain-bearing cloud, burgeoning with the fertile flood of learning. His acknowledgement

Conclusion 121 of Ganesh and Saraswati as his spiritual parents legitimises his role in carrying forward the tradition of art and learning that they represent. The poems also represent Ibrahim’s adoption of customary ritual practices associated with the worship of Hindu deities. Ibrahim advises all to wash the eight parts of the body with the water of the Ganges and then to pray to Saraswati in a respectful manner . . . only then does he (the author) enjoy peace and pleasure. (Song no. 47) The reference to the healing, purifying waters of the Ganges clearly shows Ibrahim’s immersion in a belief system that regarded the river as sacred. His allusion to the Goddess Saraswati’s resemblance to the purest drops of rainwater goes beyond his acknowledgement of a religious belief – it enters the realm of aesthetic sensibilities that override the boundaries of any single faith or denomination. Ibrahim Adil Shah’s biographies do not record his conversion to any faith other than Islam, hence his reference to performing ablutions with Ganges water and prayers to Hindu deities notwithstanding, he was still a practising Muslim. Clearly, he did not view his veneration for deities in their physical form as contradictory to his faith. The author has given a description of the physical form of this deity (Goddess Saraswati). She is robed in a white dress holding a book in one hand, a garland or rosary in the other, a conch in the third and a lotus flower in the fourth. (Dohra no. 17, a rhyming couplet similar to a shloka) The descriptions of the deities resonate with images in the Ragamala paintings, expressing a common aesthetic across the arts that influenced Ibrahim Adil Shah and are represented in his portrayals as well. Shiva, who has a camphor-like complexion with a crescent on the forehead, three eyes and the Ganges flowing from his jata-mukuta (crown of matted locks). The other emblems of Shiva are his trident, a human skull, the bull, the skin of the lion and the adornment of snakes. The author has (also) spoken of Indra’s white elephant, Airawat, his fairies (apsaras), the ten roopas (forms) of Rama, the burning of Lanka by Hanuman, Sita, Kamadeva  .  .  . Parbati (Parvati) and many other religious and mythological allusions of the Hindus. Ibrahim Adil Shah’s reference to Hindu deities, customs and practices are not mere indications from a musical or artistic perspective but indicate a genuine belief in the notions of beauty, purity, wisdom and learning that

122  Conclusion they represent. Interestingly, this in no way contradicts other forms of faith that Ibrahim professed, including his belief in the Sufi saint Sayyad Husain Gesu Daraz of Gulbarga. The Kitab-i-Nauras includes songs in praise of the saint, for example, Sayyad Muhammad was the leader of all saints. The poet feels the pangs of separation from his spiritual guide, Sayyad Muhammad and requests him to forgive his faults. (Songs no. 52, 59) Sayyad Muhammad is invoked so that through his intercession God may bestow on him (Ibrahim) the favour of acquiring learning and scholarship. (Song no. 11) The Kitab-i-Nauras represents the cosmopolitan culture of the Deccan in myriad ways, with music as the medium for connecting disparate themes, flowing across religious and denominational boundaries and engaging differing beliefs, values and ideas in a dialogue. It defines the spirit of the Deccan, the underlying principles of movement of people and ideas, of interaction and negotiation of divergent perspectives. It is underpinned by notions of sacrality, particularly of engagement with alternative beliefs, their acceptance in a spirit of dialogue leading to the evolution of a multi-dimensional discourse around knowledge and learning, regarded as exemplary values. Music and arts are regarded as the ideal medium for conveying the ideas of perfection – their fluidity and transmissibility as forms of expression are essential qualities for sustaining interaction between disparate elements. At an elemental level, water defines the qualities of flow and interaction, moving between people and places, their needs and aspirations, delineating pathways of commerce, communication and pilgrimage. The geographical and cultural landscape at Ellora–Khuldabad–Daulatabad has enabled the movement of people, yet it possesses important defensive capabilities, as displayed in the fortifications at Daulatabad. It has supported human settlements of a certain scale, as the pilgrimage centres of Grishneshwar and Khuldabad show, but not allowed the proliferation of unchecked urban agglomeration. In that sense, its significance is strategic, the settlements and institutions in the area possess a tactical importance with a wider impact across the region. Water as an essential resource has been carefully tapped, its storage and usage meticulously monitored and controlled. Its value as a symbol of sacrality is a factor of its strategic significance for the region in the way that it infuses local myths, legends and folklore. Its significance as an essential driver for fertility and productivity in the region is expressed through rituals and festivals like the rudrabhisheka (anointing the linga) at Grishneshwar,

Conclusion 123 Panchami to call the monsoon and ritual bathing at Pariyon ka Talaab. Beyond the sacred, water underscores the articulation of cosmopolitan values, expressed in associations between disparate communities, their association with the environment, both natural and man-made and an ethos of sustainable practices aimed at enabling the cause of mutual survival between groups and individuals. These values are witnessing a gradual erosion today. On the one hand, talaabs lie dry and neglected, following an increasing emphasis on pipelines bringing in water from far-off hydropower schemes such as Jayakwadi project on the Godavari, 40 kilometres away. Shared practices of maintaining the talaabs, conserving water and gathering around water bodies by local communities will soon become a forgotten practice. Simultaneously, there is a growing polarisation between communities with increasing marginalisation of Muslims in the region. Not only is the divergence between communities creating the reductionist binary of a “Hindu majority” and “Muslim minority” between communities, but it is also wiping out the nuanced social spaces occupied by various sectarian and denominational groups, the Lingayats, the Mahanubhavis, even the Bhils. The biggest fallout of the creation of a state of attrition between communities is the loss of diversity and the intangible values of sharing essential resources like water. Epilogue “My mother and grandmother always wore saris, not salwar-kameez, when I  was young,” Anwar’s rich Dakhani Urdu cadence broke the silence of the afternoon. “They seldom covered their faces or wore the burqa. They always visited the dargahs to perform ziyarat (pilgrimage to a Sufi shrine). Marriages and birthdays were celebrated with feasting and festivity. Now, everything has changed. The Wahhabis dominate the masjids. They say our girls should be dressed in salwar-kameez, not saris. They must always wear the hijab, if not the burqa. They say we must live with austerity, not indulgence. There are to be no feasts on weddings and birthdays. They discourage us from going for ziyarat. How will the dargahs survive if people stop going for ziyarat”?

Notes 1 Martha Nussbaum, “Kant and Cosmopolitanism,” in Garrett W. Brown and David Held (eds) The Cosmopolitanism Reader, Polity Press, Cambridge, 2010, pp. 27–42 2 Kwame Anthony Appiah, Cosmopolitanism  – Ethics in a World of Strangers, W.W. Norton and Co, 2007; Chris Breeman, “A Cosmopolis of All Beings: Cosmopolitanism, Indigeneity and the More Than Human,” Encounters on Education, Vol. 14 (2013), pp. 71–83. 3 Joel Kahn, “Anthropology as Cosmopolitan Practice,” Anthropological Theory, Vol. 3, No. 4 (2003), pp. 403–415; Nigel Rapport, “The Cosmopolitan World,”

124  Conclusion in R. Fardon (ed) The Sage Handbook of Social Anthropology, Sage, London, 2012, pp. 523–537. 4 Breeman, op. cit., pp. 71–83. 5 Ali Akbar Husain, “Indo-Iranian Gardens: Garden sites in the Deccan in southern India,” Manzar, No. 33 (Winter 2016), pp. 58–65. 6 Kitab-i-Nauras by Ibrahim Adil Shah, Introduction, notes and textual editing by Nazir Ahmad. Published by Bharatiya Kala Kendra, Caxton Press, New Delhi, 1956, pp. 5–7. 7 Ibid., pp. 63–65.

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Index

Page numbers in italic indicate a figure and page numbers in bold indicate a table on the corresponding page. Abdul Malik Isami 16 Abhira 7 Abpashdara 89, 90, 90 Ahilyabai Holkar 69 Ahmadnagar 18, 19, 49 Ahmad Shah Bahmani 16, 49 Ajantha 4, 8 Akbar 24 Alauddin 11, 12 Alauddin Hasan Bahman Shah 16 Alauddin Khalji 12, 13, 43, 46, 87 Al Habsh 102 Ambarkot 15, 16 Ambejogai 11 Appadurai, Arjun 113 Appiah, Kwame Anthony 112 Aqa Muhammad Nami 119 Archaeological Survey of India 20, 43, 53 Archaeology of Cultural Landscapes/ Landscape Archaeology 28 Ark Killah (acropolis) 16 Arntzen, Sven 29 Asafjahi Nizams 14 Ashmaka 6 Aurangabad 3 – 4, 8, 34, 45, 50, 84; map of 3 Aurangzeb 14, 20, 33 Baghdad 43, 83 Bahmani 16, 44 bairagis (mystics) 63 Bakula (Mimusops elengi) 65 Balaghat 46 Balaji Muralidhar Sonavane 87 Banij 57n11

Baniya 57n11 Banjara(s) 57n11, 61, 62, 63 baolis 33, 48 Barabar 8 Barani, Ziauddin 12 bargigiri (guerilla warfare) 84, 102, 105 Bargirs 19 Bayly, Chris 34 Bedsa 8, 50 Berar 18 Berkson, Carmel 2 – 3, 8, 61 – 62 Bhaja 50 Bharhut 8 Bharuch 63 Bhaskaracharya 57n14 Bhava Sagar 59 Bhillama V 11, 43, 46 Bhilni 77, 78 Bhils of Satkund Tanda 80 Bhima valley 6 Bhogyavardhana 6 Bhrigukaccha 6, 44 Bidar 17, 18 Bijapur 18 – 20, 49 Bodh Gaya 10, 20, 34, 60 Brahmagiri 44 Brahmanism 7 Buddhism 6, 7, 34 Buddhist Sangha 6 Bukka Raya 16 Bundoo Vaidya 78 Burgess, James 27, 70 – 71 Burhanuddin Gharib 13 Burke, Peter 22

Index  131 cenotaphs (chhatris) 105 Chakradhar Swami 32, 57n14, 63 Chalcolithic phase 6 Chalukyas 7 – 8, 10, 14, 24, 43, 46, 51, 52, 114 Chand Bibi 119 Chand Minar 16 Chandrakund 63 Charanadri 4, 10, 71 Chaturvarga Chintamani 11 Chawaka 4 Chingiz Khan 19, 103, 104 Chini Mahal 18 Chishti order 13 Chishti Shaikh Nizamuddin Auliya 66 – 67 Chishtiyya order 48, 67 Christianity 22 community consciousness, bearers of 21 – 25 community identies 83 – 110 community memories 21; in space, locating 105 – 109, 108 confluences (sangams) 44 cosmopolis 32 cosmopolitanism 10, 111 – 123; Kantian 113; unfolding in Deccan landscape 113 – 118 Criminal Tribes Act of 1871 57n11 cross-fertilisation 18 cultural heritage 20 cultural landscapes 21, 28 – 29 Daimabad 6 Dakhan 3 Dakhani Urdu 24 Dakshina 3 Dakshinapatha 5, 6, 8, 11, 12, 21, 25, 36, 41 – 44, 51, 56, 63, 88 Dakshinatya Yavani 24 Damodaran, Vinita 34 – 35 Dana 29 Daniell, Thomas 26; “Mountain of Ellora” 26 Dantidurga 8, 9, 52, 69 Daraz, Muhammad Gesu 32 Dargah of Shaikh Jalaluddin Ganj-e-Rawan 64, 66, 68 dargahs 67, 68 darsana (audience) 56 Dasavatara 9, 52 Datta Mandir 55, 63

Daulatabad 5, 15 – 21, 25, 33, 36, 37, 39n42, 43, 50, 56, 83, 97; layered historical narrative 44 – 50 Deccan 2, 3, 21, 30, 32, 41 – 56; cosmopolitanism 118 – 123; landscape, cosmopolitanism unfolding in 113 – 118; Trap 2, 4 Deogir 15 Devagiri 10 – 13, 21, 36, 42, 43, 46 – 50, 88 Dharma talaab 108 dice (saripat) 77 Diogenes 112, 118 Dudhna 44 Dumar Lena 53, 71 Durkheim, Émile 23 Eastern Ghats 3 Eaton, Richard M. 10, 12, 19, 24, 32, 104, 115, 116 ecophilosophy 29 Eknath 63 Elapura 9 Eliade, Mircea 99 – 100 Ellora caves, water cisterns of 50 – 54, 53 Ellora – Khuldabad – Daulatabad 59, 68, 75, 81, 83, 101, 116, 122; community consciousness, bearers of 21 – 25; cosmopolitanism in 117; cultural landscape, delineating 20 – 37; fregrounding water within cultural landscape of 1 – 37; historical developments in 5 – 20; landscape, exploring 25 – 31; multiculturality 67; settlements of 1 – 2; water conservation 44 Elu 9 Enfield 29 Ernst, Carl 13, 14 Ethiopia 19 Feldhaus, Anne 31 – 32 Fergusson, James 27, 27, 28 Ferishta 30 Firdausi 115 Firuz 17 Firuzabad 17 “Futuh-us-Salatin” Isami 16 Ganesh Leni 53, 71 Gangapur 4 Gangaur 62 Gauri temple, Mhaismal 55

132 Index gaushala (cow shelter) 55 Gautama 72, 73 genius loci 22 Ghiyasuddin 14 Ghrishneshwar 20 Ghusma 75 Godavari 25, 31, 42 – 44 Goff, Jacques le 23 Golconda 18, 20 Greenwich 29 Grishneshwar 59, 61, 64, 68 – 71, 116; rudrabhisheka (anointing linga) 122; swayambhu linga 75; tirtha 70 guerilla warfare (bargigiri) 19 Guha, Sumit 34 Guha-Thakurta, Tapati 27 – 28 Guhesvara 9 Gujarat 6 Gulbarga 16 Gurjara Pratiharas 43 Guru Nanak 63 Habshi (Abyssinian) Vakil-us-Saltanat 14, 49 Habshis 19 Habshi slaves 19 Hafiz 17 Halbwachs, Maurice 22, 23 Harihar Sangama 16 Harpaladeva 12 Harris, Jonathan Gil 102 Harsul 45 Hathi Taka 48 Hauz-e-Qutlugh 15, 48 Hazrat Bande Nawaz Gisu Daraz 67 Hazrat Momin Arif 13 Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya 13, 16 Hazrat Shah Khaksar Qadri 48 healing powers 68 – 75 Hemad Panti 48 Hemadri 57n14; Chaturvarga Chintamani 11 Hindavi 24 Hinduism 34 Hindu-Raya-Suratalah 115 Holi 62 Hoysalas 11, 15 human agency 28 Hyderabad Land Tenancy laws 62 hydraulic systems 50, 84 Ibn Battuta 115 Ibrahim 17

Ibrahim Adil Shah 18; Kitab-e-Nauras of 118 – 123 Ibrahim Qutb Shah 18 identity 21 Illich, Ivan 84 Imad-ul-Mulk 17 Inamgaon 6 Iqtadars 15, 48 Jaffri, Ali Sardar 112 – 113 Jaina trading communities 42 Jainism 6, 34 Jaitugi 46 Jalali Baba dargah 93, 94, 117 – 118 Jami Mosque 16, 115 Janardan Swami 55, 63 jeernoddhara 69 Jnaneshwari 11, 24, 57n14 Jogeshwari 53, 71 jyotirlingas 68, 75 Kachru Jadhav 55 Kagazipura 2 Kahn, Joel 113 Kailasa 34, 42, 51, 53, 60 Kailasanatha 9 Kakatiyas 11, 12, 24 Kalachuris 7 – 8, 42, 51, 69 Kalakot 18, 47 – 48, 57n18 Kalidasa: Meghaduta ix Kalinga 9 Kanchi 9 Kanheri 8, 34, 45, 50, 51 Kant, Immanuel 112 Kantian cosmopolitanism 113 Karkaraja II, Baroda inscription of 69 Karle 8, 50 Kataka 11 Kathakalpataru 9, 73 Kedarnath (Uttarakhand) 68 Khadki 20, 25, 45, 84, 104 Khaksar talaab 33 Khalji 15 Khandesh x, 35 khanqahs 59 khirqa (robe) 16 Khuldabad 4, 11; landscape 41 Khuld Makan 14 Khurasan 14, 15 Khusro, Amir 12, 115 Khwaja Nasiruddin Chiragh-e-Dehli 13 Kitab-e-Nauras 18 Kokasa 9 Konkan 6

Index  133 Kosala 9 Krishna 15 Krishna I 52, 69 Krishnaraja Kalachuri 8, 9 Krishna Yajnavalkya 73 Krita Yuga 72 Ksatriyaization 72 Kulke, Hermann 7 Lakhuji Jadhav 104 Lakulisa 8 landscape 25 – 31 landschaft 25 landschap 25 landskip 25 language 21, 24 Lanka Cave 27 Lata 9 Lilacharitra 11, 63 lingua franca 24 linguistic dogmatism 24 linguistic ecosystems 24 Ma’abar 15 Mahakaleshwar (Ujjain) 68 Mahakot 11, 15, 16, 47, 49 Mahanubhavi ashram 11, 59, 63 Mahanubhavis 24, 32, 67, 123 Mahanubhav texts 32 mahatmyas 32, 72 Mahmud Gawan 17 Mahmud Shah Bahmani 17 Makara Sankranti 63, 65 Malandra, Geri H. 8, 10, 33 – 34, 51, 56, 60 Malhar, Raga ix Malik Ahmad 17 Malik Ambar 14, 19, 23, 32, 33, 37, 48 – 50, 83, 103, 118; Abpashgdara 89, 90, 90; bund wall, remains of 96; fruit orchard 94; land 89; overland stream 92; pleasure pavilion, remains of 98, 99; as slave 102 – 105; sluice holes in steps 87; steps 86; as sultan 102 – 105; as vakil-us-saltanat 117; waterfall 97 Malik Ambar ki pipeline 83 – 101, 86, 87, 91, 105 Malik Kafur 12 Maloji Bhonsale 69 Maloji Bhonsle 104 Malwa 9 Manikavati 9, 72 Marathas 19, 21, 35

Marathi Mahanubhav 63 Marathwada x, 2, 10, 60, 63 Marco Polo 115 Maryam, Fatima 65 Mate, M. S. 12, 47 – 50 Mauryan period 6 Mauryas 6 Mavsala talaab 84, 89, 93 Mecca 83 Meghaduta (Kalidasa) ix Mesolithic settlement 5 Mir Hasan Askari 119 monastic landlordism 6 Morwanchikar, R. S. 44, 45 Moti Taka 48 Mount Kailasa 10 Muhammad Bin Tughlaq/Mohammad Bin Tughlaq 12, 14, 16, 33, 37n3, 43, 48, 67, 93 Muhammad Gesu Daraz 33 Muhammad Riza Shakebi 119 Mulaka 6 multiculturality 67 Muntajibuddin Zar Zarizar Bakhsh 13 Murtaza Nizam Shah 19 myths 23 Naga dynasty 31 Nagarjuni 8 Narmada 15, 31, 43 Nashik 43, 44; settlement 6 “nature/culture” binary 29 Nauras 119 Navarasa 119 Nayar, Pramod K. 27 Neolithic settlement 6 Nizami 115 Nizamshahi 14, 19, 44 Norwegian school of Ecophilosophy 29 Nussbaum, Martha 112 O’Hanlon, Rosalind 34 otherness 28 Paithan 4, 44, 46 Palas 43 Palaswadi Tanda 62 Paleolithic settlement 5 Pallavas 10, 42 Panchami festival, Verul 61, 75 – 81 Paniya Podhi 52 Paramaras of Malwa 10 Parasher-Sen, Aloka 10 Pariyon ka Talaab 33, 48, 73, 116

134 Index Parsvanatha temple, Charanadri 10, 34, 59 Pathy, T. V. 9, 51 patronage, politics of 50 – 54, 53 Pattadakal 9 Persia 43 Persianate cosmopolis 115 Persian Wheel 49 picturesque aesthetic 26, 27 pipeline 83, 84 Pitalkhora 8, 34, 50 place 21, 22 Podhis 52 Pollock, Sheldon 114, 116 pradakshina 34 Pratap, Maharana 62 Prescott 29 proselytisation 13 Proshansky, Harold 22 Purna 44 Qasim Barid Shah 17 Quabbin reservoir, Massachusetts, USA 30, 110n5 Quli Qutb Shah 17 Qutbabad 12 Qutlugh Khan 48 Ragamala paintings 121 Rajatalaka 45 Ramachandra 11 – 12 Ramachandradeva 11 Rama Raya 18 Ramayana 74 Rang Mahal 84, 87 Rasa theory 119 Rashtrakutas 7 – 10, 14, 42, 43, 46, 51 Ratnagiri 34 Rauza 14, 21, 39n42 Rishika 6 rituals 23 rudrabhisheka (anointing linga) 122 Sabir Sheikh 76 – 78, 80 sacrality 59 – 81 sacred geography 60 – 68 sacred pool (tirtha) 34, 36, 42, 44, 51, 59, 60, 62 – 64, 68, 69, 70, 72, 73, 75; Shiva Grishneshwar 70, 83 Sadasiva 18 sadhus (hermits) 63 Sahyadri Khanda 71 Sahyadris 3 – 5, 42 Saiva 71, 72

Saivite 42, 51, 65 Sanchi 6, 8, 31, 34 Sanchi Survey Project, University College, London 31 Sandesakavya (messenger poetry) ix Sangeeta Ratnakara 11, 119 Sanskrit cosmopolis 115 Santanchi (Santyachi) bhoomi 55, 63, 81 Sardeshmukh 19 Sarmad 33 Satavahanas 6, 43 – 45 Satmala 4 Sayyad Husain Gesu Daraz 122 Schama, Simon 25 – 26, 30, 84, 101 Scheduled Tribes Act 62 Schwenk, Theodor 30 Seely, J. B. 20, 70 Seuna Yadavas 46 Sewalalji Maharaj 62 Shah, B. D. 44, 85 Shah Jahan 20 Shahji Bhonsle 19 Shaikh Burhanuddin Gharib 13, 16, 33, 48, 65, 67 Shaikh Jalaluddin Ganj-e-Rawan 13, 33, 48, 65 Shaikh Muntajibuddin Zari Zarizar Bakhsh 33, 48, 67 Shaikh Zainuddin Shirazi 13, 16, 33, 48, 65, 67 Shankaradeva 12 Sharangadeva: Sangeeta Ratnakara 11 Shardulwadi 2, 62 Shaw, Julia 6, 31, 50 – 51 Sheikh Shahabuddin Suharwardi 65 Shi’ite 17 Shilaharas 11 Shiva Grishneshwara 7, 56 Shurparaka 6, 44 Singhana 46 Siva-Ghrishneshwar 2 Sivalaya Kund 71 Sivalaya Tirtha 56 Skanda Purana 71 Skaria, Ajay 35 Snana Podhi 52 soang 78, 79 Soar, Micaela 71, 72 social memory 22 Somnath (Gujarat) 68 Sona Bai 48, 58n23 South Asia: water and historic landscapes in 31 – 37

Index  135 space 21, 22, 28; locating community memories in 105 – 109, 108 sthala (centre) 72 Sthanapothi 32 Stoics 112 Sudeha 75 Sudharma 75 Sufis 13, 16, 24, 33, 39n42, 48, 64, 115 Sulibhanjan 2, 41 Sultan Bahadur Nizam Shah 104 Sultan Firuz Shah Bahmani 17 Sultan Ibrahim Nizam Shah 104 Sultan Nasir Khan Faruqi 67 Sultan Qutbuddin Mubarak Shah 12 Sumit Guha 24 Suryakund 63, 64, 64, 67, 83 Sutrapath 32 swayambhu 116 Swayambhu linga (self-manifested) 42 Takaswami ashram 43 – 44, 54 – 56, 54 talaabs 4, 33, 44, 48, 49, 64, 68, 83 Talawadi 2 Talikota 18 Tanda 62, 63 Tapovan 63 Tauka 9 Teej 62 Telengana 15 Thevenot, Jean de 14 Timur 17 tirtha yatra 59 topos 22 Toulmin, Stephen 114 Tree of Life 26 Treta Yuga 72 Tryambakeshwar (Nashik) 44, 68 Tukaram 24 Turko-Persianate 17

UNESCO 20, 28 United Nations Charter 112 Universal Declaration of Human Rights 112 Universal Declaration of the Rights of Man (1789) 112 Upper Godavari 2 Upper Ratangarh Formation 38n6 Vaidya (healer) 78, 79, 81 Vaijapur 4 Vaisnava 72 Vaivasvata Manu 74 Vakatakas 6, 7, 43, 45 Vakil-us-Saltanat 19 Varanasi 20, 71 Vazir, Naib 12 Verul 2, 4, 20 Verul Mahatmya 61, 72, 73, 75 Vidarbha x Vidisha 31 Vijayanagara 16, 18 Vinayakbuwa Topre 72 Viraha ix Virupaksha 9 Vishwakarma cave 51 Wagoner, Philp 12, 32 Wanda 62 Warkaris 32, 68 – 69 water, as embodiment of fertility 68 – 75 Wescoat, James 44, 52 Western Ghats 3 Yadavas 7, 10, 11, 14, 15, 24, 42, 43, 45 – 48, 57n11, 87, 116 Yelganga 61 Yusuf Adil Khan 17 Yusuf Adil Shah 17 Zafar Khan 16