The Empires of the Near East and India: Source Studies of the Safavid, Ottoman, and Mughal Literate Communities

III. A Letter of Advice from a Mughal Gentleman to His Son

RAJEEV KINRA

The letter under analysis here was written by the Mughal gentleman, poet, and state secretary Chandar Bhan Brahman (d. c. 1670) and addressed to his son Tej Bhan.¹ As their names indicate, both the author and the recipient of the letter were high-caste Hindus, part of the large population of non-Muslims who took advantage of the Mughals’ pluralistic attitudes toward religion and politics to carve out careers for themselves in state service.² Chandar Bhan’s father, a certain Dharam Das, was the first in his family to learn Persian and join Mughal service as a secretary in their native province of Punjab sometime during the reign of Emperor Akbar (r. 1556–1605), and Chandar Bhan himself was born in the regional capital of Lahore. He began his own career in Mughal service some time in the 1610s under the noted architect and city planner Mir ʿAbd al-Karim “Ma’mur Khan,” who at the time served as Lahore’s mir-i ‘imarat, or superintendent of buildings, under Emperor Jahangir (r. 1605–1627) and later went on to have a hand in supervising financing and construction of perhaps the most celebrated Mughal architectural monument of all, the Taj Mahal (built mostly during the 1630s). Toward the end of Jahangir’s reign, Chandar Bhan began working for the noted amir Afzal Khan Shirazi (d. 1639), who had become a close confidante of Emperor Shah Jahan (r. 1628–1658) while the latter was still a prince, and he went on to serve for nearly the entire decade of the 1630s as the chief minister (wazir).³

Chandar Bhan Brahman continued to serve Afzal Khan throughout the latter’s tenure as wazir, and after Afzal Khan’s death he continued working in Shah Jahan’s central government—sometimes directly for the emperor himself, for instance, during a stint as Shah Jahan’s personal diarist (waqi‘a-nawis), but mostly working with Shah Jahan’s various chief ministers in the imperial fiscal office, or diwani. After his official retirement from imperial service in the early 1660s, Chandar Bhan continued to serve the Mughal royal family as the manager of the Taj Mahal complex in Agra, where he oversaw the accounts, maintenance, special events, dispersal of charity, and collection of revenue from the surrounding villages designated for the tomb’s upkeep. We also learn from an entry in the official court records, or Akhbarat-i Darbar-i Mu‘alla, that by the 1660s Chandar Bhan’s son Tej Bhan—the recipient of the letter translated here—was also working as a secretary in imperial service. The entry dates from October 1666 and records a directive from Emperor Aurangzeb ʿAlamgir (r. 1658–1707) asking his officials in Agra to present robes of honor to Chandar Bhan, who is described as the manager of the tomb complex (diwan-i maqbara), and to “Tej Bhan, the son of Chandar Bhan, who serves as the auditor of the tomb’s accounts (mustaufi-yi maqbara).” This is the last known record of either Chandar Bhan or Tej Bhan in an official contemporary historical source.

The letter translated here is reproduced in Chandar Bhan’s account of his career in imperial service, Chahar Chaman (The Four Gardens), as well as in his collected letters, usually known as the Munsha’at-i Brahman, which he selected and compiled himself during his own lifetime. It is largely on the basis of these two exemplary works of insha’, or “creative prose,” that Chandar Bhan earned a reputation as a master prose stylist, and both Chahar Chaman and Munsha’at-i Brahman circulated widely in early modern Indo-Persian literary and intellectual circles. Chandar Bhan was also an accomplished poet, whose collection of ghazals (lyrics) and ruba‘is (quatrains) was well known in early modern Mughal literary circles as the Diwan-i Brahman. Indeed, scores of manuscripts of all three texts are scattered in various archives in India and around the world, although only Chandar Bhan’s poetry was available in a modern printed edition prior to the early 2000s. No critical edition of any of Chandar Bhan’s works has ever been compiled, so this translation, unless otherwise noted, is based on the version of the letter found in the modern edition of Chahar Chaman (2007) edited by Yunus Jaʿfri, with the page numbers of the original printed edition in brackets. I myself have added the roman numerals and section headings, to help the reader navigate the text.

PUTTING CHANDAR BHAN'S ADVICE IN CONTEXT

This letter is clearly intended to echo the genre of advice literature known in Persian as nasihat-namas, which would have been well known to Chandar Bhan’s discerning contemporary readers as part of the larger corpus of Indo-Persian treatises on moral and political wisdom known as akhlaq and adab literature. Such texts sometimes fell under the rubric of “advice for kings” (Nasihat al-muluk) and served a function in the larger Persianate world similar to that of the European genre of “mirrors for princes.” Classic examples of the genre include Nizam al-Mulk’s Siyasat Nama (Treatise on Politics; eleventh century), Ghazali’s Nasihat al-Muluk (Advice for Kings; twelfth century), Kai Ka’us ibn Iskandar’s Qabus Nama (The Book of Qabus; eleventh century), Nizami ʿAruzi’s Chahar Maqala (The Four Discourses [on Government]; twelfth century), and the celebrated polymath Nasir al-Din Tusi’s Akhlaq-i Nasiri (The Nasirean Ethics; thirteenth century), a text that was read widely in Mughal India and was among those Chandar Bhan specifically recommends that Tej Bhan should study carefully.4

Chandar Bhan’s own letter was not necessarily aimed at princes. Rather, it was intended as a much more general set of norms and advice for the aspiring young Mughal gentleman, and especially an aspiring state secretary (munshi) such as his son Tej Bhan—a “mirror for munshis,” as I have called it elsewhere.⁵ Modern accounts of Mughal life often leave the reader with an impression of unending opulence and grandeur; but here we see a different side of that world, a more everyday guide to living as an ordinary, albeit respectable, gentleman-official against the backdrop of all that imperial wealth and splendor. One of the central themes running through the letter (and Chandar Bhan’s oeuvre more generally) is the importance of leading a life of “balance” (i‘tidal), a concept that comes directly out of the akhlaq tradition. He advises Tej Bhan to pursue knowledge, but to privilege the pursuit of practical knowledge over merely abstract or theoretical knowledge. He encourages him to lead a life of piety and devotion (significantly, without specifying any particular sect or deity), and to aspire to the ascetic ideals of “nonattachment” (bi-ta‘alluqi) common to the mystical dimensions of both Hinduism and Islam, even as he acknowledges that for most people the practical realities of living in the world require a commitment to work, family, and the society of others.

The letter begins with an extended sequence of salutations and blessings (known in Indo-Persian epistolary parlance as alqab-o-adab), the bulk of which are expressed in a form of rhythmically rhymed prose (saj‘) that was very common in insha’ works of the period but is nearly impossible to reproduce in English without taking extreme liberties with the translation.⁶ Suffice it to say, this extended—and some might argue, quite ostentatious—form of saying “Dear Tej Bhan” served a dual purpose: on one hand, obviously, to greet the recipient in an extremely respectful and even reverential manner; but on the other, to showcase Chandar Bhan’s mastery of the refined style and forms of address that were common in diplomatic and other formal modes of espistolography as an example for his son. Such extended alqab-o-adabs were not necessarily the norm in more informal personal letters, even in Chandar Bhan’s other letters to his son and other friends and family. But in this case, with the letter’s extended and formalistic opening, Chandar Bhan seems to be signaling to Tej Bhan—purely in stylistic terms—that this is no ordinary mundane letter from father to son but something much more “official.”

After the opening, the letter can be divided into roughly five sections. (Again, these are my divisions, added for the reader’s convenience; they are not in the original text.) In the first section, Chandar Bhan emphasizes the fleeting nature of life and the illusory nature of the material world. This is, of course, a common enough theme in both Sufi and Hindu-Vedantic philosophical thought. As we read on, it becomes clear that Chandar Bhan’s real message here is not quite that of a renunciant, who forsakes the material world because it is merely an illusion, but rather a form of carpe diem—that is, telling his son that precisely because the world is fleeting and one’s time on earth even briefer still, one should be sure to make the most of one’s opportunities in life. Although the world of material existence is ultimately “nothing but a dream and an illusion,” he tells Tej Bhan, nevertheless, one should not squander one’s God-given talents and precious life.

Although the prose here is admittedly somewhat convoluted and recherché—which is one reason a lot of texts like this are rarely translated in modern scholarship—Chandar Bhan’s overall message in this section is actually fairly simple: (1) Just because you were born with a certain status doesn’t mean you won’t have to work hard to make your way in the world; and (2) Even if it is true that the world is illusory, that is no excuse for just checking out; you must still make the most of your time here and strive to make something of yourself. Indeed, Chandar Bhan closes this first section by noting that his own father, Tej Bhan’s grandfather, had given Chandar Bhan himself similar advice in his youth, and he expresses regret for not having fully heeded his father’s admonitions.

This message of encouraging worldly engagement continues in the early part of the second section, but with a couple of important qualifications. Chandar Bhan notes that the pursuit of knowledge is a crucial endeavor in life, which is not so surprising coming from an intellectual of his stature. And yet at the same time he cautions Tej Bhan not to fetishize superfluous erudition for its own sake but rather to pursue knowledge that has some practical use-value. “Even a little bit of practical knowledge (‘ilm ba ʿamal) is better than a surplus of purely theoretical knowledge (‘ilm-i bi-‘amal),” he tells Tej Bhan—an observation that leads to an interesting bit of metaphysical speculation. On one hand, Chandar Bhan acknowledges that if one admits the Sufi-Vedantic proposition that the material world is really just an illusion, distracting us from the Divine/Cosmic Reality, then it would be easy to give in to the temptation to simply withdraw from society, from politics, and from the world generally. Indeed, as he says later in the letter, this is precisely what is expected of men of truly “lofty natures” (fitrat-i buland). But because “it is beyond the power of most men fully to liberate themselves” while still living in this material world of causes and effects (ʿalam-i asbab), he encourages Tej Bhan to take a kind of middle path—remaining productively engaged in society but resisting the allure of becoming too invested in worldly attachments (ta‘alluqat). Although the discussion in this section is sometimes quite recondite, the message is straightforward: be productively engaged with the world, without becoming too attached to it.

Chandar Bhan reiterates the theme of avoiding worldly attachments in the third section as well, and he counsels Tej Bhan to seek the guidance of wise men such as “hermits, ascetics, and darweshes,” as he himself had done as a troubled youth. His admission that as a young man he used to wander the city, and even beyond to the surrounding wilderness, in search of quietude offers a poignant self-portrait of adolescent alienation quite rare in Mughal literature. He goes on to explain that the work of setting aside one’s ego may seem impossible, but one must always strive—through education, through ethical behavior and good conduct, and through a sense of humility about worldly attachments and material gain—to cultivate an ethical self that works for the benefit of others rather than one’s own advantage. There is an echo here, clearly, of the Bhagavad Gita’s famous message of nishkama karma, or “action free from desire,” as Chandar Bhan explains that “it is only laudable to accept the necessity of worldly attachments when it is for the sake of bringing benefit to others, not when it is for the sake of satisfying one’s own material desires.”

At this point, Chandar Bhan once again takes the opportunity to praise his own father’s good character and reiterates that a true gentleman should avoid the corrupting influence of material attachments and, thus, the temptation to exploit his status and influence for personal gain. This is another theme that runs throughout the letter, and in fact throughout Chandar Bhan’s entire prose oeuvre such as when he approvingly quotes Shah Jahan’s wazir Saʿd Allah Khan (d. 1656) in an earlier passage from Chahar Chaman, stating unequivocally that a good Mughal official should use his position to work for the public interest (irada-yi khalq) rather than his own interests (irada-yi khẉud). Meanwhile, as he closes this section, Chandar Bhan quotes a verse from the celebrated thirteenth-century poet Saʿdi Shirazi (apparently a favorite of his father’s)that reflects the kind of learned mastery of the Persian literary canon that he and his father both prized, and, as we will see in the letter’s final two sections, that he would in turn expect from his son Tej Bhan.

It should be evident by now that in Chandar Bhan’s view merely being literate in Persian and mastering a certain set of scribal skills was not enough to make one an elite state secretary, much less a respectable Mughal gentleman. One had to cultivate a certain ethical demeanor, as well as an attitude of detachedness toward material wealth and possessions, which I have referred to elsewhere as a kind of “mystical civility.”

One also had to be very learned, of course, and in the final two sections of the letter Chandar Bhan outlines a kind of syllabus for Tej Bhan, making it clear that in order to become a successful munshi Tej Bhan would have to acquire what we would nowadays call a well-rounded liberal arts education, and to truly excel he would have to have, among other kinds of training, the early modern equivalent of graduate degrees in disciplines as varied as history, literature, philosophy, and political science. He advises Tej Bhan to begin his studies of Persian prose composition, for instance, by emulating the letters (ruq‘at) of ʿAbd al-Rahman Jami (1414–1492), the celebrated Timurid poet of Herat, and by studying the aforementioned Saʿdi Shirazi’s Gulistan and Bustan, two cornerstones of Persianate literary culture that had been used to teach the art of prose and inculcate moral wisdom in young and old alike for centuries. Once he has mastered such introductory texts, according to Chandar Bhan, he should move on to more advanced texts in history, politics, and statecraft. Note that Chandar Bhan’s reasons for encouraging Tej Bhan to study such works are multiple—today we might say “interdisciplinary”—not only to learn basic information about the past but also to hone his critical thinking skills through identification with people from other times and places, the comparison of different types of genres and texts, and improving his own writing skills by following the example of the established masters of the craft.

In keeping with his larger theme of promulgating “active” or “practical” knowledge, Chandar Bhan also placed a high value on training in various mundane skills, such as accounting (siyaq) and penmanship (khwush-nawisi), as essential for the well-rounded gentleman-official. Elsewhere in Chahar Chaman he had gone out of his way to praise various wazirs and other high officials—including Emperor Shah Jahan himself—for their adeptness at performing tasks that depended on such skills themselves, without relying on the help of others. And here, sounding like many a parent who wants his children to pursue “practical” undergraduate majors such as business, economics, engineering, and so on, Chandar Bhan specifically counsels his son to study accounting because it would greatly improve his job prospects: “because there are very few munshis who are also adept at accounts, such men are scarce; indeed, the person who is able to combine mastery of both crafts is a prized commodity, a ‘light upon light’.”

The wording here is revealing: the phrase “light upon light” (nur ʿala nur) is a direct allusion to the Qurʾan’s so-called Ayat al-Nur (Q. 24:35), a famously esoteric passage that became a favorite among late antique and early modern Sufis, philosophers, and literati who made the chapter’s potential for mystical interpretation “the subject of constant meditation and commentary,” as one noted modern scholar has put it.7 Besides showing off Chandar Bhan’s erudition—and, for that matter, the level of erudition he expected of his son Tej Bhan—it points to the important overlap between Mughal ideas about good governance and the role of the kind of “mystical civility” I referred to earlier in the cultivation of the well-mannered Mughal gentleman. In Chandar Bhan’s view, it was essential that those who made their living in worldly pursuits, from run-of-the-mill clerks and accountants right up to the most powerful men in the empire—indeed, especially the most powerful men—should cultivate a refined habitus of mystical disinterestedness amid the bustle of worldly activity. That is, even if professional or royal obligations made it impossible for them to completely embrace the mystical path of the great Sufis and yogis by renouncing material attachments altogether and focusing exclusively on spiritual pursuits, they should nevertheless strive to emulate the humility of such “great men” (buzurgan) in their attitude toward the material benefits available to them. Doing so would not only improve their moral character but also, perhaps counterintuitively, make them even more effective administrators because it would reduce their susceptibility to the lure of greed and corruption.

Finally, Chandar Bhan urges Tej Bhan to master the literary canon, and to study the works of the great literary masters (ustadan), both ancient and modern. Especially noteworthy here for the modern student of Persian literature is the fact that Chandar Bhan makes no geographical distinctions among the poets, treating poets from India, Iran, and other diverse regions of the larger Persianate ecumene as part of the same broader literary conversation. This inclusive, cosmopolitan view of the geographical horizons of what constituted good literature runs quite counter to the modern tendency to compartmentalize the Persian literary canon into distinct regional or national styles such as the “Khurasani Style,” the “Iraqi Style,” and later, the allegedly debased “Indian Style” (or sabk-i khurasani, sabk-i ‘iraqi, and sabk-i hindi, respectively). Rather, the main distinction for Chandar Bhan is between the established classical canon of “the ancients” (mutaqaddimin)—among whom he includes Indian poets such as Masʿud Saʿd Salman, Amir Khusrau, and Hasan Dehlavi—and the more recent work of “the latest/modern” (muta’akhkhirin) and “contemporary” (mu‘asirin) poets, who all hail from a similarly cosmopolitan and transregional geography. The artificial boundaries insisted upon by modern nationalist literary histories, in other words, simply did not apply.

For those unfamiliar with Persian literature, it is worth noting that Chandar Bhan lived in an era wherein such self-conscious awareness of being “modern” was increasingly common among Indo-Persian literati across South, Central, and West Asia. Poets of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries routinely, and often exuberantly, valorized a new literary sensibility that prized formal and thematic novelty, innovation, and what came to be referred to as “speaking the fresh” (taza-gu’i).8 This sensibility is clearly reflected in the list of poets that Chandar Bhan encourages Tej Bhan to study and emulate, as well as elsewhere in his oeuvre. But despite the era’s fashion for novelty and “freshness” (tazagi) in literary expression, it is equally important to remember that literati like Chandar Bhan continued to have great respect for the canonical poets of old—a respect for the classics that is perhaps best expressed in Chandar Bhan’s admonition to Tej Bhan that he must master the poetry of “the ancients” (mutaqaddimin) before presuming to move on to the moderns and finding his own experimental voice.

All in all, what is perhaps most striking about Chandar Bhan’s letter to Tej Bhan is just how little time he spends on the practical details of making a career as a munshi. The practical skills of calligraphy, accounting, and so forth were all very important, of course. But in Chandar Bhan’s vision, they were simply a basic toolkit, barely a starting point. Indeed, no matter how good one’s basic secretarial skills were, to be a truly refined Mughal gentleman-secretary in Chandar Bhan’s view required a much more profound commitment to a certain kind of rigorous and disciplined self-fashioning—one that demanded good character, a strong moral compass, a sense of compassion, a dedication to the public good over personal gain, and the kind of humility that comes with the mystic’s awareness of just how small we are in the cosmos, however big and important we may seem here on earth.

TRANSLATION

A Letter of Advice

WRITTEN WITH A SINCERE PEN TO MY BLESSED AND FORTUNATE SON TEJ BHAN

My dear son, the light of my life, the candle in the assembly of happiness, the light that brightens my weakened eyes,9 the comfort to my afflicted heart, the strength of my aged days, the support in my time of need, the rose in the garden of hope, the storehouse of endless delight, the respite for my tortured spirit, the salve for the open wound [of my soul], the light of my eye, the delight in my breast, an extension of my own heart, a sliver of my own liver, the capital of the entire world’s commerce, the profit from the succession of night and day, the garden of eternal spring, the producer of concord, my private helper, my public companion, whose foot is always on the path of submission and acquiescence (pay bar tariq-i taslim-o-riza), the wayfarer through the valley of truth and purity (rah-rav-i wadi-yi sadq-o-safa), the comprehender of mysteries, the knower of principles, the expert in good conduct and veritable symbol of dedication (ramz-shinas qaʿida-dan adab-guzin ʿaqidat-nishan), my prosperous son Tej Bhan—may you always achieve your goals and be insulated from the calamities of this world, your knowledge continue to grow and your mind remain ever perceptive, with the Beloved of Meaning (shahid-i maʿni) in your gaze, a fruitful pen in your grasp, and the tablet of faithfulness (lauh-i ʿaqidat) forever in front of you!

May God the beneficent and magnificent (Ar: izad mannan jalla shanuhu) design and fashion my accomplished son’s robes of talent and ability, and garments of courage and fortitude, with the brocade of civility (husn-i suluk), good manners (maʿash-i nek), thoughts of the hereafter (fikr-i maʿad), submission (taslim), acquiescence (riza), piety (zuhd), temperance (parhez), a desire to please the incomparable Creator (husul-i riza-yi khaliq-i bi-chun), benevolence toward all creatures (imdad-i khala’iq), performance of good deeds (zuhur-i umur-i khair), kindness and commitment to meritorious actions (ihsan wa sudur-i afʿal-i hasana), and engagement in agreeable activities (wuquʿ-i aʿmal-i pasandida).

Following on these salutations born of my everlasting affection and attachment to you, may it be noted by your mind that is always receptive to good counsel that: even though it is by dint of Divine wisdom and power that everyone [in this world]—whether ignoble or noble, wise or ignorant—enjoys the favor and bounty of blessings from the Divine table, [p. 172] nevertheless many people think that whatever has been distributed [to them] from the factory of Divine generosity was purchased with worldly funds, and they become proud (mufakharat minumayad). Still, because we are dealing here with the material world of causes and effects (ʿalam-i asbab), no one can entirely relinquish or dispense with the need to associate and coexist with others, despite our different manners and temperaments. At every step, managing one’s relationships with others is essential (martaba ba martaba yeki ra ba digari tasalli wa intizami ast). Given this reality, it is important that in accordance with our relationship this supplicant—that is, the father of that prosperous, dedicated, and good-natured son—does not refrain from giving you some essential advice (lawazim-i nasihat).

I. LIFE IS FLEETING, MAKE THE MOST OF IT

It is important that my dear son everywhere and at all times—whether sleeping or awake, whether oblivious or alert—should maintain his hold on proper reason (ʿaql-i durust), [and] not be led astray by the seductive charms of this material world [which are like] a beautifully ornamented bride. Having glimpsed the nonexistent phenomenal nature (namud-i bi-bud) of this ephemeral waystation, he should consider the visible splendor [of the material world] to be nothing but a dream and an illusion, and understand that whatever comes into existence in this world of forms (ʿalam-i surat) will inevitably don the robes of nonexistence and [the] apparel of annihilation (tashrif-i ʿadam wa kiswat-i fana). Whoever takes up residence in this fleeting unstable house, moreover, will of course eventually hasten off toward the eternal world (mulk-i jawidani).

My son should therefore understand the chance to tarry for a brief while in this perishable world as a prized opportunity, and spend his fleeting life on something—something productive. The precious times that have already passed by will not come again, and there can be no guarantees for the future; so he should not piddle away his life on trifles.

In earlier times, when this supplicant was himself a young man, I considered any intrusion on my precious time to be an annoyance tantamount to a crime. My esteemed father, out of an abundance of kindness and natural affection, shared with me certain counsels, admonitions, and advice (mawaʿiz wa pand wa nasihati-yi chand). And from among them all, whichever I was willing to heed have benefited me greatly even to this day. But whatever I rejected, whether out of ignorance or immaturity, I have now come to regret. The effect is like a hangover—the realization that although the advice of one’s elders may be bitter, it is the bitterness of medicine for one sick with the maladies of ignorance, and a salve meant to prevent the injuries of one’s foolish days. Thus, whatever you can do to hasten the improvement of your character, the better it will be for you in the long run.

II. ENGAGE WITH THE WORLD WITHOUT BECOMING TOO ATTACHED TO IT

Although the acquisition of knowledge is a gift from God (agar chi kasb-i ‘ulum ni‘mat-i khuda-dad ast), and the effort to attain it is a sign of good fortune, nevertheless: knowledge without action (‘ilm-i bi ʿamal) is like a fruitless branch. Even a little bit of practical knowledge is better than a surplus of purely theoretical knowledge (‘ilm-i qalil ba ʿamal bihtar az ‘ilm-i kasir bi-ʿamal), [p. 173] even if the real purpose of action and ultimate goal of true knowledge is that, having abandoned all formal attachments and obligations (taʿalluqat wa ʿawariz-i surat) one strives toward the Real [that is, Divine] goal (matlab-i asli). In keeping one’s focus on the True Creator (afridar [afridgar?]-i haqiqi), one should never lose sight of the illusory nature of the phenomenal world of His creation (namud-i bi-bud-i afrinash). And, having gotten hold of the products of this precious life—which represent the very definition of ‘knowledge put into practice’—one should brush aside the dust of attachments from the folds of one’s garment (ghubar-i ʿala’iq ra az gosha-yi daman bayad afshanad).

Still, insofar as the chains of His Creation are inevitably tangled up in the world of material causes and connections (asbab-i taʿalluq), from which it is beyond the power of men to fully escape and liberate [themselves], under the circumstances the most agreeable principles are:

i. to keep one’s hands busy with work, and one’s heart busy with the Friend [that, is God];

ii. even in the midst of the panoply [of worldly life], to keep one’s eye on the splendor of [Divine] Unity;

iii. and, from the beginning of one’s existence until one’s very last act, never to become oblivious [that is, to these higher truths].

Of course, without consulting with good people, and without self-regulation and the safeguarding of one’s own character, these things are not easy. Thus one has to work hard and put forth a full effort in order to acquire the means of good fortune.

III. SEEK WISDOM AND BALANCE, AND AGAIN, AVOID ATTACHMENTS

In my own youth and adolescence, while this wanderer in the wasteland of obliviousness (rah-naward-i badiya-yi ghaflat) was still enthralled by the impulse toward free-spiritedness (hawa-yi azadi), the situation reached such a point and got so extreme that my long nights of wakefulness, brooding, deep thoughts, and grand imaginings would extend into the next day, and days engrossed in lengthy and profound contemplation would merge into night. At times I would impetuously leave the city and set out for the wilderness, only to return some time later in a state of total discombobulation (sar-asima). Neither in the city nor in the wilderness did I find any quietude. If the scent of a rose reached my nose, it was like a message of madness (payam-i junun). If the trill of a nightingale reached my ears, it was like a nail clawing at my heart. So everywhere that I came across some sign or evidence of the presence of hermits, ascetics, or darweshes who had mastered a [spiritual] path, my feet would begin heading toward that place without my mind even realizing it, and I would gaze upon it from a distance. If invited, I would spread out along the edges of the gathering, but otherwise I was content to continue observing from afar, and at such times managed to gain a measure of tranquility.

Notwithstanding the many kinds of differences and disagreements (takhaluf wa tabayun) in the ways and manners of the people of this world, I have managed, by maintaining my commitment to my sacred thread, good speech, and good conduct, to set aside my ego in all circumstances. Of course, [it] would be incumbent upon a man of truly lofty nature that, having completely filtered out corruption from himself he should remain unpolluted by attachments, recognize that worldly attachments and diversions such as a wife and family are merely the results of God’s sympathetic kindness, and avoid getting ensnared by worry and care for such things altogether. But, if such an attitude is unattainable due to one’s youthful personality [p. 174] and other character defects, and has to be deferred to a particular time later on, [in the meantime] the proper thing is that one never stray from a balanced path (tariq-i iʿtidal). That is, one should strive to cultivate a sense of detachment even though existing right in the midst of worldly attachments (dar ʿain-i taʿalluq buda ba bi-taʿalluqi dar sazad), and never let go of one’s commitment to civility and proper conduct (husn-i suluk wa maʿash-i nek). With generous effort you should dedicate yourself to the taming of hearts, helping other people’s hopes and wishes come to fruition, and being useful to the eminent people of the world—for it is only laudable to accept the necessity of worldly attachments when it is for the sake of bringing benefit to others, not when it is for the sake of satisfying one’s own material desires.

This faqir’s father, who was your own grandfather, although in outward appearance he seemed like a man of worldly attachments, always considered himself singular among people of the material world when it came to the esoteric world of his inner self. He always had this hemistich on the tip of his tongue:

To be pure is far better than to be corrupted.

Later on when, thanks to my good fate and fortune this insignificant speck had the honor of joining the eternal imperial court and enjoying the society of famous great men, he constantly stressed the advice (nasihat) to me that I should stay alert as I embarked upon my career, and recited this couplet from Shaikh Saʿdi, God have mercy on him:

Who told you to throw yourself into the River Jaihun?

Now that you’ve jumped, you better start to swim!10

He constantly displayed a level of kindness (neki), good-naturedness (nek-zati), generosity (khair), good conduct (sawab), charity (imdad), community service (iʿanat-i khala’iq), the finest principles (a’in-i nishast-o-bar-khast), an agreeable manner (suluk-i pasandida), and excellent conduct (tarz-i guzida), always maintaining the decorum expected in the company of great men (pas-i shara’it-i suhbat-i buzurgan), as well as the culture (adab), humility (tawazuʿ), resilience (tahammul), fortitude (burdbari), scruples (ta’ammul), thoughtfulness (tafakkur), attentiveness to his work (ghaur dar karha), a penchant for being affectionate with friends and for employing the norms of civility among enemies (taqdim-i marasim-i muhabbat ba dostan wa tamhid-i qawaʿid-i sulh ba dushmanan), responding to evil with kindness, trying to be better than the bad and even the good, and other good and excellent qualities (wa digar muhsinat wa khubi-ha). By the grace of God and by paying attention to the inner life/self of that veritable qibla for a man like me striving to please his father (ba ‘inayat-i ilahi wa tawajjuh-i batin-i an qibla-gahi-yi in riza-juy-i pidar), I treated his advice and admonitions like an instruction manual for my world (dastur al-ʿamal-i rozgar-i khẉud), and endeavored to live in that very same way.

You too, my son, should endeavor to follow this path even earlier than I did, and in so doing make your grandfather proud of your good character and your father [p. 175] pleased with your success!

IV. STUDY HISTORY, ETHICS, AND OTHER PRACTICAL DISCIPLINES

Because it is important early on to cultivate the norms that are expected in civilized company (shara’it [ki] dar tahzib-i akhlaq matlub ast), it is essential that you be attentive to the words of the elders and act accordingly. Having devoted the wealth of your time to studying [texts like] Akhlaq-i Nasiri, Akhlaq-i Jalali, Akhlaq-i Muhsini, the Gulistan, and the Bustan, never forget for even a moment that the real benefit comes from knowledge combined with action. Although the principal aim in terms of abilities that you obviously [ought to cultivate] is a certain tightness of diction and weightiness of expression, it’s also true that excellent penmanship has a value of its own, by means of which you might find a place in the assemblies of great men. My dear son should strive to achieve mastery (fa’iq) in both disciplines [that is, prose and penmanship], and furthermore if he can master not only literacy but also accounting, then it will be so much the better—for one does not often come across munshis who are equally knowledgeable in accounting, making such men scarce; indeed, a person who is able to combine mastery of both is a rare commodity, a “light upon light” (nur ʿala nur).

A good munshi must also be able to keep secrets, and nothing is more important for an imperial scribe than a virtuous character. Although in this humble servant’s capacity as a munshi at the court of the imperial caliphate there has been plenty of opportunity to give in to the basic human impulse toward indiscretion, when it comes to the keeping of secrets I have been like the proverbial flower bud, which, though it may have a hundred tongues [that is, petals], keeps its mouth shut tight. I have never conveyed even a single word from one situation to another, nor under any circumstances have I discussed one person’s secrets with anyone else. Whatever I have heard, and wherever I heard it, I forgot it right then and there.

In my experiences among the ranks of scribes and different classes of men (dar maratib-i nawisandagi wa rujuʿ-i khala’iq), by maintaining the best of intentions and never ever letting go of my commitment to civility and good character, I have always been able to act in accordance with my father’s advice. I trust, then, that my fortunate son will make a priority of displaying such good manners and distinguished comportment—that whatever work comes your way will be accomplished without another’s influence [that is, that you won’t have corrupt intentions], and that, considering it your own good fortune to spend time on it you will strive to accomplish others’ objectives as if they were your own. You will find that even in this debased material world there is no task that can’t be accomplished, and no goal that can’t be reached. Thus, the best thing is to have accomplished such things selflessly, with the benefit accruing only to the world around you.

Along the same lines, you must understand the absolute necessity of avoiding engaging in any venture/enterprise that could be considered sinful. This supplicant, in all my years of serving great men and [p. 176] associating with the friends of the times (ʿazizan-i rozgar) [that is, mystics], never once has the thought of committing evil acts even crossed my mind. Having followed the path of civility (tariq-i mudara) with friend and foe alike, I have spent [my life] in perfect sincerity. My son, too, should endeavor never to stray from the path of good deeds and the way of harmony (tariq-i sawab wa jada-yi iʿtidal).11

V. MASTER THE LITERARY CANON

It will of course already be known to my son, who has an appreciation for literature, that although the Persian canon (ʿilm-i farsi) contains a vast wealth that is beyond the scope of any individual to comprehend, nevertheless, by way of an introduction to literature one may begin by studying a selection of exemplary books like Gulistan, Bustan, and the letters (ruqʿat) of Mulla Jami from among all the essential works. When you have acquired a bit of expertise, reading treatises on ethics and politics (akhlaq) such as Akhlaq-i Nasiri and Akhlaq-i Jalali, and studying histories of the past (tawarikh-i salaf) such as Habib al-Siyar, Rauzat al-Safa, Rauzat al-Salatin, Tarikh-i Guzida, Tarikh-i Tabari, Zafar Nama, and the like is even more imperative. Such works will not only give you exemplary models of fine writing (matanat-i sukhan), you will also learn about the circumstances of the world and its people [in other times and places]. This will come in very handy in learned assemblies and salons (majalis wa mahafil) [and by extension, in the world of courtly politics].

I should also append to this letter some of the names of that elite class/canon of literary masters whose diwans and masnawis this supplicant studied in his youth, so that my dear son, whenever he has the time and opportunity, might also study the works of these great writers. It will be a blessing, giving you a leisurely diversion as well as improving your own writing ability, and give you an entrée into the world of literature. For instance: Hakim Sana’i [Ghaznavi], Mulla Rum, Shams Tabriz, Shaikh Farid al-Din ʿAttar, Shaikh Saʿdi, Khwaja Hafiz, Shaikh Auhadi Kirmani, Mulla Jami, as well as other world-renowned poets, stylists, and eloquent men like Maulana Rudaki, the title-page of poets of the world, and others like Hakim Qatran, ʿAsjadi, ‘Unsuri, Firdausi, Farrukhi, Ra’iji, Nasir-i Khusrau, Jamal al-Din ʿAbd al-Razzaq, Kamal Ismaʿil, Khaqani, Anwari, Amir Khusrau, Hasan Dihlawi, Mulla Jamali Dihlawi, Zahir Faryabi, Kamal Khujandi, ʿAruzi Samarqandi, ʿAmiq Bukhari, ʿAbd al-Wasiʿ Jabilli, Fakhr al-Din Bandi, Rukn Raza’i bin Majd Hamgar, [p. 177] Abu al-Mafakhir Razi, Masʿud Saʿd Salman, Masʿud Bak, Farid al-Din Ahwal, Usman Mukhtari, Nasir Bukhari, Ibn Yamin, Hakim Suzani, Farid Katib, Abu al-ʿAli Ganja’i, Azraqi, Falaki, Sauda’i, Baba Fighani, Khwaju-yi Kirmani, Asafi, Mulla Sana’i, Mulla ‘Imad Maʿani, Khwaja ‘Ubaid Zakani, Bisati, Lutf Allah Halwa’i, Rashid Watwat, Asir Akhsikati, and Asir Umani.

It will of course be obvious to my kind son’s advice-accepting intellect that once he has finished the early phase of completely mastering the works of the ancients (mutaqaddimin), his natural literary inclinations will lead him to the works of the moderns (sukhanan-i muta’akhkhirin). And, having begun to assemble a collection of diwans and masnawis, in the course of time you will acquire a great many books, but after you are finished studying them you can give them to your students. From among all the many great names, some of the [modern] literary masters are Ahli, Hilaki [Hilali?], Muhtasham, Wahshi, Qazi Nur, Nargisi, Qumi, Umidi, Mirza Qasim Gunahabadi, Mulla Zamani, Partawi, Hairani, Jahi, Sarfi, Zamiri, Rashki, Nishani, Malaki, Khairi, ʿAjzi, Suri, Taufi, Ismi, Saqa’i, Fasihi, Mahwi, Fardi, Sharmi Qandahari, Jaʿfri, Hazrat Ilahi, Daraki, Huzuri, Dairi, Farqi, Sururi, Ghururi, Karami, Mulla Kafi, Naziri [Nazri?], Zauqi, Wahidi, Sirri, Fikri, Rabbani, ʿArshi, Ada’i, Laʿli, Shukohi, Raunaqi, ʿAnbari, Lel, ‘Izzati, ‘Urfi, Faizi, Shakebi, Jahani, Nazari, Nauʿi, Nazim, Yaghma, Mir Haidar, Mir Maʿsum, Nazar Mashhadi, Ummi, Dasht, Bayazi, Ghiyasa Naqshbandi, Mo’min, Husain, Ru’i, Nadim, Mulla Murshid, Ghiyasa Halwa’i, Mirza Nizam, and various other master poets and literati (arbab-i sukhan wa ahl-i tabʿ) who have authored diwans and masnawis. There is simply no space to give a complete list of all of their names in such a brief letter.

NOTES

1. The letter has been partially translated in Muzaffar Alam, “The Culture and Politics of Persian in Precolonial Hindustan,” in Literary Cultures in History: Reconstructions from South Asia, ed. Sheldon Pollock (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003), 131–98; and Muzaffar Alam and Sanjay Subrahmanyam, “The Making of a Munshi,” Comparative Studies in South Asia, Africa, and the Middle East 24, no. 2 (2004): 61–72. The version included here will, however, be the first full translation of the text. I am grateful to Muzaffar Alam for reading over the Persian text with me and helping decipher some of Chandar Bhan’s more recondite turns of phrase. But all errors and infelicities are, of course, mine, and mine alone.

2. For extended details on Chandar Bhan’s biography and cultural and political milieu, see Rajeev Kinra, Writing Self, Writing Empire: Chandar Bhan Brahman and the Cultural World of the Indo-Persian State Secretary (Oakland: University of California Press, 2015), from which some of the details below are also adapted.

3. For an overview of Afzal Khan’s (a.k.a. Shukr Allah Shirazi’s) life and career, see Rajeev Kinra, “The Learned Ideal of the Mughal Wazīr: The Life and Intellectual World of Prime Minister Afzal Khan Shirazi (d. 1639),” in Secretaries and Statecraft in the Early Modern World, ed. Paul M. Dover (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2016), 177–205; and Corinne Lefèvre, “Messianism, Rationalism, and Inter-Asian Connections: The Majalis-i Jahangiri (1608–11) and the Socio-Intellectual History of the Mughal ‘Ulama,” Indian Economic and Social History Review 54, no. 3 (2017): 317–38.

4. The scholarly literature on these and other texts in the genre, many of which have been ably translated into English, is far too extensive to list here. But for an overview of their specific reception in India and influence on Mughal culture and politics, see Muzaffar Alam, “Akhlaqi Norms and Mughal Governance,” in The Making of Indo-Persian Culture: Indian and French Studies, ed. Muzaffar Alam, Francoise “Nalini” Delvoye, and Marc Gaborieau (New Delhi: Manohar, Centre de Sciences Humaines, 2000), 67–95; Muzaffar Alam, The Languages of Political Islam in India, c. 1200–1800 (Delhi: Permanent Black, 2004), 26–80.

5. Compare with Kinra, Writing Self, Writing Empire, 6, 60–94.

6. For a lengthier attempt to display the style and substance of such rhythmic prose in Chandar Bhan’s work, see Kinra, Writing Self, Writing Empire, 102–106.

7. A. J. Arberry, Sufism: An Account of the Mystics of Islam (London: George Allen & Unwin, 1950), 18.

8. For details on the history, culture, and poetics of the taza-gu’i movement, see for instance Paul Losensky, Welcoming Fighānī: Imitation and Poetic Individuality in the Safavid-Mughal Ghazal (Costa Mesa, CA: Mazda, 1998); Rajeev Kinra, “Make It Fresh: Time, Tradition, and Indo-Persian Literary Modernity,” in Time, History, and the Religious Imaginary in South Asia, ed. Anne C. Murphy (London: Routledge, 2011), 12–39; and Kinra, Writing Self, Writing Empire, 201–39.

9. nur-i dida-yi ramad-rasida: literally, “who brightens my eyes that have become afflicted with opthalmia (ramad),” a kind of inflammation or conjunctivitis.

10. Muslih al-Din Saʿdi Shirazi, Bahar-i Bustan: Sharh-i Urdu, Bustan [Springtime of the Orchard: An Urdu Commentary on the Bustan, with the Persian text], Maulana Fazlurrahman ed. (Deoband: Dar al-Kitab, 2000), 401.

11. Although the version of this letter used here, which appears in the modern printed edition of Chandar Bhan’s Chahar Chaman (ed. S. M. Yunus Jaʿfri [New Delhi: Centre of Persian Research, Office of the Cultural Counsellor, Islamic Republic of Iran, distributed by Alhoda, 2007], 171–77) continues after this point, the version that appears in the printed edition of Chandar Bhan’s collected letters actually ends here (see Munsha’at-i Brahman, ed. S. H. Qasemi and Waqarul Hasan Siddiqi [Rampur: Raza Library, 2005], 95–101).