The Age of Wrath: A History of the Delhi Sultanate (13 page)

On the whole Balban had very substantial achievements to his credit. And, though he was utterly ruthless in enforcing his will, he was never rash or capricious, but deliberate in all that he said and did, and always in perfect self-control. By the end of his reign security and order by and large prevailed in the sultanate, in so far as they could prevail anywhere in India in the thirteenth century.

Then tragedy struck.

In 1285, Balban’s eldest and favourite son, Muhammad, the heir apparent—whom ‘his father loved … dearer than his own life,’ according to Barani—was killed in Multan in a battle against Mongols. Balban was devastated by the tragedy, although he maintained a façade of imperturbable composure in public. ‘The sultan was now more than eighty years old, and though he struggled hard against the effects of his bereavement, day by day they became more apparent,’ notes Barani. ‘By day he held his court, and entered into public business as if to show that his loss had not affected him; but at night he poured forth his cries of grief, tore his garments, and threw dust upon his head … The reign of Balban now drew to a close, and he gradually sank under his sorrow.’

The death of Muhammad was not just a personal loss for the sultan, but an irreparable loss for the dynasty, for Muhammad was a highly cultured, earnest and able prince. ‘The court of the young prince,’ reports Barani, ‘was frequented by the most learned, excellent and accomplished men of the time … [Poets] Amir Khusrav and Amir Hasan served at his court … [They were richly rewarded by the prince, and they used to say that] they had very rarely seen a prince so excellent and virtuous … [as Muhammad]. At his entertainments they never heard him indulge in foolish or dirty talk, whether wine was drunk or not; if he drank wine, he did so in moderation, so as not to become intoxicated and senseless.’

In 1287, two years after Muhammad’s death, Balban himself died. The major concern of Balban in his last days was to decide on who should succeed him. His initial choice was Bughra Khan, his second son. Balban summoned him from Lakhnawati, and said to him: ‘Grief for your bother has brought me to my deathbed, and who knows how soon my end may come? This is no time for you be absent, for I have no other son to take my place. [My grandsons] Kaikhusrav (son of Muhammad) and Kaiqubad (son of Bughra Khan) … are young, and have not experienced the heat and cold of fortune. Youthful passions and indulgence would make them unfit to govern my kingdom, if it should descend to them. The realm of Delhi would again become a child’s toy, as it was under the successors of Iltutmish … Think over this. Do not leave my side. Cast away all desire of going to Lakhnawati.’

Bughra Khan did not heed the advice. He was, comments Barani, ‘a heedless prince,’ who did not care for the throne of Delhi with all its onerous responsibilities and endless problems, and yearned for a life of ease in Lakhnawati. So after a couple of months in Delhi, when Balban’s health improved a little, he returned to Lakhnawati ‘without leave from his father.’ Balban then summoned some of his intimate nobles and told them to raise Kaikhusrav to the throne. ‘He is young and incapable of ruling as yet, but what can I do?’ Balban lamented. Three days later the sultan died.

On his death the nobles wilfully set aside Balban’s choice and raised Kaiqubad to the throne, and there followed several years of chaos in the Sultanate. ‘From the day that Balban, the father of his people, died, all security of life and property was lost, and no one had any confidence in the stability of the kingdom,’ comments Barani.

Kaiqubad was seventeen or eighteen years old at this time. According to Barani, the prince ‘was a young man of many excellent qualities. He was of an equable temper, kind in disposition and very handsome. But he was fond of pleasure and sensual gratifications. From his childhood till the day he came to the throne, he had been brought up under the eye of the sultan, his grandfather. Such strict tutors had been placed over him that he never had
the idea of indulging in any pleasure, or the opportunity for gratifying any lust. His tutors … watched him so carefully that he never cast his eyes on any fair damsel, and never tasted a cup of wine. Night and day his austere guardians watched over him. Teachers instructed him in the polite arts and manly exercises, and he was never allowed to do any unseemly act, or to utter any improper speech. When, all at once, and without previous expectation, he was elevated to such a mighty throne … all that he had read, heard and learned, he immediately forgot; his lessons of wisdom and self-restraint were thrown aside, and he plunged at once into pleasure and dissipation of every kind … His ministers likewise, and the young nobles of his court, his companions and friends, all gave themselves up to pleasure. The example spread, and all ranks, high and low, learned and unlearned, acquired a taste for wine drinking and amusements … Night and day the sultan gave himself entirely to dissipation and enjoyment.’ Vice and immorality became widespread. Mosques were empty of worshippers, but wine shops flourished. Adds Ferishta: ‘There were ladies of pleasure everywhere, and every street rang with music and mirth.’

IN THAT CHAOTIC environment, Nizam-ud-din, the able, crafty and ambitious nephew and son-in-law of the kotwal of Delhi, assumed the supreme power in the empire as Naib-i-mulk, deputy ruler of the sultanate. ‘The government of the country was in his hands,’ observes Barani. Nizam-ud-din filled all the key positions in the government with his own men, eliminated many of the rival nobles, executing or imprisoning them, and even had the prince Kaikhusrav murdered. And he encouraged Kaiqubad to sink ever deeper into debauchery, presumably hoping that this would eventually enable him to seize the throne.

These developments in Delhi troubled even the easygoing Bughra Khan, who now ruled as the sultan of Bengal. He wrote to Kaiqubad to mend his ways, and, getting no satisfactory response, set out with his army to confront his son. And Kaiqubad too set out with his army to meet his father. In a while both armies, advancing from opposite directions, came face to face with each other, and camped on the opposite banks of Gogra (Sarayu), a tributary of Ganga at the frontier of the two kingdoms. Fortunately there was no clash between the two armies, quite probably because of the indulgent nature of Bughra Khan, whose objective in any case was not to subjugate or overthrow his son, but to induce him to be assertive and strong as a ruler. It was then decided that father and son should meet to resolve matters. There was however some squabble between the two camps about protocol, whether the sultan of Delhi should go to meet the sultan of Bengal, or whether the sultan of Bengal should go to meet the sultan of Delhi. But eventually Bughra Khan, affable as
ever, crossed the river (at a time fixed by astrologers as auspicious) and went to Kaiqubad’s camp

Kaiqubad received his father with regal pomp, in court, sitting on the throne and attended by arrayed nobles. Approaching the throne, Bughra Khan, as Barani describes the scene, ‘bowed his head to the earth, and three times kissed the ground, as required by the ceremonial of the Delhi court.’ But the sight of his father prostrating before him so overwhelmed Kaiqubad with emotion that he flung aside all formalities, and, ‘descending from the throne, cast himself at his father’s feet … Father and son then burst into tears and embraced each other … and the sultan rubbed his eyes upon his father’s feet. This sight drew tears also from the eyes of the beholders too. The father then took his son’s hand and led him to the throne, intending himself to stand before it for a while; but the sultan got down, and conducting his father to the throne, seated him there on his right side. Then, getting down, he bent his knees, and sat respectfully before him … Afterwards they had some conversation together in private. And then Bughra Khan retired across the river to his own camp.’

Would the father’s advice be heeded by the son? Bughra Khan was sceptical. Returning to his camp he commented: ‘I have said farewell to my son and to the kingdom of Delhi, for I know full well that neither my son nor the throne of Delhi will long exist.’

That presentiment came true. The gist of Bughra Khan’s advice to his son was to mend his easy-going ways, get rid of Nizam-ud-din, and take charge of the government. Returning to Delhi, Kaiqubad did indeed for a while heed his father’s advice; he transferred Nizam-ud-din to Multan, and, when he hesitated to leave, had him poisoned. But the change of his ways did not last long. In an engaging story told by Barani, one day ‘a lovely girl met him on the road, and addressed some lines of poetry to him … The sultan was overpowered by her charms … [He] called for wine, and, drinking it in her presence, himself recited some verses, to which she in turn replied in verse.’

The incident signalled Kaiqubad’s reversion to his old self-indulgent ways; indeed, he now immersed himself deeper in debauchery, to make up for the lost days of pleasure. He thereafter paid no attention at all to the affairs of the state. That created a power vacuum in Delhi, and presently the empire swirled into total chaos. ‘What little order had been maintained in the government was now entirely lost,’ comments Barani. ‘The affairs of the court now fell into the greatest confusion.’

Kaiqubad himself came to a wretched end. He was now struck by paralysis, and was confined to bed, barely alive. The nobles then placed his three-year-old son, Kayumars, on the throne, and set up a regency council to administer the empire. But there were divisions and deadly rivalries among the nobles,
and the contending cabals plotted against each other, and drew up black lists, planning to eliminate their opponents.

Out of this churning chaos, a new leader rose to the top, Malik Jalal-ud-din Khalji, the commander of the army. As the political chaos in Delhi became worse confounded, Khalji, who was stationed in a suburb of Delhi, sent his sons in a daring foray into the city, and had the infant sultan seized and brought to his camp. ‘The sons of Jalal-ud-din, who were all audacious fellows, went publicly at the head of 500 horse to the royal palace, seized the infant sultan, and carried him off to their father,’ writes Barani. ‘This created great excitement in the city; the high and low, small and great, poured out of the twelve gates of the city, and took the road … to rescue the young prince.’ But the kotwal (whose sons were held as hostages by Jalal-ud-din) appeased them and persuaded them to return to the city.

Jalal-ud-din then assumed the office of Naib, and ruled the kingdom in the name of Kaiqubad. This charade went on for three months. Then one day Jalal-ud-din sent one of his officers and had Kaiqubad murdered. ‘This man … found the sultan lying at his last gasp in the room of mirrors,’ records Barani. ‘He despatched him with two or three kicks, and threw his body into Yamuna.’

It was a sordid end to a sordid life. Nothing is known about what happened to the infant sultan. Jalal-ud-din then formally ascended the throne. And with that began a new epoch in the history of the Delhi Sultanate.

Jalal-ud-din Khalji ascended the throne in mid-June 1290. His coronation was held in Kilughari, a suburb of Delhi, not in the city, for he thought it would be imprudent for him to enter the city then, as the dominant Turkish population of Delhi was hostile to him, considering him to be an Afghan usurper, not a Turk. The people of Delhi, observes Barani, ‘hated Khalji maliks … [They] had been for eighty years governed by sovereigns of Turkish extraction and were averse to the succession of Khaljis … They said that no Khalji had ever been a king, and that the race had no right or title to [the throne of] Delhi.’ Though Islam does not discriminate against people on the basis of their race, Muslim communities often did show such prejudices.

The prejudice of Turks was however misplaced in this case, for Khaljis were actually ethnic Turks. But they had settled in Afghanistan long before the Turkish rule was established there, and had over the centuries adopted Afghan customs and practices, intermarried with the local people, and were therefore looked down on as non-Turks by pure-bred Turks.

This snobbish aversion of the old Turkish nobility in Delhi for Khaljis did not however last long. Presently, as was to be expected, the nobles generally acquiesced to Jalal-ud-din’s accession and flocked to him, their material interests overriding their tribal prejudice. Besides, as Barani comments, ‘the excellence of Jalal-ud-din’s character, his justice, generosity, and devotion, gradually removed the aversion of the people.’

Jalal-ud-din nevertheless decided not to take up his residence in Delhi, presumably to avoid rousing the antagonism of the people there, and also because he felt that it would be presumptuous for him to sit on the throne of Balban, his former lord. So he completed the palace complex and gardens left
unfinished by Kaiqubad at Kilughari, and took up his residence there. The princes and the nobles too then built their bungalows there, and soon several bazaars also came up there. ‘In three or four years houses sprang up on every side, and the markets became fully supplied,’ reports Barani. The suburb then came to be known as Shahr-i-Nau, the New City.

Jalal-ud-din was in his seventies when he ascended the throne. His old age and long subservient service under the Delhi sultans made him rather unassertive as a monarch, and this was disappointing to his pugnacious clansmen and relatives, who wanted to flaunt their newly acquired power and status, and advance the interests of their clan. Typically, when Jalal-ud-din first entered Delhi as sultan and went to the Red Palace of Balban, he, instead of riding into the courtyard of the palace, as sultans did, respectfully dismounted at the gate. And on entering the palace he wept bitterly, thinking of the inconstancy of temporal fortunes, and remembering how he had on so many occasions stood before the great sultan in humility and awe, but how now a dreadful misfortune had fallen on the sultan’s family.

JALAL-UD-DIN’S ACCESSION TO the throne, instead of inflating his ego, instilled in him great humility. Though he, as the warden of the western marches, was reputed for his fierce martial spirit, now, as sultan in his old age, he turned out to be, in the eyes of his clansmen, disgustingly mild, more concerned with his afterlife than with his temporal life. Although Jalal-ud-din on his accession did favour his sons and several of his relatives and clansmen with appointments to important positions in the kingdom, that only fuelled their personal ambitions for even higher positions, and made them still more disgruntled with the sultan.

Jalal-ud-din’s ostentatious displays of humility were particularly embarrassing to Khalji nobles. He would not punish even those who sought to overthrow him. Thus when Malik Chhajju, a nephew of Balban and the governor of Kara in Uttar Pradesh, rebelled and advanced on Delhi with an army to claim the throne as his inheritance, but was defeated and brought in chains before the sultan, Jalal-ud-din was moved to tears on seeing the prince in bonds, and he not only released him but also entertained him with wine in his private chambers, even spoke appreciatively of the rebel’s loyalty to his uncle. And when one of the sultan’s nobles upbraided him saying that his conduct was ‘unseemly and injudicious,’ he said that he would rather relinquish the throne than ruin his afterlife by shedding the blood of fellow Muslims.

Similarly, when it was reported to Jalal-ud-din that a group of Turkish nobles in their cups were prattling about overthrowing and killing him—one of the nobles, notes Barani, ‘said that he would finish off the sultan with a hunting knife, and another drew his sword and said he would make mince-meat
of him’—his initial response was to dismiss the report, saying, ‘Men often drink too much and say foolish things; do not report drunken stories to me.’ But when these reports persisted, he one day summoned the tipplers to the court, flung down his sword before them and challenged, ‘Is there one among you who is man enough to take this sword and fight it out fairly with me?’ The abashed nobles then pleaded that their ‘drunken ravings’ should not be taken seriously. And the sultan, his eyes ‘filled with tears at these words,’ merely banished them from the court for a year. According to Barani, ‘Jalal-ud-din always treated his nobles, officers, and subjects with the greatest kindness and tenderness. He never visited their offences with blows, confinement, or other severity, but treated them as a parent treats his children.’

This leniency of the sultan extended even to thieves, whom he often released after taking from them an oath that they would never again steal. Similarly, when a large number of Thugs, a murderous robber band, were captured near Delhi, the sultan’s punishment for them was merely to transport them to Bengal and release them there!

ALL THIS DISGUSTED the Khalji nobles, and they, according to Barani, ‘whispered to each other that the sultan did not know how to rule, for instead of slaying the rebels he had made them his companions … He had none of the awesomeness and majesty of kings, … [nor the qualities of] princely expenditure and boundless liberality, [nor] the … severity, by which enemies are repulsed and rebels put down.’ In fact, one of his top nobles, Malik Ahmad Chap, the deputy lord chamberlain—whom Barani describes as ‘one of the wisest men of the day’—one day boldly told Jalal-ud-din all this to his face, and warned him that his indulgent conduct would kindle rebellions, for ‘punishments awarded by kings are warnings to men.’ The sultan listened patiently to the harangue, but in the end he said, ‘If I cannot reign without shedding the blood of Muslims, I would renounce the throne, for I cannot endure the wrath of god.’

This reluctance to shed the blood of fellow Muslims inhibited Jalal-ud-din even in his military campaigns. Thus when he invaded Ranthambhor in Rajasthan, and found that it would be difficult to capture the fort without a lot of bloodshed, he abandoned the campaign. And when Ahmad Chap chided him about it, he said: ‘I am an old man. I have reached the age of eighty years, and ought to prepare for my death. My only concern should be with matters that may be beneficial [to me] after my death.’

But whatever be Jalal-ud-din’s failings, no one could accuse him of cowardice or timidity, for he was a veteran of very many battles, particularly against fierce Mongols, and had won renown for his valour. Even his detractors, as Barani notes, conceded that Jalal-ud-din ‘was not wanting in
courage and warlike accomplishments.’ His disengagement from military pursuits as sultan was not because of cowardice, but because of his assessment of the state of the Sultanate, and of the values and conduct that were appropriate for him in his old age. According to Amir Khusrav, Jalal-ud-din believed that the Sultanate was not strong enough to assert itself decisively, and that therefore the best policy for the sultan would be to rule with tolerance and mildness.

There is only one recorded instance of Jalal-ud-din behaving tyrannically. This was in the case of Sidi Maula, a bizarre dervish who had, according to Barani, ‘peculiar notions about religion … He kept no servant or handmaid, and indulged in no passion. He took nothing from anyone, yet expended so much that people were amazed, and used to say that he dealt in magic.’ He built a grand hospice in Delhi where a large number of people were served, twice every day, ‘bounteous and various meals … as no khan or malik could furnish.’

The dervish was patronised by many of Delhi’s elite, including Khan Khanan, the sultan’s eldest son. But he had many enemies too, and they accused him of planning to assume the role of the Caliph. Jalal-ud-din, a hyper-orthodox Muslim, considered the dervish’s beliefs and practices as abominable, so one day he ordered him to be manacled and brought to him at the royal palace. The sultan then expostulated with him for a while, presumably hoping to induce him to change his ways. But that was of no avail. Jalal-ud-din then, out of sheer exasperation, cried out: ‘Oh … avenge me of this maula!’ Immediately the dervish was set on with a dagger by a bystander, and was then trampled to death by an elephant on the orders of Arkali Khan, a son of the sultan. This sacrilegious act, according to the chroniclers of the age, brought divine wrath on the city in the form of a devastating dust storm—‘a black storm arose which made the world dark,’ states Barani—which was in a while followed by a severe famine.

DESPITE HIS OLD age, and his generally pacifist attitude, the embers of his fiery old spirit still smouldered in Jalal-ud-din, and they did sometimes flare up. This it did especially when he had to deal with Mongols, his old adversaries. Thus when a vast horde of well over 100,000 Mongols entered India in 1292, he promptly marched out against them, defeated their advance force in a fierce encounter, imposed peace on them on his own terms, and forced their main army to retreat from India. The sultan also gained a religious objective in this encounter, by inducing a few thousand Mongols to become Muslims and settle in a suburb of Delhi, where they came to be known as New Muslims. The sultan even gave one of his daughters in marriage to a Mongol prince, Ulghu, a descendant of Chingiz Khan, who had become a Muslim.

There were a couple of other major military campaigns during the reign of Jalal-ud-din, but the sultan himself had little to do with them, for they were organised and led by his nephew, Ala-ud-din, the governor of Kara. In the first of these campaigns, towards the close of 1292, Ala-ud-din invaded Malwa and raided Bhilsa town. The campaign yielded a vast booty, which Ala-ud-din then dutifully presented to the sultan, and was in turn rewarded by the sultan by adding Oudh to his fief.

The success of his Malwa campaign whetted Ala-ud-din’s ambition. Soon he set out on a fresh campaign, to raid Devagiri, the capital city of the Yadava kingdom in Deccan, to which he was lured by the city’s reputation for fabulous wealth. Devagiri, according to Barani, ‘was exceedingly rich in gold and silver, jewels and pearls, and other valuables.’ Ala-ud-din had only a relatively small contingent with him on this campaign, a cavalry force of just three or four thousand and a couple of thousand infantrymen, but the sheer speed and energy of his attack offset that limitation—he stormed into Devagiri in a lightening swift move, overpowered its king, Ramachandra, and seized from him a vast booty, and then sped back to Kara.

This was the first incursion into peninsular India by a Sultanate army, but its purpose was not to conquer territory, but to gather plunder. And the campaign had, for Ala-ud-din, a secret personal motive also—to obtain funds to finance his plan to usurp the throne of Delhi. In this he was instigated by his officers in Kara, who were formerly, a few years earlier, associated with the rebellion of Malik Chhajju. These officers told Ala-ud-din that the indispensable prerequisite for the success of his usurpation plan was to acquire adequate funds, to recruit a strong army, and to induce desertions from the enemy camp. ‘Get plenty of money, and then it would be easy to conquer Delhi,’ they advised. Ala-ud-din therefore did not seek, as was conventionally required, the sultan’s permission for his Devagiri campaign, nor did he forward to the sultan the booty that he got there. The Devagiri campaign was the prelude to Ala-ud-din’s rebellion.

THESE ACTIONS OF Ala-ud-din roused the suspicion of the nobles in Delhi about his intentions, and they warned Jalal-ud-din about it. But the sultan gave no credence to those warnings, for Ala-ud-din was his nephew (brother’s son) and son-in-law, whom he had brought up from his childhood and had always treated as his own son. The sultan not only disregarded the warning of the nobles, but even upbraided them for their distrustful attitude. ‘The guileless heart of the sultan relied upon the fidelity of Ala-ud-din,’ notes Barani.

Meanwhile Ala-ud-din wrote to the sultan apologising for conducting the unauthorised campaign and promising to send all the booty to Delhi. And in Delhi, Ala-ud-din’s brother Almas Beg worked on the sentiments of the sultan
by telling him that Ala-ud-din was distraught with anxiety about the possible anger of the sultan, and was thinking of fleeing to Bengal, or even committing suicide. To reassure Ala-ud-din, the sultan then, on Almas Beg’s entreaty, set out to Kara by boat on the Ganga, escorted by a small cavalry force travelling along the river bank on the right side. When the party reached Kara, they found Ala-ud-din’s forces drawn up in battle array on the opposite bank, but this was explained by Almas Beg as the preparation to offer a formal, ceremonial reception to the sultan, and he persuaded him to go over to the riverbank where Ala-ud-din was waiting. The gullible sultan, now in his dotage, then crossed over to where Ala-ud-din stood, escorted by just a few royal attendants.

‘The sultan,’ writes Barani, ‘was so blinded by his destiny that although his own eyes saw the treachery, he would not return … [When the sultan disembarked, Ala-ud-din] advanced to receive him … When he reached the sultan he fell at his feet, and the sultan, treating him as a son, kissed his eyes and cheeks, stroked his beard, gave him two loving taps upon the cheek, and said, “I had brought thee up from infancy, why art thou afraid of me?” … The sultan then took Ala-ud-din’s hand, and at that moment the stony-hearted traitor gave the fatal signal … [and his officer assigned for the task] struck at the sultan with a sword. But the blow fell short and cut his own hand. He again struck and wounded the sultan, who then ran towards the river, crying, “Ah thou villain, Ala-ud din! What hast thou done!” … [Then another officer] ran after … [the sultan], threw him down, cut off his head, and bore it dripping with blood to Ala-ud-din.’ All the royal officers who had accompanied the sultan across the river were also then slain. ‘The venerable head of the sultan was then placed on a spear and paraded about … And while the head of the murdered sovereign was yet dripping with blood, the ferocious conspirators brought the royal canopy and elevated it over the head of Ala-ud din.’