A Political History of Literature

A Political History of
Literature
Vidyapati and the Fifteenth Century

Pankaj Jha

1
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Acknowledgements

T
he doctoral dissertation on which this book is based had been
long in the making. Part of the reason for this long gestation
was the need for a tolerable level of competence in several lan-
guages other than Hindi and English. I was very slow to acquire that.
It appears to be ages ago when I suggested somewhat hesitantly to
Sunil Kumar that I was thinking of working on Vidyapati. The excite-
ment with which he responded made it impossible for me to consider
any other topic of research. I was already teaching undergraduate
students in the University of Delhi at the time. Little did I know that it
would take me a few years and several trips to libraries in Darbhanga,
Patna, and even Delhi to collect all the published works of Vidyapati.
It took a further few years before I could get leaves sanctioned from
my college and focus solely on the project. Staying with a subject for
so long had its advantages inasmuch as it allowed me to think and
rethink through issues at length. It also allowed my ideas to brew over
time. I hope this shows in the book.
xiv Acknowledgements

I have had the fortune of being in the company of and learning

from Sunil Kumar for more than two decades now. He has been my
guide, mentor, philosopher, friend, and much more. Had it not been
for the faith that he put in me, I would probably have chosen a differ-
ent career. I have had the fortune of being taught by some of the most
competent and inspiring undergraduate teachers before I met him.
Yet, it was with his guidance that I started picking up the elementary
techniques of research. I do not have the words to express my grati-
tude for a relationship so enriching as this one.
All through these years, I also received help from numerous
colleagues, friends, relatives, and institutions. I do not think I can
remember them all. But those that I do, I would like to thank. First
of all, I record my gratitude to my debate adviser in high school, R.K.
Singh who introduced me to the joys of reading literature. History
was too boring for me at the time. When I landed up, by accident, in
the history honours programme for my bachelor’s at Ramjas College,
the discipline dramatically rose overnight in my esteem. Such was the
passion with which Sudhakar Singh taught it in the class. Among my
undergraduate teachers, I must also mention Dilip Simeon, whose
insistence that history was always political and mostly about the pres-
ent has stayed with me for good. The brilliant lucidity of Hari Sen’s
lectures in the classroom was a source of inspiration.
Fortunately, I got an opportunity to interact with some of the
leading scholars in the broad area of my research. Conversations,
formal and informal, with them have been a source of questions,
ideas, and inspiration. I would particularly like to thank Sanjay
Subrahmanyam, Muzaffar Alam, Whitney Cox, Sumit Guha, Daud
Ali, Katheryn Hansen, Francesca Orsini, Allison Busch, and Indrani
Chatterjee. Among younger scholars and friends, my research
has benefitted from conversations with Samira Sheikh, Ravikant,
Nilanjan Sarkar, Mayank Kumar, Anubhuti Maurya, and Anand
Vivek Taneja.
At Lady Shri Ram College, most of my colleagues were there to
help me in times of need. Each member in the Department of History
extended their unconditional support to me at all times. I must espe-
cially mention Meera Baijal, Vasudha Pande, and Nayana Dasgupta,
who have been a source of emotional as well as intellectual support.
I also formally note my appreciation for Lady Shri Ram College for
 Acknowledgements xv

granting me study leave for three years so that I could pursue the
PhD programme.
I spent nine months of the study leave at the University of Texas,
Austin. I must gratefully acknowledge that my stint at the University
of Texas was arranged for and financially supported by the Fulbright–
Nehru Doctoral Research Fellowship. I take this opportunity especially
to thank Sudarshan Dash and Pratibha Nair of the United States–India
Educational Foundation, New Delhi, for their help. Thanks are due
also to Zachary Alger of the Institute of International Education, New
York, for prompt help on all official issues related to the Fulbright
Fellowship during my stay in the USA.
Cynthia Talbot, my research adviser while I was at the University
of Texas, was extremely generous with her time, suggestions, and
encouragement. She brought very useful readings to my notice and
gave invaluable suggestions, especially regarding the way I needed to
organize the chapters in my thesis. I express my sincerest gratitude
to her.
While I was at the University of Texas, Edeltraud Harzer Clear very
kindly allowed me to sit in her Sanskrit classes for the entire semes-
ter. I owe my sincerest thanks to her. The staff at the Perry-Castañeda
Library, Austin, were invariably prompt in their help. I would particu-
larly like to thank Merry Burlingham, among others.
Gratitude is due also to the library staff of Sahitya Akademi and
Indian Council of Historical Research, New Delhi; K.P. Jayaswal
Research Institute and Khuda Baksh Library, Patna; and Lalit Narayan
Mithila University, Darbhanga.
Among friends, who always stood strongly by me, often in spite of
complete disinterest in the precise nature of my work, I must grate-
fully mention Anil, Baba, Sanjay, Anil Chapoliya aka Sethji, Suman,
Sunilji, Topi, and Vijay Singh. Recently, I have also discovered some
old friends in new avatars: Rakesh Niraj and Samita among them. My
housemate-turned-friend at Austin, Aniruddhan Vasudevan, was one
of my most precious finds during my stay in the USA.
Scholars of humanities do not work in laboratories. But for those
of us who teach in a university/college, our classrooms are no less
than the place where we test our ideas and pick up new ones, frame
arguments and hone them. I have had the good fortune of learning
from a whole generation of students at Lady Shri Ram College.
xvi Acknowledgements

My interactions with them have been a singularly enriching experience.

I register my gratitude to every student who ever shared an idea with
me in the class or asked a question.
My parental family has always been a great source of strength for
me. Baby, Ruby, Anmol, and Manoj have been resolute in their affec-
tions. My parents-in-law have never been less than indulgent towards
me. My stay away from my family for nine months would not have
been possible without their support. I express my gratitude to them
too. My parents are proud that their son earned a doctoral degree.
They are happy that I am publishing a book based on it. I know no
one’s satisfaction would be deeper on the mere publication of a book.
It is not possible to adequately acknowledge Sneh, my closest
friend, companion, spouse, critic, and fellow academic. It was on
her insistence that I applied for the Fulbright Fellowship. She took
the responsibility of looking after our two rambunctious kids for
nine months while I was at Austin. This book is also hers in part.
It is indebted to her in a thousand ways and more. I wouldn’t risk
belittling all that she has been to me by trying to thank her. My son,
Malhar, and my daughter, Tamanna, have been a delightful source of
distraction. They duly resented my unending homework. I earnestly
hope that my work was worthy also of the time that they rightfully
thought was theirs.
About the Author

Pankaj Jha is presently teaching at Lady Shri Ram College, New Delhi,
India. He is giving final touches to his English translation of a fifteenth-
century Sanskrit treatise on writing, entitled Likhanāvalī. He is also on
the editorial board of the international journal Indian Economic and
Social History Review. Earlier, Jha has taught at Ramjas College and
St. Stephen’s College, New Delhi.
Jha obtained his bachelor’s and master’s degrees in history from
Ramjas College, and his MPhil and PhD degrees from the University
of Delhi. Part of his doctoral work was done at University of Texas at
Austin, U.S.A, on a Fulbright–Nehru fellowship. The primary area
of his research interest is the literary cultures of the middle ages.
Languages he has worked with include Persian, Sanskrit, Maithili,
and Apabhraṃśa. He has published research articles extensively in
peer-reviewed journals, in Hindi as well as in English.
Preface

T
his book is a partially revised version of my PhD thesis sub-
mitted to the University of Delhi. My doctoral work had started
more than a decade ago with three counts of dissatisfaction
with the existing state of historiography in the field normally referred
to as ‘medieval India’. The first of these was the fact that the fif-
teenth century in north India was, with only the rare exception, a
barely addressed period. In fact, even these exceptions did not exist
at the time when I started thinking about the area of my research.
The second point of dissatisfaction issued from the fact that a major
chunk of the historiography of this period in North India appeared
to have become synonymous with Persian studies. The ‘mainstream’
histories of ‘medieval’ North India rarely bothered to consult the
large corpus of extant materials in Sanskrit, thus catering lazily to
the popular and hugely problematic equation of medieval = Persian =
Muslim = foreign. The third point had to do with the disappearance
of the regions falling in the present province of Bihar from ‘histories
xii Preface

of medieval India’. This absence was especially hurtful as I spent

the first seventeen years of my life in Jamshedpur, a part of the then
undivided Bihar. Under the circumstances, a close study of some of
Vidyapati’s works came in very handy, since he was a Sanskrit scholar
and poet of the fifteenth century, who spent most of his life in north
Bihar. Since the inception of my work, there has been some exciting
new work in the area, and I discuss some of it in the second chapter
of the book. This book, I hope, will add further force to the gathering
momentum.
At a time when we are exhorted 24 × 7 to understand politics as the
game played by those who occupy the offices of the state and those
who aspire to replace them, it is important to recover a slice of history
when intellectual ferment, dissemination of ideas, ethical regimes, and
cultivation of certain skills, such as those of documentation, seem to
have had substantive political consequence in the long term. While this
is probably true of all times, it is more starkly visible in a period during
which readymade histories and master-narratives of imperial forma-
tions were not produced. North India in the ‘long fifteenth century’ is a
case in point when we do have this unusual silence.
When I made the fateful journey from a humble Hindi-medium
school to Ramjas College, Delhi, it was a huge task to cope with the
heat, dust, English language, and cultural alienation in a metropolitan
city. Unfortunately, neither of the two factors that helped me survive
and grow in spite of the material hostilities has survived. It was the
‘leisurely’ pace of the annual system that allowed ‘slow-wits’ like me to
adjust to the demands of the academic rigours of University of Delhi.
Come 2010, and that leveller of the academic field was forced to give
way to a ruthless system of six-monthly examinations and continuous
assessment, with no space to make mistakes and learn on the go.
One of my first companions in the college campus, hardier and
more sincere than most of us, was Rakesh. His raw humility, desi
humour, extraordinary generosity, and candid affections steadied
many wayward souls like myself. He is no more. He would have taken
personal pride in this book. I dedicate it to his memory.

Pankaj Jha
September 2018
Delhi
Tables, Images, and Figure

Tables
1.1 Vidyapati’s Compositions with Their Language,
Script, Patrons, and Themes 7

3.1 Model Letters to Those with Higher Status 86

3.2 Model Letters to Those with Lower Status 88
3.3 Model Letters to Those with Equal Status 91
3.4 Model Records of Business Transactions and Affidavits 92

4.1 Tales about Different Kinds of Men in Puruṣaparīkṣā 137

4.2 Tales Illustrating Puruṣārtha or ‘The Prescribed Goals
of Men’s Life’ 139
x Tables, Images, and Figure

Images
1.1 Ugnā Mahādeva Temple at Bisfi 14
1.2a Vidyapati Memorial at Bisfi 14
1.2b A Bust of Vidyapati at Bisfi 15
1.3a The Śiva Temple at Vidyapati Dhāma 16
1.3b A Jewellery Shop in Vidyapati Dhāma 16
1.3c An Eatery in Vidyapati Dhāma 17

Figure
1.1 Oinivāra Dynasty Succession Chart 29
Notes on Transliteration

A
ll translations from Sanskrit, Apabhraṃśa, and Hindi are
mine, unless otherwise specified. In the case of Persian,
I have indicated in the footnotes where I have consulted the
original and where I am using translation(s) by others.
All non-English words have been italicized except those that occur
too frequently. I have not used diacritics for place-names that are
still in official or/and popular use. However, the older variants of the
same have been marked with diacritics. Thus, I refer to the village of
Vidyapati’s birth, which is still there in north Bihar, as Bisfi. However,
its old name is referred not as Bispi but as Bisapī.
All dates in the book are in the Common Era (ce) unless otherwise
specified.
For Persian words, no diacritics have been used, partly in order to
avoid possible confusion between the standard methods of transcrib-
ing Persian words into English and those for transcribing Sanskrit
words into English. Hence, while rendering the Persian words into
xviii Notes on Transliteration

English, only readability has been kept in mind, which often led me
to adopt the most commonly used spellings.
The transliteration scheme followed for Sanskrit, Apabhraṃśa,
Hindi, and Maithili words are given below:

अ a आ ā इ i ई ī
उ u ऊ ū ए e ऐ ai
ओ o औ au ऋ ṛi
क ka ख kha ग ga घ gha
ङ ṅ च ca छ cha ज ja
झ jha ञ ñ ट ṭa ठ ṭha
ड ḍa ढ ḍha ण ṇa त ta
थ tha द da ध dha न na
प pa फ pha ब ba भ bha
म ma य ya र ra व va
श śa ष ṣa स sa

anusvāra ṃ
visarga ḥ
Introduction

T
his book has been conceived as a political history of literature
in the fifteenth century. It is neither an exhaustive consider-
ation of all literature produced in that age in North India, nor
does it claim to be a treatment of a ‘representative’ sample of all such
compositions. Rather, I have focussed on three sharply different texts
of a prolific poet, Vidyapati, from an atypical region, Mithila. I have
tried to use the three texts under consideration to open up the wider
world of literature in the fifteenth century. Thus, I relate Vidyapati’s
compositions to the existing traditions of literary production of the
time, with a view to unearth the deeper histories that lay behind them.
Given the state of the relevant historiography, this was a huge meth-
odological challenge.
The book is organized in five chapters, which are unevenly divided
in two parts, preceded by a short introduction, and followed by a
conclusion. The conclusion ties up the points made by the different
chapters both at a general, methodological level, as well as in the

A Political History of Literature: Vidyapati and the Fifteenth Century. Pankaj Jha,
Oxford University Press (2019). © Pankaj Jha.
DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780199489558.001.0001
xx Introduction

specific context of the long fifteenth century, in a way that might con-
nect its details with certain larger questions of contemporary as well
as historical significance.
The first part of the book has two chapters: the first provides basic
information about Vidyapati, his compositions, and his immediate
geopolitical and intellectual milieu. The second chapter takes critical
stock of the more dominant and recent strands of historiography of
the ‘long’ fifteenth century. But it also uses this critical stock-taking
as a step towards (a) broadly mapping the literary cultures of the fif-
teenth century, and (b) thinking about issues of historical method,
historians’ possible engagements with literature, knowledge forma-
tions, and power, as a set of related themes. The second part of the
book has three chapters, each centred around, but not limited to,
one of the texts of Vidyapati, namely, Likhanāvalī, Puruṣaparīkṣā, and
Kīrttilatā, out of more than a dozen of his compositions available in
print whose authorship is not disputed. While I do refer to the poet’s
other compositions whenever the context requires me to, these are
not taken up for detailed exploration.
Before I move to the next section, let me put in an explanation
for why I treat Mithila as an ‘atypical’ region. The ‘region’ of Mithila
was atypical in two distinct ways. First, at a moment when a robust
system of long-distance trade had developed in most parts of the
subcontinent, Mithila lay on none of the major trade routes of the
time. Second, for related reasons, Mithila continued to survive as
either an independent chieftaincy or as a semi-autonomous princi-
pality of the three major sultanates of the long fifteenth century in
its neighbourhood: Delhi, Jaunpur, and Bengal. It was only in the
mid-sixteenth century that it emerged as an integral and separate
territorial unit of a major imperial power, namely, the Mughal state.
As such, it figures only marginally in the standard narratives of
the Delhi Sultanate or the other sultanates up to the first half of
the sixteenth century.

Why Vidyapati?
When I started researching the enormous corpus of literature
left behind by Vidyapati, all I knew was that I wanted to focus on
non-Persian textual productions of the fifteenth century. Medieval
 Introduction xxi

historiography has hitherto shown little patience with the fifteenth

century, and precious little interest in non-Persian ‘sources’. Vidyapati,
however, was doubly attractive because he was multilingual and lived
in Mithila, an area that modern historians, like most Persian chroni-
clers of the middle ages, often passed by quietly. And yet, Vidyapati’s
literary corpus was vast, disparate, and straddled a range of what
appeared to be unconnected worlds. There was law, love, writing,
political ethics, biography, rituals, tantricism, ‘geography’, romantic
play, ritual donations (dāna), and a vast corpus of songs for a variety
of occasions. My problem was to focus on specific issues, and accord-
ingly on certain texts, so I could study the author and his oeuvre more
intimately.
After weighing in all my options, I decided to focus on the
following three of Vidyapati’s compositions. Kīrttilatā was a text
I could not have avoided for the simple reason that it was the only
major extant work of Vidyapati that was composed in Apabhraṃśa.
Since one of my concerns was to examine the relationship between
language, literature, and politics, this explicitly political text—a
biopolitical narrative in ‘vernacular’ with a local prince as its
protagonist—suggested itself ‘naturally’. Puruṣaparīkṣā was another
work that appeared unique in the history of Indic literatures,
being possibly the only known early modern text that so directly
propounded what might be termed a theory of masculinity. That it
was simultaneously a work on naya/daṇḍanīti, or political ethics/
state policy, also suited my proposed engagement with issues of
literature and state formation, or more generally, knowledge and
power. No less compelling for me was the choice of Likhanāvalī,
again for the simple reason that it was possibly the first text of its
kind in Sanskrit. Being so centrally concerned with the state, this
work too could add variety to my investigation of matters related to
another ‘literary’ dimension of state power, namely, documentation.
As I hope to demonstrate in the third chapter, however, Likhanāvalī
turned out to be much more than what it claimed, a manual for
those interested in cultivating the craft of documentation. A first-of-
its-kind Sanskrit text that borrowed imaginatively from a range of
literary traditions including Persian, it provides a glimpse into the
eclectically constituted ways of making literature and imagining
imperium in the fifteenth century.
xxii Introduction

If I mention the process by which I arrived at my choice of these

compositions, it is because they are not in any way meant to be ‘rep-
resentative’ works of Vidyapati. It would be virtually impossible to
make such a list for an author as varied in his choice of subjects as
the scholar from Mithila. What was important about my choice of
the three texts was the way in which they treated the issues I wanted
to explore, each in its own distinctive way. From the point of view of
genre, or language and literary strategies, they represent very diver-
gent authorial exercises. This allowed me the opportunity to explore
afresh how a historian’s literary engagement with her/his ‘source
texts’ was crucial for a nuanced reading.
The argument that the centuries after the thirteenth in North
India were fast turning out to be riotously multilingual in literary
practice and everyday speech is much more convincing today than
it was ten years ago. Equally strong is the case now for this period
being diverse and dynamic in its literary themes, genres, and sheer
volume.1 In several ways, Vidyapati seems to embody the spirit of
the long fifteenth century more substantively than any other liter-
ary figure of the time. He wrote in at least four languages, and
probably knew a few more. If many before him wrote vernacular
verses in a style that celebrated ‘male’ heroism, he too did that; if the
fifteenth century was the period of the so-called bhakti movement,
he represented one of the most irresistible voices of that trend; if
the dharmaśāstras continued to be important, he too wrote one;
if tantric cults were gaining popularity, he wrote a play with one of
the most prominent protagonists of tantricism as its hero; and he
was surely not the only Brāhmaṇa scholar of the period who drew
patronage from a host of minor princes of more than one royal
household. He composed in a dozen genres including some that he
almost invented himself; he lived in a local chieftaincy that seemed
to be farthest from big imperial formations. I do not, however, claim
to study Vidyapati as any sort of a ‘representative’ of the fifteenth
century. Rather, I use his compositions to reach out to other related
ones, and eventually to open up the times he lived in.

1For a detailed argument of the case, see Jha, ‘Literary Conduits for
“Consent”’. Also see Orsini and Sheikh, ‘Introduction’.
 Introduction xxiii

Political History of Literature or a Question of Method

For long, historians have believed that it is important to study an
author before one studies his/her work. It is equally important, how-
ever, to explore the implications of an author’s choice of language
and of genre. In choosing to compose in a language, authors chose
a certain readership/audience, along with a whole system of idioms
constituted culturally. In doing so, they might, as indeed Vidyapati
did, simultaneously expand (or narrow down) the horizons of that
language in multiple ways. The manner in which it would be read/
recited and the usage to which their authors hoped their texts would
be put also depended largely on the choice of language and register.
A composition could be used for performative purposes, for public
recitations, for popular retelling, or for quiet and private study by
peers. Equally, in choosing a genre, authors chose to be bound by
the conventions of that genre, whether flexibly or strictly. The content
of the compositions would tend to reflect the authors’ concerns and
issues. But the authors would often also feel obliged to speak to, and
speak in, the voice of past authors in the chosen genre.
My attempt, however, is to relate this literary corpus to ‘main-
stream’ history, and attempt a political history of literature. How does
one contextualize internally coherent and apparently monolingual
texts like Likhanāvalī, Puruṣaparīkṣā, and Kīrttilatā in a milieu that
was so pervasively multilingual? I trace the parallel and comparable
developments elsewhere in North India during the time, while dia-
chronically excavating the deep histories and multilingual debts of
apparently monolingual texts.
Locating the texts within the long-term patterns of development
of languages and literature in North India could only be one aspect, a
first step towards writing a political history of literature. This first step
involves, among other things, looking carefully for tangible traces of
intertextuality in them, but also for the not-so-tangible (often unac-
knowledged) signs of ‘influences’ from other languages and genres.
It is well established, if seldom realized by historians, that texts on a
theme become intelligible only to the extent that they are part of ongo-
ing streams of conversation with other texts on that theme. Even the
novelty of a literary composition lies in its ability to adapt, respond to,
or rebut already existing propositions in other texts. The ‘originality’
xxiv Introduction

quotient of a new work may also lie in its response to changes ‘out-
side’ the text, say, in material conditions of life or changes in political
culture. Even when the poetic imagination breaks ‘fresh’ ground by
articulating an aspiration or conjuring up fantastic images, the use
of familiar terminologies can hardly be avoided. That is why I find it
useful to historicize the texts, and determine the nature and variety of
streams that feed into them.
For long, historians treated literature like enemy territory. Their
standard modus operandi was to conduct surgical strikes on texts to
extract ‘history’ (read ‘facts’ and suggestive pieces of information)
from them. This fundamentally violent approach bypasses the literari-
ness of a composition that one cannot access without placing it within
its own textual tradition. My explorations suggest that emplacement
of an imaginative work within the deep histories of its own language–
genre–theme tradition makes the work reveal much more than pieces
of information. Such an approach helps us locate those aspects, which
are unique to the text, as well as identify alternative ideas, which the
text might have been responding to. After all, a literary expression
is also, among other things, an intervention in the dynamic flow of
history: a wager in an ongoing conversation—real or imagined.
This requires historians engaging with their ‘sources’, irrespec-
tive of what aspects she/he is looking into, to look deep and wide
into other texts so as to see the work at hand itself as a historical
product. Within a multilingual literary culture, this is a very difficult
task. It requires us to look for relevant practices in several languages
simultaneously.
And this leads to the second step in my reading of Vidyapati. If
the first step helps me find out ‘where the texts are coming from’, the
second step involves the issue of ‘where they are going’. The question
that I put across is this: what kind of socio-political order did these
texts uphold? What visions of power did they describe, proscribe, or
prescribe? To put the question prospectively, what political possibili-
ties could the literary cultures of Mithila prepare the ground for?
As far as medieval studies are concerned, this was a bit of a leap
in the dark. Typically, premodern historians relate literature (as also
other cultural products) to politics by looking at patterns of patronage,
and immediately hitting the dead end of (often instant) legitimation.
This approach sees culture as a by-product of politics and (more often
 Introduction xxv

than not, state) power.2 I discuss the limitations of this approach in

the second chapter. I do not, however, imply ‘literary determinism of
political action’.3 Nor do I assign, as Sheldon Pollock does, an ‘autono-
mous aesthetic imperative’ to literary initiative.4
Methodologically, there are four interrelated components to my
approach to literature: first, I treat literary compositions as histori-
cal products, and seek to trace their antecedents not in an isolated
history of ideas but in the cultural politics of the past and (the then)
present; second, I keep the possibility alive that an author’s location
in a small or ‘local’ principality might not be the sole or even the
major determinant of her/his political vision; third, that in a place
where there was no established institutionalized space (unlike, say,
the church in Europe) for regular communication with people, lit-
erature, especially its durable forms (for example, stories and poetry
that could be remembered and related more easily) in a largely oral
culture, would play an extremely important role in enunciating the
terms of cultural discourse. Finally, I ask the simple but perhaps
the most important question of all: what is the political value of
literature? Alas, historians (unlike philosophers!) can never hope to
answer that question once and for all. I pursue the question, fully
cognizant of the fact that the meaning of ‘political’, very much like
the character of literature, is historically variable. One can map the
complex relationship between the two only in the long duration.
I briefly discuss the dynamics of this relationship in the later part of
Chapter 2 in this volume.

2 There are occasional exceptions though. In a study of the oeuvre of the

famous Telugu poet Ṣrīnātha and the Telugu literary traditions in the four-
teenth and the fifteenth centuries, for example, Velcheru Narayana Rao and
David Shulman offer the opposite view. They note that in an ‘unstable and
fragmented political climate’, ‘the patron and the poet were locked in a rela-
tion of asymmetrical dependence—the former being essentially dependent
upon the good grace and poetic talent of the latter, who nevertheless needs
the patron for his economic survival’. See Rao and Shulman, Śrīnātha, p. 6.
3 I have borrowed the phrase from Jene Andrew Jarrett. See Jarrett,

Representing the Race, p. 7.

4 Pollock, ‘India in the Vernacular Millenium: Literary Culture and Polity’,

p. 44.
xxvi Introduction

In this endeavour, my debt to Sheldon Pollock should be obvi-

ous. The excitement generated by his study of the literary cultures
of Sanskrit and other Indic languages has refused to subside, even
two decades after he first proposed a millennium-by-millennium
binary paradigm of Sanskrit cosmopolitanism and vernaculariza-
tion. If excessive focus on Persian ‘authorities’ was my problem with
medieval studies, here was a scholar whose engagements with non-
Persian literature and literary cultures of the middle ages marked out
a ‘parallel’ archive. It was a massive archive, replete with all possible
genres, and tantalizingly diverse in its themes, locations, and patron-
age patterns.
Paradoxically, however, if the ‘mainstream’ historians of medieval
India had, to a large extent, failed to account for the massive pres-
ence of Sanskrit and vernacular sources, Pollock’s engagements
with this archive reduced the Persian ecumene along with the
Delhi Sultanate, Mughal state, and other ‘regional’ states (seen to
be exclusively) invested in Persian culture to minor footnotes. If the
claims of Persian chroniclers enjoyed a positivistic salience in the
historiography of the Sultanate and Mughal state, Pollock and his
adherents too, followed the same methodological track: Sanskrit was
reported dead on arrival (or localized) by the second millennium;
vernacularization of politics reigned sway in complete innocence of
the presence of Persianized conceptions of imperium; and monopo-
listic truth-claims of the language of the gods passed uncritically into
histories of literary cultures.
Ironically, these two neat archives (Sanskritistic and Persianate),
corresponding broadly to two parallel historiographies, fell into the
same isolated territories of investigation that Pollock, trained in
Sanskrit philology, himself had warned against: ‘What the theorists
[and presumably historians] say about us, “all dressed up and nowhere
to go,” hits a lot harder than what we say about them: “lots of dates
and nothing to wear”’.5
My work, however, is humbler in scope, and I would like to believe,
more historicized in method. That is why, instead of bunching texts
together in hundreds and ticking them off as monolingual/bilingual

5 Pollock, ‘Future Philology?’, p. 947.

 Introduction xxvii

and local/universal, I focus ‘only’ on three texts. This allows me to

carefully examine the framing, language, literary techniques, content,
genre, and genealogy of each. In the process, many inherited catego-
ries that one was used to taking for granted proved to be miserably
inadequate (or in need of modification) to describe the worlds of com-
plexity that these texts revealed. Thus, for example, my examination of
Puruṣaparīkṣā shows that the text deployed narratives of recent history
in novel ways to justify ethics that are simultaneously validated with
reference to Vedic lore. The entirely modern distinctions between
secular and religious appeared inadequate.
The evidently multiple forms of multilingual literary cultures in
the fifteenth century—lexical, generic, idiomatic, thematic, autho-
rial, among others—at one level are interesting in themselves. Yet,
the follow-up questions are equally important: what kinds of power
relations did the textual productions of the time try to uphold? What
sorts of future political enterprises could this kind of literary culture
prepare the ground for? To put the question in a simplistic and lin-
ear sequence, if literatures created/disseminated ‘knowledge’, and if
knowledge formations are bedrocks on which fields of power are laid
and exploited, then what could all this mean politically beyond the
actual existing polities, in the long term?
As a prelude to answering that question, I also pose, in Chapter 2
in this volume, the intermediate theoretical problematic of what the
categories of literature, history, and power mean to a historian now
(in the ‘emic’ sense), and what they could have meant to someone in
the fifteenth century following various literary traditions (in the ‘etic’
sense). My exploration of each of the three texts in the second part is
also an empirical way of opening up these larger theoretical questions.
These apparently theoretical engagements are crucial for reconstitut-
ing the space for a political history of literatures and languages.
In the end, it is of critical significance for me to clarify that while
trying to work out the contours of a knowledge formation by map-
ping the literary culture of the long fifteenth century, I am making
assumptions about a slow-moving but tangible relationship between
literature and knowledge formation on the one hand, and power and
political possibilities on the other. In this analysis, however, I make
a clear distinction between relations of power and institutions of
governance. Governance is a tangible, everyday practice, undertaken
xxviii Introduction

by particular institutions like family, caste-bodies, guilds, and above

all, the state. These and other institutions governed subjects as per
written and unwritten codes of law, ethics, morality, and tradition.
However, I use the word ‘power’ primarily as a disciplining mecha-
nism through discourses about ‘correct’ and ‘incorrect’, moral and
immoral, or acceptable and non-acceptable. It is this disciplining wir-
ing of society that a new dynamism of literary culture could enter and
alter. And it is this slow process of changes in disciplinary formations
that I seek to unravel.
While institutions of governance surely need to be studied, my
interest in this volume is limited to a study of the ways in which the
basis for changes in power relations was being laid in the fifteenth cen-
tury, without any individual or institution having willed consciously
to do so: Particular kinds of stories being told in specific ways, for
example, could play an important role in spreading and reconstituting
knowledge formations. To the extent that I succeed in doing this by
exploring literary productions of the time, I will have succeeded in
highlighting the political value of literature.
1 Vidyapati and Mithila

I
n February 2013, I visited Bisfi, the village of Vidyapati’s birth in
Madhubani district of north Bihar.1 As I asked around, an old
man remarked in Maithili that there were many Vidyapatis.

One was Raja Śivasiṃha’s Rājapaṇḍita who was a great scholar of

Sanskrit and wrote many books. The Mughals took away all of them
for their own use. Another was the devotee [upāsaka] of Bhagavatī, her
asthāna [sthāna, place] is still there. Then, there was the Vidyapati who
Mahādeva himself came to serve as his personal attendant [khawāsa].

1 Recently it has also been made a block, that is, an administrative unit
below the district, and it gives its name to the local Vidhan Sabha constitu-
ency as well. It is a large village, compared to the average size of villages in
Bihar and North India. As per the Indian government’s Census of India web-
site, Bisfi had a total of 2,832 households with 13,981 persons living in them
in 2011. See http://censusindia.gov.in/pca/cdb_pca_census/Houselisting-
housing-BR.html, accessed 11 June 2015.

A Political History of Literature: Vidyapati and the Fifteenth Century. Pankaj Jha,
Oxford University Press (2019). © Pankaj Jha.
DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780199489558.003.0001
4 a political history of literature

Yet another Vidyapati composed beautiful Kṛiśṇa līlā songs, and those
are still sung by Vaiṣṇava bhaktas all over the world. There is another
one who politicians resurrect every now and then. Have you seen his
memorial?

‘Yes, I have’, I assured him. But, did he really think these were
all different people? He shook his head in exasperation. ‘You do not
understand’, he said, ‘Vidyapati was not a man like you and me. He
was a jugapurusa.’2 I thought of my uncle in my native village in
the district of Samastipur, about fifty miles to the south of Bisfi. ‘You
are going northwards’, he had warned me, ‘be very careful. Everyone
there fancies being a scholar. Māthā ghumā detau tauhar, they will
send your head spinning.’
In saying that there were many Vidyapatis, however, the old
man could not have put it better for me. The range of Vidyapati’s
compositions, as well as the diversity of ways in which he has been
remembered and appropriated since, is indeed stunning.

Life, Literary Compositions

Vidyapati is a household name in Mithila, the region in north Bihar
where he flourished in the late fourteenth and early fifteenth centu-
ries. As noted, he was born in the village of Bisapī (now Bisfi). His
father Gaṇapati Ṭhakkura was a court priest of Rāya Gaṇeśvara, the
reigning chief of Tirhut and father of the famous Kīrttisiṃha. Vidyapati
is believed to have had two wives, three sons, and four daughters.3 But
there are other details of his life that are more elusive.
We do not know when exactly he was born. The multiple references
in his numerous works (as well as in those of his contemporaries) to
his patrons, some of whom it is possible to date with precision, intro-
duce more confusion than clarity, and we are still unable to date the
poet’s birth with certainty. The irony should not be missed; Mithila is
probably the only area in the subcontinent that boasts of a tradition

2From Sanskrit: yugapuruṣa, literally, Man of the Age. The word has an
implied connotation of one whose being changes the course of time and
history.
3 Chaudhary, A Survey of Maithili Literature, p. 57.
 Vidyapati and Mithila 5

of maintaining genealogies of each and every Brāhmaṇa family in the

form of pañjī records maintained by professional record-keepers, the
pañjīkāras.4 And yet, while information on Vidyapati’s birth is avail-
able in these records, it does not always match with the ‘evidence’
from his own compositions.
A related problem in arriving at a definite time of his birth is the
fact that most references to time in Vidyapati’s texts were given in
the Lakṣamaṇa Era.5 Unfortunately, the precise date when this era
started is not known beyond dispute. While a large number of schol-
ars writing in Hindi and English agree with Kielhorn’s meticulous
calculation that places its beginning in the year 1119 of the Common
Era, many scholars in Mithila believe that the era started ten years
earlier, in 1109.6 In this volume, I have used 1119 ce as the year in
which the Lakṣamaṇa Saṃvat started.
Scholars have debated these issues endlessly. They now accept
one of two positions: those who go by the pañjī records believe that
Vidyapati was born in 1350.7 Others see 1374 as a more likely year

4 The records have been maintained from early-fourteenth century

onwards. Legend has it that Harisiṃhadeva, the reigning Karṇāṭa chief in
Mithila at the time, instituted it.
5 See note 53 of this chapter for a detailed explanation of Lakṣamaṇa Era.
6 Kielhorn, ‘The Epoch of the Lakshmansena Era’. Maithili-speaking

scholars have relied on a verse attributed to Vidyapati in which dates

are cited simultaneously in the Lakṣamaṇa Era and the Śaka Era. For a
good discussion of arguments for and against the proposition, see Singh,
Vidyapati, pp. 38–47. While it is difficult to be definitive, Kielhorn’s calcula-
tion, based as it is on a cross-examination of a larger chunk of data, appears
more plausible.
7 Most of the scholars from the Mithila region fall in this category. This

includes scholars like Ramanath Jha, Govind Jha, Dineshwarlal Anand,

Shashinath Jha, Indrakant Jha, and a host of others who have edited Vidyapati’s
works. See, for example, R. Jha, ‘Introduction’, in Vidyapati, Puruṣaparīkṣā, p. 16;
Jha, ‘Bhumika’, in Vidyapati, Vibhāgasāra, p. 4; Anand and S. Jha, ‘Bhumikā’
(Preface), in Vidyapati, Padāvalī, vol. 2, pp. 15–16; I. Jha, Vidyapatikālīn Mithila,
pp. 3–31. However, there are a few scholars, among them Radhakrishna
Chaudhary, who believe that Vidyapati must have lived a long life, roughly
between 1360 and 1480. See Chaudhary, Mithila in the Age of Vidyapati,
pp. 13–20.
6 a political history of literature

for his birth.8 There is no agreement on the date of his death either.
Estimates vary between 1430 and 1480. Fortunately, however, the
broad timing and sequence of his compositions are not disputed. It
is understood that most of his major compositions span, roughly, the
period between 1400 and the 1430s.
Vidyapati was a prolific scholar and a popular poet, a dharmaśāstra
expert and a story-teller, a courtier and royal priest, a Śiva bhakta (dev-
otee of Śiva), and a gifted composer of Vaiṣṇava and ṣringār songs, all
rolled in one. Apart from Sanskrit, he knew Prakrit, Apabhraṃśa, and
Maithili, and composed with equal facility in all of them. His oeuvre
includes erotic allegories, a law book, praise-biographies, a tantric
play, a writing manual, a treatise on political ethics and masculinity,
compendia of rituals, and more (see Table 1.1). Above and beyond this
were his Maithili and ‘Brajabuli’ songs, on a vast diversity of themes:
sowing and harvesting seasons, love and erotica, separation, Kṛiṣṇa’s
love-play with the gopīs, Vaiṣṇava and Śaiva bhakti, and various
saṃsakāras like birth, upanayana (sacred thread ceremony), and mar-
riage. Indeed, these songs appear to be the mainstay of Vidyapati’s
glory, both in the middle ages and now.

Fame and Legends

Over the last six centuries or so, Vidyapati has been mythologized as
well as memorialized in interesting ways. His admirers credit him with
having performed miracles and received divine favours in ways that a
‘rational’ approach fixated on facts may be inadequate to understand.
The most popular of these legends holds that Lord Śiva was so moved
by his piety that he took the guise of a poor man, calling himself Ugna,
to become a personal attendant to the poet. Almost all of Vidyapati’s
myriad biographies relate this ‘episode’ in his life. Any conversation
about him with a Maithil is bound to refer to the story. Although
there are many versions of this story, the core narrative remains fairly
stable: Lord Śiva lived with Vidyapati disguised as his attendant,

8A majority of the scholars who believe that Vidyapati could not have
been born long before 1374 are scholars of Hindi literature from outside
Mithila. See for example, Singh, Vidyapati, p. 43.
Table 1.1 Vidyapati’s Compositions with Their Language, Script, Patrons, and Themes
Title Language and Earthly and Divine Genre and Theme
Script Patrons
Maṇimañjarīnāṭikā Sanskrit (with No earthly patron A minor play, nāṭikā, that followed the rules laid
blank spaces for Salutations to Umā–Śiva by Bharata’s Nāṭyaśāstra. It tells a fictive story of
songs, presumably a married king, Candrasena’s love for a young
in another Vaṇija girl
language)
Script: Tirahutā
Bhūparikramaṇa Sanskrit Written for Devasiṃha Collection of stories, kathās, set in different
Script: Devanāgarī (who is not referred to as locales, deśas, as a means of information about
Raja) each of the locales. It was originally meant to
Salutations to Gaṇeśa, have sixty-five such stories set in as many deśas,
Sāmba, Viṣṇu, Ravi (sun), but it seems the author managed to finish only
and Ambikā eight stories. All are in prose though individual
characters frequently cite verses. The same
composition was later ‘reframed’ differently with
an addition of thirty-six stories to compose the
famous Puruṣaparīkṣā

(Cont’d)
Table 1.1 (Cont’d)
Title Language and Earthly and Divine Genre and Theme
Script Patrons
Kīrttilatā Avahaṭṭha/ Written for Kīrttisiṃha A praise-biography in verse, with occasional
Apabhraṃśa Invocations of Gaṇeśa, prose in between, composed broadly in
Script: Devanāgarī Pārvatī, Śiva, and the style of the Sanskrit genre ākhyāyikā. It
Sarasvatī tells of the travels, travails, and the eventual
victory of its protagonist (also the patron of
the text), Kīrttisiṃha, over Malik Arsalan.
Contains detailed account of the city of Jaunpur
(Joṇāpura), the capital city of the Sharqi
Sultanate, where Kīrttisiṃha travelled with some
of his companions (including Vidyapati) to ask
for the Sultan’s help in overcoming Arsalan
Puruṣaparīkṣā Sanskrit Written for Śivasiṃha Compendium of stories told in simple
Script: Devanāgarī Salutations to Ādiśakti prose with ślokas frequently cited by various
(but Brahmā, Mahādeva, characters. Composed broadly in the kathā genre
and Viṣṇu too are of Sanskrit. According to author himself, it is
mentioned) a treatise on naya/nīti, that is, political ethics.
However, it is framed as a text on the ideals of
‘masculinity’, where the seed story is about a
king being instructed by a sagely minister on
how to identify/become an ideal man
Gorakṣavijaya Multilingual with Written for Śivasiṃha A play that narrates the story wherein the
Sanskrit, Prakrit, Salutation to Lord Śiva famous tantric saint Gorakhanātha (Sanskrit:
and Maithili Gorakṣanātha) rescued his preceptor
Script: Mithilākṣara Machendranātha (Sanskrit: Matsyendranātha)
from a life of bhoga back to a life of yoga. The
play starts with a conversation between a naṭa
and a naṭī in Sanskrit and Prakrit. The story
actually unfolds through a series of songs in the
Maithili language. The rāgas in which the songs
are to be sung are also mentioned
Kīrttipatākā Avahaṭṭha/ Written for Śivasiṃha Another praise-biography in verse. This has
Apabhraṃśa Salutation Śivasiṃha as its chief protagonist. The extant
Script: Tirahutā (maṅgalācaraṇa) page is manuscript is damaged badly, and only a small
missing in the damaged portion of the text has survived, which depicts
manuscripts a battle in which Śivasiṃha emerges victorious
against an unidentified Turkish sultan
Harikeli Avahaṭṭha/ Written for Rāya Arjuna Another text that has come down to us in a
Apabhraṃśa Salutation damaged manuscript. Its protagonist is Rāya
Script: Tirahutā (maṅgalācaraṇa) page is Arjuna or Jagat Siṃha, most probably a cousin
missing in the damaged of the more famous Śivasiṃha. Much of the
manuscripts available text is an erotic, probably allegorical,
description of Kṛiśṇa’s love-play with the gopīs

(Cont’d)
Table 1.1 (Cont’d)
Title Language and Earthly and Divine Genre and Theme
Script Patrons
Likhanāvalī Sanskrit Written for Purāditya Written in the form of a manual for scribes. It
Script: Devanāgarī Girinārāyaṇa of carries model letters (official and personal), as
Droṇāvāra well as model documents recording business
Salutation to Lord transactions and affidavits on oath
Gaṇeśa
Śaivasarvasvasāra Sanskrit Written for Viśvāsadevī Describes the cosmic significance, religious
Script: One Salutations to Lord Śiva merits, and prescribed rituals of worshipping
manuscript in Śiva. Cites extensively from the Purāṇas
Mithilākṣara and
two in Devanāgarī
Gaṅgāvākyāvalī Sanskrit Written for Viśvāsadevī Another text that cites from the Purāṇas;
Script: Not Invocation of Ganga and it glorifies the religious significance of
available Lord Śiva River-Goddess Ganga
Vibhāgasāra Sanskrit Written for A dharmaśāstra that focusses chiefly on the laws
Script: Tirahutā Darpanārāyaṇa (aka of property. It cites copiously from a number
Narsiṃhadeva) of smṛitis including those of Manu, Bṛhaspati,
Invokes Hari, Śiva, and Nārada, Yājñavalkya, Kātyāyana, and Gautama
Ganga
Dānavākyāvalī Sanskrit Written for Rani Tells of different kinds of ritual donations and
Script: Devanāgarī Dhīramatī (Queen of the spiritual merits each would earn for the
Narsiṃhadeva) donor
Invokes Lord Śiva
Durgābhaktitaraṅginī Sanskrit Written for Describes the ‘due’ procedure for worshipping
Script: Devanāgarī Bhairavasiṃha the goddess Durga, especially during the nine
Invokes Goddess Durga days of the navarātra in the month of āśvina
Gayāpattalaka Sanskrit No patrons mentioned A booklet that provides the rituals relating to
Script: Devanāgarī funerals
Varṣakṛitya Sanskrit Not dedicated to anyone Another minor work that details the festivals to
Script: but mentions Raja be observed (probably those that were observed
Not available Rupanārāyaṇa by people in Mithila in those days) through the
year
Padāvalī Maithili Not originally compiled Compilation of Vidyapati’s songs on a variety
Script: Tirahutā/ by the author in the form of themes. Doubtful if the author himself put
Bangla/Devanāgarī of a book, hence has no these songs together in book form. We have
specific patron. The most at least one medieval manuscript, a collection
frequently occurring put together from oral sources by Grierson,
name in the songs is and a few songs taken from citations in Locan’s
probably Raja Śivasiṃha Rāgataraṅgiṇī (seventeenth century). Published
in several overlapping volumes

Source: Author’s compliation.

12 a political history of literature

Ugna, for a finite but unspecified period of time. Once when the
two of them were stranded in a forest, Vidyapati asked Ugna to fetch
water. Finding no source of water anywhere in the vicinity, Ugna
assumed his original form and drew a pot of fresh Ganga water out
of his own tresses. However, the Brāhmaṇa bhakta of Śiva recognized
the taste of Ganga water. Knowing that River Ganga flowed nowhere
near the place, he got very suspicious. He insisted that Ugna must
reveal his real identity or else he will be abandoned. Thus forced, Lord
Śiva revealed himself but agreed to live with Vidyapati on the condi-
tion that Vidyapati would continue to treat him as his servant, and
that he would never reveal the secret to anyone. One day after some
time, however, Vidyapati’s wife happened to be very annoyed with the
servant. In anger, she took a piece of wood and charged towards Ugna
in the presence of her husband. Thus, the recipient of Lord Śiva’s
grace had to reveal the real identity of his attendant with the result
that Ugna disappeared before his eyes, forever.
A second legend holds that at the time of his death, Vidyapati
decided to move southwards to meet the goddess Ganga. However,
a few miles away from the sacred river, he felt too tired to continue
his journey. He decided to remain there, and resolved that if his
piety was pure, the sacred Ganga would herself come to him. Very
soon, the River-Goddess obliged the great poet, and the water level of
the river started rising miraculously until he could take a final holy
dip. The place where this ‘happened’ was renamed Vidyapati Nagar
at an unidentified time in the past. A temple dedicated to Śiva came
up here.
Presently, it stands a few kilometres from the subdivision of
Dalsinghsarai in the district of Samastipur, about sixty miles south-
west of Bisfi. Interestingly, Vidyapati himself related a version of this
story in his Puruṣaparīkṣā, wherein the protagonist was a Kāyastha by
the name of Bodhi from Mithila.9
That Vidyapati himself came to have so many legends posthu-
mously woven around his character is probably befitting. In the
aforementioned story about the tātvika, Bodhi, he made the protago-
nist Bodhi recite a śloka to the effect that ‘one’s body is destroyed,

9 See ‘Tātvika Kathā’, Puruṣaparīkṣā, pp. 166–8.

 Vidyapati and Mithila 13

riches disappear and friends go away, in the end it is only stories that
are left behind, kathāsāre hi saṃsāre, and only fame that is permanent,
kīrttireva sthirā bhavet!’10 Vidyapati’s own glory appears only to have
grown with the passage of time. Popular memory has kept him alive
by singing his songs, circulating ‘appropriate’ legends, and even
crediting him with a form of folk theatre.11
Meanwhile, in Bisfi, a temple of Bhagavatī claims to ensconce the
idol the poet ‘had himself worshipped’. Another temple stands at the
far end of the village, duly named Ugna Mahadev, after Vidyapati’s
famous personal attendant (Image 1.1). A feeble attempt by the state
at ‘nationalizing’ Vidyapati can be seen in the memorial constructed
for the poet in 1983 (Images 1.2a and 1.2b).12 Yet, the village of
Vidyapati’s birth is not really overwhelmed by the presence of the leg-
endary scholar. The attempt at monumentalizing remains humble,
even indifferent.
However, the temple complex at the eponymously named qasba
of Vidyapati Nagar, recently renamed Vidyapati Dhāma, presents a
picture in contrast. In the 1980s, local residents told me, it was just
a single building and though it was popular even then, it did not
attract so many visitors. In the last thirty years or so, the temple
has grown into a much larger structure, with a museum, halls for

10 Vidyapati, Puruṣaparīkṣā, p. 168.

11 Bidāpat Nāch, a form of street theatre, was performed in certain villages
of Purnea district of north Bihar in the last century. Mailā Āñcal, the famous
novel by Phaṇīśvar Nath Renu describes one such performance, set in a vil-
lage in Purnea. For a discussion of the tradition of Bidāpat Nāch, its history,
and its state at present, see unpublished PhD dissertation, Woolford, ‘Renu
Village’, especially ‘Chapter 4’, pp. 195–268.
12 It is a walled compound of modest size with a single-storey building

in the middle, a raised platform in a corner, and a bust of the village’s most
famous ancestor in front. The building had a single chamber with two framed
and fading photographs, indifferently reclining against the wall: a portrait of
Vidyapati and a smaller frame of Mahatma Gandhi flanked by tiny heads of
Jawaharlal Nehru, Rajendra Prasad, Subhas Chandra Bose, Chandrashekhar
Azad, Bhagat Singh, and Sardar Patel. A few paces from the memorial was
a notionally marked birthplace where, I was told, his havelī must have stood
once upon a time.
14 a political history of literature

Image 1.1 Ugnā Mahādeva Temple at Bisfi

Source: Author.

Image 1.2a Vidyapati Memorial at Bisfi

Source: Author.
 Vidyapati and Mithila 15

Image 1.2b A Bust of Vidyapati at Bisfi

Source: Author.

pilgrims to rest, and a fairly wide courtyard.13 The footfalls have

registered a sharp increase. Occasionally, there is a stampede-like
situation, especially in the rainy month of Sāvan, a month consid-
ered particularly auspicious for worshipping Lord Śiva. A veritable
market has come up around the temple wherein Vidyapati gives his
name to almost every shop including eating joints and medicine
counters (Images 1.3a, 1.3b, and 1.3c). A marble plaque outside
traces Vidyapati’s lineage from his own time to the present. Another
one records the inauguration of a temple renovation project by the
chief minister of Bihar in 2010.
Parallel initiatives by the government of Bihar also helped recover
the historical Vidyapati in substantive ways. Soon after Indepen-
dence, the government of Bihar mobilized a state-run institution,

13 The museum consists of a single hall, and displays ‘objects associated

with the poet’. I could not see the museum when I visited the temple complex
in February 2013, as the caretaker of the museum was ‘on leave’.
16 a political history of literature

Image 1.3a The Śiva Temple at Vidyapati Dhāma

Source: Author.

Image 1.3b A Jewellery Shop in Vidyapati Dhāma

Source: Author.
 Vidyapati and Mithila 17

Image 1.3c An Eatery in Vidyapati Dhāma

Source: Author.

the Bihar Rāṣṭra Bhāṣā Pariṣad, to find the manuscripts of Vidyapati’s

writings and make them accessible in print.14 Another state-aided
institution by the name of Maithili Akademi was established in 1975,
which also undertook similar initiatives.15 Manuscripts of some of
Vidyapati’s compositions had long been in circulation. Many of them
were found and published before Independence. However, the post-
Independence period saw fresh attempts to produce critical editions
of the Brāhmaṇa’s works, through a collation of a larger number of
extant manuscripts and edited versions. Individual initiatives also
played a role in the process. The twentieth century saw the production

14 Though the Bihar State Legislative Assembly passed an act to establish

the Bihar Rāṣṭra Bhāṣā Pariṣad on 11 April 1947, the latter came into being
only in March 1957. See Datta, Encyclopaedia of Indian Literature, vol. 2,
p. 1732.
15 See Thakur, ‘Prakāśakīya Nivedan’.
18 a political history of literature

of a large number of biographies written by scholars of Hindi and

Maithili, as well as by lay admirers from other professions.16
It is important to note, however, that the fifteenth-century
Brāhmaṇa from Bisfi was far from forgotten in the intervening
centuries. References to him can be found in texts composed in
the Mithila region since the fifteenth century itself. Even outside of
Mithila, he seems to have been known fairly well. At the end of the
sixteenth century, Abul Fazl, located far away in the Mughal city of
Agra, mentioned Vidyapati in the Ain-i Akbari as the composer of
lahcharī songs.17 A few decades before that, he was named several
times as the poet whose songs moved the famous Vaiṣṇava bhakta of
Bengal, Kṛiśṇacaitanya, into ecstasy.18 Many of these songs figured
in the seventeenth-century treatise on music, Rāgatarṅgiṇī of Locana
Kavi, as illustrations for specific rāgas.19 Among his Sanskrit works,
Puruṣaparīkṣā was made available in the nineteenth century by the
British to native princes, who were encouraged to study it so as to
cultivate ethics. It was even included in the syllabus of the coveted
Indian Civil Service examination a little later. An abridged version was
prepared early in the twentieth century for use by children in schools.
His Vibhāgasāra appears to have been used as a reference book for
property law at least since the eighteenth century. Probably the most

16A select list would include Singh, Vidyapati; Jha, Vidyapati; Thakur,
Mahākavi Vidyapati; Shrivastav, Vidyapati: Anuśilan evaṃ Mūlyāṅkan.
17 While describing ‘desi songs’ of different regions, the Ain-i Akbari

noted that ‘those in the dialects of Tirhut are called Lahchāri, and are the com-
position of Biddya-pat, and in character highly erotic’. See Abul Fazl Allami,
Ain-i Akbari, vol. II, p. 266. Lahchārī, identifiable with the famous nacārī
songs dedicated to Lord Śiva, however, were only one of the many genres of
songs composed by Vidyapati, and current at least since then in the region.
Other popular genres of songs included sohara, bārahamāsā, and chaumāsā.
18 I have been able to trace at least five references to Vidyapati in

Kṛiṣṇadāsa biography of Caitanya. See Kṛiṣṇadāsa Kavirāja, Caitanya

Caritamṛita, I.13.42; II.2.77; II.10.115; III.15.27; III.17.6.
19 In fact, Rāgataraṅgiṇī is an important source for collecting the ‘authentic’

songs of Vidyapati. The second volume of Vidyapati’s Padāvalī, published by

the Bihar Rāṣṭra Bhāṣā Pariṣad in 2000, carries all the songs attributed to
Vidyapati by Locan. See Vidyapati, Padāvalī, part 2. Also see Locanapaṇḍita,
Rāgataraṅgiṇī.
 Vidyapati and Mithila 19

commonly used of his texts, apart from the Padāvalī, among the
upper-caste Maithils were/are his handbooks for performing rituals
for the navarātra festival (Durgābhaktitaraṅgiṇī), and for worshipping
Śiva (Śaivasarvasvasāra).20
Closer to our own times, the young Rabindranath Tagore com-
pared Vidyapati with Caṇḍīdāsa and noted that Vidyapati’s ‘verses
are filled with rhythm, music and colours; they heave as waves of
loveliness, pleasure and enjoyment. They are the euphoria of early
youth, displaying nothing but pure bliss and ceaseless melody.’21
In fact, he was reported to have been so impressed by Vidyapati’s
songs that he took the pen-name of Bhānu Singh and tried to imitate
Vidyapati’s style by composing similar songs in the artificial medium
of Brajabuli.22 In 1937, the famous Debaki Bose directed a movie,
a biofiction titled Vidyapati that starred Pahari Sanyal as the epony-
mous hero, Kanan Devi as his companion, and Prithviraj Kapoor
as Raja Śivasiṃha, the most famous of Vidyapati’s many patrons. It
was Śivasiṃha who granted the poet’s native village Bisapī to him as
reported in a copper plate inscription.23 And it was Śivasiṃha again
who honoured the poet with the title of ‘Abhinava-Jayadeva’, the new
Jayadeva.24
Of the many types of learned men (savidya) that Sage Subuddhi
listed in Vidyapati’s Puruṣaparīkṣā, the most exalted one perhaps was
ubhayavidya, that is, one who had expertise both in classical lore and
folk wisdom. No one would possibly have denied that Vidyapati could
rightfully claim to be an ubhayavidya.25

20 See Chapter 4 in this volume for details.

21 Tagore, Ādhunik Sāhitya, pp. 441–5. I am indebted to Tanika Sarkar for
translating the entire text of the essay, including the excerpted lines, from
Bangla into English for me.
22 Kaviraj, ‘The Two Histories of Literary Culture in Bengal’, p. 513. These

compositions of Tagore were published as Bhanusingher Padāvalī (see Koch,

My Heart Sings).
23 The full text of the grant-inscription, consisting of about thirty-eight

lines in Sanskrit and a translation by Grierson can be accessed in Indian

Antiquary, vol. XIV, 1885, pp. 191–2.
24 Jha, Vidyapati, p. 9.
25 Vidyapati, Puruṣaparīkṣā, pp. 122–8.
20 a political history of literature

How did the Brāhmaṇa manage to do this? He might have been

born with a creative spark, as they say, but where did he receive his
training in the classical tradition of Sanskrit? Did he have a preceptor
he was indebted to? What was it like to grow up as a Brāhmaṇa boy
in a village in late-fourteenth-century north Bihar? We do not have
direct answers to most of these questions. Yet, one can try to make an
informed inference by looking at traditions of learning in Mithila, and
in the author’s own family.

Mithila as a Hub of Elite Learning

Vidyapati belonged to a Brāhmaṇa family of scholars and ministers.
Though he rarely gave any information about himself, there are
enough references to him and his family in other contemporary texts,
pañjī records, and inscriptions to allow scholars to reconstruct the
broad contours of his ancestry.
The most prominent of Vidyapati’s ancestors, four generations
before him, was Devāditya Ṭhakkura. He was probably the first
person in the lineage to have achieved public glory. While tracing
their lineage, his descendants most commonly identified him as
‘the ancestor’. His eldest son Vīreśvara, for example, in his book
Chandopaddhatti, traced his descent from Devāditya with pride.
Bhavasiṃha’s Sugati Sopāna, a text written for Gaṇeśvara did the
same in order to claim an exalted lineage.26 Devāditya’s grandson,
Caṇḍeśvara, the famous author of numerous Sanskrit texts, also
referred to him several times.
The pañjī records listed Devāditya as a sāndhivigrahika-
mantriratnākara, that is, a minister of war and peace. This must have
been in the court of a Karṇāṭa ruler, probably Harisiṃhadeva. Each
of the seven sons of Devāditya Ṭhakkura was noted to have a title
signifying a position in the local court. The second son, Dhīreśwara
Ṭhakkura, is addressed as a naibandhika (from nibandha; literally,
‘bounded’, but usually referred to a piece of prose writing), an offi-
cial whose charge must have had something to do with writing/

26 Descriptive Catalogue of Manuscripts in Mithila, vol. 1, p. 122. Patna:

Bihar and Orissa Research Society, n.d.

 Vidyapati and Mithila 21

documentation. Other titles include sāndhivigrahika (minister in

charge of war and alliances), mahāsāmantādhipati (general chief of
the landlords), bhaṇḍāgārika (minister/officer in charge of the royal
stores), sthānāntarika (minister/officer in charge of transfers), and
mudrāhastaka (money changer). Interestingly, all the titles men-
tioned here figure in Vidyapati’s Likhanāvalī.27 In fact, a majority of
the descendants of Devāditya up to Vidyapati, and some even after
Vidyapati’s generation, seem to have held important official positions
at the local court. The aforementioned Devāditya Ṭhakkura is men-
tioned in Caṇḍeśvara’s Kṛityaratnākara as Hambīradhvāntabhānuḥ,
signifying that the Brāhmaṇa also participated in a battle, prob-
ably in Ala al-Din Muhammad Khalji’s (r. 1296–1316) army against
Hammīradeva, the famous ruler of Raṇathambhor.
Equally noteworthy is the fact that a number of these men in
Vidyapati’s lineage appear to be scholars in their own right, if the
books (most of them in Sanskrit) attributed to them are anything
to go by. Many of these works are extant, and some of them have
even been published. The most famous and prolific author in
Vidyapati’s lineage, apart from himself, was Caṇḍeśvara. A cousin
of Vidyapati’s grandfather Jayadatta, he flourished in the early
fourteenth century. He authored Rājanītiratnākara, a treatise on
organizing the state.28 He also wrote a set of seven books, broadly
in the tradition of law books, on a range of themes: Krityaratnākara,
Dānaratnākara, Vyavahāraratnākara, Śuddhiratnākara, Pūjāratnākara,
Vivādaratnākara, and Gṛihastharatnākara. Together, these books are
referred to as Saptaratnākara.
These learned ancestors of Vidyapati were hardly exceptional in
Mithila, especially if we consider the scholarly output from the region
during this period. In the dharmaśāstra tradition itself, we find an
unbroken series of works being composed in Mithila, beginning with
those of Ṣrīkara and Gopāla in the eleventh century, Lakṣmīdhara’s
Smṛitikalpataru in the twelfth, Ṣrīdatta’s Ācārādarśa in the thirteenth–
fourteenth, Harinātha’s Smṛitisāra in the fourteenth, and continuing

27 See Chapter 3 in this volume.

28 See Caṇḍeśvara, Rājanītiratnākara. For a brief discussion of this work,
see Chapter 4 in this volume.
22 a political history of literature

into the fifteenth century with Vidyapati’s Vibhāgasāra.29 A few com-

mentaries, like that of Acyut on Kāvyaprakāśa, were also produced
on literary theory. Another literary luminary was the celebrated
Vācaspati Miṣra, a prolific author who is credited with having
produced about forty-one volumes, though not all are extant.30
Sāṅkhyatattvakaumudī,31 Śūdrācāracintāmaṇi,32 Vivādacintāmaṇi,33
Ācāracintāmaṇi, and Candrakaumudī are some of his better-known
works.
No less alive was the emerging trend of writing in the so-called
vernacular—the local dialect of what later became Maithili, and the
various inflections of Apabhraṃśa and Prakrit. As Chaudhary puts
it, ‘the period from 1200 a.d. onwards constitutes a landmark in
its [Maithili’s] history’.34 Many of Vidyapati’s ancestors, including
his father Gaṇapati Ṭhakkura, were credited with having composed
songs in the local dialect. Chaudhary, in his survey, lists at least
fourteen authors who chose to compose in ‘Maithili’.35 A famous
contemporary of Vidyapati was Viśṇupuri, who composed the
Bhaktiratnāvalī, a collection of Maithili songs devoted to the love of
Rādhā and Kṛiṣṇa.36
In fact, Jyotirīśvara’s unique compendium of words, phrases, and
appropriate expressions in ‘Maithili’, aptly titled Varṇaratnākara, was
meant to be a companion for would-be authors for a wide range of
situations. As such it might be indicative of the vibrant industry of
‘vernacular’ scholarship in the region.
Yet, it was the field of philosophy, in which Mithila, at least during
the period from the thirteenth through the fifteenth century, could
outshine any other centre of learning in North India. It was here

29Jha, ‘Bhumika’, in Vidyapati, Vibhāgasāra, pp. 7–9.

30Jha, ‘Bhumika’, pp. 17–18. The period during which Vācaspati Miṣra
lived is disputed. It is possible that he was a contemporary of Vidyapati. But
he might well have lived a century or two earlier.
31 Miṣra, Sāñkhyatattvakaumudī.
32 Benke, ‘The Śūdrācāraśiromaṇi of Kṛṣṇa Śeṣa’, pp. 11, 14.
33 Miṣra, Vivādacintāmaṇi.
34 Chaudhary, A Survey of Maithili Literature, p. 253.
35 Chaudhury, A Survey of Maithili Literature, p. 24.
36 Chaudhury, A Survey of Maithili Literature, p. 81.
 Vidyapati and Mithila 23

that the foundation of the celebrated navya-nyāya system37 was laid

by Gaṅgeśa in the thirteenth century, which was carried forward by
Vardhamāna in the fourteenth century, and Yajñapati Upādhyāya and
Pakṣadhara Miṣra in the fifteenth. As Pollock remarked, ‘[ f ]ew areas
in northern India after the fourteenth century, aside from what had
become the new frontier zone of Mithilā on the Nepal border, seem to
have shown quite the same vitality of Sanskrit literary production as
earlier until a revival set in during the early Mughal period…’.38
In many ways, it was (and is) this legacy of learning that came to
be identified with the geocultural region of Mithila. If Vidyapati has
become the modern icon of Maithil identity, he stands in this role not
just as himself. As a yugapuruṣa he is burdened with the glorious
history of the entire era. In some senses, this legacy has continued
in modern times—with a spate of publications by local enthusiasts
of Maithil culture on a host of themes in Maithili, Hindi, and occa-
sionally in English too. In its production, preservation, circulation,
and probably consumption, the narrow social base of this legacy is
obvious but rarely noticed, let alone analysed. In the middle ages, as
also largely now, its protagonists were invariably upper-caste (chiefly
Brāhmaṇa and Kāyastha) men.
It was the pride of the privileged few, which came to be articulated,
in the modern era of identity politics, as the pride of the entire Maithili-
speaking population. In a book about language politics in North India
in 1974, Paul Brass devoted a long chapter to the fate of the Maithili
language in independent India. Contrasting the case of Maithili with
some of the more ‘successful’ languages of modern times, he noted
that ‘Maithil Brāhmaṇas and Kāyasthas in north Bihar form an elite’,
who were heavily invested in ‘pursuing a policy of caste exclusiveness
and adherence to principles of caste hierarchy and orthodoxy’.39

37 Nyāya literally means logic or a set of rules/system. It was also the

name of a very famous ‘school’ of philosophy attributed to Gautam in ancient
Sanskrit traditions. The system was revived and made more sophisticated and
abstruse in the fourteenth century by several men, the most famous of them
being Vacaspati Miśra between the thirteenth and fifteenth centuries. This
new (navya) system of logic/philosophy came to be called navya-nyāya.
38 Pollock, The Language of the Gods, p. 492.
39 Brass, Language, Religion and Politics in North India, pp. 114–15.
24 a political history of literature

It is outside the scope of this volume to grapple with the complexity of

this politics or the sociology that underlies it. It is interesting to note,
however, that the rich traditions of learning in Mithila thrived in a rather
narrow social base, and hence the ‘richness’ of this tradition should not
be seen as unqualified.40 This glorious legacy, in fact, was subject to
a geographical differentiation too—another kind of internal layering.
Almost all the medieval authors who contributed to the making
of the scholarly traditions of Mithila hailed from its northern parts,
that is, the present districts of West and East Champaran, Sitamarhi,
Madhubani, Supaul, and the northern parts of Darbhanga and Saharsa.
Indeed, the north–south cultural fault line persists as a concept in the
lives of many orthodox Maithils even today. In remarking upon the
intolerably erudite ways of the northern Maithils, my uncle had pointed
to this very long-standing internal cultural differentiation within the
region. Even though this divide is rarely acknowledged in formalized
discourses, it does appear occasionally in modern fiction in Maithili.41
While this could become a subject for an independent study, pertinent
to note for the purposes of our present discussion is the relatively small
world of about a few hundred privileged men in the northern portions
of Mithila that constituted the learning milieu of Vidyapati. And yet,
many of these men were part of wider subcontinental circuits of textual
transmission, some of them probably very well-travelled as well. In its
geographical expanse, therefore, Mithila was hardly as ‘small’ an area
as it often appears in modern histories of medieval India.

Geographical Background
The cultural zone known as Mithila today constitutes a major chunk
of the modern province of Bihar, north of the Ganga. It is bound by
the terai of Nepal and the Himalayas in the north, the state of Uttar

40For a slightly more detailed discussion of this issue, see Jha, ‘Vidyapati:
itihasakāroṃ kī pratīkṣā meṃ’.
41 For example, in a story entitled ‘Pāñc Patra’ by Harimohan Jha, an old

man, in a letter he writes to his wife, rues the ungainly conduct of his appar-
ently cantankerous daughter-in-law and blames her vices on the fact that
she comes from the southern locales, dakkhinabhar. The story was probably
written in the 1960s. See Harimohan Jha, Bīchal Kathā, p. 39.
 Vidyapati and Mithila 25

Pradesh and the district of Gopalganj in the west, the Ganga in the
south, and West Bengal in the east.42 It falls in the latitudes between
25°18’ north and 27°37’ north. Its longitudinal dimensions lie
between 83°48’ east and 88°17’ east. Roughly, it covers an area close to
about 50,000 km2, with more than 30 million inhabitants at present.
It is not possible to estimate the population of this area during the
fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, but it was indisputably less than at
present, not least of all because a large chunk of land was still under
forest cover.
The alluvial plains of north Bihar might be counted among the
most fertile areas in the subcontinent. The floods in its numerous
rivers annually replenish its loam soil. Indeed, the most striking
feature of the landscape of this region is the large number of major
and minor rivers, rivulets, and other perennial or seasonal water
bodies like ponds. This also meant that moving through the region
was never easy, more so during the long rainy season. The aver-
age annual rainfall in the region at present varies between 120 cm
and 160 cm. The denser forest cover in the middle ages would
only have meant higher rainfall in those days. Large portions of
the area were densely forested in the fifteenth–sixteenth centuries,
especially along the foothills of the Himalayas from the district of
East Champaran eastward through a fairly wide but irregular strip
up to Purnea.43
It is important to note that the region of Mithila never lay on, or
even close to, the main transit routes of trade in the subcontinent.
North Indian goods bound for Bengal (and vice versa) and further east
to the oceans would either pass through the Ganga or take the land
route via Patna (Pataliputra/Kusumapura) south of it.44 Ordinarily,

42 Going by the current cultural topography, Mithila would thus include

the districts of West Champaran, East Champaran, Sheohar, Sitamarhi,
Madhubani, Supaul, Madhepura, Saharsa, Khagaria, Begusarai, Samastipur,
Darbhanga, Vaishali, and parts of Muzaffarpur, Bhagalpur, and Purnea.
43 Habib, An Atlas of the Mughal Empire, Sheet 10B.
44 This is reflected in the fact that Vidyapati’s Likhanāvalī (more fully

discussed in the following chapters), which had an entire section on

documenting business transactions, did not record even one large-scale
mercantile deal.
26 a political history of literature

this would also hold true for military troops, except when strategy
demanded otherwise—as when Ghiyas al-Din Tughluq (r. 1320–5)
decided to move through this region in order to force the Karṇāṭa
chieftain to pay tribute. As Afif recorded in a couple of instances in
his Tarikh-i Firuz Shahi, and as several stories in Puruṣaparīkṣā con-
vey, soldiers from Tirhut did go to distant places in search of military
service.45 Yet, agriculture, one might infer, must have been the chief,
if not the only source of livelihood for people in the region for most
of the year.
In the geographical representation of Bhāratavarṣa in
Varāhamihira’s Bṛihatsaṃhitā (sixth century), Mithila figured as one
of the regions in the east.46 Śāradātanaya, in his Bhāvaprakāśana
(twelfth century), listed ‘Maithila’ as one of the sixty-four janapadas
in the southern quarter of Bhāratavarṣa.47 Though in the mytho-
political imagination of epic and Purāṇic tradition, Mithila or Videh
or Tirhut/Tīrbhukti figured frequently, we hear of a historical
kingdom of Mithila only with the establishment of the Karṇāṭa
dynasty in the late-eleventh century.

The Political Setting

The political territory of Bihar during the sultanate period did not
encompass Mithila. The latter was an independent principality under
the Karṇāṭa dynasty (1097–1320s), founded by Nānyadeva. Like the
kings of the Sena dynasty (c. 1097–1223) of Bengal, Nānyadeva and
his kin belonged to a warrior lineage that had migrated in the eleventh

45See Chapter 4 and Chapter 2 in this volume for relevant references

in Puruṣaparīkṣā and Afif’s Tarikh-i Firuz Shahi, respectively. The eastern
regions were at the centre of Kolff ’s study of ‘the military labour market’
between the fifteenth and nineteenth centuries, though he does not deal
with the Mithila region separately. See Kolff, Naukar, Rajput and Sepoy.
46 Pollock, The Language of the Gods, p. 196.
47 Pollock, The Language of the Gods, p. 200. It was not simply a ‘factual

error’, to list ‘Maithila’ in the southern quarter alongside Magadha, Nepal, and
Bangāla. Rather, it was a particular time bound ordering of space whereby in
the Kaliyuga (the era of Kali), the entire Bhāratavarṣa is shown to be squeezed
into the southern most parts of the Indian subcontinent.
 Vidyapati and Mithila 27

century from Karnataka. They constructed a fairly large citadel at

Simarāoñ (Simarāoñgarh) in the modern district of East Champaran,
close to the border of Nepal.48 Some reports even suggest that one of
its several walls was made of burnt bricks.49 The circumstances of the
‘sudden’ appearance of a kingdom where none seems to have existed
earlier are obscure.
But we do know that under the Karṇāṭa dynasty, the chieftaincy of
Tirhut enjoyed a relatively autonomous position, occasionally perhaps,
even full sovereignty.50 However, Ghiyas al-Din Tughluq (r. 1320–5)
brought it under the direct suzerainty of the Delhi Sultanate early
in 1324, after removing the last ruler of the dynasty, Harisiṃhadeva
(1316–24).51 A few years later, Muhammad Tughluq put Kāmeśvara
Ṭhakkura, a Brāhmaṇa of Oinī village and the erstwhile royal priest
(Rājapaṇḍita) of Harisiṃhadeva, in charge.52 Thus, the second ruling

48 See Habib, An Atlas of the Mughal Empire, Sheet 10 A.

49 Chaudhary, ‘The Karṇāṭa Kingdom of Mithila’, p. 111. Dharmasvāmin’s
account claims that the town of Pata, identified with Simarāoñ, had 600,000
houses, and that it was surrounded by seven walls. This is clearly hyperbole,
but a later account of the ruins of Simarāoñ by Hodgson attests to the idea
that it was a fairly large establishment, though not made of very durable
materials. See Biography of Dharmasvamin (Chag lo Tsa-ba Chos-rje-dpal),
deciphered and translated from original Tibetan into English by George
Roerich. Patna: K.P. Jayaswal Research Institute, 1959, p. 58.
50 While almost all historians and scholars of Hindi and Maithili writing

on Vidyapati or Tirhut refer to the Karṇāṭa dynasty as sovereign, it appears

that at least for some periods, this might not have been the case. Thus, Barani
reported that the Raja of Tirhut supplied troops to Sultan ‘Ala al-Din Khalaji
during the latter’s expedition to Tilang in 1302–3. See Jackson, The Delhi
Sultanate, p. 201. Interestingly, Vidyapati himself portrays a Karnāṭa prince,
Narasiṃhadeva, fighting under ‘Mahamad’, the Lord of the Yavanas, against the
‘kāpahara rājās’ in one of his stories; see Vidyapati, Puruṣaparīkṣā, pp. 28–32.
51 Though Barani, surprisingly, does not mention the incident, most

other contemporary and near contemporary Persian sources refer to this

incident with some level of consistency. These include Ikhtisan’s eyewitness
account, titled Basatin ul-Uns and Isami’s Futuh al-Salatin, apart from others
like Ferishta and Mulla Taqiya. See Askari, ‘Historical Value of Basatin-ul-
Uns’. For details about others, see Ansari, ‘End of the Karnata Kingdom’.
52 Ansari, ‘Bihar under Firuz Shah Tughlaq’.
28 a political history of literature

lineage of Mithila, a Brāhmaṇa dynasty, came into being.53 It came

to be known as the Oinivāra dynasty, derived from the name of the
village the rulers came from.
In 1371, a Turkish commander, Malik Arsalan (Aslān in Avahaṭṭha),
killed the then Oinivāra ruler Raja Gaṇeśvara (or Ganesara), and
annexed the territory of Tirhut.54 Malik Arsalan thus acquired control
of the area until two (of the three) sons of Gaṇeśvara (Vīrasiṃha and
Kīrttisiṃha) reached maturity, and challenged and defeated Arsalan
with the help of the Sharqi ruler, Sultan Ibrahim, sometime in 1401
or 1402. They re-established the reign of the Oinivāra dynasty in the
region under the suzerainty of the Sharqis. Vidyapati was friends
with, and in the service of, Kīrttisiṃha and Vīrasiṃha. He seems to
have visited Jaunpur with the two aspiring rulers to enlist the support
of the Sharqi ruler, and reported the whole incident in considerable
detail in his Kīrttilatā.55
It is curious that after the kingdom was restored to the Oinivāra
dynasty, it was Kīrttisiṃha, the youngest of the three sons of Raja
Ganesara, who ascended the throne (see Figure 1.1). The absence
of details regarding the politics and social history of the ruling
family makes the succession to high office in this dynasty difficult
to fathom. Thus, Kīrttisiṃha was succeeded after his death by his
grandfather’s cousin, Bhavasiṃha (aka Bhaveśvarasiṃha), who
in turn was replaced after his death by his third son (out of four),
Devasiṃha. His eldest son, Śivasiṃha, was the most famous of
Vidyapati’s patrons. His death put his chief queen, Lakhimādevī, on

53In his Kīrttilatā, Vidyapati remarked positively on this uncommon

phenomenon. He commended his patron-friend Kīrttisiṃha by rhetorically
observing that it was rare for a man to be both bhūbai (King, but literally,
‘lord of the land’) and bhūdeva (Brāhmaṇa, but literally, ‘god of the land’). See
Chapter 5 in this volume.
54 The date of this event is given as the Year 252 of the Lakṣamaṇa Era.

The era is named after the Sena ruler, Lakṣmaṇa of Bengal. It was in the court
of Lakṣamaṇa Sena that the famous poet Jayadev flourished. A slab fixed in
the doorway of Lakṣamaṇa Sena’s palace apparently mentioned Jayadev as
one of the five gems in the ruler’s court. See Grierson, ‘Vidyapati and His
Contemporaries’, p. 183.
55 For a fuller discussion, see Chapter 5 in this volume.
 Vidyapati and Mithila 29

1. Kameśvara T ̣hakkura*

2. Bhogīśvara T ̣hakkura (+3) 5. Bhaveśvara T ̣hakkura

(Bhogīsar T ̣hakkura) (Bhavasim ̣ ha)

3. Gan ̣eśvara T ̣hakkura (+3)

6. Devasim
̣ ha (+3) 11. Harisim
̣ ha

Vīrsim ̣ ha Jayasim
̣ ha 4. Kīrtisim ̣ ha
7. Śivasim
̣ ha 9. Padmasim
̣ ha

8. Rānī Lakhimādevī
(Śivasim
̣ ha’s Queen) 10. Viśvāsadevī
(Padmasim ̣ ha’s Queen)

12. Narasim
̣ ha (+3)

13. Dhīrasim
̣ ha (+4) 14. Bhairavasim
̣ ha

15. Rūpanārāyan ̣a Rāmabhadrasim

̣ ha (+1)

16. Kam
̣ sanārāyan ̣a Laks ̣mīnāthasim
̣ ha (+3)

Figure 1.1 Oinivāra Dynasty Succession Chart†

Source: Author’s Compilation.
Notes: * The serial numbers before the names signify the order of succession.
The numbers in the parentheses indicate the number of brothers each person
had. Among brothers, the one on the left is the eldest and the one on the right is
the youngest.
† This is based on gleanings from various references to the rulers of the Oinivāra

dynasty in Vidyapati’s works and those of his contemporary authors from Mithila,
as well as some references in Persian chronicles. I have supplemented that data
with some of the general histories of Mithila and biographies of Vidyapati. Slightly
different genealogy and succession charts of the dynasty are given in Sharmmā,
Mithila kā Itihās, and Anand and Jha, ‘Bhumikā’.
30 a political history of literature

the throne but she soon had to flee to Nepal, probably because of the
hostility of one of Śivasiṃha’s cousins, Sāmbasiṃha or Rāya Arjuna.
She seems to have returned to Mithila after a decade or so, only to
rule for a few years before giving way to Padmasiṃha, her husband’s
youngest brother. Interestingly, another queen (Rani Viśvāsadevī)
ruled after Padmasiṃha’s death. The names of the rulers of this
dynasty up to its last ruler, Kaṃsanārāyaṇa Lakṣmīnāthasiṃha, are
given in Figure 1.1.
These details are interesting, and a closer look reveals other patterns.
After the fourth ruler, for example, succession shifted from the heirs
of Bhogīśvara Ṭhakkura to the collateral cousin lineage of Bhaveśvara
Ṭhakkura. There seems to have been some tension between vertical
and horizontal lines of succession within the lineage. The former
was followed between the fifth ruler, Bhaveśvara, and the eighth ruler,
Lakhimādevī. But a contrasting tradition of horizontal succession led
to shifts in succession from the lineage of the sixth ruler, Devasiṃha,
to the eleventh, Harisiṃha, and again from the thirteenth ruler, Raja
Dhīrasiṃha, to the fourteenth, Raja Bhairavasiṃha, before the vertical
line of succession reasserted itself again with the fifteenth and the
sixteenth, who were, the last two rulers. While intriguing patterns
of succession can be deciphered, equally significant are the silences
regarding contestation and conflict. We would expect moments of
transition from one ruler to the next to have been tumultuous, but
whatever few contemporary accounts we have of these moments,
fail to notice any such incidence. Sadly, we can only notice these
curious details, as there is inadequate evidence to develop them with
sufficient rigour.
These problems persist: while we do know the broad sequence in
which they followed each other, the period of their reigns cannot be
worked out with precision. Since this volume focusses primarily on
three of Vidyapati’s texts, it is useful for us to know, roughly, the time
and sequence in which they were composed. Kīrttilatā was dedicated
to, and written during the rulership of Kīrttisiṃha, for example,
whose reign started in 1401 or 1402 and continued for at least seven
or eight years. Puruṣaparīkṣā is dedicated to Śivasiṃha, who ruled
for not more than five years in the second decade of the fifteenth
century. Likhanāvalī, the last of the three texts considered here, was
composed at the behest of a ruler of a small chieftaincy in Nepal by
 Vidyapati and Mithila 31

the name of Purāditya Girinārāyaṇa.56 Purāditya Girinārāyaṇa is com-

mended by Vidyapati as one who destroyed Arjun since the latter was
‘guilty of cruel conduct towards his own kinsmen’.57 We know that
after Śivasiṃha’s mysterious disappearance/death, his chief queen
Lakhimādevī had to flee and take refuge somewhere in Nepal. It is
during this period that Vidyapati, a very close associate and the royal
priest of Śivasiṃha, would also have spent time in Nepal. Thus, it
may safely be assumed that it must have been after 1418 or so that he
would have composed Likhanāvalī. This would also go well with the
fact that all of the documents in the text are dated to the year 299 of
the Lakṣamaṇa Era, which would correspond roughly to 1418 ce.
Apart from the barest outline of the dynastic succession of the
Oinivāra rulers, we know very little about the political or institutional
developments during this period in the Mithila chieftaincy. Apart from
the very few extant inscriptions of the time and occasional references
in certain local texts, Vidyapati’s own extensive compositions are the
chief sources of information for this period. However, the poet, who
served seven princes and two queens (see Table 1.1), hardly saw his
role as one of merely chronicling the factual details of his immedi-
ate patrons. He probably fancied a greater historical role for himself,
one that was tied to traditions of scholarship and knowledge produc-
tion at a much grander level. These traditions were rich and vibrant
in Mithila, but they were part of a larger trans-regional network, as
we shall see in the next chapter, and in Part 2. Historians, however,
have hardly begun to explore these issues. Modern historiography on
medieval Mithila, or indeed on Bihar as a whole,58 has hardly moved
beyond the chronicling of the fluctuating fortunes of ruling dynas-
ties, and cultivation of pride in the achievements of local heroes like
Vidyapati.

56 See Chapter 3 in this volume for details.

57 See Vidyapati, Likhanāvalī, p. 63.
58 Even after Ghiyas al-Din Tughluq brought Mithila (present north Bihar)

under the control of the Delhi Sultanate, it did not become part of the Bihar
suba. It was only with the establishment of Mughal rule that the Bihar suba
came to include Mithila, with Champaran, Tirhut, and Hajipur constituting
separate sarkars within it. See Habib, An Atlas of the Mughal Empire, p. 39;
Sheet 10A.
32 a political history of literature

Historiography
Magadh, the region in and around the ancient city of Pataliputra,
was at the centre of much of the historiography of ‘Ancient India’ as
the seat of the powerful Maurya kingdom. The area occupied by the
present province of Bihar also included the sites where Buddhism
and Jainism were born. However, these areas disappeared from the
historian’s view a few centuries before the establishment of Delhi
Sultanate.59 Bihar, as we know it today, is an administrative unit, or
a region that the geographer Schwartzberg would have identified as
‘instituted’.60 It was the Sultanate chronicler Minhaj-i Siraj al-Din
Juzjani in his Tabaqat-i Nasiri, who first used the name Bihar for the
region, probably because he saw a large number of Buddhist vihāras61
south of the Ganga.62 Interestingly, it was the township known today
as Biharsharif that came to be identified in the thirteenth century as
Bihar. In the fourteenth century, the township of Bihar came to be
known as Biharsharif in honour of the famous Sufi preacher, Sheikh
Sharaf al-Din Ahmad ibn-Yahya Maneri of the Firdausi silsila (a chain
of preceptor-disciple relationship among sufis, who almost always
identified with and took pride in their spiritual lineage), who estab-
lished his khanqa here. Soon the word ‘Bihar’ came to stand for the
whole province though we do not know exactly when or how. Yet, it is
clear that the area north of the Ganga was not an integral part of this
province. That area, identified as Tīrabhukti or Tirhut, constituted a
separate geopolitical and cultural zone until the time of the Mughals.
Many would say that this area is culturally and geographically distinct
even now. Demands for a separate state of Mithila have variously been
made at different moments. Those at the forefront of these demands
usually are the upper-caste, Maithili-speaking urban populace of

59What is meant here is the modern province of Bihar, which consists

of both the region of Mithilā/Tirahutā in the northeastern part and the region
to the south of the Ganga that was part of the medieval suba of Bihar.
60 Cited in Bhattacharya, ‘Reflections on the Concept of Regional

History’, p. 5.
61 Buddhist vihāras refer to Buddhist monasteries. Vihāra literally means

a place to roam around in pleasure. It also meant a Buddhist (or a Jain) mon-
astery. The equivalent of a convent in Buddhism was known as vihārikā.
62 Ansari, ‘Historical Geography of Bihār’.
 Vidyapati and Mithila 33

north Bihar. Though these demands seem to go back to the 1950s,

if not earlier, they have gained some ground since the 1980s.63 Almost
all major political parties, in somewhat perfunctory ways, have
pledged their support to the cause, usually on the eve of elections or
when new states (Jharkhand in 2000, and Telangana more recently)
were carved out.
The Delhi Sultanate’s celebrated chroniclers like Minhaj-i Siraj al-Din
Juzjani, Ziya al-Din Barani, or Shams-i Siraj Afif offered very little
information on the area. This led to the unfortunate consequence that
historians writing on the thirteenth or fourteenth centuries tended,
with a few exceptions, to forget its existence within the Sultanate
realm. To be sure, ‘sources’ of information were still available for
the Sultanate and post-Sultanate period on Bihar. A large corpus of
Persian, Sanskrit, and vernacular materials is awaiting the historian’s
attention.64 Those few scholars who did take note of these materi-
als only managed to accomplish the basic spadework of research.
They put these materials together, with occasional remarks on their
immediate contexts. More often, they picked up those pieces of
information that helped their own limited agenda of holding aloft the
pride of the local Maithil culture, or writing up simplistic dynastic
accounts, or studying the peculiarities of the languages used in the
area. Prominent among these scholars were George A. Grierson,
Paul Jackson, K.P. Jayaswal, H.N. Ansari, S.H. Askari, Qeyamuddin

63 In 1986, Vijay Kumar Mishra, a Janata Party member of parliament

from Darbhanga and son of the Congress Stalwart, Lalit Narayan Mishra,
courted arrest with 5,000 supporters, demanding a separate state of
Mithilanchal. See India Today, 15 February 1986. For earlier, somewhat
lukewarm, mobilizations, see Brass, Language, Religion and Politics, especially
Chapter 2: ‘The Maithili Movement in North Bihar’, pp. 51–118.
64 Here is a small sample of published material: Ahmad, Corpus of Arabic

and Persian Inscriptions of Bihar. A collection of letters written by the famous

fourteenth-century Firdausi Sufi Sheikh of Bihar, Sharaf al-Din Ahmad ibn-
Yahya Maneri, was translated into English by Bruce Lawrence; see Maneri,
Maktubat-i Sadi or The Hundred Letters. A malfuz (verbatim report on con-
versation) of Maneri, out of six such extant texts, was translated into English
by Paul Jackson. See Arabi, Khwan-i Pur Ni’mat. We have already seen how
vibrant the Sanskrit, Apabhraṃśa, and local-dialect literary traditions were
in Mithila.
34 a political history of literature

Ahmad, Jagdeesh Naryan Sarkar, Radhakrishna Chaudhary, Upendra

Thakur, and Hetukar Jha.65 Limited though their contributions might
appear to a later researcher, they did help prepare the basic positiv-
istic ground for further enquiry. Each of these scholars contributed
to the process in their own ways, and it is difficult to remark on
their individual contributions. Yet, one cannot help but note that in
spite of the dissimilarities in their approach, methods, and rigour,
most of their contributions are descriptive in orientation, and share
certain problematic assumptions. First, all of these scholars, for
example, take Mithila as a region as given, one that was mentioned in
Mahābhārata and Rāmāyaṇa. They write histories of the glorious rise
and unfortunate fall of Mithila, as if it were an integral whole, evenly
structured and culturally singular, and as though it had always been
so. Second, almost every scholarly work, including the more rigor-
ously researched writings of Radhakrishna Chaudhary and Hetukar
Jha, sees the period from the twelfth to the fifteenth century as a
period of crisis precipitated by ‘Islamic military raids’.
That the first autonomous medieval kingdom of the region
founded by the Karṇāṭa dynasty (1097–1320s) flourished during this
period, or that it is precisely the period between the twelfth and the
fifteenth centuries that witnessed a literary efflorescence in both
Sanskrit and the vernacular, did not provoke more searching ques-
tions about the nature of this assumed crisis. In fact, their writings
portray this crisis as social and cultural as well as political.66 To put
it simply, it is not clear as to how social and cultural life is seen to be

65A selection of the published works include, Grierson, Maithilī

Chrestomathy; Chaudhary, Mithilā in the Age of Vidyāpati; Chaudhary, Select
Inscriptions of Bihar; Chaudhary, History of Muslim Rule in Tirhut; Thakur,
‘Institutions of Slavery in Mithilā’; Aquique, Economic History of Mithilā;
Sinha, Mithilā under the Karnāṭas; Sarkar, Glimpses of Medieval Bihar Economy;
Ansari, ‘Historical Geography of Bihār; Askari, ‘A Fifteenth Century Shuttari
Sufi Saint of North Bihar’; Askari, ‘Bihar in the Time of Akbar’; Askari,
Collected Works, vol. 1; Thakur and Verma, India and the Afghans; Jha, Man
in Indian Tradition.
66 Jha, Man in Indian Tradition, pp. 12–13. Shivprasad Singh, in what is

arguably the most well-researched biography of Vidyāpati, also argues along

similar lines. See Singh, Vidyāpati, pp. 48–9.
 Vidyapati and Mithila 35

coterminous with dynastic–political fortunes or the interests of the

politico-administrative elites. Clearly, if regional political formations
suffered simplistic histories, the situation was somewhat worse for
the study of ‘sub-regional and local’ political and social formations,
such as the chieftaincy of Mithila/Tirhut.
One reason why historians steered clear of Vidyapati for so long
might have to do with what could broadly be understood as the dis-
abling consequence of ‘labelling’. Writing his seminal work on the
history of Hindi literature in 1929, Ram Chandra Shukla implicitly
acknowledged this problem in the interesting way in which he situ-
ated Vidyapati, inadvertently linking him with another polymath, the
Persian poet and chronicler Amir Khusrau. Shukla divided his history
into ‘vīragāthā kāl’ (Era of Heroic Poetry, up to 1375), ‘bhakti kāl’ (Era
of Devotional Literature, up to 1700), ‘rīti kāl’ (Era of Tradition, up to
1900), and ‘ādhunik kāl’ (Modern Era). Since he could not conveniently
assimilate Vidyapati into any of these labels, he created a new one—
‘phuṭakal racanāyeñ’ (literally, loose or occasional compositions)—and
discussed Vidyapati together with Khusrau under this curious
heading.67 Almost thirty years later, Shivprasad Singh highlighted
the problem more directly when he remarked that ‘you can consider
Vidyapati as one who gave birth to rītikālīn poetry…. On the other
hand, you can also call him the first poet of bhakti kāl’.68 Considering
the ways in which Vidyapati used vīra rasa to great effect in Kīrttilatā,
Singh might as well have added that Vidyapati was perhaps the last
exponent of the vīra rasa as well.69
But it was not just the chief thrust of the poet’s literary flavour
that was under dispute; scholars of Hindi literature could not even
agree on his sectarian affiliations. If Shukla and his followers shared
the popular perception that Vidyapati was a Śaiva, others like Hazari
Prasad Dvivedi and Shivprasad Singh noted that his compositions also
displayed a Vaiṣṇava bhakti inclination. Radhakrishna Chaudhary is
convinced that Vidyapati was a committed Vaiṣṇava, and tries hard
to prove it.70 The residents of Bisfi, the place of his birth, believe that

67 Shukla, Hindi Sāhitya kā Itihās, pp. 37–8.

68 Singh, Vidyāpati, p. 16.
69 See Chapter 5 in this volume.
70 Chaudhary, A Survey of Maithili Literature, pp. 57–62.
36 a political history of literature

Vidyapati was primarily a devotee of Goddess Bhagavatī,71 while also

considering him to be a Śaiva. While such ‘confusions’ in labelling
could have potentially sensitized historians to the limits of such
anachronistic usage of familiar terminologies, this did not happen.
Instead, in their keenness to write about various eras in the history
of literature (or about various shades of devotionalism and other
such trends in medieval India), historians selected information that
helped to confirm their prefabricated narratives, simply bypassing the
fifteenth-century poet, who was much too inconvenient and complex
to fit into their categories.
This chapter has tried to trace the broad contours of the familial,
social, political, and cultural milieu within Mithila that Vidyapati
inhabited and emerged from. The way the ‘yugpuruṣa’ is glorified
and remembered is not the subject of my study. But it is important
to understand the contemporary significance of the fifteenth-century
poet—both at the scholarly level as well as at the popular level. Taking
note of the way in which culture enthusiasts in Mithila have written
about Vidyapati and Mithila in recent times constitutes one aspect
of it. It is equally important to understand the kind of works that
this polyglot might possibly have grown up with in a much broader
context. Without that, it would be impossible to excavate the deep his-
tories behind the ones he wrote. At the same time, one has to move
beyond the preset sectarian and regional confines and relocate him
in the wider world of the creative and political traditions of North
India, Bihar, and Bengal in the fifteenth century. I have turned to
these questions in the following chapter and mapped the literary cul-
tures of North India in the fifteenth century, before moving on to a
more concerted study of some of his compositions and their historical
implications in Part 2 of this volume.

71 In his compositions, Vidyapati refers to her as Ādi Śakti.

2 The Literary and the Political
in the Fifteenth Century

The crucial moments for cultural history are not necessarily the great
imperial moments, as historians used to think they were, the moments when
Alexander dipped his toe into India, or the Guptas built their empire. For
some of the richest and most original cultural developments take place when
there isn’t an empire, in the cracks between the great dynastic periods.1
—Wendy Doniger

Fifteenth Century Lost and Found

How does one talk about a century? Is it possible for a historian to
talk about a century at all? After all, it is merely an arbitrary and
arithmetical quantity. As Ivo Schöffer pointed out in the context of
European historiography about the seventeenth century, ‘[t]rends

1 Doniger, The Hindus, p. 20.

A Political History of Literature: Vidyapati and the Fifteenth Century. Pankaj Jha,
Oxford University Press (2019). © Pankaj Jha.
DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780199489558.003.0002
38 a political history of literature

and developments do not in fact take 31 December or 1 January into

account, and pass unnoticed from the year 99 to 100’. Yet, ‘in spite of
these rational objections, the desire to treat a century as an era does
not seem to die down.’2 Indeed Schöffer’s protest about the histori-
ography of the European seventeenth century is oddly reminiscent of
the historiography of the North Indian fifteenth century:

It sometimes seems as if the seventeenth century, wedged between the

sixteenth and eighteenth centuries, has no features of its own. With
Renaissance and Reformation on the one side, Enlightenment and
Revolution on the other, for the century in between we are left with
but vague terms like “transition” and “change” … for the seventeenth
century … we read only fragmentary treatment, country by country….3

The problem of arbitrary arithmetic might, to some extent, be

resolved by treating the century, in our case the fifteenth century, in
a flexible way, such that it allows us to carve out a more ‘meaningful’
timespan, broadly encompassing the century. Thus, a recent volume
on the fifteenth century envisages it as having started ‘after Timur
left’ in 1398 and ended with the military conquest of North India in
1526 by Babur, a descendant of Timur.4 This helps frame the century
in a conceptual way wherein a common thread may be seen to run
through it. Interestingly, this privileging of the regnant political nar-
rative for carving out the slice of time period corresponds too closely
to an earlier historiography that the editors of and the contributions
to the volume seek to challenge.
While it is important to move beyond the arithmetical cut-off dates
of a century on either side, a singular conceptualization of a century,
I would like to argue, would still be a problem in some respects.
Historical developments in different aspects of life, even those closely
related to each other, rarely coincide chronologically. In other words,
how far ‘the fifteenth century’ may stretch on either end should
depend on what problem and which place we are talking about. In the

2Schöffer, ‘Did Holland’s Golden Age Coincide with a Period of Crisis?’,

p. 88.
3 Schöffer, ‘Did Holland’s Golden Age Coincide with a Period of Crisis?’,

p. 88.
4 Orsini and Sheikh, ‘Introduction’.
 The Literary and the Political in the Fifteenth Century 39

context of the literary cultures of the Mithila region, for example, it is

possible to assert that a text like Caṇḍeśvara’s late-thirteenth (or early-
fourteenth) century Rājanītiratnākara probably belongs more to the
fifteenth century inasmuch as a Brāhmaṇa scholar in a tiny local court
of north Bihar composed it, far away from any direct influence of the
Delhi Sultanate. Including this Sanskrit treatise on politics in the
oeuvre of the long fifteenth century, however, is not a factual instru-
ment. Rather, it is an argument that if the fifteenth century embodied
the imperium-oriented vitality of local literary elites, such literary
expressions could be traced even to the thirteenth and the fourteenth
centuries! Similarly, if one is able to demonstrate that many of the
Rājapūta lineages who succeeded in consolidating their footholds in
their respective domains during the fifteenth century were precisely
those who played a critical role in the consolidation of the Mughal
dispensation under Akbar, one might say that the shadows of the
fifteenth century, if not the fifteenth century itself, loom large even
beyond the 1550s! As with the earlier example, however, this too in
the end is not a given fact but an argument about the characteristics
of the fifteenth century.
Modern historical writing on the fifteenth century might loosely
be classified under four heads that only occasionally overlap: (a) those
that provide histories of ‘regional’ kingdoms/dynasties; (b) those that
deal with the development of devotional practices and literatures,
mostly ‘bhakti’ ideas and occasionally Sufi; (c) limited explorations on
warfare and practices of soldiery including what has been called the
‘military labour market’; and (d) recent researches (of the last fifteen
years or so) on literary cultures and knowledge formations.

Regional History
In the historiography of the regions north of the Vindhyās, the fif-
teenth century figured for long as ‘the period between’ the heyday
of the Delhi Sultanate and the emergence of the Mughal Empire.
K.S. Lal framed the period as the ‘twilight of the Sultanate’ in 1963,
and its historiography has since refused to break out of the mould.5
The shadow of the Delhi Sultanate still looms large over the fifteenth

5 Lal, Twilight of the Sultanate.

40 a political history of literature

century, with the result that historians are used to noticing only ‘signs
of decline and disintegration’ in this period. If the beginning of the
decay was framed by Timur’s invasion and sacking of Delhi in 1398,
it was deemed to have been reversed with the invasion of Babur in
1526, and the ‘consequent’ emergence of the Mughal state. This is
why the long fifteenth century ended, for Lal and for others following
him, in 1526.6 Indeed this perspective was somewhat relevant for his-
torians interested in the territorial–dynastic fortunes of the Sultanates
of Malwa (1401–1562), Jaunpur (1394–1484), or Gujarat (1403–1573),
although, even in this limited sense, it carried little salience for his-
torians working on the Sultanate of Bengal (1339–1534) or that of
the Bahmanids (1346–1538). For them Timur’s invasion was distant
and relatively unimportant, and they found points of major historical
transitions earlier, in the mid-fourteenth century.7
On the face of it, all this appeared ‘natural’. There could not be any
doubt that the invasions of Timur and Babur were momentous events
with significant historical ramifications. Nor is it disputed that the
Delhi Sultanate and the Mughal state were the most powerful political
entities of their time. The trouble was the presumption, however, that
the period that fell between these two formations must be seen only
as a ‘gap’ or as what was left (for example, small regional states con-
stantly squabbling with each other for petty gains) after the Sultanate
declined or as the period of ‘weak’ states incapable of stalling the
march of ‘foreign’ conquerors like Timur and Babur. There was no
way to relate the vast corpus of non-Persian or even Persian literary
productions of the time, some of which were explicitly political, to this
thin historiography.
An assessment of the modern historiography of the fifteenth-
century North India presents interesting difficulties. These difficulties
are best understood with reference to the uneven ways in which
historians have more generally approached the period(s) between the

6
Lal did not call it the ‘long’ fifteenth century though.
7
Even apart from the establishment of an independent Sultanate, early-
and mid-fourteenth century Bengal witnessed far-reaching developments.
Sonargaon on the eastern frontier, for example, emerged as a major centre of
Islamic/Sufi culture around this time. See Eaton, Rise of Islam and the Bengal
Frontier; Masumi, ‘Sunargaon’s Contribution to Islamic Learning’.
 The Literary and the Political in the Fifteenth Century 41

seventh and the seventeenth century. Thus, historians perceived

the period between the kingdom of Harṣavardhana (death: 647 ce)
and the establishment of the Delhi Sultanate (1210/11), as ‘early
medieval India’, a period of local and regional kingdoms. Various
models, ‘a period of stagnation’, ‘feudalism’, ‘integrative’, ‘segmen-
tary’, and so on, cropped up to account for the rise of the ‘regions’.
With the exception of B.D. Chattopadhyaya and Burton Stein along
with those who endorsed/elaborated their views, all others took
the ‘region’ to be the automatic corollary of the disappearance of
imperial kingdoms, even as they perceived them in diverse ways.
An interesting component of this historiographic mosaic vis-à-vis
the early-medieval period was that in the absence of ready-made
contemporary histories, most historians engaged with a range of
non-chronicler sources–epigraphs and coins, but also literary com-
positions, dictionaries, Puraṇic literature, travellers’ accounts (for
example, Hsuan Tsang), genealogies, praise-poems (praśasti), and so
on–and stitched them together to arrive at an idea of life and liveli-
hood, as well as socio-economic and political systems/processes of
the time.
With the establishment of the Delhi Sultanate, the character of
historiography changed dramatically. Persian, a relatively new entity
on the linguistic map of the subcontinent, emerged for all practical
purposes as the Sultanate’s language of choice right in the thirteenth
century itself. While inscriptions, literary compositions, texts on gram-
mar, aesthetics, and lexicography, as well as philosophy continued to
be produced in Sanskrit, alongside the steadily emerging ‘regional’
languages, historians now had access to an entirely new typology of
‘sources’: the state-patronized chronicler accounts in Persian that pro-
vided a panoramic view of the affairs of the sultanate, especially the
activities, preoccupations, and accomplishments of its elite agents.
Historians now turned to this new ‘archive’, mostly to the exclusion
of the literary and epigraphic corpus in other languages that was the
mainstay of raw materials for them for the earlier period. Predictably,
all history for the period after the twelfth century became state-
centric, and everything seemed to flow from the government. A range
of ‘useful’ new themes engaged the historians of medieval ‘India’:
reasons for the success of the Turks, nature of the ‘nobility’, Balban’s
theory of kingship, market reforms of Ala al-Din Muhammad Khalji,
42 a political history of literature

avant-garde projects of Muhammad Shah Tughluq, and the ubiq-

uitous iqta8 as the institutional backbone of a state presumed to be
centralized. These themes were served to historians on a platter by
their ‘primary sources’ (read Persian chronicles). Many medievalists
referred to these texts as ‘authorities’ to drive home their ostensible
unimpeachability.
As the Sultanate declined, however, the regional kingdoms
perforce made a revanche during the long fifteenth century. With
different proportions of nationalist sensibilities inevitably inflecting
historical reconstructions in the decades just before and after
Independence, big imperial kingdoms were easily, though not always
explicitly, equated with unity and uniformity of politics and culture.
Conversely, the absence of trans-regional polities signified disintegra-
tion, disunity, and even a rise in parochial sensibilities. The simplistic
binary that this practice imposed on medieval Indian history has been
commented upon by scholars at least since the 1970s, and should
not hold us back here.9 Suffice it to say that the trend has not been
substantively arrested as yet. The trope of the ‘twilight of the Delhi
Sultanate’ has reappeared in a more sophisticated narrative as the
‘epilogue’.10 When some historians actually started focussing on the
fifteenth century, however, they always framed the period in terms
of histories of regional polities in a way that took the whole idea of
‘regions/regionalism’ as natural entities to emerge during periods

8Iqta (literally a part/portion) during the sultanate period is widely per-

ceived by modern historians to be a revenue assignment and a military charge
usually given by the king to his subordinates in lieu of salary. However, closer
readings of Persian literature of the time suggest that it might have been
a generic term used in diverse contexts for a selection of administrative/
military/revenue charges and more (or less). In fact, the Persian texts of the
thirteenth and the fourteenth centuries appear to use the term too loosely for
us to allow talking about a singular ‘iqta system’.
9 For the early-medieval context, see Chattopadhyaya, ‘Political Processes

and Structure of Polity in Early Medieval India’, and Chattopadhyaya,

‘Introduction’. For a brief comment on the problem in the context of the
fifteenth century, see Kumar, ‘Bandagī and Naukarī’.
10 See Jackson, The Delhi Sultanate, where the period between 1400 and

1526 is treated in the last chapter as the ‘epilogue’.

 The Literary and the Political in the Fifteenth Century 43

of non-imperial ‘interregnums’.11 All that such histories typically

recorded were dynastic/kingly achievements in terms of territorial
victories/losses, court intrigues, and at best, building activities with
reference to one or the other ‘regional’ kingdoms.

Bhakti ‘Movement’
Another strand of historiography on the fifteenth century focussed
primarily on what came to be regarded as the ‘Bhakti Movement’.
First noticed by scholars as a new literary current, historians soon
started writing about Bhakti as a radical social movement against
what was vaguely understood as excesses of the varṇa/jāti order.
The bhakti-centred historiography was interesting in as much as it
filled up the ‘interregnum’ of the fifteenth century with an account of
meaningful developments in the cultural domain. However, most of
these accounts did not bother about the spatial, literary, or material/
political contexts of the ‘movement’. Cultural history appeared to be
an isolated field where radically new ideas, very much like medieval
states, appeared to emerge from nowhere in particular. Attempts to
provide a historical background to these developments were few and
thin. An early attempt was made by Tara Chand, who looked at the
Bhakti movement as an outcome of ‘the influence of Islam on Indian
culture’, also the title of his book.12 It might be seen as a feeble and
sweeping attempt to transpose a ‘politically correct’ Nehruvian ideal
anachronistically onto medieval Indian history. Much later, Irfan
Habib attempted to explain the monotheistic currents embodied by

11 A telling example of this trend is the ambitious project, A Comprehensive

History of India, undertaken and published under the auspices of the Indian
History Congress and People’s Publishing House. Initiated by a committee
of the Indian History Congress in 1943 at Aligarh, the fifth volume of the
series had two parts. Curiously, both parts were titled ‘The Delhi Sultanate,
1206–1526’, even though the first one dealt with the Delhi Sultanate that ran
into roughly 750 pages, whereas the second part (in less than 600 pages) dealt
with, what Satish Chandra, as secretary to the Editorial Board, called ‘the vari-
ous provincial kingdoms’ in his foreword to the second edition of the series in
1992. See Habib and Nizami, A Comprehensive History of India.
12 Tara Chand, Influence of Islam on Indian Culture.
44 a political history of literature

sants such as Kabīr, Nānak, and (later) Dādu as a consequence of

the policies of the Delhi Sultans. According to Habib, what prepared
the ground socially for the monotheistic idealism of the fifteenth–
sixteenth centuries were material transitions—the introduction of
new technologies and professions, ushered into the subcontinent by
the sultanate.13 This argument fell on the worn out presumption that
technology led to the rise of new aspirational professions/groups,
and these groups then challenged the existing social and political
hierarchies. Yet this was one valiant attempt to link the domain of
the literary and the cultural with the domain of the state and the
political. It also entailed the diachronic view that what happened in
the fifteenth century could have been a result of what transpired in
the thirteenth and the fourteenth.
Beginning with the 1990s, however, intimate textual studies of
certain Bhakti writings started to emerge. Foremost among these are
the works of historians like Charlotte Vaudeville and John Stratton
Hawley.14 These studies marked a new beginning in the study of
the Bhakti literary corpus in so far as they paid close attention to the
manner in which certain texts were canonized and congealed together
long after they were actually ‘composed’. Very often they also explored
the ideals and literary streams that fed into the texts as well as the
ways in which they were remembered and rallied around afterwards.
In doing so, they ended up interrogating the very category of the
Bhakti Movement, especially the use of the later word to describe this
literary–cultural–religious phenomenon. More recently, for example,
Hawley has produced a virtual biography of this category in a work
marked by extremely rich empirical research. While the early texts
and protagonists around whom the idea of the North Indian bhakti
movement cohered mostly belonged to the fifteenth or earlier centu-
ries, Hawley argued, it was through a series of textual, performative,
and political interventions in the period between the sixteenth and
the early twentieth centuries that the taxonomies of the bhakti
movement were forcefully articulated and stabilized. Thus, it was a

13See Habib, ‘Kabir: The Historical Setting’. In a social context, a similar

argument was put forth by another historian. See Siddiqui, ‘Social Mobility
in the Delhi Sultanate’.
14 See Vaudeville, A Weaver Named Kabir; Hawley, Three Bhakti Voices.
 The Literary and the Political in the Fifteenth Century 45

network of people, ideas, and canons that distinguished Bhakti as

a historical force, according to the author. He noted the crucial role
that the Mughal ruling elites and certain Rājapūta chieftains played
in this process as both patrons as well as clients of the ‘movement’.
He also duly acknowledged the parallel and contingent process of
literary vernacularization in this context, but did not take it up for
detailed treatment.15
A recent work by Christian Lee Novetzke focussed on the Marathi
vernacular sphere, follows a comparable, if not similar, methodologi-
cal track. Through an intimate exploration of Lilacaritra (c. 1278 ce)
and Jnaneshvari (c. 1290 ce), the author opens up the world of the pre-
modern Marathi ‘public sphere’, and argues that ‘vernacularization
was not an inadvertent consequence of a kind of cultural ecological
shift, but rather it was the result of a purposeful and self-aware cri-
tique of culture.’ It is ‘a process of empowerment that negotiated the
mores of everyday life’, and ‘valorized the image of “everyday”’. The
‘driving core of vernacularization’, he noted, was ‘the very quotidian
social life it sought to emend’.16
Neither of the studies noted above is actually focussed on the
fifteenth century as far as the timeline is concerned. However, what
makes them relevant for the theme of this volume is the manner in
which they posit the process of vernacularization and bhakti religiosity
as developments in the sphere of knowledge formation as culturally
produced, with significant political patronage (Hawley) or at a remove
from state agents (Novetzke). What also distinguishes these works is
the attempt to trace the pre-histories and post lives of the texts and
taxonomies under their respective scanners.
Indeed, what historians chose to study was an important deter-
minant of the period of their focus. Passing off biographies of the
Delhi Sultans as ‘Histories of India’ was in any case a shaky (though
popular) proposition even for the thirteenth and the fourteenth centuries.
For the fifteenth century, such a blinkered focus was simply impos-
sible because there were too many sultanates in North India whose
territories, like the vernacular languages identified by Pollock, ‘did

15 Hawley, A Storm of Songs.

16 Novetzke, The Quotidian Revolution, p. 286.
46 a political history of literature

not travel very far’. As the Delhi Sultanate disintegrated in the fif-
teenth century, the historiography of medieval India, dutifully tied
to its fortunes, also fragmented into telling stories of the ‘provincial
sultanates’.17

Military Labour Market and Naukarī

It is hardly surprising that the fifteenth century found its historians
among those who steered clear of such dynastic–territorial themes.
Interesting interventions in the 1980s came from historians who did
not stick to the practice of isolating the fifteenth century in stereo-
typical frames.18 Amongst the intrepid few, Dirk H.A. Kolff ’s work
on the novel theme of the ‘military labour market’ of North India
between the fifteenth and the nineteenth centuries was particularly
noteworthy. Focussing on peasant–soldiers and their relationship
with the state, he attempted to ‘acquire a better understanding of
the north Indian distributive system, the social history of much of
its peasantry and the processes of state formation in ancien régime
South Asia’.19
This was an interesting idea that could open up a range of
questions about a whole variety of issues having to do with mobi-
lization of armed power by states and their adversaries, impact of
military service on the formation of new social groups, mobility of

17This was the scheme followed by a series of ambitious volumes on

Indian history edited and overseen by R.C. Majumdar. See Majumdar,
The History and Culture of the Indian People, Vol. 6. Earlier, Majumdar had
collaborated with two other scholars to publish a general volume on history
of India. See R.C. Majumdar, H.C. Raychaudhuri, and Kalikinkar Datta, An
Advanced History of India. Even Comprehensive History of India, edited by Habib
and Nizami, mentioned above (see footnote 9), followed the same structure.
Interestingly, this historiography closely followed Mughal narratives of the
Sultanate as well. For an interesting tracing of this historiographic ‘continuity’,
see Kumar, Emergence of Delhi Sultanate, pp. 354–60.
18 Two notable works in this regard are Pollock, ‘The Theory of Practice

and the Practice of Theory in Indian Intellectual History’, and Eaton,

‘Approaches to the Study of Conversion to Islam in India’.
19 Kolff, Naukar, Rajput, and Sepoy, p. 2.
 The Literary and the Political in the Fifteenth Century 47

peasants, changes in service cultures, and dynamics of political re/

alignments. Kolff gathered a tremendous variety of information on
the issue from a diverse set of sources. Indeed, his contribution
in virtually single-handedly creating a new theme of study cannot
be sufficiently emphasized. Many of his insights about the emer-
gence of eastern Rājapūtas as well as about the political possibilities
inhering in the existence of a somewhat open-ended military labour
market (studied with reference to the rise of Sher Shah Suri) remain
practically unchallenged. Yet, his study tended to flatten out the
diverse contexts and genres from which these details were drawn.
As a consequence, all of pre-modern North India appeared to be
populated by an unruly mob of ubiquitously and indiscriminately
armed peasantry that underwent little change till the first half of the
nineteenth century. The primary challenge for any premodern state
in India, according to Kolff, ‘was the problem of how to deal with
the peasantry at large, how to subject to some manner of control
and collect revenue from these almost ungovernable tens of millions
of people protected by mud forts, jungles and ravines all over the
plains of Hindustan and above all by the weapons they were so
familiar with’20 (emphasis added).
Kolff ’s awareness that ‘in the post-orientalist age, Indian history
has learned not to venture a formulation of ultimate, irreducible
elements which govern South Asian realities’ did not stop him from
listing the factors that made ‘the Indian agro-historical configuration
unique’:

They include—in random order, because none of them is autonomous

or stands ‘at the beginning’, but all are interlinked and help to define
each other—the demographic factor of the sheer numbers of Indian
people, the unpredictable nature of India’s monsoon climate and, as
a result, of its harvest, the occupational multiplicity and armed mobil-
ity of its peasants as they grope for security in the face of local harvest
failure and all-India political flux, and the inability of states to collect
resources that suffice to bind or demilitarise a significant proportion of
India’s huge peasant population.21

20 Kolff, Naukar, Rajput, and Sepoy, p. 194.

21 Kolff, Naukar, Rajput, and Sepoy, p. 194.
48 a political history of literature

It did not seem to matter that the ‘sheer numbers of Indian people’
might actually have varied widely in different ecological zones of the
subcontinent or that, at different points of time in history, there were
large ‘no-population’ areas that came to be colonized and brought
under cultivation for the first time. What is startling about the asser-
tion is the fact that the ‘military culture of Indian agro-history’ is seen
to be timeless and almost beyond history:

Armed peasant resistance to energetic imperial attempts to estab-

lish the sultans’ authority was as fierce in the fourteenth century
as it was in Akbar’s and Jahangir’s time. Ibn Battuta’s description
of Muhammad Tughluq’s (1324–51) reign and the reported half a
million dead amongst the population as a result of Muhammad
Shah Bahmani’s (1358–73) campaigns, do not present stories that
are very different from those mentioned at the beginning of this
study for the early Mughal period. And Ashoka’s Orissa killings and
deportations in the third century bc may well have been a very simi-
lar affair, a manifestation of the same abiding features of the Indian
polity.22

The ahistorical hypothesis of innumerable armed peasants as

a ‘constant’ factor in Indian history makes Kolff ’s line of argument
almost completely useless for understanding the historically specific
fluidity of the fifteenth century, and the emergence of the Mughal
state in the mid-sixteenth century. This was unfortunate since Kolff ’s
chapter on Sher Shah (1540–5) showed how his sudden and extraor-
dinary rise to imperial kingship was made possible by the very unique
circumstances that obtained in North India in the long fifteenth
century.
Notwithstanding this conceptual short-circuiting of the wealth of
material mobilized in the book, the author did successfully demon-
strate the need and feasibility of researching themes like those of
naukarī, service culture, and the ‘rajputization’ of certain groups of
eastern peasants. J.F. Richards rued, more than a decade later, that it
did not immediately lead to more focus on the complex issues that it

22 Kolff, Naukar, Rajput, and Sepoy, p. 195.

 The Literary and the Political in the Fifteenth Century 49

raised.23 A recent attempt by Sunil Kumar to trace changing patterns

of service culture in North India, builds on and challenges Kolff’s
largely synchronic account. The more fundamental contribution of
Kumar in his study of bandagī (from bandā, slave; literally, to act/
behave like a slave) and naukarī, was to fruitfully link warfare and
administrative service in medieval India to changing patterns of nor-
mative discourses on the issue, an aspect completely missing from
Kolff’s work.24 At another level, Kumar’s work also demonstrated the
fruits awaiting medievalists who could work simultaneously with
Persian and Sanskrit materials.

Historiography of Literary Cultures

Most medieval Indian historians were (and are) trained primarily
in Persian, with only the slightest ability to work with Sanskrit or
‘vernacular’ materials.25 As a result, histories of medieval literature
seldom moved beyond a review of Persian literary genres. For long,
historians did not bother with the vibrant range of everyday language

23 Richards, ‘Warriors and the State in Early Modern India’. However, it

is to be noted that just before Richards expressed his disappointment, two
books appeared on warfare and related socio-political issues in North India,
one of them co-edited by Kolff himself. See Gommans and Kolff, Warfare and
Weaponry in South Asia. Also see Khan, Gunpowder and Firearms.
24 Kumar, ‘Bandagī and Naukarī’.
25 This training had several consequences, especially where the study of

North India is concerned. For one, even though from the 1960s, the starting
point of the medieval period was pushed back (in the name of early medi-
eval) to the seventh–eighth centuries, few medieval historians possessed the
skills to research the pre-Sultanate period. Thus, the major historians of early
medieval India continued to be those who were seen as experts on Ancient
India, and the effective break in the periodization still appeared to be the
establishment of the Delhi Sultanate. Second, historians of the Sultanate and
post-Sultanate period appeared to be completely oblivious of the large chunk
of Sanskrit sources available for the thirteenth through the sixteenth centu-
ries. Those who read and worked on Sanskrit sources were mostly scholars
like Chattopadhyaya and Thapar, with no expertise in conventionally concep-
tualized ‘medieval’ political formations. See Chattopadhyaya, Representing the
Other?; Thapar, Somanātha.
50 a political history of literature

practices in North India: Hindavi/Hindui, Apabhraṃśa, even

Sanskrit, not to mention a host of ‘regional’ dialects from Gujarati
and Marathi to Bengali and Maithili, all seemed to belong only to the
realm of colourful ethnography recorded by nineteenth- and early
twentieth-century British observers and German ethnographers.
Alternatively, local enthusiasts in the respective cultural zones of
these languages put together useful surveys of literature produced
in them, often composed with a view to articulate regional pride and
acquire government patronage. Though largely descriptive, such sur-
veys put a wealth of information together. These proved to be handy
to later historians who, mostly from 1990s onwards, tried to grapple
with this archive.
In the last fifteen years or so, however, a body of works focussing
on a variety of languages and literary practices, and straddling the
fifteenth century in interesting ways has appeared. Scholars are now
raising a whole variety of new questions about the links between poli-
tics, power, and state on the one hand, and cultural objects such as
texts and monuments on the other. Moreover, they have often worked
with time frames that encompass longer durations in which the fif-
teenth century figures as a crucial link rather than as a ‘twilight’ or
interregnum.26 Such histories have moved beyond a description of
lives and teachings of great mystics as well as dynastic biographies
focussed on territorial expansion/contraction.
They look at the phenomena of knowledge formations, literary cul-
tures, religious processes, textual transmissions, and so on.27 Even as
they investigated the histories of a particular region, they explored the
processes through which the region was formed, and the relationship
in which they stood with other historical processes of the time. In
breaking away from stereotypical dynastic–regional histories, some
regions have come to be served better than others. Thus, Gujarat,
with its Sultanate having its own chronicles, understandably inspired

26
A number of such works have appeared in the last fifteen years or so.
Some of the most prominent works include Flood, Objects of Translation; Alam,
The Languages of Political Islam in India; Orsini, ‘How to Do Multilingual
Literary History?’; Kumar, ‘Bandagī and Naukarī’.
27 O’Hanlon and Washbrook, Religious Cultures in Early Modern India.

Also see Busch, Poetry of Kings.

 The Literary and the Political in the Fifteenth Century 51

some interesting works—those based on the chronicles as well as

those looking beyond to Sufic or other ‘unofficial’ sources.28 Bengal
and Rajasthan too have attracted historians’ attention, though not in
equal measure.29
Much of this historiography is over-determined as well as charged
by Pollock’s ambitious millennium-by-millennium paradigm.
Though new, it is also beginning to get close critical attention, espe-
cially where Pollock’s own arguments are concerned. The beginning
of this new strand of historiography may be identified with the pub-
lication in 1995 of a special issue of the journal Social Scientist. Titled
Literary History, Region, and Nation in South Asia, the issue carried an
introductory note and a paper titled ‘Literary History, Indian History,
World History’ by Sheldon Pollock, who also guest-edited it. Pollock’s
now famous theory of vernacularization of literature and politics
in the second millennium of the Christian Era across the Eurasian
regions from Java to London received a firmer and more nuanced
shape with two other essays published in 1998.30 He elaborated these
views in yet another edited volume in 2003, with contributions focus-
sing on a variety of languages by a range of scholars, not all of whom
strictly followed the model he posited.31 His own primary focus was
the Indian subcontinent, though the larger frame was ‘comparative’,
with similar if not identical developments between the Asian and the
European world constituting an important aspect of his explorations.
Many of these ideas were fine-tuned further in his 2006 monograph
on the ‘Language of the Gods’.
For all its complexity and rich details, Pollock’s thesis is amenable
to rather straightforward summarization since the scheme of analysis
he uses is rather simple and neat. On the basis of an examination
of written compositions in Sanskrit and other languages produced
in the subcontinent in the last two thousand years, he broadly

28 See Sheikh, Forging a Region; Simpson and Kapadia, The Idea of Gujarāt;
Balachandran, ‘Texts, Tombs and Memory’.
29 Eaton, The Rise of Islam and the Bengal Frontier; Stewart, ‘In Search of

Equivalence’; Kapur, State Formation in Rajasthan.

30 Pollock, ‘India in the Vernacular Millennium’; Pollock, ‘The

Cosmopolitan Vernacular’.
31 Pollock, Literary Cultures in History.
52 a political history of literature

categorizes the first thousand years as cosmopolitan, and the follow-

ing eight centuries or so as a vernacular era. This is so because the
first millennium of the Christian Era witnessed the production of
literature only or mostly in Sanskrit, a language that is categorized
as cosmopolitan. Sanskrit was cosmopolitan because evidently those
who used it thought it was cosmopolitan. Moreover, it was under-
stood and its texts could potentially circulate, in a wide area from
present-day Afghanistan to Java, and from Kashmir to Sri Lanka. The
grammar and syntax of the language did not vary much in this wide
area, and the users of the language thought of it as universal and
without boundaries. Equally universal, and without boundaries, was
the political imagination that the Sanskrit literature reflected. This
imperial political imagination appropriately expressed in a cosmo-
politan language found its tangible correspondence in the real world,
both in terms of widespread endorsement of the ideal of imperium
(the idea, for example, of cakravartin samrāṭa) as well as the actual
existence of imperial kingdoms like those of the Guptas, Colas, or
Cālukyas.
Further, he noted that all of this started changing around the turn
of the millennium. At the beginning of the eleventh century (or a little
before or after, depending upon which region one was talking about),
an increasing number of vernacular languages started being visible to
historians since they were now being put to writing. The vernaculars
were first literized, that is, started getting scripturalized, and then
literarized, that is, expressive texts were composed in them. These
‘new’ languages (Kannada, Telugu, Bengali, and so on) are called
vernaculars not only because they ‘did not travel far’, but also because
their users too were aware that they were not understood beyond a
known and delimited region. This new literature in the new media
also showed a ‘forsaking of the universalistic model of imperium’.32
Their political imaginations were territorially humbler and more
bounded, even as their patrons too were rulers of local kingdoms with
little aspiration beyond their immediate locality. In the process of
being literized and literarized, however, these ‘languages of place’ (as
against the ‘universal’ Sanskrit) were standardized grammatically and

32
For his elaboration of the idea, see Pollock, ‘India in the Vernacular
Millennium: Literary Culture and Polity: 1000–1500’, p. 56.
 The Literary and the Political in the Fifteenth Century 53

syntactically as well as in terms of literary tropes and genres, in rela-

tion to, and often imitating, the corresponding structures of Sanskrit.
The extent of the cosmopolitan elements in the vernaculars might
vary, but its incidence was seminal in the way the vernacular litera-
ture (and language itself) evolved. Hence, Pollock noted that ‘[first]
the development of written literature in the languages of Place was
hard to imagine without the model of Sanskrit, and, second, that the
appropriation of this model was marked, formally and thematically,
by sophisticated and variable modes of synthesis’.33 Pollock regarded
this veritable mushrooming of fragmented literary and political
sensibilities all across South Asia as primarily diglossic, where the
high language (Sanskrit) provided the paradigm for the substantive
historical life of several ‘low’ languages.
Interestingly, nowhere in his extended explorations of the binary
of cosmopolitan and vernacular did Pollock imply that Sanskrit works
stopped being composed in the second millennium of the Christian
Era. In fact, he was one of the first mainstream historians in recent
times to highlight what the more ‘conventional’ Sanskritists had
always known: that a larger corpus of Sanskrit compositions from
the second millennium of the Christian Era have survived than from
the first millennium.34 It is interesting that the fact did not stop him
from giving a ‘death certificate’ to Sanskrit effectively from around
the same time.35 This was so because for him the provocative phrase,
‘the death of Sanskrit’ signified that, generally speaking ‘[w]hat these
[Sanskrit] scholars produced was a newness of style without a new-
ness of substance’, and in a very precise way, the disappearance of

33 Pollock, The Language of the Gods, p. 395.

34 Pollock, ‘New Intellectuals in Seventeenth Century India’. In fact, in
a review symposium of Pollock’s edited volume, Literary Cultures, David
Shulman went to the extent of saying that ‘[N]o one will deny that, statistically
speaking, the great bulk of surviving Sanskrit poetry comes from the second
millennium a.d.’ See Orsini, Shulman, and Venkatachelapathy, ‘A Review
Symposium’, p. 381.
35 Note, however, that Shulman, while not in full agreement with the

idea of the ‘death of Sanskrit’, remarked that ‘counting texts will not solve the
problem Pollock poses’ (Orsini, Shulman, and Venkatachelapathy , ‘A Review
Symposium’).
54 a political history of literature

Sanskrit literature from some of the key sites (for example, Kashmir)
at particular moments.36
As David Shulman remarked, although ‘not everyone [would]
agree with the terms and parameters of the discussion’ as defined
by Pollock, yet ‘the field ha[d] been irrevocably transformed’.37 This
veritably epic paradigm, deployed to frame the entire range of literary
productions of South Asia, and straddling no less than 2,000 years,
quickly congealed into an orthodoxy. Like all orthodoxies, it also
became a constant point of reference. Several of the finer constituents
in Pollock’s thesis have been built upon, reformulated, even chal-
lenged on occasion. Sumit Guha, for example, in a study of lexical
awareness and language use in the Marathi-speaking world during
the period 1300–1800 ce, pointed out how the traffic of influence
between Sanskrit and the vernacular was not always one way, thus
putting a question mark to the idea of diglossia mentioned above.38
Jesse Knutson’s study of Gītagovinda provides another counterpoint,
wherein, among other things, the lyricism of Jayadeva’s Sanskrit
songs is seen to be in evident debt to vernacular traditions.39 In a
more recent volume on ‘culture and circulation’ in North India ‘after
Timur left’, Francesca Orsini and Samira Sheikh offer, without chal-
lenging the overarching binary of the cosmopolitan–vernacular, a
more complex model to frame the multilinguality of North India:
‘While north India was not a homogenous region in political terms,
it was a well-connected cultural and linguistic region. Its linguistic
economy can be described as one of “multiple diglossias”, with several
high languages—Arabic, Persian, Sanskrit—and a general spoken
vernacular (what we call here Hindavi) written in the Persian, kaithi,
or devanagari scripts’.40

36Pollock, ‘The Death of Sanskrit’, p. 417.

37Orsini, Shulman, and Venkatachelapathy, ‘A Review Symposium’,
p. 378.
38 Guha, ‘Bad Language and Good Language’. See especially pp. 58, 62.

Guha, however, does not directly confront Pollock.

39 Knutson, ‘The Consolidation of Literary Registers in the World of

the Senas’. See especially, Chapter 3 titled ‘The Vernacular Cosmopolitan:

Jayadeva’s Gītagovinda’, pp. 115–39.
40 Orsini and Sheikh, ‘Introduction’, p. 7.
 The Literary and the Political in the Fifteenth Century 55

While multiple diglossias might help us account for the influence

of cosmopolitan languages other than Sanskrit, especially Persian, on
the making of the so-called regional languages and literatures, the
frame still fails to account for the traffic of ‘influence’ between the
cosmopolitan languages themselves (‘Persian genres’ like insha, for
example, being emulated by Vidyapati’s Likhanāvalī, discussed in
Chapter 3 in this volume). Even more common are the cases wherein
Sanskrit and Persian themselves carry traces of ‘regional’ linguistic
practices and sensibilities as evidenced in Sumit Guha’s study of
Marathi lexicography or Jesse Knutson’s study of Sanskrit lyrics.
Orsini’s own views on the idea of diglossia and multiple diglossias
in her earlier piece on ‘How to Do Multilingual Literary History’
provided for a more complex reading than the Introduction to the
volume, After Timur Left.41
To be sure, there is one sense in which the diglossia, especially
between Sanskrit and the North Indian vernaculars, cannot possibly
be denied: almost all of the medieval authors—whether of Sanskrit or
of the vernaculars—themselves believed that the vernaculars could
not but be diglossically related to Sanskrit. They believed this in the
general sense in which all languages other than Sanskrit (for example,
even the other cosmopolitan languages like Prakrit or Apabhraṃśa)
were always already mere derivatives of the language of the gods. But
they also seem to have believed this in the specific sense of a particular
language at a particular moment of history being indebted to Sanskrit
and Sanskrit alone for its very existence. This is evident, for example,
from the assertions of scholars like Hemacandra about Apabhraṃśa.
His grammar of Apabhraṃśa (composed in Sanskrit) is clearly based
on the presumption of its diglossic relations with Sanskrit.42 The very
etymology of Apabhraṃśa, literally, ‘corrupt’, and practically coming
to mean ‘the corrupt form of Sanskrit’, indicates how embedded the

41 Orsini, ‘How to Do Multilingual Literary History’. See especially,

pp. 230–2.
42 Hemacandra wrote grammars primarily of Sanskrit and Prakrit but

also dealt in detail with Apabhraṃśa in his compendium of grammars.

He was the only medieval scholar to have done so. See Hemacandra, Shri
Siddhahemacandraśabdānuśāsanam. For an interesting discussion of it, see
Ollett, Language of the Snakes, pp. 134–5.
56 a political history of literature

idea of it being a derivative of Sanskrit must have been. The question

that is still to be probed is whether claims like these (based at least in
part on claims of the divine origin of Sanskrit) might be taken at their
face value, and accepted without further ado.
The problems posed by such formulations, however, are not con-
fined to their exclusion of an admittedly limited number of instances
of emulations, some of which I have noted above. First, the binary of
cosmopolitan/universal on the one hand, and local/vernacular on the
other, fails to account for the fact that the languages and dialects of
North India existed in a continuum, often without a dramatic break
line, a fact that gave much wider reach to alleged ‘vernaculars’ that
Pollock had thought, ‘did not travel far’. How else do we account
for the peculiar phenomenon of inter-intelligibility between Avadhī,
Brajabhāṣā, western Gujarati, Śaurseni, and Hindavī, that effectively
constituted almost the whole of North India into a single socio-textual
community? As I have argued in Chapter 5 in this volume, the written
oeuvre in each of these languages appears to be indebted to Sanskrit,
Persian, Prakrit, Apabhraṃśa, and each other, in crisscrossing and
uneven ways.43
Second, it is true that increasing levels of ‘vernacularization’, as wit-
nessed in the literization and literarization of hitherto ‘indeterminate’
oral dialects one after the other, is a major historical phenomenon
beginning in the ninth–tenth centuries all across South Asia. Evident
in the second millennium is an incremental insistence on putting
more and more matter to writing as well as a wider ‘spread’ of manu-
script culture in ‘local’ languages. Yet, the theory of vernacularization
implying a corresponding decline both of the Sanskrit cosmopolis
and of the political imagination of imperium (as reflected in literary
expression) is simply not tenable. Indeed, any attempt to theorize the
second millennium of the Christian Era, and that is my third point, if
such a theorization is at all desirable, is useless from the perspective

43This is not to suggest that all languages and literatures, even notion-
ally, were equal, and rivalled each other in a free for all. Rather, the attempt
here is to highlight the need to first disaggregate specific issues subsumed
unidentifiably in the tempting rush to fix a whole millennium in one sweep-
ing judgement, howsoever compelling that judgement might appear at first
look.
 The Literary and the Political in the Fifteenth Century 57

of a historian of medieval India if it does not factor in that fount of

cosmopolitan culture called the Mughal state. (We leave aside the
courts of the Delhi Sultanate and the Vijayanagara kingdom for the
moment.) One does not have to be in agreement with any of the dis-
puted propositions about the extent of centralization commanded by
the Mughal state to see that it was just too big territorially, too power-
ful financially, and too diverse in its cultural–ideological engagements
to be reduced to a footnote or two in any narrative about the literary
cultures of the time.
Even a century before the Mughals, there flourished a number of
‘regional’ states—the sultanates of Jaunpur, the Bahamanids, Bengal,
Malwa, and Gujarat being only the more prominent ones—that
simultaneously patronized several languages, both cosmopolitan
and vernacular, and deployed them in diverse ways. Thus, right in
the middle of the fifteenth century, Udayarāja could call the Gujarati
Sultan, Mahmud Begada, a truly cakravartin suratrāṇa, ‘universal
ruler’, in a Sanskrit text that also shows signs of localization as far
as its language is concerned.44 The political idealism of Tulsidas as
expressed in his magnum opus Rāmacaritamānasa—written pri-
marily in Avadhī but peppered with Sanskrit ślokas, and probably
emulating the styles and metaphors of the earlier Sufi texts in that
‘dialect’45—was nothing if not a reworked and theologized model of
the universal kingdom seeped in the classical tradition of Sanskrit. A
Sanskrit treatise on politics (rājanīti), duly entitled Rājanītiratnākara
and composed by Caṇḍeśvara in the tiny chieftaincy of the Karṇāṭas
in Mithila, ‘incorrectly’ invoked Nārada to state that there were three
kinds of kings, rājā trividhaḥ: emperor, tax-paying, and non-taxpaying,
samrāṭa sakaro-akaraśca. It went on to designate the samrāṭa (para-
mount sovereign) as the one who collects taxes from other kings and

44 See Udayarāja, Rājavinodamahākāvyam. For an interesting discussion

of the Sanskrit text as a panegyric to the ‘Muslim’ sultan, see Kapadia, ‘The
Last Cakravartin?’.
45 ‘Yet few people know that the Avadhī Rāmacaritamānasa is preceded by

three centuries of Muslim Sufi writing in the same language. In a very real
sense, these Sufis shape the poetic, metrical, and narrative conventions that
Tulasī uses so skillfully’, wrote Aditya Behl. See Behl, ‘Presence and Absence
in Bhakti’.
58 a political history of literature

asserted that such a king was a cakravartin.46 More significantly, over

sixteen carefully delineated sections (taraṅgas) of the text, the author
described the various components of the only true state, namely, the
imperial state—replete with ministers, priests, jurists, courtiers, forts,
a treasury, an army, a network of spies, and so on.
Examples like the ones cited above can be multiplied. Clearly,
networks of state and non-state patronage cut through a multiplicity
of languages, genres, and a range of imaginative literary conceptu-
alizations of power. Any easy correspondence between the ‘size’ of
a kingdom and the political imagination of its literary elite would be
misleading. Equally misleading would be any attempt to establish
a direct correlation between the supposed narrow/wide reach of a
language and the limits/scope of its politico-ideological sensibilities.
In short, the millennium-by-millennium binary grid of cosmo-
politan–vernacular permits too many nuances to pass unnoticed and
unremarked. I find it more useful to work with the broad idea of a
dynamic multilingualism. My work has a narrower temporal focus
though, limited as it is to the fifteenth century, and to Mithila and
Vidyapati, with North India as a general backdrop. This allows me to
situate the texts under analysis in their deep histories, both in terms
of their multilingual inter-textualities as well as in terms of their
meaningful interventions in an ongoing political discourse.

Multilingualism
One has to carefully historicize multilingualism itself, and trace its
dynamic, continuous histories as well as uneven temporalities. In
some senses, most, if not all, languages, insofar as they are histori-
cal entities, are constituted multilingually. Either they partake in the
speech, scripts, words, and forms existing already, whether in writing
or orally, or, more commonly, they grow together with other languages
in a shared cultural idiom, tapping into commonly available forms of
communication. Since most premodern cultures put a premium on
the perceived purity of a language, the more powerful ones tended to

46 Sarvebhyaḥ kṣitipālebhyo nityaṃ gṛhyāti vai karam/Sa samrāḍiti

vijñeyaścakravartī. See Caṇḍeśvara, Rājanītiratnākara, p. 5.

 The Literary and the Political in the Fifteenth Century 59

obliterate their histories more successfully than others. Such indeed

is the case of Sanskrit and Arabic, and to a lesser extent, Latin. Thus,
the scholarly tradition within Sanskrit insisted that it was a primordi-
ally pure language, and refused to relate it to an identifiable place or
to acknowledge its worldly debts.47 Though it is impossible to situate
Sanskrit in its early bounded temporality, one should still be wary of
its claims to be the font from which all other Indic languages were
derived just ‘because Sanskrit won the race to the archives and was
first to be written down and preserved’.48 This is not to suggest that a
language, say Apabhraṃśa, did not ‘borrow’ a whole range of forms
and structures from Sanskrit. It is instead necessary to acknowledge
that both Apabhraṃśa and Sanskrit, flourishing in the same geo-
cultural zone, must have tapped into common oral resources current
in a spectrum of speech and expressive practices.49
If we keep the contours of this lost, if vague and commonsensi-
cal, history in mind, it makes sense to think of multilingualism in
the long fifteenth century as existing in several registers, forms,
and locations: those that were manifest in a ‘borrowed’ vocabulary;
those that we witness in the bending of verb endings or verse metres;
those that surfaced in the adaptation or interpenetration of genres

47 Thus ‘[t]he sociolinguistic biography of Sanskrit was entirely different.

The historical record does not enable us to attribute to it any local roots at all.
Whereas some regional languages such as New Persian achieved transregion-
ality through merit, and others such as Latin had it thrust upon them through
military conquests, Sanskrit seems to have almost been born transregional;
it was at home everywhere—and perhaps, in a sense, at home nowhere. In
respect to everyday discourse, Sanskrit was, from a very early date—indeed
probably from its very beginnings—marked by distance and distinction. In
general its relationship with actual local speech types was hyperglossic, as it
has here been named, something to which the distance between Latin and its
‘earth-bound’ register, a classic diglossic situation, bears no comparison.’ See
Pollock, The Language of the Gods, p. 262.
48 Doniger, The Hindus, p. 16.
49 Working with the broadest definition of a language, I am not engag-

ing here with the debate about the distinctions to be made between a dialect
and a language. That taxonomy itself is an indication of the hierarchization
prevalent within the language domain—the politics of which is what interests
me more.
60 a political history of literature

across languages; and those that existed ‘outside of the texts’. The
same author writing in different languages, though only occasionally
practiced, also constituted a different order of multilingualism as did
the use of unexpected or ‘foreign’ scripts for compositions in Indic
languages or vice versa.
Shared words, with or without phonetic and spelling adaptations,
were probably the most common, if elusively simple, form of mul-
tilingualism. The problem for historians is compounded since very
few languages were literized or even named. Communicative prac-
tices, even stable ones, existed within language continuums, where
they often remained without names. Take the example of a ‘unique’
text like the thirteenth-century Varṇaratnākara by Jyotirīśvara. Most
modern scholars agree that this compendium of words, phrases, and
expressions frequently used in literary compositions was itself com-
posed in Maithili. Yet, we hardly hear of Maithili as a language before
the early nineteenth century.50 Indeed, the intense debate about the
origin/history of the Maithili language itself is a telling example of the
problems in ascribing modern names to early and unnamed language
practices. If Subhadra Jha rigorously attributed the genesis of all of
Maithili’s lexical and syntactic resources to Sanskrit alone, De Vreese
argued that the influence of Santhālī on Maithili was equally, if not
more important.51 Both the scholars buttressed their arguments with
examples. The problem lay in the scholars’ refusal to acknowledge the
existence of an undocumented world of oral practices, where lines
were fuzzy and rarely identified.
In some instances, especially after the sixteenth century, we do
have contemporary accounts of such intermixture. Thus, Bhikharidas
noted that Brajbhāṣa was interesting because it was constituted by bor-
rowings from six different languages.52 It is also easier to see words
shared between languages with a relatively stable stock of vocabulary
and syntax. It is easy to see, for example, that Avahaṭṭha, the language

50Yadav, ‘Maithili Phonetics and Phonology’. See especially, the

‘Introduction’.
51 See Jha, The Formation of the Maithilī Language. Also see De Vreese,

‘Review of the Formation of the Maithilī Language’, pp. 402–6.

52 Brajabhāṣā bhāṣā rucira kahai sumati sab koi/Milai Sanskrit Pārasihuñ

pai ati pragaṭa ju hoi/Braja Māgadhī milai amara nāga javana bhākhāni/Sahaj
 The Literary and the Political in the Fifteenth Century 61

in which Vidyapati composed his Kīrttilatā in the fifteenth century,

and Abdul Rahmān composed his Sandeśarāsaka a century earlier,
carried a large number of both Sanskrit and Persian words, unlike the
Apabhraṃśa texts of an earlier era.
In some cases, such borrowings were not only easily identifiable;
they also indexed a deeper historical appropriation. An interest-
ing instance is the topical deployment of the Persian word kafir in
a story about a truthful hero in Vidyapati’s Sanskrit composition,
Puruṣaparīkṣā. The story relates how two Rājapūta princes served
a ‘Yavana’ ruler of Delhi and helped him save his kingdom against
a concerted attempt by some envious kāpahara rājās. The term
kāpahara for the Sultan’s enemies was shorn of its sectarian connota-
tion in this retelling, but it was used only in the context of the ‘Yavana’
king’s enemies and never before or after in the text.53 Words could
thus carry a whole cultural world into another language, but also, in
the process, be affected in its meaning by such relocation! Better still,
such relocations may also indicate the limits of our modern labels and
boundaries.
The more easily visible, if not frequently practiced, form of
multilingualism was witnessed when an author had mastery of,
and composed in, more than one language. Of the latter, we do
not have too many extant instances, though not as few as generally
believed either. Among the few exceptions to the general Sanskrit
monolinguality, Pollock cites Vedantadeśika in Tamil and Sṛinātha in
Telugu, apart from Vidyapati.54 Of the other claims (by King Harṣa of
Kashmir and Viśvanātha of Orissa), he is dismissive in the absence
of actual surviving work. Surprisingly, he misses Tulsidas. If one was
to look beyond the world of Sanskrit, examples might be given of

Phārasī hū milai ṣaṭa vidhi kahata bakhāni (Brajabhāṣā is a delectable

language, so say all the right-thinking men/Where Sansakrit and Parsi
are present together/Braja and Māgadhī blends with Amaranāga and the
language of the Greeks/Easy Persian also merge with these, thus it gets
extended in six different ways). Cited in Singh, Kīrttilatā aur Avahaṭṭha
Bhāṣā, p. 20.
53 See Vidyapati, Puruṣaparīkṣā.
54 See, Pollock, ‘Introduction’, p. 68, footnote 65.
62 a political history of literature

Amir Khusrau and a few others who composed in both Hindavi and
Persian.55
It is interesting, in spite of the limited number of examples cited
above, that the ideal of mastery over more than one language was
respected. Viśvanātha’s Sāhityadarpaṇa mentioned a separate cat-
egory of composition, karambhakaṃ (besides the standard genres
such as kathā [fictional story], ākhyāyikā [celebratory biography], and
campū [text consisting of both prose and poem]), that he defined as
one that was ‘made of different languages’, bhāṣābhirvividhābhirvini
rmitam.56 He gave the following instructions to playwrights in this
regard:

For educated men, and for men of superior and middling stature,
Sanskrit should be used. If a man, albeit educated, is of inferior sta-
tus, Sanskrit is not used for him. Similarly, for educated women and
women of high stature, Śaurasenī should be used. Use Mahārāṣṭrī
for women’s tales. The attendants inside the Rājā’s household
[antaḥpuracāriṇām] should speak Māgadhī. Use Ardhamāgadhī for
servants/slaves [ceṭānāṃ], Rājapūta, and tradesmen [śreṣṭhināṃ]. Prācya
for comedians, the language of Avantī for the cunning [dhūrtas]. For
warriors, city-dwellers, and sportspersons, dākṣiṇātyā should be used.
Śābarī should be used for the Śabaras and the Śakas. For the inhab-
itants of the north, Bāhalika bhāṣā and Drāviḍa for the Draviḍas.
Ābhīrī should be used for the Abhīras, and Cāṇḍālī for the Cāṇḍālas.
Ābhīrī and Cāṇḍālī should be used also for those earning their liveli-
hood from wood and leaves [kāṣṭhapatropajīviṣu]. The same should
be used for leather-workers, iron-smiths, and so on. Paiśācī is for the
Piśācas, and Śaurasenī should be used for maidservants of superior
and middling stature. For boys, eunuchs, and lowly astrologers, the

55
A few examples are also cited in a review article; see Tieken, ‘The
Process of Vernacularization’, p. 367.
56 Viśvanātha Kavirāja, Sāhityadarapaṇaḥ, VI: 337, p. 327. He also gave

the example of his own work titled Praśastiratnāvalī that he claimed was com-
posed in sixteen languages, ṣoḍaśabhāṣāmayī. No such work seems to have
survived, prompting Pollock to say that ‘[w]hen such claims are not simply
expressions of scholarly (and not creative) mastery or mere bragging, they
represent limited experiments’. See Pollock, ‘Sanskrit Literary Culture from
the Inside Out’, p. 68, footnote 65.
 The Literary and the Political in the Fifteenth Century 63

intoxicated and the impatient, Śaurasenī mixed with Sanskrit should

be used. Prakrit should be used for those high on opulence, those
suffering from penury, beggars and those carrying phloem. Sanskrit
should also be used for Buddhist nuns and for high-born women.
Some people say that Sanskrit should also be used for queens, daugh-
ters of ministers, and prostitutes. For other characters of low stature,
the language of the respective region (taddeśyaṃ tasya bhāṣitam)
should be deployed.57

To be sure, we do not have a single extant work that followed this

advice even halfway through. The tenor and the overlaps/repetition
of categories also suggest a degree of laboured stretching of language
choices, if not pure hyperbole. Yet, it would be difficult to deny that
the passage denotes a degree of insistence on a pattern in the division
of labour among languages. Several plays from the period deployed
two or three languages simultaneously. Vidyapati’s Gorakṣavijaya,
composed in Prakrit and Sanskrit, for example, carried Maithilī
songs.58 Even more telling is the fact that in several places, the play
simply indicates that a song should be sung without actually provid-
ing any, presumably with the tacit understanding that a song in a local
language would be included at the time of performance, depending
on the place of its performance. This was also the case in his first
Sanskrit play, Maṇimañjarīnāṭikā.
A different form of multilingualism is countenanced, though only
occasionally, wherein some kind of a ‘nonce-language’ was forged,
in sixteenth-century Bengal. Thus, Sudipta Kaviraj draws attention to
the fact that

the linguistic texture of the Caitanyacaritamṛta shows that the tradi-

tional structure of linguistic practice, in which individuals knew and
used several languages, especially Sanskrit and Bangla, continued.

57 Viśvanātha Kavirāja, Sāhityadarapaṇaḥ, VI: 158–69, p. 204. All transla-

tions are mine.
58 See Vidyapati, Gorakṣavijaya. It is interesting that this was prob-

ably not exceptional. In fact, the twelfth-century poet Śaradātanaya in his

Bhāvaprakāśana recommended that the local language should be used in
songs, and the gestures typical of the locale should be used in dance. See
Pollock, The Language of the Gods, p. 199.
64 a political history of literature

Associated with these movements was the creation of a kind of bridge

language, a form of Sanskrit that could be read from both sides.
Accessibility from the Sanskrit side ensured that these compositions
would have a wide circulation and make sense to those who under-
stood Sanskrit or neighboring vernacular languages; accessibility to
Bangla meant that the works could also circulate among Bengalis who
knew little or no Sanskrit.59

Kaviraj goes on to note that many popular hymns such as those by

Tulsidas and Vallabhacharya also had the same status. Clearly, these
‘improvisations’ as well as the multilingualities of other kinds, if
we may call them that, indicate the messy state of affairs outside
of text, in the sphere of everyday communication, especially in the
cities.
Many authors, probably because of their training, would be loath
to admit of these ‘influences’, whose sources were quotidian and sub-
elitist. As I have tried to demonstrate in Chapter 3 in this volume,
Vidyapati’s Likhanāvalī too seems to have taken a leaf or two from the
Persian insha tradition without explicitly acknowledging it. In some
cases, ‘deliberate’ elisions were a result of an entirely different anxi-
ety. In the case of Avadhī Sufi romances, for example, Simon Digby
pointed out,

[t]he verse literature produced in the qaṣbās and dargāhs of the region
of Awadh from the end of the fourteenth century onwards is in a dif-
ferent dialect if not in a different language from the current speech
of the urban population of Dehli. It is a fully developed form of east-
ern Hindi with different terminations in the tenses of the verbs, and
different forms of the postpositions; and a vocabulary which appears
consciously to exclude Persian and Arabic loanwords. This conceals—
one may argue deliberately—the obvious source of inspiration for the
new romantic narrative poems with tinges of mystical sentiment. This
is not Sanskritic but derived from the Persian poetic tradition so greatly
loved by Sufis, and particularly from the romantic mathnawis of the
pattern set by Niẓami of Ganja and imitated in Dehli by Amir Khusraw.
The sophisticated strategy that was adopted by these poets in Awadh
was a deliberate bilingualism designed to propagate a world-view, a

59 Kaviraj, ‘The Two Histories of Literary Culture in Bengal’, p. 520.

 The Literary and the Political in the Fifteenth Century 65

climate of sensibility and a theology that would enhance the influence,

power and acceptability of the immigrants in this particular Indian
environment.60

Elsewhere, Aditya Behl had also remarked on the impact of the

mathnawi tradition on Sufi premākhyānas, though the written corpus
assiduously avoided any mention of such ‘influence’.61 In some cases,
historians can trace such forms of embedded multilinguality through
a careful exploration of the intertextuality of extant compositions. In
other cases, it is important to ‘extrapolate’, as realistically as possible,
life outside of the text.
It is pertinent to note that actual learning for most young
scholars and creative writers was probably single track: they would
usually be groomed, so far as North India was concerned, in one
of the classical traditions, either in Sanskrit or in the Perso-Arabic
tradition. In real life, however, they had to contend with a variety
of historical factors: the pervasive presence of Persian62 (espe-
cially its simplified speech variety that Bhikhārīdāsa called sahaj
Phārasī [easy Persian]), the activities of trans-regional states like
the Sultanate of Delhi (to some extent even others like those of
Jaunpur and Gujarat, and later, the Mughal state), the effects of
more intensified military rivalries, and the movement of soldiers,
mystics, and itinerant traders.63 Many of the sultanates, most

60 Digby, ‘Before Timur Came’, pp. 340–1.

61 See Behl, ‘Presence and Absence in Bhakti’.
62 Already by the mid-fourteenth century, Alam and Subhrahmanyam

noted, ‘as Persian grew in significance as a language of communication, even

the court-centres that were outside the direct influence of the Sultanate of
Delhi testify to its use, at least for some limited purposes’. See Alam and
Subrahmanyam, Indo-Persian Travels, p. 47.
63 It would be interesting to imagine how troops drawn from distant

places and placed together communicated with each other. Late in the four-
teenth century, for instance, when Firuz Shah Tughluq was camping in Sind
to invade Thatta, he got reinforcements of ‘troops from Badaun, Qanauj,
Sandila, Awadh, Bihar, Mahoba, Eraj, Chanderi, Dhar, the interior and exte-
rior of Doab, Samana, Multan and Lahore’. See Afif, Tarikh-i Firuz Shahi,
trans. Jauhri, p. 142.
66 a political history of literature

notably Gujarat64 and Malwa,65 patronized a whole variety of lan-

guages and literatures.66 These must have added to the diversity
of (at the least) lexical choices available to writers of expressive
compositions.
Among the ‘languages’ that gained from these contingencies
were sub-elite entities that seemed to have currency and intelligi-
bility all over North India: Hindavi, Avadhī, various inflections of
Apabhraṃśa, and to a lesser extent, the simplified Persian referred
to above. Available sources do not permit a comprehensive recon-
struction of these practices, but those that can be accessed appear
fairly revealing. Thus, Shams-i Siraj Afif tells us that during Firuz
Shah Tughluq’s protracted seize of the fort of Iqdala in Bengal, one
Malik Qabul was sent as an emissary to the stranded Bengal sultan
with an offer of a truce. After Malik Qabul had offered gifts to Sultan
Sikandar, the latter asked Qabul his name. ‘Malik Qabul’, reports
Afif, ‘replied in Hindavī that “the slave was called Torabanda” (empha-
sis added). The context of the narrative suggests that speaking in
Hindavī was a gesture of informality, and probably signalled simple-
minded trust.67
The example above alerts us to the world of oral communications
and the multiple choices available to people in that world. On the
other hand, the appropriation of the Rāmāyaṇa narrative by authors
of Sufi premākhyānas (Daud, Qutban and Jayasi), attests to a pool of
cultural idioms and metaphors shared among languages and their

64 The Gujarati Sultans ‘patronized scholarship and literature in Arabic,

Persian, and Sanskrit. During sultanate rule in the fifteenth century, scholars
and poets began to write in early Gujarati and Gūjarī, a Gujarati-inflected
version of early Urdu’. See Sheikh, Forging a Region, p. 6.
65 A number of Sanskrit inscriptions from the Malwa domain indicate that

the language flourished under the sultanate during this period. Particularly
noteworthy is the Lalitpur Stone Inscription of 1424 recording the consecra-
tion of the images of Padmanandi and Damavasanta. See Prasad, Sanskrit
Inscriptions of Delhi Sultanate, pp. 185–91.
66 Even in the Jaunpur court, Vidyapati noted, princes gathered from dif-

ferent regions, and each spoke in his own language, ni-a bhāsā. See Kīrttilatā,
p. 91.
67 Afif, Tarikh-i Firuz Shahi, trans. Jauhri, p. 107.
 The Literary and the Political in the Fifteenth Century 67

users, belonging to varied religious traditions.68 What it certainly

signifies is the shift towards more intensely interactive and reflec-
tive/reflexive idioms, languages, texts, and genres. Equally, it also
gestures to increasingly greater interactions, and greater possibility of
such interactions, among peoples, places, and performative practices
attached to ‘a locality’.
Even more unmistakable is the fact that roughly from the four-
teenth century onwards, we see an unprecedented and massive
rise in the number of texts composed in North India, indeed in
the entire subcontinent. After all, not only do we have a greater
number of Sanskrit compositions in this period, we also witness
local-language texts mushrooming all over, as well as a whole
new world of literary production in the Perso-Arabic tradition.
The process only intensified further in the fifteenth and sixteenth
centuries.69
What would some of the long-term historical implications of the
extraordinary literary efflorescence, its multilingual (or polyglossic)
forms, and its rich repository of trans-regional trans-confessional idi-
oms that we countenance in the long fifteenth century be? A response
to that question must start with an exploration of the more general
theoretical–historical problematic: the relationship between literature
and history, or in a related way, the complex links between politics and
reigning forms of knowledge. Embedded in that general formulation
are questions of socialization into ideals of conduct, processes that
lay down a lexical grid for talking about politics both among those
in positions of power and those who ‘did not matter’, in short all the
tangibles and intangibles that go into defining the character, expanse,
and limits of politico-cultural discourse. That discourse, however, is
produced within a field of power and history, through what one may
broadly call ‘literature’.

68 I deliberately refrain from using labels like ‘syncretism’ to avoid short-

circuiting the study of this complex process. For a very useful discussion of
the problems in using the ‘descriptive’ paradigm of syncretism, see Stewart,
‘In Search of Equivalence’, pp. 261–3, 269–74.
69 For a detailed discussion of the issue, see Jha, ‘Literary Conduits for

“Consent”’, especially pp. 330–5.

68 a political history of literature

Literature, History, Power

Any reflection on the links between literature, history, and power must
begin with an acknowledgement that these are dynamic categories.
What they refer to depends as much on the time, place, and context of
their usage as on who is using them. The problem is compounded by
the fact that these are English words. While using them in the context
of medieval India, one also has to account for the ‘gaps’ vis-à-vis the
relevant equivalent terms.
I intend to start with a quick mapping of the meanings of each of
these terms—by no means a comprehensive mapping—with a view
to flag the sense(s) in which I would be using them as also to illumi-
nate the particular senses in which they are relevant for my study. Let
me start with ‘literature’. The present popular view of literature holds
it to mean text compositions with a strong element of the ‘imagina-
tive’. Thus, short stories, novels, and poetry are seen as hard-core
literature in a way that a newspaper report or even a book of history
is not. The latter’s claim to only stitch together a set of facts in a neu-
tral way rules it out of the purview of literature. This understanding
of literature depends on a neat distinction between fact and fiction,
between memory and imagination, and between objective reports
and subjective/fictional narratives. It thus fails to take cognizance of
the complexity of relationship and the overlaps within the pairs listed
in the last sentence. Another disadvantage of using this definition
of literature is that it has little space to factor in the role of readers
(the consumers of literature) in the entire exercise. For, it is perfectly
possible that the same piece might be read as literature by one person
and non-literature by another.
Of the scores of attempts to define literature in the modern period,
the one by Terry Eagleton that, following John Ellis, compares it to a
weed, is probably the most useful for a historian:

There is no ‘essence’ of literature whatsoever. Any bit of writing may

be read ‘non-pragmatically’, if that is what reading a text as literature
means, just as any writing may be read ‘poetically’ … . John M. Ellis has
argued that the term ‘literature’ operates rather like the word ‘weed’:
weeds are not particular kinds of plant, but just any kind of plant which
for some reason or another a gardener does not want around. Perhaps
‘literature’ means something like the opposite: any kind of writing
 The Literary and the Political in the Fifteenth Century 69

which for some reason or another somebody values highly. As the phi-
losophers might say, ‘literature’ and ‘weed’ are functional rather than
ontological terms: they tell us about what we do, not about the fixed
being of things. They tell us about the role of a text or a thistle in a
social context, its relations with and differences from its surroundings,
the ways it behaves, the purposes it may be put to and the human prac-
tices clustered around it. ‘Literature’ is in this sense a purely formal,
empty sort of definition.70

A historian reading ‘literature’ composed in the past may turn this

empty definition of literature ‘inside out’ by determining how exactly
contemporaries defined and read literature. Or, she might fill it by
placing herself as a modern reader of literature. Both appear to be
useful exercises, and may complement each other.
Of the several languages in which scholars produced what might be
considered to be included in literature, at least one, namely, Sanskrit,
had a long and rigorous tradition of theorizing the literary. This trad-
ition started with Bhāmaha and Daṇḍin in the seventh century and
continued for almost a thousand years. Three different words corre-
sponding to three different approaches to the literary are available in
this tradition: vāṅmaya, sāhityaṃ, and kāvya. Etymologically, Vāṅmaya
refers to simply anything made of words or language with an implicit
sense of that consisting of ‘spoken words’;71 Sāhityaṃ stands for an
association or combination (of words and meanings) with the implicit
sense of composition;72 Kāvya on the other hand refers to a descrip-
tion or one that is fit to be described/praised by a wise man (kavi).73
While vāṅmaya is clearly the largest and most inclusive category, the
etymologies do not help much in distinguishing between kāvya and
sāhityaṃ.
Among the Sanskrit works on the science of literature, Bhoja’s
Ṣṛiṅgāraprakāśa (tenth century) probably carries the most explicit

70 Eagleton, Literary Theory, p. 8.

71 The root is vāc—a word, sound, or expression; alternatively it stands for
language or speech. See Apte, Sanskrit–English Dictionary, p. 840.
72 Apte, Sanskrit–English Dictionary, p. 985.
73 Kav, an atmanepad, is to describe, praise, or compose, whereas kavi

was a man of wisdom and intelligence. See Apte, Sanskrit–English Dictionary,

p. 344.
70 a political history of literature

elaboration of each of these categories.74 Bhoja, while admitting that

it was the unity (sāhitya) of words with their meanings that consti-
tutes kāvya, denoted twelve different types of words as well as of
meanings and compositions. However, like his predecessors, he gave
elaborate rules which kāvya must adhere to. These included deploy-
ment of guṇas (merit/traits),75 adornment with alaṅkāras (literary
tropes), inclusion of rasas (production/experience of [pure/assorted]
emotions), and avoidance of errors.
In fact, medieval theorists in Sanskrit show almost no disagree-
ment with the idea that kāvya was the privileged medium of organized
expression, even though it was always defined in terms of its linguistic
organization, and never in terms of thematic or philosophical distinc-
tiveness. It could be either in prose or in verse or in a mix of the two,
but it could be composed only in Sanskrit, Prakrit, or Apabhraṃśa.
This of course was an extraordinary claim to power and exclusion that
reduced compositions in other languages to the status of non-kāvya,
even as their existence was not only acknowledged by the theorists but
also commented upon. Songs were composed mostly in the deśabhāṣā
(with a few exceptions, the most prominent being Gītagovinda), and
singers were expected to learn theory as well as become ‘master of the
place-languages’, deśabhāṣāviśārad.76
Also pertinent is the fact that from Daṇḍin (late seventh century)
onwards, the distinction between the fictive kāvya (kathā) and the
‘factual’ narrative (ākhyāyikā) was ‘annulled’. This is not to say that
the distinction between fact, fiction, and mythology disappeared alto-
gether in theory. Rather, it meant that this distinction was not the
basis of distinction for genres, and that all were accorded equal status
as kāvya. As historians in the twenty-first century, we must, of course,
take note of these claims made by the Sanskrit theorists.
Yet, nothing prevents us from going beyond and reading non-
kāvya compositions as ‘literature’, as part of the field that we must

74
Bhoja, Śṛiṅgāraprakāśa.
75
Guṇa also refers to one of the three qualities that were supposedly
found in all things created: satva, rajas, and tamas, or it could refer to one of
the five senses, namely, rūpa, rasa, gandha, sparśa, and śabda.
76 Mānasollāsa, 4.120–21, vol. 3.12, cited in Pollock, The Language of the

Gods, p. 300.
 The Literary and the Political in the Fifteenth Century 71

reckon into our reading as literary. If part of the substance of ‘liter-

ary’ inheres in ways of reading it, may we not, as historians, read
the non-literary too as literature?77 Vāṅmaya, things made of words
or language, would appear more useful to us as a category but with
the full cognizance that this did not exclude oral compositions. After
all, it was in the interplay of all forms of composition—expressive
and informative, oral and written, factual and fictive, mythological
and historical, theoretical and pragmatic, private readings and public
performances—that the wider field of literary culture could be said to
have been cultivated.
It is another matter that the domain of literary culture, like so
much else, was not a homogenous one. It was marked by internal
hierarchies so widely respected, that even the poets who chose to
compose in a ‘regional’ language felt obliged to explain why they were
not writing in Sanskrit.78 The field was further complicated by the
impressive and unavoidable presence of Persianate culture right from
the thirteenth century onwards, as I have tried to indicate above, and
as the following chapters (especially Chapters 3 and 5 in this volume)
demonstrate further.79
The question remains as to how we may read this literature to
enrich history, not just histories of literature or literary cultures but
also the so-called mainstream history. If the study of literary cultures
is not to suffer the isolation of comparable fields like art history, it

77 ‘If I pore over the railway timetable not to discover a train connection
but to stimulate in myself general reflections on the speed and complexity of
modern existence, then I might be said to be reading it as literature’, wrote
Terry Eagleton. See Eagleton, Literary Theory, p. 8.
78 Among many others, this was the case with Vidyapati in the fifteenth

century, Tulsidas (Rāmacaritamānasa) in the sixteenth, and Keśavadāsa in the

seventeenth. See Chapter 5 in this volume.
79 It is curious that Pollock acknowledges the influence of Persian on the

subcontinental literary culture only after the sixteenth century. Thus he states:
‘Vernacular beginnings were tentative in a literary space entirely dominated
by Sanskrit. The semiotics of socioideological registers used in literary texts
shows the same complexity as elsewhere in South Asia, and the competition
between them shows the same intensity, though both were made yet more
complex and intense by the presence of Persianate culture after the sixteenth
century.’ See Pollock, ‘Introduction’, Literary Cultures in History, p. 17.
72 a political history of literature

must flourish in full and intimate engagement with history ‘proper’

whatever that phrase might mean. After all, this ‘isolation’ is merely a
euphemism for an uncritical and presumptive endorsement (or rejec-
tion) of whatever the other histories have tried to establish. If this
sounds a little ambivalent, it is because modern academics use the
English word ‘history’ in several overlapping senses, often without
bothering to make a distinction between them.
In everyday parlance, history simply refers to information about
the past, of an event, monument, practice, and so on. We may call
it the quizmaster’s view of history, and denote it within quotes, as
‘history’, to distinguish it from academically more grounded connota-
tions of history. When a guide apprises visiting tourists of the ‘history’
of the Taj Mahal, giving them information about who built it, when,
and why, he uses the general non-specialist sense of the word. While
facts about the past are important ingredients of what the specialists
might call history, facts in themselves do not constitute history.80
A very distinct sense in which the word ‘history’ is deployed, mostly
in academic circles, relates to a particular way of seeing things, both
present and past. It is true that there are wide disagreements among
academics about what exactly is historical or (in a more specific way)
what a historicized attitude towards the past and present might mean.
Yet, it is generally accepted that a keen sensitivity towards change and
continuity, understood along the co-ordinates of time, space, and
human agency, constitute the vital ingredients of such an attitude.
Historians might disagree about how best to practice this particular
perspective in their craft or how much flexibility the discipline of his-
tory should be allowed, but usually they would accept the significance
of these ingredients of historical thinking. The tangible manifesta-
tion of this attitude is to be found in the rigours of research that the
academic discipline of history, varied though it might be in its orienta-
tion, stands for. Thus, if a historian declares that the ancient narrative

80
For a substantive discussion on the complex links between facts and
history, see Rao, Shulman, and Subrahmanyam, Textures of Time, pp. 11–19.
Elsewhere in the text, they point out, evocatively: ‘Facts are not so hard to
come by; purānas have them, folktales may have them, even newspapers
sometimes have them. It is always a matter of what one does with them—or
means to do’ (Rao, Shulman, and Subrahmanyam, Textures of Time, p. 263).
 The Literary and the Political in the Fifteenth Century 73

tradition of itihāsa is not history, this is the sense in which the term
is employed.81
The differences among modern historians are even more pro-
nounced on the issue of what tools and techniques of analysis are
more effective in recapturing and narrativizing the complex patterns
of change and continuity. A number of works in the tradition of ‘What
is History?’ actually grapple with this issue.82 In doing so, they engage
more with the craft of professional history writing rather than with
what history is in an ontological sense.
There exists a third meaning of history—linked to the other two
but functionally separable. History stands, in a related but distinct
way, for the force or burden of the past as we are obliged to feel it in
our present. In the comment, ‘sex is biology but gender is history’,
the word History (with a capital ‘H’) is used to invoke this sense. The
relationship between the academic discipline of history on the one
hand, and History as a socio-politico-ideological force on the other, is
both complementary and contradictory. What History, as a burden of
the past, may present as natural, universal, unchanging, and hence,
unchallengeable (for example, gender), is often shown to be chang-
ing, contingent, and hence, challengeable by the discipline of history.
If the academic pursuit of history is dynamic, the force of History is
also subject to change through the continuing politics of knowledge.
Historians’ reinterpretations of the past, after all, are also an attempt
to intervene actively in the moving course of how the burden of the
past is felt, and dealt with, by human agents in the present.
These taxonomic distinctions between ‘history’ within quotes,
history as an academic pursuit, and History as a naturalizing force,
are vital for laying out the precise terms in which to denote a set of
possible relationships between literatures and histories. It is equally
important to keep in mind the varied meanings to which the term
‘literature’ itself is subject. The modern discipline of history has
a lot to learn from the discipline of literary studies and vice versa.
However, I am not concerned with this dimension of the relationship

81 Ray, ‘What Ought to be History’.

82 See for example, Carr, What is History?; also see Bloch, The Historian’s
Craft.
74 a political history of literature

between history and literature right now. My interest lies in unravel-

ling the ways in which the literary compositions of fifteenth-century
North India attempted to intervene in the course of History as they
encountered them then. Such an endeavour essentially sees the act of
composing a text as primarily a political act—not in the narrow sense
in which a court poet might help carry out royal propaganda, but in
more fundamental and profound ways.
What were these ‘other’ ways in which literary compositions could
affect the course of History? Before we begin to answer that ques-
tion, it is important for us to imagine, in a historically informed way,
the place of literature in the order of things in premodern societies.
Literature, especially its more ‘popular’ forms that could circulate
freely in an oral culture (stories and versified/reciteable poems and
songs) must have performed a whole range of functions including
those we would today associate with electronic media, print media,
and even cultural products (namely, cinema, plays, music).83 More
than disseminating ‘information’, literary composition could help
people acquire the elementary vocabulary in which to make sense of
the world around them. In doing so, literature would ‘naturally’ set up
the scope and limits of the ways in which the world could be mean-
ingfully referenced in ordinary conversation or scholarly discourse.
Litterateurs would of course play on the existing vocabulary of other
comparable literary compositions of the past, and simultaneously
draw upon a personally acquired knowledge through institutional
interactions and everyday observations.
It was through literature that a larger number of people in ever-
wider circuits of communication would thus be socialized into specific
idioms and overarching archives (I do not use the word ‘archive’ here

83Let us not forget that unlike Christian Europe, where the weekly mass
was an extraordinary source of information for people about what was going
on in the world around them, there was no comparable institution in South
Asia. Royal courts, itinerant merchants, peasant–soldiers returning home
after earning some extra money fighting for unknown or known patrons
were some of the agents who helped in the dissemination of information. But
most important perhaps were the cultural products like literature and music,
especially those that could be remembered easily and retold or recited over
and over again.
 The Literary and the Political in the Fifteenth Century 75

to denote the physically bounded space where government files and

records are stored and systematically indexed). In the context of the
modern state—whether western, colonial, postcolonial, or its numer-
ous variants—it is almost a truism to say now that scholars ‘need to
move away from archive-as-source to archive-as-subject’.84 The idea
that archives are no innocuous stores of information waiting to be
mined has caught on especially from the 1980s onwards among
anthropologists, literary theorists, and historians alike. Early state-
ments on this might be traced back to the 1970s, if not earlier.85 Thus,
way back in 1972, Foucault proposed that archives are ‘systems of
statements’:

By this term I do not mean the sum of all the texts that a culture has kept
upon its person as documents attesting to its own past, or as evidence
of a continuing identity; nor do I mean the institutions, which, in a
given society, make it possible to record and preserve those discourses
that one wishes to remember and keep in circulation. On the contrary,
it is rather the reason why so many things, said by so many men, for so
long, … are born in accordance with specific regularities; … The archive
is first the law of what can be said, the system that governs the appear-
ance of statements as unique events … it is that which defines at the
outset the system of its enunciability.86 (emphasis in original)

It is ‘systems of statements’ or archives as described above that

determine the limits of what one can, or cannot, imagine/think/say in
a given age. That is, for any age, a concrete manifestation of the burden
of History. Is it possible to recover in such archives an ecosystem of
conceptual vocabularies instituted in the public imagination through
expressive forms? That brings us to the question of how history as a
discipline may deal with literature as its raw material for working out
insights into the past. Should we always look at literature as a ‘reflec-
tion’ of something more tangible? Should we not consider it also as
an argument that sought to articulate a view on whatever it talked
about? That argument of course would be intelligible in the context of

84 Stoler, ‘Colonial Archives and the Arts of Governance’, p. 93.

85 Certeau, ‘The Historiographic Operation’.
86 Foucault, The Archaeology of Knowledge, pp. 128–9.
76 a political history of literature

other similar/contesting arguments in response to which the literary

text constructed its own. To the extent that we can reconstruct this
intertextual dynamic, and relate it to issues of ethics, knowledge, and
power, we might meaningfully relate literature and history as well as
literature and power.
As with literature and history, there is no singular meaning that
we can attribute to the idea of ‘power’. In the last hundred years or
so, scholars have intensely deliberated over the character of power as
a political phenomenon, and the usefulness of ‘power’ as a concep-
tual category of analysis in a range of disciplines from philosophy
and political science to history and critical theory. It is not possible to
engage with all hues of arguments on the issue of power here. In any
case, much of this debate was carried on in terms of philosophical
abstractions with only indirect bearing for disciplines like history, and
even less so where premodern historiography is concerned.
Social scientists often see power variously as the authority that a
state and its integral or adjunct institutions exercise over their sub-
jects and as the ‘influence’ that is wielded over people by community
leaders, mystics, or traditionally respected institutions like caste asso-
ciations and village bodies. This is the most visible form of power in
which two distinct but overlapping meanings of power are clubbed
together—the brute physical force that the state and other armed
institutions wield on the one hand, and the might of ideological con-
structs that both validate the state’s power as well as create myriad
‘independent’ ideologues and stakeholders in the reigning dispensa-
tion. This is the more conventional, if still relevant, meaning of power.
Postmodernist thinkers like Foucault, infamous for their ‘near-
obsessive concern with power’, posit it in a very different and far
more complex sense. ‘Extended to realms far beyond authoritarian
rule or class exploitation, the two forms prioritized in conventional
liberal and Marxist criticism, power is seen to be all-pervasive and
yet decentred. It penetrates to the very pores of everyday life, can
become deeply internalized, and is all but irresistible, since “effective”
resistance tends to produce new forms of power.’87 Power in this for-
mulation is seen as a discursive field, almost coextensive with ‘forms

87 Sarkar, ‘Post-modernism and the Writing of History’, p. 294.

 The Literary and the Political in the Fifteenth Century 77

of knowledge’, and embodied in the Foucauldian notion of archive

referred to above. We may denote this sense of the word with a capital
‘P’ (Power as against the power exercised directly by the state over its
subjects, men over women, and so on).
These ideas are grounded firmly in very complex, distinct, and
controversial theories of postmodernism. Yet, one does not have
to uncritically buy into the entire Foucauldian paradigm to see the
obvious and commonsensical takeaway: that forms of knowledge, the
terms of its enunciation, the lexical grid in which it is couched (and
which it helps create), are critical vectors that any form of power—
whether of state, or of caste, gender, ethics, or religion—must contend
with. In the context of the histories of literary cultures, this concep-
tion of (a knowledge-wedded form of) Power helps me describe the
ways in which literature (‘things made of language’) as a primary field
of knowledge production can be seen as a vital constituent of both
History and Power. The state and other agents, both in the exercise of
power and in an attempt to resist it, must contend with History and
Power as constituted through the discursive field of literature.

***

In one of his early attempts at theorizing the vernacularization of

politics and literature in South Asia, Sheldon Pollock noted:

We must attempt to reconceptualize the key terms of the problematic,

culture and power, from within our empirical materials, resisting at
once the preconcepts of nationalized, colonialized, and orientalized
thinking, and even perhaps normal social science. It is typical of such
science, as the common sense of modernity and capitalism, to reduce
one of these terms (culture) to the other (power)—a reduction often
embodied in the use of the concept of legitimation of power. There
is no reason to assume that legitimation is applicable throughout all
human history, yet it remains the dominant analytic in explaining the
work of culture in studies of early South and Southeast Asia.88

He went on to suggest that ‘in earlier epochs the grounds for

social change, even radical change, might … be located in some more

88 Pollock, ‘India in the Vernacular Millennium’, p. 44.

78 a political history of literature

autonomous aesthetic imperative, for example, such as a new desire

for vernacular style’.89
Now, there can be no doubt that the dominant modes of modern
historiography on medieval South Asia have only too often used the
idea of ‘legitimation’ to short-circuit all possibilities of a sustained
study of cultural productions, textual or otherwise, in their own
terms and in a historicized manner. Historians have tended to see
genealogies, land-grants, the construction of temples, performance
of rituals, composition of historical narratives, retellings of mytho-
logical tales, and much else as mere instruments for legitimation of
state power. While Pollock’s objection to the scourge of legitimation
is valid, it is curious that he gives no reason why he privileges, or
even what he means by, ‘some more autonomous aesthetic impera-
tive’. A ‘new desire for vernacular style’ as an imperative simply begs
the question.
The problem, it would appear, lies not so much in the idea of
legitimation per se (one might in fact ask how power could survive
without validating itself, unless one puts it beyond history). A state
in the pre-modern, pre-nation era also had to contend with society at
large before the former could exercise power over the latter. However,
it would never be enough for it to construct a suitable genealogy or a
fancy theory and let it loose on a presumably unsuspecting mass of
people. Such a readymade ‘plug and play’ conceptualization of legiti-
mation of power makes no distinction between what linguists call the
code and the message.
The codes of politico-ideological discourse, the terms in which the
good and bad are talked about, traditions within which the ability to
discern the ethical from the unethical is cultivated are all bequeathed
to an age by earlier generations through History. These codes germi-
nate over a long period, and are encrusted into the very language that
is used to ‘create’ literature.90 That is why the discipline of history

89
Pollock, ‘India in the Vernacular Millennium’, p. 44.
90
‘We are within language as within our body’, wrote Sartre, ‘[w]e feel
it spontaneously while going beyond it towards other ends, as we feel our
hands and our feet; we perceive it when it is someone else who is using it,
as we perceive the limbs of others’. See Sartre, What is Literature? and Other
Essays, p. 35.
 The Literary and the Political in the Fifteenth Century 79

needs to ground itself in philological excavation, so as to recover the

vestiges of prejudgement from within language. This makes the phil-
ological exercise into a politically charged act of historical analysis.
For it helps expose the inbuilt, hidden, and unexamined judgements
in narratives that claim only to provide an objective description. In the
subsequent chapters, I have tried to ground my reading of the texts at
hand in a philological exercise that extends into possible prehistories
of terms, idioms, genres, and layers of meaning.
Indeed, what we need to excavate and systematically explore is the
layered and charged field of already existing literary discourses into
which an aspiring/fledgling regime plugs in order to communicate
with (or reassure) its future (or uncertain) ‘subjects’. One might say
that the conditions for converting ordinary people into ‘subjects of
power’ are created much before that power is actually exercised. To
put it differently, an analysis of the long-term rhythms of literary
production is a prerequisite for understanding legitimation for what
it was often in the premodern era—a protracted, messy, and continu-
ous process. This concept of legitimation as a diffused and long-term
process helps us analyse literature in all its multifarious dimensions
and relate it to diverse visions of power in the narrative about uneven
temporalities of History.
In his essay on the ‘Vernacular Millennium’, Pollock asserted that
the Sanskrit ecumene of the second millennium was ‘restricted to
the expressive and divorced from the documentary’, which made its
‘relation to power far more aesthetic than instrumental, a “poetry of
power,” perhaps, in an aesthetic state’.91 It is not clear as to what is
meant here by ‘an aesthetic state’ though it sounds vaguely plausible.
On the other hand, what would a ‘poetry of power’ consist of if not
a literary technology that seeks to camouflage the inherent inequi-
ties of power, and present it as beautiful and natural, and hence just,
ethical, and acceptable? To put it from the other end, the study of
‘knowledge formations’ must be relocated as a vital component of
political histories. This can be done only by diachronically linking the
literary imagination with political possibilities, and hence reworking
the relationship between literature and politics.

91 Pollock, ‘India in the Vernacular Millennium’, p. 48.

80 a political history of literature

Our discussion in the earlier sections of the chapter tried to

demonstrate how the fifteenth century witnessed an unprecedented
growth in the sheer volume and range of literary productions. While
the literary cultures of the time were evidently multilingual, they were
also multivalent in their ideological orientation and diverse in their
cultural projects in a way that cannot fully be explained in terms of
the immediate imperatives of governance, rulership, or states. This
is evident in all the three texts of Vidyapati that I take up for closer
analysis in the chapters in Part 2.
3 Writing State and Order

S
ometime in the second or perhaps the third decade of the
fifteenth century, a small chieftain in the semi-autonomous
principality of Droṇāvāra in Nepal (bordering north Bihar but
part of the politico-cultural zone of Mithila) made what must have
been an unusual (if not unprecedented) request to a reputed scholar of
the region. The chieftain was Purāditya Girinārāyaṇa, the scholar was
the prolific Brāhmaṇa poet, Vidyapati, and the request was to produce
a ready manual for writing, an aid for scribes. The result was the com-
position of a truly extraordinary text in Sanskrit entitled Likhanāvalī.
The author duly noted in the text, not once but twice, that the manual
was prepared on the orders of Purāditya. Immediately after paying
obeisance to Lord Gaṇeśa, ‘whose lotus like feet are worshipped with
the crown jewels of those gods and demons who desire opulence [and]
with whose pleasure all goals can be achieved’, Vidyapati noted:

Following the command of the son of Sarvāditya and king of Droṇāvara,

Purāditya Girinārāyaṇa, I compose Likhanāvalī for the instruction of

A Political History of Literature: Vidyapati and the Fifteenth Century. Pankaj Jha,
Oxford University Press (2019). © Pankaj Jha.
DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780199489558.003.0003
84 a political history of literature

the ignorant, for the recreation of the informed, and for the affection of
gentlemen. [I am] writing the rules about how to write to those above,
those below, and those who are at the same level [in the social hierar-
chy] as also about [how to frame documents regarding] regulations and
conduct.1

The author restated the role of his patron once again at the end,
this time with some additional information: ‘Defeating hordes of
enemies and distributing their wealth among supplicants, having
established his royal authority over the territory of Saptarī [area
cannot be identified] with the might of his arms, and [having] killed
Rāya Arjuna [since the latter was] guilty of cruel conduct towards his
own kinsmen, Raja Purāditya got this Likhanāvalī composed’.2
To the extent that I can ascertain, it would appear that there was
hardly any precedent in Sanskrit literature for writing the kind of
manual that Likhanāvalī turned out to be. We have no means to know
if this ‘original’ idea was his patron’s or his own. In any case, that
should not hold us long. It is probably more pertinent that such a
book was written and became important enough to survive in at least
one copy for more than 500 years or so. In what follows, we will try
to describe and analyse the structure of this text, its language, and
its contents. It would be useful to investigate what exactly the poet, a
courtier already having acquired a reputation for learning and prob-
ably wisdom, tried to accomplish with the enterprise at hand. What
could have been the possible ‘inspiration’ behind the idea of such a
text is another question worth consideration.
The obvious question that would strike a student of history in
general, and a student of fifteenth-century ‘India’ in particular, is
this: what was the need, of all things, to have a book about how to
write letters and frame documents? An answer to that big question
might have to wait for further research, and discoveries of new manu-
scripts and recovery of new information. As of now, we might actually

1Alpaśrutopadeśāya, kautukāya bahuṣrutām/Vidyapatissatāṃ prītyai karoti

likhanāvalīm. See Vidyapati, Likhānavalī (henceforth, Likhanāvalī), p. 1. All
the excerpts from the book refer to page numbers in this printed Sanskrit text.
All translations are mine unless otherwise indicated.
2 Likhanāvalī, p. 63.
 Writing State and Order 85

disaggregate that big question into smaller but equally important

ones: where did the idea of writing such a manual come from? If there
did not exist a tradition of producing such manuals in Sanskrit that
Vidyapati might have been familiar with, could he have taken a clue
from a non-Sanskrit source, such as the Persian tradition of insha?
Does such a composition indicate the growing importance of scribes
in the fifteenth century? Equally, if Vidyapati was not familiar with
an already existing tradition (if any) of such a genre in Sanskrit, what
extant literary conventions from within the world of Sanskrit could/
did he draw upon to compose Likhanāvalī? Should this development
be read as an indication of the emergence of a new kind of state, one
that was far more diligently engaged in producing written documents
and inscribing all communications in more durable formats? We will
deal with these and other related questions in this chapter. Before that,
let us first take a look at the way the text is organized and structured.
A consideration of the framing strategies deployed and the literary
devices used by him should help us reconstruct aspects of the literary
world(s) that he inhabited.

Organizing the Text

Writing about the pitfalls of working with medieval texts in the
context of thirteenth-century France, Gabriel Spiegel underlined
the significance of the structure of the text in helping the historian
recover the perceptual grids with which medieval writers worked.3
Spiegel is only one of the many scholars who in the last two decades
have commented on the problems in using a text merely for picking

3 ‘For, just as history, being transparent, was susceptible to invasion by fic-

tions circulating in the chronicler’s sources, so also was it receptive to being

shaped by structures already residing in the social reality which the historian
perceived as the focus of his narrative. And, in keeping with my metaphors
of perception, I would like to call these structures “perceptual grids,” which
directed the historian’s glance at relatively fixed categories of human experi-
ence and governed both the nature of his perceptions and the manner in
which he transmitted them.’ See Spiegel, ‘Genealogy: Form and Function in
Medieval History Narrative’, p. 46.
86 a political history of literature

up ‘relevant’ pieces of information, without first accounting for the

‘wholeness’ of a text, its specific rhythms and unique structure,
and so forth. Let us start then by taking a look at how the text is
organized.
Likhanāvalī is divided into four, or rather three plus one parts. The
first three parts consist of model letters written to one’s superiors,
inferiors, and equals, respectively.4 The fourth part carries model
documents that primarily record details of what may broadly be
termed ‘business transactions’. The first part carries eighteen letters,
and the second has twenty-eight. The third part that illustrates how to
write to one’s equals puts together only seven letters, understandable
for a society where relationships were mostly framed within formal
hierarchies and very few ties of equality existed. The section on docu-
ments, the fourth part, entitled vyavahāralikhanāni, literally, ‘Writing
Conduct’, carries thirty-one entries. None of the letters in the first
three sections are dated. But almost all of the documents in the fourth
section are duly dated in the Lakṣamaṇa Era.5
Tables 3.1 to 3.4 below give the details of each of the four sections:

Table 3.1 Model Letters to Those with Higher Status

Receiver/Sender Letter Total Theme/Remarks
Number(s)
To Guru from Disciple 1, 2 2 (i) Requesting for books
(ii) Sending guru-dakshiṇa
to honour the knowledge
gained from the guru
To Teacher–Ascetic of 3 1 Alms in return for blessings
Varanasi from a Ruler securing various things for
the realm (Very interesting
mapping of all that is
required for the smooth
functioning of the state)

4 Uccaiḥkakṣalikhanāni, adhaḥkakṣalikhanāni, and samakakṣalikhanāni,

respectively.
5 The Lakṣamaṇa Era in all probability started in 1119. For a discussion

for and against this calculation, see Chapter 1 in this volume.

 Writing State and Order 87

To Teacher–Ascetic of 4 1 Alms sent in return for

Kashi from a rich man blessings securing health,
(landholder/trader) wealth, and sons
To Father from Son 5 1 Task completed, coming
back home
To Mother from Son 6 1 Quality of food
To Brother from 7 1 Freeing a fettered śūdra
Younger Brother
To King from Army 8, 9 2 (i) Reporting victory after
Chief initial retreat
(ii) Reporting on
Yavaneśvara’s march
To King from Chieftain 10 1 Rehabilitating deserted
lands
To King from Minister 11 1 Performance of rites for
of Peace victory in battle
To Chief Minister 12, 13 2 (i) Reporting non-payment
from a local Tax of taxes by some
Superintendent (ii) Tax as per the previous
years is unfair;
measurement requested
To Minister of War 14 1 King upset, Sāmanta wants
and Peace from a amnesty
Sāmanta
To Minister of War 15 1 Mobilizing Rāutas and
and Peace from Army soldiers
Chief
To King from Chief 16 1 Officials and criminals
Counsel who owed fines have paid
up to the end of their
capacity
To a Judge* from 17 1 Requesting a judgement in
Village Man a dispute
(Headman?)
Chief Priest from a 18 1 Alms for sons from court
Village Brāhmaṇa

Source: Adapted from Likhanāvalī.

Note: *The word used in Sanskrit is dharmādhikaraṇik (literally, one who is
authorized by dharma/ethics), an arbiter of disputes.
88 a political history of literature

Table 3.2 Model Letters to Those with Lower Status

Sender/Receiver Letter Total Themes/Remarks
Numbers
From King to 19, 20 2 (i) For tribute and attendance
Chieftain of son or brother and threat
of invasion
(ii) Similar but specifying the
contents of the tribute
From Chief Justice 21 1 Summons and order for return
to Rāuta of slaves captured
From Chief 22 1 Tax dues
Minister to a
Chieftain
From Chief 23 1 Directions to investigate revenue
Minister to an embezzlement by Choudhary
Accountant
From Chief 24 1 Amnesty issued, and Choudhary
Minister to a asked to rehabilitate the village, give
Choudhary* up his immoral disposition, and
submit to the royal order and appear
in court
From Chief 25 1 To arrest the thief and produce him
Minister to along with the stolen goods
Protocol Officer
From Minister of 26 1 Bring the army commander who
War and Peace to defected from the enemy king with
Travel Officer due honour
From King to 27 1 Notice about the whole village
entire population being granted to someone as a
of a village brahmottara (a village whose tax
revenue was granted to a Brāhmaṇa
by the state)
From King to 28 1 To make sure that the grantees of a
Choudhary village get the possession as per the
grant
From Chief 29 1 Subscription for commerce granted
Minister to Traders to a Kshatriya Ṭhakkura at 2,80,000
(of a locality) (currency not mentioned)
 Writing State and Order 89

From Chief 30 1 All haṭṭs (markets) and ghāṭs (river

Minister to all banks) given to a Vaṇik trader for
those dependent 10,000 (currency not mentioned)
on haṭṭs and ghāṭs
for livelihood
From City 31 1 Waterbodies have been given to
Superintendent to the Sāhani for 1,000 (currency not
Fishermen mentioned)
From Army 32 1 Seeks information in writing about
Chief to Area absentee and present Rāutas and
Commander soldiers
From Chief 33 1 Pay subsistence dues to a Cauhāna
Minister to Rāuta out of fines paid
Superintendent†
From a Village 34 1 Seeks information about seed
Headman to varieties in writing, asks Karmāntika
the Karmāntika to send some samples, and gives
(one assigned instructions for how to go about
with a particular cultivation
task, in this case,
cultivating land)
Father to Son 35, 37 2 (i) Asking for everyday expenses,
and suggestions for augmenting
income like reporting about
fallen folks‡ and expanding the
size of armed contingent
(ii) Sermonizing about the duties of
a Kāyastha and state official
Mother to 36 1 Heard about your ill-repute, quarrels
Daughter with sister-in-law and co-wife; lesson
on virtuosity, humility, and devotion
to husband and elders
From a Father to 38 1 Informs about and invites for
Son-in-Law daughter’s marriage; sending
someone to request his parents’
permission to send our daughter
From Chief 39 1 Complaining about a mismatch in
Documentation tax register and asking the clerk to
Officer (pāñjika) to come and correct
a Clerk

(Cont’d)
90 a political history of literature

Table 3.2 (Cont’d)

Sender/Receiver Letter Total Themes/Remarks
Numbers
From Head Chef 40 1 I am going on leave for my
to a Subordinate daughter’s marriage, so you will be
Chef responsible
Official in Charge 41 1 You went to fetch betel leaves but
of Betel Leaves to have been away for a month now.
Store Keeper of Return as soon as possible
king’s sister
Officer in Charge 42 1 Make large number of pitchers.
of Water to a Potter Also buy aromatic stuff from
traders
From Chief 43 1 You [are] sitting at home. Do not
Intelligence delay work [assigned to you] even by
Officer to a Spy a day
Naibandhika 44 1 Overstayed your leave, return
Ṭhakkura (Writer) immediately since you are the
to Accountant one in the know of details about
soldiers
Chief Priest to 45 1 Overstayed your leave, return since
Florist there is an issue with flowers at the
time of royal worship
Chief of Treasury 46 1 When you were sent for some work,
to Keeper of the you carried the seals too, send the
Seals seals as soon as possible

Source: Adapted from Likhanāvalī.

Notes: *A Choudhary could be a headman, but the word was also
frequently used as an epithet for a land-owning man with a high degree
of social status.
† The Sanskrit word used is kāryyi, literally, ‘a deputy’. The context suggests

that this man might have been a superintendent of accounts.

‡ The expression used by Vidyapati is patitajīvasaṃkhyā, literally, ‘the

number (saṃkhyā) of fallen (patita) creatures ( jīva)’. The word patita probably
referred to those who were morally corrupt and who had forfeited their
rank/position/caste. It is more likely that the author used the word to refer
to those who have fallen from royal grace and might be considered rebels.
From the context in which ‘patitajīvasaṃkhyā’ occurs, it would appear that
reporting on the ‘morally corrupt’ or ‘politically rebellious’
was supposed to bring material rewards from the authorities.
 Writing State and Order 91

Table 3.3 Model Letters to Those with Equal Status

Sender/Receiver Letter Total Themes/Remarks
Nos.
From King to 47 1 Army of Yavaneśvara moving towards
another King your territory. As a friend, I can help
with gifts if you want to compromise,
or I can send my army if you want to
fight
Minister of War 48 1 We are friends, so stop encroachment
and Peace to his by relatives of the King. Kings are
counterpart in independent by nature, in case of
another kingdom problem in relationship, people will
blame you and me. Also issues a veiled
threat
Father of a girl to 49 1 Let my daughter’s misery remain
her father-in-law hidden, and you behave as per your
exalted station
Trader to some 50 1 Had a successful business trip
eminent person on account of your advice; please
accept four pearls we have brought
for you
A Prince to 51 1 You have gone away after a squabble
another Prince with the King; please come back, the
King is apologetic. Invokes
loyalty to King and collegiality of
princes
From a Cultivator 52 1 Enquiring about some variety of paddy
to a Merchant– seeds, and sending some other variety
Agriculturalist in response (presumably) to an earlier
letter by the addressee
From a Chief 53 1 The King no longer listens to you; a
Minister to another subtle and guarded invitation to defect
of a different after homilies on virtues of loyalty and
kingdom propriety

Source: Adapted from Likhanāvalī.

Table 3.4 Model Records of Business Transactions and Affidavits
Subject Document Total Themes/Remarks
No.
Debt Repayment 54 1 Decree awarded on the strength of witnesses’ depositions
Dispute Case
Judgement
Sale Deed for sale 55, 56, 60 3 (i) Invokes the realm of Sultan Shah (recipient of the grace of Khuda) and his
of slaves subordinate ruler (Nārāyaṇa-like for his Kaṃsa enemies!) before giving details of
the transaction. Slaves referred to as Śūdra and Śūdrī
(ii) A śūdra sells himself for 2 ṭaṅka, mistakenly referred to once as a Rāuta
(iii) Both (letter nos. 55 and 56) specify work that the slave will have to perform, both
sales are forever, and that they will be brought back to slavery with this deed as
legitimate claim (even if he is hiding beneath the Royal Throne!)
(iv) A Śūdrī (daughter of boatman Śūdra) is sold here by a Kāyastha to an Upādhyāya.
But the Śūdrī is being acquired through a process of marriage to a Śūdra boy,
presumably already a slave of the Upādhyāya
Buying human 57, 58, 59 3 (i) Mortgaged persons’ tasks are specified as that of carrying loads like the Śūdras
labour on did, but with the option of relief from work if the fine is paid (6 kākinīs). No
mortgage obligation as to food or cloth is mentioned on the part of the purchaser of the
mortgage
(ii) Mortgaged person also to get a man-meal (meal sufficient for an adult male) daily,
and a jute and a cotton cloth annually. His work is specified too
(iii) Mortgaged on a four-days-a-week basis
Debt Bond 61 9 (i) The duration after which 25 per cent becomes due is not specified, and guarantor
68 for each of the three debtors has different terms and conditions. For one, he is
69 security guarantor, for another he is appearance guarantor, and for the third, he is
70 payment guarantor. Each term is explicated
71 (ii) For four months only by an accountant to an Upadhyāya, with the condition
75 that after the due date, interest on interest will also be charged ‘as per convention’.
76 No guarantor, only witnesses
77 (iii) Sāhu gives the debt bond; 100 purāṇa kapardaka taken at 25 per cent rate
78 of interest. No guarantor, only witnesses
79 (iv) Sāhu gives the debt bond to a Ṭhakkura; Sāhu takes loan for daughter’s marriage;
also see monthly interest rate of 6 paṇas for each ṭaṅka, but in words it says only 2 paṇas
below 72, for each ṭaṅka. No guarantor, only witnesses
73, 81 (v) Wholesaler gives debt bond to Ṭhakkura; loan of 15 ṭaṅkas, and interest promised
trip-wise. After every trip Śivākṣa to be paid to creditor. No guarantor, only
witnesses
(vi) Nāyaka gives deed to Sāhu, after pawning 10 tolaks (measure of weight
approximately equal to 10 grams) of gold and borrowing 30 ṭaṅkas with the
interest fixed at 4 paṇas per month
(vii) Rāuta borrows 3 ṭaṅkas from Sāhu, and pawns a milch cow with its calf as well as
a bull ‘deft at ploughing’. Interest payment will be in the form of cow’s milk and
bull’s ploughing

(Cont’d)
Table 3.4 (Cont’d)
Subject Document Total Themes/Remarks
No.
(viii) Vanik chief borrows 20 ṭaṅkas from Kāyastha Ṭhakkura with the interest fixed
at 1 paṇa for each ṭaṅka, ‘for fear of royal punishment and oppression by state
officers’ (to pay tax?)
(ix) Boatman borrows 10 khārīs (a heap that a pack animal may carry usually equal
to 16 droṇas [where a droṇa stands for approximately 30 kilograms] or roughly
about 180 kilograms) of paddy from a Vaiśya Vanik under ‘one and a half times
settlement’ payable at the time of harvest
(x) A Sāhu gives a settlement deed to his Kāyastha creditor for an existing debt,
through which he notes what he has already paid back, as well as the value of the
remaining amount. He also puts in terms under which the interest will be paid on
the remaining amount
Deed of 62 1 Eldest one gets his due before equal share distributed among each (but leaving aside the
Separation among women’s share)
four brothers
Revenue receipt 63, 64 2 (i) Probably the shortest document. Just acknowledges payment
(ii) Rāuta pays tribute to the King
A Royal order 65 1 *Could be part of the second section. A muqaddam (a village chief, also known as
mukhia) reminded that the Rāuta’s payment made to him is actually the property of the
King and should be paid up duly. One of few in this section that is not dated
Exoneration Deed 66 1 A certain Śrīśarmā gives the deed to a Nāyaka after the latter is forced to pay double the
principal amount by the Village Council
Manumission 67 1 *Owner relinquishes all rights over the slave or over his property. ‘Dharma itself is
Deed witness’
Settlement Deed 72, 73 2 (i) A householder takes 10 ṭaṅkas from a Sāhu and promises to give 10 khārīs
for future sale of of paddy for each ṭaṅka at the time of the harvest. The system is called
harvest molāvyavasthā
(ii) Householder takes 2 ṭaṅkas from a Sāhu. Two ṭaṅkas will be payable at the time
of the harvest along with an interest of 8 mānīs of paddy, that is, 4 mānīs per
ṭaṅka
Settlement Deed 74 1 Four traders pledge to do business together after borrowing from a patron. After the
exchanged among transactions, they will return the principal to the patron, and divide the profit equally
four traders amongst themselves
Deed for renting 80 1 A fisherman rents a boat from a Rāuta with the rent fixed at 2 ṭaṅkas. Under the
a boat settlement, if the boat is destroyed due to the fisherman’s carelessness or accident, he
will ‘pay the price fixed by the village council’
Letter pledging to 81 1 *Ṭhakkura gives pledge to another Ṭhakkura: ‘I owe 200 purāṇas to you; I will not go
pay the debt and away without paying. May misfortune fall my way if I do. May it be written in legible
not run away handwriting.’ No witnesses mentioned

(Cont’d)
Table 3.4 (Cont’d)
Subject Document Total Themes/Remarks
No.
Affidavit by a man 82 1 *Devadatta declares that I have not moistened Śrīpadma’s vagina with my semen,
about not having and Padma declares my vagina has not been moistened with semen. There is another
had sex with a sample of a declaration under water immersion oath by a certain Vishṇumitra that
particular woman. he has repaid a loan. And a śloka is invoked that ‘Dharma knows men’s manner of
Woman too thinking’. Includes advice that this śloka should be written in the affidavit, and also
makes a similar specifies particular months for particular types of oaths
declaration. Both
are identified by
name
Pledge to end 83 1 Two Rāutas pledge to give up animosity and be good to each other, and so on, and ‘not
animosity indulge in territorial transgression’. Third Rāuta becomes intermediary for the purpose,
between two and pledges that if he is not able to accomplish this, then may he incur the sin of an
Rāutas ungrateful person
Sample of 84 1 ‘I know that the Kāyastha sold a Śūdra and his wife to the Upādhyāya’s father’, and so on,
a witness’s followed by four lines in verse that end with ‘A witness ends up among the enemy if he
declaration does not speak what he knows’. Interestingly, the verse starts with the following line:
‘Even thousands of horse sacrifices cannot stand against the truth!’

Source: Adapted from Likhanāvalī.

Note: *Not dated.
 Writing State and Order 97

A quick look through the content of the texts as tabulated above

leaves no doubt that the work we are dealing with was probably
much more than a mere manual for writing. The practice of consign-
ing long-distance messages, courtly or business transactions, and
sundry information to writing, especially at the behest of the state,
was at least 1,800 years old by the time of Vidyapati, as we will see
below. A sculpture from the second century of the Christian Era at
Nagarjunakonda shows a scribe taking notes in a royal court. Writing
as a full-time profession, and scribes as a distinct community with
unique characteristics, emerged very early, at least by the middle of
the first millennium of the Christian Era, if not earlier.6 As Daud Ali
noted, ‘sustained and influential discourses about scribes are attribut-
able to the first half of the second millennium.’7 Yet there are very few
texts in Sanskrit—at any rate we do not know of too many—that gave
lessons exclusively on the craft of writing. One such text, apart from
Likhanāvalī, was Lekhapaddhati, also composed in all probability in
the fifteenth century.

Comparing Likhanāvalī with Lekhapaddhati

We would be in a better position to appreciate the historical specificity
of the structure and content of Likhanāvalī, if we compared it with
another text of roughly the same genre, one that is chronologically
close as well. Unfortunately, Likhanāvalī did not record when pre-
cisely it was compiled. However, it is possible to broadly identify the
time of its compilation. The documents in the fourth section titled
‘Vyavahāralikhanāni’ are dated 299 in the Lakṣamaṇa Era, that is to
say c. 1418 ce. One may reasonably infer then, that the text might
first have been composed in, or a few years around, that time. Was it a
first-of-its-kind text in Sanskrit? I have not been able to trace any other
treatise in Sanskrit on ‘writing’ that could be dated even close to the
time of the composition of Likhanāvalī. Considering, however, that
a large number of Sanskrit manuscripts from this period, probably

6 For an extremely interesting and substantive account of how scribes

as a professional community were perceived and described during the early-
medieval and medieval period, see Ali, ‘The Image of the Scribe’.
7 Ali, ‘The Image of the Scribe’, p. 170.
98 a political history of literature

thousands, lie buried in numerous libraries, archives, museums, and

private collections in India and abroad, one may only say that this
must have been one of the earliest attempts to provide a ready refer-
ence book for Sanskrit scribes of the time.
Interestingly, a Sanskrit treatise that analysed everyday speech,
the ‘corrupted’ (Apabhraṃśa) dialects of ordinary folks, entitled
Uktivyaktiprakaraṇa, composed in the twelfth century, also had two
chapters on writing. Titled ‘Lekhalikhanavidhi’ and ‘Vyāvahārika-lekha-
patra-likhana-krama’, these chapters are unfortunately missing from
the single extant manuscript of the treatise.8 The only other Sanskrit
work resembling Likhanāvalī, that may possibly be dated to the (late)
fifteenth century, is the more famous Lekhapaddhati from Gujarat. It
might then be interesting to compare these two texts.
Lekhapaddhati is probably the best-known Sanskrit text of its kind
from the middle ages in the Indian subcontinent, owing largely to
the fact that it was published as early as 1925 by Gaekwad’s Oriental
Series. C.D. Dalal, the editor, used all the four extant manuscripts
to put together a critical edition of the text.9 It got further attention
from scholars when, more recently, another annotated critical edition
with an English translation appeared.10 Lekhapaddhati, also entitled
in two of its manuscripts as Lekhapañcāsikā, is a compilation of
Sanskrit documents and letters composed in Gujarat between 744 ce
(the date of the earliest dated document) and 1475–6 ce (the date of
the latest dated document). One of the manuscripts notes at the end
that ‘Śrī Rām wrote this Lekhapañcāsikā for his own study and satis-
faction during the victorious reign of Rāṇā Śrī Jagamala Haridas’11
in Vikram Saṃvat 1533. It is not clear however, if Śrī Rām was the
‘original’ compiler of the text, or, as is more likely, a mere transcriber.
His manuscript carries only thirty-eight documents while two other
manuscripts carry a much larger number (sixty-one and fifty-four,
respectively). This is interesting even if we make discounts for the

8
See the editor Vijay Muni’s ‘Introduction’ in Dāmodar,
Uktivyaktiprakaraṇa, p. 8.
9 Dalal, Lekhapaddhati.
10 Prasad, Lekhapaddhati: Documents of State and Everyday Life from

Ancient and Early Medieval Gujarat.

11 Prasad, ‘Introduction’, Lekhapaddhati, p. 34.
 Writing State and Order 99

fact that two leaves are missing from this manuscript. While two of
the extant manuscripts are dated in the 1470s (Vikram Saṃvat 1475–6
and 1478–9, respectively), the other two are not dated. Considering,
however, that the last dated document is from 1475–6, and that one of
the manuscripts is also dated around the same time, it is very likely
that the text was put together during that time. The only other possibil-
ity could be that one version was compiled earlier, but other compilers
kept adding newer documents to it in the later transcripts. Some of
these even carry names of the authors of the individual documents.
Someone at a later date must have put them together in the form of a
single text. This indicates a complex and long-drawn trajectory for the
composition of Lekhapaddhati, both in terms of the published critical
edition of the text (based on several recensions), as well as with regard
to the extant individual manuscripts.
In contrast, Likhanāvalī seems to have been composed and com-
piled by the same person, and ‘in one go’, so to say. Moreover, unlike
Lekhapaddhati, whose authors mostly, though perhaps not always, put
together preexisting drafts of documents from different moments
roughly across seven centuries, Vidyapati appears to have himself
composed each of the documents in Likhanāvalī. He put forth these
documents as model templates, and made no bones about the fact
that they were all fictitious. He never named any major or minor his-
torical character in ways that anyone could identify them. Instead, he
left the space for names practically blank with the formulaic expres-
sion ‘so and so’.12 The fact that all the letters and documents in the
text are evidently fictitious means that the author would have had to
first imagine an entire world, somewhat like a modern novelist, in
which to set these communications. He populated that world with
kingdoms and kings, chieftaincies and princelings, ministers and
soldiers, peasants and traders, along with fathers, mothers, sons, and
daughters as also slaves and their owners, disciples and their precep-
tors, and so on. He also cast networks of political, familial, social, and

12 ‘Amuka’ is the word by which he always referred to kings, ministers,

priests, and other dignitaries. The author did, however, occasionally name
kingdoms like those of Dillī, Gauḍa, Tirhut, and so on. In some instances,
when Lekhapaddhati left the names of characters/places blank, it also used
the word ‘amuka’; see for example, Dalal, Lekhapaddhati, pp. 2, 6, 7, 9.
100 a political history of literature

affective relationships, both in idealistic and not-so-idealistic moulds,

to animate that world. This may be compared to the ‘factual’ grid of
Lekhapaddhati, which historians may profitably use to string together
the whole genealogy of the Cālukya dynasty, among other things.13
However, the Gujarat text is divided into two parts. The critical edi-
tion that put together the materials from the overlapping contents of
the four manuscripts contains seventy-eight documents in the first
part, and twenty-three in the second. None of the documents in the
second section can be said to have this factual grid. The first part
contains mostly state documents, records of business transactions,
or juridical judgements. Most of them are dated with the year, lunar
month, fortnight, day, and date clearly indicated. The second part
carries private correspondence between individuals. These are let-
ters exchanged between preceptors and disciples, between brothers,
between husbands and wives, lovers and beloved, and even between
sons-in-law and fathers-in-law/mothers-in-law. The content suggests
that these letters are fictitious rather than transcribed from actual
drafts of correspondence. None of the documents in the second part are
dated. One may say that broadly, the first three sections of Likhanāvalī
with private communications between individuals (including state
actors) correspond with the second part of Lekhapaddhati, whereas
the fourth part of Likhanāvalī may be comparable to the first part of
the Gujarat manual.
A second point of comparison between these two texts could be the
manner in which their respective compilers articulated their own ideas
about what they were doing and trying to achieve with their respective
works. We have already seen how Vidyapati unambiguously stated that
he wrote Likhanāvalī under instructions from his patron–chieftain,
Purāditya Girinārāyaṇa. In the same vein, he also noted that this was
‘for the instruction of the ignorant, for the pleasure of the informed,
and for the affection of gentlemen’. The way the text was organized
into four strictly defined compartments was clearly envisaged at the
very beginning with the declaration that it contained ‘the rules about

13 Pushpa Prasad has actually undertaken such an exercise with great

precision in his ‘Introduction’ to the text. See Prasad, ‘Introduction’,
Lekhapaddhati, p. 5. He also compared the data in the text with those gleaned
from contemporary inscriptions and found that they match.
 Writing State and Order 101

how to write to those above, those below, and those who are at the
same level [in the social hierarchy] as also about [how to frame docu-
ments regarding] regulations and conduct’.14 Before spelling out all of
these issues, at the very beginning, Vidyapati was also careful to pay
his obeisance, following standard convention, to Lord Gaṇeśa.
Many of these marks of a typical Sanskrit text composed in the
middle ages were missing in the opening stanzas of Lekhapaddhati. It
starts on a somewhat bland note and rather vaguely: ‘Having received
instructions of the teacher, and following the advice of learned schol-
ars, for knowledge of things that one is ignorant of, I am putting down
here the models of documents’.15 It goes on to list, however, more than
thirty-five different types of documents, models of which are given in
the body of the text, without any attempt at classifying them. The list
includes expected types of documents such as Rājādeśa (Order of the
King), Śāsana pattalā (Royal Charter), Deśottāra (Permit or Passport),
and Grāma pattalā (Village Charter) on the one hand, and interesting
sounding documents such as Ṭippanakaṁ yathā (Certificate), Ḍohalikā
mukti yathā (land of which the ownership is doubted and hence
taken by the government), and Ḍhaukaṇa patra (Presentation Letter
[ for divorce and remarriage]), on the other. Curiously, Lekhapaddhati
also lists out in its prologue, the ‘main departments’ of the state, thus
underlining the state-centric character of the project.16 It is not sur-
prising then that almost all of the seventy-eight documents in the first
part of the text, and even some of those in the second part, are directly
related to the work of one or the other department of the government.
A third point of comparison, somewhat clumsier, could be the
language and style of the two texts. Written in two somewhat differ-
ent registers of Sanskrit prose, the language of Likhanāvalī is heavily

14 It may be noted that the author never actually laid out any rules as such.
He only provided model documents that were supposed to illustrate rules that
were presumed rather than spelt out.
15 Prasad, Lekhapaddhati, p. 49; Dalal, Lekhapaddhati, p. 1.
16 This includes: ‘Chief Secretariat; the accounts department; king [that

is, the royal department]; department of justice; department of collecting śulk

[taxes]; department of harbours [veākula], roads, and waterways; department
of building [related to education]; and the mint’. See Prasad, Lekhapaddhati,
p. 49; Dalal, Lekhapaddhati, p. 1.
102 a political history of literature

stylized in some parts, whereas other parts are composed more sim-
plistically, without the burden of elaborate metaphors. Typically, the
first part in the letters that praises the addressee is couched in a pedan-
tic vocabulary with elaborate aestheticization, using such alaṅkāras/
tropes as upamā (metaphor), rūpaka (simile), atiśayokti (hyperbole),
and occasionally even anuprāsa (alliteration), and so on. The same is
also true of a large number of documents that record transactions,
wherein the actual transactions are often described after invoking the
reigning ruler, the feudatory, and the respective dynasties, along with
their patron gods. The workman-like, business-related parts, on the
other hand, are written in very simple language, occasionally using
vernacular and even Perso-Arabic words.
A large number of documents in Lekhapaddhati too, display identi-
cal characteristics so far as the two different registers of Sanskrit are
concerned. This may be a result of the fact that both probably drew
heavily from the established conventions of framing inscriptions,
especially copper plate inscriptions. In fact, the Gujarat text, contain-
ing actual historical documents as it does, includes at least one such
copper plate inscription dated (Vikram) Saṃvat 1288 (1230–1 ce) that
is clearly identified as Tāmra Śāsana Yathā (Copper Plate Charter).17
Interestingly, this is true as much of the documents from the eighth
century, as it is for those belonging to the thirteenth or the fifteenth
century.
As for the use of ‘vernacular’ words, Lekhapaddhati employs
Sanskrit forms of several Gujarati terms.18 Instances of certain
Marathi words in their Sanskritized form can also be found, though
not with equal regularity. Indeed, in comparison with Likhanāvalī,
vernacular terms occur with even more regularity in Lekhapaddhati.
Again, some formulaic expressions were commonly used by both
texts, the most recurring example being that of svasti (may it be well),
a word with which most communications/letters, but not records of
transactions, began. Both texts were primarily composed in prose

17 Prasad, Lekhapaddhati, pp. 58–60; Dalal, Lekhapaddhati, p. 5.

18 As Pushpa Prasad points out, terms such as ‘avalagā’ (Guj. olaga),
‘kriyāṇakāni’ (Guj. kariyanu), ‘khashcā’ (Guj. khānca), caṭāpaka (Guj. chaḍhābo),
pottaka (Guj. pottuṃ), pocila (Guj. poci), and so on are only some examples.
See Prasad, ‘Introduction’, Lekhapaddhati, p. 9.
 Writing State and Order 103

with occasional verses in between. In fact, a few verses are to be found

in both texts with minor variations.19 A śāsana patra (royal charter) in
Lekhapaddhati declared:

He who confiscates the land given by himself or others, becomes a

worm in the excrement of a dog and sinks [into hell] with his parents.
The donor of the land enjoys bliss in heaven for sixty thousand
years, and he who destroys [or resumes] it or who abets the destruction
dwells in hell for the same period.20

In almost identical terms, the twenty-seventh document in

Likhanāvalī too, expresses the same sentiments:

One who gives and one who accepts land in dāna,

Both doers of good deeds surely go to heaven.
One who captures land, donated by self or by another,
Becomes a worm and lives in shit with his father.21

It is noteworthy that both texts show remarkable concern about

a later ruler of the same or another house reclaiming land having
once been donated. A number of verses were quoted by both texts to
pre-empt such an eventuality, a practice that they may have borrowed
from the land-grant inscriptions of an earlier period.
One may also note that most of the verses in the second part (one
that carries private correspondence) of Lekhapaddhati are composed,

19 This should not be interpreted to mean that the author of one of them
had necessarily consulted the other text. It is more likely that both were
drawing upon an existing stock of ‘subhāsita’ literature, a freely floating com-
pendium of verses, supposedly carrying a classical rendering of folk wisdom.
On subhāsita, see Ali, ‘The Subhāṣita as an Artifact of Ethical Life in Medieval
India’; also see Jha, ‘Beyond the Local and the Universal’, especially pp. 32–3.
20 Bahubhirvasudhā bhuktā rājabhiḥ sagarādibhiḥ/Yasya yasya
yadābhūmistasya tasya tadā phalam/Svadattaṃ paradattaṃ vā you hareñca
vasundharam/Sa viṣṭhāyāṃ kṛimirbhūtvā pitṛibhiḥ sah majjati. See Dalal,
Lekhapaddhati, p. 3; Prasad, Lekhapaddhati, document no. 2, p. 54.
The same verse, with minor changes in the vocabulary, occurs again in
the next document; see Prasad, Lekhapaddhati, document no. 3, p. 60; Dalal,
Lekhapaddhati, pp. 4–5.
21 Likhanāvalī, document no. 27, p. 22.
104 a political history of literature

intriguingly, in Jain Prakrit.22 No parallel for such a practice exists in

Likhanāvalī. Another unique feature of the Gujarat compilation is the
fact that the private letters in the second part invariably identify an
individual, both addressee as well as addressor, with a place name. The
state documents in the first part too, often though not always, associ-
ate the listed individuals with an area or a territory. Thus, ‘a letter of an
angry wife to her husband [saṁrushṭa bhāryā bhartṛilekho yathā]’ starts
with, ‘From place A, X [wife] sends the message to [her] respected
husband Y of place B thus:…’.23 Similarly ‘a letter of a happy wife
to her husband [prasanna bhāryā bhartṛilekhaṃ prasthāpayati yathā]’
starts as follows: ‘From place A, always obedient X [wife] with love,
with eagerness, and with modesty communicates to her respected
husband Y of this same place…’.24 The letters in Likhanāvalī do not
identify the place of origin or residence of the recipient or writer as
frequently as Lekhapaddhati. Rather, every time a state official is men-
tioned, whether the sovereign, or a subordinate ruler, or a minister, or
a military commander, his position is immediately marked as having
been established with all the due procedures. The Sanskrit phrase
‘samastaprakriyāvirājamāna’ (literally, ‘all due procedures present’)
and some of its minor variations are probably the most frequently
occurring set of expressions in the text.
It should be noted too, that the occasional use of words of Perso-
Arabic stock, especially for administrative or commerce-related
practices is more marked in Vidyapati’s text, with the use of words
like paikār25 for a wholesaler, parigaṇā,26 for a sub-provincial

22 It is not immediately clear as to why this was done. Might we conclude

that Sanskrit was used only for formal and official communication, and that
people preferred to use Prakrit, another literary language, for personal and
intimate communication?
23 Prasad, Lekhapaddhati, document no. 10, part II, p. 206; Dalal,

Lekhapaddhati, p. 63.
24 Prasad, Lekhapaddhati, document no. 9, part II, p. 205; Dalal,

Lekhapaddhati, p. 62.
25 Likhanāvalī, document no. 71, p. 54.
26 This is a Sanskritized version of the common Persian term for an

administrative division, ‘pargana’, rendered in Devanāgarī as ‘parigaṇā’; see

Likhanāvalī, document no. 23, p. 20 and document no. 27, p. 22. Other notable
 Writing State and Order 105

revenue unit, or pot for a boat. Vernacular words appear with slightly
greater frequency in the text: khepī, gaḍhavāra, gonḍhi, ṭeḍhi, and so
on are some examples. In any case, the world that Vidyapati imag-
ined for composing his text was certainly more diversified than
the world we encounter in Lekhapaddhati, even though the latter
spanned a much greater period of more than seven centuries. The
composition from Mithila reflects the myriad colours of the social,
cultural, and political ferment of the fifteenth century far more
faithfully, at least in terms of its disparate practices. The fact that
a large number of the documents in the Gujarat text were drawn
from the period before the fourteenth century might possibly be
the reason why it does not take cognizance of the Persianate courts
and cultures.
One of the documents in Likhanāvalī, for example, referred to
the suzerainty of a king (suratrāṇasāha),27 blessed by ‘Khoda’28 in the
same breath as a subordinate chieftain who was committed to the

non-Sanskrit terms are khārī (a measure/unit of weight), khepī (a trip/or a

load that one person is able to carry), and molāvyavasthā, a hybrid between
mola (Pers.) and vyavasthā (Sans.).
27 The word ‘suratrāṇasāha’ was an extremely interesting spin-off from

the Turko-Persianate term, Sultan. For, apart from the fact that it invoked
the title (Sultan) adopted by most of the Turkish rulers of North India
from the thirteenth century onwards, it also carried the additional connotation
in Sanskrit of one who protects (trāṇa) god (sura). Vidyapati was definitely not
the first person to have used this term in Sanskrit for a Sultan. Examples of
the practice are to be found in earlier Sanskrit renderings of the Turkish title.
See for instance, the ‘Pālama gāoñ inscription’, in Prasad, Sanskrit Inscriptions
of Delhi Sultanate, pp. 3–15. An example from a place closer to Vidyapati’s
abode is the fourteenth-century stone inscription from Rajgir near Patna in
Bihar; see ‘Rajgir Jain Inscription of the 14th Century a.d.’, in Choudhary,
Select Inscriptions of Bihar, p. 119. Probably the best known example is the
Sanskrit epic poem (mahākāvya) Śrīmahamūdasuratrāṇacaritra by the Gujarat
poet, Udayarāja, in praise of the famous ruler Mahmud Begada (1458–1511).
This text also had an alternative title, Rājavinodamahākāvyam. See Udayarāja,
Rājavinodamahākāvyam.
28 ‘Khodāyavaralabdha … mahāsuratrāṇasāhi’. See Likhanāvalī, document

no. 55, pp. 42–3.

106 a political history of literature

devotion of the Brāhmaṇic god, Lord Śiva. It would appear in fact that
the link with the Persianate literary culture might go a little deeper
so far as the very idea of composing Likhanāvalī was concerned. How
exactly that ‘link’ may actually be identified and described, appears,
prima facie, to be a rather complex question. But before we explore
that aspect, let us try and see what the rich resources of the Sanskrit
literary world had in store for the scribes of Sanskrit in the fifteenth
century.

Mining the Sanskrit Epistolary Conventions

It would not be implausible to assume, as Oskar Von Hinüber does,
that ‘as soon as the script was introduced in India the art of writing let-
ters may have been practiced’, even though ‘this is not known directly
from any surviving correspondence’.29 As with so many other aspects
relating to the state and administration, it was Arthaśāstra of Kautilya
that provided the first detailed reflections on the art of writing state
writs and framing documents. The section titled ‘śāsanādhikāraḥ’
([Framing] Royal Writs) in Book II of Arthaśāstra gave a blueprint for
use by scribes. It is clearly stated at the outset that this is a crucial part of
state-building: ‘śāsane śāsanamityācakṣate. śāsanapradhānā hi rājānaḥ,
tanmūlatvāt sandhivigrahayoḥ … [Experts say that a command is a state
writ. Writs are crucial to rulers as (these are) the cause of (both) alli-
ance and enmity]’. The qualities required of a person to be appointed
as a scribe (lekhaka) are enumerated pointedly: that he should have
qualifications like those of a chief minister (amātyasampadopetaḥ); be
learned about all times,30 adept in composition, and capable of clear
writing and precise reading (sarvasamayavidāśugranthaścārvakṣaro
lekhawacanasamartho).31 Somewhat like the authors of insha manuals
in Persian more than a thousand years later, Kautilya too reminded

29 Hinüber, ‘Did Hellenistic Kings Send Letters to Aśoka?’, p. 261.

30 This was probably a euphemism for being familiar with existing
traditions.
31 Kauṭilya, Arthaśāstra, p. 167.
 Writing State and Order 107

future scribes to be mindful of the relative social/political station of

the addressee:

Jātiṃ kulaṃ sthānavayaśṣrutāni karmardhiśīlānyath deśakālau

Yaunānubandhaṃ ca samīkṣya kārye lekhaṃ vidadhyāt puruṣānurūpam32

(After having considered the caste, lineage, position, age, learn-

ing, work/occupation, character, time, place, and blood-kinship
[yaunānubandha] of the man [that is, the addressee], the writ should be
committed to writing accordingly.)

Such a piece of writing should have the qualities, Kautilya declared,

of systematic arrangement (arthakramaḥ), relevance (sambandhaḥ),
completeness (paripūrṇatā), sweetness (mādhuryam), munificence
(audārya), and lucidity (spaṣṭatvam). The passages following this
defined each of these qualities. What followed next, however, was
even more interesting, as the purposes, thirteen in all, for framing
writs were enumerated, probably for emphasis, in verse:

Nindā praśaṃsā pṛicchā ca tathākhyānamathārthanā

Pratyākhyānamupālambhaḥ pratiṣedho-ath codanā
Sāntvamabhyavapattiśca bhartsanānunayau tathā
Eteṣvarthāḥ pravartante trayodaśasu lekhajaḥ33

As noted in these lines, the thirteen purposes for which a writ

could be framed were: reproach, commendation, enquiry, narra-
tion, request, counter-narration,34 censure, prohibition, command,
pacification, holding out a promise, threat, and polite persuasion
(anunaya). A line or two describing each category of writs followed
this. After the explanations, certain other purposes of writs are also
mentioned—information, order, gift, remission, licence, guidance,

32 Kauṭilya, Arthaśāstra, p. 168.

33 Kauṭilya, Arthaśāstra, p. 172.
34 The word used in Sanskrit is ‘pratyākhyānam’, literally narrating some-

thing as a counter (or parallel) to an existing narrative. A state might have

resorted to it where it wanted to put out its own version of an incidence/
tradition/episode, where a popular version might already be doing the rounds.
108 a political history of literature

reply, as well as a general proclamation (sarvatragaśceti)—extending

the total number of the recommended types of writs to twenty-one.35
It may be noted that Vidyapati’s Likhanāvalī actually carried all the
above-mentioned categories of letters and more. Several letters exhibit
overlapping intents too: letter no. 24 condemns, threatens, and offers
conditional amnesty to the addressee at the same time; letter nos. 21
and 25 condemn and command the recipient in equal measure, and
so on. Occasionally, examples of a closer linkage between the ancient
prescription and the medieval text may be found. The most striking
case is that of a letter in the Mithila manual supposedly written by a
prime minister to conciliate and win over his counterpart in a neigh-
bouring kingdom. Here is the text of the letter in translation:

May it be well. Humbly and affectionately, this is a letter laced with

the nectar of utmost cordiality for the prime minister with all due
procedures, Ṭhakkura Śrī so and so, mastermind of blameless poli-
tics, most famous for maintaining moral propriety as per dharma,
and of pure heart. All is well here. We wish that all is well there too.
The purpose of this letter is that we have heard that the Honourable
King conducts the business of the state without regard to Śrī so and
so.36 [He] does not any longer have affinity with you. For this we
have a grudge [against the king]. We have affinity with you, [and] he
is the King. It behoves the high born to serve one’s king with one’s
heart, deeds, and speech. Whatever the kings might do, you should
not [ideally] let go of propriety. Still, if you do let go of it, we will
remain committed to you. We have our property and life, and you
should covet our possessions (asmākaṃ dhanāni prāṇāśca vidyante
tatoasmākamāyatte vastunyāsaktiḥ kartavyā). When you give instruc-
tions, those will indisputably be followed. Whose soul mate is who
in times of affluence? [that is, everyone professes loyalty to you when
you are affluent]. Friendship can be measured only when the occasion
comes [that is, when you have fallen into bad times]. What more? The
name is written on the outside.37

35 Kauṭilya, Arthaśāstra, p. 173.

36 ‘Śrī so and so’ refers here to the addressee of the letter, an established
way (in Sanskrit as well as in many North Indian vernaculars) of respectfully
referring to the addressee not in the second but in the third person.
37 Likhanāvalī, letter no. 53, pp. 39–40.
 Writing State and Order 109

In the course of its cryptic explanation for each of the thirteen cat-
egories of letters, the Arthaśāstra noted that ‘to say “what I am so you
are, what belongs to me is yours is [the way to] conciliation” (yoahaṃ
sabhavān, mam yaddravyaṃ tad bhavataḥ ityupagrahaḥ sāntvaṃ)’.38 It
is difficult to miss the distinct similarity in the tone as well as sub-
stance of this instruction in the highlighted part of the letter cited
above. In fact, the fit between the two texts goes deeper not just in this
instance but in certain other cases too.
Kautilya mentioned, for example, four types of strategies (presum-
ably for the well-being of a state and the sustained exercise of its power
vis-à-vis other states): negotiation, material inducement, sowing dissen-
sion, and invasion (sāmopapradānabhedadaṇdāḥ), and here is how he
explained the five ways of negotiation—praising the qualities, describ-
ing the bonding, invoking mutual interests, showing future prospects,
and identity of interests (guṇasaṅkīrtanaṃ sambandhopākhyānaṃ
parasparopakārasandarśanamāyati-pradarśanamātmopanidhānamiti)
—precisely what Vidyapati’s fictitious minister was trying to do with
his counterpart in the letter cited above as well as in another. The
following letter, supposedly written by a minister of war and peace
to his counterpart in a neighbouring kingdom, makes for interesting
reading in the light of Kautilya’s advice excerpted above:

May it be well. Sanctified by [expertise in] alliance, war, friend-

ship, charity, and all other enterprises worth initiating, the learned
Minister of War and Peace with due procedures, Ṭhakkura Śrī so and
so, whose glory is as seductive as the fragrant pollen of the Kevarā39
flower, [sends] this letter with utmost affection and good wishes for
Śrī so and so. Be satisfied that all is well here. Give us joy by sending
the news of your well-being. Earlier, having seen your king’s friendly
conduct and desire for friendliness, we encouraged our own king to
have a friendly relationship [with your king]. Here, the King—great
soul that he is—has worked to maintain [the friendly relations] in
such a way that people on both sides of the frontier live and pursue
agriculture peacefully. Currently, your king’s relatives are indulging

38Kauṭilya, Arthaśāstra, p. 173.

39The Umbrella tree, also known as the Screw plant (Botanical name:
Pandanus odoratissmus) famous for its sweet fragrance.
110 a political history of literature

in intrigues in certain places. If [our] king comes to know about these

intrigues, he will not tolerate anything untoward and will be angry.
Who will douse the fire of his rage then? You are the minister in that
kingdom and I am close to the king in this one. If there is a prob-
lem in our friendliness, then we will be exposing ourselves. Kings
are independent by nature [sahajasvatantrāḥ];40 they act as per their
own wishes. People will blame the ministers only, [you] know this, so
do not encourage these individuals, [rather] evict the jealous, [and]
stop the encroachment of land. You are [yourself ] clever, so say what
should be said. As such, our friendship will stay for a long time to
come. The name is written on the outside.41

A broader comparison of the prescriptions of Arthaśāstra with what

we find in Likhanāvalī suggests, however, that while the letters and
documents of the latter broadly appear to be following the spirit of the
ancient treatise, the world of scribes had probably become far more
complex by the fifteenth century, as a quick look at the variety of let-
ters and documents, as well as the diversity of writers, recipients, and
subjects in Tables 3.1–3.4 would suggest.
If the improbability of a direct transmission of the prescriptives
of Arthaśāstra to Vidyapati must be demonstrated beyond historical
common sense, here is a set of interesting, if contradictory, facts. First,
Arthaśāstra was written a millennium and a half before Likhanāvalī,
and hence the ‘influence’ should not simply be presumed.42 Second,
even though the largest number of manuscripts of Kautilya’s mag-
num opus was found south of the Vindhyas, the text was certainly
well known among the Sanskrit literati of ancient and medieval North
India.43 That it was probably well known in Mithila as well is attested
by the fact that just a century before Vidyapati, Caṇḍeśvara in Mithila

40 The word may also be translated as ‘naturally autocratic’ or ‘sovereign

by nature’.
41 Likhanāvalī, document no. 48, pp. 34–5.
42 Arthaśāstra might have been composed anytime around the beginning

of the Christian Era, two centuries before or three centuries after. For a diligent
attempt at dating the text by analysing linguistic evidence, see Trautmann,
Kautilya and the Arthaśāstra.
43 Rao and Subrahmanyam, ‘Notes on Political Thought in Medieval and

Early Modern South India’, especially p. 182.

 Writing State and Order 111

quoted passages from it in his Rājanītiratnākara.44 Third, it was not

necessary for a Sanskrit scholar to actually read Arthaśāstra in order
to be familiar with or imbibe the spirit of that text. Passages from
it were quoted verbatim by almost every other nīti (political ethics)
and even smriti (literally ‘[based on] memory’. This genre referred
to the dharmaśāstras like Mānavadharmaśāstra [popularly known as
Manusmriti], Nāradasmriti, and so on) texts throughout the 1500 or
so years that separated Vidyapati from Kautilya. The intertextuality
between Arthaśāstra and Manusmriti, one of the better-circulated and
oft-cited texts in Sanskrit, has been commented upon extensively.45
In the same spirit, one may suggest that the ideas in the ‘Royal Writ
Section’ of Arthaśāstra may have worked their way into common
knowledge for Sanskrit scribes (with due modifications as per chang-
ing requirements) in subsequent centuries. This would be true as
much for the secretaries writing letters and framing documents in
early India as for others who would be composing the thousands of
copper plate and rock inscriptions from that period.
Several letters in Likhanāvalī used formulaic expressions in their
praśasti-like first parts that were very similar to and occasionally
identical with those used in the inscriptions from the seventh cen-
tury onwards. Apart from stock expressions like Mahārājādhirāja and
Paramabhaṭṭāraka, we also have instances of recurrence in Likhanāvalī
of laboured expressions commonly found in the early-medieval epi-
graphs from North India including those from the eastern regions.
Thus, if several letters in the Mithila compilation often refer to the
king with epithets such as ‘Destroyer of darkness like enemy with
his powerful solar majesty [prabalatarapratāpārkkani-rastariputimira
saṃhāra]’46 or some similar sounding title, we come across numer-
ous expressions with a similar sense but worded differently in
the inscriptions from the eastern regions. Compare, for example, the
abovementioned title with the epithet used for Śrī Harṣagupta in the
Aphsad Stone Inscription of the seventh century ce: ‘yasyāsaṅkhyaripu

44 Caṇḍeśvara, Rājanītiratnākara. For the nature and frequency of such

citations, see Jayaswal, ‘Introduction’, Rājanītiratnākara, especially p. 37.

45 Olivelle, ‘Manu and the Arthaśāstra’.
46 Letter no. 9, Likhanāvalī, p. 7.
112 a political history of literature

pratāpajayinā doṣṇā mṛigendrāyitam sakalaḥ kalaṅkarahitaḥ kṣatatimira

stoyadyeḥ śaśāṅka iva’.47
It may also be pointed out that the dating era (Lakṣamaṇasena
saṃvat) and style used by Vidyapati was almost certainly following
the inscriptions of the region in the immediately preceding period.
Probably the earliest example of dating in the Lakṣamaṇasena saṃvat
in the Mithila region is to be found in the Janibighā stone inscription
of Jayasena found in the Gaya district. It is dated to the eighty-third
year of the era named after the Sena ruler of Bengal, and starting with
the 1119th year of the Christian Era.48
As for literary compositions proper, we do come across refer-
ences to letters (being written, sent, received, read, and replied
to) ‘occasionally in Sanskrit dramas, mostly in passing, and in
Buddhist literature, frequently, particularly in the Jatakas’.49 But an
instance where a letter was actually excerpted was rare. One such
example comes from the Mudrārākṣasam, an early medieval play
by Viśākhadatta revolving around the characters of Chāṇakya and
Rākṣasa. Two letters figure in the play: one was an intelligence report
by a spy, and the other a fake one authenticated with a stolen seal.
Like several letters in Lekhapaddhati and almost all the letters in
the first three sections of Likhanāvalī, these two letters start with the
formulaic expression ‘svasti’ (May it be well).50 In one instance, the
learned minister, while giving instructions about the content of
the letter to be written, tells his aide to frame a letter in which ‘the
[writer’s] name was not written outside (adattavāhyanāmānam)’.51
It is interesting that all the letters written to one’s equals in
Likhanāvalī (the third section) end with the phrase ‘the name is

47 Here, the king is compared to a lion (mṛigendra) who with his glori-
ous might obtains victory over uncountable number of enemies (‘Aphsad
Stone Inscription of Adityasena’, in Choudhary, Select Inscriptions of Bihar,
p. 26).
48 ‘The Janibigha Stone Inscription of Jayasena’, in Sahai, The Inscriptions

of Bihar, p. 142.
49 Hinüber, ‘Did Hellenistic Kings Send Letters to Aśoka?’, p. 261. As

Hinüber points out, the word used in Pali for a letter was paṇṇa.
50 See Viśākhādatta, Mudrārākṣasam, pp. 178, 270.
51 Viśākhādatta, Mudrārākṣasam, p. 50.
 Writing State and Order 113

written on the outside (bahirnāmalikhanam)’, though worded a

little differently.52
It should be clear from the survey of available evidence above that
the author of Likhanāvalī, or for that matter that of Lekhapaddhati,
could and did use many of the extant epistolary conventions already
current in Sanskrit. They also expectedly deployed the literary tech-
niques, aesthetic devices, and figures of speech respected within
Sanskrit kāvya tradition. Yet, the idea of compiling a compendium of
model letters in Sanskrit, whether actual or fictitious, was certainly
novel in the fifteenth century. It may help to look at the other major
cosmopolitan literary culture of the time, that is, Persian.

The Insha Connection

Likhanāvalī may or may not have been a first-of-its-kind text in
Sanskrit. Even if it was not, a text on ‘how to write letters and frame
documents’ was certainly not common in Sanskrit literature, classi-
cal or otherwise. In Arabic and Persian, however, compiling model
documents/letters into a text or composing a manual for scribes was
already a literary achievement to be proud of, even by the thirteenth
century, if not earlier. 53 Such compositions were known as insha,
and their most ‘representative form’ in Persian came to be regarded
as rasail (literally, letters). In classical Arabic, the word insha simply
meant ‘creation’/‘construction’. At an indeterminate time in the early
middle ages, however, the word came to connote ‘prose composition,
letters, documents and state papers’.54 A parallel tradition of Persian

52 Likhanāvalī, letter nos. 47–53, pp. 34–40.

53 Storey actually provides a list of such texts, ostensibly not comprehen-
sive; yet even a cursory look at it suggests that a large number of such texts
were composed in and prior to the fifteenth century in the subcontinent.
Between the thirteenth and the sixteenth century itself, Storey lists more than
forty texts in the insha/rasail genre or one closely related. See Storey, Persian
Literature. Relevant for the theme discussed here is the section titled ‘Ornate
Prose’, especially, pp. 240–71.
54 Zilli, ‘Development of Insha’ Literature till the End of Akbar’s Reign’,

pp. 309–10.
114 a political history of literature

letter writing, maktubat, flourished among the Sufis in the subconti-

nent. These letters, however, were neither administrative/political nor
personal. Sufi preceptors mostly wrote them like essays that sought to
inscribe instruction in metaphysical and everyday aspects of religious
belief and practice.55 Addressed to a chosen disciple, these were often
written in the hope that they would be circulated more widely.56 This
body of literature is not directly relevant for our purposes, and we will
not discuss it here.
That framing of letters, state writs, and documents ‘properly’
became a crucial part of politics and administration by the turn of
the Christian millennium, if not earlier, is fairly well documented.
In his famous seventh-century magic tale Kādambarī, Bāṇabhaṭṭa
described the palace of the fictitious prince Chandrapīḍa as a place
where ‘thousands of royal orders were being written down by court
scribes (lekhaka) who knew the names of all the villages and cities and
who looked upon the whole world as if it were a single house’.57 In the
eleventh and twelfth centuries, scribes appear in ‘staggering variety in
various Kashmiri literary works’.58
The increasing significance attached by states to the work of docu-
mentation is even more evident in the case of states invested in the
Perso-Arabic languages. By the eleventh century, most of the Persianate–
Islamicate states came to have a separate department, Diwan-i Rasail,
headed by a senior minister. It was common, as William L. Hanaway
pointed out, for the head of the Chancellery to be promoted to the
post of the highest authority after the king, Vizier. Such indeed was
the case with Abu’ Nasr Mushkan and Abu al-Hasan Maymandi, two
of the famous heads of the Diwan-i Rasail (the Chancellery) under
Sultan Mahmud of Ghazni early in the eleventh century. Such was

55 One of the most important collections of such letters was written by the
fourteenth-century Firdausi Sufi sheikh, Sharaf al-Din ibn-Yahya Maneri of
Bihar. See Maneri, Maktubat-i Sadi.
56 In one of his letters to Qazi Husam al-Din, Sheikh Maneri advised the

former to borrow his Hundred Letters from ‘somebody’ and get a copy made
for himself. For a discussion of this collection of letters, see Jha, ‘A Table
Laden with Good Things’.
57 Cited in Ali, ‘The Image of the Scribe’, p. 167.
58 Ali, ‘The Image of the Scribe’, p. 170.
 Writing State and Order 115

also the case with the famous Seljuqid statesman and author of Siyasat
Nama, Abu Ali Hasan Nizam al-Mulk (1019–1091).59
Equally, established conventions of insha compositions became so
complicated that soon it also developed as a separate branch of learn-
ing in its own right. Texts were composed not just to directly guide
the amateur scribe, but also to provide for additional aids for writers.
A treatise composed in the twelfth century, Irshad al-kuttab, was ‘a
vocabulary of Arabic words of ordinary occurrence in composition
with Persian explanations’.60 Similarly, the late thirteenth-century
work, Nuzhat al-kuttab wa-tuhfat al-ahbab, was a ‘collection of passages
suitable for quotation in letters and other prose compositions’.61 Even
in the tenth century, when Abu Abd Allah Muhammad bin Yusuf
al-Katib of Khwarazm wrote the Arabic treatise Mafatih al-Ulum on
the sciences, he devoted a full chapter to kitabat (writing), in which
he prescribed prose styles for secretaries and provided technical ter-
minology for use in the Chancellery.62 Abu al-Bayhaqi, the author of
Tarikh-i Masudi and a famous luminary in the Ghaznavid court in the
mid-eleventh century, too, was appointed chief of the Diwan-i Rasail
for some time. Pertinent for our purposes is the fact that Bayhaqi also
wrote Zinat al-Kuttab, a guidebook for writing letters.63 Clearly, insha
was already a distinct genre in Persian literature by the thirteenth
century, when that language came to the Indian subcontinent.
The ability to compose an insha text soon came to be seen among
the finest achievements of a Persian litterateur. It was no coincidence
perhaps that Amir Khusrau, the poet who Ram Chandra Shukla
inadvertently clubbed together with Vidyapati under the label ‘phuṭakal
racanāyeñ [occasional compositions]’,64 was also the proud composer
of a Persian text in that genre entitled Ijaz-i Khusaravi.
It is tempting to infer that Vidyapati may have got the idea of
composing a manual for amateur scribes from the mature tradition
of insha in Persian. In fact, there are signs that may point in that

59 Hanaway, ‘Secretaries, Poets, and the Literary Language’.

60 Storey, Persian Literature, p. 241.
61 Storey, Persian Literature, p. 242.
62 Hanaway, ‘Secretaries, Poets, and the Literary Language’, p. 105.
63 Hanaway, ‘Secretaries, Poets, and the Literary Language’, p. 106.
64 Shukla, Hindi Sāhitya ka Itihās, pp. 37–8.
116 a political history of literature

direction. Consider, for example, the fact, that writing about the
conventions of composing a rasail in the early-sixteenth century,
Muhammad Yusuf Yusufi observed that it is classified according to
the nature of the relationship between the writer and the addressee.
Separate conventions were prescribed for three different eventuali-
ties, depending upon whether the addressee is superior in status to
the writer, or inferior, or equal.65 Yusuf Yusufi’s own text in that genre
entitled Badai al-Insha was a compilation of model letters ‘arranged
according to the rank and class of the persons addressed, and, in the
later part, according to subjects’.66 Let us recall, as noted above, that
Vidyapati also structured his Likhanāvalī exactly along these lines,
with three separate sections, each devoted to letters addressed to one’s
superiors, inferiors, and equals, respectively, and a separate section
on documenting transactions that was organized thematically.
There are other details pointing to the same direction of ‘influ-
ence’. In a well-researched thesis on the career and historical context
of Chandar Bhān Brāhmaṇa, head of chancellery under the Mughal
emperor Shah Jahan, Rajiv Kumar Kinra noted,

[T]he ‘Abbasid inshā’ style began to emphasize elaborate titles and forms
of address, in an attempt to emulate ancient Persian grandeur. This
epistolary sub-convention eventually evolved into a full-blown liter-
ary style, referred to as tarassul, or ‘deliberate writing’—a high-flown
literary style that became so fashionable that it eventually came to dom-
inate Arabic prose, so much so that it was often referred to simply as
the ‘classical’ style, contrasted by literary historians with the earlier, less
elaborate prose style under the Umayyads. Proper implementation of
tarassul involved a number of literary techniques, many of which became
standard practice over time, such as the use of rhymed prose [saj’]….67
(emphasis added)

As we noted above, both Likhanāvalī as well as Lekhapaddhati

furnished extremely elaborate titles for rulers and even ministers,
writing or receiving letters. Witness too, by way of an example of

65 Zilli, ‘Development of Insha’ Literature till the End of Akbar’s Reign’,

p. 310 and f.n. 8.
66 Storey, Persian Literature, p. 270.
67 Kinra, ‘Secretary–Poets in Mughal India and the Ethos of Persian’, p. 96.
 Writing State and Order 117

‘deliberate writing’, the first part of a typical letter from Likhanāvalī,

written incidentally not to a sovereign, but by a sovereign to a priest
in Varanasi:

May it be well. In the Vīreśvara temple at Varanasi, the one whose inner
being has been purified with the ultimate wisdom of the Vedic doc-
trines; who has overpowered all his senses with the yogic practice of
the eight aṅgas [namely], the five moral commands, śāstric regulations,
physical exercises, prostration before the Sun, diet control, contem-
plation, concentration, and deep absorption; to Him, of the three
punishments, to that teacher–renouncer Śrī so and so is this letter sent
[as a mark of ] hundred prostrations from the Ruler Śrī so and so from
[his] capital. With the grace of Your feet and by the blessings sent [by
you], we are all well….68

While the wilful effort with which this prose is crafted is perhaps
obvious, the use of ‘rhymed prose’, known to Persian scholars as saj’,
is lost in translation. Here is how it could sound in Sanskrit, with
words broken at places, for those not familiar with Sanskrit to appre-
ciate the way in which the words were supposed to echo each other’s
sound, creating a crackling staccato if read out aloud:

Svasti. Vārāṇasyāṃ Śrīvīreśvaramaṭheṣu vedānta-siddhānta-śuddhāntaḥ-

karaṇavṛittiṣu yama-niyama-āsana-prāṇāyama-pratyāhāra-dhyāna-
dhāraṇā-samādhī….69

The usage of such ‘decorative’ devices was not pioneered by

Vidyapati. The Persian saj’ and other comparable figures of speech
were already available in the Sanskrit kāvya tradition so meticulously
codified by scholars starting with Daṇḍin and Bhāmaha during the
early-medieval period, and continuing beyond Viśvanātha Kavirāja in
the fourteenth century. What is remarkable about their appearance in
Likhanāvalī is the fact that it seemed to coincide with the epistolary
practices established within the Persian tradition.
Could it be a mere coincidence that Vidyapati appeared to be fol-
lowing, in a Sanskrit composition, at least some of the conventions

68 Likhanāvalī, letter no. 3, p. 3.

69 Likhanāvalī, letter no. 3, p. 3.
118 a political history of literature

commonly prescribed and practiced in the Persian tradition? What

were the limits of this commonality seen here between two of the
most vibrant cosmopolitan languages in the medieval world?
Vidyapati did occasionally use certain Persian words in Likhanāvalī
as also in some of his other Sanskrit and Avahaṭṭha texts, most nota-
bly in Puruṣaparīkṣā and Kīrttīlatā, as we will see in the following
chapters. However, unlike Likhanāvalī, the typical insha (or rasail)
text in Persian carried only the occasional document crafted by the
author/compiler: most of the letters/documents in the Persian trad-
ition were actual/‘authentic’ official documents simply transcribed
into the text. The best example from the North Indian tradition would
be Insha-i- Mahru from the fifteenth century.70 (One must concede
though that texts wherein most of the documents were fictitious and
framed by the author himself were also known in Persian, the famous
Ijaz-i Khusravi, also known as Rasail ul-Ijaz, of Amir Khusrau being
a prominent example.) Further, if the Persian texts on letter writing,
such as those by Bayhaqi in the eleventh century or Yusuf Yusufi in
the sixteenth, prescribed strict rules on how to address the recipient,
how to start a letter, how to codify the message, or how to conclude,
an examination of Likhanāvalī documents in that light suggests that
Vidyapati did not follow these elaborate rules at all. Finally, there is no
evidence to suggest that Vidyapati knew enough Persian to be able to
read a text in that language. Does that piece of fact rule out his being
‘influenced’ by the insha traditions?
With this question in mind, let us examine Vidyapati’s temporal
co-ordinates a little more closely in order to explore the apparent
confluence of two ‘parallel’ literary traditions in his writing about
writing.

Limitations of Boundaries
In the impressive and diverse corpus of compositions that Vidyapati
left behind, he provided very little information about his personal life.
There are very few things about him that we can say with any degree
of certainty. These include the fact that he was a scholar, poet, and

70 See Abdur Rashid, Insha-i Mahru.

 Writing State and Order 119

lyricist who could compose with equal facility in Sanskrit, Prakrit,

Avahaṭṭha, and Maithili. That he was also a successful courtier meant
that he was very well networked too. We need to remind ourselves that
as a scholar, he was only one among many in the region of Mithila
and the larger cultural zone of Eastern India. There were Sanskrit
and even vernacular scholars of equal, if not greater repute within the
Mithila region, two centuries before as well as after him, as we noted
in Chapter 1 in this volume. Yet, if he became an icon probably in his
lifetime itself, it was because he inhabited several worlds, all at the
same time. We have already noted how prolific he was. An author and
a statesman, Vidyapati responded to the needs and anxieties of people
of all hues. In short, we may safely say that he was a man very closely
tuned into his time. And he surely lived in exciting times.
By the time Vidyapati started writing at the beginning of the
fifteenth century, the Delhi Sultanate was already reduced to being
one, surely not the most powerful, among many sultanates in North
India. As Simon Digby demonstrated over a decade ago, with the
mushrooming of multiple sultanates all over North India even before
Timur came, there did not appear to have been a serious problem of
mutual intelligibility between those who spoke or wrote in the east-
erly vernacular ‘Awadhi and the speakers of the western “proto-Urdu”
dialects of the capital city or the Deccan’.71 Such mutual intelligibility
among apparently distinct linguistic groups also facilitated the rise of
an increasingly more cosmopolitan class of secretaries and accoun-
tants. The careers of several such successful men in the mid- and
late-fourteenth century indicate an interesting phenomenon: profes-
sionals trained in accountancy and mathematics (siyaq and hisab) in a
Sanskritic or vernacular milieu of a local chieftaincy could smoothly
move to the Persian-dominated court in Delhi and make a successful
career, rising in some cases to occupy the highest position possible
for such a professional. Such was the case, among others, of Kannu,
who from being a trusted courtier of a local Raja in the Deccan rose to
the position of deputy vizier under Muhammad Tughluq, and vizier
under Firuz Tughluq. Afif, in his biography of Kannu in Tarikh-i
Firuz Shahi, indicated that even though the latter lacked writing skills

71 Digby, ‘Before Timur Came’, p. 346.

120 a political history of literature

in Persian, he was very wise and very adept at his work because of his
administrative experience.72 As Sunil Kumar points out,

there were other non-Muslim literati whose suspect Persian skills, not
to speak of their infidel backgrounds (at least in the eyes of Baranī),
did not hamper the flow of Sultanate patronage [ for them]. There was
Ratan the fiscal administrator of Sindh who was ‘skilled in calculation
and writing’, Bhiran, the auditor (mutasarrif ) at Gulbarga, Samara the
governor of Telangana and Dhara the deputy vizier at Daulatabad.73

It would appear that men like Kannu or Ratan could smoothly transit
across linguistic–literary boundaries because the professional expertise
required of them did not change much as they flitted between courts.
Scribal and secretarial practices in the Persian, Sanskritic, or vernacular
courts of South Asia drew from a shared pool of images and symbols,
words and metaphors, textual genres, and aesthetic sensibilities. As
Aditya Behl argued in a similar vein, Awadhi idiom could be made to
articulate, already in the fourteenth century, both Sufi and Bhakti reli-
giosities with the identical move of turning sṛingāra rasa into prema or
bhakti rasas with an overlapping set of literary vignettes.74
It is pertinent to note here that much of what Behl refers to in the
case of the shared world of Sufi premākhyāna and later saguna bhakti75
literary productions actually took shape in the heart of the Sharqi
domains, the political circle in which Vidyapati moved. It would be
reasonable to assume then that our author was not immediately or
directly beholden, in any simple way, either to Sanskrit conventions
of letter-writing codified early by Arthaśāstra, or to the Persian insha
tradition. These erudite traditions had already been somewhat quo-
tidianized and probably sublimated by the fourteenth and fifteenth
century into a richer, more complex, and more accessible pool of liter-
ary resources, cutting across linguistic boundaries.

72 Afif, Tarikh-i Firuz Shahi, pp. 394–430.

73 See Kumar, ‘Bandagī and Naukarī ’.
74 Behl, ‘Presence and Absence in Bhakti’, pp. 319–24.
75 Saguna bhakti referred to the tradition of devotion to a god with

attributes as opposed to nirguna bhakti that referred to ‘devotion to the God

without attributes’.
 Writing State and Order 121

The rarefied world of fictitious letters and documents, and of

imagined characters and situations, that Vidyapati conjured up in
Likhanāvalī represented this reality more than any ‘historical’ text
could. Talking about the fictitious documents in insha collections,
Zilli remarked that

the fabricated documents, are not altogether useless for a student of

history. The general principles and norms of political and social behav-
iour projected in them could be of immense help to a historian studying
the social and political processes of an age. Sometimes a fabricated
document would be of great historical interest even for the motives for
which it was manufactured by the compiler.76

In order to be useful to aspiring scribes, a collection of ‘fabricated’

documents must not set itself in a fanciful world. Rather, it would
tend to presume frequently occurring situations and realistic contin-
gencies in which to place the imagined recipient as well as the sender
of a message. Would that also mean that a look at the contents of
the letters of Likhanāvalī and the contingencies that the text provided
for might give us slices of the politico-social ‘realities’ of Vidyapati’s
world? To say that, however, would amount to anachronistically pro-
jecting our contemporary obsession with utility-oriented education
onto the fifteenth century.77 There is no reason for us to believe that
the contours of the ‘imagined reality’ of Likhanāvalī would be entirely
bounded by the given temporal context of the Mithila chieftaincy
alone. The manual for educating aspiring secretaries and assistants
must also be placed within a more diachronic frame of scribal culture,
the long and patchy history of which, across different languages, was
traced earlier in the chapter.
We have noted some of the striking stylistic continuities as
well as occasional differences of Likhanāvalī with political-textual
(Arthaśāstra), literary (Mudrārākṣasam), epigraphic (copper plate),

76 Zilli, ‘Development of Insha’ Literature till the End of Akbar’s Reign’,

p. 312.
77 Such a method on a historian’s part reverts to the old maxim that ‘lit-

erature is a mirror of society’, an idea that we briefly examined in Chapter 2

in this volume.
122 a political history of literature

and epistolary (insha/rasail and Lekhapaddhati) conventions in the

longue durée. Without forgetting the imperative force of that History,
let us turn to the content of the documents that our author ‘fabricated’.
It is interesting to look at some of the concerns of state and society
that Vidyapati presumed and played upon in his text. What dynamics
of state-society, its fiscal apparatus, administrative function, military
organization, or its sexual economies did he conjure up to make his
epistles and the record of transactions meaningful, even possibly topi-
cal (or topically possible)? In the context of a ‘variety of reflections on
the question of statecraft in medieval and early modern India’, Rao,
Shulman, and Subrahmanyam recently noted that ‘these reflections
are in fact as diverse as the states in the region and range from grandi-
ose imperial ideological statements to recipes for the survival of small
kingdoms that are squeezed between massive rivals’.78 Within this
wide spectrum of political formations, one might ‘naturally’ expect
Likhanāvalī to fall in the latter category of texts. A couple of letters
indeed seem to meet that expectation. Take the following letter, for
example, by an Army Chief (senāpati) to the king:

May it be well. To the Destroyer of darkness like enemy with his power-
ful solar majesty, the navigator of the river of clean politics, the ocean of
moral propriety, subjugator of herds of kings,79 Kṛiṣṇa ensconced in his
heart, Nārāyaṇa for Kaṃsa-like enemies, steady in his devotion to Śiva,
and victorious in the battlefield, Mahārājādhirāj Śrī so and so Deva’s
lotus feet, goes this letter of salutation from Chief of the Army, so and
so from village so and so with head bowed before the lion-throne. All
is well here with the ascent of Your Majesty. The special matter is that
I received the letter [written with your] own hands with due reverence,
carefully understood the meaning therein, and am acting accordingly.

78 Rao, Shulman, and Subrahmanyam, ‘A New Imperial Idiom in the

Sixteenth Century’, pp. 69–70.
79 The expression I have translated as ‘subjugator of herds of kings’ is

actually a long, and what must have been, even by the standards of Sanskrit,
a laboured expression: saṅgrāma sīmādurvvāra aneka rājacūḍālaṅkāramaṇima-
yūkhamañjarīpiñjarīkṛita caraṇāravinda. Literally this should translate as ‘[one
who] in the battlefield, paints his lotus feet yellow with the rays of light ema-
nating from the jewels in the crowns of herds of difficult kings’!
 Writing State and Order 123

Submitting that the Lord of the Yavanas has started from Dillī with
the Lord of Gauḍa as [his] target, as reported by four men who came
[to me]. The Lord of Gauḍa too is anxious about repairing forts and
mobilizing the army. It is not known if he will fight or compromise. I
will write when [that is] known. Presently, please give instructions for
whatever is appropriate and whatever needs to be done. What more.80

Not all letters are so easy to place within the territorial limits of an
anxious and insecure chieftaincy sandwiched between the Delhi and
Bengal Sultanates. A larger number of the communications as well
as the records of transactions in the fourth section actually defy such
easy contextual emplacement. Here is a letter to the superintendent
of the court (Śrīkaraṇa) by a revenue collector raising an issue and
suggesting a solution, both of which, if we trust the dominant histori-
ography, were the stuff of which an imperial formation alone, such as
the Mughal state, was made:

May it be well. To The Superintendent of the Court, adorned with

expertise in judicial administration, having Caṇakya-like tact in the
business of the state, complete with all [other] due procedures, the
Great Chief of the Sāmantas, the Chief Minister, Great Ṭhakkura Śrī
so and so’s lotus feet goes this letter of salutations with eight parts of
the body from the Revenue Collector81 on such and such subject. With
the ascent of Your Majesty, all is well here. Particular matter is that the
official here is demanding tax from people according to the previous
years’ [assessment] register. However, here, some villages are settled
and some are deserted. Hence, if tax this year was collected in this
country after measuring land [bhūmimāpanaṃ kṛitvā rājakaro gṛihyate],
then the full proceeds may be collected and the weak would not suffer
either. But officials cannot do this without the King’s order. So, I am
conveying it clearly. Hence, I will act [as per] whatever orders are given.
What more.82

Clearly, the state ideal of ‘appropriation of the entire agrarian

surplus’ based on measurement of cultivated land (leaving aside

80 Likhanāvalī, letter no. 9, p. 7.

81 Osathi.
82 Likhanāvalī, letter no. 13, pp. 11–12.
124 a political history of literature

the issue of actual practice under the Mughals, let alone in the pre-
Mughal era), could be formulated and articulated without much fuss
in the fifteenth century within a Sanskritic ecumene. Nor was such
micromanagement of people, resources, and productive processes
confined only to the fiscal sphere so far as Vidyapati’s presumed world
is concerned. Imagine with the letter below a (hypothetical) situation,
wherein a sovereign ruler, clearly not a local chieftain, tries to bring
a recalcitrant chief under control through means that one would
associate with the armoury of an imperial state:

May it be well. From so and so city, the victorious and venerable King of
kings so and so, adorned with a raised sceptre, silk crown, lion-throne,
white chatra and cāmara, and complete with all procedures of royalty,
[one] whose nails shine with the rays emanating from the jewels of
numerous kings’ thrones, [who is] a lion for his elephant-like enemies,
[one] in the light of whose glory bloom water lilies, from Him goes this
message to king so and so with shining character. Currently, you are
not providing the kind of service that you should; you are not paying
tax [to the extent] that you should; [and] your conduct is indifferent.
What is this? Even now, if you want [to protect] your own interest, then
submit each year’s due tax in the court, [and] send your son or brother
in attendance along with an army. If you do not act this way, then go
away to a place where you can live [that is, remain alive]. Or else, we will
invade and with the force of elephants, cavalry, and infantry, we will
reduce your fortress to dust and also send you to Yamapur [that is, kill
you] with the blows of arrows from crores of our warriors. That’s it.83

We may note that the appearance of this letter in Likhanāvalī could

not have been incidental, especially when there is another, the very next
one, carrying almost an identical message from an imperial overlord
to another local chief.84 In fact, a whole range of letters and documents
were focussed on the fiscal, military, or territorial concerns of what

83 Likhanāvalī, letter no. 19, p. 17.

84 See Likhanāvalī, letter no. 20, pp. 17–18. The principle that Vidyapati
probably followed in the text was to provide for a diverse set of contingencies,
and present a whole variety of prototypes of documents. One may presume
that he would repeat a particular prototype only when he thought it was more
important than others.
 Writing State and Order 125

clearly appears to be a supra-local political outfit, if not an expansive

imperial state. Thus, a military commander reported the mobilization
‘from this country and others [svadeśīyā videśīyā]’ of many ‘Surukī,
Cauhāna, Caṇḍela, and other warriors [who were] courageous, high
born, loyal, trained in wielding different kinds of weapons, [and who
had] earned glories in several battles’.85 Yet another from a prime
minister (mahāmattaka) to an accountant/secretary (lekhi) purported
to enquire about the progress made by the latter in an inquiry insti-
tuted into a case of possible embezzlement. The letter gave specific
instructions to send a written report ‘on the basis of the evidence avail-
able there, as to how much was taken, embezzled, or ignored by the
Chaudhary,86 how much was lost on account of the negligence of the
clerk,87 [and] what amount of revenue all of it added up to’. Thereafter,
the accountant was to ‘bring the official and his registers with himself
[to the court] so that [they could] calculate and collect the dues after
tallying [the figures] with those in [the] registers’.88 In a similar vein,
letter no. 26 gave elaborate instructions on how to welcome, reinstate,
and reward a resourceful army commander, who had defected from a
hostile neighbouring kingdom.89
The envisaged investment of the court in the improvement of agrar-
ian production and productivity (and hence, tax paying ability) was
no less striking. This is reflected in several writs sent to subordinate
officials. One of these, written by a chief of the princes (rāutapati),
referred to a (royal) ‘instruction to rehabilitate the deserted land
(ujjaṭabhūmivāsārtha)’, and reported the successful accomplishment
of the task with the ‘arrival of people from outside (videśādāgatya)’.90
Two other letters talk at length about the variety of paddy seeds, and
possibilities of procuring and using better seeds.91

85 Likhanāvalī, letter no. 15, p. 13.

86 A village headman who often was practically the revenue collector for a
village/group of villages.
87 Pañjikār, literally, a registrar.
88 Likhanāvalī, letter no. 23, p. 20.
89 Likhanāvalī, letter no. 26, p. 21.
90 Likhanāvalī, letter no. 10, p. 8.
91 Likhanāvalī, letter nos. 34 and 52, pp. 26, 39. The seed varieties men-

tioned are: keralī, gaḍhavāra, magahī, tulasī, and golā.

126 a political history of literature

The exalted position of the sovereign’s household, not so much

as a private domain, but more as the extension of royal privileges, is
underlined through several letters. It is worth citing one of these:

May it be well. From the betel store, the Chief Official in charge of
betel-leaves, complete with all due procedures, Ṭhakkura Śrī so and
so sends this message to Śrī so and so, the store-keeper for the king’s
sister. Here, in the royal sister’s stores, the betel leaves have become
unusable and putrid with white and black [spots]. You were sent to
fetch ripe white betel leaves. You have been there for a month now. No
betel leaves suitable for the sister of the king are [left] here, so you will
come here with white leaves at the earliest. Get Bhīmasenī92 camphor
worth a thousand ṭaṅkas too. Look [also] for Nāgara-khaṇḍa93 leaves
and red betel nuts. Take these too if you get them. That’s it.94

Other letters centring around the household related to an order

for earthen pitchers, handing over of charge of the royal kitchen, and
obtaining a regular supply of flowers for use by the king for worship.
The obsession with ‘due procedures’ in these letters, even for minor
officials of the royal kitchen, gestures towards an elaborately laid out
and meticulously graded administrative hierarchy that insisted on
‘bureaucratic’ protocols for every single official. Readers would also
have noticed in Table 3.2 above, that three letters (nos. 29, 30, 31)
attest to how the state was supposed to lease out commercial rights
over trading, including mining water bodies, to private players for
a price. Letter nos. 35 to 38 and letter no. 49, on the other hand,
underlined the importance of patriarchal values in the maintenance
of ‘order’ within families. While these communications highlighted
the role of the male elder in the maintenance of familial order, the
state’s possible (or actual) role in the micromanagement of a moral–
sexual economy (and the patriarchal family as an institution) is
evidenced by the striking ‘affidavits’ recorded in another document.
The explicit language used in the document, and the rarity of such

92 It appears that ‘Bhīmsenī’ was a variety of camphor used with betel

leaves.
93 Again, ‘Nāgara-khaṇḍa’ appears to be a variety of betel leaf.
94 Likhanāvalī, letter no. 41, p. 31.
 Writing State and Order 127

documents in the middle ages, makes this one truly extraordinary

for historians:

Śrī Devadatta does solemnly declare in affliction and solicitous desire

[taptamārgākarṣaṇadivye]95—I have not moistened [siktim] Śrīpadmā’s
vagina with my semen and that is the truth. At the same time, Padmā
too does solemnly declare—my vagina has not been moistened with
semen and that is the truth. Śrī Viśṇumitra takes the water-immersion
oath [jalamajjanadivye] to solemnly declare—I have repaid the loan
that I had taken from Śrī Śivadāsa and that is the truth. That which is
written in the verse is payable by me:96

Moon, Air, Fire and the Sun,

Sky, Earth, Water, Heart and Yam.
Day, Night and both the Evenings,
And Dharma knows the men’s manner of thinking.

This śloka should be written in the affidavit [pratijñāpatra]. And the

affidavit should be drafted in two neatly [literally, evenly] written lines.
Agahaṇa, Caitra, and Vaiśākha are universally appropriate for taking
all oaths. Winter, spring, and rainy seasons are [appropriate] for [oath
by] fire. Autumn and summer are [appropriate] for [oath by] water.
That’s it.97

Arguably the most remarkable issue that comes up for relatively

extensive treatment in the fourth section is the issue of recording
the sale/purchase of slaves. One of the documents provided a rather
detailed description of the transaction, complete with the price of
each member of the family being sold,98 as well as the terms of the

95 This is a literal translation after disaggregating the compound word,

‘taptamārgākarṣaṇadivye’. It is also possible that the phrase stands for a
particular type of oath.
96 It seems that the person taking the oath is merely invoking the verse

to seal his claim that he has already paid rather than to actually spell out
anything that he still owes to his (erstwhile) creditor.
97 Likhanāvalī, document no. 82, pp. 59–60.
98 The prices specified are as follows: six rūpya-ṭaṅkas for the forty-

four-year-old male, four rūpya-ṭaṅkas for the thirty-year-old woman, three

rūpya-ṭaṅkas for the sixteen-year-old boy, and one rūpya-ṭaṅka for the eight-
year-old girl. See Likhanāvalī, document no. 55, pp. 42–3.
128 a political history of literature

transaction. The sold slaves’ obligations included almost everything

under the sun, as they were to ‘plough the land, clear the left-overs,
fetch water, carry the palanquin, and perform all other chores’.99 The
terminology used to refer to those being sold too, is equally remark-
able: the first reference to the family members is couched in the
vocabulary of the varṇa (śūdra–śūdrī), while the word dāsam (slave)
appears interchangeably the second time. Indeed, the entire text of
Likhanāvalī provides records for a spectrum of conditions of ‘various
degrees of freedom and un-freedom’—from the subjection of women
within the family on the one hand, to bonded labourers and slaves on
the other. As Indrani Chatterjee pointed out recently, connected social
histories of these practices are only beginning to be posed as a project
by historians.100 One such condition of relative un-freedom could
also be located in the perpetual indebtedness in which a whole variety
of people, from peasants and householders to fishermen and even
traders, are ‘framed’ by the text. The largest number of documents,
twelve out of a total of eighty-four, is devoted to debt deeds, again a
contingency that we are more familiar with from the historiography
of a century later.

***

The debate around Benedict Anderson’s tracing of processes of the

rise of nation-states notwithstanding, it is difficult to dispute that
‘imagining’ modern national communities into existence was made
possible only with modern technologies of print, census, textbooks,
mass media, and so forth. We may extend the logic back in time and
ask: what were the social, technological, and educational prerequi-
sites for the rise of the imperium that the nation-states eventually
displaced? After all, state-building, whether local or trans-local, did
not automatically follow from war-victories in any period, let alone
the medieval or early modern. Once the battlefields quietened and

99 Likhanāvalī, document no. 55, pp. 42–3.

100 For an interesting discussion on the possibilities of such history, and a
useful framing of the problematic, see Chatterjee, ‘Renewed and Connected
Histories’.
 Writing State and Order 129

messy processes of institution-building for sustained governance/

exploitation started, another kind of army was required, one that was
equipped with a different kind of expertise: a ready knowledge of
respected ideals of governance; the ability to conduct a massive ‘pub-
lic relations’ exercise on behalf of the state and reassure the subjects
that nothing much had changed; the skills to carry out this exercise
through communications couched in widely respected terminologies
of power and hence likely to evoke awe, authority, and acceptance;
and finally to be well-versed in norms of social order and ethical con-
duct. If this skill-set promised careers more lucrative than soldiery
in the off-season of the agricultural cycle, it was also more difficult
to acquire, and probably accessible only to an exclusive group. In an
immediate sense, our analysis above suggests, it was this politico-
educational need that texts like Likhanāvalī responded to.
To pursue these questions, as I have tried above, is also to admit
what should have been obvious but is rarely realized in the context of
the fifteenth century: that the political processes that contribute to the
making of states, including imperial states, could not and did not stop
with the disintegration of the Delhi Sultanate. The processes of the
cultivation of prized skills, the fructification of grand ideas, in short the
disciplinary formations—ideational as much as coercive—continued
to gather even as scholars and poets competed for patronage from
smaller, often subordinate, states with humbler ambitions. It is only
fair to assume that political imagination did not necessarily shrink
with imperial fortunes.
The brief survey of the contents of Likhanāvalī hardly leaves any
doubt that its documents dealt with an extraordinary range of issues/
concerns, and did not merely reflect life in the small chieftaincy to
which the author was himself beholden for patronage. If we try to
reconstruct some vignettes of the imagined state by putting together
the ideas articulated in Likhanāvalī, several salient imperatives of
state building emerge: sovereignty of the ruler, loyalty of subordinates
and subjects, forming and maintenance of alliances, agrarian taxation
to the limit of the payee’s tolerance and ability, maintenance of army
including the continuous recruitment of commanders, rehabilitation
of deserted and fallow lands, looking out for better varieties of seeds,
farming out common property resources like river bodies, leasing out
commercial rights for a negotiated price, and so on. One may add
130 a political history of literature

another item, in some senses central to all the rest: insistence on con-
signing every single administrative, economic, military, diplomatic,
and judicial transaction to ‘properly’ written records, a process that
may be seen as a precursor to what came to be known in modern
times as ‘archiving’. That archives make states as much as states
make archives, is no longer a secret among historians writing about
the colonial or modern period.101 The relationship between state and
archives in the days of pre-modern, pre-print, and pre-mass politics
could hardly be any simpler.
On several occasions in the course of describing the contents of the
text above, we noted the similarities of contexts and concerns that the
documents raised, with the concerns of the Mughal state, more than
a century later. However, the attempt here is not to suggest a linear
teleology of causation between the archive and the state. It would be
premature, if not outright problematic, to suggest that writing manu-
als like the one composed by Vidyapati ‘produced’ states like those of
the Turko-Mongols. Yet, one cannot deny that an empire had to con-
tend, often comply, with existing webs of ideas and ideals, and those
with knowledge of such ideals played crucial roles in the imperial
enterprise. If colonial archives could be seen, as Ann Stoler saw them
in the modern context, as ‘both transparencies on which power rela-
tions were inscribed and intricate technologies of rule in themselves’,
may we not cast our critical gaze at the documents of Likhanāvalī in a
similar spirit?102 That is why, to make sense of the model documents
of Likhanāvalī, one also had to look beyond the territorial boundaries
of Mithila. Equally, one had to connect the finer strands of Vidyapati’s
oeuvre beyond the chronological limits defined by Timur on the one
side, and Babur on the other.
The English East India Company, after it assumed political control
over some of the Indian territories in the late-eighteenth century,
produced an edition and translation of the famous early-seventeenth-
century Persian writing manual, Insha-i Harkaran of Harkaran Das,
‘so that it could serve as a model text for its own early administrators

101 For a discussion of the complex range of meanings associated with the
term ‘archive’, see Chapter 2 in this volume.
102 Stoler, ‘Colonial Archives and the Arts of Governance’, p. 87.
 Writing State and Order 131

when they dealt with the knotty problems of inherited Mughal admin-
istrative practice and terminology’.103 Clearly, cultivating the skill of
framing grammatically correct sentences and coherent prose was not
enough for aspiring scribes in the fifteenth, sixteenth, and seventeenth
centuries. As the celebrated Lahore-born Persian scholar, Chandar
Bhān Brāhmaṇa, head of the chancellery (Mir Munshi) under Shah
Jahan, wrote in a letter to his son in the middle of the seventeenth cen-
tury, aspiring munshīs needed, first and foremost, to get ‘training in
the system of norms [akhlaq]’.104 Not surprisingly, an almost identical
idea is found in the Puranic tradition of Sanskrit. Matsyapurāṇa noted
that the qualities of the ideal lekhaka included not only the knowledge
of different scripts and the ability to produce neat and legible writing,
but competence in the śāstras.105 It is hardly surprising then that the
author of Likhanāvalī did not confine himself only to teaching the
science of writing in his text on writing. He went beyond framing
the ‘writs/orders’ of the state, and also provided templates for per-
sonal communication within ‘ideal’ families, affidavits that attested
to ‘acceptable’ sexual conduct, and a whole range of communications
that traversed through and stitched together various threads of social
and political relationships. Indeed, it would appear that the crucial
factor for political order, for Vidyapati in Likhanāvalī, was not so much
the strength of an institution per se, whether that of the raja or the
minister, but stability of the web of loyal and virtuous relationships
within which the political order must sustain itself. Nor was state-
building envisaged as a terminable enterprise. Rather it came across
as a never-ending process where loyalties had to be continuously

103 Alam and Subrahmanyam, ‘The Making of a Munshi’, p. 61. As Alam

and Subrahmanyam note, ‘Since such materials fell into a branch of knowl-
edge that was regarded as secular, in the sense of being distinctly this-worldly
and largely devoid of religious or theological connotations, we are not entirely
surprised to find that many of their authors, including Harkaran himself,
were Hindus, usually Khatris, Kāyasthas, or Brāhmaṇas.’
104 Alam and Subrahmanyam, ‘The Making of a Munshi’, p. 62. For a

recent bio-historical work on Chandar Bhān Brāhmaṇa, see Kinra, ‘Secretary–

Poets in Mughal India and the Ethos of Persian’.
105 Ali, ‘The Image of the Scribe’, p. 168.
132 a political history of literature

tested, adversaries befriended or crushed, new and deserted lands

brought (back) under cultivation, search for new varieties of seeds
had to go on, military contingents had to keep expanding, and so on.
His recipe for state-building was carefully calibrated and anchored
in specific codes of everyday conduct. It should not come to us as a
surprise then that the same author also wrote a treatise on political
ethics entitled Puruṣaparīkṣā, the text at the centre of the next chapter.
4 Political Ethics or the Art of Being a Man

T
his chapter focusses on the famous Puruṣaparīkṣā, a treatise on
manliness, written ‘under instructions from Raja Śivasiṃha’1
of Tirhut. It is a compilation of stories narrated with a view to put
forth examples of (re)commendable manly conduct. Puruṣaparīkṣā is
an udāharaṇakathā, a genre that had been in relative disuse in Sanskrit
since the time of Pañcatantra and Hitopadeśa, though kathā as a genre
was much discussed and debated among Sanskrit literary theorists
since Bhāmaha and Daṇḍin from the seventh century onwards.
The chapter seeks to uncover the ways in which the treatise
articulated ‘authoritative knowledge’ about legitimate social and
political power. How did Vidyapati, a learned Sanskrit scholar, con-
struct that power in relation to gender, caste, politics, and dharma?
This line of investigation helps to open up the whole question
of the (as yet underexplored) world of medieval political thought

1 Vidyapati, Puruṣaparīkṣā, p. 3.

A Political History of Literature: Vidyapati and the Fifteenth Century. Pankaj Jha,
Oxford University Press (2019). © Pankaj Jha.
DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780199489558.003.0004
134 a political history of literature

in Sanskrit, especially in the North Indian context. Moreover, it

allows for rethinking the issue of how ‘secular’ authority was
constructed within Brāhmaṇic discourse at a time when Rajas,
Sultans/Suratrāṇas, Rājapūtas and Maliks operated together as
well as in rivalry with each other. With these objectives in mind,
I take a close look at the framing, language, and genre of the text
in a historical perspective as well as what it has to offer in terms of
content and what it presumed but left unsaid.
The chapter is divided into seven sections. The first gives some
details about the text. The second section explores the history of the
kathā genre in North India—in Sanskrit literary theory as well as in
compositions. The third, fourth, and fifth sections examine depic-
tions of gender, caste, and politics, respectively, in Puruṣaparīkṣa.
In the sixth section, I try to investigate the epistemological frame
deployed by Vidyapati before offering some ideas by way of a con-
clusion in the last. Reference will also be made, wherever relevant,
to two comparable Sanskrit texts on politics: Merutuṅga Ācārya’s
Prabandhacintāmaṇi and Caṇḍeśvara’s Rājanītiratnākara.2 The for-
mer was written in Western India, and focusses primarily on Gujarat,
Malwa, and the western Deccan in general. The latter was composed
in Mithila itself. The first one may broadly be categorized as a kathā
in the prabandha (a continuous or connected narrative; also a generic
term for any literary composition) form of history3 while the latter was
organized in the form of a general treatise on politics, rājanīti. Both
belong roughly to the early-fourteenth century. Occasional reference
to comparable ideas in certain Persian texts will also be made with
a view to underline the as yet unexplored aspects of their dynamic
(cross-linguistic/cross-confessional) character.

2 See Caṇḍeśvara, Rājanītiratnākara; Merutuṅga, Prabandhacintāmaṇi or

Wishing-stone of Narratives, trans. Tawney. Where necessary, I also refer to the
original Sanskrit version published earlier: Merutuṅga, Prabandhacintāmaṇiḥ,
1888. Henceforth, Tawney’s translated volume is cited as Merutuṅga,
Wishing-stone of Narratives, and the Sanskrit original as Merutuṅga,
Prabandhacintāmaṇiḥ.
3 For an interesting discussion of prabandha literature in Sanskrit,

with useful references to Prabandhacintāmaṇi itself, see Ali, ‘Temporality,

Narration and the Problem of History’.
 Political Ethics or the Art of Being a Man 135

In Chapter 2 in this volume, I took critical stock of the recent

historiographic interest in the study of precolonial literary cultures
in the subcontinent. In this chapter, my reading of Puruṣaparīkṣā
(as of Likhanāvalī in the last chapter) explores possibilities of several
meaningful departures from the ways in which pre-Mughal literary
cultures in general and the fifteenth century in particular have hith-
erto been approached. Locating Puruṣaparīkṣā within larger histories
of aesthetic and genre-related trends in Sanskrit literary cultures is an
important part of this exercise. The identification of its more tempo-
ral co-ordinates in the spatial and chronological context is an equally
important component. It is interesting, for example, that in this
instance, Vidyapati picked up several dispersed literary techniques to
cobble together a text that gestured substantively to the philosophi-
cal debates of four or more centuries earlier while simultaneously
attempting to address a larger audience who would be drawn more
towards stories than ‘dry’ texts on political or philosophical thought.
As I try to demonstrate, most of the ideas about masculinity or politi-
cal ethics offered by Vidyapati in Puruṣaparīkṣā were also offered in
earlier compositions. The novelty of this collection of tales lay in its
sharper focus, in weaving together stray and vague ideas into a neatly
classified schema. Like the ubhayavidya (one with expertise both
in folklore and Vedic lore) who he celebrated in one of his stories,
Vidyapati used his erudition in classical lore along with his creative
talents in retelling popular tales to package an abstruse set of nīti
ideals in an accessible genre. From the point of view of literary history,
it is difficult to imagine such a text in an earlier age.
In the last fifteen years or so, historians have increasingly turned
to the study of literary aesthetics, vernacular and cosmopolitan cul-
tures, and the formation of regions as phenomena largely linked to
novel techniques of reading, writing, and performative practices.4
More recently, interesting studies by Bronner, Shulman, Kapadia, and
Ahmad have tried to delineate paradigms within which local/univer-
sal flavours of a text may be isolated and described.5 Steadily this has
released a whole gamut of new questions, not all of which, I would

4See Chapter 2 in this volume for a discussion of these aspects.

5Ahmad, ‘The Long Thirteenth Century of the Chachnāma’; Bronner and
Shulman, ‘“A Cloud Turned Goose”’; Kapadia, ‘The Last Cakravartin?’
136 a political history of literature

like to suggest, may be answered within the terms hitherto offered by

these debates. The question of literary aesthetic is surely a question
of choice between the regional and the cosmopolitan/universalistic
(or the local and the imperial) just as it is also the problem of looking
at cross-generic and cross-linguistic borrowings or ‘inter-confessional’
appropriations. While beginnings of ‘literarization’ and aesthetic
choices made by litterateurs may have been implicated in the process
of regionalization and vernacularization, the problem that remains
obscure is how a new regime of literary aesthetics (with or without
supporting ‘local political regimes’) reimagined and rearticulated ritu-
ally and socially discriminatory regimes of power in the pre-Mughal
period. To put it narrowly and within the modest ambitions of this
chapter: how are varṇa and gender regimes reaccommodated within
these new knowledge practices? Such a study must necessarily com-
bine an analysis of the style and aesthetics of a text with the more
conventional attention to their ‘contents’, not to positivistically dis-
cover a society as it was, but to describe a particular literary dynamic
whereby texts claimed authority and constituted ideals.

The Text
Historians are notorious for reducing books and documents com-
posed in the distant past into sources that they selectively mine
for pieces of information, with complete disregard for their textual
integrity, and sometimes, even contextual specificity. Increasingly,
however, scholars agree that the historicized reading of a text is
impossible without critical attention paid to its structure.6 Let us
begin then, with a brief outline of the composition at the centre of
focus in this chapter.
Puruṣaparīkṣā begins with salutations to Ādi Śakti, broadly iden-
tified with the goddess popularly known in present-day Mithila as
Bhagavatī.7 The author records that he is composing the text under

6 For a recent restatement of the idea in the medieval context, see Spiegel,
‘Genealogy: Form and Function in Medieval History Narrative’, p. 46.
7 Grierson, in his translation of Puruṣaparīkṣā, refers to the goddess as

‘Durgâ’ before qualifying her with a literal translation of Ādi Śakti as ‘Primeval
Potency Energy’; See Grierson, The Test of a Man, p. 1.
 Political Ethics or the Art of Being a Man 137

instructions from Raja Śivasiṃha, son of Raja Devasiṃha.8 It is writ-

ten in easy Sanskrit prose, and contains about forty-four stories. It
is divided into four parts, one of which is rather distinct. The first
three parts describe and illustrate each of the three chief traits of a
man. The fourth part deals, again through stories, with the rewards
(phalaṃ) of being a ‘true man’.9 Table 4.1 below lists the stories in the

Table 4.1 Tales about Different Kinds of Men in Puruṣaparīkṣā

Puruṣa Typologies
Different Types of Different Types of Different Types of
Vīra (Valorous) Sudhī (Intelligent) Savidya (Learned)
Dānavīra Sapratibhaḥ Śastravidya
(Generous) (Quick-witted) (Expert in Weapon Use)
Dayāvīra Medhāvīḥ Śāstravidya
(Compassionate) (Alert) (Learned in Sciences)
Yuddhavīra Subuddhi Vedavidya
(Battle-Adept) (Judicious) (Learned in Vedas)
Satyavīra Vañcaka* Lokavidya
(Truthful) (Wily/Cunning) (Learned in Folklore)
Caura* Piśuna* Ubhayavidya
(Thief) (Slanderous) (Learned both in Vedas
and Folklore)
Bhīru* Janmabarbara* Citravidya
(Fearful) (Imbecile by Birth) (Expert in Painting)
Kṛipaṇa* Saṃsargabarbara* Gītavidya
(Miser) (Imbecile by Company) (Expert in Singing)

(Cont’d)

8 It is interesting to note that Bhūparikramaṇa, an earlier composi-

tion of Vidyapati (which was expanded into Puruṣaparīkṣā), was written

under instructions from Śivasiṃha’s father, Devasiṃha. See Vidyapati,
Bhūparikramaṇa, p. 1.
9 ‘Puruṣasyalakṣaṇaṃ proktaṃ phalaṃ tasya nigadyate’ (Having described

the attributes of a man, let me now write about its rewards). See Vidyapati,
Puruṣaparīkṣā (henceforth, Puruṣaparīkṣā), p. 162.
138 a political history of literature

Table 4.1 (Cont’d)

Puruṣa Typologies
Different Types of Different Types of Different Types of
Vīra (Valorous) Sudhī (Intelligent) Savidya (Learned)
Alasa* Nṛityavidya
(Lazy) (Expert in Dance)
Indrajālavidya
(Expert in Casting Spells)
Pūjitavidya
(Felicitated for Learning)
Avasannavidya*
(Unappreciated in
Learning)
Avidya*
(Uneducated)
Khaṇḍitavidya*
(Partially-educated)
Hāsavidya
(Expert in Comedy)

Source: Puruṣaparīkṣā.
Note: *signifies pratyudāharaṇa kathā or counterexample story.

first three sections. Table 4.2 lists the stories in the fourth section.
A quick look at these tables conveys how meticulously the author
framed and followed the scheme of classification. It is noteworthy
that the stories in the fourth section are not divided into ‘example
stories’ and ‘counterexample stories’. Rather, they map a spectrum
of possibilities on different levels of attainment accessible to men on
the path of each of the four puruṣārthas, that is, dharma (righteous-
ness), artha (material well-being), kāma (sensual pleasures), and
mokṣa (salvation).
Manuscripts of Puruṣaparīkṣā have been found in different
parts of Mithila, Nepal, and Bengal. Although a range of scholars
established its historicity long ago, it may be noted that there is one
story in Puruṣaparīkṣā that is almost certainly a later addition to the
text. This is the story entitled Niḥspṛihakathā. It revolves around
an ascetic called Vāmana, and another, Kṛiṣṇacaitanya. Caitanya
 Political Ethics or the Art of Being a Man 139

Table 4.2 Tales Illustrating Puruṣārtha or ‘The Prescribed Goals of Men’s Life’

Puruṣārtha Typologies
Dharmakathāḥ Arthakathāḥ Kāmakathāḥ Mokṣakathāḥ
(Tales about (Tales about (Tales about (Tales about
Righteousness) Wealth) Pleasure) Salvation)
Tātvika Maheccha Anukūla Nirbandhī
(Knower of (Righteously (Faithful) (Detached)
Truth) Affluent)
Tāmasa Mūḍha Dakṣiṇa Niḥspṛih (One
(Dynamic) (Profligate) (Promiscuous Untouched by
but Faithful) Worldly Desires)
Anuśayī Bahvāśa Vidagdha Labdhasiddhi
(Repentant) (Covetous) (Accomplished (One Who
[Lover]) Attained
Perfection)
Sāvadhāna Dhūrta
(Discreet) (Deceitful)
Ghasmara
(Henpecked)

Source: Puruṣaparīkṣā.

or Kṛiṣṇacaitanya, the famous Vaiṣṇava saint from Bengal, was

born in 1485, and hence there is no way that Vidyapati could have
known him.10
In any case, when George Abraham Grierson (1851–1941) trans-
lated Puruṣaparīkṣā, early in the twentieth century, he noted that
‘among the early books printed in Bengal was a translation into
the Bengali language by Hara Prasâda Râya of the Puruṣaparīkṣā

10 The story is fantastic in other ways too. Kṛiṣṇacaitanya is depicted in

the story as a young man sitting in rapt contemplation in a Śiva temple in
daṇḍakāraṇya, that is, in the general expanse of the Deccan plateau. In the
epic tale of Rāmāyaṇa, it was supposed to be situated between the Vindhya
and Saibala mountains. In an essay titled ‘The Geography of Rama’s Exile’,
Pargiter had argued that ‘daṇḍakāraṇya’ comprised all the forests from
Bundelkhand to River Krishna. See entry on daṇḍakāraṇya in Dey, The
Geographical Dictionary of Ancient and Mediaeval India, p. 52.
140 a political history of literature

probably in 1815’.11 Incidentally, Grierson also noted that ‘it

became a textbook for government examinations and an edition
by Sir G. Haughton appeared in London in 1826, and others in
Calcutta in subsequent years’.12 Another edition of the Sanskrit text
appeared in 1888 with a translation by Chanda Jha.13 An abridged
version was published in 1911 for use in schools ‘to replace the
animal fables like Pañcatantra and Hitopadeśa and to provide young
boys at school with an introduction to morals, but without the air
of “unreality” that pervaded the fables. Accordingly, several study
guides to the text were also published in subsequent years.’14 It was
soon included in the curriculum of the coveted Indian Civil Service
examination.15
The best way to understand the organization of Puruṣaparīkṣā is to
look at the way it actually begins, with a seed story after the peremptory
salutations. Let me reproduce the story, which frames the forty-four
stories that follow:

In the city of Candrātapā, there once was a king by the name of

Pārāvara, whose lotus feet were adorned by the pollen of the flowers
in the garlands of thousands of kings from regions up to the oceans.
He had a daughter by the name of Padmāvatī, who was beautiful in all
aspects, and full of all the desirable virtues. As her childhood receded,
the king was filled with anxiety about finding a suitable groom for her,
appropriate to the family pedigree. For,

A man might be hardworking and earning riches by legitimate

means,
Righteous, gentle, and free of anger and other vices,
Yet if he has a daughter, his heart will be filled with worries,
About finding a suitable groom and fear of being refused.

11 Grierson, Vidyapati’s Puruṣaparīkṣā, pp. xvii–xviii.

12 Grierson, Vidyapati’s Puruṣaparīkṣā, pp. xvii–xviii.
13 Grierson, Vidyapati’s Puruṣaparīkṣā. Grierson, for some reason spelt

the scholar’s name as Chandra Jha. See Grierson, Vidyapati’s Puruṣaparīkṣā,

pp. xi, xii, xvii, xviii.
14 Ali, Courtly Culture and Political Life, p. 1. Also see Grierson, Vidyapati’s

Puruṣaparīkṣā, p. xviii.
15 Mishra, ‘Prakāśakīya’, p. i.
 Political Ethics or the Art of Being a Man 141

What is to be done then, he asked Sage Subuddhi. Because,

Never take a decision entirely on your own in important matters

Even the wise are liable to commit mistakes and suffer from
delusions.

The Raja said, ‘O, Sage! I have a daughter by the name of Padmāvatī.
Who should the groom for her be, kindly consider and give
instructions.’
The Sage said, ‘O, Rājan! Choose a man.’
‘O, Sage! One who is not a man cannot be a groom in any case.’
The Sage said, ‘There are many men on this earth who only have
the physical shape of a man. What I mean is that you should give up
on those who are men only in appearance, and choose a [real] man!’
After all,

Those looking like a man you can easily find, while real men
are rare,
It is difficult to find a man with qualities that I am about to
declare.

Thus,

The man who is valorous, intelligent, and learned is a real male,

The rest are men merely by appearance, animals they are without
a tail.16

The King said, ‘How, then, does one identify the valorous one, and
so on?’

16 Vīraḥ sudhīḥ savidyaśca puruṣaḥ puruṣārthavāntadanye puruṣākārāḥ,

paśavaḥ puccha varjitāḥ. My translation differs substantively from that by

Grierson. He renders the couplet as follows: ‘The hero, the intelligent, the
skilled adept, and he who hath attained the four objects of life are each real
men. Others are men-shapes only, mere brute beasts that have no tails’. See
Grierson, The Test of a Man, p. 2. While puruṣārtha does refer to the four pre-
scribed objects of life, puruṣārthavān occurs in the couplet as an adjective of
the three kinds of men, that is, the valorous, the intelligent, and the learned,
who according to Vidyapati were capable of attaining and enjoying the four
ideal fruits of dharma, mokṣa, artha, and kāma. Hence, I have translated the
word puruṣārthavān as a ‘real male’, that is, one possessing the requisite attri-
butes of manhood that will earn him puruṣārtha.
142 a political history of literature

The Sage replied:

Vīraḥ śaurya vivekābhyām utsāhena ca maṇḍitaḥ

Mātāpitror alaṅkṛitu kule kutrāpi jāyate
Śauryaṃ kārapaṇya rahitaṃ viveko dhīr hitāhite
Kriyā pravṛittirutsāho vīrastais tu bhavet tribhiḥ

(One adorned with bravery, discretion, and enthusiasm is a man of

valour
Earning glories for parents, they might be born to whatever lineage
Lack of fear is bravery, discretion—the ability to discern the good from bad
Enthusiasm is the will to exert oneself, these three maketh a valorous
man!)

There are four types of [valorous men]: dānavīro dayāvīro yuddhavīraḥ

satyavīraśca (the generous one, the kind one, the warrior, and the truth-
ful one).
Thus,

Hariścandra was the generous one, Raja Śivi the kind one,
Pārtha was the warrior type, the truthful one was Yuddhiṣṭhira.

‘O, Sage!’, the Raja quipped, ‘These men belonged to another era. We
cannot learn anything from their example in this era.’ For,

Characters of the Kṛita-born cannot be a source of education in

Kaliyuga,
Due to changes because of time, these examples cannot be
followed!
Men no longer have that kind of intelligence, nor that strength,
For those born in the Kaliyuga, there is no such truth either!

Hence, please enlighten us about the character of the valorous through

stories of men born in the times of Kali.
The Sage said, ‘The learned have already told the stories of Satyuga,
Dvāpari, and Tretā, I will tell you tales of the Kaliyuga.’17

A student of history will be quick to notice at least three interesting

elements in this story: (a) that what appeared in the beginning merely as
a problem about finding a suitable boy/groom swiftly opens up a wide
didactic space for a full-fledged exploration of the constitution of a man,
actually, a real man, possibly, a politically successful man; (b) that a man’s

17 Puruṣaparīkṣā, pp. 2–6.

 Political Ethics or the Art of Being a Man 143

valour does not depend on his birth, an assertion that is brought home
with the phrase, ‘kule kutrāpi jāyate’; and (c) that the author consciously
located the stories that are to follow in this-worldly time, and wanted
his reader to note this detail. I will come back to these observations as
I proceed, and will hopefully be able to see beneath and beyond them.
But what does one make of a text that details the true characteris-
tics of a real man largely through stories? Of course, this is a treatise
on the substance and fruits of being puruṣārthavān18 or what we mod-
erns might call the ideal way of being a man. Yet, it is surely much
more than that. After all, the traits of valour, intelligence, and learning
are not abstract qualities: Puruṣaparīkṣā constituted these qualities
through ostensibly real-life stories, told in a manner that grounded
the idea of the Real Man in the clumsy, tactile, and imitable world of
lived experience. It is instructive to note that according to Vidyapati
himself, one of the aims of the book was to make the young appreci-
ate naya.19 It is hardly surprising then, that from Grierson to more
recent commentators, most scholars have variously referred to it as a
manual on politics, as a treatise on political morality, or even ethics,
and it is not an entirely inappropriate characterization. For, even apart
from the author’s own assertion, the content and tone of the stories in
the book clearly establish the fact that it is meant as a didactic manual

18 Strictly, in a literal sense, puruṣārtha, the four objects/fruits (dharma,

artha, mokṣa, and kāma) of human life, are not gender specific. However,
even apart from the fact that puruṣārtha is cognate with the very gender-
specific puruṣa, it is rarely, if ever, used as a normative virtue for women.
19 Śiśūnām siddhayartha naya paricitenūñtanadhiyāṃ (May the

children/adolescents with fresh minds succeed in appreciating righteous-

ness). See Puruṣaparīkṣā, p. 2. While ‘naya’ literally means ‘righteous or
virtuous conduct’, it also connotes policy, political wisdom, statesman-
ship, civil administration, and even state policy; see Apte, Sanskrit–English
Dictionary, p. 536. What is interesting is that naya comes close, both in a
lexical sense as well as in historical usage, to nīti, on which there was a
long history of scholarship in Sanskrit. Indeed, in the epilogue of the text,
Vidyapati himself comments that he had just finished writing about the
complex (granthila) subject of state policy (daṇḍanīti). As Apte has noted,
Mṛicchakaṭika as well as Raghuvaṃśa used the word ‘naya’ in this sense.
For a useful discussion of Raghuvaṃśa as a political document, see Singh,
‘The Power of a Poet’.
144 a political history of literature

for maintaining political order. The choice of the story mode could
not have been incidental for an author as varied in the choice of his
themes and genres as Vidyapati was.

Genre
Probably the first time we hear of anything resembling kathā as a
genre in a classificatory scheme in Sanskrit is in the form of the
udāharaṇaṃ (example) in Kautilya’s Arthaśastra, which mentioned
it as a branch of itihāsa: ‘Purāṇam itivṛittaṃ ākhyāyikā udāharaṇaṃ
dharmaśāstram arthaśāstraṃ ca itihāsaḥ, i.e. itihāsa is ancient stories,
recent history, traditional biographical narratives, stories as examples,
law texts, and political narratives’.20
This is probably one of the earliest passages in Sanskrit seeking
to set out a typology of compositions. How one interprets it depends
critically on how one translates words like itihāsa, purāṇa, ākhyāyikā,
itivṛitta, and so on. It is the translation by K.P. Jayaswal that I have cited
above. It is noteworthy that he retained the word itihāsa (iti.ha.āsa,
literally, ‘so it has been’) indicating that there is probably no close
equivalent in English for this word. Arthaśāstra’s account, of course,
is not a classification of different genres of literature. Had there not
been the unresolved issue of the precise time at which Arthaśāstra was
composed, one might even have said that this was possibly an attempt
in the ‘pre-literary’ era to list out different kinds of itihāsa, the closest
equivalent to which in English is probably ‘history’. Nor is there an
agreement among scholars—and this includes medieval alaṅkārikas
(language theorists) as well as modern historians—about the precise
definition of terms like itivṛitta, udāharaṇaṃ, and ākhyāyikā. Udāharaṇa
connotes ‘examples’ but it never evolved into a literary genre as such,
unlike kathā and ākhyāyikā. Jayaswal translates itivṛitta as ‘stories’
though literally, itivṛtta would imply some sort of a ‘finite account’ of
something. So far as ākhyāyikā is concerned, Jayaswal, like Warder,
saw an element of history in it, probably because the term ākhyā carries
a sense of ‘reporting’ and hence points to an ‘actual’ occurrence.

20 Cited in Jayaswal, ‘Introduction’, Rajanīti-ratnākara, p. 27. The transla-

tion is by Jayaswal.
 Political Ethics or the Art of Being a Man 145

The first literary–theoretical treatise, Nāṭyaśāstra of Bharata, did not

refer to kathā. For a text focussed on drama, that is hardly a surprise.
However, some scholars have found the discussion of itivṛitta therein
to be a discussion of kathā by another name.21 It is true, as Sadhale
has pointed out, that Abhinavagupta did read the term ‘itivṛitta’ as a
reference to the kathāvastu of a drama. However, kathā could not be
same as kathāvastu, literally, the ‘plot’ of a story or a drama, though
the two words are cognate.22
Scholars of Sanskrit literary aesthetics, the alaṅkārikas, were
fairly consistent with the ways in which they understood the basic
contours of genres. Yet, this was not so with regard to kathā, let alone
udāharaṇakathā, which is rarely mentioned. Bhāmaha, considered
one of the foremost authorities on Sanskrit aesthetics (alaṅkāraśāstra),
listed kathā as one of the five types of kāvya, which could be in prose
or verse.23 He went on to add that in a kathā, the protagonist does
not himself describe his own qualities; rather, someone else praises
him.24 Daṇḍin (c. 700) however, denied any distinction between
kathā and ākhyāyikā.25 Not surprisingly, while the stories of several
books of Pañcatantra are styled as kathās, one version is entitled
tantrākhyāyikā, and in practice it was probably difficult to distinguish
between them.26 The abiding and increasing confusions between
the seventh and the fifteenth centuries, both in theory and in actual

21 See for example, Sadhale, Kathā in Sanskrit Poetics, p. 3.

22 Sadhale, Kathā in Sanskrit Poetics, p. 3.
23 Sargabandhoabhineyārthaṃ tathaivākhyāyikākathe/Anibaddhañca kāvyādi

tatpunaḥ pañcadhocyate (It is said that kāvya may further be classified into five
kinds: mahākāvya, which is divided into different thematic sections; abhineya,
that which can be staged; ākhyāyikā [biography]; kathā [story]; and anibaddha
[ free/independent verses]). See Bhāmaha, Kāvyālaṅkāra, p. 10. Warder trans-
lates sargabandha as ‘lyric’, and identifies ‘nāṭya’ (drama) instead of ‘abhineya’
as one of the five types of kāvya that he attributes to Bhāmaha’s classification;
see Warder, Indian Kāvya Literature, vol. I, p. 122. See the section on ‘genre’ in
Chapter 5 in this volume for a fuller treatment of this.
24 Bhāmaha, Kāvyālaṅkāra, p. 15.
25 Warder takes this to mean that Daṇḍin denied any distinction even

between history and fiction. See Warder, Indian Kāvya Literature, vol. VI, p. ix.
26 Keith, A History of Sanskrit Literature, p. 245.
146 a political history of literature

practice, between kathā and ākhyāyikā, will be taken up for a some-

what detailed analysis in the next chapter.
Warder has argued that the twelfth century might be regarded as
the period when story-telling (kathā) dominated kāvya, after which
there are fewer such narratives though they did not disappear.27
Sometimes, as Warder himself pointed out, short tales could be
embedded within a mahākāvya (courtly epic) or other forms as an
example or udāharaṇa. Stories within stories as well as stories as
didactic tools of course, had as long a history in Indic traditions as
kathā itself.28 After the thirteenth century, in any case, the experi-
ments in texts seem to have muddled, and multiplied beyond, the
neat classifications of genres by alaṅkārikas like Bhāmaha and
Daṇḍin, a fact that is reflected in the works of later theorists like
Viśvanātha Kavirāja.29 So, while ‘kathā’ as a genre may or may not
have ‘peaked’ in the twelfth century only to ‘decline’ subsequently,
stories continued to be told/composed in a variety of registers, lan-
guages, and mix of genres. These were stories about the past, both
historical and semi-historical, but also ‘fictive’ stories of the mytho-
logical past. The prabandha texts from Western India that started
appearing from the mid/late-thirteenth century, for example, were
a motley of such story compositions. Many of them reflected several
traits traditionally associated with kathā, and some associated with
ākhyāyikā as well.30 Indeed, as Ali has argued, prabandhas started off
as biographical anthologies, though the style of their narration owed
much to the kathā tradition.31

27 Collections of Kṣemendra and Somadeva II also belonged to this cen-

tury. Warder, Indian Kāvya Literature, vol. VI, p. vii.
28 Warder, Indian Kāvya Literature, vol. VI, pp. 664–5.
29 See the section on ‘genre’ in Chapter 5 in this volume, for details.
30 For an interesting recent discussion of this ‘genre’ of literature, see

Daud Ali, ‘Temporality, Narration and the Problem of History’.

31 It is doubtful if, either in theory or practice, Sanskrit (or any other

Indic) literary culture had the tradition of composing a biographical anthol-

ogy till this time. Persian, on the other hand, had a vibrant tradition of tazkira,
a popular genre in the Sufic literary canon of North India by the time the
prabandhas came into being. See Daud Ali, ‘Temporality, Narration and the
Problem of History’, p. 253.
 Political Ethics or the Art of Being a Man 147

One of the most remarkable examples, if somewhat atypical,

amongst these texts was Prabandhacintāmaṇi of Merutuṅga Ācārya.
A brief comparison of this text with Puruṣaparīkṣā would help throw
the uniqueness of the latter into sharper relief, and locate it within
the history of the changing patterns of kathā and related genres in the
fourteenth and fifteenth centuries.32
Merutuṅga of Vardhamanapura (or Vaḍhvān), completed his
Prabandhacintāmaṇi, in the year 1361 of the era of Vikramāditya cor-
responding to 1305 in the Christian Era. Its manuscripts are reported to
be in Jain Nāgarī, and it is part of the Jain corpus of Sanskrit literature.33
The text starts with an invocation of Om, Ṣrī, and Lord Mahāvīra. It then
calls upon ‘Jina Ṛishabha, the divine son of Nābhi, the Parameṣṭhin, who
makes an end of births’ to ‘protect the four gates of the glorious goddess
of speech [Sarasvatī], which become her, in that she has four mouths’.34
As Hofrath Buhler noted, ‘The objects with which the Caritas and
Prabandhas were composed, were to edify the Jain community, to
convince them of the glory and power of the Jain religion, or, in cases
where the subject is a purely secular one, to provide them with an
agreeable entertainment’.35 To the modern observer, used to neat and
exclusive formulations, however, the Jain moorings of the text might
occasionally appear ‘compromised’ and even shallow. Brāhmaṇic
mythological characters are frequently and approvingly referred to in
several stories.36 It is only in the retellings of the occasional clash with
a Jain believer/muni that others are showed down.

32 For a detailed discussion of the incidence and context of heightened

experiments in genre and literary compositions in general in the fourteenth–
fifteenth centuries, see Chapter 2 in this volume.
33 Tawney, ‘Preface’, Wishing-stone of Narratives, p. xix.
34 Merutuṅga, Wishing-stone of Narratives, p. 1.
35 Cited by Tawney in his ‘Preface’ to Merutuṅga, Wishing-stone of

Narratives, p. vi.
36 See Merutuṅga, Wishing-stone of Narratives. Sarasvatī, the Brāhmaṇical/

Hindu goddess of learning/speech is invoked several times (pp. 35, 39, 46,
passim); the Vedas and upaniṣads are referred to respectfully as repositories
of knowledge (p. 156 for Upaniṣads; passim for Vedas); the author ends the
text in the hope that his book might help the wise ones attain a stature like
that of Viṣṇu himself (p. 204). This should not lead us to underestimate the
148 a political history of literature

In any case, the author’s stated intentions in Prabandhacintāmaṇi

do indicate that the text was meant, like most other such composi-
tions, to both entertain and educate. Thus, Merutuṅga stated at the
beginning of the text that he was narrating the life-stories of men
nearer in time to his own because the ancient stories had lost their
entertainment value on account of having been narrated so often.37
At the end of the book, however, he provided another reason for the
composition of the book. Learning, he noted, was in decay and virtu-
ous men were difficult to find. He, therefore, wove together stories of
good men. Narrated ‘in the service of future sages’, these stories could
make wise men wiser (like Viṣṇu).
The text is divided into five roughly even-sized chapters or pra-
bandhas. The first four of the chapters are focussed on one or two
rulers: the first one tells of the deeds of Vikramārka (Vikramāditya);
the second, those of Bhoja and Bhīma; the third one is styled as a nar-
rative about Siddharāja; and the fourth one about Kumārapāla. The
fifth chapter, curiously, is styled as a ‘miscellaneous chapter’ in which
‘those actions of the great men previously spoken of, which remain
over and above their deeds already related, and others in addition to
those’ are described.38
It may be noted in passing that according to the alaṅkārikas, kathās
were meant to be unbroken narratives, told either in a continuous and
linear series, or in the form of stories within stories.39 It is equally

intensity of Jain–Brāhmaṇism rivalry, but to underline the fact that culturally

respected symbols and story-templates were used across sectarian boundar-
ies in ways that may not make easy sense in modern times, when claims of
exclusive sectarian domains are more common.
37 Merutuṅga, Wishing-stone of Narratives, p. 2. Let us recall the dis-

tinction that Vidyapati made between the truth of Kaliyuga and the ‘more
truthful’ previous yugas. This distinction might also be seen, in modern
parlance, as the distinction between the historical and that which is purely
mythological.
38 Merutuṅga, Wishing-stone of Narratives, p. 169.
39 In contrast, ākhyāyikā was supposed to be divided into ucchavāsas

(divisions in a literary text; singular, ucchavāsa; literally, a deep breath that

one would take after a continuous session of reading/recitation)/saṇdhis
(divisions in a literary text; singular, sandhi; literally, the joint between two
 Political Ethics or the Art of Being a Man 149

noteworthy that four of the five chapters in Prabandhacintāmaṇi are

organized around historical personages (kings) and named as such,
though the stories under these chapters are not entirely confined to the
reigns of the ruler(s) named in the chapter title. Composed a century
later, Puruṣaparīkṣā (also divided into chapters) made a sharp depar-
ture from this and other similar texts inasmuch as Vidyapati wove the
whole text around specific traits of men, with stories as examples and
counterexamples for each quality. In doing so, Vidyapati gave a far
more direct and sharper didactic edge to his text than did Merutuṅga
to his own. This is also evident in the explicit and unequivocal state-
ment of the author at the end that his text was meant to edify the
young in naya or political ethics.
A similar overlap and dissimilarity is evident in the manner in
which the two authors handled time. Merutuṅga deployed two dif-
ferent registers of time. Frequently, he used the standard convention
of ‘once upon a time’, popular among storytellers, to refer to an
undifferentiated past. However, he also resorted, less frequently but
significantly, to the epigraphic tradition of marking time, whereby
the precise day, date, fortnight, month, and year were listed. On the
other hand, Vidyapati invariably started his story in terms of ‘once
upon a time’. More interesting were the distinct reasons the two
authors gave for choosing to tell the stories of a particular time. As
noted above, Merutuṅga chose to relate ‘stories nearer to his own
time’, vṛittaistadāsannasatāṃ, simply because the old stories, kathāḥ
purāṇāḥ, had lost their charm due to frequent repetition.40 Vidyapati
gave more elaborate and very specific reasons for defining the tem-
poral co-ordinates of his stories, as we have already seen in the very

different parts that make the whole)/sargas (divisions in a literary text;

singular, sarga; literally, a natural flow or intrinsic trait). Bhāmaha actually
defined kathā as a composition that neither had vaktra (a particular metre
in Sanskrit verse, wherein long and short vowels alternate as per a fixed
scheme) or apavaktra (any kind of writing scheme that does not follow the
fixed rule of alternating scheme of vowels as per the vaktra metre) metres, nor
ucchavās. See Bhāmaha, Kāvyālaṅkāra (I. 28), p. 15. Also see Hemacandra,
Kāvyanuśāsana (VIII: 7), p. 169.
40 Merutuṅga, Prabandhacintāmaṇiḥ, p. 2.
150 a political history of literature

first story of Puruṣaparīkṣā cited above. The truths of the earlier eras
were no longer valid, he declared, and went on to narrate the tales of
protagonists who people in his own age might hope to emulate with
profit. Indeed, there could hardly be a more categorically stated case
of consciously reconstructing what Daud Ali called ‘useable pasts’ in
the context of prabandha compositions.41
A listener/reader of the two texts would not fail to notice
another somewhat subtle, though equally consequential, differ-
ence in the style of their retelling. Vidyapati’s stories always had a
very well-defined plot, a clear beginning and end, a foregrounding
of the quality that the story meant to illustrate, and a very clearly
marked characterization. The stories of Puruṣaparīkṣā were shorn
of all the details that did not fit into their didactic intent. Their
heroes were always, without fail, an epitome of the virtue (or
vice in the case of counterexample stories) they were supposed
to exemplify. Merutuṅga’s protagonists by comparison, even the
celebrated characters such as Bhoja, were more realistic, prone to
making mistakes and having to pay for it. Frequently, the stories
of Prabandhacintāmaṇi seemed to meander through a variety of
episodes, providing sundry details in ways that a modern histo-
rian might find useful. For a medieval ‘consumer’ of the kathās,
however, Puruṣaparīkṣā served a more tightly controlled, neatly
told, readymade corpus of modular stories, each geared towards
delivering a very specific lesson.
There were other ways in which Puruṣaparīkṣā stood out in con-
trast with the prabandha compositions. The people who animated
its stories were drawn from a vast range of places in North India
and the Deccan. While sticking to the established convention of
including the stories of Vikramāditya, Candragupta, and Bhoja,
Vidyapati also introduced Turkish and Afghan sultans as well as
three local heroes from Mithila as characters in his kathās. Very
often he let his characters, both the heroes and anti-heroes, speak
at length for themselves and hence set his ideas in a more dialogical
context. What made Puruṣaparīkṣā truly unique, however, was

41 Ali, ‘Temporality, Narration and the Problem of History’, pp. 239, 242,
and 246.
 Political Ethics or the Art of Being a Man 151

the fact that he formulated each one of his political ideals as the
qualities of a ‘model male’ character.

Gender
That Puruṣaparīkṣā presumed the field of politics to be exclusively a
male domain should not be hastily prejudged. Indeed, as far as medi-
eval political theorists were concerned, only men were capable of, and
hence expected to, cultivate the qualities of a good political subject: in
the sense of those who had political power and initiative as well as in
the sense of those who were ‘subjected’ to that power—the subjects
of the state so to say.42
Reality though could sometimes shatter such idealism, as Vidyapati
discovered soon. Within a decade of the composition of Puruṣaparīkṣā,
the author of The Test of a Man ended up writing Śaivasarvasvasāra
under instructions from a woman ruler of Tirhut, Viśvāsa Devī.43
Yet, we should not forget that facts like these, whether we are talking
about Viśvāsa Devī or Raziyya Sultan or several other queens that we
come across, do not take away from the conceptually gendered ter-
rain of politics. A more truthful reflection of the maleness of political
power perhaps was the fact that even when a female ruler occupied
the throne, the qualities she would be ideally attributed and praised
for were masculine qualities.44 Moreover, while it was still possible

42 Most premodern treatises on political ethics illustrated their ideals

through stories about the deeds of good men, whether in the Persian or in
the pre-Persian Indic traditions. This would include, the above-mentioned
Prabandhacintāmaṇi as also Nizam al-Mulk’s Siyasat Nama, Ziya’ al-Din
Barani’s Fatawa-i Jahandari, and other Persian texts in the tradition of the
so-called ‘mirrors for princes’.
43 Padmasiṃha, the younger brother of Vidyapati’s patron Raja Śivasiṃha,

succeeded the latter to the throne of Tirhut. And Viśvāsadevī soon succeeded
her husband Raja Padmasiṃha; see Vidyapati, Śaivasarvasvasāra, pp. 4–6.
For the succession chart, see Chapter 1 of this volume.
44 Juzjani, the author of the thirteenth-century chronicle Tabaqat-i

Nasiri, for example, thought that Raziyya lacked the ‘good fortune of being
counted amongst men’; see Minhaj-i Siraj Juzjani, Tabaqat-i Nasiri, p. 457,
152 a political history of literature

for a woman to become a Sultan or a Raja, it was near impossible for

a woman to be appointed to any other important administrative posi-
tion.45 Indeed, the fourteenth-century political theorist Caṇḍeśvara
explicitly prohibited ‘rogues, women and children’ from being
appointed as ministers.46
Yet, women were not irrelevant to the construction of this exclu-
sively male domain of politics. The author constructed the feminine,
as much as the ‘less than masculine’, as a prop to throw the truly
male into bolder relief. Narrating the characteristics of warrior men
(yuddhavīra), the following śloka sets the tone of contrast between the
yuddhavīra on the one hand, and children, fearful men, and women
together on the other:

Cowards, children, and women live the life of dependence,

Lions and good men depend on their own prowess!47

The possibilities for the ‘less than male’ were much wider than
those for women. While women were repeatedly noted to be con-
strained by their ineffable nature, failings of men were due to

cited in Kumar, Emergence of the Delhi Sultanate, p. 260. Vidyapati too attrib-
uted traits to Viśvāsadevī in the beginning of Śaivasarvasvasāra, which he
would associate with men in Puruṣaparīkṣā. See Vidyapati, Śaivasarvasvasāra,
pp. 6–8. Note also, Talbot, ‘Rudrama-devi, the Female King’.
45 It is a different matter altogether that historians of the Mughal state

often celebrate the apparently cosmopolitan and universally inclusive char-

acter of its nobility without bothering to so much as mention that no woman
could ever hope to be a mansabdar (literally, a rank holder. All high officials of
the Mughal state were given ranks [mansab] that signified their position in the
hierarchy. They were called mansabdar).
46 Dhūrtaḥ strī vā śiśuryasya mantriṇaḥ syurmahīpateḥ/Anītipavanotkṣiptaḥ

kāryābhau sa nimañjati (A king who has a cunning man or a woman or a

child for a minister, is blown away by the storm of the lack of righteousness
and submerged into the ocean of work), says the author. See Caṇḍeśvara,
Rājanītiratnākara, p. 25.
47 Parāśrayeṇa jīvanti kātarāḥ śiśavaḥ striyaḥ/Siṃhāḥ satpuruṣascaiva nija

darpopajīvinaḥ. See Puruṣaparīkṣā, p. 20. Another śloka about women’s des-

tiny also expresses similar sentiments. Puruṣaparīkṣā, p. 56.
 Political Ethics or the Art of Being a Man 153

inclement circumstances. In the story about the ‘brilliant one’ (saprat-

ibha kathā), a queen has this to say:

A man’s predicament might be condemnable, not he himself,

Due to her son’s virtues, a woman is called the bearer of gems!48

Indeed, the best of men still needed to be cautious while dealing

with women in their lives. For,

Marked by turbulence and intensity, illusions and delusions,

Women and rivers have identical characters.
Always disposed to go down, even if you take them along a higher path,
They will keep going lower and lower down without effort.49

Not surprisingly, a man was not masculine enough if he could be

subdued by the charms of a woman. The śloka cited above actually
occurs in the context of a pratyudāharaṇakathā, that is, ‘counterex-
ample story’, about a ghasmara who is defined as ‘a man who in spite
of being valorous, intelligent, and learned, is fettered by feminine
charms, and is under the control of a woman’.
While all the stories of Puruṣaparīkṣā seek to illustrate,
through udāharaṇakathā, how to be a real man, and through
pratyudāharaṇakathā, how not to be one, there are no dearth of
descriptive and didactic observations about women. All the stereo-
types (and more) associated with women can be found here. Thus,
her sexual appetite is interminable and eight times that of men;50 she
would do anything to seduce a man once she was seized with desire;51
she would laugh at cowardly men while she was always available to

48 Puruṣaparīkṣā, p. 60.
49 The śloka is recited, incidentally, by the Lord of the Yavanas, Sahāvadīno
(almost certainly referring to Muhammad Shihab al-Din Ghuri), who, armed
with this wisdom, proceeds to use his rival Jayachandra’s wife and chief
queen in order to defeat him. See ‘Atha Ghasmara Kathā’, in Puruṣaparīkṣā,
pp. 218–30.
50 See Puruṣaparīkṣā, ‘Atha dhūrta kathā (the story of the cunning one)’,

p. 216.
51 Puruṣaparīkṣā, ‘Atha nispṛḥa kathā (the story of the abstinent)’,

pp. 236–44.
154 a political history of literature

a ‘manly’ man. In fact, women were represented almost as fruits of

masculinity, trophies to be won.52 It was the rare woman, the sati, one
in a thousand, who remained chaste if she was unmarried, and who
remained faithful if she was married.53 Rare as these qualities may
be, Puruṣaparīkṣā argued, unsurprisingly from an entirely masculine
perspective, they marked the true power of a woman.
Although Puruṣaparīkṣā refrained from explicitly laying out the
ostensibly positive details of the woman’s burden in this gendered
division of duties and traits, Likhanāvalī did briefly touch upon it.
Thus, a model letter written by a travelling young man to his mother
at home makes it a point to mention the nurturing role of a mother,
and compares her with Ganga.54 Another letter written by the mother
of a young married woman advises her thus:

[W]e have heard reports of your ill-repute on account of dissatisfaction

with [your] sister-in-law55 and quarrels with the co-wife. That distresses
us. Though daughter–children are always a source of anxiety for par-
ents, yet it is painful to hear so many stories so unbecoming of you,
[one] who is [otherwise] so very virtuous, expert in household work, and
devoted to your elders. Even if your sister-in-law is vicious, co-wife is
jealous and ill disposed towards you; still you should give up garrulity
and conduct yourself according to your own nature. Indeed, humility
helps in both the worlds and brings good fortune. Be devoted to your
lord [that is, husband] and follow his instructions every moment….56

It is hardly surprising that Vidyapati confined women to the house-

hold and focussed primarily on their supporting role to men within
the family. And of course, neither Puruṣaparīkṣā nor Likhanāvalī rec-
ognized the clear tension in suggesting that women were incorrigible
by nature, even as they prescribed a whole set of virtuous practices for
them. More interesting for us, however, is the fact that the conduct
of women was often framed in the context of a larger political and
social order, and not individuated into awarding or denying character

52 Puruṣaparīkṣā, pp. 51 and 77.

53 Puruṣaparīkṣā, pp. 110–14.
54 Vidyapati, Likhanāvalī, p. 5.
55 Nananda, that is, husband’s sister.
56 Likhanāvalī, pp. 27–8.
 Political Ethics or the Art of Being a Man 155

certificates to specific women. Two very different stories vividly illus-

trate this point.
The first one is ostensibly about the infallible wisdom of a
Brāhmaṇa learned in the Vedas, wherein a Raja of Avantī, consumed
with sexual desire for a Vaṇij57 woman, relentlessly pursues her.
When all his machinations fail in the face of the resolutely pativratā
(a woman who has taken a vow to serve her husband under all condi-
tions) and sati (a woman who lives truthfully for her husband and is
willing to die with him) woman, he tries to bring her into disrepute by
accusing her of adultery. When a Vedavidya Brāhmaṇa publicly dem-
onstrates the innocence of the woman, the Raja faces ignominy, and
can save himself and his kingdom only after he falls at the feet of the
Brāhmaṇa (not at the feet of the woman) and apologizes.58 Even more
instructive is Vidyapati’s version of the story about how Jayachandra
of Kānyakubja lost his kingdom to the Lord of the Yavanas, the ruler
of Yoginīpura (that is, Delhi), Sahāvadīna (Shihabuddin). When
Shihabuddin is faced with repeated defeats in battle with Jayachandra,
he conspires to target the chief queen of Jayachandra. Even though
Jayachandra was blessed with Vidyādhara, an extraordinarily loyal
and learned minister, the latter could not save his master’s kingdom
since the queen herself had turned disloyal. With his larger objects
accomplished, Shihabuddin also snubs the unfaithful queen and kills
her. The story ends with a couplet:

Women are a means for fun, love her and treat her like a beloved,
Prohibited it is to be under their control, else your misery is assured!59

What this śloka did not specify—even if it was asserted in the

stories—was that a gendered conduct was a necessary condition for both,
individual happiness and social and political stability. At stake in the
story cited above is not the historical veracity of Vidyapati’s retelling
of the well-known incident; more insightful is the way our author
moulded the story to suit his own didactic agenda. As we shall see
later, many of these ideas were reminiscent of smṛiti texts as well as

57 A caste associated with trading.

58 Puruṣaparīkṣā, pp. 110–14.
59 Puruṣaparīkṣā, p. 230.
156 a political history of literature

philosophical treatises, both of which had a long and deep history

in Sanskrit literary tradition. The earlier articulations of these ideals
were either presumptive (as in the Puranic and folk tales) or stark
and bald (as in the dharmaśāstras). The novelty, one may argue, of
Puruṣaparīkṣā lay more in its aestheticized representation of these
ideals in the form of entertaining stories while still maintaining a
sharp didactic edge. The tradition of telling stories to teach ethics
was at least as old as Pañcatantra, one of the earliest didactic texts
on political ethics that wilfully styled, indeed camouflaged, itself as a
series of entertaining stories.60
A century before Vidyapati, in Mithila itself, another Brāhmaṇa
scholar, Caṇḍeśvara, delineated the desirable qualities of a king,
on the authority of Yājñyavalkya, in the following words: ‘A king
should be full of enthusiasm [mahotsāhaḥ], resolute in his goals
[sthūlalakṣaḥ], grateful, disposed to serve the elderly, humble, valorous
[satvasampannaḥ], noble by birth, truthful, pure, energetic [literally,
not lazy, adīrghasūtra], of good memory, above pettiness, duty-bound
[dhārmika], free of all bad habits, learned [prājñyaḥ], heroic and
knower of the secrets’.61
Qualities that were identical, similar to, or comparable with the
ones cited by Caṇḍeśvara here are easy to find in Puruṣaparīkṣā. As
noted though, the two texts are very different in the manner in which
they approach their readers/listeners. Rājanītiratnākara was a simple
account of the important components of an ideal state. The author
described functions and desirable traits of each of these institutional
components, one after another, from the king and ministers to spies
and tax collectors. A non-specialist might be forgiven for having no
patience with such a bland and erudite essay.

60 The seed story of Pañcatantra relates that the author, Pandit Viṣṇu
Sharma, told the stories to his patron-king’s three sons. The king wanted his
sons’ minds to be illuminated, buddhiprakāśo, as they were disinterested in
the sciences (śāstravimukho) and lacked discretion (vivekarahito). Moreover,
he warned Sharma that they were resistant (paramadurbhedaso) to learn-
ing. Sharma reassured his patron that his wish would be fulfilled within six
months, and promised that ‘he would impart knowledge with entertainment’
(sarasvatīvinodam kariṣyāmi). See Pandit Viṣṇu Sharma, Pañcatantra, pp. 3–7.
61 Caṇḍeśvara, Rājanītiratnākara, ed. Gairola and Jha, p. 5.
 Political Ethics or the Art of Being a Man 157

A more interesting correlation is the recurrence of comparable, if

not similar, ideas—more than a century later and a thousand miles
away from Mithila—in Delhi, in a number of Persian texts. If the
Sanskrit tradition framed the political ideals in the fifteenth cen-
tury in an explicitly gendered way, the Persian tradition too had an
indispensable place for manliness in politics. While trying to explain
the failure of Humayun in holding on to his inherited territories in
Hindustan, ‘chroniclers such as Bayazid Bayat and Jawhar … consis-
tently compared the emperor with his rivals, including his brother
Kamran and his Afghan enemy Sher Shah, in such a way as to sug-
gest that Humayun had fallen short specifically in fulfilling gender
roles appropriate to a warrior king’.62 Jawanmardi (manliness), for
example, was a critical attribute of a successful political agent, whether
a fighter in the battlefield or a ruler in his court. When Humayun
praised Mast Ali Qurchi’s valour, it was the latter’s jawanmardi that
was highlighted as crucial.63 Jawanmardi in the Persianate political
world (as puruṣa in the Sanskrit tradition) was not to be contrasted
only with the feminine. As Anooshahr noted in the context of the
Persian accounts of the sixteenth century,

‘unmanly’ need not imply effeminacy, because, unlike modern percep-

tions, the strict binary opposites of male/female do not occur exclusively
in the texts of these periods…. Rather, the masculine attributes of sol-
diers would have included aggressiveness and bravery, some sense of
mercy, and the ability to bear with pain and hardship. Against these we
encounter in the ‘unmanly’ a kind of pathetic weakness (zabūnī) which
may be manifested in the inability to exact revenge as well as a love for
fineries and comfort.64

It is difficult to miss the fact that many of the masculine qualities

that the Persian chronicler listed with approval, for example, mercy,
aggression, and bravery, had parallels in terms of qualities like dayā,
parākram/adīrghasūtra, and śaurya as they figure in Puruṣaparīkṣā. If
ayyashi (the vice of indulging in unrighteous material and physical

62 Anooshahr, ‘The King Who Would Be Man’, p. 328.

63 Anooshahr, ‘The King Who Would Be Man’, p. 329.
64 Anooshahr, ‘The King Who Would Be Man’, p. 329.
158 a political history of literature

pleasures) was the undoing of a prince, so were the vyasanas (unethical

addictions geared to provide material and physical pleasures). While
jawanmardi was rooted in the Perso-Islamic ecumenical tradition, its
contemporary commonsensical echoes (and political salience) might
not have been very different from the idea of being puruṣārthavān.
If the idea of the perfect puruṣa looked back to the earlier articula-
tions of an ideal social order in the smṛiti tradition, the Perso-Islamic
ideal of the ‘true’ man, insan-i kamil, had its genealogy in hadith,
tawarikh, sufi lore, and eventually Ibn al-Arabi. Each tradition had its
own deep and long history to look back to and work out of. The word
jawanmardi, for example, had a variable trajectory of connotations in
Perso-Arabic literature from the ninth century onwards, when it had
a close association with mystical and ‘deviant’ Islam.65
Two centuries later, jawanmardi came to have a set of connota-
tions that might easily be compared to those of puruṣārtha. Kaykavus
(eleventh century) in his Qabus-namah, devoted a full section to the
‘Institution of Jawānmardī’ wherein he posited, to begin with, three
components of jawanmardi: to always fulfil one’s promise, to always
speak the truth, and to always act with patience. Other virtues fol-
lowed soon: to be brave (delir) and manly, to be pure in sexual life
and thought, never cause loss to anyone for one’s own gain, never
oppress the weak or extort anything out of prisoners, be generous
towards the needy, and have endurance in hardship. Gratitude, the
‘condition of being abundantly armed’, and always protecting the one
who has surrendered to you (or has come to take refuge with you)
are also mentioned a little later.66 Though a large number of texts
seem to have been written on the theme of jawanmardi (or futuwwa
in Arabic) in the Middle Ages, most of them seem to be concerned
more with jawanmardi brotherhoods ‘as formal institutions with an
initiation ceremony, a uniform, a hierarchy of authority and codes of
conduct’.67 What is more interesting, however, is that parallel stories

65 Tor, Violent Order, pp. 229–31.

66 See Kaykavus, Kitab-i Nasihat Namah, Ma‘ruf bah Qabus Namah,
pp. 179–81, cited in Tor, Violent Order, pp. 247–8.
67 Flatt, ‘Courtly Culture in the Indo–Persian States’, p. 175. While the sec-

tion titled ‘Historical Development of Jawanmardi’ in Flatt’s thesis is rich in

detail about different forms of jawanmardi in the Middle Ages, she does not
 Political Ethics or the Art of Being a Man 159

for each of the aspects of jawanmardi listed by Qabus-namah (except

the injunction on ‘never to extort anything from a prisoner’) can be
found in Puruṣaparīkṣā (see Tables 4.1 and 4.2).
The point, however, is not to match the Persian and Sanskritic
tradition, idea for idea. In fact, some of the details of these concepts
may not match at all across the two literary traditions. The signifi-
cance of this parallel lies in the fact that both major literary traditions
articulated their political ideals in ways that each would find familiar
in the other.68

Caste/Varṇa
The ideal political domain for Vidyapati was exclusionary in other
respects as well. His incredibly elaborate inventory of manly traits
was not represented as accessible to any and every man. In fact, only
men of certain social standing determined by birth might aspire to
the qualities outlined in Puruṣaparīkṣā. Other men and all women
were mere props for the privileged few who had the opportunity and
the ritual sanction to cultivate the virtues valorized in these stories.
Consider the fact that in each of the udāharaṇa kathās of the book,
upper-caste men were usually the protagonists with illustrious
characters—roughly half of them were Brāhmaṇas, a quarter were
Rājapūtas, while the rest were either Vaiśyas or of unidentifiable ritual
status. On the other hand, in the pratyudāharaṇa kathās (wherein a
counterexample is given to demonstrate the opposite of prescribed
conduct), the protagonists were more heterogenous and included
characters from varied social backgrounds.
A story about the ‘back-biting’ kind, set during the reign of
Candragupta Maurya, illustrates the author’s essentialist perception
about caste/varṇa and endogamy. A boy was born to a poor Brāhmaṇa

seem to be aware of Tor’s book (cited above), which meticulously traced a

more diachronic account of the Persianate–Arabic concept.
68 Unfortunately no nuanced or detailed study of any of the major medi-

eval Indian states’ approach to or investment in jawanmardi/puruṣartha has

yet been undertaken, though some interesting general accounts of the signifi-
cance of manliness for service under the Mughals do exist. See for example,
O’Hanlon, ‘Manliness and Imperial Service in Mughal North India’.
160 a political history of literature

couple. But his father died early and his mother was forced to aban-
don him. A vaṇij neighbour named Somadatta took pity on him and
brought him up. He got his saṃsakāras (literally, to make perfect.
Also refers to one of the twelve [sometimes sixteen or more] sacred/
purificatory rites prescribed by Dharmaśāstras. It is in the latter sense
that the word occurs here) done by a Brāhmaṇa, and arranged for a
Kāyastha to teach him. However, a Buddhist monk (kṣapaṇaka) who
saw the boy recited the following śloka:

Born to mean Brāhmaṇa parentage, fed by a Vaṇij’s bread

Educated by a Kāyastha, he will be mean-minded!69

When the Brāhmaṇa boy grew up and started receiving generous

patronage from the court, instead of being grateful to the Vaṇij, he
started extorting money from the latter by invoking his newfound
power and position. While the Vaṇij was reduced to penury, the
Brāhmaṇa boy became even more ambitious and tried to badmouth
the famous minister (Rākṣasa) to the king and vice versa. However,
the clever minister and the king discovered the boy’s ploy to create
mistrust between them. But the story does not end here. ‘Going by
his conduct’, said Rākṣasa, ‘he appears to be an illegitimate child
[ jārajoayamiti, literally, “born to someone else”, that is, by someone
other than his mother’s duly wed husband]’. On further enquiry,
the minister proved to be right, as the boy’s mother admitted that
he was born not of her Brāhmaṇa husband but a Cāṇḍāla who had
once sneaked into her hut!
It is not difficult to see that this is a cleverly crafted story. The
Buddhist monk was at least partially right so far as the boy’s character
was concerned. However, use of the phrase, ‘mean Brāhmaṇa parent-
age (hīna-dvija-kule)’ by the monk proved to be misplaced, as the author
revealed in the end that Kṣudrabuddhi was actually born to a Cāṇḍāla
father.70 A more interesting irony in the story is the fact that it was

69 ‘Kṣudrabuddhi’ is the word. See Puruṣaparīkṣā, p. 84.

70 It would appear that it was almost a formulaic ploy in stories to discover
the lowly origins of a man after he was found to have conducted himself in an
immoral manner. Nizam al-Din Awliya’s malfuz, Fawa’id al-Fu’ad has a similar
story about a Sayyid’s son from a slave girl whose conduct was unbecoming
 Political Ethics or the Art of Being a Man 161

Candragupta Maurya, a ruler that Vidyapati did not hesitate to identify

as ‘low born’,71 who insisted on finding out the parentage of the boy.
Within these paradigms, the reference to the historical Candragupta
could have been an embarrassment for Vidyapati: his social origins
could not be simply reinvented; they had to be explained. Vidyapati’s
resolution was quite ingenious. He made no effort to hide the mon-
arch’s low social origins, and deliberately used the uncommon term
vṛiṣala or outcaste to describe him. He could have used the more famil-
iar terms Śudra or antyaja to communicate the low social origins of
Candragupta, but used vṛiṣala since it was apparently used by Cāṇakya,
the monarch’s minister, to describe his master.72 The link appears to
be deliberate since Vidyapati went on to credit Candragupta’s ascen-
sion to the throne of Kusumpur to the avenging Brāhmaṇa, Cāṇakya.
In fact, in the story about the ubhayavidya (that is, one learned both
in the Vedas and folk wisdom), Candragupta is rarely mentioned, and
when he is, Vidyapati is careful to craft him as the incidental recipient
of the Brāhmaṇa’s grace.73 Clearly, the historical Candragupta did not
stretch Vidyapati’s didactic disposition too much.
As we saw in the last chapter, the whole text of Vidyapati’s writing
manual might be read as a reflection on a series of relationships that
are either political or perceived as crucial for political harmony. As
far as caste/varṇa is concerned, the fault line that emerged there was
just one: that between the Śudras on the one hand and the rest of the
society on the other. Śudras, in fact, were insouciantly treated as a
subhuman slave category, especially in the fourth section (that related

of his Sayyid provenance. It was later found that the slave girl had cohabited
with another slave. See Sijzi, Fawa’id al-Fu’ad, p. 352.
71 Puruṣaparīkṣā, p. 124.
72 See Apte, Sanskrit–English Dictionary, p. 386. It is noteworthy that

in the Middle Ages, the most likely source of information on Candragupta

and Cāṇakya was probably the famous Sanskrit play Mudrārākṣasam by
Viśākhādatta. In this play too, Candragupta is referred to by Cāṇakya as a
rājavṛiṣala (royal Śūdra). That Vidyapati was familiar with the play is borne
out by the fact that he narrated a story about Viśākhādatta in Puruṣaparīkṣā
at the end of which it is duly noted that he was the author of Mudrārākṣasam.
See the sapratibha kathā in Puruṣaparīkṣā, pp. 58–66.
73 See ‘Atha ubhayavidya kathā’, Puruṣaparīkṣā, pp. 122–8.
162 a political history of literature

to administrative and business transactions), but also occasionally in

the first three. Here, for example, is a letter, written presumably by an
upper-caste man to his elder brother:

May it be well. To the most adorable elder brother, a tree-like resting

place for affection and care,74 comparable to father, Ṭhakkura Śrī so
and so goes this letter from so and so village, by Śrī so and so, convey-
ing a hundred salutations. By the boundless affection of the respectable
brother’s feet, all is well here. [I] wish all is well there [too]. The matter
is that I cannot disobey the order you gave to free the fettered Śūdra
even though he wishes harm [to me], and even though I had tied him
up in great anger and with a purpose, hence he was freed the moment
I saw your writing. So, therefore, [kindly] do not renounce the flow of
affection towards my ever-obedient self.75

Indeed, as we saw in the last chapter, compared to Puruṣaparīkṣā,

Likhanāvalī is an elusively simple text. It claims to do no more than
teach how to write certain kinds of letters, and appears merely to
describe what the author might have considered a ‘normative reality’.
The letters lack the melodramatic suspense exhibited by most of the
stories in Puruṣaparīkṣā. Nor do these model missives have the palpa-
bly oral texture that gives the tales of Puruṣaparīkṣā the quality of being
grounded in lived experience. Yet, a careful reading of the letters and
documents of Likhanāvalī has its rewards. Here is a document from
the fourth section, titled ‘Vyavahāra Likhanāni’ or ‘Conduct-related
Writing’, of Likhanāvalī:

Siddhiḥ. In the year two hundred and ninety-nine of the erstwhile King
Śrī Lakṣamaṇa Senadeva in the tradition of the most revered kings, on
Friday the fourteenth day of the bright moon in the month of Bhādra,
accordingly when written numerically in the sequence of month,
fortnight, date, and day—Lakṣamaṇa Era 299, Bhādra, bright moon,
on fourteenth, the Friday. Further, in the realm of the most revered,
adorned with all due procedures, light of good deeds, King of all the
three lords [namely] the lord of horses, the lord of elephants, and the
lord of men, served by thousands of kings, recipient of the grace of

74 Sneha mānyatobhaya vyatikara viśrāma mahīruheṣu. See Likhanāvalī,

p. 6.
75 Likhanāvalī, p. 6.
 Political Ethics or the Art of Being a Man 163

Khoda, lauded by panegyrics, Great Suratrāṇasāha’s subordinate, Śrī

so and so, with all due procedures, like Nārāyaṇa to the Kaṃsas who
are his enemies, committed to the devotion of Śiva, a man of charac-
ter and light of good deeds, in his kingdom of Tirhut, in the country
of Ratnapura, subdivision of Mīgo and village Mīmbrā, Śrī so and so
Datta puts in his money for buying male and female Śūdras.76 The
recipient of this money, needy Rāutta Śrī so and so sold his slave77 of
Kevaṭa caste, forty-four years old, dark complexioned, named so and
so for six silver Taṅkas,78 similarly his wife [that is, the slave’s wife]—
thirty years old and fair complexioned named so and so for four silver
Taṅkas, similarly their son—sixteen years old and fair complexioned
named so and so for three silver Taṅkas, and similarly their daughter,
eight years old, dark complexioned named so and so,79 to look after the
cows and perform other duties80 for the purchaser81 for the duration of
the moon and the sun [that is, forever]. Hereby sold male and female
Śudras—four; sale amount—fourteen. For the performance of miscel-
laneous duties due from both parties—two each. At the residence of
the purchaser, these Śudras will plough the land, clear the leftovers,
fetch water, carry the palanquin, and perform all other chores. If ever
they flee, they will be brought back to slavery with this deed as proof
[of legitimate claim over them] even if they are hiding beneath the
Royal throne. Witnesses for the purpose are Devadatta, Yajñadatta,

76 Śudra śudrī krayaṇartha.

77 The word I have translated as slave is ‘dāsam’.
78 ‘Rūpya ṭaṅkasat’ is the phrase. In several documents, rupya (Sanskrit)

and taṅka (Persian) are mentioned together. It is possible that the author
wanted to create a template which could be used verbatim with minimum
alterations in different exchange circles. It is equally likely that the term
rupya-tańka was meant to refer to a silver (rupya) tankha, a high-denomina-
tion currency during this period in north India. It is difficult, however, to
trace a definite pattern in the way currencies/denominations are mentioned
in Likhanāvalī. Several other currencies figure as media of exchange in
other documents. These include purāṇas, paṇas, kākinī, kapardaka, and so
on. Occasionally, a document simply uses the word mudrā (money) without
specifying the currency.
79 No price for the eight-year-old daughter is mentioned. It is probably to

be assumed that since the price for her father, mother, and brother adds up to
thirteen ṭaṅkas, the price paid for her is one ṭaṅka!
80 The term is ‘gotrāgotra nivārakaṃ’.
81 ‘Dhaniṣu’, literally, ‘for the affluent one’.
164 a political history of literature

Viṣṇumitra, and so on, and it was written by the Kāyastha Śrī so and so
with the permission of both parties. Payment due for writing, equally
from both—Rupya 1 each. This is also the payment voucher for the
sum of 14 silver taṅkas as sale amount. Money received after due verifi-
cation [ for which] the witnesses are the same as for this deed.82

This is only one of the several deeds that purport to record trade
in humans. The manner of their trading is hardly different from the
manner in which other ‘commodities’ were bought and sold.
In some senses, this document, probably the longest in Likhanāvalī,
is also somewhat ‘representative’ of the text: in its longish and stylized
characterization of rulers, in recording all the details of the transac-
tion, and in marking the political hierarchy by first referring to the
sultan and then to the subordinate raja. One cannot miss the remark-
able fact that though the transaction is dated, it still referred to the
reigning Sultan as well as the chieftain. This reference was not meant
simply to mark time. Rather, it historicized the transaction, giving its
executors ‘history’. Equally, it also sought to fortify the terms of the
transaction in a way that in some senses transcended even the state.
The legitimacy of the transaction lay in the fact that it was ‘duly docu-
mented’. Hence the clear assertion that if the sold Śudras tried to flee,
‘they will be brought back to slavery with this deed as proof even if they
were hiding beneath the Royal throne’ (emphasis mine). In their format
and texture as well as in their claim to being legal testimony, a major-
ity of the documents in the fourth section of Likhanāvalī appear to
have borrowed their style from the copper plate Sanskrit inscriptions
of North India from the Gupta period onwards.83 Indeed, the text of
the copper plate inscription that recorded the grant of taxes of the vil-
lage Bisapī by Raja Śivasiṃha to Vidyapati, also makes for interesting
comparison with the documents of Likhanāvalī in this context.84

82 Likhanāvalī, pp. 42–3.

83 For the format and framing of ‘typical’ Sanskrit inscriptions from
North India, see Salomon, Indian Epigraphy, especially the Appendix entitled
‘Selection of Typical Inscriptions’, pp. 262–309.
84 For the full text of the inscription, consisting of thirty-eight lines in

Sanskrit, along with an English translation and comments on its disputed

authenticity by Grierson, see Indian Antiquary, vol. XIV, 1885, pp. 191–2.
 Political Ethics or the Art of Being a Man 165

Clearly, from the high pedestal on which the author seated him-
self, the Śudras appeared merely as subhuman labouring machines,
hardly the kind who could aspire to be real men, the long list of
whose qualities were difficult enough to achieve even for those who
had the required opportunity, ritual sanction, and material means.
Once we understand this, it becomes easier for us to account for the
evocative śloka in the opening story of Puruṣaparīkṣā that at first sight
appears mouth-wateringly liberal and even anti-caste:

Vīraḥ śaurya vivekābhyām utsāhena ca manḍitaḥ

Mātā pitroralaṅkṛtu kule kutrāpi jāyate

(One adorned with bravery, discretion, and enthusiasm is a man of

valour,
Earning glories for parents, they might be born into whatever lineage!)

It should still be noted that Vidyapati was careful to use the phrase
‘kule kutrāpi jāyate’ only in the context of a vīra puruṣa, that is, the
valorous one, valour being one of the three virtues that he expected in
a real man. For the other two traits, namely, intelligence and learning,
the field was probably not so wide open.
My point is not, however, to argue that a Brāhmaṇa courtier of
the fifteenth century believed in the caste/varṇa hierarchy, or that he
treated politics as a sport played among men, preferably real men.
That would amount to belabouring the obvious. What is more inter-
esting is the manner in which Vidyapati shaped and deployed gender
and caste norms in the context of social harmony and political power.
It would be helpful, then, to shift the focus from his construction of
gender and caste, and consider the author’s notion of the state and
political power as it is formulated and expressed in Puruṣaparīkṣā and
Likhanāvalī. We will take up a comparable exercise in the context of
Vidyapati’s Kīrttilatā in Chapter 5 in this volume.

Politics
It is extremely difficult for a modern readership to isolate the author’s
views on the state and politics from a bunch of homilies on a host
of themes like sin (pāpa), meritorious conduct (puṇya), and kindness
166 a political history of literature

(dayā)—stories and model letters cannot be expected to present an

exposition of any idea in a sustained manner. Yet, political power,
even the state, is ubiquitous in both texts. Almost every single story
in Puruṣaparīkṣā is framed either in the backdrop of a state or more
directly in terms of how the conduct of a political agent (a king, prince,
minister, or courtier) can help or harm the interest of the state. As
already seen, this is also true of Likhanāvalī, in which a majority of
letters are exchanged between political agents and often carry sub-
stantive ideas about prescribed and prohibited political conduct. The
very first letter written by a king to a priest of the Vīreśvara temple in
Varanasi ‘whose inner being has been purified by the ultimate wis-
dom of the Vedic doctrines’ lists the reasons for his own (that is, the
king’s) contentment in a way that might well be read as a checklist of
conditions for the political stability of a state:

With the grace of your feet and by the blessings sent [by you], we are
all well and [there is] happiness in our family, good conduct prevails
in the realm, the army is powerful, attendants are sinless [loyal?], [our]
enemies’ morale is low, and the treasure is flawless [ full?], and so [I am
in a position to] embrace happiness and peace.85

Elsewhere, the king is approvingly addressed as ‘full of mercy, char-

ity, moral propriety, discretion, and other qualities worthy of a ruler’.86
In a comparable way, yet another letter counts the qualities of a chief
advisor (mahāmattaka) as ‘accomplished in the six skills of alliance,
antagonism, invasion, firm opportunism, strategic ambivalence, and
tactical retreat (or refuge)’.87 He is also described in the same letter
as one who ‘overcomes the impact of wrong-doing [in the realm]
through his aggressive pursuit of justice,88 is careful in [cultivating]
the three bases of mokṣa, deft at defending and adding to the royal
treasure, bright and magnificent, soft in speech and tough in action,

85 Likhanāvalī, letter no. 3, p. 3.

86 Likhanāvalī, letter no. 10, p. 8.
87 Sandhi vigraha yānāsana dvaidhāśraya. See Likhanāvalī, letter no. 12,
p. 10.
88 Pracaṇḍa daṇḍanīti nirākṛta sakala durvvṛitta prabhāveṣu. See Likhanāvalī,
letter no. 12, pp. 10–11.
 Political Ethics or the Art of Being a Man 167

discerning in [giving] advice, informed about the secrets of the oppo-

nents, discreet in [performing] his duties’, and so on.89 Puruṣaparīkṣā
occasionally refers to the king as a giver of sustenance,90 an expression
that Likhanāvalī also uses for the father. If the king did not perform
his duties as per norms, all sorts of prohibited conduct could flour-
ish. Loyalty to the king is counted as a virtue, but deserting,91 even
deposing,92 the king (albeit only by ministers) is allowed in specific
circumstances. Reclamation of deserted land for agriculture,93 look-
ing for good varieties of seeds,94 mobilizing experienced and skilled
soldiers of high ancestry,95 punishing erring subordinates,96 and so
on, are all counted as normative initiatives that a state could take.
One could go on stitching together Vidyapati’s views on statecraft
with the help of these two texts. However, that would be a separate
exercise in itself and outside the scope of this chapter. I am more
interested here in looking at how these expressions could be inflected
by the genre of the text. More importantly, I want to explore the way
Vidyapati wove together notions of social and perhaps ‘religious’ pro-
priety with political power. That can help us in understanding how
‘religiously’ sanctioned norms of caste and gender could constitute
important building blocks for the apparently secular pursuit of power.
It would also allow us to engage with contentious arguments among
scholars about the status, if any, of secularism and religion in pre-
modern India.
Predictably, Likhanāvalī often articulated ideas about political
conduct in neat formulaic expressions that were probably abbreviated
references to established ideas. Puruṣaparīkṣā, on the other hand, got
itself into clumsier terrain, often putting its precepts in the laboratory
of history under testing circumstances, and driving home some of the

89 Likhanāvalī, letter no. 12, pp. 10–11.

90 Puruṣaparīkṣā, p. 106.
91 Likhanāvalī, letter nos. 26 and 53, pp. 21 and 39–40.
92 See the story of the repentant one (anuśayīka kathā), Puruṣaparīkṣā,

pp. 170–8.
93 ‘Ujjaṭa bhūmi vāsārtha’, Likhanāvalī, letter no. 10, p. 8.
94 Likhanāvalī, letter nos. 34 and 52, pp. 26 and 39.
95 Likhanāvalī, letter no. 15, p. 13.
96 Likhanāvalī, letter nos. 19 and 20, pp. 17–18.
168 a political history of literature

same points that find mention in Likhanāvalī. In the stories narrated

in Puruṣaparīkṣā, political prescriptions could be challenged in a more
dialogical context, where the author got an opportunity to elaborate
on the details of—occasionally even the rationale behind—his beliefs.
The story about the repentant one provides an interesting per-
spective on the whole question of the sources and limits of political
power.97 King Ratnāṅgada of Kampilā, the story went, was disposed to
be unjust (anyāya pravṛitto babhūva). Through a series of ślokas, the
reader is warned about the ill consequences that such a disposition
holds for the king and his subjects. I reproduce one of the ślokas here:

When women turn immoral and kings turn away from dharma,
What is not possible then? It is as if an elephant has gone mad!

All the king’s ministers deliberated over the issue. Reluctant to

commit the sin of sedition, they invited sages to preach the path of
righteous conduct (dharmopadeśaḥ) to the king. When the sages tried
to persuade the king to give up the path of sin and pursue religious
merit (puṇya), the king asked, ‘What is puṇya?’ The sages said: ‘Puṇya
is the fruit of staying away from committing violence or coveting
others’ possessions, and so on, and being inclined to kindness, gen-
erosity, providing for subjects, conducting yajñas, vratas, and so on,
and generally acting in accordance with the knowledge contained in
the Vedas’.98
It was not clear how any of this could be ‘puṇya’ or religious merit.
Certainly the king was perplexed and he asked, ‘What comes out of
that [that is, such conduct]?’ The sages replied, ‘that helps accomplish
the triumvirate (trivargaḥ sādhyate)’, referring presumably to ‘artha,
dharma, and kāma’, that is, profit, righteousness, and pleasure.

The Raja retorted, ‘Where is the proof [of that]?’

The sages replied, ‘vedāḥ pramāṇam, parmeśwaraḥ praṇetā (Vedas
are the proof. God is the promulgator)’.
‘How can the Vedas be His creation, when God himself is non-
existent? If He existed, He would have showed up (upalabhyate; literally,
would have been available), I would have seen Him too. If He does not

97 Anuśayika Kathā, Puruṣaparīkṣā, pp. 170–8.

98 Puruṣaparīkṣā, p. 172.
 Political Ethics or the Art of Being a Man 169

show up, then He does not exist. You are all respected sages, why are
you pestering me with such fallacies? If you say [these things] again,
you will attract punishment.’

Thus snubbed, the sages went away. The story goes on to note that
the ‘ministers and soldiers’ deposed the king and placed his younger
brother on the throne, but the rest of the story is not significant for my
argument. The cited debate is exceptionable in its concern about the
authority of the Vedas, which hinges either on their divine provenance
or their practical utility. In fact, one might easily place it in the larger
history of the dispute between the Vedic, especially the nyāya sytem,
and the Cāravāka system of philosophy. In a composition entitled
Sarva-darśana-saṅgraha (literally, Compilation of All Philosophical
Systems), written in the Vijayanagar kingdom around the time of
Vidyapati’s birth, the very first chapter was devoted to the Cāravāka
system.99 Interestingly, the text notes that the Cāravāka system ‘admits
of only that evidence which can be seen and does not allow specula-
tion or any non-tangible source as a valid source of knowledge’.100
Indeed the Cāravākas explicitly ridiculed the authority of the Vedas
and claimed that the offerings made to the sacred fire, the three
Vedas, the three staves of the ascetic, and the practice of smearing
one’s body with ashes are mere means of livelihood for those devoid
of any intelligence or manliness.101 In his summary condemnation
of the Cāravākas, Vidyapati was echoing the sentiments expressed
eloquently by the late-ninth-century commentator and exponent of
the nyāya system, Jayanta Bhaṭṭa (ninth–tenth centuries), when the
latter argued that ‘the wretched Cāravākas, on the other hand, should

99 The authorship of the text is disputed. Most scholars believe it to be a

work by Mādhavācārya, while some attribute it to Cannī Bhaṭṭa. In any case,
this was surely one of the better-known works on the philosophies of the
subcontinent in the Sanskrit tradition. See Agrawal, ‘Introduction’, Sarva-
darśana-saṅgraha, pp. ii–vii.
100 Pratyakṣaikapramāṇavāditayā anumānādeḥ anaṅgīkāreṇ pramāṇābhāvāt.

See Mādhavācārya, Sarva-darśana-saṅgraha, p. 4.

101 Agnihotraṃ trayo vedāstridaṇḍaṃ bhasmaguṇṭhanaṃ/
Buddhipauruṣahīnānāṃ jīviketi Bṛhaspatiḥ iti. The author of Sarva-
darśana-saṅgraha attributes these views to Bṛihaspati. See Mādhavācārya,
Sarva-darśana-saṅgraha, p. 7.
170 a political history of literature

only be neglected since their unworthy logic has no scope for being
enumerated as one of the branches of learning’.102
Clearly, the story inhabits an episteme that is primarily philosophi-
cal and ontological. From a ‘modern’ perspective, we might add, it is
simultaneously secular and religious. To us in the modern age, the
conversation between the king and the sages may appear incongruous
in the larger scheme of Puruṣaparīkṣā (since this text was supposed
to instruct the young about naya or ‘ethical/righteous conduct’). It is
doubtful if that would have been the case for a reader of the text in the
fifteenth, or for that matter, even in the seventeenth century.
However, this is not to say that no distinction could be made in
the pre- or early-modern period between the explicitly ‘religious’ and
the laukika. The very existence of terms like laukika (literally, this-
worldly) and alaukika (other-worldly) indicates that such distinctions
were made and respected. We will revisit the question a little later in
the chapter. For Vidyapati, probably the important issue at stake was
the valid source of ‘authoritative’ knowledge.

Epistemology
It would be interesting then to examine the question of authority that
our author, Vidyapati, was trying to access to give legitimacy to his
own ideas. That would take us to the layered epistemological basis that
produced the knowledge on nīti, and on ways of being puruṣārthavān.
On what grounds did Vidyapati make his claims about gender, caste,
and politics? Where did the author himself derive his authority from?
Let us, for a moment, go back to the opening story of Puruṣaparīkṣā
with which we started. For, that is the only story that the author tells
us directly. He attributed the other stories to the character Subuddhi,

102 Cārvākāstu varākāḥ pratikṣeptavyā eveti kaḥ kṣudratarkasya tadīyasyeha

gaṇanāvasaraḥ. See Bhaṭṭa, Nyāyamañjarī Part I, trans. Bhattacharya, p. 4.

The English version I have cited in the text is the translation by Bhattacharyya.
See Bhaṭṭa, Nyāyamañjarī, vol. 1, trans. Bhattacharya, p. 5. V.N. Jha breaks up
the sentence in translation but his rendition is more literal: ‘the followers of
Cāravāka-system are pitiable indeed and therefore, they are surely worthy of
being discarded (from consideration). Thus, where is the scope to count here
their bad logic?’ See Bhaṭṭa, Nyāyamañjarī (Āhnika-I), trans. Jha, p. 6.
 Political Ethics or the Art of Being a Man 171

a muni or sage. Where did the sage’s knowledge come from? We

saw that Raja Pārāvara stopped him from drawing upon the truths of
Kṛtayuga, Tretāyuga, or Dvāpariyuga. Was not the truth of Kaliyuga
different from that of the earlier yugas: ‘na vā satyaṃ’? Nor did the
sage claim to base his ideas in Śaiva, Vaiṣṇava, Buddhist, or any other
sectarian philosophy. Just in case the reader/listener failed to notice
the non-sectarian and ‘historical’ basis of the sage’s pronouncements,
the author reasserted the fact through a conversation between Sage
Subuddhi and Raja Pārāvara at the beginning of the fourth section.103
Here, Sage Subuddhi, having finished his exposition on different
types of valour, intelligence, and learning, prepared to elaborate on
the fruits of puruṣārtha. The Raja expressed his doubts. There were,
said the Raja, Buddhists, and there were the followers of the Vedas,
and there were others too. All of them get into verbal disputations,
and it was natural for them to try and disprove each other. What
should a mere mortal do? Even the intelligent might find it difficult to
steady their faith in any one of these traditions. Subuddhi’s response
was two-fold. First, he said that in whatever family and tradition the
Almighty caused you to be born, you should follow that tradition. Was
there not only one God? And if there was any discrepancy in your
conduct even after that, then only God was responsible!
Second, in what might appear to be a volte-face, however, the sage
was quick to add that in reality the most enlightened path was the one
shown by the Vedas. How did he justify this? Is it possible to resolve
the contradiction in his assertions? Was the sage simply following his
own dharma by preaching the faith of his own ancestors?
The path of the Vedas, Subuddhi went on to explain, was the
best because of three reasons: (a) intelligent and logically minded
people had traversed this path (yena gacchati dhīmantas tarkanisṇāta
buddhayaḥ); (b) there was evidence that the predictions of astrologi-
cal, astronomical, and other such sciences were true; and (c) a close
linguistic examination yielded visible results (anvaya-vyatirekābhyāṃ
sadyo dṛiṣṭa phalodayam), and its meaning, message, and sentence

103 This section claims to deal with the fruits of puruṣārtha since the char-
acteristics of puruṣārtha were already described and illustrated in the first
three sections.
172 a political history of literature

(artha-saṃvādi-vākyam) all prove to be of practical value.104 Thus, con-

cluded Sage Subuddhi, ‘the path proper (dharma samīcīna) ... [was the
one] ... informed by the Vedas (vedabodhita)’.
No reference, one notes, was made (unlike in the story cited earlier
about the repentant one) to the Vedas being the revealed word of God
or any other claim from the realm of faith. Actual physical corrobo-
ration, practical aspects derived through linguistic analysis, and the
example set by ‘logically thinking men’ were the three reasons cited
for the supreme authority of the Vedas. Again, it would appear that
our author was keenly aware of the raging debates about the author-
ity of the Vedas among Indic philosophers in Sanskrit, a debate that
seems to have peaked around the ninth–tenth centuries. Explicating
the sūtras (literally, a thread; also refers to a formula/equation or a
cryptic expression succinctly carrying an instruction or the key to
an idea) of Gautama, for example, Jayanta Bhaṭṭa’s Nyāyamañjarī
emphasized precisely these aspects to validate Vedic knowledge in
response to imagined objections, presumably from the Buddhists
and Cārvākas. Even a cursory look at the section on the ‘definition
of pramāṇa’ (pramāṇalakṣaṇam: literally the traits/symptoms of
pramāṇa) is enough to demonstrate how central linguistic analysis
was to the whole question of the authority of the Vedas.105 Indeed
this is true probably of almost all the ‘schools’ of philosophy under
question with the possible exception of the Cāravākas. Equally
ubiquitous were claims that Vedic lore could be empirically veri-
fied. The ‘words (śabdaḥ) couched in logic (tarka)’ too, appears to be
a throwback to the Nyāyikas as the word ‘nyāya’ itself could be held
(as it was held by Bhaṭṭa) to mean logic.
Coming back to the story, what about the differences amongst the
followers of the Vedas themselves? Here, the sage was more cryp-
tic as he merely pointed out that the difference is only in the name

104 Puruṣaparīkṣā, pp. 162–4. Alternatively, the phrase may be translated

as follows: ‘its utterances (saṃvādi-vākyam) accord with the goals (artha)’.
105 Bhaṭṭa, Nyāyamañjarī, Part I, ed. Shukla, pp. 12–14. To get a sense of

how contentious these debates around pramāṇa (instrument of true knowl-

edge) were, see Kataoka, ‘The Mīmāṃsā Definition of Pramāṇa’; Kataoka,
‘What Really Protects the Vedas?’; Hegde, ‘The Nature and Number of
Pramāṇas’; and Kastura, ‘Dharmakīrti’s Theory of Truth’.
 Political Ethics or the Art of Being a Man 173

(nāmnaiva bhinna mahaḥ). For, the sages had already determined

by logic that there was only one God in this world (nirṇīta munibhiḥ
satarka matibhiśced viśvam ekeśvaraṃ).106
Can we say, then, that our author anchored the authority of the
sage in the Vedas and in logic, fully cognizant of the fact that the
Vedas did not merely denote the four famous tomes, but were short-
hand for a whole variety of literature of ancient times? Were the Vedas
supreme only because their knowledge could yield tangible and desir-
able results? Let me briefly get into another story, probably the most
complex story of Puruṣaparīkṣā:

[Once upon a time] there lived Raja Vikramāditya in the city of Ujjayinī.
One day, a certain Brāhmaṇa came to the gates [of his palace]. The
Brāhmaṇa said:

Never should a Raja give up the holy task of providing for his subjects,
More so if the subject is a miserable Brāhmaṇa suffering from
an ailment.

Hence, ‘His Highness must protect me, a miserable and ailing

Brāhmaṇa.’ The Raja’s heart was filled with pity upon seeing the Brāhmaṇa
in that condition. Curious as to what will happen to the Brāhmaṇa, the
Raja said to Varāha, an expert in astrology, ‘O, Varāha! Will the Brāhmaṇa
survive?’ Varāha said, ‘He will be cured without having to take liquor
(madyapāna). He will live for the duration of a man’s age [that is, for a
hundred years].’ On hearing this, the Raja thought, ‘Being learned in
śastras, how could he say such a thing? How can he rule out something
that has not even been mentioned? Where is the context for the Brāhmaṇa
drinking liquor? Alright, let’s see.’
The Raja called for a vaidya [doctor] by the name of Hariścandra
and asked, ‘What is his ailment and what is the cure for it?’ The vaidya
said, ‘It is the brahmakīṭa107 and there is no antidote for it.’ The Raja said,

106 Another composition of Vidyapati entitled Vibhāgasāra also has an

interesting conversation, at the very beginning of the text, between Śiva and
Viṣṇu over the possession of Ganga. The message of that short conversation
is also similar to the one put in the mouth of Subuddhi in Puruṣaparīkṣā. See
Vidyapati, Vibhāgasāra, p. 39.
107 This is a compound word, brahma+kīṭa. Kīṭa simply referred to an

insect or a worm. Brahma, when used as a prefix before a noun, carried the
174 a political history of literature

‘The Almighty would not provide medicine for a disease? That is just
not possible.’ The vaidya said, ‘The brahmakīṭa gnaws at the flesh in
his head and that is why he is going crazy with pain. The brahmakīṭa
does not burn in fire; iron cannot cut it; water cannot dissolve it; it is
killed only by alcohol. Hence, alcohol is the medicine for it!’ The Raja
touched his ears and said, ‘Fie! Do not utter another word—such a sin.
You will offer alcohol to a Brāhmaṇa?’
‘Without that he will not survive’, said the vaidya, ‘that is certain.’
The Raja was most committed to dharma and keen to alleviate
others’ pain: he called for Ācārya Śabarasvāmī,108 learned in the
dharmaśāstras, and asked, ‘What is permitted [under the circum-
stances]?’ The ācārya said, ‘If the disease cannot be cured by any
other means [and] if the vaidya is absolutely sure about it, then the
Brāhmaṇa will not fall from grace upon drinking alcohol.’ The vaidya
said, ‘If he is cured by any means other than taking alcohol, then
the sin will be mine!’ Having understood that both were convinced
about their own knowledge of their śāstras, the Raja instructed the
brāhmaṇa to drink alcohol. As alcohol was brought in, a voice from
the sky proclaimed, ‘O, Śabara! Don’t you dare!’ Śabarasvāmī insisted,
‘O, Brāhmaṇa! Go ahead and take the drink. The god of the speech
is expert merely in the sum of letters, phrases, and sentences. Where
is His understanding of dharma’s rulings?’ Later on, flowers were
showered on Śabarasvāmī’s head.
Overwhelmed, the Raja and the courtiers put their trust in
Śabarasvāmī and gave alcohol to the Brāhmaṇa. All his life, the
Brāhmaṇa had never tasted alcohol. As a result, the brahmakīṭa fell to
the ground by the sheer smell of the substance (the Brāhmaṇa did not
have to even take a sip). To test the veracity of the vaidya’s assertion,
the Raja threw the brahmakīṭa into fire. Yet, the worm did not burn
in fire, nor did it dissolve in water, nor could it be cut with iron. But it
dissolved in a drop of alcohol. Seeing this, everyone was amazed.109

sense of being divinely blessed to be immortal, indestructible, accurate, per-

fect, or infallible. Thus, a brahmakīṭa would probably denote a worm that was
indestructible/immortal/incurable.
108 The context suggests that this is the same Śabarasvāmī who famously

wrote a commentary on Pūrvamīmaṃsāsūtra, entitled Mīmāṃsā-śabara-bhāṣya.

See Kataoka, ‘The Mīmāṃsā Definition of Pramāṇa’, pp. 90–1. Also see Pollock,
‘The Languages of Science in Early Modern India’, p. 36 and endnote no. 52.
109 ‘Śastra vidya kathā’, Puruṣaparīkṣā, pp. 104–8.
 Political Ethics or the Art of Being a Man 175

It is pertinent to note that this story is an illustration of the

Śastravidya (that is, one learned in the śastras) and not of the
Vedavidya (that is, one learned in the Vedas), for which there is a sepa-
rate story. Yet, as we saw earlier, the author cited the tangible truths of
astronomy, astrology, and so on, as proof of the veracity of the Vedas.
Nor should we miss the momentary clash between the gods in the
skies and the apparently logical and practical wisdom of the learned
man, Śabarasvamī, which was resolved in favour of the latter. The
truth of the śāstras and the Vedas, in the epistemological world of
Vidyapati had to be demonstrated empirically, if need be, even in the
face of the gods. Both logic as well as empirical veracity, then, are
deployed by the author to prove the truth of his homilies. To be sure,
he also invoked the authority of the Vedas, but only after reassuring
the readers/listeners that the Vedavākya was in line with the thoughts
of logically thinking men as well as empirical evidence.
Yet there was another source of authority tapped by Sage Subuddhi
and the author Vidyapati Ṭhakkura to buttress their arguments. This
was the authority of ‘history’ or more appropriately, itihāsa. The choice
of the genre of ‘udāharaṇa kathā’ could not have been incidental. As
noted above, udāharaṇa (literally, example/instance) was known in
Sanskrit literature since ancient times.
That Sage Subuddhi claimed to have learnt his lessons from an
examination of the past went well with the genre of udāharaṇa kathā
in which he was himself a character. We have already seen that the les-
sons in nīti/naya were illustrated through and authorized by ‘stories’
taken from ‘this-worldly’ time. This recourse to history by Vidyapati
should not be lost on us. In one of his uncharacteristically nebulous
formulations, for example, Pollock made the following claim back in
1989: ‘History, one might thus conclude, is not simply absent from or
unknown to Sanskritic India; rather it is denied in favor of a model
of “truth” that accorded history no epistemological value or social
significance’.110
As noted earlier in the chapter, many of the precepts of
Puruṣaparīkṣā reflected directly upon the debates between the nyāya,

110 Pollock, ‘Mīmāṃsā and the Problem of History in Traditional India’,

p. 610.
176 a political history of literature

mīmāṃsā, and sāṅkhya schools of Vedic philosophy on the one hand,

and the Buddhists and Cāravākas on the other. These long-debated
and respected ideals, now woven into a discourse on nīti, carried
with them some of their own ‘authority’. After all, as Jayanta Bhaṭṭa
pointed out, narratives of bygone times (itihāsapurāṇas) should be
one way of supporting the Vedic lore.111
A literary device that helped Vidyapati accomplish this was the
tradition of ‘subhāṣita’ in Sanskrit literature. In fact, the whole text
of Puruṣaparīkṣā, and occasionally even Likhanāvalī, is liberally
sprinkled with independent couplets of (un)identifiable origin. These
were drawn from the free-floating reserve of an ever-growing śloka
tradition, called subhāṣita, literally, ‘well said’, a ‘witty saying’, or an
aphorism. As such subhāṣita belonged both to the folk as well as to
the classical tradition, and very often, to a classical rendering of folk
traditions. As Daud Ali pointed out, ‘[g]iven the close imbrication
of the written and oral dimensions of the subhāṣita world, we may
plausibly suggest that the anthology [of subhāṣita] functioned as an
instrument of fixity which actually helped sustain rather than ossify
the continued renewal, transmission, and circulation of this open-
ended knowledge’.112 They represented no particular ideology as
such, and somewhat like Hindi film songs, one could find just about
any idea expressed in them. Indeed, one could even compose a cus-
tomized couplet oneself and simply represent it as part of subhāṣita.
As such subhāṣita represented not a defined set of ideas, but an
open ended, ever growing literary genre: any beautifully crafted
Sanskrit couplet was a subhāṣita. Ali’s understanding of subhāṣita as
an ‘artefact of ethical life’, however, is a little different from mine.
Subhāṣitas, according to him, ‘formed a communicative idiom rather
than simply a legitimatory discourse’, thus underlining ‘a deeply
dialogical aspect of ethical practice’.113 Yet the very fact, one may
argue, that characters in a tale often sought refuge in subhāṣitas for

111 Itihāsapurāṇābhyāṃ vedaṃ samupabṛhṃyet. See Bhaṭṭa, Nyāyamañjarī,

Part I, ed. Shukla p. 3.
112 Ali, ‘The Subhāṣita as an Artefact of Ethical Life’, p. 32. I am indebted

to Whitney Cox for this reference.

113 Ali, ‘The Subhāṣita as an Artefact of Ethical Life’, p. 34.
 Political Ethics or the Art of Being a Man 177

justifying their actions meant that these were also intended as floating
touchstones for contingent truthlets. That such truth claims could be
countered with other subhāṣitas did not mean that they had no legiti-
matory role; rather, it meant that their authority was not absolute and
they could be challenged in what Ali calls ‘a deeply dialogical’ context.

***

The conversational and dialogical framing of Puruṣaparīkṣā (bol-

stered by clever deployment of subhāṣitas) gave this text on nīti a
wider reach and accessibility. This was very much in keeping with
a general tendency towards a more dynamic and expansive literary
culture in the fifteenth century. Paradoxically, it was also accompanied
in Puruṣaparīkṣā, as the discussion above suggested, by parallel strate-
gies of exclusion where women and ‘lower’ castes were concerned.
Five important points emerged through the chapter. First of all, in
order to develop a historical–critical understanding of Vidyapati, we
need to rescue him from the tyranny of labels—Śaiva, Vaiṣṇava, or
Śākta—as well as from the confines of ‘regional’ history that has so
‘naturally’ embraced the fifteenth century. The varied literary tradi-
tions of Sanskrit, among other things, helped Vidyapati set aside his
own Śaiva/Śakta predilections and claim that his ideas about puruṣa
and nīti were not anchored in any sectarian ideology. In matters of
‘secular’ law and public morality, there was a higher truth beyond
the sectarian quibbles of Śaivism, Vaiṣṇavism, Buddhism, and so
on.114 His protagonists could receive their share of divine grace from
Śiva, Narāyaṇa, Buddha, or Khoda—these details did not matter so
long as the secular power was duly constituted through all estab-
lished procedures, and was committed to protecting the subjects
(prajāḥparipālayan) as well as (Vidyapati’s notion of) the normative
social order. In any case, the learned courtier was writing in the
‘secular’ tradition of the nīti texts as against the other, equally vibrant,
tradition of dharmaśāstras, but I will come back to that a little later.

114 If Buddhism continued to be a point of reference (long after its

decline) in the early-fifteenth century, it suggests that Vidyapati was probably
participating in a long tradition of dialogues between various philosophical/
sectarian systems.
178 a political history of literature

The futility of tags such as ‘local/sub-regional’ for a courtier–

scholar writing in Sanskrit in the middle of the ‘vernacular
millennium’, however, may not be immediately obvious. Yigal
Bronner and David Shulman in their study make a clear distinc-
tion between ‘regional Sanskrit poetry’ and ‘erudite and theoretical
Sanskrit compositions’ of the second millennium. They identify
a regional composition as one that (a) aims at a local audience,
(b) shows evidence of local linguistic materials, and (c) is primarily
concerned with issues or themes rooted in the culture, society, and
history of specific places.115 Put to this litmus test, where would
the two texts examined above figure? Puruṣaparīkṣā is neither poetry
nor erudite and theoretical. There are too few intra-textual signs to
suggest that it was aimed at a local audience, either in terms of the
thematic or the manner of articulation. It is true that occasionally,
the author did use certain local vernacular words, but these did not
interfere with the overwhelmingly non-local Sanskrit flavour of his
compositions.
Notwithstanding his attachment to the subordinate local prin-
cipality of Tirhut, Vidyapati invoked ideas that looked beyond his
immediate geographical confines. In fact, all of Vidyapati’s Sanskrit
compositions, and probably even the Apabhraṃśa texts as we shall
see in the next chapter, speak from, and speak to, a larger trans-local
sphere defined by the boundaries of a cosmopolitan Sanskrit literary
heritage. It is pertinent to recall here that Puruṣaparīkṣā itself was an
expanded and slightly reworked version of the much shorter text that
the author had evocatively titled Bhūparikramaṇa. A list of the places
where the stories of Puruṣaparīkṣā were set makes for impressive read-
ing, and testifies to the (literally) expansive horizon of the scholar.116
As a character in one of his stories remarked, seeing different places
(deśānagatvā) was crucial for cultivating a tender (komaladhiyā), and
probably higher sensibility.117

115 Bronner and Shulman, ‘“A Cloud Turned Goose”’.

116 These include, apart from Mithila/Tirhut, Candrātapā, Ujjayinī,
Yoginīpura, Raṇastambha, Kānyakubja, Kāśī, Kamboja, Dvārakā, Gauda,
Devagirī, Viśālā, Yuthikāpura, Kauśambī, Dhārā, Avantī, Vijayapura
(Vijayanagar?), and so on.
117 Puruṣaparīkṣā, p. 76.
 Political Ethics or the Art of Being a Man 179

Second, if we look beyond the binary of a universalistic or a

local Sanskrit, a more interesting aspect emerges that concerns the
presence of Persian—the ‘other’ equally vibrant literary culture of
the period. Occasionally Vidyapati would very imaginatively deploy
Perso-Arabic words such as kāphara118 in Puruṣaparīkṣā to refer to
political rivals. As discussed in the last chapter, as well as earlier in
this chapter, in the imagined norm of Vidyapati’s writing manual,
both the Nārāyaṇa-like Raja as well as the recipient of Khoda’s grace,
Suratrāṇasāha, could be invoked to mark the purchase of slaves. The
very fact that he chose to write on the art of writing, might in fact be
a valuable piece of ‘evidence’. As we have already seen in Chapter 3 in
this volume, it is very likely that in composing Likhanāvalī, Vidyapati
was actually drawing upon the Persian genre of insha texts.119
Third, as we saw, Vidyapati articulated his political ideals through
a discourse on puruṣa or rather how to be (or identify) one. He drew
legitimacy for his ideas rather eclectically from the established trad-
ition of the wisdom of a sage, the authority of the Vedas verified with
the power of logic, even the perspicacity of a wandering Buddhist
monk. Above all, he yoked his teachings to an examination of a past
that was, at least conceptually, not very distant from his present.
Recreating a world populated by competing kingdoms, sultans, and
rajas, he grounded his stories in contemporary flavour, and appealed
to his readers’ historical common sense more than anything else.
Clearly, much more was happening in the fifteenth century than
what a narrow focus on regional history, or for that matter, a unitary
Sanskrit cosmopolis—dead or living—would allow the historians to
account for.
However, gestures towards Persian, history, and common sense,
I would argue, should not obscure the fact that there were serious lim-
its to the apparent universalism of Vidyapati’s ideas. And this brings
me to the fourth point. Puruṣaparīkṣā was an atypical text on nīti in
the form of an udāharaṇa kathā. One may point out that because it
laid down its nīti through ‘real life stories’, it also exposed the extent

118 Persian: kafir or non-Muslim. It was against a host of such kafir

rajas that the exemplary protagonist of the satyavīra kathā fought. See
Puruṣaparīkṣā, pp. 28–32.
119 For a detailed discussion of this aspect, see Chapter 3 in this volume.
180 a political history of literature

to which nīti was undergirded by dharma precepts in the lived world,

as against the neater division of textual traditions. Interestingly, even
Caṇḍeśvara’s Rājanītiratnākara, a fourteenth-century digest on politics
from the same region, referred thirty-six times to Manu and eleven
times to Nārada, while only once citing from Arthaśastra and twice
from Kāmaṇḍaka, the latter two being among the few conventional
nīti texts cited.120 Let us recall that unlike typical texts on nīti such as
those from medieval South India or ancient India, Puruṣaparīkṣā did
deal in some detail, not just with artha and kāma but also with the
other two fruits of puruṣārtha, namely, dharma and mokṣa. Once we
understand this, it becomes possible for us to account for the fact that
our author managed to explicitly lay out dharmaśāstric precepts about
distinct (and discriminatory) gender and caste roles, and weave them
together with his ideas about politics and statecraft. If we posit politi-
cal power in the broader (both modern and postmodern) sense, then
it is easy to see how dharma-sanctioned gender and varṇa categories
themselves become a source of authority.
Since the overarching epistemological structure of both
Puruṣaparīkṣā and Likhanāvalī is marked by primarily this-worldly/
laukika concerns, and since it took many of its ‘social’ precepts for
granted, Vidyapati could treat gender, varṇa, and state as part of a
continuum, a singular domain of socio-political order. The fact that a
ritual hierarchy presumed to be axiomatic underpinned the discourse
on puruṣa and nīti indicates that in the lived world of the fifteenth
century, the discriminatory regimes of gender, varṇa, and politics
could be expressed and probably experienced as commonsensical
knowledge derived from an examination of a this-worldly past.
At the historiographical edge of this discussion, let me offer brief
comments on two interesting issues. In a well-argued piece in 2009,
Velcheru Narayana Rao and Sanjay Subrahmanyam tried to dispel
doubts about the existence in India of works on political theory (other
than those in the ancient ‘classical’ period) in the precolonial era, by
noting the existence of a varied body of Telugu materials between
the fourteenth and the late-eighteenth centuries.121 To begin with,

120 See Jayaswal, ‘Introduction’, Rājanīti-ratnākara, p. 37.

121 See Rao and Subrahmanyam, ‘Notes on Political Thought’.
 Political Ethics or the Art of Being a Man 181

I would like to add at least two more works from North India to the
Rao–Subrahmanyam list: Vidyapati’s Puruṣaparīkṣā and Caṇḍeśvara’s
Rājanītiratnākara, from the fifteenth and the fourteenth centuries,
respectively. However, my reading of Vidyapati also inflects the
argument of Rao and Subrahmanyam when they point to a clear
conceptual separation of nīti and dharma in the minds of the Telugu
writers as they theorized on politics during the fourteenth through
the seventeenth century. To be sure, Vidyapati also operates with the
‘conceptual’ distinction between nīti and dharma. Yet, as I have tried
to show, such textual distinctions notwithstanding, the ideals of poli-
tics in medieval Tirhut were heavily underwritten by ideas that one
might usually associate with dharmic traditions, not just in the sense
of ‘ethical duty’ and legal injunctions but also in the more contempo-
rary and anachronistic sense of the ‘religious’. That is why, in spite of
all measures of discrimination, Vidyapati’s text on nīti could claim to
be universalistic in its reach through a complex discourse in which it
was possible ‘legitimately’ to chant ‘kule kutrāpi jāyate’, and still stick
to a strict ritual regime.
More substantively, my explorations complicate the contrast that
Pollock raised between this-worldly and other-worldly knowledge in
the context of ‘the languages of science in India’. Pollock observed:
‘[T]he vehicle of organized, systematic laukika, or this-worldly, knowl-
edge before colonialism was Sanskrit, while the regional languages, at
least in their incarnation as literary idioms, were in the first instance
the voice of alaukika, or other-worldly wisdom (a situation closely
paralleled by Latin and the European vernaculars).’122
On the face of it, there is little to contest in this formulation. The
words laukika and alaukika are integral to Sanskrit literary traditions,
and have not been invented by Pollock. These words also help escape
the anachronistic parallel of religious–secular, though a modern
reader is likely to understand laukika as ‘secular’ and alaukika as
‘religious’ unless the differences are clearly laid out by the author.
It would be even more problematic, both historically as well as
politically, to curtail this discussion without remarking on the almost
organic interdependence of the two. And let me strike another note

122 Pollock, ‘The Languages of Science in Early Modern India’, p. 25.

182 a political history of literature

of caution about falling back on the worn-out construct of ‘legitima-

tion of secular power by religious authorities’.123 As I have tried to
demonstrate in this chapter, at least in the context of Vidyapati and
the world of fifteenth-century Sanskrit knowledge he articulated,
the two apparently distinct categories of laukika and alaukika were
formulated within a singular epistemology in which artha and kāma
were posited together alongside dharma and mokṣa within the ritu-
ally hierarchized and gendered notion of puruṣārtha.
Finally, as argued in Chapter 2 in this volume, if knowledge for-
mations constituted the wider field within which the ideas of what
passed for legitimate authority were cultivated, it is crucial to map
the grids of these dynamic formations. Texts on philosophy and
dharmaśāstras might have formed a pool of prescriptives, but it was
popular genres like stories that mediated these prescriptives in acces-
sible and durable, if somewhat open-ended, ways to people at large. It
is to be noted that stories circulated continuously through the middle
ages within and across languages. It is no coincidence that most
collections of stories after the ninth–tenth centuries often tended to
recycle already known stories, many of which were compiled in ear-
lier collections like Pañcatantra, Hitopadeśa, and Bṛihatkathā. Some
of the stories in Puruṣaparīkṣā too, might be traced to certain other
collections of stories.124 Unlike abstruse treatises or law books, stories
had a vibrant life in oral cultures. If the former set out the do’s and
don’t’s in neat and conceptualized ways, the latter preached in the

123 For my take on the problems in the way the issue of ‘legitimation of
authority’ is typically dealt with in modern historiography of pre-modern
times, see Chapter 2 in this volume.
124 Apart from the obvious examples of the Cāṇakya and Viśākhadatta sto-

ries of Puruṣaparīkṣā, some of the Vikramāditya and Bhoja stories too, were
recycled from earlier compilations. Thus, for example, the story about Raja
Vikramāditya throwing himself into fire every night to ensure that one of his
rival kings’ treasuries are full, can be found in an earlier and more elaborate
version in Bilahaṇa’s Vikramāṅkadevacaritam. See Puruṣaparīkṣā, pp. 6–14;
Bilahaṇa, Vikramāṅkadevacaritam, pp. 177–84. What is significant, however,
is that in the Maithil Brāhmaṇa’s text, the story serves not so much to glorify
its protagonist as to illustrate the best example of generosity as a trait of the
ideal man.
 Political Ethics or the Art of Being a Man 183

name of entertainment. The authors of kathās and prabandhas, it can-

not be a mere coincidence, always claimed to entertain. The objective
of propagating a set of ideals went hand in hand with entertainment
as we saw in the case of both Prabandhacintāmaṇi and Puruṣaparīkṣā.
It was precisely for this reason that these must have been more effec-
tive as a means to orient political imagination in specific ways.
Earlier in the chapter, it was noted how it would have been difficult
to imagine a text like Puruṣaparīkṣā being composed in an earlier era.
One may add that in its political salience, the Test of a Man could
transcend its immediate environs and age. We know that it continued
to be useful even to the British in the nineteenth century in a very
different context. So, we may well ask: wouldn’t texts like these have
played some role, in terms of preparing the ‘subjects’, a prajā, for state
builders in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries too?
An interesting point that came out of the brief comparison of
Prabandhacintāmaṇi and Puruṣaparīkṣā was that the latter too took
up popular ‘legendarized’ historical protagonists like Bhoja and
Vikramaditya, alongside more recent characters, to weave in its tales.
Yet, compared to his early-fourteenth-century counterpart, Vidyapati,
more than a hundred years later, was far more focussed on divesting
his stories of all excrescences that did not fit into his didactic scheme.
Indeed, the overarching narrative structure used by Vidyapati was
always about delineating the ideal man in sharp relief. A few years
before he wrote Puruṣaparīkṣā, however, he also composed another
text that told the story of an ideal man. This text did not have the same
theoretical rigour in defining the characteristics of the ideal male
protagonist, but it engaged far more directly with the contemporary
world of realpolitik, and revolved around only one protagonist (may
be two, depending on how one looks at it). The text was Kīrttilatā, and
the protagonist was the poet’s then patron Kīrttisiṃha. It is this text
that I take up for extended consideration in the next chapter.
5 Entangled Vines of Glory
Kīrttilatā and Its Many Worlds

The unification of vernacular language not only partakes of the logic of

the unification of a new type of political space but is historically co-present
with it.
—Sheldon Pollock1

I am familiar with the occupational hazard of historians, namely that a

historian preparing herself to write, say, about the eighteenth century ends
up writing mostly about the seventeenth century because it comes to seem so
fundamental to the question at issue.
—James C. Scott2

1 Pollock, ‘India in the Vernacular Millennium’, p. 58.

2 Scott, ‘Preface’, in The Art of Not Being Governed, pp. xi–xii.

A Political History of Literature: Vidyapati and the Fifteenth Century. Pankaj Jha,
Oxford University Press (2019). © Pankaj Jha.
DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780199489558.003.0005
 Entangled Vines of Glory 185

T
his chapter focusses primarily on Vidyapati’s only major extant
Apabhraṃśa/Avahaṭṭha work, namely, Kīrttilatā, and seeks to
map out its many worlds.3 It is divided into seven sections.
The first three sections are focussed on the organization of the text,
its language, and its genre. These sections attempt to locate the lan-
guage and the genre of Kīrttilatā within a long history of Apabhraṃśa
vis-à-vis Sanskrit, Persian, and other ‘literary languages’. All of these
traditions were dynamic and complex, thus making it imperative to
place their fluid histories within their specific place–time–character
co-ordinates. In the process, these sections help to complicate the
story of ‘vernacularization’ in the second millennium. A focus
on the historical development of ākhyāyikā as a separate genre, in
Sanskrit and in other languages on the other hand, helps to throw the
uniqueness of Kīrttilatā in bolder relief.
The next three sections are more engaged with the ‘contents’ of the
text. Each of these three sections analyse the three different ‘worlds’
illuminated by the text: that of the local domain of Mithila; that of
the city as a cosmopolitan space where conventional boundaries
of propriety appear to break down; and that of the ‘imperial’ court
(and might) of the Sharqi state that ostensibly patronized an ethical
(‘dhārmic’) order. In the light of the literary and historical analysis of
the preceding sections, the last section, ‘Literature and Politics’, tries
to work out a more nuanced understanding of the fifteenth century
literary-political and knowledge formations in Mithila.
In the entire oeuvre of Vidyapati, Kīrttilatā is probably one of
the better circulated, and definitely the best preserved text. Not
surprisingly, scholars of the medieval Hindi language, and of Hindi
literature in general, have written extensively about it, publishing
several critical editions, translating it into Hindi and Maithili, inves-
tigating its language and subject matter, and generally remarking

3 Vidyapati also reportedly wrote another text in Avahaṭṭha, namely,

Kīrttipatākā. However, the extant manuscripts of this text are severely dam-
aged, and questions have also been raised about whether it was composed
by Vidyapati himself or is wrongly attributed to him. It may be pertinent to
note here that one of the two plays by the author, namely, Gorakṣavijaya, is a
bilingual text with a large part of it in Avahaṭṭha and Maithili. See Vidyapati,
Gorakṣavijaya.
186 a political history of literature

on its ‘greatness’. It was Haraprasad Sastri who first ‘discovered’

a manuscript of the work in the Durbar Library of Kathmandu in
Nepal in 1898. Several manuscripts have since been found. As the
‘Foreword’ in one of the critical editions reports, they are preserved
in the British Museum, London; Nagari Pracharini Sabha, Kashi;
Jayaswal Research Institute, Patna; Patna College Library, Patna;
Sanskrit Vishvavidyalay, Darbhanga; Ganganath Jha Research
Institute, Prayag; Bhaudaji Collection of the Asiatic Society, Mumbai;
and Anup Sanskrit Library, Bikaner.4 Some of these manuscripts are
exact replicas of each other and appear to have been copied at unspeci-
fied dates from another one in this group. Find-spots of some of these
are known, while for others, they might be guessed with a fair amount
of certitude. The one in the Durbar Library of Kathmandu, belongs to
the same cultural zone as that inhabited by Vidyapati, and it might be
safe to assume that this copy was prepared in the same region. The
one in the possession of the Nagari Pracharani Sabha was found in
the village of Asanī, Fatehpur district, in the undivided state of Uttar
Pradesh. The copy that is preserved in the Anup Library, Bikaner,
also has a Sanskrit chāyā (translation in Sanskrit), and mentions that
it was prepared for Sūra Bhaṭṭa, younger brother of Gopāla Bhaṭṭa.
This is also the oldest of the dated manuscripts with the year 1672 of
Vikram Saṃvat (1615 ce) given, not in figures but in coded words,
following an established Sanskrit convention.5 This manuscript
is also the most complete one. The script of all the manuscripts is
Devanāgarī. Of all the critical editions published so far, the one anno-
tated by Virendra Shrivastav and published by the Bihar Rāṣṭra Bhāṣā
Pariṣad appears to be the most carefully edited with variable readings
in the different manuscripts noted in the footnotes. This is the one
that I have followed and all citations of Kīrttilatā in this chapter refer
to this edition.
Kīrttilatā also happens to be the only text of Vidyapati that
occasionally caught at least the fleeting attention of some of the
major scholars writing in English, from Jagdeesh Narayan Sarkar

4 Varma, ‘Prākkathana’, in Vidyapati, Kīrttilatā, ed. Shrivastav (henceforth

Kīrttilatā), p. ga.
5 Shrivastav, ‘Prastāvanā’, in Kīrttilatā, p. 3.
 Entangled Vines of Glory 187

to R.S. McGregor, David Lorenzen, and Francesca Orsini. There

are three different sets of plausible reasons for this: (a) it is one
of the few ‘vernacular’ medieval texts that explicitly reflects on the
choice of its language; (b) it provides one of the most detailed and
specific descriptions of a cityscape, its residential quarters, and
market place, as well as its palace complex; and (c) those research-
ing the emergence of religious/ethnic/sectarian identities and/or
conflict in premodern times find in it one of the earliest examples
of a Brāhmaṇic/Hindu author apparently drawing a neat contrast
between the ‘Hindu’ self and the Turk (read Muslim) other.
Yet there is more to Kīrttilatā than these issues. In the course of
my discussion, I will engage with these and other themes. However,
for a textually grounded understanding of the relevant historical
issues, it would be useful to start by exploring the structural, lin-
guistic, and generic traits as well as constraints that may have bound
Kīrttilatā as a text.

The Text
Following a long-established tradition, the first few verses of saluta-
tion and dedication in the text are in Sanskrit even though the rest
of it is almost entirely in Apabhraṃśa. These early verses beautifully
set the tone of the text and the expectations of the listener/reader.
The opening verse of salutation is somewhat unusual as it draws
a sketch of a conversation between the child Gaṇeśa and Lord Śiva,
his father:

‘O Father, give me that stem of the lotus in the Ganga on your head.’
‘O Son, this is not the stem of a lotus, it is the lord of the snakes.’
Upon this, [toddler] Gaṇeśa is crying and Śambhū smiles.
May Gauri’s amusement on seeing this protect all.
Moon, Sun, and Agni are [His] three sparkling eyes.
I pray at the lotus-feet of Śambhū who destroys the darkness of
ignorance.6

6 Kīrttilatā, ed. Shrivastav, p. 47. All translations are mine, unless

otherwise indicated.
188 a political history of literature

This is followed by a śloka dedicated to Sarasvatī, the goddess

of learning, who is hailed as ‘a means to all aspirations, the dancer
in the theatre of the tongue, the flame that lights up the elements,
the flowing joy-stream of sṛingāra, and so on, and the compan-
ion of glory till the end of time’.7 The next two verses refer to the
author’s patron, Kīrttisiṃha, and remark how, in Kaliyuga, literature
is found in every home, its listeners (śrotā) in every place, connois-
seurs (rasajñātā) in every country, yet patrons are difficult to find in
the world. What follows is a series of couplets in Apabhraṃśa, nine
to be precise, which reflect on the character, purpose, and language
of, as also expectation from, the text at hand. It would be best to let
the author speak for himself:

How will the vine of glory spread in the farmland of the three worlds?
If a high perch is not secured on top of the syllable-post?
That is why, somehow, with effort, I put together this composition8
The rogues, being rogues, will disparage it [but] good men will
appreciate [it]
The rogues revile and the good men appreciate, it is only fair
A poisonous snake must spit venom, good men spread amṛita only
Good people secretly wish to befriend every single person
Antagonism even by mistake [should be avoided], may the rogues
never be enemies
Rogues’ scorn does not affect either the toddler moon9 or Vidyapati’s
language10
One adorns God’s forehead, the other charms the aesthetes11
How do I raise awareness? Who must I apprise?
How to arouse interest among the dull?
If my language is appealing
Those who follow would consider it appreciatively
A black bee relishes the juice of flowers, an aesthete grasps the spirit
of literature
Good men do good unto others while the rogues are full of spite

7 Kīrttilatā, p. 47.
8 Kabba—Sanskrit, kāvya.
9 Bālacanda—Sanskrit, bālacandra.
10 Bhāsā—Sanskrit, bhāṣā.
11 Nā-ara—Sanskrit, nāgara (literally, city-bred).
 Entangled Vines of Glory 189

Sanskrit speech is dear to the intellect-driven12

No one grasps the essence in Prakrit
Desi speech13 is sweet to everyone
Hence I accordingly compose in Avahaṭṭha14

Going by the standard conventions followed by Indic authors

around this time, this is an unusually long explanation/apologia
for the text and its language by the author, indeed, for Vidyapati
himself; he was far less expansive in his other compositions. It
testifies to the author’s keen awareness of having embarked on a
somewhat unusual project, definitely with regard to its language,
and possibly having to do with its subject matter as well. We would
have occasion below to remark upon the anxiety expressed in these
lines by a Sanskrit scholar keen to reach out to ‘simple folks’ in a
language more accessible to them. We will come back to the matter
of the language in question, Avahaṭṭha, a little later. Let us first
take a brief look at the way Kīrttilatā is organized through a skeletal
outline of the narrative.

12 Buha-aṇa—Sanskrit, buddhajana.
13 Desila ba-anā—Sanskrit, deśīvāṇī.
14 My translation of these famous lines is close to the Maithili transla-

tion by Govind Jha. See Vidyapati, Kīrttilatā, ed. and trans. Jha, p. 5. But
it differs somewhat from that by McGregor who renders the couplet as
follows:

‘Sanskrit appeals to the learned but who does not grasp and relish
natural speech,
To everyone the speech of his region is sweet and so one should speak
in Avahaṭṭha’.

See McGregor, Hindi Literature, p. 30. The Hindi translations of these two
lines also vary confusingly. Shivprasad Singh’s translation in Hindi, translated
again into English, is closer to mine:

Sanskrit speech is dear only to the learned

Prākṛit lacks the essence of aesthetic flavours
Desi language is relished by everyone
That’s why I speak in the same Avahaṭṭha.

See Singh, Kīrttilatā aur Avahaṭṭha Bhāṣā, pp. 229–30.

190 a political history of literature

The work is divided into four sections (pallavas) of verses. The

narrative boundaries in each of the pallavas seem to be carefully
marked. The first pallava, after the usual salutations and the unusual
prefatory comments mentioned above, introduces a conversation
between a female and a male black bee (bhṛiṅgī), with the former ask-
ing the latter what is the ‘essence of the world’?15 The rest of the story
unfolds as a part of this conversation, and the male bee prepares the
ground for introducing the ‘great’ Kīrttisiṃha by declaring that the
essence of the world lay in being born a hero (vīra) and living a life of
honour (māna). The author’s patron, Kīrttisiṃha is then mentioned
as the man who was born a vīra, and who was living a life of māna.
The rest of the first pallava provides the ancestry of Kīrttisiṃha and
a summary praise of his achievements. The ‘action’ part of the story
starts with the second pallava as the male bee recounts how a certain
Arsalan killed Kīrttisiṃha’s father when the prince was a child, and
how after attaining youth, he set out on an arduous journey to seek
the reigning Sharqi Sultan’s help in avenging his father’s murder
and recovering the lost throne of Tirhut. This is the section with the
famous passages describing the city of Jaunpur as seen by Kīrttisiṃha
and his companions, including Vidyapati himself. The end of this
pallava sees Kīrttisiṃha and his companions at the doorsteps of the
grand Sharqi palace in Jaunpur.16
The third pallava starts with Kīrttisiṃha meeting Sultan Ibrahim
Shah and asking for help. The sultan appears sympathetic, but
news of disturbance in certain places comes, and the Sharqi army

15 The phrase ‘saṃsārahi sār’ might alternatively be rendered as the

‘essence of the cycle of life and death’.
16 Vidyapati refers to it as Joṇāpura, but there can be little doubt that

this is a reference to the capital city of Jaunpur. However, at least one

scholar, Indrakant Jha, has argued that the term Joṇāpura in Kīrttilatā is
actually a reference to Delhi. See Jha, Vidyapatikālīn Mithilā, pp. 14–17. Jha
pointed out, rightly, that Delhi often figured in medieval Sanskrit parlance
as Yoginīpura. However, his inference that Joṇāpura is an Apabhraṃśa
spin-off of Yoginīpura is not borne out by other pieces of evidence. The
most important of these is the direct reference in Kīrttilatā itself to the
ruler Ibrahim Shah of Jaunpur. The sultan at Delhi around this time was of
course, Nasiruddin Mohammad Tughluq.
 Entangled Vines of Glory 191

sets out on a mission towards the west rather than the east. At the
end of the third pallava, the Sharqi army comes back victorious, and
the Tirhut prince makes another representation to Ibrahim Shah.
At the beginning of the fourth pallava, the Sharqi army moves
eastward into Tirhut to challenge the ‘usurper’ Malik Arsalan. The
battle scenes are described in some detail with the prowess of the
protagonist Kīrttisiṃha being foregrounded. In the end, the Tirhut
prince defeats Arsalan in a one-to-one combat, and the latter flees
the battlefront. The Sharqi sultan performs the rājatilaka ceremony
for Kīrttisiṃha ‘with his own hands’, and everyone, presumably,
lives happily ever after.

Language
‘Kīrttilatā is an object of extreme significance from the perspective
of language’, wrote Shivprasad Singh in a study of the text. ‘None of
the compositions from the medieval period’, he noted, ‘managed to
preserve the elements of such an old and fast-developing language
[Avahaṭṭha] in such diverse forms’.17 It is not easy, however, to iden-
tify and locate the language of the narrative within the historians’
now (in)famous world of premodern vernacular and cosmopolitan
languages. Vidyapati called it Avahaṭṭha. But we have little scholarly
work, let alone an authoritative account, that can help us place this
language in the dauntingly large number of non-Sanskrit, non-
Persian dialects and languages that mark the literary world of the
middle and early-modern ages in North India: Rajasthani, Śaurasenī,
Apabhraṃśa, Awadhī, Braja, Hindavi/Hindui, Maithili, Bangla, and
a number of others in which literary works were either rare or not
composed as yet. In fact, a whole range of similar sounding words
were in currency to refer to languages that might or might not have
been a mere substitute word for Apabhraṃśa. This included, apart
from Avahaṭṭha, confusingly close terms like Avavbhaṃsa, Avahaṃsa,
Avahattha, Avavbaṃsa, and so on. It is not within the scope of this
chapter to dwell on the separate histories of each of these terms
and the languages they denoted, if at all.

17See ‘Preface to the First Edition’, in Singh, Kīrttilatā aur Avahaṭṭha

Bhāṣā, p. 5 (my translation from the Hindi text).
192 a political history of literature

It would be pertinent, however, to briefly dwell upon refer-

ences to ‘Avahaṭṭha’, the language in which Vidyapati claimed to
have composed Kīrttilatā. That Avahaṭṭha is etymologically related
to Apabhraṃśa cannot be denied. However, the precise nature
of Avahaṭṭha and its relationship with Apabhraṃśa has hardly
attracted any sustained attention. Scholarly opinion on Avahaṭṭha,
though varied, is mostly presumptive and not researched. Ronald
Stuart McGregor, in his authoritative work on the history of Hindi
literature, acknowledged the existence of ‘different Apabhraṃśa
traditions’, both in terms of its literary corpus as well as its lexical and
grammatical variations.18 Specifically on Vidyapati, he noted that a
‘significant feature of the language of Kīrttilatā is Vidyapati’s use of
Sanskrit loanwords in a way not usual in earlier Prakrit–Apabhraṃśa
poetry, but now established in passages of literary style’.19 Yet, he
had little to say about Avahaṭṭha in particular, and used the word
interchangeably with Apabhraṃśa. The more recent intensification
of interest in vernacular literary traditions, or vernacularization
for that matter, has not occasioned an analysis of Avahaṭṭha either.
Sheldon Pollock does not specifically say much about its identity, or
differences, with Apabhraṃśa.
The scholars’ lack of patience with the nuances of difference
between Apabhraṃśa and Avahaṭṭha is not incidental. One rea-
son for it is the fact that marking boundaries within a world of
extremely fluid, unstable, and overlapping lexical and grammatical
practices may not always be analytically fruitful. Even nearly two
centuries after Vidyapati, writing about a relatively more stable
language, namely, Brajabhāṣā, Bhikhāridās noted that the reason
why Brajabhāṣā might be called interesting was that its vocabulary
consisted of words taken from at least six different languages:
Sanskrit, Braj, Māgadhī, Nāgabhāṣā, spontaneous Persian, and
Yavan20 (languages with much older histories of written grammar
and composition, for example, Sanskrit or Persian, were of course
easier to identify and name).

18 McGregor, Hindi Literature, p. 11.

19 McGregor, Hindi Literature, p. 30.
20 Singh, Kīrttilatā aur Avahaṭṭha Bhāṣā, p. 20.
 Entangled Vines of Glory 193

For our purposes, it is still useful to see what language prac-

tice came to be known as Avahaṭṭha because it would help us
understand the literary–political significance of the choice of this
language for composing Kīrttilatā. One way to go about it is to map
the chronological and spatial co-ordinates of the usage of this word
by composers themselves. So far, I have been able to trace only three
such instances among extant texts including Kīrttilatā. At least one
instance also comes from a Sanskrit commentary by Vaṃśīdhar,
Prākṛit Paiṅgalam.
The first instance comes from Sandeśarāsaka, whose author,
Addahamāṇa (Abdul Rahman), identified himself as a ‘lotus of the
lineage in Prākṛit poetry, kulakamalo pāiyakavvesu’.21 Evidently
modelled on Kalidas’s famous Meghadūta, Saṅdeśarāsaka is a message-
poem, a sub-genre in Sanskrit. Its language is Avahaṭṭha, which is
listed by Addahamāṇa as one of the four languages (besides Sanskrit,
Prakrit, and Paiśācī) that ‘great poets adorned with ornaments of
grammar and metre’.22 An extremely interesting and astonishingly
under-researched text, the date and place of its composition are not
certain. The author claims to belong to a family from a ‘famous
Mleccha country in the west’ but it is not possible to identify the coun-
try. His plentiful references to gods like Rama and Brahmā, mythic
figures like Udayana and Airāvata, and indeed the texts, languages,
and genres of Indic traditions, are sufficient, however, to establish
him as an inhabitant of the subcontinent, irrespective of where his
ancestors came from. One of the two chief characters in the text is
described as a resident of Vijayanagar, Vijayanayarahu, while the
other, a resident of Sāmora, is shown to be travelling from Mulatthān
(Multan) to Khambhāta (Cambay). The fact that the language shows
close affinity to western Rajasthani dialect, along with the above
information may suggest the location of the text broadly to be in the
western and southwestern parts of the subcontinent.
One of the commentaries on the Saṅdeśarāsaka by Lakṣmīcandra
is dated 1409 ce. It would appear, as the editor of the text has

21 Rahman, Sandeśarāsaka, p. 2.
22 Avahaṭṭayasakkayapāiyaṃmi pesāiyaṃmi bhāsāe/Lakkhaṇachaṃdāharaṇe
sukaittaṃ bhūsiyaṃ jehiṃ. See Rahman, Sandeśarāsaka.
194 a political history of literature

shown, that the text itself might have been composed sometime
between the mid-thirteenth and the mid-fourteenth centuries.23 This
is curious, of course, in the light of the fact that the life of Apabhraṃśa
as a language for literary composition is said to have been coming
to an end by the fifteenth century.
Another reference to Avahaṭṭha comes from Jyotirīśvara’s
Varṇaratnākara, arguably the first extant composition in Maithili/
Old Maithili, written sometime around the mid-thirteenth century.
Haraprasad Sastri, who is credited with the modern ‘discovery’
of this text at the end of the nineteenth century, reported that
‘[t]he subject-matter of the book is very curious. It gives the poetic
conventions. For instance, if a king is to be described, what are to
be his qualities; if a capital is to be described, what are to be the
details; and so on…. This book seems to have guided the genius of
Vidyāpati’.24
The reference to ‘Avahaṭha’ occurs in the context where the text
provides the standard expressions and conventions for describing
the bhāṭas (panegyrists; loosely, poets). Again, the expression comes
as the third in a list of six languages: Sanskrit, Parākṛit, Avahaṭha,
Paisācī, Saurasenī, Māgadhī.25 (It may be noted that counting to
six, so far as the number of languages is concerned, was probably
a convention, though the lists sometimes varied.) Most of the lists,
however, mentioned Apabhraṃśa and at least one of these—that by
the ninth-century scholar Rudraṭa in fact matched the list provided
by Jyotirīśvara, except that where Rudraṭa mentioned Apabhraṃśa,
Jyotirīśvara put in Avahaṭṭha. The time of composition in the case of
Varṇaratnākara is the thirteenth century. That Jyotirīśvara lived and
composed the text in the Mithila region is not disputed.
It is perhaps no coincidence that Vaṃśīdhar’s commentary, Prākṛit
Paiṅgalam is also dated around the same time in the heyday of the
Delhi Sultanate, though it is difficult to trace the place co-ordinates
for him.
It would be useful in this context to consider another work titled
Uktivyaktiprakaraṇa on the Apabhraṃśa languages by Dāmodara

23 Mayrhofer, ‘Introduction’, Sandeśarāsaka, p. xii.

24 Sastri, ‘Report on the Search of Sanskrit Manuscripts’, p. 23.
25 Jyotirīśvara Kaviśekhara, Varṇaratnākara, ed. Chatterji, p. 44.
 Entangled Vines of Glory 195

Paṇḍita.26 Paṇḍita reflected on ‘how the popularly used Apabhraṃśa

language, current in one’s time and place might be related to the
grammar-system of Sanskrit, and how one may note the presence
of a rough structure of Sanskrit grammar in the people’s usages of
bhāṣā words and expressions, etc’.27 What is of significance for us is
the fact that the language that the text analysed appears to have strong
affinity with the kind of Apabhraṃśa that Vidyapati and Addahamāṇa
called Avahaṭṭha. It may be noted that this extraordinary treatise
cannot be placed before the thirteenth century.
Considering that Vidyapati also lived in the early-fifteenth
century, the temporal context becomes very clear; all the com-
mentators and poets who used the word ‘Avahaṭṭha’ (instead of
Apabhraṃśa), or composed in, or commented on that language
lived between the twelfth and the early-fifteenth century, that is, in
the last three centuries or so of the career of Apabhraṃśa. In his
detailed analysis of the language of Kīrttilatā, Shivprasad Singh
noted that Apabhraṃśa was genealogically related to Avahaṭṭha as
the former’s later avatar. T. Nara, another scholar who had consid-
ered the question in some detail, also concluded that Avahaṭṭha
was a ‘late literary form of Apabhraṃśa’.28 What distinguished
Avahaṭṭha from Apabhraṃśa, it would appear, among other things,
was an increasing number of tatsam words—loanwords from
Sanskrit. Equally striking was the inclusion of a large number of
Persian words.
The question Pollock asked in this regard more than fifteen
years ago, is relevant here: ‘[W]hat else in the social and political
world is being chosen when a language-for-literature is chosen?’.29
An answer to this question is possible only once the histori-
cal character of Avahaṭṭha is ascertained. Neither Apabhraṃśa,
nor Avahaṭṭha, may easily be placed in the binary formula of the
cosmopolitan and the vernacular languages. As Pollock himself

26 Dāmodara, Uktivyaktiprakaraṇa. This text was also known as

Uktivyaktiśāstra and Prayogaprakāśa.
27 Dāmodara, Uktivyaktiprakaraṇa, p. 7.
28 See Nara, Avahaṭṭha and Comparative Vocabulary of New Indo-Āryan

Languages, cited in Mayrhofer, ‘Introduction’, p. xiii, footnote no. 1.

29 Pollock, ‘The Cosmopolitan Vernacular’, p. 7.
196 a political history of literature

admitted, ‘to define vernacular over against cosmopolitan appears to

submerge a number of relativities’.30 While no one can dispute the
fact that Apabhraṃśa or Avahaṭṭha never travelled as far as Sanskrit
or Persian, it is noteworthy that almost all the major commenta-
tors on the science of poetic aesthetics (alaṅkāraśāstra) included
Apabhraṃśa together with Sanskrit and Prakrit in the list of three
literary languages with possibly a trans-regional reach.31 However,
if Braja ‘was rendered rootlessly cosmopolitan by the elimination …
of local dialectal difference in the fifteenth to sixteenth centuries’,32
Apabhraṃśa in the literary history of the subcontinent was always
perceived as such. Pollock also admitted that ‘Prakrit and Apabhraṃśa
[were] two languages that under the influence of Sanskrit had been
turned into cosmopolitan idioms, and which therefore could be
and were used for literary composition anywhere in the Sanskrit
cosmopolis’.33 On the other hand, the mutative Avahaṭṭha further
built on this status of Apabhraṃśa by adopting Persian as well as
Sanskrit words with abundant infidelity.
It should therefore come as no surprise that the spatial
co-ordinates of the authors and texts in/on Avahaṭṭha discussed
earlier in this chapter do not seem to fall into a pattern. If
Addahamāṇa’s Avahaṭṭha in Saṅdeśarāsaka may be traced to Western
India, Jyotirīśvara and Vidyapati are placed firmly in the eastern
quarters of the subcontinent. Indeed, despite all its dynamism and
expansive propensities, Apabhraṃśa could never match Sanskrit/

30Pollock, ‘The Cosmopolitan Vernacular’, p. 7.

31The first of the great authors on the science of poetics in Sanskrit,
Bhāmaha (I.16), noted the following while trying to define kāvya:

Śabdārthau sahitau kāvyaṃ gadyaṃ padyaṃ ca tad-dvidhā

Saṃskṛtaṃ prākṛtaṃ cānyadapabhraṃśa iti tridhā

(Kāvya is the combination of words and meanings. It is of two types:

prose and verse. Sanskrit, Prakrit, or else Apabhraṃśa: these are the
three kinds.)

See Bhāmaha, Kāvyālaṅkāra, p. 9.

32 Pollock, ‘The Cosmopolitan Vernacular’, p. 7.
33 Pollock, ‘The Cosmopolitan Vernacular’, p. 11.
 Entangled Vines of Glory 197

Persian in its horizontal spread. A qualitative difference between

them has to be located more substantively elsewhere. Let us go back
to Vidyapati’s own explanation on why he chose to compose Kīrttilatā
in the language that he did.
The fact that Kīrttilatā used the term ‘indigenous dialect’ (desila
ba-anā) for Avahaṭṭha that was ‘sweet to all’ (saba jana miṭṭhā)
surely indicates that common men appreciated the language more
than they appreciated Sanskrit or Persian. Interestingly, in the
thirteenth century, Hemacandra had noted in his Kāvyānuśāsana,
that Apabhraṃśa itself could be divided into śiṣṭabhāṣā and grāmya
Apabhraṃśa, the former a literary language and the latter a popular
spoken dialect.34 The former had a wider currency and consistency
whereas the latter would be more vulnerable to ‘corruption’ through
local influences in different regions. Around the same time, Śāradā
Tanay in his Bhav-prakāśa noted in a somewhat similar vein that
Apabhraṃśa was of three kinds: nagarak, grāmya, and upanagarak.
While nagarak carried the sense of urbanity and sophistication
present in śiṣṭabhāṣā, upanagarak posited another register of the
language that was partly urbane and presumably also somewhat
quotidian.35 Earlier, the literary theorist Rudraṭa had probably
referred to the variations inbuilt within the notion of grāmyabhāṣā,
when he noted that the form of Apabhraṃśa also depended on the
localities (deśavideśādapabhraṃśaḥ).36
We may presume a high level of intelligibility between the
universalized literary register (śiṣṭa) and the local register (grāmya)
of Apabhraṃśa. Keeping Sheldon Pollock’s rhetorical formulation
in mind, a composition in the former language thus had a potential
reach at least all over North India, without forsaking the possibility of
a deeper and popular local penetration. For a fifteenth-century author
to use a language like this is particularly interesting. It remains to be
seen whether this open-ended eclecticism of language was also reflec-
tive of a similar ‘pragmatic’ move towards a more expansive political
culture in the text of Kīrttilatā. A more ‘conventional’ reading of the

34 Hemacandra, Kāvyanuśāsana.
35 Pandey, Hindī Sāhitya kā Prāraṃbhik Yug, p. 24.
36 Pandey, Hindī Sāhitya kā Prāraṃbhik Yug.
198 a political history of literature

text for its ‘historical content’ would allow for the exploration of such
a possibility. However, an examination of Kīrttilatā’s genre anteced-
ents is more valuable in opening up the question in closer proximity
with the author’s choice of literary techniques.

Genre
As noted earlier, Kīrttilatā is a biographical account in verse with the
occasional use of prose. The title ‘Vine(s) of Glory’ plays on the fact
that the word ‘Kīrtti’ (name of the protagonist) itself means ‘glory’.
While it seeks to tell the story of the glorious life and achievements
of Kīrttisiṃha, it is clearly not meant as a mere praśasti (praise-text).
The biographical literary tradition was known and practiced both in
the Sanskrit as well as in the Persian tradition in the subcontinent.
While a set of literary conventions came to be associated with the
‘biography’, both Persian as well as Sanskrit traditions left a lot of
scope for an author to innovate, in theory as much as in practice. In
the case of Sanskrit, nothing proves this better than the ‘confusion’
in the attempt to define ākhyāyikā, the category usually translated as
‘biography’.
The first of the classical scholars on poetics in Sanskrit, Bhāmaha
(I.18), noted early in the seventh century that literature (kāvya) may be
classified into five kinds:

i. sargabandha (mahākāvya or ‘epic poem’)

ii. abhineya (that which can be performed, literally, ‘acted’)
iii. ākhyāyikā (biography)
iv. kathā (story/tale/novel)
v. anibaddha (free or independent verses)37

Even though Kīrttilatā was also a story of sorts, if we go by the

above classification, it would surely fall in the category of ākhyāyikā
and not kathā. Bhāmaha added (I.25) that the ākhyāyikā was
written in prose with words pleasing to the ear and in tune with
the content; that it consisted of vaktra and apavaktra metres; that

37 Sargabandhoabhineyārthaṃ tathaivākhyāyikākathe/Aanibaddhañca kāvyādi

tatpunaḥ pañcadhocyate. See Bhāmaha, Kāvyālaṅkāra, p. 10.
 Entangled Vines of Glory 199

it must have an exalted purpose/meaning (udāttārtha) with the

use of poetic imagination; that important themes in it included
abduction of a girl (kanyā-haraṇa), a battle (saṅgrāma), separation
(vipralambha), and the eventual triumph (udaya) of the hero; that
the hero himself narrated the story;38 and that it is divided into
several parts (ucchavāsa).
Yet, Daṇḍin (I.23), writing in the late-seventh or early-eighth
century, famously ruled out any validity in the distinction between
ākhyāyikā and kathā. As Warder noted, ‘[Daṇḍin] also points out that
some of the description [of biography] given by Bhāmaha had been
infringed in practice’.39 Modern scholars who sought to understand
these genres with reference to only Bhāmaha and Daṇḍin, had to
predictably quote disappointment. One such scholar, Susan Tripp has
very aptly and usefully described the confusion:

Some of the confusion apparent in Bhāmaha’s and Daṇḍin’s defini-

tions of the prose genres arises, I suspect, from the fact that they are
attempting to include under kāvya various kinds of works which do
not properly belong there. Epic and other kinds of poetry, and drama,
are highly coded on all levels; Sanskrit prose literature, on the other
hand, is much less highly coded and much of it creates the impres-
sion of being distinctly more ‘popular’ than verse genres. Including
works of this kind within the class of kāvya has the effect of redefining
kāvya as the class of all pleasure texts. But Bhāmaha and Daṇḍin try to
make prose into kāvya by assigning to it a set of formal options, parallel
to those governing other kāvya texts. One cannot help suspecting
that Bhāmaha posited two kinds of prose works merely to equal the
epic/drama pair, and to fill out his scheme with the required five
elements for the fifth level: a scheme which Daṇḍin rejected as artificial.
Daṇḍin first presents specific rules for the prose genres, then declares

38 Some scholars, for example, T.S. Nandi, the editor and translator of
Kāvyānuśāsana, interpreted this provision as a reference to autobiography.
See Hemacandra, Kāvyanuśāsana, p. 595. However, the context and the
complete absence of any autobiography before, during, or immediately after
this period, suggest a composition in which a protagonist (real or fictional) is
made to tell a story in the first person. Hence, it should not be confused with
autobiography.
39 Warder, Indian Kavya Literature, vol. I, p. 183.
200 a political history of literature

that these are not mandatory; first lists two genres, then decides that
there is really only one; and finally concludes that what really counts
is whether the writer succeeded in accomplishing what he intended.
One would not be able to form any accurate conception of the actual
forms of Sanskrit prose literature from Bhāmaha’s and Daṇḍin’s
descriptions; nor can one infer much from what is not said. They
simply seem to flounder when they attempt to handle prose. What the
attempts show, I think, is the difficulty of trying to construct a universal
theory of genre on the basis of the kind of restricted, hierarchical code
that the early alamkāra theorists sought to develop.40

Clearly, it is not possible to fit Kīrttilatā neatly into any of the

existing categories of Sanskrit genre. Scholars like Hazari Prasad
Dvivedi took the easier way out and simply declared that Kīrttilatā
was ‘written as per the convention of kathā or ākhyāyikā in Sanskrit
Literature’!41 It is true, as Ali has pointed out, that ‘A.K. Warder’s
distinction between the kathā as “fiction” or “novel” based upon the
poet’s imagination, on the one hand, and the ākhyāyikā as a “little
history” or “biography” based on real events, on the other, is strongly
borne out in neither poetic theory nor literary practice’.42 What Ali
does not point out, however, is the fact that neither ‘poetic theory’
nor ‘literary practice’ was unchanging. Nor, as I try to demonstrate
below, is it the case that ‘the ākhyāyikā remains a relatively stable
and singular category in alaṅkāraśāstra’.43 Indeed, it is possible to
trace the interesting ways in which the two genres get mixed up, both
in theory as well as in practice, along a certain time line.
Most of the later theoreticians after Bhāmaha and Daṇḍin, however,
appear to have simplified the distinction between the two genres.44

40 Tripp, ‘The Genres of Classical Sanskrit Literature’, pp. 226–7.

41 Dvivedi, ‘Foreword’, Kīrttilatā aur Avahaṭṭha Bhāṣā, p. 10.
42 Ali, ‘Temporality, Narration and the Problem of History’, p. 243.
43 Ali, ‘Temporality, Narration and the Problem of History’, p. 243.
44 Hemacandra (thirteenth century) appears to be one exception though.

He divided literature into that which is ‘seen’ (prekṣyaṃ) and that which is ‘heard’
(śravyaṃ), and classified the latter category of literature (kāvya) into ‘epic poem,
biography, story, mixed type, and stray verses’, Śravyaṃ mahākāvyamākhyāyikā
kathā campūranibaddhaṃ ca. His descriptions also clearly seem to have
borrowed from Bhāmaha. See Hemacandra, Kāvyanuśāsana, p. 167.
 Entangled Vines of Glory 201

By the time of Rudraṭa (ninth century), who based his theory on the
model of Bāṇa’s two works, Harṣa-carita and Kādambarī, a clearer
distinction emerged between ākhyāyikā and kathā.45 This is how De
summarized the characteristic features of ākhyāyikā as it obtained in
the world of Sanskrit literary theory by the tenth century or there-
abouts: (a) The subject matter gives facts of actual experience; (b) The
narrator need not be the hero himself; (c) It is divided into chapters
called ucchvāsas, which should (excepting the first) open with two
stanzas, preferably in āryā, indicating the tenor of the chapter in
question; and (d) It possesses a metrical introduction of a literary
character.46
In the eleventh century, however, Abhinavagupta, possibly the
most sophisticated of theoreticians in the classical mould, tried to
reduce it to a mere distinction of form when he commented that
ākhyāyikā ‘consisted of ucchavāsa and vaktra–aparavaktra verses, and
the kathā was entirely devoid of these’.47
One of the characteristics of ākhyāyikā that emerged by the tenth
century was that it could be written in both prose and poetry. In the
case of Kīrttilatā, while prose often appears in between to explain
a point or two, the flavour and the operative part of the narrative
is primarily captured in verse. This would have made it possible
for listeners to enjoy its recitation and retelling in a primarily oral
culture. It would also facilitate retention among listeners and easier
dissemination. If we try to apply whatever broad contours of the
genres of ākhyāyikā, kathā, and campū48 emerge, Kīrttilatā clearly
comes closest to ākhyāyikā. It is interesting that Kīrttilatā fails the
test if we apply the criteria put forth for ākhyāyikā by Bhāmaha in
the seventh century. The changing character of the genre, at least
in theory, in the following centuries, however, comes closer to
the way our text is organized. Viśvanātha Kavirāja, writing in the
late-fourteenth century in Orissa, invoked Daṇḍin to point out
rather cryptically that so much was common (antarbhāva) between

45 De, ‘The Akhyayika and the Katha in Classical Sanskrit’, p. 517.

46 De, ‘The Akhyayika and the Katha in Classical Sanskrit’, p. 517.
47 De, ‘The Akhyayika and the Katha in Classical Sanskrit’, p. 516.
48 This is explained as a composition in prose and verse, mentioned by ear-

lier commentators as well. See Viśvanātha Kavirāja, Sāhityadarpaṇaḥ, p. 728.

202 a political history of literature

ākhyāyikā and kathā, that the two cannot be seen as separate catego-
ries.49 After very briefly mentioning campū, and two new genres,
namely, viruda50 and karambhaka,51 he found it necessary to remark
that ‘there were other varieties [of compositions] but because they
were merely famous and different only in name and did not trans-
gress the boundaries [of genres already defined, hence they were]
not seen as separate’.52 This last comment may be read as pointing
towards an intensified experimentation with, and changes in, estab-
lished genres—both in Sanskrit and in other literary traditions—by
the time of Viśvanātha Kavirāja.
To keep the significance of my intervention in mind, it might
be worthwhile to reformulate Pollock’s rhetorical question regard-
ing language and ask: ‘[W]hat else in the social and political world
is being chosen when a language-for-literature and a genre-for-
literature is chosen?’ A vital aspect that we need to keep in mind
as we reflect on this question concerns plausible precursors. While
biographical compositions could theoretically be written in any
of the three languages (Sanskrit/Apabhraṃśa/Prakrit) mentioned
by Bhāmaha, in actual practice, Vidyapati could look to very few
precedents for a political biography in Apabhraṃśa or Prakrit in the
fifteenth century.
Two conventions within medieval North Indian ‘vernacular’
literature that might profitably be mentioned in this context are the
rāso and the carita traditions. The most famous of the rāso texts is
of course, Pṛithvīrājarāso, attributed to Cand Bardāi. This was com-
posed in the Pingal language, ‘a form of Braj Bhasa inflected by
Rajasthani’.53 Regarded for a long time as a contemporary work com-
posed in the twelfth century itself, questions have been raised about
the dating of this remarkable text. As early as 1886, Kaviraj Syamaldas,
a scholar and poet attached to the Mewar court, argued in a rigorously

49 Viśvanātha Kavirāja, Sāhityadarpaṇaḥ, p. 727.

50 This is defined as a ‘royal praise [rājastuti]’ in a mix of prose and verse.
See Viśvanātha Kavirāja, Sāhityadarpaṇaḥ, p. 727.
51 This is defined as a ‘multilingual composition [bhāṣābhirvividhābhirvin-

irmitam]’. Viśvanātha Kavirāja, Sāhityadarpaṇaḥ, p. 727.

52 Viśvanātha Kavirāja, Sāhityadarpaṇaḥ, p. 729.
53 Talbot, ‘Contesting Knowledges in Colonial India’, p. 172.
 Entangled Vines of Glory 203

researched piece that the great ‘epic’ was probably written between
1583 and 1613 of the Christian Era.54 Though Syamaldas’s arguments
did not go unchallenged, historians in their scholarly opinions on
Pṛithvīrājarāso have largely accepted the contention that it could not
have been composed before the fifteenth, if not the sixteenth, century.
Even within the Hindi literary scholarship, this view has been put
forth strongly.55
Rāso, along with vaṃśāvalī, were ‘Rajasthani narrative traditions of
the late medieval period, [where] heroism was defined and celebrated
as a continuing tradition, as an essence transmitted by hereditary
lineage’.56 Rāso as a genre, however, had a strong component of
romance in it that was woven around the central male protagonist.
It is interesting that it appears to have evolved rather late, and cer-
tainly not before the late-fourteenth century, even as they continued
to be composed into the nineteenth century, mostly under patron-
age from the princely states of the colonial era.57 As Sreenivasan has
noted, a large number of rāso compositions, if not all, were written
in tiny ‘regional’ kingdoms under the aegis of Rājapūta princes of
diverse lineages. It is pertinent that Pṛithvīrājarāso was a political
biography in verse, presented as an eyewitness account, much like
Vidyapati’s Kīrttilatā. It tells the story of the life and glories of the
twelfth-century ruler, Prithvīrāj Cauhāna. Unlike Kīrttilatā, however,
Cand Bardāi’s account was not so much about how his protagonist
ascended to power and glory. Rather it was more focussed on the
heroic fall of the protagonist in the battlefield against his Ghurid
adversary Shihab al-Din Muhammad.
Carita (or cariu) in Apabhraṃśa/Braj/Avadhī, on the other hand,
may be traced more directly, at least where etymology is concerned,
to the carita tradition of Sanskrit literature, a genre that became the

54 Syamaldas, ‘The Antiquity, Authenticity and Genuineness of the

Epic Called the Prithvi Raj Rasa’. For a detailed discussion of the research
method followed by Syamaldas, its remarkable success, and its epistemo-
logical context as well as contestations, see Talbot, ‘Contesting Knowledges
in Colonial India’.
55 See for example, Singh, Pṛithvīrāja Rāso kī Bhāṣā.
56 Sreenivasan, ‘Alauddin Khalji Remembered’, pp. 286–7.
57 Svami, Rāso Sāhitya aur Pṛthvirāj Rāso.
204 a political history of literature

benchmark for scholars of poetics during the ‘classical’ period to

define the ākhyāyikā. As Knutson noted in a different context,

in the early medieval period generally, from the seventh through the
thirteenth centuries, historical personages emerged strongly as heroes
of Sanskrit kavyas, in place of the mythical figures who earlier stood in for
them, whether Harsa in Bana’s Harsacarita (seventh century), Ramapala in
Sandhyakara Nandin’s Ramacarita (eleventh century), Vikramaditya VI
(eleventh century) in Bilahaṇa’s Vikramāṅkadevacaritam, or, at the Sena
court, Laksmaṇasena in Dhoyi’s Pavanadūta (twelfth and thirteenth
centuries).58

Very much like the rāso texts, the vernacular caritas also seem to
have flourished rather late, and mostly under the patronage of small
sub-imperial courts. Thus, Vishnudas, a contemporary of Vidyapati
at the Gwalior court, composed the famous Pāṇḍavacarita in what
may be called a mix of Apabhraṃśa and Avadhī.59 In fact most of
the carita texts in Apabhraṃśa seem to have been composed in the
late-fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, many of them at Gwalior,
where one of the most prolific Apabhraṃśa authors, Raidhu, also
lived. However, almost all of these caritas or carius were retellings
of epic tales of Rāmāyaṇa or Mahābhārata, mostly in their Jain
versions. Eva De Clercq noted recently that the cariu texts often con-
sisted of the ‘biography of a mythological or worldly hero’; her own
account mentions very few works containing biographies of non-
mythological/historical characters. As she points out in the context
of one such work, Sammattaguṇaṇihāṇakavva, by Raidhu, ‘the world
which their protagonists inhabit often appears quite similar to the
Jain Puranic setting inhabited by superhuman beings’.60 To that
extent, empirically at least, the carita genre of Apabhraṃśa and other
(Avadhī/Braja) languages might actually be traced to the tradition
of Kalidas’s Raghuvaṃśa and other Purāṇic and epic-based works
rather than the Sanskrit carita texts, which as noted by Knutson,

58 Knutson, ‘History Beyond the Reality Principle’, p. 634.

59 Vishnudas, Mahābhārat: Pāṇḍav-carit. For a brief note and interesting
discussion of the work, see Bangha, ‘Early Hindi Epic Poetry in Gwalior’.
60 De Clercq, ‘Apabhramsha as a Literary Medium’, pp. 341, 349.
 Entangled Vines of Glory 205

had historical personages as their protagonists. However, Vidyapati’s

Kīrttilatā might actually be placed in the longer history of Sanskrit
caritas, revolving around historical characters, rather than the epic
tales of Apabhraṃśa nearer his time.
Unlike the Sanskrit typologies of textual traditions, these
‘vernacular’ genres were rarely, if ever, theorized into strictly defined
components. In fact, no theoretical treatises were composed in
vernacular and Apabhraṃśa languages in general.61 Accordingly, the
non-Sanskrit genres evolved over a period of time, and left consider-
able agency with individual authors to experiment. This is one of the
most important reasons why it is so difficult to definitively pin the
generic antecedents of vernacular compositions.
In any case, it is doubtful if any language in the middle ages devel-
oped as sophisticated a tradition of literary theory as Sanskrit did,
although some could match Sanskrit in terms of creative output and
genre variations. Biographical traditions, on the other hand, developed
early within the early Perso-Arabic tradition. By the tenth century or
so, individual biographies and biographical anthologies also seem to
have borrowed from existing techniques of history writing.62

61 One limited ‘exception’ to the rule was the mid-fourteenth-century

Maithili text, Varṇaratnākara by Jyotirīśvara Kaviśekhara, from the Mithila
region itself, referred to above (see Jyotirīśvara Kaviśekhara, Varṇaratnākara,
ed. Chatterji). As noted, it was a rather unusual composition that put together
a collection of words/phrases and expressions that a writer could use in a
given context or while describing a particular object/theme. Occasionally,
it also defined certain terms. In a passage devoted to the description of the
‘bhāṭas’ (vernacular poets/singers), Jyotirīśvara mentioned six languages,
seven ‘sub-languages’ (upabhāṣā), eight grammarians including Pānini and
Dāmodara, a few learned in literary devices (alaṇkāravijña), some poets,
and a few literary compositions which include Kādambarī, Cakravāla,
Vāyasa, Gadyamālā, Harṣacarita, Campū, Vāsavadattā, Śālabhañjī, and
Karpūramañjarī. It is intriguing that campū which was mentioned as a mixed
(prose and verse) genre by several literary theorists, was included in this list
of individual compositions. See Jyotirīśvara Kaviśekhara, Varṇaratnākara, ed.
Mishra and Jha, p. 62.
62 For the close relationship between biographical literature and history

within the ‘classical’ Islamic tradition, see Khalidi, Arabic Historical Thought,
pp. 204–10.
206 a political history of literature

The best example of a political biography of a historical character

within the North Indian Persianate tradition is probably Amir
Khusrau’s Tughlaq Namah, a text that might fruitfully be compared
to the tenor and subject matter of Kīrttilatā. In fact, there seems to
be some similarity of character and skills between the two authors
themselves. Both were extremely prolific and of a pietistic disposition.
Both were polyglots, and composed in several languages. They revelled
in experimenting with genres, and took pride in their writing skills. If
Vidyapati was reputed to be a scholar who could cite classical Sanskrit
writers and narrate contemporary stories with equal ease, so could
Khusrau vis-à-vis the Perso-Islamicate traditions. If his contemporaries
saw Khusrau primarily as a poet and lyricist, Vidyapati’s popularity too
rested chiefly on his Maithili songs, both devotional and secular. It is
no coincidence that neither was amenable to easy classification, lead-
ing one modern scholar to club them together as standalone figures
under the heading ‘phuṭakal racanāyeñ’, as we have already seen in
Chapter 1 in this volume. It might be a coincidence though that both
lived long and wrote for several patrons.
As in the case of Tughlaq Namah, Kīrttilatā is primarily about the
author’s patron–protagonist acquiring the throne with great personal
heroism. Each story starts with the treacherous murder of a legitimate
king (Gaṇesara in the case of Kīrttilatā and Mubarak Shah Khalaji
in the case of Tughlaq Namah) by a debauched character (Arsalan/
Khusrau Khan). The protagonists in both compositions start their
campaign swearing vengeance against such conduct. They osten-
sibly do so, not on account of personal ambitions but in the cause
of ‘social order’ based on faith, din63 in one case, and Brāhmaṇical
righteousness, dhamma64 in the other. The route both protagonists

63 In captivity, when Khusrau Khan asked for forgiveness, Tughluq said,

‘Since my enmity to you is for the sake of faith (din) I must punish you as you
deserve.’ See ‘Appendix: The Tughlaq Namah’, in Mirza, The Life and Works of
Amir Khusrau, p. 252.
64 When the murderer Arsalan thought of (how he had transgressed)

dhamma, he offered the throne back to Kīrttisiṃha. However, punishment

for the wrong-doer is equally important in Kīrttilatā too, as we witness the
protagonist take the longer route through the battlefield to claim the throne.
See Kīrttilatā, pp. 64–6.
 Entangled Vines of Glory 207

took through the battlefield was to restore the throne to its rightful
claimant.65 There are stylistic similarities too between the two texts.
Unlike Apabhraṃśa, which did not have a fully established convention
of political biographies, Persian heritage provided rich possibilities
for Khusrau. However, Vidyapati innovated in his own unique way,
composing a panegyric biography in verse, and broadly following
the mathnawi style. More importantly, if Vidyapati seems to have
followed Mammaṭa’s advice that biographies should be composed
in the ‘raw and aggressive’ style,66 at least one modern author com-
plained that the language deployed in Tughlaq Namah becomes ‘at
places … positively gruesome’.67 It is important at this point to guard
against any lazy conclusion that such similarities in any way prove
a direct ‘influence’ of Sanskrit poets on Khusrau or that of Khusrau
on Vidyapati. Rather, it indicates how similar literary trends evolved
simultaneously in the apparently parallel worlds of Sanskrit, Persian,
and Apabhraṃśa/vernacular languages. That Khusrau generously
employed a large number of Hindavi terms68—on occasion even
Sanskrit—in his Persian text might not seem so unique if we recall
the diverse lexical sources used in the composition of Kīrttilatā. These
‘stray’ practices gesture towards a shared common sense prevailing
within the North Indian politico–literary domains across linguistic–
territorial boundaries, a phenomenon also discussed earlier in the
context of Likhanāvalī.

65 In the case of Tughluq, however, this could not be done since all five

sons of Mubarak Shāh had already been killed by Khusrau Khan. Thus, he
‘accepted the crown after much hesitation and on repeated requests from
the Maliks’! See Mirza, ‘Appendix: The Tughlaq Namah’, The Life and Works
of Amir Khusrau, p. 252.
66 Mammaṭa recommended different styles for kathā and ākhyāyikā,

noting that the former should be written in a gentle (sukumāra) style, while
a more aggressive (vikaṭa, literally, formidable/horrendous) style is suitable
for the latter. See Mammaṭa, Kāvyaprakāśa, cited in Warder, Indian Kavya
Literature, vol. I, p. 183.
67 Mirza, ‘Appendix: The Tughlaq Namah’, The Life and Works of Amir

Khusrau, p. 253.
68 Mirza, ‘Appendix: The Tughlaq Namah’, The Life and Works of Amir

Khusrau, p. 253.
208 a political history of literature

The similarities between Amir Khusrau’s and Vidyapati’s bio-

graphical works, however, cannot be stretched too far. If Khusrau was
one of the most influential poets in the court of probably the most
powerful medieval state of North India before the Mughals, Vidyapati
was attached to petty chieftains in a region that was only a minor
territory for the major powers of the time. No less striking is the fact
that in several episodes of the Apabhraṃśa biography, the protago-
nist Kīrttisiṃha was portrayed as a diminutive character, dependant
on sympathizers, and a helpless supplicant before a superior Sharqi
Sultan. In contrast, the Persian text in question always foregrounded
Tughluq as the hero, towering above other characters in every single
episode. Khusrau’s linear account of Tughluq’s ascent to power with
the monochromatic world of court intrigues and battle scenes in the
backdrop is in sharp contrast with Kīrttilatā’s narrative that invoked a
whole range of emotions and described diverse political and cultural
landscapes. It is in the light of this narrative complexity of the text that
the rest of the chapter seeks to unpack its historical contents in all its
varied colours and nuances.

The Local in Kīrttilatā

The first pallava of the text traces the ostensibly illustrious ancestry
of Kīrttisiṃha. The Oiṇī dynasty (baṃsa) to which he belonged is
described as one that had formidable command of logic (takkakak-
kasa), studied the Vedas, crushed penury with donations, understood
the exalted meanings of the Supreme Soul (parama bambha), earned
glories with wealth (bitta), and engaged with enemies in the battlefield
for truth (satta). In an apparent reference to the somewhat unusual
fact that this was a Brāhmaṇa dynasty, the poet added that one does
not find (the qualities of ) the god of the earth (bhūdeva) and the lord
of the earth (bhūbai) in the same person. He then traced the lineage
back to Kāmesara, the founder of the dynasty and his son Bhogīsa.
It is appreciatively noted that Sultan Firuzshah (Piarojsāha Suratāṇa)
honoured the latter by addressing him as ‘dear friend’ (pia sakhā).69

69 Kīrttilatā, pp. 54–6.

 Entangled Vines of Glory 209

Other rulers down to Kīrttisiṃha are then mentioned along with their
individual accomplishments.
It is possible to argue that, like the contemporary Rājapūta narra-
tives of Rajasthan and Gwalior, Vidyapati’s biographical tale too, was
geared towards ‘legitimizing’ the authority of its patron.70 If our poet
did not trace Kīrttisiṃha’s ancestry back into the mythological past of
the Surya-, Candra-, or Agni-vaṃśa, he made up for it by commending
him as the ‘ideal man’ (a favourite trope of the author, as we have
already seen in the previous chapter), and explicitly counting him as
such alongside such illustrious mythological characters as Raja Bali,
Raghurāya (Raja Ram), Bhagīratha, and Paraśurāma in a six-line verse
in the chapada metre.

Purisa hua-u Balirāya jāsu kara kaṇṇa pasāri-a

Purisa hua-u Raghurāya jenne raṇa Rāvaṇa māri-a
Purisa Bhagīratha hua-u jenne ni-akula uddhari-u
Parasurāma puni purisa jenne khatti-a kha-a karia-u
Aur purisa pasaṃsa-oñ rā-aguru Kittisiṃha Ga-aṇesa su-a
Je sattu samara sammaddi kahuñ bappabaira uddhari-a dhu-a71

(Raja Bali was the man before whom [even] Kriṣṇa was a supplicant
Raja Ram was the man who killed Ravaṇa in the battlefield
Bhag Ram was the man who rescued his ancestors
Paraśurāma was the man who annihilated the Kṣatriyas
And I praise another man, the exalted among the kings, Kīrttisiṃha,
son of Gaṇesa
Who crushed the enemy in the battlefield to avenge paternal animosity.)

Interestingly, however, all this is managed within the first pallava

in the limited space left after the brief mandatory salutations, and
not-so-brief reflections on language choice. The remaining three
pallavas trace the travels and travails of Kīrttisiṃha through a whole
variety of landscapes—geographical, cultural, and political, but also
local, cosmopolitan, and universal.

70Sreenivasan, ‘Alauddin Khalji Remembered’. Also see Sreenivasan, ‘The

“Marriage” of “Hindu” and “Turak”: Medieval Rajput Histories’, pp. 87–109.
71 Kīrttilatā, p. 53.
210 a political history of literature

Geo-culturally and politically, the local emerges through the

first half of the second pallava, as the poet describes how Arsalan
treacherously killed Kīrttisiṃha’s father, Raja Gaeṇesar.72 The time
of this incident is referred to (the 252nd year of Lakkhaṇasen Ṇareśa,
that is, Lakṣmaṇa Samvat, corresponding to 1371 ce), but the place
is not mentioned. Even the physical setting of the occurrence,
whether it is a court/palace/fort/seat of power is not specified. In
the conversation between Kīrttisiṃha on the one side and his advi-
sors and family members on the other that followed (presumably,
about two decades later), the young prince is shown to overrule any
possibility of rapproachment/compromise with Arsalan, who appar-
ently offered the throne back to him. The conversation is reported to
have taken place informally within the extended family without any
description of the setting or reference to any place. While this might
be ascribed to the fact that the family was out of power at this time,
it is striking that at no point in the text has the poet described any
fortress or palace/court, let alone a citadel, that we might associate
with even a locally important ruler: not while describing Kīrttisiṃha’s
ancestors, nor while recounting the murder of his father, and not even
at the culmination, when the aspiring ruler finally lays his hands on
the ‘throne’ of Tirhut.
Unlike the Karṇāṭa dynasty that had a sprawling citadel at
Simarāoñgarh/Simarāoñpura,73 the Oiṇīvāra dynasty established by
Kāmesar (Sanskrit: Kāmeśvara) in all likelihood operated out of a
much humbler abode in the village of Sugauna in the Madhubani dis-
trict of present-day Bihar.74 As we have seen in Chapter 1, in contrast
with the Karṇāṭa dynasty that often actively sought to throw off the
yoke of the Delhi Sultanate, Raja Gaṇesara or his descendants rarely,
if ever, claimed sovereignty. More crucial for our purposes is the fact
that Vidyapati never applied the trope of hyperbole, a common device
in a composition like this (and used generously in the subsequent
sections), to present Kīrttisiṃha’s political stature as anything more
than that of a humble chieftain.

72 The name of Raja Ganeśvara (Sanskrit spelling) is variously spelt in the

Avahaṭṭha text as either Ga-eṇesar or Ga-enes.
73 See Chapter 1 in this volume.
74 Ansari, ‘End of the Karṇāṭa Kingdom’, pp. 161 and 171.
 Entangled Vines of Glory 211

Interestingly, the poet did not show such restraint while describing
the anarchy that ostensibly gripped the region in the aftermath of the
killing of Raja Gaṇesara by Arsalan. Here is a glimpse:

Ṭhākura ṭhaka bha-e gela cora sappari ghara sajji-a

Dāse gosā-uni gahi-a dhamma ga-e dhaṅdha nimajji-a
Khale sajjana paribhavi-a koi nahi hoi vicāraka
Jāti ajāti vivāha adhama uttama kāñ pāraka
Akkhararasa bujjhinihāra nahi kavikula bhami bhikkhari bha-uñ
Tirhutti tirohi sabe guṇe Rā Gaṇeśa jabe sagga ga-uñ75

(Lords became thugs, thieves attacked and occupied houses

Slaves seized the ladies of the house, dharma disappeared, business
drowned
Rogues prevailed over men of virtue, no one bothered
Rampant inter-caste marriages, no one to discern between inferior and
superior
No connoisseurs of the written syllable, [while] poets became
wandering beggars
All virtues disappeared from Tirhut when Gaṇesa departed for heaven.)

That the comprehensive breakdown of dharma needed to be

reversed at any cost is thus established at the outset of the second
pallava. Even though the aggressor Arsalan is shown to have repented
and offered the kingdom back to Kīrttisiṃha, the latter would take
the longer and harder route rather than compromise with the enemy
or enjoy a kingdom at his foe’s mercy. Thus, he decided to go against
the counsel of his mother and ministers, as he declared:

Mātā bhaṇai mamattaya-i mantī rajjah nīti

Majjhu pi-āro ekka pa-i vīra purisa ka-i rīti76

(Mother speaks out of affection, ministers preach politics

But I prefer only the precedence set by the men of courage.)

His elder brother, Vīrasiṃha, almost always shown through the

text as a quiet and loyal companion of Kīrttisiṃha, agreed and added

75 Kīrttilatā, p. 61.
76 Kīrttilatā, p. 65.
212 a political history of literature

that it was ‘better to embrace death than to allow one’s inferior power
(nī-a sakti) to be exposed before everyone’.77 The two brothers, thus,
set out on foot to meet the Sharqi overlord (Pātisāha). Interestingly,
they are likened first to Balabhadra and Kṛiśṇa and then to Rama and
Lakṣamaṇa. The Rāmāyaṇa parallel acquires particular salience in the
way their journey is described. Unlike the godly brothers of the epic
who were obliged by Kaikeyī ’s vow to move to the forest without any
material support, there was no such bar for the ‘sons of Raja Gaṇesara’.
Yet, they chose to leave behind not just family and friends but also
good quality horses (vara turaṅga) and lots of wealth (dhana bahutta).
On the way, they faced terrible hardships but also received enthusiastic
support from the common people. As the poet says rhetorically, ‘some-
one gave clothes, someone gave horses, someone offered provisions,
someone paid their debts, and someone helped them cross the river;
someone carried their luggage and someone cleared the paths for
them.’78 It is clear that Vidyapati was making a deliberate attempt to
make this journey appear as close a replica of the epic journey under-
taken by Rama and Lakṣamaṇa as possible, probably to emphasize that
the cause of dharma was central to both ventures.
Purely from the perspective of narrative strategies, the manner
in which Kīrttilatā starts bears striking similarity with Valmiki’s
Rāmāyaṇa. As we saw above, the Avahaṭṭha text starts with a conver-
sation between a male and a female bee wherein the true meaning of
life and the world is seen as being born a man of valour and having
lived a life of honour. This is followed by a long list of qualities
that an ideal man must have but rarely possesses. The protagonist
(Kīrttisiṃha) is then introduced as the man who boasts of all these
qualities. Valmiki’s Rāmāyaṇa starts with a conversation between the
author and Sage Nārada wherein the latter asserts, in response to the
former’s query, that it is Rama who possessed all the qualities that
were difficult to find in one man.79
Divested of this epic–literary context, the arduous expedition of
Kīrttisiṃha and Vīrasiṃha might simply appear to be a badly planned
journey! The parallel, of course, cannot be taken further than this

77 Kīrttilatā, p. 66.
78 Kīrttilatā, pp. 68–70.
79 Valmiki, Rāmāyaṇa, pp. 1–2.
 Entangled Vines of Glory 213

unless we stretch our imagination so far as to imagine the Sharqi

Sultan as standing in for Śakti, the ferocious goddess, whom Rama
had to placate and draw power from before he could kill Rāvaṇa!
We will come back to the question of the local–political and the not-
so-local literary in the intermediate80 language of Apabhraṃśa at
the end of the chapter. For the moment, lets move on with the two
brothers into the hustle and bustle of the city of Jaunpur, outside of
which they stood after a long and tiring journey.

The Cosmopolitan City

The description of Jaunpur marks a clear contrast with the familiar/
familial and ‘local’ world of Tirhut that the two brothers left behind.
The readers/listeners of the kāvya are alerted to the grand picture
that awaits them in the very way the city is introduced:

Taṃ khaṇe pekhkhi-a na-ar so Joṇāpura tasu nāma

Lo-ana kerā vallahā Lacchī ko visarāma81

(At that instant they beheld the city, Jaunpur was whose name
Pleasing to the eyes, resting place for Lakṣmī.)

Immediately, the poet changes gear and breaks into geetikā

chhanda, a metre that lends itself to vigorous celebratory recitation,
with a crackling staccato:

Pekhkhia-u paṭṭana cāru mekhara jauṇ nīra pakhāriā

Pāsāṇa kuṭṭima bhīti bhītara cūra uppara ḍhāri-ā
Pallavi-a kusumi-a phali-a upavana cū-a caṃpaka sohi-ā
Ma-araṅda pāṇa vimuddha mahu-ara saddeñ māṇasa mohi-ā82

([They] saw the beautiful city surrounded by moats, rinsed by water

Inside the walls were stone floors, outside—it was splashed with lime

80 I use the word ‘intermediate’ for Avahaṭṭha to underline its uncertain

status vis-à-vis the categories of local/vernacular vs. trans-local/cosmopolitan,

as seen in an earlier section of this chapter.
81 Kīrttilatā, p. 70.
82 Kīrttilatā, p. 70.
214 a political history of literature

Leafy, flowery, full of fruits, it is an orchard adorned with mango and

campaka trees
Enchanting was the humming of the black bees, intoxicated on the sap
of flowers.)

A detailed description of the cityscape follows—its ponds and

dams, wide roads, and magnificent buildings (nīka nīka niketanā);
broad staircases and large decorated windows too, find an apprecia-
tive mention. Paeans to the dazzling enormity of the place continue
in the same vigorous metre, with a touch of hyperbole (atiśayokti
alaṅkāra), as the poet tells us about ‘hundreds and thousands of
flagged milky-white houses (dhavala gṛiha), each decorated with a
gold jar on top’.83 The grandiose proportions of the physical setting
were duly matched by a thriving city life: People spent their time in
exclusive pursuits such as ‘charity, honour, marriage,84 festivities,
songs, plays, literature, hospitality, supplication, and discrete rec-
reational activities; anywhere you looked, you found them roaming
around, playing, laughing and generally enjoying themselves’.85
If the city impressed with its sheer size and bustling life, it was
even more striking for its affluence, evident as much in the vastness
of its market and sheer magnitude of business as in the majestic
buildings and entertainment avenues. As one entered the first gate
of the market (hāṭa), one would notice the ‘clinking of eight-metal
(aṣṭadhātu) vessels being hammered into shape; the tinkering sound
of brass utensils spread outside the metalsmiths’; a large number
of villagers and towns-folk at the financiers’; separate markets of
paddy, gold, betel leaves, delicacies, fish, and so on. If one tells this
story truthfully, it would start sounding like a lie!’ The rush was at
its maximum in the afternoon ‘when goods from all over the world
[sakalapṛithvī cakra] came to the realm to be sold’, and when all sorts
of traders came and ‘sold all their wares and bought everything in an
instant, khaṇa eke sabe vikkaṇathisabbe kichu kiṇa-ite pāvathi’.86

83 Kīrttilatā, p. 71.
84 It is not clear why the author included ‘marriage’ in the list of activities
that usually occupied people in the city.
85 Kīrttilatā, p. 72.
86 Kīrttilatā, pp. 74–5.
 Entangled Vines of Glory 215

As ‘the two princes went into the market, there were thousands
of elephants and hundreds of thousands of horses, tado ve kumaro
pa-iṭṭhe bajāro jahī lakhkha ghorā ma-aṅgā hajāro’. Further, there were
‘low-born maid-servants, ceṭi mandā and slave women and men, vādi
vandā’.87 For Vidyapati, however, the most colourful manifestation of
the city’s opulence was its women in hundreds and thousands: There
were trader-women—pretty, young, and virtuous sitting in the streets;
but there were also a large number of courtesans and sex workers:
women of easy virtue available for a price, living in such majestic
houses that seemed to have been built by Viśvakarmā, the divine
patron of metals and architecture, himself! A large number of verses
are devoted to describing their make-up, hairstyles, perfumes, attire,
and sheer bodily charms. It would be no exaggeration to say that the
male-poet in Vidyapati, possibly aided by his ‘rural’ sensibility, was
obsessed with the women of Jaunpur. A familiar Sanskrit trope, gen-
dered but time-tested, to mark happy times is also invoked: ‘hordes of
beautiful women, with eyes as large as the leaves of land-lotus plants,
thalakamala patta pamāna netrahi and with a gait like that of an
elephant, kuñjaragāminī, roam around the roads and squares, turning
back every now and then to check’.88
What confirms the status of Kīrttilatā’s Jaunpur as a truly
cosmopolitan city, however, is its stunning ethno-cultural diversity,
beautifully captured by the poet. Hordes of Brāhmaṇas, Kāyasthas,
Rājapūtas, and many castes ( jātis) ‘lived together, mili basa-i
cappari’.89 Then there were a large number of ghulams (slaves) to be

87 Kīrttilatā, p. 81.
88 At another place, the poet claims, the young women met everyone’s
eyes with their sidelong glance, ‘sabba-u kerā rijunayan taruṇī herai baṅk’
(Kīrttilatā, p. 77). The remark probably also alerted the reader/listener
to the urban(e) sensibility the poet is addressing here. Govardhana, a
poet in the court of Lakṣamaṇasena (late twelfth-century Bengal) and a
contemporary of the more famous Jayadeva, remarked on the differences
between rural and urban sensibilities with a verse about how the side-
long glance of a woman trying to seduce a man could, in rural areas, be
interpreted as her being a witch. See Knutson, Into the Twilight of Sanskrit
Court Poetry, p. 7.
89 Kīrttilatā, p. 77.
216 a political history of literature

bought, and there were also numerous Mīrs, Maliks, Salārs, Khojās,
and an infinite number of Turks (turakas/turuṣka/tullukas/tulukas).
Here is Vidyapati’s somewhat exoticized and colourful description
of the cultural mix:

Hindū Tuluka milala vāsa

Ekaka dhamme a-okāka hāsa
Katahu bāṅga katahu veda
Katahu bisamila katahu cheda
Katahu Ojhā katahu Khojā
Katahu nakata katahu rojā
Katahu tambārū katahu kūjā
Katahu nīmāja katahu pūjā
Katahu Tulukā bala kara
vāṭa jāyate begāra dhara

(Hindus and Turks live together

One’s religion funny to the other
Bānga90 here, Vedas there
Bismillah here, sacrifices there
Ojha91 here, Khoja92 there
Nakata93 here, Roza94 there
Copper vessel here, a kūzā95 there
Namāj here, pūjā there
Sometimes the Turks use coercion
[ forcing] passers-by into unpaid labour.)

90 Persian: banga meaning ‘the call to prayer from the minaret of a

mosque’. See Steingass, Comprehensive Persian–English Dictionary, p. 152.
91 A North Indian exorcist.
92 An eunuch.
93 From Sanskrit: nakta, meaning a type of ‘religious vow or penance’

whereby one eats only at night. See Apte, Sanskrit–English Dictionary, pp. 532–3.
94 Persian: roza, a fasting day, especially during the month of Ramazan,

when it is not permitted to eat till the evening. See Steingass, Comprehensive
Persian–English Dictionary, p. 594.
95 Persian: kuza, an earthen bottle with a long narrow neck, commonly

used to minimize wastage of water in the water-starved Persian-speaking

world during the middle ages. See Steingass, Comprehensive Persian–English
Dictionary, p. 1061.
 Entangled Vines of Glory 217

Almost everything in Jaunpur, it would appear, was awe-inspiring

for Vidyapati. Yet, he probably found much there that was exotic, even
alienating, for his rural–Brāhmaṇa self. There were two aspects in
particular that he singled out for separate and extended treatment.
The women of the city fascinated him. He kept coming back to the
theme again and again through the second pallava, and glimpses
of these literary vignettes we have already discussed above. Equally
intriguing to him, it seems, were the Turks, who he described sepa-
rately and at length in a metre (bhujanṅgaprayāta chhanda) that goes
well with the authorial intent to surprise and amuse:

Kharīde pahūco bahutto gulāmo

Turuṣke Turuṣke aneko salāmo
….
Abe-be bhanantā sarābā pi-antā
Kalīmā kahantā kalāme jiantā
Kasīdā kāḍhantā masīdā bhamantā
Kitebā paṭhanta tulukkā anantā
Ati gah sumaru Khodā-e, khā-e le bhānga ka gunḍā
Binu kāraṇahi kohā-e va-an tātala tamakunḍā
Turuk tuṣārahi calala hāṭa bhami herā cāha-i
Āḍī ḍīṭhi nihāri davali dāḍhī thuka vāha-i96

(Countless slaves to be bought

Turks keep exchanging salam after salam
….
They spit out ‘abe-be’, drink alcohol
They recite kalama, live on poetry
Carve kashidas and visit mosques
Countless Turks recite khutba97
They heartily remember Khoda and swallow a mouthful of bhāṅga98
Get angry without reason, and then their faces resemble a hot copper pot
Riding snow-white horses in the market, they inspect animals99
When they cast a sidelong glance, spit spreads all over their beard.)

96Kīrttilatā, pp. 83–4.

97The congregational Friday prayer for Muslims. However, the word kiteba
might alternatively refer to the book (Persian: kitab) meaning the Quran.
98 A plant-based intoxicant found in the Indian subcontinent.
99 Alternatively, this could be translated as ‘he collects taxes on animals’.
218 a political history of literature

Historians of medieval India would be familiar with the image

of Turks as illiterate, uncouth, and lacking in good manners. Such
stereotypes, it would appear, circulated in certain urban circuits of
North India, as Persian accounts would also attest.100 In fact, Turks
were not the only ones among the migrant Muslims who were
vulnerable to typecasting or ridicule. In the fifteenth century, this
is what a Persian-speaking Mulla reportedly said when the Afghan
ruler Sultan, Bahlul Lodi, came into his presence: ‘Praise be to God:
Strange people [Afghans] have appeared. I do not know whether they
are the predecessors of Antichrist or possess the nature of Antichrist
themselves. They call the mother, Mur; the brother, rur; the house,
gur; the village, shur; and the man, nūr’.101
It is equally tempting to recall and tune into the now decades-
long debate about the multiple, and historically contingent literary
representations of the ‘other’ in Indic languages in the medieval
period.102 It is more pertinent, however, in the light of the larger
textual dynamics of Kīrttilatā, as well as the concerns of this
chapter, to take this ‘othering’ of Turks as part of our poet’s wider
project of presenting the cultural mosaic that the city of Jaunpur,
appeared to be.
As the reference above to the use of force (bala kara) indicated,
the poet was also cognizant of the potential discord that the tremen-
dous density and diversity of the populace could engender. Indeed,
it could, at least on occasion, even lead to chaos and breakdown of
the social order. Some of it could be benign: It was easy for people to
lose their way in the veritable ‘ocean of humanity, nara samudda-o’.103

100 Nizam al-Din Awliya in the fourteenth century, for example, approv-
ingly narrated a story in which a pious Muslim described a Turk in similar
terms. See Sijzi, Fawa’id al Fu’ad, cited in Kumar, The Emergence of the Delhi
Sultanate, pp. 200–1.
101 This is Siddiqui’s translation of the relevant passage in Mushtaqui,

Waqi‘at-i-Mushtaqui, p. 9.
102 For fascinating discussions of the contentious historiographic issues,

see Chattopadhyaya, Representing the Other?; Pollock, ‘Rāmāyaṇa and Political

Imagination’; Talbot, ‘Inscribing the Other’; Thapar, ‘Imagined Religious
Communities?’.
103 Kīrttilatā, p. 75.
 Entangled Vines of Glory 219

In the melee on the streets, one’s body brushed against that of

others so much so that the tilak on one’s forehead might rub off on
another’s! But even these incidental transgressions were not always
so benign: ladies’ bangles could be crushed against male dancers
disguised as women or, worse still, a Brāhmaṇa’s sacred thread might
fall on a cāṇḍāla’s body. Again, the worst and most wilful excesses
are attributed to the Turk:

he catches hold of the Brāhmaṇa boy and rubs cow-fat [gā-ika caruā]
on his forehead; licks up [the boy’s] tilak, rips off his sacred thread,
and seeks to crush him under his horse, ūpara carāva-e cāha ghora;
he prepares alcohol with rice, demolishes the temple and builds a
mosque; the whole earth is saturated with graves and domes and there
is hardly any place to put one’s foot on; he drives out people calling
them Hindus, even the tiniest/youngest of Turks keeps threatening
everyone, choṭaho tuluko bhabhakī mār.104

At one level, instances such as the one cited above, might

be comparable to, if not worse than the scenes of anarchy that
ostensibly gripped Tirhut in the aftermath of the killing of Raja
Gaṇesara by Arsalan. It is doubtful, however, if Vidyapati himself
thought so. Earlier in the section it was noted how he seemed to
be in appreciative awe of the wonders of the city. Did his account
of the excesses of the Turks and other instances of ‘disorder’ cited
above militate against that spirit? At one stage, while describing
the chaotic atmosphere of the city, the poet notes that ‘the king
[Rā-e] kept an eye over the city’.105 At another point, in his narra-
tive of the Turks running amok in Jaunpur, he is careful to point
out how a government official, ‘muqaddam with an arrow [and a
bow] keeps watch over him [the Turk] and forces him to sit still’,106
gesturing towards the presence of law-enforcing agencies in the
city. He came back to the theme of law enforcement at the end
of his account of the Turks, just in case the reader might have
misunderstood him, and declared, ‘May the Sultan under whose

104 Kīrttilatā, p. 88.

105 Kīrttilatā, p. 77.
106 Kīrttilatā, p. 84.
220 a political history of literature

authority, even Turks such as these are in check, live long!’107

That is why, notwithstanding the unruly conduct of certain rogue
elements in the city, he was able to hold on to the view, expressed
earlier in the section, that it was like ‘a second incarnation of
heaven [amarāvatī]’.108 He reassured his readers/listeners repeat-
edly that ‘everyone was good and all were wealthy, save su-ana save
sadhana’,109 and added that

Sabba-u ṇāri viakhkhaṇī sabba-u susthita loka

Siri Ibarāhimasāhi guṇe ṇahi cintā ṇahi soka110

(All the women were sagacious and everyone was well-placed

By virtue of Śrī Ibrahim Shah, there are no worries and no troubles.)

To put it in the more familiar, modern historiographic vocabulary:

Is it not possible to say that the dharma of the Sanskrit literary tradition
was underwritten here, in Vidyapati’s Apabhraṃśa rendering, by a
state that was primarily invested in the Persian literary tradition? How
did the poet perceive and represent the state under the Sharqi Sultan,
Ibrahim Shah?

The ‘Imperial’ State of the Sharqis

The entire third pallava and a little of the fourth of Kīrttilatā focussed
on Kīrttisiṃha’s liaising with or, more accurately, his supplication
before Sultan Ibrahim Shah. Vidyapati used the opportunity, however,
to give a detailed account of the Sharqi kingdom: Its physical set-
ting, majestic court, elaborate bureaucracy, its patronage to a large
number of subordinate princes speaking a variety of languages, its
infallible machinery of justice, and its large and apparently invincible
army (consisting of foot soldiers, horses, and elephants) come in for
embellished and evidently exaggerated treatment. After having told
us in the sombre metre of a couplet (dohā) that the two brothers, in

107 Kīrttilatā, p. 89.

108 Kīrttilatā, p. 73.
109 Kīrttilatā, p. 77.
110 Kīrttilatā, p. 81.
 Entangled Vines of Glory 221

curiosity and for work, entered the Sharqi court, the poet breaks into
padmāvatī chhanda, another metre suited to celebrate heroism and
invoke the vīra rasa:

Lo-aha sammadde bahuviha vadde aṃbara manḍala pūrī-ā

Āvatte Turukkā Khāṇa Malikkā pa-a bhare patthar cūrī-ā
Dūra hetti āvā baḍada-u rāvā dravali duārahi bārī-ā
Cāhate chāhara āva-i bāhara gālima gaṇa-e na pārī-ā111

(The throng of people and [sound of ] musical instruments filled the

skies
The feet of incoming Turks, Khans, and Maliks crushed the floor-stones
Great kings from distant places too were stopped right away at the
gate
Favoured boys come out, ghulams cannot be counted.)

‘People travel in all directions, from islands to mountains and

seas, to meet the Rāṇas and Rauts but’, added the poet, ‘you would
find all of them together here at the door [of the Sharqi court]’.
Rājapūtas from ‘Telaṅga, Vaṅgā, Cola and Kaliṅga were all there.
They, Rājapūtas and Brāhmaṇas [paṇḍia] alike, shivered with fear,
gathered courage, and made submissions in their own languages,
ni-a bhāsā [before the Sultan’s court].’112 The court, the poet noted
more than once, was special and above the whole universe;113 its
king, Pātisāha was supreme, and only God, Karatāra, was above him.
Persian names of each of the umpteen doors of the court are given,
before wondering rhetorically if Viśvakarmā, the god of metals and
architecture, had himself been at work there!114 Expectedly, the lord
of such an exalted court was not easily accessible. On their first visit,
the two brothers and their companions looked around, discovered
its secrets (rahasa), and probably found out its procedures. They also

111 Kīrttilatā, p. 89.

112 Kīrttilatā, pp. 90–1.
113 Ehu khāsa darabāra sa-ela mahīmaṇḍala uppari. This is one of the

many examples in the text of the juxtaposition of two very distinct linguistic
traditions in one sentence/stanza: the [Persian] darbar, court denoted as the
supreme arbiter over the (Sanskrit) mahīmaṇḍala, whole earth.
114 Kīrttilatā, p. 92.
222 a political history of literature

got their identities verified with a well-behaved officer, siṭṭha padika

parica-a pamāni-a.115 On the next visit, they called upon the prime
minister, ujjīra, told him about their work, and probably requested an
audience with the Sultan. For, on the next visit, presumably after a(n)
(unspecified) time lag, they met the Sultan at an auspicious moment,
subha muhutta.
To their relief, Ibrahim Shah was sufficiently moved by their
submissions and ordered the Khans and umra (singular: amir; refers
to military commanders) to prepare with arms and provisions to
move towards Tirhut. However, reports Vidyapati, news of some
disturbance elsewhere arrived and the army embarked on a cam-
paign towards the west rather than the east. This seems to have left
Kīrttisiṃha crestfallen. His elder brother Vīrasiṃha recommended
patience and persistence, before describing the equation between
him and the Sultan with remarkable candour for a poetic composition
like Kīrttilatā:

U viakhkhaṇa tummeṃ guṇamanta

U sadhamma tohe suddha oho sadaya tohe raja khanḍi-a
O jigīṣu tohe sūra uha rā-a tohe rā-a paṇḍi-a
Puhavīpati suratāna u tummeṃ rā-akumāra
Ekke citte ja-i sevia-i dhu-a hosa-i parakāra116

(He is sagacious, you are virtuous

He is with dharma and you are pure, he kind and you dethroned
He seeks victory and you are brave, he is king, you are a raj-paṇḍita
He is Lord of the earth, you a prince
If you persist in waiting on [him], surely some way out would appear.)

Kīrttisiṃha decided to accompany, though perhaps not partici-

pate in, the Sharqi campaign. The text noted terrible hardships for
him during the journey, even as the march of the victorious army
is described and celebrated in some detail. Particularly noteworthy
in this description is the fact that Vidyapati likened Ibrahim Shah’s
expedition to a digvijaya, wherein the enemies were killed or chased
away, and the territorial frontiers were extended up to the oceans.

115 Kīrttilatā, p. 95.

116 Kīrttilatā, p. 106.
 Entangled Vines of Glory 223

There was not a single king who could stop his march: The only
way to save one’s life was to submit to him and become a tax-paying
subject, rai-ati!117
A second aspect that came in for renewed emphasis in the third
pallava was the system of justice under the Sharqi dispensation:
Once one became a subject, one was absolutely safe from all
excesses.118 One had to pay heavily even for the smallest of crimes.
Earlier in the text, it was noted that even the poorest of the poor,
raṅka, could prevail upon the court with their truthful solicitation
for justice.119 It comes as no surprise of course, that the dharmic
order (dhamma) was re-established in Tirhut towards the end of
the text, after a bloody battle that Kīrttisiṃha waged against the
‘usurper’ Arsalan with the help of the apparently invincible Sharqi
military machine.
What the two princes from the ‘local’ chieftaincy of Tirhut
witnessed in the Jaunpur court was truly remarkable: hordes of poets
(bhāṭṭā ghaṭṭā) singing praises of the Sultan in the palace120 and
perhaps outside; scores of tributary princes from far-off places speak-
ing diverse languages, but beholden in equal measure to the Sharqi
sultan; a formalized system of justice, dispensing grace and punish-
ment to all; a Turkish ruler with the Persian title of Badshah (Pātisāha),
wedded to dharma (sadhamma), and engaged in a military campaign
for the Sanskritic ideal of digvijaya; and finally, a territorial expanse
that ostensibly reached up to the ‘natural’ frontier of the oceans. This,
in any case, was how Vidyapati would have liked the ‘audience’ of the
Apabhraṃśa composition to perceive the Sharqi state. It is remark-
able that the Brāhmaṇa poet celebrated, in the process of eulogizing
his patron of humble means and local aspirations, the ostensibly
‘imperial’ Sharqi state, that among other things, engaged in digvi-
jaya, extended the frontiers of its domain endlessly to the limits of the
oceans, and subdued princes from distant lands speaking a variety of
languages.

117 Kīrttilatā, pp. 109–10.

118 Literally, ‘nothing—not even weeds and leaves, khara pā-ia could
touch you’; see Kīrttilatā, p. 111.
119 Kīrttilatā, p. 92.
120 Kīrttilatā, p. 90.
224 a political history of literature

Literature and Politics

Reflecting back on the three ‘entangled worlds’ that Kīrttilatā
constructed for its readers/listeners, it is not difficult to see that none
of these worlds were simple or one-dimensional. The local political
sphere of the Tirhut chieftaincy, for example, was firmly grounded
literarily in the epic (or an Apabhraṃśa version of the epic Rāmāyaṇa)
traditions, and ethically in the Sanskrit ecumenical as the refrain to
dharma suggests. The territorial domain and aspirations of the Oiṇīvāra
dynasty might have been localized and humble, but their protagonists
were expected to match the high ethical standards (embedded in
dharma) set by Puraṇic heroes. As we have seen in the last chapter,
Vidyapati elaborated these ethics with reference to their more historical,
as against mythic, exemplars later in his career in Puruṣaparīkṣā.
We know that even though the Sharqis did intermittently try to
expand their territorial boundaries and ruled over a limited number
of diverse linguistic–cultural zones, their domains never reached up
to the oceans.121 We also know that a number of other rival states
co-existed with them in North India, and that they never held a
position of decisive ascendancy relative to their rivals. One might
point out that Vidyapati’s depictions of the Sharqi state and its accom-
plishments are obviously inaccurate, even ‘unreliable’. Nor is it my
intention to argue otherwise. Rather, my interest lies in the poetic
imagination that used Kīrttilatā as a vehicle for a set of very specific
political ideals (that those ideals did not match the existing realities
of the time is a different matter, though not completely irrelevant).
At the core of these ideals was the aspiration for an imperial formation
with universal claims, majestic courts, and supreme authority. Is this
merely a continued and conservative/nostalgic adherence to the age-
old Sanskritic ideal of rājyam that Pollock thought had disappeared
during this time?122 Perhaps not.
We have seen already, how the Sanskrit ākhyāyikā text was sup-
posed to be written in the vikaṭa style, and celebrate the achievements

121 See Nizami, ‘The Sharqi Kingdom of Jaunpur’.

122 Pollock, ‘India in the Vernacular Millennium: Literary Culture and
Polity: 1000–1500’, p. 56.
 Entangled Vines of Glory 225

of its protagonist. We have also seen that the carita/cariu genre in

Apabhraṃśa and Prakrit was often wedded to the Puranic mode of
mythologizing that could at best revolve around semi-historical char-
acters. If Vidyapati still appeared, on occasion, to candidly provide
some details not particularly favourable towards the eponymous hero
of his composition (his helplessness while on the westward expedi-
tion of Ibrahim Shah or his tiny stature compared to Ibrahim Shah),
it might be attributed to the indirect ‘influence’ of the history-inspired
tradition of biography in Persian. However, we must not forget that
unlike the Persian biographies that were invariably written in prose,
this Avahaṭṭha composition was a versified work by a poet fully cog-
nizant of its ‘recital’ possibilities (after all, Vidyapati was known in
his lifetime, as well as later, mostly for his song compositions in the
Maithili ‘vernacular’).
One way to approach the question is to revisit the unique
character of Apabhraṃśa, or rather Avahaṭṭha, in which Kīrttilatā was
composed.123 It would be too simplistic to see Apabhraṃśa merely
as something between the vernacular dialects and the cosmopolitan
languages on a linear scale of ‘how far the language travelled’. On
the one hand, it was a medium appreciated by all, sab jan miṭṭhā, as
against the language of the gods that only the ‘chosen of the gods’,
namely, the intellectuals, buajana (mostly Brāhmaṇas), followed; on
the other, it could carry the message much beyond its immediate
locale, unlike the more rooted ‘vernaculars’. The fact that manuscripts
of Kīrttilatā were found as far as Fatehpur in Uttar Pradesh, and
possibly in Rajasthan, only confirms the inter-intelligibility between
various registers/versions of the language popular in different parts
of North India. This double character of Apabhraṃśa gives the
aspirational realism of Kīrttisiṃha’s biography a very resonant and
specific quality. It is crucial here to resist the temptation to look at
Kīrttilatā or for that matter, Apabhraṃśa as mere exceptions to the
otherwise binary world of vernacular sub-regional literary mediums

123 One might safely put aside Sheldon Pollock’s sweeping remark in this
context that ‘neither Prakrit after the fourth century nor Apabhramsha at any
time was permitted a role in articulating political discourse of any stripe.’ See
Pollock, The Language of the Gods, p. 104.
226 a political history of literature

on the one side, and the cosmopolitan Sanskrit on the other. Sheldon
Pollock himself noted how,

In prediscursive life there existed not languages but only language-

continua, and along such a continuum, what in later discourse came
to be named, say, Kannada imperceptibly merged into what was later
called Telugu. In such a world, Kannada and Telugu should not even
be regarded as pregiven points on a spectrum; the eventual segmenta-
tion of that continuum was an effect of, among other things, literary
vernacularization itself.124

While there possibly cannot be any disagreement with the asser-

tion about language continua, it is important to realize that at least in
North India, ‘vernacularization’ did not necessarily and immediately
lead to an irreversible segmentation of the language continuum. To
put it differently, carving a vernacular out of the language continuum
was not a zero-sum game. When Bengali was carved out through
‘textualization’ from this continuum, for example, it did not immedi-
ately lead to a situation wherein Maithili–Bengali- and Persian-tinged
Apabhraṃśa works (such as those of Vidyapati and Jyotirīśvara before
him) would stop being composed, or intelligible to the people, in what
we now know as the region of Bengal. The same would hold true, evi-
dently, for the numerous rāso texts from the Rajasthan region or the
carita/cariu compositions from the Gwalior area during the fourteenth
through the sixteenth centuries, composed in variegated lexical–
syntactical shades of what we are used to imprecisely identifying
as western Rajasthani, Śaurasenī, early Avadhī, and various shades
of Apabhraṃśa, discussed in the first section of this chapter. The
find-spots for most of these texts would suggest a pan-North Indian
circulation and intelligibility. The fact that Puruṣaparīkṣā referred to
certain minor princes (Cācikadeva in satyavīra kathā, for example)125
from Rajasthan and Gujarat even though no Sanskrit work referred
to them, also indicates the circulation of political lore in North India
independent of Sanskrit.
To come back to Kīrttilatā, the universalist ideal that the text
articulated would most likely be circulated much beyond the Mithila

124 Pollock, The Language of the Gods, p. 415.

125 See Puruṣaparīkṣā, pp. 28–32.
 Entangled Vines of Glory 227

region. More critical for my analysis is the fact that the articulation
of this political aspiration was not merely about thinly extending
one’s domain to distant lands without unsettling the sub-regional
geopolitical realities.126 Nor was this imperium mutually exclusive
with regional or local aspirations. Rather it celebrated the local
state formations reaching down to the lowest denominator among
the taxpayers, even as it rode on these small and not-so-small
domains and sought to integrate a variety of them within its fold.
Late Apabhraṃśa, and even some of the ‘vernaculars’ (Avadhī, for
example), intelligible outside of their immediate zones, were ideally
suited vehicles for such an enterprise, for their simultaneous vertical
and horizontal reach.
An interesting aspect of these linguistic registers was the
abundant infidelity with which they cohabited lexically with Persian,
the new cosmopolitan entity on the block, in language, as well as in
the new set of ideational resources that it brought. Our discussion
of the language, Avahaṭṭha, of Kīrttilatā earlier in the chapter, noted
how one of its distinctive traits was the use of a large number of
not just tatsam, Sanskrit loanwords, but also a range of Persian words.
It is possible to argue that this ‘language practice’ signalled a deeper,
if less visible, move towards a politico-ideological mutation.127 The
last chapter discussed how the Sanskritic ideal of puruṣārtha could

126 David Shulman noted, in the context of Sheldon Pollock’s formulation

of a Sanskrit cosmopolis, ‘that the cosmopolitan poets such as Bharavi and
Magha were professionals, members of a non-official guild, practitioners of a
well-defined craft—the production of polished (ullikhita) poetry in Sanskrit for
consumption by a refined elite’. See Orsini, Shulman, and Venkatachelapathy,
‘A Review Symposium: Literary Cultures in History’, p. 381.
127 It is fair to point out that on the rare occasions when Pollock does try

to factor in the presence of the Delhi Sultanate and the Persian ecumene, he
does vaguely hint at the possibilities discussed here. The closest he comes is
when he mentions that ‘[t]here are dramatic instances of vernacularization
largely contemporaneous with the expansion of Sultanate power and that
actually remark on its presence, such as in Maharashtra. Reverberations of
the rise of the new political powers, quite like those in the chansons de geste,
may be heard in a wide variety of early north Indian vernacular works’. See
Pollock, The Language of the Gods, p. 493.
228 a political history of literature

be used to subsume a discrete discourse on political ethics. The

detailed theoretical and empirical explication of puruṣārtha, not yet
formulated by Vidyapati when he composed Kīrttilatā,128 was an
important operative ideal in Kīrttilatā too. Though the latter text’s
construction was shorter and vaguer, the very reason why the black
bee narrates the story of Kīrttisiṃha is because he was the ‘ideal
man’. Like an ideal man he lived the life of a hero (vīra) with honour
(māna). Later in the third pallava, when he finally got an audience
with the Sharqi sovereign Ibrahim Shah, this is how Vidyapati
describes the prince’s state of mind:

Ajja ucchava ajja kallāna

Ajja sudina sumuhūtta ajja mā-e majhu putta jā-ia
Ajja punna purisattha pātisāha pāposa pā-ia129

(Today is merriment, today is bliss

It is an auspicious day and occasion, truly am I my mother’s son today
My puruṣārtha is complete now that I got to kiss the King’s feet.)

It is difficult to miss the alliterative positing (punna purisattha

pātisāha pāposa) of the ideal of puruṣārtha with pāposa (Persian: pabush),
the pre-Islamic Persian practice of kissing the feet of the Sovereign
as a mark of submission. The particular reformulation whereby the
realization of the Sanskritic ideal of puruṣārtha is represented as
contingent on the protagonist’s symbolic or real performance of the
Persian practice of kissing the feet cannot be easily dismissed as a
mere incidental observation of a poet. Let us bear in mind that the
poet was not beholden for patronage to the Sharqi king, for whom
he was probably a non-entity and his composition of no immediate
value. In fact, as several such moves (digvijaya by the Pātisāha,
for example) in the text would suggest, the deployment of Persian
concepts and not just words was a critical component in Vidyapati’s
political imagination of the imperium. This was the reconfigured,
and not ‘forsaken’, ideal of rājyam. This is surely interesting, if a little

128 Though the precise dates for neither text is certain, it is evident that
Kīrttilatā was composed at least about a decade before Puruṣaparīkṣā.
129 Kīrttilatā, p. 98.
 Entangled Vines of Glory 229

intriguing in the face of the present state of historiography of the

‘early modern’ period. That it was only with the Mughals, a century
later, that the state proactively thrived on, even consciously cultivated,
Sanskritic, Hindavi, and Persian literary sensibilities together, is
something that cannot easily be explained.130
Yet, that does reopen the more general question of the fit between
the actual territorial expanse of the states during the period, and the
alleged shrinking of the poetic imagination. The relationship between
language, literature, and power is undeniable, though not as yet
fully fleshed out in the medieval Indian context. It would, however,
be naïve to assume that poetic time and political time moved at the
same speed. Poetic imagination is notoriously elusive. Even beyond
nostalgia, a literary text might sometimes continue to hold on to an
ideal and prefer to rework it rather than give up on it under adverse
circumstances. On the other hand, it might sometimes even help do
the spadework for an ideal that it conjured up at best as a ‘realistic’
fantasy. The distinction between ‘code’ and ‘message’ that Peter Burke
made long ago, and that we discussed in Chapter 2 in this volume,
assumes critical significance in this context.131 The codes, not as
precisely delineable as the algorithm of a computer programme, take
root over time, while the message may ‘instantly’ be delivered. If we
perceive Kīrttilatā as an expressive text with explicit political content,
it is difficult to hold on to the idea that the ‘new type of political space’
was always ‘historically co-present’ with the new literary sensibilities.
Where the political potency of a language and literary composition is
concerned, it is equally important to cast one’s glance diachronically,
a practice that James Scott playfully called an ‘occupational hazard’
for historians.132
In the same vein, it might be pertinent to point out that the
prehistories of imperial formations, such as that of the Mughals, are

130 For a very interesting discussion of the role of Hindavi in Mughal

court culture, see Phukan, ‘Through Throats where Many Rivers Meet’,
pp. 33–58. For a very recent and detailed study of how Sanskrit was deployed
in the service of Mughal imperial enterprise, see Truschke, ‘Cosmopolitan
Encounters’.
131 Burke, The Italian Renaissance: Culture and Society in Italy, p. 3.
132 Scott, ‘Preface’, The Art of Not Being Governed.
230 a political history of literature

almost always written in terms of preceding theories of kingship,

institutional legacies of previously existing states, or early politico-
ideological affiliations of ruling dynasties. Rarely does such a study
‘stoop down’ to considering how a pre-state or proto-state populace
is prepared for the final conversion into becoming a full-fledged
imperial subject. My study suggests that the literary representations
(such as Kīrttilatā) of an imperial formation, real or fantastic, that
were made available to the would-be subjects of an empire might
have played an important role in such a preparation. No instrumen-
talized teleology is implied here. Such a process is never simple,
linear, terminable, or spectacular. Rarely would it be intended. Still,
if the process of the ‘emergence’ of imperium has to be understood
as anything more than the realization of the individual ambitions
and ideological aspirations of a conqueror/dynasty, such a study is
unavoidable.
Conclusion

Not that I assert poets to be prophets in the gross sense of the word, or that
they can foretell the form as surely as they foreknow the spirit of events:
such is the pretence of superstition, which would make poetry an attribute
of prophecy, rather than prophecy an attribute of poetry…. Poets are the
unacknowledged legislators of the world.1
—Percy Bysshe Shelley

L
et me begin with a quick and brief summary of the ground
covered so far in this volume. We began by noting that
Vidyapati was a prolific author with an extraordinary range of
compositions—covering a variety of themes in several languages—
to his credit. His patrons were all local chieftains with very humble
political ambitions, or so historians of larger imperial establish-
ments assess. They belonged to a region, Mithila, which was not

1 Shelley, ‘A Defence of Poetry’.

A Political History of Literature: Vidyapati and the Fifteenth Century. Pankaj Jha,
Oxford University Press (2019). © Pankaj Jha.
DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780199489558.001.0001
232 Conclusion

located on the main arteries of commercial and military commu-

nication. Nor was it an integral and stable slice of the territorial
possessions of any of the bigger kingdoms that laid claim over it,
whether the Sharqis, the Bengal Sultanate, or, earlier in the four-
teenth century, the Delhi Sultanate. Yet, its rich legacy of Sanskrit
learning and emergent tradition of ‘vernacular’ creativity threw up
a great crop of poets and scholars, from Jyotirīśvara and Caṇḍeśvara
to Gaṅgeśa and Vācaspati Miśra during the fourteenth and fifteenth
centuries. Vidyapati was part of this community of scholars. Yet he
was so outstanding in his versatility that he becomes as much a
puzzle for the historian, as he remains a delight for the local cultural
chauvinist.
It is only when Vidyapati is located in the trans-local networks of
the multilingual literary cultures of North India in fifteenth century
that the puzzle starts to unravel slowly. As noted in Chapter 2 in
this volume, the multilinguality of the fifteenth century itself had
a very specific character. First, it was polymorphous: this is seen
in the borrowings of words, bending of verbs, tweaking of genres,
adaptation of metres, use of several languages in the same text, even
occasionally in configuring liminal languages of the kind referred to
by Sudipta Kaviraj.2 Second, it was polycentric: this is evident not only
in the centrally located bigger centres of power like Gwalior, Gujarat,
and Malwa, but also in the ‘outlying’ areas like Bengal, Mithila, and
Kashmir. Third, it affected all the named languages, as well as the as yet
unnamed speech forms that either developed into vernacular dialects
with time or disappeared altogether. Fourth, it was multi-directional:
the traffic of ‘influence’ between languages might have been uneven
but it was never unidirectional. Sanskrit and Persian too were affected
by the ‘vernaculars’ and by each other as the latter were affected by the
two cosmopolitan languages.
The addition of Persian to the conundrum and the steady ‘main-
streaming’ of a whole variety of disparate populations only made it
more complex and multifarious. These disparate peoples included
those who spoke Turkish, Persian, Arabic, and vernacular subsets
of these. Sanskrit texts often described them with blanket terms like

2 See Kaviraj, ‘The Two Histories of Literary Culture in Bengal’.

 Conclusion 233

mleccha and yavana.3 No less significant, however, was the coming

into historical visibility of the other, indeed the ‘original’ mlecchas:
those that the modern anthropologists, like the Sanskrit scholars
of the Middle Ages, describe with a blanket term of their own, the
‘tribals’.4
The aforementioned process gained in no small measure from
the policies of Delhi Sultans moving into regions that the Persian
chroniclers described as mawas.5 It also gained from the activities
of those who fell from the Sultanate’s favour, and along with their
retainers, turned the mawas into their habitat.6 In the fifteenth cen-
tury too, Vidyapati mentioned the continued initiative by the state to
bring the deserted, or as yet uncultivated, lands (ujjaṭabhūmi) under
cultivation.7
The emergence of multilingualism, it would appear then, was
socially and politically powered by a long-term historical tendency
towards closer interactions among people from diverse, part-shared
and part-distinct, geocultural backgrounds. The point that emerged
repeatedly, and from very different contexts, through the various
chapters, is the continued vitality, indeed greater intensification, of

3 ‘Mleccha’ literally meant impure/dirty. Sanskrit scholars often used the

word to refer to lower castes or those without a caste. Frequently, the word
was used to refer to Muslims, Christians, and people of any religion that did
not have a varṇa/caste system. As such, one of the first people they called
mleccha were the Greeks, who came to India during the ancient period. The
proper Sanskrit word for the Greeks however, was ‘yavana’. This later word
too soon became a generic expression to loosely refer to those who came via
the northwestern frontiers of the Indian subcontinent.
4 The speech practices of these other ‘mlecchas’ remain below the radar

of historians, but it would not be far-fetched to assume that traces of them

must be buried somewhere in the continuously expanding vocabularies of the
different forms of Apabhraṃśa as well as the local dialects.
5 Hodivala, Studies in Indo-Muslim History, Supplement: Vol. II, ‘He

Proceeded into Mawās’, pp. 226–9. Mawas literally means ‘a sanctuary’ or ‘a

place of refuge’, usually because of its not-so-easily fordable terrain. From the
perspective of the courts of Delhi Sultanate, mawas carried the added sense
of being ‘disturbed locales yet to be tamed’.
6 Kumar, Emergence of the Delhi Sultanate, especially Chapter 5.
7 Vidyapati, Likhanāvalī, letter no. 10, p. 8.
234 Conclusion

these processes in the fifteenth century. The strong culture of multilin-

gual forms was visible in extensive and disconnected regions during
this period. Mahmud Begada (r. 1458–1511) of Gujarat, primarily
invested in Persian, also sponsored his own Sanskrit biography;8
Sultan Zain al-Abidin (r. 1420–1470) of Kashmir got Rājataraṅginī
translated into Persian and revived Sanskrit literary production
in Kashmir;9 Maithili songs were increasingly being introduced
into Sanskrit plays in Nepal and Mithila;10 sufis in Bengal used the
maṅgal-kāvya genre of premodern Bengali literature to glorify their
Sheikhs;11 a version of Mahābhārata was produced in the local dialect
in Orissa.12 The examples might be multiplied.
The most noteworthy aspect of multilingualism was that it brewed
over a long period of time. Perhaps it was slow in the making, and
became starkly visible only from the thirteenth century. But, it most
certainly indexed a new cultural vitality riding on a long history that
refused to be arrested with the disintegration of the Delhi Sultanate.13
Experiments with multilinguality were only one of the many interme-
diate consequences of these processes, though. A parallel but related
phenomenon also noticeable during the same period, that is, from
the eleventh century onwards and coming into its own in the fifteenth
century, was an unprecedented proliferation of literary compositions.
This is true as much in the case of Sanskrit, as in that of the so-called
vernaculars. Dozens of texts were composed in Sanskrit for the first
time, for example, on the theme of proper conduct and prescribed
rituals for Śudras alone.14 Persian, the latest cosmopolitan entry into

8 Kapadia, ‘The Last Cakravartin?’.

9 Zutshi, ‘Past as Tradition, Past as History’, p. 203.
10 Mishra, ‘Bhumikā’ in Vidyapati, Gorakṣavijaya, pp. 6–8.
11 Eaton, Rise of Islam and the Bengal Frontier, especially Chapter 8, ‘Islam

and the Agrarian Order in the East’.

12 Sahu, ‘Sarala’s Odra-desa: Literary Representations of a Regional Society’.
13 Chattopadhyaya noted ‘integrative tendencies’ emanating out of greater

interactions between differently developed localities from at least the seventh

century onwards. See Chattopadhyaya, ‘Political Processes and Structure of Polity’.
14 We have references to at least forty-nine such texts between the

fourteenth and seventeenth century. See Benke, ‘The Śūdrācāraśiromaṇi of

Kṛṣṇa Śeṣa’. I thank Mayank Kumar for bringing this work to my notice.
 Conclusion 235

the subcontinent, added in no small measure to this geometrical

progression. As noted in Chapter 3 in this volume, texts have a
tendency to thrive on each other, sometimes without acknowledging
the debts.
The swelling mass of literary output in the fifteenth century
was remarkably diverse in its themes, visions, genres, and novelty/
orthodoxy. Yet, it is possible to identify a few powerful impulses. The
common thread, weaving through each of my three case studies, was
twofold: on the one hand, each composition was rooted in the deep
histories of its own genre, theme, and orientation; on the other, each
used its legacy flexibly and reconfigured the ideals that it articulated.
The classicizing impulse is evident, but the contemporary flavour is
unmistakable in each case. The debt to the Persian ecumene too, is
present, although unevenly. In Kīrttilatā, it is explicit and ever present.
In Likhanāvalī, it is implicit but substantive. In Puruṣaparīkṣā, it is
somewhat indirect, mediated by a long history, and sublimated into
the framing of the text. The insistent recurrence of visions of empire
is evident in each of the three. It is significant, from the perspective of
methodology, however, that the articulation of these visions differed
with genre.
If we compare the genre of these texts, a pattern seems to emerge.
Likhanāvalī was most beholden to the Persian genre of insha, but it
was also clearly ‘imagined’ and hence entirely fictitious, gesturing
towards a political setting, and catering to the professional needs of
an occupation that was probably still in the process of reconstitut-
ing itself, that is, scribing. At a time when most of the major state
formations conducted their official business in Persian, the appear-
ance of a manual for framing official documents and writing letters in
Sanskrit might appear incongruous. As we saw through the chapter
(Chapter 3 in this volume), however, the system of documentation
and the controversial occupation of the scribes had a long history in
Sanskrit that seemed to have intermingled with the insha tradition in
Persian in very interesting and productive ways. The expanding world
of knowledge formations in various languages were thus constantly
feeding upon and enriching each other.
Puruṣaparīkṣā, on the other hand, was largely historical with
occasional legends and mythological tales being thrown in between.
Where the presentation of a text on nīti (or naya) was concerned, this
236 Conclusion

came in handy; the author conveniently deployed stories from imag-

ined/mythic pasts to illustrate virtues for which no ready historical
examples were available. It is in this text that we see an attempt on
the part of one of the traditional elite (a Brāhmaṇa scholar) to use
his knowledge of Sanskrit śāstras to produce what might be called
a ‘useable past’: a collection of stories that claimed to do no more
than illustrate the ‘classical–universal’ lore on nīti with the authority
of history, Vedas, logic, and pragmatism. The fact that these tales were
woven around the question of how to be an ideal man, and that they
were told with the easy flair of a narrator in an oral context only made
them more multivalent and easily accessible. In fact, Vidyapati was
not the only person producing books on conduct with a classicizing
impulse. As we saw, if there was a long history of kathā-driven nīti
books in Sanskrit, the pre-Mughal period was also witness to a
number of mirror-for-princes books in Persian that wove together
ideas of manliness with political ethics. Akhlaq-i Nasiri was only one
of the many such books available to North Indians during this period.
In Kīrtilatā, however, the tale remained largely historical and stuck
to a known course of political events, even as the author took poetic
liberties with the use of a ‘vikaṭa’ or vigorous style of retelling.
This was particularly useful for creating the wide-eyed account of a
cosmopolitan milieu that the author evidently wanted to eulogize.
Such a style helped in a creative misrepresentation of the Sharqi
court and capital as the ultimate earthly power (next only to the divine
court of the mythic Indra): the abode of authority that extended into
a limitless frontier, that upheld the tenets of dharma, that brooked
no challenge and made no compromises, and where rajas from all
directions waited for the royal grace in fear and hope. This was an
imperium to look forward to. It was a political order worth preserving,
and if not there, worth aspiring for.
In terms of their contents too, the three texts make for interesting
comparison: Likhanāvalī hypothetically described a virtual checklist
of a whole range of imperatives of state building that we are more
familiar with from the kind of claims put forth by the Mughal state.
It also sought to ‘prepare’ at least one kind of experts necessary for
empire building—those well-versed in ideals of governance as well
as techniques of appropriate documentation. In Puruṣaparīkṣā,
the discourse on nīti and puruṣārtha readjusted caste and gender
 Conclusion 237

as essential components of social order and state power.15 The text

claimed to be non-sectarian and drew on diverse sources of authority:
Vedic lore, recent history, and pragmatism. Kīrttilatā, on the other
hand, juxtaposed two different but mutually compatible worlds. If the
minor domain of Tirhut was local, unpretentious, and virtuous, the
superior realm of the Sharqi ‘imperium’ was represented hyperboli-
cally as unbounded in its expanse, extraordinarily prosperous, most
powerful yet equally virtuous in protecting dharma.
The common thread running through each of the three com-
positions of Vidyapati, was a reformulated ideal of the imperium.
The literary formation that supported the edifice of this imperium
was composed of divergent, even contrasting contexts. Certainly,
the socio-political and literary visions that sustained (and gained
from) the establishment of big imperial states, whether that of the
Cālukyas, Pratihāras, or of the Delhi Sultanate, did not disappear
with their respective disintegration. They lingered and found
hospitable ground in umpteen ‘regional’ locations, often—and this
is the important point—without having to abandon their expansive
tendencies. Vidyapati inherited and reworked these visions into
newer, more ‘actionable’ knowledge forms. And as I have underlined
earlier, he was not alone in this. Yet, these aspirational articulations
seem to have been of no immediate consequence as far as the actual
character of the polities in North India in the fifteenth century was
concerned.
It was only in the sixteenth century that some of these ideals
might have been actualized by the imperial state of the Mughals. In
the absence of systematic research in the field, however, it is difficult
to delineate with any degree of certainty as to how the Mughal state
mediated and engaged with a society that was bred on visions of a
socio-political order such as the ones articulated by Vidyapati in the
fifteenth century. The political value of literature after all, can only
be measured in the long duration. Recent research, however, does
suggest that the Mughal court and its ‘nobles’ were not confined to
Persian in their cultural engagements. Shantanu Phukan showed

15 Clearly, political ethics for Vidyapati was not just about the state and
its policies but also about validating entitlements and exclusions at the
social level.
238 Conclusion

almost fifteen years ago that the ‘ecology of Hindi’ flourished fairly
well in a world allegedly overwhelmed by Persian.16 More recently,
Audrey Truschke’s research has underlined the significant place of
Sanskrit in the ‘political aesthetics’ of the Mughal court.17 How seri-
ously the massive project of translating Sanskrit works into Persian
was taken by the early Mughals is no longer a secret.18
Did Vidyapati, and others like him, anticipate and consciously
prepare the ground for a grand empire like that of the Mughals? If
historians wandered into this line of enquiry, they would—as Shelley
so perspicaciously warned—risk taking ‘poets to be prophets in the
gross sense of the word’.
Studies of Mughal political culture or its public articulations of
sovereignty in the sixteenth century tend to focus chiefly on Abul
Fazl’s sophisticated political theories. Akbar’s claims of being the
insan-i kamil, the establishment and disbanding of the ibadat khana,
and the promulgation of sulh-i kul are the important components of
this culture. The historical roots of these ideas, when they are not
credited to the genius of a few men, or blamed on Akbar’s upbring-
ing in a Rājapūta household, are sought exclusively in the Persianate
tradition: Turko-Mongol theories of kingship, Chingizid torah, Ibn
al-Arabi’s Wahadat al-wujud, or the akhlaqi ethics best represented
by Nasir al-Din Tusi. While these might be valid areas to explore, it is
difficult to see how non-Persian literary cultures could have been so
irrelevant in a society as thoroughly multilingual as North India in the
fifteenth century.
The land that the Mughals ruled over was not merely a ‘territory’
with the ability to throw up sufficient agrarian surplus to sustain a
powerful state. The people who inhabited these lands and produced
this surplus also had a history that any emergent political formation
would have to contend with. Sheikh Mubarak, his sons, and countless
others who participated in the making of the Mughal state and helped

16 Phukan, ‘Through Throats where Many Rivers Meet’.

17 Truschke, ‘Cosmopolitan Encounters’.
18 Badayuni, it seems, almost lost his job with the Mughal court because

he was reported to have taken a short-cut while rendering a passage from

Mahābhārata (Razmnama) into Persian. See Haider, ‘Translating Texts and
Straddling Worlds’, pp. 121–2. Also see Ernst, ‘Muslim Studies of Hinduism?’.
 Conclusion 239

mediate this history were themselves a product of this, as were Sher

Shah and Akbar himself. Any attempt to write about the ideological
engagements of the Mughal state must also contend with the impera-
tive force of that History that the fifteenth century exerted over the
sixteenth. The methodological significance should not be missed here:
if political culture is one of the critical forces that determine cultural
politics, the vice versa is equally, if not more, true. Yet, the important
point that emerges through my exploration in this volume is that both
are subject to a prior history that historians must not ignore.
It is true that big imperial states often tend to be happy habitats
for arts, including literature. But it is also frequently, and erroneously,
assumed that the arts are so dependent on their imperial patrons that
they rarely survive without them. Even a cursory survey of the cultural
and intellectual milieu of the fifteenth century should suffice to prove
otherwise. One might as well turn the presumption on its head, and
ask whether large trans-local empires find fertile ground only in pre-
existing fields of well-tended ‘knowledge formations’? On the other
hand, could it also be that the extraordinary vitality of literary cultures
in the fifteenth century rode, in part at least, on the fact that it was a
period unfettered by any imperial attempt to impose a singular vision
of social order?
To come back to our protagonist in the fifteenth century, a period
that was of unprecedented vitality for creative and scholarly pursuits,
Vidyapati was indisputably one of the many luminaries of the time.
But equally, many scholars would argue that some of his contempo-
raries and near contemporaries (Gaṅgeśa, the founder of Navya-Nyāya
system of philosophy, for example), produced works of much greater
sophistication and erudition than did our protagonist. Yet, as I have
charted in this book, Vidyapati’s genius lay primarily in the variety
of themes and genres that he experimented in. It is no paradox then
that it was in his unique versatility that Vidyapati most substantively
embodied the spirit of the literary cultures of the fifteenth century.
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Index-Glossary

Abbasid 116 Afghan 150, 157, 218

Abdul Rahman. See Addahamāṇa Afif 26, 26n45, 33, 66, 119
Abdur Rashid 118n70 Ain-i Akbari 18, 18n16
Abhinava Jayadeva 19 Airāvata (the elephant who was used
abhineya (that which might be by Lord Indra as his vehicle) 193
staged/performed) 145, 198 Akbar 34, 39, 48, 113, 116, 121,
Abu Abd Allah Muhammad bin 238–9
Yusuf al-Katib 115 Akhlaq-i Nasiri 236
Abu al-Bayhaqi 115 akhlaq (ethics) 131, 238
Abu Ali Hasan Nizam al-Mulk. See ākhyāyikā (biography) 62, 70, 144–6,
Nizam al-Mulk 148n39, 185, 198–202, 204,
Abul Fazl 18, 18n17, 238 207n66, 224
Ācāracintāmaṇi 22 Ala al-Din Khalaji 27
Ācārādarśa 21 alaṅkāra (literary trope) 70, 102, 214
Addahamāṇa (same as Abdul alaṅkāraśāstra (science of literary
Rahman) 193, 195–6 tropes in Sanskrit) 145, 196, 200
adīrghasūtra (prompt/energetic) 157 alaṇkāravijña (learned in the science
Aditya Behl 57, 65, 120 of literary tropes in Sanskrit) 205
 Index-Glossary 257

alaṅkārika (a writer of a text on āryā (a particular metre in a poetic

alaṅkāraśāstra) 144–6, 148 composition) 201
alasa (lazy) 138 aṣṭadhātu (eight metals) 214
alaukika (other-worldly) 170, 181–2 asthāna/sthāna (place) 3
Ali Anooshahr 157 atiśayokti (hyperbole) 102, 214
amarāvatī (heaven) 220 ātmanepad (one of the two voices
Amir Khusrau 35, 62, 115, 118, 206, in which roots are conjugated in
208 Sanskrit) 69n73
Andrew Ollett 55n42 audārya (munificence) 107
anibaddha (free verses) 145n23, 198 Audrey Truschke 238
antaḥpuracāriṇām (servants of the autobiography 199n38
inner quarters) 62 Avadhī 57, 64, 66, 203–4, 226–7
antyaja (outcaste) 161 Avahaṭṭha 28, 60, 118–9, 185, 185n3,
anukūla (in accordance with conven- 189, 191–7, 212, 213n80, 225, 227
tion) 139 Avantī 62, 155, 178n116
anunaya (polite persuasion) 107 avasannavidya (unappreciated in
anuprāsa (alliteration) 102 learning) 138
anuśayīka (a repentant person) avidya (uneducated) 138
167n92, 168n97 Awadh 64, 65n63
Apabhraṃśa xxi, 6, 22, 33, 50, 55, ayyashi (a lifestyle full of amoral
55n42, 56, 59, 61, 66, 70, 98, material and carnal pleasures)
178, 185, 187–8, 190n16, 191–2, 157
194–7, 202–5, 207–8, 213, 220,
223–7, 233n4 B.D. Chattopadhyaya 41, 49n25,
apavaktra (a metre in verse that does 234n13
not follow the vaktra pattern) Babur 38, 40, 130
148n39, 198 Badai al-Insha 116
Arabic 54, 59, 64, 66n64, 113, 115, Badaun 65n63
158, 232 Badayuni 238n18
archive(s) xxvi, 50, 59, 74–7, 98, bahirnāmalikhanam (the name is
130 written on the outside) 113
Arsalan (Turkish commander) 28, Bahlul Lodi 218
190–1, 206, 206n64, 210–11, 219, bahvāśa (covetous) 139
223 bālacanda/bālacandra (toddler
artha (material wealth; meaning; moon) 188
purpose) 138, 141, 143, 168, baṃsa (Apabhraṃśa word for
172n104, 180, 182 Sanskrit, vaṃśa; dynasty) 208
arthakramaḥ (systematic arrange- Bāṇabhaṭṭa 114
ment) 107, 139 Bandagi 49
Arthaśāstra 106, 109–11, 110n42, bānga (the call to prayer from the
120–21, 144, 180 minaret of a mosque) 216n90
258 Index-Glossary

Bangla 63–4, 191 bitta (wealth) 208

Barani 27n50, 27n51, 33, 120, Brahmā 8, 173n107, 193
151n42 brahmakīṭa (a divinely blessed
Basatin ul-Uns 27n51 worm) 173–4, 173n107
Bayazid Bayat 157 brahmottara (a village whose taxes
Benedict Anderson 128 were given to a Brāhmaṇa or a
bhakta (devotee) 4, 6, 12, 18 temple) 88
Bhakti (devotionalism) 6, 35, 40, Brajabhāsā 56, 60, 60n52, 192
43–6, 120 Bṛihaspati 169n101
Bhaktiratnāvalī 22 Bṛihatkathā 182
Bhāmaha 69, 117, 133, 145–6, Bṛihatsaṃhitā 26
145n23, 149n39, 196, 198–202 buajana (same as buha-aṇa in
bhāṣā (language understood in a Apabhraṃśa) 225
particular place) 62, 195 Buddha 177
bhāṭa (panegyrist/poet/singer) 194, buha-aṇa/buddhajana (intellect-driven)
205 189n12
Bhav-prakāśa 197
Bhikhārīdāsa 65 Cācikadeva 226
bhīru (fearful) 137 Caitanya Caritamṛita 18n18
bhoga (enjoyment of material/physi- Cakravāla 205
cal pleasures) 9 Cakravartin (one who bears the
Bhoja (author of Sṛingāraprakāśa) cakra; a ‘universal’ ruler) 52,
69–70, 148, 150, 180n124, 183 57–8
bhṛiṅgī (black bee) 190 Cālukya dynasty 52, 100, 237
bhūdeva (god of the land; Brāhmaṇa) Cambay 193
28n53, 208 campū (text consisting of both prose
bhujanṅgaprayāta chhanda (a and poem) 62, 201–2, 205n61
particular meter of Indic poetry) Cāṇakya 123, 161, 161n72, 182n124.
217 See also Kauṭalya
Bhūparikramaṇa 7, 137n8, 178 cāṇḍāla (a caste considered to
Bihar 3, 3n1, 4, 13n11, 15, 17, 20, be among the ritually most
23–6, 31, 31n58, 32, 32n59, 33, ‘impure’) 62, 160, 219
36, 39, 83, 105n27, 210 Caṇḍeśvara 20–1, 39, 57, 110, 134,
Bihar Rāṣṭra Bhāṣā Pariṣad 17, 152, 156, 180–1, 232
17n14, 18n19, 186 Candragupta 150, 159, 161, 161n72
Bilahaṇa 182n124, 204 Candrakaumudī 22
bilingual 64, 185n3 Cannī Bhaṭṭa 169n99
Bisapī (old name of Bisfi) 4, 19, 164 Caravāka 169, 170n102, 172, 176
Bisfi (village of Vidyapati’s birth carita (a genre of literature; biogra-
in Madhubani district of north phy) 147, 202–5, 225–6
Bihar) 3, 3n1, 4, 12, 13–15, 18, 35 caura (thief) 137
 Index-Glossary 259

ceṭānāṃ (servants/slaves) 62 Delhi Sultanate xxvi, 27, 31n58,

Chachnāma 135n5 32–3, 39–42, 43n11, 46, 49n25,
Chandar Bhān Brāhmaṇa 116, 131, 57, 119, 129, 194, 210, 227n127,
131n104 232, 233n5, 234, 237
Cand Bardāi 202–3 delir (Arabic for brave) 158
Chanderi 65n63 deśa (a particular place with its own
Chandopaddhatti 20 cultural identity; region; plains as
Charlotte Vaudeville 44 against hills) 7
chāyā (translation) 186 deśabhāṣā 70
Chingizid torah (the law of Chingiz deśabhāṣāviśārad (master of local
Khan) 238 languages) 70
Christian Lee Novetzke 45 deśānagatva (visiting many places)
citravidya (expert in painting) 137 178
Cynthia Talbot 151n44, 202n53, desila ba-anā/deśīvāṇī (indigenous
203n54 speech) 189n13, 197
deśottāra (permit or passport) 101
D.H.A. Kolff 26n45, 46–49, 49n23 Devāditya Ṭhakkura 20–1
Dādu 44 Devagiri 178n116
dakṣiṇa (promiscuous but faithful) Devanāgarī 7–8, 10–11, 54, 104n26,
139 186
Damavasanta 66n65 Devasiṃha 7, 28, 30, 137
Dāmodara Paṇḍita 194–5 dhāma (a holy place, a pilgrimage
Dānavākyāvalī (written for Rani centre) 13, 16–17
Dhirāmatī) 11 dhamma (righteousness; Sanskrit,
dānavīra (generous) 137 dharma) 206, 206n64, 223
daṇḍakāraṇya 139n10 dhana (wealth) 212
daṇḍanīti (political ethics) 143n19 dhaniṣu (wealthy) 163n81
Daṇḍin 69–70, 117, 133, 145, Dhar 65n63
145n25, 146, 199–201 Dhārā 178n116
Darbhanga 24, 25n42, 33n63, 186 dharma (righteousness; ethics; a set
dargah 64 of obligations incumbent upon
dāsam (slave) 128, 163n77 a person as per the context and
Daud 66 according to his/her station in
Daud Ali, 97, 146n30, 146n31, 150, life) 108, 127, 133, 138, 141n16,
176 143n18, 168, 171, 174, 180–2,
Daulatabad 120 211–12, 220, 222–4, 236–7
David Lorenzen 187 dharmādhikāraṇik (one authorized
David Shulman xxvn2, 53n34, 54, by dharma/righteousness) 87
178, 227n126 dharmaśāstras (the ‘law books’ in
dayā (kindness) 157, 166 Sanskrit) 6, 10, 21, 111, 156, 160,
dayāvīra (compassionate) 137 174, 177, 182
260 Index-Glossary

dhārmika (related to dharma; one Gaṇeśvara (father of Kīrttisiṃha) 28

who is committed to following Gaṅgāvākyāvalī 10
dharma) 156 Gauḍa 99n12, 123, 178n116
dharmopadeśaḥ (path of righteous Gautama 10, 172
conduct) 168 Gaya 112
dhaukaṇa patra (presentation letter Gayāpattalaka 11
for divorce and remarriage) 101 George Abraham Grierson. See
dhūrta (deceitful) 62, 139 Grierson
diglossia 54–5 ghasmara (hen-pecked) 139, 153
digvijaya (victory over directions) ghāṭs (river bank) 89
222–3, 228 Ghiyas al-Din Tughluq (r. 1320–
dohā (couplet) 220 1325) 26–7, 31n58
Droṇāvāra 10, 83 ghulam (slave) 215, 221
Durgābhaktitaraṅginī 11, 19 Gītagovinda 54, 70
Dvārakā 178n116 gītavidya (expert in singing) 137
Gopāla Bhaṭṭa 186
East India Company 130 Gorakṣavijaya 9, 63, 63n58, 185n3
emic categories xxvii grāma pattalā (village charter) 101
epic 26, 54, 105n27, 139n10, 146, granthila (complex, entangled) 143
198–9, 200n44, 203–5, 212, 224 Grierson 11, 19n23, 33, 34n65,
Eraj 65n63 136n7, 139–40, 141n16, 143,
etic categories xxvii 164n84
Gujarat 40, 50, 57, 65–6, 98, 100,
Fatawa-i Jahandari 151n42 102, 104–5, 134, 226, 232, 234
Fatehpur 186, 225 Gulbarg 120
Firdausi silsila 32 guṇa (literally, traits/qualities; usu-
Foucault 75–6 ally refers to: [a] merits/demerits
Francesca Orsini 54, 187 of a literary composition; [b] one
futuwwa (Arabic for manliness) 158 of the three qualities of satva,
rajas, and tamas; [c] one of the
G. Haughton. See Haughton five senses, namely, rūpa, rasa,
Gabriel Spiegel 85 gandha, sparśa, and śabda) 70,
Gadyamālā 205 70n75
Gaṇapati Thakkura (father of
Vidyapati, court priest of Rāya hadis. See hadith
Gaṇeśvara) 4, 22 hadith (reports about Prophet
Gaṇeṣa (Hindu/Brāhmaṇic god) Mohammad’s conduct in specific
7–8, 10, 83, 101, 187, 209, 211 situations) 158
Ganesar (same as Gaṇeśvara) 4, 20, Hammīradeva 21
28, 210n72 Haraprasad Sastri 186, 194
 Index-Glossary 261

Harikeli 9 Irfan Habib 43

Harimohan Jha 24n41 Irshad al-Kuttab 115
Harkaran Das 130 itihāsa (narrative about past) 73,
Harṣacarita 204–5 144, 175
Harisiṃhadeva 5n4, 20, 27 itihāsapurāṇa (narrative of bygone
hāsavidya (expert in comedy) 138 times) 176
hāṭa (a weekly or bi-weekly market) itivṛitta (a finite narrative) 144–5
214, 217 Ivo Schȯffer 37
Haughton 140
havelī (living quarters of a house- jalamajjanadivye (an oath taken
holder, usually a sprawling one) inside water) 127
13n12 James Scott 229
Hazari Prasad Dvivedi 35, 200 Janibigha 112
Hemacandra 55n42, 197, 200n44 janmabarbara (imbecile by birth)
Hetukar Jha 34 137
Hindavi/Hindui 50, 54, 56, 62, 66, jārajoayamiti (‘it is illegitimately
191, 207, 229, 229n130 born’) 160
Hisab (mathematics) 119 jāti (caste) 43, 215
History and Literature. See Jaunpur 8, 28, 40, 57, 65, 66n66,
Literature and History 190, 190n16, 213, 215, 217–19,
Hitopadeśa 133, 140, 182 223
jawanmardi (Persian for manliness)
ibādat khana 238 157–8, 158n67, 159, 159n68
Ibn al-Arabi 158, 238 Jawhar 157
Ibn Battuta 48 Jayachandra 153n49, 155
Ijaz-i Khusaravi 115, 118 Jayadev/Jayadeva 19, 28n54, 54,
Imperium xxvi, 39, 52, 56, 128, 215n88
227–8, 230, 236–7 Jayasi 66
indrajālavidya (expert in casting Jean Paul Sartre. See Sartre
spells) 138 Jesse Knutson 54–5
Indrani Chatterjee 128 John Stratton Hawley 44
insan-i kamil 158, 238 Juzjani 32–3, 151n44
insha (letter or document, especially Jyotirīśvara (author of
official ones) 55, 64, 85, 106, Varṇaratnākara) 22, 60, 194, 196,
113–18, 120–2, 179, 235 205n61, 226, 232
Insha-i Harkaran 130
Insha-i Mahru 118 K.P. Jayaswal 33, 144
Intertextuality 65, 111 K.S. Lal 39–40, 40n6
iqta (literally a portion; a revenue kabba (Apabhraṃśa form of the
assignment) 42, 42n8 Sanskrit ‘kav’) 188n8
262 Index-Glossary

Kabīr 44 Kaviraj Syamaldas 202

Kādambarī 114, 201, 205n61 kāvya 69–70, 113, 117, 145, 145n23,
kafir (a non-Muslim; non-believer 146, 196n31, 198–9, 200n44, 204,
from an Islamic point of view) 213, 234
61, 179n118 Kāvyālaṅkāra 145n23
Kaikeyī 212 Kāvyaprakāśa 22
Kaithi 54 Kāyastha 12, 23, 89, 92, 94, 96,
Kalidas 193, 204 131n103, 160, 164, 215
Kaliyuga 26n47, 142, 148n37, 171, Kaykavus 158
188 Keśavadāsa 71n78
Kāmaṇḍaka 180 khaṇḍitavidya (partially educated)
Kamboja 178n116 138
Kampilā 168 khanqa (a Sufi hospice) 32
Kamran 157 khārī (a unit of weight) 94–5, 104n26
Kannu 119–20 khawāsa (personal attendant) 3
kanyā-haraṇa (abduction of a khepī (a load that one person is able
woman) 199 to carry) 105, 104n26
Kānyakubja 155, 178n116 khutba (a community prayer offered
Kāpahara (Sanskritized rendering of by Muslims on Fridays) 217
kafir) 50n27, 61 Khwan-i Pur Nimat 33n64
kapardaka (a unit of currency) 93, Khwarazm 115
163n78 Kielhorn 8, 5n6
karambhaka (a multilingual Kīrttipatākā 9, 185n3
composition) 62, 202 Kīrttisiṃha 4, 8, 28, 30, 183, 188,
karmāntika (one assigned a particu- 190–1, 198, 206n64, 208–12, 220,
lar task), 89 222–3, 225, 228
Karṇāta Dynasty (founded by Kitab-i Nasihat Namah 158n66
Nānyadeva), 20, 26–7, 27n49, komaladhiyā (of tender disposition)
27n50, 34, 57, 210 178
Karpūramañjarī 205n61 kṛipaṇa (a miser) 137
Kashīdā 217 Kṛityaratnākara 21
Kashmir 52, 54, 61, 232, 234 kūzā (an earthen bottle with a long
Kāśī 178n116 narrow neck, commonly used to
kāṣṭhapatropajīviṣu 62 minimize wastage of water in the
kathā (story) 179, 183, 198–202, water-starved Persian-speaking
207n66, 226, 236 world during the Middle Ages)
kathāvastu (plot of a story) 145 216, 216n95
Kathmandu 186
Kauśāmbī 178n116 labdhasiddhi (one who has attained
Kauṭalya 106–7, 109–11, 144 perfection) 139
Kautilya. See Kauṭalya lahcharī (same as nacārī) 18, 18n17
 Index-Glossary 263

Lahore 65n63, 131 of saṃsakāras like birth,

Lakhimādevī 28–31 upanayana, and marriage 6
Lakṣamaṇa Saṃvat 5 of Vaiṣṇava and Śaiva bhakti 6
Lakṣamaṇa Sena 28n54, 112, 162, Maithili Akademi 17
215n88 Maktubat 114
Lakṣmīcandra 193 Maktubat-i Sadi 33n64, 114n55
laukika (this-worldly) 170, 180–2 Malfuz 33n64, 160n70
Legitimation xxiv, 77–9, 182, Malik Arsalan. See Arsalan
182n123 Malik Qabul 66
lekhaka (scribe) 106, 114, 131 Malwa 40, 57, 66, 66n65, 134, 232
Lekhapaddhati 97–106, 112–13, 116, māna (honour) 190, 228
122 Mānavadharmaśāstra (same as
Lekhapañcaśikā (same as Manusmriti) 111
Lekhapaddhati) 98 Maneri 32, 33n64, 114n56
lekhi (accountant/secretary) 125 maṅgalācaraṇa (salutations at the
Literature and History 67, 76 beginning of a text) 9
Locana Kavi 18 maṅgal-kāvya 234
lokavidya (learned in folklore) 137 mānī (a measure of weight roughly
equivalent to 15 kilograms) 95
Mādhavācārya 169n99 Maṇimañjarīnāṭikā 7, 63
Madhubani 3, 24, 25n42, 210 mansabdar (an officer of the Mughal
mādhuryam (sweetness) 107 state holding a particular rank,
Mafatih al-Ulum 115 mansab, in the administrative
Magadh 26n27, 32 hierarchy) 152n45
Māgadhī (language of Magadh) Manusmriti 111
60n52, 61n52, 62, 192 masnavi. See mathnawi
Mahābhārata 34, 204, 234, 238n18 mathnawi 64, 65
mahākāvya (epic poem) 105n27, Matsyapurāṇa 131
145n23, 146, 198 Maulana Daud. See Daud
mahāmattaka (prime minister) 125, Maurya kingdom 32
166 mawas (a sanctuary; in the context
maheccha (righteously affluent) of the Delhi Sultanate, also a
139 recalcitrant territory) 233,
Mahmud Begada 57, 105n27, 234 233n5
Mahmud of Ghazni 114 McGregor 187, 189, 192
Mahoba 65n63 medhāvīḥ (alert, bright) 137
mahotsāhaḥ (enthusiasm) 156 Meghadūta 193
Maithili 3, 5n6, 6, 9, 11, 18, 22–4, Merutuṅga Ācārya 134, 147
27n50, 32, 50, 60, 63, 119, 185, Michel Foucault. See Foucault
185n3, 189, 191, 194, 205n61, Military labour market 26n45, 39,
206, 225–6, 234 46, 47
264 Index-Glossary

Mīmāṃsā-śabara-bhāṣya 174n108 muni (sage) 147, 171

mir munshi (head of chancellery) Munshi (a scribe) 131
131 muqaddam (village headman) 94,
Mithila xx–xxii, xxiv, 3–5, 5n4, 6n8, 219
11–12, 18, 20–6, 25n42, 26n45, mutasarrif (auditor) 120
28–32, 31n58, 32n59, 33n64, Muzaffar Alam 65n62, 131n103
34–6, 39, 57–8, 83, 105, 108,
110–12, 119, 121, 130, 134, 136, ṇā-ara/nāgara (literally, city-bred;
138, 150, 156–7, 178n116, 185, aesthete) 188n11
194, 205n61, 226, 231–2, 234 nacārī (songs devoted to Lord Śiva)
an atypical region xx 18n17
longitudinal and latitudinal Nāgabhāṣā (language of the snakes;
dimensions 25 a name for Paiśācī) 192
semi-autonomous principality nagarak (a city dweller; related to
and independent chieftaincy city) 197
of Delhi, Jaunpur, and Bengal naibandhika (writer) 20, 90
sultanates xx Nānak 44
mithilākṣara 9, 10 Nānyadeva 26
mleccha (a person or community Nāradasmriti 111
considered to be ‘impure’) 193, naṭa (one belonging to a caste of
233, 233n3, 233n4 dancers; a dancer) 9
mokṣa (salvation; liberation from naṭī (feminine of naṭa) 9
the cycle of birth and death) 138, nāṭikā (a short play) 7
141, 143n18, 166, 180, 182 nāṭya (drama) 145n23
molāvyavasthā (a system of naukarī (work in a subservient
purchase and sale) 95, 105n26 position) 46, 48–9
monolingual xxiii, xxvi navya-nyāya (a philosophical system
Mṛicchakaṭika 143n19 of Vedānta) 23, 23n37, 239
Mubarak Shah Khalaji 206 naya (political ethics) xxi, 8, 143,
mūḍha (profligate) 139 143n19, 149, 170, 175, 235
mudrā (money) 163n78 nāyaka (hero) 93, 95
Mudrārākṣasam 112, 121, 161n72 Nepal 23–4, 26n47, 27, 30–1, 83,
Mughal state xx, xxvi, 40, 48, 57, 65, 138, 186, 234
123, 130, 152n45, 236–9 nī-a sakti (inferior power) 212
Muhammad Tughluq 27, 42, 48, nibandha (a bounded/finite narra-
119 tive) 20
Muhammad Yusuf Yusufi 116, 118 niḥspṛih (one untouched by worldly
Mulla Daud. See Daud desires) 139
Multan 65n63, 193 nirbandhī (detached) 139
multilingualism (literary culture) nirguna bhakti (devotion to a God
58–1, 63, 233–4 without attributes) 120n75
 Index-Glossary 265

nīti (political ethics) 8, 111, 135, pātisāha (overlord) 212, 221, 223,
143n19, 170, 175–7, 179–81, 211, 228
235–36 pativratā (a woman devoted exclu-
Nizam al-Mulk (1019–1091) 115, sively to her husband) 155
151n42 Patna 25, 105n27, 186
nṛityavidya (expert in dance) 138 Paul Brass 23
Nuzhat al-kuttab wa-tuhfat al-ahbab Paul Jackson 33, 33n64
115 Percy Bysshe Shelley 231, 238
nyāya (logic, justice; a Vedāntic Persian xx–xxi, xxvi, 27n51, 29, 33,
philosophical system) 23n37, 35, 40–2, 42n8, 49, 54–6, 59n47,
169, 172, 175 61–2, 61n52, 64–6, 65n62,
Nyāyamañjarī 170n102, 172 66n64, 71n79, 85, 104n26, 106,
113, 115–20, 130–1, 134, 146n31,
Oinivāra Dynasty (of dynastic chart) 151n42, 157, 159, 163, 179,
28, 29, 31, 210, 224 179n118, 185, 191–2, 195–8,
oral culture xxv, 74, 182, 201 207–8, 218, 220–1, 223, 225,
226–9, 227n127, 232–8,
Padāvalī 11, 18n19, 19 238n18
Padmanandi 66n65 Peter Burke 229
Paiśācī (language of piśacas) 62, 193, phalaṃ (rewards/fruits) 103, 137,
194 137n9
pallava (section) 190, 191, 208–11, pia sakhā (dear brother) 208
217, 220, 223, 228 piśuna (slanderous) 137
paṇa 93, 94, 163n78, 213 polyglossic/polyglossia 67
Pañcatantra 133, 140, 145, 156, Power xx–xxi, xxiv–xxv, xxvii–xxviii,
156n60, 182 46, 50, 58, 65, 67, 70, 76–9, 109,
Pāṇḍavacarita 204 129–30, 133, 136, 147, 151, 154,
paṇḍia/paṇḍita 195, 221 160, 165–8, 177, 179–80, 182,
Pānini 205 203, 208, 210, 212–13, 227n127,
pañjī (records about individual 229, 232, 236–7
families) 5, 20 Literature, History, and Power
pāñjika (chief documentation xxvii, 68–77
officer) 89 prabandha (a genre) 134, 134n3, 146,
pañjikār (registrar) 5, 125n87 146n31, 147–8, 150, 183
paṇṇa (epistle, letter) 112n49 Prabandhacintāmaṇi 134, 134n3,
pāpa (sin) 165 147–50, 151n42, 183
pāposa/pabush (kissing of feet as a prājñyaḥ (learned) 156
show of obeisance) 228 Prakrit 6, 9, 22, 55–6, 55n42, 63, 70,
parama bambha (supreme soul) 104, 104n22, 119, 189, 192–3,
208 196, 196n31, 202, 225, 225n123
paripūrṇatā (completeness) 122 Prākṛit Paiṅgalam 193, 194
266 Index-Glossary

pramāṇa (evidence as an instrument Rāgataraṅginī 11, 18n19

of true knowledge) 168, 172, Raghurāya (Raja Ram) 209
172n105 Raghuvaṃśa 143n19, 204
praśasti (praise-text) 41, 111, 198 rahasa (secret/s) 221
Pratihāras 237 rai-ati (tax-paying subject) 223
pratijñāpatra (affidavit) 127 Raidhu 204
pratyudāharaṇakathā (counterex- Rājādeśa (order of the king) 101
ample story) 153 rājanīti (politics) 57, 134
prekṣyaṃ (that which is seen) Rājanītiratnākara 21, 39, 57, 111,
200n44 134, 156, 180–81
premākhyāna (a Sufi genre of rājapaṇḍita (royal priest) 3, 27
literature in Avadhī that told Rajasthan 51, 209, 225–6
allegorical tales of love) 65–6, 120 Rajasthani 191, 193, 202–3, 226
Prithvīrāj Cauhāna 203 rājastuti (royal praise) 202n50
Pṛithvīrājarāso 202–3 Rājataraṅgiṇī 234
pūjitavidya (felicitated for learning) rājatilaka (coronation) 191
138 Rājavinodamahākāvyam 105n27
puṇya (meritorious conduct) 165, Rajgir 105n27
168 Rajiv Kumar Kinra 116
Purāditya Girinārāyaṇa 10, 31, 83, Rājapūta 39, 45, 47, 61–2, 134, 159,
100 203, 209, 215, 221, 238
Purāṇas 10, 72n80, 93, 95, 163n78 rājyam (state) 224, 228
puruṣārtha (the purported aims of Ram 98, 205, 212–13
a man’s life namely dharma, Ram Chandra Shukla 35, 115
artha, mokṣa, and kāma) 138–9, Rāmacaritamānas 57, 57n45, 71n78
141n16, 143n18, 158, 159n68, Rāmāyaṇa 34, 66, 139n10, 204, 212,
171, 171n103, 180, 182, 227–8, 224
236 Raṇastambha 178n116
puruṣārthavān (a man capable of Raṇathambhor 21
attaining the puruṣārthas) 143, raṅka (poorest of poor) 223
158, 170 rasa(s) (production or experience of
assorted emotions) 70, 70n75,
Qabus-namah 158, 159 rasail (letter or document) 113,
Qanauj 65n63 113n53, 116, 118, 122. See also
Qutban 66 insha
Rasail ul-Ijaz (same as Ijaz-i
R.C. Majumdar 46n17 Khusaravi) 118
R.S. McGregor. See McGregor rasajñātā (connoisseurs; one learned
Rabindranath Tagore 19 in the rasas) 188
Radhakrishna Chaudhary 5n7, 34, Ratan 120
35 Ratnāṅgada (a king) 168
 Index-Glossary 267

Rāuta (Rājapūta; a prince) 87–9, saṃsargabarbara (imbecile by

92–6 company) 137
rāutapati (a chieftain) 125 Sandeśarāsaka 61
Rāya Gaṇeśvara (same as Ganesar) saṇdhi (to come together; peace)
4, 20, 28, 210n72 148n39, 166n87
Raziyya Sultan 151, 151n44 Sandila 65
Razmnama (‘Book of Wars’, a Sanjay Subrahmanyam 72n80, 122,
Persian translation of the epic 131n103, 180–1
Mahābhārata) 238n18 sāṅkhya (a school of Vedic philoso-
Richard Eaton 46n18 phy) 176
Rudraṭa 194, 197, 201 Sāṅkhyatattvakaumudī 22
rūpaka (simile) 102 sapratibhaḥ (quick-witted) 137
Śāradātanaya 26, 63n58
Śabarasvāmī 174–5, 174n108 Sarasvatī (Goddess of learning) 8,
sadhamma (wedded to dharma) 147, 147n36, 188
222–23 sarga (literally, creation; a canto,
saguna bhakti (devotion to a God chapter) 149n39
with attributes; Sanskrit, saguṇa) sargabandha (epic poem) 145n23, 198
120, 120n75 sarkar (an administrative unit larger
sahajasvatantrāḥ (sovereign/auto- than pargana but smaller than
cratic) 110 a province under the Mughals)
Sahāvadīna (Sanskrit version of 31n58
Shihabuddin) 155 Sartre 78n90
sāhitya (literature) 70 Sarvadarśana-saṅgraha 169n101
Sāhityadarpaṇa 62 Sarvāditya 83
Śaiva (of or related to Lord Śiva) 6, sarvatragaśceti (general proclama-
35–6, 171, 177 tion) 108
Śaivasarvasvasāra 10, 19, 151, śāsana pattalā (royal charter) 101
152n44 śāstra (science, systematic study of a
Saj (rhymed prose) 116–17 subject) 131, 173–5, 236
sakalapṛithvī cakra (of/from the śāstravidya (learned in sciences)
entire earth) 214 137
Sālabhañjī 205n61 śastravidya (trained in wielding
Samana 65 weapons) 137, 175
sāmanta (a man with special rights sati (a woman committed to ‘truth’;
over vast plots of agricultural a woman who is faithful to her
land) 87, 123 husband under all conditions
Sammattaguṇaṇihāṇakavva 204 including her commitment to die
Sāmora 193 with her husband) 154–5
saṃsakāra (a sacred rite prescribed satta (truth) 208
by the dharmaśāstras) 6, 160 satvasampannaḥ (valorous) 156
268 Index-Glossary

satyavīra (truthful) 137, 179, 226 sale and purchase of 92, 127–8,
Śaurseni 56 163, 179, 215
sāvadhāna (discreet) 139 śloka (a Sanskrit couplet) 8, 12,
savidya (a learned man) 19, 137–8 57, 96, 127, 152, 152n47, 153,
Sena dynasty 26 153n49, 155, 160, 165, 168, 176,
senāpati (army chief) 122 188
Shah Jahan 116, 131 smṛiti (literally, memory or that
Shams-i Siraj Afif. See Afif which is remembered; a genre of
Shantanu Phukan 237 Sanskrit literature; dharmaśāstra)
Sharaf al-Din Ahmad ibn Yahya 10, 111, 155, 158
Maneri. See Maneri sohara (auspicious songs sung on
Sharqi 8, 28, 120, 185, 190–1, 208, the occasion of the birth of a
212–13, 220–4, 228, 232, 236–7 child) 18
Sheldon Pollock xxv–xxvi, 51, 77, spaṣṭatvam (lucidity) 107
184, 192, 197, 225n123, 226, śravyaṃ (that which is heard) 200
227n126 śreṣṭhināṃ (tradesmen) 62
Sher Shah Suri 47, 48, 157, 239 Ṣrīdatta (author of Ācārādarśa) 21
Shihabuddin 155. See also śrīkaraṇa (superintendent of the
Sahāvadīna court) 123
Shivprasad Singh 34n66, 35, Ṣrīmahamūdasuratrāṇacaritra (also
189n14, 191, 195 known as
Shri Siddhahemacandraśabdānuśāsanam Rājavinodamahākāvyam) 105
(title of Hemacandra’s grammar) Ṣrinātha xxvn2, 61
55n42 sṛingāra (the sentiment of love or
Simarāoñ 27, 27n49, 210 sexual passion; one of eight or
Simon Digby 64, 119 nine sentiments in literature)
śiṣṭabhāṣā (a sophisticated register 120, 188
of Apabhraṃśa considered to śrotā (listeners) 188
be fit for composing literature) sthūlalakṣaḥ (one resolute in pursu-
197 ing one’s aims) 156
Śivākṣa (literally ‘eye of Lord Śiva’; a subha muhutta (auspicious moment)
particular bead used in rosaries 222
or as a minor currency) 93 subhāṣita (literally, ‘beautifully
Śivasiṃha 3, 8–9, 11, 19, 28, 30–1, spoken’; a pithy/or cryptic saying
133, 137, 137n8, 151n43, 164 in the form of a śloka) 103,
siyaq (accountancy) 119 103n19, 176–7
Siyāsat Nāma 115, 151n42 subuddhi (judicious) 137
slave 49, 62, 66, 88, 99, 128, 160n70, Sudipta Kaviraj 63–4, 232
161, 161n70, 163n77, 211, 215, śūdra 87, 92, 96, 128, 161, 161n72,
217 162–5, 234
 Index-Glossary 269

Sufi (mystical/spiritual sects/tradi- Tawarikh (plural of tarikh, history)

tions in Islam) 32, 33n64, 34n65, 158
39, 40n7, 57, 57n45, 64–6, 114, tazkīra (a text that commemorates
114n55, 120, 158 great personalities; a biographi-
sukumāra (gentle) 207n66 cal anthology) 146
sulh-i kul 238 Telangana 33, 120
śulk (payment; taxes) 101n16 Terry Eagleton 68, 71n77
Sultan Ibrahim (Sharqi ruler) 28, tilak (an auspicious mark on the
190, 190n16, 191, 220, 222, 225, forehead; coronation) 219
228 Timur 38, 40, 54, 119, 130
Sultan Sikandar (of Bengal) 66 Tirbhukti 26
Sunil Kumar 49, 120 Tirhut 4, 18n17, 26–8, 27n50, 31–2,
Sūra Bhaṭṭa 186 35, 99n12, 133, 151, 151n43,
Suratrāṇasāha 105, 105n27, 163, 179 163, 178, 178n116, 181, 190–1,
Susan Tripp 199 210–11, 213, 219, 222–4, 237
sutra (literally a thread; a formula; tolak (a unit of weight roughly equal
equation; key idea) 172 to ten grams) 93
svasti (may it be well) 102, 112, 117 Tony Stewart 67n68
syncretism 67n68 Tughlaq Namah 206,
Tulsidas 57, 61, 64, 71
Tabaqat-i Nasiri 32, 151n44 turakas/turuṣka/tullukas/tulukas
Takkakakkasa (one with a formidable (Turks) 216
command over logic) 208 Turk 41, 187, 216–21, 218n100
tāmasa (dynamic) 139 Turkish 9, 28, 105n27, 150, 223, 232
ṭaṅka (a unit of currency prevalent Twilight of the Delhi Sultanate 42
from the thirteenth to the
seventeenth century; Persian, ubhayavidya (learned in both Vedas
tankha) 92–4, 126, 127n98, and folklore) 19, 135, 137, 161,
163–4, 163n78, 163n79 ucchavāsa (literally, a deep breath; a
Tantrākhyāyika (same as canto/chapter) 148n39, 199, 201
Pañcatantra) 145 udāharaṇakathā (example story) 133,
taraṅga (literally a wave; a section/ 145, 153
chapter in a literary composition) udāttārtha (exalted meaning or
58 purpose) 199
Tarikh-i Firuz Shahi 26, 26n45, 119 udaya (triumph) 199
Tarikh-i Masudi 115 Udayana 193
tatsam (of a word, same as in Udayarāja 57, 105n27
Sanskrit) 195, 227 Ugna 6, 12, 13, 14
tātvika (knower of truth) 12, 139 ujjaṭabhūmivāsārtha (in order to
Tātvika Kathā 12 rehabilitate a deserted land) 125
270 Index-Glossary

Ujjayinī 173, 178 Varṣakṛitya 11

ujjīra (prime minister) 222 Vāsavadattā 205n61
Uktivyaktiprakaraṇa 98, 194 veākula (harbour) 101
umra (plural of amir, a military Vedānta (literally, the ultimate gist
leader or a notable in any other of the Vedas; the exegetical tradi-
respect) 222 tions based on the Vedas)
Umayyads 116 117
upabhāṣā (sub-languages) 205n61 Vedantadeśika 61
upādhyāya (a teacher) 92–3, 96 vedavidya (learned in Vedas) 137,
upamā (metaphor) 102 155, 175
upanagarak (partly urbane and partly vernacular millennium 79, 178
quotidian) 197 vernacularization xxvi, 45, 51, 56, 77,
upanayana (sacred thread ceremony) 136, 185, 192, 226, 227n127,
6 Vibhāgasāra 10, 18, 22, 173
upāsaka (devotee) 3 vidagdha (accomplished) 139
Urdu 66n64, 119 Vidyādhara 155
Vidyapati Dhāma 13, 16–17
Vācaspati Miṣra 22, 23n37, 232 Vidyapati Nagar (same as Vidyapati
Vaiṣṇava 4, 6, 18, 35, 139, 171, Dhāma) 12–13
177 Vijay Kumar Mishra 33n63
Vaiśya (one of the four varṇas, the Vijayanagar 169, 178n116, 193. See
four-fold social hierarchy in a also Vijayapura, Vijayanayarahu
Brāhmaṇic society) 94, 159 Vijayanayarahu (Apabhraṃśa for
vaktra (a pattern in the recurrence of Vijayanagara) 57, 193
syllables in a poetic composition) Vijayapura 178
149n39, 198, 201 vikaṭa (formidable, vigorous)
Vallabhacharya 64 207n66, 224, 236
Valmiki 212 Vikram Saṃvat 98–9, 102, 186
Vāmana 138 Vikramāditya 147–8, 150, 173,
vaṃśāvalī (genealogy) 203 182n124, 183, 204
Vaṃśīdhar 193–4 Vikramāṅkadevacaritam 182n124,
vañcaka (wily/cunning) 137 204
vaṇij (a trader) 7, 155, 160 vipralambha (separation) 199
vaṅmaya (‘things made of words/ vīra (hero/valorous) 137, 190, 211,
spoken words’) 69, 71 228
vara turaṅga (good quality horses) vīra puruṣa (a heroic man; a man of
212 valour) 165
Varāhamihira 26 vīra rasa 35, 221
Varanasi 86, 117, 166, Vīreśvara (author of
Varṇaratnākara 22, 60, 194, 205n61 Chandopaddhatti) 20
 Index-Glossary 271

Vīreśvara temple 117, 166 Yājñavalkya 10, 156

Viruda 202 yaunānubandha (blood kinship) 107
Viśākhadatta (author of Yavana (Greek; a generic reference
Mudrārakṣasam) 112, 121, for all who did not follow caste/
161n72, 182n124 varṇa regulations) 27n50, 61,
Viśālā 178 123, 153n49, 155, 233, 233n3
Viṣṇupurī (author of Bhaktiratnāvalī) Yigal Bronner 135, 178
22 Yoginipura 155, 178n116, 190n16
Viśvanātha Kavirāja 117, 146, yuddhavīra (battle-adept) 137, 142,
201–2 152
Vivādacintamaṇi 22 yugapuruṣa/jugapurusa (man of the
vṛiṣala 161 age; one whose being might
vyasana 158 change the course of history) 4,
4n2, 23
wahadat-al wujud (unity of being)
238 zabuni (weakness) 157
Warder 144, 145n23, 145n25, 146, Zain al-Abidin (r. 1420–1470) 234
199, 200 Zia al-Din Barani. See Barani
Wendy Doniger 37 Zinat al-Kuttab 115