Humayun's Sojourn at The Safavid Court (A.D. 1543-44) : Laura E. P

Humayun’s Sojourn at the Safavid Court P ARODI
Laura E. P ARODI University of Genoa
Humayun’s Sojourn at the Safavid Court (A.D. 1543-44)
“Art history is more about continuing to ask questions

than about living with comfortable answers”
Toby F ALK
I n December 1543, the Mughal Emperor Humayun crossed the border into Iran, along
with a few dozen followers, to seek asylum at the Safavid court after losing the
throne of Hindustan at the hands of an ambitious Afghan jāgīrdār, Sher Khan Sur. 1
Shah Tahmasp’s acceptance of the Emperor’s plea to enter his territory, on the official
pretext of a pilgrimage to Makka, would soon disclose a unique opportunity for two of the
great monarchs of the time to meet face-to-face, not in the throes of a battlefield, as is
usually the case in world history, but in the ease and relaxed atmosphere of the court.
On his way to (and, later, from) the Shah’s court, Humayun was entertained by local
authorities in all major cities, negotiated several digressions 2 which took him virtually to
all major shrines (where he spent nightly hours in prayer, made vows for his welfare and
even left traces of his passage in verse), 3 and longed for a whole month in the welcoming
warmth of Herat, the former Timurid capital, now under Safavid control but still devoted to
the Timurid cause, where he took part in the Nawruz celebrations.
In July 1544, in the neighbourhood of Qazvin, Humayun finally met Tahmasp. There
followed a series of formal receptions and informal encounters. 4 Relationships between the
two monarchs were at times tense, probably due to Tahmasp’s demand of Humayun that he
and his followers convert to the Shi‘i creed. But, altogether, this was an extraordinary
occasion, whose effects on the development of Safavid-Mughal relations, both in the diplo-
matic and in the cultural domain, were of great consequence. 5
1 According to Jawhar (Tadhkīra: f. 36), the royal party had by then been reduced to forty men and
two women (including the emperor’s wife, Hamida); they were soon joined by other dignitaries and
servants of Humayun, including Jawhar himself (who had remained behind with the child Akbar).
This may account for some discrepancies in the numbers given in later sources.
References to contemporary sources, wherever possible, are made by folio number in the present
paper, so as to allow readers to check them against the Persian text and/or one of the available
English translations. See note 21 for further specifications.
2 The letters Humayun exchanged with the Shah at each stage of the journey are preserved in
several manuscripts: see Ray (1948) for their text, English translation and discussion.
3 The verses were dictated by Humayun and engraved on Ahmad Jami’s cenotaph on the occasion of
the emperor’s second visit to the shrine (Dec. 29th, 1544), on his way back to Qandahar and Kabul (see
Ray 1948: 18, 45).
4 The only essay specifically devoted to Humayun’s Iranian sojourn is Ray (1948). Other monographs
dealing with the Emperor’s history and figure, which receives only minor attention in general works
on Mughal history (see the meagre chapter in Richards 1993: 9-12), are Erskine (1854), Banerji (1938),
Prasad (1955), Avashty (1967), Lal (1978) and, more recently, Bakhshi and Sharma (2000).
5 As is testified by the letters subsequently exchanged by the two monarchs, as well as Tahmasp’s
letter of condolences to Humayun’s son and successor Akbar (see Ray 1948: 62), witness to the Shah’s
firm intention to maintain good relationships with the Mughals.
Proceedings of the 5th Conference of the Societas Iranologica Europæa, vol. II (Milano 2006)
Edited by A. P ANAINO & R. Z IPOLI 135
ISBN 88-8483-464-5
P ARODI Humayun’s Sojourn at the Safavid Court
It is widely acknowledged that Humayun’s sojourn at the Safavid court had an invaluable
bearing on the development of the arts in Timurid India: some of the painters Humayun
met while in Iran were, in fact, to join him soon after he regained a hold on Kabul, and
would afterwards direct the first steps of the Mughal atelier in Hindustan. 6 But the story
has so often been repeated that we possibly risk missing part of the picture.
In fact, most scholarship on the subject still appears to rely on assessments first made
when the Timurids, with their complex ideology, made up of Iranian and Turco-Mongol
cultural features, were still imperfectly understood and far less known than the Safavids,
their artistic creations generally labelled as “Persian”, and their legacy on successor
dynasties largely ignored. Even Milo C. Beach (1987: 8), one of the undisputed authorities in
the study of Mughal painting, in an essay published before such pioneering work as
Golombek and Wilber’s (1988) or Lentz and Lowry’s (1989), which radically changed the
course of Timurid studies, appears to share this view as he states that “Tahmasp was
wealthy and immensely cultured; his court exemplified imperial splendour and power [and]
Humayun, by establishing a visible association with Tahmasp, could therefore only increase
in stature” (Beach 1987: 8).
Progress made by scholarship in recent years now makes a reassessment of this encoun-
ter possible, and the preliminary results of a research conducted on available material are
indeed very promising.
Of the two protagonists, Tahmasp is doubtlessly the better known, or at least the one on
whom more has been written. Aged thirty at the time, and reigning since the tender age of
ten, Tahmasp, like his father Isma‘il, had been a very precocious child: appointed the
nominal governor of Herat, the former Timurid capital, when he was barely two years old,
he had spent six years there, in close contact with the city’s renowned literary and artistic
circles. These had been invaluable for his formation, and he had returned to court with a
highly developed taste and a remarkable personal interest in the visual arts. 7
However, about the time of Humayun’s visit, the Safavid ruler was beginning to show the
signs of a religious crisis that eventually led him to discontinue patronage of the arts. The
Shah’s religious preoccupations actually surface several times during the two rulers’
encounters, at times seriously affecting their relationships. 8
Who, on the other hand, was Humayun? Was his background really so different from
Tahmasp’s? Did he really perceive himself as culturally, as well as politically, inferior to
the Safavid Shah, as most scholarship appears to assume, besides the obvious embarrass-
ment of finding himself deprived of his throne and all of his wordly possessions, but for a
handful of gems from the royal treasury he still kept with him (Tadhkīra: 67-68)?
6 Several scholars have discussed this issue: see especially Chandra (1976: 12-26). Okada (1992: 62-75)
includes a chapter devoted to the two most important masters, Mir Sayyid ‘Ali and Khwaja Abd al-
Samad, who successively led the Mughal atelier. Extensive notes on the artists involved may be
found in Dickson and Welch (1981).
7 As is shown by the lavishly illustrated copy of the Gūy u Chawgān the young Shah copied in his own
hand in 931 H. (1524-5 A.D.) for his former guardian and future grand vizier, Qadi-i Jahan, and the
new Shāhnāma project that took shape soon after his arrival at court (Thompson & Canby 2003: 80-
82).
8 The vicissitudes may be followed through the Tadhkīra.
136
Older by about six years, 9 the Timurid ruler had seen his father Babur’s fortunes wax and
wane in Central Asia while still a child, ruled over Badakhshan on his behalf and fought at
his side on several occasions since the age of twelve. He had been Babur’s most trusted and
capable general during the conquest of Hindustan, 10 and had succeeded him in 1530. Soon,
his reign had been troubled by revolts in the provinces, and his power challenged by his
brother Kamran, who would provide the greatest hindrance to Mughal stability in the
Subcontinent until Humayun’s painful decision to have him blinded and exiled (or, as was
customary in those times, “granted permission to go to Makka”), in 1553. 11
Early in his reign (1530-34), before the restless years began, Humayun had some time to
show his taste for the beautiful: as his chronicler, the aged Khwandamir (formerly a
historian at the court of Sultan-Husayn in Herat), relates, the Emperor founded a city
called Dīnpanāh (Qānūn: ff. 82-84) and devised new styles of clothing, as well as wondrous
pavilions meant to delight and impress 12; Wescoat (1990) has vividly outlined the imprint
he gave to the Mughal approach to urban and garden design. True to his Timurid origins,
Humayun was also an accomplished man, both fond of the sciences (astronomy in particu-
lar) 13 and an amateur poet. 14 He can, moreover, be considered as the initiator of Mughal
painting: his father Babur, who had a keen interest in architecture, makes several refer-
ences to, and even names, architects and builders who were in his employ (see for example
Bāburnāma: ff. 291b and f. 357b), but never mentions painters or paintings done for him in
his autobiography; on the other hand, there is evidence that Humayun had painters in his
employ even before his sojourn at the Safavid court. 15
9 Humayun was born in Kabul on the fourth of Dhu’l-Qa’da, 913 a.H. (March 6, 1508) (Bāburnāma: f.
215b); Tahmasp in Isfahan, on 26 Dhu’l-Hijja, 919 (February 22, 1514) (Savory & Bosworth 2000: 108).
10 As a young man, and probably before taking on to opium (before 1526, he had not even tasted
wine: see. A. S. Beveridge’s note to the Bāburnāma, 1921: 546), Humayun appears to have been a
capable and brave general (see Tārīkh-i Rashīdī, ff. 364-65). His military career may be followed
through the Bāburnāma and the Tadhkīra-i Humāyūn va Akbar. See also Avashty (1967: 27-31).
11 The blinding of Kamran was the ultimate consequence of the escalation of tension between the
brothers: Humayun was once seriously wounded and believed dead (Tadhkīra: ff. 107-112) and Hindal,
their youngest brother, eventually fell in the struggle while defending Humayun’s camp (Tadhkīra: ff.
117-117b). Soon after the latter occurrence, Kamran’s full brother and main ally, Askari, was exiled to
Makka, while Kamran escaped and was only captured in August, 1553. See Tadhkīra: ff. 122b-124b for
an impressive firsthand account of the episode (Jawhar was assigned as a valet to Kamran on the eve
of his blinding), and A. S. Beveridge’s foreword to the Humāyūnnāma (1902: 48-49) for further details.
12 See for example Qānūn: ff. 52-57, 61-70, 110-111; Humāyūnnāma: ff. 22b, 24-28, 66-66b, 83.
13 As I point out elsewhere (Parodi, forthcoming), this seems to have been his most relevant
achievement in the eyes of his descendants: in allegorical portraits from the 17th century, he is often
depicted with compasses in his hand, while Babur usually holds his autobiography, the Bāburnāma.
According to the Humāyūnnāma: f. 43b, Humayun calculated himself the most auspicious hour for his
marriage with Hamida Banu.
14 Although verses by Humayun are quoted in several sources, there seems to be only one surviving
anthology of them; this is usually referred to as «Humayun’s dīwān». The manuscript, first mentioned
by Ray 1948: 37, n. 4, who says it had been shown by Prof. Sayyid Hasan Askari at the Indian History
Congress in Calcutta in 1939, was later seen by Avashty (1967: iii) in the waqf library of a village in
Bihar, and is currently preserved at the Khuda Bakhsh Library in Patna. It is, however, not a full
dīwān, as is usually assumed, but only a limited selection of Humayun’s poems (I am indebted to
Diego Giolitti, who is currently working on the Ms., for this information).
15 See Tadhkīra: ff. 53-53b. A more detailed discussion of Humayun’s patronage of the arts will be
given in the conclusive part of the present paper.
137
Thus, the Mughal emperor can hardly be said to have been less cultured, or less inter-
ested in the arts, than Tahmasp; nor had his court been less rich or less sumptuous in its
heyday. 16 On the contrary, we should pay due attention to the fact that, despite his
condition of refugee, Humayun still was a Timurid, descended from a lineage whose name
still commanded respect. The Safavids’ rule over Iran, by contrast, had been established
only a few decades earlier, and the dynasty arguably had at that time more enemies than
admirers. 17
Humayun is probably the least known, and least studied, among the “Great Mughals”: not
only was his reign mostly one of warfare and exile, between the epic conquest of Hindustan
under his father Babur and the prosperous fifty-year’s rule of his son Akbar, but the
paucity of architectural and artistic evidence from his reign (at times controversially
dated) 18 and the almost complete absence of official chronicles (the Qānūn covering only its
very first years) have probably contributed to discourage many. 19
However, sometimes unofficial and unpretentious sources provide more reliable and less
stereotyped information than official ones; and it is precisely this type of sources that we
have at our disposal when examining the history of Humayun, particularly concerning his
sojourn in Iran. For when Akbar succeeded his father, he too realised that the history of
the dynasty had not been adequately documented; and he commanded all those who had
been the direct witnesses of events to write down whatever they remembered about the
late Emperor, so as to have Humayun’s life recorded and eventually included in the official
history, the Akbarnāma. Three of these sources have come down to us, one of them
incomplete, and two are of particular relevance in this context: the Tadhkīrat al-Vakiāt
(hence Tadhkīra), by Jawhar, who was Humayun’s aftabachï (ewer-bearer) and had accom-
panied him in Iran, providing an extraordinary firsthand account; and the Humāyūnnāma,
by Gulbadan, Humayun’s sister. Although Gulbadan is at times inaccurate with dates and
historical circumstances (she was still a child when Humayun ascended the throne), and
though her work is only partly preserved to us, both texts are invaluable for the insight
they provide into the Emperor’s personality, including at times intimate, and even
embarrassing, details which were carefully expunged from the official version of facts
given in the Akbarnāma. 20 The third of these sources, the Tadhkīra-i Humāyūn va Akbar, by
Bayazid Bayat, is not comparable to the other two in detail and, consequently, importance,
16 On Tahmasp’s patronage, see Canby (1999: 40-79), Thompson & Canby (2003); on Humayun’s,
Asher (1992: 32-38), Koch (1991: 35-42), Beach (1987a: 5-49), Chandra (1976: 10-29). See also Haydar
Mirza, quoted below.
17 Jawhar relates an interesting anecdote on this subject (Tadhkīra: ff. 76-76b).
18 See Shokoohy & Shokoohy (1987: passim), Koch (1991: 35-42) and Asher (1992: 32-38) for archi-
tecture; Beach (1987a: 5-49) and Richard (1994) for painting.
19 See the scant number of pages devoted to his reign in such comprehensive works as Richards
(1993: 9-12); not to mention the negative assessment of his reign given by such pioneering studies as
Erskine (1854) and Banerji (1938), on which virtually all subsequent scholarship appears to rely, even
in recent times (a notable exception being represented by Avashty, 1967). I have recently tried to
bring in material for a more balanced picture: see Parodi (forthcoming), which includes a discussion
of Humayun’s importance in the Akbarnāma (see also note 27, below).
20 See for example Humāyūnnāma: f. 43, recording Hamida’s opposition to the prospect of marrying
Humayun and the way she was forced to accept; and ibid.: ff. 30-31, describing a fiery controversy
between Humayun and his wives; or Tadhkīra: ff. 43b-45, 62, 109b-110, and passim, relating the
Emperor’s suffering from wounds, cold and hunger.
138
but it does provide some additional information. 21 Other sources also add to the picture:
the Bāburnāma and the Tabaqāt-i Bāburī in particular, for Humayun’s formative years; the
Akbarnāma, on the other hand, gives insight into the official image the emperor’s son and
successor wanted to impose; finally, Haydar Mirza Dughlat’s Tārīkh-i Rashīdī is of consid-
erable relevance in sketching out Humayun’s character and intellectual biography. Then, of
course, there is previous historiographical work, among which Ray’s book Humāyūn in Persia
(Ray 1948) still stands out. 22
Although Humayun had entered Safavid territory with only his closest followers, in a
sheer contrast to the multitudes of elephants and horsemen that had made up his army
only a few years before, 23 by the time he actually met Tahmasp, his morale must have been
considerably higher, having by then spent over a month in Herat, the former Timurid
capital (Ray 1948: 12-14), where he was welcomed and hailed as the legitimate heir of the
Timurid throne, catalysing the hopes of the dispossessed Timurid élite. As Maria Szuppe
(1992: 148) observes, in a contemporary work by Amir Mahmud, Khwandamir’s son, who
had remained in Herat,
le personnage de Homāyun devient la projection de la nostalgie timouride, sentiment
encore vivant à Herat vers le milieu du XVIe siècle. Remarquons pourtant le contraste
entre cette image traditionnelle et la réalité du rôle historique joué par Homāyun,
contraste que ses contemporains ne percevaient visiblement pas de même manière.
As I suggest elsewhere (Parodi, forthcoming), we should perhaps wonder whether it
is not our perception that is distorted. When Humayun reached Herat, his exile from
Hindustan had just begun, and no-one knew it was going to last twelve more years, eight of
which were spent in continuous struggle with his brother; and of course, no-one could
possibly imagine his life would be ended abruptly by a trivial accident (related in Akbar-
nāma I: f. 363) only six months after his return to Delhi. Moreover, at that time, his
situation was not altogether unlike his father’s, whose political achievements are judged so
differently by modern scholarship: Babur too had conquered and lost Samarkand (his real
objective) three times; and had only resolved to conquer Hindustan once he had lost all
hopes of wresting the former Timurid heartland from the Uzbeks (Bāburnāma: f. 145). We
know from his personal witness that neither he, nor many of his followers, found
Hindustan appealing (Bāburnāma: ff. 273b-274; 294b-295b). 24 Humayun was ousted from
Hindustan just like Babur had been ousted from Central Asia; by reconquering Kabul and,
21 A new Persian/English edition by Wheeler M. Thackston of these three books of memoirs is

forthcoming (see Bibliography); for the reader’s convenience, previous editions have also been
included in the Bibliography, although, for Jawhar’s Tadhkīra, there is only an abridged and outdated
English translation made by Mj. Charles Stewart in 1832.
22 See also the works mentioned in note 4. This paper only aims at offering some reflections, based
on a re-examination of sources on the Mughal side; a study of Safavid sources shall be a necessary
complement to it.
23 Most of these had been lost in the disastrous defeats at Chausa and Qanauj (see Banerji 1538: 228-
248).
24 See also Thackston’s remarks in his preface to the most recent English edition of the Bāburnāma
(1996: 18): “Babur found everything about the subcontinent, other than its riches, distasteful. A Timurid prince
accustomed to the society of Transoxiana and the beautiful landscape and climate of Kabul, he disapproved of
almost everything he saw in Hindustan and longed to return to his beloved Kabul, a trip he made only
posthumously”. I elsewhere underscore how Mughal sources appear to indicate Humayun, not Babur,
as the real ‘founder’ of the empire (Parodi, forthcoming).
139
later, Hindustan, he would secure a throne for himself and his descendants, just like his
father had. We may even question whether contemporaries actually perceived his misfor-
tunes as a “fifteen-year exile” at all: the bulk of it being represented by the years between
1544 and 1553, when Kamran and Humayun were contending over the Timurid throne (the
real crux of the matter, besides any territorial considerations) in Kabul. Indeed, the whole
geopolitical perspective in which Mughal history is usually set appears to be biased by an
approach centred on “India” as conceived by the British Raj and, subsequently, by post-
Independence historians. When discussing 16 th century Timurid history, such a perspective
is entirely misleading.
It is thus only reasonable that contemporaries did not see as great a difference as we do
between Babur and Humayun, especially against such a troubled background as that of
early sixteenth-century Central Asia 25; not to mention the fact that Babur had in his turn
entered into an alliance with the Safavid Shah, in 1511, and that it was only with the aid of
troops provided by Tahmasp’s father, Isma‘il, in exchange for a formal adhesion to Shi‘ism
– in a complete parallel with Humayun’s situation – that he was temporarily able to
reconquer Samarkand and hold it for a short while. 26
Both Humayun and Babur, moreover, were scions of Timur, from whom (as is testified by
their formal adhesion to Shi‘ism) they apparently inherited a liberal and unprejudiced
attitude towards Islam, and a sheer pragmatism in politics. But there is also ground to
support the hypothesis that, unlike perhaps Babur in respect to Isma‘il, Humayun had
reasons to feel superior to Tahmasp: he had been the ruler of a much larger and wealthier
country (a revealing incident, mentioned in Tadhkīra: f. 75, will be discussed below) and,
besides this, as some clues appear to indicate, he was possibly acknowledged as a man with
a saintly aura and the reputation of a worker of miracles (Tadhkīra: f. 57). Jawhar reports
this as the people’s opinion after an officer who had deserted Humayun died soon after the
emperor had cursed him; he also relates other significant episodes: for example how,
finding the gate to the Mashhad shrine locked upon his first visit (it was late at night), the
Emperor turned away, then retraced his steps and, after invoking the Imam, broke the
chain open by the simple touch of his hand (Tadhkīra: f. 67b).
This may be taken as just poor evidence, especially considering that the latter ‘miracle’
occurred by the intercession of the Imam Riza. However, Humayun’s saintly reputation is
better taken seriously, at least by those interested in the history of culture: it is something
I repeatedly came across while researching the issues connected with the construction and
perception of the Emperor’s mausoleum (built by Akbar in Delhi in 1662-71). Both the form
of the tomb, recalling that of Central Asian shrines, and the way Humayun is presented in
the Akbarnāma 27 appear to point to the fact that the Emperor was exalted, after his death,
25 On the troubled situation of the former Timurid empire in the second decade of the sixteenth
century, see Szuppe (1992). For the same events in a Shaybanid perspective, see Haidar (2002).
26 On Babur’s alliance with Isma‘il, see A.S. Beveridge’s note to her English version of the Bāburnāma
(1921: 352-356), based essentially on the Tārīkh-i Rashīdī and the Qānūn (the Bāburnāma unfortunately
presents a lacuna in this section). See also Beveridge, in Humāyūnnāma: 91. Babur’s precedent was, in
fact, a mixed blessing for Humayun, as Babur had been charged of treachery by his Persian allies.
27 The late emperor is described as the “founder of the canons of justice and equity [...]; water-gate for the
rivers of learning [...]; both a king of dervish-race and a dervish with a king’s title [...]; throne of the sphere of
eternal mysteries; alidad of the astrolabe of theory and practice [...] a holy spirit and a sacred light” (Akbarnāma
140
as a saintly ancestor and a protector of his lineage (see Parodi, forthcoming). To a large
extent, this reputation must have been due to some specific trait in Humayun’s personality,
and/or to his deliberate choice to make such an impression already in his lifetime. 28 But
Humayun also had, so-to-say, the necessary ‘pedigree’ for it, since his mother was, ac-
cording to Mughal sources, a descendant of Ahmad Jami (Akbarnāma I: f. 121). Through a
carefully planned (though initially contrasted) matrimonial alliance with a girl from the
same lineage, Humayun secured an even clearer ‘saintly pedigree’ for his son, Akbar. 29 In
this sense, Humayun’s role as a partial forerunner for Akbar’s religious policies, and the
latter’s purported role as a mujtahid, is worthy of attention. I shall return to this point.
Humayun’s saintly aura, or the construction of it, does not appear unusual against the
political and social background of the times; politics, in the late 15 th and early 16 th century,
was deeply imbued with mysticism, the most pertinent and recent precedent being that of
Tahmasp’s father, Isma‘il. 30 Indeed, it is perhaps not too far-fetched to hypothesise that
Humayun had actually drawn inspiration from the latter (rather than from Tahmasp, as is
usually claimed), possibly in the context of a political programme for which a clue may be
envisaged in the name Dīnpanāh (literally, Asylum of the Faith) Humayun chose for the city
he founded in 1533 (see Qānūn: ff. 82-84). Could it have been intended as a sanctuary
(specifically aimed at the Timurid élite) against Safavid intolerance?
Although Khwandamir’s account of Humayun’s institutions only covers the first few
years of his reign, and despite its pompous and literary style which often conceals more
than it reveals, the text provides interesting clues to support this hypothesis. The most
remarkable is probably the description of the Crown of Magnificence (Tāj-i ‘Izzat) Humayun
had devised and adopted for himself and the members of his court. Like most of the
institutions and features described in the Qānūn, it is usually interpreted as one of several
extravagant innovations introduced by the Emperor, in accordance with a scholarly
approach that has consistently viewed Humayun as an eccentric and somewhat frivolous
man. I know of no serious attempt to place his institutions in an organic context, nor, with
the exception of Adle (2000: 173), of any attempt at reconciling the description of the Tāj-i
‘Izzat with evidence from contemporary miniatures. This may be partly due to the fact that
most scholarship, especially when it comes to art history, still relies on very old and often
inaccurate English translations; still, this silence is remarkable.
On the other hand, an accurate reading of the Persian text of the Qānūn makes it possible
to identify the Tāj with the headgear appearing in Humayuni miniatures: a sort of innov-
←
I: f. 121), “this externally and internally great man, who saw in the eyes of truth and was capable of
contemplating mysteries” (I: f. 165); and “such a perfect personality, worthy of the true khilāfat, and whose
like as a superintendent of things external and internal it would be hard to find in the course of revolving
cycles” (I: f. 203). For more references to the Emperor’s superior powers, prefiguring those ascribed to
Akbar, see Parodi (forthcoming: note 66).
28 Haydar Mirza indicates that Humayun had considerable charisma and charm: see the passage
quoted below.
29 The girl was, of course, Hamida Banu, later the venerable Queen Mother known by the title of
“Maryam Makani”. She was much younger than Humayun, and probably already betrothed to the
emperor’s brother, Hindal; they both fiercely opposed the marriage, but to no avail. We are lucky
that Gulbadan (who was one of Hamida’s best friends) recorded the details of this incident for us
(Humāyūnnāma: 149-151), along with scores of other zenāna gossips and anecdotes that give life to
otherwise dull official records of events.
30 On Isma‘il and his patronage of the arts, see Canby (1999: 8-19).
141
ative and colourful reinterpretation of the turban, wound around a Mongol cap, that is seen
in all surviving paintings from his reign (Figs. 1 and 2) and is one of the safest ways of
dating works which could otherwise be mistaken, at least in some instances, for products of
Akbar’s workshops. None of these miniatures date earlier than Humayun’s return to Kabul
after his sojourn at Tahmasp’s court, and some of them have been ascribed to the Safavid
masters he first met in Iran; but the headgear they shown can, indeed, be reconciled with
Khwandamir’s description 31:
The “Crown of Magnificence” (Tāj-i ‘Izzat) represents the fulfilling of the ideas of this
beloved descendant of the caliphs. It is sewn with precious fabrics such as velvet from the
West, golden brocade, multicoloured tāja, 32 rough material and high-quality woollen
squares. This headdress, so rich and colourful, is made of several clefts 33 and many bands.
On both sides of the turban, there is a “v”-shaped vent. If the two vents are put close, we
can see two “v”s which in algebra correspond to number seventy-seven (vv), a clear ref-
erence to the word ‘izz 34 that means honour and high rank. Thus, this styling and this
ornament, whose qualities far exceed the mere description that can be made, has been
known everywhere under the name of Tāj-i ‘Izzat.
The king’s headdress is of one colour, whereas that of the high dignitaries of the court has
the clefts and the inner part of the turban of a colour, and the other parts of another
one. 35
Furthermore, the one who rules over seas and countries provides each notable with a
different hat, thus freeing them from unworthy clothes, and bestowing a Tāj on those at
the top of the hierarchy.
Although the rendering of the characteristic ‘Humayuni turban’ in contemporary
miniatures does not include all the details given by Khwandamir (such representations are
highly conventional), a large V-shaped vent is clearly visible, and appears as its most
salient feature; supposing the back side (which is never shown) had one too, we would have
a strong element to reconcile the depictions with the description. 36 Even more importantly,
31 Qānūn (Persian edition, 1993: 283-286, “Introductory description of the amber turban, the crown and the
clothing”). I am thankful to Diego Giolitti for providing a fresh and annotated translation of this
passage: notes 32 through 34 are based on his suggestions.
32 Tāja-bāf, an otherwise unknown type of cloth, is mentioned as a kind of plain silk in the Ā‘īn-i
Akbarī (I: 99). As for heft rang, ‘seven-coloured’ or ‘multicoloured’, it has no particular meaning in the
dictionaries that were consulted: see Loghghatnāme-ye Dehkhoda. The words hafturang and haft awrang
refer, on the other hand, to the constellation of the Great Bear. Interestingly, Haft Awrang being the
title of Jami’s celebrated mystical work, a reference to it may be implied as well.
33 Cf. Shahbazi (1993: 424), about the contemporary Safavid Tāj: “During the struggle for political
and ideological supremacy in Persia Soltan-Haydar and later his son Shah Esma‘il I (907-30/1501-24)
endowed the red felt cap with a new significance: The opening was narrowed to fit snugly around the
forehead and the tip (gol “flower” […]) elongated into a “bottleneck”; the inside was often reinforced
with metal (to serve as a helmet); twelve vertical gores (tark), symbolizing devotion to the twelve
Shi‘ite imams, encircled the hat; and a white turban of silk or wool was then wrapped around it in
twelve bands. This entire headgear was called tāj, and only the military followers of the early
Safavids were entitled to wear it [...]” A comparison, both formal and ideological, with the Safavid Tāj
is essential to the understanding of the Humayuni headgear (see below).
34 This is a reference to abjad numbers. Note also that there appears to be a deliberate wordplay on
tāj/tāja and ‘izz/‘izzat.
35 Colours were of paramount importance in Humayun’s ceremonial, being symbolic of the
properties of different planets (see Qānūn: ff. 72-77; ff. 110-112.).
36 It is worth recalling that Baini Prasad’s translation (Qānūn 1940: 49-50) was very unclear on this
point, placing the V-shaped vents “in each fillet”, thus making the identification impossible. On the
importance of the Tāj-i ‘Izzat as a forerunner for other symbols of “mystical affiliation” or “special
honour” reserved to the Emperors’ closest followers, like Akbar’s shast and Jahangir’s shast u shabha,
142
there is reason to believe that the introduction of the Tāj-i ‘Izzat was far more than an
innovation in the field of fashion: Khwandamir’s description immediately brings to mind
the Safavids’ characteristic turban, the Tāj-i Haydarī. The latter had reportedly been
adopted by Isma’il’s father, Haydar, after the Imam ‘Ali had described it to him in a
dream. 37 Interestingly, the dream itself has an almost direct parallel with Humayun’s bio-
graphy, since we are told that Ahmad Jami, dressed in green, had appeared to him in a dream
to predict the birth of a son “from his lineage”, Akbar (Humāyūnnāma: 145). 38
The regular experience of this kind of dreams is especially present in the Eastern Islamic
world in the early decades of the sixteenth century, 39 and may be understood as part of a
conscious attempt on the part of rulers to shroud themselves in an aura of mystical cha-
risma, at a time when the Caliphs’ authority was no longer there to claim it. 40 And if
Haydar, or Isma‘il, Safavi provide a precedent for the Mughals, the remarkable importance
of dreams in Akbar’s official sources is clearly anticipated by his father’s experience. This
is only one of several instances in which Humayun appears to have been a forerunner for
his much better known son and successor. 41
The existence in Timurid India of a headgear whose imagery was centred on the number
seven, as against the number twelve of the Tāj-i Haydarī, nearly a decade before Humayun’s
visit to the Persian court, far from being the expression of an eccentric character, as it has
so far been interpreted, deserves all our attention: it points to the fact that the Emperor
had his Safavid counterpart well in mind, even before meeting Tahmasp under the pressure
of circumstances. We may even venture to hypothesize that the Tāj was part of a political
project in which Humayun’s mystical aura would have had some place, had everything not
been overwhelmed by political pressures.
Jawhar reports an interesting episode, that is worth discussing in connection with this
issue: when Bayram Beg, who had been sent as an envoy to Tahmasp in advance of the royal
party, was received at court, the Shah ordered him to shave his hair, and wear a Tāj-i
Haydarī, but the nobleman represented that he was the servant of another person, and
could only obey his orders (Tadhkīra: f. 69). The episode has always been considered as an
anticipation of the Shah’s request of Humayun and his people to convert to Shi‘ism; but
Bayram Beg, a Qaraqoyunlu nobleman, already was a Shi‘i (Ray 1948: 40), which is why he
was chosen as envoy in the first place. His refusal to wear the Tāj-i Haydarī, therefore, must
be explained otherwise. And why not, indeed, as a matter of Tāj-i Haydarī versus Tāj-i ‘Izzat
or, in other words, a controversy regarding symbols of mystical-political affiliations?
←
see Parodi (2004a). I am currently writing a book on early Mughal painting, part of which is devoted
to a detailed analysis of dress code and ceremonial.
37 Canby 1999: 10 and note 2. For a description, see also note 33, above.
38 The colour green is certainly not a casual detail: several years before the dream, Khwandamir
explicitly mentions green as Humayun’s favourite colour, due to its connection with the Prophet
Muhammad and with Khizr (Qānūn: f. 76). For this reason, and in accordance with astrological
considerations, Humayun used to wear green or white clothes on Mondays and Fridays (ibid.).
Participants to a Nawroz excursion preceding, and connected with, Akbar’s circumcision feast were
also required to dress in green (Humāyūnnāma: f. 66). The figure of Khizr was to remain of importance
under Humayun’s successors (see Beach & Koch 1997: 204-205).
39 Sher Khan is also reported to have had premonitory dreams (see Bakhshi & Sharma 2000: 230).
40 See below, and compare the reference to the khilāfat in Akbarnāma (note 27, above).
41 See Parodi (2004a) and note 27, above.
143
A few decades later, Akbar’s political-religious synthesis – the Dīn- (or Tawḥīd)-i Ilāhī –
would significantly be based on a pīr/murīd-like relationship, symbolized by a shast (a word
usually referred to the thread worn by Brahmins), 42 bearing the phrase “Allahu Akbar”
(Ā‘īn-i Akbarī I: 174-5). 43 Affiliation to the Dīn-i Ilāhī, and the honour of the shast, had to be
gained through an initiation. This was probably the case already with the Tāj-i ‘Izzat, for, as
Khwandamir writes 44:
The Author himself, even before he got the [current] honour, in a qasīda composed in
honour of the king, defender of the world (Jahānbānī), had so reported:
“My head didn’t receive from the king the honour of the rank hat,
Therefore I fell, disheartened and lost”.
From this brief (but precious) reference, it may be inferred that the Tāj was a special
honour, possibly subject to a process of initiation, since even the old and venerable
Timurid historian had to earn it for himself.
Humayuni miniatures would seem to confirm this: although generally regarded as ‘the’
turban typical of Humayun’s reign, the Tāj-i ‘Izzat is not worn by all and sundry in con-
temporary paintings: only the highest dignitaries and people closest to the Emperor wear
it; all others (servants in particular) either wear Mongol caps or, more frequently, standard
Timurid turbans. 45 This so far unnoticed feature indicates that the use of this highly
original headgear was not just a matter of fashion, but signified a precise status, rank, or
(in a parallel with Akbar’s Dīn-i Ilāhī) degree of proximity to the Emperor.
Odd as the idea of Humayun as the head of a sort of ‘mystical brotherhood’ may seem, it
is not out of place in its historical context, and the relative lack of evidence in contem-
porary sources should not surprise: what official sources do we have, besides the Qānūn,
and that, too, covering only the first three years of Humayun’s reign? And even if we had
more, should we expect them to deal with the issue in detail? As concerns the Dīn-i Ilāhī,
the Ā‘īn-i Akbarī does not; were it not for Bada‘oni’s work (in some sense an “unauthorised
biography” of Akbar) and the information provided by the Jesuite Fathers, little about this
institution would be known; perhaps even too little for it to have attracted significant
scholarly attention.
In spite of all these difficulties, a careful reading of Khwandamir’s passage does yield
further information. It indicates, for example, that Humayun’s title Jahānbānī (Protector
of the World), usually regarded as the emperor’s posthumous name along with Jannat
Ashiyānī, 46 was already ascribed to him in his lifetime. This is another detail that has so far
been entirely overlooked by scholarship (including myself). Yet, such a title is entirely
42 See Loghghatnāme-ye Dehkhoda, quoted in Nizami (1989: 134).

43 On the Dīn-i Ilāhī, see Parodi (2004a), which includes a discussion of the shast and clues of its
survival under Akbar’s successors. See also note 36, above.
44 Qānūn: f. 71; tr. by Diego Giolitti.
45 See for example the painting known as Princes of the House of Timur (British Museum, 1913. 2-8. I),
illustrated in Canby (1993) and briefly discussed below (Fig. 1 in this essay is a detail from it), or
Humayun and Hindal in a Landscape (f. 15r from the “Berlin Album”, presently in Berlin, Staats-
bibliothek Preussischer Kulturbesitz), illustrated in Welch (1985: 145). The two paintings, along with
others, are the object of a book I am currently writing: see note 36, above.
46 See Parodi (forthcoming) for a discussion in relation to Humayun’s tomb.
144
consonant with the city’s name of Dīnpanāh, and with the hypothesis of an attempt, on the
part of Humayun, at creating an aura of sanctity around his figure.
It is worth recalling that Humayun was a child of three, and a direct witness of events, at
the time when Babur entered into an alliance with Isma‘il Safavi in an attempt to win back
Samarkand from the Uzbeks. 47 The corresponding section of the Bāburnāma is sadly lost to
us; but we may presume that, as a sign of his acceptance of the Shi‘i creed, Babur and his
men were required to shave their heads and wear the Tāj-i Haydarī. This could have made
an impression on the child Humayun, and the future emperor may later have been drawn to
the idea of adopting similar paraphernalia to exalt his public image. They would have
served him well in laying down the ideological, as well as social, foundations of the Indo-
Timurid state.
Babur’s conquest of Hindustan had been a military adventure, many of whose prot-
agonists had soon made their way back to Central Asia; despite all subsequent scholarly
rhetoric, based essentially on Erskine’s enthusiastic assessment (1854), Humayun had not
inherited anything like a state as he ascended the throne. Indeed, many of the institutions
described in the Qānūn, fanciful as they may seem, appear to aim at a very concrete object-
ive: that of centralising power in the sovereign’s hands, and minimising tensions among
different power groups at court. This, in turn, was probably inspired by, and at the same
time projected against, the changing international scenario within the early sixteenth-
century Muslim world, where the Ottomans and, subsequently, the Safavids were in the
process of transforming polities based on tribal alliances in the tradition of “steppe em-
pires” into centralised states headed by charismatic sovereigns endowed with a highly
spiritual, as well as temporal, authority (see Necipoğlu 1993: 306, 309). This was a far cry
from Timur’s legacy and political approach, which was still embodied by Babur (as well as
by Humayun’s brother, Kamran); and Humayun (not Akbar, as is usually claimed) appears to
be the first Timurid fully aware of the changing international context, and the first to act
in response to it. It is possible that the opposition he met with, and the temporary loss of
Hindustan and the Timurid throne, were motivated by resistance to these reforms, both
from other members of the Timurid family and from the Timurid amīrs at large. The issue
is, of course, too complex to be discussed in detail in the context of the present essay; but
there is at least one hint of recognition of Humayun’s precursory role in previous schol-
arship that is worth mentioning (Streusand 1989: 36-37):
[Humayun] introduced a new model of administration and social structure, which suggests
that he intended major changes in the doctrine of kingship. He divided the imperial
servants into three groups […] The classification of other Tīmūrids with imperial servants
marks the abandonment of the concept of the appanage state and modification of the
doctrine of collective sovereignty. Being a Tīmūrid no longer made a prince a co-sover-
eign, entitled to an autonomous domain. He became a servant of the current ruler and his
potential successor. [...] Humāyūn spent most of his career dealing with consequences of
collective sovereignty [and] most likely sought to modify the doctrine of collective sover-
eignty in response to this ordeal. His idea is an important, but hitherto unnoticed,
precedent for Akbar’s programme.
This is, to my knowledge, the only instance when Humayun’s reforms, more specifically
the division of courtiers into three groups, which were assigned separate days for recep-
tion (Qānūn: ff. 34-37), and into twelve classes symbolised by arrows of different materials
47 Gulbadan tells us that Babur took his children along in the campaign (Humāyūnnāma: 91).
145
(Qānūn: ff. 43-47), are acknowledged as purposeful attempts at centralizing and stabilizing
power, instead of being dismissed as eccentricities. However, Streusand mistakenly assigns
them to “Humayun’s brief second reign in Delhi”, and interprets them as the product of
Humayun’s bitter experience with his brother Kamran, mistaking the consequence (i. e.,
Kamran’s refusal to submit) for the cause (Humayun’s reform). This is quite emblematic of
the extent to which, in Mughal historiography, old ideas and old schemes die hard, among
which that of Humayun’s exile as a palyngenesis of sorts.
In the context of Humayun’s attempts at increasing his control over rival factions, the
institution of the “Carpet of Mirth” (another of the elements usually dismissed as “eccent-
ricities”) is also worth mentioning (Qānūn: ff. 110-113), divided into concentric circles
representing the Elements and the celestial spheres, where courtiers, and the sovereign
himself, sat not according to rank, but to astrological considerations (for example, officers
of Indian background and Shaykhs would sit in the circle of Saturn; the King himself in the
circle of the Sun; etc.). Khwandamir’s remark that “for such people, as always wish to sit at
the head of an assembly [...] there can be no rivalry when they come to this carpet” sup-
ports the hypothesis that one of Humayun’s main concerns was the tension between
different groups.
Returning to our initial question, that of Humayun’s self-perception while at the Safavid
court, there are at least two episodes in the sources which may help us define it. The first is
an incident which temporarily alienated Tahmasp’s sympathy, as he heard that Humayun
had once assigned him (presumably, according to scholarship, while performing divination
rites) eleven low-quality arrows, while assigning to himself twelve first-quality ones.
Humayun’s reply on this occasion is quite indicative of his self-perception: he maintained
that the reason had to do with kingdoms – Khurasan being one third of the world, while
Hindustan two (Tadhkīra: ff. 75-75b).
There might have been other reasons, too: as I mentioned earlier, Humayun’s status as
the legitimate heir of the Timurid throne must also have played a part in this ‘game’. If,
indeed, it is a pastime that is here referred to: divination was, at that time, a far more
serious affair than an “amusement”, as Tahmasp’s own Fālnāma testifies 48; and there is
reason to wonder whether the arrows meant here are not of another kind altogether: the
reference to arrows of higher and lower quality in this passage, coming in different
numbers, may have something to do with Humayun’s division of imperial servants (and,
ultimately, of society) into classes symbolised by arrows of different materials (Qānūn: ff.
43-44).
And precisely the passage in the Qānūn referring to the twelve arrows symbolising ranks
in Humayun’s system may help us flesh out the incident a little. The text specifies that the
arrow of gold was reserved for the king; that of silver, for his relations, brethren and all
the Sultans in the employment of the Throne. Assigning Tahmasp an arrow of the second
rank thus signified considering him on the same level as Humayun’s relatives and other
subject rulers. This is wholly consistent with the perception Humayun’s grandson Jahangir
seems to have had of his own Safavid contemporary, Shah ‘Abbas the Great, whom he
affectionately called “brother” in correspondence, but who is portrayed in a famous mini-
48 See Thompson & Canby (2003: 122, 124-129).
146
ature from the St. Petersburg Muraqqa‘ 49 as a person of smaller stature, enveloped in
Jahangir’s protective embrace (and luminous aura), and standing on a lamb that, for all its
Golden Age resonance, is evidently frail and weak when contrasted with the lion under
Jahangir’s feet.
The same idea about the respective status of Iran and Hindustan finds expression in
Gulbadan’s account of Hamida’s reaction to the feast given in her honour by Tahmasp’s
sister, Sultanam. When asked if the tents erected for the occasion were also found in
Hindustan, the Begam quoted a proverb meaning that whatever is found in Iran, is found in
twice as large a number in Hindustan (Humāyūnnāma: f. 59a). The nature of the source,
which was not meant for circulation, but only to provide material for Abu al-Fazl’s official
account, and the intimacy existing between the two women, reflected in the freshness of
the dialogue (involving a third party, Sultanam’s aunt, whom we imagine as an elderly lady
requiring additional explanation), all seem to make the account quite reliable. Moreover,
the episode is in accordance with the character of young and outspoken Hamida, who
had dared refuse betrothal to the Emperor, and had fiercely kept her stand for a while
(Humāyūnnāma: f. 43). It is also consistent with Babur’s statement on the far greater num-
ber of stone-cutters that were in his employ in Agra as compared to those who had been
working at the construction of Timur’s Great Mosque in Samarkand (Bāburnāma: f. 291b); a
remark which is by no means disrespectful, but reflects a common view on the wealth of
Hindustan.
And precisely when we look at art history, it is most interesting to wonder whether
the contacts Humayun developed with painters from Tahmasp’s atelier, whom he invited
over to his court, first in Kabul, then in Hindustan, were indeed only a reflection of his will
to emulate a superior cultural milieu, as scholarship has so far maintained, even in recent
times. 50 Sure, it was a fortunate coincidence for Humayun to be in Tabriz around the time
the atelier was being dismantled; but, unlike those scholars who seem to imply that he was
overwhelmed with the splendour of Tahmasp’s court and tried to imitate it as far as pos-
sible, I believe the Emperor’s approach to the Shah’s painters, in the light of all the evid-
ence of his former activity as a patron, was more subtle and complex. In a sense, we may
even say that he followed in the footsteps of Timur when he recruited them (and, most
likely, other men of culture as well), although, in this particular case, not as booty from
a military campaign. In fact, even then, he but pursued the cultural policy conceived at
the outset of his reign, when he had divided his courtiers into three groups, one of which
was that of the Ahl-i Murād (artists, particularly musicians, according to Khwandamir’s
49 Now at the Freer Gallery of Art, Washington, 45.9r ; illustrated in The St. Petersburg Muraqqa‘ (1996:
Pl. 201).
50 See for example Elgood, in Canby (1994: 21): “Humayun, wishing to emulate Persian artistic
tradition, would surely have jumped at the chance to employ a person with such experience [Mir
Sayyid ‘Ali]”. There is actually reason to wonder whether the very concept of “Persian painting
tradition” had some place in Humayun’s mind. There are categories we grew up with, such as
“Persian”, “India”, or “Mughal”; we tend to use them because they are so familiar to us: they are part
of a code long-established in scholarly practice, which comes in handy when we speak among
ourselves; however, lest we also speak for ourselves, an effort on the part of us all is needed in order
to refine our lexicon (and related categories), especially with reference to patronage and the
perception of art by its contemporaries.
147
account), who were given equal attention and respect as the other two, with two days of
the week reserved for their reception (Qānūn: ff. 34-37); and even more clearly with the
foundation of Dīnpanāh. The name of the city and the circumstances of its building imply
that he had in all likelihood aimed at gathering there the best minds of his time, so as to
make it, we may infer, a sort of second Samarkand: a shelter from the uncertainties of the
Timurid homeland and from the persecutions of Safavid Iran. Humayun, in this sense, may
indeed have become the receptacle of Timurid nostalgia, as Maria Szuppe has observed. As I
note elsewhere (Parodi, forthcoming), he seems to have deliberately sought to construct an
ideology of power based on the great achievements of former Timurid rulers: he founded
(or rather, re-founded) a city, like Timur; patronized and practised astronomy, like Ulugh
Beg (had he had the time, he would probably have commissioned an observatory) 51; and all
the attention he devoted to artists and poets was most probably an attempt at re-creating
the atmosphere of Sultan-Husayn’s Herat, that he had been born too late to see.
For all these reasons, we may presume that Humayun faced Tahmasp with a certain sense
of superiority: he most probably conceived of himself as the scion of a much older and
more prestigious lineage, besides which he could boast, like his royal host, a religious
and perhaps even saintly descent; moreover, he had been the ruler of a much larger and
wealthier country, and last but not least he was a more mature man. In the text of his letter
to Humayun, as given in the Akbarnāma (f. 217), 52 Tahmasp exhorts the Mughal Emperor to
regard him as a “younger brother” (barādar-i khurd). Whether the expression is genuine or
not, it may be inferred, from this reference, that this is how the Safavid Shah was perceived
from the Mughal side.
The implications of this ‘sense of superiority’ are not irrelevant, and concern the art-
history domain directly: by securing the services of Tahmasp’s chief painters, Humayun
probably conceived of himself as taking another step in his cultural policy, by bringing the
best artists of his time back ‘home’, where he thought they belonged, that is, in the service
of the Timurid dynasty.
In this connection, Humayun’s choices and skills in the visual arts, and the arts of the
book in particular, should be analysed. And indeed, when Humayun’s misfortunes are taken
into account, they provide a good match for Tahmasp’s. The Mughal emperor never had the
opportunity to see his cultural aspirations develop systematically, but we have enough
evidence to make ourselves a clear idea of his interests and taste as a patron of the arts. In
both Khwandamir’s and Gulbadan’s accounts, for example, the attention devoted to items
of clothing, carpets, tents and pavilions made of impermanent materials indicates that
Humayun had a particular fondness for textiles. As for his interest in the arts of the book,
there are numerous clues in contemporary sources, part of which have previously been
collected and analysed by Chandra (1976: 10-15); Avashty (1967: 22-24), on the other hand,
has gathered evidence on Humayun’s formation. All available information confirms the
idea that Humayun was reputed a connoisseur. Zayn Khan (Tabaqāt-i Bāburī: f. 73), on the
occasion of Babur’s seizure of the Milwat fort, whose treasures included the library of
51 According to the Akbarnāma (I: f. 220), he visited the one in Tabriz.

52 A different text is preserved in other sources. These, however, date no earlier than the mid-
eighteenth century (see Ray 1948: 67-8 and 101-2).
148
Ghazi Khan, a renowned book-lover, says Humayun assisted Babur in reviewing the books
and received part of the most precious ones. 53 Later, Babur would put him in charge of the
inspection and first inventory of the treasury in Agra soon after the victory over Ibrahim
Lodi (Bāburnāma: f. 268-268b). In both cases, we get the impression that Babur was both
busy with more important matters, i.e., directing military operations, and confident that
Humayun would do an excellent job in his absence. 54 After his accession to the throne, we
find Humayun grieving the loss of a precious Tīmūrnāma illustrated by Bihzad during a
surprise attack on his camp in the course of the Gujarat campaign 55; and rejoicing, in 1550,
when two camel-loads of precious books, once seized by Kamran, were recaptured (Akbar-
nāma I: f. 305). On another occasion, when Kamran attacked the royal camp and retired to
the fort of Taligan, we are told that Humayun immediately inquired about the library
(which, we may infer, was travelling along with the camp), and was reassured that it was
safe (Tadhkīra: f. 99). Then there is Haydar Mirza’s account. Haydar was Babur’s maternal
cousin (their mothers were sisters) and a leading intellectual in his time; his is a firsthand
account of Humayun, with whom he shared some of the most difficult years (Tārīkh-i
Rashīdī: ff. 364-365) 56:
Humayun, as he was the eldest, was the greatest and most distinguished of Babur’s sons. I
have seen few persons possessed of so much natural talent and excellence as he: but in
consequence of his having dissolute and sensual men in his service, and of his intercourse
with them, and with men of mean and profligate character, such as in particular Moulana
Muhammad Farghari, and others like him, he contracted some bad habits, as, for instance,
the use of opium; and the business which, as a prince, he should himself have managed, he
left to them. Nevertheless, he had many excellent qualities. In battle he was steady and
brave; in conversation, ingenious and lively; and at the social board, full of wit. He was
53 On this occasion, according to Zayn Khan, Babur calls Humayun ṣadr al-kitāb. This was formerly
translated as “true judge of books” and interpreted as a recognition of his competence in this
matter (cf. English translation by S. H. Askari, Delhi 1982: 57-8); however, more recently, C. Adle has
demonstrated it to be a playword based upon chancellery language that Zain Khan uses in order to
maintain a certain balance between the rival brothers: Humayun is called ṣadr al-kitāb (proem of a
letter or treatise) and Kamran, ṣadr al-khiṭāb (addressing chapter in a book or letter). See Adle (2000:
192-193) for further details.
54 He was also extremely fond of his son: when he himself arrived at the Agra fort (f. 268b),
Humayun offered him a diamond of extraordinary size, whose value had been assessed at “the whole
world’s expenditure for half a day”, and Babur gave it right back to him (f. 268b). This diamond was
later given by Humayun to Tahmasp in return for his military support. See Amini (s.d.), for its
identification with the celebrated Koh-i Noor, now with the British Crown.
55 The episode is discussed in Chandra 1976: 10 and note 9.
56 The Bāburnāma (ff. 11-11b) gives a vivid account of the strong relationship existing between him
and the Miranshahi Timurids, and at the same time of his assertive and independent character:
“After his father [Muhammad-Husayn Kürägän Dughlat] was killed by the Uzbeks, he came and
joined my retinue for three or four years. Later, he requested permission to go to the khan in
Kashgar. “Everything returns to its source – pure gold, silver, or tin.” As of this date, it is said that he has
repented and discovered the right path. Calligraphy, painting, arrows, arrow barbs, string grip – at
each of these he has a deft hand. He also has poetic talent. I have received a petition of his, and his
composition is not bad”. After failing to reach Tibet, purportedly to destroy the temple at Lhasa
(perhaps the “discovery of the right path” mentioned by Babur is a reference to this episode), Haydar
joined Kamran in Kabul and, when the latter rebelled, defected to Humayun. Probably due to cultural
and temperamental affinities, Haydar developed a sincere attachment to the latter, and remained at
his side until the Emperor chose to seek asylum in Iran. Haydar, who had advised him to try his
chance in Kashmir, went there instead and gained the throne effortlessly, but was murdered by
political opponents in 1551, before Humayun could achieve a stable position either in Kabul or
Hindustan (see Barthold 1986: 317).
149
kind-hearted and generous. He was a dignified and magnificent prince, and observed much
state; insomuch that, though I came into his service at Agra, in his broken fortunes, when
people said his pomp and style were no longer what they had been, yet, when the army
was arrayed for the Ganges campaign, at which time the superintendence devolved upon
me, the number of artisans who accompanied him was seventeen thousand, from which
the extent of the other branches of his establishment may be imagined.
The account is especially important when we consider that Haydar wrote his work while
an independent ruler in Kashmir, and never lived to see Humayun regain the throne of
Hindustan; thus, unlike those who wrote at Akbar’s behest, he cannot arouse the least
suspicion of flattery.
A more controversial question is that regarding Humayun’s personal involvement and
skills in calligraphy and painting. His father Babur had been a proficient calligrapher, and
had devoted considerable effort to the schooling of his children in this art. 57 He had even
devised a calligraphic style, the Bāburī script. 58 Accordingly, it would seem that Tahmasp’s
brother Sam Mirza considered Humayun’s handwriting perfect. 59 However, this is in con-
trast with a letter Babur sent to Humayun, who had then just returned to his governor’s
post in Badakhshan, in 1529. The text of the letter is included in the Bāburnāma (f. 349-
349b) and expresses Babur’s disappointment over Humayun’s lack of clarity:
As I asked, you have written your letters, but you didn’t read them over, for if you had had
a mind to read them, you would have found that you could not. After reading them, you
certainly would have changed them. Although your writing can be read with difficulty, it
is excessively obscure. Who has ever heard of prose designed to be an enigma? Your
spelling is not bad, although it is not entirely correct either. [...] Your handrwriting can be
made out somehow or other, but with all these obscure words of yours the meaning is not
entirely clear. Probably your laziness in writing letters is due to the fact that you try to
make it too fancy. From now on write with uncomplicated, clear, and plain words. This
will cause less difficulty both for you and for your reader.
It is hard to believe that Babur could speak in this tone to a son who was twenty-one, had
just experienced fatherhood, and had been his choice general and connoisseur until shortly
before, unless there was some serious reason. On the basis of Haydar Mirza’s testimony,
we may hypothesize that Humayun’s bad performance, and Babur’s reprimand on this
57 The gifts mentioned in note 58, below, and particularly in the case of Hindal, testify to this; see
also Avashty (1967: 23-24), with bibliography, for Humayun’s formative years. According to Bakhshi
and Sharma (2000: 47), the latter had reportedly made Badakhshan a centre of learning and the arts
already in his youth; however, no source is quoted in support of this statement.
58 Though no specimens survive, the script is known to us from Babur’s mention of it in his memoirs,
among the gifts sent to his sons in 1529 (Bāburnāma: f. 357b): to Humayun, along with congratulatory
gifts for the birth of a son, were sent “occasional poems written in the Baburi script”; to Kamran,
gifts for his marriage and “letters written in the Baburi script”; and to Hindal, then a child of ten,
along with clothes, a dagger, a jewel-studded inkwell and a mother-of pearl inlay box (presumably a
pen-case, which would have been appropriate), “a copy of the individual letters of the Baburi script”.
The passage is relevant for at least two reasons (so far, it would seem, unnoticed): the first is that the
khaṭṭ-i Bāburī, it may be inferred, was a very recent invention; this may account for its complete
disappearance, as not enough specimens of it were probably in existence at the time of Babur’s
death. The second is that Humayun, unlike his brothers, was sent complete poems written in the new
handwriting especially for the occasion. This probably signals some sort of hierarchy in the gifts:
specifically, an acknowledgement of Humayun as the eldest and, since the birth of a heir, the most
important among Babur’s sons. A superior status of Humayun in the cultural domain, established
during the conquest of Hindustan, may also have been taken into account.
59 Mahfuz-ul Haq, quoted in Chandra (1976: 10).
150
particular occasion, are the reflection of the addiction to opium the prince was developing.
No definitive assessment of his ability as a calligrapher may, however, be drawn from such
contrasting evidence.
As for the Emperor’s direct involvement in painting, he appears to have practised the art
under the direction of Mir Sayyid ‘Ali and Khwaja ‘Abd al-Samad, 60 and to have attached
great importance to his son’s schooling in this art, also entrusted to the two Iranian
masters (see Akbarnāma II: f. 42). In a famous miniature, the adolescent Akbar is depicted
while presenting a painting by his master to Humayun. 61 The fruits of this effort are seen in
the prominent role painting was to play under Akbar as a means to reveal the mysteries of
Creation (see Brand & Lowry 1985: 123-128).
But the most striking (and most relevant) episode related to painting in Humayun’s
biography is that reported by Jawhar (Tadhkīra: ff. 53-53b): a beautiful bird flew into the
royal tent while the Emperor was waiting for his clothes to dry up (that was just before he
left Hindustan for Iran, and he was apparently so destitute at that time that he did not have
an appropriate set of spare clothes with him). The Emperor had the bird captured, person-
ally cut off some of its feathers, then ordered an artist to draw its likeness, after which it
was released. Most amazingly, the episode occurred at the time when Humayun’s fortunes
were at their lowest, and his family (including the pregnant Hamida, for whom a few days
earlier a horse had been procured with difficulty) had found temporary hospitality with the
Raja of Umarkot. That he could afford to have a painter with him is a truly revealing sign of
how important art and beauty were to him. 62
Interestingly, Milo Beach (1987a: 27-37) points out how paintings having animals (birds
or quadrupeds) as their exclusive subject appear to have no direct forerunners in Iranian
painting, but are an original Mughal creation. He suggests that this might have occurred
through an inspiration from Chinese paintings, as the use of fabric instead of paper in
those which seem to be the earliest examples would seem to indicate. Some of the paintings
may date to Humayun’s reign and, from what we may infer from Jawhar’s account, they
represent a genre practised before Humayun’s contact with the Persian court. Beach also
quotes a passage in Jahangir’s memoirs where Humayun’s grandson, himself a connoisseur
and an avid collector of painting, says that “Although His Majesty Firdaus-Makani (Babur)
wrote in his memoirs of the shapes and forms of some animals, apparently he did not order
the artists to depict them” (Jahāngīrnāma: f. 85). This may represent an implicit acknow-
ledgement of Humayun’s role in introducing the practice. As for the way Humayun may
have come into contact with Chinese paintings, I dare suggest that this might have
occurred through contacts with the Kashgar court, which were of some relevance in
60 Tārīkh-i Khandān-i Tīmūriyya, f. 298 of the Patna Ms., quoted in Chandra 1976: 12 and note 16.
61 The miniature, part of the Muraqqa‘-i Gulshān, is presently in the Gulistan Palace Collection,
Tehran (illustrated in colour in Canby 1994: 20). Fig. 2 in the present essay is a detail from it. See
Beach (1987a: 9-11) for a discussion in relation with the Akbarnāma passage.
62 When I presented this paper to the Conference, Dr. Abolala Soudavar pertinently observed that
the episode might as well be a literary motif. However, due to the specific nature of the source,
which spares no details as to Humayun’s misfortunes (and misconducts: see for example Tadhkīra: f.
46 for his obtaining remittance of a debt in exchance for water), and considering Haydar Mirza’s
statement regarding the number of craftsmen employed by the Emperor during his Bengal cam-
paign, I think it can be regarded as genuine.
151
Humayun’s times: not only had Haydar Mirza spent several years there, before serving
under Kamran and Humayun, but the Khan of Kashgar himself, Abd al-Rashid Khan, who
was possibly a relation to Humayun, 63 exchanged embassies with the Mughal court: the
copy of a letter Humayun sent to him in 1553 along with gifts from his kitābkhāna is
preserved in Bayazid Bayat’s work. 64 It is thus not too far-fetched to hypothesise that
Chinese paintings had made their way to Humayun’s court, either through Haydar Mirza,
whose personal involvement in painting (see note 56, above) may have drawn him to
collect, or even practise, the genre; or as diplomatic gifts from the Kashgar court, with
which there may have been exchanges long before the documented embassy.
Beach also notes that all remaining examples of painting which may be ascribed to
Humayun’s reign celebrate contemporary events, or portray actual people from Humayun’s
court (including, in at least a couple of instances, the child Akbar). 65 All of these trends –
the interest in contemporary events, the celebration of dynastic power and the sheer
delight in the beauty of nature – were to continue under Humayun’s descendants, and
represent yet another instance in which Humayun appears to have been to a great extent
the actual ‘founder’ of the Mughal empire, at least from the point of view of ideology and
ceremonial. 66 Neither the interest in contemporary events and their protagonists, repres-
enting a direct Timurid legacy, nor the depiction of animals and plants as an exclusive
subject, which may be interpreted as the logical consequence of Babur’s and Humayun’s
interest in nature, were inspired by contacts with the Persian court. On the contrary, it
may be argued that the Mughal approach would later exercise an influence on Safavid
painting, as a result of the contacts between the courts of ‘Abbas I and Jahangir, promoting
a shift away from the images of idealised beauty and towards a greater (though still highly
controlled) ‘realism’. This is not to diminish, much less to deny, the role played by Safavid
masters in the creation of the early Mughal style under Humayun and Akbar; but only to
contribute a further dimension to the understanding of early Mughal painting, in terms of
perception and expectations on the part of patrons.
63 The history of Eastern Moghulistan in the fifteenth and sixteenth century is not well documented,
the main source being Haydar Mirza’s Tārīkh-i Rashīdī. The area was contended between the Chagatai
Moghuls (related to the Mughals) and the Dughlats (Haydar Mirza’s clan). According to some of the
sources, Said Khan, who restored the Chagatai power in 1516 and the father of Humayun’s con-
temporary, Abd al-Rashid, was the son of Ahmad Khan, Babur’s maternal uncle (see Yih, s.d.;
Barthold & Spuler 1997: 698 is of no great use for this period). Ahmad Khan, whom Babur calls “the
Little Khan” (Kichik Khan) as opposed to his elder brother Mahmud “the Great Khan” (Ulūgh Khan),
ruler of Tashkent, is the protagonist of an interesting episode which testifies to the kind of rela-
tionship existing between the Miranshahi Timurids and their Chagatai relatives (Bāburnāma: ff. 102b-
103b, discussed in Parodi 2004b: 245-6).
64 The letter was analysed by Dickson and Welch (1981) in the chapters devoted to the artists it
mentions: Mulla Dust, whom they still regard to be the same as Dust Muhammad, Mir Sayyid ‘Ali and
Khwaja Abd al-Samad.
65 See Beach (1987a: Figs. 1 and 10). On a further instance proposed by Beach, for the miniature
illustrated in Fig. 8, cf. Robert Skelton’s objection (in Canby 1994: 45) that the animal represented is
not a nīlgai and cannot, therefore, be connected with the episode of Akbar’s first killing at a hunt,
mentioned in the Akbarnāma (I: f. 351). It is even more doubtful that Akbar originally faced Humayun
in Princes of the House of Timur (British Museum, 1913. 2-8. I).
66 See Parodi (2004a) and Parodi (forthcoming).
152
The originality of Humayun’s approach has been acknowledged before, and it is worth
recalling Dickson and Welch’s comment about Princes of the House of Timur (1981: 198) 67:
Its non-Safavi elements [...] stem from a deliberate attempt to come closer to observed
facts. [...] actual portraits ha[ve] become the norm, in part probably because of the
miniature’s subject, which is in fact the earliest known example of a Mughal darbār, or
group portrait.
A great deal more work is needed in order to amplify and articulate this suggestion. My
impression, which will have to be put to the test through additional research, is that the
whole of the painting’s composition owes as much to Safavid inspiration (comparable
Safavid scenes are far more idealised and show less interest in landscape) 68 as to images of
majlises held in the open air or on garden-terraces in the Timurid tradition, especially
those depicted according to the conventions of late Herat school. 69
To sum up, the relationship between Tahmasp and Humayun stands out as an example of
how Safavid-Mughal relations in general appear to have been only superficially explored,
sometimes repeating commonplaces first established when the Timurid dynasty, its cul-
ture, history and art, as well as the earliest phase of its Indian branch, were far less known
than their Iranian counterpart.
In fact, contacts between Iran and the Indian Subcontinent – not just with the Delhi-Agra
region, but also with the Deccan, particularly under the Bahmanids and their successors –
have for centuries been deeper and more complex than has been shown and explored so far
(and, of course, are not limited to the Islamic period).
The encounter of the two emperors was certainly of great consequence, at least for
Humayun, as it provided him with military support and some of the best artists of the time.
The present essay’s aim is not to deny this; rather, to temper the statements often found in
scholarship, and to inquire deeper into the motives behind Humayun’s attitudes and
actions.
Besides this, I have attempted to suggest how Humayun appears to have set the grounds
for some of Akbar’s later political choices, ceremonial and ideology. This is implicitly
acknowledged by Abu al-Fazl, who repeatedly refers to Akbar as the heir of the sarīr-i
humāyūnī, an expression the late Henry Beveridge renders literally as “Humayun’s throne”
(Akbarnāma: f. 6 and passim). Although essentially conceived as a pun on the meaning of
“humāyūn”, “imperial” or “auspicious”, the expression is emblematic of the importance
attached to the Emperor’s figure within the framework of Akbar’s ideology of power.
Last but not least, the second Mughal emperor has long been judged only according to
‘positive’ considerations, such as his “political failure” before Sher Shah, and the fact that
he spent the greater part of his reign away from India, the country to whose history he is
67 Cf. notes 46, above, and 69, below.

68 I am thinking of examples like a ca. 1540 binding, now in London (British Library, Or. 1374),
showing an enthroned figure and attendants in a garden, or the magnificent appliqué presently in
Budapest (Museum of Applied Arts, no. 52.2801, 1); the latter in particular, despite the difference in
technique, may be a pertinent parallel for Humayun’s Garden Party, since both were probably part of
reception paraphernalia. Both the binding and the Budapest textile were recently exhibited in Milan
and are illustrated in Thompson and Canby (2003: 7.10 and 12.18 respectively).
69 See the examples illustrated in Lentz & Lowry (1989: 258, 260-261 and passim).
153
perceived to belong. His story, still largely unwritten, is there to remind us that, when
interpreting past civilizations (and, arguably, our own), analyses based on economic and
military considerations alone do not suffice. And continuing to ask questions is far more
important (and far more exciting, by the way) than living with comfortable answers.
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156
S UMMARY
The importance of the Mughal Emperor Humayun’s sojourn at the Safavid court (1543-44)
for the formative phase of Mughal court ideology and patronage has been stressed by
several authors. However, few efforts have been made to explore the issue in detail. The
aim of the present paper is to evaluate those elements in Mughal court ceremonial and in
the domain of artistic choices which can be interpreted as Safavid suggestions, as well as
those that are more likely the legacy of his Timurid ancestry, or his original creation, but
have not so far been acknowledged as such. Specific attention is devoted to the court’s
paraphernalia, among which the Tāj-i ‘Izzat stands out, that is, the headgear designed by
Humayun for himself and his followers, which – it is here proposed – could represent a
Mughal response to the Safavid Tāj-i Haydarī.
P LATES
Fig. 1. Portrait of Humayun. Detail from the painting known as Princes of the House of Timur
(British Museum 1913. 2-8. I).
Fig. 2. Akbar presenting a miniature to Humayun. Detail of a miniature from the Muraqqa‘-i
Gulshān (Gulistan Palace Library, Tehran).
157

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Humayun’s Sojourn at the Safavid Court P ARODI

Laura E. P ARODI University of Genoa

Humayun’s Sojourn at the Safavid Court (A.D. 1543-44)

“Art history is more about continuing to ask questions

21 A new Persian/English edition by Wheeler M. Thackston of these three books of memoirs is

42 See Loghghatnāme-ye Dehkhoda, quoted in Nizami (1989: 134).

48 See Thompson & Canby (2003: 122, 124-129).

51 According to the Akbarnāma (I: f. 220), he visited the one in Tabriz.

67 Cf. notes 46, above, and 69, below.

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