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The Cambridge History of India, Vol. III: Turks and Afghans v3.c30: Chapter XXIII. The Monuments of Muslim India

The Cambridge History of India, Vol. III: Turks and Afghans v3.c30

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English

Contents

Chapter XXIII. The Monuments of Muslim India

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SELDOM in the history of mankind has the spectacle been witnessed of two civilisations, so vast and so strongly developed, yet so radically dissimilar as the Muhammadan and Hindu, meeting and mingling together. The very contrasts which existed between them, the wide divergences in their culture and their religions, make the history of their impact peculiarly instructive and lend an added interest to the art and above all to the architecture which their united genius called into being.

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How much precisely this Indo-Islamic¹ art owed to India and how much to Islam, has been a moot point. The majority of writers, approaching the question from a western standpoint, have treated Indo-Islamic art merely as a local variety of Islamic art; others, taking the opposite side and in sympathy with Indian rather than with Muhammadan ideals, have seen in it nothing more than a modified form of Hindu art. Much may be said in favour of either point of view. On the one hand, examples might be adduced of Muhammadan architecture so closely resembling the Hindu as to be all but indistinguishable from it; or, on the other, of monuments so entirely devoid of any indigenous influence that they might almost equally well have been erected in Samarqand or Damascus. Such examples, however, would be misleading and the arguments based on them fallacious. Broadly speaking, Indo-Islamic architecture derives its character from both sources, though not always in an equal degree. In India, indeed, the history of Muslim architecture is closely akin to what it was in other countries. Wherever the Muhammadans established themselves—whether in Asia or in Africa or in Europe—they invariably adapted to their own needs the indigenous architecture which they found prevailing there. In the lands first conquered by them—in Palestine, for example, or in Syria or in Egypt—this was inevitable, for the reason, as we shall presently see, that the Arabs themselves possessed little or no genius for the art of building, and, if their places of worship were to be as attractive as those of rival creeds, it was indispensable that they should impress into their service the builders and artists of the newly conquered territories. Later on this deficiency was made good by wholesale conversions among their subject races, and in no long space of time the followers of the Prophet found themselves heirs by blood as well as by the right of conquest to the arts and learning not only of the vast Sasanian Empire but of the greater part of the Graeco-Roman Orient as well as of Northern Africa and Spain. Under the sway of the Muslims the cultural development of all these countries received a powerful stimulus and, thanks to the freer intercourse and increasingly closer ties established between them, Islam was able to evolve for itself a new culture, which rapidly became common to the whole Muslim Empire, and at the same time to elaborate novel forms of architecture especially adapted to its religious and social needs. But though Islamic architecture thus acquired a fundamental character of its own and found expression in standardised forms and concepts in general use throughout the length and breadth of the empire, it still remained true that almost every country within that empire—from Spain in the West to Persia in the East—developed a local Muslim style of its own based primarily on indigenous ideals and stamped with a strong national individuality. Nowhere, for example, but in Spain could the romantic gateway of Toledo, or the fairy-like courts of the Alhambra have taken shape, and nowhere but in India could the Quwwat-ul-Islām mosque of Old Delhi or the chaste and stately fabric of the Tāj Mahall have been designed.

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¹ Although the term 'Saracenic' as applied to the art of Islam has the advantage of being consecrated by long usage, the term 'Islamic' seems preferable for two reasons; first, because it was mainly the religion of Islam which gave to the Muhammadan world its common bonds of culture and art; secondly, because to the Muhammadans themselves the 'Saracens' meant nothing more than the Arab tribesmen who dwelt along the borders of the Syrian desert. Without, therefore, altogether excluding the word 'Saracenic,' Islamic will be used generally in this chapter.

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By the close of the twelfth century, then, when the Muslims established their power permanently in India, it was no longer a case of their having to be tutored by their new subjects in the art of building; they themselves were already possessed of a highly-developed architecture of their own, as varied and magnificent as the contemporary architecture of Christian Europe; and the Muslims, moreover, who conquered India—men of Afghān, Persian and Turkī blood—were endowed with remarkably good taste and a natural talent for building. The picture that some writers have drawn of them as wild and semi-barbarous hill-men descending on an ancient and vastly superior civilisation, is far from the truth. That they were brutal fighters, without any of the chivalry, for example, of the Rājputs, and that they were capable of acts of savagery and gross intemperance, may be conceded. But these were vices common in those ages to most Asiatic nations and did not preclude them any more than they had precluded the Ghaznavids from participating in the prevalent culture and arts of Islam. Qutb-ud-dīn Aibak was ruthless enough to enslave *en masse* the population of Kālinjar, but he also had the genius and imagination to create a mosque as superb as any in Islam; and though ‘Alā-ud-dīn Khaljī slaughtered thousands of Mongols in cold blood at Delhi, he was the author of buildings of unexampled grace and nobility.

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Doubtless, it was due in a great measure to this inborn artistry, coupled with a natural catholicity of taste, that the newcomers were so quick to appreciate the talent and adaptability of the Indian craftsmen and to turn these qualities to account on their own buildings. Few things in the history of architecture are more remarkable than the skill with which, from the very outset, the Muhammadans transformed Hindu and Jaina temples into mosques for the Faithful, or the imagination which they displayed in employing Indian sculptors to adorn their edifices with designs incomparably more exquisite than their own. To create a successful building out of such alien materials, to reconcile two styles so characteristically opposed, without transgressing the standard formulas of Islamic art, might well have been deemed an impossible task. For the contrast between the Hindu temple and the Muslim mosque could hardly have been more striking. The shrine of the former was relatively small and constricted; the prayer chamber of the latter was broad and spacious. The one was gloomy and mysterious; the other light and open to the winds of heaven. The Hindu system of construction was trabeate, based on column and architrave; the Muslim was arcuate, based on arch and vault. The temple was crowned with slender spires or pyramidal towers; the mosque with expansive domes.

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Hinduism found concrete expression in the worship of images, and its monuments were enriched with countless idols of its deities; Islam rigidly forbade idolatry or the portrayal of any living thing. Decorative ornament in Hindu architecture delighted in plastic modelling; it was naturalistic as the Gothic and far more exuberant; Islamic ornament, on the other hand, inclined to colour and line or flat surface carving, and took the form of conventional arabesques or ingenious geometric patterning. Yet, with all these conspicuous contrasts (and there are many more that might be added), there are certain factors common to both forms of architecture which materially assisted towards their amalgamation. Thus, a characteristic feature of many Hindu temples, as well as of almost every Muslim mosque—a feature derived from the traditional dwelling-house of the East and as familiar in India as in other parts of Asia—was the open court encompassed by chambers or colonnades, and such temples as were built on this plan naturally lent themselves to conversion into mosques and would be the first to be adapted for that purpose by the conquerors. Again, a fundamental characteristic that supplied a common link between the two styles, was the fact that both Islamic and Hindu art were inherently decorative. Ornament was as vital to the one as to the other; both were dependent on it for their very being. In the Indian architect this sense for the decorative was innate;

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it came to him as a legacy from the pre-Aryan races and ran through the whole fabric of the art. The Muslim, on the other hand, had inherited a vast wealth of rich and varied designs particularly from the Sasanian and Byzantine empires, and though his taste in the handling of ornament might not be so exquisite as the Indian, the value he attached to it was in no way less. Thus it came about that when the conquest of India opened up new realms of art before his eyes, he at once gauged their vast possibilities and set about taking the fullest advantage of them.

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In the fusion of the two styles which followed, Muhammadan architecture absorbed or inherited manifold ideas and concepts from the Hindu—so many, indeed, that there is hardly a form or motif of Indian architecture which in some guise or other did not find its way into the buildings of the conquerors. But more important than these visible borrowings of outward and concrete features is the debt which Indo-Islamic architecture owes to the Hindu for two of its most vital qualities; the qualities of strength and grace. In other countries Islamic architecture has other merits. There is nothing in India, for instance, to match the green and gold mosaics of Jerusalem and Damascus, or the superb colouring of Persian tilework, or the wonderful fantasies of Spanish design; but in no other country are strength and grace united quite so perfectly as in India. These are the two qualities which India may justly claim for her own, and they are the two which in architecture count for more than all the rest.

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In a country as vast and diversified as India, it is not to be supposed that architecture ever conformed to a universal type. The local styles of buildings which the Muhammadans encountered in different districts were almost as numerous and distinct one from another, as the peoples themselves or the languages they spoke. Some of the styles, as we have seen in the preceding volume of this history, were determined by the ethnic character of the population; others were the outcome of differing religions; others, again, resulted from foreign inspiration; and others were conditioned by geographical surroundings or by the climate or geology of the neighbourhood. Whatever the underlying causes, each style represented a spontaneous development suited to the religious or social needs of the inhabitants and reflecting their specific habits and mentality. Out of these antecedent styles the Muhammadans evolved their own particular forms of architecture, adapting each to their requirements and modifying or transforming it according to its character or to the facilities which they possessed for giving expression to their own ideals. Thus, at Delhi, they built their first mosques out of the spoils of Hindu and Jaina temples, constructing them on Indian principles and enriching them with the handiwork of indigenous sculptors. At Delhi, however, the Muslims were in preponderating strength and better able, therefore, to maintain their own traditions.

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Hence at Delhi they quickly began to assert their own individuality and allowed Hindu craftsmanship only a very limited play. At Jaunpur, on the other hand, and in the Deccan, the local styles enjoyed greater ascendancy, while in Bengal the conquerors not only adopted the established fashion of building in brick, but adorned their structures with chiselled and moulded enrichments frankly imitated from Hindu prototypes. So, too, in Western India they appropriated to themselves almost *en bloc* the beautiful Gujarātī style, which had yielded some of the finest buildings of mediaeval India; and in Kashmīr they did the same with the striking wooden architecture which must long have been prevalent in that part of the Himālayas. But much as Muhammadan architecture owed to these older schools, it owed much also to the Muhammadans themselves; for it was they who, in every case, endowed it with breadth and spaciousness and enriched it with new beauties of form and colour. Before their advent, concrete had been little used in India, and mortar scarcely ever; by the Muhammadans these materials were employed as freely as by the Romans and became two of the most important factors of construction. Thanks to the strength of their binding properties it was possible for the Muslim builders to span wide spaces with their arches, to roof immense areas with their domes and in other ways to achieve effects of grandeur such as the Indians had never dreamt of.

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Of the arch the Indian had not been wholly ignorant; but without a cementing agent for the masonry, his knowledge had been of little avail. With the Muhammadans, on the contrary, the arch and dome had been from time immemorial the key-notes of their construction, and, though in their newly-adopted styles they frequently perpetuated the trabeate system, it was the arch and dome that they always regarded as peculiarly their own and as symbolic of their Faith. Other characteristic features which they introduced were the minar and minaret, the pendentive and squinch arch, stalactite, honey-combing and half-domed double portal. Elaborate decoration and brightly coloured ornament were at all times dear to the heart of the Muslim, and in both these spheres he introduced striking innovations. The rich floral designs of the Indian artists he supplemented with flowing arabesque or intricate geometric devices of his own, or sometimes interwove with them (as only a Muslim calligraphist could do) the graceful lettering of his sacred texts and historic inscriptions. Nor was it enough that his buildings should be beautified merely with a wealth of carvings executed in stone or brick or plaster; the Muslim required colour also and colour he supplied by painting and gilding, or by employing stones of various hues to accentuate the architectural features.

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Later on, by the more laborious processes of tesselating and *pietra dura*, he reproduced the designs themselves in coloured stones and marbles. Still more brilliant were the effects he attained by encaustic tiling, which he used at first sparingly and in a few colours only, but later without restraint to embellish whole buildings with a glistening surface of enamel.

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Of the many and various groups into which the Islamic monuments of India are divided, that of Delhi occupies the central and pre-eminent place; for it was at Delhi that the Muhammadans erected their first splendid memorials, and it was at Delhi that there afterwards arose a succession of buildings extending over the whole six centuries of their rule. But before approaching Delhi we must cast back for a moment to the older Muslim kingdoms of Sind and Afghānistān and see what contribution, if any, they made to the development of Islamic art in India. With the Arabs, who in the beginning of the eighth century possessed themselves of Sind, our concern is small. Like other Semitic peoples they showed but little natural instinct for architecture or the formative arts. Though the Caliphs retained Sind for more than a century and a half and though Muslim rule endured there until the close of the tenth century, the sole surviving relics of it are the foundations of some small mosques unearthed a few years ago in the buried city of Mansūra¹, which, so far as can be judged from their remains, possessed no artistic merit. But if the Arabs were a negligible factor, it was far otherwise with the Ghaznavids of Afghānistān, who overran Northern India in the first quarter of the eleventh century. At that time Persia occupied an all-important place in the world of Islamic art.

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Her genius was of the mimetic rather than the creative order, but she possessed a magic gift for absorbing the artistic creations of other countries and refining them to her own standard of perfection. Situated as she was in the heart of the Middle East, she became the crucible in which the arts of Turkistān and China on the one side, of Mesopotamia, Syria and the Byzantine Empire on the other, were fused together and transmuted into new forms and from which they issued afresh with the indelible stamp of Persian beauty set upon them². And the channel by which this stream of art flowed southward into India was Ghaznī. Ghaznī, however, was more than a mere medium for the dissemination of Islamic art. All the culture and magnificence which in the ninth and tenth centuries had belonged to the Sāmānid dynasty of North-Eastern Persia, had passed, as if by the natural right of inheritance, to the Ghaznavids, and under Mahmūd the Great and his immediate successors, Ghaznī became famous among all the cities of the Caliphate for the splendour of its architecture³. Most of its buildings, unfortunately, perished during the ruthless burning of the city by ‘Alā-ud-dīn Husain Jahānsūz, the Ghūrid, and others fell victims to the ravages of time or of later vandals. To-day, the only monuments of note that are known to survive are the tomb of Mahmūd the Great and two minars or Towers of Victory, the one erected by Mahmūd himself and the other by one of his successors, Mas‘ūd.

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For us the minars are especially interesting as being the prototypes of the famous Qutb minar at Delhi and analogous to the towers of Dāmghān in Persia and at Mujdah and Tāūq in Mesopotamia⁴. Up to half a century ago they were standing to a height of about 140 feet, and at that time consisted of two storeys, the lower star-shaped in plan, the upper round, both built of brick and embellished with elaborate designs in terra-cotta¹. The tomb of Maḥmūd Yamīn-ud-Daula (999–1030 a.d.) which was also of brick has been completely modernised by restoration, the only feature preserved intact being its richly carved doors which were brought from Ghaznī by the British in 1842 and are now in the Fort at Āgra. These doors are of deodar wood, divided into panels and adorned with six pointed stars and simple geometric figures; the stars and figures, as well as the vertical styles between the leaves, being carved into a variety of interlacing designs or flowing arabesques, and the whole further enriched with decorative hinges and bands of ironwork.

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Along the lower edge of the lintel is an inscription in Kufic² lettering invoking the forgiveness of God and his blessings on ‘Abū-l-Qāsim Maḥmūd,’ son of Sabuk-tigīn, while round the framing of the doors is repeated in the same script the formula, ‘the sovereignty belongs to God.’ Assuming that these doors are of the same age as the tomb (and it is *prima facie* improbable that a later generation would have lavished so much care upon their carvings), they acquire a special interest from the exceptionally developed character of their arabesques, and interlaced designs, which resemble Cairens work of the later twelfth rather than of the eleventh century³. As more materials become available for the study of this period of Islamic art, it may well prove that in work of this kind, Afghānistān, which was under the immediate influence of Persia, was a century ahead of Egypt.

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¹ *A.S.R.*, 1903–04, pp. 132 ff.

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² These remarks apply rather to the architecture of Eastern than Western Persia. The former is distinguished by its essentially decorative character, the latter by its constructional forms and motifs, which link it up with the Islamic architecture of Mesopotamia and ultimately with the Hellenistic monuments of the Nearer East.

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³ No architectural remains of the Sāmānid dynasty are known to exist, but of the influence which its art and culture exerted on Ghaznī there can be no doubt. The architecture of Ghaznī also owed a great debt to the currents of art which flowed thither from Turkistān and from Central Asia generally.

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⁴ Cf. Gertrude Bell, *Palace and Mosque at Ukhaidir*, pp. 40–41.

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¹ The upper storeys have since fallen and square bases have been added to the supports of the towers.

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² The inscription is to the following effect:

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³ *E.g.* the doors from the mosque of Aṣ-Ṣālih Telāye (circa 1160 a.d.). Those of the Al-Azhar mosque bearing a Kufic inscription of the Fatimite Al‘Ḥākim (circa 1010 a.d.) are far more primitive in style, and so too are the doors from the Fatimite palace at Cairo (circa 1057 a.d.).

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To return, however, to Delhi. The city which the armies of Quṭb-ud-dīn Aibak occupied in 1191 was the *Qal‘a-i-Rāi Pithaura*, the oldest of the ‘Seven Cities’ of Delhi, within the perimeter of which was included the strongly-fortified citadel known as the ‘Lāl Kot.’ Inside this citadel the conquerors erected one of the most remarkable series of monuments of which Islam can boast.

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In the name of God who is most merciful and compassionate. May there be forgiveness from God for the most exalted Amīr, the dignified king, born to become the chief of the state and the head of religion, Abū-l-Qāsim Maḥmūd, the son of Sabuk-tigīn, upon whom be the mercy of God…His blessings for him.

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Its nucleus is the Jāmi‘ or Quwwat-ul-Islām mosque founded in 1191 A.D. by Qutb-ud-dīn Aibak to commemorate the capture of Delhi and dedicated, as its name implies, ‘to the Might of Islam.’ Raised on a lofty plinth and approached through gateways set in three of its sides, its plan is typical of the majority of mosques; it consists, that is to say, of an open quadrangle enclosed by colonnades, of which the western one constituted the prayer chamber, the only unusual feature being the presence of entresol galleries at the four corners of the colonnades instead of at the sides of the prayer chamber. Seen from within or without, the building, as originally designed, presented an essentially Hindu appearance. Half of the plinth on which it stood had actually been the basement of a Hindu temple and the rest of the structure—walls, columns, capitals, architraves and ceilings—was composed of materials stripped from the shrines of the unbelievers, twenty-seven of which, so one of the inscriptions informs us, had gone to the making of this one mosque. Indeed, save for the five mihrābs in the back wall, there was scarcely a feature in the whole building to proclaim its Muslim character. A design so alien to their own traditions was hardly likely to satisfy the sentiments of the Muhammadans, and within two years of its completion (i.e. in 1198 A.D.) an arched screen of characteristically Muhammadan design was thrown across the whole front of the prayer chamber. It is this screen above all else that is the making of the Quwwat-ul-Islām masjid. Simple as it is in form—it consists merely of a lofty central arch (53 feet in height) flanked on either side by two lesser arches which once supported smaller ones above—it would be hard to imagine carvings more superbly ornate than these which enrich its façade: band on band of sacred texts, their Tughrā characters entwined with curling leaves, and sinuous tendrils, side by side with floral scrolls and flowing arabesques or geometric traceries of surpassing richness. No doubt it was a Muslim calligraphist who set out the scheme and penned in the texts, but it was only an Indian brain that could have devised such a wealth of ornament and only Indian hands that could have carved it to such perfection. In spite, however, of all its beauty it cannot be pretended that this screen is an architectural success. It is too obviously an afterthought, not an integral, organic part of the structure: too vast and over-powering to harmonise with the relatively low colonnades of the courtyard, and still more out of keeping with the slight elegant pillars of the hall behind. The pity is that the precedent set by this, the earliest mosque in Delhi, was destined to be followed in many subsequent buildings and to exercise a baneful influence on their style.

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In 1230 A.D. the Emperor Iltutmish more than doubled the area of the Quwwat-ul-Islām mosque by throwing out wings to the prayer chamber and screen and by adding an outer court large enough to embrace within its surrounding colonnades the Great Minar begun by Qutb-ud-dīn Aibak. Whether of set purpose or because there were no more temples to despoil, fresh materials were specially quarried for these extensions, and it is significant of the extent to which the Muhammadans were now asserting their own ideas at Delhi, that the new work was fundamentally Islamic in character and manifestly designed, if not executed, by Muslim craftsmen. Shafts and capitals and architraves of a Hindu pattern were still used for the *līwān* and colonnades, but in the screen extensions, which were the outstanding features of the new additions, Indian influence is visible in little except the actual construction of the arches. In Qutb-ud-dīn’s screen the inscriptions were the only part of the surface ornament which were Muhammadan; all the rest was Indian and modelled with true Indian feeling for plastic form. In Iltutmish’s work, on the other hand, the reliefs are flat and lifeless, stencilled as it were on the surface of the stone, and their formal patterns are identical with those found on contemporary Muslim monuments in other countries. It is fair, however, to add that what this latter work loses in spontaneous charm and vitality, it more than gains in organic unity and tectonic propriety.

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The last of the Delhi kings to enlarge the Quwwat-ul-Islām mosque was ‘Alā-ud-dīn Khaljī. In the spirit of megalomania which so often obsessed him he started reduplicating the prayer chamber towards the north, adding yet a third court more than twice the size of its predecessor, and erecting in it another minar as high again as the existing one. Had these vast structures been completed, we may well believe that they would have transcended the other monuments of Delhi as much in beauty as in size, but, fortunately perhaps for the welfare of his subject, the death of the king 1315 A.D. put an end to his grandiose schemes.

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Of the disposition of the mosque and other buildings composing this group a clear and graphic idea can be obtained from the skilful reconstruction drawn by Mr J. A. Page (Plate III). The Qutb minar seems to have been intended as a *ma’zina* or tower from which the *mu’azzin* could summon the Faithful to prayer, though it soon came to be regarded as a Tower of Victory, akin to those afterwards erected at Chitor and Māndū. As originally designed it stood some 225 feet in height and comprised four storeys divided one from another by richly decorated balconies and further embellished by vertical flutings and horizontal bands of inscriptions inwoven with foliate designs. Many of the inscriptions are Quranic texts and demonstrate the essentially sacred character of the fabric; others contain panegyrics of the kings who built or repaired the minar, and from these as well as from architectural considerations it is evident that only a portion of the first storey was the work of Qutb-ud-dīn Aibak and that the rest was completed by his successor Iltutmish¹. In an inscription on the lowest band of the first storey Qutb-ud-dīn is referred to under his usual viceregal titles of 'The Amīr, The Commander of the Army, The Glorious, The Great,' and on the adjacent bands are eulogies of his overlord Mu'izz-ud-dīn Muhammad Ghūrī and of the latter's brother Ghiyās-ud-dīn, which leave no room for doubt that Qutb-ud-dīn was still Viceroy at Delhi when the minar was begun.

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Iltutmish's own inscriptions are engraved on the second and third storeys only, but there is another record concerning him on the fourth storey, which dates from the time of Fīrūz Shāh Tughluq. In the reign of that Emperor the minar was struck by lightning and the fourth storey being then apparently dismantled and replaced by two smaller ones, its height by this means was raised to 234 feet. This rebuilding is chronicled in an inscription on the fifth storey and is clearly apparent in the novel style of decoration as well as in the different materials employed in the new work; for, whereas the three lower storeys are constructed of grey quartzite faced throughout with red sandstone, the fourth and fifth storeys are constructed of red sandstone faced largely with white marble. Finally, in 1503 A.D., during the reign of Sikandar Shāh Lodī, the minar was again restored and its upper storeys repaired, though what measures precisely were carried out on that occasion cannot easily be determined. On the strength of certain short Nāgarī records in the interior attempts have been made to prove that the minar was of Hindu origin and that the Muhammadans merely re-carved the outer surface. But the only Nāgarī record of a date earlier than 1199 A.D. is one on the soffit of a window lintel, in a position which leaves no doubt that this particular stone came from some older structure.

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As a fact, the whole conception of the minar and almost every detail of its construction and decoration is essentially Islamic. Towers of this kind were unknown to the Indians, but to the Muhammadans they had long been familiar, whether as *ma'zinas* attached to mosque or as free-standing towers like those at Ghaznī. Equally distinctive also of Muslim art are the calligraphic inscriptions and the elaborate stalactite corbelling beneath the balconies, both of which can be traced back to kindred features in the antecedent architecture of Western Asia and Egypt. Fergusson, who was no mean judge, regarded the Qutb mīnār as the most perfect example of a tower known to exist anywhere, and there is much to be said in favour of his view. Nothing, certainly, could be more imposing or more fittingly symbolic of Muslim power than this stern and stupendous fabric; nor could anything be more exquisite than its rich but restrained carvings. Nevertheless, with all its overwhelming strength, with all its perfection of symmetry and ornament—nay, by reason perhaps of this very perfection—it seems to miss the romance, the indefinable quality of mystery that clings around some of its rivals: round the Campanile of Giotto, for example, at Florence or round the towers of Victory and Fame at Chitor.

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¹ Two short Nāgarī records of 1199 A.D. carved on the lowest storey indicate that the minar was founded in or before that year.

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The reaction against Indianisation which is so marked a feature of this mīnār¹ is noticeable also in Iltutmish’s extensions of the Quwwat-ul-Islām screen and of the little tomb—said to be that of Iltutmish—which stands behind the north-west corner of the mosque. Here, however, the Muslim elements have been less successful in dominating the Hindu, with the result that the style is vacillating and nerveless, possessing neither the tectonic strength and purposefulness of the former, nor the picturesque artistry of the latter. In its form and dimensions the tomb is quite unpretentious; a simple square chamber, less than 30 ft. across, of red sandstone within and of grey quartzite relieved by red sandstone without. In three of its sides are arched entrances, and on the fourth a mihrāb flanked by two smaller ones, while thrown across the corners are squinch arches supporting a domical roof, which like many Syrian and Egyptian domes was probably constructed in part of wood. But if the structure was simple, its decoration could scarcely have been more elaborate. The lofty entrance bays without and almost the entire surface of the walls within were covered from floor to ceiling with Quranic texts in Naskh and Tughrā and Kufic characters, or with formal arabesques and geometric diapers as bewildering as they were varied, and the ornate effect of the whole was further increased by picking out the background of the white marble reliefs in colours. Predominantly the ornamentation was Islamic. Only here and there are Indian features observable, but we cannot doubt that the craftsmen employed were Indian or that they were working with designs to which they were little accustomed. That this tomb is the resting-place of Iltutmish is the common belief to which colour is lent by its location immediately behind Iltutmish's extension of the mosque. On the other hand, some doubt as to its identity is cast by a passage in the *Futūhāt-i-Fīrūz Shāhī*, where the Emperor speaks of having restored some fallen pillars and four towers at the 'Mausoleum of Iltutmish'—a description which manifestly does not apply to this tomb. Probably the writer of the memoir is at fault, the building to which he refers being not the tomb of Iltutmish himself, but one about two miles distant, now known as 'Sultān Ghārī,' which the Emperor built in 1231-32 for his son and which there is good reason, therefore, for regarding as the oldest building of its class in India. In this earlier tomb the pillars, capitals, architraves and most of the decorative motifs are purely Hindu, and though arches and domes figure prominently in its design, they are constructed, like all the arches and domes of this period, on the Hindu corbel principle. The plan, too, of the Sultān Ghārī is quite unlike that of Iltutmish's tomb and, indeed, unlike that of any other tomb in India. It stands in the middle of a square fortress-like enclosure with round turrets at the four corners and an arched entrance, approached by a flight of steps, on its eastern side. Walls and turrets alike are pierced by arched openings. At the back of the gateway is a pillared portico carried on Hindu pillars; and opposite to it on the west is a second portico flanked by colonnades extending from side to side of the enclosure. This second portico, which is square and covered by a dome, served as a mosque and was provided with a mihrāb in its back wall embellished with inscriptions in Naskh and Kufic characters. The tomb in the centre—an octagonal chamber with flat roof supported on pillars—is sunk to about two-thirds of its height below the ground level, a fact to which it owes its name of 'Sultan of the Cave.' Most of the enclosure, let it be added, is of grey granite, but the mosque and entrance portico as well as the exterior facing of the tomb are of white marble.

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¹ Whether Qutb-ud-dīn or Iltutmish was mainly responsible for the design of the mīnār as originally built, is uncertain. The style suggests that Iltutmish may have modified Qutb-ud-dīn's design.

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Among other buildings associated with the name of Iltutmish, the most celebrated is the *Arhāī-din-ka-Jhompra* at Ajmer, which Qutb-ud-dīn Aibak had built in 1200 A.D. and which Iltutmish subsequently beautified with a screen. The story goes that Qutb-ud-dīn finished the original building in two-and-a-half days, whence its singular name of ‘Two-and-a-half days hut,’ but a more plausible explanation is that the name dates from Marāthā times, when an annual *melā* or fair was held there, lasting two-and-a-half days. Whatever the origin of the name, the mosque of Qutb-ud-dīn is more likely to have taken two-and-a-half years than two-and-a-half days to erect. In style and construction it closely resembles its older rival at Delhi, but its area is more than double as large and the several parts of the edifice are correspondingly more spacious and dignified. At Delhi, the planning of the prayer chamber had been done on makeshift lines, the colonnades being too constricted and the pillars in them too low and crowded. At Ajmer, these defects were remedied. A single broad aisle on three sides of the open court took the place of the two or three narrow ones at Delhi and the arrangement of domes and pillars in the prayer chamber was made strictly uniform and symmetrical. Both mosques were built out of the spoils of Hindu temples, but at Ajmer the architect went to work more boldly and, despite the multiplicity of his materials and their strange fantastic forms, he succeeded nevertheless in creating out of them a hall of really solemn beauty—fit setting for the exquisitely carved mihrāb of white marble set in its western wall (Pl. VI). A further note of distinction was given to this mosque by the addition of circular bastions, fluted and banded like the Qutb minar, at the two corners of its eastern façade. But if Qutb-ud-dīn’s mosque at Ajmer was an improvement on its predecessor at Delhi, the same cannot be said of the screen, magnificent as it undoubtedly was, which Iltutmish threw across the front of the prayer chamber. It had the advantage of being a third again as broad as Qutb-ud-dīn’s screen and vastly more massive; its engrailed arches were a pleasing novelty, its decorative reliefs admirable of their kind, and its workmanship beyond reproach. Yet, with all its grandeur and perfection of technique, it missed the delicate and subtle beauty of its rival. Mathematically it was correct to the minutest detail, but mathematical precision is not architecture and no amount of accuracy with compass and ruler can make up for lack of natural artistry. The two minarets set meaninglessly on the top of the central archway, the inappropriate niches and tiny medallions in the spandrels, and the abrupt determination of the base mouldings sufficiently betray the limitations of the designer, who produced in this screen rather a *tour de force* of technical excellence than an artistic triumph.

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Between the death of Iltutmish in 1236 and the accession of ‘Alā-ud-dīn Khaljī the story of architecture at Delhi is all but a blank. The only monument of note that throws light on its progress in the interval is the tomb of Balban¹ (1266–86) which stands in the south-east quarter of the *Qal‘a-i-Rāi Pithaura*. It is a simple structure comprising a square domed chamber, 38 inches across, with an arched entrance in each of its sides and a smaller chamber to the east and west, in one of which was the grave of Khān Shahīd, the son of the Emperor, who fell in battle against the Mongols (1285–86). Unfortunately, every trace of decoration has perished from the tomb and what is left of it is a mere shell, but the presence of arches built on true scientific principles is an innovation that deserves notice. In every building of Qutb-ud-dīn and Iltutmish that has been described, the arches were constructed not with voussoirs, as they ordinarily are, but in corbelled horizontal courses, the fact being that, in their ignorance of arch construction, the Hindu craftsmen engaged on these structures had to resort to their own traditional methods of dome building. The appearance, then, of the true arch in the tomb of Balban marks a definite advance in construction and at the same time is symptomatic of a general reaction against Hindu influences. This reaction had already made itself felt during the reign of Iltutmish and, though we have no means of following it stage by stage, it is evident that it must have gathered considerable strength in the half century succeeding his death. For by the time the Khaljīs came upon the scene Muslim building traditions had already become firmly established on Indian soil, with the result that not only had methods of construction been revolutionised but ornament had come to be treated more as an integral factor and less as a quasi-independent accessory of architecture.

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¹ For a minar built at Koil in the ‘Alīgarh District by Balban which was demolished in 1862, see ‘*Alīgarh Gazetteer*, vol. v, p. 218.

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The effect of these developments upon the style of the Khaljī period is clearly evidenced in the two principal monuments of ‘Alā-ud-dīn’s reign: the Jamā‘at Khāna Masjid at the *Dargāh* of Nizām-ud-dīn Auliyā and the ‘Alāī Darwāza at the Qutb. The former is the earliest example in India of a mosque built wholly in accordance with Muhammadan ideas and with materials specially quarried for the purpose. It is of red sandstone and consists of three chambers: a square one in the centre and an oblong one on either side, each entered through a broad archway in the façade. All three entrances, as well as two smaller ones between them, are framed in bands of Quranic inscriptions and embellished with lotus cuspings. The central chamber is covered by a single dome (38 inches diameter) supported at the corners on fourfold squinch arches. Around the base of the dome, internally, are eight arched niches, four closed and four pierced through the thickness of the masonry. The side chambers, which are divided at their middle by a double arch and roofed by two small domes, differ from the central one in that their walls are of plastered rubble instead of sandstone, while their domes are supported on triangular pendentives instead of squinches. Originally, it is said, the building was intended by its author, Khizr Khān, son of ‘Alā-ud-dīn, not as a mosque but as a tomb for Shaikh Nizām-ud-dīn and consisted of the central chamber only, the side wings being added in the early Tughluq period when it was converted into a mosque, while further alterations and repairs are mentioned in the *Thamarātu-l-Quds* as having been executed during the reign of Akbar. These last are patent at a glance and include, besides other items, the screens in the side portals (visible in Pl. VII) and the painted decorations in the interior of the prayer chamber, all of which are typical of the Moghul period. But that the side wings were a later addition is more than questionable; the design of the whole façade is so homogeneous and so nobly planned, that it is well nigh incredible that it could have been the creation of two different epochs or that the new work could have been so cleverly dove-tailed into the old and the new carvings imitated so skilfully as to defy detection.

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The ‘Alāī Darwāza, built in 1311, was the southern gateway leading into ‘Alā-ud-dīn’s extension of the Quwwat-ul-Islām mosque. Though the only one of his buildings at Qutb which has not fallen to ruin, its state of preservation is far from perfect, a pillared portico which once veiled its northern entrance having completely vanished and its walls being sadly damaged and incorrectly restored. In spite, however, of its mutilations the ‘Alāī Darwāza is one of the most treasured gems of Islamic architecture. Like the tomb of Iltutmish, it consists of a square hall roofed by a single dome, with arched entrances piercing each of its four walls; and like that tomb, also, it is of red sandstone relieved by white marble and freely adorned with bands of Quranic texts or formal arabesques. But there the likeness ends. In every feature whether structural or decorative, the ‘Alāī Darwāza is incomparably the finer of the two monuments. Seen at a distance its well-proportioned lineaments are accentuated by the alternating red and white colour of its walls; and an added dignity is given by the high plinth on which it stands. At closer range, the harmony of form and colour is enhanced by the wealth of lace-like decorations graven on every square foot of its exterior walls. Then, as one passes into the hall, this effect of warm sumptuous beauty gives place to one of quiet solemnity, to which every feature of the interior seems to contribute: the subdued red of the sandstone, the stateliness of the portals, the plain expanse of dome, the shapely horse-shoe arches that support it, and the bold geometric patterning of walls and window screens. The key-notes of this building are its perfect symmetry and the structural propriety of all its parts. Whoever the architect may have been, he was a man of irreproachable taste, who was not satisfied merely with repeating traditional ideas, but who set himself to think out and perfect every detail of his creation.

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Among other monuments of ‘Alā-ud-dīn at Delhi two that merit notice are the City of Sīrī—the second of the seven cities of Delhi—and the Hauz-i-‘Alāī or Hauz-i-Khās tank, on the banks of which the army of Tīmūr encamped after his defeat of Mahmūd Tughluq. To the latter there will be occasion to allude again in connexion with the buildings of Fīrūz Shāh Tughluq¹. The former was built by ‘Alā-ud-dīn about 1303 in order to protect the ever-growing population of the suburbs. Nothing is now left of this city except some fragments of the encircling walls, but even these few remnants, with their round and tapering bastions, their lines of loopholes, their flame-shaped battlements inscribed with the *Kalima*, and their inner berm supported on an arched gallery, are of value and interest for the light they throw on the military architecture of the period.

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¹ See p. 590 *infra*.

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With the transfer of the throne of Delhi from the Khaljī to the Tughluq dynasty, the architecture of the Imperial capital entered on a new and more austere phase. The days of its first youthful splendour and prodigal luxuriance were over. Lavish display of ornament and richness of detail now began to give place to a chaste sobriety which, as time went on, developed into a severe and puritanical simplicity. At first the change was due to the urgent need for economy and to the general revulsion of feeling against the excesses of the Khaljī régime. Public opinion had been outraged by the reckless follies of ‘Alā-ud-dīn and still more by the revolting vices of Quṭb-ud-dīn Mubārak and his outcast minion Khusrav Khān. It was not, therefore, to be wondered at if Ghiyās-ud-dīn Tughluq sought to break away from the past and, even in the matter of architecture, to avoid anything which might savour of the wanton extravagance of his predecessors. Later on, however, other causes contributed to intensify the plainness and severity of Tughluq architecture. One of these was the extreme religious bigotry of Muḥammad bin Tughluq and his cousin Fīrūz Shāh, which led them to discountenance any but the most scrupulously orthodox and austere forms of religious architecture. Another was the loss of State revenues consequent on the defection of the outlying provinces which made it increasingly difficult to finance vast building schemes such as those projected by Fīrūz Shāh. Yet a third cause which severely handicapped the architects was the decay of skilled craftsmanship during the reign of Muḥammad bin Tughluq, when the whole population of Delhi was forcibly transferred to Daulatābād and the city itself given over to desolation. Writing some years after the event Ibn Batūta tells us that the capital was ‘empty and abandoned with but a small population,’ and from all we know of its condition after Fīrūz Shāh’s succession to the throne, it is clear that Delhi was still suffering from the consequences of this disastrous migration which resulted in the dispersal of her skilled craftsmen and artisans, in the effectual loss of their traditions, and in the general neglect and ruin of her monuments. Thus the architects of the Tughluq period were beset on every hand by restrictions and difficulties which made it impossible for them to emulate the works of their predecessors under the Slave and Khaljī kings. All this is clearly demonstrated in the buildings they have left us. Ghiyās-ud-dīn reigned only four years (1321–25), and there are but two monuments of his of any consequence, namely, the city of Tughluqābād—the third of the Seven Cities—and the sepulchre which he built for himself beneath its walls. But both of these monuments are eloquent of the rapidly changing spirit of Imperial architecture. Few strongholds of antiquity are more imposing in their ruin than Tughluqābād. Its cyclopean walls, towering grey and sombre above the smiling landscape; colossal, splayed-out bastions; frowning battlements; tiers on tiers of narrow loopholes; steep entranceways; and lofty narrow portals: all these contribute to produce an impression of unassailable strength and melancholy grandeur. Within the walls all is now desolation, but, amid the labyrinth of ruined streets and buildings, the precincts of the Royal Palace once roofed with tiles of glittering gilt are still discernible; and so too is the citadel rising high above the rest of the town and protected by its own double or triple lines of defence. But, with all their seeming impregnability, the fortifications of Tughluqābād were in reality but very poorly built, consisting of nothing but a core of loose rubble with a facing of ashlar granite, and it is only too evident that they must have been put together in great haste, owing perhaps to some imminent peril from the Mongols.

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Though almost equally simple and massive, the tomb of the Emperor is of less forbidding aspect. Let the reader picture to himself an island castle set (as it used to be) in the midst of a lake and forming an outwork, as it were, to the overshadowing city, with which it was connected by a narrow causeway. Above its embattled ramparts and in sharp contrast with their monotonous grey, rises the red and white fabric of the mausoleum. The marble and sandstone of which it is built are treated in a strikingly novel fashion. Up to the springing of the arches the structure is wholly of red sandstone, but above that point the red walls are relieved by bands and panels of marble; and the crowning dome is entirely of marble. The effect of this treatment and particularly of the glistening expanse of white dome is to impart a certain lightness and diversity to the structure; but the impression nevertheless conveyed by its battering walls and sturdy proportions is essentially one of simplicity and strength. Assuredly no resting-place could have been devised more befitting the stern warrior who founded the Tughluq dynasty! That there are defects in its design, need hardly be said. The sloping pilasters, for example; the unduly small merlons; the crudely disposed panels and bands of marble: all these are features that might easily have been improved on. These, however, are but minor blemishes and, clearly as they show the incipient tendencies of the new style, they do not seriously impair the solemn grandeur of the Tomb¹.

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