Abraham Eraly - The Age of Wrath - A History of the Delhi Sultanate

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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