A picture book on the household goods of the Mughal emperors offers a window to courtly life
Exquisite design and perfect craftsmanship pervaded every aspect of Mughal court life. Beyond the superb palaces and the intricate paintings for which the Mughal emperors are today best remembered, they commissioned also the most gorgeous clothes and expensive jewellery, besides ornamented weapons and refined utensils for eating, drinking and studying. Rich carpets and wall hangings added comfort to both permanent apartments and transitory camps. Much of this work — especially the textiles — has succumbed over time to India’s climate and insects, and what survives is scattered in museum collections across the globe, but there is enough to give us a sense of the wonders of the Mughals’ material world.
Comparable wealth and splendour might be found in other courtly cultures. What makes the Mughals stand out is the high degree of unity, the consistency in their designs. The same floral motif, carved in relief on the Taj Mahal, might recur on a jade wine cup or the handle of a dagger. The red and green flowers, inlaid in carnelian and jade on a cenotaph, reappear in enamelling on a gold vessel. In general, flowers in Mughal architecture are similar in style to those on the borders of paintings. The manner of drawing animals too is consistent across painting and embroidery, and early carpets were conceived as giant pictures.
The resulting coherence of design, especially during the reign of Shah Jahan, is clearly visible in the beautiful images assembled in this book, and is discussed in Susan Stronge’s scholarly but accessible text. A possible explanation offered by Stronge is that the painters of the Kitab Khana, who were primarily responsible for illustrating imperial manuscripts, also supplied designs to the specialists in other workshops. So the jewellers and stone-carvers, while designing a floral form, would use a template provided by the artists. The idea is advanced cautiously, for want of definite proof. But it has the ring of truth. At the heart of this culture stood a library, stocked with illustrated books and albums of paintings, from which ideas spilled out to infuse all of the decorative arts.
The sometimes contentious question of the original source of those ideas is also considered even-handedly here. Mughal patrons and artists alike were highly eclectic, drawing inspiration from Iran and Central Asia, from Europe (via imported luxury items and books) as well as from India’s own established traditions. It has become a commonplace to speak of Mughal India’s “composite culture”. It is easy to appreciate the mixture but hard to define it precisely without being drawn into weary controversies. Writers in the past often focused on one or other foreign element, describing Mughal products as being really Safavid or even Italian art in disguise, or — equally absurdly — they exaggerated the Indian element, denying any connection with the wider Islamic world.
Stepping judiciously over such old arguments, Stronge tends to stress the Iranian sources for the use and meaning of particular objects, while acknowledging the indigenous input in their design and manufacture. The high value the Mughals attached to spinels above every other kind of stone, for example, followed not Indian but Iranian gemmology, where the spinel was regarded as a metaphor for sunlight and as a symbol of the divine. But Indian planetary associations of gems were also considered in the design of some more complex settings. The painting atelier was dominated from the outset by Iranian masters, many of whom were also expert in calligraphy and even poetic composition; but the majority of the artists working under them were Indians, many with Hindu names, who contributed aspects from their own pictorial traditions.
The confluence of Indian and Iranian art forms was inevitable, not just because of the personnel involved. The art was intended to project Mughal ideas about kingship, and these also blended the two streams. The Mughals inherited the ancient Iranian concept that royalty, in the words of Akbar’s biographer Abu’l Fazl, “is a light emanating from God, and a ray from the Sun”, together with the Islamic notion of the ruler as a Solomonic judge. But at the same time they adopted Indian customs such as darshan, and birthday ceremonies in which the ruler’s weight in gold or some other precious material was distributed as alms.
Because of the ideological nature of the art, these broader themes about Mughal rule recur throughout the text. The book’s title — Made for Mughal Emperors — might seem to indicate a focus on physical objects (and echoes an earlier book issued by the same publisher with a different author on objects that were “made for Maharajas”). But while the illustrations do indeed draw our attention to paintings and objets d’art, the discussion goes beyond strictly art historical concerns to place the objects within — and to illuminate — the wider courtly culture. Even the opening chapter, entitled “The City and the Royal Encampment”, is not a survey of Mughal styles of architecture but an account of Mughal court life, with subsections on such matters as Nowruz (the Iranian New Year), royal weddings, and hunting parties. This emphasis might disappoint enthusiasts of Mughal architecture but is likely to appeal to a larger readership.
The book’s generous format, excellent printing and magnificent design (by Sneha Pamneja) are appropriate to its subject and justify the price. Picture books about Mughal India abound. But this one stands apart and would be a worthy addition to any kitab khana. n
Giles Tillotson writes and lectures on art and architecture of the Rajputs, Mughals and British in India. His latest book is Taj Mahal (Penguin India)
