Introduction

The Alamgir Dynasty has been guiding the Kingdom of Hindustan through centuries of peace, prosperity, and stability. Yet, credit does not rest solely on the wisdom of our modern kings; from the earliest days of what was then called the Alamgiri Empire, the kings (and later, queens) who have graced the Saffron Throne have each, in turn, displayed the sagacity, gallantry, and munificence required to lead such a large and diverse nation.

This exhibition presents pieces from our permanent collection that are rarely displayed together, in order to illuminate the life of one of our most celebrated early rulers, Nizararuddin Zafer Abu Hassan Mohammed, better known as Prince Nizar. While the prince is best known for his nigh-legendary subjugation of the religiously motivated rebels known as the Heron Guard, a glimpse into his early life reveals a fascinating figure of a man.

Support for this exhibition was generously provided by Her Highness the Saffron Queen-Mother’s Commission for Cultural & Spiritual Preservation. This Visitor’s Guide was made possible by the International Heritage Foundation.

1

This remarkably well-preserved first piece is a sword only in the loosest sense: little more than a stripped-down wooden branch—albeit distinctively sword-shaped—it dates to when the prince was four years old. Discovered among the palace servants’ possessions, it’s rough, unbalanced, and probably rather dangerous for such a small child to handle. You may notice the faint remnants of writing scratched into the “blade.” In modern Hindustani, it translates (somewhat amusingly) to “sword”; a child marking their possessions, no doubt.

Records indicate that a servant boy about the same age as the prince was whipped and banished from the palace around the time of this sword’s creation. It is possible that this punishment was for the creation of such a dangerous toy for the prince. Some scholars dispute that supposition, however, drawing on evidence that Prince Nizar’s royal father, the Saffron King, was a proponent of early sword-training for his sons—much younger than was generally common at the time.

2

Also dating back to when the prince was four years old, this piece is more properly recognizable as a sword, though it’s more of a toy than even a practice-weapon. It lends credence to the theory that the Saffron King, a renowned general, wished his children to become familiar with the arts of warfare from an early age.

The perfumed sandalwood used in this toy sword—imported from neighbouring Purashnimal—is a lot finer than the common beech used in the previous piece, and the intricate carvings are consistent with the Imrazan school of woodcraft. This sword was likely fashioned by the master carpenter himself, making it one of the few extant pieces made directly by his hands. Imrazan owed the Saffron King his life: he was a religious refugee to the Alamgiri Empire, fleeing persecution in his native Lankashri for joining the Temple of Darvez-i-Paramesh, the syncretic state religion founded by the prince’s grandfather in an attempt to unify, in his own words, “the most illustrious verses from every holy book.”

Note the pristine condition of the blade: it was unlikely that this object saw much use. Perhaps even at such a tender age the prince’s young mind was occupied by loftier thoughts than play!

3

Here’s a little joke from our chief curator. Obviously, this is a paring knife, though it was found among the prince’s youthful possessions. From the numbers engraved in the butt (what would be called a “pommel” in a real sword), we know that this came from the teaching-kitchens at Aurangzeb Academy, the boarding school popular among the elites where five previous generations of monarchs had studied. A similar knife was found among the possessions of Shah Dashir Dashir II of Purashnimal, who was to become the prince’s closest confidant while at school. The knives were likely stolen as a childhood prank: at that time, as boys, neither the prince nor the Shah would have been permitted to enroll in culinary courses.

Indeed the religiously inspired laws segregating education by gender were enacted by the prince’s father himself. These laws were later repealed by Prince Nizar during his own reign. The modern saying “Let each dancer choose their flourish” originates from the prince’s proclamation to that end.

4

This is a real practice sword; we can tell by the notches on the blade that it saw heavy use. It’s constructed with vermillion teak—a much sturdier material than sandalwood—and sports much less decoration than the earlier Imrazan sword. This sword was made for the prince’s personal use at Aurangzeb Academy by the school’s official carpenter. The tradition of retaining official artisans at educational institutions began at Aurangzeb, a practice that has remained to this day and has contributed to the flourishing artistic scene our nation enjoys today.

Notice the dents all over the hilt of this sword: expert analysis reveals them to be inconsistent with sword-fighting. They were more likely a result of repeated dropping, though by whom is unclear. Certainly the prince’s friend Shah Dashir Dashir II may have borrowed the sword for personal use.

Interestingly, though it doesn’t fit the customary design for a mourning blade, this sword was found among the burial offerings of the Queen-Mother, who was assassinated during the prince’s teenage years by insurgents loyal to the rebel faction known as the Heron Guard—diehard opponents of the Temple of Darvez-i-Paramesh. Legend holds that the blade used to carry out the inauspicious murder was melted down and that the resulting pellets were hurled into the sea by the prince himself.

5

Here we have the earliest of the prince’s metal swords. The rounded edges suggest that this was again a practice blade. The patina would have been absent in its original state: the blade would have been polished to a red-gold glow. Note the extremely unusual shape of the hilt; gripping this weapon requires a non-traditional positioning of the hands. This sword was customized for the unique style of swordplay the prince was no doubt developing.

The scabbard displayed with this sword is of significant historic relevance. Note the vivid red-purple leather: the dyeing technique used to achieve that precise shade—called “Begunrosh” in the Bangalash region, where it originated—was normally reserved for religious vestments by the Temple of Darvez-i-Paramesh (this practice drew from prior religions). This scabbard represents one of the earliest non-liturgical uses of the Begunrosh technique, and points to the weakening of the Temple within the empire. Later in life, the prince would become a key player in secularizing the nation, diluting several key loci of power the Temple controlled.

6

This porcelain sword was a decorative piece presented by the prince to his father on the fifteenth anniversary of the latter’s coronation.

Many stylistic details of this sword point to its Purashnimali origin: the crescent-shaped blade, the forked tip (characteristic of a “Zulfani” blade, an ancient sword design), and the distinctive turquoise and black glaze. The pattern of birds and leaves, though competently executed with costly materials, is rather simplistic for the fashions of the time; this piece is not the work of a master craftsman. No maker’s signature can be found on the piece, an indication that this is likely the work of an apprentice ceramicist. However, the apprentice was not without skill: cunningly hidden among the foliage nestles a single line of Purashni calligraphic verse, translated as, “The father rears children like the gardener does his prized blossoms.”

Prince Nizar and Shah Dashir Dashir II travelled together to Purashnimal as part of their Practicum Semester at Aurangzeb Academy. One can imagine the Prince purchasing the sword at the Green Souq (a renowned bazaar which persists to this day) and choosing this gift for its sentimental merit. Perhaps the turquoise—a favorite of the late Queen-Mother as evidenced by her extensive collection—stirred fond memories? Perhaps the line of poetry spoke to him of his father’s virtues? Indeed, the journals of Hamda Gulbadan—a courtesan popular at the Saffon Court at the time—noted a “distinct softening of the King’s noble mien” upon receipt of the gift.

7

This magnificent, ceremonial weapon is the prince’s coming-of-age sword. As was traditional for every graduate of Aurangzeb Academy, the prince himself drafted the sword’s design. The pommel is in the shape of a jasmine—the academy’s jasmine gardens were renowned, and this detail was likely a nostalgic nod to the school the prince was leaving behind. The gilded edges reference the weapon carried by the titular character in the Song of Indra, the epic poem about which the prince wrote his culminating thesis. In the poem, the forces of humanity all wield weapons “red with divine rage” against the demons of ignorance. Interestingly, the prince’s thesis was condemned by the Maha Pundit of the Temple of Darvez-i-Paramesh due to its in-depth exploration (and unsubtle admiration) of themes of witchcraft in the Song of Indra. The thesis has, in fact, proved invaluable to modern scholars studying the history of witchcraft and magical beliefs, in particular, the origin stories of the mythical witch Arundhuti of the Southern Desert.

The text engraved on the blade reads “Knowledge is but the first of the twain,” a direct quotation from the poem. The graduation blade of the prince's close friend Shah Dashir Dashir II of Purashnimal, “For without wisdom, the mightiest is slain,” the line that completes the poem’s couplet. The two young royals chose to live as roommates during their final year, eschewing the private chambers reserved for them by the academy, as befitting their noble status. The paired swords were meant to be an enduring symbol of their deep friendship.

8

This is the earliest example of a complete, battle-worthy sword belonging to the prince. Not only does this sword sport the modified hilt design (seen previously in Object 5), but the ridge in the center—known as the “Fuller”—is deeper and wider than in most swords popular at that time. The subtle curvature to the blade might have been of a Purashnimali influence. Weapons-experts surmise that this sword’s design sacrificed power for control and maneuverability. This sword was presented to the prince by his father the Saffron King on his nineteenth birthday.

Tales speak of the Saffron King—eager to gift his son with the perfect blade—summoning every weaponsmith in the land for a grand festival of artisanship. While we do have records pertaining to a gathering of weaponsmiths, the extravagance that stories attribute to the festival are no doubt exaggerated. For instance, it is unlikely that the witch Arundhuti climbed out of children’s stories, flew over the Southern Desert, and landed in the palace gardens on the back of a giant cobra!

Correspondence between the prince and Shah Dashir Dashir II reveals that the prince was exceedingly careful with his father’s gift, rarely drawing it from its scabbard. It is thought the prince held his gift in such high esteem, that any damage to it would have been unbearable.

9

This sword was a gift from Shah Dashir Dashir II—whose warm friendship the prince maintained for a time after their school years—on the occasion of the prince being named “Defender of the Temple” by his father.

The serpent motifs along the cross-guard of the sword are atypical for the era. The Shah’s brief accompanying note—held by our Department of Ephemera—mentions this artistic anomaly but remains cryptic. The Purashni translates to, “Perhaps this will help. You always handled snakes better than swords.” Scholars postulate that the note and the sword were both some sort of boyish joke; garden snakes were common in the forests surrounding Aurangzeb Academy.

Further correspondence between the Shah and Prince Nizar hint at anxieties regarding his new duties, and at tensions within the father-son relationship. Details remain scarce: the prince, a master diplomat employs only veiled references. The worries about religious duties were clearly a precursor to the prince's subsequent opposition to the Temple’s power. His challenges with his father are less clear; it is thought that the Saffron King disapproved of the friendship between the two youths, perhaps distrusting the foreign noble’s political intentions.

10

The jet blade and elephant-ivory pommel clearly mark this sword as a mourning weapon of the most traditional form. The prince commissioned this piece for the joint funeral of his father and sole brother, both killed during the Heron Rebellion. In a dramatic and scandalous departure from tradition, Prince Nizar forbade any of the Maha Pundits of the Temple from delivering the eulogy, inviting instead the chancellor of Aurangzeb Academy for the honour.

By this time in the Empire, the use of bone for mourning blades was a dying art. Finding a specialized bonesmith would have been challenging for the prince. Additionally, ivory was a highly controlled, and thus costly, material. Its employment in this piece suggests that the prince was willing to spare no expense to mourn his family. Lending credence to this theory is the sword’s elephant-leather scabbard. Note the gold threads woven into the leather as well as the rare “tiger-eye” stones worked into it.

Etched on the blade is a verse of the prince’s own composition, whose final couplet remains famous: “In blood resides the ghosts of kings / For whom their oaths and duties sing.”

11

Only this broken fragment remains of the fabled Sword of Arundhuti, supposedly enchanted by its mythical namesake, the witch of the Southern Desert. The story goes that the prince—not yet king until his wedding-coronation—sought out the witch for a weapon that would help him break the Heron Rebellion, and exchanged for it his mortal soul. The narrative has been popularized by blockbuster Munsalian film “Blood Royals,” though director Atsede Bikila—usually lauded for her attention to detail and research-oriented style of storytelling—took significant liberties with historical fact: Prince Nizar was certainly no klutz on the battlefield, and would have needed no magical weapon to enhance his swordsmanship!

Whether or not the sword was indeed a gift from a witch, its blood-red blade is certainly eye-catching. The hue is part of the metal itself, not some form of paint or varnish. The technique used to achieve this striking effect has been lost, and another object sharing this attribute has yet to be discovered. No wonder the stories of witchcraft and romance!

What the historical record can ascertain is that the prince wielded this sword during the final decisive assault on Fort Jhansa, the stronghold of the Heron Guard. While successful, the prince sacrificed an eye to the historic victory.

12

The lapis lazuli-inlaid cross-guard, sinuous blade, and latticed pommel mark this sword as a Purashnimali Wedding Blade, traditionally gifted to Purashnimali noblemen on the night of their nuptials. This piece was a gift from the prince’s old friend Shah Dashir Dashir II, who was unable to attend the celebration of the prince’s wedding to Atashi Begum of Bangalash—though it was rumored that the prince sent the First Minister himself to Purashnipur to deliver an invitation.

The Shah seems to have maintained the two royals’ childhood fondness for inscribing poetry directly onto the blade. Translated from Old Purashni, the text reads, “I will forever treasure / the scent of jasmine.” Scholars believe this to be a boyishly humorous allusion to the fact that the jasmine gardens at Aurangzeb Academy were notorious for romantic trysts between the young men and women at the academy: a coy reference to the prince’s upcoming marriage bed, no doubt. The gift and the accompanying congratulatory note are understood as the last private correspondence between the Shah and the prince. From this point on, busy with the duties of governance, the two royals communicated only through official channels, on matters of state.

13

There exist dozens of stories surrounding the premature disappearance of the prince—by now, of course, king. Did he vanish into the wilderness in pursuit of a snow-white peacock? Was he claimed by a mysterious illness, his body destroyed to prevent infection? Did the witch Arundhuti claim his soul and whisk him away to the Southern Desert (as depicted in Bikila’s film)? Aside from the fact that this sword was interred in the Royal Catacombs as a proxy for the prince’s body, remarkably little is known about the end of his reign; only rumours and hearsay remain. Palace servants’ writings—featuring giant snakes, cackling hags, and magical bargains—are clearly unreliable primary sources!

Of jet and ivory—by this time considered old-fashioned or ultra-traditional materials for a mourning blade—this sword exhibits an interesting detail: the jewel inlaid into the pommel is cut into the shape of a jasmine. Scholars have attributed a myriad of meanings to this curious choice, the simplest being that this was simply the prince’s favorite flower. Extant palace servants’ records do list “jasmine blooms for the King’s bedroom” as part of the weekly purchases.

In her private journals, Saffron Queen-Mother Atashi—unusually for the time, the sole Royal Wife—wrote that the sword’s design was suggested to her by Shah Dashir Dashir II, suggesting that the queen and the foreign royal ignited a correspondence following the prince’s death. Court documents indicate that the queen invited the Shah to attend the funeral, and her journals tell of him being the one to thrust the sword into its final resting place. That particular journal entry ends with an enigmatic line: “…and though the flower of his heart [some scholars translate this as “soul”] resides in a jasmine garden, I could have imagined no better a companion.”

Editor: Dante Luiz

First Reader: Ana Maričić

Copy Editors: Copy Editing Department

Accessibility: Accessibility Editors