In a famous passage in the Koran, as the Prophet Muhammad flees to Medina to escape his enemies, he takes refuge in a cave in Jabal Thawr. As his captors close in, Allah sends one of His “invisible soldiers”, a spider, to protect the future leader of Islam. Blessed by the divine hand, the humble creature, within moments, weaves a thick web to cover the entrance of the hideout, misleading the pursuers into believing it is empty, thereby saving the Prophet’s life.
American art collector and scholar Stuart Cary Welch used to cite this incident as the origin story of the jali, the intricate lattice work decor commonly associated with mosques, palaces and cenotaphs. While it is impossible to ascertain the deific provenance of this architectural marvel, the jali remains ubiquitous across Asia. If you live in a city like Delhi, Ahmedabad, Jaipur or Hyderabad, jalis are everywhere. In fact, simply look around, and you’ll see grilles and meshes, lesser forms of jalis but jalis nonetheless.
Hilal Khan Qazi mosque, Dholka, Gujarat, 1333 | Photo Credit: Abhinav Goswami
Navina Najat Haidar’s book on jalis is an urgent call to action to save these architectural marvels from neglect
It is from an essay by Mitchell Abdul Karim Crites, another American art historian who has spent over 50 years working with Indian artisans, that we learn about Welch and art collectors like Doris Duke, who played a major role in popularising the jali in the West. Crites’ piece is part of a beautifully designed and richly informative book Jali: Lattice of Divine Light in Mughal Architecture (Mapin Publishing) by Navina Najat Haidar, curator-in-charge of the Department of Islamic Art at New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art. The piece is one among several tracing the evolution of the jali through time and geographies.
Living traditions
Embellished with vivid photographs by Abhinav Goswami, the book is as much a scholarly work as a vivid reminder of the living traditions that we take for granted or fail to notice. It traces the Roman and Persian origins of the jali, its flourishing as temple art in Gujarat and Vrindavan, restless evolution through the Sultanate era, and eventual apotheosis in the hands of the Mughals. Haidar takes us right up to modern times, where the form gets appropriated and reimagined by artists and architects as distinct as Edwin Lutyens and Mona Hatoum.
Navina Najat Haidar
“Each of the patterns in this jali,” Haidar says pointing at the image from Neminath temple in Gujarat, “has a symbolic function.” To my untrained eyes, the squares resemble a code, a cipher to a language we don’t understand any more. In some instances, with jalis in Ibrahim Adil Shah’s tomb in Bijapur, Karnataka, for example, there is indeed a literal calligraphic focus. In some of the arches, Koranic passages are inscribed on jalis, difficult to read unless you are trained, but quite a sight to behold.
An arched jali with seven trees, Sidi Sayyid Mosque, Ahmedabad, Gujarat, | Photo Credit: Abhinav Goswami
Historically, jalis have been put to myriad uses. From acting as a veil between the women of elite families and the outside world, to helping modulate the temperature inside chambers, to directing sunlight at a specific angle on tombs, their functions have evolved depending on the context in which they appeared. Each pattern in the jali repertoire has meanings that are immutable. “The stars and hexagon shapes point to a celestially inspired language,” Haidar says, “while repeating patterns create an illusion of infinity, which, in turn, acts as an allusion to the divine.”
In a striking departure, flowery trellises woven in the style of jalis, which adorn the Krishna temple in Vrindavan, convey a different kind of cosmic message as compared to a jali by a tribal artist in Chhattisgarh. This fluid life of the jali in India’s history and public domain is testament to the syncretic spirit that runs through this country.
The latticed windows of Hawa Mahal, Jaipur | Photo Credit: Abhinav Goswami
The zenith of this tradition was during Shah Jahan’s reign, with jalis surrounded by complex inlay work influenced by the Italian pietra dura style. Scholar Ebba Koch says, since Shah Jahan thought of himself as the “sun king”, the jalis of his time are replete with blooms, nourished by his princely glow. And so, all the flowers of Mumtaz Mahal’s garden house are replicated on her tomb in the Taj Mahal, a reminder of the undying love of her “sun king” and the earthly delights that once filled her heart.
Hidden in plain sight
In spite of its scholarly value, Haidar’s book is an urgent call to all non-historians to pay attention to the beautiful edifices casually strewn across the length and breadth of India, being desecrated by political troublemakers, neglected by bureaucrats, and ignored by citizens. Jali: Lattice of Divine Light in Mughal Architecture opens up a world that readers cannot unsee every time they chance upon a niche in a humble haveli or a latticed window in a famous monument. It also reminds us that though they may be few and far between, we still have among us makers of jalis, keepers of an ancient and specialised knowledge, some of them descendants of the very builders who erected the Taj Mahal.
Floral vase jali, Diwan-i Khas, Agra Fort, c. 1631 | Photo Credit: Abhinav Goswami
Recounting a project for the building of a mosque in Malaysia, Crites mentions bringing in retired master builders to train the younger jali-makers. “These elderly master carvers used to sit in the market and drink tea,” he says, “but when we got them to the younger men, they took up the chisel and started teaching them. Their hands were no longer strong enough to do the work, but they knew how to pass on their knowledge.”
Hopefully, books like Haidar’s will humanise the cold, marmoreal elegance of architecture into more intergenerational encounters.
The writer is based in Delhi.
