1 Introduction: Books beyond Reading
In this essay1 I explore the link between codicology and social practice among the Alawi Bohras, a small Muslim community in Baroda,2 India, and their living manuscript culture. More specifically, I focus on the link between the efficacy and materiality of manuscripts beyond reading. Based on archival and ethnographic fieldwork, I describe how the community experiences manuscripts and other forms of writing in their daily lives and derives meaning from them, as well as through the sacred space where they are kept, the khizānat al-kutub, or treasury of books.
The Alawi Bohras are a mercantile Muslim community from Gujarat, comprising roughly 8,000 believers in total. They inhabit a small quarter of the old city of Baroda, known as Badri Mohallah. As Shiʿi Ismāʿīlī Muslims, the community traces back its history and the transmission of its books to the Fatimid Caliphate, which ruled much of Egypt, North Africa, and the Mediterranean from the early tenth until the late twelfth century C.E. Whereas the community’s predecessors initially settled in Yemen right before the fall of the Fatimid empire, via Indian Ocean networks their followers permanently established themselves in Gujarat in the fifteenth century, preserving an Arabic manuscript tradition in secret khizānāt al-kutub. The Alawi Bohras of Baroda are one of several Bohra communities which continue to exist today. They actively and deliberately preserve and practice a unique Arabic Fatimid-Yemeni manuscript culture in Gujarat focused on sacred artefacts, enshrined in a specially designated treasury of books, which is only accessible to the highest clerics. Through an oath of secrecy, all Bohra communities practice taqiyya (precautionary dissimilation) to the outside world.3
As a study in social codicology, I focus on the social meaning of secret Bohra manuscripts through the community’s epistemic tradition and local understanding of materiality, rather than relying on the author’s Eurocentric textual paradigm of favouring hermeneutics, text, and script over codicology and social usage.4 Even in cases where Islamic codicology is studied in Europe and North America, this usually happens through the prism of the medieval European manuscript tradition, not considering local vernacular understandings of the book in non-European cultures and societies.
Through photographs of manuscripts, documents, and other forms of writing, as well as the ceremonies and rituals they feature in, I document how believers encounter secret Bohra manuscripts in their various material manifestations as kutub, scrolls, talismans, and clerical notes, without necessarily reading, touching, or sometimes even seeing them. As the majority of these manuscripts are considered highly esoteric, their direct physical access is restricted to a minority of believers, most of whom only have access to printed religious-exoteric texts.
Instead, as I will discuss, believers experience their agency and efficacy through the sacred materiality that is attached to them as objects that cannot physically be accessed, yet are experienced in various ways through practices such as witnessing and gazing, hearing, touching, smelling, tasting, and ingesting. The recent pandemic and the inevitable switch to online communal devotional practice, however, have changed the way in which believers derive efficacy from their manuscripts through these practices. I therefore end this essay with several examples of digital sacred artefacts. These raise the question of the digital sensorium, referring to whether the pandemic has made it possible for manuscripts to be efficacious digitally and thus immaterially, and whether this development has changed the inaccessible manuscript culture of the khizāna.
1.1 Sensing Secret Manuscripts and Their Efficacy
In the year 2014, I found myself in the fortunate position of being permitted to stay with the Alawi Bohras in their mohallah (quarter) in Baroda for a period of several months. I had been personally invited by their Dāʿī, the head of the community’s sacerdotal royal family, to catalogue a collection of ca. 500 written artefacts stored in the community’s khizānat al-kutub, and document its “living” manuscript culture. In one of the old havelis (mansions) of Badri Mohallah, the Alawi Bohras, I learnt, preserved an ancient Arabic manuscript culture, which they traced back via the Indian Ocean to Yemen and the royal khizānāt of Fatimid Cairo.
This manuscript culture was considered ancient and secret, but at the same time, as I observed, it was very much alive.5 As I catalogued piles of makhṭūṭāt (manuscripts) with a simple pencil and notebook, I witnessed how manuscript titles dating back to the Fatimid and post-Fatimid period from Egypt and Yemen were taken out of their cupboards as they were ceremoniously revealed among initiated believers, and on other occasions were copied by hand with utmost care and precision. I observed that the material survival of these secret manuscripts from the past played an important role in the community’s day-to-day lived experience. The question of what it means to be Bohra, I was explained, and the community’s “Neo-Fatimid” identity as Shiʿi Ismāʿīlī Ṭayyibis in Gujarat, could not be understood without them.6
As the community’s appointed court historian, as well as semi-official manuscript curator and accidental anthropologist, I soon learnt that my Eurocentric academic and rather sterile understanding of a “manuscript” was radically different from the manuscript tradition I was encountering among the Alawis in situ. Thus far, my disciplinary training in philology, palaeography, and codicology had served me well in the sanitized reading rooms of university libraries, where manuscripts gained new social lives removed from their natural habitat and local ecosystems of creation, circulation, and material demise. Though useful for reading colophons and identifying dates, these skills turned out to be less suited for making sense, in the most literal “sense” of the word, of these manuscripts as they were seen, understood, valued, and used by their owners, custodians, and everyone else in the community who interacted with them, either directly and physically or from a distance. Far beyond my own academic comfort zone of the “philological laboratory,” I had to learn how to “re-see” the manuscripts that were in front of me as I became aware of the sensory experience of manually working with handwritten books.
Rather than mining these rare Ismāʿīlī manuscripts for their content, “re-seeing” entailed embodying them, just as the community did, through gazing at them during ceremonies, as well as through touch, smell, sound, and at times even ingesting them as “something” that radiated baraka (blessings). Through these experiences I learnt that, as the outsider, my presence did not only have an effect on the environment of the khizāna by dusting, cataloguing, “curating” its manuscripts and getting rid of their unwelcome inhabitants. Just as the people, climate, natural ecosystems, and the cuisine of Badri Mohallah had an effect on my constitution, so, to my surprise, did the manuscripts affect me in various unexpected ways.
There is a reason why, in his Among Arabic Manuscripts, Ignaty Kratchkovsky describes how the manuscripts he worked with “whispered” to and “gazed” at him, and how he perceived them as objects over which “death itself has no power.”7 If one is in the privileged position of spending a considerable amount of time in their physical presence rather than on the screen, manuscripts, as any other handcrafted artefact, have an effect on the senses. The nature of this physical encounter, as I discussed in the introduction to this volume, influences our relationship with the object, or in this case, the written artefact.
Whereas the phenomenon of agency and the efficacy of things and texts on people has received considerable attention in recent years in anthropology, their impact on historic and contemporary manuscript cultures in Muslim contexts is a nascent field.8 The efficacy of “things” on the researcher and his or her positionality vis-à-vis the object they interact with has not yet been much reflected on, as was discussed in the introduction to this volume.
Like Kratchkovsky, I would find comfort in the materiality of the manuscripts I encountered among the Alawis, such as the smell of the soft leather deer bindings or the touch of handmade papers of the khizāna. To my surprise, at times I would even derive strength from certain marginal notes when I was overwhelmed by the manual labour of cataloguing the daunting piles of manuscripts that were stacked next to me on the floor in the monsoon heat.9 Becoming part of the day-to-day life of the mohallah, it became impossible to ignore the ritual efficacy that was attributed to the manuscripts from the khizāna by their custodians as well as by my neighbours and friends as carriers of baraka, talismans, and sacred objects.
Would the scrolls, talismanic notes, and magical marginalia I discuss in this essay give me instant healing and baraka when handling them? Perhaps not. Yet finding snippets of centuries-old manuscripts in the pleats of my rida (traditional Bohra dress for women)—as a result of moving and cataloguing them—certainly sent shivers down my spine and caused all kinds of ethical dilemmas in regards to what to do with them.10 In the same vein, being subjected to rituals of initiation to access esoteric manuscripts certainly did not leave me indifferent, nor did the ancient scribal traditions I participated in, which are considered a jihād (striving) of the ego, leave me untouched.11
Re-seeing manuscripts through the community’s perspective had been a steep learning curve. For months I was so focused on counting folios and identifying watermarks that I had failed to observe that the treasury of books was indeed the centre of life of the community. I had to essentially un-learn how to look at manuscripts from my western academic training, shifting my perception from books as carriers of philology to “things” with social lives, biographies, life cycles, power, efficacy, and agency.
It was through the Mazoon Saheb, the custodian of the treasury of books as well as a professional scribe, scholar, and fervent collector, that I was initiated into the universe of his khizāna. The Mazoon Saheb was not merely the caretaker of manuscripts; he was also chief qāḍi and one of the highest-ranking members of the royal family at the time. Throughout his whole life, he had been trained with a view to one day serving the community as Dāʿī. I, on the other hand, at the time was a simple graduate student from Europe, female, with no proper madrasa training, nor any understanding of Bohra royal etiquette, nor purdah (gender segregation).
What the Mazoon and I had in common, however, was our love for handwritten books and “manuscriptology,” as it is still known in India.12 Being among manuscripts and appreciating their codicology are rare privileges, something the Mazoon and I instantly recognized.13 In our manuscript conversations, we found a liminal space beyond gender and royal hierarchies, as well as beyond generational and confessional differences. We were no longer the future Dāʿī of the community and the graduate student, but two bibliophiles who had found a common language: the language of handwritten books. Through our manuscript sessions, we reached a sense of what Johannes Fabian calls coevalness, and my position in Badri Mohallah changed from guest and outsider to Ollybehn (“Olly sister”) and almost adopted member of the royal family.14
Rather than skimming through the treasury of books myself, my fieldwork thus involved accessing and reading manuscripts with the community, according to their episteme, traditions, ritual etiquette, and, most importantly, on their terms. The Mazoon and I would read treatises and documents together, and he would share both his and his forefathers’ personal notes through which generations of Bohra Dāʿīs had studied them. We would decipher marginalia and colophons together and catalogue the manuscripts according to his wishes and time schedule, as well as the rhythm of the mohallah. I learned to observe during quieter moments and started to notice when and how manuscripts were taken out of their cupboards for consultation or were revealed during rituals and ceremonies.15
Through these activities, I learned to participate in the life of the khizāna and the mohallah at large, and eventually I was granted permission to copy an entire manuscript under the Mazoon’s supervision according to the scribal protocols and rituals of the khizāna.16 Through our manuscript sessions, in addition to becoming an honorary member of the mohallah, I not only learned how to re-see the manuscripts through the lens of the community and observe the busy social life of the khizāna. I started to see that the books of the khizāna and the people of the mohallah could not be separated from another, nor understood without each other.
This experience led me to write a monograph which became an ethnography of manuscripts and their custodians: a study in what I referred to as “social codicology.” In that study, I suggested moving away from the idea that manuscripts are inert carriers of text and instead focus on the social framework in which they constantly gain meaning as “things” through their interaction with communities, readers, and archives of knowledge. In doing so, the study focused on one simple question: What is it that people do with their books, and why? My aim was to humanize the people who write, use, and venerate manuscripts as part of their living, local, and day-to-day understanding of Islam in the past and present and give them the agency they deserved. I wanted not merely to give the Alawi Bohras a voice, but to make the people of Badri Mohallah central to the monograph, in an attempt to do justice to the multiple ways in which they see their khizāna and experience the efficacy of its living manuscript tradition.
As the years passed after my fieldwork, however, I realized more and more that the question of what is it that people do with their books, and why? did, in fact, not fully do justice to the community and their khizāna tradition. The question had been a valid one, as the community confirmed after the publication of the book. In fact, the monograph had taken on its own social life, as the Dāʿī of the community made it obligatory reading for all believers during one of his majālis (religious gatherings).17 Yet talking to members of the various Bohra diasporic communities across the Indian Ocean, I realized that the question assumed that, as “things,” Bohra manuscripts were passive and inanimate. As such, the question dismissed the possibility of the books having a life force and autonomy of their own, which is not how believers related to their manuscript tradition.18 After all, I had observed how believers experienced the many written forms of the khizāna, and, as mentioned earlier, I myself had not remained unaffected by the sensory experience of working with physical manuscript copies in Baroda.
The question of what is it that people do with their books, and why? would therefore not be complete without turning it around, acknowledging the efficacy of manuscripts as objects with meaning, power, agency, and thaumaturgic qualities, thus making object and human equal rather than making the former subordinate to the latter. According to Martin Brückner, objects are non-human actants performing variable roles inside networks of materiality. As such, he argues, they are inadvertent agents in material practices.19 Along similar lines, Jane Bennett makes a case for recognizing the “vital force” that is inherent to things, their “political agency and the active participation of non-human powers in events”. Things, she claims, possess a “vital materiality” that flows through and across bodies, both human and nonhuman, and agency always emerges as the effect of ad hoc configurations of human and non-human forces.20
Among the Alawi Bohras, manuscripts should thus not be seen as inert things, but as active participants in the material practices of the khizana. As human actors, the community relies on the efficacy of its manuscripts while at the same time affirming the agency of their manuscripts in their interactions with them, a phenomenon which Michael Kohs and Sabine Kienitz also describe in Agency: How Manuscripts Affect and Create Social Realities.21
The manuscript’s materiality, or even immateriality, as I observed in Baroda, is never coincidental, and this has an impact on how it is experienced in its ritual efficacy. Following this object-oriented ontology, the question what is it that people do with their books should be in conversation with the question what is it that books do with their people—i.e., their custodians, collectors, copyists, readers, admirers, venerators, etc.22 Or, in other words, the questions should be what is the efficacy of manuscripts and their materiality on people? And through which sensorial modes is this efficacy experienced?
In order to provide legitimate answers to these questions, I will discuss the different forms of writing of the khizāna and how the manuscripts are experienced sensorially as secret and foremost sacred objects with a “vibrant matter.” First, however, we must examine the community’s local understanding of script, materiality, and immateriality and how this emic social meaning of codicology is translated to ritual practice and efficacy.
1.2 Materiality and Social Practice
In tackling the question of the codicology of manuscripts, their social role, and ritual efficacy, Daniel Miller’s notion of materiality is relevant. He states: the appearance of the object demonstrates that which must have been responsible for its existence.23 In other words, the way an object looks should be directly connected with what people did with it, how it was made, used, etc., and how people were affected by it.
The more time I spent observing the Alawis and their manuscripts inside, but especially also outside the khizāna, participating in communal gatherings, ceremonies, and rituals at the mosque, the jāmaʿat khāna (communal centre), at people’s homes, graveyards, and during ziyāra (pilgrimage), the more I understood that the community’s various forms of sacred texts circulated outside the treasury of books on numerous occasions, despite their status of being secret. Moreover, I noticed that the ways in which the books and documents of the khizāna operated outside their natural habitat, and the social roles they played during these “outings,” was strongly linked to their material format. Cataloguing these texts as objects enshrined in the khizāna, I realized that their codicology, as we will see, often revealed how they were used in the community. Conversely, as I was observing the social role of the same manuscripts and documents during ceremonies, I realized that the way they were used explained their material format. I started to notice that the various material forms and textual practices in the community were linked to larger manuscript genres and documentary cultures in the khizāna and that, as objects, their social meaning was clear to all believers, whether they had access to the text or not.
Manuscripts, documents, and other forms of writing, I learned, look the way they do because they fulfil a certain purpose. These purposes include, but are certainly not restricted to reading alone, as handwritten texts have multiple social lives—to refer to Arjun Appadurai—and biographies—as Igor Kopytoff calls them—as I describe in the introduction to this volume.24 Their codicological format and social lives as codices, scrolls, notebooks, decrees, broadsheets, catalogues and lists, registers, palimpsests, letters, talismans, and inscriptions, are not accidental or universal, but are culturally specific and socially deeply embedded in the communities in which they circulate and are consumed.
Having observed how the Alawi Bohras meticulously preserve an Ismāʿīlī manuscript culture from the past, I realized that when it comes to communities and the codicology of their books, little is left to chance. Through this lens, there are no coincidences in the materiality of manuscripts.25 Even if a scribe makes a mistake or manuscripts are damaged by water or termites, the way we as humans respond to elements that are beyond our control is culturally specific. For instance, whereas in one social-historical context, termite-infested books end up in the garbage or are recycled, in another, discarding practices of decrees and documents included disposing of them in repositories of “sacred trash,” such as we know from the examples of the Cairo and Afghan genizot and the Qubbat al-khazna and Ḥaram al-Sharīf corpora in Damascus and Jerusalem.26
In the South Asian and Indian Ocean context of Gujarat, on the other hand, it is not uncommon for manuscripts, documents, and other sacred artefacts such as idols and relics to be ritually disposed of in lakes or oceans, burnt, or buried. Through oral history these discarding practices can also be historically traced in the various Bohra communities.27 Among the Alawi Bohras, I observed how the material decay of their manuscript collection, which is entirely written on paper, is actively fought against through paratextual practices, such as by writing protective formulae in the margins, which are combined with local preservation techniques, such as adding botanical leaves between the folios, or treating the manuscripts with rice pouches, neem, cloves, or cucumber extract. If the material damage is irrevocable, the Alawis ritually dispose of their manuscripts by dissolving their snippets in the water tank of their mosque for baraka (blessings) and ṣiḥḥa (healing) purposes. Through this practice, the sacred texts and scripts of the khizāna thus gain a new social life as sacred, talismanic dust in their immaterial form.
In regards to the materiality and the immateriality of the sacred, Daniel Miller argues that material cultures of all kinds, like “things,” “objects,” “products,” or “artefacts,” represent and materialize immaterial ideas.28 Even objects that are considered extremely sacred, untouchable, and therefore immaterial, are still commonly expressed through material culture. This can refer to material forms, but it also includes practices and rituals.29
In addition to traditions of discarding texts, the ways in which people, communities, and societies give expression to the sacred materiality of their holy books and objects through ritual and ceremony is highly specific to their social, spatial, and temporal contexts. One community may ceremoniously bring their holy book to bed upon sunset, and publicly awaken it upon sunrise, as can be observed among the Sikhs in their gurdwaras (temples), whereas in other communities in South Asia, such as that of the Bohras, sacred texts are enshrined in secret book treasuries. Purposively shrouded in mystery, as objects they are only revealed to believers on rare occasions.
The materiality of manuscripts and documents, including their shape, appearance, script, and palaeography, I argue, should thus not be taken for granted. Material manifestations of text are deeply anchored in the social context they are embedded in and the larger manuscript cultures they are part of. In addition to their social embeddedness, there are of course other factors which shape manuscript and documentary cultures. Besides the influence of geography, climate, and economics, the materiality of manuscript cultures largely depends on the human element in textual practices: personal interventions, aesthetics, and choices, and the introduction of new rituals, traditions, and meanings, instead of one timeless and fixed tradition.
1.3 Script, Efficacy, and Sacred Materiality
Thus far we have established that, through the lens of social codicology, it becomes apparent that social practice and materiality cannot be separated, and that Bohra manuscripts have a wide variety of social roles that include, but are certainly not limited to, reading alone. Yet in addition to social practice and codicology, one cannot get around the fact that manuscripts and documents are made up of text and script. When focusing on the social embeddedness of Bohra secret manuscripts, how do text and script relate to social practice, codicology, and ritual efficacy?
The paradigm in European book culture and philology dictates that text and content dominate the materiality and codicology of written artefacts. For instance, Albert Henrichs, a scholar of ancient Greece, argues that, historically, books, in the form of the codex, were invented for the sake of recording text. As, according to his hypothesis, this was their main function, books were therefore more dependent on text for their survival than the other way around. In other words: without text, physical books would not exist. He further suggests that, historically, it was the text which imposed the format of the book instead of the other way around.30 Heinrich thus sketches a book-text relationship in which text dominates the material form of the book.
Can this normative concept of Western theory regarding script and text be translated to Alawi Bohra manuscript culture in situ? Bohra manuscript culture is based on a chain of transmission of Fatimid-Ṭayyibī intellectual history. As such, one could argue that its manuscripts are merely a manifestation of the material forms of this process of transmission in the temporal space of this world. However, as we will see in this essay, from an emic perspective it becomes clear that, to the Bohras, their manuscripts are more than vehicles or repositories of written texts. Instead, they are seen as sacred objects, having talismanic and other powers of agency attributed to them as “things.”
Anette Hornbacher describes the dangers of researching script and texts from local non-Western epistemic traditions, in this case Balinese letters, from a European perspective. She argues that scholars fail to acknowledge the double function of script as both a medium of local literature or doctrine as well as the ritual role of its inherently powerful visual elements for esoteric purposes.31 Just as the majority of Alawi Bohra believers do not have direct access to the manuscripts of the khizāna due to their highly esoteric content, secret scripts (see fig. 13.10), and vocabulary, the mystical characters of Balinese script, the aksara, are considered powerful instruments of esoteric cosmological speculation and ritual efficacy that should not be revealed publicly.32
From the perspective of Bohra believers or Balinese Hindu practitioners, the significance of mystical aksara or khizāna manuscripts in their day-to-day life is not to convey a consistent religious doctrine or theological canon to the public, as may have been the case in ancient Greece or European religious hermeneutic traditions. Instead, their social meaning lies in the significance of manuscript efficacy in ritual practice, as they are seen as visual manifestations of cosmic power.33 From a Balinese perspective, they are imbued with life and power, as Hornbacher argues, and therefore they “create their own ‘presence’ of being,” because “they display the potency of affecting cosmic power.”34
In the case of the Alawi Bohras, the manuscripts in the khizāna acquire another layer of sacred materiality, in addition to their esoteric content, by the fact that they are personally copied by the Dāʿī. Due to his special status of being ka-l-maʿṣūm (Ar. “almost infallible”), agency is attributed to all material objects the Dāʿī touches or owns, such as coconuts, sweets, bottles of water, coins, textiles, or texts, a phenomenon which is not unheard of among other devotional communities in South Asia. It is thus in this context that we should look at the writing practices of the khizāna, and from this perspective the relationship between script, sacred materiality, efficacy, and social usage is best explored.
From scribbles and personal notes to the most majestic codices, all forms of writing are copied manually in the khizāna by the Dāʿī and his closest male and sometimes female relatives, who have been initiated into the ancient Bohra scribal tradition from an early age. As I experienced through participant observation as a scribe, the copying practices of the khizāna are highly ritualized and require scribal and scriptural etiquette35 as well as the attainment of a state of spiritual and bodily purity, as the aim of copying is not only re-producing the text but also embodying its esoteric truths.
2 Sensing the Khizāna in Situ
In this section we will walk through the khizāna and its different writing forms and formats, including secret codices that legitimize and paratexts that safeguard and curse, evanescent scrolls that initiate and hold together the Alawi Bohra universe, but also have the power to divide it, personal notebooks and manuscript leaves that aid the Dāʿī in his task of serving the community as the living khizāna during his sermons, talismanic seals that heal, and sacred book hands that bless and protect. In each case I will discuss the materiality and codicological format of the manuscript, the occasion, or how and when the manuscript is revealed or circulates outside the khizāna, the sensorial experience of those who encounter and interact with it, and finally, the efficacy as experienced by the believers.
Through photographs and descriptions, I have tried to illustrate the phenomenon of ritual manuscript efficacy by reconstructing the social embeddedness of these forms of writing in the community by observing social practice and analyzing the codicological features of the manuscripts. Given the importance of the emic perspective of the community, I have used the codicological terminology of the Bohras as much as possible in these descriptions.
2.1 Seeing Secret Codices
The khizānat al-kutub derives its name from its primary function of enshrining kutub (s. kitāb) or “books,” which are also referred to by the clerics as makhṭūṭāt, or “manuscripts.” Remaining faithful to the practices and terminology of the community, I have chosen the verb “enshrining” rather than “storing,” as the Alawi Bohra khizāna should be seen as a treasury of books, rather than as a “library” or “archive” in the modern, secular sense.36 What may be confusing to the outsider is that what constitutes a “manuscript” in the khizāna is rather fluid. For instance, as part of this collection, there are historic documents from the Fatimid and post-Fatimid periods which have been preserved in codex form and are read and stored as such.37 There are also plenty of examples, however, where manuscripts, such as historiographic works or fiqh (jurisprudence) compendia, have turned into documents through their rich paratextual features. These paratextual traditions, as we will see, are by no means random notes or scribbles. Instead, they form intricate systems of notes which are linked to the genres of these texts, yet at the same time they have their own social life in the khizāna and can therefore be seen as self-contained micro-repositories within manuscripts. The codicological format of texts and their content can thus, in some cases, be deceiving.
To the Alawi Bohras, however, all forms of handwritten texts copied by the Dāʿī are considered manuscripts, including “manuscript of a scroll,” or a “manuscript of a kitāb,” a categorization which can best be understood through the sacred materiality attributed to them. As noted, due to their esoteric content, khizāna manuscripts are considered secret, which translates to strict conditions of access. Only the Dāʿī and his confidants are authorized to touch, consult, read, and copy them. Some manuscripts, however, are considered more secret than others, depending on whether they belong to the genre of bāṭinī (esoteric) or ẓāhirī (exoteric) knowledge. In Alawi Bohra manuscript culture, paratexts play an important role in making them less accessible, through secret scripts, alphabets, and protective spells.38 As we will see, the social life of these paratexts also transcends the codex into ritual practice. In addition to paratexts, the codicological format of the codex also contributes to the inaccessibility of Alawi Bohra manuscripts; its binding, often held together with a lisān (envelope) flap, cotton string, or enveloped in a cotton pouch, keeps the esoteric content of the manuscript hermetically closed, even if it is casually lying around in the khizāna (see fig. 13.1).
All khizāna manuscripts and documents are stored in traditional iron cupboards and stacked horizontally on top of each other (see fig. 13.2). These utilitarian cupboards have no locks and keys, and they are thus technically speaking open to whomever is able to enter the khizāna. It is the rituals and etiquette of the community that function as the invisible but crucial lock and keys that are part of a Bohra habitus or code of conduct in the mohallah.39
Yet despite these ritual locks and keys which guarantee non-access, believers encounter the esoteric manuscripts of the khizāna, as the following pictures illustrate. In the first picture (fig. 13.3), the Dāʿī, seated to the right, is seen during his audience receiving believers in his office, which is the same room as the khizāna. As we will see below, this particular spatial arrangement is significant. Among several printed books and reference works, a manuscript copy in the form of a codex is casually lying around in the foreground, despite its status of being a secret text. While cataloguing manuscripts in the khizāna, I observed that the manuscripts the Dāʿī would be working with prior to his office hours would, regardless of their secret content, not return to their iron cupboards. Instead, they would be casually placed on one of the small stands next to the Dāʿī’s cushion or stacked on piles on the floor.
What we witness here is the phenomenon of secret manuscripts having a social life, which I explain in my Neo-Fatimid Treasury of Books as follows:
When believers would visit “the centre,” they are thus made aware indirectly of the khizāna’s manuscript collection. They would see the manuscripts yet have no access to their content. Even though batini manuscripts would often be lying on the floor within arm’s reach, believers would never touch them. After all, it was not their place in the daʿwa to do so. Yet the act of witnessing what is available yet not accessible is crucial. After all, the idea of something secret and undisclosed only functions if people know about it and witness it (…) In other words, I believe the community needs to see their clerics use these secret objects right in front of them, to see that batini manuscripts indeed do exist, to see what they cannot access, and, more importantly, to actually witness that the Bhai Sahebs, who are responsible for the fate of believers not only in the here and now but also in the afterlife, know and embody the secrets of their esoteric tradition. Through their material presence, it is thus not only the institution of the treasury of books but also its manuscripts that play a crucial role in legitimising power dynamics in the Alawi Bohra universe.40
Figure 13.1
Ibrahim Bhai, the secretary of the khizāna, seen wrapping a cotton thread around a manuscript (top). A stack of codices (bottom left) and cotton envelopes protect the fragile manuscripts (bottom right)
Figure 13.2
The collection of the khizāna documented (right) and in reality (left). These pictures show the enshrining practices of the community. Left: one of the iron cupboards of the khizāna, in which manuscripts and documents are stored. Right: historic khizāna book lists, including Gujarati numerals (below)
Figure 13.3
The Dāʿī (right) during his office hours, receiving believers in the khizāna
In some cases, the manuscripts of the khizāna are opened during private audiences with the Dāʿī. If we return to the picture discussed previously, we see two believers, one kneeling on the ground and one kissing the hand of the Dāʿī. They have requested a talismanic cord for protecting a relative during her pregnancy. The third person in the picture is the Mazoon Saheb’s secretary and accountant Ibrahim Bhai, who acts as the intermediary between the visitors and the Dāʿī. On the right, the Dāʿī can be seen preparing the magic cords, tying knots into which he will blow his sacred rūḥ (breath).41 The cord is to be worn around the belly by the pregnant woman.
Practices of healing and protection, in this case regarding pregnancy, are recorded in the paratexts of the manuscripts of the khizāna and can often be traced in the first flyleaves of codices. The picture below (fig. 13.4) illustrates another manuscript which has been taken out of the cupboards and is witnessed by believers. We see depicted a chart with the planets of the universe, with a description above it in Persian. The chart is consulted to determine pregnancy, including the gender of the baby. During this ritual, the mother-to-be is asked to recite the Fātiḥa (the opening chapter of the Qurʾan) and randomly place her finger on the pie-shaped chart.
This social-codicological example illustrates the close link between ritual practices of talismanic healing and divination and the paratexts found in manuscripts, which the clerics use as manuals while performing the ritual. In this case, too, believers see the manuscript. It is opened, but only the paratexts, written on the first flyleaves of the codex, are revealed. Another example in this regard is the ritual of ʿilm al-fāl, or Qurʾanic divination. In the Alawi Bohra context, believers frequent their Dāʿī to have their “Qurʾanic prediction” pronounced on matters such as marriage, career, or business,42 as can be seen in fig. 13.5 During this popular ritual, the Dāʿī customarily consults the flyleaves of one particular manuscript title which describes the details of how the ritual is performed (fig. 13.6).
Figure 13.4
Paratexts describing the ritual of the planetary pregnancy pie on the right folio, with a description in Persian above.
Figure 13.5
A young couple and the Dāʿī during a session of Qurʾanic divination intended to help them in several of their life decisions.
The social-codicological character of the ritual practices I just described and the efficacy of Bohra manuscripts lie at the intersection between the materiality of the manuscript, ritual practice, power, and access. Believers sense the tension that is inherent to the experience of having access to the physical space of the khizāna while only catching a glimpse of its manuscripts. This tension is the result of what the Dāʿī does with his manuscripts: how he stores them, how and when he takes them out of the cupboards, whom he is granting ritualized access to, and so on. Yet the Dāʿī also explained to me the power his makhṭūṭāt have over him. As the community’s sacred written heritage, the manuscript culture of the khizāna is his responsibility to keep alive. He must also transmit the sacred esoteric truths to ensure the survival of his community while at the same time keeping the esoteric content of the manuscripts undisclosed to those who may misinterpret them. This is no easy task in the humid monsoon climate of Gujarat, itself compounded by climate change.
Figure 13.6
Notes in Arabic found in the flyleaves of a codex on how to perform ʿilm al-fāl, written in blue and red pencil, including the khizāna stamp and reference.
2.2 Touching: Evanescent Scrolls and the Devotional Gaze
An unusual, but certainly not uncommon codicological format in the khizāna is the vertical roll, also known in the community as the sijill.43 In their day-to-day usage, this codicological format is referred to by the Alawi Bohras as “scrolls.” Despite its rather unpractical format, which does not, for instance, allow the reader to easily browse through the text or make the paper writing surface very robust for frequent usage, a substantial collection of historic scrolls is enshrined in the collection of the khizāna. Khizāna scrolls are stored horizontally, stacked on top of each other like codices, and are often held together by a string. All scrolls are handwritten, and they can contain signatures, seals, and secret alphabets. Whereas modern scroll copies are often laminated or kept in special plastic folders in order to avoid wear and tear, the historic scrolls are pasted around cardboard rolls (see figs. 13.7 and 13.8).
According to my observations, the popularity of the scroll in the khizāna can best be explained by the fact that it is the ideal textual format to be used to orate, recite, or reveal something from. Scrolls, as Marina Rustow also ascertains in the context of the Jewish community in Fatimid Cairo, were produced in such a way as to fulfil a public, ceremonial role as instruments of performance with an aura of evanescence.44 This is certainly the case among the Alawi Bohras, as the social-codicological examples below demonstrate. According to the oral history of the community, the scroll, including its codicology, vocabulary, and social usage during ceremonies, is a documentary leftover of the Fatimid period.45
As an object of ritual performance, the scrolls of the khizāna may have their codicological format in common, yet this does not mean that they are all used for the same purpose. In fact, among the scrolls of the khizāna we find a great variety of social uses. The examples range from waqf scrolls of mosques and land, inheritance scrolls, which come in the special format of rollable charts, lists, and inventories of private possessions.
Here I will focus on two types of scrolls from which believers derive efficacy when they are revealed outside the khizāna during communal ceremonies. The first is the ʿahd sijill (scroll of the covenant), which is the main ritual object of the ceremony of the mīthāq. The mīthāq is considered the most important ritual of Alawi Bohra life as it marks the spiritual initiation into the community and its esoteric and exoteric truths.46 During their mīthāq, Bohra children take an oath of allegiance in front of their Dāʿī as a rite of passage into adulthood.
In fig. 13.8 we see an Alawi Bohra girl during her mīthāq, which is taking place in the living room of her parents’ apartment. This picture was taken right after the Dāʿī, who is seated on the right, revealed and carefully unrolled the laminated ʿahd scroll from his handbag. On the couch are the other members of the royal family, including his sons and grandson, while behind the girl the other clerics and community members are sitting on the floor. The scroll, torn due to heavy usage, contains a variant of the ʿahd formula dating back to the Fatimid period, which is read out loud by the Dāʿī. The content of this formula is only known to those who have taken the oath. The oath-receiver, the girl, responds after each sentence with naʿm (Ar.; “yes”) as an oral agreement. As we can see, she is sitting so close to the scroll she can almost touch it. During the ceremony, the girl and the Dāʿī are connected through a golden cloth known as the rakhi, which they both hold in their hands. After the scroll is read out in its entirety, the girl is officially declared a muʾmina (female believer) and part of the community. She is now expected to perform her religious obligations as a marriageable adult.
Figure 13.7
The Dāʿī carefully unrolling one of the oldest scrolls of the khizāna collection
Figure 13.8
Social practice versus codicology. Above: ʿahd ceremony, below: historic exemplars of ʿahd scrolls. Note how the paper of the scrolls is pasted around cardboard rolls to stabilize the object.
Two elements are important in this rite of passage. First, the main sacred object is a manuscript from the khizāna in the form of a scroll, manually copied by the sacred hand of the Dāʿī. Without the material presence of the scroll, the ceremony cannot take place. Secondly, during this communal affair, the Dāʿī and the oath taker are connected sensorially through touch (through the golden cloth), orally (through the formula of the ʿahd recited from the manuscript), and visually (through the material presence of the scroll). This sensorial connectedness between the person taking and the person administering the oath creates a close physical and spiritual proximity between the Dāʿī and his devotee, a brief liminal moment which believers only experience once in their lives.
The second type of sijill is a secret scroll which is taken out of the khizāna only once a year during as the ʿurs or death anniversaries of certain important Dāʿīs. Throughout the centuries, the different Bohra communities have recorded the divine designation of the succession of their Dāʿīs in so-called naṣṣ (divine designation) scrolls. As such, they are political documents that legitimize power, and they are therefore considered highly secret objects, as they form the community’s material proof of their genealogy of Dāʿīs, as opposed to their sister Bohra communities, who follow different pedigrees of royal sacerdotal families.47
In fig. 13.9 we see a snapshot taken during the Alawis’ annual ʿurs to the city of Ahmedabad to pay respect to the sacred lineage of their Dāʿīs. Taken from afar, we see the men of the community in the musāfir khāna (pilgrim lodge) seated on the floor while listening attentively to the sermon of their Dāʿī. In the following picture (fig. 13.10), the Dāʿī shows his constituents a framed copy of a fragment of a naṣṣ scroll. As a controversial text, this particular scroll is partly written in kitāb sirriyya (see fig. 13.10), or secret script, which conceals the identity of the founder and namesake of the community, Sy. ʿAlī Shamsuddīn (d. 1637).48 The secret object in question could thus not be deciphered or understood by the audience.
Figure 13.9
Above: picture taken from afar in the musāfir khāna (pilgrim lodge) in Ahmedabad before the Dāʿī reveals a naṣṣ scroll to a crowd of believers. Below: The Dāʿī reveals a framed copy of a fragment of a naṣṣ scroll during the ʿurs ceremony in Ahmedabad, Gujarat, while believers take pictures with their smartphones.
As I sat in the back of the musāfir khāna and observed, I realized that while the experience of witnessing a manuscript as a sacred object may be different from reading it, it can be just as powerful. As we know from other contexts, merely gazing at a sacred text that has strong healing powers attributed to it, such as the Qaṣīdat al-Burda by the thirteenth-century poet al-Būṣīrī, can have restorative and cathartic effects on believers.49 There was thus no need for the Dāʿī, who introduced the manuscript with much passion and excitement, to read out the document. While I was present during what could best be described as a choreographed performance of revealing the naṣṣ scroll, I observed the reaction of the crowd. Believers responded in awe and spontaneously started to pray and loudly exclaim yā Ḥussayn, while others took pictures with their smartphones to document this unique experience (see fig. 13.10).
The effect that this object has on the audience stems not only from seeing a historic document written in an esoteric script, which would be a once in a lifetime experience in and of itself for most believers. To the community, this particular naṣṣ scroll forms the material proof of the divinely designated legitimacy of the line of succession of the founder of the Alawi community.50 As such, in the eyes of the believers who witness this document collectively in the ritualized setting of the ʿurs, it has the political agency, to refer to Jane Bennet, of holding together both the Alawi Bohra community and the cosmic universe at large.51
Having participated in several mīthāq ceremonies as well as in the ʿurs in Ahmedabad, however, I observed that there is more to the experience of witnessing secret manuscripts collectively than legitimizing power and strengthening communal cohesion. As objects that initiate and create a sense of togetherness, these secret scrolls provide believers with the sensory experience of witnessing or gazing at something that is not only secret, but more importantly, divine and sacred.
In discussing the practice of the devotional gaze in Muslim contexts and the concept of naẓar (lit. “vision”), Stephen Hirtenstein describes that, in the Sufi tradition, it is the act of “looking or observing with the outer senses rather than devotional practices such as prayer or reading that is seen as the first step of a pious life, before reflecting with the mind on what has been observed”.52 In the context of Hinduism as well as twelver Shiʿism in South Asia, Karen Ruffle argues that the devotional act of seeing is, in fact, a unique inter-sensorial mode of experiencing the divine. In what she calls “reciprocal gazing” at sacred artefacts, the tactile and visual senses are intertwined in such a way that seeing equals touching.53 She uses the example of the ʿalam (standard used for processions) as a powerful material symbol of the Imams and the ahl al-bayt.54 Among South Asian twelver Shiʿa, she argues, as sacred objects, the calligraphic inscriptions on the ʿalams become the embodiment of the Imams and their baraka bodies. The ʿalams thus have Imamic body parts, such as a heart, eyes, head, and feet, which devotees “touch” and experience physically by fixing their gaze on them.55
Figure 13.10
Above: a paratextual note found on the first flyleaf of an Alawi Bohra manuscript in kitāb sirriyya (not originating from the naṣṣ document, as this cannot be revealed). Below: believers responding in awe and prayer.
The ʿalam, which is taken out of its storage once a year during the procession of Muḥarram, may not be part of the ritual repertoire of the Alawi Bohras, yet the secret scrolls and other manuscripts that are taken out of the khizāna fulfil a similar purpose. Gazing at secret scrolls during the ceremonies described above are in fact inter-sensorial modes of experiencing and indirectly “touching” the Fatimid Imams, the ahl al-bayt, and the Prophet Muhammad. In other words, gazing at sacred manuscripts should be seen as a pious practice through which believers seek physical and spiritual closeness to the divine.
2.3 Hearing: Maljis Notes
Various forms of single-leaf manuscripts are enshrined in the khizāna, including the awrāq (s. waraq). The awrāq are the personal notes of the Dāʿī, which function as reading and recitation aides during the majlis and other communal events. The khizāna enshrines a large collection of these clerical notes, some of which are centuries old and have been written by various generations of Dāʿīs. They are hand-copied onto single-leaf writing surfaces, which makes them easy to transport, read from, and carry by their owners. Moreover, they are easy to store in the khizāna; either in plastic Ziplock bags or paper boxes (see fig. 13.11). The Dāʿī carries his notes in a simple plastic shopping bag, or, in the case of more fragile fragments, a special handbag which accompanies him on his travels.
Figure 13.11
The Dāʿī copying, storing, and reading his awrāq in the treasury of books. The clerics use the historic collection of awrāq for inspiration and as reference for their sermons.
The topic of studying clerical notes, such as for example those made by Central Asian muftis in jung-type notebooks, is slowly gaining momentum in the field of Islamic manuscript studies.56 Clerical notes are a fertile topic of research as they reveal a vast world of information which one usually would not have access to, shedding light on the work routines and personal lives of imams, judges, and muftis. The collection of personal awrāq of the Dāʿī can be considered a small archive of historic and contemporary personal notes within the khizāna. In terms of their social usage, the awrāq can be considered the material object in between the esoteric manuscripts of the khizāna and the sermon believers hear in the mosque. They contain small portions of carefully selected esoteric knowledge that is digestible to the audience. The Dāʿī explained that this practice is like “lifting the small corner of the veil.”57 While he recites these small portions, such as in fig. 13.12, believers experience the esoteric truths not by seeing awrāq but orally through the skilful recitation of the Dāʿī and his entourage. In the Bohra tradition, this is considered the preferable way to receive this knowledge, as it moves slowly through the ear and into the chest, where it finally reaches the heart.
2.4 Ingesting: Talismanic Seals and Sacred Book Hands
The final social-codicological phenomenon in the khizāna to be discussed is that of talismanic writing practices. In its most classical form, this practice takes the shape of in the popular material object of the taʿwīdh or talisman, written by the Dāʿī during an official audience. As seen in fig. 13.13, believers, often accompanied by relatives, enter the khizāna and pay their respects to the Dāʿī by kneeling in front of him or kissing his hand, after which they discuss their personal problems or ailments. The Dāʿī can be seen copying Qurʾanic verses or magical budūḥ squares in Arabic on a small, single-folio piece of paper for healing and blessings, which the recipient, depending on the malady at hand, either ingests through dissolving the object in water or keeps close to the body as an amulet. In addition to the magical budūḥ squares, taʿwīdh often contain Qurʾanic verses, duʿāʾs, and secret scripts (see next section).
Figure 13.12
Recitation from the handwritten awrāq during the ʿurs of several Dāʿīs at the Qabaristān (graveyard) (above), and during the oration of the story of Karbala during Muḥarram in the mosque (below), both in Baroda
Believers experience the vibrations of these pieces of text, paired with the sacred qualities of the book hand of the Dāʿī and the baraka, either through taste and smell in case of ingestion, or directly on the body.58 The vibrations of this baraka are believed to bless whatever matter it comes into contact with, including humans, animals, and objects, which become animate. In the Alawi Bohra mohallah, the taʿwīdh functions as a popular material, and even as an immaterial commodity in the community, as the visitor pays a small fee for this transaction. In other, larger Bohra communities, an entire economy exists based on these commodities and services. I was told that in these communities, upon death, it is customary that the Dāʿī writes a small note with a duʿāʾ for the deceased believer, which accompanies the body in the grave and helps the believer in their transition to the afterlife.59
Figure 13.13
Left: The Dāʿī is writing a taʿwīdh for a believer during an audience in his office in the treasury of books. Right: boxes storing the various kinds of taʿwīdh in his office in Arabic, Gujarati, and Lisān al-daʿwa, the sociolect of the community
In addition to handwritten books, paratexts, and script dissolved in water, agency is also attributed to another handwritten talismanic commodity in the community: the ʿalāma.60 The ʿalāma, or royal signature of the Dāʿī, consists of his personal calligraphed basmala, and it is ceremoniously written as a seal of authorization on pieces of paper (to be kept as a talisman), wooden planks (to be stored at home in a place of pride), or even on walls of buildings upon their inauguration.61 Having visited many Bohra houses during my fieldwork, I can confirm that the ʿalāma, often paired with a portrait of the Dāʿī, is a common sacred object in many living rooms. According to their owners, the ʿalāma blesses the home and emits instant baraka when it is looked at.
Another ritual in which the writing of the ʿalāma plays a central role is known as rasm-e Tayyibi, which traditionally takes place during Diwali, the Hindu new year. It is customary in the Alawi Bohra community that, during this time of the year, its businessmen and shopkeepers buy new account books to start the new fiscal year. As can be seen in fig. 13.14, the Dāʿī writes his ʿalāma with a fountain pen on the first page of these account books to bestow blessings and prosperity on the business. I was told that, occasionally, these ʿalāmas are cut out from the account books, and even from khizāna manuscripts, and are clandestinely sold for hundreds of rupees on “the black market.” Despite the fact that this practice is strictly prohibited by the clerics, the Dāʿī’s ʿalāma is a highly sought-after commodity in the community.62 As such, these ʿalāmas have thus acquired a new social, almost clandestine life outside the khizāna.
An interesting aspect of these talismanic commodities is that, as material “things” radiating baraka, these object provide the believers with the rare tangible experience of touching (in the literal sense) a little bit of the “sacred matter” from the otherwise “untouchable” manuscripts of the khizāna. This explains why believers are willing to pay enormous sums to be in the possession of a taʿwīdh or ʿalāma, even if these have been procured through unofficial routes. To understand the meaning of these objects from the perspective of the believers, Karen Ruffle’s earlier-discussed notion of the baraka body in the context of the calligraphic inscriptions on the ʿalams is fitting. This holds true especially in the case of the ʿalāma, which, as an utmost sacred object, is the material symbol of the Dāʿī’s hand and his almost-infallible body.
Figure 13.14
Above: The yearly rasm-e Tayyibi ritual. Below: exemplar of the late Dāʿī’s ʿalāma written in green ink. Photo credits: Alawi Bohra daʿwa.
3 Sensing the Khizāna on the Screen
Nearly a decade has passed since I left Baroda. Badri Mohallah and its people, however, have stayed in my mind. Even though I am no longer physically part of the mohallah, some things remain exactly the same.63
It is five o’clock in the morning, and I am woken up by my phone. Given the odd hour of the message, it can only come from one time zone: India. It is a message, I realize, from the Dāʿī. Despite his royal title and busy schedule as the spiritual head of the community and its cosmic hierarchy, we have kept in touch over the years. As two bibliophiles, the Dāʿī and I occasionally continue our manuscript sessions over WhatsApp.
The Dāʿī, or “Syedna Saheb,” as I call him, regularly sends me snapshots of his latest scribal achievements, new khizāna acquisitions and discoveries, and updates on his family and the affairs of his community. Respecting royal protocol as much as possible, I respond by sending him scans and pictures of Arabic manuscripts and the latest publications on codicology. Through our WhatsApp history, we have thus curated a digital, yet very personal khizānat al-kutub.64
Yet as fascinating as the Yemeni book hands and magical squares are that come my way, between our screens there is “something” that gets lost. Being far removed from the khizāna, I miss the sounds of the creaking spines of codices, the smell of dusty scrolls and the touch of leather bindings. The “something,” I realized, that gets lost in our brief digital interactions is the tangible materiality of objects. Scrolling through a photograph of a handwritten talisman may still have healing benefits to those who ascribe agency and efficacy to it, yet the practice of having it in hand, dissolving and tasting its ink and ingesting it creates a different reality altogether.
On this early morning in April, I receive a special written text from the khizāna in the inbox. Rather than the usual leaf from a codex, it is a taʿwīdh, handwritten in Arabic by the Dāʿī himself (see figs. 13.15 and 13.17). The taʿwīdh has been written for the special purpose of protection against the new threat the world is facing: the coronavirus. We are in the middle of the second wave of the COVID-19 pandemic. The community, I learn, is in lockdown, and is forced to carry on its many functions and gatherings of worship online (see fig. 13.16).65
Many believers, I am informed, have fallen ill, including the Dāʿī himself. The taʿwīdh has been forwarded via WhatsApp to the entire community, and it is accompanied with a text in Gujarati which explains how to use it. It reads:
Saiyedna Saheb Huzoor e Aali Haatim Zakiyudin Saheb (the full title of the Dāʿī) writes this special taʿweez for the faithful of Alawi community, for the muʾmineen (believers), against the fatal disease of the corona virus. Mumineen will remain in safety due to this special taʾweez.
Muʾmineen are requested to take a printout of this taʾweez and to stick it behind the main door of their houses at the top, and, if not possible, muʾmineen are advised to put the printout of this taʾweez in their wallet, bag, or purse. If they are ladies then they should carry it with them and always, inshallah they will be protected from the infection of the corona virus.66
Figure 13.15
WhatsApp correspondence with the Dāʿī, who has forwarded me a picture of a handwritten taʿwīdh, accompanied with an explanation in Gujarati written in Latin script
Figure 13.16
News article clipping on the Alawi Bohras’ virtual worship. Source: Times of India online.67
The brother of the Dāʿī explained to me that this digital taʿwīdh was sent via WhatsApp because it was not possible to deliver it to the houses of the community due to the lockdown that was imposed by the Indian government. He also said that he advised believers to make multiple copies of the printout. The WhatsApp taʿwīdh consists of two duʿāʾs in Arabic, known as duʿāʾ al-karb (The Duʿāʾ of Difficulty) and duʿāʾ al-kashf (the duʿāʾ of the unveiling of what is hidden).
The first taʿwīdh starts with two basmalas, one written in Arabic and one coded in kitāb siriyya (secret script). It ends with two magical squares, the right one containing Sūrat al-Falaq (no. 113, Chapter of Dawn) and the left one containing the basmala, which can be read in different directions. Beneath the left magical square another protective formula is written in kitāb siriyya. All four corners of the taʿwīdh contain a protective invocation, written clockwise starting with the right upper corner, reading the yā shāfī (o healer), yā wāfī (o reliable one), yā muʿāfī (o restorer), and yā kāfī (o sufficient one), which are popular phrases of divine supplication. These invocations are written in a different colour of ink to make them stand out from the main text.
Shortly after our WhatsApp exchange, the taʿwīdh is uploaded on the official Alawi Bohra website under a link titled A Valuable Treasure of Taʿweez to ward off Sharr & Wabaa (Evil & Calamities). The section is accompanied by a transliteration and translation of the Arabic text of the duʿāʾ as well as a detailed interpretation.68 It furthermore mentions that the Dāʿī has “prescribed this Mujarrab (effective) Taʾweez to seek grace and blessings from Allaah in this most scary times of sickness and viral disease caused by Corona Virus (Covid-19) worldwide.”69 The sensorial experience of the personal audience with the Dāʿī and watching him write the taʿwīdh is substituted by an audio fragment where the duʿāʾ is recited in a clear and pious voice.70
Figure 13.17
Two COVID taʿwīdh of duʿāʾ al-karb (the Duʿāʾ of Difficulty) and duʿāʾ al-kashf (the Duʿāʾ of the Unveiling).
Not long after receiving the COVID taʿwīdh, another written text arrives from the khizāna into my inbox. It is a snapshot of a qaṣīda (poem) couplet in Arabic, written in 1664 in Ahmedabad by the Dāʿī Sy. Ḥasan Badruddīn b. Walī (d. 1679). I am soon to find out that a photo of this “mubaarak writing” (blessed writing) has been uploaded to the official community website as its main banner (see fig. 13.18).71 In addition to its content, which asks God to keep the community protected in times of hardship, it is the handwritten word of one of the community’s late spiritual leaders, the thirty-seventh Dāʿī Sy. Alī Shamsuddīn (d. 1248/1832), who copied it in his khizāna two centuries after its composition.
Figure 13.18
Banner of the official website of the daʿwat al-ʿAlawiyya, with translation.72
The sacred materiality and healing qualities that are attributed to it give this manuscript fragment an aura of evanescence and authority. The digital snapshot of the Alawi qaṣīda also reminds us of the famous example of the Qaṣīdat al-Burda I discussed earlier and the thaumaturgic effects believers derive from merely gazing at the calligraphic text. Though now presented in digital form online, it is the sacred materiality of the text, the tangibility of the object, which believers know is stored in the treasury of books in their mohallah, that imparts strength and protection.
4 Conclusion: Talismanic Manuscript Efficacy in the Digital Age?
In this essay we explored social-codicological practices beyond reading and the ritualized efficacy of Bohra manuscripts. The above-described digital talismanic artefacts seem to challenge the paradigm of the closed khizāna and its sacred, untouchable manuscripts, which, as tangible material objects, only circulate outside the khizāna in ritually controlled and performed settings and ceremonies. It is through these carefully choreographed spaces, I have argued, that believers interact with the esoteric truths of the khizāna through the devotional gaze, touch, hearing, and even smell and taste, and rely on their efficacy in their day-to-day lives. The social-codicological character of these ritual practices and the efficacy of Bohra manuscripts lie at the intersection between the particular materiality of the manuscript, ritual practice, power, and the politics of access.
The question remains whether destabilizing global developments beyond the mohallah, such the COVID-19 pandemic have made it possible for secret manuscripts to be efficacious in a digital and thus immaterial form, operating outside the ritualized space that is culturally, historically, and materially so specific to the Alawi Bohras. Is Bohra manuscript efficacy and secrecy compatible with the digital age, and what are the implications of the digital age for the closed khizāna culture of the Alawis? The examples of the digital COVID taʿwīdh and the protective website banner as digital talismanic artifacts seem to indicate that the two are indeed compatible, as the book hand of the Dāʿī, as well as the invocations of protection and healing of the duʿāʾs and the qaṣīda, continue to be effective in radiating their protective baraka, even if it is from the screen or a printout.
In the case of the digital qaṣīda banner, the practice of devotional screen gazing can be considered as seeing as touching the divine. As such, the qaṣīda banner can be regarded as an immaterial digital artefact. In the case of the printed taʿwīdh, the screen acts merely as a medium that transmits the digital handwritten artefact to its tangible, printed form. Yet, as we have seen, a simultaneous digital, sensorial experience is created as the recitation of the duʿāʾs on the taʿwīdh are also available online. They can thus be listened to online, obviating the need for believers to experience their protective vibrations in the mosque or the jāmaʿat khāna.
For the Alawi community and their Dāʿī, the circulation of digital talismanic artifacts via WhatsApp has been instrumental in cultivating social cohesion during the lockdown and providing and receiving blessings and healing. Whether the thaumaturgic powers of these digital manuscripts are as effective as in situ is a question that awaits further research.
Unlike other Shiʿi communities in South Asia and the Middle East who have continued their virtual worship online, post-pandemic, the Alawi Bohras have returned to their devotional practices in situ. The secret manuscripts of the khizāna have reclaimed their place in ritual practice. Thus far, the bāṭinī codices and scrolls have managed to stay off the screen. As they continue to dwell in their iron cupboards with no locks and keys, their social meaning and efficacy remain unchanged.
Sections of this contribution were discussed during a paper titled Sensing Secret Manuscripts: Bohra Sacred Manuscript Rituals in the Digital Age, presented during a workshop titled “Practices of Devotion to the Ahl-e Bait at Home and in Diaspora: Materiality, Ritual, and the Digital Senses” in Paris in 2023, organized by the École des hautes études en sciences sociales and Toronto University. All pictures are taken by the author unless stated otherwise. Pictures and conversations are published with the permission of the Alawi Bohra community. Names and terms are transliterated in Arabic. I would like to thank Karen Ruffle and her Sensing Shiʾism working group members for our inspiring sessions in Exeter and the discussions that followed.
The official name of the city is “Vadodara.” The Alawi Bohras, however, prefer its colonial name of “Baroda.”
For a discussion on ethics, access, and secrecy, see Olly Akkerman, A Neo-Fatimid Treasury of Books. Arabic Manuscripts among the Alawi Bohras of Baroda (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2021), 21–44, 102–105.
On this gap, see also Annette Hornbacher, “Introduction—Balinese Practices of Script and Western Paradigms of Text: An Anthropological Approach to a Philological Topic,” in The Materiality and Efficacy of Balinese Letters. Situating Scriptural Practices, eds. Annette Hornbacher and Richard Fox (Leiden: Brill, 2016), 1. See also Richard Fox, “Substantial Transmissions: A Presuppositional Analysis of ‘The Old Javanese Text’ as an Object of Knowledge, and Its Implications for the Study of Religion in Bali,” Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Land- en Volkenkunde, 159 (1) 2003: 65–107, and: “Plus ça change … Recent Developments in Old Javanese Studies and Their Implications for the Study of Religion in Contemporary Bali,” Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Land- en Volkenkunde 161(1) 2005: 63–97.
For a discussion on the notion of a writing cultures that are “alive,” see Richard Fox, “The Meaning of Life, or How to Do Things with Letters,” in The Materiality and Efficacy of Balinese Letters. Situating Scriptural Practices, eds. Richard Fox and Annette Hornbacher (Leiden: Brill, 2016), 23–50.
Akkerman, A Neo-Fatimid Treasury of Books, 3–6.
Ignaty Y. Kratchkovsky, Among Arabic Manuscripts: Memories of Libraries and Men (Leiden: Brill, 1953), 9–10.
Petra Sijpesteijn and Marcela Probert, eds., Amulets and Talismans of the Middle East and North Africa in Context. Transmission, Efficacy and Collections (Leiden: Brill, 2022); Michael Kohs and Sabine Kienitz, eds., Agency: How Manuscripts Affect and Create Social Realities (Hamburg: Centre for the Study of Manuscript Cultures, 2023); Richard Fox, More than Words. Transforming Script, Agency, and Collective Life in Bali (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2018); Fox and Hornbacher, eds., Materiality and Efficacy of Balinese Letters. For a comparative perspective, see Antonella Brita et al., Manuscripts and Performances in Religions, Arts, and Sciences (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2024).
Akkerman, Neo-Fatimid Treasury of Books, 250, 251.
Akkerman, Neo-Fatimid Treasury of Books, 42.
See for thick descriptions of these experiences Akkerman, Neo-Fatimid Treasury of Books, for example 249–251.
Akkerman, Neo-Fatimid Treasury of Books, 210.
Akkerman, Neo-Fatimid Treasury of Books, 210.
This position was not without its challenges. See A Neo-Fatimid Treasury of Books, 202–208. Johannes Fabian, Time and the Other. How Anthropology Makes Its Object (New York: Columbia, 1983).
François Déroche and Carine Juvin argue for the importance of the portability of inscribed objects, which, as they write “makes the object eminently linked to social practices and favours its insertion into transcultural phenomena.” François Déroche and Carine Juvin, “Introduction,” Special issue From Visual Power to Private Stories: Inscribed Objects from the Medieval Arab World Journal of Material Cultures in the Muslim World, vol. 4 (2023), 1–2.
Akkerman, Neo-Fatimid Treasury of Books, 211.
See “Alavi Bohras,”
See also Martin Brückner, “The Place of Objects and Things in the Age of Materiality,” in Open Cultural Studies (2019) 3: 495.
Brückner, “The Place of Objects and Things in the Age of Materiality,” 496.
Jane Bennet, Vibrant Matter. A Political Ecology of Things (Durham: Duke University Press, 2020).
Kohs and Kienitz, Agency: How Manuscripts Affect and Create Social Realities, 3–4.
I would like to thank Anwar Peera Haneefa for his insights on this matter.
Daniel Miller, “Materiality: An Introduction,” in Materiality: An Introduction, ed. Daniel Miller (Durham: Duke University Press, 2005), 29.
Arjun Appadurai, “Introduction. Commodities and the Politics of Value,” in The Social Life of Things: Commodities in Cultural Perspective (Cambridge: University of Cambridge Press, 1986), 3–63; Igor Kopytoff, “The Cultural Biography of Things: Commoditization as Process,” in The Social Life of Things: Commodities in Cultural Perspective, ed. Arjun Appadurai (Cambridge: University of Cambridge Press, 1986), 64–92.
Towards the end of the Social Codicology workshop in Rabat, I provocatively suggested that there are no coincidences in codicology. Instead of making generalizing claims about codicology of a philosophical nature, with this statement I intended to start a discussion on the multiple ways in which the materiality of handwritten texts is linked to their specific social usages. The aim of this discussion was to link the inquiry of what people do with their books, with the question why their books look the way they do.
See, for instance, Adina Hoffman and Peter Cole, Sacred Trash: The Lost and Found World of the Cairo Geniza (New York: Schocken, 2011).
Akkerman, Neo-Fatimid Treasury of Books, 289–290.
Miller, “Materiality: An Introduction,” 4.
For an in-depth discussion on the materiality of the sacred, see Birgit Meyer, “Introduction. Material Religion—How Things Matter,” in Things: Religion and the Question of Materiality, eds. Dick Houtman and Birgit Meyer (New York: Fordham University Press, 2012), 1–23.
Albert Henrichs, “Hieroi Logoi and Hierai Bibloi: The (Un)Written Margins of the Sacred in Ancient Greece,” Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 101 (2003): 207–266.
Hornbacher, “Introduction—Balinese Practices of Script and Western Paradigms of Text: An Anthropological Approach to a Philological Topic,” 3, 10.
Hornbacher, “Introduction,” 5.
Hornbacher, “Introduction,” 17.
Hornbacher, “Introduction,” 18.
See Akkerman, Neo-Fatimid Treasury of Books, 300–328.
For a more detailed discussion on “Neither library nor archive,” see Akkerman, Neo-Fatimid Treasury of Books, 105–118.
See Olly Akkerman, “The Bohras as Neo-Fāṭimids: Documentary Remains of a Fāṭimid Past in Gujarat,” in Journal of Material Cultures in the Muslim World 1 (2020): 286–308.
Olly Akkerman, “The Bohra Manuscript Treasury as a Sacred Site of Philology: A Study in Social Codicology,” in Philological Encounters 4 (2019): 1–21.
Akkerman, Neo-Fatimid Treasury of Books, 188, 189.
Akkerman, Neo-Fatimid Treasury of Books, 111–112.
For a more detailed description of this practice, see Akkerman, Neo-Fatimid Treasury of Books, 118–119.
Akkerman, Neo-Fatimid Treasury of Books, 291.
For a discussion on the possible Fatimid origins of the Bohras’ usage of the term sijill, see Akkerman, “Bohras as Neo-Fāṭimids,” 286–308.
Marina Rustow, The Lost Archive. Traces of a Caliphate in a Cairo Synagogue (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2020), 381–401.
Based on palaeographical and codicological analysis, I have confirmed this claim here: Akkerman, “Bohras as Neo-Fāṭimids,” 286–308.
Akkerman, Neo-Fatimid Treasury of Books, 148.
For a more elaborate description of the concept of what I call the materiality of naṣṣ, see Akkerman, Neo-Fatimid Treasury of Books, 74–81.
Akkerman, Neo-Fatimid Treasury of Books, 74–81.
See, for instance, Suzanne Pinckney Stetkevych, “ “From Text to Talisman: Al-Būṣīrī’s Qaṣīdat al-Burdah” (Mantle Ode) and the Supplicatory Ode,” Journal of Arabic Literature vol. 37, no. 2 (2006), 145–189; Suzanne Pinckney Stetkevych, Burda. The Mantle Odes. Arabic Praise Poems to the Prophet Muhammad (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2010).
Akkerman, Neo-Fatimid Treasury of Books, 74–81.
Jane Bennet, Vibrant Matter, 32.
Stephen Hirtenstein, “Human Looking, Divine Gaze: Naẓar in Islamic Spirituality,” in Naẓar: Vision, Belief, and Perception in Islamic Culture, ed. Samer Akkach (Leiden: Brill, 2022), 63.
Karen Ruffle, “Gazing in the Eyes of the Martyrs: Four Theories of South Asian Shiʿi Visuality,” Journal of Material Cultures in the Muslim World 1 (2020), 272. Karen Ruffle, Everyday Shiism in South Asia (New Jersey: Wiley & Sons, 2021), 175, 176. See also the forthcoming volume edited by Yafa Shanneik, Fouad Gehad Marei and Christian Funke, Beyond Karbala: New Approaches to Shiʿi Materiality (Leiden: Brill, forthcoming 2024).
Ruffle, Everyday Shiism in South Asia, 175, 176.
Ruffle, Everyday Shiism in South Asia, 175, 176.
Jürgen Paul, “Mufti Notebooks: Two ǧung Manuscripts from Late Nineteenth-Century Bukharamore,” in Personal Manuscripts: Copying, Drafting, Taking Notes, ed. David Durand-Guédy and Jürgen Paul (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2023), 359–394. See also Verena Klemm, “A Library in One Volume—The Collectanea of the Ismaili Scholar Sayyidī Muḥammad ʿAlī al-Hamdānī from Surat,” Philological Encounters, forthcoming.
Akkerman, Neo-Fatimid Treasury of Books, 111.
For similar practices, see Hanna Nieber, “ ‘They all just want to get healthy!’ Drinking the Qurʾan between forming religious and medical subjectivities in Zanzibar,” Journal of Material Culture 22(4) 2017, 453–475.
Interview with Dawoodi Bohras in Mombasa, Kenya, August 2022.
For a discussion on the possible Fatimid origins of the Bohras’ usage of the term ʿalāma, see Akkerman, “Bohras as Neo-Fāṭimids.”
Akkerman, “Bohras as Neo-Fāṭimids.”
Akkerman, Neo-Fatimid Treasury of Books, 114.
The following section is an abridged and modified version of two texts titled, “A Jihad for Books” and “A Case for Social Codicology,” from my monograph A Neo-Fatimid Treasury of Books. Akkerman, Neo-Fatimid Treasury of Books, 345, 346, 350, 351.
The exchange of manuscripts over WhatsApp and other social media, a phenomenon that Annabel Teh Gallop calls “Facebook Philology,” raises ethical debates on digital materiality, ownership, and access. See Annabel Teh Gallop, “Facebook Philology: The Contribution of Social Media to the Study of Manuscripts from Indonesia and the Malay World,” Simposium Internasional Pernaskahan Nusantara XVI MANASSA, Perpustakaan Nasional RI, Jakarta 26–29 September 2016, 1–12.
For exciting new research on Shiʿi digital worship during the COVID-19 pandemic, see Rhys Thomas Sparey, “#IAMHUSSEINI: Television and Mourning During the COVID-19 Pandemic,” Religion (2022), 284–305; Aleeha Zahra Ali, “Conjuring Karbala Online and Offline,” Journal of Muslims in Europe 11 1 (2022), 124–145; Babak Rahimi, “Digital Technology and Pilgrimage: Shi‘i Rituals of Arabaʿin in Iraq,” Journal of Religion, Media and Digital Culture, forthcoming.
I thank Mohammad Bhaisaheb Nuruddin Mukasir Saheb for providing me with this translation orally (also via WhatsApp).
Tushar Tere, “Gujarat: Amid Lockdown, Alavi Bohras take to Virtual Worship,” Times of India, April 26, 2020,
Ibid. Emphasis added in bold on the website.
Bibliography
Bennet, Jane. Vibrant Matter. A Political Ecology of Things. Durham: Duke University Press, 2020.
Déroche, François, and Carine Juvin. Special Issue: From Visual Power to Private Stories: Inscribed Objects from the Medieval Arab World. Journal of Material Cultures in the Muslim World, vol. 4 (2023).
Hornbacher, Annette, and Richard Fox. “Introduction–Balinese Practices of Script and Western Paradigms of Text: An Anthropological Approach to a Philological Topic.” In The Materiality and Efficacy of Balinese Letters. Situating Scriptural Practices, edited by Annette Hornbacher and Richard Fox, 1–23. Leiden: Brill, 2016.
Juvin, Carine, and François Déroche. Special Issue: From Visual Power to Private Stories: Inscribed Objects from the Medieval Arab World. Journal of Material Cultures in the Muslim World, vol. 4 (2023).
Stetkevych, Suzanne Pinckney. Burda. The Mantle Odes. Arabic Praise Poems to the Prophet Muhammad. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2010.
Websites
https://www.alavibohra.org/Dua-e-Kashf%20il-Karb.htm. Accessed 8 November 2023.
https://www.alavibohra.org/images/audio/tasbeeh-duaa/kashf%20il%20karb.mp3. Accessed 8 November 2023.