Religious worship is abundantly illustrated in many of its most important aspects by scenes engraved on Sumerian, Babylonian, and Assyrian seal cylinders. Chronologically the seals of this region illustrate nearly every period of the long history of these peoples and the changing rituals and beliefs of their religion. A very large proportion of the seals represent the owner of the seal approaching a deity in the attitude of prayer. This is especially true of the glyptique of Sumer and Akkad, where the proportion of this type of seal to all others is much greater than in Assyria. In the northern empire the Assyrians are not so much attached to the scenes of worship, but even here this motif is well represented. The engravers of cylinders in all periods probably kept in stock seals engraved with the scene of the private prayer as the custom imposed in their periods. The human who is figured standing before a god, or in Assyria more frequently before a divine symbol, is not a portrait of the owner of the seal. The owner regards himself rather as represented and symbolized by the conventional figure. In those cases in which the engraver produced a seal cylinder at the command of a Sumerian or Babylonian, perhaps, we may regard the praying figure as an approximate portrait.

While preparing a descriptive register of the manuscript fragments recovered by Sir Aurel Stein from the sand-buried ruins of Khadalik in the course of his second tour of exploration in Eastern Turkestan, I have recently discovered a portion of the Sanskrit version of the Sutta Nipāta. It is contained in fragments of five consecutive folios. According to Fausböll, in the reasoned statement in the Introduction to his Translation of the Sutta Nipāta (in SBE., vol. x), certain portions of that work, including the Aṭṭhavagga, are “very old”, containing as they do “some remnants of Primitive Buddhism” (loc. cit., p. xi). It is just the Aṭṭhavagga which happens to be preserved in the fragments, and it is this fact which imparts a particular interest to the discovery.

The extraordinary ascendancy of the Saffarid dynasty began with the meteoric career of its founder, Yaʿqūb b. al-Layth al-Saffār. Yaʿqūb appeared on the historical scene in 238/852 as the member of an Eastern Iranian military band, and ended his days as the ruler over a vast swathe of territory stretching from today's ʿIraq to the borders of today's India; while at least theoretical acknowledgement of his overlordship was found both in Central Asia and the holy cities of Arabia.

Arjuna is in many ways the central character of the Mahābhārata, the great Sanskrit epic. By order of birth he is the third among the Pāṇḍavas, the five sons of Pānḍu, who represent the forces of cosmic order. When, after humiliation and exile, the Pānḍ;avas finally triumph, primogeniture prevails, and it is the eldest brother, Yudhisfhira, who takes the throne; but in other respects, Arjuna is usually a more salient figure than his dutiful eldest brother. Thus it is to Arjuna that Krishna addresses his teaching in the Bhagavad Gitā (part of Book 6 of the Epic). Moreover although Pānḍu is pater to the five brothers, each has his own divine genitor, and the genitor of Arjuna is Indra, king of the gods in the classical pantheon. A paper about Arjuna is a paper about a major figure in Hindu tradition.

Debate and controversy have bedevilled the subject of social banditry. The early writing on social banditry saw it as primitive rebellion, as prepolitical and antithetical to class consciousness. Another approach identified it with weak state formation. The literature on South Asia saw social banditry as absent having been eroded by the institutional structure of caste. This article examines and critiques some of these theses on banditry. It argues, firstly, that social banditry can be simultaneous with a phase of intensified state formation. The specific theme investigated here is the interaction of the king, peasant and bandit in an Indian kingdom under late colonialism. A window to this universe is opened up by a folk epic from the oral tradition of a community of Muslims called the Meos. Far from being prepolitical, banditry raises crucial questions with respect to authority and legitimacy. This narrative not only interrogates the legitimacy of kingship, it also challenges the authority of the colonial state. Secondly, the article challenges the argument of South Asian exceptionalism to banditry that is perhaps easier to refute. Thirdly, as this article demonstrates, banditry need not relate to a pre-industrial capitalist world. Our bandit narrative indicates the reverberations of industrialism and attendant exchange relations and institutions in the colony even though it belongs to an area of ‘indirect’ rule.

Pre-modern historians of the Persianate world have primarily been used by modern historians as sources of factual information and rarely to gain insight into the means, methods and world-views of the historians themselves. The 15th C Persian historian Mīrkhwānd is a case in point despite the fact that his extensive discussion on the utility of history lends itself well to an historiographical assessment. While his understanding of the purpose of history may differ in some aspects for the modern discipline, his concerns and application were not as distinctive as we might like to think.

Agarwood (especially 〔 沉 香 〕 Chinese chen xiang / 〔 沈 香 〕 Japanese jinkō), among other subspecies differentiated in East Asian languages, has caught international perfumery attention in conspicuous dimensions in the past years. It belongs to the most sought after perfumery raw materials in the world. The lucrative image of its business makes international businessmen, foreign scientists, perfumers, global industry representatives, as well as locals eager to participate in its international distribution and to improve its artificial mass cultivation and synthetic production. Moreover, efforts transgress mere economic activities in Eastern Asia when perfumery devotees engage in historical research and perfumery experiments, or when they publish on their experiences, as well as when they establish networks with like-minded people.

In this article I propose to examine the position held by the executive officers ofthe Mogul Empire in the light of some new documentary evidence, and from a standpoint different from that occupied by earlier writers on the subject. It is well known that there was no differentiation between civil and military employment: all officers, from the princes of the blood down to what would now be called sergeants and corporals, formed a single State Service, in which each individual had a definite rank or position (manṣab); and ordinarily each of them had to maintain out of his emoluments acontingent of cavalry available for the Emperor's work. Some officers might receive their emoluments in cash, but as a rule payment was made by an assignment of the land-revenue of a specified area (jāgīr), which the recipient made his own arrangements to collect. The questions at issue relate mainly to the remuneration ofofficers and the size and constitution of their contingents.

It is unfortunate that almost all investigators of the origin and development of the Nights have been, more or less, under the spell of that quite modern recension which Zotenberg first identified and called “la redaction égyptienne” (hereafter ZER). In the numerous Egyptian prints derived from the I Būlāq edition (Būlāq, a.h. 1252=a.d. 1835), in the Calcutta edition of the same recension (II Calcutta, a.d. 1839–42), in at least two Beyrout editions (Salhani and Adabīya Press), this recension has attained to the dignity of a Vulgate, and of it most people, even most Arabists, think when they refer to the Arabian Nights. This almost subconscious assumption was the great obscuring element in Lane's mind and with De Goeje in his Britannica article on the Nights. From this point of view it is especially unfortunate that Zotenberg did not publish any further researches; he was evidently on his way to complete freedom of attitude.

Two sannyāsī problems have long troubled me, first, how it was that the early rule, Any educated twice-born man can become a sannyāsī, was supplanted by the rule, Only Brāhmans can enter the order, and secondly, how it came about that, in North India, seven of the ten sub-orders of sannyāsīs became flooded with non-Brāhmans and lost their purity.

Luri is an Indo-Iranian language cluster with over four million speakers. The Luri ethnic area is found in southwestern Iran and southeastern Iraq, although smaller numbers of speakers have emigrated to elsewhere in Asia and a number of cities in the West.

The Hindus, as is well known, possess various ancient systems of philosophy, which, they consider to be orthodox, as consistent with the theology and metaphysics of the Védas; and have likewise preserved divers systems deemed heretical, as incompatible with the doctrines of their holy books.

Eleven years ago I had the honour to read a paper before this Society, entitled “Five Hundred Questions on the Social Condition of the People of India.” That paper has been widely circulated, and has excited some interest on the subject. Since then, I have prosecuted one department of it—Oriental Proverbs in Relation to the Life and History of the People in India.

In Rajasthan, one of the north-western states of India, whoever has heard of the Kāmaḍ (or Kāmaḍiyā) would define them as wandering minstrels or jugglers, singing hymns in praise of Bābā Rāmdeo, a famous saint from Mārwāṛ, whose footprints they worship. Most people could not say much more about this community of religious singers who, since Independence, have been listed among the “scheduled castes”. In any case, everybody seems to be aware of their connection with Rāmdeo, a famous folk deity, also popular in Gujarat and Madhya Pradesh, now venerated by devotees of all castes and creeds, but mostly by Hindus, as an avatār of Vishnu-Krishna.

After over a century and a half of increasingly superfluous translations of the Tao-te ching one might be pardoned for thinking that there was no further need for sinologists to devote attention to this text. Nothing could be further from the truth. The publication in 1974 of two manuscripts from the tomb at Ma-wang-tui dating to the early years of the 2nd century B.C., together with some previously unknown works of the same period, constituted as sensational an advance in our knowledge as could possibly be imagined, short of an autograph copy revealing the identity of Lao-tzu himself. Quite apart from answering (and raising) a host of textual questions, these finds have afforded us a startling glimpse of the significance assigned to the Tao-te ching during the early Han. This in turn has served to remind us that the continuous transmission of the text has involved marked discontinuities in the construction placed upon it, discontinuities which Western sinology has in the past been all too remiss in tracing.

Among the many manuscripts relating to Ch’an Buddhism included in the Tun-huang finds of the early years of this century, the Leng-chia shih-tzu chi has always been regarded by scholars as a discovery of unusual importance, since it presents an unrivalled picture of the early development of this type of Buddhism from the long-obscured viewpoint of the so-called Northern school of Ch’an. The text has been rendered into English lately by J. C. Cleary, but only in a translation intended for a non-scholarly audience. Fortunately, however, the new French-language translation and study by Bernard Faure is everything a scholar could wish for, a worthy product of many years of research, including several spent at the feet of Yanagida Seizan, Japan's outstanding authority on the early historiography of Ch’an. Faure's work, not surprisingly, shows a complete grasp of the complex issues of intellectual history raised by his text, and also provides copious commentary on its author, Ching-chüeh (683–c. 750), and his background.

The siwāk or miswāk (pi. masāwīk) is often mentioned as a symbol for the emphasis given in medieval Islam to dental health. Although not mentioned in the Qur'ān—the prime source of legitimacy in Islam—the siwāk gained popularity through being attributed to the daily practice of the Prophet Muhammad whose advanced understanding of preventive dentistry is lauded as being only part of his general concern with preventive medicine. Even on his death bed the Prophet is said not to have given up the use of the siwāk, since he always ordered Muslims to “purify your mouths for they are the channels through which utterances of praise to God (subḥāna Allāh) travel”. The word siwāk derives from the Arabic root swk, which indicates rubbing for the purpose of cleaning. Hence siwāk or miswāk are the names of the wooden instrument which has been used as a “tooth-stick” (Zahnstocher), or as an early form of the toothbrush, to clean the teeth and deodorize the mouth. The siwak is a wooden stick about 8 inches long and as wide as a finger. The edge is usually chewed so that the fibres separate to become like a brush. In contemporary Islamic ethics, of which the fatāwā literature (legal responsa) is only one example, the siwāk has regained recognition and is often praised as the preferred means for dental care.

Before the invention of printing, when copies of a book were few, it was common to find works falsely attributed to an author. The person of unorthodox opinions, like the PseudoDionysius, assigned his works to someone of unimpeachable reputation in order to avoid censorship or other obstacles to circulation. Or a man might insert heretical material into a rival's book to discredit him. Of al-Ghazali's Maḍnūn (? aṣ-Ṣaghīr), D. B. Macdonald wrote: —

“Of course it is quite possible and in accordance with the rules of Muslim polemic that there should also have been in circulation a false Maḍnūn teaching these heretical doctrines. Many such cases occur. A book against the belief in saints was ascribed to Abū Bakr ar-Rāzī (d. cir. 290–320) … and, it was suspected, falsely, in order to bring him into discredit. The same thing happened to ash-Sha'rānī. One of his enemies obtained a copy of his Al-Baḥr al-Mawrūd, left out parts and inserted others of a heretical nature, and then spread it as the original work. In defence ash-Sha'rānī was compelled to lay before the ‘Ulamā’ of Cairo his original copy signed by themselves, and so demonstrate the spuriousness of the other. Again, ash-Sha'rānī had to defend Ibn al-'Arabī against a similar injury. Some hostile theologians interpolated his Futūḥāt with heresy. Even Fakhrad-Din ar-Rāzī suffered from this; and there were enough suchcases for ‘Alī b. Muḥammad al-Miṣrī to make up a list of them. So we need not be at all surprised if this befell al-Ghazālī also …”

Upon the sudden death of Meḥemmed II in May, 1481, his two surviving sons, each hastily summoned from his provincial governorate by his own partisans among the Ottoman statesmen, set out with all speed to Istanbul. The race was won by the elder, Bāyezīd; but the younger son Jem had so strong and numerous a following that it was not until July, 1482, that he was finally obliged to admit defeat and take refuge at Rhodes with the Knights of St. John. The Grand Master, Pierre d'Aubusson, with a lively appreciation of the value of his guest as a hostage to insure Christendom against aggression by the new sultan—it was only two years since the Knights had beaten off a determined Ottoman siege—lost no time in removing him to France, where he would be less exposed to the danger of assassination by one of Bayezld's agents. For six years, well-treated but strictly guarded, Jem was confined in various houses of the Order in Savoy and France, his last prison, from whence he was handed into the custody of the Pope at the end of 1488, being the castle of Bourganeuf, in the present department of La Creuse, some 40 km. west of the Grand Master's native Aubusson. Jem's subsequent detention in Rome was brought to an end when he fell as a prize of war to Charles VIII of France in 1495, only to die at Naples a few weeks later.

If with all these openings there had been no exchange whatever between East and West in their literary productions, it would have been strange, to say no more; and though, as I repeat, we have no tangible evidence of anything like translations, whether oriental or occidental, at that time …

Those words come from one of Max Müller's last essays ‘Coincidences’, in which he listed the many points of contact between East and West in the period after Alexander the Great's invasion of Bactria and the Indus valley. Müller thought a translation of a literary work from Greek or Latin to Sanskrit or Pāli or vice versa might be the key to resolving the numerous similarities he had found in the myths of East and West, particularly in the sacred texts of Buddhism and Christianity. In fact, according to his son, the collection of these parallels was the project on which Müller was working at his death. Had the father of the Sacred Books of the East lived another half century, he would have had his translation, but, I believe, he would have been disappointed with the profit accrued so far from the discovery.