Introduction
In 2018, historian Nile Green published an article entitled ‘The waves of heterotopia: towards a vernacular intellectual history of the Indian Ocean’.Footnote 1 Green described late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century travelogues, most of which were written in Urdu.Footnote 2 In these accounts, Muslim men detailed experiences that they had accrued when they travelled via steamship away from their familiar homelands to unfamiliar places such as Aden, Burma, Iran, the Maldives, Mecca on hajj, Mombasa, Sri Lanka, and Uganda.
In these travelogues, the authors described their encounters with cultures, environments, languages, religions, and technologies that ‘challenged [the] pilgrims’ prior conceptions of what the world was and how it worked’.Footnote 3 For example, when the Indian Muslim Shibli Nu’mani (1857–1914) travelled to Aden, Yemen, he was shocked that Arabic speakers in Aden could not understand the Arabic language that he had learned from textbooks.Footnote 4 When Muhammad Kazim Barlas wrote in Urdu about his experiences in Sri Lanka and the Maldives, he emphasised, sometimes pejoratively, how the Maldives and Sri Lanka differed from his North Indian, Muslim, and Urdu-language home.Footnote 5 In Sayr-i Barhma (‘Burmese journey’, 1898), ‘Abd al-Khaliq described how he studied Burmese as well as Pali, not as an orientalist project to fulfil colonial objectives, but as part of his religious target to refute Buddhism in favour of Islam. When he authored Sayr-i Barhma, he exhibited no awareness of orientalist conceptualisation of Buddhism and he referred to the religion as mazhab-i Barhma, which means ‘the religion of Burma’.Footnote 6
Green considers these sources important because they challenge the ‘vision of universalism and unity that has served as the founding myth of Indian Ocean studies’.Footnote 7 Urdu travelogues enable historians of the Indian Ocean to chart out a new path in relation to the more well-trodden scholarly explorations of nationalist or internationalist ideologies espoused by South Asian elites.Footnote 8 Writings of elites such as Rabindranath Tagore tended to highlight connectivity, intercultural communication, and cosmopolitanism, and they were often in dialogue with European ideas, which they viewed as a hegemonic paradigm.Footnote 9 Yet, Green reveals that, from the lens of Urdu travel accounts, the Indian Ocean region should be conceived of not as a ‘cosmopolitan thought zone’,Footnote 10 but rather as a ‘heterotopia’—a place of difference or otherness.Footnote 11
In the article, Green sets up a binary between vernacular versus colonial languages. The vernaculars are all non-colonial spoken languages such as Bengali, Gujarati, Malay, Persian, Swahili, Urdu, and Vietnamese. Colonial languages are Portuguese, English, and Dutch. Compared with the colonial languages, Green writes, vernacular languages were more accessible to a greater number of people living in port cities in the Indian Ocean region (i.e. Aden, Bombay, Mombasa, Singapore) due to cheap vernacular printing.Footnote 12 For example, Green describes Urdu as an ‘exemplary vernacular’ because it ‘was used to record and react to manifold experiences of difference through its several genres of travel writing’.Footnote 13
Green focuses on a period that he and James L. Gelvin refer to as ‘The age of steam and print’, which they date from circa 1850 to 1930.Footnote 14 They highlight steam and print because these were the technological enablers of an earlier globalising period that witnessed the intensification of interaction via oceanic steam travel, railways, mass-produced iron Stanhope presses, and lithographic printing.Footnote 15 It was a period during which more Muslims could make hajj than ever before.Footnote 16 It was an era in which the number of newspapers published by Muslims significantly increased, which fostered the creation of new information hubs, often in port cities where books were printed in languages such as Arabic, Arabic-script Tamil, Gujarati, Javanese, Malay, Persian, Swahili, and Urdu.Footnote 17 Gelvin and Green designate 1930 as the cut-off point because it marks the intensification of automobile and air travel, as well as telephonic and radio communication.Footnote 18
In this article, I seek to contribute to the intellectual history of the Indian Ocean with a case study of a perspective that diverges from the Urdu-language perspectives analysed by Green. First, the text I am analysing was written in 1804—it was not created in the age of steam and print. It was fashioned in the final decades of an earlier era of wind-powered sailing and manuscript copying.Footnote 19
Second, Green uses the term vernacular to refer to all non-colonial languages. Yet, what is the value of the umbrella term ‘vernacular’ if it elides important hierarchical distinctions among languages in South Asia? According to this colonial/non-colonial binary, Urdu and Dhivehi are non-colonial vernaculars. Yet, Urdu was the primary lingua franca of British India—the most popular South Asian vernacular—and it was read by people of various ethnicities all over the Indian subcontinent.Footnote 20 Urdu was printed by publishers from Peshawar to Madras and Calcutta to Bombay.Footnote 21 Urdu, along with Persian, Arabic, and Bengali, was the earliest South Asian language to be printed in Calcutta, and Urdu books and journals later printed in Lahore, Bombay, and Rangoon were read across the Bay of Bengal and as far east as Japan.Footnote 22 Even in the Maldives, the first constitution of 1932 required students to study not only Dhivehi, Arabic, and English, but Urdu as well.Footnote 23
In contrast, in 1804, the number of Urdu speakers who read Dhivehi was close to zero. When the poem analysed in this article was composed, the Dhivehi language was largely unknown in South Asia outside of the Dhivehi-speaking islands of the Maldives and the island of Minicoy. Further, in the 1800s, study of Dhivehi by Westerners would commence in 1841 when the Scottish missionary Reverend John Wilson published a vocabulary of Dhivehi terms originally compiled by W. Christopher—a British lieutenant of the Royal Indian Navy, who visited the Maldives in 1834.Footnote 24 To consider both Dhivehi and Urdu as ‘vernaculars’ in relation to colonial languages re-inscribes the notion of ‘the West and the rest’ because it implies that all non-colonial languages were on an equal footing in comparison with the dominant colonial languages. (It is also misleading to even regard Dhivehi in 1804 as a ‘non-colonial’ language because it was spoken in a country that was independent of the British colonial realm.) Urdu, not Dhivehi, was a language of regional prestige. I propose that scholars should make it a point to distinguish more provincial South Asian languages such as Dhivehi from more transregional languages such as Urdu.Footnote 25
Third, in ‘The waves of heterotopia’, Green focuses on travelogues written by Muslim men who encountered unfamiliar new cultures when they travelled across the Indian Ocean to maritime ports. From the perspective of the Urdu travelogues, the Indian Ocean region was a place of difference—a heterotopia. However, the Indian Ocean was not only a place of shocking cultural otherness. This article centres on a provincial journey via a fleet of sailing ships taken by the Maldivian sultan of the Maldives and other noblemen to visit Maldivian commoners who lived on islands that formed part of an atoll in the middle of the Indian Ocean.
Dhivehi Arumaadhu Raivaru
In 1804, an elder courtier named Ban’deyri Hasan Manikufaanu (1745–1807) accompanied the young sovereign of the Maldives, Sultan Muhammad Mueenuddeen I (r. 1799–1835), on a sea voyage.Footnote 26 The purpose of the voyage was to visit the islands of Ari Atoll. The royal fleet of sailing vessels disembarked from the fortified capital of Malé on the 15th of the 11th month in the Islamic calendar, Dhu al-Qa’dah, and returned on the 6th of the 12th month, Dhu al-Hijjah.Footnote 27
During the journey, Manikufaanu chronicled the expedition in Dhivehi poetry.Footnote 28 He crafted 171 verses according to the rules of the Maldivian genre of poetry called raivaru.Footnote 29 Today, the work is known as Dhivehi Arumaadhu Raivaru (‘The raivaru that chronicled the journey of the Maldivian royal fleet’).Footnote 30 Three days after returning to Malé, Manikufaanu presented the work to Sultan Mueenuddeen.
The work could be considered as travel literature because Manikufaanu authored it in verse. On the other hand, as will become evident, Manikufaanu aimed to be factual throughout the poem. Thus, one could also conceive of the work as travel writing.Footnote 31 One should keep in mind, however, that travel writings are written according to the needs of those for whom it is written.Footnote 32 In certain stanzas, for example, Manikufaanu portrayed the sultan, for whom he wrote the poem, as a heroic figure.
After Manikufaanu passed away in 1807, manuscripts of his poem circulated among nobles, who sometimes recopied over letters that had become faded. In 1943, Maldivian scholar and statesman Hussein Salahuddeen printed the poem and offered a commentary on the verses. Salahuddeen praised the work:
Any person will be amazed if they ponder the perfect way Hasan Ban'deyri Manikufaanu described the events that took place on that Royal Fleet, and the greatness with which Ban'deyri Manikufaanu depicted the grandeur of the Maldivian Sultan's regime at the time, the respect that citizens paid to the Sultan, and how they were filled with love for the Sultan.Footnote 33
In 2003, literary scholar Yoosuf Alifulhu published a detailed Dhivehi commentary on the work. He unscrambled the syllables of each line in each stanza and offered a gloss on the meaning of each stanza. In the introduction, Alifulhu explained that his philological project involved working with a variety of manuscripts: ‘I have written out this collection of raivaru after examining manuscripts of the poem obtained from various institutions. The worn out pages had many missing pen strokes and since the old days the manuscripts had been recopied with ink.’Footnote 34
In the six sections that follow, I analyse how the work opens with metacommentary and then turn to stanzas regarding the preparations for the voyage; the performance of court music; the journey to Ari Atoll; the arrival to Ari Atoll; and the navigational route between the islands of the atoll.
Opening with metacommentary
Manikufaanu commenced with metacommentary regarding his intention to communicate a new chronicle:
In this chapter, I shall start to narrate the account
Of the Maldivian royal fleet of ships
Whose crew members were always content.
This account of the royal fleet
I herewith commence in a way that it shall be a chapter
Heard by many people.
I shall narrate this chronicle
About the royal fleet
With thoughts that shall come anew. (verses 1–3)Footnote 35
One finds similar reflective commentary in the introductory four stanzas of his subsequent work of raivaru—a work of fiction entitled Dhiyoage Raivaru (‘The raivaru about the royal lady’, circa 1805):Footnote 36
Having entered through the house of poetry
I have begun with a chapter
To praise the Dhiyoa with fiction
Having created fiction for the Dhiyoa
With much happiness in the heart
I have started the chapter
Again, in this chapter I will create fiction
From my tongue in an auspicious way
For the Royal Lady. (verses 1–4)Footnote 37
Preparations for the voyage
Following reflexivity to orient his audience, Manikufaanu portrayed key events that occurred prior to the fleet’s departure. In verses 4 and 5, the reader learns that Sultan Mueenuddeen issued a proclamation to construct a new fleet of sailing ships and men of the military helped construct the fleet:
The Sultan, resplendent and regally attired,Footnote 38
Ordered [his subjects to construct a fleet of ships]
to set off on a voyage. (verse 4)Footnote 39
In fact, all the respectable men of the Sultan’s militaryFootnote 40
Worked on the fleet
When the Sultan issued the beloved order. (verse 7)Footnote 41
Heeding their ruler’s decree, these shipwrights of the sultan’s army began to prepare the vessels for sailing. They applied oil and blacking substance to the wood to waterproof and prevent it from rotting (verse 8).Footnote 42 They fitted the mast (kun’bu alhuvvai) and, onto that, they secured the sail (riyau fahai)—made of woven coconut palm fronds.Footnote 43
They also created artistic patterns and coloured in drawings on the planks (kurahaa dhavaadhu lavvai) (verse 9). According to Ahmed Shafeeq, such artwork on Maldivian sailing vessels comprised cultural drawings and patterns chosen for certain locations on the vessels. Shafeeq also notes that this form of art commenced even before Mohamed Thakurufan rose to power in 1573 because one finds similar designs on Maldivian vessels before the construction of Thakurufan’s victorious boat known as the kalhu oh fummi.Footnote 44
Ahmed Shafeeq has presented examples of traditional artwork on Maldivian sailing vessels (see Figure 1). One finds etchings on (1) a tiller ornamented with a thin diamond pattern (thuthimas); (2) the image of a pineapple on the mast crutch; (3) a pattern on the rudder known as vakigan’du; (4) a pattern on the oar called kuriboashi; (5) a pattern used on the top edge of the gunwale (mathikan) known as thun’dufaiy kurehun; and (6) a pattern within the boat (bihura).
‘Dhivehinge Mas Odi Kurehun’ (Etchings on fishing vessels). Source: A. Shafeeq, ‘Odi Dhoani Faharu Banun—28’, Faiythoora 132, p. 14.
In verse 10, Manikufaanu authored a six-line raivaru about preparations taken by the carpenters:
Eager to complete the beloved task, they tilted the boats
marked and caulked leak points in the hull,
sealed the seams in the vertical joints in between the planks with putty
placed sapwood on both sidesFootnote 45
painted with various colours,
and lowered the vessels into the water.Footnote 46
Notice the verb ‘caulked’ in line 2. Here, the poet used the term kolhuvai—a converb derived from the Dhivehi verbal noun kolhun. According to Yoosuf Alifulhu, in the 1800s, kolhun referred to a caulking process in which Maldivian carpenters inserted a soft medium such as cotton or soft coconut fibre into the vessel’s horizontal and vertical joints with a flat wedge or a flat chisel.Footnote 47 The putty (madhan) was created by heating and grinding kernels from the seeds of either the Alexandrian laurel (funa) or the lantern tree (kan’dhu).Footnote 48
In stanza 14, Manikufaanu depicted how the shipwrights put finishing touches on the fleet:
The royal entourage were on board as
The shipbuilders prepared for departure:
They placed thimbles on the yardarm
Stretched a tarpaulin over the thatched sleeping quarters
Attached flags on the mast
And dragged the vessels into the deepFootnote 49
Note that Manikufaanu recorded that the crew placed thimbles on both sides of the yardarm.Footnote 50 In Dhivehi Aadhakaadha (Maldivian customs), Baabaagey Dhon Maniku describes 13 marks of royalty needed for the sultan’s royal sailing vessel—odikolhu. The 10th item is ‘thimbles on both sides of the yardarm’ (aralu dhekolhu mahi). One could thus conjecture that Manikufaanu was referring here to this special embellishment of the royal odikolhu. Also in stanza 14, Manikufaanu mentioned that the men attached the flags to the mast. It is likely that he was referring to ceremonial flags on the mast poles as well as the Maldivian masthead pennant (amaraali), which was a long, thin swallowtail (kafi) flag.Footnote 51
Other final preparations included the items placed on the boats. Stores were placed on board: drinking water, wood, and rations of food (verse 11). They brought the required weapons on board (verse 12). One can assume that the weapons included the regal gun (badikolhu). They brought various types of equipment (kulhivaru samaanu), which could have meant things for amusement and sport (verse 13). They fixed the halyard onto the yardarm (verse 15).
On top of the dunnage they placed not only the guns, but also instruments for the royal ensemble: beru (Maldivian double-headed barrel drum), dhummaari (Maldivian trumpet), and thaalhafili (Maldivian shawm) (verse 16) (Figure 2). Traditionally, these were the three instruments needed for Maldivian court music, which consisted of a repertoire of music called harubee. In Dhivehi, one can say ‘beru-dhumaari-thaalhafili vadaigathun’, which means ‘processing to the threefold royal music’.Footnote 52 According to scholar Baabaagey Dhonmaniku, the beru, dhummaari, and thaalhafili were ceremonial objects that traditionally accompanied the sultan whenever he went in procession or on a trip outside of Malé. Dhonmaniku writes: ‘Beru-dhummaari-thaalhafili is an ensemble that performs harubee (court music) when the Sultan moves in procession.’Footnote 53
Images of beru, thaalhafili, and dhumaari. Source: B. Dhonmaniku, Dhivehi Aadhakaadha (Malé, 1993), pp. 25–26.
In addition to documenting the items placed on board, Manikufaanu noted which individuals accompanied the sultan on the journey. In a moment of reflexivity, he explained that the sultan selected him to chronicle the voyage because he knew that Manikufaanu was capable (verse 17). In addition, the chief elders of Malé (bodun) journeyed with the sultan (verse 21) as well as men from the military, ‘chosen based on their alignment with the Sultan's ideology’ (verse 22), as well as reciters of the Holy Qur’an (khathimun kiyavaa khatheebun) and caretakers of the mosques (mudhimun) (verse 23).
Note the term khathimun. It comes from khathim or hathimu, the Dhivehi term for the physical book of the Qur’an, known as mus’haf in Arabic. Those who know Arabic will recognise the term khatheeb, which refers to the person who delivers the sermon (khuṭbah) during Friday prayer and Eid prayers. However, in the Maldives, the khatheeb is the religious head of an island. Over time, the term khateeb was used to refer to the administrative head of the island and the word changed to katheebu, which today means ‘island chief’. Finally, the term mudhimun refers to a caretaker of the mosque who was considered as one of the chiefs of an island.Footnote 54
‘Salaamathi’
The auspicious time to embark was determined after a consultation with an astrologer (verse 24). At the auspicious time, the sultan boarded his vessel and the fleet set sail:
The incumbent Sultan
Of a famous lineage of rulers
Occupied his seat on the vessel. (verse 19)Footnote 55
After my King boarded the boat
The crew pulled on the ropes and tackle, [weighed the anchor,] punted and pushed off
and the Royal Fleet embarked. (verse 20)Footnote 56
The commencement of the journey was marked with Maldivian pageantry of gunshots:
When my beloved King
Departed from the inner harbor of Malé
The gun shots were fired. (verse 25)Footnote 57
In addition to the gunshots, the earliest-known Maldivian national anthem was performed. It was an instrumental piece called ‘Salaamathi’:
They played ‘Salaamathi’
And fired so many gunshots
That the smoke clogged the air. (verse 26)Footnote 58
The performance of ‘Salaamathi’, thus, symbolically marked the departure of the sultan. One finds a similar description in Hussein Salahuddeen’s Dhivehi novel Rivaayathu Nu’maan wa Maryam (Numaan and Maryam: a novel, 1934). When the fictional sultan departed from the island of Vandhoo, Kolhumadulu, the court musicians who played the beru started to play the piece: ‘When the king waved his handkerchief in the direction of the beach everyone said, [in Arabic] “May God Bless You” and many were crying. At this juncture the drummers started playing “Salaamathi”.’Footnote 59
In 1999, Hassan Ahmed Maniku gifted a recording of ‘Salaamathi’ to The British Library.Footnote 60 On this recording, it is performed by the beru-dhummaari-thaalhafili ensemble. Ethnomusicologist Jim Hickson has suggested that the piece features a core melody plus heterophonic improvisation:
Unlike modern anthems, the tune of this version is not set in stone; instead, the player of the flageolet (a type of shawm, a woodwind instrument similar to an oboe) [thaalhafili] elaborates extensively on the core melody, with many extravagant ornamentations and improvised elements that make each performance unique. This melody is accompanied by a trumpet [dhummaari] and two types of double-headed barrel drums, the funa beru and the maana beru.Footnote 61 In Maldivian court music, the drum rhythms are often as important as the melody, and can confer meaning all on their own.Footnote 62
Further, according to Maniku’s performance note written for this recording: ‘The piece [Salaamathi] was traditionally preceded by a seven-gun salute and followed by the performance of “Badi-beru”.’ Badi beru is the Maldivian double-headed barrel drum traditionally beaten after a ceremonial canon blast.
The ceremonial link between ‘Salaamathi’ and canon blasts is corroborated in Manikufaanu’s Dhivehi Arumaadhu Raivaru. In stanza 26, Manikufaanu noted the performance of ‘Salaamathi’ and, in stanza 27, he described canons fired between every bastion (buruzu) from the fortified city:
When the armada left the shores
Canons were fired between every bastion.
The world became dark
Because of the smoke from the guns.
I wondered ‘Would the smoke get so dense
That our eyes would start to sting?’. (verse 27)Footnote 63
Journeying to Ari Atoll
After describing the preparations and pageantry, Manikufaanu focused on the experience of sailing toward Ari Atoll. The vessels set off slowly in a soft wind (verse 33), travelled between the two reefs, and came out into the deep ocean (verse 35). In stanzas 38, 39, and 40, Manikufaanu noted how Malé receded into the distance. He portrayed his beloved sultan as watching with curiosity:
When the boats were moving out into the deep ocean
The winds intensified
Thanks to the compassion of Allah. (verse 38)
The sailboats together harnessed the breeze
And went on sailing across the water.
Malé disappeared from sight to the astern of the vessel. (verse 39)
As the outline of the islands in Male atoll
Started receding into the distance
the Sultan I will always love was watching with interest. (verse 40)Footnote 64
Sultan Mueenuddeen instructed the crew to raise the topsails of the schooner (verse 43). At this time, the sails on the vessels were four-sided (hama riyaa).Footnote 65 The soldiers happily obeyed and raised the ‘beautiful flower-like sails’ (verse 44). Manikufaanu described seamanship that enabled the vessel to increase its speed:
Without even giving any slack to the windward brace
The wind blew lightly
and the vessel sped up rapidly. (verse 46)Footnote 66
Here, the word ‘brace’ (en’ga) refers to the lower rope on each end of the yardarm (araa). It extended from the yardarm to the rear of the ship. It was used to adjust the sails. Manikufaanu noted that the crew did not give any slack to the windward brace (mathee en’ga). That likely means that the crew kept the rope taut to maintain the sail’s angle, which enabled the sailing vessel to harness the wind for speed.Footnote 67
Yet, the force of the wind was too strong. It caused the boat to heel and take on water on the leeward side. The crew felt the boat was going too fast. They lost a firm foothold. At this juncture, they started to recite the Islamic declaration of faith, the shahadah (verse 47), often recited by Muslims during moments of distress or danger. The crew was able to bring the boat under their control. They started to approach Ari Atoll (verse 49) (Figure 3).
‘Ari Atholhu’, in Dhivehi Bahaai Thaareekhah Khidhumaiy Kuraa Qaumee Marukazu, Dhivehi Thaareekhah Au Alikameh [New Light on Maldivian History] (Malé, 1990), the seventh map in the map section.
Arrival
According to Manikufaanu, the boats navigated towards the coast (verse 49) and then anchored in the shallows of an island called ‘Ariadhoo’, where visitors normally would harbour (verse 50).Footnote 68 As it drifted closer to their first destination, the beru, dhummaari, thaalhafili started to perform on board and ceremonial gun shots were fired (verse 51). At dawn, they started to see their first stop in Ari Atoll: the island of Hangnaameedhoo (verse 52). In Figure 3, Hangnaameedhoo has an asterisk next to it on the east side of the atoll, north of the 50° east longitude line.
Manikufaanu devoted a few stanzas to how the fleet moored at the Hangnaameedhoo harbour. He noted that the fleet entered the northern channel of Hangnaameedhoo (verse 54); recorded that His Highness, the sultan regarded the Hangnaameedhoo harbour as the preferred anchorage point to moor his fleet (verse 55); and explained that, after the fleet entered from the channel, they dropped the anchor adjacent to the breakwater (faikashee) head that ran on the lagoon shallows (verse 56).Footnote 69
At Hangnaameedhoo, Sultan Mueenuddeen first paid respect to a monument that had been patronised by Maldivian sultans since the early 1600s: the tomb of Sultan Ibrahim III (r. 1585– 1609). Sultan Ibrahim III, also known as ‘King Kalaafan’, was the only son of Sultan Mohamed Thakurufan (r. 1573–1585). Thakurufan is the legendary hero of the Maldives. He is credited with driving out the Portuguese from the Maldives and reestablishing Islamic rule.Footnote 70 Thakurufan’s son King Kalaafan was murdered by Malabar pirates on 4 February 1609.Footnote 71 King Kalaafan’s tomb is located at Hangnaameedhoo, where the ship carrying Kalaafan happened to come to tide.Footnote 72 Since the 1600s, Maldivian monarchs have issued royal beneficiary documents to provide for the maintenance of the tomb.Footnote 73 Paper grants about the tomb warned that anyone who disrespected the tomb would go to hell.Footnote 74
In verses 53, 59, and 60, Manikufaanu described how Sultan Mueenuddeen paid his respects to Kalaafan’s tomb:
As they voyaged in shallow area near the outer reef [of Hangnaameedhoo]
His Highness the Sultan paid respects at the tomb [of Sultan Ibrahim III].
The beru were struck and ceremonial gun shots were fired. (verse 53)Footnote 75
Sultan [Mueenuddeen] proceeded
To Kalaafaan’s tomb
Recited the fatiha
And as customary practice of former days
He offered to the tomb frankincense
And a royal parasol. (verse 59)Footnote 76
Navigating the islands of Ari Atoll
In stanzas 51–101, Manikufaanu offered his audience a geography lesson about navigating the islands of Ari Atoll. The fleet journeyed from Hangnaameedhoo to Mahibadhoo (verse 65) to Dhangethi (verse 69), Ariadhoo (verse 72), Maamigili (verse 73), Fenfushi (verse 76), Mirihi (verse 91), Mandhoo (verse 93), Machchafushi (verse 101), again to Dhangethi (verses 102–105), again to Mahibadhoo (verse 106), Himandhoo (Himendhoo’) (verses 107–110), and Maalhos (verse 111).
I close my analysis of Dhivehi Arumaadhu Raivaru with Manikufaanu’s depictions of the first two stops within Ari Atoll, at Hangnaameedhoo and Mahibadhoo. Here, Manikufaanu recorded how the people of Hangnaameedhoo and Mahibadhoo offered tributes to the sultan:
The people of Hangnaameedhoo island
Came with love properly bearing tributes and offerings
For their monarch, the exalted Sultan. (verse 61)Footnote 78
Upon seeing the royal fleet arrive
The people of Mahibadhoo came
Bearing offerings and tributes for their exalted monarch recognised worldwide. (verse 65)Footnote 79
Conclusion
To conclude, when Nile Green published ‘The waves of heterotopia: towards a vernacular intellectual history of the Indian Ocean’, he utilised the perspectives of primarily Urdu travelogues to refute the idea that the Indian Ocean was a cosmopolitan site of colonial hegemony. He revealed that the Indian Ocean also was a fractured zone in which Muslim men encountered alterity in terms of environments, ethnicities, ideologies, ethics, and religions.Footnote 80
In this article, I have attempted to reveal that, from the lens of a Dhivehi travelogue created in the Maldives in 1804, the Indian Ocean was not a cosmopolitan site of connection under the influence of colonialism. Nor was it a heterotopic sight of difference at a distance from colonialism. It was the site of provincial and regnal travel within the Maldivian monarchy, which, in 1804, was politically independent of the British colonial realm. Admittedly, in 1887, the Maldives became a British protectorate. However, British colonial officials in Ceylon visited the Maldives infrequently, such as in 1894 and in 1903, when they carried out investigations about the legitimacy of a new sultan when the previous sultan had been overthrown in a coup. I hope the findings of this article clearly emphasise that, when anglophone scholarship on the Indian Ocean overlooks Dhivehi literary culture—created in one of the few countries that is entirely surrounded by the Indian Ocean—they miss a crucial perspective.
In future studies, a more fine-grained intellectual history of the Indian Ocean would benefit from moving beyond the easy binary of colonial–vernacular in favour of a more nuanced description of the hierarchical relationships between languages. I have argued that considering Dhivehi and Urdu as ‘vernaculars’ elides significant differences in terms of geographic spread, number of speakers, proximity to colonial centres, status, and the direction of influence. Green concluded his article by suggesting that ‘in the final analysis, global histories must also be vernacular histories, especially if they seek to chart the intellectual contours of such complex heterotopic contact zones as the Indian Ocean’.Footnote 81 Based on the verses of Dhivehi Arumaadhu Raivaru, which challenge us to learn about Maldivian boat construction, court music, navigational routes, regnal travel, royal ensigns, sailing, and seamanship, I would add that global histories must be provincial histories as well.
Acknowledgements
Thank you to Ahmed Omar, Mohamed Haneef, Naajih Didi, Kani Kuredi, Aisha Ristha, and Abdulla Rasheed for thoroughly answering my many questions on the Facebook group Bas Jagaha, a forum dedicated to the study of the Dhivehi language. I’m also grateful to all the Bas Jagaha members who took the time to respond to my queries. Special thanks to Finlay McIntosh, curator of world and traditional music in the Sound Archive of the British Library, for generously sharing Ahmed Maniku’s letter with me. I’m also indebted to the anonymous contributor who helped significantly improve the quality of this article.
Conflicts of interest
None.
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