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In a time of increasingly loud binaries, there lies a mellifluous symphony in the heartland of India that whispers of harmony, civility, and shared beauty. This is the story of Ganga-Jamuni Tehzeeb—a cultural ethos born of synthesis, nurtured in the gardens of Awadh, and still fragrant today, if one cares to breathe it in. The term itself is poetic: Ganga and Jamuna, two rivers flowing side by side, distinct yet inseparable, much like the Hindu and Muslim communities of North India whose lives intertwined over centuries—not just peacefully, but creatively and joyously. And nowhere was this composite culture more visible than in the courtly, elegant world of Lucknow, the cultural capital of Awadh.
The Roots: Awadh’s Embodied Pluralism
The 18th and 19th centuries marked a high point of cultural evolution in Awadh. The Nawabs of Oudh, originally from Persia, embraced not only Indian soil but its soul. Among them, Nawab Asaf-ud-Daula (r. 1775–1797) stands tall as a visionary. His patronage extended to both Hindu and Muslim religious sites, and his court included Hindu ministers, musicians, architects, and poets. One of the grandest monuments of Lucknow, the Bara Imambara, was built as a famine relief project employing thousands—including Hindu artisans and labourers.
Yet it was not just about architecture or festivals. It was in the attitudes. A shared sense of sharafat (nobility of conduct), adab (grace), and Tehzeeb (culture) defined the people of Awadh—cutting across religion and caste. When British traveller William Hodges visited Awadh in the late 18th century, he noted in his journals the peculiarly “gentle refinement” of Lucknow society, a city where “politeness is not the exception but the norm, even in the bazaars.”
Urdu: A Language of Syncretism
If Ganga-Jamuni Tehzeeb had a voice, it would speak in Urdu—a language that is itself a product of mingling. Developed in the military camps of Delhi and later refined in the salons of Lucknow, Urdu seamlessly fused Persian aesthetics with Hindi grammar and Sanskrit roots. It was the chosen language of both Muslim poets like Mir Taqi Mir and Ghalib, and Hindu poets like Raghupati Sahay ‘Firaq’ Gorakhpuri.
Even in day-to-day life, Urdu expressions permeated the vernacular across communities. A Hindu grandmother might still say “Khuda khair kare”, and a Muslim shopkeeper might greet you with “Jai Ram ji ki”. It is this unselfconscious mingling that forms the essence of the Ganga-Jamuni spirit.
Festivals without Boundaries
In old Lucknow, Hindus participated in Muharram processions with sincerity, helping create and carry tazias (replicas of Imam Hussain’s tomb). Some Hindu artisans specialised in crafting them. Equally, Muslim families lit diyas on Diwali, exchanged sweets on Holi, and in some families, even observed vrats during Hindu festivals.
One telling anecdote comes from Pandit Brij Narain Chakbast, a prominent Hindu Urdu poet of Lucknow. During Muharram, he would don black clothes and lead elegies for Imam Hussain, writing with great emotion:
“Woh kaun tha jo laash ke tale talwar rakh gaya?”
(Who was it that laid a sword beneath the body?)
Such syncretism was not staged, not symbolic, but deeply felt.
The Ganga-Jamuni ethos was not merely social or linguistic—it was profoundly aesthetic. From chikan embroidery, created by both Hindu and Muslim artisans, to the culinary fusion of Awadhi kitchens—where biryani was often served with kadhi and korma with kheer—the culture was one of confluence.
The Present Echoes
While the cynic may say this is a relic of a bygone era, the truth is more hopeful. Take Lucknow’s Chowk area today: A Hindu shopkeeper sells attars (perfumes) beside a Muslim one selling sindoor. During Ramzan, Hindus queue up for iftar meals at Tunday Kababi, and during Navratri, Muslims visit their Hindu neighbours to offer sweets.
In 2020, amid the protests against the Citizenship Amendment Act (CAA), images emerged from Lucknow and Kanpur showing Muslim youth protecting Hindu temples, and Hindu women joining hands in silent prayers at mosques. When asked, one protestor simply said, “Yeh hamari tehzeeb hai”—this is our culture.
A Way Forward
In a time where identity is often wielded as a weapon, Ganga-Jamuni Tehzeeb offers a third way—of shared dignity, collaborative beauty, and cultural comfort with diversity. It doesn’t seek to erase difference, but to elevate it into harmony. It’s not about “tolerance”, that rather condescending word—it’s about intimacy. The kind of intimacy where you know the flavour of your neighbour’s pickle, you hum their festival songs, and you mourn their losses as your own.
This culture is not preserved by governments, but by people. It thrives not in legislation but in language, in the subtle gestures: the way you offer your guest a glass of sharbat, the way you lower your voice in a place of prayer, the way you call an elder aap instead of tum.
As we chart a future amid complex global and national currents, perhaps what India needs most is not more laws, but more tehzeeb. A return to the kind of culture where people disagree without discord, where debates are wrapped in decorum, and where the kitchen and the courtyard remain shared sacred spaces. The rivers of Ganga and Jamuna still flow—so must the culture they inspired. In the words of the poet Nida Fazli,
“Har ek galiyaan, har ek mohallah, mere bachpan ka Hindustan hai”
(Every alley, every neighbourhood, is the India of my childhood.)
Let us not lose it.
These pieces are being published as they have been received – they have not been edited/fact-checked by ThePrint.