(My final column in Mint Lounge, December 29 2019)


In December 1890, a senior leader of the emerging Indian national scene suffered a paralytic stroke in colonial Madras. The man was in his early 60s but had spent decades as a public figure, winning the esteem of his Indian peers as much as he did the admiration of the imperial government. He was, to be fair, an old-fashioned moderate, and like most of his contemporaries, his love for India did not sit in disagreement with loyalty to the British crown. On the contrary, he believed the Raj had done much to make a nation out of our diverse subcontinent. Writing in 1885, for instance, he noted that if India were to “become a homogenous nation” and “achieve solidarity”, it would be through the railways, which welded together numerous provinces, and “by means of the English language”. “The young generation cannot fully realize it,” he argued, but he was pointedly certain of the truth of this remark.

Sir Tanjore Madhava Rao was born in 1828 into a Maharashtrian Brahmin family whose ancestors had long ago emigrated to Tamil country. They aided the Marathas before transferring their services to the East India Company when the latter’s star was on the ascendant. Using colonial networks of patronage, Rao’s father and uncle both held office in princely Travancore, though he himself saw little of this, having become an orphan by the age of 12. His brother took him to Madras, and English education there opened the doors to seriously coveted clerical employment. By the time Rao was 20, he was sitting at a desk in the accountant-general’s office, but then, in 1849, he too moved to Travancore to tutor its royal princes. He was by now also married, joking a little later that the raja paid him 100 rupees for each of his six children.

By his mid-20s , Rao was in a senior position in the state. Talent he certainly had, and his “ardour, interest and integrity” won high praise from the ruler. But the raja also needed someone like Rao by his side. The British were clamouring for “progress” of a Western variety, spurred on by missionaries alleging idolatry and misgovernment. The young English-speaking bureaucrat could negotiate these delicate matters effectively: The big bosses in Madras liked him (one British resident noted how he had scarcely met any “native” who spoke their language so well and so intimately understood “the modern views of Englishmen”) while his Brahmin status made him a comfortable interlocutor in the orthodox royal court too. Add to this his professional efficiency, and it was no surprise that by the late 1850s, Rao had been appointed chief minister.

In 1860, the older of Rao’s royal ex-pupils succeeded to power. While master and servant worked cheerfully together at first, resentments slowly began to creep in. Revenue rose and the colonial threat of annexation was averted, but by the end of the decade the raja was also accusing his minister of deciding matters directly with the British, without his consent. In 1872, then, there was a break. Rao—by now knighted and styled “Rajah” in his own right—agreed to retire on a pension and sinecure totalling 1,000 per month, with guaranteed employment for his son. The ruler was relieved to see the back of this minister who seemed to eclipse royalty itself, but the press was all praise for Rao’s powers of governance. Even the raja’s brother wrote a 40-page eulogy in a Calcutta (now Kolkata) journal.

After a stint in Indore, Rao went to Baroda (now Vadodara), where he was in power till a young, adopted ruler came of age. As had been done in Travancore, he imported a colonial-style “secretariat system” there between 1875-81, ruling through an army of clerks at the expense of the old establishment. The boy-prince was carefully tutored to become the ideal ruler of colonial imagination: loyal, Western in thought, and unquestioning in political temperament. As Rao wrote in a customized guidebook, if “a good Minister advises the Maharaja to yield some point” to the British, he must “attribute it to good motives rather than to bad motives”. So, too, if a colonial agent seemed to interfere, the prince must “attribute it to his desire to save the Maharaja needless trouble and needless responsibilities”, and not as an effort to “weaken” him.

Rao was predictably, therefore, not popular in Baroda—as one critic put it, “From what (the man) has to say of himself, it would seem that…civilization began with the arrival of Madhava Rao.” His ward, ironically enough, went on to manifest a pronounced anti-British policy in his reign ahead, though the old minister did not survive to witness this. Rao did, however, remain a firm believer in not upsetting the colonial applecart: Like many Indian moderates, he favoured incrementalism in reform, and in the politics of petitions (so much so that his old employer, the Travancore raja, once told off another minister for referring too much to “constitutionalism” like Rao, which “irritated” him no end). And the man stuck to his guns: The British may have designed the rules, but Indians could still beat them at the game.

Though Rao was too accommodating of the Raj in many respects, words he spoke at the Indian National Congress in 1887, only a few years before his death, hold a strange resonance in our time. “Permit me,” he announced to that gathering, “to be moderate and forbearing,” for it was “in the nature of vaulting ambition to (otherwise) overleap itself,” achieving nothing. But equally, he warned the British to listen, telling them that when “subjects petition and expostulate, it is not in a spirit of disputation…much less of disaffection (or) disloyalty”; it was “only to enlighten those holding sway…in a peaceful constitutional manner” of what they felt. As it happened, though, the Raj did not take his advice seriously, and moderate methods inevitably made way for something far more direct—a pattern that risks repeating itself in our own day, as blinding power ignores sober reasoning.

(My column in Mint Lounge, December 21 2019)


One of the leading techniques by which kings in the early modern world neutralized their rivals was by depriving them of their eyes. Blinding, after all, not only prevented such opponents from leading troops in battle, but also rendered them incapable of effective government. In 1607, for example, the Mughal emperor Jahangir blinded his son after the latter tried to seize the throne, while in the previous century a sovereign of Vijayanagar, it is believed, asked his minister (albeit without success) to blind his brother, the famous Krishnadeva Raya. In the Deccan, the house of the Bahmani sultans saw even a nine-year-old dealt with in this fashion, while Ibrahim Adil Shah II of Bijapur sweetly invited a perfidious regent back to court, only to inflict this immutable punishment on the unsuspecting man.

It was to escape such a fate—or worse—that one of Ibrahim’s great-uncles had left court in the early 1540s, never to return. At that time, it was another Ibrahim who sat on the throne, and this part Maratha, part Persian prince suspected the ambitions of his father’s brother, Miyan Ali. The sultan was believed to be of dubious legitimacy, so Miyan Ali, with his purer claim, threatened to emerge as an alternate power centre. No novice in these games, the uncle tried to pre-empt blinding or plain old-fashioned poisoning by making himself scarce—he proposed to go to Mecca on pilgrimage, physically removing himself from his nephew’s way and putting himself out of reach of all conspirators who might want to topple the Adil Shah in his name. It was a win-win for both: The Adil Shah could keep his throne, and Miyan Ali, his existence.

Sadly for both, the plans went awry. Miyan Ali did sail for Arabia, only to be robbed on the way and wash up in Gujarat. For two years, the man stayed there—away from the reach of his grumbling nephew—before moving to Goa, and into the fickle embrace of the Portuguese. Shia rebels from Bijapur who did not like their Sunni ruler had gravitated towards this enclave, and Miyan Ali became the face of their intrigues. Of course, the Portuguese also believed him to be a useful pawn in their own strategic games. When the Adil Shah tried to buy custody of Miyan Ali from these Europeans, they gladly accepted 50,000 gold pieces and territory, only to renege. And in the process, the royal uncle became to Goan authorities what historian Sanjay Subrahmanyam calls “a Muslim fly in the ointment”.

Miyan Ali was never going to be king but the hope of such an eventuality lingered for decades. For many summers, he vegetated in Goa, subject to the vagaries of his hosts: Once, for instance, they shipped him all the way to Malabar and back, and it was only in 1555 that a real effort was made to help him take on his nephew in Bijapur. The enterprise was a debacle, and before he knew it, Miyan Ali was back in the familiar territory of frustration. As a Jesuit wrote soon after, “it is to him…that by rights the kingdom of the (Adil Shah) …in fact belongs.” But he lacked the strength to enforce his claim. The old man then tried another method—he began to seek alliances for his daughter, sending out proposals not only to the sultan of Ahmednagar (who had his own axe to grind against Bijapur) but also to the emperor of Vijayanagar.

But if Miyan Ali’s ambitions were thwarted by poor luck and unsuccessful strategy, he was to receive a final blow from his child. While he was “a great follower of Muhammad and well-versed” in Islamic scripture, the princess seemed to be developing slightly different religious leanings. She had cultivated, it turned out, the acquaintance of a local Christian woman called Maria Toscana, with whom she began to communicate a great deal. Without her father’s knowledge, she expressed, in due course, a desire for the teachings of the Bible. Or, as we learn from the Jesuit, “Maria Toscana…was so zealous for the good of (the princess’) soul” and “persuaded her with such vehemence to become Christian” that after a year’s work, the girl agreed. Soon, a clandestine plot took shape to extract the woman from her father’s house and take her to church.

One Sunday morning, then, the Portuguese governor and his retinue arrived at Miyan Ali’s house unexpectedly. While a startled father spoke to his guest, women in the group made their way into the ladies’ quarters to take possession of the man’s daughter. The consequence was that “both the girl’s mother and the other female relatives”, with “great outcries and shouts”, held on firmly to the princess, while the “Portuguese women grabbed hold of (her) from the other side”. This bizarre tug of war “assumed such proportions that all their hair came undone”, but in the end Miyan Ali’s daughter was successfully seized—she left home in the governor’s palanquin, converting soon afterwards to Christianity and marrying Maria Toscana’s brother. Her Muslim mother shaved her head in grief, while Miyan Ali watched in despair.

It was the end of his quest to assert any right over the throne of Bijapur. While Miyan Ali remained staunchly Muslim till the end of his days in 1567, the heirs of his surviving son did follow in their aunt’s footsteps and convert to Christianity. In only a few decades thereafter, a number of his descendants would fully transform themselves, bearing, as Subrahmanyam shows, such names as Dom Joao Meale and Dom Fernando Meale. There was, to them at any rate, little irony in the fact that their new Portuguese surname was merely a corruption of the name of their tragic ancestor, the ill-fated Miyan Ali—an exiled Adil Shahi prince of Shia faith whose daughter and grandsons chose to become Christians.

(My column in Mint Lounge, December 14 2019)


In the 1670s, when the Maratha hero Shivaji commissioned Kavindra Paramananda to produce his epic Sivabharata, extraordinary praise was reserved in its verses for a dead Muslim warrior called Malik Ambar. Shivaji’s father Shahaji, like his grandfather Maloji, had been a close lieutenant of this man, so much so that in a battle scene, we read how, “As Kartikeya the gods protected in his battle with Taraka, so did Shahaji and other rajas gather around Malik Ambar.” The general was not only “as brave as the sun” and “wondrous in power”, according to Shivaji’s poet, but also a “man of most-terrible deeds”, before whom enemies quaked in fear. What is not highlighted in this eulogy, however, is another striking detail—that Malik Ambar, who even in death was “like a brilliant setting sun”, was originally a slave, born in Africa.

Though largely forgotten now, African presence in India, in itself, was not unusual. In the 14th century, the traveller Ibn Batuta recorded how they were “guarantors of safety” for ships that plied the Arabian Sea, with reputations so fierce that “let there be but one of them on a ship and it will be avoided by…pirates”. In the 1230s, queen Raziya of the Delhi Sultanate was accused of being closer than acceptable to Yakut, an African confidant—a pretext used to justify her murder. Unknown, perhaps, to many present-day residents of Uttar Pradesh, there existed for decades in the 15th century a near-sovereign state in Jaunpur founded by an African. Even in Bengal, a coup in 1487 by a group of warriors like Malik Ambar led to a short-lived ruling dynasty. Harems in the Deccan featured habshi women—so called after their origins in Abyssinia—and at least two sultans had black begums as consorts.

Ambar, however, remains the greatest of the habshis who made history in India. Born in the 1540s into the Oromo tribe in Ethiopia, he was captured and enslaved when still a boy called Chapu. An Arab bought him for 20 ducats; soon after, in Baghdad, Ambar passed into new hands. Yet another transaction followed, and it was his third master who converted him to Islam, gave him the name he would make famous, and eventually brought him to be sold in India. This buyer in the 1570s—by which time Ambar was a trained warrior—was the peshwa, or minister, of the sultan of Ahmadnagar, who too, incidentally, was black. It was the launch of a remarkable career. And by the end of it, our slave-soldier would become king in all but name, thwarting the ambitions of such mighty men as Akbar and Jahangir for decades.

Indeed, for all the respect he commanded among the Marathas, Ambar’s name provoked quite the opposite response from the Mughals. Akbar lambasted him as “arrogant” and “evil-disposed”, while Jahangir found this “black-faced”, “disastrous” man a distinct nuisance. But it was, seen another way, a back-handed compliment, with the irony that Ambar’s rise was actually catalysed by the Mughal imperial mission. Given his freedom in the late 1570s by his fourth master’s widow, for 20 years Ambar was a warlord who served different rulers in the Deccan with a band of fighters. Mughal invasions into the region in the 1590s, however, altered local dynamics forever—over the following years, as war shred the nobility to pieces, new loyalties were forged. And, from 150 cavalrymen a few years ago, by 1600 Ambar commanded as many as 7,000 men of war who answered his call.

The Mughals took the capital of the Ahmadnagar sultanate, but the wider country around it was still in rebellion. Edging out a rival, Ambar became the leader of the resistance—as he wrote to the sultan of Bijapur once, it was his “design to fight the Mughal troops as long as life remains in this body”. Other Deccan princes sent money and resources to Ambar to prevent inroads by Akbar and Jahangir’s armies into their territories, even as the habshi general cemented his own position—not only did he unearth and enthrone a scion of the old line of Ahmadnagar, he also got his daughter married to this puppet sultan. By 1610, he led 10,000 African troops, not to speak of 40,000 others, including, prominently, Marathas such as Shivaji’s grandfather, also establishing a reputation as a devout Muslim.

Interestingly, it was under Ambar that bargigiri—or guerrilla warfare, which Shivaji would later perfect—was first strategically employed against the Mughals. In 1610, in another action that would be repeated by the future king of the Marathas, Ambar swept into the wealthy Mughal port of Surat and relieved it of its riches. He did, of course, also face defeat, and betrayal. But as one chronicler noted, though “sometimes defeated, and sometimes victorious”, he “did not cease to oppose” Agra’s emperors. When his puppet sultan began to make inconvenient sounds, he had this son-in-law murdered and replaced with a minor, and while he faced mutiny from his Marathas more than once, in the end the African retained control. As Jahangir wrote with disappointment, “A very little more (effort by the mutineers) would have made an end of this cursed fellow.”

Ambar never gave Akbar’s son the satisfaction of conquering the Deccan. Though a painting shows Jahangir taking aim at the habshi’s impaled head, in actual fact Ambar died in supreme military confidence in his fortress, approaching the grand old age of 80. As the Sivabharata laments, however, his “dimwitted son” and successor was not capable of preserving Ambar’s legacy, paving the way for a Mughal triumph. But even in victory, the invaders recognized the formidable talent of the habshi lord, who had died in 1626. Honouring him as an “able man”, one chronicle concludes: “History records no other instance of an Abyssinian slave arriving at such eminence.” It was high praise indeed, coming as it did from the imperial court, where two generations of emperors revealed nothing but spite for the man called Malik Ambar.

(My column in Mint Lounge, December 07 2019)


In the summer of 1858, as British troops battled the celebrated rani of Jhansi at the fort of Kalpi, fighting alongside her was a Muslim prince called Ali Bahadur II. Though styled nawab of Banda in his own right, in actual fact, as one account put it, Ali was merely “a titular prince, possessing no political power”, living off a pension paid by the English East India Company. Indeed, when the Great Rebellion had convulsed the country the previous year, he first lent protection to local Englishmen before switching to the rebel cause—one tale suggests that it was a rakhi from Lakshmibai that inspired the nawab’s change of heart. His “honorary bodyguard of native troops” was a force to be reckoned with, and in April, for instance, he had faced a Company army with as many as 7,000 men. The battle didn’t go well for Ali, however, and when he fled, the nawab was forced to abandon 17 valuable siege-guns, not to speak of 400 corpses of men who had raised swords bravely in his name.

The Banda nawabs, of whom Ali was the last powerful prince, were a family with a fascinating provenance. It was in 1729 that the celebrated Peshwa Bajirao I, de facto head of the emerging Maratha confederacy, arrived in Bundelkhand to aid the raja Chhatrasal in his time of military need. Not only did Bajirao please his ally enough to open doors into the region for Maratha ambitions, among the presents he took back to Pune was a dancer called Mastani. While some claim she was Chattrasal’s daughter, she first appears in official records in 1730 as a kalavantin (woman of the arts) who was rewarded with robes and ₹233 for performing at Bajirao’s son’s wedding. But she was also in love with her patron, who not only housed her in his palace, but also had a son with her. So it was that a morganatic line of Muslim cousins was born in the house of the Brahmin peshwa, causing, understandably, a scandal that tormented him till the end.

Through the 1730s, Mastani remained with Bajirao, confronting intrigue as well as periods of forced separation. Blame for Bajirao’s appetite for meat and love of alcohol were laid at her door, for instance, and despite all his power, Bajirao was ostracized by Brahmins in Pune for violating the laws of caste and religion. When his legitimate son was invested with the sacred thread, Bajirao had to absent himself so as not to give offence to the priests and his kin and community. Mastani too was policed and often placed under house arrest. Their union, which defied convention as well as immense pressure, sparked a hundred romantic songs, however, and while Mastani faded away after the Bajirao’s death in 1740, there was some consolation in the acceptance his family gave her son. Named Krishnasing Shamsher Bahadur, the boy could not become a Brahmin like his late father. But he did become a loyal general in Bajirao’s army, serving his Hindu half-siblings with valour and honour.

So we have Krishnasing fighting the nizam of Hyderabad under the Maratha flag in 1752, just as he put down rebellion in the Konkan three years later. He invaded Marwar soon after, and by the end of the decade was mediating a succession dispute in Bundelkhand. He even joined a major campaign that saw the Marathas claim such faraway regions as Multan and Peshawar. “Chiranjeev” Shamsher Bahadur was present at the Third Battle of Panipat in 1761—where the Marathas suffered their most demoralizing defeat at the hands of invading Afghans—but this time his name featured among those who were lost: Seriously wounded, he managed to get away from the carnage but succumbed to his injuries. His son took up service in Bajirao’s court, and it was he who established himself as nawab of Banda, winning enough honour for one of the five palace gates in Pune, hitherto called the Mastani Darwaza after his grandmother, to be renamed after him.

Settled in Bundelkhand, the nawabs remained part of the vast Maratha political universe, and, in 1803, it was loyalty to the peshwa that pitched their flag against the British in the Second Anglo-Maratha War. It was an ill-fated enterprise, however, and while the peshwa’s wings were clipped, the nawabs lost all their powers to rule. In return for pledging loyalty to the corporate house that was steadily becoming India’s overlord, they were granted an annuity of ₹4 lakh, and this the family enjoyed for over half a century. In 1823, the titular nawab, a grandson of Shamsher Bahadur’s, died and was replaced by his brother, Zulfikar, whose own death in 1849 brought Ali to the fore. Only 17 years old at the time, he stayed loyal to the Company, before, of course, throwing his hat in the opposite direction a decade later, alongside Lakshmibai, Tantia Tope and other great heroes of Maratha lore.

At first, Ali had every reason, like his allies, to hope for victory. At Koonch, for instance, they had faced Company fire and lost despite technically being on the stronger side. As even their British opponent admitted: “While so many drawbacks weakened me, the enemy, physically speaking, was unusually strong. They were under three rebel leaders of considerable influence, Rao Sahib…the Nawab of Banda, and the Rani of Jhansi.” Their next reversal in Kalpi, however, rang the death knell of the dynasty founded by Mastani and Bajirao. Though Ali kept fighting for many more months, in November 1858, when he realized that theirs was fast becoming a lost cause, he surrendered. And though he was accused of several crimes, his life was spared—Bajirao’s great-grandson was exiled to Indore with a reduced pension of ₹36,000, and there he lived till his death in 1873, a prisoner in his own house.

(My column in Mint Lounge, November 30 2019)

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In 1511, there went to the grave in Gujarat a sultan called Mahmud Begada. Many are the tales that surround this formidably successful prince, including one or two colourful accounts left by European travellers. One, for instance, records the ruler’s penchant for everyday poison: from his childhood, claimed Duarte Barbosa, the man was fed toxins in measured doses, so that if “a fly touched him, as soon as it reached his flesh it forthwith died”, while “women as slept with him (also, sadly) perished”. Earlier, Ludovico di Varthema, too, made note of this inventive means to immunize, adding, however, that the sultan could use his own consequently venomous saliva to destroy opponents—all he had to do was spit on those who annoyed him, guaranteeing death to the poor souls in less than an hour.

While the obvious exaggerations can be discarded, it certainly is a fact that Mahmud Begada needed protection as a boy. His father Muhammad Shah II, whose faith was Islam but whose veins also carried Rajput blood, died, leaving a grown son to sit on his throne. Mahmud’s mother, a Sindhi princess, feared her stepson and sought protection through marriage for herself and her child with an influential Sufi brother-in-law. There, Mahmud grew into adolescence till, in 1458, he was enthroned after the passing of his half-brother, funnily enough, as victim to a poison plot. He married the dead man’s wife and showed himself early on as capable of both fury and courage: When a plot was discovered, Mahmud inaugurated his 53-year reign fittingly with executions and a veritable pool of blood.

Like most successful kings in his day, Mahmud was both a conqueror and an efficient ruler, with, however, a pronounced religious zeal. In Sindh, for instance, after he accepted the surrender of local chieftains, he found their Islam still deeply rooted in Hindu cultural practice—the result was that some of them were shipped to a religious boot-camp to be reinstructed in the faith and in its diligent exercise. Equally, he used religion whenever it aided his quest for treasure and territory. Junagadh, for instance, was under the rule of a vassal Hindu. The latter one day paraded himself with the marks of a sovereign, infuriating Mahmud. As a peace offering, the raja sent his robes and the state parasol to court, but a little later annexation was, nevertheless, announced. Asked what his crime was, Mahmud coolly replied that the raja’s infidel faith was reason enough.

Some Hindus did, however, flourish under Mahmud’s raj. His court poet Udayaraja composed in the 1460s, for instance, a Sanskrit mahakavya (epic) called the Mahmuda-Suratrana-Carita, in which the sultan is likened in strength to Bhim, in generosity to Karn, in mercy to Ram, and in the glory of his court to Indra. His patronage of scholarship was so magnificent, we read, that the goddess of learning, Saraswati, herself chose to abandon heaven to take up residence in Gujarat. But for the most part, patronage was reserved for Islam: Sufis were deputed to certain areas of the realm in order to popularize the faith through worship and song, while stories circulated of how the Prophet himself appeared before the sultan in a dream, hinting that he wage war. In Junagadh, its raja was spared after he accepted Islam; elsewhere, those who refused were done away with at once.

This was what happened in Champaner, for instance, in 1484. Held till then by Rajputs, it was Mahmud’s victory there after Junagadh which earned him the sobriquet Begada (“be” for two in Gujarati, and “gad” for forbidding fortress). The vanquished ruler and his minister both preferred, even in defeat, to remain Hindu, and for this they were executed. A decade earlier, the chieftain of Dwarka had also annoyed the sultan, whose fury was roused especially after a maulana’s ship was looted by local pirates. Not only was Dwarka sacked and its celebrated temple destroyed, the chieftain’s body was cut into pieces, with a segment hung over each of the 12 gates of Ahmedabad. In 1465, Parsis, too, had felt the force of Mahmud’s ire: They fought for their ruler in Sanjan, not only to be routed, as the epic poem Qissa-i-Sanjan relates, but also forced to move with their sacred fire to more hospitable terrain.

His violence—which was not unusual for the time—and his religious fervour did not, however, come in the way of efficient administration. Through well-policed roads, Mahmud connected the urban and commercial nodes of his kingdom, launching massive construction and town-building projects. After he took Champaner, the sultan made it his new capital, not neglecting Ahmedabad, however—he reconstructed the city’s walls and developed the place, in 16th century historian Ferishta’s words, into “the most handsome city in Hindustan”. The very masons and architects who built temples now worked on mosques, leaving a noticeable Hindu influence in Mahmud’s monuments. His years on the throne brought prosperity to the land, not to speak of satisfaction to the ruler. As Mahmud declared once, “If Allah had not given his unworthy slave rule over Gujarat, who would have satisfied his hunger?”

Hunger this man with a legendary moustache certainly had: He could eat up to 150 plantains in a day, and even when he napped, liked to have trays of samosas nearby, should he wake up and feel like a bite. His harem was large, featuring African favourites, though he also had moods when he could be wistful and full of unromantic remorse: “Ah! Kazi, it is well with me,” he once cried when congratulated after a military victory, “but you should tell me of those whose sons and brothers have become martyrs.” For the most part, though, Mahmud was a prince of resolve and a man of unyielding faith. As the Mirat-i-Sikandari, a Persian-language history of medieval Gujarat under Muslim rule, sums up, “He added glory and lustre to the kingdom of Gujarat…and whether for abounding justice and generosity; for success in religious war and for the diffusion of the laws of Islam,” in the end, he was “excellence” in human form.


(My column in Mint Lounge, November 23 2019)

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In October 1949, M.K. Vellodi, who helped V.P. Menon in the integration of the princely states, submitted a report on Travancore in the south. The ex-ruler of the region, Balarama Varma, had acceded to the Indian union in return for a privy purse as well as allowances for members of his matrilineal family. Proposals were put forth by the maharaja with regard to his mother, i.e. the junior maharani, and his sister, but another branch of the royal house was, oddly, neglected. As Vellodi recorded, “During my discussions…with the Maharaja, he not once referred even to the existence of (his aunt) the Senior Maharani” and “completely omitted” her and her children from the table—a detail that was especially puzzling given that the latter was “regarded…with greater affection than either the Junior Maharani or her son” by the state’s six million subjects.

For Sethu Lakshmi Bayi, whose birth anniversary it was this month, such treatment from her nephew was not surprising. For years, she had been living in a gilded cage, seemingly privileged but also entirely powerless. A few months earlier, for instance, when Vellodi had paid her a simple courtesy call, she was thrilled—as one account notes, for nearly two decades she had been so eclipsed that his visit became “one of the rare occasions when a person of status from outside the state called on her”. Now, as integration was being discussed, the maharaja did summon her, only to announce that her family would continue receiving their modest allowances—her daughters, for instance, were allotted less than half the income granted to the ruler’s sister. So when Vellodi and Menon stepped in and ensured a fairer distribution, the maharani was so grateful, she sent an effusive letter of thanks for this “sympathy”.

Sethu Lakshmi Bayi had not always been in the position of a supplicant. Installed as queen in Travancore before the age of 6, she once enjoyed near absolute power. Between 1924-31, she governed the state with immense success, winning praise not only from stalwarts of the Raj but also from nationalist icons. Revenues rose, massive budgetary allocations were made for public works and education, electricity and telephone services appeared, and modern medical facilities were made accessible to a third of her people. Minorities thrived in Sethu Lakshmi Bayi’s regime, as she defied conservative pressure and offered senior positions (including the chief ministership) to Christians and marginalized groups. In 1929, the viceroy referred to her rule as a period of “unexampled prosperity” while Mahatma Gandhi, impressed by her “severe simplicity”, declared her “an object lesson” for other, less service-minded princes.

As the product of a fading matrilineal society, in theory Sethu Lakshmi Bayi ought to have lived a life of tremendous influence: When in power, she was addressed with the male honorific of maharaja, for instance, and while the British defined her as regent for her nephew, in practice they permitted her to govern like any other male ruler. She created spaces for women in society (providing police protection to Kerala’s first low-caste film actress, and sending women across caste divides into a representative council) but presented herself as the ideal of orthodox femininity—one middle-aged colonial agent even had to reluctantly get married because the maharani thought it scandalous to entertain a bachelor. But the tightrope she walked between tradition and modernity endeared her to her people, and it was precisely this popularity that impressed Vellodi and Menon decades later. As the former noted, though she had long been out of power, any discrimination in 1949 against Sethu Lakshmi Bayi “would not only be unjust” but also “unpopular in the State”.

Mass adulation did not, however, protect the senior maharani from the insidious politics of the palace. Relations between the maharaja and his mother, on the one hand, and Sethu Lakshmi Bayi had been strained for years, and as power shifted from her hands into those of her nephew, the maharani’s downfall was sealed. Described once as a “very striking smallish woman…with a delicate beautiful face, and shy manner”, she found herself unable to prevail in the resultant quarrels. Like successive British representatives, Vellodi also put on record how “various kinds of humiliation and illtreatment (sic)” were inflicted on her: A pension was granted for her services to the state, for example, but only after much graceless bickering. And it was still considerably less than the allowance casually bestowed on the maharaja’s teenaged brother a few years later.

For a decade after she relinquished authority, Sethu Lakshmi Bayi tried to protest the hostility of her nephew’s government, appealing to the British for justice. But the Raj abandoned her to her fate. By the 1940s, then, she had been forced into obedience: Even her official residence and household was no longer in her control. The result was that to the government of independent India she made only one significant request—that it give her a guarantee that the palace she had built, and in which her children were raised, would continue to be hers. Menon did try: He requested the maharaja to confirm this in 1950, and when the plea was ignored, sent a reminder in 1951. “I do not see the necessity for giving a formal assurance,” wrote the maharaja in response. Frustrated and seeking freer lives, Sethu Lakshmi Bayi’s daughters left for good, and, in 1957, the maharani too departed the land she had once ruled, never to return.

Sethu Lakshmi Bayi died nearly three decades later, bedridden in Bengaluru, watching, as a grandson recalls, “the dusk slip in and out of a series of windows”. Sometime after she transferred ownership even of her bungalow to her family, a visitor came calling. To them the ex-maharani remarked with a smile of resignation: “Once I had a kingdom. But that is gone. Then I thought I had my palace, but that is gone too. Then I thought this house was mine, but now I can only say this room is mine.” When she died in 1985, it was a quiet affair in a public crematorium. For the maharaja who followed in 1991, there was, of course, a state funeral.

(My column in Mint Lounge, November 16 2019)


In the town of Chengannur in Kerala, there stands an old church called the Pazheya Suriyani Pally. Locals tell different stories about its consecration, featuring curses and miracles, and each of these is, in its own way, endearing. One tale, for instance, suggests that when Christians first came to these parts, they sought from the reigning Brahmin chieftain of the area a site where they could pray. The chief in question, called the Vanjipuzha Tampuran, without hesitation pointed in the direction of an almost-finished temple and asked for this to be made over to his newest subjects. The latter accepted the premises gratefully, and so it was that the Christians moved into a would-be Hindu shrine, venerating Christ and his message ever since in a space presented by an orthodox Kerala Brahmin.

While the current structure in Chengannur dates perhaps to the 18th century, it is, interestingly, replete with numerous Malayali architectural influences that would typically be construed as Hindu. Stone lamps, dwarapalakas or sentinels (in this case supposed to be Peter and Paul), gables, a tiled roof and brass vilakkus (traditional lamps) bring the Pazheya Suriyani Pally closer in appearance to nearby temples than to Western churches. In Kerala’s context, this is not surprising. Near the city of Kottayam further north stands the Thazathangadi mosque, which, like most old Islamic structures on the coast, also features magnificent woodwork and tiles, not a dome and minarets—a consequence of the reality that the very masons and carpenters who built temples to Shiva, Vishnu and Shakti were also the architects of houses of worship for Allah and Mary.

The oldest mosque in Kerala, however, is the Cheraman Juma Masjid, believed to date to 629 AD—a claim that would make it the earliest Islamic site in India itself, established in the lifetime of Prophet Muhammad. There are, of course, quibbles about how far the legend is accurate, but claims of its antiquity may not altogether be overstated. While we don’t know if Islam reached Kerala precisely in the early seventh century, just over 200 years later there was certainly a Muslim community there prominent enough to witness and sign in Arabic a royal grant by a Hindu king to a Christian merchant. In other words, when Sthanu Ravi Varma Kulasekhara issued orders in favour of Mar Sapir Iso (who also built a church in Kollam) in the mid-800s, among those present were Maymun, son of Ibrahim, and Bakr, son of Mansur.

Legends, in that sense, are not an objective statement of fact but sometimes offer hints and glimmers of a distant truth. The Cheraman Juma Masjid is also linked, for instance, to the tale of the mythical ruler, Cheraman Perumal. The story goes that this king of all Kerala saw from his palace (or in another version, in a dream) the moon splitting into two. Later, when Arab traders arrived at his court and claimed that this was the Prophet’s miracle, the Perumal decided it was imperative that he travel to Mecca and meet with Muhammad himself. He divided his kingdom among his followers and kin, set sail, and died in Arabia as a devout Muslim. While this is the founding legend, in a way, for Muslims in Kerala—for it was one of the Perumal’s friends who came to the region later and built the Cheraman Juma Masjid—even the Brahmin text, the Keralolpathi, talks of this ruler and his embrace of Islam.

But the Perumal’s is merely one such tale. Even small rulers and chieftains in the generations and centuries to come welcomed other faiths, and offered spaces for their ideas and gods. It was the Njavakkattu Karthavu, whose family claims Rajput descent, who donated land to Christians in Meenachil taluka in the state, and supported their commercial enterprises. It was the Cochin raja’s Nair minister, the Paliath Achan, who permitted construction of a synagogue in Chendamangalam for Jews, and it was his family which, till a few decades ago, supplied oil for the principal lamp in a nearby church. In some temple processions, the scholar Susan Bayly found, images of St Thomas were carried along with those of Hindu deities, and there are legends in which Muslim and Christian characters sit alongside their Brahminical brothers and sisters.

In the wake of the Supreme Court’s judgement in the Ayodhya masjid-mandir matter, many have compared the feuds between Hindus and Muslims in north India with this accommodative, more friendly reality of Kerala. There are, to be fair, differences in context: While several Malayali places of worship, including living Hindu temples, occupy shrines that were once Buddhist and Jain, there is practically no recent history of functioning temples being seized for mosques in the south. The experience of Islam in Kerala, with exceptions in the colonial era, was one of friendship with Hinduism and the Christian faith, not of political antagonism. In the north, these dynamics are somewhat more complicated by a past that featured greater conflict, so that even now grievances 500 years old apparently require a 21st century redressal.

There is, however, something to be learnt from the tale of Cheraman Perumal and the masjid bearing the name of this Hindu king on India’s west coast. Perhaps it was because Kerala was traditionally a trading society that the “foreign” did not always seem alien—that there was always room for the new, for the unfamiliar, and for the different to be welcomed and made one’s own. While elsewhere there may be other stories, and lasting memories of loss and pain, deprivation and violence, perhaps we can try and look ahead. Like Cheraman Perumal, who saw an idea he liked and set sail to discover it, we too can seek inspiration from other, calmer terrains.

Perumal’s legend means the Muslim will always be at home with the Hindu and Christian in Kerala—the church and the mosque, after all, has equal antiquity as the temple. Perhaps these are the stories and histories we need to highlight outside Kerala too so that as Indians we can realize something our wiser forbears always knew—that while there are indeed many differences, we may yet be able to peacefully live together.

(My column in Mint Lounge, November 09 2019)


In 1835, Fanny Parkes, the travel writer from Wales, encountered in the north Indian town of Fatehgarh a middle-aged Maratha princess. The latter didn’t speak English but shared with Parkes a love of well-bred horses. At their very first meeting, she expressed a desire to see an English lady ride, for the simple reason that “she could not comprehend how they could sit all crooked”—Maratha women, after all, sat astride like their men, never side-saddle. Parkes agreed to a demonstration, and some days later, appeared at the old indigo-factory-turned-royal camp with her steed. When one of her hostess’ attendants playfully asked if she would try the Indian style, Parkes accepted the challenge—changing into “Mahratta costume”, she acquitted herself creditably, noting in her diary: “I thought of Queen Elizabeth and her stupidity in changing the style of riding for women (in Britain).” For the Maratha fashion “appeared so safe…I could have jumped over the moon”.

Parkes was an adventurous woman, but her new Maratha friend’s credentials were no less formidable. Born in 1784 into the aristocratic Ghatge family of Kagal, Baiza Bai was 14 when she married Daulat Rao Scindia, the young maharaja of Gwalior. It was a union of mutual interest: He delivered power to the marriage, while her pristine Maratha bloodline compensated for the modest origins of her husband’s lineage. Her father, Sakharam Ghatge, became a courtier to the maharaja, tending, however, to fall in and out of favour; owing to his staunch anti-British sentiment, an 1805 treaty Scindia signed with the East India Company explicitly required him to expel his father-in-law from positions of influence. Ghatge, however, remained a hot-tempered force to reckon with. In 1809, an act of lèse-majesté saw the maharaja order his detention, and when the old man resisted, he was cut down.

Baiza Bai was pregnant at the time. But while the shock was enormous, the event also gave her nerves of steel. Her husband was a hopeless ruler, as early as 1803 losing much of his territory to the British. She, however, was her father’s daughter: suspicious of the Company and capable of reckless bravery. As Parkes recorded, one dramatic story presents Baiza Bai leading her troops in battle, “with a lance in her hand, and her infant in her arms”. By the 1810s, as scholar Amar Farooqui notes, she was also extraordinarily wealthy: a banker in her own right, capable of extending (and demanding back) enormous loans to the British, her personal fortune was estimated at 3 crore. All this meant that when in 1827 her husband died without a male heir, the queen made transparent her own ambitions to reign. She did, of course, announce that she would burn herself on Daulat Rao’s funeral pyre. But as one commentator dryly remarked, “Nobody believes this as regards Baiza Bai.”

For about six years, Baiza Bai was at the helm of affairs in Gwalior, acknowledged even by the British as a ruler of “great ability”. She adopted a boy distantly related to her husband, but “kept the young chief uneducated” in order to ensure he would never become a challenge. “Her policy was to dwarf the growth of his mind,” we learn, and develop in him a “vague and indefinite fear of her, (so) that in future he might not shake off her thraldom”. Coins were issued in her name and orders were passed under her own seal, till, in 1829, the British objected. She cordially ignored them for as long as she could, adding quite bluntly that “during my lifetime, I should be allowed to retain supreme control of affairs”. It might have worked, for the adopted heir wasn’t particularly strong, but British objections put wind in the sails of an anti-Baiza Bai faction. In 1832, there was a falling out with the restive maharaja and the next year, troops mutinied in his name. Baiza Bai had no option but to flee into British territory.

It was two years into her exile that Parkes met her, noting how “she who once reigned…has now no roof to shelter her…(and) is forced to live in tents…(as) a state prisoner, in fact”. Using her enormous financial resources, Baiza Bai funded schemes against her adopted son; of course, with the result that chunks of her fortune were confiscated by the British. But it wasn’t easy to bully her: In Fatehgarh, though she had to deal with mutinies again, she still commanded 2,360 soldiers, the rest of her camp housing 5,000 followers. Moving to Allahabad, she defied British orders to settle in Benares, finally moving to Nashik on a substantial pension. Here too she was suspected of anti-British plotting. “How desirable it will be for your Highness to…remove from your presence all persons on whom suspicion may rest,” wrote the sceptical governor general to the ex-queen. “Is it possible,” replied Baiza Bai sweetly, “that I who have no other engagements than the worship of God, shall now in my old age engage myself in intrigues?”

With the death of her nemesis in Gwalior and the advent of a fresh adoptee, however, things took a turn for the better—in 1845, Baiza Bai proposed marrying her great-granddaughter to this new ruler, promising to leave him her fortune if he agreed. It was a tempting offer and the maharaja was seduced. Soon afterwards, she returned to Gwalior territory, and on the eve of the Great Rebellion of 1857, took up residence in the capital. The rebels did try to win her over to their cause but she did not want more quarrels with the British, living in peace till her death in 1863. Perhaps Fanny Parkes’ advice from years earlier had stayed with the queen. Lamenting colonial hostility to her, Baiza Bai had asked her friend for advice. “Jiska lathi ooska bhains (He who has the stick also has the buffalo),” Parkes had replied in Hindi. Both women burst out laughing and, as the traveller wrote, perhaps this “odd and absurd” proverb reconciled Baiza Bai to her fate.

(My column in Mint Lounge, November 02 2019)

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In the summer of 1913, The Sketch in London carried the picture of an exquisitely beautiful woman under the headline: “Not Engaged, After All”. The lady in the photograph was Indira Raje, daughter of the Gaekwad of Baroda. Two years earlier, she had been betrothed with much fanfare to the maharaja of Gwalior, their proposed union cast as the coming together of India’s chief Maratha houses. But for Indira herself, the arrangement led to panic: Not only was her fiancé significantly older, he was already once married. From a life of relative freedom in Baroda and abroad, she would have to live in strict purdah as a junior wife. Her suitor was also, it appeared, a man of stringent exactness—conjugal visits, for instance, were precisely proposed for Thursday nights. When soon afterwards she met the charming heir-presumptive of Cooch Behar, Indira did the unthinkable: She sent word to Gwalior that the wedding was off.

It was a scandal that caused her family tremendous embarrassment, but what The Sketch was referring to two summers later concerned her new romance. The London press was by now abuzz with reports of Indira’s impending marriage to the prince of Cooch Behar, but the bride’s parents denied consent. Not only was the Bengali suitor different in caste and religious practice, his family was considerably lower in the Raj’s order of precedence. Indira was carted off to Europe and guarded closely, but despite such parental machinations, the couple remained unmoved. In the end, when it looked like she might run away and cause even more humiliation, the Gaekwads reluctantly let their daughter marry the man she loved. In August 1913, Indira Raje of Baroda became Indira Devi of Cooch Behar, the venue of her wedding being a dull registrar’s office in central London.

Indira was not, however, to enjoy much nuptial happiness. While her husband succeeded soon as maharaja of Cooch Behar, within a decade he was dead due to “alcoholic excess”. In 1923, Indira became regent for her son, but only after warding off the ambitions of a brother-in-law who expected the office for himself. The rest of the Cooch Behar family was also a mess: Her late husband’s mother, despite a generous allowance, hoovered up debt in Britain and made “continuous demands for money”, while some years later, a sister-in-law who had married an Englishman publicly declared bankruptcy, with a net worth of £8. With five children to raise, Indira also had to manage hostile powers in her durbar, some of whom saw her as an outsider. One particular grandee was in fact banished after circulating a petition that alleged, among other things, that the merry widow of Cooch Behar was involved with a Muslim aide.

Indira certainly did startle many by refusing to abide by conventional notions of how a female in her position ought to behave. In a British record that describes her as “a fascinating lady with a remarkable character”, there is yet dismay that instead of settling down in Cooch Behar, she “made straight for London, which she has made her headquarters”. Her social life was colourful, and she lost large sums of money gambling in continental casinos—but only after she dazzled everyone with a turtle, its back studded with gems, placed by her side for good luck. Reports submitted to the imperial government noted with disapproval her patronage of the notorious 43 Club (with its drugs and other forms of decadence), and rumours of romantic indiscretions caused even the English king to grow “much annoyed” with Indira. “She demoralized the youth of the town”, we read, and the “notoriety she…gained by her loose style of living, her gambling, and her drinking propensities” led to firm orders, in the end, that she must retreat to India post haste.

When she returned to Cooch Behar in 1929, Indira had been away for two-and-a-half years—she had successfully extended her stay once by citing India’s bad climate as reason to carry on abroad. But if she wasn’t going to be allowed to live in England, she resolved to bring England to India. Grand tiger shoots and hunting parties were organized in the state: In 1935, the dukes of Northumberland and Norfolk, both senior British peers, visited Cooch Behar as the maharani’s guests, for instance, and one of the highlights in the palace was a rug made from the skins of 14 leopards shot by her daughter, Ila. But long stints in India also channelled her energies towards matters of state: The Great Depression wreaked havoc on Cooch Behar, slicing away over a third of its revenue. But as the viceroy put it during the accession of her son to power in 1936, “in the competent hands of Her Highness the Maharani Regent”, the state not only survived the crisis, but also managed to pay off long-pending debts.

Having handed over the reins of government, Indira soon returned to a life of glamour, even towards middle age being described as “one of the most beautiful” Indian princesses to enthral Western society. She threw sensational parties and continued to amaze and scandalize in equal measure—years ago, she had characteristically stunned reporters when, on the eve of the first flight by an Indian pilot from Britain all the way to the subcontinent, she appeared on the scene to smash a coconut and smear sandalwood paste on the aircraft’s propeller. In a speech delivered then, she also added matter-of-factly that while such a flight might be a feat in modern times, “aerial navigation of some kind” existed in “ancient India”, as confirmed by the Ramayan. But what really captures Indira’s personality is another tale from an airport elsewhere: Asked by an immigration officer inspecting her passport for a surname, the maharani replied with magnificent imperiousness, “I have no surname…I am Her Highness Indira of Cooch Behar.”

(My column in Mint Lounge, October 26 2019)


In 527 BC, a 72-year-old spiritual master died in the city of Pawa in Bihar. While the tales of many historical figures tell of their transformation from rags to riches, events occurred in the reverse in this case—at 30, the man gave up his royal identity, becoming an ascetic. All he had was his robe, till he abandoned clothes altogether. Naked, he pursued his spiritual quest, confronting many a challenge in the process—he was “beaten with sticks”, records one chronicle, while outside a village he was met by a mob that said to him in no uncertain terms, “Get away from here.” When he meditated, they “cut his flesh, tore his hair…(and) covered him with dust”. But the man persevered, attaining omniscience, it is said, in his 40s. Indeed, by the time he died, he had revitalized an old sramanic tradition of asceticism, winning legions of disciples and even kingly respect. He is now celebrated as Vardhaman Mahavir, the 24th Tirthankar of the Jains, and it was on Diwali day all those centuries ago that his mortal existence came to an end.

Through many an age, Diwali has endured as a festival of tremendous significance in India. Some see it as having evolved from an autumnal agrarian celebration: In the somewhat sniffy words of a colonial commentator, the festival marks the annual return of a time when “the granaries are full of corn, the tension of labour and anxiety about the harvest are…removed, the people are idle, and thus there is a natural tendency to outbreaks of eroticism and temporary relaxation of the laws of order”. To orthodox Jains, though, this was not originally about mere rejoicing—as a day that marks the attainment of moksha (salvation) by Mahavir, it was at first spent in silence, with fasts and other austerities as experienced by the 24th Tirthankar. Over time, though, more cheerful elements made their way into the Jain Diwali too. With many Jains being prosperous merchants and purveyors of trade, they too welcomed the goddess of wealth to their homes on this day, paving Lakshmi’s way with light and decorative opulence.

But even the Hindus never had just one Diwali—as with everything else in the faith, the festival of lights too can only be spoken of in the plural. One significant tradition declares this the day the hero of the Ramayan finally returned to his country and throne after 14 years in exile and victory over his asura foe, Ravana. Another highlights a story from the other great Indian epic, the Mahabharat, relating that it was on Diwali eve that Krishna slayed the arrogant Narakasura, liberating 16,000 women he had enslaved. Whatever the chief tradition, though, lamps and illumination are key to Diwali—even the Jains who stayed silent and fasted brightened up the night, remembering that when Mahavir died, 18 kings came together and declared, “Since the light of intelligence is gone, let us make an illumination of material matter.” Akbar and Jahangir ensured the Mughals celebrated Diwali in their courts, while visitors to Vijayanagar in the south too noticed the “innumerable number of lamps of oil…which (were) kept burning day and night” on this festive occasion.

The advent of gunpowder, interestingly, made Diwali an event featuring more than just magnificent lights. In the second half of the 18th century, for instance, the celebrated Maratha general Mahadji Scindia wrote to his master, the Peshwa, about events in Kota in Rajasthan. “The Divali festival,” he noted, “is celebrated for 4 days at Kota when lacs of lamps are lighted.” But remarkably, “the Raja of Kota during these 4 days gives a display of fire-works outside the premises of his capital.” The whole setup was described as the “Lanka of fire-works”, featuring an image of the asura king Ravana in the centre, with the monkey-warrior Hanuman nearby. These and the smaller figures were “all prepared of gunpowder”. The whole thing was designed in such a fashion that when Hanuman’s tail was lit—in remembrance of an episode in the Ramayan—he “begins to fly in the air, setting fire to various houses in this Lanka of fireworks”. So intrigued was the Peshwa by this report that a similar contrivance was engineered even in Pune, setting the ball rolling for modern Diwalis with fireworks and displays.

The festival was celebrated even by those who did not live in the splendid palaces and great cities of India’s agrarian and commercial heartlands. Bhil tribes in Khandesh saw Diwali as a three-day affair, featuring buffalo sacrifices and a generous amount of alcohol. Celebrations in Maharashtra venerated the asura king Bali, who was defeated and banished from his land by the dwarf avatar of Vishnu—a somewhat un-Sanskritic detail in a festival formally replete with Sanskritic references. Ahir cattle herders, meanwhile, saw Diwali as an occasion not to recall Krishna as the slayer of Narakasura, but in his avatar as a cowherd. They would create a mound to stand in for the sacred hill of Govardhan that features in Krishna’s childhood tales, “dance round it, and make the cattle trample it to pieces”. Gammallas in Telugu country, meanwhile, were distillers for whom Diwali was a day to venerate serpent gods, in whose honour they visited anthills believed to house the most potent snakes.

In essence, though, celebrating the power of light in throwing off even the most forbidding cloaks of darkness remains the principal physical and philosophical motif for Diwali. The 13th century Jnaneshwari, in fact, compares the shine of Diwali’s festive lamps to the light of knowledge—an attractive metaphor, perhaps, for our own time, which seems to be seized by the creeping darkness of wilful ignorance. Those bearing today’s lamps may have to endure much like Mahavir did in his own day—but it is a quest worth its exactions, for even a single flickering flame is capable of keeping shadows at bay.

(My column in Mint Lounge, October 19 2019)

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For a few hours on 28 April 1875, the capital of princely Baroda found itself gripped by an anti-British revolt. The state’s ruler, Malhar Rao Gaekwad, had been deposed less than a week before, with the wheels set in motion to adopt a new heir to the royal gaddi. But acolytes of the ex-maharaja made one final attempt to thwart the colonial establishment’s designs. With the aid of the palace guard, they took charge of the infant son of the junior maharani, Lakshmi Bai, and invigorated by the blessings of senior queen Mahalsa Bai, installed him on the throne. It was a hopeless enterprise, though, for no sooner did British troops appear at the gates than the rebellion was aborted. And in two days’ time, both maharanis and the would-be prince were put on a train and shipped out from Baroda into dignified oblivion.

Malhar Rao’s dramatic fall from power quite matched the colourful standards he had set in other areas of his life. Born in 1831, by his early 30s he had been incarcerated far from the palace after a botched attempt to murder his reigning brother. The latter was not a particularly talented ruler, but loyalty to the British during the great rebellion of 1857 prevented too much imperial interference, leaving the maharaja free to pursue his love of gems and jewels—in 1867, he purchased one of the largest diamonds in the world, becoming famous also for casting cannons made of pure silver. His death in 1870, however, meant his treacherous brother was released and propelled to power. And among the first things Malhar Rao ordered were two fresh cannons, this time made of gold.

Baroda under Malhar Rao went from bad to worse. In 1874, it was discovered, for instance, that though revenue stood at 94 lakh, the ruler had managed to spend nearly twice that figure: 40 lakh had been distributed to his favourites, and another 30 lakh had been spent on palaces. A little later, when the British agent at court inspected the treasury, he found less than 2,000 within, while 85 lakh was hidden in the harem. “Misgovernment at Baroda is the crying evil of Guzerath,” cried the weekly Hitechhu, noting more “caprice and savageness” in Malhar Rao than in “his barbarous predecessor”. The state troops had not been paid and were on the verge of mutiny, and even nobles at court were disgusted by the manner in which they were squeezed dry by the maharaja’s henchmen.

For Malhar Rao, things became particularly bad when the British appointed a colonel called Robert Phayre as their representative in 1873. As the viceroy himself later acknowledged, this man “did not show sufficient consideration” to the ruler and was most arrogant. But the maharaja’s conduct was not defensible either. He was sadistic in dealing with his predecessor’s servants: a minister, for instance, was deprived of all his property and made to “sweep the drains of the city”, after which he died mysteriously in prison. Complaints by the dozen were lodged with the British on how women had been seized and compelled to serve in the palace. Muslim as well as Brahmin girls, as young as 13 and 14, had been picked off the streets: in one instance, the wife of a merchant locked herself in a temple to escape this fate. Appalled, even the ruler’s daughter left the capital.

While, in 1873, Malhar Rao referred to Phayre as “my best friend”, it was clear from the onset that this relationship would not be anything but antagonistic. Startled by the latter’s reports, that year the British instituted a commission to inquire into conditions in Baroda, despite the maharaja’s appeals not to humiliate him in this fashion. In the end, while the commission noted some exaggerations in the 92 complaints against the ruler, it also found that much was true: 200 witnesses were cross-examined, and it was confirmed that “respectable married and unmarried women” had indeed been abducted; there was “unusual harshness” in the style of government; creditors were not being paid their dues; and force was used to wantonly harass bankers and wealthy citizens.

With newspapers, including the “native press”, clamouring for his removal, Malhar Rao grew nervous: In August that year, he had even fallen at Phayre’s feet and “taking off his cap, burst into a violent fit of sobbing”. Malhar Rao imported Dadabhai Naoroji to serve as minister, but with poor results: Boxed in by a domineering British official and a prince still in the hands of his favourites, Naoroji chose to resign. By late 1874, things were unusually bad, not least because the British refused to recognize Lakshmi Bai as a legitimate maharani: Her caste was questionable, she had allegedly been married before, and rumour had it that she was a mere labourer before being snatched for the harem. Before the end of the year, Malhar Rao wrote to the viceroy complaining about Phayre’s “uncompromising bias against me”, while the latter almost simultaneously sent in the ominous message: “Bold attempt to poison me…has been providentially frustrated.”

This, then, became the straw that broke the royal back. In 1875, a second commission came to Baroda to investigate this charge of attempted murder, featuring three British grandees as well as two maharajas and a leading Indian statesman. Over 50 witnesses were examined. It was confirmed that servants in Phayre’s household had indeed tried to poison him; that these men were in contact with the maharaja; and that they had been paid large sums. But whether this meant Malhar Rao had given the actual order split the commissioners: The Indian members felt there was no conclusive evidence, while their British colleagues held the ruler guilty. In the end, Malhar Rao was deposed anyway, not for attempted murder, but for “notorious misconduct” and “gross mismanagement of the State”. Quietly, the maharaja was sent into exile in Madras far away. And here he died an embittered pensioner in 1882, unmourned in the state where his gems and cannons remained.

(My column in Mint Lounge, October 12 2019)


In 1773, a scandal of historic proportions engulfed the headquarters of the Maratha Confederacy in Pune. The ruling peshwa had been murdered at the behest of his uncle, who perceived his nephew less as a distinguished personage and more as an impediment to his own ambitions. The dead peshwa was the last of a generation of brothers, all of whom had met untimely ends: The eldest fell in battle, the second died of tuberculosis, and now the youngest was killed in cold blood. But for all his pains, their uncle did not quite receive the reward he expected—though he set himself up as the peshwa, he was promptly ejected. While it was a party of courtiers that pushed the would-be ruler out of the capital, what lent moral force to their cause was the verdict of an upright judge. For soon after that sensational crime in the palace, the chief justice of the confederacy announced that the prize for such a heinous offence was not power but the sentence of death.

Ramshastri Prabhune was in his day nothing short of a legal celebrity. Born around 1720 near Satara, this Brahmin originally served the peshwas as an attendant—in 1739, he appears for the first time in the records as the recipient of a monthly salary of 40. Somewhere in the next decade, however, he fell out of favour and quit his master’s court for Varanasi. And having acquired formidable knowledge of Sanskritic legal traditions there, he returned, and was appointed in the early 1750s to a council of shastris in the peshwa’s court. Before the end of the decade, he had established a reputation so outstanding that he became chief justice, with such “fearless independence” and “extreme truthfulness”, in the words of a chronicler, that few “equaled Ram Shastri in the influence he wielded over the public and the respect he received from all”. Indeed, even the ruling family treated him with deference: One peshwa referred to himself as Prabhune’s “disciple”, and his 1759 salary of 1,000 per month was raised by the end of his life to twice that figure—a princely sum by the time’s standards.

Prabhune did not, to be fair, preside over a system that follows patterns appealing to our world today, though it did fit the realities of India in the 18th century. Instead of a single rulebook guiding legal wisdom across the board, much depended on custom, caste, locality, even the affluence of the persons involved. For instance, there was no single penalty for the same crime: A rich convict could be compelled to pay tens of thousands of rupees while a cowherd might be asked, for the same offence, to submit 20kg of ghee. What mattered was that the fine had to test each individual’s personal limits and cause material pain: In one case, a Hindu woman having an affair with a Muslim was fined 50 against the latter’s 7. The social station of a person also determined the quantum and nature of punishment. In the instance of a man accused of both drunkenness and adultery, the alcohol he consumed gave greater offence than the fact that he was in bed with a married woman—this because he was a Brahmin from whom sobriety was a basic expectation.

Hundreds were the judgements Prabhune issued in his decades-long career, and these ranged from sexual deviance and murder to caste disputes and succession. In one case where the exact position of a caste was in question—with the community claiming Kshatriya status and Brahmins refusing to grant them anything superior to Sudra rank—Prabhune went against much pressure and conceded the former claim. So too he frowned on games, as Rosalind O’Hanlon puts it, of “temporization and evasion” played by clever defendants. In a family dispute on property, for example, one of the parties initially refused to produce documents pertaining to their claim. When at last ordered to submit the relevant papers, the lady attempted to ensure that these would be perused behind closed doors. The judge refused: “We are not going to look at them in a corner, because then doubts will remain.” “If we do not look at the papers before the assembly,” he declared, “it will be nothing but the work of thieves”—an interesting argument in our time of opaque “sealed cover” jurisprudence.

Many are the tales also of Prabhune’s guidance in matters concerning his masters personally. One story relates how a peshwa became rather fond of spiritual pursuits, neglecting affairs of state. “Your duty,” the chief justice said firmly, “is to attend first to the welfare of your people.” And if spiritual urges were so overwhelming, “resign your throne…and pass your life as strictly as the Shastras enjoin a Brahman to do”. The peshwa chose the material world, not god. Equally, Prabhune too was aided financially by the ruling house: In the late 1760s, and again in the mid-1780s, he received large sums of money from the government to clear debts he had mysteriously accumulated. Such munificence did not, however, make him a mindless lackey. After his conviction of the murdered peshwa’s uncle, Prabhune resigned in disgust, agreeing to return only after assurances that the next ruler would never interfere in the business of justice.

Of course, as in our times, even then such a principled stand was easier stated than taken. Prabhune certainly succeeded, till he died in October 1789, with his reputation intact. And into the seat of the chief justice came a protégé, equally learned and honest, but not firm enough to withstand political duress: The peshwa and his men meddled as they pleased, till the judge gave up and became an ascetic. It was an ominous turn, marking the beginning of the end—for soon enough, the same peshwa, son of the murderer Prabhune had years ago sentenced to death, made even greater political blunders, ringing the death knell of the independent Maratha state.

(My column in Mint Lounge, October 05 2019)

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In 1892 a strange event transpired in princely Pudukkottai, causing a sensation in the corridors of imperial power. The maharani of the state, Janaki Subbamma, had ordered a special sacrifice of “one hundred cobras hung by the tail” over a fire. While sorcery was not unusual in Indian courts—in the 17th century, the ruler of Madurai deployed it against the Vijayanagar emperor, for instance—the difference was that the British were now watching. Their sentiments about the maharani were already negative: A few years earlier, after she prevailed upon her daughter to claim they were all about to be poisoned by their minister, she was described as a “thoroughly dangerous and intriguing woman”. But Janaki Subbamma was not cowed, and as she saw it, her enemy entirely deserved the fate that a serpent sacrifice was expected to bring about.

As a student in 1840s Madras, Sir Seshiah Sastri could not have dreamt that he would one day be at the receiving end of black magic or that his staunchest opponent would be a maharani. The fifth son of a Brahmin priest, it was his luck that an uncle plucked him from their village and enrolled him in a mission school. When some fellow students took the message of their teachers seriously enough to denounce their Hindu origins, Sastri was moved to a new institution by his family. It was a turning point in his life—he would now obtain an English education, and before him opened up the possibility of achieving that coveted thing: full-time employment as a government clerk. By 20, he was in a “sirkar” office, and with it came a steady salary of 12 and a half, a guaranteed pension down the line, an opportunity to lift his family out of their drudgery, and, most importantly, upward mobility.

In the mid-19th century, clerical positions were of great significance to Indians. Not only had the British organized new systems of governance, which had constant need for bureaucrats, but colonial officers were also redefining power in princely territories—British agents in these courts would bring along a train of English-speaking Indian clerks to aid them in their stated quest of imposing “progress”. They were, in a sense, collaborators of the Raj, but the process also placed Indians in posts of much influence over time. Sastri’s schoolmates, all of whom were initially clerks, included T. Madhava Rao and V. Ramiengar: all three, celebrated as “native statesman”, became chief ministers to Indian maharajas. The locus standi of the Raj was that the British were in the subcontinent to “civilize” it, but these brown men, despite acquiescing to the imperial rulebook, proved that Indians, too, could rule.

Sastri was based in Masulipatnam, having become tehsildar (sub-district head) at the age of 23. He handled law and order, tax matters, religious disputes, and even opened a debating club. But Sastri and his ilk also represented a shift in power from traditional local middle castes into the hands of a mobile, British-sponsored Brahmin bureaucracy: a dynamic that would provoke protests about “Brahmin dominance” in due course. But equally, his fellow Indians and he also smashed glass ceilings. When Sastri was appointed head sheristadar (district head), Madhava Rao wrote with delight: “I was rejoiced to hear that so early you are in the highest post accessible to natives in the Revenue line. There is not the least doubt that you deserve…far higher. Perhaps and probably, you will be the means of opening to our countrymen the higher walks of the service. You are probably destined to enter them first, bidding your brethren to follow you!”

By his mid-40s, Sastri was prominent enough to succeed Rao as minister in Travancore, on a magnificent salary of 2,000. Gone by this time was the mind that once saw clerical work as the height of ambition—he now harboured clear ideas of “progress”, government, and even how Indian princes should behave, in a mix of Brahmin orthodoxy with Western modernity. Sastri’s tenure in Travancore was successful but his relations with the ruler soured: The latter saw areas his minister was keen to dominate as an infringement of his royal prerogatives. Next, he moved to small, almost bankrupt Pudukkottai. As Sastri himself wrote, “Misrule had led to the ruin of (the state)” and things were “on the brink” when he began his 16-year stint. He pleased the ruler by getting him upgraded from “His Excellency” to “His Highness” but from the start found it difficult to deal with the maharani.

Things reached a head after 1886, when the maharaja died and Sastri became regent for his heir. While his administrative capacities were strong, his notions on how the royal family should act put him at war with the maharani. For instance, like the Victorians, he did not approve of devadasis serving Janaki Subbamma; for the latter, however, these literate “public women” were the eyes and ears that linked her to the outside world. He dismissed the maharani’s views on preserving old ways as superstition; she countered that to “meet me with the plea that my objections are untenable because they are superstitious is a dangerous…slip from the domain of sentiment to the domain of religion”. Their views on how the boy-prince should be raised also clashed: Sastri wanted an Indian ruler who married West to East in idealized harmony, while to the queen modernity was a creeping encroachment to tame her family.

In the end, both failed. In 1894, the English-educated heir was enthroned, and while the maharani wanted him entirely Indian and Sastri sought an Anglo-Indian blend, he proved himself altogether Western in all but skin. The grand old minister’s only consolation, perhaps, was that he didn’t live to see the worst: A little over a decade after Sastri’s death in 1903, his protégé shocked even the British by marrying an Australian. Obtaining a handsome pension, he abandoned Pudukkottai—in the process rebelling against the bureaucrat who tried to define him, as well as the queen who sacrificed serpents in a quest to “protect” him.

(My column in Mint Lounge, September 28 2019)


In 1461, the Bahmani sultan in the Deccan was stabbed to death by a maidservant. He had reigned for only three years, but in that time already achieved enough to be recalled as Humayun the Cruel. His career began, for instance, with a younger brother challenging him for power—Humayun walked into court, slapped his sibling off the throne, and later had the man thrown before tigers. Others who backed the wrong horse in this contest, many of them senior Persian nobles, were boiled alive. A local faction rose instead to prominence, revealing again the constant tussle for authority between various interests: There were Dakhnis, or Indian Muslims; migrants from the glamorous Persian world called Afaqis; emerging Maratha lords; not to speak of Habshis, or African military slaves.

Indeed, the story of the Bahmanis is one of an eternal quest for the right balance of power: The Dakhnis formed the empire’s core, linked closely to Hindu elites on the ground, but the Afaqis connected it to international networks of trade and culture in the wider Islamic world. A good sultan was one who managed to keep all factions in check, while a bad one took sides, sometimes losing his own head. Humayun’s death left things in an unusually perilous condition, for his heirs were children. The older one died, so the younger would succeed to power, but in the interim it was his queen, Nargis, who had to rule through a council. Its first chief made the mistake of insulting her, so he was murdered. Instead, there emerged another talented nobleman, remembered ever since as the Deccan’s “Prince of Merchants”.

Mahmud Gawan, who would serve the Bahmanis for over 25 years, was originally a man of commerce. He dealt in slaves, pearls, silks and horses, and was educated in Cairo and Damascus. In another example of how business and power were entwined in the early modern Deccan, Gawan was made a nobleman almost instantly after his introduction to the sultan. Successful military expeditions in the late 1450s raised him in the eyes of his sovereign, adding to the advantage his personal networks brought to the Bahmanis. He could deliver to them the best warhorses, just as he succeeded in importing poets and scholars, whose presence at court was key to royal prestige. His own intellectual interests meant that Gawan corresponded directly with personages as significant as the Ottoman sultan and the king of Egypt, all of which turned his connection with the Bahmanis into a marriage of mutual interest.

By 1466, Gawan was the most senior figure at court, bringing a businessman’s efficiency to matters of state. To balance Dakhnis and Afaqis, he distributed governorships equally between their representatives. All the same, as scholar Richard Eaton writes, he reduced the size of estates—and, correspondingly, armies—held by individual amirs, increasing central power at the cost of potentially refractory nobles. He improved fortifications across the empire, snatched Goa from Vijayanagar, launched military ventures as far as Orissa, and enabled the first recorded use of gunpowder in the Deccan to bring down an enemy citadel. Under Gawan, as H.K. Sherwani writes, “the frontiers of the Bahmani realm (finally) extended from sea to sea”, bringing under a single political umbrella people who spoke Marathi, Telugu and Kannada.

Gawan was the proverbial selfless worker, for while there were countless efforts to topple him, nothing succeeded because he was so transparent. Empress Nargis made her favour clear by appearing before him without a veil, elevating Gawan to the status of a brother, while young men of talent found growth and prosperity under his patronage. Gawan also gave Hindu elites from defeated territories a stake in the Bahmani order, securing the long-term health of the empire. But the goal of transforming the sultanate’s capital into one of the Islamic world’s great cities was a constant: In 1472, Gawan’s madrasa in Bidar was thrown open, a magnificent structure with a library featuring 3,000 books. Such was the esteem he commanded that Gawan was addressed by a variety of titles, ranging from the modest “Deputy of the Realm” to a more grandiloquent “Lord of the Habitants of the Globe”.

To be fair, however, Gawan’s was still a military state, where the nurturing of armies, extraction of taxes from the hinterlands, and development of cities appear to have been the focus. Afanasy Nikitin, a Russian traveller, noted (after he denounced all local women as “harlots or witches” conspiring with poison) how the ruling class was Persian; how the towns were phenomenal magnets for trade and the palaces gilded with gold; and how the nobility were “opulent and delight in luxury”. But outside urban nodes, the land was “overstocked with people” and “those in the countryside (were) very miserable”. Gawan brought stability to the empire, but, as with other empires in the 16th century, even under this remarkable administrator the sultanate remained a feudal place.

In the end, the minister became a victim of his own success. In the words of the chronicler Ferishta, others, like “wounded vipers, writhing in the torment of jealousy”, began to resent him so much that a sinister plot was put into motion. The sober Nargis was dead by now and her impetuous son sat on the throne. Gawan’s seal-bearer was got sufficiently drunk before the minister’s mark was put to a seditious document. The sultan, who too was marinating in liquor, ordered death for his minister. And so it was that in 1481 a slave executed the Bahmanis’ greatest administrator, “not by one stroke but by successive strokes” to his neck. As soon as he knew his fate, Gawan had warned his king: An unjust act like this would to the sultan mean “the loss of an empire, and the ruin of your character”. He was not wrong: In a decade, the empire began to unravel as nobles transformed themselves into princes, and the sultan’s own heirs were reduced to pawning the family silver.

(My column in Mint Lounge, September 21 2019)


In 1922, a naval officer called Louis Mountbatten proposed to a fabulously wealthy woman called Edwina Ashley in Delhi. Both in their early 20s, they had known each other only a few months, but were determined to spend their lives together. The day after Edwina accepted, her fiancé diarized how they had “motored out to King Humayun’s enormous tomb, which we saw at 3am by moonlight”. It was all “wonderful and romantic”, and, a month later, they made another trip to the 16th century mausoleum. This time, however, the bride-to-be was less impressed. “Edwina having just…seen the Taj Mahal,” wrote Mountbatten, “was full of scorn for this poor little tomb.”

In some respects, the incident is reflective of the heady but also inconsistent marriage that lay ahead, a subject explored delectably in The Mountbattens: Their Lives And Loves by Andrew Lownie. The book’s subtitle is telling. On the one hand, husband and wife represented vastly different temperaments and characters: Mountbatten was Queen Victoria’s great grandson, and while he held a title, his purse was tiny. Edwina was the granddaughter of a Jewish banker, who left her such an enormous inheritance that she received in a month ten times what her husband earned in a year. He was methodical and exact to the point of being difficult—his guests were taught precise ways to consume even strawberries—while she was all zest and spontaneity.

It didn’t take too long, then, for strains in the marriage to emerge. In public, Mountbatten constructed an attractive personality and a reputation for leadership, but, in private, Dickie (as he was called) knew this came more naturally to his glamorous wife, in whose eyes he was a bore. While he sailed off to build his career, revelling in uniforms and pageantry, Edwina became something of a “poor little rich girl” who partied her time away even as she sought something resembling purpose. In 1925, Mountbatten first learnt about her lovers, and over the next decades there would be many more. More than once, a disgruntled wife took Edwina to court for her dealings with married men, even as society was scandalized by her affair with Leslie Hutchinson, a musician who also happened to be black.

But as we learn from Lownie, Mountbatten learnt to look at marriage unsentimentally. By 1929, it was decided that Edwina was free to engage in her romances so long as it was done quietly, and in 1932 he himself took a mistress. “Your girl is sweet and I like her,” wrote Edwina to her husband, before taking the “girl” out to lunch. Both had transcontinental relationships: Lady Mountbatten was at one time seeing one of her husband’s staff, while he, supervising British naval activities in South-East Asia, took up with another employee. Once again, India played a role. “It was a true godsend when I found you in Delhi,” wrote Mountbatten to his girlfriend in 1943. Indeed, much of Lownie’s biography could have risked being deemed gossip, were it not for the fact that the Mountbattens left mountains of paper cataloguing their romantic conquests.

World War II was instrumental in defining the careers of both Mountbatten and Edwina. She threw herself into volunteer work, finally acquiring fulfilment, while his naval successes established him as a senior figure in the empire—of course, choreographed stunts, an astute handling of the press, and the brandishing of royal connections eased the way. In 1945, when Edwina stayed with the viceroy in Delhi, she found his residence unlivable: “immense with endless marble floored corridors and rooms so huge one is exhausted walking to one’s bath…. Not my cup of tea at all.” As it happened, in two years she would return to this very house, while her husband—now appointed viceroy himself—negotiated with the Congress and the Muslim League to determine the fate of the subcontinent.

It was a turbulent time in the Mountbattens’ marriage too. The viceroy was drowning in work (though he still found time to sunbathe naked in Kashmir) while his wife confronted a difficult menopause. He had little time for her, while she began to feel again a sense of inadequacy. It was at this juncture that Edwina met Jawaharlal Nehru—a section of Lownie’s book that will arouse special interest in India. That they got along is known, but exactly how well may startle many. After saying goodbye one time, for instance, Edwina wrote to Nehru: “I hated seeing you drive away this morning…you have left me with a strange sense of peace…. Perhaps I have brought you the same?” “Life is a dreary business,” wrote back India’s future prime minister, “and when a bright patch comes it rather takes one’s breath away.”

They thought of their connection as a very spiritual one, and Lownie argues that Edwina finally found in Nehru what her husband seemed to lack. She certainly stated as much: “You have brought me,” she wrote, “all I was yearning for.” Mountbatten—who in any case had never had much control over whom his wife saw—accepted the bond. Indeed, when Edwina objected to his lavishing attention on a long-term mistress, he argued: “Just as you wept with disappointment when…I was going to be home the first evening that you and Jawahar were going to be together, I sometimes also feel I’d like to be alone with Yola.” When Edwina died suddenly, aged 59, she was found in bed, Lownie states, with some of Nehru’s letters.

The marriage of the Mountbattens came with countless ups and downs. But in a time when men generally dominated their wives, Edwina’s fierce autonomy and Mountbatten’s willingness to accept her for who she was made this a union of mutual interest. They complemented one another, and she aided his career materially. And for all their loves and very different lives, their letters show that they still quite admired one another. As Edwina once wrote, “I suppose my affairs with Hugh and Laddie were what you would call serious, but as they never in any way altered my affection and respect for you, I don’t myself think of them as such.” There were merely people who came and went—Dickie alone was forever.

(My column in Mint Lounge, September 14 2019)


In 1780, a Carmelite monk called Fra Bartolomeo obtained an audience with the maharaja of Travancore to deliver a message from Pope Clement XIV. The pope, having heard much about the power of the ruler, had declared him protector of all Christians on the Malabar Coast. And while the document had arrived six years earlier, nobody had bothered to actually carry it to its official addressee. But the delay itself did not cause any offence—on the contrary, when Bartolomeo finally handed over the apostolical letter, the maharaja received it with great solemnity, and, raising it up in his hands, “held it to his forehead as a token of respect for His Holiness”. Simultaneously, a gun salute was fired to commemorate the moment, before the middle-aged king proceeded to quiz the monk for the latest updates in the ongoing naval contest between the English and the French.

Rama Varma, better known as Dharmarajah after he gave sanctuary to Brahmins and princes fleeing Hyder Ali and Tipu Sultan’s invading armies, was the ruler of a self-consciously Brahminical state. But as the visiting Carmelite father found, the influences surrounding the maharaja’s daily existence were a mix of local as well as patently foreign elements. He received Bartolomeo, for instance, dressed in long robes of Persian style, and just as the prince was surprised by the Christian padre’s knowledge of Malayalam, the latter too was startled to find that the maharaja spoke English “exceedingly well”. Indeed, during a subsequent visit in 1784, the father would carry for Dharmarajah a Malayalam-Portuguese-English dictionary, much to the latter’s delight, while in the previous year it was the maharaja who had flattered his Christian guest by sending him special dishes and allowing him to observe a Saraswati festival and the attendant Hindu rites and rituals.

The capital of the maharaja was itself a reflection of the sophisticated marriage the ruler made between multiple cultural strands. Padmanabhapuram—now in Tamil Nadu’s Kanyakumari district—houses a pile of palaces. One structure, known as the Uparika Malika (derived from the Hindustani “upar” for upstairs), is a three-storey tower. The ground floorheld the king’s treasure, while the middle section served as the maharaja’s personal chambers. Lord Padmanabhaswamy, the state deity, was believed to reside on the topmost floor—an ornate canopy bed is still maintained for him, flanked by two “eternal lamps”. Meanwhile, within eyesight of the sanctified space of the Upparika Malika, with its Brahmin servants and Sanskritic rites, stands Indra Vilasam. Built in European style, with airy rooms and high ceilings, this was the allocated space for the Western element in the maharaja’s court. It had its own access to the street, and all the conveniences that foreigners like Bartolomeo would expect.

Blending heterodox practices into daily routines even while staunchly preserving a Brahminical sense of self was not particularly new in Travancore. But it did cause angst to Bartolomeo, who saw the world in black and white. As the monk wondered with genuine surprise, how could an “affable, polite, contented, prudent and friendly” ruler who had no qualms protecting Christians still not “perceive the value of the Christian religion”? How, despite possessing so many charming qualities, could Dharmarajah stay “so zealously attached to idolatry”? But even as these questions exercised the visitor’s mind, the prince’s imagination was more than capable of reconciling such supposed anomalies. The nawab of Arcot to whom Travancore paid tribute, for instance, sent him a band of Pathans who played shehnais, swarbats and other north Indian instruments. They were graciously accepted and settled. Thereafter, the Pathans became a fixture in royal processions, otherwise replete with Malayali Hindu elements. After British suzerainty was accepted, the Union Jack too made its way into state ceremonials.

Indeed, Travancore itself was a blend of older Sanskritic traditions with modern dynamics of admittedly foreign vintage. Dharmarajah’s uncle, Martanda Varma, forged the kingdom with great difficulty, conquering half of the Kerala coast. But this new Malayali principality was built with the aid of Tamil mercenaries trained by a Dutchman, and soldiers who held arms supplied by the English East India Company. Indeed, on his deathbed, one of Martanda Varma’s last words of advice to Dharmarajah was to always stay in the good books of the colonial English state. And yet, this very king also simultaneously launched magnificent temple projects, opened feeding-houses to attract Brahmins to his capital, and launched new festivals that saw the twice-born from Kerala and Tamil Nadu descend on his capital every few years for mass recitation of the Vedas. It was with considerable foreign talent and technology that Travancore was created—but that did not spark any contradiction in the minds of its rulers in defining the state in the most Brahminical sense of a Hindu state.

Perhaps it was in the justness of things, then, that this willingness to accept the best of foreign ideas and to fit them into a local mould would come to serve Travancore well in crisis. After Dharmarajah died in 1798, following a long and glorious reign, his successor nearly squandered everything. Then came to the throne a princess, who, like her wiser forbears, recognized that the survival of her Hindu house depended on the favour of an English corporation. While to her people she remained their orthodox sovereign, she appointed the British resident her minister and gave him actual control: He attached temple properties, promoted missionaries and otherwise “modernized” Travancore, but he also saved it from annexation by his own bosses. The Hindu state, too, left its mark on him. When the princess gave birth to a male heir in 1813, it was this British colonel who went to the abode of Lord Padmanabhaswamy. And there, the evangelical donated to the “pagan” deity a bejewelled umbrella to celebrate the arrival of a new prince in idolatrous Travancore.

(My column in Mint Lounge, September 07 2019)


In 1680, a few years before emperor Aurangzeb swallowed up the sultanate of Bijapur, two court artists in that city produced a striking genealogical painting. Rich in quality, with ink, watercolours, as well as gold and silver generously employed, the picture shows all the rulers of the doomed Adil Shahi dynasty, save for one who was blinded and discarded for not being up to the mark. In the centre, on the throne, for instance, sits Yusuf, the man who sailed from Persia and founded the house with his Maratha wife in the 15th century: In a mark of the kingdom’s allegiance to the Shah of Iran (as opposed to the Mughals), Yusuf is shown receiving a key of sovereignty from the Iranian emperor. Then there is Ali, who appears in armour—a symbol of the role he played in the defeat of Vijayanagar in 1565—just as there is the boy-king Sikander, the smallest figure in the group, who would spend much of his life as Aurangzeb’s dethroned prisoner. Created on the eve of the kingdom’s demise, the painting is at once a family tree but also, as one scholar puts it, a “painted curtain call” for the extraordinary Adil Shahi dynasty.

But the portrait is significant also in another way, in that it depicts the contrasts that can develop in the same ruling house and in interpretations of its official ideology. The Adil Shahi state was formally Muslim. From the start, however, it was influenced not only by multiple religions but also by different identities. So, for instance, Ismail (reign 1510-34) chose to highlight the family’s Persian heritage—he made his troops wear Iranian uniforms and himself adopted the 12-pointed cap, a reference, as the scholar Deborah Hutton notes, to the 12 imams of Shia Muslims. Ibrahim II (reign 1580-1627), on the other hand, was Sunni and is depicted in a style associated with the Indian faction at court, a reflection of his own attitudes. He was, for example, not only a lover of Marathi (much to the horror of a Mughal envoy, who found Ibrahim’s Persian weak) but also a great admirer of Hindu traditions. It was he who proclaimed himself son of Saraswati and Ganapati, studied Sanskrit, and went to the extent of renaming Bijapur “Vidyapur” to honour his favourite goddess. Only two generations divided the orthodox Shia Ismail from Sunni Ibrahim (who was rumoured to be secretly Hindu) but there was a world of difference in their outlook.

The Adil Shahs certainly presented themselves as good Muslim rulers—indeed, even Ibrahim’s grave carries an inscription denying rumours that he was an apostate, affirming that he was a true believer of the Prophet’s message. But as this column showed previously in the case of Hindu Vijayanagar, official identity and self-image did not preclude the absorption of multiple influences, or even contradictory practice. The Adil Shahs, even as Muslims, alternated between Sunnism and Shiism, and it was their latter identity that often supplied the Mughals an excuse to invade in the name of religion—this when even Aurangzeb, who led the final charge against the “heretics”, was himself the son of a Shia mother. Add to this a give and take of culture from not only the Marathas (including Shivaji’s father, who served the Adil Shahs) but also Ottomans, Europeans and African grandees at court, and Bijapur was confirmed as an eclectic, mixed universe—one where the king had a formal identity that he could interpret strictly or with deliberate laxity, depending both on his predilections and official necessities.

But in this the Adil Shahs were hardly unique. The rayas of Vijayanagar shaped their self-image in Sanskritic terms and declared themselves consciously Hindu. And yet, one of them sought a marriage alliance with Catholic Portugal; many of them used the title “sultan”; and their sartorial tastes and everyday lives were influenced visibly by Persian culture. A raya might keep the Quran in court so that his Muslim nobles could prostrate before it, even as he destroyed mosques in enemy territory—policy depended on the context in which the king found himself. Further north, in Kashmir too, as Richard Eaton shows in his India In The Persianate Age, we witness such ironies. Sultan Sikander (reign 1389-1413), for instance, was a destroyer of Hindu shrines and burner of Sanskrit books. But his son Zain al-Abdin (reign 1420-70), officially as devout a Muslim as his father, implemented the opposite policy: Not only did he resume temple grants, but under him the court also witnessed an unprecedented production of Sanskrit literature, as well as translation of Hindu texts into Persian for the ruler’s edification.

The greatest controversy, of course, arises in understanding Tipu Sultan of Mysore. To some, he is a giver of grants to Hindu temples and a protector of his non-Muslim subjects. Others cite his cruel conquest of Malabar, where Hindus were forced to renounce their religion, their temples demolished. But, simply put, the question is not one of either/or: The same king could act in opposite ways in different settings. In Malabar, its chiefs and people were “infidels”, but in his settled territories in Mysore, Tipu had no qualms employing “infidel” Brahmins (including the celebrated Purniah) as officials. One was a land of conquest, where destruction of significant shrines was, to him, legitimate, while forced conversions were a method of flaunting to the Islamic world his commitment to their faith; but in his home territory, he was king in a broader sense, accepting of the land’s realities as well as its people. A villain in one reading, he could be a hero in another, employing his religious identity in different degrees, determined largely by the contingencies of politics.

It was this complicated reality that the painters of that Adil Shahi family portrait inadvertently conveyed in their work: a house of Muslim kings with Maratha blood, who cheerfully switched sects as they desired, and whose dynastic roster included all types—those whose faith guided them to extremes, and others for whom religion was more a formality, engaging as they did with a land of diverse realities.

(My column in Mint Lounge, August 31 2019)


In August 1788, the Red Fort in Delhi witnessed what one observer would recall as the most “unspeakable and indescribable” crimes. As in the previous year, the Rohilla chief, Ghulam Qadir, had descended on the Mughal capital, threatening to unleash chaos. While his last attempt had been aborted, thanks to Begum Samru, a dancing girl turned princess, nobody rode to Shah Alam II’s rescue on this occasion. In fact, the officer in charge of the fort, despite orders to the contrary, threw open its gates, and 2,000 of Ghulam Qadir’s troops quickly took charge of the premises. Secure, the warlord made his way to the audience hall. And there, as William Dalrymple recounts in his splendid new book, The Anarchy, he “sat down on the cushions of the imperial throne”, blowing smoke from a pipe into the face of the badshah of Hindustan.

Shah Alam had not had a particularly glorious career, but even with its general turbulence, this was unprecedented. It was decades since the empire of the Mughals had begun to unravel, but while the emperors had been reduced to ciphers, their dignity had never been so insolently offended. Shah Alam had tried in vain to reclaim power for the crown: For over a decade, he was not even in control of his capital, and, during his peregrinations, was forced (after military defeat) to grant governorship of the empire’s richest province to the East India Company (EIC). In 1772, he finally returned to Delhi, his general Najaf Khan bringing order to the surrounding regions. When the latter died, the Marathas stepped in to supply protection. For all his outward marks of authority, though, this came at the cost of giving free rein to Shivaji’s political heirs. As the contemporary chronicler Prem Kishor wrote, “The king (had) abandoned his sovereignty and taken up the ways of beggary.”

As a man, Shah Alam was not, to be clear, all incompetence, but, as scion of the Mughals, he inspired little support. He was a poet of talent, writing verses in languages as diverse as Braj Bhasha and Persian. EIC officer Col Polier described him as “a good and benevolent man” so far as his private characteristics went, but acknowledged that he was not by any stretch a “great king”. The English governor Warren Hastings, who refused to remit even the share of Bengal revenues that were due to the emperor, was more blunt: Shah Alam was merely a “wretched King of shreds and patches”. And, as Dalrymple reminds us, while others in theory paid homage to the crown, Tipu Sultan discarded even this pretence. Those who bowed before Shah Alam, announced Mysore’s sultan, “act through ignorance, since the real condition of the so-called Emperor is…(that he is) the servant of (the Marathas) at the monthly wages of 15,000″.

And yet for all this contempt, Ghulam Qadir’s actions in 1788 sent shockwaves down the entire subcontinent: As the colonial-era historian W. Francklin wrote, to this man “it was reserved to…add the last outrage to the miseries of a long and most unfortunate reign”. The sequence of events that confirmed the Rohilla as one of the worst villains of the 18th century is chilling. Soon after taking charge of the Red Fort, Ghulam Qadir had Shah Alam locked up, planting in his place another prince on the throne. But what the trespasser really wanted was gold, not empty titles and grants of land, and none of the coin heaped before him satisfied the demand. Old begums were dispossessed of their jewels, and even the officer who opened the fort gates paid up—threatened that he would be drowned in excrement, the latter surrendered his own money to escape this revolting fate.

Furious, Ghulam Qadir turned on the imperial family, which for all its bloody intrigues had never quite experienced what he now decided to unleash. Princes of royal blood, including sons and grandsons of Shah Alam, were dressed in drag and made to dance for the Rohilla troops. The emperor’s daughters were stripped, raped and humiliated. Even Malika-i-Zamani, the formidable widow of a previous emperor, Dalrymple writes, was left naked in the hot sun after failing to deliver to Ghulam Qadir the riches he believed she possessed. And finally, bringing to his presence Shah Alam himself, the “ferocious ruffian” had the emperor blinded. In some accounts, in fact, he sits himself on Shah Alam’s chest, scooping out the old man’s eyes with a dagger.

Theories abound on Ghulam Qadir’s diabolical ferocity. His father had rebelled several times against Delhi, and, after defeating him, Shah Alam had taken Ghulam Qadir, then eight or 10 years old, hostage. One apocryphal tale says that after seeing the uncommonly handsome boy, the emperor had him castrated, often making him dance in women’s clothes. In an account left behind by a disgruntled Mughal prince, there is a suggestion of something beyond a regular relationship between Shah Alam and the Rohilla boy. Even as the emperor described Ghulam Qadir as his “special son”, wishing him great happiness in his poems, this contemporary noted that the boy suffered from ubnah, or “an itching in his behind”, hinting that he was made to serve as the emperor’s catamite. This, more than mere ambition or greed, it is believed, explains the horrors Ghulam Qadir let loose in 1788 on Shah Alam and his children.

But the act was for the Rohilla a death sentence. The treatment of the emperor caused such outrage that aid was offered even from Kabul. The Maratha general, Mahadji Scindia, led a large force to Delhi, and while Ghulam Qadir escaped, he was cornered and captured in Mathura very soon. Placed in a cage, his ears, nose, lips and feet were cut off, one by one, each of these circulated in the Red Fort by the emperor. And finally, the story goes, Shah Alam, in whose reign the Mughals lost their final vestiges of power, received one last box, holding within it Ghulam Qadir’s eyes.

(My column in Mint Lounge, August 24 2019)


In January 1925, Malabar Hill in colonial Mumbai witnessed a crime that would topple one of India’s most prominent maharajas. A wealthy businessman called Abdul Kader Bawla was in transit with his mistress, Mumtaz Begum, when their car was forced to halt by another vehicle. A few men emerged from it, and before anyone knew what was under way, shots were fired and a knife was slashed about. The assailants were seeking to drag Bawla’s beloved into their car, but a few British military officers returning from a morning of leisure came to the bleeding lady’s defence. Beating back the would-be kidnappers with golf clubs, they rescued Mumtaz. But it was too late for Bawla—though he was taken to hospital, he succumbed to gunshot wounds.

The attempted abduction of Mumtaz Begum caused a sensation, occupying prime real estate in assorted newspapers for months on end. To begin with, the victim was a man of note, with a fortune of 4 million, out of which he left the pregnant Mumtaz a substantial bequest. Then, the identity of their assailants: Nine men were named by the police, all curiously connected to the princely state of Indore. One was a risaldar (commander of a cavalry unit), for example, while another was a driver. A third was a mankari (nobleman) at the maharaja’s court, and, since October 1924, the men had been watching Bawla and Mumtaz, under orders, it was reported, of the adjutant general of Indore’s army. For 24 days, the case was heard in court, at the end of which the murderers were pronounced guilty.

But while the adjutant general was on paper the force behind the conspiracy, “is he”, demanded The Times Of India that March, “the ultimate source!” For the air was thick with rumours that the real mastermind of the failed abduction (but successful murder) was Tukoji Rao Holkar III, the maharaja himself. After all, the judge who tried the guilty too had alluded to the fact that there “may be other persons who were interested in kidnapping Mumtaz”, and that Indore was “the place from where the attack emanated”. That the convicted men had the best lawyers fighting for them at great expense further raised the question of who was spending so generously to have them acquitted. As the Times added in a report in October, “Only a very wealthy man… (or one) deeply interested, possibly deeply compromised, in the crime would consent to spend money as freely as has been done.”

Right from the start, the press had seized on Mumtaz’s antecedents. As one commentator put it, lust could not have been what provoked the attempted kidnapping because nobody was “much impressed with her beauty”. This led to speculation that revenge was the actual motive, and, as more of her tale trickled out, the gossip was confirmed. The great-granddaughter of a courtesan in Sikh emperor Ranjit Singh’s establishment, Mumtaz was a “singing girl” who in her adolescence performed for the Indore maharaja. Soon, she became Tukoji Rao’s mistress, in which position she more than once became pregnant—their daughter, she alleged, was murdered. Addressed in Indore and abroad (for she travelled with the maharaja to Europe) as Kamalabai, she lived for about a decade at court before deciding she had had enough. Meant one day to travel to her master in Mussoorie, the young woman got off the train in Delhi and fled.

Almost immediately, the maharaja’s government attempted to have her extradited from British territory on charges of stealing state jewellery (a charge she denied, arguing that the jewels in question were her family property, presented by Ranjit Singh). Making full use of the colonial laws that gave her protection from her former patron, Mumtaz came instead to Mumbai and commenced a relationship with the ill-fated Bawla. It was this that provoked the ire of her ex-master—who already had a reputation as a somewhat vindictive man, ill-treating his maharani Chandravati Bai—and so, the papers insinuated, was put in motion that “diabolical” plot to liquidate Bawla and repatriate Mumtaz. By the end of the year, in fact, talk of Tukoji Rao’s culpability had become loud enough for the Servant Of India to carry the headline, “Put Him On His Trial”.

By now, the colonial establishment had become increasingly uncomfortable with these reports, and the Indore government’s overreaction did not help. On the one hand, the maharaja’s officers began to engage in a war of open letters with the press, which, far from deflecting attention, kept their ruler under a scandalous spotlight. Denials of all the “wild theories” were followed up with dubious internal inquiries where, very conveniently, “no one came forward to give any information”. That the murderers of Bawla were Tukoji Rao’s employees was not denied. But just because “some of (his) officials were found implicated”, it was stated, the maharaja could not be held responsible for their crimes. Meanwhile, despite his seeming nonchalance, there were reports that the ruler was secretly consulting formidable lawyers like Sir Tej Bahadur Sapru and Sir Sivaswami Iyer.

In the end, the British government decided to proceed with action. Over a year after Bawla’s murder, and with the press baying for royal blood, they issued notice to the maharaja. He could either accept a commission of enquiry or abdicate “voluntarily” to save face. In February 1926, the maharaja presented his response—he would give up the throne “on the understanding,” he wrote, “that no further inquiry into my alleged connection with the Malabar Hill tragedy will be made”. Days later, his son was enthroned in Indore, and, by the end of March, the ex-maharaja was on his way to Europe, where he would meet an American heiress, destined to become his newest maharani. His old lover, Mumtaz, meanwhile watched her tale incarnated on screen in a silent film called Kulin Kanta, after which, it is believed, she set out for Hollywood. That, however, is another story.

(My column in Mint Lounge, August 17 2019)


The decline of great empires in Indian history was often accompanied by the rise of their feudatories. Sensing the collapse of an order, new alignments and formations took shape, some capable of enduring, others stillborn. It happened, for instance, with the Mughals—in Aurangzeb’s own lifetime the empire grew enervated, and, after his death, power deserted Delhi for the provincial capitals of the emperor’s subordinates. In Bengal, its governors became practically independent, while in Awadh, the nawabs would, with British connivance, actually declare sovereignty. In Hyderabad, meanwhile, the nizams paid lip service to Delhi’s badshah even as they carved up personal territory. And the Marathas too, without irony, proclaimed themselves Mughal subjects—for, while fortune abandoned their suzerain, they all sought for their ventures an imperial stamp of legitimacy.

But these dynamics were not limited to the politics of the northern plains alone. Before the Mughals, the Bahmani empire in the Deccan had folded when its weak kings were outsmarted by their nobles: While the latter set up independent states, the last of the Bahmanis boarded a ship to Mecca in the 1530s and was never heard from again. In 1565, these nobles-turned-sultans would inflict defeat on Vijayanagar’s autocrat, and soon the capital of that southern empire was abandoned. Its puppet emperor, who came from the line of the celebrated Krishnadeva Raya, was discarded, and the dead autocrat’s brother proclaimed himself head of a truncated empire from a new capital. But, as with the Mughals and Bahmanis, as soon as weakness became visible, the imperial edifice was imperilled. And not really by assaults from enemies, as much as by the ambitions of its own servants and associates.

After the fall of Vijayanagar, for some years the nayakas (provincial chiefs) who held the empire’s Tamil territories remained pledged to their new emperor. Soon enough, however, they began to flex their muscles and explore prospects of a more individual nature. Some of it came from chaos in the imperial family and its own crisis of legitimacy: Their only claim to royal blood was through marriage, and, while powerful, they were not by themselves more exalted than their noblemen. Why, then, should the governors pledge fealty to them? In the mid-1610s, in fact, the central court saw a king murdered, a borrowed baby masquerading as a royal heir, and much bloodshed, all of which put wind in the sails of nayakas aching to cut loose and declare independence. For the most part, the centre held, but temptations of provincial freedom were always in the air.

In 1595, for instance, the nayaka of Madurai decided not to send tribute to Chandragiri (one of the cities to which the central court moved after the loss of Vijayanagar proper). It was only when the emperor sent an army that the nayaka paid up. Four years later, Madurai tried again—this time, the emperor not only charged the usual tribute, but also expenses for his punitive expedition. Undeterred, the nayakas began to shore up legitimacy for themselves. Those who had been sent as governors of Thanjavur wedded their rule to the memory of the Cholas (much like the Marathas, who later ruled here, would), while in Madurai the nayaka was by the late 1590s already being styled king of the Pandyas. Romantic stories of their loyalty to legendary Vijayanagar monarchs like Krishnadeva Raya were told, all to bolster their claims at the cost of the current, less inspiring emperor.

While colonial-era historians would claim that the nayakas continued Vijayanagar’s supposed quest to “protect” Hinduism from the assault of Islam, their actual conduct was connected more to power than to religious zeal. By the 1620s, Madurai, for instance, was under the rule of the celebrated Tirumala Nayaka. He ceased sending tribute to the emperor, but when the latter died and was succeeded by a man bent on claiming imperial prerogatives, the nayaka prepared for a split. In 1645, he orchestrated a meeting with his counterparts in Thanjavur and Gingee to discuss rebellion: a scene where all three came, accompanied by thousands of troops, and carried out discussions atop elephants. They were to act in concert against the emperor but when Thanjavur betrayed the conspiracy, Tirumala Nayaka seamlessly found another ally.

Even as the emperor set out with a force to punish Gingee and Madurai, Tirumala Nayaka got the sultan of Golconda to invade his master’s territory—thwarted, the emperor had to abandon plans to punish his refractory governors. When peace was settled with the sultan, Madurai proceeded to ally with the Adil Shah of Bijapur. Soon, all three nayakas became protectorates of that Muslim prince, while their emperor was left with no kingdom of his own. Indeed, this last of the kings to carry the mantle of Vijayanagar was fated to wander for the rest of his life, from one court to another, while his governors upgraded themselves from servants of a dead empire to kings in their own right. He had once, for instance, threatened to make a drum out of Tirumala Nayaka’s skin—as it happened, the nayaka survived, ruling for three and a half decades.

In colonial times, when religion came to be seen as the guiding force of Indian history, Tirumala Nayaka was deemed perfidious. One authority called him a “political vandal” who “betrayed his religion”, making the nayakas slaves to a “mlechcha” i.e. the Bijapur sultan. But the fact was that even Tirumala Nayaka’s nemesis, the ill-fated Vijayanagar emperor, had no hesitation in reaching out to potential allies across religions—at one point, it was to Mughal emperor Shah Jahan, through his hated son, Aurangzeb, that the emperor appealed for assistance in crushing the nayakas. As a historian put it, “According to the conceptions of the day, it did not offend against political morals for the Muhammadans to seek Hindu help and vice versa.” What actually guided politics was self-interest—and here, as long as loyalty to an emperor paid dividends, it was upheld. But if independence was the goal, even betrayal was fair.

(My column in Mint Lounge, August 10 2019)

Dr. Mary Punnen Lukose for Cover.jpg

In July 1926, the secretary to the pregnant maharani of Travancore received a letter from his royal mistress’ doctor. Sheds, wrote M.P. Lukose, had to be erected on the palace premises—one, fully furnished, for the surgeon who would deliver the maharani’s baby, and two for another doctor and nurses. An extra tent would also need to be raised where officers of the state could wait for news on the royal delivery—after all, a 21-gun salute would need to be fired to honour the new arrival, and alert the press. A list of items in precise quantities was also forwarded: six yards of silk to wrap the newborn in, for instance, and exactly 12 bars of Vinolia Otto soap for the mother and 12 of Pears for the child. The baby was only due a few months later, of course, but since on “the last occasion”, complained the doctor, “the sheds were not ready in time”, the request now was being made well in advance.

By 1926, Dr Mary Poonen Lukose was already well on her way to becoming something of a legend. Not only was she the first female Malayali graduate, she had also gone on to study medicine in London and Dublin before joining the princely state’s health services. It was not easy: She had wanted to study science in college, but this was barred to women at the time, so it was after acquiring a bachelor of arts degree that she went abroad to pursue medicine. Working against the odds, however, was not unusual for one in her position: In the 1870s, her granduncle had returned from his studies in England, expecting he would find a senior official position. On the contrary, he was turned away: In Travancore, the man was told, all relevant positions involved temple duties of some kind, with the result that there was an effective ban on Christians serving in government.

But by Dr Lukose’s time, things had started changing. Joining the medical department in 1916, she was finally allowed to shine when Travancore found itself under the rule of a princess. In 1924, soon after maharani Sethu Lakshmi Bayi came to power, not only was Dr Lukose elevated as head of the medical department—making her de facto health minister—she was also nominated to the state’s legislative council. In other words, well before Muthulakshmi Reddi (recently celebrated in a Google Doodle and often erroneously described as India’s first female legislator), Dr Lukose had already started taking part in legislative affairs. Such sensation did the maharani’s decision cause, in fact, that The Madras Mail published news of the event under the heading “Feminism In Travancore”. When Dr Lukose first attended council, the entire gathering broke into spontaneous applause.

It was all well deserved. Leaving home in 1909, she had been largely on her own in London for years. In her memoirs—a good chunk of which appear in Manorama Books’ recently published tribute, Trailblazer, compiled by Leena Chandran—she highlights the wonder and alarm she felt in equal measure. A traffic policeman was a complete novelty for her, while elsewhere it was she who became a curiosity: Visiting friends once, she had to disappoint a child, who, expecting a Native American, cried, “But daddy, she has no feathers in her hair!” Even while she spent extra hours studying—for she was an arts student switching to science—she expressed awe at the colour of English apples, and horror at the prospect of high heels. And, of course, occasionally, like students even now, she rebelled, going out despite hostel curfews and sneaking in after evening parties. She developed also a certain strength of character—when she was still abroad, she lost her father, and she could then rely on no one but herself.

One particular skill acquired by Dr Lukose during her years abroad, however, would help her. She trained as a midwife and spent hours outside class working in Dublin’s slums, in conditions so horrifying that sometimes she and her colleagues would feed their patients’ starving older children. It was an experience that would come in handy in India, where only the most rudimentary facilities were available to women. After her appointment as head of the medical department in Travancore, for instance, one of the first things Dr Lukose did with the maharani’s blessings was to set up classes to train midwives. The results were most satisfactory, in that by 1927 these women’s services were being requested even in villages, and one-tenth of all births in the state were handled by professionals. A cooperative scheme was designed, whereby the government created rural dispensaries: By 1929, 1.6 million of the five million subjects of Travancore had access to modern medicine. Meanwhile, as early as 1920, Dr Lukose had delivered Kerala’s first C-section baby.

Despite gender and race politics (which saw her fight salary discrimination), as well as communal complications (suspicious Nair officials considered her part of the “Syrian Christian Triumvirate” which influenced the maharani), Dr Lukose built a remarkable career: Becoming surgeon general of Travancore, she was honoured with the title Vaidyasastrakusala, and, by 1947, was a senior enough public figure to dine with the British viceroy. In 1975, the Indian Union would also award her the Padma Shri. Her personal choices were just as interesting and unorthodox. She married, for instance, a man younger than her, and though he would one day become a judge, she outranked her husband for a long time. She would lose “Judgie”, as she called him, relatively early, and outlive her two children. But she accepted personal loss with dignity and carried on. Until, of course, in October 1976, 50 years after she had delivered Sethu Lakshmi Bayi’s royal baby, Dr Lukose breathed her last, having proved long before that she was, truly, a trailblazer.

(My column in Mint Lounge, August 03 2019)


In 1445, an envoy of the Shah of Iran showed up at the court of Devaraya II of Vijayanagar. Abdur Razzak was not an easy man to please, but his travels in the Indian peninsula till then had been fascinating. In Kerala, he was taken aback at seeing even princes in loincloths, preferring jewels to fabric, while near Mangaluru he visited a shrine within which the idol “had two red rubies for eyes, so cunningly made”, he exclaimed, “that you would say it could see”. And yet it was when he finally arrived in Vijayanagar that the man was truly pleased. The people there, he wrote, had “no equals in the world”, energized by the dynamics of an urban life marked by uncommon prosperity. The king too made an impression (not least because he unexpectedly presented Razzak a Chinese fan during his audience) and soon the Persian was singing praises of Devaraya II, anointing him the most powerful potentate in “the whole of Hindustan”.

But the sights Razzak saw were not destined to last, and, like all great empires, this one too would fall. Only a little over a century after his visit, Vijayanagar was defeated in battle by the Deccan’s sultans, and the city abandoned. Where gems were once sold in heaps in the market, what remained now were haunted ruins. Where dancing girls and saints were welcomed with equal zeal, now there was ghostly silence, punctuated by the howls of animals, and the whispers of treasure hunters. Indeed, only a few days ago, yet another group looking for gold vandalized the samadhi of the Madhva philosopher Vyasatirtha. The resultant anger is unsurprising—one enthusiastic young member of Parliament even compared it to that 1565 defeat inflicted by enemy sultans, adding that this was an effort to “insult and destroy” Indian heritage, especially one as extraordinary as Vijayanagar, which “showcased the Hindu civilization’s rich spiritual heritage & knowledge through its architecture”.

In the event, the vandals themselves turned out to be products of Hindu civilization rather than people connected to dead sultans, but equally interesting is the suggestion that Vijayanagar’s architecture represented a pure Hindu tradition. On the contrary, by Devaraya II’s time, the city was truly international in its influences and appearance, even if the self-image of its rulers was articulated in Sanskritic terms and through pious Hindu concepts. In its early phases, after the founding of the empire in the mid-14th century, the city’s architecture was inspired largely by local styles typical to Karnataka. But as Tamil provinces were annexed to the realm, features from the land of the Cholas and Pandyas also showed themselves in Vijayanagar. By Devaraya II’s day, even a Persian and Islamicate stamp manifested in the city’s buildings: “domes, vaulted arches, parapets of merlons, corner finials, fine plasterwork”, as one historian put it, and much else born in lands across the Arabian Sea.

None of this ought to be surprising. While Hindu in their identity, Vijayanagar’s emperors were hardly reactionaries desperate to “protect” a monolith. On the contrary, they possessed the confidence to not only contribute but also to absorb from the world, without fearing this would dilute in any way their sense of self. Devaraya II, for instance, posed many questions to Razzak, revealing his own interest in the wider world. He wanted to know how many warhorses the Shah of Iran possessed (for Vijayanagar was often at a disadvantage when it came to importing horses, unlike the sultanates). He sought information on cities like Herat and Shiraz—Hormuz he already knew enough about as “Hurumanji”. Moreover, the emperors of Vijayanagar had also adopted the custom of bestowing on distinguished visitors robes of honour (khilat), a practice brought to India by the subcontinent’s Muslim invaders.

The architecture of Vijayanagar, in fact, shows even in its ruins the remains of Persianate influence as much as it does patterns more conspicuously Hindu. Sculptures that date to the founding of the city show, for example, human figures dressed in typical south Indian dress—a piece of cloth wrapped around the waist, with the torso left bare. But by the 15th century, when Devaraya II was born, men appear in stone wearing “close fitting, high-necked, full-sleeved shirts or jackets that were usually buttoned down the front”—an imported innovation. Women and men both wore hats that closely resembled the Turkish fez, evinced also in the bronze of a later emperor, while carvings on major monuments show Arabs leading horses at court. In the Vitthala Temple, meanwhile, there is to this day a pillar featuring a “turbaned Muslim warrior”.

Indeed, even in the defeat that destroyed Vijayanagar in 1565, the division between Hindu and Muslim becomes complicated. Thousands of Marathas joined the battle but were fighting for the sultans; a celebrated Muslim general appears, but he was on the side of the Hindu emperor. The sultans themselves, even while their self-image was expressed in Islamic terms, were hardly a bloc whose purpose began and ended with being Muslim. One was descended from Brahmins, with Persian blood also in his veins, while another was of part-Maratha descent. Yet another with Iraqi blood was a great patron of Telugu, a passion shared with Vijayanagar. Indeed, Devaraya II’s own poet, Srinatha, recorded how the same merchants catered both to Vijayanagar and the sultanates. If the Hindu rulers of Vijayanagar absorbed Persian influences in dress, custom and architecture, so too had the sultans married Islamic practice to Hindu tradition.

This was the reality of the 16th century, though anxieties and prejudice in our own time seek, predictably, to misread the past to address current preoccupations. Vijayanagar’s Hindu identity was not reactionary: It was a keen cultural universe where the chant of Sanskrit did not sit in contradiction with the import of Persianate principles. It is to us that the world of the past was one of “either-or”—to them, confident in their power and lacking in the insecurity some have made a fetish of today, it was, for the most part, a story of joining together, absorbing all that was good and appealing without being threatened by religious tags.

(My column in Mint Lounge, July 27 2019)

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At the Battle of Pullalur in 1780, troops serving Hyder Ali of Mysore inflicted on soldiers of the East India Company one of the worst military defeats of the century. Hyder himself had been in Kanchipuram nearby, engaged with another contingent, before joining his son Tipu to corner the enemy at Pullalur. In the confrontation that followed, the Mysore troops were aided by their innovative rocket corps (or “flying plagues”, as one chronicler called them, with the “missile power of a javelin” and the “impulse of gunpowder”). Even without the rockets, though, the English were doomed: The Mysoreans had surrounded them, and reinforcements despatched from Kanchipuram were inadequate. The result was spectacular bloodshed before hundreds—including the commander—were seized and dragged to the dungeons of Hyder’s capital in faraway Srirangapatna.

The clobbering the English received at Pullalur was a source of tremendous embarrassment. While in the coming years they would win several victories over Mysore, only the final conquest of Srirangapatna two decades later, sweetened by the death of Tipu himself, would provide the company something that resembled redemption. The treatment of the prisoners in Mysore’s custody became part of English lore, though hyperbole played its role too. The hostages, it was recalled, were held in chains in grimy, rat-infested rooms. Many were forcibly circumcised and converted, while some were made to dress in women’s clothes and dance. Slow poisoning was also alleged, though by this time the commander of the troops captured at Pullalur was already dead. Of the hundreds arrested in 1780, in fact, only a few dozen survived to be released one day.

But if English accounts exaggerated the horrors that followed “Pollilur”, the event was of great significance for Tipu too. In 1784, two years after his accession, the sultan constructed for himself the Daria Daulat Bagh palace in his capital. Its gardens were exquisite, and fruit trees were imported from different parts of the subcontinent and beyond. The structure itself was not particularly awe-inspiring—a relatively small building with verandas and dingy rooms, it resembled a house more than a kingly abode. But what was striking was Tipu’s decision to have local painters decorate practically every available surface of the building—outer and inner walls, in addition to the ceiling—with the most interesting artwork. While the ceiling inside had floral motifs and predictable ornamentation, the outside walls were truly striking, featuring what can be described fittingly as propaganda art.

One of the principal panels shows, for instance, the Battle of Pullalur. Though time has bleached its vividness, a hint of the colour and drama of the scene is palpable to visitors even today. As happened at the actual event, the painting shows the commander of the company troops at the centre of a tight, square formation of his surviving white troops. All around them is the carnage unleashed by Mysorean soldiers, with severed heads and decapitated bodies (besides horses wearing doleful expressions). One British writer would later describe this as a “curious” and “rude” painting, showing as it did the company commander in his palanquin, petrified and rather unmanly in demeanour. His face full of torment, the ill-fated Lt Col William Baillie is portrayed chewing on a finger, while Tipu waits nearby, mounted confidently on his handsome horse, enjoying the smell of victory from a hand-held rose.

At 31x17ft, the mural, according to scholar Janaki Nair, is one of India’s largest ever. But if this particular painting—featuring, as an Englishman put it, “pink elephants, yellow men, and sky blue horses”, all held together “in glorious confusion”—depicts one of Tipu’s most delicious victories over his adversaries, other frescoes and panels at Daria Daulat Bagh are also a record of his ambition and self-image. The east-side wall, for instance, is packed with portraits, including of “rulers with whom Tipu may have held court or whom he wished to conquer”, while elsewhere appear ordinary people engaged in everyday tasks. Englishmen are portrayed in ways that caused them to believe these were caricatures (one officer is threatening a woman in one scene, and elsewhere enjoying a dance performance)—a distinct possibility given Tipu’s dislike for the company and its servants.

But, as Nair argues, the palace and its paintings may also have existed for purposes of legitimacy and to place Tipu in the larger context of kingship. Stylistically inspired by the art of the Deccan sultanates, all of which had collapsed a century earlier, this was a record of his exploits, and if sometimes the sultan appears on a disproportionately large horse, it is not a caricature but a technique to make him immediately identifiable, with all the relevant marks of kingship. The rose he smells nonchalantly in the battle scene, for instance, was associated with portraits of royalty across centuries. And much attention was paid to detail: While heads and bodies are strewn all around the battle scene in the Pullalur mural, at least one colonial-era commentator noted that, counted closely, they all added up and for each head a corresponding body can also be found nearby. It was seemingly peculiar art but wedded to a wry exactness.

In the end, however, even if Daria Daulat Bagh was meant to serve as a record of Tipu’s power, the fall of Mysore in 1799 meant the future of the building was imperilled. It may well have been demolished by the company but for the decision of the victorious general, Lord Wellesley, to personally occupy the palace. While some details of the paintings were obscured, painted over, and damaged by locals, Wellesley spent liberally to retouch and preserve what survived. So attached was he to the place, in fact, that in the 1850s, when the palace was in disrepair, the then governor general ordered another round of restoration—but not because the “Tiger of Mysore” had once tried to enshrine his legacy there, but because after he was vanquished, one of the heroes of British imperium had occupied the palace. The artwork showed English defeat at Pullalur, but the general had turned the tables on Tipu’s murals and constructed a new colonial reality—one where he was the victor and the sultan a vilified memory.

(My column in Mint Lounge, July 20 2019)


In the final quarter of the 13th century and the first half of the 14th, there lived in Pandharpur a maid called Janabai. “God my darling,” she once declared, “do me a favour and kill my mother-in-law.” “I will feel lonely when she is gone, but you will be a good God, won’t you,” asked our poet wryly, “and kill my father-in-law” too? The sister-in-law also made it to Janabai’s roster of relatives to dispatch, for once they dropped dead, she would at last be free. Picking up a bowl with which to beg, she could take off from her life of domestic drudgery. Or, as she proposed to the almighty, “we will be left alone, just you and me.”

The great irony of this particular composition by our Maharashtrian poet-saint, of course, is that she was never actually married—her words express merely frustration with the shackles that bound women in general to men and that hallowed institution called family. Janabai herself was an orphan, and a servant in the house of Namdev, the tailor-saint of somewhat greater celebrity. One legend relates how she came to Pandharpur as a pilgrim and refused to budge from the gates of its great temple; her family departed, and she became a maid. Another version has her father receiving a divine command in a dream: He was to take his blessed daughter to the home of Namdev’s father, for it was there that she was destined to spend the rest of her days.

Much of Janabai’s identity, in fact, is tied to service under Namdev. “Only by being Nama’s dasi,” she once wrote, “could I see Vitthal,” their deity. Referring to herself as Namdev’s Jani, she expresses elsewhere a desire to forever remain his disciple and attendant—even if it meant rebirths as “a bird, a pig, an animal, a beast, or a cat!” Part of this devotion was, perhaps, a consequence of her context—she was 7 when her family sent her to work at Namdev’s house, and this was the beginning and end of the world she knew physically. In terms of her own identity and her relationship with God and society, however, Janabai offered ideas that recognized no geographies and acknowledged limits only she set for herself.

Given her position as a servant, everyday plodding is a constant in much of her poetry. Even God, when he makes his appearance, descends to help Janabai with her duties. As the chronicler Mahipati’s hagiography—the Bhaktavijaya—relates, one day the deity is asked why he is sore. In response, Vitthal states: “It has taken Me from early morning to finish the grinding for Jani…. I took her water jar and carried a great amount of water for her. As the maiden Jani swept, I filled a basket with the refuse and threw it outside. I washed the clothes with my four hands and pounded rice for her.” Such is her bhakti, in fact, that God helps pick lice from her hair and rinses kitchen vessels too. And, in the course of time, Janabai finds in Vitthal her mother, father, child, friend, lover, and even domestic assistant—indeed, she even tells him off for his “false pride”, asking God to behave.

But as with most other Bhakti poets, dialogue and exchanges with the divine mask larger ideas and messages for society itself. As the scholar Rajeshwari Pandharipande notes, Janabai did not present a grand, radical message to lift up everyone who was poor and weak—her principle, in fact, was simply that everything was divine, and every being had value. She was a mere scullery maid with little standing in the world, for instance. And yet it was to her that the deity came, leaving behind, in one episode, even his jewels, and, in another, protecting her from execution and death. She suffers, certainly, and remains a maid—but that does not mean she cannot express devotion and other thoughts couched in chants of the divine name.

For Janabai, women were not handicapped in any way from seeking a world beyond that which was prescribed for them. “Let me not be sad because I am born a woman in this world,” she wrote, for “many saints suffer” by thinking of their sex as a weakness. God comes to eat leftovers with her, and if she is polluted, so is he. But there is the occasional desire, behind everything, to escape her life and liberate herself fully. Idealizing public women, free from the chores she must endure, in one verse Janabai says: “Cast off all your shame, and sell yourself in the marketplace…. The pallu of my sari falls away (a scandal!), yet I will enter the crowded marketplace…. My Lord, I have become a slut to reach your home.” If, in other words, to reach God (or, more broadly, her goal) she must endure a slap to her reputation, so be it, she seems to say.

In the end, though, unlike a Meerabai, who actually smashed norms and set out singing songs in praise of God, Janabai never took such a controversial step. She continued to sweep, and she continued to serve, but also refused to succumb to fatalism and helplessness. On the contrary, by the close of her life and career, she openly identified God with her, and herself with Vitthal. “I eat God, I sleep in God, I breathe God, I feel God, I speak God, and I give God and take God.” Vitthal was everywhere, and so she was everywhere—feminizing Vitthal into Vithabai, she saw herself in the divine. By the eve of her death around 1350, in fact, she even perceived herself as beyond her original patron, Namdev—the kitchen maid had become one with God, and God was one with the kitchen maid.

(My column in Mint Lounge, July 13 2019)


In 1909, when V.D. Savarkar published The Indian War Of Independence: 1857, it roused both colonial ire as well as nationalist admiration. As Jawaharlal Nehru would later write, it was “a brilliant book” even if somewhat handicapped by “prolixity and want of balance occasionally”. The British authorities, of course, banned it, for, in the words of a later publisher, they found it “revolutionary, explosive and highly treasonous.” The odd thing, though, was that proscription came before the book was even published. In Savarkar’s retort, the government had either acquired a copy of the manuscript—in which case they could have proceeded to charge him properly instead of banning the book—or they had not. And if they had not, how, he asked, “could they be so cocksure of the (book’s) seditious nature?” The answer was simply fear of 1857 and even the remotest commemoration of that fateful year.

Despite his flowery language, Savarkar’s ideas in the book were pointed—any nation “that has no consciousness of its past”, he insisted, “has no future”. The British may have pretended that 1857 was a “sepoy mutiny” but for Indians it was nothing short of revolution. “Could that vast tidal wave from Peshawar to Calcutta have risen in flood without a fixed intention,” he asked, “of drowning something by means of its force?” No, it was not about superficial grievances but because “the principles of Swadharma and Swaraj” were “embedded in the bone and marrow of all the sons of Hindusthan!” Religion did not intervene in defining such sons: Both “Nana Farnavis of Poona and Hyder Sahib of Mysore” had foreseen the threat. Lakshmi Bai of Jhansi was at the receiving end of oppression at the hands of the East India Company as much as the nawab of Awadh. Under foreign rule, “the blood of both the Hindus and the Mahomedans boiled”.

Of course, he adds quickly, Hindus and Muslims had their political differences in the past. But their “present relation was…simply that of brothers with the one difference between them of religion alone.” To Savarkar, at this time in his 20s and living in London, Hindus and Muslims were “children of the soil of Hindusthan. Their names were different but they were all children of the same Mother…they were brothers by blood”. Besides, no matter what feuds they had once, they were to fight together to survive. For while the British unleashed horror and injustice in India, internal rifts were “unreasonable and stupid”. In 1857, then, the goal was to eject the subcontinent’s colonizers and inaugurate a “United States of India” under the land’s various rulers and princes—Hindu and Muslim both.

Leaving aside Savarkar’s subsequent change of opinion on communal matters, it is interesting to wonder what might have happened if the revolt of 1857 had actually succeeded. The centre of rebellion was northern India, so the “United States” Savarkar pictured may well have emerged as a collection of kingdoms, cemented under Maratha power, and legitimized by Delhi’s Mughal emperor. After all, the emperor’s proclamation during the revolt won Savarkar’s approval: “We will destroy the enemy and will release from dread our religion and our country, dearer to us than life itself.” Nothing, our author expressed, was “holier in this world than such a Revolutionary War”. And the moral centre of this “holy and inspired idea” was “the throne of Delhi”. In other words, if the north became a confederation of principalities, free from British rule, its sovereigns would likely have been descendants of Babur of Ferghana.

How this might have played out in the south is an open question: After all, in Hyderabad, the nizams were officially subordinates of the emperor. Would they, had the rebellion succeeded in the north, have instigated a British expulsion from the peninsula? Or would the south have remained a sanctuary for the colonial establishment on the run from its offices in Kolkata? In Delhi, rebel leaders may have stood before the emperor “with their swords dipped in English blood”, but imperial authority south of the Deccan was tenuous—would then a kind of peace have resulted, with Hindustan under Indian rule while Madras became the capital of British south India? And would both have unleashed intrigue and subterfuge to undermine each other? The company, after all, had the Punjab on their side, which weakened the resistance in the north. And the emperor’s agents, meanwhile, were flirting with Persia for an international front against the European colonizer.

Indeed, Savarkar’s disappointment with the south is palpable, for even in the Deccan, which displayed the relevant sentiments, “the diseases of indecision and indetermination stifled it in the embryo”. Where in the north the revolution came with “an inconceivable, lightning-like rapidity…with the determination to kill or die”, the south watched instead of joining at once—if only it had followed the lead of Hindustan, the British might have been expelled. But that did not happen. “Madras, Bombay, Rajputana, the Panjab, Nepal, and other parts of India were still lying like dead weights hampering the national movement.” When “Indian regiments from Madras came”, they did so under Company banners, and “the sparks of Revolution were speedily extinguished”. Public pressure evidently did rally around rebellion even in the south, in Savarkar’s account, but it was its leaders who let down the national cause.

In the big picture, though—and Savarkar notes this with some frustration and regret—it was not just bad leadership and lack of courage that thwarted the promise of 1857. The rebels knew they wanted to expel the British but they offered no clear vision of what lay ahead. If it meant going back to internal squabbles, the entire exercise was hopeless—it had no appealing idea to galvanize hearts and offer a better future for which everyone could fight. The result was that even as some “gave a terrific blow on the head of Tyranny”, others “thrust a dagger in (Mother India’s) own heart”. Indians knew what they disliked, identified what they wished to dismantle and eject, but, in the end, Savarkar complained, they were not leaders with a vision—and so he concludes wryly his book from 1909, with a verse composed by Bahadur Shah Zafar coupled with the cry of Vande Mataram.

(My column in Mint Lounge, July 06 2019)


One of the favourite methods of execution espoused by the British after the great rebellion of 1857 featured brown people being blown out of cannons. The mutiny terrified India’s colonizers, and would soon lead to the replacement of East India Company rule with that of the Crown. But the answer to bloodshed—especially the killings of white women and children—had to be even more violence, for British authority would become tenuous if it couldn’t make a retaliatory statement. And so it was that in addition to hanging and other techniques, they chose this method of turning men into flying chunks of flesh. Indeed, as late as 1873, an official would endorse the option as eminently satisfying. “Blowing from a gun,” he offered, “is an impressive and merciful manner of execution.” It was quick enough for its victim to not feel the process but was also “well calculated to strike terror into the bystanders”. In a single blast, one could send a rebel to his maker, while also intimidating potential renegades through the attendant visual effects.

To be fair, the British were not being very original with such violent forms of public execution—it is merely ironic that while sticking men to guns, they also pretended they were in India to “civilize” its people. For a long time, Indian rulers had been familiar with means to frighten their subjects through violent public spectacles. The celebrated Velu Thampi Dalawa, an early 19th century Malayali icon who stood up to the British, is today enshrined as a freedom fighter. But he could be ruthless in power, and, as one historian wrote, his “utmost merit lay in the fact that he…inspired dread”. It certainly helped weed out corruption and persuade people to obey the law, because disobedience came at the cost of life or limb. Besides flogging and nailing men to trees, not to speak of cutting off their ears (as was done to a powerful banker), at least one person met with an even more horrific end—“his legs (were) tied to two elephants and the animals were driven in opposite directions, tearing the victim to pieces.” One can only hope the elephants were moving quickly.

As it happens, death by elephant seems to have been generally attractive to Indian kings, and, throughout the ages, many a criminal met his end under its crushing weight. Women, however, seem not to have been made subject to this ordeal—a Peshwa-era record in Maharashtra concerning a Brahmin lady discovered with a Muslim has the woman imprisoned while her lover is crushed. But there were other methods to inflict punishment too. The Sukraniti, a treatise ascribed to the sage Sukracharya, offers a veritable catalogue, as scholar Sumit Guha notes: “censure, insult, starvation, imprisonment, oppression, destruction of goods, expulsion…marking the body, shaving of half portions of the body,” as well as another old favourite of having the person carried on “ignoble animals”. This last option was seized by Muslim rulers too: In the 17th century, when Aurangzeb defeated his brother and rival Dara Shukoh, he had the latter paraded through Delhi on the dirtiest elephant he could find. A few generations earlier, a Vijayanagar emperor had provoked war with the Bahmani sultan of the Deccan by forcing the latter’s ambassador to go around on a donkey.

Another popular option was mutilation, because it marked people for life but did not terminate their existence. While Brahmins were exempt from many punishments, this one could be inflicted on them too—those Brahmins who conspired against Martanda Varma (whom we met last week in this column) were branded with hot irons and banished from the realm, alive but diminished. Non-Brahmins might lose an arm or a leg, if not life itself, while among Muslim royalty, blinding was recommended to emasculate political rivals. Firm punishment as a principle is wholeheartedly recommended in Kautilya’s Arthashastra also, in order to protect larger interests pertaining to the polity and its sovereign. As the historian of violence in ancient India, Upinder Singh, notes, Kautilya condoned torture as a means of interrogation—women were to be subjected to “only half of the due torture” though. But the methods listed are instructive: “striking, whipping, caning, suspension from a rope, and inserting needles under the nails.” Equally, transgressions of caste were to be dealt with strictly: If a Sudra had dealings with a Brahmin female, he was to be “burned in a straw fire”, which was only marginally better than the punishment prescribed for the man who seduced the king’s wife—“death by being cooked in a jar”.

None of this is to make a value judgement, of course, for until a few generations ago, power and violence went hand in hand—if one sought power, one had to be willing to exercise violence. And having gained power, one had to periodically demonstrate a capacity for brutality to sustain and nourish that power. Ashoka, for instance, is now enshrined as one of ancient India’s apostles of peace, but he too began his career, it is said, by having his chief rival roasted alive in public. Political rivals, in fact, could be got rid of through multiple methods in Kautilya’s world: assassination, poison, even magical spells. All this was legitimate—for instance, it was through assassins that Maratha ruler Shivaji accomplished the conquest of Javali. One rebel against the Peshwa, similarly, was partially burnt, had spikes driven into his feet, and was crushed to pulp by an elephant, with whatever remained being put on display for everyone to see.

All this was meant, at the end of the day, to cement authority and maintain order—social as well as political, not to speak of personal where princes were concerned. Indians understood the principle well, so that long before the British started blowing people out of cannons, they had already popularized that method—and worse. For, as the ancient legal manual Manusmriti puts it, “Punishment alone governs all beings, punishment alone protects them, punishment watches over them while they sleep…. The whole world is kept in order by punishment, for a guiltless man is hard to find.”

(Published in Mint Lounge, June 29 2019)

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A hundred years ago, if a historian had been informed that large slices of India’s story could be narrated through tales of courtesans, he would either have sneered or taken umbrage at such insanity. For history was about great events, valorous deeds, inspiring heroes and terrible villains—there were clear categories and principles that felt immutable. Women, when they featured at all, were either celebrated for masculine virtues like fighting, or hovered on the periphery as trophies of war, beautiful victims, or sinister influences in the harem. The strangest thing that could be allowed was to transform the female—especially one so sexually threatening as the courtesan—into a medium through which the world of our ancestors could be explained. If today the study of the past is ensnared in political quarrels, back then it was charged with morality—and the “whore” was the last person to possess any relevance to that hallowed institution called history.

If I were, then, to put up my books as exhibits before our historian from a century ago, he might make peace with the first one—after all, it is called The Ivory Throne, a name that suggests much respectability and is reminiscent of such grand memories as the Mughals’ Peacock Throne. My second book, Rebel Sultans, might sound somewhat bewildering, but may yet pass muster as far as appearances are concerned, because at least it conjures up images of kings. But the third would, I imagine, provoke violent protests from our colonial-era historian. For, after all, what history could possibly be encapsulated in a book called The Courtesan, The Mahatma & The Italian Brahmin? How could India’s grand narrative—or at least its dignified, decorous version—have anything to do with what our stern old man would describe as a harlot occupying title space with a monk and a saint?

And yet, in 2019, if we suspend moral judgement and open our eyes, many are the women who emerge as spokespersons for India’s cultural, social and historical memory. But these are not our usual suspects. On the contrary, they are rarely parked on pedestals as goddesses, for these are women of flesh and blood, with strengths and weaknesses. They are not repositories of middle-class virtue, for they are inconvenient women with minds of their own. They are not heroines who appear in school textbooks to “inspire” in old-fashioned ways, for they are more “bad” than “good”. And yet they reveal our layered, extraordinary past more completely than official textbooks ever could. In their life experiences are encapsulated moments in Indian history, and a world of human experience. What they represent are not only the motivations of those who made our yesterdays, but also how we negotiate our present and shape tomorrows yet to come.

Who are these fascinating women who enriched Indian history? One of “my” courtesans, for instance, wrote sensuous poetry in the 18th century, winning considerable esteem in her own day. But a century later, when hypocrisy became India’s new normal, married as it was to unhealthy Victorian notions of morality, she was obliterated from memory altogether. When someone first sought to resurrect her, they expunged her female identity—from Muddupalani, she was turned into “Muddu Pillai”, simply because the world was uncomfortable with a woman who could speak of desire and articulate a right to pleasure. A scholar in her own time, she was wealthy and respected; but in the ups and downs her memory suffered, we learn also about our own insecurities and cultural regression. To know Muddupalani is not merely to discover the life of a poet, but also, then, to understand the trials of her afterlife in a society uncertain about itself.

The India that opens up through the eyes of female figures is a very different land from what we might expect. One courtesan was a figment of someone’s imagination, but has since become a phantom, enduring to this day in the name of a city; another was a dancing girl who died one of India’s wealthiest women, but in her personal choices smashes our notions of who belongs and who is an outsider. A third set up a colonial-era company, establishing a business venture when most Indian women were still illiterate. The lives of most of these women often ended in tragedy, and many were the mistakes they made. But, as with Muddupalani, what they achieved ought to have been remembered—instead, it was buried under shame as men sought to promote the kulastree (chaste family woman) over the vesya (courtesan) with personality.

Of course, courtesans, given their literacy, mobility and creative freedoms, enjoyed advantages that many other women of their time did not. But even then—and perhaps because of this—envisioning India through them offers something refreshing. They are, in some sense, the easiest female figures in history to tap, but beyond them too lies much knowledge, residing sometimes in factual history, and sometimes even in legend and temple lore. Whether it is a goddess with three breasts, or a woman with none; whether it is the same woman presented one way in an epic and radically differently later—their stories remind us that the past is never a linear narrative, it is not a land of timeless tradition, and that, above everything else, it often only represents history as written and shaped by men. But if we seek to understand these women on their own terms, we might be richer in our ability to grasp history itself better.

The irony, of course, is that not only that historian from a hundred years ago, but many even today, remain reluctant to embrace this aspect of our heritage and tradition. The colonizing of Indian minds in the colonial era by Victorian sensibilities was severe, added to which is generations of patriarchy—it will take time and patience before change comes to how history is imagined. Clubbing a courtesan with a mahatma may not immediately be understood or approved of by some. But that is precisely where the courtesan belongs, for, in the larger scheme of things and the big picture of our civilization, her role is no less significant than that galaxy of saints and monks we have all been taught to venerate.

(My column in Mint Lounge, June 29 2019)


On 17 June 1751, the maharaja of Travancore choreographed for himself a dramatic social upgrade. Originally one of numerous petty chieftains claiming dominion over slivers of the Kerala coast, Martanda Varma had swelled forbiddingly in power over the previous two decades. He opened his career with the massacre of dozens of his court nobles—they had made the lives of previous rajas difficult, so he had them annihilated. Then he unseated cousins from rival branches of his house, smashing internal threats. Finally, he led his armies into alien territories up the coast: Where a Brahmin ruled, he despatched Muslim and Christian troops; where arms proved useless, he held up gold to provoke defections. Threatened by the Dutch, he even coolly declared plans to invade Europe, before defeating them. Artful, determined, and possessed of uncommon valour, Martanda Varma was enthroned by 1751 as the most powerful prince in the land of Malayalam.

But, then as now, mere possession of power did not cement one’s position in the political and social order of the day. To many of his new subjects, Martanda Varma was a ruthless invader—once, when his soldiers tried to loot a temple, for instance, its priests resisted them with brooms and sticks. To equally large numbers of people, he was the usurper of thrones over which he had no claim—he had caused his own kin to flee, and annexed old principalities with invented provocations. Indeed, as late as 1817, his heirs still expressed suspicion that the people in these conquered districts, “held in subjection by the most cruel and rigorous exercise of despotic power”, entertained for their line only “feelings of resentment and hostility”. Martanda Varma, after all, had defanged the Nair lords and replaced them with a new bureaucracy. He had exiled princes and ruled with the aid of Tamil Brahmins. He was the bringer of change and even progress, but he had also soaked the earth with the blood of the ancien régime.

The maharaja understood the import of seizing the narrative. In 1749, he took his first step towards stability through a stunning ritual. Standing before his family deity in the Padmanabhaswamy temple in Thiruvananthapuram that January, he surrendered all his conquests to the almighty. In an instant, Travancore went from being the fruit of violent, illegitimate annexations to becoming the sacred estate of his lord. So far, defiance of Martanda Varma might have been justified as a matter of politics—now, rebellion against the state was an insurrection against its esteemed deity. For the maharaja, the dedication may have been a spiritual act as well, of course, but its strategic implications were manifest—he ruled now as Padmanabha dasa, servant of the divine, his every action shielded by the aura of God.

But there were even more innovations afoot to marshal legitimacy for Travancore and its ruler. Hitherto, for instance, royal blood had not been sacred: The rulers of his house were first among equals, only nominally superior in caste to their noblemen. Now, however, Martanda Varma sought to confirm for his dynasty a position that enshrined them above their people. As early as 1739, the Dutch had recorded his anxiety to acquire the sacred thread, and, as a local chronicle adds, the king knew he would have to perform certain rituals, for only “then may I wear the sacerdotal thread”. Indeed, for all his power, Martanda Varma still did not enjoy a caste status equal to the (politically impotent) raja of Cochin, through whose veins coursed the bluest blood in Kerala. In fact, when the over-mighty warrior king met his rather demure Cochin counterpart, he was barred by custom from even taking a seat in the latter’s presence.

It was another ceremony, then, that rectified this state of affairs in 1751. Hiranyagarbha was well known among princes seeking a caste promotion. The zamorin of Calicut once performed this in the previous century, and one of the Nayaka rulers of Tamil country was also “reborn” a Kshatriya through its means. Central to the ceremony was the figure of a cow made of gold—the aspirant made his way into his expensive new “mother”, spent time within the “womb”, while priests chanted birth mantras, and then, at an auspicious moment, emerged from under the cow’s tail, reborn into Kshatriya-hood. Interestingly, in the case of the Nayaka, the ceremony included landing in the arms of his priest’s wife. “She played,” we are informed, “the role of midwife, rocking and caressing him while he cried like an infant.” The priest, of course, got to keep the golden cow.

And so it was that Martanda Varma too acquired the sacred thread and his social upgrade. His nephew would perform the ritual on an even more magnificent scale, with the result, the Dutch noted, that “not only has he himself been made a noble but his posterity also have been ennobled once for all”. By the late 19th century, in fact, these procedures had “the desired effect, for since that time the people of Travancore have had a…sacred regard for the royal house”. The “position of the Travancore sovereign has become somewhat parallel to that of the Pope in Rome,” a court historian wrote, “and therefore neither the people nor the servants of the State would dare to disobey the king”, let alone plot mutiny or murder.

Well before Martanda Varma went to the grave in 1758, the advantages of having the destinies of the throne tied to such ceremonies and their deity became clear. Among the maharaja’s final instructions to his heir was that “not a hair’s breadth of alteration or deviation” was to be made in the customs and institutions he had established. For on this depended the narrative of the state he founded, and the stability and endurance of the royal house of which he was head.

(My column in Mint Lounge, June 22 2019)


In 1857, when the Great Rebellion unleashed fire and fury against British rule in India, the subcontinent’s princes for the most part elected to stay loyal to the East India Company. From the Scindias of Gwalior and the maharaja of Jaipur in the north, down to the nizam of Hyderabad and the ruler of Kochi in the peninsula, public declarations of support were followed up with generous offers of material assistance. The princely states became, as a relieved viceroy put it, “breakwaters in the storm which would have swept (the British away) in one great wave”—for while the colonial state was smashing rebellion, the princes kept the peace in vast swathes of the country. Their states became pillars of the Raj hereafter, cementing the edifice of empire and helping establish for the British crown a moral authority in India.

But by the dawn of the 20th century, when peace was the new normal and military stability achieved, a new constituency emerged in the subcontinent: the English-educated Indian. While in the early stages their nationalism did not directly challenge the legitimacy of the Raj, over time the colonial establishment conceded that some stake would need to be fashioned for them too in the system if alien rule in India were to be sustained. As the British wooed influential, moderate Indians, small slices of power were devolved over time, even if their substance left much to be desired. But then, unexpectedly, armchair politics was overshadowed by Mahatma Gandhi’s formidable mass mobilization. Instead of being seduced by the colonial carrot, this new crop of nationalists was willing to risk an encounter with the stick.

But India’s imperial masters had other tricks too. Gandhi’s Civil Disobedience Movement, launched in 1930, culminated in the Round Table Conferences in London, and ultimately led to the Government of India Act of 1935. Under its provisions, India was to be governed by a new constitution, inviting nationalists to join the administration. So, for instance, in the provinces, elected governments were proposed, headed by Indian ministers. It was an effort to attract the Congress into constitutional offices, and hopefully blunt, with enticements of power and position, its agitational propensities. Of course, British governors would enjoy overriding powers to thwart any inconvenient legislation, but the promise of 1935 was certainly one to reckon with—a rather ripe carrot once again on the national table.

Naturally, within the vast, often conflicted (sometimes even confused) Congress machine, the idea was received with a mix of paranoia and eagerness. As the governor of Madras reported, “The bulk of the Congress down here are panting to take office,” but senior leaders like Jawaharlal Nehru were against it: In 1936, the latter got through a resolution announcing how the whole project was “designed to facilitate and perpetuate the domination and exploitation of the people of India”, albeit in a less obvious manner. While in the end, with Gandhi’s blessings, it was decided to participate in the elections after all, the question of whether the Congress should form governments if it won was deferred. As G.D. Birla, the celebrated industrialist who had the Mahatma’s ear, wrote, “Jawaharlalji’s speech in a way was thrown into the waste paper basket.”

By 1937, the Congress formally agreed to form provincial governments, and winning eight out of 11 of these, went ahead and did precisely that: In Gandhi’s secretary’s words, by not obstructing the move, “Jawahar and his friends of course behaved splendidly”. Being in power brought both advantages and problems, many of which still afflict our political system. On the one hand, it gave Congressmen active experience of running governments, a skill that would prove useful after 1947, when a seamless transition was made possible from British to Indian hands. But on the other, it also gave expression to some less-than-inspiring impulses : A taste of power, after all, could also translate into an appetite for corruption.

Even more interestingly, the Congress now found itself locked between the rock of its own heady aspirations and the hard place of practicalities. Until it landed in office, it represented a pan-Indian movement—a romantic idea that could shake mountains. Now, however, they had to confront such sobering concepts as the economy and budgets. In its election manifesto, the Congress had made grand promises of a pro-labour nature, even while the high command of the party nurtured remunerative bonds with powerful capitalists. Now both groups expected dividends, and it was left for the new Indian governments to strike a balance.

Balance was certainly attempted, but if it could not be found, the British happily offered laws to negotiate such situations. In September 1938, for example, the Congress government in Bombay passed an Industrial Disputes Act, largely in favour of businessmen. Labour protests broke out against this “black act” (an expression hitherto used by the Congress against British policies), and the authorities mobilized the police, killing two and injuring dozens. In the United Provinces, on the other hand, the Congress ministry was seen as too conciliatory towards labour, so leading businessmen decided to browbeat the party by donating to its rivals, including the Hindu Mahasabha, and, somewhat surprisingly—given that most of these donors were Hindus—to the Muslim League.

Either way, with their new experience in running government machinery, Congress politicians grasped fresh nuances in the art of politics. V.V. Giri, once a trade union leader, for instance, served as labour minister in Madras. And being in power sparked revealing changes. “I have always believed,” the once uncompromising ex-firebrand now sagely declared, “in the spirit of negotiations between employers and workers”. For, as politicians even today realize, grand declarations on the street were one thing; being in power another. In the end, though, all this faded into the background—by the winter of 1939, Congress governments across the country would resign from power. The British had dragged India into World War II without even pretending to consult its leaders. And so, the Congress withdrew—the courtship was over, and, in the storm that lay ahead, its leaders refused to serve as breakwaters.

(My column in Mint Lounge, June 15 2019)


In 1948, when the Linguistic Provinces Commission presented its report to the constituent assembly, it was packed with ominous words against organizing states on the rationale of a common language. It was true, certainly, that the Congress constituted its regional units on a linguistic basis and had as recently as 1946 endorsed this principle. But with independence achieved, the impact of Partition suffered, and the nation in precarious infancy, it was wiser, the commission felt, to promote stability over regional aspirations. India’s tryst with destiny was a moment of hope, but there was still, beneath everything, that “centuries-old India of narrow loyalties, petty jealousies and ignorant prejudices”, so much so that they were “horrified to see how thin was the ice” upon which the new nation was skating.

“Some of the ablest men in the country came before us,” the report further noted, “and confidently… stated that language in this country stood for and represented culture, tradition, race, history, individuality, and finally, a sub-nation”. If sub-nations were given political expression, would that not jeopardize the vision for a united India? Was this not a recipe for disintegration? The “formation of provinces on exclusively or even mainly linguistic considerations,” the commission concluded, “is not in the larger interests of the Indian nation”. The need of the hour was to find a way to invest in unity, and to create a framework that would bring together the Nagas of the North-East with the Gujarati ex-subjects of Baroda’s maharaja; the Malabar Muslim with the Kashmiri Pandit.

One of the recommendations of the commission to achieve this was the adoption of a national language. It was a proposition vociferously debated in the constituent assembly. Jawaharlal Nehru, for instance, agreed that “English had done us a lot of good” and helped bring together nationalists from across divides. But “no nation can become great on the basis of a foreign language”. Allowing English to dominate, he felt, would create an elite class and separate them from “a large mass of our people not knowing English”. It was a point well received: As another member argued, preserving English would only please “the ghost” of Lord Macaulay. And as Mahatma Gandhi himself stated in 1946, “only the language which the people of a country will themselves adopt can become national”. This language was Hindi.

Like many others, B.R. Ambedkar too favoured Hindi. “Since Indians wish to unite and develop a common culture,” he would write, “it is the bounden duty of all Indians to own up Hindi as their language.” Without this, we would be left “a 100 per cent Maharashtrian, a 100 per cent Tamil or a 100 per cent Gujarati” but never truly Indian. But then compromises would have to be made by everyone: The Hindi-heartland states were intimidating behemoths, which would have to consent to being divided into smaller units (something that did eventually, and reluctantly, happen decades later). And while linguistic states could be formed, their official language should not be the state’s dominant language. The price of linguistic self-expression was accepting the union’s common language.

All this, of course, was easier said than done. Opposition, especially from the south, was sharp, with the result that Hindi was made India’s official, but not national, language. English was to linger for 15 years, during which time a complete transition to Hindi was envisioned—which, of course, did not happen. Indeed, contrary to the Linguistic Provinces Commission’s recommendations, language-based states did take form within a decade, reinforcing (entirely legitimate) regional identities. And where Hindi was concerned, resistance to giving up English was so determined that a mere list of books on the topic published in 1965 is revealing: Our Language Problem, Problem Of Hindi, India’s Language Crisis: A Study and (the sparklingly original) Language Problem.

Debates, of course, continued. K.M. Munshi, for instance, argued that “only Hindi is capable of becoming the single national language of India, because it…bears close similarity with Sanskrit”. Others, like T.A. Ramalingam Chettiar, disagreed: “You cannot use the word national language,” he said in Parliament, “because Hindi is no more national to us than English…. We have got our own languages which are national languages.” Another interesting factor that motivated the anti-Hindi argument was the seeming lack of prestige in the language. While in the last century, Hindi literature had grown, it was nowhere as ancient as Tamil, or as rich as Telugu, for example. As C. Rajagopalachari, who in the 1930s famously promoted Hindi in Madras Presidency schools, now remarked cuttingly, “The new Hindi…is not a language but a burlesque.”

In the end, given that the country had no shortage of challenges to confront, common sense prevailed, and things were left alone. After all, even the Union cabinet was split: The prime minister, Lal Bahadur Shastri, was in favour of the transition from English to Hindi, as was his home minister G.L. Nanda, while others, like Sanjeeva Reddy, C. Subramaniam, and O.V. Alagesan, were staunchly against it—the last two even put in their resignations, withdrawing them only when assured that English would not be jettisoned or Hindi imposed. And so, the status quo continued, and the three-language policy we know today was introduced, officially giving regional languages their space, while not compromising on either English or Hindi’s positions. How sincerely it was implemented, of course, is another matter.

All elite languages face periods of rise and decline, and, like Persian declined, English will too one day perhaps. Whether it will be replaced by Hindi will need to be seen, but Hindi’s inroads have been strong even without rabble-rousing or official acceleration: Bollywood and migration have achieved much more than state policy. But for the stability of India, with all its diverse languages and identities, Nehru’s warning to the constituent assembly may well be recalled even today. In “some speeches I have listened (to) here,” he said, “there is very much a tone of the Hindi speaking area being the centre of things in India, the centre of gravity, and others being just the fringes of India.” This was what India had to guard against, he warned, and, over 70 years later, it is precisely this tendency that we must again protest.

(My column in Mint Lounge, June 08 2019)

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Sometime in 1561, a Portuguese Jesuit found himself in the city of Bijapur, grumbling about its diverse inadequacies. Certainly, he conceded, this capital of the Adil Shahi dynasty was larger than Goa, but size could hardly compensate for its glaring weaknesses. Not only were Muslims here “as numerous as insects” in his sharply prejudiced view, but the town did not have “ten houses that are worthwhile, nor good streets nor planning” to be able to handle a swelling population. Despite being the seat of a powerful prince, most people lived in ugly tents, with the result that there was little of even architectural merit in Bijapur to commend itself to a regular visitor, let alone one as judgemental as this particular specimen.

But while the Jesuit left disappointed, these were still early days in the reign of Ali Adil Shah, the sultan, and by the end of his rule nearly two decades later, Bijapur would be well on its way to transformation: outer walls, mansions, mosques, parks, even underground water supply. More importantly, beyond everyday routines, Ali would successfully also attract an intellectual class to his court. He personally made it a habit, including when out on campaigns, to cart his books along, for instance, and created a library employing 60 hands—in 1567, the grandfather of the celebrated Marathi poet Vaman Pandit was entrusted with its supervision on a princely salary of 1,000 hons.

Ali’s would become a time of cultural efflorescence in Bijapur. The beginnings of the Bijapuri style of painting are traced to his reign, for example, so much so that scholars George Michell and Mark Zebrowski note how “absolutely no painting can be ascribed to Bijapur” before this period. After the defeat of Vijayanagar, artists from there too were absorbed, so that in addition to Persianate and Islamicate ideas, south Indian Hindu concepts and techniques also made their way into local art and literature. None of this was surprising as such, for as Ali’s contemporary Rafi al din Shirazi noted, he was “generous…unrestrained, and unceremonious”, attracting both Hindu and Muslim thinkers, from whom he derived intellectual nourishment.

Perhaps the most striking production of Ali’s eventful reign in Bijapur, however, is the 1570-71 Nujum al-Ulum (Stars Of The Sciences). For a long time, the provenance of this manuscript was doubted: As one scholar argued in 1958, the link with Bijapur was “based solely on a note by a former owner, who remarks that the book was once the property” of Ali’s heir, and questions were raised about its date too. But over time, not only did the style of illustration and richness of material used clarify a Bijapur origin and royal patronage, but, by 2011, it became clear Ali himself was its author. As Emma Flatt discovered, the text (in a somewhat peculiar place) itself records how “the writer of these traditions…and stories…is named Ali, known as Adil Shah”.

The Nujum was never fully completed—perhaps on account of the sultan’s endless military campaigns—but Ali’s (or his ghost-writer’s) intention to present 53 topics is recorded. It is a bewildering mix of all that appears to have interested the man. Chapter 15 was to discuss Indian and Persian styles of wrestling, while the following section was to classify men and women on the basis of their “modes of sitting”. Chapter 41 was to delve into arithmetic, and chapter 50 to study sherbets and halwas. Even in the 10 chapters that do survive in the Nujum’s 348 folios, we find expositions on horses, elephants, weapons, exercise, astrology (including a translation of an obscure Sanskrit text), and a fascinating descriptive catalogue of tantric goddesses, called ruhanis.

Citing everyone from Plato to Al-Sakkaki, the Hindu influence in the Nujum is, in fact, striking. As art historian Deborah Hutton records, where Persian works usually depict the planet Mars as a warrior, in Ali’s treatise we see Mars resemble a Hindu deity with four arms. Sanskrit words are interspersed with Persian, and, at one point, the influence of the Markandeya Puranam becomes clear. Venus appears with her Islamic name Zuhra, but is unironically presented, Flatt similarly points out, as the daughter of Bhar Gua (or Bhrigu of Hindu mythology, who is the father of Shukra, from whom comes the Sanskrit name of Venus).

The illustrations themselves, some rich, others crude, are striking—the tantric goddesses, for instance, are almost entirely south Indian in appearance, with disc-like earrings, enormous eyes, and attributes such as tridents which link them to deities like Kali and Shiva. These ruhanis represent different things and are depicted accordingly: Ali introduces a two-headed goddess bearing flames, while elsewhere we encounter another flinging men by their hair. One fanged ruhani wears a Maharashtrian sari, while another holds serpents in her hands. Yet another is the owner of 32 arms, while the ruhani Ariv has a corpse in her mouth. There are dark-skinned goddesses, and those who are red—one is black and white both, on each side of her body, while another has clawed feet. And yet we also have gentle Subhapgi, who nurses a baby, attended to by servants who fan her.

Ali’s own intention in the Nujum was evidently to compile a manual to guide kings. As Hutton writes, his “main thesis” was that “all worldly affairs are governed by supernatural forces…(and) if the sultan is able to understand the cosmos and the various supernatural powers at work, he can exert proper control over worldly affairs”. With his patronage of artists, musicians, scholars and philosophers, and with his apparent knowledge of diverse astrological traditions to herald greatness, Ali ought, by his own logic, to have taken Bijapur into a golden age. He certainly did set the ball rolling, but, by 1580, he would, alas, be in the grave. For all his knowledge of astrology and tantric secrets, the king and author of the Nujum could not foresee his own assassination—not by magical hands, but by very human ones of those plotting around him.

(My column in Mint Lounge, June 01 2019)


In the summer of 1944, a white man showed up in the coastal town of Ratnagiri to explore the former residence of a political personage. The “two-storey building of local laterite and lava rock,” John LeRoy Christian noted, was easily “the finest building” in town—a tiled structure befitting the rank of the man who once lived there. He then made his way to the home of the late occupant’s daughter, discovering here, however, a “simple Indian stone house with…only the most essential furniture”. To the old lady within, her visitor presented a bottle of lemon drops, and she reciprocated, as was appropriate, with an offering of her own. And so it was that this stranger from overseas received from the exiled princess of Burma a right royal present of two Ratnagiri mangoes.

When King Thibaw of Ava beheld his first daughter in 1880, there was no indication that this “Exalted Senior Mistress of the Head Group of Goddesses” would die impoverished and alone 67 years later, by the shores of western India. But then Thibaw himself had little inkling of what awaited him. He came to power through palace intrigue and lost it a few years later after a hopeless war against the British. His father, King Mindon, was an icon, and had other plans for the succession—Thibaw, his 41st son, was not the most appealing of heirs. But Mindon’s queen locked up most of Thibaw’s rivals and ensured the 19-year-old took the Lion Throne. A three-day-long massacre followed, and Thibaw’s relations were slaughtered, in keeping with a bloody tradition. Of course, to prevent the cries of the royal victims from offending his ears, loud dramas were staged, drowning out the sound of death.

It was a world of obsequious splendour over which the king now presided (he had 100 slipper-bearers and 60 “bearers of the royal betel box”) but it was not a world he would enjoy for long. In 1826, soon after the First Anglo-Burmese War, several provinces had been ceded to the ascendant British, besides the port of Rangoon. The Second Anglo-Burmese War in the 1850s led to the loss of more territory, so that Lower Burma became a British colony, the royal family controlling the rest from their capital in Mandalay. The massacre of the king’s relatives now supplied moral outrage to annex even Upper Burma and between 1879-85 relations between the court and colonial authorities cooled steadily. Even without murder, they had other reasons to depose the king—he flirted with the French, for instance, and could thwart what the British imagined were their rightful commercial prerogatives.

In 1885, the British issued an ultimatum, acceptance of which would have meant foreign rule in all but name. Thibaw’s principal wife and half-sister —Supayalat, daughter of the regicidal queen mentioned above, and the real force behind his throne—insisted they fight. After all, even if defeat was certain, at least there was honour in losing a war. The result was the rout of royal forces, and, by November 1885, British troops were in the capital. Thibaw and Supayalat received them in state, trying to maintain the one thing they had left: a stoic dignity. Even as his servants and townspeople ransacked his palaces, the king was informed he would be shipped abroad. And, just as decades earlier the British had parcelled the Mughal emperor from Delhi to Burma, the last king of Ava was put on a bullock cart and packed off to India.

The next 30 years of Thibaw’s life are captured with great empathy by Sudha Shah in her meticulously researched The King In Exile (2016). It presents yet another case of a ruler divested of power and fighting for shreds of respect against a largely obdurate colonial establishment. At first, Thibaw and his family were parked in Madras (now Chennai), where the ex-king (demoted from “His Majesty” to “His Highness”) had his third daughter. And then, on a pension of 3,000, the family was settled in Ratnagiri, chosen because it was “well off the beaten track…(and) lacked any railway connection” that would make visits of sympathizers easier. Thibaw hated the place but there was no question of going back—while periodic raises were granted, the British saw him as a potential icon for nationalists at home. Indeed, even when in 1894 a transfer to Madras was proposed, the chief commissioner in Rangoon, opposed the idea, arguing this would cause “trouble in Burma”.

And so Thibaw wasted away in Ratnagiri, “a very unpleasant place to live in”, he wrote, full of “snakes and scorpions”. His expenses—much of it religious—led to endless debt, even as he petitioned the British for the return of valuables he had entrusted to them when surrendering his former capital (including a celebrated ruby, never seen since). His wife was initially resolute: She smelt conspiracy everywhere, Shah notes, and taught her daughters to cook, certain that they would be poisoned otherwise. But, by 1900, bogged down by their fall, she was in the grip of depression. Denied regular social contact, and policed and watched, their daughters too grew up lonely—the princess who in 1944 gave mangoes to her visitor began an affair with their Maharashtrian gatekeeper, her love child later marrying the family’s dog-walker. This granddaughter of the last king of Burma would one day transform herself from TuTu to Baisubai, selling paper decorations in the local market.

For Thibaw himself, there were many indignities to confront, chief of which was death in exile. At the end of 1916, the ex-king died soon after his second daughter eloped with a secretary. Not even his remains were allowed in the country where he was once sovereign. So it was in Ratnagiri that he was entombed, the only immediate consolation being a notice his youngest put out on the gate: “The Great King of Righteousness,” she announced, “has wearied of the world of men and ascended (therefore) to rule among the Gods.” And then, a few years later, the family was at last permitted to leave, going back to the land where their ancestors were once kings—that is, till the princess who loved the gatekeeper returned, destined to spend the rest of her days in a tiny cottage, alone and forgotten, near the grave of her broken father.

(My column in Mint Lounge, May 25 2019)


On 12 May 1666, the Maratha hero Shivaji came face to face with his nemesis, Aurangzeb. Mughal armies had for generations been embroiled in the Deccan, and what Akbar launched, his great-grandson was determined to bring to a conclusion. But such turmoil also opened avenues for new political ideas—something Shivaji, for instance, described as his swarajya. Battles were fought between the Mughals and the Marathas, each party celebrating victories and suffering defeat, though compromise and diplomacy remained in play. Where the Marathas embarrassed the emperor by attacking his uncle in his own camp in 1663, for instance, by 1665 the tables had turned—the Mughals cornered Shivaji, forcing him to the negotiating table.

So it was that Shivaji arrived in Agra the next summer to pay homage to the emperor. While the Marathas would become Aurangzeb’s most formidable challenge, the two sides did not at this time meet as equals. For the Mughals, Shivaji was one of numerous political representatives present—indeed, as Audrey Truschke suggests, in a long-established and ceremonious court where well-ensconced Rajputs painted Marathas as upstarts, it is hardly surprising that Shivaji was not treated with exceptional regard. As the Deccan’s foremost power, however, he took umbrage at this, added to which may have been awkwardness in an unfamiliar environment. Some say he stormed out, while others claim his protests provoked the emperor to expel him. Either way, Mughal efforts to co-opt the Marathas came to naught, and Shivaji was imprisoned.

In hindsight, and in the romance that often weaves its way through history’s tales, it is tempting to view the conflict between Aurangzeb and Shivaji as merely a clash of titans. But each side estimated the other differently, deploying contempt as well as grudging awe, depending on the context. For Aurangzeb, the Maratha warrior was a “mountain rat”—a parvenu creating chaos and lacking legitimacy. Indeed, in 1666, after the events at the durbar, several were the voices that advised a swift, murderous solution to the Maratha headache. The emperor, however, prevaricated, and Shivaji escaped. The war resumed and cost life and money both, but it would be decades before the Marathas were acknowledged by the Mughals as worthy of serious respect.

For Shivaji, however, with absorption into the Mughal system having failed, there was no way ahead but to dig in his heels. By the 1670s, as he retrieved territories seized by the emperor’s men, the Maratha champion also grew keen on legitimacy. This was intended to address Mughal contempt as well as local disdain. After all, among Marathas too, many denied Shivaji’s claims of primacy and his project to found a new state and identity. Early on, as scholar Prachi Deshpande shows, the Mores of Jawali questioned his ambition and highlighted their superiority, invoking a deity as well as service under a local sultanate. The Ghorpades of Mudhol too cast Shivaji in their chronicles as an adventurer upsetting all that was established. At best, the young Maratha was an equal—why should they rally behind his cause and declare him their leader?

Shivaji’s response to this crisis of legitimacy was twofold. To triumph over local discord and cement his position, he summoned the power of Sanskrit texts and ideals of Kshatriya dharma. Against ritual odds and objections, he had himself crowned with grand old ceremonies in 1674, acquiring a superior caste as well as a sacred thread. Then he commissioned an elaborate Sanskrit epic, eulogizing his deeds but also articulating his vision—the Sivabharata elevates the new king beyond provincial feuds, transforming him into dharma’s sword against adharma. He is Vishnu reborn to rid the world of mleccha i.e. Islamic rule, justifying his efforts to claim leadership of the Marathas. “Even a single ant,” it is declared, “can kill an elephant, by crawling into its trunk.” If anyone thought Shivaji insignificant, it was at their own peril.

As it happened, after his death the state descended into chaos, Shivaji’s heirs struggling with internecine rivalries and trying to hold on to tenuous loyalties. Here again, though, texts were deployed alongside efforts on the ground. In the 1690s, when his son Rajaram was exiled in the south and hounded by the Mughals, the SabhasadBakhar (a chronicle by Sabhasad) was composed, lending moral force to the Maratha struggle. Shivaji’s deeds were recalled, and his valour celebrated. Indeed, at a time when imperial attacks were at their worst and the state confronted an existential crisis, history was married to song to shore up urgently needed confidence and sustain hard-won validity for this troubled enterprise. As the imperial court shrewdly flirted with assorted Maratha warlords, an emotional reminder of a once-shining goal could help prevent utter disintegration.

So while, in reality, Aurangzeb viewed the Marathas with disdain, in the Bakhar, words of awe are ascribed to him. After hearing, for instance, of the Marathas’ attack on his uncle, we have the emperor express uncharacteristic horror. Even when Shivaji is about to attend the Mughal durbar, the emperor cries: “He isn’t an ordinary man.” After all, he vanquished great generals, and if “just like that he flies on to my throne and betrays me, what will I do then?” In the Bakhar, the Mughals remain redoubtable foes and the emperor very powerful, but there is respect for Shivaji. In fact, in the end Aurangzeb declares: “I sent lakhs and lakhs of horsemen; all returned subdued and harassed…I might just gird up my loins and go myself, but….While Shivaji is alive, (it is) better not to leave Delhi.”

These words were composed when the Maratha effort was desperate to stay afloat and the imperial army was at its most aggressive. But recalling Shivaji—and borrowing from his own techniques of wedding textual projection to lived action—the idea behind swarajya retained a vitality. The result was that, in the end, the Maratha kingdom survived, even as Aurangzeb went to the grave with regrets. “The greatest pillar of a government,” he ruminated, “is the keeping of information about everything…while even a minute’s negligence results in shame for long years. See how the flight of that wretch Shiva, which was due to carelessness, has involved me in all these distracting campaigns to the end of my days.”

(My column in Mint Lounge, May 18 2019)


In 1509, when Krishna Raya of Vijayanagar ascended the empire’s throne, it was with a debt of gratitude to a murdered goat. Legend has it that the prince’s half-brother and predecessor had no desire to see Krishna Raya inherit power—determined to safeguard the prospects of his own offspring, he commanded his minister to blind their rival and bring him his eyes. The minister nodded assent but acted treacherously. Sending Krishna Raya into hiding, he deceived the dying monarch with a pair of goat’s eyes. And when the man heaved a sigh of relief and took his final breath, the prince was cheerfully retrieved, returning from the political wilderness to be enthroned in Vijayanagar.

The empire under Krishna Raya—popularly known as Krishnadeva Raya—would scale great heights, the population in its capital region surpassing every city in the world save Beijing. But for all his achievements, Krishna Raya was never, it is said, expected to reign at all. He was the son of his father from an inferior wife: Nagamba or Nagi, some believe, was a lamp-cleaner. One day, the Raya’s father witnessed something dramatic in the skies—a shooting star, it is suggested. He consulted his astrologers and was instructed to lie with his lady at once. He looked for his wife, the story continues, but could not find her. So it was Nagi who went to her lord’s bedchamber. It was the lamp-cleaner who birthed a son blessed by celestial forces.

Many such apocryphal tales envelop Krishna Raya, marrying heady romance to cold reality. But even without a legitimizing preamble, what he achieved was phenomenal. Vijayanagar was not in a state of health when the prince seized its throne, so that for years he was preoccupied with stability. He fought foreign enemies even as he overawed rebellious feudatories. Swords were raised in Kanchipuram, as they were in Ikkeri, and in the field the emperor was magnificent and ruthless. He “crushed the skulls of Khurasani warriors”, for instance, and with the head of a sultan “built a gruesome effigy”. Such violence was not unusual, for spilling blood was an inevitable corollary to power—decades later, another figure would meet a similar fate, though this time it was a sultan doing the honours, while Krishna Raya’s son-in-law supplied the head.

Travellers’ accounts paint Krishna Raya as a man of tremendous physical vigour. “The king,” recorded one, “is of medium height and good figure, rather fat than thin,” with a pockmarked face. Every morning, he “anoints himself all over with…oil; he covers his loins with a small cloth and takes in his arms great weights made of earthenware”. He rode, wrestled and fenced. But equally, once exercise was out of the way, he negotiated administrative minutiae. Impressively, between everything, the emperor also found time to compose poetry—works in Sanskrit and a great kavya in Telugu. With regard to the latter, it did not matter that he was a Tuluva from coastal Karnataka: He celebrated Telugu, not only due to admiration for the language but also to cement his place in a Teluguized imperial order.

Meanwhile, as his power grew, so did Krishna Raya’s confidence. Sometimes, in fact, it could manifest in peculiar exchanges of courtly insults. In 1520, for instance, the emperor seized Raichur from the Adil Shah of Bijapur after a spectacular battle featuring not only horses and soldiers but also hundreds of guns. When the sultan’s envoy asked for the return of this territory subsequently, Krishna Raya set one condition—the Adil Shah would have to come and kiss the emperor’s foot. It is hardly surprising that the defeated enemy made excuses to avoid embarrassment, but Krishna Raya was determined. He “led a stampede of ferocious elephants against the Yavana” king, and, when the latter fled, sacked Bijapur before returning victorious (and amused) to his own capital.

Subsequent chronicles often cast Krishna Raya as a unidimensional protector of Hindu pride battling Islamic perfidy. But his policy was not quite guided by religion even if it was articulated in the language of faith—just as he lambasted “yavanas” who ruled Deccani sultanates, so too did he rail against Odisha’s Hindu Gajapatis. Certainly, his world view was inspired by Sanskritic and south Indian traditions, but that did not preclude the absorption of Islamicate influence—in a bronze image he gifted to the temple in Tirupati, for example, he flaunts a Turkish fez. Even as he lambasted Muslim opponents, he also crowned the scion of a sultanate, thereafter assuming the title Yavana Rajya Sthapanacharya: the (Hindu) king who resurrected a Muslim state.

With time, Krishna Raya developed advice, too, for princes and aspiring sovereigns. “If the enemy has a powerful army,” he proposes in his Amuktamalyada, translated beautifully by Srinivas Reddy, “it is wise to treat him with gifts and respect.” But if “reports of spies reveal that the enemy is weak”, he was to be demolished right away. Great fortresses need not cause despair, he felt, for “there are mechanized weapons of various designs to penetrate rampart walls”. Similarly, it was important to keep a close eye on foreigners and trade. Merchants were to be treated “with prestige” and given towns in which to reside. “Purchase their goods at a high price,” suggested Krishna Raya shrewdly, “and ensure that your enemies are deprived of such resources.”

A warrior king, an emperor unsurpassed, a patron and poet, Krishna Raya was a pragmatist too, encapsulating in his 20-year reign all that made for a triumphant 16th century monarch. But his story too suffered, ultimately, an unhappy end. Two of his sons died as children while the third was too young when the emperor began to fade. And so, as happened with his predecessor in 1509, his own successor was not his son but a half-brother, hitherto locked away. Indeed, even that unfortunate goat returned to haunt the Raya’s legacy: In the 1520s, a story goes, he fell out with his minister. And in a fit of fury, Krishna Raya sentenced him to a particularly sadistic punishment—the man who once saved the emperor with goat’s eyes had his own gouged out.

(My column in Mint Lounge, May 11 2019)


In 1877, when Queen Victoria assumed the title “Empress of India”, at the special durbar was a 10-year-old prince. Mahboob Ali Khan was the nizam of Hyderabad and came to Delhi with his regent, the formidable Sir Salar Jung. It was the latter who wielded actual power, and while there were rumours that he meant to keep the boy forever under his thumb, the man was also a genuine champion of the state’s interests. Indeed, when the viceroy pointed to Hyderabad’s “loyal allegiance” to the empire at the assembly, Salar Jung quietly translated it as “friendship” and “alliance” instead—to him, Hyderabad was not a vassal, it was “equal in sovereignty” to the British. But the viceroy would have none of it—he “corrected the intentional mistranslation” at once and made it clear to the little nizam that what he meant was unequivocal “obedience and fidelity”.

The nizams had come to Hyderabad as agents of the Mughals but quickly established their autonomy. Certainly, until 1857, they paid ceremonial homage to the badshah in Delhi, resisting British advice to declare themselves independent. Either way, by mid-19th century, it was the white man who became Hyderabad’s master, so that not only was the nizam saddled with a British army (to pay for which he was coerced to mortgage prized territory), but also debt on conditions that favoured English bankers. “Poor Nizzy pays for all,” mocked a newspaper, but successive rulers had no option but to accept such unfair terms. Resistance, when it occurred, was often through inventive non-military means. Once, for instance, when the queen sent Mahboob Ali Khan’s father a medal bearing her likeness, the nizam grabbed it before it could be pinned to his chest, and, placing it on his throne, took a seat on Her Majesty’s face.

But for all this, Hyderabad retained its importance, and though it came close to being annexed, in the end it survived imperial aggrandizement. Mahboob Ali Khan was 3 when he came to the gaddi, and such periods of minority rule in Indian states usually opened avenues for the British to widen their influence—they would appoint tutors to give lessons in loyalty to young princes and “improve” the administration in ways that dismantled old systems in favour of an anglicized bureaucracy. Salar Jung, however, prevented too many innovations—indeed, so resistant was he to British interference that as late as 1876, colonial agents lamented their lack of control—moral and academic—over the nizam. Instead, they reported that while Western education was imparted, Salar Jung had effectively turned the boy into a prisoner in his own palace, where “he is waited upon by 25 young women trained to debauch him”.

Whether or not this was an exaggeration, Salar Jung died in 1883 and the nizam came of age the next year and commenced his reign. His subjects were Telugu, Marathi, Kannada, and Urdu speakers, a large majority of them Hindu. The railways had already reached the state, as had electricity. The stage was set for great developments, and now there was also a young ruler whose generosity was proverbial. One story, for instance, relates how a stranger wrote to the nizam asking 500 for his daughter’s wedding. When Mahboob Ali Khan sanctioned 5,000, his secretary wondered if he had made a mistake. Scribbling on the file, the nizam returned it, this time with the note: “15,000 is sanctioned.” His horrified aide learnt never to ask questions again of his imperious royal master.

While several public reforms received attention in Hyderabad, the culture at court continued in a state of ceremoniousness. It was not entirely surprising—with real power clipped by the British, court protocol offered a strange consolation. Arriving in Delhi once, the nizam discovered that he was expected to walk from his train to the exit to mount his elephant. Declining to do anything half as ordinary, he simply refused to leave the coach—instead he “had his meals…played cards” and generally whiled away precious time. Two days passed, and as other trains jammed behind him, pressure mounted on Lord Curzon (whose already poor opinion of Indian princes is not likely to have improved) to allow an elephant inside the station. Mounting the animal triumphantly now, Mahboob Ali Khan went to meet this very viceroy, before whom he almost mockingly swore allegiance to the British crown.

But this luxurious format of resistance could also quickly transform into a slippery slope to excess. Against advice, for instance, the nizam purchased what is called the Jacob Diamond—it was offered for twice the actual price, and he paid half in advance before deciding he didn’t want the item after all. The seller sued Mahboob Ali Khan, causing an irate nizam to throw the diamond into a sock and store it in a shoe. It was years before his heir rediscovered it, and this time it was put to better use—as a paperweight. So, too, the nizam never repeated his clothes, with the result that not only did he end up with a wardrobe 77m long, but rumours circulated that his valet was selling him back his own old clothes, earning an illicit profit. On another occasion, Mahboob Ali Khan so liked a fabric that he had five years’ supply purchased in advance so that nobody else might wear the same material—to him, the world consisted of things he liked, and things he didn’t.

In 1911, however, this life of extravagance wound to a close. The nizam was surrounded by intrigue, with one wife reportedly placing pressure on him to declare her son heir to the throne. Storming out of the palace, Mahboob Ali Khan decided to binge on alcohol for three whole days, till he was comatose. And that is how, in his mid-40s, the man who was once described as “not wanting in ability” should he choose “to apply himself to public business” went to the grave—a legend where princely splendour was concerned but a tale of tragedy if his full productive potential was the measure.

(My column in Mint Lounge, May 04 2019)


In 1629-30, a terrible famine struck what is present-day Maharashtra. As one account put it, “Life was offered for a loaf, but none would buy; rank was to be sold for a cake, but none cared for it.” Indeed, so desperate were things that “the flesh of a son” came to be “preferred to his love”. The cream of society could, as usual, survive these privations. But so bad were conditions even a step or two below them that in the middle ranks too there was utter despair. Add to this political turmoil, and the year went down quickly as one of dreadful public misery.

There lived in Dehu during this troubled time a grocer and merchant called Tukaram. Only in his early 20s, he had already lost his parents, and now watched in horror as his senior wife died amid cries of “give me food”. Shortly after her, his eldest son Santoba also followed. Where once his family was well-off, now his business folded. “I was so troubled,” the future saint wrote later, “that I lost all interest in my household.” Turning his attention “to an old broken-down temple” in his village, he began, instead, to give “musical discourses on the eleventh day of every month”.

Tukaram—now one of the most holy names in the varkaritradition of Maharashtra’s Bhakti movement —was not made for business. But before he surrendered himself to spiritual pursuits, he tried his best to succeed at his family trade. In Mahipati’s 18th century hagiography, we hear how he “carried bags of grain on bullock backs” and “paid no attention to cold or heat”. He borrowed money to resurrect his business, only to go bankrupt. Future devotees would blame his essential goodness: Even when he knew he was being cheated, he did not object. It was another matter that his family had to endure the consequences. “My husband has gone crazy,” cried his younger wife. “He carries on his trade but meets with no success.”

This failure as a householder, in fact, marked Tukaram’s life. Later chroniclers embellished his memory with tales of miracles—of God paying his debts in human form, of idols drinking from his hand—but failure and depression afflicted him throughout. His answer at first was to immerse himself in “the good sayings of saints” and to repeat them for public benefit. But one day, after the 14th century saint Namdev spoke to him in a dream, Tukaram also began to compose verses of his own. It was a moment of transformation, and, by the end of his career, the ex-grocer would leave thousands of abhangas to be recited generations down the line.

Tukaram was a Shudra and did not directly challenge caste. But the sheer act of one of his rank preaching religion upset the establishment. One Brahmin is said to have personally assaulted him (although this was partly provoked by Tukaram’s buffalo making a meal of the former’s plants). Another filed an official complaint that so tormented our poet that the latter went up to the Brahmin’s village and apologized. “You are a Sudra by caste,” announced this antagonist in return, one who had no right to discuss God. Asked what Tukaram should do with his existing writings then, the man ordered him to throw the whole collection into the Indrayani river.

Tukaram obeyed, and then went on a fast. But 13 days later, his books reappeared magically on the river “as a gourd floats on water”. The news spread and, chastened, the Brahmin set out to apologize. Receiving a premonition of this, the saint met the man halfway, accepting his regret but also himself reiterating his “low caste” and position as “a sinner”. Indeed, Tukaram did not question the concept of the Brahmin itself. “The she-ass may give ample milk,” he declared, “but that does not make her a cow.” So, too, a monkey “bathed and daubed in sandal” could not become a Brahmin—that was a birthright and even “if the Brahmin is a fallen one…he is (still) great in (all) three worlds”.

What Tukaram did challenge, however, was the claim that onlythe Brahmin might realize God. Or that scriptural excess compensated for sincere devotion. “By cramming a lot,” he declared, “they accumulate ego; their knowledge is little, (but) their pride, great.” Such hypocrites, he added, “should be beaten in the face”. On the contrary, to him, there were many examples of those who knew little of the great texts but whose love of God was unparalleled: “Gora the potter, Rohidasa the shoemaker, Kabira the Muslim, Sena the barber, Kanhopatra the concubine…Janabai the maid.” So, while the Brahmin deserved respect, the lowest too could seek the divine—that was Tukaram’s message.

In some ways, Tukaram’s thought seems contradictory, but, in another perspective, it reflects evolution too—as the years elapsed, many were the trials he endured and numerous were the lessons he learnt. At one point, he openly suggests devotion as a superior alternative to ritual and philosophy. “As long as you are attached to the hair tuft and the sacred thread, you are a slave of the Book,” he wrote. “If you break any law…you will fall and be doomed.” But if one forgot the books altogether and pursued plain, honest love without the shackles of ceremony, “you will have no restrictions”. This way too, he argued, “you can really reach Brahmanhood”.

In the end, ironically, Tukaram was weighed down by fame. By the 1640s, his name had spread, and many came to pay him their respects. He had written once that to the true devotee of God, riches and poverty were equally inconsequential. Now that he was saddled with worldly honour and affection, the saint thought all this an encumbrance. Hagiographers said he ascended a chariot and rose skyward in a blaze of heavenly light. But all we know for sure is that in 1649, the man called Tukaram disappeared, leaving behind a memory that is still alive.

(My column in Mint Lounge, April 29 2019)


When Rajaram, younger son of Shivaji, died spitting blood in 1700, the news was received at the Mughal court with considerable delight. The emperor, we learn, “ordered the drums of rejoicing to be beaten” while “the soldiers congratulated each other” that yet another of their antagonists had met his maker. Aurangzeb had already executed Rajaram’s brother Sambhaji in 1689 and held the latter’s widow and son captive for years. All that remained on the Maratha side were Rajaram’s wives and their children. How difficult could it be to overpower and demolish, at last, the Maratha swaraj?

As it turned out, very difficult. The Mughals, a chronicler noted, “thought their enemy weak, contemptible and helpless”. But what they did not factor in was that both of Rajaram’s widows were formidable women. Unlike a third co-wife, these two had not committed sati. And now Tarabai, whose ancestors once served the Deccan’s vanquished sultans, seized control of the Maratha state. Restraining the person and ambitions of her rival, Rajasbai, and despite the claim of Sambhaji’s son living in Mughal captivity, she crowned her own boy king of the Marathas. And promptly, in his name, the 25-year-old began to exercise authority.

Power consumed much of Tarabai’s energy, and for years she remained a player in the Marathas’ game of thrones, now prominent, later in the shadows. Born in 1675, she had wed Rajaram at 8. When her brother-in-law was killed by the Mughals, she fled to Panhala fort with her husband. The air was thick with threats, and, as Mughal onslaughts continued, Rajaram fled south. For years, Tarabai was separated from him before she too embarked on this dangerous journey. And it was in Gingee, deep in Tamil country, that the Maratha queen gave Rajaram his son and heir.

From 1700-07, Tarabai remained firmly at the helm. She made overtures to the Mughals, only to attack them with pointed resolve. In her own enemies’ words, she “showed great powers of command and government, and from day to day the war spread and the power of the Mahrattas increased”. But she could also be audacious. Her husband had first sent out troops beyond the Deccan, right into imperial territory—now Tarabai too despatched men to attack provinces in the north. They “penetrated into the old territories”, “plundering and destroying wherever they went… Their daring,” we are told, surpassing “all bounds”.

But Tarabai was not destined to enjoy unrestrained power. When Aurangzeb took Sambhaji’s wife and son, he kept them alive in his camp. They were treated well, the boy enjoying titles and an income. Indeed, in the emperor’s court, he learnt Persian and the nuances of imperial court culture, Aurangzeb even choosing his brides. In 1703, the emperor briefly considered releasing Shahu back on to the Maratha chessboard, only to change his mind. But when the old badshah died four years later, his son went ahead and gave Shahu his freedom, transforming him at once into Tarabai’s rival.

The arrival of her nephew damaged the queen’s designs. She declared him a pretender, but others at court vouched for his identity—one of them even ate off the same plate as Shahu to confirm his status. Then Tarabai argued that after 18 years with the Mughals, the man could hardly be trusted: He held honours from the hated Aurangzeb and might return the Marathas to vassalage under Hindustan’s emperors. The charges were not incorrect, for Mughal life had left a stamp on Shahu’s style and deportment. Indeed, he acknowledged openly the supremacy of his one-time captors. But he had his reasons, for though he himself had been released, the enemy still held his mother.

Inevitably, there was war between Tarabai and Shahu. The latter prevailed and the former fled. Two states emerged—in Kolhapur under Tarabai and in Satara under Shahu—each claiming the loyalties of the Marathas. But then there was, yet again, a twist: The co-wife whom Tarabai had locked away orchestrated a revolt. In 1714, Rajasbai enthroned her own son in Kolhapur and it was Tarabai who was confined. For more than a decade and a half, the queen disappeared, watching her son die while under arrest. She reappeared briefly in 1731: Shahu had triumphed over Rajasbai’s son, and, afterwards took Tarabai with him to Satara.

But Tarabai had another 18-year wait before resurrection, languishing till then in the background. Only when Shahu was nearing death and lamenting the lack of an heir did she see opportunity again. Before her son died, she now declared, he had left his wife pregnant. And the baby that was born had been hidden away by her adherents. The boy was “found” and brought to court. When Shahu’s wife scoffed at the affair, Tarabai, it is said, had her neutralized: After the king died in 1749, his widow was allegedly coerced to burn herself on his pyre. All that was left now was for Tarabai and her nominee.

But the world of the Marathas had changed, and the 74-year-old queen found that power had shifted from the ruler to the hands of the Peshwa, his minister. Tarabai met her match in this Brahmin, while even her “grandson” now assumed grandiose airs. She promptly disowned him: The claim that he was her blood, she announced, was a lie. He was merely a gondhali, a bard, who belonged on the streets. But the Peshwa didn’t mind an heir of dubious legitimacy—it suited his own accumulation of power and contained the influence of Tarabai.

Battles were fought, and a compromise arrived at between the Peshwa and the queen—he kept power in Pune, while she was left to her devices in Satara. And so it was that Tarabai assumed a strange, subdued importance again in the Marathas’ tale. When, in 1761, the year of her death, the Peshwa lost the all-important Third Battle of Panipat, it is said she expressed regret. But as Richard Eaton writes, public regret may have concealed immense internal glee. She was, after all, Tarabai. And where this commanding woman was concerned, nothing was what it seemed.

(My column in Mint Lounge, April 20 2019)


Around 1881, a prince of Cochin called Rama Varma got into a relationship with a 16-year-old girl. He had lost his wife and the new connection was with the stepdaughter of one of his uncles (who, like him, would one day sit on the throne). The girl, Rama Varma wrote, “had a regular husband and I proposed to become paramour to her”. And as “the husband raised no objection…it was done so. This kind of things (sic),” he added, “was not considered improper at the time.” In fact, on the contrary, his mother was thrilled, though rivals did complain he only entered the alliance to butter up the girl’s father. After all, as Rama Varma admitted unkindly, she “could not boast of anything which may be called beauty and…had nothing which might be considered accomplishment”. It was not surprising, then, that some in the family viewed his interest with suspicion.

As it happened, the relationship did not last, and soon Rama Varma was involved with a third lady, with whom he shared a lasting union, the previous lady presumably continuing with her first husband. But what made entering and exiting relationships a matter of ease was the nature of the marital tie itself in 19th century Kerala. For non-Brahmin matrilineal groups, it was the bond between brother and sister that was sacred, not that of husband and wife. The sexual tie was called sambandham—relationship—and designed with much flexibility. Rama Varma’s mother, for instance, was a princess of Cochin, and, in keeping with the traditions of her own dynasty, had formed a sambandham with a Brahmin. Such Brahmins were junior sons of big houses. But they had no inheritance, which made the prospect of alliances with aristocratic ladies and royal women most attractive—and often remunerative.

At its core, sambandhams allowed the elites to join in mutually beneficial unions. For Brahmin families, it gave younger sons wives of lower caste who made no claim on their patrimony—if these wives were well-born, it was better still, for they could pay the Brahmins a maintenance. For matrilineal castes, meanwhile, power and wealth vested in the female line—the husband was, in essence, an instrument of procreation. If he came from a higher caste, he “infused” their veins with the prestige of twice-born blood. The dynamics within this broader framework were, however, determined by economics. As Matampu Kunhukuttan’s classic novel Outcaste portrays, Brahmins with royal sambandhams often lived in fear that their wives might discard them and opt for new sambandhams; elsewhere, if it was the man who held power, he could access even married women, as we saw with Rama Varma, leaving the female at a disadvantage.

It was not unknown for men and women to have multiple sambandhams—a fact that recently got politician and writer Shashi Tharoor in trouble when a line from his novel was cast as an “insult” to Nair women. The examples are numerous. The Nair wife of the maharaja of Travancore who ruled between 1860-80, was first married to a Kathakali actor—arriving in Thiruvananthapuram, she met the ruler, and soon the actor was jettisoned. Their daughter was in a sambandham with the maharaja’s nephew—when she died in 1882, the latter lamented his “irreparable” loss. It was 17 years before he entered into his next sambandham, this time with the wife of a palace employee. As in the case of his uncle’s partner, this lady too relinquished her previous alliance to become the ruler’s consort. The author C.V. Raman Pillai, meanwhile, married his late wife’s sister, whose past featured threesambandhams—two terminated by death (including with the painter Ravi Varma’s brother) and one by separation.

By the late 19th century, however, sambandhams were increasingly frowned upon, and the question of whether this was even marriage came under scrutiny. Missionaries saw the system as “very revolting” and the absorption of Victorian morality upset old ways of life. From Madras, newspapers piled criticism on this “obnoxious system of promiscuous marriage”, and, as the scholar K. Saradamoni writes, “Sambandham was equated to concubinage and the women to mistresses and the children called bastards.” It was an awkward moment, for this way even maharajas were illegitimate, while the autonomy women enjoyed was translated as licentiousness. As early as 1875, in fact, the non-Malayali writer of a census report was most apologetic about the “looseness of the prevailing morals and the unbinding nature of the marriage tie, which possesses such fascination for the majority of our population”.

Scholars like J. Devika have shown how the onus fell on women: They had to be “virtuous”, which meant divorcing or keeping multiple husbands was no longer “respectable”. Inter-caste unions between Brahmins, royalty and Nairs ceased to be acceptable, and “reform” movements sprang up in each community to restrict women’s choice of spouses. Widowhood, a non-existent concept for matrilineal groups, became a mark of wifely honour. And with this came the policing of women’s bodies and the injection, through education, of a patriarchal mindset, where daughters were raised to be “good wives” and husbands vested with power over them and their children. Sambandhams became the vestige of an ugly past, remembered with embarrassment—and, sometimes, denial.

Sambandhams certainly could be abused. But, in their day, they served a purpose and defined marriage for the people involved. They could also feature great love stories—this columnist’s great-great-grandmother had a sambandham with a Brahmin in the 1880s. When she had a stillbirth, however, the alliance was terminated: The baby was a girl, and the death of a female child was inauspicious in her matrilineage. The Brahmin wept and protested but was never allowed near his ex-wife again. Decades later, the story goes, his steward showed up at the door: The man was dying, and he wished to see his former wife one last time. But the lady did not go. Not because she did not wish to, but because the year was 1915. The world had changed and she had no power—she had married again, and it was her husband who now called the shots.

(My column in Mint Lounge, April 13 2019)


When Reginald Dyer was a young boy, he went out one day to shoot. His family lived in Shimla, and going into the jungle nearby, the chota sahib took aim at a bird. But no sooner had he pulled the trigger than young Rex heard a squeal—he had accidentally injured a monkey. “Tears streamed down her cheeks,” his biographer wrote, and she looked at her assailant “so reproachfully that her eyes haunted his dreams for months”. He lost all his appetite for killing animals, we are informed, with one exception. The “tender-hearted boy” could not stand snakes. Where snakes were concerned, he would “seek them out and kill them with a cane”. With snakes, there could be no benevolence.

Given what Dyer is notorious for—the murder of hundreds at Jallianwala Bagh this day 100 years ago—one wonders whether he saw that gathering as a nest to be destroyed. He was a servant of the imperial state, after all, and to him Amritsar was in rebellion, which meant only firmness was feasible. Trouble had begun on 10 April when two nationalist leaders were arrested. A mass of people sought to meet the deputy commissioner and register their protest, but their sheer size provoked such panic that shots were fired and many killed. In retaliation, violence broke out and several Englishmen were lynched and one woman horribly beaten. The white names were recorded; those of the Indians were not. They were simply “the mob”.

As is well known, curfew orders were issued, while official paranoia swelled. They were prepared to deploy bombs and aeroplanes, convinced that there was a treacherous conspiracy at work in Punjab, one of its chief objectives being to spark mutiny in the army. The appearance of posters—“fight with bravery against the English monkeys”—did not help, and neither side comprehended the other. The British authorities saw all political activity as yet another step in the execution of this seditious plot; the Indians, meanwhile, did not understand, as scholar Kim Wagner notes, how “their mass protests sent the authorities into paroxysms of panic”.

Given his actions, Dyer is today the confirmed “villain” of Amritsar. He was emblematic of the worst impulses of the Raj certainly, but the Raj, in turn, writer Kishwar Desai notes, “washed its hands” off its own culpability, presenting this “black sheep” as an aberration. There were, however, larger dynamics at play, and more complex causes behind Amristar. Wagner notes in his masterful Jallianwala Bagh: An Empire Of Fear And The Making of The Amritsar Massacre, for example, how much the Great Rebellion of 1857 haunted the British. The merest expression of discontent was viewed as the launch of the next “mutiny”, and in Amritsar in 1919, this played constantly on British minds. When they saw Hindus, Muslims and Sikhs unite, old ghosts loomed ominously again. As the deputy commissioner argued, communal amicability was a great thing “if one did not fear that the underlying motive had a sinister purpose”.

Desai’s Jallianwala Bagh, 1919: The Real Story also alludes to this paranoia. There was among British officers a genuine fear that a danda fauj was about to eject them by force. In the circumstances, therefore, the gathering on that fateful day was seen as a stroke of luck—once it was known that thousands had converged in Jallianwala Bagh, Dyer saw an opportunity to make one decisive, bloody statement. As his biographer puts it, “this unexpected gift of fortune, this unhoped for defiance, this concentration of the rebels in an open space” placed them all “within reach of his sword”. In the “narrow streets, among the high houses and mazy lanes and courtyards of the city the rebels had the advantage of position”—here they were cornered. And so, Dyer went, and he fired. It was another matter that one of the “rebels” was six weeks old.

That the gathering was unarmed was irrelevant. As one grandee declared in the House of Lords later, they may not have been “ostensibly armed with bludgeons”. But Indian crowds, he claimed, tended to have “a very large supply of bludgeons somewhere or other near”, which meant that “the mob that faced General Dyer was undoubtedly dangerous”. Better they were pre-emptively struck than allowing the risk of Dyer’s men being “overwhelmed and cudgeled to death”. There was no evidence of a conspiracy, there were no arms, and there was a peaceful gathering, yet the British were convinced of “rebellion”—a strange, murderous logic that perhaps excuses Desai’s passionate pronouncements as she calls Dyer “psychotic” and asks whether the British were “Fascist, Racist or Both?”

Though there was a commission of enquiry, and official censure, there was little remorse. Days after the tragedy, the deputy commissioner put out a notice: “The government,” he said, “is sorry that some innocent people were forced by wicked people to go there and got killed.” But what transpired was ultimately due to Indian disobedience. The lieutenant governor of Punjab wrote that at least the episode had thwarted the “conspiracy”: “The Amritsar business cleared the air and if there was to be a holocaust anywhere…it was best at Amritsar”, which “paralysed the movement before it had time to spread”. British excesses were, meanwhile, played down: When two women complained they were stripped and sticks inserted in their vaginas, they were called “low class prostitutes”. When reports suggested British soldiers were defecating in wells, the viceroy declared that “it is impossible to believe that any British soldier purposely defiled wells”.

In the end, Dyer, the poster-boy of British atrocity in Amritsar, retired to England. His health failed and he became a recluse. Initially, he did not repent: “I shot to save the British Raj…doing my duty—my horrible, dirty duty.” But in the end, doubt seems to have gnawed at his mind. As he said to a family member before he died in 1927, “I only want to die and know from my Maker whether I did right or wrong.” Of course, regardless of God’s views on the matter, a century later we can recognize Amritsar for what it truly was: a massacre where an insecure, paranoid empire unleashed unspeakable horror.

(My column in Mint Lounge, April 06 2019)


Sultan Ali Adil Shah I of Bijapur was a man who lived a rich and eventful life. A devout Muslim, he was also the adoptive son of the Hindu ruler of Vijayanagara, though this did not preclude war between their forces in 1565. A patron of the arts, it was in his reign that Bijapur produced the Nujum al-Ulum—an illustrated Persian manuscript featuring everything from cow-headed angels to scholarly expositions on halwas and sherbet. He commanded 80,000 cavalrymen, but never forgot to also carry along his books when leading them into battle. Hundreds of ships sailed the seas bearing his flag, meanwhile, and poets in faraway ports had heard enough about the sultan to sing his praises. Endearingly, Ali also had specific tastes when it came to his diet—he consumed, it is reported, at least 12 eggs a day for breakfast.

Around 1580, Ali met his maker, albeit in circumstances that matched his colourful life. There were two “handsome eunuchs who had for a long time excited his perverse attention”. One evening, when the sultan made them a proposition, they returned his advances by drawing their daggers. While it is likely that a political assassination was later rewritten to embarrass Ali as a “sodomite”, the result was that Bijapur was left in the doldrums. Ali had no son, so it was his young nephew who came to the throne. For the next many years, power slid from one grandee to the next—two of whom met predictably violent ends—before stability returned after the heir came of age. But, in this time of chaos, there was also a woman who rose to prominence, one who would electrify not only the Deccan but also the Mughals in faraway Agra.

It was on the eve of that 1565 battle against Vijayanagara that Chand Bibi was given in marriage to Ali by her father, Hussain Nizam Shah I of Ahmednagar. Barely in her teens, she was at best an instrument of politics at this juncture. But her family circumstances—where her father allowed her mother considerable influence—had shaped her personality, and Chand Bibi would never be relegated to the background. Notwithstanding her husband’s rumoured glances at eunuchs, her relationship with him was rewarding. She joined him on his campaigns, and was entrusted with matters of state when the couple sat in durbar. A sitar player who also enjoyed outdoor sports, she and Ali met as intellectual equals—she spoke, for instance, about five languages.

With Ali murdered, however, Chand Bibi was pushed more fully into the limelight. She remained at first in Bijapur, navigating endless intrigue to protect the interests of her husband’s heir. She ousted one nobleman who seized power, but the next outsmarted her and threw her in prison. From jail, the resourceful Chand Bibi conspired with another faction, whose leader soon rode to her rescue. But for all this, she had no future in Bijapur—the heir was not her son, and, with Ali dead, she became an outsider. Rivalries with her own paternal kingdom of Ahmednagar resumed, and Chand Bibi’s loyalties were questioned on more than one occasion. So when a Bijapur princess was given in marriage to Ahmednagar as part of a tenuous political alliance, the begum “escorted” the bride to her homeland. And there she spent her future, till she was enshrined as one of the Deccan’s tragic heroines.

Ahmednagar in the 1580s was a political nightmare. Chand Bibi’s brother had imprisoned their mother, later trying to murder his son by setting the boy’s bedroom on fire. His courtiers called him deewana (madman), frowning at his affection for a slave. A third sibling rebelled and fled to the Mughal court—by 1591, he would succeed in his designs and install himself as sultan in Ahmednagar. But he came across as ungrateful to Emperor Akbar for the latter’s generosity when he was in exile, and, by refusing to recognize the Great Mughal as his suzerain, gave Agra an excuse to turn its attention to the conquest of the Deccan. As a Mughal account puts it, Chand Bibi’s brother “should have increased his devotion and gratitude”. But the “wine of success robbed him of his senses”, and for this he would have to be punished.

As it happened, the Mughals were only able to come to Ahmednagar in 1595, by which time the man was dead, the court was in turmoil, and Chand Bibi was again in the fray. Balancing factions with one hand, she raised the other to defend her city. When the Mughals placed mines and breached the fort, Chand Bibi, “clad in armor…with a drawn sword in her hand, dashed forward” with her men. The Mughals were repulsed. When negotiating the subsequent truce, they formally honoured her with the regnal title “Chand Sultan”, but their generals were not entirely pleased with this formidable princess. “You, like a eunuch, are keeping a woman in the fort,” they admonished her nobles, while their own leader was “the son of His Majesty the Emperor…Do you imagine that the crows and kites of the Deccan…can cope with the descendant of Timur?”

In the end, they could not. Chand Bibi tried and failed repeatedly to push the Mughals out of the Deccan. In 1599, when the enemy returned to Ahmednagar, various vested interests within the fort lunged at each other’s throats. Fighting battles within and without, the begum decided to sue for peace. And, for this, she was murdered—not by the invader, but by insiders. “The excitable and turbulent soldiers of Ahmednagar, forgetting all the noble devotion which Queen Chand had always shown,” rushed into her palace. Breaking into her private chambers, they left her in a pool of blood. And so died, as one historian put it, “Chand Bibi, one of the noblest characters in the History of India.”

But while she went down in tragedy, there was still some justice in the end for the begum. When the Mughals took Ahmednagar soon after Chand Bibi’s death, one of their first acts was to hang the men who had assassinated this princess: daughter of the Nizam Shah, widow of the Adil Shah, but, in the end, remembered and celebrated in her own right as “Her Highness the Bilqis of the Age”.

(My column in Mint Lounge, March 30 2019)


At the dawn of the 20th century, a scandal of horrific proportions reared its head before Kerala’s Brahminical elite. The year was 1905 and the setting was princely Cochin. Home to prominent Namboodiri families, this was also one of India’s principal seats of orthodoxy. The Namboodiris were fond of rules and ritual, perched though all of this was atop extraordinary social privilege. As E.M.S. Namboodiripad put it, these Brahmins “occupied the highest position among all other communities…collected fabulous amounts as rent, enjoyed undisputed supremacy over the tillers of the soil, and maintained intimacy with the ruling monarchs”. The immortal Parasurama, they claimed, had bestowed Kerala upon them, this being the fount of their legitimacy. Every other group was to serve, the Namboodiris apportioning caste status and privilege to those who subscribed to this world view. As late as 1875, the Brahmin was officially cast as the common folk’s “royal liege and benefactor, their suzerain master, their household deity”, and indeed, “their very God on earth”.

While colonialism began to chip away at this cocoon of ritual and luxury, one of the earliest cracks in the order appeared not outside, but within—in the quarters of a woman. Namboodiri women, after all, saw little of the privilege so routine for their men. The only Malayali women in purdah, they had no freedom of movement, no ownership of property, and little education. Or, as one of them put it, the antharjanam (literally, “indoor person”) was “a jailed creature”. She was “born crying, lives her life in tears, and dies weeping”. It was not an exaggeration. Even marriage—the only prospect for women in a patriarchal set-up—was denied to many of them. Among Namboodiris, there was no rule decreeing early marriage for girls, while only the eldest male was permitted to take a Brahmin wife. The result was that younger sons married non-Brahmin women, while legions of Namboodiri females lived in sequestered spinsterhood. And if they did find husbands, it was often already married men, who used the opportunity to exchange their own sisters and daughters as though this were a transaction for chattel.

In 1905, however, the world of the elite was shattered by our protagonist, since enshrined in Malayali imagination as a pratikara devata, goddess of revenge. Her name was Savitri, and she lived in the Kuriyedathu house in Thrissur district. Married at 18 to a man whose brother had sexually abused her at 10, she took it upon herself, it is said, to unleash fury upon her caste and its leaders. While Namboodiri men took wives and mistresses, the antharjanam was to be chaste and docile: It was this presumption that Savitri would demolish. As Malayali social critic V.T. Bhattathiripad put it, she challenged male sexual entitlement “with the same weapon”—she slept with men other than her husband. There were high-caste men, and there were lower-caste men; there was her brother-in-law, as there were other relations; there were Tamil Brahmins and Nair aristocrats. There was even a Kathakali star, not to speak of an epileptic. By the time her deeds were revealed, occurring in her chamber as much as the temple grounds, Savitri, then 23, had been with no less than 65 men.

It was a scandal unparalleled, because it was the first such disseminated widely through the newspaper press. There was a traditional round of interrogation by her caste men, but the furore caused the local maharaja to order a second round in his palace. Various theories circulated: As scholar J. Devika records, one of these placed Savitri as the pivot of a cunning plot hatched by the ruler. She was apprehended for fewer lovers, but prevailed upon to name many more, to get rid of an emerging class of Namboodiri modernizers challenging the orthodox old guard. But what shocked all involved—and the public witnessing—was her reported coolness. Or, as the Malayala Manorama put it, “She replied like a barrister.” For she had evidence of her trysts. She knew what marks her partners had on their persons, or if there was a wart on their genitals. She remembered dates on the basis of festivals and events, and one by one she named them—great exemplars of contemporary society, all guilty of fornicating with a Brahmin wife.

Cast as a victim seeking vengeance, Savitri has been reincarnated in fiction as well as film. Lalithambika Antharjanam retold her tale, and Matampu Kunhukuttan—whose Outcaste has been just reissued in Vasanthi Sankaranarayanan’s translation from Aleph Book Company—too describes this heroine who paid patriarchy in its worst coin. But there are others who seek nuance. She was certainly a victim, many of her “affairs” occurring when she was only an adolescent. But the emphasis on a calculated quest for revenge was perhaps an exaggeration by voices championing reform, the scholar Rajeev Kumaramkandath suggests, seeking to use these events to force change. Savitri herself had more complex experiences, as her testimony reveals. A mahout, for instance, had a bottle of rosewater she wanted: He had heard of her relations with another mahout, and offered her the bottle if she would sleep with him too. Savitri agreed. Elsewhere, she slept with a man fearing he would divulge her involvement with a third person—it was fear of blackmail that motivated her here, not necessarily a desire to ensnare more men in a web of revenge.

Still, there is in her meticulous recollection of each tryst something formidable. So too in the fact that when she was excommunicated, she took 65 men with her. All of Kerala seemed to savour the blow she dealt her community, while champions of change rejoiced at the exposure. “It is indeed a sight to watch the indomitability on their face when (the men named) go to question the woman,” it was reported, “and the grief-stricken expression when they come back.” In the years that followed, Namboodiri women began to reject their seclusion; men began to breach custom. Savitri herself disappeared into Tamil country, never to be seen again. But, in her wake, she left horror and admiration both, casting the first stone at the house of orthodoxy. No longer was the Brahmin a veritable god on earth—he had been tainted, his pretensions dismantled by a woman who was beyond shame and fear.

(My column in Mint Lounge, March 23 2019)


In the summer of 1871, something thoroughly unusual transpired in princely Baroda. Its ruler had died the previous year, leaving behind a pregnant widow and an ambitious brother. The latter, whose ill-repute preceded him, had much to lose if the maharani produced a male heir. Naturally, the air was ripe with intrigue, and the brother questioned both the pregnancy of the widow as well as its legitimacy. She, meanwhile, revealed a determination far superior to what might be expected of a 17-year-old—fearing poison, the maharani refused to eat anything that was not cooked before her watchful eyes. And then, shocking everyone, she moved into the establishment of the local British representative, delivering her baby under the nose of this English military man.

Unfortunately for Jamnabai, her child was female. Triumphant, her rival now took power while she exiled herself with her infant. But it was not the end, for the man stepped straight into the bad books of the colonial state—in 1875, he was deposed, ostensibly for misgovernment, but also because of a (not convincingly proved) attempt to poison the British agent with crushed diamonds and arsenic. There were half a dozen potential heirs to choose from now, but these were all grown men—the British sought “someone of malleable age…who might be shaped according to the right ideas” (by which they meant less poison, more fidelity). Of course, it was awkward for them to openly select a new ruler, so Jamnabai entered the scene again. It was she who would adopt the man to occupy Baroda’s princely gaddi

Years later, when Sayajirao Gaekwad III, whose birth anniversary fell on 11 March, was firmly established as one of India’s great princes, a story became popular that explained his rise to prominence and splendour. He was an illiterate farmhand of 12 in 1875 when summons arrived for the Gaekwad relations to present candidates for Jamnabai’s consideration. Arriving at the palace, his brothers and he were asked why they were there. The oldest and the youngest mumbled in confusion, but the middle child declared with just the right quantity of confidence, “I have come to become king.” Jamnabai was impressed, and the boy was installed quickly as sovereign. Another version has the brothers at a feast with the maharani—the winner’s siblings acted like country bumpkins, but the future Sayajirao carefully observed Jamnabai, and lifted food to mouth like a prince.

Charming as these stories are, with a currency even today, they are also apocryphal. It certainly was the case that the man who would rule Baroda for 64 years was a nonentity at first, but his family had set its sights on power as soon as it became clear the previous maharaja would fall. In a petition to the viceroy, they disingenuously expressed hope that a deposition would not occur. But “if after the close investigation directed by your Excellency, it should be found necessary to depose His Highness”, they added, they would be humbled if a successor were chosen from among themselves. That is how our protagonist arrived in Baroda, and behind his transformation into a prince lay British designs, as much as the favour of maharani Jamnabai.

By the time of his death in 1939, Sayajirao would become an icon. Under him, Baroda became a “model state” as he launched reform after reform. He abolished infant marriage but allowed the remarriage of widows; he established the Bank of Baroda, just as he founded what would become an iconic university. By 1907, primary schooling was declared free, and he sponsored B.R. Ambedkar’s education abroad, while, years earlier, he had sent financial aid to Jyotirao Phule. Over the years, he devolved power from Marathi elites from the Gaekwads’ homeland, to a bureaucracy dominated by native Gujaratis. And he dismissed criticism from Bal Gangadhar Tilak for his unorthodoxy, even as he openly praised that other nationalist, Mahatma Gandhi.

“Sayajirao was not an original thinker,” the scholar David Hardiman has written, “but he was extremely receptive to the original thought of others.” Where his princely pride needed to be asserted, he was capable of doing so; just as when men with good ideas sought free rein, he was happy to enable this. But if the British expected him to become a textbook case in “malleable” servility, he was anxious to prove them wrong. Indeed, successive viceroys found his attitude dangerous enough to have him tailed by British intelligence. In 1911, he was lambasted for breaching protocol at the famous Delhi durbar to honour George V and his consort. Where one set of princes held the folds of their ceremonial gowns, Sayajirao was accused of deliberately turning his back in the royal presence, the English press melting into screams of sedition.

To be clear, Sayajirao was not a flawless hero. His trips abroad (one lasting as long as 13 months) caused much dismay at home, and for all his scorn for the orthodoxy, he performed expiatory rituals on his return from foreign shores. He is famous for abolishing polygamy in his state, but this did not preclude his trying to arrange the marriage of his daughter with an already married prince. His wife, Chimnabai II, was a spirited woman—one who discarded purdah and moved about her palace on roller skates—but in the 1920s, there was trouble between them after the maharaja evidently formed a fondness for his European secretary. He was also more ruler than father, lamenting belatedly the tragic, avoidable loss of three of his male offspring.

But for all that Sayajirao’s was a remarkable tale. As the scholar Manu Bhagavan notes, he was good at “combining reform with resistance through the act of reclamation”. Reclamation, that is, of Western ideas for Indian use. When he was only 13, Queen Victoria had styled him “Our Favoured Son of the British Empire”—by the time he died, the empire itself was in terminal decline. He was bombarded as a young man with Western lessons in government: 23 on the principles of administration; 27 on revenue matters; 18 on law; and so on. All these were designed to showcase him as an experiment: of British success on an Indian mind. But Sayajirao lived and died in the end as his own man—he was certainly no imperial exhibit.

(My column in Mint Lounge, March 16 2019)

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Uthram Tirunal Martanda Varma was a man with fascinating interests and a sunny disposition. Raja of Travancore from 1846-60, this prince was perhaps the first Malayali to appear in Western costume, sitting for a portrait in “European dress”. A lover of Kathakali, he was also an amateur actor. Thwarted by courtiers who decreed it unbecoming for a ruler to perform on stage, Martanda Varma satisfied his thespian yearnings before his bedroom mirror. He dabbled in medicine and was fascinated by anatomy. And when Brahmins shook their heads and pronounced bones impure, the raja merrily assembled a skeleton made of carved ivory. A man of infinite curiosity, as a ruler, though, Martanda Varma was not as much of a success. When, for instance, he spent lakhs of rupees on weighing himself in gold and conducting festivals (also simultaneously pleading lack of funds to pay tribute to the East India Company, his suzerains), the colonial establishment was apoplectic.

Martanda Varma was, however, a man of charm and diplomacy. The rulers of his house sat upon an ivory throne, the prestige of which had been elevated considerably during the reigns of his mother and brother. In 1849, the raja was in the process of constructing a new seat for himself when news arrived about what would become the Great Exhibition in London of 1851. It was an event designed by Queen Victoria’s husband to showcase the arts and industrial output of the empire, and Martanda Varma was also called upon to contribute to this exercise in imperial propaganda. “A very satisfactory collection consisting of all the raw products and manufactures of Travancore was made,” an officer under the raja recorded, and the latter decided to add his new throne as well. This was, after all, “a fit specimen of Travancore workmanship”. The queen was impressed—decades later, when she was proclaimed empress of India in 1877, her official photograph showed her enthroned in this very “magnificent chair”.

At one level, the throne (or “chair”, depending on who was looking at it) was simply an object of beauty: a “native” masterpiece representing “native” accomplishment. With diamonds, emeralds and rubies, it married Indian motifs to European designs. Its feet were shaped like lions’ paws, and the armrests ended with lions’ heads. “The back,” we are told, “is in the form of a shell supported by elephants, rampant.” Along with such recognizable Kerala elements, the throne also featured the unicorn and the dragon, borrowed from the royal coat of arms of the UK. The seat was made of elephant teeth and the chair “has a gold and silver tissue draper around the underside of the frame, finished with tassels and richly chased ormolu ornaments”. The cushion, in green velvet, was embroidered with gold and silver, so that, all in all, it was no wonder that the throne attracted, as the TheIllustrated London News put it, “much notice” in London.

But Martanda Varma’s present to the British sovereign was also a political act at a time when the East India Company was breathing down Travancore’s neck. A few years earlier, when his brother was in power, for example, the latter was nearly driven to abdicate, and Martanda Varma too confronted difficult dynamics with his overlords. As real power slipped out of the hands of his family and company representatives began behaving increasingly like schoolyard bullies, the throne became, as scholar Deepthi Murali notes, a means for the raja to reach out directly to their faraway queen. In the letter Martanda Varma sent her, he hoped that “Your Majesty will graciously condescend to receive this friendly, but humble tribute”, carefully emphasizing their unequal relationship. But he also reminded the queen that he, “like every one of his predecessors”, was a “faithful ally and dependent of the British Government”, hoping to uphold “a relation which I humbly trust will continue to the end of time”.

There is a strange irony in the whole exchange, which revealed the status of India’s princely states in general—the fact that a throne designed for Travancore’s ruler was shipped abroad for Victoria’s amusement is telling of where power resided. When the queen responded to Martanda Varma in 1851 with a letter under her sign-manual, he was, therefore, thrilled. “As this was the first event of the kind in Travancore, nay, in any native court of India,” a court chronicler recalled, “His Highness considered it no ordinary honor.” A durbar was organized and every house in town was ordered to have its gates decorated with flowers (and, interestingly, get its compound walls whitewashed). The grandest elephant available was commandeered to carry the queen’s kharita, accompanied by a large procession. When the letter was actually handed over to Martanda Varma, he held it up and touched it to his forehead, “while his eyes were filled with tears of joy”.

These were all efforts at winning imperial favour, but our charismatic prince only belatedly realized that such attempts did not compensate entirely for lack of support from local company authorities. Only a few years later, for instance, mounting expenses, missionary complaints about “abuses” suffered by low-castes, and more, delivered a “most dreadful” communique from Company to palace. Annexation was threatened, and the raja had to subscribe to colonial notions of “progress” and modern government. New officers, who enjoyed British approval, were appointed, and debts had to be cleared before the threat was withdrawn. But the dance of protocol continued regardless, ostentatious ceremony making up for the absence of real autonomy.

So when Victoria sent Martanda Varma a present (a belt) in 1860, another grand durbar was organized where the raja declared himself “the most fortunate among all the Princes in India”. And then, when the celebrations were over, he quietly went to the side of his ailing wife, who died that very night. A few months later, Martanda Varma too was dead. And his heir now took his seat on the old, less ornate throne of Travancore, while the “splendid chair” of Victoria’s grand public spectacle was added to the royal collection, sitting to this day in Windsor Castle.

(My column in Mint Lounge, March 09 2019)


In 1899, when Lord Curzon sailed to India as viceroy, he lugged along not only his famously imperious temper but also a catalogue of administrative proposals. “The government of India,” he sniffed disdainfully, “is a mighty and miraculous machine for doing nothing”—and so everything, from railway networks to telegraph rates, found itself on his corrective desiderata. A committed votary of Britain’s “civilizing mission”, the man was certainly determined to leave his mark. But what made Curzon unusual even by his own overzealous standards was his concern for a subject otherwise low on the imperial programme. “In the past we have scandalously neglected this (particular) duty,” complained the viceroy, “and are now only tardily awaking to it.” And so, he would take a personal interest in the matter and ensure that this state of affairs was promptly rectified.

It was the state of India’s monuments that so vexed Curzon, and he allocated not only money and physical resources to their repair but also much of his viceregal energy. Indeed, admiration for his tenacity emerged from unlikely quarters. “After every other Viceroy has been forgotten,” Jawaharlal Nehru declared, for instance, “Curzon will be remembered because he restored all that was beautiful in India.” Curzon stood out even among his fellow Englishmen, though it was not always approval that he received from the latter. But the viceroy’s resolve was firm. “If there be anyone who says to me that there is no duty devolving upon a Christian Government to preserve the monuments of a pagan art or the sanctuaries of an alien faith, I cannot pause to argue with such a man,” he announced. To Curzon, art and architecture were “independent of creeds”. They were marks of human genius and born of the “common religion of all mankind”. That alone was enough to justify his actions.

While the Archaeological Survey of India (ASI), till then desperately starved of funds, was at last provided a respectable place in the official scheme of business, there was one particular monument that captured Curzon’s fullest attention: the Taj Mahal. To be fair, he was not the first British governor general to be seduced by Shahjahan’s creation. As early as 1834, Lord Bentinck had devoted attention to this structure, noting how “in a country where we have erected no monuments, it is a satisfaction to see that the Taj is at least cared for”. Curzon himself beheld the Taj long before he was installed as viceroy. Visiting Agra at the end of the 1880s, he was transfixed. He studied the mausoleum at dawn and gazed upon it in moonlight. “The Taj,” he wrote ecstatically thereafter, was “the most beautiful building raised by human hands in the world”. When he looked upon this “entrancing spectacle”, it overwhelmed him so much that he had to “shut my eyes” and take some moments to compose himself.

In general, Curzon could get violently furious when he saw the condition of some of India’s monuments. One contemporary recorded his “untiring activities, in spite of sun and heat”, and “long climbs among the ruins”. One day, they came across “one of the most beautiful Moslem buildings”, somewhere in the north. In it they found, of all things, a post office, and “the Viceroy in his indignation ordered the whole staff to quit on the spot”. But despite such episodes, nothing received the budgetary largesse Curzon allocated for Agra—about £50,000, which was nearly half the total earmarked for the subcontinent as a whole. Some of his “reforms” could even be eccentric. In the Taj, for instance, he had all the attendants dress up in “Mogul” uniform, and even as he was on his way back to Britain (in relative disgrace after the fiasco that was the partition of Bengal), he stopped in Cairo to commission an ornate lamp to hang over the grave of Mumtaz Mahal.

But Curzon was also all about order and efficiency; a certain geometric exactness that was as rigid as the steel girdle that kept his damaged back straight. The British never possessed riches that would allow them to construct in India anything surpassing the Taj—instead, they left their mark on the existing structure by stamping as many changes as were possible. For Curzon, this came in the form of redesigning the gardens. From his palatial residence in Kolkata, he barked orders at the local authorities. “I think the removal of the flowers and the substitution of simple grass in the plots bordering the water-channel…is an improvement; but I think the cypresses are planted too thickly.” The British had already removed the traditional fruit trees and started replacing them with plants of botanical and aesthetic appeal. But Curzon went further so that even in the 1930s there were complaints about his innovations. Indeed, the viceroy was so possessive that Sir Herbert Baker couldn’t make up his mind whether Curzon cared for the Taj as a “lover or a child”.

In general though, as Eugenia W. Herbert notes, the viceroy’s principle was simply: “When in doubt, plant grassy lawns, then decide whether shrubs or flowers should be added.” He did seek a certain continuity with Mughal styles (of which, incidentally, he knew little) and at one time had a number of “garish English flowers” removed. But, all the same, he transformed the Indian gardens around the Taj—with its large apple, guava and other trees, whose produce was sold in local markets—into a park that was more in consonance with European tastes. In this, he was guided entirely by his own conviction, and the fact that he did not trust local hands: “I have supervised and given orders upon every single detail myself,” he noted on one occasion. Local talent was “destitute of the faintest artistic perception; and if left to themselves, will perform horrors that make one alternately laugh and weep.”

Thanks to Curzon, many of India’s monuments received a new lease of life. But while it won the villain of Bengal unlikely adulation from nationalists, he himself saw only the Taj as his beloved. Even “if I had never done anything else in India,” he recorded in 1905, “I have written my name here (in Agra)”—a quite literal claim since the Cairo lamp was inscribed with his name. And these letters, he finished, were to him “a living joy”.

(My column in Mint Lounge, March 02 2019)


There was once a little girl called Bahina, whose calf had a coat as dark as coal. And wherever the little girl went, the calf was certain to follow. It drank only if Bahina poured it water and ate only the grass she held up before its nose. So close was their bond that the calf would not seek even milk unless the little girl led it by the neck to its mother. It slept by Bahina’s mat, and she loved it like none other. A wise man declared theirs a spiritual connection: “The calf is her guru; the calf is her means of salvation.” Others believed the animal to hold within it a pious soul, a bhakta reborn in bovine form. To Bahina, either way, the calf was an extension of herself—when they were separated, her anguish was unparalleled. Bahina wept, and the calf eventually died. And with it, something inside Bahina also perished.

This is one of many tales left behind in the autobiography of the 17th century Maharashtrian Bhakti saint, Bahina Bai. While much about it can be discounted as creative excess—the calf, for instance, unexpectedly recites a shloka (verse)—the episode is the first in a sequence of many that shook this poetess to the core. When she was born in 1628, ironically, astrologers made grand announcements of promise and success. “She will be one to possess good fortune. The cord of her life shows great strength.” Strength Bahina Bai certainly cultivated, but “fortune” for her had little to do with its conventional manifestations. Where others saw wealth and power as marks of fortune, for Bahina, this would come through the pursuit of salvation for the spirit.

The pantheon of female Bhakti poets is dominated largely by women who questioned the status quo, their voices challenging norms designed by men. The 12th Lingayat saint Akka Mahadevi, for instance, rejected even clothes, while Meera opposed what was expected of her as a Rajput widow. Bahina Bai too faced moments of frustration. “The Vedas cry, the Puranas shout,” she lamented, “that no good can come of a woman. I was born with a woman’s body—how am I to attain the Goal?” “I may not say ‘Om’, I may not hear mantras’ names,” she cries elsewhere. How, then, would this Brahmin’s wife find the almighty? Yet, unlike Mahadevi and Meera, who walked out of their homes, Bahina Bai made her peace with the world. “A woman’s body is a body controlled by somebody else,” she concluded. How, then, could she dream of finding her own way?

Bahina Bai was only 3 when she was married to a man of 30. Her father, a bureaucrat, found himself facing prison when she was about 7—bailed out by his son-in-law, “a man of very angry disposition”, the family left its home. They settled eventually in Kolhapur, often begging their way through. Before long, little Bahina was showing an inclination for the teachings of Bhakti saints, attending a discourse once with her calf in tow. The guruthere, in the course of events, blessed both by placing his hand on their heads—an action that upset Bahina Bai’s husband. “He seized me by (my) braids…and beat me to his heart’s content.” Her parents watched, and the girl later asked, “In what duty to my husband had I failed?” It was now that she was forcibly separated from her calf, soon losing it forever to death.

In her grief, Bahina Bai had a vision of her contemporary Tukaram, already a famous man. Deeming herself his disciple, the adolescent was quickly absorbed in bhakti. Her husband, predictably, did not approve. He thundered, “Who is this Sudra Tuka, who appears in a dream?” As an orthodox Brahmin, he could venerate the Vedas but not voices of Bhakti, which often bent tradition. More injurious to his pride was witnessing Bahina Bai win admirers. “People will bow to her. To her I’ll seem like a piece of straw,” he feared. “Look at the people come asking for her…. Who cares about me with her there?” When she was pregnant, therefore, the man decided to discard her. An illness—and Bahina Bai’s dedication while nursing him back to vitality—led to a change of mind, and the husband too prostrated before Tukaram.

But for Bahina Bai this opened up a larger question: how to reconcile the expectations placed on her sex by the shastraswith her individual spiritual yearnings? Her answer, after she passed through a suicidal phase, was to combine the two and eschew radicalism. “My husband’s the soul,” she wrote, and “I’m the body…. My husband’s the water; I’m a fish in it.” Why would she think of domestic, conjugal life as a barrier if this became her attitude? She, who first questioned shastricinjunctions against women, became more accepting of the scriptures. Indeed, if someone rejected the Vedas and assorted texts, “know him to be impure within and without”, she declared.

Bahina Bai did, however, try to gently question caste without upsetting the apple cart. Birth, she argued in a style still fashionable, could not make a Brahmin—wisdom alone did. Mere learning too did not mark anyone as special. “All castes,” she felt, “are able to explain words and sentences and even poetry…. Even Muhammadans exhibit learning. But who regards these as truly Brahmins?” So, while she accepted rules laid out for her after a period of crisis, Bahina Bai attempted a quiet compromise. It does not make her a powerful example for our standards today, but, as Anne Feldhaus notes, “Bahina Bai realized a powerful Hindu ideal.” By the time she died in 1700, she had “achieved something not achieved either by the many dutiful wives who did not become saints, or by the saints who were not good wives.” She became, instead, that voice of Bhakti who espoused the middle path—one that upset nobody even as it delivered her the thing she craved: oneness with god.

(My column in Mint Lounge, February 23 2019)


By the mid-18th century, the city of Pune was in the ascendant on the political map of India. As the seat of the Peshwas, hereditary ministers to the Maratha king, this riverside town of little previous significance grew into a prominent centre of commerce and diplomacy, attracting large numbers of traders, artisans, courtesans and mercenaries. A massive season of construction was launched as the Peshwas—descendants of a clerk risen to greatness—left their enduring stamp on the city. They renamed areas that honoured previous Islamic rulers and introduced new temples and festivals into the lives of various castes and people. There was a massive population explosion too: One estimate suggests that Pune rose from being home to 25,000 residents in 1700 to 100,000 at the dawn of the next century, making it “equal to Copenhagen, bigger than New York, a little smaller than Marseilles”—but either way a major urban node in pre-colonial India.

Pune during the Peshwa period, however, is also an interesting study in the management of life under indigenous governments before the Raj. Certainly, the Peshwa-era elite, like their counterparts elsewhere, lived in considerable style. Persianate clothes were worn, fabric for these imported from Bengal and Multan. The scholar Balkrishna Govind Gokhale, in fact, notes a contemporary record that refers to “pants made of elk-skin and another to a shirt made of rat-skin”, suggesting that some people, at any rate, had the time and wherewithal to make interesting decisions vis-à-vis their wardrobes. Tobacco was available easily, and there was also demand for Chinese tea, while fruits were imported from faraway places to cater to the appetites of the aristocracy. In the early 19th century, with British influence growing, there was even vaccination from smallpox available, administered to as many as 12,000 people by an English doctor.

But how did such a city manage itself at a larger level? As Brahmins, the Peshwas were orthodox in matters of caste, but there was a dispassionate bureaucratic machine that operated their capital on an everyday basis. N.K. Wagle’s study of police documents in Pune between 1767-91 offers a fascinating view of contemporary life, and of the issues the authorities had to arbitrate. “By far,” he notes, “the most numerous offences in the Kotwal’s Papers punishable by fines are the cases of sexual misdemeanor,” and this included adultery, “male and female homosexual activities”, as well as “bestiality”. One woman called Rakhmi was assaulted by her father-in-law, who defended himself by insisting it was an accident—he was on his way out to urinate, and somehow “I stumbled and my hands fell on Rakhmi’s breasts”. The police found the man guilty. “Even in a husband-wife relationship,” notes Wagle, “sex without consent constituted rape.” Lakshmi, wife of Jugraj Pardesi, for instance, complained that the latter forced himself on her, and for this he was slapped with “a hefty fine”. So, too, if a customer beat up a prostitute, she had the right to report the matter and see him punished.

The Kotwal’s role, however, didn’t begin and end at keeping the peace and upholding the law. One occupant of this position, who sat in the seat for half a century, had a salary of over 600 a year. A Brahmin from Kannauj, his duties, writes Gokhale, also involved the “supervision of markets, enforcement of the use of approved weights…control of singers, barbers and prostitutes, sanitation, streets, safety of buildings, drainage, care of visiting dignitaries, registration of documents of sale and contract…and the taking of censuses”. He was assisted by three clerks, 10 officers, and 118 policemen, spread over six stations. For the Pune police, there was never a dull day: One man reported that his wife beat him when he was “on his way to the washroom”. In another case, a woman was arrested after she was found guilty of murdering her husband “by administering poison in sweet potatoes”. Yet another would-be murderess mixed powdered glass into a lump of dough and tried to feed her other half the treacherous bread that emerged.

Justice was often dispensed in a systematic fashion, though matters of custom were determined through the most conservative texts—the Peshwas took it upon themselves to demote castes and upgrade others on the basis of various codes. In everyday affairs, the courts were swift. One celebrated judge called Ramshastri Prabhune served for 25 years, deciding a little under 1,400 cases, his reputation so tall that even disputes from outside the Peshwa’s dominions were argued before him. Indeed, Prabhune is best known for passing the death sentence on Peshwa Raghunathrao for the crime of having murdered his predecessor. It was another matter that the sentence was never carried out, but the prestige attached to the judge only multiplied, as did faith in the system. It was, however, still not an ideal universe and things could go horribly out of hand—that very Kotwal who served for 50 illustrious years was at the end of his career lynched by a mob of angry men after a case of mass custodial death.

At the end of the day, however, Pune was run by a Brahmin elite that dominated all avenues of power. Many of them were bankers with networks across the country, and in their time over 200 temples were constructed in the city. Pune also offered a rare occasion for the orthodoxy to exercise direct political power. The fall of the Peshwas in 1818 put an end to this chapter as British imperium replaced the reign of the Brahmins, and power slipped to centres elsewhere. Elite resentment grew but the ferment also birthed a churn from below—the work of Jotirao Phule, for instance, against caste and its injustices. These dynamics sparked the birth of west-Indian nationalism and brought to the fore firebrands like B.G. Tilak and others. But even as they thundered for swaraj (self-governance), these leaders also recalled the days when the Peshwas were strong and Pune was proud—when an Indian elite reigned, before they were displaced by white men from afar and the challenge of those once deemed low.

(My column in Mint Lounge, February 16 2019)


In 1352, Bukka Raya, one of the five brothers who founded what would become the empire of Vijayanagar, flaunted a most extraordinary title in a royal inscription. Along with such typically flamboyant styles as “punisher of enemy kings”, “vanquisher of kings who break their word” and “auspicious hero”, this son of Sangama introduced something unusual, used previously in India only by his brother: He assumed the title of “Hinduraya Suratrana”, or sultan among Hindu kings. It was a remarkable claim to make, adopting all at once the nomenclature of “Hindu”—hitherto applied by foreigners to describe Indians in general—while also transcribing into the Sanskritic vocabulary and imagination the concept of “sultan”, a potent new form of kingship which resounded across the land as Islamic dynasties entrenched themselves in the north, and took fire and steel into the south.

As part of imperial bombast, “Hinduraya Suratrana” was essentially employed in Vijayanagar, though a stray reference evidently appears also in a 1439 inscription in Sadri, Rajasthan. But the Sanskrit translation of sultan as suratrana itself was not a Vijayanagar innovation. In 1323, Ghiyasuddin Tughlaq appears as Suratrana Gayasadina, and, three years before Bukka, we find the term in Nepal—after his invasion in 1349, Shamsuddin of Bengal was remembered there as Suratrana Samasdina. The term was in vogue even in the 17th century, used to describe the Mughals. And yet some deny any connection between this Sanskrit term and its Arabic root. Suratrana, to them, comes from sura (god) and trana (protector), which would mean that Bukka Raya saw himself as a protector of Hindu deities, and was not borrowing an Islamic title. The etymology could be entertained, but the fact is that in practice the words were certainly used synonymously: where the Delhi Sultanate’s coins used the Arabic sultan on one side, the reverse was inscribed in Sanskrit with suritana. So too when literary works referred to the Suratrana of Yoginipura (Delhi), it is unlikely they were flattering Muslim kings as guardians of Hindu gods.

In the larger picture of the interaction Islam had with India’s diversity of traditions and cultures, this indigenization of a foreign title is hardly surprising. The dominance Muslim rulers enjoyed for centuries saw the import of Persian culture into the subcontinent, and much from Farsi and Arabic blended with Indian tongues. Persian’s place as the language of diplomacy, for instance, meant that as late as the 1810s, communication between a Malayali queen (whose minister was her dewan) and the English East India Company were conducted in that language. In some Indian languages, in fact, Persian and Arabic left imprints that are indelible, marking their nature as much as their cultural and literary identities. Marathi, for instance, borrowed a great many words from these foreign bhashas so that, as the scholar V.K. Rajwade noted, “old Marathi documents are as unintelligible to a non Persian-knowing Maratha, as to a foreigner”. The 19th century Maharashtrian thinker Vishnushastri Chiplunkar too had no qualms admitting that the “roots of our language” lay as much in Persian and Arabic as in Sanskrit. And just as the emperors of Vijayanagar projected themselves as Hindu sultans, the Deccani hero Shivaji was described in the Sabhasadbakhar (a kind of Marathi historical chronicle, derived, evidently, from the Persian akhbar) as a Maratha padshah.

While suratrana and padshah were titles related to dynasts and kings, foreign influences made their presence felt even at lower levels, travelling down to our own time. Scribes who worked for Muslim kings and wrote their Farsi letters were called Parsnavis, from which emerged today’s surname of Parasnis, just as the Maharashtrian name Daftardar is descended from an official bureaucratic title. Fard-Navis, or secretary/note-taker, is what birthed Fadnavis, the last name of the present Bharatiya Janata Party chief minister of Maharashtra. The bharud drama-poems and poetry of Eknath, the celebrated Bhakti saint, meanwhile, are replete with words of Persian origin, while even personal names used by Marathas sometimes had a foreign provenance: names like Sahebrao, Serfoji, Rustamrao, and so on. Shivaji’s own father and uncle were named Shahaji and Sharifji to celebrate a Muslim pir called Shah Sharif his grandparents admired.

Shivaji, it is true, made a pointed effort to erase Persian influences and concepts from Marathi, even commissioning a dictionary to help discard yavana (foreign) words and replace them with Sanskrit alternatives. But as the power of the Marathas spread across large parts of the country, Persian’s status as a link language made its resurrection inevitable. The Peshwas, a dynasty of hereditary ministers to the Maratha king, were orthodox; but even their title was Persian. In a 1775 letter the prominent Maratha figure Nana Fadnavis sent on behalf of the Peshwa to the British monarch, the scholar Sumit Guha actually highlights words that are of Perso-Arabic origin (daulatbiradarbahutmahzabat, and so on), noting that though not as extensively as before, these were back in circulation. Such Islamicate influence was not, to be fair, limited to language, administrative jargon and titles alone: The Marathas also adopted Persian sartorial fashions and styles of architecture, so much so that the samadhi of Shivaji’s grandfather has been mistaken for a tomb owing to its striking resemblance to Islamic mausoleums.

Considering the plurality of influences that as a rule makes up Indian culture—a civilization with no single origin—none of this ought to surprise anyone. By the 19th century, however, efforts were already under way to “purify” languages and give them a classical pretence by overcompensating with Sanskrit words and trying to divert everything Persian and Arabic along religious lines to a specific class of people. In many respects, the project is still ongoing, and there is among certain sections of people even today a quest to find the “true” essence or purest version of the past. The irony, of course, as history shows, is that such a past does not exist, and what exists is not “pure” but rich and layered and splendidly complex—a past where there are Hindu sultans and Maratha padshahs; where forebears of a Hindu king could name their sons after a Muslim pir.

(My column in Mint Lounge, February 09 2019)


In December 1971, Indira Gandhi famously abolished India’s princely order, terminating the privileges enjoyed by retired maharajas and nawabs since the integration of their states in 1949. To uphold titles, “customary rights, special privileges and privy purses without any relatable functions and responsibilities” was, in her mind, “incompatible” with “the spirit of the times”. Debate on this had begun well before, in fact, and, by 1967, there was considerable sparring in Parliament. The Bengali Communist leader, Bhupesh Gupta, for instance, described privy purses as “blood money” to feed a “parasitic class”, thundering that the Indian state was not an instrument to subsidize royal harems. Others, like Dahyabhai Patel of Gujarat, argued that reneging on a constitutional guarantee was not becoming of our nation. Would the government, he asked, “repudiate one by one all the agreement(s) that it has made, all the covenants it has entered into”? What authority would the state’s word possess in sensitive cases such as Kashmir, then?

Beyond contentious privileges—ranging from reserved pastures for their horses to immunity from legal prosecution—many were the constitutional issues involved in dissolving official recognition of India’s maharajas. In fact, Mrs Gandhi’s initial attempt had failed after the Supreme Court intervened, following which it was decided to amend the Constitution and discard the provisions standing in her way. And so it was that in the winter of 1971, the princes were relegated to the margins of history. Indeed, in one of her speeches in Parliament, Mrs Gandhi encouraged umbrageous maharajas to actually supporther—which, she averred, would leave them looking “considerably enhanced” in public estimation—instead of aching for gun salutes and vanities in a country so poor. The princes, predictably, were not pleased with her unsolicited advice, but it was too late: Mrs Gandhi carried the day, and with that the President ceased to recognize any more “rulers”.

Of course, India would not be India if broad legal positions translated immediately into lived reality. For there are still princes around the country who continue to be “recognized” and enjoy special rights despite Mrs Gandhi’s triumph in 1971. Indeed, even princely lines which were derecognized boast of public prestige and political power: Of the Scindias of Gwalior, the last maharani was a stalwart of the Jan Sangh and the Bharatiya Janata Party, while her son and grandson went on to become leading politicians in Mrs Gandhi’s own party. In Mysore, a man was adopted in 2015 to “succeed” to what is strictly a non-existent title, essentially because the position retains religious and social significance. So too in Jaipur, the princely state whose maharani was at the receiving end of unusual hostility during Mrs Gandhi’s emergency rule, there is a 20-year-old titular maharaja, who holds in trust palaces and an extraordinary art collection, commanding considerable local reverence.

But if these are instances of princely descendants possessing respect for reasons of faith, custom or wealth, in Chennai resides a personage who is still recognized officially by the President. “His Highness the Prince of Arcot” is, even in 2019, a legal entity, with the perks of a Tamil Nadu cabinet minister. “Other special privileges,” a 1991 India Today feature noted, “include a full police escort, a state funeral” and some exemptions of income and motor vehicle tax. The arrangement may seem at odds with 1971, but Arcot was never affected by Mrs Gandhi’s zeal to begin with: That was aimed at princes who entered into agreements with the Indian union in 1949. Arcot’s status, as it happens, was decided well before. When, in 1855, the nawab of the Carnatic died, the East India Company annexed his territories under the notorious Doctrine of Lapse. The dead ruler’s uncle, who claimed succession under Islamic law, protested. And so, in 1871, a compromise was designed by which the uncle was created “Prince of Arcot”, with an allowance and specific prerogatives. The state’s obligations to his heirs were passed on by the British to independent India, the result of which is that the “prince” still enjoys legal sanctity in our anomalous democracy.

Kerala too is full of petty royalty with de facto recognition. For instance, while the privy purse of the Travancore maharaja was abolished in 1971, individual allowances settled on his family members by V.P. Menon, the civil servant who assisted Sardar Patel, are still disbursed: A niece of the maharaja, for instance, was aged 9 when the state merged with the Union. She was granted 833 per month then; today, at nearly 79, she still receives a stipend, raised to 3,250 in 2009. In north Kerala, meanwhile, treaties executed by the East India Company guide official obligations. When taking over Malabar, the Company had agreed to pay its princes certain sums in perpetuity. The Company disappeared after the rebellion of 1857, but its commitments were inherited by its successors: first, the British Crown and then the Indian Republic. So, even today, there is a “Zamorin of Calicut” entitled to about 5,000 per month according to an 1806 agreement; eight other title-holders in his 826-person family also receive pensions. As each incumbent dies, another succeeds and the state dutifully pays its legal dues to the newest arrival in this titular royal court.

The case of these surviving princes in our socialist republic is, in some ways, reflective of the countless ironies that make up Indian democracy. India remains, in many ways, a marriage of awkward histories and feudal legacies with the idealism of liberal thought and constitutional values. They do not sit easily with each other always, and sometimes jostle with force to make their presence felt. And yet the enterprise moves forward, one way or another: which perhaps explains why, even as we celebrate a Dalit president, newspapers descend into a frenzy at the advent of babies to freshly adopted maharajas; how even as a “chaiwallah” rises against the odds to become prime minister, there are princes and rajas to whom his government still owes a royal pension.

(My column in Mint Lounge, February 02 2019)


When Kabir, the poet-saint, died five centuries ago, he could not have predicted he would be reimagined over and over again, to allay the anxieties of every succeeding generation. To most, of course, this icon of Bhakti is a champion of Hindu-Muslim unity, his Arabic name sitting cheerfully alongside the chant of Ram. Indeed, soon after his death, Abul Fazl, emperor Akbar’s chronicler, described him as “the asserter of the unity of God”, one who “discarded the effete doctrines” of his time, “revered by both Hindu and Muhammadan for his catholicity of doctrine and the illumination of his mind”. Sikhs too looked upon him with respect, dedicating to his work whole passages in their Adi Granth. And in the 19th century, European missionaries laid claim to the weaver-saint of Varanasi, delighting in his barbs against caste, finding in his sayings a reflection of such thought which could only, they were convinced, be Christian in origin.

“Kabir appears to modern India,” Charlotte Vaudeville pointed out, “to be the true symbol of non-conformity.” And yet everything about him is immersed in myth and awe. He was the poor son of Muslim weavers, though the vocabulary of his devotion led early on to Hindu claims upon him. Some invented for him a miraculous birth—he was the conception of a Brahmin widow, delivered through her palm. Abandoned, he was raised Muslim. Others said he descended enveloped in lotus leaves and light from the heavens, floating upon a lake where he was discovered by his Julaha father. He certainly did celebrate Hindu imagery over Muslim theology, evidently also enjoying the tutelage of the guru, Ramananda. But by most accounts he was definitely a Muslim, with a wife and children, coming to mean so much to Hindus that stories were invented to drag him, as Wendy Doniger records, “over the line from Muslim to Hindu”.

While he lived, ironically, there was enough in Kabir’s message to upset Hindu and Muslim elites alike. To Brahmins he asked whether they were born with a caste-mark on the forehead, or whether their mothers delivered them through a special canal. “And if you say you’re Turk,” added Kabir, “why weren’t you circumcised before birth?” So, too, he sneered, it was “dumb” if people sought salvation in ritual. “If going naked brought liberation, the deer of the forest would attain it first. If a shaven head was a sign of piety, ewes would be pious too.” That low-castes and kafirs were doomed to their fate by the accident of birth was nonsense. Only those “who don’t have Ram on their lips” were ignorant; they alone were the low-born of the earth. “Those who read the Vedas call themselves Pandits, those who read the Quran call themselves Maulana; they give themselves different names…(but they) are all,” announced Kabir, “in their own delusions, not one of them knows the Lord.”

Like many in the Bhakti tradition, Kabir too knew persecution, therefore. Many are the tales that place him at the receiving end of the ire of Sikander Lodi, sultan of Delhi. Punishment was ordered, and suffering inflicted, but here again Kabir laughed at the irony. Giggling, it is said, in the presence of the emperor himself, the weaver is said to have declared, “All my life I have tried to impress upon the Hindus and Muslims that God is one.” He had tried to build a bridge between different paths, only to be ridiculed: “How could a Brahmin demean himself by joining hands with a low-caste weaver? How could a maulvi degrade himself by allying with a kafir?” They did not listen to words of wisdom, but hate achieved what Kabir had failed to bring about: “They could never bear to stand together in the court of (God) the King of Kings, but today it amuses me to see them standing united in the court of a (mortal) king.” And this because the custodians of the faiths universally disliked Kabir and his message.

It was his large following—those like him, illiterate, weak, and devoid of books—that made him an asset to wardens of the great traditions after he went to the grave. Indeed, they fought over his remains when he died, till, legend claims, only flowers remained under the funeral sheet: Some were buried, the rest cremated, and both sides got to claim a share of Kabir’s legacy. He might have chuckled at the feud over rites and ownership. “His death in Benares,” he once sang, “won’t save the assassin from certain hell,” just as “a dip in the Ganges won’t send frogs—or you—to paradise.” Matters of ritual were futile: mere instruments to enthral the susceptible, shrouding true wisdom from the masses. But no sooner had he died than Kabir too became an instrument. “I say the world is mad,” he had laughed. “If I tell the truth, they rush to beat me; if I lie, they trust me.” Now that he was dead, owning him trounced his message—and for this, things he eschewed became now truly imperative.

Of course, Kabir was no perfect man. His message resonated with the masses, and with quiet confidence he stood up to the power of those who held the keys to heaven. But he too had prejudices. “Woman,” he declared once, “is the refuse of the world” so that “noble men will put her aside, only the vile will enjoy her.” Elsewhere, he compared the female to a 20-hooded serpent, and “if she stings one,” he warned, “there is no chance to survive”. We can try and console ourselves that perhaps this streak of misogyny was a reflection of his age; that he never himself claimed to be a perfect man, or the one true soul in whose words lay answers for all. He was merely Kabir the weaver—a mortal made of flesh and blood—and he cared for Ram alone, not for the world and its numerous other battles.

(My column in Mint Lounge, January 26 2019)


In the summer of 1795, soldiers attached to a Mughal jagir in present-day Uttar Pradesh rose up in mutiny and chained their commander-in-chief to a gun carriage. It was the nadir of their ultimately foiled enterprise, but the whole episode was packed with extraordinary drama. To begin with, the commander-in-chief—who languished for a whole week in the heat—was a woman. She had launched her career as a dancing girl, rising not only to become the begum of Sardhana, but also to win the affection of the emperor in Delhi who styled her Zeb-un-Nissa (“Jewel among Women”), Farzand-i-Azizi (“Beloved Daughter”) and Umdat-al-Arakin (“Pillar of the State”). She had spent her youth by the side of a much older German lover, inheriting his fortune, and later joined a Frenchman in a doomed marriage. Now, as she lay shackled and humiliated in public, riding heroically to her rescue was a former Irish paramour, one who would title himself the “Rajah from Tipperary”, becoming famous for his own military exploits.

Begum Samru, as our protagonist is best known, was born in the 1750s to the junior wife (or mistress) of a petty Mughal nobleman. The early death of her father saw both mother and child turned out on to the streets, and by the time she was in her teens the part-Kashmiri girl, who would one day take the name Joanna Nobilis, was a courtesan in Delhi. It was at this time that she encountered Walter Reinhardt. A serial deserter turned mercenary, he had upset everyone, including the French and the British, the latter placing a bounty on his head after he presided over the massacre of dozens of Englishmen in Patna. Known also as Sombre, a French corruption of Somers (a name he assumed while attempting a cunning reincarnation), he readily added the dancing girl to his entourage. And before long, despite the existence already of an Indian bibi, this young girl had become his partner, living with him for over a decade, sharing in his numerous adventures.

This period with Reinhardt, in fact, transformed the begum. Accompanying her “husband” on military campaigns, she also became his right hand in managing his jagir. After Reinhardt’s death in 1778, she played her cards with uncommon shrewdness, having Delhi recognize her, and not her husband’s hopeless son, as heir to his estate and all its appurtenances. Even though her dead spouse’s reputation as the “butcher of Patna” continued to plague her for years, she won admirers across the board; all of them noted her determination, charm and store of wisdom. Indeed, successive commentators recorded her “masculine” gifts, which, in that patriarchal age, as Julia Keay wrote, was their highest compliment. The begum too encouraged such an image: She sported, unusually, a turban, also appearing unveiled in paintings, with a hookah pipe in her hand. Essentially, she was making, as Alka Hingorani argues, “subtle alterations of traditionally masculine prerogatives”.

In 1781, Begum Samru took the unusual step of converting to Catholicism, an act as much of religious conviction as of political imagination. Though she shared no tongue with the priest who baptized her, and despite disapproval for having retained an Islamic appearance even after her conversion, the begum spent lakhs of rupees on Christian institutions (besides exchanges with the pope), constructing also what is considered north India’s largest church. All the same, becoming a Christian seemed a suitable strategy for a woman unhappy with Islamic restraints on her sex: Catholicism gave her the freedom she required to rule Sardhana while creating a legitimate (and distinct) space in contemporary Hindustani politics. Some, in fact, claim that she foresaw British dominion and wished to curry favour with India’s future masters by accepting the Christian faith—a claim not borne out by evidence, even if it lends itself to heady speculation.

As a military commander, Begum Samru showed all the qualities that marked leadership in her tumultuous age. When it was necessary, she could be ruthless: Two maidservants who set fire to her buildings were buried alive at her orders. When the Mughal emperor was imperilled, it was she who rode more than once not only for the defence of his imperial person but also of his capital. All the same, the begum also had to balance factions within her own armed forces. A motley crew of European adventurers and assorted Indian sepoys, they had their own politics, the worst of which the begum suffered after she married an unpopular French gun-founder, provoking that mutiny which saw her tied up and left to die in scorching heat. She survived the debacle and was restored to power, but never again permitted her heart to reign over her head.

By the early 19th century, the middle-aged begum (“a bejeweled vision of delight”) became a British ally. Instead of military engagements, it was her soirées that now attracted Europeans for whom she was also an object of curiosity. As late as 1834, when she was “bent in two” and “shriveled like dried raisins”, her energy didn’t cease to dazzle. In fact, writes Brijraj Singh, she actively “preferred European people and things to their Indian counterparts”—a potential adjustment to altered political realities after the emperor and his dynasty went into terminal decline and British supremacy became India’s new normal. Of course, though they admired her, Company officials never saw her as an equal. But it didn’t matter to her, either, in the big picture: She had begun life in poverty and crisis and worked in a public house. Now, by the eve of her demise, she not only enjoyed military salutes, but was also one of India’s richest women. As her memorial in Sardhana records, then, when “Her Highness Joanna Zeb-ul-Nissa” died on 27 January 1836, she was “revered and lamented by thousands of her devoted subjects”—not a predictable ending for someone who was once a courtesan, and whose successes so bewildered the world that rumour insisted she was actually a witch.

(My column in Mint Lounge, January 19 2019)


Manubai Tambe was a woman of formidable spirit, long before she was lost to a nationalistic fog of myth and legend. Arriving soon at your nearest movie theatre with her more elaborate name, Manikarnika, she was, for instance, a sharp judge of horses. She wrote official letters in Persian and during the rebellion of 1857 famously led men—and women—into battle. Round of face, she was taller than most of her peers, and is said to have favoured simplicity, unlike the bejewelled depiction chosen by today’s film directors. “She bore,” an Englishman later recorded, “all the outward signs of a powerful intellect and an unconquerable resolution.” But if there was one thing that ruined the impression she left, it was her voice: as her legal adviser bemoaned, when the Rani of Jhansi began to speak, substance of great intelligence was conveyed in a sound that could only be described as “something between a whine and a croak”.

Lakshmibai, a name bestowed after her marriage (and one which she would make famous), was not born royal. Her father, Moropant, was a retainer of the Peshwas of Pune, serving the latter even after they were deposed by the British. It was in Varanasi that the future rani was born to this Brahmin, though the auspiciousness of the setting was dulled somewhat by the loss of her mother. But Moropant gave her both affection and the confidence born of education: she read, she rode, she fenced, and saw to it that her male playmates treated her as an equal. Many are the tales woven around her fascinating personality: once, it is said in a story that survives in multiple iterations, the Peshwa’s adopted son refused to take her along on his elephant. Years later, when she was granted three wishes on her wedding, she expended one of them to courier to this old friend the present of a particularly mighty elephant.

It was as a child-bride that the heroine of 1857 first arrived in Jhansi. The Newalkar family in power here were minor royalty of recent vintage. A late 18th century creation of the Peshwas, their loyalties were ceded in the early 19th century to the East India Company. “Maharajadhiraj Fidvi Badshah Jamjah Inglistan” (Devoted Servant of the Glorious King of England) was a title Lord Bentinck bestowed upon them in 1832, transforming this line from subedars to maharajas. And it was when Lord Dalhousie withdrew favour in 1853 that their fortunes were reversed. In 1851, meanwhile, young Manubai had given her husband an heir, but the baby did not survive. Two years later when the raja followed his child to the grave, there was nobody to occupy his place. With that the stage was set for the drama that now cements Lakshmibai’s memory: as the “Jezebel of India” in unkind Victorian eyes and as a patriot in the Indian imagination.

The annexation of Jhansi, as is well known, was opposed by the rani. It so happened that from his deathbed, her husband—a bibliophile whose love of drama sometimes saw him also appear personally on stage, according to scholar Joyce Lebra-Chapman—had adopted a relation as his heir. The British, of course, decided there was no compelling reason to recognize any of these proceedings: they had upgraded provincial officers into princelings, and they reserved the right to demote them now. Interestingly, this was despite popular sentiment: their own local representative had expressed confidence in the young widow (she was “highly respected and esteemed” and “fully capable” of ruling in her husband’s place), while another argued that since adoption had been recognized in a neighbouring state, there was no reason to deny the privilege to the Newalkars as well. The rani herself, meanwhile, petitioned the governor-general, arguing her case logically, highlighting portions from assorted treaties to show the latest British decision to be what it truly was: an injustice.

In an April 1854 letter, Lakshmibai appealed to Dalhousie to remember “How loyal the Rajas of Jhansi have ever been; how loyal are their representatives; how strong are the inducements that they should continue to be loyal in the future.” Her husband had not, she pointed out, any warlike characteristics, and Jhansi’s military capabilities were limited to “five thousand rusty swords worn by people called the army”. “Helpless and prostrate,” she ended, “I once more entreat Your Lordship to grant me a hearing.” Of course, she was exaggerating her helplessness and the impotence of her armies, but at this stage she was willing to plead with Dalhousie—if only he had relented, in 1857, she might even have stayed loyal, like other princes, to the British. Instead, however, the governor-general dug his heels in, leaving Lakshmibai to protest the “gross violation” of previous understandings, warning that this would cause “great disquietude” among India’s nobility, with lasting repercussions on the future of the Company and its designs.

Dispossessed, at first the rani declined the British offer of ₹60,000 per annum but was soon persuaded to accept the settlement. In the years that followed, however, there was much bickering and haggling—over the late raja’s debts, which were deducted from her allowance; over the continuation of the pension to Lakshmibai’s adopted son, which the British were against; over a temple; and even such issues as cow slaughter. When the rebellion broke out, at first the rani was undecided—in a letter dated June 1857, she hoped the rebels would go “straight to hell”. Even months later, by which time the local British presence was destroyed through a massacre, Lakshmibai was uncertain. It was only early in 1858, when many of her old friends, including the aforementioned Peshwa’s adopted son, became confirmed leaders of the rebellion and she herself was being viewed with suspicion, that she made her final choice: a choice that saw her ride out bravely on horseback towards tragedy, and enshrined her in India’s national history.

(My column in Mint Lounge, January 12 2019)


In 1857, when the great rebellion swept much of north India into a storm of gunpowder and rage, one of the consolations the embattled British possessed was the loyalty of numerous Indian princes. Even as maharajas issued proclamations of fidelity, a number of them mobilized actual armies in service of the East India Company. Thus, for instance, leading princes of Punjab stood with the British, just as the reigning Scindia in Gwalior “strove hard to keep his…subjects faithful to his liege lords.” In Rajputana, similarly, support came despite public sympathy for the rebels. “At every town through which we passed,” an officer wrote of Jaipur, “the inhabitants cursed and abused us.” But the local ruler pitched his flag with the British, lending them troops who not only served the Company gloriously but even punished those “refractory villages” for flirting with mutiny.

From his position, it was a shrewd stand to take, for had it been otherwise, Sawai Ram Singh II of Jaipur himself might have been deposed and banished to the footnotes of history. Described as “a ruler of singular intelligence and enlightenment”, Ram Singh was only 22 at the time of the rebellion, and it was after some hesitation that he decided to endorse the cause of the British. He had spent his formative years under the guardianship of a regency council, which was really a coterie of noblemen. When in 1851 he succeeded to full powers, he had to balance several interests—in order to actually exercise his authority, he proactively sought the “active official support” of the British. But all the same, his courtiers remained influential, so when they showed sympathy for the rebels in 1857, it took some time for Ram Singh to make up his mind—on whether he should raise swords in the name of the mutineers, or fight for a foreign power which buttressed his own princely authority.

Ram Singh was one of the 19th century’s more remarkable Indians. That he was interesting was clear early on. When prince Alexei Dmitrievich Saltykov of Russia met him in the mid-1840s, the “plain-looking” adolescent left on his visitor a sparkling impression. He wanted to know, for instance, “where Russia is located and how long it would take to go there from Jaipur”. As an adult, the maharaja carved for himself an even more striking reputation as a modernizer. In 1867, he set up the first girls’ school in his capital despite “popular prejudice” against such ideas in a feudal environment. He set up the Maharaja College, where English and Sanskrit were taught side by side, even as he established a school of art, a public library, and a hospital. Gas lights were installed along thoroughfares in his capital, while other projects ranged from waterworks to a postal network. Changes in administration were also made, launching modern governance in the state. Meanwhile, fluent in English as well as Western thought, Ram Singh became a bridge between two worlds, tuned into evolving times, but also married firmly to his roots and to Indian tradition.

What really distinguished him, though, was a royal pastime that graduated into an enduring passion. When Louis Rousselet, the traveller, met Ram Singh in 1866, he was surprised that the maharaja’s “dress was handsome, but showed an indifference to ornament”; instead of jewels and a sword, there was “an immense revolver thrust into his belt”. But more interesting even than the ruler’s appearance, the Frenchman recalled, was their conversation on photography—Ram Singh, he realized, was not only “an admirer of this art, but is himself a skilled photographer”. In fact, for about a decade, the maharaja had been a member of the Bengal Photographic Society, long before he acquired his first camera in 1862. And while princes across India developed a fondness for photography, few mastered it in the way he did—or created a collection that encapsulates a world in which the Victorian and the Indian met both constructively as well as to do ideological battle.

It was portraiture that caught the maharaja’s attention. In 1870, for instance, he photographed Queen Victoria’s son just as he did his palace doctor. But what are more stunning are the portraits he made of women in his harem. There were Hindus and Muslims; senior concubines (pardayats) and junior mistresses (paswans). But, as scholar Laura Weinstein notes, to photograph women in purdah was “completely without precedent”. While Ram Singh never made portraits of his senior wives, by bringing his establishment into view through the camera, he dispelled multiple stereotypes about the harem. Where the British painted the zenana as a sinister place, lacking in fresh air and guarded by scheming eunuchs, the women who appear in Ram Singh’s photographs are powerful, dignified and far from Victorian cliché. “The zenana portraits,” tells Weinstein, “reveal no sickness or dirt, depraved or deviant faces, exposed bodies or sexually suggestive poses.” What they show is a world where there is no pressing demand for Western “light”—where there is nobody crying to be “rescued” from despotic oriental hands.

It is tempting to think that Ram Singh was making a conscious statement as he Indianized the gaze of the Western camera. By turning his lens towards the harem, he struck at norms that concealed royal women; and by photographing the zenana’s inmates in confidence, he was challenging colonial tropes about Indian women and royal depravity. Indeed, for all the things he achieved in his remarkable life, this is one of the most memorable. Throughout the 1860s and 1870s, even as he carried out his programme of administrative reform in Jaipur, the maharaja honed his skill with the camera. And by the time he went to the grave in 1880, Ram Singh had journeyed through a world of experience: from the young prince of 1857, who gambled in favour of the British, to the photographer-maharaja who claimed for himself the right to depict Indianness and reject hackneyed images perpetuated by the Raj.

(My column in Mint Lounge, January 05 2019)


When Vijayanagar was defeated at the Battle of Talikota in January 1565, what fell with it was the last formidable empire to tower over the Indian peninsula. To be clear, the old kingdom continued to exist for many more decades in a truncated form, but Talikota marked the end of all glories for a power that once boasted of such monarchs as Krishnadeva Raya. Weakened and emasculated, its rulers watched as their authority dissolved, and regional dynasts emerged, inaugurating the so-called Nayaka period in the south. In the northern Deccan, meanwhile, Vijayanagar’s traditional enemies—the sultans who emerged victorious at Talikota—ruled for a century more, till the Mughals swallowed their independence during the reigns of Shah Jahan and his son. With the fall of Golconda in 1687, even their tale was concluded—the next chapter pivoted around the feud between Shivaji the Maratha and Aurangzeb, the last Great Mughal.

What, however, would have been the course of history, had Vijayanagar survived? What if, instead of having his severed head impaled on a spear, Rama Raya, the de-facto emperor, had triumphed at Talikota? He did reign, after all, over one of the wealthiest empires of his day, lacking neither in men nor money; it was better artillery and fortifications that generally helped his rivals to the north. Had he defeated them, would he have annexed their lands or merely demanded tribute? The Qutb Shah of Golconda, in fact, was once a friend, whose years of exile as a youth were spent in Rama Raya’s court. The Adil Shah of Bijapur, another of Talikota’s triumphant sultans, was Rama Raya’s adopted son. It is likely that Vijayanagar would have allowed these Islamic states to continue as vassals, just as the sultans did not comprehensively attach Vijayanagar’s lands after victory in 1565. But their independence would have been limited, great riches transferred from their vanquished capitals to be heaped before the victorious Raya.

But what would this have meant for the Mughals? The picture is a fascinating one: to visualize Akbar presiding over an ambitious, growing empire from Agra, while the south remained the sphere of influence of Vijayanagar’s Rayas. The Deccan’s Sultans might have formed buffer states between these two great empires—one moment seeking friendship in Vijayanagar, the next trying to persuade the Mughals to help unshackle themselves from the southern yoke. They were also close to the Shah in Persia: would he have played politics through his Deccani allies to balance Vijayanagar and the Mughals? Or would he have allied firmly with the Hindu dynasty that dominated the peninsula—one which was more actively part of international networks of trade—than the Mughals who were his rivals in the wider world of Islam? And where would the Portuguese fit into this? After all, trade in the Arabian Sea was falling into their European hands, and overtures had been made from Vijayanagar for special understanding and friendship. Would the Portuguese have had to choose between the Mughal and the Raya?

To think of India divided between two dominant powers allows for a grand (even if entirely imaginary) picture: the Mughals with their influence stretched across the Gangetic belt, and from Afghanistan to Bengal, while all that lay south of the Narmada became the dominion of the heirs of Krishnadeva Raya. At some point the two would certainly have clashed—Mughal ambitions and the ballooning of their empire could only lead them towards the frontier of the southern emperor, just as the latter’s ancestral conflict with Orissa’s monarchs would have mobilized Vijayanagar’s armies towards the north. So, instead of the sensational confrontation that the 17th century saw between the Marathas and the Mughals, would Aurangzeb have found himself battling the might of an imperial equal? Whose arms would have triumphed? The Mughals, after all, drew talent from across the Islamic world—warriors, administrators, artillerymen, and others—while Vijayanagar, even in its rivalry with regional sultans, was often unable to source the latest technology, or even the best horses. Would, perhaps, the Portuguese have filled the gap and become Vijayanagar’s agents and arms dealers?

Then there is the matter of culture. Persian sartorial tastes and much else from the Islamicate world touched life in Vijayanagar—its temple sculptures, architecture, and even the famous bronze of Krishnadeva Raya and his wives in the Tirupati temple, stand testament to this. A Vijayanagar princess was given once in marriage to a sultan, while another emperor is believed to have toyed with the idea of seeking a bride from Catholic Portugal. Could an alliance with Akbar have ended with a matrimonial bond between the two empires, perhaps after a military confrontation? Or would Akbar have had to concede victory to the Raya, ceding territory and becoming the lesser of India’s two great emperors? It would most likely have been difficult for either to completely overpower the other—but the constant balancing of power between north and south might have birthed interesting dynamics, even as these two major courts patronized a fascinating universe of ideas and culture, poets and scholars, artists and artisans.

If Vijayanagar had survived, India might have entered the modern age looking a great deal different. Its experience with the European trading companies that sought to colonize this land could have taken a different shape—a powerful emperor in the peninsula might have been able to contain Portuguese, Dutch, and English influence. Many later heroes—from Shivaji down to Tipu—might not have emerged at all, had Vijayanagar’s imperial order held. But fantasy is perhaps best tempered with the evidence left by reality: great empires often fell not because of external enemies but due to internal contradictions; because of the misguided policies of proud rulers than the arms of a terrible invader. So, for all we know, if Vijayanagar had survived after Talikota, it may yet have collapsed a few generations later, limited minds and incapable men bringing about what the Deccan’s sultans achieved in 1565 by force of arms.

(My column in Mint Lounge, December 22 2018)


When Raja Ravi Varma died in 1906, what departed with him was a life not only of artistic success but also of immense personal glamour. Indeed, much of the painter’s triumph came from his innate skill as much as the advantage of high birth and social cultivation. Deftly navigating between the studio and the colonial ballroom, doors opened before him as he mixed with politicians and statesmen, intellectuals and maharajas. It was diabetes that seized him in the end, and much of the criticism of his style only came afterwards, allowing this “painter-prince” a career in which he was a celebrity as much as an artist. Indeed, well before these words were understood as we do today, Ravi Varma emerged as a man of network, to whom concepts such as publicity and promotion were not remotely alien.

Decades after Ravi Varma, there lived in India another man of art, with more than one parallel with the life of this painter of the Raj. Like him, the younger artist had a most exciting story surrounding his birth: where Ravi Varma’s pregnant mother was “possessed” by a spirit prophesying greatness, the other man’s birth was presided over by officials of the Indian state. While an infant Ravi Varma drew on palace walls and caught the eye of a creative uncle, it was the walls of the younger man’s village house that first won him the attention of scouts looking for talent and imagination. And where the 19th century nobleman gave new form to gods of the Sanskritic pantheon, our late 20th century tribal was captivated by his own gods, depicting Thahi Dev, Khairagadhia Dev and Bara Dev for the first time on paper and canvas.

But there end the parallels between Ravi Varma and Jangarh Singh Shyam—so named after he was born quite literally in the middle of a janaganana(census) of his people. For unlike the former, whose privilege equipped him to not only paint but also master life itself, the latter was lost when it came to things beyond art. He emerged from a village and when he moved in with shehri (urban) artists, bewilderment and competition were his companions. What he walked into was, we are told, a “ruthless global marketplace of art, whose pressures he was not equipped to cope with”. And when he hanged himself in 2001, aged 40, his life folded in tragedy. As his newest biographer writes, he did not lose himself because his art went nowhere, or because success shunned him. He was, instead, “trapped in the crossing,” lost between two worlds.

Jangarh Singh has found a resurrection in A Conjurer’s Archive, a splendid volume produced by the Museum of Art & Photography (MAP) in Bengaluru. Written by Jyotindra Jain, the art critic who was also his friend, the pages of the book are glossy, and the images stunning. But this well-designed volume evokes also the trouble Jangarh Singh had in applying to himself the gloss that “sold” in the art market, just as he struggled with the demands of a bureaucracy and its paladins. He was an alien in a world where his work fetched high prices—and so he followed advice that did not always make him happy. As Jain notes, a gallery in Delhi once wanted him in its brochure. But because the man in jeans and a shirt did not look “authentic” enough for a master of (erroneously named) Gond art, Jangarh Singh had to strip and pose in a loincloth.

Jangarh Singh was a Pardhan, a tribal group inaccurately classified with the Gonds. In 1981, aged 20, he was working in the field when associates of Bharat Bhavan in Bhopal appeared out of the blue. Impressed by the paintings he had done on his walls, they persuaded him to join them, and for the rest of his career he stayed with the institution. Officially, he was first an “attendant” in the graphics department—which resulted in demands that he bring people tea and coffee—but very quickly it became clear that Jangarh Singh was an artist with a vision of his own, cultivating a technique nourished by the art of his ancestors, even as it drew influences from the world he observed, both urban and rural.

Jain, for instance, highlights his Pandawani work, which, despite its name, tells tales not only from the Mahabharat but also the Ramayan. His community were bards, and he too told tales in paint of their legends, heroes and chieftains. “What is noteworthy,” writes Jain, “is that the characters…are shown sporting modern clothing such as shirts and half pants”. There are aircraft and other motifs from modernity, in works that the market insisted had to be branded “tribal”. Some pushed for him to stick to the rustic, taking it upon themselves to decide what was “authentic” tribal art and how much its painter could experiment. Jangarh Singh was naturally frustrated and often upset, but he did what he did anyway, exploring new media and becoming a master even of serigraphy.

His death in 2001 is mired in controversy. For ₹12,000 a month, he was deputed to an art gallery in Japan for a quarter of a year. Shy and a misfit, he grew lonelier still, writing pained letters home. When the gallery unilaterally extended his stay, it crushed a man already, perhaps, in the grips of depression. And so, as an official of the museum wrote, “he lost the balance and connection between the reality and…cut all the connection with life, wife, children and friend and he took the path of death.” It is condescending to suggest that pressures of the market alone killed him—perhaps there were other factors too. Either way, after a sparkling career of 20 years, the artist decided he’d had enough—unlike Ravi Varma, who knew both art and the ways of the world, Jangarh Singh knew only to paint and couldn’t quite navigate the rest.

(My column in Mint Lounge, December 15 2018)


In 1857, soon after the sepoys rose against the East India Company in a burst of volcanic fury, the Delhi Gazette carried a proclamation issued in the name of the Mughal emperor, Bahadur Shah Zafar. Popularly called the Azamgarh Proclamation, this was authored most likely by a junior member of the imperial household, though its contents are not remotely less fascinating on this account. Besides predictable denouncements of the “tyranny and oppression of the treacherous” English, the document was also a manifesto that sought to win support from influential quarters, offering—like political manifestos today—a cascade of promises. Thus, for instance, the rights of zamindars were guaranteed, just as attractive pay was guaranteed to soldiers. More interestingly, among promises made to the commercial classes was one that speaks much of the age in which the mutiny took place. For it was pledged to men of trade that when the badshahi regime was restored, they would enjoy “gratis” the use of “government steam-vessels and steam carriages for the conveyance” of their all-important merchandise.

As it happened, the rebels scattered and the Mughal emperor fell. But on his journey to Burma (now Myanmar) in a bullock cart, Bahadur Shah Zafar did witness the construction of railway lines on which would ply the “steam carriages” that only yesterday were offered free in his name. While rebel leaders discerned advantages in this new mode of transport for purposes of trade, they were hardly alone: 10 years earlier, The Times in London had claimed that while “there may be no diamonds (left) at Golconda”, there was “the worth of a ship-load of diamonds in the cotton fields of the Deccan.” All that was needed to exploit this plentiful land was a reliable network. Then, of course, the mutiny confirmed for the British the military advantage that the railways offered, as loyal armies could in future make their way at record speed and contain any threat of rebellion. This, perhaps, was among the reasons that agitated Gandhi when he beheld the welding of India’s geography with steel and steam, declaring ominously that this was all for “bad men (to) fulfil their evil designs with greater rapidity”.

Leaving the Mahatma’s suspicions aside, the railways in India roused many, from Rudyard Kipling to Rabindranath Tagore, Florence Nightingale to R.K. Narayan. Talk of its introduction in the subcontinent began in the 1830s and, ironically, endless concerns were raised. One question was of viability: would “the Hindoos”, with their caste and religious taboos, embrace the railways, or would they boycott it resolutely? In the event, “the Hindoos” nodded approval: pilgrimages that took weeks could now be covered in days, even if by means of the devil’s contraption. Others argued that the fire carriage was at best a vanity project—India’s destiny lay in waterways, insisted Sir Arthur Cotton, whose thousands of statues stand testament to his efforts in this direction in the Godavari belt. Meanwhile another set of people welcomed the steam engine for its political potential. “If India is to become a homogenous nation,” wrote Sir T. Madhava Rao, the 19th century statesman, “it must be by means of the Railways [and]…the English language.” (Good for him that he lived then, for today he would be labelled anti-national.)

The dawn of our railways (now fourth largest in the world, transporting billions and with over a million employees), like new technology in general, inspired opportunity while also birthing subversion. As scholar Arup K. Chatterjee writes, the railways could become “clandestine spaces for experimentation” where “vegetarian looking businessmen” tasted chicken and mutton: removed physically from their everyday universes, days and hours spent on the track offered a window into something new, something that was usually taboo. To Europeans in India, meanwhile, the way the railways functioned offered a “nominal provincial Europe” on wheels, where the food, cutlery, décor, and everything else reminded them of home. And then, all the same, there could also be disease and horror—to quote Ira Klein, “plague (too) rode the rails”. In 1947, similarly, the railways conveyed death across the border, as photographs recorded their role in the tragedy of Partition.

The British, of course, presented the railways as proof of their civilizing mission—this when it was an elaborate commercial enterprise delivering obscene profits to English investors at the expense of the Indian peasant. Then the railways also allowed for architectural experiments: buildings like the erstwhile Victoria Terminus in Mumbai projected colonial splendour, visually stamping India with the presence (and threat) of British imperium. To the dismay of the architects of empire, however, the railways also ended up transporting that inconvenient thing called nationalism. Soon, even the Mahatma was able to Indianize the railways, using it, as Chatterjee notes, to collect donations just as much as to launch forth on swaraj, every station and every third-class carriage a platform for his invigorating politics. Revolutionaries, meanwhile, could disrupt rail lines, and even such small things as travelling ticket-free or pulling the chain became acts of civil disobedience. What began as a (lucrative) civilizing mission, then, ended up embodying Indian resistance.

In the end, the story of the railways in India is one of splendour as well as shock, elegance as well as embarrassment, opening up many worlds in which its carriages and engines have served as both witnesses and participants. In its early avatar, it was a symbol of colonial oppression. But like with foreign ideas that were seized by Indians for their own domestic purposes and intentions, the railways quickly won our imagination, becoming integral to the shaping of our national character. The Father of the Nation might well have continued to suspect the railways even as he used it, but there is no doubt that its steel frame occupies a place of importance in our tale as a people: one that bridged far and diverse provinces, even as it connected everyone from Bahadur Shah Zafar to the Mahatma himself.

(My column in Mint Lounge, December 8 2018)


In 1683, a little before the Mughals completed their final conquest of the Deccan, a Brahmin subordinate of the Qutb Shah of Golconda made a fascinating remark to a friendly Dutchman. Akkanna, whose brother was minister to the sultan, was talking to Michiel Janszoon of the Dutch East India Company. And in the course of their discussion, the Brahmin said to the European: “You yourself can imagine which government serves the king best, ours or that of the Moors (i.e. Muslims)”. He and his associates were “not people who have or seek other countries” and, in consequence, were “fullheartedly devoted to the welfare of (this) country”. The “Moors”, on the other hand, came to the Deccan with the chief intention of “becoming rich and then to leave for those places which they consider to be either their fatherland or holy”. In other words, their sole interest was self-aggrandizement, all at the cost of the country that enriched them in the first place.

It is a remarkable statement for its time, almost Savarkaresque with its talk of fatherlands, holy lands, and the alleged illegitimacy of some groups on account of their foreignness or lack of religious commitment to India. Equally interesting is that this statement appears soon after the celebrated Maratha warrior, Shivaji, articulated his own dharmic vision of power and kingship. Was this, then, the beginning of the crystallization of religious identities, if not in India as a whole, at least in the Deccan? Was it the start of the creation of a modern sense of being Hindu, defined against “the Moors” and their faith? And what does it say of scholarship that suggests that Hindu-Muslim relations in India were largely syncretic, poisoned by communal acrimony only as a consequence of colonial divide and rule? The answers, as it happens, are about as complex as the questions.

Notions of “us” and “them” among elites did exist but these sat alongside everyday syncretism—Akkanna’s brother was a sponsor of elaborate Muharram observations in Hyderabad, just as he fed numerous Brahmins during Hindu festivals. The Qutb Shahs were patrons of the Telugu language, admirers of the Sanskrit epics, husbands to Hindu women, and well integrated into the land where their forbears were immigrants. But when it came to articulating their power, it was Islamic ideals they upheld, imitating Persian customs and seeking approval from the Shah of Iran. In other words, where formal definitions of power were concerned, it was Islamicate ideas that held primacy, even if actual, lived politics was a different matter. In Hindu royal houses, too, things were not different: the kings of Vijayanagar formally expressed their identity in Sanskritic terms even as they employed Muslims, respected the Quran, adopted Persian sartorial tastes and called themselves “Hindu Sultans”. One emperor evidently even suggested a marital alliance with Catholic Portugal. But despite multiple exchanges on the ground, the formal self-image of Hindu and Muslim houses could be different.

Bigotry existed too: temples were demolished during war, usually to flatten the legitimacy of enemy kings. But sometimes wanton acts of violence were also possible on account of individual fanaticism—Afzal Khan’s desecration of the great shrine in Pandharpur on his way to battle Shivaji is a case in point, an incident that deeply offended even those Marathas loyal to the Muslim general. For the most part, however, just as religion lent itself as a gloss to power, it was also deployed for purposes that had less to do with the gods than claimed. As the Mughals made gains in the Deccan, for example, restrictions were placed by its Sunni emperors on Shia practices at the Qutb Shah’s court—and this despite the fact that Jahangir, Shahjahan and Aurangzeb were married to Shia women, and many of their own generals were also “heretics”. It did not matter so long as they were loyal to the Mughals: but when Shiism was the enemy’s religion, it supplied a “legitimate” excuse to mask the age-old impulses that governed politics—avarice, a quest for power, and more—and commence conquest in the name of a formal ideology.

So Shivaji was described as an “infidel” even as Aurangzeb despatched precisely another “infidel”, the famous Rajput general Jai Singh, to fight him; a man addressed in one firman (imperial edict) as “faithful and obedient to Islam”. Bukka Raya, who founded Vijayanagar, might call himself Krishna-incarnate to rid the world of mlechhas even as he sought an alliance with Delhi’s mlechha (foreigner) sultan. Signs of religious sympathy exist too: Aurangzeb’s final siege of Golconda in 1687 saw his Shia nobles betray concern for the Shia enemy, just as Jai Singh looked away during Shivaji’s famous escape from Agra. All this being the case, what exactly was Akkanna talking about in 1683 when he expressed hostility towards the “Moors” in the name of his homeland?

The Qutb Shahi court was a balance of factions: there was a Persian Shia faction, a Sunni party of Indian Muslims, groups of Hindu warlords, and eventually a powerful Brahmin bureaucratic establishment. Different groups held disproportionate influence at different times, and in Akkanna’s day the Brahmin network acquired more power than ever before. Akkanna, for instance, was even granted a senior military rank—and this when he never went near a single battle. When he referred to “the Moors”, the idea was to stand up to the Persian immigrants and not all Muslims as a blanket category, and to increase the power of the Brahmin faction, under whom the state was run with a certain vision—one where the wealth of the kingdom stayed in the kingdom. In the end, in 1685, Akkanna and his brother were murdered at the behest of two begums by their African slave (yes, there was an African faction too). But when they were gone, did Brahmin influence end? No—for the two years of Mughal-free independence the state had left, the Qutb Shah granted his favour to other Brahmins, including Vessanna, another brother of the dead Akkanna.

(My column in Mint Lounge, December 01 2018)

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In the winter of 1935, the celebrated American activist, Margaret Sanger, arrived in India to spread the message of birth control. She hoped to persuade Mahatma Gandhi to give her his endorsement which would, she wrote, “be of tremendous value” to her cause. When they met, Gandhi was welcoming of Sanger but not her ideas: abstinence from sex, he argued, and not birth control, was the way forward for India and its families. Sanger was dejected: “He can never accept sex as anything good, clean or wholesome”, she complained. Unhappy, but undefeated, she carried on with her travels, journeying to 18 cities, delivering 64 addresses, and meeting everyone from Rabindranath Tagore to Jawaharlal Nehru.

Ironically, among those who stepped forward as Sanger’s champions at this juncture was the junior maharani of Travancore—a woman who would win the Mahatma’s appreciation for her role in throwing open Hindu temples to Dalits. Late in December 1935, the maharani invited Sanger to Thiruvananthapuram, her son’s capital, to deliver a lecture. It was a sensation. After all, this was one of south India’s great seats of orthodoxy, in a principality described by a previous ruler as hopelessly “priest-ridden”. It was a temple town, and the royal family lived a cloistered life of Brahminical ritual and piety—and here was the ruler’s mother organizing a discussion on such scandalous themes as intercourse.

While Sanger was delighted, this was merely one of many unconventional things the maharani accomplished in her life. Sethu Parvathi Bayi was an interesting, complicated woman, who combined phenomenal confidence with an unapologetic quest for power. Born in 1896 into the lineage of the Kolathiri rajas of Malabar, she was adopted aged 4 into Travancore’s ruling house. Under the matrilineal system, it was her sister, the senior maharani, who occupied the formal limelight, and early on Sethu Parvathi Bayi realized she would have to stand out to be noticed—even if this meant breaching tradition. As her son remembered, she “never blindly follow(ed) custom” but “would respect (it) where it was desirable.” And, of course, the judge of where it was desirable was the maharani herself.

Sethu Parvathi Bayi’s personality was tremendous. As a child she learnt to play the veena, later cultivating a formidable reputation as a patron of Carnatic music—Mutthiah Bhagvathar and Semmangudi Srinivasa Iyer both sang her praises. As a pregnant woman in her teens, when custom recommended rest and worship, she insisted on her daily round of golf and French lessons. In her 20s, she was the toast of south Indian society, struggling, however, with a conservative husband who sat with lemons at banquets to disperse any caste pollution. Years later, John Paton Davies Jr, an American diplomat was startled as he watched a temple procession with the maharani—while her son piously led the deity for a ceremonial bath, she served her companions scotch whisky.

Inner resolve the maharani possessed in immense quantities—in the early 1930s, she dismissed every Brahminical argument against crossing the kala-pani and became the first in her family to venture abroad. She met European royalty and collected art, also giving the Pope’s officials a dressing down when they tried to lecture her on how much make-up was appropriate. Her conversational skills were legendary: Paton Davies also noted the ease with which she moved from discussing a visit to Bali to “modernistic” furniture to finally contemplating the emotional range of elephants. As for food, a great-grandson recalls that when old and bedridden, she still kept a stove in her bedroom where she personally prepared small delights for her family.

In politics, however, Sethu Parvathi Bayi occupies a darker space. When her sister (and rival) was in power, the maharani had no compunction in backing various moves to destabilize her government, with the British recording everything from fake news campaigns to black magic. When her son gained power, Sethu Parvathi Bayi was perceived as a Hindu consolidationist, their subsequent policies sparking discontent among minorities. “She is arrogant, uncharitable, egotistical, bad-tempered, insular and vindictive,” noted one report, and was “cordially hated” by ordinary people. Her son himself, it was recorded, was powerless: Sethu Parvathi Bayi’s “usurpation sub rosa of ruling functions” meant that as late as the eve of independence, the viceroy, Lord Wavell, could diarize that while the maharajah was “not altogether a fool”, he was “entirely overshadowed by his mother”.

The maharani’s greatest misadventure, however, came towards the end of princely rule. Mass agitation throughout her son’s reign led to a Communist uprising in the region—it was brutally dealt with in 1946, leading to the killing of hundreds. In 1947, it was declared that when the British departed, Travancore would become “an independent country”—a misguided decision taken, to quote historian Sreedhara Menon, by “Their Royal Highnesses…the son and the mother.” Of course, an assassination attempt against their minister put paid to these plans, and with the integration of the princely states into the Indian union, Sethu Parvathi Bayi lost power. Hereafter, she was merely a titular maharani, diverting herself from the exercise of authority to full-time patronage of the arts.

By the time she died in 1983, the maharani was wheelchair bound. It is not known if she had any regrets—her sister, for instance, grew so fed up with royal life during the junior maharani’s heyday that soon after independence, she abandoned the palace and moved away forever. And even if she did, it would be impossible to know today. What can be said, however, was that Sethu Parvathi Bayi was a remarkable woman—one with disquieting proclivities in politics, but also a fascinating appetite for life—a combination that saw her championing birth control one day, dining with colonialists the next, and condoning violent action when it came to preserving the power of her state: power which she could deploy with furious effect.

(My column in Mint Lounge, November 24 2018)


On 1 November 1858, Queen Victoria formally extinguished the fires of the great rebellion of the preceding year with a historic proclamation. Two pages of grandiloquent text was all it took to inaugurate a new chapter after the “mutiny”, and possession of India was transferred from the bloodied hands of the East India Company to the custody of the British Crown. Everything was infused with the moral legitimacy of a maternal sovereign, her words offering a world of guarantees, from territorial integrity for princely states to freedom of religion for the masses. Writers on all sides descended into ecstasies about this “Magna Carta of Indian Liberties”, though bureaucrats in actual command prevented too liberal an interpretation by the queen’s new subjects. But for all that, the proclamation generated a sweep of goodwill across the board—a clean slate for colonial officers, and hope for India’s earliest generation of nationalists. And in the meantime, Queen Victoria was also transformed, becoming India’s own Victoria Maharani.

The process was a fascinating one, despite its unequal politics. From the very start, the queen had shown interest in matters Indian, often revealing a broadness of mind that horrified the men who really operated her government. As Miles Taylor argues in his excellent new book, The English Maharani, if the queen was magnanimous it “always came from belonging to the winning side”. But even as she collected baubles and gems from the subcontinent, there was an awkward sincerity to her politics. The proclamation itself was a document with which she was not satisfied: she wanted a firm statement that Indians would be “placed on an equality with (all other) subjects of the British Crown”, a proposal Parliament watered down to a vague line on her “obligations of Duty” towards India. Elsewhere, she won—while an earlier draft loosely committed to the “relief of poverty”, Victoria revised this to promise Indians “peaceful Industry”, “Works of Public Utility”, and a government “for the benefit of all Our Subjects” whose prosperity, contentment, and gratitude were tests of its success.

Of course, what followed was revealing. To successive viceroys appointed in India at the head of an extractive state, the queen’s proclamation of 1858 was held up as a mirror of shame. As late as the 1890s, Dadabhai Naoroji’s campaigns in Britain cited the promise of 1858, while in 1908 Mahatma Gandhi was referring to the proclamation to demand rights in South Africa. The proclamation became the standard against which the Raj could be judged, and everyone, from dethroned princelings to people fighting property disputes, appealed to Victoria’s words—and often directly to her—to live up to its meaning. Even the introduction of income tax was lambasted as flouting guarantees in the proclamation. So the men in charge found a typically British solution to play things down: a protocol was evolved to determine which petitions actually reached Victoria’s desk and, as Taylor records, soon “the Government of India (was) transformed from postman to the sovereign to censor of the royal mail.”

It is politics at the highest levels of state that Taylor highlights, but the picture he paints is vivid without being uncritical. For Victoria, India opened up something new on a deeply personal level: renewed relevance. “Denied a political role at home” by constitutional convention, he argues, “she found it instead in her Indian dominion”. From the 1840s, for instance, she corresponded privately with viceroys, and while this still offered a lopsided picture, it eliminated some filters installed by officialdom in London. While reports of atrocities against British women during the 1857 rebellion appalled her, she soon suspected sensationalism in the press, asking for evidence. And she revelled in the adulation that came from India’s elites—whose nationalism at this stage did not sit in opposition to loyalty to the queen—as they composed poems comparing her to Hindu goddesses. Her affection for her Hindi munshi is, of course, well known, and even from afar India came to mean something special for her in a way it did not for others in her establishment.

Naturally, Victoria also grew defensive of her position. During the celebrated 1875-76 tour of the country by her son and heir, Edward VII, she was determined to ensure that the masses did not mistake him for their sovereign. Much to his irritation, she made it clear that he was the Viceroy’s guest and not her representative. “She even,” notes Taylor, “refused to countenance the prince conveying a message from her to the people of India.” In fact, when the tour became a success, the queen chose to orchestrate a grand event of her own to surpass it: the assumption of the title “Empress of India”. It was another matter that the innovation was received with borderline hostility in Britain itself, for powerful sections in the House of Commons were appalled by this gaudy claim of imperial status. The queen was furious, but the episode also highlighted the utility India held personally for her—her daughter, married to the German crown prince, was set to one day become an empress, and Victoria could not imagine being outranked by her offspring. Her son meanwhile used the occasion to pay his mother in her own coin: he famously wrote to the prime minister that he had no desire to be styled His Imperial Highness.

In the end, as Taylor argues, Victoria represented something for everybody in connection with India, becoming a bridge between competing ideologies and identities. To the British, she could be used to contain the earliest stirrings of Indian nationalism; to Indian nationalists, her proclamation allowed for calls for reform to be issued, couched in a language of loyalism. For Victoria herself, meanwhile, India offered both an empire and queenly purpose, carving out an unparalleled position that no British monarch after her was quite able to emulate—or imitate.

(My column in Mint Lounge, November 16 2018)


In 1543, when the first Qutb Shahi ruler of Golconda was stabbed to death, one of his sons fled to Vijayanagar to save himself from his parricide brother. For seven years, he lived in exile at this Hindu court, before coming home after the death of his murderous sibling. What followed was a phenomenal reign: the new Qutb Shah Teluguized his name from Ibrahim to Abhirama, patronized poetry on the Mahabharat, produced 30 children of his own (two of whom he put to death for plotting against him, fearing his father’s fate), and inaugurated an era of prosperity and splendour (despite, that is, the general violence of his age). Golconda’s ports attracted merchants from the world over, while its mines threw up diamonds in heaps, and by the time Ibrahim went to the grave in 1580, he was lord of one of the richest realms in India.

But the Qutb Shah—who once also compared the moustaches of his enemies to the pubic hair of “public women”—was never fully pleased with life in his old fort. He tried first to build an unwalled city towards the west. But when want of water aborted the enterprise, he constructed a bridge over the Musi river and looked instead to the east. His death meant that it was his heir, Muhammad Quli, who actually realized Ibrahim’s dream, founding what is today the city of Hyderabad—the latest place to attract the zeal of that special kind of politician anxious to rename great cities of the past instead of confronting challenges in the present. Hyderabad, either way, was only one of many feathers in Muhammad Quli’s cap. As a patron of the arts too he was substantial, authoring a celebrated collection of works called Kulliyat that covers everything from kabbadi to the festival of Basant Panchami.

Hyderabad, however, was an ambitious project and from early on seems to have attracted the envy of the Qutb Shah’s rivals. Fourteen thousand shops and public buildings were envisioned in the new city, with the magnificent Char Minar built over its central crossroads. The palace was a sensation, said to exceed any contemporary Mughal building—seven or eight floors high, with interiors studded with gems and gold. “A citie that for sweetnesse of ayre, conveniencie of water, and fertility of soyle, is accounted the best situated in India,” is how the English merchant William Methwold described it, while the French traveller Jean-Baptiste Tavernier thought the bridge “scarcely less beautiful than Pont Neuf at Paris”. Indeed, what the Qutb Shah envisioned in Hyderabad was not only a city unparalleled by rival capitals, but a “replica of paradise” itself.

The founding romance of Hyderabad is a story repeated by every tour guide in the vicinity. One day, we are told, when Muhammad Quli was out riding, he encountered a woman of exceptional beauty. Her name was Bhagmati, and having married her, he decided to name his new urban project Bhagnagar. Later, when she was styled Hyder Mahal, the city became Hyderabad. The story is certainly old—we have the contemporary Mughal poet Faizi writing to Akbar that the place commemorates “a hardened whore”—but it is unlikely that it reflects fact. Hyderabad celebrates Ali (also called Hyder, the Prophet Muhammad’s cousin), who was venerated by the Shia Qutb Shahs (whose Shiism was also lambasted by Faizi), and while coins record both Hyderabad and Golconda, no mention occurs of Bhagnagar. Indeed, Muhammad Quli, who catalogued the names of his 17 beloved ladies, himself evidently makes no mention of Bhagmati, and in the Kulliyat, the city he founded is always referred to as Hyderabad.

What is more likely, as the historian H.K. Sherwani noted, is that Mughal antagonism towards the Deccan sultanates—which they would annex after generations of strife—meant everything impressive about them had to be disparaged. Just as the Qutb Shahs were never acknowledged as independent rulers by the Mughal emperor, it is likely that this grand new city had to be dismissed as nothing but a vanity project that flattered “an old mistress”. Such a tale, in fact, may well have found an audience even in the other Deccan sultanates, which oscillated between friendship and war with the Qutb Shahs on account of their own ever-changing dynamics. So, in the end, as Sherwani concludes, what was a “sneering sentence” from a Mughal officer grew “into a paragraph, the paragraph into a section, and the section into chapters”, repeated often enough to imitate the truth.

The weight of historical evidence does seem to lie with Sherwani, but Bhagnagar continues to live in popular imagination. European travellers in the 17th century used the name, for instance. Indeed, proponents of the Bhagmati story argue that if the lady does not exist in local records, it is because she was proactively wiped out—the idea that the new capital was named after a courtesan appalled enough people for this to be expunged. Such an erasure is possible—Ferishta, who wrote in the Deccan in the lifetime of Muhammad Quli, notes that Bhagnagar was named after a “prostitute” called Bhagmati, but that the Qutb Shah felt “ashamed of his amour” and renamed the city. But the fact that Muhammad Quli could name over a dozen of his mistresses, including his five favourites in a work spanning 1,800 pages, and not mention Bhagmati at all renders the matter open to debate.

In any case, for the politician seeking to rename Hyderabad Bhagyanagar—a Sanskritized version of Bhagnagar—it may come as news that the last laugh will still be had by the ghost of the Qutb Shah. If he was forced to erase Bhagmati’s name, this might be justice done for a Hindu woman who loved a Muslim king; if she never existed at all, the Qutb Shah’s memory still triumphs. After all, he built a city that still endures, while the men seeking to wipe this out have only a pretended glory that begins and ends with waging war on the past.

(My column in Mint Lounge, November 10 2018)


In 1812 the fortunes—quite literally—of heaps of temples in southern Kerala found themselves in the hands of a man who was born in faraway Scotland. It was one of those strange ironies of colonial rule in India, for Colonel Munro had originally come to princely Travancore as the East India Company’s representative. Quickly, however, he was also elevated as minister by the ruling princess, a formula designed to give the British the power they desired while skipping actual annexation. Munro’s goal, with his split loyalties, was to balance the government’s books and ensure the company received regular tribute. And as part of his campaign to augment revenues, he took over 348 significant temples and 1,171 smaller shrines across the land, so that 62,000 gardens and 63,500 acres of cultivable land became state property overnight. Hereafter, sums were disbursed to the temples for their upkeep, but so valuable was the real estate seized that it still produced an enormous balance—an amount that could be used for other purposes, including to service political obligations to the company.

It was an act that birthed repercussions felt to this day, for some of Kerala’s celebrated shrines—including Sabarimala, for example—remain under government control, provoking persistent questions about what business precisely the state has in institutions of faith. To be fair, Munro’s action was not unilateral—temples, with unregulated funds and powerful trustees, were a political threat to the emerging modern state on the one hand, while on the other, there were complaints that revenues were being embezzled; in some instances, trustees decided to steal even the idols of their deities. In neighbouring Tamil provinces, too, the story was similar: the collector of Thanjavur, John Wallace, noted that temple custodians in his jurisdiction had piled up debt to the tune of ₹2 lakh (a colossal figure at the time). Like in princely Travancore, in British territories, too, the company was embroiled without delay in the business of religion. And here, too, profits followed: in 1846, after all expenses were deducted, the Madras Presidency found itself with Rs 8 lakh in surplus from temples, a figure promptly diverted to the “general education fund”, while another lakh was “expressly devoted” to a highway project between cotton-producing Tirunelveli and the port of Thoothukudi.

To be clear, as political sovereigns, the company did possess certain prerogatives where these establishments were concerned. Hindu rulers reserved the right to intervene in the affairs of shrines should the need arise, and in 18th century Madras, the Christian British often continued traditions instituted by previous powers, intervening when necessary. So, for instance, in 1789, when quarrels arose in the Thiruvallur temple and officials discovered that the Brahmins in charge “had mortgaged part of the property for their own private use”—the company saw to it that the men were made “answerable for the few things missing”. Devotees also, without means to stand up to influential local trustees, approached the company, inviting the latter to proactively intervene in temple affairs. This led, in 1817, to the earliest official legislation (in Madras presidency) on the subject to ensure incomes from temple endowments were disbursed “according to real intent and will of the granter” and not frittered away by untrustworthy trustees. It was a good step in theory, though in about two decades, the company found itself involved in as many as 7,600 temples—a state of affairs it had not quite expected when it set out to uphold tradition.

As it happened, despite financial gains, this was an uncomfortable position for the company. Missionary propagandists, for instance, lambasted British officials for promoting “idolatry”: by protecting temples, organizing festivals, supervising repairs, and settling disputes, the company had become primary trustee for assorted Hindu deities. As one reverend complained in 1831, “When we point out to (the Hindus) that idolatry is not the worship of God…they ask, ‘How can you say so? Who keeps our pagodas in repair?…Do you not do it yourself? If you do these things, where is the reasonableness and propriety of saying idolatry is sinful?’” In fits and starts and under growing pressure, then, the British attempted to extricate themselves from this knot. While in Travancore the Hindu ruler clung on to the temples, in Thanjavur over 2,000 shrines were returned to locals, and bigger temples were placed in the hands of committees, panchayats and sometimes “influential” individuals. This, predictably, led to its own politics, featuring caste competition, sectarian rivalries, and much confusion, made worse by flawed legal interventions through the 19th and 20th centuries.

In the end, what the colonial regime began, secular India inherited, and this peculiar mix-up of government with temples continues to this day. For the British, the issue eventually became one of several complications to negotiate in the subcontinent—from the start, the company ruled through bureaucracy and centralization, essential instruments for a foreign power in an alien land. One-size-fits-all rules were put in place despite contradictions, which, however, in independent India raise valid questions that the colonial power wasn’t earlier obliged to answer. In Sabarimala, for example, this is one of the arguments posed by critics of the recent Supreme Court judgement—that different temples have different features which cannot be guided by a single principle. Certainly, there is room for a new framework to preserve the individuality of India’s countless shrines—a new vision with an accommodative mechanism—though some overarching principles must still prevail. After all, even before the days of Colonel Munro and the British, Indian sovereigns intervened in temple affairs. Now, the Constitution is supreme, and while diversity should be respected, this paramount document must necessarily be obeyed.

(My column in Mint Lounge, November 03 2018)


In 1565, after what is popularly called the Battle of Talikota, Husain Nizam Shah returned victorious from Vijayanagar to his court in Ahmednagar. There had been horrific bloodshed—ending with the enemy’s head on a spear—and much gold and silver had been gained. But Husain seemed not destined to savour his victory: That very year, he would die, and while some held alcoholic excess to be the cause of his end, at least one Portuguese chronicler decided it was poison, not drink, that took the Nizam Shah to his grave. Deccan politics was dangerous to begin with, and in this instance, it was the ruler’s own wife blamed for his death. She was a Devadasi turned begum, wrote the European historian, and to plant her own son on the throne, instead of a rival’s, she decided to take the life of the man who made her his queen.

Khunza Humayun was a remarkable woman, and while she was never a Devadasi, she was in every sense extraordinary. Aftabi’s Tarif-i Husain Shah Padshah-i Dakan, a eulogy commissioned around the time of the king’s death, is full of praise for his queen. Indeed, alongside beautiful paintings (including one where she appears in her husband’s lap), this unusual text describes vividly Khunza’s loveliness and physical voluptuousness. Other sources present her actual ancestry—she was descended from a ruler of Baghdad, though a fall from power meant scions like her father joined hordes of other Persians seeking employment and a future in India. Here he joined the court of the Nizam Shah—a Muslim king with Brahmin forbears—and before long Khunza was married to Husain.

Few women appear in retellings of the history of the Deccan, and if there is a queen who shines, it is usually Khunza’s daughter, Chand Bibi. At the end of the 16th century she bravely resisted the Mughals, and her tragic assassination enshrined her as a romantic heroine. Khunza, however, did not die at the end of a sword: her power was thwarted and restrained, and death in prison years later did not quite attract glamorous poems. And so she was forgotten, even her form and face crudely painted over in many of those miniature paintings. If Chand Bibi was celebrated even by the Mughals for her valour, Khunza came to be resented by her own son and many others. There was no place for an inconvenient woman like her, and what survives is in bits and pieces, her fall from influence obscuring her fame forever.

Even in her husband’s day, Khunza appears to have had some say in politics. One poem, in fact, ascribes an insult to her as the provocation for Husain’s war against Vijayanagar. Of course, the battle in 1565 followed generations of strife and had various causes, but it is telling that the Fath Nama-i Nizam Shah cites, in the words of scholar Sanjay Subrahmanyam, “a potentially sexually loaded” reference to the queen as rousing the fury of her husband. The sultans of the Deccan often traded insults with Vijayanagar, but in this instance a line was crossed: in an inflammatory letter demanding tribute from Husain, the ruler of Vijayanagar, listed, besides diamonds and rubies, the anklets of the begum. Disgusted and furious, Husain the “lion” was roused against the “pig” to whom he delivered death.

In any case, leaving literary bombast aside, the death of Husain in 1565 enthroned Khunza’s son in Ahmednagar. The boy was fated for instability and eventual murder, but for the next six years power was in the hands of his mother. She governed with the aid of trusted men—there was a eunuch and there were her brothers. She sat in court and gave orders, proving strong enough to ensure her commands were obeyed. She even went into battle—including against Chand Bibi’s husband who ruled a principality next door—and showed herself generally unafraid. It wasn’t like the men around her saw this as admirable: a coup was thwarted in 1567. Her own son was involved, but chickening out in the last minute, he told his mother about the plot. For the time being, Khunza prevailed.

Powerful women like her, however, always had to tread with care. In the 13th century, the empress of Delhi, Razia Sultan, was murdered by men of her own court, and Khunza’s daughter too was betrayed by those she thought she could trust—though war with the Mughals raged, Chand Bibi’s assassin was not an invader but an insider. Khunza too, therefore, had to be on her guard, but after half a decade at the helm when the nobility decided to terminate her “petticoat government”, her downfall was confirmed. Khunza’s foreign policy had proved a disaster—alliances were destabilized by impetuous demands, and those inclined to support her left her side in disapproval. Then there was the internal politics of the realm: there was an African faction, a Persian faction, and a local faction, all of them perpetually at loggerheads.

By 1571 the Nizam Shah was ostensibly liberated from the hold of his mother so that he could start making mistakes of his own (which include trying to kill his son in due course) and earn the epithet deewana, or madman. Khunza, abandoned by the men she had raised to power and wealth, was imprisoned and spent the rest of her days in oblivion. Such an unhappy fate her relations elsewhere too endured—the Mughal emperor Akbar’s regent, Bairam Khan, was a family member, though assassination meant that he too was remembered with some poetic regret. Khunza, however, wasted away with time, written out of history, disfigured in works of art her husband lovingly had made. Only a few fragments remain of her tale, and like so many women in the past, she finally went to the grave while history continued to be written for—and by—unforgiving men.

(My column in Mint Lounge, October 27 2018)


If ever there was a Mughal ruler who lived the good life, that man was emperor Jahangir, in whose veins flowed Persian, Turkic, and Rajput blood—besides double-distilled spirits and a whole lot of wine. Jahangir, who died on 28 October 1627, was the least militarily inclined of the great Mughals, and though he once led a half-baked rebellion against his illustrious father, he preferred having other men fight the battles that mattered. In an age of violence this was something of a character defect, but Jahangir’s indulgence was a mark of stability in the empire he inherited. Far from the heat and fury of conflict, deep in the embrace of art and aesthetics, he quickly came to represent both self-assured power and the height of Mughal imperial splendour.

Even today, reading the Jahangir Nama is a fascinating exercise. For the figure that emerges is at once pampered prince, curious dilettante, ruthless emperor, and sentimental man. The first-born of Akbar and the so-called Jodha Bai, Shaikhu Baba, as Jahangir was lovingly known, was one upon whom luck bestowed an early blessing. By 18 he was falling in love with his goblet; luckily for him, his brothers were worse. Not even royal commands could move him if he didn’t wish it: once when his father sought to appoint him leader of a campaign, the prince simply absented himself from court. One of those ill-fated brothers accepted the charge, before winning a few battles and losing himself forever to drink. Akbar, meanwhile, turned his hopes toward Jahangir’s son, provoking a hundred intrigues and yet more tragedy.

Shaikhu Baba, however, was too shrewd to drown in wine and die. As Parvati Sharma notes in her sparkling new biography, Jahangir: An Intimate Portrait, he understood quickly what was at stake and where to draw his lines—no son of his could be emperor before he had had his time. So while he continued to drink—pretending after his accession that he only indulged “to promote digestion”—he toned down the quantities. He even presented himself to the orthodox faction as a more pious Muslim than Akbar, to win them over before his favoured son. Of course, having become emperor, he dabbled in more than one religion, till rumours floated that he was a Christian, and he commissioned art in which he appeared cross-legged and shirtless—more Hindu deity than a Muslim sovereign.

Even before his reign, Jahangir was a man of curiosity. All his life, Sharma shows, he went about measuring things—the size of a peach, the weight of a melon, the dimensions of a cave opening—just as he recorded strange and peculiar sights. So while his generals took fire and steel into enemy lands, Jahangir took delight in watching pet cranes mate. He thundered from afar at those enemies (the Marathas he dismissed as “a people of unlimited stupidity”) while investing in a menagerie at home. To please him was to bring him animals: the English gifted him mastiffs, for whom the emperor arranged palanquins. On another occasion he was introduced to a lion that lived with a goat, while his travels threw up everything from a snake swallowing a rabbit to a spider that strangled a snake.

Art flourished under Jahangir. Europeans were delighted with his affection for the Madonna, while Hindus noticed symbols from their own traditions. Then there were images prepared of the oddities that caught the emperor’s eye. Sharma notes the story of an emaciated courtier, thin beyond belief, who asked for leave from court. Jahangir agreed to let him depart—but only after he had his likeness made. A dervish from Sri Lanka, similarly, brought him a slender loris—“really horrible looking”—which the emperor also got painted. Few living beings were left alone: if there was anything that revolted the sovereign of Hindustan, it was worms crawling out of the corpses of animals he’d shot.

Jahangir’s relationship with Nur Jahan, is well recorded, but he was also close to other women. There was a sister to whom he was so attached that his father made him drink her breast-milk so she “may be like a mother to you”. When his wet-nurse died, he carried on his own shoulder one end of her funeral bier. And in the Jahangir Nama are multiple expressions of grief on the death of various imperial women, including, for instance, a Rajput wife, who chose suicide. There is vulnerability to this Jahangir, though another side shows also cruelty, one where interrupting a hunt could cost a servant his life, and a gardener who cut down beloved trees found himself missing a few fingers. Even the elite faced the emperor’s wrath: when a rebellious nobleman was presented, “Were it not for what people would think,” Jahangir fumed, “I would have throttled him with my own hands.”

Of all the Mughal emperors, Jahangir led the most comfortable life, free from problems that afflicted those who ruled before or after him. He packed his 22 years on the throne with the most diverse interests, less focused than Akbar or Dara Shukoh, but rich in its sheer detail. He showed himself a remarkable man, one who could marvel at the gems sent him in tribute, just as he could stun an ambassador by gleefully driving a bullock cart. The future emperor Shahjahan’s propaganda cast Jahangir as a henpecked debauchee. But, as Sharma beautifully shows, and the Jahangir Nama attests, the man was a little bit more: an endearing eccentric but every inch an emperor worth remembering.

(My column in Mint Lounge, October 20 2018)


In 1934, a committee of men investigating temple entry for Dalits in Travancore summarized the religious constraints impeding this demand. Various “Mantras and Tantras”, it noted, were needed to consecrate in any image the “Divine spirit”. This being done, “care has to be taken that the power is not dissipated”, a process that required Brahminical rituals but also protection from an assortment of “adverse influences”. These influences included, besides defilement by vultures, dogs, donkeys, and other animals and reptiles, “the entry of certain classes of people into the temple premises”. In other words, “judged by the Sastras and by the usage relating to temples… (Dalits) cannot be said to have a right to be admitted” to Hindu shrines. Moreover, the committee added, citing a 1914 Madras high court judgement, courts too could not intervene in religion; the princely ruler, it emphasized, could not challenge “the principles of the Smritis and the express rules of the Agamas”; and while a “compromise” featuring partial access might be tolerable to prevent the “heavy landslide” of Dalits from Hinduism to rival faiths, no “sweeping change” was advisable.

And yet two years later, the maharaja of Travancore stunned Malayali society by going ahead with “sweeping change”. On his birthday in 1936, the ruler, alarmed by threats of a mass exodus of Dalits from Hinduism, proclaimed temple entry for all castes. While within his state sheer determination held the peace, retaliation from the orthodoxy in wider Kerala was furious. The maharaja of Cochin banned Travancore priests from serving in his lands, going “to the extent of declaring the whole people of Travancore as untouchables”. The Zamorin in British-ruled Malabar expressed his censure, refusing to yield even as late as 1942. Indeed, in Travancore itself, the maharaja’s own aunt ceased visiting their principal shrine where Dalits now had open access. But having taken his decision—albeit to consolidate the Hindu community—the ruler was immovable. When in the temple town of Suchindram, for instance, locals refused to participate in a chariot festival due to low-caste presence, his chief minister, Sir C.P. Ramaswamy Iyer, a Brahmin, lent his own hands to the chariot, making a clear statement.

Eighty-two years have passed since the events of 1936, but history repeats itself this week in Sabarimala where masses of people have gathered to “protect” its celibate deity from the calamity fertile women bring. The argument is much like the one made by the temple entry committee in the 1930s. Ayyappan of Sabarimala is consecrated a brahmachari; the advent of women will diminish His sanctity and breach age-old custom. Where before 1936 Dalits were believed to threaten the sanctity of all gods in all temples, today we have a single shrine where another group marginalized in history must work around tradition and its claims of immutability. The cry to preserve Sabarimala, as it is, is shrill, and while religion evokes emotions, the claim that custom is untouchable is, actually, unhistorical. Ayyappan atop Sabarimala hill is consecrated in a way that disallows women, they say; well, till 1936, every single god was consecrated in a way that disallowed Dalits. That custom changed—with the executive enforcing a view their own advisers abhorred—and decades later, few would argue that the arrival of Dalits in temples has demolished the integrity of the deities before whom they today worship.

In a few years from now, when women go routinely to Sabarimala and Ayyappan remains as resplendent as before, we may laugh at today’s protests. Just as Kerala shakes its head at those who objected to temple entry in the name of tradition all those years ago, we may wonder why in 2018 there was such rigid objection. But while discomfort is understandable, it may be worth remembering that history is full of evolution and change. For if it had been otherwise, Malayali society would look very different today. In the 1860s it was conceded at last that perhaps dipping one’s hand in boiling ghee was not the most foolproof method to determine guilt; but there were men who disagreed in the name of custom. In the 1920s, the maharani of Travancore flouted old traditions when she terminated animal sacrifice—no more bloodshed, she declared, providing ancient temples cucumbers in place of cocks and goats to kill. Again, many objected and highlighted custom. When a Brahmin woman wore a blouse in Kerala she was excommunicated for her innovation—custodians of tradition preferred traditional toplessness, and even men wearing shirts were seen as rebels. But (leaving the patriarchal politics of this aside) would the most orthodox Brahmin today suggest his female relations return to that ancient custom where the piety of a woman depends on the bareness of her breasts?

The temple entry committee of the early 1930s justified these specific changes by noting that the original practice was, to begin with, never sanctioned by sastras—the entry of Dalits, on the other hand, was expressly prohibited by the great books in Sanskrit. For their pains they were cordially ignored, and the ruler proceeded to introduce a new morality, in view of the politics and callings of his own time and mind. Today again we have a leap to be made, where a custom stands before the morality of our national Constitution—one will have to bow before the other, and both cannot together prevail. The past offers us a guidebook by which to reconcile to change. It may at first be upsetting, and it may look unholy. But think of 80 years from today, and perhaps then those protesting in Sabarimala might recognize which side of history they wish to serve. Ayyappan did not go away when custom was broken to bring Dalits before his gaze; it is hardly likely He will cease to be celibate because women behold him, after years of being kept away.

(My column in Mint Lounge, October 13 2018)


In 1964, when Jawaharlal Nehru died at the end of a long and historic career, The New York Times carried an editorial asking famously, “After Nehru—What?” The op-ed was in several respects alarmist, pointing out that India was “so heavily dependent” on this one “towering” figure that “there is no way of predicting what will now happen”. Would the Congress party stay united? Would India remain committed to pluralism and democracy, values that were the cornerstone of Nehruvian policy? And most importantly, what did the passing of this giant mean not only for the “internal peace of India, but the peace of Asia and perhaps of the world”? The air was full of uncertainty, and a lot depended on the man appointed to fill Nehru’s shoes—a man the NYT had earlier described as a “colorless politician”, “an architect of compromise, a conciliator of factions” and a “faithful follower” of the prime minister who had now gone to the grave.

Lal Bahadur Shastri, to whom rich tributes were paid on his birth anniversary on 2 October, was the original accidental prime minister of India, and it was precisely the qualities the American newspaper highlighted that first made him palatable to leaders of the Congress party. Born in 1904, Shastri had accumulated nearly a decade of prison time during the freedom struggle, and after independence, quietly served under Nehru in various ministerial capacities. At 60, he enjoyed an inverted popularity, born out of his singular ability to provoke no enmities in a party full of internecine rivalries. His principal gift seemed to be that while he inspired not even a shadow of euphoria, nobody minded him either: the socialists might come to terms with Shastri, just as the right wing within the Congress could be prevailed upon to accept this candidate who successfully stayed out of everybody’s hair.

Nehru never anointed Shastri his heir, but he did hint at his approval of the man: when various senior leaders resigned from the cabinet (with Nehru’s concurrence) under the famous “Kamaraj Plan” to reinvigorate the party in 1963, Shastri was the only one reinducted a few months later. The whole enterprise was one of balancing interests: Morarji Desai, for instance, was senior most and, therefore, Nehru’s presumed natural successor. Since this was a horrifying prospect for others, to whom Desai’s trademark obstinacy was unappealing, the Kamaraj Plan unseated him and a number of powerful leaders so as to reset the terms on which the future leadership would be decided. As Michael Brecher notes in his supremely interesting Succession In India (1966), Congress president K. Kamaraj and his allies intended to “support the man who was least likely to divide and most likely to unite the party”. And the best match for this job profile, it turned out, was good old Shastri.

Yet, Shastri’s elevation was not instant, and in the six days following Nehru’s demise, many hats were thrown into the ring. Brecher’s book, featuring interviews with the lead actors in the drama, offers a fascinating view of the negotiations that gripped Delhi while Nehru’s corpse lay in state. Gulzarilal Nanda, who was sworn in as caretaker prime minister (much to the annoyance of V.K. Krishna Menon, who called it “unconstitutional”) seemed to harbour a desire to be confirmed in that position: when he sat in what was Nehru’s seat in Parliament, there were gasps. Desai, of course, arrived at the dead prime minister’s residence and tried to direct the funeral proceedings, provoking an angry remark from health minister Sushila Nayyar: “Who are you to give orders?” Indeed, a day after Nehru’s death, Desai openly declared himself a candidate—a tactless move which allowed his rivals to decry his apparent thirst for power, even as a Maharashtrian faction made it clear that they could not support this Gujarati.

There was, however, enough maturity on display alongside the anxious lobbying. The defence minister Yashwantrao Chavan was in the US when Nehru died, and realized, Brecher notes, that not only The New York Times but the world itself was watching India: instead of chaos, “we must do everything possible,” he said, “to reach a consensus, to achieve unanimity.” Nanda too understood this. While he expressed his ambitions, he was also “conscious that the world’s eyes were upon us, and we did not want to display too open a fight.” Even as powers around the globe feared Nehru’s obituary was an obituary for united India as well, the Congress leadership knew they had to manage differences alongside the good of the country. There were personal designs; there was regionalism and caste competition; and there was Desai’s legitimate but decidedly unpopular claim of seniority. But then, there was also India’s national interest.

Since none of the others had enough heft, the issue boiled down quickly to Desai versus an alternative. And so, Shastri, who had maintained a studious silence and shrewdly made no claims himself, was confirmed by an orchestrated consensus. “He was not,” Brecher notes, “as forceful and decisive as Morarji, but that was an asset in a country as large and complex as India”. Kamaraj, who, as I.K. Gujral claims in his memoirs, chose to become kingmaker rather than the puppet king, set the wheels in motion. He “consulted” hundreds of parliamentarians—who were to formally elect their leader—to take a “poll” of sorts, an exercise that was part strategic, part comical. “I like Shastri; whom do you like?” he would ask individual MPs, and as Krishna Menon later laughed, “when the Congress president calls you, unless you are a fool like me, you more or less express his opinion.” Shastri officially became the “party’s choice”, before whom even Desai had to retreat. And so it was that India found not only its second prime minister—a man who in 18 months made a mark not as a puppet, but a leader worthy of respect and admiration—but also the answer to that dreaded question, “After Nehru—What?”

(My column in Mint Lounge, October 06 2018)


At the Museo Nacional Thyssen-Bornemisza in Madrid, there hangs, in a collection featuring everyone from Caravaggio to Picasso, a striking painting that depicts British life in colonial India. Centred on Sir Elijah Impey, chief justice of the East India Company’s supreme court in Kolkata, it portrays his family enjoying a musical performance by an Indian troupe. There is an ayah holding one of the Impey children, while a second son watches from behind Lady Impey’s shoulder. In the middle, meanwhile, is the oldest of the boys, dressed in Indian robes, dancing to “native” tunes. The scene all at once attempts to encapsulate imperial domesticity in the Orient, while also presenting a gloss of exoticism—that special ingredient that coloured, for generations, Western impressions of the remote and (allegedly) unfathomable East.

The man who painted this canvas in the 1780s was Johan Zoffany. An artist of German origin, he had sailed to India after his fortunes, like his artistic reputation, took a plunge in Britain. He was not unusual in seeking to resurrect his career in Company territories—a whole century later, there were still Western painters for whom failure in Europe’s capitals did not erase hopes of success with Indian patrons. Zoffany, in any case, stayed for about six years, promptly sailing home as soon as his bank balance had improved and his debts were paid. In the process he left behind a local mistress and an assortment of children and, following the wrecking of his ship, joined fellow survivors in eating human flesh. And so the painter of the Impeys went down, to quote William Dalrymple, as “the first and last Royal Academician to become a cannibal”.

While we cannot be sure of how many more cannibals sought India’s embrace, Zoffany was merely one of countless others whose motivations were more complicated than black and white critiques of the Raj acknowledge. On the whole, of course, the British built a machine that extracted Indian resources to enrich their distant island, and the violence of colonial rule has had enduring repercussions not only on Indian society but also on the Indian mind. But the men and women who actually operated this rapacious apparatus often had other compulsions than blindly serving king and country in the name of British imperium. As David Gilmour argues in his new book, The British In India, much of the colonizers’ impact, “especially at a personal and popular level, was accidental.” “Most British people,” he notes, “did not go to India to conquer it, govern it, or amass a fortune there.” They came for other, less ambitious reasons.

Who, then, were these people, and why did they sail East? Often, Gilmour shows, they might be criminals on the run from the law: it was easy to assume a new name and wipe the slate clean on the ship to Bengal. Or they could be royal bastards, such as the sons of William IV, one of whom rose to become a senior commander in the British Indian army. Commercially minded people too found hope in India—long before Union minister for communication and information technology Ravi Shankar Prasad divined the idea, a Scotsman established a venture that “sold water from the Ganges to pilgrims who could not reach Benares.” Great old declining families too sent son after son to earn salaries here, and more than one viceroy originally chose to serve the Raj to prevent his family from being swallowed by debt. Indeed, among the wider pool of Europeans interested in an Indian career was a certain Napoleon Bonaparte, who as late as 1795, expressed a desire to become a “nabob”, not so much for personal aggrandizement as much as to arrange respectable dowries for his sisters.

While the British state systematically crippled India—a point Gilmour does not quite address—the cogs in the machine were not always tuned into this larger imperial purpose. So where local princes might be awed by the Company’s military drills, soldiers on the British side were complaining about the pointlessness of their daily routines, choosing to drink themselves to death instead at the earliest available opportunity. Grand military titles concealed lifetimes spent without any real military action, and often the arrival of well- born ladies in India cloaked scandalous pasts that threatened their reputations at home. Then, of course, there were the usual bureaucratic rivalries: a civil servant, the product of a half-baked training system, with millions of brown people under his charge, might look down on a political officer stationed in a maharajah’s court. Work for the latter, it appeared, was a sequence of banquets and shikars, though occasionally a discreet British resident could be relied upon to help a maharani smuggle out her illegitimate offspring.

It is this human enterprise and experience behind the formal edifice of the Raj that interests Gilmour, and with characters even more memorable than our man-eating painter (who himself barely appears), this is a book that makes for fascinating reading. Gilmour presents a dazzling variety of stories and reminds us that besides villains and tyrants, British rule also featured men and women whose interests in India could range from a love of hunting to investments in the brothel business. “Some readers,” he agrees, “may feel that I have given too much space to spearers of boar and pursuers of jackal, but pig-stickers, like prostitutes, are a part of history.” It is a sensible remark and one can see his point, but while tremendously interesting in its own right, the question must still be asked whether viewing individual experiences without quite acknowledging the plunderous context that enabled these experiences in the first place is appropriate.

There can be no argument about the need to understand the role of ordinary Britons in the making of empire—in that sense, Gilmour’s is an enriching, encyclopedic offering. But in skirting the political and the unpleasant, what we have in the end is something like that Zoffany painting: an exceedingly attractive but ultimately incomplete picture of the British and their time in India.

(My column in Mint Lounge, September 29 2018)


In 1934, when M.F. Husain first sold a painting, the roadside transaction added a grand total of ₹10 to his tattered pockets. At 17, with a bicycle his most glamorous possession, he was still just a creatively inclined grandson of a tinsmith from Pandharpur, Maharashtra, without any conception of the kind of celebrity—and notoriety—that awaited him in the years to come. In his 90s, he would be hounded out of his own home by howling mobs and hooligans, forced, in the end, to seek sanctuary in a foreign land. In 1934, though, there was little inkling of the trauma that lay ahead—instead, the rupees in Husain’s hands were his first ever earnings, and as an old man he would remember the absolute thrill they brought him, in addition to a much-needed boost of confidence. While it was no fortune, at a time when everything from a cup of tea to a roof for the night cost only a few paise, ₹10 was the buyer’s way of telling him that he was good; that perhaps Maqbool, son of Fida, had it in him to become that remarkable thing: an artist.

Husain, whose (formal) birth anniversary it was last week, always had a love of flamboyance, whether it was in the way he painted (sometimes before mesmerized audiences), behaved (his discarding of footwear on a permanent basis is famous), and even remembered the past. His very birthday, for instance, was chosen arbitrarily because nobody remembered the actual date of his arrival: “because I (liked) the sound of September,” he laughed, “I decided I was born on 17 September, 1917. However, the alliterative sound of the three ‘S’s…made me change the year to 1915!” Then there was the loss of his mother, which Husain often related with a tragic flourish. Before he was 2, he was taken unwell. His mother, Zainab, decided to sacrifice herself to god if her son were spared. “She laid Maqbool on the bed in the quivering light of the lamp,” a biographer wrote, “covered her uncombed hair with a black sheet, lifted her hands in prayer and went around the bed seven times.” That night Zainab was dead, while Husain became the boy who lived.

Husain certainly had a sense of his own destiny, which fuelled a determination that resisted all pressures to settle into conventional life. After a short-lived apprenticeship with a tailor led nowhere, his father acquired a camera for him, in the hope that the boy’s obsession with light, form, and image could be channelled into a reliable trade. Husain, of course, had other plans—while he used the camera, including to take a photograph of himself in the nude, his love of the brush clung to his fingers. What began with him tracing a pencil on magazine pages, evolved into a passion, to which was added a powerful sense of observation. His stepmother feeding her baby filled him with a wondrous realization about the female form; rituals in the temple and the company of a Brahmin boy who thrilled him with tales from the Hindu epics; and a thriving market and its bustling crowds birthed a lifelong interest in people, their faces, and, most importantly, their singular stories.

In Indore, where his father moved for work, Husain absorbed cultural influences that stayed with him for life. He played Hanuman during festivals, and observed Muharram processions; years later, he went to Varanasi where he claimed to have found “the essence of India”. After he won a medal in a local competition, his father came around and spent a princely sum to bring Husain oil paints and new brushes. The son even made plans to study at the JJ School of Art in Mumbai, but when Fida was laid off work, hopes of acquiring formal training crumbled. Instead, barely 20 years old, Husain moved to Mumbai, painting billboards for money and, to the initial alarm of the lady who supplied him his meals, falling in love with her daughter. But these years were integral. “Frankly,” he is quoted as saying in Rashda Siddiqui’s 2001 book, In Conversation With Husain Paintings, “I don’t think I’ll ever forget my yesterdays. I know how it is to work hard on a hoarding that is put up for only a couple of weeks and then destroyed.”

Husain had plenty of ambition, and from the start groomed himself well, whether, as his biographer Ila Pal wrote, it was his George V beard or his conscious decision to master the English language. In fact, F.N. Souza, who founded the Progressive Artists’ Group in 1947, once declared that the secret of Husain’s success was “40% your beard, 30% your personality, 20% your friends, and 10% maybe your talent!” Husain too credited talent as only one part of the equation for success: “An individual,” he said, “only requires 5% of creative capacity. The rest is sheer hard work.” He would know—through the 1940s, he painted commercially, designed furniture, took up projects on the side, and even briefly worked in a textile mill in Warangal. A stable income released him from financial pressure, and this liberated his imagination, expressed on increasingly saleable canvases.

Such commitment paid off, and by the 1950s, Husain’s reputation was on the ascendant. While a 1948 show in Kolkata saw his work dismissed as “a betrayal of Jamini Roy”, Husain enjoyed greater success in Delhi. He was sent on a delegation to China, and by the middle of the decade, was honoured by the Lalit Kala Akademi. He toured Europe and picked up friends and contacts by the dozen, and in the 1960s was not only earning several thousand rupees apiece for his work, but could also afford a car and other luxuries. The teenager who was thrilled with ₹10 once grew into a celebrated painter, one of India’s most prominent faces in the international avant garde. He would go on to sit in Parliament, and travel the world, making friends, chasing lovers, and living a life as vivid and rich as his canvases. In the end, gloom did cast its shadow on him, when self-appointed custodians of culture took umbrage at a Muslim’s brush depicting Hindu divinities in ways beyond their creative comprehension. But by then the boy from Pandharpur was already a legend: he had nothing to prove anymore, and if at all a loss was incurred, it was not by him but by an entire nation.

(My column in Mint Lounge, September 22 2018)

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In September 1914, an unplanned encounter with a dog led to the death of a Sanskrit scholar. The man was in a car on the outskirts of a town in Kerala called Kayamkulam when the canine jumped on the road. As the driver tried to avoid running over the animal, the car skid, turning turtle as it fell into a ditch. For some time, the 69-year-old languished by the roadside, till finally a palanquin arrived, carrying him off for medical attention. It was all in vain, though, and two days later the man was dead. “O! Land of Kerala, thy light has gone!” lamented the poet Kumaran Asan: “Thou art engulfed in darkness!”

The dead man’s name was Kerala Varma, and before he was snatched by tragedy, he had led a life as colourful as it was rewarding. The world knew him in many ways. To some he was consort to the senior rani of Travancore, a position that brought little power but much prestige. To others it was his academic achievements that shone: he was a fellow of Madras University, a member of the Royal Asiatic Society, and chairman of a committee that revolutionized primary education in princely Travancore. In the 1890s, Kerala Varma had even received from the British empress a shiny decoration, partly, one suspects, as a reward for his eulogy to her, the Sanskrit poem Victoria Charitra Sangraha.

Kerala Varma might have lived and died in obscurity had it not been for marriage. Born in 1845 into a line that supplied consorts to the matrilineal Travancore royal family, his selection as partner to the senior rani was largely on account of the influence of a dying uncle (who in turn was married to a previous holder of that title). While as late as the 1910s, a consort was only entitled to ₹200 per month “with meals from the palace and the use of a brougham”, the talented Kerala Varma utilized his newfound position for a creative evolution. He acquired the best Sanskrit masters, and learnt to play the veena, sarangi, and fiddle. He established a cricket club in Thiruvananthapuram, besides learning to ride and shoot. Most importantly, in a time when consorts were expendable, he won the devotion of his royal wife, quickly becoming comptroller of all her affairs.

But while he was popular in the early years, presenting poems and staging Kathakali dramas, by the 1870s, overconfidence turned his head somewhat. He developed something of a temper—years later, when a newspaper published a less-than-glowing review of one of his compositions, he was vindictive enough to terminate its circulation in Travancore. In the mid-1870s, however, what nearly dug a proverbial grave for the 30-year-old Kerala Varma was a misguided attempt to partake in court intrigue. In the events that followed, this “Symbol of Renaissance in Malayalam Literature” (for he was gifted not only in Sanskrit), ended up in prison, losing his title, and very nearly forfeiting even his initial claim to fame—his royal wife.

The sanitized version of the event presents Kerala Varma as a wronged hero, suffering the wrath of a vengeful monarch. The reigning maharajah Ayilyam Thirunal was a wicked man, for standing up to whom our poet-scholar was punished. The facts, however, are a little more complex, for while the ruler had flaws by the dozen, the consort was not blameless either. In 1875, after failing to persuade the British resident at court to potentially protect him against the maharajah, with whom he had fallen out, Kerala Varma wrote a letter to the chief minister, signed Peter III. “In the other day’s Privy Council,” it warned, “there was a hint of trying to dispose of you by other means than asking you to resign…take care of your cook & men about you.”

The suggestion that the maharajah was trying to poison his minister was scandalous, and while Kerala Varma denied charges, handwriting experts confirmed the opposite. As his wife wept and screamed—even chasing the police carriage down the capital’s streets—he was divested of his rank, becoming “Kerala Varmah, State Prisoner”. Conditions in jail were horrifying. In an 1877 plea to the ruler, he was desperate enough to promise to vanish into the “snowy regions of the Himalayas” if released, referring to himself constantly as a “Slave”. He also confessed to a catalogue of “treasonous acts”: He had authored the infamous letter, of course, but was also guilty of “an inclination to Christianity”, the “vice of drinking”, a craving for “stronger narcotics”, and, interestingly, “corresponding unnecessarily to some newspapers”.

The maharajah was unmoved, and a miserable Kerala Varma sent him an appeal in Sanskrit poetry, which too was cast aside. But the severity of his sentence was reduced—from prison, he was moved to house arrest. Here the man, who was once the toast of Kerala society, spent his days teaching children alphabet and verse, till finally in 1880 news arrived: the maharajah was dead. Immediately he was released and reunited with his wife, who, in turn, had resisted every order to discard Kerala Varma and take another consort. When she died in 1901, her husband’s distress was profound. “My angel, my life, my darling, my all and all, my pride, my idol, my sweetheart—alas! and what not,” Kerala Varma sorrowfully wrote in English, “expired quietly at 8PM.”

The complicated events of the 1870s were quietly expunged now, however, and Kerala Varma eschewed politics. He focused on literature, winning encomiums, and became guardian to his wife’s heirs. His concerns were domestic, and though he could be peevish (as when he objected vehemently to his brother-in-law, the painter Ravi Varma, being styled “Raja”), he reinstated himself in the eyes of society as a venerable elder. By the time of that fateful encounter with the dog, the man who once liked bhang and schemed against a monarch, was forgotten, and what went down in the obituaries was the other, pious Kerala Varma: poet, scholar, and the patrician venerated to this day as the Kalidas of Kerala.

(My column in Mint Lounge, September 15 2018)


Sir Mokshagundam Visvesvaraya was a thin man with a big head. He had a long, sharp nose, surpassed by an even sharper intellect. The offspring of a Telugu Brahmin family, he was born on 15 September 1861 in a Karnataka village called Muddenahalli. His parents were of modest means but learnt quickly that English education was a passport to social mobility. Their second-born did not fail them—a diligent student, Visvesvaraya grew into an unsentimental man of action, leaving for greener academic pastures in Bengaluru soon after the untimely death of his father. He did have to earn his keep: while an uncle gave him breakfast and meals, board and college fees came from a wealthy local family. It was in service of this household that our future Bharat Ratna launched his career, giving private tuition to prosperous children long before he won his knighthood and came to be called India’s Father of Economic Planning.

The almost 101 years “Sir MV” lived were full of work and unceasing activity. He wrote books and gave countless speeches. He worshipped fact alone, caring little for oratorical wit or the charms of rhetoric. The keystone of his existence was routine and grinding discipline—the story went that he wore a three-piece suit (plus turban) even for a walk in his garden. When he spoke, his words came pregnant with substance, and he travelled the world—from America to Japan—commenting on everything from urban drainage to women’s employment. He loved statistics with a passion: when he published Reconstructing India in 1920, he peppered it with facts and figures so diverse, that it remains an encyclopedia that tells us, among other things, how India a century ago had 19,410 post offices.

Such rigour served Visvesvaraya well. Soon after he acquired his bachelor of arts degree, he went to Pune to qualify as an engineer. He worked in the Deccan and served in the Sindh, developing irrigation channels and building filtering systems. By his late 30s, he had superseded as many as 18 seniors in the jealous ranks of officialdom, retiring in 1908 when he realized he would never be made, on account of the colour of his skin, that special thing: chief engineer of an entire British province. While touring Italy later that year, he received an invitation from the nizam of Hyderabad. And so Visvesvaraya commenced the next part of his career, designing infrastructure in that prince’s capital before transferring his services to the maharajah of his native state of Mysore.

At first, Visvesvaraya was chief engineer in India’s most advanced princely realm, till in 1912 his ruler elevated him to the dignity of dewan (chief minister). Some muttered that handing the administration to an engineer was akin to placing a woodcutter at the helm of government, but the technocrat shook the place up, marching the state ahead by systematic leaps and bounds. He set up Mysore University, and pumped money into the Krishna Raja Sagara dam; he established the Bank of Mysore and set in motion what would become the iron and steel works in Bhadravati. From developing the sandalwood soap industry to promoting silks from Mysore’s looms, Visvesvaraya soon proved himself the force behind a thriving state, resigning only after six years, following a quarrel with the maharajah on the issue of reservations.

By now Visvesvaraya, who among other things was a MICE (Member of the Institution of Civil Engineers), was ready for even bigger things. He had views not only on economics and governance, but also on social policy and national enlightenment. In Reconstructing India, in fact, are ideas that even today resonate. “If bureaucracy prevails,” he warned, for instance, “industries will not prosper.” Without modern industry—which meant progressive education, social reform, and women’s empowerment—the nation itself would not prosper. The state had to guide the process but know its limits: the “people require help and backing,” he argued, “not control and direction.” Page after page presented a vision for India, one in which caste retreated before “a saner social system” and nationalism meant love for the country as much as everyday civic awareness.

By the 1920s and 1930s, Visvesvaraya was already an elder with a voice that mattered. He sat on the board of the Tata Iron and Steel Co. and served as president of the Indian Science Congress. He lambasted the British for their economic exploitation, even as he lectured his countrymen against making fatalistic philosophical excuses. In 1934, he argued even with Gandhi—the Mahatma did not share Visvesvaraya’s faith in large-scale industry, noting that “we hold perhaps diametrically opposite views” on which path would deliver the country to its destiny. “I could never persuade myself to take up a hostile attitude toward…one with your brilliant achievements,” wrote the south Indian to the Gujarati sincerely. But he still believed that alongside the village and its cottage industries, India needed steel plants and factories, to transform itself and rise in the 20th century.

Though they respected each other, Visvesvaraya had disagreements with Jawaharlal Nehru too. On one occasion, he admonished the prime minister publicly. He was also a strong advocate of meaningful federalism, where the centre’s “intervention in provincial affairs (is) reduced to the lowest possible minimum”. Nehru meanwhile empowered the capital and could not grant the states real autonomy. But between them emerged a constructive engagement, and the old man’s letters were always welcome at the prime minister’s desk. Visvesvaraya, by now, had risen from legendary mind into an object of sheer wonder. Nearing his 100th birthday, when asked about the secret of his longevity, he remarked matter-of-factly: “Death called on me long ago but found me not at home and went away.” It returned on 12 April 1962, and this time the bachelor from Muddenahalli was ready, having made his mark in the world, and having said everything that needed to be said.

(My column in Mint Lounge, September 08 2018)


In September 1921, Lord Reading, the British viceroy of India, received from an army general a most urgent telegram. “The situation,” warned the military man, “is now clearly actual war, and famine, widespread devastation and prolonged rebellion can only be avoided by prompt measures”. He was referring to the horrific communal uprising in Malabar, known as the Mappila Rebellion, so intimidating in its scale and fury that it took six months for the authorities to prevail and restore order. In the end, 2,339 rebels were killed, nearly 6,000 captured, and over 39,000 persuaded to surrender. Much blood had flowed through parts of northern Kerala, featuring “guerilla warfare, plunder, terrorization” and worse, by Mappilas against the colonial state as well as local grandees, in an outburst of economic and religious hostility.

The economic angle is clearest and, for many, more comfortable to acknowledge. In 1915, it was found, for instance, that one-fifth of the land revenue in Malabar came from 86 landlords, 84 of whom were Hindus. Muslim Mappilas were often tenants-at-will, easily turned out from the land they tilled, by superiors who, even in the best of times, could charge anywhere from 59-77% of the produce as rent. All legal clauses privileged the owner—even when the landlord, such as the Zamorin in Kozhikode, wasn’t fully certain where his land began or ended. This, naturally, left cultivators in a perpetually precarious position. The colonial establishment, meanwhile, had no desire for reform. Even in 1917, the British were convinced that legislation to prevent arbitrary eviction of cultivators would be a “grave political mistake”.

Resentment had built up over many years among the Mappilas and through the 19th century there had been dozens of “outrages”, predominantly in south Malabar. Each time it was quashed, but the figures could be disturbing. In 1849, for example, 64 Mappilas were shot dead, most of them under the age of 24 and impoverished. However, some of the responses from those captured alive were revealing. It was “impossible”, said one rebel in 1843, “for people to live quietly while the Atheekarees (officials) and Jenmies (landlords)…treat us in this way”. Eight years later, during another outbreak, a Mappila leader declared: “What is the loss to the Nairs and Namboories (the Hindu elites) if a piece of ground…be allotted for the construction of a Mosque? Let those hogs (soldiers) come here, we are resolved to die.”

This, then, highlights the religious element, which also animated a good section of the rebels in 1921: economic marginalization channelled into jihad. The Mappilas had, to begin with, seen happier days. There had been warriors among them, and wealth in their trading community before the dawn of colonialism. Kerala’s connections to Arabia meant that Islam came here shortly after its birth, with one legend placing a Malayali king as witness to the Prophet splitting the moon. By 849 AD, Muslims were witnessing royal grants, and till the advent of the Europeans, Mappilas held senior positions at the Zamorin’s court, joining in the 12-yearly Mamankam celebrations. Muslim nerchchas even resembled Hindu poorams (festivals), and there were multiple bonds between these diverse communities, cemented by economic interests.

What the Mappilas lost first was political clout—as Europeans ejected Muslims from the spice trade, Hindu elites aligned their interests with these new lords of the seas. To quote the scholar Roland E. Miller, “The Mappilas in the main (slowly) became a community of poor labourers, fishermen, shopkeepers and religious figures. Deep poverty became the general pattern,” as they forfeited former positions of influence. The invasion of Malabar by Tipu Sultan injected short-lived confidence into the community, but by the end of the 18th century, it was British power in the ascendant, aided by the Hindu aristocracy; an aristocracy that now suspected Mappilas for their flirtation with the fearsome, violent Tipu, who had caused them only pain.

Religious animosity swelled on both sides during the 19th century. In 1851, a Nair landlord was killed after he forced a Mappila to replace the call to prayer with a “summons to eat swine’s flesh”. Meanwhile, in 1844, a British official had already noted that, encouraged by overzealous religious men, some Mappilas had started to believe that the “murder of a heretic is a passport to heaven”. As late as 1896, when a Mappila was captured after a temple attack, he confirmed his suicidal convictions: “We came to the temple intending to fight…and die. That is what we meant to do when we started.” And what would come after death? As testimony from an earlier survivor went, “I had heard that there was a reward in heaven for those who got shot.” Indeed in 1898, one Mappila even pointed out that his biggest fear was that he would get shot in the legs and live: only a fatal shot opened the gates of paradise.

Without economic resources, pushed to the corners, and radicalized by an extremist minority, the men who sparked the outrages exemplified a combination of factors that birthed violence. To this was added the trigger of the Khilafat Movement in 1921, with protests against the post-World War I unseating of the Ottoman Caliph. Unprecedented savagery was unleashed that year. Hindu and Christian homes were targeted, and, as a declaration by the Zamorin claimed, cows were killed in temples, with assailants “putting their entrails on the holy image and hanging skulls on the walls and the roofs”. It was a horrifying display of fanaticism but came at the end of a long history of alienation: the stake Mappilas had in society had been watered down, till it was felt that the order itself must be toppled if they were to find purpose. The result was pain—for all of Malabar society—but from it was born introspective wisdom. For it was understood that if there was to be peace between the communities, each one of them had to feel that important thing: a sense of common belonging.

(My column in Mint Lounge, September 1 2018)


In the summer of 2004, when Kamala Markandaya died in London, she brought to close a life of impressive literary output married to an old-fashioned tendency towards self-effacement. Intensely private and studiously evasive of the press, her last two-and-a-half decades saw this recluse retreat even further into a cocoon, so that whole generations of readers failed to encounter her work at all. Some of it was illness, but another cause for her undeclared retirement was that she seemed to have lost her audience. In fact, after 1982, Markandaya had trouble publishing her work and her final novel appeared posthumously in 2008, 20 years after it was written. The general consensus is that she had grown “outdated”, and that in the reorientation which followed Salman Rushdie’s sensational Midnight’s Children (1981), all who came before were inevitably eclipsed. As one observer put it, “Whether ahead or behind literary trends,” by the time her name appeared in the obituaries, “Markandaya’s work was almost forgotten.”

There is truth to this gloomy remark, made stark by the irony that only 27 years before Midnight’s Children, it was Markandaya who had made a sensational global debut with Nectar In A Sieve. In 1954, at the age of 30, this Kannadiga, who called herself “Hindu-Brahmin in religion” and “anti-imperialist in politics”, produced a 189-page best-seller, earning not only critical acclaim but as much as $100,000 in prize money. In the US—where she shared a publisher with Jawaharlal Nehru—her novel was absorbed into school curricula: She was celebrated as one who offered, in polished English, an “authentic” picture of changing Indian social dynamics. It did not matter that the author did not see herself as a spokesperson for India, for her readers abroad thought that was precisely what she was. This also explained why she won more admiration overseas than at home. As the poet and critic Nissim Ezekiel scoffed in a 1979 review, “An Indian writer living permanently abroad can always be trusted to write knowingly about life in an Indian village.”

Markandaya had not always lived abroad. Born Kamala Purnaiya in 1924 in princely Mysore, as a student in 1940s Chennai she was briefly also a journalist. At some point, she decided to spend 18 months in a village “out of curiosity”. This inspired the setting of her first novel, centred on Rukmani and her farmer husband, who negotiate not only nature’s cruel whimsies but also change in the disruptive form of a modern tannery. The theme may sound predictable—rural forbearance in the face of industrialization—but the novel did not succumb to cliché. On the contrary, the protagonist’s “voice” can sometimes seem a little too cosmopolitan to fit into her context. Markandaya, of course, rejected criticism that her characters were not fully “there”: “The fundamental mistake,” she argued, “is to think that a peasant thinks differently from you.” Yet, the novel has its peculiarities, when villagers talk of “fried pancakes” and “rice cakes” to avoid words like pakoras and idlis. She won adulation for presenting India to the world, but to many Indians this came at the cost of genuine “Indianness”.

By 1948, Markandaya had moved to London and married an Englishman. Her later life informed the inter-racial, East-West dynamics that animate her novels. Some Inner Fury (1957) features an Indian woman during the Quit India Movement whose nationalism is juxtaposed against her romance with an Englishman, while Possession (1963) presents a talented goatherd “discovered” by a calculating Western aristocrat, who launches him as an exotic artist in London. Then, of course, disillusioned, he returns to the spiritual embrace of India. There are parties, there is sex, there is a swami, but this is also where Markandaya first succumbs to the allure of cliché she so skilfully avoided in her first novel.

After memorable works that reflect on faith and reason, hope, frustration and more in urban India, when Markandaya tried to break away from what was expected of her, she did not find support forthcoming. In The Nowhere Man(1972), she turned the gaze away from Indian settings to the challenges faced by an immigrant in Western society. The book, however, was met with “thunderous silence”. As long as she played the role charted for her as a storyteller of India, it seemed, she was welcome, but a commentary on the West would not be easily digested. Perhaps owing to this pressure, her next novel, Two Virgins (1973), returned to the village, sinking irrecoverably into stereotypes. It begins promisingly, but soon one character is seduced and damaged by the Big Bad City, yearning for stardom and freedom, while her sister tediously romanticizes all that is rural. The village, for example, was where “You knew each grove, each acre, each homestead…every pathway…. You knew who you were.” The reader, then, can agree with the critic who said that it is “with relief that one drops” this book.

This, then, became the tragedy of Markandaya. She was gifted, and possessed both skill and perspective, but over time there was “a slow decline in her reputation as a writer that finally dwindled to silence”. The West, where she won the principal share of her appreciation, moved on in the 1980s to a new generation with new approaches, while her motherland in the East thought her de-Indianized and out of touch. Her characters were, as Ezekiel put it, mere “puppets, manufactured for those who know nothing about India”. How Markandaya the woman negotiated this crisis is not known—she rarely gave interviews, left no autobiography, saw few people, and for all practical purposes, disappeared from the horizon. But for all that, one hopes, perhaps she had some consolation in knowing that at least for a brief period, she had been at the forefront; that it was she who told India’s tales to the world beyond, and brought a young, new nation into the global literary conversation.

(My column in Mint Lounge, August 25 2018)


By this time in August 1659, everyone in the imperial court knew that Dara Shukoh would soon find himself minus his head. Emperor Shahjahan’s eldest and favourite son, beloved of mystics and poets, had lost the war of succession, outsmarted by the shrewder Aurangzeb. Plundered by his own soldiers, abandoned by old retainers, his wife dead (possibly by suicide), and betrayed by a man he thought loyal, Dara seemed conscious of his impending doom. He wrote to his royal captor from his place of confinement, promising to spend the rest of his days praying for the new emperor’s welfare. But his pleas were rejected—to the victorious Aurangzeb, hatred for Dara had accumulated over decades, and in the sham “trial” that followed, the elder brother was accused of everything, from perverting imperial judgement to scandalous heresy, till the younger confirmed, self-righteously, the sentence of death.

The life Dara had led before was full of splendour and privilege. He sat on a golden chair in his father’s court, and was styled, in happier days, Prince of Lofty Fortune. Before both chair and fortune were abruptly toppled, he had enjoyed 2 crore silver rupees a year in income. He was his father’s closest adviser, provoking envy from more than one of his several siblings. Dara’s personality was fascinating, and while he wrote sentimental verses on renunciation, he was no stranger to the notion of self-interest. When Aurangzeb, for instance, cornered the Shia sultanates of the Deccan, it was to Dara that their rulers sent their appeals. The senior prince, the sultans knew, had the ear of the emperor—and since Dara had no desire to see ambitious Aurangzeb swell in power, he prevailed on their father and had his brother’s designs thwarted.

He did have natural defects in character. “He entertained,” wrote François Bernier, who was Dara’s personal physician for a brief period, “too exalted an opinion of himself (and) believed he could accomplish everything by the powers of his own mind…He spoke disdainfully of those who ventured to advise him, and thus deterred his sincerest friends from disclosing the secret machinations of his brothers”. Added to this fatal over-confidence, born of soaring intellectual talents, was disdain for proud men with narrow minds. “Paradise,” he proclaimed, “is where no mullah exists”—naturally even sympathetic mullahs turned away from Dara. And so, for all the love and regard his father fed him, the man assembled enemies, with resentments as sharp as Aurangzeb’s. His chief military campaign, moreover, was a flop, and he lacked with ordinary troops that bond which brought success to his brothers—where they picked the sword, Dara collected Sufi saints.

But the Mughal prince’s weaknesses were only of the kind that one might find in any human being. His mind, on the other hand, surpassed his contemporaries. At 25, he authored his first book, and two years before his execution, he was still composing lines of pure delight. “He was constantly in the society of brahmins, yogis and sanyasis,” complained a poet employed by Aurangzeb, till he regarded “these worthless teachers of delusions as learned and true masters of wisdom.” He composed the Majma-al-Bahrain (The Mingling of Two Oceans), seeking, like his ancestor Akbar, to unite faiths to fashion a new vision for society. So, too, it was Dara who translated the Upanishads from Sanskrit to Persian, which a century later allowed Voltaire in France to immerse himself in Indian wisdom. These were, Shahjahan’s ill-destined son wrote, “without doubt of suspicion, the first of all heavenly books”—lines that would one day be used against him as a direct challenge to the Quran.

But the times were violent and while Dara scaled the heights of intellectual attainment, he failed in claiming the power of arms that sustained kingship in that complex age. When Shahjahan fell ill, his son made tactical mistakes. He yet had chances of success, with the royal forces and treasure vaults at his disposal, but on the battlefield Aurangzeb was the real warrior, Dara only a poet in armour. He was defeated and fled Agra while his father wept, wandering from province to province, till Aurangzeb’s men defeated him once again. He should have fled to Persia when he had a chance—perhaps he might have returned like Akbar’s father to fight another day—but bad judgement and betrayal by that treacherous friend delivered Dara his warrant of death.

When Dara came shackled to Delhi, the people shed tears in sincere regret. “From every quarter,” noted Bernier, “I have heard piercing and distressing shrieks…men, women, and children wailing as if some mighty calamity had happened to themselves.” Aurangzeb had, then, to eliminate this popular rival, and men were sent to do the deed on 30 August. His younger son died with him, while the older was captured and poisoned slowly to death. For these brutal political events, of course, a religious vindication was expertly prepared. As Aurangzeb’s chronicler wrote, with his obsession with the Vedas and his attention devoted to “the contents of these wretched books”, Dara was an apostate. “It became manifest that if Dara Shukoh obtained the throne…the foundations of faith would be in danger and the precepts of Islam would be changed for the rant of infidelity and Judaism.” The murder of brother by brother, then, was both imperial justice and god’s fury in direct play.

It is tempting to imagine how Mughal history might have been shaped had Dara reigned and not Aurangzeb. Would he have saved the empire by becoming the Akbar of his age? Might he have embraced the Marathas as Akbar embraced the Rajputs? It is impossible to say, though as a historian once wrote, Dara Shukoh was perhaps destined to fail either way. He had many flaws and he had his strengths, but what really marked him out as a man of tragedy and dismay was one peculiar detail: he was far too civilized for his age.

(My column in Mint Lounge, August 18 2018)


Sometime in the last decade—when I was still in school and the world was less hysterical—I happened to meet a “sun yogi”. He was a fascinating man, swathed in white, with a long beard and an enviable figure. His face beamed, more or less on a permanent basis, and he endured cheerfully my stabs at polite conversation. Mr Uma Sankar, I was eventually told, meditated daily, staring straight at the sun. And from the sun, “like plants and trees”, he absorbed energy in such adequate doses that since 1996, he had neither eaten, nor slept, nor tasted a drop of water. To be clear, I wasn’t prepared to digest such claims upfront, but the unwisdom of picking a public quarrel with a yogiwas manifest—and so, having made mixed sounds in response, I excused myself to return to people of my own nutritional preferences.

Earlier this week, however, this odd little episode resurfaced in my memory as I read John Zubrzycki’s riveting Jadoowallahs, Jugglers And Jinns (Pan Macmillan India). For, in its pages, I was thrilled to find the words of a traveller called Abu Zayd al-Sirafi who, 1,000 years before my own encounter with the sun yogi, had come across another such consumer of extraterrestrial rays. He described seeing men who “stand upright all day facing the sun”, one of whom he met after 16 years, still going strong, till the Persian wondered “how his eyes had not melted from the heat of the sun”. There was, in consonance with my own sentiments, a degree of incredulity in his account, but what is fascinating is that a whole millennium after Abu Zayd’s contemporary was at it, there is still a yogi doing precisely the same thing, living up (apparently) to the very same sunny tradition.

Zubrzycki’s book (of which the British title, Empire Of Enchantment, is more appealing) is officially a history of Indian magic. But it is in some ways also a history of the subcontinent itself. The Harappans make an appearance, as do the Vedas, for instance. We meet P.C. Sorcar, and more than one Mughal emperor. And it isn’t only my personal memory that finds an echo in antiquity through Zubrzycki’s writing—in the 1940s, hearing that the British resident in princely Hyderabad had witnessed a fakir “slit his stomach open and spread his bowels on a tray”, a comment was made that this was hardly “an appetising number” at a cocktail party. Emperor Gaozong in seventh-century China might have agreed, for he, too, once during “an evening feast”, was horrified to find Brahmins cutting themselves open in an effort to entertain him.

Magic, for Zubrzycki, lies clustered around religion, ritual, science and performance. He does not investigate this idea itself as much as he ought to have, perhaps, but what he does present is a rich, meticulous assortment of tales, travellers’ accounts, and fascinating archival treasures that tell, in parts, the stories of marginalized (and sometimes criminalized groups), the global exchange of magical skills, and sometimes obscure anecdotes sharp with hilarious detail. So, despite the occasional slip (Abu Zayd, for instance, is placed in the ninth century, when he was in fact a 10th century figure), the book remains engaging. And though, towards the end, it moves towards a decided focus on the West’s embrace of Indian magic, Zubrzycki retains steam and continues to hold attention by the sheer wealth of information unearthed from multiple continents.

Some of these are pure gems. For instance, while there is reading on the Rig Veda and Indra as the master of magic (indrajal), there is also charming material on the Atharva Veda and its recommendations for penis enlargement and body hair removal. The Nujum al-Ulum, a 16th century text from Bijapur (with cow-headed angels, Tantric deities, and everything from horses to halwa), also makes a cameo, as does the concept of maya in Adi Sankara’s advaita philosophy. One of the best stories, traced through official paperwork, relates to Motilal Nehru’s desire to send “performers, musicians, acrobats and artizans” to the Paris Exhibition in 1900. While the protector of emigrants in Mumbai felt they should be categorized as manual labourers going abroad, the commissioner of customs disagreed. In the end, the viceroy, Lord Curzon, was left to determine the burning question of whether magic “executed by sleight of hand” counted as manual labour.

Matters of race, and other imperial anxieties, also feature in Zubrzycki’s pages. When, for instance, a “pure European child” was discovered with a group of jugglers in Hingoli in 1858, a minor panic was unleashed that whites were being abducted by itinerant natives. Such mobile groups had another sinister role to play as well—Zubrzycki notes Kautilya’s recommendation that magicians and fortune-tellers be used as spies, which reminds one of how, indeed, in the 18th century, puppeteers, sadhus and others often served as intelligence agents for Indian regimes. The role, for instance, of fakirs who descended on British cantonments on the eve of the Vellore Mutiny of 1806, prophesizing the imminent fall of colonial rule, is telling.

In sum, Zubrzycki’s book, featuring judicial apes in Orissa, goats that could tear down wild boars, emperors obsessed with necromancy, and Sufis and Buddhists, makes for a terrific read. There are some themes the author could have explored in greater depth, but this is a task he consciously leaves to scholars in the future. His chief lament, however, is one that rings true—the communities that practised magic on our streets are disappearing, and dying with them is a tremendous chunk of our cultural history. Whether this can be reversed is not clear, but by compiling so many of their tales, and doing it in such delectable style, Zubrzycki not only paints a vivid picture of their wonderful universe, but also makes his own contribution to help preserve their memory.

(My column in Mint Lounge, August 11 2018)


In 1885, when the Indian National Congress met for its inaugural session in Mumbai, the scene was striking for more reasons than one. Not only was this the first pan-Indian gathering of upwardly mobile men of political convictions, the picture their combined presence painted was captivating even in a visual sense. As the Bombay Gazette noted (throwing political correctness to the wind), there were delegates from the south “the blackness of whose complexion seemed to be made blacker by spotless white turbans”. By their side stood “bearded, bulky and large-limbed” Pathans, along with “Banyas from Gujarat” and “Sindhees from Kurrachee”. Then there were Bengalis dressed like Englishmen, just as there were others with feet uninhibited by shoes. Turbans competed for attention, the Maharashtrian pagdi against the Parsi’s ancestral headdress. In all, “these men assembled in the same hall”, concluded the Gazette, “presented such a variety of costumes and complexions, that a similar scene can scarcely be witnessed anywhere”. Except, perhaps, “at a fancy (dress) ball”.

The half-condescending gaze of the Gazette might be forgiven, for in 1885 these men did seem less like representatives of one nation and more like exhibits from bewilderingly different cultures. There was, however, one invigorating sentiment that united them all, closely wedded to which was a common skill set. The sentiment, of course, was the prototype of Indian nationalism, and the circular announcing the Congress consciously described it as a “Conference of the Indian National Union”. The skill set, however, was not something that sat comfortably with national pride, for it was entirely of foreign make, soaked in Western cultural influences. As that circular also announced, “The Conference will be composed of Delegates…from all parts of (India)”, but these attendees needed to be “well acquainted with the English language”. In other words, to create a new mood of Indianness, what was sought was not only a shared patriotism, but also one of the most potent instruments of imperial rule: the colonizer’s grammar book.

Only the historically blind would deny the role English inadvertently played in the story of India. It is true that nationalism in this phase was about securing a greater share of the pie of official employment and lobbying for influence in the corridors of power—nobody had designs to unseat the British in 1885. Nor, as The Bengalee put it a little later, was this about the masses. “Who,” it snorted, “has ever asked that the peasantry should participate in the government…? Not even the most dreamy of our politicians have ever sought…this outrage upon common sense.” But despite its narrow objectives, what emerged from our anglicized elite’s grievances kick-started something vastly bigger. They gave speeches, published op-eds, and submitted memorandums, and soon this heterogeneous top layer of colonial society was welded close together, their resentments and aspirations voiced in a single language. The arrival of Mahatma Gandhi opened doors and transformed nationalism into a mass affair, but without an English prologue, no subsequent chapter would have made much sense—not to linguistically diverse Indians, nor to the British against whom they now openly railed.

It was in the language of the king-emperor that the Gujarati Mahatma mentored an Allahabadi called Jawaharlal Nehru, quarrelled with a Bengali named Subhas Chandra Bose, and won the allegiance of a Tamilian called Chakravarti Rajagopalachari. Indeed, it was in English, to a great extent, that Gandhi communicated his own message, through letters and publications. It was in this alien tongue that he debated India’s economy with the Telugu technocrat Sir M. Visvesvaraya, and it was also this language that enabled him to negotiate social concessions with a maharani in Thiruvananthapuram. A firebrand like Bal Gangadhar Tilak earlier recognized this value of English—though his nationalism was inflected with Hindu pride, when he set up an institution in Pune in 1880, it was the New English School and not a Vedic gurukul. Indeed, even V.D. Savarkar and M.S. Golwalkar published in English, without which large sections of their target audience would have been oblivious to their very existence.

Lord Macaulay, a notorious advocate of Western education in India, had hoped in 1835 to manufacture a class of English-speaking clerks to help sustain the Raj. What he had not quite anticipated, however, was that these agents would turn around and demand (in English) rights that Macaulay’s peers had little intention of bestowing. They included, to be clear, those who had concerns above government jobs and power—it was English schooling that first enabled Jyotirao Phule to smash the shackles of caste with such breathtaking effect. It was in English that he read Thomas Paine, whose work inspired his own writings like Gulamgiri, which he dedicated to the people of the US. In an earlier period, it was through English, among other Western languages, that the Maratha raja Serfoji imported modern science to Thanjavur—this he vernacularized for his subjects, but English served as a vehicle for new knowledge, through which he hoped to fashion an Indian modernity.

The irony that a foreign language helped “make” modern India was not lost on our leaders. “So far as English is concerned,” declared Nehru, “I am all in favour of (its) study…being continued…. But it seems to me rather humiliating for us to adopt a foreign language as the official all-Indian language.” The conundrum Nehru faced has not yet been resolved, and replacing a language uniformly alien to everybody (English) with a language that privileges some parts over others (Hindi) has little appeal. But whatever the future may hold, one thing must be acknowledged—English helped mould India as we know it. And mould us it did, not in the servile image Maucaulay or his heirs had envisioned, but in quite a different style, with flaws, strengths and endless other contradictions, cemented, however, by a boisterous, singular sense of resilience.

(My column in Mint Lounge, August 4 2018)


In 1966, months after she was installed as prime minister, Indira Gandhi found herself locking horns with frenzied devotees of the holy cow. While that extremist passion to dismember other human beings in the name of bovine honour had not reached today’s horrific heights, the first year of Mrs Gandhi’s reign went down as a particularly trying period, Parliament itself coming under siege from defenders of the four-legged mother. Where initially the prime minister assumed a firm position, telling a newspaper that she would never “cow down to cow savers”, the alarming scale of the protests that rocked Delhi on 7 November persuaded her soon enough to come to terms with the sentiment. After all, even Mahatma Gandhi, back in the day, had declared cow protection a worthy cause—“one of the most wonderful phenomena in all human evolution”—leaving little to interpretation when he added that “so long as there are Hindus to protect the cow”, the religion would endure.

While the Directive Principles of State Policy enshrine a commitment to cow protection, it was an open secret that Jawaharlal Nehru had stern feelings on the subject. Nehru was against any legislation to ban cow slaughter, even as the “big tent” that was the Congress party held an abundance of leaders with a confirmed allegiance to the cow. While he was able to keep things more or less under control for years, Nehru’s death in 1964 allowed the subject to re-emerge, and in 1965 plans were afoot for large-scale protests to press the government into embracing the gau mata. Three Sankaracharyas gave the movement their blessings, bringing together the Vishva Hindu Parishad, the Bharatiya Jana Sangh (BJS), and assorted groups to launch an agitation in the summer of 1966, featuring everything from protest marches to hunger strikes.

On 7 November 1966, a massive crowd assembled near Parliament in Delhi—The Hindu reported between 300,000 and 700,000 people, though the actual figure was in the vicinity of 100,000. The lower number was not particularly reassuring though, for as the scholar Ian Copland notes in a 2014 paper, “it was, to that point in time, the biggest political gathering Delhi had ever witnessed”. Indira Gandhi was understandably rattled, and her fears were proved right when, that afternoon, violence reared its head. One speaker ignited the match—Swami Rameshwaranand, a BJS parliamentarian who had been suspended from the Lok Sabha for indecorous conduct, turned to his audience of trident-wielding sadhus and saffron-clad gau rakshaks and demanded, as The Guardian reported: “What are you doing here? They have turned me out of the House. Go in and teach them a lesson.”

A large, furious mob dutifully made its way to Parliament but finding the compound sealed off by armed guards, decided to do the next best thing—they smashed glass, damaged public property, toppled 250 cars, and set the Congress patriarch K. Kamaraj’s house on fire. Curfew was imposed, and policemen appeared with tear gas and guns, till eight people were dead and under 50 seriously injured (one right-wing website has inflated this event into a “Hindu Massacre”, alleging a preposterous 5,000 dead, buried in unmarked graves). It also didn’t help that the prime minister suspected the fidelity of her own home minister, Gulzarilal Nanda, who was in charge of the police—he was a patron of the Bharat Sadhu Samaj, which was linked to the protests. The next day, Mrs Gandhi demanded and accepted the resignation of Nanda, once caretaker prime minister himself.

Even as hundreds were thrown into prison, the movement did not succumb. On 20 November, the Sankaracharya of Puri launched his hunger strike with due ceremony. “As the day dawned,” writes Copland, “a number of cows were brought out, fed…and decorated with vegetable-dye motifs of green and vermillion…Selected sadhus then worshipped the cows by walking around them seven times, halting periodically to sprinkle water on their hooves; after which (the Sankaracharya) rounded off proceedings with a prayer in Sanskrit that contained the moving appeal, ‘let cows be all around me’.” His fast—apparently even longer than the Mahatma’s longest—sustained energy for the movement and by early 1967, not less than 1,000-odd people had to be put behind bars.

These numbers convinced Mrs Gandhi, then, to urgently arrive at something resembling a compromise with the cow-protectors. She formally reminded state governments of the directive principles and banned cow slaughter in the Union territories. A committee was appointed to look into an all-India ban, on to which she successfully invited prominent leaders of the right such as M.S. Golwalkar, the Puri Sankaracharya (who had by now broken his fast), and various experts and officials. While on the face of it the committee was a peace offering, it was essentially designed to do nothing—within a year, a number of cow-worshipping members resigned in bitterness. And though the committee carried on listlessly for years, sources differ on whether even a report was submitted. If it was, however, it is clear that it was done quietly and “without much fanfare”.

The cow-protectors retreated for the time being but extracted dividends for their backers. The BJS, which as early as 1954 defined the cow as “our point of honour”, more than doubled its seats in Parliament, from 14 in 1962 to 35 in the 1967 election—an election it fought promising to “amend the Constitution and impose a legal ban on the slaughter of the cow”. Contrarian views also were asserted. The All India Vaishnava Mahasamiti, for example, announced a beef festival, at Kaladi, the birthplace of Adi Sankaracharya, no less—then, as today, Kerala revelled in its penchant for provocative comebacks. In the end, though, the issue was not settled, and political calculations (or timidity) allowed the problem of the cow to bubble dangerously, mutating into a handle for wanton bloodshed and the murder of innocents in our own day—52 years after Indira Gandhi first grappled with devastation unleashed in the name of the sacred cow.

(My column in Mint Lounge, July 28 2018)


A little after 6.30am on 8 July 1910, V.D. Savarkar made more than a ripple in history when he plunged from The Morea into the Mediterranean Sea. The ship, on the way east with this high-profile prisoner, had docked at Marseilles when Savarkar expressed a desire to use the toilet. Two “native constables” stood guard outside, but before they knew it, their charge shot the door-bolt, deciding to seek personal liberty via the porthole. Even as Constable “Amarsing” and his colleague took after him—choosing the land route for sensible reasons—Savarkar swam to the quay and climbed into Marseilles harbour. He was quickly apprehended, of course, and this sensational attempt at escape soon became part of the Savarkar legend. But what he inadvertently provoked in the process was also a diplomatic headache for Britain and France, Savarkar’s brief, wet moments on French territory opening up a can of legal worms.

Though The Morea and its precious cargo set sail from Marseilles the very next day, by 18 July the affair was being discussed at the highest levels of state. The French envoy in London set forth his government’s view that “As the prisoner had reached French soil…questions of international law were involved.” In other words, the moment Savarkar set foot, it was argued, on the sovereign territory of France, his British-Indian keepers no longer enjoyed legal rights over him—and certainly not the right to apprehend, seize, and cart him back to a foreign vessel. Since Savarkar was already out of hand, the request of the French government was simple: until the matter was settled as per law between the two nations, the prisoner should not be tried for the charges that had provoked his arrest in London in the first place.

The British authorities were puzzled by the French claim, and, by 29 July, the home office, India office, and foreign office were all involved in this bureaucratic nightmare. Among those in the loop, interestingly, was a certain Winston Churchill, then home secretary, whose note emphasized that “Great Britain should maintain an attitude of dignity and of dispassionate submission to the law of nations (i.e. international law). The petty annoyance,” he added, “of a criminal escaping may have to be borne.” Curious as it is to picture Churchill inadvertently promoting the cause of “Veer” Savarkar, he was stoutly resisted by the India office. Unlike their colleagues, the India hands insisted that while a pious commitment to international law was admirable, it was “of the utmost importance from a political point of view” that Savarkar should be tried.

A somewhat topsy-turvy solution suggested, then, was to have Savarkar tried as scheduled, to suspend the sentence when delivered, hand him over to the French thereafter, and finally have him extradited to India to serve that sentence—all this involving Savarkar being given a two-way ticket to sail overseas and back simply to satisfy legal requirements. But the charges against him being what they were—“Waging and abetting the waging of war against the King”, “Collecting arms with intent to wage war against the King”, “sedition”, “abetment to murder”, and more—it was decided to explore all possibilities to retain him in India while the matter was resolved. Churchill might have wanted to preserve British dignity in the face of French legal incandescence, but, for the colonial authorities in India, Savarkar was the “head of a widespread conspiracy, the threads of which it was essential to unravel” through trial.

As both the French and the British got into the matter, there appeared two versions of what had transpired in Marseilles. The French asserted that once Savarkar appeared on the docks, it was a gendarme who caught him—he claimed to have chased him “about 400 metres” before catching up. He then walked 10m with Savarkar in his physical custody before the Indian policemen showed up. Constable “Amarsing” and his colleague, however, said that while the gendarme’s action was crucial, he had appeared from the left while they were closing in on Savarkar, and that they arrived moments after the Frenchman had the prisoner by the arm. Savarkar himself may have been aware of a legal opportunity to obtain asylum, for he appealed to the officer to take him to a local magistrate. Instead, he was marched back to the ship.

Pressed immediately after by the French press, which raised issues of law and national pride, the authorities in Paris came to regret the actions of the otherwise efficient gendarme. In London, the claim that the French had any kind of right over Savarkar was, meanwhile, rejected. The French, it was accurately argued, were informed in advance of Savarkar’s presence on the ship, and the gendarme had been posted precisely to prevent his escape—that he succeeded in doing what he was meant to do merely confirmed Savarkar’s position as British prisoner and could not be construed as creating a right of asylum. “His Majesty’s Government,” it was communicated by September, “are therefore unable to admit that they are under any obligation to restore Savarkar to French territory.”

The matter did not end there, however. In October 1910, it was decided to take the dispute to the Permanent Court of Arbitration, which in February the next year ruled in favour of Britain—while there was an “irregularity” in Savarkar’s arrest, London’s logic made sense. Perhaps, if the gendarme had handed over Savarkar to his superiors instead of taking him back to the ship, the story might have been different. But in the circumstances as they were, the British prevailed. And so—even as the press erupted in righteous protest—the matter finally came to an end, and the 50 years Savarkar was sentenced to serve began. Fifty years, that is, till he composed his infamous mercy petitions, which, of course, is another story.

(My column in Mint Lounge, July 20 2018)


On 17 July 1806, British authorities in colonial Madras rescinded a four-month-old order that had bathed the countryside in a monsoon of blood. A week earlier, soon after the moon rose on the night of 9 July, serving sepoys had mutinied in nearby Vellore. Over a hundred British officers were put to death—the commander, as he emerged in his bedclothes—and the few Westerners who survived did so either by playing dead or hiding in a gatehouse. Even as a lone officer raced to Arcot for reinforcements, the mutineers forgot their principal purpose and succumbed to the attractions of plunder: When the Arcot troops arrived at 8 o’clock, they discovered that the rebels of this so-called first war of independence had forgotten to even lock the gates of the fort they had only hours before triumphantly “taken”.

Retribution was swift—of the 1,500 Indian troops present, about 400 were killed immediately, some of them blown out of cannons, presumably to send the message far and wide. But the British themselves were terrified. Power in India was tenuously held to begin with, and if even their own troops could not be counted on, the Raj was on less than solid foundations. By the time news of the mutiny reached England, months had passed, and the horror of the Madras authorities was matched by dread in London at this “disastrous event”. A commission of enquiry had already been constituted. As one officer later said, “The natives of Hindostan are meek and submissive beyond any other example in national character.” What then caused these spineless men to stand up to the white master? The answer, the officer offered, lay in an old saying: “If you prick them, they will bleed; if you insult them, they will revenge.”

But the provocation was, on the face of it, bewildering—it was a simple matter of uniform. In March that year, the Madras authorities had issued new dress regulations for consistency. Beards were banned, and moustaches standardized. A new turban was designed, with a feather, a leather cockade, and a flat top. Superficially, these were simple innovations, but, as the British discovered, in India costume had much to do with custom, and dress was not merely an issue of dressing up. Appearance signified caste, and in a veritable whirlpool of identities, sartorial conventions were a matter of honour. As the enquiry concluded, “Nothing could appear more trivial to the public interests than the length of the hair on the upper lip of a sepoy.” But to the sepoy himself, “the shape and fashion of the whisker is a badge of his caste, and an article of his religion.”

This ought not to have been a surprise. As soon as the new turban (which was especially resented for resembling European hats) was introduced, soldiers had raised objections. For their pains, they were rewarded with 500-900 lashes. Some sensible commanding officers on the ground knew the risks—in Hyderabad, where rumour already presented Christians as requiring the heads of 100 natives to consecrate churches, the officer in charge refused to execute the dress regulations. In Vellore, however, the orders were firmly enforced. The result was a conspiracy so outlandish in its initial rumblings that even when alerted on multiple occasions, the British pooh-poohed it instead of allaying the concerns that led, at last, to tragedy.

As London put it, 1806 became, then, the first example of “the Native troops rising upon the European, barbarously attacking them when defenceless and asleep, and massacreing (sic) them in cold blood”. Of course, admitting that this bloodbath was due to a misunderstanding about moustaches and turbans felt a little awkward, so a number of other instigations were paraded—there were arrears of pay, so there must have been resentment. Though there were no Christian missions nearby, missionary polemics must surely have provoked the sepoys, it was added. But most important of all, the real conspirators—despite lack of real evidence—were the family of the dead, fearsome ruler of Mysore, Tipu Sultan (reign 1782-99), housed in Vellore fort.

This theory conveniently suited an old British prejudice that the “main instrument of mischief were Mahomedans”—a point that would be made even more forcefully decades down the line, after the sensational events of 1857. Behind the smokescreen of offensive uniform, the Muslim sepoys had wanted, the authorities claimed, to restore Tipu’s line to power. As in 1857, when the rebels would resurrect the emaciated Mughal emperor, in 1806, too, during the few hours Vellore was in their control, the soldiers had named Tipu’s son their leader. The wedding of Tipu’s daughter, Noor-al-Nissa, the previous day had allowed them to set the rebellion in motion behind the general noise and activity. An old flag of the Lion of Mysore (purchased, incidentally, from a Parsi merchant in the local market) was also unfurled that fateful night—all this was construed as “proof” that the Mysore royals were involved in the uprising.

As it happened, the Mysore party might have had a role to play in so far as stoking the fire in 1806 went—attendants in service with the princes had goaded already upset sepoys by calling them unmanly “topiwallas” who sacrificed their honour for firangi coins. The result was a combination of caste and religious pride, political vendetta, and accumulated resentment against British haughtiness, culminating in spectacular slaughter. Just deserts awaited: The Mysore family was packed into 12 ships and exported to Bengal. Punishments were handed out to those mutineers who had not already been chopped to pieces. But even as the facade of control returned, the monsoon of 1806 in Vellore sent the first major jolt to the founders of the Raj that they were not, ultimately, welcome in India—and that what would become the jewel in the empire’s crown came soaked in blood and ferocious anger.

(My column in Mint Lounge, July 14 2018)


In June 1954, Jawaharlal Nehru received an unusual petition signed by 13,000 housewives in Delhi warning him of a creeping public calamity. There was, the aggrieved ladies argued, a grave threat to the “moral health of the country”, one that had become a “major factor in incitement to crime and general unsettlement of society”. The children of India, they explained, were finding themselves susceptible to all kinds of absurd notions, not least of which was the kind of sexual awakening that still makes many an Indian mother restless. Something had to be done to curb such naked evil, and the prime minister was the only man who could assuage their fears. It was to him, then, that they looked to rein in the medium responsible for this imminent disaster, and he would, they hoped, be the voice of moral correctness in this age of immorality. As for the enemy medium—it was that odious, dangerous thing shrouded in an innocent name: cinema.

Cinema, like most new things in a society suspicious of all new things, had had a long, troubled existence in this land where piety often cloaks hypocrisy. It was in July 1896 that the Lumiere Brothers first brought this “miracle of the century” to Mumbai, introducing to Indian audiences the motion picture. Feature films arrived soon after, with Raja Harishchandra (1913) marking the birth of our film industry. By the time the 13,000 Delhi housewives knocked on Nehru’s door, India was already the second largest global producer of films, making two-thirds the number of movies as the US, twice as many as Japan and five times more than Italy—Britain had been left far behind as early as 1925. By then, India had over 2,000 screens, selling 250 million tickets annually, and while Mahatma Gandhi in his lifetime bothered to watch only one film, Nehru was a little more encouraging about cinema and its place in modern India.

This was not, however, a free pass for film-makers to do as they pleased. Like the bureaucracy, the English language, cricket and tea, independent India also inherited from the British a great fondness for censorship—the only difference being that the latter were more honest about why they imposed it. Before laws were passed in 1918 and 1920, establishing regional censor boards, films fell under the purview of a variety of rules. When electric lights were used for projection, for instance, the state insisted on the right to regulate the business under the Indian Electricity Act of 1910. But once the censor boards were constituted, the process of preserving imperial interests became a little more streamlined. Anything that came out of America, talking such subversion as democracy, was suspect; everything that came from the Soviet Union, talking communism, was banned; and the faintest whiff of nationalist sentiment provoked earthquakes of governmental horror.

Of course, this did not stop Indians from trying. The 1921 film Bhakta Vidurtried to pass itself off as an innocent story about a character from the Mahabharat. It did not take censors long to notice the resemblance to a certain South Africa-returned Indian: He wore the Gandhi cap, had a charkha, and told peasants they needn’t feel awkward about denying taxes to the state. Understandably, Bhakta Vidur was banned. Then there was another British preoccupation in preventing the screening of Western films in India which might, as the chairman of a 1927 committee noted, “lower the prestige of the Westerner in the East”. After all, how could the white man civilize the barbaric Asiatic, if the Asiatic saw on the movie screen that whites were also mere mortals?

With independence in 1947, however, Indians now ruled over Indians—and having acquired power, giving up its instruments was not a particularly appealing proposition. Speeches were delivered on free expression and assorted principles, but the appetite to censor grew. In the five years before 1948, censors in Mumbai had ordered cuts in a total of 705 films; now, in the first half of 1949 alone, they demanded changes in 242 cases. The Bengal authorities were proudly puritanical, rejecting films as “repulsive” or “distasteful”—a more moralistic tone compared to 1931, when the British banned a film calling it, more bluntly, “stupid”. The government of independent India also decided to create a central board of censors, and by 1960 there were more rules to guide Indian cinema away from touchy areas.

“No picture shall be certified for public exhibition,” the information and broadcasting ministry commanded that year, “which will lower the moral standards of those who see it.” Films that lowered “the sacredness of the institution of marriage” were disallowed, and characters with “indecorous or sensuous posture” could also invite a ban. In keeping with the sarkari love for detail, anything affecting “the confidence of a child in its parents” was also liable for censorship. Then there was a whole category of films whose fate was decided on the basis of agitation. The Loves Of Carmen (1948), for instance, was banned because its star, Rita Hayworth, had married the son of the Aga Khan—some self-consciously pious characters thundered that the daughter-in-law of a Muslim grandee could never be allowed to entertain hordes of strange people in the audience.

Squashed between bureaucratic pomposity and public melodrama, meanwhile, cinema itself suffered. As the film historian Theodore Bhaskaran writes, “hemmed in on all sides by sensitive areas of endless variety”, cinema often got stuck in a time warp. And since anything interesting brought down the wrath, either of the state or howling mobs or both, many film-makers fell back on a song-and-dance formula that upset nobody—a tradition still in vogue, depicting not so much reality as much as an “escape” from it, helping also its producers to minimize the snipping of the self-righteous censor.

(My column in Mint Lounge, July 07 2018)


In 1902, when the celebrated painter Raja Ravi Varma arrived in Hyderabad, he did not quite visualize himself queuing like a supplicant in a private house, hoping to win the attention of the reigning nizam. He had come at the invitation of another illustrious figure of his day, the photographer Raja Deen Dayal, expecting the standard of reception he had grown accustomed to—state carriages, palatial apartments, and a demonstrative overload of honour. The nizam, however, had other preoccupations, and not only did he ignore Varma, when the artist’s works were eventually shown, he refused to buy them; a portrait was sold on the market months later for a few hundred rupees, at a time when Varma commanded several thousand apiece. The episode proved an embarrassment to our glamorous gentleman-artist, and, even before he left Hyderabad, he had broken with Deen Dayal, who, he complained, had not made enough of an effort to help his cause. As his brother diarized, “Deen Dayal and his son…seem to be jealous of us. They feared they won’t get any more orders.”

Raja Deen Dayal—whose death anniversary fell on 5 July—was in some ways a rival to Ravi Varma. As Rupika Chawla writes, this Jain from Sardhana “brought to photography what Ravi Varma brought to paintings—the pomp and grandeur of kings… with the documentation of places and events.” Both had formidable, comparable reputations, even though they worked with different mediums. But while there might have been some competitiveness on account of a common clientele, it was unlikely Deen Dayal had any reason to sabotage Varma’s efforts in Hyderabad. He was secure in his position, had acquired much wealth and fame, and worked with fascinating new technology that had captured the imagination not only of India’s princely set but also the middle classes. More likely, then, as Chawla notes, it was Varma and his brother who felt somewhat insecure, added to which was bewilderment that their reputation had failed to make the slightest dent in India’s proudest royal court.

Interestingly, while the painter came from aristocratic privilege, Deen Dayal was of humbler origins. He was born in 1844, and became a student of engineering. At 22—when Ravi Varma already had a royal patron—Deen Dayal was a public works department employee in Indore. It was in 1874 that he ventured into photography “as an amateur”, supported by the local British resident. He travelled with him, “photographing views, native chiefs, etc, etc”, forming a bond that was maintained by subsequent colonial agents as well—in 1876, he was allowed to turn his lens on the Prince of Wales, and, in 1887, Deen Dayal was granted a royal warrant, becoming “Photographer to Her Majesty the Queen”. Like Ravi Varma, his ascent too was aided by friends in high places, talent, ambition, and perseverance justifying such support. “Having found that the public greatly appreciated my views (i.e. photographs),” he wrote, then, “…I took a furlough for two years in order to complete my series.” It helped, of course, that the ruler of Indore had granted him landed estates—with an assured income, Deen Dayal could focus on his craft.

The two years he spent travelling, photographing grand buildings and grand personages with equal vigour, convinced Deen Dayal that he could become a full-time lensman. It launched him on a career that saw the man and his studios produce an estimated 30,000 photographs, earning him such titles as “Bold Warrior of Photography” from the nizam (which also required him, formally, to keep a cavalry of 2000). It was, in fact, in 1885 that he first came to Hyderabad, a letter of introduction from the British viceroy in his hands. The nizam was enthusiastic, and, before long, Deen Dayal established himself in the cantonment in Secunderabad. It was risky business, for there were several European photographers active there already, but his ability to think outside the box and excel at what he did meant that soon Deen Dayal’s became a fashionable enterprise, employing nearly 50 men (and a woman), and offering visitors a fascinating guide on how to pose called Hints to Sitters.

So, for, instance we have this wisdom on toddlers and their unstately conduct before the camera: “Babies and children,” we learn, “are subjects that require patience, care and attention to obtain a photograph…. Although (they) often occasion much trouble…we make no extra charge.” This was, of course, not generosity born of a sense of commitment to the photography of babies—Deen Dayal’s business was flourishing, and the branch in Bombay was described in 1896 by The Times Of India as “the most splendidly equipped photographic salon in the East”. As Clark Worswick writes, “By the end of the nineteenth century Governors, princes, touring statesmen, all flocked to his Bombay studio to be ‘done’.”

It was much the same with Ravi Varma, whose portraits too were a necessary acquisition for the glamorous—but, like the artist, whose lithographs business quickly folded, by the end of his life Deen Dayal too faced trouble sustaining his empire of black and white pictures. Deen Dayal died in 1905, a year before the artist with whom he had fallen out. His son, Gyan Chand, tried to keep the flame burning, but rising competition and the erosion of royal warmth made matters difficult. When the latter died, thousands of glass-plate negatives were sold as “scrapped, used glass in the local market” in Hyderabad, and it seemed that doom had descended on the house of Deen Dayal & Sons. But despite the unhappy end to their tale, Deen Dayal had made his mark—today there are dozens of studios still thriving in Hyderabad, all of them claiming for themselves the legacy of the old man from Sardhana who first brought a “native” touch to photography in India.

(My column in Mint Lounge, June 30 2018)

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In the late 1970s, the erstwhile royal family of Cochin decided to formally carry out something its princely peers had been doing for years in secret: a sale of its jewels and prized possessions. It wasn’t greed as much as need that drove the proposed auction, for the family had hundreds of members, many of them reduced to a dignified but strained existence. Already by 1949 this dynasty had a total of 223 princes and 231 princesses, and the state was small, without enough funds for royal stipends. When V.P. Menon, who helped Sardar Patel integrate the states, went to Cochin, he was, in fact, alarmed by what he saw. “As I talked with (the family),” he wrote, “I was reminded of an aviary…which possessed a rare collection of birds.” After independence, the “birds” were liberated in the name of “ahimsa”, and “soon devoured by other birds and beasts of prey”. This, he feared, would be the fate of Cochin’s royal denizens, hitherto cocooned from the world, and, as a special consideration therefore, every member of the family then alive was granted a modest pension—one that is still regularly paid.

The sale of family heirlooms, however, was an act of desperation. Times were such that in 1964 even the official residence of the former rulers was shut because the family could not afford to maintain it. Landed estates were divided, and the story goes that even Indira Gandhi, who abolished privy purses in 1971, decided not to interfere with individual allowances after she met a delegation of impoverished royal descendants. But when it came to the sale of dynastic treasures, official attitudes were less generous. A 1975 public auction of furniture saw the authorities swoop in with claims. Where, for instance, a carved wooden elephant had a market price of ₹3 lakh, the state carted it off for ₹7,500. When the turn came to sell the family’s ancestral jewels, therefore, the elders worked with bureaucrats to obtain the necessary approvals. With the sole condition that nothing be carried abroad, permission was granted. And 584 items from the palace treasury, featuring all kinds of riches, were announced by Messrs Murray & Co. in Chennai as available to well-heeled buyers.

In what was indicative of their financial crisis, even the crown of the maharajas of Cochin was put up for sale. With 69 emeralds, 95 diamonds, and 244 rubies set in gold, its story is an encapsulation of the story of Cochin itself. The principality was subject to the Zamorins of Calicut—popular tradition has it that when the Portuguese sailed into the Arabian Sea at the dawn of the 16th century, the Zamorin would not allow Cochin’s rulers to even tile their palace: The princes sat under thatched roofs. But Cochin’s ruler was shrewd. After the Portuguese broke with the Zamorin, he invited them to his territory, and gave them permission to trade, in return for armed protection. The men from the West frequently let his heirs down, but, for the rest of its long existence, Cochin was essentially a European protectorate. After the Portuguese were expelled by the Dutch, it was the latter who assumed real power in Cochin, followed eventually by the English, who brought the state under the umbrella of the Raj, recognizing its good governance by giving it a respectable gun salute.

The crown itself, however, was a present from the Dutch. As such, the kings of Cochin did not wear crowns. Legend has it that after the Zamorin annexed their ancestral seat, the rulers vowed they would keep their heads bare till they reclaimed it; and since they never succeeded in doing that, there was no use for a crown. When the Dutch entered the picture, however, they decided to grant Cochin ritual sovereignty to compete with the Zamorin. An expensive crown was manufactured—with the Dutch East India Company’s emblem engraved, lest the maharajas forget who was really in control—and presented ceremoniously in 1663 to the then ruler. It was accepted with gratitude but still failed to make it to any royal head: Since the maharajas felt obliged to respect their ancestors’ vow, they would not wear it, though, out of deference to their patrons, this heirloom was carried in the lap on state occasions and during elaborate royal processions.

Now, at the end of the 1970s, on the eve of the auction, the government set its eyes on the crown and all else listed with it. In principle the action was justified—valuable antiques could hardly be sold like ordinary goods to the highest bidder. In actual fact, however, the authorities had granted permission till newspaper outrage forced them to sing a new song. When India Today interviewed the head of the family in 1981, he had resignation to offer. “We won’t forsake our basic honour. We would be lowering our dignity if we fought with (the government) over this issue.” It was already bad enough that they had been reduced to putting a price tag on their heritage, and their hope was to do so with a degree of dignity. So dignity is what they got—and a fraction of the actual value of the goods they now lost forever. In that very palace where their ancestors once ruled as kings, the state established a museum, assembling the crown and much else for general edification. And when at a public ceremony the famous crown was formally handed over to a minister, the latter lifted this magnificent object that had never known a princely wearer, and, amidst gasps of royal horror, placed it on his democratically elected head.

(My column in Mint Lounge, June 23 2018)


When, on this day 261 years ago, Robert Clive prevailed at the Battle of Plassey, he secured for himself a place as one of the great villains of Indian history. The wheels were set in motion for what would become British imperium in the East, and, for all its cruel rapacity, even years later Clive saw no reason to regret what he had unleashed. Defending his actions in 1773 in the British parliament, he uttered words which have since become notorious. “Am I not deserving of praise for the moderation which marked my proceedings?” he demanded. “Consider the situation in which victory at Plassey had placed me. A great prince was dependent on my pleasure; an opulent city lay at my mercy…I walked through vaults…piled…with gold and jewels!” exclaimed Clive. “Mr Chairman, at this moment I stand astonished at my own moderation!”

One might have sympathized with the man’s stream of thinking had his “moderation” not cost Bengal rivers of gold and silver already. An estimated 75-100 boats were deployed to carry the loot from Murshidabad to Calcutta, and Clive alone was granted not only a substantial cash reward by his freshly-planted puppet nawab, but also a jagir that yielded £27,000 (a hundred times that sum in today’s money) every year for the remainder of his lifetime. It was an extraordinary achievement for this Shropshire boy who began life as “Bob”, and whose career, in the words of a biographer, first saw him serve as a “glorified apprentice shopkeeper”. For here was a character who was a typical specimen of 18th century English middle-classdom, packed by boat to India in his teens, reduced to complaining about the weather, and plodding along on an annual £5 salary.

Clive was the son of an undistinguished lawyer, raised briefly by an aunt and her husband. When he was 6, his uncle recorded that the boy was “out of measure addicted to fighting”, with such “imperiousness” of temper that nobody seemed able to tame his rowdy behaviour. Insolence travelled with him to India, and he often got into petty quarrels with his superiors—on one occasion, he disagreed with a man of the church and decided to give him a colossal whack in the middle of the street. He chewed paan and smoked the hookah, though the only wine he could afford was the kind that was mixed with plenty of water. “I have not enjoyed one happy day since I left my native country,” he complained between days of clerical drudgery. His only consolation was writing, a practice, he reflected gloomily, “invented for the comfort of such solitary wretches as myself”.

Change came to his monotonous career during the Battle of Madras in 1746, when this British settlement fell to French forces. Clive, all of 21, managed to escape from under the noses of his captors, face darkened, and dressed in the clothes of his “native” servant. Moving from civilian service, he now elected to become a soldier, finding at last his calling. In a subsequent skirmish, he acquitted himself with courage so that his superiors wrote to London: “Mr Robert Clive, Writer in the Service, being of a Martial Disposition” was granted “an Ensign’s Commission”. Of course, he didn’t shed his trademark impetuosity, though this was perhaps less dangerous than the other thing he acquired in the course of his military adventures in India: gonorrhoea.

As the years passed, Clive achieved distinction. He was embroiled in the politics of the Carnatic, just as he was involved in the training of Indian troops for Western-style military practice. He cultivated spies, including an ill-fated prostitute, and began, at last, to earn an income that allowed him to indulge his love for an elaborate wardrobe. Marriage to a woman above his station followed, one who enjoyed being carried in palanquins and playing the harpsichord when she wasn’t pregnant. When he returned to India in 1756 after a brief stint at home, he was senior enough to enjoy a gun salute, victory at Plassey only confirming his importance in the order of precedence the Company established in India.

Laurels won here were not, however, the ones Clive wanted—India could be milked for cash, which he hoped, then, to employ in the pursuit of ambitions at home. By the time he went back in 1760, he had become enough of a personality to receive an audience with the king, and purchase more than one mansion for his use. But the hero of Plassey, despite his celebrity, was seen as a mere upstart. As Horace Walpole sniggered, “General Clive is arrived, all over estates and diamonds. If a beggar asks charity, he says, ‘Friend, I have no small brilliants about me.’” It didn’t help, of course, that Clive won few friends when he addressed, for instance, the chairman of the Company as “this mushroom of a man”, and, in any case, he soon disappeared for a third stint in India, his reputation slowly on the decline.

The 1773 trial of Clive—provoked by parliamentary horror at the Company’s depredations, of which Clive was the principal mascot—saw the man defend himself vigorously. He “was never guilty of any acts of violence or oppression…such an idea never entered into my mind”, he declared. And, as it happened, he was cleared soon enough. Peace and true respectability evaded Clive, however: In 1774, a year after these embarrassing proceedings in Parliament, he died suddenly, rumoured to have stuck a knife down his throat, though it may well have been an opium overdose. It was suicide, either way. In great secrecy, then, the man who inaugurated the Raj in India was laid to rest in an unmarked grave, his name associated forever since with greed, tragedy, and scandal.

(My column in Mint Lounge, June 16 2018)


In 1684, a 12-year-old Maratha boy was installed as ruler in Tamil Thanjavur, not long after the region’s older Nayaka dynasty came to an end. The event was emblematic of India in this bustling age, with Tamil Nadu alone attracting Afghan horsemen, Bundela Rajputs, Telugu warriors, and diverse other groups of adventurers. Our adolescent prince, Shahuji Bhonsle, however, came from a family that was of especial significance for the country. Ten years earlier, his half-uncle, the celebrated Shivaji, had crowned himself king of the Marathas, and theirs was a clan that would seek power over distant reaches of the subcontinent. Shahuji too was a king worth his elaborate titles, but even as he tackled matters of state, he cultivated a reputation as a patron of the arts. Going out of his way to attract as many as 46 men of letters to his court, he conferred on them an endowed agraharam (settlement), named (with typical princely modesty) after himself.

Interestingly, Shahuji, who reigned till 1712, was also a poet—his Panchabhasha Vilasa Natakam reflects the plurality of influences around him, featuring Tamil, Telugu, Marathi, Sanskrit, and even Hindi verses. He was obsessed with Shiva of the Thiruvarur temple, and many were the plays and songs composed with his blessings eulogizing this deity. Some credit him as the composer of the Thyagesa Kuravanji dance drama, centred on the adoration of the lord by a woman. The theme and story is more or less conventional here and fits into the larger tradition of Bhakti literature. What is perhaps more remarkable—and has been described by scholars as “a work of extreme, deliberately outrageous provocation”—is another play from his time: the Sati Dana Suramu (Take My Wife). While some suggest it might have been composed by one of his poets, the text itself names Shahuji its creator, adding casually that he composed it “to outlast the sun, moon, and stars”.

The Sati Dana Suramu is a hugely entertaining parody of social conventions. The setting is the Vishnu temple in Mannargudi, where a Brahmin (“Morobhatlu the Magnificent”) arrives with his disciple for a festival. What upsets this pilgrimage—and, by extension, the correct order of things—is the Brahmin’s infatuation with a woman he unexpectedly encounters. Not only is his pupil scandalized (“My teacher has gone crazy”), but the woman comes from the other end of society—she is an untouchable. When the student warns his guru to protect his reputation, the teacher retorts that greater men had succumbed to lust and survived. When the disciple reminds him that the female is a demon, the older man responds, “She’s no demon, she’s a woman.” Frustrated, when the pupil appeals that he focus on the “Vedas and Puranas and Sastras” which promise eternal bliss, the Brahmin sniffs that he has “no use for insipid, eternal bliss”.

Soon, the Brahmin approaches the woman, declaring, “Your charm has reduced me to ashes.” The lady is polite but reminds him of the rules of caste and tradition. “We eat beef, we drink liquor…. Don’t talk to me.” Morobhatlu does not care. “We drink cow’s milk,” he replies, “but you eat the whole cow. You must be more pure,” he exclaims. Clearly startled, the lady decides to lecture him on the impermanence of desire, the permanence of dharma and other pious philosophical principles, hoping this would make him go away. She also warns Morobhatlu that she is married, and that it would be best for everyone involved if he stopped “this incoherent prattle”. But the man remains immovable. “We Brahmins have made up all the rules, and invented religion. There is no better dharma than satisfying a Brahmin’s need,” he giggles. Perhaps, he adds, she could look upon the act as simple charity. “Give me your loins,” he coyly suggests, “like offering (a Brahmin) land.”

In the end, the woman’s husband arrives, and, after an initial attempt to beat up his wife’s high-born stalker, he demands, “Haven’t you read the Sastras?” Irony, in fact, is writ across the entire composition, where the low-born out-Brahmin the Brahmin—and so is great comic effect. When the woman’s husband reminds Morobhatlu about the godly path, the Brahmin responds: “Final freedom is that state of no pain, no pleasure, no qualities, nothing—or so some idiot said. But when a ravishing young woman…is free from her clothes—that’s freedom for me.” At long last, then, the husband agrees to present his wife to the Brahmin, only for the latter to belatedly heed his pupil’s voice (“Have a little detachment; think of the subtle meaning of Vedic words”). In the course of events that follow, the husband is upset, the wife is bewildered, and finally Shiva arrives and liberates everybody from this hilarious, singular quandary.

The Sati Dana Suramu is, on the face of it, a simple parody. But viewed in its context, Shahuji, we find, was making a comment on society itself. As the scholar Sanjay Subrahmanyam notes, “the play was written…for public performance” at a major festival, which meant its irreverence was consumed by large numbers of pilgrims and locals. Not only does it combine on one stage Brahmins and untouchables, it also cleverly exalts Shiva (Shahuji’s preferred deity), who swoops in to save the day at a site associated with Vishnu. Questions are raised on ethics and morality, on lust and the role of women. But the larger point Shahuji wished to make—and make with much mirth and laughter—was that asking questions and turning some tables was not such a bad idea. As this Maratha prince in Tamil country asks us at the end of this Sanskrit-Telugu production: “You, who have seen this play, decide for yourselves and tell us: Who, among these four, is the best?”

(My column in Mint Lounge, June 9 2018)


In 1314, the mayor of London issued a proclamation banning a particularly rowdy sport that had captured the imagination of large numbers of the city’s residents. There was, he announced, “great noise” in town caused by this “hustling over large balls”, and so, “on pain of imprisonment”, the game was outlawed in the name of King Edward II—and of course God. The whole business concerned what we recognize today by the more innocent name of football, but at the time it was considered a monstrous affair, as men kicked about an inflated pig’s bladder from one village to another. No rules existed, and the upper classes sneered at this disorderly pastime of their inferiors, oblivious that centuries down the line, “ffooteball” fever would infect the entire world, birthing an industry so profitable that even God might be forgiven for reconsidering his position.

As with the English language, when the British transported football to India, they didn’t quite expect the “natives” to match them at it. Records suggest that it was in 1721, in Gujarat, that western traders first began to play cricket, while the earliest extant report of football appears over a century later in an 1854 newspaper. This second sport, however, was inaugurated on India’s eastern flank, in Bengal, when the (white) “Gentlemen of Barrackpore” played against the (white) “Calcutta Club of Civilians”. Football, by now, was acquiring a distinct shape and structure, with formal rules and codes. That these rules varied from place to place did not matter—the Victorians had realized that this was a “masculine” exercise for boys as they grew into men, besides serving as an outlet for dangerous hormonal energies. Controlled aggression in an authorized environment, besides, appeared to impart lessons in discipline, obedience, honourable victories, and dignified defeats. And so, slowly, football became respectable.

It was another matter, of course, that the British were not particularly dignified in the manner in which the sport was passed on to Indians. They had their exclusive clubs in various cities, besides the teams of army regiments. But even after the 1880s, when Indians formed their own clubs in Bengal—Shobhabazar, Aryans, and so on—the establishment thought little of locals and their sporting capabilities. “By his legs you shall know a Bengali,” declared one journalist in 1899, asserting that the typical Calcutta male’s legs were either hopelessly thin, or else “very fat and globular…with round thighs like a woman’s.” “The Bengali’s leg,” simply put, was “the leg of a slave”. And this at the end of a decade when Bengali clubs had already started to win small victories against British teams, and just before Mahatma Gandhi was inspired to establish in South Africa his “Passive Resisters Soccer Club”.

What really announced India’s arrival on the football scene, however, was the contest between the Mohun Bagan Athletic Club and the East Yorkshire regiment for the legendary Indian Football Association (IFA) Shield in 1911. The team was representative of emerging middle-class Indian aspirations—one member, writer Ronojoy Sen records, was a clerk, while another was an employee of the public works department. A third was a veterinary inspector, but all of them were products of the English education system, with a growing consciousness of their identity as Indians. They played barefoot, partly because a pair of boots in the early 1900s didn’t cost less than Rs7—an average schoolteacher’s monthly salary. It was no surprise, then, that when Mohun Bagan made it to the finals, against all odds, the football maidan attracted some 100,000 visitors, including from Bihar, Odisha and Assam.

As it happened, the Indians won both the trophy and much prestige. “May God bless the Immortal Eleven of Mohan Bagan for raising their nation in the estimation of the Western people,” rhapsodized the Amrita Bazar Patrika, noting that this victory demolished the old jibe about Bengalis being “lamentably deficient” in physical prowess. Besides reasserting the Indian male’s masculinity, the victory of a barefoot team against a privileged English set also rang resoundingly of nationalism—as historian Partha Chatterjee notes, the win in 1911 came at a time when Bengal was electrified by armed resistance against the Raj, not to speak of agitation challenging the partition of the province by Lord Curzon six years earlier. If sport had helped discipline Englishmen to conquer the world in the Victorian era, now football shattered imperial arrogance as Indians reclaimed their pride at the close of the Edwardian age.

Of course, hopes of football sparking a righteous nationalist fire did not pan out quite so romantically. As with cricket in Bombay, where Parsis played against Hindus who played against Muslims, in football too, difference reared its head. In 1911, the Mohammedan Sporting Club enthusiastically celebrated the victory of their “Hindu brethren” against the British, but by the 1930s the mood had chilled. There was this leading “Muslim club” and then there were “Hindu clubs”. Among the Hindus, there emerged an additional problem of regionalism—the East Bengal Club was formed mainly on account of a grievance that west Bengalis looked down on easterners. In other words, where two decades earlier nationalism had electrified the sports arena, football was afflicted now by the poison of communalism.

It might have spelt wholescale disaster, but, luckily, a change in political winds transformed the horizon. With World War II and the advent of independence, sport for the love of sport—and not as a vehicle of nationalism or communal pride—slowly began to become possible. And in 1947, with those very legs once written off as resembling slaves’, Indians turned around and gave the British a proverbial kick off the field they had for so long tried to dominate. New problems emerged—of poor infrastructure and state indifference. But by then Indians had already embraced football, doing their bit in transforming an old game that once featured a pig’s bladder into an enduring obsession of their own.

(My column in Mint Lounge, June 2 2018)


Sometime during the Emergency, soon after she threw democratic sobriety to the winds and assumed unprecedented powers, Prime Minister Indira Gandhi attended to the relatively minor matter of banning a book. It was a biography of her father, Jawaharlal Nehru, authored by the British historian Michael Edwardes. But like much else about the Emergency, this too was an overreaction—the book, Nehru: A Political Biography (1971), had already been slammed by critics across the world, and the ban merely did it the favour of undeserved publicity. It was, one scholar noted, guilty of the “worst sort of reductionism”. Another found it full of “questionable statements”, while a third challenged the writer’s claim that it was based on 25 years of research. A more confident daughter, then, would have simply scoffed at Edwardes and his ill-received production, but something triggered Mrs Gandhi to go out of her way to demolish Nehru and, thereby, award it eternal life.

I picked up Edwardes’ book last Sunday—27 May, Nehru’s death anniversary—and found that while it deserved its terrible reviews, it was by no means a candidate for a ban. A peculiar union of dry wit and hot air, the message here is that India’s first prime minister was a man who rose on the shoulders of others, and, when there was nobody to help him, collapsed into a heap of contradictions. Nehru had no redeeming qualities—a line that has endeared Edwardes to a particularly shrill political lobby today—and his life was a swirling puddle of badly-thought-out emotional responses. Indeed, “emotional” is a word that appears a great deal in this biography. His flirtation with theosophy was emotional; his sense of identification with India’s peasants was emotional; his desire for the unity of the Congress party was emotional; his socialism was emotional; elections were “an emotional release after the drama of independence”; and even his five-year plans were emotional. In sum, Nehru was nothing but overrated emotion.

In theory, this is interesting—after all, we still have politicians prone to sentimental displays—but there is enough in the book to make many uncomfortable. On the one hand, there are casual, sweeping claims, such as the suggestion that the first post-1947 election “was essentially a travesty of democracy”, or that the massacre by General Dyer at Jallianwala Bagh was because he “panicked”. On the other, there are also elements which punch holes into the grand narrative we have built for the nation. It is quite true, for instance, that in our anxiety to deify leaders, we obscure their human limitations. So, for example, Subhas Chandra Bose—a charismatic, revolutionary figure—is left looking plain rude when we learn that he dismissed Mahatma Gandhi as “an old, useless piece of furniture”. Indeed, Gandhi himself is startlingly presented as an “unofficial ally” of the British—the colonial authorities apparently engineered arrests in a way that ensured he remained in charge of the Congress, because they preferred his verbose non-violence to the dangerous radicalism of others. In other words, the British deserve some credit for the Mahatma’s success.

The most interesting discussion, however, is where Edwardes approaches the internal dynamics of the Congress—the constant tussle between left, centre and right, every faction conscious about maintaining unity but determined to assert its policies. In this context, Nehru is presented in an intriguing fashion. He was, we are told, a man with grand rhetorical abilities but confused ideological commitments. Gandhi, the author claims, permitted Nehru to give many speeches while keeping him on a “leash” when it came to genuine political decisions. His “emotional” socialism also served as an instrument for Congress bosses to keep real socialists away from seats of influence. Meanwhile, Sardar Patel and the right wing cemented actual control of the organization. When Nehru did object on the rare occasion, “Gandhian blackmail” reined him in. In all, the dynamics are interesting, and Edwardes’ charges are many—the book would have benefited if only he had made the effort to also prove them.

But the book’s greatest flaw in painting Nehru as a witless shuttlecock between an “essentially communal” Gandhi and a Patel-led capitalist lobby is that Nehru’s own urbane, progressive vision is eclipsed deliberately. Edwardes admits that after independence, when the Congress had no shortage of parochial leaders, Nehru’s unmatched appeal meant they could never eject him and implement “obscurantist” ideas. While Patel is correctly lauded as the “true founder of the Indian state”, Edwardes forgets that Nehru was the founder of modern Indian democracy—India’s dawn depended on both. He plays down, for instance, Nehru’s 1931 Karachi resolution as a sop to his ideals—in fact, this document on “Fundamental Rights and Economic and Social Changes” asserted principles enshrined now in our Constitution. Nehru was not enough of a politician, Edwardes complains, perhaps oblivious that it was precisely this quality that made him special to millions of people.

To Edwardes, Nehru was an accident of history—the wrong man at the right place—rather than someone who earned his stripes. The author arrived at this conclusion and produced over 300 pages detailing it, without access to even one of Nehru’s vast collection of private and official papers. Nehru himself might merely have laughed at the provocation. After all, in 1937, he wrote an anonymous article criticizing himself to encourage his people to hold their leaders accountable. Questions, he knew, must be asked of all tall leaders, but perhaps out of personal affection, or on account of a thin skin, Nehru’s daughter does not seem to have agreed with this principle. So, she banned what was a poorly argued book, denying it its natural demise, and granting it a place of honour among those who resented Nehru then and fear his memory even today.

(My column in Mint Lounge, May 26 2018)


In November 1940, V.D. Savarkar—whose birth anniversary is on 28 May—presented a most fascinating proposition in a newspaper called the Khyber Mail. Authored under his usual pseudonym of “A Mahratta”, the architect of Hindutva went beyond his familiar arguments about “Hinduness” and nationalism here, highlighting instead a political framework in which these concepts could achieve fruition. Ostensibly, this was a rejoinder to a “spineless” statement by Mahatma Gandhi that the nizam of Hyderabad was a potential candidate for emperor of India. But Savarkar’s “virile antidote” to Gandhi’s “inferiority complex” is not any less puzzling. The thrust of his argument painted India’s rajas (“defenders of Hindu faith and honour…the reserve forces of Hindudom”) and not the nizam as the road to the future. And if, he argued, Hindus in British territory and the princes joined forces, they could offer a sparkling alternative vision for India, establishing a nation that was a veritable “racial dream”.

Like much of Savarkar’s writing, this too features a good deal of anti-Muslim polemics. The “academical” view offered was that if it came to civil war, Hindu military camps would spring up in the princely states, from Udaipur and Gwalior in the north to Mysore and Travancore in the south. “There will not be left a trace of Muslim rule from the Seas in the South to the Jamuna in the North,” while in the Punjab Sikhs would keep at bay the Muslim tribes of the west. Independent Nepal would emerge “as the Defender of the Hindu Faith and the commander of Hindu forces”, mobilizing “Hindu rifles” to “spit fire and vengeance in defence of Hindu Honour”. Indeed, Nepal might even make “a bid for the Imperial throne of Hindusthan”. Its march into India would be reinforced, of course, by Hindus, and at the end of the day they would all together consecrate a Hindu rashtra with its own suzerain, ready to inherit “the Sceptre of Indian Empire” as it fell from colonial hands.

The Hindutva family of organizations understandably perceived a community of interests with the princely states. The latter were, as the scholar Manu Bhagavan observes, viewed as “portals to a pure, ancient past”, “sites of India’s imagined past of purity”, and “the foundation on which the future nation” could be launched. In 1944, in a letter to the ruler of Jaipur, in fact, Savarkar openly declared the Hindu Mahasabha’s policy of “standing by the Hindu states and defending their prestige, stability and power against the Congressites, the Communists, (and) the Moslems”. “Hindu states,” he concluded, “are centres of Hindu power” and naturally, therefore, would become instrumental in the realization of Hindu nationhood. Meanwhile, if not spirited support, the princes certainly provided a degree of encouragement—several Mahasabha meets were hosted in the states, including in highly advanced Mysore and Baroda, and the organization found ample support among the orthodox in princely territory.

What, however, were the chances of the princes uniting around Savarkar’s vision? They certainly did possess networks of blood and kinship that could, in theory, link them. Travancore in Kerala “belonged” to Lord Padmanabhaswamy—a deity whose idol was made of salagram stones from Nepal. The Maratha dynasty in Baroda shared political roots not only with the rulers of Indore and Gwalior in the centre and north but also with the descendants of Shivaji who survived in Tanjore, deep in Tamil country. Mysore, meanwhile, was ruled by Kannadigas, who eagerly sought Rajput brides. To this combination could also be added senior Indian statesmen of the time who thought the Congress vision of India a disaster, and were equally willing, therefore, to consider an alternative plan. As late as July 1947, for instance, the redoubtable Sir C.P. Ramaswami Iyer (who considered Gandhi a “dangerous sex maniac” and Jawaharlal Nehru “unstable”) was convinced that if power went to the Congress, “civil war…within six months” was inevitable, culminating in the division of India between “half a dozen principalities”—and Sir C.P. was considered “one of the cleverest men in India”.

In reality though, most Indian rajas were more interested in sustaining their decadent lifestyles and reaffirming loyalty to the Raj than in plotting grand designs for India’s future. Many of them were known not for their virile nationalism but for their boudoir passions. They certainly owned 40% of Indian territory, but over 454 of the 565-odd states were made of less than 1,000 sq. miles; only a few dozen had revenue over Rs10 lakh, and even fewer owned armies that truly deserved the name. The greatest of the states, Hyderabad, was inconveniently Islamic, while Kashmir, held by Dogra Rajputs, was majority-Muslim. Add to this mass agitations within the states, encouraged by the Congress, and the heady picture of brave princes rising to inaugurate an Age of Hindutva looked hopelessly remote.

In the end, history didn’t quite play out in the way Savarkar and his confederates theorized. Nehru proved perfectly stable, the Hindutva cause was damaged after Gandhi’s murder, and Sardar Patel integrated most principalities with the carrot of money and status. Despite obituaries and shrill prophecies of danger, India became a secular democracy, and not a Hindu rashtra. And, in perhaps what might have caused the father of Hindutva to recoil in horror, it was not the Nepali dynasty of Savarkar’s “academical” premise that soared to power in New Delhi. Instead, another family emerged to play a formidable role in shaping India’s destiny: one bearing those very names—Nehru and Gandhi—that he viewed with such intense antipathy. What Savarkar envisioned in 1940, then, was a “Future Emperor of India”; what India got in a decade instead was a people’s Constitution, defended by men and women who brooked no kings and shunned all empires.

(My column in Mint Lounge, May 19 2018)


In the days of the British Raj, the “hot weather” season presented an annual excuse for India’s princely elite to seek a leave of absence from the privileged drudgery that was life in their capitals. Palaces were shut for the summer, and elaborate entourages would set out for one or another of the area’s chief British-controlled hill stations. Shimla was, of course, where the viceroy planted himself, while the governor of the Madras Presidency moved to Ooty in befitting state and ceremony. Nobody, however, could really let their hair down—the rule books determined which grandee could call on the governor when, and whether the individual was significant enough to deserve a return visit. Indeed, not everyone was permitted to own property in these places, and long negotiations preceded the grant of permission for a prince to enjoy the honour of owning hilly real estate next to the local representative of His Britannic Majesty.

Much to the consternation of the officers of the Raj, however, as time passed, India’s princes began to seek more glamorous vacations, far from the watchful eyes of their colonial overlords. More often than not, it was a maharaja’s “health” that demanded the urgent consumption of European air (preferably from multiple cities), though care had to be taken to mollify orthodox concerns about crossing the accursed kalapani. Some, like the maharaja of Jaipur in 1902, travelled with thousands of litres drawn from the Ganga so that they could be purified daily with the most sacred of river waters. Others, like the Pudukkottai raja, raised by the British to be a perfect blend of East and West, scandalized his creators by acquiring a new rani called Molly on an Australian holiday in 1915. Foreseeing only calamity in unregulated intercourse between Indian princes and the West, as early as 1901 Lord Curzon made attempts to limit foreign travel—if they were anxious to sail for reasons of health, the viceroy needed a doctor’s certificate. It was no surprise, then, that when the headmasterly Curzon left, his principal antagonist—and great traveller—the Gaekwar of Baroda, sent him a telegram that read: “Bon voyage, may India never see the like of you again.”

Some rajas used their holidays for education. A junior prince of Travancore went on an all-India tour in 1894, an account of which survives with vivid attempts at anthropological generalizations: Tirunelveli was home to “a peculiar class of people who are peaceable citizens by day and robbers by night”. In Bombay, sitting between two judges of the high court, he watched them decide a case of obscenity, while in Ahmedabad he met a “pretty Mahomedan beggar girl” from whom he bought flowers. A visit to Akbar’s tomb led to speculation on whether the theory that he was a Hindu in his last birth was true, while in Lucknow his tour guide was “a large cadaverous looking fellow” who wanted Rs2 per day for his services. The route to Darjeeling is straight out of an Orientalist novel, for the prince saw “trees festooned with creepers and vines, exhibiting through their wealth of leaves, flowers of the most gorgeous colours and forms, throwing a deep gloom over an undergrowth of rank jungle grass, in which (lay) hid wild beasts and venomous snakes”.

By the 1920s, Indian princes had become a familiar sight abroad during the holiday season. The maharani of Cooch Behar (pictured), for instance, loved Europe, even as the British frowned that “the disadvantages of a tour of foreign hotels and casinos for a boy of 13 (her son and heir)” should be obvious. In London, “her gambling, and her drinking propensities” brought down strict orders that she should stay in her principality for at least one year before her next excursion. Others, like the maharaja of Kapurthala, were given greater leeway. In 1929, he published My Tour Of The World, describing his latest round of travels. He expressed discontent that his New York hotel was full of dentists, while the relative simplicity of the president’s life in the White House (“no police or military guard…[only] a few black and white employees”) seemed surprising. In Japan, he called on the emperor (“resembles a Nepalese in physiognomy”) while in Hawaii he was surprised that “although dark”, its people were “strangely…considered to be a white race”.

India’s princes on holiday presented, to borrow from Rudyard Kipling, a spectacle to the world—the Cooch Behar maharani, when she gambled, fascinated her companions not only with her chiffon saris, but also because she kept a jewel-studded turtle with her for luck. The maharaja of Indore, in the late 1930s, fell in love with an ex-stewardess in California and constructed a massive retreat there, impressing local society with his love of art deco.

World War II, then, was what brought this fabulous universe of rajas and nawabs crashing down—foreign travel was restricted, and the most flamboyant of princes were compelled to stay in India, forced to deal with their subjects, whom they could otherwise cheerfully avoid. The British disapproval of extravagant vacationing, meanwhile, was inherited by Jawaharlal Nehru, who felt they ought to be more responsible. Indian princes, he argued, “spent months (abroad) without bringing any credit to our country” and he saw “no reason why we should give any foreign exchange to help in these frivolous pursuits”. He didn’t really go out of his way to burst their bubble, though—that was left to Indira Gandhi, who, in 1971, ended their privy purses and privileges, and finally drove the message home: Summer was over, and the sun had set.

(My column in Mint Lounge, May 12 2018)


In an interview earlier this month, the chief minister of Karnataka, Siddaramaiah, repeated a mantra he has for some time pointedly articulated. “I am not anti-Hindi,” he declared, “but I will push for the supremacy of Kannada.” Hindi is a welcome guest, of course, but “the Centre,” he stressed, “cannot impose Hindi.” This widely publicized stand is not altogether surprising coming from the south—with the uncompromising emphasis placed on one imperious brand of nationalism by the ruling powers in Delhi, it is only a matter of time before more resistance of this variety appears in a country as diverse as ours. Where national pride in one format, one language, and by one definition alone is hammered from above, from below must necessarily emerge stirrings of sub-nationalism that evoke local histories, linguistic identities, and an eclectic, heterogeneous heritage. Add to this imminent elections, and the potential dividends from the clash of a Kannadiga David against the Hindi Goliath should be patent at once.

The rise of Hindi as a self-proclaimed “national language” is well documented. In the late 19th century, stalwarts like Bharatendu Harishchandra and Raja Sivaprasad in Varanasi were among many who bombarded the colonial state with petitions and press propaganda to replace elite Urdu (which evidently privileged Muslims) with Hindi (the language of the larger mass of people) as the lingua franca of the courts and in government. Official patronage of a language determined which communities could claim influence, converting the whole debate into a sharp political contest between Urdu and its rival. The campaign for Hindi eventually triumphed, and the transformation of this family of north Indian dialects into an instrument of northern nationalism was soon complete. This being accomplished, Hindi turned south, opening a new (and now revived) conflict with languages of the peninsula. Indeed, even Mahatma Gandhi lent his weight to Hindi, advising that the “Dravidians being in a minority… they should learn the common language of the rest of India”—a patronizing remark that inspired C.N. Annadurai to quip that by this logic of numbers, the best candidate for national bird was not the minority peacock but the majority crow.

Interestingly, the very arguments that proponents of Hindi once directed against Urdu can today be deployed by defenders of the south against the seemingly all-consuming appetite of the north. Consider, for instance, linguist and writer Raja Sivaprasad’s famous 1868 memorandum, Court Characters In The Upper Provinces Of India, which opens up a veritable arsenal of arguments for reuse in our 21st century context. For instance, the raja states, while railing against Urdu, “To read (the Persian script of Urdu) is to become Persianized, all our ideas become corrupt…our nationality is lost. Cursed be the day which saw the Muhammadans cross the Indus.” By the same yardstick, then, to insist on Hindi and Devanagari in states where it is as alien as Swahili could legitimately lead to complaints of an “invasion” to undermine local culture and pride. “The Muhammadans did not force their countrymen…to pass in the Vernaculars; they forced the Hindus to learn their language,” complained Sivaprasad. By that very logic, why should the children of the south, it can be asked, be compelled to digest Hindi, when they have their own native languages to cherish and safeguard?

Besides, added the raja, if at all a commoner must endure “foreign” Urdu, he might as well invest in English—at least it guaranteed a remunerative job. Here again, Indians of non-Hindi cultures can borrow from Sivaprasad: Far from earning rewards from the over-ambitious vernacular of the north, the prospects of a brighter future lie in acquiring that language which opens doors to the world at large. By replacing Urdu’s script with Devanagari, Sivaprasad also said, “Court papers will no longer remain hieroglyphics and sealed books to the masses.” One only need recall here the case of that Odisha parliamentarian who, on receiving a letter in Hindi from a minister, returned it, asking his sender to use a language he could understand. Many, in other words, might harbour the most intense passion for Hindi, but masses of Indians feel as much connection to Devanagari as they might to the “hieroglyphics” that so exercised Sivaprasad’s furious mind.

The great irony, of course, is that in several parts where it has no past, Hindi had made quiet and steady progress through the 20th century, till a recent, overmastering desire to copyright nationalism led those in power to issue lectures on culture and sermons on Indianness. Old ghosts laid to rest were resurrected, and schisms that didn’t exist were suddenly invented. India is, after all, a mosaic of hues and cultures, and to turn it into a single shade and one tedious colour is not only misguided, it is tragic. In Sivaprasad’s day, he championed Hindi so the “whole of India north of the Krishna (could be)…united by one common bond of language.” Now, in 2018, the formula has been inverted, so that those Indians south of the Krishna find their own common cause, not in a love for Hindi but in a determination to celebrate that other special thing: the right of every citizen and people to retain their claim to glorious difference. This, then, has served as a political plank upon which a Siddaramaiah can pitch his flag, and this has become a rousing call to fight what, from the south, looks suspiciously like cultural arrogance too easily manifest among some in the north. Whether or not Karnataka becomes the scene of David’s triumph will, of course, become clear soon enough. But as everyone who knows the story can tell, sooner or later Goliath must fall.

(My column in Mint Lounge, May 05 2018)


Setting out for London in 1924, V.K. Krishna Menon found himself in the awkward position of being the son of a very rich father with very empty pockets. “I telegraphed you yesterday that I wanted money,” he wrote to his sister, weeks later, hoping again “to get 100 pounds from Father”. The old man, of course, had no intention of subsidizing his son’s journey towards self-destruction. For at 28, Krishna Menon looked every inch a disappointment. He was sent to Madras (now Chennai) to qualify as a lawyer but returned to Calicut (now Kozhikode), instead, a bedazzled theosophist. He was raised to take over his father’s legal enterprise, but all he talked about was Annie Besant and the earth-shattering advent of a supposed “World Teacher”. Now, to add to his erratic peregrinations, he was off to London for a diploma in education, planning to become, of all things, a humble schoolteacher.

Krishna Menon’s was a family that thought modesty overrated. His father was a legal luminary in British Malabar and the son of a local raja. They paraded elephants (Sanku, Sankaran and Gopalan were favourites) and saw Queen Victoria’s passing as tragedy unparalleled. His mother was the daughter of Koodali Nair, master of tens of thousands of acres, and played chess when she wasn’t enjoying her ample inheritance. Of the eight children born to this proud and handsome couple, Kunjikrishna, as our protagonist was originally named, was from the start considered somewhat limited. Where a sister pursued French and Latin and upheld her family’s imperious standards by discarding a husband, young Krishna was busy being sensitive and gentle, insisting on feeding his pony milk and oats from the breakfast table.

The unworthy heir who left India’s shores in 1924, however, was not the domineering, vain man who returned in 1952 cloaked in Cold War suspicions. The British saw in Menon Jawaharlal Nehru’s “evil genius”, while the Americans were more colourful when they branded him a “poisonous bastard”. In the 1950s, Menon was difficult to miss on the world stage: even a US president noted this “boor” who thought himself so superior. Much of this reputation was accumulated from the 1930s. A decade into his stay in London, British intelligence was already tapping Menon’s phone and reading his letters. In the 1940s, they feared he was both a prescription drug addict and a closet Communist, warning Nehru that plans to appoint him high commissioner would not be “well received” in their quarter.

Menon’s journey from aspiring schoolmaster to the 1962 cover of Time magazine as an international mischief-maker is fascinating. Soon after he arrived in London, he upped his ambitions and acquired a string of qualifications. He studied under Harold Laski at the London School of Economics and wrote a thesis on psychology at University College London. On the eve of his father’s death in 1934, he at last even became a lawyer. Breaking from his theosophist mentors, he was the face of the India League, and chief lobbyist for Indian independence in Britain’s political circles. He cultivated links with the Labour Party, and, in the midst of all this, helped launch Penguin, the publishing house, only to quarrel and withdraw forever. In the late 1930s, the prospect of a parliament seat too appeared, but his “double loyalty” meant plans for a political career in Britain were ill-fated from the onset.

In 1935, the collapse of a romance left Menon suicidal and he became more dependent than ever on astrology and medication. Still, when Nehru came that year to Britain, it was this complicated Malayali who was anointed local spokesman of the Congress. Nehru later dismissed views that his friend held great sway over him, but what is certain is that Menon’s meteoric ascent after India’s independence owed much to his access to the prime minister. It was no wonder, then, that from the start the man made enemies in the Congress—when they were parked in jail during the freedom struggle, Menon served the London borough of St Pancras for 14 cushy years as councillor.

His stint till 1952 as high commissioner was controversial. His arrogance, a defence mechanism to conceal lifelong insecurities, left him unapproachable. Worse, British intelligence saw in him (mistakenly) a Soviet pawn who might slip secrets through a mysterious mistress. When the Indian Army sought jeeps for Kashmir, Menon embarrassed Nehru too by delivering second-hand goods that were unserviceable. The prime minister tried to cajole him into leaving London—he was offered a vice-chancellorship, the embassy in Moscow, even a cabinet position—but Menon refused. At last he was persuaded to represent India at the UN, where, while advocating non-alignment (a word he took credit for and a concept he claimed to have co-authored), he drove paranoid Americans wild with suspicion.

Menon was abrasive, but got India noticed. He punched above his weight and strode the world stage with regal confidence. By 1956, this “thoroughly dangerous man” was in the Union cabinet, but his role as defence minister culminated six years later with the China debacle. He spent the rest of his years giving lectures, arguing cases in the Supreme Court, and quarrelling with a niece’s husband over his traditional “right” to name her children. “Krishna Menon was essentially an extremely lonely man,” wrote a relation, and his was a life that married emotional instability to political petulance. But for all that, the dangers of his influence were overrated. As he himself said in an interview, “I was neither a buffoon nor a Rasputin.” He was merely Krishna Menon, who did some good but invited plenty of trouble.

(My column in Mint Lounge, April 28 2018)


Sometime during World War II, an American soldier walking down Bakul Bagan Road in Kolkata stopped in his tracks when he heard someone playing Beethoven in the neighbourhood. The tune was unmistakable, and our soldier followed the music till he arrived at its source. The connoisseur he encountered near the gramophone was anything but the stereotypical Indian male he was given to imagine. For, there stood a towering young man, 6ft, 4 inches tall, with a clipped English accent and a voice that was pure gravel. As Bidyut Sarkar’s The World Of Satyajit Ray puts it, the American expressed surprise that a Bengali should seek delight in Beethoven, before bidding his interlocutor farewell. What happened to him in the course of the war is not known, but the lover of Western music he met went on to surprise an entire generation, breaking stereotypes and earning universal acclaim in a life that remains, to this day, unparalleled.

Satyajit Ray—whose death anniversary it was this week—was heir to two different worlds. His father came from a stable of aristocrats who brushed aside palanquins and elephants in the pursuit of more modern intellectual and business concerns. He founded the Nonsense Club at Presidency College, studied in England, wrote prolifically, but died young. Ray’s mother, compelled to settle her husband’s debts, was the daughter of a less lordly household. Moving in with her brother, she taught sewing and embroidery, and earned her own income. “I was cut off from everything intellectual,” Ray remembered, but not with any resentment, though perhaps there was a little exaggeration. At first, he studied economics at his father’s alma mater, but when the Rays’ friend, Rabindranath Tagore, invited him to Santiniketan, he thought he might train there to become an illustrator.

By now, the future icon had cultivated a taste for cinema. But the pressures of his circumstances consigned all artistic aspirations to the background. After two years in Santiniketan, Ray returned to Kolkata and took up an advertising job for Rs80 a month. He worked hard, moving into a house of his own with his mother. Amidst much frowning and shaking of heads, he married an older woman, his maternal half-uncle’s daughter. Work, meanwhile, progressed and he was promoted as the firm’s art director. In 1945, two years into his time there, a 1920s book landed on his table to redesign and illustrate. Its name was Pather Panchali, by Bibhutibhushan Bandopadhyay, and now, as he completed the assignment, Ray began to think of incarnating it on screen. His love for cinema graduated to an obsession—when, in 1950, his bosses sent him to England, his wife and he skipped meals so they could save and watch 99 of the best available films.

Pather Panchali launched Ray onto a career that saw him sweep awards by the dozen. But the five years he toiled on his first venture were a sobering experience. Funding was invisible, and nobody trusted him. Cinema was to park a camera in front of a set as actors sang and danced, and when he suggested otherwise, he was told to stay quiet. In fits and starts, between a job and running a household, Ray began to shoot, in 1952. Gold was pawned, and savings spent. For three years, Ray and his fellow amateurs were men possessed, worrying also that their actors might not survive delays: What if the boy’s voice broke? Or worse, what if the old lady died? At last money arrived from the state—Pather Panchali was, in English, titled Song Of The Little Road, and there was some cash to spare, it turned out, in the “Road Improvement Fund”. It was a double-edged sword, though, for while the movie made its director a legend, all its profits were scooped up by a government, which secretly thought Ray’s work “dull and slow moving”.

The success of Pather Panchali allowed Ray to give up his job and become a full-time film-maker, though he still had loans to repay. There was much success ahead, but also an abundance of criticism. Senior politicians preferred parading exotic India on the world stage instead of the realities of life in India—he was accused of denigrating the motherland with too honest a portrayal of its people. Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru, however, came to Ray’s rescue. “What is wrong about showing India’s poverty?” he demanded. “Everyone knows we are a poor country. The question is: Are we Indians sensitive to our poverty or insensitive to it?” With Ray, Nehru declared, there was the most profound sensitivity. Some, meanwhile, were uncomfortable for other reasons. As one critic noted, in his conception of women, Ray “demystifies the revered Hindu ideals…of mothers and wives”, while, in painting men, “he reveals to us their cowardice…as they take shelter in male-dominated social institutions”. Naturally, he attracted his share of conservative detractors.

But it is precisely for this that Ray should today be remembered, at a time when art must pay homage to the nation, and creativity skirt the mores of those who exercise power. Pressures such as these existed in Ray’s day too, but he found an honest way of dealing with them. When Indira Gandhi attempted to woo him, to make a film on “social welfare”, or a biopic lauding Nehru, the director’s response was clear. Once, when talking of overblown Bollywood films, he declared he was “bored of villains” and wanted to make something different. Now, to the most powerful woman in the country, this Bengali director simply said, “No, because I’m not interested.”

(My column in Mint Lounge, April 21 2018)


In the Chennai suburb of Triplicane, there once lived a seamstress called Janaki. Respectfully addressed as Janaki Ammal, to her came many with saris to mend and blouses to stitch. But there was more to the old lady than tailoring. She was, for one, a pious Brahmin who chanted mantras and went often to the temple. She gave to charity and educated a number of grateful children. Though in her youth she was cheated of a prodigious sum, she acquired skill enough to run a chit fund for the housewives of her neighbourhood. Upstairs, she lived in a little place, and downstairs, she conducted business. But for all the decades of her self-supporting life, she kept with her also a tin trunk, full of crumbling papers that concealed the most poignant memories. For in a different time and a different space, Janaki of Triplicane was married to a “somebody”. And long before she became a seamstress, she had been wife to a man who scaled the very heights of cerebral greatness.

It is not known what, as a 10-year-old, Janaki made of Srinivasa Ramanujan, who arrived in her Tiruchirapalli village to wed her in the summer of 1909. His train had been delayed and her father was furious. Yet, once tempers were soothed and insults forgotten, the mathematical prodigy and this young girl from the country were married. To look at, the bridegroom was uninspiring: Smallpox had devastated his face, and a classmate described him as “fair and plumpy”, built like “a woman”. At 21, there was little, furthermore, to commend him to the top league of prospective husbands: Five years ago, he had dropped out of college, and a second attempt at university had also ended in depressive disaster. His energy was electric, though, and his mathematical abilities astounding. But he had no patience for other subjects and spent his days doing accounts and failing hopelessly at becoming a tuition teacher.

Raised by a masterful mother, and awkward around his disapproving father, Ramanujan took some years to find his bearings. In 1912, employed as a clerk at the Madras Port Trust, he finally crawled out of poverty, renting a house where he was joined by Janaki. While he solved sums on discarded packaging paper, and engaged with the city’s mathematics professors, the young girl watched from the side and learnt what it meant to be a Brahmin wife. He was a sensitive man, full of fears of rejection but bursting with godly devotion. “An equation for me,” he declared, “has no meaning unless it expresses a thought of God.” Of course, little of this was discussed with his teenage wife—he never saw her alone, and, when she slept, it was with her watchful mother-in-law. Janaki cooked, and Janaki cleaned. And then, one day, she heard that her husband had been invited to that alien country people called Great Britain.

The decision was not easy: Ramanujan had been corresponding with the legendary G.H. Hardy and in Cambridge he was already a sensation. But what sensible Brahmin boy with a government job could toss aside everything to scramble after an abstract world of numbers? So the gods were consulted—the family went on pilgrimage, and divine sanction was received in a dream. Janaki, all of 15, asked to sail with Ramanujan, but this was dismissed as outrageous—he was going to achieve great things, and she would only distract him from his God-mandated purpose. And so it was that a week before he departed, Ramanujan said goodbye to his family, packing them off before he cut off his tuft of hair and wore for the first time the garb of a Western gentleman. When a photograph arrived showing her son like this, it took his mother some time to recognize him.

For five years, Janaki didn’t see her husband. At first, she served her mother-in-law, but soon there was mutiny in the kitchen. Letters addressed to her were intercepted by the older woman, and young Mrs Ramanujan built up the courage to ask direct questions. Our genius himself, while making history, was living a life of personal misery—there was tuberculosis, social awkwardness, a suicide attempt, and all the inconveniences of World War I afflicting life in Britain. In 1919, his health in pieces but with much distinction under his belt, Ramanujan returned at last to India. He asked for Janaki to come and greet him, but his mother “forgot” to let her daughter-in-law know: It was from newspapers that the wife of this freshly-minted fellow of The Royal Society discovered that her husband had finally come home.

Ramanujan did not live long, but the year he and Janaki spent together had its moments of tender affection. She cared for him, and he told his mother to retreat—if only, he regretted, he had taken Janaki along, he might not have felt so lost on foreign shores. Their marriage, hitherto unconsummated, was at last given a semblance of emotional substance. He remained orthodox—they moved from a house called Crynant because “cry” was inauspicious, while Ramanujan approved of Gometra because it could be read, in Sanskrit, as “friend of cows”. His tuberculosis, of course, cared little for auspicious addresses, and his mother blamed Janaki’s stars for bringing upon her son the terrible eye of Saturn. When Ramanujan died on 26 April 1920, he took with him whatever trace of warmth survived between the two women feuding by his bedside.

A widow at barely 22, Janaki spent most of the following decade in British Bombay with her brother, learning English and acquiring the skills of a seamstress. In 1931, she returned to Chennai, beginning a new life, working to supplement her meagre pension, and eventually adopting a little boy, who cared for her till her end, six decades later. Occasionally, great scholars from abroad came to see Janaki, seeking answers to questions left behind by her legendary husband. But she only had memories and gentle words to offer. As this seamstress of Triplicane said to one of them, the chief thing she remembered about her beloved Ramanujan was that he was always surrounded by sums and problems.

(My column in Mint Lounge, April 14 2018)


In 1870, the British representative in Travancore reported a peculiar problem that afflicted the dispensing of justice in that princely state. Sometimes, it so happened, witnesses came from low-caste groups, which made recording testimony somewhat complicated—they had no access to courtrooms where they might “defile” their savarna superiors. As a result, since “the witness cannot go to the court”, wrote the Englishman, “the court must go to the witnesses”. It could not, however, “go too near him”, lest the high-caste judge lose his purity. Instead, the dispensers of justice stood at a distance, their questions shouted out by a goomastah to a peon placed midway from the witness. This peon, whose purity was presumably of lesser consequence, would then proceed to yell those questions to the avarna at the other end. Naturally, more often than not, it was not the words spoken by the hapless witness that finally made their way to the judge. But it didn’t matter—the avarna went back to his gloomy life, while the judge patted himself for another day spent in the service of “justice”.

Strangely comical as it might seem, this was merely one facet of the dark, marginalized world into which Ayyan and Mala brought their son, Ayyankali, in 1863. They were Pulayas, a word derived from pula (pollution), living in Venganoor, near Thiruvananthapuram. The Pulayas were an agrestic slave caste, and, till slavery was abolished a decade before, could be bought and sold for bags of rupees. Ritual pollution barred them from public spaces, and even language was proscribed: A Pulaya could never use the word “I” but only adiyan (your slave). When a Pulaya died, the body might have to be buried in his own hovel, for there was no other land available for the purpose. Samuel Mateer, a missionary, recorded the nightmare that was life for most Pulayas. They resided, he observed, “in miserable huts” by the fields they didn’t own, their principal vocation “digging and manuring, transplanting the young rice, repairing the banks, and performing other labours in the rice-fields, sometime standing for hours in the water”, which left them susceptible to disease. Wages were paid in kind, and these were minimal; any questions could lead to eviction and immediate destitution.

Ayyan and Mala, however, were unusual in having a sympathetic master—in a time without toilets, when even finding a spot for defecating required the landowner’s permission, their overlord had granted them several acres of property. Here they raised Ayyankali, providing him a better life than was open to most of their caste-men. Their first-born appears to have been aware that this marginal privilege was not something to be squandered—confident, and with a mind of his own, he gathered around him other Pulaya boys, emerging as something of a group leader. In his youth, his life was confined to Venganoor: He laboured in the fields, married, and began a family. But then, at 30, something changed within this illiterate man, who would go on to earn such titles as Mahatma and Gurudevan. For, in 1893, he decided to issue the first of his many challenges to the rotten world around him, setting out to claim for his people that crucial thing they had lacked for centuries: equality.

The event is part of popular lore. Public roads, at the time, were barred to avarnas. Indeed, such was the exactness with which this practice was upheld, that a fabulously wealthy man, the sole owner of a motor car outside the royal court, often had to disembark on certain roads and take a side route on foot. His high-caste driver, meanwhile, would bring around the vehicle to wherever the low-caste owner could finally alight. Ayyankali, of course, had no car but what he did was unthinkable. He purchased a bullock cart, already an act of defiance; and then, with great fanfare, a turban wound around his head, he proceeded to make open use of a road where people of his caste were strictly prohibited. A band of Nairs with lordly pretensions came out for a fight, but Ayyankali gave as good as he got—dagger in hand, he with his friends put the savarnas to flight.

The next five decades were busy. Education was his principal priority—a school he started in 1904 was burnt down, but he achieved small victories over time. It was not easy, though: Even Ramakrishna Pillai, an enlightened journalist, dismissed Ayyankali’s demands on the grounds that those “cultivating land” could not seek parity with those who had been “cultivating intelligence” for generations—it was like yoking together a horse and a buffalo. But Ayyankali persevered, till a few years later, following another violent attempt to deny Pulayas access to schools, he called for Kerala’s first labour strike. Unnerved, the government agreed at last to his demands, throwing open large numbers of schools to Dalits across the board. In 1907, meanwhile, a formal body—the Sadhu Jana Paripalana Sangham—was founded to represent the interests of the community. And in 1912, Ayyankali was nominated to one of the state’s formal assemblies, giving a voice to the Pulayas at the highest levels of power.

What led to the erosion of Ayyankali’s influence, however, was precisely this willingness to work with the government, which on its part, fearing a mass exodus from Hinduism, periodically conceded demands even as it prevented other Dalit castes from making common cause with the Pulayas. By the 1930s, factionalism and a generational gap saw authority slip out of Ayyankali’s hands, and, early in the next decade, the attractions of communism rang the death knell of what was already a dismembered organization. By the time Ayyankali died in 1941, the world was an altogether different place, and not many—including his son-in-law—were prepared to follow him. But for all that, ordinary men and women continued to behold in him a hero. For, after all, were it not for this crusader on a bullock cart, taking head-on the mighty and powerful in 1893, generations might have passed before the Pulayas decided, at last, that it was time for them to rise up, standing together to fight.

(My column in Mint Lounge, April 07 2018)


In 1623, a venerated sanyasi arrived at the court of the poligar (governor) of Sendamangalam, now in Tamil Nadu. On the face of it, he was like other divines of his time: One acolyte held up a parasol, while another carried the tiger skin on which the holy man reposed. Yet another cradled his books and a fourth a vessel with sacred water to be sprinkled wherever the party made a halt. Ramachandra Nayaka, lord of Sendamangalam, received them warmly, washing the guru’s feet in reverence. In the conversation that followed, a grant of land and other favours were discussed so that the holy man might establish a branch of his mission at this important urban centre. After spending some time in the area, the visitors carried on with their travels, going to Salem, where too the provincial administrator received the old man with deference. He was assigned lodgings in “the finest quarter of the town”, receiving also a promise of that useful thing: the governor’s sincere friendship.

When Roberto de Nobili was born in Montepulciano, Italy, in 1577, nobody in his family could have guessed that the boy would spend most of his life oceans away, in the dusty plains of the Indian peninsula, dressed as a sanyasi. The Nobilis were a military set—they claimed descent from the Holy Roman emperor Otto III, and were related to cardinals, saints, and even a pope or two. As the eldest son of his house, Roberto was expected to carry on the line, but by his adolescence had already quarrelled with his parents, announcing his desire to serve the Catholic church. He fled in disguise to Naples and obtained a theological education, before setting sail, in 1604, for India. The journey was not smooth—the Sao Jacinto was shipwrecked and months were lost in Mozambique. But at last de Nobili arrived in Goa, quickly thereafter moving to Kochi. And then, to get even further away from the Portuguese colonial government, the Italian Jesuit orchestrated a transfer to the mission in Madurai—a mission that in 15 years had made a grand total of zero conversions.

As a missionary, de Nobili’s objectives were clear. “I long most keenly,” he declared, “to travel about these vast spaces, staff in hand, and to win their innumerable peoples for Christ Our Lord.” But what made the man stand out was the manner in which he went about his business. Soon after he arrived in Madurai in 1606, de Nobili grasped what his colleague, a Portuguese soldier-turned-Jesuit, 36 years his senior, had failed to see. European missionaries were dismissed as unclean parangis (a variant of firangi) who ate beef, kept no caste distinctions, and reaped most of their converts from “polluted” communities. Their message, then, was tainted as one for the inferior orders. The older man had no qualms about dealing with the low, given his own working-class origins; de Nobili, however, with his exalted family credentials, his sophisticated education, and a desire to make the Gospel attractive to more than the peasantry, decided on a new way going forward. As he announced to a superior, “I will become a Hindu to save the Hindus.”

What followed was a fascinating experiment. De Nobili acquired not only a staggering knowledge of Tamil, but also Telugu and Sanskrit—a Brahmin convert even gave him access to the Vedas, though prejudice prevented him from seeing in them anything beyond “ridiculous legends and stories”. Soon, de Nobili began to live like a “native”: The Jesuit’s cassock was discarded for the garb of a sanyasi, and only food cooked by Brahmins was served to de Nobili on his leaf. He began to keep a distance from his colleague, establishing a veritable caste system between them—indeed, in 1619, when summoned by angry seniors to Goa, de Nobili refused even to eat with them. A new church was constructed (a coconut ceremoniously smashed at its founding) and there, seating was on the basis of status, so that low-born converts had to wait by the threshold while the high-born sat in the front. De Nobili preached the Bible, meanwhile, as a kind of lost Veda, all the time also building up connections with the high and mighty of the land.

Shrewd as this adaptive strategy was, it was also successful. Many Brahmins converted, as did a brother of Ramachandra Nayaka of Sendamangalam. In 1610, the Madurai mission had 60 converts, but, by the time he died, de Nobili’s flock numbered 4,000. The process was not altogether devoid of problems though. The Italian’s high-handedness provoked complaints from his colleague, and in Goa he was firmly told to suspend his controversial methods. Not only did de Nobili not listen, he made more enemies by going behind Goa’s back, leveraging connections in Rome and getting, in 1623, the Pope himself to declare support for the Madurai mission. In Madurai, meanwhile, Brahmins were not ignorant of de Nobili’s strategy, and while he was treated well in general by local rulers, a conservative backlash meant there were also times when he had to bear the brunt of their wrath, as in 1640, when he was thrown in prison.

De Nobili’s style provoked a debate about how Eastern peoples ought to be converted. He claimed that the tuft on the head (kudumi) and the sacred thread were merely social symbols, and converts could continue wearing them. His opponents, however, argued that conversion meant conversion into a European frame, in spirit as well as its outer manifestations. In the end, as it happened, they were the ones who succeeded, and de Nobili’s aristocratic overconfidence led to his downfall: In 1646, he was transferred out of Madurai, dying blind and upset 10 years later in Mylapore. It was a lonely end for a clever man with an insatiable zeal, and though his successes lingered for some decades, soon enough the taint he had tried so hard to expel came back to haunt the missionaries: They were parangis, defiled folk, and theirs was a faith only for the poor and weak.

(My column in Mint Lounge, March 31 2018)


India is a mosaic of many curious tales. But very often, seemingly incongruous elements that reside in the realm of fable and myth end up lending an ironic congruence to the concrete world of men. Throughout Indian history, whenever politics has found itself at an awkward crossroads, a generous fabrication of mythology has helped ease the process. One prominent example is Shivaji’s—the Maratha warrior had emerged as a powerful force in the late 17th century, with armies, treasure, and swathes of territory at his command. But rivals painted him merely as an over-strong rebel, so that in addition to power, what he needed was legitimacy too. The answer to Shivaji’s woes came in 1674, when he decided to crown himself king, with classical ritual in full and extravagant display. A genealogy was invented connecting him to an ancient royal line, and retrospective rituals permitted him to take his place as a “pure” Kshatriya, when so far Brahmins had deemed him inferior in caste. It was a masterstroke: Shivaji now towered over other Maratha clans in status, while simultaneously alerting his Mughal enemies that he was no longer a “mountain rat”—he was an anointed, lawful monarch.

As a society too, India has been capable of negotiating disruptive changes through the invention of tradition. Reading scholar Richard H. Davis’ work recently reminded me of the bizarre, clever and typically Indian ways in which this was achieved. When Muslim might arrived in India in the form of invaders, a new chapter was inaugurated in the story of our subcontinent. The old order fell, and a different structure was fashioned. One way in which the elites on both sides tried to rationalize, in their respective world views, these painful changes is through what historian Aziz Ahmad called epics of conquest and resistance. Thus, for instance, we have Muslim accounts that exaggerated the “destruction of infidels”, when, in reality, even the terrifying Muhammad of Ghor’s coins prominently featured the “infidel” goddess Lakshmi, countered by Hindus with their own stories, the case of Padmavati preferring fire to the embrace of a Muslim being one such. Rhetoric was amplified on both sides, legends and tales competing for narrative dominance to come to grips with changes under way on the ground.

One such fascinating story from the 14th century features a Muslim woman recalled to this day by Hindus as Thulukka Nachiyar (literally, “Tughluq Princess”), who is said to have fallen in love with a Hindu god. The outline of the story is as follows: When Muslim troops from Delhi plundered temples in southern India, on their list was the great Vaishnava shrine at Srirangam in Tamil Nadu. Temple chronicles show that indeed idols were seized, and, in this story, the processional image of the deity is taken to Delhi. The reigning sultan consigns the idol to a storeroom, while a local Tamil woman, who had followed the troops, returns to Srirangam and informs the temple authorities of the precise whereabouts of their deity. Dozens of priests now make their way to court, where, after entertaining the sultan with a series of performances, they request the return of their lost idol. The cheerful Tughluq king is happy to grant them this, commanding his men to go to the storeroom and fetch Srirangam’s deity. Everyone is, at this point, rather pleased with the turn of events, and we have every hope of a happy ending.

This is where the twist occurs. It so happens that the sultan’s daughter had long before gone into the storeroom and collected the idol, taking it to her apartments and there playing with the deity as a doll. The implication, however, is that by dressing “him”, feeding him and garlanding him, as is done to deities in Hindu rituals, the princess was essentially worshipping the image, winning divine affection. When the appeal from the Srirangam party is heard, the deity puts her to sleep and agrees to return south, only for the Tughluq princess to wake up distraught—she hastens to catch up with the Brahmins, who meanwhile have split, one group hiding the idol in Tirupati. Arriving in Srirangam but not finding the deity even there, the princess perishes in the pangs of viraha (separation). Her sacrifice is not for nothing, though. When eventually the deity comes home, He commands the priests to recognize his Muslim consort, commemorated ever since in a painting within the temple. On his processional tour of the premises, to this day, the deity is offered north Indian food at this spot (including chapatis).

The story is a remarkable one, with an exact parallel in the Melkote Thirunarayanapuram temple in Karnataka, where, in fact, she has been enshrined as a veiled idol. Though it seems unlikely that a Tughluq princess actually came to the south head over heels in love with a deity, could it have been that there was a Muslim woman instrumental in having idols released from Delhi? Or is it, as Davis suggests, a “counter-epic” where the roles are reversed: Instead of a Muslim king chasing after Hindu princesses, we have a Muslim princess besotted with the Hindu divine. By accepting the concept of the Thulukka Nachiyar, within the temple, was a space created to locate the newcomer Muslim within the world of the orthodox Hindu? The truth might lie in a combination of these possibilities, but we can be sure that it is a colourful, revealing narrative with a splendid cast, telling us once again that while there were moments of crisis between India’s faiths, legend and myth allowed them to see eye to eye and move on to fresh ground—a lesson we would be wise to remember in our own contentious times.

(My column in Mint Lounge, March 24 2018)


It might be sacrilege to make a declaration such as this but visiting the Sistine Chapel in the Vatican last week, I was more than a little underwhelmed by the mood of the place. The famous ceiling of this famous building is, no doubt, exquisite, what with Michelangelo reluctantly giving up his sculptor’s tools to paint its frescoes, neck craned for a full four years to achieve this 16th century feat. But the overall climate of the building today is disappointing. Part of the blame rests with my guide who, two hours earlier, had started to fan anticipation, dinning endless rules into my head—we could not speak inside the chapel, no questions could be asked, and the only sentiment permitted was unsmiling solemnity, textured with reverence and awe. As it happened, the chapel was all crowd, sweat, and refractory chatter, not helped by guards on loudspeakers shepherding people down the aisles. There was no room to stand, and before my stipulated time had elapsed, I decided to decamp, choosing fresh air and the sun over Michelangelo’s monumental art.

The crowds I saw during my visit to Rome did leave me thinking, however, about the deep enchantment Italy sustains for the world at large, droves of tourists digging deep in their pockets for the pleasure of consuming its cultural heritage (mass perspiration notwithstanding). At about a tenth the size of India, Italy is home to five times as many museums, and hosts five times more tourists than we do in our own, more extensive portion of the world. And that is the puzzling part—we have the Taj Mahal and we have Hampi; there is culture and there is cuisine; there are forts and palaces; and there are jewels and infinite objects to enthrall. Most importantly, there are fascinating stories. The ingredients are there, in other words, and yet we fail—to succumb to a vulgar word—to “showcase” the best of our national inheritance. Where are India’s museums, I wondered, and why are there no crowds thronging ancient buildings in such large numbers that guides must hiss and fume when someone prefers the air over awe? Why, if the overcrowded Louvre can draw nine million visitors in a year, do our museums attract less than 100,000 visitors?

It is estimated that India is home to 800-1,000 museums, a minor figure when even our former colonizers in Britain own more than twice that number, while our current rival, China, has proactively established 4,000. Italy has a museum for every 13,000 citizens; India has perhaps one for every 1.3 million. It is another matter that most would not complain about this shortfall given the dreary experience that a visit to our museums involves—besides lines of restless schoolchildren compelled to tour dusty halls and look interested, we have a problem in the way we run institutions of art and culture. Some of it is bureaucracy—the Union ministry of culture oversees a large number of museums, but there are many under other ministries, not to speak of dozens run by local authorities. Budgetary allocations are abysmal—this year, the culture minister has Rs2,843 crore to disburse (about the same as the cost of an extravagant statue planned in Mumbai), of which museums will receive an even smaller slice after allocations to archives, the archaeological survey and other departments are made. In comparison, Italy earned €200 million (around Rs1,600 crore) through sales of entry tickets alone.

Ticketing is a complicated subject. On the one hand is the argument that art and heritage must remain accessible—Rs20, in a poor country, may already seem like a lot. But if there is no revenue of significance from tickets, and if funding from “above” is inadequate, we can at best watch and sigh as our cultural resources crumble into dust—two years ago, it was discovered that 24 monuments had gone “missing” altogether. Occasionally, of course, there are bursts of energy, as when hundreds of crores were invested for the “state of the art” Bihar Museum, or after a generous allocation was made for the Indian Museum in Kolkata in 2014 (where, ironically, millennia-old objects were damaged by inexpert handling only a year later). And then there are private museums, though how accessible these will be to modestly heeled audiences is uncertain. The question is, do we allow cheaper access while the institutions themselves collapse, when smarter ticketing, and the superior quality this ensures, might actually increase the number of visitors? Surely museum passes could be priced at least at par with the average movie ticket, or will the piety associated with cheap entry survive as a smokescreen for our collective failure to do a better job?

There have been encouraging sounds about “rescuing” India’s museums through public-private partnerships, though attempts at pulling these off have not succeeded. One group in Bengaluru, which was to develop the iconic Venkatappa Art Gallery, backed by the city’s leading philanthropists, eventually pulled out two years ago after protests that their intention was to turn the decrepit institution into a “wine and cheese” place. The project fell through, while under leaky roofs with peeling plaster, a set of people certainly felt they had gained a moral victory, oblivious perhaps to a greater loss. That, then, is the sad reality of India’s squandered cultural resources and undersold historical inheritance—in the Sistine Chapel or at the Louvre, it is the want of room that spurs an urge to walk out. In India, home to the most phenomenal of wonders, the question, given the state of our museums, is whether, in the first place, most of us would even consider walking in.

(My column in Mint Lounge, March 17 2018)


Between 1816-20, when the British officers Benjamin Ward and Peter Conner conducted their geographical survey of southern Kerala, they found 15,000 groves in the region dedicated to local gods and conserved in the name of the divine. Known as kavus, these sacred sites varied in size but served essentially as patches of hallowed forest amidst swathes of territory exploited and tamed forever by man. The kavu in Mannarasala, for example, still covers 16 acres of land, preserving in its shade not only numerous species of plant and bird, but also thousands of venerated serpent idols. Elsewhere, a grove might be simply two-three trees, a few square feet cordoned off around it, pale remnants of what were originally more glorious spaces. That these groves are disappearing is old news—outside Kerala, in Coorg, for instance, the extent of devara kadus (Gods’ forests) came down to less than half in the last century, from 15,506 acres in 1905 to just under 6,300 acres in 1985. This has been the fate too of groves elsewhere in the subcontinent, from the saranas (“sanctuaries”) of Madhya Pradesh to the protected woods that the first inspector general of forests found in the Khasi Hills in 1897.

What sparked my interest in these “hot spots of biodiversity”, as some describe them, was ancient lore. For Malayalis, the grove is a familiar concept. Legend has it that after the mythical hero Parasurama reclaimed Kerala from the sea, the Brahmins he settled along the coast were challenged by serpent-worshipping Naga tribes. Eventually, after a great deal of violence put the immigrants to flight, a compromise was effected by the warrior sage: The Brahmins and Nagas would live together, provided, as one authority put it, the “colonists” set aside “a corner of every occupied compound to the abode of the serpent gods”. And so it was that kavus were first established, “left untouched by the knife or the spade, thus enabling the underwood and creepers to grow luxuriantly therein” ever since. So too, goes the story, the Namboodiris and Nairs, descendants of the two parties, began to dwell in peace, united in their protection of these groves and in the worship of the serpent gods believed to reside within. Over time, it became a mark of respectability and exalted lineage to come from a household with its own kavu, groves appearing, meanwhile, also beside temples and shrines.

Without romanticizing the motive behind these groves—some see them as purely environmental concerns, proof of wise ancestors seeking a balance with nature—it is clear that kavus in Kerala did play a role in maintaining the ecological health of the countryside. One official in pre-independence Travancore came across a kavu (“an interesting oasis in the open maidan”) in which he counted “129 trees of 17 different kinds”, from the jack and mango to the poison nut and bitter melon. Decades later, in the early 1990s, Madhav Gadgil and Subash Chandran, in the course of their research, also discovered threatened species that had survived in obscure Kerala groves. Religion and associated taboos were essential in preserving these sites, though. The 19th century botanist, Francis Buchanan, whom one would expect to have rejoiced at the sight of such “oases”, scoffed in Karnataka that they were merely religious “contrivances” locals invented to prevent the state from claiming public land. In Kerala today, serpent gods can be moved with mantras from their kavus and established elsewhere, on cement platforms in namesake groves, clearing the way for the axe to finally go where it was forbidden.

This, tragically, is what happened in my own ancestral place. There were half-a-dozen kavus on the estate. A great one, more than an acre in size, also housed an immense pond, water collecting during the rains and serving nearby fields well in times of terrible heat. Half a century ago, when a biscuit factory—of all things—was proposed there, my ancestors feared their gods enough to decline the offer. Some years ago, however, the priests conveniently moved the serpent deities into the principal family shrine, a few bushes hastily planted as a makeshift kavu. The original place, where legend said our goddess went to bathe, had no divine protectors now, no deity to secretly swing on its vines. Where mighty trees once stood, there were now saplings of rubber, the skies visible from the ground when all we could see looking up, not long ago, was an impenetrable blanket of green, rich and wild. There was, then, an ecological intention behind the groves perhaps, but it was fear of divine wrath that fortified the kavu against the avarice of men—with Parasurama’s deities gone, it was the god of profit who came to reign.

But instead of sentimentally lamenting the loss of kavus, we can learn from the past and build new groves for the present, this time seeking to protect them without halos provided by any gods. In the piece of the ancestral estate that my mother inherited, dozens are the trees my parents have planted, throwing out the ruinous rubber that had replaced towering old jacks and teaks. Birds, whose sounds we had forgotten, are making their way back, and while there are no serpents from grandmother’s tales, there are plants with flowers and trees with fruit. It is not a garden in the conventional sense but a chaotic patch of foliage and growth, an attempt at reviving what was foolishly destroyed. That, perhaps, is what we should seek to do in our own little ways—have corners of green in every maidan and every plot, in villages as well as the urban compound, growing free and seeking again to shroud the skies in the splendour of leaf.

(My column in Mint Lounge, March 10 2018)


Pliny the Elder, who lived 2,000 years ago, was a man with an interesting mind and very many admirable gifts. It could, however, be argued that on certain topics, an overmastering desire to sound singularly authoritative caused even this venerable philosopher to spout what must necessarily be described as balderdash. Menstruation—a topic as alien to free and sensible discussion then as it is today—was one such subject. For, according to Pliny, this flow of blood constantly threatened to unleash grave, terrible catastrophe upon the world. If, by some horrific accident, menstrual blood touched earth, “seeds in gardens are dried up”, “the fruit of trees falls off”, and whole fields could turn forever barren. Beehives were instantly destroyed, and if dogs went anywhere near menstrual blood, it could drive them mad, infecting their bites with “an incurable poison”. A reflection in the mirror was adequate for the mirror itself to lose its shine forever, and such, reported Pliny in his Natural History, was the calamitous power of the menstruating female that “hailstorms…whirlwinds, and lightning even, will be scared away by a woman uncovering her body while her monthly courses are upon her”.

Pliny was not alone in the ancient world for sincerely believing all kinds of nonsense where the female body was concerned. The physician Hippocrates declared that men didn’t menstruate because they could flush out impurities through sweat; women, as inferior beings, had less efficient bodies, and were compelled, therefore, to bleed. Aristotle, meanwhile, was certain that the ideal human body was male—what was not male was a deformity, and the female was one such deformity whose body had altogether peculiar functions. In China, the seventh century doctor Sun Simiao was somewhat more intelligent in approaching the subject from a medical perspective, though some of his treatments for menstrual ailments do not necessarily inspire confidence—featuring the consumption of beetles, horse-flies and wingless cockroaches, with a dash of ginger and pepper, presumably to help it all go down. Not to be left behind, our ancestors in ancient India found their own logic to understand menstruation: The king of gods, Indra, needed to distribute his accumulation of sin, and while part of it was deposited with the earth, the seas, and trees, one portion was accepted by women, fated ever since to bleed. The only pearl of wisdom, perhaps, in this tale is that yet again, for the doings of a man, it was the woman who had to pay the price.

It took a long time for the world to make up its mind on what precisely menstruation was all about. Not too many centuries ago, the red taint was married to ethnic prejudice to serve other purposes—it was commonly believed in medieval Europe that Jewish men tended to menstruate. As late as the 19th century, menstruation was considered a “disease” by the most serious of doctors, with the potential to escalate into comprehensive madness. In societies across the world—from villages in Turkey to hamlets in Nepal’s hills to little towns in Spain, where bleeding women may not cure pork—menstruation was perceived as a “dirty” function, a polluting reminder of human infirmity, dealt with by secluding women and enveloping them in rules and endless regulations. They could not enter kitchens, touch certain items, look at the moon, look at themselves—and so the list continues, turning women into outcasts, though formally they were “getting rest” . It was, of course, the genius of some that they succeeded in defying this worst of traditions in their own small ways—a Namboodiri Brahmin woman in Kerala wrote in her memoirs that while books were prohibited in their life of strict purdah in the early 20th century, their periods were the only time when, hidden from the gaze of men, they could finally devour those magazines and political pamphlets bearing electrifying news from a changing world.

But where there was a culture of spouting nonsense in the not-too-recent past, today we are still fighting what is a culture of silence. One study last year found that only 55% of women in India understood menstruation as a wholly natural process, while only 48% had any knowledge of it before menarche. Last August, a teenager in Nagercoil, Tamil Nadu, killed herself after she bled in class, and statistics on girls dropping out of school for want of toilets are all too familiar in the subcontinent. One needs only to look around oneself—a year ago, this columnist’s aunt would not enter the room where her father’s body lay before cremation because she was menstruating. In school, the lack of sex education meant that we boys thought sanitary pads were a variant of the diaper—because girls were not just silly but also incontinent. Clearly, it was still possible to continue in that tradition of Pliny and Hippocrates as recently as the last decade, and my own ignorance as a 13-year-old was demolished only with a smack (and then a talk) when I tried to shame my older sister by asking about her “diaper”.

There is, of course, a slow decline in squeamishness about menstruation, but there is also irony in rich measure: Where a movie about a man who makes sanitary napkins gets tax exemption in a state, the actual product itself is deemed a “luxury item”. While there is a goddess who periodically bleeds—and whose menstrual cloth is every devotee’s dream possession—there are millions of girls who must hide away when their “time of the month” arrives. The only reassurance, then, is that barriers have been broken in the past and we can count on women again to stand up where society is hesitant and afraid (or full of foolish characters, like I once was). What men could seek, in the meantime perhaps, is to rise beyond parroting aimless lines about the glories of motherhood and the divinity of the female, and learn about things that involve flesh and blood—things like the spot that appears every month on the menstrual cloth, which once threw even Pliny the Elder off the mark.

(My column in Mint Lounge, February 24 2018)


Rukmini Devi Arundale was nine years old when she met her future husband at a gathering in Madras (now Chennai). The year was 1913 and George Arundale had been, till recently, a college principal in Varanasi, a position he vacated to serve the Theosophical Society on a permanent basis. Already in his mid-30s at the time of their maiden encounter, the Englishman could not have expected that in only seven years’ time he would provoke a colossal uproar in quiet, respectable Madras. For, in 1920, the Theosophist proposed marriage to the Brahmin girl he knew as a child. For two and a half decades, they were together, both of them celebrated figures of their time. But by the eve of his demise in 1945, it was already patent to many that between husband and wife, it was the former Miss Shastri whose legacy was destined to endure and shine. Theosophy brought them together, but Rukmini Devi’s work had evolved well beyond that universe, taking form in an institution celebrated to this day in a name synonymous with all Indian arts deemed “classical”: Kalakshetra.

Rukmini Devi, whose death anniversary it is today, could have led a very different life. Had it not been for her father’s intellectual leanings, she might have married a fellow Brahmin and settled into a life featuring not theosophy but domesticity. Had she not, after her marriage, met the ballerina Anna Pavlova on a boat to Australia, she might never have received the advice that motivated her to step on to the dance stage back in India. The Theosophists, meanwhile, imagined her as their “World Mother”, the female counterpart to the role envisioned for Jiddu Krishnamurti. Later in life, prime minister Morarji Desai offered her a chance to serve as president, an opportunity she politely declined. Her life revolved, instead, around dance, and of her commitment to revitalizing India’s artistic heritage there can be no doubt. There remain, however, concerns about the shape in which old traditions were reincarnated, though, for every critic of her cause, there are also those who believe Rukmini Devi “rescued” a portion of our heritage just before it was fully destroyed.

The 1920s and 1930s were a period of transformation for traditional dance in the south, and what we today call Bharatanatyam, with its “classical” connotations, was the inherited legacy of the Devadasis and their matrilineal communities. Victorian officials described them as nautch girls, and the collapse of patronage at courts such as Tanjore (annexed by the British) plunged many of these women into the very depths of poverty. Some descended into prostitution, their stigma tarnishing the community as a whole, as well as its creative pursuits. Muthulakshmi Reddy, the daughter of a Devadasi, exemplified one kind of reform—she obtained a modern education, a “proper” marriage, and, becoming a legislator, argued that art “at the expense of good morals and health of the race” was pointless: The Devadasi order had to be abolished. Others, like E. Krishna Iyer, were more sympathetic. “Should the art be penalized for a defect of society?” he asked. “Is it really the arts that lead to concubinage?” The Devadasis themselves made an effort to articulate their interests in one voice. But it was too late—their dance had to be “saved”. From them.

Rukmini Devi played the leading role here. She was not insensitive to the Devadasis (“The corruption that killed them was…of society in general,” she said) but also felt that sadir, as the dance was known, thirsted for reinvention. As one authority put it, “She was not delinking a tradition or sounding its death-knell, but merely taking on an existing tradition and moving it into a more public domain.” This meant innovation—the melam ensemble that accompanied the performance was parked on the side, preserving the limelight solely for the dancer. The costumes (“very untidy” with “poor” colours) were modified, the stage itself lit up in modern light, with props, backgrounds, and, most interestingly, the image of Nataraja, till then never propitiated in this fashion. The “bad associations” Rukmini Devi saw were expunged—sensuousness was prohibited, bhakti or devotion taking its place to cement dance with respectability. Where there was once sadir with its “fallen” Devadasis, there was now Bharatanatyam, bursting with Sanskritic purity.

In 1935, despite objections from her guru that one year of learning was inadequate, Rukmini Devi performed on stage, becoming one of the first non-Devadasis to dance in public. As one critic notes, “Once Rukmini Devi demonstrated that the emerging middle class was willing to accept her…the field was open…. The legitimacy that she claimed was based on her level of social acceptance.” In 1936, she founded what would become Kalakshetra, recognized now as an “institution of national importance” in India. The venture suffered trials of its own—after her husband died, she had to vacate the Theosophical Society premises and, as decades passed, Kalakshetra saw its own politics and feuds. There also remained voices that criticized the institutionalization of a dance form and the standardization it engendered. But for all this, Kalakshetra became the pre-eminent nursery of “revived” Bharatanatyam, students arriving from all over the world to embrace this “ancient” Indian dance as well as the woman who had helped give it its contemporary form.

When Rukmini Devi died in 1986, many were the glowing obituaries that followed, but there was also an evaluation of all that she had achieved. As the editor of the influential Sruti magazine argued, “Her unique contribution was to destroy what was crude and vulgar in the inherited traditions of dance and to replace them with sophisticated and refined taste.” In this, the dance form received a new lease of life, going on to earn international approval, even if the dancers who had preserved it for centuries were left by the wayside, their sustained devotion reduced to words like “vulgar”. There was injustice in all this, and yet Rukmini Devi was important—as someone once said, it was thanks to her that sadir could live on as Bharatanatyam. If, in the 1930s, there had been nobody to pick up the pieces as they fell, would the dance have survived at all?

(My column in Mint Lounge, February 17 2018)


In 1575, authorities in the port of Surat prevented a woman called Gulbadan Begum from embarking on her pilgrimage to Mecca for an entire year. Negotiations dragged on, and eventually, she had to bribe with the entire city of Valsad in order to board her boat. It was no surprise that the begum paid in town, not coin—Gulbadan was, after all, the daughter of emperor Babur and aunt to mighty Akbar, then sovereign of all of upper India. It was, however, revealing that even a senior representative of the imperial harem found herself applying for leave to sail, for the truth was that the Mughal emperor’s power met its limit at the beach. It was, instead, the writ of the king of Portugal that prevailed in the Arabian Sea, and without Portuguese permission, no princess, of whatever consequence, could depart India’s shores. Even as Akbar dismissed the Portuguese as “chickens”, Mughal ships quietly paid to carry on their business—the Europeans might have been overpowered were they on land, but on international waters their mastery of naval warfare ensured that even the imperial family gnashed its teeth but, ultimately, fell in line.

In 1613, during Jahangir’s reign, however, the Portuguese, already imperilled by the arrival of the Dutch and English, went a step too far, hastening their decline in India. The emperor, to be sure, was a friendly, curious man—when the English presented him two mastiffs, he was so thrilled he had the dogs carried around in palanquins—and he might have allowed things to carry on as before. But that September, Portuguese provocation was so brazen that only firm action could restore Mughal prestige. The underlying issues were many. Politically, the ignominy of seeking licences was a demonstration of the limits of Mughal power, always somewhat embarrassing when the emperor was officially “Conqueror of the World”. Then there were religious concerns: The Portuguese were such fervent Christians that each cartaz (licence) carried images of Jesus and Mary—a troubling detail for Muslims compelled to buy these documents in order to do the haj. In 1613, a Hindu lady also got embroiled in these Mughal-Portuguese dynamics, her wrath bringing down the full force of the empire, ringing the death knell of the latter’s long-standing power at sea.

The lady in question was Mariam uz-Zamani, though she is often popularly called Jodhabai, the Rajput princess who was Akbar’s wife and Jahangir’s mother. While conventional depictions are somewhat limited—she is beautiful and regal in a tedious, overblown sense—in actual fact, the dowager was a formidable woman. Described by a contemporary as “a great adventurer”, she towered over phenomenal business enterprises even while sequestered in the Mughal harem. At court, as scholar Ellison B. Findly notes, she was one of four seniormost figures and the only woman to hold a military rank of 12,000 cavalry, entitling her to the right to issue firmans of her own. She was also the proprietor of the Rahimi, believed to be the largest Indian vessel trading in the Red Sea, displacing 1,500 tonnes, its mast some 44 yards high. In addition to goods worth millions, the dowager empress regularly conveyed Muslim pilgrims to Mecca on her ship—this, when she wasn’t actually funding the construction of mosques, even while she remained herself a practising Hindu.

In 1613, however, the Portuguese decided it was a clever idea to seize and subsequently burn the Rahimi. The action was unprecedented, and, given who the owner of the vessel was, the insult landed straight on the otherwise cheerful, opium-loving Jahangir. The whole affair was meant to gain leverage at a time when the Portuguese were threatened by competition from other European companies. But as it happened, the move backfired. As one observer noted, Jahangir immediately had Daman besieged, blocked all Portuguese trade in Surat, and “hath likewise taken order for the seizing of all Portingals (sic) and their goods within his kingdoms”. Furthermore, the emperor “sealed up their church doors and hath given order that they shall no more use the exercise of their religion in these parts”.

Rattled, the Portuguese made amends by offering Rs3 lakh as compensation, but on the condition that the Mughals expel the English from Agra. Jahangir refused to blink, however, calling the Portuguese bluff, and welcoming soon afterwards in 1615 Sir Thomas Roe, the famous English ambassador. “The Portuguese folly in the capture of the Rahimi, then,” writes Findly, “tipped the scales in favour of the English.”

But it was not as if the newcomers were granted a red-carpet reception—on the contrary, the playing field was merely levelled somewhat. Mariam uz-Zamani herself wasn’t sympathetic to the English: In 1611, after an Englishman outbid her at the indigo market in Bayana, she exerted enough pressure on her son to ensure that Roe’s unofficial predecessor, William Hawkins—the “English Khan” who till then was friendly with Jahangir—had to pack his bags and leave for good. In any case, if there was any doubt that the emperor’s mother was a force to reckon with, the affair around the Rahimi dispelled such thinking. And in 1623, when Mariam uz-Zamani died—still immensely rich and powerful—due honour was given to her by burying her in a mausoleum close to that equally redoubtable man to whom she was once married: emperor Akbar.

(My column in Mint Lounge, February 10 2018)


In 1883, when the Kamasutra first made its appearance in English, European readers of Vatsyayana’s treatise hadn’t the faintest idea that its publisher—the Hindoo Kama Shastra Society—was, in fact, an entirely non-existent body. Ostensibly headquartered in Varanasi, with links to London and New York, the “Society” was actually a work of fiction, born from the minds of a couple of British officials and their associates in faraway India. That the translation, despite its infirmities, was indeed of Vatsyayana’s 1,600-year-old disquisition was not doubted. But even as the Kamasutra made its way into the great libraries of the West, the true identity of its translator remained shrouded for years behind this fictitious organization.

There were several reasons why Sir Richard Francis Burton was paranoid about advertising his name with the book—British laws on obscenity were so draconian that printing anything even vaguely sexual could show writers the doors to prison. For the Kamasutra, then, it took some creative thinking to evade Victorian prudery. The Sanskrit word yoni, for instance, was used in the English text for the vagina, even when Vatsyayana himself never used that word in the actual Sanskrit original. But the gamble paid off—in time, the bogus Kama Shastra Society’s translation would become, as one scholar notes, “one of the most pirated books in the English language”, registered across the world as the oldest and foremost classical text on all matters pertaining to love and human sexuality. This, even when it wasn’t exactly sincere to Vatsyayana’s moral outlook from centuries before.

The loosely held opinion that the Kamasutra is a catalogue for boudoir gymnastics also owes much to this context: The pronounced disapproval with which topics around sexuality were viewed meant that its most colourful components acquired, ironically, a life of their own, feelings of taboo fuelling a mischievous appetite for the text. In actual fact, though, the Kamasutra is more than a manual for love-making—of the seven books that constitute its body, only the second is strictly concerned with methods of human congress. Burton, bent as he was on “the sexual liberation of Victorian society”, seems to have highlighted these while watering down other elements. But despite such interventions, even in that first 1883 translation, of 175-odd pages, Burton could devote only 40 to this theme. The remainder of the Kamasutra, in fact, offers a much wider series of discussions for the benefit of its wealthy and primarily male audience, covering not only sex but also matters of aesthetics and more.

Book 5, for example, concerns itself with extramarital affairs and how one ought to go about getting in bed with another’s spouse, while another section in the same book investigates, tantalizingly but ultimately disappointingly, “Why Women Get Turned Off”. In Book 1, we learn that if men of culture want to remain men of culture, they must allocate time every five-10 days to the removal of all their body hair. Married women are generally not to be seduced, we are taught, but if it helps to gain influence over a powerful husband or even perhaps to erase him from the world and acquire his wealth, it is acceptable to bed the wife as a weapon for one’s personal ambitions and avarice. In these sections, then, the Kamasutra might well have been inspired by cold, calculating Chanakya and his utterly pragmatic Arthashastra.

The writer Hanif Kureishi once similarly noted that the Kamasutra is less like Lord Byron’s heady romances and closer to P.G. Wodehouse’s wit in much of its tone. “One can wager on kisses,” argues Vatsyayana, for “whichever of the partners first gets to the other’s lower lip wins.” In order to seduce a woman, a man must be prepared to go flower-picking with her, to play in her doll house, and, perhaps most essentially, cultivate her closest friend, who, in an ideal society, is her wet-nurse’s daughter. Where courtesans are concerned, Vatsyayana advises them to avoid by all means patrons with worms in their stool—or whose breath “smells of crows”. They must also, he warns, never surrender reason, feeling free to manipulate men for money and goods. And if a patron were no longer capable, of providing said money and goods, he was to be discarded. One suggested route was to alienate him with markedly unpleasant behaviour: “Curling the lip in a sneer” and “stamping on the ground” promised success, evidently. “Ignoring him” was also an option.

There are, however, parts of the Kamasutra that make for highly uncomfortable reading, especially in this time when #MeToo has sparked such troubled introspection; sections that, as scholar Wendy Doniger notes, seem to justify the seduction-by-sexual-assault school of thinking. So while one can laugh at the Kamasutra’s assertion that the male “instrument” (ideally pierced) smeared with honey, powdered thornapple and black pepper provides divine ecstasies to the female, one cannot quite digest that a man can confidently proceed with intercourse with a woman when “her mouth says no, but her eyes say yes”. Where at one point he is clear that “a girl who is asleep, weeping or absent” cannot be a bride, Vatsyayana still allows a wedding technique that involves getting the lady drunk, and taking her “maidenhead” while she is unconscious. Of course, given its age and context, it is not surprising that the Kamasutra speaks in a male voice with erroneous male preconceptions. Compared to contemporaneous texts like the Manusmriti, however, the Kamasutra is replete with commentaries by women—and it recognizes the right to pleasure for the female too.

Vatsyayana’s approach to the third gender, on homosexuality and bisexuality, also makes for gripping reading (and interpretation), so that in the overall analysis of the work—a very good recent translation being A.N.D. Haksar’s—one feels partly surprised, partly amused, but always certainly interested. For all its sometimes outlandish views on life, marriage and intimacy, the Kamasutra remains a thoroughly fascinating work of art and cultural heritage, one we must read for more than a mere list of bedroom positions. That, in the end, is the secret of its enduring appeal.

(My column in Mint Lounge, February 03 2018)


Perhaps if Meerabai of Mewar had jumped into a fire, she too might have had armies of 21st century men prepared to smash glass and destroy public property in the name of protecting her honour. After all, nothing rouses patriarchal masculine pride more than illusions of stoic sacrifice by unreal beauties, who, between managing their heavy jewels and rich skirts, spout tedious lines about valour and fortitude. So where (the possibly fictional) Padmavati, by dying the way she is supposed to have, went down as the right kind of tragic heroine, the definitely real Meerabai presents a minor problem by refusing to bow out in the correct fashion. On the contrary, far from yearning to kill herself after her husband succumbed on the battlefield, Meerabai declared firmly, “I will not be a sati.” She chose, awkwardly instead, to live for decades more, singing praises of her favourite deity, Krishna, while rejecting pressures from the muscular guardians of Rajput society. While patriarchy accommodated her as an icon of feminine, god-loving devotion, in her own verses, we find also a lady with a mind of her own; one who stood up to all established norms of honour, and to the authority of every mortal man around her.

Meerabai was born at the dawn of the 16th century in Merta in Rajasthan. According to hagiographies composed by her earliest admirers, this motherless child was raised in her grandfather’s household, and from a tender age showed great affection for Krishna. Around 1516, when in her late teens, she married Bhojraj, son of the legendary Rana Sangha of Mewar. Their complicated union did not last, however, for in the next decade, Meerabai lost her husband and her footing in his royal household. Her refusal to commit sati might have added to the erosion of status that came automatically with widowhood, but she did not care about being perceived as an inconvenient woman. As one of her verses, addressed, evidently, to her husband’s heir, declares: “Rana, to me this slander is sweet…Mira’s lord is (Krishna): let the wicked burn in a furnace.” There is no doubt that Meerabai was passionate in her love for God—some of her greatest works are those expressing deep sorrow at her “separation” from her divine beloved. But there is also no doubt that hers was a voice that challenged the world, refusing the control her husband’s relations sought to exercise in the name of their own prestige and her patent lack of aristocratic reserve.

Some of this resistance is encapsulated in Nabhadas’ Bhaktamal, composed soon after Meerabai’s time. “Modesty in public, the chains of family life/Mira shed both for the Lifter of Mountains,” the saint writes, for instance. So too she had “no inhibitions” and was “totally fearless”. “She cringed before none, she beat love’s drum.” In other words, far from leading an unobtrusive life in widow’s garb or fitting into the role of a pativrata (devoted wife), as Padmavati is supposed to have done, Meerabai engaged freely with other devotees and moved in spaces not ordinarily permitted to women. Her interlocutors, furthermore, included a diverse cast of men, from backgrounds that did not make them ideal companions for a Rajput widow. Where custom demanded social invisibility of her, Meerabai chose the opposite, further enraging her family. Still, she did not care—“I don’t like your strange world, Rana,” she records. “A world where there are no holy men, and all the people are trash.” Indeed, in the face of her resolve, there was even an attempt to poison her, but our poet was uncowed: “Rana,” she announced, “nobody can prevent me from going to the saints. I don’t care what the people say.”

Eventually, Meerabai was cast out and became even more determined in her ways. “Fools sit on thrones,” she sang, while “Wise men beg for a little bread.”Elsewhere she proclaims: “If Rana is angry, he can keep his kingdom/But if God is offended…I will wither,” making clear where her loyalties resided. “She danced,” writes Bhakta Dhruvadas, “with anklebells on her feet and with castanets in her hands. In the purity of her heart, she met the devotees of God, and realized the pettiness of the world.” Much had to be given up, but she did so readily in the pursuit of her calling. “What I paid,” writes Meerabai, “was my social body, my town body, my family body, and all my inherited jewels.” With Krishna as her focus, however, she was able to survive every loss and become one with the people. She would sing his songs and, through him, be also her own person.

In due course, Meerabai became a travelling saint, an outcast where she was once a princess. Her satsangs were attended by many, but the path was riddled with privations and tests—there are even those within the Bhakti tradition who challenged her or sought to take advantage of this woman on her own. But she survived, dying on her own terms in Dwarka by the middle of the century (and not in a blazing flame). Her story has since found several takers—Mahatma Gandhi saw an exemplar of non-violent resistance, while Carnatic singer M.S. Subbulakshmi highlighted Meerabai’s religiosity at the cinema. But just as importantly, in what is often forgotten, Meerabai also “disowned, defied and subverted the…values associated with powerful and entrenched institutions—family, marriage, caste, clan, royalty and even the realm of bhakti.” She threw off the weight of expectations from every quarter, and painstakingly embraced only that which brought her closer to God. Passion, flaws, rejection and greatness were all woven into this mortal one, remembered to this day by that fascinating, immortal name, Meerabai of Mewar. And so she went down as the woman she truly was, refusing to become another Padmavati, that paragon of monochrome glory.

(My column in Mint Lounge, January 20 2018)


It is tempting to wonder if Swami Vivekananda might have achieved his enduring appeal had he chosen to remain a “Vividishinanda”, or even a “Sachchidananda”, at the time of his defining visit to the US. These were, after all, names he preferred at various points, before finally confirming, in 1893, the label by which the world remembers him.

“Vivekananda” certainly rolls better off the tongue than the other options, but significantly, it is also the name by which this peerless Bengali monk has been appropriated by practically every political camp in contemporary India, to deploy in support of even antithetical motives. To those whose blood is not red but saffron, he was a champion of Hindu pride. Those, on the other hand, who abhor majoritarian impulses, also point to the very same man, in whose preachings may be found endorsements of a liberal nature. Veritably, this iconic thinker-saint, whose birth anniversary it was on 12 January, has emerged as everybody’s favourite, precisely because he can be different things to different people.

Vivekananda’s story is well established: born as Narendranath into a bhadralok (genteel) family in Kolkata, a promising academic career, his encounter with the spiritual master Ramakrishna, and his transformation thereon as not only an architect of modern Hindu thought but also as a messenger for India itself. What firmly confirmed him as a force, however, was his famous address at the Parliament of Religions in Chicago. As his Irish disciple, Sister Nivedita, remarked, “it may be said that when he began to speak” at that 1893 gathering, “it was of the religious ideas of the Hindus”. By the time he had finished his monumental address, “Hinduism had been created”.

This modern rendition of ancient traditions entitled him to honour, but some offer fantastical tales that heralded much earlier the certainty of distinction. He was Shiva incarnate because, as a child, the only way to calm his mischief was to pour “cold water on his head and simultaneously (chant) the name of Shiva”. When a snake slithered into Narendranath’s room while he meditated, so admiring was the reptile that it sat still, utterly transfixed. These stories served their purpose in romanticizing Vivekananda’s work with magical, god-ordained destiny, but we can safely conclude that they are entirely apocryphal.

The philosophy he upheld was a refashioned Advaita Vedanta. But esoteric concerns aside, what electrified minds was his blending of religious reawakening with national reinvigoration. After generations of inferiority complex fed by a colonial state—that India was rotten and devoid of civilizational value—Vivekananda refused to argue on conventional terms. “Let others,” he declared, “talk of politics…of the immense wealth poured in by trade, of the power and spread of commercialism, of the glorious fountain of physical liberty.” The “Hindu mind” did not care—India’s mission was not to count coins, focused as it was on “the evolution of spiritual humanity”.

This formula emphasizing spirituality was not original, but where Vivekananda differed from previous reformers—who too sought to restore confidence but whose message circulated within the elite—was in his conviction that the masses needed awakening, and that religion was the medium for it. “Before flooding India with socialistic or political ideas,” he argued, “first deluge the land with spiritual ideas.” That he travelled the length of this vast country, and to places as distant as Nagasaki and New York, further energized his cause.

His spiritual ideas were derived from Sanskrit philosophy, even though its dissemination was not to remain in the language of philosophers. “It is an insult to a starving man to teach him metaphysics,” he observed. Things would have to be simplified, translated into vernaculars, and “fiery” missionaries enlisted to transport this message. Old movements such as the Bhakti of popular worship had to be discarded. While in Chicago he highlighted divine love, in India he saw Bhakti as making the nation “a race of women!” Odisha, for example, was “a land of cowards; and Bengal,” he admonished, “has almost lost all sense of manliness”.

While not violent, Vivekananda envisioned Hinduism as a proactive faith and not one that remained complacent in disorganized variety. Such a reinvention of Hinduism, he affirmed, was the key to “awaken the national consciousness”. Internal differences had to be weeded out, because “the whole secret lies in organization, accumulation of power, (and) coordination of wills”.

Reformers from below, for instance, were not to show aggression against orthodox Brahminism. An example Vivekananda cited was the American blacks. “Before the abolition, these poor negroes were the property of somebody, and…(were) looked after…Today they are the property of nobody. Their lives are of no value.” So, too, in India, despite injustices of caste, it was unwise to attempt to push the elite out of the way, crippling unity. Besides, “To the non-Brahmin castes I say…you are suffering from your own fault. Who told you to neglect spirituality and Sanskrit learning?…Why do you fret and fume because somebody else had more brains, more energy, more pluck..than you?” Despite problematic pronouncements as this one in 1897, to his global audience, Vivekananda’s voice was refreshingly open. “I am proud to belong to a religion which has taught the world both tolerance and universal acceptance. We believe not only in universal toleration, but we accept all religions as true”—a message highlighted by liberal Hindus to challenge the often physical violence unleashed against minorities in India today.

There were in Vivekananda’s message contradictions, and indeed he may have had more than one message. In his own time, however, these did not seem like contradictions at all. He simply spoke to different people in different ways. To Indians battling caste, speaking multiple languages, and with regional identities, his purpose was to engender national unity by reinventing Hinduism. To those abroad, his mission was to present Hinduism not as that tangled jungle of superstition the British saw, but as a mature, magnificent faith. Consistency wasn’t perhaps Vivekananda’s strong point, but, in the end, it was also precisely his inconsistency that made him such an appealing figure to such large numbers of people in India as well as abroad.

(My column in Mint Lounge, January 13 2018)


She lies buried amidst sepulchres that house the remains of many who are still famous. There is Jim Morrison on the premises, the American rock legend whom trains of tourists come to pay homage, like pilgrims bearing flowers. Edith Piaf, the waif who sang her way to greatness, finds her peace nearby, as does Frederic Chopin, the composer whose pickled heart is in Warsaw but whose body dissolves in the French capital. Benjamin Franklin’s grandson rests here, and in the vicinity there is a man believed to have been sired by Napoleon. Oscar Wilde’s sculpted grave competes with Marcel Proust’s neat bed of stone, and many more still are the artists, writers, and persons of esteem who crowd the hillside cemetery that is Père Lachaise in Paris. And yet, between them all, under a platform of rugged rock, lies this tragic Indian woman. Her name and cause have been largely forgotten, but since 1858, she has been here, longer than many of her revered neighbours. Tourists walk by with cameras, oblivious to her unmarked square existence. But every now and then there is a stray visitor who arrives on a quest: to locate the final resting place of that remarkable woman, the last queen of Awadh.

I was that visitor a few days ago, when I trekked up Paris’ most famous graveyard to look for this forgotten tomb. The lady appears in yellowed old books by several names. She was to some Malika Kishwar, while others knew her as Janab-i Aliyah, Her Sublime Excellency, mother to the ruler of “Oude”, Wajid Ali Shah. In 1856, when the British deposed this nawab from his ancestral seat in Lucknow, his family departed for colonial Calcutta, with all the money they could gather and what dignity they had left. But while the son (a “crazy imbecile” in the eyes of his sneering oppressors) prepared to fade quietly into history, the mother was determined to win back that which was her family’s by right. That very year, this woman who knew little beyond her sequestered palace, set foot on a ship, determined to sail to England so she might speak—woman to woman—to the English queen in person. After all, declared the middle-aged begum, Victoria was “also a mother”; she would recognize the despair her people had unleashed, and restore to the House of Awadh territory, titles, and its rightful honour. And so proceeded Malika Kishwar, her health already in decline, braving cold winds in a foreign land, to plead the cause of royal justice.

The mission was doomed from the start. Advisers were many and much was the money they sought for the privilege of their counsel. The results, meanwhile, were nowhere to be found. As historian Rosie Llewellyn-Jones records, Kishwar discovered quickly enough that Queen Victoria, in her “circular dress”, had little power to bestow anything more than polite conversation on her and her Awadhi line—when an audience was granted, they spoke about boats and English mansions, not about imperial treacheries and the unjust business in Lucknow. In the British parliament, things got worse. A prayer at long last prepared was dismissed on spurious bureaucratic grounds: the begum was to submit a “humble petition”, words that she failed to use in the document laid before the House. While her son accepted British imperium, the mother was obstinate in battle. So, when she wished to travel, they sought to dragoon her into acknowledging their suzerainty—if Malika Kishwar and her ménage wanted passports, she would have to declare herself a “British subject”. The begum refused to do anything of the sort, prepared, at best, to be under “British protection”, but never anybody’s “subject”. And legal quibbles aside, the Great Rebellion of 1857 compounded matters—there was now no prospect of relinquishing even a fragment of British power when the hour called for a demonstration of obdurate strength alone. Awadh was lost forever.

The tide having turned, in 1858, the begum decided to return at last, defeated and unhappy in the extreme. But in Paris she fell ill and died on 24 January. The funeral was simple, but there was yet some dignity and state—representatives of the Turkish and Persian sultans gave this Indian queen the regard the British denied her and her line. A cenotaph was constructed by the grave, but it has long since fallen to pieces—when decades later the authorities at Père Lachaise sought funds to repair the tomb, her exiled son decided from Calcutta that it was simply not worth his pension, while the colonial state was even less inclined to honour a difficult woman lying several feet underground in an alien European country. And so, since that time, in a graveyard full of magnificent memorials, the queen of Awadh has remained, a shell of broken stone sheltering her from the weeds and overgrowth that alone have made a claim upon her and the story that she tells.

Others of her suite also suffered. A younger son had come with her, Sikandar Hashmat by name. He died in England, and was carried to join his mother in her unmarked grave. A grandson’s infant child was also buried within, turning the tally in Paris to three. But it was in London that one more of the delegation fell, this one a baby princess, born to Sikandar Hashmat from his Rajput wife on British shores. I walked around a dull little place called Kilburn to look for this grave. And there, in a cemetery, after an hour between tombs set in the soggy English ground, I found a memorial to the child: Princess Omdutel Aurau Begum, “who died 14th April 1858”, months after her grandmother who was once a queen. But Omdutel, all of 18 months, had a minor triumph where her royal grandmother had none—lying by a pathway in that cemetery in Kilburn, her grave at least bears her name. The begum, on the other hand, has become to the passing tourist at Père Lachaise in Paris a plinth on which to rest, smoking a cigarette and looking on to a horizon full of the dead, till a stranger might appear to tell how they have under them pieces of a fascinating woman, and the remains of one of Indian history’s most unhappy tales.

(My column in Mint Lounge, January 6 2018)


In 1757, on the eve of the historic Battle of Plassey, a merchant called Amir Chand threw in an alarming demand at Robert Clive’s table. “Omichund”, as the English knew him, had served the East India Company, assisting in their shaky relationship with the nawab of Bengal. Now, however, as war looked inevitable, he also made himself indispensable, helping hatch that infamous plot by which the nawab’s commander, Mir Jafar, was to betray his sovereign and join ranks with the Company. At the last minute, however, Omichund put forth an ominous clause—he wanted Rs30 lakh for his services, failing which he would (regretfully) divulge the scheme to the nawab himself. Colonel Clive was upset. But he was also shrewd: two copies of the pact with Mir Jafar were prepared. The counterfeit carried Omichund’s clause, while the actual agreement said nothing about his reward. And when everything was over and the English had prevailed, the old merchant was summoned and simply told: “Omichund, the red paper is a trick, you are to have nothing!”

It is said that Omichund died a broken man. Two of his sons left colonial Calcutta to do business in Varanasi instead, where prosperity came to them soon enough. But it would be some generations before one of their line could redeem the reputation of their perfidious ancestor. To be sure, this great-grandson, Harishchandra, often referred to as Bharatendu (Moon of India), was not a vengeful nationalist—before he died this day in 1885, many were the occasions when he hosted gatherings to demonstrate affection for the Raj that betrayed his forebear. But even as he sang of “the Western rays of civilization” and the “progressive policy of the British nation”, Harishchandra’s contributions to the development of Hindi carved for him a place in the eyes of posterity. He might have composed panegyrics when births and weddings took place in Queen Victoria’s household, but it was also his pen that helped propel a movement to transform a neglected language of mixed origins into a mass cultural campaign that culminated in that famous cry, “Hindi, Hindu, Hindustan”.

Harishchandra began life in 1850 in a combination of tragedy and grandiosity. He lost his parents young but grew up so rich that all his life his greatest difficulty was how not to mismanage more of his money. He founded and edited one of India’s first women’s journals, Balabodhini, but to his own wife all he offered was neglect. If an object caught his eye—a camera perhaps, or new perfume—he required it at once. “This money,” he laughed, “has eaten my ancestors; now I am going to eat it.” But even as he reduced life into an oscillation between debt and extravagance, he also left behind a mark that endures to this day. His Kavivachansudha (founded 1868) and Harishchandrachandrika (founded 1873) emerged as iconic platforms for literary exchange in northern India. Featuring Dadabhai Naoroji’s drain theory as well as news from the local Dharma Sabha, it was through these publications that Harishchandra, as the scholar Vasudha Dalmia notes, “veritably created literary Hindi” even as he gently voiced his support for Hindu consolidation. He became a catalyst for a vernacular nationalism that would achieve full force in the following century, rising simultaneously as the “Father of Modern Hindi Literature and Hindi Theatre”.

If modern Hindi is today well entrenched, where it comes from is an issue that still provokes debate. As Prof. Harish Trivedi writes, “Hindi was commonly perceived to be an underdeveloped and underprivileged language, fragmented into several competing dialects, backward and dusty by association with its largely rural constituency”. The British recognized Urdu as the north’s language of government. Since it was spoken primarily by elite Muslims, however, this stirred resentment among others who competed for jobs but did not know Urdu. As Harishchandra argued, thanks to this official bias, Muslims enjoyed “a sort of monopoly” where employment was concerned, which was not only “injustice” but also “a cause of annoyance and inconvenience” to masses of Hindi speakers who also happened largely to be Hindus. The matter was not black and white, but the message carried resonance. Both languages were cousins derived from the same roots—one was truer to Sanskrit, while the other had gained much from Arabic and Persian. Now they became rivals.

But this time also coincided with an urge to make new literature—something modern and fitted to emerging feelings of cultural and political nationalism. Much of the poetry in Hindi was in the Brajbhasha and Avadhi dialects, traditionally considered prestigious but thought to be encumbered by an excess of devotion and piety. Khariboli, the dialect spoken around Delhi and present-day Uttar Pradesh, on the other hand, was an open vessel for literary innovation. “The progress of one’s own language is the root of all progress,” Harishchandra argued, and page after page in his magazine was devoted to plays, poetry, satire and essays, all of which combined to create a new corpus for speakers of an increasingly standardized Hindi. Khariboli was swiftly invested with pride and disseminated widely through Harishchandra’s energy and enthusiasm. Only he could have pulled it off—wealthy, flamboyant, and with personal networks stretching from British officials to Bengal’s reformers, he was noticed in the right circles. That he also centred his activities in Varanasi, a city of special significance for Hindus in a time of political consolidation, further legitimized his ventures.

In 1885, not yet 35, Harischandra died, by now less convinced of the Raj and its goodness for India. But what he had helped launch assumed a life of its own, becoming the Standard Modern Hindi of today in the course of a few decades. By 1893, a Nagari Pracharini Sabha emerged to lobby for official recognition of Hindi and Devanagari—the request was granted in 1900. By 1910, a Hindi Sahitya Sammelan was born, of which Gandhi remained a member longer than he was of the Congress. Poets and writers raised to think of Urdu as the language of culture, invested increasingly in Hindi. As Premchand wrote in 1915, “Urdu will no longer do. Has any Hindu ever made a success of writing in Urdu, that I will?” This “Hindi Renaissance” was infused with nationalism and some even drew links to 1857—seeds of a standardized Hindi were sown when speakers of various dialects united for the “First War of Independence” and recognized themselves as one people. Harishchandra, however, did not live to see the fruits of his work—but for many, by helping Hindi rise to its feet, he had more than paid off his ancestor’s debt. Omichund may have erred by siding with the British, but by creating a vehicle for cultural and national aspirations, Harishchandra had earned only honour.

(My column in Mint Lounge, December 30 2017)


In December 1982, The Illustrated Weekly Of India carried a story on an Indian painter and her latest series, inspired by classical mythology. The feature included a number of photographs, and had followed exhibitions at the Jehangir and Taj art galleries in Mumbai. While Society magazine described a “minor stampede” at the venues, part of this was also because many were interested in the women who appeared in these canvases. After all, the artist had been true to descriptions in the epics: Where the Mahabharat relates how Vishwamitra saw Menaka “nude” after her skirt went “off with the wind”, and “lusted to lie with her”, the painter of these works had indeed created a sage with a face that weighed his options, beholding an apsara (celestial nymph) who wore jewels but had truly lost her clothes. The reviews were not kind—emphasis was placed on the word “nude”. But even as the painter K.H. Ara told her to ignore critics, what upset the artist were the threats that followed. As a letter to the Illust