(Published in Mint Lounge, October 19 2024)

In 1875, when the Prince of Wales visited India on a grand public relations tour, officials were confronted with an awkward issue. In keeping with protocol, wherever Queen Victoria’s son went, he would receive presents, from representatives of the Indian people as well as assorted rajahs and nawabs. Madurai’s residents, for example, offered a beautiful “gold basket”. A rani presented a “boomerang of steel inlaid with silver and gold mountings” while a rajah gave a bed of ivory (a naughty gesture, perhaps, given the prince’s known proclivity for climbing into beds where he did not belong). Over the next few months, Edward collected over 2,000 items in the subcontinent, ranging from jewellery and armour to nutcrackers. The trouble, though, was this: the standard of the gifts acquired by this representative of imperial might surpassed those he was able to offer in return. In south India alone, the value of presents he gave was £8,000; the gifts he received, on the other hand, were worth some £20,000.

It is no wonder that his entourage was unhappy. The exchange of gifts in political settings was rarely an innocent demonstration of affection. It was, instead, an instrument of politics. Britain had mastered India, and loudly advertised its glory. It was embarrassing, therefore, when the queen’s heir showed up in the country with a crate of niggardly gifts. Interestingly, this was not the first time Europeans found themselves in this situation. Even at the dawn of colonialism in India, there had been a list of laughably bad presents. In 1498, when Vasco da Gama—full of pride and bearing a presumptuous inventory of commercial demands—reached the court of the Zamorin of Calicut, he was asked what gifts he had brought. The Portuguese aristocrat declared “twelve pieces of striped cloth, four scarlet hoods, six hats, four strings of coral, a case of six wash-hand basins, a case of sugar, two casks of oil, and two of honey”.The Zamorin’s agents snorted—Portugal could hardly be a great kingdom if this were the quality of its diplomatic presents.

The derision, of course, did not go down well; in time the Portuguese would wage war against the Zamorin, and a later colonial power, the Dutch, were even able to “gift” (read impose on) a Kerala ruler a crown—bearing Dutch insignia, this was less a mark of sovereignty, more a symbol of the brown man’s vassalage. Indeed, even enemies and rivals were treated to presents, used in such instances to convey polite warnings. The Persian epic Shahnameh narrates the story of how an Indian envoy presented the vizier of the Persian emperor a strange cloth of black and white squares, with little carved pieces representing knights, cavalry, infantry, etc. It was, of course, the game of chess. And as much as the emperor and his minister were thrilled with this fresh diversion, the gift also conveyed a message. As historian David Chaffetz narrates, that board game “sent a warning that the Indian monarch’s army had mastered all these means of warfare, so the Iranians had better treat him with the appropriate respect”. It was a gift, yes, but also a gentle flex.

With gifts representing deeper meanings, it is not surprising that political grandees sometimes actively demanded high-quality presents. The Mughal conquest of the Deccan began under Akbar, and ended with his great-grandson, Aurangzeb. In the century filling this gap, there were wars but also many diplomatic exchanges. Bijapur’s sultan, Ibrahim Adil Shah II, for example, often purchased peace instead of putting himself through the inconvenience of fighting. One method was to ply the Mughal ambassador with gifts, incentivising him to drag his feet on political negotiations. But the emperor saw through the trick, despatching a tougher nut next. This man extracted from Ibrahim sizeable “gifts”, including his favourite elephant (Chanchal) and a prized Arabian horse (Chini). The demand for jewels was so transparent that the sultan had to plead he only had his own ornaments left. Ibrahim even had to part with a “bejewelled vase holder” that had been a personal present from his mother.

When diplomatic embassies returned, such presents were heaped up in the durbar, not just as a treat for the emperor’s eyes but also a signal to his court—and envoys from other lands—of the vastness of his power and reach. It is no wonder, then, that Akbar wanted his envoy to head back to the Deccan almost at once, “to collect whatever they may have of fine elephants and rare jewels throughout their dominions… You must not relax your effort as long as there is one fine elephant or rare jewel out of your grasp in the Deccan”. This was warfare by subtler means: a full military triumph was unlikely anytime soon, so instead psychological tactics were in play. None of the Deccan states was to be permitted to possess anything of significance; nothing that might allow them to showcase any grandeur. The emperor alone could be the repository of jewels and elephants in India, establishing his superiority. Gift-giving here took the form of ceremonious extortion.

Presents could also signal protest and highlight injustices. In 1861, the maharajah of Mysore—who had been deprived of control of his state for some 30 years without any legal basis—sent valuables to Queen Victoria. The consignment featured the usual items: diamond and pearl ornaments, symbols of sovereignty such as parasols and flywhisks and even high-grade cattle. The maharajah had been trying to obtain the return of his state for quite some time. British authorities in India were against him, and plans were afoot to appropriate Mysore permanently on his demise. The gifts sent to Victoria—at once demonstrating loyalty but also the sender’s own status as a ruler—were an attempt to circumvent the Raj’s hostile bureaucracy. After all, following the Great Rebellion of 1857, the queen had assured Indian princes that their political and dynastic rights would be respected. Through his presents, the maharajah was testing the sincerity of her imperial promise.

Of course, there were also gifts the giver could end up regretting. In the late 19th century, the heir apparent to the throne of Travancore wanted to make a show of his own status, chafing as he was in the shadow of his uncle, the ruler. He made a stately gesture—the present of a lakh of rupees to the temple of his family deity. This was a rather substantial sum back then, and someone told the prince off for his extravagance. With the proverbial tail between his legs, the man requested the return of his gift. The maharajah, who was obviously displeased that a family subordinate was trying to outshine him, now smirked. No, he told the prince; a gift once made to the deity could not be resumed//reassumed?. The prince complained to the British, who had their own reasons to interfere and try and control the maharajah. But again, the ruler refused: presents made to a temple could not be returned. Sure, the Raj were Travancore’s superiors; but god, he seemed to say, outranked even the British.