(Published in Mint Lounge, January 11 2025)

In February 1798, as the septuagenarian maharajah of Travancore lay dying, he had occasion to reflect on his four-decade-long kingly career. There was much he had achieved: the conquest of fresh territories from an old rival, the defence of this and other possessions from a different enemy, a reputation as a dharmic ruler, and more. And yet as death crept up on him, he could not help but notice that it was an inauspicious day—inauspicious, that is, for the business of dying, as per Hindu belief. He sighed, the story goes, and remarked to his attendants that it was “unavoidable considering the sins of war I have committed”. In his pursuit of power and glory, there had been violence and bloodshed. “I can never forget,” rued the old man, “the horrors to which we have been parties.” How, then, could he expect to die on more ritually desirable terms? “May God,” he finished, “forgive me all my sins.”

The death of great personages triggers a spectrum of responses and events. Leaving aside how they judge themselves, some are viewed favourably on their demise, even if in life they were disappointed. We saw this last month with the passing of former Prime Minister Manmohan Singh. “History will be kinder to me,” he declared at the height of his unpopularity. While good histories are yet to be written of his term, newspaper headlines are certainly nicer to him now than they had been at the peak of his power. Others, however, face the opposite problem: they are celebrated in life, only for the romance to collapse with their passing. In the 19th century, for instance, there was a prominent Indian statesman; a real icon to the intelligentsia. Yet by the end of the man’s life, the dawn of nationalism led to less generous appraisals—he was seen as too moderate towards the British Raj. So, where their fathers idolised T. Madhava Rao, succeeding generations barely registered his name.

Luckily for historical figures, popularity and unpopularity are cyclical. An eclipse today might not mean a permanent dismissal. The artist Ravi Varma is a case in point. He was applauded throughout his career, making money, winning honours, and playing a role in even crafting a pan-Indian (Hindu) imagery for nationalists. When he died, brown and white men both issued laments, and the event was widely covered in the press. Yet within less than a decade his legacy was under siege: by painting in a Western style, he was judged as having succumbed to foreign influences. Through the 20th century, his work was derided as mere “calendar art”—until in the 1990s there was a revival. Today, Ravi Varma again commands respect. The wave of anti-colonial feeling having receded, it was possible to look upon his art through a less hostile lens. Things, for this person at least, came a full circle, albeit a century after his death.

Yet while reputations see-saw in the long arc of history, the death of great people—especially if they are still in office at the time of their exit—can also provoke dangerous tremors. When the Mughal emperor Akbar—who had reigned for decades and become a fixture in his people’s imagination—died in 1605, there was panic. As the merchant Banarasidas later wrote of Jaunpur, the “townsfolk were afraid”. There was “chaos in the city”, riots “everywhere”, and shops and homes were shuttered. “Fine clothes and expensive jewellery—these, people buried underground,” he added. “Books recording their business transactions they buried somewhere else”. For 10 days, until news arrived of a smooth transfer of power, the city was tense. Would there be war? A breakdown of order? When Jahangir’s succession was relayed at last, the people gave “thanks in relief”. Someone was in charge of things again.

Lest we believe such fears were purely a medieval concern, long after Akbar, another death was also received with trepidation. As Jawaharlal Nehru went to the grave in 1964, there were jitters about not just his political party holding together, but also the republic of which he had been a founding father. There were insurgencies, secessionist movements, economic troubles, not to speak of troublesome neighbours and the question of national prestige. As the defence minister Yashwantrao Chavan declared, the whole world was watching, and “we must do everything possible to…achieve unanimity.” An ugly contest over who deserved to fill Nehru’s shoes would make Indians look as though they were incapable of managing these matters. It could invite interference from without and embolden dangerous forces within. In the end Lal Bahadur Shastri was chosen as the man “least likely to divide and most likely to unite”.

Crude though it sounds, one man’s death is often another man’s opportunity—and sometimes a woman’s too. Many are the female figures in Indian history who were able to shine after the men around them unexpectedly fell off the proverbial stage. It was Daulat Rao Scindia’s death in 1827, for instance, that allowed the formidable Baiza Bai to rule Gwalior for six years. The childless maharani—an established businesswoman and banker already—had every intention to wield power for the rest of her days. But then an heir she grudgingly adopted grew up. And with the appearance of a man again, pressures mounted and she was ousted. What is ironic in her story is that when her husband died, she made loud declarations about wishing to burn herself on his pyre. But as one official put it, “Nobody believes this as regards Baiza Bai.” She had a lot at stake and was not the type to follow her husband too promptly into the afterlife; not when she at last had an opening to enjoy sovereign power.

Nevertheless, even the most remarkable people were not immune to the fear of death, and of the weight of sins they accumulated in the exercise of their power. And some among them believed that while they would never know what posterity made of them, they could manipulate divine judgement. In India we have had, after all, leaders whose religiosity grew in tandem with the number of years they spent in office. Why, in his last phase, even the rationalist Nehru was evidently willing to entertain astrologers. But nothing can beat what that aforementioned Travancore maharajah’s heirs devised to leave this world on favourable terms. Every time a ruler of that state was on his deathbed, a Brahmin would be found to embrace him, thereby assuming his sins. This volunteer was then escorted to the principality’s borders and seen off permanently—with a monetary reward for his kind cooperation. That way, even if you feared the consequences of your actions, as death approached, you could offload your sins and hedge your bets.