Review: The Lion and the Lily by Ira Mukhoty
A picture of the glory days of Awadh in the eighteenth century, the book draws connections between global events of the time, the struggle for power between the British and the French, and the rapacity of the East India Company
Ira Mukhoty’s The Lion and the Lily presents an immersive account of the first 100 years of nawabi rule in Awadh, a region that’s now part of Uttar Pradesh, and the golden age of the capital cities of Ayodhya and Lucknow. She writes admiringly of how the nawabs sculpted a renaissance. From the patronage of artists like Mehr Chand and Johann Zoffany, the commissioning of translations of ancient Hindu texts and poetry, and the encouragement of culinary experimentation — most evident in galouti kebabs, originally comprising nearly 150 ingredients, including pure silver, gold and pearls — the charms of Awadh were second to none.
The book brings to life Shuja-ud-Daula and Asaf-ud-Daula’s many contests and conquests in eighteenth century north India. While the first part details Shuja’s life and his support of the Mughal emperor Shah Alam II in the Battle of Buxar, the successive sections document Asaf’s reign. When he first rose to power, Asaf’s merit was besmirched by the British. His homosexuality — an open secret in the Awadhi kingdom — repelled them. But though they vilified him for his supposedly effeminate interests and his inefficiency as a ruler, his legacy continues to stand tall even today, perhaps most tangibly in the Bada Imambara of Lucknow. Mukhoty painstakingly documents this legacy in an attempt to undo the erasures orchestrated by the colonial power.
She also deftly draws connections between global events of the time including the American Revolutionary War and the French Revolution. The British posed countless challenges to Asaf’s reign and worked with voracious appetites to devour as many of his riches as they could. The East India Company’s loot and plunder of eighteenth-century India is appalling to read, and Mukhoty effectively shows how the corporation created a menacing machinery of disinformation to bully Indian rulers into paying exorbitant subsidies.
At the time, the British and the French were in a state of ceaseless war. From their wars in the Americas in the 1770s where the Britishers faced humiliating defeat, to the constant anxiety of a French invasion, fear and paranoia “would foment many excesses and would be used repeatedly to justify violence and repression (in the colonies).” All of it fed into the project of British imperialism. India was not only a golden goose to finance these wars, but also a crucible where colonial battles were fought.
The Lion and the Lily unveils how this rivalry exploited the independent kingdoms of India with the EIC engaging in “aggressive overseas conquest and empire-building” to “blockade French ambitions”. The French had established themselves in the country before the British, and, as Mukhoty explains, often co-existed peacefully with the kings of India. But with rising tensions in Europe towards the end of the eighteenth century, it became essential for the EIC to eliminate the French, if they wanted to exercise complete control over India. By labelling the native population as the barbaric Other, their “civilising mission” became an elaborate exercise in megalomania — they manufactured or faked conflict where there was none to justify plundering the country and destabilising France’s economy which was built on colonies like India.
After Asaf’s untimely death in September 1797, his heir Wazir Ali was deposed by the British in another round of propaganda and vilification. His claim to the throne was contested by casting doubts on his lineage. Awadh was atrophied by the British, never to recover.
One of the most engrossing sections in the book deals with the siege of Seringapatam. Having dismantled the north, in 1799, an allied force of 50,000 soldiers from the British, Maratha and Hyderabadi troops laid siege to Tipu Sultan’s fortress, the last bastion of resistance against the British in India. Scholars have suggested that Tipu Sultan’s downfall proved to be a new dawn for the East India Company in India. The EIC insinuated that Tipu was leading a Jacobite insurgency in Mysore — among various other reasons to justify the siege and desecration of the fortress. Often, these reasons for bloodshed and brutality were provided to the British government only after the war had already been won by its rapacious emissaries, as in Seringapatam. These reports were easy to forge, and perhaps served as the blueprint for manipulative strains of autocracy that would later be seen in Germany and Hungary.
his account of the EIC’s rampage in India definitely repels the contemporary reader. The wars they fought on the battlefields have been documented frequently enough but a few of the diplomatic battles have not received enough attention. Among these is the case of Warren Hastings versus the Begums of Awadh. The many interventions and rebellions of the zenana make for riveting reading. The British were unstoppable, however, and despite brazen challenges to their force, they found effective ways to conquer through subterfuge and manipulation.
Though the book gives much space to the struggles of Awadh, Mughal Delhi and the Deccan in the eighteenth century, the fall of Awadh in the nineteenth century is dealt with a trifle vaguely in the last few pages. Perhaps Mukhoty intends to write a sequel. Still, the current volume is a fascinating read on the intersection of politics, art and social history in Awadh and goes a long way towards providing us with a true picture of the remarkable realities of a remarkable land.
Kartik Chauhan is an independent reviewer and writer. He lives in New Delhi.
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