‘It is, of course, fashionable to blame a stepmother for most of the misfortunes of the world, but Frenchman Claude Martin’s stepmother appears to have inspired in him a veritable obsession.’ This opening statement of one of the chapters should give the reader an idea of the delightful prose that characterizes The Lion and the Lily, named for the royal emblems of the courts of Awadh and of Bourbon France. Peopled by a large and varied cast of characters over several generations, it takes us on a roller-coaster ride through northern India during the eighteenth century, the time of the decline of Mughal power and rise of regional potentates like the Marathas, Jats, Rohillas and Sikhs, even as the British gnawed their way into the land politically and economically.
The book opens with a map of Awadh, followed by thirteen pages detailing the cast of characters which caused me to baulk at the very outset: there was no way I was going to remember so many, many people, each with at least two aliases! So, it was with a fair degree of trepidation that I embarked on the main text but the narrative swept me up in its tide before I knew it. Yes, it is a serious work of history, based on solid archival research, drawing on a range of texts in English, French and Persian, with footnotes, bibliography and index, but it reads like a thriller. I cannot remember when I last delayed bedtime for a scholarly monograph to read ‘just one chapter more, just a few pages more,’ because I simply had to know who won that particular round of intrigue and prestige between the Mughal and Awadh courts, or whether the dastardly Warren Hastings did manage to wreck the dignified queen mothers of Awadh during the reign of Asaf-ud-Daula, or if they managed to outsmart him. But of course, the end of that next chapter left one equally on tenterhooks; after all, it is not a novel to end with a final denouement, but a masterly recounting of a complex period in history.
I read The Lion and the Lily as both a historian and a layperson—though trained in the discipline of history, the last time I read anything to do with the 18th century was as an undergraduate over thirty-five years ago. I was, on the one hand, appreciative of the fine execution of the historian’s craft, but also caught up in the thrill of a fabulous page-turner, with real people and real events, literally holding my breath hoping—in scenario after scenario—for results different from the ones, which, alas, are already etched into the pages of time.
An interesting aspect brought out by this book was the interconnectedness of global conflicts in the 18th century. Mukhoty stresses, over several contexts, the rivalry between Britain and France during this period, pointing to their engagement in the Seven Years’ War and the War of Austrian Succession. India became yet another theatre for this ongoing conflict, for European scores to be settled. The British debacle in the American War of Independence strained Britain’s treasury making it imperative for them to extract more and more money from India at any cost. The emphasis on connected histories makes the role of French adventurers one of the most significant highlights of the book. Antoine Polier and Jean-Baptiste Gentil, among others, not only made themselves at home in India, attaching themselves to various rulers and participating in the Anglo-French intrigues, but also adopted Indian customs and became connoisseurs of arts and patrons of ateliers.
The flowering of high culture in Awadh, particularly after the decline of the imperial court in Delhi, and to a degree, of Delhi itself, after the disastrous Afghan attacks is one of the primary foci of Mukhoty’s narrative. We learn of the elaborate manuscripts produced during this cultural efflorescence, and also of the process by which they ended up in museums and private collections in Britain and France. Of the magnificent palaces and forts constructed during this century, particularly in Faizabad, very little has, however, survived. The patronage of the arts by the Awadh court, its imposing architecture, staggeringly precious jewellery, and splendid cuisine would have, naturally, been funded by extraction of resources from the producing classes. It is the narrative, however, which directs the reader’s sympathies. Instead of the generic sympathy one might feel towards the exploited masses, this personalized historical narrative makes the reader identify firmly with the rulers of Hindustan, especially when contrasted with the rapaciousness of the British, combined with their callousness towards the peoples to whom they did not feel in the least answerable. The Lion and the Lily draws one into the heart of the court at Awadh, engendering awe and admiration for the formidable Nawab Begum and Bahu Begum, appreciation and respect for the towering Shuja-ud-Daula, and annoyance mixed with some grudging sympathy for his son, Asaf-ud-Daula. The sunset over Awadh’s grandeur was a gradually drawn-out affair, much as that of the Mughals, commencing with Nadir Shah’s invasion on the one hand and the incursions of the East India Company on the other; a sunset which would gradually extend to the entire subcontinent.
Bharati Jagannathan teaches History at Miranda House, University of Delhi, Delhi, and enjoys reading and telling stories.