Ira Mukhoty spotlights Awadh’s role in 18th-century India’s political and cultural landscape, from its strategic manoeuvres against British forces to the influence of its women and the impact of the French
For long, the story of the transition from medieval to modern India has been framed as the fall of the Mughal might and the subsequent rise of the British dominance, with the tale often traversing through the Deccan, the heroic fight of the tiger of Mysore, Tipu Sultan, and the political and military exploits of the Marathas. Meanwhile, Awadh, “the so-called buffer state” between Mughal Delhi and British-controlled Bihar, is largely spoken of in terms of its tehzeeb (culture) and tameez (etiquette), nawabs and zubaan (language), kebabs and pulao, poetry and music, art and architecture.
Its strategic manoeuvring and political and military balancing between various forces — from the British and French to Marathas and Afghans — during the fierce power tussle of 18th century Hindustan is largely overlooked. Ira Mukhoty’s recent book, The Lion & the Lily: The Rise & Fall of Awadh (Aleph), seeks to undo this narrow reading of India’s colonial history by casting new light on the culturally rich, populous, and politically significant state of Awadh during the highly tumultuous 18th century.
Who doesn’t know about Nawab Wajid Ali Shah, the last ruler of Awadh, and his fierce Begum Hazrat Mahal, who rose against the British during the rebellion of 1857? Even the legacy of Nawab Asaf-ud-Daula, the man behind Bara Imambara and Rumi Darwaza, who made Lucknow not only the capital city of Awadh but a great cultural power centre, is fairly known. However, who is forgotten in the mix is Shuja-ud-Daulah, the third nawab of Awadh and son of Nawab Safdar Jung, who is only remembered for being on the losing side, alongside Mughal emperor Shah Alam II and Nawab of Bengal Mir Qasim, during the Battle of Buxar, in 1764, which got the British Diwani rights over Bengal, Bihar and Odisha and cemented their nearly two century-long rule over India.
Shining light on the French influence on India
In the vigorously-researched and detailed The Lion & the Lily, Mukhoty maps Shuja’s legacy with a new lens as somebody who wasn’t cowed down following the great debacle of Buxar but “instead instantly turned his insatiable energy and ambition into strengthening his city and province,” the author writes. And he chose Faizabad as his capital, the remains of which now largely lie in ruins but it was once a great cultural centre, attracting many poets, artists, and dancers from fast-decaying Mughal Delhi, such as renowned artist Mehr Chand.
What is also worth noting is that while the ascent of British power in India is understood to be linear, with local rulers not resisting much, Mukhoty highlights how Shuja employed several Frenchmen in his administration and army, much to the disapproval of the British. For this was also a time of Anglo-French rivalry on a global scene, bearing an inter-continental repercussion spanning through North America, the Middle East, and India. Here, credit must be given to Mukhoty for bringing to light the power struggles unfolding across India while keeping the focus on Awadh.
Another important contribution of the Indo-French writer in her book is highlighting the often-overlooked French influence on India; she relies extensively on French accounts to retell the story of Awadh. “Because Britain did eventually succeed in ruling India, the privilege of writing the story of conquest was theirs,” she writes. Mukhoty also relies on paintings to map the history, many of which are included in the book. The visual elements accompanying the text make for an engrossing read.
A tale of two powerful women
However, the part that stands out is her account of two of the most powerful yet forgotten women of the time — the purdah-clad Nawab Begum, wife of Safdar Jung and mother of Shuja-ud-Daula, and her daughter-in-law Bahu Begum. The two wielded so much power that they not only defined the course of the Nawabi rule in several instances but also brought down one of the most powerful men of the time — Warren Hastings. Here, the account on Bahu Begum especially warrants a mention. Doted on by Mughal emperor Muhammad Shah Rangeela, Bahu was a woman of immense wealth and power — at the time of her husband Shuja’s death, her wealth was estimated at £2 million, Mukhoty writes.
However, this purdah-clad woman, whose voice was not to be heard and who spoke to men through a screen or her khwajasaras, or eunuchs, controlled land, had her own army, and with her mother-in-law, was able to mobilise the locals for the cause of the Raja of Benares, Maharaja Chait Singh, and against the British. While the British were the ultimate victors, the two women played a role in bringing down the powerful Hastings as one of the charges against him in his impeachment trial was the “despoilation” of the begums, as he retaliated fiercely by seizing their lands.
Beautifully capturing the power play between the white general and the brown Begum, Mukhoty writes: “For Bahu Begum refused to operate within the idealized framework Hastings imagined, which would make of her a helpless brown woman who would require saving by the gallant white man. She would never become, literally or figuratively, the white man’s burden. Instead, she became Warren Hasting’s albatross.”
Such was the power and dominance of this little-known Begum that she is understood to be one of the reasons why her son, Asaf, shifted the capital from Faizabad to Lucknow in 1775. “Most commentators blame this on Bahu Begum’s overbearing personality, her unfeminine greed for power, and her meddlesome interference in the nawab’s affairs,” Mukhoty writes.
Throughout the book, Mukhoty’s writing truly shines as she masterfully weaves together the political and military landscapes of Awadh, drawing readers into the urgency and intrigue of the many battles it found itself caught in. This is beautifully interspersed with vivid scenes of bustling bazaars, brimming with Chikan embroidery, muslin, and paan. Awadhi cuisine — its succulent kebabs and aromatic pulaos — entices the senses, while the tales of tawaifs, poets, and the region’s famed Ganga-Jamuni tehzeeb add layers of cultural richness. Together, these elements make The Lion & the Lily a crackling read.
