A story as indulgent as a splendid ‘nawabi’ feast

In The Lion & the Lily, Ira Mukhoty presents a revisionist account of the rise and fall of the nawabs of Awadh. For Mukhoty, the early nawabs of Awadh were not decadent wastrels who mismanaged state finances, as they were painted by the British, but were instead capable rulers who worked assiduously to transform Awadh into a leading centre of culture and prosperity. While this is hardly a novel argument, Mukhoty’s work differentiates itself from what came before through an ingenious use of sources and a narrative that is every bit as indulgent with its details as a nawabi dawat (feast).

The Lion & the Lily broadly tells the story of the first four nawabs of Awadh. Burhan-ul-Mulk Saadat Ali Khan (reigned from 1722-39) turned the Mughal subah (state) of Awadh, to which he had been posted as nawab by the emperor as a punishment, into one of the empire’s wealthiest provinces, laying the foundations for his dynasty. When troubles in Delhi drove his successor Safdar Jang (reigned 1739-54) away from the imperial capital, Awadh became a de facto independent state. Awadh would reach the peak of its power under Shuja-ud-Daula (reigned 1754-75), whose armies decided the third battle of Panipat in 1761.

Shuja-ud-Daula’s dominant position in South Asia would be reversed less than three years later by the British East India Company (EIC), which inflicted a shocking defeat on Awadh at the battle of Buxar in 1764 and forced the state into an “unsavoury alliance with the British”. Instead of breaking Shuja-ud-Daula’s spirit, defeat would spur the nawab to modernise the state’s military and finances as well as to build a splendid new capital at Faizabad to retain his independence. Following Shuja-ud-Daula’s unexpected death in 1775, his son Asaf-ud-Daula (reigned 1775-1797) would emerge as a canny statesman, capable of balancing both British and native threats to his power and would make Awadh into a leading cultural centre of the Shia world. His death would mark the beginning of the end for Awadh as British aggression eroded the territory and the sovereignty of the state at the turn of the century leading eventually to the fateful rebellion of 1857.

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While nawabs are central to the book, it is also deeply concerned with two other influential groups among the Awadh elites—the begums and the Europeans. Nawab Begum and Bahu Begum, Shuja-ud-Daulah’s mother and wife, respectively, were easily this reviewers’ favourite characters in a book brimming with magnetic personalities. Both women presided over enormous fortunes, which they protected against all comers, and used shrewdly to buttress their authority in what was then, as now, a man’s world.

Mukhoty’s focus on the begums of Awadh should not be surprising to those familiar with her previous works which have always emphasised the key role women played in Indian societies. Awadh would also play host to several white firangis, including Antoine Polier, Jean-Baptiste Gentil, Claude Martin and William Palmer. These men made enormous fortunes, patronised architecture and the arts, and often had conflicted feelspendthrift nawabs but a means of asserting sovereignty. By spending money on dance, poetry, religious processions and monuments like the Bara Imambara, the nawabs were able to not only put state funds out of British reach but also invest extensively in their states.

Conspicuous cultural consumption was central to Indian traditions of kingship and endeared rather than alienated the nawabs to their people as seen by the violent reaction to the annexation of the state in 1856. Mukhoty further argues that the nawabs were able to carve out a sophisticated cultural space, which their disdainful British overlords could not access. The Lion & the Lily does have a few issues. The sheer amount of ground that the book covers means that chapter organisation is not always straightforward. For instance, a chapter on the impoverishment of Jean-Baptiste Gentil after his return to France precedes the chapter on his departure from Awadh leaving the reader in some confusion. The epilogue and prologue are both threadbare to the point of being superfluous.

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But these criticisms pale into insignificance given the scope of the book whose many tales and themes this review has barely scratched the surface of. It performs a laudable service in introducing the general reader to some of the most important debates on modernity in South Asia and beyond, without once using that word. It’s refined prose and finely detailed narrative do credit to what was arguably 18th-century Hindustan’s most cultured state.

Aashique Iqbal is a historian of modern South Asia and author of The Aeroplane and the Making of Modern India.