When the British chose pragmatism as strategy

It might have interested these divine commentators that white men too had complicated feelings about India. To begin with, they were foreign Christians in a land of “idolaters"—they struggled to understand Hindu culture and its customs. Shrewdly, they erred on the side of pragmatism. As interlopers in another country, they needed the cooperation of “natives", opting, therefore, to operate on Indian terms. In Madras, thus, white officials arbitrated caste disputes, minted coins featuring Hindu gods, and even found brown spouses. Their Indian aides grew wealthy, pumping funds into the construction of grand temples, into the halls of courtesans, and sponsoring poets. In a roundabout way, white rule—given that the British were mimicking Indians—catalysed a flowering of Hindu culture. Of course, they still remained aliens, but there was a concord that allowed the “native" and foreigner to pull on to mutual advantage.

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Even as British power grew more aggressive, many East India Company officials hoped to retain brown men’s loyalties. Or as was written in 1815, “by participating with natives of rank and influence" and avoiding interference in cultural practices, the British could “soften" the disgruntlement provoked by a government of “strangers". Particular attention was paid to religious sentiments: when in 1803 Orissa was seized from the Marathas, the incoming regime took care to show respect for the Jagannath temple at Puri. It did not matter that they personally venerated the Bible; to reconcile Orissa’s people to their rule, the British needed to preserve the temple’s sanctity, indeed even exceed the Marathas in patronage. And evidently, it worked: Jagannath’s priests despatched to the governor-general a grandiloquent Sanskrit letter, praising him. Why, they expressed hope that Puri would remain under Company protection “for ever".

Of course, both sides were being practical, but several colonial voices did genuinely feel this was the right thing to do. Thomas Munro, governor of Madras, for instance, was asked once whether India would benefit from exposure to the Western civilisation. In response he argued that while the country was backward in science and government, in agriculture, “manufacturing skill", in the fact of “schools established in every village", and so on, India was superior. Indeed, if “civilization is to become an article of trade between the two countries, I am convinced," he added, “that this country (Britain) would gain by the import cargo." Sure, it could be claimed that the Company had delivered peace to India. But it was a double-edged sword for Indians: security came at the cost of “sacrifice of independence—or national character—and whatever renders a people respectable". Foreign rule, Munro warned, would “debase" its subjects.

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Though there was no suggestion that the British—as political victors—should pack up and go home, yet for this generation it was clear that the Company Raj must be a sympathetic one. When Pune, for example, fell to the British from the Peshwas, Mountstuart Elphinstone—future governor of the area—felt no great joy. The “absence of the Hindoo Government," he diarised, created a “void that alters the effect of everything. Our respect for the place is gone, and the change is melancholy. How must the natives feel this, when even we feel it!" His plan, then, was to retain a traditional system of government to the extent possible. Under good rulers, he wrote, this had been “sufficient to keep the country in a very high state of prosperity". Company men had only to emulate such good “native" kings and hope to “produce permanent happiness to our subjects". That way foreign rule could pretend to look somewhat less foreign—and hopefully prevail.

That said, it was obvious that too much concern for “native" feelings carried risks. For instance, Elphinstone favoured supplying modern education to Indians, despite potential danger. For “there is no doubt that when the natives get more extended notions they will expect first a share of their own Government & then the whole". And yet he stuck to the idea, seeing in it a “duty"; “it will be better for us to lose the country by the effects of our liberality than to keep it" on terms of naked self-interest. Like several peers, in religion too he was for the status quo. When Christian missionaries sought access to these provinces, he was hostile. Personally, he thought Hinduism “absurd". But as governor, he felt obliged to defend local sensibilities. Presciently, he also suspected that if someone were to “unite a plan for the reformation of Hinduism" someday with “one for the deliverance of the country from foreigners", British power “could not stand one moment".

It is one of those strange ironies of history that the first impulse of colonialism was not gloating triumphalism as much as caution and nervousness. Perhaps the optimistic gandharva would have approved, since it maintained room to preserve much of what “natives" cherished. Yes, the British were foreigners, but they desired to rule according to local conventions. And yet, the next generation of white sahibs in India entertained radically different views. Under them—as white power looked more and more secure—powerful segments of the British establishment would grow contemptuous of local culture, support conversion, cut off “natives" from positions of influence, and rule India with arrogance. Where once foreign officials smashed coconuts at temples, made public offerings, and participated in festivals, they now withdrew. And the story of colonialism took a very different turn.

So, in the end, it was the pessimistic gandharva who was proved right—white men could not be trusted with the destinies of the brown.

Manu S. Pillai is a historian and author, most recently, of Gods, Guns and Missionaries.

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