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Insults are an instrument of politics—a means to cut rivals down to size
Summary
The use of insult—and an assault on honour—has a long history. And just as these things mattered to human beings in the past, they continue to be relevant today
In 1561, Ramaraya of Vijayanagara defeated the sultan of Ahmednagar after a long, bloody conflict. Husain Nizam Shah, as the latter was known, now sued for peace. His proposal was accepted, subject, however, to certain conditions. Some of these were predictable: the forfeiture of territory, the liquidation of an irritating commander, and so on. But loss of land and human resources was still tolerable; what the sultan found grating was the final clause. For Ramaraya demanded that Husain come to his camp and accept “pan (betel nut) from his hand"—a quite literal enactment of eating humble pie. The sultan was prepared to swallow this too but things got worse. On the appointed day, Ramaraya received him seated, refusing to rise even as Husain kissed his hand. The man could take it no more. Deciding to pay his host in the same coin, the Nizam Shah called for a basin of water and washed his hands. Humiliated in his own house—which was not part of the plan—an infuriated Ramaraya muttered: “Were he not my guest, I would have cut off his hands and hung them round his neck."
To insult people is a very naughty thing, but throughout history it has served as a key instrument of politics—a means to cut rivals down to size. Some preferred to do this in person, possibly to enjoy the sheer brazenness of the act. Ramaraya apparently belonged to this category. Before the episode with Husain, he welcomed another sultan’s envoy, arranging for an acrobatic performance in the man’s honour. Only that when it was over, he rewarded the troupe with pigs, right before the offended Muslim diplomat. In 18th century Delhi, to cite another example, Shah Alam, the emasculated Mughal emperor, faced a home invasion by a Rohilla chieftain—one towards whom, in the latter’s boyhood, the padshah is believed to have directed unpleasant sexual attention. The emperor received him in state, only for the Rohilla to plop casually on the throne, blow hookah-smoke on to Shah Alam’s face, and make Mughal princes dress up like women and dance. By the end imperial prestige lay in pieces.
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Others, though, insulted in absentia, using art and propaganda, somewhat like today’s memes. For instance, following the Second Anglo-Mysore War (which the British lost), their rivals, the French, distributed a poster. It showed a uniformed English soldier receive a spanking from Hyder Ali. Aiding the process was a Frenchman, who offered the sultan more sticks for the Englishman’s inflamed bottom. Of course, in this instance the taunt aged poorly, for the British prevailed in India, smashing French ambitions.
In 17th century Maharashtra, similarly, the Mughals faced stubborn opposition from the African-origin general Malik Ambar. Emperor Jahangir famously commissioned a painting in which he shoots an arrow at Ambar’s impaled head—a fantasy, because in reality Ambar died an (undefeated) old man in his home. Sometime later, Mughal ire was transferred to Shivaji. The Maratha chhatrapati is in imperial narratives branded a “mountain rat" and “infidel"; they referred to him as a mere “Shiva", refusing him the dignity of a “ji". And we know how all that ended.
Then there were caste-based slurs. Krishnadevaraya of Vijayanagara triumphed over his rival, the Gajapati of Odisha, from whom he seized a daughter. The woman in question was clearly not pleased at being bartered away in a political transaction. For her new husband, meanwhile, victory and honour in the battlefield did not translate to corresponding feelings in the marital chamber. His new queen is supposed to have tried to murder him, which effort being thwarted, she was exiled to a backwater. But the lady, a Kshatriya, did land a punch when she punctured the king’s pride by referring to him, of less exalted origins, as a dasi-putra (son of a maid). Even the British did not hesitate to use caste to tarnish “native" powers. Noting how a large number of Indian princes had peasant origins, they pooh-poohed their claims to high status. Dismissing them as the offspring of “needy adventurers, lucky farmers, (and) successful freebooters" also conveniently meant, of course, that toppling them from power would look less unjust.
But too much of an insult could also backfire, and things would have to be rolled back to avert crises. In 1674, the Dutch defeated the Madurai ruler’s armies at Nagapattinam. Except that even as they retreated in shame, the Indian side managed to carry with them the head of the Dutch commander. The Europeans had won the battle, that is, but lost the best portion of their leader’s person. It was an unsatisfying, imperfect sort of victory. But Madurai—which having been routed had no desire to gloat—moved to prevent the Dutch further embarrassment. They had the dead man’s head embalmed, perfumed, wrapped in silks, and returned it, as historian Lennart Bes writes, with “great reverence, accompanied by drummers and horn-blowers." By global standards this is charming: many monarchs preferred to convert their fallen enemies’ skulls into drinking cups. But then again, if Madurai had done anything even vaguely similar with the Dutchman’s cranium, the conflict would likely have grown worse, not abated.
In other instances, loss of honour could be worse than death. Permanent humiliation was indeed deployed against those who could not be easily killed. In Kerala, an 18th century monarch gained power after a sustained fight with established factions. While the nobility saw its men executed, Martanda Varma was hesitant to kill his Brahmin enemies. So instead, he had them banished—but after branding their foreheads with the image of a dog. It left them forever tainted, and unable to claim the privileges of their caste; they were left alive, but with no chance of a real life again. Elsewhere too, fear of besmirched honour could be used to shore up allegiances. In Golconda, thus, after a messy succession, a sultan demanded loyalty from his vassals. One memorable inscription has his lords pledge fidelity with the declaration that “if any (among us)…violates (this promise), his moustache is as good as the hair on the private parts of public women". For men reared in a hypermasculine martial culture, this rather ripe comparison would have triggered some shudders.
The use of insult—and an assault on honour—has a long history, then. And just as these things mattered to human beings in the past, they continue to be relevant today. One need only look at our recent national election campaign for a sample of creative insults and counter-insults issued with 24/7 regularity by politicians. The question, though, is whether persons prepared to emit verbal attacks can endure it when the compliment is returned. History suggests that not all have thick skins. In the 17th century, a nobleman complained against a satirist to Emperor Aurangzeb. The padshah read his memorandum, and then went on to observe that as much as one might yearn to chop off heads, it was better—as historian Abhishek Kaicker records—to “burn and accept". Move on, he seemed to be saying; the rest of the world sure does.
Manu S. Pillai is a historian and author, most recently, of False Allies: India’s Maharajahs in the Age of Ravi Varma.
