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Book Review — The Anarchy: The East India Company, Corporate Violence, and the Pillage of an Empire by William Dalrymple[1]

The Mughal emperor Shah Alam hands a scroll to Robert Clive, the governor of Bengal, which transferred tax collecting rights in Bengal, Bihar and Orissa to the East India Company. Illustration: Benjamin West (1738–1820)/British Library, The Guardian (Accessed, 16th August 2020)

“A commercial company enslaved a nation comprising two hundred million people”, wrote Tolstoy in a letter to the Hindu in 1908.[2] The Anarchy, by William Dalrymple, is a riveting historical account about how the East India Company (EIC) used the chaotic instability of the 18th century to take control of the Indian subcontinent.

The EIC was one of the world’s first successful privately owned joint stock corporation, founded in the year 1600 by a group of Londoners wanting to improve their fortunes by exploring new markets in the East. Unlike most modern corporations, it ended up building its own army filled with British, local Indians, and mercenaries to fight battles for it. It was the first corporate that could be tagged as ‘too big to fail’ and was bailed out by the British government at several points to ensure survival. Furthermore, the Company was granted monopoly charter by the British crown to do business in the subcontinent for more than two centuries.[3] At its peak, EIC ascended to engage in almost half of the British trade volume and referred to itself as “the grandest society of merchants in the Universe.”[4]

When it first arrived in India in 1608, it took EIC several years to convince the powerful Jahangir to allow them to build a factory in Surat. Originally intended for the sole purpose of trading, the EIC gained a stronger foothold in the subcontinent over the course of two centuries, and as a result, its purpose transformed from trade to looting. Its rise to power was so great that, in words of Edmund Burke, EIC eventually became “a state in the guise of a merchant.”[5]

The change in EIC’s fortune started owing to a continuous series of events leading to a power vacuum in the subcontinent after Aurangzeb’s death in 1707. Aurangzeb was a talented, ruthless general but lacked the charm of his predecessors. He alienated his regional alliances, which were formed on the principle of tolerance by his predecessors. His death left a vast Mughal empire, deprived of an able successor who could manage it. Aurangzeb was followed by a succession of weak rulers, three of whom were murdered. Accompanied by frequent raids on the peripheries by the Marathas, and other regional rulers who resumed independence i.e. Rohilla Afghans, the Sikhs of Punjab, Jats of Deeg and Rajputs etc. In wake of this instability, some of the best generals left to fend for themselves, further weakening the Mughal rule.

It was the Persian ruler, Nadir Shah’s invasion of Delhi in 1739, which sparked dreams of conquest in the Europeans. “EIC, writer William Bolts wrote, seeing a handful of Persians take Delhi with ease spurred the Europeans’ dreams of conquests and Empire in India. Nader-Shah had shown the way.”[6] Sensing the Mughal weakness and now divided authority, European trading companies (both British and French) began recruiting their own private security forces including well paid local Indian infantry troops.

One of the ways EIC was clearly different than the local rulers at the time, which is quite evident in the book, was that their Governors and officers in India were selected more on competence for the for-profit Company. This was in contrast, to ascension of Indian rulers who were favoured by their birth as is tradition of Kingdoms. Though there were exceptions and the Indian were also susceptible to weakness in the royal rulers, which led to a lot of in-fighting amongst them to usurp power. Focus on merit along with the military changes gave the British a big edge over most of its adversaries. Dalrymple notes that “the Europeans [at the time] suspected they were superior to the Mughals in tactical prowess, but they had not appreciated how great this advantage had become due to the military developments [in the 18th century]…”[7]

Another side that isn’t very well known or not emphasised enough in deliberations amongst Indian circles is the role of the princely Indian rulers and Bankers in bringing the EIC into power out of their own greed. EIC received support of various Indian bankers, like the powerful Jagat Seths, known as Rothschild’s of the east, who played a major role in funding its campaigns. It was Indian money as much as military strength that led to the success of EIC and then the ascent of British in India.

The book is filled with rich details about the lead of events and several leading personalities of the time — Indian, British, and French — who spearheaded these changes. One of them was the EIC Governor Robert Clive. He was a hot-headed, troublesome kid who grew up to be a ruthless, aggressive and capable leader. He seized the opportunities given to him and took some great risks, which worked out in his favour to establish EIC control in Bengal, Bihar, and Orissa and laid the foundations for British rule in India.

There was a major stroke of luck for Robert Clive in the Battle of Plassey, which helped change the fortunes for the British in India. Clive was fighting at a disadvantage at Plassey and was planning to retreat his army back to Calcutta. Suddenly, it started raining on the battlefield and his army covered their gun powder and fuses to prevent from getting wet, which his opponent, Siraj-ud Daula, failed to do. This costly mistake irrevocably changed the outcome of the battle, and helped the British assert themselves as a strong military force in India for the first time.[8]

As a result of his successful conquests in India Clive retired with a massive fortune and became one of the wealthiest men in Europe. However, despite his outwardly poise, he suffered from depression. He travelled across Europe on his return, but never recovered his peace of mind. In addition to that, he started to have stomach pains and gout. Clive committed suicide in 1774, at the age of 49.

Another important character who witnessed the entire spectrum of Mughal decline and rise of British was the Mughal ruler, Shah Alam. Shah Alam struggled his entire life against different foes and became the last Mughal emperor to briefly take control back of the Mughal Empire only to then again witness its fall.

The royal procession of Shah Alam II with his army processing from right to left along the banks of a river, V&A (Accessed, Aug 16, 2020)

Shah Alam’s story reads as if taken directly from some adventure novel, which ends tragically for the protagonist. He saw the plunder of Delhi by Nadir shah as a child, escaped an assassination plan by his Vizier (Imad ul-Malik), then travelled without any resources to the east and created an army to fight the EIC multiple times, then gained favours with the former Mughal foes, the Marathas, and came back to power in Delhi. He almost succeeded in regaining actual power, but lost his strongest general to a stroke of bad luck, and saw himself reduced to a puppet king in the hands of the Marathas first, then the British.

At his lowest, Alam was humiliated by his former protégé, Ghulam Qadir, who Alam had rescued as a boy after killing his father in battle. Ghulam Qadir blinded Alam and raped the women in his family to take revenge of the killing of his father or possibly being used as a catamite while growing up. Shah Alam was a poet and a man of generosity and determination, but sadly not enough to turn the tide of history which ended the Mughal rule.

Over the course of two hundred years, the East India Company took control of most of India. The final act of the ascent took place in the seven years from 1798 under Governor Richard Marquess Wellesley who went on to also defeat Napoleon Bonaparte. Though Wellesley later wrote that his conquests in India were far more difficult than defeating Napoleon.

The key reason for the failure of the princely states was their constant in-fighting and failure to form alliances with each other. Instead, it was the EIC that made deals with the local rulers and defeated all its adversaries who stood up to it, including the then corrupted Maratha factions and the valiant Tipu Sultan — who chose to die in battle as a last stand instead of surrendering. The EIC also made a deal with Shah Alam in 1803, who they kept on the Mughal throne as a puppet king to get a stamp of legitimacy to their rule.

The Company remained in power till the mutiny of 1857, post which, its power was transferred to the British Government under the Monarch and along with it was initiated the official British Raj.

The fighting armies incurred heavy losses in this long power struggle. But as the wealth started to move from India to England, it was the ordinary people who paid the heaviest price. First, at the hands of their local princely rulers, then the British. The sufferings resulted from the chaos generated by the instability through plundering, loot, murder, rape, exorbitant taxation and the mass starvations resulting from the many famines produced by unpredictable monsoons and a sheer lack of interest of the many despotic Indian and foreign rulers to manage the wellbeing of their people.

Bengal transformed from being one of the most magnificent places in the world to a famine stricken province with starvation in the late 1700s. Dalrymple reports that though the exact numbers are disputed, but, approximately 1.2 million, i.e. one in five Bengalis, starved to death in the famine of 1770. Such change in fortunes was true for most of India.

Perhaps the loot has continued, in a different form, with the ever scheming powerful elite of post-independence India. However, at least, the role of the corporation has changed in the past 420 years and they have also been part of considerable innovation driving progress of the modern world. Though it could be argued that, along with progress, they have created their share of new problems — both social and environmental.

The book ends with Dalrymple comparing problems of the time with some of the present day chaos, with India again facing threat of special interests in politics and many crony capitalists. It’s hard to evaluate the extent of truth in the modern day analogy offered by Dalrymple. Maybe, it is a topic to be left for posterity to find out. Though he is right that none of the present day corporates compare to the scale of power and malice achieved by the East India Company.

[1] Note — All the facts in the review are taken from the book itself. I have selectively reported some of the references where a more direct use has been made. [2] Epigraph, The Anarchy, [3] Page 390, [4] Page 388 and Introduction, Page xxx, [5] Page 3, [6] Page 48, [7] Page 52, [8] Page 127

Angad Sahota has seven years experience working in the consulting and analytics industry, and has a Master's degree in Financial Economics. He is an avid reader and enjoys reading both fiction and non-fiction books. He likes to write as a hobby.

 
 
 
  • Writer: DPC
    DPC
  • Aug 13, 2020
  • 2 min read

Photo Credit: Farhad Shaikh (Imfarhad7)/ Wikipedia, CC BY-SA 4.0

Today, we remember Dr Rahat Indori, who passed away on 11 August 2020. Rahat Sahab was a lyricist, author, and poet. He was also a professor of Urdu language and a painter.

Bollywood saw the best of Rahat Sahab's works in songs including Tumsa Koi Pyaara Koi Masoom (Khuddar), Chan Chan (Munna Bhai MBBS), Chori Chori Jab Nazrein Mili (Kareeb), Dekho Dekho Janam Ham (Ishq) and many more. His books include Mere Baad (2016), Lamhe Lamhe (2002), Chand Pagal Hai, Rut, and Do Kadar or Sahi among others.

Translation by Sanjay Saksena, Editor (Urdu), Delhiwallah Poetry Collective:


Why do people stop at every turn and look around

If so unsure, why step out of the house

The tavern is the standard by which a vessel is judged

Why do then people bounce around like empty mirrors

Youth is the time to be careful

Why does everyone slip and fall when young

For several years I have had no association with sleep

Why then do dreams wander on my roof

I am neither a glow worm, nor a lamp nor a star,

Why then are those bestowed with light jealous of me


Supplement this with Rahat Sahab's interview with Newsclick about his India: "I want an India where Peace and Love Prevails" published on 30 March 2019.

Disclaimer: The English translation of Rahat Sahab's ghazal लोग हर मोड़ पे रुक रुक के सँभलते क्यूँ हैं is an unofficial translation for the purpose of our international readers only.

About the Translator: Sanjay Saksena is a banker and finance professional who has worked with the Reserve Bank of India and the Bombay Stock Exchange and retired as CEO of the Indian Commodities Exchange. An alum of the Delhi School of Economics, his penchant for numbers and stocks is in stark juxtaposition to his passion for poetry and words. Living in a culturally rich family, and raised by creatively inclined parents, literature, history, and music were a significant part of his growing up years and formed the basis for his love for English, Hindi and Urdu poetry – a love that continues to this day. Sanjay has lived and worked in Jaipur, Delhi, Mumbai and Kolkata and is now settled with his wife in Gurgaon.

 
 
 

Photo Credit: Vidar Nordli-Mathisen (@vidarnm)/ Unsplash, Public Domain Dedication

Though I was named Jagdish, which means ‘Ruler of the World’, I was always called Jaggu. Even I thought of myself as Jaggu rather than as a ruler of the world (or a ruler of anywhere, for that matter). And that day I was trekking and panting loudly as I reached the top of the hill, but I knew that in a few more steps I would be able to gaze down at the valley and the pristine lake below.

Even today, I can close my eyes and recall that fervent moment when I, along with my family and a few other relatives, having trudged all night with our bags and belongings in silence, reached the hilltop in the early morning. Tired and sleepy, my body aching with exhaustion and my heart sinking in fear, I peeped out from behind my mother, whom I called Ma, to see an endless spread of green grass and the blue lakes in the valley below us. The cool breeze dried our sweaty faces, and the sound of distant bells filled our hearts. Ma said, "Woh ghar aa raha" (We are reaching home), and I knew, this was going to be one of the most treasured moments of my life.

But when the group started to climb its way down, there I was, sprinting, and skipping ahead of them. When we approached the flatlands, the group broke up. Some decided to go further on until the village that was still a distance away, while others began looking for spots to start making their thatched dwellings. Ma needed to feed my younger sister, Jhabli, and so she and an older lady went to the sanctuary of some thick bushes for privacy. My dad, Pitaji, and a few men sat on their haunches at a clearing on the edge of the road, forming a closed group, and began to smoke beedi.

The beedi is a cigarette that women make by wrapping tobacco in the leaves of the temburni or tendu plant. This plant grows in abundance in most parts of India, and the women are adept at picking undamaged, large leaves which they clean and flatten in between sheets of thin plywood. When somewhat dry, they roll the leaf with tobacco in it like a cigarette, tie it with a thin thread, and pack it in small cotton pouches. Both men and women enjoyed taking a few puffs of the beedi; the women would, however, do so judiciously, only after a long day of cooking or having carried firewood up the hill. The men would smoke whenever they felt like it, which was often.

My grandfather, whom everyone called Nana, had found a flat boulder overlooking the valley and he sat on it with his legs crossed, hands over his knees and eyes closed. His silver-white hair waved softly in the cool breeze, the bells in the distance making a rhythmic sound, as the edge of his shawl fluttered against the dry leaves that lay around. It seemed almost a crime to disturb his saint-like trance, and so the family decided to make a temporary shelter for the night in the clearing nearby. The rest of the group sprinted down the narrow path towards the village, and I stood waving at them till they had disappeared out of sight. Then I went to help Ma light a fire and fill a pot with water from a stream nearby. A few hours later, the temporary structure was up; it had a roof made of branches, and separator walls of dried wooden stumps that had been hurriedly collected. The smell of rice and lentil (dal) cooked with ghee was tempting. It was soon devoured and then everyone laid down to look at the clear skies as it turned dark; everyone except Nana, who was still sitting on the stone ledge in a deep trance.

A few people went past on that route, some of the more fortunate ones on mule back. Pitaji would wave at them and they would call out to reassure us that the area was safe except for the occasional jungle cat. It was much later that I learned that the jungle cat they referred to was actually a small leopard!

I drifted off to sleep with my Nana's silhouette on the rock against the now dark horizon. A cool breeze blew, caressing my tired body, and I woke up only when the morning rays streamed onto my face. A land facing east is always preferred in the Hills as sunlight is precious, though it makes a nasty early morning alarm. Nana was still sitting on his rock, and I wondered if he had slept at all. Of course, he used to tell stories of how he could catch forty winks even while standing in a queue—but sitting on a rock, right through the night, seemed insane to me.

My parents were gathering wood—necessary for our daily needs, from reinforcing the shelter, to use as fuel for cooking, or to ward off wild animals. My parents were stooping low; I could see the colourful scarf tied around my mother's head bobbing as the bundle of wood and branches on her back grew higher. It was a reassuring sight as I trailed behind them over the unfamiliar grassy hillside.

I had learned to pick berries from thorny bushes on an earlier trip, and when my pockets and mouth were full of the juicy purple-red fruit, I started to run back to where my Nana was sitting.

From a distance, I could hear the sound of loud talking; a small group of people now encircled my Nana. Quickly spitting berry pits out of my mouth and wiping my violet-red lips, I began to run toward the crowd, fearing the worst. When I finally pushed my way between the legs of the men standing around him, I saw my Nana on the rock, still as a statue. A man dressed in silk clothes and gold ornaments was standing next to him.

"O wise man, you are like Shiva himself. When my cook told me about you this morning, I did not believe him and came to see for myself. I am blessed that you are here," the rich trader was telling my Nana, who looked ever so statuesque as his white hair floated around his face, creating an aura as it caught the morning sun. My Pitaji looked confused and told the trader that they would be leaving for the village soon.

"O wise man, please do not go. Shiva incarnate, stay here and make this your home, bless us all," the rich trader pleaded.

My Nana did not move.

"O wise man, I will give you this land to sit here and pray, and the flatland below it for you to make your dwelling," but on seeing my Nana unmoved, he added, "and the grassland on the hillside for your family to farm and gather wood."

At that very moment, the bells in a distant temple began to ring, and my Nana opened his dark, expressive eyes and smiled at the trader. The trader fell at my Nana's feet and everyone thumped each other's back, and my mom wiped her teary eyes with her veil.

We had found our home.

As I looked at the rock my Nana sat on, taking in the open land that would soon be our home, the distant mountains, the clear blue skies, the trees with the red jacaranda flowers, the green hillside and the small group of friendly people now busy in conversation, I felt a shiver of excitement run through my body.

In sheer joy, I did a cartwheel and after an almost perfect one, I stumbled and fell and rolled down the slope. As I stood up, all dusty and flustered, the group laughed and thumped my back. One of the men opened his bag and offered me a cream roll. It was more an apology of a cream roll; the cream had dried up and turned into a cold paste, the bun itself had taken a beating from the mountain climb and had crumbled in many places. However, it was my first food of the day and I licked every crumb with contentment and sucked at the lump of cream till it melted away in my mouth.

We began our lives there, and over time our house got larger with mud and brick walls and red tiles and metal sheet roofs. The garden had vegetables and pumpkins that we stored on the rooftops to last through winters. Fruit trees and shrubs lined the hills and crops were abundant. Nana sat at his favourite spot, and the rich trader came often to meet and chat with him. He had become successful and a richer man, and often thanked my Nana for staying on with gifts of bags of rice or sugar. Very welcome for us, of course!

Legends of my Nana travelled fast, and soon more people came to stop by and pay their regards to the "Shiva on the rock". My Nana would indulge the ones who were quiet and mindful of their surroundings, but often rebuked the ones who littered or disturbed it. Over time I grew older and busy with my school and friends but once in a while, I would notice Nana looking frailer and quieter if that were possible. But life kept me busy and soon I left home and went to Nainital to study, and then on to Lucknow for a government job.

The years rolled on. I was transferred to different places in the State and lived in large houses with my family which consisted of a loving wife, who was a schoolteacher and a voracious reader, and my twin boys whom my Nana had named Anirudh and Rudra. The quaint names always caused confusion and so they grew up being called Ani and Rudy respectively. They met their great-grandfather whenever we visited him during the summer holidays.

As I reflect on my life—years lived in the large government-allotted houses with sprawling gardens—with my happy family, I realize I was inherently restless and yearned for the stillness of mind that I had seen in my Nana. Yoga, meditation, mindfulness practice, and many other training sessions later, I realized that I could not, and possibly never would reach that level of inner silence I had observed in him, that I was seeking.

Recently after having retired from my government job, and whilst my wife was still busy with hers, and the boys with theirs, I took my first solo trip to the Hills.

The trek was almost over. At any moment now I would reach that magical spot to catch my first glimpse of the village and the lake. It was indeed as exhilarating as it had been the first time I saw it almost four decades ago, though now electric wires and poles marred the panoramic view. Fortunately, the breeze was still as cool and the hills mercifully as green as before.

Heart racing in excitement, I walked towards where my home had been. The house was now painted Snowcem purple, with the words Dalmia Cements written across the roof, but that did not matter. The garden was still full of flowers and plants and the trees were bent low with fruits. Every turn in the road evoked a memory, and filled my heart with nostalgia.

Panting, I reached Nana’s large rock, and gingerly touched it. Memories of my Nana came flooding in, and exhausted from my trek, I sat on the rock. With my legs crossed, arms by my side, I went into a deep meditation, which I had earlier believed was impossible for me. Much later when I opened my eyes, I saw a group of people sitting around me, looking at me in admiration.

"Shiva has come back!" one of them finally said.

I smiled at them, at peace with myself.

Indeed, I had come home.

Ratna Pande has over three decades of corporate experience in leadership positions and has always used storytelling as a powerful medium to share her experiences and in building the learning philosophy. For the past few years, she has been a Consultant, Advisor, and a Coach and enjoys writing on business or fiction. Her book of fiction short-stories Not so Long Ago, Not so Far Away: Stories from Across India (Notion Press 2019) was released last year.

 
 
 
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