The tutor to the princes of Travancore was in trouble. It had been four years since he had been put in charge of educating Swati and Uttaram. The princes were excelling in every subject he was teaching them, but the East India Company was growing ever more unhappy. It had reluctantly agreed to Travancore importing him all the way from Tanjore because of his mastery over the English language. But what was the point of hiring the famed “English” Subba Rao, British examiners fumed, if he kept the princes so busy with Euclidian geometry and Carnatic music that they never read enough English to “correct their idiom”?
The British examiners could not see what Subba Rao saw. From his perspective, the true purpose of the princes’ “English studies” was intellectual rather than social; what he cared about was “improving the mind” rather making pleasant conversation and exhibiting refined diction. The subject he wanted the princes to master was niti shastra (or ethics), but the contemporaneous English literature on the subject of “moral improvement” was of a “crushingly moral character,” frequently taking the form of sermons. There was only so much he could give them to read that was not boring or worse – dangerously false. Mary Stockdale’s Children’s Journal, the text that British tutors typically assigned, would not teach Swati and Uttaram the ways of the world.
Pressed for options, Subba Rao turned to history. As tutors in Europe had long done, he began by relying on ancient history, with Charles Rollin’s bestselling History of Cyrus, becoming a favorite of the teacher and his wards. But Subba Rao did not want to only familiarise the princes with archetypes of virtue; he also wanted them to reflect on archetypes of vice, and especially those closer to home. Thus, he directed his wards’ attention toward contemporary Indian history, which British writers were starting to bring into view. The book he had them read with great care was John Malcolm’s recently published A Memoir on Central India, which explained how the Company had consolidated its hold on the Deccan. What could be more useful to Swati and Uttaram than understanding the vices that had sealed the fate of their fellow princes?
But invaluable as it was, this two-volume work posed a pedagogical challenge. A dense narrative history, brimming with “minute details” about distant peoples and places, was unlikely to have an enduring impact on the Travancore princes or their circle. Indeed, Malcolm himself admitted that the volumes were “fatiguing”. What was needed then was a pithy tale summarizing the moral of the mammoth work. And so was born Krishna Kumari, a compact “dramatic piece” written by English Subba Rao for “private amusement” that encapsulated the vices that had led the Rajputs to be savaged and subjugated. Building on the teenage princes’ interest in theatre, and English drama in particular, the play focused their attention on the “train of events” that had led to the death of Krishna Kumari, the princess of Udaipur, and to her executor, Amir Khan, becoming the Nawab of Tonk.
Who was this character that English Subba Rao wanted his wards to spend their precious time contemplating? Born in Sambhal in 1768 to a Pathan family from Buner in Afghanistan, the early decades of his life had seen Amir Khan do no better than become a “petty mercenary leader” who was “not unfrequently in want of even a meal.” But then in 1798 he had a stroke of luck – of which he made the fullest possible use. The Marathas were amid a slow-motion civil war as the leading sardar (chief) Daulat Rao Sindhia set about eliminating his rivals. Unfortunately, Sindhia was not quite up to the task, and Jaswant Rao, the hardiest member of the rival Holkar clan, was able to escape captivity. On the run, and lacking money and men, Jaswant was prepared to recruit “adventurers of all kinds”—and thus opened the door to Amir Khan. Together, they brought under Jaswant’s banner hordes of Pindaris – predatory bands formed by horsemen who had previously served in irregular cavalry units.
With the aid of these “brigand” Pathans and “wolfish” Pindaris, Jaswant undertook “roving campaigns” that plundered Sindhia’s lands. A few victories later, Amir was rewarded for his services with the jagir (fief) of Sironj – and the ceremonial title of Nawab. Though he was pleased to assume the title, Amir had to live with the uncomfortable knowledge that it depended entirely on the mercurial Jaswant’s continued goodwill. Even his hold over his own troops was doubtful. They considered him “low and coarse” and mocked him as “more of a serpent than a lion” because of his propensity to rely on cunning rather than courage on the battlefield. Thus in 1803, when the Second Anglo-Maratha War was about to break out he tried secretly to defect to the British, who rudely ignored the entreaty, leaving Amir with no choice but to fight alongside Jaswant in what he knew would be a bloody war.
It turned out for the better. By the end of 1805, Jaswant was once again on the run, with Amir galloping alongside him, as they fled toward the Punjab, hoping to form an alliance with the Sikhs. The British were closing in and the Maratha cause seemed lost, especially once Ranjit Singh declined to side with Holkar, whom he declared a pucca haramzada (true rascal). But then came a sudden reprieve. The Company’s forces and finances had been exhausted by the Marathas’ guerilla tactics. There was also the worry that Napolean might invade Britain, which would make it impossible to secure reinforcements from home. Fearing a “failure of public credit”, London ordered Calcutta to “conciliate” the Marathas by “concessions” whereupon the Company immediately withdrew from Central India and Western India, promising the Marathas that it would no longer “intervene” in these areas.
This astonishing turn of events meant that Amir, who had only weeks prior been contemplating fleeing to Afghanistan, suddenly found himself rewarded with the fertile parganas (revenue subdivisions) of Tonk and Pirawa. Consequently, by the middle of 1806, he was starting to truly feel something like a Nawab. He now had a cumulative annual income of 5 lakhs and some 20,000 troops under him. The problem was that his troops cost half a lakh a month at minimum, which meant that he had to spend a great deal of time and energy avoiding his “famished praetorians”. The akhbars (newsletters) delighted in recounting tales of his imaginative escapes, such as the time he evaded one set of debtors by hiding in a lieutenant’s zenana (harem) and another set by climbing out of a latrine window. It was not exactly a regal existence, but serpents know what lions do not, which is how to bide their time.
And sure enough, Amir’s difficulties were resolved some months later when Jodhpur and Jaipur came to blows over the question of which of them was entitled to marry Krishna Kumari, the princess of Udaipur. Hoping to gain the upper hand, both sides set about trying to recruit every soldier they could find. When Amir, holed up in neighbouring Malwa, learnt of the contest, he was gleeful about having so many “pigeons to pluck.” To wit, he advised Jaswant that they ought to alternately take the side of Jaipur and Jodhpur and thereby “turn the conflict to our own purposes, spinning it out at pleasure, till the resources of both were exhausted, and both were in our power.” It all went according to plan – for Amir. This was because shortly after Amir had set about fleecing the Rajputs – first serving Jaipur, then switching to Jodhpur – Jaswant went from half to completely mad. By the end of 1808, the Maharaja had “lapsed into idiocy” and was being held down by ropes lest he hurt himself.
This remarkable development gifted Amir Khan a long-awaited chance to outgrow his humble origins. With Jaswant out of the picture, Amir seized control of Holkar’s military, which included some two hundred canons, and set about taking control of the darbar. It was not easy going, however, as Sindhia, unwilling to see a Maratha kingdom fall into the hands of the Pathan, repeatedly came to the aid of the Maratha faction in the Holkar darbar. Rightly unsure of his prospects in the event of a contest with Sindhia, Amir tried once again to defect to the British in 1809. He would much prefer, he quietly informed them, to “pass the remainder of my life in the service of the British Government,” which was the “fountain of equity and justice.” All he wanted was “eight annas in the rupee” (or half the revenue of any district it assigned him). The British once again rudely rejected his entreaty, urging him to give up the “absurd notion” that the Company would ever grant him a jagir.
It turned out for the better. Having realised that there would be no shortcut to acquiring a principality truly of his own, Amir began preparing to beat back Sindhia. Naturally, this necessitated plucking his favourite “pigeons” some more. So back he went to Rajputana where Jodhpur and Jaipur, having discerned their folly in employing mercenaries, had only just concluded a peace – and agreed to no longer seek Krishna Kumari. Seeking to split the parties, in June 1810 Amir forced his way into Udaipur where he ordered Bhim Singh, the Maharana, to put his daughter, Krishna Kumari, to death – or else he would forcibly take her to Jodhpur.
Once the princess was no more, he moved on to Jodhpur to collect the “tribute” owed to him for having “protected” Jodhpur’s honour. Over the following two years, he emptied out Jodhpur’s treasury and killed the Maharaja’s trusted dewan and beloved guru when they advised the hapless ruler to seek Sindhia’s help. Meanwhile, his rapacious son-in-law, Jamshed Khan, squeezed what he could out of Udaipur, such that, famously, by 1816, of Udaipur’s 50,000 houses only about 3,000 were still occupied. So reinforced, Amir moved on Jaipur in 1816, with sieges and bombardment of the capital leading to famine and despair. The fall of the wealthiest of the Rajput kingdoms now seemed all but inevitable.
These dramatic events made the British sit up. With the Nawab “bidding fair to establish a Mussalman dynasty on the ruins of the Rajpoot states,” the British perspective suddenly changed. The cumulative value of the crown lands of Jodhpur, Jaipur, and Udaipur, they estimated with a gulp, amounted to well over a crore. Were the “extraordinary rise” of the “famous Ameer Khan” to continue, the Anglo-Indian press now anxiously reported, “he may, like Hyder Ali, become a serious thorn in our side before long.” The threat was seriously exacerbated by the prospect of Amir turning the Pindaris, who now numbered about 50,000, into “ready auxiliaries”. Indeed, he was already gladly watching the Pindaris cause mayhem in British Indian districts, which they would raid and then, having raped, looted, and murdered the inhabitants, they would retreat to their lairs on the other side of the Narmada.
In 1817 Calcutta decided that enough was enough. That October, two massive armies, comprising 113,000 soldiers and 300 guns marched on Central India to cast an “iron net” around the Pindaris. In the end, there was hardly any fighting. When the British arrived in Malwa, Sindhia, “did not even raise his little finger.” Seeing as the Pindaris had been raiding his territories in connivance with Amir, he was prepared to see them extirpated. As to Amir, the Company knew from past exchanges what he wanted – he was invited to give up his “Pindari habits” in return for the “guarantee of past gains.” Amir was more than ready to accept the offer. To grease the wheels, he gave his subordinates “delusive hopes” that they too would receive generous grants from the British. Then, leaving them with overdrawn checks to the amount of 9 lakh rupees, he took refuge in the Company’s camp. In the end, it was left to the British to clean up the mess, which they did by absorbing the more “serviceable” of Amir’s troops as a “temporary expedient” and “convincing” the remainder to take up other vocations. The bulk of the Pindaris, meanwhile, melted away or were “hunted” to extinction.
And thus became Amir Khan the Nawab of Tonk, a “straggling principality” comprising disconnected parcels of land that Company officers were only too happy to confirm as his territory. It created, they privately exulted, a “Mussalman interest” to serve as “a counterpoise to the predominant influence of the Hindoos” in Central India. The wider world, meanwhile, was compelled to admire the serpent that had outdone the lions. The Nawab may be “rude and uncouth,” the British press murmured, but “if the main object of his exertions has been the attainment of an independent principality, then his ambition is now crowned with success.” Armed with an annual income of 15 lakhs, Amir was able to take up the “arts of peace,” becoming “one of the chief centres of financial support and asylum” to the Wahhabi movement, and henceforth become the subject of many a tale in regimental messes and officer clubs across British India.
Now why would English Subba Rao want his wards to reflect on the doings of Amir Khan – a villain notorious enough to make a name for himself in an era notorious for villainy? The tutor’s objective was to write “a Tragedy” that could teach Swati and Uttaram that since God was evidently content to “let virtue be the victim of vice,” they “must not cherish foolish hopes of any help from above.” Still less could they hope for help from the British. After all, far from being punished, Amir Khan – violator of oaths, ravager of the defenseless, murderer of women – was rewarded by the “civilised” British with a principality of his very own. A lesson of this kind the princes would never obtain from fables such as Vetalpancavinsati (Five-and-Twenty Tales of Vikram and the Vetal) that their contemporaries were being taught in palaces around the country.
English Subba Rao’s drama – the first English-language play written in modern India – initially left the British perplexed. They assumed it was intended to inculcate in Swati and Uttaram an appreciation for the Company having relieved Rajputana from “intolerable evils”. But Subba Rao’s intention was quite different. He hoped that by showing how Rajputana’s misery was the consequence of particular decisions made by particular characters, his Krishna Kumari would encourage Travancore’s princes to eschew the imprudence so characteristic of the Native States of that era. How the princes behaved and what the choices they made mattered – if they acted wisely, they would avoid the Rajputs’ terrible fate. Of course, once the British discerned Subba Rao’s true purpose, which was to give the princes the fortitude to remake Travancore and resist the East India Company, they forced him into exile, and forbade further reference to him – and his godforsaken play.
This essay draws on Krishna Kumari: The Tragedy of India, edited by Rahul Sagar, and published by Bloomsbury, which contains the relevant references and notes. The following extract is from English Subba Rao’s play, which was completed in 1825. In this scene, Amir Khan is criticised by his elderly khansama (retainer) for the underhand means he had employed to murder Sawai Singh, the thakur (lord) of Pokhran. Having been offered a large sum of money to eliminate Sawai Singh, Amir swore an oath of “brotherhood” to the thakur and then invited him to his camp to celebrate their “alliance”. When Sawai Singh visited Amir’s camp, he was ambushed and beheaded. The assassination, which occurred in 1808, was the basis for John Malcolm describing Amir Khan as “destitute of humanity and principle”; Malcolm being the very same diplomat who would then go on to confirm Amir Khan as Nawab of Tonk.
SCENE II
A SMALL TENT WELL FURNISHED
Enter Amir Khan and his Jamadar
Amir. Today our brave troops have behaved remarkably well. I believe they have sacrificed all the victims. Well done! But what is become of Sawai Singh? Did he escape?
Jamadar. No, sir; not a single soul, I am sure, has escaped from the tent; which, according to your device, was so skillfully dropped, that it is impossible for anyone to have come out of it; and had any succeeded in this, he could not have escaped being shot from without.
Amir. That is right; God be praised! My plan is at last crowned with success. But here come the officers of the different corps.
Enter officers, the foremost of them carrying the head of Sawai Singh in a large salver
Officer. We have executed your commands punctually, all Sawai Singh’s men, to the number of about six or seven hundred, are killed; here is the trophy of this great exploit. (They set before him the mangled head of Sawai Singh, which Amir Khan and his Jamadar look at very attentively, with some affected changes in their countenances, exclaiming frequently aloud “O God! O merciful Allah.”)
Amir. This is the fate which awaits evildoers.
Officer. Yes, it is; but we are sorry to inform your Excellency, that the same fate has befallen your innocent brother-in-law; because he was one of the unfortunate victims, who were slain within the tent.
Amir. What? My brother-in-law! That is mournful! – Indeed, the decree of heaven is blind. But how did that happen? (With tears in his eyes) Alas! Poor man, the best of my friends! What could have carried him thither? Where was he found dead?
Officer. We know nothing of the matter; but, somehow, or other, he happened to be within the tent, when the fire commenced. We found his body stretched on the ground close to that of Sawai Singh, both of them shot by many musket bullets.
Amir. Indeed! It is an unhappy blunder! But how can that be helped? It was the doom, to which he was predestined by the Almighty will! Be that as it may, send this head immediately to Man Singh, that he may feast his eyes on it; because, I know this skull contained many intrigues, and he dreaded it most in the world. Now you may all go to rest yourselves in your tents. I will reward your exertions.
Officer. We are all very thankful for your kindness. (Exeunt)
Amir. Well, Jamadar, what think you now of the measures, which I have taken to destroy this traitor Sawai Singh and his party?
Jamadar. Why, they are both ingenious and just, Sir. As a friend of Man Singh, you have on one hand done your duty to the satisfaction of that prince; and on the other, as you have cleared the world of this wicked man, who was the scourge of mankind, your general philanthropy is established.
Amir. Aye, you are in the right; that is my laudable object; but here comes my old Khansama; he always speaks nonsensically, but pretends to have great regard for virtue and religion; let us know what is his opinion about the present affair.
Jamadar. Oh, Sir, he is nothing but an empty-headed simpleton, but –
Enter an old Khansama, with a melancholy air
Amir. Come, Khansama, what is the matter with you? You seem to be very sorry; what is become of your wonted gaiety?
Khansama. Why, Sir, the sight of this unjust and dreadful massacre has entirely deprived me of it.
Amir. So then, you are sorry, because, I have destroyed my enemies, are you?
Khansama. No, Sir, I am sorry, because you have destroyed your reputation, and rendered yourself odious among mankind.
Amir. How? In what manner can this my prudent act affect my character?
Khansama. It has metamorphosed you so completely that you are not the same person today, that you were yesterday; because, hitherto you were the ablest commander, and a brave soldier; but now, you are no more than a detestable perjurer, and a cruel murderer.
Amir. You seem to be sure, that I have committed perjury!
Khansama. The whole world is sure of it. Do you suppose then, that you great folks can keep the world ignorant of your deeds? Does not every sepoy and common porter in the bazar know of your having deceived poor Sawai Singh by your oaths? And then, of having put him to death in spite of it?
Jamadar. Well, what then?
Khansama. What then? Is it not the greatest sin, that a man can commit against his Maker?
Jamadar. Oh, by no means. It is as silly as to suppose it a sin, if we ensnare beasts and birds, and then kill them for our use.
Khansama. Then, are our fellow creatures to be considered as beasts and birds?
Jamadar. Why, I think they are not in the least better; because they are infidels, do you know?
Khansama. Yes, I do; but this theory, which you have just adduced, is not new; because, in certain parts of the world some ingenious people, who are naturally endowed with superior genius, like that of yours, have already put it in practice long ago: they not only slaughter their own species, as you would have us do, but also they eat them with great pleasure. Now do not you allow them a higher degree of reformation than us true believers?
Amir. Well, Khansama, you have not yet got better of your foolish dogmatism. Would you overturn the whole order of things in the world? I ask you, how is it possible for us to acquire power and wealth, unless recourse is had to some stratagem or other occasionally?
Khansama. If you ask my opinion, it is quite unsafe to deviate from the golden rule of doing to others, as we would they should do to us; and even universal monarchy is not worth a kaudi, when we are to obtain it at the expense of our conscience.
Amir. (Laughs) Be sincere! Will you look at my face, and tell me what you think, at the bottom of your heart about the magnificence of the royal state, noble buildings, splendid carriages, rich jewels, fine apparel, exquisite delicacies of the table, and all that? Are not these enchanting temptations capable of stifling your poor conscience within your heart?
Khansama. (Laughs) True; the temptations are very strong, indeed; but the ideas of the headache, gout, cholic pain, fever, infirmities of old age, and sickness, the screams of agony, pangs of death, the dismalness of the dark grave, and lastly the terrible notion of perpetual tortures in hell, trample all these temptations under foot, and point out to me clearly the necessity of having conscience for my guide in this sublunary state.
Jamadar. (Laughs) It seems some insipid books of beggarly fakirs, which go by the name of Philosophy, have stuffed his empty head with all these foolish romantic notions of groundless fears.
Khansama. Yes, as the Devil has crammed yours with pernicious and blind confidence on the deceitful charms of fortune, and the erroneous opinions about happiness.
Jamadar. (to Amir Khan) I think his nonsensical speech has something pernicious in its effects; because, it begins to puzzle my head strangely; but who in the world doubts, that without money and power a man is nothing but a poor two-legged helpless animal? Let this fellow stick to his dull Philosophy, and let us mind our serious business of procuring riches and happiness.
Amir. Yes, it is true; to discourse with wrongheaded people, is to disturb the peace of your mind; but this man being my old confidential servant, I cannot help loving him. I have very often given him the liberty of speaking his mind to me and I must not forget that his opinions were very useful upon several occasions.
Jamadar. Aye, they might have been so upon some trifling occasions; but in the present case, he reasoned very absurdly, and seems to have almost abused that liberty you have given him, by boldly representing our grand political actions in a quite different light from what they really are; he has almost obscured our brilliant exploit by his gloomy reasonings.
Khansama. (Laughs) Strange depravity! (to Amir Khan) I beg your honour will pardon my boldness: I have done my duty in speaking the truth according to my own way, in which I am determined to continue until my life ends. Now I take leave to go to my own business: God grant you a long life and success! (Exit)
Amir. A plague on the devilish arguments of this old fellow! They are not easily controverted; but we need not trouble our heads about them. Let us lose no time to set out for Jodhpur, and demand from Man Singh the promised reward of a jagir and money for my services to his state.
(Exeunt)
Excerpted with permission from Krishna Kumari: The Tragedy of India, English Subba Rao, edited and introduced by Rahul Sagar, Bloomsbury India.
