Everyone has got secrets. The challenge is how to dig them out.

I am talking about the world’s latest favourite pair in search of secrets – Mikael Blomkvist and Lisbeth Salander. Well, I know I am at least one year late to write a review of the Millennium Trilogy. But I felt it is absolutely necessary to pay my respect to Froken Sallander, Kalle Blomkvist and above all to Herr Larsson.

Blomkvist, an investigative journalist, is a close shadow of Stieg Larsson in real life. He is the part owner and the lead journalist of the Millennium magazine. Single and single-minded in investigation, Blomkvist, called Kalle Blomkvist by many (after a famous character of a Swedish children’s book – Blomkvist himself does not like the name), shares a cozy relation with Editor-in-chief Erika Berger. Berger has an open marriage with an artist and for more than two decades – they met at the journalism school - Blomkvist and Berger have been lovers, business partners and best friends. Middle-aged Blomkvist is likeable but his habit of sleeping around in the middle of a dangerous investigation – James Bond style – is quite annoying at times. At the end of the third volume Blomkvist seems headed for a more settled relationship with an athletically beautiful police woman – aptly named – Monica Figuerola.

On the other hand Larsson’s real creativity comes out in drawing Lisbeth Salander – all of 40kgs and at 5 feet from the sea level – Salander packs an incredible punch. One of the best hackers in business, paranoid about her privacy and bisexual (her same sex partner Mirium Wu is another interesting package) – Salander provides the shock and awe treatment to the readers. Salander also has no inhibition in sex but at least she does not sleep around in the middle of an investigation (except, of course, with Blomkvist in the first book). Salander has a past, which is one of the central threads of the series and which also makes her determination admirable. But this 21st century - Modesty Blaise - meets - Charlie's angels keeps you hooked in the trilogy spanning nearly 2000 pages (the third book – at least the edition I read was double the size of a normal paperback, so therefore I am calculating around 2000 pages, otherwise all the books have around 500-600 pages each).

Larsson draws a supporting cast with wonderful eyes for details – so you can almost visualize the small staff of the Millennium magazine, office of Dragan Armansky’s Milton Security (where Salander used to work), Police Inspector Bublanski and of course Erika Berger. In the first story the small island of Hedestad comes alive in such a way that an alert reader could almost walk across the road and look around at various spots, where Harriet Vanger might have sat or walked on that fateful day more than 20 years back. As a crime fiction writer, Larsson’s greatest strength is giving out so much information and in such a neat fashion, yet holding it on till the last page (well, almost) and most importantly, a casual reader will not be able to find any contradictory or non-supportive piece of information anywhere in these massive tomes.

Millennium trilogy consists of three Blomkvist-Salander adventures - The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, The girl Who Played with Fire and The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest. Out of these three, the last two are actually the same story – last volume in fact starts from the precise point where the second volume gets over. If one looks at it closely then perhaps only the first one is a crime fiction, the other two being more like thrillers. In the first book, Blomkvist, discredited and sentenced to prison for defamation, heads to a small town with a curious assignment of finding out what happened on a day more than twenty years back when a girl from a prominent business family disappeared mysteriously. The way Blomkvist and Salander solves the crime is a wonderful piece of fictional detection. As I said earlier also as a detective writer Larsson puts up his best show in this book, yet there is one important weakness. At a crucial juncture in the story Blomkvist’s pre-teen daughter opens up her father’s eyes, thereby paving the way for a whole new perspective – this is one interjection Larsson could have avoided as it did not come into the story in a logical way. Second story (that is the second and third book) starts with the problem of human trafficking and prostitution rackets but soon catches up with Salander’s past. Both the books are pulsating thrillers but there are scenes where Larsson clearly goes overboard and makes it too unreal, particularly at the end of the second volume. It is in last two volumes that Larsson raises serious questions about the limit of a welfare state vis-à-vis notions of individual liberty. He also forces conscious readers to think about unfettered freedom intelligence agencies and such holy cows are often allowed to enjoy even in a democracy.

Of course these are the questions Stieg Larsson (15th Aug 1954 - 9th Nov, 2004) tried to grapple with all his adult life. Larsson, a journalist with TT Wire Agency, editor of Expo magazine, a leading science fiction fan and an expert on right wing movement died shortly after delivering three Salander manuscripts to his Swedish publisher. These are the stories he wrote for fun after his day’s work was done. A large part of the fourth novel was also found in his laptop after his death. He reportedly planned to write ten novels in this series. Larsson was a Trotskyist in his political belief (I thought in today’s world such categories exist only in Calcutta!), reportedly trained Eritrean Women guerrillas in the use of grenade launchers (in late 1970s) and spent years under police protection as his life was under threat from various neo-Nazi groups. At the age of 15, he was witness to gang rape of a girl named Lisbeth – he always blamed himself for not being able to help that girl. Since then he had been deeply concerned about atrocities against women. Overall, this is a very 21st century crime fiction/thriller series in terms of subjects, context and mentality. Like a true chartbuster all the spicy ingredients of a popular fiction are here. Still no one can deny Larsson the credit of putting it together as a unique crime series, despite obvious weaknesses of such a package.

Reading Salander and looking for more such stories I came to know a little bit about the Scandinavian crime fiction tradition, which has been thriving at least since the Second World War. Geography specific sub-categorization of crime fiction with their special characteristics is a theme, which never struck me before. We generally tend to put all crime fictions/thrillers we read in English under a general category making allowance only for individual writer but not in terms of geography (Nordic crime fiction or Canadian crime fiction). But Salander forced me to accept unconsciously that it is patently wrong to overlook the geo-tagging of crime fiction. What Larsson’s success has done – going by the storm in the web world – is to highlight the entire genre of Nordic crime fiction, which despite the success of Kurt Wallander and Inspector Norse never captured the imagination of global readership in such a way.

In a recent study of crime fictions – Imagination of the Evil – author Mary Evans looks for factors behind the setting of crime fictions. Cold climates of Scandinavia, sparse and mechanical lifestyle along with a typical Nordic tendency of holding on to your emotions create an altogether different context from the late nineteenth century cobbled gas-lit streets of London, where Sherlock Holmes used to operate. I have grown up reading a whole host of amiable bhadralok Bengali Goyendas (detectives) – who abhorred violence, guns and to a large extent tried to avoid the other sex. Sub-genre of Bengali crime fiction is not very well known outside Bengal but thanks to some good English translation, a lot of people are now aware of Satyajit Ray’s Feluda (often more a typical Bengali adda story than a serious crime fiction) and one TV series has made the best Bengali detective Byomkesh Bakshi (written by Sharadindu Bandopadhyay) famous to at least two generations of Indians. There are a number of others from Kiriti Roy to Kakababu – but all of them, now I realize, are someway typically Bengali in terms of imagination of the evil and tackling it.

Love Me Tender, Love Me True

Just a few days back my wife literally forced me to watch a romantic comedy – romcom to her. My sweet wife (along with a bunch of her friends) is a die-hard fan of such romcoms and Jane Austen like period piece romances. On the other hand, very few of my friends will blame me as a sentimentalist. I hardly read normal fiction, have not touched any romantic novel in years; hardly watch movies; even listening to music is not something I do normally. Of course the movie ended with the promise that everyone will live happily ever after.

The book I wanted to write about today is The Museum of Innocence by Orhan Pamuk. I have no right to review it as this is an absolutely rare book, which I started but could not finish. Many people believe that Nobel Prize in literature in   reality means the end of creativity for the laureate. This book, coming out after Pamuk’s crowning glory – at a relatively young age (at the age of 54 in 2006) – definitely does not provide any confirmation for such thoughts. Pamuk is of course best known for his classic My Name Is Red (1998). But at least two of his later books have satisfied critiques and ordinary readers alike – his political novel Snow (2002) and his romantic exploration of his beloved city Istanbul: Memories of a City (2004).

The Museum of Innocence, originally published as Masumiyet Muzesi in Turkish in 2008 is a story of an obsessive and doomed love. The hero of the novel Kemal is the son of one of the richest businessmen in Turkey, engaged to a suitable girl. But days before his marriage, he hopelessly falls in love with a young and not-so-well-to-do shop assistant Fusun, who is also his distant relative. Fusun is beautiful and has a charm very different from his upper-class fiancée, which Kemal finds difficult to resist. For Kemal, it does not take much time to lose Fusun but he becomes obsessed with Fusun and everything associated with Fusun. He ends up destroying his relations with the girl he was engaged with and also hope of any meaningful career. Slowly he becomes so engrossed with his obsession that he ends up losing Fusun, the human being and reduces her merely to the object of his obsession. Over a period of three decades from 1975, pathologically obsessed Kemal goes on collecting every little object related to Fusun or that era and builds a museum of innocence. Kemal gradually forgets that Fusun was the love of his life – however impossible and doomed it was – and tries to find solace in objectifying his undying love. Fusun is just a site, where Kemal empties his emotion. Had it not been Fusun – it seems - he would have perhaps found someone else, as he just needed a blood and flesh character to be obsessed with, to waste his life away in search of such pure romance, which cannot possibly exist in real life.

Apart from Kemal’s objectification of love, the story is also a commentary on women in Turkish society – how girls are stereotyped and their roles and attitude are straitjacketed. They carry the guilt of pre-marital sex or the stigma of lose morality when they participate in a beauty contest or act in movies. Overall the entire story unfolds in the backdrop of gradual opening up of Turkey (more in a social sense than economic) to European influence.

The book starts with Kemal noting that the happiest moment of his life came (and went), at a time when he hardly recognized or understood it. This is something like a universal truth, which we all come to recognize. Equally, we all try to build our own museums of everyday life – whether we admit it or not – we all try to preserve that first love letter, pressed rose petals, a hairpin here, a pencil there…..however fastidiously we try to clean up our home or office, we get sentimental with apparently meaningless items and keep them safely locked up, as they carry memories of some association. It is a long book and as Kemal goes on collecting souvenirs and explain their significance, a miasma of heartbreak slowly envelopes the entire city of Istanbul and gradually sucks the reader into it. As he goes on telling Kemal’s story, Pamuk reduces the apparent love story into a pure and condensed emotion – it is so pure that one finds it difficult to bear.

Like everyone else I thought I had known love and the pain of a heart break. I also thought – like all of you – that my love story was the most unique. Yet Pamuk made me intolerably sick – it was as if his love was like Essential Oils – it is so pure that you cannot use it directly. For ordinary mortals like us it has to be diluted and presented in beautiful bottles of perfumes – we are not pure enough to use it in that condensed form –we cannot handle that pure an emotion in our real life. Kemal’s fetishism is just a ploy to challenge us – how pure is your emotion? In real life, love (and perhaps, everything) is so complicated and multilayered that neither romcoms can come true nor can we have Kemal’s purity. Pamuk shows us that inspite of his success, his long career in literature and Nobel Prize, he has been able to retain a certain innocence of heart, which makes him truly great. Perhaps this is not the best of his novels (for me it has to be My Name Is Red) and definitely it does not break any new ground in terms of form or other experiments, yet it establishes Pamuk’s persuading power as a writer and his emotional innocence, which he incredibly retains at this age.

I envy my lovely wife and admit that I cannot enjoy such simple and innocent pleasures of life like her romcoms. I also hopelessly admit that I do not have Kemal’s purity of heart to give up everything for love. I would rather try to lay my hands on his latest book - The Naïve and Sentimental Novelist (it is on literary criticism) rather than giving another shot at it, yet if you have not read Museum of Innocence, I will strongly suggest you try it once, just to know yourself better.

India's New Capitalists

India's New Capitalists: Caste, Business and Industry in a Modern Nation

Author: Harish Damodaran

Business history is a neglected subject in India. Harish Damodaran's main contribution in this well-researched book is to bring the narrative up-to-date. History of entrepreneurship in India is very old but very often overlooked even in economic history. The general narrative available so far(in Dwijendra Tripathy, Rajat Kanta Ray, Amiya Bagchi and others) was more focussed on pre-independence period. Damodaran has brought it right upto the first decade of 21st century, describing the post-liberalisation scenario and IT boom. Damodaran outlines three major lines to capitalist stardom - from agriculture to Industry(Kammas of Andhra), from trading to industry(Marwaris) and from service to industry(cutting across caste lines - but due to their educational advancement basically brahmins and other literate castes). Traders turning industrialists is relatively better documented. But Damodaran breaks new ground in delineating the connection between commercialisation of agriculture and advent of a new breed of entrepreneurs. Service to industry - perhaps the best example of which is Infosys and such IT behemoths- is a recent phenomenon and as such, Damodaran's is one of the firsts comprehensive account of this trend.His other important contribution is to give a detailed account of industry and entrepreneurship in South India. Apart from various works of noted business historian Raman Mahadevan and one edited volume on South Indian economy, there is very little serious material on the subject. Damodaran does an enviable job in giving us a complete business and sociological narrative of South Indian business communities. One of his important conclusions is that the absence of an all-pervasive commercial caste like marwaris/bania(in North India) paved the way for rise of middle and lower castes in South Indian business. On the other hand, over-dominance of trading castes in every sphere of economic activities in North India - he concludes - did not allow agricultural castes to take to entrepreneurship in a large scale. Justifying the sub-title of the book, he describes business communites in different regions along the caste lines, which at times is stretched too much. On the other hand a very important sub-text of the entire narrative is the nexus between Indian business and politics. It provides a perfect context to understand present day trends of crony capitalism and mega scandals involving big business and mainstream political parties.

River of Fire

Life is like an ocean. Each wave of that ocean brings a new experience on shore. But that experience is new only in form, in appearance. The content has always been the same. This River of Fire – the river of time – flows through the consciousness of all of us, it flows through a cultural space called India and more than anything else it touches through the noblest achievements of human civilization. The origin of this stream is a confluence of truth and eternal beauty and it quietly flows and flows without any end. It does not get dissolved anywhere because it carries that ocean of life within it. The River of Fire by Qurratulain Hyder is a classic in the true sense of the term. Widely acknowledged as a great landmark in Urdu literature (where prose tradition was not the strongest when it was first published in 1959), it is a novel sketched over a breathtakingly vast and deep canvass of time, space and culture

                The story begins in Shravasti of 4th century B. C., where a final year student of the Forest University of Shravasti,Gautam Nilambar meets Hari Shankar, a prince who wants to follow the path of Sakyamuni Gautam falls in love with Champak, a beautiful and intelligent princess. But the bigger world of almost meaningless political strife throws all of them out of their own orbits. Life, at the end of the story, proves a humbling experience for all of them.
And from there they set sail on the River of Fire –Gautam Nilambar,Hari Shankar, Champak, Kamaluddin, Nirmal. They meet, they fall in love and again above all, they worship truth and beauty – and all these meetings take place at different junctures of Indian history. They meet – and that’s the essence of it – they meet in pre-Mughal Hindustan, flows down to Bengal, from Bengal, Cyril Ashley and Gautam Nilambar Dutt reach Lucknow to meet Champabai and Kamaluddin in pre-mutiny Awadh. And from that fabled Nawabi city in 1930s and 1940s, they disperse all over – from Karachi to Sylhet, from Lucknow to London. They are always men and women from the upper echelons of society (a pity rather, because whenever ‘others’ – like their servants came in the narrative – mostly for one sharp comment or a sensitive observation – they left haunting insight into the psyche of those left out from our history books), they always have an eye for the beautiful and yearning for knowledge. But always they are thrown into the vortex of political turmoil and almost meaningless fighting, at times uprooted from home. But life remains as humbling experience as ever. Apart from the same characters, their eventual destinies and truth and beauty; there remain a few more symbols of eternity. And the most memorable of them is perhaps the way the entire novel progresses under the shadows of two of the greatest philosophers of all time –Gautam Buddha and Ibn-al-Arabi. Gautam Nilambar is always in doubt – who is he to resolve the great debates of logic and metaphysics; we are here to lead a life of beauty and creativity. After all the strife and struggle, discussion and disappointment, life in the ultimate analysis remains a celebration of beauty and creativity – and in this book that stretches from 4th century B. C. to post-partition India – that celebration of life flows through the novel like a river of delight.

Through her narrative spanning over time and space, she touches one of the greatest debates of history – is history cyclical? Should we repeat the way Sherlock Holmes used to admonish Watson and Inspectors of the Scotland Yard, “read more and more, nothing new happens under the Sun”? But what she conveys more effectively is that circumstances may change but the basic yearnings of human being remain the same. She has a great sense of history. Unlike most other dry academic historians, she can bring alive any page from your history book and that too in a very authentic manner. She draws sketches of historical figures throughout her epic tale and does it not only very convincingly but always from the perspective of a contemporary observer. More amazingly she touches upon sublime symbols of history, so often overlooked – how a simple bicycle came to be seen as a symbol for women’s liberation. It happened in the US, England and India at different points of time. What she writes about lady teachers of Lucknow finds its exact echo in Geraldine Forbes’ description of pioneering women freedom fighters of Lahore – how cycling in the public space gave them a sense of freedom, mobility and a special status.
But like other great works of fiction, this one is also not absolutely perfect. The last story stretches too long and it becomes a little tedious as well. One wishes she gave more space to first two stories – they appeared so harmonious. It is difficult, if not impossible to write contemporary history. At best you can be a good chronicler. No doubt she is one but she fails to distance herself from the contemporary events and thereby falters in maintaining the balance, which she did so masterfully in previous tales. In the last narrative she clearly shows her inability to assimilate myriad events during a tumultuous period of Indian history and produce her own tale – just the way she did it although this wonderful journey through the River of Fire. Apart from this serious limitation, the character of Talat also seems to be overburdened with ideas, experiences and observations of Qurratulain as a person.

She writes evocative prose. The translation – by the author herself – is too simple and does not convey even glimpses of her famous Urdu prose, which many of us are unable to savour in original. But inspite of all these limitations, she remains – even in English translation – a masterful story-teller. She knows how much to describe and what to leave out for a reader’s imagination. She touches emotional chords so effortlessly – she makes people almost automatically nostalgic, whether with Lucknow of yesteryears or humming of a Pahari Sanyal song – people cutting across a vast geographical area and different sub-cultures can so easily identify with her story. Like a true history, it becomes “our story”. She takes all of us down the River. And the journey promises a gold-laden ship, hidden somewhere along the River or somewhere inside us.

LUCKNOW AND ABDUL HALIM SHARAR

In 1775, Asaf-ud-daula chose the ancient city of Lucknow as his capital. More interested in refined enjoyments than military conquests like his predecessors, he was the right ally for the British. But it was not possible for Asaf-ud-daula to immerse himself in total luxury under the watchful eyes of his mother, the much-respected Bahu-begum in the capital Faizabad. This family dispute (where Hastings and company harassed and looted Bahu begum and her mother-in-law, Safdar Jung’s wife) paved the way for establishment of the greatest of late medieval capital cities of the subcontinent. In 1856, the British finally seized the kingdom of Awadh by dismissing Lucknow’s favourite ruler Wazid Ali Shah. And the very next year the city flared up in an unprecedented rebellion and became one of the focal points of the Mutiny. Veena Talwar Oldenburg described the period as ‘eight intense and inspired decades’ (1775-1856), when the city grew ‘magically’ to become what Sharar called the last example of oriental culture. Many observers – both contemporary and modern – have commented that whatever was lost in Delhi flourished once again on the banks of Gomati. But it was a brief illusion with a pronounced Shiite predilection and more syncretic participation. The British design was very clear – to keep Awadh as a buffer state, keeping it under definite military control without the responsibility of the civil administration. The later rulers of the house of Sadaat and Safdar Jung were only too willing to eat out of the British hand. As the British strengthened their military grip ever more strongly and increased their financial demands, Nawabs of Awadh were quite content in erecting grand palaces, indulging in music and quail-fighting and various other forms of sophisticated luxury.

After the siege of Lucknow, the British destroyed much of the Nawabi Lucknow physically and the end of Nawabi of course meant drying up of the main source of patronage for myriad shairs and courtesans, artists and architects. Lucknow still remained the provincial capital, a status it lost to Allahabad in 1877 upon the merger with the North-West province. Better riverine and rail connectivity (with Calcutta) meant the rise of Kanpur and Allahabad as more important commercial centers than Lucknow. Still, till 1947, it remained the fourth biggest city of India after the three coastal Presidency cities but bereft of its former importance. Lucknow’s much-acclaimed tahzib (etiquette) and culture lingered on but was getting drowned in a new dominant culture and language. And 1947 marked a clearly visible break. The new political elite formally took over the reins and the orientation of their patronage was totally different. Even the most well-known manifestation of Lucknowi culture – Urdu shairi died out – Israr-ul-huq Majaz and Ali Sardar Jafri being the last two great torch-bearers of that tradition.

Maulana Abdul Halim Sharar (1860-1926) came from an aristocratic Lucknowi family known for academic excellence and close association with the court. He spent his growing up years in the court of the exiled king at Metiyaburz in Calcutta. Sharar (meaning Spark – his pen-name) went on to become a prolific Urdu prose writer who wrote more than 100 books but was most well known for his historical novels. Sharar was one of the pioneers of modern Urdu prose written in simple but elegant style in place of Persianised flowery rhythmic style. Along with Nazir Ahmad and Rattan Nath Sharshar, Sharar is credited with the introduction of modern western-style novel in Urdu literature. Among his translation works, one can mention Bankim Chandra’s Durgeshnandini (translated from English).

Sharar worked in Lucknow and Hyderabad and even visited Europe. He wrote in various papers but from 1887 till the end of his life his name was synonymous with Dil Gudaz, the literary journal he founded and edited. It was on the pages of Dil Gudaz he serialized his history of Lucknow. Sharar was also a historian who wrote on various chapters of history of Arabia, Islam and Sind. But his history of Lucknow was more of a chronicle. And it is an amazing social document.

Fakhir Hussain (one of Sharar’s translators) said in his note to the OUP Paperback edition, “Sharar witnessed and recorded the twilight of his culture before its journey into the night. His scholarship and insight provided additional credence to his study.” Written from 1913 to around 1920, these articles were titled by Sharar “Hindustan Mein Masriqi Tamaddun Ka Akhri Namuna” – the Last Example of Oriental Culture in India. Sharar did write about political history, he gave a brief history of the house of Sadaat and the rise of Awadh, the splendour of Faizabad and the shifting of capital to Lucknow. He also described the life in exile at Metiyaburz in Calcutta. But the most breath taking was the enormous social canvas Sharar drew with such competence. Here he authoritatively described not only well known art and crafts, stories of famous courtesans and different aspects of Urdu literature but also touched upon subtle forms of Lucknowi etiquette and mysteries of Yunani medicine. He passionately wrote about food – different delicacies, confectionaries, systems of water-cooling to preparation and serving of betel-leaf. He described different forms of headgears and palanquins, hair fashions and quail-fighting, peculiar ways of telling time and from wedding procession to funeral services – all with graphic details and great passion laced with justifiable pride. Comparisons were frequently made – both with foreign (Arabic and Persian) and Indian precedents and at times Lucknow’s humbleness was conceded but that pride is unmistakable. But above all what makes the entire description really informative and charming is Sharar’s way of looking at things coupled with his in-depth research (using traditional oral and written sources).

Lucknow is fortunate to have had a master chronicler like Sharar. As the refined legacies of Nawabi Lucknow’s cultural sophistication were buried in the sands of time amid pressing realities of our modern world, Maulan Abdul Halim Sharar, in his classic study of his beloved city preserved that fading picture for posterity.

Sharar’s Lucknow is the inevitable entry point for any study of Nawabi Lucknow. But otherwise also, the city is fortunate to have attracted not only laid-back connoisseurs of its many-splendoured culture but also a bunch of serious and sensitive historians and they have competently covered many facets of Nawabi Lucknow in fascinating details, some illustrative examples –

Violette Graff has edited an interesting collection of essays – Lucknow: Memories of a City (OUP, Delhi, 1997) – among other articles here, particular mention may be made of Veena Talwar Oldenburg’s article on courtesans and JRI Cole’s article on Shia women’s religious contribution.

Rosie Llewellyn Jones has been one of the most prolific historians of the city. Apart from her essays, one can mention her three books as very important contributions to the study of Lucknow –

1. A Fatal Freindship: The Nawabs, the British and the city of Lucknow (OUP, 1985) – about interaction between Nawabs and the British, ethos and architecture of the city alongside the political story. She uses the term “political architecture” to describe the architectural manifestation of a particular political equation. And perhaps this is the only full-length study of fabled Nawabi architecture of pre-Mutiny Lucknow.

Almost on the same theme, one can also look at A Clash of Cultures: Awadh, the British and the Mughals - Michael Fisher (Manohar, 1997)

2. A Very Ingenious Man: Claude Martin in Early Colonial India (OUP, Delhi 1992) – about one of the most enigmatic figure of India’s early colonial history, Claude Martin (interestingly Prof Theo Roy and S C Hill – well-known to the history students because of writings on Bengal around 1757 also wrote on the same subject)

3. Engaging Scoundrels: The Tales of Old Lucknow (OUP, 1999)

Among the other recent books on the city mention may be made of

Awadh Under the Nawabs - Surendra Mohan (Manohar, Delhi, 1997) And Lucknow, Fire of Grace – Amaresh Misra (Harper Collins, India, 1998).

Accounts of 140-day long historic siege of the city could be found in many forms – from personal diaries to academic histories. For personal accounts, one can start by looking at A Season In Hell: The Defence of the Lucknow Residency – Michael Edwards (Taplinger Publishing, NY 1973)

Among the other recent books on Mutiny

What Really Happened During the Mutiny – PJO Taylor (OUP, 1992)

The Raj, the Indian Mutiny and the Kingdom of Oudh, 1801 – 1859 – John Peamble (The Harvester Press, London, 1977)

Veena Talwar Oldenburg in her path-breaking study showed us how Nawabi Lucknow was remodeled into a colonial provincial town – both physically and metaphysically. “The Making of Colonial Lucknow” also challenged successfully, for the first time, the widely held belief among the historians that post-1857; there was a conscious policy to avoid interference in the native social sphere. She showed us through her vivid description and incisive analysis that while the non-interference is true in terms of a top-down approach, but at the grass-root level in Lucknow (and in other cities and towns across the subcontinent, as she hints) the physical space was altered, a loyal and effeminate elite was cultivated with great care and there was even a somewhat determined but rather subtle attempt to change social customs and habits and of course individual tastes.

For a wonderful and nostalgic account of the city and its timeless ethos, one can have a look at Attia Hosain’s Sunlight on a Broken Column (Virago, London, 1988). Incidentally she is the grandmother of noted Pakistani writer Kamila Shamsie. Other important portraits of the city in literature could be found in Umrao Jan Ada – story of an extraordinary courtesan of Lucknow by Mirza Hadi Ruswa (Eng. Translation by Khuswant Singh & M A Husaini, Orient Longman, Calcutta, 1961) – also immortalized in a famous Hindi film.

I Allan Sealy’s Trotternama is a novel-based on an Anglo-Indian family of Lucknow from 1799.

For a graphic description of Lucknowi culture in contemporary literature, Ratan Nath Sharshar’s classic ‘Fasane Azad’ is widely mentioned but I couldn’t locate an English translation. Of course one can have a look at Lucknow and the World of Sarshar – Firoze Mukherjee (Saad Pub, Karachi, 1992).

For other interesting aspects of Lucknowi culture-

Carla Petievich – Assembly of Rivals: Lucknow and the Urdu Ghazal (Manohar, 1992)
Reminiscences – The French in India – INTACH, Delhi, 1997

About religion and religious tension in the city –

JRI Cole – Roots of North Indian Shiism in Iran and Iraq: Religion and State in Awadh 1722-1858 (University of California Press, London, 1988)

For some later day accounts Sandria Freitag– Religious Rites and Riots: From Community Identity to Communalism in North India 1870 – 1940 (Ph D dissertation, University of California, Berkley, 1980)

And Sarojini Ganju (The Muslims of Lucknow before 1919-1939) and R L Jones – (The City of Lucknow before 1856) – both in The City in South Asia – edited by K. Ballhachet and John Harrison (Curzon Press/Humanities Press – London/Dublin, 1980).

Three of the major works mentioned here Sharar (translated by late Colonel E S Harcourt and Fakhir Hussain), Fatal Friendship by Rosie Llewellyn Jones and Veena Talwar Oldenburg are now available together in OUP’s Lucknow omnibus, wrapped in an exquisitely designed jacket.