A story as sumptuous as a magnificent Nawabi festival

In The Lion and the LilyIra Mukhoty presents a revisionist account of the rise and fall of the Nawabs of Awadh. For Mukhoty, the early Nawabs of Awadh were not decadent spendthrifts who squandered the state finances, as portrayed by the British, but capable rulers who worked diligently to transform Awadh into a leading centre of culture and prosperity. While this is hardly a new argument, Mukhoty's work differs from what came before with a skilful use of sources and a narrative that is as indulgent with its details as a Nawabi Dating (Firmly).

The Lion and the Lily tells, by and large, the story of the first four Nawabs of Awadh. Burhan-ul-Mulk Saadat Ali Khan (reigned 1722-39) transformed the Mughal Subscribe (State) of Awadh, where he had been sent as Nawab As punishment, the emperor transformed Awadh into one of the richest provinces of the empire, laying the foundation for his dynasty. When unrest in Delhi drove his successor Safdar Jang (reigned 1739-54) out of the imperial capital, Awadh became a de facto independent state. Awadh reached the height of its power under Shuja-ud-Daula (reigned 1754-75), whose armies won the Third Battle of Panipat in 1761.

Shuja-ud-Daula's dominant position in South Asia was broken less than three years later by the British East India Company (EIC), which inflicted a shocking defeat on Awadh at the Battle of Buxar in 1764 and forced the state into an “uncomfortable alliance with the British”. Rather than breaking Shuja-ud-Daula's fighting spirit, the defeat spurred the Nawab to modernise the state's military and finances and to build a magnificent new capital at Faizabad to preserve his independence. After Shuja-ud-Daula's unexpected death in 1775, his son Asaf-ud-Daula (reigned 1775-1797) proved to be an astute statesman, able to balance both British and native threats to his power and make Awadh a leading cultural centre of the Shi'ite world. His death marked the beginning of the end for Awadh, as British aggression at the turn of the century undermined the state's territory and sovereignty, eventually leading to the fateful uprising of 1857.

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While Nawabs are central themes of the book, but it also deals deeply with two other influential groups within the Awadh elites – the begums and the Europeans. Nawab Begum and Bahu Begum, Shuja-ud-Daulah's mother and wife, were clearly this reviewer's favourite characters in a book full of magnetic personalities. Both women managed vast fortunes which they protected from all attackers and which they used skilfully to reinforce their authority in what was then, as now, a man's world.

Mukhoty's focus on the begums Awadh's work will come as no surprise to those familiar with her earlier works, which always emphasised the key role of women in Indian society. Awadh also hosted several white firangis, including Antoine Polier, Jean-Baptiste Gentil, Claude Martin and William Palmer. These men made enormous fortunes, patronised architecture and art and often had conflicting feelings – waste Nawabs but a means of enforcing sovereignty. By spending money on dance, poetry, religious processions and monuments like the Bara Imambara, Nawabs were not only able to withdraw state funds from British access, but also invest massively in their countries.

Demonstrative cultural consumption was a central part of the Indian royal tradition and endeared rather than alienated the Nawabs to their people, as demonstrated by the violent reaction to the annexation of the state in 1856. Mukhoty further argues that the Nawabs were able to create a highly developed cultural space to which their despicable British overlords had no access. The Lion and the Lily has a few problems. The sheer volume of topics the book covers means that the chapter structure is not always clear. For example, the chapter on his departure from Awadh is preceded by a chapter on the impoverishment of Jean-Baptiste Gentil upon his return to France, which confuses the reader somewhat. The epilogue and prologue are both so hackneyed as to be redundant.

But this criticism pales into insignificance in the face of the volume of the book, whose numerous stories and themes have been only superficially covered in this review. It does a commendable service by introducing the general reader to some of the most important debates about modernity in South Asia and beyond without using the word once. Its sophisticated prose and richly detailed narrative do credit to arguably the most cultured state in 18th-century Hindustan.

Aashique Iqbal is a historian of modern South Asia and author of The airplane and the emergence of modern India.