Mumbai, INDIA :

Can a stable and just democracy flourish on foundations of wilful amnesia and erasure?

A c. 1800 painting showing the last stand of Tipu Sultan, ruler of Mysore in 1799 at the end of the Anglo-Mysore Wars with the East India Company. Photo: Henry Singleton/Public domain.

Many will ask why a book about Muslims who fought for India’s freedom? There’s no answer to such questions except another question. Had we been better memory keepers as a nation, could we have avoided the peak disinformation and stupidity which normalises reviling ordinary Muslims as outsiders, infiltrator and insurgents? 

Muslim Freedom Fighters of India is a two-volume biographical compilation by Salim Khan on less-known, mostly forgotten and hardly known Muslim figures. The books aim to clear the fog around Muslim freedom fighters whose names are heard of without them being extensively known and this requires us to understand why this fog exists. Written in an extremely readable and accessible format, these biographical accounts embed the historical figures in the context of their times, responding to unprecedented events with foresight, clarity and conviction that sealed their fate and shaped and the nation’s destiny.

 Whether we are reading about Generals of 1857 – Bakht Khan and Khan Bahadur Khan – or the Cambridge-educated Rampur scion Mohammad Ali Juahar of Khilafat moment and his fiery mother Bi Amma, the larger questions seething beneath the stories keep rising to surface. Who does a society and nation choose to remember and celebrate? Whose memories are deemed worthy of preserving? History is always shaped by those who control archives, narratives and memorialisation and hence memory. 

Reading about Tipu’s dazzling reign through the three Anglo Mysore wars where he proved superior to British forces, I was reminded of the controversy sparked by the late Girish Karnad’s suggestion of naming the Bengaluru airport after Tipu Sultan. Karnad had said, “It is true that Tipu Sultan was not born in Bengaluru, but he was a son of this soil and a freedom fighter. Had Tipu been a Hindu, he would have achieved the status of Shivaji, and the airport would have been named after him.” I recalled Karnad because his play Dreams of Tipu Sultan echoes the same theme that this two-volume tribute to erased, obscured and deliberately unremembered historical figures echoes: that when politics lays down who should be forgotten, remembering the erased becomes a duty, an affirmation and a political act. 

It is important to clarify that this is not a compilation of eulogies but well-researched fact based account of people who had the uncommon clarity to resist colonial domination even before the nationalistic narratives took shape. That they happened to be Muslims is important today because of the distortions that have obscured and erased them. But back then when they fought and resisted, they were simply rallying for the cause of their soil and their watan. From the earliest times they understood that freedom from foreign domination required Hindus and Muslims to put up a united front as in the war of 1857, the Khilafat movement, and the period between 1919 and 1924. Back then too, traitors cut across religious lines – Jagat Seth, Mir Jafar, and Ilahi Baksh.

Muslim Freedom Fighters of India: Part 1 and Part 2’, Salim Khan, Qalam Aur Kaagaz Books.

From Siraj ud Daulah to Tipu to Shahzada Firoz Shah, the book shows how the fog around these personalities is not accidental but meticulously designed – initially by the colonial mind, then picked up by early nationalists and woven into simplistic narratives. The macabre dance of history further stifled Muslim voices. Cataclysmic events like the ‘end’ of the Mughal Dynasty in 1857 and the Partition in 1947 sundered clans, erased family histories, legacies crumbled with no one is around to defend and uphold them. Today, even people who don’t know history have heard of Lakshmi Bai, but many who read history may not have heard about Shahzada Firoz Shah, the Mughal Emperor’s grandson who in August 1857, led a band of armed soldiers to rally the rebels in Rohilkhand and Malwa and who fought alongside Tatia Tope and called for a united Hindu-Muslim front against the Company. 

The British understood the dangerous potential of popular memory and subverted any potential for memorialisation of hugely influential figures. No one knows if Shahzada Firoz died in battle or escaped to West Asia. The Maulavi Ahmadulla of Faizabad whose authority and fearlessness scared the British so much that they kept a reward on his head, was likewise interred in an unmarked grave. Knowing that even his memory could become a node to unite the rebels, the British saw to it that no commemoration was permitted or possible. Zafar, the last Mughal was exiled to Rangoon for the same reasons.

In her book, India, 5,000 years of history on the subcontinent, Audrey Truschke, elucidates how Muslim rulers like Nawab Siraj ud Daulah and Tipu Sultan to Zafar felt a responsibility for their subjects no matter what their religion. For example, Siraj ud Daulah actively intervened in times of famines and drought in Bengal. But after the British took over they did nothing to alleviate human suffering, so that 20% of Bengal’s population died in the famine of 1768 and the small-pox epidemic of 1769-70 following it. This had never happened during earlier episodes of failed harvests. Truschke says, British historians initiated the custom of categorising Indian rulers as tyrannical, effete and incompetent, reducing them to their religion and writing in terms of Hindu rulers and Muslim rulers. The British needed to demonise Muslim rulers who were their immediate predecessors in subcontinent so that they might look good by comparison, Truschke notes. It was a part of the colonial propaganda.

Another pattern Salim Khan’s compilation brings out is that from mid-18th century onwards, the first responders and the most committed crusaders resisting colonial domination – the kings, queens, princes, preachers, noblemen – were Muslims. Not only because the British had wrested from them the power they had wielded for centuries (howsoever fragmented or diluted it may have become); but also, because they were looked upon as leaders. In Awadh, for example, the Shia elite took it as their moral-ethical duty (see Chapter 7, volume I: Shia Ullema and Noblemen of Awadh) 

Even in the 20th century, Muslim freedom fighters like Hasrat Mohani of the Inquilaab Zindabad fame and Asfaqullah Khan of the Kakori conspiracy who was an icon for Bhagat Singh, remain in the shadows, seen only in a hazy half-light. Were their contributions any less or only less remembered? One of the most important projects post-Independence should have been to restore memory and affirmation to those whom the British put on the wrong side of history, no matter what their religion or caste. But we know this is not what happened.

Since the arrival of the political controversy over Tipu Sultan, we have entered in an era of deliberate distortion of history. The larger question that these accounts refrain from asking but that jumps to any thinking person’s mind is this: can a stable and just democracy flourish on foundations of wilful amnesia and erasure? Should the memory of Muslim freedom fighters be kept only by the Muslims? The heritage and memory of Indian Muslims needs to be reclaimed by them. But equally, these volumes are required reading for the casually miseducated, hopelessly disinformed or simply ignorant Hindus who have been stupefied into denying and distorting their composite history.

Varsha Tiwary is a Delhi-based writer and translator. She has recently published 1990, Aramganj a translation of the best-selling Hindi novel Rambhakt Rangbaz.