The Greased Cartridge: The Heroes and Villains of 1857-58

Paul

• Publisher: Roli Books
• Year: 2011
• ISBN:
  9789351940104
• Topic: Geschichte
• Subtopic: Indische & südasiatische Geschichte

In most accounts of the revolt, the greased cartridge has been referred to as the spark and tinder that lit the flames of rebellion. The greased cartridge - what was it all about? The army so far had been quipped with the smooth-barrelled musket, which had a protracted loading procedure and was not accurate over long ranges. The new Enfield rifles, which were now being issued, had grooved or rifled barrels. This made them more accurate and gave them a longer range. The powder and bullet for the new rifle were put together in a paper cartridge. To load the rifle, the end of the cartridge containing the powder had to be bitten off so that the charge would ignite. The cartridge was then rammed down the muzzle of the rifle.. The grease used was tallow, probably containing both cow and pig fat. To "the cow reverencing Hindu and the pig paranoid Muslims" having to bite this was repellent, defiling and deadly to their religious prospects. The Revolt of 1857-58 was the biggest and bloodiest conflict against any European colonial power during the nineteenth century. This book is essentially about the heroes - Tatya Tope, Nana Saheb, Rani Lakshmi Bai, Kunwar Singh of Jagdishpur - and not to forget, a few villains. Though the revolt failed in its objective, even in failure it served a grand purpose. It was a source of inspiration for the national liberation movement, which later achieved what the revolt could not.

RANI OF JHANSI

History is written by the victors. For the ninety years of British rule after the mutiny, Rani Lakshmi Bai was the ‘Jezebel of India’, the ‘heathen who could forgive no injuries’, the ‘horrid Rani’ and ‘an ardent, daring, licentious woman’, among a host of other epithets and descriptions. But then, for the last several decades since India’s independence, the legend of Lakshmi Bai has lived on. It is the legend of a brave, courageous woman; a beautiful woman, and above all, an upright and god-fearing woman.

Strangely, there is not much literature about her and she lives more in the ballads, folktales and stories of Bundelkhand than in written accounts. She has often been compared to Joan of Arc, though the latter has inspired 12,000 volumes in French alone. It should be understood that the revolt was suppressed with great ferocity and no Indian dared at that time to write freely about the events of 1857-59. Despite this, a few eyewitness accounts in regional languages have survived.

Vishnu Godse, a learned Brahmin priest, was in Jhansi during the siege and he has written an eyewitness account of the events, Ankhon Dekha Ghader. It is interesting and authentic, and reflects the common man’s view of the rebellion. Because of the terror unleashed by the British after the mutiny, Godse’s account could not be published till fifty years after his death.

The Rani of Jhansi is probably the most remarkable woman in Indian history. She was on scene for a brief period of five years but emerged as the most outstanding and charismatic leader of the great revolt of 1857-59. Even her enemies rated her as ‘the best and bravest of the rebel leaders’. In her short but luminous career, she did more than many rulers could aspire to do in several lifetimes. She fought British injustice in the great halls and offices of Calcutta and London and when that was not adequate, she fought their tyranny and greed in the thick of battle. She ruled Jhansi for the benefit of her people, always putting them above everything else. She gave them comfort and prosperity and won not just their loyalty but their hearts. The Rani made heroes out of the common people of Jhansi.

The kingdom over which the Rani ruled included the capital city of Jhansi and several other towns and villages in the surrounding districts. The fort of Jhansi is built on a steep rock on one side of the city and commands the whole countryside. A wide expanse of open ground separates the fort from the city. This fort was one of the major Maratha strongholds in central India under the Peshwas.

Jhansi was medium sized when compared to other Indian states. In the early 1850s, it is estimated to have covered an area of approximately 5,000 square kilometres. The state was part of an area known as Bundelkhand. The countryside was dotted with fortresses, many of them centuries old. Jhansi was part of the Maratha Confederacy, which was headed by the Peshwa and included the powerful kingdoms of Scindia of Gwalior, Holkar of Indore and Gaekwar of Baroda. In 1804, the ruler of Jhansi seeing the ascendant star of the British detached Jhansi from the crumbling Maratha Confederacy and signed a treaty with the British in which a crucial clause was that ‘the British guaranteed the state to the ruler and his heirs in perpetuity’.

The Rani’s ancestors were Karhada Brahmins but they forsook their traditional role as priests and scholars and chose to be soldiers and administrators. They came from the small town of Wai near Satara in Maharashtra. This area with its numerous mountains and fortresses was the heartland of Shivaji’s power. Lakshmi Bai, brought up as she was at the ex-Peshwa’s court, was inspired by tales of Maratha valour and she hero-worshipped Shivaji as a child. Lakshmi Bai’s father, Moropant Tambe, became a close confidant and advisor to the Peshwa’s brother Chimaji Appa.

Peshwa Baji Rao-II was defeated by the British in 1818. He had to leave Pune and live in exile at Bithur, a small town near Kanpur. His brother, Chimaji Appa, was also exiled but chose to live in Varanasi. Lakshmi Bai’s father, Moropant Tambe, went with Chimaji to Varanasi, on a modest salary of fifty rupees a month.

Chimaji Appa lived in royal style and built himself a palace on the banks of the Ganges. Moropant and his wife Bhagirathi lived in a wing of this palace. They had a happy married life and one child, a daughter whom they called Manakarnika. This is one of the names given to the holy river Ganga, in whose lap she was born. We do not know the exact date of Manakarnika’s birth, but according to British writers, she must have been born in 1827 or 1828. Manakarnika was called Manu till the time of her marriage. Lakshmi Bai was the name given to her by her husband’s family and it was how she was known after she became the maharani.

Moropant’s wife, Bhagirathi, was remarkably beautiful and she passed on her good looks to her daughter. She was also a religious woman and spent much of her time in reading the Hindu epics, performing puja and observing the many stipulated fasts. Bhagirathi died when her daughter was only four or five years old but she still managed to instill in her daughter a sense of piety and an uprightness, which always remained with Lakshmi Bai.

Manu was happy in her early childhood, playing on the banks of the Ganga, loved and fussed over by her doting parents. But the stories of her childhood suggest that while she was a lively and high-spirited little girl, she was also very stubborn and difficult to control.

Chimaji Appa died in 1832 and the Tambe family had to move to Bithur. Here, Moropant joined the exiled court of the ex-Peshwa. Soon after having moved to Bithur, however, Bhagirathi also died and the task of bringing up Manu fell upon her father. In 1838, Gangadhar Rao became the maharaja of Jhansi. He was to be the future husband of Rani Lakshmi Bai.

At Bithur, Manu came into contact with the Peshwa’s son, Nana Saheb, as well as Nana’s nephew, Rao Saheb, and Tatya Tope. These three, like herself, were destined to play major roles in the revolt of 1857. Nana, Rao and Tatya were several years older than Manu but they seem to have been very fond of her because of her high spirits and her charm. Some writers have contended that these stories of her friendship with the three are mere fiction because they were much older. That hardly seems a good enough reason. Bithur was, after all, a small town and all of them were connected with the ex-Peshwa’s court, and so the families must have been close.

The old Peshwa became particularly fond of Manu and started calling her Chhabeli because she was a pretty child and full of fun. As there was no woman in Moropant’s household and because he could not give adequate time to Manu, she spent much of her time with Nana, Rao and Tatya. In their company she became quite a tomboy. She followed their example and learned to ride, shoot and wield the sword. She, in fact, became an excellent rider and an expert swords woman, abilities which stood her in good stead and which she put to much practical use in the later training of her troops and in her personal encounters with the enemy. She was also keen on physical exercise and also followed wrestling matches with avid interest. She ran races, flew kites and was better than most boys in all these activities.

While all these were proper skills for boys in highborn families, they had little place in the traditional upbringing of a Brahmin’s daughter. It has been suggested that her father, informed about her exceptional horoscope at birth, which foretold a royal future, had deliberately groomed her from her childhood for the role of a queen who would lead armies.

On their cross-country rides, Manu used to tag along with Nana, Rao and Tatya. The story goes that on one such occasion, as two of the boys and Manu were galloping across the country, Nana, in trying to avoid a low branch of a tree, fell off his horse. He had a big gash on his head and lost much blood. On their return, much fuss was made about Nana’s injury; it was dressed and bandaged and Nana was made to rest. Manu found all this very amusing and said to him, ‘Your forefathers were great warriors and look at you being coddled like this for a small cut in the head.’

Nana, peeved and nursing a headache, said, ‘Manu, you are a nuisance and you talk too much. Now away with you.’

The next day, Nana chose to ride on an elephant and Manu again had a dig at him saying, ‘Nana perhaps finds horse-riding a bit too tough and so has chosen an easy seat on the elephant.’

Nana, now thoroughly irritated, refused to let her accompany him on the howda of the elephant. This enraged Manu, who got on her horse and riding close to Nana’s elephant, shouted at him, ‘You wait and see! For your one elephant, I will have ten. Mark my words!’

An advantage that Manu got from her association with the three men was that she got an education. She used to sit with them for their lessons and so she learned to read and write. This was not usual for girls at that time. She was highly intelligent and, apart from Marathi and Hindi, she learned Sanskrit and picked up some Persian, which was the court language of the Mughals.

Manu became a forceful and determined person. Unlike other girls of her time, she was not shy or reticent, but ready to speak her mind. She was also, as we see later, logical and effective in debate. Thus endowed with beauty, intellect and character, she had all the makings of a charismatic leader.

Vishnu Godse has given a description of Manu in her early teens. He says she was tall and slim, with a swan-like neck. Light of complexion, she had an oval face, a fine nose and large expressive eyes, as beautiful as the lotus. She was bright and full of chatter, and people took to her immediately. She was aptly called Chhabeli.

When Manu was about twelve years old, it was time for her father to find a suitable match for her. The suitor had to be a Brahmin belonging to the Karhada sect. Suitors there were aplenty, horoscopes were compared, but no one could be identified. She was a gem of great value and a royal future had been foretold. Time passed and Moropant’s friends urged him not to delay any further as the girl had reached puberty, which in those days, was considered the right age for marriage. Soon a year was gone and still there was no prospect. Moropant, worried, spent many a sleepless night. Then came a proposal from the Maharaja of Jhansi, Gangadhar Rao.

Gangadhar Rao was an able and scholarly man and did much to pull the state of Jhansi out of the morass into which his previous two predecessors had led it. His first problem was law and order which had deteriorated to dangerous proportions. The Bundela Rajput chieftains of the state had become a law unto themselves and hurled defiance from their mountain fortresses. Gangadhar dealt with this and restored order, but, unfortunately, this was with help from the British.

One of his notable achievements was that he built an excellent library of rare books from all parts of the country. The Jhansi library was famous for its collection of Sanskrit books. Unfortunately, this library was burnt down after Jhansi fell to the British. Gangadhar was aesthetically inclined and did much to architecturally improve the town of Jhansi. Theatre was another absorbing interest and he was a patron of its actors and actresses. Jhansi became a model for good administration and efficiency. The people loved and admired him. The neighbouring Bundela rulers of Panna, Orchha, Datia and Chattarpur respected him and called him Kaka Saheb or uncle and often asked for his advice for their personal or official problems.

After Gangadhar lost his first wife, he did not marry for several years, even though the couple had remained childless. However, in 1842, Gangadhar decided that it was time to look for a suitable bride. Not having an heir was a constant source of worry not only for him, but also for the people of Jhansi, as this gave the British a chance to interfere in the succession.

The ex-Peshwa at Bithur was consulted for a suitable girl and he promptly suggested Manu. Gangadhar’s emissary was very impressed by the lovely young girl, bright of eye and lithe of limb. Gangadhar readily agreed and when word reached Bithur, there was much celebration. Manu was going to be a maharani. But Manu had not even set eyes on Gangadhar. She was to be a maharani, but what was the maharaja like?

A few weeks later, Moropant, Manu and a few of their relatives and friends were invited to Jhansi by Gangadhar. They stayed at a haveli and she had her first glimpse of him as he passed by the street on horseback. She saw a middle-aged man who was stern looking. Though he sat well with tired eyes in the saddle, he seemed a strong personality.

In May 1842, the maharaja and Manu were married at Jhansi. As was the custom, her name was changed by the family to Lakshmi Bai, after the presiding goddess. The wedding was celebrated with much splendour. Cannons boomed a salute from the ramparts of the fort and fireworks lit the sky. The couple walked round the fire seven times, and the priest tied one end of Lakshmi Bai’s sari to the maharaja’s sash. As he did so, Lakshmi Bai said clearly and audibly, ‘Panditiji, make the knot very firm’. A bride was supposed to be modest and shy, but Lakshmi Bai was neither. All the guests were startled and gasped but Gangadhar was touched.

Time passed peacefully and happily. Moropant Tambe was made a sardar of the state and was granted a jagir (estate). Soon after, he took a second wife, Chimabai, a lady from Jhansi.

Gangadhar was an orthodox Hindu and Lakshmi Bai soon found that as a maharani, she must remain in purdah. She was only fourteen or fifteen years old and after the comparative freedom at Bithur, she found the seclusion of purdah most irksome.

The Khas Mahal (main palace) was situated inside the fort. Exquisite taste and luxury combined to make it a fitting abode for the maharani. The palace was surrounded by a garden, beyond which was a large ground that was used for parades. The parade ground was a great boon for Lakshmi Bai. Since she was not allowed outside the fort, she used it for riding, physical exercise and other activities. Lakshmi Bai also started what was later to develop into a regiment for women. She started training her companions and maid servants in horsemanship and drill, as well as other physical exercises.

Gangadhar spent much of his time at dance and theatre performances, which were his absorbing interests. One evening, he asked Lakshmi Bai if she would like to attend one of the performances. She replied, ‘Maharaj, I am not interested in make belief. I am more interested in the people of Jhansi, in their welfare, in ruling the state.’

Gangadhar pondered over her answer and then asked her, ‘Would you like to get acquainted with matters of government and the state?’

‘There is nothing I would like more, Maharaja,’ replied a delighted Lakshmi Bai.

Soon, meetings and discussions with the diwan (chief minister) and other senior officials in the army and administration became a feature of her life. A few months later, she gently chided Gangadhar on his spending more time at the theatre than on governing. She was particularly worried about the British presence in Jhansi. Under the treaty with them, an assistant political officer had been posted at Jhansi, as well as sipahis under British officers; Gangadhar was reconciled to the situation and saw no alternative.

As time passed, Gangadhar became fond of the unusual and striking woman who was his wife. In 1851, he took her on a pilgrimage to her birthplace, Varanasi, as well as Gaya, Prayag and other places of religious interest. The maharaja and maharani were away for six months and when they returned to Jhansi, they were given a warm welcome by the people, who turned out in thousands to see the royal procession headed by scores of elephants. Gangadhar and Lakshmi Bai sat in a gold-plated howda on Sidhwakas, the maharaja’s favourite elephant.

One reason for the excitement was also that there were reports that Lakshmi Bai was expecting a child. It had been seven years since they had been married. And there was great rejoicing when a son was born. Gangadhar, a bit infirm by now, was especially delighted with his infant son. Lord Dalhousie, the governor general, would not be able to get his talons on Jhansi. But the rejoicing did not last long. When the heir was only three months old, he died. The couple was disconsolate, as were the people of Jhansi.

Soon after, Gangadhar’s health started deteriorating. He was haunted by the prospect of his state being annexed by the British. The custom of adoption was well established and accepted. However, Gangadhar was apprehensive about Lord Dalhousie, who had taken over as governor general a few years earlier. Dalhousie’s main objective seemed to be to absorb Indian states into British territory without any moral or legal justification. He had already grabbed a few states where the rulers had died without natural heirs. Gangadhar knew that should he die without an heir, the Jhansi state would lapse, but should he seek to adopt, the case might be decided by the government in his favour.

When Gangadhar finally realized that he was seriously ill and the end was near, he adopted a child from another branch of the family. The boy, Anand Rao, was five years old and was descended from Gangadhar’s grandfather, which made him part of the royal family. The adoption was therefore regular and correct in the eyes of the people.

The adoption ceremonies were conducted at Gangadhar’s bedside, in the presence of the nobles of the court. The maharaja had been careful enough to invite two British representatives, Major Ellis, the assistant political agent and his colleague, so that they might officially witness the adoption. The child was given a new name, Damodar Rao. Gangadhar then handed over a letter for the governor general. He requested that ‘The administration of the state should be vested in my widow during her lifetime as sovereign of this principality and mother of the child adopted.’ He also referred to the treaty of 1817, which guaranteed the throne to the maharaja and ‘his heirs and successors’. Ellis assured him ‘that he would do everything possible’.

Two days later, on 21 November 1853, Gangadhar Rao breathed his last. He was allowed to die under the delusion that his fidelity to the British would be remembered. But the despot at the Government House in Calcutta had other designs.

Lakshmi Bai became a widow at the age of twenty-five.After the maharaja’s death, she was at a decisive turning point, both in her personal life as well as in her role as the rani. She faced these dual crises with guts and intelligence. She had been widowed at a young age and she was childless. There is no doubt that she had been very fond of her stern but sensitive husband, although he was much older than her. She went through all the elaborate rituals associated with a husband’s death and observed the thirteen-day period of mourning. But she did not go through the distasteful and disfiguring ritual of having her head shaved, which widows were expected to do. The Rani next thre...

Table of contents

• Cover
• About the Book
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Map
• Dediaction
• The Greased Cartridge
• Contents
• Introduction
• Nana Saheb
• Tatya Tope
• And Some Villains
• Kunwar Singh
• Rani of Jhansi
• Bibliography
• Back Page