Aurangzeb and The Constant Awareness That History Is Ripe for Misunderstanding

Unsurprisingly, the last decade has witnessed a flourishing literary re-engagement with India’s history. One thinks of Allan Sealy, Vikramajit Ram, Parvati Sharma among others. It is thus expected that such a re-engagement is prevalent in many of India’s languages. The senior Tamil writer Charu Nivedita’s Conversations with Aurangzeb: A Novel (HarperCollins, 2023, translated by Nandini Krishnan) may be seen in this series. 

History does not hope to be as objective as science claims to be, and thus the mark of a sophisticated historical work is often its self-consciousness of being both real as well as interpretive. Charu Nivedita’s work is at its best in this negotiation of an awkwardly self-conscious, light-hearted imagination. The sense that the work is meant to be taken with dollops of salt begins with the Translator’s Note itself.  

Translation here is not seen as external to the novel, but integral to it. Nandini Krishnan notes candidly that the English translation has shaved off a third of the book but “has entire sections that one will not find in the Tamil version. Some of these have been written by Mr Charu Nivedita and others by me…we saw it as a collaborative exercise that would reflect on the process of translation, publishing, editing, sales, fandom…awards”. 

Of course, as to awards, sadly in India, the “same people sit on every jury”. Yet, honest words and literature are important, as the author finds resonance between Thiruvalluvar and a pithy line in Aurangzeb’s letter: “corruption is not merely the collection of wealth but the portrayal of truth as falsehood and lies as fact.” 

All this is indeed a statement about language, truth and novel-creation in India today, and goes beyond conventional ideas of consent, translation, and authorial rights. It speaks to the predicament of some Indian languages as they negotiate cultures with grander claims to a pan-India status. This is a Tamil book on Aurangzeb – a curiosity in itself – and also simultaneously a comment on the relationship of Tamil to both English and the high classical traditions of Farsi/Urdu.   

This self-confident inventiveness is the strongest part of the novel. Charu Nivedita discusses how he came to write the book. He was initially interested in another figure – a Catholic nun who became a saint in Mexico, but whose origins lay in the Mughal court. At this point, the reader is not even sure if this is a real character or not, Google and Wikipedia research notwithstanding – Charu Nivedita’s bibliography at the end is plainly inadequate for all the themes that run in the novel. One thus accepts these digressions and mis-steps that the author took before settling on Aurangzeb as the main character. 

Also read: A Hindu Soldier’s Aurangzeb

As part of his “research”, the first-person protagonist had engaged an Aghori to talk to the nun’s spirit – but the spirit who breaks through is Aurangzeb, and thus the novel becomes about him. All this is fun to read. But any hope that the book will now get serious and linear is waylaid again, and the novel engagingly frolics in many directions even as in its own roundabout way it does give quite a comprehensive account of Aurangzeb’s life and milieu. 

Though Charu Nivedita does display fairly comprehensive knowledge of the period (albeit mixing many sources of varyingly credible authority), this intermixed history and legend is not the novel’s chief strength. Many pages of Aurangzeb’s opinions – for example on Ashoka or the Mahabharat or Akbar or Taimur could have been edited out. As said, it is the initial contextualisation of what it means to write a historical novel in India today, that is the chief triumph of the work. 

Thus, one is constantly reminded of the process of writing and translating and linguistic pride. Many common Tamil phrases are left untranslated – ada paavi for example, or aiyo or dai. In this age of Google translation, readers should be made to do some work. Similarly, Charu Nivedita quotes Arabic texts with an assured familiarity – language is something he has thought about a great deal. 

At one point he clarifies: “Look, I’m against the imposition of Hindi, not against Hindi itself….I know Hindi because when my father told me I should never learn that language, I went and promptly registered for a beginner’s course at the Hindi Prachar Sabha. And when the central government seeks to impose Hindi on us, I oppose it. Now, please let me continue the novel.” Or, “As for the Tamils who are ready to kill themselves for their language, they can barely speak it with the right enunciation. Most can’t write Tamil.”  

Charu Nivedita repeats the complaint throughout the book about the lack of respect for writers in Tamil Nadu. If one counted those who attended funerals (and Tamil Nadu is famous for the millions who attend the funerals of politicians or film stars), then great writers (Bharatiyar, Pudhumaipithan, Ashokamitran to name a few) had barely a few dozen attend theirs – so much for literary pride.  

Also read: A Portrait of Aurangzeb More Complex than Hindutva’s Political Project Will Admit

In all this, there is nothing so new. Aurangzeb and the writer discuss the vexed question of India’s literary and polyglot culture in both 17th-century and 21st-century India – language and literature being an endless source of distress, pride, hypocrisy. Politics built on language and the spectacle of aggrandising leaders seem largely unchanged over the centuries – India has always had its shares of leaders who expertly mix rhetorical piety with keen political cruelty.  

In Aurangzeb’s case, the piety was mixed with a strong sense of being a warrior: “I spent every day of every month of every year from the ages of sixteen to thirty-eight on the battlefield.” This courage is what a generic “people” will presumably always lack – for in Aurangzeb’s words, even when oppressed, “The people wept but did not rebel.” Equally, the novel notes that “it takes great courage to put diplomacy before pride”, and later “that which is worthiest of pride is poverty”. Such aphorisms, quite delinked from the details of plot, enrich this loose-limbed novel.  

Though much changes, some things abide –  Aurangzeb, seeing a vastly transformed modern world, is suddenly especially moved that at least the imampasand mango retains its exquisite taste. It is in such cheering details, in the insights on Tamil or politics or religiosity, in the constant awareness that history is ripe for misunderstanding and manipulation but also replenishment, that the novel finds its success. 

Nikhil Govind is professor of literary studies at the Manipal Centre for Humanities, Manipal.