In 1805, a young scholar-official of the East India Company was invalided home to Suffolk at the age of only 35. Edward Moor had first come out to India at the age of 11, spoke several Indian languages, and was passionately interested in the cosmology and beliefs of the Hindus.
Now, with time on his hands in an unfamiliar country he hardly remembered, Moor filled his time by gathering together and organising the artistic, anthropological and textual materials he had been collecting for many years on the deities and images of Hinduism.
Siva and Parvati on a Terrace: A Jaipur school gouache Moor bought in Pune
Now, for the first time, as part of the celebrations for the 60th anniversary of India's Independence, the British Museum in London is mounting a remarkable show called Faith, Narrative and Desire: Masterpieces of Indian Painting in the British Museum. This shows part of the Moor bequest, as well as many other masterworks from its own superb and rarely exhibited collection, concentrating particularly on the Hindu art commissioned from Indian painters by British patrons.
Vishnu and Lakshmi on Garuda
Moor was certainly not the first British enthusiast to collect Hindu statuary. That honour goes to Charles 'Hindoo' Stuart, a strange Irishman who in the 1780s came out to India while still in his teens and seems to have been almost immediately attracted to Hinduism. Within a year of his arrival in Calcutta, he had adopted the practice—which he continued to his death—of walking every morning from his house to bathe in and worship the Ganges according to Hindu custom.
Stuart appears to have worshipped as well as admired the statues he collected. Certainly he is known to have commissioned and built an entire Hindu temple at Saugor, and wrote an anonymous pamphlet called the Vindications of the Hindoos in which he tried to discourage European missionaries from attempting to convert the Hindus, arguing that "on the enlarged principles of moral reasoning, Hinduism little needs the meliorating hand of Christianity to render its votaries a sufficiently correct and moral people for all the useful purposes of a civilised society". He also pointed out that the Vedas were "written at that remote period in which our savage ancestors of the forest were perhaps unconscious of a God".
Eccentric as he may have been, Stuart was a central figure in the history of the Western appreciation of Indian art. His collection, which towards the end of his life he put on display to visitors as a private museum in his house in Calcutta, now forms the core of the British Museum collection of Hindu statuary, known today as the Bridge Collection, after a subsequent purchaser. It is without question the finest group of Hindu sculptures brought to Europe at this period. Appropriately enough, several of the finest masterpieces of Pala art from Stuart's collection line the stairs which lead up to the exhibition, as well as fill the Hotung gallery on the floor below.
About two decades before Stuart began collecting his first Hindu images, another Company official, Sir Elijah Impey, was commissioning Mughal-trained miniaturists to paint his menagerie for him. It was the first recorded commission of Indian artists by British patrons, and remains one of the most successful.
The three artists whom Impey summoned to his classical Calcutta palace were all from Patna. All had clearly been trained in the old Mughal techniques of miniature painting, but working for the Impeys, using English watercolours on English paper, and taking English botanical still life as their models, an extraordinary fusion of English and Indian artistic impulses took place, a fusion that resulted in an entirely new type of painting, known today as the Company School.
The brilliance and simplicity of the colours, the meticulous attention to detail, the gem-like highlights, the way the pictures seem to glow, all show the Company artists' Mughal training. Yet, no artist working in a normal Mughal atelier would have placed his subjects detached from a landscape against a white background, or with flowers cut into a perfect, scientific cross-section as is usual in Company botanical images. Two traditions have met head on, and from that blinding impact an inspirational new fusion has taken place.
In time, the Company style came to be used by British officials all over India to record the many facets of Indian life that came to fascinate the British. Soon, Company officials were commissioning Mughal-trained and other Indian artists to paint larger numbers of botanical specimens and exotic Indian animals; the different castes, trades and occupations of India; and the country's architectural monuments and its different deities.
The exhibition includes an especially fine Company image from Patna of a roadside seller of clay images. An elegantly attired client is being offered a standing image by a sitting lady in a green sari and yellow blouse, while behind her, her half-naked potter husband turns a bowl on a wheel; the client however is looking at an image of Kali trampling on the recumbent Shiva.
Radha and Krishna in a Garden
But it is Company images of the gods, of exactly the sort commissioned by Edward Moor, that effortlessly dominate Faith, Narrative and Desire. There are spectacular examples of a set of images of the gods of the Tamil country, among them a wonderful image of a wooden temple chariot being drawn in a festival at the great temple of Sri Ranganatha at Srirangam; up at the open window of the chariot, two bare-chested Brahmins attend on an image: one carries a tray of lamps in one hand and a bell in the other; and the other throws petals over the holy image.
This intelligent early colonial interest and respect for the beliefs of India did not last. By 1813, a change in the charter of the East India Company let loose a wave of evangelical missionaries on India; the act was pushed through Parliament by William Wilberforce who told the assembled MPs that "the natives of India, and more particularly the Brahmins, were sunk into the most abject ignorance and vice". Within a few years, the missionaries were beginning to fundamentally change British perceptions of the Hindus. No longer were they inheritors of a body of sublime and ancient wisdom, but instead seen merely as "poor benighted heathen".
Such missionaries began ferociously attacking any British official who, like Moor or Stuart, studied or took a sympathetic interest in the religions of India. The British mind was closing, and the short period of Hinduphilia was soon over. The brief flourishing of Company School painting, the chief artistic product of that period, did not survive the great uprising of 1857.
Following the success of Edward Said's groundbreaking work Orientalism, the entire intellectual exploration of India's past by European scholars has become the target of a major scholarly assault. Men like Edward Moor and Sir William Jones have come to be seen as complicit in the project of gathering 'colonial knowledge'—outriders of colonialism, attempting to 'appropriate' Indian learning and demonstrate the superiority of Western ways by 'imagining' India as decayed and degenerate, fit only to be colonised and 'civilised'. Yet, it is ridiculously simplistic to see all attempts at studying, observing and empathising with another culture necessarily as an act of domination—rather than of understanding or respect.
Today, as Britain struggles to forge a more equitable relationship with India on its 60th anniversary of Independence, this exhibition is a profound metaphor for a brief but important moment of deep British scholarly and artistic engagement with, and appreciation of, the arts and culture of South Asia.
This one room of lovely images bears testament to the strenuous attempts of a group of men working in India between 1780 and 1830 to understand and comprehend the deepest and most profound religious images and symbols of a world their compatriots were about to seize, and then partially destroy. It is hard not to feel that it is worth more than all the rest of the hoopla surrounding the 60th anniversary celebrations put together: those endless, slightly pointless, celeb-vehicle travel docs of Saira Khan and Sanjeev Bhaskar on BBC2, Shahrukh Khan popping up at Madame Tussaud's, and inflatable Taj Mahals floating down the Thames. Who would not swap all that for one leaf of the gorgeous images Moor bought or commissioned to illustrate his great Hindu Pantheon? At low cost and short notice, the British Museum has succeeded in making the most intelligent and stimulating response we are likely to see to this important anniversary, marking the beginning of yet another chapter in the continuing history of the long and complex engagement of India and Britain.
(William Dalrymple's new book, The Last Mughal: The Fall of a Dynasty, Delhi 1857, published by Bloomsbury, has just been awarded the Duff Cooper prize for history.)
Thank you to all those who have taken the trouble to read the article and share their thoughts. Out of the arguments made here, there are two that perhaps need answering. So here they go.
1. The first part of the article compares outcomes (relative percentages of population of the religions concerned) irrespective of the process that led to those outcomes - whether immigration, relatively faster population growth or conversions. This was for two reasons. One, to put the figure of 2.3 per cent in "numerical perspective", as the article itself explained. The second reason was that outcomes are ultimately what the crux of debate is about. The rest of the article in any case dealt with process - or conversions in this case, from both a contemporary and historical perspective.
2. Some commenters have tried to cast doubts on the reliability of Census 2001. Those who do this should bear in mind that Census 2001 was conducted by a BJP government. Considering the extreme importance that BJP gives to this issue, it would be reasonable to expect that IF it had perceived a problem with the methodology that was distorting the numbers, it would have fixed it. As the article mentioned, BJP or BJP-supported governments have been in power for 10 of the last 40 years, or about a quarter of the time, and the only reasonable conclusion one can arrive at is that any misreporting of numbers, real or perceived, would be marginal and hence, not of importance.
To all other arguments made, my answer is the following: Please read the article again, with particular focus on the quotations of Vivekananda and Monier Williams, and the history of the missionary efforts in Bengal and their outcome.
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