Eugenia Herbert writes an entertaining story of garden imperialism in Flora&rsquos Empire British Gardens in India. English gardens, along with English literature, undoubtedly propagate the colonial hangover in many Indians. They charm us with their careful profusion, their happy midpoint between the austere serenity of a Zen abstraction and the wild luxuriance of a tropical backyard. Even with their obelisks, parterres and pergolas, they order nature in such a way that we don&rsquot feel we&rsquove been ordered about.
When the English first saw the tropics, Herbert suggests, they were overwhelmed and sometimes repelled by that wanton abundance of vegetation. Flowers were everywhere, in temples, on brides and grooms, on tombs, and at the feet of any esteemed visitor. There were sacred gardens from which puja flowers and leaves were gathered, with particular species favoured by each deity. There were the Buddhist gardens for meditation. There were the Mughal gardens, scene of sensual meetings or friendly gatherings. Gardens were meant to be frequented at night in some regions, especially for women who would not be seen outdoors by day. In zenanas, women of a harem could &ldquofreely&rdquo walk about and play inside a vast landscape walled in on all sides.
In the eighteenth century, the English aristocracy elevated gardening to an ideology. They often levelled the natural landscape, redirected streams, and reshaped lakes to create a &ldquonatural-looking&rdquo prospect. In India they also needed to awe and subjugate, so individual officials laid out lavish gardens for their homes even when they knew they would move on. Homesick for their daisies and hollyhocks, yet curious about ixora and bamboo, they observed, documented and propagated the species they found while they created shelters in which they could grow their &ldquoown&rdquo flowers from seed to colonise the wild.
They set up public parks, parade grounds and playing fields. And they restored the old Mughal gardens that had fallen into ruin. It was a perpetual struggle against the hot, dry air of the plains, salty soil in the coastal cities, and cattle, termites and snakes everywhere. Most of all, they struggled against the promiscuous growth of plants in the tropics, where even a planned garden quickly went from lush to overgrown and then to unkempt, dry and dusty. Cheap labour and, for the more enterprising administrators, convict labour did maintain a carpet-smooth lawn and English vegetables and fruits for the expats, but never for long.
Sightseeing anywhere in India is incomplete without those gardens, which now have a miscellaneous air. It is impossible now to sort out imperial intentions from a mali&rsquos execution. Sixty-six years have passed, land has been gobbled up, storms have raged and the climate has changed.
No photo or painting could convey that four-dimensional dynamic. Illustrations are essential to a book on gardens, and this one contains some good plans, aerial photographs, especially of New Delhi&rsquos maddening hexagons, and shots of gardens surrounding raj bhavans, memorials and bungalows. Only a few of them evoke a way of life.
It is Herbert&rsquos text that is vast and rich, doing full justice to the gardens and the individuals who created them. It is the text that a reader, especially a garden lover, will delight in exploring again and again.
