The English domination of India was a long time in coming. On the very last day of the year 1600, Queen Elizabeth I of England chartered a little startup company, the kind you are pretty sure is going to go bust immediately, but you know, maybe not, so you give it a whirl. It was called the East India Company.

The company’s goal was to leverage the combined resources of English investors to make money in the East Indies. It was not a branch of the English government, and its goals were purely financial, not colonial. Elizabeth may have chartered the thing, but she was not funding it. She wasn’t that daft.

From Small Startup to World Domination

The English East India Company really couldn’t compete with either the Portuguese or the Dutch versions, both of whom were rolling in spices and gold from Indonesia (see episode 12.8 on the last queen of Aceh). So instead the English were forced to content themselves with lesser things. Like a little subcontinent called India. I say lesser because India mostly didn’t have spices, and even if they did, the locals could not have cared less about English wool, which was what the company had to trade.

What India had was textiles. Chintz, calico, and muslin are all Indian ideas and Indian words and the English loved them, every one. To the extent that the gold flowed, it mostly flowed into India, not out.

Taking over politically was not in the cards for the English. It was not even in the dreams because India is huge and England is tiny. You might say North America is also huge and look what happened there! Yes, but geographic size matters less than population size. In North America, the Brits were facing tribes in full-scale population collapse, thanks to the devastating effect of European diseases. Over in India, they already had all the same diseases the Europeans had. They weren’t that bothered. Far from collapsing, the Mughal empire was at its height.

However, the years pass and so do empires. The Mughals began to struggle. Chaos ensued. Indian merchants liked working with the East India Company because it offered stability and protection at their guarded fortresses. New local rulers secured new deals and new treaties and some pretty direct placing of their preferred candidates on some local thrones, which meant obligations. The Company also armed its local allies, which meant they were better equipped than those who weren’t allies of the English.

This eventually led to the Battle of Plassey in 1757, in which a local ruler was installed by and controlled by the Company for an immense sum of money and the right to collect taxes over several districts, and at some point people (both English and Indian) looked around in surprise and realized that this wasn’t your grandmother’s small business anymore.

The Company was, in fact, ruling large swathes of India. At which point they shrugged their collective shoulders and proceeded to finish the job. Indians who had for generations worked with the English gradually came to realize they were now working for the English, or possibly even under the English, which is an entirely different thing.

Plenty of Indians were still more than willing to do so. The Company didn’t have anything like enough Englishmen to man their army, so they hired locally and the pay and prestige was quite high. Ergo, loyalty. Also, the Company installed local rulers, who then owed their position to the English. Ergo, more loyalty. One such ruling family was the Newalkar dynasty of Jhansi in north-central India.

The Kingdom of Jhansi

Jhansi is a land of scrub plains and rocky outcroppings. Even the winter is what your average English person would call unbearably hot. Jhansi was regionally important because it was at the crossroads of five trade routes, and it also had a thriving industry in manufacturing military equipment (Roy, 15).

Jhansi as a political entity was created by the Company and administered by a raja installed by the Company. The Company bigwigs were never particularly thrilled with the job that any of those rajas did, and they more than once stepped in to settle a succession crisis (Roy, 28), but they always chose a local Raja and his wife was called the Rani, the local word for a queen.

Our heroine of the day was born in the holy city of Varanasi. She was Brahmin, which means high status among the Hindus. Her mother died while she was young, and her father allowed her to spend her early childhood hanging out with the boys of the neighborhood. Therefore, she learned skills that were not the normal girl’s education: how to read and write, how to ride horses, swords, kites, running, jumping, etc. (Lebra-Chapman, 16; Roy, 8).

As a high caste girl, she could expect a reasonably good match to come along, and she got a great one: the Raja of Jhansi, Gangadhar Rao. They were not particularly well suited. He was older than her. She liked horses and fencing. He liked books and the theater (Roy, 33). But their horoscopes matched, and he needed a young wife who could give him an heir. That was good enough.

So, marriage in 1842, which everyone agrees on. They don’t agree on how old she was (Roy, 5), but all of the possibilities fall within the range of way-too-young by modern sensibilities. Somewhere between age eight and age fourteen.

In the local tradition, she took a new name after marriage and that is the name she made famous: Lakshmibai (Lebra-Chapman, 18).

Married Life

According to oral tradition, Lakshmibai was less than thrilled about the role of traditional wife. Deprived of the boys she had played with all her life, she set about training her maids in horses, swords, and all that (Lebra-Chapman, 9). It’s the kind of story that leaves you wondering whether that might not be a good story added later, when she was already a local legend. Especially if she was only eight as some of the stories say. I mean, how amazing a swordswoman could she be at age eight? Even at 14?

Eventually, the birth of a boy was an occasion of great joy and public celebration. Elephants were loaded up with sugar and led through Jhansi, so the sugar could be distributed to the poor (Lebra-Chapman, 20; Roy, 43). Sadly, the boy lived only a few months and no other baby was on the way.

Gangadhar Rao himself died in 1853. It was not unexpected, so he had time to consider an heir. He chose a young relative (age 5), and he formally adopted the boy. Obviously the boy would need a regent, and Gangadhar appointed his wife, Lakshmibai.

An independent king can appoint whoever he wants (though that’s not to say that his wishes are always followed). But Gangadhar wasn’t independent. He didn’t rule by divinely appointed right. He ruled by English-appointed right, so things were a little more complicated. Gangadhar knew this and so he was very careful to invite the English authorities in. They officially witnessed the adoption. They heard the will read out loud. They were provided with copies. It was all very proper and aboveboard and legally correct (Roy, 48-49). You’d think the English would be grateful not to deal with another succession battle.

But they weren’t.

The First Battle Lines

The top brass in India at the time was Governor-General Dalhousie. He believed that Britain had been too lax with India. Despite the fact that we are still talking about a financial company, not a government state in charge, Dalhousie definitely wanted full political control. None of this rule-through-a-local-leader nonsense.

Since neither the manpower nor the will for outright conquest existed, Dalhousie’s main method of accomplishing this was the Doctrine of Lapse. In short, the policy said that if a native ruler did not have a proper heir, then the whole state would lapse into direct English rule. So when Gangadhar Rao died, it did not matter that he had an adopted son. It did not matter that the local English Major admitted that Lakshmibai was “highly respected and … fully capable of … assuming the reins of government” (Lebra-Chapman, 25; Roy, 50).

Dalhousie declared all of that irrelevant. The adoption was irregular, the rajas of Jhansi had done a bad job anyway, direct English rule would benefit the local population because progress and civilization and good stuff like that. The locals would be super grateful for it, and also the English were doing it purely out of the goodness of their hearts, not for any gain (Lebra-Chapman, 26-27). It was a white man’s burden, and Dalhousie had shoulders big enough to carry that burden.

Most of the previous queens I have covered, from Cleopatra to Boudica to Zenobia, would say this was the moment for raising an army. But in a move that shows just how much the world had changed, Lakshmibai did not hire soldiers. She hired a lawyer.

She declared to the local English rep “I will never surrender my Jhansi,” now a very famous, much quoted statement (Roy, 61-62, 69). But more importantly she sent letter after letter to Dalhousie. It is not entirely clear to me which were written by herself and which by her lawyer, but if she was writing herself then she missed her calling because her legal arguments are quite good. She laid out the family tree, the various treaties and agreements in Jhansi’s history, the legal definition of an heir, the Hindu traditions of formal adoption, all the other adoptions which the English had accepted, and the fact that even if Gangadhar had died without a will, his wife would be the heir, and in fact other widows were ruling other Indian states with English approval. Also in the months it took for all this bureaucracy to grind on, Lakshmibai had been ruling Jhansi, and it was doing just fine, thank you very much. She had demonstrated her ability (Lebra-Chapman, 34-38).

I, for one, am totally convinced, though admittedly I was never going to be a hard sell. Dalhousie was a no-sell. In response to all these letters, he wrote that her argument contained a misstatement, though he couldn’t be bothered to point out what it was (Lebra-Chapman, 36). Her appeal, he said, was wholly inadmissible (Lebra-Chapman, 37). So let it be written, so let it be done.

The Rumblings of Discontent

In May of 1854, (six months after Gangadhar’s death), a Captain Skene arrived to assume control. Lakshmibai was forced out of the fort of Jhansi, but she was allowed to keep her palace and she was given a monthly pension, so as to make her feel a-okay about having lost her country (Lebra-Chapman, 39).

Captain Skene immediately found himself mired in bickering, the kind that really makes you wonder whether the English had not been better off with an upper management role, rather than coming down among the weeds. There were arguments over Gangadhar’s private property vs. state property. Not to mention private debts vs. state debts (Lebra-Chapman, 40). More than one English department got their bureaucratic knickers in a twist arguing over who was responsible for what. There were issues about the local livestock and the revenue for temple maintenance (Lebra-Chapman, 44). Lakshmibai was not in charge, but she was Jhansi’s most prominent citizen, and she was still writing letters to various authorities on all of these topics.

If the English had been listening, they might have detected the rumblings of discontent across India, not just Jhansi. Once upon a time, Indians could rise through the ranks, but that had been gone for a while now. Indians were more than welcome to die as common soldiers, but they were not permitted to live as officers. They also saw their allowances reduced and there were rumors they’d be forced into overseas postings, which had never been part of the deal before (Lebra-Chapman, 47). Civilians were unhappy too. There were rumors of forced conversions to Christianity. Plus, some people said the flour in the markets contained ground cow bones (Lebra-Chapman, 47).

That last one, by the way, is unlikely in the extreme, as it has been in all the myriad other times and places that bakers have been accused of similar crimes. All the substances that look sort of like flour do not behave like flour. You might get something vaguely edible out of using it, but you wouldn’t have to wonder if you’d been swindled. You’d know for sure (Monaco).

All of this was hovering in the background when English command made a totally tone-deaf decision. In early 1857, they issued soldiers a new Enfield rifle, which was faster, more accurate, and had four times the range of the previous guns (Lebra-Chapman, 47).

To load the Enfield, you had to tear open the paper wrappings on the cartridges with your teeth. The cartridges were greased, of course, and the rumor was that they were greased with the fat of cows and pigs (Metcalf, 101; Lebra-Chapman, 49). That, my friends, is how you mortally offend both your Hindu and your Muslim constituents at the same time.

The Mutiny of 1857

In late April 1857, a contingent of soldiers in Meerut were court-martialed for refusing the cartridges and they were sentenced to hard labor. On May 10, a nearby contingent expressed their outrage by setting fire to the housing of their English officers, releasing their compatriots in hard labor, and breaking into the Anglican church service in progress and murdering every man, woman, and child, before marching on Delhi (Lebra-Chapman, 48-49).

Within days the entire north of India was in full scale revolt. The English had been employing and empowering Indians for over 250 years now. People on both sides of the racial divide knew each other personally from daily interactions, many of which were positive. Loyalty lines were by no means clear.

In Jhansi, Captain Skene was confident. It was true that he had no English troops at all. But he wrote on May 18 that his Indian soldiers “continue staunch and express their unbounded abhorrence of the atrocities committed at Meerut and Delhi. I am going on the principle of showing perfect confidence and I am quite sure I am right” (Lebra-Chapman, 50).

Lakshmibai over at the palace was concerned about the general lawlessness and she asked Skene permission to create a bodyguard force for her own protection. It made perfect sense that a powerful woman who owed her position and her monthly pension to the English would be concerned about anti-English sentiment (Lebra-Chapman, 52-53).

The Siege

On June 5, the shooting began (Roy, 90). All the English in Jhansi (men, women, and children) fled to the fort.

The English sent out lots of letters pleading for someone (anyone) to come and rescue them. In a world without email, somebody actually had to carry those letters out to the post office. Some went through, leaving me wondering what kind of siege is this? Cutting off communications is rule number one.

But soon enough the besiegers pulled themselves together to act like proper besiegers. They shot the letter carriers and that was the end of that plan (Lebra-Chapman, 54). That left Lakshmibai as a source of authority who might be willing to help, and you can bet they asked. They used the simple expedient of writing out their message, tossing it over the wall, and hoping someone would take it to her. Surprisingly, it worked.

Her answer was that she could not help. The rebels had surrounded her palace too and accused her of helping the English. They had forced her to contribute some men and guns to the rebellion (Lebra-Chapman, 55). This was not a great response, but potentially friendly. The increasingly desperate English chose a man to go and confer with her. He got out by disguising himself as a native. He found Lakshmibai’s servants and asked them to take him to her. They killed him instead.

After three days, the remaining English surrendered. With a promise of safe conduct,  60 men, women, and children exited the fort. The idea was that they would leave Jhansi. Instead, the rebels led them out of the city and killed them, children included (Lebra-Chapman, 8; Roy, 99).

Lakshmibai Back in Charge

The English at large knew about the situation in Jhansi partly because Lakshmibai wrote them to explain and deplore the murders. She too had been the victim of violence and extortion, and she hoped the rebels would go straight to hell. Her words, not mine (Lebra-Chapman, 58-59). She also mentioned that there was now no law and order in Jhansi and she had neither the manpower nor the funds to establish any? (Lebra-Chapman, 59)

Captain Erskine, supervisor for the area, said yeah, go ahead and pull Jhansi together please, and we’ll send troops and money to support you, just as soon as we have any troops and money available.

You may notice that she was just given a mandate to do exactly what three years earlier, the English had said she could not do: namely, rule Jhansi.

Lakshmibai didn’t need to be told twice. She kept the public peace, gave charity to the poor, funded the temple, opened a mint. She practiced her horsemanship and trained her army with the help of both Hindu and Muslim generals. She included a women’s unit in her army (Lebra-Chapman, 74). She successfully defended Jhansi against the neighboring Indian leader, and the most irritating part about it may well have been that the neighboring leader was a rani, a queen, ruling as regent for her young son, with English approval, I might add. Totally galling, right?

Anyway, Lakshmibai dutifully reported her activities in letters to Captain Erskine, but after his initial authorization letter, he sent no more letters to her.

At first, she must have thought it was because he had a lot on his plate. And he did, but that wasn’t the problem. The problem was that up until this point all the English she corresponded with had taken her statements at face value. But now it had occurred to someone that it was possible she had lied.

Someone had organized the Jhansi troops into a rebellion. Maybe it was her. Someone had promised Skene safe conduct. Was it her? Someone had ordered a massacre anyway. Was that her? Her servants had certainly killed an English messenger, but did they do so with or without her knowledge? Was she really extorted into sending men and guns to the rebels? Or did she do so because she wanted to? These are questions that we still don’t know the answers to. Other than the letters she sent to the English, she left no written record for us. We have no idea what motivated her.

The Second Battle Lines

By February 1858, the English had issued a statement saying they wanted Lakshmibai brought in for trial (Lebra-Chapman, 70). They were already calling her the Jezebel of India (Lebra-Chapman, 79). And they were sending a general to take her down and throw her to the dogs.

Up until this point all of her actual statements indicated that she was quite willing to rule under English authority. She had repeatedly requested English troops be sent to her. But now the troops were on their way, and they weren’t coming to her, they were coming against her. Her only choice was whether to come quietly or not. She chose not.

By March 23, 1858, General Rose had surrounded Jhansi. His troops burned the city while Lakshmibai and her officers returned shot for shot from inside the fort. Her hope was that her ally, Tatya Tope, was on his way with an army larger than Rose’s. And they did come. The battle raged through the streets of Jhansi, and Rose’s medical officer estimated that they killed 3,000 Indians in Jhansi, and lost only 229 of their own (Roy, 170). Tatya Tope’s army was large, but mostly made up of raw recruits with the older, slow-loading guns. The battle turned into a rout, leaving Rose still firmly entrenched around Jhansi (Lebra-Chapman, 9).

By April 5, they had broken through into the fort, the last pocket of resistance, only to discover Lakshmibai was no longer there.

Rose was furious. How was it possible that she had escaped? Hadn’t he had the fort surrounded for days now? Popular legend says she mounted a horse and jumped down from the walls of the fort before galloping to the city of Kalpi in one night  (102 miles). If you visit the fort of Jhansi today there is a sign posted at the point where she jumped. Sober assessment by people who know horses suggests that the walls are far too high for that to be true (Roy, 171), but sober assessment is boring compared with the legend.

It may possibly have taken her more than one night to get to Kalpi, but she did get there eventually. She was joined by several other rebel leaders and their armies. Lakshmibai asked them to give her an army and let her lead. They said no. Predictably.

It was her suggestion to ride out and battle at the fort of Koonch, rather than waiting at Kalpi. This suggestion, they did take.

On May 6, with temperatures of 100° Fahrenheit at sunrise and only going up from there, the battle began. The English narrowly won.

The Indians fell back to Kalpi. On May 22, Rose attacked at Kalpi, despite the fact that some of his men were so done in by the sun they had to be carried from encampment to encampment. Rose himself assigned a man to follow him around and periodically dump water over him to keep him cool (Lebra-Chapman, 101). Rose broke the fort of Kalpi. But once again Lakshmibai was no longer there.

The Final Stand

Soon enough it was clear where she had gone. The fort at Gwalior was one of the strongest in India. What remained of the rebellion grouped there, and this time Lakshmibai did not intend to wait inside while the men failed. She donned full battle dress and rallied her troops on the Gwalior road, blocking Rose’s path to the fort, and the battle began.

She died, but her legend was just beginning. Some accounts of her death have her with sword in each hand, the horses’ reins in her teeth. Others say she was carried off wounded, only to build her own funeral pyre before ascending and dying on it (Lebra-Chapman, 116). There’s a host of other versions, each more glorious than the last. The only thing they have in common is that she ends up dead, and my guess is that it didn’t feel all that glorious. Not to her, anyway.

Interestingly, not all of the eulogies came from Indian sources. Rose himself wrote of her as “the best and bravest of all rebel leaders” (Lebra-Chapman, 114). He called her the Indian Joan of Arc (Lebra-Chapman, 113), which is quite an upgrade from the Indian Jezebel which is what he called her just the previous year. He also said, “The Indian Mutiny has produced but one man, and that man was a woman” (Khilnani, 166).

The English call the uprising of 1857 a mutiny. The Indians call it the first war of independence. Either way, it failed. About 6,000 of the 40,000 Europeans in India died (Peers, 64). Indian deaths were far higher, though a lower percentage of their total numbers died since there were a whole lot more of them to start with. The English were left firmly in control and there was no longer any nonsense about the East India Company as just a business, not a colonizer. In 1858, the last of its powers were transferred directly to the English crown. It was now empire, pure and simple and aboveboard. No more disguising it.

Lakshmibai entered the popular culture as a subject for ballads and epics and eventually movies and video games. I don’t know what she would have thought of that, but I’m guessing she would have been pleased to know that in 1943 an all-female regiment of the Indian National Army was formed and named the Rani of Jhansi Regiment.

India did not achieve independence until 1947, 347 years after Queen Elizabeth signed a charter for the East India Company and just under 100 years after Lakshmibai told English officers “I will never surrender my Jhansi.”

Selected Sources

Lebra-Chapman, Joyce. The Rani of Jhansi. University of Hawaii Press, 1986.

Metcalf, Barbara, and Thomas R Metcalf. A Concise History of Modern India. Third ed., New York, Cambridge University Press, 2012.

Monaco, Emily. “In 1590, Starving Parisians Ground Human Bones into Bread.” Atlas Obscura, 29 Oct. 2018, http://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/what-people-eat-during-siege.

Peers, Douglas M. India under Colonial Rule: 1700-1885. London, Routledge, 2015.

Roy, Tapti. Raj of the Rani. Penguin Books India, 2006.

Sunil Khilnani. Incarnations : A History of India in Fifty Lives. New York, Farrar, Straus And Giroux, 2016.