When the makers of history die

In February 1798, as the septuagenarian maharajah of Travancore lay dying, he had occasion to reflect on his four-decade-long kingly career.

- Manu S. Pillai

In February 1798, as the septuagenarian maharajah of Travancore lay dying, he had occasion to reflect on his four-decade-long kingly career. There was much he had achieved: the conquest of fresh territories from an old rival, the defence of this and other possessions from a different enemy, a reputation as a dharmic ruler, and more. And yet as death crept up on him, he could not help but notice that it was an inauspicious day—inauspicious, that is, for the business of dying, as per Hindu belief. He sighed, the story goes, and remarked to his attendants that it was "unavoidable considering the sins of war I have committed". In his pursuit of power and glory, there had been violence and bloodshed. "I can never forget," rued the old man, "the horrors to which we have been parties." How, then, could he expect to die on more ritually desirable terms? "May God," he finished, "forgive me all my sins."

The death of great personages triggers a spectrum of responses and events. Leaving aside how they judge themselves, some are viewed favourably on their demise, even if in life they were disappointed. We saw this last month with the passing of former Prime Minister Manmohan Singh. "History will be kinder to me," he declared at the height of his unpopularity. While good histories are yet to be written of his term, newspaper headlines are certainly nicer to him now than they had been at the peak of his power. Others, however, face the opposite problem: they are celebrated in life, only for the romance to collapse with their passing. In the 19th century, for instance, there was a prominent Indian statesman; a real icon to the intelligentsia. Yet by the end of the man's life, the dawn of nationalism led to less generous appraisals—he was seen as too moderate towards the British Raj. So, where their fathers idolised T. Madhava Rao, succeeding generations barely registered his name.