British military
action against China in the Opium War of 1839-1842 had created new precedence
for Western penetration of Eastern markets. For states that refused to open their
doors to Western trade on Western terms, the military option now appeared
absolutely justified As King William II of the Netherlands wrote to the
Japanese emperor in 1844 in mendly advise to
accommodate Western demands, "lest happy
Japan be destroyed by war."
As we have seen in earlier examples of Diaspora and
transnationalism gave rise to radicalization. It also included attempts to fuse
western and eastern spiritual and esoteric traditions, as they were variously
understood. Whereby this, in turn, encouraged Asian thinkers to return to the Hinduism and sources of their own spiritual
knowledge.
In a Ph.D.
dissertation that is nearing completion, Mriganka
Mukhopadhyay explores how in this case, the new creed of Theosophy created
a closer interlink between Occultism and Religious
Nationalism in colonial society under the guidance of Annie Besant and her
Indian associates.
Mukhopadhyay here
cites the co-founder of the Theosophical society Helena Blavatsky,
who painted a romantic picture of the Orient through Theosophy, whereby she
wanted to set the tone of this Orientalism herself. As long as her disciples
followed her own interpretation of Theosophy, she was comfortable, but if the
disciples decided to come up with their own interpretations, she became
intolerant of them;
The conflict involved
an Indian Theosophist trying to develop a discourse distinct from Blavatsky’s
Theosophical ideology whereby according to Mukhopadhyay, the tensions between
Blavatsky and her Indian followers, such as Chatterji,
were different from the conflicts between Blavatsky and her Western colleagues,
as factors of racism and colonialism influenced the former. In other words,
Orientalism, both in its negative and positive forms, influenced the
relationship between the Western and the Indian Theosophists. As a result, in
Blavatsky’s treatment, there was a racial undertone in the latter case. Also,
the dynamics of their relationship reflect his unequal position as a colonial
subject.
All of this also
included a remembrance of India's archaic Hindu past by numerous societies and
writers, in the burgeoning print media (newspapers, periodicals, and journals),
by nationalist and religious leaders and by British colonial officers and
administrators and Western religious societies, such as the Theosophists.
Where Swami Dayānand Sarasvatī well known as
the founder of the Arya Samaj, a Hindu reform
movement of the Vedic tradition with which the Theosophical Society was
associated from May 22, 1878, until March 1882 (changing its name for a time to
that of the Theosophical Society of the Arya Samaj)
was primarily concerned with the spiritual renewal of Hindu Aryas,
nationalist leaders cooped the Aryan theory in their search for a cohesive
ideological tool to reify Hindu/Indian nationhood. Of the early nationalists,
Bal Gangadhar Tilak (born as Keshav Gangadhar Tilak), co-founder of the Indian
Home Rule Leagues where he was supported by that time head of the Theosophical
Society, Annie Besant. In line with Blavatsky’s Secret Doctrine, Tilak
published two works, Orion or Researches into the Antiquity of the Vedas (1892)
and The Arctic Home or Vedas (1903), which set out his argument.
Not to mention that
between 1908 and 1911, also fifty-eight reading clubs were founded in Singapore
and Malaya, and revolutionary leaders argued that traveling theatre shows which
attracted laboring audiences had more impact than their speeches. One of those
moved to action was Wen Shengcai, a former Qing
soldier who then worked for many years in Malaya as a factory apprentice and a
tin miner in Perak. After he clashed with an English manager and was inspired
by a speech by Sun Yat-sen, he returned to Canton
entirely on his own initiative, where he shot dead the Qing general Fu Qi in
April 1911. In this, Wen was following the inspiration of Wang Jingwei himself, who became a patriotic hero after he
returned to China incognito from Japan with an assassination squad and tried –
and failed – to assassinate the Qing prince regent
in Beijing in early 1910, with a bomb planted in a metal box on the roadside
near his residence.1 These deeds launched from overseas generated a powerful
mystique that encouraged others to follow their example.
This transnational
Asia was without borders. The opening of the Suez Canal in 1867 had brought the
west dramatically closer. In the guise of Seaman Ba, Nguyen Tat Thanh landed in
July 1911 in Marseilles and experienced the rough cosmopolitanism of the old
Mediterranean. Here he entered his first café, and for the first time was
called ‘monsieur’ by a Frenchman. ‘The French in France are all good,’ he
concluded. ‘But the French colonialists are very cruel and inhuman.’ He would
touch land in ports further afield, in Madagascar, Congo, Senegal, Algeria,
Tunisia, Portugal, Spain, picking up in each a postcard or matchbox as a
souvenir, and soaking up impressions of colonial conditions, not least their
essential similarities.2 In these years, it was still possible for a person to
travel vast distances and leave little imprint on official ledgers or
lists.
Nguyen
Tat Thanh arrived in Europe at the dying of the light of its belle époque,
an era of unbounded confidence in the promise of a world connected and
transformed. The wealth, goods, and styles of Asia had never been more
accessible to the European public. It was a time of great ‘universal’
expositions – Paris in 1900, Brussels in 1910, the Festival of Empire in London
in 1911 – which brought in colonial products, and even imperial subjects, as
objects of curiosity. The London extravaganza of 1911 – together with the
Imperial Institute in South Kensington, imperial-themed clubs, museums and
monuments, and the Imperial College of Science and Technology – marked the
crescendo of attempts to fashion London into a city that better reflected its
world-encompassing status. It was certainly a lure to its new colonial subjects.
This was still a world of circulating monarchs, and Indian and Malay princes
gravitated to the courts of Europe and took the waters at their aristocratic
playgrounds, in a reprise of the old Grand Tour. This was not always a genuflexion to imperial authority. The ostentatious
itineraries of one of the wealthiest of these men, the maharajah of the Malay
state of Johor, took in not only the Court of St James but also the Sublime
Porte in Istanbul, the Hohenzollern and Habsburg courts, as well as the imperial
palace in Tokyo, in a global performance of Malay sovereignty.3 This followed
William A. P. Martin's translation of Henry Wheaton's Elements of International
Law in 1864. Previously it was also translated as 薩威棱貼. Martin's translation became definitive and also traveled to Japan.
In the west, some
Asians were virtually unassailable by their wealth and standing. In 1867 Dadabhai Naoroji, a Parsi
businessman and the first Asian to be elected to the House of Commons, was able
to lecture London audiences on the ‘drain of wealth’ and Britain’s moral debt
India. As Naoroji pointed out, the argument had a
long pedigree in India, and it ran far ahead of liberal and radical critiques
of empire within Britain itself – but it went unheard.4
The Bengali sage Swami Vivekananda brought his message of reformed
Hinduism and a sharp critique of western materialism and triumphalism to a
world stage at the Parliament of World Religions in Chicago in 1893 and lecture
audiences across the United States and in Britain in 1895. Perhaps 2,000 people
attended the Universal Races Congress in London in 1911. It was called
originally to discuss ‘the awakening of Asia,’ but then was broadened at the
African-American activist and writer W. E. B. Du Bois,
to encompass issues of slavery and the condition of Africa. Du Bois’s book The Souls of Black Folk (1903) exposed the
global ‘color line’ as the defining problem of the new century, and, in his
evocation of the ‘darker world,’ he reached across it to seek solidarity with
Asian thinkers.5 While the congress's organizers skirted imperial controversy,
it brought together voices of colonialists, colonial reformers, and the
colonized in a way that was unprecedented and not to is repeated for many
years.6
Then there were the
defeated and the dispossessed. The west was now seen as the safest haven for
its opponents. A central paradox of empire in a liberal age was that its most
enlightened, most universal principles and practices could not be universally
applied to colonial societies on the grounds of their essential ‘difference.’7
But in the imperial metropolis, it was not possible to restrict freedom of
movement, expression or association in the ways that were now routine in a colony.
The rules of evidence, the right to asylum, the higher thresholds for arrest
and extradition were backed by judicial traditions, the universities' relative
autonomy, the press, and public opinion, and the French Revolution and its
values. All this could be exploited artfully.8 Many Asians came to imperial
capitals searching for justice, as what official records called ‘disappointed
litigants,’ appealing to a higher power against local oppressions. Others
arrived as refugees or simply found themselves stranded: discharged sailors,
abandoned servants, itinerant traders, or performers fallen on hard times. But
increasingly, they came as exiles.
José Rizal’s two long
sojourns in Europe, in 1882–7 and 1890–92, took in not only colonial Spain but
also extended stays in London, Paris, Heidelberg, Berlin, and Brussels. Of
necessity, his fictional exposé of colonial life, Noli
Me Tangere (‘Touch Me Not,’ 1887), was published in Berlin, and his dark Novela Mundial, El Filibusterismo,
was published in Ghent. Already well-read and thoroughly versed in Europe’s
ways, Rizal, his fellow Filipinos, and others came not with a defeated air but
to seize the continent’s opportunities with brash confidence and make Europe
their own.9Sun Yat-sen’s first exile period brought
him via Japan, Hawaii, and the United States to London in 1896. In a curious
incident, he wandered, or was enticed – it was never clear – into the de jure
Qing territory of the Chinese legation at 40 Portland Place, from there to be
bundled off to China on a capital charge. But he was released after a public
campaign by English supporters, taken up by The Times. The incident, and Sun’s
own published account of it, greatly elevated his revolutionary aura as ‘the
man destined to save China.’10 After he was banished from Penang in November
1910, and persona non grata in British Malaya, Hong Kong, the Netherlands East
Indies, French Indochina, Japan, and Siam, the only path opened was to London
again, and from there to the United States.
In Paris in 1911, the
exiled Phan Chu Trinh established himself on the margins of the republic of
letters, near where rue Mouffetard, with its small
publishers and bookshops, emptied into the working-class districts of the 13e
arrondissement. With his modest official stipend, he took up lodgings in the
townhouse at 6 villa des Gobelins. He worked on a 7,800-line verse translation
into Vietnamese of Liang Qichao’s Chinese rendering of Strange Encounters with
Beautiful Women. Trinh moved among a small community of Vietnamese and of other
Asian nationals who worked as translators or instructors in institutions such
as the École des Langues Orientales.11
Increasingly,
students added to the numbers of Asians resident in Europe. After 1890 the Qing
government had encouraged its ambassadors in Paris to take ‘embassy students’
with them. One of them, Li Shizeng, returned to Paris
with Francophile friends to open a publishing house and a soya bean factory,
along with an outlet in the Marais extolling the bean’s health virtues. He
recruited workers from China, the first batch of sixty traveling via the newly
opened Trans-Siberian Railway, for what was called ‘frugal work-study’: an
idealized vision for creating model citizens, disciplined and aware. By 1913,
some 242 Chinese students in Europe, most of them in France.12 Others made
their way to Berlin and Heidelberg, or Lucerne. To Indian educators and
students, German Indology and German science were vital counterweights to
British scholarship in the same fields, compromised, as it was, by its role in
supporting colonial rule in India.13 But while there were barely 100 students
from India in Britain in 1880, by 1910, there were between 1,000 and 1,200.
That year, a parliamentary report on ‘distressed’ colonial subjects voiced its
concern at the growing number of ‘adventurers’ from British India: young men
‘with no very clearly defined aim,’ traveling under their own steam, or with
rather an unsteady family support.14 For the unbound traveler and the exile,
the West's journey could be arduous and humiliating. In September 1908, the
young Indian journalist M. P. T. Acharya left Madras' home city with a single
suitcase and only 300 rupees, under a heavy cloud of suspicion and watched by
the police. The question was where, if anywhere, in a world of empires was a
sanctuary to be found? He could travel
relatively easily to India's French possessions, the largest of which was
Pondicherry's old port, some 100 miles to the south. There he attempted to
re-establish his journal, India. But, as its proprietor, he was liable for any
offense of the paper. Although this was a different jurisdiction, there was the
constant threat of extradition or being carried away to British territory by
force, ‘with the help of rowdies for whom Pondicherry was famous.’ It was also
not much of a place to live. Returning briefly to Madras in October for the
marriage his parents had arranged, Acharya traveled to Colombo by train and
ferry the following month. His next step would be irrevocable, as, beyond this
point, he could not pay his passage home. But he was unsure whether to head
east or west. His preferred route was to the Netherlands East Indies, a journey
he could make more cheaply in deck class, in the tropical warmth, in the
clothes he possessed. It was impossible to travel west in deck class without
winter clothes. Yet there was no passage to Java, and he could not afford to
stay in Colombo, a British port, with the ever-present danger of being sent
home. So, almost on impulse, around late November, he purchased a third-class
ticket on a Japanese ship with 165 rupees of the money he had left and sailed
to the Red Sea and through the Suez Canal to France.15
The Japanese ship
served only English food, a staple boiled beef, forbidden to a Brahmin like
Acharya, and so he fasted for the 22-day passage, except for the gift of an
apple from the steward. Entering the Mediterranean, the air felt freer, and
sailing between Sicily and Italy, he communed with the ghost of Giuseppe
Mazzini. Acharya disembarked in Marseilles, starving and very cold. He could
see the republican trinity – Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité – chiseled everywhere on public buildings. He
was in a country famous as a haven for refugees, but he knew that if the
authorities heard he was penniless, ‘all that vaunted freedom and hospitality
would have vanished into air.’ Through the kindness of a stranger, he was given
the fare to ‘the city of revolutions,’ Paris. But it was a humiliation for a
man of good family and standing to be reduced to mendicancy in shabby clothes. ‘I
was not accustomed to asking even for a recommendation in India from my own
relatives. How dare I go down on my knees before a stranger?’ Acharya
approached long-distance correspondents from his days as a newspaperman,
chiefly French orientalist, and Indian translator. But the established Indian
residents of Paris, settled in comfortable middle-class homes, with a household
of staff, were unsympathetic, defensive over the sacrifices they had made, and
weary of giving to a constant stream of exiles. Although it had never been
Acharya’s intention to go to ‘the English “home,”’ unable to find anything to
do in Paris, to London, he went. An acquaintance in Paris advanced him his
fare, Acharya knew, just to be free of his ‘pestering’.16.
In London, as in Paris,
people created their own spaces in the city. The privileged lived in awkward
proximity to servants and seamen: Lascars, Chinese, Malays, and Arabs had been
a presence in London for centuries in areas such as Limehouse, often lodging
with Asian housekeepers who had married local wives. In 1911 there were around
1,319 Chinese in Britain, mostly in London, Liverpool, and Cardiff. Most had
followed the sea as stewards or cooks, like Nguyen Tat Thanh. They were
literate, resourceful men – emphatically not ‘coolies’, but, as the Liverpool
Weekly Courier recognized in 1906, ‘the true intellectuals and progressives of
their country.’ However, the growing number of Chinese sailors jumping in
Britain fuelled an ugly mood of racial panic.17 An
international seamen’s strike in 1911 was in some ways a testament to the
solidarities across borders, but also to growing hostility at the Asian seamen
who, in Canton and elsewhere, were hired to break it. Paradoxically, this
helped establish a global web of what the Cantonese called ‘Chinaports’
– such as the community of 300 stranded seamen in Hamburg and Bremerhaven, the
Chinatowns in Rotterdam’s Katendrecht district or
Amsterdam’s Binnen Bantammerstraat – all serviced by
laundries, lodgings, and eating houses, and far-roving pedlars
from Zhejiang province.18
In the midst of this,
the new wave of Asian students to London gravitated to enclaves such as ‘Asia
minor’ in Bayswater or, more often, Fitzrovia and
Bloomsbury, where the British Museum, University College and the nearby Inns of
Court – the destinations of most foreign students – were to be found. Many
Indians spent their time, as was intended, preparing for high office in the
Raj. English civil servants on home leave or in retirement were placed in loco
parentis. On his arrival, Acharya watched scornfully how his countrymen
cultivated India-bound Englishmen with a view to future influence, grateful to
mix with men they could not be seen with at home. Some were so anxious not to
be seen as subversives that they did not ‘care to be in any other company but
their own landlord’s family.’19 These domestic situations could open the way
for intimacies impossible in Calcutta, Singapore, or Hanoi. But others chafed
at the chaperones and the racial snubs of landlords. Acharya’s journal in
Madras had carried a ‘Letter from London’ by a student, V. V. S. Aiyar, so he
made his way to its source: a well-appointed villa at 65 Cromwell Avenue,
Highgate, north London.
As it was called,
‘India House’ was the vision of one of the leading Indian citizens of Edwardian
London, Shyamji Krishna Varma. Born in Gujarat in 1857, the year of the Indian
Mutiny, he had come to England in 1879 as a protégé of the Oxford Sanskritist and evangelist Sir Monier
Monier-Williams. He earned success at Balliol
College, Oxford, qualified as a barrister of the Inner Temple, and was even
accepted as an honorary member of the United Empire Club. Returning to India,
he served as diwan, chief minister, of several princely states and grew wealthy
through investments in cotton mills in Ajmer, in Rajasthan. He was every bit
‘the successful prize-boy of a subject nation.’ But, in 1897, disillusioned by
his political career in the Indian princely states, and feeling personally
betrayed by Englishmen after a series of affronts, he quit public service and
left for London.
This was a year of
hard choices in Indian politics. The Indian National Congress had, since its
formation in 1885, adopted an avowed ‘moderate’ policy towards the Raj. Now
there were calls from within Congress for full Swaraj, or ‘self-rule,’ backed
by boycott's new strategy. These were led by the radical trinity ‘Lal-Bal-Pal’:
Lala Lajpat Rai in Punjab, the above-mentioned Bal Gangadhar Tilak from
Maharashtra, and Bipin Chandra Pal in Bengal. Their most dramatic manifestation
came out of Bombay, where Tilak led the opposition to the new invasive
government powers adopted there in the wake of the plague of 1896–7. After the
political murder of a plague official and his military escort at Poona, as they
returned from a parade to mark the diamond jubilee of Queen Victoria in June
1897, Tilak was arrested on a charge of incitement and imprisoned. Krishnavarma had played a small part in Congress politics
but had grown increasingly critical of it. He had also sought Tilak’s aid in
his own disputes with the British. He now felt a marked man. As he explained
some ten years later: ‘It is a folly for a man to allow himself to be arrested
by an unsympathetic government and thus deprived of action when, by
anticipating matters, he can avoid such evils.’20
‘Exile,’ Krishnavarma also wrote, ‘has its privileges.’ For some
years after 1897, Krishnavarma quietly enjoyed them.
He believed that the British might have robbed India, but at least their banks
were solid, and he was an opportunistic investor on the London stock exchange.
He was quick to read the runes from the Russo-Japanese War and made money from
issuing new Japanese loans.21 He moved in the outer circles of academic life.
Still, then, out of nowhere, at the funeral of the philosopher Herbert Spencer
in 1904, he made the dramatic announcement of a gift of £1,000 to the
University of Oxford for a lectureship in Spencer’s memory. He also launched a
journal, The Indian Sociologist, in January 1905. Spencer was quoted on the
banner-head of each issue: ‘Resistance to aggression is not simply justifiable
but imperative. Non-resistance hurts both altruism and egoism.’ The paper took
full advantage of the freedom of publication in London and was an increasingly
radical voice for Swaraj. Its initial run of 1,000 copies swiftly circulated
among Indians overseas, and, to the consternation of officials, copies made
their way back to India hidden in the baggage of travelers.
Krishnavarma then bought the house at 65 Cromwell Avenue, which he
opened to a small fanfare in July 1905 as an alternative base for Indian
students in London. It was modeled on the adult education branch of Oxford
University, Ruskin Hall. Krishnavarma established his
own scholarships – loans, named after Indian heroes and martyrs, and made it a
condition that holders should not join the Indian Civil Service. The speech at
the opening of India House was given by H. M. Hyndman, an early follower and
popularizer of the ideas of Karl Marx.22 Hyndman threw the language of colonial
paternalism back at the imperial establishment: ‘It is the immoderate men, the
fanatical men, who will work out the salvation of India by herself.’23 Soon, Krishnavarma heard of an ‘India House’ in Tokyo and New
York. The villa in Highgate was a natural base for M. P. T. Acharya, who took
up a freeboard there. Staffed by an Indian cook, a lascar, and ‘a Czechish
refugee’, Acharya found it much like a bachelor hostel back home.24
India House gathered
into its orbit some of the most talented Indian intellectuals abroad. Bhai
Parmanand, from Punjab, had been traveling in South Africa as a preacher for
the Hindu reformist organization the Arya Samaj; on
the recommendation of an Indian activist there, a lawyer named M. K. Gandhi, he
came to London. For Parmanand, too, England was ‘a sacred land’ by its ‘pure
and free atmosphere.’ Like many exiles of all nations, he found sanctuary in
the reading room of the British Library. There he wrote a master’s thesis on
‘The Rise of British Power in India,’ the beginnings of India's larger history.
His examiners did not take to it; in any case, he had come to the view that
English education was introduced to ‘destroy our national consciousness.’25
Parmanand encountered
a like mind in a fellow student from the Punjab, Har Dayal,
studying modern history and Sanskrit at St John’s College, Oxford. Har Dayal had already been talked about in his school days at
St Stephen’s in Delhi as one of his generation's nimblest minds and was a
protégé of Lala Lajpat Rai. Early in his time at Oxford, he made the most of
the opportunity to meet thinkers such as George Bernard Shaw and Shaw’s friend,
the exiled Russian anarchist Peter Kropotkin. But his mood was darkened by the
arrest of Lala Lajpat Rai in Punjab in May 1907 and his banishment to Mandalay.
This was a naked exercise of executive power that divided even the high
imperial establishment and parted the ways for many of the empire’s Indian
subjects. Later that year, Congress split into ‘moderate’ and ‘extremist’
lines. Simultaneously, with calculated impudence and characteristic
impulsiveness, Har Dayal resigned his
government scholarship and Oxford place. The man responsible for Indian
students, Sir William Curzon Wyllie, was quick to point out that he was almost
at the end of his three years of funding in any case. Officials were even more
perplexed when he wore a dhoti and kurta about London and preached sexual
renunciation and a rather strident form of Hinduism. Har Dayal
was a married man and had brought his wife, Sundar Rani, to England, to the
great annoyance. Now she was expecting, and her family sent her a second-class
ticket to return home for a wedding. Har Dayal cashed
it in for two third-class tickets, and they traveled together. Their families
cushioned the choices they made. Sundar Rani was the granddaughter of the Prime
Minister of Patiala and, as her cousin put it, ‘they were all well-off people,
and they took care of him.’26 By the following year, both Har Dayal and Bhai Parmanand were back in the Punjab, disillusioned
men in the epicenter of Raj’s crackdown on ‘extremism.’ Where Har Dayal went, ‘young students flocked to hear him’.27.
One of the first
India House scholars, chosen from over 100 applicants and on ilak himself's recommendation,
was Vinayak Savarkar, who had been active in western Indian politics with his
two brothers. He carried with him from India in 1906 a biography of Mazzini.
While ostensibly studying law at Gray’s Inn, he spent much of his time
translating it into his native Marathi. Savarkar saw in Mazzini, the model for
a new revolutionary personality. He fashioned himself in Mazzini’s likeness and
devoted himself to instilling it in others. He shared Acharya’s contempt for
fellow students who became ‘paying guests’ of the English and thought so
‘highly of the opportunity to sit, drink, and dine with white families’ and pay
over the odds for it. He cultivated what he termed the more ‘middle-class’
students – those who were less confident and less anglicized – although he also
looked to enlist a rich or princely sponsor. All this was possible in London:
‘If someone organizes a tea party,’ he noted, ‘people of all Indian provinces,
grades and prestige can participate.’28
Meetings began to be
held in relative secrecy in India House. But Savarkar was known to the police
before he left India. Scotland Yard started to watch his inner circle, a secret
organization that, again inspired by Mazzini’s ‘Young Italy,’ called Abhinav
Bharat, or ‘Young India.’ One of his closest associates was Virendranath
Chattopadhyaya, a law student at the Middle Temple,
from a notable Bengali literary family, better known simply as ‘Chatto.’ He had
failed to win an India House scholarship – ‘a disappointed man,’ scoffed Krishnavarma – and from 1903 lived with a young Englishwoman.
They opened a confectioner’s shop in Shepherd’s Bush in 1908, and when it
failed, they lived in Notting Hill as ‘Mr. and Mrs.
Chatterton’ until they quarreled and parted.29
For the British, it
was highly impertinent of Indians to abuse in such a way the liberties of what
the Viceroy of India termed ‘the headquarters of the Empire.’ It was even more
distressing that they might find allies and sympathizers there. The Anglo-Boer
War of 1899–1902 and earlier British interventions in Egypt and elsewhere had
deepened the liberal and radical critique of imperialism and the economic
cartels and militarism behind it. The word itself now took on a new edge:
‘house-breaking reduced to a science,’ as the Fabian socialist C. H. Norman
defined it in 1906.30 India House enlisted a range of British sympathizers,
from Spencerites and curiosity seekers to the likes
of H. M. Hyndman and Guy Aldred, an anarchist and
agnostic who took on the printing of The Indian Sociologist. Patriots of all
colonized lands drew on the words and deeds of Sinn Fein. But these people
could not be relied upon. The Irish were also servants of empire, with
generations of soldiers, police officers, and administrators going out to
India. As an example of anti-British struggle, the stunted progress of home
rule in Ireland in the 1900s was caused dismay. It was a slogan that Indian
nationalists hesitated to use.31
Krishnavarma’s own alliances were tactical rather than a passionate
meeting of minds. He lived austerely, with no interest in the bohemian
pleasures of London – unlike many of his students – adhering to a strict
Brahmin-like vegetarian diet that avoided onions and chilies, and dressing, as
a Parisian newspaper mistook it, in ‘the severe garb of an English clergyman.’
Despite all Krishnavarma’s munificence, some of the
young men of India House thought him miserly and too quick to remind them of
their obligation to him.32 The likes of Savarkar were less interested than Krishnavarma in a British audience. For them, faced by
everyday racism and condescension and constantly confronted by their own
relative disempowerment, it was a moot question as to how far such
‘entanglement’ with the ruling class of empire was advancing their cause.33
Where was the common ground?
This was an era of
congresses and manifestos – in art, literature, and politics – of discovering
the ‘international’ and the pursuit of the ‘cosmopolitan.’ All too easily,
internationalism proved to be no more than a ‘fantasy,’ the ‘hypocritical
private-egotistical cosmopolitanism of free trade,’ as the young Friedrich
Engels had discovered at the ‘Festival of Nations’ in London in 1845.34 But in
a world where others had wealth, privilege and position, it at least offered
the possibility for a well-positioned few to create some space for themselves
to speak for their community on the term of rare equality and to argue with
dignity in the midst of indignities.35 Across colonial Asia, not least in the
port cities, outward-looking mobile elites embraced liberal cosmopolitanism as
an ideal, a lifestyle, and even an identity. They belonged to a small Asian
middle class and a colonial public sphere that flourished through newspapers,
clubs, and municipal institutions such as sanitary bodies or school boards.
Many remained attracted to the idea, at least, of imperial citizenship; they
asked only for it to be upheld fairly.36 Their lives were very different from
those for whom worldliness was not a choice but was thrust upon them as a
necessity for survival.
Some liberal and
radical causes traveled further than others. Temperance leagues, women’s
movements, campaigns against ‘white slavery’ and for animal rights all swiftly
found an audience and advocates in Asia, and sometimes beyond the elite.
Internationalism spawned universal inter-languages, like Esperanto, which
offered speakers the possibility to escape the cage of their linguistic past
and reverse Babel's curse.37 Esperanto was embraced by Japanese reformers and
Chinese students in Japan and Paris around 1907 – not least as a strategy to
allow them to communicate outside the official languages of empires. In 1908
there was a Shanghai Esperanto Society and, by 1912, a national body in
China.38
This same mood gave
rise to multiple attempts to fuse western and eastern spiritual and esoteric
traditions, as they were variously understood. This, in turn, encouraged Asian
thinkers to return to the sources of their own spiritual knowledge. As Bal
Gangadhar Tilak himself acknowledged, ‘we began to recognize the importance of
our home's contents only after the foreigners showed us.’39 The above-mentioned
Theosophy – which drew in various measures on pan-racial mysticism,
Anglo-Celtic radicalism, and Hindu-Buddhist revivalism – was crucial to the Indian National Congress's founding spirit in 1885
and was personified in one of its founders, Annie Besant. Theosophy found
adherents among the European-educated from Ceylon to the Straits and Dutch
Java. It carried its own vision of empire: enthusiasts saw the movement for
‘imperial federation’ in the 1890s as a step towards a millennial world
commonwealth. For others, it was a way of ignoring the empire altogether.40 And
yet openness, recognition, and sympathy could not shed the insidiousness of
imperial attitudes and cultural appropriation.41
Some Asians were
drawn into the web of intimate friendships that shaped the modernist circles
and salons of fin de siècle England and their utopian idealism. Sometimes,
intimacy led to long partnerships. Through this, and with particular intensity
in these belle époque years, colonial subjects began subtly to shape
metropolitan cultural life. India was a central presence in the very creation
of ‘Bloomsbury’; many of its writers and artists had Raj family connections,
friendships with Indians, and a shared aesthetic of the exotic, as seen in the
formation of the Indian Society, which drew in many Bloomsbury luminaries after
1910. For some, these encounters fostered a deeper critical awareness of
empire.42 But, for Europeans, all this was easier to contemplate at home, and
on a one-to-one basis, rather than under the rigid social conventions of
colonial Calcutta, Singapore, or Hanoi.
The European
tradition's high cosmopolitanism could be brutal to small nations' rights and
‘inferior’ civilizations. The first ‘Internationals’ of western socialism gave
the colonial question only a passing consideration. Karl Marx’s own writings on
imperialism, such as his reports on the Indian Mutiny for the New York Daily
Tribune, were diffuse and of the moment and were not widely read afterward. His
analysis of the ‘Asiatic mode of production’ built upon images of despotism,
stagnancy, and decline that were commonplace within western orientalist
thought.
However, his later
work showed more sympathy for the ‘communal’ patterns of the social
organization he had encountered in India's writings of the sometime Bengal
civil servant and academic jurist Henry Maine and others.43 For Marx’s
followers, the ills of imperialism provoked a deeper debate about how far the
inevitable development of capital could be seen as a step towards its
self-destruction. If so, was not the subjugation of what socialists, along with
other western commentators, called ‘the backward peoples’ a necessary step –
however morally abhorrent – towards this end?
The Second
International was born in 1889 at the very moment of accelerated imperial
expansion and competition. It was ‘international’ only in a European sense, and
its defining debates centered on how socialist parties should respond to the
widening franchise in western Europe. Socialist critics of the empire were more
concerned by the jingoistic militarism it encouraged at home, and it's capacity
to distract the working class from the pursuit of class struggle. While some
saw imperialism as anathema to anyone committed to freedom, others saw it as
calling a higher civilization, which the socialist movement was bound to support.
The English Fabian socialists – of which a surprising number of sympathizers
were to be found in imperial civil services – saw themselves, as H. G. Wells
put it, as ‘Samurai’: elite warriors for social improvement part of communities
who could not manage this for themselves.44 Seen in this way, one response to
colonialist exploitation was more and better imperialism. The default position
for the Second International was a conditional acquiescence in the imperial
status quo.
At a Stuttgart
meeting in August 1907, Madame Bhikaiji Cama – an exile from an influential Parsi family who had
acted as Naoroji’s secretary and was a prominent
Paris-based suffragist and activist in her own right – unfurled for the first
time the tricolor of India, which she, Krishnavarma
and Savarkar had designed. But this symbolic act flew in the face of historical
materialism’s insistence on the irrelevance of what was rather contemptuously
termed the ‘national question.’45 It seems she did not meet Lenin, who was
present, and the International’s most influential theoretician, Karl Kautsky, remembered only ‘an Indian lady waving a flag.’
According to some accounts, when she raised the question of freedom for India,
the British delegation, including Ramsay MacDonald, challenged her accreditation
and walked out.46
1. Yen Ching Hwang,
The Overseas Chinese, and the 1911 Revolution, with Special Reference to
Singapore and Malaya, Kuala Lumpur, Oxford University Press, 1976, pp. 115–24,
283; Edward S. Krebs, Shifu: Soul of Chinese Anarchism,
Lanham, MD, Rowman & Littlefield, 1998, pp. 65–6, 75; Yin Cao, ‘Bombs in
Beijing and Delhi: The Global Spread of Bomb-Making Technology and the
Revolutionary Terrorism in Modern China and India’, Journal of World History,
30/4 (2019), pp. 559–89.
2. Tran Dan Tien,
Glimpses of the Life of Ho Chi Minh, 1958, pp. 8
3. Khoo Salma Nasution, Sun Yat Sen in Penang,
Penang, Areca Books, 2008.
4. J. V. Naik,
‘Forerunners of Dadabhai Naoroji’s
Drain Theory,’ Economic and Political Weekly, 36/46–7 (2001), pp. 4428–32;
Vikram Visana, ‘Vernacular Capitalism, Capitalism,
and Anti-Imperialism in the Political Thought of Dadabhai
Naoroji,’ Historical Journal, 59/3 (2016), pp.
775–97.
5. Bill V. Mullen and
Cathryn Watson (eds), W. E. B. Du Bois on Asia:
Crossing the World Color Line, Jackson, University Press of Mississippi,
2005.
6. Susan D. Pennybacker, ‘The Universal Races Congress, London
Political Culture, and Imperial Dissent, 1900–1939’, Radical History Review, 92
(2005), pp. 103–17; Christian Geulen, ‘The Common
Grounds of Conflict: Racial Visions of World Order, 1880–1940’, in Sebastian
Conrad and Dominic Sachsenmaier (eds), Conceptions of
World Order: Global Moments and Movements, 1880s–1930s, London, Palgrave
Macmillan, 2007, pp. 69–96.
7. Elizabeth Kolsky, ‘Codification and the Rule of Colonial Difference:
Criminal Procedure in British India,’ Law and History Review, 23/3 (2005), pp.
631–83.
8. Nicholas Owen,
‘The Soft Heart of the British Empire: Indian Radicals in Edwardian London,’
Past and Present, 220 (2013), pp. 143–84.
9. For an inspiring
exploration of these novels' world, see Anderson, Under Three Flags, esp. ch. 3. For ‘claiming’ Europe see the equally rich essay by Resil B. Mojares, ‘The
Itineraries of Mariano Ponce,’ in Caroline S. Hau and
Kasian Tejapira (eds),
Traveling Nation-Makers: Transnational Flows and Movements in the Making of
Modern Southeast Asia, Singapore, NUS Press, 2011, pp. 32–63, at pp.
37–8.
10. Marie-Claire
Bergère, Sun Yat-sen, Stanford, CA, Stanford
University Press, 2000, pp. 61–8; J. Y. Wong, The Origins of a Heroic Image:
Sun Yatsen in London, 1896–1897, Oxford, Oxford
University Press, 1986, quotation at p. 296.
11. Sinh (ed.), Phan Châu Trinh and
His Political Writings, Ithaca, NY, Southeast Asia Program Publications, 2009,
pp. 27–33.
12. , ‘Cultural
Connections in a New Global Space: Li Shizeng and the
Chinese Francophile Project in the Early Twentieth Century,’ in Lin Pei-yin and
Weipin Tsai (eds), Print, Profit, and Perception:
Ideas, Information and Knowledge in Chinese Societies, 1895–1949, Leiden,
Brill, 2014, pp. 17–39; Chae-Jin Lee, Zhou Enlai: The
Early Years, Stanford, CA, Stanford University Press, 1994, p. 77.
13. Kris Manjapra, Age of Entanglement: German and Indian
Intellectuals across Empire, Cambridge, MA, Harvard University Press, 2014, pp.
46–55.
14. Report of the
Committee on Distressed Colonial and Indian Subjects, Cd. 5133, London, HMSO,
1910, esp. pp. 16–17.
15. M. P. T. Acharya
and B. D. Yadav, M. P. T. Acharya: Reminiscences of an Indian Revolutionary,
New Delhi, Anmol Publications, 1991, pp. 67–81, quotation at p. 67; C. S.
Subramanyam, M. P. T. Acharya: His Life and Times: Revolutionary Trends in the
Early Anti-Imperialist Movements in South India and Abroad, Madras, Institute
of South Indian Studies, 1995, pp. 95–9.
16. Acharya and
Yadav, M. P. T. Acharya, quotations at pp. 72, 75, 80.
17. Sascha Auerbach,
Race, Law, and ‘The Chinese Puzzle’ in Imperial Britain, London, Springer,
2009, esp. ch. 2; G. Benton and E. Gomez, The Chinese
in Britain, 1800–Present: Economy, Transnationalism, Identity, London,
Springer, 2007, pp. 84–5.
18. Vanessa Künnemann, Ruth Mayer, Chinatowns in a Transnational World
Myths and Realities of an Urban Phenomenon, 2011, pp. 45–61.
19. Acharya and Yadav,
M. P. T. Acharya, quotation at p. 84.
20. Harald Fischer-Tiné, Shyamji Krishnavarma:
Sanskrit, Sociology and Anti-Imperialism, New Delhi, Routledge, 2014, pp.
26–37; Indulal Yajnik, Shyamaji Krishnavarma: Life and
Times of an Indian Revolutionary (1934), Bombay, Lakshmi Publications, 1950,
pp. 97–8.
21. Ibid., pp.
274–5.
22. For India House
in this and preceding paragraphs see Fischer-Tiné,
Shyamji Krishnavarma; Alex Tickell, ‘Scholarship
Terrorists: The India House Hostel and the “Student Problem” in Edwardian
London’, in Rehana Ahmed and Sumita Mukherjee (eds),
South Asian Resistances in Britain, 1858–1947, London, Continuum, 2012, pp.
3–18.
23. As cited in A. C.
Bose, Indian Revolutionaries Abroad, 1905–1922: In the Background of
International Developments, Patna, Bharati Bhawan, 1971, p. 16.
24. Acharya and
Yadav, M. P. T. Acharya, p. 82; Subramanyam, M. P. T. Acharya, pp. 102–4.
25. Bhai Parmanand,
The Story of My Life, Lahore, The Central Hindu Yuvak
Sabha, 1934, pp. 31–5.
26. Emily C. Brown,
Har Dayal: Hindu Revolutionary and Rationalist,
Tucson, University of Arizona Press, 1975, pp. 36–44, quotation from Gobind
Behari Lal at p. 44.
27. As quoted in
Amiya K. Samanta (ed.), Terrorism in Bengal: A
Collection of Documents on Terrorist Activities from 1905 to 1939, vol. V:
Terrorists outside Bengal Deriving Inspiration from and Having Links with
Bengal Terrorists, Calcutta, Government of West Bengal, 1995, p. vi.
28. Vinayak
Chaturvedi, ‘A Revolutionary’s Biography: The Case of V D Savarkar’,
Postcolonial Studies, 16/2 (2013), pp. 124–39, gives a fascinating dissection
of Savarkar’s third-person biography, Life of Barrister Savarkar by Chitra
Gupta, Madras, B. G. Paul & Company Publishers, 1926. I have used
quotations from a translation of Savarkar’s later Marathi memoir, Inside the
Enemy Camp, translation of Shatruchya Shibiraat (1965), pp. 46–7. Text from
http://savarkar.org/en/encyc/2017/5/22/Inside-the-Enemy-Camp.html (last
accessed 20 May 2020).
29. Nirode K. Barooah, Chatto: The
Life and Times of an Anti-Imperialist in Europe, New Delhi, Oxford University
Press, 2004, p. 11; ‘Criminal Intelligence Office: Circular No. 2, Political of
1913: Bombay Police Commissioner’s Office File No. 3120/H.’, in Government of
Bombay, Source Material for a History of the Freedom Movement in India:
Collected from Bombay Government Records, vol. II: 1885–1920, Bombay,
Government Printing, Publications and Stationery, 1958, pp. 515–16.
30. Gregory Claeys, Imperial Sceptics: British Critics of Empire,
1850–1920, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2010, p. 218.
31. Michael
Silvestri, ‘“The Sinn Fein of India”: Irish Nationalism and the Policy of
Revolutionary Terrorism in Bengal’, Journal of British Studies, 39/4 (2000),
pp. 454–86, at p. 465.
32. Harald
Fischer-Tine, Shyamji Krishnavarma Sanskrit,
Sociology and Anti-Imperialism, 2014, pp. 87–93.
33. This theme is
explored in Kris Manjapra, Age of Entanglement
German and Indian Intellectuals across Empire, 2014, esp. pp. 16–21.
34. Friedrich Engels,
‘The Festival of Nations in London’ (1845), in Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels,
Collected Works, vol. VI: 1845–48, London, Lawrence & Wishart, 1976, pp.
3–14, at p. 3.
35. T. N. Harper,
‘Globalism and the Pursuit of Authenticity: The Making of a Diasporic Public
Sphere in Singapore’, Sojourn: Journal of Social Issues in Southeast Asia, 12/2
(1997), pp. 261–92, at p. 275.
36. See Frost,
‘Asia’s Maritime Networks’; Su Lin Lewis, Cities in
Motion: Urban Life and Cosmopolitanism in Southeast Asia, 1920–1940, Cambridge,
Cambridge University Press, 2016; Sukanya Banerjee, Becoming Imperial Citizens:
Indians in the Late-Victorian Empire, Durham, NC, Duke University Press, 2010;
Lynn Hollen Lees, ‘Being British in Malaya,
1890–1940’, Journal of British Studies, 48/1 (2009), pp. 76–101.
37. E. James
Lieberman, ‘Esperanto and Transnational Identity: The Case of Dr Zamenhof’,
International Journal of the Sociology of Language, 20 (1979), pp. 89–107;
Natasha Staller, ‘Babel: Hermetic Languages, Universal Languages, and Anti-Languages
in Fin de Siècle Parisian Culture’, Art Bulletin, 76/2 (1994), pp. 331–54, at
p. 354.
38. Gregor Benton,
Chinese Migrants and Internationalism: Forgotten Histories, 1917–1945, London,
Routledge, 2007, pp. 92–102; Gerald Chan, ‘China and the Esperanto Movement’,
Australian Journal of Chinese Affairs, 15 (1986), pp. 1–18, at pp. 3–4.
39. John Bramble,
Modernism and the Occult, London, Palgrave Macmillan, 2015, p. 24.
40. Nicholas Goodrick-Clarke, The Western Esoteric Traditions, Oxford,
Oxford University Press, 2008, pp. 211–28; C. A. Bayly,
‘Ireland, India and the Empire, 1780–1914’, Transactions of the Royal
Historical Society, 10 (2000), pp. 377–97, at p. 394; Frost, ‘Asia’s
Maritime Networks’, p. 92.
41. Gauri
Viswanathan, ‘The Ordinary Business of Occultism’, Critical Inquiry, 27/1
(2000), pp. 1–20.
42. Leela Gandhi,
Affective Communities: Anticolonial Thought, Fin-de-Siècle Radicalism, and the
Politics of Friendship, Durham, NC, Duke University Press, 2005; Elleke Boehmer, Indian Arrivals, 1870–1915: Networks of
British Empire, Oxford, Oxford University Press, 2016, esp. pp. 412–22. Priyamvada Gopal argues that, for many British liberals and
radicals, such encounters, and events in India and elsewhere were ‘a kind of
pedagogical watershed’ that transformed their views of empire; see Insurgent
Empire: Anticolonial Resistance and British Dissent, London, Verso, 2019, p.
205.
43. Gareth Stedman
Jones, ‘Radicalism and the Extra-European World: The Case of Marx’, in Duncan
Bell (ed.), Victorian Visions of Global Order: Empire and International
Relations in Nineteenth-Century Political Thought, Cambridge, Cambridge
University Press, 2008, pp. 186–214.
44. Julie Pham, ‘J.
S. Furnivall and Fabianism: Reinterpreting the “Plural Society” in Burma’,
Modern Asian Studies, 39/2 (2005), pp. 321–48.
45. Leszek Kolakowski, Main Currents of Marxism: Its Origins, Growth
and Dissolution, vol. II: The Golden Age, Oxford, Oxford University Press, pp.
1–30; Claeys, Imperial Sceptics, pp. 137–40.
46. Quoted in Panchanan Saha, The Russian
Revolution and the Indian Patriots, Calcutta, Manisha Granthalaya,
1987, pp. 48–9.
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