Too Good to Ignore

My latest book, The Betrayal of the Blood Lily, is set in Hyderabad in 1804. I hadn’t intended, originally, to set it in Hyderabad. The original plan was for my book to take place in Calcutta and points north. In the autumn of 1804, luck—or something else—had turned against the British in India. After the victory won at Assaye the previous year, they were experiencing unprecedented military losses in the north, at the hands of a Maratha leader named Holcar. It seemed to make sense to set the book where the action was, near the military maneuvering of Lord Lake.

Then I stumbled upon Hyderabad, via William Dalrymple’s White Moghuls, and the planned plot of my book changed, dramatically and permanently.

A large province towards the center of the subcontinent, Hyderabad was a princely state presided over by a hereditary ruler called the Nizam. It was a young dynasty; it was only in 1724 that the Nizum ul-Mulk had carved it out as a semi-independent fiefdom out of the Moghul Empire, nominally retaining allegiance to that empire while operating as an independent entity.

Part of what attracted me to Hyderabad was the role played by Franco-British rivalry in the region. As those of you have glanced at my books know, they all take place against the backdrop of the conflict between England and France in the early years of the nineteenth century. Hyderabad fit beautifully into this schema. Until 1798, Hyderabad housed two sets of rival troops: a French force and an English force, both of whom were nominally there to protect the interests of the Nizam. The French force in Hyderabad nominally served the Nizam, but they fought under the Revolutionary tricolore. Their leader, Colonel Raymond, wrote to the French governors of Pondicherry and Mauritius pledging his loyalty to France and the Revolutionary regime. The canny English Resident, James Achilles Kirkpatrick, managed to engineer a coup in 1798, disarming the French force, but the fear of the French threat lingered.

I was also fascinated by the prominent role played by women in the court of Hyderabad. Among his guards, the Nizam maintained an all female regiment, the Zuffur Plutun, or the Victorious Battalion. Soldiers from the brigade served as the Nizam’s bodyguard, but the Zuffur Plutun’s role wasn’t confined to light duty at the palace; they actively rode into battle, playing a key role in several major battles. Contemporary commentators remarked upon their ferocity in battle. Both of the Nizam’s Masters of Ceremonies (a position of huge power at court), Mama Champa and Mama Barun, were women. They had gotten their start as wet nurses to the royal family. With women guarding his gates and conducting his durbar, the Nizam also had a famous female as a member of his omrah, or council: the courtesan Mah Laqa Bai, renowned for her wit, wisdom, and poetry.

And, while we’re at it, who can possibly resist a mad ruler? Points of change always make the best fodder for a novelist. In 1803, the old Nizam died. He was a remarkably clever man who had consolidated his dynasty, turning Hyderabad, in the words of William Dalrymple, “from the Sick Man of Late Mughal India into the vital strategic asset of the eighteenth century Cold War, without whose friendship and support no power could gain dominance in India”. He was also a good friend to the English, with a close, working relationship with the English Resident. Upon his death, the throne devolved to Crown Prince Sikander Jah. The new Nizan was not a man in the mould of his predecessor. In fact, he was rumored to be mad. The new Nizam, apparently, got his kicks out of strangling members of his household with silk handkerchiefs.

Fair enough; some of the best regimes have had mad rulers (cf George III)—all that was needed was a good Prime Minister. In the spring of 1804, right before my fictional heroine shows up in Hyderabad, Aristu Jah, the old Prime Minister, passed on to join his old master in that great durbar in the sky. The new Nizam appointed a minister of whom even Lord Wellesley, the Governor General, approved: a man named Mir Alam, who had once worked closely with the English. There was one slight problem. Mir Alam had been exiled by the old regime. During that time he had been suffering from acute cases of hurt feelings and leprosy. He returned, rotten in body and soul, determined to wreak his revenge on anyone he deemed responsible for his exile. Which meant just about everyone. It was rumored that he was so venomous, even snakes were afraid to bite him. A mad ruler and an even madder Prime Minister— what novelist could ask for anything more? Instability makes for uncomfortable living but excellent fiction.

In short, Hyderabad was the perfect place to send a heroine on honeymoon.

Have you ever come across something that's made you change all your plans? Or a historical fact/setting that was too good to ignore?