'AMU' book review: Narrative walks the precipice between aspiration and necessity
Lord Lytton laid the foundation stone of the first building on the intended campus at Aligarh. Mukhtar Masoon (who passed away in 2017), a renowned Urdu writer and bureaucrat, visualised it as a fun event. Two roads were built up to the location of Stretchy Hall. Two hundred trees brought from Banaras were planted. One thousand flowerpots were prepared. The tent was raised for the guests’ accommodation. Ride bags, flags and rugs for decoration, carpets, and makeshift bathrooms were hired from Agra for convenience.
At the same time, uniforms for workers from Allahabad and silver knives and forks for food and drinks were provided by Ms Khelnar from Calcutta. Those who came from outside to attend the foundation ceremony, cattle and humans alike, were guests and enjoyed the hospitality of Sir Syed. The long journey of the AMU had begun.
The authors answer all our questions, real and imagined. There is no sweeping the dirt under the carpet. Otherwise, how could it have come to pass that one family ended up with 35 people on the payroll of the AMU? Or that a priceless paintings vanished as people squabbled?
The first student at MAO College was Hamidullah, the son of Maulvi Samiullah Khan. An 11-year-old kid, he was introduced to potential donors in Punjab during fundraising campaigns as an example of the kind of person the proposed institution would serve. Other students were wards of relatives and friends of Maulvi Samiullah and Sir Syed from Delhi. Others were wards of subordinates in various courts.
Though Aligarh was founded primarily for Muslims, it warmly welcomed Hindu students. The boarders were lodged in separate Hindi bungalows. In the first year, the student body was an all-Muslim one, but thereafter it always included a significant number of Hindus.
In 1895, the college and school at Aligarh had 595 students on its roll. At the time of Sir Syed’s death, the number had fallen to 323. Later, it plummeted to 189. Financial grants stopped coming. There’s an interesting anecdote involving a supposedly Marxist academician who lived in a 40-room mansion and drove around in a Toyota car.
For people like him, any structural changes would mean the loss of power of this powerful oligarchy. Elsewhere, you find a vice chancellor who is held prisoner for three days inside his residence. With the situation seemingly out of control, the university authorities sought the district administration’s help. Police swung into action to get the hostels vacated. The university was closed sine die. The CRPF men remained unprovoked even amid slogans raised by a section of students against the authorities.
Another former vice-chancellor, Colonel BH Zaidi, said, “a vice- chancellor is like a woman with six husbands—the state government, the central government, the millat, the teachers, the students and the court.” He has to meet everybody’s expectations. The real problem arises when expectations of diverse groups are diametrically opposed, he added.
Within the hallowed corridors of Aligarh Muslim University, where time and memory converge, echoes of history are informed by whispers of palace intrigue. The book explores the venerable institution and walks the precipice between ambition and necessity. What unfolds is a gripping saga—a clash of personal and political ambitions, all exacting a toll on the very fabric of the university.
Originally conceived as a beacon of enlightenment and progress for India’s Muslim populace during the tumultuous pre-independence era, AMU swiftly ascended to prominence as an intellectual and cultural epicentre. Yet, like a fragile tapestry, it has struggled to preserve the ideals that once ignited its creation.
With a surgeon’s scalpel, Anil Maheshwari and Arjun Maheshwari uncover the facets of time layer by layer, revealing how AMU changed from a catalyst for the Muslim Renaissance into a battleground. It becomes a place where ambitions clash over the institute’s soul.