Raj: The Making of British India by Lawrence James is, quite transparently, a book written for a British (and very comfort-seeking) audience. It reads less like a history of colonial rule and more like a long, meticulously footnoted reassurance session: “Don’t worry, we weren’t that bad—and, anyway, the natives should be grateful.” The tone is polished, the prose is confident, and beneath all that elegance lies a very old, very familiar colonial mindset.
The book’s central emotional demand seems to be that Indians should more or less say “thank you” to the very government that enslaved them. Time and again, James frames the British presence as an essentially civilising, rational, almost benevolent project—tragically misunderstood by the people it ruled. That millions suffered, starved, and died in the process is treated as either a tragic accident of history or the fault of others: inept Indian rulers, greedy local elites, or the chaos of the subcontinent itself.
One of the book’s favourite tricks is the classic colonial move: British success is attributed not to ruthless opportunism, but to the “incapability” and “divisions” of Indian rulers. The message is clear: India was conquered not because the British were predatory, but because Indians were just so astonishingly incompetent that conquest was almost a moral duty. What James conveniently fails to convey is how much of the early British success was driven by unembarrassed greed—officers of the East India Company lining their pockets, abusing their power, and gaming every possible advantage in the name of profit, not principle.
In military matters too, James works hard to avoid calling a spade a spade. The British are credited with “superior organisation” and “tactics,” which is a very tidy way of saying: they introduced new weapons, exploited divisions, and made bribery into a strategic art form. Paying off enemy generals and sowing disloyalty among adversaries’ military personnel becomes, in this narrative, the mark of British genius rather than the corruption and manipulation it actually was.
At a deeper level, the book indulges a truly breath-taking conceit: that Indians should be thankful for the destruction and distortion of thousands of years of civilisation, social systems, and local institutions. Ancient cultures and complex polities are treated as raw material for the British to shape, ‘improve,’ and, where convenient, erase. The subtext: you had “tradition”; we gave you “modernity,” so perhaps a little gratitude is in order.
James repeatedly glorifies British governance as an enlightened regime of justice, morality, and reason. It’s all very noble—until you remember the critical detail he elegantly glides past: British subjects in India were largely shielded from the jurisdiction of Indian judges. The much-trumpeted “rule of law” operated on a racial hierarchy: one law for Europeans, another for the colonised. This uncomfortable fact is either downplayed or buried under the usual rhetoric of reforms, codes, and legal modernisation.
The book also has a particularly sour undertone toward Hindu India. In its eagerness to construct British racial and cultural superiority, it frequently discredits or trivialises indigenous traditions, beliefs, and social structures. The impression is unmistakable: pre-British India was irrational, superstitious, fragmentary; the British arrive with reason, order, and moral clarity. That this requires a sustained, almost obsessive dismissal of Hindu civilisation is a feature, not a bug.
When it comes to Indian soldiers, the selectivity becomes almost comical. The glory, courage, and sacrifice of Indian troops in the World Wars are barely given their due. The legendary Battle of Saragarhi? Ignored. The heroic stands at places like Kang? Silenced. But when the narrative reaches the surrender of Singapore and Malaya, suddenly the Indian Army is front and center—as the main culprit. British leadership errors, strategic miscalculations, and command failures are gently airbrushed, while Indians are handed the blame. It is a neat piece of narrative bookkeeping: credit up, blame down.
Curiously, perhaps even unintentionally, James does brush against a topic that British-leaning histories usually prefer to smother: the violent, mass nature of the Quit India movement in 1942. He touches—though without fully exploring—the scale of the unrest, the near-insurrectionary conditions in some regions, and the fact that it required air power to contain in places. In doing so, he almost stumbles into acknowledging that this was no minor protest but something close to a second war of independence. Yet even here, the framing is anxious and controlling, careful not to concede too much moral ground to the Indian side.
On the Bengal Famine of 1943, the acrobatics are particularly striking. James blames hoarding and market distortions, as if three million people simply died because local traders were greedy and logistics were complicated. Churchill’s decisions, including the diversion of food grains and the refusal to adequately prioritise famine relief, are smoothed over or excused under the banner of “war effort.” The deliberate choices that turned scarcity into mass death are thus cleverly displaced from London to Bengal’s bazaars.
When the story reaches the end of the Raj, the explanation offered for British departure is as bloodless as possible: India, we are told, simply ceased to be a viable commercial asset. Once the empire no longer paid, it was time to go. There is little serious reckoning with the moral, political, and military pressures that made continued rule untenable. The countless Indians who fought, agitated, suffered imprisonment, and died for freedom vanish behind a profit-and-loss calculation.
Perhaps the most revealing aspect of the book is how it asks to be read. This is not a work seeking to confront the full ugliness of empire. It demands instead that the reader accept its underlying purpose: to reinterpret the Raj as a project that was, on balance, rational, civilised, and morally defensible. Any engagement with it therefore has to be done with eyes wide open: understanding precisely why it was written and whose conscience it seeks to soothe. Read it, by all means—but treat it as a primary source in imperial nostalgia, not as a final word on Indian history.
Nothing illustrates this bias more starkly than the treatment of General Dyer and the Jallianwala Bagh massacre. James bends over backwards to frame Dyer’s massacre of unarmed, trapped civilians as a kind of grim necessity born of fears of rebellion, hinting at conspiracies of mutiny without offering serious evidence. The bodies in Amritsar become, in effect, a regrettable but understandable footnote in the great imperial struggle for order. That so many Indians saw it, correctly, as a turning point of unforgivable brutality seems almost incidental to the narrative.
In summary, *Raj: The Making of British India* is not so much a balanced history as a carefully constructed apologia, wrapped in eloquent prose and selective memory. It is worth reading—but only if the reader is alert to its omissions, distortions, and deep-seated prejudices. As a portrait of how parts of Britain still wish to remember the empire, it is invaluable. As a fair account of what that empire did to India, it is precisely the opposite.