I first met Tipu Sultan not in a textbook or a documentary, but in the ink-smudged pages of an old popular history novel that belonged to my grandfather—where his legacy glimmered like a complicated star, a strange blend of valour and venom.
That early acquaintance was soaked in romantic nationalism—Tipu, the Tiger of Mysore, roaring against British oppression. But what Vikram Sampath delivers in his 984-page magnum opus is a bulldozing of myths, executed not with bias, but with blistering evidence, a colossal archive, and a cold historian’s scalpel.
This is not a tale of freedom fighting, but of interregnum—an era between Wodeyar monarchs dominated by Haidar Ali and his son, Tipu Sultan. The narrative rewires how we see this time—not as resistance to colonialism, but as a relentless bid for centralized, absolutist power. Sampath digs deep into archival letters, state documents, British and Mysorean accounts, and demolishes the pious legends one page at a time.
Tipu Sultan, as Sampath portrays him, was a man driven more by theological zeal and personal glory than the ideals of a pluralistic kingdom. Sampath doesn’t just whisper this into the reader’s ears—he thunders it with reference after reference. Take, for instance, Rule 73 of Tipu’s revenue code, where a Hindu farmer converting to Islam was rewarded with a 50% tax exemption. Or merchants who, upon embracing Islam, found their goods exempted from taxes altogether. This wasn’t pragmatic statecraft. This was systemic religious coercion, baked into fiscal policy (p.677).
For those accustomed to Left-leaning hagiographies of Tipu—especially the likes of Mohibbul Hasan—Sampath’s book reads like a counter-history that had been waiting, too long, to erupt. He calls out distortions with clinical precision. The destruction of temples, forced conversions, and public floggings of dissenters were not exceptions; they were policy. The atrocities committed in Malabar, Mangalore, Coorg, and against the Mandyam Iyengars qualify, under modern international law, as genocidal (p.768). Sampath argues that while all pre-modern kings were violent, some crossed the line of accepted norms with theological conviction—and Tipu, tragically, was one of them.
And yet, Sampath allows contradictions to live. Tipu employed many Hindus in his administration, and not one of them ever attempted to assassinate him. This is not a testament to his popularity, Sampath contends, but to the fragmented nature of Hindu society—fractured along caste, sect, and regional lines, unable to forge a unified resistance. It’s a bitter pill, but one we must swallow if we are to learn from the past.
The book devotes a staggering amount of space to military campaigns—Tipu’s rockets, siege strategies, and foreign intrigues with the Ottomans and the French. The prose feels like war reporting from 18th-century battlefields. But this choice is deliberate—Tipu’s entire reign was one long war. Peace was an interlude, not the point.
Sampath isn’t merely interested in dry documentation. The book includes rare paintings and samples of British literary and theatrical fascinations with Tipu, adding aesthetic depth to the political discourse. And Kannada historian S. L. Bhyrappa’s foreword is pure fire—he asks, can secularism be reinforced on a foundation of false history?
There’s a visceral resonance between this history and the present. The ongoing conflicts in Maharashtra and elsewhere, where figures like Aurangzeb and Tipu become flashpoints for violent identity politics, reveal how historical memory is weaponized. When statues of these rulers are defended in modern India, it is not history being preserved—it is unresolved trauma being reignited. As Sampath subtly implies, national healing cannot begin without truth.
Letters written by Tipu himself leave little room for ambiguity. In a letter dated January 19, 1790, he boasts of converting four lakh Hindus to Islam in Malabar. Another declares the total Islamization of Calicut. His sword was inscribed with a chilling plea: “My Lord, help me to eliminate the infidels.” He destroyed an estimated 8000 temples during his campaigns. This is not hyperbole—it’s historiography, supported by William Logan, George Harris, and even Tipu’s own court chronicler, Mir Hussain Kirmani.
And yet, the irony is heartbreaking. A ruler who imposed religious tyranny could also tremble in superstition, imploring Hindu priests to perform pujas for his health as death closed in. A king so feared, he could inspire loyalty from those he persecuted. This paradox is perhaps the most damning indictment of his rule—his intolerance wasn’t born of strength, but of fear.
In closing, Sampath’s Tipu Sultan is a sledgehammer in the archives of Indian historiography. It refuses to decorate history with sweetened myths. It insists that truth—even when it makes us squirm—is the only foundation on which a civilized society can stand.
There is no place for rulers like Aurangzeb and Tipu in our pantheon of ideals, however grand their ambitions or ornate their courts. History must be a mirror, not a mask.
And perhaps, at last, I’ve grown out of that 1989 Tipu—the tiger I once admired in a children’s magazine.
Vikram Sampath shows us that some legends must be unlearned so that the truth, however uneasy, may roar instead.
A long long time I took to complete the book. However, it was worth the effort.