Nine Lives

Nine Lives Plot Summary

Introduction

In the midnight shadows of a forest clearing in Karnataka, a slender woman in white performs her morning rituals with intense devotion. Prasannamati Mataji, a Jain nun, has chosen one of the most austere spiritual paths in India—a path that may culminate in the controversial ritual fast to death known as sallekhana. Her story is just one thread in the rich tapestry of South Asian spirituality, where ancient traditions confront the challenges of modernity with remarkable resilience and creativity. Across the subcontinent, from the cremation grounds of Bengal to the desert plains of Rajasthan, from Tibetan exile communities to Pakistani Sufi shrines, individuals navigate complex spiritual landscapes shaped by historical forces and contemporary pressures. These sacred journeys reveal how religious traditions adapt to survive political oppression, economic change, and cultural shifts while continuing to provide meaning and community for millions. Through intimate portraits of practitioners from diverse traditions, this exploration illuminates the extraordinary variety of spiritual expression in South Asia and the common human needs these traditions address—for divine connection, social belonging, and transcendence amid suffering.

Chapter 1: Ancient Traditions at the Crossroads of Modernity

In the remote villages of Rajasthan, a remarkable spiritual tradition persists against the tide of modernity. Here, the bhopas—traditional bards and shamans—still perform epic tales of local deities using painted scrolls called phads. These performances are not mere entertainment but sacred rituals where the divine and mundane intersect. As one bhopa named Mohan explained, "When I was growing up, everyone in the village used to hear the noise of Pabuji riding through the village at night, circling the houses and the temple, guarding us from demons and epidemics. But it has been many years now since I heard the sound of his hooves." This poignant observation reveals the gradual fading of ancient traditions that once formed the spiritual backbone of rural India. The bhopas serve as intermediaries between villagers and their local deities—figures who understand the needs of the community in ways the great pan-Indian gods cannot. While villagers certainly propitiate major deities like Shiva and Vishnu, for everyday concerns they turn to their local god-kings and heroes. These local deities know "the needs and thirsts of the cattle and the goats of the village" in ways the cosmic gods cannot comprehend. This intimate connection between faith and daily life represents a vanishing spiritual ecosystem that has sustained rural communities for centuries. The survival of these traditions depends on transmission between generations. Mohan's son Shrawan was learning the epic, but like many young Indians, faced the pull of modern life. Yet the tradition endured because it fulfilled genuine spiritual needs. As Mohan explained, "For myself, all my life my heart has been bound up in the phad and its stories. I have never had any real interest in agriculture or any other work. Pabuji has recognized this, and has guarded us." This relationship between devotee and deity transcends mere superstition—it represents a complex spiritual contract that provides both psychological comfort and social cohesion. The bhopas' performances transform ancient epics into living religious experiences. Unlike the Iliad or Odyssey, which survive as literary texts, the epics of Rajasthan continue as religious rituals where the performers become "receptacles for the messages of the gods." This transformation allows these traditions to remain relevant in contemporary life. The wall between divine and mundane becomes permeable during performances, creating sacred time and space within ordinary village life. However, modernization threatens these traditions. Younger generations increasingly migrate to cities, television replaces storytelling, and formal education often dismisses traditional knowledge as superstition. Some customs have already disappeared—Mohan noted that offerings of first milk to Pabuji after a buffalo delivers a calf had ceased. Yet the core tradition persists because it addresses fundamental human needs for protection, meaning, and connection to something greater than oneself.

Chapter 2: Sacred Communities: Spiritual Bonds in Changing Times

In the cremation grounds of Tarapith in West Bengal, an unexpected community flourishes amid death and decay. Here, Tantric practitioners like Manisha Ma Bhairavi have created a haven for society's outcasts. "People who don't know what we do are afraid of Tantra," Manisha explained. "They hear stories about us abducting girl-children and killing them. Sometimes gundas come to the graveyard and insult us, or knock about the sadhus when they see them in the bazaars. Many times I have been called a witch." Despite this stigma, the cremation ground functions as a supportive community where vulnerable individuals find acceptance. Manisha, who had escaped an abusive marriage, discovered both protection and purpose here. "In this place of death, I have found new life," she said. The practitioners care for one another during illness, floods, and other hardships—demonstrating how spiritual communities can provide social safety nets where formal institutions fail. Their devotion to Tara, a fierce goddess associated with death and transformation, gives meaning to lives marked by trauma and rejection. The Tantric practices at Tarapith represent a survival of ancient traditions that once flourished across India. Drawing on pre-Aryan religious currents, Tantrism opposes conventional hierarchies and encourages individual mystical relationships with deities. While orthodox Hinduism emphasizes purity and avoidance of polluting substances, Tantrics deliberately transgress these boundaries, using forbidden practices to access spiritual power. This "going up the down-current," as one practitioner described it, creates a space where social outcasts can claim spiritual authority. These practices nearly disappeared in India, declining around the thirteenth century partly due to Islamic invasions and later targeted by European missionaries and Hindu reform movements. The nineteenth-century rise of "Rama-fication"—the promotion of Vaishnavite bhakti cults of Krishna and Rama—further marginalized traditional Devi cults and blood sacrifices, which reformers judged primitive and anti-modern. Today, Tantra survives primarily in Bengal, Kerala, Assam, Nepal, and Bhutan. The community at Tarapith faces modern threats beyond traditional stigma. Communist "Anti-Superstition Committees" occasionally target them, depicting Tantrics as perverts and charlatans. Yet even politicians who publicly denounce them privately seek their spiritual services. As Manisha noted, "Our local Communist MP may tell his followers that what we do is superstition, but that doesn't stop him coming here with a goat to sacrifice when he wants to find out from us what the election results will be." The rise of Wahhabi Islam poses another challenge to syncretic traditions throughout South Asia. A Deobandi madrasa had recently opened near Tarapith, and its director, Maulana Saleemullah, explicitly stated his intention to eliminate shrine worship: "When the Caliphate comes, yes, on that day there is no question. It will be our duty to destroy all the mazars and the dargahs—starting with the one here in Sehwan." This fundamentalist pressure threatens not just Tantric practices but the entire ecosystem of syncretic faith that has characterized South Asian spirituality for centuries.

Chapter 3: Divine Encounters: Gods and Devotees in Living Relationship

In the temple town of Swamimalai in Tamil Nadu, Srikanda Stpathy continues a 700-year family tradition of bronze casting. "The gods created man," he explained, "but here we are so blessed that we—simple men as we are—help to create the gods." As the twenty-third in a lineage stretching back to the Chola empire, Srikanda crafts divine images using techniques virtually unchanged since the 10th century. These bronze deities are not merely art but living embodiments of divinity, activated through elaborate rituals. The relationship between devotees and these divine images reveals a profound theological concept. In Hindu devotional practice, the deity is believed to actually inhabit the properly consecrated idol. "It is a god," Srikanda insisted when asked about the finished statues. "At least in the eyes of the faithful." This transformation occurs through multiple pathways: the channeling of divinity through the sculptor's hands, the eye-opening ceremony where pupils are chiseled with a gold chisel, and ultimately through the faith of devotees. The statue becomes a focus for darshan—the exchange of vision between worshipper and deity that forms the climax of Hindu worship. These divine images serve as bridges between human and divine realms, especially during temple festivals when deities are taken from their sanctuaries and processed through villages. "Normally we have to go to the temple to pray to the gods," explained Mr. Krishnamurthy, a temple committee head, "but today they come to us in our houses in the village." These processions allow the gods to survey their domains while enabling devotees—including those of lower castes traditionally barred from temples—to see and be seen by their deities. The gods are understood as territorial beings who need to establish sovereignty over their domains. The sensuality of these divine images distinguishes them from the more austere religious art of Abrahamic traditions. Chola bronzes celebrate the divine beauty of the human body, depicting gods and goddesses in poses suggesting intimate relationships. Lord Shiva might be shown fondling his consort's breast or nuzzling her shoulders—a restrained way of hinting at the unmatched erotic powers of a god whose iconic image is a phallic symbol. This celebration of divine sexuality stands in stark contrast to Abrahamic traditions with their suspicion of idols and misgivings about sexual pleasure. For devotees, these encounters with divine images provide access to supernatural power and protection. During village festivals, ordinary people approach the deities with their most intimate concerns—praying for domestic harmony, business success, or children's education. The gods are believed to be especially accessible during certain "pools of sacred time" when "a window momentarily clicked open in the heavens, allowing devotees direct access to the divine." This intimate relationship with deities provides psychological comfort and social cohesion in communities facing rapid change. The transmission of these traditions faces unprecedented challenges. Srikanda worried about his son's interest in computer engineering rather than bronze casting: "I would be telling you a lie if I said I wasn't upset. We are inheritors of an unbroken tradition, generation after generation, father to son, father to son, for over 700 years." While business remained strong—with orders from diaspora temples worldwide—the specialized knowledge and spiritual understanding required to create proper divine images might not survive another generation. "Every day, I pray to our family deity, Kamakshi Amman, to change his mind and preserve the lineage," Srikanda confessed, capturing the tension between tradition and modernity that characterizes contemporary Indian spirituality.

Chapter 4: Exile and Identity: Faith Under Political Pressure

In the hills above Dharamsala, Tashi Passang, an elderly Tibetan monk, contemplated his extraordinary spiritual journey. "Once you have been a monk, it is very difficult to kill a man," he reflected. "But sometimes it can be your duty to do so." His story embodied the painful choices faced by Tibetan Buddhists following the Chinese invasion of their homeland—choices between non-violence and resistance, between spiritual ideals and practical necessities. Born in 1936 in Kham province, Passang enjoyed a traditional nomadic childhood before joining a monastery at age twelve. There he found fulfillment in Buddhist practice, particularly during a four-month solitary retreat in a cave. "In the cave I felt I had found myself, and for the first time was practicing the true dharma," he recalled. "I discovered a capacity for solitude I hadn't known I had, even in my days in the mountains." This spiritual idyll was shattered when Chinese troops appeared at the monastery, beginning a campaign to suppress Tibetan Buddhism. The Chinese invasion forced monks like Passang to confront profound theological dilemmas. Buddhist teachings emphasized non-violence, yet their religion faced existential threat. Passang and his fellow monks consulted ancient texts that justified violence in defense of dharma, particularly the story of a rinpoche who killed a boat captain planning to murder 500 monks. The rinpoche willingly accepted negative karma to save others—a sacrifice Passang found meaningful. "I knew that the Chinese soldiers were committing the most sinful of all crimes—trying to destroy Buddhism," he explained. "And I knew that it is written in our scriptures that in certain circumstances it can be right to kill a person, if your intention is to stop that person from committing a serious sin." After renouncing his vows, Passang joined the Tibetan resistance, eventually escaping to India following the Dalai Lama's flight in 1959. There he joined a special Tibetan unit in the Indian army, fighting in the 1971 Bangladesh war. This experience brought new spiritual torment: "I had to shoot and kill other men, even as they were running away in despair. They would make us drink rum and whisky so that we would do these things without hesitation and not worry about the moral consequences of our actions." The conflict between his Buddhist values and military duties created profound inner conflict. Upon retirement in 1986, Passang dedicated himself to atonement, making prayer flags to earn merit and eventually retaking his monastic vows. "Every day now, I recite the mantras of repentance," he said. "We are told that when you really regret your actions, and repent, and bow towards the Buddha, it is possible for the bad karma to be removed." His spiritual journey came full circle when he overcame his hatred for the Chinese after meeting a Chinese restaurant owner who had also suffered under communism. "Since then I have been free from my hatred of all things and people Chinese," he said. Passang's exile experience reflected the broader Tibetan diaspora's struggle to maintain identity while adapting to new circumstances. Living in a veterans' home in Dharamsala, he found community among other former monk-soldiers who shared his unusual spiritual path. Though he longed to return to Tibet, he felt committed to the collective exile experience: "I have always felt that all of us fled together, and I should wait until a time came when we could all go back together." This sense of communal destiny illustrated how spiritual identity could transcend geographical displacement, creating continuity amid profound disruption.

Chapter 5: Fundamentalism's Challenge to Syncretic Traditions

In the arid landscapes of Sindh province in southern Pakistan, the shrine of Lal Shahbaz Qalander in Sehwan Sharif stands as a bastion of mystical Islam against rising fundamentalism. Here, Lal Peri Mastani, a red-clad female fakir with a wooden club, embodies the syncretic traditions that have defined Sufi Islam in South Asia for centuries. "The mullahs distort the Prophet's message for their own purposes," declared Sain Fakir, an elderly sage at the shrine. "Men so blind as them cannot even see the shining sun. Their creed is extremely hard. It doesn't understand human weakness." This conflict between mystical and fundamentalist interpretations of Islam has intensified across South Asia in recent decades. A week before the author's visit to Sehwan, Taliban militants had dynamited the shrine of poet-saint Rahman Baba near Peshawar. The shrine keeper explained, "Before the Afghan war there was nothing like this. But then the Saudis came, with their propaganda to stop visiting the saints and to stop us preaching 'ishq [love]." This fundamentalist pressure targeted the music, poetry, and inclusive practices that had characterized South Asian Sufism for centuries. The theological divide reflects fundamentally different approaches to religious experience. Sufis believe in using music, poetry, and dance as paths to remembering God, welcoming women into their shrines and embracing elements from Hindu traditions. The daily dhammal dance ritual at Sehwan, with its pounding drums and ecstatic movements, preserves ancient Shaivite practices in thinly Islamicized form. In contrast, Wahhabis, Deobandis, and Tablighis reject these practices as un-Islamic innovations. "Real Islam is a discipline," explained Maulana Saleemullah, director of a new madrasa near Sehwan. "It is not just about the promptings of the heart. There are rules and regulations that must be followed." This fundamentalist approach has gained ground through Saudi funding of madrasas, which have increased from 245 at Pakistan's independence to over 8,000 today. The director of the Deobandi madrasa near Sehwan explicitly stated his intention to eliminate shrine worship: "Sufism is not Islamic. It is jadoo: magic tricks only. It has nothing to do with real Islam. It is just superstition, ignorance, perversion, illiteracy and stupidity." This rejection of mystical traditions represents not merely theological disagreement but an existential threat to centuries of syncretic practice. Similar pressures affect Hindu traditions. Communist "Anti-Superstition Committees" in West Bengal target Tantric practitioners, while Hindu nationalist movements promote standardized forms of worship that marginalize local traditions. The devadasis of Karnataka—once respected temple dancers and ritual specialists—have been criminalized and stigmatized, forcing many into commercial sex work. This criminalization reflected both colonial morality and post-independence reformist agendas that viewed traditional practices through the lens of "superstition" rather than cultural heritage. Despite these pressures, practitioners of syncretic traditions remain confident in their resilience. "They'll never be able to destroy the shrines here in Sindh," insisted Sain Fakir. "The Sindhis have kept their values. They will never allow it." This confidence stems from the deep integration of these practices into local culture and their continued relevance to devotees' lives. The shrine at Sehwan continues to attract thousands of pilgrims from across Pakistan and beyond, demonstrating the enduring appeal of a more inclusive and ecstatic approach to spirituality that transcends the boundaries between religions and welcomes the full spectrum of human experience.

Chapter 6: Embodied Devotion: Physical Paths to Transcendence

In the fertile coastal region of northern Kerala, a remarkable ritual performance transforms low-caste men into living deities. During the theyyam season from December to February, Hari Das, a manual laborer and prison warden for most of the year, becomes a vehicle for gods to manifest on earth. The transformation begins with elaborate makeup and costuming, but culminates in genuine possession: "It's like a blinding light," Hari Das explains. "When the drums are playing and your makeup is finished, they hand you a mirror and you look at your face, transformed into that of a god. Then it comes... a vista of complete brilliance opens up – it blinds the senses." This embodied approach to spirituality distinguishes many South Asian traditions from more abstract theological systems. The physical body becomes not an obstacle to spiritual realization but the very instrument through which transcendence is achieved. In Jainism, Prasannamati Mataji embraces extreme asceticism—walking barefoot across India, plucking out her hair rather than cutting it, and ultimately preparing for sallekhana, the ritual fast to death. "First you give up your home, then your possessions. Finally you give up your body," she explains with calm certainty, viewing death not as an end but as "leaving one house to enter another." The sensuality of South Asian devotion appears in multiple traditions. Bronze caster Srikanda Stpathy creates divine images that celebrate the beauty of the divine body, depicting gods and goddesses in poses suggesting intimate relationships. The Bauls of Bengal sing of divine love using explicitly erotic metaphors, believing that human passion provides a template for understanding spiritual ecstasy. Even the austere Tibetan Buddhist tradition incorporates elaborate physical prostrations—Tashi Passang performed thousands despite painful knees, physically enacting his spiritual commitment. For marginalized communities, embodied spiritual practices offer paths to dignity and power. Theyyam emerged as a ritual inversion of Kerala's oppressive caste hierarchy. Unlike other Hindu practices, gods choose to incarnate not in pure Brahmins but in shunned Dalits (untouchables). Many theyyam stories center on caste injustice, providing a ritual space where power relationships are temporarily inverted—the despised become divine, the powerful must bow before them. "For three months of the year we are gods," explains Hari Das. "Then in March, when the season ends, we pack away our costumes. And after that, at least in my case, it's back to jail." The physical demands of these traditions create both challenges and opportunities in the modern context. Young people increasingly view traditional occupations as limiting compared to opportunities in the technology sector. The hereditary transmission of specialized knowledge—once the backbone of Indian artistic traditions—is breaking down as education and economic mobility create new possibilities. Srikanda worried about his son's interest in computer engineering rather than bronze casting: "I would be telling you a lie if I said I wasn't upset. We are inheritors of an unbroken tradition, generation after generation, father to son, father to son, for over 700 years." Yet the embodied nature of these traditions also ensures their continued relevance. The physical experience of possession in theyyam, the sensory richness of temple rituals, and the transformative power of ascetic practices address fundamental human needs that neither abstract theology nor secular materialism fully satisfy. As one temple priest observed regarding bronze deities: "People still need darshan [divine vision]. They need to see God and be seen by God. As long as Hindus seek this connection, there will be need for those who can create proper homes for the deities." This reciprocal gaze between human and divine, mediated through physical forms, remains at the heart of South Asian spirituality despite the pressures of modernity.

Chapter 7: Resilience Through Adaptation: Spiritual Survival Strategies

At the annual Baul gathering in Kenduli, West Bengal, thousands of wandering minstrels converge to celebrate their 500-year tradition of spiritual music. These "mad" or "possessed" singers reject conventional religion, believing instead that God is found "not in a stone or bronze idol, or in the heavens, or even in the afterlife, but in the present moment, in the body of the man or woman who seeks the truth." Their subversive philosophy draws from multiple traditions while maintaining that ultimate truth resides within each human heart. When asked about the future of their tradition, elderly Baul couple Subhol Kapa and Lalita remained optimistic despite physical limitations: "When I hear this music," Lalita explained, "I don't care if I die tomorrow. It makes everything in life seem sweet." This resilience characterizes many traditional spiritual paths across South Asia. Despite unprecedented challenges from modernization, political pressure, and religious fundamentalism, practitioners find creative ways to adapt while preserving essential elements of their traditions. The bronze caster Srikanda Stpathy established a school to teach traditional techniques to students regardless of caste or family background—breaking with the historical restriction of this knowledge to specific communities. Some of his most promising apprentices came from families with no artistic background but brought genuine devotion to the craft. The survival of these traditions depends on their continued relevance to contemporary life. While the Yugoslav epic traditions studied by scholar Milman Parry in the 1930s have since vanished, Rajasthan's bhopas continue performing The Epic of Pabuji because it addresses enduring spiritual needs. The epic's transformation from entertainment into religious ritual proved crucial to its persistence. "How can I do it unless the spirit comes?" explained Mohan Bhopa. "You are educated. I am not, but I never forget the words, thanks to Pabuji." The performance is believed to have healing powers, particularly for sick animals—appropriate for an epic centered on a cattle-protecting deity. Economic adaptation plays a crucial role in spiritual survival. Srikanda's workshop creates bronze deities for diaspora temples worldwide, connecting ancient techniques to global markets. The Bauls perform at international music festivals while preserving their esoteric teachings. Even the devadasis of Karnataka, despite their marginalized status, maintain they still hold special religious status: "We are not like ordinary whores," one insisted. "We have some dignity." They are called to upper-caste weddings to give blessings, and their old saris are used to make protective caps for newborns—demonstrating how even severely challenged traditions find niches to survive. Political resistance forms another survival strategy. The Sufi shrine at Sehwan Sharif continues attracting thousands of pilgrims despite fundamentalist pressure, maintaining practices that blend Islamic and Hindu elements. The shrine's hereditary guardians include both Muslims and Hindus, preserving a syncretic tradition that predates Pakistan's creation. Similarly, Tibetan Buddhist communities in exile maintain their spiritual practices while adapting to new circumstances. Tashi Passang's journey from monk to resistance fighter and back to monastic life exemplifies how spiritual traditions can provide resources for both resistance and reconciliation. Perhaps most significantly, these diverse spiritual paths offer profound psychological resources for navigating suffering and uncertainty. When Tashi Passang struggled with the karma of violence, Buddhist teachings on repentance provided a path to peace. When Manisha faced domestic abuse and homelessness, devotion to Tara gave her purpose and community. When Kanai Das Baul lost his family to tragedy, Baul philosophy helped him transcend grief: "I am still very poor," he explained, "but thanks to the lessons of my guru, my soul is rich." This capacity to transform suffering into meaning represents the enduring power of devotion in contemporary South Asia—a power that continues to sustain millions despite the unprecedented challenges of the modern world.

Summary

Across the diverse spiritual landscape of South Asia, traditional religious practices face unprecedented challenges yet demonstrate remarkable resilience. The central tension running through these sacred journeys is between preservation and adaptation—how to maintain ancient wisdom while responding to modern realities. From Jain nuns preparing for ritual death to Tibetan monks reconciling non-violence with resistance, from Tantric practitioners in cremation grounds to bronze casters creating divine images, practitioners navigate this tension with creativity and determination. Their stories reveal how spiritual traditions survive not through rigid adherence to the past but through thoughtful engagement with changing circumstances. The enduring power of these traditions lies in their ability to address fundamental human needs that neither secular modernity nor standardized orthodoxy fully satisfy. They provide psychological resources for confronting suffering, community support for the vulnerable, and embodied practices that connect the physical and spiritual realms. As fundamentalist movements across religions push for homogenized, text-based orthodoxy, these diverse traditions offer an alternative vision of spirituality—one that embraces mystical experience, celebrates diversity, and recognizes the divine within the human. Their survival strategies—community building, economic adaptation, political resistance, and psychological resilience—offer lessons not just for religious practitioners but for anyone seeking to preserve cultural heritage in a rapidly changing world.

About Author

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William Dalrymple

William Dalrymple was born in Scotland and brought up on the shores of the Firth of Forth. He wrote the highly acclaimed bestseller In Xanadu when he was twenty-two. The book won the 1990 Yorkshire Post Best First Work Award and a Scottish Arts Council Spring Book Award; it was also shortlisted for the John Llewellyn Rhys Memorial Prize.In 1989 Dalrymple moved to Delhi where he lived for six years researching his second book, City of Djinns, which won the 1994 Thomas Cook Travel Book Award and the Sunday Times Young British Writer of the Year Award. From the Holy Mountain, his acclaimed study of the demise of Christianity in its Middle Eastern homeland, was awarded the Scottish Arts Council Autumn Book Award for 1997; it was also shortlisted for the 1998 Thomas Cook Award, the John Llewellyn Rhys Prize and the Duff Cooper Prize. A collection of his writings about India, The Age of Kali, won the French Prix D’Astrolabe in 2005.White Mughals was published in 2003, the book won the Wolfson Prize for History 2003, the Scottish Book of the Year Prize, and was shortlisted for the PEN History Award, the Kiryama Prize and the James Tait Black Memorial Prize.William Dalrymple is a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature and of the Royal Asiatic Society, and is the founder and co-director of the Jaipur Literature Festival. In 2002 he was awarded the Mungo Park Medal by the Royal Scottish Geographical Society for his ‘outstanding contribution to travel literature’. He wrote and presented the television series Stones of the Raj and Indian Journeys, which won the Grierson Award for Best Documentary Series at BAFTA in 2002. His Radio 4 series on the history of British spirituality and mysticism, The Long Search, won the 2002 Sandford St Martin Prize for Religious Broadcasting and was described by the judges as ‘thrilling in its brilliance... near perfect radio’. In December 2005 his article on the madrasas of Pakistan was awarded the prize for Best Print Article of the Year at the 2005 FPA Media Awards. In June 2006 he was awarded the degree of Doctor of Letters honoris causa by the University of St Andrews “for his services to literature and international relations, to broadcasting and understanding”. In 2007, The Last Moghal won the prestigous Duff Cooper Prize for History and Biography. In November 2007, William received an Honourary Doctorate of Letters, honoris causa, from the University of Lucknow University “for his outstanding contribution in literature and history”, and in March 2008 won the James Todd Memorial Prize from the Maharana of Udaipur.William is married to the artist Olivia Fraser, and they have three children. They now live on a farm outside Delhi.

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