A historian will tell you that the Cholas did not have a navy. The ships that carried their soldiers across the Bay of Bengal were owned by merchants; traders who had a vested interest in keeping sea routes to Sumatra and the Straits of Malacca safe a thousand years ago. The same historian will also tell you that these Chola kings marched up the eastern coast of India, raiding temples in Odisha and Bengal, and carrying away images of Bhairava and Kali to their own shrines in Tamil Nadu. And that this happened roughly around the same time Mahmud of Ghazni was attacking Somnath on the western coast.
But when you turn this into historical fiction, the story changes. Now, the Cholas are portrayed as defenders of India, sailing eastward to protect Bharatvarsha from Muslim invaders. They are the heroes of a civilisational war, not temple raiders. In fiction, their ships are no longer merchant vessels; they are a royal navy, a symbol of patriotic pride. The historian deals with facts; the fiction writer deals with emotion. The former is uncomfortable, because it divides; the latter is comforting, because it unites. And that is the tension between history and historical fiction: between fact and feeling.
Before the Second World War, historians saw their work as a way to celebrate the progress of civilisation. They wrote about how humanity moved from darkness to light, superstition to science, tribalism to democracy. The “march of civilisation” was the grand story, whether the historian was Christian, Muslim, or secular. If you were a Muslim historian, the story ended with the triumph of Islam. If you were a Christian historian, it ended with the victory of Christendom. If you were a modern secular historian, it ended with the rise of science and reason. The hero changed, but the structure remained the same – humanity was always marching toward a glorious goal.
Then came the Second World War – the Holocaust, Hiroshima, and colonial collapse. Suddenly, the idea of “progress” seemed hollow. Historians began to see the past not as a story of evolution but as a record of exploitation. Every empire was now seen as an oppressor. Every monument had to be read as evidence of injustice. The discipline of history became a courtroom, with villains and victims, crimes and reparations.
In post-war universities, especially in America, history departments became battlegrounds. Scholars began rewriting national narratives through the lens of race, gender, and class. America, they said, was built on slavery. True. But they forgot to add that slavery existed almost everywhere five hundred years ago – in Africa, in Arabia, in India, and in Europe. They rarely mentioned that African kings themselves sold black slaves to white traders, or that some European powers eventually played a role in abolishing the slave trade.
This selective morality became a habit. Facts were not denied, but they were curated. The historian began to resemble the priest, interpreting reality to fit a moral script. In the name of justice, complexity was sacrificed. And when history becomes moral storytelling, it ceases to be history. It becomes an ideology.
As academic historians lost credibility, a new breed of writers emerged: the historical fictioneers. They claimed to tell the stories historians suppressed. They filled the gaps with imagination, colour, and emotion. But they, too, had an agenda. Today, many of them act as the poets of politicians. They take real events and shape them into convenient myths. Kings become patriots, villains become heroes, and defeats become victories. You see this in novels, films, speeches, and even WhatsApp forwards. History is edited to serve the present.
This phenomenon is not unique to India or America. Across Arabia and Africa, you hear passionate speeches about decolonisation, about reclaiming identity from white imperialists. On the surface, it sounds noble. But underneath, the same narrative is often used to promote religious or political ambitions – the dream of a new Caliphate, for instance. The historian who points this out is accused of betrayal. The activist-fiction writer, meanwhile, becomes a hero. He gives people a moral high.
A true historian has no heroes. He tells us that Mahmud of Ghazni and Rajendra Chola were both ambitious kings, raiders, rulers, and products of their time. That is not judgment, but a reminder that humans everywhere act out of similar motives: power, faith, greed, or glory. But historical fiction has its place, too. It allows us to empathise with the past – to feel what numbers and inscriptions cannot convey. It lets us imagine how it might have felt to be a soldier in Kalinga or a slave on a ship.
History divides; fiction unites. But both can be misused. The wise reader learns to hold both – the historian’s scepticism and the storyteller’s warmth.
The writer works with gods and demons who churn nectar from the ocean of Indian, Chinese, Islamic, Christian, even secular mythologies.