At first it was a curiosity: The sightseeing entry in the Lonely Planet guidebook, “Nicholson Cemetery,” in Delhi. All through my five-and-a-half months in India, I kept this in the back of my mind as a place I wanted to visit before returning home.

My surname appearing in India! It was a compelling coincidence.

Finally, the weekend before leaving, I braved Delhi’s intense pre-monsoon May heat and humidity to venture into Old Delhi to tour the (Mughal) Red Fort, and, just outside its Kashmiri Gate, the Nicholson Cemetery.

The tuk tuk driver maneuvered through chaotic traffic from the nearby Metro station and dropped me off at the cemetery gate. There it was, my surname, in bold, though battered, letters: NICHOLSON CHRISTIAN CEMETERY.

The Nicholson Christian Cemetery Gate

I walked through the gate, not knowing what to expect. But a cemetery is a cemetery, a place of rest for the dead, a garden paradise, right?

By then, I knew that the other Nicholson in India, Brigadier General John Nicholson, was buried somewhere in the cemetery. But I had no idea how to find his grave, and so I walked forward, past the sign where the rules were posted (ooops, just as I am writing this blog post and reading the rules do I notice there is no photography allowed except with permission).

The rules. No photography?

Beyond the sign were the cemetery paths leading past the graves.

Cemetery path.

This was unlike any cemetery I had ever seen.

The dusty dirt paths radiated heat. The grave stones were cockeyed and covered in dead or dying vines and grasses.

Graves of the British.

This was a place where you could really contemplate your mortality, in contrast to the pretty, picture-postcard-like cemeteries with which I was familiar.

This was a place where I would not want to be at night. In this place, the ghosts seemed to be more alive than dead.

As I slowly walked through the cemetery, already discouraged at the prospect of finding the grave of John Nicholson in this decrepit garden, I saw a man in the distance. Up until this point, I thought I was alone with the ghosts.

I did not want to be any closer to anyone in this abandoned cemetery. So I turned back to leave, disappointed that I hadn’t found what I came looking for.

Then, near the gate, I saw a woman in traditional sari dress and two small children. And a clothesline. And a small sort-of stone cabin and a water pump.

On-site caretakers. Living in the cemetery. Oh dear.

If you look closely, you can see a clothesline to the right.

What a star-crossed job position: Taking care of the bones of Christian British colonial oppressors.

Just in front of their living quarters, I discovered signs directing me to the fenced-in grave of John Nicholson.

The grave itself was covered with dried grasses, making it impossible to read the inscription. I suppose I could have asked the caretaker to clean it off for me, for the full effect. But I didn’t dare.

Brigadier General John Nicholson’s grave.

A few minutes later, I left the cemetery. But my questions persisted. Who was Brigadier General John Nicholson? And why was this cemetery named after him?

And more importantly: Are we related?

***

What was it about John Nicholson, of the British East India Company, that sparked the creation of a cemetery in his name, a Delhi road, a monument in Pakistan and another one originally in Delhi now removed to his school in Ireland, a ballad, several biographies (here, here, here, here, and here) , a theatrical play (p. 97), a mention in Kipling’s KIM (p. 45 in 2005 Dover Thrift edition), and a Punjabi cult (see note 23) lasting well into the 1980s, the Nikal Seyns? Even now, almost two hundred years after his birth, Nicholson’s life inspires admiring blogs (here and here).

Born in Northern Ireland, in 1822, John Nicholson was the eldest of six children by a Quaker physician and his Ulster wife. Unfortunately, he became fatherless at the age of nine. His career options were few, and so he signed up at 16 to serve in the British East India Company, the original multinational corporation (which was operating in India with its own army), and was sent to Calcutta (now Kolkata) in 1839. He was a commanding presence, at about six foot four inches, sporting a long, dark, bushy beard. He never married.

Nicholson was not particularly well known early in his career. He fought in the Anglo-Afghan War (1839-1842), two Anglo-Sikh wars (1845 and 1848), and was appointed District Commissioner for the North West Frontier, which is now along the border of Pakistan and Afghanistan. Various legends grew up around his fierce, brutal, but supposedly fairhanded administration such that he gained the respect of those he ruled.

But it wasn’t until the Sepoy Mutiny of 1857, or what is now frequently called India’s First War of Independence, that John Nicholson gained fame.

The British East India Company maintained control of India with very few British, filling out their military requirements with a large proportion of sepoys, or Indian soldiers. In May, 1857, in several different locations in Northern India, the sepoys revolted, and eventually routed the British from Delhi.

In August, Nicholson swooped down from the North West Frontier with a few men and met the ousted British forces on the Delhi Ridge. There, he planned the storming of Delhi in order to retake the city.

On September 14, 1857, he led the charge, and when the forces were flailing at a crucial moment, he pushed forward to the front line to cheer them on, waving his sword, and was summarily shot in the back. He died of his wounds nine days later, at the age of 34, having heard just before his death that the British were successful. Delhi was taken. Nicholson was buried near where he fell.

India’s First War of Independence changed the course of history in India. The inhabitants of Delhi (and in the other locations) were ruthlessly massacred by the British. Twenty months later, the British prevailed over the uprising. The East India Company was dissolved, and the British Raj was born. The British essentially became administrators for the Empire in India, rather than “saviors” of the race. And the stage was set for the nature of India’s complete independence ninety years later, in 1947.

John Nicholson became a hero in death. He became the symbol of all the British aspired to be: a brilliant tactician, brave, honorable, fearless, and above all, sacrificial for the cause. Hence, the legendary status he gained posthumously. He was the hero who was held up for young boys to emulate by following in his footsteps to serve the Empire.

These days, however, British colonial abuses in India are not so well admired. Indeed, John Nicholson has not escaped re-examination. William Dalrymple, a Scottish historian of India, calls him an “imperial psychopath,” (The Last Mughal, 284) for all his brutal exploits in the North West Frontier. And Michael Silvestri, in his book, India and Ireland: Nationalism, Empire and Memory (2009), questions the construction of Nicholson as not only a British hero but an Irish one. To encourage more poor, second-class citizen military recruits, no doubt.

As for me, I’m simultaneously intrigued and repulsed by a person of such repute in India sharing my last name. Of course, his racist and imperialist attitudes were the product of his time, and his career was prescribed by his nationality, class, and fatherless childhood.

Nevertheless, I’m relieved that, according to the family genealogist, there is very little chance Brigadier General John Nicholson and I are even distantly related.

Still, I think his ghost haunts me.