In the aftermath of the self-proclaimed Green Revolution, donors, diplomats, and agricultural scientists met for a series of meetings, Bellagio I through VII. There they discussed and diverged over the assessment of recent agricultural transformations and their social impacts, as well as the next steps to be taken. By centering on discussions that led to the creation of the International Crop Research Institute for the Semi-Arid Tropics (ICRISAT) in 1972 in Hyderabad, India and ICRISAT’s groundnut (peanut) research program, this chapter shows how agricultural experts reimagined strategies of international agricultural research to suit a different mode of development that took shape in the 1970s and fully emerged in the 1980s. Although the conference participants worried about “second-generation development problems” related to the unequal economic fallout of the Green Revolution, they also wanted to expand the Green Revolution to populations in areas of rainfed agriculture. ICRISAT was the scientific answer to both concerns. This chapter shows how development strategies remained stable while their meanings shifted for a world of free trade and competition.

This study has two related ambitions: one is to recover women's poetic compositions, and the other is to see how their participation in the literary sphere was remembered and represented by connoisseurs, critics, and the common folk in the early modern period. In order to do so, it focuses, as discussed earlier, on two biographical compendia (tazkiras) of female poets, both written in the nineteenth century, and this poses several problems before us. For one, we need to understand the implications of recovering women's lyrics from the tazkiras since our access is mediated by the selection, observations, and biographical notes that their authors provide before citing their poetic compositions. In line with the standard format of literary tazkiras followed across the Persianate world, in almost all entries there is a selection of verses, but these are preceded by biographical clips of varying lengths. The question then is: how are these life stories to be read and interpreted, particularly when they purportedly intend to highlight and preserve the contribution of women to the shaping of the literate tradition? Related to this, we need to be attentive to the disciplining thrust in the life stories and the inbuilt exclusions and silences that were integral to the discursive incorporation of women's poems within the early modern literary culture.

Raising the issue of ‘authenticity’ in texts of memorialization only fetches diminishing returns, and it is important to realize that our tazkiras not only carry verses that were ‘authentic’ but also the ones whose genuineness was suspect, but they were still in circulation in commemorative spaces. Not an inconsiderable number of women poets had poetic compilations or diwāns of their own, and when their work is mentioned in the tazkiras, one could be fairly certain about their genuineness. It also happened not infrequently that married men provided to the authors poems composed by their wives; or the tutors, impressed by some of their female students, shared their couplets with them. Even so, our authors also picked up a large amount of their material from gossip and discussions in the markets (bāzār), coffee houses (qahwa-khāne), courtesan's quarters (kotha), and poetic assemblies (mushā ‘ira).

When I began my fieldwork, I visited the Laldas shrine in Sherpur under the impression that it was a temple. However, upon approaching the structure, I noticed that its dome was somewhat atypical and gave it the appearance of a tomb rather than a temple. Unlike north Indian temples, which typically feature tower-like canopies, the shrine of Laldas had the usual architectural style of an Indo-Islamic structure (as shown in Figure 3.1). Additionally, there were a number of saffron-coloured flags hoisted at the top of the domes. As I explored the site, it became clear that this building was not a conventional Hindu temple, even though there were many Hindu symbols present.

A massive hoarding with the slogan pujaniya sant śrī 108 bābā śri lāldās mahārāj jī (The holy saint śri 108 Baba Laldas maharaj), a common epithet for a Hindu saint, stood above the main gate of the outer wall with the Hindu svāstika marks on both sides. From outside, the symbols and iconography (except for the dome and the sayyeds’ graves at the four corners) gave the shrine building its striking appearance of a temple. Overall, these Hindu symbols currently overpower Islamic symbols and shared aspects in these traditional shrines transforming the overall appearance and nature of the order.

The Hindu devotees are committed to remove all the Islamic symbols from the religious order, which also includes replacing the Meo Muslim priests (sādhs) with Brahmins on the priestly seats. These attempts of omitting all traces of shared heritage and Islamic architectural remains, such as the domes and mosques, from the shrines indicate a strong desire among the Baniya community to appropriate the saint according to their own devotional practices. As a result, the Hindu Laldasis have been trying to erase or modify the symbolic and architectural traces of a shared religious history from the Laldas shrines.

The war seemed to have destroyed all false hopes. From the very beginning, Jews felt joined with other Germans in the war efforts and uplifted by the promise of total brotherhood, as announced by Kaiser Wilhelm II in the streets of Berlin. But later on, as the war became a rather hopeless trench war, little remained of this sense of togetherness. The Jews felt the atmospheric change in the return of antisemitism. Individuals experienced it directly in their various army units and the community as a whole was finally shocked and irritated by the decision to collect “Jewish Statistics,” measuring their presumably real part in defending the Fatherland, , in October 1916. Later on, Jews were overwhelmed, together with others, by more threatening dangers. After briefly telling the life-story of Albert Ballin, the great ship-owner from Hamburg, a “Kaiser-Jew,” and the way he experienced the lost war, the end of the empire, and the approaching revolution, the chapter moves on to tell of the great hopes entertained by other, less prosperous Jews, who experienced the end of the old order and the imminent establishment of a new republic in a far more positive light.

Examines Robert Montgomery’s early years as consul in Alicante, Spain focusing on his multiple identities as Irishman, American, and Spaniard. Discusses Alicante’s evolving commerce and the growth of American shipping networks despite the impact of the Barbary Wars.

This chapter makes the point that there is no need to go as far back as pre-modern Cambodian and pre-modern Vietnamese and Chinese histories to describe the well-documented hostile feelings between the Cambodians and Vietnamese, and that of Vietnam and China. The narrative thus begins during the period in which many of the main protagonists in the Third Indochina War were already active in the arena of the conflict.

This chapter periodises the British historiography of international law in five parts. Its first period extends from Robert Ward’s Enquiry into the Foundation and History of the Law of Nations in Europe (1795) to Thomas Erskine Holland’s Oxford inaugural lecture on Alberico Gentili (1874), and traces the gradual professionalisation of the discipline and its historical strain. The second part examines the entanglement of empire and historicism in British international legal historiography from around 1870 to roughly 1920. The third part treats the symbolic coming of age of British international legal historiography, between the founding of the British Yearbook of International Law in 1920, and Hersch Lauterpacht’s pivotal enunciation of the so-called ‘Grotian’ tradition of international law after the Second World War. The fourth part explores the history of international law in the succeeding ‘age of Lauterpacht’ up to c. 1960, when historiographical advances came increasingly from the semi-periphery rather than the centre and from disciplines other than international law. The fifth part takes stock of the transdisciplinary ‘turn’ to the history of international law in the British world and the chapter concludes with reflections on the nascent field of comparative international legal history in the light of British developments over the longue durée.

Chapter 2 relates the shocking death of Elmer Ellsworth, the effect it had on his men, and the regiment’s first battle experience at Bull Run. Conflicting accounts emerged in the aftermath of the fight: some positive, heralding the Fire Zouaves’ reckless bravery; but many others were damning, painting a portrait of the men’s panic and fear.

This chapter moves to the last phases of the French occupation in parts of Germany and to the improved position of the local Jews in these regions. It then concentrates on the efforts to legalize Jewish equality in the constitution of the new German Bund, discussed in a special committee at the Congress of Vienna, and within this context, it examines the position of a number of important German politicians towards Jewish emancipation. While Wilhelm von Humboldt’s liberal approach is relatively well known, but appears to be more complex on taking a closer look, it is interesting to observe the position of another Prussian politician, Karl August von Hardenberg, and especially that of the Austrian foreign minister chairing the entire congress, Metternich. Both were much more conservative, but still supported Jewish equality, insisting it must apply to Germany as a whole. In the end, this question remained undecided, like so many other issues relating to the planned constitution, mainly because of the pressure from the presumably much more liberal bourgeoisie in the various cities of the new Bund.