The Empress Still Rules

 I walked into the Victoria Memorial with an open mind.

Despite being deeply aware—and often appalled—by the brutal legacy of British colonialism in India, I wanted to give the experience a fair chance. I told myself this was a piece of history. Maybe the art, the architecture, the setting would offer something redeeming.

It was early afternoon in May—a day of intense heat and stifling humidity, with intermittent bursts of heavy rain lashing down, soaking the lawns and creating rivulets through the gravel paths. We entered soaked and sticky, hoping the interiors would offer some physical and mental relief.

The moment we passed through the grand gates, the scale of the monument struck me. Towering white marble. Immaculate lawns. The central dome rising against a rain-splattered sky. It was aesthetically stunning, no doubt. But the closer I got, the more the beauty began to feel… deceptive. Like a mask concealing something grotesque.

Before stepping out to the statue, we spent time inside the central gallery—a cool refuge from the sticky air outside. The interior, cavernous and dimly lit, featured select paintings and displays, but more striking was the presence of a statue of Robert Clive—yes, Clive of Plassey—the man who laid the foundation for British control in India by ruthlessly defeating the Nawab of Bengal through deception and bribery. Clive, often glorified in British textbooks, is remembered by many Indians as little more than a thief and a thug—a man whose exploits set the stage for the systematic looting of Bengal, its economy shattered, its people starved.

It was disturbing to see him honored in the memorial, cast in stone as if he were a civilizing hero rather than the architect of one of the greatest betrayals in Indian history. The gallery had glass cases of colonial artifacts—medals, letters, ceremonial items—all curated to present an image of control and sophistication.

Notably absent were Indian voices. The memorial didn’t just reflect colonial history—it enshrined it, embalmed it in marble and silence. No mention of the Bengal famine. No nod to the countless Indians who were imprisoned, exiled, or executed under the very regime this monument celebrates. Instead, the galleries whispered a message: "Be grateful for your history. This was a gift." But beneath that polished suggestion, a darker, unspoken message seemed to echo from the walls of the memorial: "You were meant to be at our feet. We did what we wanted. And even after your independence, you won’t dare take this down."

Then I saw her.

Queen Victoria, carved in pristine white Italian marble—brought in from Carrara and sculpted in Italy—stood not seated, but upright and commanding. A scepter in one hand and an orb in the other. She looked every bit the Empress of India, frozen in triumph, still lording over a country that once bled under her name.

Tourists—mostly Indian—gathered around her statue. Laughing, clicking selfies, posing like they were at a movie set. My own family snapped a few pictures, absorbed in the outing. No one seemed to mind that this was a woman who symbolized the cruelest elements of colonial rule—plunder, racism, famine, and the wholesale erasure of native identity.

Constructed between 1906 and 1921, the Victoria Memorial was Lord Curzon’s tribute to the Queen after her death. It was never meant to honor Indian history. It was built to eternalize British supremacy, and even today, it stands pristine—unchallenged in the heart of a supposedly free nation.

I felt suffocated. Not by the weather, but by the absolute absence of discomfort around me.

Everyone else appeared to enjoy the outing. My family chatted happily. Other visitors strolled along, admiring the dome, pointing at exhibits. I stood quietly, watching people circle around the statue of the very monarch who presided over India’s darkest colonial chapter.

I couldn’t help but wonder:

Would this ever happen in Germany? Would Jews smile in front of a statue of Hitler? Would Israelis preserve a museum built by Nazis?

Of course not.

Because memory matters. Pain matters. And justice demands that we never glorify the oppressor.

 

And yet, here in India, we’ve polished our trauma in white marble and turned it into a national treasure.

Maybe we’re too forgiving. Maybe we’ve been taught to forget. Or maybe we’ve simply stopped caring.

When we left, we talked about the photos, the brief spell of cool breeze, the architecture. I nodded along. But inside, I was still grappling with the hollowness of what we had just seen.

Not a memorial to India. Not a lesson in resilience. Just a monument to colonial rule, admired and adored by those it once sought to subjugate.

Marble doesn’t bleed. But memory should.