Dr. Riya Gupta (PhD History), Jawaharlal Nehru University (JNU)
Economic & Political History Review, Volume I, Number II, October 2025
Dr. Riya Gupta is an author of new book The Sky Poured Down Candy. Dr. Riya Gupta is currently a research consultant at the INTACH Heritage Academy, India, and holds the position of Associate Editor for the INTACH Journal of Heritage Studies.
Abstract
Microhistory challenges broad narratives by shifting the scale of observation, uncovering how ordinary individuals navigated the larger structures of polity, economy, and society. Far from being a study of “small things,” microhistory is a methodological approach that restores agency to the overlooked, complicates neat historical explanations, and situates lived experience at the heart of inquiry. Drawing on my work on early modern South Asia, particularly my recent book which reconstructs the decline of the Mughal empire through the life and letters of the minor Mughal official, this paper reflects on why microhistory matters. In doing so, it situates microhistory within wider historiographical debates on the micro–macro relationship and engages with its appropriation in the digital age, where the term risks dilution as a mere shorthand for anecdote. Ultimately, it argues that microhistory matters as a critical practice: preserving the ordinary, challenging the grand, and rethinking what counts as history.
Keywords: Microhistory, Mughal empire, eighteenth century, lived experience, history from below, digital historiography
It is tempting to see the past as something distant, shaped by empires and wars. Challenging these broad narratives, microhistory invites us to zoom in, question the sources for historical reconstruction, and look at the smaller, often overlooked fragments that constitute lived experience. It asks, how did ordinary people understand their world? More importantly, what can their daily negotiations tell us about the impact of the greater politico-economic and socio-cultural transitions on everyday life?
It is crucial to clarify at the very beginning that microhistory, as the name would suggest, is not merely about studying “small things”. It is a methodological approach that challenges hierarchies of historical significance and in the process, expands the scope of inquiry, indeed to the margins of history. By bringing marginal events, stories, individuals, to the forefront—for instance a legal dispute, a folklore, an archive of survival, poetry, etc.—it uncovers how average individuals navigated the larger structures of polity, economy, and society. In this sense, it also restores agency to the “ordinaries”, besides imposing complexity and plurality to historical understanding.
Drawing from my work on early modern South Asia, particularly my recent publication The Sky Poured Down Candy, a microhistorical study exploring the decline of the Mughal empire through the life of a petty Mughal official Abdul Jalil Bilgrami using his personal letters and other literary works (Gupta 2026), this paper reflects on why microhistory matters in the contemporary moment; not as a niche academic exercise, but as a critical practice of engaging with our historical past.
The macro in microhistory
One of the central challenges in writing a microhistory is what can be referred to as ‘the challenge of the macro,’ a tension that, in turn, helps define the very contours of microhistorical practice.
It would not be a stretch to say that a microhistorian often grapples with the fear of ending up tying the goat to a tree and talking about the tree; starting with a subject at hand but losing sight of the same while engaging with a broader historical landscape. However, what if we look at the tree from the point of view of the goat tethered to it? It is imperative, therefore, to reflect on the delicate balance between the micro and the macro in historical writing, and how this tension shapes the narrative, argument, and ultimately, our understanding of the past.
Among the leading figures of Italian microhistory (microstoria) is Giovanni Levi. For him the process of ‘changing the scale’ is at the very heart of microhistory. Through the reduction of the scale of observation, according to him, microhistory aspires to reveal previously unobserved factors (Levi 1991, 94–97). Consequently, by shifting the scale of analysis, a phenomenon once thought fully explained, ends up adorning completely new meanings. This, in turn, allows historians to extend their findings into broader generalisations, even though the initial insights were drawn from limited contexts, and conceived as experiments rather than representative cases (Ibid, 97). The argument that an analysis which initially has a narrow scope would eventually lead to broader generalisations, points towards a relationship between micro-level investigation and macro-level conclusions.
When Carlo Ginzburg, the best known representative of microstoria, first adopted the word microhistory, he did it without asking what it meant in a literal sense. In his words, ‘I contended myself with the reference to a reduced scale suggested by the prefix micro’ (Ginzburg 2014, 139). Hence, by narrowing the scale of observation, he transformed what might have been a mere footnote in a broader study of the Protestant Reformation into an entire book. However, through this process, he came to recognise that certain historical phenomena could not be fully understood without also considering the larger, macroscopic perspective. This realisation led him to advocate for a reconciliation between macro and microhistory. He viewed Marc Bloch’s Feudal Society as an exemplary model for this balance, as it seamlessly alternates between the two perspectives—between detailed close-ups and broad panoramic views—to challenge overarching historical narratives through seemingly exceptional or short-lived cases.
Ginzburg further underscored the necessity of macrohistory by drawing a parallel with Levi’s assertion that microhistory is akin to a self-portrait rather than a collective depiction (Levi 1991, 111). While Ginzburg initially intended to follow a similar approach, he ultimately found himself unable to do so. If his own microhistorical method were to be likened to a self-portrait, he suggested that its closest artistic analogy would be the paintings of Umberto Boccioni, where boundaries between interior and exterior dissolved, and the self became porous—interwoven with the broader landscape (Ginzburg 2014, 165–66).
To understand the whole, do we need to understand the parts? To understand the parts, do we need to understand the whole? Sigurður Gylfi Magnússon and István M. Szijártó critically engage with this issue in their co-authored handbook, What is Microhistory? (G. Magnússon and Szijártó 2013). In the work that, according to the two authors, ‘should be read as a dialogue or debate’, G. Magnússon rejects the tendency of some microhistorians to uphold the importance of contextualisation—placing the small unit of study in a broader context. He dismisses the idea that that microhistory necessarily aims at drawing broader generalisations (Ibid, 10). He argues that microhistory should actively seek to break away from overarching metanarratives rather than contribute to them. Moreover, he views the attempt to integrate microhistorical studies into ‘greater wholes’ as a fundamental misstep in historical methodology (Ibid, 10, 115).
Instead of allowing grand narratives to dominate historical research, Magnússon advocates for the ‘singularization of history’, defined as an approach that emphasises the unique and irreducible aspects of individual cases over sweeping generalisations. In his own words:
… it is impossible to know more than a tiny fragment of the story, that the sources preserve only a minute selection of the moments, and that if the compass of the subject is increased our chances of attaining an understanding of what has happened decreases still further (Ibid, 115).
G. Magnússon also voices his disappointment with microhistorians who remain reluctant to move beyond traditional scholarly methods. He argues that this hesitation has led them to miss a significant opportunity to shape the ideological framework of historical writing on their own terms (G. Magnússon 2008, 2).
In a review essay, Zoltán Boldizsár Simon critiques G. Magnússon’s approach, arguing that if historical research follows his method, it risks becoming entirely self-contained, with its focus fixed solely on the subject at hand. Such an approach, Simon suggests, could leave the subject isolated, devoid of any broader connections, meaning, or significance. Acknowledging this concern, G. Magnússon concedes the necessity of a replacement—some form of structural framework that is more adaptable, with boundaries that are narrower and more easily controlled. However, Simon criticises him for failing to clearly define what this alternative to traditional contextualisation would entail. He further argues that even if G. Magnússon seeks to reject both contextualisation and grand narratives, what remains is not necessarily an undefined substitute, but rather an alternative form of context (Simon 2015, 243–44). This raises a fundamental question: can historical practice ever completely detach itself from contextualisation?
Challenging also G. Magnússon’s stance, Szijártó offers a comparative analysis of Carlo Ginzburg’s Cheese and the Wormsand Wolfgang Behringer’s Shaman of Oberstdorf. He observes that while Ginzburg, drawing from the unconventional beliefs of his subject, Menocchio, infers the existence of an ancient Indo-European oral tradition, Behringer takes a different approach. He interprets the unorthodox ideas of his protagonist, Chonard Stoeckhlin, as nothing more than a personal assemblage of thoughts—a form of intellectual ‘bricolage’ without broader cultural significance (G. Magnússon and Szijártó 2013, 4). The key distinction, therefore, lies in representativity: whereas Menocchio is treated as indicative of a larger historical phenomenon, Stoeckhlin appears to stand alone, lacking such representational weight. Yet despite the fact that Ginzburg ultimately ends up using popular culture as a context—what he considers to be a ‘great historical question’—it is his work that remains the most renowned example of microhistory. The significance of contextualisation for Szijártó, hence, remains intact.
Meanwhile, other works employing intensive micro-investigation have been categorised under what Robert Darnton terms ‘incident analysis’. Unlike microhistory, which often seeks to engage with broader historical narratives, incident analysis—exemplified by Darnton’s well-known work The Great Cat Massacre—focuses on detailed case studies without necessarily extrapolating macro-level interpretations (Ibid, 8). In his effort to highlight aspects of French rural and urban culture, through folklore, collective practices, or even obscure reports by police inspectors and other observers, Darnton insists that there is no such thing as a “typical” peasant or a “representative” bourgeois (Darnton 1984, 6). In the title essay of his book, he reconstructs one detailed incident from the autobiographical account of one Nicolas Contat, a printer’s apprentice. Contat narrates how apprentices in the shop staged a massacre of cats. While Darnton denies that either the workers or their masters can be treated as representative figures, he situates the episode within its wider symbolic and social contexts: the role of cats in rural festivity, contemporary views on animal cruelty, sexual innuendo in targeting the mistress’s cat, and shifting material relations between masters and workers in the eighteenth-century print trade. On a broader level, he asks whether the event can be understood as ‘class resistance’. Darnton’s answer is qualified: though the hostility between workers and the master’s family is undeniable, the resentment is framed through particular grievances and patterns. Thus, the apprentices’ actions are not directed at overthrowing authority but at inflicting pain and seizing a brief moment of riotous expression (Little 2009).
Similarly, other scholars strike a more balanced tone. French scholar Jacques Revel suggests that micro and macro are not opposites but complements; Bernard Lepetit advocates a ‘controlled multiplication of scales’. Scholars of German microhistory (alltagsgeschichte) like Hans Medick and Jürgen Schlumbohm argue that microhistory gains depth through dialogue with macrohistory. Orest Ulbricht even goes so far as to say that microhistory is often itself a form of macrohistory, since it reveals broader social dynamics through precise investigation (G. Magnússon and Szijártó 2013, 31–37).
Where does this leave us? Perhaps with Szijártó’s reminder that microhistory is best seen as ‘a colourful discourse’ rather than a rigid method. It thrives precisely in its ability to move between scales, sometimes unsettling grand narratives, sometimes leaning on them. After all, microhistory, like other schools of thought, should not want to establish new orthodoxies (Ibid, 11).
Microhistory of Mughal decline
Situating my work within the above discourse, I must acknowledge the same recurring tension in the course of my study. Despite the fact that I had decided to contextualise Abdul Jalil’s story within the context of early eighteenth-century Mughal India, more often than not the context overshadowed my actual aim of concentrating on his socio-cultural life.
The early eighteenth century was a fascinating period of time, marked by extraordinary volatility, with power changing hands frequently at imperial court, between the emperors and the so-called ‘kingmakers’ (Chandra 1959). Particularly, for my protagonist Abdul Jalil’s life, the context of the tussle for power between Farrukhsiyar (r. 1713–1719) and the Sayyid brothers (and another high-ranking official, Mir Jumla) proved especially consequential.
Anticipating a possible critique, therefore, I recognise the limitation of macro in my approach. Yet I also take guidance from Ginzburg’s reflections on Bloch’s Feudal Society:
… a constant back and forth between … close-ups and extreme long-shots, so as to continually thrust back into discussion the comprehensive vision of the historical process through apparent exceptions and cases of brief duration (Ginzburg 2014, 157).
When to let a Mughal letter speak entirely on its own, and when to fold it back into the larger rhythms of imperial decline? In an empire marked by political and economic instability, these larger patterns manifested in courtly factionalism and financial doom (in this case, the jagir crisis), considered the major reasons for the decline of the Mughal empire (Chandra 1959; Ali 1997). Within this context, Abdul Jalil’s letters offer a rich basis for a microhistorical reconstruction of the intricate socio-cultural-economic life of a minor Mughal official. They illuminate his interactions with the Mughal elite, his struggle for sustenance, relationships with family and friends, avid engagement in book collecting, knowledge of medicine, management of financial affairs (including living arrangements; income, expenditure and debt; and material possessions), and notably, the pleasures and occasional frustrations of his literary pursuits, undertaken as an alternate means of patronage-based livelihood.
Thus, such a microhistory offers an ant’s eye view, a history from below, of the political, economic and socio-cultural world of early eighteenth century Mughal India.
Microhistory and the digital turn
The micro–macro friction is not a thing of the past; it resonates strongly in our contemporary moment, where (in my humble opinion) ‘microhistory’ has become something of a ‘buzzword’. Perhaps, it is in examining this very phenomenon that we may arrive at an answer to the question: why microhistory matters.
In recent years, microhistory has increasingly entered popular discourse, often invoked to describe forms of history that are personal, fragmentary, or easily consumable. Heritage walks, and more strikingly, short-form narratives on digital media platforms such as Instagram frequently employ the term as a way of making history accessible to wider publics (Amarnath 2025). While such developments have helped to democratise engagement with the past, they also risk diluting the methodological core of microhistory by conflating it with the mere presentation of history in smaller or more relatable forms.
This distinction becomes particularly clear in the case of heritage documentation—tangible heritage, but more visibly intangible heritage—such as stories, songs, perfumes, food, or rituals, where ‘microhistory’ is often used as a shorthand for the recovery, documentation, and preservation of this oral history for perpetuity. These practices are undeniably valuable as forms of cultural memory, but they are not, in themselves, microhistory. The preservation and transmission of intangible heritage is one project; the reconstruction and interpretation of small-scale lives and events within broader structures of meaning is another. Microhistory is not simply about recovering fragments, but about contextualising them so that the ordinary becomes a lens onto the extraordinary.
Moreover, the term microhistory, carries with it a distinct historiographical tradition rooted in centuries of debate and methodological refinement, as elaborated on in the previous section. Emerging as a critique of totalising histories, microhistory bridges the granular and the structural, between lived experience and larger processes. The refusal to flatten either the individual or the structural is what gives microhistory its distinctive place in historiography. The ‘micro’ in microhistory, therefore, should not be mistaken for brevity or anecdote. A short story, a heritage vignette, or a social media post may be micro in form, but microhistory in the scholarly sense demands methodological rigour, contextual integrity, and interpretive depth. Conflating the two risks turning microhistory into a mere “trend”—appealing, but emptied of its analytical force. The digital turn has undoubtedly broadened how history circulates in public. This is both exciting and necessary: fragments of the past now reach new audiences and generate fresh curiosity. Yet it remains crucial to distinguish between the social-media-isation of history and the scholarly practice of microhistory.
Rethinking the significance
Taken together, the discussion above hints at the reasons why microhistory matters. First, irrespective of time and space, it helps uncover the smallest lives and fragments, and these when rigorously contextualised, can illuminate the largest patterns of human history. The significance of microhistory, therefore, lies in reorienting what we consider worthy of historical attention. It resists the almost gravitational pull of grand narratives that privilege rulers, wars, and institutions, instead foregrounding the voice of individuals who experience the impact of the ongoings of these grand structures in their everyday lives; the experiences that would otherwise remain obscured. In doing so, it preserves the texture of human life in its very ordinary-ness.
Second, in contemporary times, microhistory matters as it indeed forces the historians of today, and the readers of their reconstructed histories, to reckon with the limits of archival sources. It demands a sustained engagement with fragmentary, partial, and often opaque traces of the past, urging us not to smooth over silences. This methodological humility is not a weakness but a strength as such a history resists the temptation to impose coherence when none existed and instead allows historical actors to emerge in their complexity.
Finally, in the world saturated with data competing for attention, microhistory reminds us that meaning does not always emerge from the spectacular, but also from the small, the slow, and the intimate. It asks us to pause and look closely, to see how the lived realities of seemingly ordinary individuals can unsettle our assumptions about continuity, rupture, and change. To write a microhistory in today’s times, conclusively, is not only an academic exercise. It is nothing short of an ethical stance, declaring a historian’s commitment to restoring dignity and agency to those whom history has too often overlooked.
Note: Various versions of this paper (in parts) have previously been published on my personal blog and Substack newsletter.
Resources Cited
Ali, M. A. (1997) The Mughal Nobility under Aurangzeb. Delhi: Oxford University Press.
Amarnath, N. (2025) ‘Microhistory Goes Mainstream: How Instagram and Heritage Walks Make the Past Personal’, The Economic Times, 7 September.
Chandra, S. (1959) Parties and Politics at the Mughal Court, 1707-1740. Aligarh: Aligarh Muslim University.
Darnton, R. (1984) The Great Cat Massacre and Other Episodes in French Cultural History. New York: Vintage Books.
Ginzburg, C. (2014) ‘Microhistory: Two or Three Things That I know about It’, in Renders H. and Haan B. (eds.) Theoretical Discussions of Biography: Approaches from History, Microhistory, and Life Writing. Leiden: Brill, 139–66.
G. Magnússon, S. (2008) ‘The Future of Microhistory’, Journal of Microhistory, 2, pp. 2–11 (version downloaded from academia.edu).
G. Magnússon, S. and Szijártó, I. M. (2013), What is Microhistory? Theory and Practice. London: Routledge.
Gupta, R. (2026) The Sky Poured Down Candy: Microhistorical Reflections on the Life and Times of a Petty Mughal Official, c. 1700–1730. London: Routledge.
Levi, G. (1991) ‘On Microhistory’, in Burke, P. (ed.) New Perspectives on Historical Writing. Cambridge: Polity Press, pp. 93–113.
Little, D. (2009), ‘Darnton’s History’, in Understanding Society: Innovative Thinking About a Global World.
Available Online at https://understandingsociety.blogspot.com/2009/04/darntons-history.html (accessed September 19, 2025).
Simon, Z. B. (2015) ‘Microhistory: In General’, Journal of Social History, 49 (1), pp. 237–48.