A closer parallel is Bengal, the Indian province whose economy was destroyed by the technological strength of northern Britain in what the writer Jeremy Seabrook has called "the first great de-industrialisation of the modern world".
For at least two centuries the handloom weavers of Bengal produced some of the world's most desirable fabrics, especially the fine muslins, light as "woven air", that were in such demand for dressmaking and so cheap that Britain's own cloth manufacturers conspired to cut off the fingers of Bengali weavers and break their looms. Their import was ended, however, by the imposition of duties and a flood of cheap fabric – cheaper even than poorly paid Bengali artisans could provide – from the new steam mills of northern England and lowland Scotland that conquered the Indian as well the British market.
India still grew cotton, but Bengal no longer spun or wove much of it. Weavers became beggars, while the population of Dhaka, which was once the great centre of muslin production, fell from several hundred thousand in 1760 to about 50,000 by the 1820s.
Tigers and leopards roamed the streets. Seabrook gives a memorable picture of dereliction: "The city of men had become a city of animals. Weavers' dwellings were overgrown, the thatch alive with birds, snakes and insects, while roussettes – bats small and multi-coloured as butterflies – flew in and out of earth-mounds that had been homes; hunched vultures surveyed tracts of land in which the human voice was stilled. People lost the skill of their fingers, and only the roughest-made country cloth still found a market among the poorest."
Subsequently, India became the exporter of raw materials and foodstuffs – raw cotton and jute, coal, opium, rice, spice and tea – rather than manufactured goods. British shareholders could also make money by investing in Indian infrastructure, principally the railways, where the Indian government attracted funds by guaranteeing returns on capital of 5% net per year. If the railway company couldn't achieve that return on its own, then the government made up the shortfall from its revenues, which came from Indian and not British taxes. In the event, it was 20 years before the first lines earned more than 5% of their capital outlay, but that did nothing to inhibit their extravagant spending: a mile of Indian railway cost double the same distance in the equally difficult terrain of Canada and Australia.
It was a splendid racket for everyone, apart from the Indian taxpayer. In terms of a secure return, Indian railway shares offered twice as much as the British government's own stock. Guaranteed railway shares absorbed up to a fifth of British portfolio investment in the 20 years to 1870 – the first line opened in 1853 – but only 1% of it originated in India. Most of the rest came from small shareholders with addresses in southern England: from bankers, barristers, spinsters, retired army officers and people known simply as "gentlemen".
Their holdings averaged only £1,500, but the total invested meant that India's railways represented one of the 19th century's largest flows of money between continents. India got an expansive railway system far in advance of any other Asian nation, but Britain retained its grip on the technology as the supplier of all its equipment, which meant once again that the profits were repatriated. The English economist William Thomas Thornton, who was secretary of public works at the India Office, described the guaranteed scheme in a phrase that became well known. It was, he said, "private enterprise at public risk". When arguments began to be made for Indian independence, it was also evidence for the idea that Britain took more out of its most magnificent colony than it put in.