visibly blushing, but the Rajmata was in full flight.
‘… and tears were running down his face. I would not have thought – such a practical man …’
Sardar Angre was spared more embarrassment by one of the bearers bringing in a great pile of the morning’s papers. He and the Rajmata began scanning the headlines.
‘Riots, riots, riots,’ said the Rajmata. ‘Every day it is the same.’
Sardar Angre was however engrossed in a report in a Hindi newspaper concerning the latest episode of his own long-standing feud with the Rajmata’s son. The dispute, which had been going on for some fifteen years – and which had, since its outset, been closely followed by the whole country – was currently enjoying one of its periodic flare-ups. Sardar Angre read the report out to the Rajmata.
‘This is all my fault,’ said the Rajmata, shaking her head. ‘A mother’s weakness.’
I must have looked a little confused by all this, for I was immediately treated to a résumé of the whole celebrated affair. In 1975,when Mrs Gandhi locked up the opposition, suspended the Constitution and declared the Emergency, the Rajmata found herself transferred from the splendours of Gwalior to the less familiar surroundings of the infamous Tihar jail near Delhi. Her son, however, did a deal with the Congress and escaped to Nepal, leaving the Rajmata to fester in prison. She has never forgiven him. Moreover, as a minister in the current Congress government, the Maharajah remains a political as well as a personal adversary, the battle within the divided family mirroring the political divide of the nation at large.
‘He did not fight the people who imprisoned his own mother,’ growled Sardar Angre. ‘He should have gone underground and joined the resistance against Mrs Gandhi. Instead he totally surrendered. Nobody in this great family has ever done that. He betrayed his own ancestors.’
‘When he was in power Sardar Angre’s house was attacked [by the police, apparently acting on Mahadav Rao’s orders]. Half his possessions were taken, photographs were smashed …’
‘My two Rottweillers were shot dead …’
‘But worst of all,’ continued the Rajmata, ‘in the Emergency he left me inside that jail with the criminals and prostitutes. Imagine it: one of the inmates had
twenty-four
cases against her, including four murders. These were the companions he thought suitable for his mother.’
‘How did you cope in jail?’ I asked.
‘I had faith in my Hanumanji,’ replied the Rajmata. ‘He sent help.’
‘Hanuman came to you in person?’ I asked.
‘No,’ replied the Rajmata, sighing and shaking her head sadly. ‘But He spoke within me and showed me that all human beings – even the most hardened criminals – will respond if you show them affection.’
The Rajmata raised her eyes to heaven:
‘And He was quite right, you know: they did. One murderer became my cook – I don’t think I’ve ever had such a faithful servant.I wept when I finally left the prison – I was leaving so many close friends.’
From the front hall a bearer appeared and whispered in the Rajmata’s ear. She nodded, dabbed her mouth with a napkin and got up.
‘I have to go,’ she said. ‘There are some ladies here to see me.’
She added: ‘Sardar Angre would, I’m sure, be pleased to show you around.’
Sardar Angre duly took me around the palace.
I followed him through room after room, hall after hall – great prairies of marble reflected back and forth by tall Victorian pier-glass mirrors.
Upstairs, all was rotting chintz and peeling plaster: a faint but unmistakable scent of decay hung in the air. Several of the rooms were unlit and seemed to be unused. They were visited only by the sparrows nesting in the wooden hammerbeams of the roof; a heavy lint of old cobweb formed fan-vaults in the corner-angles. When the shutters were opened the intruding beams of light illuminated thick snowstorms of swirling dust-motes.
Only
‘… and tears were running down his face. I would not have thought – such a practical man …’
Sardar Angre was spared more embarrassment by one of the bearers bringing in a great pile of the morning’s papers. He and the Rajmata began scanning the headlines.
‘Riots, riots, riots,’ said the Rajmata. ‘Every day it is the same.’
Sardar Angre was however engrossed in a report in a Hindi newspaper concerning the latest episode of his own long-standing feud with the Rajmata’s son. The dispute, which had been going on for some fifteen years – and which had, since its outset, been closely followed by the whole country – was currently enjoying one of its periodic flare-ups. Sardar Angre read the report out to the Rajmata.
‘This is all my fault,’ said the Rajmata, shaking her head. ‘A mother’s weakness.’
I must have looked a little confused by all this, for I was immediately treated to a résumé of the whole celebrated affair. In 1975,when Mrs Gandhi locked up the opposition, suspended the Constitution and declared the Emergency, the Rajmata found herself transferred from the splendours of Gwalior to the less familiar surroundings of the infamous Tihar jail near Delhi. Her son, however, did a deal with the Congress and escaped to Nepal, leaving the Rajmata to fester in prison. She has never forgiven him. Moreover, as a minister in the current Congress government, the Maharajah remains a political as well as a personal adversary, the battle within the divided family mirroring the political divide of the nation at large.
‘He did not fight the people who imprisoned his own mother,’ growled Sardar Angre. ‘He should have gone underground and joined the resistance against Mrs Gandhi. Instead he totally surrendered. Nobody in this great family has ever done that. He betrayed his own ancestors.’
‘When he was in power Sardar Angre’s house was attacked [by the police, apparently acting on Mahadav Rao’s orders]. Half his possessions were taken, photographs were smashed …’
‘My two Rottweillers were shot dead …’
‘But worst of all,’ continued the Rajmata, ‘in the Emergency he left me inside that jail with the criminals and prostitutes. Imagine it: one of the inmates had
twenty-four
cases against her, including four murders. These were the companions he thought suitable for his mother.’
‘How did you cope in jail?’ I asked.
‘I had faith in my Hanumanji,’ replied the Rajmata. ‘He sent help.’
‘Hanuman came to you in person?’ I asked.
‘No,’ replied the Rajmata, sighing and shaking her head sadly. ‘But He spoke within me and showed me that all human beings – even the most hardened criminals – will respond if you show them affection.’
The Rajmata raised her eyes to heaven:
‘And He was quite right, you know: they did. One murderer became my cook – I don’t think I’ve ever had such a faithful servant.I wept when I finally left the prison – I was leaving so many close friends.’
From the front hall a bearer appeared and whispered in the Rajmata’s ear. She nodded, dabbed her mouth with a napkin and got up.
‘I have to go,’ she said. ‘There are some ladies here to see me.’
She added: ‘Sardar Angre would, I’m sure, be pleased to show you around.’
Sardar Angre duly took me around the palace.
I followed him through room after room, hall after hall – great prairies of marble reflected back and forth by tall Victorian pier-glass mirrors.
Upstairs, all was rotting chintz and peeling plaster: a faint but unmistakable scent of decay hung in the air. Several of the rooms were unlit and seemed to be unused. They were visited only by the sparrows nesting in the wooden hammerbeams of the roof; a heavy lint of old cobweb formed fan-vaults in the corner-angles. When the shutters were opened the intruding beams of light illuminated thick snowstorms of swirling dust-motes.
Only
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