Rajaji

by Rajmohan Gandhi

  Jinnah cabled his ‘warm congratulations’ and Prime Minister Liaqat Ali wrote them out by hand. Letters came from those who had been with C.R. in school or college. One was from Abdul Rahim, ‘a citizen of Hosur, a schoolmate, not a classmate, Your Excellency, in the old tiled building which exists even today.’ In his reply, C.R. welcomed ‘a loving voice from the old days when I was less known and more happy.’

  Ex-Governor Erskine and British officers who had served under C.R. in Madras sent enthusiastic letters. City councils all across the South passed resolutions of happiness. Opponents of 1946 joined in praise. C.R. was described as ‘the greatest Indian administrator’ and as having the ‘keenest vision and greatest foresight.’

  An old friend, T.S.S. Rajan, once again a member of the Madras Cabinet, wrote to C.R. that ‘as the foremost Indian living today’ he deserved the honour. And from Bangalore Rama Rao wrote: ‘You will, God grant, live in history by the side of your immortal friend, the Mahatma.’ Patiently C.R. answered the large congratulatory mail.23

  With his ten-month term, commenced when the odds were not favourable, C.R. had succeeded in winning Bengal’s affection. His talks and parables had gone down well. He was not a Nehru or a Subhas with the crowds, but numerous intelligent audiences had taken to him. His accessibility and the tidy simplicity shown in his manner and dress left a mark, and his intellect and frankness impressed the bhadralok.

  His role over communal relations was widely admired. Amrita Bazar Patrika wrote (6.5.48): ‘Rajaji’s initiative in the maintenance of communal peace will long be remembered by the people here.’ According to the Muslim-owned Morning News (5.5.48), C.R.’s ‘earnest moving appeals . . . finally stirred the conscience that had sunk to its lowest depths.’

  As unabashed a Hindu as he was a defender of Muslim rights, not hesitating to refer to ‘our ancient wisdom,’ C.R. also appealed to Bengal’s conservative elements, who took note of C.R.’s regard for Bengal’s past. This regard was disclosed when C.R. eagerly glimpsed, from a train window, the birthplace of Bankim, and when he stood, quite moved, in Ramakrishna’s room. Of Ramakrishna he said, ‘He was the Upanishads and the Bhagavad Gita in flesh and blood.’

  The Patrika made the valid criticism that C.R. spoke more of ‘the rose of Bengal’s cultural happiness’ and less of ‘the thorns of many material unhappinesses.’ Yet C.R. had touched the Bengali heart, including the heart of Sarat Bose. ‘Rajaji has been a good Governor,’ Bose told Prafulla Ghosh.24

  Observers noted that C.R. had become what he had not been since his 1942 deviation from the Congress line — popular. Visiting Calcutta with Mountbatten, the latter’s press attache, Alan Campbell-Johnson, wrote of Rajaji, ‘His popularity today is good to see.’25 ‘Rajagopalachari Go Back!’ was not heard again after his first day in Calcutta. ‘The wise Rajaji’ increasingly became Bengal’s appellation, until the time came for his departure, when the Patrika headlined its editorial, ‘Our Rajaji.’

  Bengal’s attitude greatly moved C.R. In sweeping yet heartfelt sentences he gave expression to his feelings. Referring to ‘the honey that I found in Bengal,’ he said:

  Truly I say that barring the period of childhood, these ten months amidst the people of Bengal have been the happiest period of my life. All the travail and dreariness of years were forgotten in the affection I found here, in me for the men and women of this place, and in them for me.26

  Doubtless contributing to the contentment he felt were the peace, security and comfort of a Governor’s life. Though he rebelled against aspects of these, the fact remained that for the first time in nearly thirty years his and — much more importantly — his family’s wanes were fully met, and he was saved from involvement in political controversy.

  Before leaving Calcutta, C.R. made two pronouncements on a Governor-General’s role:

  He will have to cultivate good feelings between party and party, class and class, between Ministers who govern . . . and the [political] minorities who are governed, between Ministers on the one hand and the permanent servants on the other.27

  The second remark pertained to the Governor-General’s power, to which someone had referred, to take over the State in an emergency:

  May God save me from such an emergency, which would mean a serious calamity. I would ask you not to think on these lines.28

  At a farewell occasion, he said:

  Please see how, without any great effort, I have succeeded in conquering the hearts of the people assembled here. Copy me, do not praise me. I have done nothing for the poor people of Calcutta or Bengal. But they have appreciated my feelings towards them.29

  The Government House staff gave him a pair of sandals. ‘I shall value it more than a silver casket or a gold trinket,’ C.R. said. ‘It will not be necessary for me to find a place to keep your present. I will wear it.’ The Governor said he felt that the staff he was leaving behind was ‘a large family connected by blood with me,’ and added, ‘Whenever you do any wrong, think that I am near you to see it.’30

  18

  Palace

  1948-50

  From the end of 1929, New Delhi’s Government House had been home and headquarters to the men ruling India on the King-Emperor’s behalf — the Lords Irwin, Willingdon, Linlithgow, Wavell, and Mountbatten. The great Edwin Lutyens had chosen the House’s location. He designed this five-acre building of red and white sandstone and marble of many hues which had a mile and a half of corridors and 340 rooms. The Mughal Gardens, spread over 15 ½ acres and including the sunken Purdah Bagh, were positioned to capture the setting sun. In the Durbar Hall, the Banquet Hall and the Ball Room, the jewels, coronets and tiaras of many Indian princes and of five Viceroys and Vicereines had glittered under crystal chandeliers.

  Now this was going to be the home of one whose father had once known, and prized, a monthly salary of five rupees, and who himself had once toyed with the idea of using bullets and the bomb for ending British rule. That rule had ended, but India was a Dominion and C.R. would enter Government House as the King’s representative!

  It was an irony that flowed over from fable to real life. C.R. imagined himself ‘shaking hands with Warren Hastings across the ages and saying, “You were the first and I am the last” ’ (The Statesman, 9.6.48).

  A drizzle that ended a scorching spell in Delhi greeted C.R.’s plane from Calcutta. Mountbatten, Nehru, Vallabhbhai and other Ministers and the military chiefs (who were all British still) were at the airport. In complete silence C.R. took a salute. Accompanied by Jawaharlal, C.R. rode to Government House, where picturesque bodyguards flanked a red carpet laid along the grand staircase leading to the Durbar Hall.

  In the evening the Mountbattens gave their last reception, an immense affair with nearly 6,000 guests. Most wanted to meet C.R., who commented later: ‘I saw many new faces but they seemed to know me for ages. I met people who volunteered to assist me in whatever way they could and I got plenty of advice gratis.’1

  At night Mountbatten and he had a tête-à -tête. The two agreed with each other that Pakistan’s eastern wing might secede in 25 years or so. (When Bangladesh became independent in 1972, the accurate joint prognostication was publicly recalled by Mountbatten).

  The next day, 21 June, C.R. was installed in the brightly lit Durbar Hall as India’s head. His white khadi contrasted well with the red of the throne, and the new Governor-General’s blue standard, containing three Asoka lions atop a circular C., and an R within the C, was displayed beside the national flag.

  In a brief address, C.R. noted that for the first time a son of the soil had been ‘entrusted with the honour and duty of the Head of State.’ He praised Mountbatten for his energy, asked to be judged himself by standards ‘suitable for one inexperienced in arms or diplomacy,’ and prayed that he would ‘steer clear of error’ (Hindustan Times, 22.6.48).

  After the ceremony he gave a reception in the Long Room; the Prime Minister called on him, as did the Agent-General of Hyderabad, which the Nizam was trying to
turn into an independent state; the Mountbattens left that day and there was a banquet by C.R. at night; he was launched.

  He had to get to know and prune his new possessions. Two houses on the Governor-General’s grounds, in the past residences for senior members of the staff, became homes of Ministers; the Prime Minister’s secretariat and the archaeological museum were found additional space in Government House; a forest near Dehra Dun where the Viceroy and his guests used to hunt privately was turned into a sanctuary; the Governor-General’s band was wound up; and corn and vegetables were sown on the estate.

  Occasionally, C.R. swung a tennis racket on one of the House’s grass courts, his shawl tied round the dhoti as a belt; though he never stepped into the estate’s pool, he had some sessions at the billiard table; and he shocked some by rifle- shooting at the range where his bodyguard practised. After asking the commandant ‘to feed the weapon and make it live,’ he ‘held the rifle like an expert’ and fired four times. In Chatterjee’s opinion, the Governor-General’s performance, ‘taking all factors into account, was creditable.’2

  Shankar, the cartoonist, sketched several amusing attires for the new Governor-General’s consideration, and Louis Fischer also joked with C.R. about the latter discarding khadi and ‘donning a military uniform with gold epaulettes.’3

  He saw a great variety: masses at his 15 August reception; petitioners and memorialists; friends of his youth; comrades of his 1930 salt march; rulers of other lands arid politicians of his own; Governors of provinces and diplomats posted to Delhi. K.P.S. Menon, foreign secretary at the time, recorded:

  All the heads of missions were . . . almost overcome by Rajaji’s charm. This was the more surprising because his predecessor and his wife were known as perfect charmers . . . Rajaji almost eclipsed them in the quality of grace.

  The contrast between him and his diplomatic guests was startling. They would be dressed up in uniform, with gold braids, medals and decorations; and he would be in his dhoti and shirt, spotlessly white and clean. Rajaji, as it were, stripped the diplomatic guests of their uniform and saw right through them, without causing them the slightest embarrassment . . . And they responded warmly. They felt they were . . . in the presence of . . . a nice, wise old man who had somehow strayed onto the Governor-General’s throne.4

  Once when addressed as ‘Your Excellency’ by Novikov, the Soviet ambassador, C.R. responded, with mischief in his eyes, ‘But I thought you in Russia had discontinued the use of all titles.’ ‘Yes, Your Excellency,’ the diplomat replied, ‘but that was at the start of the revolution. Then we realized it was a mistake.’ ‘What?’ C.R. innocently exclaimed. ‘The start of the revolution was a mistake?’ Even the Russian could not repress a smile.5

  At a tea-party on the central lawn, when C.R. looked up to see a flight of green parrots sweeping across the sky, a guest asked whether the birds lived close by. C.R.’s reply was recorded by Chatterjee:

  I am not sure of their address, but every morning they fly towards Palam, and return about this time. See their punctualilty, the precision of flight formation, the speed, manoeuvrability in the air, and the obedience to the leader . . . These birds never collide or crash . . . But you should see them descending on a maize field. They bring themselves to a sudden halt and park themselves softly on the plants, almost hugging the mature corns.

  The eloquence was formidable, and the guest asked the Governor- General if he was a birdwatcher. ‘I am a manwatcher,’ replied C.R., ‘but they come to my cornfields and my routine coincides with theirs.’6

  To encourage resourcefulness against the grain shortage, C.R. had some of his acreage converted into cornfields. Some feared that the beautiful lawns and gardens were being disfigured. The anxiety was ill-informed: the House’s gardens were at a safe distance from its fine crop of corn. C.R.’s feelings for his grounds’ flowers are preserved in a letter he wrote to Rama Rao at the end of March 1949:

  The garden is dying. The best part of the spring and the dappled glory of the flower beds is gone. I never before possessed this wealth of flowers but now that I had it for a time I feel sad when I see the little things fade and wither before their harsh father the sun.

  Manga had been dead for 33 years. She who had been spared C.R.’s prison-going had also missed his entry into the palace. There was only one small group photograph in which she could be seen. C.R. had her face lifted out and enlarged. The young woman of 26 — he was old and would grow much older but Manga would always be young — joined him on the first floor of Government House, looking at Namagiri from a wall of the bedroom of the Viceroy and the Vicereine.

  C.R. had asked his daughter — the House’s hostess — to take that chamber. Across a corridor was the bedroom he chose for himself — a small room used earlier by the Vicereine’s lady- in-waiting. Rajaji had two portraits put up in it, one of Ramakrishna and the other of the Mahatma.

  He picked up classics from the House’s library, consulted journals, loved to study maps, enjoyed spotting errors of language. In between interviews he was apt to open an encyclopaedia. Week by week he would send Country Life, inherited from his predecessors, to British friends living in India. ‘It has interesting articles about birds,’ he said once to Horace Alexander, the Quaker, ‘and every number has the portrait of a beautiful young lady for the frontispiece. It is none the worse for that.’7

  Theoretically, Britain had given the rulers of the Indian princely states freedom to join India or Pakistan or claim independence, but Mountbatten had warned them that the last option was not realistic. Even so the Nizam of Hyderabad, ruling the biggest of all the princely states, sought independence. Shortly before the British left the subcontinent, he had tried in vain to enlist their help in acquiring Goa from the Portuguese: he desired access to the sea.

  Hindus in Hyderabad, who comprised the great majority, became restive both at the Nizam’s unwillingness to join India and at his encouragement of the Razakars, militant Muslims aiming at a sovereign, Muslim-ruled state.

  From the day he assumed office, C.R. tried to help resolve the question diplomatically, using as a channel an old friend, Sir Mirza Ismail, who had been the Nizam’s Dewan or Premier. Recalling that as chancellor of Osmania University the Nizam had conferred a doctorate on him in 1944, C.R. offered, in a message to the Nizam, ‘to do all in my power to help a peaceful settlement.’ On his part the Nizam had requested C.R.’s ‘personal contribution’ to make matters easier.

  In New Delhi’s view, wholly shared by C.R., peace was dependent on a ban on the Razakars and the presence in Hyderabad of some Indian troops. In courteous but firm language, C.R. put forth these demands to the Nizam, adding the promise that ‘in any political solution Your Exalted Highness’s prestige and position will be safeguarded.’

  Turning down the suggestion for banning the Razakars, the Nizam also said that ‘allowing Indian troops to remain in my territory is out of the question.’8 A version of what happened thereafter has been provided by V.P. Menon, secretary in the States Ministry at the time:

  The Governments of the neighbouring provinces were much concerned . . . about the activities of the Razakars and the refugees who were leaving the state . . . The States Ministry pressed their view that we should occupy Hyderabad and put a stop to the chaos there.

  The Prime Minister was strongly opposed, and he was very critical of the attitude of the States Ministry. Sardar left the meeting in the middle. The same afternoon the Governor- General, C. Rajagopalachari, called a meeting in his room of the Prime Minister, Sardar Patel and myself. It was then decided that we should occupy Hyderabad.9

  A letter from C.R. conveyed a thinly disguised ultimatum: inaction by the Nizam would ‘force the Government of India to act on their own initiative.’ The message was repeated in a telegram signed by C.R., sent on 12 September: ‘I still hope Your Exalted Highness will not disregard my advice.’

  Shortly before dawn the next morning, Indian soldiers crossed Hyderabad’s boundaries. In four days
the Nizam surrendered, banned the Razakars, welcomed the troops and pleaded with C.R. for honourable treatment. By this time the Nizam had lost several hundred Razakars and state soldiers; the Indian army lost ten men.

  The Nizam was told that he could remain Hyderabad’s constitutional head and retain most of his privileges, but executive rule would be in the hands of a military governor until the time was ripe for an elected set-up.

  If the swift completion of the movement gratified C.R., he was equally pleased by the communal peace that prevailed all over India during the action. To him the latter was ‘a second miracle,’ comparable to what the Mahatma had achieved in Calcutta a year earlier. At a thanksgiving service at Jama Masjid, where over 20,000 were present, C.R. spoke frankly about ‘the gangsters in Hyderabad’ who had ‘forced the Nizam’ into folly (Hindustan Times, 27.9.48).

  C.R.’s active role over Hyderabad, exceeding the scope of a constitutional head of state, was a product of the peculiar Nehru-Patel-C.R. relationship. C.R.’s views, and not just his signature, mattered to Jawaharlal and Vallabhbhai. Moreover, disagreement between the two sometimes necessitated intervention by C.R., who was trusted by both. The Hyderabad episode was probably one of the things Patel had in mind when a few months later he said about C.R.:

  He knows how a constitutional Governor-General has to behave and he knows how to keep within limits and yet how to break the limits (Hindustan Times, 23.2.49).

  Meanwhile the man C.R. had tried hard and for long to conciliate, the Quaid-i-Azam, had died in Karachi, following a heart attack. To his sister Fatima, a loyal presence always at Jinnah’s side, C.R. wrote: