The Dancer and the Raja

by Javier Moro

  Of his extravagance there was not the slightest doubt, and in that too he felt he was a descendant of the great princes and emperors of the past. For all of them, being eccentric had always been a form of refinement. At a solemn ceremony in Kapurthala, just before leaving for Europe for the second time in May 1900, he laid the first stone of his new palace. Since then the inhabitants could see, year by year, how a building of a completely unknown style was emerging, whose façade was finally painted pink with white relief, with large French windows, gray slate roofs, and gardens inspired by Le Nôtre in which nannies and concubines strolled, pushing prams among allegorical figures and fountains just the same as in Versailles.

  Extravagant, too, was his style of traveling. On one trip to Bombay on the Punjab Mail, the raja, who was in his private carriages attached to the end of the train that was carrying a thousand or so passengers, ordered his private secretary to have the train stopped for ten minutes at Nasik station. He wanted to shave. The stationmaster informed him that he had no authority to do that and immediately telephoned his superiors, who ordered him to get the train moving again. The secretary insisted they would pay for any expenses involved in stopping the train, while the bodyguards persuaded the engine driver to wait for a few minutes. And so the stationmaster had to put up with it, and the thousand passengers too. Then he sent a report making an official protest to the highest levels in the railway administration, who sent it on to the Political Department of the Punjab. The raja had got up to another of his tricks. “If the train had not waited for a few minutes,” replied the raja, “I might have injured myself, which would have cost the railway company a lot more, owing to the insurance I have, than the expenses incurred by a small delay.” That was his argument.

  But the English, who knew the Indian princes and their indulgent lifestyle well, were able to put the raja of Kapurthala’s extravagances into perspective. They were nothing in comparison to those of his fellow rajas. One prince of a state in the south, a great tiger hunter, accused of using babies as bait, defended himself saying that he had not missed a single tiger in his whole life, which was true. The maharaja of Gwalior ordered a special crane to be brought to hoist the heaviest of his elephants on to the palace roof, and the result was that the roof collapsed and the animal was injured. He alleged that he had decided to check the solidity of the palace roof because he had bought a gigantic chandelier in Venice to rival those on the ceilings at Buckingham Palace. The same maharaja was so fond of trains that he had ordered a miniature one made, whose engines and carriages ran on a network of solid silver rails between the kitchens and the immense dining table in his palace. The control panel was installed where he sat. Manipulating levers, knobs, buttons, and whistles, the maharaja regulated the traffic of trains carrying drinks, food, cigars, or sweets. The tank wagons, full of whiskey or wine, stopped in front of the guest who had ordered a drink. The fame of this train reached England owing to the fact that, one night, during an official banquet in honor of Queen Mary, because of a short circuit in the control panel, the engines hurtled out of control across the dining hall, splashing wine and sherry everywhere, and launching pieces of cheese with spinach and curried chicken all over the dresses of the ladies and the uniforms of the gentlemen. It was the most absurd railway accident in history.

  If the raja of Kapurthala had refused to allow the train—the real one—that linked Delhi and the states in the north, to pass through his state so that he would not have to bother to go and welcome all the high officials that traveled on the line, the Hindu raja of one of the states of Kathiawar also refused, but for another reason: because it was an insult to his religion to think that the passengers who were crossing his lands might be eating beef in the restaurant car.

  These extravagances were limitless. One maharaja of Rajputana (Rajasthan) dealt with all his affairs, including cabinet meetings and trials, from the bathroom, because it was the coolest place in the palace. Another became sexually excited at the sound of women giving birth. Another, in order to reduce costs, gave a single civil servant the positions of state judge and inspector general of dancing girls, for which the man was paid one hundred rupees a month. Another bought two hundred and seventy cars, and Maharaja Jay Singh of Alwar, who bought Hispano-Suizas three at a time, had them ceremonially buried in the hills around his palace as he tired of them.

  The last nawab of Bhopal received a reprimand from the British authorities for having spent a colossal sum on building a portable bathroom, with a hot water heater, bathtub, toilet, and sinks, and so on, so he could go hunting! His brother, General Obaidullah Khan, irritated at the impatience of a shop assistant selling watches in Bombay, decided to buy the entire stock of the shop on the spot.

  The maharaja of Bharatpur never traveled without his statue of the god Krishna. There was always a seat reserved for the deity. The public address system of airports all over the world often repeated the same announcement: “This is the final call for Mr. Krishna to go to departure gate …”

  During the banquets he gave, the nawab of Rampur, known for his high level of culture, organized competitions of swearwords in Punjabi, Urdu, and Persian. The nawab almost always won. His record was when he spent two and a half hours nonstop uttering different swearwords and insults, while his closest rival ran out of steam after only ninety minutes.

  The maharajas played tricks on each other to match their eccentricities. They were always exchanging virgins, pearls, and elephants. One young prince who was half ruined managed to strike a good deal by selling a dozen “dancing girls” to a Parsi millionaire. At the last moment he swapped them round and put three old women in the lot, keeping the three youngest and most nubile dancers for himself.

  In the Olympics of extravagance, those of the nawab of Junagadh, a small state north of Bombay, stood out well above the others. This prince had a passion for dogs, of which he came to own five hundred. He had his favorites installed in apartments with electricity, where they were looked after by paid servants. An English vet who specialized in dogs ran a hospital only for dogs. Those that did not have the good fortune to come out alive from the clinic were honored with funerals to the sound of Chopin’s Funeral March. The nawab sprang to fame nationally when he had the idea of celebrating the marriage of his bitch Roshanara to his favorite Labrador, called Bobby, in a grandiose ceremony to which he invited princes and dignitaries, including the viceroy, who declined the invitation “with great regret.” Fifty thousand people crowded the length of the wedding procession. The dog was dressed in silk and wore gold bracelets, while the bride, perfumed like a woman, wore jewels with precious stones. During the banquet, they sat the happy couple on the nawab’s right, and then they were escorted to one of the apartments to consummate their marriage.

  Generally speaking, the richer and more powerful they were, the more eccentric they became. The undisputed authority on the subject of the pleasures of the flesh and extravagances was a good friend of the raja’s, and, in addition, a neighbor of his. Maharaja Rajendar Singh, born the same year as Jagatjit, reigned over the six thousand square kilometers of Patiala, a state bordering on Kapurthala. It had a higher population and was therefore richer. He had the right to a seventeen-gun salute. His tutors had taught him Urdu and English, and from a young age he had become a promising cricketer and polo player, until his addiction to alcohol and women, to which he gave himself with excessive regularity, would change the course of his life. He lived in a palace that was half a kilometer in length and whose rear façade gave on to an enormous artificial lake. Afghan hounds, peacocks, and tigers chained up by the pools covered in lotus flowers filled the gardens.

  If the English thought that Jagatjit was becoming a womanizer, what would they not say about Rajendar, who showed great aptitude for sex and fun from the age of eleven. Together with his cousin, the raja of Dholpur, they had a reputation for being “wildly extravagant” hooligans, as they were described by an English officer. But the fact t
hey were criticized in secret reports did not mean that in British colonial society they were excluded. Quite the opposite: when all was said and done, they were blue-blooded. In the same way as the maharaja of Jaipur called the Queen of England Lizzy, during the summers at Simla the three friends—of Kapurthala, Patiala, and Dholpur—rubbed shoulders with the cream of society, becoming the favorite company of the new viceroy, Lord Curzon, and his wife, until an incident interrupted that idyll. The three of them became so close to Lady Curzon that one night they invited her to dinner at Oakover, Rajendar’s sumptuous residence in Simla, from whose balcony you could see the Himalayas amid weeping willows and flowering rhododendrons. The lady had expressed a desire to see close up the famous jewels of Patiala, known all over India. Before dinner, she tried on a pearl necklace insured by Lloyd’s for a million dollars, and a tiara made of a thousand and one blue and white diamonds; both pieces were considered as the treasures of Patiala. “These jewels look better on a sari,” Rajendar said to her then. “Why don’t you try on this one, which belonged to my grandmother?”

  Few women in high society could have resisted the temptation to dress in such a manner, whether out of flirtatiousness or simple curiosity to see themselves decked out like an Oriental queen. The fact is that Lady Curzon ended up wearing the jewels of Patiala, including the famous “Eugene” diamond, the tiara, and the pearl necklace, and she did so wrapped in a crimson sari embroidered with gold thread. She looked wonderful. So that she might have a souvenir and to commemorate the amusing evening, the young rajas suggested she have some photographs taken, since they had the famous pioneer of photography in India, a Sikh called Deen Dayal, staying as a guest.

  Unfortunately for the three princes, the photo appeared in the British tabloids, causing a huge fuss: the wife of the viceroy of the British Empire dressed up as an Indian queen! What a scandal! Lord Curzon was very angry and gave the order to forbid the three princes to visit Simla ever again, and at the same time the other maharajas were not allowed to go there unless they first had permission from him. Offended by the viceroy’s reaction, which he considered to be out of all proportion, Rajendar built his own summer capital near the village of Chail, sixty kilometers from Simla and at an altitude of three thousand meters. There he had the highest cricket pitch in the world built, where British, Australian, and Indian teams played great games, enjoying the spectacular views over the Kailash glaciers and the peaks of the Himalayas.

  Jagatjit opted to build a mansion about a hundred kilometers from Simla, in Mussoorie, another hill station, as the English called this kind of summer resort towns, whose atmosphere was always frivolous and carefree. He built it inspired by the châteaux of the Loire that had so impressed him, with conical towers roofed in slate. He furnished the inside with pictures, French antiques, Sèvres vases, and Gobelin tapestries, and he baptized it with the name of Château Kapurthala. The mansion would become famous for its masked balls enlivened by great orchestras. The fancy dress provided the anonymity required for Indian aristocrats and European women to have relationships behind the backs of their husbands, who were absent since they could not afford to spend four months on a family holiday. At the end of the raja’s parties, the couples left secretly in rickshaws that wound their way down the Camel’s Back, the circular road behind the hill from where you could enjoy an idyllic view of snow-capped peaks, green terraces, and flowering meadows. The couples would spend many hours there and then the rickshaw would take the ladies back to their place of residence. Some of them, the most daring ones, took their lovers home with them.

  But Jagatjit was not a hardened partygoer or an alcoholic. He was a gentleman who enjoyed contact with high society, unlike Rajendar and his cousin, the raja of Dholpur, who preferred to surround themselves with pimps, gamblers, alcoholics, or European riffraff and parasites. The English accused the raja of Dholpur of being a bad influence on his cousin, leading him down the path to perdition and a life of evil, and of receiving money in exchange for his company. In an official report, Rajendar was defined as “an alcoholic, an indifferent father, an unfaithful husband and a terrible administrator.” When the viceroy sent a top civil servant to talk seriously to the maharaja about his indifference regarding administrative matters and his financial disorder, Rajendar, feeling offended, shouted at him, “I spend an hour and a half a day on affairs of State!” Rajendar preferred the company of horses to that of men. In his stables he kept seven hundred thoroughbreds, among which there were thirty high-quality stallions, which had given Patiala and India many great winners at the races. He also liked cricket and polo. He was the patron of Ranji, his field assistant, who took the Patiala team to the highest levels of cricket. And he managed to make the Tigers—his polo team, with orange and black kit—the terror of India.

  But Rajendar’s notoriety would come from the fact that he had been a pioneer. He caused a real stir when he imported the first car into India, a De Dion Bouton—with the license plate of Patiala 0—which left his subjects amazed. They considered it a miracle that it could move at a speed of 15 or 20 kilometers an hour without the help of a camel, a horse, or an elephant. There was an even greater stir when he announced his marriage to an Englishwoman. It was the first time an Indian prince had married a European. The woman was called Florrie Bryan and she was the older sister of His Highness’s stable masterr. When the viceroy heard of his intention to marry, he sent him a strong warning through his delegate in the Punjab: “An alliance of this kind, made with a European woman of a rank very inferior to your own, is condemned to the worst results. It will make your position very embarrassing, both among Europeans and Indians. In the Punjab, as you can imagine, the wedding will be very badly received.”

  In spite of the strong warning, two days later, on its front page, the Civil and Military Gazette of April 13, 1893, announced the secret wedding in a Sikh ceremony of the maharaja of Patiala and Miss Florrie Bryan. The note added that the event could not wait because the bride was four months pregnant. The nobility of Patiala, the viceroy, and the governor ignored the event. The Punjabi princes did too. Jagatjit Singh was in Europe, but he would certainly have attended his friend’s wedding. Deep down he admired him because he had dared to do what he really wanted to do too: marry a European woman. For those drinking partners, who had combed the mountains in search of concubines, experts in the art of love, a white woman was the most sought-after of trophies—perhaps because she was also the most difficult to obtain.

  8 Memorandum on Kapurthala, June 1, 1901 (British Library, London, Curzon Collection, p. 327).

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  For the princes, European women were the embodiment of all the mystery, emotion, and pleasure that the West could offer, a new world that they wanted somehow to possess. Furthermore, the provocative deed of seducing a white woman was like a metaphor for the ambivalent relations—a mixture of admiration and rejection—that they had with British power. It also fitted in with the Indian tradition of romantic love, where the lovers were able to defy the barriers imposed by caste and religion in order to satisfy their passion. Great love stories, which the cinema later brought to the screen for the delight of the masses, have existed in Hindu mythology since the dawn of time. And if that was not enough, the white woman also had her place in the Kamasutra. According to that Bible of sex, the best lover has to have very light skin and must not be sought in one’s own country, where the women live whom one could marry, and whose past is known and guaranteed by the members of their families. One’s lover should come from far away, from another kingdom, or, at the very least, from another city. The peculiar Indian concept of love separated the woman-mother, whom one marries, from the woman-lover with whom one has fun and enjoys sex—a dichotomy whose roots are to be found in ancient times in a polygamous society, which is not alien to Europe either. But in Indian mythology providing sexual pleasure elevates, while giving birth to children, which in turn are pure and sacred, taints the woman, who has to submit t
o constant purification ceremonies. In order to create new lives, Indian women lose a part of their body and soul at each birth. So it is very difficult, not to say impossible, to offer a part of themselves with the pleasure, in order to become good lovers.

  So it is not surprising that all well-born Indians, swayed by the teachings of the Kamasutra, have dreamed at some time or other of having relations with European women. Having a white woman was considered as an exterior symbol of great luxury and exotic splendor.