The Dancer and the Raja

by Javier Moro

  On the wedding day, when the maharaja takes Lady Connemere for a dance after the wedding banquet, the English lady is full of thanks and praise: “Everything is wonderful in the suite you have prepared for us, Your Highness,” she says, “but there is something wrong with the paper in the bathroom because my whole body is purple.”

  The maharaja cannot stop laughing when he tells Anita about his conversation with the lady, after the wedding. “You can’t be such a perfectionist,” he tells her affectionately.

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  At the beginning of 1914, Anita and her husband finally accept an invitation from the nizam of Hyderabad, the scrawny little man who rules over the largest and most densely populated state in India, the same man who was very taken with Anita the moment he met her during her honeymoon in Kashmir. Of all the exotic and unusual princes, he is definitely the most surprising. A learned and pious Moslem, a descendant of Mahomet and heir to the fabulous kingdom of Golconda, he is considered to be the richest man in the world. He has eleven thousand servants, of which thirty-eight spend their time exclusively on dusting the chandeliers. He coins his own money, and his legendary fortune is only comparable to his no less legendary avarice. Apart from the Koh-i-Noor, the biggest diamond ever discovered, and which he uses as a paperweight, he owns a collection of jewels so fantastic that it is said he could pave the streets of Piccadilly with them. He keeps suitcases full of rupees, dollars, and pounds, wrapped up in newspaper. A legion of rats, for whom these banknotes are their favorite food, depreciate his fortune by several million every year. They say that when he is alone, without any guests, he wears simple, cheap pajamas and sandals bought at the local bazaar, and the same fez as usual, stiffened with sweat and dirt. If the socks he is wearing have a hole in them, he orders the servants to darn them.

  His hobbies consist of taking opium, writing poetry in Urdu, and, like the maharaja of Patiala, watching surgical operations, like one might watch a game of cricket. He also cultivates a passion for a more benign therapy inspired by Ancient Greece and known as Unani, which consists of ingesting herbal infusions mixed with ground-up precious stones. According to the nizam, a spoonful of ground pearls mixed with honey is an infallible cure for hypertension. As a consequence, Hyderabad has become the only place in the world with a free hospital that specializes in Unani.

  But the nizam has also managed to turn his state into an important center for the arts and culture. The Osmania University was the first in India to teach a native language, and, generally speaking, education in the whole state is now much better than in the rest of the country. Hyderabad is the greatest center for literature written in Urdu, and its inhabitants have developed sophisticated customs regarding their dress, language, music, and food.

  When Anita and the maharaja arrive for the welcome dinner to be celebrated in the King’s Palace, at eight o’clock precisely, the nizam is waiting for them at the top of the stairs with all his officers along the sides, as protocol demands. To the maharaja’s satisfaction, among a crowd of guests also present is the English resident, Mr. Fraser, and his wife. The nizam introduces Anita to them as though she were the maharani, and the English lady does not hesitate to curtsy before her. What a sweet moment! To this sovereign, the most powerful of them all, the English bend the knee. The nizam is perhaps the only one who would not need the help of the English to govern. In fact, he is dreaming of independence for his state.

  After the introductions, the nizam’s private secretary approaches Anita mysteriously and asks her to be so kind as to follow him for a moment. “How surprised I was when he showed me a magnificent jewellery case of blue velvet, which he gave me on the Nizam’s behalf as a gift, begging me to accept it and not to doubt his good intentions!” Anita writes in her diary. Inside she discovers a superb necklace of antique pearls, emeralds, and diamonds. She hesitates for a moment. That gesture reminds her of the five thousand pesetas the maharaja offered her that day long ago. Her first reaction is to refuse it. But a second later she changes her mind. Would it not be a sin to reject something so wonderful? She knows it is not normal for a Moslem monarch to give a present to the wife of another monarch in public and in the presence of her husband. When Anita looks up, she meets the gaze of the maharaja fixed on her, frowning, as though he were asking her not to accept the gift. But Anita relives all the anguish of recent times in Kapurthala, her suspicions about her husband’s infidelity, the uneasiness caused by his incomprehensible changes, and the unpleasant feeling of the fragility of her own position, so she thinks no more about it and puts the necklace on. Clinging to jewels is a way of fighting off the constant feeling of impermanence.

  “When I returned to the hall, the Nizam gave me a smile of satisfaction.” Once back in the dining hall, Anita has the great honor to be seated on the right of the sovereign. “I want you to enjoy the party, so I’ve invited a few friends,” he says to her as she sits down. Anita glances round the table, where about a hundred people are taking their places.

  The nizam seems as fascinated by Anita as he was the first day when he met her in Kashmir. He feels captivated by her independence, by what she tells him of Spain, by her view of India, and by her graciousness.

  “I’m sure you would love Europe,” she tells him.

  “I would like to make the journey,” he answers soberly, “but they say it is very expensive.”

  Anita opens her eyes wide. She looks round the dining hall, decorated with Bohemian glass candelabra, full of people wearing jewels, dining off gold plates. When he notices her surprise, the nizam explains, “They say that by traveling as sovereign of Hyderabad, I must go with own retinue.”

  “But surely you could afford to go several times round the world.”

  “Yes, I can afford it,” he says with a sigh, “but it’s expensive. My advisers tell me it would cost about ten million pounds.”

  At Anita’s astonished expression, the nizam bursts out laughing. “That’s quite a lot of money, don’t you think?”

  When they get up from the table, the nizam announces to the diners that he wishes to show the palace to his Spanish guest. They leave the dining hall with the maharaja frowning at them and blowing smoke rings with his Havana cigar. Anita and the nizam go down interminable corridors, walking in silence. They go up and down stairways, and they go under domes and carved doorways. Anita later notes in her diary, “There was not much light and the damp was beginning to bother my eyes. I was shivering. Where was he taking me? I came to ask myself that question with growing concern. I was thinking how furious my husband must be to see me go off alone with the Nizam.”

  Finally, they come to a porch that gives onto an enormous courtyard where the nizam’s fleet of cars is parked. There are rows and rows of Rolls-Royces and splendid limousines “in purdah,” with the Venetian blinds lowered. Anita has no time to ask him what so many cars are doing there when they find themselves at the other side of the courtyard, in the doorway to an enormous hall, the size of a railway station. As she takes in what her eyes are seeing, the question dies on her lips. She stays there standing in the doorway, paralyzed with shock.

  Before her there are two hundred women looking at her. All of them are attractive, with big, dark eyes, beautiful bodies, and golden skin, like satin. They are exquisitely dressed in brocades and sparkling silks. They are wearing gold bracelets on their wrists and arms and rings on their toes. Anita thinks they must be the most beautiful women she has seen in all her life. What a harem! she says to herself, as she moves away from the door. She prefers not to go in, in order not to be inspected by the two hundred wives of the same man. Her first instinct is to get away from that gilded prison. But the nizam takes her by the arm. “Come in,” he tells her, “I want my wives to see you.” He guides her past rows and rows of dazzling beauties until they reach the begum sahiba, Her First Highness, a little older than the others. “She received me with a smile and replied very kindly to the few words I addressed
to her in Hindustani. She seemed delighted to see me in my Indian clothes, which I sometimes wear for official evening receptions,” recorded Anita later.

  As soon as they leave the room, she sighs in relief. As they go back to rejoin the other guests, Anita asks the nizam, “How many wives do you have?”

  “About two hundred and fifty, although I’m not certain of the exact number.”

  At Anita’s expressive gesture, he continues, “My grandfather had three thousand wives. My father, eight hundred. So you see, in comparison, I’m a modest man.”

  They go back to the room where the other guests are enjoying a dance spectacle. The nizam and Anita approach the maharaja, who is nervous and impatient.

  “I wanted to make a gift to my wives by introducing Anita to them,” the sovereign explains to him. “They are a little bored. They like to see a different face from time to time.”

  The maharaja accepts the nizam’s explanation, although he knows that his wife’s disappearance will be the subject of all kinds of speculation. As she sits down, Anita notices that she is the object of furtive glances. But she is used to being the target of all kinds of gossip, and she takes very little notice. She prefers to have fun watching the show. An old Sikh, a member of the Kapurthala retinue, is enraptured by the seductive smiles and gestures of the dancing girl. At the end, to his great disappointment, it turns out that the person swaying around on the dance floor is not a girl but a eunuch. The trick leaves him stunned, while everyone else bursts out laughing. Anita takes out a handkerchief to wipe her tears of laughter.

  The easy atmosphere, the happiness of the evening, and the air of revelry and music are like a metaphor of a time that is coming to an end. None of those present that night can imagine that the news they are about to receive is going to change their lives and the world. At about ten o’clock, the orchestra falls silent, the dancing girls move off the stage, and all eyes turn to the figure of the English resident, Mr. Fraser, who has risen to his feet with a serious look. Tapping on his crystal glass with a knife, he asks for silence. The eunuchs look half in surprise, half in irritation at the sahib who is spoiling the fun.

  “A messenger has just arrived from the residency with very serious news,” Fraser announces in a worried tone. “England has declared war on Germany, together with our allies, France and Russia. In this solemn hour, I ask you all to help with the effort the nation demands from the empire in defense of civilization against barbarity. Your Highnesses, ladies and gentlemen, let us raise our glasses and drink to His Majesty. Long live the emperor! Long live England!”

  The nizam orders the orchestra to play the English national anthem. The nobles of Hyderabad and the Sikhs in their turbans in the Kapurthala retinue come together to sing “God Save the King” in unison. In the coming days, the same wave of solidarity will run through the other palaces in India. Defending the Raj is defending themselves, think the princes. Because if the empire that protects them collapses … What will become of them?

  The nizam insists that the maharaja should stay a day longer in Hyderabad. He has organized a fabulous hunt, typical of his kingdom, which consists of setting a snow leopard on some antelopes in a wild chase, while the guests watch the scene from well-protected places. It is the first time the Kapurthala group has attended such a spectacle, a mixture of excitement, beauty, and cruelty. When the guests return to the palace for lunch, there is a speciality of Hyderabad waiting for them: a dish of spicy rice served with fine, edible leaves of gold and silver. This time Anita finds a pair of ruby earrings in the folds of her serviette. “I hardly dared to accept them,” she wrote in her diary. But she puts them away in her bag, not suspecting that this is just the aperitif. What will occur that same afternoon, at the time when the special Kapurthala train is due to leave, she will note in her diary but keep secret for many years.

  “The Nizam found a way to send me a superb Moslem lady’s dress from Her First Highness, who at the same time requested my presence in the harem one last time.” Some ayas lead her to the women’s palace and in the entrance Anita finds the nizam waiting for her.

  “I would like to ask a favor of you,” the sovereign says. “I would like you to pose for the palace photographer in that Moslem dress. The begum sahiba has asked me to arrange it; since she was so pleased to see you in a sari, now she would like to see you in a sherwani. It is a favor for which I will more than compensate you.”

  “What a fuss and to do for everything to look real in such little time!” Anita would write. “And I only had a few minutes to get to the station, where the Maharajah was waiting for me!” After the photo session, when Anita thinks she can join her husband, an aya goes to fetch her. “The nizam wants to say good-bye …”

  This time the woman guides Anita down other dark, damp corridors on an interminable walk through the depths of the palace. Anita is nervous; the game seems to be going on for too long, and the nizam is too capricious. What can he want now? She knows her husband will be furious, waiting for her on the train.

  “We’re nearly there,” the aya tells her, seeming to guess how impatient she is.

  Suddenly they find themselves in a small courtyard, outside some security doors. The nizam gazes at Anita and smiles.

  “I told you I would more than compensate you …” he says, handing her an empty little wooden casket. Next he orders the security doors to be opened and goes with Anita into a storeroom with weak lighting. When Anita’s eyes get used to the dark, she begins to realize she is in a kind of Aladdin’s cave. As though sparkling in the sky like stars, the precious stones piled up in buckets and barrels glisten beautifully. There are drawers full of jewels, ingots of gold and silver, uncut stones and others cut and polished. It is the most incredible thing she has seen in her life.

  “Fill the box to the brim. This is my gift to the most captivating of all my guests.”

  Anita has no intention of rejecting this offer. Little by little, as though hypnotized, she puts precious stones in the jewelry case until it is overflowing. Then the nizam accompanies her to one of his cars with the blinds down.

  “This is where I say good-bye,” he says, putting his hand to his forehead in Moslem style.

  “Salam Aleikum,” Anita replies, making the same gesture and getting into the car. “And thank you.”

  Meanwhile the maharaja is waiting in his private carriage. He is not used to being kept waiting, and even less to being humiliated in such a fashion. When Anita finally arrives and tells him about posing for the photograph dressed as a Moslem as a favor to the women in the zenana, the maharaja is livid. For his wife to receive one present after another in public is already an insult, but for the nizam to have a photographer take her picture in Moslem dress, while he and his retinue are waiting at the station for the official farewell, is absolutely intolerable.22 Thank goodness Anita does not tell him about the little casket full of jewels.

  “Calm down. The nizam had the best of intentions.”

  “You shouldn’t have joined in his game.”

  “But mon chéri …” Anita does not want to argue.

  The sky is cloudy and a storm is threatening. She is leaving and is sad because of the happy hours she has spent there, but also with her woman’s vanity rekindled. The richest man on Earth has treated her like a queen and, at the same time, has made her rich. She has managed to make her husband jealous. She understands that he is annoyed, but she is happy because the nizam has boosted her confidence at a time when she most needs it. She is sure that, through those in the entourage, people in Kapurthala will get to hear of her success with the most powerful monarch in India.

  “There’s no point in arguing,” she tells her husband. “What is the importance of all that compared to the tragedy that is ahead of the world?”

  The train moves slowly forward, passing the elegant mausoleums of Malakhpet where a French general is buried who attempted to gain favor with the n
izam’s forbear; if he had been successful, her husband would have been delighted because the whole of India would speak French. Then, in the distance, she can make out the four minarets of the Charminar with its fountain and its clock; the magnificent building of the residency, half English and half Moghul, built by an English diplomat, Kirkpatrick, who fell madly in love with a Moslem niece of the nizam’s prime minister, and all the fragile palaces amid silent gardens in which old men in fezes stroll, still lamenting the loss of Granada. Palaces that are strung out like the notes from a ghazal, ballads in Urdu that sing of impossible loves.

  22 A few months later, the nizam sent a telegram to the maharaja announcing that he intended to return their visit, but the maharaja replied that he was about to travel to Europe and could not receive him. From that moment, there was a complete break in relations between the two sovereigns.

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  India has never been as united as in the summer of 1914, as though all the old tensions and animosities had evaporated. Representatives of every race, religion, and caste publicly declare their loyalty to the emperor and his intention to fight Germany, the power that threatens the Pax Britannica and, therefore, the ruling order in India. The maharaja is the first to offer the viceroy the Imperial Regiment of Kapurthala, consisting of over one thousand, six hundred men. He adds a donation of a hundred thousand pounds. Rich or poor, devout or depraved, decadent or progressive, the princes make every effort required by the war without skimping on money or the blood of their people. The tiny principality of Sangli makes a donation of seventy-five thousand rupees and invests another half a million in war bonds. Nawanagar contributes with the equivalent of six months’ income from taxes, and Rewa offers his whole reserve of jewels. Bhupinder Singh of Patiala rushes round the five thousand square kilometers of his state and manages to get together a troop of sixteen thousand Sikh soldiers, highly valued by the English and famed for being excellent warriors. Ganga Singh of Bikaner, who holds the position of general in the British army, sends his camel troops to attack the German trenches. The contribution of the nizam of Hyderabad is fundamental right from the start. The viceroy asks him, as leader of the Sunni Moslem community of India, to try to convince his fellow believers to ignore the fatwa—the call to holy war—made by the Ottoman caliph of Turkey, who has allied himself with the Germans. The nizam immediately sends out a call, telling his people to fight on the side of the Allies. Thanks to this early intervention, the Lancers of Jodhpur will tear Haifa out of the hands of the Turks in September 1917. His sovereign’s vanity will be rewarded at the end of the war, when the English agreed to an old claim of his that would set him above all the other princes. They grant him the title of His Exalted Highness, the only one in the world. In only two months, India manages to put a million soldiers on a war footing.