by M. M. Kaye
These were the exceptions rather than the rule. But there were still enough of them to make me tread very carefully. And everyone was aware that among the ranks of the ruling princes there was at least one Maharajah, the ruler of no small state, who on any occasion on which Angrezis might be present, made a point of wearing specially made thin silk gloves, for fear that he might have to shake hands with one. I cannot think of any Angrezi who would have wished to take that particular hand, since his reputation for cruelty was of the blackest, and rumour credited him with several murders, including that of a wife or two; the law that prevented a ruling prince being prosecuted in any public court saved him again and again from being hauled before a judge. It was only when he flew into a rage with one of his horses which had either failed to win a race, or performed unsatisfactorily on a polo field — I forget which — and, calling for a can of petrol, flung the contents over the unfortunate animal and set a match to it, that the Government of India, which had been reluctant to prosecute him when it was a human life that was in question, suddenly came over all British, decided that His Highness had gone too far, and had him deposed.
There may have been a time when I was unaware of the existence and the rules of caste (one could hardly have been a child in India and not known them). But, if so, I don’t remember it, and I suppose I can’t have been much affected by them because, when last there, I had been regarded as being below the age of caste. But now it was different. Now I was a grown-up. And far from feeling myself superior to the natives of the country — as every trendy author from Forster onwards insists was the almost universal Sahib-log’s attitude — I realized that it was I, as an Angrezi, who was the second-class citizen; and I was, and still am, deeply grateful for the kindness and good manners of the many Indians of all faiths, castes and classes who never made me feel an interloper. For their sakes I can forgive the very few who did. But because of the disproportionate pain and embarrassment inflicted by those few, I withdrew into my shell and became wary of making overtures for fear of being snubbed. And lost, in consequence, that carefree feeling of ease and belonging and comradeship that had pervaded the years of my childhood.
I felt that loss keenly. But it was only with Indians of my own class that I felt I must now watch my step. With the servants, bazaar-folk and villagers — the ‘populace’ — the old ease was still there, probably because the masses were still sublimely uninterested in politics and, unlike the middle and upper-middle classes, had not yet (outside his home patch) heard much, if anything, about Gandhi. If only I had not forgotten how to speak fluent Hindustani, I think that with them I could have picked up the threads of my life exactly where I had been forced to drop them when, over nine years before, I sailed tearfully away from Bombay.
As it was, my command of the language was now practically nil. It was a grave disadvantage, for although the majority of the Indian friends who came from the same social stratum as myself spoke fluent English, the ordinary working-class folk in the bazaars and villages did not. And I was soon to discover that I could no longer chatter freely with them, even though there were still so many of them in Shah Jehan’s Delhi and its outskirts whom I remembered with affection, and who had not forgotten either me or my sister Bets. Although I learned soon enough to translate what they were saying and to make myself understood, it was never again with the ease and familiarity of those early years, when I could gossip and crack jokes with them. That comfortable degree of familiarity never returned, for the gift of tongues that Tacklow possessed, and which I had once hoped that I had inherited, was denied me. Nor have I transmitted it to my grandchildren. It has been left to Bets to hand it on, by way of her younger son, to no fewer than three of her granddaughters.
For the reasons that I have given, my memories of my first season as a grown-up in Imperial Delhi are not entirely happy ones. Many of the British companions of my childhood, who had left India similarly bound for boarding-schools when the ‘Great War’ ended, had not returned. Some never would; and of those who did, only one or two had been close friends. As for the very few Indian ones who still lived in Delhi, and with whom I could no longer talk without thinking in their own tongue, I felt, for the first time, as though I did not belong in their country by right. Yet the land itself, particularly Old Delhi, was kind to me and never let me down. It had changed very little, and just to walk around it again and visit all our old haunts was a deep and satisfying delight.
Curzon House, which had been home to me for so many cold weather seasons during my childhood, had now become the Swiss Hotel. But its old name remained on the wrought iron of the gates, while the gardens, and the Kaye Battery marking the site of the siege battery commanded by my kinsman, Edward Kaye of the Bengal Artillery, during the attack on Delhi in the early autumn of the Black Year, were still as I remembered them — as was our favourite playground, the Kudsia Bagh. But our secret hideaway on the ruined gateway had been unkindly exposed. The bamboos and the flowering creepers which had previously concealed it had been ruthlessly uprooted, or else equally ruthlessly pruned, and the magic had gone. So, too, had the gap in the hedge through which Bets and I used to crawl in order to play with the Indian children who lived in those beautiful ‘John Company’ style houses between Maiden’s Hotel and the Kudsia Bagh. As for our old friend and ally, the chowkidar who used to occupy one of the ground rooms in the ruined gateway that was once the main entrance to the Begum Kudsia’s palace, there was no sign of him and no one could tell us where he had gone; or when. There had been no chowkidar for many monsoons, they said; who could tell how many? When we asked if he were still alive, they only shrugged and gave India’s time-honoured reply: ‘Who knows?’ Yet superficially, at least, very little had changed.
The Old Delhi Club still functioned, and the band still played dance music on the lawn of an evening; only now it was: ‘Avalon’, ‘Always’ and ‘Miss Annabelle Lee’ instead of ‘Long, Long Trail’ and the ‘Merry Widow Waltz’. As many butterflies as ever still lilted through the hot, sun-chequered shadows of the old cemetery, and the peacocks still cried at dusk and dawn. And though our old chowkidar had gone, the parrots and the blue-jays and hoopoes had not, while the galaries — the little striped-back Indian chipmunks that we used to call ‘tree-rats’ and for whom we used to save up our toast crusts and cake crumbs when we were children — still whisked up and down the trunks of the peepul trees exactly as their great-great-grandparents used to do in the days when Punj-ayah would take us for our morning walks through the Kudsia Bagh to feed the birds and squirrels.
Best of all, that first year, one of my parents’ old friends, Monty Ashley-Phillips, who, while Bets and I were in boarding-school in England, had shared their bungalow in Rajpore Road, had arranged to take us all out to a shooting-camp over the Christmas holidays. So once again we donned the familiar camp uniform of khaki shirt, breeches and topi that were obligatory wear for such occasions, drove for miles along the Grand Trunk Road, crossed the Jumna by country-boat, and then jolted and bumped for more miles along a rutted cart-track towards the little village of Hassanpore, on the outskirts of which our camp had been pitched in the shade of a mango tope.
There must have been other guests, for as far as I remember the party numbered four or five guns in addition to Mother, Bets and myself, who did not shoot and were merely spectators. Everything that was shot went into the pot. Duck, teal, partridge, quail and snipe, an occasional black-buck and, understudying for the traditional Christmas turkey, a plump peahen. The camp’s khansama (cook) would look over the day’s bag to take his pick, and anything that was left over would be distributed among the local villagers.
Game was plentiful and the days were blue and gold and windless, and it would have been a halcyon period if it had not been for the temperature. But the starry nights were bitterly cold, and I still remember, with a shudder, our first night under canvas, and the way the cold struck upwards from the ground through the thin mattress of my camp-bed, making me feel as though I
were lying on a block of ice. It took me quite a time to realize that some of the blankets, resais (padded quilts) and coats that I had piled on top of me would do a lot more good if I put them underneath me instead; and it was only after I had crawled out, shivering, into the darkness to grope for and light a hurricane-lamp and reorganize my bedding that I unfroze enough to get some sleep. But, apart from that, every day was magic, and it was as if I had never been away.
* See The Sun in the Morning.
* I use that term in its old meaning: whites who spent their working lives in India, but returned to their home country on retirement.
Chapter 6
Tacklow’s work was concerned with the princely states of Rajputana; that vast expanse of sun-scorched country that Kipling called ‘the Cockpit of India’, and which nowadays is once again known by its own name of Rajasthan — the Country of the Kings — though technically there are no more kings, for twenty-four years after Independence, Mrs Gandhi abolished them and only the afterglow of their glory and their legendary deeds remain. But back in the twenties, as rulers of semi-independent sovereign states, they still wielded a good deal of power, and one of the first states on Tacklow’s agenda was Gwalior, whose late Maharajah, old Madhav Rao Scindia, had been a personal friend of his — as was its then Resident, Mr Crump, who had invited Tacklow to stay with him and to ‘bring Daisy and the girls’.
The Residency at Gwalior must have been one of the most splendid in India, second only to the absurdly grandiose one in Hyderabad, Deccan, and possessing, in a land where water is precious, that luxury of Indian luxuries, a swimming-pool. Mr Crump was the nicest of hosts, and we were wined and dined at the palace and taken to see all the sights of the state, which included riding up to Gwalior Fort on one of His Highness’s elephants. The fort is everything that a medieval fort should be: it dominates the country for miles around, for it is built on the crest of a soaring outcrop of rock that juts up out of the plain to tower above Gwalior city, lying close-packed in its shadow below.
Mother, who dabbled in watercolours and would, during the succeeding years, paint the fort again and again, made her first attempts to capture it on Cox’s paper,* standing sentinel above the flat-topped roofs of the city, dark against a clean expanse of clear, turquoise sky; while Tacklow told me an intriguing story about it that the old Maharajah had told him long ago. I have never forgotten that tale. It still fascinates me, so if you are sitting comfortably (or even if you aren’t) I now propose to tell it to you …
It concerns the old Maharajah — Scindia of Gwalior — and a fabulous treasure that according to local legend was buried centuries ago somewhere within the fort. This, according to the Maharajah, had been searched for by several generations of the ruling house, including himself. He had, he said, searched for it again and again in his youth, until there was hardly a foot of ground within the circumference of that enormous fort that had not been probed and dug over, or examined for signs of a secret chamber. In the end he had decided that there was no truth in the story. But one day an aged man appeared at one of his public durbahs (councils) and asked for a private audience, saying that he was an astrologer who had some very important information to impart that was for the ear of His Highness alone …
Well, it was not Scindia’s custom (so His Highness assured Tacklow) to grant private audiences to strangers. But something about this particular petitioner aroused his curiosity. And since the man looked far too old and frail to be planning any rough stuff (and even if he had, he, Scindia, felt himself to be more than capable of dealing with anything in that department), he consented, and the two withdrew to the Diwani-i-Khas, the Hall of Private Audience.
Only when he was certain that everyone else had been excluded did the old man, lowering his voice to a hoarse whisper, confide that he knew the secret hiding-place of the treasure. He had, he claimed, seen it himself and was prepared to show His Highness the hiding-place. But only on one condition: if, on the night of the next full moon — then only a few days ahead — His Highness would come alone and unarmed to the main gate at the foot of the rock upon which the fort was built, he would meet him there and lead him to where the treasure lay. Was the Maharajah-Sahib prepared to take the risk?
His Highness thought the matter over and inquired if the old man too would come alone and unarmed? ‘Certainly,’ replied the stranger; moreover, should the Maharajah-Sahib wish, he could come to the assignation with as large an armed guard as he desired. But they must stay outside the outer gate and he must go the rest of the way alone. ‘Done!’ said H. H., and when the old man had gone he took certain precautions.
For two days before the night of the full moon, the fort was closed to the public and exhaustively searched to ensure that the stranger did not have a gang hidden there among the ancient ruins, or in one of the empty palaces — the beautiful Chit Mahal or the Jahangeri Mahal, or any of the old disused buildings that had once been used as gaols, and whose foundations were pitted with underground cells. In addition, on the night of the full moon the foot of the entire rock was ringed by troops — ‘So that not even a mongoose could have slipped out unseen.’
True to his word, the old astrologer was waiting outside the first of the outer gates, alone and unarmed, carrying nothing but a hurricane-lamp. After he was searched the two were admitted, and together they climbed the long, steep road in the bright moonlight. Once through the gateway on the summit the old man stopped, and turning to Scindia said that from now on the Maharajah-Sahib must go blindfold. When Scindia jibbed at this he was told that in that case they would have to call the whole thing off and go back, and since he obviously meant it, H. H. gave in. Whereupon his guide blindfolded him very efficiently and led him forward.
Thereafter the two walked and walked for what seemed like hours, twisting and turning, climbing up and down stairways and in and out of empty buildings, so that in no time at all Scindia had lost all sense of direction and hadn’t the least idea where he was or in which direction he was facing. Then at long last they began to descend a narrow stone stairway that wound down and down into cold, airless blackness …
The old Maharajah — who had been a young man then — told Tacklow that he could just make out a faint gleam of light from the hurricane-lamp at the edge of the bandage across his eyes. But that was all. Then all at once, after they had groped their way down for a long time, he thought he heard the sound of soft footsteps creeping down behind him. He strained his ears to listen, and soon became certain that there was a third person on the stair. Stout-hearted as he was, he panicked, believing that despite all his precautions he had let himself be lured into a trap and that he was being led to his death.
He had not brought a gun or a knife with him, but had taken the precaution of hiding a weapon in the shape of a short length of lead among his clothing. Now, bringing this out, he snatched his hand from the clasp of his guide’s elderly, claw-like hand and, ripping the bandage from his eyes, hit the old man as hard as he could at the base of his skull. He said he heard the bone crack and as the old man fell forward the lamp, released, crashed to the ground, flared up and went out. Scindia was left in pitch darkness. Gripped by panic, and armed only with the lead truncheon, he turned and fled back up the stairs, guiding himself with one hand against the cold, slimy stone of the curving wall, and, he confessed, in deadly fear of running straight on to the knife of an armed assassin above him. But he met no one.
He told Tacklow that the narrow stairway seemed to wind up for ever, and that when he reached the top, gasping and breathless, he made for the first gleam of moonlight he could see. After groping his way through a maze of dark rooms, and gaping doorways that seemed to lead nowhere, he found himself in the open at last and rushed out into the night, yelling for his guards, and with no idea where he was because, by that time, the moon was well down in the sky and all the shadows were far longer and lying at a different angle. He had, he confessed, worked himself into such a state of terror that he rushed to and fro, scr
eaming and shouting like a lunatic, and when at last he found himself on the slope below one of the inner gates, he pelted down it and collapsed into the arms of the anxious guard with barely enough breath to order that no one must be allowed to leave the rock until further orders.
It was only when he awoke next day that he realized that the footsteps he had heard behind him were probably no more than an echo of his own and his guide’s, resounding hollowly in the tunnel-like walls of that winding stair, and that he had almost certainly killed the old astrologer who had been leading him down it. Well, that was too bad. But at least he now knew where to look for the treasure, even though he hadn’t the remotest idea in which building or what part of the fort that staircase lay. For now they only had to search for a dead man and a broken kerosene lamp; and neither were insignificant objects that would escape the eye.
No? Well, he was wrong there, admitted old Scindia. They went through the fort with a fine-tooth comb, every foot of it, over and over and over again. Yet they never found a trace of either. No corpse, no broken glass, and no trace of spilled kerosene — or of any stairway that corresponded with the one he had been led down, blindfold, and escaped from in pitch darkness and a state of blind panic. Which could only mean that the entrance to it must have been hidden by a slab of stone that the old man must have been at pains to lift earlier in the evening. Yet if that were so, how had it been closed? And by whom? ‘For I tell you, my friend,’ insisted old Scindia, ‘I heard his skull crack! — on my head and my life, I heard it! Who then let down the stone? Or closed it, if it stands in a wall? Tell me that.’
There is no answer to that one: unless you choose to visit the great fort at Gwalior and see for yourself how easy it would have been for a single accomplice (or even half-a-dozen!) to lie hidden in one of those huge, half-ruined buildings, wait for the moon to rise, and, when the self-styled astrologer appeared with the blindfolded Maharajah in tow, follow the two into that final building, wait for them to emerge from the hidden stairway and — when only one, the panic-stricken ruler — rushed out and fled screaming into the night, cover up the entrance before making his, or her or their own escape.