I could have gagged. Bravo. Hooray. Cheers. If that wasn’t superb theatre, I don’t know anything about acting any more. Oh the modesty, the humility and the magnanimity of the man. There were tears in Rajput eyes, young and ancient. You might have the full deck of cards but Father has always got an extra card up his sleeve that’s sure to wipe you out. I could hear a murmur rising. I could tell it was about to turn into a thundering chorus. The credulous fools didn’t even pause to ask themselves why after all these years of victories and bodily injuries, His Majesty had chosen this moment to offer his resignation. What was he up to? What game was he playing? Why not say it in plain language, what did the great big idol of Mewar want? But why was I rushing things? The cat was bound to pop out of the bag in a few minutes. If Father was trying to prove his popularity, he had made his point. They were raising hell, yelling the great big hall down, vying with each other to proclaim their loyalty. It was wonderful to watch my brother Vikramaditya, who not too many years ago had tried to unseat Father, now racing ahead of everyone else and in a frenzy of filial love swearing to slit his own throat if His Majesty stepped down.
I had, needless to say, painted myself into a corner. I had no one to blame but myself. If you are a public personality and wish to remain so, you can’t afford to shy away from showmanship. It’s not enough to be honest and loyal, frankly it doesn’t matter if you are not, so long as you are perceived to be so. Why was I tongue-tied, why couldn’t I compete with the rest of them and tell Father that I wouldn’t permit him to retire from kingship when that was the truth and nothing but? If you like, let’s take a more cynical view. What would happen if he threw it all up and walked away? What if they appointed, at his bidding, Vikramaditya as his successor? Anyway you looked at it, I had little choice but to bray along with the others. It was too late now. I had let my diffidence and dislike for exhibitionism get the better of me. Besides, I was being unfair to the majority of Mewar’s vassals and friends. Whatever their private ambitions, they respected Father and believed in him and his leadership. I caught my uncle Lakshman Simhaji looking at me quizzically. He was my father’s colleague and contemporary. He could afford to hold his tongue. No one would question his intentions.
Two minutes of ‘nays’ would have made the point but His Majesty let them go on for over five minutes. It fell upon Rawat Rattan Simha of Salumbar to refute His Majesty’s transparently rhetorical argument. With what earnestness and enthusiasm he took up his task. There was not a shadow of dissembling or sham in the good man. Like almost all the other grandees, he believed that his liege meant every word he uttered and would renounce both royal title and function. How suavely Father had manoeuvred his vassalage and courtiers exactly where he wanted.
We were kings by divine right, the earthly regents of Lord Eklingji who is none other than the great Shiva himself. By the simple device of a simile, Father had entered highly dangerous and dubious waters and arrogated divinity to himself. And yet here were Rawat Rattan Simha and the other elders falling over each other trying to explain with more and more convoluted ratiocination why he must continue to occupy the throne and perform the duties that devolve upon the Maharana.
‘We submit to Your Majesty that your excessive sense of modesty, your untiring and persistent endeavours to put the interest of the state above all else, and your regard for the court have clouded your mind like the opaque tissue of a cataract and thus engendered the subtlest misapprehensions and misconceptions in it. We beg you to allow us to remove the scales from your eyes. The injuries His Majesty has received are the mark of the legendary heroism and valour that every Rajput thirsts after. They were earned in the line of the highest duty to the state while vanquishing the enemy and ensuring the pride of victory for Mewar and its friends. You are not the lesser from loss of limbs or your wounds. Far from diminishing your reputation and stature, they crown you with the most illustrious laurels and enhance the glory and fame of Mewar. More than ever before you are the paradigm of divinity.’
The bombast was forgivable. The lord of Salumbar had a difficult task and he was trying to impress his liege. How we get carried away by words. Who is to keep track and count of the rights and prerogatives we give away of our own accord in our eagerness to make gods of men? Further vociferous cheering followed. Finally, Rao Viramdev stepped forward and raised his hand. He waited till the last voice had died down.
‘Your Majesty, you have heard the verdict of the people of Mewar, of the raos and rawats, of the princes and the court officials. We’ve gathered here to celebrate our victory over the Delhi Sultanate. I beg you not to turn it into a grievous defeat.’ Thereupon, Rao Viramdev and the other chieftains including Raja Puraji Kika got up and took His Majesty by the hand and placed him on the unoccupied throne.
Father demurred. Father protested. Father acquiesced.
‘What can I say? To refuse now would be tantamount to abusing your trust in me and my office. There is only one thing that sustains any kingship: the faith and goodwill of its people. I’m overwhelmed by your regard for me. I am beholden to you and hope that I shall continue to be worthy of your great trust.’ When the applause had subsided, Father spoke softly. ‘I have but one small request.’ ‘Yes, yes,’ the courtiers and the whole assembly shouted, ‘we’ll lay down our lives for you, Sire.’ His Majesty had something a little less straightforward and obvious than the mere gift of life on his mind. We had come to the point of this whole elaborate exercise. ‘It is our wish that the fort and province of Ranthambhor be bestowed upon Prince Vikramaditya and his brother Prince Uday Simha as jagirs.’
Where had all the hurrahs and bellowing and ‘Anything, absolutely anything, Sire, it is yours to ask and ours to give’ vanished? The court sat stunned. His Majesty was breaking with tradition and the sanctity that attaches to protocol that had been deliberately constructed over hundreds of years. He would get away with it, no doubt about it, but it was evident that in his moment of triumph Father had overplayed his hand. He had misjudged the mood of his court: his lords, nobles and rajas were willing to back him all the way but not the caprice and favouritism of an overbearing and overindulged queen. By giving in to her, Father was willing to risk alienating his closest allies. But there was more to follow. Having gone out on a limb for Queen Karmavati’s two sons, the younger one still a child, and asked for a special and extraordinary dispensation for them, Father felt compelled to safeguard their interests further.
Rani Karmavati may have been a foolish queen but she was no fool. The jagir of Ranthambhor was not only a considerable territory, it was one of our most prestigious provinces. She must have suspected that her beloved Vikramaditya may not be up to the task of defending that fine stronghold.
‘I would like to ask His Highness, Hada Surajmal to be the guardian of the two Princes in Ranthambhor.’
Hada Surajmal sat impassively, only the ticking of the pulse in his tight-set jaw giving away his surprise, anger and discomfiture at Father’s request. Queen Karmavati and the Hada had nothing, absolutely nothing in common but the fact that they were siblings. Hada Surajmal was curt, haughty, painfully upright and exceedingly sensitive to the possibility that his position and privileges may be construed to be a consequence of his sister’s marriage to His Majesty. He loathed his nephew Vikramaditya. If he could, he would never have visited Chittor. He did not stay at the Palace but with friends of his in the capital. He was one of our most important and valued allies. He was also one of the three or four people in Mewar who could stand up to Father.
‘Your Majesty, the interests of Mewar are paramount to me.’ He then looked pointedly at me. ‘As such my loyalty to the throne forbids me from undertaking a commitment that may perchance lead to a conflict of interests.’
I found it droll that the Hada should glower at me. Since I no longer figured in the line of succession, there would certainly be no conflict of interest between his nephews, especially Vikramaditya and me.
‘Your Highness,’ Father answered in an u
naccustomedly appeasing tone, ‘I doubt that such an extreme exigency will arise. But let me reassure you that should there ever be a divergence of interests, the well-being of Mewar will take precedence over all else.’
Hada Surajmal had little choice but to accept the assignment.
‘As you wish, Majesty, but,’ he was not about to give in without protest, ‘I hope I have made it amply clear that I would find it intolerable to be put in an untenable position.’
Father smiled and refrained from comment. ‘One last matter and we’ll proceed with the festivities. We have recalled our eldest son from Kumbhalgarh. As of tomorrow he’ll be appointed governor of Chittor and will assist me in the War Council.’
A single audible gasp escaped from the Queen’s enclosure. While my favourite mother’s confidant, the eunuch Bruhannada maintained an impassive expression, she had not been able to contain herself. It was followed by much thumping and clapping from the court. I’m often lectured in glowing terms about the innate wisdom of the common man. It is pointed out that regardless of temporary lapses, it rests on a solid foundation of pragmatism, hardheaded sense and the good of the community. It’s a nice thesis and patently false. The common man is just as fickle, shortsighted, sensible or otherwise as the nobility gathered in this court. We are deluding ourselves when we say man is a rational animal. If we are to understand him, or ourselves rather, we must look to impulse, the mood of the moment, the herd mentality and a cursed unwillingness to weigh the consequences of our actions. There was indeed a simple explanation for the sudden show of affection for me. When indifferent tidings come on the heels of bad news, they are greeted as if there has been a turn in fortunes that one has prayed and yearned for every hour of one’s life.
I would have to be a tetchy prig to be piqued by the newfound enthusiasm of the courtiers for me and their attempts to catch my eye and convey their congratulations. I smiled back at them but my thoughts were elsewhere. That old fox, His Majesty, was in good shape and at his devious best. You had to hand it to him. He had fooled even his favourite queen who had put him up to gifting the kingdom and purse of Ranthambhor to her own children. That susurrus of surprise from her was not for dramatic effect. It was the genuine article. She had got what she wanted but Father had proved once again that he was the master of the stalemate. He had obviously left Queen Karmavati in the dark about the new move he had planned and had thwarted both Vikramaditya and me. Our fortunes had improved but we were no better off than we were. You can’t please everybody, a king certainly can’t, Father had said to me when I was a child. He had forgotten to mention the other half of that proposition. You can displease everybody and get some peace of mind for yourself. The whole court, including the Queen, was at liberty to keep guessing who Father had in mind as his successor while the princes could keep themselves busy scheming and intriguing against each other and with some luck kill each other off.
* * *
So far, two of the administrative officers working for me have taken it upon themselves to tell me that they did things differently. I have quietly and half seriously reminded them that things haven’t changed but have gone back to being the same as they were. My style may not have changed but my hours have. I hope it is only till such time as I finish catching up. Otherwise I will have given the lie to my maxim that whether you work eight or twenty hours, the quantum of work that gets done on a normal day is the same.
Vikramaditya had spent all his time on the second set of administrative services he set up. The parallel economy, the parallel police force, the parallel food and agricultural department, the parallel trade and commerce ministry and so on. That left the original infrastructure in a shambles. My younger brother, Rattan, who was given charge of Chittor when Father was out campaigning against Sultan Ibrahim Lodi, did not wish to rock the boat. His concept of the job was an interim one, a holding operation till Father returned. His chief concern was to keep the machinery of the state working.
I am supposed to be working right under Father’s nose. That should leave me paralyzed but I prefer to think that it gives me a free hand. After all, his subjects are bound to take it for granted that he is keeping an eye on me. For one interminable month I debated whether I should take action against the officers who ran the parallel government and whose dereliction of duty had few precedents in our history. Tej and Shafi had enough documented evidence against them, especially the senior members, to keep them in jail for at least a couple of lives. I knew it was the right thing to do to set a precedent and a deterrent. But wisdom, I felt at this juncture, did not lie in taking punitive action. I would be raking up a lot of old issues and making the whole administration nervous.
It would be seen as vengeful instead of just and fair and I would paralyse the civil services. Perhaps I was taking the easier way out, letting sleeping dogs lie. (As in most cases where higher-ups are involved, the moving force behind the colossal corruption in the state would go scot-free.) I declared amnesty for all and sundry in my mind. But anybody who slipped up henceforth would pay a heavy price for wrongs past and present.
There is no addiction like work and routine. After barely five weeks in Chittor, I find it difficult to recall that I have been out of circulation for close to three years, one in Chittor and nearly two in Kumbhalgarh.
I ask myself how this extended period of enforced marginalization and inactivity has affected me? Do human beings ever change? Do calamities, crises, sudden loss of self-esteem, and the meaning of one’s life, the death of one’s closest friends or relatives transform one in obvious as well as subtle ways? Do our goals alter? Is there a larger vision of life? Do our unhappy experiences make us more understanding of people and their foibles? One could go on with the list of possibilities for a couple of pages. But one question alone will suffice. Do they make us better human beings? I find the thought that great upheavals and traumas may leave us untouched at the very core of our beings, even as we protest to the contrary, devastating, though I suspect that that is where the truth lies. I’m not making any large generalizations nor do I claim to have made a deep study of the subject. I can only speak for myself. I find that I’m still as intent on being Maharaj Kumar as I ever was. There’s one thing and one thing alone that I want above all else: it is the crown after Father’s death. Secondly, I’m still utterly and inseparably attached to worldly ambitions like enlarging our kingdom to the boundaries of the oceans, and that’s the very least I would aim for. Take those two things away and what is left of me? My wife, Kausalya, Leelawati, my good friends Raja Puraji Kika, Tej and Shafi matter to me, but the meaning of my life does not revolve around them.
I am, as even my well-wishers are constrained to admit, a man with not one, but numerous hobby horses. The intervening lost years have brought a new sense of urgency so that I’m now trying to ride astride all of them simultaneously. Everything has a rhythm and a momentum. A little too early or too late and you fall on your face. I am beginning to appreciate more and more the importance of the auspicious moment. Why is timing so important for a project? Because mankind would like a tree to bear fruit before planting the seed. We would all want Victory Towers dedicated to ourselves without laying deep and solid foundations. The propitious moment is rarely the next day or the next minute. It is a week, months or even years away. It forces you to get your wits together, to analyse data, assess the chances of success, check whether you’ve got your facts right and check and double-check who is likely to go along with you, who’ll go against you and who’ll sit on the fence. Plan your strategy to the last detail and then know when to seize the auspicious moment. Ripeness is all. Or phrasing it a little more practically and personally, catch Father and his senior advisers at the right moment. Even in matters of state when sometimes the very survival of the polity may be at stake, never underestimate the effect of the favourable moment. Without it, as with both pointless haste and procrastination, all will come to nought.
At the third cabinet meeting since my return, the town
planner, Sahasmal and I pushed through the water and sewage schemes without needing exceptional skills in persuasion. I’ll attempt the tunnel project only when Sahasmal has devised a foolproof system of ventilating the passages.
That brought me to the third and most pressing of my self-imposed tasks: reliable information regarding ordnance and weapons knowhow and the latest military strategies. Instead of making a case for each individual project, I had temporarily circumvented most of the problems by clubbing all of them under the title of Intelligence. All I did was to get Father’s approval for Mangal’s appointment as head of the intelligence services. Father was of the view that as Mewar’s territories grew, there was a need to recruit more agents and of course, increase the budget for the department substantially. What Mangal and I did with the budget was my business and responsibility so long as the security of the state was not compromised.
Mewar’s intelligence services were at an all-time low. Let me rephrase that. The reports from our various agents kept coming in regularly. But in the absence of an active and centralized guiding authority, a clear-cut enunciation of goals and special subjects of interest, our agents stuck to traditional areas of observation, enquiry, infiltration and reporting. There was no system for gauging the value of the reports. Not only was the enemy as busy as we were planting false information, but, as in most fields where immediate means of verification are not available, the only way an agent can raise his importance is to inflate dangers and threats – better still, invent them and inculcate a chronic crisis mentality. Matters got completely out of hand and inextricably complicated when the competitive element was added to the spy scenario.
Agents rarely knew the contents submitted by other members in the service but they did not wish to take any chances. They turned master storytellers. In the majority of the reports, even dry ones like the enemy’s crop situation or the numerical strength of a garrison, they turned themselves into heroes. They took on the might of Delhi, Gujarat, Malwa or any of our other opponents single-handed; the odds would be stacked a thousand to one but they secured the information and came out alive.
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