‘Captain Sahib,’ His Highness began as we settled down into the armoured car, ‘what did General Raghbir Singh say about the army manoeuvres?’
‘To be sure, Highness, he is ordering them.’
This was the first I had heard of army manoeuvres. Apparently the only counter to the States Department at Delhi, or to the States People’s Movement, he could think of was to hold manoeuvres in Sham Pur to demonstrate to all and sundry the real quality of his might as an independent ruler. And so involved was he within his own subjective power urges that it all seemed pathetic. For he was not even concerned with the fact that there had been a great deal of discontent in the villages through sporadic manoeuvres. The peasants were requisitioned always to do forced labour in the areas in which the manoeuvres took place; and poultry, eggs, butter, milk, fuel-wood, etc., were taken free of charge, or for merely nominal prices, by the soldiers; while whole fields full of crops were crushed and laid bare by the tanks and the artillery.
‘What did he say?’ His Highness probed. ‘I mean what was his attitude towards me?’
‘Very cordial, Highness,’ said Partap Singh. ‘Unlike the other sardars, he is loyal.’
‘Han, han!’ said Victor, seeming to listen and yet not listening. For he was absent-minded, thinking of some deep game. And his weak, sensitive face was darkening with thought.
I looked out of the window of the armoured car and saw that the main Victoria bazaar was copiously sprinkled with bunches of policemen. Most of the shops were shut, because business did not begin in Sham Pur till nearly midday; though the suspicion crossed my mind that the Praja Mandal may have called a hartal, a complete cessation of work, for not many people were about.
‘I will fix them all, one by one,’ His Highness boasted naïvely. ‘I think Diwan Popatlal Shah can be won over and . . .’
From behind the shadows of his visage there was reflected a glint in his eyes, as though the hidden universe was suddenly being lit up by flashes of insight. But as there was a trace of sadness in the tones of darkness in the lines beneath the eyes, I knew that his strategy in tackling the Diwan, the Commander-in-Chief, the rebellious sardars, the Praja Mandal leaders, and almost everyone else, was based on the insecure foundations of his relationship with Ganga Dasi, and that, deep within, he knew he was doomed, that the thinking points in him were merely a number of cold, deliberate and mechanical tricks, beyond which he was enmeshed in a cloud of unknowing.
He sought to protect himself from the awareness of coming betrayals by building up a bluff of heartiness. Thumping Partap Singh on the back, he said in the proverbial Punjabi phrase:
‘Don’t you care for the limp lord!’
As I looked away, while His Highness was building up this bonhomie, he began to feel a little uneasy.
‘Why so solemn-faced?’ he asked.
‘Monday morning!’ I answered.
But this did not satisfy him. And he looked quizzically at me, and was going to say something, but then controlled himself.
As we got out of the armoured car and proceeded towards the annexe of the Huzuri Bag Palace, which served as the office, he leaned over to me and asked:
‘What did Gangi say to you about me this morning?’
I was slightly taken aback at the fact that he knew his mistress had been to see me. But I surmised that nothing remained hidden in the palace. And I was glad that I had resisted all Ganga Dasi’s assaults on me and controlled myself when I felt a little slippery.
‘She wanted to enlist my support to get a settlement out of you.’
‘I suspected her. She is trying to be clever.’
The sentries were saluting us; the chaprasis of the office were bowing and scraping and making obeisances with hands lifted to their foreheads; the clerks were bustling to and fro; and Brigadier-General Chaudhri Raghbir Singh came out and gave his cousin a military salute.
‘Chaudhri Sahib, come in and we will have a brief conference.’
Brigadier-General Chaudhri Raghbir Singh bowed and followed.
His Highness encompassed the inner sanctum of the modernist office, with its large, steel tube table and the plastic gadgets which decorated it. Then he took off his belt and handed it to Captain Partap Singh, significantly asking the ADC:
‘Captain Sahib, please keep those asses, Mian Mithu and Bool Chand, away from here. They are under your guard.’
I took the precaution of taking this hint and started to drift away.
‘Don’t go, Dr Shankar, just in case I fall ill in the middle of my conversation with Chaudhri Sahib.’
At this we all smiled and sat down, Chaudhri Raghbir Singh and myself facing His Highness across the table.
His Highness spread his hands out before him, almost as though he did not know where to put them. Or was he groping for something? From the way he kept his eyes bent before Chaudhri Raghbir Singh, I guessed that the shadow of Ganga Dasi was still between them, in spite of their cordiality for each other.
‘Acha, Chaudhri Sahib, I hear that our uncle, Thakur Parduman Singh, is up again,’ His Highness began. ‘The son of a swine! The thief! The harbourer of dacoits and petty thieves! The robber! . . . If only the Angrezi Sarkar had crushed him and the other rebels when they rose against my father! I know that my Bapu’s life was embittered by the leniency they showed to the rascal and his friends Mahan Chand of Udham Pur and Shiv Ram Singh of Hukam Pur. That is why Bapu died an early death.’
His Highness paused, not so much out of remorse or sorrow at the memory of his father’s death as to see what measure of sympathy he could get from Chaudhri Raghbir Singh. Of course, everyone knew that the old Maharaja’s bitterness with the rebels did not kill him, but that his death was hastened by TB resulting from debility caused by complete promiscuity. Chaudhri Raghbir Singh’s face remained impassive. His Highness drummed the table nervously with the fingers of his right hand and then continued:
‘The Sarkar had no business to intervene and advise lenience.’
Then he got up agitatedly and, taking long strides away from the table, shouted:
‘That the nobles who bore arms against their own Maharaja should have been let off so easily under the Resident’s advice—wah, what clemency was that ? . . . People like that ought to be taught the lesson of their lives! Instead, they came out rather well from the rebellion, because their sons were put in nominal charge of their estates. That is why they dare to raise their heads now! But they don’t know that, unlike Bapu, I will deal ruthlessly with them. Never mind the batichod new Sarkar and their demand for our accession!’
‘It is difficult to inculcate in them the spirit of noblesse oblige.’ And the General looked up at me naïvely to see the effect of his use of this big word on me. As my head was hung down at hearing of these new troubles of His Highness, Chaudhri Sahib continued: ‘But if we see from our side that their just claims are met, and their dignities and privileges maintained, then they will have nothing to go on in asking the States Department to intervene.’
His Highness suspected a certain leniency in Chaudhri Raghbir Singh’s attitude towards them. In fact, this lingering bias was obvious in the Commander-in-Chief’s restraint. And yet the Maharaja did not want to alienate his cousin.
‘The robbers! They resent the fact that I made you, and not one of their sons, Commander-in-Chief!’
‘I think,’ said Raghbir Singh, persuaded now to be a partisan of the Maharaja, ‘that they have been accustomed to ruling the roost in the countryside and to defy the gaddi from their hill forts and castles. And they are restive because they fear your Highness.’
‘I shall bend them to my will!’ said His Highness, grinding the words under his molars. ‘You will see! I am not my father’s son if I don’t! Just let them try! I shall see to them, the illegally begotten!’
Now he had worked himself up to a rage, till he looked slightly ridiculous, and his mixed English, Hindustani and hillman’s Punjabi speech became twisted:
‘Parduman Singh is
a dacoit! Mahan Chand is a dacoit. And Shiv Ram, sala, is the helper of dacoits! . . . How dare they lift their heads. We shall see if they come to the durbar for the Dusserah or not!’
‘I think we shall get them in hand before Dusserah!’ Chaudhri Raghbir Singh said, warming up to his cousin on the curve of the feeling for intrigue which seemed the main impulse for action in state affairs. He seemed to be straining every nerve to put the Prince’s mind at ease, which showed that he had conquered the slight jealousy he felt for His Highness on account of his own affair with Ganga Dasi. Except that he did not give any indication of what he really thought; but then, I knew that he did not think much, because he could not think much.
‘I tell you I shall clear every one of these fools out of the way!’ His Highness continued, pacing up and down and talking aloud to himself, as it were. ‘I shall drive out all the hypocritical counsellors of our brotherhood, who come crowding round the assembly hall and show themselves as my devoted subjects but are in fact rebels! I shall build my state on the loyalty of the ryots who are devoted to my house. But I must have no interference from the States Department. And this I can secure if only I can get Indira to withdraw her petition. As for the Praja Mandal crowd, I can buy them off. At any rate, they agree with me, because if they believe in Gandhiji they believe in Ram Raj. I too want a state in which the Raja and Praja can live as father and sons. I want to renew in the people the belief that I have their interests at heart. . . . I am not like the other rulers who despise their people!’
These words were like romantic gestures and I could feel the hollow ring about them. I felt irritated listening to him.
‘To impugn the morality or politics of your enemies does not prove anything against them,’ I protested.
‘But His Highness is talking of the ideals of Ram Raj,’ General Raghbir Singh put in.
‘Dr Shankar is anglicized, Chaudhri Sahib,’ His Highness said, ‘and he does not understand our ancient ideal of kingship.’ And he began to recite, in mellifluous Hindi, the classic formula of the Hindu Raja:
Between the night I am born and the night I die,
Whatever good I might have done, my heaven, my
Progeny, may I be deprived of it, if I oppress you.
I shall see to the growth of the country, considering
It always as ‘God’. Whatever law there is here,
And whatever is dictated by ethics, and whatever
Is not opposed to polity, I will follow. I shall
Never act arbitrarily.
I felt a slight hardening of my jaws at all this. But His Highness continued to recite what he knew by rote, almost like a fourth-form schoolboy, specially for the instruction of his Commander-in-Chief.
To thee this state is given, thou art the director
And regulator; thou art steadfast and will
Bear this responsibility of the trust so
Given for agriculture, for well being, for
Prosperity and for development.
The highfalutin oration did not conduce to the spiritual betterment of the handsome, empty-faced brute that was Brigadier-General Chaudhri Raghbir Singh.
To thee this state is given, thou art the director
And regulator; . . .
His Highness repeated the phrase with distinct emphasis, seeming naïvely proud from the way his head was cocked to one side even though he looked furtively at his cousin, as he was unsure of the effect of the oration on him.
It seemed to me clear that Victor had been straining desperately to win over Chaudhri Raghbir Singh to the completest loyalty and friendship, but felt that the more he had tried the bigger had become the chasm that divided them. The self-conscious look on his face proclaimed his frustration. And from his big, shining eyes a ghost peeped through, the figure of Gangi, whose shadow was between the two cousins, having parted them finally and irrevocably through her embrace with the Commander-in-Chief.
There was an unwholesome silence in the room for a while. His Highness could not bear it. He hissed at me with a deliberate smile:
‘Cassius, you have a lean and hungry look! Why don’t you speak? Say something!’
‘I was thinking that you defined the powers and privileges of a monarch, but did not say anything about the limits and responsibilities of kingship.’
‘I am not sure whether you are a friend or a foe!’
‘I am somewhat by way of being a democrat,’ I said, laughing nervously because I was taking an opposition attitude.
‘People like you and the Praja Mandalis keep shouting, “Democracy, Democracy”. What is Democracy? Where is it practised?’ His Highness came to the attack, his face reddening. ‘To attain equality with the ignorant rabble, to reduce everyone to uniformity with the stupid herd! Wah, what barking is this? Haven’t you ever read Plato’s Republic, in which he defined the ideal of the philosopher king? Sir Malcolm Darling, who did such good work in the Punjab, gave me a copy of this and suggested that I should follow the precepts laid down in it.’
I kept my mouth shut. This seemed to enrage him.
‘Of course,’ he continued, relenting, ‘I think there should be some kind of legislature of men chosen for their good sense. As the sage Manu says: “Learned men who know the traditional history and the customary law of the land, men who will be alike to foe and friend, distinguished for their rectitude and fearing God and Religion.”’
‘God!’ I said ironically in a soft voice, deliberately softened to suppress the anger I felt at the insult to my self-respect in having to tolerate such humbug. And I continued: ‘I was forgetting the old boy. He has not shown up in these parts lately. For an old friend of your family, He seems particularly disloyal to you. But, for all I know, He may be round the corner. And He may come along and help. And, of course—what am I saying? . . . He is very constant. Why, men pass away! Empires rise and fall! Even the stars grow old! The earth prepares for the coming of the Ice Age! And yet God remains, always the great pillar of strength to humanity!’
The bitterness in my voice was so obvious that I thought my end had come. But, curiously, His Highness smiled as though he was highly amused. Then, after a moment, he said quietly:
‘The trouble is that I am a genius whom nobody understands. But I shall make you understand. I shall make everyone understand! I shall show you the stuff I am made of! I . . . I . . . I. . . .’
He could not finish his sentence and the last accent petered out into the occasional stammer that affected his speech. It seemed that he had no words to express the violence of the emotions which quarrelled in him, only clinging to the ‘I’, the egotistical self in which he had not much faith even though he was always very assertive about it. Perhaps this histrionic ‘I’ was the only word in which he could, in his isolation, find a refuge, the only chimera he could cling to with any degree of tenacity in the elusive world which was slipping beneath his feet.
As he could not find words to express himself, he veered round, sweating, and, with his brows knit in anguished awareness of his isolation, he turned to Brigadier-General Chaudhri Raghbir Singh.
‘Acha, then, the manoeuvres are to be held as soon as possible, Raghbir Singh. Choose an area near enough to the territory of the Indian Union.’
‘Ji Maharaj,’ assented General Raghbir Singh.
There was complete silence after this historic decision. And in the next few seconds a grimness settled on the atmosphere. His Highness paced back to the table with a bent-head seriousness. Then he relaxed and said to Raghbir Singh:
‘Let us have some polo this afternoon.’
‘Acha, huzoor.’
‘Acha, on your way out send Bool Chand in,’ His Highness said, politely indicating his wish for the General to leave.
I too got up with the thought of slinking out.
‘Where are you going, Hari? You know that I am not feeling well,’ he said impatiently.
I sat down with a weak smile.
After Chaudhri Raghbir Singh was out of audibl
e distance, His Highness asked me in a whisper:
‘Do you think he can be trusted?’
‘Han, I think so.’
‘In spite of his affection for Gangi?’
‘Yes, it seems to me that he has genuine affection for you also.’
‘I am not sure. . . .’
But by this time Bool Chand had entered.
‘What did Indira say, Bool Chand?’ His Highness asked, with an abruptness which obviously showed his contempt for the Political Secretary.
‘I am afraid she wouldn’t see me, your Highness,’ Bool Chand answered.
‘You mean you took “no” for an answer!’ shouted His Highness.
Bool Chand kept silent. Then he snorted. ‘Incompetent fools! And what about Popatlal, Mr Snorter-donkey-Bool Chand?’
‘He gave me an appointment for tomorrow morning.’
‘Fool! Fool! Fool! Get out of my sight! Get out!’
Bool Chand withdrew sullenly, with his head bent over his joined hands.
‘We shall have to go and see her ourselves,’ he said to me with disgusted despair.
‘Perhaps in the evening,’ I said.
‘Yes, after polo,’ Victor answered. ‘Get Sharma to bring me any letters there are to sign and wait outside. We will go back to the palace after a tour of the town.’
I felt relieved at being ushered out of his frenzied presence.
The sun makes a ghost of one in India, melting one’s flesh and eating into one’s soul; it surrounds one with a mist, from behind which one’s parched tongue moves towards the lips with a hollow rasping sound; it makes all the animate and inanimate objects seem foreign to the touch, as though one discerns them from the orbit of another, more ethereal world; and it creates those intangible layers of warmth, in which one lives and moves and has one’s being, as in the graded, fiery regions of the seven hot hells of the Buddhist conception. One is always poised in the aching attitude of yearning towards the cool, green as the grass, liquid as running water, and soft as the breeze which comes from the mountains covered with snow.
Classic Mulk Raj Anand Page 61