Palace of Clouds

by Rajyashree Kumari Bikaner

  My Nanisa or maternal grandmother was a Princess of Kishengarh State in Rajasthan; one of the three daughters of Maharaja Madan Singh and Maharani Yashwant Kumari. Since he had no sons, the line passed to the nearest living male heir upon his death. My maternal great grandmother Maharani Yashwant Kumari was a beautiful woman with a fair complexion and pale grey green eyes. Recently a cousin of mine sent me a lovely old sepia photograph of her; she was indeed a very handsome lady and I could see the numerous traits she had passed on to the various Dungarpur cousins and also to me. My father always maintained that I did not look like any member of the family. When the old photograph arrived, the mystery of my looks cleared, as it turned out that I looked a bit like her, having inherited her aquiline nose and high cheek bones. My maternal grandmother Maharani Manher Kumari of Dungarpur and several of my cousins too had inherited her looks. My maternal grandmother was my grandfather’s second wife, and she went on to have six children, the eldest of whom was my mother Sushila Kumari.

  Every summer grandmother would visit Bombay and stay with her sister the Rajmata of Rewa in an apartment called ‘Vijay Mahal’ just off the beautiful Marine Drive. She would normally come in the late afternoon and spend some time at Devi Bhawan Bikaner house where we normally spent the summer each year.

  According to a prevalent Hindu custom, once a daughter was married, her parents were not supposed to take advantage in any way of her husband’s home. Nanisa was so particular about this that she never ate anything cooked at our house and every lunch time a special Tiffin box would be prepared at her sister’s flat and sent to Devi Bhawan for her. She was quite reserved, self-contained and always simply dressed in typical Rajasthani ‘poshak.’ I have no recollection of any expensive jewels or clothing; as yet she was immensely dignified.

  One summer, when my parents went on one of their European trips, we were left in her charge in Bombay. She was very formal with us, there was no hugging or cuddling, and she too addressed us as Bhanejbai. She was quite relaxed and liked the occasional cigarette and I am told that when in Dungarpur she often joined her husband for a pre dinner drink. I recall she had a small black Scottish terrier with a rather a grand name, ‘Dinky Saab’. I never got to know Nanisa any better than my Nanosa. Sadly she passed away from diabetic complications when still quite young—her generation of women did not believe in running to the doctor for every ailment and they took their health issues quite lightly and so the fact that she was a diabetic came to light too late. My father took a wonderful photograph of four generations of the ladies of the family the year that my daughter Anupama was born in 1974: grandmother, my mother, myself and my baby daughter. It was the last time I saw her, as she passed away soon after.

  No mention of my grandparents can be considered complete without mentioning my maternal great grandmother Devendra Kumari of Dungarpur. She was a charming old lady who would come to Delhi every winter and stay at the home of her youngest son my great uncle Maharaj Dr. Nagendra Singh and his wife. She was very affectionate and greeted us warmly when, as children we customarily went to pay our respects to her. She was a princess of Sailana, which was also one of the nine Rathore states. She was incredibly fair, with pale eyes and dressed in pure white clothing from head to toe. Her maids accompanied her to Delhi and I recall that one of them called Kamla, used to take out a pair of small weighing scales before meal times and literally weigh every single ingredient of food that she was going to eat. This was at a time when there was little or no understanding of eating small portions of food to counteract obesity. I used to sit and watch her place small amounts of flour and then the spices one by one on the tiny scale and it was then put into a tray, which was sent off to the kitchens for preparation: obviously, she led a strictly disciplined life.

  Her youngest son, my great uncle Maharaj Dr. Nagendra Singh of Dungarpur (1914-1988) was quite an interesting man and had an extremely illustrious career. He served on the United Nations International Law commission and was Secretary to the President of India between 1966 and 1972; he was also the recipient of the prestigious civilian award, the Padma Vibhushan in 1973. Most summers he and his wife used to visit London and would invite my husband and me for lunch or dinner at the Carlton Towers Hotel, and it was fascinating listening to him talk about diverse subjects and current affairs. Invariably he would also have at the table, a few guests who would turn out to be either well-known personalities or men from the world of high finance and business.

  He was well- respected in the field of law and once when I was on a trip to Egypt with a group organised by the British Museum I met a Canadian lawyer based at The Hague who was very impressed when I told him that Dr. Nagendra Singh was my great uncle. Ever helpful, I recall in 1988 after my father had died, the first time I met him he had tears in his eyes and when he said to me, ‘I stand before you with folded hands - if there is anything thing I can do for you please let me know,’ I was deeply moved. He was the least arrogant person I had ever met, despite leading such a distinguished life. Sadly, he too died the same year, a few months after my father in 1988.

  My father Maharaja Dr. Karni Singhji was born in 1924. He was Maharaja Ganga Singh’s first grandson and the old man was absolutely thrilled and proud. He named the baby Karni Singh after the family deity Karni Mata. The bond between grandfather and grandson was a strong one, and my father was affectionately called ‘soldier boy’ by his doting grandfather, who went on to name one of the wings of Lallgarh Palace after his grandson as ‘Karni Niwas’. My father had two siblings—Princess Sushila Kumari, who was older, and a younger brother Bhanwar Amar Singh; they were very close in age, with perhaps just a year separating them. They remained as close in later life as they were when they were children.

  My father was an incredibly talented and multi faceted man, with a wide range of interests that whole volumes have been written about his life in politics and shooting. He is also famous for his shooting career that spanned some five Olympic games from Rome in 1960 through to Moscow in 1980. I can only write about him from a personal point of view—he may have been a successful politician, a Maharaja to his people and a distinguished sportsman—but to me he was simply Dad: a wonderful father, a kind-hearted and generous human being and the real legacy he has left behind is in our hearts and minds.

  Maharaja Ganga Singh took complete charge of his three grandchildren and made all the major decisions regarding their upbringing, schooling and sporting activities. My grandfather and grandmother had little if any say in this regard. Thakur Gop Singh of Malasar was appointed their guardian. He was a strict man and it was his duty to ensure that the children were brought up exactly as their grandfather desired. The children’s day was strictly regimented into time slots: from the time they woke up to the time they went to bed, they followed a strict schedule. Even the time to meet with their parents was proscribed and was not to be exceeded by even a single minute. My father recalls that, as children, not surprisingly, their most fervent wish was that Gop Singhji would drop dead! The interesting fact here is that despite being a girl born into a conservative Rajput family, my aunt Sushila Kumari was brought up in exactly the same way as her brothers. She was encouraged to ride and participate in other sports up until the time she became an adolescent.

  My father was an honourable, courteous, and considerate man; he was a gentleman in the fullest sense of the word. Many made the mistake of assuming his kindness as a sign of weakness but this was not so—he was quite capable of being pragmatic and analytical when the need arose. The fact that he held together such a diverse group of people in our family was truly a tribute to both his tolerance and diplomacy, and he did his utmost to ensure that all of us were kept as happy as possible against some fairly difficult odds most of the time.

  Their British nanny Mrs. Ethel May Dent lent a slightly soft succour to their strict and regimented upbringing; all three children adored nanny Dent, though she too was strict in her own way. My aunt Princess Sushila Kumari who was to marry Maharana Bh
agwat Singh, the heir apparent of Udaipur, and become the Maharani of Udaipur, once told me that at meal times when they used to slouch and put their elbows on the table, nanny Dent told them in no uncertain terms, ‘No uncooked joints on the table’. She also taught them to eat Indian food with a fork and knife. I once saw my father many decades later, still following nanny Dent’s instructions when he was dining with some English friends at an Indian restaurant in London: he rolled up his roti (flat unleavened bread) and proceeded to cut it into smaller pieces with a fork and knife and then dipped it in the curry before eating it. Quite frankly, I thought it was a hilarious sight. After all, the Chinese and Japanese eat with chopsticks in fact, we are all invited to do the same in oriental restaurants—then why should Asians who eat with their hands be judged in a pejorative way?

  Nanny Dent was also responsible for keeping them predominantly on a diet of refined western food: as a result, my father had a weak and sensitive stomach all his life. In his middle years, he developed diverticulitis, which caused him great pain and discomfort from time to time. His doctor at the London Clinic told him ‘Diverticulitis is an Englishman’s disease and as an Indian, you have no business having it!’

  Though there is no exact date or year when Maharaja Ganga Singh hired the English nanny Mrs Dent to look after his three grandchildren, it appears that in all probability she was retained around 1923 when my aunt Sushila Kumari was born and remained with her charges long after they were grown up, married and had children of their own. Mrs. Ethel May Dent was affectionately called Nana both by her charges as also the palace staff. Recently while carrying out a review of my father’s file I found one titled ‘Mrs. Dent (Nana)’ I knew how deeply attached my father was to her but reading these letters between them was a bitter sweet experience for me.

  It appears that Nana decided to retire and return to her son and family in Scotland around 1952. I recall both my parents telling me that they did their best to dissuade her from leaving them, assuring her of a comfortable and cherished life with them but at some point I expect, that like most people in middle age there is a natural urge to return to ones roots. And so she sailed from Bombay bound for England and in her letter to my father she writes ‘Just a few lines to wish you all goodbye and a God Bless. My thanks to you all for all the kindness I received during my stay of 27 years. It was a stay of happiness all through. I feel sad having to leave you all.’

  Life in Scotland with her son Mervin turned out to be very different from what Nana imagined. In her many letters to my father she complains among other things of the intense cold and that her hands were getting arthritic, which is hardly a surprise knowing how bitterly cold Scotland can be in the winter months. Though neglect on the part of her son is not mentioned in so many words it is not difficult to read between the lines and deduce that Mervin was not providing for her financially. In her letters she asks for her pension to be sent urgently a request my father dealt with as quickly as possible. In one letter perhaps the saddest, she writes of her despair if her pension did not come through and mentions that she would have to either find a job to support herself or find an old persons home which would house her free of any payment. This was a nanny who was deeply cherished and loved by the Bikaner family. The Palace staff waited on her and she had every luxury and amenity at her disposal in the time of Maharaja Ganga Singh and later my grandfather. How enormously sad for her to then in her old age to find herself in such dire straits

  She finally passed away in 1957 and her son Mervin informed my father in a curt telegram. ‘Deeply regret informing you mother passed away early today.’ My father and his siblings were naturally keen to have some mention of their connection with her in a memorial of some kind. Mervin however wrote to say that according to his mother’s wishes she had been cremated and her ashes scattered in the chapel garden, if this was really her wish or Mervin wanting to economise on a descent funeral for his mother, we will never know. Finally on my father’s insistence he agreed to put up a plaque of remembrance in the local Church. My father drafted the wordings he wanted inscribed:

  Dent Ethel May

  Died 12th November 1957

  In fond memory of our dear friend who has always been so close to us

  From Karni Singh, Sushila Kumari, Amar Singh

  Even for this last service in the memory of his mother, Mervin expected payment of £6. Nana Dent lived for decades in the courts of Maharaja Ganga Singh, she could not have died in more different and it seems sad circumstances. It might have been so much the better had she accepted my parents offer and remained with them in India till the end, at least it would have been a dignified and loved environment. It saddens me deeply to read the contents of Nanny Dent’s file and her almost desperate correspondence with my father.

  I never knew my father to be rude to anyone: whether it was little children in the village that ran out to meet him or his colleagues in Parliament, he spoke to all with charm and grace. Not a single member of the Lok Sabha had anything negative to say about him, even though my father was in the Opposition and an Independent member, not aligned with any group or party inside the Parliament. He opposed the Congress vigorously throughout the twenty-five years he was an MP from Bikaner. Even now, many decades since his passing, people still come up to me and tell me what a kind man and a perfect gentleman he was.

  Once, while I was living in London, I visited an ENT doctor in Hendon. He asked me if I was related to the shooting Maharaja from Bikaner. He was delighted when I told him that he was, in fact, my father. It appears that they had once sat next to each other on a plane journey, during which my father had accidentally dropped something on the doctor’s jacket. In due course, the doctor received a package and upon opening it, found a brand new jacket from my father—a thoughtful gesture that he quite clearly, never forgot.

  A multi-talented man, my father was a keen photographer and would take out time from his busy schedule to edit his films with both sound and music—his collection ran into vast libraries. His enthusiasm for photography stemmed from the time he was a little boy and I remember him telling us that he gave his father lists of cameras and lenses that he wanted him to bring back from his trips abroad. It all started with a little box brownie and ended with an Olympus camera, which towards the end of his life was his great pride and joy. From the time the three of us were born, we were constantly photographed. When we were children, it was mainly black and white photos but later graduated to colour.

  One of the most precious mementos he created for each of his three children was a photo album of carefully selected photographs from the day we were born to the time that we were teenagers. Every event in our lives—be they birthdays or other celebrations—were meticulously recorded. We were quite reluctant to keep posing for more and more photographs as it was extremely tedious, but he created a record, which we treasure today. He would urge us, ‘Look friendly!’ before he clicked the shutter and even today, every time I face a camera, I try to look as friendly as I can.

  My father travelled the world extensively, both for pleasure as also when he was representing India at the Olympics, World or Asian shooting competitions. All his competitions were filmed, and it was mostly Thakur Anand Singh who accompanied them who did the filming, as my father was busy shooting. When he would return, he would painstakingly put a sound commentary on each, along with background music. After big dinner parties at Lallgarh Palace, it was the norm that the guests were shown the latest films, which I daresay they enjoyed. Travel was not so common in those days and nor for that matter were the channels on television as prolific as they are today.

  My father’s camera accompanied him wherever he went. I recall once when we were in Geneva and my father was busy taking photos around Lake Geneva, one of his favourite lenses fell out of his hand and as we watched with horror, it rolled merrily on its way straight into the lake. My father was very distraught. My friend Gulserene Dastoor, who was with us at that time, came to his rescue by calling on one of
the swimmers nearby to help him retrieve the lens, which he kindly did, though if I remember correctly, the lens which was thoroughly drenched was never the same again.

  My father had a great sense of humour but a very dry one—even simple remarks he made which were not meant to be funny, in fact, particularly when they were not meant to be so, made us burst into laughter. Once when he had brought back to Bikaner a brand new video player, all the geriatric members of staff from his father and grandfather’s time were invited to come and watch a film and admire the miracles of modern technology. When all had assembled, the movie began and if I recall correctly it was ‘The Cassandra Crossing’. At some point there was the usual romantic scene, which by current standards was extremely tame; however, it must be remembered that the audience were all in their seventies and eighties and could well have been alarmed by the turn of events. For a moment my father watched in embarrassed silence and then since I was holding the remote, he muttered to me: ‘best fast forward this part,’ before the oldies keeled over in shock.

  Another time, when we were returning to the palace one evening from a drive, my father decided to show us a plot of land he owned that was situated just off the main road, suddenly he spotted a snake, a banded krait or ‘bandi’ (as it is known locally, it is a small viper which is considered quite venomous). Spotting a little goat- herd standing close by, he urged the boy to kill the snake with the long staff he held in his hand. The boy galvanised into action but with extremely poor aim started violently hitting the ground, but missing the snake every time. The irate snake, to escape its certain doom, changed course and came towards the car and vanished under it. We looked to the other side but there was no sign of it emerging, and for a few minutes we sat in uncomfortable silence, when my father announced in a matter of fact manner: ‘the snake can get into the car through any small hole,’ at which point we all leapt out of the car out of fright. The driver shook the car hard but with no luck; the snake had twined itself around one of the pipes and resolutely refused to budge. Since the palace was close by we had no option but to walk back. On the way, I asked my father what would happen if the snake could not be located. ‘We will have to sell the car,’ was his tongue-in-cheek reply.