My father was an incredibly handsome man who looked like George Clooney in his younger days, the only detracting factor being his struggle with his weight problem. Some of my friends who unfortunately never knew him, but have seen many photographs of him in my house always remark how attractive a man he must have been and that ‘he must have had many female admirers.’ It may have been true I suspect, much to the chagrin of my mother, who was a very possessive wife at all times and frowned upon all his many lady friends, some of whom he used to play golf with and others who used to come to the range to see him shoot.
My father was a very social person and had legions of friends all over the world—he just loved meeting people. At Christmas time, he would receive sacks full of cards, the envelopes bearing exotic stamps from many exciting locations from around the globe, which I would then carefully cut out and add to my stamp collection.
My father and mother married on 25 February, 1944. The marriage was arranged by my father’s grandfather, and as I mentioned earlier, he and my maternal grandfather Maharawal Laxman Singh of Dungarpur were close friends. It was decided that on the Dungarpur side, the eldest daughter Sushila Kumari would be married to the heir apparent Bhanwar Karni Singh and the Mahrawal’s eldest son Mahipal Singh would be engaged to Maharaja Ganga Singhji’s youngest granddaughter Princess Dev Kanwar, the daughter of Maharaj Bijey Singh. The double engagement was celebrated in style with Maharaja Ganga Singh taking his two young grandsons to Dungarpur for a state banquet hosted by the Maharawal, followed by a tiger shoot. Despite the careful arrangements made by him, sadly Maharaja Ganga Singh died of throat cancer before either of the two marriages could take place. My elder brother was born on 13 January 1946 and my younger sister on 9 August1956; I was the middle child, the filling in the sandwich, as it were. My parents had lost a baby daughter soon after the birth of my brother and thereafter, there was a gap of almost eight years before I was born.
When my father succeeded to the title of Maharaja Bikaner in 1950, he had not anticipated a career in politics. It was on one particular fateful flight he took with Maharaja Hanuwant Singh of Jodhpur in 1951, that played a major role in his decision. They were both flying my father’s Beechcraft Bonanza on their way to Jaipur to attend a meeting, which the Raj Pramukh had called. While flying over Nagore, which now formed part of the newly constituted Bikaner-Churu constituency, Maharaja Hanuwant Singh told my father: ‘If you decide to contest the forthcoming elections for Parliament, I will canvas for you in the areas which lie within Jodhpur territory.’ This came as a surprise for my father as he was not looking for a political post. However, Maharaja Jodhpur was extremely persuasive and by the time they reached Jaipur my father had agreed to think the matter over seriously.
He eventually decided to stand and won the first Lok Sabha election in 1952 and held that seat for the next four successive elections as an independent MP from Bikaner—a record that remains unmatched in that constituency. It was also Maharaja Jodhpur who offered to fly my father to Delhi some time later in his private aircraft. It was our good fortune that my father was unwell and running a fever at the time and could not accompany him, as the plane, while flying quite low, managed to hit some electric wires and crashed, killing both the Maharaja and his companion Zubeida.
I recall my father telling us that when Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru was India’s Prime Minister, any citizen in the country could write to him directly and be sure to receive a courteous reply; this was in no small part due to Nehruji’s British education and the ties that he continued to maintain with friends and colleagues from around the world. This sterling quality of Panditji is further reinforced in Kanwar Natwar Singh’s autobiography, ‘One Life Is Not Enough’, in which he writes, ‘He worked sixteen hours a day, spent time on matters which could have been dealt with by his officials-even mundane matters would attract his attention. Every letter was promptly replied to, even if it addressed trivial matters.’ How very different from the politicians and leaders of this great nation today! One can write to ministers, members of Parliament and to the members of the Legislative Assembly of any political persuasion and be fairly certain that one will not receive a single reply
My father was capable of achieving anything he set his mind to or hold any post – he was offered Ambassordship by Prime Minister Nehru, but since my mother was reluctant to leave her family for any length of time, he had no option but to decline. Had he belonged to a political party instead of being an independent Member of Parliament, he would have been a very able and successful Minister but he was completely devoid of personal ambitions. He was, in fact, a very down- to- earth and humble man. All his friends knew him by his first name. He eschewed using his title, even when he needed to call our house, he would use his name and say: ‘Karni speaking.’ Most times of course it worked. However, once there was a new member of staff who naturally addressed my father formally as ‘Anta’ and was not aware of his real name so when he heard ‘Karni Singh’ on the phone he was suitably confused and cross questioned my father, which was very amusing. He was a voracious reader and passionately read and researched extensively about his numerous hobbies and pastimes, be it shooting or painting or photography. His knowledge on a variety of subjects was quite formidable.
My father had a wide variety of interests and hobbies including hunting, clay pigeon shootings, painting, photography, golf, politics, flying planes and driving sports cars. He was an excellent conversationalist and could strike up an interesting conversation with everyone he met. He loved meeting and interacting with new people. In my teens, I remember being deeply embarrassed with the lengthy conversation he would have with taxi drivers and complete strangers, but several decades later I now find myself doing pretty much the same thing. It is quite amazing to meet new people and I believe firmly that no matter who they are, there is a lot to be learnt from each person we meet.
My father had led a active life since childhood: he wrote books, travelled widely and his parliamentary career was extremely demanding, besides which he also made time for all his various sporting hobbies such as tennis, shooting and golf, and of course, photography. Amid all these time- consuming activities, he always made time for his family and made it a point to listen to his children when they brought their problems to him- not that we were always necessarily in agreement with him, but I found it very easy to talk to him. Busy people, it is said, take badly to retirement and this proved to be the case with my father when, after five terms in Parliament serving the citizens of Bikaner, he decided that he had had enough of the increasingly complicated political scenario.
The transition from an active parliamentary career to a more relaxed style of life at home was difficult for him and instead of directing his energy and time into constructive activities at home—there were many urgent issues that needed to be resolved as far as his many complicated property issues were concerned—he slowly turned into a hypochondriac, feeling ill constantly with all manners of ailments, real or imagined. His enormous medicine chest was filled with all sorts of prescription and over the counter medication, and his medical files (my father believed in maintaining them meticulously) alone must have weighed several kilos.
Tinkering with his medication was a daily occupation both with himself as well as anyone else who was foolish enough to complain of a health issue in front of him; it was always a touch of this and a shot of that. In fact Dr. Kashi who was our family doctor in London told me after my father died, ‘Your father always thought he knew better than his doctors. He would never follow our suggestions or take the full course of medication that was prescribed to him.’ That was true. He also had an allergy to dust and hated exposure to old books and manuscripts; most of it was real, as we are on the whole, a family that suffers from many allergies but in my father’s case, it was so acute that one would have to think carefully about what clothes to wear, especially in the winter months when the woollens were taken out. There was a time when, it was impossible to convince him that the s
weaters and shawls from the trunk were not covered in dust which would inflame his allergy.
Recently, I was reading a biography of the legendary actor John Wayne who happens to be one of my favourite actors. I came across an anecdote that made a lot of sense to me with respect to my father. Speaking to his secretary Pat Stacy, Wayne said, ‘Pat, you’ve got to understand something, as long as a man has a project, something to look forward to, there’ll always be something important to him. He’ll never get old. If I had nothing to look forward to, I might as well be dead. ‘Wayne continued with his acting career till it was discovered that he was terminally ill with cancer, but in the case of my father, I have always felt that there was so much more that he could have done to occupy himself, but instead he preferred to find poor, albeit considerable comfort in his allergies and health issues.
My father and his brother Amar were taught ballroom dancing when they were young boys. It was one of the social graces that an adolescent was expected to learn. In Bikaner, during the times of Maharaja Ganga Singh and later my grandfather, it was a regular occurrence during large banquets, to clear the floor and allow the guests to dance. The floor of the Durbar hall was in fact, specially sprung to allow for dancing. I recall my father telling us that they practised with pillows so that they got it just right when they were required to dance. The old stores were full of little dance cards and tiny little pencils: each lady was given a little dance card and she meticulously filled it in with the name of each partner who had asked her for a particular dance. The palace maintained their own orchestra and it was led by a rather tall Englishman by the name of Mr. James who trained musicians from Bikaner to play all manner of waltzes and other tunes. The orchestra was considered a very important component of the palace to the extent that they had a number of generously appointed quarters given to them. Even today, they are called the ‘bandsman’s quarters’ though most have been sold and converted into small hotels. At the rear of the bandsman’s quarters was a large hall where they practised daily.
My parents were very fond of dancing, or at least my father was. By the time he went to college, he had learned all the modern and contemporary dances such as the jive and the fox trot, and when he married my mother, he naturally wanted to teach her how to dance. I think she found this rather undesirable in the beginning and perhaps rightly so, since it was not the way she was raised. In the end, I believe she complained of this to her parents, who though traditionalists in every way, both my maternal grandparents were worldly wise enough to advise her that if she did not participate willingly in an activity that her husband enjoyed, then some other lady would oblige. I think that was the spur that finally drove her forward and she learnt all the latest dances and wher ever they were, if there was music in the evening they would dance. My father made several attempts to teach me but failed; firstly, due to a total lack of interest on my part but also because I think I had two left feet. In fact, none of us brothers and sisters really enjoyed dancing the way our previous generations quite clearly did.
Once while weeding through old movies several years after my father died, I came across an old colour film of my parents who must have been in their mid-twenties at the time. They were with my mother’s cousin brother from Kutch, Maharaj Kumar Prithviraj Singh and his very attractive wife Priti, accompanying them perhaps for a picnic, and decided to pause by the side of the road for a rest, and having a portable music player at hand with them, put on a record and were busy dancing by the side of the road. That showed me a side of my parents in their youth that I was not aware of.
My father was the founder of the Thunderbolts Rifle Club in Bikaner and even persuaded the Members of the Parliament to organise a rifle club. He wrote a book titled ‘From Rome to Moscow’ in which he has recorded his shooting achievements and experiences in the National, Asian Games and Olympics; he represented India in five Olympics, namely Rome 1960, Tokyo 1964, Mexico City 1968, Munich 1972 and finally Moscow 1980. His greatest achievement was winning the Silver Medal in World Shooting Championships in Cairo in 1962, when he missed the Gold in a close tie shoot by just one point, with his Russian colleague Zimenko. The last Olympic Games he attended were held at Moscow in 1980. My parents were convinced their hotel rooms were searched every now and then, as each time they returned in the evening their personal belongings had been moved about. My father believed in a certain level of comfort and this is why he always made his own living arrangements, and refused to live in the Olympic village with the other athletes and the Indian contingent.
My father was always making plans, some of them very futuristic; he started a local newspaper in Bikaner called ‘Satya Vichar’ or ‘honest thoughts’, which was circulated around his constituency. It was an excellent concept to pitch a corruption- free way of service to his people rather than through propaganda, but was ill-timed as most of his constituents could not read. Eventually the paper was discontinued. Similarly, he also started a taxi service in Bikaner called the ‘Blue Cab Line’, but as it was Bikaner and not New York, it ran for a while and then was scrapped for being impractical. He set up most successfully though, an Olympic grade shooting range just outside the palace. The range was fully fitted with imported equipment from Italy for trap and skeet clay pigeon shooting. All who visited the palace were invited to the range to watch him shoot in the evenings. He was a stickler for practise and whenever possible I too was roped in to come and perform before a rapt audience (I had christened myself the ‘performing flea’). Shooting enthusiasts from all over came to practise at the ranges in Bikaner before a competition. My father was a very generous host and extended all facilities in Bikaner to them, actively coached them and helped them in improving their scores. Raja Randhir Singh of Patiala and Kanwar Man Singh among many others were regular visitors to Bikaner, as at that time it was the only range of that calibre in India.
I still receive letters from individuals all over India from time to time and most carry some form of recollection of my father. Recently, after my second book, ‘The Maharajas of Bikaner’, was released, I received a charming letter from Mr. Ravi Kant Amolik from Bhopal, wherein he goes on to share memories of his meeting with my father. ‘It was a delightful moment to have read about your mammoth task of compiling the history of Maharajas of Bikaner. I am a retired educationist from Udaipur but presently settled in Bhopal. Pardon me Princess but I would like to share with you one incident that happened some fifty years ago. We as college students went to see shooting of an English film in Samore garden. Suddenly, there was silence. We turned and saw His Royal Highness Maharaja Shri Karni Singhji, arrived and took a seat in the front row. He looked at us and signalled us to approach him.
‘He smiled and said, “Bunked off classes?” We could not raise our eyes to face him as we were awed by his charismatic personality. But we nodded affirmatively. He said, “Don’t make it regular practice. Now go and enjoy.” The incident remained embedded in my memory for 50 years but cropped up after reading the introduction by Nona Walia in the Times of India.’
In another letter from which I quote a short extract, Rishi Raj Singh wrote to me, ‘I vividly remember rare opportunities when my father used to take me to shooting range near Lallgarh where Karni Singhji and others used to shoot “double trap “in such an outstanding manner. The extent of his huge and immense popularity can be gauged from this fact that after remaining Member of Parliament for long and glorious twenty five years when the parliamentary election was held probably in 1980, it seems that a virtually unknown independent candidate was allotted the famous election sign of Maharaja Karni Singhji, i.e., “Taraju” (a pair of weighing scales, the election symbol my father used) and he got twenty five thousand votes simply because though people knowing fully that it was not a election sign any more with Maharaja Karni Singhji but still voted on it, probably showing their love and affection for him. He was a kind hearted king, tipping on the toes of his grandfather Maharaja Ganga Singhji. He always deeply thought about the welfare and devel
opment of general public.’
I think, in many ways, my father always wanted—quite unrealistically—for me to be a miniature version of himself. My brother was a very different personality from my father and had his own set of interests and as a result all his hopes and aspirations were directed towards me, which I thought was a bit unfair, as it was a heavy burden to carry for a young girl, one I still struggle with every day of my life, and even though my father has been dead for several decades, my friends, family and staff members still regularly remind me, ‘Your father would have expected you’ to do this that or the other. Since I was so much like him and we shared so many hobbies, I was assumed to be his favourite child. Within the family, this caused more problems than it resolved. He took a lot of pride in my achievements: ‘the chip and the block’ is how we were known. I was brought out at steady intervals to display my shooting prowess for all his friends whenever they visited Bikaner, and I now understand the pride that he must have taken in my achievements—but then, it was simply annoying at times, leading to many arguments between us. He felt very proud when people said to him, ‘Oh, you are Rajyashree’s father.’
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