Palace of Clouds

by Rajyashree Kumari Bikaner

  To define my mother as being a prude would grossly understate the fact. I recall as children if there was a picture of a woman in a bikini in a magazine, it was promptly censored and we were forbidden to see it. Now, these were perfectly harmless pictures featuring holidays and other anodyne activities in magazines of repute such as National Geographic, and there was nothing even remotely risqué about them but nonetheless, they were banned. Of course, this raised our curiosity quotient sky-high and we—as all children would—made it a point to see them when the old Mater was not about. When my parents returned from their World tour they had also visited Hawaii and so on their return anything with the Hula dancers was immediately removed to the extent that when my father was showing us his around the world movie with commentary we were ushered out of the room when the Hula dancers appeared, and bared their midriff as of course quite naturally they would as they are an integral part of Hawaiian culture!

  Mother also never got over such prejudices. Once when my daughter Anupama was a little girl and due to have her inoculations (I think it must have been the smallpox one as they tended to be large and left a permanent mark), an attractive, young, female doctor Mrs. Singh had newly arrived from the United States, and was aware of these inoculation marks causing embarrassment in later life. Thus she very considerately mentioned that she would give the shot high up on the hip so that in future if she were to wear a bikini, it would not show. My mother happened to be there and remarked acidly to me, ‘If you let her wear a bikini, that is.’ this streak still remains in Mother to this very day.

  In the first week of June 1953, the stage was set for the coronation of Queen Elizabeth II with much pomp and grandeur. It was to take place on the 2 June at Westminster Abbey in London. It was the beginning of a new Elizabethan age—the scientists Francis Crick and James Watson heralded a revolution in the world of genetics by discovering the structure of the DNA molecule in March of that year. Recently a letter written by Crick to his son outlining the ground- breaking discovery, sold at the auction house ‘Christie’s’ for six million dollars. Meanwhile, thousands of miles away in India, Edmund Hilary and his trusty Sherpa Tenzing Norgay climbed to the summit of Mount Everest on 1 June—it was a great British first and an amazing gift to his young Queen.

  While these momentous events were taking place both at home and abroad, my mother went into labour on 4 June. She was rushed to Breach Candy Hospital in Bombay by my father. The Breach Candy Hospital was established around 1950 in the upmarket south Bombay area: the large white building was built in the colonial style by the British architect Claude Batley. It was considered to be the best and most fashionable hospital where the rich and famous went to deliver their babies. Dr. Shirodkar, my mother’s gynaecologist, was duly summoned to attend the birth of their baby, it so happened that Dr. Shirodkar was quite famous in his own way as he was a pioneer in the field of gynaecology and was the first to invent what is now known as the ‘Shirodkar stitch’ (a procedure where by women with a history of miscarriages could be helped to carry their babies safely to the full term). I believe that this procedure even helped the glorious Sophia Loren when she was having difficulties carrying her baby and he was chosen by Mrs. Indira Gandhi when she was expecting Rajiv and assisted her in the delivery. So the stage was all set for this great man to help deliver little me. My mother tells me that hardly had they rushed her to the theatre and even before Dr. Shirodkar arrived, that I decided it high time to make my entrance into the world quite unaided.

  Meanwhile, back at Bikaner House, my brother Narendra Singh and my elder Danta Cousin Mahipendra Singh were both studying with their tutor at the time when someone came in and informed them that my brother now had a baby sister and Mahipendra Singh, a little cousin sister. My cousin tells me that they were both extremely underwhelmed by the news as babies of any kind related to them or not did not play an important role in their daily lives. Nonetheless, the next evening, they were both spruced up and had their hair brushed and faces creamed and were duly taken to Breach Candy Hospital to view the new arrival. It appears that they were even less impressed after their first sighting of this tiny, wailing baby and formalities done, beat a hasty retreat back home.

  I was named Rajyashree by my father, partly because of the fact that I was born during coronation week, and because my father was a keen student of history and was influenced by the name of Rajyashree the sister of King Harshvardhan, who was an Indian emperor born in 590 BC and ruled over the northern parts of India for more than 40 years. A very imposing and difficult name for a small baby and one which was to cause many problems in the future, as not many could get the name right or remember it, or for that matter even pronounce it properly. Rajyashree means the ‘the best or most prominent in the kingdom’ or at least I was as far as my father was concerned in Bikaner.

  My father was one of the very few Rajput men who were desperate to have a baby daughter which quite frankly, is unheard of, as Rajput families absolutely adore their sons. Several years ago soon after the birth of my brother Narendra Singh they had had a baby daughter, who was still- born. Perhaps if this little sister of ours had lived I may never have been born, but such is fate. Nonetheless, my father was thrilled with my arrival. Those were days when fathers were not expected to participate in the actual labour as they do today—he was of the generation that paced the corridors outside the delivery room and waited patiently for news while smoking a cigar. It finally came when my maternal aunt Maharani of Danta rushed to give him the good news and he rewarded her with a beautiful pair of diamond earrings. On my birth certificate where father’s occupation is meant to be written, it very quaintly states ‘gentleman’.

  On my fortieth birthday, a friend of mine in London gifted me a copy of the Times newspaper that was published on the day I was born. A firm called ‘Bygone News’ provides such original newspapers to those who want a souvenir of the date of their birth or any other special event in their lives. Among other news was a prominent black and white photograph of the newly crowned Queen Elizabeth, resplendent in her coronation gown and also carried an interesting column on the other important event that had taken place that Coronation week, and more importantly the news of Edmund Hillary reaching the summit of Mount Everest—the burning subject even then it seems was, whether there was any chance of the mountaineering expeditions finding a trace of the mysterious Abominable Snowman.

  The Times duly noted, ‘it seems improbable that the present British expedition to Mount Everest, whatever its achievements, will be able to record an encounter with the abominable snowman: for among the habitats of that intriguing creature appears to be a preference for imprinting his squashy footprints in the snows of autumn. The snowman may rest assured, however, that he is not forgotten; your correspondent has looked eagerly for traces of him in every secluded gully and on every patch of clear snow, and has been disappointed that not so much as a toe print has been produced in response to an offer of 100 rupees (about £5 at the time) made public among the local Sherpa population.’ It appears that the Abominable Snowman remains as elusive today as he was the day I was born.

  The advantage of being born during Coronation week was that the celebrations fall around the time of my birthday. On 4 June, 2002 to celebrate her Golden Jubilee, the Concorde flew past my Hyde Park apartment which was a great treat as the Concorde was decommissioned soon afterwards, and on 4 June, 2012 which was the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee year, beacons were lit beginning in Tonga, ‘a fiery orange glow will light the skies over remote South Pacific archipelago marking the start of a chain of beacons that will be lighted around the globe in honour of the Queen’s reign.’ I must admit I rather enjoy the reflected glory.

  Of course, not all events that take place on or around ones birthday are happy or pleasant ones, the year 1989 happened to be one when a couple of events took place that slightly tarnished 4 June for me. Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini the religious leader of Iran died on 3 June and his burial took place on 4 June, and whe
n I quiz the younger generation as to what I and Ayatollah Khomeini have in common they always have extremely cheeky answers ready to that query and laugh uproariously. The second and extremely unpleasant event that took place on 4 June the same year in 1989 was the terrible event in China at Tiananmen Square. Unfortunately, in the Chinese language it is known as the ‘4th June Incident’.

  A student protest got out of hand and the hard-line leaders of China forcibly tried to suppress the uprising and ordered the military to enforce martial law. In the events that ensued, many young men and women lost their lives quite needlessly. Who can ever forget the iconic image of the unknown man in a white shirt holding shopping bags in both hands standing brazenly in front of a tank courageously trying to halt its progress? When I was visiting Beijing, I had a lovely young girl who was our guide and she took me on a tour of the Forbidden City. As we were standing in Tiananmen Square I rather naively and perhaps inappropriately asked her about the 4 June incident, till that point she was smiling and friendly but that changed as she sobered immediately and informed me in no uncertain terms that no such incident ever took place, it was a story made up by the Western media. Knowing full well the situation of human rights in China I decided that discretion was called for and dropped the subject.

  It is nice to have one’s birthday associated with pleasant events but that can rarely be the case all of the time. I believe that in Hong Kong there is a museum which is specifically dedicated to the 4th June Incident and depicts the various aspects of that very unfortunate event, news of which is heavily censored in mainland China even today. However, there is always a silver lining to every cloud and it appears that I happen to share my birth date with the glamorous Hollywood film star Angelina Jolie, so there are little compensations in life after all!

  Nannies came and went with such regularity that they were in most part a blur. The one I recall well was one who survived my mother the longest—her name was Mrs. Favell. She, like most of the nannies then, belonged to Goa and was a Catholic. After returning from holiday once she brought back some gifts for me—one was a rosary composed of pretty lilac coloured beads and the other was a book on Christianity. This particular book had fairly graphic and gory pictures of what happened to the wicked in Hell. This left a deep and lasting impression on me. I innocently kept the rosary by my bedside with no religious intent in mind, and one day, mother found out about this and immediately both items were promptly confiscated. I am not sure why she reacted so strongly to these gifts as she is generally very secular in her approach to religion. Perhaps she felt that the nanny was trying a subtle conversion tactic. Anyhow, they disappeared and the nanny was ticked off for bringing and giving such gifts without the permission of my parents. However, since mother’s actions are usually abrupt and arbitrary, there was never any discussion or explanation, and as we grew up this attitude caused more problems than it resolved.

  My parents did not believe in preparing their children for any important event such as a birth in the family nor, for that matter, did they tell us that they were about to embark on a lengthy world tour lasting several months. Had they explained, it would have made sense to me as I was six years old at the time. However, they decided that ignorance of these plans was the best way for us to cope with the separation. I was told that I could go to see a film in the evening with nanny, which of course made me feel very grown up. I was a bit surprised that when I went to say goodbye to them there was a large assembly of my mother’s relations lined up in the living room in our home in Bombay and wondered why there were so many there at that time of night. The film we saw that night was called ‘Escapade in Japan.’ It was the story of an American boy who gets separated from his parents and teams up with a Japanese boy: they go on to have an amazing adventure in Tokyo until towards the end; he is finally reunited with his parents.

  On my return from the film and while I was sitting in bed and about to go to sleep that evening, my Danta aunty came by and gave me a short hand written note from my father, which in effect, changed my whole world in an instant. The letter which I have kept till today was dated 18 May, 1959 and went on to say:

  ‘Dearest Biggy,

  I hope you liked the film. Daddy and Mummy waited for you to say goodbye but your film was very long and our plane was leaving so darling Biggy have a good time and enjoy yourself. I will send you a dolly soon. We are coming back soon, so don’t worry.

  Lots of love,

  Daddy and Mummy.

  To be told not to worry to a confused 6-year-old was easier said than done. It must be remembered that our generation was not as smart and well informed as children are today with easy access to the internet. I had no idea where ‘abroad’ was and when—if at all—my father would be coming back. I was inflicted with a severe sense of loss and I reacted by fretting and going off my food and talking very little. I am not quite sure if my aunt understood the problem but she certainly could not deal with it, though she tried to keep us all amused and occupied to the best of her ability. This separation from my parents, particularly my father, triggered a sense of anxiety in me that has lasted all my life until fairly recently when a hypnotherapist friend of mine offered to help; and after a few sessions with him, I was finally able to offload this childhood baggage of the fear of abandonment that I sub- consciously seemed to have carried all my life.

  We were sent lovely post cards from the countries my parents visited and also toys: a large black cuddly poodle arrived in time for my birthday and a beautiful walkie- talkie doll from Italy called Bella Bambina arrived soon after. She wore a beautiful pink dress and a lovely bracelet, and it was love at first sight as far as I was concerned.

  Eventually, missing us terribly my parents asked my aunt to take the three of us to the local photo studio and get us photographed—the same would be sent to them. I recall that photo shoot very well: I was in a particularly surly mood and my sister Jane in a most petulant one. I admire the photographer who persisted despite tears and tantrums in taking some lovely photographs that depict cheerful, cherubic children, when in fact we were the polar opposite.

  My brother Narendra Singh was my parent’s first child and born in Lallgarh Palace, our family home on 13 January, 1946. He was eight years older than me and some eleven years older than my younger sister Madhulika. He studied at Modern School in Delhi for a while and then my parents decided to send him to Mayo College at Ajmer to complete the rest of his education. For some strange reason, all the princely families in Rajasthan gravitated to Mayo while those from Gujarat and Surashtra sought their education at the Raj Kumar College in Rajkot, and those from Madhya Pradesh and Uttar Pradesh normally went to Daley College in Indore. Doon School, the more popular school with the royal and aristocratic families today, did not seem to have been a big favourite back then. I recall that my brother was never really happy at Mayo, though he seems to have made a lot of friends there, and many whom I meet now still remember him.

  To ensure that my brother got all the comforts of home at school, my parents dispatched a member of staff, Gad Singh to accompany him to Ajmer, who was to keep an eye on my brother and assist him in running errands and chores that less privileged boys would have to attend to themselves. Gadji used to send weekly letters to my parents about his wellbeing and general report; this had been the practise since the time of Maharaja Ganga Singh and was a dictum followed by the family. Having one retainer on his duty was extremely modest, as I discovered recently when reading the autobiography of Kanwar Natwar Singh, ‘One life is not enough’, in which he describes his time at Mayo College in the Forties:

  ‘In my time, there were one hundred and five students, while their retainers and servants exceeded three hundred!’

  We used to simply dread the school holidays as that meant that my brother was at home for several months and he was a terrible tease and fond of rough games. I cannot honestly say that we ever bonded or were close as children: perhaps that was a reflection of our age differences and personalities
.

  There was a teacher at Mayo College called Mr. Garg and he painted pleasant landscapes, and my parents were forever buying these every time they visited Ajmer for my brother’s annual school events. I cannot remember what subjects he taught but it must have been one which my brother did not excel in, and buying his paintings was perhaps a diplomatic move on the part of my parents. Each time term opened, there was a terrible scene when we would all say goodbye to my brother, who would cry endlessly and my mother would also shed a few tears, while reassuring him that time would pass quickly. Feeling rather left out, I too would then burst into tears, and there would be a group crying for a spell, though in reality, I was rather relived that he was going away for a time and there would be no more teasing. He could turn up his eyelids like poltergeists in a horror film, and it made my stomach turn.