Palace of Clouds

by Rajyashree Kumari Bikaner

  When I got married in 1973, I loathed leaving Winchie behind, but had no alternative as the quarantine regulations in the United Kingdom were draconian at the time. I could not possibly submit a small little pampered dog to a quarantine facility for a duration of six months which was the case at the time. Now this regulation has been relaxed but at that time it was rigidly maintained. My sister Madhulika very kindly agreed to look after him in my absence and whenever I came back home he would remain with me. He unfortunately died at the age of seven causing all of us much grief. Many decades have passed since then and many pet dogs have come and gone, but Winchie will always have a very special place in my heart.

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  My Father Maharaja Dr. Karni Singhji of Bikaner at Oslo World Shooting Championships – 1961.

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  ‘You educate a man, you educate a man; you educate a woman, you educate a generation.’

  - Brigham Young

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  ust as shooting and hunting were regular and recurrent features of our lives in those days, so too were the many festivals and family occasions that were celebrated across the year. In secular India it is noteworthy that every religion has its special days and festivals included in public holidays, as does the birthday of Mahatma Gandhi, the Father of the nation. This certainly delights office workers and school children alike who get days off for all public holidays virtually across the year. My father’s birthday fell on 21 April, and in the early years before school began in earnest we were normally in Bikaner to celebrate it. On the day, we would all dress up in traditional Rajasthani ‘poshaks’: the choli (blouse) and ‘lehnga’ (flared skirt) with a ‘chunri (long scarf) draped over our heads. The outfit would be embellished with ‘zari’ and gota (silver and gold thread embroidery) and kinari (fringes made of gold thread). In the yesteryears, the thread was made of real gold or silver, according to the importance of the costume, and in many cases the descendants of those who inherited these beautiful old poshaks have managed to retrieve the precious metals by burning away the old fabric, which is a great shame, but the majority of these old garments did not survive very well and were in most cases in very poor condition.

  Our Goan cooks in the palace kitchens were legendary: there was Lobo, Jackie and Sebastian, who would produce a lovely cake iced in white fondant and lined with pink sugary swags and small silver sweets. Before the cake was cut, there would be an official photograph; my father ensured that no event in our lives was left unrecorded in our household. My father would wear a white bandhgala or Nehru jacket and an orange or red turban on the morning of his birthday and first visited the temples to pay his respects to the family deities. On his return, my sister and I would be gathered together, our brother was normally away at Mayo College at the time. Long before my father would get around to cutting his cake, I would have already slyly filched a few of the globular silver decorations that dotted the cake. I loved them and simply could not resist. After decapitating much of the cake while no one was looking, my father would finally cut the cake, we would all burst into a chorus of Happy Birthday and then get down to some serious cake eating.

  In the evening, there would be a big dinner party in the lawns of Shiv Villas. We all used to feel terribly grown up attending these dinners but the high point of the evening would inevitably be when the dessert was finally served. The speciality of our kitchen was the ‘Kota ice cream,’ a recipe that may well have come from the royal kitchens of Kota. In those days, ice cream was made the old-fashioned way in a wooden churn with lots of ice and salt and much labour was involved in the cranking of the handle. It was served in elegant champagne glasses and topped off with a dollop of cream and a sprinkling of caramelised sugar. It was absolutely delicious; unfortunately, no one has been able to replicate it since. It goes without saying that it was consumed greedily, we ate our way steadily through many helpings, and one of our companions Vikram Singh Sankhu confesses to having eaten eleven helpings in one sitting!

  During the festival of Dassehra, we were usually in Bikaner when we were little children. The festival symbolises the destruction of evil and dates back to the seminal Hindu epic the Ramayana when Lord Ram invaded Lanka or what is now known as Sri Lanka, killed the demon lord Ravan and his evil cohorts and reclaimed his wife Sita who had been kidnapped by the wicked Ravan. It is a simple story of the triumph of good over evil and has continued to be celebrated in one form or another down the centuries. As children, we eagerly looked forward to it, as all the fireworks and the symbolic killing of Ravan greatly appealed to us.

  The festival was celebrated at the Bikaner stadium which has now more recently been renamed Dr Karni Singhji Stadium after my father. In the evening, we would all drive down and while my father would join the men, we were taken to the ladies’ wing, where sometimes my grandmother would also join us and watch the proceedings. Effigies of the demon Ravan and his son Meghnad and brother Kumbhkaran towered over the massive crowds, and we would watch my father shoot the symbolic arrow at Ravan to start the ball rolling as the effigies would be set ablaze thus and the firecrackers would burst. Actors representing Ram, his brother Laxmana and Sita, applauded by the cheering crowds would circle the stadium, brandishing their bows and arrows in a pantomime of the story of the Ramayana. It was all exceedingly entertaining. I recall on one particular occasion there was a large helium balloon flying over the stadium and one to which I took a great fancy, but despite all my entreaties for once my father put his foot down and explained that this was not an ordinary balloon and that it couldn’t possibly be brought home.

  Diwali, the Hindu festival of lights, followed soon after Dashera and was always a big occasion in our household, as indeed with all Hindu families. Again, it is a festival that dates back to the time of the Ramayana when after having vanquished Ravan, Lord Rama and his consort Sita, together with his brother Lakshman return home after an absence of fourteen years of exile and his family and the subjects of his kingdom greet them warmly with diyas or votive lights and fireworks. It is a joyous homecoming of Lord Rama. Most families, regardless of religion, celebrate Diwali in some form or the other if not religiously then at least to enjoy the fireworks and the many card games that are played in many homes during that time. It’s a bit like Christmas, a festival that transcends religions and everyone pitches in and enjoys themselves.

  My mother took this festival very seriously and conducted a huge ‘puja’ in the evening and there, before the deities of Goddess Laxmi, the goddess of wealth and Lord Ganesha, the remover of obstacles, dozens of little votives ‘diyas’ would be lined up: small earthenware containers with a wick dipped in oil. They are traditionally lit up at Diwali, and what I remember most was that there would be heaps of sweets, all of different colours shapes and sizes. The one I liked the best was called ‘petha’: translucent white squares made from pumpkin. We were all summoned from various parts of the palace and made to sit down while the aarti (invocational hymn) was performed by my mother. It was a ritual we all looked forward to. We all got new clothes and the evening would end with a huge fireworks display. We were given sparklers with which we would write our names in the air. Diwali is really more than just a joyous celebration: it is in effect the Hindu New Year when people spring clean their homes and buy new utensils and clothing or cars as is the case in modern times and businessmen balance their books and everyone is ready for positive change and the coming of the New Year.

  Most of our year would be spent in Delhi as we had started school by then at Mrs. Law’s International School. On one dull and rainy day, when my head was clogged up with a bad cold, I asked Ganpat Singh, the resident supervisor of the Delhi House, to buy me a record called ‘A Hard Day’s Night’, by a new group called the Beatles, which was highly recommended by my friends. The album arrived at about teatime and was duly played; I can honestly admit that in that one moment my whole life changed forever, and nothing was quite the same again. As time went by and as an avid lifelong fan of the Beatles, I begged my f
ather to bring back albums, books, posters and other souvenirs and in fact, everything that had anything to do with the cult of Beatle-hood; he very considerately did so every time he went abroad for a holiday or to attend a shooting competition. The Beatles, the Rolling Stones and many other pop groups of the early sixties brought about a seismic change in the world of music and nothing would ever be the same again.

  The music shop at Connaught Place was my favourite haunt, and on the pavement outside sat vendors who sold stamps, thousands of them in every shape colour and size from countries across the globe, some that I had never even heard of. In fact, it seemed that the more obscure the country the more colourful and beautiful their stamps. I was an avid stamp collector at the time, and I rarely see these vendors any more: stamp collecting as a hobby is now not as popular as it once was. The music shop had thousands of records; it was all vinyl in those days, long before the invention of audio cassettes and decades before the compact disc.

  The shop was fitted out with little glass booths, into which you could take a stack of records and play them before deciding to buy some. The shop also sold chubby little books which had the lyrics of the popular songs of the day; it helped in following some of the more obscure numbers better. I used to quite happily spend hours there, and spent most of my pocket money on records. The salesman came to know us very well and the minute he saw me he would take out a music selection of what he thought might appeal to me. I recall asking him one day for a particular number by the Beatles titled, ‘I Am a Walrus’. It was admittedly a funny title and he could have easily said no he did not: instead, he burst into loud laughter while I turned various shades of pink in deep humiliation and embarrassment. How I enjoyed those little shopping sprees, returning home with arm loads of stamps and records! Life then was both simple and happy. Vinyl records have recently become very popular again which only goes to prove that everything comes full circle in the end!

  At that particular time, the Beatles were followers of Maharishi Mahesh Yogi and going through their transcendental meditation phase. They visited India and made a halt at Delhi en route to Rishikesh. In Delhi, they stayed at the Oberoi Intercontinental Hotel, which was the most popular hotel in the city at the time. I begged and implored my father that I must be allowed to meet the Beatles and get their autographs, no matter what happens, or else there would be dramatic consequences. I was, as you can well see, a full- fledged drama queen. Seeing my passionate determination, my father finally found a family friend called Rina Singh, who was a well known interior decorator, and she happened to be working at the Intercontinental Hotel on a project at the time. My father requested her if she could slip us through the tight security cordon around the hotel and she very graciously agreed to take a demented teenager under her wing, and told us that we could wait in the lobby till they returned back to the hotel that evening. My dearest wish was to meet Paul McCartney, who was undisputedly my favourite Beatle member.

  However, as all good plans go awry at the last moment, so did mine. It was not Paul, but Jane Asher—his girl friend at the time—who arrived to meet us in the lobby. She was dressed all in white, in a long, loose white cotton shirt and baggy Indian pants, her bright red poker straight hair falling loosely on her shoulders: a look -but not the colour -that I would have given anything to emulate. She was very sweet and polite and spoke to me for a few minutes and told me that Paul was very tired after his trip and had gone up to his room to rest. She very kindly signed my autograph book, so I had to be content with that—after all getting to meet Paul’s girlfriend was no small achievement, I consoled myself.

  Undaunted, I was not about to give up on my mission to meet the Beatles so easily. I persisted until my father managed to send us to the Oberoi Hotel again. However, this time we were told to stand at the rear entrance and not the front porch. Apparently the Beatles would be leaving from the rear of the hotel to avoid the huge number of fans and press at the front porch. Thakur Ridmal Singh, a senior ADC in my father’s household was duly appointed to chaperone us. We patiently waited till finally the Beatles arrived and got into their waiting car: it was just a glimpse and lasted just a few seconds but the excitement of seeing all four of them right here before our very eyes was overwhelming. All the girls who had gathered around us were screaming their heads off, as was I, practically wailing like a banshee. Thakur Ridmal Singh was deeply shocked at our behaviour and I doubt if he had ever seen anything quite like this hysterical adulation in his calm life in Bikaner. He tried his best to restrain us, but it was a futile attempt, as I was in seventh heaven. Eventually when we got home Ridmal Singh duly reported our behaviour to my father who reproved us, and declared that we had behaved in a very un-ladylike manner. That said, what could my father, a total ‘square’ in my opinion, possibly know about pop stars and teenage adulation?

  My brother was by now a handsome and eligible young bachelor; no sooner had he completed his college education when my mother began a dedicated quest to find him a suitable bride. Normally, in the Rajput community, once it is reliably learnt that there is a suitable boy on the horizon, the next step is for the girl’s family to send a horoscope and a fetching photograph of the prospective bride to the prospective groom’s family. This would then be followed up with gentle pressure applied by friends and acquaintances in common. At that time, we were still in school and not really interested in our brother getting married. He had had a brief romance with a Princess from one of the premier states of Rajasthan but my parents had vetoed it and so the hunt was on once again in earnest.

  It was finally my aunt Krishna Kumari who was also married into the state of Suket in Himachal Pradesh who suggested the young Princess Padma Kumari of Chamba as a prospective bride for him. After much deliberation, my parents agreed that she would be an excellent wife to their son. Their horoscopes were duly tallied and found to be compatible, and an auspicious date for the wedding was sought from the court pandits.

  We soon found ourselves being measured for ‘poshaks’ by tailors who came from Jodhpur. At that time there was only one firm Ugamraj Bishenraj based in Jodhpur that made all the royal wedding clothes. Now of course, there are many hundreds of such establishments scattered around Jaipur and Jodhpur. Weddings in India after all are big business and many thousands of people across the country earn their livelihood from the proverbial ‘big fat Indian wedding’.

  At the time of the engagement, two of Princess Chamba’s brothers came to Bikaner, as it is normally the brother of the bride who performs the engagement ceremony. The eldest of them was Tikka Prem Singh and he was accompanied by his younger brother Hem Singh. My cousin Chandrashekar Singh and I were duly instructed by my parents to accompany the Chamba visitors to the Fort for sightseeing. The old Junagarh Fort is composed of large open courtyards onto which open several reception rooms and bedrooms: this was expressly done with ventilation in mind, as in those days there was no electricity and the summers in Bikaner were blazing hot.

  In forts and palaces, pigeons are a terrible menace and as a result, to keep them at bay the smaller courtyards have a wire netting strung above them. While we were giving a tour of the Fort, Hem Singh Chamba said to his brother, ‘I bet you cannot walk across this netting.’ We obviously thought this to be a joke between the brothers, however, Tikka was deadly serious about his brother’s challenge and before we could do anything he said, ‘Of course I can’ and jumped on the netting and walked calmly to the other side, much to our astonishment and then walked back. The netting mind you, was meant to keep the pigeons out of the courtyards and not to support human weight; it was an absolute miracle that this rash act of his did not end in a calamitous accident.

  The rest of the time between the engagement and the wedding passed without incident fortunately. My brother’s ‘nikasi’ ceremony where the groom leaves his paternal home and only returns back with his bride, took place from the Hazur steps in the old Junagarh Fort, as per tradition. In Delhi the barat party were housed at the Claridges Ho
tel and it was there that the marriage ceremony was solemnised on 27 April, 1971. It was a grandiose wedding attended by many dignitaries and princes. We, the women of the family, remained in Bikaner, as per Rajput custom.

  The barat soon returned to Bikaner and the first thing that a new bride does is pay her respects to all the family deities in the old Junagarh Fort. I was duly appointed to help my new sister-in-law climb the endless steps and help her negotiate her way around, as her face was covered with a veil, and she was struggling with her heavy poshak. After the family deities, the bride paid her respects to each of the family members who were senior to her husband. The steps in the Fort are not meant to be climbed easily; they were made specifically with the purpose of making things as difficult as possible for unwanted intruders and invaders and therefore, it was a terrible struggle both for the young bride whose face was covered with a veil, and for me as I followed in her wake, lifting the hem of her heavy skirt to make sure that she did not trip on the steep steps, as we negotiated our way around the Fort. This exercise took a few hours, for which I was rewarded with an aching back for some days to come.