Palace of Clouds

by Rajyashree Kumari Bikaner

  Jack went on to become the Speaker of the House of Commons on the retirement of Speaker George Thomas, and remained Speaker from 1983–1992. He had the distinction of being the last Speaker to wear the traditional white wig while he was in the House. He was succeeded by the first woman Speaker, the ebullient Betty Boothroyd. Jack was conferred with a life peerage in 1992 and became Baron Weatherill. It was a great honour and privilege to have known someone like him who despite attaining high office remained humble and courteous.

  In 1977 when the Queen was celebrating her Silver Jubilee, and I decided to write a letter congratulating her. In the past decades, both my grandfather and great grandfather had maintained a lively correspondence with King George V and his son King George VII, the present Queen’s father. My father stopped the correspondence for some unknown reason, which was a great pity since with important and busy people like the British Royal family, it becomes impossible to renew ties once you are out of touch. However, at Christmas my father did maintain the tradition of sending the Queen a telegramme which if I recall correctly, was worded in a terribly quaint and archaic way ‘I beg to tender’ it began and went on to wish her a Happy Christmas and New Year and her office always replied promptly.

  However, when I wrote to the Queen at the time of her Silver Jubilee, I did so in appropriate and contemporary terms. I was therefore very pleasantly surprised when very soon after I received a letter from the Queen’s Private Secretary on 24 March, 1977, to say that the Queen was away on an official visit to Australia, but had received my letter and thanked me for it. In my letter I had mentioned the old ties between our family and the House of Windsor:

  ‘The Queen has commanded me to thank you very much for your letter and for your kind congratulations on Her Majesty’s Silver Jubilee. The Queen remembers your great grandfather very well and, as a child, greatly admired him.’

  Needless to say I was enormously pleased to receive this letter but even more so that she remembered Maharaja Ganga Singh. Normally routine correspondence to the Queen is replied to by one of her ladies in waiting but to receive a reply from her Private Secretary, Sir Martin Charteris who was her private secretary from 1972 to 1977, was quite something.

  By the time we had settled down in our new home Anupama’s third birthday was approaching and we were fortunate that North West London was very well served for schools. This made our task easier and we enrolled her in a playschool called the Welgarth Nursery School which was not very far from our home. Quite naturally, there were lots of tears and tantrums when I first dropped her off in the mornings, but I was told by her teacher Miss Vinton that the moment that I left her she immediately calmed down and settled in to play with other children and the collection of small pet animals such as rabbits and gerbils that the school kept.

  Anupama was a very popular student and had a very active social life-she must have had close to fifteen girls and boys in her class and it was essential that on every birthday they all be invited so that no one felt left out, which was a fair comment, but accommodating a sizeable number of children running all over the place in a small home was very challenging. Fortunately, we had a large home and a beautiful garden. Simply giving the children cake and ice cream was not enough and it was required that they have a professional entertainer as well to amuse them. In fact there was an unspoken rivalry among the parents to outdo the rest each time a birthday party came around. Our entertainer was a popular man called Uncle Reg, who was most reliable and turned up half hour or so before the party started and set up all his apparatus and made balloon- shaped animals. To his credit, he did manage to keep a couple of dozen children amused in most part, and when time came for them to go home they all had little packets of return presents that we gave them. Birthdays were very big business at that time and are even more elaborate and adventurous nowadays, I believe.

  Anupama was a solemn child and took everything fairly seriously. Once I completely forgot the time and as a result was late collecting her from school. When I finally reached there, standing outside the school was the principal Miss Vinton holding hands with a very serious and disapproving daughter! Many hours of profuse apologies later I was finally forgiven. Once at the annual school sports day, she participated in the egg and spoon race. My daughter played everything by the rules. The race began and she was off but at some point the egg fell off her spoon and while many children just continued on their way, not her—her cheeks wobbled and I was all ready for waterworks to break out but no, she went back slowly and meticulously picked up the egg and popped it back on the spoon and then continued the race. Needless to say, she did not win but she had done it all in the correct way.

  By the time Anupama was five years old and well settled in her primary school at Sarum Hall (a private school in Belsize Park), we contemplated having a second child. The debate between settling the first child before having a second or to have both fairly close together rages on and each set of parents have to make the decision that is suitable to them. In our case, our priority was to give all our time and efforts to our daughter, so that she could settle down happily in her primary school without any distractions. We were of course keen to have a baby son, simply because it would be nice to have one of each. The very day I discovered that I was pregnant again my joy was mitigated by the terrible news that Lord Mountbatten’s boat had been blown up by a bomb while he and his family were out sailing off the coast of Ireland.

  It was in August 1979 that in a frightful incident so many innocent people lost their lives. The IRA of course was responsible for this hideous act, in their perverted way of thinking they were taking revenge on a member of the British establishment and connected to the Royal family. Innocent young boys, Paul Maxwell, a 15-year-old teenager who was the boat boy to the fateful expedition that day, and Nicholas Knatchbull, one of Lord Mountbatten’s twin grandsons also lost their lives; he was only fourteen at the time. The occupants of the boat, which was blown to pieces, were hurled into the water. Lord Mountbatten was mortally wounded with his legs almost severed and he died very soon after he was rescued from the water, but his daughter Lady Patricia and her husband Lord Brabourne were seriously injured and had to remain for several months recovering in hospital. Lord Mountbatten had been very close to Prince Charles who referred to him as his ‘honorary grandfather.’ Members of the British Royal family were quite naturally upset and shaken.

  Nicholas’s twin brother Timothy Knatchbull later went on to write a deeply moving book titled ‘From a clear blue sky’ about his memories of the events that transpired that day and more importantly, his deep sense of loss at losing his twin brother. The bond between twins they say is a very strong one and I am sure as the survivor that day he must have felt it deeply. Timothy launched his book in India and it was a great privilege to hear him speak at a function in Delhi. He went on to say in his book how kind and considerate the Queen had been when soon after the tragedy he was sent to spend some time at the Palace since both his parents were confined to hospital. Lady Patricia Mountbatten was also a remarkable lady and very inspirational, even though she was gravely injured and lost not only one of her sons but also her mother-in-law the dowager, Lady Brabourne in this ghastly incident, she went on to make a full recovery and the few times that I met her thereafter, she was completely devoid of bitterness.

  When we were in the process of compiling material for my late father’s memorial souvenir I had requested Lady Patricia Mountbatten for her personal memories of the friendship between our two families. She sent me a warm letter on 6 December, 1988, saying:

  ‘Our two families have been linked in friendship over four generations, going back to the beginning of this century. There is a reference in the memoirs of my grandmother Queen Victoria, Princess Louis of Battenberg (later Marchioness of Milford Haven) about the summer of 1907 in which she mentions your family to her brother, the grand Duke of Hesse, in Germany, and writes:

  “The Maharaja of Bikaner, his little daughter and son and Indi
an suite, twice visited Ernie at Wolfgarten that summer for a few days. He had been taking the waters at Nauheim. We went over there to see them.”

  My father renewed that friendship in 1921 when he accompanied his cousin, Edward Prince of Wales, on his tour of India and visited Bikaner with him. Then in 1947, when our father was Viceroy, the family links were renewed again, and in January 1948 my sister and my husband, Lord Brabourne, and I accompanied our parents on a marvellous visit to Bikaner which we will always remember as a highlight of our time in India. My husband’s parents had also known your family well when Lord Brabourne was Governor of Bombay, and later of Bengal, in the years before the war.

  It was a great pleasure for us to meet your parents again with you in England not so long ago, and a great sadness to realise that now neither your father nor ours are with us anymore. However, I feel sure our family friendship will continue and we are thinking of your mother and your family very much at this sad time.”

  Life, however, goes on as they say. I was in early stages of pregnancy and this time I was completely confident and had no reservations of having my baby in London. It was decided that I would have my baby at the large teaching National Health Hospital, the Royal Free in Hampstead. Each patient is assigned to a senior obstetrician/gynaecologist and in my case I was assigned to Professor Ian Craft; he was a pioneer in the field of IVF and quite famous in his own right. I only met him twice during the entire time of my pregnancy; routine checks were of course carried out by junior doctors working under him. Professor Craft was a controversial figure and after a time he went on to found his own clinic, The London Fertility Clinic, where he helped many childless couples to achieve their hopes and dreams of having a healthy baby.

  Towards the final stages of my pregnancy, my daughter announced to her class that ‘My mother is now so large that she cannot fit behind the steering wheel of the car. ‘She was fairly correct in her assessment but despite my size I persisted in driving her to and from school so that she did not feel in any way that the new baby was altering her interaction with her mother. My parents arrived in early May 1980, to be with me when I had my baby and all was ready for the new arrival, who as is normally the case decided to make an appearance early in the morning of 16 May. We had a little overnight bag with all necessities ready and MJ rushed me to the Royal Free Hospital. The National Health Service in Britain constantly comes under criticism for its long waiting lists and neglect of patients and many other failings, some of them probably justified, but in my experience both when my son was born there and some years later when my daughter was taken ill, they have been excellent and professional in their service and could not be faulted in any way.

  My son decided to arrive around lunch time. I was in hospital for a couple of days before I was discharged and everyone there took excellent care of me. I have a fondness for old fashioned Rajput names and decided after some thought to call him Sajjansinh, though in a few short months, he was to gain the lifelong nickname of ‘Misha’. When I wrote and informed my maternal grandfather Nanosa on the name given to our baby son he graciously replied: ‘Sajjan Singh indeed is a historic day name. Sajjan is a Sanskrit word; its English equivalent is gentleman. The name in every respect is appropriate and I hope and pray that the child will grow up to be a source of pride and happiness to his parents.’

  There was an absolute deluge of cards and telegrams congratulating us on the birth of our son, but the funniest one was from Thakur Dalip Singh in Bikaner, though he certainly did not mean it to be such, I think. In days when telegrams were dictated over the phone an error in a letter here or there was to be expected—what he meant to express was, ‘Congratulations on the auspicious birth of Bhanjesa’—however, the ‘a’ was changed to‘s’ at some point and arrived as ‘the suspicious birth of Bhanjesa’, which caused some much needed merriment for us all!

  My father went off from London to shoot in his last Olympic games in Moscow, the symbol of which was the Russian bear nicknamed ‘Misha’. He was the official mascot on all the official souvenirs. When he returned to London my father brought my daughter Anupama a large cuddly Misha bear. I love teddies myself and protested to my father that he should have brought one for me too, to which he replied, ‘You have your little Misha,’ and from that day on the name stuck, and my son was thus named after ‘Misha’ bear.

  Soon we were home and settled in as best as we could. What I had not counted on was post -natal depression or the dreaded baby blues. It was a condition that was at the time little understood, and there was no one to explain to a new mum that this terrible condition could strike one at random. After my daughter’s birth I recall I did have several episodes where I would burst into tears for no apparent reason but thought no more of it. After the birth of Misha it was more severe: whereas on the one hand I had to cope with a huge house, my parents, a little girl now in full time school and a new born baby on the other. Suddenly, it all got too much and life became heavy and dark most of the time. It was like struggling under a black cloud all day long. Having suffered first hand, I think it is critically important that young mothers are given help and counselling so that they do not feel lost and bewildered. It is not part of one’s imagination and nor is it something that one can snap out of just like that. Some counselling is essential to help a young mother come to terms with the changes in life that a new baby brings with it, together with necessary medication where appropriate. I was completely overwhelmed and my moods went from extreme anger one minute to terrible crying bouts on the other.

  Postpartum depression is a form of clinical depression which affects some women a couple of weeks after their childbirth and manifests itself with feelings of intense sadness, low energy, crying episodes, anxiety and irritability. The causes are not well understood but seem linked to the changing hormones in the mother’s body. I was given no counselling and neither my husband nor my parents understood what I was going through- they just thought that I was behaving irrationally. Eventually, I expect as the hormones in the body stabilised after the pregnancy things eased up somewhat and I slowly went back to normal, but I went through an awful time.

  I have great admiration for the British; they have an amazing passion for all manner of subjects from their beautiful gardens to their tiny allotments where they grow vegetables and fruit. Their zeal for protecting animals is unmatched. There is an organisation for every animal on earth that one can think of: sanctuaries for donkeys, hedgehogs and of course like me they are mad about dogs. These organisations do excellent work in their own field and have helped millions of neglected, injured and abused creatures big or small, and their zeal and dedication is to be admired. Crufts is the largest dog show in the world, with a huge number of enthusiastic participants. I went there many times while I was in London I was also a member of the Royal Horticultural Society and attended their meetings and flower shows, the most prominent in the calendar being The Chelsea Flower Show held each year in May in the gardens of the Royal Chelsea Hospital. The spirit of the occasion permeates all around the neighbourhood and just about every shop in Sloane Square participates enthusiastically in decorating their shop fronts with plants and flowers in a most attractive and imaginative way. On the last day of the Chelsea show, all the exhibitors put their plants up for sale at very low prices, as it saves them from carting the plants back to their respective nurseries, and the dedicated gardeners can be seen carrying armfuls of enormous plants in their pots and bunches of flowers home.

  The National Trust is a wonderful organisation that maintains the homes that are under their care, they range from stately mansions down to more modest homes but all are maintained in immaculate condition and are open to the public. The British are extremely enthusiastic about preserving their art and heritage and every once in a while, when someone wants to sell a painting or artefact that is considered valuable to the nation, then museums such as the National Portrait Gallery and the National Gallery immediately start a fund to collect sufficient money to be
able to match the offer that the seller—usually an aristocrat trying to offset inheritance tax—can get at the auction or abroad and more often than not, the public rise to the occasion and many such valuable works of art have been preserved for the nation.

  The great spirit of the British kept them going through several years of the two Great Wars and there was of course a time when the sun never set on the British Empire and the maps of the time were awash in pink. The British were tough enough to live in severely inhospitable countries and still managed too survive successfully fighting off malaria and other tropical diseases among many other dangers that lurked in every corner of far flung Malaya and other parts of the tropics. What I did not find endearing about the British is their passion for fox hunting which is an extremely cruel sport or badger culling. Shooting pheasants and grouse during the season is one thing but chasing a poor little fox with dozens of hounds that then proceed to tear it apart when they catch up with it is not my idea of sport, especially since the alternative of drag hunting is available where the participants in the hunt and their hounds can all have an energetic and entertaining day without the ultimate killing of a fox. The cruel practice is really quite inexplicable.