Palace of Clouds

by Rajyashree Kumari Bikaner

  Sajjan and I left on the British Airways flight to Riyadh, and no sooner did we cross the boundary into Saudi Arabia in the air, British Airways immediately closed the bar as no alcohol was to be served over Saudi territory even if it was several thousand feet above land. Ajay Singh fortunately was there to greet us which was very considerate as I am told that the Saudi customs quite happily turn out the contents of one’s suitcase and examine everything minutely and confiscate with great zeal any religious material or symbols that are not Islamic. Rita and her family lived in a large estate where mainly the foreigners in Saudi were based and had a lovely, comfortable house. I had earlier enquired of Ajay Singh about the availability of Bournvita and Ribena in Riyadh, as my son was a fussy eater at the best of times. He had assured me that everything was easily available and there were large super-markets like the Bon Marche, which catered to foreigners who lived there.

  I found Riyadh to be one of the most oppressive cities I have visited: whenever a woman goes outdoors, she must be covered in a black ‘abaya’, which is a long black gown, very much like what the barristers wear in the British courts. We also by law had to cover our heads, and on occasion we cheated and instead took scarves with us when we went to the mall to shop. Sometimes a member of the religious police, a ‘Mutawah’ would come upon us and he would tap a large cane on the ground in great disapproval, warning us to cover our heads: frankly, it was quite unbearable. Many Indian doctors hailing from Rajasthan who worked there came to visit me. They said that living in Saudi was very difficult as the laws were very strict: during the fasting period of Ramadan even the Hindu doctors were not allowed to eat or drink even a glass of water during the day- this left them feeling very dehydrated in the heat during the course of a busy day, and if they were caught, then swift punitive action was taken against them. However, they somehow managed to persevere there as the salaries they earned were extremely good, much of which they repatriated to their families back in India.

  Back to Ribena and Bournvita: despite all of Ajai Singh’s reassurances, it turned out after all that Bournvita was banned in Saudi Arabia since it was regarded as ‘a product of Israel’, and although there were plenty of different types of blackcurrant juice cordials available, there was no branded Ribena. Fortunately, I had bought a small supply of both which lasted most of the trip, but a few days before we were to return to London we ran out of Ribena and we were in a quandary. Eventually, we decided to resort to subterfuge and quietly went to the local Bon Marche and bought a bottle of black current cordial. Rita said to me, ‘Don’t tell Misha, he won’t know the difference.’ As it happens, she was quite wrong. Sajjan knew the minute he took a sip that he was being fooled into drinking a substitute. He had a sensitive palate, even as a baby. At the Royal Free Hospital in Hampstead where he was born, they had on offer three different kinds of drinks for babies: plain water, sugary water and a watered-down orange juice. I tried them all on him and whereas he resolutely refused to drink the plain water and even resisted the orange juice, he simply loved the sugary water and could not get enough of it. He was very cross and put out at our subterfuge, but there was no alternative.

  Even to leave Saudi one has to have an exit permit. Life there is reasonable in communities where the foreigners live but very difficult otherwise, especially for the foreign labour there many of them happen to be Indians. Women, at the time were not permitted to drive though now I believe the young Crown Prince has relaxed the rules which will permit women to drive which is a long overdue step. Quite frankly I could not wait to leave Riyadh as the oppressive atmosphere was beginning to get me down. Though a strict ‘no alcohol’ ban exists there, the foreign community seems to have access to liquor quite readily and the locals are very happy to drive over to Bahrain and enjoy their drinks there. The foreigners that I met all cheerfully confessed to brewing beer in their bath tubs at home!

  Meanwhile, back in India, at some point there was a proposal by the Indira Gandhi Government to pass legislation to the effect that absentee farmland owners might have their farms and lands confiscated. It did not take much to startle my father- he was deeply alarmed by this news and one holiday around Christmas when we visited India, he decided that we would all go to Ganganagar (a city on the Rajasthan-Punjab border), where we had our ancestral farms. It was important, said my father, that we be seen as hands-on farmers. Thus, we all piled into a train and off we went to Ganganagar. There was a sweet little house on the farm and at the time the farm was being managed by a lovely elderly Sikh gentleman we all called ‘Sardarji’. Our farms had been winning prizes for many years, mostly for the red blooded Malta oranges that were gown in the orchards there.

  Ganganagar was named after my great grandfather, Maharaja Ganga Singh. The two days or so we spent there were occupied in being photographed pruning shrubs, gathering fruit in the orchards and even sitting on a tractor. My father knew nothing about farming or gardening, but did his absolute best to look industriously occupied on his farm. It was all good fun and the fresh air did us a world of good. One day, while driving on the farm Sardarji was sitting at the rear and showing us the right path, suddenly he said in Hindi: ‘There is an impediment ahead.’ ‘What kind?’ asked my father, but before Sardarji could reply the jeep skidded into a deep rut on the road. Why did you not stop me?’ asked my father, to which Sardarji replied that since it was his farm, he had warned him but was in no position to stop him! Some farm workers came to the rescue and helped us out of the rut. Fortunately, the farm acquisition was a mere rumour and nothing adverse came to pass but it was a strange time to live in India. The Congress Government spearheaded by Mrs. Indira Gandhi came up with the most outrageous proposals and laws virtually on a daily basis.

  Maharaj Kumar Raj Singh of Dungarpur, my mother’s youngest brother, was a tall, handsome and charismatic man. He was to go on to play a very important part in my life: in fact; I will go so far as to say that after the death of my father, he was almost like a second father to me. We all loved him very much and had deep respect and admiration for him. Even in his late sixties, all my friends found him extremely attractive. He was known simply as ‘Dungarpur’ after the state in Rajasthan that he hailed from. He was an exceptional human being and I do not pay compliments of this kind lightly: he was a loving and affectionate uncle, not just to me but to a rather large band of his nephews and nieces. He did not have children of his own and had practically ‘adopted’ the large brood of children of his brothers, sisters and cousins. No one could have asked for a more loving uncle. His helping hand was extended to all who solicited assistance; it was common knowledge that Maharaj Raj Singh was incapable of turning away anyone in need.

  Passionate about cricket, he dedicated his whole life to the game in one form or another. In his early days, he played for Rajasthan and then went on to be appointed to the selection board. It was Raj uncle who was responsible for giving the great Sachin Tendulkar his first chance to play for the country which helped begin his career in cricket. In the memorial souvenir published in 2014, it states that ‘Tendulkar also recalled with gratitude all the help he received from Dungarpur and went on to say, ’Raj Bhai is an integral part of my life and I was very close to him right through my school days and he was among those instrumental for giving me the opportunity to play for the country. You may have talent, but it needs the right platform and Raj Bhai was instrumental in providing it.’

  That is high praise indeed from a legendary cricketer such as Sachin Tendulkar who is not only revered in India where most people are addicted to cricket, but is greatly respected in the cricketing world internationally.

  Fondly called ‘Mithu’ by his siblings and Mithu Mamosa (maternal uncle) by us, his elder sister Maharani Hitendra Kumari of Danta describes him as a lively and naughty boy when he was young. I can well believe it, as even as an adult he had a cheeky grin, an infectious laugh and an amazing sense of humour. She affectionately describes some of his childhood pranks as follows:

  ‘
Another tale of Raj’s naughty ways relates to the women who used to play the dholak (drums) on festive occasions. For some strange reason, Raj did not like them. So, one day he took an air pistol and fired into each dholak, thereby damaging the instruments and rendering them useless. The distraught women began to cry loudly. Finally, our mother had to console them as well as arrange for the instruments to be repaired.’

  It is very difficult to believe that this tall and charismatic man resorted to such pranks in his childhood. His sisters used to tell tales of how he would never let them play peacefully with their dolls and if he was annoyed, he was quite capable of taking them and throwing them into the lake much to their chagrin. He was kept under control by his mother, my maternal grandmother who was a strict lady; however, there were times when he tested her patience too and she would slap him. My grandmother confined herself to the Zenana in the Udai Bilas Palace, but when she was angry with him; uncle Raj would run away from the Zenana and stay out till the evening. He would complain to his father (my maternal grandfather) of the beatings that he had received at the hands of his irate mother. He pleaded with his father that under no circumstances should his mother ever be allowed to leave the Zenana. Raj uncle was his father’s favourite child and as he was the youngest, he jestingly agreed that for as long as he was around his mother would remain firmly in the Zenana.

  In his youth, Raj uncle used to play cricket with Hridaynath Mangeshkar, the brother of the legendary Bollywood playback singer, Lata Mangeshkar. On meeting Lata, there sprang up an attraction between them and a relationship was forged that was to last almost till the day that he died in 2009. My mother and Danta aunt were of the opinion that a personable young prince such as their youngest brother should in fact make a suitable match with a Rajput princess or at least a girl from an aristocratic family, so naturally they were not too approving of his relationship with Lata. I have a recollection that at some point when we were little children, Lata Mangeshkar was invited to old Bikaner House in Bombay and I strongly suspect (but cannot confirm) that she was asked to leave their brother alone so that he might make a suitable match. Despite that, Raj Singh refused to give up his relationship with Lata and despite regular rumours and gossip that he had secretly married her; he firmly assured me that that was definitely not the case. They must have shared a strong bond as neither of them married and as a result he never experienced the joys of fatherhood. He would have made an amazing father and grandfather as he had a loving and generous heart.

  When we were living in Hampstead, we made contact with Lata Mangeshkar and her charming family. Considering her staggering success in the world of Indian music I was surprised to note that she was an extremely humble and down-to-earth person. She had a remarkable ear for languages and could sing in many different dialects. She also understood when we spoke in Marwari and was very affectionate to me and my family. Very thoughtfully, she brought us many gifts each time she travelled abroad.

  So devoted was Raj uncle to cricket that he insisted that they buy a flat over looking Lord’s cricket ground. In fact, the building was called ‘Lord’s View’ and his apartment had an amazing view of the playing field. In years to come, the Paul Getty bequest to Lord’s meant that they increased the height of the pavilion to increase the seating capacity and this led to the view being blocked; needless to say he was very upset. In 1984, when India played England, Raj uncle was made the manager of the Indian cricket team.

  In his later years, Raj uncle developed Alzheimer’s disease and it was extremely distressing for him and all his family and friends. Towards the end it got so bad that that he could not even remember in which building I was living in London at the time. Eventually, he could no longer travel all over the world as he used to and having sold his apartment in Bombay some years ago, he lived in a rented flat in Bombay where he had the best medical attention. His health was declining progressively and he was taken care of by my cousin Jahnavi Kumari who is the daughter of my uncle Maharaj Jai Singh of Dungarpur, my middle uncle and elder brother of Raj uncle. Jahnavi set aside everything including her own family to care for Raj Singh uncle with single minded devotion. I loved Raj Singh uncle very much, and in the years after my father had died, took excellent care of me and was always available whenever we had a problem. He even stood up to my mother several times when the need arose in my defence. His loss was irreparable in all our lives.

  On his sixty-fifth birthday Raj Singhji had thrown a large party in Bombay that lasted for several days. ‘It is almost like a wedding’ commented one of my cousins and to some extent it was. Uncle was in a very relaxed and mellow mood and I felt that it was an event that helped him mentally evaluate his life. The party was naturally based around the CCI cricket club in Bombay. I was delighted to be invited. It was a wonderful gathering of the clans and gave me the chance of meeting many family members and cousins, whom I would not, in the normal course of events, meet regularly. On the day of the main lunch on 19 December, which was his birthday, he gave a little speech: somewhere hidden within the anodyne comments there was a little grenade that he lobbed at his unsuspecting sisters, when he happened to mention that when he was a young man he was denied the marriage of his choice and now in later years the younger generation were getting married out of the Rajput community and the family had changed the goal posts and accepted these marriages without protest. I think his sisters were quite taken aback by this full frontal attack but put up a brave face at least in public, but I believe many tears were shed later in private!

  Although I wanted to visit him when he was ill, I avoided it as I wanted to remember him as he always was—tall, strong and charismatic. I was cowardly in not facing him when he was not at his best. My sister Madhulika phoned me one day and expressed urgency in coming to see him. I made plans and flew to Bombay where my nephew Raisinh took me to meet uncle. He was being taken care of by two male nurses. My admiration goes to my cousin Jahnavi who as his primary caretaker maintained both him and his apartment in such good shape. He was sitting up in bed and ‘watching’ TV though what—if anything—he was registering was a moot point. He smiled at me when I walked into his room. I talked to him of days gone by and I noticed that there were brief flickers of understanding in his eyes. As I was leaving, I touched his feet and suddenly he uttered the only words during that entire time I was there, ‘I love you,’ he said, and I was almost in tears. He died soon after and I am deeply grateful to my sister for ensuring that I went and met him one last time before he died. He was an amazing man and a deeply affectionate uncle- there will not be another like him again.

  On 25 July, 2014, coinciding with my mother’s eighty fifth birthday, the long overdue souvenir on uncle, Raj Singh Dungarpur was finally released by Sachin Tendulkar. The hall was packed to the rafters with friends, family and his legion of admirers; speaker after speaker paid tribute to this exceptional man. The mood was light-hearted and punctuated by humour- exactly the way that Raj uncle would have liked it to be, had he organised this function himself.

  His first cousin Maharaj Samar Singh of Dungarpur wrote in the preface:

  ‘This volume is a humble tribute to the memory of an exceptional human being who was also a rather unique cricketer. Raj Singh Dungarpur (RSD) was certainly that and perhaps more. Regal in lineage and bearing; exceedingly large hearted, generous and genial; always accessible, hospitable and full of zest for life; ever helpful and trusting to a fault; staunch and sincere friend; excellent communicator and orator; overall inspiring and fascinating—these were some of his many attributes.’

  For the game that he loved and devoted his entire adult life to, Raj Singh ji himself wrote: ‘the game of cricket runs parallel to life. In English it is often said that what is not cricket is not fair. Earlier, the game went by certain high principles and ethics. Unfortunately now the morality of the game stands diluted because of acute competiveness, the advent of limited over’s cricket, along with the game for nearly four decades, I would say that Cricket has a ve
ry special and unifying role because of its own ethos.’

  His observation is germane as the ‘gentleman’s sport’ has now been sullied, perhaps beyond repair by the number of match fixing allegations, many of them proved and the players concerned banned from playing. In the early days of cricket, there was no question of the players receiving money; however, many decades on now substantial finances swirl around the world of cricket from sponsorships to betting on the games.

  Raj uncle’s elder brother, Maharaj Jai Singhji of Dungarpur, my middle uncle paid this tribute to his younger brother:

  ‘Raj was a big-hearted and generous person. His life’s motto was to help anyone who approached him. Many of those who had been obliged by him went on to do well in life. His devotion to his family as well as his love and affection for both older and younger members of the family members was unparalleled. I cannot name a single family member of my family who has not received his largesse. He was adored by his nephews, nieces, grand nephews, and grand nieces. When my father was taken ill, he was the first to reach his bedside. He made arrangements for him to be taken to Mumbai and, once admitted; he set up a panel of the best doctors to attend to him.’

  The Cricket Club of India or the CCI as it is more popularly known was a second home to my uncle where he virtually spent all his time. The staff at the CCI adored him, he was a hugely popular figure and was never on his own for long as friends came up to greet him and sit with him at meal times; he was surrounded by like-minded people who loved the sport of cricket and he thrived on it. Harsh Vardhan a lifelong friend of Raj uncle writes:

  ‘For the CCI employees, he was like a demi-God – they knew how he had transformed it to its present grandeur when he was its president. He often reiterated that the Lord’s was the headquarters of the MCC but devoid of the gathering members that the CCI boasted of – a thousand clubbable people indulging in multifarious activities daily.’