The apartment that I now bought for myself was just off the busy Edgware Road. It is an Arabic neighbourhood, with many Lebanese restaurants selling oriental food, and a vast number of Arabs have their apartments here. Late in the evening they slowly emerge from their homes to sit and drink mint tea in the many cafes and smoke their hookahs, or ‘shisha’ as it is more commonly called. The taxi drivers refer to the Edgware Road as ‘Little Beirut’. Small corner shops sell dozens of dainty Arabic sweet meats and fast food joints sell kebabs and other delicacies. Once again my friends thought it hilarious: they could not believe the contrast of my choice of homes from the most orthodox Jewish locality of Golders Green to the heavily Arabic part of London. One of my friends quipped that it was my journey from the land of Sharon to that of Bin Laden!
My dearest wish was to set up a Charitable Foundation of my own and it made perfect sense to me to name this after my father: the man who has inspired me most throughout my life. Thus in 1999, I set up the Maharaja Dr. Karni Singhji Memorial Foundation. It is no exaggeration when I say that everything that I am and everything that I have originates from Bikaner-those are my roots, and in some small measure through this new organisation I wanted to return something useful to the citizens of my home town and share with them the good fortune I have been blessed with.
Our very first venture was organising a cataract camp. Bikaner is considered the cataract capital of Rajasthan—just about everyone above the age of forty has at some point in their lives had problems with one or both eyes. The reason is twofold: firstly, the harsh and piercing sunlight which prevails almost throughout the year- Bikaner does not experience grey British weather by any stretch of the imagination, although in winter we may have the odd misty day but it does not last long, it is therefore apposite that the Bikaner, Jaiselmer and Barmer areas have been nominated as the solar hub of India because we have the maximum undisturbed sunshine hours in this region. Secondly, there is fine dust that blows across the region: the red and black sandstorms of Bikaner are legendary throughout India. It is said that they were capable of turning day into night particularly in the summer months, blowing fine grains of sand all over the house. It was therefore inevitable that because of the harshness of the weather people at some point developed cataracts. Our camp was a great success and was extremely encouraging. However, in view of the fact that in many such camps there was the possibility of complications and infection where standards of hygiene were not maintained, we decided not to hold any further ventures in this direction.
Upon conferring with the doctors in Bikaner, they made the pertinent point that it was young couples who struggled with the cost of treatments for their children and desperately needed financial assistance. Young couples who were starting their lives together were not financially strong and found it hard if not impossible to meet the cost of surgery for their little babies and infants. It was an undeniable piece of logic, so we gravitated towards those patients who had young children in need of heart surgery. Dr. PC Khatri, the dedicated doctor who at the time was the head of the Paediatrics Department at the PBM Hospital, sent many such patients our way.
Our very first was a young girl called Salma. She desperately needed a simple procedure for her heart. We approached Dr. Naresh Trehan who was based at the Apollo Hospital at the time. He was very kind and agreed to lower the cost of the procedure. Salma was able to have her surgery and went on to make an excellent recovery. It was extremely gratifying for us and since then we have assisted many such patients with excellent results.
Interestingly, the Prince Bijey Singh Memorial Hospital was built from the proceeds of the gold that great grandfather Maharaja Ganga Singh was weighed against at the time of his Golden Jubilee in 1937. The ‘Tula- dan’ ceremony or the weighing oneself against gold in the Golden Jubilee year was performed in the ‘Yagyashala’, a beautiful building which was specially built for this ceremony on the grounds of Lallgarh Palace. He was weighed against grain and other produce to begin as proscribed by Hindu Shastras (ancient holy scriptures); these were distributed to the poor and needy, then to the chanting of Vedic hymns he was weighed against gold, some 8600 tolas of pure gold was piled up in the counterbalance, which was then sold and the funds were utilised to build the state museum in Bikaner as well as the large PBM hospital, with a specialised wing for TB patients. It boasted of the first cobalt machine for the treatment of cancer – the very first in all of India at the time.
Dr. PC. Kahtri was passionately devoted to his department and when we approached him with offers of help, he immediately responded by giving us lengthy lists of basic equipment that was needed in order to help the premature babies and other children in his ward. It was not simply life-saving equipment that was needed—they were in dire need of the most basic items such as digital weighing scales, without which it appears that it was not possible to assess the exact weight of a baby or a child, and as a result administering medication was an inexact science. When I first visited the ward, I was completely unprepared for the tiny size of a premature baby. The doctor who was showing me around picked up a little infant in the palm of one hand: they were so very tiny that it was almost heartbreaking to see them. They all needed constant care and thus we provided the hospital with heating units for premature infants and oxygen machines. It is very heart-warming to learn that these basic equipments actually have helped many hundreds of babies both full-term and premature ones to achieve good health and a bright future. Most of the mothers I saw on the ward were young women from rural areas. All my friends have been hugely supportive of my endeavours and have donated generously to the Foundation for which I am very grateful to them. Working with the Foundation gives me a great deal of satisfaction.
Soon after I returned from London to live in India, I was approached by the well- known Indian fashion designer Ritu Kumar. She was working on a coffee table book based on the costumes of Royal India. Among many prominent members of the erstwhile Royal families of India she approached me as well with a request to agree to be photographed in Bikaner for her forthcoming book. I readily agreed to her request, little realising at the time that this photo shoot would involve many costume changes and professional makeup sessions. It was certainly the first time for me and after the entire exercise was completed, I decided that it was definitely going to be the last time I would agree to be part of such a project, tiring as it was. The team of photographers, makeup artists and dressers laden with their equipment duly arrived in Bikaner led by Ritu Kumar who was an extremely capable, charming and persuasive lady.
After extensive research they decided that they would take one of my photographs in the Anup Mahal of the old Junagarh Fort. The Anup Mahal is a resplendent room, every inch of its walls are covered in rich red and gold lacquer work; it glows without the need for any external lighting. There is a low gaddi covered in red velvet and this is where she wanted to photograph me. Ritu Kumar wanted a richly embellished poshak for the photograph, and had thoughtfully brought several beautiful outfits for the photo shoot. She assured me that she would find a suitable one for me which would be just right for the image she had in mind. The Junagarh Fort is not designed with changing rooms in mind that much was certain, as her dressers went back and forth trying to find a space where one could change. Finally we settled on one of the rooms adjacent to the Anup Mahal and then discovered much to our amazement that the room had no electric lighting! My ancestors obviously lived very austere lives. We decided to press on nonetheless and I stepped into the poshak in stygian gloom.
As though that was not enough, the outfit that she had brought with her was just the right size for a fashion model and not for a normal sized person such as me. ‘Not to worry,’ said the dresser airily ‘I will adjust it for you’ and she brought out a dozen safety pins with which she proceeded to pin up the blouse here and there, more often than not poking me with one as we groped about in complete darkness. Finally all was ready and I was led outdoors. I was most alarmed to find that the poshak
that she had chosen was a dark navy blue with some gold gota work or edging. ‘I don’t think we wear such colours in Bikaner,’ I told her with some trepidation. ‘Such colours are regarded as colours of mourning—I am sure the staff here will object.’ Ritu Kumar was having none of that ‘Not at all,’ she said matter of factly, ‘they wear colours like this in Jaipur at the time of Diwali’ whereas it was indeed true that the ladies of the Jaipur royal family and their court dressed in dark blue poshaks for Diwali, but this was Bikaner and things were conducted here quite differently. The die however was cast: they had no other outfit available and it seemed that there was little or no alternative but to see it through if the photograph was to be taken.
As I emerged I could see Hazari Singh, the supervisor of the Fort and some of his staff wincing as I appeared in the navy blue poshak: they looked as though they were sucking on several lemons and their disapproval at the colour that I was wearing was most apparent. I was deeply embarrassed, but there was not much that I could do. I was then whisked off for the make-up session, where I was caked in heavy makeup, and when I protested to the artiste she patiently explained that make up for a photo shoot is completely different from what one wears daily. Finally, I exited the chair wearing a heavily made up face looking a bit like a geisha doll. But she was right that it looked perfectly natural and normal in the photograph. I was not sure if it was in fact correct to sit on the Anup Mahal gaddi: after all certain places were reserved for the Maharaja and male members of the family and I did not want to compound the problem by first wearing inappropriate colours and then sitting in a place that perhaps I should not. I asked Hazari Singh if it was acceptable for me to sit on the Anup Mahal gaddi. ‘Of course,’ he said genially ‘it’s yours to sit in any place you choose.’ Thus I was seated there and a number of dressers appeared out of nowhere and started to lay out the skirt of the poshak pleat by pleat, and after several minutes of this meticulous attention they were finally satisfied that all looked well.
The photographer, a very talented young lady, then took over and I must admit took a series of absolutely amazing photographs, one of which appeared in Ritu Kumar’s book ‘Costumes of Royal India.’ Ritu Kumar very kindly gave me several copies of the photo and it is one that is very often requested when organisations ask for a photograph of mine. Needless to say that was the first and definitely the last foray into modelling for me, and I am well content to leave it to the professionals. The book was a great success and extremely well received, which was hardly surprising, since it was so well researched and beautifully written and illustrated by Ritu Kumar.
After my divorce and since my children were grown up and busy with their own lives there was not much to occupy me in London, it became inevitable that over a period of time I slowly gravitated towards home and started to spend more and more time in India. My father had generously left me an apartment in Delhi; I enjoyed the task of doing it up and making it my home. I was helped enormously by a talented young interior designer called Bhaskar Mukherjea who was bursting with ideas and enthusiasm, and between us we gradually converted the apartment into a comfortable and cosy home. The work in Bikaner with our family properties and Trusts grew ever more onerous and complicated with each passing day and soon it became a full time responsibility and I enjoyed the challenge. Life slowly developed a new rhythm, dividing my time between Delhi and Bikaner and I greatly looked forward to my holidays in London, which had been such an integral part of my life for almost three decades.
Euripides said: ‘One loyal friend is worth two thousand relations.’ I must at this point pay a small but extremely heartfelt tribute to all my many friends who have been my strength and stay in the past many years from the time of my divorce. The Indian Diaspora living in London welcomed me with open arms, they patiently heard all my woes over the collapse of my marriage without being judgemental and invited me to many pleasant parties and receptions, and it was quite frankly like entering another world- a much friendlier one than that which I had inhabited thus far. Similarly on my return to India, I was warmly welcomed by many old friends and was fortunate to strike a friendship with some new ones. Facebook has brought a completely different dimension to life, I am now in touch with the CJM Class of 1970, the year of my graduation from school, and it is nostalgic to see old black and white photos from our school days that they put up on the Convent of Jesus and Mary page. I have reconnected, albeit online, with many old school friends and many others. It is an amazing way to remain in touch with people from all over the world.
The year 2003 was one of mixed emotion: on one hand it marked my fiftieth birthday in June, which was a point of my life which brought great pensiveness and much self examination on my part. After all, by that time I had survived longer than my grandfather Maharaja Sadul Singh, and it made me think how much he had achieved in his short life of some forty-eight years. I had a small party for my personal friends and they came from all parts of India. I had requested them not to bring me any gifts but instead if they so wished, to make a donation to my Foundation which they did most generously and the Foundation benefited substantially. We were able to donate more urgent life saving equipment to the children’s ward at the hospital. We decided to have a party in the middle of February at Bikaner as the weather is absolutely perfect at that time. Since my birthday falls in early June it was impossible to organise a party in the heat of almost fifty degrees Celsius.
Close to eighty family members and friends had collected to celebrate with me in the Durbar Hall of the palace. In the absence of my father, I had requested my brother to say a few words at the dinner and he kindly agreed. In many ways he was very much like my father, quite capable of speaking without prepared notes on just about any subject if he was so inclined. At the time his eyes were giving him a lot of trouble, he was a diabetic (one of the many adverse side effects of diabetes is its impact on the eyes); in fact, he had to undergo several operations to correct his failing vision. He asked for the speech to be typed in bold letters but in the end he was finding it difficult to read even the bold print. He threw away the speech and said he would speak from the heart.
I was extremely wary as my brother was quite capable of coming up with controversial things if the mood took him, but I was deeply touched and impressed with his speech. He managed to speak for twenty minutes without any notes and one of the things he mentioned remain now in my memory: he said that, “My sister was our father’s favourite child and now after all these years I can see why. She has done excellent work with all the Trusts created by our father and though he is not here with us today I know that he would have been very proud of her achievements.” I had tears in my eyes as I knew in my heart that he for once meant what he said. My friends were also deeply moved and although many years have passed since that wonderful party, they still recall his speech and the amazing time they had in Bikaner.
Some eight months after my birthday party, the mood changed completely, when my brother’s health suddenly took a turn for the worse. Diabetes is known as the ‘silent killer’ and is an insidious illness that lives up to its reputation. He had been dependant on insulin injections for several years but for some reason and without telling anyone in his family, he stopped taking them and started self-medicating himself with pills instead. He lived a fairly solitary life in Bikaner and the staff that surrounded him was not very well-educated and unfortunately unable to see the terrible damage that he was doing to himself. I had just arrived in Bikaner in early September and was surprised to learn from Dr. Ghanshyam Singh Bhati, a family friend, that in his view my brother was suffering from hepatitis and other serious ailments and should in his opinion be rushed to Delhi without further delay.
This of course was easier said than done. Getting my brother to leave Bikaner was not the easiest thing to do. Both our mother and I prevailed upon him to immediately put together an overnight bag and go to Delhi for treatment, and after much pressure and persuasion he agreed. The last time I saw him was at the B
ikaner railway station when he was about to leave. For a few minutes we conducted a normal conversation but as the train was about to leave the station he had tears in his eyes- perhaps he knew that he had very little time left and may never see Bikaner again. In Delhi, he was taken to the best hospital but over the course of the week he suffered kidney failure. It seemed to me that once he left Bikaner he simply lost the will to live. They rushed him to Apollo Hospital where they fought valiantly to stabilise his kidney problem, but in vain, and eventually one by one all his major organs failed and he died in the early hours of 23 October, 2003. It was a day before the festival of Diwali. The family then decided that his body should be flown back to Bikaner for cremation at the family grounds at Devi Kund Sagar. It all had an eerie similarity with what had happened to my father some fifteen years ago.
One remembers small acts of kindness in moments of difficulty—they are more precious than any lavish gift that one can be given when times are rosy. I recall most particularly the young air force officer at Nal Air Force base in Bikaner. The chartered aircraft was due to land at the base and I was there to meet his family and accompany his body to the Junagarh Fort. The wing commander was most courteous and very kind and he appreciated the fact that here was a family under great distress and offered me the use of their little waiting room. Normally in India, people will rarely leave you alone to gather your thoughts but he was sensitive enough to do so and after ascertaining that there was nothing further he could do, left the room. He was attentive, helpful and kind at a very difficult moment. I meant to find out his name and thank him personally but the hectic events of the next few weeks drove it out of my mind and since the forces transfer their personnel often by the time I got around to it he had already been posted elsewhere, but his kindness and courtesy will remain with me always and should he ever read this, then he would know that his gesture was appreciated and for which I extend my heartfelt thanks.
Palace of Clouds Page 40