Palace of Clouds

by Rajyashree Kumari Bikaner

  The day of the funeral was Diwali and a strange hush descended over the city that evening. Normally Bikaner celebrates this joyous festival with great enthusiasm but that day there was no noise of fire crackers, no diyas were lit, everything was quiet and it seemed as though the citizens of Bikaner were with us and the family in our time of grief. They were mourning with us and it was deeply touching. Losing my brother at the age of fifty-six was extremely traumatic for us all, we all knew that he was very unwell and probably would not make it to old age going by the way he neglected his health, but no one in their wildest imagination thought for one moment that he would die so suddenly. We were badly shaken but had to go through the motions of observing the mourning period of twelve days as was customary. Receiving guests and answering their questions, repeating the same thing over and over again. Sitting with elderly relatives and keeping them company over meals—it was traumatic, to say the least.

  The world may well have been advancing but in Rajasthan, within the closed Rajput circles we are still living in medieval times. My brother had three daughters and it seemed that upon his demise there was a vacancy that needed to be filled. Before we could recover from the shock of losing a close family member and gathering together our wits, it was proposed to us that we should adopt my nephew Raviraj Singh and declare him as the next Maharaja of Bikaner. Ravi is the son of my cousin Maharaj Chandrasekhar Singh and the grandson of my uncle Maharaj Amar Singh. I was always fond of Ravi; he was a serious minded young man and a successful banker in Jaipur. That was so until the regressive Rajput crowd started to fill his mind with the possibility of succession to the gaddi of Bikaner. Advice without responsibility is easily available, there are more than enough people to offer it but were things to go wrong then they rapidly vanish into thin air.

  At first discreet pressure was applied on us but when we resisted then it slowly increased: we received letters from Maharao Brijraj Singh of Kota among many other relatives and so called ‘well wishers,’ all of them urging us to consider accepting Raviraj as the successor to our brother. Maharao Brijraj Singh happened to be my father’s first cousin and in his letter to my mother dated 15 November, 2003, he wrote: ‘Nobody shall dispute your position as “legal heirs”. The various Trusts that you control should remain intact despite your squabbles amongst yourselves. But the grand words giving visions of honouring history, traditions, heritage and culture sound hollow and untrue. Your actions do not match the lofty ideals that you so proudly proclaim. If one goes by the ill-advised and ill-conceived declaration, it would put an end to the illustrious dynasty of your own family which for the last four hundred and fifty years or so had ruled Bikaner and filled the pages of history by its bravery, by its accomplishments, by the rich traditions and by some of the most outstanding and glorious achievements in recent living memory. It seems that putting an end to all this is your concept of “maintaining the glory of Bikaner”.’ It was an astonishingly brutal and insensitive letter written to a mother grieving the loss of her son.

  My mother then finally called a family meeting. Technically, according to custom, in cases like this it is the widow that decides on the question of adoption. In this case, my sister-in-law Padma Kumari refused categorically to have any adoption foisted upon her. We agreed with her: after all, neither my father nor my brother had given any hint of what was to happen in the event that my brother did not have a son to succeed him. We were quite frankly in no position to play king-makers. We resolutely refused to go along with this preposterous suggestion.

  This, however, did not in any way stop the plotters and planners who carried on with their machinations. I was about to leave for London for my vacation when days before that, first my cousin Chandrashekar Singh and then Ravi came to meet me at my flat in Delhi. I assured them that they were our close kin and family members and that there was no need for either a coronation or an adoption of any kind. ‘But,’ Chandrashekar Singh said, ‘committees have already been set up and General Singh is heading one of them.’ I tried my best to explain to him that no committee or individual could possibly achieve anything if both father and son refused to participate in this little melodrama. I also told him that until such time that we, the direct family, acknowledged Ravi as my brother’s successor no real purpose would be served but they were impervious to any appeal to common sense and my words fell on deaf ears.

  The so-called ‘Raja committee’ had decided on its own that 21 April, 2004 was to be the day of the coronation. Traditionally, the Maharaja of Bikaner’s coronation takes place on the ancient sandalwood throne of the Rathores that is at present in Vikram Villas at the Junagarh Fort. However, this was our family property and we refused to permit any such ceremony to take place there. They managed to find a ‘Godman’ called Vishoka Nand Maharaj who happily offered them the temple precincts as an alternative venue. This farce was quite clearly heading for a show-down. The irony of the date which the ‘Raja Committee’ had settled on was not entirely lost on us: 21 April was my late father’s birthday apparently it was too much to ask to be left alone to remember our father on his birthday.

  The amount of stress and tension that was generated by this little group of plotters and planners was unbelievable. We had lost a close member of the family, yet instead of allowing us to mourn in peace we were coerced and bullied into falling into line with what the ‘Raja Committee’ wanted. They went through some form of charade and even went so far as to have a reception at a heritage hotel in town. It is unclear what they were celebrating the so called ‘coronation’ of my nephew or the death of my brother as the former would not have been possible without the latter, in the olden days when armies fought battles on a regular basis ancestors died on the battle field and the successor was installed in his place after the period of mourning, it all happened on the battle field and they went back to business there were no receptions or parties. What was done could not be undone.

  Some eleven years have now passed since that time and all the advisors, plotters and planners have vanished into thin air. What they succeeded in doing very successfully was to derail Raviraj which is extremely sad. Where are those so-called advisors now? Where are the members of the committees? Sadly, they are nowhere to be seen. Most later took to the feeble excuse that they were coerced into participating in this event- they were not little children, no one can force or coerce any right minded adult into doing something against his will. My father often gave the example of a broken piece of porcelain—he said that no matter how artfully the pieces may be stuck together the cracks would always show and so it proved the case in our family—it is an incident that is difficult to either fully forget or forgive.

  Recently in the British newspaper The Telegraph a short article appeared in May 2013 which was titled ‘Let daughters inherit titles say Aristocrats. ‘It went on to state that:

  ‘The laws of succession must be changed to allow noble families to pass down titles to their daughters as well as their son, hundreds of members of the aristocracy declared today. More than 200 members of Britain’s most distinguished families have called on the Government to end the ‘outdated and manifestly unfair” laws of succession’. Calling for an end to ‘gender discrimination’ they say daughters must no longer be excluded from inheriting their father’s title and estate.”

  I am afraid it’s going to take many centuries before the majority of our Rajput community can be persuaded to alter their medieval mind set, although in India, thanks to the enlightened1956 Hindu Succession Act, all children are equal under the law as far as inheritance is concerned, and further laws now form the backbone of inheritance permitting a daughter to have a fair share in ancestral property as well. That said within the Rajput community no matter how capable the girls maybe they are still considered second class citizen, it is always ‘boys first’.

  Sometimes a death in the family, especially that of a close member has a sobering effect and forces one to evaluate one’s life and priorities—at least that is what happ
ened to me. Losing a sibling shook me deeply to the core, we were always three siblings, and then suddenly it was just my sister and me. It took me many months to fully comprehend this major change in my life. It forced me to consider why I was not happy living in Lallgarh Palace any longer when I was in Bikaner. After all, I had lived there all my life and at the time had a comfortable suite of rooms there: in fact, I had been assigned the very set of rooms that used to be put at the disposal of visiting Viceroys—the last one to stay here was Lord Mountbatten. Living in the palace was somewhat like existing within a golden cage: there was no privacy and on could not set foot outside without meeting several people demanding donations from our trust or regarding other work related matters. I think primarily the reason was that my father was not there. Without him, and his love and affection, Shiv Villas that had been home to me since the day that I was born suddenly became an impersonal place—my mother was unable to create that special cocoon of love and affection that my father generated in his life time. I decided that it was time to make some fundamental changes in my life.

  I needed to move out of the palace and create a place of my own. I recall my uncle Maharaj Amar Singh once telling me that to him Lallgarh Palace was like a prison and once he left it he never came back to stay there again. I too it seemed had reached that point in my life- it was time to sever the ties with my childhood home and move on. My father had very generously given us all some land just outside the palace. At one point I had considered building a small boutique hotel there but was advised that it was not the right time for such a venture. Pramod Kasliwal or ‘Munnu’ as he was more popularly called was the creative genius at the world famous Jaipur based jewellery house Gem Palace. I had known their family for many years and they have been very good friends to me. Munnu on a visit to Bikaner told me that I should immediately begin planting trees along the boundary wall of my vacant plot. ‘No matter what you eventually use the land for, you will need greenery and the earlier you start the more mature the trees will be.’ This made perfect sense to me and I immediately bought several dozen Neem trees and began the process of spacing them out and planting them around the border. By the time the thought of building my own home came to me the trees were large and mature specimens. I cannot thank Munnu enough for giving me that idea as I have benefited greatly from his advice, and every time I see the lofty Neem trees from my window I think of Munnu—such a brilliant and talented life so sadly cut short.

  After serious consideration I choose the architect Amit Gehlot based in Jaipur to design my house. He and his wife Shalini had an amazing track record of renovating the iconic Rambagh Palace. Quite frankly, I had no great ambition in my mind—a small bungalow would have sufficed for my needs. After Amit Gehlot visited Bikaner and saw the plot, he immediately abandoned any idea of designing a bungalow. ‘Your house is adjacent to Lallgarh Palace, consider the stunning architecture of the palace, how can you expect me to design a bungalow here? The house must at least however modestly, compliment the palace.’ I considered what he said and it made sense so I asked him to design a house to my specific requirements and he assured me that he would very soon show me some plans. He asked me if I believed in Vastu which is a science akin to feng shui which takes into account suitable directions the house faces and where the bedrooms should be located and other such specific details. Many in India subscribe to Vastu shastra and are very particular about it, especially in their homes and gardens. ‘I don’t believe in it’ I told Amit. ‘Not at all or a little bit?’ he persisted. ‘Not at all’, I assured him and with that sorted he began to make plans.

  Several weeks later I was shown a set of plans for the prospective house, they were absolutely stunning; in fact, the final product was meant to be a miniature copy of Lallgarh Palace. Though I was pleasantly surprised and pleased it was an impossible task to make something so large in size and so ornate. We discussed the plans minutely and finally settled for a much scaled—down version of his original drawing.

  Before any construction takes place there is the puja called bhoomi pujan which is a religious ritual that has to be performed to purify the land. Thus, a part of the foundation was dug and then I had to clamber down a ladder and conduct some rituals while the priests chanted their prayers. A small collection of odd items are then bundled together and buried in the foundation including a pair of tiny silver snakes. What the reason for this is I am not sure, but once the rituals were performed the builders moved in and took over the task of building my house.

  It took almost a year and a half for the construction to be completed. In this venture I must give full credit to Kanwar Govind Singh a senior member of our staff who through extreme heat and sand storms and other dramas and adversities, supervised, first hand, the building of the house. Along the way we faced many problems both with labour who are prone to disappear in a fraction of a second as soon as it is a holiday or more when there are religious ‘melas’ or fairs that normally take place in the month of September. When it came to carving the red sandstone panels for the exterior of the house, it was saddening for us to hire professionals from Jodhpur rather than using local craftsmen from Bikaner. The very best stone carvers were from Bikaner at one point of time: in fact, the whole of Lallgarh Palace was hand carved by local artisans-what a terrible shame that this craft was dying out in Bikaner.

  I often went to supervise and take stock of the work going on. I noticed that many of the women labourers gave me silent hostile looks: I believe that they felt that I was just another woman like them and yet by a simple quirk of fate they were the labourers building a house where in times to come I would be living. I could understand how they must have felt. After all, it was a quirk of fate that placed them where they were and the lottery of life placed me in the home of the Maharaja of Bikaner. There was not much that I could do about that but I did ensure that no child labour was employed by my contactor. Children should be in school getting an education and not working on a building site, and certainly not on mine. It is sad when child labour is used; it destroys what remains of their childhood and deprives them of the essential education they should be getting to build future foundations for themselves. Moving from Lallgarh Palace to my new home was perhaps one of the best decisions that I made. It was deeply rewarding to design my own interiors and develop the garden. I believe the house has friendly vibrations, and many of my friends and family who visit have commented on the same. I am extremely happy and at peace there.

  When we were children, my parents travelled the world extensively. On one such occasion they went on a world tour and when they returned, my father bought a globe and very meticulously mapped out the route they had taken. He spliced a length of coloured tape and glued it directly on to the globe. I was completely fascinated by it and every time I came to Bikaner I had to examine that globe carefully and wonder what life was like in the many countries and cities that my parents had visited.

  I have been very fortunate that I too have done a fair bit of travelling in my time, though not all my trips were uneventful. When MJ and my sister and brother-in-law visited the United States we were virtually on our last day in Los Angeles when suddenly there was a severe earthquake. Both my sister and I of course were quite used to earthquakes since we lived in Delhi which is on the earthquake belt. However, neither MJ or my brother-in-law had encountered anything like this before- we were on the twentieth floor of a hotel and the whole building swayed precariously. Los Angeles is on the San Andreas Fault and is subjected to constant earth tremors of varying degrees. It lasted only a few seconds but it was nonetheless quite frightening.

  Perhaps the most amusing time was when my daughter Anupama and I travelled to Edinburgh in Scotland for a short holiday. While most hotel rooms provide bottles of water for their guests in their rooms, in Scotland it was a small carafe of whiskey. At night while we were asleep, I thought I was dreaming when I heard the sound of running water. I got up to check - the sound was coming from the bathroom. Water was casc
ading down from the ceiling like an endless waterfall. I phoned reception and to their credit they acted swiftly and helped us to move us to another room immediately. It appeared that the guest in the room above ours had decided to have a bath and dropped off to sleep leaving the taps running. It was simply unbelievable that anyone would want a bath at 3 AM in the morning! My daughter declared that I was jinxed and such things only happened when she was travelling with me. Perhaps she was right.

  In another fairly frightening scenario, I decided to treat myself to a short holiday in 2003 to New York, one of my favourite cities. One day I was out and about shopping when all of a sudden I noticed that some of the shops were in total darkness—it reminded me a bit of Khan Market in Delhi where they are constantly subject to power cuts, but it was definitely odd for this was not Delhi, but the United States. Suddenly large numbers of office workers started streaming out of their buildings, the traffic lights stopped working—something was seriously wrong. As I walked on unsure as to what to do next I could hear fractured bits of information as people talked on their cell phones. It was indeed a power outage all over and as far as New Jersey conveyed that this was a bigger problem than a minor glitch.

  I thought the best thing was to walk back to my hotel which was on the west side of Central Park. As I normally took a taxi I was a bit unsure of which direction to take and was squinting at one of the pop up directing map of the city, despite hurrying to their end destinations a number of people stopped and asked me if I needed any directions which was very kind of them and helped me to get back to the hotel. The hotel was owned by Indians and when I got there the receptionist was looking very glum and listening to the radio, when I asked him what was going on he seriously announced that it was most probably a nuclear strike! Setting aside the drama I could of course empathise with his thinking since they were still fresh from the horrors of 9/11. My father always said in case of an emergency first get food and water- this was ever an emergency as any could be.