Daughter of Empire

by Pamela Hicks

  As the partition of India seemed inevitable, much to my father’s regret his plan encompassed a divided India. He advocated an early transfer of power from British rule to two successor states, India and Pakistan. In so doing, he wanted Congress to approve Dominion status so that India could remain in the Commonwealth for the sake of her economic strength and defence. The plan also proposed a referendum in the North-West Frontier Province to see whether its people wanted to join India or not, giving the Princely States the option of joining either state or remaining independent, and the setting up of a boundary commission to determine the boundaries of the provinces of Assam, Punjab and Bengal.

  It was a major step in the right direction to have the British government’s approval, but to implement the plan’s recommendations, my father needed to get the agreement of the Indian leaders. We held our breath as their talks went on, behind closed doors. For two days, they debated, discussed, cajoled and rationalised. From time to time someone would emerge looking dazed but determined, and as the reporters and photographers camped outside waiting for news, the tension built. Eventually, my father called for a consensus by midnight on 3 June. Only Mr Jinnah held back, saying that he could not agree to the plan without first passing it before the Muslim League. My father finally got around this by asking him to at least nod his head to indicate that he would not delay the talks any longer even if he could not give his verbal agreement.

  On 4 June, at the first press conference ever given by a viceroy, my father, speaking impressively and without notes, announced to the world’s waiting media that, owing to complete and constant disagreement, it was not possible to forge ahead with plans for a united India, and as such Dominion status would be granted for two self-governing states, India and Pakistan. You could see how surprised people were by his next statement: that the date for partition was set for 15 August, little more than two months away. The fourth of June happened to fall on Gandhiji’s weekly day of silence, so he was not present, and there was great concern that he might not approve of the plan, especially as his disapproval could provoke a mass uprising. It was therefore a huge relief when, at his next prayer meeting, he announced that if ‘Hindu and Muslim cannot agree on anything else (aside from partition) then the Viceroy is left with no choice’. My father later wrote to my sister that 2–3 June had been the ‘worst twenty-four hours of my life’.

  But it wasn’t over. Next my father had to gather his strength and explain the decision to another group of leaders – the rulers of the 565 Princely States. These men, who had once been the most powerful in India, had seen their power decline dramatically during British rule, but nevertheless they still held sway over their people. The Chamber of Princes had been established by royal decree in 1920 as a forum in which the princes could discuss their needs or air their grievances with the British. Now, just over a quarter of a century later, they were about to be asked to relinquish much of their remaining power and to accede their state either to India or Pakistan in return for a modicum of independence. My father hoped that his friendship with several of them, established during his tour with the Prince of Wales in 1921, would help. But, as he explained to me on one of our morning rides, asking the princes to choose between Hindu India and Muslim Pakistan was fraught with complexities, for in several cases the Indian ruler did not share the same religion as his people. Kashmir, for example, had a Hindu ruler but was mainly a Muslim state, and Hyderabad had a Muslim ruler but was mainly Hindu.

  Some of these maharajas were astonishingly wealthy, notably the most senior prince in India, the Nizam of Hyderabad, who was, according to Time magazine, the richest man in the world in 1937. Accumulators of wealth, jewels, wives and myths, these men gave rise to legends that were fantastic but often true. The Maharaja of Gwalior owned a fully functioning miniature train set made of solid silver – I later saw it for myself – that moved around his long dinner table, delivering port, brandy and cigars to his guests. The Maharaja of Patiala created his own summer retreat to rival Simla after Lord Kitchener banned him from the hill station. Affronted, Patiala created a summer palace across the mountains at Chail, visible from Simla, and as he was cricket-obsessed, the maharaja went one step farther and built the highest pitch in the world.

  The Mountbatten Plan was finally agreed by most of the Indian princes but the Maharaja of Jammu and Kashmir and the Nizam of Hyderabad would not make up their minds. Eager to smooth the way, Panditji, as a Kashmiri, decided he would visit the maharaja to see whether a personal intervention might help. But to bypass the danger of Nehru being humiliated should the maharaja not change his mind, my father accepted the prince’s long-standing invitation, and we went to see him ourselves. This was an enjoyable, yet ultimately frustrating, trip. As guests, we had a busy and varied stay as the maharaja had laid on a fantastic sightseeing itinerary. We visited Nishat and from there were taken in His Highness’s luxurious shikara out on Lake Dal, its glassy waters reflecting the backdrop of the distant mountain range, one of the most beautiful sights I had ever seen. We were then sent to fish in a trout stream at Thricker for a whole day, returning to court to be lavishly entertained by the maharani and their son ‘Tiger’. She showed us her astonishing collection of jewels and we were given delicious food. But in all this time there had been no sign whatsoever of the maharaja himself. We were told he had developed a severe bout of colic and his whole retinue tiptoed around the place in a state of nervous tension. For the five days of our visit there was never a chance for my father to discuss which way Kashmir was to accede.

  We returned to the frenzy of Viceroy’s House. My father had his famous calendar made and distributed about the offices, counting down the number of days to partition. Nothing was a foregone conclusion, however, as the arguing between Congress and the Muslim League continued, becoming so fierce that two separate cabinets had to be formed. And then bad news flooded in from the Punjab and Bengal, both states having voted for partition. The question of who was to allocate the boundaries of the two new dominions remained. The Muslim League requested that the UN should undertake this task but Congress would not agree. Instead, Sir Cyril Radcliffe, a law lord famous for his integrity, arrived from London. I was relieved that such a well-respected, impartial man had been appointed to this task as I was worried about how exhausted my father looked, how haggard and weary he seemed on our morning rides.

  I continued with my work at the canteen and the clinic, learning Hindustani and taking care of Neola, a delightful little mongoose given to my father, who immediately passed him on to me. To my good fortune he was accepted by the servants, who did not, as a rule, like having pets around the place. Panditji told me that, in India, mongooses had proved popular companions in jail, something he had witnessed himself during his long years of incarceration as a political prisoner. When I said how awful that must have been, he said simply that it had allowed him precious time for reflection and writing, adding playfully, ‘It would do you some good, Pammy, to spend a little time in prison.’

  Neola, rather unimaginatively named since his name means mongoose in Hindustani, was proud and fierce and I fell in love with him. And while he reared up at every corner as if he were about to tackle a snake twice his size, and bit any man who tried to touch him, he accepted me. Within a few days I had trained him to ride on my shoulder as I walked about the house. My father didn’t fare so well: despite my attempting to train Neola to use paper as a litter tray, he couldn’t distinguish between scrap paper and the important papers on my father’s desk, mysteriously preferring state documents. At breakfast Neola also seemed to prefer leaping on to my father’s lap and, quick as a flash, stealing his eggs, leaving him holding his knife and fork above an empty plate and roaring: ‘Someone give that brute an egg of his own!’

  Neola loved eating eggs, but whenever he tried to bite the shell, the egg often snapped out of his jaws and he became very frustrated. My father remembered from Rudyard Kipling’s ‘Rikki-Tikki-Tavi’ just what a mongoose is supposed to d
o – grip the egg in its front paws and with its back legs apart hurl it at a wall or hard surface, so that it shatters and can be eaten. So my father told me to hold Neola firmly and make him watch. He got down on the floor, opened his legs and, just as the egg hit the wall, a chaprasi came through the door, somewhat surprised to see His Excellency the Viceroy in such a position. Neola soon became known as the ‘Time Waster’ owing to his inquisitive antics – I loved watching him rolling around in a waste-paper basket, knocking the telephone off the receiver and listening to the operator asking endlessly ‘Number, please’. If I was wearing my long evening dress with the floor-length sash, one of his favourite games was to launch himself at me as I was leaving the room, cling on to the length of satin using his teeth, then swing back and forth until the sash was untied. I would have to release myself, then dash down, late and dishevelled, while my unrepentant mongoose tumbled around the room in delight.

  Before Krishna Menon left to take up his recently appointed post as high commissioner to the UK, he took me to one of Gandhiji’s prayer meetings. I had been keen to go for some time and promised to report back to my parents, who had been advised against going (though my mother had already had tea with him, the first vicereine ever to do so). We were to meet Gandhiji before prayers at his small quarters in Banghi Colony, where the poorest of the poor, ‘the Untouchables’, lived. His room was tiny but neat and he greeted us from his usual cross-legged position on the floor. He beckoned me to join him in front of a low table and showed me one of his few remaining possessions – a small ivory carving of the Three Wise Monkeys. Then, with a twinkle, he said: ‘So, my friend, tell me all about the happy event.’ For a moment I was thrown, until I realised that he was referring to the news about the engagement of Philip and Princess Elizabeth that had been announced across the world that morning.

  Then Gandhiji walked outside to a platform, aided by a great-niece on either side. I followed and sat behind him next to Krishna and Rajkumari Amrit Kaur, a Kapurthala princess and one of Gandhiji’s long-serving secretaries. In front of us was a crowd of thousands who fell silent as soon as Gandhiji appeared on the raised dais. He read a verse from the Koran, we sang an Arabic hymn, followed by a Christian one, and then there was two minutes’ silence. No one moved for the entire time. After this Gandhiji spoke in Hindi for forty minutes. Still no one moved. His discourse was spontaneous and unscripted, and as he spoke, Amrit Kaur wrote down every word. I watched the people listening to Gandhiji so intently and knew I was witnessing something extraordinary.

  A few days later, I too benefited from his compassion, even though the reason was pretty insignificant. I was riding side-saddle on a new horse when out with my parents on the Ridge. When my horse shied suddenly I was thrown to the ground and knocked unconscious. I was carried home bruised and concussed and had to remain in bed. Imagine my surprise and pleasure when I received a get-well message from Gandhiji, addressed to his ‘naughty friend’.

  On 25 July my father addressed the Chamber of Princes again and managed to persuade them all – with the exception of Kashmir and Hyderabad – to accede while he was still Viceroy so that he could help protect them as best as he could. Things were now moving fast. My father told our favourite ADC, Sayed Ahsahm, that, as a Muslim, he should go to Karachi to help set up Mr Jinnah’s Government House, and the Adjutant of the Bodyguard, Major Yacoub Khan, went too. We were very sad to have to say goodbye. As partition approached, Nehru appeared as exhausted as my parents, and I suggested he make a short visit home before the transfer of power. He wrote and thanked me for ‘the efficient arrangement’ of his brief return to Allahabad and Lucknow, once again demonstrating his impeccable manners, taking time for such a kind gesture, especially during such a frantic period. It seemed he wasn’t able to give his mind the complete rest it needed, however, for he wrote: ‘Last night I did something very unusual for me, I went to the cinema. I was very tired after a huge public meeting that I had addressed and suddenly decided to divert my mind to something else. The film was not exactly amusing: indeed it rather shook me up. It was all about the preparation of the atom bomb and the destruction of Hiroshima.’

  At last the day of independence arrived. Although 15 August had been chosen, Indian astrologers had immediately protested that this date was ‘inauspicious’, and so it was decided to start the ceremonies at midnight on the 14th. That day, we flew to Karachi to be at the Ceremony for the Creation of the Dominion of Pakistan. My parents drove in an open car with the Jinnahs, while I followed behind with Begum Ra’ana Liaquat Ali Khan, the new prime minister’s wife. The streets were thronged with ecstatic crowds, chanting their support, shouts of ‘Quaid-e Azam Zindabad!’ and ‘Mountbatten Zindabad!’ resonating for miles. Intelligence had warned before the ceremony that a bomb might be thrown during the procession but luckily everyone returned to Government House unharmed. In a rare show of emotion, Mr Jinnah leant across and, smiling, put his hand on my father’s knee. ‘Your Excellency,’ he said, ‘I’m so glad to get you back safely.’ As we flew back to Delhi my father told me how he had forced himself not to give voice to his thoughts: ‘If only you knew the efforts I have gone to for the last several weeks to preserve your safety.’

  A few hours before the Indian independence ceremonies were due to begin, Panditji and Rajendra Prasad, the president of the Congress Party, came formally to invite my father to take up the post of constitutional Governor-General of India, representing the British sovereign – a ceremonial position, with day-to-day power resting in the hands of the Indian cabinet. They presented him with an envelope which, they informed him, contained a list of everyone in the new government. You can imagine my father’s surprise when he opened it to find that a blank piece of paper had been put in there by mistake. During dinner at Viceroy’s House, we raised our glasses for the last time to toast the King-Emperor and the Viceroy. Then, just before midnight, we turned on the wireless and listened to Panditji’s wonderfully moving speech to the new nation: ‘At the stroke of the midnight hour when the world sleeps, India will awaken to life and freedom.’

  Friday, 15 August 1947 was one of the most incredible days in history. I have never experienced such an outpouring of excitement and joy. The noise of crowds cheering rang throughout India and the expressions of respect and admiration for my parents from both the new government and the Indian people were remarkable.

  For us, Independence Day began with my father being sworn in as Governor-General while the new Indian flag was hoisted over what was now Governor-General’s House. In the Durbar Hall, it was pure theatre as the golden thrones with their sumptuous red velvet canopies were spotlit, reflecting the gold of the carpet, and bathing the room in a warm glow. My mother looked marvellous in a long gold lamé dress with a little wreath of gold leaves on her head, and my father was resplendent in his white full dress naval uniform with the blue ribbon of the Garter and his other decorations. The trumpeters in scarlet and gold heralded a splendid entrance, and as the doors were thrown open everyone sang ‘God Save the King’ followed by the new Indian national anthem, ‘Jana Gana Mana’. Then my parents were driven off in the state landau to the Constituent Assembly. There were so many people surrounding the Council House, however, cheering ‘Jai Hind’, that the state carriage was engulfed and Nehru and the other government leaders had to come out to calm the crowd and create a passage for my parents to get to the hall.

  Once inside, my father read out a message from the King and made his own speech, which resulted in prolonged and joyous cheering. Then the president of the Assembly, Rajendra Prasad, read out messages of congratulations and good wishes from other countries and gave an address that concluded by paying tribute to my parents. Again, making their way outside was impossible, as the crowds had pressed so tightly against the doors, and it took several minutes even to leave the chamber. Once out in the bright sunlight, we watched as the crowds clapped and shouted themselves hoarse with cries of ‘Pandit Mountbatten, ki jai!’, ‘Lady Mountbatten! Jai
Hind!’ as well as similar exclamations to all the Indian leaders. There were even some cries of ‘Mountbatten Miss Sahib!’ or ‘Miss Pamela’, or they just chanted ‘Angrezi! Angrezi!’ I hurried to get back into the car and went ahead of my parents’ procession to Princess Park for the flag salutation ceremony.

  A tsunami of people filled every possible bit of space as far as the eye could see. We climbed out of the car and attempted unsuccessfully to fight our way on foot towards a low platform surrounding the flagstaff. My parents had said that this would be India’s day and you could see it on every single face; hear it in every voice. It struck me as odd that there were babies up in the air, high above heads, until I realised that their parents simply had to thrust them up above the crowds to avoid them being crushed. The bicycle being passed above everyone’s heads appeared surreal but the crowd took it good-naturedly – there just wasn’t a single inch of space in which to put it down.

  We were about thirty yards away from the grandstand, feeling helpless, until Panditji made his way over to us, walking on people’s laps and having to steady himself by grabbing the nearest shoulder. ‘Come on, Pammy,’ he yelled above the din. He reached out for me to grab his hand. ‘But I can’t walk over people,’ I shouted feebly. ‘Of course you can! Nobody will mind. Come on!’ He waved his hands. I looked at Panditji’s feet – he was wearing flat leather sandals. I was wearing high-heeled shoes. ‘Take your shoes off!’ he shouted. Then he pulled me up and over hundreds of human laps while everyone laughed and cheered us on. When we reached the flagstaff, he told me and Maniben Patel, Vallabhbhai’s diminutive daughter, to stand with our backs to the pole so that we would not be knocked over in all the excitement, and from this spot we had the perfect view of the exuberant chaos.