India After Gandhi: The History of the World's Largest Democracy

by Ramachandra Guha

  Through the latter part of 1947 V. P. Menon toured India, cajoling the princes one by one. His progress, wrote the New York Times correspondent in New Delhi,

  could be measured from the ensuing series of modest newspaper items, each series running about like this:

  First, a small headline, ‘Mr V. P. Menon Visits Stateof Chhota Hazri’;

  Then, in the Governor-General’s daily Court Circular, a brief notice, ‘H. H. the Maharajah of Chhota Hazri has arrived’;

  And soon, a banner headline, ‘CHHOTA HAZRI MERGED’.28

  As this account makes clear, the groundwork was done by Patel and V. P. Menon; but the finishing touch was applied by Mountbatten, a final interview with whom was sometimes a necessary concession to princely vanity. The governor general also visited the more important chiefdoms, where he saluted their ‘most wise and Statesmanlike decision’ to link up with India.29

  Mountbatten dealt with the symbolism of the princes’ integration with India; V. P. Menon with the substance. In his book, Menon describes in some detail the tortuous negotiations with the rulers. The process of give and take involved much massaging of egos: one ruler claimed descent from Lord Rama, another from Sri Krishna, while a third said his lineage was immortal, as it had been blessed by the Sikh Gurus.

  In exchange for their land each ruler was offered a ‘privy purse’, its size determined by the revenue earned by the state. The bigger, more strategically placed states had to be given better deals, but relevant too were such factors as the antiquity of the ruling dynasty, the religious halo which might surround it, and their martial traditions. Apart from an annual purse, the rulers were allowed to retain their palaces and other personal properties and, as significantly, their titles. The Maharaja of Chhota Hazri would still be the Maharaja of Chhota Hazri, and he could pass on the title to his son as well.30

  To reassure the princes, Patel sought to include a constitutional guarantee with regard to the privy purses. But, as V. P. Menon pointed out, the pay-off had been trifling compared to the gains. In addition to securing the political consolidation of India, the integration of the states was, in economic terms, a veritable steal. By Menon’s calculation, while the government would pay out some Rs150 million to the princes, in ten years’ time the revenue from their states would amount to at least ten times as much.31

  Acquiring the territory of the States was followed by the scarcely less difficult job of administrative integration. In most states, the land revenue and judicial systems were archaic, and there was no popular representation of any kind. The Ministry of States transferred officials trained in British India to put the new systems in place. It also oversaw the swearing-in of interim ministries prior to the holding of full-fledged elections.

  Patel and Menon took more than one leaf out of the British book. They played ‘divide-and-rule’, bringing some princes on side early, unsettling the rest. They played on the childlike vanities of the maharajas, allowing them to retain their titles and sometimes giving them new ones. (Thus several maharajas were appointed governors of provinces.) But, like the British in the eighteenth century, they kept their eye firmly on the main chance: material advantage. For, as Patel told the officials of the states ministry, ‘we do not want their women and their jewellery – we want their land’.32

  In a mere two years, over 500 autonomous and sometimes ancient chiefdoms had been dissolved into fourteen new administrative units of India. This, by any reckoning, was a stupendous achievement. It had been brought about by wisdom, foresight, hard work and not a little intrigue.

  IV

  When Vallabhbhai Patel had first discussed the states problem with Mountbatten, he had asked him to bring in ‘a full basket of apples’ by the date of Independence. Would he be satisfied with a bag of 560 instead of the full 565, wondered the viceroy. The Congress strongman nodded his assent.33 As it turned out, only three states gave trouble before 15 August, and three more afterthat date.

  Travancore was the first state to question the right of the Congress to succeed the British as the paramount power. The state was strategically placed, at the extreme southern tip of the subcontinent. It had the most highly educated populace in India, a thriving maritime trade, and newly discovered reserves of monazite, from which is extracted thorium, used in the production of atomic energy and atomic bombs. The dewan of Travancore was Sir C. P. Ramaswamy Aiyar, a brilliant and ambitious lawyer who had been in his post for sixteen years. It was commonly believed that he was the real ruler of the state, whose maharaja and maharani were like putty in his hands.

  As early as February 1946 Sir C. P. had made clear his belief that, when the British left, Travancore would become a ‘perfectly independent unit’, as it had been before 1795, when it first signed a treaty with the East India Company. In the summer of 1947 he held a series of press conferences seeking the co-operation of the people of Travancore in his bid for independence. He reminded them of the antiquity of their ruling dynasty and of Travancore’s sinking of a Dutch fleet back in the year 1741 (this apparently the only naval defeat ever inflicted by an Asian state on a European power). This appeal to a past redolent in regional glory was meant to counter the pan-Indian nationalism of the present. For the Congress had a strong presence in the state, as did the Communist Party of India. Still, the dewan insisted that from 15 August 1947 ‘Travancore will become an independent country’. ‘There was no particular reason’, he defiantly added, ‘why she should be in a worse position than Denmark, Switzerland, and Siam.’

  Interestingly, Travancore’s bid for independence was welcomed by Mohammad Ali Jinnah. On 20 June he sent Sir C. P. a wire indicating that Pakistan was ‘ready to establish relationship with Travancore which will be of mutual advantage’. Three weeks later the dewan wrote to the Madras government informing them that Travancore was taking steps to ‘maintain herself as an independent entity’. It was, however, ready to sign a treaty between the ‘independent Sovereign State’ of Travancore and the ‘Dominion Governments’ of both India and Pakistan.

  On 21 July the dewan of Travancore had an appointment to meet the viceroy in Delhi. The previous evening he met a senior British diplomat and told him that he hoped to get recognition from his government. If India refused to supply Travancore with textiles, he asked, would the United Kingdom step in? Sir C. P. had, it seems, been encouraged in his ambitions by politicians in London, who saw an independent Travancore as a source of a material crucial to the coming Cold War. In fact, the Travancore government had already signed an agreement with the UK government for the supply of monazite. In London, the minister of supply advised his government to avoid making any statement that would ‘give the Indian Dominions leverage in combating Travancore’s claim for independence’. Since the state had the ‘richest known deposit of monazite sand’, said the minister, from the British point of view ‘it would be an advantage if Travancore retained political and economic independence, at least for the time being.’

  On the 21st Sir C. P. had his scheduled interview with Mountbatten. They were together for more than two hours, which time the dewan used to launch an excoriating attack on Gandhi, Nehru and the Congress. After he ‘had worked off his emotional upset’, the viceroy ‘let him go and sent V. P. Menon to work on him’. Menon urged him to sign the Instrument of Accession, but the dewan said he would prefer to negotiate a treaty with India instead.

  Sir C. P. returned to Travancore, his mind still apparently firm on Independence. Then, while on his way to a music concert on 25 July, he was attacked by a man in military shorts, knifed in the face and body and taken off for emergency surgery. (The would-be assassin turned out to be a member of the Kerala Socialist Party.) The consequences were immediate, and from the Indian point of view, most gratifying. As the viceroy put it in his weekly report to London, ‘The States Peoples organisation turned the heat on and Travancore immediately gave in’. From his hospital bed Sir C. P. advised his maharaja to ‘follow the path of conciliation and compromise’ which he,‘
being autocratic and over-decisive’, had not himself followed. On 30 July the maharaja wired the viceroy of his decision to accede to the Indian Union.34

  A second state that wavered on the question of accession was Bhopal. This lay in central India, and had the not unusual combination of a mostly Hindu population and a Muslim ruler. Since 1944 the Nawab of Bhopal had served as chancellor of the Chamber of Princes. He was known to be a bitter opponent of the Congress, and correspondingly close to Jinnah and the Muslim League. When, after the war, the British made clear their intention to leave India, the prospect filled the Nawab with despair. He saw this as ‘one of the greatest, if not the greatest, tragedies that has ever befallen mankind’. For now the ‘States, the Moslems, and the entire mass of people who relied on British justice . . . suddenly find themselves totally helpless, unorganised and unsupported’. The only course left to the Nawab now was to ‘die in the cause of the Moslems of the world’.

  These lines are from a letter of November 1946, written to the political adviser to Lord Wavell. Four months later Wavell was replaced as viceroy by Mountbatten, who, as it happens, was an old polo-playing buddy of the Nawab of Bhopal. Their friendship went back twenty-five years; Mountbatten once claimed that the Nawab was his ‘second-best friend in India’.35 But it was soon clear that they now stood in different camps. In mid-July 1947 Mountbatten wrote to Bhopal, as he had to all other princes, advising him to accede to India. He got along and self-confessedly ‘sentimental’ letter in reply. This began by professing ‘unbroken and loyal friendship’ with the Crown of England; a link now being broken by the unilateral action of HMG. And to whom had they delivered Bhopal and his colleagues? The hated party of Gandhi and Nehru. ‘Are we’, asked Bhopal angrily, ‘to write out a blank cheque and leave it to the leaders of the Congress Party to fill in the amount?’

  From accusations of betrayal the letter then issued a warning. In India, said the Nawab, the main bulwarks against the ‘rising tide of Communism’ were men of property. The Congress had already stated their intention to liquidate landlords. To that party’s left stood the Communist Party of India, which controlled the unions of transport workers; if they so chose, the communists could paralyse and starve the subcontinent. ‘I tell you straight’, said Bhopal to his friend, ‘that unless you and His Majesty’s Government support the States and prevent them from disappearing from the Indian political map, you will very shortly have an India dominated by Communists . . . If the United Nations one day find themselves with 450 million extra people under the heel of Communist domination they will be quite justified in blaming Great Britain for this disaster, and I naturally would not like your name associated with it.’

  Bhopal hinted that he, like Travancore, would declare his independence; in any case he would not attend the meeting of the Chamber of Princes scheduled for 25 July. On the 31st Mountbatten wrote back to Bhopal inviting him once more to sign the Instrument of Accession. He reminded him of what he had said in the speech: that no ruler could ‘run away’ from the dominion closest to him. And he shrewdly turned the argument about communism on its head. Yes, he told Bhopal, there was indeed a Red threat, but it would be best met if the Congress and the princes joined hands. For men like Patel were ‘as frightened of communism as you yourself are. If only they had support from all other stable influences such as that of the Princely Order, it might be possible for them to ward off the communist danger.’36

  By this time Bhopal had received reports of the meeting of 25 July. He had heard of the terrific impression his old friend had made, and also of the increasing tide of accessions by his fellow princes. And so he capitulated, asking only for a small sop to his pride. Would the viceroy press Patel to extend the deadline by ten days, so that his accession would be announced after 15 August instead of before? That, said Bhopal, ‘would enable me to sign our death warrant with a clear conscience’. (In the event, Patel said he could not make any exceptions; instead Mount-batten offered to Bhopal that if he would sign the Instrument of Accession on 14 August, he would keep it under lock and key and hand it over to Patel only after the 25th.)37

  A case more curious still was that of Jodhpur, an old and large state with a Hindu king as well as a largely Hindu population. At a lunch hosted by Mountbatten in mid-July, the young Maharaja of Jodhpur had joined the other Raj put princes in indicating his willingness to accede to India. But soon afterwards someone – it is not clear who – planted the idea in his head that since his state bordered Pakistan, he might get better terms from that dominion. Possibly at Bhopal’s initiative, a meeting was arranged between him and Jinnah. At this meeting the Muslim League leader offered Jodhpur full port facilities in Karachi, unrestricted import of arms and supply of grain from Sindh to his own famine-stricken districts. In one version, Jinnah is said to have handed the maharaja a blank sheet and a fountain pen and said, ‘You can fill in all your conditions.’

  If Jodhpur had defected to Pakistan, this would have opened up the possibility that states contiguous to it – such as Jaipur and Udaipur – would do likewise. However, K. M. Pannikar got wind of the plan and asked Vallabhbhai Patel to intervene. Patel contacted Jodhpur and promised him free import of arms too, as well as adequate grain. Meanwhile, his own nobles and village headmen had told the maharaja that he could not really expect them to be at ease in a Muslim state. The ruler of an adjoining state, Jaisalmer, also asked him what would happen if he joined Pakistan and a riot broke out between Hindus and Muslims. Whose side would he then take?

  And so the Maharaja of Jodhpur also came round, but not before a last-minute theatrical show of defiance. When presented with the Instrument of Accession in the anteroom of the viceroy’s office, Jodhpur took out a revolver and held it to the secretary’s head, saying, ‘I will not accept your dictation.’ But in a few minutes he cooled down and signed on the line.38

  V

  Among the states that had not signed up by 15 August was Junagadh, which lay in the peninsula of Kathiawarin western India. This, like Bhopal, had a Muslim Nawab ruling over a chiefly Hindu population. On three sides Junagadh was surrounded by Hindu states or by India, but on the fourth – and this distinguished it from Bhopal – it had a long coastline. Its main port, Veraval, was 325 nautical miles from the Pakistani port city (and national capital) of Karachi. Junagadh’s ruler in 1947, Mohabat Khan, had one abiding passion: dogs. His menagerie included 2,000 pedigree canines, including sixteen hounds specially deputed to guard the palace. When two of his favourite hounds mated, the Nawab announced a public holiday. On their ‘marriage’ he expended three lakh (300,000) rupees, or roughly a thousand times the average annual income of one of his subjects.

  Within the borders of Junagadh lay the Hindu holy shrine of Somnath, as well as Girnar, a hill top with magnificent marble temples built by, and for, the Jains. Both Somnath and Girnar attracted thousands of pilgrims from other parts of India. The forests of Junagadh were also the last refuge of the Asiatic lion. These had been protected by Mohabat Khan and his forebears, who discouraged even high British officials from hunting them.39

  In the summer of 1947 the Nawab of Junagadh was on holiday in Europe. While he was away, the existing dewan was replaced by Sir Shah Nawaz Bhutto, a leading Muslim League politician from Sindh who had close ties to Jinnah.40 After the Nawab returned, Bhutt opressed him to stay out of the Indian Union. On 14 August, the day of the transfer of power, Junagadh announced that it would accede to Pakistan. This it was legally allowed to do, although geographically it made little sense. It also flew in the face of Jinnah’s ‘two-nation’ theory, since 82 per cent of Junagadh’s population was Hindu.

  Pakistan sat on the Nawab’s request for a few weeks, but on 13 September it accepted the accession. It seems to have done this in the belief that it could then use Junagadh as a bargaining counter to secure Jammu and Kashmir. That state too had not acceded to either dominion by 15 August. It had a Hindu maharaja and a majority Muslim population: in structural terms, it was a Junagadh in reve
rse.

  The acceptance by Pakistan of Junagadh’s accession enraged the Indian leaders. Touched in a particularly ‘tender spot’ was Vallabhbhai Patel, who came from the same region and spoke the same language (Gujarati) as the residents of Junagadh.41 His first response was to secure the accession of two of Junagadh’s tributary states, Mangrol and Babariawad. Their Hindu chiefs claimed that they had the right to join India; the Nawab of Junagadh denied this, claiming that as his vassals they had to seek his consent first. The Indian government went with the vassals, and sent in a small military force to support them.

  In the middle of September V. P. Menon went to Junagadh to negotiate with the Nawab, but the ruler would not see him, feigning illness. Menon had to make do with meeting the dewan instead. He told Sir Shah Nawaz that from both cultural and geographical points of view Junagadh really should join India. Sir Shah Nawaz did not dispute this, but complained that local feelings had been inflamed by the ‘virulent writings in the Gujarati Press’. He said that he personally would favour the issue being decided by a referendum.42

  Meanwhile, a ‘provisional government of Junagadh’ was set up in Bombay. This was led by Samaldas Gandhi, a nephew of the Mahatma, and a native of the kingdom. This ‘government’ became the vehicle of popular agitation within Junagadh. In panic, the Nawab fled to Karachi, taking a dozen of his favourite dogs with him. The dewan was left holding the baby. On 27 October Sir Shah Nawaz wrote to Jinnah that, while ‘immediately after accession [to Pakistan], His Highness and myself received hundreds of messages chiefly from Muslims congratulating us on the decision, today our brethren are indifferent and cold. Muslims of Kathiawar seem to have lost all their enthusiasm for Pakistan.’