The Princess and the Political Agent

by Binodini

  Binodini is an entertaining yet exacting writer. Her prose demands a response from the reader, asking them to piece together the incidents she sometimes narrates in non-chronological order. Some of these foreshadow while others are under the pall of the present of the story. She requires the reader to hold on to these untimely fragments, for surely, she revisits them later to flesh out backstories, as in her tale of the love affair of Sanatombi’s maid. This style also mimics memory and oral storytelling. It is from her mother Maharani Dhanamanjuri Devi, a great storyteller, that the young Binodini heard first-hand stories of Sanatombi. Those who knew Binodini will tell you that she was a captivating conversationalist with a talent for storytelling. The conversationalist shines through in her dialogue, a skill honed by her many radio plays. The storyteller, first observed in her award-winning short stories, also entertains readers of The Princess and the Political Agent with anecdotal asides that could almost stand on their own as discrete short stories.

  Binodini was also a well-known essayist in Manipur. In her collection of late-life postmodernist essays The Maharaja’s Household: A Daughter’s Memories of Her Father (2008) we see Binodini as a self-reflexive writer, regularly prefacing her memories with qualifying phrases like ‘I heard . . .’ ‘I remember . . .’ ‘She told me . . .’ ‘I seem to recall . . .’ until she arrives at the conclusion that memory is an act of creation. A modernist and a literary stylist—and an admirer of Virginia Woolf—Binodini was an artist aware of the workings of the mind, her own included. She had once consulted, in the late 1950s, with her closest friend’s husband Mrinal Barua in Calcutta, one of a handful of psychoanalysts in India then, about some mind-blanking episodes resulting from a creative block she was experiencing. Her observation of the human mind, coupled with her mining of memory, found further expression in discursive memory and stream-of-consciousness techniques in The Princess and the Political Agent in addition to the non-linear exposition of her narrative.

  An artist who had studied painting and sculpture, Binodini also uses a range of graphic devices that become apparent upon reading the book. The original edition, which this translation uses, is peppered with little graphics—sketches of a hookah, an elephant procession, a cannon, or a dragon boat with rowers—to introduce unnumbered sections, chapterized in later editions. Furthermore, Binodini uses idiosyncratic punctuation and paragraph spacing as additional graphic literary devices. I remember working with my mother on her liberal use of ellipses in the first edition, not just at the end of sentences but also sometimes at the beginning. It is only now upon reading and rereading that it strikes me that these ellipses, along with her insertion of additional spacing between paragraphs on one hand, and the elimination of conventional line spacing on the other, were Binodini’s means of exercising control over the reader’s progression upon the page. They instil pauses, shifts in trains of thought, or beginnings of digressions. Binodini is a strong-willed narrator, and these graphic literary devices make for changes in dramatic rhythm, and, in turn, the pace of reading and comprehension. The pauses that they impose upon the reader create an almost palpable rhythmic breathing of the prose. I have tried to keep these devices intact to retain the effect of Binodini’s purposeful layout of her narrative upon the printed page. I have also occasionally stretched her graphic gaps with new pages within chapters to denote the more significant time-shifts. I trust this will be helpful for the reader not privileged with an information bank of Manipuri history like the average Manipuri reader, while remaining true to the novel’s literary style. For further help, at the suggestion of my editors at Penguin Random House India, I insert a historical timeline and a list of dramatis personae to guide the reader through the plethora of characters and historical incidents.

  Many memories came to me as I translated my mother’s novel. Reading it, I often delved into my own recollection of family lore—where and from whom Binodini has gathered and stitched together images, words and incidents to create the imaginative pastiche that brings her characters to life and propels her story. It has been a translation project I had been meaning to take up for many years now, punctuated at intervals by my mother’s gentle nudging. Rarely did she allow translations or adaptations of her work, and in my youthful foolishness, I had always translated her short stories and screenplays more as a chore fulfilling a parental command. It is now, after her death, that I find myself approaching the translation with the passion I wish I had had the maturity to muster earlier.

  I am indebted to my eldest cousin Ichema Thoidingjam Lakshmipriya Devi and my friend Aribam Shantimo Sharma for their hours of patient help. As the oldest grandchild of Maharaja Churachand, my Ichema was invaluable in advising me on the nuances of courtly speak and manners, and on details of traditional design and ritual. As she learnt Hindu sacraments and slokas growing up with our grandmother Maharani Dhanamanjuri, Ichema was also instrumental in the translation of Vaishnav lyrics and prayers. My indebtedness to her knows no bounds. For the timeline, cross-checking with Manipuri and British historical sources, I am immensely grateful to my cousin, the historian Wangam Somorjit. My translation of rituals and songs of pre-Vaishnav Manipur and their words in Aribalon, as old Manipuri is known, would not have been possible without the help of my friends the archivist and scholar Chanam Hemchandra, and the noted pena lute balladeer Mayanglambam Mangangsana Meitei.

  Farther afield, a bow of deep appreciation to Namita Gokhale for encouraging me to embark upon this translation; Manasi Subramaniam, Toonika Guha, Shreya Pandey and Paloma Dutta, my editors at Penguin Random House India; and to Nabarun Paul for keeping it all together administratively and technically. Across the seas, from the other side of the world in Washington’s academe, Professor Bimbisar Irom helped me plumb Binodini’s literary style in the wider context of world literature in translation. I note his second-generation assistance with an inward chuckle as he is the son of Professor I.R. Babu who was credited by my mother in her original preface for finally getting her to sit down to write her novel.

  It is their collective interest, support and expertise that have made this translation of Binodini’s The Princess and the Political Agent possible, but all transgressions, errors and shortcomings are mine, and mine alone.

  L. Somi Roy

  Foreword

  I have wanted to write a book about Sanatombi since 1965. As I was thinking about it, Arambam Samarendra, the grandson of Surchandra’s youngest daughter Princess Khomdonsana, showed me some photographs and so on of Sanatombi and Maxwell. Although this greatly inspired me, I could not take it up. As a writer used to short essays and lyrics, I lacked the courage to take up the story of such a large life. But I continued to do my research. I tried twice but failed, and I have been enduring the pain of the failure of my attempts all this time. After a long time one day, when I was talking to Dr I.R. Babu, he said to me, ‘Do not be afraid, just write it.’ From that day on 23 September 1975, I started to write my book Boro Saheb Ongbi Sanatombi—The Princess and the Political Agent.

  Most of us take Sanatombi, the native wife of the Big Saheb, as legend. I had heard snippets of stories about her when I was little. I had also heard children sing as they played: ‘Sanatombi, you are lost to us, you are lost to us.’ I had thought it was a story of long ago but it turned out to be not that far back. Enormous help came from my mother Maharani Dhanamanjuri, the Lady of Ngangbam, when I was building the story of Sanatombi. She saw Sanatombi when was she was about to be taken to the palace: she and Maxwell (‘Menjor Meksin’) had come riding on horseback with Little Majesty to see her. This was a story she told with great pleasure. Sanatombi gave her a great amount of valuable jewellery. She often came to the palace after Maxwell had left but she never stepped inside. They kept a seat prepared separately for her. I asked my mother what she looked like. She replied, ‘She was beautiful, that woman.’

  I approached many elders in my attempt to tell this story. The fragments of stories they told me, about many small incidents, were of great help in
grasping the face of an enormous life lived in an enormous world. I bow my head to them.

  And the book I especially studied was the Cheitharol Kumbaba, the court chronicle. Someone had said to me that this was a book of record, and that I would not get much material from it for the story. But for me, if the chronicle had not existed, this book would not have been possible. For instance, the chronicle says briefly: ‘On that day the Saheb took his wife Sanatombi and went to Lamangdong to eat fish’, and so on… . The Brahmin Baladeb told me, ‘“Meksin Saheb” had said he would build a house in Lamangdong.’ [Binodini links these two disparate sources to construct her chapter on Maxwell’s plans to build his retirement home—Translator.]

  One big question was why, when the British had just newly conquered Manipur and the pain of being subjugated was still raw, did the daughter of Surchandra become the wife of the enemy? I searched for the answer to this question, and it became The Princess and the Political Agent. Brought up in privilege found only in fairy tales, Sanatombi faced the censure of her own blood relatives. I have taken up a task well beyond my ability but I have tried to depict a Sanatombi who belonged to a world of alien ways, who had lived during a time of great change in Manipur’s history. This book is built on the foundations of history. I have tried to fill in, as I wished, within the foundational frame of unmovable events. I have taken as much liberty as the conventions of writing a novel allows. With dates that were not very far apart, I have moved these episodes around a bit. I have mentioned all the actual historical figures in the book with respect. In doing this, I have had no thought of mentioning them with any disrespect or depicting them wrongly. Only conventions of fiction have given them a different face. This book is not biography, it is not history, and this I trust the readers will grant me.

  This book may not have been possible without the help of Tada Ningthoukhongjam Khelchandra. What I asked for was little, what he told me was vast. I owe immense gratitude to Tada. After the printing of the book had started, Mr Takhellambam Prafullo showed me two letters written by Maxwell and Sanatombi. I also owe a debt of gratitude to Mr Prafulla.

  Elders Who Helped in the Research

  Lairikyengbam Gulap Mohori, Sorokhaibam Thambou, Lairikyengbam Tombi, Nongmaithem Thanil, Lourembam Ongbi Ibemhal, Thourani Kumari Achoubi, Thangjam Oja Chaoba, Hijam Ibungohal, Ngangbam Shyamkishore, Pundit Baladeb Sharma, Sanasam Gourahari, Meitram Bira, Akham Surendra, Oja Lokeshwar, Huidrom Ongbi Maharaj Kumari Angousana, Elangbam Ongbi Sanahanbi, Sorokhaibam Ongbi Thamballaka.

  Assistance

  Pundit Ngariyambam Kulachandra, Dr Chandramani, Asangbam Minaketan, Rajkumar Jhalajit, Rajkumar Sanahal, Syam Sharma, Takhellambam Prafullo, Khumallambam Rasbihari, Arambam Ongbi Jamini.

  The author is indebted to them all.

  Binodini, 1976

  The Princess and the Political Agent

  CHAPTER 1

  ‘Mainu,’ the ailing woman calls very weakly.

  ‘Your Highness.’ Mainu is seated at her feet.

  ‘Is it today that Little Majesty is coming?’

  ‘No, my lady.’

  ‘What happened to today?’

  ‘Today is the Day of Bor. Your royal little cousin will not be able to grace us. It is tomorrow that he is honouring us, along with the doctor.’

  ‘Oh, it’s Bor today. … … … So today is Bor, Mainu.’

  ‘Your Highness.’

  The ailing woman closes her eyes. She is very weak from her long illness. She is greatly reduced but still beautiful—even today there are traces of her loveliness of the past. She is in the master bedroom of an elegantly built house covered with tin roofing. The house itself is Meitei but the room cannot really be said to be truly Meitei. The ailing woman is lying on a bed made of brass. Burnished with metal polish, it gleams like gold. There is not a blemish or stain. Near the bed is placed a small table. On it are a smallish clock, some vials of medicine, a measuring glass, and the like. A meticulously woven rattan mat covers the entire floor. On it, a Kashmiri carpet of floral design. Two small chairs covered in red velvet, ornately decorated contemporary of the period, and right next to them is placed a large reed stool of Meitei make. That too is covered with a folded spread bordered with velvet. The velvet slippers placed in front of the bed are new, with little sign of wear; they are perhaps put there as adornment. There are two photographs on the wall. One, of a woman. A beauty in an embroidered sarong, wearing a full-sleeved blouse of laced crêpe and wrapped in a stole with edging of gold. Next to it, a photograph of a middle-aged foreigner. The frames of the two photographs are not like from around here. It is not the craftsmanship of these lands. The two photographs are of the exact same size. One is of Sovereign Surchandra’s daughter, born of Jasumati, Maid of Satpam—Sanatombi. The other is of Major Maxwell, Manipur’s, conquered Manipur’s, first Political Agent—‘Major “Mesin” Saheb’.

  Her Highness Sanatombi is ill. The diagnosis of her ailment is not known. The doctors and healers may know. People do not talk much about the condition of the indisposed woman. They go about silently, each to their duties, about their work.

  The moment Her Highness Sanatombi took ill, her younger cousin Little Majesty had sent down a healer from the palace to attend to her care. Two servants stay overnight. Meals are prepared by Mainu. Not just for her meals, Mainu is everything to Sanatombi. Mainu is lovely and slender, with a smallish face. One can see she is not a superficial scab of a person. She comes across as a woman of her word, a clear-thinking woman. Both servants seem to be over thirty.

  It must have been about nine in the morning.

  Mainu calls softly, ‘Your Highness.’

  ‘Hm?’

  ‘Shall I bring your breakfast?’

  ‘What shall I eat?’

  ‘Let us have two pieces of toast and some milk.’

  ‘All right. … … … Mainu, a little later… .’

  Sanatombi closes her eyes. Mainu looks at her intently. Tears come to Mainu’s eyes. She remembers, no, not remember, she sees before her eyes—the veranda at the back of the bungalow. Many flowers from foreign lands border the green lawn before her eyes—red upon red, white upon white, cluster after cluster. She remembers the many occasions when the Saheb had breakfast with the princess. Bearers scurry around briskly, carrying back and forth many dishes from Western lands. The Saheb eats two half-boiled eggs without fail. For Sanatombi, an omelette. Sanatombi can only eat omelette and cannot eat any other preparation of eggs.

  The Saheb teases Mainu now and then, ‘Mainu, have some. Try, eggs are good for health.’

  The Saheb has learnt Meiteilon pretty well. He could speak it, one can say, but he could never get rid of his accent. Mainu laughs at his inflections; Mainu laughs with embarrassment at his teasing.

  ‘No, Brahmin, it is not unclean. Mainu, food is food.’

  Mainu runs out in embarrassment without answering.

  The beauty of Sanatombi that day was beyond words. She is attired in a limply draping monochrome royal sarong of black and white with a hijam design. On top, a housecoat of muga silk in robin’s egg, worn a little loosely. She wears no stole. Her long hair scatters as it falls. From it a whiff of fragrance from her herbal hair wash the day before, from the ching’hi wash Mainu had prepared. Drinking the milk Mainu has handed him, the Saheb asks, ‘Mainu, what good is ching’hi?’

  ‘No pok, Saheb.’

  ‘Pok?’

  ‘Pok is white hair. If you use it, you won’t get it either.’

  ‘No hope. Mine is already grey—whatever remains of it, that is. I have no hair, no pok.’ How they laugh. Mainu is very formal with the Saheb, and knowing that, the Saheb tries to break the formality by teasing her. One day he also says, ‘Did you see the young man who came to dinner last night, Mainu?’

  ‘No, I did not.’

  ‘The handsome young man, did you not see him, that captain from Assam Rifles?’

  ‘I am afraid I did not see him, Saheb.’

  ‘What a shame
! He likes you. He wants to marry you. He wants you.’

  ‘Oh my!’ She rushes out, thinking, ‘How naughty this man is.’

  It was a time when Mainu as well as Sanatombi were very young. Today, the memories sadden Mainu; she feels like crying.

  ‘Mainu,’ the call comes again.

  ‘May I bring it now?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Breakfast.’

  ‘I am not going to eat. … … … Oh, so today is Bor?’

  Today is Bor.

  The message had gone out four or five days ago to the homes of the married princesses and their daughters. Who is going to the Bor, who will ride elephants, and who in palanquins? Elephants were sent to the houses of those who wished to ride an elephant, and palanquin bearers to the homes of those who wished to ride in a palanquin. The princesses are setting out on Bor to pray. It is on the road to Hiyangthang. Crowds line the road on either side. Everyone wants to watch whenever the palace puts on a show. What with the beauty of the princesses and the beauty of their ladies-in-waiting and all.

  It is during the royal reign of Sovereign Chandrakirti. His royal daughters come to the palace for every festival, noisily, happily. The princesses fill the quarters of the Grand Queen Mother—Princess Tharaksana, Princess Makhaosana, Princess Amusana, Princess Phandengsana, Princess Thadoi, Princess Maipakpi … … … As well as the many princesses and ladies of the lineage of Maharaja Narasingh.