by M. M. Kaye
There is also, of course, another explanation. That His Highness Sir Madhav Rao Scindia of Gwalior was pulling my beloved parent’s leg. He was, let’s face it, well known for his fondness for practical jokes, and also for being no ordinary character. In his younger days he had managed to blarney himself into accompanying the British Expeditionary Force which, in the opening years of the twentieth century, was sent to China to help put down the Boxer Rising (which was probably the reason for his fondness for my father, since Tacklow, too, as a Captain in the 21st Punjabis, had seen service in North China at that time).
Nevertheless, Tacklow himself was firmly convinced that in this case Scindia had spoken nothing but the truth. This was mainly because H. H. admitted that he had always been haunted by the conviction that if only he had kept his nerve and not given way to panic — if only he had had just a little more courage — he would have realized that the footsteps that he thought he heard following him were only echoes, and gone on to find that the fabulous hoard of gold and jewels was no legend, but his for the taking. It was, he insisted, the one great regret that he would take with him to the grave.
If he had invented the whole story, said Tacklow (who knew him well), then he had certainly ended by persuading himself that it was all true.
I like to believe that too. India has always been in the habit of salting away gold and jewels in the earth, and I have myself seen a fabulous hoard of gold coins, hidden centuries ago and unearthed by chance in another Rajputana state in the 1940s. In fact, the habit of burying treasure in times of war, or as an insurance against a rainy day, was so prevalent* that few Indian palaces or forts would be worthy of the name without a treasure trove having been hidden somewhere at some time under or in it. And what treasures they are! While at Gwalior we were taken to see the State Jewel House, which I had expected to be in some underground dungeon, but turned out to be a small, square, unpretentious and very modern-looking building with whitewashed walls and an armed guard standing outside the door.
The guard, and the fact that the walls of the building looked to be a good six feet thick, while the windows were mere slits protected by solid slabs of glass and further reinforced by iron bars, gave it a forbidding look. But the interior of this modern Aladdin’s cave was, at first sight, a distinct anticlimax. It looked far more like a kitchen or a larder than a jewel house, for down the middle of it ran a long, plain wooden kitchen table, while against the whitewashed walls stood what appeared to be an unending line of kitchen dressers, with narrow shelves and row upon row of cheap brass hooks. But laid out on that table, propped on those shelves or hanging from those hooks, were some of the most incredible jewels you could possibly imagine, and I cannot begin to think what they must have been worth in that day — let alone in this one!
Necklaces, rings and brooches, swords and sword-belts, nose-rings and bracelets, anklets and pendants, set with emeralds, rubies, sapphires and diamonds, turquoises, tourmalines, fire opals, amethysts and aquamarines, plus any other jewel you can think of; strings of enormous pearls, the size of pigeons’ eggs, hung casually from the brass hooks, side by side with glittering ropes of uncut emeralds, peardrop diamonds and balas rubies.
Some of the diamonds had obviously been sent to Europe, probably to Amsterdam, to be recut, and very splendid they looked. But many of them were table-cut in the old way, and I remember one fabulous sword-belt that was fashioned from wide links of solid gold, each one measuring at least three inches by six, and of a gold so pure that the rows of large diamonds that had been set into it had been hammered into holes gouged out of the soft metal, before being sliced level with the flat surface of the links. Every diamond was roughly the size of my thumbnail, but though the thing must have been very nearly priceless, the stones, in that setting, lost most of their brilliance and might just as well have been pieces of glass.
It was the sheer casualness with which they were treated that impressed me more than the beauty or value of the jewels. The matter-of-fact manner in which incalculable riches and beauty were carelessly laid out on that unstained and unpolished kitchen table or casually slung on cheap brass hooks. Yet they would have made even the Crown Jewels in the Tower of London look unimportant by contrast.*
Oh, the jewels that were once the glory of India! Where are they now, I wonder? — now that the princes have been deprived of their tides and revenues, and many have been left penniless? So many great names have become no more than the names of towns to which the package tours dispatch their streams of camera-carrying tourists. ‘Where has all the splendour gone? Gone to tourists, every one! Oh will we never learn …’
No, of course we won’t. We never do; until it’s too late!
One evening we were invited to Jai Vilas, the Maharajah’s city palace, to see a famous conjuror who was visiting Gwalior, and I was bitterly disappointed to find that the palace was not in the least like the ones I had seen in Jaipur and Agra, and in the Lai Khila at Delhi. It was a curious western-style mock-up that suggested an over-decorated wedding cake, and was full of European furniture and fittings which included a huge cut-glass fountain, exactly like an immense cruet, in one of the white marble entrance halls.
The palace had, in fact, been built in a tearing hurry in the seventies of the previous century, in anticipation of a visit by Queen Victoria’s eldest son, the future King Edward VII, then Prince of Wales. It was designed by an amateur architect, one Lieutenant-Colonel Sir Michael Filose, a one-time British-Indian Army officer who had left the army to enter the service of the state. The Colonel, whose family roots were Italian, obviously had grand ideas; though unfortunately, European rather than Indian ones. But the interior of the palace could not have been more impressive. Cinderella and her prince would have felt truly at home in that vast expanse of shimmering gold. Gold-leaf, gold brocade, gold-plated this and that, and glittering crystal chandeliers as far as the eye could see. It took your breath away. As for the conjuror, he, too, was out of this world.
Tacklow’s pal, the eccentric old Scindia of Gwalior, had died in 1925, and our host that evening was the Regent, since the heir, H. H. George Jeewaji Rao Scindia Bahadur, was still not of age, though he and his sister, Mary (they had been named after George V and Queen Mary), came in to shake hands with us and to watch the show. They were as charming a pair of children as you could wish to see, and so plainly dressed that they might have been the offspring of any commoner, if it had not been for the fact that each was wearing a short necklace of the largest and most lustrous pearls that I had ever seen; each pearl quite literally the size of a pigeon’s egg and, unbelievably, casually strung on the type of cheap tinsel ribbon that could be bought in almost any bazaar for considerably less than an anna a yard. Only an Indian royal, I reflected with awe, could have treated such fabulous jewels so carelessly.
Except for Mother, Bets and me, and the little princess who was below the age of caste, the party was a strictly masculine one, since in those days the majority of royal ladies kept strict purdah and, apart from Mr Crump and my family, all the other guests were Indian. None of them seemed to be particularly impressed by the conjuror’s performance. I suppose they had seen this sort of thing since they were knee-high to a tiger-cub and so accepted it as a matter of course. But to me it was pure magic.
The conjuror, an unremarkable middle-aged man in white, began with a few spectacular tricks of the kind that all conjurors do, and then, moving towards the guests, whom the Regent had seated in a half-circle, he did a trick for each one of us in turn and in close-up. I don’t remember any of the turns except the one he did for me, and the one he did for Tacklow, who was sitting on my left. Tacklow’s was the old trick of a length of rope that is cut again and again, but always ends up in one unbroken piece. But this time there was a difference, because it was performed by a man standing immediately in front of him and less than ten inches away. A man whose hands and wrists were in clear view throughout, and who, instead of cutting the rope himself, gave it to Tacklow to cut
with a razor-sharp knife and then took the two ends from him, one in each hand, merely crossed his hands under Tacklow’s nose (and mine!) and in the same unhurried movement handed it back in one piece. What’s more, he repeated the trick in several different ways; sometimes cutting it himself while Tacklow held it, sometimes letting Tacklow do the cutting; but always ending up with the same unblemished piece of rope.
The trick he did for me was far more exciting. He asked for a tall glass, which he told me to hold, and while I was holding it he filled it about half full of water and beckoned to one of his assistants, who stepped forward with a silver shovel on which there were several lumps of coal. This, after I had examined it (getting coal-dust all over my fingers in the process), he proceeded to smash up with a hammer until it was reduced to a pile of black dust and small fragments of coal which he added to the water in my glass. He then took it from me and, putting his other hand on top of it, shook the glass briskly and threw it all over me. I remember shrieking as the contents hit me and that was the only moment that I took my eyes off him; because I had flinched back instinctively, expecting a shower of wet, black slosh and bits of coal all over my party dress. Something damp did deluge me; I felt it on my face and hair and arms. But when I opened my eyes I found I had been showered not with coal but with dewy rose petals, and the glass in the conjuror’s hand was as clean as a whistle. I kept some of those petals for years, since clearly they were magic ones. But alas, as things do, they got lost.
Nothing so special happened at any of the other princely states we visited. We arrived. We were greeted kindly — in Tacklow’s case almost as though he had been a valued and much-loved relative returning home after a long absence: they all seemed to know him well. We were housed in magnificent rooms that looked out on to lakes and glorious gardens. We breakfasted on marble verandahs or bara-durris screened by curtains of flowering bougainvillaea, jasmine, climbing roses and trumpet-flowers. And while Tacklow went off to talk to the rulers and their diwans and councils, our hosts’ wives and their ladies made us welcome in the women’s quarters, and took us for drives and picnics in their purdah cars, whose tinted windows did not prevent us from seeing out, but prevented anyone from seeing those inside.
Since the royal women were gay and charming and, to my shame and dismay, far better educated than I was, we had a wonderful time in the company of these beautiful, laughing creatures, who showed us their jewels, their shimmering saris and their adorable babies, and gossiped about mutual acquaintances. There was only one awkward occasion.
In one of the princely states, while Tacklow was being dined by the ruler at an all-male party, the senior Maharani gave a splendid all-girls banquet in the women’s quarters for Mother, Bets and me. It was held in an immensely long and magnificent room, lined on one side by looking-glass that faced and reflected the long row of arched windows on the opposite side, so that whichever way you faced you could see treetops, flowering creepers and sky. Since the room was on the second floor, it was too high up for anyone at ground level to see into it, and the open windows were screened by very fine wire gauze that kept out the moths and beetles and other night-flying insects.
There must have been a good twenty or thirty of us seated at that enormously long table, below shimmering cut-crystal chandeliers that made a tinkling music overhead as their dangling crystals swayed gently to every breath of breeze that came in from the gardens outside. And though I wore my very best evening dress for the occasion, I still remember how dreadfully dowdy I felt among all those slender, glamorous Indian beauties in their wonderful saris and astonishing jewels. Even the stout and elderly ones — of whom, thank goodness, there were a reasonable number — managed to look graceful and gorgeous, for the sari is surely the most becoming dress that was ever invented.
Below us on the lawn the Maharajah’s brass band played western dance music. Tunes such as ‘Tea for Two’, ‘Always’, ‘Mountain Greenery’ and other pop-songs of the day, all of them tendered fortissimo, which did not appear to worry the royal ladies at all. They merely raised their voices a couple of octaves, and shrieked blithely above the volume of brass drifting up from below. And since thirty or more women all shrieking together can make a considerable din, we drowned out that twenty-strong brass band without even trying.
I had a junior Highness on my left and a cosy little visiting Rani on my right, and both of them screamed cheerfully at me throughout the meal, jerking me out of my shyness and keeping me as well as themselves in gales of laughter. It was a hilarious evening. But Oh, that meal …!
Judging from the enormous menus, each one emblazoned on the cover with the Maharani’s coat-of-arms, and printed in Hindi on the right-hand side and English on the left, we were going to be faced with an incredibly large number of courses. I remember studying the menu in front of me with some apprehension, and noting, with disappointment, that not a single Indian dish figured on that long list, presumably in compliment to Mother and for the benefit of European guests. I thought this a pity, as I had been looking forward to sampling some really good Indian cooking. And while appreciating Her Highness’s thoughtfulness, I wondered how on earth I was going to deal with all those courses without offending my hostess by refusing at least half of them. In the event I decided to take a very modest helping of every dish that was offered to me, spreading it out on my plate to make it look more.
But, alas for good intentions! What I did not know was that Her Highness employed an extremely expensive European chef to cook all western meals, and every dish was so delicious that I ended up eating far more of them than I meant to. Even then, I barely managed to get through the final course. Only to discover, with horror, that what I had taken to be a translation into Hindi on the right-hand page of the menu was, in fact, a list of Indian dishes which, having toiled through the western ones, we were now being offered! What’s more, they were the very best of Indian dishes. Wonderful stuff. And how I would have appreciated them if only they had come first …
Mutaujua and jinga pulao. Badshaki; kitcheree and kutchi biryani; moghli koftas, shami kebab, kandi gosht and murgi tikka. Unda dopiaza, which is spiced spinach with boiled eggs. Pora (baked eggs with shrimp), and stuffed peppers — mirchi bharwan. And to end with jellabis and halwa sharin, the ‘Sweet Sweet’ of Persia, and half a dozen other delights. How I wished I had taken the trouble to learn how to write the language I had once talked so fluently. Or at least had the sense to ask one or other of the Highnesses seated on either side of me to translate the Hindi script for me!
But it was too late for regrets, for by then I could barely swallow another mouthful of anything, however ambrosial, and bad manners or no, I was incapable of doing more than help myself to the smallest possible quantity of the delightful, spicy dishes that followed one after another during the best part of another hour — and to push that about my plate so that it looked as though I had at least eaten some of it. Neither of the bejewelled ladies on either side of me was deceived; both of them regretting that I did not care for Indian food, and clearly disbelieving me when I assured them that I did, but had no more room, having over-eaten during the first half of the banquet. I could see that after that they wrote me off as just another die-hard Angrezi visitor.
Among the many semi-independent states in the Country of the Kings that we visited that cold weather was beautiful Jaipur, where we stayed at the Residency, a building that had once been a royal palace, the ‘Raj Mahal’, and has now become the Raj Mahal Hotel, but will always be linked in my mind with one of Noel Coward’s best-loved melodies: a song from ‘Bitter Sweet’. Because, as we arrived, a gramophone in one of the rooms off the hall was playing ‘I’ll see you again’.
It was the first time I had ever heard it, and even after all these years whenever I chance to hear it I am walking up the porch steps and into that cool shadowy hall that smelt of flowers and furniture polish, and it is all there again, tied up with ribbon and rosemary. Youth and the haunting beauty of springtime and romance. Jai
Sing’s wonderful rose-red city in the sunlit years between two World Wars.
There are two rather creepy ghost stories attached to the Residency in Jaipur, and so far no one has come up with anything that might account for them. The first concerned a small locked room off the right-hand side of the hall as one entered the building. No one used it. This was because (or so the Resident told us) someone, many years ago, in the early days of the East India Company, was found dead in it in very suspicious circumstances. The victim appeared to have been strangled, though both the doors and the windows leading into the room had been securely fastened on the inside, and a window had to be broken when he did not answer to knocking and shouting. There was a fireplace in the room, but the chimney was too narrow to allow anyone human to enter that way, and anyway, there were no traces of entry. The thing remained a mystery, and in time was forgotten, until once again it was used as a temporary bedroom for some unexpected visitor, who was found dead next morning in precisely the same circumstances.
Since the Indian servants insisted, unanimously, that it was the work of some evil spirit, and refused to enter the room, it was cleared of all furniture and locked and barred. And it remained so until well into the twentieth century, when a foolhardy guest, hearing the story and pooh-poohing it, insisted on spending a night in the room and bet his host 100 rupees, or a case of champagne or something of the sort, that he would be found alive and well in the morning. His host was reluctant to accept the wager, and with one voice every Indian in the service of the Residency implored him not to take the chance. But he remained adamant. Ghosts? Pooh! Evil spirits? Bah! Finally a bed was provided for him, and, having barred the windows, he locked himself in. And that was the last time he was ever seen alive, for when the door was eventually battered in the next morning they found that he, too, had been strangled …
