by Andrew Duff
With the elections set for April, Thondup flew to the States for Christmas 1973 to see his children. It was not an easy trip. He and Hope had never fully agreed how long she would be in New York. As Thondup prepared to leave in the early part of 1974, he realised for the first time that she would never come back.
Thondup returned to Gangtok alone, in time for a muted celebration of his 51st birthday. A few days later, with the Sikkim elections only days away, he gave an interview to the New York Times. The headline betrayed his mood: ‘Ruler of Sikkim, Alone in Palace, Broods and Waits’. He denied rumours of a divorce or separation as ‘loose talk’ and ‘wishful thinking’, and railed against those who had portrayed him as ‘anti-Indian’. The Indian Foreign Ministry (who he blamed for the portrayal) had been ‘led up the garden path . . . I was dubbed as an autocrat and a wicked person,’ he said with feeling, asserting that he had a ‘special relationship’ with the people of Sikkim and challenging anyone to ‘bring up specific instances of my wickedness’. He gave an impassioned plea for understanding of his position, taking his critics head on:
What choice has Sikkim but to live under the protection of India? The only choice is China, but any practical-minded person will know that is not in the interest of Sikkim. All that I said and wanted was that India be the big brother and Sikkim the little brother. You give us love and support, which we will reciprocate. Under your protection we will become strong, economically viable, which will be a good thing for you. After all, we also want our place in the sun.7
The elections took place in late April. The result was a complete disaster for Thondup and the Palace. A few months before the election, the Kazi’s SNC had formed an astute alliance with the Janata Congress, the other main party with a strong appeal to the Sikkimese Nepali vote. The combined effectiveness of the new party (Sikkim Congress), along with the new delineation of constituencies decided by the Indian election commissioner, gave the Kazi a huge advantage. Meanwhile the emergence of the hard-line Sikkim Youth Pioneers had hopelessly split the Palace faction and the National Party. At the last minute Thondup formed a new political party – the People’s Democratic Party – in an effort to galvanise the anti-Kazi vote. All that did was split the natural pro-Chogyal vote even further. The Kazi swept to victory in 31 out of 32 seats in the elections. There were some murmurs that the scale of the victory seemed suspect,* but no one was under any illusion that the Kazi was now firmly in the ascendant. Thondup’s world, it seemed, was falling apart.
With such an overwhelming democratic mandate, the Kazi was triumphant. The Kazini was no less elated. She had spent the best part of two decades chipping away at what she saw as the crumbling edifice of the Namgyal dynasty by firing out anti-Chogyal articles from their home base in Kalimpong.
Now, in the late spring of 1974, as Sikkim’s flower gardens started to bloom, the Kazini was finally the first lady of Sikkim.
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Neither the Kazi nor the Kazini were under any illusions that the election result meant the game was over. It had certainly reduced the Chogyal’s claim to any political role; but the 8 May Agreement of the previous year still had force, and there was no doubt that under that document the Chogyal retained considerable – if largely theoretical – power. The Kazi was determined that this must change.
For Das and Bajpai, too, the election result meant a change in policy. It had been quite clear during the polling that Delhi was firmly behind the Kazi. Now that the result had been so overwhelmingly in his favour, the Kazi was even more closely aligned with his Indian masters. P. N. Dhar, Indira Gandhi’s principal secretary, was quite clear on where Das and Bajpai must stand. It was, he said, ‘no longer possible for Delhi to stay neutral between the Chogyal, whose ambition was to remain the focal point of power, and the Kazi, who represented the popular will’.8
The Kazi, meanwhile, was determined to make a strong statement that things had changed – and that he had the full support of Delhi. The date set for the swearing-in of the Assembly, 10 May, provided the first opportunity. For decades, the tradition had been for the Chogyal to swear in Assembly members. Now the Kazi announced that he would not accept being sworn in by the Chogyal – he would only accept being sworn in by B. S. Das himself.
Thondup was furious. He knew he was being sidelined, but there was little he could do. After the ignominy of seeing his role usurped by Das, he was at least allowed to give an ‘inauguration address’. Thondup, in what Das later acknowledged was ‘an exercise in self-control in spite of his bitterness’, pointedly stressed the importance of Sikkim’s continued separate identity to the newly elected members. ‘We should . . . bear in mind that the future of our country and the survival of our Sikkimese identity rests on the level of our wisdom, maturity and performance. So long as we fail to fathom these basic essentials,’ he added with implicit criticism of the Kazi and the new Assembly, ‘our efforts will have been meaningless.’
The Kazi, now in his seventies, was riled by the public suggestion that he lacked maturity. More determined than ever to show that he was in control, he ordered his Assembly members to boycott the reception that the Chogyal was giving after the inauguration at the Tsuklakhang Palace. Ishbel Ritchie, as head teacher of the school, was one of those waiting at the palace all afternoon. She could sense the anger on both sides – the whole thing was ‘pandemonium’, she wrote, and an ‘incredible display of bad manners’.
Such trivialities were just for show. It was on the following day – the first official session of the new elected Assembly – that it became clear just how far the Kazi was prepared to go in order to reduce Thondup’s power to naught. After an introductory speech from Das, the diminutive Kazi rose to his feet. Determined to demonstrate the break with the past, he ignored the tradition of giving thanks to the Chogyal (who was conspicuously absent); instead, he fired a shot across the bows of his long-time foe, warning that ‘those who fail to adjust themselves to the change of time and circumstance will have perforce to face stark reality in all its consequences’.
He then reeled off no less than 15 ‘resolutions’, almost certainly prepared with the help and encouragement of Das and his assistants. Some directly contradicted the 8 May Agreement, which had prohibited the Assembly discussing the future of the Chogyal: the third resolution stated that the functions and role of Thondup in the future could ‘not be more than those of a constitutional head of the Government of Sikkim’.
That much Thondup had expected and would have been willing to at least discuss; but when he reviewed the full list of resolutions later, there was one in particular that alarmed him more than any other. It stated that the Assembly should resolve to draw up a constitution, and to take immediate steps ‘for Sikkim’s participation in the political and economic institutions of India’. To do this, the Kazi insisted, a constitutional adviser from India should be sent to Sikkim immediately. Publicly, he talked of the necessity of such a step to bring democracy and economic progress; privately, he had concluded that it was the only way to get rid of Thondup once and for all. With almost total control of an Assembly of politicians still basking in the glory of a first election victory, the Kazi’s resolutions were quickly passed.9
Thondup was aghast. He knew that the Kazi was determined he should go but he was convinced that, with the new resolutions, the Assembly were sleepwalking into sacrificing any identity that Sikkim retained. An Indian constitutional adviser would be bound to propose closer union.
He jumped on a plane from Bagdogra airport (near Siliguri) to Delhi at once to meet with Foreign Minister Swaran Singh, Foreign Secretary Kewal Singh and Mrs Gandhi. He told them that not only had the Kazi broken the 8 May Agreement’s specific article preventing the Assembly from discussing the future of the Namgyal family, but also, by raising the issue of Sikkim’s relations with India, the Assembly had raised a matter covered by the 1950 treaty. Such issues, by definition, could only be negotiated between the parties to the treaty; given that he was still Chogyal and therefore
head of state, this was a role that he argued fell to him alone.
If a constitutional adviser was to come to Gangtok, Thondup suggested three specific conditions: that Sikkimese participation in the government be maximised; that Sikkim’s separate juridical identity should be recognised; and (he was willing to concede this much) that India’s legitimate security and other interests should be protected. Mrs Gandhi listened, nodded and smiled* but committed to nothing. Thondup noticed that she seemed distracted. On the second day of his visit to Delhi, it became clear why.
On 18 May 1974, India became a nuclear power with the explosion of a test device in a remote corner of the Rajasthani desert, not far from the border with Pakistan.
International reaction to the Indian nuclear test was initially stunned silence. No one had any indication that it had been about to occur; in fact, information about the plans was so tightly controlled that even Swaran Singh had only been informed of the test 48 hours before it took place. The Pakistanis expressed their deep concern; the Chinese – who had conducted a test of their own a decade earlier – were also taken by surprise.
American Ambassador Moynihan immediately cautioned against over-reaction. Keen to protect the progress in his rapprochement with elements of the Indian government, he downplayed the significance of the test, noting drily ‘any government seeking to reinstate a measure of national progress in an otherwise dismal situation might be expected to consider such a step’.10
Moynihan was right: domestically the test was a masterstroke, providing a distraction from the continuing economic and political problems Indira Gandhi was facing. For two months, she had been coming under intense pressure from Jayaprakash (JP) Narayan, a charismatic politician from India’s Bihar province, who was calling for ‘total revolution’ to fight against Mrs Gandhi’s ‘corruption and misgovernment and blackmarketeering, profiteering and hoarding’. With the nuclear test dominating the headlines, Narayan’s sniping was forgotten for a brief moment, replaced by ‘an unmistakeable air of excitement’ and pride in Delhi at what had taken place.11
When Thondup heard the codename for the test – ‘Smiling Buddha’ – he must have wondered if someone, somewhere was sending some kind of subliminal message. His own good humour was rapidly disappearing. He was now worried that Mrs Gandhi’s non-committal attitude was evidence that she no longer cared about Sikkim’s future as a separate nation. During the next two days, he snatched some further time with her. She listened again to his views, but – now emboldened by the political success of the nuclear test – told him haughtily she could not halt the progress of ‘democracy’. She advised him that his best course of action was to wait for the report from the Indian Constitutional Adviser, the eminent jurist G. R. Rajagopaul. Thondup had little choice but to reluctantly agree. He returned to Sikkim.
By mid-June, a mere three weeks after being given the job of creating the constitution, Rajagopaul’s recommendations were complete. Thondup could not help but be suspicious of the astonishing speed. Even B. S. Das, when he saw them, commented on ‘the anomalies and unworkability of the provisions’, which he realised made Delhi’s ‘direct involvement in every matter inevitable’.12 But he knew it was his job to see things through. Delhi made clear that it was time to resolve what was becoming an increasingly messy situation.
On 12 June, Thondup returned to Delhi, expecting to meet with the relevant authorities to discuss Rajagopaul’s recommendations. But instead of recommendations to consider, he was presented with something closer to a fait accompli – a fully formed ‘draft constitution’ to comment on. He immediately sought a meeting with Mrs Gandhi. When he was told that she was too busy for a face-to-face meeting, he fired off a letter to her on the 15th, asking for ten days to consider his position on what, in his view, constituted (to all intents and purposes) a renegotiation of a treaty between two nations. He returned to Gangtok the next day, believing he had bought himself some time.
The gist of the proposed ‘draft constitution’ quickly reached Gangtok. It was soon obvious that it was not only Thondup who had grave concerns. Two of the young Sikkim Congress leaders were worried by the lack of clarity in the document. A number of points in the document also seemed to propose a greatly enhanced role for India. It was certain that a lot of power was to be vested in the Indian chief executive, Das. Further, any disputes between the chief executive and the Assembly or the Chogyal were to be referred to Delhi. Another clause made provisions for the head of the Assembly to be called ‘chief minister’ rather than ‘prime minister’. The distinction was not lost on anyone: ‘chief minister’ was the term used for states within the Indian Union.
Gangtok was small – news travelled fast. People inside and outside the Assembly began to appreciate the major implications behind the proposals. What they had expected from Rajagopaul’s work was a framework for a democratic Sikkim, not a proposal for integration with India. Suddenly there was a groundswell of people demanding that the head of the Assembly be called ‘prime minister’ in recognition of the ‘separate and distinct identity of Sikkim’, and that India’s role in Sikkim should be explicitly limited.
There was now substantial public disquiet at the proposed constitution. Things deteriorated rapidly when Das declared on the 18th that the Assembly would meet two days later. The next day demonstrators started to appear on the streets of Gangtok. But this time, unlike the previous April, when the demonstrators had been predominantly Nepalis from outside brought into the capital by the Indian government, the crowd contained representatives from all the communities in Sikkim – Bhutia, Lepcha and Nepali. They were united by their opposition to the speed of the planned constitutional changes. The scale of the opposition became even more apparent when more than 2,500 civil servants walked out on strike, bringing Gangtok to a virtual standstill.
But there was an urgency about events that caught almost everyone off guard. Everything came to a head on the 20th. Das had planned a rushed Assembly session for 12.45 p.m. A substantial group of Gangtok’s citizens were now convinced that something was afoot and climbed the hill to the Assembly building, surrounding it to prevent the Assembly members from entering. Das needed to regain control. The army were on hand, but he knew that involving them would be incendiary. He ordered the Central Reserve Police (CRP) – armed with lathis – to restore order with force, but the demonstrators stood firm. When a violent fight broke out between protestors and the CRP, Das authorised them to use tear gas to bring the situation under control. The main bazaar in Gangtok, a normally quiet place, was in chaos – the hospital later reported treating more than 100 people with injuries.13
By that evening, however, the action had had the desired effect. The streets were still tense – but quiet. Shortly after 9.30 p.m. the elected politicians were ferried to the Assembly building in army vehicles. What followed was an extraordinary session – as short as it was farcical. With Das presiding, the Assembly members started a discussion of the draft bill. The Kazi, despite being ‘considerably shaken up’ by the events earlier in the day, began the session. Since the discussion was in English and more than half of the Assembly members (including the Kazi) ‘were not at all conversant with that language’, the debate was virtually non-existent. Four members, none of whom could understand what was being presented to them, proposed eight amendments. All were seconded – but none would find their way into the document that would be agreed a few days later. The session closed hurriedly with the reading of two further resolutions ‘fully’ endorsing ‘the proposals of the Constitutional Advisor’ and asking that they should be implemented in ‘the shortest possible time’. Both were passed unanimously.14
Many of the members would later complain that the atmosphere was heavily pressurised. Khatiawara* reported it was ‘over in less than sixteen minutes’.15
Das had fulfilled his brief: the resolution had moved integration with India another step closer.
In Delhi, the British and American embassies scrabbled around for information
about what had happened. Although reports that there had been disturbances in Gangtok had leaked out, foreign reporters had been carefully excluded from Sikkim, and access for Indian journalists was severely restricted. The press corps relied for their information on the heavily government-controlled Press Trust of India.
One person who could not be controlled, however, was Crown Prince Tenzing, still a student in England. On 23 June, the Sunday Observer ran an interview with him on their front page. Tenzing told the paper he had spoken to his father, who had told him ‘all roads to Sikkim are blocked and communications with the outside world controlled’, adding that ‘if it is a choice of being a protectorate of India and being absorbed, we obviously want to be a protectorate’. An Indian government spokesman in London quickly dismissed the article as ‘highly mischievous’.16
From her house below the bazaar, Ishbel Ritchie’s letters were also getting past the censors – albeit slowly. When she wrote to her mother on the 23rd, the strike was already four days old and showed no signs of abating. An ‘amazing cross-section of all the educated population of Gangtok . . . have been made suspicious by the curiously hurried and devious way in which it has been introduced in the end. There is a most hamfisted air – if one can have such a thing – about the whole proceedings.’
In Delhi, the American embassy could have done with Ishbel Ritchie’s insights. With serious doubts about the press reporting, they made assiduous attempts to find out more about the situation. N. B. Menon, one of the joint secretaries at the Ministry of External Affairs, opened up to one of the embassy officers. Any problems, Menon told him, were solely down to the Chogyal and his ‘refusal to accept his legislative responsibilities’ by assenting to the bill endorsed by the Assembly on the 20th. The Government of India was perfectly within its rights to ‘simply declare the Assembly bill as enacted’ and was only refraining from doing so for the Chogyal’s benefit. ‘We suspect,’ concluded the US embassy officer, that ‘the Government of India anticipates a new wave of popular uproar on behalf of the constitution in the wake of which either the Chogyal will concede defeat or the Government of India can invoke the pressures of democracy and override the Chogyal’.17
