by Anand, Anita
In 1919 the Government of India Act consultation was not going well. As Sarojini Naidu wrote to Gandhi late one night from her hotel room, ‘There is not much to report except that the evidence before the Joint Committee has begun and all our deputation will be called to give their evidence after the official witnesses have finished . . . Several attempts have been made to find common ground for all the deputations, but in vain so far.’10
Sarojini was not the only one feeling dispirited. Many delegations had come to believe that the British were going to do what they wanted, no matter what Indians felt. She wrote: ‘I see a woeful and even wilful ignorance and indifference about India in England – it is so precious to us, so rotten and valueless a thing to them, except as enriching their coffers.’11
In a final push, the Women’s Indian Association decided to bolster its argument and its ranks. When the day finally arrived to present evidence, a face familiar to the British press was sitting in the midst of their delegation. Sophia was back among the troublemakers. The reporter for the Observer noted archly: ‘Facing Mr Montagu, who in spite of the odds against him, is bent upon putting India upon the path of responsible self-government, sat in a long row, Mrs Naidu, the Princess Sophia A. Duleep Singh, Mrs Annie Besant, Mrs P. L. Roy, Mrs Kotwal, Mrs N. C. Sen, Mrs B. Bhola Naath and Mrs Dube.’12
The women argued their case passionately, warning the British government that if they made no provision for women’s votes, they would be introducing gender inequality to India deliberately and catastrophically. Before the Raj, all had been equally disenfranchised. Now that a system of democracy was being mooted, it made no sense to leave women out. The Secretary of State listened patiently but refused to change his bill. He would leave it to the provincial assemblies to decide if they wanted to give women the vote. Two years later, only some of them took up the opportunity. The decision would have felt like failure for the already downhearted Princess Sophia.
In March 1920, on the same heavy-gauge blue notepaper upon which she had once bullied Winston Churchill, Sophia wrote an uncharacteristically humble letter to the Secretary of State for India. She begged him for financial help: ‘Dear Mr Montagu, the great rise in prices, taxes and rates, and the ever increasing difficulty of making two ends meet, leave me no choice but to write to you to ask for assistance.’13
The rooms at Faraday could no longer be heated, and despite her frugality, bills were still threatening to engulf her. Montagu’s response was tepid. Sophia was asked to provide proof of hardship and to collect details of all her bank accounts and documents of her spending. It was a humiliating business and ultimately did her only a small amount of good. Finally accepting her argument that the cost of living had gone up thanks to inflation, just under £20 was added to her annual allowance. Three years later, that amount and more would be deducted from her income. When the cuts were made again in 1923, the princess wrote again to the India Office: ‘I have received your letter of October 18 with regard to the reduction of the allowance, from £200 – £130.68, a year. As it was not sufficiently adequate in the first place to cover expenses, it will be much less so when reduced . . . I am again obliged to use capital, which will further reduce my income.’14
No more money was granted to the princess. The Duleep Singhs were going to be allowed to fade from history, and the comfort in which they did so made little difference to the government. Seeing his sister in such financial straits, Freddie decided to step in, believing he could do something more lasting for his ‘Saff’ than just pay the odd bill when things became too much. He began to look for somebody sharp and dependable who could manage Sophia’s household on its diminishing budget. Margaret Mayes had been with the family since Elveden; she was loyal, dependable, almost maternal to the princesses. Sophia had felt lost when age rendered her too frail to work at Faraday House any more. Replacements came and went, but they were unable to attain the high standards set by Mrs Mayes.
Through his contacts at his club, White’s, Freddie had come to hear of a capable young woman working for the Dean of St Paul’s and duly poached Janet Ivy Bowden for his sister.15 At twenty-two ‘Bosie’ became Faraday’s housekeeper, even though she was younger than some of the maids already working there. She had a broad open face and a strong square jaw which she stuck out challengingly when she spoke. At just over five foot, she was ‘solid and strong’.16 The four floors of Faraday House would be no problem for her, and from the moment she took up the position, and despite her youth, Bosie ruled the house ‘like a Tatar’.17 The younger servants feared her but also were agog at the way she seemed able to stand up to their mistress.
In later life, Sophia’s depressions could make her cruel. She lashed out at staff in her misery and most knew better than to cross her when ‘she was in one of her moods’.18 Bosie would have none of it and, to the gasps of those around her, would tell the princess to ‘stop pouting’.19 Such insolence would have had most women in her position fired immediately, but somehow it managed to snap Sophia temporarily out of her malaise. Not only did she keep Bosie on, but she pulled her closer into her confidence than any other servant who had gone before or would come after.
Despite the breath of fresh air her new housekeeper had brought to the house, Sophia continued at her lowest ebb for years. As always, when things looked bleakest, she turned to her sisters for solace. Bamba, who had been so little help of late, was the first one to act. She told her sister to pack her bags and come to Lahore immediately. Much to the irritation of the India Office, Sophia did not even request permission, merely informing them of the date of her travel after buying a ticket. As she prepared her escape, Sophia wrote letters to the staff explaining why only a few of them would be kept on for the months she intended to be away. It was then that Sophia found out that Bosie had quite a temper herself.
When she learned of her mistress’s plans – and even though she had barely been working at the house a year – Bosie flew into an uncontrollable fit of angry crying. She ran into the bathroom, slammed the door and refused to come out. Attracted by the howling, servants came and giggled by the door, but it took Sophia herself to get the housekeeper to open up. ‘What the devil is wrong with you?’ she asked incredulously.
‘Well I just think it’s not fair!’ cried Bosie. ‘It’s just not fair. I want to go to India too! I’ve always wanted to go . . . I want to see an elephant!’ As the sobs rained down on the princess, Sophia seemed amused. Turning on her heel, in the quietest of voices, she said: ‘Oh my goodness me. So you shall then.’ Despite all her financial worries, Sophia bought a second ticket for the voyage to India.
When she arrived in Lahore, Bamba took one look at her sister and realised that the usual round of social engagements, culinary and musical distractions would not be enough for Sophia. Extreme measures would be needed to stop the downward spiral. Even though Bamba could be self-obsessed and insensitive, she understood her little sister, now aged forty-eight, better than anyone in the world. In an effort to jolt her out of her melancholy, Bamba arranged a pilgrimage to Nasik in Maharashtra. It was a place neither of them had visited before, but on the banks of the Godavari, Bamba felt her sister might find peace.
The two princesses arrived with their arms filled with flowers. This was the place where their grandmother, Jindan, had been cremated in 1864. The Maharajah Duleep Singh had watched her body burn on a ghat by the water’s edge, and scattered most of her ashes over the ripples. Just a handful of the light grey dust was kept from the current and placed in an urn. Duleep paid for the construction of a small tomb on the banks of the Godavari where he placed Jindan’s remains. It was to be a place of pilgrimage for him whenever he next visited India. He did not know then that he would never see the place again.
The thought of Jindan’s eternal exile from Punjab had always troubled the daughters of Duleep Singh. Her isolation on the banks of the river, far away from home, touched the great pain of Sophia’s own loneliness. Sensing the symbolism of the act, Bamba decided it
was time to bring Rani Jindan home. Their grandfather’s ashes were interred in the grand mausoleum in the heart of Lahore, surrounded by the remains of other wives and servants. The sisters decided Jindan too should rest in such a place. Before they removed her, prayers had to be said. A distinguished-looking Sikh stood on the banks of the river, his back to the princesses, his hands pressed together in prayer. With eyes fixed on a distant point in the water, his voice rose and fell with the swell. Sophia listened to the words, unable to understand what they meant but knowing that Harbans Singh20 was singing songs of remembrance for her family. He asked God to cherish Jindan’s spirit and those of her descendants. He also praised the infinite wisdom and love of the gurus, and praised their deeds in life, and their nobility in death.
Harbans Singh was more than a link between Sophia and the Sikhism of her family. His grandfather had been General Shyam Singh Attariwala,21 a legendary soldier in the old Sikh Kingdom. Attariwala had led Sikh warriors into Afghanistan, capturing large tracts of land in the name of Maharajah Ranjit Singh in the 1830s. He had died fighting the British in Jindan’s name at the battle of Sobaron in 1846. To have the loyal warrior’s descendant reading prayers for her family revived Sophia. By the water’s edge she felt the strength flow back into her veins.
After bringing Jindan back to Punjab, Sophia resolved to travel across the old Sikh kingdom one last time. She would do so in a way that would have made her grandmother proud. The British had once again impressed upon the princesses the need for a low profile. They must not flaunt their family name, they must not excite crowds. This time around, however, the injunctions meant nothing to them. In the febrile atmosphere of post-massacre Punjab, word of their presence spread quickly, and crowds of excited people gathered wherever they went. Disobeying all government directives, for the second time in her life Sophia put aside her European travelling clothes and donned the traditional Indian costume she had for so long avoided; she wore a maroon sari made of thin georgette, fringed with gold.22 She wanted to look like the Indian princess her people wanted her to be.
In heavily embroidered fabric, dripping expensive jewels, she and her sister were quickly surrounded by followers.23 Such was the excitement they stirred in Lahore that local police were called out in force. At first the officers were careful to keep their distance, but then the princesses refused to take a carriage to the Shalimar Gardens, choosing to walk instead. With something resembling a procession in tow, every step they took attracted more people to their entourage. The fine material of Sophia’s sari fluttered around her slender frame as she walked proudly through the press of people. Elder Sikh men wept openly before the sisters: ‘We are with you,’ they sobbed; ‘We will give you the world.’24 A cry went up from the crowd: ‘Behold the daughters of Maharajah Duleep Singh!’ Others added to the noise: ‘Our Princesses are here!’25As Bamba and Sophia pressed forward, the clamour and excitement grew. It was only a matter of time before the situation reached a tipping point. Once Sophia and Bamba were safely in the gardens, uniformed men ordered the crowds to disperse. Those who refused were pushed back by the swing of lathis.26
Bosie, Sophia’s housekeeper, was enthralled by India and her mistress’s place in it. Dazzled by everything she saw, including the elephants, she could not help but notice that they were being followed. Wherever they went, British officers, often in civilian clothes, were close behind. It was clear they were there to ‘keep an eye on them’.27 Bosie resented the intrusion every bit as much as Sophia and started to form a very different opinion of the Raj. Like all British youngsters, she had been raised in the thrall of Empire, and had believed India to be a place where natives and their masters existed happily together in palaces filled with gold. The reality shocked her.
The princesses would often give their spies the slip by ‘dumping’28 Bosie at the homes of aristocratic Indians to throw them off the trail. The housekeeper was left to muddle through, sometimes for weeks on end, with the other women in the zenanas, most of whom lived in purdah, far from the public gaze. They did not speak the same language, nor could she understand many of their ways, but Bosie adored her time there. She learned how to keep ants off the tables by smearing the legs of furniture in oil, and busied herself in the kitchens, learning curry recipes to take back to Faraday House.29
After Lahore, Bosie accompanied the sisters to Amritsar, scene of Brigadier Dyer’s massacre. Even though five years had passed since the event, the place was still a tinderbox. The British could not afford to spark further controversy by arresting the heirs of Ranjit Singh; nonetheless Sophia and Bamba were watched very closely as they moved about the scarred city.
In April, after an uneasy few weeks, Bamba and Sophia finally left Punjab for the foothills of Kashmir. Among the icy rivers, crystal lakes and craggy hills of Srinagar, in the gentle rain of a Kashmir spring, Sophia found peace for the first time in years. She wrote letters to friends and family again, and found herself taking an interest in all that went on around her. In the breeze coming in from the Kashmiri waters, Sophia felt better than she had in years. Meanwhile, red-hot waves of hatred flowed over the rest of India.
The communal violence which would ultimately turn Sophia’s haven into a war zone was beginning to take hold of the country. In 1923 temples and mosques were burning all over India, as gangs of Sikhs and Hindus fought street battles against gangs of Muslims. Gandhi’s dreams of a united nation were threatened partly because of his own success. For the first time since the British took over the country, the Raj no longer looked invincible. Indians allowed themselves to discuss what would happen after the British left. It was not an easy conversation.
Muslims feared for their place in ‘New India’. Greatly outnumbered by Hindus and Sikhs, some believed that they would merely be swapping one type of subjugation for another. Muslim leaders sought assurances that their voting-blocks would be given ‘electoral weightage’, ensuring parity with the majority faith groups. Hindu leaders accused them of divisiveness and disloyalty. The verbal animosity translated quickly into violence.
To outsiders, the cause of rioting was often perplexing and trivial. Gangs of Hindu and Sikh youths would take noisy brass bands outside mosques and play loudly to disrupt prayers. Muslims would retaliate by throwing stones from the minarets and in seconds the street would be strewn with bodies. During Eid, a sacred festival in the Muslim calendar, some Muslims chose to sacrifice cows instead of goats; since cows were regarded as sacred to the Hindus, the act sparked widespread rioting in the capital.30 When at last the fighting stopped, sixteen Hindus and one Muslim had been killed, and over a hundred people had been hospitalised of each religion respectively. News of communal violence became almost a daily staple of the newspapers. Congress leaders begged for calm, blaming British policies of ‘divide and rule’ for the chaos. Gandhi despaired, exclaiming, ‘Surely there are sane Hindus and sane Mussalmans enough.’31
The worst episode of communal violence took place in Kohat, in the North West Frontier, between 9 and 11 September 1924. There, in the mountainous region where India and Afghanistan rise up to embrace, Muslims slaughtered over a hundred Hindus and Sikhs. The attacks were reprisals for an Arya Samaj pamphlet, ‘Rangeela Rasool’, which, it was said, had insulted their prophet Mohammed. The subsequent ‘ethnic cleansing’ that took place shook the Indian National Congress to its core. Hindus and Sikhs fled the region for fear of further violence; reprisals against Muslims elsewhere in the country were vicious. Gandhi decided on drastic action. He would use the weapon of the suffragettes against his own people. He would go on hunger strike.
While staying at the Delhi house of his great friend, the Muslim leader Mohammed Ali, Gandhi stopped eating on 17 September 1924. He let it be known that he would starve himself to death unless Hindus and Muslims ceased all acts of communal violence. His edict was drowned out by the violence spreading through the country. By the second week of his hunger strike, Gandhi’s health was beginning to deteriorate at pace. Doctors were warnin
g of dire consequences if he did not stop immediately. Leaders of Congress gathered by his bedside, and Nehru was said to have wept when he saw Gandhi’s physical condition.
Slowly, reports of his ill health began to reach all corners of India. Candlelit vigils were held outside the house where he lay, while visitors left his bedside, ashen-faced with worry. The British had always warned that a withdrawal of their forces would mean communal violence in the country. They appeared to be being proved right, and that made the Indian National Congress feel desperate. Gandhi was their last hope, but he seemed to be fading fast.
Despite the pleas of those who loved him, Gandhi said he would continue his fast until he could be shown a newspaper without a single headline of communal violence inside. With his major organs on the verge of failing, after twenty-one days someone was able finally to show him the paper he was waiting for. All rioting had stopped as India prayed for him in temples, mosques and gurdwaras. Gandhi asked for some orange juice and finally broke his fast. The peace would not last long.
Sophia and Bosie returned to England in early 1925, and though nothing much had changed the princess seemed better able to cope with life. Resigned to her Faraday House existence, she accepted the life of a spinster. She even began to enjoy herself again, visiting long-neglected friends and opening her doors to visitors once more. With money as tight as it was, Sophia no longer had the option of buying new gowns and dresses but luckily, Bosie was an expert seamstress, and the two would stay up late into the night, leafing through fashion magazines and cutting up old dresses in order to cobble them into imitations of the latest Parisian designs.
