A Gujarat Here, a Gujarat There

by Krishna Sobti

  34

  The cars stand ready for departure to Nakki Lake from Swaroop Vilas. The driver, Parji, at the ready in his uniform and turban. The flag of the Maharaja of Sirohi flutters atop the bonnet of the car. The Maharaja, Governess and ADC are seated in the back seat and, in front, the immense Rajput person of Colonel Sahib. Behind the car is the police guard in two jeeps, as well as supplies for the trip: carpets, cushions, bolsters and a picnic basket.

  As they emerge from the gate of Swaroop Vilas, the elderly denizens of Abu bow their heads when they see the car with the flag, and press their palms together—Khamma ghani, Maharaja—Khamma ghani, Provider.

  Bai wonders: When will the old ways change? Tej Singh was adopted with the permission of the British Resident. After the British left, he was seated on the throne according to the policies of the free country. Worries throng about this small child. Well-wishers such as the Maharaja of Alwar are few. Enemies, many. There’s no hope for sympathy from the new administrator of Sirohi Raj, Prema Bhai Patel. Sirohi, under the pressure of the Ambaji pilgrimage lobby, will be taken from Rajasthan and joined with Gujarat. Will Tej Singh remain the Maharaja? Will the Delhi government hand this princely pomp and chattel over to someone else? Impossible to predict!

  His Highness is asking Ma’am, ‘Why aren’t we going by the polo ground? Then we could watch the sun set from Sunset Point too.’

  Colonel Sahib is the one to respond.

  ‘Hukum, one should always remember never to change the route wherever one may go to.’

  Bai laughs to herself.

  Ancient teachings for ancient times. Do our pathways change when we ourselves change? I could never have imagined that one day I would look with my own eyes on this landscape of bygone days. The country is moving forward after Independence—and these princely states are trying their hardest to carry on with the old ways. Ancient schemes. Ancient customs.

  Suddenly Parji slows down the car and signals to Colonel Sahib.

  Colonel Sahib sees Shilakhand Maharaj ahead in the road and gives the command: ‘Stop the car.’ Jay Singh is alert and looks outside. Shilakhand Maharaj stands in the middle of the road with his arms outspread. A coppery, sun-baked face, tresses ash-smeared and huge ganja-stoned eyes. Ma’am is secretly disgusted. Mere blind faith.

  Shilakhand Maharaj comes right up to the car, holding a dry branch in his hand, and begins waving it over the flag on the bonnet. Then he gazes up at the sky, as if reading a mantra.

  He yells:

  Who have you come with

  Who will you go with

  Only one name undivided

  Victory! Victory to Jujannath!

  Do not kill the cow

  Jai Jai Jujannath!

  Colonel Sahib, Jay Singh and His Highness all press their palms together.

  Mere hypocrisy, says Bai to herself. Aloud, she interjects in a sharp tone, ‘It’s getting late, Colonel Sahib, it’s not right to stop.’

  Colonel Sahib motions to Bai wordlessly, Please be patient.

  Shilakhand Maharaj cackles.

  ‘As long as the Maharaja is seated on the throne, I will not tie up my braids. I will not wash them. My power is in my hair. Jai ho, Jai ho Jujannath.’

  Then he peers into the car and stares straight at His Highness.

  ‘Welcome, welcome, King of Abu, Tej Singh. I will show myself again after today, when in place of Sirohi’s Tej Singh the Maharaja will be Abhai Singh.

  ‘Jai Jai Jujannath!’

  Bai commands the driver sternly, ‘Drive on, Parji.’

  All feel snake-bitten on hearing this prophecy.

  Tej Singh turns silently towards Ma’am.

  She wraps a protective arm around him and says, ‘We’re just about to reach the lake. Right up there, where the guard’s tent is. We’re going right over there.’

  ‘Ma’am, why don’t we just go back to Swaroop Vilas! I don’t want to go boating on Nakki.’

  ‘Tej Singh, I really want to go,’ says Ma’am reassuringly. ‘Please, can’t you do just this one thing for me?’

  Again, Tej Singh insists: ‘Ma’am, please.’

  Ma’am needs help from the Colonel: ‘Colonel Sahib, Tej Singh wants to return to the palace.’

  Colonel Sahib starts, as though waking from a nightmare. He turns back and says to the Maharaja, ‘Hukum, the people will be gathered to take darshan of you. It’s not good to disappoint them.’

  ‘Ma’am,’ says Tej Singh, ‘but if that Baba has also gone there . . .’

  ‘Don’t you worry about that loony tune,’ she interjected. ‘He didn’t even know what he was saying!’

  ‘Ma’am, you didn’t greet him. Is that why?’

  ‘Yes, Tej Singh,’ says Ma’am, trying to lessen the impact of the incident, ‘because I knew he was a fraud.’

  Even before the car stopped, a guard stood at attention.

  A rug was spread out in the boat, covered with bolsters and pillows.

  The ADC Sahib placed binoculars in the Maharaja’s hand.

  ‘Hukum, look up there, Nun’s Rock! The rocks look just like a Christian lady praying.’

  Tej Singh looked towards the rocks and took the binoculars from Jay Singh’s hand. The child’s excitement and curiosity seemed to have disappeared.

  Evening was descending on the lake. The reflection of the setting sun on the blue water.

  ‘Khamma, Maharaja, please have a seat.’

  ADC Sahib seated His Highness in the boat. Ma’am sat next to him and Jay Singh in front. In the back, Madho, for help.

  The boatman pressed his palms together and asked permission of the Maharaja to begin, then picked up the oars. The boat and His Highness, surrounded by boats on three sides, skimmed along the waves of Nakki Lake. Peace came slipping from the direction of Anadara Point and melted into the waves. The moon’s gleam swam alongside the boat, like a picture being painted across the lake. What sort of ink was this and who held the brush? Delhi! This ink belonged to Delhi. And who knew what text it would write?

  The harsh laughter and prophecy of that fraud Shilakhand Maharaj. The joy of boating had been drained from their hearts and gone to hide somewhere behind the hills. Not one of them saw their heart’s desire reflected in the surface of the lake.

  Colonel Sahib and ADC Sahib were glancing towards the guards. Was there some new face among the sentries?

  Eyes had no faith in eyes; the boat was no more a boat. Nor the boatman a boatman.

  Ma’am too wondered what spy had informed Shilakhand Maharaj that the Maharaja would travel on the route where he had stood in wait.

  Perhaps a farash from the palace or a servant boy or girl. May the god Sarneshwarji protect His Highness.

  Tej Singh gazed at the rippling waves of Nakki Lake, then at Ma’am. He closed his eyes and lay his head in her lap. The ADC Sahib spread a light shawl over him. Both knew Tej Singh was not napping, but he was tired. The bells at the Raghunath temple began to peal. If only one of us could transform the clanging from the temple into a blessing for Tej Singh!

  Since Tej Singh was a minor, the chief of his Residency Council was the Queen Mother Sahiba. Abhai Singh was close to the Queen Mother. Abhai Singh was also close to the Maharaja of Jaipur. The Jam Sahib of Nawanagar was the son-in-law of Sirohi, and close to the Iron Man, Sardar Patel. Who would weigh the scales in the child’s favour? On one side is Abhai Singh and on the other, Tej Singh. Their weight is not equal. One up, one down.

  Tomorrow, His Highness’s maternal uncle, Devi Singh, and Pandya Sahib would come from Ahmedabad, and the next day, Tej Singh would take darshan of Swami Maharaj in Khetri House. Swami Maharaj was the Lord of Infinite Grace! Could Tej Singh get a blessing from him? Could he touch the powerful grace of Swami Maharaj? At least there was some light in the darkness.

  It was also true that His Highness would not go into the Raghunath temple for aarti. This was the unspoken agreement between Colonel Sahib and Jay Singh Sahib. The boat was now returning in the same direction
whence it had come.

  The lowering darkness that followed the sunset and the gleam of the moonlit night seemed to create a border around Nakki Lake.

  35

  Sunlight rolls over the hills clustered along the shores of pure, splendid Nakki Lake, nestled in the lap of Mount Abu, and warms Khetri House. The view is gorgeous from there. Boats float lazily on the water. In one, Maharaja Tej Singh, his governess, his ADC Jay Singh Sahib; in the boat directly to the right, the substantial person of Colonel Sahib and the boats of soldiers, alert-eyed, float slowly along. The boats make for the shore, cleaving the sun’s reflection. The sky above is clear—the thin, fine, gleaming scarves of bright sunlight flap in the breeze.

  By now, we have come so close to the shore we can no longer see the roof of Khetri House. The boats come to a halt. The sentries surround us on all sides. Maharaja Tej Singh disembarks. Bai holds the child by the hand. Jay Singh stands at attention. The car climbs the hill. Tej Singh is entering to take blessings from Swami ji Maharaj, who is ensconced in the bungalow. This is the princely state of Khetri; their guru was once Swami Vivekananda.

  The car stops. Flower beds all about. Lovely weather. A cool breeze along with the sunshine. Carpets have been spread out on the lawn, with sofas positioned on them.

  Maharaja Tej Singh’s ADC Jay Singh Sahib and his governess walk towards the sofa, flanking him protectively on each side.

  Tej Singh is enthroned exactly in the centre of one of the sofas, his governess by his side, as Swami ji approaches him directly.

  Tej Singh greets Swami ji respectfully. After Colonel Sahib has touched Swami ji’s feet, he intones his words of blessing. Colonel Sahib presses his palms together and requests—Please be seated, Swami ji.

  Colonel Sahib places a purse before Prabhupad Swami ji on behalf of the Maharaja. The Maharaja casts a glance towards the Governess. Without saying anything, it’s as though he is instructing Tej Singh to take a seat near him.

  Maharaja Tej Singh, his resplendent brow facing him, sits down, then the Governess sits. Prabhupad Swami stands for a moment, then motions to Jay Singh. The ADC Jay Singh Sahib leans over Swami ji’s ear to listen. ‘Kindly seat that intense girl elsewhere,’ he said.

  Jay Singh replies: ‘Swami ji, orders are that she must hold the Maharaja’s hand.’

  ‘Whatever the case, seat the lady on another chair.’

  Jay Singh leans over to speak to the Governess: ‘Ma’am, there’s something I have to tell you.’

  The Governess looks over at Colonel Sahib and stands up from the sofa.

  Jay Singh whispers, ‘Please come with me over here.’ He motions towards an armchair. ‘Please take a seat here. Swami ji will sit over there with the Maharaja . . .’

  ‘But the sofa is fairly large, no?’

  Jay Singh leans closer as he attempts to clarify, ‘Please, come, please sit here.’

  ‘Please tell me why?’

  ‘Bai Sahiba, Swami ji does not sit near women.’

  Bai thought with annoyance, The same fraud with this Swami ji!

  Swami ji intones the stotra of blessing with mangalacharan and applies the saffron tika on the brow of Maharaja Tej Singh.

  ‘May your desires be fulfilled. May you keep your throne.’

  The Governess was at that moment seated alone in the armchair watching this great drama. Would this song of mystical devotion bring results?

  Tej Singh had been born of the womb of a Gujarati mother, but in the meantime, Deputy Prime Minister Vallabhbhai Patel was also Gujarati and favoured Abhai Singh. Abhai Singh’s Jaipur connection was much more significant. The royal warrior child under siege was being prepared for battle. Whom would the goddess Ambaji favour? Whom would she vanquish?

  ‘Bai Sahiba, please take the Maharaja to the Queen’s palace.’

  She starts and stands up. They surround the Maharaja and walk towards the veranda—two devotees of Swami ji’s, one to the right, one to the left, and along with them, ADC Jay Singh Sahib. At the hallway that leads inside, Jay Singh Sahib stops. ‘You two, please sit here, we will wait for His Highness.’

  She and Tej Singh walk ahead. As they cross the threshold, a visage illuminated by a sparkling nose ring lights up the quiet serenity of the room. A splendid beauty. Please come, please sit. She greets Tej Singh, applies a tilak to his forehead, touches his hand with a silver idol from a silver tray, then holds it out to the Governess.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Please sit. Where are you from?’

  ‘I’m from Delhi, and you?’

  ‘I am from Benares—Kashi. My esteemed father was the mahant of our ancient temple there. Have you ever been there?’

  ‘Yes, I have.’

  A quiet command from outside: Please come back out. They both stand up.

  The Governess presses her palms together. She drinks in this creature’s entire countenance and, touching her hand, she says, ‘Amazing, you are so beautiful. I will always remember the daughter of Benares.’

  The woman smiles.

  As they emerge from the room, that face vanishes from sight, to be replaced by the hardened complexion of the Swami ji and his flabby body.

  After walking across the lush green lawn, she seats Tej Singh by Swami ji and then sits down on the same sofa herself.

  The eyes of Colonel Sahib, ADC Sahib and Swami ji all widen in astonishment, and all three rise at once. The meeting is concluded. As though an eclipse has occurred somewhere.

  No one speaks at all the entire way home.

  Once or twice, Tej Singh’s gaze travels past Bai’s to the window. It seems to Bai as though there is something on his countenance that is quite far from childhood.

  36

  Standing at Barucha’s in the Mount Abu Bazaar, she had, for the first time, a sensation of selfhood. Today, as she purchased the needed salwar kameezes and orhnis for others, she took a liking to a fabric for herself for the first time. She wandered about the small bazaar for a while. Then she told the driver to take her to the Rajputana Hotel. They usually ordered children’s cartoon films from the hotel to screen for Tej Singh at Swaroop Vilas.

  As soon as she got out of the car and set foot in the entryway of the hotel, she felt that all depressing colours had suddenly disappeared. She walked ahead as though she weren’t walking along the floor of the hall but floating on water. She drank in the entire sight and chose her favourite table.

  Her order:

  First something cold.

  Then tea.

  She opened her favourite packet from Barucha’s and examined it. She felt encouraged that she’d made the right choice, and then began to examine the menu again. Finally, after everyone else had been served, her number came up.

  Just then, she saw that Ram Singh Sahib was looking over at her table. He was the younger brother of Abhai Singh, whom she had met one evening at Kesar Vilas.

  ‘Morning, Bai Sa,’ he said, coming over to her table.

  The waiter was walking behind him, carrying his teacup.

  ‘Hello, please have a seat.’

  Ram Singh Sahib seated himself in the chair across from her.

  ‘So, Bai Sa, how are you? When I saw you, I thought perhaps I’d take my tea with you.’

  ‘You are most welcome.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘So, Bai Sa, what brings you here today?’

  ‘I just went up to Barucha’s. We order children’s cartoon movies from Rajputana Hotel, so I thought I’d come by and get some. And then I ran into you—what luck.’

  ‘Bai Sa, you’ve come from Lahore, is that right?’

  ‘Yes, I have.’

  ‘It’s a very large city.’

  ‘Yes, indeed it is. It rivals Calcutta and Bombay.’

  ‘I never had the chance to go there.’

  ‘Yes, Ram Sahib, for centuries it was the gateway to India. We lost it with Partition. Now it’s in a different country—Pakistan.’

  ‘Sirohi must seem small to you.’

&
nbsp; She laughed and said, ‘Mount Abu is lovely.’

  ‘You’ve already seen Dilwara, haven’t you—you must have also seen Alwar Palace.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Suddenly it seemed as though Ram Singh had received a signal from somewhere. He rose.

  ‘All right then, Bai Sa, please permit me to take your leave. It was delightful to meet you.’

  ‘Likewise, goodbye.’

  37

  When she returned from Mount Abu, the rest of the day at Swaroop Vilas stretched out silently. There was not a sound anywhere. Surely there was something in the crisp turbans and stiff moustaches at the palace that made them appear to snap and crackle before the eyes. The usual hubbub of Swaroop Vilas was instead wafting through the city of Sirohi.

  The paswan of the late Maharaja Saroop Singh, Leelavati, had arrived from Bombay with her son. The Maharaja Saroop Singh’s distant nephew Uday Singh was also arriving. Maharaja Tej Singh was the one enthroned in the palace. The whole city was silently watching this latest feint on the part of Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel.

  Three cars raced towards Swaroop Vilas. The large gate of the palace opened. Maharaja Tej Singh was in station so the flag was flying. It was pride in this very flag that had stirred the new commotion. The new Congress government was taking its first steps after Independence. Everyone knew that the lawyer for Abhai Singh, Barrister Kanhaiyalal Maneklal Munshi, was friends with Patel. It was thanks to him that this ancient family quarrel had been raised. Maharaja Tej Singh was just a child—who supported him? Only his Gujarati maternal uncle Devi Singh and the Maharaja of Alwar.

  All three of the guests from Bombay were seated in the large drawing room of Swaroop Vilas. In the morning there’d been whispering in the kitchen that Leelavati would also come to the palace with her son. But when only three barristers entered the drawing room, observers breathed a sigh of relief. The three intellectual lawyers settled in on the capacious sofas. The gentleman wearing homespun clothing, dark glasses and a Gandhi cap was K.M. Munshi. Right opposite him was Setalvad in a suit; the third lawyer was Ameen Sahib.