Sialkot cantonment is adjacent to the states of Jammu and Kashmir; indeed, the capital of the lesser state, Jammu, is only thirty miles from Sialkot. Here the ruler of both states, the Maharaja of Kashmir, spent the winter months. The Resident, a British civil servant who watched over and theoretically advised the Maharaja, spent the winter in Sialkot. But during the season, when the Vale of Kashmir is one of the beauty spots of the world, both His Highness and the Resident ensconced themselves in Srinagar; the Maharaja in his palace in the foothills surrounding Nageem Lake, the Resident in a smaller but no less princely house on the banks of the Jhelum River. The Residency was conveniently close to the European club, the golfcourse, the polo grounds and the only hotel in Srinagar, which was owned by the Nedou family – among the first hotel entrepreneurs in India.
During the winter the Resident was in semi-hibernation, so to speak. But in summer his life was one long round of diplomatic duties coupled with endless social functions. To enable him to handle this surfeit of socializing during his stay in Srinagar he was loaned the services of a junior army officer as personal assistant. The job was really just that of a glorified aide-de-camp, but delightful nonetheless – six months’ poodle-faking on full pay! In 1931 the Resident was Colonel (later Sir) George Ogilvie; he asked our brigadier to recommend a young officer, and to my surprise it was my name that was proposed. I gratefully accepted.
It was the spring of 1931 when I arrived in Srinagar. It was so beautiful; all the Kashmiri houses, covered in turf to keep out the winter cold and rain, were now a never-ending ribbon of blue and white iris. The ground, warming in the spring sunshine, was a mass of crocus, jonquils and daffodils. The air was like wine and you could see for ever. I settled into a comfortable walnut-lined apartment over the western gatehouse. Here was a world of my own; no one to question my coming or going outside my regular duty hours. The extensive Residency gardens were laid out in the English style and reminded me so much of my home in England.
My duties were light and pleasant: I received distinguished guests, arranged formal dinners and garden parties and had to keep in close touch with the palace. I had many good friends on His Highness’s staff. My chief contacts were a Muslim nobleman, the Nawab Kliusru Jang, from the state of Hyderabad in the south of India, and Sirdar Nitchan Chand, the Controller of His Highness’s guest houses. The latter had started his adult life as a sowar (trooper) in my regiment. He came of a distinguished family, was well educated and, when the regiment arrived in Sialkot, he had quarters in the mess compound and supervised the officers’ mess as mess duffadar. Living with him was his sister, a very lovely Hindu lady of the Dogra race, who was to be partly responsible for the colourful ceremonies I was obliged to attend that summer as personal assistant to the British Resident.
The Maharaja of Kashmir had been married twice; unfortunately neither of his wives had been able to present him with a son and heir. However, it was considered unlucky to marry for a third time, so when he wanted a third wife His Highness was married to a tree. Immediately divorced from his wooden bride, he sent his agents off to search for wife number four – and the search ended in the mess compound of the 6th Duke of Connaught’s Own Lancers. The lady in question was the sister of Sirdar Nitchan Chand, our mess duffadar in Sialkot. Not only did she have the right blood lines but her horoscope was auspicious; and she had the added distinction of being a real beauty. The Maharaja promptly wed her and our mess duffadar was translated into a state official of Kashmir.
In due course the lady did her duty and, in early 1931, in a hospital in the South of France, she produced a baby son. It was the arrival of this heir apparent to the throne of Kashmir that was the occasion of all the festivities that summer.
By the time Her Highness and the son and heir returned from Europe that summer, all the preparations had been made – for their arrival, for the naming ceremony, for receptions, garden parties and banquets. It had taken months of planning, in which I had played my part; but in this time I also came to know a little of the place and its customs.
Srinagar, the capital, lies in the centre of a flat saucer of land, the Vale of Kashmir, surrounded on all sides by the huge bastions of the Himalayas. Bisected by the broad, fast-flowing Jhelum river, with surburbs built largely on waterways linking a series of large lotus-covered lakes, Srinagar has rightly been named the Venice of the East. Dominating the city is a steep conical hill capped by the medieval fort of Hari Parbat. The fort had little military value in the 1930s and was garrisoned by ceremonial troops; from its battlements the guns fired only ceremonial salutes.
The number of guns fired on the arrival or departure of a distinguished guest had great political and social significance, both in Kashmir and in the other states of India. The Government of India published an official list of who was entitled to these ‘permanent salutes’ and when:
Ruling princes and chiefs and others in India, and certain personages in the Aden Protectorate and in the Persian Gulf are entitled to the following salutes on arrival at, or departure from, a military station, or when attending a state ceremony.
For example, the Maharaja of Kashmir was entitled to a salute of twenty-one guns. Then there were tables of ‘personal salutes’ and ‘local salutes’, in addition to which a ruling prince might authorize local salutes for any of his vassals. In Kashmir the Maharaja had two such vassals, the Raja of Poonch and the Raja of Cheneni. These gentlemen were not ruling princes but rather zemindars, large landowners. Within the confines of the states of Jammu and Kashmir both were accorded the courtesy of a salute of three guns by the Maharaja, though the courtesy was strictly personal and local; these salutes were not recognized by the Government of India.
One of the most beautiful spots of this lovely city lay at the northern end of the Dal lake: the exquisite gardens of Shalimar Bagh, made famous by the Victorian poem ‘Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar’. The gardens were built on a hillside, falling in a series of formal terraces towards the lake. Close-shaven lawns and exotic flowerbeds were divided by geometrically precise waterways and fountains. Climbing up the terraces one encountered a pavilion on each, until the topmost terrace where stood the house once inhabited by the Emperor Jehangir and his love, Nurjihan, ‘Light of the Harem’.
The great day finally arrived early in the summer of 1931. Her Highness and the baby son were arriving. In those days there was no airfield at Srinagar; indeed, within British India there was no air traffic other than spasmodic flights by a few squadrons of the Royal Air Force. Her Highness entered the state by road, via the Barnihal Pass; the rest of her journey was to be by river.
First there was an elaborate reception to greet Her Highness on the riverside a few miles outside the capital. After the inevitable salutes and fanfares, the entire party then joined the river procession, including the Resident, Colonel Ogilvie and myself, embarking in a series of ceremonial barges bedecked with multicoloured flags and flowers and propelled by vast numbers of oarsmen. As we made our stately progress towards Srinagar, past thousands of Kashmiris lining the banks and filling the balconies of the houses, dutifully shouting and waving flags, I was reminded of stories I had read of riverborne processions made by Tudor monarchs on the waters of Father Thames. I am sure the Kashmiri procession was just as spectacular.
In the leading barge were His Highness and his lady. At the reception when I was presented to her I was struck by her pallor and the tremble in her fingers. She looked beautiful, dressed in a superb sari with gold embroidery, but apprehensive. The Maharaja himself was richly caparisoned in tight-fitting silk pyjamas, brocaded jacket and a huge maroon turban; as he moved his outfit glittered with a thousand priceless gems.
The river procession wound its way into the centre of the city and halted at the Old Palace for the naming ceremony. His Highness no longer lived here but it held long and sentimental associations for his family. Besides, the time and place of the ceremony had been decreed by the priests after a study of the baby’s horoscope.
It was the first really old Indian palace I had ever visited and I wasn’t very impressed. It seemed to be a warren of tiny rooms with poky windows. The main room was jam-packed with people squatting on the floor and chanting and droning mantras. The air became filled with clouds of incense and smoke from ceremonial braziers, and it was very warm. Although I was wearing hot-weather dress of gabardine jacket and drill breeches, I found my crossbelt and the weight of my sword oppressive – and my long Maxwell boots were not designed for squatting! I was much relieved when the naming ceremony ended, late in the evening, and we piled into cars and departed for a well-earned chota peg at the Residency.
But that was just the first of the ceremonies; a whole week of receptions and parties was to follow. The majority were all-male affairs; even when ladies were invited they were usually few in number and mostly European. Protocol was all-important, of course: the lesser fry had to appear first, then the more elevated, until finally His Highness arrived with his personal staff and made a grand entrance with a fanfare.
The final and most lavish of the many banquets was held in the Shalimar Bagh. All afternoon and early evening the streams of guests arrived at the gardens by boat or carriage. A few bigwigs came in their automobiles, but in the early 1930s there were not many privately owned cars in the Vale of Kashmir. As darkness fell the gardens took on an enchanted look, with myriad lanterns and small oil lamps flickering from every crevice and along the tops and edges of walls and buildings. In the main building the chief guests gathered round a lavishly stocked bar, while long damask-covered tables, loaded with silver and gold trophies, awaited the diners.
Leaving our car at the gateway the Resident and I made the long walk to the dinner house. I had never seen the gardens so lovely and I must say I was reluctant to hurry through this candlelit wonderland. Colonel Ogilvie, as Resident and thus representing the Viceroy of India, was resplendent in the white mess dress of the Indian Political Department. I duly followed him, a few steps to the rear, in the red, blue and gold mess kit of my Regiment. On reaching the house at the top of the gardens we were ceremoniously welcomed by the Prime Minister of Kashmir and prepared ourselves to wait for the Maharaja. Shortly we heard the band of the palace guards strike up the state’s national anthem and the various guards along the pathways were called to attention.
His Highness was a most imposing sight. His jacket was a mass of gold embroidery, emblazoned with the stars and medals of his principal orders, and his legs were encased in tight-fitting white jodhpurs, terminating in gold-encrusted Indian shoes. His saffron turban was voluminous, yards and yards of the finest silk, and sparkling above his forehead reposed the largest diamond I have ever seen outside the Jewel House at the Tower of London.
As the Maharaja entered the hall, his subjects all pressed their hands together, raised them to their forehead and then reached towards his feet in obeisance. The foreigners were presented, bowed and were privileged to shake hands. While His Highness put a courteous face on these proceedings, I noticed that he seemed rather irritable; indeed, he was somewhat short with several of his courtiers. Something had upset him. When everyone had been presented he gazed around the hall in an imperious manner. Suddenly he barked: ‘Where’s Poonch?’
All the guests gaped at one another but there was no sign of the Raja of Poonch, one of the Maharaja’s two senior vassals whose presence at such an occasion was naturally required by protocol. Consternation was on every face. Eventually an embarrassed official stuttered: ‘He’s not here, Your Highness.’
‘Well, find him!’ snapped the Maharaja.
Just as two nervous aides-de-camp trotted off to do his bidding, scampering down through the formal gardens to the main gate, clutching their bumping swords by the scabbard, the errant Raja appeared. He obviously knew he had offended. He came running towards us up the terraces pursued by his personal aides. His turban was askew and, by the time he made a breathless and shambling obeisance before his liege lord, he was ashen-faced and shaking with apprehension. After prostrating himself and clutching at His Highness’s foot, he blurted out some sort of incoherent excuse. From his Highness’s expression the explanation cut no ice.
The Maharaja summoned his Prime Minister and retired to a side room for an immediate cabinet meeting. All of us not directly involved in this pseudo-drama called for another drink to cloak our embarrassment. The atmosphere was uncomfortable to say the least. My boss, Colonel Ogilvie, was like a cat on hot bricks; as British Resident he feared he might be dragged into the affair. He suspected the Maharaja of planning retaliation against the Raja of Poonch, and this might involve the Government of India which would in turn involve him. But he was an honoured guest at the banquet; he could not simply shrug his shoulders and leave the situation to resolve itself.
Suddenly the Prime Minister summoned Colonel Ogilvie and myself to attend the Maharaja. We filed into the side room and found his Highness spluttering with rage. The Raja of Poonch had deliberately insulted him, he said, so he was deposing him! He would announce this at a durbar to be arranged the following day and in the meantime would consider who to appoint as the Raja’s successor. This was his decision, which the Resident might now convey to the Viceroy.
The Maharaja had no authority to depose anyone, but Colonel Ogilvie had many years’ experience in the Political Department and knew this was no time to argue. He bowed gracefully and told His Highness that he would advise the Viceroy and the Government of India of his decision.
The banquet was then resumed. All adjourned to the hall and a semblance of normality returned. The feast was splendid, but the after-dinner entertainment was curtailed and the Maharaja left early. As soon as he had gone I summoned the Resident’s car and returned with Colonel Ogilvie to the Residency. Out came the code books and a lengthy report was telegraphed ‘top priority’ to Delhi.
At 10 am the following morning we received an official reply from the Government of India, which stated merely that the Maharaja’s intentions were unconstitutional, as we knew, and that if he went ahead the Government of India would take certain actions to demonstrate its displeasure. The durbar was scheduled to take place at the palace at 12 noon. We had less than two hours to convey the official warning to His Highness and persuade him to change his mind. A quick phone call to the palace, then off we sped to confront the irate ruler.
On this occasion I had to wait in an anteroom while Colonel Ogilvie had a private audience with the Maharaja; however, my boss soon told me what had passed between them. It appeared that with the coming of morning His Highness’s choler had cooled and he realized he had overstepped his powers; but he was still extremely annoyed with the Raja of Poonch. Colonel Ogilvie discussed with him the various constitutional measures he might use, but none would satisfy His Highness. It looked like an impasse. Suddenly His Highness remembered the gun salutes that he personally had granted the Raja of Poonch, to mark his status in Kashmir. He now decided that this privilege should be withdrawn; the Raja of Poonch would thus return home in disgrace without a gun salute to mark his departure. Delightedly Colonel Ogilvie agreed that this was the Maharaja’s right and assured him that the Government of India would raise no objection. The matter was resolved.
The disgraced Raja was to leave Srinagar the following morning. But if we expected him to sneak away entirely without attention, we were mistaken. As the Raja of Poonch in his battered Chevrolet passed beneath the battlements of Hari Parbat fort, the state flag over the main bastion was lowered to half-mast and the smallest saluting gun emitted a puff of black smoke with a noise the equivalent of a very small fart!
So ended the Shalimar Bagh scandal. I stayed on in Kashmir for a few months more, pursuing my duties as personal assistant to the British Resident and enjoying the up-country life to the full. But my position was only temporary, of course, and by the autumn of 1931 I had rejoined the 6th Lancers in Sialkot.