In the Scorpion Palace

THE EXTRAVAGANCE OF THE Nizams of Hyderabad needs no introduction.

Until losing power at India’s Independence, their Princely State endured for two centuries, presiding over a huge chunk of the Deccan. A byword for profligacy and for spending on a truly lavish scale, the Nizams’ dynasty rivalled large countries in terms of its wealth.

Of the seven Nizams, who governed Hyderabad State from 1720 until 1948, the richest of all was the last – Mir Osman Ali Khan. Regarded as the wealthiest man on Earth, his portrait graced the cover of Time Magazine and, as recently as 2008, he was rated fifth highest on the Forbes’ ‘All Time Wealthiest List’ (Bill Gates ranked 20th).

He had his own mint, printing his own currency, the Hyderabadi rupee, and a vast private treasury. Its coffers were said to contain £100 million in gold and silver bullion, and a further £400 million worth of jewels. Among them, was the fabulously rare Jacob Diamond, valued some £60 million today, and used by the Nizam as a paperweight. There were pearls, too – enough to pave Piccadilly – hundreds of race horses, thousands of uniforms, tons of royal regalia, and Rolls Royces by the dozen.

But it was the Nizams’ great love affair with palaces that cost more than anything else to maintain. They owned more than a handful in Hyderabad alone, staffed by many thousands of servants, retainers, bodyguards, eunuchs and concubines.

The favourite of all was the Falaknuma.

Set on a hillock with sweeping views across Hyderabad below, the Falaknuma Palace was laid out in the shape of a scorpion with a double stinging tail. Known as ‘Mirror of the Sky’, it was constructed in the classical style from Italian marble, with hints of Art Nouveau. No expense was spared to create it, a European masterpiece on the plains of central India.

It was actually the Nizam’s Prime Minister, Viqar ul Omra, who conceived the palace as a lavish residence for himself. The foundation stone was laid in 1884, but the building wasn’t completed for almost another decade. In that time, the Prime Minister was forced to borrow increasing funds to finish it – money that even he had no chance of ever earning.

The story goes that to save face his wife suggested a wily plan. Inviting his master, Mehboob Ali Pasha, the sixth Nizam, to stay, the Prime Minister waited to be extolled for creating such a glorious pleasure dome. And, when the praise was lavished, Viqar ul Omra offered the building to the Nizam as a gift. Accepting graciously, the ruler reimbursed the full cost – a pittance to man of such colossal wealth. With so many homes already, he used it as a residence for his most distinguished guests.

The palace soon became a great favourite with royal visitors, among them King George V, Queen Mary, Edward VIII, Tsar Nicholas II, and a kaleidoscope of European aristocracy. It was for them an illusion of Europe in a principality whose affluence exceeded their wildest dreams. But, with the withdrawal of the privy purse, and the subsuming of Hyderabad into Independent India, the billionaire lifestyle came to an abrupt end.

The palaces were boarded up, their doors fastened with wax seals by order of the courts. And, for decades they slept, like something from a child’s fairytale. The Falaknuma was no exception. For thirty years or more almost no one was permitted entry, and the place went from rack to ruin.

Yet, just before reaching the point of no return, Princess Esra, the Turkish-born former wife of the current Nizam (he has the title but nothing else), stepped in. Realising the terrible loss about to occur, she brokered a deal that would save not only the Falaknuma, but other properties once owned by the Nizams.

For an extendable lease of thirty years, the Falaknuma has been signed over to the Taj Group. As part of the arrangement, the luxury hotel chain agreed to foot the jaw-dropping bill for renovations. Every detail was overseen by Princess Esra herself, in a transformation that took more than a decade to complete. Once again sparing no expense, the Princess brought in experts from all over world, each one charged with the solemn duty of returning the apple of the Nizam’s eye to its original state.

And the result is a royal palace fit for a Nizam again.

As the standard bearer leads the way up the great bowed staircase, the thing that strikes you first is the silence. There’s nothing for miles around and, in India, such seclusion is itself a symbol of wealth.

Inside, there’s a vestibule, its walls and ceilings adorned with lovely frescoes, Greek urns and alabaster nymphs. There’s no reception desk, no concierge, none of the trappings of a luxury hotel. Rather, there’s a sense that you are a guest in the Nizam’s own home.

Step through into the main body of the palace, and you enter a world that disappeared half a century ago. In the distance there’s the delicate chiming of a Louis XIV timepiece and, nearer by, a row of liveried factotums are standing to attention, awaiting instructions.

Once welcomed in whispers, and suitably indulged with refreshments, I was taken to my suite in the Zenana wing, where my luggage had already been unpacked by a valet. While lavish, the sixty or so rooms and suites of the Falaknuma exude the kind of understated luxury that only true prosperity can provide.

A little later the palace historian, Prabhakar Mahindrakar, took me on a palace tour. A towering figure of a man, dressed in a flowing black sherwani, he walks softly over the rosewood parquet.

We stroll into the ballroom, with its great Venetian chandeliers, gilt ceiling, teak and walnut furniture, and miles and miles of silk.

‘Before Princess Esra saved the palace,’ says Prabhakar, ‘I thought it would simply crumble into dust. You should have seen it. In this very room the curtains were rotting, the upholstery eaten away by termites and ants. There were cobwebs everywhere, rats the size of cats, and unimaginable amounts of dust.’

He leads the way out onto the landing, illuminated by Carrera marble lamps, and adorned with portraits of the Nizams looming down in giant rococo frames. Next door is the Jade Room. Haute Chinoiserie in style, it’s festooned with objets d’art, with yet more magnificent chandeliers above, and an intricate geometric parquet under foot.

Prabhakar paces softly through to the Hukka Lounge, replete with its multi-stemmed water pipe, chaise longues, and embossed leather walls. There’s a vast billiard table too, made by Burroughes & Watts of Soho Square and, beside it, a rack of ivory-tipped cues. And, slipping through a small doorway to the left, we emerge into the cavernous dining-room. Running down the centre is one of the longest dining tables in the world. Thirty-three metres in length, fashioned from teak and rosewood, it can seat one hundred and one guests, and was once laid with the Nizam’s solid gold cutlery and plates.

He may have owned the palace, but it was his Prime Minister, Viqar ul Omra, whose monogram is all over it. Just about everything from the dining chairs to the stained glass bears his initials – ‘V.O.’

Even the library ceiling is monogrammed. Inspired by the one at Windsor Castle, the room has six thousand rare volumes, including a series of oversized leather-bound tomes, entitled Glimpses of the Nizam’s Dominions. Flicking through them, you get a sense at the limitless power and wealth held by the Nizams – power and wealth that’s long gone.

The palace historian, Prabhakar, suddenly seems overcome with melancholy. Kissing his fingers, he touches them gently to the book.

‘We’re all equal now,’ he says, ‘but I must admit I wish the old days would come back if only for a while.’