I have been living in a different world for some time now: possessed, roaming, and living in the wide world of my sovereign father. I did not want any other thoughts to lead me astray, but an important invitation arrived. Many invitations come – and all have to be accepted, for this is our life today.
An invitation to a human rights event arrived out of the blue. It read ‘Threatened Indigenous People’s Society, Manipur’. I attended that large event. Sitting next to me was Mr. Upendra, a retired judge. I had not seen him in a very long time and I remembered him simply as Upendra, though it was not as if I had not heard of Judge Upendra. I was not intending to stay long at the meeting, as I had to run off to All India Radio at two o’clock for a recording. I was to read ‘Dialogue Between Karna and Kunti’, my Manipuri translation of the poem by Gurudev62 that had moved me so much. The opening song by children from the valley and the hills, Muslim and Hindu, over, I said to Upendra, ‘I will return in time for the meeting’s resolution. I have to take some time to run off elsewhere.’ He said quite out of the blue, ‘I always read The Maharaja’s Household whenever it comes out. I love your style of writing. You must not stop writing….’ Indeed, I thought, I cannot stop. I am running out of time. But I must also join in the fight for rights. Then in an instant, some lines from Gurudev’s ‘Dialogue between Karna and Kunti’ came to me:
KUNTI My beloved son
You came into this world one day
Empowered
With all the decrees of destiny.
It is true. The child arrived one day upon this earth, with all of destiny’s authority. So what rights are we talking about? Why should we struggle so hard, crying – Rights! Rights! Rights! This is our fate. This is the tragedy of mankind. Badal Sircar said in his play Evam Indrajit: ‘Who knows what mankind’s end will be?’ This is the tragedy of knowledge, in this battlefield.
I then had to go on a trip around this time. Another woman writer, Subadani, the secretary of Leikol, and I received an invitation from the Literary Academy in Guwahati to attend a national women’s rights meet. We were very pleased and immediately decided to go. But I was a little anxious; would this break the narrative threads of my sovereign father’s story? Despite this worry, we had a good time.
Brahmaputra! It had been a long time since I had seen it. The place we stayed in was also called the Hotel Brahmaputra Ashoka. Subadani and I were lucky. Right outside our window lay the expanse, grand and serene, of the sacred Brahmaputra river. But I knew the river could be dangerous when enraged. My friend Anjali Lahiri had said, ‘Come, come look at it during the rainy months. It is fearsome. It is an angry, ferocious, Brahmaputra.’ No one can match its devastating currents. But how beautiful you are, O Brahmaputra! How magnificent you are today – what masculine grace!
But the narrative threads I feared I might lose did not disappear. They told me anew a story about my father that I had forgotten. My story’s shoots started to sprout in the land of the Brahmaputra.
I inaugurated the opening session of the literary meet. I had to make a short speech. I do not recall exactly what I said. How much I harkened back to days gone by – I could not remember my words. I heard a very long time ago that our sovereign father bought a tract of land in Guwahati. It is still known today as Manipur Village. I do not recollect the exact name but a man called Kanglen was said to have been appointed as its caretaker. I remember vaguely Ipu Kanglen was very tall and slender. I also heard that at some point, when the Manipuris set fire to the house of the Junior Sahib, Kanglen had been implicated and went into hiding. It was said Sovereign Father then packed him off and sent him down to Guwahati. So when I was giving my inaugural speech my father came to my eyes. I was near to tears; I do not remember what I said but I think I may have said, ‘When I received the invitation from the Sahitya Academy63, I was thrilled like a little girl.’ And the next moment, my thoughts were full of my father and his world. I discovered this land of the Brahmaputra is close to us….
Indeed, I realized afresh – Assam and Shillong are bonded to us tightly. I was happy. It was not that hard to gather my scattered thoughts. I had received a forgotten page all over again. And so I could not wait to write. I heard that before I was born, long, long ago, Sovereign Father bought a beautiful bungalow built by the British called Rose Cottage in Upper Shillong from Joysingh, the Raja of Shillong. Who was Raja Joysingh of Shillong? He was a prince, a great grandson of Maharaja Narasingh, who had married a white woman and lived ostracized in Shillong. He was Sovereign Father’s uncle.
Long ago, when I first heard this story, I did a great deal of research and wrote an essay that I filed away, called ‘Raja Joysingh of Shillong’. I thought then, I would publish it at an opportune time. The story of Raja Joysingh of Shillong truly enthralled me. It possessed me like some magical fairy tale. It had all but slipped my mind, but I think I ought to mention a part of it now. In finding out about Joysingh, the raja of Shillong, we have to bring up the name of a most remarkable man. He was Colonel McCulloch64, a British officer stationed in Manipur simply to maintain ties when the British had not yet subjugated it. He was not a very young man at the time.
When I asked about McCulloch Sahib one day, Tada Khelchandra showed me an account of Manipur that McCulloch had written65. I had never encountered such an accurate and concise exposition of Manipur. He told me many stories about McCulloch and that he wrote some invaluable books about Manipur. I think his interest was in anthropology. He truly wanted to learn about this fascinating mountain land called Manipur. He married a beauty of the time who lived in Thoubal. This story appealed to me even more than a fairy tale.
Joysingh, the Raja of Shillong, was ostracized for marrying the daughter of McCulloch and Thopi, the Maid of Thoubal. The bungalow in upper Shillong that Sovereign Father was said to have bought was purchased from his uncle Joysingh. My mother told me many stories about the time they lived at Rose Cottage. I believe His Highness Joysingh also lived in upper Shillong then. They stayed in Rose Cottage when I was still crawling on all fours. I crawled off and fell into a beautiful bed of roses but did not cry, they said.
Colonel McCulloch did not return to his home in England after he retired. He lived on in Shillong and died there. He bought lands in Assam, Shillong, and even in Sylhet, built houses, kept elephants and left them to his two daughters born of the Maid of Manipur. He lived like a veritable king, they said. When my mother told me the stories, I think it was after the Raja of Shillong had died. She mostly spoke of the reduced circumstances of the white maiden, the consort of the Raja Joysingh of Shillong. But when I later wrote the story of the Raja of Shillong, based on my own research, I took pains to write it thoroughly. I wish to mention that when he was nearing his death, he entrusted his funeral wishes to Maharaja Churachand, his nephew by descent, and said, crying, ‘Do not bury me when I die, child king – give me a cremation.’ The two wept together. And so at the funeral of His Highness Sanajaoba, also known as Raja Joysingh, Sovereign Father came to light the funeral pyre according to Manipuri custom and carried out the last rites at Sridham.
This story ends as a tragedy. After his father-in-law McCulloch passed away, Raja Joysingh and the younger daughter inherited a large fortune. Her older sister died early they said. But the delinquent great grandson of Maharaja Narasingh gambled, bet on horses, smoked marijuana, wasted his fortune left and right and became a pauper. His consort, the former Miss McCulloch, called Ibeton by the Manipuris, told my mother the touching story of the hardship of her waning days. She spoke Manipuri well but there was not a trace of Manipuri in her looks: she looked completely European. She even had red hair. They had had only one child and he was also named Sanajaoba. The junior Sanajaoba was so pampered, he never became a responsible adult. This uncle of ours often dropped by when we lived in English Bye. I remember him as a very tall big man – he looked like an Englishman, not like a Manipuri. I think our sovereign father was a little older than him; we were told to call him uncle. Since he had nothing much to do and had never acquired a decent education, the government of the time, perhaps at our sovereign father’s behest, appointed him to a junior position in the police department.
Sovereign Father had about this time moved down from upper Shillong to the centre of Shillong where he bought a new estate, and lived in English Bye for long stretches of time. He would sometimes leave his family and children in Shillong and leave for Manipur. This was when my younger brother Prince Joy and I were enrolled at Pine Mount School in Shillong. Sovereign Father took with him a large retinue of people when he moved in and out of Shillong – officers, doctors, guards, and many, many cooks. What with all the great food and the nice climate, people in Sovereign Father’s retinue lived a very good life.
A very amusing thing happened once. Some of the Manipuris at English Bye, including even from Sovereign Father’s official staff, went on an excursion into Shillong. On the way, they ran into some English schoolgirls walking on the road. Among the Manipuris on the excursion was a mischievous man, who suddenly decided to tease the girls, and sang at them while executing a little drum dance:
You bald girls
All covered with aroid curry
We worry for you
Your lotus-root Daddy
Has become a monk.
It was simple jest, in the Manipuri way. The song he sang did not have any meaning either – he had just made up what we might call a nonsense rhyme. That was just all it was. The girls notified the police and the party was taken straight into the police station. How mortified they all were, the office staff as well. But the funny thing was that the Englishman who was in charge of the police station was none other than the junior McCulloch Sahib. That made them even more embarrassed. His Highness the sahib spoke Manipuri well and he asked, ‘What’s the matter? What is the problem?’ Shamefacedly, the Manipuris had to confess all. His Highness said, ‘The offspring of criminals!’ Actually he used the most vulgar of Manipuri swear words but I cannot bring myself to write them here. Then he said, ‘How dare they disrespect Manipuris! Go, I’ll take care of things.’
Our uncle lived in Shillong for a very long time. When I was in college there, I remembered him and asked my guardian, uncle Paramananda if he could arrange for me to meet him. My brother PB also told me that he sometimes ran into him at the racecourse in Shillong but my uncle would try to avoid him. My guardian sent word that I wanted to see my uncle: that I wished to kowtow to him just once, and so on. By this time, my uncle had married a Khasi and was said to live in very reduced circumstances. Word came back, ‘I do not wish to meet any of my relatives. I will not meet her.’ I was a little hurt when I heard this. I felt close to tears. He had been proud to say that he was a Manipuri, that he was the scion of Maharaja Narasingh. But Sanajaoba the junior McCulloch, the great-great grandson of Maharaja Narasingh disappeared in Shillong among the Khasis. When and how he vanished I do not know. I never heard word of him again but I feel a deep regret at the memory; I feel the regret even now.