‘No, Heaslop.’ The Resident’s asperity was sharpened by the buzzing around his ears and his increasing desire for a drink. ‘I meant, what does he think about us? The British Raj; the King-Emperor. Is he loyal, or a damn traitor, or what?’
‘I don’t know, sir.’ The equerry shifted his weight in the cane chair. ‘He’s not an easy man to place, really. As you know, Sir Richard, there was a time when he was rather well regarded by us. Among the king’s most loyal subjects, in fact. He was a regular at receptions here. Even arranged a major contribution to the Ambulance Association, sir, during the last war. But of late, he has been known to say things about swaraj, you know, sir, self-rule. And about pan-Indian nationalism. No one seems to know what started him off on that track. They say he reads widely.’
‘Basic truth about the colonies, Heaslop. Any time there’s trouble, you can put it down to books. Too many of the wrong ideas getting into the heads of the wrong sorts of people. If ever the Empire comes to ruin, Heaslop, mark my words, the British publisher will be to blame.’
Heaslop seemed about to comment on this insight, then thought better of it. The Resident reached for his glass and realized he still didn’t have one. ‘Boy!’ he called out.
There was no answer. Sir Richard furrowed his florid brow. ‘And this Ganga Din, or whatever they call him,’ he snapped. ‘How does he comport himself? Has he been giving us any trouble? That’s a rather important position to leave someone of his stripe in, isn’t it? Perhaps I should be doing something about it.’
‘The Regent has always behaved very correctly, Sir Richard. In fact,’ Heaslop licked a nervous lip, ‘I believe he was our candidate for the throne once. Your predecessor was rather sorry when things took a different turn, at the time of the late Maharaja’s second marriage. But it would seem it was Ganga Datta who wanted it that way.’
‘I’ve seen the files,’ the Resident nodded. ‘What on earth has happened to our drinks? Boy! Boy!’
The elderly bearer, dusty and panting, responded at last to the summons. ‘Sahib, I coming, sahib,’ he stated, somewhat unnecessarily.
‘What the devil’s taking you so long? Where’s our whisky?’
‘I bring instantly, sahib,’ the bearer assured him. ‘I am looking for bhisti all this time, as sahib wanted. I now found, sahib. With great difficulty. I bring him in, sahib?’
‘Of course you can bring the water in,’ Sir Richard said crossly. A choking sound emanated from the equerry beside him.
The bearer clapped his hands. A grimy figure in a dirty undershirt and dirtier loincloth entered the verandah, carrying a black oilskin bag from one end of which water dripped relentlessly on to the tiled floor.
‘Bhisti, sahib,’ the bearer proudly announced, like a conjuror pointing to a rabbit he has just produced out of an improbably small hat.
‘What the devil. .?’ The Resident seemed apoplectic.
Heaslop groaned.
9
Back to my offspring, eh, Ganapathi? Can’t neglect the little blighters, because this is really their story, you know. Dhritarashtra, Pandu and Vidur: ah, how their names still conjure up all the memories of the glory of Hastinapur at that time. Their births seemed a signal for the state’s resurgence. Prosperity bloomed around the palace, Ganapathi: the harvests produced nothing short of bumper crops, the wheat gave off the scent of jasmine, and the women laughed as they worked in the fields. There were no droughts, Ganapathi, no floods either; the rains came, at just the right times, when the farmers had sowed their seeds and said their prayers, and never for longer than they were welcome. Fruit ripened in the sunshine, flowers blossomed in the gentle breeze; the birds chirped gaily as they built their nests in the shade, and aimed their droppings only at passing Englishwomen. The very cows produced a milk no doodhwala could bear to water. The towns and the city of Hastinapur overflowed with businessmen and shopkeepers, coolies and workmen, travelling seers and travelling salesmen. Yes, Ganapathi, the glory of those days drives me to verse:
With the birth of the boys
Flowed all the joys
Of the kingdom of Hastinapur;
The flags were unfurled
All was well with the world
From the richest right down to the poor.
(Not too good, hanh, Ganapathi? If you’d grimace a little less, though, it might get better.)
The harvests were good
There was plenty of food
The land gave a bountiful yield;
The rains came in time
To wash off the grime
And to ripen the wheat in the field.
The man at the plough
And the bird on the bough
Both sang of their peace and content;
The fruit in the trees
Flowers, sunshine and breeze
Were all on happiness intent.
(Well, you try and do better, Ganapathi. On second thoughts, don’t — you might succeed, and this is my memoir.)
The city was crowded
All fears were unfounded
There were money and goods in the shops;
And although the Taj
Was still ruled by the Raj
The glory of Ind came out tops.
The citizens worked hard
(And won the praise of this bard)
There was never, at all, any crime;
The piping hot curries
Removed all our worries
And prosperity reigned all the time.
Yes, the birth of the boys
Was the best of God’s ploys
To fulfil our great people’s karma;
Under their regent (a sage)
There reigned a Golden Age –
The turn of the Wheel of Dharma.
It was, indeed, Gangaji who brought up my sons — as if, I must admit, they were his own children. Though the Regent was getting more and more ascetic in his ways, he spared no extravagance in giving the boys the best education, material comforts and personal opportunities. Each developed, in his own way, into an outstanding prospect, a princely asset to Hastinapur.
Dhritarashtra was a fine-looking young fellow, slim, of aquiline nose and aristocratic bearing. His blindness was, of course, a severe handicap, but he learned early to act as if it did not matter. As a child he found education in India a harrowing experience, which was, no doubt, why he was in due course sent to Eton. The British public school system fitted the young man to a T (the finest Darjeeling, which he obtained every month from Fortnum and Mason and brewed several times a day in a silver pot engraved with the Hastinapur crest). He quickly acquired two dozen suits, a different pair of shoes for each day of the week, a formidable vocabulary and the vaguely abstracted manner of the over-educated. With these assets he was admitted to King’s College, Cambridge (there being no Prince’s); unable to join in the punting and the carousing, he devoted himself to developing another kind of vision and became, successively, a formidable debater, a Bachelor of Arts and a Fabian Socialist. I have often wondered what might have happened had he been able to see the world around him as the rest of us can. Might India’s history have been different today?