A CHILD OF THE RAJ 1939 –
1947 BY ANN LOBO
Although,
his forebears were Scottish, mama always called papa an Indian railway
rajah. Who else, but a rajah could halt
the Punjab Mail for his own business cum personal reasons? It was the most prestigious train on the
Indian network of railways, travelling on the north-south rail axis between Bombay and Delhi. The Punjab Mail had eight maroon carriages:
the first for Raj mail and the rest for third-class and upper class
passengers. Among the latter were
military personnel travelling to the North-West Frontier; and civil
administrators, government personnel and business people travelling to the
capital of the Raj - New Delhi. Papa
had enough power to schedule his extensive inspection tours of the Great Indian
Peninsular Railway’s (GIP) network to coincide with our school holidays.
When
touring, his eight-wheel, maroon saloon carriage was the ninth and last
carriage of the Punjab Mail. It was uncoupled and shunted into convenient
sidings at papa’s command. In summer,
hoses saturated the khus-khus tatti grass
curtains fixed to the carriage windows and doors, creating a cool
interior. In winter, glowing lumps of
coal in the shiny, black Ben Franklin stove in the kitchen filled the interior
with warmth.
The
lounge cum bedroom had moveable library armchairs, with padded backs and
upholstered seats in soft green leather with the insignia ‘GIP Rly’ stamped on
them. An Edwardian mahogany enveloped
card table, baize lined with counter wells, also served as a dining table. Two lower and two upper berths could be
extended and folded down to provide sleeping accommodation. A passageway led to a toilet and a bathroom,
which had a shower and an enamelled bathtub.
This had to be cleared of mama’s potted howea palms, crotons and
hibiscus. There was a full-length
mirror, in which a four year old could see her reflection as she bathed in her ‘tropical
rain forest’. The passageway then
proceeded towards the servants’ quarters, toilet and bathroom. There was a kitchen, which had a door
opening out on to a rear- facing balcony with folding seats and a wrought iron
railing.
“You
can watch nine hundred and fifty seven miles of India disappear between Bombay
and Delhi, in a cloud of dust in thirty two hours,” said papa, as I sat next to
him on the balcony. “And,” he mused, “If,
I am lucky the average speed can be increased from forty to forty five miles
per hour, to include our ‘halts’.” I
was already a railway buff at the age of four, because I knew that the
Bombay-Delhi line included a ten-mile section with a ruling grade of 1 in 37
and Vulcan Foundry Limited of Newton-le-Willows in Lancashire built the
powerful coal burning locomotive.
While
dinner was served, by lantern light on railway sidings, crows cawed, jackals
chortled and sparks from camel caravan fires resting near the railway tracks,
lit up the night like fragments of falling stars. Dessert was served either from baskets with striped
multicoloured tissue paper and straw separating layers of mangoes, oranges,
plums, bananas, sweet limes, figs and pomegranates; or, cellophane covered
boxes of badam pistaz barfi and gajar halva covered with silver leaf and
pistachios. Occasionally, dessert also
included cardamom flavoured warm gulab
jamuns, or jalebis, served in
clay pots.
It
was Take One, Scene One of “A Railway Rajah” being acted for me on a cold,
windswept, moonless night on a railway siding on Malwa Plateau. Three green shaded lanterns provided the
lighting. The sound effects were a whistling
wind and a chuffing, coal-burning locomotive.
The driver, an Englishman, leaned out to shake papa’s hand. Papa a tall, clean-shaven man, who looked
like Robert Taylor, was dressed in a double-breasted black overcoat, trilby and
turn up trousers. A soft white pashmina
scarf was wrapped around his neck and he wore black leather gloves.
“Well
done Jeffrey,” papa said.
“A
pleasure, sir, there was nothing to it.
This 4-6-0 HP/S engine is a black beauty of sheer power. She’ll easily slice through the winter’s
night like an arrow through a boar’s heart, and make up any lost time,” said
Jeffrey.
“Thank
you so much,” said papa.
“It
should be a glorious, winter’s morning for you and the family. Thank you for the Army and Navy Christmas
hamper and, a happy Christmas, sir,” said Jeffrey, with a wave of his hand, as
the locomotive chuffed back to the front of the Punjab Mail.
The
supporting silent actor was Siddique Ali.
I secretly called him ‘Santa panther’ and my younger brother referred to
him as the ‘red bug’. He was an Afghan Redshirt Waziri hill tribesman. He carried his jezhail or rifle on his right shoulder and in his black leather
belt a khanjar or dagger. His coal black eyes followed papa’s
movements and mine, like a panther watchful over its cubs. He was a loyal bodyguard and personal
servant to a railway rajah.
“Everything
to plan, okay, okay, Selkirk sahib?”
asked Gopal. “I’ll telegraph Station
Master Freeman sahib at Bhopal, soon,
soon,” said the nervous, Indian Assistant Station Master. “The Delhi Express must stop for you, at
nine o’clock in the morning,” he said, glancing at his watch. “This will give you seven hours, just seven
hours.”
“Thank
you, Gopal,” said papa courteously.
“The
trolley will be waiting for your inspection at Bina Junction,” said Gopal.
Trolleying,
now that was exhilarating, I thought to myself. There was nothing more exciting than riding down dizzy slopes,
into cool dark tunnels to reappear in the scorching sunshine.
“All
you do sweetheart, is hold on fast, keep your eyes open and try not to scream
so loudly in my ear,” papa would say to me.
Scene
two would unfold in the morning, I said to myself as I slipped under my
embroidered quilt of old, soft saris and
layers of ginned cotton.
I
awoke to the smell of Nilgiri coffee brewing and mama’s fragrance of Houbigant’s
Lily of the Valley.
“Lakshmi
bhai,” mama said to our ayah, “Please, dress the children.”
Mama
followed papa outside. I shivered as
the cold night air slipped into the carriage.
Lakshmi’s kohl-lined black eyes sparkled, her teeth gleamed and the
diamond studs in her nose and ears sparkled.
She smelt of mama’s Yardley’s lavender soap. Her skin was warm, smooth, soft and brown, like Christmas toffee
on the point of setting.
“Lakshmi
is educated, she should be teaching in the convent,” said my friend, Christine
Pereira. “Why does she just work in your home as an ayah?” She asked
inquisitively.
I
decided to ask mama.
“It’s
to do with the dust of Rajasthan,” said mama whose answers reminded me of
unwrapping presents. The words were
trapped in layers of air like floating, white, tissue paper. Furthermore, you had to unravel the knots
and bows of yards of quarter-inch satin ribbons. I’ll ask papa next time, I thought to myself. His answers were like speedy lightning bolts
shot from Lord Agni’s bow in the cosmos, which illuminated the dark monsoon
sky.
We
stepped outside on to the railway siding.
Siddique handed me a lantern.
“Oh
Charles, this is the Tropic of Cancer, isn’t it?” mama said, excitedly. “We’re walking on it, aren’t we?”
“It’s
close enough, Babette,” said papa, adding,
“At twenty-three point twenty nine degrees north.”
Mama
was dressed in a three-quarter length dark green coat, a close fitting off the
face hat, practical low heeled shoes and leather gloves. In the moonless night, lit only by our
lanterns she looked like a dark-haired Greta Garbo, with her plucked, pencilled
eyebrows, dark red lipstick and soft husky voice. She was a landscape painter
who played Brahms’s music on the violin.
“It’s
all his pent up passion,” she once said to me.
“It glides through his exquisite melodies. You see, Brahms loved Clara, but she was married to Robert,” she
said.
I
dare say, I thought to myself that she must know these people personally, to
talk about them like that. Mama rode a
horse and also papa’s Norton motorbike.
She happily turned a blind eye to the books, which I read as a
teenager. Each one of them was
forbidden on the Roman Catholic Index.
“Just
confess the ‘mortal sin’ next time,” she would remind me.
Balancing
myself on the Tropic of Cancer I approached what looked like the largest dome
in the world. A temple bell rang and its sound swept
through the cold darkness.
“Just four thirty,” said papa looking at his
watch in the lantern’s light.
The
servants placed the picnic hamper, mats, blankets, folding chairs and table on
the ground. Babu our cook started to
cry and Bhima his wife started to chant.
Lakshmi prayed and Siddique lit a fire.
“Oh,
Charles, how wonderful!” mama exclaimed. “This is the great stupa, and we are
in Sanchi. You’ve brought Bhima and
Babu to Lord Buddha,” said mama.
I
thought to myself, that only powerful, deeply spiritual rajahs could halt the
Punjab Mail for two Harijans or untouchables.
Bhima and Babu had abandoned the caste system of Hinduism to embrace
Buddhism. With outstretched arms we
embraced the cold stone of the stupa, as we walked around it.
“Mama,
shall I say a Hail Mary?” I asked her instead of papa. Papa was an Anglican and did not say Hail
Marys.
“You
just pray for whatever you want in life,” said mama.
I
thought that I would pray for Lakshmi to be cured of her ‘affliction’. Lakshmi said she became afflicted during the
love scenes between the Indian goddess of the cinema Nargis and her lover Raj
Kapoor.
“Maybe
you’ll stop hurting, if you try papa’s Iodex or nana’s Amrutanjan balm,” I
urged Lakshmi.
She
shook her head, kissed me and smiled.
I
burrowed my fists into the ancient sculptures and traced my finger on foliage
hewn in the first century before Christ.
The lanterns lit up the carvings of graceful yakshis, grotesque demons, gouging elephants and gargantuan water
buffaloes. I could hear the faint
echoes and triumphant cries of a battle won. I gazed at Lord Buddha’s perfect
oval face, with a delicately carved nimbus supporting the head. The lotus eyes, lion-like torso, hair tied
in a topknot and fingers raised in blessing filled me with awe.
Siddique
spread his prayer mat and faced Mecca. He had prayed to Buddha, now he would
pray to Allah. We warmed ourselves
around the fire as it snapped and crackled and drank steaming hot dark Nilgiri
coffee, and creamy cow’s milk from enamelled mugs. We ate warm, hand rolled chapattis filled with rumble-tumble eggs fragrant with
coriander, onions, pepper and tomatoes. Babu laid out fresh figs and
pomegranates.
Mama’s
gallery of composition was developing before her as dawn broke over Sanchi and
spilled over the dome, like her palette of primaries. Fluid, graceful
brushstrokes of fiery red, opaque orange and stunning saffron, dripped over the
stupa. The stone gateways created
darker washes of deep grey and blue which intensified the shadows falling
across the umber coloured mud. Mama
sketched rapidly with her ‘four bee’ pencil.
She positioned the dome slightly off-centre, brought the camel caravan
into her vision, hatching, highlighting and modifying with her putty eraser.
Her Italian Renaissance man, as papa called
Giorgio, would be pleased with his student.
“Tonight, there will be fettuccine Verdi, lasagne
Verdi, and singing by Verdi,” said papa to Behram Putloo, our Parsi piano
tuner, as he walked through the mess kitchen to the mess hall.
“Tune
it well, Behram,” said papa, “Verdi and
a gentleman of Verona will both be heard tonight.”
Behram
sat down happily and prepared to tune the octaves, sixths and thirds of a
battered Winkelmann piano.
“So,
sweetheart,” papa said, turning to me, after he looked admiringly at mama’s ‘Sanchi
at Sunrise’ and ‘The view from Carter Road’, which was our home on Salsette
Island, near Bombay. “What is your contribution to the Art Exhibition?”
I
pointed to the charcoal sketches of my brother and myself.
“Ah,
hah, that must be the work of Giorgio,” he said, admiring the sketches.
“And,
papa, just look, at that piece of sculpture, who do you think it is?” I asked.
He
looked at a white bust standing on a pedestal on the sun-drenched patio.
“She’s
a princess,” said papa.
“It’s
me, it’s me, it’s me,” I said joyously.
“Giorgio’s friend, Ingerahmi just made a crown of silver paper for the
head.”
Papa
took off his hat and bowed to the bust.
I floated on air. “Did Madge Pereira practise the solo line?” asked
Freny Dotiwalla, a Parsi lady. “Charles,
I’m nervous about playing the piano,” she said to papa.
“Freny,
don’t you worry one tiny bit,” said papa.
It
was seven o’clock in the evening and a dinner gong sounded. We all sat down at long, scrubbed mess
tables laden with sprigs of magenta bougainvillea, baskets of crusty fresh
baked bread, wooden bowls of green salad, and green bottles of home made red
wine. Steaming platters of cannelloni, fettuccine, lasagne, macaroni and
ravioli were piled on the tables. I ate
two yards of pasta.
“God
knows, but I’m going to miss them so-oo much,” said petite Tina D’Souza, as she
twirled her fork inexpertly around spaghetti.
“Everything
comes to an end,” I said feeling very sophisticated while I sipped wine from a
long-stemmed glass.
“Do
you think you should be drinking it?” she asked a bit too loudly.
“Tina,
I’m an exhibit today,” I said, avoiding mama’s eyes. “I need a drink.”
“Ladies
and gentlemen,” said the Roman Catholic Bishop of Bombay.
Silence.
“A
toast to the Italian officers who fought so courageously.” This was greeted by
loud cheering. He continued. “But, lost
to General Wavell in Sidi Barrani in 1940,” Loud groans were heard from the
Italians, followed by more laughter.
The Bishop paused, and continued:
“They started off as our prisoners of war, but became our allies and
friends. The war is over, and they
leave us with their legacy of portraits, paintings and recipes for pasta.”
Everyone
cheered.
Surgeon-Colonel
Aquino Montaldo di Cosola, the Gentleman of Verona who looked like Errol Flynn,
in the film ‘Captain Blood’, stood up.
I was the first person to whom he admitted he was going mad.
“Bambina,
your Lakshmi has driven me mad,” he whispered to me as he mixed warm yellow and
cool blue to create the emerald shade of Lakshmi’s sari, in his painting.
I
promptly told Lakshmi: “He’s gone mad
about you.”
Lakshmi
smiled serenely.
He
came straight to the point. “Lakshmi has accepted my proposal of marriage.”
There
was loud clapping, whistling, feet stamping and more wine was drunk. I felt dizzy. It thought it must be the combination of yards of macaroni and
red wine sloshing around in my stomach.
The
Italians started singing, like their guardian angels were spinning out silver
threads of music staves before them, inscribed with heavenly sweet
notation. Tears filled their eyes.
“Why
are they crying?” I asked.
“It’s the chorus of Hebrew slaves, by
Verdi. It is called ‘Va pensiero’ and
it symbolises Italian freedom,” said papa. “The Italians are recalling the
songs of Italy, and eventual liberation.”
I
left the mess hall and walked slowly towards the beach. I sat down on driftwood. Freny thumped
through her faulty fortissimo chords.
Tambourines were thwacked and castanets clacked, as Indian and English Gypsies
danced with Italian Matadors.
It
was cool as fireflies flitted a fandango in a coconut grove. Gulls gurgled and giggled as they swooped
on the evening catch. A child of the Raj started to bury her feet securely in
warm Indian sand, because mama had told her: “One day, as surely as mangoes
appear in May, the Indians will have their freedom and the British will leave.”
Dark
monsoon clouds hung low over Bombay on the fifteenth of August, which was the
day of Indian Independence. The coconut
palms swayed, the microphones hissed as we stood in gumboots and duckback
raincoats on the school’s waterlogged lawn.
The British flag slipped down a pole and a saffron, green and white flag
replaced it. I saluted the new Indian
flag, which became soaked with rain and hung limply to the pole. We sang the
Indian National Anthem, ‘Jana, Gana Mana’ and watched the saffron and green
colours run down the pole and settle in a pool of rainwater. I thought it looked like fish curry on a
Friday. I knew the British Raj had come
to a watery end.
“A
dowry for a princess,” said papa, as the Dowager Maharani Mohini placed the
diamond, ruby and emerald necklace, bracelet, earrings and nose ring on
Lakshmi. Lakshmi wore a red sari, her hair was sprinkled with tiny
silver flakes and the palms and soles of her feet were painted in exquisite
designs drawn in henna. Aquino wore a
gold brocade knee length achkan or
coat with pearl and emerald buttons.
Aquino
and Lakshmi were married by Hindu rite on Christmas Day in 1947. He led her seven times round a fire prepared
with sandalwood, vermillion paste, rice and butter. After the ceremony they were festooned in jasmine and marigolds,
and fed each other ceremonial food. Qawali
singing accompanied the muzbi or
barbecued lamb speared on long, thin iron spikes. Dessert was mama’s flambéed Anglo-Indian Christmas pudding filled
with nutmeg, cloves, cinnamon and fruit dried under an Indian sun. I wore my lace and satin First Communion
Dress. Aquino and Lakshmi went to live
in New York, and the ‘affliction’, which was plain old-fashioned virginity
became a thing of the past.
“So,
papa what was the ‘dust’ of Rajasthan?” I asked.
“Ah! You have a right to know,” said papa. “The ‘dust’
was Mohini’s ravishing beauty, which swirled around your grandpa Andrew. The ‘dust’
blinded him while he served as a surgeon in the Indian Army in Rajasthan. Lakshmi was their baby daughter.”
“If
Lakshmi was Laxman, would Mohini have given him away?” I asked.
“Sweetheart,
this is India and you know the answer to that one already,” papa said.
Some
‘dust’.
Harijan: Belonging to the lowest
caste in Hinduism, or outside the Hindu caste system.
Muzbi: Barbecued
breast of lamb. This is a Mogul dish,
described in ancient records. It is a
special first course at joyous or ceremonial feasts.
Qawali: Urdu poet musicians who
extemporised exquisite songs.
Redshirt: The followers of Abdul
Ghaffar Khan dyed their clothes a mulberry-red colour, earning them the title
of ‘Redshirts’. They were warrior
tribes who lived along each side of the Waziristan-Afghanistan border, creating
tension in the North-West Frontier during the winter of 1929/1930.
Sanchi: The
relief sculptures on the great dome or stupa represent the first important
period in the history of Indian narrative art. This Buddhist cycle shows Buddha through symbols recalling his
spiritual progress.