AUTOBIOGRAPHY

The Hotel Martinez still stands, a square, handsome structure commanding a fine view of the Mediterranean. In the northern corner of the third floor in suite 318 – 19 – 20 the young Maharani was in an advanced state of pregnancy. She was only 21, and was attended upon by a bevy of maid servants, some from India and others from France, for in those days servants in Europe were still in the realm of the possible.

There were last minute complications, labour pains were unduly delayed, the maid servants, the Maharaja’s personal physician Colonel J. H. Hugo and the eminent obstetrician Sir Henry Simson worked round the clock, while the Maharaja with his friends and staff was playing polo during the day and drinking champagne deep into the night. At last the appointed hour struck; on the March 9, 1931 I came into the world this time round, nine pounds in weight and bawling vigorously. The odyssey had begun.

My birth was greeted with extravagant enthusiasm by the people of Jammu & Kashmir, irrespective of religion, caste or creed. Partly this was because the princely order in India still had some glory, and the birth of a Yuvaraj (heir apparent) was always a matter for rejoicing. But in my case the causes appear to have been deeper. My father had ascended the throne in 1925 on the passing away of his uncle, Maharaja Pratap Singh, who had ruled the State for 40 years. During that time the British, alarmed at the growing power of the Russian Empire, had moved to consolidate their grip over the strategic northern provinces of Gilgit and Skardu. These were contiguous to the Russian Empire and had been added to the State of Jammu & Kashmir by the vision of Maharaja Gulab Singh and the military genius of his great generals, led by Wazir Zorawar Singh. Indeed, during Maharaja Pratap Singh’s reign the British Political Department had worked up an elaborate intrigue to depose him on the grounds of alleged collusion with a ’foreign power’, and had in fact obliged him to surrender power to a Council of Regency. He might have been actually deposed, but the plot was revealed by Amrita Bazar Patrika of Calcutta in a celebrated article entitled ’Condemned Unheard’. This cased a furore in the British Parliament and the Political Office had to back down.

My father had married thrice earlier, twice in Saurashtra and once in the neighbouring hill state of Chamba, but his first wife died with a child still in her womb, and the other two marriages were childless.

People had begun to fear that if there was no heir to the throne, my father himself was an only child , the almighty Viceroy would one day invoke the notorious doctrine of lapse and take the State over under direct British administration. Thus when my father decided to marry once again – this time a girl from a remote village on the banks of the river Beas in Kangra district of the old Punjab – fresh hopes were raised. And when it was rumoured that the new Maharani was expecting a child, excitement began to mount.

My father’s decision to take my mother to Europe for the delivery was variously interpreted. Some felt that he was doing this to keep the mother and child away from the malevolent machinations of the zenana, the female household where dozen Maharanis, Ranis, ladies-in – waiting and maid servants lived – relic of previous rulers. Others assumed that France had been chosen because there the agents of the ubiquitous British Empire, upon whom at that time the sun never set, would not be able to operate. In all events, the birth of the Yuvaraj, if contemporary records and accounts are to be believed, triggered off an almost delirious wave of enthusiasm among the peoples of the State. There were official proclamations. The slaughter of animals, fishing and shooting were prohibited for three days, March 10, 11 and 12, and these were declared public holidays by the State. Offerings were made in temples, mosques and gurudwaras, and all school children were given sweets and asked to pray for for the long life of the prince. The announcement of my birth was made in Srinagar by the Army and Public Works Minister, General Janak Singh, while in Jammu this was done by Mr. Wakefield, one of father's Ministers.

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General Janak Singh recorded a brief note on 17March which contains the following paragraph:

The March 9 was the first bright day when the weather in Kashmir cleared after a long spell of bad winter. It was on this day that the newspapers containing the happy news of the Gandhi-Irwin agreement reached Srinagar. The people of Kashmir thought these happenings a good omen and believed that the future destiny of the Prince was bright.

After spending six weeks in Cannes the whole party sailed back to India on the Kaiser-I-Hind, a P&O steamship, which docked in Bombay at the end of April 1931. It was thus Bombay, not Kashmir, that was my first point of contact with India and, strangely enough, Bombay was also to play an important part in my life for the next 30 years. A large group of officials and courtiers from Jammu & Kashmir had assembled at the Gateway of India to welcome my father, along with a number of ruling princes. Among the latter, as my father subsequently was fond of recounting, was the late Maharaja Ganga Singhji of Bikane. Apparently, I took one look at his famous moustache and set up a loud yell which subsided only when he finally left the cabin. There was also the late Nawab Taley Mohammed Khan of Palanpur, a close friend of my father, after whom our Srinagar house was named, and the ’Nightingale of India’, Sarojini Naidu. From Bombay the party went by train to Jammu where on May 3 a triumphal reception awaited us. My father and mother went through town in an open horse carriage, while I was driven behind in a car along with my English nurse Miss Doris Tranchell, after five days, the whole performance was repeated in Srinagar.

From the files and the numerous people I have met who were present, it is clear that for days there was a staggering array of feasts, banquets, illuminations, free cinema shows, music performances, the distribution of sweets and sundry festivities. My formal naming ceremony was performed on May 11, and Mr. Wakefield solemnly announced that I would be called ’Shree Yuvaraj Karan Singhji Bahadur’.

Historically, this could perhaps be described as the zenith of Dogra rule in Jammu & Kashmir. Almost immediately after the festivities were concluded the State was plunged into serious political turmoil, after which things were never again to be the same. Oddly enough, my birth coincided with the emergence of a hitherto obscure schoolteacher into the political life of the State, with repercussions that continue down to the present day. His name – Sheikh Mohammed Abdullah. One theory is that the disturbances and the Sheikh’s activities were masterminded by the British, both because my birth had upset their ’doctrine of lapse’ policy, and also to teach my father a lesson for having made at the Round Table Conference earlier that year a remarkably patriotic speech urging the British to respect the aspirations of the Indian people. He had said in the course of his speech that ’as Indians and loyal to the land whence they derived their birth and infant nurture, the Princes stood solidly as the rest of their countrymen for India’s enjoyment of a position of honour and equality in the British Commonwealth of Nations’.

Understandably, my early taken away from my mother and an independent establishment set up for me in separate houses, at Srinagar in summer and Jammu in winter. I was allowed to see my mother every day for only one hour, and my father thrice a week. This was obviously not an ideal family environment, and it flowed from a deep incompatibility between my parents. My mother was a village girl from Kangra; my father was the ruler of the largest of India’s over five hundred native States. My mother was warm, gregarious, and loved children; my father was stern, severe and moved only in a carefully chosen circle of courtiers and very few friends. My mother was strong on conversation; my father so formidable that normal conversation in his presence was virtually impossible; my mother was superstitious, demonstrative, emotional; my father was neat, meticulous, aloof. This psychological imbalance led to a good deal of tension and mutual conflict.

Understandably, my early sympathy lay almost entirely with my mother. I cherished the visits of her, while she doted on me and would count the hours for me to appear. She resented my having been taken from her on the grounds that she would spoil me, and was often in tears when my allotted hour was over. For many years the knowledge of her distress made me deeply unhappy, and I would lie awake at night crying softly thinking of her. She was beautiful, with large, expressive eyes which, as a friend of my father used to say, she knew how to use. To me, of course, she was for years the epitome of grace and love. When I was brought to her she would first take me to her prayer–room where she would put flowers and a few coins into my hands to be offered to the various pictures of gods and goddesses installed there. Then we would sit and play games with her maid servants, or her nieces and nephews, my only relatives of comparable age, as there were no close relations on my father’s side of the family.

O Mother Jwala, dwelling Jammu evenings we would all assemble on the large veranda in Amar Mahal with its magnificent view of the Shivalik range, the triple–peaked mountain of Vaishno Devi dominating the skyline and the river Tawi winding down to the plains. There, the small earthen lamps were lit, and with my mother in the lead we would all walk round the sacred tulasi (basil) plant grown in an earthen pot, singing devotional songs in our lilting mother tongue, Dogri. Year later I translated one of those songs dedicated to the great Mother of Radiances:

O Mother Jwala, dwelling amidst the mountains,
fulfil our innermost desires.
A bright red garment adorns your body
and on your forehead is the yellow saffron mark,
the five–hued shawl covers your head,
its edges shimmering with golden embroidery,
O Mother Jwala, dwelling amidst the mountains,
fulfil our innermost desires.

From all corners of the earth, O Mother,
pilgrims come and sing thy praises,
having bowed before thy shrine
all their cravings are satisfied,
O Mother Jwala, dwelling amidst the mountains,
fulfil our innermost desires.

Brahma, the creator, recites the Vedas before thee
and Shankar meditates upon thee amidst the mountains;
the devotee who sings thy praises
is granted by thee his heart’s desire,
O Mother Jwala, dwelling amidst the mountains,
fulfil our innermost desires.

While the daily, and understand the meaning of the words, the rhythmic mingling of the sacred and the mundane, of the here and hereafter, had a deep impact upon me. My mother loved folk music. She had a powerful voice and would sing for hours with the dholki (two-faced drum), in chorus with her maids and other female relatives and ladies from the city who visited her. Evidently I developed my permanent romance with music from these early childhood memories of Dogra – Pahari songs, because the rest of life music has been a predominant motif in my consciousness.

While the daily, and the later only thrice–weekly, visits of my mother were eagerly awaited, the meetings with my father were a source of awe. He was affectionate enough, without being demonstrative, and always carried my photograph in his gold cigarette case, but his whole presence and reputation were so formidable that it was difficult to think of anything to say. The joyful spontaneity of the visits to my mother was lacking, and it was only many years later that I began to realise that my father’s forbidding exterior was really something of a protective armour that he had developed through the circumstances of his own life. An only child, brought up in a cloak and dagger atmosphere of court and family intrigue, he must have been through a traumatic situation before he grew to manhood. And soon thereafter, on his first visit to England, he became the unfortunate victim of a vicious blackmail plot that brought him a great deal of undeserved censure. By the time I was born my father was thirty–six and had been on the throne for six years. He always took a close and careful interest in the way I was brought up, but being by nature undemonstrative his relationship with me never became as free as my relationship with my mother. There was a brief period when it might have flowered, but destiny and the inexorable thrust of history intervened to thwart this.

Autobiography (1989)
Oxford India Paperbacks
ISBN 0 19 563636 8
Rs. 275
A covers the period from 1931 (when Dr. Karan Singh was born) to 1967 (when he was made a Cabinet Minister for the first time).

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