Authors: William Nicholson
‘I can’t tell you that I like what is happening, Captain Cornford. This new India is a very recent invention. Dholpur’s Paramountcy Treaty with Britain goes back to 1756.’
He’s a small scholarly man, who wears a pink turban. In ’21, during George V’s tour of India, he and Dickie Mountbatten were ADCs together. Now, prince and ruler of his own state, history is about to brush him aside.
‘Do me a favour,’ Mountbatten told Larry earlier. ‘Look after Dholpur while he’s in Delhi. He’s a decent man.’
‘I suppose these days,’ Larry says to the maharaj, ‘it’s harder to justify imperial rule by a far-off country.’
‘Ah, these days.’ Dholpur sighs again. ‘That is the modern mind in action. The assumption that fundamental truths must change with time. Are you a religious man, Captain Cornford?’
‘Yes,’ says Larry. ‘Catholic.’
‘Catholic?’ The maharaj brightens. ‘Like the Stuart kings of England. Then perhaps you will understand when I tell you that
I believe most profoundly in the divine right of kings. The so-called Glorious Revolution of 1688, that drove James II into exile, was in my opinion both a disaster and an outrage. All the suffering that has followed springs from the false notion that the people can choose their own rulers. How are they to choose? What do the people know? Let God choose, and let the people be humbly thankful.’
‘I see you’re no believer in democracy,’ says Larry.
‘Democracy!’ The maharaj gives him a look that combines melancholy with contempt. ‘You think the people of India are choosing their rulers? You think when the British are gone the people of India will be free? Just wait a little, my friend. Wait, and watch, and weep.’
*
In these last days before the transfer of power the viceroy’s staff work ever longer hours. They’re planning the two days of ceremonial that will see the creation of two new sovereign nations. Sir Cyril Radcliffe, who has been shut away for weeks in a bungalow on the viceregal estate, has almost completed the award of the Boundary Commission. Everyone knows that once the details of the award are made public, the trouble will begin. Punjab and Bengal have now been partitioned; only Sylhet in Assam remains. Mountbatten makes it known that a late delivery on August 13th would be acceptable, fully aware that on that day he flies to Karachi for Pakistan’s independence ceremony on August 14th. The following day, August 15th, India’s Independence Day, is to be a national holiday, and the printing presses will be closed. In this way the precise details of the two new nations will not be made public until the celebrations are over.
The viceroy’s staff spend the day of August 14th clearing their desks and contemplating the historic moment they are about to witness. The general feeling is that the British are making a dignified job of winding up the Empire, thanks in no small part to the charm, energy, and informality of the Mountbattens.
‘He’s an amazing chap,’ Rupert Blundell says to Larry, as they break for a much-needed drink. ‘He loves dressing up and prancing about with his medals, but actually he’s the least stuffy man I’ve ever met. He’s a member of the royal family, his nephew’s marrying our future queen, but he’s all for the Labour government. You know, in some strange way I think he sees himself as an outsider.’
‘She’s the one who amazes me,’ says Larry. By this he means Edwina. ‘They all adore her.’ By this he means the Indian leaders.
‘You know she and Dickie fight like cats,’ says Rupert. ‘But you’re right. He adores her too.’
With the coming of independence, Mountbatten will cease to be viceroy, but will stay on as Governor-General of India. Viceroy’s House is to become Government House. Some staff will remain, but many will go. Syed Tarkhan, a Muslim, plans to leave for Karachi, where he is to be an ADC to Jinnah. Rupert Blundell has decided to stay on for two more weeks, to assist in the transition, and then he and Geraldine will go home.
‘What will you do then?’ Larry asks him.
‘Back to academia, I think. Charlie Broad says he’ll have me at Trinity. How about you?’
‘God knows,’ says Larry.
On that same day, Independence eve, as the monsoon rains stream down over the Mughal Gardens, he has a conversation with Geraldine Blundell that focuses his thoughts. She’s been
talking to Rupert, and is curious to know about the banana connection. Unlike most others, she doesn’t seem to think this is comical.
‘So Fyffes is your family firm, is it?’
‘In a way,’ says Larry. ‘We’re actually a wholly owned subsidiary of the United Fruit Company. But they leave the UK operation to us.’
‘Is it a big firm?’
‘Before the war we employed over four thousand people. The war hit us hard. But we’re building the business back up again.’
Hearing himself speak he’s struck by his use of the possessive pronoun ‘we’. Somehow here on the other side of the world his sense of separation from the family firm has diminished.
‘And your father runs it?’
‘Yes, that’s right. My grandfather started it, in 1892. My father took over in ’29.’
‘And you’ll take over from him?’
‘Oh, no, I don’t think so. I’ve not really ever been part of the firm.’
Geraldine’s eyes open wide in astonishment.
‘Why not?’
‘I had other ideas. You know how when you’re young you want to go your own way.’
‘Yes, but don’t you have a duty?’ She looks at him so earnestly that he feels ashamed of his youthful dreams. ‘You’re born into privilege. You have to accept the responsibility that goes with it, don’t you?’
‘All I can tell you,’ says Larry, feeling uncomfortable, ‘is that it didn’t feel that way.’
‘So what was it you wanted to do?’
Larry shrugs, aware how inadequate his answer will sound to her; indeed, in this moment it sounds inadequate to his own ears.
‘I wanted to be an artist.’
‘An artist! You mean someone who paints pictures?’
‘Yes.’
‘I think that’s wonderful, Larry. But it’s not a job.’
Geraldine sees everything in a simple clear light, not distorted by vanity or illusion. She’s strongly pragmatic, concerned to deal only with the realities of life, but she’s also idealistic in her way. She believes in the grace of God.
She becomes more beautiful to him every day. Larry loves to look at her going about her work, unaware of his gaze. He has begun to think he would like to be more to her than a friend and colleague, but he hesitates to make any move. He’s afraid of finding his overtures rejected. After all, what has he to offer?
He steals a moment to write to Kitty and Ed, which really means to Kitty.
All is chaos and monsoon rain here as we prepare for Independence Day. There’s much talk of England, the benign mother, looking on proudly as the child she has raised now comes of age. I do think this is perfect nonsense. The Indians have been civilised far longer than us. And speaking personally, when I’m in the presence of men like Nehru and Patel, and of course Gandhi, I’m the one who feels like a child.
I’ve been puzzling mightily these last days over my own future. When am I to win my independence? I expect that sounds odd to you, after all I’m almost thirty, but since I’ve
been out here I’ve been having many new thoughts. What sort of life do I want to lead? Does what I want even matter all that much? I do so feel with you, Kitty, when you write that you want to be fully alive. I want that too. But at the same time I have this growing idea that chasing after what I want is not the answer. Perhaps I should think more of my responsibilities. A man my age, in my position, should do a useful job, and marry, and have children. Isn’t that so? If I’m to remain unmarried, and without an occupation, then what use am I? This is what you call a mission in life, I think.
Anyway, I feel the world changing about me, in this historic moment, so maybe I’ll change too. I think of coming home soon. To what? At least I can look forward to long talks with you and Ed, and Ed can tell me it’s all luck and chance, and you can tell me I must learn to fly, and I’ll sit there smiling and nodding, just happy to be back with you again.
After he’s finished his letter it strikes him that he hasn’t mentioned Geraldine, though she has never once left the forefront of his mind. Time enough to tell about her should there ever be anything to tell.
*
So the hour of midnight arrives, and with the dawn that follows the rains cease and the city is given over to parades and rejoicing. The national flag hangs at every window; saffron, white and green bunting festoons the trees. A huge crowd converges on Princes Park, where an arena has been built. In the centre of Princes Park stands a pagoda housing a giant statue of King George V; in a wide circle round it stand the palaces of the Nizam of Hyderabad, the Gaekwar of Baroda, and the Maharajas
of Patiala, Bikaner and Jaipur. Today their windows gaze on a temporary dais and flagpole, where the flag of the new nation will be raised, and will thus eclipse the symbols of past power.
Larry sets off on foot to watch the grand moment, in a group that includes Rupert and Geraldine Blundell, Marjorie Brockman and Fay Campbell-Johnson. It becomes very obvious very soon that the crowd is far bigger than has been anticipated. The entire length of Kingsway, all the way to India Gate, is packed solid with cheering, laughing, flag-waving people, all eager to reach Princes Park. The group from Government House presses on, showing their tickets to beaming officials, but by the time they get to the parade ground all semblance of order has collapsed. The crowd has swarmed over the reserved stands and taken possession of the chairs, standing on the seats and arms and backs.
‘Make way for the memsahibs!’ call out happy voices, as Larry and Rupert attempt to squeeze their companions through the throng. They get within sight of the flagpole and then can go no further. The crush is so intense that women hold their babies over their heads. Nehru himself can be seen struggling to get through to the central dais. Unable to make progress he climbs onto a man’s shoulders and walks in his sandals on the heads of the crowd.
There comes a great cheer. All heads twist round. Larry catches a glimpse of the ADCs in white, followed by the fluttering lance-pennants of the bodyguard, and then the state carriage itself, carrying the new governor-general. Mountbatten is in his white dress uniform, with Lady Mountbatten, also in white, by his side in the open landau.
Nehru, now standing on the central dais, waves his arms and calls for the crowd to let the procession pass through, but no
one heeds him. Larry glances at Geraldine, held in the crush beside him, and sees that she has her eyes closed.
‘Are you all right?’ he says.
She doesn’t answer.
The carriage and its escort come to a stop, some way from the flagpole. It’s all too obvious that they can go no further. Mountbatten rises to his feet in the carriage, and gestures to Nehru to proceed. Nehru gives the signal, and the Indian tricolour rises up the flagpole. The crowd bursts into a giant roar. Mountbatten, trapped in the landau, takes the salute. A light rain begins to fall. The crowd discovers a rainbow in the sky: saffron, white and green. The cheering is redoubled.
In the midst of all the noise, Geraldine begins to utter low screams. She has her eyes tight shut, her hands over her ears, and she shakes her head from side to side.
‘It’s all right,’ says Larry, putting his right arm round her. ‘It’s all right. I’ll get you out.’
Holding her tight and close, he forces his way back through the cheering crowd, using his left shoulder to open up a space between the packed bodies. He feels Geraldine shaking, and hears her low screams, as he pulls her after him. At first their progress is slow, but as he works his way to the back of the crowd he finds they can move more easily. And so at last they emerge into a side street, where there is open space.
He holds her in his arms and lets her sob.
‘There,’ he says, soothing her. ‘There, all safe now.’
The sobbing ceases. She remains in his arms, her face pressed to his chest. He feels the jerky shuddering of her chest as her breaths come slower and slower. Then she turns away, to dab the tears from her eyes.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she says. ‘What a little fool you must think me.’
‘Of course I don’t,’ says Larry.
‘I don’t know what happened. Suddenly I started to feel trapped. I couldn’t bear it.’
‘You were trapped. That’s quite a crowd.’
‘But you got me out.’
The light rain is still falling, bringing welcome refreshment on this burning day.
‘Come on. Let’s walk back.’
*
The next day Mountbatten hands Radcliffe’s award to Nehru, and cables it to Jinnah in Karachi. Within hours, the Punjab is in flames. Ten million people are on the move, seeking safety on either side of the new borders. Three hundred thousand Hindus and Sikhs flee Lahore. In Amritsar Muslim women are stripped naked, paraded through the streets, and raped. Sikh fighting mobs, armed with machine guns and grenades, descend on Muslim villages and slaughter the inhabitants. Muslims at Ferozepur attack a train carrying Sikh refugees, and kill all they can reach. What begins as hysterical fear mutates into hysterical rage.
Hindu refugees begin to arrive in Delhi, bringing with them hunger, disease, and a poisonous lust for revenge. Within days the riots and the killings have taken over the capital. The main railway station, packed with Muslims trying to flee, is bombed by Hindus. In the subsequent riot police fire into the crowd. Looters smash Muslim shops in Connaught Circus. Muslim tonga drivers are dragged from their tongas and hacked to death. Arson attacks start fires across the city.
All flights in and out of Delhi are cancelled. Syed Tarkhan is unable to make his transfer to Karachi. Rupert and Geraldine Blundell, due to fly home on September 8th, are obliged to remain in Government House, one of the few islands of security. Lady Mountbatten learns that hospitals are being attacked, and the wounded massacred in their beds. She requests that the troops protecting Government House, who are the governor-general’s bodyguard reinforced by the 5/6th Gurkhas, should add to their duties the protection of hospitals. She asks Larry and Syed Tarkhan to coordinate the allocation of guards.