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If love is novel, international love is a fiction: Asian Age
Dehra Dun, Apr 17: Scouting through the Dehra Dun telephone directory in search of a printer, I came across an entry for Princess Rajendra of Limbi. I was intrigued and telephoned, more in hope than in expectation.
Dehra Dun, Apr 17: Scouting through the Dehra Dun telephone directory in search of a printer, I came across an entry for Princess Rajendra of Limbi. I was intrigued and telephoned, more in hope than in expectation.
I introduced myself to her daughter, Mrs Shamsher Singh, and asked for an interview. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Two days later, I was asked for drinks at the home of the princess in her impressive house above Rajpur village. Major General (Retd.) Shamsher Singh joined us for a convivial bada peg. Then the princess, looking frail but interesting, joined us. She spoke perfect English. It would have been rude to ask her age or even to guess it. Originally from Punjab, Kalshia and from Saurashtra, now Gujarat — her mother was the Maharani of Kalshia — the princess met a man on a steamboat on the way to England and a love match ensued. A cricket enthusiast, the family produced the vice captain of the first Indian Test team to visit England. He was a tennis blue at Cambridge University. His name was Gham Singham Singh. I had expected a short interview, but we sat companionably for two hours. Me with Old Monk and the princess slowly sipping a glass of Goan port. I promised that I would bring some of the vintage stuff from London. And did. Coburns vintage.
Houses, like people, can be friendly and warm. Others feel hostile. The pair of silver cobras which I embedded in the foundations of the Doon cottage have given it a rare avatar. Peace and security. Here, there are few harsh words and Maali, Miss Maali and Jeeves smile. Girl Sunday, grinning, ruthlessly clucks chives, parsley and lettuce for lunch. I have a surfeit of salad. Later, there will be a burden of lychees and mangoes. This year, I will harvest them and incarcerate them into cans, then use them for wedding presents in Delhi; a tin of lychees from the cottage in Doon. Cheaper and more healthy than a silver bowl. Grown, nourished in Doon, more valuable than gold or silver. Having emptied the contents, the newlyweds can keep the can. A memento.
A day of swings and roundabouts for us Doon Dodos. A visit to Ruskin Bond who signed for Sunday and I his latest anthology of British writers of ghost stories. H.W. Dennys, Gerald T. Tait and of course, Colonel Sleeman who wrote in 1844 about haunted villages; Alice Perrin who wrote of the summoning of Arnold. Ruskin is best described as a friendly writer of India, especially for children. He inscribed the book, "May you find a few friendly ghosts down in Rajpur!" And in Girl Sunday’s copy, "Best of luck in your journalistic endeavours!" Then Sunday and I took Lillian Skinner for lunch. As usual, she sparkled and confessed that her birthday would be in September, her eightieth. This would be a great event, an occasion for a burra bash. Kalyani has offered to cook. Driving down to Doon, I remarked that Lillian looks much younger than her age. "Younger than you do," said Sunday. Thanks! Back to Bloody Marys.
A chance meeting in Doon with an American boy and girl in India to "do good." It made them, they told me seriously, "feel good." And they were doing good with the poor. But they said, bitterly, their efforts were not widely appreciated, despite their contributions in cash and kind. How to explain to these innocents that the recipients of advice and aid often feel humiliated and patronised? I’ve been working all day, sang Cat Stevens, now a converted Muslim. So now the Americans go to a five-star hotel to congratulate themselves over dinner. I end with a quotation from the notable American diplomat, Charles Thayer: "International love is a fiction, the search of which has frequently ended in embittered frustration, particularly among Americans, whose passion for popularity is seldom understood."
I received a very friendly letter from a brigadier at the Indian Military Academy who had been posted to Kargil. By coincidence, the Kargil conflict was over, or at least on hold. So he was posted to Jalandhar. A visit to him is in the diary. I have never visited Kargil, but do have less than lovely memories of Jalandhar. Most probably the cantonment, as usual with military establishments, will reveal a more presentable portrait. I was in Jalandhar to buy cricket bats. One of my more foolish ventures in the family export business. Their attempt to keep me away from the fleshpots of the British diplomatic service. Fat chance! I bought the cricket bats. For the Madagascar police force. But no pads or boxes were ordered. Not needed, they said. Stout chaps. I later learned that no cricket was ever played in Madagascar. So I returned salutarily to the relative sanctity of the Foreign Service, where torture is administered by the pen and not by the bat. In those days, the Foreign Office agreed or rejected approvals for export licences, in particular for arms and other items of military requisition. A young colleague was on the Argentine desk; in those days it was a repressive military regime. She told me proudly over a lunch time beer that she had signed an approval for the export of two hundred silenced Sterling sub-machine guns for the Argentine prison service. "They need them," she said. "So as not to disturb the local residents." The last I heard, she works in the Foreign Office’s reference library. ‘God is love," I said to Sunday. "You," she announced with accuracy, "are not God." "At least not mine." It was one of those spiritual days with Kalyani spending Sunday meditating and if I had intruded, I would have received one of her "looks." She says that God does not like repeated prayers without "Ump." So she went diverse. Now the whole neighbourhood wakes up to her spiritual gong. Here is the interesting part. She does not know when she is going to do it. She just does it. Thank God, that she lives far far away.
A free weekend. Girl Sunday is on leave. Although she said ominously that her mother is coming to stay and she might drive over in a friend’s car on Sunday. I shall warn the traffic police that she has no valid driving licence. "Neither," they say, "does anyone else in Doon." "Except for you, and you don’t drive."
I introduced myself to her daughter, Mrs Shamsher Singh, and asked for an interview. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Two days later, I was asked for drinks at the home of the princess in her impressive house above Rajpur village. Major General (Retd.) Shamsher Singh joined us for a convivial bada peg. Then the princess, looking frail but interesting, joined us. She spoke perfect English. It would have been rude to ask her age or even to guess it. Originally from Punjab, Kalshia and from Saurashtra, now Gujarat — her mother was the Maharani of Kalshia — the princess met a man on a steamboat on the way to England and a love match ensued. A cricket enthusiast, the family produced the vice captain of the first Indian Test team to visit England. He was a tennis blue at Cambridge University. His name was Gham Singham Singh. I had expected a short interview, but we sat companionably for two hours. Me with Old Monk and the princess slowly sipping a glass of Goan port. I promised that I would bring some of the vintage stuff from London. And did. Coburns vintage.
Houses, like people, can be friendly and warm. Others feel hostile. The pair of silver cobras which I embedded in the foundations of the Doon cottage have given it a rare avatar. Peace and security. Here, there are few harsh words and Maali, Miss Maali and Jeeves smile. Girl Sunday, grinning, ruthlessly clucks chives, parsley and lettuce for lunch. I have a surfeit of salad. Later, there will be a burden of lychees and mangoes. This year, I will harvest them and incarcerate them into cans, then use them for wedding presents in Delhi; a tin of lychees from the cottage in Doon. Cheaper and more healthy than a silver bowl. Grown, nourished in Doon, more valuable than gold or silver. Having emptied the contents, the newlyweds can keep the can. A memento.
A day of swings and roundabouts for us Doon Dodos. A visit to Ruskin Bond who signed for Sunday and I his latest anthology of British writers of ghost stories. H.W. Dennys, Gerald T. Tait and of course, Colonel Sleeman who wrote in 1844 about haunted villages; Alice Perrin who wrote of the summoning of Arnold. Ruskin is best described as a friendly writer of India, especially for children. He inscribed the book, "May you find a few friendly ghosts down in Rajpur!" And in Girl Sunday’s copy, "Best of luck in your journalistic endeavours!" Then Sunday and I took Lillian Skinner for lunch. As usual, she sparkled and confessed that her birthday would be in September, her eightieth. This would be a great event, an occasion for a burra bash. Kalyani has offered to cook. Driving down to Doon, I remarked that Lillian looks much younger than her age. "Younger than you do," said Sunday. Thanks! Back to Bloody Marys.
A chance meeting in Doon with an American boy and girl in India to "do good." It made them, they told me seriously, "feel good." And they were doing good with the poor. But they said, bitterly, their efforts were not widely appreciated, despite their contributions in cash and kind. How to explain to these innocents that the recipients of advice and aid often feel humiliated and patronised? I’ve been working all day, sang Cat Stevens, now a converted Muslim. So now the Americans go to a five-star hotel to congratulate themselves over dinner. I end with a quotation from the notable American diplomat, Charles Thayer: "International love is a fiction, the search of which has frequently ended in embittered frustration, particularly among Americans, whose passion for popularity is seldom understood."
I received a very friendly letter from a brigadier at the Indian Military Academy who had been posted to Kargil. By coincidence, the Kargil conflict was over, or at least on hold. So he was posted to Jalandhar. A visit to him is in the diary. I have never visited Kargil, but do have less than lovely memories of Jalandhar. Most probably the cantonment, as usual with military establishments, will reveal a more presentable portrait. I was in Jalandhar to buy cricket bats. One of my more foolish ventures in the family export business. Their attempt to keep me away from the fleshpots of the British diplomatic service. Fat chance! I bought the cricket bats. For the Madagascar police force. But no pads or boxes were ordered. Not needed, they said. Stout chaps. I later learned that no cricket was ever played in Madagascar. So I returned salutarily to the relative sanctity of the Foreign Service, where torture is administered by the pen and not by the bat. In those days, the Foreign Office agreed or rejected approvals for export licences, in particular for arms and other items of military requisition. A young colleague was on the Argentine desk; in those days it was a repressive military regime. She told me proudly over a lunch time beer that she had signed an approval for the export of two hundred silenced Sterling sub-machine guns for the Argentine prison service. "They need them," she said. "So as not to disturb the local residents." The last I heard, she works in the Foreign Office’s reference library. ‘God is love," I said to Sunday. "You," she announced with accuracy, "are not God." "At least not mine." It was one of those spiritual days with Kalyani spending Sunday meditating and if I had intruded, I would have received one of her "looks." She says that God does not like repeated prayers without "Ump." So she went diverse. Now the whole neighbourhood wakes up to her spiritual gong. Here is the interesting part. She does not know when she is going to do it. She just does it. Thank God, that she lives far far away.
A free weekend. Girl Sunday is on leave. Although she said ominously that her mother is coming to stay and she might drive over in a friend’s car on Sunday. I shall warn the traffic police that she has no valid driving licence. "Neither," they say, "does anyone else in Doon." "Except for you, and you don’t drive."