Pratap Singh died on 25th September, 1925 and the throne passed on to his nephew Hari Singh. The coronation ceremony, the ‘Raj Tilak’ was held in February 1926. It was a long elaborate affair. Starting on February 14 and ending on 24th. After the main function was held in Jammu, the processions moved to the Akhnoor where the final ceremony of power transfer was performed.
The world media was obviously interested in the obscenely lavish pageantry held in honor of “Mr. A”.
“Jammu, Kashmir, India – New and rare photographs of the religious ceremonies within the palace gates and the dancing girls who took part in the coronation of the Maharaja of Kashmir have just been recieved. Reigning prices from all parts of the empire were present at the coronation of Sir Hari Singh, better known as the “Mr. A” of the sensational Robinson Case, in ceremonies which rivalled in splendor those of the Arabian Night. The celebration lasted over a week, preceded by mystic religious rites by the Hindu priests. The Prince’s favourite dancing girls also took part in the coronation, dancing for the new Maharaja before and after the religious ceremonies. Gifts amounting to two million pounds sterling were received by the new Indian potentate.” Dated: 19th April 1926.
Here are two rare photographs from the ceremony. A closer look at the dancing girls.
The child dancer.
The Dancer and the Wailer. Here the woman in the foreground is the dancing girl while in the background can be seen the woman hired for wailing. The coronation ceremony was essentially a mix of both a happy and a sad occasion. Traditionally the death of the previous king was to be mourned and the new king celebrated. This photograph captures it perfectly.
By 1920s, Kashmir in Summers was buzzing with tourists, year after year. And with the coming of tourists and therefore money into an impoverished region. And with that came a new set of issues. The travelogues on Kashmir written during this time often allude to this problem but when coming close to it, clearly avoid going into the details. The dubious happening in the ‘Bachelor’ side of Chinar Bagh were only whispered with a disapproving nod. The Kashmiris on their part were to permanently cast doubt on the character of Haez bai, the women of boat people, by insulations and that too without ever directly going into the details.
Following is the only graphic description I could about the nature of the issue:
Two Kashmiri Women with their Dog on a houseboat
[late 19th century, probably by Bourne]
Leached from ebay
The rain had stopped by the time we got back, and the night sky was like a cloth of blue velvet on which had been spilled a stupendous collection of fire-filled gems. A scent of flowers filled the rain-washed air, and over the tops of the gossiping chenar-trees the full moon was rising, a huge globe of soft orange light.
For one brief moment I wondered why the boat was lighted up. My bearer had asked for leave until the next morning . . “to see my uncle, sahib.”
“Garm pani lao! Khana lao!” (“A hot bath! Food!”)
Entering the living-room, I might have blundered into a tale from the Arabian Nights. Sitting cross- legged under the biggest of the Chinese lanterns, on a chintz cushion set in the middle of the floor, was a young Kashmiri girl in a trousered costume of green.
Despite the wide gravity of a pair of brown eyes darkened with antimony, she was evidently little more than a child.
We stared at each other. She was trembling. Apparently moveless, the silver bracelets on her arms were chinking faintly, and a little metal ‘bugle’ suspended between her eyes was tremulous.
“Who are you?” I am ashamed to say the question was not politely put.
“I am called Ameena. This is my mother’s sister.’ With a sideways movement she indicated a sheeted crone whose wrinkled and sunken lips were ceaselessly moving. I had not noticed her.
The sheeted lady salaamed several times in rapid succession, and muttered something unintelligible. Senile decay! It would be useless to talk to her.
Again I addressed the girl. “Why have you come?” (I heard her whisper under her breath the word “Allah!”)
“My father sent me. The manji said that the Presence wanted me. . . .”
The truth that rang in her voice and shone in her eyes roused a savage fury against the manji.
“I did not send him for you! I know nothing about it!” Mistaking the cause of my anger, before I could prevent her she had thrown herself at my feet.
“Do not beat me, Lord-sahib! Be pleased to let me stay! If I go before sunrise he will beat me!” The hands clasped about my ankles shook.
“Who will beat you?” (‘To beat/ ‘to abuse’how common those verbs are in India!)
“Your manji, sahib! . . . Shall I dance for you, sahib?”
Phaeton in the swaying chariot of the sun never wrestled more fiercely with his maddened steeds than I with runaway thoughts at that moment. … I had heard of these things, of course.
Something had got to be done! But what? . . .
(“What would the sahib like to do?” . . . “I will do anything!” … So that was it!)
I fetched a box of chocolate-almonds from the sideboard.
Her story was pitiable enough, but I knew that every word of it was true. Her father embroidered small articles with iridescent beetles’ wings. He had eye-sickness. Her mother was dead. They had no food. They owed a hundred rupees to a Marwari money- lender who had threatened to turn them out of their ‘house/ So the father had agreed to sell his daughter temporarily. (“What else could he do, sahib?”)
The beldame, when appealed to, moved forward on her hams, Indian-fashion, and, stroking the vic- tim’s hair, expatiated on her gentleness and general desirability. I could have slapped her.
Yes, it was true. He had fetched the girl, thinking to please me. Other sahibs did such things. He hitched contemptuously the dirty padded quilt about his shoulders she was a virgin, and for three hundred rupees –
Huge as he was, I would have thrashed him not so much for the way he spoke, but because of that profit of 200 rupees. But she was staying at Kashmir and I was returning to India. Also, I might easily be asked to send in my resignation as the result of a fracas in a native state.
~ Indian Mosaic (1936) by Mark Channing, an officer of Indian Army who wrote this book about his search for a real ‘Spiritual Pilgrimage’ in India. The book ends with Kashmir and the section begin with a chapter titled ‘The Girl I Bought’. And of course, he finds a ‘Guru’ in Kashmir, a man whose one of the duties is to read the dreams of Maharaja.
Although by 1936, George Orwell was already a published author but that year he didn’t even have money to pay his rent. In that year, he started writing reviews of plays, films and books for various publication. His first work for The Listener magazine was an unsigned review of the book ‘Indian Mosaic’ (1936) by Mark Channing, for which he was paid one pound. But even back then, he writing was sharp, astute and to the point. About this book and its author he wrote:
“Mr. Channing is, or was, an officer of the Indian Army. Probably it was fortunate for him that he was in the Supply and Transport Corps and not in an ordinary regiment, for it allowed him to travel widely and to get away from the atmosphere of the barracks and the European clubs. It is interesting to watch his development from a thoughtless youngster contemptuous of ‘natives’ and chiefly interested in shooting, into a humble student of Persian literature and Hindu philosophy.
And then he makes an observation that shouldn’t be hard to notice for a present day reader too but is seldom pointed out:
One of the paradoxes of India is that the Englishman usually get on better with the Moslem than the Hindu and yet never entirely escapes the appeal of Hinduism as a creed. But as a rule his response to it is unconscious – a mere pantheistic tinge in his thought – whereas Mr. Channing has studied Yoga at the feet of a guru and believes that we have far more to learn from India than she from us. He does not, however, believe India to be capable of self-government, and his book ends with a queerly naive mixture of mystical reverence and Kiplingesque imperialism. ” [quoted from ‘Orwell and Politics’, Penguin Classics]
A lovely little girl, she became a thief quite soon:
Honored by the townsfolk during the changes of the moon,
She was invited to their homes where the little dear
Made all their sacred vessels completely disappear.
When she was only seven, her voice already bold,
Her mother started teaching her how she could be sold;
Out of greed mom tutored her to play the harlot’s game,
And at the market gate, Deathtrap soon became her name.
She wore a pair of falsies and shells upon a string;
Hugs and kisses pleased her lovers – she’d do most anything.
One day a merchant’s son, Master Fullofit Esquire,
Shopping for some saffron, just happened to pass by her;
He was young and handsome – he wore fourteen carat gold.
Later in a gambling joint, where drinks were also sold,
She winked her eye, raised her brow, did all that she could do
To rouse his eagerness for a nighttime rendezvous.
While clinging to his neck that night as he lay fast asleep,
(since he had had a lot t drink his snooze was very deep),
She stole his golden earrings – he still did not awaken –
And the rings from off his fingers quietly were taken.
“Help! Help!” the girl then shouted, “Oh! Oh! I have been robbed!”
As if to stop a thief, “Help! Help!” she loudly sobbed.
Robbed and awakened, to avoid a family disgrace,
The salesman ran away, using his clothes to hide his face.
All decked out in dazzling duds, looking young and pretty,
She changed her name and moved along to another city.
~ ‘Samayamatrika’ of Kshemendra written during the reign of King Ananta, around A.D. 1050. Starting with a hymn in praise of Goddess Kali, it narrates the comic exploits of a harlot named Kankali (Skeleton) as her narration travels around Kashmir, from childhood to old age, from one heroine to another, from one adventure to another. The (improvised) translation given above is from Lee Siegel in his book ‘Laughing Matters: Comic Tradition in India’ (1987 ). These particular lines are about a girl named Arghagharghatika (Gurgling Little Pot).
In accordance with the law of those time, the death sentence was announced to Radhakrishan in a whisper. Somewhere between January and February 1990, one morning, Radhakrishan was picked up from his home and taken to the ghat, the river bank, for a quick trial. It wasn’t long before the entire neighbourhood heard about it. Maybe it was the wails of his wife and children. Foreboding a judgement, people shut themselves in.
Hinge 2: Judge, Jury and Executioner
The men who knocked on Radhakrishan’s home and dragged him to the river bank remain unknown, unidentified.
Hinge 3: Litigator
Mohd. Yusuf had bought a state of the art VCR from his trip to Dubai. Around this he built a small business. He started a Video and TV rental service. Given the love of Kashmiris for moving images, it wasn’t long before his venture became a success. Soon he started a TV repair counter too. A technician came all the way from Punjab to work the counter in summers. The video shop of Mohd. Yusuf was right next to our house. The cassette for the first ever English movie I ever saw came from his shop. The film was a ‘B-grade Sci-Fi Action-Opera meets Cowboys-on-bikes’ flick called Megaforce. The only reason this film probably reached that corner of the world was because it starred Persis Khambatta. But what stuck with me was the starkness of its deserts and the crassness of the people who inhabited it. I liked it. From this shop came the cassettes for Dracula, the 1977 TV series version produced by BBC keeping the original written work in mind. It’s ending gave me my first nightmare. Guns and horses.
Hinge 4: Witness
All trivial details in which the true meaning is lost. All junk and pulp. These useless but strong hinges that support meaningless memories. Until a few years ago, that’s all I knew about Mohd. Yusuf – the video seller. And I hadn’t even heard about Radhakrishan’s trial. I heard the story over a phone, thousands of miles away from the scene of crime.
Towards the end of 2012, one afternoon, my niece came home with a school friend of hers. A girl just her age. Both of them were born in 1996 in Jammu, safe and far removed from the event of 1990. My grandmother got talking to the girl. The usual questions. She asked the girl about her family. Where she lived? The girls lived nearby. Where was her family based in Kashmir, originally? Chattabal. From the further answers she got, my grandmother realized that this girl was grand-daughter of her friend Nirmala who used to live near our place in Kashmir.
In 1990 Nirmala’s husband Radhakrishan was picked up by those unknown men. He was taken to the ghat near Bharav Temple. His throat slit. It was Mohd. Yusuf who ran to the ghat, reaching it just in time. Radhakrishan was still alive. They were playing with him. Mohd. Yusuf pleaded with those blighted men. He vouched for the innocence of the man who lay on ground slithering in pain. Radhakrishan was saved that day by Mohd. Yusuf. A judgement averted.
Unhinged:
In a farce trial, a simple mind only asks, ‘But what was the crime?’ There’s a jury and executioners, a litigator and a witness, an accused, an innocent and a hero. Surely, there must be a crime. The structure and constructs only allows us questions.
Based on an account I heard in 2013 from a cousin of my father. The family lost a member in the violence that erupted in 1990 and is now what would be considered right wing in political outlook. And yet, this is the account I got…
January 21st
The house was on Nai Sadak. From the main window of the house you could see the bridge that connected the locality to Maisuma Bazaar, the place that was going to be the epicenter of violence in 1990, the bastion of JKLF. This is the bridge known as Gaw Kadal or the Cow Bridge. The line of sight from the house was such that if someone was standing on the center of bridge, you could see him completely, but further down, the other side only partially visible.
That day inmates of the house were glued to the window as they tried to fathom the sounds. They could see a large sloganeering crowd on the other side of the bridge, approaching their side. On this side, they could see a picket of about twelve CRPF men blocking their way. The city was under a curfew. These men were issuing orders warning the people disperse and move back to their houses. The people were protesting exactly against such orders. The inmates of the house thought maybe the security men were worried about their security. There were a couple of Pandit households in this vulnerable area. The men watching the procession from the window were a bit anxious. But this was Kashmir, even this was normal. They had seen may such processions in their lives. The people in the crowd had probably taken part in too many processions in their life. It was just another average Kashmiri day. The neighbourhood mosque which was under JKLF control was time and again advising the crowd over the loudspeaker to not touch the Pandits and their houses, to maintain peace and to march forward. The crowd continued to move forward.
Suddenly, without a rhyme, shots rang out. At first a tickle of loud bursts. From the window you could see a figure taking position, a quick thinking uniformed sikh man who hinged his semi-automatic gun to the railing of the bridge, and squeezed his finger to unleash death. In the later news reports, this action came to be described as ‘indiscriminate firing’. The inmates of the house, with reflex of a cornered animal, ducked and lay flat on the floor. The wooden walls of the house it seemed had been blown away, it was as if the fire was directed at them. And the firing just wouldn’t stop. It was like rain, like a thunder storm, even maybe like a cloud burst. Ashok Ji, a neighbour, another watcher in the house next door, was a bit slow in deciphering the scene. A bullet flew past him and glazed his ear. The reports were to say that the firing on the crowd was carried out from both ends of the bridge. People were caught in the middle. Initial official reports said about thirty people were killed. Over the years, as the stories grew, the number grew to about two hundred. Out of blood came accounts of people jumping into river and drowning, injured executed at point plank range, people chased and shot dead. The man blamed for ordering fire was given a name: Allah Bakhsh, SSP of J&K Police, with family ties to all the high and mighty of Kashmir state bureaucracy.
When it was over, the entire neighbourhood was drowned in sound of wailing. Up until now, a Pandit was still expected to join his neighbours in grief. And most of them did join. But not after that day. Bloodletting of that day, changed the core of the people. When an inmate of the house showed up at a neighbour’s house to offer condolence, he was chased away. ‘Battov, ye korov telephone‘, ‘Pandits, you telephoned them!’, was intermixed with the wailing sound. People swore revenge. The Pandits were suspects. The rumor blamed the pandits for calling the security men and somehow ordering the massacre. Over the next few days a new phenomena was observed in the city, people climbed up the telephone poles and pulled apart the wires. City was now plunged into a blackout of another kind. Every family was marooned, on its own and drifting in an unending nightmare in which monsters of all kind took life. Monsters that were to haunt Kashmir for a long time to come.
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Das Gerücht, “The Rumor,” (1953) by German artist A. Paul Weber.
Perhaps the person best to understand nature of propaganda, having produced quite a bit.
An ambiguous figure who produced anti-Semitic and war mongering illustrations in his love for Germany and
From my personal collection: A postcard from Germany. Probably 1920s. The image was from the studio of H.A. Mirza & Sons, based in Chandni Chowk, Shahjahanabad (Delhi).
