The Maharaj

When I was a child, Dad never told me stories about our ancestors. But one person who did, was my great uncle. He would sit next to me, as my father would go to work, and tell me stories about the building of the railway in East Africa and also a bit about how I was from an ancient Royal Family.

“Uncle,” I pestered my great uncle once, “Please tell me about our Royal family!”

He took a sip of whisky from his glass and asked me sit opposite him.

“Our ancestry goes back to the time of Lord Rama,” he began and smiled at me.

“I know about Lord Rama,” I said rather cheekily, as any nine year old would and as I was more interested in how I was a “Prince” since Rama was the ruler of the ancient city of Ayodhya, “I want to know how I am a Prince?”

The old man laughed and picked me up and put me on his lap.

“There was once a Princely state called Vada,” he began.

The Maharaja of the state, Raja Amir Singh, was a very rich man and he owned so much land that no one could see the end of it. The land was green and fertile and he had thousand men working in the fields for him. But the people were not happy as they had to pay so much in taxes to him. So much, that many sold whatever they could just to keep alive. If they failed to pay the taxes, the Maharaja would order them to be whipped. But then, sometimes, he would pretend that it was all okay and would, later, hire thieves and order them to rob the houses of his own people.

“I don’t like him,” I said, as I looked down and felt sad, “He is evil!”

“One day,” continued my great uncle, “The British arrived.”

They knew what the Maharaja was doing. The Maharaja was not happy about this when he found out and started to blame them for what was happening, when he, himself was doing it and by doing this he hoped that people would support him. But they did not.

“Why should they?” asked the Maharaja’s mother, “You are cruel to them. You take their land away,  you rob them, you have them whipped and you loot their houses and harass their women. Be nice to them! Give them back their lands and houses and whatever you have looted from them but you must collect taxes from them. See how they suffer and see what help you can give them but don’t let them know it is you who is helping them.”

That, night,  disguised as a pauper, the Maharaja visited his people and saw that they were suffering and, with the money he had taken out from his safe, he started to return money and their belongings by telling them that he had caught the thieves and they had handed over to him the loot. The next day, he ordered for the taxes to be collected and at night, once again, dressed as a pauper, he visited his own people and gave them money. This went on for many years and soon the Maharaja passed away and his sons sold everything that they had and left the state and were never seen again.

“But one day,” said the old man, as he looked up and smiled at me, “a British officer, working on the Railway in British East Africa, saw an Indian working on the lines and saw something that he recognised as a sign of a Princely person.”

“The Maharaja,” said the Indian man, “was my grandfather. I am here to earn a good living and perhaps, one day, bring my family here.”

“That is how we all became normal people,” said the old man, as he looked down at me and smiled.