Victoria & Abdul (40 page)

Curzon informed Hamilton that the Duke and Duchess were ‘delighted by everything’. The former accepted a sword of £20,000 from the Maharajah of Jaipur, something that did not please the Viceroy. He noted that there was a ‘general feeling of disgust: for the impression already exists that an Indian chief exists only to be bled’. The present King, noted Curzon, gave presents in India of £20–25,000 and ‘took away presents worth over 1 million sterling’.
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Curzon warned Hamilton that the Royals were prone to freeloading. ‘When the Prince and Princess of Wales come next year, it will be necessary to lay down the strictest of rules. They really must not loot the Chiefs. The Associations, Municipal and Communities will give them excellent gifts.’ Curzon also felt strongly that the Duke of Connaught should not have imposed for three weeks after the Durbar.

Meanwhile, the statue of Queen Victoria arrived in Calcutta by March 1902 and was placed temporarily in the Maidan where it was ‘surrounded by thousands of admiring Natives’. The Viceroy also visited Agra in April 1902 and noted that the monuments being erected there would be the most beautiful. It is not recorded whether the Viceroy met the Munshi while in Agra or whether the Munshi was invited to any of the Viceroy’s Durbars in the city.

The Munshi had built a new house, Karim Lodge, in the heart of Agra, on the land that the Queen had given him. He lived comfortably on his sizeable income and was seen riding through the city in his carriage. Karim Cottage had a grand drive with fruit trees planted around the edges. The walls inside were covered with framed photographs of the Munshi and signed photographs of the Queen and other Royals. The glass cabinets proudly displayed the gifts Karim had received from European Royalty, including the tea set from the Tsarina of Russia, the jewel-embossed walking stick presented by Sardar Nasrullah of Afghanistan and other treasures. There was a silver Diamond Jubilee cup specially engraved for Abdul Karim and presented by the Queen, and a bronze statuette of Karim cast in England in 1890. In the basement of the house were drawers full of elegant personal stationery and correspondence from Karim’s days in the Royal Palaces. Visitors flooded in to see the objects and often Karim could be heard regaling people with his tales about life in Queen Victoria’s Court.

In December 1905 George, Prince of Wales, went on a tour of India and visited Agra, where he was captivated by the beauty of the Taj, and gave an account of it that his grandmother would have so loved to hear: ‘After dinner we paid a short visit to the Taj Mahal which looked quite lovely in the moonlight. It is, I should think, the most beautiful building in the world, the white marble looks so dignified and peaceful and yet so grand, it impressed us immensely.’

The next day he visited it again and spent a good hour and a half examining it ‘most carefully, both inside and out from every point, both near & far & I must say it is the most graceful and impressive building I have ever seen’.

The Prince of Wales also made time to see his grandmother’s favourite Indian, the Munshi. He wrote to his father:

In the evening we saw ‘the Munshi’. He has not grown more beautiful and is getting fat. I must say he was most civil and humble and really pleased to see us, he wore his CVO which I had no idea he had got. I am told he lives quite quietly here and gives no trouble at all. We also saw dear Grandmama’s last four Indian servants who were with her up to her death, they also live here.
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The next day, the Prince of Wales unveiled a statue of Queen Victoria by Sir Thomas Brock which was erected in the centre of MacDonald Park in Agra. ‘With the Fort on one side and the Taj on the other, no more perfect site could have been found, and the statue can be seen a long way off. Dear Old Sir Pertab was quite affected when I unveiled it, as you know how devoted he was to Grandmama,’ said the Prince, who wore full military uniform for the occasion. He did not notice the figure of the Munshi also quietly wiping a tear as the Queen took her place in his city with a thirty-one gun salute fired from Agra Fort and the troops in full attendance. The day-long event ended with a dinner attended by all the leading people of Agra followed by a reception. The Prince described the evening as a ‘tedious affair’. It was one of the last formal engagements with the Royal family attended by the Munshi.

He was not invited to the laying of the foundation stone of the Victoria Memorial Hall by the Prince of Wales in an elaborate
ceremony in January 1906, where the ‘whole of Calcutta, both English and Indian’ made an appearance. It was followed by a state ball at Government House, Calcutta, attended by 2,000 people, where the Prince danced till 1.30 a.m. Lord Curzon, the main motivator behind the project, was also not present as he had left for England.

In his letter to his father, George wrote that he had a ‘very successful’ month in Calcutta as it was successful politically as well, given the negative feelings about the British government following the partition of Bengal. ‘Our visit too was most opportune, as the feeling was very strong against the government owing to the Partition of Bengal and it made them think of something else, and the Bengalis most certainly showed their loyalty to the throne in a most unmistakeable manner,’ wrote the Prince of Wales. He also added that he had killed during his month’s stay in India thirteen tigers and four panthers.

The Indian political landscape was changing rapidly. Within three years an Indian was appointed to the Viceroy’s Council to keep revolutionary sentiments against the British in check. The appointment was vehemently opposed by King Edward VII, who wrote a strong protest to Lord Morley, the Secretary of State for India, after he was forced to approve of it. The Prince of Wales wrote to the King: ‘I think it will be fraught with grave danger to our rule in India.’
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In Agra, the Munshi had fallen ill. He had aged quickly over the last few years and was often melancholy. All the material wealth that he had could not compensate for the precious moments he had spent with the Empress of India, the warmth of her presence as she visited his house and had tea with his wife, and the quiet lessons that they had enjoyed together. He spent his last days riding in his carriage to MacDonald Park, sitting by the statue of Queen Victoria and watching the sun set over the Taj Mahal. His mind drifted back to the wintry days in Balmoral, the fresh smell of Highland heather, the sound of the River Dee as it flowed behind Karim Cottage and the feel of the leather-bound volumes of the Hindustani Journals passing through his hands. As the harsh winter turned to spring in 1909, the Munshi died quietly in Karim Lodge with his wife and nephew by his side. The colourful spring festival of Holi, which he had so often described to the Queen, had just been celebrated in Agra.

O
n 20 April 1909 King Edward VII was sailing on the
Victoria and Albert
enjoying the gentle lapping of the waves against the yacht when he received a piece of unexpected news. It was the announcement of the death of Munshi Hafiz Abdul Karim. Eight years after Queen Victoria’s death, her beloved Munshi had died in his native town of Agra. He was only forty-six.

The Times
had carried a small obituary, written by its Lucknow correspondent, briefly giving the Munshi’s duties in the Court and the Queen’s high regard for him.

The Queen reposed the utmost confidence in her Indian secretary. He was made a companion of the Order of the Indian Empire in 1895 and a Companion of the Royal Victorian Order in May 1899 only three years after the institution of the Order. Her Majesty continued her lessons in Hindustani until stricken by her brief final illness … Owing to the pressure of the daily duties of state, she had not the leisure to make rapid progress in this study, but the fact that she understood it and became able both to write and speak the language with some facility gave profound gratification to her Indian subjects.
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Somewhat discreetly the correspondent added: ‘Munshi Abdul Karim was liberally pensioned and returned to India. He lived a quiet estimable life at Agra, his closing years being clouded by indifferent health. He cherished the memory of his illustrious pupil with profound veneration.’

Arthur Bigge, the Prince of Wales’s private secretary, had bluntly written to Lord Knollys, the King’s private secretary, saying: ‘You will have seen that “the Munshi” is dead – I can have no regret!’
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Knollys immediately passed on this information.

Shocked by the news, the King cast his boxes aside and pencilled a note to the Viceroy of India, instructing him to immediately transmit a telegram from the yacht: ‘The King hopes you will take discreet precautions to ensure that any existing correspondence of the Munshi Abdul Karim, whose death is announced, does not fall into improper hands.’
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The King’s relationship with the Munshi had always been uneasy. Though he had raided Karim’s house after the Queen’s death and burnt all her letters to him, he was now consumed by a feeling of panic and suspicion. He wanted every letter retrieved from the family, every bit of correspondence seized. He had heard from one of Queen Victoria’s servants – Ahmed Husain – that the Munshi had kept a few letters from the Queen hidden, fuelling the sixty-eight-year-old’s unease that compromising letters from his mother to the Munshi could be made public by the Munshi’s family. The image of the portly Munshi and his mother floated before him again. The King recalled his mother’s unyielding faith in Karim and how she had often reprimanded him for his criticism of the Indian, insisting he treat him with respect. He recalled the Munshi’s smug expression whenever he won a round against the Court, the hoard of medals he always wore with pride and the sword that he was allowed to carry by the Queen. His feelings of revulsion flooded back and the King was determined not to rest until he was certain every part of the correspondence had been destroyed.

At the Viceroy’s camp in Dehradun in India, Lord Minto was enjoying the weather, a soothing respite from the heat of Calcutta. It had been a hectic year; terrorism and militancy had reared its head in the state following the partition of Bengal by Lord Curzon in 1905. Militant groups of Bengali youths were planning an escalation of assassinations and bombings. In Calcutta, Bengali papers like the
Jugantar
were fanning this nationalism by backing the militants, and the government was coming under considerable pressure to grant representation to the Indian people.

Along with the Secretary of State for India, Lord Morley, Minto had reluctantly put together an urgently necessary package of reforms – which became known as the Minto-Morley Reforms – designed to contain the rising forces of Indian nationalism. The Reform Act granted Indian representation in Provincial Councils. Muslims would be given special representation so they didn’t feel excluded. The Act was making its way through Parliament, and Minto was hoping it would be cleared.

The pleasant surrounds of Dehradun were a relief compared to Calcutta. The liveried attendant brought in the telegram from the King. It demanded a further visit to the Munshi’s house. Minto sighed in disbelief and shot off a letter to Sir John Hewitt, Lieutenant Governor of the United Provinces.