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| Kishore Singh: Another 'princess' remembers |
| Kishore Singh / New Delhi Sep 19, 2009, 00:16 IST |
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The gravelly tone was familiar, risen one might think from the grave, should one believe in all that supernatural hokum-pokum, that smoky, seductive voice that claimed it came from the same DNA pool as an erstwhile maharani just dead, her ashes still warm before the break out of an inheritance battle over her sprawling estates, her fabulous jewels and Lalique and Rosenthal baubles. “I am her daughter,” said this voice — surely a prankster? — “I found out last year.”
For generations, royals have battled over the spoils of their inheritance, their internecine squabbles reduced to undignified grabs for crumbling mansions and worn-out carpets, at attempts to reign over neglected trusts while dressing up in florid brocades for tourist dollars. Brothers and sisters and cousins have neither spared nor shared the loot. But here, as they say in Bollywood, was a story with a twist — an outsider come to claim the crown?
The recently deceased queen dowager had left behind a legacy that is no trifle, approximated by some at an astounding Rs 2,500 crore in India, another $850 million in trusts in London. Claimants and counter-claimants for the fabulous treasure had surfaced, all within the family so far but, it would appear, no longer.
The claim of the voice over the phone might have been preposterous but surely it bore out a hearing, not that its bearer seemed likely to relent any time soon on her claim “as the sole inheritor”. Holed up in a hotel suite, “in hiding”, for strange things, she says, had peppered her life — “like bodies dropping dead” around her “without rigor mortis setting in” — she was in two minds: inherit-and scoot “to Switzerland for shopping”, or “complete exposure” of the “lies people have told me for thirty-five years of my life”.
“I am,” she said, “a duplicate of my mother,” brought up by a half-brother in distant Africa, far from any knowledge of a father, allegedly Sri Lankan, or a mother save the factoid that “she was an Indian princess”. And is now in India, being besieged by “boys” because of her legendary beauty, to reach out with greedy hands — no, not for the money, stupid, that would be so crass, but to befriend her “family”, her newfound “nephew and niece”, to build bonds with them, any fallouts being entirely incidental.
“Pshaw!” said my wife rudely, when I repeated the conversation to her later in the evening, “and when does this imposter claim the maharani gave birth to her?” “When she was fifty-four years old,” I responded. “Which should tell you why jam cannot be cheese,” she replied tartly, then seeing my failure to comprehend, said, “Women don’t have babies when they’re fifty-four, so put that in your pipe and smoke it,” which reference again I missed seeing that I don’t smoke anyway.
“How did she find out about her royal connection anyway?” my wife continued to needle me — unfairly, I thought, since I was hardly holding a candle for the stranger — so I said, “She was informed last year, and she fainted at the news.” “Amazing,” said my wife, “and convenient.” “She said something about DNA testing, and blood groups being changed, or blocked at the blood bank, I’m not sure which,” I added helplessly. “How about your brain matter being tested?” my wife said patronisingly, “Or are you in the business of writing fiction?”
“I don’t believe it any more than you do,” I protested, “though you ought to know she has asked me to write a book on her life.” “Now-now,” murmured my wife, “perhaps she told you how she learnt that she was royal-born?” “It’s her name,” I replied, “she said it means Empress, a clue left for her by the parents she says she never knew.”
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