Kishore Singh: The state of our state

When my grandfather retired, in 1939, on a British pension payable in pounds sterling for the next three generations, it was to a small spot in the Thar, called Dhupalia, where he came back to settle in the home and land of his ancestors. He was, to all intents and purposes, a big fish in a small pond, the chief to whom everyone turned when in any trouble, and presumably also when there was happiness to share. In the way things happened in that neck of the woods, he might even have declared his independence and held out for his own (very little, true) kingdom, but there was the pension to consider.

 

It’s something I’m thinking a lot about these days, now that everyone and his uncle wants a fiefdom of their own, a small state where you can be chief minister and citizen by rotation. “What if,” I said to my son, “we were to go back to Dhupalia and ask that the Centre recognise it as a state, else we could negotiate for freedom and a break from the Indian republic?” Because my son is studying law, he asked the kind of questions lawyers routinely ask: What proof was there that we were from aforesaid place? Did we have a priority claim to the territory? At a pinch, would the citizenry there vote for us? Besides, he asked, what was there in it for us?

Actually, that should be: What’s there in it for me? The way these things happen in the state, primogeniture is all. Which means that my father inherited not just his father’s pension but also the whole ancestral heap that comes with it, and while it may not be much, it’s a good sight more than most. He has not, to the best of my knowledge, laid claim to the pounds piling up in some bank account, and any visits to the fiefdom are for the express purpose of housekeeping than any genuine pleasure in being an overlord.

“At some stage, all this will be yours,” I once told my elder brother, who laughed — he’s practical enough to recognise a liability when he sees it — so it’s clear he’s not going to go on a fast any time soon to have it recognised as the smallest state in the Union. Besides, there’s a very good reason for his reluctance to take on the dusting and maintenance, a pithy pension in pounds notwithstanding — he can’t hand the stuff over to his daughters because of the complicated rules of inheritance, and so the next in generation to shoulder the housekeeping must be his nephew. I feel a little like Prince Charles, with Queen Elizabeth all set to pass the baton not to him but to the bonny Prince William. Imagine having to suck up to your own son for a pittance in pounds!

“Could you write up a Constitution?” I asked my son, who said the country already had one, thank you, and all that was required was a ratification of some sort by Parliament, which meant I either needed to know enough politicians to swing a vote in favour of the state of Dhupalia, population 2,318 at last count, or else be prepared to fast for its statehood, which, while I may eat little, I value too greatly to consider ever going hungry. Besides, as my son pointed out, I might last out a day without food, but what about an evening without alcohol?

“I really think we should push for our own state,” I responded in irritation, “wouldn’t you want your own little chiefdom?” My son chewed on the thought for a bit, then said, “Not really — but”, he laughed, “I might settle for that pension.”