(1)The forests of the Ridge are a lung to Delhi. From here, this enormous city, one of the most populous in the world, is invisible, inaudible. The Ridge is uninhabited, almost. For hidden away in a thick jungle of keekar and babul trees are two very different buildings, just 20 metres apart. A satellite ground station next to a ruined hunting lodge, built more than six hundred years ago. The former is bristling with modernity, large dishes, CCTV and high-security defences. However, the inhabitants of the decrepit Malcha Mahal take their security even more seriously. Next to a footpath to the building is a rusted metal signboard that declares:
ENTRY RESTRICTED.
CAUTIOUS OF HOUND DOGS.
PROCLAMATION.
INTRUDERS SHALL BE GUNDOWN.
Malcha Mahal is occupied by members of the former royal family of Oudh, whose rule ended in the 1850s. They fell on hard times, living at one point in the 1980s in a waiting-room at New Delhi Railway Station before hiding themselves away on the Ridge. They have not shot anyone, to my knowledge, though they have let loose their dogs on those who have gone beyond the signpost without permission. I first attempted to visit Malcha Mahal in the early nineties, as a young reporter for the BBC. A liveried servant, whose once-white uniform was muddied and torn, appeared with a large black dog on a tight leash. He carried a silver tray, on which I placed my business card and a letter asking for an audience. Ten minutes later, I received a letter informing me that my request had been turned down, but that I was welcome to ask again. I had now returned, more than 15 years later; a friend had secured an audience with them, and asked me to tag along…
“Do you know Moses?” the Princess asked, fixing me with an intense glare. I must have looked puzzled. “The Mount Sinai Moses,” she clarified, exasperated at having to talk to such a simpleton, “in the Bible.” My mind wandered to the only other people named Moses whom I could think of, Ed and Grandma (2), before I said: “Not personally, but I’ve certainly heard of him.” A chortle ran through my body, as if a fit of giggles was about to overtake me. I lowered my head, so as not to catch her eye, as she continued: “We are descended from the Pharaohs. Do you know what I am saying?”
‘Ordinariness is a sin’
She squinted at me through the beam of sunlight that separated us, specks of dust dancing through the air, each of us seated beside the crumbling column of a 14th-century hunting lodge. Was this a test? Could I keep a straight face? More than anything else, I must not laugh. A pigeon swept down, close enough for its wing beats to fan cool air on to my cheeks. I looked around at the bare stone walls of the Malcha Mahal and my mood became suitably dark. I was able to remain po-faced through the rest of a theatrical 20-minute oration on the sorrows of the royal house of Oudh, a bravura performance that ended with a declaration that seemed to give a clue to the speaker’s hidden tragedy, “Ordinariness is not just a crime. It is a sin. A sin.”
An hour earlier we had driven through the forests of the Ridge up to the signboard, and were met by a silent manservant in tattered blue livery and a gold-tipped turban who ushered us up a rocky path to the weather-scarred hilltop lodge. There were no doors or windows. Out of an arch emerged Prince Cyrus, dapper and jaunty, wearing blue suede shoes; more than welcoming. From the shadows of a column stepped his older sister, Princess Sakina, proud and gaunt, wild of hair, deep trenches in her face, as if etched by terrible tears of sorrow. She was less than welcoming.
I had brought a bouquet of blue flowers. They were placed on a table next to a crystal decanter that contained the ashes of their mother. Princess Vilayat Mahal had, I was told, killed herself by swallowing crushed diamonds, a regal way of dying (3). Sakina has not left the building since that day. She says she never will. She spoke of betrayal, of servants who had robbed and deserted her, of journalists who misquoted her, of government officials who had broken their promises. She spoke of a former prime minister, PV Narasimha Rao, who stopped her mother from getting an allowance, and refused to allow the hunting lodge to be repaired. “He came to see us, you know. But we turned him away. Shoo, shoo, shoo.” Cyrus laughed, and I saw the faintest of smiles on the lips of Sakina. “We can’t trust anyone except our dogs. Dogs cannot be deceitful.” She pointed out through an arch, where I saw a huge black Great Dane, regal and terrifying, looking in at me. “We don’t call them dogs. They are Anubis. It is humans who are dogs.”
A sad softness came over her. She talked a little about the past, of the city of Lucknow where the old Oudh palaces, confiscated by the British at the time of the mutiny, are crumbling. She remembered a Jewish governess whom she clearly adored, and who had taught her that ordinariness was a sin; and Zita, the last Austro-Hungarian empress, who had written to her mother. Cyrus told us of the beautiful silver cutlery that he’d had to sell, and that he had an old General Electric Fridge that he now uses as a wardrobe. There is no electricity at Malcha Mahal, no running water, though Cyrus has managed to get a telephone connection.
I climbed up on the roof, overgrown with shrubs and weeds, and, standing on a fractured stone parapet, gazed beneath. All around lay a carpet of green, the treetops of an ancient forest, the distant towers of commercial Delhi like a mirage in the morning haze, the stately domes of India’s British interregnum poking through the undergrowth like toys on an unmowed lawn. I told Cyrus that that I had never seen such a spectacular view of Delhi. He said he would like people to come and stay at Malcha Mahal – writers or painters who would appreciate the view from this rooftop. A heritage guesthouse perhaps, bringing in a small income. They would need to do some work – put in some toilets, a water supply, electricity, furniture, windows, doors, rooms – but apart from that he seemed optimistic, though he didn’t seem so sure that his sister could cope, or the dogs.
Back downstairs, I found the courage to ask Sakina if I could take some photographs. There was a slight nod of coyness; yes, I would be allowed. She offered me an apple, and then another one when I had gobbled down the first. There was no sign of any other food for Cyrus and Sakina (or of a kitchen), so I did not take a second apple. I did take photos of Sakina standing in front of the entrance arch to Malcha Mahal. She had stopped trying to be intimidating and extraordinary; she was almost posing for the camera. She waved, slightly embarrassed, as we left.
We walked back through the forest towards the car, a jackal casually strolling beside the road. I was left thinking about the things I wished I’d said. I wished I’d told Sakina that being ordinary might not be such a sin after all, and that in a city of 15 million people it is quite hard to be other than ordinary, even for those of us who feel we’re different. I wanted to suggest that the struggle to avoid ordinariness might just drive you mad. I do not think she would have heard me out.
