and got into bed.
His last memory was a late-night image of his wife in blouse and petticoat, taking off her jewellery before a dimly lit dressing table.
‘I hope I was not too rude . . .’ he said in sleep and partial hope.
‘Don’t worry,’ she replied archly, putting the last of her gold bangles in a shallow silver tray, ‘they didn’t even notice.’
* * *
The years crawled and then raced. A new energy seeped into every corner of life in India. The memory of that time of shortages faded. And with that change, as purchasing power
parities turned to real terms, men like Sethia grew into giants overnight. Business ceased to be one of many stories; it became the only story. And the people who visited India in those new decades
did not seek out the princes as they once had; they sought out men like Sethia.
But Sethia never forgot. He never forgave himself that on that night, now lost in the darkest folds of the 1980s, when no one had known that the country was on the eve of change, he had not had
the courage to be the man he intended to be. And he was not above settling scores. In fact his antipathy for the princes had surpassed the Rajamata’s person, now old and frail, and had
extended to all the descendants of all those families to whom gun salutes of any number, ranging from one to twenty-one, had ever been offered.
Just before the close of the decade, he had tried to avenge himself with the Maharaja of Gwalior.
The Maharaja had entered politics and wanted to meet Sethia as part of the regular fund-raising activities politicians conduct at election time. Sethia readily agreed to see him. They sat in the
study of his old Lutyens Delhi house. Across from them, on the desk, were crested silver frames containing pictures of the Maharaja’s family with other princes and British dignitaries as well
as a large collection of coloured stone lingas.
Sethia, after several minutes of stilted conversation, over the course of which he agreed to give the Maharaja the ten lakhs he wanted for his campaign, looked somewhat aimlessly over at the
desk and muttered, ‘The junk the princes collected!’
The Maharaja was not sure he had heard right.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I said,’ Sethia repeated, ‘the junk you princes collected.’
At this the young Maharaja laughed uproariously. ‘You couldn’t be more right,’ he said, ‘when I go through some of my father’s and grandfather’s things,
I’m filled with shame. I think of the incredible bronzes and stone sculpture that it was possible for them to have made collections of. And what do we have instead? Porcelain seals.
Paperweights. Models of European landmarks. Nudes by forgotten artists. What can I say? Except that I think, with colonization, we forgot our points of reference.’
Sethia sank into a dissatisfied silence. This was not the reaction he had hoped for. He felt like a man forced to swallow a ball of phlegm he had been ready to spit out. Then, tucking in the
crimped and fan-shaped end of his lungi between his legs, he said to the Maharaja, ‘How come you have chosen to meet me in your bed clothes?’
The prince looked puzzled. He gazed down at his kurta pajama, and with great hesitation, fearful he was compromising his ten lakhs, said at last: ‘I’m not sure I know what you
mean.’
‘Ah!’ Sethia said, and continuing with musical fluency, added, ‘I was told by my elders that pajamas were to be worn between the bathroom and the bedroom, and never, if it
could be helped, in the corridor.’
The Maharaja’s confusion grew; he felt perhaps that a joke had been made, but he was not sure. He smiled uneasily; Sethia’s expression remained stern and expectant.
‘One has to compromise,’ the Maharaja said at last, in as mollifying a tone as he could manage.
Sethia’s face turned to disgust, as though he had lost respect for his adversary. He rose to leave. ‘You’ll have your money, Gwalior. You should have asked for
His last memory was a late-night image of his wife in blouse and petticoat, taking off her jewellery before a dimly lit dressing table.
‘I hope I was not too rude . . .’ he said in sleep and partial hope.
‘Don’t worry,’ she replied archly, putting the last of her gold bangles in a shallow silver tray, ‘they didn’t even notice.’
* * *
The years crawled and then raced. A new energy seeped into every corner of life in India. The memory of that time of shortages faded. And with that change, as purchasing power
parities turned to real terms, men like Sethia grew into giants overnight. Business ceased to be one of many stories; it became the only story. And the people who visited India in those new decades
did not seek out the princes as they once had; they sought out men like Sethia.
But Sethia never forgot. He never forgave himself that on that night, now lost in the darkest folds of the 1980s, when no one had known that the country was on the eve of change, he had not had
the courage to be the man he intended to be. And he was not above settling scores. In fact his antipathy for the princes had surpassed the Rajamata’s person, now old and frail, and had
extended to all the descendants of all those families to whom gun salutes of any number, ranging from one to twenty-one, had ever been offered.
Just before the close of the decade, he had tried to avenge himself with the Maharaja of Gwalior.
The Maharaja had entered politics and wanted to meet Sethia as part of the regular fund-raising activities politicians conduct at election time. Sethia readily agreed to see him. They sat in the
study of his old Lutyens Delhi house. Across from them, on the desk, were crested silver frames containing pictures of the Maharaja’s family with other princes and British dignitaries as well
as a large collection of coloured stone lingas.
Sethia, after several minutes of stilted conversation, over the course of which he agreed to give the Maharaja the ten lakhs he wanted for his campaign, looked somewhat aimlessly over at the
desk and muttered, ‘The junk the princes collected!’
The Maharaja was not sure he had heard right.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I said,’ Sethia repeated, ‘the junk you princes collected.’
At this the young Maharaja laughed uproariously. ‘You couldn’t be more right,’ he said, ‘when I go through some of my father’s and grandfather’s things,
I’m filled with shame. I think of the incredible bronzes and stone sculpture that it was possible for them to have made collections of. And what do we have instead? Porcelain seals.
Paperweights. Models of European landmarks. Nudes by forgotten artists. What can I say? Except that I think, with colonization, we forgot our points of reference.’
Sethia sank into a dissatisfied silence. This was not the reaction he had hoped for. He felt like a man forced to swallow a ball of phlegm he had been ready to spit out. Then, tucking in the
crimped and fan-shaped end of his lungi between his legs, he said to the Maharaja, ‘How come you have chosen to meet me in your bed clothes?’
The prince looked puzzled. He gazed down at his kurta pajama, and with great hesitation, fearful he was compromising his ten lakhs, said at last: ‘I’m not sure I know what you
mean.’
‘Ah!’ Sethia said, and continuing with musical fluency, added, ‘I was told by my elders that pajamas were to be worn between the bathroom and the bedroom, and never, if it
could be helped, in the corridor.’
The Maharaja’s confusion grew; he felt perhaps that a joke had been made, but he was not sure. He smiled uneasily; Sethia’s expression remained stern and expectant.
‘One has to compromise,’ the Maharaja said at last, in as mollifying a tone as he could manage.
Sethia’s face turned to disgust, as though he had lost respect for his adversary. He rose to leave. ‘You’ll have your money, Gwalior. You should have asked for
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