The practical royalty

Meghna Maiti

Mumbai

The afternoon light, as in a theatre, drew a translucent chiffon purdah around the Mewar palace in Udaipur. The royal territory---including the heritage hotels, restaurants, boutique shops, museum and art galleries that pulled a number of tourists wore a deserted look. Dust swirled over the palace courtyard and a fiery wind heralded something intense and desirous as the aroma of barbecued meat, Mewari kebabs wafted through the air. The colossal heritage building stood like a streak of lightning in the burning inferno and drove the pigeons from its open terraces to the safety of their nests. Thousands of bats hovered over Lake Pichola and the floating palaces, encircling a hilltop fortress and then flying away into the horizon.

As the tour guide to the palace museum rambled on about Shriji Arvind Singh Mewar, the 76^th custodian of the Mewar dynasty, the air was filled with a web of magic and mystery. Listening to the tales of Shriji’s royal upbringing, achievements and success as a modern-age entrepreneur, my journey to the heritage hotel---Shiv Niwas---seemed like the common gateway to two different worlds of the glorious past and the mundane present---unbound by space-time continuum.

Amidst all this, entered the man himself. To take us on a tour of the museum and art gallery. Resplendent in stately attire, complete with a sword by the side, his aristocratic appearance gave him the air of a true ruler---the imperial beard, the broad forehead, the acquiline nose----quite identical, in fact, to the portraits and paintings around us. There was Maharana Kumbha, seated with courtiers, watching a nautch girl perform. “He was an erudite man, an authority on grammar, deeply learned and personally accomplished, as keen on the development of artistic excellence as any Medici,” said the museum guide.

When I spotted an old lady chasing a handsome young boy, I yelled maniacally, “Oh that’s Panna dai, isn’t it?” Shriji nodded and flashed a smile. Yes, she was the foster mother of the young king---Udai—the one who sacrificed her real son’s life to save the king from the attack of the cruel Banveer.

Soon after, we saw Maharana Pratap--- he was instantly recognisable with his noble, striking appearance and uncommonly large eyes which he inherited from Maharana Kumbha.

Shortly, as we moved into a dark, empty zone, I could hear the swish of a skirt and the jingle of anklets. A turn to the right and I spotted a goddess-like creature---Padmini---Maharana Ratan Singh’s queen, known to be a lady of pure, unsullied beauty. She smiled in a coy manner and covered her face with a red veil.

As we neared the end of our tour, we realised the hot breeze that had built its sandcastle in the air, suddenly, as if on a whim, collapsed and disappeared. It was 7 pm, time for a boatride to Jagmandir, named after the erstwhile king, Maharana Jagat Singh. The place that once served as a summer resort and pleasure palace for royal parties was now the venue for celebrity wedding parties such as Liz Hurley’s, Raveena Tandon’s and a countless other stars and celebs.

 Soon it was time for the inauguration of the Zenana Mahal--a collection of musical instruments that was now open to the public. The Mewars said they were also planning to open some more galleries featuring costumes and  sculpture. The royal family was slowly showcasing all their resources to the public in order to generate funds for the upkeep of their heritage properties.

By now, the evening was mild and cool with a gentle, balmy wind. After the inauguration ceremony, the palace officials informed me that Shriji was now ready for an exclusive interaction with me, or should I say “audience” in keeping with the regal spirit of things. 

My mind had painted its impression of the aged custodian from our brief interaction during the museum tour. A man of regal birth and bearing, a true aristocrat in his turban and silk robes. Yet when I spoke with Shriji, I saw a man from the dry depths of the desert soil, with a distinct earthy identity. When I said how overwhelmed I was by the presence of a real king, he laughed it off saying: “Those days are long gone. Now I am only a businessman.” As to all my romantic illusions regarding royalty and its charmed way of life, he brushed them aside, saying: “You see, the past is beautiful. But one has to live in the real world. For us now, business is more important. Even Facebook is important. We are trying to promote our hotel chains through tools like that. By the way, are you on Facebook?”

“The royal families are not left with any powers now. We have money but no wealth,” he went on. “There are positive vibrations in the palace. The stories of its rich past will be told numerous times---the stories of Maharana Pratap, Panna dai, Maharana Kumbha, Padmini Devi---to educate and attract tourists. You will find those in books, in light and sound shows in the palace,” he said.

The “audience” over, the “king” moved on. As I sipped my palace-blend infusion tea in the sunset lounge of Shiv Niwas, I could see Lake Pichola, the candle-lit floating palaces, beyond that silhouette of the black hills and  twinkling lights from Monsoon Palace atop a hill looked so dreamlike. It seemed as if nothing in the world was more beautiful than this royal interlude and the sight around me of people singing, dancing, eating, all to the soft sound of the sarangi. It was then that I knew that if it wasn’t for the heat, I would have missed the grand spectacle of the Mewar dynasty!

ENDS

Animus

Meghna Maiti

The man in her may well be an illusion,

A dark, empty, reckless presence,

That personifies everything evil, unreal.

Yet often he appears as a translucent dream,

And builds its bridge to her ‘Self’,

Through a bundle of creative threads.

Animus is the male part of the female psyche or consciousness which stands for hidden sacred convictions. According to the famous psychologist, Carl Jung, when such a conviction is preached with a loud, insistent, masculine voice or imposed on others by means of brutal emotional scenes, the underlying masculinity in a woman is easily recognized. He also said that, even in a woman who is outwardly very feminine the animus could be an equally hard, inexorable power.

Some of us come across a kind of men in life who sort of turn into reflections of our animus. He could come in the disguise of a 'beautiful stranger' or a 'compassionate soul' ever ready to pull us out of our miseries and give us much happiness. They become our spiritual guides but often emotionally unavailable or standoffish. The chase becomes increasingly futile until we realize the illusory aspect of it. Carl Jung has explained how this beautiful stranger is probably a pagan father-figure or god-image. 

Psychologically, he represents a particular form of the animus that lures women away from all human relationships and especially all contacts with real men. “He personifies a cocoon of dreamy thoughts, filled with desire and judgments about how things “ought to be,” which cut a woman from the reality of life,” said Jung in his book, ‘Man and his symbols.”

A woman has to recognize her anima and her sacred convictions to be true to it and not allow herself to be possessed. She has to question who or what her anima is and remain true to her dreams. She could also turn this anima into art. Only then he becomes a true inner guide to her and endows her with masculine qualities.

ENDS

Identity

Our selves are made of fragments of our past, chunks of present and dreams of future. We cannot be defined by a certain period of our lives or history or a decade because a life lived without the memories of its past is half-baked. There has to be that sense of infinite past and future defining us which lends a deeper character to a human being. The great author Milan Kundera said in his book ‘Identity’ that remembering our past, carrying it around with us always, might be the necessary requirement for maintaining, as they say, the wholeness of the self. “To ensure that the self doesn’t shrink, to see that it holds on to its volume, memories have to be watered like potted flowers, and the watering calls for regular contact with the witnesses of the past, that is to say, with friends. They are our mirror; our memory; we ask nothing of them but that they polish the mirror from time to time so we can look at ourselves in it,” Kundera said.

Yet there is this constant struggle to get to our real selves, our distinct identities, which sets us apart from others, gives us a position in the world, makes us more comfortable with our inner selves, clears all confusion and calms our minds.  We often think of identity as a mirage, an inaccessible star, a far-out truth, a sort of journey across the vast salt desert to finally achieve a sense of deep fulfillment. I see this blurred sense of self in the people I meet everyday- the women travelling with me in Mumbai local trains, my friends falling in love for the wrong reasons, the bright young man getting into a silly job. Its the way people operate when they haven’t found their real selves. They tend to build permeable boundaries, limitations set by compromises and circumstances to give themselves a false sense of self. And therein lies all beginning of bitterness, resentment, hostility and ending of beauty, brightness, consciousness. To live with a right sense of identity is perhaps one of the most liberating feelings of life.

Meghna Maiti

Darkness

Darkness descends on the city,

A morbid, killing sense of blacking-out,

There is a feeling of murkiness

In the waning moon, the fading sea;

It comes and comes and consumes me.

How do you feel when darkness and silence reign? Over the awful urban land, through the vast expanses of sea, with the bellowing smoke of drugs and ecstasy, the sudden north-westerly winds, off the cliffs of your lane, into your house and then slowly into the deep recesses of your mind. So imagine the hours of loneliness and loss, boxed in and boxed out and always willing to break all barriers and yet unable to do so. Darkness is like a ragged, unendurable, tyrannical, fanatical, cruel force that entraps you with all its might. It clings to you like a leech and sucks all your blood. Imagine being alone in a desolate street, lit only by lampposts. Some of the lampposts are blurred by smoky haze. And when you look up, you only see the waning moon through the barren branches of a tree. You yearn for company, warmth, love but there’s no one. You will feel a sense of darkness. And this is not just confined to such deserted spaces. Even in urban jungle, when you let your greed control you, and chase illusions, you will feel dark, empty. In such instances, the darkness seems like devilish creatures coming alive of their own free will, scheming and plotting to end your life. Yet the other side of darkness is light. We cannot perhaps avoid darkness because we need to win it over to be able to see the sunshine. The further we travel into darkness, the slower our life-force becomes. And finally we become slave of darker emotions. So we like to travel from one land to the other, from one relationship to the next, from one goal to another, to keep from getting lost in the dark.

Meghna Maiti