BURRA LORD SAHIB

Auckland Star, Volume LXX, Issue 24, 30 January 1939, Page 15

BURRA LORD SAHIB

JJE was six feet four in his socks. But of course the world never saw him in his socks. The world doesn't usually see his Kxcellencv the Viceroy and (tovernor-fJeneral of Indi.i. in any such undignified stite of undress. It is accustomed to see liim in State processions—a super-imposing figure in gorgeous array, perhaps beneath a-i umbrella of scarlet and gold in a carriage and eight, preceded by a bodyguard of lancers with glistening pennons. Or in morning dress, immaculate, opening a legislative assembly, laying a. foundation stone, making some pontifical pronouncement of policy. Or at some colourful levee, in knee breeches and cutaway tails, with a broad ban<7 of scarlet across a chest almost hidden with orders. ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ A commanding figure, the Viceroy, "Burra Lord Sahib" to three hundred and fifty millions of people, far removed above a mere "Lord Hahib," otherwise known as a provincial governor. Yet could it be juat imagination that the King-Emperor's deputy in the governance of a vast land" sometimes looked rather lonely, always a little sad ? Anyhow, whenever T read now of a Cabinet meeting in Downing Street I always think of Chitor. Perhaps you've never heard of Chitor. It's only about a day's journey from Bombay, but rather off the travellers's track. Think of that wild Cornish headland known as King Arthur's Castle. Multiply its area by a dozen or so. Subtract from it the seagulls. Add snakes enough to kill an army. Then you have some idea of the eerie place that once was the centre of one of the bloodiest battles in India's troubled history, where the last of the fortress defenders sallied forth to be slain by a besieging army while their womenfolk stayed behind, shut themselves in an underground chamber, and committed mass suicide by burning. I had gone to Chitor after rather a hectic week in Udaipur, a Rajput city, which to-day is rather like tW» Venice of the Borgias. There, as the representative of a Bombay newspaper, J had been sharing in the prodigal hospitality that Old India gives to a Viceroy visitor. We had seen elephants and camels and cavalry in gay trappings. We had eaten Parisian food in the gaudy splendour of lakeside palaces. The mystery of the' jungle had been merely deepened by the thousands of fairy lights that hung from the palms.

By -- H. G. PERRY

We ha<l shot deer from luxury motor and cavalry in gap trappings. We had the safety of shooting boxes that might have been forts in the Maginot line. We had gone round the lakes in gorgeous State barges, manned by dozens of oarsmen just like those galley boats of Roman days, and in fast motor craft such as are the toys of millionaires.

It was but ours to command, and some slave of the lamp would do our bidding. For that is the custom in an Old India State. And India is a land where custom persists still.

Centre of all this Arabian Nights splendour was a tall, resplendent figure. Peasants placed their foreheads in the dust as he passed, so deep were their obeisances.

And a Rajput rajah autocrat who held these thousands of lives in his hands nearly touched his toes as he salaamed to his overlord.

Hell!" I'm sk-k of this. Let's get out of it!" said an American newspaper man who was wintering in India, wandering around looking for "colour" and finding so much of it that he became bilious.

That's why we went to Chitor, which is only a few hours away by rail and an hour or so more on a pony's back — to get away from what my candid colleague called "all this silly blasted pomp and show," to climb the battlements of that old fortress, and to find peace and quiet amidst the ruins of a plateau where centuries ago had been the same eort of strife that has been handed down the ages to our own generation.

We slept that night in the railhead waiting-room instead of lying awake in a palace, and for the first time for a week we awoke without a hang-over.

My companion was the first to throw off the blankets (he hadn't been so long in India as I had). He went to the door, peeped out, hurriedly shut the door with a bang. "(ireat Christopher Columbus!" he said, "If that darned guy hasn't followed us down here!"

His Excellency the Viceroy, GovernorOeneral of India, sure had. There wae hie cream-coloured train , in a aiding.

"This is where we quit again," said the man from America. "I saw a tent

about half a mile away last night. Probably some district engineer on tour. We'll look over and see if we can cadge a bite." So we made a hurried toilet, etrodo off in the direction of our tented refuge. "Here we are," said my colleague. "As I'm a stranger in the land I'll go first and Bee if he'll take us in." He lifted the flap, looked inside, hurriedly put back the canvas, and came back to where I was standing with a look of awe on his face. "His Nibs," he said. "In there. Praying!" ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ Together we went to the tent entrance. I had heard that the Viceroy was what is known ae "High Church— one of those near Catholics, you know." The inside of that tent might have been the inside of on© of those tiny Bethel chapels that you still can see in the West of England and in Wales. Not more than twelve square feet. Perfectly plain. At the far end was a surpliced figure. He seemed to have one of those portable Communion sets that parsons carry when they visit the eick. But it was all too intimate for more than a hasty glance. In front of the padre was kneeling the same 6ft figure that we had seen so much of for a week' in the splendid raiment of the "Burr* Lord Sahib." I But there was nothing regal now. The autocratic overlord of yesterday had become the humble Sabbath morning supplicant: ". . . For Thine is the Kingdom, the Power and the Glory, for ever and ever. Amen." We crept away, a little ashamed of our intrusion. And it was only after we had got back to the rail head and the man from America had taken a swig from a flask of foul rye whisky that he always carried with him, that he broke silence: "You dammed Britishers beat the band!" ♦ ♦ + + It happened nearly a dozen years ago. Maybe you know which Viceroy that was. Certainly you have heard a lot about him, are still hearing a lot. There's a lot of truth in that old, old tag, "Appearances are deceptive," You can no more judge a pro-consul than any other man by the clothes he wears. "I rather like that guy now," said the man from America. "So do I," said I. ' For we knew that, like us, tj»e "Burra Lord Sahib" bad been Marching for peace. And wp knew, by the glimpse we had of his face, that he had found it.