Oh! Talk not to me of a name great in story,

The days of our youth are the days of our glory. (Lord Byron)

The early childhood experiences are so powerful that they remain buried deep in the human memory long after their happening. I am recounting some early recollections that are fresh in my mind as they were decades ago.

We look before and after,

And pine for what is not:

(We look back and forth and grieve for things we could not possess or achieve.) (Shelley)

I was young in time. My father was the ruler of a very large and powerful state which was situated near the borders of Nepal. However, in words only, the entire territory and its treasures had been forcefully usurped by the English marauders, and only some internal control of the state was left to us. That great amity was a friendly gesture for voluntarily gifting the state to the British Crown.

Though all political and civil protocols were provided to him, he was toiling under the sway of the British Empire, and any major decision strictly needed the approval of the Viceroy.

Her Majesty, in his all-benevolence, had decorated him with various high-voiced titles for his meritorious service of keeping a ‘neutral posture’ towards the atrocities which were perpetrated by the English forces on the enslaved Indians. In fact, stripped of all his lands and military powers, he had very little choice in the matter. He, being a very astute statesman, never antagonised the British; therefore, enjoyed more confessions and powers than any other contemporary ruler who, out of animosity, called him the Queen’s pawn.

He was a foreign-educated, thoroughbred, and a remarkably generous gentleman. He was a tall, well-built, and a very handsome person, known for his meticulous dressing, aesthetic sense, and soft manners. He was extremely popular among women who hovered around him like bees.

Incidentally, he was averse to alcoholic drinks, not by reason of any...

Heaven’s forbiddance, but for the simple objective that it always distressed his stomach and restricted him to the bed.

My mother, a very beautiful but a simple woman, could not tolerate the faltering of this performed lady-killer and had withdrawn from him to stay with her wealthy parents.

‘Though she was only a fleeting glory; No god can erase her from my memory!’

To provide luxury to my barren life, she had bequeathed me with a king-size steel vault full of gold ingots, sovereigns, jewellery, and countless stacks of British and Indian currency notes. Ironically, the most needed wealth, the love of parents, was not within my domain.

Our sincerest laughter

With some pain is fraught;

Our sweetest songs are those that tell of the saddest thought.

[Our best happy moments are tinged with some pain. Our best songs are those which portray the saddest events.] (Shelley)

Our town was surrounded by lofty mountains, natural beauty, and an intemperate climate. The summers were excellent, but the winters extremely cold with a long period of snowfall, and the whole valley remained frozen in the snowy season. The inhabitants of these nearby mountains were of such a vicious disposition that even the Government avoided a direct confrontation with their private laws and customs.

Their women were extremely fair and beautiful, though thoroughly promiscuous, but beyond the reach of a common man outside their tribe.

In the summer seasons, they usually came to the plains to farm the fields or be employed by rich families where they had clandestine affairs with their masters and mothered their bastard children. The penalty of their being discovered was expulsion from the tribe or a silent death, and the guilty male, but a British Indian subject, was comparatively safe. The administration had specific warnings to the local inhabitants to avoid such incidents, and in case of non-compliance, undertook no guarantee of their safety.

We lived with our grandeur in our ancestral palatial mansion, which was handed down from father to son. The building was constructed on an old Indian architectural design, and its tall marbled Corinthian columns, gables, domes, and towers were visible from miles ahead.

The house had dozens of idle halls and rooms, but one special hall was more sacred than a church and kept under strict vigilance. It contained the family’s archives, large paintings of our ancestors and their battle outfits, commemorating the bygone glory. Hidden somewhere in the depth of this room, unknown even to me, was our family’s ancient treasure, which somehow my father had astutely concealed from the greedy eyes of the English robbers.

However, the guests were purposely shown this room, even if they were reluctant. The purpose was to ward off any suspicion as to its real significance.

There were two divans, private and public. The private divan, however, divested of its former celebrity, was used only when a delegation from the Viceroy called on my father. At the outer portion of the mansion, there was an open space large enough to accommodate a crowded assembly and was called the public divan. It served the purpose of holding the open Kutchery where my father, like a tiny god, decided the fate of humanity.

Though very generous and lenient with the poor, he always punished the erring ones. The men and old women were penalised to work in the fields, but the young women and girls, usually accused of adultery or elopement, were ordered to serve their servitude period in the mansion, but with a suitable salary.