35053668-Empire-of-the-Soul-Paul-William-Roberts

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EMPIRE OF THE SOUL
father had been the only Indian granted an hereditary peerage by
the British government, for services rendered, and the privilege
remained a useful asset to the family, even after Independence.
Calcutta was one place that could say in all honesty that ‘things
were so much better when the British were here.’ Indeed, the upper
classes of Bengali society happily filled the vacuum left by the Raj
in countless ways, continuing many of its institutions exactly as
they had always been – apart from the signs that once read ‘No Indians
or Dogs Allowed’ that is.
Lord and Lady Sinha then lived in a palatial house with high white
walls and a manicured and well-watered lawn upon which peacocks
roamed and around which rosebushes bloomed. Inside were all the
trappings of the Raj: eighteenth-century British furniture polished
like glass; gleaming Georgian silverware; portraits of governors and
nawabs in gilt frames; silk Persian rugs; heavy brocade drapes with
gold-tasselled sashes; swollen down-filled sofas; mahogany humidors
full of Cuban cigars; and engraved silver boxes stacked with Dunhill
cigarettes. And two of the most beautiful daughters I’d ever clapped
eyes on.
At the time, the city outside looked as if it had been alternately
flooded and thoroughly burned several dozen times. The streets
teemed with hand-drawn rickshaws and closed carriages like
stagecoaches pulled by the skeletons of horses. These were the only
vehicles able to navigate the flooded streets in monsoon season.
Wherever you looked, emaciated figures in rags held snot-nosed
babies masked in flies, with arms thin as garden hoses and bellies
swollen from starvation. On every available surface someone had
painted the hammer and sickle, or plastered a poster announcing
revolution, death to the rich. I sympathised. But back in Lord Sinha’s
cool and spacious oasis, the time had frozen at 1928. A dozen servants
did everything but wash and spoon-feed us. Death to the poor was
what they feared.
Early one evening, two decades ago, we sped through the
outrageous summer heat behind smoked glass in the air-conditioned
cool of Lord Sinha’s chauffeured Mercedes, heading for a drink at
the Royal Calcutta Golf Club. It is the second oldest golf club on
earth. Bearers in immaculate starched white jackets greeted the