Not There Land: A Lesson in Raj Chicanry | Outlook India Magazine

On the morning of November 9, 1874, an Englishman named Robert Faire suddenly had an attack of nausea in the princely state of Baroda. The middle-aged Colonel Fayre was a British resident in the Maratha court here and had been in somewhat bad weather for several days. However, that morning was different. He had returned from a walk as usual and took a few sips of the sorbet always kept ready by his servants. Sitting down to write a letter, however, he had a ‘sudden sarcasm’. Deciding that there was juice, he threw the rest out, only to notice something strange. ‘While I was turning the glass on the washhand stand,’ recalled Fairey, ‘I noticed a deep sediment deposited at the bottom.’ Keeping it close to the eye, ‘the thought came to my mind at once that it was poison’. He sent the substance over for analysis, and telegraphed his superiors: ‘The bold attempt to poison me today is disappointed in the future.’ Interestingly, despite the gravity of the claim, the residents remained silent when the local Maharaja came to meet him after hours; It was a few days before the incident, the news had reached the palace through other channels. In his official praise, the ruler expressed horror at this plot by ‘some bad guy’ to destroy the resident. The Maharaja offered, ‘If it becomes necessary for you to get my help in proving the guilt of the offender, the same will be given.’

Unfortunately for Malhar Rao Gaikwad of Baroda (1831–82), the ‘criminal’ in Pharey’s mind was none other than the Maharaja himself. Since his arrival in the princely state, the colonel found himself unable to reconcile with its ruler. Neither was to be fair, nor a particularly cool type. Described as a ‘dominant, irritable British officer’. . . Fearful and disgusted by all Indians, Fairey had left his last posting in a tizzy. Meanwhile, the Maharaja’s textbooks were suspicious. A little more than a decade ago, when his brother ascended the throne, he was arrested on charges of conspiracy to commit murder. However, the death of his brother restored Malhar Rao to independence, and after succeeding to power, he showed ‘the most pervasive and vindictive character’. For example, the minister investigating the murder conspiracy was left to rot in prison, where he mysteriously died. Therefore, Malhar Rao also developed a habit of capturing women of his choice and forcing them into the service of the palace: as hitaichu The report said the girls were ‘carrying like pigeons’ and subjected to ‘dirty violations’. Then there was the case of his newest wife ‘Lakshmibai’, the mistress of the first ruler, marrying him when she was already pregnant; When the Maharaja expressed his desire to declare his son as the heir, Faire refused. Furious, Malhar Rao categorically issued the order that whoever does not refer to his wife as ‘Chhoti Rani’ (Junior Queen) is liable to a fine of fifteen rupees. Baroda was a case study of what the British believed to be misgovernance. Residents sometimes took the risk of dangerous ‘advice’ but wrote it off as typical Eastern conduct.

In this turbulent context, then, Fairey discovered diamond dust and arsenic in his sorbet on a November morning in 1874. And from his point of view, there was reason to doubt the ruler. On the one hand the Maharaja was constantly angry at the delay in recognizing his son as the heir to the throne. British inquiry revealed that the child’s mother was once ’employed as a porter’ [sic] in Surat’ before taking him to the palace; But although she was of a low caste at the time of her marriage and was pregnant, given that Malhar Rao had considered the child as his own, there was no way to stop Manyata. Then there was political enmity. A week before the poisoning, the day the Maharaja launched a flurry of complaints against the Viceroy against the Resident, the latter also submitted a 174-point ‘progress report’, showing Baroda in ruins.

After seeking legal opinion in Bombay and Calcutta, the Viceroy decided that there was a prima facie case against Malhar Rao. From here things progressed rapidly. By January 1875, the troops were grounded, the Maharaja was placed under house arrest, and the government was taken over by the Raj. Although Malhar Rao, with the Viceroy’s own approval, did not have a chance to defend, examine witnesses or explain his version, the British opted to seize power until they were approved. . ‘This action,’ the Viceroy explained, ‘was not based on the considerations of law. It was an act of the state done by the supreme power.’ Elements of the press also paved the way for this. As one editor put it, ‘The only way to clear the ship of Baroda is to throw the wicked’s own cargo overboard.’

But trying the Maharaja was no easy task: he could neither be dragged into the British court nor could a public inquiry be held up to his dignity. Yet, in the end, an investigation was less embarrassing. Despite Malhar Rao’s prestige, this, too, caused protests in native circles – insulting a prince of the country was seen as an attack on Indians as a people. Did this dangerous precedent also mean that other thrones were not secure? The movement grew among the general public; We read, this was not limited to ‘processions confined to temples and prayers’, but also ‘modernization by educated natives in the form of public meetings and memorials’ to the Viceroy. Thus, in Poona, the public meeting called for a fundraising campaign to protect the ruler. Under pressure, therefore, the British were forced to ‘make a gesture of equality’: three of the six commissioners selected for the inquiry were Indians: the Maratha Raja of Gwalior, the Maharaja of Jaipur and Sir Dinkar Rao, a prominent statesman of North India. Meanwhile, Malhar Rao too, hoping to fight fire with fire, imported British barrister William Ballantyne to argue his case. The choice was strategic, as Judith Robotham points out, while this genius was a resounding misogynist, the one thing he was not, by contemporary standards, was a racist. Ballantine, who till then had no idea of ​​the existence of Baroda, decided to do what he did best – try and win. Because he too knew that it was more than just a court battle. It seemed that the competition was between native prestige and British supremacy.

Proceedings began in Baroda on 23 February 1875. To begin with, the language chosen was English, which not only harmed the Maharaja but also Dinkar Rao, as neither spoke it easily. Bombay’s Advocate General presented the case against Malhar Rao: his bribery of residency staff, as the last in a series of November’s venomous attempts and even the confession of a royal secretary. But Ballantyne proved to be a formidable counter-tester. For example, the servant who served the bribe juice, despite claiming to have been given a bribe, did not actually get any money. When questioned, the man murmured that since he had failed in the act of killing Faire, his conscience would not allow him to accept the remuneration. The barrister’s attack on Phere was more shocking. Days after doctors generously confirmed that the sediment in his glass was poison, Fairey designated it as ‘1’, citing ‘secret and confidential’ information. common arsenic; 2. Finely powdered diamond dust; 3. Copper’. This was linked to the alleged purchase of diamonds by Malhar Rao, thus linking the substance to the prince. But Ballantyne was curious: from whom did Fairey get such accurate intelligence? Here the fair faltered. Vaguely stating that he had too many sources, he claimed that he did not remember ‘which person’ gave these details. Smelling the blood, Ballantyne wondered how Faire had forgotten the origin of important information in such a serious matter. When one name finally emerged after constant cross-examination, it was that of one Bhau Punekar, who was ‘Gaikwar’s bitterest enemy’. . . who had been promoting allegations against him for years’. Who demanded Malhar Rao’s lawyer at that time, to say that the ruler was not created by Punekar himself? Eventually, given their mutual hatred for the Maharaja, Punekar enjoyed ‘full access’ to the resident and, conveniently, also attended that fateful morning. Could he have mixed poison in Faire’s drink? Further, the person from whom the Maharaja allegedly bought the diamonds also declared that he was compelled to say so. Why, even the ruler’s secretary, who had confessed, did this after the arrest, and then made a deal. One by one, flaws in the prosecution’s evidence began to emerge, and the press added to the embarrassment. Daily Telegraph For example, it is written how ‘the minor pickpocket shall not be convicted on the basis of the evidence on which he was sought to deprive a sovereign of his throne’. even The Times of India, as a pro-British paper might have, considered the evidence ‘useless’. However, the British commissioners ignored these inconvenient revelations. After all, it was common knowledge that the natives were ‘innately untrue’ and ‘incompetent witnesses’, so petty quarrels were not allowed to get in the way. The entire trial was fast becoming a spectacle that said more about the hold of racial stereotypes than the sober and sober modern justice.

Public proceedings ceased on March 17, 1875. Soon after, the Viceroy informed London that while the white commissioners found the Maharaja guilty, his brown colleagues felt the opposite—an attempt had actually been made to poison, but Malhar Rao was not definitively linked to it. Was. It was here, finally, that the British duality gave up its high dress. Because, while the natives were in principle equal members of the commission, their English peers single-handedly guided the government. As far as Raj was concerned, the Maharaja’s ‘previous character’ left no doubt that he was guilty. Restoring him to the throne would be a ‘miscarriage of justice’, and would also be ‘a fatal political error’ that could ‘seriously undermine the authority of the British Government’. In fact, it was solemnly acknowledged that ‘we have not held that the situation of equitable division of opinion has made it imperative for the Government of India to give benefit of doubt to the accused party’. However, there was still a degree of moral concern remaining in London. They agreed that the Maharaja was to be ousted because it was a certain calamity, but that his expulsion was to be ‘on ordinary grounds’, not his alleged culpability in the crime. And so it was that by the order of the Viceroy of 19 April, Malhar Rao and his son were denied claims to the throne by that ‘cool’ wife – for killing two birds with one stone – because of the ‘gross misrule’ of the father. Given, his ‘inability to implement necessary reforms’ for the interests of the people of Baroda and what was a convenient trump card.

Only three days after the order came, Malhar Rao was informed of his fate. ‘Your Majesty,’ we read, ‘cried and begged, but finally submitted.’ In a special train, he was taken to Madras at the end of the night, where he was to spend the rest of his days.