Making short shrift of palaces that stood tall

Nehchal Sandhu

The imposing Central Secretariat in New Delhi was my first port of call following secondment to the Government of India in 1978. North Block, designed and built in cream and red Dholpur sandstone by British architect Herbert Baker between 1912 and 1921 in the Indo-Saracenic style atop Raisina Hill, held deep within its womb the office of the institution that I was destined to be a part of for the next 34 and more years. Quite a welcome change it was from the moffusil of Bihar, wherein I had got inured to a decrepit office within a police station complex and a residence smack amidst fields growing a variety of vegetables and hosting reptiles and mosquitos galore.

Successful completion of a 13-week spell of training was followed by allotment of a substantive charge. A strange emotion flowed upon gathering that I would be working in Darbhanga Palace, and would thus become privy to the grand ways of one of the leading elites of Bihar, my parent cadre.

The elation gave way to disappointment as I neared the porte cochere. The arcaded verandahs had been crudely bricked up. And inside, many of the commodious rooms had been partitioned into cubby holes. The few elegantly wood-panelled rooms with fireplaces bounded by dark pilasters standing on extended hearths, and marble mantelpieces supported by elegantly sculpted corbels, were reserved for the big bosses. As was the single lift, with a variety of heritage brass fitments and a relatively unspoilt Belgian mirror etched with the coat of arms of the Darbhanga Raj.

The caretaker escorted me through a labyrinth to my assigned nook, adjacent to the shaft housing the sewage pipes, which led to a permanent malodour. Suggestion by the veteran, who shared the cramped office space with me, that other officers had worse rooms provided scant comfort. A year later, I was assigned another responsibility and that entailed my move to the queen’s bathroom, which had a marble floor and blue and white tiles on the walls, but no odour. And it was much cooler, making it possible to serve the extended hours that the new charge demanded. A college-mate, who joined the IAS and later rose to become Cabinet Secretary, was less than diplomatic in suggesting that since my career in the Government of India had begun in bathrooms, I should not expect to make much progress during this secondment.

Over some months, I went about the building and noted with sadness that it had been mutilated. The frescos on the roof of what used to be the Darbar Hall had peeled off at places, and its wooden flooring had lost its sheen. The loggias positioned so as to offer sweeping views of the lush gardens and orchard had been closed. The Italian marble floor of what might have been the dance floor lay cracked at many places. Portraits of erstwhile royals set within intricate white and gold plaster embellishments on the walls were missing. The inner courtyard had been divested of its centrepiece — an ornate fountain, and the vaulted corridors had been covered with artificial ceilings to conceal air-conditioning ducts. None could say whether the American tenants of the building between 1962 and 1965, or the Government of India that took over the accommodation thereafter, were responsible for this denouement.

The tennis courts and lawns were not spared the jackboots of the sentries or the heels of women employees, who would gather to share their repasts. And the mango and litchi trees were invariably divested of their fruit well before maturity. With the central air-conditioning system losing steam, and CPWD professing inability to maintain obsolete equipment, every wall in the building was punctured for installation of window ACs.

About 35 palaces were built by the princely states of India in Delhi after the British government passed a resolution in 1922 allotting a maximum of 8 acres at Rs1,800 per acre to each princely state that applied. This followed the realisation that the government of the day would need the active help of princely states in managing the growing voice for justice and freedom. The architects engaged for construction, including Edwin Lutyens, Charles Geoffrey Blomfield and Walter George, mostly followed Western architectural styles. The first ones were completed by 1928, three years before India Gate.

Inexplicably, Kameshwar Singh Gautam, who became the 20th Maharaja of Darbhanga in 1927, got his relatively smaller patch at a higher price of Rs4 per square yard. The Darbhanga rulers were not really unto the manor born; the title ‘Maharaja’ as well as the estate’s vast properties were bestowed on Mahesh Thakur, a priest, by Mughal emperor Akbar (1556-1605) for facilitating tax collections.

I soon discovered that many other princely palaces in Delhi, including Baroda House, Patiala House, Bikaner House, Mandi House and Kashmir House, had been similarly ravaged. The butterfly-shaped Hyderabad House and Jaipur House were spared since they were turned, respectively, into the locale for hosting foreign dignitaries and the National Gallery of Modern Art.

Structurally strong for the most part, these jewels, which are a part of Delhi’s urban topography, deserve better treatment. Having rid it of the government occupants, the Rajasthan Government has partially decked up Bikaner House for a new innings as a repository of culture and cuisine; in a bid, even if feeble, to resurrect the grandeur of the building. Other palaces in Delhi deserve similar makeovers, lest requiems have to be intoned for the demise of these architectural splendours.

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