PLAYING AT HARE AND HOUNDS AT RUGBY SCHOOL

 PLAYING AT HARE AND HOUNDS AT RUGBY SCHOOL 

The only incident worth recording here, however, was his first run at Hare and Hounds. On the last Tuesday but one of the half-year, he was passing through the hall after dinner, when he was hailed with shouts from Tadpole and several other fags seated at one of the long tables, the chorus of which was "Come and help us tear up scent."

Tom approached the table in obedience to the mysterious summons, always ready to help, and found the party engaged in tearing up old newspapers, copy-books, and magazines into small pieces, with which they were filling four large canvas bags.

"It's the turn of our house to find scent for big-side Hare and Hounds," exclaimed Tadpole; "tear away, there's no time to lose before calling-over."

"I think it's a great shame," said another small boy, "to have such a hard run for the last day."

"Which run is it?" cried Tadpole.

"Oh, the Barby run, I hear," answered the other; "nine miles at least, and hard ground; no chance of getting in at the finish, unless you're a first-rate scud."

"Well, I'm going to have a try," said Tadpole; "it's the last run of the half."

"I should like to try, too," said Tom.

"Well, then leave your waistcoat behind, and listen at the door, after calling-over, and you'll hear where the meet is."

After calling-over, sure enough, there were two boys at the door calling out: "Big-side Hare and Hounds meet at White Hall"; and Tom, having girded himself with a leather strap, and left all superfluous clothing behind, set off for White Hall, an old gable-ended house some quarter of a mile from the town, and East, whom he had persuaded to join, notwithstanding his prophecy that they could never get in, as it was the hardest run of the year.

THE MEET AND THE FIRST BURST.

At the meet they found some forty or fifty boys, and Tom felt sure, from having seen many of them run at foot-ball, that he and East were more likely to get in than they.

After a few minutes' waiting, two well-known runners, chosen for the hares, buckled on the four bags filled with scent, compared their watches with those of young Brooke and Thorne, and started off at a long, slinging trot across the fields in the direction of Barby.

Then the hounds clustered round Thorne, who explained shortly, "They're to have six minutes' law. We run to the Cock, and every one who comes in within a quarter of an hour of the hares'll be counted, if he has been round Barby Church." Then came a minute's pause or so, and then the watches are pocketed, and the pack is led through the gate-way into the field which the hares had first crossed. Here they break into a trot, scattering over the field to find the first traces of the scent which the hares throw out as they go along. The old hounds make straight for the likely points, and in a minute a cry of "Forward" comes from one of them, and the whole pack quickening their pace make for the spot, while the boy who hit the scent first, and the two or three nearest to him, are over the first fence, and making play along the hedge-row in the long grass-field beyond. The rest of the pack rush at the gap already made, and scramble through, jostling one another. "Forward" again, before they are half through; the pace quickens into a sharp run, the tail hounds all straining to get up to the lucky leaders. They are gallant hares, and the scent lies thick right across another meadow and into a plowed field, where the pace begins to tell; then over a good wattle with a ditch on the other side, and down a large pasture studded with old thorns, which slopes down to the first brook; the great Leicestershire sheep charge away across the field as the pack comes racing down the slope. The brook is a small one, and the scent lies right ahead up the opposite slope, and as thick as ever; not a turn or a check to favor the tail hounds, who strain on, now trailing in a long line, many a youngster beginning to drag his legs heavily, and feel his heart beat like a hammer, and the bad plucked ones thinking that after all it isn't worth while to keep it up.

Tom, East, and the Tadpole had a good start, and are well up for such young hands, and, after rising the slope and crossing the next field, find themselves up with the leading hounds, who have overrun the scent, and are trying back; they have come a mile and a half in about eleven minutes, a pace which shows that it is the last day. About twenty-five of the original starters only show here, the rest having already given in; the leaders are busy making casts into the fields on the left and right, and the others get their second winds.

Then comes the cry of "Forward" again, from young Brooke, from the extreme left, and the pack settle down to work again steadily and doggedly, the whole keeping pretty well together. The scent, though still good, is not so thick; there is no need of that, for in this part of the run every one knows the line which must be taken, and so there are no casts to be made, but good downright running and fencing to be done. All who are now up mean coming in, and they come to the foot of Barby Hill without losing more than two or three more of the pack. This last straight two miles and a half is always a vantage-ground for the hounds, and the hares know it well; they are generally viewed on the side of Barby Hill, and all eyes are on the look-out for them to-day. But not a sign of them appears, so now will be the hard work for the hounds, and there is nothing for it but to cast about for the scent, for it is now the hares' turn, and they may baffle the pack dreadfully in the next two miles.

Ill fares it now with our youngsters that they are School-house boys, and so follow young Brooke, for he takes the wide casts round to the left, conscious of his own powers, and loving the hard work. For if you would consider for a moment, you small boys, you would remember that the Cock, where the run ends, lies far out to the right, on the Dunchurch road, so that every cast you take to the left is so much extra work. And at this stage of the run, when the evening is closing in already, no one remarks whether you run a little cunning or not, so you should stick to those crafty hounds who keep edging away to the right, and not follow a prodigal like young Brooke, whose legs are twice as long as yours and of cast-iron, wholly indifferent to one or two miles, more or less. However, they struggle after him, panting and plunging along, Tom and East pretty close, and Tadpole, whose big head begins to pull him down, some thirty yards behind.

THE FIRST CHECK.

Now comes a brook, with stiff clay banks, from which they can hardly drag their legs, and they hear faint cries for help from the wretched Tadpole, who has fairly stuck fast. But they have too little run left in themselves to pull up for their own brothers. Three fields more, and another check, and then "forward," called away to the extreme right.

The two boys' souls die within them; they can never do it. Young Brooke thinks so, too, and says, kindly: "You'll cross a lane after next field, keep down it, and you'll hit the Dunchurch road below the Cock," and then, steams away for the run in, in which he's sure to be first, as if he were just starting. They struggle on across the next field, the "forwards" getting fainter and fainter, and then ceasing. The whole hunt is out of earshot, and all hope of coming in is over.

NO GO.

"Hang it all!" broke out East, as soon as he had got wind enough, pulling off his hat and mopping at his face, all spattered with dirt, and lined with sweat, from which went up a thick steam into the still, cold air. "I told you how it would be. What a thick I was to come! Here we are dead beat, and yet I know we're close to the run in, if we knew the country."

"Well," said Tom, mopping away, and gulping down his disappointment, "it can't be helped. We did our best, anyhow. Hadn't we better find this lane, and go down it as young Brooke told us?"

"I suppose so—nothing else for it," grunted East. "If ever I go out last day again," growl—growl—growl.

So they tried back slowly and sorrowfully, and found the lane, and went limping down it, plashing in the cold, puddly ruts, and beginning to feel how the run had taken it out of them. The evening closed in fast, and clouded over, dark, cold, and dreary.

CONSEQUENCES.

"I say, it must be locking-up, I should think," remarked East, breaking the silence; "it's so dark."

"What if we're late?" said Tom.

"No tea, and sent up to the Doctor," answered East.

The thought didn't add to their cheerfulness. Presently a faint halloo was heard from an adjoining field. They answered it, and stopped, hoping for some competent rustic to guide them, when over a gate some twenty yards ahead crawled the wretched Tadpole, in a state of collapse; he had lost a shoe in the brook, and had been groping in it up to his elbows in the stiff, wet clay, and a more miserable creature in the shape of a boy seldom has been seen.

The sight of him, notwithstanding, cheered them, for he was some degrees more wretched than they. They also cheered him, as he was no longer under the dread of passing his night alone in the fields. And so in better heart the three plashed painfully down the never-ending lane. At last it widened, just as utter darkness set in, and they came out on a turnpike road, and there paused bewildered, for they had lost all bearings, and knew not whether to turn to the right or left.

Luckily for them they had not to decide, for lumbering along the road, with one lamp lighted, and two spavined horses in the shafts, came a heavy coach, which after a moment's suspense, they recognized as the Oxford coach, the redoubtable Pig and Whistle.

It lumbered slowly up, and the boys mustering their last run, caught it as it passed, and began clambering up behind, in which exploit East missed his footing, and fell flat on his nose along the road. Then the others hailed the old scarecrow of a coachman, who pulled up and agreed to take them in for a shilling; so there they sat on the back seat, drubbing with their heels, and their teeth chattering with cold, and jogged into Rugby some forty minutes after locking-up.

THEIR RECEPTION.

Five minutes afterward, three small, limping, shivering figures steal along through the Doctor's garden, and into the house by the servants' entrance (all the other gates have been closed long since), where the first thing they light upon in the passage is old Thomas, ambling along, candle in one hand and keys in the other.

He stops and examines their condition with a grim smile. "Ah! East, Hall, and Brown, late for locking-up. Must go up to the Doctor's study at once."

"Well, but Thomas, mayn't we go and wash first? You can put down the time, you know."

"Doctor's study d'rectly you come in—that's the orders," replied old Thomas, motioning toward the stairs at the end of the passage which led up into the Doctor's house; and the boys turned ruefully down it, not cheered by the old verger's muttered remark, "What a pickle they boys be in!" Thomas referred to their faces and habiliments, but they construed it as indicating the Doctor's state of mind. Upon the short flight of stairs they paused to hold counsel.

"Who'll go in first?" inquires Tadpole.

"You-you're the senior," answered East.

"Catch me—look at the state I'm in," rejoined Hall, showing the arms of his jacket. "I must get behind you two."

"Well, but look at me," said East indicating the mass of clay behind which he was standing; "I'm worse than you, two to one; you might grow cabbages on my trousers."

"That's all down below, and you can keep your legs behind the sofa," said Hall.

"Here, Brown, you're the show figure—you must lead."

"But my face is all muddy," argued Tom.

"Oh, we're all in one boat, for that matter; but, come on, we're only making it worse, dawdling here."

"Well, just give us a brush then," said Tom: and they began trying to rub off the superfluous dirt from each other's jackets, but it was not dry enough, and the rubbing made them worse; so in despair they pushed through the swing door at the head of the stairs, and found themselves in the Doctor's hall.

"That's the library door," said East, in a whisper, pushing Tom forward. The sound of merry voices and laughter came from within, and his first hesitating knock was unanswered. But at the second, the Doctor's voice said, "Come in," and Tom turned the handle, and he, with the others behind him, sidled into the room.

The Doctor looked up from his task; he was working away with a great chisel at the bottom of a boy's sailing-boat, the lines of which he was no doubt fashioning on the model of one of Nicias's galleys. Round him stood three or four children; the candles burnt brightly on a large table at the further end, covered with books and papers, and a great fire threw a ruddy glow over the rest of the room. All looked so kindly and homely, and comfortable, that the boys took heart in a moment, and Tom advanced, from behind the shelter of the great sofa. The Doctor nodded to the children, who went out, casting curious and amused glances at the three young scarecrows.

THEIR EXPLANATION.

"Well, my little fellows," began the Doctor, drawing himself up with his back to the fire, the chisel in one hand and his coat-tails in the other; and his eyes twinkling as he looked them over; "what makes you so late?"

"Please, sir, we've been out big-side Hare and Hounds, and lost our way."

"Hah! you couldn't keep up, I suppose?"

"Well, sir," said East, stepping out, and not liking that the Doctor should think lightly of his running powers, "we got round Barby all right, but then—"

"Why, what a state you're in, my boy!" interrupted the Doctor, as the pitiful condition of East's garments was fully revealed to him.

"That's the fall I got, sir, in the road," said East, looking down at himself; "the Old Pig came by—"

"The what?" said the Doctor.

"Oxford coach, sir," explained Hall.

"Hah! yes, the Regulator," said the Doctor.

"And I tumbled on my face, trying to get up behind," went on East.

"You're not hurt, I hope?" said the Doctor.

"Oh, no, sir."

"Well, now, run up-stairs, all three of you, and get clean things on, and then tell the housekeeper to give you some tea. You're too young to try such long runs. Let Warner know I've seen you. Good-night."

"Good-night, sir." And away scuttled the three boys in high glee.

"What a brick, not to give us even twenty lines to learn!" said the Tadpole, as they reached their bedroom; and in half an hour afterward they were sitting by the fire in the housekeeper's room at a sumptuous tea, with cold meat, "twice as good a grub as we should have got in the hall," as the Tadpole remarked with a grin, his mouth full of buttered toast. All their grievances were forgotten, and they were resolving to go out the first big-side next half, and thinking Hare and Hounds the most delightful of games.

LAST DAYS.

A day or two afterward the great passage outside the bedrooms was cleared of the boxes and portmanteaus, which went down to be packed by the matron, and great games of chariot-racing, and cock-fighting, and bolstering[23] went on in the vacant space, the sure sign of a closing half-year.

Then came the making up of parties for the journey home, and Tom joined a party who were to hire a coach, and post with four horses to Oxford.

Then the last Saturday on which the Doctor came round to each form to give out the prizes, and hear the masters' last report of how they and their charges had been conducting themselves; and Tom, to his huge delight, was praised, and got his remove into the lower fourth, in which all his School-house friends were.

On the next Tuesday morning, at four o'clock, hot coffee was going on in the housekeeper's and matron's rooms: boys wrapped in great-coats and mufflers were swallowing hasty mouthfuls, rushing about, tumbling over luggage, and asking questions all at once of the matron; outside the School-gates were drawn up several chaises and the four-horse coach which Tom's party had chartered, the post-boys in their best jackets and breeches, and a cornopean player, hired for the occasion, blowing away, "A southerly wind and a cloudy day," waking all peaceful inhabitants half-way down the High Street.

Every minute the bustle and hubbub increased; porters staggered about with boxes and bags, the cornopean played louder. Old Thomas sat in his den with a great yellow bag by his side, out of which he was paying journey money to each boy, comparing by the light of a solitary dip the dirty crabbed little list in his own handwriting, with the Doctor's list, and the amount of his cash; his head was on one side, his mouth screwed up, and his spectacles dim from early toil. He had prudently locked the door, and carried on his operations through the window, or he would have been driven wild and lost all his money.

"Thomas, do be quick; we shall never catch the Highflyer at Dunchurch."

"That's your money, all right, Green."

"Hullo, Thomas, the Doctor said I was to have two-pound-ten; you've only given me two pound." I fear that Master Green is not confining himself strictly to truth. Thomas turns his head more on one side than ever and spells away at the dirty list. Green is forced away from the window.

"Here, Thomas, never mind him, mine's thirty shillings." "And mine too," "And mine," shouted others.

One way or another, the party to which Tom belonged all got packed and paid, and sallied out to the gates, the cornopean playing frantically, "Drops of Brandy," in allusion, probably, to the slight potations in which the musicians and post-boys had been already indulging. All luggage was carefully stowed away inside the coach and in the front and hind boots, so that not a hat-box was visible outside. Five or six small boys, with pea-shooters, and the cornopean player, got up behind; in front the big boys, mostly smoking, not for pleasure, but because they are now gentlemen at large—and this is the most correct public method of notifying the fact.

Joanna Lumley

 

JOANNA LUMLEY, OBE, FRGS (Born Kashmir, 1946)

Ancestors of Actress Joanna Lumley

From The Telegraph

By Nick Barratt, 3^rd August 2007, in Telegraph Family History

     How you think of Joanna Lumley depends on which generation you belong to - and which of her many roles in television and film you remember, from her first appearance as Purdy in The New Avengers in the 1970s, to Patsy in Absolutely Fabulous throughout the 1990s and early 2000s, to her recent role in Sensitive Skin.

In fact, her acting career spans nearly 40 years, including a brief appearance as a Bond girl in On Her Majesty's Secret Service. Perhaps her most telling film, however, remains In the Kingdom of the Thunder Dragon, filmed in 1996, which recounted a journey made by her grandparents in Bhutan. This reflected a more than a passing interest in her ancestors, as Lumley's background reveals.

Who is she related to?

Joanna Lamond Lumley was born in 1946 in Kashmir, the daughter of Major James Rutherford Lumley, who was serving in the 6th Gurkha Rifles. He had previously married Thya Rose Weir in 1941, during the Second World War, and after Indian independence in 1949 Major Lumley brought his family back to Britain to settle down to provincial life in Kent.

The contrast must have been striking indeed - the family had to leave behind the stunning mountains, clear air, intensely hot summers and bitterly cold winters of Kashmir, with the relative luxury and colonial trappings that an important military family might enjoy even during the last days of the British Raj.

What would have made the change even harder to acclimatise to, was the fact that four previous generations of Lumleys had served and fought in India, and although they had on occasion returned to England, India would have been considered the family's home.

Indeed, both sides of Joanna's family hailed from the Indian subcontinent. Her mother was the daughter of Lieutenant Colonel James Leslie Weir, whose distinguished career embraced service in the Indian Army, a stint in the political department of the colonial government and various commercial activities.

In many ways, he was merely following in his father's footsteps - Patrick Alexander Weir was a surgeon in the Indian Medical Service, who took part in the Second Afghan War (1878-1880) and later became an opium agent in Ghazipur in the United Province of India. Not all the Lumley family were involved with the military, however. James Rutherford Lumley's father, Charles Chester Lumley, was born in 1876 in Chelmsford. His father, William Faithful Lumley, had returned to England to work in the Church and became a curate in Stamford, Lincolnshire. He later moved his family south to Chelmsford, where he became the chaplain at Springfield Prison.

But the call of India proved irresistible for Charles and he eventually found work as an agent for the Bank of Bengal, re-joining other members of his family who had stayed out there. His grandfather, James Rutherford Lumley, was born in Fort William, Calcutta - the main British military base in Bengal - on October 27, 1810, the son of James Rutherford Lumley senior, who eventually rose to become Major General Adjutant General of the East India Company's army in 1833 and was listed as the sixth most senior officer in the Bengal Almanac of 1837.

By this date the elder James Lumley had fought in the 2nd Maratha War (1803-1805) in which Arthur Wellesley led the British forces - this was before he earned the title Duke of Wellington - and the Third Maratha War (1817-1818). His son was employed in the service of the East India Company with no less distinction, serving under his father as Assistant Adjutant-General and taking part in the First Sikh War (1845-1846). It is perhaps ironic, given the martial career of James Rutherford Lumley senior, to find that his father, James Lumley, was actually a man of the cloth, the rector of Barnwell, Northamptonshire - the career chosen by Joanna's great-grandfather William Faithful Lumley on his return to England.

In many ways, Joanna's family tree epitomises the essence of the British Empire: civilised and peace-loving domestically, yet quite prepared to take up arms to defend or acquire possessions overseas.

 

When Patsy met the Dalai Lama: Joanna Lumley's Road to Enlightenment

The Times, UK [Thursday, 20^th May 2004]

By Kate Saunders

It is a hot and dusty afternoon, and tempers are frayed at the Foreigners Booking Office in New Delhi railway station. My travelling companion, British actress Joanna Lumley, and I have left our passports in the hotel - a bone-jolting hour's auto-rickshaw ride away - and are told that it is impossible to buy tickets for our train as a result. The bespectacled booking clerk, sitting amidst teetering stacks of brown files under a whirring fan covered in grime, is unmoved until Joanna takes off her sunglasses, fixes him with a cool gaze, and breathes, 'Sir, we are so terribly sorry - is there ANYTHING you can do?' The apology is conveyed in a tone of such rapturous intimacy that the clerk is immediately spell-bound. He foregoes bureaucratic procedure to sign a chit to the effect that 'Ms Lumley will be carrying her passport with her on the train' and issues our tickets.

For Joanna Lumley, former model and Britain's best-loved comedy actress, our train that night through the Punjab and into the foothills of the Himalayas is the beginning of a journey to rediscover her Indian roots - 58-year old Joanna was born in Srinagar, Kashmir. Our trip to Dharamsala in Himachal Pradesh, a small town nestling amid pine forests in the shadow of the snow peaks, is also the fulfilment of a long-held dream for Joanna, because she is meeting the man known as a 'God-King' and revered by millions all over the world - the Tibetan spiritual leader, the Dalai Lama.

Joanna, who is best known as the outrageous, champagne-quaffing Patsy in the hit sit-com Absolutely Fabulous as well as numerous film and TV roles in a career that spans more than 30 years, uses the profile gained through her fame and fees from her acting to support more than 40 different charities. But she is particularly passionate about the Tibetan cause. She explains: 'My grandfather, Captain Leslie Weir, worked for the British government at the time of the Raj in the Kingdom of Sikkim in the Himalayas, and was close personal friends with the last Dalai Lama, the 13th. He spoke Tibetan and studied Buddhism.' Joanna's Stockwell home is adorned by water-colour scenes of Tibet, including the Dalai Lama's former home the Potala Palace, painted by her grandmother, who accompanied her husband on his many trips to Tibet, and were among the first Western visitors to the 'Forbidden City' of Lhasa.

Joanna says: 'When I was growing up, our family home was always full of oriental artefacts from tea-cups to thangkas (Tibetan religious paintings) and Buddhas of every kind. So Buddhism to me is not exotic, but deeply familiar. There was always a sense during my childhood that Tibet was a very special place, and that our family had a very special relationship with the Tibetan people. This is one of the reasons why I have always dreamed of meeting the Dalai Lama - and of presenting him with a very special gift from my family.'

Joanna, whose new autobiography will be published in October, has drawn upon the spiritual teachings of the Dalai Lama to help her find a balance in her life amid conflicting demands from her celebrity, acting roles, charity work and family.

She says: 'I think the Dalai Lama is a hero simply because he emphasises the most essential teaching of Buddhism, which is to be kind, and that is rather an unfashionable subject for world leaders or other religious figures to talk about these days.'

It is a message that Joanna has clearly taken to heart. Ab Fab's Patsy doesn't care about anything - but the actress Joanna Lumley cares about everything, from the plight of pack mules in Egypt and the state of the earth's environment to the anger of a homeless alcoholic in her local newsagents in south London a few weeks ago. ("I told him, I'll buy you a packet of fags, but you have to stop being so rude! Of course, I didn't buy him Gitanes, just Benson & Hedges.")

As our taxi rattles up the steep dusty roads, lined with eucalyptus and past stalls selling water-melons, brown settees, and Ambassador Whisky, Joanna talks about her childhood in the Far East. Her father, Captain James Lumley, was born in Lahore and served on the North-Western Frontier as a Gurkha officer. Soon after Joanna was born in India, the family moved to Malaya, which was then at the height of a civil war in which communist guerrillas were attempting to drive out the British. She remembers her father disappearing for months into the jungle with his Gurkha troops and returning, much thinner, and with a long beard. Joanna continued her education at a school in Hong Kong before being transferred to a convent school in Sussex together with her sister.

She says: 'I don't remember India as I was so small when we left. But generations of my family have served in the Indian Army - my great-great-grandfather joined the regiment here in 1796. So I have a deep connection to India. Everything seems familiar here; the dogs barking at night, the sound of crickets in the garden, a cold glass of nimbu pani (lemonade), the temple bells. I used to be so uninterested in my family history. But I think as you get older you begin to care more. These days I find myself looking more and more through my grandparents' letters and poring over maps, and reading about the period to see how it was and how it would have been.'

Joanna's interest in her ancestry coincides with a new generation in her family - she has just become a grandmother to baby Alice, the daughter of her photographer son James, who she brought up as a single mother, and his girlfriend Tessa. 'I babysit whenever I can,' she says. 'Being a grand-mum is an immense privilege.'

On our arrival in Dharamsala, the base of the Tibetan government in exile and home to approximately 20,000 Tibetan refugees, the Dalai Lama gives permission for us to attend a rare audience with Tibetans who have recently arrived in India. His private secretary, Tenzin Taklha, takes Joanna and I, to the Dalai Lama's private quarters, where about 60 Tibetans are clustered at the spiritual leader's feet and on the steps leading to his rooms beyond a small sunlit courtyard full of orange and yellow flowers. There are red-cheeked children in torn jeans and tee-shirts, Tibetan grandmothers in dusty chubas, crouched low to the ground and clutching their rosary beads, sturdy nomads with braided hair and turquoise necklaces. Approximately 2-3000 Tibetans make the perilous journey across the Himalayas each year to escape from the repression of Chinese rule in their homeland and to be in the presence of the Dalai Lama, whom they regard as the reincarnation of the Buddha of Compassion.

The Dalai Lama tells the Tibetans to make the most of their opportunity in exile to learn about the Tibetan Buddhist religion they are not allowed to practise freely in their homeland. When he finishes speaking, there is silence, but for the muffled sobs of many of the Tibetans overwhelmed to be in the presence of the spiritual leader who has become such a potent symbol of Tibetan identity and hope over despair. 'I hear there is a former political prisoner among you,' the Dalai Lama says quietly. A slight, slim young girl with long black hair, dressed in shabby trousers and a blue hooded top, stands up, sobbing so hard she can barely speak. 'You have done something for your people, you have been brave,' the Dalai Lama tells her. They are words that the young girl, a 29-year old nun called Damchoe, who was sentenced to six years in one of Tibet's most notorious prisons simply for shouting 'Long live the Dalai Lama!' in Tibet, will never forget.

 

Later Joanna and I visit a transit centre run by the Tibetan government in exile to provide temporary shelter and food for Tibetans who arrive in exile. Joanna is immediately surrounded by small Tibetan children in a cramped, shabby dormitory, where mattresses are laid out on the floor and the sole possessions of the refugees are stored in paper bags and plastic suitcases somehow carried across the most forbidding mountain ranges in the world. Joanna talks to a young Tibetan boy who is curled up in a corner, studying English letters in a tattered notebook. Eighteen-year old Gyaltsen was caught on his first attempt to escape from Tibet and imprisoned. He was beaten and tortured and forced to carry out hard labour. After he was released, he risked further imprisonment by making the long journey into exile again - determined to join his parents, who had arrived in safety in India.

Despite his bleak surroundings, Gyaltsen looks immaculate in a smart, buttoned-up grey waistcoat and pressed trousers. He tells Joanna: 'Living in Tibet is like being in a very dark room, with just a glimmering of light that is the possibility of escape to India. I had to walk towards that light.' Joanna is moved by his maturity and determination to make something of his life. While meeting the Dalai Lama is a spiritual and personal quest for Joanna, she is beginning to learn about the political realities of life in Tibet.

On the day of our meeting with Tibet's revered leader in exile, Joanna is nervous. She is wearing a patterned blue silk traditional Tibetan chuba, held together with a safety pin, and with a striped apron meaning, she is a married woman. 'He's a living God and a Buddha and a political leader. There is no one else of his stature worldwide. I feel very privileged that he's agreed to meet me, particularly because I'm not a Tibetan, nor a Buddhist, nor an exile.' She adds: 'I've brought him some socks, for his visit to Britain at the end of May. He'll be teaching in Scotland and I thought they would be protection against the midges - they are burgundy, which is a respectful colour for a monk, isn't it?'

But Joanna has another more significant gift when we are ushered into a simple reception room adorned with religious paintings and a gold Buddha at a shrine, and into the presence of the Dalai Lama, Tenzin Gyatso, whose name means 'Ocean of Wisdom' in Mongolian. The Dalai Lama gestures for us to sit on a comfy settee, and Joanna places a package wrapped in maroon patterned cloth on the table before him. She explains: 'Your Holiness, this is a gift given to my grandfather by the 13th Dalai Lama, your last incarnation. The present was given to thank my grandfather for his advice on how to help Tibet defend itself against China. My grandfather would have been so sad about the Chinese invasion of Tibet in 1949 - and so angry that the British didn't speak out against it, despite the close relationship between the two countries.'

The Dalai Lama carefully unwraps the gift, a set of handwritten scriptures on fragile parchment encased by two wood-blocks. He calls for one of the monks, and says something in Tibetan. The monk soon returns with another set of scriptures, which the Dalai Lama presents to Joanna. 'I will accept your gift,' he tells her. 'But in return, I want to give you a present. These are ancient texts on Buddhism that I would like to present to you in honour of your forefathers and your parents.' He sits back and laughs, a deep, familiar laugh, bubbling with joy. Joanna clasps her hands in delight, and tells him: 'My mother will be overjoyed. It was so important to her that I gave this gift. It is like closing a circle. I'll always remember this moment.'

The Dalai Lama may be regarded by millions as a divine being, but he is no ethereal figure. He has the energy and build of a man much younger than his 68 years. As he and Joanna talk, about Joanna's family, the Dalai Lama's hopes for the future, politics and religion, they laugh uproariously. When he takes her hand to lead her across the room for a photograph, his grip is surprisingly strong. When we leave, he clasps his hands together in the traditional Tibetan greeting before presenting Joanna with a white silk Tibetan scarf, a gesture of respect. 'See you again,' he says seriously.

As Joanna stands quietly in the courtyard to collect her thoughts, the next VIP guest arrives - a tiny, white-haired English woman clutching a vase of yellow flowers, which she gives to the Dalai Lama, telling him that she picked them this morning. He engulfs her in a bear hug. Later, we see the old lady, who wears a Tibetan chuba, slowly making her way up the steep path home, past the jewellery stands run by exiled Tibetan nomads and the Indian shops selling spices and Seven Up.

Over dahl (lentils) and rice in a simple local restaurant, Joanna says: 'This was a momentous meeting for me. I never dreamed that it would happen. The Dalai Lama has such a weight of responsibility, such dignity, and yet such lightness and such joy. In the face of this, everything about my life in London seems unreal. I would give up my job if I could to do something for Tibet, for the sake of my grandfather's love of the country. This is what is real. Acting has always been something I do; it's not what I am. So much of celebrity is about illusion.

'You know, you think that when you get older you will have your life sorted out, but that's not been my experience. You have commitments - I have Stevie (her husband, Stephen Barlow, the orchestral conductor and composer), who I love more than life itself, my mother Beatrice, who is in her eighties, my son, my grand-daughter. I'm lucky enough to have earned enough money not to be under financial pressure, and I turn down most roles I am offered - sometimes I don't even read the scripts. But there never seems to be enough time to think, to pause, to stand still, because of the life we get caught up in. Being here, and meeting His Holiness, puts life in perspective.'

Joanna and I decide to find Damchoe, the young nun singled out by the Dalai Lama for her courage. A Tibetan friend takes us to the small Tibetan-run Gu Chu Sum organisation that provides welfare for former political prisoners, where she is staying. We sit in the sunshine with cups of tea and Damchoe joins us. She tells us that she was imprisoned when she was in her early twenties for peaceful political protest. At Drapchi prison in Lhasa, as punishment for refusing to sing Chinese national songs, she and other nuns were forced to stand underneath the burning summer sun all day, for days. She tells us: 'We all became very weak but the guards would kick us if we fell to the ground. I suffered from terrible headaches; it was like someone pushing needles into my head. After one day of standing motionless, I had a high fever and fell to the ground unconscious. Later I was taken to be interrogated and tortured with electric batons. A light sparked from the baton and it felt as if all my inner organs, my heart, lungs and liver, were being chopped up.' Because she refused to agree that Tibet would never be free, Damchoe was put in a solitary confinement cell for several months. She was given one meal of rice with half-cooked vegetables per day and no water. The cell was pitch-black, and she was not allowed any visitors. 'My family thought that I had died and they performed the appropriate rituals like the offering of butter-lamps for me,' Damchoe tells Joanna.

Joanna asks her, 'In prison, did any of the guards, ever, show you any kindness or sympathy?' The young nun, who has only just arrived in exile after leaving her family in Tibet, is shy, overwhelmed with sadness, and can scarcely meet Joanna's eyes as she suddenly realises the truth of what she is about to say. 'No,' she tells Joanna, 'Never.' When Joanna suddenly and impulsively clutches both her hands in hers, Damchoe looks up at her and beams, with a sudden flicker of joy at such spontaneous and unaccustomed human warmth.

I tell Damchoe that Joanna is a well-known actress in the UK and that she has devoted a lot of her time to the Tibetan cause. Joanna's eyes are full of tears. 'But compared to this woman,' she says quietly, 'I am nothing.' Damchoe disagrees. Through our translator, she says: 'Please tell her that even though she has everything and is happy in her life, she has travelled a long way to listen to our stories and to share her own. That is really something.

 

Joanna Lumley Leads Gurkha Justice Campaign

Joanna Lumley's leadership of the campaign for Gurkha rights was prompted by an appeal from Gurkha Justice Campaigner Peter Carroll, who was aware of her family links to the well-known fighting regiment. Joanna's father, Major James Rutherford Lumley, was a senior army officer with a Gurkha Regiment in India up to the time of Indian independence in 1947. Lumley is one of Britain's best-loved figureheads and her no-nonsense attitude appeals to men and women alike. Fronting the Gurkha Justice Campaign allowed Joanna to pay back her family debt to the Gurkhas. Gurkha soldier, Tul Bahadur Pun saved her father's life during World War II.

The Gurkha Regiments have fought for the British for nearly 200 years and over 50,000 Gurkha soldiers have been killed while serving. Joanna Lumley breathed life into the Gurkha Justice Campaign with her outspoken comments on retired Gurkha rights to live in the United Kingdom.

It is unsurprising that Joanna Lumley has such affection for the Gurkhas, India and the East as she was born in Srinagar, Kashmir in May 1946. Her family have strong links with the Middle East and the Far East, and her grandfather was a prominent banker in India. The link to India was so strong that Lumley has stated that her parents "often conversed in Hindustani".

After India gained independence, Joanna's family moved to Hong Kong and Malaya. Joanna's memories of Asia are tinged with love and respect for the country and people and she obviously absorbed a great deal from her upbringing. To Lumley, the East was a magical and happy place with "hot dusty roads, monsoons, flowers that blossom and die in a night, trees that grow four feet in a week". Joanna seems to have taken on board much of the Hindu reverence for animals herself. Her mother taught her that "every living creature deserves love and respect and that belief is at the centre of Joanna's philosophy".

Joanna Lumley was eight years old when she left the East and the family relocated to Britain. She freely admits that she spent her formative years in the Far East and states: "Once your senses have been exposed to the Far East you yearn for the night noise of the Tropics".

Joanna Lumley's leadership of the Gurkha Justice Campaign helped publicise the plight of many of the Gurkhas who had fought for Britain prior to 1997 and were denied any right to live in the United Kingdom. She stated that the Gurkhas had suffered a great wrong and that refusal to allow former members of Gurkha regiments to settle in Britain was "a national shame that has stained us all". Within a few weeks of launching an online petition, 250,000 people had pledged support for the Gurkhas. On 21 May 2009 the British Government announced that all Gurkhas who had served four years or more in the British Army would be allowed to settle in Britain.

 Actress Joanna Lumley photographed with former Lieutenant Tul Bahadur Pun, VC. They are among hundreds who are fighting for Gurkhas who retired before 1997 to be allowed to live on in Britain.

 

Joanna Lumley is patron and supporter of a number of charities, including Tree Aid and Venture Trust Nepal. On a visit to Nepal in July 2009, she was cheered and labelled a "Daughter of Nepal" by fans and Gurkha supporters at the airport.

Sources: T Ewbank and S Hildred, Joanna Lumley, ISBN 978-0-233-00290-3; Gurkha Justice Organisation; IMDb: the Internet Movie Database.

 

Major James Rutherford Lumley, MC

With his floppy hat pulled down over his eyes, wearing only a thin vest and with a rifle in the crook of his right arm, Major James Lumley looks as though he has been through a living hell. The battle for Mogaung in northern Burma in June 1944 was one of the fiercest and most brutal in the entire campaign against the Japanese in the Far East during World War II.  The Major - father of actress Joanna Lumley - had been in the thick of the fighting.

            Courage: Major James Lumley (right) in the jungle in 1944, where he fought in the battle for Mogaung.  The men of     3rd Battalion of the 6th Gurkha Rifles fought in the ferocious heat and stifling humidity after marching more than 160 miles through the almost impenetrable jungle. The battle was to cost more than 100 lives, and see two men awarded the Victoria  Cross for their quite exceptional bravery.      

It is the battle that Gurkhas now fighting to live in Britain after their retirement look back on with most pride when they remember their contribution to General Slim's 14th Army in Burma between 1942 and 1945. One of Mogaung's veterans, Rifleman Tul Bahadur Pun, 87, was among hundreds of Gurkhas who gathered outside the High Court in London to fight their cause.  Pun has himself been awarded a settlement visa, but only after a high-profile campaign - and his case is an exception. And supporting him was the 62-year-old Absolutely Fabulous star Lumley, who simply described him as a hero.

Rifleman Pun was awarded the Victoria Cross for his actions in June 1944, as was his company commander Captain Michael Allmand, who paid for his bravery with his life in the sweltering paddy fields around Mogaung, protected by 5,000 Japanese soldiers. But Joanna Lumley's father was a hero, too, along with every single man who fought for three days and nights to capture that vital town not far from the Indian border.

It was early in May in 1944 when the 3rd Battalion set out from their base to march through dense tropical jungle commanded by Lieutenant Colonel Freddie Shaw, with Major 'Jimmy' Lumley as his second-in-command. Some of these men were the famous 'Chindits', who prided themselves on being mavericks and well capable of taking on the Japanese in their own jungles. They wore scruffy vests and sported the famous wide-brimmed hats that Gurkhas still wear today.   

     

                Major James Lumley in smarter attire

The Gurkhas had been ordered north to bring pressure on the Japanese fighting U.S. forces - but the monsoon had broken, and the march took a terrible toll as they cut their way through the jungle with their kukri knives. Not only did they have to fight off a string of attacks from Japanese soldiers, intent on ambushing them, but they were also stricken by every kind of tropical disease. As the regimental history puts it: “Conditions were appalling, malaria and typhus were rife.”  By the end of May, when the Gurkhas were within ten miles of Mogaung, they were ordered to 'take' the town.

The original fighting force of 3,500 men that had left their camp had been reduced to just 550 - and just 230 surviving Gurkhas were fit to fight. What is more, intelligence from the 14th Army suggested the town was held by approximately 4,000 Japanese soldiers. The Gurkhas reached the outskirts of Mogaung on June 9, and two days later Capt. Michael Allmand led his platoon in an attack on the vital Pin Hmi road bridge  - about a quarter of a mile east of the town's railway station  -  and the route to the strategically important Red House, where the Japanese had their headquarters.  It was no easy task. The approach to the bridge was very narrow as the road was banked up - and the low-lying land on either side was swampy and covered in jungle. To make matters worse, the Japanese were dug in along the banks of the road, and in the jungle with machine-guns and rifles.

As Allmand's platoon came within 20 yards of the bridge, the enemy opened heavy and accurate fire, inflicting severe casualties and forcing his men to seek cover. Undeterred, Allmand charged on, hurling grenades at the enemy and killing three Japanese with his kukri. Inspired by their platoon commander, his surviving men captured the bridge. Two days later, Allmand led another assault further along the road into Mogaung. This time he dashed 30 yards through marshy ground in spite of intense Japanese machine-gun fire, killing a number of enemy gunners and then leading his men on to the ridge of high ground on the edge of town. Heroic though Capt. Allmand was in those battles, it was, nevertheless, the final attack on the town nearly two weeks later, on June 23, that was to become the stuff of legend.

By this time Allmand was suffering from trench foot, which made it difficult for him to walk. But even so, he moved forward alone through deep mud and shell holes to charge a Japanese machine-gun nest single-handed. Tragically, he was wounded as he did so and died that night. Allmand was awarded a posthumous Victoria Cross for his actions.

The citation said: "Captain Allmand was commanding the leading platoon of a Company of the 6th Gurkha Rifles in Burma on 11th June, 1944, when the Battalion was ordered to attack the Pin Hmi Road Bridge. The enemy had already succeeded in holding up our advance at this point for twenty-four hours. The approach to the bridge was very narrow as the road was banked up and the low-lying land on either side was swampy and densely covered in jungle. The Japanese, who were dug in along the banks of the road and in the jungle with machine guns and small arms, were putting up the most desperate resistance. As the platoon come within twenty yards of the Bridge, the enemy opened heavy and accurate fire, inflicting severe casualties and forcing the men to seek cover. Captain Allmand, however, with the utmost gallantry charged on by himself, hurling grenades into the enemy gun positions and killing three Japanese himself with his kukrie. 

Inspired by the splendid example of their platoon commander the surviving men followed him and captured their objective. Two days later Captain Allmand, owing to casualties among the officers, took over command of the Company and, dashing thirty yards ahead of it through long grass and marshy ground, swept by machine-gun fire, personally killed a number of enemy machine gunners and successfully led his men onto the ridge of high ground that they had been ordered to seize. Once again on June 23rd in the final attack on the Railway Bridge at Mogaung, Captain Allmand, although suffering from trench-foot, which made it difficult for him to walk, moved forward alone through deep mud and shell-holes and charged a Japanese machine gun nest single-handed, but he was mortally wounded and died shortly afterwards.

The superb gallantry, outstanding leadership and protracted heroism of this very brave officer were a wonderful example to the whole Battalion and in the highest traditions of his regiment."

 

But Allmand's was not the only Victoria Cross that day, for his bravery inspired the men around him. Just before dawn on that fatal June day, as Allmand was fighting on another part of the battlefield, 21-year-old Rifleman Pun was a member of one of two platoons ordered to attack the Red House itself. As they did so, they encountered a ferocious Japanese attack. The crossfire massacred the two platoons. Only Pun, his section commander and one other man were left alive. The section commander immediately led them in a charge on the Red House but he was badly wounded almost immediately after getting to his feet. Unflinching, Rifleman Pun and his remaining companion continued the charge, although his companion, too, was wounded within seconds. Pun seized his companion's Bren gun, and - firing from the hip - charged on the heavily protected Red House alone, in the face of what the regimental history later described as: 'The most shattering concentration of automatic fire directed straight at him.'

With the sun coming up behind him, making him a perfect target for the enemy, he ran across more than 30 yards of open ground, often ankle-deep in mud, running through shell holes and jumping over fallen trees. But he still managed to reach the Red House and take on the Japanese soldiers inside. Pun killed three of them, put five more to flight and captured two light machine-guns and a great deal of ammunition. Still not finished, he proceeded to give accurate supporting fire from the bunker to the men of the 3/6th Gurkhas who had been following behind.  It was an act of such exceptional bravery that it was to win him the second Victoria Cross awarded that day.

War Office, 9th November, 1944

The KING has been graciously pleased to approve the award of the VICTORIA CROSS to: — No. 10119 Rifleman Tulbahadur Pun, 6th Gurkha Rifles, Indian Army.

In Burma on June 23rd, 1944, a Battalion - of the i6th Gurkha Rifles was ordered to attack the Railway Bridge at Mogaung. Immediately, the attack developed the enemy opened concentrated and sustained crossfire at close range from a position known as the Red House and from a strong bunker position two hundred yards to the left of it. So intense was this crossfire that both the leading platoons of " B " Company, one of which was Rifleman Tulbahadur Pun's, were pinned to the ground and the whole of his Section was wiped out with the exception of himself, the Section Commander and one 6ther man. The Section Commander immediately led the remaining two men in a charge on the Red House but was at once badly wounded. Rifleman Tulbahadur Pun and his remaining companion continued the charge, but the latter too was immediately badly wounded. Rifleman Tulbahadur Pun then seized the Bren Gun and firing from the hip as he went, continued the charge on this heavily bunkered position alone, in the face of the most shattering concentration of automatic fire, directed straight at him. With the dawn coming up behind him, he presented a perfect target to the Japanese. He had to move for thirty yards over open ground, ankle-deep in mud, -through shell holes and over fallen trees. Despite these overwhelming odds, he reached the Red House and closed with the Japanese occupants. He killed three and put five more to flight and captured two light machine guns and much ammunition. He then gave accurate supporting fire from the bunker to the remainder of his platoon which enabled them to reach their objective. His outstanding courage and superb gallantry in the face of odds which meant almost certain death were most inspiring to all ranks and were beyond praise.

— Supplement to the London Gazette, 7 November 1944 (dated 9 November 1944)

 

But it wasn't the end of the fighting in Mogaung. The fierce battle for the town continued for the rest of the day, coming to an end only shortly after dusk. The following morning, a cautious advance into the town found the Japanese had abandoned it. It was the first main town in Burma to be recaptured by the British, but it came at a terrible price. Some 126 British and Gurkha officers and men lost their lives, with a further seven missing and never accounted for. It also saw the award of three Military Crosses, two Distinguished Service Orders, and 12 Military Medals. The Gurkhas stayed on in Mogaung as a garrison until July 5, before marching a further 50 miles to a safe jungle airstrip, to be flown back to India. But while they were there, they took the opportunity of hoisting the Union Jack on a large pagoda - the most prominent building left standing.

The battle took its toll on every man who survived, as is so evident from that single, haunting photograph of Major Jimmy Lumley standing in the ruins of the town talking to Lt Col Freddie Shaw and their legendary commanding officer, Brigadier 'Mad Mike' Calvert of the Chindits.

Small wonder then that Lumley's daughter Joanna should say this week of Rifleman Pun, who fought alongside her father: 'Ever since I was a small child this man has been my hero.'

The memory of the battle for Mogaung was to remain with Major Lumley throughout his life, and he was present when the Viceroy of India, Field Marshal Lord Wavell awarded the Victoria Cross to his friend Pun in a ceremony in Delhi, India, in March 1945. The following year, Joanna Lumley was born in Kashmir, while her father was still serving with the Gurkhas. He'd married Thya Rose Weir in 1941, also the daughter of an Army officer, in 1941, but after Indian independence in 1947, the Major brought his family back to Britain to settle down in Kent. It's hardly a surprise, therefore, that Joanna Lumley insists that her late father, who died in the late Eighties, would have been 'overwhelmed with shame and fury' at the Gurkhas' treatment at the hands of the British Government in denying those who retired before 1997 the right to settle in this country.

 Author’s Note: Lieutenant Tul Bahadur Pun, VC, passed on at Myagdi, in Nepal, on 20th April 2011.

BEAUTIFUL HOLLYWOOD ACTRESSES FROM THE PAST

 BEAUTIFUL HOLLYWOOD ACTRESSES FROM THE PAST

DAME ELIZABETH TAYLOR, DBE 

GINA LOLLOBRIGIDA 

CAROLE LANDIS

SOPHIA LOREN

ANITA EKBERG

A Swedish actress, model and international sex symbol, Ekberg became famous for her voluptuous figure. Courageous, ambitious, curvy and proud; Ekberg was a true inspiration to the women of the 50s and is an inspiration to this day. Blonde and buxom, Anita Ekberg used her curvaceous figure to her advantage, enhancing her curves at any given opportunity and rocking them with pride.

MARILYN MONROE

Actress Marilyn Monroe was perceived as the epitome of beauty in the 50s. Her unique body shape, representing an extreme hourglass figure was a revelation at the time, with a figure far fuller and curvier than society was used to. With her sultry voice and curvy figure, Monroe became a much admired international star and remains a pivotal role model in the representation of curvy women today.

DORIS DAY

PRINCESS GRACE KELLY

White Mughals

WHITE MUGHALS: LOVE & BETRAYAL IN EIGHTEENTH CENTURY INDIA

BY

LIEUTENANT COLONEL ANIL SRIVASTAVA

In 1616, when Sir Thomas Roe arrived in Agra, India, as the first accredited English ambassador to the Mughal empire, he probably did not expect the small humiliations he would face over the next three years.

His ruler in England, King James I, who wanted a formal trade treaty with the Mughal emperor Jahangir, had told him to be "careful of the preservation of our honour and dignity". But Roe struggled to keep the English flag aloft at the brilliantly adorned Mughal court, where even his only European rival, the Portuguese ambassador, seemed grander than he.

He managed to avoid the bowing and scraping expected of ambassadors, but he felt acutely the shabbiness of the gifts he had brought from England for the aesthete Jahangir; and he could not entirely overcome Jahangir's scepticism about a supposedly great English king who concerned himself with such petty things as trade.

Perhaps Roe shouldn't have worried so much. In retrospect, it is Jahangir who seems a victim of imperial hubris while Roe emerges as a far-sighted diplomat of an emerging economic and military power. Roe failed to get a formal treaty out of Jahangir. But he did secure a toehold for the East India Company on the western coast of India. Over the next 150 years, traders from Britain turned into soldiers and steadily overcame their Portuguese, French and Dutch rivals, even as the Mughal empire, weakened by endless wars and invasions, slowly imploded into independent states. 

Loss of territory and influence diminished Mughal emperors in Delhi into pathetic figureheads as early as the mid-18th century. The British gave them generous pensions and allowed them to hold shows of pomp and ceremony periodically - despite their infirmity, they retained, in British eyes, the symbolic value of belonging to India's oldest and most prestigious ruling dynasty.

Neither Jahangir nor Roe could have foreseen the formal end of the Mughal empire, which finally came during the suppression of the Mutiny in 1858, long after the British conquest of India was complete, when an English soldier executed the sons of the rebellious, and - as it turned out - last Mughal emperor, and left their corpses to rot in the streets of Delhi.

Although White Mughals at the crux is a love story, there is more to it in the sense that it gives a detailed picture of the socio-political-cultural life in India in the late 18th and early 19th century. It is filled with interesting details as to how some of the British people in India imbibed a lot of our culture, our clothes and our language. and how because of the East meeting West and the consequent relationships between British men and Indian women, a new breed of Anglo-Indian community formed.

White Mughals opens in the last years of the 18th century, when the British were expanding inland after consolidating their presence in the coastal "presidencies" of Calcutta, Madras and Bombay. With Napoleon in Egypt, and threatening to travel eastwards, the French were still a nuisance. However, the major threats to the British in India were the Indian states that had grown culturally and politically vigorous at the expense of a declining Mughal empire. Dalrymple details brilliantly the intrigues through which the British extended their influence over the state of Hyderabad, pacified the Marathas in western India, and undermined the power of Tipu Sultan in the south.

But this is only the political background to the "far more intriguing and still largely unwritten story" Dalrymple wishes to alert us to: "the Indian conquest of the European imagination". At the heart of his colourfully and diversely populated book is a poignant story of how Lieutenant Colonel James Achilles Kirkpatrick, the British resident at Hyderabad, went native.

Dalrymple came across Kirkpatrick's story while visiting Hyderabad five years ago. His obsession with this somewhat obscure figure grew as he searched through the records at the India Office Library, and commissioned translations of Persian documents in Hyderabad.

Kirkpatrick seemed different from the other British representatives at upcountry Indian courts who, released from the drab white ghettos of the British presidency towns, embraced keenly the opulent Indo-Persian style of the ruling classes they were in the process of supplanting. In Dalrymple's eyes, Kirkpatrick attempted something riskier: he not only converted to Islam and married Khair un-Nissa, a young girl - a "minor" in contemporary terms - from a Muslim aristocratic family, but also began to question the more brazenly imperialist policies of his bosses.

Dalrymple is not new to what he calls "the unexpected and unplanned minglings of peoples and cultures and ideas". His previous books described his travels through the crossroads - Central Asia, India and the Middle East - where several civilisations, in the days before nation-states, met and flourished. Their brisk, exuberant love of the exotic and the eccentric marked them as profoundly English travel books, part of a romantic tradition defined by Robert Byron, Peter Fleming and Bruce Chatwin.

White Mughals marks a fruitful break from a genre that seems increasingly an inadequate tool to understand a world growing ever more complex. The past becomes much more than an architectural curiosity, as Dalrymple attempts in this technically ambitious book the difficult job of carving a human narrative out of the intransigent mass of untouched archival material: the letters of Kirkpatrick and other British officials, the Persian chronicles of the time. There is a scholarly seriousness here; also, a moral passion.

Writing after September 11 2001, Dalrymple is naturally keen to attack the more shaky generalisations that underpin the much derided but oddly resilient theory of the "clash of civilisations". He also wishes to defend the early British Indophiles from the often vulgar accusation of "Orientalism". This leads him to a few generalisations of his own. He argues that "during the period 1770 to 1830, there was wholesale interracial sexual exploration and surprisingly widespread cultural assimilation and hybridity". He goes on to assert that "virtually all Englishmen in India at this period Indianised themselves to some extent".

The British practice of acquiring Indian wives and maintaining harems does offer a somewhat bracing contrast to the bleak racial segregation of the Victorian 19th century. But it would still not have amounted to "wholesale interracial sexual exploration" if the nubile women on the "fishing fleet" from England had been allowed to cast their net over eligible young Indian men; and it would only have been truly widespread if it had occurred outside the enclaves of elite Indo-Persian culture in which a few fortune-hunters from Britain found themselves luxuriating in the late 18th century.

There remains a question, too, as to how many Indian women actually chose to become the wives and mistresses of British men. Dalrymple seems inclined to think that the women relatives of Khair un-Nissa cannily arranged her affair and marriage with Kirkpatrick in an attempt to further their family's influence in Hyderabad. This may be true, and perhaps, as Dalrymple argues, should be seen as part of the social mores of aristocratic Muslim women. It certainly clears Kirkpatrick of the charge of abusing his great power. But we don't know what Khair un-Nissa thought of being used as a pawn in imperial intrigues, or how she saw her life, which turned out to be short and hard.

Kirkpatrick himself didn't have it easy. The drama of much of his time in India derives from the resistance he faced from his British peers. He chose, it seems from Dalrymple's account, the wrong time to go native, when the imperial conquerors and administrators from Britain, who increasingly replaced the old-style traders and soldiers, were seeking a new, hard basis for British power in India. The old close relations with Indians were supplanted by a policy of racial exclusion and arrogance. Indian cultures and religions had few admirers among the new British generation of evangelists and utilitarians who sought to impose upon India the radical reforms they could only fitfully carry out in Britain.

This period of political and cultural upheaval, during which the British tightened their stranglehold over India, had many victims, British as well as Indian. We don't hear much of them, for their dreams of personal happiness were destined to remain unsung in histories that celebrate imperial and anti-imperial victories. Kirkpatrick was one of them: a "superfluous man" of late 18th-century India. This capacious book is never more engaging than when, spurning polemic and theory, Dalrymple describes, with a novelist's compassion, the tragic costs of his rebellion.

Kirkpatrick became captivated by Indo-Persian culture after traveling to India with imperialist intentions. He quickly gave up his English habits and wardrobe and replaced them with nautch parties and Mughal-style outfits. In 1798 he glimpsed Khair un-Nissa —’Most excellent among Women’—the great-niece of the Nizam’s Prime Minister and a descendant of the Prophet. As he delved deeper and deeper into the culture, Kirkpatrick converted to Islam, and in 1801 married Khair un-Nissa. Local officials only allowed the marriage on the condition that he “strive for the best interests of the [Hyderabad] government.” He accepted the conditions, and the marriage was solemnised. 

                     Lieutenant Colonel James Achilles Kirkpatrick, and his wife                  Khair-un-Nissa Begum at Hyderabad, Circa 1801

A public outrage quickly ensued in Calcutta because the marriage was interracial. As imperialism swept across India, the union became even more of a taboo, especially because Kirkpatrick was the highest-ranking official yet to be involved in this type of marriage. Upon hearing of the scandal, newly appointed Governor General of India Lord Richard Wellesley summoned Kirkpatrick to Calcutta, where he was reprimanded and dismissed from his position. He went on to have two children with his wife. A son named Mir Ghulam Ali Sahib Allum and a daughter, Noor-un-Nissa Sahib Begum. A few years later, Kirkpatrick decided his children should be sent to England to for schooling and to receive Christian names. In 1805, Kitty and William were sent to live in England at age three and five years, respectively, with their paternal grandfather, Colonel James Kirkpatrick. At the time, it was common for British families in India to send their young children to Europe as death rates for children in India were frighteningly high, and families wanted them to grow up as British, speaking unaccented English and being educated at a British school or by British tutors in a British home, before returning. The well-known painter, George Chinnery, created a portrait of the siblings in Madras, shortly before they were sent to England. 

Noor-un-Nissa Sahib Begum and Mir Ghulam Ali Sahib Allum at Madras

The two children were baptised as Christians on 25 March 1805, at St Mary's Church, Marylebone Road in London, and were thereafter known by their new Christian names, William George Kirkpatrick and Katherine Aurora "Kitty" Kirkpatrick. They never again saw India or any members of their maternal family. They never returned to India. Tragically, James didn’t make it back to Hyderabad to bid his children goodbye. Immediately after they left, he came down with a fever and died (around 1807). Khair un-Nissa would die of natural causes only a few years later. William was disabled in 1812 after falling into a copper of boiling water and had to have an arm amputated; he married and had three children but died in 1828 aged 27. Kitty was for a few years the love interest of the Scottish writer and philosopher Thomas Carlyle, then a young man of no fortune working as a tutor and an ineligible match for an heiress. Into adulthood Kitty became known for her attractiveness, and in 1822, she met the Scottish philosopher and historian, Thomas Carlyle, who swiftly became infatuated with Kirkpatrick. The romance was encouraged by another of Kitty's cousins, Julia (who married Edward Strachey, grandfather of the writer Lytton Strachey). However, Carlyle was impoverished and not believed by the rest of the family to be a suitable match for the wealthy and well-connected Kitty. Carlyle would later use Kitty as the basis for the Calypso-like Blumine in his novel Sartor Resartus and his memoirs, written many decades later, wrote a pen portrait of Kitty admiring her beauty but is clearly suspicious of her mixed-race ancestry: a strangely complexioned young lady, with soft brown eyes and floods of bronze-red hair, really a pretty-looking, smiling, and amiable though most foreign bit of magnificence and kindly splendour.  She married Captain James Winslowe Phillips and they had seven children. She died in Torquay, Devon, in 1889.

                 A portrait of Katherine Aurora Kirkpatrick, Circa 1830. 

Renewed contact with India

Katherine Kirkpatrick's paternal family had long forbidden her from maintaining any contact with her family in India. However, with the help of Henry Russell, her father's former assistant and her mother's ex-lover, Katherine was able to re-establish contact with her maternal grandmother after almost four decades of separation. Although they were never physically re-united, the two women were correspondents on a regular and often emotional basis for six years. Katherine's letters make it clear that despite leaving India and her mother at such a young age, she still retained vivid memories of it:"I often think of you and remember you and my dear mother. I often dream that I am with you in India and that I see you both in the room you used to sit in. No day of my life has ever passed without my thinking of my dear mother. I can remember the verandah and the place where the tailors worked and a place on the house top where my mother used to let me sit down and slide. When I dream of my mother I am in such joy to have found her again that I awake, or else am pained in finding that she cannot understand the English I speak. I can well recollect her cries when we left her and I can now see the place where she sat when we parted, and her tearing her long hair. What worlds would I give to possess one lock of that beautiful and much loved hair! How dreadful to think that so many, many years have passed when it would have done my heart such good to think that you loved me & when I longed to write to you & tell you these feelings that I was never able to express, a letter which I was sure would have been detained & now how wonderful it is that after 35 years I am able for the first time to hear that you think of me, and love me, and have perhaps wondered why I did not write to you, and that you have thought me cold and insensible to such near dear ties."— Katherine Kirkpatrick.