What Remains of an Empire

King George V stares impassively out over a sea of empty plinths forlornly guarding forgotten chapters of the subcontinent’s history. Attributed as his final words, “How is the Empire?” finds its answer in the wilderness of Delhi’s Coronation Park. 

It is a scene laced with irony; from his vantage point today, the king looks over at the obelisk that marks his only visit to India: the extravagant Delhi Durbar of 1911. 

This park once defined obeisance—an action which is a performance art in of itself. Bend in respect; bend in acknowledgment of an order; bend forward; bend backward; and—if you were in India in 1858—bend over in servitude to Empire. 

For that was when Queen Victoria—soon to be named the Empress of India—would cradle the nation, soothing any incipient gripes with a bottle filled with the goodness of Milk of Subservience. 

The sword of Justice had, after all, quelled restless natives in 1857; a year later, the Queen’s proclamation—the Magna Carta of India—would declare her intentions, tastefully framed in a cloak of benevolence. 

Reassuring those summarily trampled upon just a year ago, her prose spoke of the health and happiness of her subjects—an empire recasting itself as custodian to a continent that had never asked to be held.  

Liberty—trumpeted at Allahabad to the Native (sic) Princes of India by Lord Canning—would light the way forward. Liberty, equity, justice… and, of course, an English education and the promise of employment. 

Ad Nauseam 

In addition, the Raj would not annex the kingdoms of Indian kings and princes— respecting their sovereign rights, dignity and honor. Instead, it would be annexation by bauble; in the years leading up to Indian Independence in 1947, many Maharajas would be awarded meaningless orders of English chivalry including the Most Exalted Order of the Star of India and the Most Eminent Order of the Indian Empire—each with their own classes. 

They were, at best, tokens of acceptance: we deem you worthy of our recognition. Perhaps not quite welcome at our cantonment club because of it—but here’s an award nonetheless.

Worn and displayed with no small sense of pride—by Maharajas and ordinary citizens alike. 

The former is more mystifying; they were already Knights Commander of their own kingdoms, with no need for embellishment by a foreign monarch.

Imperatricis auspiciis 

There is a hollowness about the proclamation of 1858, especially given the contentious annexation policy in force between 1847 and 1859. Known as the Doctrine of Lapse, it helped the East India Company dismantle and take over a kingdom if its ruler were to either die without a male heir, or was deemed incompetent. 

In an abject display of subjugation, many of those very same Maharajas would petition and were royally granted—and would accept—their own kingdoms as a consolation prize from Queen Victoria. 

Under the proclamation, everyone was also—irrespective of rank, title, orders of chivalry, or lack of them—required to work together to repel aggression on India's borders; being ordered, in other words, to be prepared to lay down their lives for a monarch who would never set foot in her new dominion. 

Ad Absurdum 

But first, a way had to be found for the Queen's dominion to pledge fealty even as control of India was finally transferred from the East India Company to the Crown. 

Enter Lord Lytton, Viceroy of India between 1876 and 1880. A proponent of Social Darwinism, he would begin his tenure by largely ignoring famine sweeping the state of Tamilnadu between 1876 and 1878—expressing his anger at the Governor of Madras for helpfully trying to find different ways of importing and paying for much needed grain. 

Arguing against unnecessary spending, Lytton's inaction formed part of a series of misjudgements that would ultimately cost the lives of over five million people. 

Funding, however, became a non-issue for Lytton as he prepared to sink a large portion of his budget toward a lavish Durbar in 1877. It was to be a show of pomp and circumstance designed to formally install the Queen as Empress of India; showcase the British Raj; and show Her Majesty, the Queen, just how beloved she was in the colonies. 

Richly bejeweled Indian maharajas attended—gifting their self-respect to Empire, while paying obeisance to an unseen Queen.

Lord Lytton presided over the extravaganza and, for his efforts in focusing on pageantry over famine, Queen Victoria would make him a Knight Grand Cross of the Order of the Bath. A bending of both British and Indian knee—obeisance to an Imperial power. 

The lone exception in 1877, was the simply-dressed lawyer, activist, and one of the founders of the Poona Public Society—Ganesh Vasudeo Joshi. 

Rising to his feet, he requested the Queen to: Grant to India the same political and social status as is enjoyed by her British subjects. 

It is perhaps fair to assume that that request never made it into any formal reports sent to the monarch in question. 

The Durbar of 1877 would be followed by two others in the early 20th century. The first, in 1903, was intended to mark the coronation of King Edward VII in London. Despite all of Viceroy Curzon’s promises of pomp and circumstance, the King would decline the invitation; he would send his brother to attend in his stead. For all the riches and publicity that India generated for Empire, it barely warranted royal visits. 

The Durbar of 1911 did—finally—draw a British emperor to Indian shores. King George V and Queen Mary would attend, against a growing backdrop of calls for full Indian Independence. That clamor did not prevent the much-decorated Maharaja of Kapurthala—among others—from commissioning a 50ft statue as a gift to the King-Emperor. 

The very same statue that now looks out over the somewhat truncated empire of Coronation Park. 

The entrance to the park is neat and clean; it is a promising visual that, on entry, rapidly dissolves into one of long-standing neglect. Immediately ahead is an obelisk commemorating the Durbar of 1911 ; built in 1912, its tone-deaf and graffiti-encrusted sides mark the spot where George V and Queen Mary received the “dutiful homage and allegiance” of the "Governors, Princes, and Peoples of India". 

It was a deliberate choice of words—a display of verbal domination in the face of increasing calls for Indian Independence. 

It was at this Durbar that the King would announce the shifting of capitals from Calcutta to Delhi. The new capital—meant to last a 1000 years—was designed by Edwin Lutyens, son-in-law of the designer of the very first Delhi Durbar: Lord Lytton. History often creates strange roundabouts. 

When the British departed after Indian Independence, they left behind—among other things—statuary all over the subcontinent. Royals, generals, and civic leaders who once governed India—and were immortalized in marble as a result— would find themselves summarily hauled off to civic wastelands like Coronation Park, destroyed, or shuffled off to museums. Like George V who, in cold marble, now rules over the very park where a nation’s kings and people once paid him obeisance in 1911.  

Obeisance, with the exception of one Maharaja—who would stand up and break the long-established public trend of royal servility. Sayajirao Gaekwad III, the Maharaja of Baroda had attended all three Durbars; in 1911 however, he did the unexpected. Bucking the protocol of the day, he neither dressed in jeweled robes nor bowed thrice toward the royal couple.  He dipped his head just once and—in a move that made every Englishman bristle— turned his back on King and Queen, laughing as he walked away with his head held high. 

The other Indian king to repudiate the Durbars or indeed, any meeting with British royalty, was Maharana Fateh Singh of Udaipur. He flatly refused to attend any of them.

Obeisance be royally damned. Then, as today. 

From his lofty perch, the statue of King George V also watches over legions of young lovers from the area who disappear into the park's dense foliage for a privacy they may not find at home. 

It makes a surreal visual: young lovers surrendering to the bliss of the moment in a park where Indian Maharajas once bent over for Empire. 

Location Finder: 

Coronation Park, Shanti Swaroop Tyagi Marg, Delhi, 110033 

ApproximateLatitude: 28.723198 | Longitude: 77.199257  

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(The photographs here are all mine, with one exception. The picture of George V is courtesy Col DPK Pillay; he had the better angle. Archival images in this post are in the public domain)