by Salil Tripathi

The royal family’s chutzpah in displaying the kohinoor at the Queen Mother’s funeral.

The stately funeral cortege passed through the Royal Mall slowly, denoting the gravity of the situation. Old soldiers with polished medals on their chests stood firm, saluting the casket. American tourists waved the Union Jack. People remained hushed and silent, as Queen Elizabeth, Queen Mother, was taken to her final resting place.
One could sense deja vu. If the early 1980s meant royal weddings for Britain, mid-1980s to early 1990s was the period of royal divorces. And since 1997, it has been a period of royal funerals — first Princess Diana, then Princess Margaret, and now Queen Elizabeth, Queen Mother. What I was looking for was the crown on the casket. As expected, it was indeed the crown Elizabeth wore in 1937, when she became Queen in fortuitous circumstances, not only due to the accident of birth and marriage, but also the only abdication crisis in British royalty.
Her husband, George VI, ascended to the throne only because Britain was not ready to have a King (Edward VIII) marry a divorcee. (Going by Prince Charles?s plight, it seems Britain — or at least Queen Elizabeth II — is still not ready for that). The purple, velvety crown was surrounded by stunning gems that shone brilliantly; the shiniest was, of course, the Koh-i-Noor diamond with the glitter that could light up a room. The solemnity and dignity of the occasion were marred by this imperial affront to the former colonies.
The chutzpah was astonishing. I know we are not supposed to speak ill of the dead, and this is hardly meant as a criticism of the Queen Mother.
But it required a particular sense of cavalier gall to display the jewel in the crown in all its glory, scintillating under the spring sky, a diamond that many in India believe rightfully belongs to them, on this solemn occasion.
This was what Americans would call in-your-face chutzpah.
Perhaps the funeral planners could have drawn inspiration from Her Majesty’s former Chinese subjects in Hong Kong. When the Chinese die, they have a quaint custom of burning paper models of Rolls Royce cars, American Express Platinum Cards, cellular phones, and other objects of wealth.
It is supposed to symbolize the wealth the departed had acquired on earth. By burning paper models of these objects, the Chinese believe they are making sure that the objects will transmigrate to the other world, and the departed Chinese will be able to enjoy his earthly comforts in the world beyond.
That’s of course of symbolic value; the whole point of the exercise is not to surrender those assets physically. And that’s exactly the way the Windsors think of their stealthily-acquired heirloom. By placing the Koh-i-Noor on the funeral casket, the British Royal Family was telling the world: here’s our shining jewel, and she gets to wear it one last time. Afterwards it will once again be under lock and key, behind a shatterproof, bulletproof, glass window, away from prying fingers.
If only the diamond had actually belonged to the British. For history shows us that for several centuries the Koh-i-Noor diamond had been in the family of the Rajah of Malwa, in central India. In 1739, when Nadir Shah of Persia invaded India and captured Delhi, he got it from the Moghuls, and took with him to Persia.
Then Maharaja Ranjit Singh, who was recognized by the British government under a treaty as the Maharaja of the state of Lahore, coveted the diamond. By then, the diamond had passed hands again, and reached Shah Shuja. In a family struggle for power, Shah Shuja was dethroned and expelled by his brother. Shah Shuja sought refuge in Kashmir, but he was imprisoned. Shah Shuja’s wife sought protection from Maharaja Ranjit Singh. In return, she promised him the Koh-i-Noor. Maharaja Ranjit Singh accepted her offer and sent his troops to Kashmir. Shah Shuja was freed and brought to Lahore, but his wife refused to honor the promise. Ranjit Singh promptly placed them under house arrest, and the diamond was handed to the Lion of Punjab. A succession crisis followed Ranjit Singh’s death in 1839, and predictably, the British seized their opportunity. In 1849, the British East India Company got the diamond after subduing the Sikhs, and a year later, the company presented the diamond to Queen Victoria, to celebrate the 250th anniversary of the company. She had the diamond cut and it was set in the crown which usually rests in the Tower of London.
Today, it is considered one of the main attractions of the British crown jewels. Ranjit Singh’s heir, Maharaja Duleep Singh, who had signed it away tried hard to get it back, even by trying to forge an alliance with Czarist Russia. But he too failed. Today, a tourist has to pay £8 to file past the diamond on a conveyor belt. At Rs 530, it is a princely sum for an Indian tourist. To see something that once belonged to India so near and yet so far, and to be allowed to glimpse it momentarily, surrounded by dozens of tourists, is not a comforting experience. The queues to enter the Tower are usually long.
India has repeatedly sought the return of the diamond; Britain continues to refuse. It is indeed imperial gall that allows Britain to display objects which are, in effect stolen, and make tourists pay £8 to see them. Hail to the Thief, indeed.
To be sure, the Koh-i-Noor diamond is not the only contentious object in British possession. Go to the British Museum, and marvel at the fantastic Elgin Marbles. The sculptures, which were once in the Parthenon in Athens, are awe-inspiring. Looking liquid one moment and solid the next, they personify fluidity, grace and poetry. The tour guide helpfully tells tourists that the sculptures were brought to London for safekeeping, and acquired legitimately.
Athenians do not agree; the late Melina Mercouri, the famous Greek actress who was later the Greek minister of culture, sought in vain for the return of the marbles, but that was not to be. The British excuse is that the pollution in Athens would erode the beauty of the marbles.
Museums around the world are concerned because many objects in western museums have been acquired under questionable circumstances. Arguably, they are kept in a better state then than they would be in some museums around the world, but it remains a cultural dispossession that rankles the former colonies deeply.
There is a case to be made that when a country is at war, it makes sense for its art work to be kept overseas for safekeeping. A small Swiss town called Bubendorf today houses Afghan art stolen and pilfered over the past 20 years. A Swiss architect who cares about Afghan culture has decided to hold on to it, for safe-keeping, until peace returns to Afghanistan, so that its cultural heritage could return home.
Likewise, as French journalist Roland Paringaux has pointed out, an international effort is now underway to relocate the art of the Khmer people, and return it to Cambodia. In the years after Pol Pot’s reign ended, aid workers said they found many statues smashed and beheaded; there was a lucrative trade of those works of art in European streets. Protecting art from vandals is indeed a priority for the sake of civilization in the future. But when peace returns, so should art. Pablo Picasso kept his famous painting critical of Fascist Spain, Guernica, out of Spain until democracy returned to Spain. And when it did, Guernica returned to its home country.
Contemporary Greece and India are hardly countries run by vandals who do not appreciate their own culture. (Though, given what the Sangh Parivar did to Babri Masjid, I’m not too sure). It would indeed be in the fitness of things if the Elgin Marbles were to return to Greece, and Koh-i-Noor returned to India (although Pakistan too has laid claim, saying that Ranjit Singh’s court was after all in Lahore).
That, and some arcane lawsuits may allow Britain to hold on to its crown jewels. But it is unlikely that a future British king will wear the crown with the Koh-i-Noor. Like many precious stones, superstition surrounds Koh-i-Noor, and in the case of the diamond the belief is that great misfortune will strike the male ruler who will wear it.
The British Royalty likes its traditions, even if those traditions are superstitious. The black ravens which you find in the Tower of London have their wings clipped. This is because of an old curse that England will be doomed if the ravens fly away. the royal staff, therefore, clips the raven’s wings; the poor birds must hop around the Tower of London, guarding the Koh-i-Noor, the light of Asia.

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