Peas and rhythms: How India lost its population battle in the 1950s

Back in my school days the social studies textbooks said India’s population was 700 million. Thirty years later, it has doubled and we are worried. But worrying about population growth is an old Indian ritual by now. On December 20, 1956, India’s then health minister Rajkumari Amrit Kaur said this in Parliament:

“The increase of population in India constitutes a big national problem.”

The country’s population at the time was a third of what it is now, but growing fast. In 1951, we were a country of 361 million. In just a decade, we increased by 21% to 439 million. With that population and today’s GDP we could have been reasonably well-off. But if our leadership was alert to the population explosion all those years ago, how did we continue multiplying for the next 60 years?

Neither urgency nor direction

Did government of India not try hard enough to check population growth, or did it stray in the wrong direction? Both. India’s ‘family planning’ or birth-control effort started soon after Independence, but it lacked urgency and direction.

“While government are not unaware of the problem, it is not possible for them to initiate any countrywide scheme of control on a matter like this without a very careful study of all factors involved,” Kaur had told Parliament on July 29, 1952.

It was a reasonable approach, but was the government really making “a very careful study”? All it had done until then was set up three experimental centres for pilot studies on a birth-control measure that both scientists and planners did not find feasible. Steamrolling all opposition, the government wasted several years on this measure.

The rhythm folly

The government’s pet birth control measure was called ‘rhythm method’. Instead of contraceptives it required knowledge of a woman’s menstrual cycle. Couples who took the course were advised to have intercourse on days when ovulation was least likely to occur.

Even in 1952 doctors spoke against the method. Kaur admitted: “Some of the women’s organisations have given their opinion. They are in favour of the use of mechanical contraceptives.”

The pill was not available then but condoms and foam tablets were. Did the government try to popularize these? Asked whether the government intended to subsidise contraceptives for the poor, on September 13, 1954, Kaur replied: “No, government is not supplying contraceptives to anybody.”

What about grants to institutions and experts for research in family planning? The government did not distribute any funds to them. Its focus was on the complicated rhythm method that required careful training.

There were only three centres  –  two in New Delhi and one in Ramanagaram, Mysore  –  to train married couples in the method, and here’s the government’s own statement about Ramanagaram from August 24, 1953.

The centre covered 14 villages with a total population of 8,000. Training was reserved for couples among whom the wife was aged under 40 years. The area had 941 such couples, and 712 signed up.

The programme started in September-October 1952, but “by the end of June 1953, only 385 menstruating women had been actively followed for various lengths of time. Tentative advice on the rhythm method is given after the examination of three menstrual cycles. Final rhythm is worked out on the basis of six menstrual cycles.”

How was such a slow and complicated scheme expected to cover entire India?

To know their safe dates couples had to use aids like beads and calendar cards, and many were not happy using them. Women also did not like the invasion of their privacy for drawing up rhythm charts.

Headstrong course

The government ignored all advice. These are some questions and answers from the September 13, 1954 debate in Parliament:

Mrs Violet Alva: “Dr V K R Rao, who was the delegate at the Population Control Conference, had stated that the rhythm method was not acceptable to the countryside and that some other method had to be thought of…”

Rajkumari Amrit Kaur: “Many people say many things. The government should consider them all and see what is feasible for the country.”

Dr Mrs Seeta Parmanand: “What is the percentage of people, both doctors and social workers, who are in favour of the rhythm method?”

Rajkumari Amrit Kaur: “Government has no information as to what proportion favours which method.”

Dr D H Variava: “May I know if there are any statistics about lowering of births after the adoption of this family planning for about 2 or 3 years?”

Rajkumari Amrit Kaur: “No statistics can be arrived at after one year.”

Peas, not pills

Instead of pushing straightforward birth control measures, the government also wasted time and money on ideas like developing oral contraceptives from field peas.

In 1955–56 one Mumbai-based scientist, Dr Khanolkar, carried out research on the subject, and later work was continued by two doctors at All India Institute of Hygiene and Public Health. Tests on animals showed that pea extract caused abortions when taken in very high doses, but it did not find use as a human contraceptive.

Government also released a movie, ‘Planned Parenthood’, in English and six other languages, and started a free magazine, ‘Family Planning News’, with a circulation of 10,000 copies, but neither campaign had an impact.

End of rhythm

For six years, the government stubbornly shrugged off criticism of the rhythm method and then just as it had sprung the scheme on India, it gave it a quiet burial.

On September 16, 1958, Dr Mrs Seeta Parmanand asked this question in Parliament: “Whether the experiment on rhythmic method of family planning has been stopped?”

The new health minister, D P Karmakar, replied: “Experiments exclusively on rhythmic method have been stopped.”

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BVO: Modern India’s first big food scare

In 2016, bread briefly became a dubious food article in India after reports said it contains potassium bromate, but it was not the first time a bromine food additive had become controversial in the country. In the late 1980s, when we were a far less health-conscious nation, a food additive called BVO (brominated vegetable oil) made newspaper headlines, and figured in parliamentary debates and school tiffin talk alike.

BVO was an emulsifier/stabiliser used in orange- and lemon-flavoured sodas like Gold Spot and Limca those days. An emulsion is a mixture of two or more liquids that normally do not mix with each other. For instance, fat floats on water, but milk is a stable blend of the two. Added to soft drinks, BVO kept the water and flavouring substances in Limca, for instance, from separating.

But there were doubts about BVO’s safety. Some researchers said it could cause cancer, others linked it to memory loss, and skin and nerve disorders. The United Nations’ Food and Agricultural Organization had recommended long-term studies on the chemical to establish its adverse effects.

In 1988, the developed world was divided over BVO’s safety. The US, Canada and Australia allowed its use while West Germany (the Wall was still standing), Japan and the UK had banned it. The irrepressible Subramanian Swamy raised a question about BVO in the parliament on August 8, 1989: “Whether government are aware that citrus-flavoured aerated cold drinks contain carcinogenic brominated vegetable oil?”

India’s Ministry of Health and Family Welfare had already removed BVO from the list of permitted food emulsifiers and stabilisers on April 15, 1988, but as the industry was not ready for the change it was decided to defer the ban by two years.

So April 15, 1990 was the last day when BVO was legally added to soft drinks in India. Of course, its use did not stop immediately. When officers from the Delhi administration’s Department of Prevention of Food Adulteration raided four bottling factories on April 17, 19 and 30, they found BVO in two samples of Gold Spot (the zing thing) and (lime ’n’ lemony) Limca  —  both brands owned by Parle (Exports) Private Limited. The foul samples were found at Delhi Bottling Co on Shivaji Marg and Pearl Drinks, Lawrence Road, in the capital.

Parle denied it was still using BVO, and published newspaper advertisements claiming Limca and Gold Spot were clean. The matter reached Monopolies and Restrictive Trade Practices Commission. On May 22, 1990, MRTPC told Parle to stop using BVO and ordered an investigation into the conduct of soft drink makers.

A headline in the July 7, 1990 edition of The Hindustan Times announced the verdict: “Limca ad false, says MRTPC”. A day earlier, MRTPC had ordered Parle to stop the false and misleading advertisements. Still, Limca ads continued on the national broadcaster Doordarshan.

Asked about it, the government came up with a typically hogwash reply: MRTPC had not issued any instructions to Doordarshan and “advertisements of soft drinks, including Limca, are being telecast on Doordarshan only after obtaining a written undertaking supported with documentary proof from the clients that these do not contain BVO.”

Parle’s rival firm Campa Beverages/Pure Drinks escaped flak after the ban as MRTPC observed: “the products of the respondents do not contain any BVO.”


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Why India was a 3-car country for 30 years

Maruti 800 was to India what Model T had been to America in the early 1900s, and the Fiat 500 to Europe in the post-War years. It was at the right place at the right time and the right price.

Before the 800 arrived, for 30 years India had only three cars: Hindustan Ambassador, Premier Padmini and Standard Herald. Was it love? What explains the Indian people’s surprising constancy to these cars?

Government policy. Those cars were not the best fit for India, not in the 1980s, nor in 1950s. Fans vouch for the sturdiness of their frames and the forgiving nature of their engines, but any other car from the 1950s would have done just as well.

Point is, why did India start with these three mid-size cars instead of something smaller like the 500 or the Mini that would have been cheaper and got Indian car manufacturing to shift into high gear 30 years early?

Case for ‘Baby’ Cars

The government was not blind to the need for smaller and cheaper cars. Many members of Parliament had pointed out that the existing cars, priced around Rs 10,000 each in 1957, were too expensive for the middle class, and new models in the Rs 5,000–6,000 range were needed.

This is what then industries minister Manubhai Shah had to say about ‘baby’ cars on November 20, 1957: “That can be a real average middle-class family car, particularly for urban use…Undoubtedly the lighter cars are wanted in the interest of the consumer public, particularly the middle-class families in the urban areas.”

Policy Block

But the smaller people-movers did not materialise until Suzuki set up shop in India 30 years later. For a brief period, Hindustan Motors sold a smaller car called Baby Hindustan  — “already licensed as far as the manufacturing programme is concerned, but we have not encouraged its large-scale manufacture.”

Why didn’t the government encourage smaller cars? The answer lies in independent India’s well-intentioned but counterproductive early manufacturing policies.

Back in 1953, an advisory body called Tariff Commission recommended that “the manufacture of automobiles should be restricted to a few firms.” The motive was to transform India into a manufacturing country. If only a few car models were allowed, each one of them would sell in larger numbers, bringing economies of scale to encourage local manufacturing.

In fact, before Independence in 1947 and for the first few years afterwards, about three dozen models of cars and altogether 4-5 dozen models of automobiles were sold in India.

The government responded to the 1953 recommendations by allowing only six firms to manufacture selected types of vehicles, including cars, trucks and jeeps. How were these six firms picked? The government called for manufacturing programmes from industrialists, and from those who applied, it approved six.

Before full manufacturing could begin, the government imposed restrictions on the assemblers to import only three types of cars and trucks. Three years later, in 1956, the Commission came back with even stronger advice:

“We should give priority to the manufacture of commercial vehicles rather than passenger cars.”

“It would be definitely undesirable to introduce any more passenger cars for manufacture in the country.”

The Economic Weekly of March 2, 1957 criticised this approach because no thought was given to the type of car India needed most: “The Tariff Commission has had to accept the situation as it was and give its approval to the manufacture of cars for which sponsors were already available. A selection on the basis of first-come, first-served, without looking into the capacity of these cars to suit Indian conditions.”

Dogmatic Attitude

The government went along with the Commission’s advice.

“The government has decided that as far as passenger cars are concerned, the manufacturing units should concentrate on Hindustan Landmaster (later Hindustan Ambassador), Fiat 1100 and Standard Vanguard. Also Standard 10, which is of a lighter variety than the above three models, is being manufactured in sizeable numbers. Until and unless these models go into production in sufficient numbers and also with the requisite percentage of indigenous components to a satisfactory limit, it is the policy of the government not to permit any further models in the passenger cars,” Manubhai Shah said while moving the Indian Tariff (Amendment) Bill, 1957.

Mark the word ‘satisfactory’. Whose satisfaction?

“…in the opinion of the government to produce to the entire satisfaction of the government,” said Shah.

He dismissed the question of promoting compact cars: “We have not encouraged its (Baby Hindustan’s) large-scale manufacture and we would not encourage its large-scale manufacture unless and until the Hindustan Ambassador comes out in a satisfactory way in all respects.”

The government clung to that policy. “We would rather concentrate on the existing models.” Years passed, governments changed but for three decades, India continued to focus on those three initial car models.

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How India's dream to make petrol from coal died

For decades, different committees proposed this path to energy self-sufficiency, but governments disagreed

When petrol crossed the Rs 100 mark on February 17, Prime Minister Narendra Modi blamed previous governments for India’s dependence on imported oil. He might have a point. Around the time India became independent, the technology to turn coal into liquid fuel was in the news. Government of India showed interest in it. Foreign companies made pitches. Indian scientists made a plan. Then, nothing.

This happened several times over the decades, and it’s only in recent years that talk of turning coal into petrol has died out. This is a story of shortsightedness and official lethargy bound in red tape.

Hitler’s oil

Coal fed the steam age, but the 20th century belonged to internal combustion engines that ran on petrol and diesel. Ironically, Germany, whose inventors made the first petrol and diesel engines, had no oil of its own. It had plenty of coal, though.

In 1935, German engineers showed that converting coal into petrol and diesel was commercially “feasible”. Although costlier than imported fuel, it could save the country in a crisis. By the time WW-II started in 1939, Germany had built nine plants based on the Fischer-Tropsch conversion process with a total annual capacity of 740,000 metric tonnes of synthetic oil. In 1944, German synthetic oil capacity peaked at 4 million tonnes per annum. It was this capacity to make oil that kept Hitler’s tanks, trucks and planes moving even after the Allies had cut off his other oil supplies.

Indian interest

The war ended in 1945 with Hitler’s defeat but the interest in synthetic oil did not die. The December 31, 1947 edition of The New York Times reported that a big American chemical company called Koppers planned to “devote a considerable amount of research during 1948 to development of processes for making synthetic liquid fuels and other chemicals from coal.”

In time, Koppers and other companies pitched the technology to India. In July 1952, science minister KD Malaviya confirmed in the Lok Sabha that the director general of industries had made plans for a synthetic oil plant as early as 1950 and negotiated with a foreign firm to set it up.

The government’s own Fuel Research Institute in Dhanbad had set up an experimental Fischer-Tropsch unit “producing about one gallon of liquid product per day” and a “small high pressure hydrogenation plant for production of aviation spirit.” But Malaviya said the plan had been abandoned because of “cost.”

Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru elaborated on the cost aspect in December 1953: “This particular matter of synthetic petrol has been examined very thoroughly. In fact, it was not merely examined, but schemes were worked out, but due to various reasons, one of them being the heavy cost of this project – it is a very, very expensive project – it could not be undertaken. I cannot say that it has been given up, but for the present it is not being undertaken.”

Yet, two years later, in March 1955, Malaviya said Koppers had submitted a report to the government “two years ago”, indicating interest in synthetic oil had revived soon after his 1952 reply. He said, “steps are being taken to obtain project reports” from reputed international firms for setting up a synthetic oil plant. The government was looking to use lignite from southern mines for making oil.

South Africa

While India dillied and dallied on synthetic oil, South Africa went right ahead and turned it into a major industry in 1955. A 1980 report by the US Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) says Sasol (South African Coal, Oil and Gas Corporation) had been running the “world’s only oil-from-coal plant... since 1955,” and after expansion it would produce 112,000 barrels of oil per day – “about half of South Africa’s needs.”

While India rejected synthetic oil in the 1950s on grounds of cost, the EPA report says Sasol’s production cost in 1979 averaged $17 per barrel, well below the $20 that imported oil cost at the time. And, South Africans paid “about $0.63/litre of gasoline at the pump.” The low price was thanks to cheap labour in South Africa. The EPA estimated that synthetic oil in the US would cost at least $27 per barrel, and the price could go up to $45. But India had no dearth of cheap labour then, so perhaps our doubts about viability were misplaced.

Sasol is still very much in the business of synthetic oil, and a 2017 Financial Times report says “its Secunda plant east of Johannesburg is the world’s largest coal-to-liquids facility.”

More experiments

But the question of synthetic oil was still alive in India. Many MPs pushed for it on grounds of energy security. The government-appointed Ghosh committee submitted its report on synthetic oil in February 1956. It recommended starting with a Rs 20 crore plant in the Jambad Kajora area of West Bengal’s Raniganj coalfield that would yield 120,000-125,000 tonnes of motor fuel from 1.2 million tonnes of non-coking coal. The report was rejected because “natural oil was cheaper and foreign exchange was scarce.”

Yet, experiments continued. In September 1960, science minister Humayun Kabir told Lok Sabha about IIT Kharagpur’s pilot project to make synthetic fuel from coal. Over 20 days, the small unit with a designed capacity of 100 gallons per day made 64 gallons per day. The Central Fuel Research Institute (CFRI) in Hyderabad was also engaged in similar research, Kabir said.

Nine years went by, and in December 1969 education minister VKRV Rao said experiments conducted at CFRI “showed encouraging results for conversion of Neyveli lignite to oil by direct hydrogenation or by Fischer-Tropsch synthesis. Further work is in progress.”

Six years on, rattled by the steep rise in oil prices after the 1973 Arab-Israel war, another committee was studying the subject. Deputy energy minister Siddheshwar Prasad told Lok Sabha in March 1975: “The matter of conversion of coal into synthetic oil is under consideration of the ‘Expert Group on Synthetic Oil’ recently constituted by the central government.”

The committee gave its report in 1977, recommending a synthetic oil plant with a capacity of 1 million tonnes per annum. The plant was expected to cost Rs 1,140 crore, so the government rejected it citing low international prices. The government’s argument: synthetic oil would cost Rs 809 per tonne without duties, and Rs 997 with duties and taxes, but imported crude cost only Rs 909 per tonne (1977 price). Couldn’t the government have exempted synthetic fuel from taxes, to start the industry?

US attempt

Koppers and synthetic fuel were back in the news in 1980. The US wanted to insulate its oil supply from Arab-Israel conflict and it decided to set up an independent agency called ‘Synthetic Fuels Corporation’ for this. Fletcher L Byrom, chairman of Koppers at the time, was a frontrunner to head the corporation. The NYT on July 23, 1980 reported that the SFC would “dwarf the programs that took America to the moon and built the interstate highway system.”

The SFC’s task was to spur the production of oil from coal, shale and tar sands, so that within two years, 10% of the US oil consumption would come from these sources. Over the next few years, it spent almost a billion dollars on four synthetic fuel projects, none of which survive today. The SFC itself was wound up in 1986 because President Reagan chose to leave the matter of oil supply to market forces.

More committees

Meanwhile, India appointed another committee – the Sidhu Committee – to examine the question of synthetic oil. In February 1986, energy minister Vasant Sathe told Lok Sabha that the cost of setting up a 1 million tonne synthetic oil plant had risen to Rs 2,800 crore. “Resource constraints and adverse economics” prevailed again – no synthetic oil plant was set up.

After that, as India liberalised, synthetic oil and self-reliance ceased to matter. The next mention of synthetic oil in Lok Sabha occured 20 years ago in February 2001. And it was a passing mention: “the issue of production of synthetic oil from coal can be transferred to one or other of the fuel research agencies.”

In October 2008, Rajya Sabha member B K Hariprasad asked “whether private players have evinced interest in setting up such coal-to-liquid projects”. The government replied, “28 applications were received from 22 applicants,” who had proposed to get know-how from foreign firms.

At last, India seemed to be on the verge of unlocking its synthetic oil potential, but five years passed with no action on the ground, and in March 2013 BJP member Piyush Goyal asked, “whether the central government has any proposal to extract oil from coal”. The government replied coal liquefaction was “one of the specified end uses for the purpose of allotment of captive coal/lignite blocks to the entrepreneurs.”

Jindal Steel and Power was one of the companies that had proposed to build a synthetic oil plant in India. But when the Supreme Court cancelled the allocation of 214 coalfields to private players in September 2014, Jindal aborted its $10-billion, 80,000 barrels-per-day coal-to-diesel project in Odisha.

Meanwhile, 85 years after Germany and 65 years after South Africa, India’s science establishment still talks about synthetic oil as though it is a technology of the future. A 2017 blog post on the mygov.in website says: “Very recently, CSIR-CIMFR has successfully installed and commissioned an integrated coal-to-liquid pilot plant… (which) produces 5 litres per day liquid hydrocarbon.”

IIT Kharagpur was making 64 gallons per day in 1960!

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How India scuttled its scooter bazaar in the 1970s

In 1972, the wait for a scooter — Vespa or Lambretta — stretched to seven years by the government’s own admission. The middle class was growing. A study group of the government’s Planning Commission estimated that 210,000 scooters would be needed in 1973–74. The think tank National Council of Applied Economic Research (NCAER) said annual demand would increase to 243,000 scooters within eight years, by 1979–80.

How many scooters was India manufacturing in 1972? These are the government’s own production/sales figures for 1969–72:

The queues were clearly going to get longer. The two big licensees — Automobile Products of India (API) that made Lambretta scooters, and Bajaj that made Vespa scooters — had applied for permission to increase production capacity to 100,000 units each per annum, but instead of saying ‘yes’, the government started reviewing their applications under Monopolies and Restrictive Trade Practices Act.

See the irony of it? Both firms were born of and ran with government licences. The government decided how many scooters either one could make in a year; it also set their prices. Yet, when time came to increase production, it sat down to consider whether it was creating monstrous monopolies.

That was not the only thing the government did. It sent a team to Milan to buy the “entire plant along with all auxiliaries as well as the technical know-how, including worldwide trademark and export rights” of M/s Innocenti, owners of the Lambretta brand. That might have been a good thing in the early 1960s, but by 1972 Innocenti had already lost to Vespa. They had thrown in the towel. They were closing down their scooter business.

Government of India closed the deal for $1.85 million (Rs 1.5 crore in those days at an exchange rate of about Rs 8 to a US dollar) and proudly announced it was going to start making 100,000 scooters per annum on its own. In the new company, government was to have 51% stake, M/s Innocenti 20%, and API, other institutions and the public the remaining 29%.

Why were Innocenti given a stake? Government’s virtuous reply was that it would keep $400,000 of the sale price within the country and also ensure the Italian company’s technological knowhow forever. Never mind that it was outdated technology that people across the world didn’t want anymore.

Why were API given a share? Because they had proposed to buy out Innocenti’s Italian unit first, and also because their experience of making Lambretta scooters in India would be useful to the new company. So the government said.

A deal of this sort was bound to raise questions. Members of Parliament asked why precious foreign exchange was being spent on machinery that Hindustan Machine Tools (HMT) could have made in India. Government replied it was an “as is where is” deal; they couldn’t choose bits and pieces of the factory.

Wasn’t the machinery old and much-used? Was it worth the price? Government said it had sent a team of experts — including the vice-chairman of API — to inspect the plant, and had also got an independent assessment done by London-based M/s Gibb Ewbank. Industries minister Moinul Haque Choudhury said, “The condition of the machinery was reasonably good and the value was more than the amount of $2 million asked”.

The first scooter from the new factory was not expected until two years later, but the government said that was a lot better than the “7–8 years” making a completely new scooter from the drawing board would require.

Did time prove the government right? The new company, Scooters India Limited, never ran to capacity even in those shortage years. Instead, it ran up huge losses before it stopped making two-wheelers. Like the rest of the world, Indians chose Bajaj’s Vespa technology. And the waiting period for a scooter grew to more than 10 years before the market caught up with demand.

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In the 1970s, government decided the profit margins of Indian industries

Imagine being asked to pay more for a car you bought a year ago. Early in 1972, people who had bought Premier Padmini (Fiat 1100 D) cars between July 1, 1970 and April 15, 1971, received letters to cough up Rs 1,800 each. It was a lot of money in those days when a new car cost Rs 22,000 (see graphic).
The buyers had signed undertakings to pay up if Supreme Court of India allowed Premier to increase prices. The company and its two competitors — Hindustan Motors and Standard Motor Products — had challenged Government of India, which fixed prices of everything from bread to cars in those days.
After losing the case, the government reluctantly notified new ex-factory prices for all three makes of cars on January 24, 1972:

If these ‘low’ prices surprise you, in January 1957 the same cars cost Rs 10,424, Rs 8,934 and Rs 8,702, respectively, at the factory gates. Today, you probably pay that much for a routine service and synthetic engine oil. That’s what inflation does to money.
This case shows what a bizarre economy we were only four decades ago when government even decided how much profit a business could earn. For car prices, the government allowed only 12% return on capital, but Supreme Court increased it to 16%. Either way, market forces had no place in the economy. The home ministry’s Enforcement Department raided car makers and arrested their officers on charges of price manipulation.
Swadeshi (indigenisation) was the only holy grail, shutting the door on new foreign technology. All three cars were almost completely localised, and continued unchanged decade after decade:

The government also had a tendency to get into businesses it had no business being in. When people complained about the deteriorating quality of car components, it set up a committee to suggest improvements and sent inspectors to factories. It in fact opposed the car makers’ demand for higher prices on the ground that they were slipping up on quality.

Politicians of every colour talked about nationalising the car industry, some said the three companies should be merged to reduce costs and bring down prices. Singed by the Supreme Court order, the government sought the law department’s opinion on denying courts any say in matters of price fixation. They were scary times indeed for businesses.
And then, the government decided to turn car maker itself. There had been talk of a cheap car or a people’s car since the 1950s, and in the second half of 1970, the government announced its intention. Two years later, a Cabinet decision was still awaited.
Meanwhile, the way to lower car prices was quite evident to all: lower taxes and duties. The on-road prices of cars were almost 40% higher than the ex-factory price, yet the government refused to look into it. That attitude continues to this day, be it cars, petrol or your weekend pizza treat.
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#Cars #India #Premier #Fiat #Ambassador #Standard #Price #Economy

The inside story of the 1911 Delhi Durbar from Lord Hardinge himself

A time traveller’s exclusive interview with the viceroy, first published a century late

December 30, 1911: This month’s Coronation Durbar and transfer of capital to Delhi are the biggest feathers in Lord Hardinge’s cap at the end of his first full year as Viceroy. As the year draws to a close, he lets readers in on some backstage secrets from the last 13 months spent in preparation.

The Durbar turned out to be a perfect show. Are you satisfied?
Very. I am also surprised, because our dress rehearsals were a fiasco. Even on Durbar day — typical of Indian methods — the last few nails were being driven into the red carpet only two minutes before my escort rode up. But finally, everything worked like clockwork. Even the weather held out bright and sunny although there was a deluge of rain just 30 miles from Delhi.

Is it true you started planning the arrangements before starting for India?
Not at all. The first I heard of His Majesty’s decision to convene a Durbar in Delhi was by telegram on landing at Bombay, on November 18 last year (1910). Everything’s been done in these 13 months.

What did you make of Delhi on your first visit?
When I first came here at the end of winter, 20,000 people were at work on the grounds, water supply, lighting, drainage, the amphitheatres, etc. But Red Fort was a picture of neglect. Diwan-i-Aam, Moti Masjid and other incomparable buildings were littered with rubbish, bricks, stones, refuse, etc, and the fort was surrounded on one side by a wet marshy jungle on the riverbank, which I was told bred and harboured the most poisonous kind of mosquitoes. I gave orders for cleaning up the inside of the fort, and laying it out as a garden. As for the jungle, I had it cut down, drained and turned into a park.

In the early months, plans were repeatedly altered from London. How did you stop that?
I had to put my foot down as the rains were near. The meddling stopped after I conveyed it to His Majesty that while camps covering 25 square miles were laid out, 40 miles of roads, 26.5 miles of broad-gauge and 9 miles of narrow-gauge railway, 50 miles of water mains and enough lighting for two fair-sized towns were still being built.

There was also some awkwardness about the crown…
From the start, we assumed His Majesty would bring his crown. So, when we were told the crown could not leave English shores, and a special one ought to be made for the Durbar at Government of India’s expense, we were shocked. Then, there arose concerns about safeguarding the new crown, as its falling into the hands of rebels in another Mutiny would be politically disastrous. It has now been decided to house it in the Tower of London with the rest of the Regalia.

How cooperative were the native princes?
I would say extremely cooperative, barring, of course, Baroda’s misconduct at the Durbar. They did not upset the government’s plans but some of their demands did unsettle us for a while.

Such as…
Well, one prince wanted to bring two tame tigers to the camp. I reasoned, and finally forbade, the attempt on the grounds that the cats would keep the entire camp awake at night.

Talking of animals, you had strong views against the king’s horses.
The steeds were chosen on purely practical grounds, but from the beginning I believed they were not worthy of the king. My own black thoroughbred looked so much statelier than the horses he used here. In fact, I had wanted his horses to be brought from England, but His Majesty turned down the proposal. Finally, he made do with a small, dark brown horse of no noticeable appearance that was selected entirely for its calm nature.

In hindsight, don’t you think the king should have ridden an elephant during the state entry?
Absolutely. During the parade, His Majesty himself told me that he was disappointed at his non-recognition by the people. I also noticed that the people did not recognize the king, who after all is a small man, and was dressed in a red coat like the other generals and was riding a small horse.

London almost expected an assassination attempt on the king during his visit. What special security arrangements were made?
I personally supervised and assumed full responsibility for all measures taken. The day before His Majesty’s arrival, 300 dangerous characters in Delhi were comfortably locked up for the 10 days of his stay here. But the chief danger in my opinion lay in Chandni Chowk, where the procession was to pass almost under the windows of houses. So, I ordered that nobody but British troops should stand on the pavements that day. I brought in 4,000 police from the provinces and stationed an officer at every window. Nobody was allowed on the rooftops, and Indian troops guarded the back lanes of houses. The procession passed through Chandni Chowk at 11am, but the street was put under curfew from 6am. And during those five hours, every house was thoroughly searched.

The transfer of capital to Delhi was the Durbar’s masterstroke. When was the idea conceived?
The move away from Calcutta had been coming a long time. Lord Lawrence had earlier expressed favour for Delhi, and even Lord Curzon wanted the capital removed to Agra.

But when was the decision taken?
I mailed my proposal to the secretary of state in July, and received his entire support and full authority to proceed, in a telegram on August 7. In November, I learnt the India Council in London had favoured the scheme, and it was accepted by the Cabinet a few days later.

Yet the news remained a secret till the end…
We ensured that it was known to only 12 people in India till the last minute. His Majesty did not share it even with Queen Mary. She was completely surprised when I broached the subject on board the Medina, on their arrival in Bombay.
It was one thing to keep the secret within our circle but another to suppress it while preparing and printing the gazettes and flysheets for the ceremony. We created a special Press Camp, complete with printing machines, and board and lodging for the workers. The staff was brought in three days before the Durbar, and a cordon of troops and police ensured that neither man nor word got outside.

Amid all this cheer, how’s Calcutta taking the news of transfer?
The native population does not mind, but the English trading interests there can’t stop carping. One English newspaper recently published a leader titled HMG, which I thought meant His Majesty’s Government, but later found to be an acronym for Hardinge Must Go! I have since informed one of its editors that I will, but only from Calcutta.

(Adapted from Lord Hardinge’s India memoirs)