I think I could just start all these out by saying that “there was a rocket atack in Mosul today, and the ancient city of (fill in the blank) was destroyed in an earthqauke in (fill in the blank). Today the ancient city was named “Bam” and it was located in Iran.

The world continues to spin. That is the good and the bad of it, since it seems that everything loose is flying about. As I take stock of the detritus of the old year and the prospect of a new one, I naturally thought of the historic dialectic. Goes well with the left-over ham and eggs in the morning. I have decided that I agree with old Karl Marx, at least on his dialectic diatribe, if not much else.

One thing collides with another thing and what results is a bit of a fusion of both. We collided with Hitler and then Stalin and we are not precisely the same as when we began this current long march in 1941.

And it certainly isn’t over yet. More foes arise as old ones fall. Our day in the sun will end will run its course in time, but we can contend that in our turn we brought more openness and freedom where we went. With some grave exceptions.

Not that there were not previous attempts. The British Empire had its lofty rhetoric and soaring conceits. I do not know if everything would be better if all the conquerors had just stayed home, all of them back to Alexander. But I must say, most places I have seen in the wide world that had a legal code imposed by the British Crown tended to be better, or at least more orderly, places than those that did not.

There are exceptions to everything, I know, and this is a complex world.

It is a point worth debating some time. I thought about it particularly in the context of India, the world’s largest democracy, and a nation that for al its astonishing diversity, still has a layer of Britain on it. I was in Dehli late last year. My delegation had flown all night and we were permitted a “jet lag” day underthe Joint Travel Regulations to sort ourselves out physically. Some of the people decided to go to Agra and see the Taj Mahal. I was tempted, but thought I could see more things i I stayed closer to the capital on this one day I was uttlerly free in India.

I hired a car from the Imperial Hotel concierge and had myself driven to the middle of the dusty plain where they once held the imperial Durbars of the Raj. In a brzen attempt to overawe and dazzle the locals, the British attempted to emulate their Moghul predecessors by holding ornate, pompous ceremonies that would cemennt their rule forever. There were three Durbars that were spectacular in size, all held on this field north of Delhi. The first was held in 1887 and used as a vehicle to proclaim Queen Victoria Empress of India. The second was in 1903 to honor Edward VIII’s Coronation. Viceroy Curzon, alternate King, presided over what may have been the most astonishin display by an Englishman in hitory. He spent two years personally planning the details. He rode in a box positioned over embroidered robes on a gigantic elephant. His solar topee, the pith helmet of the Raj was low on his eyes and his wife the vice-queen was elegant beside him. A parasol was mounted over the couple to keep them from the sun.

The last Durbar is marked by the lonely obelisk.It commemorates George V’s Coronation Durbar in 1911, where the transfer of the capital from Calcutta to Dehli was announced. He told the crowd that a splendid new one would be contructed right there. George V actually attended this one in person. His gigantic statue once adorned India Gate on New Dehli’s heroic mall. Now it looks down on an overgrown park next to the obelisk. There were some skinny pariah dogs resting next to the flowing sculpted marble of his ermine robes. He didn’t seem to mind.

They had intended to build the splendid new capital in a district called The Civil Lines. That is where the bulk of British Delhi lived and worked. They even laid the cornerstone to the capital there, but it was too crowded for the grandiose plans of Edwin Lutyens, the principal architect. He chose Raisina Hill south of the city as the anchor for his design, and the cornerstone was quietly moved when building began in 1913.

After the durbar grounds I had them drive me to the oldest Christian church in town, Saint James. It is very proper and not at all out of place. The stones in the small cemetery are angelic. It has recently bee refurbished and painted in cream and yellow. It is still attended, though not so well as it was, and is no longer the center of anything. I stood in the garden and waited for the doorman to notice me and unlock the place. Colonel James Skinner is there, in the nave under a long cool marble slab. He had the place erected, and that was a story that went before the Raj.

It sounds so veddy, veddy, British, but it is not that at all, or rather that it is. Quite.

Skinner was of mixed birth, product of a union between one of the adventurous first wave of Europeans  that swept with the East India Company to rule the sub-continent by commerce, indirection and where necessary, force of arms.

James Skinner was the son a Scot father and a Rajput mother, born in 1778 at Calcutta. His father was in the service of the East India Company. James was 12 years when his mother committed suicide. He left home at 16 and traveled to Gawlior in north central India where he impressed the French Commander of the Maharaja of Scindia�s guard. He shared a lineage with Rajput and William the Conqueror. The French Commander was named Benoit de Boigne, and took the boy under his wing.

He served in many of the small actions in the region. At the battle of Uniara, he was wounded and left for dead. He lay for three days among the dead and vowed that if God spared him, he would build a church. It is said that he also vowed to quit fighting, but that did not happen. A woman liberating valuables from the dead found him and nursed him back to health.

He treated the woman as his mother until she died. He also built Saint James Church. Along the way he formed an irregular cavalry known as the Yellow Boys, so named because of the color of their tunics. Based on his skill and bravery, he became the most famous mercenary leader in North India. He was highly regarded by the Indian princes and by the East India Company. But his rank was conferred by the Maharaja, and thus was considered ‘local’, meaning that even the most junior British lieutenant outranked them.

Skinner�s brother Robert was a solider of some reputation as well. The racist attitude infuriated them. When their units were forced to join the Company�s army, they continued successful careers despite their “local” ranks. James eventually gained the title “Sikander Sahib” because the tribal warriors of the Yellow Boys linked him in ferocity and ability to Alexander the Great. Eventually James had his rank validated within the British army. But it was only through the intercession of more than one Viceroy, and over the objections of more than one Colonel Blimp at the officer�s mess.

Robert was offered a commission as a Major. Unfortunately the stress of the situation and the realization that his wife was having an affair forced him to kill her and her lover and then turn the gun on himself. Perceptions and times, I suppose.

James lived until 1842, and he did not have to see the Mutiny that began the paradoxical march to both the full-blown Raj and Independence. They say he smoked the hookah at his country retreat at Hansi, well pleased with the Church he had built and his considerable reputation.  

I wish I could do the same.

Copyright 2003 Vic Socotra