Fog shrouded Osborne House as a short procession of mourners moved silently towards Queen Victoria’s private apartments in January 1901. In the corridor outside her chambers stood a tall Indian man, Abdul Karim, the Queen’s secretary and tutor. He had been waiting here since morning to be allowed to say goodbye to her. Eighty-one-year-old Queen Victoria died three days ago. She was now dressed for her last journey, just as she had wanted, lying in her coffin, her face covered by her white wedding garment, holding a bouquet of white lilies. Her son and successor Edward VII and his wife, her children and grandchildren, her most loyal servants and members of her household passed by and bade her farewell. Then the King allowed Abdul to say goodbye to her as well.
He entered the room with his head bowed, wearing a dark Indian tunic and a turban on his head. The King, knowing his mother’s wishes, allowed him to be alone with her for a few moments. To him, a humble servant, this woman had given more than ten years of respect and love. His thoughts flew back to their first meeting in the summer of 1887, when he bent down and kissed her feet for the first time. He remembered the years when he had taught her his language and described his homeland to her, her generosity but also her loneliness. In front of her corpse, he clutched his heart and stood for a few moments. He looked at her one last time, bowed to her and left, immediately after which the pallbearers closed the coffin.
He marched in the funeral procession right behind the members of the Queen’s family. This was Victoria’s wish, even though she knew that her family would resist it with all their might. Just a few days after the funeral, Abdul was woken by a loud knocking. Princess Beatrice, Queen Alexandra and a few guards burst into his apartment because the King demanded that he hand over all the letters Victoria had written to him. Abdul, his wife and his nephew watched in horror as the precious letters, which always began with Dear Abdul, landed in the fire that had been lit outside the building on that cold February day.
Abdul knew that without his Queen, he was powerless. The Queen wrote to him every day and the letters always ended with my dearest friend. His wife would cry, his nephew would rummage through the cupboard, frightened, and bring back piles of letters, and Abdul would just stand there silently, biting his lip. King Edward VII, without hesitation, told him to clear up his things and return to India. The fairy tale that began on that day in 1887, when young Abdul Karim set foot in the British court, came to an end.
It was a gift from India to the British Queen, who was celebrating her Golden Jubilee. Dressed in a scarlet tunic and wearing a white turban on his head, the 24-year-old young man, who came from Agra and who initially served at the Queen’s table, quickly rose up the hierarchical ladder. Within a few months he was cooking curry for the Queen, then became her tutor and secretary, and finally her personal confidant, replacing John Brown, the Scottish aide who had died four years earlier. And if Brown was loathed by the members of the royal household, Abdul was literally loathed by them, for they had heard for years of the wild outbursts of a disaffected Indian population yearning for independence.
But Victoria wasn’t interested. She always defended him, gave him holiday homes in Windsor, Balmoral and Osborne, and land in India, and demanded that members of her household treat him as their equal. She allowed him to bring his wife and family to England and praised him to her ministers. Abdul’s picture still adorns the Indian Corridor at Osborne House.
What was it about him that attracted the Queen so much? Was he the comforter of a lonely old ruler with a broken heart? A man she could always rely on? Did the Queen perhaps represent a more enlightened and tolerant part of English society towards Muslims?
Victoria loved India, a country she had never visited, and if she couldn’t go there, she made sure India came to her. Abdul Karim died in Agra in 1909 and is buried in the cemetery where Indian Moghuls were once buried. Today, the site is neglected, overgrown with tall grass and full of mud pits. Among a few small gravestones is a small sandstone mausoleum with three graves. Abdul rests in the middle one. The mausoleum is no longer cared for, since his descendants emigrated as Muslims to neighbouring Pakistan in 1947, when India was partitioned. Visitors to the mausoleum are now just stray dogs. The Urdu inscription is half-blurred, but at the end one can only read: ‘One day everyone will enjoy the sweetness of death.
The thick volumes of the Queen’s Hindustan News can be seen in the Royal Windsor Archives. For thirteen years, Victoria wrote a page a day. First Abdul Karim wrote a line in Urdu, then in English and a third in Urdu but in the Latin alphabet, so that the Queen could enjoy the melodious rhythm of words foreign to her. She then painstakingly copied the lines. This was her daily refuge, away from the squabbles at court and the cares of her family, and far from the suspicions of the court household.
Golden Jubilee
Abdul Karim was awakened by the call of a muezzin. He quietly got up and left his young wife sleeping. He stepped out onto the terrace and saw the walls of the nearby central prison, where he and his father both worked. In the distance, the sun was already shining on the Taj Mahal, a masterpiece of Moghul architecture. He knew that Agra would soon come alive, with traders thronging the streets, the bazaar soon to be full, cows everywhere.
He was just 13 years old when Queen Victoria was proclaimed ruler of India in 1877. He was the second of six children, but his father saw to his education, teaching him Persian and Urdu, and reading books on Islam and the Prophet. He also married soon after and his bride was chosen by his family according to custom. As his gaze floated across the rooftops of the nearby houses that morning, he did not know that his life would change very soon.
He knew it would be an important day for him, as he had been summoned by the Warden of Central Prison himself, John Tyler, who had returned from the British Empire Colonies Exhibition in London. He was taking 34 prisoners there, skilled weavers of carpets, internationally renowned handicrafts woven from cotton and wool. The prisoners, who had time to spare, were taught carpet weaving as part of a rehabilitation programme, and it was Abdul who chose the carpets for the London exhibition, as well as a beautiful gold bracelet, the product of local craftsmen.
Tyler was very pleased with his choice and the Queen even thanked him in writing for the gifts. In her letter she also expressed her wish to employ some Indian servants during the Golden Jubilee period. She was expecting some Indian princes at the celebration and she wanted someone to instruct her on how to address and treat them. Tyler asked Abdul if he wanted to travel to London next year to be a sort of adviser to the Queen during the celebrations.
Abdul was completely taken aback. He expected to be promoted, and to be with the Queen was an incredible honour. The busy days began. He had to learn at least enough English to be able to communicate normally, he was given lessons on court etiquette, on how to greet the Queen not by looking her in the eye but at her feet, he had to know everything about the royal family. The light in his flat burned long into the night as he bent over his books. He asked his wife to teach him how to cook India’s most famous dishes and the best tailor in Agra made him several suits. He also met his companion, an Indian servant, Mohammed Buxa, whose superior, General Dennehy, was to supervise the work of all the Indian servants who were going to London for the ceremony.
The day of farewell has come. Abdul took a train to Bombay and then a boat to England. As Bombay disappeared over the horizon and the ship sailed into the blue waters of the Arabian Sea, his heart squeezed.
Preparations for the reception of the foreign guests invited to Victoria’s Golden Jubilee started several months before. In recent weeks, crowds of photojournalists have been lurking at train stations and ports to catch the arrival of royal and princely guests. They stepped off the steamships and out of the first-class trains, smartly dressed, followed by their servants, governesses, seamstresses and porters with mountains of luggage. The Indian princes, who were especially invited to the ceremony, were the pride of the empire. The British government was convinced that the opulence and glamour of the jewelled maharajas, maharanis and princes would add the necessary glamour to the celebrations and show the attachment and loyalty of the foreign colonies to the British Empire.
Choosing which of India’s highnesses to invite to London was not an easy choice. The Hindu Maharajahs were forbidden by their religion to travel by sea, as for them it was the proverbial kala pani (dark water). Others wanted to come but were totally unsuitable guests. Hundreds of telegrams were sent back and forth from London to Calcutta and other cities in India. It was necessary to choose those who would look elegant and beautiful in their national costumes, who would speak English and who would be willing to integrate into a Western environment.
After the 1857 riots, India was governed on two tracks. Eleven provinces, the most important of which were Hyderabad, Mysore, Baroda and Kashmir, which had been administered by the East India Company, were now under the direct administration of the British Crown, while other provinces or states retained some independence, printed their own money, had their own maharaja as chief of state, but their administration and policies were strictly controlled by the British Crown.
Abdul felt sick on board the Cathay, his first sea voyage. After a tiring voyage and several stops, he arrived in London. The Queen was still in Balmoral and Abdul did not know when she would return to London. But he watched with great interest the arrival of the first Indian guests.
The first to arrive were the Maharaja and Maharani of the small principality of Cooch Bohar, far away in the mountains of north-eastern Bengal, famous for its tea plantations and tiger hunting. Queen Victoria wanted to meet Maharani Sunita Devi privately before she was formally presented to the court, but on condition that she visit her in her national costume. The Maharani was extremely nervous before the reception and drank a cup of port to calm down. Unused to alcohol, she got into a fit and spat the drink all over her beautiful dress.
The Maharaja of Baroda – today’s Gujarat, one of the richest countries, was greeted by cannon shots to underline the importance of his country. The Maharaja of Indore and the Maharaja of Bharatpura were also greeted with cannon shots, but with fewer cannon shots, as was the Maharaja of Gondal, who studied medicine in Edinburgh. All the Maharajahs came with a large entourage, some bringing their horses, others even cows. The British could not help admiring their habits. Many Hindu princes could not get used to the European food, and were more excited about the social receptions and events.
Autumn was already slowly turning into its second half when Abdul and Mohamed Bukhsh arrived at Windsor Castle, just three days before the ceremony was due to start. Twelve Indian soldiers had come from India to accompany Queen Victoria, to emphasise to the world that she was also the ruler of India. The officers were selected from all parts of India.
Abdul and Bux were standing with Dr Tyler near the dining room when Queen Victoria appeared, a small person in a mourning dress and with a white cape on her head. Indian soldiers stood at attention as she walked past them, looking at them. Dr Tyler knelt down in front of her, and Abdul and Bux gave her a quick Oriental salute. Thus ended Abdul’s first meeting with Victoria.
The day soon arrived when the celebrations for the Queen’s Golden Jubilee began. Victoria mused, “I have an eventful day ahead of me, and I am sitting here alone.” She sighed thoughtfully, and her mood seemed to be in stark contrast to the celebratory mood of the others. In the gilded bedroom of Buckingham Palace, the 68-year-old Queen missed the people she had loved and lost. She was still dressed in widow’s black.
Her mood improved when a light carriage pulled by six dull yellow horses took her away from Buckingham Palace. Her Indian entourage rode before her, turbans glittering and colourful uniforms gleaming. People waved as they saw Indian officers for the first time. In Hyde Park, carriages with Indian princes and maharajas were gathering. When she sat on the throne at Westminster Abbey, she missed her husband even more.
On her return to Buckingham Palace, she received her relatives, had lunch with the Kings of Denmark and Belgium, and after dinner greeted and chatted with Indian princes and princesses. Although she was exhausted, she watched the fireworks in her honour. She did not rest the following days. She distributed cakes to 30,000 poor children in Hyde Park, took a train ride around the neighbourhood and waved to the enthusiastic crowds. As she rode through the streets of London, Indian princes could watch her from privileged positions opposite the palace.
Victoria paid a lot of attention to her Indian guests. At a party in the gardens of Buckingham Palace, she placed an Indian guard around her marquee for all guests to admire. On the third day, she sighed that the morning was wonderfully fine and fresh and prepared for the short drive with her daughter Beatrice to Frogmore, where her eldest daughter Victoria and granddaughter Vicky were waiting for her, along with gifts from India.
Bux and Abdul were waiting for her in the breakfast room. The Queen was cheerful and the two Indians, dressed in scarlet tunics and white turbans on their heads, approached her respectfully. They bowed deeply and kissed her feet. When Abdul rose, his eyes met the Queen’s, contrary to protocol, and the Queen smiled faintly at him.
Afterwards, the Queen opened the reception for her Indian guests. They arrived in all their splendour and presented her with gifts, and Victoria then expressed her hope that India and her mother Britain would come together as a harmonious and united unit.
Windsor, Balmoral, Osborne
The arrival of two Indians at court caused quite a stir in the Queen’s household. The Queen’s secretary, Sir Henry Ponsonby, wrote in his diary: “They will receive £60 a year from the Exchequer, General Denneby, who brought them from India, will have charge of them, and all the staff are to be warned not to give them alcohol, as it is forbidden by their religion. They are to cook their own food, and I hope there will be no inconvenience.”
Abdul and Bux soon learned about the hierarchical structure of the court, with all its rivalries and prejudices. The court routine was the same throughout the years and took place in three places; Windsor, Osborne on the Isle of Wight and Balmoral. The Queen rarely stayed at Buckingham Palace because she disliked it and only visited on special occasions. Her favourite place was Osborne House, where she once spent happy days with Prince Albert. The Royal Household moved to Balmoral in late summer and usually returned to Windsor in September. The Queen always spent winter and Christmas at Osborne. In February they all returned to Windsor again. Of course, her two Indian servants had to accompany her at all times.
In the relaxed atmosphere of Osborne, just weeks after Abdul kissed Queen Victoria’s feet, he decided to surprise her. One day, he came into the kitchen with homemade Indian spices and started making curry sauce. To the general surprise of the chefs, he started chopping, mixing and grinding the ‘masalas’. The smell of cloves, cinnamon, cumin and nutmeg permeated the kitchen. Soon he had finished a real Indian meal; chicken curry, dal and fragrant pilaf. More dishes followed; exotic birianis and dum pukht , a traditional dish from Moghul cuisine. Victoria was introduced to the taste and smell of India for the first time in her life and ordered that curry should now be a regular feature on her menu.
The two Indians learnt the art of serving at the Queen’s table and what the royal family likes to eat. The Queen also made her Indian servants feel good. Teachers taught them proper English and Abdullah chose to be her liaison with the Indian subcontinent, more than 4000 miles away.
The ageing Queen, for whom India was the jewel in her crown, very soon asked Abdul to teach her one of the many Indian languages. He was not daunted by the task. He started by teaching her a few useful words every day. In a book he wrote down phrases and simple words in Urdu or Hindi, as all Indian languages were called in Britain at that time, in the Latin alphabet, and their meanings in English. The small, red leather-bound phrase book thus became the Queen’s constant companion.
The lessons soon became more complex. Abdul wrote down a phrase in Urdu, followed by a line in Urdu in Latin script, and the Queen copied it all down eagerly. A few weeks later, she wrote excitedly in her diary, “I am learning Hindi words so that I can converse with my two Indian servants. I am very interested in both the language and the people, as I have never been in contact with them before.”
Her private secretary, Sir Henry Ponsonby, soon fell victim to her enthusiasm, handing him a notebook with a few phrases to learn. He wrote indignantly to his wife, “She has given me a Hindi dictionary to learn.”
Abdul’s presence took the Queen to a completely different world, a different country and a different culture. She liked the sound of the Urdu language, a mixture of Persian and the local Brajbhas language spoken at the court of the Moghuls, and she tried to repeat the words after Abdul. He in turn told her about India, Agra and the Taj Mahal, the story of Shah Jahan and his Queen Mumtaz Mahal and how the news of her death in childbirth had shocked the King. She listened to him in rapt silence, especially liking the story of how Jahan built a tomb at the age of twenty-two, which later became a monument to eternal love.
She remembered the mausoleum in Frogmore that she had built for her beloved husband and where she would one day join him. She was horrified to hear that the ageing Moghul ruler had been imprisoned by his son Aurangzeb in a fortress in Agra, so that the ruler, in his last days of life, was looking out from his dungeon at the Taj Mahal and lamenting his Queen. Abdul’s soft voice described to her the grandeur of the Taj Mahal, its marble dome rising high into the air, surrounded by four minarets, the interior inlaid with precious stones and the feeling of being in heaven when the light fell on the tombs and the verses of the Koran inscribed on the walls.
Meanwhile, in Osborne, the summer was slowly coming to an end, and the Queen was still spending time with her two Indian servants. The Maharaja of Cooch Behar also visited her and had lunch with her. “How magnificent to see him dressed in white and with a beautiful diamond necklace around his neck”, the Queen was delighted. The other Indian guests slowly began to say their goodbyes. Abdul now regularly cooked curries and served them to guests. In the Queen’s kitchen, the staff watched him with interest as he prepared the food and were amazed to see how much meat and vegetables he used.
For religious reasons, he could not use meat that came into the kitchen from outside, so he made sure that the sheep and chickens were slaughtered halal. He also prepared his own curry, grinding it between two large stones. He still found it difficult to communicate with the other staff, but he was a fast learner and the Queen enjoyed her Indian food. But her Indian adventure was just beginning.
One afternoon, as she and her entourage were walking through the rooms of Osborne House, she passed Abdul and said to him, “Talk to me in Hindustani, speak slowly so that I can understand you and learn.” Abdul bowed and his eyes scanned the entourage who were watching him critically. He knew the Queen was serious.
A few days before leaving for Balmoral in Scotland, she made sure her two servants were dressed for the cold Scottish summer. Of course, no one expected them to be dressed in Scottish checked clothes, but the Queen requested that they put on their Indian costumes over their warmer underwear. Aware that the staff of her household were prejudiced against these two foreigners, who had come from so far away and had such unusual customs, she hinted to the head of staff that her two Indian servants must have a special place among them all.
Barmoral was a place where the Queen was not disturbed by constant visitors and where she could reminisce uninterrupted about the moments she had spent with her husband. The castle was bought by her husband, Prince Albert, in 1848 and has been in constant use ever since, but her entourage absolutely hated it. It made them feel cramped, there was little to do and they were terribly bored.
Abdul soon became the Queen’s favourite, and in those autumn days she wrote: “Abdul has begun to teach me Hundun: I am very interested in this language.” This was the first time she called him Abdul, and she called him Abdul for the rest of her life. Otherwise, the lives of the two Indian servants were strictly defined. They had to be present at breakfast, then they had to learn English, then they had to reappear at two in the afternoon for lunch, then they had to serve midday tea and, of course, they had to be present at dinner. Abdul now had the additional task of teaching Victoria Hindi. They were busy almost all day.
As Abdul’s English improved, Victoria began asking him about life in India, local customs, the difference between Muslims and Hindus, and Indian religions. Her relationship with Abdul began to resemble that of her Scottish servant, John Brown. He began working as a stable boy in Balmoral, rose to become a forester’s assistant and soon became the most popular servant of the royal couple. When Prince Albert died, it was Brown who had to pull Victoria out of her loneliness. At the age of forty-two, the Queen Dowager began to dress in black, a habit she maintained for the rest of her life.
The Court began to grumble that she avoided public ceremonies and took no interest in affairs of state, and John Brown became her personal servant. He was a rugged man, fond of whiskey and often rude to the Prince of Wales and other employees who disapproved of the influence he had on the Queen. He liked to quarrel with her, even though he was completely devoted to her. Those present were quite horrified to hear him say to the Queen, as he tied the ribbon of his cap under her chin, “Can’t you hold a pumpkin upright, granny?”
He became her friend, her children recoiled in horror from seeing him, her household staff did the same for the same reason. But Brown merely treated Victoria as a normal human being. Rumours of their relationship began to circulate around the court, but Victoria, despite his faults, always protected him and laughed when she heard rumours of their too close an affair and even that they were secretly getting married. Anyway, John Brown died in 1883, and Victoria was infinitely sad.
Four years after Brown’s death, she got another servant she could rely on, and to the dismay of her household, it was Abdul. Victoria no longer communicated her instructions to him through the head of her household, but wrote them to him personally and gave them to him. Despite his friendly relations with the Queen, Abdul was in a dilemma. He had come to Britain as a servant, but now he was doing anything but. Would it not have been better for him to return to India?
The Queen wanted more Indian servants, so four more were sent to her. In their colourful costumes, they soon became a common sight on the streets of Windsor. However, the castle servants – the phenomenon of latent racism was not new in Britain – refused to clean their rooms, so they hired maids from the city to do the job. The Indians were allowed to keep their own chickens in the castle courtyard and prepare their own food. The Queen grew increasingly attached to Abdul and sometimes asked him for advice when answering his many letters.
Every year at the beginning of March, she went on a tour of Europe, and this time she took Abdul with her. She spent the whole month in Florence sightseeing, but not a day went by that Abdul didn’t teach her Hindu. Every day he compiled a dictionary of words for her to learn. From Florence, the Queen went to Berlin to see her daughter Vicky and her son-in-law, the German Emperor Frederick, who was already very ill. She also visited Chancellor Bismarck, who wrote: “This is a woman you can talk to.” A few months after the Queen’s return from Berlin, news arrived that the German Emperor had died. Now both Victoria and her daughter Vicky were widows.
In those difficult moments of grief, Abdul always had a comforting word for Victoria, and the Queen never forgot it. It was also the moment when she decided that her “dear Abdul” deserved a special place in her entourage. No longer would he be a humble servant awaiting her orders, he would become her secretary and teacher, or ‘munshi’. She communicated her wish to her private secretary, Henry Ponsonby. He replied that he would arrange the matter, as he could not reply otherwise, but remarked, referring to other persons, that it would not be wise for Adul to be able to give orders to other Indian servants, as it would cause them ill-will. In any case, the Queen’s decision in August 1888 caused quite a stir among the members of the household.
Abdul was now able to talk to the Queen freely, to have his own opinion on certain matters and to advise her sensitively. He could claim the title of Munshi Hafiz Abdul Karim and was no longer a servant who served the Queen and poured water into her glass. This was now done by the Bux and other Indian servants. In addition, he moved into the room previously occupied by John Brown, which again provoked a lot of comment at court.
In November 1888, he went on his regular leave to India and the Queen wrote in her diary, “I have had my last Hindu lesson, for dear Abdul is going on leave to India tomorrow, which I regret very much. I shall find it difficult to learn on my own, as Abdul is very handy and helpful in many things.” Even when Abdul was on holiday, she wrote to him regularly to ask how his family was.
Abdul returned to Windsor in the spring of 1889. Aware that the Queen had his back, he became more confident and the royal servants soon realised how demanding he could be. In April, the Queen and her entourage attended a theatrical performance at Sandrinham. Everyone applauded enthusiastically, but some were not pleased. Munshi Abdul was offended at having to sit with the servants. After the show, he locked himself in his room and cackled. The next morning he spoke to the Queen about this insult. She immediately obliged him and ordered that from now on he must always sit with her personal servants.
This was Abdul’s first step up the social ladder. By the next year, he was seen chatting with the lower nobility and sitting among them. The Queen’s other servants also soon realised how dangerous it was to say anything bad about him, as the Queen would not tolerate it.
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Scandal at Court
Abdul also became involved in British policy towards India. Victoria listened to him, wrote many letters to the Viceroy of India and gave him advice that clearly favoured Muslims, who were a minority in India. The Viceroy resisted the practice, which was not in line with British policy towards the colonies, as much as he could, but the Queen was very persistent.
The news that Victoria and Abdul had gone alone to Glassalt Shiel, a secluded forest house three hours away from Balmoral and accessible only by a narrow road, where she had once taken refuge with John Brown, was a new shock. After Brown’s death, she vowed never to go there again. The members of her household now knew that Abdul had replaced Brown, and they did not like it one bit.
Abdul became her favourite member of her entourage and she even commissioned a famous painter to paint his portrait. But she knew he would not be treated too gently after her death, so in 1890 she wrote several letters to the Viceroy of India, suggesting that he should be given proper ownership of the land. The Viceroy was uncomfortable because land was only granted in very exceptional cases for military merit, and Abdul had none. Moreover, the Viceroy pointed out that Abdul’s kinship had been well looked after by him through various services.
But as usual, the Queen did not relent and the letters and telegrams poured in. When Abdul again went on his regular leave to India, he carried her personal letter for the Viceroy. Victoria was convinced that they would have to meet in person and that the Viceroy would realise how unfair he was being to her. And indeed, before he returned from India, Abdul had become the owner of a piece of land near Agra.
His fame and the buzz about how close he was to the Queen spread throughout Britain. His name appeared in Court circulars, and when it was mentioned where and with whom the Queen was travelling, he was referred to as “the Queen’s Chief India Secretary”. Indian Muslims living near London could also see him in person when he went to pray at the Shah Jahan Mosque in Woking during Ramadan.
But his demands increasingly annoyed the Queen’s household staff. So the head of staff wrote: “Yesterday Abdul came to me with a long list of medicines to send to his father in India. The list is too long, with 60 items and in extremely large quantities. There are also some poisonous things that could poison a thousand people, so I cannot take that responsibility. I suggested that a doctor in India should provide them for him and Her Majesty agreed to do so.”
Victoria now refused to be separated from her Indian servants, and the press, always on the lookout for interesting news from court, spread the news that the Queen was travelling around Europe with a large number of Indian servants who had no work to do and were just a nuisance. But this did not bother her. She repeatedly asked for temporary escorts of one kind or another to be sent from India to enliven the court ceremonies with their colourful clothes.
Europe had to slowly get used to Abdul driving around European cities in his own carriage with a liveried coach. When the Queen stayed in Florence, he stayed in his room on the first floor, close to her, her entourage and her doctor. The members of the immediate household were indignant that they now had to associate with an Indian who had previously done manual work.
Even the Queen’s family never shared Victoria’s lack of racial and social prejudice. With Abdul, however, they felt she had gone too far. If Abdul was aware of these deep-seated prejudices, he did not show it and steadily climbed the social ladder. He then brought his family to Britain; his wife and her mother, and to the astonishment of the court, the Queen immediately paid them a visit.
The Hindi lessons continued and Victoria was soon able to write a few simple Urdu sentences in Latin. She also kept a regular diary every evening. The Urdu spoken at the Moghul court was a combination of Persian and Arabic with local dialects. Victoria was now in her 70s and very interested in writing. She diligently copied Abdul’s sentences in Urdu script and then tried to pronounce them.
When Abdul’s wife joined him, she took care of her too. She provided the family with a small house in Frogmore and visited Abdul’s wife whenever time allowed. She suggested that it would be a good idea if members of her family and visiting guests accompanied her on these visits. Soon afterwards, members of her household started spreading rumours that the two Indians were behaving inappropriately, spitting on the floor, dirty and untidy. Racist and social prejudice sometimes followed Abdul when he travelled with the Queen in Europe.
So Victoria attended her granddaughter’s wedding in Coburg, Germany. The Duke of Coburg refused to allow Abdul to enter the chapel where the wedding was taking place and did not give in despite the Queen’s demands. The negotiations continued until the day of the wedding, when a compromise was reached. Abdul would be taken to the gallery of the church, but, Victoria insisted, no servant should be there. When Abdul spotted some grooms in the gallery, he angrily stormed out of the gallery, disrupting the wedding ceremony, and later complained to the Queen in writing.
The conspiracy continues
But despite the Queen’s best efforts, Abdul was a lonely man, the only one with a darker complexion among the white European aristocracy, who made it clear that he did not belong to them. That made Victoria even more determined to support him. The campaign against him spread beyond the walls of the Queen’s family and household. Discreet messages to the media and clubbing also led to reports in the newspapers that it was impossible to expect the upper classes of Britain to treat the ‘natives’ of the colonies as their equals. This was an obvious allusion to the attitude of the British Queen towards Abdul. There were also rumours of the excessive cost of maintaining the house of Abdul’s wife and her mother, and a British maid to Abdul complained that he was being harsh and that he had not increased her salary despite promising to do so.
Abdul, of course, kept Victoria regularly informed about what was happening in his homeland, which he saw from his own point of view. He was constantly complaining about the situation of Muslims in India, who were a minority there, telling her about the religious disturbances he believed were being caused by Hindus, and the Queen wrote to the Viceroy of India asking him to put things right. She was convinced that Muslims were far more loyal to the British Empire than Hindus, even though the Administration had persuaded her otherwise.
As the intrigues of the household members against Abdul did not fall on deaf ears, some wanted to discredit him because of his association with a Muslim, Rafiuddin Ahmed, allegedly a member of the radical Muslims in Afghanistan and a spy for the Emir of Afghanistan. Rafiudin was a journalist and a prominent lawyer and a member of the Muslim League, a political organisation in India. Through Abdul, he reached Queen Victoria, who told him that he was writing daily Hindustani diaries.
In December 1892, Rafiudin wrote an article in the Strand Magazine: “For the first time in the history of Europe, a sovereign of a great country has seriously devoted himself to the literature of the Orient.” The Queen was grateful to him and even suggested to the Foreign Minister that he be sent as ambassador to the Ottoman Sultan Abdul Hamid. The Ministry was convinced that Rafiudin was sending messages to his alliance in Calcutta, which in turn sent them on to Afghanistan. They feared that Queen Abdullah was showing top secret memos from India, and that Abdullah was informing Rafiuddin.
Despite all this criticism, Victoria’s attitude towards Abdul has not changed. What she didn’t know was that letters were circulating in the Foreign Office about their overly trusting relationship. Complaints from British officials also came from India, where Abdul’s father was now said to be in the highest colonial circles and members of Abdul’s family were said to be holding positions that were not theirs by any stretch of the imagination.
When Abdul went to visit India, they decided to monitor him. Opinions clashed on whether he was a danger to the country or not. The British Prime Minister, Lord Salisbury, was convinced that “he is a stupid man and that is why he can become a tool in the hands of other people”. He was therefore discreetly monitored by the authorities in India.
The police report on his travels in India was extensive and several pages long. He landed in Bombay in April 1896, went to Agra and arranged to buy additional land to that which he had already been given as a gift. He then went to Kashmir and stayed in Srinagar, visited Delhi and then went back to London in August 1896. He left his mother-in-law in India and took his nephew to London so that his wife would not be bored in England.
He did nothing that could be criticised on his trip to India, but he still had a whirlwind time in Britain. Victoria was, as she does every year, on a European trip, this time to Cimiez. Her doctor told the staff that Abdul was being treated for purulent discharge and a recurrence of gonorrhoea. This meant that members of the household would have to sit with an Indian man with a venereal disease at dinner. They firmly rejected the proposal and decided to go on strike.
The Queen had to be informed of the problem, and Harriet Phipps, the Queen’s secretary and informal head of the women’s staff, took on the task. When she told the Queen what was going on, 78-year-old Victoria went ballistic and dramatically swept all the papers, letters, pens and books off the table and onto the floor. Of course, her will prevailed and in March everyone went to Cimiez with Abdul. The mood was suitably sombre.
But the Prince of Wales, as the leader of a court conspiracy against Abdul, did not stand still. He demanded a detailed report on Abdul’s family from the Viceroy of India, but it revealed nothing special, except that the family was of humble origins. Then the Queen’s personal physician, Dr Reid, decided to tell the Empress that people felt that she had gone too far in her attitude towards Abdul and that she had begun to suffer mental decline because of her advanced age. This angered Victoria even more, as she knew who had instigated his statement, accused members of her household of racism, wickedness and selfishness, and defended Abdul even more vigorously.
Dr Reid now went to Abdul and told him that he was the problem that needed to be solved. Abdul did not let himself be intimidated, he said that he was only doing what the Queen wanted, that it had come to his attention that the police were also making enquiries about him, but that he had no idea why he was doing it. He did not know that his friend Rafiudin was suspected of spying for the Emir of Afghanistan. Believing that Victoria was firmly behind him, he asked her to give him the title of Knight of the Indian Empire so that everyone would have to address him as Sir Abdul.
The Viceroy of India announced that this would not happen while he was in office and suggested that the Queen should be persuaded to award him only the Victoria Cross, which is awarded to those who have worked in Britain and does not confer any advantages on the holder in India.
I looked after your wellbeing
The Queen’s Diamond Jubilee was approaching. Ten years had passed since the day Abdul appeared at her court as a timid 24-year-old young man. Now Victoria could converse with her Indian servants in Hindi and even say a few kind words in that language to the Indian princes and princesses who came to visit. She tasted Indian food, learned the language and knew much more about India than all her ministers put together.
However, the celebration of her Diamond Jubilee was overshadowed by the “Abdul Karim affair”. Hardly a week went by when she did not have to defend Abdul against various rumours. She wrote in her diary that she was “tired and depressed” from all this. The Jubilee celebrations were marked by the usual parades and fanfares. The sun was shining as it had ten years ago and there was a solemn mass in St Paul’s Cathedral. No British monarch has ever been on the throne as long as she has, and by all accounts she has held on very well at 79.
Of course, there was an Indian guard of honour riding in front of her carriage. Despite the famine that prevailed in India, the Indian Maharajahs and Maharanas did not want to miss this event. But despite the many ceremonies in those days, Victoria never missed her lesson with Abdul. He was now a prominent figure at all the ceremonies. Ten years ago he had been a timid servant, now he chatted confidentially with Indian princes and toiled with them in front of cold cutlery tables.
In October, The Graphic ran a front-page article entitled The Queen and her Hindu teacher. Below the article, which described Abdul’s life, was a photograph of a lesson at Balmoral Manor. In the picture, Abdul is looking straight into the camera and appears to be in complete control of the situation, while Victoria looks timidly at her notebook. The court was incensed. They quickly identified the photographer, a local photographer from a neighbouring village, who told them that Abdul Karim himself had commissioned the photograph and that he had probably sent it to the newspaper. The court found such self-promotion unacceptable.
Abdul was furious because they were snooping behind his back and questioning the photographer. He told the Queen that he was resigning and would return to India. She started crying and begged him to stay. So the lessons continued and Abdul knew he had won.
The Queen refused to hear any more about the complaints against him. A few months later, she wrote to him, “I have provided for your welfare in my will … You have always been dear to me. The long letter I enclose was written a month before and was entirely my idea. No human being will ever know about it, nor what you will answer me.” She signed her name “a loyal and true friend of the VRI”.
She knew that her family would not be kind to him after her death. This letter, the contents of which no one knew, was burned by the royal family immediately after her death, along with other letters Abdul had received from Victoria.
The members of the Queen’s household somehow accepted that Abdul was inviolable as long as the Queen was alive, and in the meantime he finally managed to buy additional land in Agra and thus entered the list of landlords. The Queen’s eightieth birthday was marked by many festivities and the Queen, though fragile, was in good spirits and lively.
But the last year of her life started badly. Her grandson was killed in the Boer War, and then her son, the Duke of Coburg, died of cancer. She had already buried three sons and three sons-in-law, all of whom were in their prime. This exhausted her. Abdul’s father also died and Abdul did not return from India until almost a year later. When he saw her again, he was frightened by how pale she had become. The previous day, in rainy and foggy weather, she had returned from Balmoral for the last time. As soon as Abdul returned, they resumed their Urdu exercises as if they had stopped them yesterday.
On 22 January 1901, at half past seven in the evening, Queen Victoria died in the company of her family at her Osborne estate. She had spent the last few weeks in bed, feeling very unwell. On her last day, she had to be given oxygen several times to help her breathe. She had already given Dr Reid detailed written instructions for her funeral three years ago. After Abdul had said goodbye to her, the coffin was closed. That night, Abdul cried for a friend he had known for thirteen years and who had changed his life.
Queen Victoria is buried in a small mausoleum in Frammore, next to her husband Prince Albert. All Indian staff at court were immediately dismissed and had to return to India. The new King did not want to see any turbans around him, or even to taste the curry chicken.
Abdul Karim also returned to India, built a large house, Karim Lodge, in Agra and lived a comfortable life. But he was ageing fast and was ill several times. He was often melancholic. No material wealth could compensate for the precious moments he spent with Queen Victoria. In his last days, he rode, sat by Queen Victoria’s monument and watched the sun set behind the Taj Mahal. In 1909, when the first winds of spring blew, he died in the arms of his wife and nephew.
As soon as his death was known in London, the King telegraphed the Viceroy of India in Calcutta: “I hope you will ensure that Abdul Karim’s correspondence does not fall into the wrong hands.” So the British Commissioner in Agra went to Abdul’s house with his entourage and, in a not very gracious manner, asked the weeping widow to hand over all his letters. A month later he returned again, having been warned from London that his widow might also have some letters from the Queen. In any case, they found nothing of importance. Then, just a few months later, in May 1910, King Edward VII died. After him, no one was interested in the letters exchanged between Victoria and Abdul.
But that was not the end of the story. In 2010, historian Shrabani Basu received a call from an 85-year-old, half-blind and betrothed last relative of Abdul Karim, who had his diary, in which he had written about his years with Queen Victoria. The diary also contained some photographs and newspaper clippings. The family smuggled the diary into Muslim Pakistan after the partition of India in 1947. The story of the affection between Victoria and Abdul could then be rewritten.
