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a meal with his subjects. It proved that the king made no distinction between the tribes. They were his subjects, all together here under his roof and he was to all, equally, the gracious host.
    On a courtyard facing the balcony was a structure thatched with straw. Here, on ten clay ovens,
payesh
and khichuri were being cooked in enormous pots. It was the king’s command that his subjects be served as often and as much as they wanted. And they could eat prodigious amounts. There were many who sat down to the feast at sundown and rose only with the dawn. It seemed as though they were putting away enough to last them a year. Come morning and many were discovered fast asleep, curled up beside their leaves.
    The king moved about among his subjects, his face concealed in a black shawl, taking pictures with his new camera. Birchandra hated the British and always endeavoured to keep them at arm’s length. He preferred Bengali to English and had retained it as his state language long after other rajas had given up their native languages; He had no use for European merchandise either, except for one exception—the camera. He had an excellent collection of cameras, brought over from France and England. He had even built a dark room in the palace in which he developed negatives.
    It was his passion to take photographs—of his queens, princes, friends and even of the hills, trees and streams of his realm. But, much as he wished, he could not capture his subjects on camera except by stealth. For he had had a bad experience once. Hunting in the forest he had come upon a Kuki youth with abody so perfect—it seemed hewn out of a block of granite and a face flashing with spirit and intelligence. He had decided to immortalize the splendid specimen and, to that intent, had made the boy pose beneath a tree. But focussing takes time. The youth waited, the warnings of the king’s attendants ringing incessantly in his ears ‘Be still. Don’t move.’ Suddenly the magnificent body crumpled in a heap on the ground. The limbs thrashed about painfully. The eyes rolled and foam gathered at the corners of the boy’s mouth. He was revived in a few minutes but the damage was done. Rumour, swift and silent, spread from clan to clan that the king had captured the youth’s soul and imprisoned it in a little black box.
    Keeping close to the king was a man in his prime, a handsome man with a fair complexion, long curling hair and chiselled features. In his dress he was quite a dandy. He wore a finely crinkled dhuti and a silk banian. A pair of gold-rimmed glasses sat on his high, aristocratic nose. His name was Shashibhushan Singha. He was a graduate and a Brahmo and had been a regular contributor to Deben Thakur’s
Tatwabodhini Patrika
for many years. He was one of the men the Maharaja had sent for from Calcutta to facilitate his governance and gear it to progressive ideals. Shashibhushan was tutor to the young princes.
    Standing by him and talking in a low voice was a famous singer from the Vishnupur gharana. Jadunath Bhatta was court musician; one of the nine gems that graced the royal palace of Tripura. The two were observing the guests through a pair of binoculars and trying to identify the different tribes. ‘They all look the same to me,’ Jadunath said. He was a simple man with no pretensions to any knowledge beyond his music. ‘Look carefully,’ Shashibhushan urged. ‘Some have skins like polished ebony; others the colour and texture of charcoal. Yet others are dun coloured like earth. The
riyas
of the Orang women are shaped differently from those of the Lusais—’
    At this moment a servant approached the king with the message that the Mahadevi awaited him in the palace. Every year, on this day, just before the mahabhoj, the Maharaja put aside his ceremonial robes and donned the apparel of a Vaishnav. And every year, these garments were draped on him—not by servants but by