The Maharaja, the Elephant and the Prime Minister

The Maharajah of Phutim, whose name was Dorji, surveyed his small kingdom from the east-facing balcony of his palace. He had been educated in the finest of England’s schools and spoke the language with the clarity and diction of a statesman whom people remember long after they are dead. His voice was deep and commanding, and his charisma was such that even the snow pigeons and the fulvour whistling-ducks dipped their heads in respect as they flew over his majesty’s dominions and balconies. He was the sixtieth son of the last Maharajah, who’d had seventy wives. Given these circumstances, Dorji was not entirely certain who his own mother was, but assumed that she was in there somewhere, rustling the silks. 

Using the binoculars (which had reputedly been used by Edward VII when viewing the girls at the Moulin Rouge), he surveyed a fleet of black, reinforced SUVs wending their way through the Himalayan foothills, between the rice fields and the hydro-power plant, which he had instructed to be built in the style of a colossal pagoda. Dorji did not believe that functional things must be ugly. Beyond the rice fields lay areas given over to quinoa, cardamon, tomatoes and chilis. It was a prosperous enclave on the borders of Tibet and India, and he ruled over it with all the merits of the benign dictator. Over the years he had come to appreciate that the Indians were helpful in an emergency and the Tibetans were indispensable in a brawl, but apart from these considerations, he generally left them alone. He was worth an immense fortune, and his famed wisdom was sought by actors, footballers, fashion models and politicians, one of whom was coming to visit him today. The Prime Minister of Great Britain and Northern Ireland was ostensibly on holiday. He had told the world, (or those who cared), that he and his wife were making an extensive visit to South Asia for recreational purposes, and let it drop that he would visit the Maharajah of Phutim along the way. 

He’ll keep quiet about it afterwards,’ thought Dorji. ‘They always do …’

The prime minister, his wife and entourage were lavishly greeted by the palace staff. The Mrs PM was quickly ushered away to attend a lesson in thagzo weaving, which was to be followed by a suva-tea drinking ceremony. The Maharajah whispered to his aide that they should forgo the lemons, as the Prime Minister’s wife looked as though she’d been sucking on them already. The Prime Minister, a dusty, diminutive man of luckless appearance, followed the flowing robes of Dorji into an opulent ante-chamber, exclaiming in dull platitudes how magnificent was the palace. They seated themselves opposite each other amidst walls of gold and lapis lazuli, watched over by the corporeal form of the smiling Buddha. Several languid dogs with exotic limbs lazily raised their heads at the arrival of the Prime Minister but did not think him noteworthy enough to greet. The Maharajah offered his guest the finest single-malt whisky, to which the Prime Minister declined. ‘Suit yourself,’ said Dorji. ‘You won’t mind if I do?’

After a few perfunctory conversations about GDP and the condition of that year’s cardamon crop, the Prime Minister glanced again at the Buddha and said, ‘I am not a man of religion, but —‘

‘Nor am I,’ said Dorji. 

‘But, you’ll forgive me,’ said the Prime Minister. ‘I assumed you were a Buddhist!’

‘I am,’ said the Maharajah. ‘But I see you misunderstand the precept. You view it, perhaps, as a modish religion?’ The Prime Minister made some noncommittal snuffling noises. Dorji noticed that he was a thin-skinned man, which was all well and good for poets and playwrights, but not so commendable in a politician. He was not used to verbal sparring, thought Dorji. He had succumbed to the imagery of his own excellence and for this transgression, it was incumbent on the Maharajah of Phutim to bring him down a peg or two. 

‘You see,’ he expanded, ‘all the major religions teach us that life is full of sorrows. If, however, you live a good life - one which involves paying tithes and doing just what you’re told by God’s representatives on earth, you shall achieve eternity in heaven. Now I ask you, Prime Minister, do that sound like a good deal to you?’

‘I don’t know,’ said the prime minister, who found himself out of his depth, as he often did during Prime Minister’s Questions in the House. 

‘The Buddha,’ Dorji explained, ‘was brought up to believe in a whole pantheon of gods, but as he grew older he came to understand that it was mostly stuff and nonsense. However, you cannot always strip the generations from the boy, and the one thing he held on to, above all else, was that we were doomed to an endless cycle of living the same lives over and over again, like a chain smoker who lights his cigarette from the burning embers of the last. The only way to break this miserable cycle is to live a life here on earth that is so unblemished, so free of criticism, that we eventually achieve nirvana.’ The Maharajah sat back in his chair and eyed the Prime Minister, waiting for a reply. 

‘But,’ proffered the Prime Minister, ‘isn’t Nirvana heaven?’

Dorji clapped his hands, which made the Prime Minister jump. ‘No!’ He exclaimed. ‘Nirvana is nothingness, nada, zilch, zero. Nirvana means that you cease to exist and you can finally clamber off this tedious fairground ride that we call life!’

The prime minister could think of nothing to say. It was not that Dorji’s words were so profound that they had knocked him senseless, it was just that the words were not about him and that was, after all, why he was here. ‘Do you read the foreign papers?’ he began. 

*

‘… and so you see,’ the Prime Minister finished, ‘I find myself struggling against insurmountable obstacles and it would be so much easier to bear if people actually liked me —’

‘That is one of your many problems,’ said Dorji. The prime minister bristled at the intervention. It was one thing to talk about your shortcomings, but when you are a prime minister, you do not expect other people to agree with you. ‘You see,’ Dorji continued, ‘politicians are not meant to be liked. It is your endless seeking of approval that will be your downfall. The best prime ministers have always been complete bastards. The British public like that sort of thing!’

‘But I want to be kind to everyone!’ The Prime Minister protested.

‘Then you are foolish,’ said the Maharajah. ‘You must view your country and its inhabitants through the narrow end of the telescope, as you are supposed to do. The narrow end gives you the widest view, from which you would see that the vast majority of people are content enough. Yes, they grumble through their lives, but like the religions we spoke of, they also know that life is hard and that some of it’s coming their way. But you use the telescope incorrectly and focus in on each individual in the crowd, you note that some people are miserable and whining, and in order to appease their tortured and entitled souls, you ignore the rest of the crowd who are content! And by doing so, you make the majority angry!’

‘But I want to make everyone’s lives easier!’ The Prime Minister said.

‘But you can’t,’ snapped Dorji. ‘It is not within your gift. Is your ego so large that you think it is? Monarchs like me cannot afford such ego.’ he said. ‘You should learn to tame yours, for that is why the people dislike you so much. It is not your money you are spending on fringe grievances. It is their money, which you take from them. And you must be aware of the political adage that when you stand in the middle of the road, you will be hit from both sides!’

There followed an uncomfortable silence. The Maharajah, who was used to the inscrutable gaze of the Buddha, did not feel it, but the prime minister did. Even his toes were irritable.

‘What would you advise?’ he eventually asked the monarch.

‘I would advise you to do as little as possible.’ 

‘But I have a country to run!’ The Prime Minister objected.

‘No you don’t,’ said Dorji. ‘The people are more than capable of running their own affairs. They would be very grateful for a complete purdah from you and your government. Lock up the criminals and defend your realm. Leave the rest of it to them and I assure you,’ the Maharajah finished with a flourish of his bejewelled hand,’ ‘they will do a better job of it than you.’

‘If there anything else you would like to say? said the prime minister stiffly.

‘Yes! Would you please have some of this fine Scottish whisky with me!’ said Dorji. 

The prime minister relented and rather knocked it back, extending his arm for the Maharajah to pour him some more. The Maharajah surmised that he would make for a maudlin drunk. 

‘I am afraid that I do not think your administration will survive a General Election,’ he said abruptly. The prime minister looked shocked. His mouth opened and closed and the muscles in his jaw rippled with quiet fury. ‘We have some remarkable monkeys in my kingdom,’ he continued. ‘The slow noris looks remarkably like your Secretary of State for Renewable Energy and the Golden Langur is a dead spit for your Deputy Prime Minister. In addition (and I shall not mention the rest of your cabinet for I shall be dining soon), you do not have the right voice for a statesman. There will be no lying in state in Westminster Hall for you, not with those adenoids. I suspect this is the main reason why your country is losing its senses.’ 

‘I cannot help my voice,’ said the Prime Minister, with teeming venom.

‘No, but you can help your occupation,’ said Dorji. ‘If you had any humanity you would have been a librarian.’

 The prime minister stood up too abruptly, and swayed a little from the whisky. ‘Perhaps you could fetch my wife. I would like to leave now.’

‘Of course,’ said the Maharajah. ‘Whilst we do that, perhaps you would like to meet my elephant?’

*

The old Indian elephant had been dubbed Baba by the Maharajah because he had enjoyed the stories as a child. He had wandered into the western courtyard some decades ago, and made himself quite at home. He was gentle and good-natured, which cannot be said for all the elephants who wondered into Phutim during the winter months. Such was his celebrity that those people who visited the Maharajah for his wisdom and hospitality often had their pictures taken with him. He was said to be an oracle. Visitors were often encouraged to whisper a question into the animal’s ear, upon which he would give his reply by a flick of his trunk: right for yes and left for no. 

‘We really do have an elephant in the room this time,’ said the Maharaja to the prime minister. They were walking through the corridors of the palace followed by the monarch’s official photographer. It was a rule that visitors must not bring their own into the palace. Dorji was his most congenial self, but the British prime minister had sunk into a state of sour froidure. 

‘A photograph with BaBa might improve your poll ratings,’ suggested the Maharaja, who was really quite enjoying himself. ‘He’s actually bivouacked himself in the ball room this time,’ he said. ‘It was a bit of a tight squeeze but I suppose he’ll get himself out again when he’s ready.’ 

‘Yes,’ said the prime minister. 

‘Well, here we are!’ said Dorji. The door opened into a resplendent space which was otherwise empty but for the presence of Baba the elephant. He gave his master a short trump of greeting and ambled towards the prime minister - who really was very frightened of elephants but dared not offend the World Wildlife Fund by saying so. 

‘That’s it,’ said the Maharajah soothingly. ‘Just lift his ear and whisper your question into it. Naturally it’s a yes or no thing, so I wouldn’t say anything like ‘do the British public hate me?’ because we already know the answer to that. I suggest you keep it simple: will I win the general election next year —‘

‘Yes, yes,’ came the tetchy reply. ‘Is your photographer ready?’

The photographer was indeed ready, and stood a respectable distance away whilst the prime minister hastily asked his question and then promptly dropped the elephant’s ear like a hot potato. He took two paces backwards and, feeling quite foolish, awaited the elephant’s answer. 

‘My goodness!’ gasped the Maharajah. ‘Is he going to do the full-turn? A full-turn is very rare indeed, prime minister! If he does, you’ll win the general election with another landslide!’

‘Really?’ said the prime minister, eager to ensure the photographer was catching the seismic moment. 

‘Yes look!’ said Dorji, ‘He really IS doing the full tu—‘

But Baba had opted for the semi-circular method of divination and, having presented his grey, wrinkled backside to the prime minister, unburdened himself with the mild but voluminous by-product of a pampered, vegetarian diet. The Maharajah noted that the prime minister’s shoes were brand new suede Timberland’s, which was a bit of a shame. 

‘He has never done that before,’ said the photographer in amazement.

‘He has never heard a voice like that before,’ said the Maharajah. 

*

The prime minister barely spoke to his wife as they were driven back to their grand hotel. His shoes were derelict, and his wife’s silk blouse had been ruined by yak’s milk during the tea ceremony. He already knew the exact photograph the Maharajah would submit to the world’s press, and that his premiership was effectively over. It did not cross his mind to heed the wisdom of Dorji’s words because he had rendered his mind useless by too many expert panels and judicial reviews. 

‘Bastard!’ he said, taking a backward look at the royal palace. 

*

‘Imbecile,’ sighed the Maharajah, as he watched the prime minister’s departure from the eastern balcony. The snow pigeons and the fulvous whistling-ducks nodded their heads in agreement.