OCR Interpretation

Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, April 29, 1951, Image 117

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Persistent link: https://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn83045462/1951-04-29/ed-1/seq-117/

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Rajahs are among the world's most hospi
table people. If you don’t believe it,
just pay a visit to India or Pakistan the way
I did and see for youself. *
Despite certain anti-American attitudes of
the Indian government, the numerous royalty
in both India and Pakistan seem to think
highly of us. All you have to do to get an
invitation to visit one of them is to write a
letter or make a phone call. Say something
like. “I am in this country making a study of
business conditions (or native fashions, insect
life, etc.) and would like to talk to Your High
ness about it. May I come to see you?” The
reply is almost sure to be a request to come
on out and talk things over.
Rajahs have been known to invite people
half-way around the world to be their guests.
One prince, pleased by the service in a New
York department store, invited several clerks
to fly to India on his private plane. Another
ruler took a fancy to a certain “letter to the
editor” in an American news magazine, and
invited the letter-writer to come to Pakistan
with all expenses paid.
But suppose you get your invitation. How
will your visit work out? Here is the sort of
experience I usually had:
The rajah dispatched a courier to meet me
at the border of his princely state. The
courier knocked on the door of my railway
compartment and murmured, with a salaam,
“His Highness has sent me to offer you break
fast. What is your pleasure?” If I specified
something simple, like fruit or hot porridge,
he produced it at once and I ate as we rumbled
on toward the princely capital. If I asked for
bacon and eggs, he cooked it with a charcoal
Next time you're in India or Pakistan, just write the nearest rajah.
Believe it or not, he'll probably invite you for a visit, lend you a palace,
limousine and fabulous entertainment. This writer really did it
by Keith Monroe
Drawing by John Huge
burner on the station platform while the
train waited. At the station in the capital
city, there was always a Cadillac or Rolls
Royce awaiting me.
UfanaHriaf Palace
I was whisked off over miles of dirt roads,
through wild country, to a broad green park,
with clipped lawns and exotic flower beds. I
heard the plash of a fountain and the caroling
of birds. Far ahead lay a shimmering palace,
worthy of M-G-M.
This turned out to be my destination. But
it still wasn’t where the rajah lived. It was
merely one of his guest palaces. There are
about four of these in the average princely
state, all separated by 30 miles or more from
the rajah’s own pleasure dome.
I found a delegation awaiting me on the
guest-palace steps: several native servants, a
guard of honor in resplendent uniforms, a
male secretary or two from His Highness’s
entourage and the major-domo of the palace.
The major-domo had a boutonniere for my

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