KHETRI
When the Supreme Court, in its September 2025 ruling, ordered that properties of the former princely state of Khetri be restored to the Khetri Trust, it exposed an uncomfortable reality for Rajasthan—decades of state control had turned heritage into a fiscal nightmare. What could have been preserved through routine upkeep would now involve restoration, with costs conservatively estimated at nearly Rs1,000 crore. That is the price of indifference that will ultimately be borne by the public exchequer.
To understand how a princely and philanthropic legacy became a public liability, one must travel to Khetri, some 150km from Jaipur city. On a sunlit afternoon, the wind sweeps through courtyards of crumbling palaces, broken frescoes and empty rooms. There is a quiet that feels like waiting—for remembrance, for justice. In a way, that wait ended with the Supreme Court’s verdict.
Raja Bahadur Sardar Singh, the last titular head of the Khetri state, had bequeathed 208 properties, including forts, havelis, palaces and houses spread across Jaipur, Kotputli and Khetri, to the Khetri Trust. Only 62 of these have stood the test of time and mismanagement. These properties had remained in the state’s possession for decades under the doctrine of escheat, invoked on the claim that Sardar Singh had died heirless. The court rejected that position, calling any attempt to override a valid private will a dangerous proposition. But by the time legality was settled, damage—both cultural and financial—had been done.
Sardar Singh was no ordinary royal. Educated at Cambridge, trained at the Middle Temple, a member of the Constituent Assembly, diplomat and parliamentarian, he belonged to a generation that believed aristocratic privilege came with public responsibility. In 1985, he executed a will, bequeathing his movable and immovable assets to the Khetri Trust, envisioning education, science and literature as its core purpose, particularly for the underprivileged. He died in January 1987, childless and divorced. Soon after, the Rajasthan government stepped in, invoking the Rajasthan Escheats Regulation Act, 1956.
The doctrine of escheat allows the state to assume control of property when there are no legal heirs. But here, a valid will explicitly existed, naming the trust as the legatee. Nonetheless, the state took possession of Sardar Singh’s assets. What followed was not stewardship but slow abandonment. Over the years, historic buildings deteriorated, artefacts vanished and encroachments crept in.
When the matter reached the Supreme Court during interim proceedings, judges expressed shock at the condition of the properties. In Khetri itself, Sukh Mahal, Jai Niwas Kothi, the Nizamat Building—structures of immense architectural and historical value—were found in advanced states of decay. Reports documented forced-open safes, looted furniture, missing rugs and paintings. In some cases, nature itself had begun reclaiming the spaces.
Had the state maintained inventories, ensured basic security and undertaken periodic conservation, the cost of preservation would have been incremental. Instead, decades of neglect compounded into a massive restoration bill. The Supreme Court later recorded that the government had no records of what it had seized, no documentation of jewellery, antiques or archives, making it impossible even to assess the value of what was lost.
The litigation itself spanned nearly four decades. In July 2023, the Delhi High Court granted probate, affirming the will’s validity and rejecting the state’s claim under escheat. Rajasthan challenged it, but the Supreme Court upheld the High Court’s ruling. The court also penalised relatives who had challenged the will and later withdrawn their objections without disclosure, imposing costs of Rs1 lakh each.
But the sharper indictment lay elsewhere. In earlier orders, the court directed the formation of a committee, including experts from the Archaeological Survey of India (ASI) and Indian National Trust for Art and Cultural Heritage to assess the damage and oversee restoration. It ordered a detailed accounting of plot numbers, present occupancy, encroachments and losses, and mandated the state to fund initial restoration. In effect, the court made clear that when the state takes possession, it takes responsibility and failure to discharge that duty has consequences. The state is now legally bound to restore heritage, account for the damage and cooperate with the trust’s vision.
Managing trustee Prithvi Raj Singh sees the verdict as both relief and reckoning. “Even by conservative estimates, restoration could touch Rs1,000 crore,” he tells THE WEEK. “These are not ordinary structures. These are palaces and estates that have suffered decades of neglect. Restoration is not repainting walls, it is reviving heritage.”
What troubles him most is that the cost was avoidable. “For decades, governments simply passed the buck. Nobody maintained records. Nobody took responsibility. Today, taxpayers will pay because custodians failed.”
Singh points out that some properties were absorbed into state infrastructure—a police station, a DRDO office—blurring boundaries and accountability.
Restoring forts, palaces, havelis is labour-intensive, expensive and delicate. Fresh plaster, wall paintings, frescoes, woodwork—everything needs expert hands, historical accuracy and long-term maintenance. Some artefact may never be recovered. The trust will have to reconstruct, replicate or memorialise what is lost. Also, the challenge is to translate Sardar Singh’s ideal of education and uplift into reality by launching scholarship programmes for underprivileged students, building libraries, labs, research centres in restored buildings and partnering with universities, NGOs and government bodies. This demands not just funding, but a vision that honours the founder’s intent while adapting to modern needs.
“Once the properties are formally handed back to us, we want to put some of them to productive use,” says Singh. “Some might be restored and opened to the public, some may be leased, and a few may even have to be liquidated. The trust is not trying to hold on to relics, we want these assets to sustain themselves. But whatever we do, our first priority is dignity for the legacy, for the history and for the people who built Khetri.”
At the core of Singh’s dream is a cause far removed from courtrooms and property battles—children. His voice softens as he speaks about it. “Everything we are fighting for ultimately boils down to the future of young people,” he says. “If these properties are restored and returned to the trust, I want them to serve a purpose larger than just heritage. I want them to become centres of learning.”
What Singh wants is to create spaces that spark curiosity. “Education today cannot be limited to textbooks,” he says. “I want to create spaces where children can understand culture, history, anthropology, where they can study the very soil and civilisation they come from.” He is reimagining the Khetri properties as hubs of interdisciplinary research in heritage conservation, archaeology, regional history and social sciences, and also international collaboration. For him, reclaiming Khetri is not a matter of reclaiming land; it is reclaiming possibility. “If this fight leads to even one child discovering their potential,” he says quietly, “then all these years of struggle would have been worth it.”
But his biggest concern is whether the government will support the trust in maintaining the institutions. “Buildings don’t educate children; teachers, upkeep and vision do,” says Singh. “Without sustained support, even the best structures can fall into neglect.”
While the battle before the court is largely over, the relationship with the Rajasthan government is bound to remain complex: restoration and protection will require cooperation. There may be some resistance, foot-dragging or bureaucratic inertia, but there can also be a partnership whereby the state and the trust co-manage so that the sites do not just belong to one entity, but serve the public.
Having lost the case, the government now faces clear and immediate obligations. First, it must hand back possession of the Khetri properties. The courts have left little room for executive discretion on this point—once the claim of escheat has failed, continued state control would amount to unlawful occupation. Second, the state is likely to be required to account for the period during which it remained in possession. This includes restoring the properties in the condition mandated by law and, crucially, contributing funds for their conservation.
The government will have to formalise a transition framework. This will involve an inventory of the assets, handing over records and ensuring that no encumbrances or third-party interests were created during the period of state control. Any damage, neglect or alteration during this phase could expose the state to further judicial scrutiny and possible compensation claims.
This is where the ASI comes in. “If damage has occurred while the property was under state control, the obligation to fund its restoration follows automatically,” says a senior ASI official.
All of this will, of course, come at a cost. “I genuinely fail to understand from where the state of Rajasthan will bring the budget for restoring the properties,” says Singh, his anxiety evident in his voice.
It is not sufficient to celebrate the Supreme Court’s directive for restoration. Rajasthan must look inward. Preservation cannot be an afterthought applied only when courts intervene. Cultural heritage is a responsibility, not a file to be shelved. Failure to preserve the properties in Khetri is a failure of governance.
Khetri today stands at a crossroads. The wind still moves through its palace corridors, but now there is activity, planning and cautious hope. Yet the lesson remains stark—when governments fail as custodians, history invoices the future and the taxpayer pays.