The Autobiography of an Indian Princess. Maharani of Cooch Behar Sunity Devee
brought by the four poor brothers, and of his promise to read them. He rose from his bed and went towards the window, that looked out upon the terrace of the palace, with the papers in his hand. Now it chanced that just at that moment the kobal (page-boy) was under the window trying to make a hole through the wall through which to enter and murder the Maharajah. Suddenly he heard the voice of the Maharajah. “Silently he picks a hole in the wall.” Terrified the kobal left the hole and hopped across the terrace. “Bump, bump, bump, he jumps,” the Maharajah continued. The kobal stopped, looking this way and that in his panic. “Hither and thither he looks,” the voice went on. The trembling kobal tiptoed away, but the voice reading the youngest brother’s paper followed him: “The kobal walks on the marble, thud, thud, thud.” Convinced now that the Maharajah could see him and knew everything, the wretched kobal fled. Next morning he went to one of the officers of the palace, and falling at his feet confessed his intended crime and told how the Maharajah had seen all he did. The officer at once went to the Maharajah and told him the whole story. When the four poor brothers arrived soon after at the palace they were amazed to receive as a reward for their sayings, thousands and thousands of rupees, while the youngest was given a house and provision for life, the Maharajah saying he would ever be grateful to him for having saved his life.
Coolootola was the starting point for many of our religious excursions. We always delighted in these journeys, as they meant “seeing things.” One of the missionaries, Kaka Babu, who had charge of the money and arranged all the details of our everyday life, took care of my eldest brother and me. We travelled sometimes by train, and sometimes in a box-like horse carriage, which was rather uncomfortable, yet I have gone from Agra to Jaipur in it.
A certain visit we made to Etawah interested us very much. The house intended for our use was not ready, and we were obliged to spend the night in an old place which had once been a public building. My mother could not sleep, for she had a feeling of horror although there seemed at first nothing to alarm her. But before long she beheld a most awful vision, which lasted the rest of the night. She saw in the huge hall soldiers in red uniforms and Indians struggling together; great pools of blood were on the floor, and women and children were weeping. At first my mother thought it was only a dream; but when she opened her eyes she saw it as vividly as when they were closed, and terrified she longed for the dawn. At daybreak she told my father of the vision. He was surprised, as were his followers; for years before during the Mutiny a massacre had actually taken place in the hall. My father had not told my mother lest she should be nervous; when she heard the story my mother insisted on moving into another house, and we left then and there.
I remember a journey to Jubbalpore when I first realised the devotion of Indian wives to their husbands. We drove to a little house built upon a rock among the hills, about which there was this story:
“In bygone times a certain Maharajah was going to fight the Mohammedans, and his wife, who loved him, wished to accompany him.
“It is impossible,” he said. “How can you go with me?” “I will not remain alone in the palace,” she answered firmly. “But I am going to fight.” “No matter, my place is by your side.” “You cannot come with me.”
The loving Maharani then said to her husband: “I came to this palace as your wife, your Maharani. I shall not remain in the palace without you, my lord, my husband, my Maharajah, not even for an hour. If I am not allowed to go to the battlefield with you, I, your Maharani, will leave the palace and go wherever you like to send me. If it is your fate to return victorious, I shall return as your Maharani to the palace.”
The husband, although a commander and a ruler, spoke to her very gently in a voice full of love and sympathy: “My beautiful little wife, where will you go? How can I leave you in discomfort? You are my Maharani and do not know the hardships of the world.”
“Oh,” she said, “my lord, do you think that I would be happy without you in this place of luxury and wealth? No, my lord, let me go. You and I will leave the palace together. You are going to fight for your country, my brave and handsome young husband, and I, your little wife, will be thinking of you and your love wherever I may be.”
The story goes that the Maharajah granted his wife’s request, and had this little house built in one night on a single piece of rock among the hills. There she anxiously awaited news of him. Alas! the enemy was victorious and the Maharajah killed. Never would he return and take her from that place of waiting, back to the palace where they had lived and loved.
Then came the supreme act of devotion, the willing sacrifice. The widowed Maharani offered herself, to the flames upon a funeral pyre near the house on the rock, and I remember that, as darkness fell in that lonely spot, I felt as if I were living in another world. My childish heart vaguely wondered what that love could be which made people careless of life. The future was then mercifully as obscure as the evening shadows. I was to know later that the agony of the fire is nothing compared with the fierce flames of aching remembrance. The pang of death is happiness compared with the weary time of waiting to rejoin the beloved husband who has gone before. The little house is still standing.
The childhood of an Indian girl of years ago may have some interest now, and I must say that I do not admire the modern upbringing of children. Our old system had many defects, but it had also many advantages, chiefly the ideas of simplicity and duty which were primarily inculcated in the little ones. Religion was never uninteresting to us and lessons were a pleasure. I was the second of ten children, and named after Sunity, the mother of Dhruba. I got up early and by nine o’clock my eldest brother, “Dada,” and I were ready for school. I went to Bethune College and he to a boys’ school. We came back at four. I had a second bath. My hair was arranged and I had a meal of fruit and sweets. Then came the glorious hour of fun and freedom when the innumerable children of “Sen’s House” played together.
My mother always helped Dada and me prepare our lessons in both English and Bengali, and we always prayed with her in a small room next to our bedroom. There we were taught little mottoes: “Always speak the truth,” “Respect and obey your parents.” Once I had a very high fever and my mother told me not to go to school, but I loved my school, and when my mother had gone to the service I had my bath quietly and dressed, and went off in the school bus. After a short time I shivered so much that Miss Hemming, one of the teachers of whom I was very fond, put me on a couch, covered me up well, and when I felt a little better sent me home. How often I felt and still feel that I suffered because I disobeyed my dear mother.
Looking back on those days of childhood I have vivid memories of their happiness. The great house seemed an enchanted palace. It is difficult to convey to English readers a real idea of the fascination of its cool, silent interior with the six courtyards, and the deep wells which supplied drinking and bathing water. In the zenana part of the establishment where the strict purdah ladies lived, the rooms ran round one of these courtyards, and the ladies were never allowed to walk outside it. When they went into town, the “palkis” came right inside to fetch them. I remember wonderful games of hide-and-seek which we children played about the courtyards and the old house. I was too young then to understand what “conscience’ sake” meant.
The whole of the domestic arrangements at Coolootola were on patriarchal lines, and strange to relate, family quarrels were rare, although there was a very large number of women living together under the same roof. When I say that our household included fifty relations, some idea of the size of the establishment will be arrived at.
As I grew older I began to feel that I was rather an outsider in the festivities which the other girls enjoyed, and I discovered this was due to my loss of caste, but, as every one at Coolootola was very fond of me, I soon threw aside my real or imaginary troubles. I used to ran about the zenana, and admire my pretty cousins, who seemed to pass their time doing woolwork slippers for their husbands. They never liked people to know this, and the wools and canvas were hurriedly hidden when any one came in. The mothers looked after the housekeeping and played cards in their leisure time. I remember one aunt who was famous for her card parties.
My grandmother, who was very handsome, was the head of the house. She exacted and received the utmost deference from her daughters-in-law, who never dared to speak to their husbands in her presence.