The Autobiography of an Indian Princess. Maharani of Cooch Behar Sunity Devee
trouble had befallen her. But my sister loved the Maharajah just the same all through, and never said an unkind word. “It is my fate, don’t blame him,” she said.
We tried to persuade her to marry, but nothing would induce her to forget her lover. Fourteen years passed, during which she was an angel in our house. Then she found her long-delayed happiness. The Maharajah’s wife died, and he came back to ask my sister to marry him. The marriage took place in Calcutta, and for some time the Maharajah and my sister led the happiest of lives. But Fate, mysterious Fate, ordained that Death, which had given them happiness, should destroy it. The Maharajah was accidentally shot at a shooting party, and my sister’s life was darkened for ever.
She lives for her children and for her stepsons. Some English ladies once said to me that they had no idea the Maharajah had any children by his first marriage, as the whole family seemed so united and devoted to the Maharani.
My fourth sister, Monica, who is very handsome, prayed that luxury might never come into her life for fear the world should make her forget God. We call her Moni; she has the most happy, contented disposition imaginable. No one has ever heard her utter an unkind word. She takes everything as it comes, quietly and without complaint, and thinks herself the happiest woman in the world. Her faith in God is wonderful. She married a Professor in the Education Department, a very clever man, whose name is Sadhu Mahalanobis.
Sujata, the youngest, has always made sunshine in our midst. She is as sweet as some lovely flower, and I think her one idea is to give every one as much pleasure as she can. She was so pretty that when our present King as Prince of Wales lunched with us he asked, “Who is that very pretty girl in the sari?” Sujata married a Mr. Sen, brother of my fourth sister-in-law.
How happy we were! I think that Providence always gives us compensations for our sorrows. There are some hours the glory of which triumphs over the darkness which later clouds our lives: some loved voices whose sweet remembrance deadens the sound of unkind tongues: some faces that in our memory have always a loving smile.
I am happy and proud to say that my brothers and sisters have always been most kind and loving to me.
I was not considered a pretty child, but I remember that a great-uncle once said to my mother: “This little girl, Sunity, will be somebody one day, for I see a lotus in her eyes.” “I shall have a handsome son-in-law,” my mother laughingly replied, and I was greatly amused. When I was twelve I thought I would make a vow never to marry. My ambition was to be clever, to travel a great deal, and to be a sort of nun. I asked a school friend of mine named Kamari if she also would promise not to marry. To my great disappointment she said: “It is too hard a vow to take,” but added affectionately, “we will try.” Once some of the nuns from Loretto Convent visited my father’s school, and one of them, looking at me gently, asked: “Would you like to be a nun?” We frequently visited this convent, and the kind nuns often came to see us. I admired and loved those nuns.
Even now whenever I get an opportunity I go to see the Convent Sisters.
CHAPTER III
FESTIVALS AND FESTIVAL DAYS
Many of our customs are full of colour and life, but few people of the West realise their inner and more sacred meanings. By the foreigner we are regarded more often than not as picturesque figures with a background of elephants, tigers and temples, and the poetry of our mythology is missed by the globe-trotter and the official. I have heard Lakshmi the Luck-bringer described as “odd-looking,” Kali as a “monstrosity,” and the figure of Ganesh as “an extraordinary-looking image.” Symbolism is not understood by those people who call our jewels “bits of glass,” and our gold “brassy.” I wish I could make Europeans realise how proud India is of her women, and how well they have merited her pride. Perhaps few of my readers know any of the stories of the devotion of mothers and wives which is shown daily in the shadow of the purdah.
“Oh, but you ladies can’t really know what love means,” once remarked a pretty Englishwoman. This sweeping statement is about as absurd and false as the Maharajah of musical comedy or the Anglo-Indian novel, but like most absurdities it has been taken seriously, with the result that many Englishwomen have no idea of the love that exists between Indian wives and their husbands.
One of my cousins married a rich young man when she was quite a little girl. After a few years he died leaving no child. The young widow went back to her mother and lived the life of a poor woman in her father’s house. She only ate one meal of vegetables at mid-day. During the cold months a single blanket was her only covering, and in the hot weather she slept upon a coarse mat.
She prayed for hours. She was lovely to behold and her sweetness made her beloved by every one. Yet, from sheer devotion to her husband’s memory, this delicately brought up girl chose to lead the life of a servant. It was her tribute to him, the offering of herself.
The question will naturally arise as to what good resulted from this penance, but it proved (according to her views) my cousin’s love for her husband, and it showed that she lived up to the traditions of wifely devotion which are taught us from our infancy.
Every province has its own marriage customs, and child marriages in Bengal are still most picturesque, although I am sorry to say that some of the pageantry and the tender sentiment associated with it, is gradually disappearing. A girl is always married in the home of her parents, and she fasts the whole day. In the evening married ladies dress the little bride artistically in new clothes and new jewellery. The air is sweet with perfumes. Flowers are everywhere. The murmur of many voices rises and falls, and suddenly the conch shells are sounded by the ladies of the house, announcing the arrival of the bridegroom.
What a supreme moment for the little bride! Her heart beats fast beneath the stiff golden embroideries, and the new jewellery suddenly becomes as heavy as lead. “What will he think of me?” Anxious and perplexed she goes through the Vasan ceremony, which is performed by the ladies in the courtyard; but she is keenly alert when she is placed on a piece of wood and, thus seated, is carried by young relations and friends to meet her lord and master. The procession passes round the bridegroom and the bearers hold the bride up in front of him. A scarf is thrown over the pair and their eyes meet for the first time.
The marriage is not concluded until the morning of the second day, when the bridegroom takes the bride to his father’s house, and this affords an opportunity for the hospitality the Indian delights to show. For a mile or two the route taken by the wedding procession is sometimes sprinkled with rose-water, and the lights flash. “It is a son who is getting married,” says the proud father, and he remembers with satisfaction that this home-coming has been fixed for a lucky day and a lucky hour. The bride must also be lucky, for does she not walk gently and speak gently? And is not her forehead of the right shape? Certainly she has not the prominent forehead that brings bad luck.
When the bride arrives at her future home, her husband’s sisters throw water and money under the palki, and the jewel-covered little girl is lifted out by her mother-in-law and placed upon a large plate filled with milk and alta (a sort of rose-coloured confection), upon which she stands until the marriage ceremony is over. Then the newly-married couple sit upon a new cloth and receive presents and blessings from the bridegroom’s friends and relations.
“May you speak like honey,” whispers a maiden as she touches the pretty lips of the bride with honey. “May you hear sweetness like honey,” she continues, as she drops honey into the small ears. Then the bridegroom’s mother comes forward, gives the bride a pair of bangles and lifts the head-dress which hides her face. As she does this the guests have an opportunity of seeing the blushing little face, and begin to praise her looks, the mother-in-law meanwhile saying, “This is my Lakshmi” (goddess of luck).
On the third day gifts arrive from the bride’s father: gifts of jewels, dresses, sweets, scents, soaps—sometimes to the number of five hundred or a thousand. Porters bring them in and the bride and bridegroom change into the new robes. This ceremony