LIFE AT COOCH BEHAR
Eight days after I lost my father I held a little daughter in my arms,
and I wondered whether the innocent soul which had come into my keeping
straight from God had met my father’s noble spirit on its upward flight.
Into that house of mourning her birth brought some consolation. We
named her Sukriti (Good deeds), but we always call her Girlie. She is
fascinating rather than lovely.
When Rajey was four years old, as no other son had been born to us, the
Maharajah’s people were most anxious for him to marry again, for they
said if anything happened to the child and the Maharajah also died, the
throne would have to go to another branch of the family. The old Maharani
and the late Calica Das Duth planned out very carefully that it was most
necessary for my husband to marry again. The Maharajah never mentioned
the matter to me, but to the doctor he said when Rajey once had an attack
of false croup: “Durga Das, I shall always be over-anxious about Rajey’s
health until another son is born.” So it was a day of great rejoicing
when my second son Jitendra, whom we called Jit, was born, 20th December,
1886.
I was greatly delighted when I went to live at Cooch Behar to find there
a fine church of the New Dispensation and a girls’ school named after me.
But there was much room for improvement in the country, although
Government had well prepared the way for us. It remained for my husband
to be a ruler in the highest sense of the word, and for me to win the
hearts of our people as a woman, a wife, and a mother. The more I saw
of Cooch Behar the more I liked it. The old tales say that the god Siva
chose it as his earthly home on account of its luxuriant loveliness.
Many legends have gathered round Cooch Behar, mostly of the time when it
formed part of the kingdom of Kamrupa, and when many of the temples and
palaces were built.
[Illustration: _Photo: Johnston & Hoffmann, Calcutta._
“RAJEY.”]
Among the stories is that of a Maharajah of Cooch Behar who had a number
of wives, one of whom was a very pretty girl; she was the favourite wife
and the others were very jealous of her. The Prime Minister had a very
handsome son, who when walking one day in the palace gardens, looked up
and caught sight of her beautiful eyes looking out of a window of the
palace. He gazed at the lovely face, and the girl, who had never seen any
man except her husband, stared back at him. The young man thought he had
never seen any one so beautiful, and in the days that followed he often
came to the garden. Unfortunately, some of the ladies of the palace saw
him looking at the little Maharani in the window. It did not take long
for the Maharajah to learn this, and he promised the wife who told him a
handsome present if she had spoken the truth.
One day when the romantic pair were thus engaged in gazing at each other
from a distance, the Maharajah saw them. Naturally, though unjustly, he
suspected his wife’s fidelity. He sent a message to the Prime Minister
commanding him to dine at the palace that evening. The Dewan, as he
believed, greatly honoured, accepted the invitation.
After dinner the Maharajah said: “I have a present for you to take home.”
When he reached his house, the Prime Minister told his wife to open the
parcel. Directly afterwards he heard a terrible scream, and, rushing into
his wife’s room, found her on the floor unconscious, with a half-open
parcel which contained the head of his son. The Dewan guessed at once
what had happened. Without a word he left his house just as he was, and
started for Delhi, the capital of the Moghul Empire. Arrived there, he
begged an audience, and when admitted to the presence of the Emperor he
told him that Cooch Behar was one of the richest districts in India and
suggested he should try to conquer it. The Emperor made several attacks
on Cooch Behar; but the fort was so strong that each time his army was
driven back from the place now known as Moghulhat.
This story is only one of the many I have heard. Their trend is always
the same. The members of my husband’s ancient race have been brave
soldiers, generous alike to friend and foe, and passionate lovers, and
they have sought afar for their wives.
I have often thought how uncharitable the general public are about the
failings of those in high places. Without knowing them well, without
knowing their inner lives, the public have an unjust habit of writing and
speaking unkindly of rulers and princes. Often the public will compare
their own lives with the lives of their princes—a commoner’s with a
ruler’s life! God has chosen one man to be a ruler and others to be his
subjects. It is unfair to judge hastily without knowing the divine object
of each life; people who rashly judge often do grave injustice to those
who have been called to a high station.
When I first came to Cooch Behar we lived in the old palace, which was
like a town. Hundreds of ladies occupied the various houses of which it
was composed: the late Maharajah’s wives, his mother and grandmother, and
many relations, with all their servants. Whenever there were festivities
all these ladies gathered together and it was like a great crowd in a
small city.
Now we live in the new palace, which is considered one of the finest in
India. It was designed by a Western architect and is built in an eclectic
style. It boasts a fine Durbar Hall, and the east front consists of
a range of arcades along the ground and narrow piers, and the cement
and terra-cotta used in the construction make an effective decoration.
On one side of the palace is the swimming bath, and covered racket and
tennis courts. The gardens are lovely. There is a river on the west, a
town towards the east, and to the north in the far distance stand the
great Himalayas like a fort. In the winter months on clear days we can
see the snow distinctly. In the spring, flowers bloom everywhere, and
as for fireflies, although I have travelled far, I have never seen so
many thousands together; on dark nights they look like little stars
twinkling in the fields. During the rains all the rivers, of which there
are many, are in flood, and then I think of Cooch Behar as something like
Venice. The thunderstorms at times are terrific; our old nurse, Mrs.
Eldridge, used to say: “In all my travels I have never experienced such
thunderstorms.” We had English nurses for all our children, except Rajey.
I was highly amused at Mrs. Eldridge’s surprise when she first came. I
asked her why she appeared to be so interested in me, and received this
blunt reply: “Well, your Highness, when I came to take up my duties with
you, I expected to find a stout, dark, uneducated lady. I must say, now
that I’ve seen you, I’m so taken aback that I can hardly believe my eyes.”
My day was always much occupied. After my morning tea, the children
often brought me flowers from the garden and I used to make sketches
of them, and this was the pleasure and pride of my life. After my bath
I put on a silk sari, which is supposed to be sacred, and arranged the
prayer-room. I loved the effect of the masses of roses, jessamine, and
the bright-hued flowers against the white marble of the altar and floor.
The open windows admitted the sweet air, fresh from the river close by.
I prepared the fruits and sweets for the household, and have often
prepared enough vegetables for fifty people. My readers may perhaps
smile at the idea of a Maharani cutting vegetables! I used to sit on the
floor surrounded by the brass bowls in which the vegetables were washed,
and the maids constantly changed the water for me. I always cut enough
vegetables to fill several large plates, for we generally had eighteen
curries for each meal. I also used to slice betel-nut, which has to be
cut very fine, and sometimes filled several big jars at one time. Often I
made sweets, as both my husband and the children were fond of sweets. I
also prepared pickles of mangoes, and potatoes, and other vegetables; all
this I had learned to do from my dear mother.
Sometimes I used to make up betel leaves into tiny odd-shaped packets
filled with half a dozen different spices, and pinned together with
cloves. Perhaps most English readers do not know what a valuable
digestive the betel leaf is. It strengthens the gums, and completely
neutralises the bad effects of indigestible delicacies.
Sometimes the Maharajah came in while I was cutting the vegetables, and
he would sit and watch me, occasionally saying: “Take care, you’ll cut
yourself,” just as though I were a little girl who did not know how to
peel a potato. Now and again I would get up tableaux and plays to amuse
my relations-in-law, the officers’ wives, and others, and these they
seemed to enjoy greatly. I was very fond of painting, and often spent
hours ornamenting the mantelpieces and the glass panes in the doors. We
made a miniature garden which the children loved. In this garden we had a
tank filled with clear water, in which one day my second son, the present
Maharajah, then a little boy, wanted to have a bath. We tried to dissuade
him, but he insisted on having his own way, so we undressed him and put
him in the tank. He felt the cold but pretended he was quite warm, and he
looked like a picture with only his face and curly head showing above the
water in the little tank surrounded by flowers.
From the day of his accession to the throne the Maharajah devoted all the
earnestness of his nature and his great powers of organisation to plans
for the comfort, well-being, and education of his subjects. New roads
were made; the systematic development of the resources of the State was
undertaken, and hospitals, schools, and public buildings were erected.
Some of these are very fine; the Masonic Lodge in Cooch Behar is one of
the largest in Bengal. The Maharajah took a keen interest in questions
of education and founded a college of which he was very proud. At a
distribution of prizes at this college on one occasion he said: “If I
find any boys guilty of disloyalty they shall be turned out of the State
in twenty-four hours.”
Hindu princes are allowed to marry as many wives as they wish, but the
Maharanis are part of the State, and there is a vast difference between
their position and that of the other palace ladies. The ruler’s wives
are brought to the palace as little girls, there to be married and
afterwards educated, solely, I am obliged to admit, with the idea of
attracting their husband, who, more often than not, never sees half of
them. Nevertheless the pretty ones learn to sing, dance, and cook to
perfection, for in many palaces the Maharajah’s food is never touched
by paid cooks. Some keep accounts. All are busy with their work and, my
mother-in-law told me, they are quite happy. Some of my readers may have
heard that any girl may become a Rajah’s wife. This is absolutely untrue;
the Maharanis must be young girls of good family, and always are. The
Rajah’s wives are not allowed to go out to other houses. It may be my
weakness or my strength, but I have altered my position in this respect
a little; I do see people if urged, but I have often been asked by my
husband’s relations to remember who I am, and not to speak to any and
everybody, and lower my position.
My mother-in-law was a well-built woman, rather short but wonderfully
strong. She was bright and always full of fun. Her kind help made my life
a happy one, and her wise counsel often guided me in hours of difficulty
when I first went to Cooch Behar, after my marriage. She died of cholera
at Woodlands; Rajey, a cousin of mine, and I nursed her through her last
illness.
The Maharajah had a step-brother and sister, both very handsome; they
were very devoted to my dear husband, especially the sister.
There is a custom in the palace that no one shall have a meal before the
Maharajah. For a few years I kept up this custom strictly; but sometimes,
when I was in indifferent health, I found it difficult to wait until one
or two o’clock in the afternoon for my breakfast. The Maharajah came
to know of this and asked me why I did not have my breakfast earlier.
When he heard of the custom he said to his mother, “The Maharani cannot
possibly wait so long. She is to have her meals before me, if I am
delayed.” His mother did not like this at all, but as it was a command
she had to obey.
We do not have many meals in India. Formerly we had breakfast, fruit and
milk every afternoon, and dinner. Now we have quite a late breakfast in
the English way, and afternoon tea. Until I left India I had never tasted
meat. Our delicious fruits would convert the most ardent meat-lover into
a fruitarian.
How I love Cooch Behar with its abundance of birds and flowers! The
scenery is glorious, the beautiful lotus covers the rivers, and at some
of the old religious festivals the temples are lavishly decorated with
the gorgeous pink blossoms. The Cooch Behar climate is splendid; the
winters are like those of the South of France, and the spring is heavenly.
I endeavoured from the first to gain the confidence and affection of
my husband’s subjects, and I never knowingly ran counter to their
prejudices. In Darjeeling and Calcutta I may be considered the Maharani
with advanced Western ideas, but in Cooch Behar I was and am the zenana
lady who enters into the lives of the people. Many who at first looked
upon my marriage with disfavour took me to their hearts when they found
that I was just like all their Maharanis, and that I loved them.
Now when I feel that earthly happiness and myself have parted company,
I like to picture Rajey as he was in those days. He had large sad eyes,
lovely curling hair, and he grew into a straight-limbed slender boy,
beautiful as the legendary sons of Siva.
In January, 1884, soon after we lost my father, we went to Simla. There
Rajey sickened with typhoid fever and became seriously ill, and the
doctors in attendance declared the case to be hopeless. My husband’s
distress was terrible, and I shall never forget his anguished words: “If
God will only spare Rajey’s life, Sunity, you and I would give our lives
for him.”
Our prayers were answered. After six weeks’ fight with death our child
was restored to us. Rajey’s nature was always sweetly unselfish, even as
a little boy. When I used to tell him stories the sad parts always made
him cry.
“How do rulers get their money?” he asked me one day.
“Well, Rajey, by taxing people.”
“Shall I be a ruler?”
“Yes, darling, I hope you will some day.”
“Then,” he announced, his great eyes shining, “I’ll never ask for any
taxes until everybody is well off and quite able to pay.”
Once I met him laden with all his boots and shoes. “Rajey, where are you
going?” I asked. I was told that one of his servants had informed the boy
that he was too poor to buy shoes for his children, and the kind little
Rajey had straightway started off to remedy the trouble.
Rajey was loyal to a degree. His creed was “once a friend, always a
friend.” He never went back after he had extended the hand of friendship
to any one. In later years he was often deceived by those he trusted and
belittled by those who had received innumerable kindnesses from him,
but I never once heard him speak unkindly. His loyalty forbade it, and
although he must have been wounded, he suffered in silence.
I remember another incident of those early days; Rajey was hit by his
bearer, an act which made every one indignant and was immediately
reported to me. My husband, who never permitted any one to touch the
children, told one of the officers to question the bearer, and the man
flatly denied having laid a finger on Rajey.
“I know the boy never tells a lie,” remarked the Maharajah; “send for
Rajey and I will ask him.”
The child came in, and my husband said quietly: “Now were you beaten?” No
answer. “Rajey, tell me the truth, there’s a dear boy.” Still no answer.
“Rajey … do you hear me speaking?” Again no reply. “Well, then,” said my
husband, “go and stand in the corner until you tell me if the bearer hit
you.”
Rajey obeyed and occupied the corner, the tears rolling down his cheeks,
but he refused to tell about the offender, and I believe my husband loved
the boy all the more because of his loyal but misplaced affection for his
servant.
On another occasion when our English secretary’s boys were fighting, and
the younger was getting the worst of the struggle, Rajey cried: “Stop!
it’s not fair; nobody ought to hit a boy smaller than himself.”
He had a strong sense of justice and his father was his ideal. Whatever
my husband did was right in the eyes of his first-born. No one was
so wonderful nor so good as his father. Our doctor once said: “Rajey,
I’m taller than your father.” “You dare say that,” the child answered
in furious tones; “nobody in the world can possibly be taller than my
father.”
Rajey was, even when a small boy, impressed with a sense of the
responsibilities of those whose destiny it is to govern others. He
seemed to realise the hollowness of earthly state, and he never tired of
listening to one of our stories which, like most Indian legends, has a
striking moral. Its simple cynicism may interest my readers.
Once the souls of the poor were standing in front of the closed gates of
heaven. Since they parted from their bodies they had patiently spent many
weary days hoping for admittance to the lovely country where the ills of
life are forgotten. The horrors of their past lives had not yet faded
from their minds, although in this place of waiting they were spared the
pangs of poverty, hunger, and thirst.
The vast multitude gazed yearningly at the gates which did not open.
Suddenly word came, “Make way, make way, O souls, a rich Maharajah’s
spirit is on its way to heaven and must be instantly admitted.”
The poor murmured together, but again the gatekeeper spoke, and the crowd
parted to give place to the soul of the Maharajah.
At last it came. And the poor caught a glimpse of the pomp and
circumstance which attended its passage to heaven. The gates were flung
open, the perfumed air of Paradise came forth for an instant, but the
poor remained outside.
“Ah!” cried the weary spirits. “Is existence still to be the same for
us as it was when we lived upon earth? There the rich always oppressed
us. We were as dust under their feet. We toiled that they might have the
luxuries they demanded. And now that we are dead we still suffer. Why
should we not be admitted to heaven without delay? Alas! there is no
justice at the hands of God since the soul of a Maharajah but lately dead
takes precedence of us.”
“Oh, silence, rebellious ones!” cried the gatekeeper. “Surely, surely,
you know that the road to heaven is an easy one for the poor to traverse.
You have no temptations in your passage save the ills of poverty. You
have not to combat with the lust of the eye, with the arrogance of
riches, with the evil wrought by flattering tongues and the misuse of
power. Think what allurements this ruler must have resisted in order to
prepare himself for heaven. It is a stupendous feat for a Maharajah to
have accomplished, and,” added the gatekeeper unctuously, “we seldom see
them here, therefore it behoves me to give instant admittance to such a
rare arrival.”
And the souls of the poor were silent, for they recognised the words of
wisdom which the gatekeeper had spoken.