The Autobiography of an Indian Princess

by Maharani of Cooch Behar Sunity Devee

As I was a Bengali girl and had come from Calcutta, where all my people were, and my husband wished to have a place near, Woodlands was bought and beautifully furnished. I was delighted with my little sitting-room, which was so charmingly decorated in pale pink and blue that it looked like a picture. I still remember some books I had on one table, on cooking, gardening, etc.

There we spent our early married days. Although my husband liked English food, and lived like an Englishman, I was faithful to the Indian cookery with which I was familiar. The hours passed all too swiftly. We began to entertain. I gave two enjoyable dances and believe I was quite a successful hostess.

The Maharajah took great pride in me. “Never forget whose daughter you are,” he would say to me, and this appreciation of my dear father touched me very much. Any good I may have done in my life is entirely due to his influence.

In the summer of 1881 I knew I might look forward to the crowning glory of our happiness, for I was expecting to become a mother. Girl though I was, I realised how important a part this child might play in my life at Cooch Behar. For many generations no heir had been born to the ruler’s chief wife. The succession had always been through the son of a wife of lower rank. I knew therefore that, if I ever had a son, much of the ill-feeling of my husband’s relations towards me would disappear.

A strange thing happened that year, when I was staying up in the hills at Mussoorie. My Indian maid came to me all excitement one morning, saying: “Maharani sahib, there is a fortune-teller outside who wants to see your hand.” “Tell him to go away,” I said. But the man refused to leave. “Let Her Highness but pick out one grain of rice and send it to me,” he urged. So I picked out a grain and sent it to him. I was surprised when the maid returned with the message: “Her Highness will have a son, and he will rule the country.” My father also had a premonition about the expected baby. A few weeks before the child arrived, there was a ceremony, and while at prayers, my father said: “A Sebak (a devotee) is coming from God.” At times the gift of prophecy is given to men like my father.

In the early morning of the 11th April, 1882, my first son was born at Woodlands. Late at night on the 10th a pandit had read the “Gita,” and my relations who were present cried as if I were already dead and gone, as I suffered greatly, and for a couple of hours they did not know if I should survive the birth. But when the baby made his appearance every one exclaimed that his arrival was favoured by the lucky stars then in the ascendant, and still greater was the joy when it was known that the tiny new-comer possessed the “tika” (a prominence on the forehead), which is said to be bestowed only on very powerful rulers.

My father was alone in his room deep in prayer when Mazdidi, my cousin, told him that a prince was born to Cooch Behar. The usual ceremonies took place, and money and sweets were lavishly distributed. But the supreme moment for me was when my husband came into my room and sat by my bedside. “Darling wife,” he whispered, “we have a little boy.” I looked at him and, though we spoke little, we were so happy. Our thoughts were full of our reward, for our little son was sent by Heaven in recompense for all that we had suffered.

Ah! my darling! My Rajey beloved! you are as near to my heart now in your peaceful paradise as you were on that April morning. You were the fruition of a great love and a perfect faith, but God decreed that your life should be as mutable as your birth month. He bestowed on you all that the world most values. He gave you a beautiful body and a beautiful mind. Yet your days were as a “tale that is told,” and the only earthly remains of your beauty and greatness are a few ashes in the rose garden at Cooch Behar.

My father named this child of promise Raj Rajendra (King of kings), but he was always called Rajey. His birth was celebrated with great public rejoicings both at Calcutta and Cooch Behar. On the seventeenth day after the birth, we gave an evening party, when presents were bestowed on the lucky baby, and the whole of Woodlands was illuminated. On another day was the children’s festival, when all sorts of pretty things were given to the little visitors, and, in fact, for some time we lived in a perfect whirl of excitement and congratulations.

“Rajey,” as we called him, was a perfectly behaved baby, who hardly ever cried, and who was so fair that he was nick-named “the English baby.” My husband allowed me to nurse him myself, a privilege not often permitted to Royal mothers.