It was disappointing that such a remark should have come from a clever Viceroy like Lord Curzon. If he had made inquiries he would have found it was from a Lieutenant-Governor that the advice had come.
I have often thought what a pity it is we have no Indian Eton, where our boys could be educated without being cut off from their home life. For our boys love their homes and can have no home-life in England. Many Indian mothers have a horror of an English education and think that ruin is bound to overtake their children once they set foot in London.
I am of opinion that my people do not require a Western education. People seem to forget that thousands of years ago India produced astronomers, poets, and sages, when most of the European races of to-day were cave-dwellers. I feel hurt when I hear or read remarks about the bad taste we are supposed to display in our rush after English ideas. Boys who are educated in England do not always get the chance of seeing the right and bright side of English Society, and perhaps get married to girls who are not of their class. I do not blame either the Indian students or the Government for the troubles that have arisen, but as a mother I beg of the English people to go thoroughly into the whole matter before they judge the students.
Rajey was, I think, the first Maharajah’s son to receive an English education. “I want my sons to be brought up just as ordinary boys, not as Indian Princes,” was my husband’s often-repeated wish, and I think he imagined that England would do the best for them. In May, 1894, Rajey and his father left India and I did not see my son again for nearly four years. On their arrival in England, the boy was sent to Mr. Carter’s Preparatory School at Farnborough.
If Rajey was home-sick he did not say so, and I was happy to know that he made some very nice friends, amongst them Prince Arthur of Connaught. The Duke and Duchess were most kind to the little exile, and often invited him to spend his holidays with their Royal Highnesses at Bagshot. From there Rajey wrote: “I have a room to myself, a table of my own, a penknife, a pen and pencil on the table.” I shall always be indebted to them for their kindness.
Rajey entered Eton in 1897, and was in Mr. Durnford’s[1] house. He became very popular with the boys. An old Etonian told me that my son possessed the most beautiful character, and that “no boy was ever more beloved than Rajey.”
From the age of twelve till he was sixteen my son was separated from me. I think it was most unkind the way in which the State officials prevented me from going to England to be with my boy. Every time the question was raised, they made the excuse of money difficulties, which I know for certain did not exist. I beg of all Maharani mothers in India that, if ever they are confronted with the same trouble, they will be firm, uphold their own judgment, and not allow the officials to interfere with their home-life. It is cruel to part the heirs when they are so young from their mothers. Now I think it was perhaps a waste of time to educate a ruler’s heir in England. The Maharajah did what he and the Government thought best at the time by sending our boys to England for a thorough English education, but afterwards the boys felt their lack of knowledge of the Indian languages very much. They returned home knowing Greek and French, but they did not know Sanscrit or Urdu and found it difficult to speak freely and fluently in the Cooch Behar language. I think there should be Sanscrit teachers in England as well as teachers of Urdu and Bengali; Sanscrit is the most ancient language, and with a knowledge of it one can read and learn much that is most helpful. The heir to a State should have a more general education than the other sons; he should have some knowledge of law, engineering, accountancy, and agriculture, otherwise he cannot improve his State nor help the officials. The education of a Maharajah’s younger sons, too, is a difficulty. A Maharajah is not allowed to buy any lands in British districts. I do not know what the reason of this is, but I think I once heard that if the sons of a ruler or his servants commit any crime they cannot be tried by British law because of the Maharajah’s own laws, which may account for it. This comes very hard on the younger sons; they can never make themselves rich nor independent. They have to live on their father’s estate on whatever allowance the heir is pleased to give them after their father’s death. I do not see why a Maharajah’s younger sons cannot buy lands in British districts and be independent.
We lost our dear mother in 1898, and I do not think she was sorry to go. The time of separation from my father had been a period of continual sorrow to her, and Death was a friend who re-united them. Her beautiful face wore a smile and she looked like one asleep dreaming of happiness. We could not wish her back again, although our hearts were aching at her loss.
After my mother had passed away my unmarried sisters lived with my brother Saral at Lily Cottage. Saral said: “Unless my sisters marry I shall remain single, and I shall not accept any post that will take me away from them.” Although he was younger than my third sister he took care of them like a guardian. He simply lived for his sisters and they one and all adored him. Eventually he married a Miss Sen of Rangoon and built a little house in the grounds of Lily Cottage. This brother of mine nursed my husband in his last illness, for which I shall ever be grateful to him.
The question of Girlie’s marriage came up in 1899, and we realised for the first time what difficulties might arise over it. No Maharajah except my husband was a professed Brahmo, and as our rulers have more than one wife, it was impossible to find a husband of her own rank for our daughter. But Mr. Jyotsna Ghosal, of the I.C.S., a member of one of our best Bengali families and a grandson of Maharshi Tagore, proposed for her and was accepted.