The Autobiography of an Indian Princess

by Maharani of Cooch Behar Sunity Devee

It was a gentle journey towards the Unknown, and the traveller, who had to pass alone, was the least concerned. After hours of pain, my husband’s greeting to my brother was: “Hallo, Nirmal, I don’t feel very bright to-day.” At the answer: “Yes, sir, it’s been a brave fight,” my husband’s face lit up; he loved to feel the victory lay with him.

Neither my children nor those with me realised my agony. They were losing a father and a friend, but I was losing all that made the crown and glory of life, the love of my girlhood, the beloved husband. They understood nothing of this, but he did. I saw it when he looked at me, I felt it as his hand clasped mine, but I knew he wished me to be brave and not hinder his passing.

My sister’s son-in-law, Dr. Banerjee, was our family doctor. My husband was very fond of him, and he nursed the Maharajah all through his illness. His wife, my niece, had often cooked curries at Porchester Gate, which my husband had greatly enjoyed.

My boys and my brother Saral and the staff nursed my husband day and night, but it was of no avail. My youngest brother, who had just taken his medical degree, and of whom my husband was very fond, also nursed him. This pleased my dear husband.

One night he was very ill, and I said to my nephew, who was attending him: “You are the one who must save him,” and he did give the Maharajah something which kept him for a fortnight or more. Another night the Maharajah talked so affectionately to Jit that the boy left the room and had a good cry outside. On another occasion I went in and found my husband with Rajey on one side and Dr. Beasley Thorne on the other. Looking at me, he said: “I am most happy, and want nothing more.” He used to listen for my footstep, and though in great pain and sickness his face always beamed when I came into the room, but he could not bear to see tears in my eyes. My children always said: “Mother, you must not shed any tears before father.” It was very hard always to wear a smile when all I longed to do was to fall on the floor and weep, but I had to look cheerful and talk brightly.

He liked having my sister Sucharu near him, and when no one else could persuade him Baby would make him drink barley water or take his food. Once on seeing his father in pain, Rajey cried and said: “I shall not come again, it is too painful to see father in such agony.” Perhaps these young people realised then what the loss of their father would mean to them, for his influence had dominated them when my affection had made me weak, and I think he understood them better than I did.

The last words that the Maharajah wrote were on a slip of paper. They were only two words: “Saral … household.” Most likely he wished this brother to be always with us. Saral’s wife was very good to me.

We had a very good male nurse, Francis. I shall ever be grateful for all his devotion to my husband. My eldest girl and my youngest boy, my brother, and the late Dewan P. Ghose, who was personal assistant to the Maharajah, arrived in Bexhill about a fortnight before the end. This Dewan had been his personal assistant for years.

There was a big picture of my father in my husband’s bedroom at Bexhill, and looking at this one day my husband said: “I am a real follower of his.” Just a few days before he passed away he said to me: “Sunity, what are your plans?” I said: “My plans are your plans. When you are better we shall return home.” Gently he answered: “I know my plans and I would like you to make your plans.” At this answer my heart sank. Once he sent for the boys and spoke to them, saying his journey was finished, and told them what he wished them to do. He looked round with such loving eyes just before he breathed his last at all his children, his brother-in-law, and staff; held my hands, calling me “poor girl”; and after saying a prayer, with a smile he quietly passed away. There was no mark of suffering on his face. Suddenly the notes of “The Dead March” of the Rifle Brigade sounded close by. It was in the evening of the 18th September, 1911, at seven, and the band had been playing, but when the news reached them they ended with that sad tune.