The Autobiography of an Indian Princess

by Maharani of Cooch Behar Sunity Devee

I cannot remember much except the agony through which I passed. I heard as one in a dream that messages of condolence had been received from Queen Alexandra, King George and Queen Mary, and hosts of our friends in England and India. But I was overwhelmed with grief. In spirit I was trying to overtake my beloved upon his lonely journey. Naught else troubled me.

I saw my husband lying in his coffin, and I bade him my last farewell alone, before he was taken to London.

Profulla said the Maharajah’s funeral ought to be military, as he was a Colonel, and not that of a Maharajah. He sent a message to the Government and His Majesty ordered a grand military funeral. The Coldstream Guards played the “Dead March” and the “Last Post,” and both at Bexhill and in London, from Victoria Station to Golders’ Green Crematorium, people came in throngs. Even the relations in India said H.H. could not have had a grander or more impressive funeral. His Majesty was most gracious, and for this kind act of his, one and all in Cooch Behar, family, friends, and subjects, will be for ever grateful. The many flowers received with the sympathy of friends, for which I regret to say it was impossible to thank every one individually, were greatly appreciated by me in my hour of darkness.

I remained with my grief at Bexhill, and the duty of committing his father’s body to the flames fell upon Rajey. He walked to the head of the coffin as it rested in the Crematorium and mastering his emotion with a great effort, raised his hand: “In the name of God, Almighty Father, I commit these last remains of my beloved father to Your keeping. That in him which is immortal will always live, the mortal dies and perishes in the flames. God, keep and bless him in Your holy care.”

The Rev. P. Sen conducted the last service, which I heard was most impressive; and some of my English friends told me afterwards they had never witnessed such a solemn and touching ceremony.

When the sad news of our great loss reached Cooch Behar a procession was ordered in which officials and relatives walked barefooted to honour the memory of the ruler. The State elephant, of which he had been so fond, accompanied the mourners, and all the while tears rolled down the animal’s cheeks, just as if he knew the beloved voice was hushed for ever. The dumb beast’s sorrow touched all those who witnessed it, and I always like to think that elephant by some wonderful instinct shared our grief.

We left for India after a fortnight had elapsed, and what can I write about the saddest of all our home-comings? There is nothing more melancholy than the places which our loved ones have deserted and which cry aloud in their desolation.

We had been so happy, I felt that even in Paradise no one could be happier, and I had dreaded the thought of death. But timely or untimely Death had come, and he did not heed the anguish of my heart, he did not hear my cry, nor see my tears; he carried away my dear one and left me behind; my happy days were gone, the future was dark and gloomy, the path of life’s journey was thorny and hard. My children were still young, not one of my sons was married, and they clung to me, afraid now that they had lost their father they might lose their mother too. Almost every minute they came into my room to see if I were alive. On my birthday they gave me beautiful flowers, and I sat alone with them, perhaps longer than the children liked, for suddenly Rajey came and called me: “Mother, mother, are you there?”

Life was a blank, the world seemed empty, I felt as if I had no right to be here, as if there was nothing left for me to do. My life, my light, my strength, everything was gone. How could I live without him? Hand in hand we had worked, we had travelled, and now I was left alone with my children. They were loving and dutiful indeed. When I took off my bangles and they saw me in widow’s dress they cried: “Mother, will you never wear bracelets again; will you never wear these beautiful ear-rings?” “Yes,” I said, “I will when I meet your father in the next world.” The boys missed their father more than I can say; he had been more like a brother than a father to them. He had played with them, sung with them, helped them as a friend, and been devoted to them.

Widowhood in India is different from what it is in the West; it is a far harder life. Caste, religion, and custom make it very hard and sad for the widow, whether she be old or young. If a widow laughs loudly or dresses in a way that could possibly be called gay, cruel remarks are made on all sides, and if a Hindu widow gets at all a bad name she suffers greatly at the hands of both her own people and her late husband’s. But in spite of all this her undying love for her dead husband brings her closer to the unknown world every hour and every day; through suffering and darkness she knows she is drawing closer to her beloved. My husband made my life like bright sunshine; there were no clouds, no storms, and for the many dear friends I made in the West I shall ever be grateful to him. His trust, his love, his admiration for me were without compare. When I lost him I felt that I had lost all. Women of all nations and all countries envied me once, but now I feel that I shall have to travel alone for the last part of my journey. Once so high I held my head, but now the blow of widowhood has bent it low.