The Autobiography of an Indian Princess

by Maharani of Cooch Behar Sunity Devee

My mother always helped Dada and me prepare our lessons in both English and Bengali, and we always prayed with her in a small room next to our bedroom. There we were taught little mottoes: “Always speak the truth,” “Respect and obey your parents.” Once I had a very high fever and my mother told me not to go to school, but I loved my school, and when my mother had gone to the service I had my bath quietly and dressed, and went off in the school bus. After a short time I shivered so much that Miss Hemming, one of the teachers of whom I was very fond, put me on a couch, covered me up well, and when I felt a little better sent me home. How often I felt and still feel that I suffered because I disobeyed my dear mother.

Looking back on those days of childhood I have vivid memories of their happiness. The great house seemed an enchanted palace. It is difficult to convey to English readers a real idea of the fascination of its cool, silent interior with the six courtyards, and the deep wells which supplied drinking and bathing water. In the zenana part of the establishment where the strict purdah ladies lived, the rooms ran round one of these courtyards, and the ladies were never allowed to walk outside it. When they went into town, the “palkis” came right inside to fetch them. I remember wonderful games of hide-and-seek which we children played about the courtyards and the old house. I was too young then to understand what “conscience’ sake” meant.

The whole of the domestic arrangements at Coolootola were on patriarchal lines, and strange to relate, family quarrels were rare, although there was a very large number of women living together under the same roof. When I say that our household included fifty relations, some idea of the size of the establishment will be arrived at.

As I grew older I began to feel that I was rather an outsider in the festivities which the other girls enjoyed, and I discovered this was due to my loss of caste, but, as every one at Coolootola was very fond of me, I soon threw aside my real or imaginary troubles. I used to ran about the zenana, and admire my pretty cousins, who seemed to pass their time doing woolwork slippers for their husbands. They never liked people to know this, and the wools and canvas were hurriedly hidden when any one came in. The mothers looked after the housekeeping and played cards in their leisure time. I remember one aunt who was famous for her card parties.

My grandmother, who was very handsome, was the head of the house. She exacted and received the utmost deference from her daughters-in-law, who never dared to speak to their husbands in her presence. She had a warm corner in her heart for me. I was never afraid of her, although I used to wonder whether I should be like the other ladies when I grew up.

My grandmother Thakoorma was a grand cook. Although she was a rich man’s daughter-in-law, my grandmother cooked and did the household work as if she were in a poor house. She and her sister-in-law used at one time to hide their brooms under their beds, each meaning to try and get up earlier than the other to clean the room; such was their delight in their housework.

The afternoon was the most delightful time of the day, for then we bathed, dressed our hair, and arrayed ourselves in dainty muslin saris preparatory to going on the roof. I loved that hour, and the memory of it often comes back to me. I close my eyes and dream I am a child again sitting in the midst of that happy group, and can almost feel the welcome breeze once more fanning my face. As we sat and told stories we sometimes caught glimpses of a splash of colour on the roof of distant houses and knew that other girls were also enjoying the cool of the day.

I used always to associate perfume and soap with my married cousins; in fact, I believed that some people married on purpose to get unlimited supplies of soap and scent. “You won’t get married, Sunity,” the cousins would laugh. “Oh yes, I will,” I would reply. “Then I shall have lovely perfumes, and as much soap as I want.”

The young wives were never allowed to see their husbands during the day; but often when I played in the front courtyard I heard my name called softly and would be asked to convey love-letters between the temporarily separated couples, who found time long without each other in the first days of wedlock.

I also remember the open air operas (jatras) which were performed in the field close to the house. The advent of the players was always the signal for my father’s youngest brother to nail down the shutters on that side of the house if he thought the acting of the jatras not quite proper for the ladies to hear.