Maharani The Story Of An Indian Princess

125689

\avam

of an sJnotan jLrifice$5

Jrinca, LYYWjapam of cAxtt>

ToW to ELA INE WILLIAMS
Illustrated with Photographs

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY NEW YORK

Copyright, 1953* *954> by Princess Brinda of JKapurthala*

rights reserved, including the right to reproduce
this book or portions thereof in any form*
Published simultaneously in the Dominion of Canada,
by George J. McJLeod* Ltd.

First Edition

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 53-5407
Printed in the United States of America

udlon

This is a book about two worlds which have largely van-
ished and the like of them may not be seen again for cen-
turies. Both were worlds of vast wealth and privilege. One
was the world of the fabulous Indian princes whose king-
doms were little more than vast estates under absolute
rule. It was a world that was at once overcivilized and bar-
baric, deeply religious and superstitious, a world of enor-
mous luxury and bitter poverty bordering upon starvation
... in short, a world of the most extreme contrasts and
contradictions. Above all it was a world which could be
both pleasant and vicious for those who were a part of it.

The other world was the international one which circu-
lated through Paris, London, New York, Florida, Holly-
wood, Deauville, Biarritz, and points west ... a world
which the writer once described as "the international white
trash." It was a world which in many respects resembled
the strange, contradictory world of India, save that behind
it there was no spiritual strength or tradition. It had little
foundation save wealth, and it was constantly changing as
men and women made or lost money ... a world made
up of Indian princes, of millionaire currency speculators,
social climbers, decayed nobility, interior decorators, gigo-
los, politicians, and general whatnot ... a world in con-

stant flux which flowered extravagantly upon the dung
heap of the Europe between the two wars. Because there
smoldered beneath the dung heap a volcano which blew
that world sky-high in 1939, all moral responsibility was
forgotten and the extravagance and the recklessness liter-
ally overgrew itself, curled into violent contortions, and
finally withered and died.

The writer was familiar with both these vanished worlds,
as was the author of this book who came into life in a small
Rajput state in the wild and beautiful Himalaya country.
She married the son of one of the most extravagant of the
India princes, a man known almost as well in New York
and Paris and London as in India for his extravagance, his
wives, and his taste for women. The little Princess from
the hill country became betrothed at eight to the son of
this Prince and in time became the Maharani of Kapur-
thala. From the beginning there were difficulties of reli-
gion, of family pride, of culture and education which left
the little Princess bewildered. From the moment of her
betrothal, the Princess lived between the traditional an-
cient world of India and the modern, frantic world of a
Europe in the process of decay.

This book is the story of her life to date, a charming
book, which explains much that Westerners do not under-
stand concerning Asia and in particular concerning India.
Her experience is one shared by not more than five or six
people in the world. The transition from one culture and
civilization to another was painful and at times still is so.
As with all those who have been born in India and edu-
cated in Europe, there are moments of violent conflict.

What seems barbaric to an Indian frequently seems civi-
lized to a Westerner and vice versa.

The story told here is a simple and unpretentious ac-
count of a life lived in violent and sometimes extraordi-
nary conditions but it is nonetheless revealing in a way
in which many a more pretentious book has failed. The
Maharani, whom the writer has known for many years,
makes no pretentions at being either an intellectual or a
philosopher. Above everything, she is a human being.

LOUIS BROMFIELD

aram

CXVs

I waited with my governess in the cool
palace gardens of Kapurthala I shivered with anticipation.
Engaged to the son of the Maharaja of Kapurthala for
three years, now finally I was to meet him. Our marriage
had been arranged by our parents three years ago when I
was seven and my husband-to-be nine, but the Tika Raja
and I had been kept apart. Now I was nearly ten and it was
time to be growing up.

At the time of our betrothal, perhaps I had some curi-
osity about my marriage which was being arranged with
such excitement but not much. As a small Hindu prin-
cess I was not expected to evince any interest in my future
life; it was only necessary for me to obey my parents and
mind my manners. I knew that someday I had to get mar-
ried; I also understood that the choice was not up to me.
The choice, in fact, had been made by the Maharaja of
Kapurthala. He knew that my family was of the highest

caste and that my father, befallen by the calamity in
India of having four daughters, would welcome a match
to the heir of the wealthy state of Kapurthala. And as my
mother told me later on, I apparently was as a child just as
pretty as the blood of my ancestors was pure. So, while the
engagement festivities raged about the palace, I played
happily with my sisters, never believing that one day life
would change so much for me.

We were formally introduced three years after our en-
gagement, by Western standards a belated introduction,
but in the East since orthodox Hinduism forbids a hus-
band to look upon his wife's face before the wedding day
it was, if anything, premature. Our meeting was carefully
chaperoned by my governess, the Tika Raja's mother who
was senior Maharani, and his two brothers.

Waiting beneath the damp trees in the palace garden for
the Tika Raja to appear, I was suddenly apprehensive. All
my curiosity had fled and I wanted only to be back home
again with my face buried in the knees of my ayah who
knew only too well that I was still a little girl. But even at
ten I knew there was no turning back. I had been taught
submission well and there never was any question but that
I must do my duty.

So I went forward, my mouth trembling with shyness,
my heart pounding against my new dress, to meet my fu-
ture husband. He stood there looking at me without say-
ing a word. What a strange boy he is, I thought in disap-
pointment, for 'he seemed quite different from the boys
who romped with me inside our palace walls, screaming
down the winding corridors with much teasing and laugh-
ter.

Even at twelve the Tika Raja was old and serious with
dark, brooding eyes and a tense, unhappy face. He said
nothing but stared at me without changing his expression.
I stood in silence, trying to realize that this stranger had
something to do with me and in that moment lost my child-
hood forever. For the second time that afternoon fear
swept over me as I gazed at the boy into whose hands my
life had been given.

Amarjat Singh, his stepbrother, broke the silence, "Let's
play," he suggested. With relief we followed his suggestion.
It was lovely to be a child again and romp about the lawns
with the three princes, but whenever I looked back at that
afternoon I remembered it not as a child but as a woman.

Our forthcoming marriage had been arranged when the
Pandit Mirtunja, a spiritual leader in the court of my fa-
ther's friend, the Maharaja of Kapurthala, visited us to ask
for my small hand in marriage to the Maharaja's eldest
son and heir, Paramjit Singh Tika Raja. In many ways it
was a good match. Kapurthala, one of the first Sikh states,
was both larger and wealthier than our state of Jubbal, and
for many years the Maharaja and my father had been close
friends.

But to my mother a marriage between her small prin-
cess and the house of Kapurthala was a shocking disgrace.
As the daughter of one of the most ancient of Hindu
dynasties, Rajput, she believed it humiliating to consider
an alliance with the Kapurthalas. They, too, had been
Rajput centuries before, but had since embraced the Sikh
faith. To my mother they were now outcasts.

Sikhism, a Hindu reform movement started in the fif-
teenth century by Guru Nanak, represented to my mother

the antithesis of everything she believed in. Not only did
they ask equality for women, both religious and legal, but
they denied reincarnation, a basic tenet of orthodox Hin-
duism, and worst of all refused to 'accept caste. In the
Sikh faith a man of any religion or caste, even an untoucha-
ble, was accepted as an equal. For a woman of royal birth,
uneducated except for religious instruction, indoctrinated
since birth in Hindu orthodoxy, a merger with a family of
the radical Sikh faith was unthinkable.

Shortly after our visitor from Kapurthala arrived, I no-
ticed that a profound change had come over my mother.
Until that time her face had held only serenity and warmth
and a gentle smile for me when I had run to her from play
for comfort. Much of her time was spent in prayer and
meditation and often I loved to steal into her room and
sit in the corner to feel her quietness about me.

But suddenly all this changed. Now I found her rocking
silently in her room with tears streaming down her face.
She seemed distraught and unhappy and her eyes were red
and sad from weeping. Even I, happy and thoughtless child
that I was, became disturbed and frightened by her change.
Finally, I could bear it no longer and weeping too, flung
myself down at her side and begged to know what terrible
fate had befallen us.

Fighting back the tears, she told me that my marriage to
the heir of Kapurthala had been arranged against her
wishes. Instantly I was relieved. It had always been clear to
me that someday I would have to be married and since I
knew I had no choice in the decision it mattered little
which one of the eligible princes my parents chose for me.

The day of marriage was always many years away from the
childhood engagement, so to me the fuss seemed prema-
ture. I was interested in today, not tomorrow.

But I was touched by my mother's unhappiness and like
all children had a quick and easy solution. "If you don't
like it," I said, "then you must tell Father and make him
stop this thing/'

Mother shook her head sadly. "He has given his word of
honor," she said. "Now it must be."

For a moment I tried to think about marriage, but it
was too difficult. At seven marriage did not concern me
and, with that thought, I hurried back to play.

It was not difficult for me, then, to shut my mind to un-
pleasantness. Up to that point my childhood had been sur-
rounded by protection and happiness and I had no reason
to believe this would ever change.

My life as a princess began in the palace of the hill state
of Jubbal one January morning as the snow tumbled about
the Himalayan mountains. My mother, who had married
at eleven and borne two children before me both of
whom died in infancy was just fourteen years old.

My father, Prince Gambhir Chand, was the younger
brother of Jubbal's ruler, Rana Padam Chand. Our family
had ruled the state of Jubbal for over thirty generations
and tradition had it that originally our ancestors had de-
scended from the Moon. The truth was, as I learned some
years later, our family was but one of thirty-six Rajput
clans who claimed descent from the Sun, Moon, or Sacred
Fire; actually my ancestors came from Central Asia in the
fifth century and married into Hindu families. Later they

persuaded the Brahmins, the highest Hindu caste, to admit
them into their caste and provide them with their fantastic
ancestry. Our kingdom of Jubbal, about fifty miles east of
Simla in northern India, had been founded about the year
1066 after the invasion by the Moslems.

Before the Moslems came, the Rajput women had been
relatively free; they chose their own husbands, accom-
panied them in hunting and war, and, at their death,
mounted the funeral pyre at their side. But, in order to
escape defilement by the Moslems, severe restrictions were
placed upon them. So purdah, or isolation with other
women, and the heavy veiling came into effect. Originally
meant as a protection, through the years it has been one
of the most difficult burdens Indian women have had to
bear.

It was in order to escape annihilation that our family
fled from the plains to the foothills of the Himalayas and
founded our little Rajput kingdom of Jubbal. It was
there, in a rickety wooden palace made up of rambling
rooms tacked to each other on the edge of a steep cliff, that
I was born.

Immediately after my birth I was given away. Wrapped
in a coarse blanket, I was handed to a low-born peasant
woman who stood waiting outside the door to receive me.
But my departure from the royal family was only tempo-
rary. It was a measure to placate the angry gods who had
taken away my parents' first children; a few'moments later
the family priest bought me back for five silver rupees, or
about $1.25, and I was returned to my mother's eager arms.

Even at birth we were surrounded by the ancient super-

stitions of Hinduism. Both mother and child were con-
sidered unclean and kept in almost total darkness for thir-
teen days. On the thirteenth day we were purified together
with water from the sacred Ganges River and my father
looked upon us for the first time.

As a young child my life was carefree and happy. I was
high-spirited, restless, and often mischievous. Left largely
in the care of servants, like most children I tried to take ad-
vantage of them as much as possible. As the eldest child I
was in a good position to do this, since they felt I was
closest to my parents. The servants themselves were lazy
and corrupt and usually tried to take the line of least re-
sistance. As a result my feelings about right and wrong
were often sadly mixed.

One day I ran to my nurse, or ayah as we called her,
begging for a piece of material to make my doll a sari. She
had none, she told me, but as I teased and plagued her she
grew tired of the argument and suggested, "Go quickly to
your mother's room and take a piece of veil from her bas-
ket/' Satisfied at last, I played happily with my dolls for
the rest of the afternoon.

Later my mother called me to her room. "My child,"
she asked, "did you cut my veil?" Half realizing all along
that I had done something wrong, I burst into tears at her
question. Stammering, I explained that my ayah had given
me permission. "Then we must ask Ayah/' replied my
mother calmly. Ayah's face was a studied blank as she an-
swered my mother respectfully. No, she didn't know what
I was talking about; it was the first time she had heard that
I needed cloth for my doll.

Naturally, I was punished for destructiveness and lying.
But deeper than my childish dislike of punishment was my
frustration and outrage at being misunderstood. The world
of grownups, I decided, was a dangerous place. In the fu-
ture I would try to be more wary.

The one thing I did not lack was companionship. The
palace was fairly overrun with children of assorted ages,
since we followed the Hindu custom of several families
living together in the sprawling palace. And, of course,
there was my father's other family.

My mother was his second wife and his first, or senior
wife as she was called, lived in the palace as well, with her
several children. I saw little of her she occupied a com-
pletely separate apartment but I regarded her children
as my brothers and sisters and thought it not strange at all
that my father had two wives.

We, too, had our own apartment and servants, and my
father lived in a third apartment on another floor. Like
many Hindu husbands he considered his time completely
his own. Daily he visited each of his wives, played a bit
with his children, and retired to his own apartment where
his life was unquestioned by either of his wives. My mother
never spoke of his first wife. In some way it was almost as
though she did not exist for us.

Altogether there were about thirty children in the palace,
so although we were not permitted beyond the courtyards
we never felt that the world outside offered more for chil-
dren than the fun and mischief that went on inside its
walls.

One of our favorite games was doctor and patient, a pas-

time we thought we invented. But since then I have dis-
covered that children all over the world play the same
game and have been told that the meaning behind it is
universal as well.

In our case, we were fascinated by vaccination. Not long
after my uncle (ordinarily opposed to modern medicine)
decided to vaccinate the entire palace, we decided to follow
his example. Most of the windows in the palace were closed
not with glass but by wooden shutters. The throne room,
however, was an exception, so one day about a dozen of us
broke a window in there and began vaccinating each other
with splinters of glass. We bribed the little ones with ap-
ples to stifle their screams while the rest of us bravely al-
lowed ourselves to be scratched until blood gushed. At least
one of the children developed a mild case of blood poison-
ing from our game, and afterward the rest of us, nursing
our wounds, were happy to leave glass windows alone.

My lessons were always a chore to me. I was easily bored
by the endless droning of the teachers and anxious to es-
cape as quickly as possible to the more exciting pastime
of chasing my young companions up and down the twisting
corridors. But again I had little choice in the matter. With
the other children, I was taught to read and write Hindi
by one of the gurus or religious teachers of my uncle's
court. Our everyday language, Pahari, was a hill version of
ancient Sanskrit and it was not until after my engagement
that I learned to speak Hindustani, the language of most
Indians.

Life in the palace followed its own routine. At seven
I was awakened by my nurse, washed, and quickly dressed

in tight-fitting silk trousers with a loose shirt of silk or
muslin. On my head I wore the traditional duputta, or veil,
but by midmorning it had usually slipped off onto my
shoulders and was flying behind me as I raced about in
play. Most of the time my feet were bare but on the coldest
winter days I wore woolen socks under goatskin slippers.

Perhaps today it would be considered that we lived in a
world of inconveniences but to us it seemed perfectly com-
fortable. Although the winters in northern India are bit-
terly cold, there was no central heating, only a charcoal
brazier placed in the center of the room on a stone slab.
Nor did we have running water or bathtubs. We were
bathed in a small room by our nurse who stood us on a
wooden plank and poured water over us. Our toilet was a
hole in the floor of another room, connected to a straw-
covered tray several floors below by a funnel. This tray
was cleaned by sweepers of the untouchable or lowest caste
who were forbidden to enter the palace.

It is difficult for a princess not to feel like a princess, es-
pecially in India where so much emphasis is placed upon
caste and the importance of high birth. In many ways I
must have been spoiled and the servants did their share to
make me feel that I was someone special. It was only later
in life as tragedy and disappointment came my way, as they
do to everyone, that I began to feel less like a princess and
more like any other human being.

Once when I was about five years of age, dressed in the
costume of our province, I was attending a celebration. A
ring of rubies and diamonds had been placed in my little
pierced nose, in my ears which were pierced in six places
were six jeweled earrings, and on my toe was a large ring.

My dress was bright red satin embroidered in green and
gold and on my head bobbed a tiny golden veil. As I danced
by a mirror I suddenly caught a glimpse of myself in it.

"Oh!" I exclaimed. "I'm such a pretty little girl!" and
ran and kissed myself in the mirror.

All the guests laughed and petted me. How clever of the
little princess to admire herself! So I was encouraged then
and throughout my childhood to believe in my special im-
portance; many times later in life I wished instead I had
been taught more of the harsher facts of living.

In the morning after prayers came breakfast, a meal of
hot milk, unleavened, whole-wheat bread fried in butter,
and several sweets. We ate, squatting on stools two inches
from the floor, from dishes of silver or brass. We did not
use silverware but ate our food with our fingers, scooping
it up with the help of the fried pancakes, a traditional part
of the meal.

Religion plays an important part in the life of every
Hindu family. We began each day by chanting long pray-
ers from the epic poem, the Bhagavad-Gita (Song Celes-
tial), which in poetic form is the essence of the Hindu re-
ligion. But to me the long verses meant nothing. I only
knew that it was required for me to say them and I did,
obediently and as quickly as possible. For one thing, we
prayed in ancient Sanskrit. To an Indian child Sanskrit is
about as meaningful as Latin is to a child of the West.
Taught by rote, the meaning of our religion was not really
explained; and perhaps even if I had understood it in my
childish way, its deeper concept would still have been in-
comprehensible to me.

As a child, to me the world was everything; to a real

Hindu, the world is but another chance in his struggle to
come closer to God. The Hindu religion differs from most
religions in that, rather than encouraging man to work
out his life on earth according to certain laws or even spir-
itual concepts, it urges him to accept his lot on earth un-
complainingly; in fact, it teaches him to disregard the
world and concentrate on the life of the spirit and the
world beyond. The man of God is explained by the Gita in
this way:

He knows bliss in the Atman *
And wants nothing else.
Cravings torment the heart;
He renounces cravings.
I call him illumined,
Not shaken by adversity,
Not hankering after happiness:
Free from fear, free from anger,
Free from the things of desire.
I call him a seer and illumined.

The bonds of his flesh are broken.
He is lucky, and does not rejoice:
He is unlucky, and does not weep.
I call him illumined.

The tortoise can draw in its legs:
The seer can draw in his senses.
I call him illumined.

Being born is considered a kind of punishment, for the
spirit who reaches God is never born again. He has become
so pure in heart that he finds eternal bliss. But others must

*SouL

die, only to be born again in sorrow and suffering. Thus, in
India the caste system has been acceptable for, according
to the religion, the soul chooses its own parents as in each
life it advances closer to God. A low birth is often con-
sidered an indication of the lack of progress made in the
previous life, although this has little to do with achieving
spiritual heights in a present life. From the lowest caste,
or untouchables, have come many saints and teachers who
achieved highest spirituality.

Hindus believe in one soul. This soul is without be-
ginning and without end. It is indestructible and incor-
ruptible, birthless and deathless. All human beings are part
of this soul and the object of Hinduism is to merge each
individual soul with this universal one. The realization of
God is known as yoga, or the science of spirituality.

Through yoga there are four ways to reach God. Karma*-
yoga is the path of action. It teaches man to work but to
work without thought of reward and to love his work more
than he loves what that work accomplishes. Attachment is
slavery, detachment is freedom, so man must view with in-
difference the rewards of success and the pain of failure.
The goal of activity must be the increasing knowledge of
the soul.

Bhakti-yoga is the path of worship. His religion is rich
in ritual and ceremonies and begins and ends in love. For
this love he seeks no return. He does not love God to
achieve pleasure in life or happiness in heaven, but be-
cause God is love, beauty, and goodness. He asks nothing
of God, only that He deal with him in His infinite wisdom.
He does not fear God because in perfect love there can be

no fear; through complete unselfishness his love is divine
and the lover and the beloved become one.

Jnana-yoga is the philosophical path to God and the man
who follows it uses the method of reasoning. He learns
what is reality and meditates upon it. By means of his will
power he renounces the unreal and through moral disci-
pline and complete renunciation he tries to discover the
immortal in himself and the universe.

Raja-yoga is the way for the mystic, through moral and
ethical disciplines. With the help of posture and breathing
the student of raja-yoga learns concentration and medita-
tion in an attempt to learn the nature of the soul.

The goal of Hinduism is liberation from misery, from
death, and from life. Man's true identity is God and only
through ignorance has he limited himself to race, sex, caste,
and creed. Life is the means by which he may rediscover
his infinite soul but he can only go beyond death when he
realizes his unity with the immortal.

For years I parroted the beautiful verses of the Gita,
chanted the humble philosophy of the teachers, but in
those days it held little meaning for me. As my life began
to pass, however, the spirituality of my religion began to
hold out more and more comfort to me and the fleeting
pleasures of life seemed to dwindle in comparison with the
infinite reward of God,

But that is a story of my later life, for my early years
were certainly preoccupied with the world. In the begin-
ning I was no child of heaven.

\^

" or me the palace at Jubbal was a magic cas-
tle. There were over a hundred rooms in the sprawling
wooden structure and endless twisting corridors, court-
yards, and balconies where I played make-believe games
with the thirty other children who lived in the palace.

Of all the children I was the most reckless. Proud of the
fact that I could climb as well as any of the boys, I seized
on every opportunity to prove it. One day when I was five
I decided to climb out on the edge of a balcony on the
third story. Teetering dangerously on the narrow wooden
railing I held my breath in terror and took a step forward.
Somehow I managed to maintain my balance. Then, full
of confidence at my success, I turned my head to make
sure my playmates were watching and shouted "Look at
mel" As the last word left my lips my foot suddenly slipped
and I fell three storys to the courtyard below.

It was a miracle that I wasn't killed. But I was far from
unconscious. I lay on the ground screaming in pain and
fright as servants rushed from everywhere to carry me back
into the hoflse. Blood was streaming from my face and
when it was wiped away they saw that the whole side of my
face was torn to the bone. My mother stood over me in
horror, wringing her hands and crying that I would be
disfigured for life. "What a fate for a girl," she moaned.
"Now we will never be able to find her a husband.*'

Since my father had little faith in medicine, he would
not call a doctor to treat me. No stitches were taken, no
medication was applied. Instead, my father himself pre-
pared a huge poultice of butter and sulphur. This was
applied to my face and kept there with a cloth for over a
month. When it was removed my cheek was completely
smooth again except for an almost invisible scar. Modern
science could not have done a better job.

But my uncle, Rana Padam Chand, the ruler of Jubbal,
was not so lucky. His opposition to science ended in dis-
aster, both for him and for our family.

My uncle, a high-strung man, had a nervous habit of
plucking hairs from the back of his hand while engrossed
in conversation. When I was about six an infection de-
veloped from this. Beginning as a simple infection, because
of lack of treatment it gradually spread to his fingers, then
up his arm. By this time it had developed into an acute
case of blood poisoning and he was in an agony of suffer-
ing. It became necessary to amputate his hand and later his
arm. But it was to no avail. He grew steadily worse and

three months after the infection began it was clearly ap-
parent that the Rana of Jubbal was a dying man.

As he lay on his deathbed he called my father to his side,
"After my death/' he whispered, "leave Jubbal. It is fin-
ished for you here now. Take your share of the fortune and
go-"

Shaken by the imminent death of his brother and by his
strange advice my father left his side. Some hours later he
returned to find that my uncle was being dressed in his
royal robes of gold and his ceremonial jewels in prepara-
tion to attend his own funeral ceremony. Down to his an-
cestral temple in the courtyard, to the wailings and chant-
ings of the court gathered below, the dying man was led
and offerings were given to the gods, priests mumbled
prayers, and cymbals clashed in a funereal dirge.

Just before the sun rose above the palace walls my uncle
crumpled over the shrine and the leader of Jubbal was
dead.

It was my first experience with death. Where had he
gone? I begged to know. Why did he lie so pale and still?
Just a few hours before I had heard his groans of pain and
his cries for help. Now he was silent.

No one paid any attention to the small girl wandering
blindly about the palace trying to understand what was
happening. In their own grief they were far too busy to
explain the end of life to me. "Run along and play," they
said, "and don't bother us with your questions."

I stole quietly to my classroom and huddled on a small
stool in the corner trying to figure things out for myself.

I was frightened when I thought of what had happened.
If such a fate had befallen my uncle, leader of a state, a
powerful man, what could happen to me, a slight girl who
had no influence with anybody? I trembled in fear.

When my teacher entered the room I ran to him, tug-
ging desperately at his robe, pleading with him to tell me
why my uncle cried no longer. "He has gone to God/' an-
swered my teacher. "If he is pure enough in heart, he will
remain there. In any case, my child, he is far happier now."

I stared at him in wonderment. "But if he is happier
now," I said, "why does everyone weep?"

My teacher did not answer. He looked at me silently
and went about his work. A few minutes later he lifted his
head. "Someday you will know," he said.

Some hours later I heard them bustling about my uncle's
room while I stood near the corridor in the way of every-
one who hurried past. They were preparing his body for
the traditional Hindu cremation which was to take place
over an open fire on the banks of a small stream several
miles away. After the body was burned the eldest son
would break the skull to show it had been fully destroyed
but, since the Rana's son was still a boy, my father would
substitute.

I listened, cold with horror, as my brother explained the
ceremony to me. To be burned by fire! Supposing, I
thought frantically, he was not really dead, that it was all
a mistake. Mistakes could happen. How could they be
sure? I got up and started to run down the corridor. My
brother followed me and caught hold of my arm.

I wrenched away. "I must go," I gasped, "I must stop

them at once." Then I walked around in a slow circle. In
my heart I knew it was no use. No one would listen to me,
a little girl. And in my heart I knew he was dead and gone
from me forever.

In the weeks following, in the manner of children, I be-
gan to forget my uncle and even managed to stifle my own
fears. The funeral and the terror faded into the past and
now the sounds of weeping and wailing echoing through
the palace bored me. "Why don't they stop?" I thought,
wanting life to be the way it was before my uncle's death,
but it never was again. For with his death my whole life
changed.

The successor to the throne of Jubbal was my uncle's
twelve-year-old son, but since he was too young to conduct
affairs of state it was necessary to appoint a regent. In spite
of his brother's deathbed advice, my father wanted des-
perately to be appointed regent for his nephew. But my
uncle's wife was determined to rule for her son and was
backed in this by her minister.

My father, a proud and sensitive man, was crushed by
her refusal to allow him to participate in the governing
of Jubbal and, remembering at last the words of my uncle,
with sadness he prepared to leave his home. This decision
to leave was heart-wrenching for him but he knew that it
had to be done.

He approached the minister and my aunt with the re-
quest that he be given our share of the family treasure but
they refused to discuss it with him. Finally he threatened
my aunt, the Rani, with an appeal to the British govern-
ment. Shortly afterward the minister committed expensive

suicide by eating crushed diamonds mixed with poison
and left a letter addressed to my father confessing that over
a period of years he had used a large part of the funds with
which he had been entrusted. My aunt was horrified by
this news but was more determined than ever not to divide
the remainder of the fortune.

There was much quarreling and anger inside the palace.
My father felt righteously indignant; after all, he had been
raised as a prince and knew no other life. The thought of
making his own way was both upsetting and frightening
to him. But my aunt grew more and more hostile, refusing
any longer to listen to him and denying his right to share
his family's fortune. Publicly she announced that our
family would no longer be supported; our food supplies
were to be cut off within a day or two.

Speechless with fury, my father decided to risk a public
scandal by appealing openly to the British government,
and ordered my mother to begin preparations for moving
to the capital of Simla where he would make this appeal.
With shouts of glee we children heard the news that we
were going to accompany them. For us it was a glorious oc-
casion, the first time we were leaving the palace walls to
see the world outside.

For my mother it was a move filled with terror. All her
life she had been sheltered and protected from the world
outside. Now she was leaving her home forever. She wept
in bewilderment, while we danced about in delight, won-
dering that there could be sadness in the wonderful ad-
venture on which we were about to embark.

The journey from Jubbal to Simla was a long and tire-

some one. My mother and the five of us children were car-
ried on palkees (litters enclosed by silk curtains) by coolies
while my father rode a hill pony. We were accompanied
only by ten personal servants and a large number of
coolies; my father's first wife and three children did not
come with us to Simla I never knew why, but they re-
mained behind in the palace at Jubbal.

Our road was a mule track and it took us four days to
travel the fifty-mile distance. Even with the overnight
stops at rest houses along the way we sometimes wept with
heat and exhaustion as our caravan wound its way up and
down the dusty paths and the burning summer pressed
down upon the silken curtains of our palkee.

We came upon Simla at night. As we rounded a curve
in the rocky trail I pulled aside the curtains and saw for
the first time in my life thousands of winking lights spill-
ing down the black slope of the city. We had never seen
electric lights before and stared in open-mouthed wonder
at the fairyland before us. Now the long journey was for-
gotten and only the new and enchanting world lay ahead.

A dear friend of my father, the Maharaja of Kapur-
thala (who later became my father-in-law), lent us one
of his houses during our stay in Simla. For the children,
"Newlands" was a fascinating place if only for its electricity
with which we endlessly experimented, turning lights on
and off for the pure magic of seeing them work just once
more. But our new home was also a more lonely place than
the palace at Jubbal with its many playmates. Now I was
more or less alone with my two sisters.

For my brothers Simla was far more exciting than Jub-

bal. As boys they were permitted to leave the house and
often they were taken on trips through the exotic bazaars
and noisy streets of Simla. But I was forced to remain at
home, in purdah with my mother and sisters. I was heart-
broken and bewildered by this. At last I had seen a glimpse
of the world beyond the palace walls; now I was not al-
lowed to enjoy it.

"What is so different about a girl?" I wept one day as
my brothers dressed for an excursion into Simla. "Why
can't I go with them? Why must I always stay here when
I want so much to go?"

"It's not fair," I said to my mother, stamping my foot in
anger. "I want to see the world, too!"

My gentle mother looked at me reproachfully and her
eyes filled with tears. Sheltered as she had been in her
childhood, retiring and docile, she could not begin to un-
derstand the black rebellion that filled my heart at these
injustices. I could see no reason for keeping me locked up
like a baby. I ran as fast as my brothers, I knew all their
games, even won them occasionally, why then could I not
be part of their adventures? Patiently, my mother tried to
explain. But it was an impossible task. She had always ac-
cepted her role; to question it was sacrilege. In her world
a woman did what was expected of her, uncomplainingly.
She did not ask for the privileges of a man.

Now, at my early age, I was trying to defy convention.
While I cried loudly my mother shook her head sadly and
began to pray. Perhaps a power beyond hers could bring
obedience into my heart.

After a while I stopped weeping and watched from the

balcony as my father and brothers made their way across
the courtyard, laughing and joking as they walked toward
the magic city I could not see. Once again I was defeated.
But someday, I promised myself, I would not only see
Simla, I would see the whole world. I clenched my fists on
the railing and bit my lips to keep back the tears, but they
came again in a flood. For I never expected that someday
my promise would be fulfilled.

Meanwhile, my father pressed his lawsuit against the
Rani. Unfortunately, the viceroy's government turned it
over to the local Punjab authorities where my aunt had
powerful friends among the officials and the most my fa-
ther could obtain was a small pension. By this time he was
angry and his prestige so badly wounded that he demanded
official recognition of himself as sole regent during my
cousin's youth. This was refused and, deeply humiliated,
my father swore to pass the rest of his life in exile. He
never did return to Jubbal.

As winter came upon Simla father arranged to take us to
Hardwar, one of the sacred cities of India. My mother had
longed to make a pilgrimage to the holy city and now she
felt brave enough to make the journey. With her trip to
Simla she felt that she had seen much of the world already.

Our trip to Hardwar meant my first taste of freedom
and I was dizzy with it. We traveled this time by railway
and, although we maintained strict purdah on the train in
a separate compartment for women and children, I saw
dozens of strange and unfamiliar faces. The noise and the
dirt and the howling of babies were equally enchanting
after the quietness of life at Simla. In rapture I drank it all

in, trying not to miss a single thing, turning my head
eagerly from side to side as the train lumbered up and
down the dusty hills, staring at the brown huts along the
way and the ragged Indian children who stared back at me
with round dark eyes.

And Hardwar itself was even more exciting. Here I
found dozens of children to play with and once again I
shouted and raced and romped noisily. Here, too, most re-
strictions on women were relaxed because it was a holy
city. Now I could walk beside my brothers and explore
with them the crooked narrow streets of Hardwar.

We even went swimming, separated, of course, from the
male sex. At Hardwar, swimming in the holy waters of the
Ganges has a religious significance, but for me sinking into
its cool unfathomable depths and splashing about in the
waves was a purely pagan pleasure. After life in the moun-
tains the sight of these rippling waters was endlessly ab-
sorbing. I loved to feel the water on my arms, dip my face
in it over and over again to let its coolness slip down my
cheeks, until my mother would chide me. "Foolish girl,"
she would say. But I did not care. I had found a new love
and was happy.

In the evening as the twilight deepened over the tran-
quil Ganges and hundreds of worshippers chanted softly
on its banks, each pilgrim who had come to Hardwar to
find faith lit a flame in a small paper boat and set it afloat
on the dark waters. Silently, I murmured my prayers as I
watched the boats careen downstream, hundreds of tiny
flames winking in the night before toppling over into the
holy river.

We had been at Hardwar about three months when the
Maharaja of Kapurthala made his request for my hand in
marriage to his son, the Tika Raja. It was here that my
mother wept and pleaded with my father not to permit
this unholy alliance and it was here that she failed and my
betrothal was arranged.

At the time of my engagement, many marriages then
being arranged in India for children were consummated
the moment both were physically capable, some even be-
fore the bride reached puberty. But our parents considered
themselves extremely advanced. The Tika Raja and I were
to remain apart, receive our educations, and marry at an
appropriate age. My future was to be in the hands of his
father, the Maharaja of Kapurthala, who would direct my
education and upbringing. In other words, he was now my
guardian. It was the end of my carefree childhood.

The engagement festivities took place in Kapurthala.
There were parades with soldiers and elephants, feasts,
dances, and fireworks. Hundreds of poor came from all di-
rections to watch the excitement and receive coins and
food. But I know this only from hearsay. I, the bride-to-be,
was not allowed to see or participate in the celebrations.
Again I was in purdah. But by now I was beginning to
accept my lot and did not object. In a way, I was glad.
Somehow I felt that if I stayed with the children I could
protect myself from facing what was really happening. I
was a happy child. I was not so anxious to grow up.

But all children like to receive presents. Precious silks,
brightly colored embroideries were given me for my trous-
seau and from my father-in-law a small diamond ring and

some antique jewelry. Privately I didn't think much of his
gifts. With all the fuss being made I had expected some-
thing a little closer to a diamond tiara.

At the end of the winter I lived apart from my family for
the first time. I was sent to Mussoorie, a hill city slightly
smaller than Simla. There I was installed in a small house
with my own servants, my ayah, and an English governess
named Miss Marble. Some distance away, the Maharaja of
Kapurthala lived in a large French chateau and my own
family were also nearby.

My ayah was a great comfort to me and a difficulty at the
same time. She reminded me of home and my old life and
made me feel I was not alone with strangers. But she hated
Miss Marble. I realize now that she was threatened by her.
My ayah loved me and wanted to be first in my affections.
Now she felt I would be influenced by this interloper.

I was torn between two worlds. I remembered with long-
ing the warm, companionable life with my family and
sometimes after seeing my brothers and sisters I would
weep with loneliness. Alone in an unfamiliar house which
echoed only the voices of my servants I would wander sadly
through the rooms wondering if the ache which gnawed at
my young heart would remain there always.

Miss Marble was the first European I had met. She was
a thin, homely spinster who tried to be kind. But I could
not understand her and she could not understand me.
From the moment she met me she began to speak English.
How strange the language sounded to my ears. How brittle
and dipped after the soft, endless jabbering of Hindus. She

seemed like someone from another world. And of course to
me she was untouchable.

As a Hindu child I was raised to feel that contact with
anyone from a lower caste than myself would contaminate
me and prevent me from reaching the heights of my reli-
gion. But Miss Marble had no caste. She was a European, a
complete alien. As such, she was more untouchable than
the lowest Hindu untouchable.

My ayah reminded me of this constantly. She even tried
to blame my illness that summer on the evil influence of
this peculiar European, She mimicked Miss Marble, lurch-
ing stiffly about my room, making short harsh sounds with
her mouth. She sneered and grumbled and complained
constantly and most of the time I gladly agreed with her.

But gradually I became fascinated with Miss Marble's
tales of the world outside my narrow gates, the life which
went on outside that of India itself. She told me of Paris
and London and the new and exciting land of America.
She helped select European frocks for me. How wonder-
fully unfamiliar they felt swirling about my legs. And how
much easier to walk and play in than our traditional sari.

"This is the way little girls in Europe look!" I shouted
to my ayah as I twirled about in front of the mirror in my
new frock. "Is it not wonderful?" I asked her excitedly.

"No, it is not nice/' she said, and her face looked angry
and sad at the same time. "And I do not like it."

But for once I did not agree with her. I liked it. Some of
my old rebellion came back to me and life seemed adven-
turous once more. India was not the whole world, after all.

Maybe it would be fun to be a European. Perhaps some day
I would find out for myself. And my spirits rose as I danced
away from my ayah, giggling at her tears, and went to find
Miss Marble to tell me some more stories of Europe.

But when I was ill it was to Ayah I turned once more.
She comforted me endlessly, sat by my bed, and it was good
and familiar to have her close by. Now I was distrustful of
Miss Marble.

I was learning to eat my meals at a table like Europeans
instead of Indian-fashion on the floor, but because of my
mother's feelings about caste, and my own, I was permitted
to eat alone with only my ayah present to serve me. One
day, when I was still ill and fretful, Miss Marble, who was
worried about me, came to my room to make sure the meal
was suitable for an invalid.

I heard a step at the door and looked up. Miss Marble
was standing at the entrance. Suddenly my stomach turned
over. ''You must not come in!'* I shouted. But Miss Marble
did not understand. She walked through the door.

Now I was all Hindu again and she was the alien, the
untouchable who would contaminate me. "I told you not
to come in," I sobbed and was violently and thoroughly
sick all over the tablecloth.

My European education was far from complete.

was with a little English girl named Sheila
whose mother was a friend of Miss Marble and whose
father was a colonel in the British Army, stationed nearby
that I began to understand the strange and curious ways
of Europeans.

Perhaps all children, no matter how different the cul-
tures from which they emerge, have helplessness as a bond
between them in a world of giants who arrange their lives
with such reckless tyranny. In this kind of sympathy the
very young are sometimes drawn together as if to pit their
weakness against the strength of incomprehensible adults.
It was probably that and only that which drew Sheila and
me together, for our only similarity lay in the fact that we
were both small girls. In every other way we were com-
pletely different, in looks as well as in temperament.

At times Shelia exasperated me nearly to the point of

madness. Once, in a rage of anger, I seized her by the pale
curls which tumbled about her delicate face and shook her
until she howled with a noise as unladylike and scandalous
as she believed me to be. It was true. I had very little desire
to be a lady. I was bored beyond measure at having to sit
still, and envied, with a large jealous pain in my heart, the
excitement which seemed to me to be happening in a world
which lay just outside my finger tips.

Sheila, on the other hand, was more than content to be a
girl. She wanted to be just like her mother, a tall English
beauty who drifted in at teatime with a large garden hat
and swirls of white organdy floating about her. Sheila,
always awed by her presence, would leap up from play to
curtsy and kiss her mother on the cheek, staring all the
while in disbelief at her beauty. I tried to be polite and
would bow my head, but secretly I thought Sheila's mother
dull and stupid and would stand first on one foot and then
another as she asked her endless questions about what we
were playing and why we were doing it. Now I see she was
trying to be nice to us in the only way she knew how but
then I felt strongly her pretended interest in what she ob-
viously thought were trivial childish matters.

Sheila's favorite game was playing tea I was bored to
death by it but gave in occasionally in order to get her to
play my games of climbing trees and attempting daring
stunts which frightened her and sent the servants into a
frenzy of screeching and threats. Sheila tried to be a plucky
little girl and when it was her turn to play my way bravely
allowed me to lead her into what she was sure was fatally

treacherous. I must admit I was not nearly such a good
sport when it came to playing tea.

In spite of our language barrier Sheila could not under-
stand one word of Hindustani and my English was only less
than fair she attempted to teach me, as she had been
taught, the most complicated set of rules and etiquette re-
garding the drinking of tea. I, who by this time had my
own servants, and had much made of me as the princess
who would marry a maharaja, was incensed by any criti-
cism or instruction, particularly from a little girl I secretly
considered beneath me.

"You don't hold your cup nicely at all/' she would say
primly in her thin English voice. (Without understanding
every word, I knew exactly what she was saying.)

"You must sit more like a lady. Like my mother, not like
some rough little boy.*'

Because I had some sense of fairness I tried to play the
game as she wanted me to but inside I was seething with
resentment and hatred. One day her blue eyes grew round
and her mouth pouted in delicate disdain as I splashed the
water we pretended was tea onto Sheila's best pink-and-
white cloth.

"My goodness," she said, pulling back from the table and
clutching her starched, white pinafore to avoid getting
wet, "don't you even know how to pour tea yet?"

Suddenly it was all too much. This dull, pale, little Eng-
lish girl telling me what to do, looking at me with disdain.
I lost my temper completely. I planted my two feet on the
ground, with my hands on my hips and with a cry of rage

began shouting at Sheila in Hindustani. It mattered not
at all to me that she couldn't understand a word I was say-
ing, I was sick to death of being reproved by her. No one
was going to tell me what to dol

"Yes," I said, screaming at her in Hindustani. "I know
how to pour teal" And with those words I took the pot of
water and turned it upside down over her blonde curls.

Once more I had reduced my little friend to screams and
tears as she sat there with the water dripping over her face
and onto her clothes. But as the governesses rushed to the
scene, I had not the slightest trace of repentance. Instead,
I turned to my nurse and said haughtily, "You must take
me home at once. I have been insulted here/*

But in spite of my difficult ways and erratic behavior
Sheila and I remained fast friends for the time she was at
Dehra Dun. For Sheila, I was different and exciting; from
Sheila I began to understand the ways and charms of the
Western world.

Many happy days were spent in Dehra Dun without
quarreling. The house which my future father-in-law had
provided for me had a lovely garden, grown thick with
dark trees and cool damp bushes, in which to run about
and play. For the first time I was permitted to have pets to
play with me and I could scarcely contain my joy at being
allowed to choose all I wanted. Naturally, I didn't know
where to stop and at once selected several cats, dogs, a
golden pony, rabbits, mice, parrots, and chickens. For
hours I amused myself by going from one to the other and
having long conversations with all my animal friends. I was
in many ways a lonely child, isolated at this time from my

family and frightened by the future so constantly under
discussion by the grownups about me. It was a great relief
to have animals to talk to who would listen sagely with
large dumb faces and never turn my words back to me in
reproach.

At that time I fell very ill with dysentery and as I look
back upon the cure, two tablespoonfuls of castor oil every
two hours, I am amazed that I lived at all, let alone re-
covered in just a couple of weeks.

Soon after my illness there were many changes in the
house at Dehra Dun. For one thing, my little friend Sheila
left with her family to return to England. As much as I
criticized her, plagued, and tormented her, I missed her
very much and thought over and over again as I played
aimlessly about the garden in my solitude that if she were
to return I would treat her very well indeed, knowing in
my heart that if I could wish her back in the garden with
her big blue eyes and dainty dimity dress that only the
briefest time would elapse before I would once again begin
finding fault with her. Such are the empty promises made
in loneliness.

When winter came that year my English governess, Miss
Marble, was sent away and replaced by two new European
governesses, Miss Piggott and a French woman named
Mademoiselle Meillon. From the moment I saw her I loved
Miss Piggott. By then, and mainly through Sheila, I had got
used to what I considered the strange ways of the English
and, although she had the typical British dignity and re-
serve, she was kind to me and amused me by telling small
stories and jokes. I was more wary of Mademoiselle. Con-

ventional and somewhat stiff, there was little humor in her
and, furthermore, she considered my laughter and raucous
behavior completely unbefitting a small princess. She
showed her disapproval and I did not like it. Too, I knew
that just before coming to me she had been governess to my
future bridegroom, the Tika Raja, who was now at school
in England. I was not so anxious to think about that part of
my life or to be reminded of my forthcoming marriage.

As the hot, humid cloud of summer began to descend on
us, preparations were made to remove us all to the cool
mountainous country of Simla. My own family, too, came
to escape the heat, but once again we were all installed in
separate houses. Because of my position, my house was
much larger than that of my parents, even though I, a lone
little girl, was to occupy it solely with my servants. The
house, called Ravenswood, was a square, wooden building,
painted a dull red on the outside. Like all the houses and
palaces I had ever lived in, inside it looked just the same.
Although the floors were carpeted with rich and luxurious
materials, hand-loomed by patient and skillful fingers,
there was no furniture in the rooms. This was in strict
accord with Indian custom. We sat on mattress-like mats
on the floor and when extra guests came there were piles of
brightly colored, woven cushions for them to sit on and
small, square stools woven in cotton, colored ribbons to eat
from. It was a simple way to live, and often, since those
years, I have wished I could go back to the simplicity of my
childhood. But the years abroad changed my concepts and I
learned to find too much comfort in the complications of
modern living.

Life in Simla was quite different from anything I had yet

known. Far from the isolation I had felt at Dehra Dun,
every attempt was now made for me to mingle in the social
world of Simla. I was encouraged to make friends with the
European children and attended many of their parties.
Gradually I began to lose some of the security I had known
as a small, locked-in Indian princess. As exciting as the
world about me seemed and as delighted as I was that the
gates were opening at last, I was a little frightened as well.
It was the beginning of the feeling of entering a world be-
tween two worlds, the start of my uncertainty as to whether
I was to be of the East or of the West.

My first real love was an Englishman, Colonel Greene,
Simla's civil surgeon, who was called in when my governess,
Mademoiselle Meillon, fell ill. At once I lost my childish
heart to him, perhaps only because he patted my cheek and
smiled at me. Each time he left I immediately sat down and
wrote him a note asking him to come again soon. But it was
so difficult for me to write in English that I could only copy
the wording of the letters I had written to my little friend,
Angel Thompson. It must have been with some surprise
that Colonel Greene received my laboriously written let-
ters beginning with "My darling doctor" and ending with
"much love and kisses, your Brinda."

Two of my favorite people were Irene and Cynthia
Curzon, daughters of Lord Curzon, one of India's most
famous viceroys. I saw little of him at that time but came to
know Lord Curzon years later and to admire his courage
and wisdom in his guidance of India. In those days I was
far more interested in the wonderful parties given by Lady
Curzon in the Viceregal Lodge for the children.

Actually, that year I was far too absorbed in myself and

my own problems to spend much time thinking about any-
one else. I was busy, not only with lessons and manners,
but I had my first taste of society and a world which moved
in a whirl of parties and entertainment. And even at that
age I could not help but be aware of the interest which was
shown in me at Simla that season. As a young princess,
engaged to the son of one of India's wealthiest maharajas,
I was virtually an object of curiosity in a city, like all
places, where not enough happens to prevent people from
wanting to live other people's lives.

I pretended not to notice but I heard the whispering and
the speculative looks as I entered a room. And from my
own loneliness and uncertainty I wanted to see myself
through the eyes of these strangers. I was glad to be the
black-eyed princess walled in a big house, surrounded by
servants and with a brooding prince in a far-off land who
would come to carry me off. No greater fantasy has any
spinner of fairy tales been able to create than I, as a little
girl in Simla.

But a storm was gathering over my head and only a few
weeks after I was established in Ravenswood my ivory
tower nearly tumbled about me. It was by the sheerest
accident that I even learned something was the matter. In
the manner of parents, mine preferred to keep me in igno-
rance as much as possible.

Returning one day to their house in Simla to retrieve a

book which I had left behind, I heard loud, angry voices

coming from the sitting room. Over the din I recognized

the sharp voice of my aunt, the Dowager Rani of Jubbal.

"It is an unsuitable match/' she was shouting. "I cannot

iyjY '

permit such an insult to our family and to the Hindu
faith!"

I heard my father answer her in a voice full of indig-
nation and rage. "We have given our word," he said. "It is
too late now for your protests."

"It is not too late for me/' she threatened. "You shall
see, I will have this marriage stopped at once!"

When I realized that I was the subject of this heated dis-
cussion I rushed into the room and pleaded to know what
was happening. But my father did not answer me and my
mother only wept. My aunt started to speak but my father
silenced her. In anger she turned away and left the house.

It was impossible to learn the truth from them but some
time later the whole story came out. My aunt, widow of my
father's brother, the ruler of Jubbal, had been responsible
for my father's plight in having to leave his home. Now,
still jealous of the affection which once existed between
them, she was trying to interfere once more in our lives.

My aunt was a princess of Delath and she claimed that
she did not want to see the royal name of the Rajputs
sullied by the lesser family of Kapurthala, since both my
parents were related to the Rajput rulers of a number of
states both in the hills and on the plains. Obsessed with the
idea of stopping the marriage, she journeyed from one
Rajput family to the other trying to stir up enough agita-
tion to give her the needed support. Such a row resulted
that the Punjab government called upon my father and
tried to interfere. Nearly beside himself he ordered them
from the house.

My aunt's plan was to take me away from Simla by force

and put me in the fort at Jubbal. I was not the least bit
frightened by this idea since I had only the happiest mem-
ory of my days in the palace there. Instead, I regarded it as
an adventure full of exciting possibilities. Now the princess
was to be stolen from her castle and hidden away from the
heartbroken prince. I had no worries about him. At that
point he was less than a stranger to me.

In this spirit I tried to discuss the matter with my
mother.

"Since you didn't approve of the match in the first
place," I said carelessly, "perhaps it would be all for the
best if we followed aunt's advice and abandoned the
marriage."

My mother looked at me with an expression of amaze-
ment. "How can you suggest such a thing?" she asked and
burst into tears.

Now I was confused as I tried to comfort her. It was only
a short time ago that my mother wept because this mar-
riage was to take place. Now she was weeping because it
might not be consummated.

That night I lay awake and tried to understand what was
happening about me. I realized that my mother, in the
submissive way of Indian wives, had become not only rec-
onciled to the match but had taken on the enthusiasm of
my father. Furthermore, she hated my aunt for the pain
she had caused us and was determined not to let her have
her way. From that moment on she enthusiastically en-
dorsed my marriage to the Tika Raja and took every op-
portunity to lecture me about my duties to the family and
state of Kapurthala.

The incident, however, caused such a stir that talk
buzzed about me for many months. Even the servants gos-
siped and once I overheard a conversation that made me
rush back into my room in a flood of tears.

"The princess* family must allow the marriage/' they
were whispering. "They say that since they have had to
leave Jubbal they are very poor. And the Kapurthala state
would be a good match."

How dare they say such a thing, I thought. I knew such
talk didn't originate with servants. They had heard it from
the servants of other homes who listened to the conversa-
tions of their masters. I cried with humiliation. So those
were the whispers that hushed about me as I entered a
room. How dare they say such things about us? I was ill
with indignation. There must be no truth in such vicious
gossip. Yet, I never could bring myself to speak of the in-
cident to my parents or had the courage to question them
about the real state of our affairs.

My aunt's interference, however, was quickly dispensed
with as soon as my future father-in-law, the maharaja,
stepped into the picture. A man of enormous power and
will, he would brook no meddling with his plans. I was
never told exactly what he did to calm the storm about me
but the Rajput opposition and criticism of my marriage
was stopped. The whispering continued but no one dared
to invite his wrath openly.

We remained in Simla over Christinas. My days were
spent largely in the classroom with Mile Meillon. But I
was beginning to outgrow our makeshift classroom. There
was a limit to the amount of education Mademoiselle could

offer me. Furthermore, she was shocked at the lack of edu-
cation available to children in India and was determined to
see that I fared better, particularly since my future hus-
band, the Tika Raja Paramjit Singh was soon to leave
India to complete his education in England.

Mademoiselle began a long campaign of talks with the
maharaja in an attempt to convince him to send me away
to school. At first he was horrified at the very idea. Educate
a girl in Europe? He believed that the concession he had
made to modern times in supplying me with a French
governess was more than could be expected of him and at
first flatly rejected every argument she presented. But Ma-
demoiselle was a clever woman of indomitable will who
was determined to have her way. She cajoled and flattered
him. What a feather in his cap, she suggested, for his son
to marry a princess of noble blood who would also have the
added distinction and social graces of a European educa-
tion.

Perhaps he thought, too, that it would be wise to remove
me from the influence of my family especially so soon after
the conflict over my marriage and that his control over me
would be greater if he alone planned my upbringing with-
out any possibility of future interference.

So I was told that I was going away to school. I had no
idea what this meant, picturing a room in a school much
like the classroom in my own house. That I was to leave
my family and India and all I had ever known never oc-
curred to me.

Once again my poor little mother wept, this time with
terror as well as sorrow, when she learned from the maha-

raja that my education was to be completed in France. Not
only was she worried about my bodily health but she was
torn apart by what she believed to be the utmost peril to
my soul. In her orthodox belief, crossing the black water
as most Indians call the sea involved an enormous loss
of caste and danger to my spirit. For weeks she cried and
entreated my father to prevent this catastrophe but he was
persuaded by his friend, the maharaja, and there was noth-
ing else for Mother to do but agree.

The snow was felling heavily in Simla the morning I
kissed her goodby for the last time. I never saw my mother
again. She died before I came back to India. But to the last
moment, the day I set out for Kapurthala before my trip
she was brave and did not tell me of the long journey which
lay before me nor of what "going away to school" would
really mean.

Back in Kapurthala Mademoiselle Meillon took over
completely. Together we stayed in the guest house which
was built by the maharaja for his European friends. Fur-
nished completely in European style it was far different
from the way I had been accustomed to living. But I was
already willing to accept the new life before me and at
once felt at home there.

About ten days before we were to leave India, Mile
Meillon called me into her room. In a grave voice she told
me that I was to leave India for France to continue my
education.

"Be brave," she said, "for you are a princess and must
learn to expect that your life will be encumbered by duty
and responsibility."

Be brave? I squealed with delight and impulsively
hugged Mademoiselle about the waist. What could be more
wonderful than to go to Europe? All the stories my former
governess, Miss Marble, had told me about life in the West-
ern world came flooding back to me. The dances, the pretty
clothes, the longed-for freedom! Brave? I was in ecstasy at
the very thought of the trip.

My ayah wailed and shook her head forebodingly. "It's a
bad omen/' she moaned, "a bad omen!" But I shouted in
glee at her lamentations.

4 Tm going to be a little European girl now," I teased,
"and wear dimity dresses and dance all night!" My ayah
wept in horror as I skipped out of the room to talk to
Mademoiselle once more about our trip.

We travelled first to Bombay by rail where we boarded
the P. and O. liner, Caledonia. The sight of the enormous
liner made me gasp with wonder. It was like a whole city.
Exclaiming with excitement I rushed about the ship trying
to examine it all at once.

On the boat for the first time, I saw what life was like for
girls who lived in societies without restrictions. Mile Meil-
lon, as conventional as she was, was European-bred and was
relieved that at last I was out of purdah and could mingle
with people who, a few days back, I would have had to re-
gard as untouchable.

The news that a young princess was allowed her first
taste of freedom probably had much to do with the warm
kindnesses shown to me on the Caledonia and I enjoyed
every moment of the trip, playing deck games all day long
and winning first prize in a pillow-fighting contest which

was held at the end of the voyage. How my mother and
Ayah would have wept in horror at the loss of caste in-
volved as I hurled pillows across the deck! But then I did
not look back. I was busy learning to have a life of my own.

Had I been my grandmother I might have worshipped
the electric fan in my cabin. As it was, the whirring fan and
cool breeze which blew from it kept me fascinated, particu-
larly when I was confined to my cabin because the hot Red
Sea rolled and my poor head wobbled with seasickness.
The cool breeze then was ray only comfort, as I doubted for
a few days that I had ever been meant to live such a reck-
less life. But once my stomach settled and my head stopped
rocking, my spirits came back and I raced once more
around the deck with abandon.

Mademoiselle and I watched the sunset spill its gold over
the Suez Canal and then we were at Port Said where,
perched high on the deck, I watched with fascination the
unloading of cargo by natives on the dock.

Then, sooner than I would have believed possible, it was
early morning and we were in France. Shivering in my thin
nightgown, I hurried to the porthole and watched the
fairyland of Marseille emerge from the blueness of the
dawn. Suddenly the clouds parted and the sun burst
through. My heart pounded. My new life had begun.

e drove by horse-and-carriage from the
docks at Marseille to the fashionable Hotel du Louvre, my
head twisting from side to side trying to take in all the
sights as Mademoiselle admonished me to sit still like a
nice young lady.

The few days we spent in Marseille before going on to
Paris were spent in wandering about the city shopping and
sight-seeing, and Mademoiselle visited the Notre Dame de
la Garde where she lit a candle and said a prayer of thanks-
giving for our safe journey.

The day before we left Marseille we lunched with
friends of Mile Meillon's in a residential section of Mar-
seille, and I had my first lesson in the problems of European
living.

In my eyes my manners were perfect. Had I not spent
long, torturous hours with several governesses practising

how to sit at a dinner table, use the strange implements of
the Western world, and conduct myself as a young lady?

But I discovered that social conduct is a complicated and
unpredictable thing.

It was a delicious luncheon and I ate well with the
hearty appetite of youth. I couldn't help glancing, however,
even as I ate, at the large silver dish in the center of the
table, piled high with ripe, fresh fruit. Such fruit was
scarce in India. My mouth watered each time the center-
piece caught my eye.

At the end of the meal the hostess offered me the bowl
of fruit.

I smiled with pleasure. "Thank you/' I said, remember-
ing my manners. "Such lovely-looking fruit!"

Happily I began peeling a large pear. Then I happened
to glance at Mademoiselle Meillon. She was looking at me
crossly as if I had done something wrong. What could it be?

Perhaps I was eating too fast. Remembering her ad-
monitions to "eat slowly and carefully" I chewed solemnly
on the fruit. Then I realized that I was the only one eating
fruit. Everyone else had declined and sat waiting until I
had finished.

Then it was bad manners to accept the offer of fruit? I
nearly choked in embarrassment but since I had already
begun eating the pear I knew that all I could do would be
to finish it with as much grace as possible, with the eyes of
all the guests fixed upon me. It seemed to take forever to
eat the pear and by this time, blushing with shame, it had
lost all its flavor for me. I could have been chewing on a
piece of wood.

"But why, Mademoiselle/' I asked when we were back
in our hotel room, "why do these Europeans offer fruit
and not expect you to eat it?"

"Such fruit is a luxury/' she answered impatiently. "It
is just politeness for a hostess to offer it. And only piggish-
ness/' she added, "for you to accept it."

I sighed in bewilderment. Would the rest of my life be
spent in confusion? I hoped Paris would be easier to under-
stand.

I loved Paris from the moment we stepped off the train
into the bustling crowds at the Gare de Lyon and drove
through the winding little streets in a small, electric car to
the home of the maharaja's friend, the Comtesse du Bourg
de Bozas, where I was to be her guest for the first month or
so of my stay.

Everything delighted me. The women, strolling along
the Champs Elyses looking in shopwindows, seemed so
happy; old men and fat nurses with children sitting in the
parks gossiping, to me looked contented. For me Paris was
full of joy and gaiety and as we drove up the wide avenue
to the countess' home, the sun glittering on the Arc de
Triomphe, I was thankful to the fate that was responsible
for setting me down in this magic city.

The house of the Du Borg de Bozas in Rue Pierre
Charron was probably typical of that wealthy, aristocratic
society of Paris, but very different from houses I had
known. I was enchanted by the furnishings, the giant crys-
tal chandeliers which twinkled on the winding staircases
and throughout the house, the thick, red carpeting, and the
delicate, antique furnishings. There seemed to be so much

furniture! From the starkness of India's barely furnished
rooms I had stumbled into a museum of objects.

The countess was a genuinely hospitable woman who
welcomed me affectionately and did her best to make me
feel less of a stranger. She had four children, two daugh-
ters and two sons, all younger than I, who watched me all
through tea with round, curious eyes and never said one
word. But after tea when I followed them up to their
nursery and we were left alone with their old, familiar
governess, they screeched and romped and threw pillows
at each other until I, dissolved in laughter, felt as at home
as I had with the children in India.

For the next days the countess and Mile Meillon spent
most of their time trying to decide where my education
would be best continued. The maharaja, realizing how
much greater her experience was in such matters, had en-
trusted the choice to the countess with the help of Mile
Meillon. Since I was to have no voice in the decision, I had
no interest in the discussions and spent my time with the
children, visiting the zoo in the park and sight-seeing about
a city I loved more dearly every day.

One morning Mademoiselle hurried into my room.

''There will be no sight-seeing today, young lady," she
said briskly.

I opened an eye full of sleep and pulled the covers up to
my neck.

"Is it time to get up already?" I sighed.

Mademoiselle's wrinkled face was full of smiles.

"It's all been decided," she said. "We have found a fine
school for you."

"Just a minute more, Mademoiselle," I said, and turned
over and fell fast asleep again.

I was awakened some time later by much scolding and
shaking from Mademoiselle. It was necessary that I dress
at once or we would be late for our interview with the
headmistress of the school. They wanted to look me over
to see if I would be a suitable student. This had an omi-
nous sound.

L'Ascencion was an exclusive Parisian convent where
French society girls had been educated for many years. As
we drove through the winding drive, the buildings seemed
dark and gloomy and for the first time since I had left India
I felt a cold chill of terror. Living with such strangers as a
boarding student, I realized suddenly, would be far differ-
ent from the loving care lavished on me by our friends.

The tears were close to my eyes when we entered the
office of the headmistress. She was a tall, stern woman who
looked at me coldly and asked me a number of questions
about my past education. As she reviewed what I had
learned from my governesses it seemed pitifully inadequate
and shame swept over me for having neglected my studies.

I tried not to show my fears as we walked through the
dormitories and bit my lips to stop from crying. The school
seemed to me to be a terrible prison where girls in uniform
walked quietly about. I realized some time later that it
was the presence of the headmistress which had subdued
them but at the moment I could only surmise that I, too,
would spend the next years of my life locked in this dark
prison.

When we returned to the headmistress 1 office she gave

me what she must have considered was a kindly smile. In
reality it was a grimace which twisted her face and made
her seem many times more terrifying.

"Well, dear," she said, "how do you like L'Ascencion?"

I tried to speak but no words came* Behind me Made-
moiselle pinched my arm.

"Why don't you answer nicely?" she said.

I looked first at the countess and then at the head-
mistress. My lips quivered. Still I could not answer.

"Speak up, my girl," said the headmistress briskly.

The countess, embarrassed by my silence, spoke for me.
"I'm sure Brinda will be very happy here," she said.

When I heard those words I could not keep the tears
back another moment. I opened my mouth to speak, to
make excuses as politely as I could, but all that came out
was a great howl of pain. Once I started I could not stop,
but wept hysterically, my head buried on the countess' lap.

Finally, I stopped crying enough to speak. "It is a dread-
ful place," I cried between sobs. "I cannot live in such a
prison."

The headmistress* mouth fell open at my words. She
was not accustomed to such talk from well-bred girls. But
I was at a point of desperation where nothing mattered
but that I leave that school at once never to return.

The countess apologized for my behavior and we pre-
pared to leave. But the headmistress was still angry at what
she considered my impertinence.

"In any case," she said, (knowing there was no chance
that I would come to her school) "we would not consider
her a suitable student."

So my scholastic future was still undecided. The maha-
raja, however, had just arrived in Paris with his sons and
we had a chance to discuss the problem with him. It was
finally decided that I was to remain with the countess until
autumn, then I would spend the next few years with some
friends of hers who had agreed to accept me as a paying
guest and send me to a day school with her daughters. I
danced with relief. Now I would not be locked up in some
gloomy boarding school but would be free to enjoy a home
life with French girls my own age. It was a lovely prospect.

During the maharaja's visit I saw my fianc for the first
time since I was ten years old. With my governess and his
two brothers, we walked in the Bois. I was curious to find
out what he was like.

"Are you fond of school? I asked him, not knowing
quite what else to say.

"Not especially," he answered, looking down at the
ground with a serious face.

"Isn't Paris fun?" I asked eagerly.

"Yes, it's all right," he said, still not looking at me nor
changing what seemed to be a rather gloomy expression.

"Do you miss India?" There must be something he will
talk about, I thought.

"No," he said abruptly and walked away.

Well, I thought, he's not much fun to talk to. But I
didn't care. I turned to his brothers who were laughing and
teasing each other and we had a gay time for the rest of
the walk. But the Tika Raja walked alone and did not join
in our merriment.

Paris, in those days, was at its height as the social capital
of the world. And my hosts were among the few in its

closed circle of society. The Maharaja of Kapurthala was
accepted there, too, and as a result my welcome had been
guaranteed from the start. There was some difficulty at first
in fitting me into the right group, but the French with
their Gallic charm decided that since I was engaged there
was no reason for not having me participate in social
gatherings suited to my premarital status rather than to my
own age group.

In the five years that followed I made the most of my
opportunity. I loved parties and excitement and relished
every moment of fun and gaiety. I had a certain snob value
of my own as a royal princess engaged to the heir of a ro-
mantic and wealthy domain. Everyone I met fussed over
me and I cannot say I did not like it.

Yet even then as a young girl and constantly chaperoned,
just beginning to learn about life, I was able to see that
much of the flattery and fuss had very little to do with me
as a person. Everyone was kind but I saw that they were
being kind to Princess Brinda, wife-to-be of the heir of
Kapurthala. It was a feather in their cap to entertain me, to
boast about giving a dinner party or ball for the social suc-
cess o the season. They were not nearly as interested in
me as in raising their social prestige.

But this realization did not stop my enjoyment of the
parties. I was still thrilled by flattery. All that had hap-
pened was that I ceased to believe in it or to think that I
could find some answer to life in such attentions.

I was beginning to acquire a good deal of social con-
fidence. In fact, often I was close to being more social than
the Almanach de Gotha.

Once at a large, formal dinner party given in my honor

I almost gained the reputation for being something of a
wit. Urged by my friends to wear Indian dress for the oc-
casion instead of my usual European frock, I dressed in my
most glittering sari with the thin, tinsel-like, gold cloth
draped about me. Like a well-brought-up Indian girl, I
was quiet and modest all through dinner, omitting this
time my usual laughter and jokes, I fluttered my eyelashes
to the table and answered only when spoken to.

I was acting a part and enjoying every minute of it. I
was about as decorous as it is possible to be. Only one of
my close friends glanced at me curiously and giggled as if
she knew exactly what I was doing. But I paid no attention
to her looks and kept my head slightly bowed.

But I was far too mischievous to leave the table with
such a good impression. At the end of the meal the butler
offered me some strong, highly flavored cheese, a custom
unlike any in India where such smells are considered un-
appetizing.

I sniffed at the cheese loudly, twinkled my eyes at my
host, and in a loud clear voice exclaimed, "Monsieur, why
is it that you spoil a good meal with such smelly stuff?"

For a moment he looked shocked. But all the guests
laughed loudly and he soon joined in. For such behavior in
India I should have been punished; in France I was praised
for my spirit and sense of humor.

Before it was time to leave the Du Bourg de Bozas, I
suffered a severe attack of appendicitis and was sent to a
nursing home for an operation. Before the operation took
place I howled with pain and fright but as soon as it was
over I was delighted at the enormous amount of attention

paid to me. Flowers, books, and visitors deluged the room
and I sat in the center of it, almost hoping it would never
end.

At that time the daughter of the last Emperor of Brazil
and wife of a French prince, her Imperial Highness Com-
tesse d'Eu, visited me in the hospital. A charming old lady,
she was then over seventy years old but was still a lively
and warm person. She brought as a present a Catholic Bible
and a picture of the Virgin and Child.

"I do not know what your faith is, my child/' she said,
kissing me gently on the forehead, "but I do know that the
same God looks after all little children everywhere/' I have
always kept that picture with me; it still hangs above my
bed.

The time had now come to leave my first Parisian
friends* It was autumn and school was about to begin. It
was necessary for me to move into my new home and get
settled before the duties of school would occupy me too
much.

My new home was with the Comtesse de Pracomtal. She
was a tall, stately, beautifully gowned Parisian woman who
at first inspired me with awe. But, as with the Comtesse
du Bourg de Bozas, her kindness wore away my initial shy-
ness and I soon felt at home with her and the four De
Pracomtal children.

There were two girls in the family, Beatrix, who was
exactly my age, and Yolande, who was a few years older.
Together the three of us went as day boarders to a school
not far from our house and I began to feel a part of the
De Pracomtal household. I was in a real family again at last.

For the moment my days of luxury and party-going
seemed to be over. We were living a quiet life of school
and study. Beatrix and I did not return home from the
school each day until five o'clock; then from seven to eight
we did our homework, changed for dinner with the grown-
ups at eight-thirty, and again at nine-thirty were finishing
up our work before bedtime.

Now more was expected of me mentally than ever be-
fore. Added to the burden of learning a foreign tongue
and living in a country where all the customs seemed
strange and peculiar to me, I was forced to concentrate on
learning about ten times as much as I had in my small
classroom in India. My curriculum in school included four
languages: French, English, German, and Italian, elocu-
tion, painting, drawing, dancing, singing, piano, guitar,
and mandolin, as well as sewing, knitting, embroidery, and
the three R's. It was little wonder that I was bewildered
and that for two years my grades were low.

The girls made fun of me for my stupidity. But since
I myself had no respect for learning and much preferred
to play jokes and have fun, they soon got tired of teasing
and joined in playing pranks on the teachers. I was un-
scrupulous enough to take advantage of the teachers, know-
ing that since I was a princess they would not deal with me
severely.

But as the annual examinations drew near, I began to
worry. I realized with dismay that I had learned practically
nothing at all since school had started and had wasted my
time in foolishness. Now the time had come to pay for my
frivolity and procrastination.

Here is my paternal grandfather,
Rana Karam Chand, holding a
rosel

Myself at eight. Despite my demure
appearance I could outclimb and out-
run my brothers.

Johmton and Hoffman < >-i

Alter the death of my uncle, Rana Paclain (Chanel of Juhbul (left),
my father (right) was exiled.

The large palace was too small to accommodate all the wedding guests,
lo this tent aty was erected to take care ol the overflow.

This beautiful white house was our wedding gift from my father-in-law,
the Maharajah.

And this is the Old Fort, formerly the royal residence.

This more imposing building is the palace ol ihc Maharajah of Kapurthala.

Myscli in the mid-twenties.

My husband, the Maharajah of Kapurthala.

Hay Wn

Princess Indira, my eldest daughter.

My first grandson! Kanwar Amp
Singh, son oi Princess Sushila
and nephew of H. H. Marajah
of Bhra Bharatpur Kanwar of
Bharatpur.

. . . And his younger
brother, Anun Singh.

Kanwar Arup Singh with his
cousin Kumari Neira of Jubbal,
daughter of Princess Ourmila.

My third grandson: Udey Singh
of Jubbal, son of Princess Our-
mila.

Here I am, in 1922, with the
Prince of Wales, later Ed-
ward VIII and then Duke of
Windsor.

These formidable-appearing
gentlemen are state officials
of Kapurthala.

My father-in-law as he in-
spected his palace guard,
only partially protected from
the sun.

Associated Prets Photos

In India with Pandit Nehru. I am on the far left.

Campos Samanez

. . . And with the ^Brazilian Ambassador in Peru in 1953.

Coming down the staircase at the Brazilian Embassy in Lima. The
Peruvian press reported: "... Princess Brinda looked like a golden
goddess descending from Heaven." At my age that is the most charm-
ing and romantic compliment anyone could pay!

I was also too vain to want to appear stupid any longer
to my classmates. I did not want their derision. I wanted to
be praised and admired. So I made up my mind that some-
how in two months I would make up for wasted time. For
the next weeks I studied in every spare moment, devoting
more than twice the usual amount of time to my home-
work. For the moment I put aside the joys of my practical
jokes and settled down earnestly to try to make amends.

The result was that I actually won prizes in three sub-
jects. However, in all the others I failed completely. Not
only that, but since I was so anxious to pass I cheated dur-
ing the examinations. Here fate played me her usual trick
and I learned that nothing in life comes easily. For al-
though I copied the answers from the other girls' papers,
since I knew so little about the subjects the answers I
copied had nothing at all to do with the questions. My
cheating was discovered, and punished, but my biggest
punishment was always the recollection of my stupidity in
believing the rules of life did not apply to me.

It was difficult to struggle against the language prob-
lems. I had been forced several times already in my short
life to switch from one language to another. First as a
young child, I had had to learn English; now in my early
teens I was expected to speak, learn, and think in French,
and keep up with a class of more than seventy girls.

During these months Comtesse de Pracomtal had be-
come my guardian and was now responsible for my welfare.
I respected and admired her and felt happy to be treated
as a daughter in her household. But after several months of
this arrangement Mile Meillon began to resent it bitterly.

Although I was fond of her, she was an extremely control-
ling woman and could not brook any interference by the
comtesse. Mademoiselle loved me but the friction in the
household began to increase and it was agreed by all of us
that the best solution would be for Mademoiselle to leave.
Although I missed her, in many ways it was a good thing.
After that I learned to become more self-reliant.

For the first time in my life I was allowed to visit the
theater. It was a magic discovery. As often as possible I
went to the Comddie Franfaise where I sat, holding my
breath with excitement in the dusk as the curtain slowly
went up. Oh, the wonder of the theater for a young girl.
I would be a great actress, I decided, and someday the deaf-
ening applause and the shouts of "bravo" would ring for
me. Brave, handsome men would fall in love with me and
adore me, little children would run after me in the streets
to touch the hem of my skirts. Such were my adolescent
fantasies.

I practiced in the mirror, copied the gestures of the
actress I had seen at that week's matinee, and recited end-
lessly not only to the mirror but to anyone who would
listen.

Yolande, who was older than I, often listened patiently
to my recitations. She said she liked to hear them but per-
haps she was only being kind. Beatrix made no effort to be
polite.

"Oh, Brinda," she would say crossly. "Let's do some-
thing else. It's no fun to listen to you being silly."

But no amount of criticism could arrest the burning
desire I had to be an actress. I longed to act in a real play

before a real audience. My opportunity came in my second
year in France.

I spent the month o October that year in a fairy-tale
chateau which belonged to Princess Amedee de Broglie,
who had visited in India many years ago. When she met me
in France she took me to her bosom at once and loved me
because she had loved India so much* That October she
invited me to spend the month at her castle, Chaumon-sur-
Loire, where more than seventy guests were staying.

Knowing that I loved the theater, she arranged for sev-
eral of the guests to present a one-act French play and
awarded me the leading role. I was intoxicated with ex-
citement. Here was the chance I had been waiting for.

The guard room of the castle had been converted into a
theater and nearly three hundred people were gathered
there to watch us perform. I was in an ecstasy of delight.
My leading man was not only dark and handsome, he was
one of French society's most popular amateur actors, Baron
Henri de Bermingham.

I was dressed in the long gowns of the Princess' daugh-
ter-in-law, Princess Albert (who died young and tragically
some years later at the age of twenty-six). But that
night everyone was gay. My hair was up for the first
time and I swept about the room I used for a dressing
room, archly glancing over my shoulder at myself in the
mirror and twirling about the room to watch the Princess'
satin skirts whirl around me. I was full of confidence.

But as I came out of the room and prepared to go onto
the stage my heart sank. From behind the curtain I could
hear the noises of the hundreds of people waiting to see

me. I listened to the hum and my courage fled. How dared
I, little girl that I was, think that I could get up before
this sophisticated audience accustomed to the magnificent
talent of the French theater? My face turned scarlet in my
embarrassment at my presumption.

The baron walked towards me. His uniform glittered
in the dim light. He was dressed in a costume of a French
officer. Once more I was struck with awe by his good looks
and magnificent carriage. I felt more like a gauche little
girl than ever.

I turned to him and clutched his arm in pleading.

"I'm sick/' I whispered, scarcely able to speak, "I can't
go out there."

The baron cupped my face in his slender hands and
tilted it up to him. He looked in my eyes long and search-
ingly.

"You are not sick, my dear child," he said kindly. "You
are nearly frightened to death."

I nodded dumbly.

"It is not easy to be a princess," he continued. "Nor is it
easy to be anything. One must go blindly forward with
only courage as a guide."

At that moment I had no courage. My eyes filled with
tears.

"You are a charming child," the baron said. "People will
love you if you let them."

Then he took my hand in his and kissed it. "It is not bad
to be frightened," he said, "only to let it run away with
you."

I scarcely had time to think about his words. The curtain

had risen and the guests were applauding. Together the
baron and I hurried onto the stage.

We were a huge success. My confidence came back and
I felt inspired by the baron's acting. I was myself once
more and lived the magic of the lovely lady whose part I
was playing.

But most of all, I remembered the gentle words of the
baron who tried to tell me that the most important thing
in life is to believe in yourself.

e theater was not enough for me. I
wanted to do everything. And next on my list was horses.

I was determined to be a good horsewoman. My oppor-
tunity for that came quickly enough, for Princesse Ame-
dee's house parties were famous for her stag hunts. It was
fast, exciting riding and I was just learning to crush down
the terror which flooded me as the horse galloped away
when I had an accident. My pony tripped on one of the
hounds and broke the dog's tail. My hostess forbade me to
ride again.

She was worried, she said, that I would be hurt while
in her care but her children giggled and said it was because
she didn't want to see all her hounds with broken tails,

My next attempt at riding ended even more disastrously,
on a visit to the country home of my old friends the Du
Bourg de Bozas. They were not anxious for me to ride

their horses because they were high-strung, racing animals.
But I teased and begged and assured the comte that I was
not only an adequate horsewoman but a brilliant one as
well.

Dubiously shaking his head, the comte allowed me to
mount one of his famous racing horses. I knew this horse
was celebrated for his nasty temper as well. But flushed
with confidence I settled into the saddle and flicked him
lightly with my riding crop.

The horse reared violently* And while the Comte du
Bourg de Bozas stood watching in horror, I was flung into
the air, landing on my head. When I woke up I was in the
soft white bed in my room with a bad concussion.

But still I could not give up. Back in Paris I begged to
take lessons from the famous Irish horsewoman, Mrs.
Huntsman. She was an excellent equestrienne and taught
me well and I rode with her for two seasons. By the end of
this time my confidence had come back and I felt I could
handle any horse.

Then one day, riding a new horse in the Avenue des
Accassias, the horse bolted and ran away. Half-hanging off
the saddle, I tried to cling to his neck as he ran for nearly
two miles before colliding with a tree near the crossing of
the Avenue du Bois. The poor animal was stunned with
the shock of the collision but I hung on, and was full of
pride that although I lost my stirrups, hat, and whip, I
didn't lose my head in that nightmare gallop.

I had lost my nerve, however, and never since that day
have I ever sat on a horse with any assurance.

After that I decided I was not meant to be an athlete of

any great stature and turned again to more feminine pur-
suits.

At this time the De Pracomtals entertained constantly
and the house was filled with the great figures of the day.
Some of these famous people I met; some were names I
heard gossiped about at the dinner table. Emile Zola,
Marcel Proust, Sergei Diaghilev (who was considered a
kind of unofficial ambassador of the arts from Russia al-
though his Ballet Russe had not yet come to Paris), Drey-
fus, and others were entertained lavishly by society and
when they were not being entertained they were being
talked about.

The French writer, Paul Bourget, once paid me one of
the nicest compliments I have ever received. As he entered
the drawing room of the De Pracomtals, Bourget fixed his
monocle and asked the entire group, "Who is that charm-
ing young person who is pale like the day and black like
the night?" I blushed profusely but later enjoyed a long
conversation wherein he lectured me on French literature.

The grande dame of French royal society at that time
was the Comtesse d'Eu, the old lady who had visited me in
the hospital and given me a picture of the Virgin and
Child. Born a princess of the house of Braganza, she had
married into that of Bourbon and now ruled society like
an old queen. That there was now a republic in France was
a taboo subject. The president and ministers were never
invited or even mentioned in the homes which comprised
society. Royalty refused to recognize that Louis XIV was no
longer in Versatile.

I remember well the first time I visited Count and

Countess d'Eu. Particularly since I was made to wear what
was supposed to be my best afternoon frock. Actually I
loathed the dress and protested bitterly against wearing it.
But Countess de Pracomtal insisted. It was a pale blue
taffeta dress with thousands of frills and tucks. The fussy
style was unbecoming and the color turned my skin a
greenish yellow. I was miserable in the dress and sulked
all the way to the countess' house.

But as we entered the house I was introduced to the
countess' two young sons, Prince Antoine and Prince
Louis de Bourbon-Orleans. Feeling miserably inadequate
in my hated dress, I barely spoke to the two young men.
But they were gay and full of cheerful talk. They like me,
anyway, I thought in amazement, in spite of my dress and
the way I look. I was still insecure enough to believe that
clothes could make such a difference.

I think Antoine knew how shy and ill at ease I felt for
soon after we were introduced he drew me aside.

"Shall I tell you a funny story?" he said smiling.

"I'm not a child," I answered indignantly. "You don't
have to amuse me by telling me stories."

"My," he said in surprise, "you're a touchy one, aren't
you?"

Suddenly I was ashamed. He was trying to be nice to a
shy, gauche girl and I was rebuffing him.

I smiled at him as nicely as I could, asked his forgive-
ness, and listened to his story.

His father, the count, it seemed, was extremely near-
sighted. Not only that, but in his old age his memory had
begun to fail. It was an arduous ordeal, therefore, to attend

the many receptions and parties given by the countess since
not only was he unable to remember their friends, but he
could not see them with his weak eyes.

As a result, during the parties he would constantly run
out of the drawing room into the entrance hall to consult
the visitors book. Sometimes he took so long to figure out
the names of the new arrivals that long lines of guests had
to wait in embarrassment behind his stooped figure.

Naturally, the countess was often quite upset over it.
She lectured the count severely but it was to no avail.

"What can I do, my dear?" he would answer her plead-
ingly. "If I cannot remember the names of your guests,
they will be insulted."

Antoine and Louis, hearing so much talk and quarreling
about this, decided to take the matter into their own hands
and cure their father of rushing back and forth to the vis-
itors book.

One evening, while their father was in the drawing room
with all the guests, they sprinkled sneezing powder onto
the opened pages of the visitors book. Then they waited
quietly behind a huge palm tree in the marble hall. In a
few minutes the count bustled out to peek at the book and
with his nearsighted eyes bent his face down close to the
pages. A violent explosion of sneezes shook the hall.

The old count staggered away, muttering to himself
about devils and witchcraft. He never suspected his two
mischievous sons of this -deviltry but was convinced that
the visitors book had become bewitched. After that he
avoided it completely.

When Antoine finished telling me the story I laughed
and laughed until tears came to my eyes. I forgot all about

my ugly dress and my sulking because I didn't get my own
way in delight at this lovely story of naughtiness. Immedi-
ately I became fond of Antoine and our love of mischief
created a bond of friendship between us which was only
broken years later when, like so many other young French-
men, he was killed after the outbreak of the first world war.
But at that moment Antoine and I were very much alive as
we entered the drawing room of his mother together.

I curtsied to his mother and the old lady kissed me and
motioned me to a chair beside her. Just before I sat down
I saw behind her chair an enormous portrait of her father,
the late Dom Pedro, dressed in scarlet robes and white
satin knee breeches.

The talk at teatime was dull and the guests chattered
on interminably. My mind was not on the conversation. I
tried not to think about Antoine because I knew it was im-
proper to think about a young man, especially for a young
woman who was already engaged. I concentrated instead on
the picture behind the countess' head. But since I was
sitting next to her it was very difficult to turn around to
gaze at her imperial father without seeming to be rude. All
I could manage to achieve were a few side glances now and
then but as I was trying not only to stop thinking about
Antoine but also to avoid listening to the dull talk, I kept
twisting my head over my left shoulder.

The result was that from that visit my chief mementos
were a pain in my stomach from letting the countess stuff
me with sweets and cakes, and a pain in the neck from
trying to look at the portrait of the last emperor of Brazil.

Another of our royal neighbors in Paris was the Grand
Duke Paul of Russia. He had been exiled from Russia by

the czar because after the death of his first wife he had
made a morganatic marriage. He and his wife, the former
Countess Hoenfelssen, lived only a few doors from us and
Beatrix and I often played with their three children, Irene,
Nathalie, and Vladimir.

Although Vladimir was only nine years old he looked
like fifteen and was one of the handsomest boys I have ever
seen. He was in love with me, he told me passionately, and
although I could scarcely return such affection he pursued
me constantly, rushing down the street on his bicycle and
ringing the bell impatiently until I came into the garden
and talked to him through the railings.

Countess de Pracomtal was furious when she learned of
Vladimir's silliness and immediately had a long, serious
talk with his mother who forbade him to continue in this
fashion. Regretfully, he apologized but did not give up,
and every Thursday he came to tea to our house with his
mother.

I couldn't help liking him, he was such a charming little
boy with a kind of intuitive fascination for women rarely
seen in grown men.

"I insist you learn Russian/' he would say, trying to
sound grown-up and authoritative. "It is absolutely essen-
tial!"

Then I would giggle at his presumption and chuck him
under the chin.

"Don't you think I know enough languages, Vladimir?"
I would ask. "I can barely remember the ones I already
know."

"At least let me teach you one sentence," he begged,

"What is so difficult about learning one little sentence?"

Laughingly I relented and every Thursday I would prac-
tise rolling the unfamiliar sounds over my tongue. Some-
times Vladimir would burst into gales of laughter at my
clumsy attempts to learn his sentence.

"I'm not going to practice any more," I would say crossly
when he giggled at me.

Then he would beg and coax and cajole me into con-
tinuing.

Sometimes Countess de Pracomtal would come into the
garden where we were laughing and say, "What is it that
you find so absorbing? Whatever are you children doing?"

Then Vladimir would draw himself up and say proudly,
"Why, I am teaching her to speak Russian."

Shaking her head in amazement that two youngsters
could occupy themselves so profitably, particularly when
she knew my aversion to study, the countess would nod in
approval and go back to her tea.

But Vladimir, although he hounded me into learning
his sentence (an accomplishment I think I finally per-
formed complete with a good Russian accent) would not
tell me what the sentence meant.

"How can I ever use a sentence in Russian if I don't
know what it means?" I asked him. "Perhaps I would say
good morning to someone when it is really evening. There
is no point to learning a language if it doesn't make any
sense to you."

Vladimir laughed. "Oh, what do you care what it
means?" he said. "You say it as nicely as a Russian prin-
cess."

But I was determined to learn what the sentence meant.
One day when I was returning a visit to Vladimir's mother
with the Countess de Pracomtal, I marched up to the
Grand Duke.

"Vladimir has taught me some Russian," I said, "but he
won't tell me what it means. Will you?"

The Grand Duke smiled. "I will do my best, my dear,
to translate it."

Behind the Grand Duke I saw Vladimir gesturing fran-
tically at me. His lips were moving silently. "Don't say it,"
he was trying to tell me, "don't say it."

But I was going to end the mystery once and for all. I
stood squarely in front of the Grand Duke and in my best
Russian accent repeated the sentence Vladimir had taught
me.

The Grand Duke turned scarlet. Blushing and coughing
and at a loss for words, he leaped out of his chair, caught
Vladimir by the collar, and soundly boxed his ears.

"How dare you say such a thing to a young lady!" I heard
him say as he led Vladimir away.

"But Papa," howled Vladimir, "what is the harm? She
didn't know what I was saying!"

It was many years later that I found out what Vladimir
had been saying. I knew at the time it was wicked but only
later did I discover how naughty it was.

A few years after that incident, the Grand Duke re-
turned to Russia when the czar forgave him for his mor-
ganatic marriage and allowed him to resume his rank and
estates. But it was an unlucky return. Both the Grand Duke

and his wife, as well as my gay little friend, Vladimir, were
killed by the Bolshevik revolution.

Celebrities are not always in one generation what they
are in the next. Figures of great fame were not always ac-
claimed by their contemporaries. The same thing also
works in reverse.

One of the most famous men of his day was Count Boni
de Castellane; today there are few who would recognize
his name. If someone were to ask what he was famous for
the answer might be confusing. Today, and particularly, I
have noticed, in America, the first question usually asked
of a man is "What do you do?*' The modern world de-
mands that everyone do something. There is no room in
our society any longer for people who make a career of
living.

Count Boni did nothing; by all of today's standards he
was a disgrace and a wastrel. Yet in those times and in that
society there was a place for a man of charm and elegance,
a gentleman of wit and manners. What did he do? He was
an asset to any dinner party, a gracious host, and a delight-
ful guest.

Many people have criticized European nobility for
marrying wealthy American girls. And yet worse bargains
have been made. The count, too, married a rich American,
the former Anna Gould. Later she divorced him but even
after losing his pink-marble castle and her giant fortune
he kept his charm and enchanting sense of humor.

Mme du Bourg de Bozas spent part of each year in Biar-
ritz where she entertained lavishly and often. Usually, I

was invited there to spend some weeks. I loved the water
and spent much of my time in long walks and lounging
on the pale golden sands of Biarritz.

One day the house was filled with a buzz of excitement.
Maids scurried about polishing and dusting, flowers were
rearranged in vases, and a general uproar was going on as I
sauntered in from my day at the beach.

"What is happening?" I asked in surprise.

'Tour emperor is coming to dinner," I was told.

My emperor? Who could that be? Knowing little about
government I had no idea who my emperor was. I pictured
him as an enormous, bejeweled, Oriental potentate
perhaps a cross between my father-in-law, the Maharaja of
Kapurthala, and the Dom Pedro of the white satin knee-
britches in the portrait.

For the rest of the day until dinner I was in a state of
excitement. I could hardly wait to get a look at this mag-
nificent ruler. Although Marie Thrse and I were not
allowed to be present on this important occasion we were
permitted to peek from the top of the stairs as the emperor
arrived.

As we sat huddled in the damp hall at the top of the
landing it seemed forever before the visitor arrived. Marie
Therse was impatient and teased to go into the playroom.
But I begged her to stay and wait with me and hushed her
frantically every time her whispering became so loud that
I feared being sent away to bed.

Finally, there was much excitement in the downstairs
hall. Someone of huge importance was arriving. I leaned
over the railing and squinted my eyes to get a better look.

Then, through the front door marched a short, stout,
cheerful-looking man dressed in ordinary evening clothes.

Was this my emperor? Crushed with disappointment I
turned to Marie Threse. She was turning away from the
stairs.

"Well, you've seen him," she said impatiently. "Now
let's go play/'

"But who is that man?" I asked nearly in tears.

"Why, that is your emperor, silly," she said. "That is
King Edward VII of England."

I had had no idea that the king of England was also the
emperor of India and was bitterly disappointed to discover
that an emperor looked like the average Englishman.

The last time I saw King Edward was the following
morning on the sands of Biarritz. Yolande and I were
frolicking about the beach and chasing a ball thrown by
another little girl. As I dashed to catch the ball I tripped
and fell flat at the feet of the stout gentleman who was also
my emperor.

Terrified by my clumsiness before a king, I leaped to my
feet, the sand still clinging to my hair and face. I shud-
dered to think what emperors did to little girls who be-
haved in such a fashion. But the emperor of India only
smiled, lifted his gray Homburg hat, bowed, and walked
on, calling to a small white terrier scampering on the
promenade nearby.

Less than a month later the same little terrier trotted in
sorrow through the streets of London behind his master's
bier. King Edward VII was dead.

CWV,

mother had no idea of the life I was
leading so far away from her in France. It was impossible
for her to imagine it. For with her incredibly limited ex-
perience she could only judge the world by the small
glimpses she herself had seen, peering out of the shelter of
Indian purdah.

Sometimes after hurrying home from school with
Beatrix, both of us giggling and teasing as we rushed to our
rooms to change into pretty frocks for a gay evening, I
would see on my bureau a letter from my mother. The
sight of her round, careful writing, the letters drawn with
love and patience, often brought tears to my eyes. I loved
my mother and missed her with a yearning I tried to stifle
with carelessness and indifference, but when her letters
came I could not hide the loneliness that would sweep over
my heart.

The peace and quietness in her letters were always a
comfort to me. How much like a child she had become to
me as I pictured her sitting in the silence o her room, her
dark head bent over the letter, laboriously trying to write a
mother's devotion into a few lines. She had no words of
advice to give me. She could not tell me how to flirt with
a boy at a dance or how to wear my hair she would have
been shocked to know that I lived in a world where such
things were important. All she could give me was her love
and the words of the only guide she knew to life the Gita.
In every letter she reminded me of the Hindu faith in
which I had been raised and the duty I owed to my family
and country and always quoted a passage from the Gita or
a Hindu philosopher. The words brought great comfort to
me but sometimes as I read them I thought rebelliously
that my mother knew nothing of the world I had been
thrust into. It is easy for her, I thought, to give up the
world. She has no choice nor has she seen enough of its
splendor to want it. But at almost sixteen, the freedom and
fun and gaiety were not so easy for me to relinquish.

Wilful and spoiled and sure of my own importance, it
was neither so easy to become pure in heart and giving of
love as my religion taught me. "Resign everything unto
God/' wrote my mother. "Seek no praise, no reward, for
anything you do. No sooner do we perform a good action
than we begin to desire credit for it. Misery must come as
the result of such desires." And yet I could not accept her
wisdom then. I wanted praise at all times. If I helped
Beatrix with anything I expected enormous gratitude; if I
performed my studies well I wanted to be applauded. In

my heart I did not accept my mother's philosophy o loving
with no return. I expected adulation for my very existence.

And yet I was torn by conflict. My early teachings had
been of goodness and purity of the soul; yet the world in
her flimsy trappings had beckoned to me with an evil fin-
ger. I did not want to but I liked that world better than the
teachings of my mother.

Her simplicity made her seem like a child. I could not
lean on her or tell her about my problems* I felt I had to
protect her. Although I was still a young girl, I had become
the mother and she was my small, gentle child who was too
fragile to face the harsh reality into which I had been
plunged. I was beginning to know the terms on which life
is lived for most people, the competitive struggle, the jeal-
ousies and rages of humanity. I was finding out that a
jungle is safer than a tea party and I was determined to
protect my mother from such knowledge. So my letters an-
swered her tenderness with insincerity and evasion. It was
the only way I knew to return her love.

It was over five years since I had seen my mother and the
more I tried to remember the contours of her face, the
more shadowy outlines grew dim and receded from me.
The faces of the people you love most dearly are almost
always the most difficult to recall in their absence. The face
of a casual acquaintance can be brought to mind more
quickly than that of a lover.

I longed to see my mother again. Her letters had begun
to grow shorter and they seemed confused and difficult to
read. I thought sadly that it was because we had been sepa-
rated for such a long time and that now we had grown so

far apart that letters could no longer bridge the gap be-
tween us.

Then one day Countess Pracomtal brought a letter to
me from my father which he had addressed to her.

"My dear child," she said gently, holding my hands in
hers, "you must be brave when you read this letter/*

My heart twisted inside of me as she handed me the let-
ter. I knew, with an enormous pain, the first terrible
anxiety of my life, and childlike did not want to know the
news that the message contained. If I could just hand it
back and not read it, I thought, perhaps some magic will
make the bad news go away. But I knew there was no magic
and I had to read the letter.

My mother was dangerously ill, wrote my father, and
wanted to see me at once. Even though I had known in my
heart that the letter contained bad news of my mother, the
shock of the actual words drove me frantic with terror and
grief.

"I must go home at once," I cried. "I must see my
mother. I know she is dying."

The countess tried to comfort me but I was beyond com-
fort. I could only picture my mother dying at every mo-
ment that I was away from her. As I combed my hair or
walked down the street or ate my dinner I wept with fear.
All I could think was that at that moment my mother was
strangling with death and that I could walk in the sunshine
and not know at which moment her eyes closed forever.

The pain of it was more than I could bear. I was des-
perate to return to India at once. But it was no simple
matter. The countess did not have the authority to send me

on the long, six-week trip without the express permission
of my guardian, the Maharaja of Kapurthala. Weeping
with helplessness and sorrow, I begged the countess to in-
tercede with the maharaja to send me home at once. Every
moment seemed a dangerous waste of time. I could scarcely
live from minute to minute without the paralyzing fear
that I would never see my mother alive again.

The countess cabled the maharaja several times but the
permission did not come and I could not start on my way
without it. Instead, some days later, after an agony of
suspense and long endless sleepless nights when I imagined
the pains and the dying agonies of my mother, a long cable
came from the Maharaja of Kapurthala.

The illness was much exaggerated, he said, there was no
real danger, and every prospect indicated that she would
recover completely. A miracle, I thought, when the
countess read me the cable! How close to nearly lose the
one you love most dearly and have her snatched back to
you at the last moment. I was even more reassured when
her letters began to arrive once again. They were short but
cheerful and each one was like a gift from God.

In a month or so all my fears had vanished. Her letters
arrived with regularity and I answered each one long and
lovingly. Then, early one morning I was handed a cable-
gram from India. It was from my father and he told me that
my mother had died.

I went nearly out of my mind with pain and anguish. I
read the cablegram over again and the words were crazy
and black against my eyes. I started toward the stairs as

Beatrix came toward me, and twisted over into a heap on
the bed. As I fainted my last thoughts were a prayer that I
would never wake again to a world so full of cruelty.

All night long I screamed and wept. Not to have seen
my mother before she died, the agony of it was too much
to bear. What is it one thinks to have by a last look at a
loved one but the pain of knowing at that moment they
are slipping away? And yet the torment and guilt of not
sharing her last moment and not seeing the final look of
love alive in her face and to have been happy with lungs
full of air as she struggled for breath or to have walked in
the Paris sunshine as the darkness closed about her eyes
forever was a nightmare that haunted me for years after
her death. Over and over after that last awful day I
dreamed that I was with her at her death, suffered with
her every pain and anguish, and tried to make up for being
alive as she was dying.

I could not even go to the funeral since the boat trip
would bring me to India long after it was over. All I could
do was mourn and weep with sorrow, as I imagined the
long and solemn rites taking place. In my grief I decided
to observe both the French and Hindu customs of mourn-
ing. I would wear black for two years, as they did in
France, and give up meat for thirteen days, as is the custom
in India. I knew grief was of the heart and that outward
manifestations of mourning did not show what I really
felt but I wanted to make sure no respect was lacking to
the memory of my mother.

My father was half-crazy with shock. He wrote to me

constantly, wailing his sorrow through the many miles that
separated us and at last I heard the details of my mother's
death.

When my father wrote me for the first time he had just
learned that my mother was suffering from cancer and that
the disease would be fatal. In the weeks that passed from
that time she had sickened and weakened quickly. There
was no hope for her and in spite of the fact that my father
and the doctors tried to cheer her up by telling her she
would soon be well, she knew that her life was at its end.

She talked about dying constantly to my father and wor-
ried about her children and what would happen to them
after her death, especially the youngest, a girl who was born
only a few months before her death.

Near the end, although she hardly had the breath to live
through each day, she insisted that she must make a trip to
the holy Ganges River to purify herself before death. She
was a religious woman and did not want to die before she
had performed the rite so important to Hindus of great
faith.

The doctor was horrified at this suggestion. He told my
father that such a trip would kill my mother but gentle,
mild little woman that she was, she insisted that she would
go to the Ganges. It was a sad trip, for both my parents
knew that it was their last together. But she dressed herself
and started on the long twenty-four-hour trip from Simla
to the sacred river. She was in unbearable pain and only
through enormous control and will was she able to struggle
through the hours to reach the Ganges.

She became weaker and weaker and the pain was begin-

ning to consume her. They reached the Ganges just before
dawn and could see the white-robed pilgrims meditating
along the banks.

"Lift me up so that I can see the river," my mother whis-
pered to my father.

He wiped the perspiration from her head and held her
in his arms against the window of the train.

"I can see it," she murmured. "I have reached my goal."

Her lips moved in the traditional Hindu prayer but she
was so weak that my father could hear nothing. Then she
twisted once in his arms and fell back and died as the train
moved closer to the station.

The letter from my father brought me some comfort. I
knew my mother had died in peace and in the way she had
wanted. But I missed her more than ever and read and
reread every letter she had ever written me.

My future father-in-law wrote me a long letter of sym-
pathy and ordered a small, but beautiful, pearl necklace
from Cartier as a gift for my sorrow. But I resented the
fact that he had kept me from my mother's side and put
the necklace away in my drawer. I did not wear it for many
years.

The kind countess decided that it would be a good idea
for me to leave Paris at this time. I was trying to struggle
through the days but was suffering from depression and
apathy. I took no interest in anything and moved about
only because it was necessary to go from one activity to
another. Since it was July the countess planned a trip for
all of us to go to Switzerland. We went to the lovely Lake
Lucerne where even in summer the snow-capped moun-

tains tower above the blue lakes. Yolande, Beatrix, and I
rowed and climbed and sat on the fresh grass on the sides
of the Alps.

The gentle air of Switzerland and the change of scene
helped me to recover. I began to accept the death of my
mother and the inevitability of life. I was beginning to
grow up in spite of myself.

But now new thoughts began to crowd into my mind. I
could no longer avoid the reality of my own life. Up to
that point I had thought little about my future. My en-
gagement to the Tika Raja had been so much a part of my
childhood that I had accepted it without question. In
France when my young friends asked about my marriage I
laughed and tossed it off.

"I am much too young to think about that," I would say.

But I was no longer too young.

The time was coming closer when I must leave France
and the life I had learned to love, and return to my duties
in India. I remembered the words of my mother. "The
word of a Rajput, once given, must be kept." There was
no chance of not returning to become the bride of the
Tika Raja.

Calamity never strikes singly. Always more than one
blow seems to follow closely. So it was with me. The death
of my mother had shaken me completely, but the second
tragedy nearly destroyed my entire life.

To a European such an event was far from tragic. But
to me it was a hopeless burden. I fell in love for the first
time with a young French boy.

It was bound to happen. An impressionable young girl
caught in the romantic atmosphere of that time would
almost certainly find her first love among the young people
she was growing up with.

I had known him for some time as a friend of the
Pracomtals. His name was not Guy but I shall call him
that because even today there are a few friends who knew
how much we cared for each other those many years ago.

First love is much the same for everyone, and I, too, was
convinced that only a miracle had crossed our lives to-
gether. Guy told me about the lovely French fable which
says that before two people are born their soul is split in
heaven and one part goes to a man and the other half to
a woman. If the two souls find each other on earth they
have perfect happiness together but if they do not, all
through their lives they must search in order to assuage the
empty loneliness which comes from being incomplete.

We both believed it, as lovers almost always do, and each
felt complete and safe for the first time in our lives. My
aching loneliness was replaced by the magic of a dream, of
gazing in wonder at the face of my beloved with astonish-
ment that love like that could have happened to me.

Guy was an officer in the army but I saw him at balls and
parties when he was home on leave. One evening as we
were waltzing together at a ball given by the Comtesse de
Fels, he guided me behind a pillar where he told me, as
the dancers whirled by us, that he loved me and wanted
to marry me.

Until that moment I had thought of Guy only as a

fantasy I could never achieve. After all, I was already en-
gaged and, more important, it never occurred to me that
he would be interested in me.

I turned pale as he told me of his love. "You can't mean
it," I whispered. "It's too impossible/'

He looked at me with his blue eyes which shone like the
sea and knit his golden eyebrows together.

"I do love you," he said gravely, "and there is nothing
I won't give up for you."

"I cannot marry you," I cried. "You know I am already
promised to someone else."

With the passion of youth he seized me by the shoulders
and nearly shouted aloud in the ballroom.

"If I cannot have you I have no interest in life," he cried.

I tore out of his grasp. "You must let me go," I said, try-
ing to hold back the tears.

Guy started after me as I fled from the ballroom. I hur-
ried over to my guardian and asked to be taken home at
once.

"My dear child," she asked in concern when she saw
my flushed face, "is something wrong? Are you ill?"

"Yes," I answered, and began to weep. "I am ill and want
to leave the ball."

I went home immediately. But all night long I tossed
fitfully in my bed. Guy's face spun about me in the dark
room. He was everything I had ever dreamed about. Every-
thing about him was infinitely familiar, like a love that was
always destined to be a part of me. He was familiar as all
the secret dreams of a person are. Finding him had been
like finding myself.

Perhaps because it had all been part o the fantasy that
the world outside my narrow gates in India held more en-
chantment than that which I had known, his very strange-
ness made him dear to me. All my early recollections of
men, even physically, had been of dark Eastern masculin-
ity. My fianc6, remote and brooding, was of the world I had
always known.

But seeing Guy was like seeing sunshine for the first
time. He was filled with laughter and smiles and gaiety. He
had no melancholy about him at all. And his blondness
made him glitter in my eyes like a magical god who had
come from nowhere to find me. He was what my dreams
had been all about.

But from the first I was aware that Guy could only be a
dream. I was not European enough to give up everything
for love my Indian training would not let me forget
about my responsibilities so quickly.

But Guy was not so easily dissuaded. The day following
the ball he appeared at the Pracomtals for tea, and the first
chance he got to be alone with me in the garden he began
to speak.

"If I could/' he said, "I would marry you tomorrow. I
am prepared for the difficulties."

"Guy, why do you torture yourself like this and me?
It is impossible. I can never marry you."

"When people love each other," he answered me, walk-
ing up and down the garden path, "there must be a way
for them."

Women are always somewhat wiser and sadder than men
and although I was years younger than Guy, I knew even

then that it is not possible to have always what you want
out of life.

"Even if I were not engaged/' I said, "you forget about
the great differences between us."

"There is no difference/' Guy answered angrily, "be-
tween two people in love."

"What about your family?" I asked. "Europeans have
such prejudices. It is one thing for them to accept me
socially; it is another to allow their only son to marry
me/'

Guy turned red with anger. "I can't let you speak that
way/* he shouted. "Who are we Europeans? What do we
mean compared to a culture as old and fine as India?"

"It is useless to argue/' I answered sadly. "That's the
way the world is. We alone cannot expect it to change
for us/'

"I cannot let you go/' he cried. "It is too much to ask."

"You have very little choice/' I said. "You forget that I
have my duty and I must return to India."

But it was easier to answer Guy rationally than to answer
the terrible pain in my heart. How could I leave him when
I loved him so? If I could marry Guy, I thought, life would
be as I had always wanted it since coming to Europe.
Nothing would change very much. I understood the ways
of Europeans by then more than I could believe in my
Indian background. I was too rebellious for India, too de-
fiant to go back to a life where I would remain half-veiled
physically and emotionally. There was no submission in
me.

In the months that followed our declaration of love we

tortured each other with terrible scenes* The agony was
heightened by the fact that we could never be really alone.
We saw each other frequently since we were constantly at
the same parties and receptions, but in those days a solitary
rendezvous was impossible. So we snatched moments alone
at parties and balls but never had but a few minutes before
some interruption came to separate us.

Leaving out my own responsibilities, my judgment was
quite correct about Guy's family. They were ardent Catho-
lics and the marriage of their son to a Hindu, which they
considered a heathen religion, was unthinkable. I realized
that I was alone in France. I was a Hindu and despite the
kindness and welcome shown to me in Europe, there was a
vast difference between the two worlds. It was not expected
that I would attempt to bridge it.

Guy wanted me to elope. "We'll go to the register's
office/' he said. "And once it's done they'll just have to
accept it."

For days I was torn with indecision. Suddenly the
thought of returning to India to marry a man I did not
know or understand was unbearable. And the time was
galloping toward me when I would have to leave on the
long journey across the black sea.

Guy even went to his grandmother, a kind, dear old lady
who knew and loved me. She told him she would help him
and give him the money to marry me.

So, it could be possible after all. The real barrier left
was me. I was sick with conflict. I could not eat or sleep and
each time the doorbell rang I jumped with nervousness. I
had to talk to someone. But there was no one to talk to.

Finally one night Yolande came to me. "Everyone is
talking about you," she said.

My heart leaped in terror. Then they all knew already
the dreadful secret of our love.

"You look so ill," she said. "They want to know what's
the matter with you. Can't you tell me?"

I sank back on the bed in relief. Then I began to sob
with exhaustion and all the pent-up emotions I had kept
inside for so many months. I decided to tell Yolande every-
thing.

Yolande J s viewpoint was harsh but practical.

"There is no future in such a romance," she said. "Give
him up at once and forget about him. You could not be
happy together if all around you, you had created misery."

I knew that what she said was true and was determined
to follow her advice. The following day I saw Guy and
told him that we must forget each other. A most dreadful
scene followed with both of us weeping and torn apart
with the agony of separation. But when we parted nothing
had been settled. We were too much in love to be strong.

That night in my pain I did something I had never done
before. I prayed, not to the gods of Hinduism but to the
Holy Virgin of the Christians, holding in my hands the
picture which Comtesse d'Eu had given me years before.

I woke hours later after a dream. My mother, looking as
she had the last time I bid her good-by, had come to me
and said, "A Rajput cannot go back on her word. You must
be married as you promised. This man is an untouchable;
if you marry him you will be a woman without country or
race and all your family will share your disgrace."

Perhaps it was my own conscience talking. But it filled
me with a determination and resolve I had been incapable
of before. The next day I told Guy of my dream and he
knew finally that there was no longer any hope.

But I could not stop loving him. He was often in my
thoughts. And when he was killed in the war in 1916 I
grieved his death and could not believe that this young
blond giant of my dreams was no more. I have mourned
him ever since.

even

t was time to put aside my own desires and
return to India. I was sixteen and my European education
was over; now I had to do what was expected o me. I told
myself sternly that I must put Guy out of my mind but it
was not easy. In the weeks that followed I was determined
to be brave and dutiful, yet it seemed to me that I would
never wake again and be glad to see the sunshine. Is there
a greater desolation than that which follows loss of love
when you are young enough to believe that life brings hap-
piness? At the time I did not think so.

My marriage was destined from the start to make his-
tory in many ways. For one thing, it was the first time since
the Kapurthala house had gone to the Sikh faith that they
were marrying back into the Rajput dynasty. It was also the
first princely wedding ceremony in India to be held in
public and the first to be filmed by the newsreels.

The maharajah insisted that I purchase an elaborate
trousseau and in the few remaining weeks before returning
to India, Mme de Pracomtal and I feverishly shopped in
Paris. My future father-in-law had presented me with a
blank check to cover all the expenses, and my wardrobe was
lavish. Even my lingerie was handmade, marked with my
monogram, and trimmed with fragile Valenciennes lace. I
was too young not to have had some pleasure from the
luxury of pretty things and the purchases kept me from
thinking too much about all I would soon be leaving
behind.

I said good-by to my friends one gray December day as
rain sleeted on the streets of Paris. I couldn't help weeping
when I parted with Beatrix and Yolande Pracomtal. They
had become more like sisters to me than my own.

Mme de Pracomtal was taking me to India by boat. I was
grateful that I did not have to make the trip alone because
I was filled with fear and apprehension at the thought of
my return. Luckily, one of my young friends, Arlette de
Failly, was also making the trip to India at the same time,
as well as my future brothers-in-law, Princes Amarjat and
Mahajit. The long trip was strange and exciting and we
behaved like carefree children. For the weeks on the dark
waters I forgot the real purpose of my return to India.

It was strange to be back in India. In Bombay I felt like
a foreigner; the noises and smells were so different from
France. Even my own countrymen looked like people from
another world.

After spending several days in Bombay with the countess
showing us the sights just as though I had never set foot

in India before we left by train for Kapurthala. On our
arrival there Arlette and her mother went to the guest
house, the two princes to the main palace, and I to the
women's palace. I traveled from the railway station to the
palace in a closed carriage; for the first time in many years
I was back in purdah.

I was met at the women's palace by the maharaja's three
wives. They greeted me with kindness and chattered with
delight over my appearance. But they only woke in me a
desperate loneliness for my own mother. How happy she
would have been to see me, how tenderly she would have
embraced her child again. And I needed her that moment
more than ever. If only there had been someone to give me
a few words of comfort and reassurance. Someone to tell
me that everything was going to be all right, that by doing
my duty, my desperation and hopelessness would leave me.
But there was no one.

As soon as I could make my excuses, I hurried away to
my rooms. There I found my cheerful, rosy-cheeked Italian
maid who had been with me in France. The sight of her
bustling about unpacking my clothes as if no tragedy were
about to take place made me feel less forlorn. I sat watching
her for awhile as she went about her work efficiently and
couldn't help giggling at the two Indian ayahs who ran
about the room, accomplishing nothing except salaaming
to me in unison, touching first the ground and then their
foreheads with their curved palms, babbling all the while
in what sounded like a queer and foreign tongue.

At last I dried my tears, bathed, and changed into Indian
clothes. I looked into the mirror for a long time. It seemed
strange to believe that from now on I was to be the girl

who looked back soberly in a shimmering sari. As I turned
from the mirror there was a knock on the door. My little
maid ran to answer it and my father, brothers, and sisters
walked in.

At first I did not know them. In five years they had all
changed so much. My brothers and sisters were just as be-
wildered to see me and for the first half hour of our time
together we sat in embarrassment hardly able to say a word.
Gradually, however, I began to speak and then my brothers
and sisters joined in. My father, however, was so overcome
with emotion that tears came to his eyes as he tried to talk.
I, too, was moved by my home-coming and all of us ended
up weeping in each other's arms.

The wedding day was planned for three weeks from the
day of my arrival. This date was no haphazard choice but
one carefully determined long in advance by the astrolo-
gers. There was a good time for such occasions and a bad
time. It was necessary that a princess be married on the
most auspicious date possible.

I was kept busy every moment in the next few weeks. I
had to relearn my language and remember the old customs
which had slipped from my mind in my years abroad. I was
neither happy nor unhappy. In the excitement of the prep-
arations there was little time for meditation.

The wedding plans were on a giant scale. In all Indian
states the marriage of the heir is an occasion of enormous
importance and my future father-in-law loved pomp and
excitement. Guests began to arrive in scores from all over
the country; several dozen rulers sent their eldest sons
while nine of them attended in person.

One of the principal guests was the Maharaja of Kashmir

and Jammu whose previous rulers had declared them-
selves blood brothers with Kapurthala in a special cere-
mony. Aga Khan, although not a ruler in the territorial
sense, was the chief Moslem guest.

Since my father-in-law loved foreign travel, he had hun-
dreds of friends all over the world. For these guests he ar-
ranged a special date for a steamer to sail from Marseille
to bring them to India. At least a hundred came from
France and about three hundred from England and North
and South America. Many of my old friends arrived and
I was delighted to see them again. For the moment India
did not seem far away from Europe.

In the weeks before my wedding I tried not to think too
much about my own personal future and what marriage
would mean to me. Romantically, my thoughts were still
with Guy and, although I was determined never to see
him again, it was impossible to consider someone else in
the same way. So I concentrated on the mounting excite-
ment of the coming ceremony and the festivities which
surrounded it. I pushed out of my mind that there would
be another person connected with my marriage.

A festivity in India brings not only invited guests but
hordes of sight-seers. From all over the country hundreds
and thousands of beggars, holy men, would-be workers of
miracles, and promoters of fertility began to arrive. They
flocked into Kapurthala by train, on foot, by cart, and on
every sort of beast. Nor were they unwelcome, for tradition
decreed that they were every bit as important as the
princes invited by His Highness. In fact, the host of such
a wedding was expected to provide fireworks and lavish

feasts for the beggars who crowded around the grounds of
the palace.

Two days before my wedding, the maharaja held an
enormous public reception, called a grand durbar^ to wel-
come his guests. Here the officials of the state presented
their congratulations and gifts, and the wedding festivities
began. I saw nothing of any of these. There were to be no
feasts for me. That was part of my life in France. In India
I was expected to remain docilely in purdah. I rebelled a
little at the sounds of gaiety I could hear through the walls
of the palace but I tried to reconcile myself to my new
life.

The maharaja brought a dance orchestra from Bombay
and gave a huge ball for his European guests. Before the
ball there was an elaborate Western banquet at which
eight hundred guests were served, and while they ate and
drank, cannon were fired outside the palace walls. The fol-
lowing night, on the eve of my wedding, a lavish Oriental
feast was prepared for even more guests who celebrated
most of the night.

I was wakened on my wedding day by my Italian maid.
Dawn was breaking and the stark room was faintly touched
by the color of the sky. I opened my eyes drowsily and
yawned. The noise of the fireworks and shouting of the
guests had made my sleep restless. I was still tired.

Exasperated by my laziness, my maid chattered at me in
Italian and shook my shoulders.

"You cannot be late on your wedding day," she said re-
provingly. "It is time to get up."

As with Mile Meillon, I tried to sneak a few more

' ^94-^ '

minutes of precious sleep. It was always easier for me to
put something off. I pulled the covers over my head and
buried my face in the pillows. I could hear Maria's de-
spairing sighs as she tried to rouse me.

"Ill get up soon," I assured her in a muffled voice. But
I knew I would sleep until the last moment. As I tried to
go back to sleep I realized I was no longer a schoolgirl. I
could not expect others to force me to accept my responsi-
bilities. It was time for me to do what I had to do because
of my own knowledge of what was right. I sat up in bed
sleepily.

"You are perfectly right, Maria/' I said. "I should have
been up long ago/'

During the night my sleep had been fitful, not only be-
cause of the noises around me but also because I began to
dread a marriage which now seemed, after my years in
Europe, to be primitive and without feeling. How could
a man and woman marry without love? I had tossed and
fretted most of the night pondering that question.

But as the dawn began to glow in the room, I became
reconciled. It was my fate to be a princess and to marry the
heir of an important state. I loved glitter and excitement;
perhaps that would be what my life was going to be like.

After I bathed, Maria, my Indian ayahs, and the wives
of the maharaja helped me into my wedding dress. I gasped
with delight when I saw it. It was like wearing a gossamer
rainbow with the sun sparkling through it.

In India, white is for poor women and widows the tra-
ditional wedding gown for others must be dazzling in its

brilliance. I did not wear a sari but wore the national dress
style of my state, called eholu in my hill dialect, a dress
with long tight sleeves, a fitted bodice, and full skirt over
tight trousers which were gathered about my ankles.

My dress, which took two years to weave by hand, was
of a fragile, chiffon-like material woven of red silk and
strands of pure gold. On my head floated a veil of gold
cloth which flashed with many colors of silken threads.
About my throat was twisted strands of creamy pearls
part of the treasure of the state of Kapurthala. My feet,
which had been bathed and anointed with precious creams,
were placed into delicate sandals and about my ankles
jeweled bracelets studded with diamonds, rubies, and
emeralds were fastened. On one toe I wore a large, ornately
carved, gold ring.

Each step in my dressing was part of the ceremony.
Prayers were said over me as I dressed my hair, an elaborate
process that took nearly two hours. By the time I was com-
pletely dressed, I was already fatigued. But the long wed-
ding day had just begun.

In another part of the palace, my husband-to-be, the
Tika Raja, was beginning his part of the ceremony. Al-
though I did not see any of his preparations, I was told
about it later by my sisters and saw such a ceremony for
myself many times later when friends and relatives mar-
ried in similar ceremonies.

In the main courtyard, thousands of women were gath-
ered to watch these ceremonial preparations. The only
males allowed here were the Tika Raja and the Brahmin

priests who led him into the center o the court. After the
sacred fire was lit the chanting of the women and priests
began.

For this ceremony the Tika Raja wore a loose white
dhoti, a Hindu garment which begins at the waist and
hangs in folds about the legs to just above the ankles.

After the fire-worship was over, the traditional bathing
and anointing of the bridegroom began. His mother, his
aunt, and a female relative set to work, rubbing and scrub-
bing him with mounds of suds made from Indian soaps
and perfumed waters. All the women in the courtyard
laughed and shrieked as he shouted for mercy from the
scrubbings. (This ceremony is one time when the women
of India have the upper hand and they enjoy it to the ut-
most.)

Then the Tika Raja re-entered the palace, bathed and
anointed until he shone. Not long afterward the Tika Raja
strode out wearing the ceremonial dress of his state, a gar-
ment which was centuries old in its style. The coat was of
shining scarlet silk with thousands of perfect pearls sewn
on it in the design of flowers, caught to the jacket with gold
silk and crimson thread. The jacket was tight about his
waist and arms, flaring out to well below his knees.

He wore a small turban on his head. A glittering pin of
diamonds and emeralds fastened feathers to the turban and
he carried a sword in a scabbard completely covered
with precious stones. More rubies and diamonds flashed
at his throat, in his ears, and on his fingers. Even his slip-
pers of gold thread were interlaced with jewels. For the
first moment when I saw him, I could not believe he was

real; the sun shining on his jewels and brilliant costume
made him look like a legendary prince out of the Arabian
Nights.

At eight o'clock in the morning my preparations were
over and whispering a short prayer in Hindu (and one in
French when no one was listening) I left the small palace
where I had dressed and set out for the large courtyard of
the main palace where the wedding ceremony was to take
place.

Trembling with excitement, I stared at the large ele-
phant who had come to take me away. Way up, nearly up
to the sky it seemed to me, on the elephant's back, was a
howdah, made like a jeweled throne, in which I was to sit.
My jewels and veils were adjusted, the last-minute chatter-
ing and mumbled prayers were said over me, and the
heavy silken curtains of the howdah were drawn together
to conceal me from the thousands of people gathered
about.

The elephant moved slowly through the grounds of the
palace. By this time I was too numb with excitement to
think but I sat in the close, musty howdah with my hands
folded and my lips trembling. I could see nothing, but the
noise outside the curtains was deafening. The shouts and
screams, chanting of prayers, and the footsteps of thousands
of people sounded like thunder in my ears.

At last the slow, rocking motion of the elephant stopped.
We had reached the entrance to the grand courtyard. I felt
the huge beast sink slowly to his knees, then the silken
curtains of the howdah parted and the blazing sun rushed
in to blind me after the darkness.

My father, with the high priest who was gowned in spot-
less white, reached out his hand and helped me down from
the elephant. Together we walked slowly up a narrow
carpet strewn with flowers which led to an altar erected at
the same end of the enormous courtyard. All about me
thousands of faces stared but seemed only a blur of color.
I was too shy to look at anyone but kept my eyes straight
ahead.

The ceremony itself was six hours long. Part of the time
was spent in long chants by priests in order to pacify the
planets so that my husband and I would have a long and
happy life and be blessed by heirs. Bored and tired by the
long chanting, I stole many looks at my future husband
who sat beside me. He, too, looked bored and unhappy but
we did not catch each other's eyes or smile.

The Maharaja of Kapurthala was a blazing figure that
day. Dressed in a suit of gold brocade with his throat, chest,
and wrists sparkling with diamonds and pearls, my father-
in-law was triumphant on the day of my marriage. Beneath
his gleaming gold turban, crowned with an emerald tiara,
his dark eyes flashed with the satisfaction of a leader who
brought his house back into the dynasty of Rajput.

His Highness was determined that his son's wedding go
down in Indian history. Custom decrees that the bride and
groom leave the wedding separately, the woman discreetly
veiled and curtained. Instead, the Tika Raja and I drove
side by side in an open state carriage with the deafening
din of the crowds resounding in our ears.

For my father-in-law, it was a bold blow at purdah and
one which excited a considerable comment in the state.

Afterward he continued to defy convention; he never
asked me to resume purdah again except when the more
orthodox women of the family were present.

Escorted by a troop of bodyguards we drove through the
streets of Kapurthala. When our drive was over we at-
tended two receptions, one at the women's palace where we
greeted hundreds of Indian women guests, the other at the
main palace where Europeans and Indian males feasted
and celebrated our marriage.

By nightfall I was exhausted from the celebrations. I
yearned to escape to the cool solitude of my rooms and be
soothed and bathed by my little maid but instead the Tika
Raja and I were driven to a small house on the palace
grounds where we were to spend the next few days before
starting on our honeymoon.

The servants greeted us at the door, tended to our wants,
then bowed and departed. The Tika Raja and I were alone.

He sat in one corner of the room on a low cushion; I
was at the other end of the room. Neither of us spoke. The
Tika Raja stared at me.

My heart was pounding with the tension and fatigue of
the day. For the first time I realized that we were to be
alone together for the rest of our lives. And I was over-
whelmed by the thought that my husband was a complete
stranger to me.

I moved restlessly on the cushion. I wanted desperately
to escape or to break the trembling silence. Yet I did not
know what to do or what to say.

I pretended to yawn. The Tika Raja still stared but did
not appear to notice my yawning. I moved about self-con-

sciously under his gaze. Why doesn't he speak, I thought.

The room grew heavy with tension. My head felt light
and weak from the strain, not only of the moment but of
the days and weeks which had preceded it. I could not bear
it another moment.

"I'm very tired/' I whispered, my voice hoarse and in-
distinct from embarrassment. I half rose from the cushion.

The Tika Raja got up and walked toward me. He stood
over me and looked down at me, his dark eyes burning.
His face looked strange and different from the way I had
remembered it. The sulkiness was gone, replaced by a
tense, fiery expression. This time it was my turn to stare.
The boy I had known was gone and a man returned my
gaze though I was certain that inwardly he too was shy.

He reached down for my hands and helped me to my
feet. Numbly I rose and allowed him to lead me from the
room.

He showed me into another room. I saw with relief that
it was a bedroom. I was tired and worn out. I could hardly
wait for sleep to overtake me.

"This is our room," he said.

"Our room?" I repeated in disbelief.

"Why, yes, of course," he answered. "What did you ex-
pect?"

"Why, naturally, I expected my own room," I said in a
muffled voice.

"But you are married now," he replied.

Suddenly I was filled with terror. What did he mean by
this?

"That makes no difference to me," I cried. "I have never

slept in the same room with anyone and I cannot begin it
now."

The Tika Raja's face grew stern and his mouth tight-
ened.

"You don't know what you are saying/* he said.

"Oh, yes, I do/' I cried defiantly, now close to panic. "I
want to go to my own room."

He took a step toward me, then stopped abruptly.

Now it was all too much for me. The fatigue and ten-
sions of the past months, the exhaustion and fears of my
wedding day overcame me. I leaned against the door of my
bedroom and burying my face in my hands like a little girl,
sobbed and sobbed, the hot tears spilling down my cheeks
and onto my dress.

The Tika Raja put his hands on my shoulders gently-
Then he lifted my face up to his and looked in it long and
searchingly. His face was different once again. The manli-
ness was still there but the sternness had been replaced
with tenderness.

"My dear child/' he said in a soft, wondering voice. "Did
no one tell you what marriage would be like?"

I shook my head dumbly, wishing then that someone
had told me what marriage meant.

"What did you think it would be like to be married?" he
asked me.

I dried my tears on the sleeve of my dress. "I don't
know," I answered in a small voice. "I didn't think any-
thing would be different at all. Why does it have to be
different?" I asked.

The Tika Raja drew me to a low mat on the floor and

sat down beside me. He stroked my hair and began to
speak. In a voice full of kindness he told me that he loved
me and explained that we were now husband and wife.
Gently he told me what marriage meant.

I listened attentively. Because of his kindness my terror
ebbed away. I was infinitely comforted by his gentleness, I
realized as he spoke that although I was only sixteen, I was
a woman now and had to accept all the responsibilities of
my marriage.

Then the Tika Raja, in a sweet, awkward attempt to
comfort me, told me about our honeymoon plans and the
life we would lead on our return. Like the child I was, my
spirits rose when I heard the happy plans for our future.

I smiled hopefully, the tears dry now on my face, when
I learned we would visit the Taj Mahal, and was even
more delighted when my husband told me that my beloved
Countess de Pracomtal would accompany us on our trip.

I clapped my hands with happiness. "It will be much
more fun," I said in delight, "with three of us on our
honeymoonl' '

Young as he was, the Tika Raja had to smile with amuse-
ment. I smiled back. It seemed then that everything was
going to be all right.

But as I look back now after so many years I realize
there was no way for my wedding night to be a happy one.
I was still only a child. Even his gentleness could not make
up for my innocence.

things in life come up to one's expecta-
tions but the sight o the Taj Mahal left me breathless.
The first time we saw it was in the moonlight, with the
pale moon shimmering over the marble. As we stood
watching, I shuddered, remembering the beautiful young
princess in whose memory the Taj had been erected. In
the midst of the night I could feel her haunting spirit
quiver above the pool of silver.

But I was even more delighted with the Taj Mahal at
dawn. I have always loved the moment when the first light
explodes in the sky; to me it is a constant miracle to watch
the blackness part to let the sun come through. But both
the Tika Raja and the countess tried to dissuade me from
visiting the Taj Mahal at dawn. My husband and I had
our first quarrel about it.

"I'm not interested in seeing it again," he said crossly.

"We have already seen it once, my dear/' said the count-
ess.

"If you don't want to see it you don't have to," I an-
swered. "I shall go alone."

"Alone!" shouted the Tika Raja. "What are you think-
ing of? This is not France where you can go about alone!"

"I can take care of myself," I said.

"You must put all those ideas out of your head at once,"
my husband answered. "You are my wife now and must do
as I say."

I glared at my husband. "And if I refuse?"

The Tika Raja's face grew stern. He banged his fist
down on the table, then stood up. His voice was icy.

"There is no such thing as refusal," he said coldly. "It
is up to you to obey me and I say you cannot go anywhere
alone!"

I started to answer him but the countess put a friendly
hand on my shoulder.

"My child," she said gently, "the Tika Raja is right. You
are his wife and it is your duty to obey him."

I tried to fight back the tears. I would not let him see
that he had made me cry, but I was vastly humiliated.
How dare he say that I must obey him? Was this what mar-
riage was like? Where was the tenderness he had showed
me on our wedding day? Had it ended forever? I wanted
understanding and love. And I was too spoiled to accept
anything else.

But the countess was wiser than either of us. She knew
the quarrels of youth and inexperience and knew also the
value of compromise.

"I shall accompany you to the Taj Mahal at dawn," she
said. "Perhaps it is a good idea, after all."

In the end the Tika Raja came with us. He could not
bear to be left out of anything and rather than stay home
and sulk he came along. After we were there he acted as if
seeing the Taj Mahal at dawn had been his idea entirely.
It took me days to forgive what I considered his unreasona-
ble attitude for I did not know then that all men have
much in common in such things.

I was also worried because I knew in my heart he "was
right. As the wife of an Indian prince I was expected to
obey his wishes. But I knew my defiant and rebellious na-
ture and wondered whether I could ever learn to submit.
Where would my wilf ulness lead me, I thought with a pang
of fear.

We were all glad that we had seen the Taj Mahal in the
dawn. The sky, painted with pink and gold, touched the
marble with flecks of color so that the Taj seemed to come
alive and the color glowed as if the monument were
lighted from within. I gasped at the beauty of it and whis-
pered a good-by to the princess whose spirit in the dawn
must surely have been a happy one.

Before arriving in Agra, we had spent some time in
Delhi where we behaved like tourists who had never seen
India before, wandering about the city, visiting the points
of interest. Countess de Pracomtal was shocked by this
intimate view of India. All the Indians the countess had
known were elegant, educated, well-traveled people she
had met in Paris. Now for the first time she was seeing the
real India, the India of filth and poverty, the India of vast-

ness and ignorance. It was far different from anything she
had seen before.

I, too, was shocked by much of what I saw. In spite of
the fact that I had traveled much for a girl of sixteen, it
had been the most sheltered and isolated sort of existence.
Always I stayed at elegant hotels and was kept at a distance
from the poverty of slums. In my years in Paris I had
avoided the poor sections of the city. But in Delhi and
other parts of India where we were now traveling, it was
impossible to escape the sight of poverty. The overwhelm-
ing population of India is something one cannot avoid.
The millions of hungry faces and naked children living in
dirt and squalor were a shock.

For in spite of my absorption in my own problems, it
was on my honeymoon that I became aware of my responsi-
bility to humanity. I was appalled by what I saw and
secretly determined that someday I would try to help these
wretched people.

We left Agra and my beloved Taj Mahal and went to
Bombay. Now it was time for the Countess de Pracomtal to
leave us. She was returning to Europe. We said good-by on
the hot pier in Bombay and as she turned to go I ran after
her and flung my arms around her neck in a good-by em-
brace. In a way she was the only mother I had known for
the last few years and now she was leaving. My heart sank
as the boat whistled and made its .way slowly out of the
harbor. The countess had been a great comfort to me; I
was not so sure that I could stand to be on my own.

But my husband was delighted at her departure. Not
that he did not like the countess, but he was glad to be

alone with me. I also think he felt that two women, no
matter how mature and kind the countess was, would na-
turally be in league with each other. Perhaps he was right.

From Bombay we continued our trip to Baroda where
we visited the Maharaja of Baroda and his famous Maha-
rani who was considered one of the most beautiful women
of her generation. Compared to the size of Kapurthala
and Jubbal, the state of Baroda was gigantic. I was both
disappointed and a little amused, however, by the palace
at Baroda. Built many years before, it was enormous and
ornate, but architecturally it was a combination of every
style of European building of its time.

We were entertained lavishly by the maharaja. One of
the most exciting, if frightening, spectacles we saw was a
wrestling match between elephants. It was an awesome
sight to see the two giant animals tumble over on each
other and the crowd watching held its breath, I wanted to
be polite but I could not watch the elephants fight without
being sick; I turned my head away in order not to see them.
It was much more fun to watch the tame parrots who fired
off miniature cannon and waddled about in a perfect imi-
tation of soldiers.

For the first time I attended a large Indian banquet in
Baroda. Before each guest a gold tray was placed which
held twelve small bowls, also of gold, filled with curries,
meats, and vegetables. Each guest was also given a rice
platter and water jug made of gold as well; the fabulously
rich maharaja had a complete dinner service in gold to
serve one hundred and fifty guests.

It had been a long time since I had had a whole meal in

Indian fashion and I discovered that I had forgotten how
to eat it. I couldn't even remember how to handle the
chupatiy or round, wafer pancake which is part of every
meal. Blushing with embarrassment as I struggled with the
chupati with both hands, I tried to watch the rest of the
guests to find out how to use it. Finally, the maharaja came
to my rescue.

"You are not so much an Indian girl any longer, are
you?" he asked, smiling with amusement.

I agreed that my years away from India had made me a
stranger in many lands* Awkwardly I tried to imitate the
maharaja as he showed me how to hold my chupati; with
the fourth finger of his right hand he held the pancake flat
on the tray, then with thumb and index finger tore off a
piece, folded it deftly, and dipped it into the various bowls.
In this way each dish is eaten without the aid of a knife,
spoon, or fork. Only the right hand is used for eating; the
left is reserved for drinking. After the meal was over, the
servants hurried in and gave each guest two bowls of water.
One bowl was used to rinse the mouth, the other was used
as a finger bowl.

During my visit to Baroda the atmosphere there was far
from tranquil. Princess Indira, the only daughter of the
maharaja, was trying to defy her parents* wishes in regard
to a marriage they had arranged for her. At the time she
was engaged to the Maharaja of Gwalior, ruler of a nearby
state, but she was very upset about the proposed match.

Indira and I became close friends. On my part, I was
already lonesome for feminine companionship; I was not
accustomed to the isolation of our honeymoon. Indira, too,
was grateful for the chance to talk to a girl her own age

about her problems. I was full of advice; it is easy to solve
other people's problems. But in the end I could only sug-
gest that she follow the same path of action as mine.

"You will be happier, Indira," I said, "if you obey your
parents and not defy them."

"But I cannot do it, Brinda," she answered. "Gwalior is
an orthodox Hindu who already has a wife. I cannot be
a second wife to any man."

"You must put aside your own desires and do what is
right. There is no other way."

Indira fell on the bed and buried her face in her hands,
"You can't possibly understand, Brinda," she cried. "All
my life my father has taught me to think for myself. He
has looked on the ignorance and subservience of Indian
women with contempt. Now he wants to force me into a
marriage that is medieval. How can he do such a thing to
me?"

I nodded in agreement. Had not the very same thing
happened to me? Perhaps my whole life would have been
different if I had remained in India instead of being sent
to France. Perhaps I would not have had to rebel against
my marriage. Perhaps I would never have known the tor-
ture of rejecting a love I really wanted. My heart ached
for Indira for I knew too well all that she was feeling. And
yet I could see no other solution for her than obedience
just as I had been able to see no other way out for myself.

We talked for hours and I tried to show Indira that my
course had been the wisest and that at least I had found
some peace of mind in acceding to the wishes of my family.
But Indira was determined to break off the match. Nothing
I said seemed to make any impression on her, and when the

Tika Raja and I left Baroda I was firmly convinced that
her marriage to Gwalior would never take place.

I was right. A few months later Indira met the handsome
young prince from Cooch-Behar and they fell in love.
Armed then with the prospect of real happiness, Indira
broke off her engagement to Gwalior. He took it well but
her parents were furious. They particularly opposed the
engagement on religious grounds since the Cooch-Behars
were apostate Hindus, members of the most modern
Brahmo-Samaj sect. The orthodox Barodas were aghast at
the thought of such a match.

Princess Indira was determined that her marriage to the
prince take place, and the young prince was supported in
his wishes by his brother, the Maharaja of Cooch-Behar.
The young couple attempted to elope but at the last mo-
ment Indira was carried off to Europe by her parents. The
story of their attempted elopement attracted attention
throughout the world and sympathy everywhere was
strongly in favor of the thwarted lovers.

After Indira was swept away to Europe her young prince
followed on the next boat. Finally in Switzerland, after
much pleading, the Maharaja of Baroda reluctantly agreed
to the match. A radiant Indira and a happy bridegroom
were triumphantly married in a register's office in London.
A few months later Prince Jitendra's brother died and
Indira and her prince became the Maharaja and Maharani
of Cooch-Behar. They had a happy life together but it was
many years before Indira healed the breach between her-
self and her parents.

We left Baroda and returned to Kapurthala. At first, ar-

rangements were made so that the Tika Raja and I would
live in the same palace as his father, but I objected. I felt
that if we were to be happy at all in our marriage, it
was necessary to have as little family interference as pos-
sible.

"You must speak to your father," I said firmly, "and tell
him that we must have a house of our own."

"What difference does it make?" he asked. "There is
plenty of room in the palace."

"But I don't want to live in the palace," I answered. "We
are no longer babies. We must have our independence."

Finally I persuaded my husband to speak to his father.
Although the Tika Raja was hot-tempered and quick to
anger, he had little desire for independence and was per-
fectly willing to go along, even after his marriage, being
treated like a small boy by his father. I, on the other hand,
felt that I had made some sacrifices for our marriage and
wanted to make a success of it if it was possible. At first the
maharaja tried to insist that we remain in the palace but
when he saw that we were determined to have our own
way, he gracefully gave in and offered us a small but
charming house about four miles away from the palace.

The Maharaja of Kapurthala was a stubborn, domineer-
ing man who was used to getting his own way in all things.
It was somewhat of a surprise to me that he gave in so
quickly to our wishes. Later I realized that it was in the
nature of a bargain. He was doing it to win my favor. At
that time I did not know why.

Soon after we moved into our small house I realized
what had been in my father-in-law's mind. He badly

needed all the friends he could get to be on his side, for he
had just married again for the sixth time and his family
and entourage had taken the news very badly.

He had fallen madly in love with a Spanish dancer some
months before, while visiting Europe. He married her
there and brought her back to the palace at Kapurthala.
Then he insisted that she was the princess of the house and
expected everyone to treat her as the ranking maharani.
Naturally, this was deeply resented by his other wives, who
were all Indian women of high caste and orthodox up-
bringing. Even I was shocked at his unfeeling attitude.

It was on this issue that the maharaja and I first disa-
greed. Although I was a young girl I could not help criti-
cizing him, at least in my own mind, for his lack of feeling
and the fact that he was unable to adhere to what was so
clearly his duty. The maharaja was deeply disappointed
and angered by my attitude. He considered me a modern
woman and resented the fact that my years in Europe had
not broadened my attitude to the point where I would ac-
cept his rebellion against convention. Perhaps if I had
been a little older and a bit more experienced I would
have been tolerant. But I felt then that if I, as a young girl,
had been able to accept the responsibilities of my marriage
and position, that he, as ruler of a state, should have been
able to do the same.

My husband, the Tika Raja, was angry for a different
reason. The maharaja's affection for my husband's mother,
the first maharani, was now shifting to his newly-wed wife.
My husband's mother felt bitterly rejected and appealed
to my husband to intercede with his father.

Stirred up by his mother and resentful that the maha-
raja's latest wife had usurped her place, the Tika Raja told
his father exactly how he felt. The maharaja was furious
at his impertinence and angrily berated his son for daring
to criticize his father's affairs*

In the meantime, it was up to me to come to some kind
of decision on the matter. I was not exactly free to choose
according to my own inclinations. As a princess, raised in
the Hindu tradition, I knew that my father-in-law's actions
could not be condoned by me, and as a woman, educated
in Europe, I could not help but be sympathetic to my
husband's mother whose heart was breaking at being cast
aside by her husband. I was also sympathetic to the Spanish
dancer who was now in the middle of a family quarrel
through no fault of her own. The Tika Raja and I dis-
cussed the problem many times but in the end there
seemed to be only one decision that we could not coun-
tenance this marriage. We refused to meet his wife and
stayed away from all royal functions when we knew she
would be present. The maharaja never forgave me this de-
cision, for he felt that I was responsible; he always accused
me of influencing his son against him.

The beginning of marriage is always a difficult time and
we had our own problems in getting along with each other.
One of the greatest obstacles to our happiness seemed to
be the fact that my husband had nothing to do. We had all
the money and material possessions we needed and it was
not necessary for him to do anything in exchange for them.
He had no interest in politics or in affairs of the state and
his father did not force him to take an interest.

As a result he spent his days wandering about our house
and the palace grounds. He was restless and moody but
even I could see the fault lay with the aimlessness of his
existence. Sometimes he would sit for hours staring at a
folded newspaper. He seemed depressed and unhappy but
when I questioned him he became angry. Often he pro-
voked quarrels with me for no reason. It was almost as
though he were so bored that even anger was better than
nothing. At least it was something to do.

I felt helpless. I tried to be cheerful but nothing I did
seemed to help. Finally, in desperation, I went to the ma-
haraja even though I knew he was still angry with me.

"Perhaps if the Tika Raja had something to do," I be-
gan hesitatingly, "he would be happier."

"Do? What is there for him to do?" the maharaja asked
sharply.

"Is there no job he could have in the government?"

The maharaja's face grew red. "I am running this state,"
he said, "and I don't need any help. Let my son amuse
himself. What better thing can he do?"

I turned away sadly. If only I could make him under-
stand, I thought, that he was not helping his son by allow-
ing such idleness but only destroying him. But there was
nothing more I could do about it for the moment.

As for me, I could not bear the aimlessness of our exist-
ence. Up until the time of our marriage, my life had been
filled with activity. Now suddenly I had nothing to do with
my time.

I thought perhaps I could be of some help to the people
of the state. I had been truly shocked and appalled by the

poverty I had seen on our honeymoon. Millions of people
lay dying and starving in filth and misery. My own mother
had tried to help the poor, and I, too, wanted to do all I
could. But everywhere I went a door was shut in my face.

My father-in-law was incensed at what he called my in-
terference. He blamed it on my European education and
accused me of trying to assert my independence at his ex-
pense. Furthermore, he told me that he was not the only
one who was displeased with my conduct. Other members
of the family, officials of the state, even the servants, had
begun to resent me. They criticized the way I dressed my
hair, the way I ran my house, my European education
there was nothing about me that someone did not resent.
Perhaps it was only natural. In their eyes it must have
seemed that I had everything. But young and sensitive, I
was made wretched by their hostility.

Crushed by the experience, I asked my husband to take
me away to the hills, to Dalhousie, but we were both mis-
erable there. I was exhausted from the strain of the last
weeks in Kapurthala and was feeling ill as well. I was glad
to return to Kapurthala where we were to accompany the
maharaja to the Coronation Durbar in Delhi.

The spectacle of the durbar of King George and Queen
Mary was unforgettable. Thousands of Indians acclaimed
them in Delhi, shouting their loyalty in the dusty streets.
Although I did not meet King George at the time, I ac-
companied my husband's mother to a purdah garden party
given in honor of the queen.

The maharani knew little English but by that time I
had acquired quite a bit of knowledge of the language al-

though I spoke it with a French accent. When we were
presented to the queen, Her Majesty greeted us graciously,
addressing to my mother-in-law a few simple remarks, in
English, which she had no difficulty in understanding. The
maharani struggled to answer with one or two carefully re-
hearsed English sentences which she carried off very well.

Then Queen Mary turned to me and spoke in perfect
French. I was so astonished that every word of French fled
from my head and I answered her, stammering in English,
"Yes, Your Majesty!"

"Why, you speak English, too how clever of you!" an-
swered the Queen. "I was told you spoke none at all, only
French."

I still could not answer in French but at least was able
to remember enough English to say, "Yes, Your Majesty,
I am learning English now."

With relief I saw that the next guest was about to be
presented and the maharani and I retired. But I left the
party impressed most of all with the graciousness of the
queen who I have been told suffered all her life from
acute shyness which she overcame only by the greatest self-
control. Even then I appreciated her kindness and thought-
fulness in remembering to speak French to me in order to
put me at my ease it was certainly not her fault that my
memory had become a blank.

Back in Kapurthala the reason for my illness in Dal-
housie was confirmed by the doctor at the palace. My weak-
ness and faintness was happening from the most natural
cause in the world. I was to have a child!

that I was busy with preparations for
my approaching motherhood, I thought perhaps my hus-
band would occupy himself with something equally ma-
ture. I had hoped that eventually he would take an interest
in the state and persuade the maharaja to give him a post
in the government, but as time went on he seemed less
and less inclined.

More than ever he sat brooding, bored with life and
himself. I wanted to help him but I was feeling ill from
my pregnancy. Seventeen was undoubtedly too young for
motherhood and I was an immature seventeen. I wanted
to be taken care of, myself; I did not feel up to coping with
his problems.

But he would not leave me alone and bitterly resented
the fact that I did not pay enough attention to him. "I'm
sorry," I told him. "But you know I am not well/*

1 'What does that have to do with it?" he asked coldly.
"That is a long way off. Am I not to stay with you again
until our child is born?"

He could not realize how ill I was. There was no way I
could make him understand how I felt. He was not mature
enough to accept any of life's inconveniences. When things
went badly he was destroyed. He did not want me to be ill,
not only because he loved me, but also because he did not
want me to be dependent on him. In some ways, too, he
resented the fact that I was going to have a baby. He
wanted to have all the attention paid to him; he did not
want to share my affection with anyone.

The months of my pregnancy were exhausting both
physically and emotionally. I tried to be in good spirits
but the constant struggle against my illness depressed me
and the effort needed to keep our marriage going happily
was too much for me.

Everyone in Kapurthala hoped that our child would be a
boy so that the maharaja would have an heir in the second
generation, but all along I had a feeling that it was going
to be a girl. I was not surprised, then, when a baby girl
was born to me. But the maharaja and my husband could
not conceal their disappointment. My husband, however,
quickly learned to love her, for little Indira was a beautiful
baby*

Perhaps because of my illness during the pregnancy, In-
dira was not very strong. I was only able to nurse her for
three weeks when I fell ill again and a wet nurse was
brought in. Still Indira did not gain weight nor make any
progress and the doctors prescribed a new diet of donkey's

milk. By this time we were all frightened. Instead of grow-
ing fat and healthy Indira was wasting away. At five
months she weighed only three and a half pounds.

The best doctors and nurses in India were brought in to
make her well but she seemed to be dying before our eyes.
All sorts of medicines were tried but nothing helped.

One evening as I was weeping with sorrow while prepar-
ing for bed an old ayah who had been in the Kapurthala
family for forty years crept into my room.

"Andata" * she said, looking around to make sure no
one was coming, "do not listen to those red-faced people
who know nothing about Indian babies. They are starving
the child and she will die soon if something is not done
about it."

I stopped crying for a moment and looked into the
wrinkled old face of the ayah. She was an ignorant peasant
woman. What could she know about saving my baby's
life? But I listened anyway.

"That nurse is killing your baby," she whispered. "You
must send her away at once."

I could not believe this because the nurse was a devoted
and clever woman. She was doing everything medically
possible to help cure my baby. I knew, too, how jealous
Indian ayahs are of Europeans and that the nurse was re-
sented by the whole household. Yet, in my desperation, I
was ready to clutch at any straw.

"What would you do if I were to send them all away?"
I asked, wondering what strange remedy the old woman
could have in mind.

* Giver of food.

"I would get a young she-goat with her first kid," the
ayah replied promptly. "I would feed it with special grass
and herbs, milk it twice a day and give the milk to your
baby."

I started to question her further but the woman began to
scurry from the room. There were voices in the corridor.

"They must not see me here," she whispered in a fright-
ened voice. "I will go now but if you want to save your
baby, do as I say." Then she hurried from the room.

It sounded simple enough but we had already tried al-
most everything. The doctors and nurse objected violently
to the old woman's suggestion. They were feeding Indira
several medicines and warned me that dire things could
happen if they stopped because there was so little strength
left in the baby. But I had to take a chance.

Finally, they agreed to follow the advice of the ayah for
one week. The goat was brought to the palace and placed
under the supervision of the peasant woman. Every few
hours Indira was fed the milk of the goat.

Within a few days Indira began to improve and by the
end of the week she had gained twelve ounces. I was over-
come with gratitude and happiness and the whole palace
rejoiced with me. Indira was kept on goat's milk and
steadily improved, growing stronger each day. In another
five months she was a healthy baby and weighed over four-
teen pounds. The old ayah beamed with pleasure at her
success and, I'm afraid, gloated when the European nurse
was sent away.

My husband and I spent much time in Simla and I pre-
ferred it to the other hill stations in India. Now that I

was feeling better I wanted a little more gaiety. Simla, in
those days, was more social than most places.

At the time, Lord Hardinge was viceroy and he and
Lady Hardinge, who had known me as a schoolgirl in Paris,
were very kind to me. As it happened, I needed their kind-
ness.

It was not possible for me to behave like a subdued In-
dian woman after my European education. As a result I
was resented by all of Simla, both Indians and Europeans.
For one thing, I could see no reason why I had to keep
purdah. I did not believe in it nor was I forced into it by
my father-in-law who thought it a medieval custom. I
wanted to be an ordinary human being as I had been in
France and could not see why every time I shopped or at-
tended a party or theater I had to be subjected to a barrage
of criticism. I did not want to be a prisoner.

The only place where I felt welcome was at the viceregal
lodge. Lady Hardinge was a great lady and His Excellency
both an aristocrat and a wise human. They were always
glad to see me and it was the one place I was really at home.

Simla, however, was not only the summer home of the
viceregal court; it was also the summer seat of the Punjab
government and its governor. The governor at the time
was Sir Michael O'Dwyer and his attitude toward me and
all Indians was far different from that of Lord and Lady
Hardinge.

The fact that I was accepted by Simla society seemed to
irritate the O'Dwyers. They were extremely prejudiced
against the Indians and went out of their way to be mali-
cious to me in an effort, I imagine, to show me that I was

overstepping my bounds. I could not see that I was doing
any wrong; my chief fault seemed to be that I refused to
shut myself up at home both day and night.

One evening I accompanied Lady Hardinge to a concert
at the Gaiety Theater as her guest. After the performance
we walked together to the door, where Her Excellency
kissed me good-by (as was her usual custom), entered her
carriage, and drove off. A few moments later my rickshaw
arrived and I left for home.

The next morning I received an official letter from the
governor of Punjab. It was "observed with regret/' stated
the letter, that I had left the theater before Lady O'Dwyer
of whose position and seniority I must be aware.

My first impulse was to tear the letter to shreds and ig-
nore the whole incident. I was shaking with anger as I
thought it over. I hadn't even known that Lady O'Dwyer
was in the theater. In any case, the letter and the emphasis
on such a trivial incident had another meaning. It was in
the nature of a warning to me. It was a letter telling me
that I didn't know my place, a letter which clearly revealed
the O'Dwyers' feelings about Indians. But I knew that I
could not ignore the letter some answer was required. It
was not myself alone I was thinking of. I had to put aside
my own feelings and humiliation and remember that the
Tika Raja and I were representing our own government.
I answered courteously that I was certainly aware of Lady
O'Dwyer's seniority but that I had been completely un-
aware of her presence in the theater on the stated evening.

But Sir Michael had just begun his campaign of em-

barrassment. Shortly after this incident my husband re-
ceived a letter from the governor. It had been "observed
with regret" that we were using a title to which we had no
right by calling ourselves Crown Prince and Crown Prin-
cess of Kapurthala. The fact was that Crown Prince is a
literal English translation of Tika Raja and the newspapers
had been using the title when they referred to us. We our-
selves had never used it either officially or unofficially.

My husband answered in a formal and restrained note
that their complaint would be more properly addressed to
the editors of the newspapers in question. But he was hurt
by the snub and a year later when we returned to Europe
the newspapers both in France and England were informed
that we did not wish to be referred to in such a fashion
even though we were entitled to such an appellation in
translating our Indian title*

Our lack of fear only infuriated Governor O'Dwyer fur-
ther but there was not much he could do about it. If he
could have had his secret wish answered perhaps he would
have banished us from India forever but officially he was
forced to accept our presence. It was even necessary that he
invite us to certain official occasions.

When Lord Hardinge, on his retirement as viceroy, was
given a large farewell banquet by the governor, we were
naturally invited since there was no way he could exclude
us. But even -then he tried to create another incident to
humiliate us. This time he was not so successful.

Etiquette decreed that after dinner each woman guest in
leaving the hall should curtsey deeply to Lord Hardinge

before withdrawing. Since I was wearing an Indian sari I
did not curtsey but bowed. The next day there was an
official letter from the governor.

Again "it was observed with regret" that I had shown a
lack of respect towards the viceroy by not curtseying as ex-
pected. This time I answered indignantly. The viceroy had
requested that I wear a sari rather than European dress
since I was to be the only Indian woman present. A curtsey
in Indian dress was not only out of place, it was also a physi-
cal impossibility. Furthermore, I continued, Lord Har-
dinge had approved such a bow to the extent that I had re-
hearsed it several times in his presence. I said nothing fur-
ther in the letter and it was written with the utmost polite-
ness.

But it did not end the hostilities between us. A week or
two later Lord Hardinge invited me to lunch with him in
Delhi. There were only a few of us at lunch and when the
meal was over Lord Hardinge, pretending to frown, took
me by the arm and announced that he wanted an interview
with me alone in his office.

"At last, it is the guillotine/' I murmured to Lord Har-
dinge.

He did not answer but looked at me, seriously; I could
see the twinkle in his eye, however, and the smile he was
trying so hard to suppress.

When he had shut the door carefully behind us in the
office he broke into laughter. Then he pointed to his desk.

"Brinda, my dear," he said, smiling broadly. "I have here
a very large file about a very small girl. It is an official docu-
ment from the Punjab government/'

He told me that my every move had been watched and
recorded. There were pages and pages, he said, about my
not curtseying, about my reasons for not curtseying, and
about all my "sins" which I had committed toward Sir
Michael and his government. It was not so amusing at the
time, but it is funny to recollect today that my various
offenses of a social nature were added up by this fanatical
man to imply that there was something subversive about a
young girl who had failed to observe the proper social
amenities.

The last notation was written by Lord Hardinge as I
sat next to his desk watching. It was a curt line which dis-
missed the file and the compilation of incidents.

It was the last time I was bothered by the O'Dwyers.
After that we limited our contacts with each other as much
as was feasible. I accepted their official invitations only
when it seemed absolutely necessary; on their part they
stopped observing or commenting on my conduct.

To be a conqueror is a delicate trust and the misuse of
such power can bring tragedy to both sides. Unfortunately,
the chance for power brings people into such offices who
want to use it for their own aggrandizement. For every
kind and wise Lord Hardinge who ruled in India, there
were more men like Sir Michael who misused such power.
The unfortunate results of such misuse have already been
seen in the years past and was more than partly responsible
for the hatred which grew between India and England.

For more than three years after our marriage the Tika
Raja and I remained in India. Most of our time was spent
in Kapurthala and Simla with occasional visits to Kashmir

and Mussoorie. We both adored our child, Indira, and took
her everywhere we went, for I refused to leave her to the
care of servants.

In fact, Indira was the strongest link between us. As
difficult as the beginning of our marriage had been, it had
grown increasingly worse with the passage of time. The
Tika Raja was more depressed than ever. He had long
black moods of silence where he would sit for hours with-
out doing anything. Sometimes for days he would not speak
to me except in monosyllables.

Cliches hold much truth; that is how they become
cliches. "Love breeds love" was a good one in our case. It is
difficult to go on loving where there is no love in return
and I found that tolerance began to be the most that I
could give my husband. On his part he was very jealous of
me and accused me constantly of not paying enough atten-
tion to him and his needs. But he showed me very little
affection and no understanding. I was trying my best but it
was a grim ordeal. There was no happiness in it for either
of us.

Sometimes in my desperation and loneliness I thought
of divorce but such a thing was not possible in India. Even
today, except in one or two states such as Baroda, unhappy
marriages cannot be dissolved. For women, even after the
death of their husbands, cannot always remarry. In most
places widows are forced to remain alone for the rest of
their lives.

But I could not resign myself to a life of misery. I was
still young enough to hope that someday everything would

be all right and eager enough to try to work out a solution
to give us as much happiness as possible.

I was still longing to return to France. There I had
found the most happiness I had known in my life. Perhaps,
I thought that, if we could both live in Europe, we could
find joy there together. The Tika Raja was excited by the
idea, as well, for he loved travel and was more than willing
to leave India. For three years, however, the maharaja
flatly refused to allow us to leave and it was not until the
summer of 1914 when I flatly refused to go to Simla or
Mussoorie that he reluctantly gave us permission to spend
the summer in France.

I was wild with excitement. In my innocence about life
I believed in the magic of places. I thought that by moving
to another spot you left your problems behind. I did not
know then that you must bring your happiness with you.
There is no magic island, no matter how the sun sparkles
on the water or how gentle the breeze, which can give you
a peace of mind you do not possess yourself. There is an
old Hindu proverb which says that a man in a crowded
slum can be more alone than one on an isolated hilltop.
It is the same thing with happiness. If you do not bring it
with you, it is not there.

Once the maharaja relented he was most generous in the
provisions he made for our trip. If his heir was going to
Europe he must go in the traditional style of the Maharaja
of Kapurthala. He objected at first to our taking Indira
along but I insisted and my husband backed me up. We
loved her too much to be separated from her even for a

few months. Finally, the maharaja gave in to that, too, and
we started off on our trip accompanied by a number of
servants.

Paris in the spring of 1914 was one the gayest social sea-
sons of the century and I, after my years of dullness and
misery in India, found it doubly exciting. We stayed at a
hotel on the Champs lyses and all my old friends vied
with each other to invite us to parties. Night after night we
danced and were gay at balls and parties. I loved every min-
ute of it from the moment of dressing for the ball to the
waltzing and laughter of the party.

But instead of being cheered up by the gaiety the Tika
Raja was more unhappy than ever. He was often jealous
when I danced with any other man at parties.

In July we crossed the channel to London but the atmos-
phere there was depressing. There was nothing but war
talk. Like our Parisian friends we were tired by talk of war
and refused to take it seriously. We made many friends in
London and the Tika Raja cheered up considerably; it was
as though we were on a second honeymoon. The sounds of
war began to be more ominous but we did not want to
change our plans and returned to Paris at the end of July.

On our return to Paris I saw Guy. It had been more than
five years since our last meeting but when we were together
it was almost as if we had never been apart.

From inside his army jacket he took out a golden coin I
had given him years before.

"I may go into battle any day now," he said soberly, "but
I will always keep this with me as part of you/'

My eyes filled with tears as we said good-by. He kissed my

hand once tenderly and I watched his blond head disappear
out the door. I never saw him again. But years later his
brother came to see me to give me back the worn Indian
coin. They had taken it from Guy's body as he lay on the
field o battle in 1916.

We were staying once again at the Hotel Astoria. Paris
seemed just the same as it had been when we left it except
that it was August now and the city steamed from the sum-
mer heat. Then suddenly everything was changed. It was
August 4, 1914. War had been declared.

C/Vfte

ter the war broke out the Hotel Astoria,
which was under German management, was closed down
by the police at once. We tried frantically to find another
hotel for ourselves and our three servants but there were no
accommodations available. Since my husband was feeling
ill it was up to me to solve these problems.

I had no experience to help me. We were practically
stranded in Paris and although we had many friends there
I knew that it would be necessary for us to leave since the
country was at war. Then I realized that we were under
British Protectorate and that the embassy would help us.

The British Embassy took the problem out of my hands
at once. They insisted that we leave France immediately for
London and arranged passports and visas for our depar-
ture. We still took the fact of war lightly and I assured the
Tika Raja, who was as ignorant of politics as I, that all the

trouble would be over In a few weeks. I was so convinced
that it would all blow over that I persuaded Princesse de
Broglie to store our luggage for a few weeks. I assured her
that we would soon return to claim it.

It was just as hot in London as it had been in Paris and
we stifled from the heat. My husband was not well enough
to remain in London so we went to several seaside resorts.
It could scarcely have been called a vacation. The Tika
Raja was confined to bed most of the time. And little
Indira was cross and fretful from the heat and the change
in climate. I was restless and depressed by the English
hotels and the incredibly bad food. The stoicism of the
English has always seemed remarkable to me and I thought
then that their ability to ignore poor cooking, particularly
after the food of France, was the most remarkable feat
of all.

We began to realize as time went on that the war was not
going to be over in a matter of weeks. Furthermore, we
received letters from the India Office which suggested
strongly that we return to India. The Tika Raja was glad
enough to go back home after spending some days in Lon-
don where we waited for our baggage to be sent from Paris.
We sailed for India.

We spent the war years in India at our home in Kapur-
thala, in Poona and Kashmir. After my bad experiences in
Simla we avoided it especially since my dear friends, the
Hardinges, were no longer there.

My husband was delighted to learn that I was going to
have another child, and both he and his father, the maha-
raja, hoped that it would be a boy and heir to the state.

But again they were bitterly disappointed. Once more the
baby was a girl. I loved her. She was both a pretty baby and
a happy one, and I could not understand why they were
making such a fuss over my failure to produce a son.

I was still only a young girl myself; I wanted to have
more children. I had plenty of hope that sooner or later I
would bear a son. Indira was a sweet child and the new
baby girl was a delight to me. I was even happier when
some months after her birth I found that again I was going
to have another child. In many ways I was more content
than I had been in the earlier days of my marriage. Bearing
children had fulfilled a deep need in me and had now
given me an outlet for my affection in caring for my chil-
dren. I have often thought that nature has been kinder to
women than to men in this way. They are able to find
more solace for their disappointment in life through chil-
dren.

This time I wanted a boy. I was sure that the third time
would have to be lucky. But when the nurse brought the
baby, wrapped in a soft blanket, and placed it in my arms,
she whispered, "You have borne a beautiful little girl."

I turned my head away and cried out, "Take her away!"
I was so disappointed not only for myself but for my hus-
band. The Tika Raja, however was kind and tried to con-
sole me, but for weeks I was depressed. My father-in-law
was inconsolable, however, and he could not conceal his
contempt for me.

It is easy to understand the value of bringing a male
child into the Indian world. The position of women in
India is still such a subservient one that girl babies are

thought to be of little value. With a male it is quite dif-
ferent especially with a male of royal blood. Then the
world is his for the asking.

The blame for not bearing a male heir is usually put on
the woman although I have since learned that physiologi-
cally the choice of sex is determined by the male. In any
case the maharaja did not bother to pretend that he was not
angry over my failure to produce a son.

We named the baby Ourmila. I soon got over my own
disappointment and loved this baby as much as the others.
In my heart it had not really made a difference; I only
wanted to do my duty and please my husband and father-
in-law. Girls seemed easier to bring up anyway and secretly
I thought they often turned out better in the long run.

India had its own hardships in those years although they
could not be blamed on the war. It was only that living
there was on a more primitive basis than our life in Europe.

The heat of an Indian summer is really unbearable so
that as the spring departed we quickly went into the cool
hills to spend the hottest months of the year. One summer
we took a bungalow in Poona in the Nilgiri Hills. There
was very little to do there and we usually went to bed early.

One night about midnight I woke up screaming with
pain and terror. Something had attacked me while I slept.
I was in excruciating pain and as I sat up in bed I howled
for help. My husband rushed about trying to locate a
candle, crying all the while that I was being murdered.

At first my whole body seemed consumed with pain;
then I could feel that it was coming from my right hand.
When the candle was lit we saw that blood was pouring

from a gash in my finger. My night dress was soaked with it
and the bed was covered with blood as well.

The first thing we thought o was snakes since there were
many poisonous ones lurking in the garden. I rocked on
the bed clutching a towel to my finger.

"I am going to die/' I wailed. "I know it, this is the
end. I am dying of poison."

The Tika Raja was in a frenzy. He did not know
whether to stay and comfort me or whether to rush for a
doctor. Finally he composed himself enough to send a
servant for aid and sat by my bed moaning with me. We
were both sure that death was just a breath away.

The only one who had her wits about her was my old
ayah. In searching about the room for the cause of my acci-
dent she found a broken plate under the bed, surrounded
by half-eaten biscuits. One of the servants had placed it
there, the biscuits sprinkled with poison to kill rats which
had been entering the house. It was a rat, then, not a snake
which had bitten my finger.

I sank back on the bed in relief and exhaustion. My
death was not yet so close at hand.

The next morning eight large rats were found dead in
the garden. But I had had enough of such living. By after-
noon the servants had packed our belongings and we
motored to Bombay where we could find some semblance
of civilization again.

Civilization is hardly the word to describe a visit we
made to the state of Hyderabad in 1916. 1 had already seen
much luxury in my life but even I was staggered at the
scale on which our host, the Nizam, lived.

The Nizam was the wealthiest man on earth and India's
top Moslem ruler. A man of medium height, unassuming
manner, and simple dress he would have passed unnoticed
in any gathering. But his tastes in living were not quite so
simple.

We had been invited for a three-day visit and were
lodged in a palace for special guests. An elaborate program
for our visit had been mapped out for us as in some ways it
was a state visit. My husband and I had accompanied one
of his brothers and a stepbrother, as well as a small group
of officials. The Nizam was a busy man and we did not ex-
pect to see much of him.

On the first day, however, he invited us to lunch with
him and gave me a place of honor next to him at the table.
He seemed fascinated by the fact that I had lived abroad
many years; he had heard, no doubt unfavorably, that I had
become completely Westernized. He asked a thousand
questions and listened attentively to my answers.

The Nizam had something of a forbidding reputation
but I enjoyed talking to him and answered his questions
freely. He seemed somewhat dismayed by my independ-
ence and more than once I caught him looking at me and
back at the other Indian women as if to say, "This is what
all our women will come to if we give them a chance."

I could not help but be amused by his attitude and prob-
ably out of my own rebellion tried to seem even more
emancipated than I was. We talked all through luncheon
and when it was over and my husband and I were back in
our own apartments where we expected to dine, we re-
ceived a message that the Nizam had been so delighted

with his guests from Kapurthala that he requested their
presence at dinner as well. Once again I sat beside the
Nizam and we talked at length about my life in India and
France.

Early the next morning the servants of the Nizam
brought us trays piled high with gifts of silk and gold ma-
terials, golden trinkets, flowers, fruits, and garlands of gold
thread. In order that our servants' food might be prepared
exactly to their liking and religious requirements, sheep
and goats, chickens, eggs, grains, etc., were given to them.

The following evening a banquet was given in our honor
in the Nizam's famous palace. As I was dressing for the
party, an official of the palace appeared, followed by a
servant bearing a tray on which lay a magnificent necklace
of diamonds, emeralds, and pearls. I gasped when I saw it
but made no move to take it from the tray.

The messenger bowed deeply. "It is a small gift from His
Highness," he said.

"Oh," I exclaimed, putting my hand to my mouth, "I
cannot accept such a valuable necklace."

"His Highness would be deeply offended if you returned
it," insisted his envoy.

"You must take it back at once," I answered, looking at
it once more as the servant held it before me.

But my protest were to no avail. The Nizam's envoy
could not be prevailed upon to take back the gift and he
persuaded me that I would be insulting his emperor if I
did not accept gracefully what he termed the Nizam's "hos-
pitality"! So I kept the necklace and wore it that evening
to the dinner party. To my husband and his brothers the

Nizam sent each one a set of diamond buttons and a beauti-
ful gold watch.

When we arrived at the palace I discovered that I was
the only woman present. The room was crowded with men
and it seemed that nearly all of Hyderabad's nobility was
gathered there. The men were dressed in sparkling brocade
with high-collared jackets which reached to the knees and
buttoned with pearls or diamonds, tight-fitting white trou-
sers. It was a glittering sight.

At first I was dumb with shyness in the midst of all these
men but the Nizam presented me to the company, then
took my arm and accompanied me into the dining salon
where I sat at his right. As I took my seat he leaned over
and whispered in my ear.

"I wanted you to enjoy the party," he said, "so I only
invited a few people."

I looked around the table. There were more than sev-
enty people in the room.

When the dinner was over the Nizam presented to each
guest of the Kapurthala party seven golden Hyderabad!
coins which came from his own mint as a souvenir of our
visit. Then after coffee was served the servants brought in
several large gold boxes studded with diamonds and emer-
alds in which were cigars and cigarettes. His Highness
offered me a cigarette, then cigars were given to the Kapur-
thala princes.

Then the Nizam took up a handful of cigarettes and
flung them into the faces of some of the nobles in his court.
I looked up in surprise. But the princes who had received
the cigarettes were smiling and the ones who had not

looked disappointed. Later I learned that only the nobles
the Nizam considered worthy could smoke in his presence.
Throwing cigarettes across a dinner table seemed a gesture
to me but it turned out to be an invariable custom of the
Nizam. It was probably a hang-over from the days when
rulers were considered above the rules of manners.

His Highness talked to me at some length about Europe.
He had never been there and was eager to see something of
the world outside of India.

"Oh, you would love France/' I said eagerly. "If only I
can return there soon."

"I would like to make the trip," he said soberly, "but I
am told it will be too much of an expense."

My eyes opened wide. I looked about the dining room
which was lavishly appointed and at the gold plates and
jewels all about us. The Nizam saw my astonishment.

"You see/* he answered my unspoken question (for I
knew he was the richest man in the world), "they tell me
that since I must go as the ruler of Hyderabad I must have
my proper retinue."

"But surely you could afford to go around the world
many times," I protested.

"Yes, I can afford it," he sighed, "but it is expensive. My
advisors tell me that it will cost fifteen crores."

My head swam as I computed the cost. Fifteen crores in
English money was ten million pounds or about forty mil-
lion dollars in American money.

The Nizam laughed with delight when he saw my
stricken face. "It is quite a lot of money, is it not, my dear?"
he said.

As we rose from the table the Nizam announced to his
guests that he was going to show me the palace. He gave
me his arm and together we walked from the dining salon.

Then the Nizam led me along dark endless corridors
which twisted and turned and wound about through the
palace. We walked silently up and down long flights of
stairs, through curved archways and carved doorways. The
corridors apparently had little use for they smelled musty.

The dimness was beginning to bother my eyes, for the
corridors were poorly lit. I shivered a little from the damp-
ness. Where was he taking me? I wondered. Perhaps my
husband would be angry because I had gone alone with the
Nizam.

At last we came to a doorway. It looked out on an enor-
mous courtyard in which a fleet of motor cars were parked.
There were rows and rows of long, sleek limousines all
with blinds which were drawn. I looked at the Nizam in
wonder and was about to ask him what the cars were for
when he drew me past the courtyard and into a room al-
most the size of the ballroom at Buckingham Palace. When
I saw what was in that room my question fled from my lips,
I could only stand in the doorway and gasp at the sight be-
fore my eyes.

There, before me, standing practically at attention stood
over two hundred women. All were lovely-looking with
dark eyes, slim supple bodies, and golden skin which shone
like satin. They were exquisitely dressed in sparkling bro-
cades and shimmering silks, and gold bangles and jeweled
bracelets on their arms and wrists. They were undoubtedly
the most beautiful women I had ever seen.

I drew back in embarrassment. I did not want to go into
the room. So this was what a harem was like! I had heard
many times about them and had often wished I could see
one close at hand but I had no idea what a shock it would
be to come face to face with the hundreds of wives of one
man.

The Nizam took my arm firmly. "Come along/' he said.
"I want my wives to see you."

He led me past rows and rows of these dazzling women.
They looked at me curiously but little of any other ex-
pression passed over their faces. They did not look at the
Nizam nor did they speak to him. He spoke to no one.

I was vastly relieved when we left the room and made
our way back to the rest of the company. I could not help
asking some questions.

"How many wives do you have?'* I asked the Nizam.

"There are about two hundred and fifty," he answered,
"although I am not sure of the exact number."

In some way I felt that it had been wrong of the Nizam
to show off his wives like a herd of cattle. Perhaps they had
been hurt or offended by my presence.

I couldn't contain myself any longer. "Why did you take
me there?" I burst out. "It seemed unfair to them."

The Nizam smiled indulgently at me. "I took you there,"
he answered, "because I wanted to give my wives a little
treat. They have so little to occupy themselves; they like to
see a strange face once in a while."

When we returned to the rest of the guests I told the
Tika Raja's stepbrother that I had seen the Nizam's harem.

"Does it not seem incredible to you?" I asked.

"His grandfather had three thousand wives," he an-
swered. "Even his father had eight hundred. You see, in
comparison, the Nizam is a very modest man."

"Does he have many children?"

"He seems to have more wives than children/* he said.
"He has only eighty sons and sixty daughters."

I could not forget the sight of those women herded to-
gether. All evening long I was staggered by the recollection
of the hundreds of women who were kept confined and
closely guarded. It was worse than prison. What could they
do with their time? Did they just while away their lives,
concealed in that one room and in those long limousines
with the shades pulled down?

I shuddered when I thought by what narrow margin I
had escaped being born into such a fate. And yet, as I
mulled it over, I began to realize that every way of life has
its problems. Where there is freedom there is also responsi-
bility. Where there is dependence there is also protection.
I would have been horrified at the idea of having a job or
working to support myself; these women would have been
completely incapable of it. At least they were well taken
care of; they had to solve no problems for themselves. I
began to see that there is more than one way to look at any-
thing.

The following evening, after a small dinner party, the
Nizam played for us on the thabla, a small, tightly strung
drum which is said to be capable of producing more than
four hundred musical tones. He was a master of the instru-
ment and was reputed to be one of the finest technicians of
the art in all India. He was accompanied by a small string

orchestra. The sharp light tones of the music were a delight
to hear and he played for quite a while that evening.

Not long afterward we left Hyderabad. We made an
official state visit to Mysore, a lovely tropical land whose
lush emerald forests make it almost an incongruity in
India. Mysore was far different from Hyderabad.

The Maharaja of Mysore had little desire for the treas-
ures of the world. A dreamy, soft-spoken man, he was
deeply spiritual and poetic. It was impossible not to recog-
nize his goodness and wisdom at once even though his
manner was completely quiet and unassuming.

The maharaja was a serious, progressive man with a
sense of responsibility toward his subjects. He had proba-
bly done more for his state than any other ruler in India.
Mysore was the first state to have its own constitution and
although the British government had forced the state to
sign its gold fields over to them, depriving the state of
about fifteen million dollars yearly, the maharaja had been
making great strides forward in an effort to bring up the
backward country. He had already developed public serv-
ices, including medical care, and had built hundreds of
miles of perfect roads through the sandalwood forests of
Mysore.

The Maharaja of Mysore sent us down to the mines,
showed us through clinics, and motored over the newly
built roads with us. The contrast to Hyderabad was great
and I saw how much good can be accomplished by a ruler
who wants to help his people.

We spent the long years of war going from place to place
in India. We could not settle in Kapurthala because the

situation was too uncomfortable there. Both the Tika Raja
and I were restless and every attempt on our parts, particu-
larly mine, to do anything constructive, was frustrated by
the maharaja. So we wandered about the country but in the
back of our minds was always the hope that when war
stopped raging in Europe we could return there to live.

We spent the summer of 1918 in Kashmir, It was a peace-
ful time and by then I was willing to trade such peace for
happiness. We lived a simple life there with little social
activity but we made a number of new friends whom I
liked very much.

Among them was the Consul General of Persia, Sir
Dawood Khan. He was somewhat of an expert in astrology
and since I had much interest in the same subject we spent
many hours together discussing the validity of horoscopes
and astrology.

I teased him to tell me when he thought the war would
be over. At first he did not want to say but he knew how
anxious I was to know and how desperately I wanted to re-
turn to Europe. Finally, he gave in and consulted long
charts of moons and suns rising and falling.

"The war will be over this year," he told me.

"Are you just saying it to make me happy?" I asked him.
"Please tell me."

He shook his head. "It will be finished this year," he re-
peated.

I hoped he was right. I wanted to pack immediately and
go down to the plains. Perhaps everything was already over.
I persuaded the Tika Raja to leave, but while we were still
making plans a terrible epidenic of influenza broke out and

thousands and thousands of people died in but a few days.
We were advised to remain in Kashmir for the children's
sakes.

Because of the epidemic we stayed there throughout the
fall months. Then the good news reached us that the Armi-
stice had been signed and the war was over. Everyone was
grateful to hear the news but I, more than most Indians,
was overjoyed to know that my dear adopted country,
France, was at long last free of war.

I wanted to go to France at once; it would have been
like going home but it was not possible just then. The Tika
Raja and I spent Christmas in Gwalior and then returned
to our own state of Kapurthala.

Of

fei?

remained in Kapurthala during the
year of 1919. My father-in-law left for Europe in March
and my husband was acting as regent during his absence.
India was by no means serene following World War I;
there was much unrest in the country. Mahatma Gandhi
had started a nation-wide political movement and in our
own state the Sikhs and Moslems were rioting. But my hus-
band handled his responsibilities well and averted what
could have been a political crisis in the state.

There was little for me to do. The maharaja had left
strict orders that I was to have no part in any affairs of state.
Nor was it acceptable that I give my time to charity. By
specific instruction of the maharaja I was to remain idle.
He did not believe that a woman should occupy herself
with any but family duties.

Bored and restless during the long months we were

forced to remain in Kapurthala with nothing to do, I
yearned to go back to my beloved Paris. My husband was
anxious to return there, too, and when his father came back
in 1920 we were able to get his consent to leave almost at
once. In fact, the maharaja decided to accompany us, at
least as far as Marseille.

Our plans included taking our three young daughters
but when we reached Bombay we discovered that our sec-
ond little girl, Sushila, had developed measles. In a day or
two Indira and Ourmila followed suit. The doctors, of
course, would not hear of their making the trip to Europe.
I was worried about the children and wanted to return to
Kapurthala with them but the maharaja would not let me.
He insisted that I make the trip to Europe. I did not want
to leave the girls and begged to stay in India for much as I
wanted to go to Europe I preferred to see that my babies
were all right.

In the end I had to give in. The children were taken
back to Kapurthala by their governess and servants and we
sailed for France. It was difficult for me to reconcile my-
self to leaving without them. In the long months of en-
forced idleness in Kapurthala I had devoted most of my
time to the children. All my energy had been absorbed in
their care and baby problems. Now suddenly I was sepa-
rated from them.

The first few days at sea I was miserable. I walked the
decks hour after hour or sat in a chair staring out at the
dark water. The prospect of spending months away from
my children was torturous. It was like losing part of myself.
For comfort I turned back to my sacred Hindu book, the

Gita, and tried to find consolation in the words of my re-
ligion. The words of comfort were there but it was not so
easy to feel better only for the asking. Such words are not
like a drug which can be taken to perform miracles. There
is struggle in religion as well as anywhere else.

Surrender everything to God, I read, detach yourself
from the things of the world, expect nothing in return for
your efforts. Intellectually, I believed the words of the Gita.
I saw that what I had been doing with my children was
wrong. I had become so absorbed in them that I wanted to
possess them and I realized how selfish it is to want to own
another human being. My children could not help but be
hurt by me if I continued.

And yet it is easy enough to know what is right. Emo-
tionally I could not accept such a philosophy. I loved my
children and needed them and the separation was a hard-
ship. There was no way I could pretend to what I did not
feel-
It was obvious that I was not ready to renounce the
world and all I held dear. I was torn with conflict. On
the one I wanted to become pure in heart and follow the
path of goodness; on the other hand I still yearned for the
pleasures of life. I was not ready to make the choice.

It was easier to put aside the Gita for the moment and
forget my pain in the pursuit of pleasure. Perhaps someday
I would be mature enough to be content with the satisfac-
tions of the spirit but not just yet.

Most things you dread usually turn out well. The chil-
dren made an excellent recovery and were soon running
about. They did not miss us but went off to Mussoorie for

the summer with their governesses where they were in the
best of spirits. To them, being without their parents meant
only a lark and a chance to be mischievous without as much
punishment.

At Marseille, the maharaja left us and my husband and
I continued on to Paris where we were met at the station
by my dearest friend, Beatrix de Pracomtal. Beatrix and I
squealed with delight to see each other just as we had done
in the years we were schoolmates together in Paris.

Our meeting was tinged with sadness when Beatrix told
me her news. She had lost her brother in the war and her
husband, Count Robert Meunier de Hussoy, had been
crippled for life.

Everywhere I went it was the same story. Nearly all of
my friends had suffered some bereavement. The loss of
young men in France was tragic; everywhere young women
and mothers wore their sad badge of mourning.

We stayed at the Ritz and I spent the first few weeks
renewing old friendships and shopping on the Champs
lysees. Paris had changed. It was a sad city now, clouded
by death, and there was an air of resignation which made
it seem far different from the gay city I had remembered.

As spring grew into summer, however, Paris seemed to
change. Slowly it was becoming an international city. Most
of the newcomers were Americans. They all had money to
spend and seemed intent on spending it as fast as possible.

It brought a sudden jolt of prosperity to the war-
damaged city. Night clubs began doing a boom business;
theaters and music halls had long lines of impatient people
waiting outside to buy tickets. More and more restaurants

took down their shutters, repainted the walls, and doubled
their prices.

There was a new word in vogue, "jazz," and clusters of
smoke-filled night clubs began to open along the small side
streets of Paris. Visitors from abroad and Parisians them-
selves soon crowded the small clubs to listen to this new
kind of music. It was irresistible and it was not enough
merely to listen to jazz the new music had to be danced
to and soon it was the rage of France.

At first a certain snobbery among the social set kept
them away. Jazz? That was for the tourists, mainly the
Americans. But before long the younger set was wild over
the new craze and they flocked into the cafes. I must con-
fess that I was one of them. From the first moment I heard
it I was captivated by what we laughingly termed that
"barbaric music" and was determined that I would learn
to dance it as well as the agile Americans who were masters
of the art.

The Tika Raja objected to my taking dance lessons at
first but for the past months I had been so depressed that
when he saw my enthusiasm for the new craze he gave in.
It was probably good for me at the time because it took
my mind off my children. For the moment I could fling my-
self into dancing and I did so with more abandon, perhaps,
than was befitting the wife of a future maharaja-

The gaiety was hard to resist, particularly after my years
of quiet during the war in India but even I was shocked at
the pitch of living in Paris in those days. Money was flung
about as if it had no meaning at all and to the Parisians,
who have some frugality no matter how wealthy they are,

the Americans and South Americans, freely throwing about
their money as if it had no value, were a strange and weird
new species.

Money was at a premium to the French. Most of the
aristocracy there had lost much of their wealth in the last
few years and had seen little of the prewar lavishness they
had known. Now strangers from other lands were trying to
buy their way into Parisian society. The foreigners enter-
tained extravagantly. There were thousands of orchids,
caviar, and the finest champagne flowing at every party.
Jazz orchestras were brought from America; the finest chefs
in France were hired to make a party successful. Eventually
the French succumbed. If the Americans wanted to court
their favor, why not? The price for acceptance in society
was soon set.

From Paris we moved on to Deauville which was then
at the height of its popularity, and the feverish gaiety which
possessed all of Paris seemed to have found its way there
along with the people who fled from the city as the summer
heat descended. But we were restless there, too. I was still
nervous and somewhat depressed and only the constant
round of parties and balls could keep me from thinking
about India and the problems that I could not solve.

A month later we moved on to Venice where we stayed
at the Lido which was just beginning to be fashionable.
There was even more frantic pursuit of pleasure in Venice,
with everyone trying to outdo each other in larger,
splashier parties. I was captivated by the Italians, few of
whom I had met before. They seemed more natural than
the French, less sophisticated, and far less disillusioned.

The sands of the Lido stretch endlessly along the blue
waters of the sea. I was enchanted by the beauty of Italy
and loved sitting on the golden sands, hour after hour, I
watched the water with longing as I had learned to love it
so in the holy city of Hardwar when I was a child, but I still
could not get used to the idea of what seemed to rne a
shameless style of bathing dress.

Today, those old-fashioned bathing suits would make a
modern girl laugh with their modesty of cut but then I
was horrified at exposing myself to that extent. It was so
much the vogue, however, that I could not resist buying
one in a small shop in Venice. But I wore it under a long
bathing coat and sat in the sun, huddled under my wraps.
Nothing anyone could say would induce me to take off the
coat and swim.

One morning while sitting on the beach with Prince
Phillip of Hesse I noticed what I thought was an inflated
mattress floating into shore. My eyesight was not perfect
and I squinted to get a better look at it. I could not swim
too well myself and thought if I could get over my shyness
perhaps I could buy one of them to cling to.

I pointed it out to Prince Phillip.

"That's exactly what I need," I exclaimed. "If I had one
of those huge pink things to support me I'd go in the water,
too."

"Heavens," whispered the prince. "That's not a mattress.
That's Elsa Maxwell!"

Hastily I grabbed for my glasses and looked again. There
floating on the water was a large woman with a perfectly
happy expression on her face. She seemed pleased with her-

self, and at that moment I decided that if she did not mind
exposing herself to public view, then I had nothing to fear.

When she came out of the water, Prince Phillip called
her over. I tried to hush him but he insisted on telling her
the whole story. I blushed with embarrassment but Elsa
Maxwell was a good-humored woman and laughed heartily.

"With my figure," she said, "anything would be shock-
ing. So I just go ahead and wear what I please. I'm afraid
it doesn't make much of a difference."

The most feared woman in Venice at that time was the
Princesse Jane di San Faustino. Her whip-lash tongue was
said to have killed more people socially than anything else
in Europe. She seemed to take great pride in her power
and it was said that she liked to see her victims squirm as
she crushed them.

I was terrified the first time I met her. For weeks I had
heard long tales about her viciousness. Since I liked parties
and people, I was afraid that she might not like me and
that if she said the word, I would be black-listed in Venice.
The first time I met her I could barely speak. But she was
a perceptive woman.

"You have nothing to be frightened about, my dear/* she
said.

I tried to compose myself and protest that I was not at
all terrified but the princess interrupted me.

"They've told you dreadful stories about me," she said
crisply. "And what's more," she added, "they're all true."

My mouth opened in astonishment.

"But there is nothing for you to worry about," she went
on, smiling. "I like you and will try to help you."

And with that she put her arm on my shoulders and took
me about the party to introduce me to the people she con-
sidered worth knowing. I never did feel too secure with her
because I was always afraid that eventually she might attack
me but during my entire visit to Venice she was kind and
cordial and treated me as somewhat of a protge.

I was beginning to feel better. Basking on the warm
beaches in the day, dancing under the bright stars at night
were beginning to relax me. I was able to forget everything
in the days and nights of gaiety. But my husband was grow-
ing restless. It always seemed that when I was enjoying my-
self he was unhappy. I don't think he wanted me to be
miserable but when I was depressed he seemed more con-
fident and less insecure about me.

Like many wives, I never seemed to like his friends. I
couldn't help feeling that he had a genius for picking out
the strangest and least amusing people. And naturally he
felt the same way about me. This I have since heard is ap-
parently a common complaint of married couples all over
the world.

But now he could not tolerate Venice another moment.
He hated dancing and now could not even stand to watch
others, any longer. I suggested that we return to Paris so
that he might see some of his own friends and we went
there. But we did not stay long. Once more the Tika Raja
was bored and we moved on to Biarritz.

After a short stay in Biarritz it was time to go back to
India. Our European vacation was over. The maharaja
wanted us to come back home. I was happy to return in
order to see my little girls and for once I had had enough

excitement. Europe and its frenzied gaiety had left me
exhausted. Perhaps after the quiet and peace of India I
might be ready for more after a time, but for the moment
I was content to be idle.

We remained in India for the next two years. Once again
I tried to interest myself in charitable works but it almost
always ended in a battle with the maharaja. I still wanted
to help the poor; I had never been able to forget the
hungry and desperate faces of the thousands of starving
people I had for the first time seen on my honeymoon.

One of my plans was to try to stimulate interest in edu-
cation. I was sure that with less illiteracy there would be
faster progress in India. I made one suggestion to the
schools in Kapurthala. I felt that the young women should
remain in school until they were sixteen or seventeen, and
offered money to the schools for prizes as an inducement to
study for examinations.

But I was quickly condemned for trying to help. Not
long after the competition had been announced, my father-
in-law sent for me. I could see that he was not pleased.

"Reports have come to me," he said sternly, "that you
have been interfering with the education of the young
women in Kapurthala. 1 '

"Interfering?" I asked in amazement. "I have been try-
ing to help them."

"Well, it is none of your affair," the maharaja said
angrily. "I'm sick of hearing complaints about you. Why
can't you leave things alone?"

I tried to explain that the purpose of the prizes was to
give the young girls an incentive to continue their studies.

The maharaja banged his fist on the desk.

"That is exactly what the people object to," he ex-
claimed. "They say you are ruining their girls. They com-
plain that you are filling their heads full of desires which
cannot be fulfilled. Their parents want to marry them at
twelve; they are not interested in your foolish ideas of
education."

"Don't you see/' I pleaded, "how wrong it is for those
children of twelve to marry? They bear children too early
and many of them die before they are twenty."

"That is no concern of yours/' he said coldly. "Their
parents are worried that if they do not marry young they
will not be able to find husbands for them. Furthermore,
they say that if young girls do not marry, they will get into
trouble."

There was no way I could explain my point of view to
the maharaja. My heart ached for the fragile young girls
who married before maturity and immediately bore child
after child. They were not strong enough to bear such bur-
dens and often they became ill. I felt these children needed
help and that education would teach them there was more
to life than the pain and misery most of them knew.

I tried once more to plead my case before my father-
in-law.

"Is it right/ 5 I asked, "for us to have so much when the
people of our state have so little?"

The maharaja's face grew red. "What kind of talk is
that?" he shouted. "You go too far. Do you dare to criticize
the way I govern my state?"

I was sick of diplomacy.

"Yes, I do object," I retorted. "I have seen the hungry
babies lying in filth and misery and their tortured parents

who cannot feed them. It is wrong that we do not help
these people."

The maharaja stood up. He glared at me in a fury of
temper.

"How dare you meddle in my affairs?" he cried. "Your
presumption is unbelievable. I do not need you to tell me
what to do."

Wearily, I rose from my chair. There was nothing fur-
ther to say. But the maharaja stopped me as I reached the
door.

"I want no repetition of this," he said. "I have had
enough of your impertinences. Next time sterner measures
will be necessary."

I knew I had to be careful not to rouse his anger again.
But I still wanted to help the people of India. What was
the point of my education if I could not use what I had
been taught? I knew certain reforms were necessary and
saw the example of other rulers of states who were trying
to bring some progress to their country.

Now that the maharaja was giving a small amount of re-
sponsibility to his son, I tried to discuss these problems
with the Tika Raja. I pointed out that if factories were
started in Kapurthala it would mean employment and food
for the peasants. I couldn't help being honest in expressing
what I felt. It was easy to see that the state was badly run.
Since the maharaja did not take an active interest in the
government but spent most of his time in travel, there was
no order in the government. His ministers cheated him
constantly and he never checked up on them or asked for
an accounting*

But my husband was bored with my ideas. He was not
interested in helping his people, either.

"You're always causing so much trouble, Brinda," he
said. "Can't you keep quiet and forget all these ideas?"

But I could not. Secretly, I tried to continue my work.
I organized clubs for women where they could come for
some recreation and taught them to play hockey, croquet,
and other games. Then I brought together a group of
widows and found a place where they could spin and weave
cloth to sell it. I was distressed by the plight of widows, for
since they are not permitted to remarry when their hus-
bands die, they have no means of support and many of
them die of starvation. By organizing them as a group and
bringing in an artisan to teach them the craft of weaving,
the women were able to make enough money to pay for
their food and shelter.

I was no longer afraid of my father-in-law's wrath. By
this time I was old enough to realize that I myself had to
take some responsibility in doing what I believed was right.
My conscience would not allow me to sit back in the palace
absorbed in my own life, eating, drinking, and dancing,
while around me I saw wretched human beings dying like
animals.

I did some work in the hospital and collected clothing
and food to give to the poor. The people of Kapurthala
began to know me and often while attending a function
they would cry out for "Tika Rani." This infuriated the
maharaja who would then accuse me of disobeying his
orders.

Finally he grew so angry with me that he threatened to

exile both my husband and myself. The palace was agog
with the news and gossip flew from one end of the court to
the other. I heard all sorts of rumors.

"He will poison you," said one intimate, "if you are not
careful. You have gone too far in provoking his anger."

I laughed carelessly. "Oh, he is not so bad as all that,"
I answered.

The Tika Raja was also becoming angry. He was tired
of the endless arguments and since he wanted to get along
with his father, at any price, insisted that I give up all my
work and do as the maharaja had bidden me.

He did not help, however, to make things more peaceful.
When he wanted something from his father, he did not
hesitate to preface it with, "Brinda said that I should tell
you this/*

In the end, there was no way I could continue all the
work I wanted to do. There was so much pressure from
both the maharaja and my husband that I was forced to
accede to their demands almost entirely.

I was bitterly disappointed. I felt there was so much to
be done in our country and that, if there was a way in
which I could be of help, it was not wrong to try.

As time went on I realized there was another reason
behind the maharaja's insistence that we remain entirely
out of his government. He realized that his neglect of his
people and his own desire for personal luxury had not
made him very popular in the state. An extremely egotisti-
cal man, he could not bear the thought that his son might
achieve the popularity which he had never had.

And he had many reasons for disliking me. He resented

the fact that my background was more royal than his (even
though this was the primary reason he wanted his son to
marry me); he hated me for not giving him a grandson and
had never forgiven me for the fact that my conscience had
not allowed me to condone his marriage of some years
before.

What could I do? I was helpless before his power. I
could only pray that someday I would have the opportunity
to help the unfortunate people of my country.

in 1922 the Prince of Wales came to
Kapurthala at the tail end o a long and strenuous tour;
Kapurthala was the last state he visited.

We were charmed by the young heir to the English
throne. Handsome and gay, he captivated the state by his
lively interest in everything about him. By the time he
reached Kapurthala he was exhausted from his weeks of
official duties and speeches, but he remained cheerful and
smiling throughout his visit.

The maharaja put on an elaborate spectacle for the
prince with enormous banquets, entertainment, and fire-
works. Since the maharaja's own wives were in purdah, it
was up to me to act as hostess.

I was delighted. The prince and I had many friends in
common and throughout the long ordeals of lunch and
dinner we discussed, like ordinary people, the friends we
knew. I was most impressed by the friendliness and demo-

cratic spirit o this young man who was later to become
king. It seemed to me then that his ease of manner and
warmth endeared him to everyone who met him, even on
the first encounter.

At the state banquet, it was necessary that he rise to
reply to the maharaja's toast of welcome. As the maharaja
was saying his last words, the Prince of Wales reached for
my hand under the table, smiled wryly, and whispered,
"This is always the worst part."

As the Prince of Wales got up to speak, a sudden feeling
like a premonition swept over me. Perhaps it was based on
the fact that his genial manner seemed too democratic to
be that of a king, but as I sat at the table and listened to his
talk, I had the strong feeling that he would not rule Eng-
land. I brushed the thought away as foolishness how
could he not be king? And yet, some accident, death, or
illness I could not visualize what would prevent it. I have
thought of that moment many times since his abdication
from the British throne not for death but for love.

Some months after the visit of the Prince of Wales we
left India with the maharaja and sailed for Europe. This
time the three of us spent more time together than we ever
had before. We were in London the spring of that year and
the city was buzzing with excitement. The late King
George and his bride-to-be, Elizabeth, were soon to be mar-
ried and one April afternoon we were invited to a party
at Buckingham Palace to view the wedding presents. There
we met the late Duke of Kent who came over to us, intro-
duced himself, and insisted on showing us all the presents.
He was as excited as if it was his own wedding.

London was gayer that year than I had ever known it.
For the first time it was more fun to be in England than in
France. I was happy to see my old and beloved friend, Lord
Hardinge, and we laughed together in remembrance of my
career as an "international incident."

The Duke and Duchess of Sutherland entertained us and
it was at their lovely home in Green Street that I once
again had proof of how small the world is.

As I mingled with the guests while tea was being served
I passed by a very beautiful woman who was pouring tea.
There was something vaguely familiar about her. She was
blonde and elegantly dressed, a typical English beauty.

"Who is she?" I asked Lord Hardinge. "I have the feel-
ing that I know her from somewhere."

Lord Hardinge peered at the woman through his mon-
ocle. Then he told me her name. I had never heard it
before.

But all afternoon her face nagged at me. It was not only
her looks which were familiar; there was something about
the way she moved, even about the way she poured the tea
which I recognized.

The tea! Of course, that was it. I should have recognized
her at once. For the elegant woman pouring tea was my
little English friend, Sheila, with whom I had played "tea"
so many times in Dehra Dun.

I got up from my seat quickly and rushed over to where
she was sitting. I introduced myself and we nearly fell into
each other's arms. Sheila had grown into a charming
woman, not without a sense of humor, for she picked up
the teapot and swung it near my face.

"What you deserve now," she laughed, "is for me to
take this pot of tea and dump it over your head!"

Sheila and I talked for hours about all that had hap-
pened to us in the many years since I had last seen her and
we were both chagrined at the way we had behaved as
children.

"I was a perfect little beast/' I confessed, "to have
plagued you the way I did."

"It was exactly what I deserved," retorted Sheila, "I was
an insufferable prig."

Seeing Sheila had made the years dissolve and for a mo-
ment I could remember myself as a child. It is a shock to
tear off the veil of age and realize the difference between
what you thought life was going to be like and the way it
turned out. There is more pain in the remembrance of in-
nocence than there is in disillusionment.

In August of that year we went with the maharaja to
Scotland to visit Lord Inchcape at Glenapp Castle, Ayr-
shire, for grouse-shooting. I had no idea what grouse were
but I was game to join in the fun.

The morning of the hunt I arrived punctually in the
downstairs hall. In India time means little, but I had
learned in Europe that "I' exactitude c'est la politesse des
rois." But unfortunately I had not yet learned about being
correctly dressed for grouse-shooting. When Lord Inchcape
saw me in what I thought an infinitely chic, bright red
Paris suit, he said, "My dear, you shall frighten the birds
away."

I suppose that my cheeks, too, would have frightened
away the birds, for they took on the same color as my dress-

Kind Lord Inchcape, however, asked me to follow the
hunt on horseback. An enormous horse, as wide as it was
long, was brought out of the stable, but the breadth of the
horse was too much for me. After riding all day I ached all
over and was all the more anxious to get back as I never
enjoyed the spectacle of defenseless animals being killed.

The horse's tremendous breadth had another effect on
me. Twisting about all day trying to find a more com-
fortable position had wrought havoc with my lingerie. On
our return home as Lord Inchcape helped me to the
ground, a tangle of pink silk slipped down my legs and
twisted about my dangling feet. Even the staid Britishers
standing about had to burst into gales of laughter. I am
sure that a British princess would have been able to make
a perfect riposte, but I admit that I never felt less a prin-
cess than when I bent down, picked it up, and stuffed it
into my pocket as though it were a handkerchief.

Shortly after my debacle at Glenapp Castle we returned
to Paris before going to India. Paris was at its height of
gaiety and there were many changes since the last time we
had visited France. Night clubs were swarming with people
and for the first time my husband did not object to going
about to the night spots.

We escaped one evening from a boring embassy recep-
tion with three Americans reputed to be the three richest
men in America (although that was always being said about
Americans) and wandered into an almost unknown little
club called the Florence. It was completely deserted except
for five Negro musicians who sat disconsolately at their

music stand. The waiters stood about in boredom and we
were the only guests in the place.

"Let's get out of this dead place," suggested one of the
American men.

We got up to leave but when the manager saw himself
losing the only business of the night, he motioned to the
musicians to start playing. As if they were possessed by a
strange magic, the five musicians suddenly sprang to life
and played a hot jazz such as I have never heard since. We
all sat down again quickly and stayed nearly until dawn
listening to the wild excitement of these jazz players.

I could hardly wait to tell my friends. Before the next
day had passed I had called almost everyone I knew in Paris
and arranged to take them to Le Florence. A few days later
we returned with a large party of people; within a week
the Florence was crowded nightly with jazz fans. It soon
became the most fashionable night club in Paris and re-
mained so for twenty years. After that incident many of
my friends teased me by saying they were going to rename
the Florence La Boite a Brinda.

Paris society was crowded with gigolos. I could feel noth-
ing but pity for those handsome young men who pushed
the old fat women around the dance floor; they more than
earned their money. Most of their customers were women
of sixty and seventy who covered their faces with rouge
and their falling hair with wigs, frantically trying to appear
to be in the bloom of youth.

When I was a young girl in Paris, a middle-aged French
society woman was content to look her age. All that was

changed now in the frenzy of excitement that was sweeping
across the world in the twenties. Now there was only one
way to look and that way was like a frisky young flapper
with coal-scuttle hat, and hair cut straight across the fore-
head and bunched out at the ears. As I look back I am
astonished that I was able to look at myself in the mirror
without being horrified by the ugliness of my costumes.

The crazy desperation for gaiety from Paris to Rome,
from London to the Riviera, brought out the ugliest as-
pects of human nature. There was a price for acceptance in
this so-called society. Almost everyone was willing to pay
it. You could buy a title and its papers then almost as easily
as you can buy a tube of toothpaste today. The only differ-
ence was that the price was slightly higher.

Counterfeit letters of introduction to famous people,
checks forged to pay for gambling debts, and fast motor
cars, these were the standards of society of that time. Scan-
dals were bursting like Roman candles all over Europe
only some of them were hushed up.

It was not only that people I had known all my life were
so hard up for money that they allowed themselves to be
mixed up in this sort of intrigue. It was more the story of
the times. One could not help but be swept up by the wild-
ness of the twenties.

In June of 1924 the Tika Raja and I, accompanied by
the maharaja, were received by the King and Queen of
England in Buckingham Palace.

On such an occasion it was necessary that I wear formal
Indian dress. I was in a state over which one to wear. At
first I chose the brightest and most gaily colored of my

saris but Eyres Monsell, who was then chief government
whip, advised me that a more subdued sari would be in
better taste. I finally chose a black silk chiffon, hand-
embroidered with butterflies of gold and silver and colored
threads. On my head I wore a headband of diamonds and
emeralds, matching emerald-and-diamond drop earrings,
and twisted about my neck were three strands of gleaming
pearls.

We were received by Their Majesties in a small ante-
room. Queen Mary was dressed regally in pale blue and
silver with magnificent diamonds. Across her corsage was
the blue ribbon of the Garter. Queen Mary smiled cor-
dially at me as I bowed low.

"You were a little uncertain of your English in Delhi
some years ago," she said kindly, "but I am told you speak
it now as well as you do French."

I was flattered that the queen remembered me so well
after all those years. The maharaja did not like the fact
that I had been singled out, but King George was kind to
me as well and was particularly insistent that I attend the
horse show which was scheduled for the following week.

We were conducted by two guards to the ballroom where
the maharaja and his son were placed on the dais behind
the two thrones. I was given an ornately carved armchair a
little to the right where I could see the proceedings clearly.

It was a remarkable occasion in many ways and I was
impressed most of all by the efficiency of the English. It was
far different from the more careless attitude of Indian
royalty. In three hours, more than eight hundred debu-
tantes were presented before the king and queen. The

timing and the graciousness o the presentations could not
have been better arranged.

Also present on that occasion were the Prince of Wales,
the Duke and Duchess of York, the Duke of Connaught,
and Prince and Princess Arthus.

When the royal family was ready to leave, a band hidden
from sight burst into "God Save the King" and the entire
court rose to its feet as the king and queen and their family
left at the head of a procession which included all the
Indian princes who were present. I walked beside the
famous Maharaja of Alwar, who towered above me like a
brooding giant. As we passed slowly through the many
state rooms lined on both sides with guests, I could over-
hear whispered remarks which speculated on who I was.

No one had any idea. I was the only Indian woman pres-
ent and none of the guests realized that I understood
English perfectly. It was difficult not to laugh as I walked
down the aisle under the barrage of comments.

Some days later the king and queen invited us to lunch
with Their Majesties at the horse races at Ascot in the royal
box. The road to Ascot was crowded with cars and in the
confusion we lost our way. We arrived there three hours
late, long after lunch was finished. We tried to be as un-
obtrusive as possible in the crowd, some distance from the
royal box, but Lady Churchill spotted us and insisted that
we join her until the race was over.

I was mortified by our inexcusable lateness and felt that
our conduct deserved the worst possible punishment. But
instead, when the king and queen learned that we had

finally arrived, they sent for us and consoled us for having

had the bad luck to lose our way. I was overwhelmed by

their kindness and it was a great lesson to me to observe

the graciousness of those monarchs.

Soon after this we returned to India. It was 1925. Winter

in Kapurthala was usually an unhappy time for both my

husband and myself. Somehow, there was always trouble

of one kind or another.

In the last few years, the maharaja seemed to derive a

perverse pleasure from interfering between the Tika Raja

and me. This year he was worse than ever.

My marriage had never been a perfect one. But what
marriage is? I had grown to accept the problems of our life

together and it seemed to me that the Tika Raja had also
become more content as the years passed by. He had always
been in love with me; in the beginning, perhaps too much
so. Not all the fault of our difficulties had been his. As a
young girl I had not been ready for the burden of love and
this had only accentuated his jealousy and insecurity. But,
like many people, in some way he had been able to work
out a more satisfactory relationship.

I had grown more fond of my husband as the years
passed and at last there was a good deal of understanding
and quiet affection between us. But the maharaja seemed
determined to make trouble. Possibly, since he disliked me,
he could not bear for me to have the affection of his son.
Seeing us happy together seemed to infuriate him.

He began to hint to me that all was not well. He pre-
tended to have great sympathy for me. It was almost as if

he were consoling me on the failure of my marriage. At
first I laughed it off since I could so easily see through his
tactics but later it began to upset me.

There are none of us so secure that the constant tearing
down of our defenses doesn't have some effect. Gradually,
the maharaja's campaign began to work. His constant criti-
cism of me to the Tika Raja also began to work. The result
was that we both became irritable and many quarrels re-
sulted. I began to get jittery and my nerves were at a break-
ing point from the strain.

Just when I was feeling my lowest the maharaja pro-
posed that he and the Tika Raja go off to Europe together
for the summer and that I remain in India. The separation,
he said, would do our marriage good and he promised that
when they returned, all would be well again. By that time
I was so exhausted that I no longer cared what happened
and I agreed to remain in Kapurthala while they made the
trip together.

I took the children to Mussoorie for the hottest months
of the year and then returned to our home. In the winter
my father's health began to fail. He had never been well
after the death of my mother and his exile from Jubbal had
made him a broken man.

My late uncle, Rana Padam Chand, had left two sons.
The elder son had died at the age of twenty-two so that
Bhagat Chand, the younger, now ruled the state. He turned
out to be a conscientious ruler and under his development
the state's chief source of revenue, the timber forests, in-
creased enormously in value. My father admired his bril-
liant nephew and also had a good deal of affection for him.

But Bhagat Chand had been brought up to consider my
father a villain. He had also been taught that my marriage
had brought shame on the Jubbal family and believed that
my father had purposely engineered it out of hostility for
his relatives.

Still a proud man, my father was reproachful and de-
manding to his nephew while the raja remained aloof and
unforgiving. My father wanted desperately to return to
his own state of Jubbal but his nephew would not hear of
it. Even when he was an old, sick man, the raja would not
allow him to return.

On their last interview my father broke down and wept
but it was to no avail.

"Very well," cried my father. "You refuse to honor your
father's brother but the day will come when you will take
my corpse to the burning ghat I"

This was in the nature of a curse for to carry a body to
the funeral pyre is the most painful duty one can perform
to the dead.

At the end of the winter, soon after the maharaja and my
husband had returned to Kapurthala, we received the news
that my father was dying. The maharaja was deeply sad-
dened by the news for they had been lifelong friends. I
could not believe it was so and was convinced that with
.proper care my father would live a long time. I began to
prepare a small cottage near our home so that we could
send for my father and nurse him back to health. In the
meantime I sent my sister Madhvi and my brother Kaju to
Simla to be with our father. At home we prepared for the
invalid's arrival.

But it was not to be. Just before midnight on the four-
teenth of December we received a wire telling us that my
father had died at noon that day. The wire explained that
he had been conscious to the last and had witnessed all the
religious rites which were customary. He had spoken often
of his children as he lay dying but the pain of his exile was
still uppermost in his mind. His last words, as the breath
went out of his body, were "J u bbal! Jubbal!"

My father had always requested that his remains be
taken to Hardwar for cremation. It had been many years
since I had been in the holy city, but I remembered it well,
for it was at that time that the Maharaja of Kapurthala had
arranged my marriage to his son. Now I was to return
there, not to watch the small paper boats sail in flames
down the river, but to bid my father good-by.

My youngest sister, Kamla, and I set out at once by train.
A special coach had been attached to the Hardwar-bound
train from Simla which connected with our train. We were
alone since my husband and the maharaja could not accom-
pany us. Hindu custom says that relatives by marriage
cannot have any part in the rites of death. However, the
maharaja was grief-stricken and decreed general mourning
throughout the state of Kapurthala.

As our train stopped at the dusty station of Hardwar, I
saw my cousin Raja Bhagat Chand of Jubbal standing on
the platform. I knew that he had not been informed of the
death of my father and I wondered what he was doing in
Hardwar. Later I found that he had visited the sacred city
to perform his annual religious rites at the Ganges.

When he saw our faces as we stepped out of the train he
must have had a premonition of what was wrong; he was
well aware of the fact that my father was a dying man.

My cousin walked over to me quickly and touched me
on the arm.

"What has happened?" he asked anxiously.

I could not meet his eyes. I had little forgiveness in my
heart for the man who had refused my father's dying re-
quest. I pointed to the funeral car.

"My father is dead/' I answered him quietly.

As I spoke, the door of the mortuary car opened and my
father's remains were carried out onto the platform. With-
out another word, the raja stepped forward and motioned
one of the bearers aside. Then he put his shoulder to the
bier.

Later, as head of the family and ruler of our state he as-
sumed the duties of chief mourner during the last rites.
My father's last words had been fulfilled. It was his nephew
who carried his body to the banks of the Ganges and placed
it on the funeral pyre.

I believe my cousin sincerely regretted that he had not
allowed my father to return to Jubbal. After the funeral he
tried to effect a reconciliation between our families and in
the end I felt I had to forgive him; it was not his fault he
had been brought up to feel hostility against us. Eventu-
ally relations between our families grew more cordial and
the bad, bitter years were nearly forgotten.

Back home in Kapurthala, life seemed easier than it had
the months before my father-in-law and husband had made

their trip to Europe. The maharaja was amiable and the
Tika Raja seemed calmer and more pleasant. My father-in-
law assured me that everything was going to be all right.

I was relieved. My last ordeal of the death of my father
had exhausted me and I was weary from sorrow. I rested
and tried to find some comfort in the fact that things were
going well.

I did not know it was the calm before the storm.

er since the birth of my youngest daughter
I had been trying to conceive another child in order to
present my husband with a longed-for heir. But our efforts
were in vain. The fault probably lay in the fact that child-
birth in India is not scientific and that the relatively primi-
tive delivery of my babies had done enough harm to pre-
vent another conception.

Several times I had consulted European doctors but the
verdict was always the same. In order to have another child
it would be necessary for me to have a series of treatments
to repair the damage which had been done. Since my hus-
band was reconciled to the fact that we had no sons and
since there was no guarantee that if I did conceive once
more it would be a boy, I hesitated to undergo the long
and painful treatments which would have been necessary.

But my father-in-law had his own ideas on this matter.

Shortly after my father's death, my husband came to me
and said that the maharaja requested my presence in an
important conference among the three of us. One look
at the Tika Raja's face and I knew that something out of
the ordinary had happened. When I asked my husband
what was wrong, he refused to tell me and acted so queerly
that I became apprehensive. Later I realized that he was
embarrassed by what was about to take place.

We met in the maharaja's study. He motioned us to sit
down and began speaking at once. He had no trace of em-
barrassment.

"Brinda," he began in a matter-of-fact voice, "you un-
doubtedly realize the disappointment you have caused my
son and myself by not producing an heir/'

I nodded my head but did not answer. My brain spun
with what he was saying. What was behind all this? I
thought.

The maharaja looked at me coldly. His face was hard
with determination.

"It is necessary that you have a son," he said.

"I am perfectly willing/' I answered quickly, "but it
does not seem to be possible."

The maharaja fingered some papers on his desk.

"I understand," he said, "that some treatments would be
necessary , . ."

I looked at my husband who twisted about nervously in
his chair. He looked away and would not meet my eyes.

"The Tika Raja and I have discussed such a measure,"
I said. "It is painful and somewhat dangerous. We decided
not to go ahead with it."

My father-in-law looked at his son who now stared out
the window in an effort not to be drawn into our conver-
sation.

"My son has changed his mind/' the maharaja replied.

"Then why didn't he tell me about it?" I asked hotly.

"I am telling you for him," he replied. "He is in com-
plete agreement with everything I am saying."

I turned to the Tika Raja accusingly.

"Is that so?" I asked him.

The Tika Raja looked shamefaced. Once more he
avoided meeting my eyes. For a moment he did not answer.

"Your wife has asked you a question," the maharaja said
firmly. "Answer her."

"Yes," mumbled my husband. "My father is right."

"I am willing," the maharaja continued, "to pay for all
the expenses of the treatment. My only condition is that
they be started as soon as possible. It is of utmost impor-
tance that an heir be brought into the state of Kapurthala."

"You know that the treatments must be done in
Europe?" I asked.

"You may leave at once," answered my father-in-law.
"Every cooperation will be given you. On my part, I will
do everything I can to help. We have not been friends in
the past, my dear, but I promise you that when you bear a
son, all will be different."

There was nothing more for me to say. It was clear
enough that both my husband and father-in-law believed
that it was my duty to produce a son at any cost. Perhaps
they were right. I agreed to go through the treatments even
though I was well aware of the pain and illness involved.

My father-in-law seemed pleased at my acquiescence and
my husband acted as though he were relieved that no harsh
words had resulted from the interview. I got up from my
chair to go. But the maharaja put out his hand and waved
me back to my seat.

"There is something more I want to tell you/' he said.

Now my husband looked as if he wanted to disappear
from the room. I was puzzled. What more could there be?*'

The maharaja cleared his throat.

"In the event that you do not produce an heir/' he said,
"it will be necessary for the Tika Raja to take another
wife/'

The blood rushed to my head. I felt faint with anger.
Would the maharaja humiliate me to that extent?

"I would never agree to such a thing," I cried.

The maharaja's voice was icy. "You would have no
choice/' he said. "It is perfectly proper for my son to take
another wife if he so chooses/'

"But he would not do that to me," I answered, close to
tears.

The Tika Raja looked away. I could tell by the expres-
sion on his face that he would do whatever his father
demanded, I knew, too, that the matter had been discussed
before our meeting and that my husband was in agreement
with this barbaric plan.

My anger left me. There was no point to wreaking fury
on either my father-in-law or my husband. For the Tika
Raja I could feel only contempt for his weakness; my
father-in-law I despised with all my heart. In that moment,

I lost any remaining respect for my husband. I felt pity for
his weakness but little sympathy for his lack of courage.

Without another word, I got up from my chair and left
the room. I had agreed to go through with the treatments
and I was willing to keep my word. But it was with a heavy
heart that I went back to my home and began preparations
to return to Europe.

Once more on the boat, as I sat on the deck chair watch-
ing the gray sea tumble before my eyes, I tried to find com-
fort in the words of the Gita. If only I could truly give up
my desires and learn to live apart from the world, then
maybe I would find happiness.

Not shaken by adversity
Not hankering after happiness
Free from fear, free from anger
Free from the things of desire.

I longed to be able to renounce my flesh and retreat from
the world but I still was not able to do it.

While I was reading, I came across a remarkable para-
graph. It seemed to have been written for me:

If you desire the world and know at the same time that
such desires are regarded as wicked, you, perhaps, will not
dare to plunge into the struggle. Yet your mind will be
running day and night with desire. This is hypocrisy and
will serve no purpose. Plunge into the world, and then,
after a time, when you have suffered and enjoyed all that
is in it, renunciation will come; calmness will come. So
fulfil your desire for power and everything else and after
you have fulfilled the desire, will come the time when you

will know that they are all very little things. But until
you have fulfilled this desire, until you have passed
through that activity, it is impossible for you to come to
the state of calmness, serenity, and self-surrender.

I let the book fall on my lap. Its wisdom was irrefutable.
There was no way I could achieve peace of mind by reading
about it. Obviously I was not ready to give up the delights
of the world. Maybe my suffering would teach me the calm-
ness I yearned after. Until then I could only throw myself
into the world of pleasures and pain.

And the place to do it was surely Europe at the end of
the twenties. For never again did pleasure sprawl over a
continent as it did then across the pale sands of the Riviera
and the noisy, smoke-filled bistros of Paris.

My husband and I stayed at the Ritz in Paris. Since I ex-
pected to spend quite a bit of time in France for my treat-
ments, I began to look out for a small apartment.

There were more parties in Paris than ever. Added to
the regular rounds of entertainment there was a new kind
of party in operation. Those were the ones engineered by
Elsa Maxwell. Armed with a remarkable personality and
an enormous zest for living, she was the answer to many a
poor millionaire's prayer.

Overnight a millionaire could become the most popular
man in Paris. All he had to do was contact Elsa and arrange
a few small parties (several-hundred guests) or sometimes
he could sit back and wait until Elsa contacted him. Good
businesswoman that she was, she knew which millionaires
needed helping.

I don't think she ever engineered a party that wasn't a

success. She claimed she had only one rule "Never ask
two kings to the same party."

Cole Porter was another American of whom I grew fond.
He and his wife entertained lavishly and we saw a good
deal of them both. With his tip-tilted nose and tiny stature
he was like an enchanting Pied Piper guests clamored to
hear his songs as he sat at the piano.

He had a wonderful sense of humor, too. One night as I
sat next to him in a jazz night club in Paris, he looked
around the smoke-filled room at couples wildly dancing
about, shouting and laughing, turned to me and said,
"They're all trying so hard to be gay. It's as if they're saying
to themselves, 'Let's misbehave!' "

I laughed so uproariously at the picture of these grown
people trying to be naughty that he was enchanted. He told
me that he was writing a song and would use that as its
title.

"What's more, Brinda," he said, "I'm going to autograph
'Let's Misbehave' for you."

I was delighted when it became a hit nearly overnight.

I spent a week aboard Lord Inchcape's yacht. His daugh-
ter, Elsie M acKay, was a close friend of mine. One after-
noon all of us were invited to tea on Marconi's yacht,
Electro,; by Prince Potenziani who later became governor
of Rome. I was thrilled to meet the inventor of the wireless
and he was kind enough to show me his research room
where scattered about were wires, electrical equipment,
and all sorts of magical-looking odds and ends. Marconi, a
serious-faced man with deep-set eyes, was not very talkative
but he was vastly amused when I pointed to the array of

equipment in his laboratory and said, "I only some of the
Indian fakirs who hang about the market place could get
hold of your equipment. What magic they could make out
of it!"

In August I went to Venice alone. My relations with the
Tika Raja were considerably cooler since our interview in
Kapurthala with his father. We were still friends but I had
lost any remaining faith in him.

I was willing to go ahead with the treatments and
planned to return to Paris soon to begin the necessary con-
sultations. But my husband and I agreed that although on
the surface things would remain much the same, actually it
would be better for both of us if we were freer to lead our
own lives.

I spent only a few days in Venice that summer as I had
agreed to accompany some friends on a motor tour to
Amalfi, Sorrento, and Naples. The last of our trip was at
Capri where we spent an unforgettable week.

We sailed in boats in the Blue Grotto where we saw the
inkiness of the water turn to a clear and radiant blue be-
fore our eyes, we stretched out on the pointed rocks and
watched the incredible sapphire of the Mediterranean
sparkle under the glinting Italian sun, we drank small cups
of bitter black coffee and gossiped about the people we
knew who walked by.

We danced on terraces in the shadows under a golden
crescent nearly hidden by clouds; we bargained in the
small shops and wore silly straw hats on our heads and
flimsy mules on our feet. We even visited the ruins of
Tiberius' castle on the edge of a cliff. Tiberius had made

Capri famous as a pleasure island in the times of the Ro-
man emperors. My favorite story about him was that when
he was displeased with a week-end guest, he would call him
to the edge of the terrace and then several guards would
push the guest off the cliff onto the sharp rocks below. Pri-
vately I thought that I had known some guests who would
merit the same treatment.

One afternoon while I was basking in the hot sun a
handsome young American came over to our group. He
knew several of my friends but since I was lying on a rock
we were not introduced. Several minutes after his arrival,
however, he came over to me.

"I've been watching you all day/' he said. "May I sit
here with you?"

I sat up on my rock and squinted at him.

"If you like/' I answered.

Promptly he sat down and settled himself next to me.
He introduced himself and then looked at ine question-
ingly.

I realized that he had no idea who I was, and I felt de-
lighted and relieved to be just a woman for a change in-
stead of a princess. I looked at him demurely.

"My name is Brinda/' I said.

"That's a lovely name/' he said with a sigh. I nearly
giggled out loud. It wasn't really funny but he seemed so
infatuated. I thought it wicked of me to allow him to flirt
with me but I was flattered, too. Nothing restores a
woman's ego like that son of attention from a man, because
he did not seem capricious but genuinely smitten.

We talked all afternoon about the places we had been

and the people we had known but mostly about how nice it
was to be sitting in the sun at Capri. I was amused by him
and particularly by his attitude towards me. He thought I
was a helpless girl, alone, who needed his protection.

As the day wore on I felt guilty about my pose but by
now I was too embarrassed to confess. However, as the sun
slipped down behind the cliffs and it was time to leave the
beach, the young man seized my hand and begged to know
if he could see me that evening.

Our flirtation had gone far enough. I told him I was busy
and that it would be impossible for me to see him again.

"I must see you again," he cried. "I don't even know
your name."

I slipped into my mules, picked up my towel, and
stepped down from the rock. Then I turned to say good-by.

"I am Princess Brinda of Kapurthala," I said, "and it
was not fair of me to tease you. I'm sorry and I do beg your
pardon/'

The young man's face dropped in astonishment. Then
he grinned and shook my hand heartily.

"I shall see you tonight, after all/* he laughed. "I have
been invited specially to meet you by our friends/'

That evening as we danced together on the terrace of a
villa which jutted out over the shining sea the young
American told me that he had fallen deeply in love with
me at first sight and wanted to marry me.

I tried to be as kind as possible because he was pale with
seriousness.

"Such a thing would be impossible/' I said gently. "I am

already married. My husband is heir to the throne of
Kapurthala."

The young American was a good sport and took the news
well. We agreed to remain friends and he did not reproach
me for the trick which I had played on him.

When I returned to Paris I began a series of painful
treatments in the hope that I could bear my husband an
heir. For the first time I enjoyed being alone and spent my
days reading, visiting museums, and resting in the quiet of
my small apartment. I had had enough of people for a
while. It was good to be away from the frenetic gaiety.

Sometimes I went to the Duchess de la Rochefoucauld's
home where each Wednesday she collected the literary and
artistic talent of Paris. It was the nearest thing to a salon
in the postwar years. Although my formal education had
been far from thorough, I enjoyed meeting these exciting
artists and it was a relief to hear something discussed be-
sides society gossip.

After the course of treatment was completed I made ar-
rangements to return to India. When I arrived Kapurthala
seemed peaceful and I prayed that things would go well
there this time. But it was not destined to be so.

At first the maharaja seemed glad to see me. My husband
was delighted that the course of treatment was over and
that there was hope that we would have an heir. For the
first few weeks everything went smoothly.

But after months passed I could see there was trouble
brewing. So far, there was no reason to believe that the
treatments had been successful. The strain of what I had

undergone in Paris and the ordeal of having to remain in
Kapurthala, which I sensed was a growingly hostile envi-
ronment, was exhausting me.

As time went on my father-in-law grew more and more
discontented that we had no news for him. He took his ir-
ritation out on me, and used every excuse to provoke a
quarrel. He told me that he was opposed to my returning
to Europe and that he was sick of my way of life.

In spite of the fact that he had spent most of his own
years traveling around the world and that he had robbed
me of any chance of making a life for my husband and my-
self in Kapurthala, he insisted that I remain at home. Then
he had the audacity to accuse me of neglecting my children.

He knew when he said this how it would wound me for
I loved my children dearly and during the winter months
which I always spent in India the little girls were with me
constantly. Far from neglecting them, I came dangerously
close to monopolizing them. During the summer the chil-
dren went to their grandfather's place in Mussoorie with
three governesses, one French and two English. They had
little time for me in the summer and my trips to Europe
had done them no harm at all. The maharaja, however,
insisted that it was my duty to accompany them to Mus-
soorie each year. He claimed that my failure to do so had
become a scandal throughout India.

We both knew this was untrue but there was no way
I could refute it. All I could do was to try to go on as best
I could under the pressures of these false accusations.

He further accused me of flouting his authority by
leaving India without his permission and claimed I was

causing additional scandal by traveling about Europe
alone. I told him that I was willing to seek formal per-
mission before leaving India and also that I would be de-
lighted to have a suitable woman companion.

But all this was beside the point. The maharaja knew
that I had always behaved with the utmost propriety; this
new attack on me was only a way of undermining me once
again in order to prove that I was a failure not only be-
cause I had not produced a son but in everything else as
well.

I became more nervous every day. I saw quite a bit of the
Tika Raja and naturally it was a strain for both of us. He
was intimidated by his father and was afraid to stand up for
either himself or me and I could not have much respect for
him because of his fear. In Europe we had agreed to more
or less live separately; now we were forced into an intimacy
that was neither welcome nor familiar.

By the end of the winter it was more or less apparent
that the treatments had been unsuccessful. I was feeling
depressed and tired and wept at the slightest provocation.
Days went by where I spent my time sitting in a darkened
room or reading in a chair by the window. I had no desire
to see anyone and the thought of official dinners or parties
threw me into a panic. After a while I refused to accept
callers and stayed alone most of the time.

The Tika Raja became quite concerned over the change
in me. I had always been cheerful and hopeful; now sud-
denly I had changed into a morbidly hopeless woman. I
felt stranded and alone; there seemed to be nothing that
could comfort me.

Finally I felt that I could bear it no longer. Even I be-
came worried about my condition and my apathy. I knew
that somehow I had to pull myself together but it did not
seem possible under the conditions of life in Kapurthala.
Then I thought that perhaps if I returned to Europe I
would feel better again. The exhausting treatments and
the unfriendly atmosphere of Kapurthala had worn me
out. I decided that I would ask the maharaja for permis-
sion to visit Europe for the summer in an effort to regain
my health.

But he was furious at my request and sent me a message
saying in no uncertain terms that it had been refused. I
knew that it was necessary that I leave India so I asked my
husband to intercede for me. He spoke to his father and
pleaded with him to allow me to leave but the maharaja
was adamant. He was determined that I remain in India
until I produced an heir.

By this time I was desperate. I was feeling more nervous
and panicky each day and was worried that soon I would
break down completely. It seemed that no one was going
to help me. I would have to help myself.

I sent the maharaja a note saying that I regretted that
he was unable to give me permission to leave India but
that my situation was desperate and that I had made ar-
rangements to depart the following month.

The maharaja was furious at what he termed my wilful
disobedience of his orders and commanded my husband
to stop my allowance at once. The Tika Raja, however,
stood his ground firmly this time and refused to do so.

So angry was my father-in-law, however, that he im-

mediately contacted the Punjab government and tried to
persuade them to hold up my passport. He was further in-
censed when he received an official denial of his request.
The Tika Rani, they said, was not a political prisoner. The
government could not prevent her from leaving India.

My husband was worried about me and suggested that
we travel to Europe together. However, he told me that his
father would be on the same boat and I decided that in my
state of mind it would be better if I traveled alone.

I arranged to leave on the same boat with Lady Bird-
wood and her son, Christopher, the present Lord Birdwood,
and we sailed from Karachi early in April. I did not look
forward to the trip. I only hoped that I would feel some
peace.

first thing I did when I arrived in Paris
was to make an appointment with the doctor who had
given me the treatments the previous year. After a thor-
ough check-up he gave me his verdict. The treatments had
failed. Unless I underwent a major operation, I would
never be able to have another child.

The news was a terrible blow to me for all during the
painful year past I believed that the result would be to
bear another child. Now the doctor also made it clear that
the operation was a dangerous one and that I would be
running considerable risk to have it performed. He ad-
vised against it.

Disturbed by the consultation, I wired my husband who
was visiting with his father in the south of France and he
joined me at once in Paris. Neither of us pretended any
longer that there was any love between us but the Tika

Raja felt much affection for me and at this time was full of
kindness and concern for my well-being.

He discussed my condition with the doctor and came
to see me in my small apartment. He seemed worried.

"I will never consent/' he declared, "to your risking
your life."

"There is no other way I can bear a child/' I answered.

The Tika Raja was greatly agitated. He walked up and
down the room for a bit in indecision. Finally he sat down
heavily.

"Then you will not bear an heir/' he said.

I waited a moment before speaking and tried to think
through carefully what I was about to say. Much depended
on it.

"Since I am not willing to accept the consequences of
not bringing a son into the world," I said quietly, "there
is no alternative."

The Tika Raja looked embarrassed. He was well aware
of my feelings about his father's threat of my husband's re-
marriage.

"It is more important," he said, "that we consider your
health."

"Under the circumstances," I answered, "I think it only
fair that the decision be left up to me."

After the t Tika Raja left I spent many hours trying to
decide whether or not to have the operation. In the end I
felt it was the only thing to do. I was touched by my hus-
band's solicitous attitude but I was still afraid of my father-
in-law's wrath. I called the doctor and told him that I had
decided to go through with the operation.

The next day I had a long talk with the doctor. He told
me that I was in no condition to undergo such an opera-
tion immediately and refused to accept the responsibility
of this drastic measure until my general health improved.
He advised me to leave Paris so that I build up my re-
sistance.

I called the Tika Raja and he agreed that waiting a few
months would be wise although he still maintained that
he preferred I did not take the risk of the operation at all.

During these preparations my father-in-law arrived in
Paris. We were no longer speaking to each other so I did
not see him but tales about him followed me everywhere.
Once again he was trying to make life difficult for me. He
told everyone that I was a wicked woman who delighted
in aggravating him and he complained of my bad conduct
in visiting Europe without his permission. But he got little
sympathy from my friends who were delighted that I was
with them again.

In London the maharaja even went to the extent of ask-
ing the India Office to remove my name from the list of
those invited to official functions. But here he was sharply
rebuffed. My friends refused to listen to him and every
kindness was shown me by both the India Office and the
king and queen of England.

Before leaving Paris I visited the Duchess de la Roche-
foucauld at the Chateau de Montmiraille where the family
has lived for centuries. The guest of honor at lunch was the
late King Fuad of Egypt, an affable man, clever (some peo-
ple called him crafty), and well informed.

I was startled when I first met him by the strange, hoarse
bark which preceded his every remark, a curious, stran-

gling sound from the back of his throat. I wondered if he
had been born with this odd speech impediment; later I
learned it was the result of an attempted assassination on
his life when he was still a young man. It was a miracle he
had escaped at all with his life, A bullet had pierced his
throat and had caused this weird bark which remained
with him for the rest of his life.

One morning while I was sitting near a window in my
apartment, drinking a cup of tea, there was a knock on the
door. I answered it and for a moment could hardly believe
my eyes. It was my old governess, Mile Meillon. We had
not seen each other since I was a young girl; she embraced
me and spent the day recalling my early life in India and
our trip to France together. Mile Meillon had found out
from friends where I was staying and had come to see me
at once. It was in the nature of a farewell visit, for Mile
Meillon was leaving for South America. As a matter of
fact it was the last time we were to see each other.

The doctor had recommended that I visit some seaside
place to recuperate and I finally decided on Venice. In-
stead of staying on the noisy and tourist-frequented Lido,
I took an apartment consisting of a whole floor in Count
and Countess Sangro's palazzo. I spent my days resting in
the cool terrace and visiting the churches and galleries in
Venice. I hired a motor launch for my stay and was able
to get around the canals and go back and forth to the Lido.

The Lido was as crowded as ever with my old friends
and it was hard to refrain from seeing them. But I was far
from well and determined to regain my health so I lived as
quietly as possible.

The social event of the season, and one even I could not

miss, was the arrival of the crown prince o Italy. I learned
about his visit from Prince Phillip of Hesse while we were
watching a regatta. Prince Phillip was no longer the exile
of 1920. He had become a person of importance once again.
He was now married to a daughter of the king of Italy,
Princess Mafalda.

The day following the arrival of Crown Prince Um-
berto, a fiesta was held in his honor. The famous flyer,
Colonel Ferrarini, had promised to fly me over Venice and
the beach that day as I had never seen Venice from the air.

I peered out at the winding canals and long strip of
beach from the air and I felt safe and confident in the capa-
ble hands of Colonel Ferrarini. But suddenly, as we were
directly over the Lido, the colonel began to put the plane
through a series of acrobatics. I was strapped to my seat
but I had had no warning of what was about to happen and
as the plane looped, rolled, banked, and dived, I screamed
in terror. All I could do was hold onto my seat and pray.

When the plane landed I staggered out onto the ground,
my head and stomach still reeling from the stunts. This
was no way to recover my health! As soon as I could get my
breath, I turned to the colonel and scolded him for the
ordeal.

He shrugged his shoulders.

"I could not help it," he said. "I was signaled from the
ground to perform my stunts for the entertainment of the
crown prince. I am sorry you did not like it."

Did not like it? I shook my head in dismay, I had nearly
been frightened to death.

The colonel laughed at my fears.

"What you need is a champagne cocktail/' he said, lead-
ing me into the Lido bar. "That is good for the nerves."

Just as we sat down, we were summoned to the crown
prince who wanted to congratulate the colonel. When
Prince Umberto saw me he was horrified. He had had no
idea that Ferrarini had a passenger; knowing his skill as a
stunt flier, he had asked for the display but did not know
I would have to share the honor.

"You're a plucky woman," said the prince and taking
me by the hand he led both the colonel and myself onto
the terrace. He signaled the crowd below that we had been
in the plane together as it careened through the air and the
thousands of people below cheered us loudly. I felt that I
did not deserve any applause. I had been anything but a
willing victim.

The next day, after a luncheon party given on the beach
by Countess Frasso, the prince took me to watch the motor-
boat races. The main event was a contest between the
English ace, Seagrave, and an American named Gar Wood.
But in the middle of the race there was a bad collision and
Prince Umberto left immediately for the hospital. Luckily
the injuries had been minor although I was convinced at
the time of the collision that they had both been killed.

After a ball that night at the Countess Morosini's Prince
Umberto left Venice. I saw him off but it was only the
first of many times we were destined to meet in our lives.

In the many years I had spent visiting Europe I had
heard much about America. All my friends had tried to
persuade me for a long time to visit this relatively new and
wonderful country. Since I still had to wait before going

ahead with my operation in Paris, my friends insisted that
I accompany them to America, at least for a few weeks.

It was something I had always wanted to do. So I re-
turned to Paris, packed my things, and left on the French
liner Paris from Le Havre.

The crossing on the North Atlantic was rough and I
spent the entire voyage in bed. But I was rewarded for my
trip by the sight of the sky line of New York as we slid up
the harbor in the dusk of the evening. The pointed build-
ings towering into the sky looked like a fairyland perched
on a cloud. No castles or palaces I had ever seen before
seemed to have such a magic quality as New York with the
mist swirled about the buildings dotted with lights.

My American friends were happy to show me their coun-
try. It was strange and wonderful to see such remarkable
progress. How different from India! In New York, people
bustled about their work they seemed to know where
they were going, and in comparison to the poverty of India,
everyone looked so prosperous and healthy.

It was 1929 and there was prohibition. But I discovered
this meant only that people drank more than ever before.
I saw my first football game and here I was frankly horri-
fied to learn that almost every spectator had a hip flask with
him and that a large number of them were drunk before
the game was half over. Prohibition seemed hardly the way
to stop drinking in America.

I had been in America a short time when the great crash
of Wall Street happened. Overnight it seemed that all of
New York was bankrupt. Many people I had known for
years in Europe as millionaires were now penniless.

All my acquaintances seemed stricken by the crash; it
was like living in the midst o a frightful epidemic. No one
knew at which moment he would succumb. It was embar-
rassing to go anywhere at that time for it was not always
possible to tell who had been affected. Nevertheless, many
people tried to carry on as though nothing had happened.
Others were not so brave. I had met some in Europe who
later leapt from their windows in despair.

I ran into Conde Nast, the publisher, quite by chance.
When I had met him in Europe the previous year he
promised that if I ever came to New York he would give
me a party to remember. He reminded me of that promise
when I saw him. At first I demurred but he insisted al-
though he was leaving for Europe on business the follow-
ing day. He began telephoning immediately and in a cou-
ple of hours had invited over eighty people to a party he
gave in my honor.

I had planned to stay in America only a short time and
before I knew it my visit was over. I had scarcely had time
to look around the vast country when I was back on a boat,
this time the Olympic. I couldn't help thinking when I
went into my stateroom and saw it crowded with flowers,
champagne, fruit, and books, that under the circumstances
of the crash it was wasteful luxury, but it was typical of the
generous American hospitality which I had seen over and
again on my visit.

In Europe the talk was all of the financial debacle in
America and everyone was anxious to learn my first-hand
impressions of the crash.

I also found on my return to Paris that rumors had been

flying about me. There was speculation as to why the Tika
Raja and I seldom went anywhere together. There was
talk that we would divorce. My intimate friends knew the
truth: I was trying to give my husband an heir and also
that for a Hindu couple such as we there could be no ques-
tion of divorce.

My husband's family did not help matters. There are al-
ways those who are willing to gossip and even more who
are willing to listen. My in-laws seemed to take a perverse
delight in spreading the rumor that I was about to be re-
pudiated by my husband, not only because I was unable
to give him an heir but also because of my conduct in
Europe. There was nothing I could do about such slander.
It was obvious that they were currying favor with the ma-
haraja and he was no doubt delighted by their attitude.

My friends were alarmed at the stories but I was past
caring. There is a point beyond which you can no longer
be hurt.

In August I went down to Biarritz with friends. One
day we drove across the Spanish border to San Sebastian
where we had arranged to see a bullfight. The pageantry of
the crowds, the music, and the colorful matador were ex-
citing but I was horrified by the bullfight. To me it was no
sport but a cruel and barbaric practice. In fact, I was so
horrified that I still remembered it vividly a few years later
when I met King Alphonso XIII of Spain in Biarritz.
When His Majesty asked me how I had liked his country
I told him that I had only been to San Sebastian, but that
the gory spectacle of the bullfight still haunted me.

I asked him why he didn't have bullfighting stopped.

The King of Spain looked at me with a cryptic smile and
said, "Would you rather see my head cut off?"

After the bullfight we drove back to Biarritz and shortly
thereafter I returned to Paris for my operation. The doctor
assured me that my health had improved and that there
was no longer much risk.

On the day of the operation the Tika Raja, my sister
Madhvi, and my old friend Beatrix waited at the hospital
for hours while I was in the operating room. I saw them
for a moment just after I came out of the anesthetic.

I was seriously ill for weeks afterward. Later it took
many more weeks of convalescence to make me well again
but the time passed and before too long I was back in my
own little apartment again.

As soon as I was well enough I sailed for India but I was
far from strong and spent most of that voyage in bed, too.
A week after we were out to sea I received a radiogram
from my dear friend Beatrix telling me of the death of her
sixteen-year-old son. I was immeasurably shocked at her
tragedy for Beatrix was as dear to me as if she had been my
own sister. It was with her that I had known the joys and
sorrows of growing up.

I left Bombay on the afternoon of my arrival and hur-
ried straight to Kapurthala. There was much to be done
there. My three girls were now growing up. I had to super-
vise their education and see that they had the proper in-
struction.

My eldest daughter, Indira, was home on vacation. She
had been a boarder at Queen Mary's College for Girls at
Lahore, In the beginning, she had fought against the idea

of going away to school but now Indira seemed happy there
and it had taught her that there was another world outside
our palace. In spite of the fact that my children's upbring-
ing had been far more modern and simpler than mine, still
they were being raised as princesses and Indira had come
dangerously close to being spoiled. Several months of con-
tact with other girls, however, had done wonders for her.
Now, she announced, she wanted to work and become an
actress at the first opportunity.

By the spring of 1932 I was feeling well again. At that
time, my old friend, Indira of Baroda, by then the Maha-
rani of Cooch-Behar, invited me to a tiger shoot she had ar-
ranged in honor of her nephew, the heir to Baroda. Indira,
at that time, was acting as regent for her son after the death
of her husband, and I was astonished to see the changes and
improvements she had made in her state. The whole area,
and the city, had been modernized. With a pang of envy
I realized Indira had done with Cooch-Behar what I had
longed to see accomplished in Kapurthala. She had per-
formed a remarkable job and it proved how much could
be done for the people of India.

On the day of the tiger shoot we left the palace at eight
o'clock in the morning. The sun was already hot in the
sky and the day was clear. We had to travel thirty miles by
car in order to get close to the jungle.

When we arrived at the edge of the jungle there were
more than twenty-five elephants waiting for us. We
mounted the elephants. There were seats for four on each
elephant but only two of us went on each beast. When

everyone was settled the giant animals moved slowly into
the jungle for about three miles.

Then the men brought out the tigers. As each tiger came
out of the jungle, he looked around, leaped toward the
elephants, and the hunters aimed and fired. One of the
dangers in such hunting is that if a tiger is wounded and
goes back into the jungle he will kill on sight. There is
some danger to the elephants as well, for the tigers often
attack them. But elephants are trained to take care of
themselves before these animals. They defend themselves
with their trunks, throw the tiger down on the ground, and
step on him. However, if an elephant has been badly
trained, there is danger to the person mounted on him
for tigers have been known to climb on such an elephant
and drag someone off his back.

But our tiger shoot was a great success without mishap.
It was very exciting to be mounted on the elephant and I
scarcely dared breathe as the row of beasts advanced deeper
into the heart of the damp, hot jungle. As the elephants
walked I could hear the thousands of tiny animals and
birds screeching among the trees and lush foliage.

I saw two tigers that day, three bears, two leopards, and
many wild boar and hyenas. The Yuvraj of Baroda shot
one of the tigers and an American shot the other, but most
of the other animals escaped. As a joke they photographed
me with one foot on a dead tiger. Whenever I wanted to
prove how brave I was after that, I would take out my
photograph and show that I was a fine shikari (hunter).

Although I do not like to witness the slaughter of ani-

mals, I admit that tiger hunting with the Maharani of
Cooch-Behar was exciting! At least the tigers had equal
chances of either escaping or of killing their opponents
and, in a way, it was a contest of skill between man and
beast.

Some maharajas actually shoot tigers from the top of
stone towers. Sitting there in comfortable armchairs, the
hunters await the arrival of an exhausted and frightened
tiger whom several hundred beaters, spread in a circle,
push to the foot of the tower. Then a hunter shoots at this
perfectly exposed target. If by chance he misses there al-
ways is an expert nearby who fires the final shot.

I think the loveliest idea is that of the Maharaja Rana
of Dholphur, an orthodox Hindu, who invited us to a
night tiger hunt. Mounted on elephants, we went deep
into the jungle to a huge tree on which was constructed a
carefully concealed platform. We climbed a rope ladder
and installed ourselves on the platform. It was a dark night
and I saw almost nothing until enormous spotlights, high
in a tree, were turned on a few hundred feet from us. The
night was lit as though a full moon had suddenly come
through the clouds 1 In front of us was a huge clearing next
to a lake. Tied to one of the few trees still standing was a
goat, used as bait, bleating piercingly. Other than that
there was no sound. We remained silent and almost com-
pletely motionless for over an hour. Then suddenly, as
though from nowhere, came the first tiger. Three more
swiftly followed. They moved up slowly and cautiously,
drank from the lake, flicked their tails nervously and
looked in all directions. Though the goat could not see the

tigers, .it sensed their presence and bleated louder than
ever. But the tigers took no notice of the goat, and moved
around with so much grace and rhythm that I was com-
pletely enchanted.

After what seemed to me a very long time, one of the
tigers suddenly bounded toward the goat, then leaped high
in the air for the kill. At that instant a terrifying noise
came from the brush where the hundreds of beaters were
concealed. The tigers fled instantly into the jungle, the un-
harmed goat was untied and taken back. It was the end
of the tiger hunt and, to me, the most humane and lovely
way of enjoying those royal cats.

I found much unhappiness at the palace of Kapurthala
when I returned. My brother-in-law, Mahijit Singh, was
dangerously ill. I visited him daily but there was no hope
for Mahijit; the doctors had pronounced his illness fatal. I
was very sad over this news and since I was leaving early
in April to return as usual to France, I went to say good-by
to him.

He seemed to know that it was our last meeting. His
face was drawn and thin and his hand, when he clasped
mine, had lost its strength. When he spoke he had tears
in his eyes.

"I have been lying here for weeks now and I have had
much time to think. Kapurthala is doomed if someone
does not save it. There is only you, sister. You must do
what you can."

Although I knew that Mahijit was dying I could not
pretend.

"What can I do?" I asked. "The maharaja will listen to

no one, least of all to me. He hates me and so do all the
family."

"We do not hate you/' he answered gently, "although
we have treated you badly. It has all come from stupid
jealousy. But you must promise to save Kapurthala. You
are the only one who can do it. The government is corrupt
and my brother is weak."

My brother-in-law looked at me pleadingly. "You must
promise me before I die/* he said.

"I promise/* I said solemnly. "But you realize/' I added,
"that I can only try. In the past I have begged your father
to listen to his children but he has always refused. I will
go on trying but that is all I can do/'

We were both in tears when I finally left. It was a trag-
edy that he was dying. Apart from my personal feelings, he
was the most gifted of the maharaja's sons and though only
thirty-six he was minister of education in the United Prov-
inces. He could have done great things for Kapurthala.

That evening I left for Bombay and my boat sailed for
France two days later. We were out to sea only two hours
when I received a radiogram announcing that my brother-
in-law, Mahijit, was dead.

^A if teen

observed the traditional Hindu mourning
period of thirteen days on the ship and remained in soli-
tude except for occasional visits in my stateroom from the
Maharaja of Rajpipla and the Begum of Mamdot.

The first month in Paris was a dreary one. I had too
much on my mind to enjoy the frivolity of France; I pre-
ferred to be alone.

My health was not good at that time and I spent my days
convalescing in my small apartment. Occasionally, I re-
ceived callers and my favorite one turned out to be the
exiled King Alfonso of Spain. I had known his beautiful
Queen Victoria Eugenia in London and was delighted
when he sent an envoy to my apartment asking if he might
call on me.

We spent an interesting afternoon together. Although
we were two strangers we talked intimately and I felt as if

I had known him all my life. Sometimes two people on
first acquaintance are able to understand more about each
other than friends of long standing. It was that way with us.

The king was still deeply shocked over his exile from
Spain the previous year. He was convinced, however, that
he would someday return. Having heard of my interest in
horoscopes he half-jokingly asked me to get his cast and let
him know the result. I promised. But some weeks later
when I had received an answer from India I broke my
word. I could not bear to tell the king that his ambition
would never be fulfilled.

I saw the doctor once again who had performed the op-
eration on me. I told him that I still had not conceived a
child after nearly a year in India and he examined me care-
fully. When he was through he motioned me into his of-
fice.

I was stunned by his diagnosis. The operation had been
to no avail. In his opinion I would be unable to bear an-
other child.

I felt that it was my duty to tell my husband this news
and I wrote him a letter at once. As soon as he arrived in
Paris, some weeks later, he came to my apartment.

He was in a state of agitation and as soon as I saw him I
knew that something had happened. He was barely inside
the door when he began to speak.

"Brinda," he said, "I don't quite know how to begin."

I dreaded to hear his news for I still was not well and
felt that I had all the trouble I could bear for the moment.
But no matter how I felt I had to face the facts. I waited for
the Tika Raja to continue.

"I have told my father/* he continued, "that your opera-
tion was unsuccessful."

"Oh?" I asked, apprehensive of what was to follow.
"How did he take the news?"

"You must know without asking," said the Tika Raja.
"He insists that I return to India and take a second wife/"

I had expected this blow for many months now but it
did not soften the effect for me.

"What do you intend to do?" I asked wearily.

The Tika Raja looked distraught. His hands trembled
and he seemed helpless.

"I must return to India at once," he replied, not meeting
my eyes, "but I shall protest against this attempt to force
me into a second marriage."

I sighed. I knew only too well the limitations of my hus-
band's character. His intentions toward me were fine but
his ability to resist the demands of his father was* almost
nonexistent.

"Why pretend any longer?" I asked him, sick to death of
the masquerade. "You know perfectly well you will do
whatever your father tells you."

The Tika Raja seized my hands almost in desperation.

"You must believe me, Brinda," he cried, "I shall never
let him do this dreadful thing to you. I assure you that I
will not take a second wife."

Now I was angry. All my exhaustion from the arduous
treatments and the months of nervous strain had suddenly
piled up. I wanted to be quiet but the words tumbled out.

"Your father is a strong man," I retorted, "and you are
less than nothing in his hands. You have always done ex-

actly what he wanted you to do. You will not stop now."

The Tika Raja was nearly in tears. Over and over again
he pleaded with me to believe in him and have faith that
he could resist his father. To soothe him, I promised, but
they were empty words. After many years I knew my hus-
band too well.

Soon after our interview my husband sailed for India. I
was disheartened but not surprised when I received a wire
from him six weeks later.

"The worst has happened I was forced to marry against
my will."

In January, 1933, I returned to Kapurthala. My three
girls welcomed me home with more eagerness than ever.
They had been very disturbed over the turn of events. Al-
though they felt deeply for me, they also had much pity
for their father. They told me he had fought the maharaja
constantly on this issue. They said there had been many
scenes in the palace and that for a long time the Tika Raja
had held out. I was surprised to learn from the girls that
the Tika Raja's mother had also exerted pressure on her
son. The senior maharani had wailed day and night that
she wanted to see her grandson before she died and she
punctuated each argument with a heart attack; finally the
Tika Raja gave in.

It was difficult to understand why the maharani had
taken such a stand. All her life she had suffered from the
intrusion of other women; one would think that she would
have had the compassion not to force it on me, knowing
how much she had been hurt by it. Instead, her attitude
was that since she had had to put up with plural marriage,
why shouldn't I?

I tried to be brave but I was humiliated beyond all
measure. There was nothing I could do, however, but pray
for the courage to help me through the ordeal. I had to
think of my three daughters who were still unmarried. If
I had had no such responsibilities I could have left India
at once, but I knew that my duty was to see that my girls
married well. Until then I had to maintain my position as
the Tika Raja's first wife.

The Tika Raja was shamed by his inability to resist his
father. Shortly after I arrived in Kapurthala he came to
see me. His distress was touching and I could not find it in
my heart to be angry with him. I could only feel pity. In
many ways he had gotten the worst of it.

Our Western education had made it impossible for us
to go backward. The plural marriages which had been ac-
cepted by both our parents horrified us. But divorce was
out of the question. We had to make the best of our un-
fortunate situation.

The Tika Raja tried in every way to make my position
easier for me. He told me that I need have nothing to do
with his second wife and that my home in Kapurthala
would always be completely mine. I had full freedom, he
said, to come and go as I pleased-, and he even presented
me with a document which stated that I had the right to
do as I wished. It also admitted that, under pressure, he
had committed a humiliating wrong against me. Under the
Hindu law, this paper offered no legal assurance, but it was
a generous gesture on the pan of my husband.

The second marriage had been performed quietly with-
out any publicity. But it was not to be expected to remain
so. Soon all India rang with the news.

Surprisingly enough, the reaction to the Tika Raja's
marriage was unfavorable to the maharaja. It was not I
who was publicly humiliated. On every side, blame was
heaped on my father-in-law for forcing an unwanted sec-
ond bride on his heir. For years he had boasted that he was
a modern thinker; it was well known that he had insisted
on giving the Tika Raja and me a European education.
Now it was clear that when it affected him, his talk was
only talk.

The fact that I had three daughters proved that I was
not unwilling to bear children. It was shameful, said his
critics, that because he had no grandson, he had forced his
heir to revert to the much-criticized system of plural mar-
riage. Even his fellow rulers, whom the maharaja had de-
cried as "old-fashioned," felt that he had behaved very
badly; enlightened Indian society considered themselves
betrayed by his actions.

I was touched by the kindnesses which were shown me
by many people. Lady Willingdon, who was then vicerine,
insisted that I go to Delhi to visit her and the viceroy. This
invitation was more than a friendly act; it was a public
declaration that the viceroy considered my social position
unimpaired by what had happened.

In Delhi people went out of their way to show me how
strongly they disapproved of the maharaja's action and
from the viceroy's house I was invited to the Maharaja of
Kashmir's home with my daughters for the polo season.

It seemed best- that I remain in India for the rest of the
year. My girls were still upset over the marriage and I
wanted to avoid the attack that I was running away from

a difficult situation. I knew that for their sake I had to
maintain my position as the Tika Rani, at least until they
were married.

But the Tika Raja, once again, could not face his own
responsibilities. Although he had been married but a few
months, early in March he left for Europe leaving behind
his new bride. I could not help but feel sorry for her. A
simple young Rajput girl from the Kangra Valley, of high
birth, without education or experience, she had no re-
sources with which to fight back. She could only dumbly
accept what was to be her lot. So, while her husband was
in the West, she obediently spent her days with her mother-
in-law.

The Tika Raja had placed the family house at Musoorie
at my disposal for the summer. At the end of April I took
the girls there, while my sister Madhvi and her husband,
the Raja of Jasdan, and their tiny girl, Kookoo, rented a
house nearby. I was homesick for Europe and longed to
see my own friends as I had during my summers abroad
for now I needed comfort more than ever. At the same
time, it was a delight to be with my daughters. Now they
were really growing up and I enjoyed taking them with
me to dinners and parties.

There was an unusually heavy monsoon that year and
for a time we spent our days in the house as the rain
pounded endlessly against the windows. But when the rains
were over in September, many old friends arrived in
Musoorie and after nine years of summering in Europe it
was good to see them again.

In October I took my daughters to Hardwar for a pil-

grimage to the holy city. After the torturous winter months
I longed to find some peace and hoped that faith, which al-
ways seemed just beyond my finger tips, would fill my
heart.

I was also bothered by an incident which had occurred
in Italy on my last visit. While visiting the Andrea Robil-
lants I had eaten some strangely flavored meat. When I
asked what it was, they teasingly told me it was beet Since
beef is the absolutely forbidden food of orthodox Hindus,
I turned pale and rushed from the room where I was im-
mediately ill.

When I returned to the table, my friends apologized. It
was only a joke, they told me. But I did not know whether
to believe them. Their denial might only have come when
they saw how disastrously the meal had ended.

I was anxious, therefore, to perform the Hindu rites of
purification on the chance that I had unwittingly com-
mitted a serious transgression of Hinduism.

I spent my days at Hardwar doing puja (repentance) on
the banks of the Ganges. With hundreds of others, clad in
a cotton sari, I bathed in the icy river. I helped feed the
poor and followed each Hindu ritual. I found some com-
fort in all of this and at the end of our visit felt able to go
back to the harsh realities of my life.

In Hardwar I learned that my husband's second wife
had just given birth. But he was still doomed to disappoint-
ment for the baby was once again a daughter.

I could not help being wickedly amused. At the same
time my heart went out to the young bride who had disap-
pointed the maharaja. Hers would not be an easy lot.

I spent a quiet winter in Kapurthala and when spring
came around again my daughters and I went back to
Musoorie. At that time I decided that I would remain in
India for the second year in succession. Since I could not
afford to keep my Paris apartment, I disposed of it through
my lawyers. It saddened me to give it up for I liked to
think that I had a home in Europe, but it was a necessity.

My three girls were growing into charming young
women, all self-possessed and good-looking. Indira, the
eldest, was the most like me headstrong and ambitious.
Her heart was set on an acting career and it was clear that
she would never be content to live conventionally as an
Indian princess. The three girls were good friends and I
was extremely proud of them.

After another year in India, I decided to return to Eu-
rope for a time. My health had been poor again and the
doctors advised me to seek consultation in Europe. There
was no reason for me to remain any longer in India. I had
stayed there long enough to make my position secure. My
girls were young ladies now and were busy with their own
affairs. I would gladly have taken them to Europe with me
but the maharaja flatly refused. Legally, I had no control
over my daughters and could not take them from the coun-
try without my father-in-law's approval. We all wept when
we parted from each other but the girls were worried about
my health and were anxious for me to become completely
well again.

As for me, I was tired of being an exile in my own coun-
try. I was no longer the privileged wife of my husband, nor
did I have the status of Westerners who are divorced. I felt

as though I had been robbed of everything. In Europe and
America no one thought twice about a woman traveling
alone or with friends. In India I was an object of pity and
contempt.

I had thought much about my life in the past two years
I had spent in India. I was well aware that it was now nec-
essary to plan my future. My girls were grown and would
soon be married; they did not need me to hover over them.
My position in Kapurthala was too untenable. I could not
remain there permanently. And yet I was still a fairly
young woman; it was too soon for my life to be over.

The peace I had sought in life was not to be found. I
was tired of wandering over the earth, yet there was no
place that was home. For the moment I found the most
comfort from being with my friends. I was lonely. It was
better to be sad in the midst of gaiety than to be alone and
desperate.

I sailed from Bombay on the Italian liner, Conte Rosso,
bound for Venice. I visited Milan for some days with the
Robillants and then went by train through Switzerland to
Germany where I entered a nursing home at Freiburg in
Breisgau. There I underwent another operation and re-
mained in bed over six weeks.

It was my first and only visit to Germany. Hitler had
already come into power although I saw nothing of Nazism
in the nursing home. I had, however, heard enough about
the new order and was deeply distressed and worried.

Phillip of Hesse, who was then one of Hitler's leading
figures, sent me a basket of carnations and later called me
from Kassel. He invited me to his home, saying that he

would introduce me to Hitler and Goring. But unfortu-
nately I was too ill to travel then. If I had been able to go
I would have had the opportunity perhaps of murdering
Hitler. I should have been happy to have given my life
to save so many million others.

On my return to Paris I spent the week end at Senlis
with the Louis Bromfields. At that time he was talking
about a book on India which he believed would be a suc-
cess. Later his lovely book, The Rains Came, surpassed
even his expectations.

I visited London and then went on to the Lido in Ven-
ice. Always it was the same. Wherever I went there were
parties and gaiety but I had lost heart in entertainment.
It was something to do but my heart was not so easily
mended.

Some time before, on my first visit to America, I had
heard about the soybean as a possible way to end starva-
tion in countries such as India. I was amazed to learn at
that time of the wonderful potentialities of the bean and
of the ease with which enough could be grown to wipe out
the plague of hunger across the world. I now had an op-
portunity to visit America again and it was a chance to
find out more about this remarkable product. Perhaps, if
I couldn't find happiness in my personal life, at least I
could someday help my country.

In New York Mrs. Randolph Hearst gave a dinner and
dance in my honor in her home on Riverside Drive and I
met again the man who had introduced me to the soybean,
Armand Burke, and his Russian colleague, Dr. Horvath.
At length we discussed the possibilities of the mass produc-

tion of the soy products and I left the party fired with
enthusiasm for the whole project.

On this visit I decided to go out to the west coast. I
wanted to get a better look at America. I was shocked by
what I saw in Hollywood.

I had been invited to a house party there but after sev-
eral days I left and went to a hotel. For two days the guests
and the hosts had been drunk and behaved in a fashion I
had never seen before in all my travels. But that was only
one side of Hollywood and the one I would like to forget.

Later I was entertained by many brilliant and charming
people, including Mary Pickford, Charlie Chaplin, Doug-
las Fairbanks, and Gary Cooper. I visited the studios and
went with friends to Malibu Beach, which I found cheer-
ful but disappointing as the sea was too cold for bathing.

I flew back to New York after many hectic weeks in
Hollywood. I was there only a short time when I received
a cable from my daughter, Indira.

"I have left India without permission/' said the wire,
"and am on my way to London."

Hurriedly I made preparations to leave and took the
first boat to London. I arrived there in time to meet In-
dira. The moment we were alone she turned to me defi-
antly,

"I know you're angry," she said, "but I could not bear
India another minute."

"You cannot expect me to condone your actions. It was
wrong to defy your father and grandfather."

Indira's eyes filled with tears. Her rebellion had slipped
away and she looked like a guilty little girl.

"Can't you understand?" she pleaded. "If I had re-
mained, they would have forced me into a marriage of
grandfather's choice. I could not stand the thought of such
a marriage/'

I sighed. I knew in my heart that Indira was right. Even
as I had been, she was too rebellious to be forced into a
mold. Perhaps this way was best.

"What I don't understand," I asked, "is how did you get
the money to come to London?"

Indira looked shamefaced.

"I have been saving my allowance for years," she an-
swered. "I knew that someday I would get to London." **

Her determination astonished me. She had been plan-
ning this, then, in secret, for a long time. She knew that I
would have forbidden the project and also wanted to pro-
tect me from any accusation that I had aided her in de-
fying the maharaja.

Now that Indira had made the trip to London there was
nothing I could do but try to help her. Walter Pidgeon
gave me a letter to Alexander Korda who was kind enough
to advise her. However, he tried to discourage her acting,
he said, was a dog's life. But Indira had made up her mind
and nothing would change it.

The Royal Academy of Dramatic Art accepted Indira as
a student. At once she was absorbed in her work and
seemed happier than in many years. In the meantime, the
maharaja had stopped her state allowance. I gave her all the
money I could but she wanted as little as possible, she said.
She wanted to be independent.

I remained in London for two months and in that time I

introduced Indira to many people. They all liked her but
Indira made it clear that she wanted to become an actress
on her own; she did not want any help from anyone. She
was determined to work hard and succeed on merit; I could
not help but be proud of her.

It was my first experience of an English winter and I did
not enjoy it. As the chill, foggy days drifted by my admira-
tion for the English people grew. It was no wonder that
they were able to maintain a stoical character. To survive,
it was necessary. As for me, I came down with the flu after
only a few weeks.

I was in London the night of January 20, 1936, when the
news was flashed that King George V had died. The world
as I had known it seemed to be slipping away, not only
from death but from the changes that war and progress had
made.

After Indira was comfortably settled in rooms of her
own, I returned to India. Sushila and Ourmila were wild
with curiosity about their sister. At first I pretended to be
angry with them for they had been in Indira's confidence
for several months before she had run away. But the girls
knew that I was proud of Indira's independence and de-
lighted that she was finding happiness in her own way.

"But how does she like European clothes?" they cho-
rused.

I laughed. Indira had never been fond of Western styles.
At home she preferred jodhpurs and shorts for everyday
and a sari for more formal wear. When I saw her in Lon-
don she was wearing a European dress she had bought in
Bombay, but since Indira had little taste in clothes she was

an odd sight. I told the girls that I had scolded her when I
saw her but that she had taken it good-humoredly.

"You know I was never much for that sort of thing/' she
had answered.

Sushila and Ourmila admired Indira for her independ-
ence but they had no desire to emulate her. They were
more truly Indian girls, quiet, reserved, and without re-
bellion. Her action in leaving India as she did was incon-
ceivable to them. Neither one of my daughters would have
been capable of such independence.

But I thought as I looked at their sweet, smiling faces,
eager to hear news of their loved sister, that life would be
easier on my younger girls than on Indira. I knew because
Indira was her mother's daughter.

G/ o]

' or years Sushila and Ourmila had begged
me to take them to Europe, and now that their sister was in
London they were all the more anxious to make the trip.

"Please, please, can't we go?" they pleaded.

I looked at their bright faces, so eager for life. Nothing
could have given me greater joy than to take my daughters
and show them the foreign countries I had learned to love.
But there were many obstacles in the way.

"You cannot go," I said firmly, "without the permission
of your father and grandfather."

"We know that, Mother," answered Sushila impatiently.
"But they will give us permission."

I shook my head doubtfully. I knew the maharaja was
still furious with Indira for leaving India. It was not likely
that he would allow the girls to go to Europe.

"If you really want to make the trip," I explained, "you

must ask your grandfather. It would do no good if I inter-
vened/'

Ourmila and Sushila exchanged mischievous glances.
Ourmila giggled.

"Wait and see," she said. "We will come to Europe
with you."

I had little hope that the girls would be successful in
their venture but I had not counted on their feminine
wiles. As I learned later, they had begged and teased, cried
and pouted until their grandfather relented. He could not
resist such a barrage of femininity, not even from his own
granddaughters.

The girls enjoyed every moment of the trip. They were
especially grateful that I allowed them to dance in the
evenings. They had never had such freedom in India but I
felt it was time they left behind some of their restricting
old-fashioned rules of conduct.

We stayed in Venice for a week with my old friend, Andy
Robillant, and his second wife in their lovely palazzo. The
girls insisted on seeing everything and we spent a hectic
week visiting museums, churches, and gliding on the ca-
nals. They had never really traveled before and it was a
constant source of amazement to them to discover how
different Italy was from India. They had judged the world
by their own tiny sphere of life.

It was unfair, declared Andy Robillant, to leave Italy for
France without showing the girls more of the country.

"Yes, he is perfectly right," chorused the girls. "At least
take us to Rome."

They begged so hard to see the famous city that finally I

gave in and agreed to make the trip to Rome. It was very
difficult to get hotel accommodations, for Rome was
crowded with visitors. Hitler was expected there on an offi-
cial state visit to the king.

We finally settled ourselves in a small family hotel where
Prince Potranzie, the former governor of Rome and an old
friend of mine, had found us rooms. Our days in Rome
were just as busy as they had been in Venice in the morn-
ings the girls and I went sight-seeing; the afternoons and
evenings we devoted to social activities.

Hitler was due in Rome on May 3. The Marquise
Michiatelli invited us to tea on the occasion at the Palazzo
Buonaparte which was opposite Mussolini's Palazzo Vene-
zia. There was much excitement in Rome that day. Crowds
thronged in the streets and it was almost impossible to
make your way through the thousands of people milling
about. Fortunately, we had been given a police pass or we
might never have arrived at the Michiatellis.

There were over a hundred people there when we ar-
rived and in an hour there were more than three hundred.
Many of my friends were at the party and it was clear that
none of them, particularly the Italians, had any enthusiasm
for the German alliance.

At last the procession began in the street below. There
were many cheers but not one cheer from the whole crowd
for Hitler. They were all for King Victor and the roars of
"Viva il re!" resounded through the streets.

Later that afternoon we heard that Count Czernin, a
close friend of the Duke di Sangro's, had been arrested in
the crowd for shouting, "Down with Hitler!" Czernin was

an Austrian who had spent many years in Italy. He feared
what would happen under an alliance with Hitler.

Once again I saw Prince Phillip of Hesse but it was a
cool meeting. We were both polite but he was aware of my
views on what was happening in Germany. Phillip had
changed with the years. I remembered him as a charming
young man. Now he had become an arrogant, self-satisfied
member of the Herrenvolk.

I was glad when the party was over and relieved when
the Germans left Rome. There was something depressing
about their visit the city seemed gloomy with their pres-
ence.

I had promised the girls that they would see Naples so we
left Rome by car with several friends and motored by way
of Amalfi and Sorrento. By this time I was exhausted from
sight-seeing and even Ourmila and Sushila had begun to
tire from the trip.

We finally arrived in Paris early in May. Ourmila and I
were not well and went at once to bed. She had an acute
attack of influenza and I learned that it was necessary for
me to have another operation. We made arrangements for
the operation to take place the following month.

Indira joined us in Paris and it was a family reunion
filled with kisses and happy squeals. The girls exclaimed
over their London sister.

"She is a real European now/' they said in delight.

The three girls were overjoyed when I sent them back
to London together. They gossiped and chattered. It was a
lovely sight to see how well they got on with one another.
I felt it was best for them to be in London during my

operation and convalescence and had arranged with friends
there to look after the girls.

In August I was well again and took the girls to Monte
Carlo. They were anxious to see the famous gambling re-
sort and I had not been there for a long time. During our
stay we motored along the C6te d'Azur and I showed the
girls Cannes and the small fishing villages of St. Tropez
and St. Raphael where the red clay cliffs tumble into the
bright blue sea.

Meanwhile the Munich crisis developed. All over Eu-
rope there was talk of war. For a time in Paris there was
real panic. I could not take an optimistic view. For a long
time I had been convinced that the Germans meant busi-
ness. It was not difficult to see that war was inevitable.

I could not decide what to do about the girls. On the one
hand, I wanted to keep them away from Kapurthala and its
influences as long as possible; on the other hand, the sounds
of approaching war terrified me. In the end I talked to
many people who were convinced that war would not come
that year and I decided to keep them in Europe for at least
another ten months.

Paris in the summer of 1939 was gay; it reminded me of
1914. In a sense it was the last desperate attempt to keep
away the monster of war which was slowly beginning to
strangle the world. The girls enjoyed the gaiety and the
parties but I could not relax. Fear gnawed at my heart.

Everywhere they were saying that the Maginot line was
impenetrable. Yet there was little optimism in Paris. It was
a curious kind of atmosphere. The attitude was that war

was inevitable and yet the French refused to believe that it
would really happen.

In the beginning of September the blow fell. Hitler at-
tacked Poland and in two days Britain and France declared
war on Germany. Still people said war could not last but
by now I was really frightened.

Passage was arranged for Ourmila, Sushila, and me on an
Italian boat which was leaving for India from Venice. I
was worried about Indira and asked the maharaja to help
me get her out of England but he refused to lift a finger.
In any case, Indira had made up her mind to stay in Lon-
don. When I finally was able to get a telephone call
through the jammed wires, Indira told me that she was
driving an ambulance and was determined to remain in
England throughout the war. It was her country now, she
said with a lump in her throat, and she would not desert
it in its time of need. All my arguments to be reasonable
were in vain. In the end I had to admire the ideals of my
daughter, as well as her bravery.

Back in Kapurthala I found it difficult to settle down. I
was worried about Indira although her letters home were
cheerful and she seemed to have found a new self-con-
fidence through her war work. Still she was my child and
my heart was heavy as I read of the daily bombings which
pounded over war-torn London.

We had been home about two months when my sister,
Madhvi, wrote to me concerning my daughter, Ourmila. I
was surprised to receive her letter but before I made any
decision concerning it I consulted Ourmila.

I pointed to the letter tossed on my desk as she sat before
me, her bright face questioning.

"The Maharaja of Bhawanagar has invited us to Delhi,"
I began. "He would like to discuss the possibility of mar-
riage between you and his brother."

Ourmila looked startled.

"Is it necessary that I marry so soon?" she asked in a
frightened voice.

I patted her dark hair reassuringly and smiled at her.

"Your happiness is the most important thing in the
world to me," I told her. "You need do nothing which will
cause you pain."

Ourmila looked at me earnestly.

"I want to do what is right," she said, "and most of all I
would like to please you. Do you want me to marry him?"

I thought carefully before answering. Ourmila was a
sweet, obedient child who would put my wishes before her
own. But I only wanted her happiness.

"My darling," I answered her, "I will leave the decision
up to you. But perhaps we should visit Delhi so that you
can meet the young man for yourself."

Ourmila, all smiles again, agreed. Some days later we
went off in the spirit of adventure to see the Maharaja of
Bhawanagar and his brother.

The young man was much taken with Ourmila. I ap-
proved of him he was nice and pleasant-looking and I
liked the way he treated Ourmila. Although I could not
say Ourmila was infatuated with him, she seemed to like
the young Bhawanagar and when he formally proposed

(after obtaining his brother's consent) she accepted and
they exchanged engagement rings.

It was decided that the marriage would take place in
March. Ourmila and I returned to Kapurthala in order to
make preparations for the wedding and soon afterward
the Dewan of Bhawanagar arrived to complete the arrange-
ments.

We were discussing the wedding one morning when
the door of my study flew open and Ourmila rushed into
the room with a telegram in her hand. Her face was pale
and she was weeping.

I got out of my chair quickly and ran to Ourmila. My
heart was paralyzed with fear when I saw the telegram in
her hand. I expected the worst. I could only think of Indira
in London. Ourmila threw herself into my arms. She could
not speak but thrust the wire into my hands.

"Read it," she sobbed.

I straightened out the telegram which she had crushed
in her agitation and read it aloud.

"The Maharaja of Bhawanagar deeply regrets that the
match between my brother and Ourmila of Kapurthala
must be broken off at once ..."

The wire went on to say that his wife, the maharani, had
gone on a hunger strike in protest against her brother-in-
law marrying into the Kapurthala family because the Ka-
purthalas were Sikhs and not Rajputs. But they had been
completely aware of this from the beginning. I was at a
loss to understand what had happened.

Later I found out that the maharani had pretended to

agree to the young prince's marriage but she had had no
intention of allowing it to be consummated. She and the
dewan had plotted to embarrass her husband and his
brother. The maharani did not make her protests until
after the engagement had been announced publicly. They
succeeded. It was humiliating for the maharaja, for the
broken engagement received much newspaper publicity.

Ourmila, too, was deeply hurt by it. I wanted to comfort
her but it was difficult. Every parent longs to protect his
child from the brutality of life and to preserve the happy
innocence of babyhood. But there is no way you can pre-
vent life from moving ahead. As Ourmila sobbed in my lap
at the treachery and pain she was feeling for the first time,
I realized there was little I could do to help her. I had had
my own pain and had somehow survived. Somewhere Our-
mila would have to find her own courage to help her
through the tortures from which no human being is im-
mune.

We could talk to each other, however, and I was grateful
for that. Any small measure of comfort I could bring to my
daughter was a blessing. I was thankful that my own suf-
fering had taught me compassion for her troubles and not
bitterness. In a way, being able to help Ourmila made up a
little for the many lonely nights I had wept into my pillow,
alone and desolate. There was no way I could change my
past but I could try to give my daughter the comfort which
I had never had.

I dried Ourmila's tears and wiped her face with cool
water.

"Why are you crying, my child?" I asked her gently.
"Did you love him so much?"

Ourmila straightened up and looked at me in surprise.

"Why, no," she answered candidly. "I didn't love him."

She paused a moment and then corrected herself.

"That is, I liked him," she said. And biting her lips in
deep thought, she said, "But I cannot say I loved him."

"Then you have nothing to be sad about, have you?"
I answered her, taking her cold little hands in mine.

Ourmila stared at me a moment as if she were trying to
decide if I were right. Then she burst into tears once more.

"But I am so humiliated," she cried. "Everyone is talk-
ing about me. I cannot bear it/'

My heart went out to my child. What can you say to re-
lieve the first anguish of the young? Is there a word of com-
fort to ease the betrayal of the innocent? Ourmila was
learning, and in a shocking fashion, that the world is a cold
place and that there are those who feed on the misfortunes
of others. It would only be through more pain that she
would learn there is love and kindness as well.

"My darling Ourmila," I told her, "it will be impossible
for you to believe what I am going to tell you now and yet
someday you may find that it is so. You should be grateful
for this humiliation."

Ourmila's eyes widened in disbelief.

"Grateful?" she exclaimed* "How can you say such a
thing? Do you mean because I did not love him?"

"That is part of it," I answered. "It would have been
wrong for you to marry a man you do not love. But that has

nothing to do with the humiliation. I said that because it
is better if you can learn how little pride has to do with
happiness. I have suffered much humiliation in my life. Yet
it has taught me that strength is to be found in other places.
Pride is a crumbling rock on which to lean."

Ourmila did not answer but she seemed soothed by my
words. And in the weeks which passed she bravely tried to
have courage. She was no longer my baby. The experience
had changed her into a woman.

During the summer we spent our time in Simla in a
house loaned to us by the Maharaja of Patiala. By some
curious twist of fate, the house was but a stone's throw from
the home of our cousins, the Raja and Rani of Jubbal. Al-
though we had reconciled after my father's death, I had not
seen them since. I was aware that the raja still bitterly re-
sented my marriage into the Kapurthala family and I made
no overtures to them for that reason.

But when the raja's daughter, Ilia, was to be married,
my sister Kamla, who was staying with me in Simla, re-
ceived an invitation to the wedding. Shortly afterward,
Kamla brought the young bride to see me. After the wed-
ding I decided to call on my Jubbal cousins and an in-
vitation to tea followed. The raja and his rani received us
graciously and soon afterwards the Jubbal boys began com-
ing to our house and quickly made friends with Ourmila
and Sushila. Some weeks later I gave an afternoon party
for about fifty of the young people and the Raja of Jubbal
came with his sons.

It was during that summer that France capitulated. At
the time I had been trying to raise funds for a motor ambu-

lance to be sent to the French government and we had col-
lected a sizeable amount of money when the news came.
My poor little French maid was prostrated and refused to
eat or speak for days. My heart went out to all my friends
who were living in the terror of that dreadful defeat.

My sister Kamla, who had refused many offers of mar-
riage because she would not enter an orthodox Hindu
household, became engaged shortly after we returned to
Kapurthala. Her husband-to-be was making an excellent
career for himself in the Indian army and she was radiant
with happiness. The marriage took place in New Delhi in
November and I gave a large reception at the Imperial
Hotel for both Indian and European guests. I was touched
at the unexpected arrival of young Birendra Singh, the
fourth son of the Raja of Jubbal, who came, he said, to pay
respect to Kamla's marriage.

Shortly after the wedding I learned that a young maha-
raja wanted to discuss the possibility of an engagement to
Ourmila. Remembering the Bhawanagars, I proceeded
very cautiously but finally decided to discuss the whole idea
with Ourmila.

Ourmila blushed profusely when I told her the news. She
bent her head shyly for a moment, then lifted her chin and
gazed at me solemnly.

"I could not marry him/' she said earnestly. "You see,
I have promised to marry Birendra Singh of Jubbal/'

I was aghast at this news. I knew only too well what my
Jubbal cousins thought about the Kapurthala family. But
Ourmila would not listen to argument.

"We will wait/' she said bravely, "until the Raja of Jub-

bal gives his consent. If he refuses completely, then we will
have to marry without it."

In spite of the difficulties which lay ahead for Ourmila I
was glad for her. It was easy to see that this was a love
match. Only good could come of such strong feeling.

When Birendra Singh arrived in Kapurthala I had a
long talk with him. He was both straightforward and ar-
dent. He told me that he had not approached his parents
on his marriage and I persuaded him to wait a year before
doing so. Ourmila and he would be allowed to correspond
freely and to see each other whenever possible. Then if
they still felt the same after twelve months, he was to seek
his parents' permission to marry her. Birendra Singh told
me that he was deeply in love with Ourmila and that the
separation was a cruelty but he promised to do as I wished.

It was at this time that I had a partial reconciliation with
my father-in-law. I had heard rumors that he desired such
a reconciliation and I had already forgiven him the pain he
had caused me in my life. Many times I had had bitter
thoughts toward him but in the end I realized that he could
not help himself. He was not equipped to have lived other-
wise and in his own way he had done his best.

One afternoon as I was walking in my garden the maha-
raja's car drew up. He got out and walked slowly toward
me. I had not seen him for several years and I was shocked
at the change in his appearance. His vigor and self-assur-
ance were gone and he was an aged, tired man. I could not
help but pity him.

Yet his greeting was characteristic of our whole relation-
ship.

No sooner had we exchanged a few pleasantries when he

said, "I must congratulate you on marrying off your broth-
ers and sisters so well. I hope you can do the same for
Sushila and Ourmila; otherwise they will follow the ex-
ample of Indira."

For a moment my temper flared as it had in the old days
but I was able to control myself now. I tried to answer
calmly.

"You must know/' I said, "that the girls are free to marry
men of their own choice. Otherwise it would be better for
them not to marry at all."

"Hmmph," said maharaja but he did not press the point.

He, too, was tired of war and was ready for a reconcilia-
tion with me at last.

At the end of June, Ourmila's fianc6 came up on a ten-
day leave. Now that he was in the army and about to go on
active service he was determined to marry Ourmila at once.
He admitted that he had begged his parents' permission
but although his mother was willing, my cousin, the Raja
of Jubbal, absolutely refused to hear of it. Birendra Singh
had made up his mind to marry Ourmila in spite of his
father's refusal and since Ourmila pleaded with me, too, I
felt I could not stand in their way. So I gave my consent to
an immediate wedding.

There were only four days at our disposal; I had no time
to invite anyone formally. My husband and father-in-law
wired their consent to the marriage from Kashmir but
would not be able to arrive in time for the ceremony. In
the breathless hum of activity, I invited over a hundred
people verbally and the wedding turned out to be a success-
ful and joyful occasion.

The next day Ourmila and Birendra Singh left for Bom-

bay where he had to rejoin his regiment. Just before we
parted, Ourmila came into my room. She was beautiful
with the happiness of a bride. She threw her arms around
me and kissed me. She was crying and laughing at the same
time.

"You've been so good to me, Mother/' she said. "How
can I ever thank you for giving me this happiness?"

There was no answer to make to my child. I had already
had my reward. It was enough to see her happy in a way
I had never known.

CXVs

I look back now on the days of the sec-
ond world war, they seemed to fly by, but at the time it was
not so. For us, as everywhere else outside of India, they
were harassing years, filled with apprehension.

But even from such times come some good memories.
Early in the war my daughter Sushila fell in love with the
brother of the Maharaja of Bharatpur. Girraj Saran Singh
was a bright young officer in the Royal Indian Air Force.
When he proposed to Sushila I felt that he was too young
for immediate marriage but he declared if he were not
allowed to marry Sushila at once he would go up in his
airplane and never come down again! Shushu seemed in
love and happy at the thought of marriage to her young
man and I could not deny them my consent. However, I
stipulated that the matter would have to be discussed with
the Maharaja of Bharatpur before it was settled.

I met the maharaja in Delhi. We agreed that the mar-
riage would take place but we completely disagreed on one
point. The maharaja wanted my assurance that Sushila
would consent to remain in purdah whenever she was in
the state of Bharatpur.

"How can you even suggest such a thing?" I asked.

The maharaja shrugged his shoulders.

"I'm afraid that must be part of our agreement/' he
answered.

"Then Sushila may not marry your brother," I answered
sharply. "For I would never give my consent to such an
outdated and outrageous idea. All my life I have fought
against purdah!"

I was genuinely shocked at his demands. It was bad
enough that I had had to endure some of the stigma of
Indian womanhood I could not possibly condone it for
my daughter. I was also surprised at the maharaja. He had
spent twelve years in England during his education surely
this was not the result?

In the end, the Maharaja of Bharatpur gave in and I
conceded that on state occasions Shushu would not drive in
an open car or carriage through the streets of Bharatpur.

Through all the negotiations Sushila floated in a state of
joyfulness. She was not interested in our discussions of her
marriage; she had only eyes for her young husband-to-be.
The wedding took place in Kapurthala several months
later; because of the war it was a simple, quiet ceremony.

About a year later a son, Arnep Singh, was born to
Sushila and in 1944 Ourmila gave birth to a daughter. It
was hard to believe that I was a grandmother already but it

was a delight beyond anything I had yet experienced. In a
sense I enjoyed being with my children's babies more than
I had when the girls were small. Perhaps the removal of
one generation makes for more understanding. When I was
bearing children I was so absorbed in my own problems
that I was not always able to enjoy their care. Now it was
different. In a way my life was solved. I could get pleasure
from simpler pursuits.

I spent much of my time in war work and in the political
problems of India. There was so much to be done. I was
still actively trying to develop the soybean. It seemed to
me that a starving nation could not begin to think until its
stomach was full. But it was difficult to do it by myself.
Everywhere I went I found indifference and even obstacles
put in my way.

The more I learned about my country, the more shocked
I became. I realized that there are more than sixty million
untouchables almost half of the population of the United
States. These people cannot work in any but the most
menial jobs and are not allowed to come into contact in
any way with the rest of the vast population of India. Most
of them are starving and their little children lie on the hot,
dusty streets of India with their stomachs bulging from
malnutrition and their eyes cloudy with hopelessness.

And yet, as a woman, it seemed I could do little. Even
the men who had accomplished so much for my country
were often helpless before the enormity of the problem. I
was particularly awed by the work of Nehru and admired
the leadership he had shown in our country.

I met Pandit Nehru the first time at a dinner given at

the Nepal Consulate. He was a striking-looking man with a
moody face and a temperamental manner. But from the
first word his brilliance was immediately evident.

He was not interested in social conversation and we dis-
cussed the problems of educating masses of illiterate people
who were wary of knowledge, as if it were an evil spirit. I
agreed with his ideas completely and yet it was hard to see
how they could be accomplished at least in our lifetimes.

"The independence of India is a good thing," I said to
Nehru. "But in order for it to work, India will need fifty
thousand Nehrus to rule it."

I met Nehru for the second time at a large garden party
where hundreds of Indians and Europeans were gathered.
He did not smile at all that day but seemed to be irritated.
He looked so angry I was nearly afraid to greet him but I
had enjoyed our first talk so much I finally got up the cour-
age to walk over to him.

"I despise these parties/' he told me and he seemed so
angry that his hands could scarcely hold the teacup.

"It is crowded," I answered innocently.

He put down his cup and turned to me, nearly glaring.

"It's not that," he answered. "What I can't understand is
how people can have these parties when the world is in
upheaval."

I could not resist teasing this stern man.

"Then why do you come here?" I asked him demurely.

For a moment Nehru looked severe. Then his eyes
twinkled and he smiled at me. After that I had the courage
to tell him a few words about my soybean project.

Mr. Nehru listened to me and then said, "I cannot attend
to everything. Go and see my Food Minister."

"But he will never believe me," I said.

"Use my name and tell him I asked you to see him," Mr.
Nehru said kindly.

I did see him and found Mr. Munshi sympathetic to my
plan.

It was a great occasion meeting Mahatma Gandhi, a
man for whom I had always had the most enormous amount
of admiration. I could not agree with him on everything for
it seemed to me that he overlooked the fact that it is not
easy for man to become perfect. The Mahatma's own strug-
gle for perfection was so much fulfilled that few others have
the will or ability to become as saintly as he.

Once I questioned him about the unrest of the people.

"Perhaps it would have been kinder/' I said, "to have be-
gun with the education of the upper class. The poor have
become discontented but they do not seem to be better off.
Would not the other way have been better?"

Gandhi frowned a moment before answering.

"Reform cannot come from the upper class," he said.
"They have nothing to gain by it. It must come from the
people who are downtrodden."

I realized the truth in what he said. And yet I wondered
how long it would take to change a country as backward as
India. Out of four hundred million people there are not
three million who are really educated.

After the war was over I returned to Europe. I was
shocked by the changes I found there. Europe seemed de-
feated and broken in a way I had never dreamed possible.
The war had taken a toll in the spirit of the people. Every-
where was confusion. I could see that a new era was be-
ginning and that the world I had known was fast disappear-

ing. No one could say for sure which way of life was better.
Times of transition always bring turmoil, and Europe
seemed completely disrupted after its toil of war*

In India everything was changed as well* When I went
back to Kapurthala after two years in Europe and America,
I found the state nearly in ruins. The terrible famine after
the war had brought devastation and disease to my country.
I wept when I saw my little home in Kapurthala. My small
garden was gone, dried up and run over with weeds. The
house was dilapidated and the servants had fled to Pakistan.
The surrounding villages were empty and desolate it was
almost as though an earthquake had destroyed the country.

My father-in-law seemed old and sick. I wanted to discuss
the dreadful conditions in Kapurthala but he was too ill to
be rational. The maharaja was living in the past; he could
only speak of the good days.

As I looked at his exhausted, lined face, I could see the
pallor of death beginning to creep over his features. He
babbled incessantly about returning to Europe and Amer-
ica and made plans for the years ahead as if he expected to
live forever. I could not help but feel sorry for him. He
was suffering agonies but his pride would not let him
admit it.

I left Kapurthala for Bharatpur where I stayed two
months. I returned home in order to see my father-in-law
who had written me to come and see him before he went
to Europe. I was dismayed that he was planning to make
such a trip. He looked more aged than in the months past
and I advised him to remain at home with his nurses and
doctors. But he was determined to go.

It was necessary for him to have an operation and he
wanted to have the surgery done in France. He planned to
leave Kapurthala for Bombay in March and sail from there
to Europe, He seemed worried this time about his health
but his fear drove him to exert himself as if not giving in
would save his life. It was a dreadful sight to see the
shaking old man of seventy-seven pull himself out of bed
and try to walk to his chair. During my visit he had all his
famous white teeth pulled and although he was brave I
could see what an emotional shock it had been.

When I said good-by to him, I bent down and kissed
his cheek for the first time in many years. I suddenly had
the feeling that I would never see him again and in spite
of the differences we had had through the years, I had
known the maharaja all my life. I did not respect him but
he was part of my world and despite all his faults and mis-
takes he always was a sincere champion of India. He had
done much abroad to create goodwill toward our country.

I was in Cooch-Behar when my father-in-law made his
trip to Bombay. I planned to stay in Cooch-Behar until
June and was trying to arrange a trip to America via Hono-
lulu when I received a telegram from Bombay. My father-
in-law had died there.

My daughter called me from Simla and told me to go
immediately to Kapurthala as the cremation would take
place there. I tried to book passage on a plane but because
of the heavy monsoon, all planes were grounded. The best
I could do was to travel by train. It was a long, slow journey
and before we reached Calcutta we had to change three
times. In Calcutta I received a wire from my husband that

his father's body had been flown on a special chartered
plane from Bombay and that by the time I reached
Kapurthala the ceremonies would be over. On that ac-
count, he advised me to change my plans and join my
daughter in Simla.

I canceled all the arrangements I had made for my trip
to America. My position would now be that of maharani.
It would be necessary for me to remain in India to help
my husband settle certain affairs of family.

When I returned to Kapurthala I saw my husband and
we discussed his father for a long time. The late maharaja
had not been a wise ruler, yet there had been much against
him from the start. At the age of five his parents had died
and he became the ruling power in the hands of unscrupu-
lous guardians. His education had been haphazard and his
moral upbringing completely neglected. Was it little won-
der that he had turned from his duties as monarch to the
pursuit of pleasure in the capitals of Europe?

I remember conversations I had had with the maharaja
on the subject, when I urged him to look around him and
see the havoc which was being wrought by his incompetent
ministers.

"L'6tat> c'est moil" he would say. "Apres moi le deluge."

I could not help showing my anger at this.

"Are you content for your son to be a second Louis
Seize?" I retorted.

But the maharaja only shook his head and laughed
heartily. When he was not angry at my seriousness, he was
amused by it.

But now his reign was over and with it a new day had

come for India. Now that she had gained her independence
another era was beginning. I wondered how my husband
would fare in his lifetime.

As for me, I was still a wanderer. I was no longer of the
East nor was I able to accept completely the tempo of a
Western culture into which I had not been born. In a
sense, the pleasure of traveling had slipped away even as
my youth had gone. Now I saw that in some way every
place was the same, that the problems of living were similar
for people of all lands, and that wherever you went,
whether it was a magic island set in the blue crystal sea of
the Mediterranean or in the middle of the desert with the
hot sands howling about, getting through each twenty-four
hours of a day was the most a human being could expect
from life.

Once again I turned to my religion for comfort. The
spirit of the Gita had somehow eluded me throughout my
lifetime yet this time there was no conflict. I did not have
to relinquish the world; it had already happened without
any effort on my part. I began to see that there is no way
you can give up desire. If you are patient, desire will give
you up.

As I read, I wondered if I had ever known love. Love,
says the Gita, knows no bargaining. Wherever there is any
seeking for something in return, there can be no real love;
it becomes a mere matter of shopkeeping. Nor does love
know fear, for true love casts out all terror.

Such love between men and women seems almost an im-
possibility. Perhaps the closest I came to it was with my
children. With them I was able to love, expecting nothing

in return. I did not even want them to look back in my
direction; I only wanted them to go forward to find their
own happiness.

Some months after the death of my father-in-law I made
a trip to London to see my daughter Indira. Sushila and
Ourmila were settled and happy now. They had children
and seemed satisfied and contented with the way their lives
had gone.

But Indira had always worried me. As much as I wanted
her happiness I was always nagged by the thought that she
would not find it easily. She was too much like me.

I went at once to her tiny apartment in London. It was
bleak and rather cheerless in the fashion of many English
flats and Indira seemed quieter and, I thought, sadder than
when I had last seen her.

But she protested when I remarked on it.

"No, Mother," she said quickly. "I am quite well and
happy. You must not worry about me."

But a mother's intuition cannot be so easily dismissed.

"Indira," I asked her, "I know that something is wrong.
Perhaps I can help you. Won't you tell me?"

Indira walked to the other end of the room, where she
stood near a window. She did not look at me.

"You can't know what it has been like," she said. "It has
been so difficult."

"Life is not easy for anyone," I answered.

Indira shook her head. "That's not so," she retorted.
"My own sisters, Sushila and Ourmila, are not so tor-
mented as L"

"You cannot make yourself be what you are not. You
did not want a conventional family life. You wanted to be
an actress."

"Yes," answered Indira. "I wanted to be an actress. But
I am not an actress. The theater is so difficult. I have not
had the success I wanted. All I have is a stupid little job
with a photographer."

"Dearest Indira," I said as gently as I could. "Life holds
no guarantee. You did the best you could. And if you failed
it was not because you did not try. It was only because
things sometimes work out that way."

"I guess you are right," she said slowly. "I was not con-
tent to remain in India and marry like my sisters. I would
never have been happy that way."

"You see, my child," I told her, "we must all fulfill our
own destinies. You could not fight your ambition and in-
telligence. You had to break away and rebel in your own
way."

Indira nodded.

"You must never regret it," I added. "All you can do is
go and try to find happiness where it lies for you. Do not
envy others. Their solution would grwe you nothing."

"Your life has not been an easy one," said Indira in sud-
den compassion. "How did you stand it?"

I thought for a moment. I did not know myself how I
had been able to come through certain devastating ex-
periences. And yet the courage to live had come from
somewhere, probably from my atavism centuries of
Hindu patience, forbearance, and equanimity.

"Even now," I said, "although I am older and more set-
tled, life is never static. There is always some problem to
be faced from day to day."

Indira stood up and pressed her hands to her forehead.
"But why is it that nothing seems to be going right for
me?"

I caught Indira by the arm and turned her so that she
faced me.

"You see," I said, "that is exactly what I mean. And you
must not blame yourself. For that is what life is like. You
must go on, knowing that there will always be something."

I kissed Indira tenderly good-by. But in my heart I knew
she would not change. Her life would be filled with
the samd rebellion and expectations I had known. I knew
that her sisters did have an easier lot because of their
simple natures.

But I also knew that there was no other way for Indira.
She would have to find herself. My sighs were for the suf-
fering which lay ahead. But I believed that someday she,
too, even as I, would find the peace that goes beyond pain.