Many of our customs are full of colour and life, but few people of the West realise their inner and more sacred meanings. By the foreigner we are regarded more often than not as picturesque figures with a background of elephants, tigers and temples, and the poetry of our mythology is missed by the globe-trotter and the official. I have heard Lakshmi the Luck-bringer described as “odd-looking,” Kali as a “monstrosity,” and the figure of Ganesh as “an extraordinary-looking image.” Symbolism is not understood by those people who call our jewels “bits of glass,” and our gold “brassy.” I wish I could make Europeans realise how proud India is of her women, and how well they have merited her pride. Perhaps few of my readers know any of the stories of the devotion of mothers and wives which is shown daily in the shadow of the purdah.

“Oh, but you ladies can’t really know what love means,” once remarked a pretty Englishwoman. This sweeping statement is about as absurd and false as the Maharajah of musical comedy or the Anglo-Indian novel, but like most absurdities it has been taken seriously, with the result that many Englishwomen have no idea of the love that exists between Indian wives and their husbands.

One of my cousins married a rich young man when she was quite a little girl. After a few years he died leaving no child. The young widow went back to her mother and lived the life of a poor woman in her father’s house. She only ate one meal of vegetables at mid-day. During the cold months a single blanket was her only covering, and in the hot weather she slept upon a coarse mat.

She prayed for hours. She was lovely to behold and her sweetness made her beloved by every one. Yet, from sheer devotion to her husband’s memory, this delicately brought up girl chose to lead the life of a servant. It was her tribute to him, the offering of herself.

The question will naturally arise as to what good resulted from this penance, but it proved (according to her views) my cousin’s love for her husband, and it showed that she lived up to the traditions of wifely devotion which are taught us from our infancy.

Every province has its own marriage customs, and child marriages in Bengal are still most picturesque, although I am sorry to say that some of the pageantry and the tender sentiment associated with it, is gradually disappearing. A girl is always married in the home of her parents, and she fasts the whole day. In the evening married ladies dress the little bride artistically in new clothes and new jewellery. The air is sweet with perfumes. Flowers are everywhere. The murmur of many voices rises and falls, and suddenly the conch shells are sounded by the ladies of the house, announcing the arrival of the bridegroom.

What a supreme moment for the little bride! Her heart beats fast beneath the stiff golden embroideries, and the new jewellery suddenly becomes as heavy as lead. “What will he think of me?” Anxious and perplexed she goes through the Vasan ceremony, which is performed by the ladies in the courtyard; but she is keenly alert when she is placed on a piece of wood and, thus seated, is carried by young relations and friends to meet her lord and master. The procession passes round the bridegroom and the bearers hold the bride up in front of him. A scarf is thrown over the pair and their eyes meet for the first time.

The marriage is not concluded until the morning of the second day, when the bridegroom takes the bride to his father’s house, and this affords an opportunity for the hospitality the Indian delights to show. For a mile or two the route taken by the wedding procession is sometimes sprinkled with rose-water, and the lights flash. “It is a son who is getting married,” says the proud father, and he remembers with satisfaction that this home-coming has been fixed for a lucky day and a lucky hour. The bride must also be lucky, for does she not walk gently and speak gently? And is not her forehead of the right shape? Certainly she has not the prominent forehead that brings bad luck.

When the bride arrives at her future home, her husband’s sisters throw water and money under the palki, and the jewel-covered little girl is lifted out by her mother-in-law and placed upon a large plate filled with milk and alta (a sort of rose-coloured confection), upon which she stands until the marriage ceremony is over. Then the newly-married couple sit upon a new cloth and receive presents and blessings from the bridegroom’s friends and relations.

“May you speak like honey,” whispers a maiden as she touches the pretty lips of the bride with honey. “May you hear sweetness like honey,” she continues, as she drops honey into the small ears. Then the bridegroom’s mother comes forward, gives the bride a pair of bangles and lifts the head-dress which hides her face. As she does this the guests have an opportunity of seeing the blushing little face, and begin to praise her looks, the mother-in-law meanwhile saying, “This is my Lakshmi” (goddess of luck).

On the third day gifts arrive from the bride’s father: gifts of jewels, dresses, sweets, scents, soaps—sometimes to the number of five hundred or a thousand. Porters bring them in and the bride and bridegroom change into the new robes. This ceremony is called the Feast of Merriment, for everyone is gay. On the third evening there is another ceremony called the “Fullsaya” (flower ceremony), when the bride is adorned with flowers and the rooms are filled with them. The meaning of this is: Nature with flowers comes to bless the newly united couple.

We thought more of New Year’s Day than Christmas Day, probably because that was my father’s custom. On New Year’s Day we gave each other presents, had dinner parties and sent sweets, fruits, and vegetables to friends. Since we lost my father we have regarded New Year’s Day as of more importance than ever, because it is the day on which he opened the Sanctuary at Lily Cottage and preached there his last sermon.

We have a festival which is sometimes held in February, sometimes in March, according to the moon, called “Hooly.” It was founded in honour of the Hindu god Krishna, and is one of the most enjoyable days in a Hindu household. Buckets and huge tumblers are filled with rose-water which is coloured with red powder. Then the ladies in all the different courtyards load syringes with the red liquid and, singing and dancing, maid and mistress, old and young, relations and friends, squirt each other amid screams of delight. Afterwards presents of garments are made all round, for the old saris are stained with red. The servants who cannot play put a little red powder on their master’s and mistress’s feet. This festival is known as the Merry Festival.

In India, religious festival days are chiefly distinguished by their entertainments. My readers will perhaps be surprised at this, but it is true. On festival days banana trees are placed on each side of the house door, and, at the foot of the trees, large earthern pitchers filled with water, and a big cocoa-nut. These are the lucky signs denoting an auspicious occasion. A band plays during the whole of the festival. Every one’s house is open to rich and poor. Every one receives presents, often very valuable, and no one is too poor to receive something.

Some years ago a poor Brahmin wanted to have durga puja; he was so poor that he had to beg from door to door in order to get a little money to buy the puja articles and to entertain at breakfast and dinner the people who came to see the goddess. This time he could only obtain very little money, but still he invited a small number of guests and when they arrived they were surprised to find the goddess not properly dressed. “How is it,” they asked severely, “that the goddess is left like this?” The poor Brahmin said: “I am a poor son of my Mother, and my Mother knows it; I haven’t money with which to dress her. The little I had I used to entertain my guests; if I had had more I would have invited more guests.”

There is another festival in India called “Bhaikota,” which is held in the autumn, in October or November, and is in honour of brothers. Early in the morning sisters bathe, put on new saris and wait for their brothers. When the brothers are seated, their sisters take small cups of sandalwood paste and with their little fingers put small paste marks on the foreheads of their brothers, saying, “As I put this mark on my brother’s forehead may there be no thorns at the door of Death. As Death is deathless, may my brother be deathless.” When the sisters say these words the conch shells are blown, and they give presents to their brothers, and to their cousins, generally of clothes. This ceremony is to show what a heavenly relationship there is between a brother and a sister. The younger sister touches the feet of the elder brother, and the elder sister puts her hands on the younger brother and blesses him.

“Jamai Tashti” is the name of a ceremony for sons-in-law. The wife’s parents invite their sons-in-law to their house and the mother-in-law, in a long head-dress, brings presents and puts them in front of the sons-in-law. It is a great day for the younger brothers- and sisters-in-law, they are full of tricks.

I remember once, with some of my girl friends, playing tricks on our cousins-in-law. We made a dish of straw and prepared betel-leaf with all sorts of rubbish, such as peelings of nuts, etc., and the cousins had to eat it, as if they give in or say anything it means that they lose and others gain.

Between April and May there is a great festival, called “Poonyah” (the Day of Good Luck). On this day the Maharajah sits on the throne, and all the high officials, the jemindars and the heads of the districts come. It is a grand sight; the Maharajah in his gold-embroidered robes, and all the men in their State garments. The Dewan of the State sits opposite the Maharajah and on either side of him, covered with cloth, are two pitchers in which the money is put. In front are lights in little earthern vessels. After the Maharajah has taken his seat all the landlords and officials present their tribute in little bundles, which are handed to the Dewan, who puts them into the pots. Music is played the whole time outside. Then the personal staff offer His Highness attar, and flowers and betel-leaf, in golden vessels, making the same offering afterwards to the princes and to the Maharajah’s wife and mother, after which the same offerings are made in silver vessels to the officials and landlords. My husband was, I think, the only Maharajah who never had nautch girls or actresses at his Court, and the ladies of the palace always sat in the balcony screened off. After the ceremony was over we had musical parties, or open-air theatricals known as jatras, but there were no actresses in them.

Later on, when my husband had this festival, my four handsome sons, three in their Indian costumes and Rajey in the Royal Yeomanry uniform, looked fine. After the official tributes had been offered the four boys went up the steps of the throne on which their father was seated and with bent heads paid their homage, and my husband put his hand on each son’s head in turn and blessed him. Some English people who were present on one of these occasions said they had never seen anything so attractive and so touching.