Rebel Queen (12 page)

I bowed my head. “It would be my pleasure, Your Highness.”

If you can imagine a fish taken from a tiny bowl and released into a giant pond, then you know how I felt that first time, bathing with the women of the Durga Dal.

I watched as a servant tenderly washed the rani’s hair while another scrubbed her skin. It was almost impossible to tell that the rani was with child. Her body was still slender; only her full breasts gave any indication that she might soon give the kingdom of Jhansi a boy, its long-awaited heir. The raja’s first wife had failed to give him a child. When she died, he took years before he chose our rani. And since then, nine years had passed. Which obviously meant that the problem was with him. I looked nervously at the other girls in the tub, hoping none of them could read my disloyal thoughts.

But they were all occupied with talking or bathing. Only Sundari was silent, quietly looking across the chamber at the three servants who were carefully arranging silver boxes, spacing them out on a long marble table. As they opened each box, I could see the expensive contents inside: English lace, ruby hairpins, gold anklets with emerald charms.

It seemed impossible that only a day ago I was squatting in my courtyard with an old bucket and a rag. But what seemed even more impossible was that I had never questioned that bathing could be any other way. What else would I discover in Jhansi that would make life in Barwa Sagar seem small?

As soon as the other women began to climb out of the water, I stepped out of the bath, too, and let a servant help me back into my robe as the others did. We left the queen and returned in a group
to the Durgavas; the sound of our bare feet slapping against the marble made me think of small whips being cracked. Someone was going to have the job of cleaning up all the water we left behind.

When we reached our room, Jhalkari went straight to her wooden chest to pull something out. “I don’t have the right coloring for this shade of green,” she said, handing me an angarkha made of rich, jade silk and stitched in gold. She waited while I tried it on.

“It’s lovelier than anything I’ve ever owned,” I admitted. The feel of the silk against my skin was as wonderful as the hot bathwater we’d just been in.

“Keep it,” Jhalkari said. “Pay me when you can.”

“But I might never—”

“Whenever you can,” she repeated. “I don’t wear it.”

A growing sense of uneasiness settled over me. I had fallen for Kahini’s trick, and she had almost cost me my place in the Durga Dal.

Jhalkari read my thoughts. “Don’t worry. I’m not Kahini. You don’t know that now, but you will. Although you’d also be smart to take Sundari-ji’s advice about friends and enemies.”

“How did you hear—”

“I didn’t. She gave the same advice to me. She had other things to say as well.” She hesitated, debating whether or not to tell me. “She also said that everyone is surprised the first time they see the raja, so prepare to conceal your emotions when you enter the Durbar Hall.”

W
e walked up to the fourth floor of the palace and passed through a pair of heavy gold curtains into a sandalwood-and-
camphor scented chamber. A giant throne rose from a platform in the middle of the room like a bejeweled mountain of gold. Before it, red silk cushions were arranged like a fan, above it was a canopy of rich velvet cloth.

“The throne once belonged to Sheo Rao Bhao,” Jhalkari whispered to me. “The raja’s father.”

Rugs as thick as a sheep’s fleece were spread across the floor, dyed red and gold and woven into stunning patterns. In a windowless niche, a pair of female musicians played the sitar and the veena. There was so much to see, and hear, and smell. But I couldn’t take my eyes from the man on the throne himself. Raja Gangadhar had long hair that flowed past his shoulders and curled around heavy gold chains that he wore on his chest. Jewels shimmered from his thin hands, his slender wrists, his ears, his turban—even his waist. And he was dressed in the most elaborate kurta I had ever seen.

Jhalkari nudged me forward; I hadn’t even realized I’d stopped walking.

A handsome young
chauri
bearer stood at the Gangadhar’s side, holding the ceremonial silver-handled whisk that represents a raja’s right to rule. The
chauri
bearer’s dress was slightly less ostentatious, and the pair looked like colorful birds on a perch. A heavily latticed ivory partition was set up next to the raja. Behind this sat a small throne and a dozen silk cushions.

I asked Jhalkari, “Why must the rani be in purdah here?”

“For show. The raja thinks it makes the durbar seem more mysterious.” She emphasized the word
mysterious
—as if the screen was some flight of fancy.

The rani took her place on the throne, but she didn’t seem inconvenienced. Then as soon as we were seated, she leaned close to the lattice to look out at the people who were assembling before
the stage. I say stage, because this is really what it was. A cast of characters streamed through the door: soldiers, advisers, who knew who else—and the most elaborately dressed men sat in front of the platform just below the raja. I recognized the Dewan, and later, I would become familiar with the others—advisers Lakshman Rao and Lalu Bakshi, the general Jawahar Singh.

Then the public was allowed into the hall, and soon there was a crowd.

The young
chauri
bearer bowed reverently before the royal couple. Then, with a wild flourish he announced, “His Royal Highness, the humble and honorable Maharaja Gangadhar Rao of Jhansi.”

Gangadhar rose and bowed before his throne, thanking the gods, and in particular Mahalakshmi, for placing him there. Then he faced the room and solemnly placed his hand over his heart. “People of Jhansi, we are here for you. What can we do?”

A great number of voices rose in response, and the raja chose one of the youngest men in the crowd to go first.

“In the field behind my house, the British have slaughtered two cows and are using their skins to make shoes.”

There were murmurs of horror. Certainly, we Hindus wear leather, but only from cows that have met natural deaths.

“Where is your house?” the rani asked from behind her latticed screen.

“To the north of Mahalakshmi Temple, near the shrine to Ganesh.”

“We will meet with British officials tomorrow,” the rani promised. “There will be no more slaughter in Jhansi.”

“Who else?” asked the raja, strutting like a peacock up and down the stage. “You.” He chose another young man from the front.

And for every petitioner the raja chose after that, it was the rani
who answered and made the ruling. Interesting things happened during that first durbar—decisions about the digging of a new well, and whether the raja would buy his twenty-third elephant (the rani said no)—but the image of the bejeweled raja strutting before his silk and velvet throne is the memory that stands out to me the most. At the conclusion of the durbar, several advisers gathered around the rani to ask her advice about daily matters, but no one asked the raja for an opinion. Meanwhile, the raja chatted merrily with his young
chauri
bearer, making him laugh.

“Your first durbar,” Jhalkari said as we left the hall for our next destination: again feeding the poor at the Mahalakshmi Temple. Her tone suggested she expected me to pass judgment on it, but I had learned my lesson. All I said was, “Yes.”

“Not what you imagined, was it?” She filled the silence.

I looked at her and felt that she was being genuine. But I held my counsel.

“Last year, a British general mistook the raja for a woman,” she whispered. “And can you imagine the rani’s shock when she came here to marry him?”

I shook my head. I could not.

T
hat evening, the queen’s room was brightly illuminated with hanging lamps. The other Durgavasi had taken up spots on cushions around the fountain. Paper and pens had been provided on small tables and they were all engaged in writing letters. Sundari led me to a fine silk cushion next to the rani, where I sat cross-legged and arranged my hands in my lap. As she had requested earlier in the bath, I was going to read for her in English.

“Your Highness,” said Sundari. “I will fetch the Master of the Letters.”

The man she escorted inside was as short and thin as a river reed, and with just as many knots in his body. His face revealed he could not have been older than forty, but the way his bones poked out, you would have thought he was a knobbly old man of sixty-five. He pressed his hands together in namaste, and then made the deepest bow before the rani I had seen so far.

“The day’s letters, Your Highness. Along with the two you requested from Major Ellis.”

“Thank you, Gopal.”

“And would Your Highness like me to read them?” he asked with a look of such eager expectation that telling him no would almost seem cruel.

“Today, my newest guardswoman, Sita, will be reading them.”

Gopal looked as if I had stolen the food from his bowl. “You can read and write in English?”

“Yes.”

He looked down at the rani. “Perhaps Her Highness wishes me to stay, in case anything should be misinterpreted.”

The rani smiled. “That’s a fine idea,” she said, although I felt certain she only said this to be kind. “Sundari, bring in another cushion.”

A seat was arranged to her left, and Gopal handed me the letters with the same enthusiasm he might have shown if handing over the keys to his house. I unfolded Major Ellis’s missive and read, “From Major Ellis.” When I translated this into Marathi, the rani shook her head.

“English only. I am learning.”

I continued reading in English. The letter was about Indian soldiers who were serving with the British army stationed in Jhansi. They had joined the British because the pay was regular and good. The British called them sepoys. The letter said that there was grow
ing discontent among these men. British officers had ordered all sepoys to erase the red caste marks from their foreheads, shave their beards, and remove their gold earrings. The sepoys had accepted this, but now, even more British regulations were causing outrage.

Instead of allowing the sepoys to wear turbans, the men had been issued leather caps. And if that wasn’t insulting enough, the cartridges being used in their new Enfield rifles were smeared with the fat of both pigs and cows. Now, perhaps these things are not so shocking in England. But here in India, we Hindus do not butcher our sacred cows to make hats or cartridges out of them. And if you are a Muslim, as some of the sepoys were, then the idea of handling any part of a pig is more than just insulting; it is an act against the Sacred Law of Islam. What made it even worse was that in order to load these fat-smeared cartridges, the sepoys—Hindu and Muslim alike—had to bite them open with their teeth. So what Major Ellis wanted to know was this: could the rani calm these irrational sepoys down?

“It is only a little fat,” he wrote, “and nothing to be terribly alarmed about.”

It seemed interesting to me that Major Ellis had addressed his request to the rani, and not to the raja. But when I handed the letter back to Gopal, he did not seem surprised by this.

“So was her English acceptable?” the rani asked.

The Master of the Letters arranged his features into a somewhat less sour look. “Your new guardswoman’s ability to read English is beyond any doubt,” he said.

“Shall we write a response?”

I had never seen a man move so quickly. Before the rani could specify which one of us should write the letter, Gopal had already
taken a pen and paper from his bag.

The rani caught my eye, and I understood at once that she knew Gopal was foolish, but was willing to humor him anyway.

“Shall I begin with the regular greeting?” Gopal said.

“No. Only one line will do this time. He thinks our traditions are irrational, so I want you to write: ‘It is only a little mutiny, Major Ellis, and nothing to be terribly alarmed about.’ ”

Gopal laughed loudly. “Oh, that’s very clever, Your Highness. A little mutiny!”

“There is talk of mutiny?” Sundari cut through his laughter. She didn’t speak English and hadn’t understood the letter. But she knew enough to guess. “The sepoys are angry about the cartridges.”