Rebel Queen (28 page)

We were expected to stand in front of our chairs and wait until another black-suit pushed them forward after we seated ourselves. My place was near Arjun, and across from us were the empty chairs for the queen and her husband, Prince Albert. As I reached forward to take the cream-colored napkin from the table, as Mrs.
McEgan had instructed us back home, another man arrived. He was unbelievably handsome—Indian, but dressed in an Englishman’s clothes. His suit had two tails following behind him like a pair of ducks. I had never seen an Indian man in formal British clothing before.

A black-suit led him across the room, and all of the women paid attention as he walked. When he arrived at the seat next to me, he pressed his hands together in namaste and made a polite bow.

“I heard that the Rani of Jhansi was sending ambassadors to England,” he said, “but I had no idea they would be so beautiful.”

He looked from me to Jhalkari, who was seated on the other side of Arjun, and I’m sure I turned several shades of pink. Then this Indian man took my hand and kissed the top of it. I had never been treated with such disrespect. Arjun rose from his seat, and several of the guards around the table did the same.

“It’s an English tradition,” the man assured them with an amused look.

There was deep alarm on the British guests’ faces; they had no idea what was happening.

“Molesting a woman is not a tradition in
any
country,” Arjun said in Marathi. “You will apologize.”

The man bowed very, very deeply. “I am sorry.”

Everyone resumed their seats.

“I was only practicing British courtesy,” the man explained to Arjun. “Forgive me. My name is Azimullah Khan.” When Arjun didn’t respond, Azimullah continued, “My patron knows your rani. In fact, they grew up together.”

“What is his name?”

“Nana Saheb.”

Well, this got everyone’s attention. Although I’ve already men
tioned this story, it probably bears retelling, on account of the fact that it played such a significant role in the rani’s life. When she was young, the rani was known as Manikarnika, or Manu for short. She was raised at the court of Baji Rao II, and her father treated her like the son he’d wanted. He allowed her to dress like a boy and play like one, too, even though this might have diminished her chances for a successful marriage. Of all the children at court, the rani’s closest friends were Tatya Tope and Nana Saheb. The first boy was the son of Pandurang Rao Tope, an important nobleman at the Peshwa’s court. And of course, everyone has heard of Nana Saheb, the adopted son of Peshwa Baji Rao.

Many people thought the rani would marry Saheb, but it didn’t turn out this way. In 1817, Saheb’s adopted father was defeated by the British. His treasury, lands, estates, even his furniture, which had been passed down from generation to generation, was confiscated. In return, he was told that he and his heirs would receive an annual pension of nearly eighty thousand British pounds. But when the Peshwa died in 1851, they refused to give Saheb his father’s pension.

I don’t know how the heirs of other defeated rajas reacted, but Saheb responded the same way the rani did. By petitioning the Company to restore his kingdom, and on failing that, at least his father’s pension. We’d all heard the stories of Saheb’s appeals, and this was partly why the rani’s father was so suspicious of any attempt to negotiate with England. Saheb told him what sort of fruit such appeals would bear. But the rani, like Saheb, was utterly persistent, and now here we were, representing two separate cases of British injustice and hoping the queen could solve them both.

“So of all the men in Bithur,” Arjun said, “Saheb chose you.”

Azimullah grinned. He was truly an extraordinary-looking man, with lightly tanned skin, black hair that fell in waves, and
light green eyes. “You may insult me as you wish, but I am very popular here.”

“Is that why you haven’t returned for two years?”

Azimullah looked a little surprised by this.

“I’ve heard the rani talk about you,” Arjun said.

“Your rani may say whatever she wishes, but this is hard work.”

I leaned forward. “What? Attending dinner with the queen?”

“Convincing her that Indians are capable of ruling.”

“And it’s taken two years to do this?” Arjun said.

“No. She was convinced of this the moment she met me. Now she needs to be convinced to act. And
that
takes time.” When Arjun glanced at me, Azimullah laughed. “You didn’t think you were going to come here and receive an immediate answer, did you?”

I glanced around the table, but everyone was chatting happily in English. We might as well have been a group of the queen’s servants for all the attention they were paying to us. “We were told there would be an answer tonight.”

“Ma’am,” he said, and although he was using a polite form of address, I knew he was doing so in a belittling way, “that’s not how things work in England. An answer may come tomorrow, or the next day, or not at all, but when it does, the queen will send it by letter.” I’m sure he could read the shock on my face, because he added, “You didn’t think she was going to make an announcement here? In front of all these guests?”

“I did. That is what she told us she would do.”

“Ma’am, I was raised by these British at the Kanpur Free School. Nothing they say is to be believed. A squat woman wearing a crown—”

I gasped, and Arjun turned red.

“None of them can understand us. Do you think she can wave
her fat hand and make this better? She doesn’t have that kind of power. Parliament is making the decisions.”

“She’s the queen,” Jhalkari protested.

“And everything she does must go through Parliament. Trust me,” he said. “I have lived with these people. I know their habits. They wear shoes in their houses and bathe once a week. They may look clean, but they are dirty on the inside, both morally and physically.”

“Are they blind as well?” I demanded. “Or can’t they see how you despise them?”

Azimullah smiled. You would have thought for all the world that we were talking about civil things, like the weather. “Oh, yes. They’re blind as well. That’s why, when I return, I will give Saheb my carefully considered opinion.”

Arjun didn’t bother hiding his disgust. “And what will that be?”

“That British men are weak and can easily be defeated. He simply needs to rise up.”

We didn’t speak again that evening. After all, Azimullah Khan didn’t know everything. Our circumstances were different, and the queen had liked us. But when the queen arrived at the banquet with Prince Albert on her arm and dinner was served, I began to wonder if she was really going to address the rani’s plight that evening. There were boiled potatoes, a green vegetable I’d never seen, steamed carrots in rich sauce, and great heaps of meat. And everyone seemed far more interested in eating than in why we’d come. The conversation turned from the weather, to food, to riding in Hyde Park. Then suddenly, the queen stood and everyone rose. A servant announced, “Her Majesty, The Queen will be retiring for the night.”

Arjun and I looked at each other. We rose from our seats and before we could utter a word in protest, the queen was gone. The other guards looked in our direction.

“Where is she going?” Jhalkari said. “What about Jhansi?”

Azimullah looked extremely satisfied with himself. “Jhansi is probably the furthest thing from her mind right now.”

“What do you mean?”

“Tomorrow is their Christmas Eve festival. There are parties to attend.”

D
ays passed. Then weeks. Finally, we left England in January. We had been given an audience with Queen Victoria, we had dined at her table, and a week after the Christmas holiday, we had been invited back to court to meet important members of her Parliament. But ultimately, Saheb’s ambassador was right. She had allowed us to travel all the way from Jhansi and then back again to India without any verdict. There would be no triumphant return. No great reward.

Jhansi was still lost. The British queen was more interested in India’s dogs than her people.

Chapter Twenty-Two

1855

I
n the short time that we’d been gone, everything had changed.

We rode through Jhansi in stunned silence. The Temple of Mahalakshmi, where we always fed the poor, was closed, its colorful windows boarded and covered with signs in English that read,
THIS TEMPLE IS SHUT
. And next to it, on a vast stretch of land enclosed by a crude wooden fence, the British had set up a butchery. These days, when I talk to Westerners, there is only one thing they know about India, and it is that we hold the cow sacred. Some have the misconception that we believe our ancestors come back as cows. This is absurd and couldn’t be further from the truth. We simply never slaughter any animal that gives milk, and the cow is especially sacred to us since babies will drink their milk if their mothers no longer have any to give. So of all the offensive things the British could do, this butchery was by far the worst. The slaughtering of cows was terrible, but to see it happening next to the most sacred place in Jhansi—it would have been more acceptable if the British had destroyed the temple completely.

The bookstore whose blue and gold sign once enthralled me
with its promise of “Books: Hindi, Marathi, English,” now read simply “Books: English.” And everywhere we looked, the red and black Union Jack snapped in the cool breeze. It was as if the British had made a game of seeing how many places they could mount a flag. It flew from the tops of stores, from the balconies of houses, even from the well where women drew water each morning.

When we reached the Rani Mahal, it looked as if someone had taken the palace and draped its bright walls in a heavy gray sheath. Part of it was the weather: the sun appeared only through breaks in the clouds. But it was the garden as well. Everything was bare, as if Lord Vayu, our god of the winds, had focused all of his strength on my home. The trees, the shrubs, the flowers, even the bushes, were entirely devoid of leaves. Home, I thought, realizing that for the first time, I was calling a place home that wasn’t Barwa Sagar.

There was no one to greet our return. We had sent a letter ahead, detailing what had happened in London. Perhaps it hadn’t arrived.

Or perhaps it had been met with too much disappointment.

I felt embarrassed in my fur-lined cape, gifted to me under far different circumstances, and when I dismounted, I took it off and carried it in my arms. Jhalkari and the soldiers did the same. A guard bowed very low before letting us inside, but the halls were silent.

We climbed the stairs. And there, in the rani’s Durbar Hall, was Azimullah Khan. No person on Earth could have been more unexpected—or less welcome to us. Next to him was another man who I assumed was Saheb. The rani was dressed in a soft blue angarkha of pattern chiffon with white rabbit’s fur trim at the wrists and neck. She looked regal on her silver cushion in front of them. As soon as she saw us, she rose and asked, “Why didn’t anyone tell me that you’d returned?”

I looked around the room and saw the other Durgavasi starting to rise. Azimullah turned to see us, and I wished I could wipe the smug look from his face.

Our group approached the rani, and we all took turns touching her feet, then pressing our hands together in namaste. Then everyone was talking at once and more cushions were being arranged around the room. Arjun, Jhalkari, and I were asked to sit to the left of Saheb, and the rani asked whether the queen had changed her mind about restoring the kingdom of Jhansi to her control.

Our letter had not arrived.

“Queen Victoria has many interests,” I said, “but giving prompt answers is not one of them.”

“Yes,” the rani said quietly. “My friend Saheb has been here for several days, and although my father isn’t here at the moment, he agrees with Saheb.” We all waited to hear what it was her father agreed with. Finally she said, “The British have no interest in returning Jhansi. But there are forty-four Indian soldiers for every one British soldier here.”

“That’s
two million
Indian soldiers compared to a mere forty-five thousand British men,” Saheb said. “When word gets out of this Circular Memorandum—and it will—there is going to be a revolt. The pot has been boiling for long enough.”

“It’s time to boil over,” Azimullah said quietly.

“What is the Circular Memorandum?” I asked.

“A document issued by the East India Company giving orders to commanding officers that Indian women are to be taken from every village and set up in special houses for the use of British men,” the rani answered darkly. “And any girl seen speaking with a man may be denounced as a prostitute and sent to such a house.” Her voice was steady, but I could hear the rage underneath, like a fire beneath smoldering coals.

“How can this be?” Jhalkari exclaimed.

No one else in the room was incensed. Clearly, this had already been discussed. I thought of Queen Victoria, who was probably dining at her glittering table as we spoke, and I wished I had known this before. “Have any girls been denounced?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Without a trial?” Arjun pressed. “Without any intervention?”

“They are simply taken away,” the rani confirmed. “And now that the Kutwal know they have this power, they’re going from house to house, demanding bribes.”

“The Kutwal have always been corrupt,” Arjun said. The Kutwal are police. And it is true, they have always been tainted by corruption. No good family will give a son willingly to the Kutwal.

“This is happening in every village?” I said. I immediately thought of Anu in Shivaji’s house. Had the local Kutwal visited them yet? Had they been able to pay the bribe?

“Yes. And the girls who are sent to these houses are being used and then discarded if they become diseased. Their families don’t want them back, and now, I have no means to help them,” the rani said. “No power and no money.”

“The sepoys are going to rise at last,” Azimullah predicted, “and we will all be prepared.”

“People are talking about this memorandum,” the rani told him. “But for those who haven’t lost a wife or a daughter yet, for those who won’t believe it until they see it, Azimullah has brought us a gift from France.”

We all followed her gaze to a very large item beneath a blanket in the corner of the room. Saheb stood and unveiled his ambassador’s gift. It was a large metal machine.

“A printing press,” Saheb said. “We will print this despicable memorandum in every language in India. And we’ll distribute it
to every village. I am going to march on Delhi. Ten thousand men strong.”

“With what aim?” Arjun asked.

“To restore the Mughal emperor to power. Under his rule, India will return to a land of kingships, just as it was before the British came.”

Imagine the Mughal emperor as the pope and all of the kingdoms in India as Catholic countries under his rule. Saheb was proposing to restore the defeated emperor to power, and in return, the emperor would see to it that all of the kingdoms the British had conquered would return to Indian rule.

“The ten thousand are Saheb’s men,” Arjun said. “What other kingdoms will join you?”

“Any who don’t wish to live under British rule,” Azimullah replied. “Because you’re either with us or against us.” He boldly turned to face the rani, but I could see the conflict on the rani’s face.

“As I’ve told you, if I give aid to the sepoys and the British succeed in defeating them, what will the British do to me? Or, more important, to Jhansi? My situation is difficult. I have to remain neutral.”

“And your conscience lets you do this, even after this memorandum?” he raged. “Suppose you do not aid the sepoys? They will believe you supported the British,” he warned. “What will happen to Jhansi then?”

A
s soon as the rani dismissed us, I hurried down the stairs to the Durgavas to write Anu a letter. She had to be warned about the memorandum and what the Kutwals were doing. She had to hide if they came to Shivaji’s home. The moment I was finished, I went to Gopal and instructed him to post it for me. Then, as I
was returning to the Durbar Hall, I met Arjun on the landing. In the light of the softly swaying oil lamps, his face looked as if it had been carved from stone.

“So what do you think of Azimullah’s
with us or against us
threat?” I asked.

Arjun looked around. Mandar was standing near us; Moti was talking with Kashi a few steps away. I doubted they were paying us any attention. “The British must be stopped,” he said. “And I have always believed the sepoys might revolt. But I worry about letting Azimullah lead any sort of revolution.”

“Yes. But I understand now why Azimullah is so bitter,” I said.

“Sita, I’ve been wanting to ask you something.”

We stood together in the flickering light, letting other guardsmen pass us by.

“That last day on the ship . . . why did you walk away from me when I said you were beautiful?”

I couldn’t believe he would even ask such a thing. “After you told Jhalkari you wanted to marry someone else?”

He stared at me, and I could see he was shocked.

“You told her you wanted to marry someone from Jhansi.”

“Yes,” he replied. “
You.
”

“But I’m not from Jhansi.”

His eyes were wide. “Sita,
in
 . . .
from
 . . . those are just words. Of course I meant you.”

I placed my hand against the wall to keep myself steady. Why would he admit such a thing to me now? We had failed in London; I was never going to be released from the rani. How could he even mention such a wonderful possibility when he knew it was beyond hope? “I’m a Durgavasi, Arjun. I’m twenty-one years old with a father to support. Let’s not ruin the friendship we have with daydreams now.”

I know I sounded bitter. And I know I saw regret in his eyes. But he bowed to indicate he understood, then escorted me into the Durbar Hall.

Inside, I choked down the feelings that threatened to overwhelm me. I would survive this. I’d survived worse things. After all, I was bamboo, and bamboo bends. It doesn’t break.