Rebel Queen (7 page)

Chapter Six

1851

O
nce, when I was five or six, one of the maharaja’s envoys passed through Barwa Sagar on his way to a much bigger city. When he crossed through our village, everyone came out to see his incredible procession. He arrived in a caravan of carts drawn by satin-draped camels and bullocks, and behind him swayed a long line of pony-traps whose riders were shielded from the midday sun by large silver umbrellas. The women of our village stood huddled together behind the latticed screens of our largest temple, watching in awe as the men in their heavily jeweled saddles rode by. Even Mother, who was not impressed by luxuries or gold, had wide eyes that day. “This is something you will never see again,” she told me.

Now I wondered what she would think if she knew that in a few days, an even larger procession from the city of Jhansi would arrive in Barwa Sagar for the sole purpose of deciding whether I had the skills to become the tenth member of the queen’s Durga Dal.

It should have been incredibly intimidating to know that
whether I passed or failed, the entire village—and probably the surrounding villages as well—would learn about it as soon as it happened. But I was too busy practicing to feel nervous. If I failed, then there was little I could do. But if I passed, I would leave the next morning with the queen’s Dewan, or chief minister, for my new home in Jhansi Palace.

For the next two days, whenever I wasn’t training with Shivaji I was readying my weapons—polishing my father’s dagger to a sheen, restringing my bow. Of all the women who were vying for this position, I wouldn’t have the fanciest weaponry, but I knew I would have the skills. If my nerves didn’t get the best of me, I wasn’t going to fail that part of the trial.

At one point, as Grandmother watched me shoot arrows into a target Shivaji had set up beneath our tree, I heard her remark to Avani, “So she can shoot an arrow. Who’s taught her to be entertaining and charming?”

I knew I shouldn’t pay attention to anything Grandmother said. She wanted me to fail; was actively trying to make me doubt myself. Still, the next morning, as the orange blush of dawn crept over the courtyard, I asked Shivaji if Grandmother was right, if I needed to be charming.

“Yes. The queen’s women are not just chosen for their skills,” he said, sitting crossed-legged under our peepal tree with Father. “Durgavasis are also chosen for their ability to keep the queen company and entertain her. That means they have to be beautiful and clever as well.”

I had trained for the last eight years. I could outshoot Shivaji with a bow and arrow. But no one had ever said anything about being beautiful or clever. “And how am I supposed to do that?”

“There’s nothing you have to do, Sita. You are all of those things already.”

I glanced at Father, who seemed to understand what Shivaji was saying, because he smiled.

“I think we should work on being charming today,” I said.

Shivaji laughed. “Charming is something a woman learns when she realizes how beautiful she is. Not enough people have told you how beautiful you are, Sita.”

I touched my hair self-consciously.

“Not just here.” Shivaji indicated my face. “Here.” He placed his hand on his heart. “You are charming because you are educated and you are honest. Those may be refreshing traits in the palace. Instead, let’s work today on what you will say when the Dewan arrives.”

So for the next three days, Father and Shivaji spent our usual training time preparing me for the Dewan’s interview. We rehearsed answers to the questions the Dewan might ask, even surprising ones, such as, “What is your favorite food?”

On the last day, Shivaji said, “There are hundreds of girls across this kingdom who’ve also been preparing for years for the Dewan’s visit. For nearly every job in the palace, bribes are expected.”

I’d heard this, and my heart sank at the idea.

“But no one has ever bribed their way into the queen’s Durga Dal. The final choice rests with the Dewan; when he believes he’s found the right girl, the search is called off.”

I was silent. What if they found the right girl today before I had a chance to prove myself?

“When it’s time for the interview,” Shivaji continued, “the Dewan will try to trick you. He will ask you about imaginary situations involving the rani, and in every case, there is only one right answer: the rani herself. If he asks who the ultimate authority is in the palace, for you it is Rani Lakshmi. If he wants to know to whom you owe your allegiance, it is Rani Lakshmi. The Durga Dal
are her personal guards, not the maharaja’s. They are there to protect and entertain her, no one else.”

Father took up his pen and wrote in his book, “A list of your skills was sent to the Dewan three months ago. He may choose to challenge any one of them.”

“Which skills were listed?” I wrote back.

“Only what you do flawlessly. Archery, swordsmanship, shooting, riding, lathi, malkhamba.”

Lathi, if you don’t know, is a type of exercise performed with a stick. Malkhamba is a form of gymnastics.

“And all of your intellectual skills,” Father continued. “Your talent at chess, and your ability to speak Hindi, Marathi, and most important, English.”

I didn’t need to ask why English was most important. It was the only skill that might separate me from the hundreds of other girls hoping for this chance, since anyone could call the Dewan to their home for a trial. In 1803, the Raja of Jhansi signed a friendship treaty with the British East India Company. Thirteen years later, another treaty was signed in which the British agreed to allow the current ruler to carry his line forward without their interference. In just a few years, the treaty had turned from one of mutual protection to one in which Jhansi had to seek British approval for the right to its own throne. The camel’s nose was not just in the tent. The entire camel had entered. By the time our raja, Gangadhar Rao, took the throne, it was only because the British had chosen him. Now English was spoken at court as often as Hindi.

But Shivaji warned, “The Dewan will be able to speak English. If there’s a word you’re unsure of, don’t use it to impress him.” He took Father’s red book and added, “If she passes tomorrow, she will need new clothes. At least two angarkhas for travel and another for court. Plus slippers.”

We didn’t have the money for new clothes, let alone another pair of slippers.

“Can’t I wear what I have?” I asked.

Shivaji was firm. “Not in Jhansi.”

“If she passes,” Father wrote, “I will get whatever is needed by afternoon.”

But I couldn’t think that far ahead. My thoughts were with the Dewan, who even now was traveling east to see me.

T
he following morning, Anu trailed behind me while I took my bath. She kneeled with me in the puja room, praying as I did for the strength to impress the Dewan. Then she sat beside me while Avani lined my eyes with black kohl and rouged my lips. But when I reached out to take her hand as Avani braided my hair, she withdrew hers. I understood why she was upset.

“Do you remember when we read the
Bhagavad Gita
together?” I said.

She didn’t reply.

“How Lord Krishna convinced Arjuna to fight a war against his own brothers even though his heart wasn’t in it? Why did he fight that battle?”

Anu remained silent while Avani slipped green bangles onto my wrists. She wasn’t going to answer, so I did it for her.

“Because it was the right thing to do. The death of his brothers would save thousands of innocent lives in the future. Sometimes, Anu, we have to take actions that make us sad because it’s the right thing to do for the future.”

She watched while Avani fetched Mother’s gold earrings and thin gold necklace from the locked chest. When Avani was about to put them on me, my sister said suddenly, “Can I do it?”

Avani stepped aside. I felt Anu’s small hands at the back of my neck and fought the urge to cry. I was doing this for her as well, I reminded myself. I’d watched for several weeks while she had nursed the tiny bulbul back to health; her tears of joy when it finally flew away. Sometimes birds are injured and they die. But then they are reborn into healthy bodies. That is samsara. But Anu was too gentle and tender to rationalize these things. Loss, pain, separation . . . these were things I needed to protect her from.

“Look in the mirror,” Anu said wonderingly. “You’re a princess.”

She was right. I didn’t recognize the girl with her long neck ringed in gold and her full lips bright against her pale face. This was someone who belonged to a wealthy family, with a good marriage and at least two children and a long life of family duties ahead. None of that had happened for me, and standing there in front of Mother’s mirror, I was determined to make it happen for Anu.

Everyone assembled in our courtyard—Father, the priest, Shivaji and his three sons, plus countless neighbors pretending to be there for Father’s sake but truly there for a glimpse of the Dewan. Even Aunt had traveled across Barwa Sagar with her husband and children to witness my trial. Our house had not had so many visitors since the day of Mother’s funeral.

The women in our neighborhood gathered in the kitchen, where Avani and Grandmother had prepared trays of food. There were terra-cotta bowls filled with sweet milk, fresh slices of fruit, fried milk balls dripping with syrup, and sherbet garnished with rose petals. But I wasn’t hungry. I sat alone in my room and waited for the sound of the procession. I was not to exit the house until the Dewan’s arrival; it would be the first time our neighbors had ever witnessed a woman in Barwa Sagar breaking purdah.

“There is no shame in it,” Shivaji said. “In Jhansi, none of
the women are in purdah,” he reminded me. “They ride as freely through the streets as men.”

“Is that the same for every great city?”

“No. Only Jhansi. But there, no one thinks twice about it.”

He made it sound simple, but when Father came and wrote on my palm that the Dewan’s procession had been seen entering our village, my heart began to beat wildly in my chest.

“There’s nothing to fear,” he added. “Pass or fail.” He reached into his kurta and placed a long leather necklace in my hand. At the center dangled a single charm—a peacock carved from bamboo. “Today, you must be all-seeing,” he wrote, “like a peacock with a hundred eyes. But you must also be like bamboo. When a storm comes, bamboo bends. It doesn’t break.”

Music began to echo through the courtyard. The Dewan’s procession had arrived. The people in the courtyard immediately stopped talking, and Anu’s small feet slapped down the hall to fetch me.

Father’s hand closed over mine. “
Shubhkamnaye
, little peacock,” he mouthed. Good luck.

I fastened the necklace and tucked the charm beneath my angarkha. Then Anu burst into the room and said breathlessly, “Sita, he’s here! The queen’s Dewan is here! It’s time!”

I hurried to the door, where Grandmother stood with a silver plate. In India, new guests are welcomed by passing this plate in a circular direction close to their head. Different houses will put different items on it, but there will always be a lit aarti—or lamp—and a small dish of vermillion with which to make a red tilak, or mark, on the welcomed guest’s forehead.

For all of my brave talk with Anu, I couldn’t have been more nervous stepping out into my own courtyard than a stranger would be taking his first step in a foreign land. The Dewan was waiting
just before our wooden gate, surrounded by two dozen well-dressed men in double-breasted Western-style coats; a servant holding a small tasseled umbrella was shielding him from the early morning sun. The servant himself was thin, but the Dewan was even thinner, and so tall that, with his giant head, I thought that he looked like an enormous stalk of corn.

Father took his place at my left and Shivaji stood to my right. “Calmly,” Shivaji whispered as we approached.

I held the aarti plate as steady as I could before the Dewan, then moved it in a circular direction. When it was time to push my thumb into the small cup of vermillion and use it to create a mark on his forehead, my hand was shaking. Breathe, I told myself. I would have to perform the same short ceremony for every man there.

When I was done welcoming each of the men, the Dewan crossed our courtyard and took a seat on the wide yellow cushion a servant had arranged beneath our tree. All of his men immediately positioned themselves to his left, while the villagers of Barwa Sagar sat on the ground to the right. I was left with Father and Shivaji in the middle. All three of us bowed before him. I could feel the villagers watching me, the first woman in Barwa Sagar to have broken purdah in the history of who-knew-when.

“Sita Bhosale,” the Dewan began, and his voice was surprisingly deep. I thought it would be high and thin, like a reed. “You are the daughter of Nihal, who is the son of Adinath, a member of the Kshatriya. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“And you are seventeen?”

“I turned seventeen last month.”

The Dewan snapped his fingers and a servant beside him brought him a pipe, which the young man hurriedly lit. The
Dewan inhaled deeply, then exhaled, never taking his eyes off me. “You look like one of Nihâl Chand’s paintings,” he said. He sat forward on his cushion, and the smoke from his pipe curled around his face. “Have you seen them?”