Rebel Queen

by Michelle Moran

  We passed through the city and continued on to the raja’s fortress on the hillside. When we came upon it, I saw it was protected by high granite walls that were pierced by ten gates, each large enough—according to the Dewan—for an elephant to pass through. We approached one of their enormous gates and guards dressed in the red and gold colors of the city of Jhansi immediately stepped aside to let us pass. We rode down a cobbled avenue in single file, then the Dewan held up his hand and the procession came to a halt. We had stopped in front of a grand building that the Dewan announced was the rani’s Panch Mahal. This palace would be my new home. It was a building of light and air; the high, arched windows and sweeping balconies were visions out of fairy tales.

  A woman a full head taller than me stepped out from the doorway holding a silver tray in her hand. Her hair was pulled back from her face in a tight braid, and she was wearing the most extraordinary red angarkha I had ever seen—a combination of gold thread and light silk that looked extremely comfortable even in the terrible heat.

  The Dewan dismounted and indicated that I should do the same. He said, “This is the girl. Sita Bhosale of Barwa Sagar.”

  The tall woman stepped forward and bowed at the waist. Then she performed a welcome ceremony, circling her tray with its oil lamp over my head. She dipped her thumb into the little bowl of sandalwood paste, making a tilak on my forehead. Then she took several moments to look at me. She had small wrinkles around her eyes and strands of silver hair in her thick braid. I could see that the muscles of her arms were sleek, like a cat’s, and her eyes were the golden shade of a cat’s as well.

  She put down her tray and turned to the Dewan, who was holding his yellow turban in his hands. “Thank you, Dewan, for discovering our newest member. The rani is eager to meet her, but first, I should think this girl is quite tired from her ride.”

  “Please give Her Highness my highest regards,” the Dewan said, bowing.

  The Dewan wished me luck. Then he and his men took their leave and the woman with the cat’s eyes introduced herself. She was Sundari, the leader of Her Highness’s Durga Dal. She said I was not to call any of my fellow members “Didi,” as you would call a respectable woman back home; I was to use their real names. The sole exception was the rani, who was to be referred to only as Her Highness, although her husband called her Lakshmi, and her best childhood friends—Tatya Tope and Nana Saheb—called her Manu. “Tatya Tope is the son of an important nobleman,” Sundari said. “And now he’s Saheb’s most trusted general.” Saheb’s father, of course, was Peshwa Baji Rao, whose throne had been taken by the British years earlier.

  “We bow whenever we greet the rani in the morning, and again at night when we leave her in her chambers. She is in her fourth month of pregnancy and sleeps for most of the afternoon, but in the mornings and evenings, we are all expected to entertain her. You should know that she doesn’t tolerate foolishness. She’s twenty-three and a practical woman. Her father raised her as a son, and her favorite escape from tediousness is chess.”

  I felt the color drain from my face.

  Sundari continued. “You must be very clever if the Dewan felt strongly enough to bring you from a village. There is only one other village girl here: her name is Jhalkari. She has made a positive impression on the rani. I hope we can expect the same from you. The rani won’t hesitate to dismiss anyone from her service if she feels they are wanting.”

  “I will not be a disappointment,” I said.

  Sundari stepped into the cool entryway of the palace and I followed. A pair of guards bowed first to her and then to me. No man had ever bowed to me before. With every step I took, I was entering not just a new world, but also a new life. She slipped her feet out of her embroidered juti and I did the same. Then two servants appeared to place our shoes into a long cupboard. If I live to be a hundred years, I doubt I will ever forget the first time I felt plush carpeting beneath my feet. Not even the wealthiest man in our village had carpets in his home.

  We passed several doorways draped with long, airy curtains that stirred slightly in the breeze. Beyond them, I could see the faint outlines of men, some of them talking, others arguing. I’ve heard people describe Svarga, the equivalent of heaven, as a place of unparalleled beauty. Well, the Panch Mahal in its glory, with its jasmine-scented chambers and its high, arched windows overlooking the raja’s flowering gardens, is what I believe Svarga to look like.

  When we finally reached the farthest end of the hall, I saw a flight of stairs.

  “The raja lives on the second floor,” Sundari explained, “and his Durbar Hall, where guests and officials are met, is on the fourth. The rani visits the Durbar Hall once a day, always after her nap. She is sleeping right now, so this is a good time for you to become familiar with the palace.”

  Sundari stopped in front of a wide door hung with gauzy curtains. Here, in the fresh light of the nearby window, the silver strands in her hair appeared white, as if someone had taken chalk and traced thin lines over her scalp. “You are the tenth member of Her Highness’s Durga Dal,” she said before we entered, “which means there are eight other women here who are extremely competitive and hope to take my position. The servants who wait on us were all once members, and are now retired. I suggest you treat them accordingly, because some day that will be your fate. No one is guaranteed a long career as a guard, so be careful what you tell the women in this room. The Dewan said you have a sister?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does she hope to become a member as well?”

  “No. Whatever I earn here will be used for her dowry fortune. She is almost nine, and my family wants her to marry.”

  Sundari’s eyebrows rose like a pair of startled birds. “That’s not much time to save a dowry fortune.” She pushed aside the curtains and we entered the largest chamber I had ever been inside. The ceiling was carved and painted in gold, while the walls gleamed like polished eggshells, and were just as smooth. A fountain splashed musically in the center, while a dozen yellow cushions were arranged around its base, nearly all of them occupied by women dressed in the most elegant angarkhas I had ever seen. Instead of the simple knee-length tunic that I was wearing, these were full-skirted ones sewn from silk and elaborately tied at the waist. And whereas I smelled of horses and dirt, these women smelled of jasmine blossoms and roses. They stood as soon as they saw us, and I counted seven. Sundari must have been counting, too, because her face took on a very stern expression and she said, “Where is Kahini?”

  “In the garden,” the shortest girl said. She had the round, bright face of a pearl and wore a beautiful angarkha of deep purple and gold.

  “Please bring her here to the queen’s room, Moti.”

  The girl left the room, and I wondered if Moti was really her name or just a nickname someone had given her, since in Hindi, it means pearl.

  The other women gathered around me.

  “This is Sita Bhosale from Barwa Sagar,” Sundari said, “and I expect she will be treated the same as those of you from this city.”

  “Are you truly from a village?” one of the women asked.

  Someone else said, “We heard you speak English.”

  The comments were coming so quickly that I didn’t have time to answer a single one before Moti returned with the woman from the garden, and a kind of hush fell over the group.

  Kahini was stunning. To this day, I have never seen such an exquisite face. Her features were so precise and sharp they might have been carved from alabaster. She was dressed in a blue silk angarkha and close-fitting churidars. Both pieces were trimmed in silver and delicately painted with images of open lotus blossoms. Her hair was divided into four dark braids that were twisted together, her ankles and wrists were ornamented with small, silver bells, and around her neck was a delicate turquoise and silver necklace.

  “So you are the new guardswoman,” she said, and her voice was devoid of either welcom
e or criticism, like an empty pot waiting to be filled.

  “This is Sita Bhosale of Barwa Sagar,” Sundari repeated. “One of you must show Sita to the Durgavas, and then to the maidan. Who wishes to do this?”

  “I will,” Kahini said.

  There was a pregnant silence, as if no one had expected her to offer.

  Sundari hesitated. “Fine.”

  The other women immediately backed away, and I wondered if Kahini held some sort of special status in the Durga Dal.

  “Come,” she said with a smile.

  The women parted before us, and I followed Kahini across the queen’s room into a long hall painted with images of birds. The artist had taken care to render each bird in its common habitat. There were peacocks strutting across marble courtyards and egrets feeding near shallow lakes. “We’ll go to the Durgavas first,” Kahini said. Then she stopped beneath a painting of a heron. “You do know what the Durgavas is?”

  I shook my head, and felt my cheeks flush.

  “No one has told you how the guardswomen live?”

  I’m sure if the roots of my hair could have turned red, they would have, too. “We get very little information about Jhansi in my village.”

  “Of course,” Kahini said pityingly. “Which village did Sundari say you were from?”

  “Barwa Sagar.”

  “That’s north?”

  “South.”

  Her smile was so brief that I might have imagined it. “Well, the Durgavas is nothing more glamorous than a room with ten beds. Our servants sleep outside this room on the floor.”

  “The former members of the Durga Dal,” I said, repeating what Sundari had told me.

  “Yes. Although the members of the Durga Dal who become leaders are given estates of their own with handsome pensions.”

  “So Sundari-ji will be given an estate when she retires?”

  “As will the woman who takes her place.” Kahini stopped outside of a curtained doorway and regarded me. “We are all aiming for the same thing.”

  “And how does the rani choose the leader?”

  Kahini allowed herself a full smile, and a row of perfectly white teeth flashed against her red lips. “Humility.” She pushed back the curtains and stepped inside.

  Ten beds, with fluffy mattresses and massive wooden frames, lined the frescoed walls of the Durgavas. I followed Kahini across the room, and when she stopped in front of the last bed near the wall, I immediately reached out to touch it. It was something fit for a maharaja.

  “Certainly you’ve seen a bed before,” Kahini said.

  “No. I sleep on a charpai at home.”

  “Well then, you’re going to be quite surprised when you see the Durbar Hall. Though I doubt you’ll see it today. The rani hasn’t gone at all this week; she spends most of her afternoons praying to Durga to keep her from the sick bowl. Which is too bad, because soon she’ll be as fat as a sow and unable to walk anywhere.”

  I covered my mouth with my hand. I had never heard anyone talk about a pregnant woman this way, much less the Rani of Jhansi.

  “Oh, you don’t have to pretend to be shocked. It’s the truth, and I tell it to the rani herself.”

  “She doesn’t get angry?”

  “Perhaps. But she values my honesty.”

  “And humility,” I offered.

  “Yes.” She sat on the bed, and I tried to look as elegant as she did while doing something as simple as taking a seat. “Honesty is an extremely important quality to the rani. Pay attention to what she wears,” she said. Then she lowered her voice, as if what she was about to say was a secret. “Most days, her only jewelry is a plain pearl necklace and pearl earrings.”

  “What must she think of your jewelry, then?”

  Kahini sat back to get a better look at me. “Only the rani shows her humility in her dress. We are expected to show it in our actions. If you noticed, the women in the rani’s room were all dressed in silk saris.” She glanced at my traveling chest, made from old wood and tarnished silver buckles. “You packed a few yourself, certainly?”

  I owned nothing made from silk. Just two new kurtas and the best juti my father could afford. “No.”

  “Oh.” Then with forced cheer, she added, “I’m sure the other guards will let you borrow a few things until you purchase better clothes.”

  A knot formed in my stomach as I thought of how much silk would cost. “But how is silk evidence of humility?”

  “It isn’t. But we can’t go around the palace looking like we belong in a village market, can we? The rani is allowed to look humble because she is the rani. We are merely her servants.” There was an edge in her voice as she said this. Then she stood and said, “And now I will show you the maidan.”

  I followed her out the door into an open courtyard. A multitude of flowers poured like brightly colored waterfalls from the urns, and a fountain splashed musically beneath the sun. But I didn’t allow myself to be distracted. I was focused, like a point of intense light, on whatever Kahini was about to tell me. We turned down a narrow lane, and the people who passed us pressed their palms together in a respectful gesture of namaste. Most of them Kahini ignored.

  “Tomorrow,” she said as we walked, “you’ll be asked to watch us practice. It would be a great mistake to look too confident when you’re asked to join us. Remember—in all things, humility.”

  “How does a person look humble while practicing archery?”

  “By not immediately accepting the offer to join us. And when Sundari-ji insists, telling her you are too unskilled to accompany us.”

  I was thankful that Kahini had offered to accompany me on this tour; I doubted the other women would have taken the time to give such advice. “Will the raja be there as well?”

  “Gangadhar-ji?” she said, using his real name. “No. He’ll be at his theater.” Then we stopped when we reached a large grassy field, at which point Kahini announced, “The maidan.”

  It was a wide, open space bordered on one side by a flagstone courtyard and on the other by barracks that housed, I’d learn later, the raja’s soldiers. This was where I would prove my fitness as a member of the Durga Dal, change my destiny, and change Anuja’s life for the better.

  “Seen enough?” Kahini asked. “It’s about to rain.”

  I looked up. The blue sky was indeed vanishing behind a blanket of clouds. It seemed impossible that just a few hours ago I’d been standing in Father’s courtyard. And yet my journey still wasn’t over: I had to meet the rani.

  I followed Kahini on the short walk between the maidan and the Panch Mahal. When we reached the courtyard and Kahini paused to straighten her dupatta, I stared at the stones beneath our feet. They were the soft color of sanded teak. In my village there was no floor so exquisite; not even in our temple to Shiva.

  As soon as we returned to the queen’s room, Sundari announced that the rani was too ill to be escorted to the Durbar Hall that day. Kahini gave me a pointed look, then retired to one of the cushions around the fountain. After Sundari left the room, I was on my own. Still standing, I watched as four of the women played pachisi. Two more were playing a game of chess. A pretty girl of nineteen or twenty with an oval face and a fair complexion motioned for me to sit next to her in the corner. “It was all new to me when I arrived here as well,” she said.

  “You aren’t from Jhansi?”

  “Kahini didn’t tell you?” She looked surprised. “I thought that would be the first thing she’d reveal. I’m a Dalit from a village even smaller than yours. My name’s Jhalkari.”

  You may remember how I told you that people are divided into four groups by birth: Brahmins, Kshatriyas, Vaishyas, and Shudras. Well, at the very bottom of those castes—so low they’re never even mentioned—are the Dalits, or Untouchables. A Dalit is born to perform jobs that are spiritually unclean: anything from washing toilets to
preparing the dead. You might go your entire life without ever speaking to someone from this caste. So to be sitting on the same cushion as one—even to be speaking to one—well, no one in Barwa Sagar would have believed it. I found myself holding my breath, in case the air she breathed was being tainted.

  I know this must sound as ridiculous to you as it does to me now. But understand that this is how it has been for thousands of years, from the time the Purusha suktas were written and the concept of castes were laid out. All sorts of superstitions revolve around Dalits: they can turn your milk sour with a look, to touch one is the same as touching filth, and to speak to them is an act that might displease the gods. A person doesn’t become a Dalit: they are born one as a punishment for a great misdeed they have committed in a previous life. It is all a part of samsara—the karmic wheel that never stops.

  You have heard, no doubt, of the famous Lao Tzu, who lived fifteen hundred years ago in our neighboring kingdom of China. He said: “Watch your thoughts; they become words. Watch your words; they become actions. Watch your actions; they become habit. Watch your habits; they become character. Watch your character; it becomes your destiny.” Because most Hindus believe this is true, you can see why they also think that Dalits deserve their desperate situations. Their past actions have shaped their characters, which now shape their current destinies.

  Of course, some people believe this is nonsense. The Rani of Jhansi was one of them. When I came to know her, I learned that she thought dividing society into differing castes was the same as dividing a tree into different parts and pretending that the leaf is better than the trunk. How can the leaf exist without the trunk, or the other way around? “Certainly, there is karma,” I once heard her say, “and Lao Tzu was right. But our punishments for bad acts in previous lives are created internally, not externally. We punish ourselves with bad choices.”

  At the time I was sitting with Jhalkari, however, I had never heard of Lao Tzu, much less talked of spiritual matters with the rani. I was simply stunned that no one else in the queen’s room seemed appalled that Jhalkari and I were sharing the same cushion.