Rebel Queen

by Michelle Moran

  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.

  That 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 growing 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.”

  “Yes. And it’s up to the British to right what they have done. The sepoys aren’t my soldiers.”

  “But they’re stationed in Jhansi,” Sundari said. “If they mutiny, the blame will belong to you. Not only because they’re here, but because they’re Indian.”

  Even I could see the sense in Sundari’s words.

 
“And remember, seven Englishmen were recently killed when Indian men poisoned some of their slaughtered cow meat. Be careful, Your Highness. We do not want to see the loss of more lives.”

  The rani nodded. “Gopal, add two more lines.”

  We all waited to hear what she would say next.

  “ ‘But if you truly wish to avoid mutiny,’ ” she dictated, “ ‘then listen to the sepoys—those men you count as fellow soldiers. Their traditions are older than yours by many thousands of years and deserve your respect.’ ”

  In the Durgavas that evening, Jhalkari turned to me and whispered, “The rani is going to value you very highly for your English, but the other women will grow resentful. Always remember this is a job, not a family. That’s what my father told me before I left, and he was right.”

  “Did he train you?”

  “Yes. Before he died.” She didn’t say anything more. Then, long after I thought she had fallen asleep, she added, “My husband says the same thing.”

  I sat upright in my bed. “You’re married?”

  “To one of the sepoys being forced to wear leather and taste cow.”

  I was stunned. “But how can you be in the Durga Dal? My father said—”

  “There’s no law against being married while part of the rani’s guards if there are no children. My husband was wounded many years ago and cannot have children. No other family would take him for a son-in-law. I’m better than nothing, so he married me.”

  I couldn’t tell whether or not she was joking. But I thought about Jhalkari’s husband for quite some time before I fell asleep.

  Chapter Eight

  There was only one mirror in the Durgavas. I waited until the other women left for the maidan before I hurried over to see what I looked like, and I couldn’t stop staring at the weapons on my belt. Although Sundari had presented them to me, it was as if they belonged to someone else. I was lost in this vision when I heard a familiar voice over my shoulder.

  “Well, there’s our little ganwaar!” Kahini and her ugly friend Rajasi appeared at the door, and every muscle inside of me tensed. Ganwaar, if you don’t know, is an insulting term for someone who comes from a village. It is worse than calling someone foolish or naive. “Just look at her, Rajasi. Staring like an owl at all her fancy weapons.”

  I have learned since then that in Western culture, the owl is considered a symbol of wisdom. But if you have ever seen an owl, you will understand why this is so hard to believe. It has giant eyes and wears the most shocked expression of any bird, as if it’s constantly surprised by everything it sees. I very much doubt that I looked like an owl, but this was Kahini’s attempt at insulting me.

  “Do you plan to stand here all morning,” Kahini said, “or will you be joining us outside with the rani?”

  I hurried past them as quickly as I could, but when I reached the doorway where Rajasi was standing, she stuck out her foot a little and I tripped. I would have been able to catch myself if I hadn’t been carrying Sundari’s bag. But as it happened, I made my entrance into the courtyard by falling almost flat on my face and, in the process, tearing the pants Father had ordered for me before I left Barwa Sagar.

  Tears filled my eyes, and a rage burned inside of me with an intensity of feeling I didn’t know I was capable of. Moti, who was standing nearby, picked up my bag and offered me her hand. I took it and brushed off the dirt from my angarkha. Then Moti turned to Rajasi and said, “You’re lucky the rani wasn’t watching you.” Although now, of course, everyone was staring.

  “As if the rani cares what happens to some little ganwaar. Isn’t that right, Kahini?”

  Kahini ignored her. “If Sita doesn’t want to be the center of attention,” she said to Moti, “then perhaps she shouldn’t call it to herself.”

  Moti took my arm and led me toward the group. “Are you hurt?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t know why they’re treating you this way. But two years ago, on the maidan, Kahini injured one of the new recruits so badly that the girl had to be returned to her father.”

  “That isn’t going to happen to me.”

  Moti glanced up at the determination in my words. “Be careful.”

  When we reached the maidan, I saw a crowd of men had already gathered there. Moti explained that the ones with white murethas tied around their foreheads were part of the queen’s guard.

  “But we’re the queen’s guard,” I said, and then I realized how foolish I sounded. I had seen men lining the halls outside the Durgavas. And the same uniformed men stood guard in the courtyard while we joined the rani in the bath.

  But there was no contempt in Moti’s voice when she replied. “As soon as His Highness heard that the rani was carrying his heir, he ordered his best men to guard her chambers. That one is the captain.” She pointed to a man who wore the same open white vest and loose churidars that the other guards did, but I thought he looked too young to be a captain.

  “Arjun was one of the most skilled men in His Highness’s army,” Moti said. “That’s why the raja has him guarding the rani.”

  The other women had now gathered on the field, cutting the air repeatedly with their swords. A low platform had been set up, and Moti explained that for practice, two Durgavasi would be chosen to do battle until one of them made contact with the other’s body five times. The loser would be replaced; the victor would keep fighting until she lost.

  “The rani insists that we use wooden swords when we practice,” Moti said. “So there isn’t much chance that Kahi—that anyone can do injury to you here.”

  We walked toward the stage.

  “Good news,” Kahini said as we approached, and in such a way that I knew it wouldn’t be good news for me at all. “Sundari-ji would like you to take the stage first.”

  I looked to Sundari to confirm this, and she handed me a wooden sword. Immediately, I knew what she was doing: she was arranging it so that I could lose quickly and not face Kahini on the stage.

  “Good luck,” Kahini whispered as I passed.

  “Heera,” Sundari said loudly, “please follow Sita onto the platform.”

  When I reached the top, I could see the entire maidan laid out before me. More soldiers had now gathered to watch, and I noticed the rani was under her tent, speaking with the man Moti had called Arjun. As Heera ascended the steps, the rani and Arjun both turned to watch us.

  I had no idea how Heera liked to fight, but I can tell you a secret about sword fighting. Whatever you think you know about it, you are probably wrong. All sorts of foolish myths exist, most of them learned by reading books and watching plays. For example: the goddess Chandika attacks Karalasur with a simple sword; she thrusts once and the demon is slain. Or Edgar battles Oswald in King Lear armed with a wooden staff, and the audience believes that he kills Oswald, who is fighting with a rapier. But in reality, sword combat is about being in constant motion, grappling and using your weight as leverage.

  Within the hour, I had defeated seven of the Durgavasi, including Rajasi and Jhalkari. Then Mandar ascended the platform. She was the largest woman in the Durga Dal.

  “There’s quite a crowd watching,” Mandar said.

  She was trying to distract me, so I didn’t turn to look.

  Suddenly she lunged. I blocked her thrust. It was impossible to leverage my weight against her, for she was heavier and built like a well, round on all sides and completely solid. But I was lighter and quicker, and that counted far more. I wore Mandar out in the end.

  Finally, Kahini ascended the stage—my last competitor. I was tired. My hair was dripping with sweat. In my ripped churidars, I’m sure I was a sight to behold.

  As soon as Kahini reached the top of the platform I made my first lunge. She immediately crumpled to the floor and grabbed her ankle. “It’s twisted!” she shrieked. “I’ve twisted it!” And the look on her face was one of pure ag
ony.

  Now, you can believe what you like, but I seriously question whether Kahini was in any pain at all. Still, she remained prone until Sundari arrived to help her to her feet. Then she hobbled down the stairs, moaning dramatically as she went. At the last step, Rajasi hurried to her side, and Kahini shifted from Sundari’s shoulder to Rajasi’s.

  Sundari looked at the pair of them. “What a shame your accident happened just as you were about to fight Sita, Kahini.”

  Kahini scowled as they led her away.

  In any case, I was glad not to have to face Kahini that day, who was quickly positioning herself as my competitor.

  After my performance on the maidan, the Durgavasi seemed to split in two: those who felt threatened by the skills that my father and Shivaji had taught me, and those who were impressed. It didn’t surprise me that Kahini and Rajasi wanted nothing to do with me. But when we went to the baths and I reached for my towel, I was surprised when Mandar stood in my way.

  “Excuse me,” I said.

  Mandar didn’t move.

  “Will you please—”

  The rani sighed. “Step aside, Mandar.”

  I reached for my towel and began to feel as though everything I had worked toward was becoming both a blessing and a curse. What had been the point of all those years of hard work if they only brought loneliness and resentment?

  I left the baths early, and while the other women took their time changing into their clothes, I sat in the courtyard opposite a fountain, watching the peacocks flit from tree to tree. The rani paid the Durgavasi weekly, and in two days, I would be able to buy a new angarkha with my wages. I would find whatever silk was cheapest and make something from that. Whatever was left over, I would send to Anu.

  I was thinking about my sister, mentally writing the letter that I wanted to pen her that evening, when I caught a slight movement at the edge of the courtyard. Someone was sitting on a bench on the other side of the fountain, turning the pages of a small red book. Just as I noticed him, he looked up.