Rebel Queen

by Michelle Moran

  The rani look embarrassed. “How long were you standing there?”

  “Long enough to hear one of your Durgavasis say something very clever.”

  “Sita Bhosale.” The rani turned to me, and I pressed my forehead to the ground.

  “Sit,” the raja said to me.

  I waited for the rani to resume her seat and then returned to the cushion next to her.

  “ ‘Some people are so impoverished all they have is gold.’ That was very creative. Did you make it up?”

  “I suppose I did, Your Highness. Yes.” I tried not to stare at the rouge he’d applied quite liberally to his lips.

  “Well, Sita Bhosale, if your aim is half as good as your imagination, my wife can feel quite at peace in Jhansi.”

  With this, he gave the petitioners an elaborate wave, and was gone.

  That evening, after everyone returned to the Durgavas from the temple, I discovered that someone had broken my image of Durga. Her beautiful wooden head was lying on my bed, as if the person had wanted to make sure I knew it had been broken intentionally. My eyes filled with tears, since Father had carved it from a hollowed out piece of mango wood. The lower half of her body had been cleverly separated from the upper half, and inside, my father carefully filled the hollow space with prayer beads. I showed the broken head to Jhalkari, who immediately said what I was already thinking.

  “Kahini!”

  Before I could stop her, she took the murti from my hands and walked across the room.

  Kahini was sitting on her bed, brushing her hair and twisting it into braids. As soon as she saw Jhalkari, she put down her brush. “Don’t come any closer. I don’t care what the rani has to say about Dalits, I won’t have one despoiling my bed.”

  “Did you do this?” Jhalkari said.

  “What? Our little recruit couldn’t come and ask me herself? Was she too afraid?”

  “Answer the question!”

  Kahini shrugged. “Yes. It was an accident.”

  “How do you break a murti by accident?”

  Kahini stood and walked across the room toward me. “I apologize, Sita. I was practicing malkhamba.”

  “Inside the Durgavas?”

  She ignored my question. “If you give me the murti, I’ll have someone repair it.”

  I glanced at Jhalkari, suspicious of some trick. “How long will it take?”

  “By the end of this week. It was an accident,” she said, then, with uncharacteristic regret, “I really am sorry.”

  Jhalkari seemed to think this was fine. She handed me the broken murti, and I gave it to Kahini.

  But I couldn’t stop seeing the image of Durga, lying in two pieces, broken at the neck. I took out my diary and tried to write away my anger. “Of the very few things I own,” I wrote, “Kahini chose the most precious one to break. Jhalkari believes it was an accident. I think Kahini’s a snake who struck on purpose.”

  Chapter Ten

  Although sometimes it felt very much as if we were ladies of the court and not guardswomen, Sundari never let us forget our primary purpose. “Vigilance is the difference between a tragedy and a comedy,” she said to us on the evening I was to see my first performance at the raja’s theater. “Tonight, you are present to watch the audience, not the stage. Who is near Her Highness? Are they carrying anything? Who is looking at her suspiciously? This pregnancy is a threat to every pretender to our raja’s throne. And make no mistake, they exist.”

  I thought Sundari was done, but then she took a heavy breath and continued.

  “All of you must be aware,” she said, “that the British are acquiring vast territories in our country. Bengal, Orissa, Bihar . . . our raja came to the throne of Jhansi because the British approved his ascension. There are some who feel the British chose wrongly. These men are dangerous, and they are traitors. You are Durgavasi,” Sundari said. “Remember that.”

  With this, we followed her into the rani’s chamber. She emerged from her changing room dressed in a simple red sari. A ruby and gold tikka began in the middle of her dark hair, then dipped between her brows, as red and brilliant as blood.

  We helped her into the gilded palanquin she used for official occasions. Sundari called on the rani’s male guardsmen to join us in surrounding her palanquin bearers. I was given a position in the front, with Moti and two men I’d never seen before. Then we walked to the baradari, the theater where all of the raja’s productions were held.

  The sky was clear enough to see the moon, which cast a silvery light over the mossy stones of the wet street. I had never been out so late after dark, and I felt a small thrill. But the sounds of the night were different from the sounds of the day, and the rustling of the trees suddenly seemed louder and more dangerous than they ever had before. Ahead of us, hundreds of small lights flickered like stars. As we drew closer to the open-air pavilion where the raja and his court were waiting, those small lights turned out to be oil lamps suspended from the ceiling of the baradari. Cushions of gold cloth were spread out on the ground, and I could see the raja laughing with a young man in a British uniform. There were probably two hundred guests within the baradari, both British and Indian.

  From inside the palanquin, I hear the rani ask, “Who is he with?”

  “Major Ellis,” Sundari said.

  The palanquin bearers lowered the rani to the ground, and as she emerged, the raja rose to greet her. “Your Highness, you are exquisite tonight.”

  “I left my jewels behind, as I suspected you would be wearing enough for both us,” she teased.

  “Even without jewels,” Major Ellis said, “Her Highness shines as brightly as that star.” He pointed to the North Star, and all of us smiled. He was tall and very well built, with eyes the color of turquoise and skin like rice powder. He, at least, hadn’t been burned in the sun. I wondered if he kept indoors all day.

  While the rani continued speaking English with the major, we were led to the best seats near the front of the stage. The rani’s male guards took seats behind us. But from this position, it was impossible to watch any of the audience members. When I turned around to survey the crowd, I found myself looking at Arjun, the captain of the guards.

  “Ever read Kalidasa?” he asked without greeting.

  I really hoped he wasn’t speaking to me, but I was the only Durgavasi who was doing as Sundari had instructed by checking to see who was around the rani. “No. Is he the one who wrote this play?”

  “Yes. Her Highness has him in her library. You should make a request to read him.”

  “Why would she do that when we’re about to see the play?” Jhalkari asked.

  “Because some people enjoy reading even more than watching,” Arjun said.

  Jhalkari dismissed his suggestion with a wave. “Not me.”

  Just then, Kahini turned around. “What is this about Her Highness’s library?” she said.

  “I was suggesting that Sita might want to borrow one of the books in the royal library,” Arjun said. “Her Highness has been very gracious to me in the past.”

  “And what makes you think she wants to be gracious to Sita?”

  “Oh, I think the rani is gracious to everyone, even people who don’t deserve it.”

  I’m sure Kahini would have replied to that, but suddenly, someone called for silence. I turned back to the stage to see a feminine-looking boy dressed as the goddess Indra. Today, women are allowed to perform on stage. But then, it was the same as it was in Shakespeare’s day: women’s roles were played entirely by men, the younger looking the better.

  The room became quiet.

  “Try not to look surprised,” Jhalkari whispered. “And watch the Englishman’s face,” she said. “Major Ellis is terrible at hiding what he thinks.”

  I looked over at Major Ellis, who was seated in the place of honor to the rani’s left. Whenever the rani said somethi
ng to him, his pale skin flushed. I kept thinking of a Sarus crane—a white bird with a long body and bright red cheeks.

  Music began to play, and then a beautiful woman appeared on stage. She raised her arms to the sky, and I was completely transfixed by the way her bangles made soft clinking sounds as they slid down her wrists. Suddenly, nothing else existed for me. Just the baradari and the stage and this beautiful woman. Then the woman began to speak and I realized that she was Raja Gangadhar.

  I looked at Major Ellis: his jaw was hanging loose.

  Truthfully, the raja resembled a woman so closely that if I had passed him in the street, I doubt I would have given him a second look.

  I searched the crowd, and several men who were sitting together began whispering intently. Were they shocked like I was? Or was it something more?

  The play went on, and as the music began for the final act, one of the men reached suspiciously beneath his kurta. I clenched the holster of the pistol at my side. Who would be faster? I was about to rise when suddenly the man met my gaze and froze. He whispered something to the other men. All three turned to look at me.

  Sundari saw me tense.

  “Did you see that?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  We watched them for the rest of the performance.

  When the play was finished, everyone in the audience clapped. Since this seemed to be the thing to do, I clapped as well. I would have thought the raja would have taken off his sari and wig as soon as possible, but he remained in costume while servants brought tea and sweets on platters. Then he hurried over to where the rani was sitting.

  “Well?” he said, like a little boy searching for his mother’s approval.

  “Kahini was right.” The rani grinned. “It was your best performance.”

  The raja closed his eyes and let out a staggered breath. “Adesh!” he called, and the actor who had played his husband, King Dusyanta, came over. “Meet one of the finest actors the kingdom of Jhansi has ever known.”

  Adesh pressed his hands together and bowed in front of the rani.

  “You were magnificent,” the rani said. “Completely believable.”

  Although he’d been exceptionally appealing in the false beard and heavy makeup he’d worn on stage, now without all the trappings of the theater, Adesh was even more handsome. He was much larger than the raja, with such broad shoulders and heavily muscled arms that I immediately thought of a bull. In fact, the only man I’d ever seen with a wider chest than Adesh was Shivaji.

  “Your Royal Highnesses are much too flattering.” Adesh bowed again.

  Then the raja put his hand—with painted nails and sea-foam bangles—on Adesh’s arm. It felt strange to see the raja dressed as a woman, resting his hand so tenderly against another man. Then he recited the lines Adesh had performed earlier, “ ‘Love torments you, slender girl, but he completely consumes me. Daylight spares the lotus pond while it destroys the moon.’ I could absolutely feel his pain when he said that, the same as if someone was taking a knife to my chest.”

  The rani smiled briefly. “His Highness is tremendously passionate about his plays,” she explained to me.

  The raja exchanged a meaningful look with Adesh. Then he said, “Major Ellis was completely distracted during the second act.”

  “Perhaps there is a serious reason for that,” the rani offered. “The major is concerned about the sepoys. Let’s schedule an audience with him,” she said. “With the right words, the British might be persuaded to substitute their cartridges and their leather caps and we can put all of this unhappiness to rest.”

  The raja gave an exaggerated sigh, as if he really didn’t care one way or the other.

  Back in our room, Jhalkari was still dressed in the expensive yellow silk she told me her husband had purchased for her, waiting for me to ask the question she knew I was burning to ask. And finally, I couldn’t keep it inside myself any longer. I had to know. “Does the raja always take women’s parts?”

  Moti and Heera both looked at us and frowned. But no one could fault me for asking, or even Jhalkari for answering.

  “No, not always.” By which she meant, most of the time.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Oh, why not tell her the truth?” Kahini said. She had a package in her hand, and I realized when she put it on my bed that it must be my murti. “On the night the rani’s child was conceived,” she said gleefully, “the rani went to my cousin dressed as a man.”

  “You shouldn’t spread malicious rumors,” Jhalkari said.

  “There’s nothing malicious! We were all there that night. She asked us to get her a man’s uniform.”

  “Is that my murti?”

  Already, Kahini was walking away. “Repaired as promised,” she said over her shoulder.

  No one said anything more about the play, but after unwrapping my murti and seeing that it had been properly fixed, I lay awake for several hours thinking about it. Outside, the rain was coming down in heavy sheets. Tomorrow, the maidan would be too wet for practice, and we would probably have to train inside the Panch Mahal instead. I found it curious that while the rani rarely missed our trainings, the raja was almost never to be seen watching his soldiers. There was talk that he enjoyed riding his elephants, but in the month since I had been in Jhansi, I hadn’t seen him anywhere near the stables. Obviously, the theater was keeping him very busy.

  Or perhaps someone in the theater.

  Because try as I might, I couldn’t stop thinking about the way the raja had touched Adesh’s arm, and how Adesh had been happy to let him. There are some men for whom female company is not enough, so they seek out close friendships with men who have similar interests and tastes. This was what the raja was doing.

  But even after I had puzzled out most of what Kahini had been referring to, instead of making me feel better, it only made me feel lonely. I was coming to know more about the royal family than I did about my own. Anu wrote letters back every week, but it wasn’t enough. I had no idea whether she was happy or sad, since it was impossible to write the truth while Grandmother was in the house. It had been more than a month since I had last seen her, and Jhalkari said there wouldn’t be an opportunity to see our families until we celebrated Durga Puja in October.

  That was three months from now.

  I thought of everything that had changed in just a month, and tried to imagine what would be different in three. I would have more money by then, possibly enough for Father to begin the search for a husband for Anu. And if I was careful, I might even be able to bring home a few sweets and some clothing. But what if life in Barwa Sagar had changed? What if Anu was different? I thought of all the times she had wanted to be in the courtyard with me while I trained, and how I’d told her to watch from the window. Why hadn’t I simply risked Grandmother’s anger and let her stay?

  I opened the chest near my bed and searched for the latest letter Anu had sent me. Then I reread it, smiling over each of her words.

  Sita, you won’t believe what’s happened. Avani convinced Father to adopt the little kitten that’s been mewling outside my window at night. She told him how badly I wanted to keep it, and even though Grandmother said she’d rather adopt the demon Ravana, Avani convinced him, because the next day I woke up and he was sitting in my bedroom. A real kitten! With orange fur and a completely white nose. Avani thinks I should name him Mooli, like my wooden cat, but I think he looks more like a lion, so I’m going to name him Sher. Then we’ll both have a Sher to take care of.

  I grinned, imagining her joy and the tender way she’d take care of her little pet. But then I wondered who I would be in three months and whether Anu would even be able to recognize me.

  Chapter Eleven

  As the rani’s belly grew larger and we made fewer trips outside the Panch Mahal, I had more time to socialize with the other Durgavasi. I spent as little time a
s possible with Kahini and Rajasi. And since Heera and Priyala were nearly ten years older than I was, I didn’t have much in common with them. But Moti became a good friend, and Kashi and Mandar, who were always with each other, were entertaining as well. In fact, just to see Kashi and Mandar together could make me laugh, since Kashi was unbelievably petite, and Mandar could not have been larger unless she’d been born a man.

  Their personalities were extremely different as well. All Kashi ever talked about were children, while the only thing Mandar appeared interested in was training. I have no idea how they came to be such close friends, but to see them, you would have thought they had known each other all of their lives.

  “Be honest,” Kashi said to me one day while the five of us were sitting in the courtyard—myself, Jhalkari, Moti, Kashi, and Mandar. “If you could marry and have children tomorrow, would you do it?”

  I looked up at the clouds, which were threatening to rain at any minute, and shrugged. “I don’t think about it,” I said.

  “But if you had to think about it,” Kashi pressed. “Would you give up your freedom as a Durgavasi to marry?”

  “Not me,” Mandar said, and Kashi shushed her.

  “I already know what you would do. Moti, what would you do?”

  Moti put down the laddu that was about to make its way into her mouth. “Me?”

  “Yes, if you can stop eating for long enough to answer.”

  She giggled. “I would marry, and spend all of my time in the kitchen.”

  Kashi rolled her eyes playfully. “I guess we don’t have to ask Jhalkari.”

  “Yes, she’s the only lucky one,” Moti said.

  But Kashi hesitated. “Still . . . no children.”

  The five of us settled into an uneasy silence.

  “What if you could give up your life in the Durgavas?” Kashi asked.

  “I’m like Sita,” Jhalkari told her. “I never think about it.”

  “On purpose?”

  “Of course on purpose,” Jhalkari told her. “What’s the point?”