Rebel Queen

by Michelle Moran

  The three of us made our way to the very back, and when we reached the last room in the temple, the servant stopped before a curtained door and called loudly, “Her Highness, Rani Lakshmibai.” Then the servant parted the curtains and the three of us entered.

  Inside, an old man was sitting cross-legged in the center of a room covered with jute mats. He was surrounded by all of the religious items you might expect—candles, incense, flowers, broken coconut shells. But these were all details I noticed later: as we entered all I saw was the extreme peacefulness in Shri Rama’s face. If you’ve ever met someone completely at peace with his life, this is exactly how Shri Rama appeared. He couldn’t have been younger than sixty, yet his skin was completely smooth, like a river stone that has had its roughest edges caressed by water. His eyes, too, were different. They gave the impression that whatever difficulties you placed in his lap, they would be quietly considered and calmly solved.

  The rani approached him with a very reverent bow; from his position on the ground, Shri Rama did the same. Sundari and I made the same respectful gesture of bowing and placing our hands together, then we seated ourselves to the rani’s left.

  “You brought someone new,” Shri Rama said, his voice as smooth and calm as his face.

  “Sita Bhosale, my youngest Durgavasi.”

  He gazed at me for several moments, then nodded. “Welcome, Sita.”

  I wondered what sort of exotic ceremony a guru like Shri Rama would perform, but it turned out to be a puja like any other. It wasn’t until after he’d given each of us a red tilak mark on our foreheads that he rocked back on the jute mats and said casually, “Well?”

  “The sepoys are growing angrier and more agitated with the British. Father believes we should arm them for rebellion.”

  Shri Rama took in this information. “Have they perpetrated evil?”

  “I believe they are guilty of thoughtlessness. I believe they may be inciting the unrest among the sepoys.”

  “Would killing British soldiers be perpetrating evil?”

  “Yes. I believe in diplomacy. Diplomacy until the very end. But what is the end?”

  “I suspect it’s the destruction of Jhansi,” Shri Rama said.

  I could not believe my ears. I looked to Sundari but her face revealed nothing.

  “And is that acceptable?” the rani asked.

  “All kingdoms and empires come to an end. The question is what replaces them, and who commits the first act of aggression.”

  “So I wait?”

  “That depends. What kind of ruler do you wish to be?”

  The rani put her hand over her brow, and spent several moments in deep thought. “Father will not like this,” she warned.

  Shri Rama nodded, but said nothing.

  “Thank you,” the rani said.

  Shri Rama turned to me. “Someone is making life difficult for you. Why are you allowing this?”

  I was so shocked that I sat in stunned silence for several moments. “I . . . I don’t know.” But of course I knew. Kahini was the rani’s favorite and a cousin to the raja.

  “Well, if you don’t know, I certainly can’t tell you!”

  I glanced at Sundari, who didn’t look surprised, then at the rani herself, but she was lost in her own thoughts.

  “Keep Durga close to you,” he said to me, and immediately, the ten-armed goddess of war appeared in my mind. Each of the gods had contributed something divine to her creation. Shiva sculpted her perfect face, Indra endowed her with breasts like the moon, Vishnu gave her many arms, the god of fire formed her glittering eyes, and Yama spun her hair like black silk. Other gods armed her with invisible weapons and the Divine Craftsman clothed her in invincible armor. When the gods saw how perfect she was, they set about presenting her with various gifts. Bejeweled ornaments soon glittered from every part of her body, and she wore garlands made from flowers whose fragrances never faded. Finally, she was given a lion to ride on her quest to rid the world of violence and evil. That Shri Rama should tell me to keep Durga close was a curious thing, because I never imagined her being very far away.

  After we left the temple, the rani said, “Your father is a woodcutter. You told me once he gave you a carving of Durga.”

  In that moment I realized that the rani’s memory was like the mythological Akshayapatra, an inexhaustible vessel that could never be filled. She could reach into her mind and retrieve any detail she wanted, no matter how trivial.

  “Perhaps Shri Rama meant you should never part with this carving,” she said.

  This had not even occurred to me.

  “Let’s take a stroll through the gardens,” the rani suggested. But Sundari had to oversee the delivery of gunpowder to the magazine where it was to be stored in Star Fort, so the two of us carried on alone. When she was gone, the rani said, “Why don’t you tell me your favorite piece of literature, and I’ll tell you mine.” When the rani saw me hesitate, she added, “There’s no right answer, Sita. Just tell me what you like best.”

  “Shakespeare,” I admitted.

  I could see the rani was surprised.

  “My father read his plays with me.”

  “Do you have a favorite?”

  “Hamlet.”

  “That ends sadly, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, but there are many profound moments. And yours, Your Highness?”

  She grinned. “Anything at all in the Puranas. I love the old stories and the heroic deeds. But mostly, I like the sound of the words—the language.”

  I knew what she meant. My father had read the Puranas with me as well; they are some of the oldest texts written about our gods, and they are lyrical as well as interesting.

  “What would you say if I told you that sometimes I dream of the episodes written in them?”

  I smiled. “I dream of literature all the time.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes, especially if it’s a well-written tale.”

  The rani smiled. “I think you and I have more than it appears in common,” she said. And this is how we spent the afternoon. Walking and speaking together like friends.

  When we came to a beautiful bower on the edge of Mahalakshmi Lake, the rani sat down and admitted, “I wonder sometimes what it would be like to be the stonemason who carved this.” She ran her fingers over the bench and indicated that the seat beside her was for me. “Tell me about your father. Does he carve all day? How many pieces? What is his workshop like?”

  I answered her questions.

  “Does he like it?”

  I had to think about this. “Yes. But his dream was to be a soldier.” I told her about Burma, and his accident, and Shakespeare.

  “These British . . .” she said, but didn’t finish her statement. “So you grew up with your father and sister. No brothers?”

  “No. Just a grandmother,” I said.

  “How lucky. Mine was already gone by the time I was born.”

  I pressed my lips together, so I wouldn’t say anything that would reflect badly on me.

  “What is village life like?”

  “I . . . can’t say. Outside of Jhansi, all women are in purdah.”

  I could see the rani flush. “Of course. Then your whole childhood?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I made a world out of my house. And reading.”

  “Yes. Even prisoners can escape if they have books.” She smiled at me, and I felt deeply how wonderful it was to serve a rani who was so well educated. We had both been fortunate in our upbringings.

  That evening, after we returned from the lake, the rani brought me into her chamber and asked me to choose from several saris. I picked a beautiful yellow silk that would go beautifully with Anu’s complexion and eyes. Then she gifted me an entire basket of cosmetics and thanked me for a very lovel
y day.

  “The pleasure was truly mine, Your Highness.”

  When I was dismissed, I found Gopal and told him to send the gifts to my sister.

  “It’ll be more expensive than a letter,” he warned.

  “How much more expensive?”

  “Two anna.”

  I gritted my teeth. “Fine.”

  The gifts wouldn’t be the same as having me, but at least Anu would understand that what I was doing, I was doing for her.

  Chapter Twelve

  When the other Durgavasi returned from visiting their families, my name was on the rani’s lips wherever we went. She asked for me to read to her every night. Sometimes, I read from Shakespeare’s First Folio, other times from Charles Dickens’s latest work, and since we were the only ones who understood English, none of the other women joined us when we laughed or cried. It was just as Sundari had hoped. Kahini’s plan to punish me had worked out in my favor. The rani and I were becoming true friends.

  Kahini behaved as if nothing extraordinary was happening. Even when Rajasi made an ugly face in the courtyard after the rani asked me to accompany her to the stables, Kahini remained composed. I thought she had made peace with the changing of the currents. But it wasn’t peace she was making: she was damming the river so that the waters would stop entirely.

  “I see you’ve become quite close with the rani,” Jhalkari remarked before bed one evening.

  I glanced across the Durgavas to see who might be listening. Most of the other women were asleep.

  “She’s very compassionate, and I think sometimes she’s in need of a friend.”

  “She’s the rani. She has plenty of friends. But you’re making enemies.”

  I sat at the edge of my bed and waited for her to explain.

  “Sita, don’t think the other women aren’t jealous.”

  “Which other women?”

  “All of them!”

  “You?”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “Are you upset that I’ve become closer to the rani?”

  “It is petty of me, but it hurts. I thought we were close.”

  “Of course we are!”

  She shrugged. “Well, my jealousy isn’t dangerous to you. But Kahini’s is.”

  Still, it didn’t seem as if Kahini cared. Then, two days before Diwali, our largest, most joyful festival celebrating the return of Lord Rama after his triumph over the demon king Ravana, a physician arrived to check on the rani and her growing child. Since this was a weekly occurrence, there was no reason to suspect that anything out of the ordinary might happen. I was sitting in the queen’s room with the other Durgavasi, when Sundari appeared looking terribly grave.

  “There is news from the court physician,” she said.

  We were so silent I could hear Moti’s heavy breathing from the other side of the room.

  “Two messengers arrived from Bombay, carrying a pestilence. Both men were sick on their arrival, and they died immediately after entering Jhansi. The physician wishes to examine each of you today. If you are ill there will be signs in your throat.”

  “If it came from Bombay,” Kahini said, “it must be Dalit’s curse. So many Dalits live—”

  “This is not the time,” Sundari warned.

  The room settled into tense silence. It was several minutes before the physician arrived. In that time, most of us tried not to breathe. If this new disease began in the throat, then it was obviously borne on the breath as well.

  “Namaste, Doctor,” Sundari said.

  He was an old man, with hair as thick and white as spun wool. There was an image of Dhanvantari, the physician to the gods, around his neck. We all pressed our hands together in namaste, but the physician made no acknowledgment of our presence. Instead, he said matter-of-factly, “I’d like everyone in this room to stand in a line. When I come to you, open your mouth as widely as you can so I can see to the back.”

  Imagine the embarrassment we felt at being asked to do this! Bad enough to stand with your mouth gaping like a washed up fish, but to do it in front of a man . . .

  “Fine,” he kept saying as he went down the line. “Fine.” Then, when he came to Jhalkari, he said, “Please stand to the left.”

  “Is the rani sick?” Kahini asked when it was her turn.

  “No, and her child is well. But anyone with symptoms will be dismissed until they have recovered.”

  I had read an account of the black plague, which killed off a third of Europe’s population. What if this was a kind of plague?

  The physician came to Moti. “Fine,” he said, and she released a staggered breath. But when he came to me, his forehead crinkled. “Stand to the left, with her.”

  My heart thundered in my chest. When the physician was finished, three of us had been separated from the others. Myself, Jhalkari, and Mandar.

  “What have you found?” Sundari asked. Her feline eyes darted about the room.

  “These three.” The physician shook his head. “Dismiss them for a month—at least.”

  Mandar exclaimed, “This is nonsense! Two riders die and suddenly I’m ill? Have we met these men? Did they step foot in the palace?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Well, I can!” Mandar shouted. “Where is your evidence that we are infected?”

  Sundari held up her hand. “Mandar, let him speak.”

  “This is a very clever disease,” he said. “It hides in the chest and manifests within weeks.”

  “Did you interview the dying men?” I asked boldly. “How do you know this?”

  “Because I did exactly as you said. The messengers showed symptoms two weeks ago.”

  “I thought they died as soon as they arrived in Jhansi,” Jhalkari challenged.

  He spread his hands and said tensely, “With the rani in the condition she’s in you must go.”

  Sundari asked everyone to return to the Durgavas, but asked the three of us to stay behind. I felt like a leper. What if I made my family sick as well?

  As soon as the room was empty, Sundari said, “I do not believe that any of you are sick.” She looked angry. “This is a foul-smelling dish cooked up by Kahini. I saw her with that physician this morning, whispering. I do not believe there are any dead messengers. None of you are sick.” Sundari was adamant. “This is a trick to keep Sita away from the rani.”

  Mandar and Jhalkari both looked at me. If ever there was a time to band against me, this was it. “Kahini hasn’t just banished us,” Jhalkari asked. “She’s robbed us as well. We will not be paid if we are absent.”

  “What if the rani is too afraid to let us back after a month?” Mandar said. “She must think we are lepers.”

  “That’s how I feel,” Jhalkari said. “A leper dressed in Benares silk.”

  “Perhaps we should tell her what Kahini did?” I suggested.

  “Who would you believe?” Jhalkari said. “A physician or us?”

  Sundari agreed. “The rani is heavily pregnant and much weighs upon the delivery of a healthy child. Do not test your friendship now, Sita. It is wiser to wait the month. In that time I will convince her that no pestilence threatens this palace.”

  Three men brought our horses; one of them was Arjun. He handed me the reins, but didn’t look particularly fearful. “Is it true?” he asked. “Are you sick?”

  “She’s no more sick than you are,” Mandar replied, looking at the several dozen soldiers that followed behind Arjun, ready to escort us to our homes. “Someone convinced the rani that there’s a plague in Jhansi, and that the three of us are showing signs of infection.”

  Arjun looked incredulous. “Kahini?”

  “She must have bribed the rani’s physician,” Jhalkari said.

  “I’m sorry. The guards are asking about the sickness and no one knows what to believe.” Arjun gl
anced at me. “I wish I could escort you to Barwa Sagar,” he said quietly. “It’s a long way to travel.” He reached into his bag and pulled out the same red book I had seen him reading the first time we’d met. “For your trip,” he said, handing it to me.

  I ran my finger over the gilded lettering. A Collection of Rumi’s Poetry.

  “There’s one poem in particular I thought you might enjoy. I marked the page for you.”

  My cheeks felt hot. “Thank you,” I said.

  “What?” Mandar joked. “Nothing for me?”

  “Do you read poetry?”

  She snorted. “Not unless I’m forced to.”

  The journey to Barwa Sagar took most of the day. I rode like a horse with blinders on, because the only image I saw was Arjun’s face—his expressive eyes, his slender nose, his long hair pushed back from his pale forehead by his muretha. I felt slightly lightheaded imagining him standing so close to me. He was very handsome. He was also a captain, so why wasn’t he married? A captain of the rani’s guards should be married with a growing family. Perhaps there was something wrong with him.

  As we entered my village, and boys ran to the sides of the road to steal a glimpse of our small procession, I was still distracted. It wasn’t until we turned onto the narrow street where I had lived for more than seventeen years that I was suddenly in Barwa Sagar again.

  I could see from a distance that the door to my house was thrown open, and the courtyard was filled with Father’s guests. Children threw flowers at my feet, and distant cousins held up offerings of sweets. Was this how the rani felt every time she left the Panch Mahal? It was as if I had left the village a cat and returned a lion.

  I saw myself in their eyes: my green silk angarkha was more beautiful and more expensive than anything anyone in my village had ever worn. My silver-handled pistol gleamed in the sun, as conspicuous as my kattari and my sword. A vain part of me hoped that Grandmother was watching and withering with envy.

  “Sita,” Father mouthed the word as soon as he saw me.

  I dismounted as quickly as I could to touch his feet. Then suddenly everyone was there and talking. The soldiers who’d traveled with me were given food, and water was brought for the horses. A crowd of at least a hundred people swelled around me, encouraging me to see what was waiting inside the house. When I stepped into the kitchen, every dish imaginable had been prepared for my arrival. Avani must have worked all day for a week just to cook the sweets. Father squeezed my hand, and words were entirely unnecessary. That moment was possibly one of the happiest in my life. And when I looked for Grandmother, she wasn’t there. I imagined she was pouting in the back of the house.