Rebel Queen

by Michelle Moran

  “So you’re following in Kahini’s footsteps,” Arjun remarked curiously as we walked.

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “She’s the only other Durgavasi who’s invited to see the raja’s rehearsals.”

  “Well, this isn’t an invitation I sought out. The raja believes I’ll have something of value to add to his performances. I’m afraid he’s about to see that he’s mistaken.”

  “I don’t know. I think you have more to add to people’s lives than you realize.”

  I looked up at Arjun, but even in the light of the full moon, his expression was unreadable. So I changed the subject. “Do you know which play he’s rehearsing?”

  “Yes. Ratnavali,” the other guard said.

  “A comedy?” I exclaimed.

  “The raja believes he possesses comedic genius that’s waiting to be uncovered,” Arjun said. I couldn’t tell whether he was being sarcastic. “Now that the rajkumar has been born, he wants happier plays.”

  “And the raja’s part?”

  “The princess Ratnavali. Of course.”

  We arrived at the baradari, and Arjun pushed aside the heavy curtains, which had been tied between the pillars of the open-air pavilion to keep in the warmth. The raja was on stage with Adesh. They both wore wigs, but only the raja’s wig had long, silken tresses. The moment the raja saw me, he clapped his hands together.

  “Sita!” he exclaimed, and a great fuss was made over my appearance. Wasn’t it nice that I had dressed in peach nagra slippers? And look how the black trim of my cloak brought out the fairness of my skin. Everyone wanted to know what I used for my hair. “It even shines in the darkness,” the raja remarked. I had to tell him I didn’t use anything special, but Adesh was certain I was concealing some trick.

  “I want the three of you to sit right here,” the raja said, pointing to several cushions near the front of the stage. Kahini was occupying one of them, and when she saw that we were making our way over, she purposely got up and moved.

  “Don’t be so rude,” the raja said.

  “I’m not being rude,” Kahini defended herself. “I just don’t like anything around me when I’m watching a performance.”

  “You mean you don’t like any other beautiful women around you.” Adesh laughed.

  “Well, if that was the case, I could go back to sitting over there,” she said.

  “Kahini,” the raja reprimanded, but there was playfulness in his voice, and she grinned in response.

  For my part, I simply ignored the banter. But if this was what it was going to be like every night, the rani would have to forget about my coming, because it would simply be intolerable.

  “We’re rehearsing Ratnavali,” the raja said. “Are you familiar with the play, Sita?”

  “Yes, it’s a comedy.”

  “That’s right. Now watch and let me know if you have any comments.”

  I glanced at Arjun, but he was at as much of a loss as I was. What did he expect from me? Comments about what? His performance? The writing? The play began, but as the night progressed, nothing came to mind. Midway through the performance, when Adesh was no longer needed on stage, he sat down next to me. He smelled heavily of perfume and something else. Wine?

  “Have you heard anything about a playwright named Vishnudas Bhave?” he whispered.

  Because I didn’t know whether the rani would want me to lie, I told him the truth. “Yes.”

  “Is he really coming to Jhansi?”

  “There’s talk that the raja is inviting him—”

  “It’s absolutely unnecessary!” Adesh exclaimed. The raja looked down at us from the stage, and we both smiled quickly, so he wouldn’t know we were talking about him. Immediately, Adesh lowered his voice. “Does the rani know how much a playwright like him will cost?”

  “I can’t say—”

  “Well, there’s no reason for it! I’m a playwright, but the raja won’t even take a look at my plays.”

  This surprised me. I had thought Adesh was the raja’s favorite. I was about to respond when Kahini rose from her cushion and came over to join us.

  “And what are the two of you whispering about?”

  “How beautiful your cousin looks tonight,” Adesh said. “I can’t think there’s ever been a lovelier Ratnavali.”

  Kahini looked from Adesh to me, then back again. “I can keep a secret—”

  “Honestly,” I said, “we weren’t—”

  “I didn’t ask you.”

  “What’s happening here?” the raja demanded. He strode to the edge of the stage and put his hands on his hips, so that he looked exactly like a pouting woman in his long wig and sari.

  “Sita here was discussing your performance with Adesh,” Kahini said. “I was just asking her to share her comments with the rest of us.”

  I glanced at Arjun, hoping he might devise some way of saving me, but he remained silent.

  “Well, what is it, Sita?”

  I felt my breath catch in my throat. “I . . . it’s nothing.”

  “You have nothing to say? That’s disappointing. I brought you here because the rani said you were clever.”

  “Perhaps it’s past her bedtime,” Kahini said.

  Several of the actors laughed.

  “If you’re tired and have nothing of value to add, you had might as well go. Next time, come rested.”

  When the raja resumed acting, I turned to Arjun. “You might have helped me.”

  “How? You were whispering with Adesh. Did you think the raja wasn’t going to notice?”

  Tears of shame burned in my eyes, but I willed them not to fall. It was unlikely the raja would call for me again after this. I had failed the rani.

  W hen I returned that night, Jhalkari was still awake. She waited until I had changed into my kurta and slipped beneath my covers before she whispered, “It was the rani who wanted you to go, wasn’t it?”

  I didn’t lie to Jhalkari. “Yes.”

  “Is she afraid of what the raja is spending?”

  I pushed myself up on one elbow. “How did you—”

  “It’s an easy guess. I’ll bet the British rub their hands together every time he throws a party for his actors or hires one from Sangli or Bombay.”

  “She wanted me to find out how much he’s spending, but I can’t see how that will change anything. He’s the raja—”

  “And he listens to her. Why do you think she presides over the Durbar Hall? He treats her like a mother. And no son wants to disappoint his mother.”

  “But she’s fifteen years younger than him.”

  “That doesn’t matter. I’m sure you’ve heard people say she’s old beyond her years. Our rani was born to rule.”

  I wondered if, in the history of India, there had ever been such a raja as ours. “He was performing another woman’s role tonight.”

  In the flickering light, I saw Jhalkari shrug. The other Durgavasi may have accepted that this was how things were in Jhansi, but I still had trouble understanding it. From the moment I’d left the baradari to the moment that the rani’s guards had brought me back to the Panch Mahal, I couldn’t stop thinking about the raja in his long, black wig, as convincing as any woman who might have been playing his role. I’m sure I should have let the matter go, but I couldn’t stop wondering what might have happened if the rani hadn’t gone to her husband’s chamber dressed as a man.

  “I just don’t understand it,” I whispered. “How can a raja not want any children?”

  Jhalkari frowned. Now that the rani had lost the weight of her pregnancy, they once again looked like sisters, and it felt a little strange talking about the rani with someone who looked so similar to her. “Who said he doesn’t want any children?”

  “Well, if he has no desire to visit the rani’s chamber—”

  “So
me men simply have no interest in women.”

  “But is this only in Jhansi?”

  Jhalkari popped herself up on one elbow, and behind her, Moti stirred in her sleep, dreaming, probably of food. “Sita, don’t tell me you think this is unique to Jhansi. This has existed since the beginning of time. The raja was born this way, the same way you were born with an interest in men. And one man, in particular.”

  I sat up a little.

  “You should be careful,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “Because the other Durgavasi are talking.”

  “There’s nothing indecent about exchanging books!”

  “It starts with books. But they know he requested to escort you tonight.”

  “How—”

  “Kashi was with the rani when he volunteered. And it starts with this. Then suddenly he’s escorting you to the shops, and next he’s trying to touch your hand.”

  I could feel my face becoming hot. “He would never try that!”

  “He’s a man.”

  “He’s the captain of the rani’s guards.”

  “And that makes him any less of a man? I should think it makes him much more of one. Be careful of your reputation, Sita. He’s not looking to marry a Durgavasi.”

  “How do you know?” Immediately, I felt embarrassed that my daydreams were so transparent.

  “Because he was married once before and his wife died in childbirth with the child.” Jhalkari looked very sad for me. “He obviously wanted a family, Sita, and I doubt that anything has changed.”

  When we left the Panch Mahal the next morning, Arjun was sitting on the ledge of the fountain, dressed in his white vest and gold churidars. Jhalkari raised her brows at me.

  “There he is. Probably looking for you,” she remarked.

  But he rose as soon as he saw Sundari, and the two of them began talking in hushed tones. I heard Sundari exclaim loudly, “No!” Then the pair of them hurried into the queen’s room and disappeared down the hall to the rani’s chamber.

  “What was that about?” Kashi said.

  I wanted to be concerned. The fleeting thought even crossed my mind that perhaps the rani was ill, but I dismissed it. After all, the rani could survive anything. She was like Father’s bamboo, bending, but never breaking. Hadn’t she found a way to conceive a child when the rani before her had failed? And didn’t she rule over Jhansi even while the British were busy hoping for rebellion? But even if I had wanted to focus my thoughts on her, I honestly couldn’t have. At that moment, I was preoccupied with Arjun. How long ago had he been married? What had his wife been like? Was it a son or a daughter who had died?

  Then Kahini entered the queen’s room, and her face was pale. “I think something has happened to the rajkumar,” she said.

  Chapter Sixteen

  You can probably imagine the kind of panic that ensued in the Panch Mahal when word spread that Damodar was suddenly taken ill. At first, it was only that he couldn’t keep anything in his tiny stomach. Then, he began having difficulty breathing. The rani tied a small black string around his wrist to keep away the evil eye, but still he was sick. The curious thing was, his troubles came and went. The doctors gave him an Ayurvedic tea made from raw honey and thyme. He got better, and would sleep and eat contentedly, then the next day he would seem paralyzed again. His feet would stop moving and the stillness would travel slowly up to his arms. Physician after physician was called and all sorts of herbs and teas were tried, but the symptoms persisted. Soon, everyone was banished from the rani’s chamber except family.

  Weeks passed like this and the strain was felt by everyone. We all waited and prayed; then in April, on Rama Navami, the start of our festival celebrating the birth of Lord Rama, Kahini returned from the queen’s chamber and immediately we knew.

  I thought Kashi would break she cried so hard.

  For myself, I felt as if I’d swallowed stones.

  On the day of the rajkumar’s funeral, his small body was borne on a litter, and taken to the shores of the lake next to the Mahalakshmi Temple. Fiery orange trees we call Flames of the Forest rose to meet the blue sky and swayed in the wind as a priest worked to build the funeral pyre. When he was finished, he set the pyre alight, and I thought I would choke on my grief.

  Hundreds, possibly thousands of people, stood on the banks of the lake while the rani leaned on Sundari for support. Without her, she would have collapsed under the weight of her sadness. As for the raja, he sank to his knees before the funeral pyre and wept into his hands. He remained like this for as long as it took for the flames to devour his son’s tiny body.

  No one should have to endure such misery.

  It didn’t seem fair to me on that day that people who have done no wrong in this life are punished for deeds they don’t remember in their previous ones. I refused to believe that the rani had done something so terrible in a past life that her punishment was the death of her child. I wanted to ask Shri Rama about this, and vowed to do so.

  For the next seven days, neither the rani nor the raja emerged from their chamber. I remained with the other Durgavasi in the queen’s room, and three more days passed. The only glimpse we had of the rani was when she made her way to the raja’s chamber, dressed entirely in white, from the pearls on her neck to the sandals on her feet. The rani stayed with the raja for four days, and on the fifth day, I wrote to Anu:

  You can’t imagine the change that’s overcome the palace. Once, it was a place of light and joy. Now it has become a fortress of sorrow. The windows in the rani’s rooms remain shuttered, as if she’s afraid of seeing light. And maybe she is. When Mother died, I remember being angry that the world was carrying on with its business as if our world in Barwa Sagar hadn’t stopped. But Nature goes on and on. The karmic wheel turns. And it makes me feel ill to think that I’ll never visit the rani’s chamber again and see the rajkumar’s cheerful face. The rani’s mourning is so deep that she doesn’t even heed her advisers anymore. Shri Bhakti has warned her that if the Durbar Hall remains empty for too long, someone else will arrive to fill it. And there are many pretenders, Anu. They’re there, waiting in the shadows, watching for the right time to step into the light. Sundari-ji thinks the rani might go to durbar this week. I am hopeful.

  But it was another two weeks before the rani attended her first durbar, and when she did, she wasn’t actually there. Not in spirit, anyway.

  From her cushion behind the rani, Kahini muttered, “This mourning can’t go on forever. There’s a kingdom to run.”

  “What’s the matter with you?” Kashi hissed. “The heir of Jhansi has died. Her child.”

  “You really don’t have a heart, do you?” Moti asked.

  “Oh, I have a heart,” Kahini replied. “I also have eyes and ears.”

  The rani ate her meals alone in her chamber, and in the evenings she remained there. Not even Kahini was allowed inside. A month passed this way, and the bitter wind howling through the courtyard outside reflected our dark mood. When Gopal arrived to collect our letters, only Kahini had written anything. I wondered whom she wrote to every night: her parents were dead and she had no siblings.

  “If you’re ever in need of comfort—” Gopal began.

  “The delivery of my letter,” Kahini said sharply, “is all I need from you.”

  Immediately, Gopal lowered his voice, but not so low that I failed to hear, “I realize that Sadashiv is important. But—”

  “Do not speak his name,” Kahini said through clenched teeth.

  The Master of the Letters stepped back in shock, and when Kahini turned around, she knew I had heard everything. “I can’t imagine a life so boring,” she said, “that I’d need to eavesdrop on other people’s conversations.”

  Before I could respond, Sundari walked into the room. Her face was pale. “Sita.” She motioned for me. “Go to the rani.”

&nb
sp; I was pleased. The rani had asked for me, not Kahini. But once I was before the rani’s chamber, I hesitated. What could I say in the face of such loss? Unfamiliar guards opened the door for me, and I stepped inside. The chamber was dark, and the rani was lying on her bed. She didn’t say anything. I waited for what felt like an eternity. Then finally, she said, “Write a letter for me. Address it to Major Ellis.” The man I had seen at the raja’s play. “Begin with all the regular English salutations.”

  I did as I was told. Meanwhile, the only sound in the room was my pen as it scratched across the paper. When she could hear that I had stopped, she continued.

  “Tell him that there will be another heir.”

  I looked at her in shock, and realized that she was crying. “Your Highness—”

  “It hurts so badly, Sita.” Her shoulders began to shake, and she covered her eyes with one hand. “Durga help me,” she whispered.

  I was scared that I would say the wrong thing, but as she continued to weep, I knew that whatever I did wouldn’t matter. I reached out and squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry.”

  “I know there are children outside, laughing. Everywhere in Jhansi there are women with children, and Shiva forgive me, but why should they be blessed and not me?” She looked young and vulnerable. It was easy to forget that she would be twenty-five soon. “Isn’t that terrible? I think of women begging and I feel jealous of the poor because they have living sons.”

  I held tighter to her hand, and she began to weep the way truly stricken people do, loud and deep.

  “At night,” she whispered, “I can hear him crying. And in the baths.” Her tears came harder. She took a staggered breath before finishing her sentence. “I can hear him making little sounds. While the water is running, I can hear him.”

  She was making me cry, so I looked out the window. Below, the city of Jhansi sat gray and still, like an old man hunched over against the cold. “Do you think we did terrible things in our past lives?” I asked. “To come back as women . . . perhaps it’s a punishment for some previous misdeed?”