Rebel Queen

by Michelle Moran

  The rani sucked in her breath. Then she exhaled it with great force. “Do you think Damodar did something terrible in his past life to have died in infancy?”

  “Of course not.”

  “I must be the one being punished then.”

  I didn’t have any answer for her.

  “Shri Rama says we’re all in a constant state of evolution, that pain moves us forward, changing us into something else, something we need to be.”

  We sat together in silence for some time. Finally I said, “Shall I finish the letter?”

  The rani shook her head. “No.”

  So d id you tell the rani we’re waiting for her?” Kahini asked when I returned. “Did you suggest she join us tomorrow on the maidan?”

  The other women in the Durgavas turned to follow our conversation.

  “It was not the time,” I said.

  “Her mourning will stop,” she warned me. “And when it does, she’ll associate you with the darkest time of her life.”

  “That’s a vile thing to say,” Sundari said. “No wonder the rani doesn’t call for you.”

  “And how many times has the raja called for Sita? He rules this kingdom. Not the rani, however powerful she may think she is.”

  I tried to ignore their bickering. There was already enough grief in the palace.

  By the time Diwali arrived in October, I had enough not only to pay for Anu’s dowry fortune, but to buy a year’s worth of new kurtas for her trousseau. But planning for my sister’s happy future and preparing her elaborate bridal chest felt like a betrayal to the rani’s grief. So it was doubly astonishing when the rani called me to her chamber to give me a gift for Anu.

  “Give my blessings to your sister,” she said, and reached behind her braid to unfasten her necklace. “I’d like you to ask her to wear this on her wedding day.”

  “Your Highness—”

  “She may keep it or sell as she wishes. But I’d like her to have it.”

  When the sun broke through the clouds the next morning, I made my way back to Barwa Sagar with a retinue of seventeen men.

  Chapter Seventeen

  My father’s eyes filled with tears when he saw the gift the rani had given to me for Anu’s wedding day. He took my palm and wrote swiftly, “How?”

  The rani’s gift would change my family’s fortunes in Barwa Sagar. My place in the Durga Dal had already made my family famous. But now we would be considered wealthy as well, and Shivaji’s family would be looked upon with even greater respect, since the rani’s gift was ultimately destined for his house.

  It may seem strange that a good friend like Shivaji would demand a dowry fortune from us, particularly since my father had saved his life in Burma. But in India, these things are not matters of friendship; they’re matters of esteem: your family will only be held in high regard if they’ve managed to procure a good dowry fortune. Every neighbor who comes to your house, and all of their children, and even their children’s children, will know what your son received with his bride. If she came with only a chest full of silk, no one is going to say, “Did you hear what so-and-so brought to her father-in-law’s house?” Instead, they will let the conversation pass, since what is there to say about a bride who only arrives with clothes?

  When my sister heard what she’d been gifted, she buried her face in her hands and wept. “Thank you,” she kept saying.

  “I haven’t done anything. The rani gave it to you.”

  “But the rani doesn’t even know me.”

  “Yes she does. I talk about you all the time.”

  She looked up, and her eyes were giant pools. “You do?”

  It hurt me that her question was in earnest. I sat down on the bed next to her and said, “Anu, I never stop thinking about you. Just because I’m in Jhansi doesn’t mean that my heart isn’t here with you. And Pita-ji.”

  I could see she wasn’t convinced. “And you’ll be with me tomorrow, right?”

  “At every step of your wedding,” I promised.

  “What about tomorrow night?” she worried. “I’m going to miss Pita-ji.”

  “I know. I miss Pita-ji, too. But what happens tomorrow is going to be very special, and it’s something that both Pita-ji and I have been looking forward to for a long time. You’ll see,” I promised. “You’re going to make a beautiful bride.”

  And she did.

  There are many bridal rituals in India, and every village performs them differently. In Barwa Sagar, the rituals begin the night before, when girls throughout the village arrive to help the bride prepare. By six in the evening, our house was filled with giggling children and neighboring women. As soon as Aunt arrived, we all helped Anu into a bath of scented oils, washing her hair in coconut oil and then rubbing her skin with turmeric. Four henna artists were summoned to decorate her hands and feet. They carefully applied the dark green paste, then instructed her not to move too much while she slept, or the dried paste would come off and ruin the elaborate designs underneath. As soon she woke the next morning, Anu scraped off the dried henna to see the final design.

  “Look how dark!” one of our neighbors exclaimed. “You know what they say. The darker the bride’s henna, the happier the marriage.”

  On my sister’s pale skin, the henna had taken on a deep maroon color.

  Little silver bowls of different pastes were brought, and sandalwood was applied to my sister’s forehead, sindoor to the parting in her hair, and rouge to her lips. But despite her nervousness, it was impossible not to laugh. Weddings in India are joyous events, with singing, and eating, and dancing. We could hear the musicians playing in Shivaji’s courtyard across the field. In a few hours, they would accompany the bridegroom to collect his bride.

  When the bridal dress was unveiled, everyone gasped. It was a sari of red silk that I had bought in Jhansi, embroidered with gold thread and encrusted with tiny beads that shimmered whenever they caught the light. Half a dozen women helped Anu dress, and when they were finished, the final vision was breathtaking. In her ivory bangles and heavy pearl necklace, she could have been the rani’s daughter.

  “Am I pretty?” Anu asked.

  “More than pretty,” I told her while the other women stood back to admire her. “Ishan is going to be very proud.”

  Of course, he wouldn’t take her to his bed until she became a woman, but already her beauty was arresting.

  After that, there was no time for talk. A dozen rites had to be performed, starting with the arrival of six girls bearing terra-cotta jars painted with symbols that have been lucky for Hindus for thousands of years: the alpana, the swastik, the feet of Buddha. The girls had filled these jars with Ganges water, and now they held them and circled my sister three times. A seventh girl blew a conch shell as they danced. There were more rites, then eating, then more rites still, all culminating with the shraddha, which is a ritual done to honor a person’s ancestors.

  Then we heard the musicians coming closer and knew that the bridegroom must be on his way, surrounded by laughing, dancing relatives. When he arrived in our courtyard, I took Anu’s hand in mine and whispered, “Are you ready?”

  She nodded, and I drew her dupatta over her face so that she was completely veiled. After the ceremony, Ishan would be able to look into her face and see the woman who would someday bear his children. For many men, this is the very first time they see their brides. Of course, Ishan had seen Anu before, but their situation was quite unusual.

  I led my sister into the courtyard where Ishan was waiting, surrounded by all of his relatives. He was dressed in rich Benares silk and his brothers had covered him in garlands. His eyes went very wide when he saw us, and I thought I saw the faint traces of a smile. Then everyone seated themselves on the cushions we’d provided. It was the start of a very long day: anyone who has attended a Hindu wedding can tell you, the rites last for more than twenty
-four hours, and even the priest must rest before the event is considered complete.

  By dawn, the priest was finished, and the relatives who had stayed awake joined the tired but happy procession from our courtyard to Shivaji’s house. I told Anu to go inside and rest, since there would be more festivities come nightfall.

  “Anu, tonight’s also Diwali,” I reminded her. She was married during the most auspicious time of the year. “I’ll be back before dinner and we’ll light diyas together.”

  When I saw her again in the evening, Anu was laughing. There was so much joy in Shivaji’s house. She would have a very lucky life. I went outside with the men as they lit the diyas and placed them near the walls of the house. If you were a bird and could see our village from the sky during Diwali, you would look upon endless strings of glittering oil lamps.

  Ishan had procured a chest full of fireworks, and that evening the bright explosions even made Grandmother smile. At the end of the night, it was strange, walking through the gate of Shivaji’s home without Anu. But Shivaji’s home was her home now. She’d never live with my father again.

  When we reached our house, my father stopped in front of our door and took my palm. “I am going to remarry,” he wrote.

  I wasn’t shocked. My father had waited years. It was time. “Who?”

  “Avani.”

  This did shock me a little. Widows rarely remarry in India. Certainly, it happens, but it is as common as snowfall in the summer. Yet they were the perfect match—they had seen each other daily for many years. We no longer knew each other well, but it seemed likely that she felt great affection for him. He waited for my reaction.

  “I don’t know why I never thought of it,” I said. Then something occurred to me, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t bring me a certain joy. “Have you told Dadi-ji?”

  “Yes. She was upset.”

  I imagined the shouting, pacing, and throwing of things. But obviously Father felt passionate enough about Avani that he had risked Grandmother’s wrath.

  “And Anu?” I asked.

  “She was the one who suggested it,” he said.

  I went to bed that night feeling like a vessel brimming over with sweet water.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I returned home from Anu’s marriage to find the road leading to the Panch Mahal completely empty. There was no one in the street, not even a chai wallah selling tea. At the doors of the Panch Mahal, there was no one to take our horses back to the stables. One of my escorts left three soldiers in charge of our mounts while the rest of us went inside.

  “I’ve never heard it so silent here,” I said. The entire palace felt abandoned. On our way to the queen’s room, we spotted a servant and stopped him in the hall.

  “What’s happening? Where is everyone?”

  The old man peered closer at us. “Where have you been?”

  “In Barwa Sagar! What’s happening?”

  The old servant stepped back, slightly offended. “The raja is ill. He collapsed in the baradari three nights ago.” He cleared his throat and took some time before continuing. “The rani has called on a British physician.”

  Immediately, my heart plunged. “Where is he now?”

  “In his chamber.” The old man looked at me. “Are you Sita Bhosale?”

  “Yes.”

  “The rani has asked that you join her in his chamber immediately.”

  I turned to the soldiers and pressed my hands together. “Thank you.”

  The old servant motioned for me to come, and I followed him down a magnificently painted hall to a pair of elaborately carved wooden doors. The servant pushed open the doors and disappeared, leaving me alone with several guards. When he returned he said, “You are not to go beyond the entrance chamber. The rani will meet you there.”

  I was about to enter the raja’s personal chamber: few people were ever invited here.

  The old man held the door open for me, and I entered.

  The only way to describe the room would be to use the word grandiose. Nothing was tasteful. The walls were red, the color so glossy that I knew the painters had employed a trick women use in Barwa Sagar, rubbing hibiscus flower over them in order to make them shine. An ostentatious chandelier hung from a gold and yellow star-patterned ceiling. The furniture was silver. The padding on the couches and cushions was bright blue. It was an assault on the eyes.

  The rani arrived as I entered, and her face looked stricken. I bowed and pressed my hands together. “Your Highness, I’m so—”

  She waved away my pity. “He is with Dr. McEgan. He can be trusted,” she said, before I even asked.

  “What are his symptoms?”

  Vomiting, lethargy, an unwillingness to eat. “Then last night, he couldn’t feel his legs. It was as if he was paralyzed, like Damodar. His own physician suspected poison,” she said, “but his taster is well.”

  I heard the raja’s voice—as clear as if he was standing on stage—shout, “I will not have an Englishman tending to me. Get out! Out!”

  The doors swung open again, and an Englishman emerged, looking completely unflustered. His voice was soft and kind when he said, “Summon Major Ellis. Begin making plans for yourself and for Jhansi. Your Highness, the raja is very ill.”

  The rani waited until the doctor left before covering her eyes with her hands.

  “What will you do?” I asked her. The raja couldn’t be that ill; he was still strong enough to shout.

  “I don’t know. The question is, how do the British define heirs?”

  The child was taken from his mother on the fifteenth day of October. I remember this because that evening there was a hunter’s moon, the only full moon that appears in October. It was as bright and red as a giant ruby. I was watching it from the courtyard outside the queen’s room when I heard screams. The sound was so pitiful that I rushed inside to see what was happening.

  The rani was surrounded by three of her advisers and was cradling a little boy in her lap. He was no more than three, and tears streamed down his tiny face, pooling on his pudgy cheeks. His lower lip turned down, and he was shouting repeatedly for his mother.

  “I want you to meet Anand,” the rani said.

  The other women had also come running, and now we all stared at the little boy. The childless rani had made another woman childless.

  Shri Bhakti stepped forward. “The official adoption will take place tomorrow.”

  At twenty minutes before noon, the rani appeared in a lavender sari with yellow jewels. She was carrying the boy, and he looked a little calmer.

  We walked in a quiet procession to the Durbar Hall, where the raja was seated on his throne, propped up by several pillows and looking extremely ill. He had lost a significant amount of weight. Men stood on either side of him, ready to catch him if he should fall.

  In the years since, I have heard some claim that this child’s adoption took place in the raja’s bedchamber. But I was there to witness the event, and I can tell you, it happened at noon in the Durbar Hall. A dozen or so British officials were in attendance, including Major Ellis, dressed in uniforms of bright scarlet serge.

  It took several hours for the papers to be drawn up, but eventually a will was made, and Anand was declared to be the rightful heir to Jhansi’s throne. In the case of the raja’s death, the rani was to act as Anand’s regent.

  The papers were read aloud, and then the raja, the rani, and nearly all of the British officials in attendance signed them.

  When this was finished, the raja requested that everyone leave the room with the exception of the rani. We filed out into the hall. The British officials left, but the rest of us remained standing near the open doors. We could hear the raja just the same as if we were standing next to him. His voice was hoarse and weak.

  “Manu,” he said. “If life had been fair, I would have been born a rani, and
you would have been born a raja.”

  “Next time,” she said.

  “If I die, the other kingdoms will see Jhansi as weak. Remain friends with the British. They’re strong enough to save us from our enemies.”

  I’m sure the rani was clenching her jaw, but we heard her agree.

  There was silence after this. Perhaps he was weeping. Maybe they both were.

  It was October fifteenth.

  By the twenty-first of November, the raja was dead.

  For thirteen days—the very minimum—the rani didn’t leave the Panch Mahal. When she emerged, she only did so to break her bangles outside, as was the custom, leaving behind the pieces for poor women to sweep up and sell. She didn’t shave her hair or change her colorful saris for widow’s white. But as we made our way through the silent fortress to the lake near Mahalakshmi Temple, the sight of the raja’s funeral pyre made me suddenly nervous.

  I glanced at Sundari, who was standing near the rani as the raja’s lifeless body was lifted from his gilded litter onto the neatly piled wood. But she was too distracted by the rani to notice me. I looked at the growing number of people: advisers, soldiers, farmers, and merchants—all of them crowded onto the lakeshore to bid the Raja of Jhansi farewell. Many of them stole secret glances at the rani, wondering if she was going to do as her ancestors and countless other women before her had done.

  “She can’t do it,” I said.

  “Committing sati is the greatest form of respect a wife can show her husband,” Kahini replied.

  How could Kahini be so callous? I felt sick. Without the rani, what would become of Jhansi? What would become of the Durga Dal? But Shri Bhakti’s head was bowed, and the Dewan kept looking from his adviser Shri Lakshman to his adviser Shri Bhakti and back again. No one spoke, no one moved.

  The priest stepped forward with a torch and intoned a few important words in Sanskrit. Then the pyre was lit and everyone turned. I could hear my heart beating in my ears.