Rebel Queen

by Michelle Moran

  “I’m the first Dalit you’ve ever spoken to,” Jhalkari said.

  “Yes,” I said truthfully. “But I did very little speaking to anyone, so that’s not so unusual.”

  Nothing bad was happening. We were talking, just as you would talk to anyone else.

  “Some of the women here,” she said loudly, “aren’t comfortable being close to me, even though I could be the rani’s sister, we look so similar. I bathe in the same water, I eat the same food, I sleep in a similar bed. But because I was born of Dalit parents, I must somehow be tainted.”

  I’m ashamed to admit that I didn’t know then whether or not this was true, so I kept my silence. Jhalkari could see how uncomfortable she was making me, so she changed the subject.

  “While the rani is sleeping, we are free to relax,” she told me. “Listen to music.”

  I could hear someone playing the veena outside, but I felt too tense to enjoy the sound.

  Soon, Sundari reappeared with a woman dressed in a green Chanderi sari that fell in thick folds across her waist. Aside from a simple pearl necklace and a small diamond ring, she wore no other jewels. But I knew she was our queen because she bore such a striking resemblance to Jhalkari. Their features were nearly identical, from their perfectly oval faces to their bow-shaped lips, and long, straight noses. It was astonishing: a Dalit and a queen looked enough alike to be sisters.

  I rose immediately, and the others did the same. When the rani approached us, I followed Jhalkari’s example by pressing my hands together in a respectful gesture of namaste.

  “Sita Bhosale of Barwa Sagar,” she said. “Look at me. Never be afraid to look your rani in the face. I’m not a goddess.”

  I did as I was instructed, then waited for her to say something.

  “Sundari was right. She’s an excellent reader of faces, and she told me that yours was very guarded. You don’t give up your secrets easily, do you?”

  Once again, she waited for me to say something. I kept my silence.

  The rani chuckled. “Has anyone introduced you to the other women?”

  “Your Highness. I have met Sundari, Kahini, and Jhalkari.”

  The rani clapped her hands and the women I hadn’t named fell into a half circle around us. “This is Moti.”

  The woman who had collected Kahini earlier nodded.

  “This is Heera.” With the thick, beautiful braids.

  “This is Priyala.” I tried to think of some detail to remember her by, but nothing came to mind. Perhaps that she was thin?

  “Kashi.” She had a sweet and innocent smile.

  “Mandar.” Who looked like a man.

  “And Rajasi.” With the face of a horse.

  I folded my hands once more in namaste. “It is an honor to be here.”

  Rajasi gave Kahini a meaningful look, and I wondered if I had already made some mistake.

  “We are going to the Mahalakshmi Temple now to feed the poor,” the rani said. “Find something more suitable to wear when we go tomorrow; I’m sure one of these women will let you borrow something if you have nothing in silk.”

  Several women nodded. One of them was Jhalkari.

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  “I suppose you are tired from your journey today, Sita?”

  “Only a little.”

  “Then join us.”

  I wasn’t asked to bring any of the weapons I saw the other women carrying beneath the belts of their angarkhas. But there was a dagger tucked into a thin sheath beneath my tunic. I would be able to do my duty if someone was foolish enough to attack our pregnant rani along the way.

  Sundari and Kahini walked ahead of the queen, while Heera and Priyala walked on each side of her. I took a place at her back. Servants had appeared to shield us from the rain falling in thick gray sheets outside. But even with their umbrellas, the hems of my pants became mud-soaked the moment we filed out the door. As I looked to see what other women were doing, Moti fell into step beside me.

  “Wait until we get to the temple,” she said. “The rani’s cooks prepare the best imerti for the poor. You’ll never have tasted anything like them.”

  “What are imerti?”

  Moti’s big eyes grew even bigger. “You’ve never had imerti?” She turned to Jhalkari, who was walking next to her. Neither of them seemed to notice how wet the legs of their pants had become. “You ate imerti in your village, didn’t you?”

  Any time someone was uneducated about something, they obviously turned to Jhalkari for help. Because if Jhalkari had done it—an ignorant Dalit girl from an ignorant village—well then, everyone must have.

  “Outside of Jhansi, women are in purdah.” Jhalkari’s voice sounded thin. “There aren’t many occasions to eat imerti when your world is confined to the walls of your house.”

  Moti slowed her pace to match mine. “So you never went outside?” she asked me.

  “A few times. But only in a palanquin.”

  “Then this must be absolutely overwhelming.”

  “Which part?” Jhalkari answered for me. “The torrential rain or the beautiful sites?” As Jhalkari said this, we crossed in front of the elephants’ stables. The mahouts were sweeping out the stalls and piling dung into giant heaps, which they would probably burn once the rain was finished. I tried not to laugh, but Jhalkari met my gaze, and I couldn’t help it.

  “Sita understood what I meant,” Moti said. “Didn’t you?”

  “Yes. I had a very small life, but I was able to make it much bigger with books.”

  If you have ever met someone who rarely reads, then you will understand the blank look Moti gave me. For nonreaders, life is simply what they touch and see, not what they feel when they open the pages of a play and are transported to the Forest of Arden or Illyria. Where the world is full of a thousand colors for those who love books, I suspect it is simply black and gray to everyone else. A tree is a tree to them; it is never a magical doorway to another world populated with beings that don’t exist here.

  We crossed an avenue filled with shops selling coffee and tea, and a pair of English women passed by us. Their umbrellas were prettier than any I’d ever seen, and their skin was as thin and pale as moonlight.

  “Foreigners,” Moti said when she saw the direction of my gaze.

  I wanted to stare after them, but suddenly—several steps from a stall selling holy necklaces made from mango beads—we were at the Temple of Mahalakshmi. It stood on the shore of a Mahalakshmi Lake, surrounded by peepal trees that provided a nearly perfect cover from the rain. The servants lowered their umbrellas, and we left our wet juti on the marble steps.

  “Mahalakshmi is the royal family’s deity,” Jhalkari said as we entered. “No other goddess is as revered by the rani. Not even Durga.”

  Inside, the temple walls glowed like burning embers. They were made from amber and teak, and every time an oil lamp was lit the entire room gleamed. I tried not to stare at the other patrons, but most of them were so poor they couldn’t afford proper kurtas or dhoti. And their smell in the hot, sticky rain was overwhelming.

  We spent nearly an hour standing behind a long wooden table, helping to oversee the distribution of food. I was astonished to see how familiar the rani was with the people of Jhansi: you would have thought she had known them all of her life, although she had become their queen only nine years before. They bowed to her and made respectful gestures of namaste, but they also looked into her eyes and made jokes. One of them had the audacity to say that in another few months, the rani would be as round as the imerti she was serving. I held my breath when the old man said this. Who knew what happened to people who dared to be overly familiar with a queen—prison? Execution? A fine?

  But the rani tossed back her head and laughed. She thought it was funny.

  “You shouldn’t encourage them,” Kahini said after the man had passe
d.

  “Why not?” the rani said. “It’s true.” At this, she looked down at her stomach and patted it fondly. “I’ve waited nine long years for this. Looking like an imerti will be a blessing.”

  I turned for an explanation to Sundari, who was standing next to me with a giant ladle and helping to serve daal, but her expression didn’t change.

  “Is Gangadhar-ji also so intimate with his subjects?” I asked.

  Sundari glanced at the rani, then lowered her serving ladle. “Who told you to use the raja’s name?”

  “No one.” My heart beat baster. “I heard Kahini—”

  “She is the raja’s cousin. What she is allowed to call him is her business. For everyone else, he is His Highness. The raja.”

  I looked over at the rani, but she was talking to someone new and hadn’t heard me. “Of course.” I was so humiliated that I forgot what it was I had been asking. “I’m sorry.”

  “Be careful. The rani does not abide anyone who is overconfident.”

  So it was exactly as Kahini said.

  “Let me explain something to you,” she added. “Every day, the rani wakes at six to start her morning prayers and then watches us while we are on the maidan. Before her pregnancy, she would practice with us as well. After we return, she bathes, and then we all attend puja. Afterward, we read, she has a nap, then we accompany her to the Durbar Hall and she eventually makes her way here. When we return to the Panch Mahal, we have the evening meal and some entertainment. Then we sleep and the next day begins again at six. The rani is a firm believer in routine. It’s never altered.” Then she said, “The rani is very predictable. The raja, however, is not. Only Kahini is allowed to call him by his name, and that is because they grew up in the same house.”

  I lowered my head, and I couldn’t have felt worse if I had just offended the rani herself. I spent the rest of our time in the temple in silence.

  When we were finished, we retrieved our juti on the marble steps. The evening rain had gone, and as we walked, the puddles were bathed in the glow of oil lamps hanging from the eaves of every building. The walk to the temple had been downhill; we now had to walk uphill, but without the rain, it was a much more pleasant task. I suppose everyone was lost in her own thoughts, because no one spoke.

  When we reached the Panch Mahal, I stood in the courtyard for a moment and looked out beyond the gates and over the city. In the light of the setting sun, the houses were bathed in pools of gold and purple shadow. Somewhere below I knew there was a sign that read, BOOKS: HINDI, MARATHI, ENGLISH. Books never led to trouble the way interacting with people did, and you couldn’t be overly familiar with them. I wished I could afford something from that shop.

  “Are you coming inside?” Jhalkari asked.

  I followed the other women back into the queen’s room. Bowls of soup had been laid out at a low wooden table. I took a place on an empty cushion next to Jhalkari while servants brought in trays of steaming rice, curries made with green chilies and coriander, and vegetables cooked in heavy sauces. I wanted to savor it all, especially the fruit, which came last. But the meal was cut short since the rani wasn’t hungry. Afterward—because of what Sundari had said—I anticipated that the rani would ask one of us to read aloud, or perhaps call for court musicians. Instead, she announced that she had a meeting to attend.

  “At this hour?” Kahini said.

  “Nana Saheb has come with Tatya Tope and Azimullah Khan. They’re only staying for the night. We have news to discuss.”

  Kahini made a dismissive noise in her throat, which seemed tremendously disrespectful to me. “Important news? Did Saheb’s favorite tailor die?”

  The rani gave Kahini a very sharp look. “I’ll remind you Saheb is the son of the Peshwa.”

  “Who lost his crown to the British before he could teach his son anything of use.”

  “That’s enough.” But the rani didn’t really seem angry.

  “I’ll bet he is wearing more gold than you are,” Kahini predicted.

  “Are we to accompany you?” Sundari asked.

  “No. I’ll make my own way to the Durbar Hall,” the rani said.

  Kahini’s face remained neutral until the rani left. Then she rose from her cushion and exclaimed, “What kind of news would suddenly demand a private meeting?”

  “The rani is free to do as she wishes,” Sundari said.

  “And we are her Durgavasi! We’re here to protect her.”

  “From what?” Mandar arranged her masculine features into a scowl. “Her closest childhood friends?”

  But Kahini would not leave it alone. “If I was the rani, I would not remain friends with men as ignorant as Azimullah Khan and Tatya Tope.”

  “Why would you say that?” Sundari demanded.

  “I grew up at court. I recognize dangerous men when I see them.”

  But two hours later, the rani returned looking completely at peace. Nothing dangerous had happened. She was simply tired and ready for bed, so we followed her down the hall, past the Durgavas where my own bed awaited me, to an enormous chamber. The richly paneled walls were painted in blues and whites, but it was the furniture you noticed first. In the flickering light of the hanging lamps, I could see that everything—from the four-poster bed to the elegant dresser and its matching nightstands—had been made from silver. A breeze passed through the room from the gardens outside, and suddenly the room smelled like vetiver. I would discover later that servants took the long kusha grass blinds and soaked them in water so that whenever the wind blew, an aromatic breeze flowed through the chamber.

  We stood in a half circle around the rani’s bed, and my feet sank nearly ankle-deep into the soft white carpets spread across the room. Sundari drew the silver curtains closed around the bed while the rani changed into her sleeping garment. Then the curtains were opened again and the queen bid us good night. I followed the other women out the door; only Sundari stayed behind. As captain, her job was to sleep on a bed at the entrance of the rani’s chamber, while three male guards stayed posted beyond the door.

  Inside the Durgavas, I went to the bed that Kahini had shown me earlier in the day and where the chest that my father had given to me was waiting.

  “You’re my new neighbor,” Jhalkari said.

  She had the bed next to mine, and while the other women undressed, changing into long, simple kurtas for the night, she sat cross-legged and watched me take out Father’s murti: he had packed two mango-wood images for me, wrapping each one tenderly in several layers of cloth. Seeing them made my heart ache for home. It was the first night I had ever spent away from him—from all of them. I looked down at Father’s carvings. One was of the warrior goddess Durga riding her tiger. The other was Ganesh, the Remover of Obstacles. I placed the murti on a low wooden table next to my bed, and put Father’s chest on the ground below it.

  “Tomorrow, after practice,” Jhalkari said, “you can borrow one of my silk angarkhas.”

  “That’s very generous of you.” I sat on my bed and faced her. “Thank you.”

  Jhalkari shrugged, and I was struck once again by how similar she looked to the rani. “Someone lent one to me when I came.”

  “One of the women here?”

  “No. She’s gone.” Jhalkari leaned forward, and her voice grew very low. “She was with one of the soldiers, and the rani doesn’t tolerate immorality.”

  I glanced over her shoulder to see who might be listening, and realized that one of the beds was empty. “Someone is missing.”

  “Kahini. Didn’t you notice?” Jhalkari uncrossed her legs and began to undress. “She left after we ate. She goes to the raja’s theater.” Jhalkari finished, then lay down on her bed and turned toward me. “She leaves every night.”

  “And what does the rani think of that?”

  “Are you asking if he’s taken her as a concubine?”

 
My cheeks warmed at Jhalkari’s bluntness. But I guess that’s what I was saying. “Yes.”

  Jhalkari glanced at Moti, who had risen from her bed to blow out the oil lamps. Jhalkari waited until Moti was across the room before she whispered, “The rani depends on Kahini to keep the raja happy. She is very close to Kahini, because Kahini helps her keep the raja entertained. And entertainment is everything in Jhansi. You’ll see.”

  I wondered what she meant by entertained. I put on one of my kurtas from home and lay down on the mattress. It appeared to have been stuffed with feathers, and nothing had ever felt softer. I watched the remaining lamp make shifting patterns on the ceiling, and thought of how much life was like that light, illuminating one thing at one moment, then casting it into darkness and illuminating something else. A few days ago my greatest concern had been passing the trial and providing for Anuja. Now, I was in a new bed listening to new voices and building new concerns. What if I failed to impress the rani with my skills? Or if the raja took a disliking to me? What if new angarkhas were so expensive that it was impossible to save a dowry fortune for Anuja? I couldn’t waste any time: she was growing up fast and no man is interested in taking an old bride.

  I should have been exhausted, but my mind was like a spinning top, going around and around in the same circle. So I took out my diary and recorded my impressions of the day. When I was finished, I closed my eyes. I could hear the rhythmic breathing of the other women, but even when I tried to concentrate on that sound, I couldn’t find sleep. At some point the door of the Durgavas creaked open and the slim, elegant shadow of Kahini appeared. I listened to the soft tinkling of her silver anklets as she made her way through the darkness to the bed across from mine on the other side of the room. Obviously, the rani had great trust in Kahini if she was allowed to come in so late after entertaining the raja each night.

  She slipped her juti under her bed and blew out the last lamp. Then the room was silent, and I was the only one left awake.

  Chapter Seven

  The next day as I dressed, I watched as the other women retrieved heavy brown packs from beneath their beds. Next to me, Jhalkari made a silent inspection of hers. All of the women possessed identical weapons—leather quivers filled with arrows, polished yew-wood bows, bejeweled swords, silver-handled pistols, and expensive two-handed daggers we call kattari.