“Is he well enough to travel?”
“Nothing could stop Job sahib,” Tariq replied.
This occasion, my very first assignment as an interpreter, sounded risky. Still, I didn’t want to miss it. I had been at death’s door before. And it could very well be that the wheel of fortune was turning in my favor.
“I have never met a queen before,” I said. “How do I present myself?”
“Speak formally, as you did at the Royal Court. You might do well to lavish praise. Listen, watch, act carefully—you’ll be the eyes and ears of the Company.” According to Tariq, since her battle with the Mughals, Rani Mata had gone into purdah. She spoke with men, with the exception of her attendants and servants, from behind a curtain or from another room. So far the seclusion hadn’t stood in the way of her accomplishing her objectives. Before leaving, Tariq said, “You might wish to dress in your finest.”
My wardrobe consisted of three cheap saris, two of them made of cotton and one of jute, all of which I kept clean and pressed. My sole jewelry consisted of a gold filigreed necklace with a pendant, my grandmother’s gift.
“The palanquins will be ready in an hour,” Tariq said. “You’ll have one for yourself. And, oh, be sure not to peek out through the curtains. Let no one see your face. You follow?”
I nodded. Tariq slipped out of the room, mumbling, “May Allah, Most Merciful, protect us all.”
I finished preparing the rice pudding, scrubbed the kitchen floor, drew water from the well, and retreated to my room to examine my meager wardrobe. The henna-green sari was too faded and the blue jute one too coarse. The saffron-yellow in cotton would do. It had a deep purple border with a mango design on the aanchal. After draping the sari, I made sure that my necklace was visible. I combed my hair, which now reached my ears, then prepared a thick white sandalwood paste. I dipped my ring finger into the paste and placed a large dot on my forehead with several tiny ones along the outer curve of my eyebrows. In the looking-glass, each dot glimmered like a jewel. I smiled. This decoration would add a festive touch, even if my clothing and jewelry were not extravagant enough for an audience with the queen.
Soon I found myself riding a palanquin inlaid with silver and carried by four white-cloaked, well-muscled porters. The roads were so poor that wheeled carts couldn’t travel on them. Another four or so men, armed bodyguards, marched along with us, daggers stuck in their waist belts winking in the sunlight. A separate palanquin in which Job sahib and Tariq were riding followed closely behind mine. That too was accompanied by armed guards. Disregarding Tariq’s advice, I peeked out through the curtains. Thatch-roofed houses, herds of cattle, and a laborer hefting a bundle of grain on to his head came to my view. We passed by vast meadows covered with thick short grass and ponds shimmering with reflections of the sky and trees. An owl hooted.
My palanquin plodded along sunbaked country roads. We traveled through a desolate area, mainly grassy fields shaded by trees, with no sign of humans anywhere. An occasional pillar indicated the presence of a well, meant for the benefit of thirsty wayfarers. Before long, lulled by the sameness of the scenery and the swinging motion of the palanquin, I dozed off.
The thundering beat of horses’ hooves startled me. I opened my eyes and peered out. A small procession of red-coated horsemen galloped out of a side road toward us, kicking up swirls of brown dust. There were at least eight of them, one carrying a banner that identified them as the Nawab’s soldiers. The horses were decorated with gold chains. We must have drawn attention, for they were slowing. I needed to consult with Job sahib and Tariq, but how? My body stiffened.
“Stop!” the lead soldier yelled out to the palanquin porters and they began to slow down. Swiftly, the soldier reined in his horse and dismounted from the saddle, his shoes caked with mud. An iron sword shone ominously from a sash tied to his waist. As he drew his sword, with its curved and tapered blade, the sound and gesture numbed my muscles. He halted only a few feet from us. He had a large nose and ferocious eyes; a helmet covered his head. “By the order of Nawab Rafi Khan, Shadow of God, stop at once!”
The bearers set the palanquin down on the ground so jerkily that I bumped my head against its ceiling. I shrank into my seat. O Shiva. What should we do? We were helpless against such a force. A gust of wind blew, the palanquin curtains shifted, and I came in full view of the soldiers. They stared curiously at me, at my bright yellow clothing and the festive dots on my forehead. My heart shuddered, Tariq’s words of caution leapt into my mind.
A second soldier, possibly the commander, slid from his horse and stood guard. Behind them, the entire line of horses and riders halted and waited a short distance away. My legs cramped, my stomach knotted, I couldn’t breathe.
The first soldier directed his gaze at a bearer and asked, “Where are you going?”
The bearer, bathed in perspiration, sank down on his knees and did his salutation, but seemed to have lost his tongue. Waiting for a reply, the soldier frowned.
I poked my head out and said in a voice loud enough for Job sahib and Tariq to hear, “To a wedding, huzur.”
The soldier stepped in closer and crouched to the ground to be at eye level with me. “A wedding, huh? Whose wedding?”
“My cousin Amrita’s.” I said, with a smile. Fortunately, palanquins were in common use for nuptial occasions and my tilak was a mandatory wedding feature among Hindus. “She’s the oldest of my cousins, very dear to me.”
He pulled at his wide moustache, which flared out over his lips, and regarded me with mild suspicion. “Which village?”
Quickly, I made up a name.“Palasparah. It’s small. You might not have heard of it.”
“Who’s in the other palanquin?”
“My mother. She’s in purdah.” Another lie. Far worse. If caught, I could be beheaded in an instant. But what did I have to lose?
“Ask her to speak.”
“I can’t. She’s unwell, resting.” Looking at the army official steadily, I added, “Please don’t cause us delay. We’re running behind. Our relatives are waiting for us.”
“Do you have roses with you?”
Rose. Bribe. If only I had a few coins to offer. I felt the touch of the pendant against my skin, the precious memento, the only item of any value in my possession. I unfastened the sweat-drenched necklace, took it from my neck, and held it before him. “Take this, but please keep it with care,” I said, with deep sadness. “It belonged to my grandmother.”
The soldier snatched the necklace from my hand, his eyes dazzled by the intricately designed pendant.
“What’s taking so long?” asked the second soldier who had been standing behind and watching the road.
“She’s giving us her grandmother’s jewelry.” Clasping my necklace tightly in his fist, the first soldier studied the inside of the palanquin as well as my clothing. “I don’t see anything else hidden there. And see how she’s dressed. Cheap, old clothes. She doesn’t have any money. She’s probably a servant.”
For an instant, I was glad to be a domestic. The second soldier stepped closer, examined my face, and tightened his lips in a long moment of contemplation. Perhaps he had a daughter of my age at home; perhaps he saw through my answers and was playing a more sinister game.
“Don’t take it,” he said to his friend. “Don’t mess with grandmothers. A neighbor boy stole the ring my grandmother had given me. She cursed him so bad that he fell from a tree and died instantly. Give her jewelry back and let us be on our way.”
The first soldier handed my necklace back, turned, and waved at the bearers. “Proceed!” His gaze descended on me. They saddled up and raced off in the opposite direction. I exhaled a sigh of deeply felt relief; from the other palanquin, there was complete silence. The bearers rolled their eyes to the sky and chorused a respectful prayer: “O Ganesh, we’ll sing your praise forever for saving our party.”
They hoisted the palanquins on their shoulders and resumed marching. Their legs shook, making for a bumpier ride
. The sound of hooves died down and the road ahead appeared safe. I fidgeted, my throat was parched, and sweat trickled down from my armpits. What if the soldiers turned round, followed us, and found out there was no wedding?
I also wondered about Job sahib’s health. There was no way to check with him or Tariq. Did they approve of my lying? Or did their silence mean they didn’t? By now, the bearers had increased their pace and stopping even for an instant was out of the question.
After another fearful hour, we approached a walled compound. Inside, there stood a massive, stone-and-brick house fronted by a lawn and surrounded by a grove of pomegranate trees blooming with red flowers. The windows were shaded by muslin curtains decorated with floral embroidery. A male servant sprinkled water from a bucket onto the lawn. As soon as he spotted us, he stood upright, placed a hand on his chest in the local gesture of respect, and hurried inside.
So this was our destination. The bearers slowed down and set both the palanquins down at a short distance from the arched entranceway.
Tariq and Job sahib got down from their palanquin and rushed toward me, their faces etched with weariness and relief.
“You truly are courageous, Maria.” Job sahib folded his hands in a greeting. He was decked in a long off-white waistcoat that reached to his knees, its color contrasting with his feverishly red complexion, and a matching round turban decorated with a gold feather. “You stood up to the soldiers all by yourself. We’d surely be lying by the wayside, if it weren’t for you.” He leaned toward me, eyes steady. “Is it common to travel such a long, potentially dangerous distance for a cousin’s wedding?”
“Yes, sir. It is believed that gods arrange a wedding, so one must attend, to both give and receive blessings.” In an attempt to lighten everyone’s mood, I added, “I do have a cousin named Amrita.”
In the light of the day, far away from the Factory and our respective duties, we stared at each other; in his gaze I saw what I felt in my heart. I found myself smiling, already forgetting the trials of the journey.
“But, sir,” Tariq broke in, his voice high and cracked, “we could run into the same soldiers on the way back.”
“Perhaps we could tell them we’re returning from the wedding?” Job sahib said.
“They wouldn’t believe us, sir,” a bearer said. “Hindu weddings last for days and relatives usually stay for the entire ceremony.”
I might have gotten us out of trouble temporarily, but I had created a new problem. “We must find another route,” I said.
A young male aide, dressed in velvet trousers and a brocade jacket, emerged at the entrance of the house and walked toward us. We exchanged salutations.
“Allow me to welcome you on Rani Mata’s behalf.” He bowed with a hand at his chest. “She’s ready to receive you. I trust you had a pleasant journey?”
He spoke the Dhaka dialect, which only I understood. I interpreted for Job sahib and Tariq.
“It wasn’t as pleasant a journey as we had hoped for,” I replied. “We were stopped on the way. Please be sure to have someone keep an eye on the road. And please interrupt us if you hear the soldiers approaching.” I relayed this in a mixture of English and Bangla, as though giving birth to a third language, so Job sahib and Tariq would be better prepared.
“Very well,” intoned the aide. He shepherded us through two courtyards to an annex. He offered seats to Job sahib and Tariq on the verandah in the front. Then he opened the door and showed me into a lofty room, its floor spread with fine woven cane mats on the periphery and a rich colorful carpet, illustrated with the scene of a battle, at the center. Plush velvet cushions were scattered on the carpet. This was the inner quarter, andarmahal, the aide explained, from where Rani Mata, who was in purdah, would address the Company Agents. Even though the room was bright and airy, several lamps gleamed, creating a festive atmosphere. I studied the layout of the room. If I positioned myself near the curtained window and translated loudly enough, I could make myself understood to Job sahib and Tariq.
An inside door creaked open. A graceful woman, much of her face hidden under a veil, glided through the door. She looked dignified, alert, confident, sure of her position and its importance. Stepping into the room, she adjusted her ghomta, revealing her sharp regal features and searching eyes. Her pink-and-saffron sari, lavishly worked with beads, shone like a hundred moons under the lamp light. Adding to the dazzle was a pair of coral-set bracelets encircling her wrists and displaying exquisite gold filigree work. In my plain saffron cotton sari, I was dressed worse than her aide. But at least both Rani Mata and I had chosen similar colors. Then I noticed the ugly brown scar slashing the left side of Rani Mata’s forehead and going down to her right cheek. She must have acquired this horrible disfigurement during the battle with the Mughal troops. Now it became clear to me why she had chosen to be in purdah. Our society expected a woman to always project beauty, poise, and perfection. The disfigured women in my village never left their houses, always fearful of being ridiculed. It moved me to imagine the strain Rani Mata must go through to maintain her seclusion, to safe-keep her secret.
The aide bowed to her. “We salute you and praise your glory, Rani Mata. And may I present to you our honored guests?”
“Of course, you may,” Rani Mata said in a low refined voice in Dhaka dialect.
As Job sahib and Tariq identified themselves from the verandah, Rani Mata acknowledged them with grace and ease. It didn’t seem to matter to her that she couldn’t see their faces or that they couldn’t catch even a glimpse of her.
Rani Mata studied me, her gaze turning gentle. I lowered myself and touched her feet with my right hand; she placed her palm on my head.
“Revered Queen,” I said. “It is a great honor to be in your presence. I have heard of your many brave acts.”
We took our seats on the colorful cushions. Sitting close to her, I couldn’t help but think that here was a woman who had fought in a battle with a sword, who had annihilated the enemy, one who could be both a mother and a warrior. She seemed to be a bit on edge, trying to listen to every sound, as though expecting trouble.
“How do you prefer to be addressed?” she asked.
“Maria, Excellency.”
“Strange name for someone whose mother tongue is Bangla.”
“Once I was called Moorti, but when I came to work for the English, I was given a new name.”
She smiled knowingly and rested a gentle hand on my shoulder. “You’re not much older than my son.”
The question on her mind shone in her eyes. This young, inexperienced, plainly dressed woman would serve as my interpreter? Through a gap in the window curtains, I watched a bird make an arc across the sky. How tiny a creature, yet how big the arc it made. The aide set down two brass tumblers of sweetened limeade on a low table. The limes, he explained, belonged to a special rare variety grown only in this region. He returned in a moment with a silver platter of almonds, raisins, pistachios, and mango slices.
Palm upraised, her bracelet sliding down her arm, Rani Mata said to the aide, “Do not disturb us for the next two hours.”
“Very well. I will not be too far away, should you need my assistance.”
Rani Mata turned toward me with an elegant sweep of her head. “Let us proceed then. You may begin translating for the Company representatives, but not everything, my dear girl. When I lower my voice slightly, I am sharing my private thoughts with you alone.”
“As you wish, Revered Queen.”
“As you very well know, mine is a small kingdom located on the plains of the Ganges River,” Rani Mata began. “We have maintained our independence for as long as anyone can remember. The Bengal region, of which we are a tiny part, is called the Granary of the Gods, and not without reason. My land is fertile; it yields three bountiful crops a year. Our farmers are the most productive in all of Bengal, and we grow more crops than we can ever use. All my subjects are well fed and sheltered. I patronize music, painting, dancing, and other art forms. Our d
octors, kaviraj, are extremely knowledgeable in planetary positions and they can cure most ailments by prescribing proper herbs. People come from far and wide, Dhaka, Chittagong, and Hooghly, and bring their sick to be treated by our doctors.”
I interpreted her as best I could in English interspersed with words of my native tongue, hoping that I’d made myself understood to Job sahib and Tariq. Rani Mata watched me closely, as though trying to intuit if I was translating accurately.
“That’s all well and good, but what do you have to trade with us?” Job sahib asked. I translated.
A flicker of annoyance passed acrossRani Mata’s face. “Tell the Englishman we will get to that in due time.”
“These matters cannot be rushed in our culture, sir,” I told Job sahib. “It is not in our interest to offend the queen, I must add.”
Rani Mata, her expression alert, seemed to be trying to absorb as much as she could. I embraced this lull in conversation to pick up the topic with her. “It is marvelous that you can provide such excellent medical facilities to the citizenry.”
“Oh, but that’s not all,” she said, casting a glance at my attire, then at hers. “I also have the best textile workers. You will have to see the silks and cottons we weave, many with gold and silver thread embroidered on them. But with all of that, we have no peace, no security. Much of what we produce lies idle. We can’t openly trade with other independent kingdoms for fear of being harassed by the Mughals.”
Her forehead was creased, her voice strained, eyes anguished.
“Nawab Rafi Khan’s soldiers could breach the walls of my fortress any day, depose me, destroy my army, enslave my people, and take over my territory,” Rani Mata continued. “They covet our riches and our fertile land, which is why I maintain a small but highly efficient army.”
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