“She beat me,” he said, as though witnessing a miracle. Then he repeated it, as if saying the words again made the fact less unbelievable. “She beat me. She’s a master!”
You should know this wasn’t actually the case; that a great number of his men probably lost to him on purpose, giving him a much greater sense of his own abilities than he actually had. But everyone around us nodded eagerly, and I felt I could finally breathe again.
As soon as we remounted and were back on the hot, dusty road, I wondered if the Dewan would tell the other women in the Durga Dal of my “mastery.” It would make them want to test me. This was not how I wanted to begin my life in the palace, and my mood sank. Then, in the distance, the city of Jhansi rose like a white and gold mountain from the banks of the Pahuj River. It was unlike anything I had ever seen: the entire city was spread out like a vast white blanket beneath the sun. My sour mood disappeared and every worry I had slipped from my mind like sand from a sieve.
The Dewan noticed my reaction. “It’s a magnificent sight, even for those of us who have seen it many times.”
As we rode closer, I saw buildings that towered four and five stories high. I was mesmerized. Beyond the city of Jhansi itself, the whitewashed facade of Raja Gangadhar’s fortress rose like a white heron from the hills.
Our horses passed through the city gates, and if you can picture an anthill, with thousands of ants scurrying back and forth, well, that’s what the city looked like to me. People were everywhere. Not the kind you see in a village, walking barefoot in dhoti and carrying sticks. These were people in the finest cottons and silks, wearing heavy gold earrings and belts of precious stones. And everywhere I looked, there were
women
. They strolled by themselves or in groups, and no one paid any more attention to them than if they were leaves blown about by the wind.
“Make way for the Dewan!” a man began to shout as we pressed forward. We were sharing the road with pigs, goats, and cows that wandered aimlessly—just as they do in India today. Still, the streets were immaculate. The Dewan said they were swept clean by a team of men three times a day and once at night.
Hundreds of stone urns lined the road, bursting with red and yellow flowers. And there were so many trees! Some bore fruit, but most were Palash trees, spangled with red and orange blossoms and bright as a monsoon sunset. Shakespeare would have had a difficult time describing the streets of Jhansi as they existed in my youth, they were that beautiful. Shops of every kind also lined the narrow streets. One caught my eye with a blue and gold sign above the window that read,
BOOKS: HINDI, MARATHI, ENGLISH
. I was a blade of grass next to a soaring peepal tree. There was almost too much to see.
Monkeys jumped from rooftop to rooftop, following our long procession, hoping for a handout. Women followed our horses as well, offering up baskets of silk from Murshidabad, conch bangles from Goa, bright cloth from Dhaka. “One rupee!” the bangle
woman cried. I shook my head, staring in astonishment. What would Grandmother say if she could see this?
We passed through the city and continued on to the raja’s fortress on the hillside. When we came upon it, I saw it was protected by high granite walls that were pierced by ten gates, each large enough—according to the Dewan—for an elephant to pass through. We approached one of their enormous gates and guards dressed in the red and gold colors of the city of Jhansi immediately stepped aside to let us pass. We rode down a cobbled avenue in single file, then the Dewan held up his hand and the procession came to a halt. We had stopped in front of a grand building that the Dewan announced was the rani’s Panch Mahal. This palace would be my new home. It was a building of light and air; the high, arched windows and sweeping balconies were visions out of fairy tales.
A woman a full head taller than me stepped out from the doorway holding a silver tray in her hand. Her hair was pulled back from her face in a tight braid, and she was wearing the most extraordinary red angarkha I had ever seen—a combination of gold thread and light silk that looked extremely comfortable even in the terrible heat.
The Dewan dismounted and indicated that I should do the same. He said, “This is the girl. Sita Bhosale of Barwa Sagar.”
The tall woman stepped forward and bowed at the waist. Then she performed a welcome ceremony, circling her tray with its oil lamp over my head. She dipped her thumb into the little bowl of sandalwood paste, making a tilak on my forehead. Then she took several moments to look at me. She had small wrinkles around her eyes and strands of silver hair in her thick braid. I could see that the muscles of her arms were sleek, like a cat’s, and her eyes were the golden shade of a cat’s as well.
She put down her tray and turned to the Dewan, who was
holding his yellow turban in his hands. “Thank you, Dewan, for discovering our newest member. The rani is eager to meet her, but first, I should think this girl is quite tired from her ride.”
“Please give Her Highness my highest regards,” the Dewan said, bowing.
The Dewan wished me luck. Then he and his men took their leave and the woman with the cat’s eyes introduced herself. She was Sundari, the leader of Her Highness’s Durga Dal. She said I was not to call any of my fellow members “Didi,” as you would call a respectable woman back home; I was to use their real names. The sole exception was the rani, who was to be referred to only as Her Highness, although her husband called her Lakshmi, and her best childhood friends—Tatya Tope and Nana Saheb—called her Manu. “Tatya Tope is the son of an important nobleman,” Sundari said. “And now he’s Saheb’s most trusted general.” Saheb’s father, of course, was Peshwa Baji Rao, whose throne had been taken by the British years earlier.
“We bow whenever we greet the rani in the morning, and again at night when we leave her in her chambers. She is in her fourth month of pregnancy and sleeps for most of the afternoon, but in the mornings and evenings, we are all expected to entertain her. You should know that she doesn’t tolerate foolishness. She’s twenty-three and a practical woman. Her father raised her as a son, and her favorite escape from tediousness is chess.”
I felt the color drain from my face.
Sundari continued. “You must be very clever if the Dewan felt strongly enough to bring you from a village. There is only one other village girl here: her name is Jhalkari. She has made a positive impression on the rani. I hope we can expect the same from you. The rani won’t hesitate to dismiss anyone from her service if she feels they are wanting.”
“I will not be a disappointment,” I said.
Sundari stepped into the cool entryway of the palace and I followed. A pair of guards bowed first to her and then to me. No man had ever bowed to me before. With every step I took, I was entering not just a new world, but also a new life. She slipped her feet out of her embroidered juti and I did the same. Then two servants appeared to place our shoes into a long cupboard. If I live to be a hundred years, I doubt I will ever forget the first time I felt plush carpeting beneath my feet. Not even the wealthiest man in our village had carpets in his home.
We passed several doorways draped with long, airy curtains that stirred slightly in the breeze. Beyond them, I could see the faint outlines of men, some of them talking, others arguing. I’ve heard people describe Svarga, the equivalent of heaven, as a place of unparalleled beauty. Well, the Panch Mahal in its glory, with its jasmine-scented chambers and its high, arched windows overlooking the raja’s flowering gardens, is what I believe Svarga to look like.
When we finally reached the farthest end of the hall, I saw a flight of stairs.
“The raja lives on the second floor,” Sundari explained, “and his Durbar Hall, where guests and officials are met, is on the fourth. The rani visits the Durbar Hall once a day, always after her nap. She is sleeping right now, so this is a good time for you to become familiar with the palace.”
Sundari stopped in front of a wide door hung with gauzy curtains. Here, in the fresh light of the nearby window, the silver strands in her hair appeared white, as if someone had taken chalk and traced thin lines over her scalp. “You are the tenth member of Her Highness’s Durga Dal,” she said before we entered, “which means there are eight other women here who are extremely com
petitive and hope to take my position. The servants who wait on us were all once members, and are now retired. I suggest you treat them accordingly, because some day that will be your fate. No one is guaranteed a long career as a guard, so be careful what you tell the women in this room. The Dewan said you have a sister?”
“Yes.”
“Does she hope to become a member as well?”
“No. Whatever I earn here will be used for her dowry fortune. She is almost nine, and my family wants her to marry.”
Sundari’s eyebrows rose like a pair of startled birds. “That’s not much time to save a dowry fortune.” She pushed aside the curtains and we entered the largest chamber I had ever been inside. The ceiling was carved and painted in gold, while the walls gleamed like polished eggshells, and were just as smooth. A fountain splashed musically in the center, while a dozen yellow cushions were arranged around its base, nearly all of them occupied by women dressed in the most elegant angarkhas I had ever seen. Instead of the simple knee-length tunic that I was wearing, these were full-skirted ones sewn from silk and elaborately tied at the waist. And whereas I smelled of horses and dirt, these women smelled of jasmine blossoms and roses. They stood as soon as they saw us, and I counted seven. Sundari must have been counting, too, because her face took on a very stern expression and she said, “Where is Kahini?”
“In the garden,” the shortest girl said. She had the round, bright face of a pearl and wore a beautiful angarkha of deep purple and gold.
“Please bring her here to the queen’s room, Moti.”
The girl left the room, and I wondered if Moti was really her name or just a nickname someone had given her, since in Hindi, it means pearl.
The other women gathered around me.
“This is Sita Bhosale from Barwa Sagar,” Sundari said, “and I expect she will be treated the same as those of you from this city.”
“Are you truly from a village?” one of the women asked.
Someone else said, “We heard you speak English.”
The comments were coming so quickly that I didn’t have time to answer a single one before Moti returned with the woman from the garden, and a kind of hush fell over the group.
Kahini was stunning. To this day, I have never seen such an exquisite face. Her features were so precise and sharp they might have been carved from alabaster. She was dressed in a blue silk angarkha and close-fitting churidars. Both pieces were trimmed in silver and delicately painted with images of open lotus blossoms. Her hair was divided into four dark braids that were twisted together, her ankles and wrists were ornamented with small, silver bells, and around her neck was a delicate turquoise and silver necklace.
“So you are the new guardswoman,” she said, and her voice was devoid of either welcome or criticism, like an empty pot waiting to be filled.
“This is Sita Bhosale of Barwa Sagar,” Sundari repeated. “One of you must show Sita to the Durgavas, and then to the maidan. Who wishes to do this?”
“I will,” Kahini said.
There was a pregnant silence, as if no one had expected her to offer.
Sundari hesitated. “Fine.”
The other women immediately backed away, and I wondered if Kahini held some sort of special status in the Durga Dal.
“Come,” she said with a smile.
The women parted before us, and I followed Kahini across the
queen’s room into a long hall painted with images of birds. The artist had taken care to render each bird in its common habitat. There were peacocks strutting across marble courtyards and egrets feeding near shallow lakes. “We’ll go to the Durgavas first,” Kahini said. Then she stopped beneath a painting of a heron. “You do know what the Durgavas is?”
I shook my head, and felt my cheeks flush.
“No one has told you how the guardswomen live?”
I’m sure if the roots of my hair could have turned red, they would have, too. “We get very little information about Jhansi in my village.”
“Of course,” Kahini said pityingly. “Which village did Sundari say you were from?”
“Barwa Sagar.”
“That’s north?”
“South.”
Her smile was so brief that I might have imagined it. “Well, the Durgavas is nothing more glamorous than a room with ten beds. Our servants sleep outside this room on the floor.”
“The former members of the Durga Dal,” I said, repeating what Sundari had told me.
“Yes. Although the members of the Durga Dal who become leaders are given estates of their own with handsome pensions.”
“So Sundari-ji will be given an estate when she retires?”
“As will the woman who takes her place.” Kahini stopped outside of a curtained doorway and regarded me. “We are all aiming for the same thing.”
“And how does the rani choose the leader?”
Kahini allowed herself a full smile, and a row of perfectly white teeth flashed against her red lips. “Humility.” She pushed back the curtains and stepped inside.
Ten beds, with fluffy mattresses and massive wooden frames, lined the frescoed walls of the Durgavas. I followed Kahini across the room, and when she stopped in front of the last bed near the wall, I immediately reached out to touch it. It was something fit for a maharaja.
“Certainly you’ve seen a bed before,” Kahini said.
“No. I sleep on a charpai at home.”
“Well then, you’re going to be quite surprised when you see the Durbar Hall. Though I doubt you’ll see it today. The rani hasn’t gone at all this week; she spends most of her afternoons praying to Durga to keep her from the sick bowl. Which is too bad, because soon she’ll be as fat as a sow and unable to walk anywhere.”
I covered my mouth with my hand. I had never heard anyone talk about a pregnant woman this way, much less the Rani of Jhansi.
“Oh, you don’t have to pretend to be shocked. It’s the truth, and I tell it to the rani herself.”