Rebel Queen (19 page)

Chapter Thirteen

I
suppose you have something to say about the quality of your charpai now,” Grandmother remarked over breakfast the next morning. “You will be demanding a fancier bed, I imagine.”

As always, her hair was perfectly combed. It swept over her shapely head like a waterfall, cascading down her back in three silver braids. But her sharp cheekbones, which other women envied, revealed her nature. She was all angles and no softness.

I put down my bowl of yogurt and bananas. “Did you hear me complain?” I said.

Anu gasped, and Grandmother’s eyes widened. I had never spoken to her with such disrespect.

“How dare you!” She rose from her chair and I rose as well. I was taller, younger, stronger. She was not going to intimidate me anymore.

“How dare I
what
, Dadi-ji? Answer you? Earn my sister’s dowry fortune?”

“And what will you do? Go searching among the imbeciles who
beg outside the temples to find her husband? I assume she’s told you how long it took for her to master making rotis?”

“Do not insult Anuja.” I turned to my sister. “Anuja, has Grandmother been unkind to you?” Her letters had never said so.

Grandmother laughed. “Oh, it’s not an insult. It’s the truth.”

“You will never speak about her that way again!” My voice rose, and my sister covered her ears with her hands. “If I learn that you’ve beaten or insulted her, or acted in any other despicable way, you will be sorry.”

“And exactly how will I be sorry?”

“Someday, when your son is too old to work,” I said, “I will be the only one bringing money into this house.”

“And you think he would let you starve me?”

Her dismissal of my threat caused something inside of me to break. Suddenly, I was bamboo that not only bends, but snaps, creating edges that are sharp as knives. “I think no one knows which of us will die first,” I said. “And Lord Shiva help you if it’s your son.”

I turned and walked away. Inside my room, I could hear Anu’s small feet hurrying behind me. She collapsed onto my charpai. “Dadi-ji is going to kill you!”

“Anu, nothing could be further from the truth. And she is not going to treat you cruelly again. Here is something you must do differently: if she insults you, or threatens you in any way, you must write these words: ‘Dadi-ji has been very kind this week.’ ”

Anu’s eyes opened wide.

“Do you understand? She will still have someone read your letters, and you can never write the truth. But if I see that phrase, I will know, and I will come to help you.”

Anu was speechless.

“Can you repeat the phrase to me?”

“Dadi-ji has been very kind.”

“
This week.
”

“This week,” she replied.

I
had changed. But not in the way Grandmother thought: I didn’t believe I was too good to sleep on a traditional charpai, and I certainly hadn’t grown so accustomed to the rich fruits and curries of the palace that I couldn’t enjoy Avani’s cooking. But it was as if my mind was an hourglass and the thoughts inside my head were the tiny grains of sand, and by becoming a Durgavasi, the hourglass had been turned completely upside down.

For one thing, I
understood more about cruelty. After living for five months with Kahini I understood that Grandmother’s bitterness was something she nurtured, feeding it like a vine until it choked out all other feelings. Secondly, I now understood what suffering meant, and could truly see the difference between the very rich and very poor. I’d had no idea that we were poor until I saw the splendors of the Panch Mahal. Yet the time spent at Mahalakshmi Temple, serving curry and sweets to people who would have no other meal—it made my life in Barwa Sagar seem fortunate. It also made me think that with enough charity and dedication, the people who lived on carpets with silver bowls had the ability to make other people’s lives better.

I won’t pretend I was suddenly like Buddha, making keen observations about the world now that I was a part of it. But new ideas certainly occurred to me, and I found myself thinking about the rani’s guru, Shri Rama, wondering what he would say about life in Barwa Sagar and the women who lived inside like caged parrots.

During a trip to the market with Father and Shivaji, I was the only woman walking in the streets. Men stared, and most of their gazes were hostile.

“Does it feel strange to break purdah here?” Shivaji asked.

“It did in the beginning. Now it feels like being a fish emptied from the bowl it’s spent most of its life in back into the river where it was actually born.”

B
y December, the air was bitterly cold and I had read Arjun’s book of poetry twice. Our family was seated on thin cushions around the brazier while Avani fanned the coals, and I couldn’t help but think of the warmth of the palace, where rugs covered the stone floors and there were always enough blankets. Father took out the book he carried with him and held his pen over the heat, warming the ink. When it was ready, he wrote, “What use is Rumi at court? Why aren’t you practicing your English?”

“The rani values poetry as much as anything else.”

“Who could be a finer poet than Shakespeare?”

I considered my answer. I didn’t want to offend him, but I also didn’t want to lie. “I believe Rumi may have been just as talented, Pita-ji.”

Father frowned. He didn’t like this new direction.

“At court,” I went on, “English is useful, but it’s also looked down upon.”

“Why?”

“Because the English are not well liked in Jhansi. There are conflicts—”

“Is that why you haven’t gone back?”

It was the first time Father had questioned why I was staying in
Barwa Sagar for so long. A vacation of a week, possibly even two, was believable. But Diwali had come and gone, and the rani’s child was due. Why wasn’t I at court to protect her?

“I will return in two weeks,” I wrote.

He didn’t press any further. But he glanced at my sister before writing, “I know someone well suited to her. And if their Janam Kundlis match, I would like to make the necessary arrangements.”

Marriage would mean that Anu would go to her father-in-law’s house. Father would be alone with Avani and Dadi-ji, neither of whom could write.

“Who?”

“Ishan.”

Shivaji’s son. I thought of his tenderness when he’d come to our courtyard to heal the broken wing of the tiny bulbul. He was only seven years older. And Anu would only be one house away. I wrote swiftly, “It’s perfect. More than perfect.” I found myself wondering who Father might have found for me if life had been different and I had been destined to marry. But I pushed these thoughts away, since they didn’t serve any purpose. I was forever duty-bound now to the rani. Fortune’s wheel had turned in a different direction for me.

Father reached out and patted my leg. “
Sab kuch bhagwan ke haath mein
,” he wrote. And in Hindi, this means,
It’s all in God’s hands
.

F
ather spoke with Shivaji, and it was agreed that a priest should be called to read the Janam Kundlis of the prospective bride and groom. I have already spoken about the difficulties of being born manglik. But neither my sister nor Ishan were bad-luck children, and according to the priest, their Janam Kundlis matched.

When the priest was gone, Anu found me in the kitchen, placing bowls of water under the legs of the small table where we kept our vegetables so the insects couldn’t climb into the vegetable bowls.

“Is it true?” she said. “Am I really going to marry Ishan?”

“Yes. Next year. And I don’t think I need to tell you how fortunate you are that both of your charts matched.”

Because Anu was a worrier, it took some days for her to become accustomed to the idea that her marriage had been arranged. Then, as I suspect most nine-year-olds do, she forgot about it entirely, opting instead to play with her dolls whenever she wasn’t helping our grandmother in the kitchen. And once the excitement of Anu’s marriage died down, there wasn’t much for me to do. It was too cold to visit the markets, or to go with Father to deliver his carvings. So I sat by the brazier and read Rumi.

Be with those who help your being.

Don’t sit with indifferent people,

whose breath comes cold out of their mouths.

Not these visible forms, your work is deeper.

A chunk of dirt thrown in the air breaks to pieces.

If you don’t try to fly,

and so break yourself apart,

you will be broken open by death,

when it’s too late for all you could become.

Leaves get yellow.

The tree puts out fresh roots and makes them green.

Why are you so content with a love that turns you yellow?

The last line confused me.
Why are you so content with a love that turns you yellow?
What love did I have that was mediocre?

A
t last a courtier arrived with a retinue of seventeen soldiers to bring me back to Jhansi.

I had the strange feeling of wanting to be in two places at once, like a sailor who misses the sea as much as he misses dry land. I was sad to kiss Anu and Father good-bye, but at the same time, I felt duty-bound to the rani. And I missed the other Durgavasi.

I mounted Sher, who had been forced to take shelter in Shivaji’s stable these past four weeks, and my sister reached up to hand me a small box of sweets.

“I made laddus,” she said. “Your favorite.”

“Thank you, Anu.” I realized that the next time I returned, it would be for her wedding. “Be kind to Pita-ji,” I told her. “And listen to Dadi-ji. You remember what I told you?”

She nodded.

“I’ll see you soon,” I promised.

Chapter Fourteen

I
studied Jhalkari in the warm glow of the brazier. She’d grown thinner in the past month, and now, she looked less like the rani. There were other changes as well. While we’d been gone, carpets had been hung on the walls of the queen’s room to keep out the cold, and there were thicker, plusher carpets on the ground. Servants had brought in a dozen braziers, and the other Durgavasi huddled around them in small groups. Jhalkari and I were in the farthest corner of the chamber, separated from the others by the fountain, which had been stopped for the winter.

“So where is Kahini?” I asked. A very foolish part of me hoped that the truth had been exposed and Kahini had been banished from the Durga Dal.

But Jhalkari had returned a day earlier, and she gave me a look. “In the rani’s chamber, with Sundari-ji.”

“So Sundari-ji never told the rani—”

“How could she? There would have to be proof. Without it, Sundari-ji could lose her position, which Kahini would love. She’s already cost the rani’s physician his job. When the rani asked a
British doctor—Dr. McEgan—about the status of the plague, he said he hadn’t heard anything. Then the rani summoned her physician to her chambers and demanded to know where the two victims had been buried. But, of course, there were none. So when he couldn’t tell her, she dismissed him as a liar.”

It was amazing to me that there were people who went through life like a sickle, cutting down everything in their path, except for what was useful to them. Didn’t the hard work of constant destruction ever tire Kahini? Didn’t it become depressing? Even Lord Shiva, the Destroyer of Worlds, regretted his act of burning down Tripura after it was done.

“Anyway, the rani won’t be leaving her chamber now until the baby comes due. We’re only allowed inside if we’re called.”

“Does she know that we’ve returned?”

Jhalkari watched me for a moment. “You mean, does she know that
you’
ve
returned? Because I don’t think she has any reason to summon me.”

I’m sure my cheeks turned the color of my angarkha. I changed the subject.

“Imagine if it’s a girl,” I said.

“
Shhh,
” Jhalkari cautioned severely. “No one should say that. It has to be a son.”

Later that evening, the rani finally summoned me to her chamber. I hoped I might run into Arjun there, but two men I’d never seen were guarding the doors.

The sun had dipped below the horizon, and the chamber walls were burnished orange. I expected to see the rani tucked into her bed, buried in half a dozen covers this late in December. But instead, she was pacing near open windows, her long blue robe flowing behind her like a stream and opened to reveal her very round
stomach. She had grown prettier in the time I was gone, softened by the extra weight of her child.

“Sita,” she said as soon as she saw me, and from the way she spoke my name, I knew she regretted sending me from Jhansi. “Oh, Sita.” She closed her robe and walked toward me.

I made the gesture of namaste and touched her feet. “It is an honor to return to your service, Your Highness.”

There were tears in her eyes. I had not expected to see the rani in tears, and certainly not over me. She took my hands in hers and then guided me to her bed. She drew the covers over her chest and indicated the padded stool so that I could sit near her. “Tell me about your father and grandmother and little sister.”

“Father, Grandmother, and Anuja are all very well, Your Highness.”

Her face brightened. “Your sister must be preparing for her marriage.”

“Yes. Because Your Highness was gracious enough to accept me as a Durgavasi, I’ll be able to provide her with a dowry fortune. Father made a very suitable match while I was home, and the engagement ceremony will take place next month.”

“I should never have sent you and the other women away. My physician was either incompetent or deluded. I suppose you heard there were never any messengers from Delhi?”

“Yes. Jhalkari told me what you discovered.”

“Well, my doctor has been dismissed,” she said, “and Dr. Bhagwat has taken his place. Kahini arranged it all. She interviewed new physicians—”

“And Your Highness thinks this is a wise decision?” I blurted.

The rani’s expression changed. She looked disappointed with me. “Sita, Kahini grew up at court. Our childhoods were very sim
ilar. And no one”—she emphasized the words
no one
—“is better suited to understanding what a rani requires in a physician than she is.”

I lowered my head in shame.

We sat in silence. Then the rani took a stack of letters from her bedside table. “Deliver these to Gopal,” she said. “Make sure to convey them as soon as you leave this chamber.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“And Sita, be careful of assuming too much.”

I was dismissed. Outside the rani’s chamber, Arjun had replaced one of the guards. As soon as he saw me, he grinned.

“I heard you were back.” He searched my face, and I knew I should say something about his book.

“It was a long time to be gone,” I admitted, “but Rumi was a great help in passing the time.”

“Then you read his poetry?”

“Yes.”

“And what did you like best?”

I knew he would ask this of me, so I had already thought of my answer. “The last page. Someone wrote their favorite expressions in the back. Was it you?”

“No. I bought it that way.”

One of the expressions written suddenly came to me, and now I quoted it for him. “ ‘Yesterday I was clever, so I wanted to change the world. Today I am wise, so I am changing myself.’ ” I should never have been so forward with the rani. Now, perhaps she would never forgive me.

Arjun blinked slowly. “That’s one of my favorite lines, too.”

As we were speaking, I had moved closer to him. So close, in fact, that I could reach out and touch his smooth face. Immedi
ately, I stepped back. “Can you direct me to Gopal-ji’s chamber? I’m to deliver these to him.” I held up the letters the rani had given me. “She wants me to do it at once.”

“Up the stairs, at the farthest end of the hall.”

As I left, Arjun called, “Can you be in the courtyard tonight? I have something I want to give you.”

I hesitated. “I can’t continue accepting gifts. How will it look—”

“These aren’t gifts.” Arjun laughed. “I expect to be repaid.”

I’m sure my mouth was hanging open.

“I introduced you to Rumi. Now it’s your turn to introduce me to a great writer,” he said.

I flushed, since that wasn’t what I’d assumed he meant. “But you don’t read English—”

“How do you know?”

“Well, do you?”

“Enough to read a little poetry.”

I was stunned. “Why didn’t you say so?”

“You never asked.”

Suddenly, I felt foolish. Why shouldn’t Arjun know some English when it was spoken all around him?

When I reached Gopal’s chamber, a servant opened the door and escorted me inside. The walls were paneled in rich mango wood, so that in the light of the oil lamps, the entire chamber gleamed like a woman’s newly washed hair. Every few steps, there were heavy bronze lanterns on elaborate pedestals, and they were lit as well. Books were arranged on shelves that stretched from ceiling to floor, and at the far end of the chamber, Gopal sat hunched behind a desk. He looked up and I made a formal bow and the gesture of namaste, and then offered him the letters. “The rani asked that I deliver these to you at once.”

“This is Kahini’s job,” he snapped. He looked over my shoulder, as if I was contriving to hide her somehow. “Will you be replacing Kahini now?” he demanded.

“I don’t believe so. Perhaps Kahini is occupied,” I guessed. “So I was asked.”

“Occupied with what?”

Gopal continued staring at me, and finally I said, “I don’t know, and I don’t much care. I have delivered the letters to you as the rani requested. Is there anything I should deliver to her?”

Gopal glowered at me. “No.”

I was not invited to the rani’s chamber during her lying-in again.

W
hen the news came a week later that the rani was in labor, Sundari took me aside and asked what had happened between us. “Why hasn’t the rani asked to see you again since you’ve returned? What happened the last time you saw her?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said, although, of course, I knew exactly. But Sundari kept staring at me. I hesitated. “I may have said something that led the rani to believe that I was overstepping my bounds.”

Sundari sighed. “Tell me.”

Reluctantly, I repeated the conversation. Then I waited for her to make a pronouncement.

“You may be the quickest girl the Durga Dal has seen in quite some time, but you can’t follow even the simplest warning. At court, there is no telling whom you can trust. Your closest adviser may be plotting your overthrow. How do you sort your friends from your enemies? By keeping family close, Sita. Kahini is related to the raja. Yet you think you can walk into the rani’s chamber and
criticize her family. Who are you? A girl fresh from the village, who’s never visited a physician in her life.”

If Sundari had reached out and slapped my face, I would have felt less pain. The truth of her words stung like a physical blow. “I won’t say another word about Kahini,” I swore. “Or anyone else.”

“I hope you get that chance. She’s about to give birth; if it’s a son, she might be in a forgiving mood.”

As it happened, the gods smiled on Jhansi. The rani did give birth to a son, and without so much as a whimper, according to the servants who were inside the birthing chamber.

The celebrations that followed were beyond anything I had ever seen.

It may have been the coldest part of December, but for an entire week the city was filled with rejoicing people. They gathered in the streets to congratulate one another, as if someone in their own family had just been delivered of a boy. Sweets were distributed in the temples, and bells rang from morning until night, so that even though the weather appeared brooding, the city was cheerful.

Inside the palace, the tables, columns, door lintels, and windows were all garlanded with bright bunches of winter flowers from the raja’s gardens. Loose rose petals were strewn across the courtyards, and jasmine oil burned continuously. The perfume of the flowers mingled with the scents of rich curries and roasted meats coming from the kitchens, and everyone in the palace was served two heavy meals a day, with thick lassi for drinking, and sweets for dessert. There were so many sweets prepared daily—puran puri, shira, anarasa—that it was impossible to taste them all.

Per custom, the rani was confined to her bed for a month, wrapped up like a moth in the silk cocoon of her chamber, with the windows shut and no visitors permitted except her closest servants and Dr. Bhagwat. Even Kahini was forbidden from visiting. Sun
dari said she was following every child-birthing ritual: the walls of her chamber had been whitewashed, and she was wearing a sacred pavitram ring made of kusha grass for an auspicious recovery.

Because we knew the rani was happy, we all had great fun in her absence, and everyone placed bets on what the child would be named. Eleven days after the child was born, a priest arrived for the naming ceremony. His name was to be Damodar. Rao would be added to signify his nobility.

That afternoon, the raja organized a procession to celebrate Damodar Rao’s arrival.

The Durgavasi weren’t part of the parade, but we were allowed to watch as Raja Gangadhar mounted his favorite elephant, a towering animal he’d named Siddhabaksh, and we followed the procession as it wound its way through Jhansi’s festooned streets. It was extraordinary to see Raja Gangadhar towering above us in his silver and velvet howdah as if he were a god. Mounted servants rode alongside him, holding up the three emblems of royalty: the umbrella, the
chauri
, and the silver rods. All three gleamed in the low winter sun. A retinue of soldiers on white horses followed, dressed in ceremonial uniforms. And behind them rolled a long procession of carriages carrying gifts for the prince of Jhansi: silks, tapestries, marble vases, wooden toys, and elaborate brass statues from Lalitpur.

The people prostrated themselves as the procession went past. Even the British officers, whose flaxen-haired wives were protecting themselves from the weak midday sun by brocade umbrellas, stopped to stare.

“There’s going to be a play tonight,” Sundari announced. “Something from the
Ramayana
.”

The
Ramayana
is one of our holiest texts, and for the next three nights, parts of it were to be performed in celebration of Damodar’s birth.

“Another
Ramayana
play. Oh joy,” Kahini said.

But the truth of it was, she was probably glad to get out of the Panch Mahal. Since Damodar’s birth, none of us had been to the maidan, and our daily routine of practicing, bathing, and going to the temple had stopped entirely.