I fastened the necklace and tucked the charm beneath my angarkha. Then Anu burst into the room and said breathlessly, “Sita, he’s here! The queen’s Dewan is here! It’s time!”
I hurried to the door, where Grandmother stood with a silver plate. In India, new guests are welcomed by passing this plate in a circular direction close to their head. Different houses will put different items on it, but there will always be a lit aarti—or lamp—and a small dish of vermillion with which to make a red tilak, or mark, on the welcomed guest’s forehead.
For all of my brave talk with Anu, I couldn’t have been more nervous stepping out into my own courtyard than a stranger would be taking his first step in a foreign land. The Dewan was waiting just before our wooden gate, surrounded by two dozen well-dressed men in double-breasted Western-style coats; a servant holding a small tasseled umbrella was shielding him from the early morning sun. The servant himself was thin, but the Dewan was even thinner, and so tall that, with his giant head, I thought that he looked like an enormous stalk of corn.
Father took his place at my left and Shivaji stood to my right. “Calmly,” Shivaji whispered as we approached.
I held the aarti plate as steady as I could before the Dewan, then moved it in a circular direction. When it was time to push my thumb into the small cup of vermillion and use it to create a mark on his forehead, my hand was shaking. Breathe, I told myself. I would have to perform the same short ceremony for every man there.
When I was done welcoming each of the men, the Dewan crossed our courtyard and took a seat on the wide yellow cushion a servant had arranged beneath our tree. All of his men immediately positioned themselves to his left, while the villagers of Barwa Sagar sat on the ground to the right. I was left with Father and Shivaji in the middle. All three of us bowed before him. I could feel the villagers watching me, the first woman in Barwa Sagar to have broken purdah in the history of who-knew-when.
“Sita Bhosale,” the Dewan began, and his voice was surprisingly deep. I thought it would be high and thin, like a reed. “You are the daughter of Nihal, who is the son of Adinath, a member of the Kshatriya. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“And you are seventeen?”
“I turned seventeen last month.”
The Dewan snapped his fingers and a servant beside him brought him a pipe, which the young man hurriedly lit. The Dewan inhaled deeply, then exhaled, never taking his eyes off me. “You look like one of Nihâl Chand’s paintings,” he said. He sat forward on his cushion, and the smoke from his pipe curled around his face. “Have you seen them?”
I knew my cheeks must be flushed. “Yes, Dewan-ji.”
Who hadn’t seen copies of Nihâl Chand’s work, one of India’s greatest painters? When he lived, the Maharaja Savant Singh gave the artist a sketch of his favorite singer, the beautiful Bani Thani. Nihâl Chand took the king’s simple drawing and created a series of paintings that represented the ideal woman: pale cheeks, sensuous lips, a high forehead, thin brows, and wide lotus-blossom eyes. He used her face for all of his images of our goddess Radha, much as some European masters used prostitutes for the faces of their Madonnas. To be compared to Nihâl Chand’s Bani Thani . . . Well, it was as much a compliment as an insult.
“Shall we see if your skills are as impressive as your beauty?”
He had his servants produce each of the weapons I’d been training with for eight years: matchlock muskets, knives, bows, swords, rifles, pistols, axes, and daggers. Targets were set up around the courtyard, and I was asked to pick my favorite weapon first. I knew immediately—the Dewan’s teak bow. It was inlaid with ebony and polished to a very high sheen. I’d only seen a bow this beautiful once before, when my father had gotten a commission from a very wealthy merchant who wanted an impressive dowry gift for his daughter. But even though I knew I’d be choosing the bow, I hesitated in front of each weapon: I wanted to give the Dewan the impression that I was exceptional with all of them and was simply having a hard time making up my mind. Finally, I picked up the bow. I slung the leather quiver over my shoulder, then stood in front of the small, white target across the courtyard and knocked my first arrow. Father always made me practice with different bows, so I had no difficulty adjusting to the Dewan’s weapon.
I could feel the eyes of all those present watching me shoot one, two, then three arrows squarely into the target. And I heard the women behind me cheer when the final arrow pierced my very first shot, shattering the wooden shaft. I will admit to feeling some smugness then. I desperately wanted to see the Dewan’s face. Instead, I turned, and with my eyes modestly pointed to the ground, laid the weapon before him.
“The pistol,” he said. It was impossible to tell from his voice whether he was pleased or simply bored.
I was tested on each of the remaining weapons in rapid succession. I performed well and I’m sure every person in that courtyard was watching me with at least some degree of fascination since they had only known me as Sita the girl, not Sita the warrior. Then it was time for the interview. I am ready for this, I thought as I took my place between Father and Shivaji before the Dewan. Ask me anything.
But the Dewan was silent. When I risked a glimpse at his face, his expression was inscrutable. Was that good or bad? And why were his men quiet, shifting from foot to foot in the heat without saying a word?
“Tell me,” the Dewan said at last. “Are these the men who trained you for the role of a guard in Her Highness’s Durga Dal?”
“Yes, Dewan-ji. Pita-ji, and our neighbor, the honorable Shivaji.”
“Repeat that in English.”
I did as I was told, and the Dewan seemed satisfied.
“Would you die for the rani?” he asked suddenly.
“Yes.”
“Your preferred weapon is the bow and arrow, is that right?”
“It is.”
“To whom would you owe your allegiance in Jhansi Palace if you were brought there tomorrow?”
My heart soared. Shivaji had prepared for this. I answered, “The rani.”
The Dewan picked up his pipe and inhaled. When he exhaled, he snapped his fingers and three of his servants stepped forward. Two of them had eyes made up with kohl and were wearing women’s dupattas over their hair. The Dewan’s men laughed, but no one from our village smiled. I knew they were wondering: is this what men do in Jhansi; dress like women with bells on their ankles and bangles on their wrists?
“One day,” the Dewan said, and I realized that he was narrating a story, “you find yourself in a room with the Rani of Jhansi.”
One of the men dressed in a woman’s dupatta stepped into the empty space between the Dewan and myself. Again, the men around him snickered.
“Also in the room is the maharaja’s mother.”
The second man dressed as a woman joined his friend and gave a little bow.
“I am there as well.”
The final man, wearing a loose yellow turban like the Dewan, stepped into the center and pretended to look official.
“Suddenly, an intruder enters the palace!”
A servant I hadn’t noticed, dressed entirely in black, jumped into the center of the group and all three servants pretended to be shocked.
“There is only one pistol in the room with which to defend ourselves,” the Dewan said. “To whom do you give it?”
A murmur spread throughout the courtyard, and the Dewan’s men exchanged knowing looks. They had heard this question before. The obvious answer, of course, was the rani. But then what about the maharaja’s mother? Didn’t she outrank everyone in the room? Or the Dewan himself? Surely, he would think he deserved the glory of defending the royal family.
It was almost noon and the sun was high. Sweat began to trickle down my back. I glanced at the villagers around me, who sipped mango juice from our terra-cotta cups, completely indifferent about whether or not I pa
ssed the trial. I was the day’s entertainment. Next to me, Shivaji cleared his throat. He was nervous, and suddenly I realized why. He had given me the wrong advice.
“No one gets the pistol,” I said, and there was a murmur of surprise throughout the courtyard.
The Dewan sat forward on his cushion. “Why not?”
“Because I would keep it.”
From the corners of my eyes, I could see the villagers shaking their heads. But the Dewan’s men were completely silent.
“You wouldn’t give it to the rani?” he asked.
“No.”
He put down his pipe, and now there was real interest in his eyes. “Explain.”
“What would she need with a pistol when she has me to protect her? Isn’t that what I’m in her chamber to do?”
The Dewan sat back on his cushion and smiled. “Sita Bhosale from Barwa Sagar,” he said, “be prepared to journey with me to Jhansi by sunrise.”
Before dawn the next morning we performed a small puja in our home, and Father presented me with four new angarkhas and two pairs of nagra slippers. Aunt placed each item in the carved wooden chest I’d be taking with me, and suddenly I felt the overwhelming urge to cry. What if it was years before I returned to Barwa Sagar? Or if the rani didn’t allow her Durgavasi to visit their families at all? No one could tell me what Jhansi would be like. It was an entire day’s journey from our village, and even Father, who had traveled all the way to Burma in his youth, had never been to the raja’s palace.
I rose before our image of Durga, and each face around our puja room told a different story. Aunt and her husband were smiling and hopeful, Father was proud yet sad, Grandmother was critical, my sister was devastated.
Father crossed the room and took my hand. For a while, he simply held it in his. Then finally, he opened my palm and wrote, “You will be deeply, deeply missed. But I am proud, Sita.” He placed my hand on his heart, then reached out and touched the peacock pendant he had carved for me and mouthed, “Like bamboo. Bend but don’t break.”
The Dewan’s servant knocked on our door, and we heard him announce that a horse was waiting. Just as Grandmother had predicted, I would be riding for Jhansi on a horse with a sword in my belt. Purdah would never apply to me again.
Anu cried, “Don’t go! Please, don’t go!” She wrapped herself around my waist as my wooden chest was carried out to be loaded onto the back of an oxcart.
I glanced at Grandmother, who was smiling strangely. Then she laughed. “You didn’t think she was going to stay here with you forever? Sita has one loyalty,” she told her. “To herself.”
“Anu, don’t listen to her,” I told her. “I’ll be back before you even realize it.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. But I promise.”
We walked out into the courtyard, and the Dewan’s men watched as I mounted a dapple-gray horse with an English saddle. Peacocks scattered around us as the horse snorted and stomped in response.
“Just one more day!” Anu pleaded.
The Dewan’s men smiled, no doubt thinking about their own daughters, but I’m sure I saw the Dewan’s lips thin in disapproval.
I untied my favorite blue muretha from my forehead and held it out to her. “Keep this for me until I return,” I said.
She reached up for my gift and clung to it tightly. Then she nodded, and it was Father’s turn for farewell.
By the time we rode out, the lump in my throat had grown so large I could hardly swallow.
Even though it felt like a great betrayal to my grief, I would be lying if I said I wasn’t excited to see the world beyond my tiny village. Men lined the roads to see our glittering procession go by, and from behind the wooden screens of temples and houses, I could feel the eyes of Barwa Sagar’s women watching as we passed. Riding next to the Dewan, I felt like a bird at the head of a great flock. I knew there were those who believed I was a veshya—a common prostitute—for riding out uncovered and breaking purdah, but no one made anything but sounds of approval as we went by: I was someone of importance now.
As we left the village with its buildings of burnt brick and stone behind, the landscape began to change. An expanse of cornfields filled the horizon, and waves of golden heads bobbed in the early morning breeze. The men joked with one another as we rode, but no one spoke to me. Slender fingers of sunlight were beginning to move across the horizon, and as they did, boys began appearing in the fields, the strings of bells on the necks of their cattle making high, prayerful sounds. People were preparing for another long day of work, but as they caught sight of our procession, they stopped what they were doing to watch us pass. Boys jogged alongside us, offering us juice from mud cups. “It’s a girl!” some of them cried when they saw me, and then there was a great deal of giggling.
I’m sure that for the Dewan and his men, none of these things seemed particularly interesting. But I had only left the confines of my courtyard very few times in my life, and for me everything was exhilarating: the variety of flowers that grew alongside the roads, the spice markets, the temples . . . No woman in my family had seen these things for hundreds of years.
By noon the ride became hot. The dirt roads shimmered in the heat, and I regretted giving Anu my muretha. The Dewan shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. Then, without warning, he shouted, “Lunch!” and the entire procession came to a stop. The men tethered their horses beneath the shade of several banyan trees, and half a dozen servants became incredibly busy producing cushions, teakettles, cups, bowls, and jars filled with rice, vegetables, and sweets. I was given a red cushion next to the Dewan, and a servant handed me a handsome brass bowl for my lentils and fried okra. We also ate gajar halwa, and I immediately thought of my sister, since carrots and almonds were two of her favorite foods.
When the meal was finished, the Dewan’s men began breaking off sticks from a nearby neem tree. Then they lay back on the grass, their heads propped up against their silk cushions, and began to brush their teeth. In Barwa Sagar, we used such sticks once in the morning and once at night. So one thing, at least, would be the same in Jhansi.
“Chess?” the Dewan asked. “According to your father’s letter, you play.”
A handsome chessboard was produced from a carved wooden case. We waited quietly while the pieces were arranged, and I could honestly hear my heart beating in my ears. Chess was invented in eastern India more than one thousand years ago, but few have truly ever mastered it. What would the Dewan do if I lost? Could he still change his mind about me?
I can recall the dryness in my mouth as I moved the white pieces across the board, and how difficult it suddenly felt to breathe. It was the first game of chess I had ever played with someone other than Shivaji or Father. We played for a while until the Dewan—who held his chin throughout the game as though he was trying to keep it above water—suddenly snapped his head down when he realized that I had checkmated him.
“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.
Th
e 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?