Rebel Queen (17 page)

“Yes. And when they do, they can take over Jhansi under the guise of crushing a rebellion.”

The guard next to Arjun shook his head sadly, and a chill went up my spine like cold fingers on warm skin. What would that mean for the rani? What would that mean for any of us? Then I realized why the guard was shaking his head. “The rani doesn’t believe this, does she?”

“No. The British can be very . . . convincing. Particularly Major Ellis and another captain named Skene.”

I glanced at the tightly sealed doors of the library and wondered what I should do.

“Are you ready?” The rani’s servant sounded nervous. “Her Highness has been waiting. . . .”

“Yes. Take me inside.”

Arjun and the second guard opened the door, and for a moment, I was too overwhelmed to move.

“It had the same effect on me the first time I saw it.” Arjun grinned.

It was the most beautiful room in all of Jhansi. The doors swung shut behind me, stirring up the scents of leather and dust. From ceiling to floor, the entire chamber was filled with books, each of them bound in leather, brocade, and extraordinary silks. At the farthest end, beneath a high arched window, the rani was settled comfortably on a wide leather cushion.

“Sita,” she said, as if she was welcoming a very old friend. “This is your first time inside the library, isn’t it?”

I made the gesture of namaste with my palms, and bowed as I approached her. “Yes, Your Highness. And this—well, this is magnificent.”

She followed my gaze up the high walls of the chamber to the carved wooden images of Saraswati at the top. The goddess of the arts was one of Father’s favorite images to create. I thought of him now, celebrating Durga Puja without me, and blinked back tears.

“It always stirs my emotions as well,” she said. “I’m sure that Sundari told you, but I appreciate your dedication. When Diwali comes next month, you must take the entire week to be with your family.”

“Your Highness—”

She held up her hand before I could properly express my gratitude. “Come,” she said, patting the cushion next to her. There were bowls of food around her—fruits, nuts, a platter of roasted corn. I
maneuvered around the long silver trays and adjusted my sword so that I could sit.

“I’ve received another missive from Major Ellis.” She handed me the letter, and after I’d read it in silence, she said, “Well?”

She was asking my opinion. Had she heard me speaking with Arjun outside the doors? I began by repeating the most relevant facts. “The British aren’t replacing the greased cartridges.”

“Yes.”

“And they aren’t exchanging the leather caps.”

“What does this make you think?”

My heart beat quickly. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. Perhaps your advisers—”

“I know perfectly well what my advisers think. Or what they claim to think. Right now, I’m asking Sita Bhosale. A girl from a farming village. Why won’t the British make these simple replacements?”

I looked down at my hands. “Because they hope for rebellion,” I whispered, my heart pounding. Why couldn’t I ever just listen without giving my opinion, even if it was asked for?

“But why would they hope for that?”

I had already spoken out; there was no sense in changing the tune now. “Because if Her Highness gives birth to a girl,” I said, “and the sepoys are rebelling, Jhansi will be viewed as an unruly kingdom with no future.”

“And then the British will come to save us all. That’s exactly what I think as well now,” she said. She folded the letter and placed it back inside its envelope. “So I will have a son,” she said simply.

Just then, the doors of the library swung open and a giant man appeared. His eyes looked wild and excited, and I leaped to my feet reaching for my pistol.

“Sita—no!” The rani got to her feet as quickly as her swelling belly would allow. “This is my father, Moropant Tambe.”

Immediately, I lowered the gun and apologized. But instead of being angry, Moropant laughed. “I will never worry for my daughter’s safety while you’re here.” He turned his attention back to his daughter. “Manu!”

“Baba!”

The pair of them met in the center of the room, and even though I knew it was rude, I couldn’t keep from staring. The rani’s father was dressed in loose-fitting churidars and an open vest, the same outfit Arjun and the other male guards wore. A pair of golden hoops hung from his ears, and a dark beard shadowed his chin. I doubt anyone would have described Moropant Tambe as handsome, but there was a larger-than-life quality about him, as if he had stepped from the pages of
Robinson Crusoe
.

“So who is this?” he said, looking at me.

Immediately, I lowered my eyes to the ground.

“My youngest Durgavasi, Sita Bhosale.” A silent conversation seemed to pass between them and the rani added, “She can be trusted.”

Moropant strode across the room. I bowed in front of him.

“Stand up, Sita, so that I can get a better look at you.”

I did as I was told, and the rani’s father studied my face, which made me extremely uncomfortable.

“You’re almost as pretty as Kahini. I’ll bet two of you have become good friends, haven’t you?”

“No, not exactly.”

When Moropant laughed, the rani scowled.

“Enough,” she said, but her father ignored her.

“Don’t take it personally,” Moropant said.

“Kahini was raised much like my Manu here, believing she was destined for titles and thrones. If she is bitter about her station in life, she has only herself to blame.”

I glanced at the rani, and was surprised to see her nod. “She was engaged to a very wealthy man,” she confided. “But she was carrying on a secret relationship with someone else, and when the letters were discovered—” The rani spread her hands, and in that empty space was everything that didn’t need to be said. To be caught writing to another man while negotiations are being made for your marriage to someone else . . . Well, it will end your chances at marriage forever. “It was a young woman’s mistake,” the rani went on, “but we pay for those the same as we do those we make when we’re older.”

I tried my best to look sorrowful. “I had no idea.”

“I never learned who she was writing to. Her father’s servant found the letters, but two days later, that servant was found in the Ganges.”

I gasped.

“She didn’t kill him,” the rani clarified. “She wouldn’t do such a thing.”

“But her father might have,” Moropant remarked. “I knew him when he was young,” he reminded his daughter.

“Her father has passed,” the rani explained to me, “but he swore to me—to this entire family—that nothing more transpired than letter writing. If it had, she wouldn’t be here.”

“Sit.” Moropant gestured toward the cushions, and he clearly meant me as well as the rani.

“Another letter from Ellis?” he said, seeing the envelope on the carpet. “The sepoys
will
rebel. You know this. And I hope those men drive the British from here to the sea.”

“We cannot have rebellion,” the rani warned. “It would be the end of Gangadhar’s rule.”

“Only if we lost. I could train them.”

“And when the British discover the rani’s father in league with rebels?”

“These men aren’t rebels, Manu. They are citizens of the kingdom of Jhansi.”

“Who have signed contracts with the British to fight for
them
,” the rani reminded him.

“Their allegiance is to Jhansi, whatever contract they’ve signed. The British Empire reaches from Hong Kong to Ireland. If the sepoys make enough trouble for them, they might think twice about how much effort a tiny kingdom in the north of India is worth.”

The rani was silent. Neither raised the point that the child she was carrying might be a girl.

“I could be ready to train them at your word,” he said. “Talk it over with the raja.”

“Gangadhar is . . . you know what he will say.”

The rani’s father glanced at me. “Manu—”

“I know. Something has to be done. I will ask Shri Rama what he thinks.”

“Shri Rama is a guru, not a general.”

“Lord Krishna was not a general, but I believe he counseled Arjuna well.”

The rani was referring, of course, to the story of the
Bhagavad Gita
in which Lord Krishna came to Prince Arjuna to guide him during a very difficult time. Arjuna’s family was at war, and although Arjuna didn’t wish to enter the fray, Krishna’s advice was to fight; however peaceful you may wish to be, we all have the responsibility to rise up against evil.

Moropant nodded, then gestured toward me. “Be sure you take this one with you. Any Durgavasi willing to shoot the father of the rani is dedicated indeed.”

T
hat evening at temple, after all of the food had been served to the poor, I met Shri Rama. Usually, Sundari was the only Durgavasi invited to sit with him alongside the rani, but this time, the rani said, “Sita, I want you to join us.”

I followed them through a series of painted halls, and was careful not to walk too close to the oil lamps, which were suspended by long chains from the ceiling. Kahini had told stories about women who, due to inattention or some unlucky wind, had caught their dupattas in the flames and ended up vanishing in great blazes of fire. But the lamps were beautiful, and their flickering lights cast deep orange hues over the golden statues that watched us quietly from various niches.

The three of us made our way to the very back, and when we reached the last room in the temple, the servant stopped before a curtained door and called loudly, “Her Highness, Rani Lakshmibai.” Then the servant parted the curtains and the three of us entered.

Inside, an old man was sitting cross-legged in the center of a room covered with jute mats. He was surrounded by all of the religious items you might expect—candles, incense, flowers, broken coconut shells. But these were all details I noticed later: as we entered all I saw was the extreme peacefulness in Shri Rama’s face. If you’ve ever met someone completely at peace with his life, this is exactly how Shri Rama appeared. He couldn’t have been younger than sixty, yet his skin was completely smooth, like a river stone that has had its roughest edges caressed by water. His eyes, too, were different. They gave the impression that whatever difficulties you placed in his lap, they would be quietly considered and calmly solved.

The rani approached him with a very reverent bow; from his position on the ground, Shri Rama did the same. Sundari and I
made the same respectful gesture of bowing and placing our hands together, then we seated ourselves to the rani’s left.

“You brought someone new,” Shri Rama said, his voice as smooth and calm as his face.

“Sita Bhosale, my youngest Durgavasi.”

He gazed at me for several moments, then nodded. “Welcome, Sita.”

I wondered what sort of exotic ceremony a guru like Shri Rama would perform, but it turned out to be a puja like any other. It wasn’t until after he’d given each of us a red tilak mark on our foreheads that he rocked back on the jute mats and said casually, “Well?”

“The sepoys are growing angrier and more agitated with the British. Father believes we should arm them for rebellion.”

Shri Rama took in this information. “Have they perpetrated evil?”

“I believe they are guilty of thoughtlessness. I believe they may be inciting the unrest among the sepoys.”

“Would killing British soldiers be perpetrating evil?”

“Yes. I believe in diplomacy. Diplomacy until the very end. But what is the end?”

“I suspect it’s the destruction of Jhansi,” Shri Rama said.

I could not believe my ears. I looked to Sundari but her face revealed nothing.

“And is that acceptable?” the rani asked.

“All kingdoms and empires come to an end. The question is what replaces them, and who commits the first act of aggression.”

“So I wait?”

“That depends. What kind of ruler do you wish to be?”

The rani put her hand over her brow, and spent several moments in deep thought. “Father will not like this,” she warned.

Shri Rama nodded, but said nothing.

“Thank you,” the rani said.

Shri Rama turned to me. “Someone is making life difficult for you. Why are you allowing this?”

I was so shocked that I sat in stunned silence for several moments. “I . . . I don’t know.” But of course I knew. Kahini was the rani’s favorite and a cousin to the raja.

“Well, if you don’t know, I certainly can’t tell you!”

I glanced at Sundari, who didn’t look surprised, then at the rani herself, but she was lost in her own thoughts.

“Keep Durga close to you,” he said to me, and immediately, the ten-armed goddess of war appeared in my mind. Each of the gods had contributed something divine to her creation. Shiva sculpted her perfect face, Indra endowed her with breasts like the moon, Vishnu gave her many arms, the god of fire formed her glittering eyes, and Yama spun her hair like black silk. Other gods armed her with invisible weapons and the Divine Craftsman clothed her in invincible armor. When the gods saw how perfect she was, they set about presenting her with various gifts. Bejeweled ornaments soon glittered from every part of her body, and she wore garlands made from flowers whose fragrances never faded. Finally, she was given a lion to ride on her quest to rid the world of violence and evil. That Shri Rama should tell me to keep Durga close was a curious thing, because I never imagined her being very far away.