General Hugh Rose and his army appeared outside of Jhansi on the twenty-first of March. The weather was crisp and every alarm in Jhansi was sounding. A messenger arrived from the general with an offer of peace. Moropant took one look and rejected the offer. “Their peace includes the surrender and death of every male over the age of thirteen.”
Two days later, on the evening of the twenty-third, the British invaded the city of Jhansi and discovered that the wells were either poisoned or dry, and not a single crop remained to feed their army. Still, they made their way through the shuttered neighborhoods toward our fortress, toward the palace and temples and barracks inside. Seen from afar, the Fortress of Jhansi is simply a granite building on a low-lying hill. But in reality—with the sole exception of the southern face—it is impregnable. A sheer mountain wall rises to the west, and to the south, and the walls are protected by towers, one of which is capable of housing five cannons. No one remembers when the ramparts were built, but they extend from all eight gates around the city. Yet the British opened fire.
Although it may sound strange, we grew used to the sound of gunfire.
In the morning during yoga, at the temple when we prayed, even on the maidan, it became so common that you simply stopped hearing it. It was frightening, and children huddled closer to their parents or asked to be carried when they walked through the streets. But otherwise, nothing in the city changed: the bookseller was open, the vegetable carts still lined the streets, even the man who made roadside puris was there, hot oil popping from his metal pan and greasing his shirt.
On the fourth day of the assault, Sundari woke us an hour earlier than usual. When we arrived on the maidan, the rani was already there. A blue muretha was tied around her head. It matched her white and blue angarkha and blue churidars. As soon as we were all assembled on the grass, she rose from her cushion. Her speech was very brief.
“Many of you have been with me for almost a decade. Some, like Sundari and Heera, even longer. No one has ever said that the life of a Durgavasi is easy. But no Durgavasi has been required to give up her life for a rani. The British cannons will arrive soon, and the real war will begin. So now you must decide whether you wish to ride into battle with me, or go home. I will not pass judgment on anyone who chooses to leave the Durga Dal today.”
The maidan was so silent that I could hear the horses whinnying in the nearby stables.
“If there is anyone who would like to leave, please do so now.”
We looked at one another and waited for the first person to rise. I thought perhaps Kahini might leave, or Moti, who was so sweet and so small, but they both remained seated.
“Do not make this choice lightly. I don’t know what I would choose if I was in your position. Particularly if I had a husband.” She looked at Jhalkari.
“We are staying with you,” Jhalkari said.
We raised our fists, and the rani briskly wiped the tears from her eyes.
It was decided that if the British broke through the fortress walls, Kashi’s only job would be to protect Anand. The rest of us were to protect the rani; her personal guards were to protect the women and children inside the Panch Mahal. I tried to imagine a scenario in which our fortress was breached, but I could not. The granite masonry was built to withstand any siege. We had six thousand soldiers; our spies told us the British had fifteen hundred. Our seven wells and food supplies were large enough to last us for two months. They had no access to fresh water.
The massive cannon we’d named Ghanagaraj, meaning Mightiest of Mighties, was positioned in the southern tower overlooking a hill named Kapu Tikri, and eight other cannons were wheeled into position on the ramparts. Then the British rolled their own cannons into view.
Many people have described the sound of cannon fire as it tears through walls, and the agonizing cries of the wounded whose limbs are torn off or mangled. Fire, rubble, chaos, death. I will tell you that I have never read an account that accurately describes the horror.
From my position near Arjun and Moti on the ramparts, I witnessed the destruction of the southern tower. I had joined Arjun and Mandar in an overhead assault. With each arrow, I thought, am I killing someone’s father? Who will be mourning the loss of her son? Then a sudden blast shook the foundations of the fortress and our chief gunner was dead and no one was launching cannonballs from Ghanagaraj.
“Keep shooting!” Arjun shouted, “Keep firing!”
“What’s she doing?” Mandar suddenly cried out.