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 Nihal 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 Nihal 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. Nihal 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 Nihal 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?”