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 passed 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.