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.