As soon as we remounted and were back on the hot, dusty road, I wondered if the Dewan would tell the other women in the Durga Dal of my “mastery.” It would make them want to test me. This was not how I wanted to begin my life in the palace, and my mood sank. Then, in the distance, the city of Jhansi rose like a white and gold mountain from the banks of the Pahuj River. It was unlike anything I had ever seen: the entire city was spread out like a vast white blanket beneath the sun. My sour mood disappeared and every worry I had slipped from my mind like sand from a sieve.
The Dewan noticed my reaction. “It’s a magnificent sight, even for those of us who have seen it many times.”
As we rode closer, I saw buildings that towered four and five stories high. I was mesmerized. Beyond the city of Jhansi itself, the whitewashed facade of Raja Gangadhar’s fortress rose like a white heron from the hills.
Our horses passed through the city gates, and if you can picture an anthill, with thousands of ants scurrying back and forth, well, that’s what the city looked like to me. People were everywhere. Not the kind you see in a village, walking barefoot in dhoti and carrying sticks. These were people in the finest cottons and silks, wearing heavy gold earrings and belts of precious stones. And everywhere I looked, there were women. They strolled by themselves or in groups, and no one paid any more attention to them than if they were leaves blown about by the wind.
“Make way for the Dewan!” a man began to shout as we pressed forward. We were sharing the road with pigs, goats, and cows that wandered aimlessly—just as they do in India today. Still, the streets were immaculate. The Dewan said they were swept clean by a team of men three times a day and once at night.
Hundreds of stone urns lined the road, bursting with red and yellow flowers. And there were so many trees! Some bore fruit, but most were Palash trees, spangled with red and orange blossoms and bright as a monsoon sunset. Shakespeare would have had a difficult time describing the streets of Jhansi as they existed in my youth, they were that beautiful. Shops of every kind also lined the narrow streets. One caught my eye with a blue and gold sign above the window that read, BOOKS: HINDI, MARATHI, ENGLISH. I was a blade of grass next to a soaring peepal tree. There was almost too much to see.
Monkeys jumped from rooftop to rooftop, following our long procession, hoping for a handout. Women followed our horses as well, offering up baskets of silk from Murshidabad, conch bangles from Goa, bright cloth from Dhaka. “One rupee!” the bangle woman cried. I shook my head, staring in astonishment. What would Grandmother say if she could see this?
We passed through the city and continued on to the raja’s fortress on the hillside. When we came upon it, I saw it was protected by high granite walls that were pierced by ten gates, each large enough—according to the Dewan—for an elephant to pass through. We approached one of their enormous gates and guards dressed in the red and gold colors of the city of Jhansi immediately stepped aside to let us pass. We rode down a cobbled avenue in single file, then the Dewan held up his hand and the procession came to a halt. We had stopped in front of a grand building that the Dewan announced was the rani’s Panch Mahal. This palace would be my new home. It was a building of light and air; the high, arched windows and sweeping balconies were visions out of fairy tales.
A woman a full head taller than me stepped out from the doorway holding a silver tray in her hand. Her hair was pulled back from her face in a tight braid, and she was wearing the most extraordinary red angarkha I had ever seen—a combination of gold thread and light silk that looked extremely comfortable even in the terrible heat.
The Dewan dismounted and indicated that I should do the same. He said, “This is the girl. Sita Bhosale of Barwa Sagar.”
The tall woman stepped forward and bowed at the waist. Then she performed a welcome ceremony, circling her tray with its oil lamp over my head. She dipped her thumb into the little bowl of sandalwood paste, making a tilak on my forehead. Then she took several moments to look at me. She had small wrinkles around her eyes and strands of silver hair in her thick braid. I could see that the muscles of her arms were sleek, like a cat’s, and her eyes were the golden shade of a cat’s as well.
She put down her tray and turned to the Dewan, who was holding his yellow turban in his hands. “Thank you, Dewan, for discovering our newest member. The rani is eager to meet her, but first, I should think this girl is quite tired from her ride.”
“Please give Her Highness my highest regards,” the Dewan said, bowing.