The Dewan wished me luck. Then he and his men took their leave and the woman with the cat’s eyes introduced herself. She was Sundari, the leader of Her Highness’s Durga Dal. She said I was not to call any of my fellow members “Didi,” as you would call a respectable woman back home; I was to use their real names. The sole exception was the rani, who was to be referred to only as Her Highness, although her husband called her Lakshmi, and her best childhood friends—Tatya Tope and Nana Saheb—called her Manu. “Tatya Tope is the son of an important nobleman,” Sundari said. “And now he’s Saheb’s most trusted general.” Saheb’s father, of course, was Peshwa Baji Rao, whose throne had been taken by the British years earlier.
“We bow whenever we greet the rani in the morning, and again at night when we leave her in her chambers. She is in her fourth month of pregnancy and sleeps for most of the afternoon, but in the mornings and evenings, we are all expected to entertain her. You should know that she doesn’t tolerate foolishness. She’s twenty-three and a practical woman. Her father raised her as a son, and her favorite escape from tediousness is chess.”
I felt the color drain from my face.
Sundari continued. “You must be very clever if the Dewan felt strongly enough to bring you from a village. There is only one other village girl here: her name is Jhalkari. She has made a positive impression on the rani. I hope we can expect the same from you. The rani won’t hesitate to dismiss anyone from her service if she feels they are wanting.”
“I will not be a disappointment,” I said.
Sundari stepped into the cool entryway of the palace and I followed. A pair of guards bowed first to her and then to me. No man had ever bowed to me before. With every step I took, I was entering not just a new world, but also a new life. She slipped her feet out of her embroidered juti and I did the same. Then two servants appeared to place our shoes into a long cupboard. If I live to be a hundred years, I doubt I will ever forget the first time I felt plush carpeting beneath my feet. Not even the wealthiest man in our village had carpets in his home.
We passed several doorways draped with long, airy curtains that stirred slightly in the breeze. Beyond them, I could see the faint outlines of men, some of them talking, others arguing. I’ve heard people describe Svarga, the equivalent of heaven, as a place of unparalleled beauty. Well, the Panch Mahal in its glory, with its jasmine-scented chambers and its high, arched windows overlooking the raja’s flowering gardens, is what I believe Svarga to look like.
When we finally reached the farthest end of the hall, I saw a flight of stairs.
“The raja lives on the second floor,” Sundari explained, “and his Durbar Hall, where guests and officials are met, is on the fourth. The rani visits the Durbar Hall once a day, always after her nap. She is sleeping right now, so this is a good time for you to become familiar with the palace.”
Sundari stopped in front of a wide door hung with gauzy curtains. Here, in the fresh light of the nearby window, the silver strands in her hair appeared white, as if someone had taken chalk and traced thin lines over her scalp. “You are the tenth member of Her Highness’s Durga Dal,” she said before we entered, “which means there are eight other women here who are extremely competitive and hope to take my position. The servants who wait on us were all once members, and are now retired. I suggest you treat them accordingly, because some day that will be your fate. No one is guaranteed a long career as a guard, so be careful what you tell the women in this room. The Dewan said you have a sister?”
“Yes.”
“Does she hope to become a member as well?”
“No. Whatever I earn here will be used for her dowry fortune. She is almost nine, and my family wants her to marry.”
Sundari’s eyebrows rose like a pair of startled birds. “That’s not much time to save a dowry fortune.” She pushed aside the curtains and we entered the largest chamber I had ever been inside. The ceiling was carved and painted in gold, while the walls gleamed like polished eggshells, and were just as smooth. A fountain splashed musically in the center, while a dozen yellow cushions were arranged around its base, nearly all of them occupied by women dressed in the most elegant angarkhas I had ever seen. Instead of the simple knee-length tunic that I was wearing, these were full-skirted ones sewn from silk and elaborately tied at the waist. And whereas I smelled of horses and dirt, these women smelled of jasmine blossoms and roses. They stood as soon as they saw us, and I counted seven. Sundari must have been counting, too, because her face took on a very stern expression and she said, “Where is Kahini?”
“In the garden,” the shortest girl said. She had the round, bright face of a pearl and wore a beautiful angarkha of deep purple and gold.
“Please bring her here to the queen’s room, Moti.”
The girl left the room, and I wondered if Moti was really her name or just a nickname someone had given her, since in Hindi, it means pearl.
The other women gathered around me.
“This is Sita Bhosale from Barwa Sagar,” Sundari said, “and I expect she will be treated the same as those of you from this city.”
“Are you truly from a village?” one of the women asked.
Someone else said, “We heard you speak English.”