The next day as I dressed, I watched as the other women retrieved heavy brown packs from beneath their beds. Next to me, Jhalkari made a silent inspection of hers. All of the women possessed identical weapons—leather quivers filled with arrows, polished yew-wood bows, bejeweled swords, silver-handled pistols, and expensive two-handed daggers we call kattari.
I hadn’t been given any of these things yet, and I watched with envy as each of the women strapped first their pistols, and then their daggers, to the belts of their angarkhas. The swords, quivers, and bows they carried in the brown packs over their shoulders. No one said anything to me; each Durgavasi prepared for the day in contemplative silence.
After a breakfast of melons and tea, I followed the women outside and then down the hill to the maidan. When we reached the field where Kahini had taken me on a tour the previous day, Sundari instructed me to follow her into a long, thin building nearby. It smelled of dried summer grass and earth. Sundari didn’t say a word until we reached a stall at the very end. Then she pointed to a handsome stallion so black he might have been dipped entirely in ink. Only a bright white diamond between his eyes made him distinguishable from the early morning darkness around him. I was told that his name was Sher, which means lion in Hindi.
“And why did they name you that?” I whispered to him, because there was nothing about him that looked like a lion. “It can’t be your coat. And it certainly isn’t your mane.” I reached over the low door to stroke his muzzle. I thought he might shy away from me, but he didn’t move. “Maybe it’s your brave personality. Is that why?”
I turned and saw that Sundari was there, arms crossed, waiting for me to finish. “You’ll be expected to ride six days a week. Sunday is a day of rest,” she said. She started to walk. I withdrew my hand and followed her out of the stables. “This is a Christian tradition,” she continued, her voice brittle, like dried leaves passing over stones. “The British soldiers insist that no work be done on Sundays.”
“There are British soldiers living here?” I asked, glancing at the nearby barracks.
“Not inside the fortress; the British officers live in a cantonment two miles from here. But their decisions are definitely spreading to the Panch Mahal.”
I thought of the two foreign women I’d seen on our way to Mahalakshmi Temple and concluded that they’d been officers’ wives.
“We train all other mornings,” Sundari said, changing the subject. “Shooting, malkhamba, and archery on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Swordsmanship and lathi on the remaining days. Today, you will join us for archery. Take a seat next to the rani and watch until then.”
On the maidan, the dew felt cool against my toes. Tomorrow, I would remember to wear closed slippers. A short distance away, an open yellow tent had been erected with four large cushions underneath. One cushion was occupied by the rani; two were taken by old men whose eyes were set so deep in their wrinkled faces it was impossible to tell if they were awake or asleep. Sundari led me to the empty cushion, and all three looked up as I approached, but I wasn’t introduced. I took my seat quietly, then Sundari left for the field.
“Remember what Prince Arjun was taught by Lord Krishna,” one of the old men was saying. His white hair fell in thick waves around his ears. I imagined he’d been very handsome when he was young. “There’s a reason for war now if it saves lives in the future.”
“I understand all of this, Shri Bakshi. But I’m not convinced that war is inevitable,” the rani said.
“Look at their behaviors in other kingdoms,” the second man suggested. He was younger than Shri Bakshi, but with less hair and finer teeth. “In which kingdom have they landed where they didn’t eventually seek to gain control?”
“Shri Lakshman, I understand all of this,” the rani repeated. “But war—”
“Is sometimes the prudent move,” Shri Lakshman finished for her.