But they were all occupied with talking or bathing. Only Sundari was silent, quietly looking across the chamber at the three servants who were carefully arranging silver boxes, spacing them out on a long marble table. As they opened each box, I could see the expensive contents inside: English lace, ruby hairpins, gold anklets with emerald charms.
It seemed impossible that only a day ago I was squatting in my courtyard with an old bucket and a rag. But what seemed even more impossible was that I had never questioned that bathing could be any other way. What else would I discover in Jhansi that would make life in Barwa Sagar seem small?
As soon as the other women began to climb out of the water, I stepped out of the bath, too, and let a servant help me back into my robe as the others did. We left the queen and returned in a group to the Durgavas; the sound of our bare feet slapping against the marble made me think of small whips being cracked. Someone was going to have the job of cleaning up all the water we left behind.
When we reached our room, Jhalkari went straight to her wooden chest to pull something out. “I don’t have the right coloring for this shade of green,” she said, handing me an angarkha made of rich, jade silk and stitched in gold. She waited while I tried it on.
“It’s lovelier than anything I’ve ever owned,” I admitted. The feel of the silk against my skin was as wonderful as the hot bathwater we’d just been in.
“Keep it,” Jhalkari said. “Pay me when you can.”
“But I might never—”
“Whenever you can,” she repeated. “I don’t wear it.”
A growing sense of uneasiness settled over me. I had fallen for Kahini’s trick, and she had almost cost me my place in the Durga Dal.
Jhalkari read my thoughts. “Don’t worry. I’m not Kahini. You don’t know that now, but you will. Although you’d also be smart to take Sundari-ji’s advice about friends and enemies.”
“How did you hear—”
“I didn’t. She gave the same advice to me. She had other things to say as well.” She hesitated, debating whether or not to tell me. “She also said that everyone is surprised the first time they see the raja, so prepare to conceal your emotions when you enter the Durbar Hall.”
We walked up to the fourth floor of the palace and passed through a pair of heavy gold curtains into a sandalwood-and-camphor scented chamber. A giant throne rose from a platform in the middle of the room like a bejeweled mountain of gold. Before it, red silk cushions were arranged like a fan, above it was a canopy of rich velvet cloth.
“The throne once belonged to Sheo Rao Bhao,” Jhalkari whispered to me. “The raja’s father.”
Rugs as thick as a sheep’s fleece were spread across the floor, dyed red and gold and woven into stunning patterns. In a windowless niche, a pair of female musicians played the sitar and the veena. There was so much to see, and hear, and smell. But I couldn’t take my eyes from the man on the throne himself. Raja Gangadhar had long hair that flowed past his shoulders and curled around heavy gold chains that he wore on his chest. Jewels shimmered from his thin hands, his slender wrists, his ears, his turban—even his waist. And he was dressed in the most elaborate kurta I had ever seen.
Jhalkari nudged me forward; I hadn’t even realized I’d stopped walking.
A handsome young chauri bearer stood at the Gangadhar’s side, holding the ceremonial silver-handled whisk that represents a raja’s right to rule. The chauri bearer’s dress was slightly less ostentatious, and the pair looked like colorful birds on a perch. A heavily latticed ivory partition was set up next to the raja. Behind this sat a small throne and a dozen silk cushions.
I asked Jhalkari, “Why must the rani be in purdah here?”
“For show. The raja thinks it makes the durbar seem more mysterious.” She emphasized the word mysterious—as if the screen was some flight of fancy.
The rani took her place on the throne, but she didn’t seem inconvenienced. Then as soon as we were seated, she leaned close to the lattice to look out at the people who were assembling before the stage. I say stage, because this is really what it was. A cast of characters streamed through the door: soldiers, advisers, who knew who else—and the most elaborately dressed men sat in front of the platform just below the raja. I recognized the Dewan, and later, I would become familiar with the others—advisers Lakshman Rao and Lalu Bakshi, the general Jawahar Singh.
Then the public was allowed into the hall, and soon there was a crowd.
The young chauri bearer bowed reverently before the royal couple. Then, with a wild flourish he announced, “His Royal Highness, the humble and honorable Maharaja Gangadhar Rao of Jhansi.”
Gangadhar rose and bowed before his throne, thanking the gods, and in particular Mahalakshmi, for placing him there. Then he faced the room and solemnly placed his hand over his heart. “People of Jhansi, we are here for you. What can we do?”
A great number of voices rose in response, and the raja chose one of the youngest men in the crowd to go first.