Instead of allowing the sepoys to wear turbans, the men had been issued leather caps. And if that wasn’t insulting enough, the cartridges being used in their new Enfield rifles were smeared with the fat of both pigs and cows. Now, perhaps these things are not so shocking in England. But here in India, we Hindus do not butcher our sacred cows to make hats or cartridges out of them. And if you are a Muslim, as some of the sepoys were, then the idea of handling any part of a pig is more than just insulting; it is an act against the Sacred Law of Islam. What made it even worse was that in order to load these fat-smeared cartridges, the sepoys—Hindu and Muslim alike—had to bite them open with their teeth. So what Major Ellis wanted to know was this: could the rani calm these irrational sepoys down?
“It is only a little fat,” he wrote, “and nothing to be terribly alarmed about.”
It seemed interesting to me that Major Ellis had addressed his request to the rani, and not to the raja. But when I handed the letter back to Gopal, he did not seem surprised by this.
“So was her English acceptable?” the rani asked.
The Master of the Letters arranged his features into a somewhat less sour look. “Your new guardswoman’s ability to read English is beyond any doubt,” he said.
“Shall we write a response?”
I had never seen a man move so quickly. Before the rani could specify which one of us should write the letter, Gopal had already taken a pen and paper from his bag.
The rani caught my eye, and I understood at once that she knew Gopal was foolish, but was willing to humor him anyway.
“Shall I begin with the regular greeting?” Gopal said.
“No. Only one line will do this time. He thinks our traditions are irrational, so I want you to write: ‘It is only a little mutiny, Major Ellis, and nothing to be terribly alarmed about.’ ”
Gopal laughed loudly. “Oh, that’s very clever, Your Highness. A little mutiny!”
“There is talk of mutiny?” Sundari cut through his laughter. She didn’t speak English and hadn’t understood the letter. But she knew enough to guess. “The sepoys are angry about the cartridges.”
“Yes. And it’s up to the British to right what they have done. The sepoys aren’t my soldiers.”
“But they’re stationed in Jhansi,” Sundari said. “If they mutiny, the blame will belong to you. Not only because they’re here, but because they’re Indian.”
Even I could see the sense in Sundari’s words.
“And remember, seven Englishmen were recently killed when Indian men poisoned some of their slaughtered cow meat. Be careful, Your Highness. We do not want to see the loss of more lives.”
The rani nodded. “Gopal, add two more lines.”
We all waited to hear what she would say next.
“ ‘But if you truly wish to avoid mutiny,’ ” she dictated, “ ‘then listen to the sepoys—those men you count as fellow soldiers. Their traditions are older than yours by many thousands of years and deserve your respect.’ ”
In the Durgavas that evening, Jhalkari turned to me and whispered, “The rani is going to value you very highly for your English, but the other women will grow resentful. Always remember this is a job, not a family. That’s what my father told me before I left, and he was right.”
“Did he train you?”
“Yes. Before he died.” She didn’t say anything more. Then, long after I thought she had fallen asleep, she added, “My husband says the same thing.”
I sat upright in my bed. “You’re married?”
“To one of the sepoys being forced to wear leather and taste cow.”
I was stunned. “But how can you be in the Durga Dal? My father said—”
“There’s no law against being married while part of the rani’s guards if there are no children. My husband was wounded many years ago and cannot have children. No other family would take him for a son-in-law. I’m better than nothing, so he married me.”
I couldn’t tell whether or not she was joking. But I thought about Jhalkari’s husband for quite some time before I fell asleep.
Chapter Eight
There was only one mirror in the Durgavas. I waited until the other women left for the maidan before I hurried over to see what I looked like, and I couldn’t stop staring at the weapons on my belt. Although Sundari had presented them to me, it was as if they belonged to someone else. I was lost in this vision when I heard a familiar voice over my shoulder.
“Well, there’s our little ganwaar!” Kahini and her ugly friend Rajasi appeared at the door, and every muscle inside of me tensed. Ganwaar, if you don’t know, is an insulting term for someone who comes from a village. It is worse than calling someone foolish or naive. “Just look at her, Rajasi. Staring like an owl at all her fancy weapons.”
I have learned since then that in Western culture, the owl is considered a symbol of wisdom. But if you have ever seen an owl, you will understand why this is so hard to believe. It has giant eyes and wears the most shocked expression of any bird, as if it’s constantly surprised by everything it sees. I very much doubt that I looked like an owl, but this was Kahini’s attempt at insulting me.
“Do you plan to stand here all morning,” Kahini said, “or will you be joining us outside with the rani?”