Jhansi was one of the most prosperous kingdoms in India. It was green and lush, filled with sheltering mango trees, orange trees, and rolling gardens. It had been created to be the emerald of northern India, a green and gold jewel rising from the sands of the Pahuj River. As I’d seen on my arrival, all five of the turreted gates leading to the city were indeed large enough for an elephant to pass through. I wondered what my family would think to see me walking through these gates with a pistol strapped to my hip and my friend Jhalkari for an escort. What great power and freedom the women of Jhansi enjoyed. We were allowed to shop without male relatives or husbands and spend money as we liked.
It took three shops before we found angarkhas Jhalkari believed were acceptable for a ladies’ durbar.
“What about this one?” I held up an outfit tailored from purple Benares silk. It was exquisite. The top was trimmed in silver and the pants were stitched with pink and silver leaves.
“How much?” Jhalkari asked the shopkeeper.
“For the rani’s Durgavasi?” The man made a great show of twisting the end of his mustache, reminding me of Shivaji back home. “Ten rupees.”
It sounded like a fair price, but Jhalkari laughed. “Does she look like the captain? She’s the latest recruit. We’ll pay five.”
“Do I look like a beggar? Because that is what I’ll become if I sell my best pieces for five rupees. Eight.”
“Five.” Jhalkari was firm. “There are dozens of shops in Jhansi, my friend.”
“And how many of them carry pieces like this? With her coloring, she would be a queen in this purple. You won’t find it anywhere else.”
Jhalkari arched her brows. “We’ll see.”
I took that as my cue to put the angarkha back on the shelf, even though it was the prettiest one I’d seen all day. We were halfway out the door when the shopkeeper ran after us. “Six!” he exclaimed.
Jhalkari turned. “Five, and we don’t need the matching slippers.”
The man gave a vastly exaggerated sigh. Two women shopping inside the store giggled. I suspected they had just been on the receiving end of his complaints. “Five, without the slippers.”
The way he wrapped my purchase! You would have thought we’d asked him to wrap cow excrement with the amount of sighing and head shaking he did. When we reached the street, Jhalkari rolled her eyes.
“Such a performance! That angarkha is worth four rupees, and not a single anna more! That’s an entire rupee of profit for him.”
“How do you know?” I was thinking that perhaps we really had robbed him of a meal.
Jhalkari gave me a long look. “My grandfather worked for twenty years as a street sweeper so that he could save his money to open a sari shop. When he had finally saved enough, no one wanted to rent him a space because he was a Dalit. So he built a shop for himself and sold his clothes to other Dalits. By the time I was ten, I could tell you the price of a piece of silk coming from anywhere from here to China.”
“He must have been an extraordinary man.” Even today, you might be surprised to know, the idea of a Dalit touching silk is practically unthinkable.
“He was. He died hoping Father would take over his business. But Father wanted to be in the army. They wouldn’t take him because he wasn’t a Kshatriya, so he became a sepoy for the British instead. Mother never gave him a son, so he trained me.”
As we walked, two British women passed us, struggling with their skirts in the extreme July heat. Their skin had somehow turned red, making their blue eyes shine like aquamarines. I wondered at a race that could change its color like a chameleon.
“Did you see them?” I asked Jhalkari after a moment.
“Who? The British women?”
“They were red.”
“That’s what happens when you burn.”
I shrieked. “Who burned them?”
“No one.” Jhalkari laughed. “It’s the heat. They’re not built for the sun like we are.”
“How horrifying.” To turn a painful red every time you walked out the door. “So why do they wear such heavy gowns?”
Jhalkari turned up her palms. Who knew why the British did what they did? We had come to another shop, and I could see the rows of necklaces inside, hanging from silver hooks like waterfalls of brightly colored gems. “Did you know,” Jhalkari said, hesitating on the first step, “that the rani’s father had no sons, so he raised her like one. I’ve heard the British call her the real Raja of Jhansi. And do you know what they say about Raja Gangadhar?”
I looked behind us to make sure no one was listening to our conversation. “What?”
“They call him the rani.” She waited to see my reaction.
“Who says that?” I whispered. If anyone heard us, I was fairly certain what would happen to our positions in the Durga Dal.
“The British soldiers. They’ve all been to his plays and seen him perform. We’re going to see one in two days, so if you see another necklace you like, you should buy it. There’ll be lots of plays to attend.”