I dressed in my new angarkha when we returned, with purple bangles and a large amethyst necklace. Jhalkari pressed a silver bindi between my brows, and when I strapped my weapons onto my waist and looked in the mirror, instead of feeling pleased, I felt a growing uneasiness about how much I had changed since arriving in Jhansi.
The woman in the glass had spent more than her father earned in a month on her purple angarkha, and that was without taking into account what her new silk slippers and heavy necklace had cost. She was the same woman who had suddenly grown used to cool baths, soft sheets, and plush rugs after only three weeks in the palace. And now, when she thought about returning to Barwa Sagar, instead of feeling pride, she felt a deep irritation that, for seventeen years, she’d been confined to purdah without ever knowing that life could be any different.
At first, I’d thought it was the clothes themselves that were making me feel so uncomfortable. But that wasn’t it. The changes you couldn’t see in the mirror were just as great as the changes you could, and I was afraid that when I went home, no one would be able to recognize me. When I told this to Jhalkari, she laughed.
“You think there’s a single Durgavasi who hasn’t changed since coming here? The ones who were here before me say that even Kahini has grown more attractive.”
But that afternoon, as the ladies’ durbar progressed, I found it hard to believe that Kahini could ever have been less beautiful than she was now. The queen’s room was crowded with petitioners, and while the rani was dressed in an exquisite sari of cinnamon-colored silk, it was Kahini whom most of the women were watching. Like the rani, she was dressed in Benares silk, but the eggshell blue of the fabric made her skin look luminous, and the rani’s beauty paled in comparison. A diamond ring glinted from her nose, and thick clusters of diamonds glittered from her anklets. Even her bare feet were studded with gems, and each time they moved, her toe rings caught the light. I wondered how Kahini had come by such jewels. Perhaps they had been gifts from the rani.
Because the petitioners were entirely women, there was no need for discretion or mystery. The rani reclined on a pile of silk cushions, while we sat on velvet cushions of our own. A trio of female musicians made light music in the courtyard, and throughout the afternoon, each petitioner who approached the rani pressed her forehead to the ground in the deepest gesture of namaste, offering bowls of tilgul—little balls of sesame and molasses—in return for sugarcane and rice. After this exchange, their petition was read, and the rani discussed its detractions or merits.
Toward the end of the afternoon, a young girl stepped forward. She presented the rani with her gift in a simple terra-cotta bowl. The little round sweets looked like all of the others that had been presented; yet Kahini rose from her cushion, aghast. “This girl is from a village,” she said. “Who knows what might be in that bowl?” She took the vessel and crossed the room to an open window. Then, with a single motion, she dumped the contents out, as if the girl had offered a gift of dung.
The young petitioner began to weep and hurried away. She had given the only gift she could afford, and it was discarded like trash.
Kahini resumed her seat next to the rani. The musicians were still playing, but now the remaining petitioners appeared frozen in their spots.
“Kahini,” the rani said, “please return to the Durgavas.”
“Your Highness,” Sundari began, “I’m sure Kahini—”
“This is not a request.” The rani’s voice was sharp, although she never raised it above a whisper. “Now.”
Kahini did as she was told.
“Where is the girl from Rampura?” the rani asked. When no one stood up, the rani’s voice softened. “Do you all see this woman?” she said, nodding toward me. “Sita comes from the village of Barwa Sagar. And do you think I care? Now, where is the girl who was standing here?”
There was no movement among the two hundred women before us. The rani was pregnant and eager to conclude the day’s business. But she could not abide injustice.
“Sita, will you say something please?”
I stood; I had never spoken before a crowd. “What the rani has told you is true,” I said. “I am from the village of Barwa Sagar, just as this woman here”—and I indicated Jhalkari—“is a Dalit from another village.”
A murmur of surprise passed through the women.
“Do not be embarrassed. Some people are so impoverished all they have is gold. We, however, have pride.”
The girl stood, and the rani motioned her forward. She had come with a request for land. Her father had died without any sons, and their farm was being given to the father’s youngest brother, a drunk and a cheat. This girl had come all the way from Rampura, against the advice of her elders, to see what could be done.
“And what did your elders think would happen when you arrived here?” the rani asked.
The girl concentrated on her feet. “It was said I would meet with shame,” she admitted, “for trying to change the way of things, and that no one would help me.”