“Well, from this day, the farm belongs to you, and anyone who thinks to challenge this, challenges the law of Jhansi!”
“Well done!” said a male voice, and someone began to clap. Immediately, the women rushed to cover themselves with their dupattas, and many of them pressed their foreheads to the ground. “Resume your places!” the raja said.
The rani stood from her cushion, and she looked pleased to see him. “Your Highness.”
“Like something out of one of Rumi’s poems,” he said. He crossed the room and recited: “ ‘The lion is most handsome when looking for food.’ You were born to do this, Manu.”
The rani look embarrassed. “How long were you standing there?”
“Long enough to hear one of your Durgavasis say something very clever.”
“Sita Bhosale.” The rani turned to me, and I pressed my forehead to the ground.
“Sit,” the raja said to me.
I waited for the rani to resume her seat and then returned to the cushion next to her.
“ ‘Some people are so impoverished all they have is gold.’ That was very creative. Did you make it up?”
“I suppose I did, Your Highness. Yes.” I tried not to stare at the rouge he’d applied quite liberally to his lips.
“Well, Sita Bhosale, if your aim is half as good as your imagination, my wife can feel quite at peace in Jhansi.”
With this, he gave the petitioners an elaborate wave, and was gone.
That evening, after everyone returned to the Durgavas from the temple, I discovered that someone had broken my image of Durga. Her beautiful wooden head was lying on my bed, as if the person had wanted to make sure I knew it had been broken intentionally. My eyes filled with tears, since Father had carved it from a hollowed out piece of mango wood. The lower half of her body had been cleverly separated from the upper half, and inside, my father carefully filled the hollow space with prayer beads. I showed the broken head to Jhalkari, who immediately said what I was already thinking.
“Kahini!”
Before I could stop her, she took the murti from my hands and walked across the room.
Kahini was sitting on her bed, brushing her hair and twisting it into braids. As soon as she saw Jhalkari, she put down her brush. “Don’t come any closer. I don’t care what the rani has to say about Dalits, I won’t have one despoiling my bed.”
“Did you do this?” Jhalkari said.
“What? Our little recruit couldn’t come and ask me herself? Was she too afraid?”
“Answer the question!”
Kahini shrugged. “Yes. It was an accident.”
“How do you break a murti by accident?”
Kahini stood and walked across the room toward me. “I apologize, Sita. I was practicing malkhamba.”
“Inside the Durgavas?”
She ignored my question. “If you give me the murti, I’ll have someone repair it.”
I glanced at Jhalkari, suspicious of some trick. “How long will it take?”
“By the end of this week. It was an accident,” she said, then, with uncharacteristic regret, “I really am sorry.”
Jhalkari seemed to think this was fine. She handed me the broken murti, and I gave it to Kahini.
But I couldn’t stop seeing the image of Durga, lying in two pieces, broken at the neck. I took out my diary and tried to write away my anger. “Of the very few things I own,” I wrote, “Kahini chose the most precious one to break. Jhalkari believes it was an accident. I think Kahini’s a snake who struck on purpose.”
Chapter Ten
Although sometimes it felt very much as if we were ladies of the court and not guardswomen, Sundari never let us forget our primary purpose. “Vigilance is the difference between a tragedy and a comedy,” she said to us on the evening I was to see my first performance at the raja’s theater. “Tonight, you are present to watch the audience, not the stage. Who is near Her Highness? Are they carrying anything? Who is looking at her suspiciously? This pregnancy is a threat to every pretender to our raja’s throne. And make no mistake, they exist.”
I thought Sundari was done, but then she took a heavy breath and continued.
“All of you must be aware,” she said, “that the British are acquiring vast territories in our country. Bengal, Orissa, Bihar . . . our raja came to the throne of Jhansi because the British approved his ascension. There are some who feel the British chose wrongly. These men are dangerous, and they are traitors. You are Durgavasi,” Sundari said. “Remember that.”
With this, we followed her into the rani’s chamber. She emerged from her changing room dressed in a simple red sari. A ruby and gold tikka began in the middle of her dark hair, then dipped between her brows, as red and brilliant as blood.