Her dismissal of my threat caused something inside of me to break. Suddenly, I was bamboo that not only bends, but snaps, creating edges that are sharp as knives. “I think no one knows which of us will die first,” I said. “And Lord Shiva help you if it’s your son.”
I turned and walked away. Inside my room, I could hear Anu’s small feet hurrying behind me. She collapsed onto my charpai. “Dadi-ji is going to kill you!”
“Anu, nothing could be further from the truth. And she is not going to treat you cruelly again. Here is something you must do differently: if she insults you, or threatens you in any way, you must write these words: ‘Dadi-ji has been very kind this week.’ ”
Anu’s eyes opened wide.
“Do you understand? She will still have someone read your letters, and you can never write the truth. But if I see that phrase, I will know, and I will come to help you.”
Anu was speechless.
“Can you repeat the phrase to me?”
“Dadi-ji has been very kind.”
“This week.”
“This week,” she replied.
I had changed. But not in the way Grandmother thought: I didn’t believe I was too good to sleep on a traditional charpai, and I certainly hadn’t grown so accustomed to the rich fruits and curries of the palace that I couldn’t enjoy Avani’s cooking. But it was as if my mind was an hourglass and the thoughts inside my head were the tiny grains of sand, and by becoming a Durgavasi, the hourglass had been turned completely upside down.
For one thing, I understood more about cruelty. After living for five months with Kahini I understood that Grandmother’s bitterness was something she nurtured, feeding it like a vine until it choked out all other feelings. Secondly, I now understood what suffering meant, and could truly see the difference between the very rich and very poor. I’d had no idea that we were poor until I saw the splendors of the Panch Mahal. Yet the time spent at Mahalakshmi Temple, serving curry and sweets to people who would have no other meal—it made my life in Barwa Sagar seem fortunate. It also made me think that with enough charity and dedication, the people who lived on carpets with silver bowls had the ability to make other people’s lives better.
I won’t pretend I was suddenly like Buddha, making keen observations about the world now that I was a part of it. But new ideas certainly occurred to me, and I found myself thinking about the rani’s guru, Shri Rama, wondering what he would say about life in Barwa Sagar and the women who lived inside like caged parrots.
During a trip to the market with Father and Shivaji, I was the only woman walking in the streets. Men stared, and most of their gazes were hostile.
“Does it feel strange to break purdah here?” Shivaji asked.
“It did in the beginning. Now it feels like being a fish emptied from the bowl it’s spent most of its life in back into the river where it was actually born.”
By December, the air was bitterly cold and I had read Arjun’s book of poetry twice. Our family was seated on thin cushions around the brazier while Avani fanned the coals, and I couldn’t help but think of the warmth of the palace, where rugs covered the stone floors and there were always enough blankets. Father took out the book he carried with him and held his pen over the heat, warming the ink. When it was ready, he wrote, “What use is Rumi at court? Why aren’t you practicing your English?”
“The rani values poetry as much as anything else.”
“Who could be a finer poet than Shakespeare?”
I considered my answer. I didn’t want to offend him, but I also didn’t want to lie. “I believe Rumi may have been just as talented, Pita-ji.”
Father frowned. He didn’t like this new direction.
“At court,” I went on, “English is useful, but it’s also looked down upon.”
“Why?”
“Because the English are not well liked in Jhansi. There are conflicts—”
“Is that why you haven’t gone back?”
It was the first time Father had questioned why I was staying in Barwa Sagar for so long. A vacation of a week, possibly even two, was believable. But Diwali had come and gone, and the rani’s child was due. Why wasn’t I at court to protect her?
“I will return in two weeks,” I wrote.
He didn’t press any further. But he glanced at my sister before writing, “I know someone well suited to her. And if their Janam Kundlis match, I would like to make the necessary arrangements.”
Marriage would mean that Anu would go to her father-in-law’s house. Father would be alone with Avani and Dadi-ji, neither of whom could write.
“Who?”
“Ishan.”