It didn’t seem fair to me on that day that people who have done no wrong in this life are punished for deeds they don’t remember in their previous ones. I refused to believe that the rani had done something so terrible in a past life that her punishment was the death of her child. I wanted to ask Shri Rama about this, and vowed to do so.
For the next seven days, neither the rani nor the raja emerged from their chamber. I remained with the other Durgavasi in the queen’s room, and three more days passed. The only glimpse we had of the rani was when she made her way to the raja’s chamber, dressed entirely in white, from the pearls on her neck to the sandals on her feet. The rani stayed with the raja for four days, and on the fifth day, I wrote to Anu:
You can’t imagine the change that’s overcome the palace. Once, it was a place of light and joy. Now it has become a fortress of sorrow. The windows in the rani’s rooms remain shuttered, as if she’s afraid of seeing light. And maybe she is. When Mother died, I remember being angry that the world was carrying on with its business as if our world in Barwa Sagar hadn’t stopped. But Nature goes on and on. The karmic wheel turns. And it makes me feel ill to think that I’ll never visit the rani’s chamber again and see the rajkumar’s cheerful face. The rani’s mourning is so deep that she doesn’t even heed her advisers anymore. Shri Bhakti has warned her that if the Durbar Hall remains empty for too long, someone else will arrive to fill it. And there are many pretenders, Anu. They’re there, waiting in the shadows, watching for the right time to step into the light. Sundari-ji thinks the rani might go to durbar this week. I am hopeful.
But it was another two weeks before the rani attended her first durbar, and when she did, she wasn’t actually there. Not in spirit, anyway.
From her cushion behind the rani, Kahini muttered, “This mourning can’t go on forever. There’s a kingdom to run.”
“What’s the matter with you?” Kashi hissed. “The heir of Jhansi has died. Her child.”
“You really don’t have a heart, do you?” Moti asked.
“Oh, I have a heart,” Kahini replied. “I also have eyes and ears.”
The rani ate her meals alone in her chamber, and in the evenings she remained there. Not even Kahini was allowed inside. A month passed this way, and the bitter wind howling through the courtyard outside reflected our dark mood. When Gopal arrived to collect our letters, only Kahini had written anything. I wondered whom she wrote to every night: her parents were dead and she had no siblings.
“If you’re ever in need of comfort—” Gopal began.
“The delivery of my letter,” Kahini said sharply, “is all I need from you.”
Immediately, Gopal lowered his voice, but not so low that I failed to hear, “I realize that Sadashiv is important. But—”
“Do not speak his name,” Kahini said through clenched teeth.
The Master of the Letters stepped back in shock, and when Kahini turned around, she knew I had heard everything. “I can’t imagine a life so boring,” she said, “that I’d need to eavesdrop on other people’s conversations.”
Before I could respond, Sundari walked into the room. Her face was pale. “Sita.” She motioned for me. “Go to the rani.”
I was pleased. The rani had asked for me, not Kahini. But once I was before the rani’s chamber, I hesitated. What could I say in the face of such loss? Unfamiliar guards opened the door for me, and I stepped inside. The chamber was dark, and the rani was lying on her bed. She didn’t say anything. I waited for what felt like an eternity. Then finally, she said, “Write a letter for me. Address it to Major Ellis.” The man I had seen at the raja’s play. “Begin with all the regular English salutations.”
I did as I was told. Meanwhile, the only sound in the room was my pen as it scratched across the paper. When she could hear that I had stopped, she continued.
“Tell him that there will be another heir.”
I looked at her in shock, and realized that she was crying. “Your Highness—”
“It hurts so badly, Sita.” Her shoulders began to shake, and she covered her eyes with one hand. “Durga help me,” she whispered.
I was scared that I would say the wrong thing, but as she continued to weep, I knew that whatever I did wouldn’t matter. I reached out and squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry.”
“I know there are children outside, laughing. Everywhere in Jhansi there are women with children, and Shiva forgive me, but why should they be blessed and not me?” She looked young and vulnerable. It was easy to forget that she would be twenty-five soon. “Isn’t that terrible? I think of women begging and I feel jealous of the poor because they have living sons.”
I held tighter to her hand, and she began to weep the way truly stricken people do, loud and deep.