The bookstore whose blue and gold sign once enthralled me with its promise of “Books: Hindi, Marathi, English,” now read simply “Books: English.” And everywhere we looked, the red and black Union Jack snapped in the cool breeze. It was as if the British had made a game of seeing how many places they could mount a flag. It flew from the tops of stores, from the balconies of houses, even from the well where women drew water each morning.
When we reached the Rani Mahal, it looked as if someone had taken the palace and draped its bright walls in a heavy gray sheath. Part of it was the weather: the sun appeared only through breaks in the clouds. But it was the garden as well. Everything was bare, as if Lord Vayu, our god of the winds, had focused all of his strength on my home. The trees, the shrubs, the flowers, even the bushes, were entirely devoid of leaves. Home, I thought, realizing that for the first time, I was calling a place home that wasn’t Barwa Sagar.
There was no one to greet our return. We had sent a letter ahead, detailing what had happened in London. Perhaps it hadn’t arrived.
Or perhaps it had been met with too much disappointment.
I felt embarrassed in my fur-lined cape, gifted to me under far different circumstances, and when I dismounted, I took it off and carried it in my arms. Jhalkari and the soldiers did the same. A guard bowed very low before letting us inside, but the halls were silent.
We climbed the stairs. And there, in the rani’s Durbar Hall, was Azimullah Khan. No person on Earth could have been more unexpected—or less welcome to us. Next to him was another man who I assumed was Saheb. The rani was dressed in a soft blue angarkha of pattern chiffon with white rabbit’s fur trim at the wrists and neck. She looked regal on her silver cushion in front of them. As soon as she saw us, she rose and asked, “Why didn’t anyone tell me that you’d returned?”
I looked around the room and saw the other Durgavasi starting to rise. Azimullah turned to see us, and I wished I could wipe the smug look from his face.
Our group approached the rani, and we all took turns touching her feet, then pressing our hands together in namaste. Then everyone was talking at once and more cushions were being arranged around the room. Arjun, Jhalkari, and I were asked to sit to the left of Saheb, and the rani asked whether the queen had changed her mind about restoring the kingdom of Jhansi to her control.
Our letter had not arrived.
“Queen Victoria has many interests,” I said, “but giving prompt answers is not one of them.”
“Yes,” the rani said quietly. “My friend Saheb has been here for several days, and although my father isn’t here at the moment, he agrees with Saheb.” We all waited to hear what it was her father agreed with. Finally she said, “The British have no interest in returning Jhansi. But there are forty-four Indian soldiers for every one British soldier here.”
“That’s two million Indian soldiers compared to a mere forty-five thousand British men,” Saheb said. “When word gets out of this Circular Memorandum—and it will—there is going to be a revolt. The pot has been boiling for long enough.”
“It’s time to boil over,” Azimullah said quietly.
“What is the Circular Memorandum?” I asked.
“A document issued by the East India Company giving orders to commanding officers that Indian women are to be taken from every village and set up in special houses for the use of British men,” the rani answered darkly. “And any girl seen speaking with a man may be denounced as a prostitute and sent to such a house.” Her voice was steady, but I could hear the rage underneath, like a fire beneath smoldering coals.
“How can this be?” Jhalkari exclaimed.
No one else in the room was incensed. Clearly, this had already been discussed. I thought of Queen Victoria, who was probably dining at her glittering table as we spoke, and I wished I had known this before. “Have any girls been denounced?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Without a trial?” Arjun pressed. “Without any intervention?”
“They are simply taken away,” the rani confirmed. “And now that the Kutwal know they have this power, they’re going from house to house, demanding bribes.”
“The Kutwal have always been corrupt,” Arjun said. The Kutwal are police. And it is true, they have always been tainted by corruption. No good family will give a son willingly to the Kutwal.
“This is happening in every village?” I said. I immediately thought of Anu in Shivaji’s house. Had the local Kutwal visited them yet? Had they been able to pay the bribe?
“Yes. And the girls who are sent to these houses are being used and then discarded if they become diseased. Their families don’t want them back, and now, I have no means to help them,” the rani said. “No power and no money.”
“The sepoys are going to rise at last,” Azimullah predicted, “and we will all be prepared.”
“People are talking about this memorandum,” the rani told him. “But for those who haven’t lost a wife or a daughter yet, for those who won’t believe it until they see it, Azimullah has brought us a gift from France.”