Rebel Queen by Michelle Moran Page A

allow myself to be distracted. I was focused, like a point of intense light, on whatever Kahini was about to tell me. We turned down a narrow lane, and the people who passed us pressed their palms together in a respectful gesture of namaste. Most of them Kahini ignored.
    “Tomorrow,” she said as we walked, “you’ll be asked to watch us practice. It would be a great mistake to look too confident when you’re asked to join us. Remember—in all things, humility.”
    “How does a person look humble while practicing archery?”
    “By not immediately accepting the offer to join us. And when Sundari-ji insists, telling her you are too unskilled to accompany us.”
    I was thankful that Kahini had offered to accompany me on this tour; I doubted the other women would have taken the time to give such advice. “Will the raja be there as well?”
    “Gangadhar-ji?” she said, using his real name. “No. He’ll be athis theater.” Then we stopped when we reached a large grassy field, at which point Kahini announced, “The maidan.”
    It was a wide, open space bordered on one side by a flagstone courtyard and on the other by barracks that housed, I’d learn later, the raja’s soldiers. This was where I would prove my fitness as a member of the Durga Dal, change my destiny, and change Anuja’s life for the better.
    “Seen enough?” Kahini asked. “It’s about to rain.”
    I looked up. The blue sky was indeed vanishing behind a blanket of clouds. It seemed impossible that just a few hours ago I’d been standing in Father’s courtyard. And yet my journey still wasn’t over: I had to meet the rani.
    I followed Kahini on the short walk between the maidan and the Panch Mahal. When we reached the courtyard and Kahini paused to straighten her dupatta, I stared at the stones beneath our feet. They were the soft color of sanded teak. In my village there was no floor so exquisite; not even in our temple to Shiva.
    As soon as we returned to the queen’s room, Sundari announced that the rani was too ill to be escorted to the Durbar Hall that day. Kahini gave me a pointed look, then retired to one of the cushions around the fountain. After Sundari left the room, I was on my own. Still standing, I watched as four of the women played pachisi. Two more were playing a game of chess. A pretty girl of nineteen or twenty with an oval face and a fair complexion motioned for me to sit next to her in the corner. “It was all new to me when I arrived here as well,” she said.
    “You aren’t from Jhansi?”
    “Kahini didn’t tell you?” She looked surprised. “I thought that would be the first thing she’d reveal. I’m a Dalit from a village even smaller than yours. My name’s Jhalkari.”
    You may remember how I told you that people are divided intofour groups by birth: Brahmins, Kshatriyas, Vaishyas, and Shudras. Well, at the very bottom of those castes—so low they’re never even mentioned—are the Dalits, or Untouchables. A Dalit is born to perform jobs that are spiritually unclean: anything from washing toilets to preparing the dead. You might go your entire life without ever speaking to someone from this caste. So to be sitting on the same cushion as one—even to be speaking to one—well, no one in Barwa Sagar would have believed it. I found myself holding my breath, in case the air she breathed was being tainted.
    I know this must sound as ridiculous to you as it does to me now. But understand that this is how it has been for thousands of years, from the time the Purusha suktas were written and the concept of castes were laid out. All sorts of superstitions revolve around Dalits: they can turn your milk sour with a look, to touch one is the same as touching filth, and to speak to them is an act that might displease the gods. A person doesn’t become a Dalit: they are born one as a punishment for a great misdeed they have committed in a previous life. It is all a part of samsara—the karmic wheel that never