The Last Queen

A Novel of Courage and Resistance

Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni

• Publisher: William Morrow Paperbacks
• Year: 2022
• eBook ISBN:
  9780063161887
• Print ISBN:
  9780063161870
• Subtopic: Literature General

WINNER of the 2022 INTERNATIONAL ASSOCIATION OF WORKING WOMEN AWARD for BEST FICTION OF THE YEAR!

LONGLISTED for 2022 DUBLIN LITERARY AWARD!

She rose from commoner to become the last reigning queen of India’s Sikh Empire. In this dazzling novel, based on true-life events, bestselling author Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni presents the unforgettable story of Jindan, who transformed herself from daughter of the royal kennel keeper to powerful monarch. 

Sharp-eyed, stubborn, and passionate, Jindan was known for her beauty. When she caught the eye of Maharaja Ranjit Singh, she was elevated to royalty, becoming his youngest and last queen—and his favorite. And when her son, barely six years old, unexpectedly inherited the throne, Jindan assumed the regency. She transformed herself from pampered wife to warrior ruler, determined to protect her people and her son’s birthright from the encroaching British Empire.

Defying tradition, she stepped out of the zenana, cast aside the veil, and conducted state business in public, inspiring her subjects in two wars. Her power and influence were so formidable that the British, fearing an uprising, robbed the rebel queen of everything she had, but nothing crushed her indomitable will.

An exquisite love story of a king and a commoner, a cautionary tale about loyalty and betrayal, a powerful parable of the indestructible bond between mother and child, and an inspiration for our times, Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni’s novel brings alive one of the most fearless women of the nineteenth century, one whose story cries out to be told. 

III

Queen

1840–1849

22

Jammu

FASTER, TOOFANI!” I BEND LOW over the mare’s neck and speak into her ear. She gallops faster over the fields that extend from the forest to the fortress. The four horsemen accompanying me struggle to keep up. I grin fiercely. She’s no Laila, but she makes my exile bearable. When I ride, the rushing wind blows away my pent-up worries, my sadness for all that I’ve lost, my fear that life is passing me by.

The horsemen have been appointed by the commander of the fortress to watch over me. Wherever I go—for a ride, an excursion in the carriage with two-year-old Dalip, a visit to the tiny gurdwara—they’re always there. They make me feel more like a prisoner than the precious guest that the commander insists I am.

At first, things were better. Suchet Singh, my host, had greeted me kindly and tried to make me feel at home. He often invited me to dinner, where he reminisced about the Sarkar, whom he had hero-worshipped. But soon enough there was gossip, as there inevitably is when a woman is young and husbandless. Word reached Dhian’s ears. He summoned his brother to Lahore, claiming he needed his help. It was not totally untrue. Dhian, whom people now call “the kingmaker,” has his hands full balancing the increasingly tumultuous relationship between Kharak and Naunihal.

I’m grateful to Dhian for giving Dalip and me refuge, but he makes me uncomfortable. I fear he plans to use us for his own benefit. But I don’t complain, not even to Mangla, without whose bracing presence I would have gone mad by now. Sanctuary, I know, has its price.

There are compensations in the sleepy hills of Jammu. I’ve had a year to focus on the simple pleasures of motherhood: seeing Dalip learn to walk and then run, teaching him songs, playing hide-and-seek in the dim corridors of the fortress wing allotted to us. Like his father, Dalip loves animals, so I’ve bought him a pony on which he’s led around the compound. But he prefers to be taken up on Toofani with me. Faster, Biji, he’ll say. He’s fearless like his father and has the same ability to inspire love. The servants ply him with goodies, Mangla spoils him shamelessly, and even my stone-faced guards break into smiles when he greets them. He loves being read to. Children’s books are hard to find here, so I read to him from mine: romances, a history of Punjab, the Gutka. He curls up in my lap, watching me with unwavering eyes, though surely he’s too young to understand.

Mangla says, “He just loves to hear your voice.”

Yes, I’m grateful—in the daytime.

But at night in my sleep, I reach across the bed for the Sarkar and, encountering emptiness, feel his absence like the edge of a knife.

Who can I blame for that except my own foolish heart?

Reluctantly, I turn Toofani toward the fortress. I must return by sundown. It’s one of the rules. Dalip, too, will be looking for me, waiting at the window. At times I worry that he’s too attached to me.

Today, though, it’s not Dalip who rushes up to me but Mangla. When I see her face, I know a letter has come. I don’t get letters from family. I wasn’t permitted to tell them where I was going. The thought of Biji and Jawahar worrying about me fills me with sadness, but there’s nothing I can do.

The only letters I get are from the Fakir. Rare, brief, written in code and unsigned, they are secretly delivered to Mangla by people disguised as peddlers or beggars. Though I long for them, the news they carry is always disturbing. I have only a few hours to respond; after that, the letter-bearer disappears.

The first letter had come three months after I reached Jammu, when I’d given up hope of hearing from the Fakir. He wrote that Mai Nakkain had passed away, strangely and suddenly. There were whispers about poison or perhaps witchcraft.

My initial response was a mean joy. She had hated me from the moment we met. Over and over she had schemed to harm me, even when I was at my most vulnerable. She had felt no pity for my fatherless infant. Who knows what she would have done to us if Dhian hadn’t whisked us away?

Then I was ashamed of my ill will toward the dead and prayed for forgiveness.

“Do you know how it happened?” I asked Mangla. She’d made friends in the qila here and often found out things from them.

“No,” Mangla replied. “I’m shocked to hear of it. It’s too bad that Mai passed away just when she was enjoying being queen mother.”

She looked so innocent that I grew suspicious. I thought back to the night we’d left Lahore, the mysterious errand she refused to tell me about. Could it have had anything to do with this?

It struck me that I hadn’t seen Mangla wear her gold necklace since then.

“Where’s the necklace I gave you?”

Mangla lowered her head. “I lost it during the journey, my queen. I’m very sorry. I didn’t want to tell you because you had many troubles of your own.”

I didn’t believe it. I considered prizing the truth out of her. Then I recalled what the Sarkar once told me. A ruler should gather as much information as possible. But sometimes it is better to remain ignorant. I let the matter go, but it struck me that here was a woman ready to kill for those she loved. It gave me a strange kind of comfort. On Dalip’s birthday, I gifted Mangla one of my own necklaces, of greater value than the missing one.

I hurry inside now, waving away the maid who offers me the Kashmiri salt chai I’ve grown to love. Mangla locks the door. I open the letter, which is longer than usual. Mangla is already lighting the brazier in which we’ll burn it.

Since I last wrote to you about the fighting between Kharak and Naunihal for control over the affairs of the state, a terrible thing has happened, and the repercussions are shaking the throne. Naunihal was running the court well. He had the blessings of Dhian, whom he made wazir, and the powerful Sandhawalia clan. But the Afghans attacked, and Naunihal had to lead the army to the border. Without our great commander Nalwa, there was no one else.

Kharak’s intimate friend, Chet Singh Bajwa, made use of this opportunity to incite the king to regain control of the durbar. He created much trouble between the two factions and, on Naunihal’s return, gravely insulted Dhian in open court.

That night Dhian, his brothers, the Sandhawalias, and Naunihal entered the chamber where Chet was sleeping and slaughtered him. Kharak was there, too, and witnessed the murder. Crazed with grief, he cursed his own son. He is now ill and imprisoned in the palace.

But it seems the curse is bearing fruit already. Naunihal and Dhian have fallen out. The prince insulted Dhian and took from him control of the lucrative salt-mines. Dhian retaliated by resigning. I myself have been pushed aside for refusing to support Naunihal in this action. Punjab is now being ruled by a nineteen-year-old hothead. The Sarkar’s other son Sher is watching. The British armies are gathering just beyond our borders.

They say the spirits of the dead look down at the living. If so, it would tear open the Sarkar’s heart to see his kingdom in such disarray.

Dhian will leave for Jammu soon. Should he ask anything of you, be cautious in your answer.

* * *

DHIAN ARRIVES IN JAMMU with much gold, many soldiers, and his pretty young wife, Rani Pathani. He sends me a message: At your convenience, I would like to pay my respects to Shahzada Dalip.

I dip into my dwindling savings—despite his promise, Dhian has not given me much spending money—and send Mangla over with a platter of sweets and shawls, and silver anklets for Pathani. I write: It is always an honor to meet with Wazir ji. Even more so if Rani Pathani accompanies him. How, then, can any time be inconvenient?

Mangla says, “The wazir smiled when he read your note. You know that crooked grin of his, like he’s seen all the tricks of the world already. ‘Your rani is very eloquent,’ he said. I replied, ‘Her words rise from her heart. She is most appreciative of the refuge you have provided her.’ I could tell he was pleased. He tossed me a rupee—silver, not gold. They’re stingy, these Dogras, except when it benefits them to be generous. He said, ‘You are quite eloquent yourself. Tell her I will come tomorrow morning, but alone.’”

I nod. “He’s coming to discuss matters of state. I need to dress appropriately.”

Mangla rummages through the few things we brought from Lahore and finds me a silk salwar-kameez in widow’s white. She pulls back my hair into a neat bun. I wear my pearls, a gift from the Sarkar. In the mirror, my face is severely beautiful, a face to be taken seriously. I think I will wear white from now on.

I dress Dalip in red. He looks good in it. Besides, it forms a dramatic contrast to my attire.

When Dhian comes, I send away all the servants except Mangla and personally serve him. As he takes the plate of mithai I have offered, his fingers brush against mine. It strikes me that I’ve just touched the hand of a murderer—a murderer who is in control of our destiny. The Sarkar, too, had killed people. But there’s a difference between meeting an opponent on a battlefield and attacking a sleeping man. I’m careful to suppress my shudder, but I can’t help pulling Dalip closer.

“I have brought you and the prince a gift from Lahore,” Dhian says. He looks very fine in his silk sherwani; there is an increased sense of power about him, even though he has resigned his wazirship. He claps and a soldier carries in a pair of white peacocks, their beaks trussed. Tears spring to my eyes. The Sarkar loved to watch them strut through the qila gardens, and feed them with his own hands.

Released, the peacocks ruffle their feathers in displeasure and rush at the guard, pecking until he retreats. Dhian gives Dalip some corn kernels and instructs him to throw them on the floor for the birds. But Dalip holds out his cupped hands. The birds advance on him. With his tail feathers fanned out behind him, the male is as tall as my son. I tense, ready to drag Dalip out of the way of those sharp beaks and claws, but he’s smiling. Come, birdie. The peacocks dip their graceful necks and take the corn gently from his hands, making soft sounds in their throats.

“Why, he is a true shahzada!” a surprised Dhian remarks. He narrows his eyes, considering new possibilities. Before leaving, he says, “Should I be recalled to Lahore, I would like you and the prince to move back there. My position is stronger now, and I can remind the right people that here is another son of our Sarkar, brave and wise and calm like him. I will send for you when the time is right.”

I offer profuse thanks, then take a deep breath. I’m venturing into dangerous waters, but I need to know something. “How is our other shahzada, Naunihal, doing? He must be facing many troubles without you to guide him.”

Dhian speaks mildly, but his eyes flash. “I am sure the shahzada is doing well. He has many other counselors.”

Later I tell Mangla, “He hates Naunihal! I don’t want to get caught in the middle of whatever Dhian is plotting.”

But I know I’ll have to do what he wants. I can’t afford to anger him as Naunihal has done.

* * *

SURE ENOUGH, NAUNIHAL IS unable to manage the intricacies of administering a kingdom. He’s forced to send his best friend Udham, Dhian’s nephew, with apologies and gifts, requesting the wazir to return to Lahore. Dhian agrees magnanimously. His purpose is served: all at court know that he’s the true power behind the throne. The Fakir writes: He is stronger than ever before, and more dangerous.

My clever Mangla has ingratiated herself with the qila commander’s wife, doing her hair and make-up for special occasions, exclaiming that she looks as elegant as any of the ranis of Lahore. Soon she becomes the woman’s trusted confidant. Thus I learn that Naunihal’s wife, Bibi, is pregnant. A delighted Chand has gone to the Golden Temple to offer prayers. I’m happy for them both. I learn also of Kharak’s death—no surpris...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Dedication
• Contents
• Major Characters
• Prologue
• I. Girl
• II. Bride
• III. Queen
• IV. Rebel
• Epilogue
• Acknowledgments
• About the Author
• Praise for Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni
• Also by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni
• Copyright
• About the Publisher