The Maharani's Painter – Part 1: Paint Me as I Am

The summons came by a dusty courier on a hot morning in April. Ravi read the seal twice before he believed it: the royal house of a small Rajputana state, asking for a court painter to produce a portrait of the new Rani. He had studied in Jaipur, painted temple murals and village weddings, and never once been invited to a palace.

The journey took four days by train and two by camel. The palace rose out of the desert like a sandstone dream, with latticed windows and courtyards full of fountains that shone in the sun.

The Rani received him in a shaded pavilion, seated on a low cushion with her back very straight and her face as unreadable as a closed door. She was younger than he had expected, perhaps thirty, with dark eyes and a voice that did not need to be raised.

"You are the painter from Jaipur," she said.

"Yes, Your Highness."

"The court has commissioned three artists before you. I sent all three away."

"Why?"

"Because they painted me as the state wants me to be," said Devika. "Serene. Obedient. Beautiful, without a single thought in my head." She picked up a fan and snapped it shut. "I am tired of being painted as a statue."

Ravi said nothing for a moment. Then he asked, quietly, "What would you like to be painted as?"

She looked at him directly. It was the first time anyone had looked at him that way in years, as though he might actually see something.

"As I am," said Devika. "Tired, and clever, and sometimes angry. With ink on my fingers from the letters I write when no one is watching. Paint me as I am, painter, and I will pay you more than the court ever could."

Ravi felt something stir in his chest, sharp and unexpected.

"I'll try," he said. "But you'll have to sit for me, and talk to me, for many hours. A face is not a painting. It's a conversation."

"Then we'll have a conversation," said Devika. "Tomorrow, at dawn, in the garden courtyard. Bring your brushes and your honesty."

The garden was quiet at dawn. Birds called from the orange trees. The fountain gurgled in the stone basin. Devika arrived alone, without her attendants, dressed in a plain cotton sari the colour of dust, her hair loose and her feet bare on the cool flagstones.

Ravi set up his easel beneath the trees and began to sketch. She did not move for an hour. Then she said, without turning her head, "You're watching my mouth."

He flushed. "I'm trying to capture how you hold it."

"Then tell me how I hold it."

"Like someone who has decided not to say the first thing she thought," said Ravi. "Because she's afraid it would be too much."

Devika turned her head, slowly, and looked straight at him across the garden.

"Is that what you see?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Then paint that," she said. "And then tell me what you think of me, painter, when I'm not performing for anyone."

Ravi put down his brush. His heart was pounding, and he did not look away.

"I think you're the most honest person I've met in this palace," he said quietly. "And I think you're frightened of being seen."

She was silent for a long moment. Then she stood, crossed the courtyard in bare feet and stopped in front of his easel.

"Can I see the sketch?" she asked.

"Yes."

She looked at it for a long time. Then she looked at him.

"You're right," she said softly. "I'm frightened. But you're the first person who has ever said so."

"Would you like me to stop?" asked Ravi, very quietly. "If it's too much?"

"No," said Devika. "Ask me something else."

"Can I paint you again tomorrow?"

"Yes," she said. "And if I want you to stop, I'll tell you, painter. But not yet."