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how to do the same when only women are present; how to show respect to queens who are more important; how to subtly snub lesser princesses; how to intimidate the other wives of my husband.
    “I don't need to learn that!” I protested. “My husband won't take another wife—I'll make him promise that before I marry him!”
    “Your arrogance, girl,” she said, “is only exceeded by your optimism. Kings always take other wives. And men always break the promises they make before marriage. Besides, if you're married off like Panchaal's other princesses, you won't even get a chance to talk to your husband before he beds you.”
    I drew in a sharp breath to contradict her. She gave me a challenging grin. She relished our arguments, most of which she won. But this time I didn't launch into my usual tirade. Was it a memory of Krishna, the cool silence with which he countered disagreement, that stopped me? I saw something I hadn't realized before: words wasted energy. I would use my strength instead to nurture my belief that my life would unfurl uniquely.
    “Perhaps you're right,” I said sweetly. “Only time will tell.”
    She scowled. It wasn't what she was expecting. But then a different kind of grin appeared on her face. “Why, princess,” she said, “I do believe you're growing up.”

    The day Dhai Ma told me I was ready to visit my father's wives to test my social skills, I was surprised by the excitement that surgedthrough me. I hadn't realized how much I craved companionship. I'd long been curious about the queens—especially Sulochana— who flitted elegant and bejeweled along the periphery of my life. In the past I'd resented them for ignoring me, but I was willing to let go of that. Perhaps, now that I was grown, we could be friends.
    Surprisingly, although the queens knew I was coming, I had to wait a long time in the visitor's hall before they appeared. When they did arrive, they spoke to me stiffly, in brief inanities, and wouldn't meet my eyes. I drew on all my speaking skills, but the conversations I began soon disintegrated into silence. Even Sulochana, whose blithe grace I had so admired during the festival of Shiva, seemed a different person. She responded to my greetings in monosyllables and kept her two daughters close to her. But one of them, a charming girl of about five years with curly hair and her mother's shining complexion, squirmed away from Sulochana and ran to me. Her eye must have been caught by the jeweled peacock pendant I wore—I'd dressed with care for the visit—for she put out a finger to touch it. I lifted her onto my lap and unclasped the chain so she could play with the pendant. But Sulochana snatched her away and slapped her so hard that red finger marks marred the child's fair cheek. She burst into bewildered tears, not knowing why she was punished. I stared at the queen in shock, my own face tingling with shame as though I were the one who'd been slapped. Soon afterward, Sulochana retired to her chambers with excuses of ill health that were clearly false.
    When we reached my rooms, I couldn't hold back my tears. “What did I do wrong?” I asked Dhai Ma as I wept against her ample bosom.
    “You did fine. Ignorant cows! They're just scared of you.”
    “Of me?” I asked, startled. I hadn't thought of myself as particularly fearsome. “Why?”
    She pressed her lips together, angrier than I'd ever seen her. But she couldn't—or wouldn't—give me an answer.
    I began to notice things, though. My maidservants—even those who had been with me for years—kept their distance until summoned. If I asked them anything of a personal nature—how their families were, for instance, or when they were getting married— they grew tongue-tied and escaped from my presence as soon as they could. The best merchants in the city, who routinely visited the apartments of the queens, would send their wares to me through Dhai Ma. Even my father was uneasy when he visited me and rarely looked