The Scene
June 1858. The walls of Jhansi Fort are crumbling under British artillery. For two weeks, Sir Hugh Rose’s forces, 20,000 troops, heavy siege guns, and the full weight of the British Empire’s military machine, have been pounding the fort’s ancient stone walls. Inside, the garrison is running out of ammunition, food, and hope.
Rani Lakshmibai knows the fort will fall. The question is not whether, but when. She has fought brilliantly, personally commanding the defence from the ramparts, directing cannon fire, rallying soldiers who are outgunned and outnumbered ten to one. But bravery cannot stop artillery shells, and the British have been breaching the walls in multiple places.
A council of war is held in the inner chambers. The decision is made: the Queen must escape. If she is captured, the rebellion dies with her. If she escapes, she can regroup, find allies, and continue the fight. But escape requires a diversion, something to draw the British attention away from the rear gates long enough for Lakshmibai and a small cavalry escort to slip out under cover of darkness.
Somewhere in the chaos of the siege, a woman who looks almost exactly like the Queen puts on the royal armour, picks up the Queen’s sword, and rides out on a horse. She heads toward the British lines. Not away from the battle, into it.
Her name is Jhalkari Bai. She is a Dalit woman from the Kori caste, born into a community of leather workers, the lowest rung of India’s caste system. She has no royal blood, no formal education, no military training beyond what she taught herself in the forests outside her village and what the Queen trained her in over the past few years. And she is about to do something that would define the 1857 revolt in ways that no history textbook would record for over a century.
She rides toward the British commander and declares: “I am the Rani of Jhansi. Arrest me.”
The British believe her. The physical resemblance is striking enough, and in the dust and smoke of a siege, with the royal armour and the Queen’s sword, the deception holds. For hours, they think they have captured the Queen. Those hours give the real Rani Lakshmibai enough time to escape through the fort’s rear gates with a small cavalry escort, ride through the night, cover 100 miles of hostile territory to Kalpi, and continue the rebellion for weeks more.
A Dalit woman had just saved the rebellion. And history would spend the next century pretending she didn’t exist.
The Backstory
Jhalkari Bai was born around 1830 in the village of Bhojla, near Jhansi, in the Bundelkhand region of what is now Uttar Pradesh. Her father, Sadovar Singh, was a farmer from the Kori community, a caste traditionally associated with weaving and leather work, classified as “untouchable” in the rigid hierarchy of 19th-century India. Her mother, Jamuna Devi, died when Jhalkari was young, leaving Sadovar to raise his daughter alone.
Bundelkhand in the 1830s was rough country, dry, forested, and populated by bandits (dacoits) who made travel dangerous. Villages maintained their own informal security. Men hunted, fought, and defended their settlements. Women were expected to stay home, tend animals, and cook. But the stories from Jhalkari’s childhood, consistent across multiple oral histories from the Bundeli folk tradition, suggest she was never that kind of woman.
As a girl, according to the most widely cited accounts, she killed a leopard with a stick when it attacked her family’s cattle. Not with a gun, not with a spear, with a lathi, the bamboo staff that Indian farmers carry. The story may be embellished (oral histories often are), but its core, that Jhalkari was known from childhood for physical strength and fearlessness that were unusual for anyone, let alone a Dalit girl in a society where Dalit women were the most marginalised people alive, is consistent across every source that mentions her.
Other childhood stories reinforce the pattern. She reportedly fought off a gang of dacoits who tried to raid her village. She could ride horses as well as any man in the region. She was known for her accuracy with a bow, a skill she practised in the forests around Bhojla. In a different era, in a different country, she would have been identified as a prodigy and trained accordingly. In 1840s Bundelkhand, she was a curiosity, a strong, brave, lower-caste girl whom nobody quite knew what to do with.
She married Puran Kori (sometimes recorded as Puran Singh), who served as a soldier in Rani Lakshmibai’s army. Through him, Jhalkari came to the attention of the Queen. The circumstances of their meeting are told differently in different accounts. One version says Jhalkari accompanied her husband to the fort and was noticed by the Queen’s attendants. Another says Lakshmibai saw Jhalkari in the marketplace and was struck by their physical resemblance, similar height, similar build, similar features. A third version, more romantic, says Jhalkari saved a palace servant from a robber and was brought before the Queen as a reward.
What all accounts agree on is what happened next: Lakshmibai, a shrewd judge of character and capability, recognised in Jhalkari something more than physical resemblance. She saw courage. She saw potential. And in a decision that would have been extraordinary even by modern standards, let alone those of 1850s India, the Queen trained Jhalkari personally in military skills, sword fighting, horse riding, cannon operation, and battlefield tactics.
Lakshmibai enrolled Jhalkari in the Durga Dal, the women’s wing of her army, and eventually made her its commander. A Dalit woman commanding a military unit in 1850s India. The caste system said this was impossible. Social convention said this was unthinkable. Lakshmibai didn’t care. She needed fighters, and Jhalkari was the best fighter she had.
The Durga Dal itself was remarkable. In a period when women’s participation in warfare was almost unheard of (in India or anywhere else), Lakshmibai maintained a trained female military force. The women of the Durga Dal were trained in combat, provided with weapons and armour, and deployed in battle alongside male soldiers. Jhalkari’s appointment as their commander meant that a Dalit woman led troops that included women from upper castes, a social inversion so radical that it could only have happened in a revolution.
The 1857 Revolt in Jhansi
The Indian Rebellion of 1857, variously called the Sepoy Mutiny (British perspective), the First War of Independence (Indian perspective), or simply the Great Revolt, erupted in May 1857 when Indian soldiers in the Bengal Army of the East India Company revolted against their British officers. The immediate trigger was the introduction of new rifle cartridges rumoured to be greased with cow and pig fat (offensive to both Hindu and Muslim soldiers), but the revolt drew on decades of resentment against British rule, the annexation of Indian kingdoms, and the cultural insensitivity of colonial administrators.
Jhansi’s connection to the revolt was both political and personal. Rani Lakshmibai had inherited the kingdom after her husband, Raja Gangadhar Rao Newalkar, died in 1853. They had no surviving biological son, but had adopted a child, Damodar Rao. The British, applying the Doctrine of Lapse (which allowed them to annex kingdoms without a “natural” male heir), refused to recognise the adoption and annexed Jhansi.
Lakshmibai famously declared: “Meri Jhansi nahi doongi” (“I will not give up my Jhansi”). When the revolt broke out in 1857, she saw her opportunity. After an initial massacre of British officers by mutinous sepoys in Jhansi (which Lakshmibai may or may not have sanctioned, the historical evidence is ambiguous), she took control of the city, administered it efficiently for several months, and prepared for the inevitable British counterattack.
During this period, Jhalkari Bai was at her side. Oral traditions describe Jhalkari training troops, managing logistics, and participating in the fortification of Jhansi against the coming siege. She was not just a body double, she was a military leader in her own right, trusted by the Queen with real responsibility.
The Turning Point
Sir Hugh Rose’s forces arrived at Jhansi in March 1858. The siege lasted from March 23 to April 3. The British had overwhelming superiority in numbers, artillery, and supplies. Lakshmibai had determination, the loyalty of her people, and the ancient walls of Jhansi Fort.
During the siege, Jhalkari Bai fought on the front lines. Accounts describe her firing cannons, leading sorties against British positions, rallying soldiers when sections of the wall were breached, and personally engaging in combat. One Bundeli folk song describes her fighting with a sword in each hand, cutting through British soldiers who mistook her for the Queen herself.
When it became clear the fort would be breached, a plan was formed, or perhaps Jhalkari made the decision herself. The accounts vary. Some say Lakshmibai asked her to create a diversion. Others say Jhalkari volunteered, knowing it would likely mean her death. Still others say the plan evolved in the chaos of battle, when someone realised that Jhalkari’s resemblance to the Queen could be used strategically.
What is consistent across all accounts is this: Jhalkari Bai dressed in the Queen’s armour and royal garments, mounted the Queen’s horse, and rode toward the British lines. She fought her way through the final defence, cutting down soldiers who stood in her path, and then surrendered to the British commander, declaring herself to be the Rani of Jhansi.
Some accounts say the British general, Hugh Rose, was so impressed by her courage that he said: “If even one percent of Indian women were like her, the British would not be able to rule India.” Whether Rose actually said this is debated by historians. The quote appears in Bundeli oral traditions but not in British military records, which would not have noted admiration for an Indian insurgent. But the sentiment, that Jhalkari’s courage was extraordinary even by the standards of a war full of extraordinary courage, is not in dispute.
The deception worked. While the British interrogated and processed their supposed royal prisoner, the real Rani Lakshmibai escaped through the fort’s rear gates with her adopted son, Damodar Rao, strapped to her back and a small cavalry escort at her side. She rode through the night, crossing 100 miles of territory controlled by British forces, and reached Kalpi, where she joined forces with other rebel leaders including Tantia Tope and Rao Saheb.
The 1857 revolt continued for several more months because of a Dalit woman’s sacrifice. Lakshmibai went on to capture Gwalior before being killed in battle on June 18, 1858, fighting to the end, as Jhalkari had bought her the time to do.
What Happened to Jhalkari Bai
What happened to Jhalkari after her capture is unclear, and this uncertainty is itself the most damning part of her story.
Multiple conflicting accounts exist:
- Version 1: She was killed by the British after her true identity was discovered. Some accounts say she was shot; others say she was executed.
- Version 2: She was imprisoned by the British and eventually released after the revolt was suppressed. She returned to Jhansi and lived in obscurity.
- Version 3: She survived the siege, was never captured at all (the surrender story being an embellishment of oral tradition), and lived quietly in the Jhansi region until old age.
- Version 4: She died fighting during the siege itself, and the surrender story is a later addition to the oral tradition, possibly conflating Jhalkari with other women who fought at Jhansi.
The uncertainty itself is telling. When Rani Lakshmibai died, the British recorded it in detail, they knew who she was, where she fell, and how she died. Multiple British officers wrote accounts of her last battle. Her death is one of the most documented events of the 1857 revolt.
Nobody recorded what happened to Jhalkari Bai because nobody thought a Dalit woman’s fate was worth documenting. The colonial records, which meticulously tracked the movements of kings, queens, and rebel leaders, have almost no mention of her. Indian upper-caste chronicles, which celebrated Lakshmibai as a hero, had no framework for acknowledging that the hero’s escape was made possible by a woman from the lowest caste.
The absence is the evidence. Jhalkari Bai was erased not by accident but by a system, both colonial and caste, that considered her simultaneously expendable and unrecordable.
The Century of Erasure
For over a century after 1857, Jhalkari Bai’s story existed only in two places: Bundeli folk songs and Dalit oral traditions. The folk songs of Bundelkhand, sung by women at wells, by farmers in fields, by communities at festivals, preserved her memory when written history would not.
One widely known Bundeli folk song goes:
“Jhalkari Bai se jang ladi,
Angrezon ki band baji.
Durga Dal ki senapati,
Jhalkari Bai veervati.”
(“Jhalkari Bai fought the war, / The British were stopped in their tracks. / Commander of the Durga Dal, / Jhalkari Bai the brave.”)
Mainstream Indian history, meanwhile, celebrated Rani Lakshmibai, a Maratha Brahmin queen, as the hero of 1857. The Dalit woman who made the queen’s escape possible was erased from textbooks, monuments, and public memory. Every child in India learns about Lakshmibai. Until recently, almost none learned about Jhalkari.
That erasure is itself the story. India’s history, like India’s society, has been filtered through caste. The heroes who get statues, textbook chapters, and Bollywood films are overwhelmingly from upper castes. The contributions of women, Dalits, and tribal communities are reduced to footnotes when they appear at all. Jhalkari Bai is not an exception to this pattern, she is the pattern.
Consider: how many other Jhalkari Bais are lost? How many Dalit soldiers, tribal leaders, lower-caste reformers, women warriors, and subaltern heroes fought, sacrificed, and changed history without anyone recording their names? The oral traditions of India’s marginalised communities are full of such stories, stories that academic historians are only now beginning to recover, often by going to villages and recording the songs and tales that grandmothers still sing.
The Reclamation
In recent decades, Jhalkari Bai has been reclaimed, primarily by Dalit scholars, activists, and political movements who recognise her story as both inspiration and indictment.
The reclamation has been multi-dimensional:
- Military recognition: The Jhalkari Bai Regiment was established in her honour, acknowledging her as a military leader rather than merely a servant or body double.
- Public monuments: Statues have been built in Jhansi, Lucknow, Gwalior, Bhopal, and Agra. In Jhansi, her statue stands near the fort where she fought, a physical assertion of presence in a landscape that had erased her.
- Government recognition: The Government of India issued a commemorative postage stamp in 2001. Several state governments have named awards, scholarships, and institutions after her.
- Textbook inclusion: Her story is now included in some state textbooks, particularly in Uttar Pradesh and Madhya Pradesh. The coverage varies, some books give her a paragraph, others a full chapter.
- Literature and popular culture: Several biographies have been written, primarily in Hindi, and her story has been featured in television programmes and web series. A major Bollywood film is reportedly in development.
But recognition has come with controversy. Upper-caste narratives sometimes diminish her role, suggesting she was merely a loyal servant rather than a military leader in her own right, a devotee of the Queen who happened to look like her, rather than a commander who chose sacrifice over survival. This framing preserves the existing hierarchy: Lakshmibai was the hero; Jhalkari was the helper.
Dalit scholars and activists reject this framing categorically. They point out that Jhalkari wasn’t passive, she was the commander of the Durga Dal, trained by the Queen herself, trusted with military responsibility, and active in the defence of Jhansi throughout the siege. Her final act was not obedience but strategy: she chose to ride toward certain death or capture because she understood, as a military leader, that the Queen’s survival mattered more than her own.
The debate over how to tell Jhalkari’s story is, in miniature, the debate over how to tell India’s story. Whose voices are heard? Whose sacrifices are remembered? Whose heroism counts?
The Ripple Effect
Jhalkari Bai’s story matters today for reasons that go far beyond historical curiosity.
India’s erased history is not merely an academic problem. When Dalit children open their textbooks and see no one who looks like them, no heroes from their communities, no evidence that their ancestors contributed to the nation’s story, the message is clear: you don’t matter. Your people didn’t matter. History happened to other people, and you were at best spectators, at worst obstacles.
Jhalkari Bai’s story counters that narrative. Here is a Dalit woman who was not a spectator but a protagonist, not a victim but a warrior, not a footnote but a turning point. Her story tells Dalit children (and adults) that their communities have always produced leaders, fighters, and heroes, and that the absence of these stories from textbooks reflects the bias of the historians, not the absence of the heroes.
Her story also challenges the narrative about Indian women. In a country that debates women’s safety, women’s agency, and women’s capability every day, Jhalkari Bai stands as evidence that Indian women have been warriors, leaders, and decision-makers for centuries, not because modernity gave them permission, but because they took it.
And her story challenges the caste system itself. If a Dalit woman could command an army, fight alongside queens, and change the course of a war, then the entire premise of caste, that some people are born inferior, is exposed as the lie it always was.
In a country that told her she was nothing, she made herself everything. That is not just history. That is a message for today.
One Quote
“Mein Jhansi ki Rani hoon. Mujhe giraftaar karo.”
(“I am the Queen of Jhansi. Arrest me.”), Jhalkari Bai, to the British forces, June 1858
This article is part of unite4india’s “Forgotten Heroes” series, Indians that history books don’t teach.