Holding Your Crown When the Empire Won’t Stop Emailing
Lessons in Sovereignty and Survival from Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni’s The Last Queen
PAPER AND PERCEPTION
Anannya
4 min read
If you have ever felt like your life is being governed by five different people’s urgent agendas, two overlapping group chats, and a quiet, persistent sense that your personal boundaries are being annexed by corporate interests, congratulations! You are currently living through a miniature version of nineteenth-century Punjab.
Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni’s The Last Queen tells the story of Maharani Jindan Kaur. She wasn't born into a velvet-lined palace with a pre-packaged royal destiny; she was a kennel keeper’s daughter who caught the eye of Maharaja Ranjit Singh, became his youngest wife, and eventually found herself holding together an entire empire while foreign colonizers and treacherous courtiers circled her home like vultures.
It is a sweeping historical novel, yes, but underneath the silk, dust, and royal intrigue lies an absurdly relatable blueprint for psychological survival. It is a story about what happens when external chaos demands that you surrender who you are, and you look back at the room and say: absolutely not.
In therapy, we talk constantly about boundaries. We treat them as neat little lines we draw around our time, energy, and nervous systems. But in practice, keeping a boundary often feels like trying to defend a palace with a wooden broom while everyone around you insists they are just "trying to help."
Enter the British East India Company.
If systemic boundary intrusion had a historical face, it would look like Victorian diplomatic correspondence. They didn't just invade with cannons; they invaded with condescending letters, legal technicalities, and fake concern for Punjab’s "stability." They looked at Jindan, a young widow trying to protect her child’s throne, and assumed she would be easy to manage, easy to intimidate, and easy to quietly lock away in a fort.
From a psychological lens, Jindan’s struggle is a textbook study in Locus of Control.
When people experience chronic pressure, betrayal, or systemic coercion, it is ridiculously easy to shift into an external locus. You start believing that your fate is entirely dictated by the powers in charge, the toxic boss, or the structural rules of the room. You default to survival mode: compliance, quiet panic, or hiding.
Jindan refused the script. When the Empire stripped her of her title, confiscated her jewels, separated her from her young son, and threw her into Chunar Fort, she didn't collapse into the role of the helpless victim. She swapped clothes with a servant, slipped past the guards in the dark, walked through miles of jungle, and surfaced in Nepal to rebuild her resistance.
That is not just historical drama. That is a radical, stubborn refusal to internalize someone else’s definition of your worth.
One of the funniest, most agonizing aspects of reading Jindan’s story is watching her navigate her own court. Half the men claiming to protect the Khalsa army were secretly signing side deals with the enemy, whispering bad advice, or panicking at the first sign of friction.
We all have an internal court that looks remarkably like Jindan’s ministers.
In Internal Family Systems (IFS) therapy, we recognize that our minds are full of distinct parts. You have the ambitious protector who wants to conquer the world, the anxious courtier who panics every time someone leaves you on read, and the tired inner child who just wants everyone to stop shouting.
When life hits a crisis, our internal traitors take over:
The Perfectionist Minister tells you that if you just work three more hours, the chaos will stop.
The Imposter Syndrome General whispers that you were never qualified to rule this life anyway.
The People-Pleasing Envoy suggests giving up your sovereignty just to keep the peace.
Jindan’s genius was not that she lived in a world without traitors or self-doubt. It was that she learned to recognize bad advice when she heard it. She realized that listening to ministers who were secretly negotiating her downfall was a fast track to losing everything.
Sovereignty isn't about having a perfectly calm, conflict-free life. It is about knowing who gets a vote in your decision-making process, and stripping the voting rights from the voices that want to sell you out.
Most of us will never have to negotiate with imperial envoys or escape a mountain fortress in disguise (though on a bad Tuesday, navigating office politics feels close enough). But we all hit chapters where our personal sovereignty is under direct threat.
Here is what Jindan’s story teaches us about keeping your footing when the world tries to shrink you:
Sovereignty is an internal decision first. You do not wait for the room to respect your power before you step into it. Jindan claimed her authority as regent even when the men in the room couldn't stomach a woman making decisions.
Grief and resilience can sit in the same chair. Jindan lost her husband, her kingdom, her freedom, and years with her child. She cried, she raged, and she grieved deeply, but she never let grief convince her that her story was over.
Refuse the quiet exile. The easiest way for any oppressive structure to win is to convince you to go quietly. Whether it’s an unhealthy relationship, a toxic workplace, or internal self-doubt, your greatest counter-act is simply staying visible, vocal, and unapologetically alive.
The Last Queen isn't a passive history lesson. It is a reminder that sovereignty is not something people hand to you with a ribbon attached. It is something you claim, cultivate, and defend within your own mind.
The next time your inbox is overflowing, your boundaries are being tested, and life feels like an aggressive takeover bid, take a deep breath, adjust your invisible crown, and channel a little of Maharani Jindan’s fierce, unyielding energy.
Tell them the queen is still on the throne, and she is not accepting terrible terms today.
Warmly,
Anannya