Rani Lakshmibai of Jhansi is remembered with pride across India as a fearless warrior queen of the Revolt of 1857. Her name is etched in history books, folk songs, and nationalist stories. However, very few know about her adopted son, Damodar Rao, who witnessed the rebellion not through legend, but through the harsh realities of life. The British Empire’s controversial policy known as the Doctrine of Lapse refused to recognize adopted heirs as rightful successors. It was this very denial that pushed Rani Lakshmibai into battle. But while she became a national symbol of resistance, her son’s life became a tale of pain, neglect, and erasure.

The tragic life of this forgotten heir has been partly preserved thanks to a memoir penned by Damodar Rao himself, originally written in English and translated from Marathi. His account appears in historian Y.N. Kelkar’s 1951 book “Itihasachya Sahali” (translated as “Voyages in History”)—a rare and moving testimony of what happened to the nine-year-old boy who lost both his kingdom and his mother.

Lest we forget. A phrase often used with pride during national holidays and commemorations for India’s freedom fighters. Yet behind those words lies a stark truth that no one wants to address. Everyone knows the heroic tale of Rani Lakshmibai of Jhansi, who rode into the battlefield during the Revolt of 1857, with her little boy tied on her back. The image of the valiant queen galloping with her eight-year-old son, Damodar Rao, into enemy fire is etched in national memory.

But what happened after that iconic moment? What happened after the martyrdom of Rani Lakshmibai? That question was left unanswered for over a century. “Sadly, after Independence no government ever tried to seek an answer to the question which still haunts many: What happened to the minor Prince of Jhansi after Laxmibai’s martyrdom?”

The reality is both painful and shameful. “The stark reality is that only a handful of people are aware that the Queen’s son Damodar Rao and his next five generations lived an anonymous life in Indore that prides itself for being called Ahilya Nagari.”

No government, no historian, no memorial attempted to recognize the suffering of these royal descendants. They were not celebrated as heirs of a warrior queen—they were ignored into poverty. “With no government or public help forthcoming, the first two generations of Queen’s descendants spent their life in a rented house in abject poverty.”

In fact, no one even tried to find them. “No effort was ever made to locate them. In fact, we all forgot them – be it the government, administration or people.” These were not just heirs of a royal lineage—they were symbols of resistance, born from sacrifice and struggle. Yet, even they were brushed aside in the name of progress.

The family lived in Indore until as recently as 2011, blending into the crowd, unrecognised by a nation that owes them so much. Eventually, they shifted to Nagpur, where the sixth-generation descendant now leads a quiet, private life. But they have not forgotten their roots. “They have kept their association with Jhansi alive by attaching the moniker Jhansiwale in their name.”

This isn’t a story of privilege. While many royal families across India continue to maintain ownership of their ancestral homes, Rani Lakshmibai’s descendants must buy tickets to visit the land their blood once ruled. “While many royal families have managed to retain ownership of their properties, the descendants of the Queen of Jhansi continue to shell out money to buy tickets to visit the property of their ancestors in Jhansi.”

Today, the sixth-generation descendant, Yogesh Arun Rao Jhansiwale, is a 44-year-old software engineer living in Nagpur with his wife Preeti and their children Preeyesh and Dhanika. His father, Arun Rao Jhansiwale, who retired as an assistant engineer in the then MP Electricity Board (MPEB), also lives with them. “Arun Rao, who retired as an assistant engineer in the then MP Electricity Board (MPEB), owns a house in Dhanwantri Nagar in Indore.”

This is the quiet, forgotten end to a royal legacy that once stood at the frontlines of India’s first war of independence. A boy who lived as a fugitive and died in poverty. A family that bore history’s greatest torch—but was never allowed to hold it high.

According to the memoir, during a visit to Jamaica around 80–83 years ago, a man named Shri Aney posed a question regarding the royal descendants of Jhansi. He asked:
“Even though the grandson of the Queen of Jhansi, Maharani Lakshmibai, is going through difficult times, will the government help improve his condition?”
The answer from the authorities was stark and disheartening. They stated:
“All the private property of the Jhansi royal family was seized during the 1857 rebellion. Damodar Rao had claimed a right to 6 lakh rupees, but that claim was rejected in 1881. Hence, no further questions arise.”

This response reflected the official closure of Damodar Rao’s plea for justice. But the rediscovery of his handwritten autobiography has opened a window into the past, revealing not only the basis of the ₹6–7 lakh claim but also the deeply painful life he endured.

In his own words, Damodar Rao begins his story with a sense of honesty and heartbreak:
"I was born on 15th November 1849 in Jhansi. The family I was born into—the Newalkar family—was related to the ruling dynasty of Jhansi.
When I was very young, astrologers predicted my horoscope and said that I was destined for a royal future (Rajyoga), but it would come with extreme hardship. Unfortunately, that prediction turned out to be completely true.
When I was three years old, Maharaj Gangadhar Rao of Jhansi adopted me. To obtain official permission from the British government for this adoption, he sent a letter to the Political Agent of Bundelkhand."

Historical Injustice and a Child’s Lost Inheritance

Shortly after this formal adoption, Maharaj Gangadhar Rao passed away. Following his death, the Queen—Maharani Lakshmibai—petitioned the British government to formally acknowledge Damodar Rao as the rightful heir. She sent a detailed plea through the Political Agent of Bundelkhand to Governor-General Lord Dalhousie, outlining the legitimacy of the adoption.

When no response came, a second petition was sent to Calcutta. This time, it was strengthened by a personal recommendation from the Political Agent. The appeal emphasized the unbroken loyalty of Jhansi's royal family to the British. It noted that even in times of crisis and temptation, they never betrayed the British alliance. The late Maharaj Gangadhar Rao had faithfully upheld peace and friendship with colonial authorities.

But the Queen’s hopes were shattered. On the very day that her petition reached Calcutta, a British resolution was passed to annex the kingdom of Jhansi. All royal property was to be seized, and Jhansi would be absorbed into the British-controlled territories. In exchange, the British offered the Maharani a monthly pension of ₹5,000—a gesture she firmly refused to accept for the rest of her life.

The British did, however, make certain exceptions. They declared that the jewels, gold and silver ornaments, and the royal palace would be treated as the Queen’s personal property and inherited by her adopted son. But when it came to the estate or jagir, Lord Dalhousie made it clear: it would not be passed on.

Damodar Rao recalls that there were ₹7 lakh in the royal treasury at that time. The British government decided to place this sum in reserve until he reached adulthood. But the royalty’s dignity was hard to hold onto under colonial eyes.

In 1854, when Damodar Rao turned five, the Queen organized his thread ceremony (munja) in a grand celebration. She formally requested the release of ₹1 lakh from the reserved sum to fund the ceremony. The government approved the amount—from the same ₹7 lakh treasury.

As Damodar Rao recounts,
"Our munja was celebrated with great grandeur befitting our royal lineage."

But the time of festivities would not last. In 1857, the first sparks of revolt erupted across India, and Jhansi was dragged into the storm. What followed was not only a rebellion against British rule but a personal loss that would leave Damodar Rao orphaned and dispossessed.

After losing her kingdom and being denied justice by the British, Rani Lakshmibai made her final choice—she declared war. “My mother had already made up her mind. And when all attempts at compromise failed, she finally declared war against the British government. That was when everything came to an end.” These haunting words from her adopted son, Damodar Rao, mark the beginning of a painful descent into loss and obscurity.

At the time of the revolt, Damodar Rao was just a child. As battles erupted, legends say the Queen carried him on her back into war. He recalls with a heavy heart,
“I was very young at the time, but people say that during the chaos of battle, my mother carried me on her back. She fought in the Battle of Gwalior, where she attained martyrdom — and I became an orphan.”

Left alone in the world, Damodar Rao stayed behind in Gwalior for three days after the Queen’s martyrdom. The only person who stood by him was Sardar Imam, who had a mare and six camels. Along with him, a few other loyalists—Nanegwa Risaldar, Ganpatrao (a Maratha), Raghunath Singh, and Ramchandra Rao Deshmukh—gathered to protect the young prince.

Their only hope of survival was escape. “To escape, we broke away from Nana Saheb Peshwa's group in Chittoor and quietly made our way through desolate forest paths and the hilly passes of Ghat-Khindi, heading toward Chanderi.” But the journey offered no relief. The rebellion had made them fugitives, and fear gripped every village they passed.

Wherever they went, they faced rejection. “On the way, we passed through several villages, but the moment people found out we were from the Jhansi royal family, they wouldn’t even let us stand near their doorstep—let alone help us.” The villagers were terrified of British reprisals. Even village chiefs refused secret shelter, fearing the wrath of the British army.

Eventually, the group was forced into hiding on the banks of the Betwa River, a desolate and dangerous location. The peak of summer made life unbearable. “We had no tents, no shelter, no belongings. It was the peak of summer, and we suffered greatly in the scorching heat. Sometimes, when the heat became unbearable, we had no choice but to take refuge deep inside the forests, even though they were filled with wild animals.”

There was no food, no safety, and constant fear. The group survived only on wild forest fruits. Provisions were a distant luxury—fetching even the smallest supply meant risking one's life. “To get basic food or supplies from distant villages was a risky task… only when we were left with absolutely no option, a few brave men from our group would risk their lives and stealthily enter a village to fetch a small amount of supplies.”

Just when their condition seemed unbearable, monsoon arrived, making their struggle even more miserable. “All the forest paths were flooded and washed away, making it nearly impossible to step even a few feet outside. Only we know how we endured those dreadful days.” But amidst the darkness, a flicker of hope appeared.

A village patil (chief), moved by their suffering, offered a secret way to help. He told them:
“You are indeed people of the Queen of Jhansi, but the British army camp is now stationed in Lalitpur, and its influence has reached even this village. So I cannot help you openly. However, if you stay at a particular spot in the nearby forest, I can send you help there.”

They quickly relocated to the place he mentioned. It was a quiet forest location, and to survive, they made a strategic deal with the patil. “We would pay him ₹500 every month, and also give him nine mares and four camels. In return, he would provide us with all the necessary supplies and also keep us warned about British army movements.”

The group was split into units of 10–12 members each. Damodar Rao’s group included Raghunath Singh, Lakshman Achari, Balu Godbole, a deaf and mute boy, and a Kunbi woman named Kashi. All of them were assigned to his service. Meanwhile, Ramchandra Rao Deshmukh left and joined another group, feeling sorrow at parting ways with the young prince.

Following their plan, they found a remote cave near the Betwa River to hide in. Beside the cave was a small temple of Lord Mahadev, and the spot became their new home. “At that location, the Betwa River flowed fiercely and then dropped from a height of nearly fifty hands (about 25 feet), forming a waterfall. It was a beautiful and scenic spot, surrounded by ponds and small lakes on all sides.”

Even in exile, nature offered brief moments of peace. For some time, the group forgot their suffering. A few unusual natural wonders gave them fleeting distraction. “There were many ponds and lakes around that area, but they normally had no fish at all. However, as soon as the month of Bhadrapada (around August–September) arrived, these ponds would become full of fish. And just within a few days, all the fish would start dying and float on the surface. By the time Bhadrapada ended, not a single fish would be seen again.”

Nearby, there was a place called Siddhanath Cliff, 4–5 miles away. There, a tiny rock-cut reservoir held water that tasted like nectar and magically refilled itself whenever emptied—“Even if the water was emptied completely using buckets, it would fill up again in no time and begin to overflow.”

For two long years, this secret hideout became their home. But it was no royal palace—it was a place of constant struggle and pain. Damodar Rao painfully recalls,
“From birth, I had grown up surrounded by royal luxuries — so the kind of hardship I endured during this time is beyond description. Still, perhaps it was God’s will.”

To make matters worse, he remained ill for most of that time. And when the month of Bhadrapada returned again, his condition deteriorated so badly that his companions feared the worst. “Moreover, I remained in ill health throughout those two years, and by the time Bhadrapada came around again, my condition worsened drastically. It became so bad that my loyal attendants began to fear that I would not survive.”

This chapter of Damodar Rao’s life was not one of royalty or riches. It was a battle for survival—driven by the loyalty of a few, the compassion of strangers, and the enduring spirit of a boy who lost everything but did not give up.

As young Damodar Rao battled severe illness in hiding, there was no safe way to get him proper treatment without risking discovery by the British. In desperation, his loyal companions once again turned to the village patil who had helped them earlier. “There was no safe way to take me out in the open for proper medical treatment. So, once again, they pleaded with the same patil, requesting help for my care.”

Moved by the boy’s suffering, the patil responded with a rare act of kindness. “I was in a critical state. Seeing my condition, the patil felt deep sympathy and secretly sent a vaidya (traditional doctor) to treat me. Incidentally, the vaidya was the patil's own uncle.”

Just when things seemed to improve slightly, a fresh blow hit the group. The funds they had brought while fleeing—their lifeline—had almost vanished. “When we had fled originally, we had brought ₹70,000 with us. By now, almost all of that had been spent. As a result, we were no longer able to pay the monthly amount we had promised the patil.”

This time, there was no mercy. The same patil who had once helped them now turned them away. “With this, the patil, without any compassion, ordered us to vacate his territory, telling us to take our belongings and leave.” With no choice left, the group accepted their fate silently. “Quietly, without resistance, we left in search of shelter elsewhere. Our men managed to sell some of our possessions and somehow scraped together ₹200, which they gave to him…”

Even in that humiliating moment, they tried to reclaim some of their dignity. They asked for their horses and camels to be returned. But the response was deceitful. “We requested that patil to at least return our horses and camels, but that scoundrel gave back only three horses and claimed the rest had died. Left with no option, we accepted that as our fate and, still thankful, we bowed to him in gratitude.”

Their numbers had now reduced to just 12 people. As they moved forward again, they eventually came across another group that had split from them earlier. Their strength rose briefly to 24 members. “After traveling for three or four days from Shipri-Kolaras, we reached a certain place. There, we encountered another group from our original party that had separated earlier. Together, our numbers rose to 24 people.”

But the fear of being caught loomed large. They had entered Sindhia territory, and soon the local village headman began suspecting them of being rebels. “Shipri-Kolaras was in the Sindhia territory, and the local village headman began to suspect that we were rebels. He even began planning to capture us.” Thankfully, the ever-watchful Raghunath Singh understood the danger and acted swiftly. He convinced the headman otherwise and led the group to Chhipat-Badod, near Patan.

But misfortune struck again. The village official at Chhipat-Badod was a trader by caste, and he did not show them any sympathy. “As soon as we entered the village, he arrested us and kept us in informal custody for three days. After some investigation, he arranged an escort of 10 cavalrymen and 25 soldiers and sent us to the Political Agent of Patan.”

Now completely stripped of resources, they had to walk the entire way on foot, as their horses had already been taken earlier. Still, Damodar Rao's companions stayed by his side. “However, my attendants were loyal and honorable — they stood true to their service, even carrying me on their backs in turns when needed.”

From the beginning of their journey in Gwalior, they were 60 people. Over time, they had split into smaller groups for safety. Most of the survivors ended up finding service under Prithvi Singh, the ruler of Patan.

Nearby, in Agar, stood the British Residency, where Major Freke served as the Political Agent. A British army camp was also based there. Earlier, the group had heard that their Gwalior Risaldar had joined Prithvi Singh’s service. He was well-regarded and used his influence to speak up about the Queen’s son.

Whenever the topic of Rani Lakshmibai came up, this Risaldar would describe Damodar’s condition with emotional truth. “The Rani had a young son, about 9 or 10 years old. After she died in battle…” He told them how the child had been hiding in forests, living like a wild animal, afraid of British punishment.

Then he would appeal for mercy:
“What fault lies with that innocent, helpless child? What wrong has he done to the British? His loyal attendants have protected and hidden him with their lives. Sir, if you personally grant asylum to the orphaned son of that brave queen, you will earn the blessings of all Hindustan.”

His words moved Major Freke, who already held a favorable view of Rani Lakshmibai. The Major decided to help. He contacted Colonel Sir Richard Gampier, the Political Agent for Central India, and sought instructions.

The reply came:
“If the son of the Queen of Jhansi surrenders and becomes my subject, then I will make proper arrangements for his care.”

Following this, Major Freke assigned Nanhe Khan to escort Damodar Rao to the Political Agent, along with two cavalrymen for protection.

On the way, they passed through Baroda, where they unexpectedly met Ganpatrao, who had separated earlier. “On seeing my pitiful condition, tears welled up in the eyes of that old man.” The British Commandant of Baroda then handed the group over to British cavalrymen for continued escort.

They were taken to Patan, where Raghunath Singh and Ganpatrao arranged a meeting with King Prithvi Singh of Patan. The king remembered the bravery of Rani Lakshmibai and treated her son with great respect. “He even provided a daily allowance of ₹10 for my expenses.” He promised to speak to the Resident of Udaipur (Rossdale) and ensure proper care.

But there was a condition. Damodar Rao would have to go to Agra under British protection. This proposal was firmly rejected. “We refused this proposal, which made him unhappy.” Still, the king showed patience and helped them again. He arranged for Damodar Rao to stay in the village of Madheen, located 2 miles away from Patan, under quiet conditions, for three months.

During this period, they lived in some comfort. However, the peace did not last. News of their whereabouts eventually leaked, and the British authorities, alarmed, sent a letter to the Agent of Ajmer requesting an inquiry. The cycle of hiding, hoping, and being hunted had begun again.

For three months, Damodar Rao found brief shelter under the protection of Prithvi Singh, the ruler of Patan. During this time, correspondence continued between the king and the British Resident of Udaipur, as efforts were made to secure a permanent solution for the orphaned son of Rani Lakshmibai. However, the walls of colonial bureaucracy were too high to climb. In the end, even Prithvi Singh had to yield to the pressure of the Empire.

“Discussions and correspondence were going on between Prithvi Singh and the Resident, but eventually, Prithvi Singh had to give in. He arranged to send us to the British camp at Agra, and quite generously, he gave us ₹600 in cash and also provided carts and camels for transportation. Thanks to his kindness, we reached Agra safely.”

In Agra, they were received with some civility. “There, the Agent Saheb also treated us with respect and hospitality. It was decided that we would meet the Agent in a formal durbar setting.” However, royal clothes and grandeur were gone. To attend the durbar with dignity, they had to sell their last few treasures. “We had no money at that time, so Raghunath Singh broke and sold two gold bracelets, each weighing 32 tolas, to cover the expenses.”

At Agra, there was an emotional reunion. Ramchandra Rao Deshmukh rejoined the group, bringing with him 7–8 horses and several servants. The loyal protectors—Ramchandra Rao, Ganpatrao, and Raghunath Singh—shared Damodar Rao’s long and painful journey with the British official. Their words had an impact. “Ramchandra Rao, Ganpatrao, and Raghunath Singh emotionally narrated my entire ordeal, which moved the Agent Saheb deeply.”

Yet again, fate turned away. The Jhansi territory did not fall under this Agent’s jurisdiction. The child, born into royalty, was passed from one authority to another like a burden no one wished to carry. “However, since the Jhansi territory did not fall under his jurisdiction, we were then sent to the Political Agent of the Central Provinces.”

On May 5, 1868, they arrived at the Indore camp. There, they finally met Colonel Sir Richard—most likely Colonel Richard Gampier, the same name that had come up during earlier petitions. Damodar was placed under the supervision of Narayan, a Kashmiri Brahmin who served as the deputy officer. “I was placed under his supervision.”

The British took control of his life swiftly. “He allowed me to keep only five servants, and all the others were forced to leave.” From a prince protected by a caravan of loyalists, Damodar Rao was now left with just a few attendants.

After some time, a decision was taken regarding his sustenance. “The Agent Saheb made a recommendation on my behalf and arranged for me to receive a monthly allowance of ₹150.” At this point, the young boy had no power left in his hands. He had no legal aid, no family voice to fight on his behalf. “At that time, I was still young and naive, and had no guardian or legal counsel. So, I quietly accepted whatever decision the Agent made.”

And here, the memoir ends.

What happened to Damodar Rao in the years after this painful journey is mostly unknown. But the fragments we do know are heartbreaking. The ₹7 lakh, which the British had once claimed would be held “in reserve” for him as a child, was never returned. The very empire that called itself civilized let a young boy grow old in poverty and plea.

He spent the rest of his life begging the British Government to return what was rightfully his—not just money, but identity, recognition, and dignity. All appeals fell on deaf ears.

He eventually settled in Indore, married, and tried to live a quiet life. In 1904, he had a son named Lakshman Rao.

The tragic life of Damodar Rao—born as a prince, orphaned in rebellion, forgotten in history—came to an end on 28th May 1906. He was 58 years old when he passed away.

His descendants are said to still live in Indore, and many go by the surname ‘Jhansiwale’, proudly holding onto the memory of the kingdom their foremother once ruled.

Yet for most of India, Damodar Rao remains just a footnote in history—often remembered only as the small child tied to Rani Lakshmibai’s back, as she galloped fearlessly through enemy fire. He was more than that. He was a child who lost everything but held onto survival through loyalty, silence, and strength..