Father lifted me and held me to his chest. The next second, he called for Soma, ordering him to take me to my room. I was completely silent now. Mother didn’t want me. She never begged Father to take me. She held the baby so close, I could not even see you at all. Soma backed out of Mother’s room with me. I strained to see. Father pulled Mother up with his free hand. You had stopped crying, and you looked straight at me with your big eyes. I knew they were blue, like mine, but they looked black that night. Father reached forward to take you from Mother, but she turned away. Both of them fought over you, and I was afraid you would break or split in half. You started shrieking again, louder than an elephant.

  “Mother cried. Father shouted. You wailed and wailed.

  “I started squirming, trying to get away from Soma. I hit his legs with my sword. He didn’t catch my hand or restrain me. But he didn’t let me go.

  “‘Look at your mother,’ he whispered into my ear. He continued walking backward.

  “I felt his heart hammer against my back. Soma was upset. Everyone was. Mother most of all. Father had taken you. He held you with one hand; your arms and neck just dangled.

  With the other he pushed Mother away. Mother struggled against Father’s hands, trying to take you back. It was like she thought she was in a dream too. She thought if she kept trying, 399

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  she could get you back. Father still had the demon in him. He held Mother back. He didn’t say anything to her. Soma paused for a moment in the doorway. His arms and body were warm around me. ‘Look at your mother,’ he repeated. ‘You will never see her again.’

  “I saw how Mother’s hair shone and was like a black cape around her. But her face was not the one I knew, because it was so twisted and strange, the way she was crying. I shouted to Father to let her stay. Father looked toward the guards but not at me. ‘Take this woman away. Now.’

  “The other guards started moving toward Mother.

  “‘Land nor sea can part you from me,’ Mother said. ‘As long as you live, my heart lives too.’

  “With his sternest voice, Father told her, ‘This was supposed to be a quiet farewell, Chaya?’

  “The guards started dragging her away. Soma whispered calming words into my ear. All I could say was, ‘Mother, Mother, Mother.’

  “The nightmare continued as it started. The air in the corridors was cold. Mother’s cries hit my ears. She called my name. She called yours. Soma sat down with me on the bed. He let me curl up in his lap, even though I had made his nose bleed. I understood then that it had not been a dream at all. I knew Mother was gone because you kept crying and crying. You had never cried like that, not even when you were first born.

  “Father was going to find a new mother for us. Father was making a big, big mistake. I knew that you would never stop crying.”

  Yuddha stopped speaking. His face was streaked with tears. So was Kaikeyi’s. Her body trembled, her convictions shaken.

  “This is not true,” she said. “She did not care for us. She hated us. She wanted to feed us to the dogs.”

  Kaikeyi watched her brother straighten and look at her differently. “Is that what Manthara told you all these years?”

  “At least she told me something,” Kaikeyi cried. “How many times have I asked you about Mother? Now you tell me this. I don’t believe you. It’s too late.”

  She refused to notice how her brother had turned into a little boy as he spoke. She attributed the tears in his eyes to the wind in the air. Any excuse would suffice. Anything but accepting his sudden admission as the truth. Their mother had been selfish and self-serving, no mother at all.

  “Do not speak about her ever again,” Kaikeyi warned him.

  “Or what? You’ll set Manthara after me? Mother loved us!”

  “I have no mother!” Kaikeyi shouted so loudly, the horses spooked and flattened their ears. She turned away from her brother, the liar. She was glad that he was leaving in the morning. She mounted her horse, turning it toward Ayodhya, her safe place. She ignored her brother.

  He called after her, “Then why did you say her words, ‘Land nor sea can part you from me’?”

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  “I don’t know! Those are my words!”

  Kaikeyi urged the horse to break into a gallop. It was not true. It couldn’t be. Once within her courtyard, she ignored all Kekaya’s people waiting there. Without looking, she ran past every single one of them. Even if it had been Dasharatha she wouldn’t have stopped. An indescribable terror was taking hold of her and she could not run from it. But she would try.

  It was the ghost of her mother trying to sink her claws into Kaikeyi. It was the heart-eating witch. She told the shadow to leave her alone. She was brave now, not a helpless little girl. But of course, Yuddha sought her out again. He had no sense of privacy and entered her private chamber without asking.

  She felt spent and tired. And tomorrow she had to send Bharata off. But Yuddha looked different, unburdened. Unbidden, he sat on the edge of her bed, soiling it with his horse smell.

  “I’ve been jealous of you all these years,” he said. He reached for her hand, grasping it firmly.

  “You have?”

  “Why else do you think I constantly pinched and tormented you?”

  “I thought all brothers did that.”

  “Maybe every brother has a reason to be jealous. I don’t know. But Mother wanted you, not me. I resented you for that. But I understand now that it was simply desperation. She knew Father would never let go of his only son. He would not let her take anything with her in exile. You know that part of the story.”

  Yes, she had heard it many times by now. The swans. Her father’s laugh. Her mother’s demand to know. The subsequent exile. It all seemed so crisp and clear, told like that. Yuddha was casting it in a darker light. Kaikeyi wanted to hear all of it and none of it.

  “I would never do what she did and abandon my child,” Kaikeyi said.

  “That’s what I’m telling you, Sister. Our mother didn’t leave without a fight.”

  “She did not fight hard enough. If she truly loved us, she would have found a way.”

  Yuddha had no answer to that. Kaikeyi wished he had not come from Kekaya.

  “I’m tired,” she said to him. “You are right about one thing. It isn’t easy for me to say farewell to Bharata.”

  “Despite my earlier words, I admire you for that.”

  “See you in the morning,” she said, dismissing her brother.

  She sought out Dasharatha, finding solace in his warm arms. He whispered many soothing words of love into her ear and caressed her cheek and back until she fell asleep.

  The next morning, she clung to Bharata as if she would never see him again.

  “What’s wrong, Mother?” he asked, ever astute.

  She would not take up his time now with the whole story. He already knew the salient parts. Instead she said, “You know that I love you, don’t you? That I would do everything for you, that I would never let anyone hurt you.”

  Bharata’s large eyes looked puzzled by her emotional display. But she needed him to know that she was not the kind of mother who abandoned her child. Not ever.

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  “Of course, Mother,” Bharata replied. “I know you have my best at heart.”

  “You are my heart,” she said. “As long as you live, my heart lives too.”

  She quelled her tears so that she could be a queen and bid them a proper farewell.

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  Dasharatha’s Haste

  harata and Shatrugna were in the land of their grandfather. Dasharatha was Bhaunted by dark omens, which followed him day and night. After Bharata’s departure, Kaikeyi had clung to Dasharatha like a vine to a tree. Her passion dimmed his dread, but when the lovemaking was over, he was left with his sinister dreams: Dasharatha stared into the hypnotic eyes of the swaying snake. Beads of sweat stung his eyes as he tried not to blink. The cobra was ready to strike, hood lifted and fangs visible. Dasharatha stood frozen, his ability to remain motionless paramount to his survival. Suddenly the reptile changed tactics and slithered closer, intending to choke him, not bite. The giant snake began coiling itself around his body, suffocating him. The king was paralyzed with fear. He screamed silently, and the snake hissed in his ear while encircling his throat. Dasharatha gasped for air, for life, and suddenly found himself gazing upward toward a red canopy, silken sheets clinging to his sweaty body. A dream, he realized.

  He was perspiring all over. Kaikeyi’s thick braid lay heavily across his throat.

  Since when did she sleep with her hair braided? He sat up and irritably flung it aside, feeling the cool air against his throat. The dream left him with a feeling of imminent disaster that was harder to shake off, but he resisted the urge to quickly leave the bed.

  Instead, he steadied his mind, telling himself the cobra was an illusion.

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  He reminded himself of the concrete facts of his life. He was sixty-seven years old. His sons would turn eighteen this month. Bharata and Shatrugna had gone to the land of Kekaya to visit King Ashvapati. Rama was excelling like the rising sun. As Dasharatha opened his mind to it, he counted an endless stream of facts and events that defined and grounded his life. Finally, there was the old curse, the crime he had committed at fifteen, which had haunted him ever since. He would die in grief torn from his son. There was no way around it; dreaming of a black cobra was a bad omen. This was not the first inauspicious portent he had recently observed, and Dasharatha was starting to feel acutely worried. But what was there to worry about?

  Affairs of the state ran smoothly. Rama demonstrated real leadership, taking part in every decision. As always, Dasharatha’s thoughts dwelled longer on Rama than on his other sons. Over the years, Rama had become more than a son. His instincts were razor-sharp, yet his way with people was kind, the delivery of his insights temperate—a rare combina-tion. Dasharatha had come to rely on Rama’s counsel. Indeed, he could no longer imagine running affairs of state without Rama. All this had unfolded naturally, thanks to Bharata’s innate submission toward Rama.

  Dasharatha looked at Kaikeyi again, who still slept like a child, unaware of her husband’s morning thoughts. Ever since Bharata left for Kekaya, Kaikeyi had clung to Dasharatha with unusual need. She wanted to be by his side at all times. It was not unwelcome at all.

  For years, he had dreaded the conflict that would arise once he announced his heir.

  Although Kaikeyi agreed that the terms had changed when she bore him no natural sons, Ashvapati remained resistant. But he had nothing to offer but innuendos as threats. Bharata insisted that he did not want the throne. Still, the minds of men were fickle. Dasharatha’s dread returned, a snake in his gut.

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  He rose from his bed, flexing his unwilling limbs. He was still stronger than many men, but the gods knew his battle days were over. He had to consult Vasishta, seeking the preceptor’s advice on how to proceed. Because of the urgency Dasharatha felt, he left the bedchamber and rushed through his morning ablutions. Kausalya was in the golden altars, as dependably there as the deities themselves. Soon after, Dasharatha sent a messenger to the holy one, informing Vasishta that he would visit before the day’s duties commenced.

  Vasishta sat cross-legged on a straw mat and had placed a cushion for the king to sit on. Vasishta listened attentively to Dasharatha’s descriptions of the bad omens, the complexity of Kaikeyi’s bride-price, and his growing desire to see Rama crowned as the king.

  Dasharatha said, “I carry a feeling of extreme dread with me wherever I go. I don’t feel certain of the right path ahead.”

  “The path ahead is clear,” Vasishta said. “The moment Rama was born as your first son, the path was made. But I understand the reasons for your turbulent mind. The decisions of a king may garner displeasure from some faction of the people. That is common. Still, I would like to examine the movement of your ruling stars and the planets that influence you. This may shed some light on your current anxiety.”

  Together, they studied the alignment of his ruling stars.

  Vasishta grew graver than usual. “Great King,” he said, “you have a very malignant star coming into activation. The formation of Sun, Mars, and the shadow planet Rahu appears only when a man is about to die or will suffer a terrible accident.”

  Dasharatha had known deep within that his anxiety wasn’t unfounded. “Before it’s too late,” he said, “I must take action to consecrate Rama as prince-regent. Before I do so, you, whose advice can never steer me wrong, must tell me your opinion.”

  “Rama is undoubtedly the most extraordinary human being on this Earth. No one can compare to your firstborn son. The ministers will agree.”

  And they did. All eight ministers unanimously agreed that Rama, among all the princes, was the prime candidate. Still, Ayodhya was a democracy, and it was time to summon the leading citizens of Ayodhya. Dasharatha was so eager and so anxious that he called a meeting on the shortest notice, to be held on the succeeding day.

  Dasharatha waited until the large retinue had settled into the court before he addressed them gravely with a resonant voice. “My dear people, you have allowed me to rule for many years now. I am no longer the vigorous man I was when I became your king. With your permission, I wish to appoint my eldest son Rama as my successor.”

  A great cry of approval rose from the crowd, invigorating Dasharatha. But to make sure they were not only trying to please him, he posed a question. “Why are you so eager to see my son rule in my place? Have I not worked for the welfare of all beings and ruled righteously?”

  After conferring among themselves, a spokesperson addressed the king. “Your son Rama has enhanced the Sun dynasty’s glory by his exemplary actions. We believe his words because we have seen that he is devoted to truth. He exemplifies nobility by his even temper, gentle speech, and love for righteousness. We trust his strength because he has never been defeated in battle. When he returns to the city after being away, he asks about our welfare as 405

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  if we are his own family. He shares in our joys and sorrows as if he were our father. All of us remember Rama in our daily prayers. You fulfill our wishes by appointing him as your heir, for we already worship him. Crown him without any delay. That will give us great happiness!”

  When the king heard these words, his heart swelled with a joy similar to the elation he felt when Rama was born.

  “As you say,” Dasharatha answered, joining them in their delight.

  Since everyone was supremely pleased, Dasharatha decided to proceed immediately.

  He could not afford any mistakes or delays. The fact that Bharata was at his maternal home only made it more urgent. Dasharatha would let nothing stand in his way. They would consecrate Rama as prince-regent the very next day. He proclaimed, “Let the celebration begin!”

  It would take a concerted effort of all Ayodhya’s manpower to prepare for the grand coronation in such a short time.

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  The Fateful Servant

  omething was happening in Ayodhya without Manthara’s knowing. All after-Snoon Manthara had heard an unusual amount of noise. Come evening, she heard loud cheers from the street and could not contain her curiosity. Leaning heavily on her cane, she made her way up the stairways. From there, she would have a good view of the courtyard and the streets beyond. Craning her neck up while the rest of her was pulled down by gravity, she would have appeared painfully humble were it not for her facial expression. She made no attempt to conceal her mind-set as her eyes darted here and there. The clunk of her walking stick was one of the only jarring sounds in the palace, outdone only by her hoarse, nagging voice.

  After over twenty years in Ayodhya, Manthara was still an outcast. There were one or two people here and there whom she tolerated but none she trusted. Over the years, she had come to derive pleasure in spreading rumors and creating misery in the lives of others. She kept her ears sharp and her tongue wagging wherever in the palace she hobbled. It was a low pleasure, but it fueled something within her.

  As she reached the rooftop, her breath wheezed through her lungs like a ghost.

  A few of the palace servants stood on the rooftop and chattered. Manthara caught a few of their words on the wind: “Rama’s coronation!” and “The Great Queen’s joy!”

  Manthara’s wheezing breaths stopped completely. It could not be! She had

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  both dreaded and expected this day. The “righteous” Dasharatha was proving himself not only a hypocrite but a liar after all. Just to be certain, she sidled closer to them and overheard Rama’s wet nurse boasting about Rama’s rise to power—all because of her breast milk, of course. The cluster of idiots was standing and admiring their queen. Manthara peeked over the railing; Kausalya was out there in the streets, handing out gifts, as if she was a lavish person. Manthara could see the selfish motive behind that generosity.

  Manthara had seen enough. She turned and hurried down the stairway, grabbing the hem of her silk sari so she wouldn’t trip. Her spine jounced with every step, a stabbing knife in her back.

  “Quiet,” she hissed, to end the self-pity. She needed to be as sharp as she could be.

  This was her moment.

  This news about Rama’s royal consecration was a shameful affair. Without exaggerating the facts, the sweet-talking king was betraying them after all. In truth, Manthara was shaken. A part of her felt a nasty thrill at having been right all these years. There was only one person who needed to see this as Manthara did: Kaikeyi.

  She thumped her walking stick heavily on the ground and on the feet of people too slow to move. “Out of my way!” she brayed.

  Her old face was scrunched up, and her mouth was a tight line of wrinkles. The cogs in her brain turned quickly, and alarming thoughts wound round and round. The gossip’s thrill she had first felt dissipated and the real emotion appeared; she was afraid for her life.