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Still, Rama refused to claim the position his father gave him. Dasharatha wondered at the little prince’s humility.
“Well, I say,” Kaikeyi declared, “that we make these kinds of final conclusions once the boys actually start wielding weapons, not mud balls.”
“As you decree, my queen,” Dasharatha said with a bow.
“Really?” Rama asked, looking delighted. “A real bow? Real arrows?”
“First, you have to train with wood arrows that have no tips. Your bow will be real but small, made for your size and strength. When you grow bigger, your weapons will grow with you. Do you want to start learning?”
A chorus of voices shouted, “Yes, Father!”
How had he missed their eagerness to become warriors? Looking down at his sons, he knew why: in his eyes, they were hardly more than toddlers.
Only then did he notice how stiff Kaikeyi was at his side. It had been a long while since she had confronted him about anything; he almost felt slightly thrilled. Still, he gave her a cautious and cursory side glance. Could it be voiced before their sons?
She had the grace to send the boys off with Kausalya before she turned to him. His beloved’s eyes were troubled rather than angry. She did not speak right away and seemed to struggle for words. The defense he had been building up started melting.
“What is it, my love?” He reached for her hands. She did not resist. “You know you can tell me anything.”
She blinked rapidly and took a deep breath. “It’s not that I don’t love Rama, because I do.” He felt his eyes narrow. “I don’t even know what I’m trying to say . . . But when you singled out Rama, praising him above the others, I felt some thing in my belly, right here.”
She placed her hand right below her breasts, by her solar plexus, an information center that seldom told lies.
Dasharatha encouraged her to go on, caressing her hand with his thumb.
Her feelings tumbled out. “I’m Bharata’s mother. And I have to protect him. I did not have a mother to protect me, you know. I have to protect him so that he will never know that emptiness. When he looks up at me, sometimes I feel that I’m all he has. Why do I feel that way?” Her chin trembled.
Though he didn’t follow her reasoning, he saw that she was deeply affected.
“Does he not have you?” she asked.
“Why do you say this?” Dasharatha asked, genuinely confused. “I carefully divide my affection among all of them.”
“Maybe. But there is a special look in your eye when you look at Rama. I know Rama is outstanding, but Bharata is remarkable too. He can do everything Rama can do. Sometimes I fear that you don’t even see him because you are so focused on Rama. Why is that?”
Despite himself, Dasharatha felt a certain wall come up. She, of all people, should not 205
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be asking him this question. She should know. Sometimes in love this happened; you loved someone more than another. He had known Rama before the boy was born.
When Dasharatha said nothing, Kaikeyi burst out, saying, “Rama is five years old! He is not the world’s greatest archer, or mud slinger, or whatever latent talent you are dreaming up for him.”
He could not understand the cause of her emotion. “Why are you so angry?”
“Do you love him more than you love Bharata?”
“Kaikeyi, don’t.”
“Answer me.”
“You know the answer,” he said. “I will not discuss this any further with you.”
They sat there, anger loudly surging between them, hot as fire. He didn’t even know why he was so angry. This is why he loved her, wasn’t it, because she could provoke him so dreadfully? That thought did nothing to assuage his upheaval, and so he thought of Rama. Then of Bharata, and then the twins, Drip and Drop, that he could not tell apart.
“I strive to be fair to my sons,” he said. “I don’t want to repeat the same mistake with my sons as I’ve done with my wives. No, listen to me. I don’t see our love as a mistake. You are my world. The center point of my life. I would never change that. But you have to admit that there is a cost. Others pay the price for our love. There are repercussions. Sometimes I wonder if I will be able to face my death with a guilt-free conscience. If I could do it over, wouldn’t I wish to be a fair husband to all my wives? I feel guilty, Kaikeyi. Every time I see Kausalya, I feel deeply guilty.”
Kaikeyi searched his face with ruthless eyes, seeing him all the way through. He hoped that she would affirm him yet again, accept him still, despite finding out something about him that she did not approve of or like. She wanted him to shun Kausalya. And he did, mostly.
She wanted him to love only her and feel nothing for Kausalya. That he couldn’t do. Kaikeyi wanted him to favor Bharata. He couldn’t. Not in his heart.
“They are only five years old,” Dasharatha said. “It’s as you say. Let them be trained.
Let them wield weapons. Before they are grown, there is no sense making comparisons or singling one out as superior to the others.”
“Promise, then, that you will treat Bharata fairly,” she said.
Sometimes he felt he did nothing but promise. Would he drown in those promises one day? But this was a promise easily made, one he had already made himself.
“I made that promise the day they were born, my dear.”
Kaikeyi’s anger seemed to abate. Her fingers came alive in his hand. For now, Dasharatha was forgiven.
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chapter 24
Manthara’s Monsters
anthara was shaken by the children’s attack. Even after Kaikeyi left, she continued to ramble to the servants in attendance. She cursed every single person who had cast a negative eye on her crooked spine. She told herself to hush, to stop complaining. It wasn’t like her. After so many years in this body, wasn’t she used to it?
Kaikeyi was the only one who never lingered on the pronounced curve of Manthara’s back. But even with her, Manthara had no guarantee. If Kaikeyi ever found out that Manthara had orchestrated Queen Chaya’s exile so long ago . . . This was exactly the sort of thing that Manthara might ramble about at a moment like this.
Quiet, old hag, quiet!
Manthara had felt fragile even before Rama’s attack. Just that morning, Ashvapati had sent one of his secret messages informing Manthara that her old friends, the Vishakanyas, had died. He did not mention how it came to be that they both died at the same time, but Manthara knew that Vishas did not live long; their poisonous diet guaranteed a premature death. Manthara was in mourning when those balls of mud were thrown at her.
Sukhi and Dukhi came in. The twins fawned over Manthara, helping her get clean. They tended to Manthara as if she was a porcelain doll, handling
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her gingerly. Manthara had never been able to decide if she craved or despised the way they treated her. That’s how she knew that she liked them. They were from Kekaya, after all.
Once she was clean and lying down in the comfort of her plush silken bed, Manthara could not hide from the memory of the children’s shrieks, the way the dirt had hit her in the eyes. The malice in their eyes had evoked the memory of being surrounded by a group of hateful youngsters.
“Monsters,” she muttered, and meant it.
“Whom do you speak of, wise one?” Dukhi asked.
Manthara startled. Again, she had failed to consider that the twins were still there.
“Bharata is tolerable,” Manthara said, “even sweet. But he follows that intolerable Rama around.”
“But Rama is sweet too,” Sukhi said. “Ouch!”
Dukhi had swatted her on the head.
“He makes your skin crawl, doesn’t he?” Dukhi prodded. “I see how you cringe every time someone says ‘Rama.’”
Manthara made a mental note to stop cringing. But it was true.
“You are very observant, Dukhi.”
Manthara considered the question carefully. “There are several reasons,” she said.
The twins listened, eyes shining with reverence.
“For one, there is the fact that Rama was born one day before Bharata. I sincerely hope it will not pose a problem when the time comes to crown Bharata king.”
The twins exchanged glances.
“What have you heard?” Manthara demanded.
“Nothing, nothing,” they both chanted.
Manthara waited.
“Only that Rama as the firstborn has the true claim,” Sukhi revealed.
“Firstborn by a mere few hours!” Manthara cried.
She welcomed the opportunity to rehash this old grievance. The terror in her heart began to fade as she spoke with great conviction of Dasharatha’s scheming nature. “If the king really is a man of his word, he will make Kaikeyi’s son king, no matter what!” She pressed her lips together. “Now when I see how he looks at his darling firstborn, dread squeezes my lungs. We might as well throw those other boys in the dungeons for all their futures are worth. These Ayodhyans have no sense of honor. Tell me, does the promise the king made to King Ashvapati count for nothing? Shouldn’t Kaikeyi’s bride-price skew the decision in favor of Bharata?”
Sukhi and Dukhi erupted in chatter with their brainless opinions, swatting each other when they disagreed. Manthara hardly listened.
Instead she thought about Rama again and why she was so uneasy in his presence. The reason was hard to articulate. Rama’s innocence was unnerving. Manthara experienced herself as grotesque next to the boy. Everything she said and did seemed utterly mean when he was around. Rama was so perfect that she felt every single imperfection in herself.
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Manthara shuddered, throwing the silk sheet off, suddenly hot.
The twins stopped their chatter and began fanning Manthara with peacock feathers.
Still, Manthara could barely tolerate them. She did only because they were from Kekaya.
And because they were reliable at spreading Manthara’s rumors.
“That’s enough,” she said, dismissing them.
They left, heads huddled, yet their whispers were so audible that Manthara wondered why they didn’t simply talk out loud. It was all, “Rama this,” and, “Rama that.” By the thirty gods, did no one tire of speaking about that little pest?
Manthara had no fondness for his kind. Rama was too unlike her. Yes, he was just a boy.
She knew that. But there was no way she would ever open her heart to him. She had made that mistake before.
Horrible noises filled her ears. The voices of her childhood “friends.” She could feel the sticks pounding on her back. Still, they had taught Manthara a valuable lesson. Appearance mattered more than anything else. If Kaikeyi was ugly or misshapen, would Dasharatha love her?
Manthara cackled loudly. The king’s love was so superficial, it was a joke.
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Manthara shook her head and noticed a small clump of mud in her hair. It crumbled to dust in her fingers. Manthara never forgot anything. She internalized the incident, her heart gnarling like the root of a tree.
This reminded Manthara that her report to Ashvapati was due. One of his faithful swans would carry and deliver their secret correspondence. It was genius, just like Ashvapati himself. When Manthara held one of Ashvapati’s letters, she felt something like romantic love.
Exactly what he had feared had indeed happened. The bride-price was swept to the side, as though it was nothing. An Ayodhyan promise.
Kaikeyi had been a child with no understanding of the challenges that faced her in Ayodhya. Kaikeyi still insisted that the marriage had been her choice, but Manthara knew better.
She had seen how Ashvapati put Kaikeyi’s hand in Dasharatha’s, and the way the king tightened his grip on her hand, claiming her. Princess or not, Kaikeyi was just as powerless as any other girl, sold by her father to the highest bidder.
Sighing, Manthara got up from the bed. First, she made sure that no servants were in sight; then she sat down to write her letter. With her nerves frazzled, it was a challenge to write in a small script—and a larger challenge still not to completely exaggerate the day’s event.
“Rama tried to kill me,” she wrote and then tore up the scroll.
It had felt like that, yes. When the mud balls hit her eyes, she panicked. The death blow had been next. She knew exactly what it felt like, a massive numbness in the entire body while the mind grew frenzied in its cage. The release from the body was exquisite and terrifying. But the death blow had not come. Manthara had opened her eyes to see Rama dancing around her in glee, taking satisfaction in her terror. Cold-blooded monster!
Manthara composed an exact detailing of the day’s event, concluding with the fact that all the princes had followed Rama’s lead, not knowing any better. If Bharata stayed too long in Rama’s company, he would grow into a servant, no more. No one in Ayodhya had the sense to nurture Bharata. Manthara urged Ashvapati to bring his grandson to Kekaya for some time. If Bharata stayed in Ayodhya, he would never learn of his birthright. He would surrender all his rights out of misplaced love for his “elder” brother.
Satisfied, Manthara stood up and shuffled to the small window on the eastern side. She leaned out saw the two swans waiting by the tiny pond. Day and night, they waited. Such was the loyalty Ashvapati commanded. Within a minute, one of the swans took flight and flew up to Manthara’s window. Manthara patted it with awkward fingers and placed the tiny scroll in its beak.
Manthara was aware of the power love exerted on others. But she would stand fixed in the center of power, unbroken by love. She might seem like a powerless hunchback to the world, but she knew how the game worked. She would make her move when they least expected it.
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chapter 25
The Adopted Princess
After the mud fight, the princes constantly asked Dasharatha when they would get real weapons. Dasharatha had decided to craft new ones suited to their age. He was in discussion with the master of weapons to approve the designs when the messenger from Videha arrived.
Sumantra, who was authorized to handle all missives on behalf of the king, welcomed the messenger from the neighboring kingdom. When Dasharatha dismissed the master of weapons, he found Videha’s messenger still waiting. Sumantra indicated that this matter required the king’s personal attention.
“Please speak,” Dasharatha said. “Dispense with all formalities, for I’m certain that you have repeated my honorifics many times since arriving here. Be at ease.”
Being a messenger, the man was required to deliver his message before attending to his personal needs. He joined his palms at Dasharatha’s words, then produced a scroll.
“King Janaka requests the privilege of privacy, Great King. This missive is for your eyes alone. I am not at liberty to hand this message to anyone but you, Great King. If this does not meet with your pleasure, I am to return to Videha with the scroll in hand.”
Dasharatha’s curiosity was awakened. He held out both hands to receive
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the sealed parchment. “You may ensure King Janaka that I alone will read this message.
Have you been instructed to tarry and await my response?”
“If it pleases you, Great King.”
“Without knowing the content of the letter, I cannot guarantee a response. I will send word to you on the morrow with instructions how to proceed. Sumantra, escort this faithful messenger to a resting chamber and see that all his needs are met.”
Sumantra and the messenger bowed and left the small council.
The king waited until the end of the day when he was alone in the council room. The ministers and their servants had returned to their homes. He picked up the parchment, broke the seal, and began to read. He was glad for the privacy, for the letter made his eyebrows rise, and no doubt other expressions crossed his face. A warm feeling spread in his heart.
Even after Dasharatha had finished reading the missive, he held it in his hand. He went over the content in his mind; he wanted to hold on a little longer to the bright feeling it had conjured. It was similar to something he had felt when Rama was born, like something mystical was taking place. King Janaka had no sons, but the letter concerned a child he had adopted, Princess Sita, a girl who displayed such strange behaviors that either she was gifted beyond imagination or else entirely unsound. It was with this concern that Janaka had penned the letter to his superior king.
Dasharatha looked at the letter, scrutinizing it carefully for any sign that Janaka was considering abandoning the girl. She was not his by blood, after all, and Janaka did have the right to rescind his claim. The girl could be placed in a carefully selected home, one that perhaps suited her nature more. Janaka’s letter seemed to state that she was not behaving like a princess. Dasharatha smiled at this. What was a princess supposed to be like at four years of age? Though Sita’s age could not be exactly determined due to her supernatural birth, Dasharatha had received the news of her appearance four years prior. Dasharatha thought of his own sons, who were five years old and busy throwing mud at queen and hunchback alike. With their gaps in logic and boisterous manners, Dasharatha was not entirely sure that he counted them as human beings yet.
Dasharatha dropped the letter out of sight, pinching it between his fingers. It was clear that Janaka adored his daughter. On that account, the letter really was nothing but a father’s anxiety over the future of his child. There was no sign that he regretted his decision to adopt her. From the reports Dasharatha had received, Janaka had not hesitated even a moment before claiming the child as his own. What a strange birth. Janaka certainly thought his daughter’s oddities were tied to her peculiar birth. Some whispered that the child had merely been abandoned, thrown into a ditch. Perhaps her parents had even tried to kill her by burying her alive. Ill-wishing people always sought unkind ways to undo miracles. Be all that as it was, Dasharatha remembered that Janaka’s first letters had been brimming with the incredulous joy of the miraculous child. There had also been a great number of witnesses present, corroborating the event.
