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Running down the stairs on light feet, Kaikeyi reached the stables. She exhaled in exhilaration and was probably unfittingly loud in her greeting to all the stable hands. They grew still in their duties, greeting her formally as she passed. They did well to hide their surprise, for she would take her place as the mistress here.
“Please,” she said, “these stables may be royal, but we are not in the palace. Please leave formalities outside. I am one of you.”
Here, they were horse people first and foremost, and that was how it was done in Kekaya, fostering camaraderie among all people. She could hear them whisper behind her as she strode ahead but was too elated to care.
When she approached Dharma, her dear friend from home, he nickered in his stall. She leaned her forehead against his, stroking his soft muzzle.
“Tomorrow I will bring something for you,” she said. “Today I could only bring myself.”
The urgency still haunted her, for now she imagined that Kausalya would come screaming, dragging her into the altar rooms, scolding her for neglecting her queenly duties. Or if not Kausalya, then the king, who seemed overly in awe of Kausalya, as Manthara was quick to note. The king should not have married Kaikeyi, the daughter of a faraway horse-lord, if he wanted a prudish Ayodhyan woman. But the few arguments she had had with the king usually petered out to nothing when they locked into passionate embraces. The king promised that he had never ever loved anyone like he loved her. But where had that love been last night when he stormed out?
Kaikeyi ensured that the bridle and seat were secured on Dharma. She thought of her father and brother, wondering what they were doing in Kekaya. Had her departure affected them at all?
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She led Dharma out of the stall but did not wait to bring him outside to mount him. It was glorious to be on horseback again. She smiled broadly to the stable men whom she passed. Without exception, they blushed and turned away, letting Kaikeyi know that even her friendly smiles were a transgression. Perhaps a married woman was not to smile at other men?
The courtyard disappeared in a blur, and though Kaikeyi did not know this large city, she coaxed Dharma into a canter and moved forward as though she had a purpose. The city was waking up, and Kaikeyi couldn’t help but admire its elegance. Like Kausalya, the city was majestic, fragrant, and beautifully arranged. Nothing was out of place, and though Kaikeyi was no expert, she sensed the symmetry of the architecture. The buildings rose up into the sky, with ornate pillars, archways, and intricate designs.
Without any formal agenda, Kaikeyi beheld the city. She recalled Dasha ratha’s praise of the city, seeing the words come to life before her eyes. Ayodhya was built by Manu, the first man, and it was a legendary city in a league of its own. Layers of moats, ramparts, and high walls held back intruders. A broad highway running through the city was sprinkled with water and strewn with flowers daily by heavenly damsels, a gesture of Indra’s gratitude. Ayodhya was unexcelled on Earth, and even the heavenly denizens gazed at it in awe, never before imagining that a dwelling on Earth could rival their own in Paradise. With its beautifully constructed buildings, seven-story houses, and gorgeous arches, Ayodhya was truly worthy of comparison with Indra’s abode in heaven. There were mango groves everywhere, the trees heavy with fruit. Elephants walked the streets in rhythm with the drums and music that filled the air. Beautiful women, decorated with precious gems, moved about happily. If they paid Kaikeyi any attention, it was because a woman on horseback was not a common sight. Kaikeyi observed that even the men wore gold earrings, garlands of lotus and jasmine, and silk garment in all hues. She could smell the cleanliness of the city, with its cooling sandalwood paste and fragrant oils.
The marketplace overflowed with exotic merchandise from faraway lands, and the streets bustled with royalty bringing their annual tribute. Out of the thousands of people who resided in Ayodhya, Kaikeyi saw none who looked miserly, unhappy, or deformed. The people of Ayodhya were famed for the balance they kept between prayer and enjoyment.
They were said to be content with their own fortune, whether they lived as warriors in man-sions or servants in cottages. However great or menial each person’s task, each performed it happily, knowing that the success of their society lay in each being vigilant in doing his or her own duty. Ayodhya was doubtless in a class of its own.
Lost in her admiration of the city, Kaikeyi had allowed Dharma to lead the way. She laughed when she saw he had taken her to a large gate that led out of the city. Dasharatha would not like it if she left the city without attending guards. He had specifically asked this of her. Placing her hand on her sword, Kaikeyi tapped her heels into Dharma’s flanks. She was tired of being compliant, as if it had been two years rather than two weeks.
As Kaikeyi crossed the gate and out of Ayodhya, she tried to sense the magical wards that protected the city. Made of mantra, the sacred sound vibrations prevented intruders, 87
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specifically blood-drinkers, from breaching Ayodhya’s security. But Kaikeyi got no sense of where the vibrations were located. She did see a large fire pit alive with flames and recalled that there were four of them, one in each corner of the city. Urging Dharma onward, Kaikeyi galloped beyond the city limits, leaving thoughts of fires and mantras behind.
The smell of freedom filled her as the wind struck her face. Water rose in her eyes, and she could let her tears fly in the wind without having to wonder what feelings she released.
The balance was restored within Kaikeyi. She knew who she was here, even if she couldn’t put it into words. Sitting in the palace temple, she felt as stiff and lifeless as the deities.
After riding hard for several joyful minutes, she slowed Dharma to a pleasant canter.
She noticed at once that Ayodhya’s order extended beyond its walls. The road that she had unconsciously followed was broad and defined. The fields were divided into neat plots of land, the farmers standing to look at her as she passed by. Unsure what etiquette required, she simply ignored them and focused on enjoying the scenery. Trees swayed in the breeze, birds cooed, the sun shone: it was perfect.
When she sensed that Dharma was thirsty, they trotted toward the river Sarayu, Ayodhya’s primary source of water. Kaikeyi slid off the horse and led him forward with the reins.
The river flowed steadily, the other bank barely visible to the eye. As Kaikeyi splashed her face with the river water, she thought at once about Manthara’s tale of the crazed Asamanja, the blotch on the Sun dynasty. It was in these very waters that he had drowned his playmates, laughing all the while. That was the first piece of Ayodhya’s history that she had learned, but she already knew that it was but a small piece of it. The kings of the Sun dynasty had been the leaders of mankind since Manu, the first man. Sagara, had carved out the oceans; Bhagiratha had called down the Ganga, the holy river that blessed one with libera-tion; Anaranya had faced Ravana and made the prophecy that a human would cause the demon’s end.
Kaikeyi sat by the bank of the river, quietly watching it flow, while Dharma grazed on grass. The servant folk were busy with their duties, hauling water in pots that gleamed of silver and gold, washing clothes that, even heavy with water, sparkled with elegance and wealth. Kaikeyi had not strayed very far after all, for these servants belonged to the palace; she understood this by the precious objects they handled.
Kaikeyi was about to stand up when a man’s head suddenly emerged from the waters.
She startled at the sight. She could have sworn she had looked at that very spot of water for a good many minutes. The hair that flowed down the man’s back turned from gray to white as the water drained from it. An old man, then. The man turned around slowly, meeting her eyes. His long beard was white like the clouds above. But he looked neither old nor young.
The word that came to Kaikeyi was “timeless.” She had seen him once before, at the wedding feast, one of the many new faces but one that stood out. He had looked her over as if she was bad karma in the guise of a queen.
Now he held her eyes, showing none of his own thoughts, only reading hers.
Though she felt herself shrink under his gaze, she did not tap into her authority as a queen or a warrior, for she had intuition enough to know she was no match for him. He 88
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was far beyond her powers. He was also an important person in Ayodhya. Perhaps the most important one. She recalled his name then: Vasishta, the high priest of the Sun dynasty, a mind-born son of Brahma, the creator. No one really knew how old he was.
Standing in the waters submerged to his navel, Vasishta called her name.
She shivered but inclined her head obediently.
“You are far from home,” he observed.
“Sometimes I think we all are,” she answered, surprising even herself.
“A philosopher.” He smiled. “You speak truly.”
She found that she was childishly pleased to have pleased him.
“We all are too far from our real home,” he said in agreement.
“Even you?”
“I am here, and not there, am I not?”
She held on to her thought. “By choice, I would think.”
“While yours was by force?” He waited, eyes on her, while taking his long hair and wring-ing the water from it.
She looked at the droplets of water that were hitting the still surface and creating ripples.
“I must have made a choice at some point,” she said. “But I don’t think I have the power now to unmake that decision. I think I’m like the water in your hair. Taken out of its element, it has not ceased to be water, but it cannot be returned to its natural state without your help, and as the drops fall, they change the surface before they return to peace.” She grew aware that she had spoken too much—and that he was the wise one, not her. “Forgive me. I speak out of turn.”
“Isn’t it for the pleasure of doing so that you have escaped from within the city limits?”
“Is anything hidden from you, then?”
“Yes. Your end. Your innermost desires. Your motives. Everything that you desire and will do. These are hidden from me, for they change at every moment. Just like this flowing river.”
“And yet at any time, we may come to the banks of the river and find the water flowing.
Is that not a form of knowing?”
“A philosopher queen.” Once again, he seemed pleased by the discovery.
“Manthara would never accede to that,” she said. Seeing his quizzical look, she realized he had never meet Manthara. “She is my servant. My mother. My confidante. I don’t really know how to describe her.”
“Manthara chides you for being too philosophical?”
“In the moments when I think myself most wise, she says I’m foolish. And when I think myself utterly foolish, she praises me.”
“Perhaps you should not listen to her overly much.”
Kaikeyi almost gasped. It seemed so simple, coming from him. But Kaikeyi had never dared ignore Manthara for long.
“Tell me,” Vasishta said. “How would you describe this city, your new home? I want the philosopher’s answer.”
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She thought of how pristine and clean it was, how beautiful every person appeared.
Surely such order came at a price. And yet she wasn’t sure.
“I don’t know if I can answer that yet.”
“Humility becomes you. Then tell me this. What is the worst of crimes in Ayodhya?”
“Killing a child?”
He shook his head.
“Defiling a woman?”
Again he shook his head. Would he make her name every crime that she knew? Was it a test of her meager knowledge?
“Think about it. Observe Ayodhya and our ways. The answer may surprise you.”
Vasishta stepped out of the water, a single white cloth wrapped around his private parts.
The cloth shimmered with rainbow hues, too dry to be of normal silk. He picked up a small brass pot that Kaikeyi had not noticed and made to leave in silence. Kaikeyi saw two younger priests waiting for Vasishta.
“Wait,” Kaikeyi said, standing up. “Holy One, please.”
He waited.
She did not know why she had asked him to stop. Just as she had not known any of the words that had spilled out of her in his presence.
“May I learn from you?” she asked. But surely he had more pressing duties than teaching an uncultured princess from Kekaya.
“What do you wish to learn?” he asked.
“Everything,” she said.
“Eagerness is good. But I’m afraid you will be disappointed if you set your goal so high. I myself cannot teach you what I do not know. And more important, I’m afraid no amount of knowledge will save you in the end.”
A chill ran down her spine. “I thought you said you could not see my end, my heart, or my future.”
He smiled, beholding her. “You have the signs of a diligent student.”
“All my other teachers said so. I’m afraid I know very little, however, when it comes to the art of being a noble queen.”
“That is perhaps not my forte,” he answered, a smile on his lips. “Queen Kausalya is expert. She took Sumitra flawlessly under her wing. She will do the same for you.”
Kaikeyi clenched her teeth and took a deep breath. The words that had flowed so naturally in Vasishta’s presence were now blocked.
She stood quietly as she watched him leave, a small flutter of joy in her heart. His white hair was so long, it reached down to his knees. Tiny drops of water still dripped from the ends.
It was time for her to return as well. She felt that she had somehow effected a change in his reserve toward her. Perhaps all of Ayodhya would come to see her as a powerful philosopher queen.
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chapter 10
The Power of a Phantom
Two years passed by in relative peace. The largest trouble seemed to come from within Dasharatha’s own palace, with two strong-minded queens constantly opposing each other. A terrible battle of wills had arisen. Kaikeyi who hardly visited the golden altars had ventured within one day after riding on horseback. Kausalya was aghast to find her sanctum smelling of horse and mandated that bathing be com-pulsory before entering the altars. This was hardly a new rule, for even Dasharatha bathed before praying there. Kaikeyi, however, saw it as Kausalya’s attempt to publicly humiliate her. This conviction was cemented when Kaikeyi was foolish enough to ignore the rule. Kausalya’s servants hounded the young queen until she ran out, a smell of the stables trailing behind her. It was said in the palace halls that King Dasharatha had been summoned to the House of Wrath to prevent the two queens from killing each other. Kaikeyi had never set her foot within the golden altars since.
All this was not a concern of state, however, and Dasharatha kept his private life apart from his royal duties.
Sitting in his private council room, Dasharatha listened gravely to the reports from around the city and beyond. The king’s scouts were like silent shadows, the ears and eyes of the king. On this day, nothing out of the ordinary was reported: a border skirmish, two subordinate kings fighting, and some
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complaints about the heavenly damsels sprinkling too much water on the road. Then a report came that would shake the foundations of all that Dasharatha knew.
A scout from beyond Ayodhya’s walls came rushing in. Gulping for air, he said, “There has been an attack. A blood-drinker attack.”
Dasharatha did not rise. He simply shook his head. It wasn’t possible. This had never happened, not in Dasharatha’s lifetime. Every so often a report of such an attack would surface. But when investigated, there was always a natural cause. Dasharatha remained calm.
“No blood-drinker has been sighted on our lands for countless generations,” he said firmly.
Thanks to the tireless work of Dasharatha’s ancestors, blood-drinkers were hardly known to the common man. They still haunted children’s stories and were alive in the human consciousness. The warriors who returned from celestial battles kept the tales alive. But no one living within the safety of civilization had been attacked by a blood-drinker since the legendary battle between Anaranya and Ravana. Very few had ever encountered a real-life blood-drinker.
Yet the scout was sweating and pallid, as if he had personally seen the attack. This concerned Dasharatha, for it meant that the scout was certain of his report. When Dasharatha suggested other plausible explanations, the scout insisted on his version: A young woman had gone missing in the forest. Her two children, a son and a daughter, had been seen running on the forest trails alone as darkness approached, which had alerted a neighbor’s attention. Neither the children nor their mother came home that evening. Following the neighbor’s advice, the man went searching in the forest for his family. He found his two children seemingly sleeping on the ground, but they would not awaken and were cold to his touch. He could see no cause of death, until he saw the marks on their necks, exactly like teeth, or very sharp fangs. The woman was still missing.
“But judging from the fate of her children . . .” The scout fell silent, then added, “The father carried both children here to us, hoping Vasishta could save them. But they were beyond saving. The man is distraught. Vasishta is with him.”
“Does Vasishta concur on the cause of death?” Dasharatha asked.
“He does, Great King.”
That eradicated any shred of doubt. Dasharatha stood up. “Take me to him.”
He turned to the others present. “This news must not spread in the city. We must avoid panic among our people. Instruct the guards to close all the city gates until we know more.
