Kekaya did not act toward her children the way other noblewomen at court did. She never kissed my scrapes or held me when I cried after fighting with Yudhajit, never cuddled me before I went to bed at night. Instead, she taught me how to read, drawing the characters in a pan of sand and repeating them with me ten times, and ten more times, until I knew them by heart. And even then, she did not praise me. But she gave me scrolls and listened as I picked out stories.
My favorite was the churning of the ocean, that wondrous tale of the gods and the asuras together churning the Ocean of Milk, seeking in its depths the nectar of immortality. The nectar must have been unimaginably delicious for them to form such an alliance—I could understand, for I loved sweets too. As they churned, they split between them the spoils that emerged from the Ocean: a tree twisted like the claws of a tiger, with sharp red flowers that could draw blood and grant boons. Wise and powerful goddesses including Lakshmi, seated on a pale pink lotus, her hair dripping gold. Even the moon itself, a luminescent pearl caught among the waves. And at last, they found the treasure they sought.
But the gods did not wish to share the nectar with the asuras, for this demonic race had long terrorized the earth and heavens with their lust for power. They were the only beings with the power to rival the gods, and the two were often at war. And so, the great Vishnu tricked the asuras out of the share they had been promised.
“But how could the gods lie when they are good?” I asked my mother, puzzled.
“The gods do what they must,” she said, but she gave me a smile and I felt clever.
When I had finished the legends, she took me alone through the maze of palace corridors and through a polished door of teak, set into the floor with a great, glinting silver handle. Together, we descended into the library cellar filled floor to ceiling with precious texts and dusty scrolls. And this felt like the greatest compliment of all. It was because of her I loved reading, consuming even the dullest treatise in my quest to learn all I could.
I had often doubted whether she even liked me, her only daughter. But now, my heart clenched oddly at the thought of losing her presence. I felt as though I could not breathe deeply enough.
I did not cry. But I continued to beseech the gods, even as the chamber grew dark around me, my knees stiff and aching from my seated position on the floor.
Finally, Manthara came to comb my hair and put me to bed. I was relieved to see her. At least I would not lose her too.
“Would you like to hear a story?” she asked, smiling at me in the mirror. “I have a new one for you.”
I shook my head, crossing my arms. Normally, I would beg her for songs or tales, and she would comply until my eyes grew heavy and images of splendid feats danced beneath my eyelids. But tonight, I said nothing at all. “Kaikeyi, I know you must be upset, but—” I slipped out of the chair, my hair half-braided, and flung myself onto the bed. Manthara could not bring my mother back. She did not understand how this felt. I had been relieved to see her, but now all I wanted was to be left alone until I could go find Yudhajit. I could not take her sympathy, and I hoped if I was rude to her, she might leave. But Manthara simply stood and came to sit at my bedside. I turned away from her, and still she only clucked her tongue, one hand rubbing gentle circles into my back.
“All will be well,” she said, before bending down to press a kiss on the back of my head. My eyes filled with tears, so I clenched them shut, refusing to turn my head. Eventually, she rose and blew out the candle, closing the door very quietly behind her.
Seconds passed into minutes and I continued to lie there, waiting until the quiet of night had fully descended and I could safely leave.
Finally, breathlessly, I opened my door slowly and checked both ways, then padded down the hallway on bare feet. There were no torches, and the dark gray stone turned nearly black at this hour, the moonlight barely filtering in through the few windows lining the corridor. The low ceiling seemed to bear down on me with every step, but I was intent on my task.
“Kaikeyi?”
My heart stopped for one agonizing moment. I pressed myself against the wall as it restarted at double speed. It was only my brother, whom I had ventured out to find in the first place. “Yudhajit?”
He was a few steps away now, clad in crisp white cotton sleep clothes that had clearly not yet been slept in. His eyes shone brightly in the darkness. He too must have been waiting for this still hour to leave his room. “What are you doing up?” he asked.
“What are you doing up?” I retorted, not wanting to admit I had been coming to get him.
He made a face. “I asked you first.”
I shrugged and started walking away, trying to feign indifference. The court had taught me patience, but it had taught Yudhajit impulsivity. Only one of us knew how to hold their tongue.
“I couldn’t sleep. I miss Mother. She did not even say goodbye to us. I—I don’t understand.” His voice twisted and broke, and I found myself fighting back tears as well.
Unwilling to face my own grief, I kept walking, and he easily caught up to me, filling the space by my side as he always did.
We slipped like ghosts through the hallways, not wanting to return to bed just yet. In unspoken agreement, we found ourselves heading toward the door to the kitchens, our stomachs growling in unison.
Yudhajit moved ahead to open the door. I had grown distracted thinking of what sweets I might find to snack on and did not realize he had stopped until I walked right into him. He stumbled slightly but did not make a sound, pointing his chin toward the entrance. After a moment, I heard what he did—the faintest murmur of voices. We tiptoed closer, closer, closer, until the murmurs became words.
“So long as nobody learns the truth, it does not matter.” I could not recognize the deep voice, resonating through the small space like the beat of an animal-hide drum.
Yudhajit, more familiar with the men of the palace, mouthed Prasad at me. An advisor who I had seen at formal court occasions, but never interacted with. He sat near the king, so my father likely valued him.
The second voice I recognized immediately. It belonged to my mother’s former lady-in-waiting, Dhanteri. “It matters to me,” she said sharply.
“It shouldn’t,” Prasad replied.
“I know. Manthara knows. Why keep it a secret? The children deserve to know.”
“Neither of you can tell another soul, or both of you will find yourself unable to work.”
Dhanteri laughed, a sound without any happiness at all. “I am already without work. The raja saw to that when he banished Radnyi Kekaya.”
If our bodies had not been nearly occupying the same space, I would not have noticed Yudhajit’s quiet gasp.
Banished.
I was listening, straining for answers, as though by will alone I could force these adults to tell me what I craved to know.
“Woman, she is not your radnyi anymore. You will not speak another word, or I will ensure that you are the last of your name,” Prasad hissed. His tone frightened me.
I snuck a glance at Yudhajit to see if perhaps he understood what that threat meant, but he looked as confused as I did.
“If you keep your mouth shut,” Prasad added, “I will see to it that you are kept on, to manage the women’s work in the court.”
There was silence for a moment. “As you say, Arya Prasad.” The faintest rustle of cloth came from behind the door. “I will speak to Manthara.”
“See that you do. So long as everyone believes Radnyi Kekaya left of her own accord, it will not matter what really happened.”
Yudhajit and I backed away from the door as one, rounding the corner slowly, carefully. But when we were sure we would not be heard, we darted fast, bare feet leaving brief impressions of dampness against the cool stone. Only when we reached our rooms did we stop, facing each other and panting.
“What do we do?” Yudhajit asked. “Surely they could not have been telling the truth.”
“There’s nothing we can do,” I said.
“We can talk to Father—”