She did not disappoint. “That is entirely within your power. Now, if you are done with this foolishness, you should rest. Your body has work to do.” She sat on a chair next to my bedside. “Shall I tell you a story?”
I was not a child anymore, and it had been many years since Manthara had spun me a tale. But I nodded anyway, lying back and letting her voice wash over me as she spoke of Savitri and Satyavana. I had heard this story before, of how brave Savitri bargained with Yama, the god of death himself, for the life of her husband, Satyavana. Yama offered her any wish, except for the life of Satyavana, and so she wished she would have one hundred children with her husband. Impressed, Yama brought Satyavana back to life.
I had found it a boring story as a child, for there was no fighting or danger, no wondrous gifts or thrilling escapes—just a woman and a god, speaking. But now I heard it anew. A woman, speaking to a god as her equal. A woman, saving her husband. A woman, outsmarting death. It soothed me, for a few minutes, to imagine myself as Savitri, even if I knew deep in my heart that hers was not my path.
After the story was done, I felt calmer, more peaceful. And when I briefly opened my eyes, before I slipped at last into sleep, Manthara was still there.
I might have been immune to the magic of the gods, but Dasharath was not. The kheer we all consumed allowed his seed to stick inside us, and soon we all swelled with child.
I knew that if I bore a son, Dasharath’s vow would make me the most important woman in the kingdom. I also firmly believed that, although they had promised Dasharath strong sons, the gods would give me a daughter just to laugh at me.
I did not wish to bring a daughter into this world of men, into a world that would silence her thoughts before she could even speak them. I wondered how many women had felt this same fear, deep in their bones. If my mother had. It turned my stomach, kept me awake at night, thinking of all that might go wrong.
I had to change it.
I had to build a world where my daughter would not be exiled by her husband on a whim, where her opinion could be valued without first having to save her husband’s life in battle. The thought of my daughter marching to war was like an ache I could not shed. I lay awake night after night unable to breathe for fear of it. I would not always be there to protect her myself. Confined to only the least strenuous of activities, I had far too much time to think of these remote possibilities, for myself and my daughter, until I felt my chest would break with the fear, my ribs crackling like brittle wood under the weight of it.
But in time, the fear also brought clarity. I was a radnyi and had a seat on the council—if anyone could change this, it was me. I had to try.
The sages had made the wishes of the gods clear, putting rules in place to keep women separate and protected. But in truth, it was little protection. If the gods had already ordained my evil deeds, then I had nothing to lose by defying them now. So, I would defy them.
I could not change the minds of the gods, but I could change the minds of men. Ravana had given me a monumental gift, and I began to wonder what I might be able to accomplish with it. How I might make this kingdom a better home for my daughter than Kekaya had been for me, or my mother. Opening the court to women. Permitting women to learn in the open market schools. Allowing women to maintain their own stalls in the market—and perhaps even hold property. Being unmarriageable would no longer be a life sentence then.
I spun out the possibilities like strings in the Binding Plane, identifying the difficulties. The more traditional men, I knew, would be unhappy—Dasharath’s religious advisor still barely tolerated my presence in the room, although he held his tongue around my husband. But perhaps I could weaken their ties with Dasharath and his closest advisors and bind the others to me instead.
It would take slow and careful work, work that I could not begin until after my pregnancy—the court healers had told me in no uncertain terms I could not tax my mind or body—but I began to believe in myself again.
After my second missed cycle, I wrote to my father, explaining briefly about the Yagna, the kheer of the gods, and the simultaneous pregnancies of all of Dasharath’s wives. I reminded him of Dasharath’s promise not so long ago and asked for his prayers that I bear a son, playing the part of a dutiful daughter. I imagined that he would be pleased when he read it, and it warmed me to think that he might be proud—though I still believed I would bear a daughter.
And even though we had not spoken in well over a year, I tried to write to Yudhajit as well. My first attempt—a meandering and apologetic ramble—I tossed into the fire. Perhaps I had something to apologize for, but the fault was not mine alone. My pride, lessened though it was, still would not allow me to be the first to bend.
In the end, I essentially copied my letter to my father and made no mention of my emotions at all. That way, I told myself, his eventual failure to respond would not hurt me.
Manthara handed me a thick package from Kekaya nearly a moon later. I ignored it for a few days, assuming that my other brothers and various courtiers had likely been conscripted into sending bland well-wishes.
This assumption was right, and I wanted to scream as I contemplated the thin strips of reed paper and realized how many I would be obligated to return. I almost ignored the final letter in the package. But as I idly turned it over, I recognized—
Yudhajit’s handwriting. Just the sight of it transported me to our childhood, practicing our letters in that cold stone room and racing each other to finish. I was filled with a homesick longing for my brother. He had written to me.
My eyes blurred for a moment. I blinked furiously, desperate to read.
Dear Kaikeyi,
I am heartened to hear of your pregnancy and have nothing but the best of wishes for you as you carry this child. I hope you are taking care of yourself in Ayodhya. Father tells me that you have taken to court well, and that he hears nothing but praise of you. I would expect no less.
I miss you desperately, and I apologize for not writing you sooner. I confess I was quite angry at what you said, but I am sure you now regret it—as I regret my role in your departure. My previously arranged marriage has fallen apart, and Father has set a new match with the princess of a mountain clan that will soon be joined with Kekaya. I think I understand a bit, now, of what you must have felt when I told you of your imminent wedding, and I do not even have to leave my home. For that, I am as sorry as I am glad that things have worked out for the best.
I know you and your propensity to assume the worst in all situations, so you must be well convinced by now that you are carrying a daughter. But I am confident that you will bear Dasharath a son.
Love always,
Yudhajit
Heart pounding in my chest, I reached for the Binding Plane, welcoming the familiar tug as the world shifted slightly underneath me. I rose from my chair and spun in a slow circle, finding and discarding in turn each bond that lay shimmering against the drab curtain covering the world.
There. It was smaller than before, which is perhaps how I had missed it in the time it took the letter to reach me, but the deep, rich blue was unmistakable. It extended out through the west-facing wall of my window, and I imagined it crossing the plains and fording the rivers, navigating the city and entering the vast stone palace of Kekaya, until it arrived at the heart of my beloved twin.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
YUDHAJIT WAS RIGHT. FOR all my plans in bearing a daughter—all I had begun to do to prepare to raise a girl in this world—I bore a son.
At first, when the midwife proclaimed my child was a boy, I did not understand her meaning. Then I shook with the force of my shock and relief, for I had truly never believed I might bear a child who could live an unconstrained life.