I smothered a laugh, for I did not want to attract too much attention. “Agreed. But you do not like us being called the Women’s Circle?”
“I would not say I have a particularly strong feeling about it,” Kaushalya said. “Just that it sounds frivolous.”
“We could make it less frivolous in other ways,” I offered, the idea coming to me as I spoke. “Asha spoke of invitations. But instead, we could hold an open audience, the way Dasharath does. The radnyis of Kosala attending to the people’s problems. It is certainly more imposing an image than the idea of a… matron’s sewing circle.”
“The people?” Kaushalya raised an eyebrow at me, astute as always. “Beyond the servants, you mean?”
The music quieted for a moment, and we both split away, sitting up straight for several moments as the man hummed. I saw Dasharath open his eyes hopefully and only barely school his disappointed expression into feigned interest as the man launched into the next verse. Next to me, Kaushalya shook her head, an affectionate smile on her face.
When it was safe to continue the conversation, I whispered, “We could use the public gardens, near the main marketplace. It’s like you said. The men do not—” I narrowly stopped myself from saying care and glanced around to make sure I had not been overheard. “They do not have time to listen to such small matters. But we do. We already are.”
I could sense Kaushalya was skeptical, and so I plucked at our bond, holding in my head the image of us, providing counsel to women, giving aid and comfort as we stood among our people. I could see it now, women young and old gathered before us, all of us filled with hope at what futures we might build together.
“Perhaps,” she said, considering. “But who would come to such a thing? Only the most desperate, surely.”
“Is that not who we should seek to aid?” I asked. “We are radnyis, are we not?”
At that moment, the man finally finished with a flourish. There was an awkward silence for a moment, before Dasharath began giving lukewarm applause. Kaushalya and I joined in, politely tapping fingers against our palms until the moment was over and we could rise to our feet. “There are those who would be offended,” Kaushalya said. “First the new rules about the marketplace—no, don’t say anything, I know that was your proposal—and now this? Surely if it pleased the gods, this type of council would have been established long ago.”
“Those rules were written long ago,” I argued. “But these are different times.”
“Different times indeed,” she murmured thoughtfully. “I have an idea, then. Let us simply call it the Women’s Council.”
And so, once a week, in the evening, Sumitra and Kaushalya and I went to the public gardens in the heart of Ayodhya with several of our staff and held audiences. It came together in fits and starts, such that it was hard to say the first time we truly became a council. The first meeting, a few palace servants who we had turned away throughout the week sought our audience, and it was as if we were simply back in our rooms. The next time, it was much the same, small and unassuming. I struggled to ignore the gaping of passersby, the imagined titters.
But slowly, week by week, the number grew. The gaping stopped. It began to feel like something more. Like a Women’s Council.
I was the unspoken leader of the group, and both Sumitra and Kaushalya deferred to me when it came to major disputes. And yet without them, the Women’s Council could never have been. For they spread the word among the noblewomen, the elite social web that I still remained on the outskirts of, despite the fact that I now dressed fashionably and moved confidently about the palace. I supposed that I had made more efforts to strengthen my relationships with the noblemen of the palace than the women—but now, with this council, that was slowly changing.
After the first moon, people stopped watching to see if the gods would punish us for so flagrantly disregarding their edicts. Instead, members of the city trickled in to seek audiences: the poor who could not make trips to the palace for open court, those with problems they did not wish to bring to male advisors, and those whose pleas for help had been turned away everywhere else.
Was Dasharath proud, I wondered, that we were saving women from husbands who spoke only with their fists? That Kaushalya and I had modified grain storage quotas to distribute food to children on the streets, that Sumitra had employed homeless women in the palace kitchens? That we were conceiving of projects at the Women’s Council that I would then bring to the Mantri Parishad to complete?
The last was not our only work, of course, but it was what I loved the most. I think Kaushalya enjoyed resolving disputes, and Sumitra loved best matters of the heart. On occasion we would get young couples, who professed their love for each other despite their families’ disapproval, hoping for the Women’s Council’s blessing. Sumitra loved to hear their stories and bless the matches. Even Kaushalya occasionally became interested and joined in. They thought me shy when it came to such matters, for I would sit back quietly, but in fact I had nothing to add. No such feelings for Dasharath, or any person, had ever surfaced in me. I was comfortable with my husband, loved him as a dear friend, but the pull of romance meant nothing to me. I could be happy for those in love, but I could not understand.
Fortunately, most of the Women’s Council’s business concerned matters at which I was more skilled.
This particular day was quite cool, clouds covering the sun and a brisk breeze stirring through the gardens. “Step up,” I called to the next person in line, and shifted my shawl over my arms as an older woman approached. Her sari pallu obscured part of her face. “What is your name?”
“Dhanteri, your majesty,” the woman said.
It was like someone had plucked me from my seat and dropped me back into that chilly stone corridor in my father’s palace, standing by a door next to Yudhajit, both of us longing for our mother.
I could not forget that voice. Instantly I began to sweat, despite the cool air. I tried to recall the face of the woman who always stood behind my mother, but it kept slipping away.
I checked the Binding Plane almost instinctively and quickly recognized it: one of the first threads I had ever followed. It was merely a wisp now, and perhaps I would have once struggled to locate it. But in the washed-out world of the true Binding Plane, even the smallest bonds stood out in stark relief.
“Dhanteri,” I said, grateful that my voice remained steady. “Former lady-in-waiting to my mother, Kekaya.”
“Yes. I am so glad to see you again, Radnyi Kaikeyi. You have grown so much.”
An inane comment, considering I had been barely out of girlhood when she had departed. Of course I had grown. And Dhanteri did not sound glad to see me in the slightest. She had lowered her pallu but still held herself rigid, like a single hard line connected her creased forehead and her clenched legs. The stiff pleats of her light blue sari and the severe bun sitting high atop her head did little to soften her image.
“It is good to see you too,” I said, but I leaned back in my chair. “How can I help you?”
“The last time I saw you, you were only twelve? Thirteen? To see you now, a radnyi of the Kosala kingdom, brings me great joy.”
“Indeed, I was thirteen.” I kept my tone neutral. Dhanteri’s face fell an infinitesimal amount. Had she really expected such mundane flattery to work? At our last meeting, she had threatened Manthara.
I crossed my ankles and waited.
Dhanteri approached me, and the palace guard that typically accompanied us stepped forward to intercept her. It must have galled her, to be treated like a commoner. I lifted my hand in a purposefully lazy motion and the guard fell back.
“There are others who seek an audience,” I said. “What is it you want?”
“I have news,” Dhanteri said. “About your mother.”
And there it was.