With Shatrugna and Bharata, punishment was simple: I separated them until they learned their lesson. I had vowed at Bharata’s birth that I would never manipulate him with my magic, and I quickly extended this promise to the other children. The heart-wrenching pain of what had happened when Yudhajit’s bond had snapped would never be fully gone from my mind, even if, all these years later, we had spun it back into existence with our steady correspondence. With my sons I could not risk it. I never even allowed myself to enter the Plane around them.
Lakshmana acted like Brahma incarnate, although between his light hair and hazel eyes he appeared to all the world as Dasharath made small. He never misbehaved, unless one of his brothers talked him into it, and even then, he would only serve as a lookout—or earnestly take the fall for his brothers. I never truly disciplined him for that, for it was adorable to watch him attempt to explain how the fault was his. And looking out for one’s family was a virtue.
Rama was the most difficult to manage. As a young boy, he barely cried. I remembered only one true tantrum from him from his early years. At maybe two or three years of age, he had begun sobbing one evening about not being able to play with his friend. When asked what friend he missed, Rama replied, “The moon.” Kaushalya’s attempts to explain the moon was far away and could not play with Rama only made matters worse, and at last she sent for me, unable to bear his tears. When I arrived, Rama was sitting in the corner hiccupping, fat droplets rolling down his flushed cheeks. He held his chubby arms out to me, and I scooped him up.
“Ma, I want to play with the moon!” he cried, burying his face in my shoulder.
“I know, I know,” I said, bouncing him up and down while I tried to think of some way to calm him.
Finally, my eyes landed on a small hand mirror propped on top of a chest. Still holding Rama with one arm, I snatched up the mirror and carried him out onto the veranda, where the vast expanse of the night sky arched above us. The sight of the full silver moon hanging there only made him wail more loudly. I deposited him on the ground and turned him away from the moon.
“I’m going to give you a magic toy,” I said. “And it will bring the moon into your hands.”
He quieted and stretched his hands toward me. I gave him the mirror and maneuvered it until the moon shone brightly in its reflection. Rama gasped in delight, then looked up at me. The brilliant smile on his face sent a pang straight through my heart. I ruffled his short black hair and sat next to him. Kaushalya brought me his plate of food, and I fed Rama as he happily babbled at the moon.
When they were a bit older, seven or eight, I taught the boys games from my childhood. Kaushalya and Sumitra hadn’t wrestled their siblings in the dirt, it turned out, and the boys’ tutors were only interested in formal instruction. The boys all ran about the palace halls in a pack, and while they did not mean to cause disruptions, they generally created chaos. So one evening I brought them outside to a grassy courtyard behind the palace.
“What is this, Ma?” Rama asked, his small hands on his hips, looking at the empty space in confusion.
“We’re going to play a game,” I said. “I used to play it with my brothers. One person closes their eyes and counts to twenty. Everyone else hides. When you find someone, you have to catch them. The first person to get caught becomes the next finder, and the last person to be caught wins the round.”
The boys all nodded to me, faces serious. “It’s a game,” I repeated. “It is meant to be fun. It is not a test. I will count first.” I covered my eyes and began counting slowly and loudly. Behind me, the boys whispered, arguing among themselves. I wondered if I would have to count for longer, but eventually the argument stopped and I could hear them running off.
I opened my eyes, squinting across the courtyard. There was a bench some distance away that was slightly askew, and at the farthest corner of the grounds, I could see someone crouching behind a large urn. I decided to make my way toward it, creeping forward until I could make out Bharata’s form, kneeling and trying not to laugh.
“Go, run,” I whispered to Bharata. “You’re supposed to start running.”
He got to his feet slowly and I waved him along until he took a few hesitant steps. As I started to chase him he picked up his pace, but I kept jogging slowly so he would feel like he had a chance. As he ran toward the bench where I knew another son was hidden, I spotted Rama, who had peeked his head out from behind a pillar to watch the scene. Without warning, I turned to catch him instead. His eyes widened in surprise, and then he sprinted away in the opposite direction of Bharata, his laughter ringing out. I loved the sound of that laughter so much, I almost stopped to listen to it.
Bharata, meanwhile, dashed for the corner of a shed, where he must have found Shatrugna, because each of them tried to push the other until they both tumbled out, laughing so hard they could barely move. I remembered the feeling, lying in the tall grass of Kekaya with my brothers, and wished I could somehow preserve this moment so they would always have it.
They picked themselves up, and I changed directions to run after them, adding speed to reach Shatrugna and tap him on the shoulder. His face fell, until I said to him, “Chase your brothers with me.” It was not part of the game, but he immediately whooped and ran after Bharata while I spun back to Rama.
In the end, both were caught before we found Lakshmana, who had rolled himself up and squeezed himself into an empty water barrel. He tried to stand when Rama finally found him, but he was stuck. His face turned red with effort as he wriggled about. We had to pull on him, me and the other three boys tugging at his arms, until he burst free with a pop and we all fell in an undignified heap.
“You’re really fast, Ma,” Bharata said. I laughed at his tone of wonderment, because of course even my jog would seem fast to a seven-year-old boy.
“You all should play again,” I said. “Shatrugna will be counting this time. I’ll watch.”
I stayed in the courtyard, the sun warming my shoulders, watching them hide and chase and wrestle one another.
And yet, as I watched Rama take a turn finding his brothers, his soft face set in determination, a strange wave of foreboding came over me. We had played this game the day my mother was exiled. The day that everything had changed. I couldn’t preserve this moment. This precious happiness could not last.
These are different children, I reminded myself. And you are their mother, not Kekaya.
I took a deep breath and turned to go inside. But even in the warm summer air, the chill remained.
I was not my mother, but just as importantly, Dasharath was nothing like my father.
A few days after I taught the boys this game, I happened upon Dasharath tiptoeing through the children’s wing of the palace. When he saw me, he shook his head with a slight smile and put a finger over his lips. I covered my mouth to stop my laughter, for I knew instantly he had been pulled into one of the boys’ games. Dasharath carefully opened Bharata’s bedroom door and disappeared inside for a few moments.
“I have checked every room,” he grumbled when he emerged empty-handed. “They told me they would be hiding somewhere in this corridor.”
“And are you sure you have searched thoroughly?” I teased.
Dasharath drew himself up, feigning indignance. “I am the raja of Ayodhya. I think I am capable of finding some children.” His eyes belied his tone, pinching at the corners as he tried not to smile.
“It appears your children have outsmarted you, raja or not,” I said, not bothering to hide the laughter in my voice now.
“Oh, and I am sure you know where they are,” he said, voice light. He took a step toward me, boxing me in toward the wall.
“I have my suspicions.” I leaned back carefully against a tapestry, crossing my arms.
“As your raja, I command you to tell me.”
“Alas, Raja, my loyalty belongs to my sons,” I said as seriously as I could.
He kissed me very quickly, for we were in a hallway. “What if I command you as your husband?”
I pretended to consider. “I still feel bound to keep their secret. Who can they trust, if not their mother?” I said innocently, and he groaned.