Bharata blushed and turned his head away from me. I stayed silent, knowing that he would tell me eventually. Finally, he said, in a small voice, “So I can be first at something.”
I put a hand on his cheek and turned his head back toward me, looking into his troubled eyes. “What do you mean? You are first at many things. I know you are excellent at sums, and your tutors tell me that you are one of the fastest readers they have ever seen.” I remembered these things vividly, because while I loved all my sons, I took the most pride in Bharata. I was happy when any of the boys succeeded, but Bharata’s triumphs made me want to smile all day. It helped that he was a very bright young man when he decided to sit with his tutors instead of causing mischief.
He shook his head slightly, adjusting his legs and then wincing. “Those things don’t matter. Rama says a raja must be a warrior first. I want to be a good one. A great one. So I must become a better warrior.”
“Your father is a raja, is he not?” I leaned forward and started massaging his legs again, wondering if it was Rama’s insistence on toughness that had caused the boys to ride all day without asking for the carriage.
“Yes?” Bharata squinted up at me, clearly sensing a trick but unable to figure out exactly what it was.
“And how many wars have you seen him fight?”
Bharata looked up at the canvas ceiling for several moments trying to recall. “I can’t remember any.”
“That’s because since you and your brothers were born, he hasn’t fought any. He has ridden with his soldiers a few times on patrols, and of course there are small skirmishes at our borders every so often. But the last major battle he fought was before you were born. Almost twelve years ago.”
I did not think about it often, but sometimes in my dreams I would revisit that bloody battlefield and wake up in a cold fear that Dasharath was dead, that I had failed. I did not want my children to ever have such dreams.
“I didn’t know that.” He turned toward me, resting his head in my lap.
“Your father is a great raja—the greatest in Bharat—and he spends most of his days looking at numbers and reading reports so he can make the best decisions for the kingdom. That is the work of a raja, and you excel at it. Being a warrior is worthy. But war is not something to wish for. It destroys people, destroys kingdoms. A raja should not wish for it. There is far more to being a ruler than that.”
I couldn’t see Bharata’s face, but when he said, “Thanks, Ma,” I could sense the happiness in his tone. He fell asleep in my lap, and I let him stay all night in my tent, treasuring each moment before he would grow too old to want this proximity anymore. And when he staggered to his feet the next morning, legs shaking, I ordered both boys to the carriage with no room for argument. Rulers had to be wise as well as strong.
One week into the trip, the boys reached the edge of the world they knew. They had never been farther than this while hunting, and they did not want to stay trapped inside the carriage any longer. They rode beside me for as much of the day as they could manage, commenting with wonder on everything they saw: the cone-like trees bristling with slender needles, the vast rolling hills, the roaming herds of shaggy goats and horned sheep.
Their enthusiasm gave me fresh eyes, and I viewed it all with pleasure. I remembered all too well feeling trapped inside the carriage on my bridal journey from Kekaya to Ayodhya.
At the end of the second week, we reached the bridge that spanned the Sarasvati River. I remembered my adventure with Yudhajit near its banks long ago, that surreal glimpse of the rakshasa in the hush of the forest, and apprehension rippled through me.
As we had written back and forth over the last eleven years, our blue bond had grown. But it did not even approach its former strength. The love and tranquility of his letters, filled primarily with news of our respective courts and memories of childhood, might not translate when he set his eyes upon me.
Even though I could gain no real assistance from the goddess, when I saw the river, I longed for the calming ritual familiarity of taking its blessings.
I stopped our party on the banks and instructed everyone to bathe their faces in the water. Manthara waded in several steps, an expression of true contentment on her features. She had insisted on accompanying me, for she was getting older and might not be able to make the long journey back to her homeland again.
“Why is Manthara so cheerful?” Rama asked me. Excitement shone in his features, boyish enthusiasm propelling him onto his toes.
“The Sarasvati River is sacred to us,” I answered. “We say that it is the pathway to heaven and the stars. The goddess protects our rivers and waters and expands the minds of men.”
Rama shook his head. “Lord Vishnu is the protector, not Sri Sarasvati,” he argued.
I turned to look at him. “Rama, you cannot say such a thing in the presence of this holy river. Apologize at once.”
“Why? What can she do to me?”
Irritation flashed through me at his dismissal of the goddess, followed closely by fear. If Sarasvati heard such blasphemous words, she might rise up to strike my son.
I positioned my body between Rama and the river. “Sarasvati is a goddess, and worthy of your respect.”
“I respect her. Of course I do,” Rama said quickly. “But I do not—”
A scream came from behind me, and I spun around, pushing Rama farther back. The steady waters of the river had become a churning menace, creeping up the banks toward us. The servants were scrambling backward and away. With the cloudless, sunny sky above us, there could be no question what was causing this.
“Move,” I told Rama. “You need to run.”
“I am not afraid. I will not flee.”
“Go!” I begged him. “Rama, please!”
“No,” he said calmly. “But if you are so afraid, you may leave.”
I could not abandon my child. The waves surged higher, white and frothing like a great beast, defying all laws of nature. I stood over Rama and braced myself, determined to protect him at all costs.
The water crashed over us in a shock of icy cold that drenched my body and numbed my mind. Still, I held Rama tightly in my arms and prayed, knowing full well it would have no effect. I could feel the utter powerlessness of our position. But no matter what happened, I would not lose my son.
The waves beat at us again, pulling us forward. I slipped and caught myself, digging my heels as deep as I could into the muddy bank.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “He is sorry. Please, he is only a child. Please, please.”
I clung to Rama, bracing for another wave—but none came.
I twisted around to watch the last of the torrent subside and the water slide back into its place. In a moment, it was serene, the very picture of stillness. A sob caught in my throat. Had the goddess heard me?
“I told you I was not afraid,” said Rama, and I turned to look at him. I was soaked to the skin, water and clothes plastered against me, but Rama was—
Rama was completely dry. In fact, he was glowing. A halo of white light circled his head, and he shone from within as though he had the sun itself under his skin.
A cry came from the hill where the rest of the party had fled.
“My lord!” someone shouted.
“My lord!” another cried.
They knelt in awe, bowing to Rama. He raised his hand toward them in the universal sign of divine benediction.
Fear made bile rise in my throat. I stumbled back a step, and I could see it more clearly, the aura that surrounded him.
“He is gods-touched!” someone proclaimed, and the rest took up the chant.
To them, it must have looked like the river had crowned Rama, had put on that performance just to show his holiness, but I knew better. My son had angered Sarasvati. Perhaps my love for Rama had saved me, or perhaps the fact that I was gods-touched had prevented me from feeling the worst of her wrath. But Rama was not gods-touched. The fools on the hill did not know what that meant.