I nodded, thankful for Kaushalya’s steady presence beside me. How many people would I lose when this was all over?
We slipped off our shoes and tiptoed into the room. Four healers stood around the bed, one at Dasharath’s head checking his temperature and color, one examining Dasharath’s arm, one gently pressing on Dasharath’s stomach, and one at Dasharath’s feet, mixing together some plants with a small mortar and pestle. It reminded me of the scene around his battlefield bedside all those years ago—I felt the same panic, the same guilt. But this time I was not his savior. I was his ruin.
“Radnyi,” the healer at Dasharath’s stomach whispered. “You should not be here.” I thought he had addressed me, for I was so used to my role as the radnyi that people consulted with. I began speaking, but Kaushalya cut me off. “We just wished to see him.”
I received a look of skepticism from the healer, and he responded to Kaushalya only. “His hold on this life is tenuous. Any disturbance might break that. We need to work.”
“I understand,” she whispered, but did not move, studying our husband. I watched her for a moment before transferring my attention to him as well. There was a yellow stain at the corner of his mouth, and his whole face was so pale it looked nearly white, except for the high spots of red on his cheeks. He was still, far stiller than in sleep, and yet his limbs appeared strangely rigid.
“Please, Radnyi. Give us time to work,” the healer said.
This time we followed his orders and left the room. Sumitra was still waiting when we shut the door.
“How is he?” she asked Kaushalya desperately.
“Unchanged. I am sure if we all pray, he will recover.”
I pressed my lips into a line, for I knew prayer would not help. If at all, the gods might further punish Dasharath for acquiescing to my demands. Sumitra, it seemed, noticed my expression. “I cannot be in a room with her anymore,” Sumitra said. “She spent years gaining our confidence only to destroy the kingdom. She is the reason Lakshmana is gone.”
“Your son decided to go of his own free will,” I said, because Lakshmana would not have wanted Sumitra thinking such things. “I will not blame him for wanting to do what is right, even if his mother cannot see it.”
“Kaikeyi,” Kaushalya said in warning.
My shoulders sagged. “I’m leaving. Call me if he awakens.” I did not wait for her to respond, but slipped out the door. Each step I took toward my room felt like a severing of sisterhood.
Sumitra, sweet and loving Sumitra, hated me. Would the hatred fade, I wondered, as Rama’s influence seeped out of Ayodhya? Or would his control linger even as his physical presence left?
I left my room only thrice while I waited for news of Dasharath, each time to seek Bharata, clinging to the fragile hope that he might hear me out.
It was not to be.
The first time, I waited for him in his rooms. He physically recoiled when he saw me, then ignored my presence and went about his business. Despite this, I started speaking.
“Your father made a promise to me once, that my son would take the throne. Your uncle told me that if this promise was not upheld, it would be an offense to Kekaya and he would wage war on us. Surely you would not want that? I know it is hard, that what I did made you angry, but please, Bharata, you have to understand.”
I thought perhaps he was listening, because he stood still when I mentioned Yudhajit and the possibility of war. “Thousands of lives will be spared when you take the throne. Please, do it for your uncle at least.”
He remained still for a moment longer, then shook his head as if to clear it and walked toward the door. I entered the Binding Plane, anxiety high in the back of my throat, and in the empty gray saw quite clearly the blue tether around Bharata’s neck. He left the room, and I wondered if he could even hear my pleas.
The second time, I caught him in the hallway outside of a council meeting, hoping that the presence of others would force him to show me some respect. It was a stupid plan, for all the citizens of Ayodhya despised me, but I tried it regardless. I put my hand on his arm and asked for an audience, but he shrugged me off and gave me a light push away from him. An advisor rushed between us and his men bustled him away, leaving me in his wake.
The third time I wrote him a letter explaining everything and left it in his room on his bed after the servants had finished their morning cleaning. Bharata—or one of his servants—burned the letter and left the ashes in a bowl outside of my room, only a scrap still remaining so I could recognize my own hand.
Six days after Dasharath’s collapse, a messenger came to my room. I answered the door myself, and he blanched. He had clearly not expected to meet me face-to-face. After a moment, he delivered his message in stammers and halts: The raja had awoken and Radnyi Kaushalya had sent for me.
I flew to Dasharath’s rooms and found his antechamber deserted. Before I could second-guess myself, I crept into the hall outside his bedroom and found Kaushalya.
“He does not want to see you,” she whispered sadly. “But you can listen, if you wish.”
“Kaushalya,” came Dasharath’s voice. He sounded awful, his voice rasping and a shadow of what it had been not so long ago. It reminded me, despairingly, of my father’s death only last month.
“My raja,” she said, slipping into the room. “How are you?”
“I must confess something to you,” he whispered, and I strained to hear. “When I was a boy—”
“No, no, there will be time for that later.”
“No!” I imagined him grasping her hand, a sharp glint in his eyes. “No. When I was a boy, I went hunting, alone, in the forests just outside of the city. For some reason, I could not find any game, but I knew I could not return to Ayodhya empty-handed; such a thing would bring great shame to me. I went to the lake, hoping I could find some animals there who had come for water. After a few moments, I heard a rustling. In an instant, I had nocked an arrow and shot it, and was rewarded with a high-pitched cry. I ran to the bushes on the opposite bank to claim my kill, but when I reached them, I found only a boy, a few years younger than myself. In his stomach was my arrow.”
“You did not know. Accidents happen,” Kaushalya murmured.
He ignored her. “As soon as the boy saw me, he started speaking. His name was Shravan and his parents were hermits, he said. They wanted to go to a pilgrimage site nearby. But they could not walk the long distance themselves, and their family was quite poor. So, he had fashioned a device with a pole and two baskets, and he had placed a parent in each basket and carried the pole on his shoulders. Shravan had borne their weight for the entire journey.
“His parents had grown thirsty, he said, and so he put them down and came to bring them water. He had leaned down to fill his pot when an arrow pierced him.
“I cradled the boy in my lap and told him it had been my arrow. Shravan immediately told me he forgave me this honest mistake. In his last breaths, he told me where I could find his parents and begged me to bring them some water.
“When I explained what had happened to his parents, they began wailing and beating their chests. Every breath they took became more labored, and I quickly realized that they too were going to die. I offered them water, but they poured it onto the ground instead of drinking it. And then—” Dasharath cut off, taking deep shuddering breaths that were audible even through the door.
“Peace,” Kaushalya said. “You need not continue. I am sure they too forgave you an honest mistake. Such things happen.”