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“Rest now,” the being whispered.
Dasharatha was called into a restorative dreamland.
When he awoke, Dasharatha knew the rest had been only minutes, but it was enough to give him and his troops the energy to march home. Knowing well how differently time moved in the twilight realms, none of them wanted to tarry and find their families and 31
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homes irreversibly gone. One day here was one year on Earth. None of the humans wished to stay longer than necessary. This was the one condition Dasharatha always made: those who survived would return to Earth without delay. The interstellar pathways opened and returned them to Earth, and a quiet march began toward the gates of Ayodhya, the indestructible capital. Home.
Despite the victory, Dasharatha knew the truth: the war would not truly end until Ravana was destroyed once and for all. According to Anaranya, a man of the Sun dynasty was destined for this great act. In his heart, Dasharatha knew he was not the one. How long could he then ignore that he had no sons to continue his line?
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chapter 4
The Great Queen
When the queen of Ayodhya raised her hand, the signal moved swiftly, and the northern gates opened. Bugles and conch shells blew, and flower petals showered down on the foot soldiers that entered. The king was returning from a terrible battle. He had been gone a full seven years, his longest absence yet. The people of Ayodhya hailed the returning soldiers with all their hearts. Queen Kausalya stood at the highest tower of the palace overlooking the army’s return. Soon she would set eyes on her husband, King Dasharatha, emperor of the world. Her chest rose and fell as her heart hammered against it. She caught herself straining to see beyond the marching soldiers, so took a deep breath and put her hand across her heart. She had to be patient. She had greeted her husband in this manner more times than she could remember. In twenty-eight years of marriage, Dasharatha had fought many battles.
The queen knew that the king would come into view only after four divisions of foot soldiers, an equal number of horseback riders, followed by two divisions of chariots.
The king, a masterful chariot driver, always rode in the midsection of the chariots.
Behind him and the rest of the chariots, legions of elephants would follow. As the king dismounted to greet the queen, the elephants would patiently wait.
A cold wind blew through the tower, and Kausalya’s veil blew up. She held
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it down at once, alarmed at the omen. The cold wind passed and Kausalya let go of her veil.
But the warning remained.
After only two divisions of foot soldiers, the horse riders rode in. Kausalya’s heart plummeted as she peered down at the soldiers and took in their fresh wounds and heavily battered armor. Thirty gods, Ayodhya had never been this hard hit. She turned back to see the oncoming army with this dawning knowledge. The soldiers bravely smiled, waving to the cheering crowd. Cries of joy erupted from every corner, yet it caused fever-like tremors in Kausalya’s body. Certainly the survivors deserved this celebration, yet Yama’s shadow clung to the army. Kausalya focused on her fellow Ayodhyans; she knew what they felt, for she longed with her whole body to set eyes on Dasharatha. For seven years, she had wondered if he would return. For seven years, she had waited for this moment. She had formulated what she would say. Every time he returned from war, she had planned to speak of it. Every time, courage failed her. But not this time. This time she would not balk. She swore it on every wound she saw on the brave soldiers. She had to discover why he did not seek an heir to their mighty empire.
The horses danced in the sun, tails swishing. Even they could feel the celebration in the air, the euphoria that the homecoming produced. But Kausalya clenched her jaw, unable to join the celebration: the horse riders had been reduced to half their numbers.
Hidden from the public eye in the high tower, Kausalya was spared the duty of gai-ety. The servants around her were silent too. Kausalya wondered how the immortal gods had fared. Did humans join the war against Ravana and his blood-drinkers, only to be slaughtered first?
Kausalya dreaded to see the caravan of the dead that would come in at dusk, when all the citizens had returned home. She had an inkling now that the parade of the wounded and dead would surpass the living. The funeral pyres at the southern side of Ayodhya would burn countless days. Kausalya prayed for the northern winds to bless Ayodhya, else the stench of burning bodies would be the air they breathed for weeks. But that was the least of the concerns with so many warriors gone. Kausalya felt compassion for the bereaved and also immediately wondered how the kingdom would replenish its resources. As the empire that ruled every recognized kingdom on Earth, Ayodhya had a formidable responsibility. The power hungry would not think twice before striking at an opportune moment. All the more reason for Kausalya to bring her question to Dasharatha’s attention, once and for all.
The chariots came into view, and Kausalya’s blood rushed to her face. He was near. After so many years as his wife, Kausalya loved no one better than him. She searched first for the king’s flag with its brilliant sun. In the long years of waiting for his return, she had often turned to the sigil to bring her hope. Once she found the golden sun billowing in the wind, she focused intently on the chariot, waiting for Dasharatha to come into view. There would only be few moments to see his beloved face in the distance, and then she would run down all six flights of stairs and meet him on the ground, just in time to greet him as he dismounted.
As she prepared to run, she could feel the servants around her prepare to descend behind her. They knew the routine well.
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Dasharatha’s chariot came closer, and Kausalya’s palms joined at her heart. She lifted them to her face and pressed them to her lips in utmost gratitude. The golden parasol shaded his body from view, but she could see his large hands resting on the chariot railings. His strong arms bore no new wounds. Again her gratitude surged. Kausalya looked forward to drawing her fingers across his familiar calluses and the line of scars along his bow arm. She gathered her long dress and turned. The sounds of the descending entourage filled the tour, and Kausalya ran. There was so much joy in these moments, for she rarely displayed her feelings in public. The servants always talked of it after, so she knew that they rather liked her for this rare display. Even after so many years, neither she nor her people had grown tired of the ritual. The joy rushed through her body and made her breathless.
As she reached the ground floor, she met Sumitra, the second queen. Kausalya slowed down, let go of her dress, and took three deep breaths before continuing in a more regal fashion. This was only Sumitra’s second time welcoming the king home from a battle of this magnitude. The younger queen did not intrude on the established rituals. She was content to wait for Kausalya’s command. Happily, Kausalya reached out to Sumitra, and the two women joined hands as they walked down the marble stairs. They did not need to speak; the anticipation was strong in the air. After fifteen years together, they had become the best of friends. Sumitra was a gentle soul who deferred naturally to Kausalya’s judgments. Though Kausalya did not demand subordination, she appreciated Sumitra’s sensitivity to etiquette.
Truly, they had found a way to live in harmony as co-wives.
Dasharatha was waiting at the bottom of the steps. Sumitra withdrew, knowing how much this moment meant to Kausalya. The eight ministers also conceded the queen’s right to greet the king first. Kausalya swept past them, seeing only her husband. Dasharatha was stunningly handsome, the most attractive man Kausalya had ever known. The light of the sun emanated from his being. As she walked toward him, she saw the injury to his face, and her hand flew to her mouth. The wound was a sword-thin line, but it cut into his lip and up toward his eye. The cheek was swollen and the left eye nearly shut. Whoever had inflicted that wound was right-handed and had come far too close to Dasharatha’s face.
“Great Queen,” he said, addressing her formally. The love in his eyes was too strong to bear. She waved forth the servant holding the refreshments. Dasharatha accepted the rose-scented cloth and wiped his brow and face. He drank heartily of the cool water laced with lime and honey. Then he focused on Kausalya, as was his wont.
He took her hand and said, “You are a vision to behold, my queen. My eyes have longed to see you. Your flawless attire of gold and white soothes my heart. Seeing you, I feel certain that all has been well in the kingdom in my absence.”
Kausalya looked again at the battered side of his face. He gingerly touched the swollen cheek and dropped his hand with a light shrug. “I will tell you all in due time.”
The eight ministers stepped forward to greet their king. Sumantra, the closest among them, had tears in his eyes. Their relief at his return was evident in their every gesture. They gathered around him like bees around a nectar flower. Dasharatha greeted them warmly, glancing often at Kausalya. She admired that he was a king through and through, taking 35
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the time to greet one and all with warm words. He had brought with him the immense security of his presence.
He was their king. Now that he had returned hale, all was well in the empire. Having enjoyed his sole attention for a long minute, Kausalya was content to observe him greet the ministers and the other dignitaries present. She bided her time, ready to intervene if she noticed the king’s energy flagging.
After a few moments, she gently nudged Sumitra forward. The younger queen also deserved a moment in the sun. Dasharatha’s eyes grew warm when Sumitra stood before him. He aptly compared her to a sweet spring morning. Kausalya then brought forth the welcoming articles, and Dasharatha’s eyes fastened on her. She felt his love envelop her and her own rose to her throat, aching. She offered the burning flame to him, tracing a circle in the air around him. She offered flower petals at his feet and dabbed sandalwood paste on his forehead.
“I will continue the welcoming ceremonies in the king’s quarters,” she informed everyone. “There he may begin to rest and the physician will tend to his wounds.
You may all return to your duties. Those among you who are welcoming a family member, please go home. Find your loved ones and greet them appropriately. Tomorrow the celebration will commence.”
The king nodded as Kausalya spoke. Once rested, the king would resume his authority, and Kausalya would no longer presume to make commands in his presence. The queen looked at the lively crowd, the patient elephants with their swaying trunks, and the wounded warriors.
The day had been joyful, but night would bring sorrow when the dead were announced. Kausalya’s closest circle of servants stayed with her, but several of the attendants hurried away, eager to reunite with their loved ones.
Kausalya knew that she was sending many of them into the arms of grief; so many had not returned. During the great celebration the next evening, the dancers, actors, and singers would enact all salient episodes of the immortal battle, thus entertaining and informing Ayodhya what had transpired. The living and dead would be glorified.
As the queen prepared to escort the king to his 36
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quarters, the ministers cast several meaningful glances at her. She knew what they expected of her. She would broach the forbidden topic with Dasharatha. Kausalya turned to Sumitra and promised to summon her in the evening, once the king had rested. A protective circle of servants and guards formed around the king and queen as they went within.
Once inside the palace, Dasharatha reached for her hand, and Kausalya walked by his side in silence. It would take her several hours or perhaps days to adjust to his physical presence. He was always with her in thought, for when he was gone, she made every decision based on what he would have done. But in person, he often surprised her with his actions.
He was a strategic man yet prone to follow the impulses of his heart. His hand was warm, his calluses rough against her soft fingers.
Kausalya did not scrutinize him as they walked, but by the time they arrived at his chambers, she had a sense of his physical health. He had sustained no major injuries, but he was not able to fully move about with his normal confidence. She suspected that some of his ribs were broken. The wound on the face seemed to be the worst of it.
As they entered his quarters, Dasharatha sighed and visibly relaxed. Everything had been arranged meticulously in his quarters. Kausalya was proud of the beauty, order, and freshness that the king was returning to. Not knowing when he would return, she had regularly assigned the cleaning of his quarters. She was pleased to see him immediately at ease.
Dasharatha’s pace slowed and his shoulders fell forward. Kausalya escorted the king to his seat, a golden throne with velvet pillows. The physician stood ready with his medical instruments and examined Dasharatha’s face with careful hands, administering cleansing potions to the wound. As he did this, the queen bathed Dasharatha’s feet, a task she always chose to do herself.
“Great King, the swelling and cut on your face is minor,” the physician said. “It will heal within two weeks. No intervention is necessary. May I examine the rest of your body?”
Dasharatha nodded, and Kausalya and her maids helped the king remove his armor and the blood-stained garments he wore. She took his heavy sword and placed it carefully in the alcove with his personal treasures. She would have a servant cleanse and polish the weapons in the morning. The physician prodded the king’s body, lingering on the ribs.
“Your ribs are bruised, Great King, but not broken,” he said. “I recommend three days of bed rest to heal your rib cage. A dose of soma morning and night will relieve you from pain.”
“No,” Dasharatha said. “I can bear the pain. I do not wish to cloud my mind.”
The soma plant was the most effective pain remedy but was also addictive in its potent ability to numb the mind from reality.
“Very well,” the physician said. “I will prepare a healing jatamamsi ointment and send it here by evening. It will ease your sleep.”
Dasharatha was satisfied.
As the physician departed, Kausalya called for the refreshments and food preparations.
Kausalya helped her husband remove the rest of his adornments: the gem that expelled poisons, the gold armlets, necklaces, and earrings. He stood stripped down to his loincloth, every muscle in his body outlined. Bruises and cuts covered his body. His rib cage was dark 38
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purple. He winced as he walked toward the bathing room. But Kausalya doubted he would take three days of bed rest. When he was not on the battlefield, he spent several hours at the training grounds. The bathing room was full of fragrant mist steaming from the large bowls of scented water. Two male attendants stood ready to scrub the king clean. After reassuring herself that he had fresh loincloths to wear, she left him to bathe.
The maidservants stood ready with a simple meal consisting of a vegetable broth mildly spiced with ginger and lime, fluffy white rice with cardamom pods, fried bitter melon, and a creamy yogurt sauce with finely grated cucumber. The king did not eat for days while in battle. Kausalya had made sure this first meal was suited to his needs. She looked at the Taster of Foods and nodded. Carefully the Taster sampled each food. If there was any poison in it, he would be the first to know. Around his neck, he wore vials filled with antidotes. So far, he had never needed to use them. As she oversaw the Taster’s work, Kausalya called the head of the maids to her side. “Divya, I will dine in private with the king. But when he takes rest, I wish to speak to the commander of the army, Senapati. If he no longer lives, bring me the man in command. We must prepare to meet the needs of the grieving. I want to have an accurate idea of our losses before the night brings in the wounded and dead.”
“Yes, Great Queen.” Divya bowed and left, followed by a group of ten maids, women whom Kausalya was training to take positions of importance in the palace.
Kausalya sat down, waiting for the king. Two maidservants immediately came to her side and fanned her gently with peacock feathers. She could hear the sounds of water splash-ing against the marble floor; the scents of rose and khus wafted out from the bathing room.
Dasharatha strode out, glistening with water, wearing a fresh loincloth. His manly body was worthy in comparison to the gods. She accompanied him to the next room, where his royal clothes were arranged. He allowed her to select what he was to wear, and he accepted her help in donning the clothes and jewelry. Kausalya so much enjoyed this casual nearness. Soon their days would return to normal, and Kausalya would have her duties, and his attendants would help him dress. As she decorated her husband and king, she studied his features.
His physique was a map to his heritage; he was a perfect composite of his parents, though it was not a word he would use to describe himself. His thick black hair was wavy and grew past his shoulders. His beloved face had the beginnings of furrows around the mouth and two deep lines across his forehead. That’s when she noticed that he too was studying her, following every move she made. She became strongly aware of his desire to embrace her, but it was daylight and the duties of a king and queen yet upon them. She hurried out of the room and into the large chamber where he would eat.
As Dasharatha sat down, he smiled and pulled his hair into a topknot. Kausalya served him herself, waiting on him just like one of the servants would. The Queen Mother Indumati had instructed Kausalya that this was a queen’s way to demonstrate her affection. Kausalya had always listened carefully to her mother-in-law’s words and had honored her until she left this world for the next. Kausalya’s obedience had pleased her new family and her husband.
As the king ate, Kausalya knew the time for a discussion was approaching. After bathing 39
