forward and kissed Kausalya’s maang, the tip of the centre parting of her hairline where a husband customarily anointed his wife with blood-red sindhoor powder, symbolic of the blood oath of marriage. He kissed her there, at that symbolic spot, with tenderness. When he drew back, he saw the surprise and pleasure in her eyes. And she saw the tears in his own.
‘There is no more time, Kausalya. I am dying. The vaids and Guru Vashishta agree that my remission is a temporary reprieve before the end. The illness that plagues me has run its course, as I have run mine. Before I die, I will see Rama crowned prince, if it’s the last thing I do.’
FIVE
Before Kausalya could respond to Dasaratha’s shocking revelation, the drapes at the entrance to the akasa-chamber stirred and a small female voice spoke deferentially. Kausalya replied at once, her wits always about her. Dasaratha made out a half-familiar phrase in the queen’s native eastern dialect, Banglar, then the girl left them.
Kausalya turned to him. ‘You are needed. Guru Vashishta has sent for you urgently. He waits in your palace.’
Dasaratha frowned. Guru Vashishta would never disturb him in his queen’s private chambers unless it was a matter of great urgency. He hoped it wasn’t another territorial dispute over river waters and dams; he didn’t think he could stand another raging debate in a multitude of local dialects. He tried to conceal his weariness with jocularity. ‘Something to do with the coronation announcement this morning, no doubt. Probably he wishes to add yet another ceremony to the list. You know how Brahmins love ceremonies, my queen. They won’t let anything be done without elaborate never-ending rituals with lots of chanting, agar-incense and bells! Why are they always so fond of bells? I can barely pray with those bells clanging in my ears!’
He rose with an effort, impatiently waving away Kausalya when she attempted to aid him. He was more tired than he realised, but he would have died rather than admit it to her. Still, it had been worth it. He looked at Kausalya’s face, still faintly flushed, crow-black tresses loosened and falling about her shoulders, and felt a twinge of desire despite his condition.
She smiled, as if sensing his thoughts. ‘It would not do to keep Guruji waiting.’
He was tempted to reply with a suggestive retort but said instead, ‘Do me the honour of accompanying me in the official ceremonies.’ Adding with a boyish grin, ‘It will make the bells more bearable.’
Kausalya kissed him on the cheek. He was touched to see tears brimming in her eyes. ‘Do you even have to ask? I will be at your side every minute if you but permit me. And if the devas permit, I would go with you to Lord Yama’s domain as well.’
He looked at her wordlessly. Her comment needed no explanation: only the dead travelled to the underworld domain of Yama, Lord of Death.
Kausalya touched his arm gently, urging him to move.
‘Go with grace, Dasaratha.’
He turned to leave, afraid to attempt any response. Even regal restraint had its limitations when it came to emotional borders.
‘Dasa?’
Her voice was small, the voice of a tremulous young bride rather than a queen of the mightiest Arya nation. He stopped at the doorway of the chamber.
‘Yes, my love?’
‘As always, I respect and shall uphold your decision. Yet do not fault me if I continue to hope that you will yet rule another forty sun-years.’
He replied without turning his head. If he looked at her face now, he would be lost, he knew. His voice was as tender as that of a young groom greeting his new bride for the first time in their marital bed, soothing her inevitable fear of the unknown male whose bed and life she was sworn to share until death undid their holy knot.
‘My beloved, there is nothing more anyone can do. The vaids and the seers
‘There is no more time, Kausalya. I am dying. The vaids and Guru Vashishta agree that my remission is a temporary reprieve before the end. The illness that plagues me has run its course, as I have run mine. Before I die, I will see Rama crowned prince, if it’s the last thing I do.’
FIVE
Before Kausalya could respond to Dasaratha’s shocking revelation, the drapes at the entrance to the akasa-chamber stirred and a small female voice spoke deferentially. Kausalya replied at once, her wits always about her. Dasaratha made out a half-familiar phrase in the queen’s native eastern dialect, Banglar, then the girl left them.
Kausalya turned to him. ‘You are needed. Guru Vashishta has sent for you urgently. He waits in your palace.’
Dasaratha frowned. Guru Vashishta would never disturb him in his queen’s private chambers unless it was a matter of great urgency. He hoped it wasn’t another territorial dispute over river waters and dams; he didn’t think he could stand another raging debate in a multitude of local dialects. He tried to conceal his weariness with jocularity. ‘Something to do with the coronation announcement this morning, no doubt. Probably he wishes to add yet another ceremony to the list. You know how Brahmins love ceremonies, my queen. They won’t let anything be done without elaborate never-ending rituals with lots of chanting, agar-incense and bells! Why are they always so fond of bells? I can barely pray with those bells clanging in my ears!’
He rose with an effort, impatiently waving away Kausalya when she attempted to aid him. He was more tired than he realised, but he would have died rather than admit it to her. Still, it had been worth it. He looked at Kausalya’s face, still faintly flushed, crow-black tresses loosened and falling about her shoulders, and felt a twinge of desire despite his condition.
She smiled, as if sensing his thoughts. ‘It would not do to keep Guruji waiting.’
He was tempted to reply with a suggestive retort but said instead, ‘Do me the honour of accompanying me in the official ceremonies.’ Adding with a boyish grin, ‘It will make the bells more bearable.’
Kausalya kissed him on the cheek. He was touched to see tears brimming in her eyes. ‘Do you even have to ask? I will be at your side every minute if you but permit me. And if the devas permit, I would go with you to Lord Yama’s domain as well.’
He looked at her wordlessly. Her comment needed no explanation: only the dead travelled to the underworld domain of Yama, Lord of Death.
Kausalya touched his arm gently, urging him to move.
‘Go with grace, Dasaratha.’
He turned to leave, afraid to attempt any response. Even regal restraint had its limitations when it came to emotional borders.
‘Dasa?’
Her voice was small, the voice of a tremulous young bride rather than a queen of the mightiest Arya nation. He stopped at the doorway of the chamber.
‘Yes, my love?’
‘As always, I respect and shall uphold your decision. Yet do not fault me if I continue to hope that you will yet rule another forty sun-years.’
He replied without turning his head. If he looked at her face now, he would be lost, he knew. His voice was as tender as that of a young groom greeting his new bride for the first time in their marital bed, soothing her inevitable fear of the unknown male whose bed and life she was sworn to share until death undid their holy knot.
‘My beloved, there is nothing more anyone can do. The vaids and the seers
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