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“Rama could tell right away that it was a blood-drinker. But I couldn’t!”
“Father couldn’t tell either,” Lakshmana said. “And neither could Shatrugna.”
Bharata lifted his head and looked up at them. His eyes were reddish. He had been crying. “But I talked to him the longest.” He hid his face again.
“Bharata,” Rama said, though he was unsure what to say next. Bharata’s disappointment in himself had been growing for days and days. Now Rama understood what had been wrong with his brother. But understanding and knowing what to do were not the same.
“Whenever I visit my grandfather,” Bharata said, “he tells me that I will be king of Ayodhya when Father is no more.”
Lakshmana blew air through his mouth. Rama exhaled. He didn’t want to think of a time when Father would not be.
Echoing his grandfather’s terse voice, Bharata said, “You have all the qualities and characteristics of a king.”
Lakshmana smiled a little.
Bharata pronounced, “And you were born to be king.” This time Manthara’s shrill message had come through. Then Bharata exclaimed, “But I don’t want to be king!”
“Because you made this mistake?” Rama asked. And thought: Do I want to be king?
“I’m not like you, brother,” Bharata said.
Rama and Bharata faced each other. Rama saw no anger in his brother’s eyes. It was simply a statement of the truth.
“Of course you aren’t. You are like you.”
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Bharata smiled then, but forced himself to get serious again. “I mean it, Rama. I stopped comparing myself with you ages ago. I compete with you and the twins for fun, not because I ever think I can win against you.”
“You win sometimes,” Rama objected.
“But never when it matters,” Bharata observed. “It’s not your fault. It’s because you are you. And I want to be like you, Rama. But I cannot. Because I’m Bharata. And I want you to be king after Father.”
“Father is not going anywhere,” Rama insisted. “We don’t have to think about who will be king as long as Father is king.”
“Other people are thinking about it,” Bharata said, a dark frown creasing his brow.
Rama immediately thought of Manthara. And of course, Bharata had said his grandfather also willed this.
Rama hesitated, and then said, “I’m not sure if I want to be king either.”
This time Bharata and Lakshmana looked at each other. Lakshmana got a challenging look in his eyes.
“What?” Rama asked.
“If you don’t want to be king,” Lakshmana said, “then I don’t want to be Lakshmana.”
Rama shook his head.
Bharata nodded. “That’s right. Rama means king.”
Of course it didn’t. But Bharata looked happier, as if he was not angry with himself anymore.
“Does this mean that you are not sick?” Rama asked.
Bharata opened his arms wide and stretched his legs out, and just then Shatrugna hurried inside with Kaikeyi in his wake.
“Are you not well, my son?” she asked. She put her arm around Rama as she sat down, reaching forward to touch Bharata’s forehead.
“I’m fine now,” Bharata said. He drew away from his mother, which negated his words, for usually he welcomed and sought his mother’s touch. Bharata took a deep breath, and then said, “We have decided that Rama will be king after Father.”
Kaikeyi withdrew her hand. Manthara appeared in the doorway. Bharata shrank a bit, but did not amend his words. Kaikeyi looked at each of them.
“What are you boys cooking up here?” she asked. “Why are you talking of such things?
Those are decisions for grown men.”
“And women!” Manthara added.
Rama did not have to look at her to know that she was furious. But she often was—at least when Rama was around. Rama stood up, keeping a distance from Manthara, though he glanced at her with a cautious smile. She glared at him, lips turned down.
“We have examined our brother and found him to be in full health,” Rama said, as if he was the royal physician. “But, as you say, Mother, what do we know of such things? We will leave it to you.”
Rama smiled as big as he could to Bharata, to show him that they were on the same side.
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“Come, Lakshmana. See you tomorrow, Bharata.” Rama bowed his head slightly.
They all knew that Shatrugna would stay with Bharata. Rama and Lakshmana bid everyone in the room farewell and left. Rama heard the thump of Manthara’s cane pursue him, but she did not call for him and he did not stop to inquire what she wanted. No kind or true words had ever come to him from Manthara.
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chapter 31
Shiva’s Bow
ama woke up with a start. He sat up in the bed, calming his breath. Even R though Rama had not seen Kashi for seven years, the dream of Shiva’s bow still haunted him. Rama was fourteen, but the dream had not changed much over the years. Kashi always picked up the bow, sprouted countless heads, and aimed the weapon at Rama, who was unable to stop his enemy. It left Rama with a terribly impotent feeling, as if he was destined to lose what mattered most to him.
In the four years since Marichi had escaped, Rama had not encountered another blood-drinker, but the vision of the blood-drenched cell was clear in his mind. He was never again able to trust in the apparent safety and serenity of Ayodhya. He knew Marichi was out there. Kashi was out there. Both of those enemies were minor compared to the larger threat, the source of evil. Like Death coming eventually for them all, Rama could feel Ravana’s presence, a darkness that tainted even the rays of the sun. Rama could feel the polar opposites engaging in a constant battle for dominance. It was within him and every embodied being. His mother, the Great Queen, had only momentary surges of the dark light, while Manthara’s flames produced smoke and ashes alone. Within Ayodhya, Manthara was Rama’s only opponent, even though the enmity was entirely one sided. The hunchback sought every opportunity
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to be nasty to Rama. In a way, Rama welcomed it, for she taught him how to interact with inimical forces.
As the sun began to rise, Rama looked at the side of the bed where Lakshmana used to sleep when they were younger. Since they turned ten, the brothers had started sleeping separately. Even after four years, Rama missed having his brother close by. The elders around them insisted that the brothers needed to prepare for adult life. What they truly meant was married life. Soon Rama’s wife would be taking Lakshmana’s place. For that is how Rama thought of the space next to him. Lakshmana had always been by his side, from time out of mind. Bharata said the same thing about Shatrugna. As for his future bride, Rama did not yet desire one, nor did he return the long looks of some of the girls in the palace. Rama knew his father would arrange the right wife at the right time. That was how it had always been done. The time for marriage was coming closer, for most princes married between fifteen and eighteen.
One of Rama’s attendants stepped forward with a silver cup. Rama drank the cool water gratefully and began reciting hymns to fortify his mind. The prince accepted the servant’s assistance as he bathed and dressed. They tied the sash around his waist, combed his long locks, and decorated his ears, neck, and wrists with his golden jewels. As Rama waited for them to finish, he played with his signet ring. He could feel the outline of letters that spelled his name when he pressed his fingers onto the ring. Every royal person had a ring like this, something that would prove their identity if they were ever lost in an obscure place. It was a possibility that seemed very distant to Rama. In Ayodhya, everyone knew him, especially because of his greenish skin. And yet, even here, wasn’t it possible that Bharata could be mistaken for Rama? Rama and his brothers kept their signet rings on at all times, and every few years their rings were adjusted to keep pace with their growth.
When the servants were done, Rama nodded in thanks and left his quarters for the golden altars. It was a pleasing walk, giving Rama a chance to greet many of the other palace residents. In these early morning hours, a simple smile and a nod were sufficient, for silence was still encouraged and everyone had their mind on prayer. It was peaceful. Rama could understand why his mother called these hours her favorite time of day. Of course, Kaikeyi laughed at that, saying that nighttime, especially late nights, was the best time. She teased the boys, telling them they would understand this once they were married. Marriage seemed to be a topic that cropped up often these days, Rama had noticed. He was nearly as tall as Father now.
Kausalya’s face lit up as Rama entered the temple and touched her feet.
“May the lord’s blessings be upon you,” she said, as she did every morning.
Rama sat at her feet as she decorated his body with cooling sandalwood pulp and drew the markings of the sun in the center of his forehead. The sandalwood was cooling at first, but turned energizing and warm. The red pulp from the saffron flowers was red like blood in his mother’s palm. Rama loved to feel his mother’s affectionate hands on him. As she leaned close to him, he breathed in her familiar smell of camphor and tulsi, essential components in the temple’s rituals. Before Mother sent him to pray at the shrine of his choice, she placed 284
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a garland of tulsi around his neck. Rama recognized it as the one that had adorned the deity of Vishnu the previous day. The soft dew sprinkled over the tulsi leaves had kept it fresh.
At the shrine of Vishnu, Rama glimpsed his father, bare-chested and deep in prayer. Following his father’s example, Rama sat cross-legged at Shiva’s shrine. As he closed his eyes, the contours of Shiva’s bow appeared, but no enemy dared enter Rama’s mind when he sat protected in this golden sanctuary. Rama heard his brothers come and go behind him before he opened his eyes, feeling refreshed and strong in mind. Father had also left by then.
Lakshmana was waiting outside, leaning on a pillar and conversing with friends and attendants. Lakshmana attracted many people, for he was outspoken and full of life. As soon as he saw Rama, Lakshmana pushed away from the pillar and came to greet him. It was time for their morning meal, which the four princes ate together.
On their way, Rama and Lakshmana were ambushed. That was Manthara’s skill, after all. Despite being a hunchbacked old woman, she could make Rama feel as if he was under attack. Rama felt it the moment he heard the familiar sound of the cane behind them.
“A private word with you, young prince,” Manthara called out in a falsely sweet voice.
From experience, Rama knew that she only sought to get past the guards.
“Say no,” Lakshmana whispered into Rama’s ear. “She is not supposed to be here by the altars.”
Rama signaled to the guards to step away and welcomed Manthara to come close. As she did, the scent of her various ointments and medicinal poultices wafted toward Rama. He recognized the earthy jatamamsi and hoped it had produced its calming effect on Manthara.
There were other less familiar smells that made Rama dizzy for a moment. Manthara was dressed in a bright purple silk garment that flowed around her in a majestic way, but made her ashen skin look all the more withered. Rama smiled warmly at her, always hoping that this time he would break through her cold veneer.
“Do you think this is a joke?” she demanded, dispelling Rama’s hope and his smile.
With Lakshmana at his side, Rama said nothing. He merely looked at her steadily. Rama had no inkling what he had done to provoke her anger, but she was nearly shaking with fury.
Her eyes were like spikes of flaming fire.
“I saw you, just yesterday,” she said, “whispering lies into Bharata’s ear.”
Rama frowned.
“Bharata is going to be king,” she said.
Rama should have expected this. Manthara was obsessed with this topic. Rama pulled on his brother’s arm and took a step back.
“You think because you were born first,” she said, “that you are special, that your claim is stronger. I see it in your arrogant walk and speech. But your claim is only by a few hours!
Never forget your great father’s promise to King Ashvapati. We all know how much you prize your word here in Ayodhya. I will squash you under my cane before I let you become king.”
“Quiet!” Lakshmana cried.
Hearing the prince’s cry, two of the guards stepped closer. Rama shook his head at them.
Manthara was harmless, if slightly crazed.
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Before Rama could stop Lakshmana, however, his brother stepped closer to Manthara, looking down at her. “If you threaten my brother again, I will kill you! Rama is the jewel of the Sun dynasty and he shines like the sun. Bharata doesn’t even want to be king. Or does his opinion not even matter to you in your selfish quest for power?”
Manthara’s hunched back heaved up and down. “I know Bharata better than you. I know what his rights are. I know what his future is. You are the ones who have a selfish quest for power. Pah!” Her jaw jutted out in defiance; her eyes burned into Lakshmana.
He did not waver. Rama considered whether to intervene, but the opponents before him were infuriated for reasons he could not understand. Rama felt mostly compassion for Manthara, despite her consistent harangues against him.
“And you, Manthara,” Lakshmana said, “have no right to even address us without our permission. What you say threatens my brother and is a false claim! Or must I teach you the basic courtesies of Ayodhya?”
“I spit on those courtesies!” Manthara screamed in the voice of a hissing snake and verily spraying Lakshmana’s face with spittle.
The guards took a threatening step forward. Manthara waved her cane at them, as if she was a warrior. Her breaths turned wheezy. Rama lifted his hand to guide her toward a place to sit, but stopped. She would never accept anything from him.
“If your father tries to make you king, you should decline,” she said between wheezes, looking now at Rama with her features twitching. “If you want Ayodhya to be happy, give Bharata his birthright back.”
Rama and Lakshmana looked at each other. The rules of kingship were quite confusing, and Manthara could be right in some measure.
“The wise, all-knowing Manthara,” Lakshmana said. “Yes, we will take your advice on this. You know better than Father, his ministers, Vasishta, and all the elders. Yes, you alone see the truth.”
Manthara said nothing, but held Rama’s gaze even as she hobbled away. Lakshmana clenched his fists and made to pursue Manthara. His neck was splotchy and his breaths came out in big puffs.
Rama put a restraining hand on this brother’s shoulder. “Let her go. You defended me better than Father could have. I didn’t know you were so eloquent, my brother.”
Lakshmana stood frozen in his anger. He strained against Rama’s hand for a moment.
Rama tightened his grip. Lakshmana could do regrettable things when his temper was ignited.
“Come, Lakshmana,” he said, stepping in front of his brother, blocking his view of the receding hunchback. The brothers stood face to face.
“Don’t take Manthara so seriously,” Rama said. “She has a bitter soul. It’s not personal toward me.”
Lakshmana melted under his brother’s gaze but demanded, “How dare she speak to you like that? She is the most hateful person I know. She should be punished!”
Rama smiled; he trusted that his father had control over Manthara.
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“Father says Manthara has holes in her heart,” Rama said. “I can see them too. Punishment would only make those holes bigger.”
“I cannot tolerate standing by when she acts and speaks so hatefully, Rama.”
Rama took hold of Lakshmana’s hand and pulled his brother away.
“Brother,” Rama said, “I think it’s wise not to mention this episode to Bharata. You know how aggrieved he becomes when Manthara acts like this.”
“Do you mean to say she acts in any other way?”
“She is different toward Bharata and Shatrugna.”
“That witch!”
Rama gave his brother a meaningful look, and Lakshmana took a deep breath.
Before they entered the room where their brothers waited, Rama looked again at Lakshmana. Had he composed himself sufficiently?
Lakshmana nodded. His normal color was restored, and his breathing was even.
The four princes ate and spoke about their plans for the day. It was Rama and Lakshmana’s day to attend Father’s Court, while Bharata and Shatrugna received individual attention from Vasishta. Later, they would all meet on the training ground, Rama’s favorite time of the day. He would work his whole body into a tremendous sweat with martial arts, wielding his sword and shield, spears, clubs, and finally bow and arrow. Not a day went by without practicing archery, even though Lakshmana teased him relentlessly, saying he had already won every championship on Earth. Bharata was a close second, however, and Rama promised to meet Bharata in the archery ring later that day.
Rama and Lakshmana went to Father’s Great Court. The gatekeeper announced their titles as they were stepping into the most formal area of the palace. Rama waited for Father, surrounded by several of the ministers, to signal for them to enter. Though Father had a silver beard like the other elders, Rama did not think of him as old. Father was already holding a letter in his hand and had a frown etched into his forehead. He had read the missive out loud to the others already.
Eagerly, Rama accepted the letter from his father and read with eyes that flew across the scroll. Lakshmana’s body radiated heat behind him as he looked over Rama’s shoulder.
Normally, they might have been asked to sit down first, but clearly the missive was urgent.
The letter was from Janaka of Videha. He had held a contest for his daughter’s hand. The bride-price was a show of strength, namely, to lift Shiva’s bow. The contest had turned sour when no one had been able to budge the bow, this ancient heirloom that once belonged to Shiva. When Kashi failed, he accused Janaka of setting an impossible test. Janaka had innocently called Princess Sita into the assembly and directed her to the bow. Sita’s unparalleled beauty had made the kings stand up in their seats, ready to line up by the bow for another chance to lift it. Instead, the thirteen-year-old princess had lifted the bow with one hand.
“Father couldn’t tell either,” Lakshmana said. “And neither could Shatrugna.”
Bharata lifted his head and looked up at them. His eyes were reddish. He had been crying. “But I talked to him the longest.” He hid his face again.
“Bharata,” Rama said, though he was unsure what to say next. Bharata’s disappointment in himself had been growing for days and days. Now Rama understood what had been wrong with his brother. But understanding and knowing what to do were not the same.
“Whenever I visit my grandfather,” Bharata said, “he tells me that I will be king of Ayodhya when Father is no more.”
Lakshmana blew air through his mouth. Rama exhaled. He didn’t want to think of a time when Father would not be.
Echoing his grandfather’s terse voice, Bharata said, “You have all the qualities and characteristics of a king.”
Lakshmana smiled a little.
Bharata pronounced, “And you were born to be king.” This time Manthara’s shrill message had come through. Then Bharata exclaimed, “But I don’t want to be king!”
“Because you made this mistake?” Rama asked. And thought: Do I want to be king?
“I’m not like you, brother,” Bharata said.
Rama and Bharata faced each other. Rama saw no anger in his brother’s eyes. It was simply a statement of the truth.
“Of course you aren’t. You are like you.”
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Bharata smiled then, but forced himself to get serious again. “I mean it, Rama. I stopped comparing myself with you ages ago. I compete with you and the twins for fun, not because I ever think I can win against you.”
“You win sometimes,” Rama objected.
“But never when it matters,” Bharata observed. “It’s not your fault. It’s because you are you. And I want to be like you, Rama. But I cannot. Because I’m Bharata. And I want you to be king after Father.”
“Father is not going anywhere,” Rama insisted. “We don’t have to think about who will be king as long as Father is king.”
“Other people are thinking about it,” Bharata said, a dark frown creasing his brow.
Rama immediately thought of Manthara. And of course, Bharata had said his grandfather also willed this.
Rama hesitated, and then said, “I’m not sure if I want to be king either.”
This time Bharata and Lakshmana looked at each other. Lakshmana got a challenging look in his eyes.
“What?” Rama asked.
“If you don’t want to be king,” Lakshmana said, “then I don’t want to be Lakshmana.”
Rama shook his head.
Bharata nodded. “That’s right. Rama means king.”
Of course it didn’t. But Bharata looked happier, as if he was not angry with himself anymore.
“Does this mean that you are not sick?” Rama asked.
Bharata opened his arms wide and stretched his legs out, and just then Shatrugna hurried inside with Kaikeyi in his wake.
“Are you not well, my son?” she asked. She put her arm around Rama as she sat down, reaching forward to touch Bharata’s forehead.
“I’m fine now,” Bharata said. He drew away from his mother, which negated his words, for usually he welcomed and sought his mother’s touch. Bharata took a deep breath, and then said, “We have decided that Rama will be king after Father.”
Kaikeyi withdrew her hand. Manthara appeared in the doorway. Bharata shrank a bit, but did not amend his words. Kaikeyi looked at each of them.
“What are you boys cooking up here?” she asked. “Why are you talking of such things?
Those are decisions for grown men.”
“And women!” Manthara added.
Rama did not have to look at her to know that she was furious. But she often was—at least when Rama was around. Rama stood up, keeping a distance from Manthara, though he glanced at her with a cautious smile. She glared at him, lips turned down.
“We have examined our brother and found him to be in full health,” Rama said, as if he was the royal physician. “But, as you say, Mother, what do we know of such things? We will leave it to you.”
Rama smiled as big as he could to Bharata, to show him that they were on the same side.
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“Come, Lakshmana. See you tomorrow, Bharata.” Rama bowed his head slightly.
They all knew that Shatrugna would stay with Bharata. Rama and Lakshmana bid everyone in the room farewell and left. Rama heard the thump of Manthara’s cane pursue him, but she did not call for him and he did not stop to inquire what she wanted. No kind or true words had ever come to him from Manthara.
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chapter 31
Shiva’s Bow
ama woke up with a start. He sat up in the bed, calming his breath. Even R though Rama had not seen Kashi for seven years, the dream of Shiva’s bow still haunted him. Rama was fourteen, but the dream had not changed much over the years. Kashi always picked up the bow, sprouted countless heads, and aimed the weapon at Rama, who was unable to stop his enemy. It left Rama with a terribly impotent feeling, as if he was destined to lose what mattered most to him.
In the four years since Marichi had escaped, Rama had not encountered another blood-drinker, but the vision of the blood-drenched cell was clear in his mind. He was never again able to trust in the apparent safety and serenity of Ayodhya. He knew Marichi was out there. Kashi was out there. Both of those enemies were minor compared to the larger threat, the source of evil. Like Death coming eventually for them all, Rama could feel Ravana’s presence, a darkness that tainted even the rays of the sun. Rama could feel the polar opposites engaging in a constant battle for dominance. It was within him and every embodied being. His mother, the Great Queen, had only momentary surges of the dark light, while Manthara’s flames produced smoke and ashes alone. Within Ayodhya, Manthara was Rama’s only opponent, even though the enmity was entirely one sided. The hunchback sought every opportunity
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to be nasty to Rama. In a way, Rama welcomed it, for she taught him how to interact with inimical forces.
As the sun began to rise, Rama looked at the side of the bed where Lakshmana used to sleep when they were younger. Since they turned ten, the brothers had started sleeping separately. Even after four years, Rama missed having his brother close by. The elders around them insisted that the brothers needed to prepare for adult life. What they truly meant was married life. Soon Rama’s wife would be taking Lakshmana’s place. For that is how Rama thought of the space next to him. Lakshmana had always been by his side, from time out of mind. Bharata said the same thing about Shatrugna. As for his future bride, Rama did not yet desire one, nor did he return the long looks of some of the girls in the palace. Rama knew his father would arrange the right wife at the right time. That was how it had always been done. The time for marriage was coming closer, for most princes married between fifteen and eighteen.
One of Rama’s attendants stepped forward with a silver cup. Rama drank the cool water gratefully and began reciting hymns to fortify his mind. The prince accepted the servant’s assistance as he bathed and dressed. They tied the sash around his waist, combed his long locks, and decorated his ears, neck, and wrists with his golden jewels. As Rama waited for them to finish, he played with his signet ring. He could feel the outline of letters that spelled his name when he pressed his fingers onto the ring. Every royal person had a ring like this, something that would prove their identity if they were ever lost in an obscure place. It was a possibility that seemed very distant to Rama. In Ayodhya, everyone knew him, especially because of his greenish skin. And yet, even here, wasn’t it possible that Bharata could be mistaken for Rama? Rama and his brothers kept their signet rings on at all times, and every few years their rings were adjusted to keep pace with their growth.
When the servants were done, Rama nodded in thanks and left his quarters for the golden altars. It was a pleasing walk, giving Rama a chance to greet many of the other palace residents. In these early morning hours, a simple smile and a nod were sufficient, for silence was still encouraged and everyone had their mind on prayer. It was peaceful. Rama could understand why his mother called these hours her favorite time of day. Of course, Kaikeyi laughed at that, saying that nighttime, especially late nights, was the best time. She teased the boys, telling them they would understand this once they were married. Marriage seemed to be a topic that cropped up often these days, Rama had noticed. He was nearly as tall as Father now.
Kausalya’s face lit up as Rama entered the temple and touched her feet.
“May the lord’s blessings be upon you,” she said, as she did every morning.
Rama sat at her feet as she decorated his body with cooling sandalwood pulp and drew the markings of the sun in the center of his forehead. The sandalwood was cooling at first, but turned energizing and warm. The red pulp from the saffron flowers was red like blood in his mother’s palm. Rama loved to feel his mother’s affectionate hands on him. As she leaned close to him, he breathed in her familiar smell of camphor and tulsi, essential components in the temple’s rituals. Before Mother sent him to pray at the shrine of his choice, she placed 284
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a garland of tulsi around his neck. Rama recognized it as the one that had adorned the deity of Vishnu the previous day. The soft dew sprinkled over the tulsi leaves had kept it fresh.
At the shrine of Vishnu, Rama glimpsed his father, bare-chested and deep in prayer. Following his father’s example, Rama sat cross-legged at Shiva’s shrine. As he closed his eyes, the contours of Shiva’s bow appeared, but no enemy dared enter Rama’s mind when he sat protected in this golden sanctuary. Rama heard his brothers come and go behind him before he opened his eyes, feeling refreshed and strong in mind. Father had also left by then.
Lakshmana was waiting outside, leaning on a pillar and conversing with friends and attendants. Lakshmana attracted many people, for he was outspoken and full of life. As soon as he saw Rama, Lakshmana pushed away from the pillar and came to greet him. It was time for their morning meal, which the four princes ate together.
On their way, Rama and Lakshmana were ambushed. That was Manthara’s skill, after all. Despite being a hunchbacked old woman, she could make Rama feel as if he was under attack. Rama felt it the moment he heard the familiar sound of the cane behind them.
“A private word with you, young prince,” Manthara called out in a falsely sweet voice.
From experience, Rama knew that she only sought to get past the guards.
“Say no,” Lakshmana whispered into Rama’s ear. “She is not supposed to be here by the altars.”
Rama signaled to the guards to step away and welcomed Manthara to come close. As she did, the scent of her various ointments and medicinal poultices wafted toward Rama. He recognized the earthy jatamamsi and hoped it had produced its calming effect on Manthara.
There were other less familiar smells that made Rama dizzy for a moment. Manthara was dressed in a bright purple silk garment that flowed around her in a majestic way, but made her ashen skin look all the more withered. Rama smiled warmly at her, always hoping that this time he would break through her cold veneer.
“Do you think this is a joke?” she demanded, dispelling Rama’s hope and his smile.
With Lakshmana at his side, Rama said nothing. He merely looked at her steadily. Rama had no inkling what he had done to provoke her anger, but she was nearly shaking with fury.
Her eyes were like spikes of flaming fire.
“I saw you, just yesterday,” she said, “whispering lies into Bharata’s ear.”
Rama frowned.
“Bharata is going to be king,” she said.
Rama should have expected this. Manthara was obsessed with this topic. Rama pulled on his brother’s arm and took a step back.
“You think because you were born first,” she said, “that you are special, that your claim is stronger. I see it in your arrogant walk and speech. But your claim is only by a few hours!
Never forget your great father’s promise to King Ashvapati. We all know how much you prize your word here in Ayodhya. I will squash you under my cane before I let you become king.”
“Quiet!” Lakshmana cried.
Hearing the prince’s cry, two of the guards stepped closer. Rama shook his head at them.
Manthara was harmless, if slightly crazed.
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Before Rama could stop Lakshmana, however, his brother stepped closer to Manthara, looking down at her. “If you threaten my brother again, I will kill you! Rama is the jewel of the Sun dynasty and he shines like the sun. Bharata doesn’t even want to be king. Or does his opinion not even matter to you in your selfish quest for power?”
Manthara’s hunched back heaved up and down. “I know Bharata better than you. I know what his rights are. I know what his future is. You are the ones who have a selfish quest for power. Pah!” Her jaw jutted out in defiance; her eyes burned into Lakshmana.
He did not waver. Rama considered whether to intervene, but the opponents before him were infuriated for reasons he could not understand. Rama felt mostly compassion for Manthara, despite her consistent harangues against him.
“And you, Manthara,” Lakshmana said, “have no right to even address us without our permission. What you say threatens my brother and is a false claim! Or must I teach you the basic courtesies of Ayodhya?”
“I spit on those courtesies!” Manthara screamed in the voice of a hissing snake and verily spraying Lakshmana’s face with spittle.
The guards took a threatening step forward. Manthara waved her cane at them, as if she was a warrior. Her breaths turned wheezy. Rama lifted his hand to guide her toward a place to sit, but stopped. She would never accept anything from him.
“If your father tries to make you king, you should decline,” she said between wheezes, looking now at Rama with her features twitching. “If you want Ayodhya to be happy, give Bharata his birthright back.”
Rama and Lakshmana looked at each other. The rules of kingship were quite confusing, and Manthara could be right in some measure.
“The wise, all-knowing Manthara,” Lakshmana said. “Yes, we will take your advice on this. You know better than Father, his ministers, Vasishta, and all the elders. Yes, you alone see the truth.”
Manthara said nothing, but held Rama’s gaze even as she hobbled away. Lakshmana clenched his fists and made to pursue Manthara. His neck was splotchy and his breaths came out in big puffs.
Rama put a restraining hand on this brother’s shoulder. “Let her go. You defended me better than Father could have. I didn’t know you were so eloquent, my brother.”
Lakshmana stood frozen in his anger. He strained against Rama’s hand for a moment.
Rama tightened his grip. Lakshmana could do regrettable things when his temper was ignited.
“Come, Lakshmana,” he said, stepping in front of his brother, blocking his view of the receding hunchback. The brothers stood face to face.
“Don’t take Manthara so seriously,” Rama said. “She has a bitter soul. It’s not personal toward me.”
Lakshmana melted under his brother’s gaze but demanded, “How dare she speak to you like that? She is the most hateful person I know. She should be punished!”
Rama smiled; he trusted that his father had control over Manthara.
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“Father says Manthara has holes in her heart,” Rama said. “I can see them too. Punishment would only make those holes bigger.”
“I cannot tolerate standing by when she acts and speaks so hatefully, Rama.”
Rama took hold of Lakshmana’s hand and pulled his brother away.
“Brother,” Rama said, “I think it’s wise not to mention this episode to Bharata. You know how aggrieved he becomes when Manthara acts like this.”
“Do you mean to say she acts in any other way?”
“She is different toward Bharata and Shatrugna.”
“That witch!”
Rama gave his brother a meaningful look, and Lakshmana took a deep breath.
Before they entered the room where their brothers waited, Rama looked again at Lakshmana. Had he composed himself sufficiently?
Lakshmana nodded. His normal color was restored, and his breathing was even.
The four princes ate and spoke about their plans for the day. It was Rama and Lakshmana’s day to attend Father’s Court, while Bharata and Shatrugna received individual attention from Vasishta. Later, they would all meet on the training ground, Rama’s favorite time of the day. He would work his whole body into a tremendous sweat with martial arts, wielding his sword and shield, spears, clubs, and finally bow and arrow. Not a day went by without practicing archery, even though Lakshmana teased him relentlessly, saying he had already won every championship on Earth. Bharata was a close second, however, and Rama promised to meet Bharata in the archery ring later that day.
Rama and Lakshmana went to Father’s Great Court. The gatekeeper announced their titles as they were stepping into the most formal area of the palace. Rama waited for Father, surrounded by several of the ministers, to signal for them to enter. Though Father had a silver beard like the other elders, Rama did not think of him as old. Father was already holding a letter in his hand and had a frown etched into his forehead. He had read the missive out loud to the others already.
Eagerly, Rama accepted the letter from his father and read with eyes that flew across the scroll. Lakshmana’s body radiated heat behind him as he looked over Rama’s shoulder.
Normally, they might have been asked to sit down first, but clearly the missive was urgent.
The letter was from Janaka of Videha. He had held a contest for his daughter’s hand. The bride-price was a show of strength, namely, to lift Shiva’s bow. The contest had turned sour when no one had been able to budge the bow, this ancient heirloom that once belonged to Shiva. When Kashi failed, he accused Janaka of setting an impossible test. Janaka had innocently called Princess Sita into the assembly and directed her to the bow. Sita’s unparalleled beauty had made the kings stand up in their seats, ready to line up by the bow for another chance to lift it. Instead, the thirteen-year-old princess had lifted the bow with one hand.
