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and eating, Dasharatha would be in his most relaxed state. He would fall into a deep sleep soon after. There was no better time to speak to him, and yet the task ahead tightened Kausalya’s stomach. She waited until he expressed his satisfaction and could eat no more.
Then she seated herself next to him and looked without wincing at his swollen and dis-colored face. Without hesitating, she said the words as she had sworn she would. Perhaps if she had not felt trepidation, she might have introduced it with more grace. But she knew the topic would not please him, and so she spoke directly: “Until you have announced an heir, you cannot go to another battle.”
The air grew thin. His demeanor changed at once and he looked at her without blinking.
Kausalya, who had known Dasharatha’s parents well, again saw King Aja and Queen Indumati’s features in him. He had his mother’s full lips, marred now by that sword line wound across his upper lip. Unlike other warriors, he had never had broken bones in his face; his nose remained straight and flawless. Dasharatha’s eyes were just like his father’s, dark and intense. Kausalya felt the force of them. Usually they were tempered by warmth, the promise to be just. Now her husband’s eyes were inscrutable.
“Forgive me for bringing this topic up,” she hastened to say. “You have just now returned.
I am so relieved and therefore I must speak. I fear there will never be a right time. Afraid of incurring your displeasure, I have not raised my concern until now.”
He nodded thoughtfully, the guarded look gone. She had managed to diffuse some tension by addressing his resistance.
“What is it that you wish to say then, Great Queen?”
He maintained a formal tone, and Kausalya looked at his battered face, wanting to back out of the discussion she had initiated. What else could she really say beyond her command that he announce an heir? Conflicting emotions made her throat dry. She called for something to drink. If she had borne the king sons, as was her duty, they would not be having this discussion. She drank the water gratefully. And yet Sumitra had not borne the king sons either, as they all had hoped she would. How could she proceed without casting blame on Dasharatha?
The king waited, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back in his seat.
Kausalya did not have much time alone with him, for the king constantly had people at his door. Kausalya’s mind raced. Where to start? What to say?
“I wish to speak plainly about our lack of children,” she said. “We have been married nearly thirty years now. A lesser king than you would have set me aside long ago.”
“I would never do that,” he said, a flash of fire in his eyes.
“I know, I know,” she said, placing her hand on his. He had never allowed her to feel unworthy. He took her hand and drew her closer to him.
“The fault is not yours,” he said.
“I do not wish to cast blame on anyone,” she answered.
Kausalya had not been selected as Ayodhya’s queen for nothing. She knew what mattered. She knew what was expected of her. She fulfilled all the duties that were within her power. But she had not borne a son, her foremost duty. Kausalya was secretly ashamed of 40
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the relief she had felt when Sumitra was childless too. It would have been an answer to the empire’s need. But something had softened between Kausalya and Dasharatha; it was no longer Kausalya’s fault alone that they were childless. And therefore the time had come to look beyond their immediate family for a suitable heir. Surely Dasharatha could understand this.
“I have returned victorious from countless battles,” Dasharatha said. “Why this issue now?”
In his question, the queen heard his desire to avoid the topic, that resistance she did not understand. There was something in Dasharatha, a master at statesmanship, that did not want to address this. He systematically avoided it altogether. Even the ministers knew they could not speak openly with him about it.
“Why now?” she repeated, almost laughing. “I think about it every time you go into battle! This time, I had seven years to think about it!” After her exclamation, she immediately softened her voice. “Every day I prayed for your safe return. And yet I could not ignore the questions of the ministers or my own. What would we do if you did not return?”
Dasharatha let out a long sigh. “Yes. Seven years have gone by.”
The truth Kausalya had neglected dawned on her. Seven years on Earth was a mere seven days in the land of the gods. Although utterly exhausted by battle, Dasharatha had experienced the passage of time as one week. Kausalya had encountered this before, but it never failed to shock her. They looked at each other in silence while Kausalya quickly faced the facts. Kausalya had aged and he had not. She realized that it was quite likely that she now exceeded him in age. It made her suddenly feel unspeakably old. She wanted to cover her face with her veil and run out. Instead, she sat still.
Dasharatha looked tired. “I do not wish to speak of this.”
She acutely felt his tension. It bordered on revulsion. She hated to face her husband’s displeasure. If it wasn’t for the ministers’ urging, she might not have done it. But Ayodhya needed an heir. It was simple.
“We must,” she insisted.
Kausalya looked into her husband’s eyes, seeing only its secrets. Every king had secrets, she had no doubt about this. But King Dasharatha stubbornly ignored their lack of children and fought war after war. It was Kausalya who had to look at the lists that the ministers compiled of possible heirs. Dasharatha had no brothers or distant male relatives who could serve in his place. Death was as inevitable as birth; an heir eventually had to be announced.
Dasharatha stood up and backed away from Kausalya; his eyes turned darker and more fathomless for every step he took away. Kausalya stood up too, holding his gaze.
“Speak to me,” she implored. “Tell me. Trust me.”
She opened her arms wide and bared her soul for him to see that she could be his witness.
Dasharatha stretched out on the bed, his arm placed over his eyes. She was dismissed.
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chapter 5
The Horse-Lord’s Daughter
Dasharatha surveyed the losses from the war with a pounding heart. The victory had cost Ayodhya nearly half its troops and resources. With an urgency that almost felt like another battle, Dasharatha threw himself into the repair work.
The royal stables were empty, and Dasharatha’s own stallion had been killed by Subahu. Dasharatha welcomed the opportunity to journey to Kekaya to acquire new horses. The lord of Kekaya had become known far and wide as Ashvapati, “Lord of Horses,” and Ayodhya had relied on his equestrians for many years. Usually the king sent Sumantra, his closest friend among the eight ministers; he had an excellent hand with horses and knew nearly as much about the animals as he did about politics. This time, however, the ministers urged the king to personally go; Ayodhya’s alliance with smaller kingdoms like Kekaya was more important than ever before, with its troops so diminished. Kekaya’s fealty would be fueled by a personal visit by the emperor. Keen on maintaining Ayodhya’s power, Dasharatha agreed. The swelling on his face had disappeared, and the thin scar across his lip was hardly visible. He had physically recovered from the ordeal. Perhaps the trip would give him direction and insight regarding the heir issue that Kausalya had pressed him on.
On the day of his departure, his two queens marked his forehead with auspicious red pulp.
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“Return as soon as you can,” Kausalya said.
Although she was one year past forty, she did not look past her prime. She was tall for a woman, but in every other way a typical Ayodhyan beauty with fair skin, large and pleasant eyes, and thick, unruly hair. He lifted his hand to her cheek.
“I will not tarry,” he promised. “May the gods protect you in my absence.”
The sadness in Kausalya’s eyes intensified; she did not like to see him leave. Though their marriage had been arranged by his father, the moment of parting had always been like this with Kausalya. He had to resist the impulse to cancel his plans and stay with her, a youth’s passionate notion. Kausalya would not want such a token of his love. She served the kingdom, as did he. He beheld Kausalya a few seconds longer, aware of the ache in his heart, for he could see the wall that stood between them. After so many years of marriage, there were no children. Kausalya had grown sadder every year, even though Dasharatha time and again assured her that he did not blame her.
As the complicated feelings overtook him, Dasharatha dropped his hand. Their relationship as man and woman had long ago lost its ardor when it became clear that it would not produce the desired result. There were other purposes to lovemaking, yes, but . . . Ah, he turned away from her. He had come to deeply rely on Kausalya as a friend, and he knew the tug in his heart for her was unique. Sumitra, his second wife, did not restrain him in this way.
Even now, the princess of Magadha stood in the background. She had been that way from the beginning, shy and quiet. If he was honest, however, Dasharatha felt that neither of them needed him as a man. Perhaps that was why he did not feel averse to leaving the palace so soon again.
“The time has come,” Sumantra said, holding the reins to the chariot.
Dasharatha allowed him to serve as charioteer, though Sumantra was far too qualified for the role. Everyone else had already ascended their chariots and waited for the king. Dasharatha stepped onto the chariot; Sumantra clucked to the horses and started their journey.
Dasharatha looked back and waved to Kausalya. He noticed the wind catching her veil, momentarily hiding her face and playing with her hair, lending softness to her serious demeanor. Perhaps he should not have dismissed her when she pressed him on the heir issue.
Perhaps he should have opened up and told her. No. The very thought made him shrink in the daylight. Instead he decided that upon his return, he would sit with her and discuss the right course of action.
Kekaya was two weeks on horse from Ayodhya; the travel time alone would take them a month. Therefore they decided to skirt other kingdoms, like Videha, where King Janaka ruled Mithila with a gracious hand. It was one of the closest neighboring kingdoms, and yet it was impossible for Dasharatha, as the emperor, to arrive and leave the next day. Therefore the emperor’s travel party had long ago opted to go incognito. They flew Ayodhya’s banner with the sun sigil, but they did not stop anywhere during the day and set up their own camp at night.
Because they would return with a large cargo, they traveled to Kekaya in a small party 44
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of twenty chariots, ten horse riders, and ten packhorses. They did not know how long the process of acquiring new steeds would take and had not set a firm return date. Ashvapati’s collection of horses had a well-deserved reputation, boasting horses of all colors and breeds.
“Every time I visit,” Sumantra said, raising his voice about the clatter of hooves, “King Ashvapati has a new, improved breed to show us.”
Dasharatha thought of Ashvapati, who at forty-eight was three years senior to him. It had been several years since they last met, but Dasharatha did not think time had softened the horse-lord, perhaps the most stern and terse man on Earth. Of course, Dasharatha had met the subordinate king only after the infamous incident that many said had caused the king’s disposition.
“Does he still forbid talk of his wife?” Dasharatha inquired, gripping the railings of the chariot lightly and leaning forward toward Sumantra. The minister would have firsthand information about the current affairs in Kekaya. “Please set aside formality and speak openly.”
“It’s allowed now,” Sumantra said, with a short laugh. “When his daughter turned thirteen, he finally revealed the story to her. I suspect she knew it long before. She and her brother are very close, as you will see. Prince Yuddhajit was old enough to remember their mother. I can’t imagine that he hid the truth from her all those years.”
Dasharatha appreciated Sumantra’s astute observation, seeing beneath the state’s official veneer.
“From a political standpoint,” Sumantra said, “our communication is easier, for we can speak more freely, without incurring offense, though as you can imagine, it remains a tense topic.”
Yes, Dasharatha could imagine it would always remain contentious. The story was highly unusual. One day Ashvapati had overheard the conversation of two swans and laughed out loud. Her curiosity piqued, Queen Chaya demanded to know what the swans had said, knowing well what the consequence would be. Infuriated by her callous demand, Ashvapati exiled her for all time. No one in Kekaya had seen or heard of her since. Chaya’s children had never known their mother, as was Ashvapati’s resolve.
“What would you have done, Great King, if you were in Ashvapati’s position?” Sumantra asked.
“There can be little doubt,” Dasharatha said, “that Ashvapati acted against his heart and in favor of his kingdom when he decided to cast his queen out. He is a true king. A remarriage would have done him good. He grows more solitary and stern every time I met him. ”
“He is an affectionate father, however,” Sumantra said. “He dotes on his daughter.”
“She was a memorable child. Seven or eight, perhaps, but sharp. Her feisty replies made the entire assembly laugh.”
Dasharatha requested Sumantra to brief him on all pertinent matters of Kekaya, and finally they turned to the topic of the prince and princess.
“How old are they now?”
“Yuddhajit, who has been consecrated as prince regent, has turned twenty years. The 45
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daughter is sixteen now, I believe. But still unmarried. You must ask Ashvapati. Fathers love speaking of their children, and this is especially true of him.”
They arrived in Kekaya without complication. Instead of greeting them in his city, Ashvapati, with his usual directness, had asked them to meet him at the plains, where he kept his vast treasure of horses. Understandably Ashvapati did not divulge the total number he owned, but from his reputation and wealth, Dasharatha knew that they numbered in the millions. Whereas Ayodhya and the land of Koshala boasted many types of agricul-ture and trades, all of Kekaya was a grazing ground for its horses. Its entire economy was built on horse breeding and trade. It was said that horses were treated like family members in Kekaya.
For the emperor’s visit, Ashvapati had promised to select his one hundred best horses and herd them to the valley for Dasharatha’s inspection. Though Ashvapati had agreed that his men would deliver three thousand horses to Ayodhya, Dasharatha looked forward to seeing the ones that Ashvapati considered his best. Dasharatha would make his personal selection from those, between five and twenty, depending on what he liked.
Ashvapati waited for them at the appointed place and time. The two kings greeted each other and exchanged the necessary formalities. Dasharatha inquired about the kingdom’s welfare. Ashvapati made no inquiries in turn, but called his servants forward to wash Dasharatha’s feet. True to the Kekayan customs, the horse-lord’s men needed no prompting when it came to Ayodhya’s horses. The tired horses were rubbed down with hay and fed with fresh grass and water. Ayodhya’s men were not neglected either, being provided with refreshments of wine, honey, and fresh water. A feast would be served in the king’s honor in the evening.
Ashvapati walked away without a word. Sumantra silently gestured that this type of abrupt manner was normal for the horse-lord. Dasharatha swallowed his surprise and followed the other king to a pavilion.
“We will watch from here,” Ashvapati said. “No one can watch my riders without being impressed.”
Ashvapati’s riders, having grown up with horses, were capable of unimaginable tricks and acrobatics with their steeds. After this, Ashvapati said nothing and answered questions with monosyllables. The silence between the two kings grew. Dasharatha clasped his hands, then unclasped them and placed them on his knees. He began thinking of his exchange with Kausalya on the day of his return from the god’s battle.
“Where are they?” Ashvapati demanded in a loud voice. Dasharatha looked around to see if a servant would answer the question, but only Dasharatha was within hearing distance. The emperor smiled inwardly. It was rather amusing not to be granted the usual nice-ties; therefore Dasharatha didn’t mind Ashva pati’s behavior.
“I sent my daughter and her brother,” Ashvapati muttered. “They were to select our best stallions and mares for you.”
Why had he sent his daughter? It was a man’s work.
Ashvapati started drumming his fingers against the seat. The tenseness that Ashvapati 46
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displayed began to intrude on Dasharatha. He took several deep breaths and cleared his throat.
“How old are your children now?” Dasharatha inquired, following Sumantra’s suggestion. “I remember your girl well.”
To Dasharatha’s surprise, Ashvapati laughed out loud. “It has been too long since your last visit, Great King. She is not the little girl you remember. You will see. She has had many suitors, but none that can match her skills. I have come to trust her a great deal, especially with the horses. She has an eye and ear for them, discerning their temperament. Truly, she is as intuitive with them as I am with swans.”
That was the longest speech Dasharatha had ever heard him give. Ashvapati stood up.
“Come, let us ride. Sitting here will serve no purpose. I will find the reason for this delay.”
The horse-lord arranged for fresh horses for the emperor and his men. Twenty riders from Ayodhya would come with them, including Sumantra and four from Dasharatha’s personal guard.
“This is Sandesh,” Ashvapati said, lightly smacking a white stallion on the flank so he would step forward. “Sandesh, meet the emperor himself. Please behave yourself.”
Then Ashvapati waited, and Dasharatha felt like a boy tested by a strict master. He shook off the feeling by focusing on the magnificent stallion. After letting the animal smell his hands and gently stroking its soft muzzle, Dasharatha took his seat astride the horse. Ashvapati seemed satisfied with Dasharatha’s effort, for he swung up in the saddle and began an 47
