“You told me once that I would grow up to become strong,” I said, the ache of unshed tears in my throat. “You left me a story.”
My mother stepped back in surprise. “I thought perhaps you had never found it,” she said. “That in my caution, I had hidden it too well. You never mentioned it.”
“It took me years to find it,” I confessed. “But once I did, I kept it close. Even still it is a reminder. The gods would help themselves but not an innocent woman. I swore I would never suffer such injustice.”
“Oh, Kaikeyi,” my mother said, her voice sad. “That isn’t the lesson I was hoping for you to learn. The gods do what they will. That tale was a reminder to be careful of men. I was drawn to it because I could not believe such an old, unassuming man was capable of such powerful cruelty. He came to the palace, you know, a few years before you were born.”
“Who are you talking about?” I asked, mystified. “Someone from the story came to Kekaya?”
“Yes, the man who turned Ahalya to stone. Sage Vamadeva Gautama.”
It was as though my mother had ripped the rug out from below me and set the room spinning. Vamadeva Gautama. Vamadeva.
No. How could it be? There were many Vamadevas in the world. “You… met him?”
“Yes. He was old then, his hair all white. He seemed quite ordinary. But when I caught his eyes, I knew he had done it. They were unnatural, gray and cold. Like a storm.” She trailed off, her gaze fixed somewhere in the past. Then she blinked and came back to herself. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter now. You should not worry about old stories, Kaikeyi. It is time for you to go.”
She pressed a kiss to my forehead and left before I could say anything more.
I sank onto my bed, trembling. There was no mistake. She had described him perfectly. What cruel coincidence would have placed that man on my path, would have had my sons learning from him? For the sage who had trained Rama, who had spent two years in a secluded ashram with my impressionable son, was a monster. A man who would curse his own wife, who had not seen fit to free her—such a man held hate in his heart.
And despite my efforts to keep him from Ayodhya, he had found Rama again. The damage had been done, and to the yuvraja besides. Why had I let Rama out of my sight for two whole years? I had been complacent, arrogant that I was the master of my world and that all would be how I wished it to be. Sage Vamadeva would hate me too, I was sure, for sending him away. Had he told Rama I was evil, contemptible?
I knew then, in my bones, that I had not yet seen the extent of the damage. I needed to be back in Ayodhya, as soon as possible.
There was no other way to describe it: Before us was a long and narrow wooden boat on wheels.
From this contraption’s side extended a magnificent set of wings, intricately crafted from thousands of feathers the likes of which could not be found on any single living creature.
But more impressive than that were the reins that extended from the front of the boat toward a pair of giant swans. They were as large as Ravana himself, and the graceful arch of their necks appeared sculpted from pure white marble. As we approached, they squawked a greeting so loud I felt slightly deafened.
“What is this?” Lakshmana stared in awe. Even I forgot for a moment the fear that had made itself at home within me.
Ravana ushered us toward the boat. “Pushpaka Vimana,” he said, voice filled with pride. “A flying chariot. This is how I will take you to Sripura.”
We climbed inside, and I ran my hands along the edges of the vehicle. “How does this fly?”
“The swans were a gift to me from Shiva for my devotion. He would not give my kingdom the reprieve I asked for, but these turned out to be a mighty consolation indeed. I asked the swans for their permission to use them in this manner, and they readily agreed. But they could not sustain the flight of just any vessel. The difficulty was in creating this boat’s shape. It had to be just so.” He took the reins in his hands. “Then I added the wings, to help sustain our motion in the air. Are you ready?”
Lakshmana looked at me, apprehension clear on his features, but I turned to Ravana. “No time to waste.”
He snapped the reins, and the swans’ powerful wings immediately beat in tandem. We did not move at all, and I wondered if the Pushpaka Vimana had broken. But after the moment of stillness, the boat rolled forward, slowly at first and gathering speed with every second until I thought the vehicle might break apart with the effort.
At that exact instant, the swans pulled upward and we rose into the air. The boat steadied, and Lakshmana gave a shout, of fear or pleasure I knew not. I peeked over the side of the boat and saw Janasthana fading into the distance. From here, I could make out the palace, and my mother’s house, and the walls and gates that surrounded the city. I turned to Ravana. “This is incredible!” I cried.