But that evening, before I could make my way to my son, I received a summons to Dasharath’s chambers.
The moment I saw my husband’s drawn and weary face, all thoughts of Rama vanished.
I went to his side immediately. “What is it?” I asked.
“I do not know, but I cannot imagine it is pleasant news. A messenger just arrived from your brother, nearly dead on his feet, with an urgent missive for you.”
“Yudhajit?” I took the still-sealed papers from Dasharath and tore them open.
Kaikeyi, Father has returned, and he is dying. The healers give him one more moon, maybe less. He is asking for you, and your son. And there are matters we must discuss. Hurry back, sister.
“Kaikeyi? What does it say?” Dasharath’s face looked lined with worry, the peace of abdication gone in his concern for me. I might have been touched, relieved that he still cared so for me, had the news not been so dire.
“My father is close to death,” I whispered. My voice shook, not out of any emotion for him, but because I could not fathom having to leave Ayodhya now. “He wishes to see me, and to see Bharata, before it happens.”
Dasharath took my free hand in his, mistaking my nerves for sorrow. “I am so sorry. We will make preparations for you to leave at once.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“DO YOU THINK WE will make it in time?” Bharata asked as we made camp the first evening of our journey. It was the most time I had spent with him in some time, for I had only seen him at meals or passed him in the halls in the tumult since my arrival. “Before Grandfather dies?”
The uncertainty in his voice pierced through my fog of thoughts. I realized with my mind on Rama I had hardly comprehended the fact that Ashwapati—that my father was near death, or how much this might hurt Bharata.
“I do not know,” I said honestly. Bharata’s face reminded me of Yudhajit’s when we had been young, with his narrow nose and dark eyes.
“Uncle Yudhajit said that Grandfather was getting better.”
“When did he say that?”
“In his letter, a few months ago. He tells me how all our family in the kingdom is.”
I imagined Yudhajit painstakingly writing out the status of each of our brothers and their wives for Bharata, and I almost laughed. Even I did not want all that information if nothing was amiss. “That is very kind of him,” I said. Bharata leaned his head on my shoulder and I gently stroked his hair. “Do you remember when we first visited? My father was very sick then, and that is why he was away. He recovered enough to live a few more years. But now his turn has come, as every person’s must.”
“I don’t know him, and yet I feel sad.”
Bharata had never experienced death before, I realized. None of my sons had. Not on the battlefield, not in the loss of the oldest generation of family. They had been blessed in many ways. “It is always sad when any life is lost. And especially because, even if you have never met him, he is your grandfather.”
“You and Uncle Yudhajit will be sad,” Bharata said in a small voice. “I do not want that. I could not imagine how I would feel if Father died.”
“My father has been sick for a long time. Yours is healthy, vital. And you are strong. When that time comes, many years from now, you will be prepared.” I longed to embrace him, but something stayed my limbs.
“Are you prepared?” he asked.
It had been so long since I had seen my father, and longer still since I liked him. And now that I had met my mother, and learned how he had driven her away, I found it difficult to muster up any strong emotion. I was prepared—by virtue of not caring very much. But that is not the answer I wanted to offer my son. “Yes,” I said. “I have not lived there for some time. And you are much closer to your father than I ever was to mine.”
“But it will be very hard for Uncle.” Bharata’s voice was thoughtful. “He has told me so many stories about your childhood.”
“He has?” I asked.
“Oh, yes. We send letters all the time, you know. He has a lot of interesting stories about you. But… I suppose you’re not in the ones with Grandfather that much. You must have been busy with your other duties.”
That was a tactful way of framing his shrewd observation. “That is probably what happened,” I agreed.
Before I knew it, we were crossing the Sarasvati River.
“Do you remember what happened here, with Rama?” he asked as we passed by. “I always knew he was special, but I had never realized that he was blessed until that moment.”