After only a few hours of riding, my body was close to giving out. My limbs ached, my throat burned with every breath, and I struggled to keep my eyes open. But out here on the road, if I stopped, I might never start going again. That was too easy for me. I needed to suffer for what I had done. I stayed slumped over on my horse, but it kept moving, until I saw through my half-closed eyes a collection of dilapidated huts that looked the way I felt.
The horse halted in the dusty center of the group, and I sat there, my fingers still clutching the reins. I did not move, even as several women came to see who I was. They murmured among themselves, and I expected them to leave me or drive me away. Instead, one reached up and pried my fingers off the reins, then helped me down. My knees buckled when my feet met the ground, and I felt an arm wrap around my waist, holding me up.
“What are you doing?” I asked, my words coming out slurred.
“She needs water,” someone said. “And a meal.”
Hands guided me to a stone seat, and someone pressed a ladle of water into my hand. I drank it, the coolness jolting me awake, as another woman handed me a bowl of rice.
“I cannot pay,” I explained, ashamed, and the woman laughed.
“Radnyi Kaikeyi, it is an honor.” I wondered how they knew who I was, but did not care enough to ask.
“Thank you,” I mumbled.
“I came to the Women’s Council once,” the woman who had helped me from my horse said as I ate. “My husband was dead, and I had no family, and the men of the village thought I brought misfortune. The other women managed to send me to the city to see you, and you gave me several chickens to make my own living with. You wrote me a letter saying my work and person should be respected. It changed my life.”
“I am glad to hear it,” I said, although her words were barely reaching me. I shoveled the rice and lentils into my mouth, the food giving me new energy. “This is delicious, thank you.”
“The men are all gone to war,” another woman said. “We have room, so surely you can stay a night?”
“Yes, Radnyi, it would be no trouble to give you a place to stay before you ride for the city.”
I shook my head. “I must keep going. I need to reach Ayodhya as soon as possible.” The women all nodded, solemn, as though they believed I had some greater purpose. I could have laughed at the irony—for once in my life, I was trying to escape to dullness—but I could not muster the will.
“Take this,” one of the women said, handing me several mangoes.
Another woman gave me some hard biscuits, and a third passed me dried sweets. Soon I had enough food to last me several days’ travels. “You need this more than I,” I argued. A bit of my old passion rose up in me. “Please, do not be offended, but I could not possibly do this to you.”
An older woman shook her head. “It would be an honor to know that we helped you. It is the least we can do,” she said. “Safe travels.”
As I rode away, I pondered the strange reception. They had given me what little they had, knowing full well what I had done to the kingdom. The story of Rama’s exile would have reached them some time ago. Perhaps they had not realized how disfavored I was and feared for their lives if they did not show deference. Yes, that was it.
By nightfall, any concerns over their treatment of me had faded as I stared up at the sky. I did not deserve Nidra’s blessing and the peace of mind that came with it. Instead, I fought to keep my eyes open, and when they closed, I watched Yudhajit die behind my lids again and again. This was my legacy.
At last I reached Ayodhya.
I left the horse at the stable door and took the familiar route up to my rooms. As I climbed the steps to the women’s quarters, something dripped onto my hands. I looked up, bemused. Was it raining?
Only then did I feel the coolness against my cheeks and realize that I was crying. By the time I reached my rooms I was weeping, the first true tears I had cried for my brother. I did not understand what had sparked this, only that in my chest I could feel the deep hole his presence had left.
Somehow, word of my arrival at the stables must have gotten to Manthara before I did, because she was already pouring water into a tub for a warm bath. I kept weeping as I stepped into it, and she scrubbed my hair as though I was a small child. The story came out of me in fits and starts, and she murmured soft reassurances to me. “It is not your fault. Hush. It is not your fault.”
But I knew better.
I spent the next day entirely in my bed. Asha brought me warm broth, and I drank it to make her feel better, for her worry was rolling off her in waves. Being back in Ayodhya reminded me only of my greater failures. I had failed the people of my kingdom, failed the women who would no longer be protected and the men who would die in pointless wars. I slept lightly on and off, my dreams the same as my waking thoughts, before slipping into a longer tortured rest.