I also met with our most skilled weaver, commissioning a fine tapestry for the wall, bearing out my prediction to Megha that I would not need such sewing skills myself. It arrived the night before the chief, and I supervised its hanging myself.
The next morning, I made sure to be present at the chief’s arrival, meeting him and accompanying him to his rooms. Manthara had advised me to ask about his journey on the freshly maintained roads connecting Singapura to Kekaya, and the chief was more than happy to oblige, extolling the quality of the work. When we stopped outside his door, he paused to admire the tapestry. “The work is lovely. I believe I have seen this spiral pattern work on the temple of Brahma in the forest near Singapura.”
“Thank you,” I said, ducking my head so as to appear modest. “The weavers of this city are known for this particular pattern.”
“You are a very poised young woman,” he said when I took my leave. “Your father must be very proud.”
That little shard of praise wrapped itself around my heart, but not as much as what happened at dinner the next evening.
I had just carefully sopped up some curry with a small piece of roti. It was mild, as the cook had promised, but nutty and fragrant with cardamom, the mutton melting like butter on my tongue. Next to me, Yudhajit made a happy noise. “The cook has done so well,” he said. “It’s not very spicy is it? But you hardly notice.”
I said nothing, my gaze flicking up to the high table where my father sat next to the chief. The chief was gesturing to his plate, and my father’s eyes connected with mine. He gave me a small smile—so small, I would have thought it was an accident, except he followed it with a brief nod.
My stomach fluttered with happiness, and I looked down at my plate. I knew, logically, that he would go back to ignoring me soon enough, that there would be no words of praise for my machinations. But I could not help my happiness.
After a week of wedding ceremonies and celebrations, the palace went back to normal. I had missed my usual weekly lesson with Yudhajit, but that was a more common occurrence than I would have liked. It had been almost three years since we started training together, and in those years we had acquired real responsibilities. I even found I had less and less time to take short trips to the cellars, though I had still managed to work my way through every scroll I could hunt down involving magic and meditation.
I slipped down there every so often and wound my way through the shelves, wondering what to read now that I had exhausted all the magic scrolls.
I found myself drawn to the shelf that housed recent stories and histories, and my eyes instantly alighted on one scroll at the top of the pile, with a distinctive border of red vines on the outside. I remembered my mother’s slender fingers unrolling it, for she had read it many times.
I opened the scroll, eager for this small scrap of connection, and found at the very top a short note. My breath caught.
My dear Kaikeyi,
I do not have much time to write this. I hope that when you find it, you will also find it in your heart to forgive me. I do not wish to leave any of you, but especially not you, for being a yuvradnyi is no easy task. But I know you are strong, Kaikeyi. Be careful. Remember the lessons of these scrolls. I know you will thrive.
There was no signature, but I did not need one to recognize my mother’s elegant hand.
I dashed a hand across my eyes so my tears would not fall on the scroll. For years now, I thought she had left without saying goodbye. But she had thought of me. Believed in me. Told me things she had never said aloud.
After a few moments, I turned my attention to the rest of the scroll, to the story that had so captivated my mother that she had thought to leave a message buried within it. It was the tale of a sage from the southernmost end of Bharat named Gautama who had been blessed by the gods with centuries of longevity, and who had amassed several powerful boons with his piety besides. He had also won from the gods a prize: the beautiful bride Ahalya.
Brahma had fashioned Ahalya out of water to temper the pride of the apsaras, the dancers in Indra’s heavenly court. All the gods wished to have Ahalya, and so Brahma declared that the first god to complete a race around all the worlds would win her hand in marriage. Indra, with his immense power, leapt into his golden chariot. His winged horses pulled him with ease around the heavens, the earth, and the home of the asuras. But when he returned, he found that Gautama was already married to Ahalya. He had walked in prayer around a cow giving birth to a calf, and this was equivalent to all the worlds.
Despite losing, Indra still coveted Ahalya for himself, so he bided his time, until one day Gautama left their home on some errand. Indra took Gautama’s form and came to Ahalya, and they lay together. But as the day wore on, Ahalya realized she had been tricked. She begged Indra to leave, for she knew her husband’s considerable wrath. It was too late, however, for as the god departed, he ran straight into Gautama.