“What need have noblewomen of those?” I asked. The bangles were lovely, but not the type of thing the fine women of court arrayed themselves in.
“Trinkets for their children or grandchildren,” Manthara said. “They do not have the money to let small fingers break their precious objects, wealthy though they may be.”
At another stall, Manthara stopped to buy a bundle of fragrant dried herbs. She carded through the selection with deft fingers before alighting on one that looked to me the same as the others. “Can these be mixed with milk?” she asked.
“Of course,” the man said briskly.
“Are you sure?” Manthara pressed. “I have heard complaints of stomach pain after doing so, and I do not want to displease my mistress.”
“Yes,” he insisted, just as another voice said, “No.”
A woman who had been crouched next to the stall and tending to a brazier that let off a smoky aroma rose to her feet. “Those should not be taken with milk. You are correct that it can sometimes cause digestive upset, and in that case won’t take effect.”
The man’s hand darted out quick as a cobra, landing a slap on the back of the woman’s head. “Did I ask you?” he hissed. Flinching, she shook her head and silently squatted back down to her work. To Manthara the man said, “Forgive her, she does not know her place. As I was saying, the herbs can be taken with or without milk. But if your mistress has difficulties with milk, there is no harm in trying without.”
Manthara’s mouth was pursed in a thin line of displeasure, and she haggled with the man for far longer than she had at the previous stall before exchanging the herbs for a scant few coins and moving on. As we pressed farther into the square, I turned back to look at the woman. I thought perhaps I would find her crying. But she was staring down at her brazier, turning the drying stems of her plants carefully, as if nothing had happened.
I had never been taken to a marketplace in Kekaya, but I was grateful to have the chance to witness such a thing in Ayodhya. The market seemed full of chaos, and possibility. People shouted and bartered, their anger at a bad bargain or pleasure at good craftsmanship flowing freely. There was something alive about this place. And yet as I swept my gaze over the stalls, I saw not a single woman standing alone behind one. There were women to be sure, folding fabric, rearranging their goods in preparation for customers. But all were accompanied by men, and none seemed in control.
“Kaikeyi?” Manthara said softly in my ear. “Are you ready to go?”
“Is it always like this?” I asked.
“Today is the busiest day of the week,” she said, misunderstanding my question. “But that means the best wares are on offer.”
There was nothing amiss to Manthara, I realized. Why would there be? Even in palaces, women were rarely heard. The gods did not wish for women and men to mingle overly much, and even in Kekaya the sages had created rules to keep such order in place.
I could not expect any different outside the palace walls, and yet I found myself hoping that the market, this place so full of life, might be better. In that moment, I felt like the old Kaikeyi, who had convinced her brother to teach her to fight and had negotiated the terms of her marriage. I could see myself again, just within reach.
CHAPTER NINE
THE TRIP TO THE marketplace woke me from the depressed fog I had been living in. I began asking questions of Manthara. Can we go back? Can I go as myself? Are there other markets? Could I arrange a formal visit? I knew I could not navigate the chaos alone, but Manthara promised me that we would work out a plan together. But before we could, she came back to me with a different sort of news.
Dasharath had decided to challenge the warlord in the north.
Radnyi Kaushalya, first among the wives, hated the war camps and had refused the raja’s invitation to accompany him. Sumitra never even entertained the idea of going. But a war camp sounded exhilarating to me.
So, when Dasharath requested my presence in his chambers at the end of the week, I was prepared. Manthara chose a forest-green sari for me, one that lay soft and pliant against my body, and an attendant younger even than I wrapped my body in the gauzy fabric, lined my eyes with kohl, and decorated me with strands of delicate golden jewelry that I knew to be lovely, but to me just felt tiresome.
Dasharath did not so much as look at me when I entered the room, but thankfully years living in the same palace as my father had inured me to such treatment. I simply stood quietly, contemplating the golden cord that stretched between us in the Binding Plane.