I was unsure of how she wanted me to respond. Anger had worked well for me before, in my chambers, but it no longer seemed appropriate.
“And we will all go to court together today. There is to be a performance by dancers who have traveled all the way from Videha. They are renowned for their Shiva Tandava.” Kaushalya started walking away from me, then turned back around. “You will want to change out of that dress. And in the future, you need not dress so formally.”
I smiled ruefully. “I hope the mud will come out.”
“If not,” Kaushalya said, her voice dropping to a dramatic whisper, “just have a new one made. You are a radnyi.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
AFTER THAT, I SETTLED into the pattern of court life. On a typical day, I would wake and stretch, until I was warm and loose-limbed enough to practice fighting forms. I had no wish to go back to the horrors of the battlefield, but I still enjoyed pushing my body, feeling the rhythm of the movement. I borrowed a wooden sword from the training grounds and would occasionally practice with it in the main room for variety. But still it held less wonder than it once had, for I could remember how these objects had been used to steal life before my eyes.
After this, on most days I would join Sumitra and Kaushalya in the gardens for a walk, learning about the workings of the palace. Some of these mornings, Dasharath would hold open court as well, and men from across the kingdom would come to plead their cases and causes before the raja, asking him to settle their land disputes, requesting he revise taxation agreements, and so on. I would infrequently observe from the balcony, but there was little part for me to play, and I preferred the company of my fellow wives.
After that, if there was no council meeting, I would study, determined to understand the workings of Kosala’s administration.
The evenings were devoted to court pastimes, far more varied than the austere Kekayan palaces. There were feasts, of course, but also dance and musical performances, and traveling troupes of storytellers. These last groups were my favorite, for they gave voice to the stories I had long loved—the men dressed in fantastical costumes and unearthed different voices for each character, setting the scenes with lyrical ease. The esteemed artists of the city were sometimes in attendance to paint portraits or views of the palace, and it was a pleasure to observe their work. Often we would sit and enjoy the entertainments of court until the torches burned low.
But by far, what I enjoyed most were my infrequent trips into the world beyond the palace, whenever Manthara was able to slip me away. For even as I grew to know my fellow queens, I realized I had so much to learn about the lives of other women. I had long cared only for my own independence, but there were so many who were far less free. Knowing this bothered me for reasons I could not quite understand.
On one such occasion, Manthara brought me to a small mud home where a friend of hers resided, farther from the market than I had previously ventured. When I complained—for I had been hoping to once again drink in the sights and bustle of the stalls and vendors—she shook her head. “Not today. There is only so much you can do watching. Here is a chance for you to listen.”
I was about to ask what I was meant to learn, when a woman my own age opened the door and ushered us inside. “Manthara-ji, it is so good to see you! And I see you brought—” Her eyes widened, and she brought her hands together and bent deeply into a formal bow.
“Please, there is no need for that,” I said, stepping inside. A small etching of Lord Ganesha hung above her door.
“Radnyi Kaikeyi, you honor me with your presence,” she said, her voice several pitches higher. “If I had realized you were coming, I would have prepared.” She turned from us and walked quickly across the packed dirt floor toward the stove. Her entire home appeared no bigger than my room in Kekaya. From here I could see the low cot she slept on and a small shrine filled with statues of the gods.
I slipped off my sandals as Manthara did the same. “Truly, there is no need for that,” I said. “What is your name?”
“Riddhi,” she said, ducking her head. It meant wealth and prosperity—a kind, hopeful name for a commoner.
“Riddhi is an excellent cook, employed in the palace kitchens,” Manthara said. “But recently there has been some trouble.”
“What sort of trouble?” I asked her.
She shook her head. “It is no matter,” she whispered, looking down and playing with her fingers. “I am used to it.”
She was obviously lying. “Perhaps if you tell me—”