I had wished merely for a measure of freedom for myself, and perhaps now for others. There was nothing evil in that. Was there?
“The gods would smite you down if they thought you would be the source of terrible deeds.” Manthara ran her fingers through my hair, and I relaxed despite myself. “You are meant to help the world.”
“He didn’t look at me like I would help the world,” I told her. But she couldn’t possibly understand. She loved me. “He looked at me like I was wicked.”
“I’ve known you your whole life,” Manthara said to me. “You don’t have a wicked bone in your body.”
“Then maybe I am to become wicked,” I said. My voice trembled, but Manthara had seen worse weakness from me. I needed her reassurance right now.
She did not disappoint. “That is entirely within your power. Now, if you are done with this foolishness, you should rest. Your body has work to do.” She sat on a chair next to my bedside. “Shall I tell you a story?”
I was not a child anymore, and it had been many years since Manthara had spun me a tale. But I nodded anyway, lying back and letting her voice wash over me as she spoke of Savitri and Satyavana. I had heard this story before, of how brave Savitri bargained with Yama, the god of death himself, for the life of her husband, Satyavana. Yama offered her any wish, except for the life of Satyavana, and so she wished she would have one hundred children with her husband. Impressed, Yama brought Satyavana back to life.
I had found it a boring story as a child, for there was no fighting or danger, no wondrous gifts or thrilling escapes—just a woman and a god, speaking. But now I heard it anew. A woman, speaking to a god as her equal. A woman, saving her husband. A woman, outsmarting death. It soothed me, for a few minutes, to imagine myself as Savitri, even if I knew deep in my heart that hers was not my path.
After the story was done, I felt calmer, more peaceful. And when I briefly opened my eyes, before I slipped at last into sleep, Manthara was still there.
I might have been immune to the magic of the gods, but Dasharath was not. The kheer we all consumed allowed his seed to stick inside us, and soon we all swelled with child.
I knew that if I bore a son, Dasharath’s vow would make me the most important woman in the kingdom. I also firmly believed that, although they had promised Dasharath strong sons, the gods would give me a daughter just to laugh at me.
I did not wish to bring a daughter into this world of men, into a world that would silence her thoughts before she could even speak them. I wondered how many women had felt this same fear, deep in their bones. If my mother had. It turned my stomach, kept me awake at night, thinking of all that might go wrong.
I had to change it.
I had to build a world where my daughter would not be exiled by her husband on a whim, where her opinion could be valued without first having to save her husband’s life in battle. The thought of my daughter marching to war was like an ache I could not shed. I lay awake night after night unable to breathe for fear of it. I would not always be there to protect her myself. Confined to only the least strenuous of activities, I had far too much time to think of these remote possibilities, for myself and my daughter, until I felt my chest would break with the fear, my ribs crackling like brittle wood under the weight of it.
But in time, the fear also brought clarity. I was a radnyi and had a seat on the council—if anyone could change this, it was me. I had to try.
The sages had made the wishes of the gods clear, putting rules in place to keep women separate and protected. But in truth, it was little protection. If the gods had already ordained my evil deeds, then I had nothing to lose by defying them now. So, I would defy them.
I could not change the minds of the gods, but I could change the minds of men. Ravana had given me a monumental gift, and I began to wonder what I might be able to accomplish with it. How I might make this kingdom a better home for my daughter than Kekaya had been for me, or my mother. Opening the court to women. Permitting women to learn in the open market schools. Allowing women to maintain their own stalls in the market—and perhaps even hold property. Being unmarriageable would no longer be a life sentence then.
I spun out the possibilities like strings in the Binding Plane, identifying the difficulties. The more traditional men, I knew, would be unhappy—Dasharath’s religious advisor still barely tolerated my presence in the room, although he held his tongue around my husband. But perhaps I could weaken their ties with Dasharath and his closest advisors and bind the others to me instead.