“I do not want all four of them to leave at once,” Dasharath said. “What if something were to happen during the journey?”
He had a point. “Very well. I will take Bharata and Rama with me. When should we leave?”
“In the morning, if you can be ready.”
The first day of our journey, I had the boys ride. I reveled in the feeling of being on horseback again, at the breeze in my hair and the easy rhythm of the horse beneath me. Until the sun reached its peak, the boys did too, enjoying this glimpse at the settlements west of the city. It was refreshing to see a place so uncrowded and unhurried, the yellow straw roofs an exciting novelty for the boys who would never see such a fire risk in the city itself. But as Surya began his lazy arc down the horizon, and the villages surrounding Ayodhya faded into the distance, the complaints began. We were riding through flat plains, a sea of yellow before us and behind us—and I could sense not only boredom but weariness. I did not countenance any of it to their faces, but told Asha to ensure they could have a warm soak that evening.
The next day, I asked if they wanted to move to the carriage. Bharata agreed immediately, but Rama insisted he would continue on horseback. Once he heard this, Bharata quickly changed his mind, eager to be with his brother.
By midday I knew they must be desperately sore—even I was feeling the pain of the ride, despite our relaxed pace—but they bore it bravely.
That evening Bharata limped into my tent and flopped onto my bedroll. He would soon be too old to show such easy affection, and I felt a pang of loss at the idea.
“How did you do it?” he asked.
“Do what?” I gave him a hint of a smile to let him know I was teasing him. “You should be more specific.”
He groaned. “Horseback riding. My legs hurt.”
I knew he must be in quite a bit of pain to admit it so freely. I rubbed his legs, and he gave a deep sigh of contentment. “Practice,” I said. “Where I grew up, I rode almost every day, and I still do it when I can.”
“And we are going to the kingdom you grew up in?”
“Yes. I’m sure my brother would love to give you a riding lesson.”
At this, Bharata sat up. “The raja?” he asked. “Won’t he be busy?”
“For you he would make time,” I said, remembering the escapades of my youth. I wondered if Yudhajit had become more serious since then, if out from the thumb of our father he had come into his own.
Given his recent actions, I doubted it.
“What was it like?” Bharata lay back down, then added very quickly before I could chide him for being too vague, “Kekaya, what was it like?”
“I grew up in a palace, as you and your brothers do,” I said. None of my children had ever asked me this question before, and I found myself at a loss. I certainly could not tell them of my mother and father, absent in different ways. “It is colder there than in Ayodhya, and there were fewer people around. We had many magnificent horses, and the palace was surrounded by huge open fields—perfect for riding. It was good that we had so much space, because I had seven brothers.”
I wondered what would they look like now, as adults. It had been so long since I saw them.
“I wish I had seven brothers,” Bharata said wistfully. “A younger brother would be nice.”
I stroked his hair. “Why do you want a younger brother?”
Bharata blushed and turned his head away from me. I stayed silent, knowing that he would tell me eventually. Finally, he said, in a small voice, “So I can be first at something.”
I put a hand on his cheek and turned his head back toward me, looking into his troubled eyes. “What do you mean? You are first at many things. I know you are excellent at sums, and your tutors tell me that you are one of the fastest readers they have ever seen.” I remembered these things vividly, because while I loved all my sons, I took the most pride in Bharata. I was happy when any of the boys succeeded, but Bharata’s triumphs made me want to smile all day. It helped that he was a very bright young man when he decided to sit with his tutors instead of causing mischief.
He shook his head slightly, adjusting his legs and then wincing. “Those things don’t matter. Rama says a raja must be a warrior first. I want to be a good one. A great one. So I must become a better warrior.”
“Your father is a raja, is he not?” I leaned forward and started massaging his legs again, wondering if it was Rama’s insistence on toughness that had caused the boys to ride all day without asking for the carriage.