“Yes?” Bharata squinted up at me, clearly sensing a trick but unable to figure out exactly what it was.
“And how many wars have you seen him fight?”
Bharata looked up at the canvas ceiling for several moments trying to recall. “I can’t remember any.”
“That’s because since you and your brothers were born, he hasn’t fought any. He has ridden with his soldiers a few times on patrols, and of course there are small skirmishes at our borders every so often. But the last major battle he fought was before you were born. Almost twelve years ago.”
I did not think about it often, but sometimes in my dreams I would revisit that bloody battlefield and wake up in a cold fear that Dasharath was dead, that I had failed. I did not want my children to ever have such dreams.
“I didn’t know that.” He turned toward me, resting his head in my lap.
“Your father is a great raja—the greatest in Bharat—and he spends most of his days looking at numbers and reading reports so he can make the best decisions for the kingdom. That is the work of a raja, and you excel at it. Being a warrior is worthy. But war is not something to wish for. It destroys people, destroys kingdoms. A raja should not wish for it. There is far more to being a ruler than that.”
I couldn’t see Bharata’s face, but when he said, “Thanks, Ma,” I could sense the happiness in his tone. He fell asleep in my lap, and I let him stay all night in my tent, treasuring each moment before he would grow too old to want this proximity anymore. And when he staggered to his feet the next morning, legs shaking, I ordered both boys to the carriage with no room for argument. Rulers had to be wise as well as strong.
One week into the trip, the boys reached the edge of the world they knew. They had never been farther than this while hunting, and they did not want to stay trapped inside the carriage any longer. They rode beside me for as much of the day as they could manage, commenting with wonder on everything they saw: the cone-like trees bristling with slender needles, the vast rolling hills, the roaming herds of shaggy goats and horned sheep.
Their enthusiasm gave me fresh eyes, and I viewed it all with pleasure. I remembered all too well feeling trapped inside the carriage on my bridal journey from Kekaya to Ayodhya.
At the end of the second week, we reached the bridge that spanned the Sarasvati River. I remembered my adventure with Yudhajit near its banks long ago, that surreal glimpse of the rakshasa in the hush of the forest, and apprehension rippled through me.
As we had written back and forth over the last eleven years, our blue bond had grown. But it did not even approach its former strength. The love and tranquility of his letters, filled primarily with news of our respective courts and memories of childhood, might not translate when he set his eyes upon me.
Even though I could gain no real assistance from the goddess, when I saw the river, I longed for the calming ritual familiarity of taking its blessings.
I stopped our party on the banks and instructed everyone to bathe their faces in the water. Manthara waded in several steps, an expression of true contentment on her features. She had insisted on accompanying me, for she was getting older and might not be able to make the long journey back to her homeland again.
“Why is Manthara so cheerful?” Rama asked me. Excitement shone in his features, boyish enthusiasm propelling him onto his toes.
“The Sarasvati River is sacred to us,” I answered. “We say that it is the pathway to heaven and the stars. The goddess protects our rivers and waters and expands the minds of men.”
Rama shook his head. “Lord Vishnu is the protector, not Sri Sarasvati,” he argued.
I turned to look at him. “Rama, you cannot say such a thing in the presence of this holy river. Apologize at once.”
“Why? What can she do to me?”
Irritation flashed through me at his dismissal of the goddess, followed closely by fear. If Sarasvati heard such blasphemous words, she might rise up to strike my son.
I positioned my body between Rama and the river. “Sarasvati is a goddess, and worthy of your respect.”
“I respect her. Of course I do,” Rama said quickly. “But I do not—”
A scream came from behind me, and I spun around, pushing Rama farther back. The steady waters of the river had become a churning menace, creeping up the banks toward us. The servants were scrambling backward and away. With the cloudless, sunny sky above us, there could be no question what was causing this.
“Move,” I told Rama. “You need to run.”