Prince of Dharma by Ashok Banker

seasons now, and it seemed like he had always been here with her. Had he really been away for eight years? Manthara couldn’t be mistaken, she was never mistaken. That was why Kaikeyi trusted her to decide everything for her. 
     
    Where was Manthara now anyway? Why wasn’t she doing something about this damn rakshas sitting on her chest? And this head. Blessed Earth-Mother Sri. She wished the rakshas would just tear off her head and be done with it. Decapitation would be a blessed relief after this pounding. Then she might dare to open her eyes and resume her life once more. Of course it might be awkward to pursue a normal life without a head. Although of course the great god Ganesha had managed fine with a baby elephant’s head. 
     
    Perhaps she could have a doe’s head attached, or better still, a stag, one of those giant Nilgiri stags, ten feet high at the shoulder, antlers bristling menacingly. She could picture herself, standing naked, her neckline ragged and blood-smeared, with the head of a Nilgiri stag, proud and black-eyed, antlers rising like a bizarre crown. Interesting. In a strange gods-and-monsters kind of way. Like a mythic victim of a terrible curse. Arousing, like those strange paintings of twisted creatures she had once seen at a foreign merchant’s stall on the road to Janakpuri. 
    ‘Kaikeyi!’ 
     
    Or like those tribals she had watched performing that dance inspired by the forbidden shakti-pooja ritual. The dance had been so shockingly coarse, she had wondered what it would have been like to witness the ritual itself. Or even—bite your tongue—participate in it. The tribals had worn animal pelts, complete with heads and glassily staring eyes. That was how she would look if she had the head of a Nilgiri stag and the body of a woman, a perfect body like she used to have, before marriage, before motherhood, before living well and eating even better took their toll. What a formidable, terrifying, awe-inspiring thing she would be. 
     
    ‘Kaikeyi, if you don’t wake up this instant, I will pour this ice-cold water on your head.’ 
     
    And if she danced for Dasaratha then, really danced, not the cautious, precisely choreographed natya performances designed for royal viewing but the wild abandoned frenzy of the Gandaharis or Kazakhs or Krygziks, then even his long ailing would not be able to suppress the urges he would feel. Yes, she would have that power over him once again. That sense of complete and utter control. 
     
    ‘Kaikeyi, this is your last warning, girl. Next comes the water. Brace yourself.’ 
     
    Why did the stupid hag always call her ‘girl’? Just because she had tended her since childhood. It was ludicrous to call her that at this age. She was a mother. A queen no less. And yet Manthara still treated her like she was nothing more than a snivelling, spoilt little— 
     
    ‘Aaaah!’ 
     
    She sat up in bed, opening her eyes to a watery hell. No, not hell, for hell would be hot and blazing. This was cold, ice cold, and the stupid hag had splashed it across her face and her chest— she still had the jug in her hand, as she stood there, grinning her crooked-toothed grin—like she was washing down a horse or, or, or … 
     
    ‘Manthara,’ Kaikeyi spluttered, wiping water from her eyes. ‘You witch!’ 
     
    Manthara’s grin widened. ‘Yes, me witch.’ She dropped the arghya jug with a clatter and shuffled forward, reached out with one wizened, claw-like hand. Slapping Kaikeyi once across each cheek, hard enough to sting. ‘And you hussy. Now wake up, and see where your master has gone while you slept the dawn away.’ 
     
    Kaikeyi blinked rapidly, the slaps completing the wake-up process the water had started. Manthara’s use of foul language told her at once that something was seriously wrong; the hunchback wasn’t above using bad language to express herself at times, but when she addressed Kaikeyi in such terms, it always meant that Kaikeyi had made a