Prince of Dharma by Ashok Banker Page A

serious mistake, one that had repercussions on her, Manthara’s, own life and fortunes. And while Manthara could overlook a mistake that affected Kaikeyi alone, she would never, ever forgive a mistake that affected herself. That was a lesson Kaikeyi had learned a very long time ago, as a girl barely tall enough to reach Manthara’s knee, staring up with large infant eyes at the hulking hunchbacked woman who had absolute power over her life and needs, or so it had seemed then. 
     
    Kaikeyi scooted to the far side of the bed, her miserable headache suddenly forgotten. Suddenly she was that little girl again, clinging fearfully to Manthara’s sari, completely at the mercy of her daiimaa. It had been years since Manthara had thrashed her physically but Kaikeyi suspected she intended to make up for lost time. She had that familiar diamond-bright gleam in her eyes and the part of her lower lip where her overhanging upper teeth rested was shiny with spittle. 
     
    Kaikeyi drew her knees up to her chest, crouching at the far edge of the large luxurious bed, watching Manthara with feral darting eyes. She didn’t know what she might have done to enrage her surrogate mother-cum-nanny but she didn’t intend to sit still and accept whatever new brutality Manthara was planning to dish out. 
     
    To her surprise, Manthara’s next words were a question, not the string of four-letter words she’d expected. 
     
    ‘How long is it since he came to you?’ 
     
    Kaikeyi rose to her knees and stared suspiciously at Manthara, wiping away the water seeping from her drenched tresses into her eyes. ‘Who?’ 
     
    The hunchback snorted. ‘Who? Foolish woman, your husband. The King of Kosala, master of Ayodhya, Maharaja Dasaratha, who else? How many other men do you share your bed with?’ 
     
    Kaikeyi wasn’t sure if that was meant to be a real question or a rhetorical one. She had never been good with subtlety and the pounding in her skull had only become worse. Oh, what cheap brew had that lout at the inn poured into her cup last night? She held her head in her hands and struggled to frame a good answer instead. What was the question again? Ah yes, how long had it been since Dasaratha had visited her bed? Good question. How long had it been? 
     
    ‘I don’t know,’ she replied at last, truthfully for once. ‘A long time. Maybe a year, maybe longer.’ 
     
    Manthara nodded thoughtfully, setting the jug down on a chaupat table—Kaikeyi never actually played the game, but Dasaratha sometimes did. Several pieces—an elephant, a rook, and a few foot-soldiers—tumbled off the squarish board and clattered on the floor. ‘That was what I thought. Naturally, I assumed it was because of his health. An ailing septuagenarian does not desire physical intimacy as frequently as a robust young man.’ 
     
    Manthara wagged a finger. ‘But you can never tell with men. They often feign weakness only to conserve their lustful energies for other, newer conquests.’ Her face twisted in a snarl. ‘I was fooled just as you were, believing his health kept him from your bed. Now, I see, he’s had his own agenda, the shrewd bastard.’ 
     
    Kaikeyi’s eyes widened. Manthara’s abusive outbursts had never included the maharaja before. 
     
    She shuddered. Whatever this was about, it was something she didn’t want to deal with right now. Not with a splitting headache. 
     
    The old hunchback went on sharply, ‘What are you gaping at, girl? Standing around here won’t do us any good. We have to find out what the old man is up to, and quickly. Get dressed, Kaikeyi.’ She gestured at the suit of clothes she had placed on a couch. ‘Go on then. Jaldi! There’s work to be done.’ 
     
    Kaikeyi did as she was told without argument. She had endured a lifetime of such bossing about, being told what to wear, what to say, how to say it, what to do and when and to whom. It was almost a relief to fall into this easy obedience. As she