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At dawn Pramilā arms her husband, and at dusk she disarms him, and touches his skin, muscle corded beneath, scars above, and knows that come morning she will hide it again in armour so he shines as silver, as gold and gleaming steel. In the hours between, she will wash the dust of battle from him, and the blood from wounds inflicted, and she will anoint him in fragrant oil. These are the duties of a wife. She will feed him, too, with her white hands from platters of gold, and bed him, and let him pillow his tired head on her breast.
She has never lifted her eyes in anger to her father-in-law, her husband’s father so lecherous, and his mother so weak, to let him endanger them all so for lust. Every day at dawn she thinks to do so, sending her husband to fight, every day at dusk she forgets her desire, receiving him victorious home. Who can defeat Meghnād, who speaks in the voice of thunder? Who can conquer Indrajit, who has conquered the gods themselves? And every day, in the day, she sits in her chambers, and hears the sounds of far-off battle, and she moves from thought to thought like the pigeons pecking distractedly at the grain her maids give them, and she thinks of her husband dead on the battlefield, and she thinks of him victorious with his foes slain at his feet, and she thinks that the beggar’s must be a rare beauty, that so many are willing to die for her, and she thinks that she could as easily be small and twisted and dark, this Sitā, and still the men would fight, for honour insulted.
At dusk she disarms her husband, and all her thoughts are of him, from dusk to dawn. But from dawn to dusk she is alone, and not all her thoughts are of him. His death dances a tandav in her mind, but his is the sun’s life, the life of this son of golden Lanka, golden with his light, and his death is as unthinkable a thought, to her, as thinking of the sun forever dark. No eclipse can hold the sun, and no foe her husband, for whom even the gods are no match. She does not often think of him, while the sun is in the sky, its heat a constant comfort, reminding her—as though she could forget—of his golden valour.
In the night, his arms wrapped around her like a great, protecting shield, she knows he is no god, but only flesh—blood wells up beneath her nails on his skin, so easily it is broken—and then she wants to rage against this love that holds him bound, his mother’s beloved, to a father who has so dishonoured his mother. His uncle has walked from the court, and taken shelter with Rāma. She has never liked Vibhishana’s deceptively gentle eyes, nor his faith, so easily taken—what god bids you leave your kin?—and his departure has let her breathe freely, decisively away from his judgemental hypocrisy. And yet, lying pinned under Meghnād’s muscled weight, she wonders whether it was not wise, to escape, whether it would not be wise, still, to seek out the beggar, and make a separate peace. It would be easy, to promise her whatever she wants, even freedom—only her husband’s father ever has leisure to visit her in her garden, and that not often; the guards are terrified of Pramila, as well they should be.
But these are night-thoughts, like a child’s nightmares, and with the rising sun they melt like the mist from the ocean upon the palace grounds. She sends her husband to his Yajna with the rising sun, and thinks no thoughts of him in the long day.
At sunset they bring back his body, bleeding, and at dawn Pramilā arms her husband, and smiling sends him to fight. In the hours between, she has washed the dust of battle from him, and the blood from wounds inflicted, and has anointed him in fragrant oil. She has hidden his body in armour so he shines as silver, as gold and gleaming steel. These are the duties of a wife. She will feed his pyre, too, with her white flesh, and bed him amidst the flames, and let him pillow his tired head on her breast.