The Sandals on the Throne

In the city of Ayodhya, in a great hall where the throne stood gold and empty, three women wept softly.

Rama, the beloved eldest prince, had walked into the forest the night before. He had gone willingly, in the simple cloth of a hermit, his wife Sita and brother Lakshmana beside him. He had gone because of a promise his father had been bound to keep.

The old king, Dasharatha, had died of grief by morning.

The city was in shock. The throne was empty. The prince now meant to sit on it — Bharata — was away visiting his mother's family and did not yet know. Messengers rode for many days.

When Bharata finally returned, he saw at once that something was terribly wrong. The flags hung low. People stood at their doors and would not meet his eyes. He ran through the palace and found his mother, Kaikeyi, in her room.

"Mother — what has happened? Where is Father? Where is my brother?"

Kaikeyi looked up. Her face was grey. She had not slept.

"Bharata, my son. I have done a terrible thing. I asked your father for two old boons — that Rama be sent into the forest for fourteen years, and that you be crowned in his place."

Bharata stared. "Why?"

"Because I wanted my son on the throne. Because I was a foolish woman."

He sat down slowly on the floor. "And Father?"

"His heart broke. He is gone."

Bharata bowed his head into his hands. He did not move for a long time. When he finally lifted his face, his cheeks were wet, but his eyes were very clear.

"Mother," he said softly, "you have made me an orphan twice. Once of a father, once of a brother — in a single week."

Kaikeyi began to weep. He did not comfort her. He could not, yet.

He rose. He walked to the great hall. The ministers came hurrying. The crown was brought forward on a velvet cushion.

The chief priest bowed. "Prince Bharata, the throne is yours. The kingdom needs a king."

Bharata looked at the golden chair. He looked at the crown.

He did not touch it.

"Stop," he said. His voice was steady. "I will not sit on this seat. It is not mine. It is my brother's."

The ministers exchanged frightened glances.

"Then what shall we do, my prince?"

"I will go into the forest," Bharata said. "I will find Rama. I will fall at his feet. I will bring him back. He must be king. Not I."

The next morning, the entire city followed him into the forest — not an army, but the people themselves: mothers, old men, shopkeepers, priests, pouring out of Ayodhya behind Bharata like a slow, walking river.

For many days they journeyed. At last, in a quiet clearing among tall trees, Bharata saw a thin stream of smoke rising — and a small hut of leaves.

He ran the last distance. He fell at Rama's feet.

Rama lifted him gently. The two brothers held each other and wept the way only brothers can weep.

"Come home, Brother," Bharata begged. "Come home. The throne is yours. The kingdom is yours. The people are at the edge of the forest waiting for you. I will not take what is not mine."

Rama held his brother's face in both hands. His own eyes were wet, but his voice was very steady.

"Bharata. Beloved. I made a promise to our father. Fourteen years in the forest. I cannot break a promise made to a dying man. Not even for you. Not even for the city."

"Then what shall I do?" Bharata whispered. "I cannot sit on your throne. I cannot."

Rama was quiet for a long time. Then he gently slipped off his wooden sandals — the rough, simple sandals he wore as a forest dweller — and placed them in his brother's hands.

"Then take these," he said softly. "Carry them home. Set them on the throne. Let them rule Ayodhya in my place. You will rule from beneath them, as their servant. When the fourteenth year is over, I will come home and lift them up. Until then — these are king."

Bharata held the sandals as if they were the most precious thing in the world. He pressed them to his forehead. He could not speak.

He turned and walked back to Ayodhya with the sandals on his head.

The people followed in silence.

When he reached the great hall, he placed the two simple wooden sandals on the golden throne. He arranged them with such tenderness, as if he were tucking a child into bed.

Then he stepped down from the dais. He took off his royal robes. He put on the plain cloth of a hermit. He went to a small village nearby called Nandigram, and from there he ruled — not as king, but as caretaker.

Every morning he bowed to the empty sandals on the golden throne. He read out the petitions of the people in front of them. He decided nothing without first looking up at the small dark shoes resting on the gold.

He slept on a mat, not on a bed. He ate from a wooden bowl, not a king's plate. The seasons turned. The children of Ayodhya grew up knowing only one king — the sandals — and one caretaker — Bharata.

When at last the fourteenth year came to an end, Bharata stood at the edge of the city, day after day, watching the road. His heart was a small lamp flickering with hope.

On the appointed morning, a figure appeared in the distance.

Rama.

Bharata ran. He ran like a small boy. He fell at his brother's feet and wept and laughed and could not let go of his ankles.

Rama lifted him up, again. He held him close.

Together they walked into Ayodhya. The streets were already full of flowers. The lamps were already lit.

In the great hall, the two wooden sandals still sat quietly on the golden throne. Bharata bowed to them one last time. He lifted them carefully and placed them in Rama's hands.

"I have kept the seat warm, Brother. The kingdom is yours."

Rama did not sit at once. He held the sandals for a long moment. He looked at his brother. He understood, in that single look, what fourteen years of love had cost.

He placed the sandals gently aside, and embraced Bharata first.

Outside, the city of Ayodhya began to sing.