Pregnant King, The (15 page)

A particularly buxom Brahmana bride offered to help the handmaiden. Soon nearly half a dozen women were all over Sumedha’s bride. All bedecked in bridal finery. Red and gold. The fragrance of mallika and champaka and jabakusuma. Sandal paste. Soft touch. Intoxicating eyes.

The woman closest to Somvati felt something stirring against her hip. Something hard. She screamed.

That night, Yuvanashva’s wives rolled on the ground and wept. ‘They have ruined everything. Now we will never be mothers.’

‘What happened?’ asked Yuvanashva.

With her head to the floor, the handmaiden explained, ‘The queens gave cows to two men masquerading as a Brahmana couple. One of them, dressed as woman, pretended to be the bride. They were treated as husband
and wife, their feet were washed, they were fed with other Brahmanas and even given a cow.’

‘How can a man be a bride?’ moaned Simantini, ‘By acknowledging them as a couple we have surely angered the gods. They will curse us, shower us with demerit. The yagna is doomed.’

‘Kill them, Arya. Kill those imposters,’ said Pulomi.

Keshini said nothing. The boy who masqueraded as the wife looked familiar. She had seen them somewhere. Tarini-pur? But they said they were from Pratishthana. Were they lying? Wasn’t the one pretending to be the wife the Brahmana orphan who everyone called ‘donkey’ in the village pond?

Yuvanashva looked at his agitated wives. He felt their despair. With a grim look, he sent for the Danda-Nayak, captain of his guards.

The sun was setting in Kuru-kshetra, the eighteenth time since the war began. In all probability it was the last.

In the dungeons of Vallabhi, a terrified young man named Somvat, dressed in a red sari and yellow uttarya, hoped the last few hours had been a nightmare.

After the woman had screamed in the temple, everyone had stepped back. His body’s reaction was evident for all to see. The queens had turned away in disgust. ‘Get them away,’ Simantini had ordered. The other queens followed her out of the enclosure. Terrified brides ran towards their husbands.

The temple attendants grabbed hold of his sari and
pulled it away. He stood there naked, like a freak, with women’s ornaments on his hands, legs and neck, flowers in his hair, a yellow uttarya in his hand, and throbbing manhood jutting out of from the side of his tight loincloth that had failed in its purpose.

His friend, Sumedha, the ‘husband’, tried to cover his friend’s shame with his upper garment. He was held back and punched so hard in the stomach that he could not breathe. Somvat crouched on the floor and covered his face. Everybody stood back and stared.

Then came the pronouncements. Slowly at first, like the buzz of bees. Then it poured like torrential rains. ‘Flog the imposters.’ ‘Kill the defilers.’ ‘Burn them.’ ‘Behead them.’ ‘Blacken their face and take them across the city naked on a donkey.’ ‘Castrate them. Sell them to the Chandalas.’ Somvat was scared, embarrassed; he wanted the earth to split open and the Matrikas to swallow him whole.

The chief priest intervened. ‘It is not for us to decide this man’s fate.’ With a concerned look, he gave back the sari to Somvat. ‘Cover yourself,’ he said looking away. He then led the two boys out of the precinct. They had to be handed over to the Danda-Nayak who would then take them to the king. The Raja would decide their fate. Only the king had the right to do so.

Word of the two boys who duped the three queens dressed as husband and wife spread like wildfire. Men and women ran towards the temple street. It was soon bursting with curious onlookers. They made it difficult for the guards to take the boys through. When the people caught sight of the boy wearing women’s clothes, they started hurling abuses and pelting stones.

One young man slipped in between the guards and
gave Somvat’s testicles a vicious squeeze. Somvat yelped in agony. ‘That does not sound like a woman, does it?’ said the man.

The crowd erupted in a chant, ‘Kill the man who marries the man. Kill the man who pretends to be a wife. Kill the defiling demons.’

Only when he was cast into the dungeon, did Somvat realize the enormity of his actions. Fear crept into his heart. He wished this had never happened, that he and Sumedha were back home. Tears rolled down his eyes. ‘If only I was really a woman,’ he thought. ‘Then Sumedha and I would become a real Brahmana couple. No one would accuse us of duping the queens or disrupting the king’s yagna. We could go home alive.’

No sooner did he think this thought than a strange being appeared before him. Pot-bellied, with short stumpy legs, buttocks as large as pumpkins, breasts as small as onions. ‘That sounds like a really good idea,’ it said.

Somvat jumped up. ‘Who are you? How did you get in here?’ he asked.

‘I am Sthunakarna. A Yaksha. Maker of riddles. Guardian of treasures. Follower of Kubera. Resident of Alaka-puri. I can go wherever I please—through walls, into dreams. Rules of Manavas do not apply to me. It was I who made Shikhandi a man and a husband. I can make you a woman and a wife.’

Somvat had seen a creature such as Sthunakarna only on the walls of Ileshwara’s temple. Images of
such deformed beasts lined the northern wall just below images of the Apsaras. ‘Because the world belongs not just to beautiful creatures,’ said the Pujari. ‘Shiva loves them. He is the indifferent one, who looks beyond bodies, beautiful and ugly, male and female, young and old, at the suffering soul.’

‘Do you see this?’ said the Yaksha pointing to the hairy slit between his legs. Somvat turned his head away in disgust. The Yaksha caught him by the hair and shoved his head towards his groin. ‘Look at it. Don’t be shy. It is what you must have if you want to wear a sari. Not this,’ he said grabbing Somvat’s penis with his other hand. Somvat screamed but no sound left his lips. ‘No one can see me. No one can hear you,’ said the Yaksha grinning. His teeth were deformed but sharp. Somvat was terrified. Would this goblin eat him whole? Or just parts of him?

The Yaksha let go of his hair and caressed him gently. ‘Don’t be scared. I don’t want to harm you. I am here to help you. I once had what you had. Gave it to Shikhandi, you see,’ he roared. ‘It was a full moon night. I saw him wading into the river Kalindi intent on drowning himself. I dragged him out and asked, “Why are you trying to kill yourself?” “To save my city,” he cried. “My father-in-law has sent his warriors on elephants armed with fire-arrows to set Panchala aflame unless I prove I am a man.” “And how are you supposed to prove you are a man?” I asked. He replied, “By making love to the buxom courtesan sent to my father’s house by my father-in-law.” “Why can you not just make love to your wife instead? That’s how husbands usually prove they are men,” I said. “That’s where all the problem started,” he said. Then he
started crying like a little girl.”

Though frightened, Somvat was fascinated by the way the Yaksha kept changing voices, sounding sometimes like himself and sometimes like, in all likelihood, Shikhandi.

The Yaksha continued, ‘On his wedding night, Shikhandi’s wife noticed that her husband’s body was no different from hers.’ The Yaksha laughed, ‘Listen to this: Drupada had convinced young Shikhandi that his manhood would emerge on his wedding night in the presence of his wife. Can you believe such a thing? Shikhandi managed to convince his bride of this too. Innocent little thing! So the two spent all night waiting for the manhood to emerge and as you can guess,’ the Yaksha paused for effect, ‘nothing emerged. Both went to their respective fathers. Shikhandi’s father said the wife was useless; they should look for another one. The bride’s father, the king of Dasharni, sent a courtesan to Drupada with a warning that if Shikhandi failed to prove his manliness to her satisfaction, the Kshatriyas of Dasharni would release their fire-arrows and burn Panchala to the ground.’

As the Yaksha spoke, Somvat forgot all about the situation he was in. The fetters. The dungeons. The fear of losing his head. He was completely enchanted by the story. ‘What happened then?’

‘Shikhandi ran out of Panchala, suddenly confronted by the truth of his body. He tried to drown himself in the river. I saved him. Or should I say her? I asked him, “What do you think you are, a man or woman?” “I am not sure,” he said in a voice that was definitely not a man’s. “My father insists I am a man. So does my mother. But my body is just like my wife’s,” so saying
he untied his dhoti and lowered his uttarya. I tell you, it was the most perfect woman’s body I had seen in a long time, marred by rough muscular arms. Lotus-bud breasts. Smooth round hips. I know human women. I have been with lots of them. Manava women invoke Yaksha men using magical formulae because we provide them with the greatest satisfaction; Yaskshas are hung like donkeys, you see, thick and black and long. Just like you.’

Suddenly aware of the Yaksha’s grip on his manhood, Somvat tried to pull away. The Yaksha’s grip tightened. ‘Where do you wish to go? Where can you go?’ said the Yaksha glancing at the chains round the boy’s ankles and wrists. ‘Now let me finish this story. I felt sorry for Shikhandi. I picked her up and put her on my lap and wiped her tears and comforted her. She was a girl. A little girl raised as a boy. Confused. Embarrased by the princess of Dasharni. Afraid of being the cause of Panchala’s destruction.’ The Yaksha paused. Somvat noticed that the Yaksha had compassionate eyes. ‘I felt sorry for him. I told him that I would grant him my masculinity and take on his femininity. Then he could be a man with the courtesan sent by his father-in-law. After that he could be a man with his wife. And then with as many women as he wished. But only until the following new-moon night. On that day he would have to return my manhood to me. I told him a fortnight was enough for him to teach a lesson to all those women who want him to be a man,’ Sthunakarna chuckled.

‘What do you mean teach the women a lesson?’ asked Somvat.

With a conspiratorial look, the Yaksha said, ‘It’s a Yaksha’s secret that few humans know. Women who
know it never share it with others out of shame and spite. A Yaksha man can go to a Manava woman only if she calls him, you see. But he can go to her only once, never again. If a woman seeks a Yaksha in lust, she is left with a terrible insatiable itch that no one can cure. If a woman seeks a Yaksha in love, there is no itch; instead she ends up bearing a child even if she is an old hag.’

‘Is that true?’

‘As I told you, the laws of nature that apply to Manavas do not apply to Yakshas. If Shikhandi’s wife came to him in love she would become the mother of his child. If she came to him in lust she would suffer a terrible itch forever. A deserving punishment I must say,’ Sthunakarna bared his teeth in glee.

‘How many women have you given the itch and to how many have you given a child?’ asked Somvat.

‘Ten itches but no children. Look at me, who will fall in love with a Yaksha. They want us only for one thing.’ Sthunakarna’s thoughts went back to the women who had compelled him to come to them with the magical formula: a farmer’s frustrated widow, a fisherman’s demanding wife, a queen of an impotent king, a merchant’s impatient daughter, an old doctor’s young wife…a long list, extending back to the days of Ila. Three hundred and forty years earlier. That’s how old he was.