Pregnant King, The (28 page)

The next day, Iravan was stripped of all his clothes, covered with neem leaves, smeared with turmeric and led to the altar. Sahadeva sang the hymns. Nakula lit the lamps. Yudhishtira offered flowers to the goddess. Bhima raised the axe. ‘One stroke, it must be. Just one. He must die instantly. No pain. No suffering. No curse,’ instructed Arjuna. The axe swung. The head rolled.
Mohini wept as a widow should.

Arjuna told Yuvanashva, ‘We never spoke of that night ever again. But it was the only time I had seen Krishna cry. I have seen many widows cry. But none like Krishna.’

The royal horse of the Pandavas galloped through Vallabhi, followed by Arjuna and his army. Vallabhi accepted Yudhishtira as its overlord. Yuvanashva did not care. What bothered him was that his question remained unanswered. Arjuna knew what it was to be woman. Krishna knew what it was to be a wife. But neither knew what it was to be a mother.

That summer, a fever swept through Vallabhi. The skin of every child that clung to a mother’s breast became red with rash. Their bodies became hot. Asanga said, ‘Nothing can be done to remove this fever. Just wash the warm limbs with cool sandal water and rub the rashes with neem.’ It was the curse of the fever-goddess.

Both Mandhata and Jayanta were ill. They were irritable and kept crying. They could not sleep and they spat out whatever they ate. The whole palace was worried. ‘They must make offerings to the fever-goddess,’ said Shilavati.

The shrine of the fever-goddess stood outside the city, next to a lake under a neem tree. She sat on the shoulders of Jvara, a three headed, six-armed, three-legged, demon. Once she was married to a merchant.
A king accused him of theft and had him killed. Deprived of the joy of marriage and maternity, she swore to sweep into the king’s city unless he appeased her with sacrifices. She made her presence felt through fever. She threatened babies. To appease her, women gave her gifts of bridal finery. They offered her lemons and sour curds. This calmed her down. She let the fever pass.

All the women of the palace made their way to the shrine of the fever-goddess. Simantini and Pulomi walked with them. One had to go to the shrine barefoot to demonstrate one’s sorrow and desperation. ‘There is no need for you to join,’ said Simantini to Keshini, ‘Watch over the two children while we are away.’

By the time the queens returned, Jayanta’s fever had abated. Mandhata’s fever, however, had worsened. ‘I am worried,’ said Simantini. Keshini said, ‘Maybe I should have gone to the temple too.’

‘Go, quickly,’ said Simantini but when Keshini returned Mandhata’s body was still hot. Delirium was setting in. ‘Mother, mother,’ he mumbled.

‘I am here,’ said Simantini. She could not bear to see the boy suffer. ‘Get the king,’ she told Keshini, who had already ordered the servant to fetch the doctor.

Asanga came and found Mandhata in Yuvanashva’s arms. He was limp. ‘Do something,’ said the king, an anguished look in his eyes. Asanga looked at the child. He was very weak. All he could do is reassure. Such fevers could not be healed.

‘Have you made an offering to the fever-goddess?’ asked Asanga.

‘We have. Lemons. Curds,’ said Simantini. ‘All three of us and all the palace maids. Jayanta responded
immediately. Mandhata is still weak.’

‘Did Yuvanashva make the offering?’ he asked.

‘No.’

‘Maybe you should,’ said Asanga, avoiding the king’s eye. ‘The goddess accepts only the offerings of she who has given life.’

Pulomi got up and walked away. Keshini looked at Asanga angrily. Simantini did not take her eyes off Mandhata. ‘I will go,’ said Yuvanashva.

‘Only women can go to the shrine,’ said Simantini without looking up, embarrassed by this conversation. ‘We have to wear green saris and sixteen love-charms of marriage. Earrings, toe-rings, nose-rings. We must offer the same to her in a wicker basket along with lemons and curd. How can the king go like that? What will people say?’

Yuvanashva said nothing. He hugged the child and closed his eyes. Asanga looked at the two queens. There were worried expressions on their faces. They cared for the little one. And they looked embarrassed. How does one get used to such a situation?

Late that night when the whole city was asleep, Yuvanashva slipped out of the palace unnoticed through the serpent gate carrying a bundle of cloth. ‘Where are you going?’ asked the two Pisachas, following him.

‘To the shrine of the fever-goddess.’

‘But men are not allowed there. The goddess will not like it.’

The king did not reply. When he could see the neem tree near the lake, he stopped and untied the bundle he was carrying. It contained a sari. Yuvanashva removed his dhoti and uttarya and draped the sari. ‘What are you doing?’ asked the Pisachas. The king did not stop
to answer. He opened a box containing many ornaments and went on to put the toe-ring, the anklet and armlet. He even put on a nose-ring, wincing as he forcibly and hurriedly pierced the left lobe of his nose. He pulled out a chain of large silver coins and tied it round his neck. In a silver box shaped like a leaf was lamp black. He lined his eyes with it. He tied his hair with a string of flowers. The bundle also contained a small wicker basket filled with gifts for the goddess, prepared by Keshini and Simantini: six lemons, a small pot of curd and a lamp with clarified butter and a cotton wick. He went to the shrine of the fever-goddess and made the offering.

In the light of the lamp, the large silver eyes of the goddess stared at this mother with a moustache. Her two hands blessed the king.

Back in Vallabhi, Mandhata started breathing normally. He broke into a sweat. His fever abated.

‘Don’t go, mother,’ said Mandhata, grabbing Yuvanashva’s arm when he returned. The child’s eyes were squeezed shut. They were wet with tears.

‘I won’t go anywhere, little one’ said Yuvanashva. He picked the boy up and placed him on his chest. He was still wearing the green sari he had worn to the fever-goddess shrine. He was wet with perspiration after the long walk. It was a miracle that no guard noticed him. Or did they? Had they turned away? Did the palace know what the king was doing?

The sound of Yuvanashva’s heart, the rhythm of his breath, comforted Mandhata. He relaxed. He slept all night on Yuvanashva’s chest, clinging to him as a monkey clings to his mother.

This was the first time Yuvanashva had heard Mandhata call him mother.

Just before dawn, Simantini picked up Mandhata and took him to her bed. Mandhata snuggled between her breasts. ‘Father’s moustache tickles,’ he said. Then he yawned and went to sleep.

That day, as they went to the Kshatriya section of the city on the royal chariot, Yuvanashva told Vipula, ‘It will not make sense to your logical mind. You will say, a parent is a parent, whether you are father or mother. But it is not the same. I cannot explain. You have to experience it. I don’t know what Bhisma told Yudhishtira. And I don’t know what Bhangashvana’s opinion was in this matter. All I know is what I feel. I feel, while there is sweetness when your son calls you “father”, there is more sweetness when he calls you “mother.”’

Yuvanashva told Simantini of his decision, ‘Henceforth, Mandhata will call me “mother.”’

‘How can he call you mother? Let him call you what Jayanta calls you. How does it matter anyway?’ Simantini said.

It mattered. Yuvanashva could not explain what he was going through. When Jayanta called him ‘father’ it felt right. But when Mandhata called him ‘father’ it felt wrong. ‘What’s wrong if he calls me mother?’ he asked.

‘It would be inappropriate,’ said Simantini.

‘At least in the palace.’

‘No, the servants will hear. Tongues will wag.’

‘I can’t bear it,’ said Yuvanashva. ‘Let him call me mother.’

Simantini grew tired. It was time to bring out the one argument that would stop this nonsense. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Choose. What would you rather be—king or mother?’

‘What?’

‘King or mother?’

‘I am king. I am also mother.’

‘No. Mothers cannot be kings. If Shilavati cannot be king, Yuvanashva cannot be mother.’

Yuvanashva was silent.

‘My lord, what use is a wife if she cannot be mother. Let me be what I was brought here for. Your son’s mother. I will love him as my own. You stay king.’

‘He is mine. I gave birth to him. You are nothing,’ said Yuvanashva angrily.

Simantini struck back. She had thought about this long and hard. She spoke with confidence, ‘To be a mother you must be a woman. Are you saying you are a woman, Arya? If you are a woman you have no right to sit on the throne.’

Yuvanashva said, ‘I will not let you take my son away from me.’

‘Either your son or your crown. Choose what you wish to give up.’

‘I can see you have been talking to my mother. She has made you a pawn in her game to get back at me.’

‘She is right.’

‘She is vicious and vindictive. She is using you.’

Simantini felt sorry for her husband. Her voice softened, ‘It is for your own good, Arya, that I do this.
And for the good of our family. The world must not know that you are an aberration. They will cast you into the same pyre into which you cast those two boys. I will not let them do that to you. Let the world see you as it wants to see you. A great king, with three wives and two sons. Virile and strong and obedient. The flame of the Turuvasu clan. Be a father. Leave motherhood to me. I am your wife. Your chief queen. You owe me that.’

He did.

‘And this scar? Do you want to deny the truth of this scar?’ asked Yuvanashva, parting his dhoti, revealing the gash of childbirth on his left inner thigh.

‘Everybody knows what that is,’ said Simantini, turning away, with Mandhata in her arms. ‘A hunting accident, where you were gored by a great boar’s tusks.’

Outside, the crows cheered. What a brilliant lie! Order had been restored. The family tree was in full bloom. Its honour intact.

Sixteen years after the carnage of Kuru-kshetra, a young girl in the city of Panchala felt blood seeping between her thighs for the first time in her life.

‘Devi,’ cried her handmaiden addressing the girl’s mother, ‘It has finally happened. The princess has bloomed.’

Hiranyavarni, the widow queen of Panchala, heaved a sigh of relief: it was three years overdue. Turning to Soudamini, her now toothless mother-in-law, she said, ‘Now, no one will doubt your son’s masculinity. The forefathers will welcome my husband into the land of the dead.’

The girl’s name was Amba. Born ten moons after the battle of Kuru-kshetra, three moons after Mandhata, she was the last of the Yagnasenis, daughter of Drupada’s eldest son, Shikhandi.

A messenger rushed to Hastina-puri whose king, Yudhishtira, had served as Panchala’s guardian since Drupada and his sons met with their death in Kurukshetra. ‘The daughter is a true woman,’ he said. ‘So the father must have been a man.’

Draupadi, who had never doubted this, wept on receiving the news. ‘If only he was alive to hear this.’ she told Yudhishtira.

A flood of memories gushed into the palace of the Pandavas. The dreadful dawn following the night of victory, the headless bodies of Draupadi’s two brothers and her five sons, and Ashwatthama, son of Drona, laughing hysterically, holding their seven heads, describing in gory detail how he slipped into the Pandava camp at night, and slit the throats of all the warriors as they slept, breaking every code of decency.

‘What decency are you talking about,’ Ashwatthama had barked when the Pandavas finally caught up with him. ‘You broke each and every rule of war in order to secure victory. Where was decency when Yudhishtira lied to my father, told him I was dead, breaking his heart and making him throw down his weapons? My father killed Drupada fairly, in keeping with the rules of battle, but Drupada’s son struck him down after he had laid down his weapons. He was unarmed, Yudhishtira, and yet you let Dhristadhyumna chop his head off. Was that appropriate? Was that dharma? I don’t regret killing Dhristadhyumna as he slept. I wanted to kill the five of you too but I killed your sons instead. That was a mistake. I regret that. They were children, the youngest barely sixteen. I also regret killing Shikhandi. She was a woman after all.’

‘Cut his tongue out, Arya,’ Draupadi had screamed. ‘Is it not enough that he killed my brother? Now he calls him a woman. Insults him even in death. Cut his tongue out, break his bones, throw him to the dogs.’

Realizing there was still an opportunity to make Draupadi cry, the vengeful Ashwatthama had retorted, ‘Shikhandi was a woman. So what if Krishna took him into the battlefield. Even Bhisma lowered his bow out of decency. Your father, you, your husbands, can pretend
as much as you want. But that does not change facts. Your perverted father got her married to a woman. Such adharma. He deserved to die. In fact, now that I think of it, I don’t think killing Shikhandi was wrong. To kill a woman who pretends to be a man is dharma indeed.’

Yudhishtira had wanted to rip Ashwatthama’s tongue out himself. But he had restrained himself. ‘Forgive him,’ he had said. ‘That will be his worst punishment. He wants to die. So he provokes us. But let us not give him that satisfaction. Let him suffer the memories of his crimes for the rest of his life. Wherever he goes, people will say, “There goes the son of Drona, a Brahmana, who gave up his varna to become king. There goes the son of Drona, child-killer, woman-killer.”’

Years had not healed the deep wounds of that night. Wiping her tears, Draupadi told her husbands, ‘I want my niece’s swayamvara to be the grandest in Ila-vrita.’

How could Yudhishtira say no? It had made his wife smile. No expense was therefore spared. Emissaries were sent to each and every kingdom along the banks of the Ganga, Yamuna and Saraswati, inviting worthy kings and princes to Panchala so that Amba could select a Gandharva from amongst them.

It had been a long time since Panchala had seen a royal wedding. The whole city came alive, like the red earth in summer yearning for the rain. The palace walls were painted with bright images of nymphs, gods and sages. The streets were watered. Flags were hoisted atop every house. Gates were decorated with flower garlands. Musicians and dancers and storytellers were invited to entertain the guests. Pavilions were set up on the many roads that led to the city where the royal
entourages could rest and where their horses and elephants and cows could be watered. Yudhishtira personally oversaw all the arrangements to the satisfaction of Draupadi and to the relief of Hiranyavarni.

Young Kshatriya boys climbed the topmost beam of the city gates eager to identify the arriving princes by their fluttering banners. They waited, and waited, and waited. Days passed. The flowers withered and the roads dried up. But not a single banner could be spotted. For not a single prince in all of Ila-vrita had accepted the invitation to Amba’s swayamvara.

Mandhata too had received an invitation. He too had turned it down.

A spitting image of Yuvanashva, Mandhata was as handsome as his father had been when he was sixteen, with broad shoulders, slim waist, long muscular arms and thick long hair reaching down to his waist. His eyes were as piercing and his lips as full. In the hermitage of his teacher, when he moved around wearing nothing but a loin cloth, his brown body covered with sweat glistened like polished bronze in the sunlight. And when he entered the river one could almost hear the Apsaras gasp.

Vipula had informed Yuvanashva that the young prince was ready to step out of brahmacharya-ashrama and step into grihastha-ashrama. Yuvanashva was sure that if his son went to Panchala, he would surely become
Amba’s Gandharva. Mandhata’s decision not to go took him by surprise.

‘Why did you not go?’ asked Yuvanashva.

‘Because she is Shikhandi’s daughter,’ replied Mandhata.

‘So?’

‘How can anybody accept as his bride a woman whose father was a woman?’

‘So says the man whose mother is a man,’ cackled the two ghosts that night.

Yuvanashva defended his son, ‘He does not know his truth.’

‘Then tell him.’

‘No.’

‘How dare you let him self-righteously reject that poor girl? Is that the kind of king you want for Vallabhi? It is time, father. Let the truth be told!’ screeched the ghosts, rising up into the air.

‘No, it is not time,’ said the king looking away.

‘When then?’

‘When society is ready to accept the truth.’

‘When will that be?’ asked the ghosts. Yuvanashva did not reply. The ghosts sensed he was frightened. ‘What is it, father?’ they asked, their tone no longer accusative.

‘I am afraid.’

‘Of what?’

‘Of being rejected by my son.’

‘Do not underestimate the power of man, father,’ said the two Pisachas in a compassionate voice, ‘Look at Amba. All the men of Ila-vrita have rejected her. Yet that slip of a girl faces her rejection stoically. She has not broken down. And she does not hide from the truth.
She will surely make a worthy daughter-in-law, a worthy wife and a worthy queen. But your son? Will he face the truth? Will he make a worthy husband, a worthy king?’

Truth can terrify. But there are many who face truth fearlessly. Like the little boy, who, when asked about his father, replied, ‘My mother says that she has served many men. So she does not know of which seed I am fruit. All she can say with certainty is she is my mother and that I am her son. Her name is Jabala and that makes me Jabali, the son of Jabala.’ Impressed by the little boy’s forthrightness, his teacher gave him a new name: Satya-kama, he who fearlessly yearns for the truth.

Hiranyavarni, who had heard this tale in her father’s house, had sworn she would be like Satya-kama and always face truth fearlessly. That is why, on her wedding night, forty-five years earlier, she was not afraid to tell Panchala what it had been denying for fourteen years. That its crown prince, Shikhandi, to whom she was given as wife, was a woman.

Only her father, the king of Dasharna, had heard her then. He had sent his chief concubine to check if this was true. But when she had returned with a smile on her lips shouting, ‘He is most certainly a man. And what a man!’ he had no choice but to send her back to Panchala shamefaced.

No one had greeted her at the gates of the palace
when she returned. ‘How dare she show her face here,’ her mother-in-law had shouted.

‘Where else will she go?’ Shikhandi had shouted back, holding her hand firmly. ‘She is my wife and she belongs here, beside me.’

Tears had welled up in Hiranyavarni’s eyes as she felt her husband’s comforting grip. But the truth had not changed. She had seen what she had seen. And no matter what the courtesan had experienced, her husband was for her a woman.

‘How did you get it?’ She had asked her husband when she had finally found the courage.

‘From a Yaksha,’ he had said.

‘So what I saw was true, was it not, Arya?’ she had asked.

And he had replied, ‘That was yesterday’s truth, Bharya. This is today’s truth.’

‘Truth cannot change,’ she had insisted.

‘It has. Look at me,’ he had said, untying his dhoti. She had covered her eyes in embarrassment. ‘It is real. It works. I will prove it to you.’ When she had resisted, he had dragged a palace maid to their bed and mounted her in plain sight. The helpless maid had submitted to the prince but had shut her eyes in shame. But with each thrust her eyes had grown wider. By the time he was done, she was clinging to him fiercely, and shamelessly, refusing to let go, mouthing pleasurable sighs. ‘See, how this girl smiles,’ he had said. ‘That is how your father’s courtesan smiled. She also clung to me, begged me to make love to her once again, said she could not bear the itch.’

Hiranyavarni had found the whole thing revolting, ‘You should stick to courtesans and palace maids then.
And take more wives if you wish. But I will not come to you. My truth remains my truth. And a Yaksha’s manhood will not make a wife out of me.’

And so, in public, Hiranyavarni was always seen seated demurely beside Shikhandi, fulfilling her social obligations as a wife but in private she never let Shikhandi touch her. If he came to her courtyard, she let him in. She was the dutiful wife who bathed her husband, fed him, even let him sleep on her bed, but she never offered him tambula and he never forced himself on her. He loved her for leading him to his truth. She loved him for accepting her truth. But a shared truth stretched between them, keeping them apart.