Pregnant King, The (30 page)

‘Let us at least go on a hunt together. I need to spend some time with my son. He must know who I am,’ Yuvanashva had once requested Simantini.

‘He is too young for that. Later, maybe,’ she had said then.

The next time she had said. ‘Not this fortnight, it is not auspicious. There has been a lunar eclipse.’

Then she had said, ‘He is ill. A slight fever. Let him get better.’

It would be months before Yuvanashva would get the courage to ask again. As king, he could enforce his will. But each time he had done so, he had lost someone. First Shilavati. Then Pulomi. He did not want to lose Simantini. So he focused on kingship and hoped this separation could cure him of his intense craving to be mother.

In her capacity as first wife and chief queen, Simantini sat to the left of Yuvanashva during the yagna and joined him in thanking Indra. The other two queens sat behind. All three were dressed in dark green saris with a garland of fragrant green herbs round their neck. This was ritually prescribed for the queens had to reflect the condition of the earth, green after the rains.

Simantini’s glance fell upon her husband’s left thigh. The dhoti was wet with sweat, almost transparent. She could see the long gash. The scar of childbirth that the world knew as the hunting accident where the great boar plunged its tusk.

‘Lies, lies.’ she heard the tamarind tree shout from the corner room.

The priestesses of Bahugami who often tormented her in her dreams said, ‘If you are really the mother, then show us the milk in your breasts and the tear of your skin.’

Clinging tenaciously to Mandhata, Simantini would retort, ‘How dare you judge me, you who can be no woman’s husband! My lie keeps my husband on the throne.’

‘You lie for your husband? Really?’ asked the tamarind tree.

Simantini stared into the fire-pit. The wood crackled and the grains cast in by Yuvanashva popped up and rose into the air. The goddesses of the earth mocked her, but the gods of the sky did not frown.

Sitting behind, a now plump Pulomi watched the sweat trickle down her husband’s back. She felt warm. It was not the sun or the fire. It was not fatigue either. It was the sight of her husband’s naked back, his broad shoulders tapering to his narrow waist, his muscles, taut as the day of their wedding, sweat glistening against his skin. Like gold. He still aroused her. But she refused to let him touch her.

‘Forgive my son,’ Shilavati had begged.

‘I cannot,’ Pulomi admitted. ‘I just can’t. My head cannot convince my heart. My body yearns for his touch. But as soon as I see his face, the memory of that day returns and I cannot. He can take me by force but I will not go to him willingly.’

In the initial months, shortly after the birth of his two sons and his rejection by his two wives, Yuvanashva had sought Keshini’s company. He wanted someone to talk to, someone who would listen to him, someone who knew the truth, someone who could revive
memories of innocent days. Who better than Keshini with her dolls and dice and the game of hide-and-seek? But Keshini was not the cherubic chattering child she once was. She was a silent woman, haunted by memories of the two boys of Tarini-pur condemned to death by her husband. Often she would be seen going to the royal cattle shed, feeding the cows and weeping. She regretted telling Simantini about the Brahmana woman without the toe-ring. Maybe then they would not have been caught. They would still be alive and the yagna would have been completed without any disruption. She would have been a mother.

Every time Yuvanashva came to Keshini, she insisted they have intercourse. He had given children to his other wives. She wanted one too. Yuvanashva grew tired of her pleading eyes. He stopped coming. A desperate Keshini turned to Asanga; she finally understood what the doctor’s eyes were always trying to say. When he came to her, he found her in bed, with a tambula in her hand. He lowered his eyes and turned away. He refused to be reduced to a seed provider for the woman he loved.

One day, Keshini realized she was eating her meals all alone, with only the tinkling of her gold bangles for company. Tears rolled down her eyes. ‘There was a time, they all came to play with me. They ate in my kitchen and they rested in my courtyard. Now, if it was not for these rituals, would anyone even remember me?’ she wondered. She felt she was a broken pot who did not deserve to wear a green sari.

Only Jayanta noticed Keshini’s unloved face. Only he felt Simantini’s anxiety and Pulomi’s shame. He saw his elder brother unable to fathom the turmoil of silent
emotions that shaped their childhood. He saw his father’s eyes desperately searching for Mandhata every time he passed the women’s courtyard. He remembered the lullabies he sang at night in the corridors outside just loud enough to be heard by Mandhata inside.

So intense was Yuvanashva’s affection for Mandhata that he completely ignored Jayanta. But Jayanta never begrudged his father. Whenever he saw the king, he would rush out and hug him. ‘Why must you do that? Can’t you see he prefers your elder brother?’ his mother would say. In response, Jayanta would say nothing. He would hug his mother too and soothe her rage.

As the Ritwiks sang the final hymns, it struck Vipula, who sat directly in front of the king during the ceremony, how different the two sons of Yuvanashva were. Mandhata: dispassionate, measured, calculating. A king. Jayanta: full of life, cheerful, emotional, sensitive. A friend. Mandhata always did the right things; Jayanta always did things that brought joy. Yama and Kama. Reborn in Vallabhi. One from within Yuvanashva’s body. One from without.

He looked at the clear sky above, the three queens and their two sons below. A kingdom where the rains came on time. A kingdom where all subjects functioned according to their station in society and submitted to their stage in life. A kingdom where there was order, stability, peace and prosperity, where life was predictable, free of accidents and surprises. Was this not how it was supposed to be? Why then did the king, his friend, always look so unhappy?

‘My rule is based on a lie,’ Yuvanashva complained.

‘An untold truth is not a lie,’ Vipula told his friend.

‘It is time for the boy to learn the truth if he must be king.’

‘A king must be like Shiva, withhold some truths in his throat like the poison, Halahal, churned from the ocean of milk. Only then as Vishnu, can he distribute the nectar of order, Amrita, also churned from the ocean of milk, to all his people.’

‘My throat burns. I want to spit it out.’

‘Don’t! Every civilization needs its delusion.’

Denied access to Mandhata, Yuvanashva indulged his parental instincts with the two Pisachas. Together the ghosts and he heard stories and argued over dharma.

The ghosts always behaved as husband and wife, laughing and flirting with each other, sharing the burden of existence, discovering in each other’s hearts the meaning of life. The ghost of Somvati would sit at the feet of the ghost of Sumedha. They would chew imaginary tambula and rock on an imaginary swing. As he got used to their behaviour, Yuvanashva found their interactions endearing. They reminded him of how things were between him and his wives before the birth of his two sons, before the burning of the two boys.

Sometimes, in frustration, the ghosts would demand justice, ‘You killed us but spare yourself and your son. Why?’

‘Because we do not threaten the façade of order,’ Yuvanashva would clarify. ‘Had you two stayed men and friends, you would have been spared too.’

‘Hypocrite,’ the ghosts would snarl.

‘May you never know the joy of being called mother,’ they cursed him.

When Mandhata refused to attend Amba’s swayamvara, the two Pisachas told Yuvanashva, ‘In
rejecting Amba he has rejected you, father. Do you realize that? It is one thing not to talk about you, but it is another to disrespect you.’

‘My son does not disrespect me,’ said Yuvanashva.

‘Your son respects his father. But you are not his father. You are his mother. He who finds Shikhandi’s daughter an unfit bride will surely find you an unfit mother.’

‘No, he will not,’ said Yuvanashva. ‘I have faith in my son. Vipula tells me the boy gives the most appropriate replies to the riddles of the sixty-four Yoginis. He has all the signs of a Chakra-varti. I am sure he will find a way to accommodate my truth within the framework of dharma.’

‘Before he can accommodate your truth, he must first face it,’ said the ghosts, holding the king’s hands and leading him to his throne in the maha-sabha, ‘So send for him and present before him your riddle.’

The sixty-four Yoginis had sixty-four riddles that could make a man a Chakra-varti. Yuvanashva had only three that he hoped would make him his son’s mother.

‘But will he give me the answers I want to hear?’ wondered Yuvanashva, ‘What if he does not? Will I still love him? Is a mother’s love unconditional?’ Burdened by fears and doubts, he sent for Mandhata.

The message was formal, ‘The king would like the presence of the prince in the maha-sabha to solve a riddle,’ leaving Simantini no choice but to let Mandhata go.

Mandhata entered the maha-sabha and found his father all alone on the throne. There was no guard around, no bard, no minister, not even a servant. Sunlight streamed in through the open courtyard. The royal banner fluttered proudly. Except for the chattering of a few pigeons, the room was silent. So different from the days when his father gave audience to the people and settled disputes.

Yuvanashva did not wear any crown. He held no bow. He struggled hard to appear less king and more parent.

A tiger-skin rug had been spread out before the throne. ‘Come sit here,’ Yuvanashva said, his face lighting up at the sight of his son. Mandhata sat down cross-legged, facing his father, his back straight, as students are supposed to sit when they receive instruction. Yuvanashva yearned to hug his son but he restrained himself. He wondered how he should begin when suddenly a question rolled of his tongue, ‘Is Ileshwar Mahadev a god or a goddess today?’

Yuvanashva had not planned to ask this question. Wherefrom had it come? Propelled by Yama, no doubt, to initiate this conversation which was very much due. Or perhaps by Kama, for this conversation was very much desired.

‘More god, less goddess,’ replied Mandhata.

Yuvanashva smiled. ‘A king cannot confuse his subjects. Tell me this or that. Nothing in between.’

Mandhata’s mind raced back to his journey from the hermitage through the streets to the palace. The markets were full of pearly white dhatura flowers. ‘A god,’ he replied.

‘Is that the truth?’

Mandhata shut his eyes, thought for a moment and then replied with absolute clarity, ‘Yes, it is.’

‘Today, the moon has started to wane. The moustache of Shiva has been removed by the Pujaris and replaced by the unbound hair of Shakti. Do you still consider Ileshwara to be a god?’ repeated Yuvanashva.

Mandhata was silent for some moments. Then he said, ‘It is not what I consider that matters, father. This is the truth of the temple, expressed in rituals, told to us through flowers in the markets. Today there are dhatura flowers in the market and so a god resides in the temple. So it has been since the days of Ila.’

‘Why do you value the temple’s truth over your own feelings?’

‘How else will there be order father? Everybody perceives the world differently. We have to agree somewhere. The world is full of ambiguities and confounding, even contradicting, details. Vishnu created kings to organize, identify and evaluate things, so that there is clarity in life. In every society therefore, social truths matter over personal truths.’

‘What if Ileshwara
wanted
to be treated as a goddess today?’ asked Yuvanashva.

‘Only you, the king of Vallabhi, supreme custodian of the temple’s rites, can change the rules,’ replied Mandhata.

‘Should I?’

‘If a good king wants to be great, he must be fair to all: those here, those there and all those in between.’

Yuvanashva laughed. There was hope. Mandhata understood the amorphous nature of the world and the limitations of language and the law. He was proud of
his son. He truly had all the hallmarks of becoming a Chakra-varti.

Mandahta remembered the long discussions he had with his teacher on the confining nature of words, how they fail to capture all emotions. Vipula had said, ‘That is why words are not enough. We need grammar to string words into sentences, put everything in context. Sometimes even sentences fail to capture what we are trying to say. Prose is useless when speaking to the beloved. We need poetry.’

Jayanta had interjected then, ‘Words don’t matter, only feelings do.’

‘And how do we communicate feelings without words?’ Mandhata had asked.

In response, Jayanta had smiled and touched his brother, his eyes full of tenderness. Vipula watched Jayanta take his brother by the hand into the garden, and show him blue butterflies hovering over yellow flowers. Beauty of the world. Love between brothers. The affection of a teacher. All experienced without anything being spoken.

But surely the king had not called him to the mahasabha to discuss the conundrums of language or the identity of Ileshwara? ‘Why have you really called me here, father?’ Mandhata asked, unable to contain his curiosity any further. ‘Is it to solve riddles or has it something to do with the princess of Panchala?’ Mandhata knew his father was not pleased by his decision not to go.