Pregnant King, The (32 page)

‘I am the last one to know,’ said Mandhata mournfully.

‘That should change nothing. You are still the firstborn. And your understanding of dharma is unmatched.’

‘Apparently it does. I feel so helpless.’

Jayanta saw his brother’s shoulders droop. ‘If it bothers you so much maybe you should seek grandmother’s advice,’ he suggested.

‘Whose?’ asked Mandhata, surprised by Jayanta’s suggestion.

‘Grandmother’s,’ Jayanta repeated. ‘She always knows what must be done.’

‘She wanted to kill me at birth. She would be more than happy that I will not be king, that her son has finally seen sense.’ Mandhata got up and started walking back toward Simantini’s courtyard. Jayanta followed him too.

Every morning Shilavati would get up earlier than everyone else, impatient to see her son, who, despite their differences, always began his day after he had placed his forehead at her feet. But every time Yuvanashva entered her room she would maintain a stony face and feign indifference. Yuvanashva would not respond to her indifference. He would bow and leave without saying a word. So it had been, for sixteen years. Sixteen years of pride and anger and frustration. Sixteen years of silence. Sixteen years of waiting for the other to let go.

After he left, Shilavati would follow a routine—a set of rituals to fill the day and pass the time. Prayers to the sky-gods, then prayers to the earth-goddesses, then prayers to the ancestors represented usually by a lone crow who visited her courtyard to eat rice. Then she would go to her kitchen garden and water the plants and watch the vegetables grow around the image of Lajja-gauri. Then she would go to her stables and feed
her horses, her cows, her elephants and her dogs. She would talk to the animals, give them all her advice that was actually meant for her son: the things he did right and the things he could improve upon. They were silent witnesses to her sense of rejection.

In the evening, many residents of Vallabhi came to see her: the ivory merchant, the goldsmith, the chief of goat herders, the keeper of the mango orchard. They offered her gifts. Shared their problems with her. She offered no solutions—that was for the king—just a patient ear. This was enough for them. She was still the royal mother, the most reliable shoulder they could cry on.

The most exciting days were when her spies came to her with information. They were as vigilant as ever and unflinching in their loyalty. ‘Yuvanshava does not appreciate the information we bring him,’ they told her, ‘He broods all the time.’

The spies told her that the elders of the Kuru clan had left Hastina-puri, become vanaprasthis, wandering in the forest. ‘For a long time Dhritarashtra was not willing to leave the comforts of the palace,’ said the spies. ‘Especially the roasted meat, he loves so much. But Bhima made things unbearable. Every day Bhima would join them during meals and describe in gory detail how he killed each of the Kauravas. How he broke their bones. How he drank Dushasana’s blood. Dhritarashtra would hear all this. Tears would roll down his eyes. But he would continue to eat his meat. Finally, his wife Gandhari said, “Enough. Have some dignity.” At long last the blind old man gathered the courage to put down the meat, wash his hands, get up and leave the palace. Gandhari followed him as a dutiful wife
should. Kunti followed them too. She found her son’s treatment of his uncle unbearable.’

The spies also told Shilavati how no prince of Ilavrita participated in Amba’s swayamvara. ‘A slap on the face for the Pandavas,’ she told her dogs the next day.

She learnt that Mandhata had also turned down the invitation. How this had upset Yuvanashva. How he had called his son to answer riddles in the maha-sabha. ‘I think he plans to tell his son the truth about his birth. If I know that boy, he will reject the truth. For he will realize its implications,’ she told her cows.

When Shilavati learnt how troubled Mandhata was after spending the evening with Yuvanashva, Shilavati decided to call the boy for a meal.

Mandhata was surprised by the invitation. ‘She has never sent for me,’ he said, not sure if he was excited or nervous.

‘Don’t be afraid. She is very nice,’ said Jayanta, who since childhood had invited himself to his grandmother’s kitchen. ‘She is our grandmother. She is supposed to love us and feed us,’ he would say. He demanded her affection. Shilavati, like everyone else, lavished him with it.

In all these years Mandhata had always kept away from his grandmother. He would never go anywhere unless invited.

Having finally received Shilavati’s invitation, Mandhata entered her courtyard with trepidation. Once,
this was the centre of power in Vallabhi. Now, it was a desolate place. The floor was clean, the walls were painted, but an eerie sense of emptiness prevailed, as if the ghosts of the past had their tongues cut out and could not speak.

Shilavati’s old maid, dressed in bright yellow with a massive gold nose ring, welcomed the prince. She kissed him on his forehead and embraced him affectionately. She looked at him with adoring eyes and then led him to the kitchen. ‘You look like your grandfather. He was very handsome.’ She laughed like a young girl, then covered her mouth in embarrassment and asked Mandhata what he would eat. ‘Devi instructed me to make sweet pancakes with coconut and jaggery. She said those were your favourites.’

They were. How did she know? Her legendary spies? Or maybe Jayanta?

After Mandhata had finished his fourth pancake and washed his hands, Shilavati walked in. He got up and fell at her feet. ‘Come,’ she said. He followed her to what was once her audience chamber, empty except for two blackbuck pelts. The walls were covered with images of creepers. ‘Sit,’ she said pointing to one of them.

She wore undyed fabric. She was old, bent and wrinkled. She used a walking stick made of buffalo horn. The regal air was evident. She still had a vertical line of sandal paste stretching from the tip of her nose to her forehead. Around her arm was a gold talisman hanging from a black thread. No other jewellery. She had long ago stopped wearing the chain of gold beads and tiger claws.

‘So, you are afraid you will not be anointed king,’ she came straight to the point.

‘Have your spies told you this?’

‘I don’t need spies to tell me this. It is written all over your face.’

‘He says I am an aberration. Imperfect. Not born of a woman. Hence not fit to be king.’

‘You can twist that idea in your favour if you wish. Declare that by not being born of a woman, you are an ayonija, untainted by menstrual blood, as pure as the seven primal Rishis, born of Prajapati’s thoughts.’

‘Is that true?’

‘If you repeat it several times, it will become true.’

Mandhata smiled. ‘Should I do that?’

‘You can, if you wish. But there is an easier way to secure your kingship.’

Mandhata was all ears. ‘How?’

‘Marry Amba.’

‘What?’

‘Hear me out. She is the princess of Panchala. If you marry her, you will have the Pandavas as your uncles-in-law. Nobody then, not even your father, will dare deny you the crown of Vallabhi.’

‘That is coercion.’

‘That is politics,’ said Shilavati.

Mandhata felt the aura of authority around this old, bent and wrinkled woman before him. ‘But I have turned down the invitation to the swayamvara,’ he said.

‘That is not the only way to marry a girl. Follow the way of the Rakshasas. Abduct her as Bhisma abducted the princesses of Kashi. Make her yours by force. If you really want to be king.’

Mandhata was speechless. Now he knew why his grandmother was regarded as a great ruler. She knew
every twist and turn of the law. ‘You once did not want me to live. Today you are helping me be king. Why?’

Picking up a slice of betel-nut, Shilavati said, ‘I see in you the soul of a king. That is all that matters. Vallabhi needs you. Imperfect or not, you must be king. I too have the soul of a king. The Angirasa saw that. But my body came in the way. I will not let these silly superficial rules hold you back. You deserve to be king.’

Mandhata hugged his grandmother. As Jayanta said, she was not a bad person at all. With one conversation, she had made him master of his destiny. He did not feel helpless anymore.

A few days later, the city of Vallabhi saw a sight that they had not seen for thirty years. A bejewelled elephant with great white tusks entered the city. On it sat Mandhata. With him was his new bride, Amba.

Shilavati woke up to the sound of singing crows. Crows don’t sing. But they did that day. ‘She is pregnant. She is pregnant,’ they sang. ‘What more can you ask of a grandson. What more can you ask of his wife.’

It was as if Amba entered Vallabhi pregnant. She bled not once.

All Mandhata’s reservations about making Shikhandi’s daughter his bride were laid to rest the moment he saw Amba. She was ravishing. A woman’s woman. Doe-eyed. Full lips. Breasts like the bilva fruit. Thighs round and smooth as the trunk of the banana tree. He could
not resist her charms. Struck by Kama’s love-dart, he made love to her on the elephant on the high road connecting Vallabhi to Panchala. Under a banyan tree next to the Kalindi, her field accepted the Turuvasu seed.

Yuvanashva felt a stab of envy. ‘It took me thirteen years, three wives and a yagna to conceive my first child. He is more blessed by Ileshwara than I ever was.’

Envy turned to rage when he learnt his mother had sent Amba a pair of golden anklets. ‘She wanted to kill the boy at birth. Called him a disease. A threat to dharma. Now she accepts his wife as queen as if Mandhata has already been anointed heir. She presumes too much. So what if he is now the son-in-law of the Pandavas. He who does not have the courage to face the truth, will never be king of Vallabhi.’

Yuvanashva called for a council of elders. It was time they knew the truth about Mandhata.

To his utmost irritation, the elders of all four varnas came bearing gifts made by their wives for the royal mother-to-be. ‘Congratulations,’ said the Shudra elders. ‘Now you can retire in peace. The next generation is on its way.’

‘So when are you planning Mandhata’s coronation?’ asked the Vaishya elders. ‘Everyone thinks it will be in autumn, after the harvests, before the mists.’

‘Mandhata’s coronation? Where did you get the idea?’ asked Yuvanashva.

‘We assumed,’ said the Kshatriya elders, surprised by the king’s irritation.

‘Mandhata can never be king,’ said Yuvanashva. ‘He is imperfect.’

A murmur spread through the council. ‘What are you saying?’

‘Tell me why was Dhritarashtra not crowned king of Hastina-puri. Why was the crown given to his younger brother, Pandu, instead?’ asked Yuvanashva.

‘Because Dhritarashtra was blind,’ said the Brahmana elders.

‘And Devapi? Why was he forced to give up the throne in favour of Shantanu?’

‘Because Devapi had a skin disease,’ said the Vaishya elders.

‘A king must be perfect in mind and body and lineage. Dhritarashtra and Devapi were imperfect of body. Mandhata is imperfect of lineage. He is not the sprout of a king’s seed. He is not the sapling of a queen’s soil either. He was conceived in my body after I drank the magic potion accidentally. How then can he be king?’