Pregnant King, The (34 page)

‘Not easy to renounce food, is it?’ asked the ghosts.

‘Go away,’ he told the ghosts.

‘Do you remember the food your mother served you on your golden plate?’

Yuvanashva felt his mother’s fingers offering him soft tender fruit. Her frail voice returned. ‘Yuva. Yuva. Turn back. Forgive me. Look at me, just once.’ He felt her pain. He had hurt her because he knew he could. Was that necessary? He wondered what she was doing now.

‘At this very moment, she is dead,’ said the ghosts. Yuvanashva stopped in his tracks. ‘She died just as the sun set. She was inconsolable all day. She refused to return to the palace. She sat under the gate hoping you would return. The whole city watched her wail as she never had, not even when her husband died. They could not bear to see their beloved queen in such agony. They wept with her. They cursed you. “Cruel, unfeeling son,” they said. “No, no, don’t say that about my son,” she appealed to them. Then her heart gave way. Her head dropped to one side and she slumped into Mandhata’s lap. The queens tried to revive her. Hold on, they told her, he will be back. But she knew better. Jayanta offered to go and fetch you. But Mandhata stopped him. He said a sanyasi has no mother.’

Yuvanashva felt his tears. Wordless, meaningless sounds of mourning took shape in his throat. He wanted to control these feelings. Transcend them, as a sanyasi should. But at that moment, he did not feel like a sanyasi. He was his mother’s son. And his mother was dead. All hope of reconciliation was lost. His face crumpled. The tears rolled down. He fell to the ground and began to wail. He picked up lumps of earth and began throwing them on his body like a madman. He rolled on the floor and hit his head against the ground regretting all the moments lost.

Memories returned. He in the audience chamber playing with his clay dolls. She feeding him rice and banana while giving directives to her ministers. The first time he went on a hunt with her and was surprised at how good she was with the bow. The riddles of the sixty-four Yoginis she regaled him with as she rubbed oil into his scalp. Her unabashed delight when he entered the city with Simantini. That look of pride. The love. And now she was dead. Surrounded by her three daughters-in-law and two grandsons. Her dead eyes searching for him.

Yuvanashva remembered the cawing crows of his forefathers. How they haunted his mother from the day of his birth. He picked up a rock and threw it into the darkness hoping it would hit a crow. The rock fell on the ground at some distance, scaring a snake, a mute expression of impotent rage.

His tears rolled down. His wailing reached the skies. Nobody cared that the king was crying. Nobody cared that a hermit is not supposed to cry. This was the forest. Human rules of propriety did not apply.

When the tears dried up, Yuvanashva found himself lying on the ground under the banyan tree on the banks of the Kalindi. He could still see the frontier of Vallabhi with the gigantic clay horses of the Kshetrapala Aiyanar. The river shimmered like a sheet of silver in the moonlight. A raft with about six people aboard made its way to the other bank.

Has my mother crossed the Vaitarni, he wondered.

‘Yes,’ said the ghosts, reading his mind, ‘Thirteen days have passed. All the ceremonies have been conducted. She is truly dead.’

Yuvanashva wanted to be alone. He scowled. ‘Where will we go, father?’ asked the ghosts. ‘You have pinned us down to the wrong side of Vaitarni. We have no choice but to stay as Brahma-Rakshasas and haunt you till the day you die.’

‘Why can’t you cross the Vaitarni as my mother did?’

‘You know why we can’t. Yama’s account book reflects your decree. It describes Somvati as a man. He refuses to let her pass as a woman. And I refuse to go without my wife,’ said Sumedha’s ghost.

Yuvanashva sat up. ‘How does Yama’s account book describe my mother?’

‘As the dutiful daughter of Ahuka, loving sister of Nabhaka, obedient wife of Prasenajit and doting mother of Yuvanashva,’ said Somvati’s ghost.

‘That’s it?’ A deep pain gripped Yuvanashva’s heart. ‘No mention of her long and glorious reign.’

‘No. That would make her a king, and confuse Yama.’

‘Compromise, son,’ Yuvanashva heard his mother whisper from across the Vaitarni. ‘Let social truths triumph over personal truths. Let go of your story as I have mine.’

‘My poor mother,’ cried Yuvanashva. Then he scolded the ghosts, ‘Why can’t you submit as she did? Accept what is written in Yama’s account book. It is so much simpler.’

‘Is it, father?’ asked the ghosts, their voice full of pain and pity. ‘Will you cross the Vaitarni if Yama identifies you as Mandhata’s father?’

Yuvanashva felt the warm breath of Mandhata resting in his arms, his tiny lips sucking out milk. He remembered the kind, accepting eyes of the fever-goddess. He felt Ileshwara Mahadev embracing him, caressing the scar on his inner left thigh. No, he could not accept Vallabhi’s truth. He was
not
Mandhata’s father. He would never be Mandhata’s father. He was Mandhata’s mother. Whether Mandhata accepted it or not. The scar was testimony to that. So what if the elders laughed. So what if no one believed him. So what if the bards would never narrate his tale. His truth mattered. No, he would not cross the Vaitarni as Mandhata’s father.

‘But isn’t there more glory in changing your mind than your world?’ asked the ghosts, quoting the scriptures.

‘I don’t care. I will not change my mind. I
am
Mandhata’s mother.’

‘You finally understand, father.’

‘Understand what?’

‘The truth of the moment. That is why we made you mother.’

‘You made me mother?’

‘Yes, we gave you the magic potion when you asked for water.’

So that is how it happened. Not an accident or a curse, but an act of vengeance. Memories gushed out. Yuvanashva felt violated. His nostrils flared. He wanted to throw the two Pisachas to the ground and flog them until there was no skin left on their ghostly backs. He wanted to make them repent for every moment of misery they had inflicted upon him and his family.

The ghosts read his mind.

‘Was motherhood such a bad thing, father?’ asked the ghosts.

Yes, Yuvanashva wanted to say. But no word left his lips. The whirlpool of rage lost its momentum. His breath became calm. Why am I angry? Is it because the fate of motherhood was thrust upon me? wondered Yuvanashva.

‘Would you have consumed the magic potion of your own volition?’ asked the ghosts.

‘No,’ Yuvanashva replied. No man, he realized, wanted to be a mother. What was so terrible about the experience of feeling life grow inside oneself?

‘It was not vengeance, father. It was the only way to make you part of our truth. Vallabhi rejected us for wanting to be husband and wife. You reject Vallabhi because you want to be mother. You feel our feelings. You understand.’

‘Is there any hope for us?’ asked Yuvanashva.

‘Yes, there is. If the heart of man expands to accommodate our truth. Especially the heart of a king.’

‘I was once a king. But my heart refused to accommodate your truth. That is why the gods have punished me.’

‘You are still king in our eyes, father. If you, who declared Somvati as Somvat, acknowledge the truth of her womanhood, Yama will surely let us pass,’ said the ghosts.

‘Is it not too late?’

‘No.’

‘What should I do?’ asked Yuvanashva.

‘At the frontier of Vallabhi, where the field ends and the forest starts, build a shrine to us,’ said the two ghosts. ‘Represent us as two rocks. Worship us as
husband and wife. Only then will Yama accept us as a couple and let us cross the Vaitarni.’

‘People will reject the shrine.’

‘Don’t underestimate Manavas. Some, those who face the forest, will see us as we really are, creatures of the frontier. Two men. One of whom became a woman and a wife. The rest, who will face Vallabhi, will pretend we are man and woman, a holy couple, to be adored for household harmony. In acknowledging us through worship and by making us happy with offerings they will earn merit and change their destiny.’

‘Why did you not tell me this before?’

‘Because only now have you become Satya-kama, unafraid of any truth.’

Yuvanashva built the shrine on the frontiers of Vallabhi, between the last tree of the mango orchard and the first bush of the forest. Two rocks with eyes and palms scratched on them. After the moon set and before the sun rose, he acknowledged the two rocks as Somvati and Sumedha, wife and husband. He poured water on them. To the smaller rock on the left, he made many offerings. ‘I look upon this red flower as a toe-ring and offer it to Somvati, most chaste of wives. I look upon this leaf as a nose-ring and offer it to Somvati, most chaste of wives. I look upon this blade of grass as a bangle and this blade of grass as an anklet and offer both of them to Somvati, most chaste of wives.’ Turning to the larger rock on the right, he said, ‘I salute you,
Sumedha, most noble of husbands, who refused to enter the realm of Yama without his wife. Look upon this white flower as my gift, a cow. May it sustain your household and bring you the peace and prosperity you deserve.’

A golden shaft of dawn illuminated the ceremony. With the ceremony, Somvati was finally able to make her journey across the Vaitarni. She stood to the left of Sumedha, leaning her head on his shoulder, feeling the gentle beat of his heart. It reassured her. He would be by her side for seven lifetimes to come.

‘I knew him before he became her,’ said a creature, rising from between the two rocks.

Yuvanashva fell back, startled. It was a dark and ugly creature with a pot-belly and short stumpy legs. His teeth were deformed and his breath was foul. ‘Who are you?’ asked Yuvanashva, frightened.

‘Don’t be afraid,’ said the creature. His voice was soft and soothing. ‘I am the Yaksha, Sthunakarna, who made Shikhandi a man and Somvat a woman.’ He then took a bunch of red flowers and put them lovingly on the rock representing Somvati.

‘So you are the one who made Somvat a woman and started it all,’ said Yuvanashva.

‘Somvat would not have become woman had he not feared execution on your chopping block. I would not have made Somvat a woman had Shikhandi not taken away my manhood. And Shikhandi would not have sought my manhood had Drupada not insisted on fathering a killer-son. And Drupada would not have wanted a killer-son, had the Kurus not divided his kingdom. And the Kurus would not have divided his kingdom had Drona not demanded one half of Panchala
as his tuition fee. And Drona would not have wanted half of Panchala had Drupada not insulted him. And… I can go on and on. Every event is a reaction to something else. Ultimately, we all can blame Prajapati, for creating life, hence, all problems’.

Yuvanashva smiled. The Yaksha was wise. Yuvanashva got up and walked to the river to wash his face. The sun was now high in the sky but it was not hot. The Yaksha followed him and sat beside him on a rock, dipping his short legs in the water. Yuvanashva also put his feet in the water. They watched the fish move hesitatingly towards their toes. The Yaksha kept staring at Yuvanashva and smiling. ‘Is there something you want from me?’ asked Yuvanashva finally.

‘Nothing, really,’ said the Yaksha, ‘I just wanted to meet my daughter’s mother-in-law.’

‘Your what?’ The Yaksha was funny. Yuvanashva grinned and turned towards the Yaksha. But the Yaksha’s face was serious. This was no joke. He meant it. ‘What do you mean, your daughter’s mother-in-law?’

‘Are you not Mandhata’s mother?’ asked the Yaksha.

Yuvanashva looked around wondering if someone had overheard them. He suddenly felt exposed and embarrased.
Mandhata’s mother
. Yes, he was Mandhata’s mother. Why was he feeling uncomfortable? This was the first time this truth had been acknowledged so publicly. Was this not what he wanted? He realized it was one thing to accept the truth yourself another thing to find it being accepted by others. ‘I am,’ Yuvanashva replied softly. He felt his heart leaping in joy. ‘Yes, I am Mandhata’s mother.’

‘Mandhata is married to a girl called Amba?’

‘Right.’

‘And Amba is the daughter of Shikhandi?’