Pregnant King, The (9 page)

The king of Vanga accepted the offer. The daughter was sold. Seven hundred cows, three hundred bullocks, a dozen bulls, each one decorated with bright red tassels and copper-plated horns made their way on great barges down the Kalindi to Vanga. The residents of Panchala who saw the passing ships told their daughters, ‘That is how an Asura marries an Apsara.’

A few days later they saw another barge decorated with marigold flowers. In it sat Pulomi dressed in red and gold, accompanied by her maids and fifty Kshatriya warriors who had come all the way from Vallabhi to fetch her. The banner of the Turuvasus with the image of a turtle fluttered from the ship mast. The daughters of Panchala said, ‘There goes the Madhavi of Vanga.’

Before the cows and bullocks and bulls left Vallabhi for Vanga, Yuvanashva had gone to Simantini. ‘I will not buy her without your permission, Bharya,’ he said, looking into her sad eyes.

She touched the tips of his fingers and said in a choked voice, ‘I have done everything I could. Every new moon night, I am the first woman to offer jabakusuma flowers to Ileshwari. Every time I bleed, I make offerings of gold cradles to the tamarind tree in the corner room. I eat no spices and drink buttermilk to cool my body. I have talismans hanging round my neck, my arms and my waist. I have walked round the seven
goddess’ shrines in Tarini-pur. I have asked the priestesses of Bahugami to dance around me. But still my womb has failed to hold your seed. I have failed you Arya. You need another wife.’

‘The fault could be mine,’ said Yuvanashva. Every night he was haunted by a vision of hundreds of dhatura flowers, brown with age, offered by him to Ileshwara Mahadev, tumbling down as the lord who is both god and goddess looked over his shoulder at all the other men prostrating in the temple on full moon days. So many men, all fathers. And he, alone, childless, graceless, rejected by the gods.

Simantini looked at her husband with a horrified expression on her face. She put her hand on his mouth. ‘Please don’t say such things, Arya. You are the perfect husband. The perfect man. So tender. So gentle. So giving. No woman could ask for more. Go ahead, get yourself a new wife. A fertile field for the royal seed. She will be my sister.’

Simantini did not tell Yuvanashva what the priestesses of Bahugami said in their trance as they danced round her. Waving branches of neem, they kept repeating in shrill hoarse voices, ‘He is fertile. Yes, he is fertile. Oh yes, he is fertile. The goddess smiles upon him. He is fertile and he will have a son.’ It frightened her.

Yuvanashva sensed the pain in Simantini. Her sense of invalidation. But he had to take another wife. He had to father a son. It was his duty. He was told that the Brahmanas had decided to conduct the garbhadana samskara to ensure conception. This rite of passage made the private act between husband and wife a public spectacle.

A hundred and eight sumangalis, married women
who had borne sons and whose husbands were alive, stood at the gate of Vallabhi to welcome Pulomi. They blew conch-shell trumpets to ward off the malevolent spirits. They poured water on Pulomi to wash the dust of the journey and then prepared to place on her the sixteen love-charms that make a woman a bride. They anointed her with turmeric and then sandal paste. They dressed her in a fresh sari, red with a border of gold. They tied her hair and decorated it with a garland of champaka flowers. They painted her feet red with alta. They made her wear finely crafted gold jewels specially made for the occasion: toe-rings, two types of anklets, two types of cummerbands, one above the navel and one below, four types of bangles, two types of bracelets, two types of armlets, rings for all ten fingers, three types of necklaces, one binding the neck, one around the breasts, one slipping in between, nose-rings for the left, right and centre, two earrings, a hairpin, a band for the crown of the head and another for the brow.

‘By the time the prince removes these jewels he will be too exhausted to do anything,’ said one of the maids from Vanga.

‘One look at our prince and your princess will remove all the jewellery herself,’ retorted a maid from Vallabhi.

The main courtyard of the palace was lined with mango leaves and marigold flowers for the wedding. Pulomi felt alone. If only her father could be present during the ceremony where a bride’s father formally gives her hand to the groom. ‘This is a mere formality. The moment your father accepted Vallabhi’s cattle, he had given you away. This ritual to simply tell the Devas that you have accepted Yuvanashva as your groom and they should not even think about seducing you.’

As a child, Pulomi had grown up listening to stories of Devas seducing nymphs and young girls without husbands. The bards told her once, ‘The gods exist to bring life on earth. They miss no opportunity. They carry pollen of plants and seeds of animals in every direction looking for ripe unclaimed wombs. So better tell your father to get you a groom fast before they make you pregnant or you will end up as Kunti, mother before marriage.’

Her head was bent and eyes lowered when the priest placed her hand on Yuvanashva’s palm. She did not see him when he lined the parting of her hair with red vermilion powder. She did not see him when he tied a string of beads, black as mustard seeds, round her neck. She did not see him when he placed his palm on her chest and requested her to make a place for him in her heart. She did not see him when she placed a garland round his neck and walked around the sacred fire with him. She did not see him when together they took the seven steps that makes man and woman husband and wife.

When she finally saw him, it was night. He held her chin and raised her face. She kept her eyes closed. Afraid of the Asura. ‘Open your eyes,’ he said. His voice was deep and rich and soft. She did. He looked like no Asura. He was radiant like the moon. He had brown eyes. His moustache was thick and well curled. His hair soft and long. She felt her heart beating faster. Her lips went dry. She had a deep desire to touch him. He looked so curious. So welcoming. So unthreatening. He tilted her head and kissed her. She did not know what to do. Was he not supposed to point to the Arundhati star? Was she not supposed to pretend she
did not know where it was?

Outside, the priests chanted loudly so that the couple inside could hear them, ‘Now that Vishnu has prepared the field, let Brahma bring forth the seed. May Vishwakarma shape the child and Vayu breathe in the life.’ This rhythmic chant had the potent power to help the soil cling to the seed and transform it into a sapling. Farmers chanted it while sowing seed and herdsmen when they brought the bull to the cow.

Inside, Yuvanashva made love to his new wife with great care. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, soft as dough, and lively as a lotus. So different from his first wife, the only other woman he knew. This one stirred his flesh in a way Simantini never did. He could not wait for the ceremonies to end. He did not have the patience to bother with the Arundhati star. He removed her jewels quickly, caressing her skin, kissing it, licking it, gently coaxing her juices to flow.

At first, Pulomi was embarrassed, scared, stiff. Then as she felt secure waves of feelings enveloped her. She wanted her husband to hurry up. For what, she was not sure. But she could not ignore the impatience of her flesh, the desperate desire for an unknown fulfilment. She placed her hand on his buttocks. Slowly, hesitatingly, she started to knead them.

He gasped. She stopped. He looked at her. He had never experienced this with Simantini. Being the object of pleasure. He liked the feeling. He smiled in satisfaction and then started licking her ears, burying his tongue deep, liberating her from all inhibitions. She let herself enjoy him.

The chants outside continued. Yuvanashva found them
annoying. They reminded him why he had been given a new wife. At that moment, as he felt waves of pleasure with each thrust, he did not want Vishwakarma to shape anything. All he wanted was Kama to help him share the waves of pleasure with this girl who desired him as much as he desired her. She had never known the touch of a man. She wanted to explore him. He wanted to be explored. That feeling of being wanted, not by obligation, but by desire, thrilled him. This wife would surely be the favourite.

A fortnight later, Pulomi bled. And she bled a month after that. And after that. The servant who conveyed the news to Simantini could barely contain her glee. Simantini’s maids laughed. They hugged Simantini, assuming the news had made her happy too.

Simantini was happy. Delighted. Ecstatic, in fact. She wanted to smile. Gloat. Jeer and clap her hands. But she did not. This was not right. Such reactions were unbecoming of a queen. She remembered her mother’s parting words, ‘A queen is one who remains gracious even in the most ungracious of circumstances.’ She was ashamed. How could she let herself be reduced to the level of her maids? How could she find pleasure in another’s misery?

Pulomi’s presence in the palace reminded Simantini constantly of her failure. ‘Had I given my husband a child, she would not have come into this house. I failed, she came. Now she has failed too. Will there be a third
queen?’ These thoughts bothered Simantini.

Simantini looked at the game of dice painted on the wall of her bedchamber. When she had seen it the first time, she had assumed she and her husband would be the only players. Then, she realized, four people could play the game. She had hoped it would be the two of them and their two children. After Pulomi’s arrival she realized the two of them would play the game, enjoy the game, and she would be an unwanted extra player. Now, it seemed there would be three wives playing Yuvanashva’s game of dice. A game without a winner.

Simantini realized for all her gracious conduct and trained imperiousness she had the jealous heart of a commoner. She remembered her journey to the temple of Ileshwara shortly after her marriage. The silver doors. Above the silver door was a mask of black stone. A dreaded creature with no body, only a head. Staring at all those who came seeking the grace of Ileshwara Mahadev. Sticking out his tongue. Mocking them. Jeering them. ‘You may look noble. You may behave with reverence. But I know your dark thoughts and putrid emotions. I know you are pretending,’ he seemed to be saying. Simantini felt the black mask come alive in front of her. Licking her face like a lizard, spitting on her, laughing at the truth that hid in her heart. Simantini did not like the vision. Perhaps this is why she was not yet mother or queen.

Pulomi did not deserve the pain of failure. No woman did. Simantini knew what it felt like to be isolated from the world for three days and three nights. She had years of experience. Restricted to the corner room of the women’s quarters. Looking out from the only window in the room. Watching the tamarind tree outside.
The cradles on its branches. And the high wall beyond. Doing nothing all day except watching the blood flow out of the body and wiping it from time to time. Eating uncooked food. No spices. No meat. No fish. Not even boiled milk or butter. Being forced to mourn for the child that could have been. Feeling dirty and polluted. Touched by death, shunned by the living, finding comfort and empathy only in the arms of other menstruating women.

‘What does Pulomi do all day?’ Simantini asked one of her maids, who shared the corner room with the junior queen for three days.

‘Nothing. She just weeps uncontrollably.’

Simantini instructed her maid, ‘The next time you see her in the corner room encourage her to play dice and draw on the walls. Make her smile. Take some of my dolls with you. Give them to her. She is only fourteen.’

One day, in the audience chamber, Shilavati noticed the sadness in Yuvanashva’s face. ‘What is the matter, son?’ she asked, concerned, ‘All well?’