Yayati: A Classic Tale of Lust (24 page)

Occasionally, a chord somewhere in a corner of the heart would pulsate. It would come alive with the words, ‘You silly woman, forget your pride. Go straight to His Majesty, wherever he maybe. He maybe drunk. He maybe in the arms of another woman. Fall at his feet and bathe them with your tears, saying, “What are you doing? Lord of my heart, where are you going? A blemish on you is a blemish on me. I fall with you. I am your wife. Must not the husband protect the good name of his wife? You may squirt liquor on me. I shall not turn a hair. Crush Devayani for the sake of your pleasure as you might a flower. But stop this sacrilege of your duty. Wake up to your duty as a husband. Remember your duty as a father. Do not forget your duty as King.” ’

I did quite often feel like falling at the feet of His Majesty and saying all this and more. But it was a passing thought. The next moment, I would think of Kacha. How dearly he loved me. He gave up love from a sheer sense of duty. He returned to heaven with Sanjeevani. All the beauties of heaven must have laid their beauty at his feet. But he was not moved or tempted. He did not stray from his undertaking.

Remembering Kacha’s austerity and renunciation, the indulgence of His Majesty was disgusting. I was ashamed to submit to him. Kacha used to say: ‘Why do we lay flowers on a stone? Has the fragrance of flowers ever permeated the stone?’ A lover should be in Kacha’s image. A woman should worship such a man.

Married to Kacha, I would have been happy. The happiness which I would have had in his cottage has not come my way, even for a day, in this palace.

But, would I in fact have been happy? I certainly loved him; but is the attraction of blind love enough to make one happy? Was my love of him selfless? No. Even that was a kind of self-indulgence. If I was truly in love with him, I would have hesitated in pronouncing a curse on him. My lips would have turned black with those poisonous words.

What is love? What a puzzle it is. Is the disgusting indulgence of His Majesty over the last eighteen years love? Was he genuinely in love with Sharmishtha? To flirt with another woman deceiving one’s wife ...

Sharmishtha! Her mere memory makes me burn. It must have been an inauspicious moment, when I decided to make her my maid. Because of her, I was separated from His Majesty. On the one hand, I am denied even his touch. On the other, he has fallen to abysmal depths. Today, Prince Yadu has been defeated. What a calamity! But His Majesty is not paying any heed to it.

His Majesty should have rushed to me. If he had set out to free Yadu, my eyes would have filled with tears, worshipping him. He would have tenderly wiped those tears, saying, ‘There is nothing to worry about, you silly one. Inside of two weeks, I shall bring Yadu back to you.’

‘You silly one.’ How sweet the words are. No, that is not to be. Is loneliness forever going to be my miserable companion?

Memories of the last eighteen years haunted me. I was disheartened. The Prime Minister had not returned. It was clear that His Majesty was not prepared to do anything to free Yadu.

* * *

A maid brought news of the Prime Minister’s return. He came in, hung his head and was quiet. I asked sharply, ‘Why were you so long?’

‘I could not get an audience with the King for sometime.’

I asked, ‘In the end, did you or did you not see him?’

‘I did. After hearing me, he merely smiled.’ The Prime Minister went on with his head hung low, ‘I gave him Your Majesty’s message. At that he laughed and said, “Tell Her Majesty that I am deeply indebted to her to be remembered after so long.” ’

Angrily, I asked him, ‘What more did he say?’ With great hesitation and a tremor, he repeated the impudent words of His Majesty. ‘The enemy might capture the Queen also. I would not mind at all. I have nothing to do with the Queen.’

Those venom-laden words pierced my heart. The last chapter of the war between us, which started on our wedding, will soon open. Let Father finish his penance. Then there will be time to show him.

A maid rushed in. Her face was lit up with pleasure. She breathlessly said ‘There is a messenger outside come on the gallop. Your Majesty, his horse vomited blood and died as the rider got off.’

I rushed out. He humbly made an obeisance and said, ‘Your Majesty, I have come with very happy tidings. The Prince has been rescued from captivity.’

My joy knew no bounds, I was very proud of Yadu’s valour and adventure. I asked impatiently, ‘How did the Prince free himself? How did he escape? By killing off the sentries?’

‘No, Your Majesty. Someone risked his life to free the Prince.’

‘Who? The army commander?’

‘Not he. He is a youth of about the same age as the Prince.’

‘His name?’

‘I do not know the hero’s name. He is not of our army. The army commander sent me post-haste to give Your Majesty these glad tidings. The Prince is on his way to the capital to present the hero to Your Majesty. They will reach Hastinapur in two weeks’ time.’

I was still thinking of a present to be given to the messenger, when another maid brought news of a second messenger.

I recognised the messenger as he came in. He had come from King Vrishaparva. Father had successfully completed his penance. The demon kingdom was festive. Father was coming to take me to the festivities. The message said that he would be here in two weeks.

A happy Devayani was consoling the unhappy Devayani now. She said, ‘Today your penance has borne fruit. You suffered very badly for eighteen years. Now the worst is over. You shall inform Maharishi Shukra about Sharmishtha, he will immediately set up Yadu on the throne and punish His Majesty ...’

I was in a trance:

I had visions of Yadu being crowned as king. The sacred waters of all the rivers in Aryavarta were being sprinkled on him; and yet all the priests and ascetics felt that there was a flaw somewhere. In the end, Yadu bows to me. My tears of joy bathe his head. Father smiles and says, ‘Now the coronation is sanctified!’

In a moment, His Majesty is on his knees before me saying, ‘I am in a hundred ways guilty of neglecting you. Forgive me.’

YAYATI

W
here am I — in heaven or hell? Am I really Yayati? The husband of Devayani? Devayani! What Devayani? Devayani is nothing to me. How can that be? She is my sworn enemy from an earlier birth. She has thrown me into this hell.

Am I in hell? Oh no, for many years now I have been enjoying heavenly bliss.

How many years? Eighteen? No, I have been in heaven for something like eighteen hundred years. I am forever drinking nectar from the lips of beautiful maidens. Under the tree which grants every wish is my bed. I loll in bed night and day, on a mattress of delicate white flowers. Now, I am going to take Indrani in my arms.

Indrani, it was on Indrani’s account that King Nahusha was cursed. Who is that whispering in my ear? ‘The children of King Nahusha will never be happy.’

But I am the son of King Nahusha. I am happy. My brother Yati ran away to the jungle and lost his reason. But I am sailing in a sea of happiness. All my sorrows have been drowned in this sea. Except only one, the memory of Sharmishtha. No, this agony of mine will never get drowned in wine. I cannot wipe out that memory even with blood drawn in a hunt. No maiden in my bed, tending to my physical pleasure with her embraces, can crush that poignant memory.

No, Yayati is not happy. He is unhappy. Am I unhappy? I really do not know if I am happy or unhappy. What is happiness? What is misery? There cannot be two more difficult questions than these. Am I still Yayati or someone else? Where am I going? Why? What for? Where am I? Where am I headed for in this pitch darkness?

Darkness! Where is the darkness? Am I going off my head?

Here is my cup of wine. My only friend, since the death of Madhav; a companion who does not leave me day or night. My dear friend, who tenderly removes the bristles and the thorns in my side. Here is my cup of wine. The empty glass, once filled for drowning me in heavenly bliss ...

What is this here in this empty glass ...? Am I off my head?

What is this queer sound emanating from the empty glass? Who is this emerging from the cup? It is not just one figure. But — one ... two ... three ... seventeen, eighteen. Eighteen naked witches emerging from this cup ...

What a weird dance they are doing. What are they dancing on? They look like the corpses of inexperienced beautiful young maidens. This sweet girl baffled by the first stirring of love; this budding sweet girl who blushes to herself with the first imprint of love in her heart; this bold maiden, thrilled by the sacred experience of love; this charming young woman bursting with youth, preparing to enter the golden temple, cherished in her dreams, of love, with a salver stacked with flowers and other articles of worship; these ugly witches are dancing on the corpses of all these.

They join in song with their dance. Their notes are like the furious hissing of a cobra.

Oh God! The twinkling lamps of heaven are going out one by one with every note sung by them. In no time the sky is dark and inky. These witches have put out all the lamps in heaven with every breath of their song.

What song, heralding the end of the world, are these witches singing?

One of them danced up to me and with a grotesque smile said, ‘Do you recognise me? How foolish. You still have not recognised us sisters! We have striven so much for your pleasure, you ungrateful wretch! You have failed to recognise us, after all the pleasure you derived to your heart’s content in our company?’

Another tall one came very close to me. She laughed fiendishly. I closed my eyes, terrified by her intimacy. She put her arms round me and said, ‘Come and play with me.’

I opened my eyes. She took her hands off me and closed her fist. When she opened it, there were
cowries
[1]
in it.

Cowries?
No, they are eyes. These, these are Madhavi’s! These are Taraka’s!

They were not
cowries
. They were eyes. How much had I kissed them. They were like little boats out to exploit love with eyelids for their oars. In those tiny boats, I have often been as far as the fringe of heaven.

The witch said, ‘Come, let us play with these
cowries
.’ I shuddered. For fear of life itself, I pushed her away with difficulty.

Was all this fiction? I had never indulged in it in the last eighteen years. Then why should it come to me now? Was it fact or fiction? Before me is only an empty glass. An empty glass. A blank mind. A vacant heart.

The feeling of emptiness burnt inside me. Like a bird caught in a forest fire, flapping its wings and screeching, my mind was flapping in a void of loneliness. There was nowhere it could rest. In the end, I jumped into the ocean of wine. I said to every wave in it, ‘Take me far, far down. Take me to the bottom of the dark sea of forgetfulness. Hide me in the chasm of some huge rock. Let me sleep there in peace. Let me sleep there in peace for all time.’

* * *

One day, I was fast asleep. But I woke up suddenly. I could see nothing. I could perceive nothing.

‘It is evening.’

Who was talking? What did he say? It was evening? Did he mean the evening of my life?

This celestial messenger must have been mistaken. You silly, this is the Ashokavan in Hastinapur. I am King Yayati. How can the evening of my life come yet? I eagerly look forward to every night. Go away celestial messenger, try and remember the name of that senile old King on his deathbed for whom it was intended and give him your message.

‘It is evening, Your Majesty. It is time to get ready.’

I laughed to myself. It was only Mukulika talking to me. How terrified and upset I was, believing her to be a celestial messenger.

‘It is a beautiful evening. Shall I set your things out?’

‘Pour me some wine and get my things ready if you have been able to find a nice fresh flower.’

I went to the window. It was indeed an inviting evening.

I thought all poets are slaves of portents. They have set ideas on beautiful evenings such as this. This intriguing pink of eventide in the west — is this the hue of eventide? The sun took a sip of wine and put the same cup to the lips of the evening. She demurred and was coy but while protesting mildly, that she did not want any, she suddenly put her hand out for it. With that the cup fell down and this is the wine that was spilt.

This gorgeous red of the eventide! This is the joy incarnate of the pleasures of a hunt. This day, the quarry which had escaped at dawn from the hands of the tribal, was now within range. The arrow has dug deep into its heart. It is the blood spurting from that deep gash that has coloured the western horizon.

I thought I might cast an evil eye on the exquisitely beautiful panorama before me and closed my eyes.

In life there are only three abiding realities — wine, women and hunting. Man forgets his unhappiness in their pursuit.

Wine stimulates the imagination and frees the inhibiting shackles. All thought of morality, duty and good and evil melt in the tempting warmth of wine.

In this life, one who does not want to be a quarry oneself must prey on the others. There is nothing like hunting to bring home to one this ultimate truth of life. The truth jars and smacks of cruelty. But that is the most important, all pervading hymn in the lyric of life. Purity, beauty and innocence are mere words conjured up by the upright and weak. The holy sacrificial fire is nothing more than the funeral pyre of the sacrificial goat. A beautiful woman is no more than a living doll catering to the transient impulse of passion. The carefree harmless deer is just food, provided by creation for the hunter.

And in the company of a woman are combined the pleasures of wine and the hunt.

I opened my eyes. All the hues of eventide had vanished. Darkness held sway over the sky, the interstellar space, the earth. It was Time! All-consuming Time! It was He who had made short shrift of the beautiful hues of eventide.

I did not dare to stand there, I turned away and lay down on the bed. Mukulika had already laid my things out. She was aimlessly hovering round me. I could not bring myself to believe that this was the Mukulika in whose company the mystery of the attraction of man and woman had been first revealed to me.

She was now middle-aged and tomorrow she will be old. I also ...

Yesterday, today, tomorrow. No, what do yesterdays and tomorrows matter? Man has only one concern — the present moment. I have lived for the present for the last eighteen years. I tried to drown the swift wheel of racing time in a cup of wine and bring it to a standstill. I tried to ensnare it in the glances of beautiful women and hold it in their embraces.

No, I refuse to heed the past or the future.

Get rid of Mukulika? Can she easily be put away? No, her existence and my pleasures are inevitably linked together!

* * *

That terrible night eighteen years ago. I came out of Devayani’s apartment, taking an oath that I would never again go near her. The poisonous darts of disgrace were gnawing at me.

In the end, I turned to the cottage of Mukulika’s preceptor. I thought I had seen him somewhere before. The mystery was soon cleared. He was Mandar.

Mandar posed as a great sage. He had made up very well. His speech had a lure about it. His discourses on religion had the power to bring peace to troubled minds. There were as many disciples of Mandar as there are nuances of misery in the world. On the other hand there were many among his following who were there merely to achieve pleasures, not easily available otherwise. But there was a handsome sprinkling of beautiful young women also. Mandar made skilful use of them. He had captivated me eighteen years ago by just this device.

That night I longed for indulgence which would enable me to forget everything. I wished to forget Devayani’s insults, I had no time for good and evil or morality and immorality. It was Mandar who showed me the way that night. I cannot even bear to think what would have happened if that night Mandar had not shown me this easy way of escape, if he had not piloted the bark of my life, heading for suicide.

Seeing Mandar that night in his hermitage, I was reminded of Yati. Yati strove with implicit faith towards attaining God by torturing his body.

Yati and Mandar? — What a contrast! Mandar’s philosophy was very different from Yati’s. The ordinary man believed in it — it was more acceptable to him. I fell a victim to his teachings just because of that. The essence of Mandar’s philosophy was life is transient; it is like a flower which blooms today and fades tomorrow. One must taste as much of its fragrance as one can; the means are immaterial. There is no sin in it.

Treading this unfamiliar path, inherent inhibitions sometimes made me uneasy. As much as to say harshly, ‘Fool, where are you going?’

On such occasions Mandar would persuade me, sometimes by quoting from the ancient tenets of the sages. At other times he would recount the unbridled indulgence in pleasure of renowned men and women. Yet again, he would impress on me the transience of life from examples in everyday life.

Once he and I were driving round the town in a chariot. We turned off the highway. Alongside was a potter’s shop.

Smiling cynically, Mandar said, ‘The Almighty also is a potter.’

I asked, ‘In what sense?’

‘He also makes similar earthen vessels ... like you and me. When earthen vessels break, they return to earth, as does man one day. If the potter’s earthenware were imbued with life, I would say to them, “Listen Ye! Do not be content with drinking water only for your life. Drink wine. Drink nectar. Drink today whatever you can get. On the morrow, when you are in pieces, not a drop of any drink can you have.” ’

Once on our stroll, we passed by a cremation ground. There on the funeral pyre was burning the body of a young man. Mandar told me the history of his life. He had taken a vow of celibacy for attaining God. He had thus broken the heart of a girlfriend of his boyhood. She was unhappy all her life. Till that day he had never tasted any physical pleasure; after that day he would never again be able to do so.

Looking at the blazing pyre, I imagined myself in the place of the youth.

Mandar put his hand on my shoulder and said, ‘Your Majesty, in the running account of life, there is no place for deferred consumption. He who does not draw on pleasure today may not be able to get it tomorrow. In life the next golden day will dawn. The fragrant flowers will bloom. But he may not himself be there on the morrow to enjoy them.’

One day we happened to visit the house of a man of learning. Madhav had taken me to that very house. Now he was senile. He could remember nothing, see nothing and was barely able to walk. But the pleasures which he had spurned in his youth, had now turned on him in revenge. His unrequited passions were rising to the surface in strangely distorted forms. He would stand on the road and try to ogle at young girls passing by. His children would take him back to the house and lock him up. Even there he defaced the walls with obscene sketches in black. The women in them were half naked and in the presence of his grandchildren, he would kiss them.