Pregnant King, The (20 page)

‘We will be purified, Arya,’ said the chief of the Chandalas. ‘But who will purify the king? With or without the sacred threads, they were children of Brahmanas, hence Brahmanas. The two boys, as you claim they were, were not married. They had no children. They were killed violently. They were not cremated properly. No one mourned for them. They are bound to return as Brahma-Rakshasas and haunt their killer. For they are lost between the land of the living and the land of the dead, unable to make their journey across the Vaitrani. We fear for our king.’

They had been all but forgotten. The two brothers, Yaja and Upayaja, busy with their chants and charms in the special precinct within the palace walls. The potion was almost ready. The Siddhas felt its throbbing power.

But then they noticed a shift in the energies. A distraction. A commotion. They realized no one was paying attention to the ceremony. There were crows flying over the altar. ‘The Kshatriya guards posted outside the precinct are looking elsewhere,’ said Yaja.
The Brahmanas were conspicuous by their absence. Even the seat in the elephant stable reserved for the queen was vacant. ‘Where is everybody?’

Upayaja shut his eyes and opened up his mind. He said, ‘They are out there peeping out of windows, standing on rooftops, leaning out of gateway, lining the streets. Men and women. Priests, warriors, farmers, traders. Young and old. Everyone. They are watching a spectacle. Yuvanashva is asserting his royal authority. Flesh is burning. A village is wailing. I hear screams. No, not two boys. A young couple. Man and woman. No, wait, I am not sure. But I feel pain. Regret. Guilt. Suffering. Anguish. And the outrage of a city. I can feel Shilavati’s horror and resignation to her fate. Order is being established. A new king’s order. But beneath the order festers something deep, dark and terrible. A rage. A frustration. Yaja, something has happened in Vallabhi that has made Yama tremble and Kama frown. Our potion of life has been contaminated by death.’

Yaja looked around, ‘The seed of Yuvanashva is ready but where is the soil. Where are the queens? Do we pour it into the fire-altar?’

‘No, let us not. Agni will spit it out. There is confusion in the air. A disruption of order. Who is the true patron of this ritual? The king of Vallabhi. Only now it is Yuvanashva. Before it was Shilavati, without whose permission we would not have been allowed through the city gates. To whom does this potion belong then? Is it the seed of the son who begged or the mother who allowed? No, brother. Something does not feel right. The flow of rasa is turbulent. There is no rhythm. We don’t know who is king and who is not. Who is man and who is not. Who is father and who is not. The
blood of the old order has seeped into the ground in Kuru-kshetra. But the new order still has to establish itself. There is flux. The account books of Yama are unclear. Kama’s tears have caused the ink to smudge.’

Yaja grasped the rim of the pot containing the magic potion using his right hand. Upayaja did the same using his left hand. They stood up and left the precinct, the pot between them. They walked through the palace corridors. The paintings on the wall seem to come to life as the potion splashed around in the pot. The birds flapped their wings. The trees swayed. The lion stalked the elephant. Yaja and Upayaja did not care. They saw a palace deserted. The lamps and torches lit up lonely empty corridors. For thirteen years this palace yearned for a new life. And now they were all smitten by death.

The Siddhas finally reached the maha-sabha of the Turuvasu kings. The pillared hall. The empty throne with its red cushions and ivory parasol. A single lamp burning next to it. They kept the pot next to the lamp. ‘Let the king decide whose seed it is. Let the king decide which soil it should be. He knows best, who should be man and who should be woman.’ So saying the brothers slipped out of the palace and returned to the forest.

Yuvanashva rode into the palace late at night. He was tired. Thirsty. His body was covered with sweat and dust. As he passed through the gates he saw the guards. They stood up and saluted him. He saw fear in their eyes. And respect. His royal authority had been
clearly established. Now he was truly king.

Alighting from his chariot, he went straight to the queen’s courtyard. It was empty. No woman was there to greet him. Not even his wives. They were all in the inner chambers, quivering, silent, nervous. They had seen Yuvnashva lose his temper and get his way. They did not want to cross his path. Yuvanashva liked the feeling. The rush of power. He felt more like a man than ever before.

Yuvanashva then decided to go to the maha-sabha. He wanted to sit on the throne for some time. Then he would bathe. And eat. And then go to one of his queens. Any queen. Maybe all three of them together. He could do anything tonight.

As he fell back into the cushions, he imagined the room crowded with all the Kshatriya elders saluting him. His warriors cheering him. Flowers being showered on him. He saw the Turuvasu banner held high up fluttering against the sky. He saw adoration reflecting in his mother’s eyes. Awe in the eyes of his wives. It felt really good.

Even the crows were happy. Soon the potion would be ready and his queens would give him sons. Three sons from three wives. This was the glory he craved. What he could not obtain from Kuru-kshetra had come to him in Vallabhi. He thanked the gods for it. He thanked the Angirasa for constantly telling him to be patient. Yes, good things do come to those who wait.

His throat was parched. He wanted water. Or milk. ‘Is anyone there?’ he shouted. No one came forward. The hall was empty and dark. ‘I want water. Is anyone there?’ No one responded. Yuvanashva felt his temper rising once more. ‘I will flog the servants tomorrow.
There must be someone here at all time.’

Then he heard a familiar voice. ‘Father,’ it said. ‘Father,’ it said again.

Then another voice. ‘Father.’

‘Who is it?’ asked Yuvanashva.

‘Your sons,’ said the two voices in unison.

‘I have no sons,’ said Yuvanashva, as he tried to shut out the voices and go to sleep.

‘We are your sons. You created us.’

Yuvanashva turned around startled. Beyond the light of the flickering lamp, in the shadows, he saw a man and a woman.

‘Come closer. Show me your face.’

‘No, father. You will not like what you will see. It is all burnt. Scarred beyond recognition.’

‘Who are you?’

‘Your sons.’

‘Stop this. Who are you?’ said Yuvanashva, his temper rising as it had done earlier in the day. The two retreated back. They were scared. Yuvanashva did not want them to go. ‘Don’t be afraid. I will not harm you. But I have no children. Tell me who you are. Don’t mock me. It hurts when a childless man is called father.’

‘You have us, father. Two children. You created us.’

‘Who are you? Please tell me. Who are you? If I am your father, I have a right to know your names.’

‘I am Sumedha, father. All my life I looked for a father. In death, I found one.’

‘And I am Somvati, father,’ said the woman. ‘Your daughter. I apologize for hurting you. I apologize for becoming a woman. But had I not became a woman, you would never have become my father.’

Fear crept into Yuvanashva. These were the Brahma-
Rakshasas he had been warned about. They had come to torment him. ‘Go away, you ghosts. You are dead. Go away.’

‘We cannot. Yama asks us many questions that we cannot answer. What is our varna. Are we Brahmanas? To which ashrama do we belong? Are we brahmacharis or grihasthis? What is our linga? Are we men or women? They will not let us cross the Vaitarni unless we answer these questions. So we come to you, our creator, our father for the answer.’

‘Go away. You know what I think of you. Yama must let you pass.’

‘He won’t. He says both of us are men. But we are not. One of us is a woman. He does not accept that. Says the king’s decree is final. We refuse to cross the Vaitarni unless he accepts us as husband and wife. Until then we cannot be Pitrs. We remain here as Pisachas.’

The lamp in the maha-sabha was still. The darkness seemed animated. Alive. ‘Is somebody there?’ Yuvanashva shouted. There was no response. He was all alone with the two ghosts. Would they harm him? Possess him? Drive him mad?

The ghosts read his mind, ‘No, we cannot harm you. We are trapped here. Alone. With no one to talk to but you, our creator, our father. You are our only companion on this shore of Vaitarni. We will never leave you alone.’

Yuvanashva pretended he did not hear the ghosts. ‘Is someone there? I am thirsty. Get me some water.’

‘Father, are you thirsty? Don’t worry we will fetch you water. We will, we promise. We are dutiful offspring. Oh look,’ said the Pisachas. ‘There is a pot of water right next to you. Drink it. It will quench your thirst.’

Yuvanashva saw the red earthenware with elaborate geometrical patterns round its neck. He picked it up and drank its contents. The water was cool. As it passed down his throat, he felt a sense of peace and tranquility. His limbs relaxed. The tension vanished. There was no anger any more. No determination to prove. No angst. No rage. Yuvanashva felt as if cool river water was being poured over his limbs.

‘Is your thirst quenched now, father?’ asked the Pisachas.

‘Yes,’ said Yuvanashva. He looked outside the window. Dawn broke. The two Pisachas disappeared.

A gentle breeze brought in the fragrance of forest flowers to his throne. He heard a distant chanting. The voice of Yaja and Upayaja. ‘Now that Vishnu has prepared the field, let Brahma bring forth the seed. May Vishwakarma shape the child and Vayu breathe in the life.’

The chant felt nice. Like a lullaby. It put him to sleep.

Streaks of light pierced through the night sky. It was Aruni, the god of dawn, heralding the arrival of the sun. Shilavati looked out of her window and remembered a song of the bards, ‘Look at the elder brother of the sun or shall we say his elder sister. Aruni or Usha. Formless, shapeless, what is dawn? Man or woman, god or goddess? Born prematurely before the organs could be formed, even the mother does not know.’

Shilavati had tossed and turned all night in her bed, unable to sleep, haunted by a terrifying dream of the unsmiling Yama performing a yagna, tossing a charred corpse in the sacrificial pit, asking her, amidst the cawing of a hundred crows, ‘So, who is right? You or your son? Is this flesh that of a man or a woman? Somvat or Somvati? Does it matter? Does it really matter when the flesh is burnt alive?’

Shilavati had got up earlier than usual. She bathed and lit the lamp in her audience chamber herself. The light bounced on the walls. The lions painted on the walls let out a roar; the elephants raised their trunks. But not for her. She heard the twang of a bow. Not hers. But Yuvanashva’s. The king of Vallabhi had finally raised his bow of kingship and shot an arrow.
Not Kama’s arrow but Yama’s. Creating no life but taking two.

Shilavati waited for her son to come and place his forehead at her feet as he always did at dawn each day. He did not come. The sun rose. The lamp burnt itself out.

Seven days passed. Shilavati waited. But Yuvanashva did not come. No one came. No guards, no ministers. No petitioners seeking justice. No village chiefs bearing gifts. No envoys from neighbouring kings seeking tribute. No servants. No maids. Not even Mandavya. She heard a lot of movement in the corridors around her courtyard but she did not show any curiosity. If it is important, they will tell me, she told herself.

I have been forgotten, Shilavati fumed. So soon? No doubt everyone was paying obeisance to her son who had asserted his royal authority so forcefully. She imagined them fawning over him in the maha-sabha. Even Mandavya, sitting at his feet, looking noble, giving him advice. Shilavati chose to respond to the situation with indifference. I don’t need them, she said. She sat quietly in the now empty audience chamber, staring at the walls, at the lions and the elephants, and the turtle on the floor, too proud to let the tears fall.

Finally, on the eighth day, Mandavya entered her courtyard. Before he could say anything, she snapped, ‘So you finally come to me. All well with the king? I guess he is so busy in the maha-sabha that he cannot spare even a moment for his mother. All well with Vallabhi? Any more boys killed?’

Ignoring her, Mandavya bowed his head and spoke dispassionately, ‘The Siddhas have disappeared. The pot with the potion was found upside down. And the
king is sick. Violently so. He has been waking up every morning feeling nauseous. He retches and vomits all day, unable to hold any food down. His body has grown limp. He can barely stand. He is miserable that he has been unable to come to you. He sent me to convey his apology.’

Shilavati felt she had been rebuked by the guru of the Turuvasu clan. ‘Since when?’ she asked, her voice no longer loud and sharp.

‘Since seven days.’

‘Why did no one tell me?’

‘Why did you not ask, Shilavati? The servants fear telling you anything unless asked. And what about your famous spies? They must have told you everything about Dwaraka and Hastina-puri, but why have they not told you of your son’s condition? Is it the pride of a queen that has come in the way of maternal affection, that you have not even bothered to find out if all fares well with your son?’

All those foolish imaginings that kept her from her son. Shilavati felt small and stupid. ‘Still, they should have told me. Oh my poor child,’ she wailed.

‘Everybody assumed you knew.’ Shilavati was silent. ‘You are angry, I sense it,’ said Mandavya. ‘And perhaps your anger is justified. But who are you angry with? Your fate? Vallabhi? Or your son who loves you?’ Shilavati looked at the floor feeling ashamed. There was her son in misery. And here she was nursing her grudges against him. Mandavya continued, ‘I am going to ask the maids to replaster the walls of this audience chamber. Replace the lions and the elephants with trees and creepers and grazing cows.’

Shilavati looked at Mandavya, her eyes flashing fire.
‘Why?’

‘It is time to retire, Shilavati. Make way for the next generation.’

‘So, I have served my purpose. The Turuvasus have no need for me anymore. I am being shown my place.’

‘See it any way you want, Shilavati. It is time you accept that your son, not you, is king of Vallabhi. Your ill wishes make him sick.’

Shilavati was surprised by the accusation. ‘You think I am making my son sick. How could you even think so?’ A horrified look in her eyes.

‘Everybody in the palace thinks so. They say first you prevented him from marrying. Then you made him sterile. And now, when everything else has failed, you are trying to kill him, as you killed your own husband. Why else would you, a mother, not go to him when he lies sick in bed? Everybody in the palace is concerned about Yuvanashva’s health. And you are not even aware.’

Shilavati let out a cry and broke down. ‘How can anyone think like that? Those wicked people. Those horrible creatures. I loved my husband. I love my son. I love Vallabhi. They are my children. And they all hate me. I should hate them. You Turuvasus brought me here to use me. And now that I have been used well, you spit me out.’

‘It is not about you, Shilavati. Its about Vallabhi. About social order. You were custodian, never king. Now the man whose destiny it has always been to be king of Vallabhi is sick. Matanga does not know what troubles him. Rather than defending yourself, don’t you think you should rush to his side, nurse him?’

‘I don’t think I should go. My touch may kill him,’ said Shilavati sarcastically.

‘Those are people’s perceptions. I know how much you care for Yuvanashva. I know how much you loved Prasenajit. By not asking about your son, by not going to him, you are just confirming people’s beliefs.’

‘I didn’t know,’ Shilavati wailed.

‘I know that. They don’t want to know that. They just want to conclude. You know, better than I, how people think. A woman in power is never liked. It has been long since you were seen as a suffering widow and the custodian of an orphan’s inheritance. Your ambition has distanced you from your son and your people. The people need their king. And the king needs his mother. Go to him.’

‘No,’ said Shilavati. ‘He does not need me. He has his wives. He has his guru. He has Vallabhi too. Has anybody thought that he may be sick because the gods are angry. He has killed two innocent boys, moved away from dharma with his unjust decision. He is no life-giver but a life-taker. Is that the kind of king Vallabhi needs?’

‘Stop competing, Shilavati. He is your son, the king of Vallabhi, whether you like it or not. Kama’s arrow makes you cling. But Yama’s noose will force you to release your grip. Give up. Everything comes to an end eventually.’

Shilavati did not reply. She kept sobbing, feeling sorry for herself.

Mandavya left the queen’s chamber angry with Shilavati. She was capable of so much more. Had he misjudged her? How could power corrupt her? She was a woman.

On a faraway hill, enveloped by winter clouds, the Angirasa sensed Mandavya’s rage. ‘He thinks a woman should respond differently to the corrupting influence of power,’ said one. The rest laughed.

On the day after the burning of the two boys, Mandavya and Vipula had found the ceremonial pot, empty and turned upside down in the maha-sabha next to the throne.

‘Who left it here?’ Mandavya had asked the guards.

‘The two Siddhas,’ they replied.

‘Where are they now?’

‘They left at night from the eastern gate.’

‘Why did you not stop them?’

‘We were scared.’

Mandavya and Vipula rushed to the enclosure where the yagna had taken place. They found all the ritual pots overturned and all the ladles broken. The altar had been dismantled. The charred wood kicked in every direction. Butter had been spilt. The fruits and flowers crushed and mixed with dirt. The sacred diagrams had been wiped out in a hurry. ‘This is not a good thing,’ said Vipula.

‘We must perform a ritual to cleanse this place and to pacify the angry gods,’ said Mandavya. He realized that the previous evening the fire-god had been fed living human flesh. This would have disturbed the equilibrium of the cosmos, unsettled the ritual of the Siddhas. He told the guards to fetch the Vaishya elders,
‘Tell them to bring to the palace a hundred and eight cows. I want the sound of their lowing to fill this space. I want them to shed dung and urine in this enclosure. This place which was to create life now has the stench of death. It is like a womb stripped of life. The cows will help wash away all inauspiciousness.’

‘Then this entire enclosure with everything in it must be set aflame, and the ashes must be cast far away from the city,’ said Vipula.

Yuvanashva meanwhile lay in bed cradled by his three wives, a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. He rested his head on Simantini’s lap. Pulomi rubbed his feet with oil. Keshini massaged his hands. The maid gave Simantini some freshly boiled rice on a plantain leaf. ‘No, not rice,’ said Yuvanashva turning away.

‘Then what?’ asked Simantini, giving the rice back to the maid.

‘Tamarind.’

Simantini held her husband against her bosom. So powerful and frightening in court just seven days ago, now so weak and helpless. Yuvanashva snuggled, his eyes shut, feeling safe in Simantini’s arms.

‘Shall we send for the musicians?’ asked Keshini.

‘No. No music. Just silence,’ said Yuvanashva. Pulomi started to get up, ‘Don’t go, Pulomi. None of you leave my side.’ Suddenly he opened his eyes, looking anxious, ‘Where is my mother? Why has she not come to me? Is she well? Does she know of my condition? She may wonder why I have stopped greeting her in the morning.’

The queens looked at each other and did not reply. ‘Rest, Arya,’ said Simantini. ‘Mother knows everything and is offering prayers for your health. She will be here
soon.’ The words comforted Yuvanashva. He shut his eyes and soon fell asleep.

Matanga had been called. He noted that the sickness lasted only in the morning, followed by an intense craving for sour food in the evening. He did not understand what was happening. He wondered if the sickness was a manifestation of his guilt at having taken over the reins of the kingdom, rather forcefully, from his mother. But he kept his opinions to himself. ‘Too much bile,’ he told the queens as he handed over a potion that the king had to take along with the evening meal. In the morning, however, the sickness caused the king to throw out the evening meal as well as the potion, making him weaker than ever.

The queens were scared. The guards who had found the king sleeping on the throne on the day after the burning of the boys had said he kept mumbling something about ghosts. ‘Could it be the curse of the two boys?’ Keshini wondered aloud. ‘I have heard that the angry glance of a dying man can cause sickness.’

‘Or maybe, it is the curse of the Siddhas? They left without informing anybody,’ said Pulomi.