Pregnant King, The (33 page)

The Shudra elders could not believe what they were hearing. ‘What is the king saying? Has he gone mad?’ they asked.

‘Yes, he has,’ said Shilavati, when news reached her chamber. ‘Tell the elders, they must declare Mandhata king quickly, because Yuvanashva is going mad. He is saying things that make no sense. Imagine a man who claims to be a mother.’ She laughed.

The elders of all four varnas laughed. Everyone laughed. ‘Yuvanashva has gone mad,’ they said. ‘Let us make Mandhata king.’

Yuvanashva shouted over the deafening laughter, ‘I speak the truth, Mandhata is born of my body.’ The laughter continued ‘Believe me. Why don’t you believe me? If Draupadi can be born in a sacrificial pit why
can Mandhata not be born in the body of a man?’ But nobody heard Yuvanashva. They only laughed and concluded his words were the ravings of a madman.

When the sun had set and the elders had left, the Pisachas entered the maha-sabha of the Turuvasus. Their twin voices echoed in the empty hall, ‘The truth has finally been told.’

‘But it has not been heard,’ said Yuvanashva, a broken man. ‘Vallabhi gags my truth with the lies of my mother. My people laugh and see only what they want to see. They don’t see me. The real me. Why then should I stay?’

The next day, just before dawn, the gatekeepers of Vallabhi saw the king standing under the gate facing the eastern sky. They saluted him. He ignored them.

His eyes were shut. They noticed he was silently mouthing a hymn. He unwrapped his uttarya and began unknotting his dhoti.

Realizing what was happening, one of the gatekeepers ran to the palace. ‘The king is renouncing the world,’ he shouted.

The news woke the palace in an instant. There was pandemonium. The queens ran into Shilavati’s courtyard, a confused look in their eyes. Was this true? Had the king actually left? The servants started wailing as if someone had died.

‘He cannot just do this without taking my consent. The Shastras insist on this,’ said Shilavati.

‘Devi, he is disrobing at the gate at this very instant,’ said the gatekeeper.

That very moment, the whole palace saw Shilavati lose her regal majesty. She crumpled to the floor. Simantini and Pulomi rushed to help her up. She looked like a helpless old mother, wrinkled and toothless. Tears rolled down her cheeks. ‘All of a sudden. Without even a warning. Did he tell you anything?’

‘No, he did not,’ said Keshini.

The tears kept rolling. The wailing of the palace women was getting louder. Shilavati beat her chest as she had done the day her husband died. Yama’s elephant goad had struck her soul once again. The pain was unbearable. ‘At least he could have told me. Oh my son. My son,’ she cried. Taking a deep breath she told Mandhata, ‘Take me to him. Let us at least see him before he departs.’

The guards ran to the stables to prepare the horses. Mandhata and Jayanta mounted their chariot. Vipula joined them. Palanquins were made ready for the queens. ‘No, I will ride on a chariot,’ said Shilavati, ‘It is faster. We must hurry.’ She had to be picked up and placed on the chariot. Her knees were weak.

A crowd had gathered at the city gates, by the time they got there. The news of the king’s renunciation had spread through the city. The sun was about to rise. Yuvanashva had just thrown mud over his shoulder and had started walking towards the horizon, his back to the city.

He heard the chariots. The sound of familiar voices, accompanied by sobbing and wailing. ‘Wait, wait. Turn back.’

Yuvanashva started walking faster. Away from
Vallabhi, from the wailing of his people. Why were they crying like orphaned children? Was this just ritual? Had they not rejected him?

‘Father, turn back. At least bid us a formal farewell. Everyone is here. Your wives. Your sons. Your mother. Your subjects,’ he heard the sweet voice of Jayanta. It was full of affection, and pain. It took all his determination not to turn back.

‘Arya, please turn back for the venerable Shilavati. She deserves at least a glance.’ It was Vipula. But Yuvanashva refused to turn back. He could not. He had to continue walking.

‘Yuva. Yuva. Why so much anger? I am a foolish old woman. Forgive me. Turn back. Look at me. Know that I have always loved you,’ said Shilavati.

Tears rolled down Yuvanashva’s eyes as he heard his mother’s frail voice. I don’t want to punish you, he wanted to say. I just want you to love me for the truth that I am. I want freedom from all lies. But he could say nothing. He did not want to defend or explain his actions. How he longed to turn around and hug her. Just once. Just once. Remember the time they were close. Before Mandhata, before Somvat and Sumedha, before Kuru-kshetra, before the three wives.

Yuvanashva slowed his pace and strained his ears, waiting for Mandhata to cry out. What would he say? Father? Mother? Mandhata said nothing, and Yuvanashva increased his pace.

The sun moved west. Yuvanashva crossed familiar rice fields and mango groves. He took the highway that ran north. It was lined with fruit trees, planted long ago by the far-sighted Shilavati, that sheltered travellers and pilgrims and fed them as they made their way to Vallabhi.

By late afternoon, the landscape started getting unfamiliar. The frontier was near, Yuvanashva realized. Soon there would be no trace of order, no field, no orchard. No trees planted by the queen. The earth would be uneven and the grass wild. The only trace of civilization would be the highway cutting through the forest. Must he leave the highway? Abandon civilization itself?

Yuvanashva saw a group of men walking towards him. They had paint on their faces, and were wearing colourful clothes. The bards! Yuvanashva realized. They blocked his path by prostrating themselves before him. ‘Let me pass,’ said Yuvanashva.

‘We have one last story for you,’ said the senior bard.

‘Which one?’

‘The story we never told you. The story we never tell. The story that has never been told, except by Bhisma
to the Pandavas before he died. The one that Arjuna said he forgot.’

Bhangashvana’s story, Yuvanashva recollected. The man who, like him, had experienced motherhood. There was a time when he had believed that this story would stem the restlessness in his heart.

‘Why now?’ asked Yuvanashva.

‘We finally have an audience who will not laugh,’ said the bards.

Yuvanashva sat down under a jambu tree. The bards sat before him. They hummed a tune, imitating bees in a meadow, as they prepared their tongues for the narration.

‘This is the story of Bhangashvana, also known as Sudyumna, better known as Ila.’

‘Ila? The Ila? Our great ancestor? Bhangashvana was Ila?’ asked Yuvanashva.

‘Yes,’ said the senior bard, with an apologetic smile. ‘In ancient times, a child was given many names to confuse malevolent spirits. Ila grew up to be a strapping young prince. Prithu gave him many wives. And the wives gave him many children, both sons and daughters. One day, Ila went hunting on his favourite horse accompanied by his favourite dog. They entered a forest not knowing it was the sacred grove of Tarini. It was spring. Flowers were in full bloom. The goddess was with her consort, Shiva, and wanted no man to interrupt her pleasure. For her sake, Shiva cast a spell causing all things male in the forest to become female. Ila fell under the influence of the spell. He became a woman. His horse a mare. His dog a bitch. He looked around and found a group of peahens. No peacocks. Running through the forest were herds of doe but no stags. In
the pond there were geese, no ganders. Tigresses, cow-elephants everywhere. No tigers, no bull-elephants. Ila finally came upon the goddess sitting content on Shiva’s left lap, resting her head on his chest, smiling. He begged her to restore his manhood, told her that he had wives and children. But Shiva’s spell could not be undone. The goddess could only modify it. She said that Ila’s masculinity would wax and wane with the moon. He would be all male on full-moon days and all female on new-moon nights.’

‘Like Ileshwara?’ asked Yuvanashva.

‘Yes,’ said the bards.

‘Did he establish the temple to remind people of his life?’

‘We do not know that, Arya. But no one sees Ileshwara as Ila. Ileshwara is a god. Ila, a man.’

I wonder why that is, wondered Yuvanashva. Was that the only way this strange truth could be accommodated?

The bards continued, ‘Ila returned home and found that he was more male when the moon waxed and more female when the moon waned. On full-moon days he was a complete man, enjoying the company of his wives. On a new-moon night, he was a woman, a beautiful woman that Budh, god of the planet Mercury, fell in love with. Ila fell in love with Budh too. They made love. Budh gave Ila children, both sons and daughters. They called Ila “mother”. The Devas asked Ila’s father, Prithu, if he thought of Ila as son or daughter. Prithu replied, “Ila is my child. Son or daughter, how does it matter? I love my child anyway.” So it was that Ila came to be both son and
daughter, man and woman, husband and wife, father and mother. Then the problems began.’

‘Problems?’ said Yuvanashva.

‘Yes, problems. His wives did not know when to call him husband and his husband did not know when to call him wife. His subjects did not know when he was king and when he was not. The sons who called him “father” felt he preferred the sons who called him “mother”. The daughters who called him “father” felt he indulged the daughters who called him “mother”. There was complete chaos in the household. Even Ila lost control of his senses. When the moon waxed and his body turned masculine, he discovered that he continued to harbour a woman’s thoughts. He yearned for the company of his husband. When the moon waned and his body turned feminine, he could not stop feeling like a man and he yearned for the company of his wives. Ila gave the children who called him “father” his kingdom but reserved all his attention for the children who called him “mother”. He thought he was being fair. But the children did not think so. They envied each other, the ones receiving attention wanted the inheritance and the ones getting the inheritance wanted attention. They fought each other. Quarrels became brawls, brawls culminated to a great war where brother killed brother as in Kuru-kshetra. All of Ila’s sons died. His daughters, their sisters, were inconsolable in their grief. Ila wept for twenty-one days. Ten days as father and ten days as mother. And one day as a parent. Pained to see Ila suffer so, Prajapati instructed Yama, the god of death, to restore the children of Ila. Yama looked at his account books and said that there was merit for only one set of sons to be resurrected, either
those who called Ila “father” or those who called him “mother”. But Ila could not choose. “Give me both,” he begged. But Yama, who did not like any juggling of his account books, refused. Then Kama came to Ila’s rescue. “Tell Yama to restore the sons whose call is sweeter,” said the god of desire. Ila did as instructed.’

‘What does that mean—whose call is sweeter?’ asked Yuvanashva.

‘If Yama felt there was more love in the call of “mother” then he could restore the sons who called Ila “mother”. If he felt there was more love in the call of “father” then he could restore the sons who called Ila “father,”’ explained the bards.

Yuvanashva remembered the one time, long ago, in the delirium of fever, Mandhata had called him ‘mother’. Was that sweeter than Jayanta’s call of ‘father’? Whom would he choose to bring to life, Mandhata or Jayanta? How can such a choice be made, he wondered.

‘Yama had no children. So he consulted the Devas. The sky-gods, all male, had been fathers but not mothers; they did not know what the call of “mother” sounded like. Then he went to the earth-goddesses. The Matrikas, all female, had been mothers, not fathers; they did not know what the call of “father” sounded like. Yama then sought the help of the Rishis. The Rishis went around the world asking all men and women. Men said the call of father is sweeter. Women said the call of mother is sweeter. There was no man other than Ila who knew what it felt to be called mother. There was no woman other than Ila who knew what it felt to be called father. Realizing no one would ever know the truth, the Rishis advised Yama to restore both sets of children. “Only if I get a sacrifice,” said Yama, after
making all the calculations, “so that the books stay in balance.” “Take me in their place in the land of the dead,” said Ila, determined to rescue all his children. Without further ado, Yama swung his noose and took Ila across Vaitarni. In his place all his sons, those who called him “mother”
and
those who called him “father”, were allowed to return to the land of the living.’

The conclusion pleased Yuvanashva. ‘That is what parents do. Sacrifice themselves for their children,’ he said.

‘Maybe he died to escape the chaos his body had created.’

‘That cannot be true,’ said Yuvanashva vehemently. At some distance, he saw farmers weeding out their fields. Was Ila a weed in the field of society? As Somvati was? As he was? ‘Please continue,’ he said after taking a deep breath.

‘No sooner were the children resurrected than the quarrels over inheritance resumed. To prevent another war, for the sake of order, stability and peace, the elders decided to intervene. They declared that, in times to come, all the sons of Ila would be remembered as the children of Ila, the man, and all the daughters of Ila will be remembered as the children of Ila, the woman. Ila’s land would be divided amongst all his sons. And all his daughters would be given in marriage to the sons of Ila’s elder brother, Ikshavaku. Since all future kings will have in their veins the blood of Ila, this land watered by the three great rivers will be known as Ilavrita, the enclosure of Ila.’

‘What of Ila?’

‘His memory was restricted to the rituals of the temple.’

Yuvanashva remembered chasing the bards as a child asking them if Ila was the son of Prithu and they questioning him, ‘Why do you presume he was a son?’ It all made sense now. He recollected how his mother had once addressed Ila as the false son of Prithu. Now he knew why.

‘Why is this story never told?’ asked Yuvanashva.

‘Because no one ever saw this as history,’ replied the bards. ‘They said it was a poet’s imagination. Men cannot be mothers, and mothers cannot be kings.’

‘What will happen to my story?’

‘No one will ask us to narrate it. It will soon be forgotten.’

A group of cowherds attending to a young calf looked up and found a handsome naked man walk past briskly. Without his royal robes, his herald, and his entourage, they did not identify Yuvanashva as king. A hermit, they said to each other, and saluted him reverentially.

But Yuvanashva did not think of himself as a hermit. The parting words of the bards disturbed him. He was hurt and angry. If he had truly renounced the world, why did he feel hurt and anger? Why did he want to be remembered?

Yuvanashva felt the breeze curling around him. Tugging him back. He increased his pace and walked more forcefully. As soon as the sun slipped past the horizon, he heard the ghosts call out to him. ‘Not so
fast, father. Wait for us.’

A sanyasi has no children, Yuvanashva reminded himself. He is nobody’s father, husband, son or king. He is not even a storyteller’s theme. ‘I am not even Yuvanashva anymore,’ he mumbled under his breath, ignoring the call of the ghosts.

The wind whistled. The moon rose. Yuvanashva saw the banyan tree that marked the frontier of Vallabhi, said to be haunted by a Yaksha. He felt the stab of hunger. He had not eaten all day. His muscles ached. His stomach churned. He felt weak. He remembered the vast kitchen of Keshini, with its gleaming pots and pans, and servants chopping vegetables endlessly. How she enticed him with food. He felt like munching fried lotus seeds flavoured with coarsely ground pepper and washing it down with fresh buttermilk. He brushed the thought aside. Only roots and shoots for me now. No cooked food. Not even milk. His mind wandered to the days before the children. When he and his wives were friends. When, after the evening meal, they all sat on the giant swing, and watched the sunset. Pulomi would rub the soles of his feet with oil. Keshini would fetch the game of dice. Simantini would sit on the floor and give all of them tambula after tambula, folding a surprise within each betel leaf. The musicians would play the flute. From the window they would see the cows kicking up dust as they returned home from the pastures. He heard the lowing of the cows. Felt the lotus seeds between his teeth. The fragrance of the tambula reached his nose. Saliva dribbled from the sides of his lips. He wiped it away.