‘You have a very powerful imagination, Simantini.’
‘I have been thinking about it for some time.’
‘Have you also thought of a way to explain of how it was I, not any one of you, who came to bear the first prince?’ asked Yuvanashva sarcastically.
Simantini took no notice of this. ‘There is no need for that. I will present Mandhata. I am his mother too.’
‘Since when?’ asked Yuvanashva sharply.
‘Since the day Pandu claimed to be the father of the Pandavas without making either of his wives pregnant. If a man is a father of his wives’ children through the rite of marriage, why can I not be the mother of my husband’s child through the rite of marriage? Surely motherhood is kindled in the heart too?’ she told Yuvanashva. ‘I may not be Mandhata’s mother by blood or milk. But I am his mother by love. When Krishna visited my father’s palace, my father asked him what surprised him most about life. Krishna answered, “That everyone asks me to choose between my birth mother Devaki and my foster mother Yashoda. I tell them, why choose. Everyone who loves me as a child is my mother.” I love Mandhata as my son. I am therefore his mother.’
Yuvanashva handed over his son to Simantini, his first wife, Mandhata’s mother by love. ‘Now you will be the mother of the king’s firstborn,’ he said reading her mind. ‘You will bow to no one.’
mandhata is presented
The queen’s courtyard was full of women. Wives of Brahmanas, Kshatriyas, Vaishyas and Shudras. Mothers belonging to communities of priests, soldiers, farmers, herdsmen, weavers, potters, painters and dancers. They played flutes, drums and symbols and clapped their hands singing cheerful songs to celebrate the birth of Jayanta.
Pulomi sat on green cushions on the silver throne. Next to her sat Shilavati and the wives of Rishis who had come all the way from the forests to bless her. In front of her spread on a reed mat were the gifts for her child. Each piece created with love and affection by the potters and silversmiths of Vallabhi.
Pulomi sat with Jayanta in her arms beaming with pride when suddenly, without warning, the conch-shell trumpets of the king sounded.
The singing stopped. The music stopped. Everybody turned to look at who was coming. Was it the king?
‘No, it is not him,’ said Shilavati realizing what was going through Pulomi’s mind.
Pulomi heaved a sigh of relief when she saw it was Simantini. Then she was angry: she did not want the glance of a barren woman on her son. That was when she noticed what Simantini held in her arms. She froze.
Draped in a green sari, wearing a gold nose-ring, a long garland of champaka flowers reaching up to her knees, in regal gait, flanked by maids who carried the king’s yak-tail fly whisks and silver parasol, Simantini cradled Mandhata in her arms. ‘This is the king’s firstborn. My son. We present him to you,’ she announced.
All the women gasped and broke into an excited chatter. Shilavati kept an impassive face hiding her irritation. Pulomi looked at her son trying hard to hide her shock.
The women looked at each other. Finally, the wife of a Kshatirya elder asked, ‘Why have we not been told of this?’
‘For the safety of the prince. He was born after great difficulty as you all know,’ said Simantini, smiling confidently, not taking her eyes off Mandhata even for a moment.
The women understood. They had all seen their king visit the shrine of Ileshwara every full moon for thirteen years dressed in white begging the deity for a child. They had all seen the three queens dressed in red visit the shrine with garlands of jabakusuma flowers on new moon nights. They were the first to see the face of the deity. The last to receive her grace. ‘Ileshwari has given the king not one but two children. A torrent instead of a trickle of grace. Praise be to Ileshwari,’ said Keshini, who stood behind Simantini.
‘Praise be to Ileshwari,’ shouted the women.
Shilavati watched as the women who were sitting around her second daughter-in-law got up and crowded around her elder daughter-in-law. They looked at the young Mandhata. He was dressed in a white cloth with tiny gold anklets and armlets and a chain of gold beads with tiger claws round his neck. He yawned and looked content in Simantini’s arms. The women started to sing. ‘Blessed is the queen. Blessed is our prince. Blessed is Vallabhi.’
Pulomi and her son were all but forgotten.
Simantini smiled in triumph.
Book Six
bhangashvana
Just before the rains, at the height of summer, the image of Ileshwara was brought out of the temple and placed on a giant pedestal in the city square. Yuvanashva led his elephants out of the royal stable, each one ornamented with golden headgear and a plume of peacock feathers. They surrounded the sacred pedestal and on instructions of the king, raised their trunk to spray cool sandalwood water on the deity. ‘May the elephants turn into clouds. May the sandal water be rain. May the waters pour on earth as they did on you,’ sang the three queens.
The image was then returned to the temple. The king stayed back and sat on the pedestal, replacing the deity. His three wives sat behind him. He held his two sons on his lap. Jayanta had started to crawl and Mandhata was able to mumble a few words. Both were fast asleep.
It was the first time that all members of the royal family presented themselves to the public. It was a great occasion. The Brahmanas welcomed them blowing conch-shell trumpets and waving oil lamps around them. The Vaishyas showered them with grains of freshly husked rice mixed with turmeric. The Shudras brought pots of water which were poured into the extended palms of the king and queens. The king and the three queens drank this water. And the priests said, ‘This will bring the rains.’
Yuvanashva’s mind was occupied by the two little ones in his arms. He looked at Jayanta. He will call me ‘father’, as he should. Then he looked at Mandhata. What should this one call me? Father or mother?
After the festivities, he summoned the bards. ‘Is there anyone in the scriptures who had children who called him father and children who called him mother?’ he asked.
‘There was one Bhangashvana,’ they said.
‘Tell me his story.’
‘We don’t remember this story. Only Bhisma knows it,’ they said.
But Bhisma was dead. Weeks after the Pandava victory, he had finally succumbed to the arrows shot by Arjuna from behind Shikhandi on the tenth day of the war. ‘Who will now tell me the story of Bhangashvana?’ wondered Yuvanashva.
‘Maybe the Pandavas know the story,’ said the bards. ‘They have heard much of what the old man had to say.’
For days after the war ended, the Pandavas did not leave Kuru-kshetra. They sat around Bhisma nursing his wounds, waiting for him to die. As he lay on a bed made of arrows, Bhisma had a lot to say. He spoke on politics and economics and history and geography and science and philosophy. He spoke on the nature of time, space and dharma. He spoke on how people should behave. Brahmanas, Kshatriyas, Vaishyas, Shudras. Men, women, children. Hermits, householders. He had an opinion on everything. A story for all queries. Yudhishtira listened to all that the old man had to say. This was the wisdom of his forefathers. Unlike cows, and horses, and elephants, and women and gold and land and kingdom and crowns, it would not outlive death. Yudhishtira had asked Bhisma many questions. One of them was, ‘Who gets more pleasure in life: man or woman, son or daughter, husband or wife, father or mother?’ Bhisma replied that he did not know. All he knew was the opinion of a person called Bhangashvana who lived half his life as a man, a son, a husband and a father and the other half as a woman, a daughter, a wife and a mother.
Yuvanashva was interested to know Bhangashvana’s opinion. Royal pride, however, prevented Yuvanashva from going to Hastina-puri and talking to Yudhishtira.
He will wonder why I am interested in that particular story.
He may not want to share his inherited wisdom.
He may refuse to entertain the request of a king who stayed away from the war.
As the days passed the restlessness inte
nsified. He started to believe that in the story of Bhangashvana he would find that which would calm his restless heart.
What sounds sweeter, father or mother?
the ashwamedha yagna
Perhaps because Yuvanashva refused to go to the Pandavas, the Devas decided to make the Pandavas come to Yuvanashva. Kama planted in Yudhishtira’s mind the desire to perform the Ashwamedha yagna.
The royal horse of the Pandavas, white as snow, named Ucchaishrava, was sent out of Hastina-puri to wander across the countryside, through forests and fields, along the banks of the Ganga and the Yamuna, to claim all the lands for the Pandavas that it passed through unchallenged. Yudhishtira’s warriors ran behind the horse, holding up his banner with the symbol of the moon, carrying bows and axes and swords and lances, with Arjuna as their leader. Who dared challenge the Pandavas? There were no more kings in Ila-vrita. Except in Vallabhi.
When the horse reached the gates of Vallabhi, Yuvanashva caught the horse by its rein and refused to let it pass. Never before had this happened in Vallabhi. The people cheered their great king. ‘This is what happens when you have a man as king,’ they said.
‘You challenge the Pandavas,’ shouted Arjuna.
‘Yes,’ said Yuvanashva. Vipula, who stood beside Yuvanashva, was proud of his friend. So different from his mother who submitted her dignity for the sake of prosperity.
‘Then be ready for war,’ said Arjuna, raising his bow.
‘Are you not tired of war? Of killing brothers and fathers and uncles and friends.’
‘What do you know of war?’
Yuvanashva winced, then said, ‘I know it kills sons, does not bring peace, makes mothers weep and curse endlessly, fills victors with guilt and misery. Let us not fight Arjuna. Your horse shall pass through Vallabhi. But only if you tell me a story.’
Vipula could not believe the words of the king. A story! Was that what Vallabhi was worth? He had misjudged his friend. Weakened by motherhood no doubt.
‘What story do you seek?’ asked Arjuna surprised by this strange request.
‘The story of Bhangashvana.’
‘Bhangashvana? Who is Bhangashvana?’
‘Don’t you know? I was told Bhisma narrated this story to the Pandavas before he died.’
‘I am sorry but I remember no such story. He said so many things.’
Yuvanashva’s face fell. ‘I waited for days for this horse to reach my gates. I so wanted to hear this story.’
‘Why does this story matter so much?’ asked Arjuna.
‘It just does.’
‘Some stories are not meant to be remembered,’ said Arjuna, ‘Let it go.’
Yuvanashva felt that Arjuna knew the story but did not want to share it. What was so terrible about it? He chose not to pursue the matter.
The Pandava army was getting restless. They raised their weapons. Arjuna knew he could force his way through Vallabhi. No one, least of all this weakling of a king, could stop him. ‘Let me pass, Yuvanashva. I don’t know the story. Don’t force me to raise my bow.’
Vipula heard a sneer. He felt the Pandava soldiers laughing at his friend. How dare they? He decided to take matters into his own hands, put the arrogant Arjuna in place. ‘Maybe you can tell my king something else before he lets you pass, O son of Kunti,’ said Vipula bowing low. ‘Something that you will certainly remember.’
Yuvanashva looked at Vipula intrigued.
‘What?’ asked Arjuna tapping his fingers impatiently on the shaft of his mighty bow.
‘Is it true that you spent the thirteenth year of your exile disguised as a woman?’ asked Vipula. Arjuna cringed at the question. Yuvanashva looked at Vipula and thanked him silently for that timely intervention. ‘It is true, is it not? You hid yourself in the dancing hall of Matsya and taught the princess to dance. My king wishes to know everything that happened there. Everything. Even that which you have not shared with your brothers, or your wife.’
‘Vallabhi is not worth it,’ said Arjuna, drawing his bow.
Yuvanashva held the horse’s rein more firmly. Tension rose.
‘Are you so afraid of the truth, Arjuna,’ said Vipula, coming between Arjuna and his king, knowing that Arjuna would not raise arms against a Brahmana, ‘that you would rather kill than speak? This is such a small request. A story for the submission of the most prosperous kingdom in Ila-vrita.’
Arjuna lowered his bow. He alighted from his chariot and came close to Yuvanashva, pushing Vipula away. ‘Please don’t ask me to remember that year,’ he pleaded. Yuvanashva saw the misery in his eyes.
‘Was it so terrible to be a woman?’ asked Yuvanashva.
‘No. It is terrible to appear as a woman and still have a man’s heart,’ Arjuna replied. He looked around sheepishly and then said softly, ‘I will tell you all. But only you. Who knows? It may help me unburden my soul.’
brihanalla
Yuvanashva led Arjuna through the gates of Vallabhi towards the palace. With a gesture he stopped Vipula and others from following them. Vipula stood at the gate not letting either Yudhishtira’s horse or the Kshatriyas of Hastina-puri pass. He did not like being excluded but understood this was the price of wounding Kshatriya pride.
‘Come to the maha-sabha,’ said Yuvanashva. He looked at the sun. It would be hours before it set and the two ghosts would appear. ‘No one will disturb us there.’
They sat on two blackbuck skins spread out before the turtle throne. Arjuna spoke with a faraway look in his eyes, ‘To be a woman is like becoming a prey, her every move watched by hungry predators. Every glance of man is a violation. No one is spared. No one. Not mother, not sister, not daughter. It is only fear of dharma that keeps men in check.’
‘How can you say such a things about men when you are one yourself?’ asked Yuvanashva.
‘You have to see a man’s eye through a woman’s body. Then you will see a different truth. A truth that few men are prepared to acknowledge. Take away dharma and man is a beast. Ready to pounce on any woman. Even a false woman such as me.’
‘A false woman?’
‘A woman without a womb. You see, I dressed as a woman, but I still had a man’s body. All except my manhood.’
‘What happened to it?’
Arjuna looked around, lowered his voice and said, ‘Urvashi took it away from me for a year.’
‘Urvashi? How so?’ Yuvanashva was intrigued. He remembered the tale of the irresistible nymph created by Nara and Narayana who enchanted even Indra. He had heard the Pandavas had interacted with many strange spirits during their exile in the forest. Was Urvashi one of them?
‘I met her when the Devas took me to Amravati. She asked me to make love to her. I refused.’
‘You refused Urvashi!’ Yuvanashva was about to laugh but he checked himself when he realized Arjuna was not amused by his reaction.
‘I was very attracted to her. She was so beautiful. But I was restrained by dharma. You see, she was the wife of my ancestor, Pururava. I descend from her son, Nahusha. She is like my mother. How can I make love to my mother even though she looked younger than Draupadi, hardly an ancestor? But my mind knew that time moves differently for Apsaras and Manavas. She told me that the rules of man do not apply to nymphs. She could go to any man she pleased. But I reminded her that I was a man, a mortal man, a descendent of Prithu and Ila and Pururava, and that the rules of man applied to me. I would not make love to the mother of my forefathers, even if I wanted to. She said that she had been struck by Kama’s arrow and that her body burned with desire. She insisted that her needs mattered more. But I was restrained by the rule-book of Yama. Enraged, she looked less like an Apsara with welcoming lips and more like a scorned Matrika with fangs and bloodshot eyes. She caught my gentials and wrenched it away. ‘He who does not come to a welcoming woman does not need his genitals,’ she said. I screamed in agony. Begged her to understand. She laughed. I fell at her feet. In mercy she promised to restore my manhood after I spent a year dressed as a woman.’
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br /> ‘Like the priestesses of Bahugami,’ said Yuvanashva.
‘No, not like them,’ said Arjuna, annoyed by the analogy. ‘I did not have a manhood but I still desired women.’
‘What kind of a man shares his wife with his brothers?’ asked Yuvanashva mischievously.
‘One who obeys his mother,’ said Arjuna. Yuvanashva smirked. Arjuna sensed the slight to his masculinity and did not appreciate it at all. ‘I have many wives, king of Vallabhi, many more than you,’ he said squaring his shoulders, ‘Drupada’s daughter is my wife. Krishna’s sister is my wife. Chitrangada, the princess of Manipur, bore me a son. I made Pramila, the dark and swarthy warrior princess, my wife following the way of the Pisachas; when she rejected my advances I used magic to make myself a serpent and slip under her robes as she slept. I have so many wives that I don’t remember all their names. All these women bore me children, each and every one of them. Tell me Yuvanashva, how many children have your wives borne you?’
‘Two,’ lied Yuvanashva. He offered Arjuna some tambula. Arjuna politely declined. He wanted to be done with this conversation and take his horse through this wretched kingdom.
‘Did behaving like a woman make you less of a man?’ asked Yuvanashva.
Arjuna smiled. ‘It was fun when Draupadi draped the sari around me. My chest was still wide and my arms covered with scars of battle. She painted my eyes and lips and tied my hair. The thirteenth year of our exile, when we had to lose our identities, and live in disguise, was to be the most humiliating year but the masquerade made it all fun. Twelve moons of make-believe. Yudhishtira presented himself as a Brahmana well versed in matters of dharma who in exchange for his advice sought shelter and knowledge in the game of dice in which Virata was an expert. Draupadi served as the queen’s maid. Bhima was the cook in the palace kitchens. Nakula took care of the royal horses. Sahadeva the royal cows. I offered to teach song and dance to the princess. The king of Matsya, Virata, said, “You look like a man but you dress as a woman. Let my courtesans confirm you are a eunuch.” So the courtesans came. Beautiful women. I let them undress me. Confirm there was nothing between my legs. Nothing that would interest a woman or a man.’
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