‘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.’
death of shilavati
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 wit
h 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.
‘Not easy to renounce food, is it?’ asked the ghosts.
‘Go away,’ he told the ghosts.
‘Do you remember the food your mother served you on your golden plate?’
Yuvanashva felt his mother’s fingers offering him soft tender fruit. Her frail voice returned. ‘Yuva. Yuva. Turn back. Forgive me. Look at me, just once.’ He felt her pain. He had hurt her because he knew he could. Was that necessary? He wondered what she was doing now.
‘At this very moment, she is dead,’ said the ghosts. Yuvanashva stopped in his tracks. ‘She died just as the sun set. She was inconsolable all day. She refused to return to the palace. She sat under the gate hoping you would return. The whole city watched her wail as she never had, not even when her husband died. They could not bear to see their beloved queen in such agony. They wept with her. They cursed you. “Cruel, unfeeling son,” they said. “No, no, don’t say that about my son,” she appealed to them. Then her heart gave way. Her head dropped to one side and she slumped into Mandhata’s lap. The queens tried to revive her. Hold on, they told her, he will be back. But she knew better. Jayanta offered to go and fetch you. But Mandhata stopped him. He said a sanyasi has no mother.’
Yuvanashva felt his tears. Wordless, meaningless sounds of mourning took shape in his throat. He wanted to control these feelings. Transcend them, as a sanyasi should. But at that moment, he did not feel like a sanyasi. He was his mother’s son. And his mother was dead. All hope of reconciliation was lost. His face crumpled. The tears rolled down. He fell to the ground and began to wail. He picked up lumps of earth and began throwing them on his body like a madman. He rolled on the floor and hit his head against the ground regretting all the moments lost.
Memories returned. He in the audience chamber playing with his clay dolls. She feeding him rice and banana while giving directives to her ministers. The first time he went on a hunt with her and was surprised at how good she was with the bow. The riddles of the sixty-four Yoginis she regaled him with as she rubbed oil into his scalp. Her unabashed delight when he entered the city with Simantini. That look of pride. The love. And now she was dead. Surrounded by her three daughters-in-law and two grandsons. Her dead eyes searching for him.
Yuvanashva remembered the cawing crows of his forefathers. How they haunted his mother from the day of his birth. He picked up a rock and threw it into the darkness hoping it would hit a crow. The rock fell on the ground at some distance, scaring a snake, a mute expression of impotent rage.
His tears rolled down. His wailing reached the skies. Nobody cared that the king was crying. Nobody cared that a hermit is not supposed to cry. This was the forest. Human rules of propriety did not apply.
across vaitarni
When the tears dried up, Yuvanashva found himself lying on the ground under the banyan tree on the banks of the Kalindi. He could still see the frontier of Vallabhi with the gigantic clay horses of the Kshetrapala Aiyanar. The river shimmered like a sheet of silver in the moonlight. A raft with about six people aboard made its way to the other bank.
Has my mother crossed the Vaitarni, he wondered.
‘Yes,’ said the ghosts, reading his mind, ‘Thirteen days have passed. All the ceremonies have been conducted. She is truly dead.’
Yuvanashva wanted to be alone. He scowled. ‘Where will we go, father?’ asked the ghosts. ‘You have pinned us down to the wrong side of Vaitarni. We have no choice but to stay as Brahma-Rakshasas and haunt you till the day you die.’
‘Why can’t you cross the Vaitarni as my mother did?’
‘You know why we can’t. Yama’s account book reflects your decree. It describes Somvati as a man. He refuses to let her pass as a woman. And I refuse to go without my wife,’ said Sumedha’s ghost.
Yuvanashva sat up. ‘How does Yama’s account book describe my mother?’
‘As the dutiful daughter of Ahuka, loving sister of Nabhaka, obedient wife of Prasenajit and doting mother of Yuvanashva,’ said Somvati’s ghost.
‘That’s it?’ A deep pain gripped Yuvanashva’s heart. ‘No mention of her long and glorious reign.’
‘No. That would make her a king, and confuse Yama.’
‘Compromise, son,’ Yuvanashva heard his mother whisper from across the Vaitarni. ‘Let social truths triumph over personal truths. Let go of your story as I have mine.’
‘My poor mother,’ cried Yuvanashva. Then he scolded the ghosts, ‘Why can’t you submit as she did? Accept what is written in Yama’s account book. It is so much simpler.’
‘Is it, father?’ asked the ghosts, their voice full of pain and pity. ‘Will you cross the Vaitarni if Yama identifies you as Mandhata’s father?’
Yuvanashva felt the warm breath of Mandhata resting in his arms, his tiny lips sucking out milk. He remembered the kind, accepting eyes of the fever-goddess. He felt Ileshwara Mahadev embracing him, caressing the scar on his inner left thigh. No, he could not accept Vallabhi’s truth. He was not Mandhata’s father. He would never be Mandhata’s father. He was Mandhata’s mother. Whether Mandhata accepted it or not. The scar was testimony to that. So what if the elders laughed. So what if no one believed him. So what if the bards would never narrate his tale. His truth mattered. No, he would not cross the Vaitarni as Mandhata’s father.
‘But isn’t there more glory in changing your mind than your world?’ asked the ghosts, quoting the scriptures.
‘I don’t care. I will not change my mind. I am Mandhata’s mother.’
‘You finally understand, father.’
‘Understand what?’
‘The truth of the moment. That is why we made you mother.’
‘You made me mother?’
‘Yes, we gave you the magic potion when you asked for water.’
So that is how it happened. Not an accident or a curse, but an act of vengeance. Memories gushed out. Yuvanashva felt violated. His nostrils flared. He wanted to throw the two Pisachas to the ground and flog them until there was no skin left on their ghostly backs. He wanted to make them repent for every moment of misery they had inflicted upon him and his family.
The ghosts read his mind.
‘Was motherhood such a bad thing, father?’ asked the ghosts.
Yes, Yuvanashva wanted to say. But no word left his lips. The whirlpool of rage lost its momentum. His breath became calm. Why am I angry? Is it because the fate of motherhood was thrust upon me? wondered Yuvanashva.
‘Would you have consumed the magic potion of your own volition?’ asked the ghosts.
‘No,’ Yuvanashva replied. No man, he realized, wanted to be a mother. What was so terrible about the experience of feeling life grow inside oneself?
‘It was not vengeance, father. It was the only way to make you part of our truth. Vallabhi rejected us for wanting to be husband and wife. You reject Vallabhi because you want to be mother. You feel our feelings. You understand.’
‘Is there any hope for us?’ asked Yuvanashva.
‘Yes, there is. If the heart of man expands to accommodate our truth. Especially the heart of a king.’
‘I was once a king. But my heart refused to accommodate your truth. That is why the gods have punished me.’
‘You are still king in our eyes, father. If you, who declared Somvati as Somvat, acknowledge the truth of her womanhood, Yama will surely let us pass,’ said the ghosts.
‘Is it not too late?’
‘No.’
‘What should I do?’ asked Yuvanashva.
‘At the frontier of Vallabhi, where the field ends and the forest starts, build a shrine to u
s,’ said the two ghosts. ‘Represent us as two rocks. Worship us as husband and wife. Only then will Yama accept us as a couple and let us cross the Vaitarni.’
‘People will reject the shrine.’
‘Don’t underestimate Manavas. Some, those who face the forest, will see us as we really are, creatures of the frontier. Two men. One of whom became a woman and a wife. The rest, who will face Vallabhi, will pretend we are man and woman, a holy couple, to be adored for household harmony. In acknowledging us through worship and by making us happy with offerings they will earn merit and change their destiny.’
‘Why did you not tell me this before?’
‘Because only now have you become Satya-kama, unafraid of any truth.’
two chakra-vartis
Yuvanashva built the shrine on the frontiers of Vallabhi, between the last tree of the mango orchard and the first bush of the forest. Two rocks with eyes and palms scratched on them. After the moon set and before the sun rose, he acknowledged the two rocks as Somvati and Sumedha, wife and husband. He poured water on them. To the smaller rock on the left, he made many offerings. ‘I look upon this red flower as a toe-ring and offer it to Somvati, most chaste of wives. I look upon this leaf as a nose-ring and offer it to Somvati, most chaste of wives. I look upon this blade of grass as a bangle and this blade of grass as an anklet and offer both of them to Somvati, most chaste of wives.’ Turning to the larger rock on the right, he said, ‘I salute you, Sumedha, most noble of husbands, who refused to enter the realm of Yama without his wife. Look upon this white flower as my gift, a cow. May it sustain your household and bring you the peace and prosperity you deserve.’
A golden shaft of dawn illuminated the ceremony. With the ceremony, Somvati was finally able to make her journey across the Vaitarni. She stood to the left of Sumedha, leaning her head on his shoulder, feeling the gentle beat of his heart. It reassured her. He would be by her side for seven lifetimes to come.
Pregnant King Page 25
