Yuvanashva thanked the Yaksha for leading him to the two Siddhas. He had accepted his flesh. They revealed his soul. They were no longer just sorcerers. They were now his teachers.
As he was about to take their leave, Yaja shouted from behind, ‘Your soul is rich with wisdom, your flesh rich with experience. We have not forgotten you, Yuvanashva. Once you were the king of Vallabhi, our patron. Now you are our student.’
‘We wonder what makes you truly happy?’ said Upayaja. ‘That we changed your world with magic or that we changed your mind with knowledge?’
ash of the elders
Meanwhile, just below the northern mountains, a fire claimed the lives of three people. ‘Run,’ the old blind man had shouted as soon as he sniffed the smoke.
‘Why?’ asked his blindfolded wife. His sister-in-law remained silent as a wall of fire descended from the treetops upon them. Thus did the world end for the elders of the Kuru clan.
Yuvanashva came upon the charred remains of Dhritarashtra, Gandhari and Kunti. But he could not recognize them. All he saw were three burnt bodies, almost ash. Were these kings or hermits, he wondered. He was not even sure whether the ash belonged to men or women. Were they young? Old? Fire had wiped out all identity.
Yuvanashva picked up the ash and let it pass through his fingers. In the end this is all that remains of us. The flesh is burnt away. Was this flesh beautiful? Did this flesh bear a child? Did this flesh feel loved? Was it accepted? Rejected? Respected? Adored? Despised? It did not matter any more.
All that remained of these three people, and there were three for sure, was ash. The remains that cannot be destroyed. He remembered the language of symbols. This ash running through his fingers was the symbol of the soul.
It suddenly dawned on Yuvanashva that men and women, husbands and wives, fathers and mothers, sons and daughters are ultimately nothing but souls wrapped in different types of matter. He was nothing but soul wrapped in flesh; an unusual flesh that had created life within itself and outside. Flesh nevertheless. Mortal flesh that enjoyed, suffered, aged and would one day be ash. Within was the soul.
Yuvanashva smeared his body with the ash. Let them see this ash, my soul. Let my flesh be ignored.
Far away, the Angirasa opened their eyes. The youngest one said, ‘Yuvanashva has learnt a new language. His vision has expanded. He has started seeing what no one else sees. He is no longer Manava. He has become a Rishi.’
‘No, not yet,’ said the oldest Angirasa. ‘There is wisdom but not enough compassion.’
yuvaneshwar
Smeared with ash, Yuvanashva lay on the ground, his eyes shut, feeling the heat of the winter sun. ‘I am soul wrapped in flesh, nothing more, nothing less,’ he kept reminding himself. The knowledge brought him great joy. He realized that his whole life, with all its struggles, triumphs and sufferings, with all those unnatural and miraculous events, was just a series of indicators directing him towards the soul. Nothing else mattered.
Then he opened his eyes and found a hundred hermits hovering around him like bees over a lotus flower. Some were wearing clothes of bark, others were wearing skin, some were naked. Some held sticks, others tridents. All were smeared, like him, with ash. ‘They are all Rishis. They should know the truth of the teachers,’ thought Yuvanashva. ‘That we are all souls. This wrapping of flesh does not matter.’
But the eyes of the hermits were firmly fixed on the scar on Yuvanashva’s left thigh. ‘So what did Adi-natha say?’ asked one sanyasi eagerly, ‘Are you man or woman? Or are you a bit of both?’
‘Is your flesh still man enough to hold wisdom?’ asked another sanyasi.
And a very disappointed Yuvanashva thought, ‘They see only my body not my soul. How dare they smear their bodies with ash? How dare they call themselves Rishis? They are still Manavas, fettered to the flesh.’
A feeling of superiority quietly enveloped Yuvanashva. He had entered the forest later than them but he had moved far ahead. He had found the teacher of teachers. He had unravelled the greatest secret of life.
Suddenly he heard someone speak words that stung him like a poisoned dart. ‘You are no Rishi, Yuvanashva. Not yet. You too are fettered. Not by flesh, maybe. But by your desire to be Mandhata’s mother. Don’t deny it. You have not outgrown that longing. The soul sees all.’ All the hermits who crowded around Yuvanashva stood up and turned around to see who had spoken so. Yuvanashva also craned his neck and saw, standing on rocks, behind the crowd of hermits, eight men with long matted hair. The Angirasa! ‘Do we not speak the truth, O king of Vallabhi?’ asked the youngest-looking of the eight. His questioning eyes bore into Yuvanashva’s heart like a thunderbolt.
Yuvanashva, who had bloomed with the wisdom of the Siddhas, withered instantly. ‘No. I had just forgotten it.’ He started to weep.
The eyes of the Angirasa softened. ‘The flesh still matters to you, Yuvanashva, does it not? You, who believe you have transcended your flesh, still long for society to accept that very physical truth.’
Society with all its man-made rules and artificial hierarchy still mattered to him, Yuvanashva realized. He still valued people’s opinions. ‘I am still Manava,’ said Yuvanashva softly, his head bent, his voice barely audible.
‘We all are,’ said the oldest Angirasa, spreading out his arms. ‘Fettered by the flesh, yearning for the soul, struggling with the demands of society. You took your time to make sense of your life. Now let them take theirs. Be patient. Every tree bears fruit eventually.’
‘And until then?’ Yuvanashva blurted out, ‘How long must I wait? When will my son Mandhata accept that I am his mother? When will my family accept the truth of my life? When will Vallabhi stop laughing?’
Yuvanashva began to cry. The wind stilled. All sounds vanished. Nothing could be heard. Not the rustle of leaves nor the chirping of birds. Only Yuvanashva’s heart-wrenching cry. He let out a wail, in a voice of deep agony, of a creature yearning for accommodation and validation.
When Yuvanashva calmed down, the Angirasa spoke. ‘Look at the world around you, Yuvanashva. It is full of myriad creatures. Different types of plants and different types of animals. Not all fruits are sweet. Not all minerals glow in the dark. There will always be those like Mandhata in whom you will evoke discomfort, because you will shatter their certainties. In retaliation they will attack you or pretend you don’t exist. Then there will be those like Jayanta, who don’t want to make sense out of you. They love you for whatever you are.’
‘Why can’t everybody be at least like Jayanta?’ Then he paused, ‘No, I want more. Understanding and acceptance.’
‘When that happens, the world will lose its purpose and cease to be. The world exists only to make us wise. Ignorance fuels pain and from pain comes our search for wisdom. Give it time, Yuvanashva. Eventually, everyone will become a Chakra-varti.’
Yuvanashva wiped his tears, and noticed that the sky above was a brilliant blue. The earth below was a brilliant red. Golden sunlight bounced off every leaf.
‘Will you let us worship you, Yuvanashva?’ asked the Angirasa.
‘What?’
‘Will you let us worship you, Yuvanashva?’ repeated the Angirasa.
‘Worship me? Why?’
‘Because you are the pregnant king. The greatest riddle of the sixty-four Yoginis. Why do you exist, they ask. You confound us. You confuse us. You remind us that what is impossible in the mind of man is possible in the mind of God. Vallabhi may reject you, but we will worship you. You will be our Adi-natha, our teacher of teachers. We shall address you as Nilakantha Bhairavi.’
‘Why Nilakantha?’
‘Because like Shiva, your throat is blue with a truth that threatens our sense of order. With compassion you withhold it and suffer it, until we are wise enough to receive it.’
‘You equate my truth with poison?’
‘The truth is not poison. It is our inability to handle it that makes it poisonous.’
‘Why Bhairavi?’
‘Bec
ause you terrify us with the infinite possibilities of the world. Tell us there is always something we do not know. You demand that we widen our vision and our vocabulary, so that we make room for all, and are frightened of nothing.’
The Angirasa then led Yuvanashva by his hand and made him sit on a great black rock under a banyan tree. Behind the tree was a vast waterfall. They spread a tiger skin on it. ‘Sit,’ they said. Yuvanashva sat down.
The hermits collected water from the river in their gourds. This water was poured over Yuvanashva. The Angirasa then sprinkled turmeric and vermilion powder on him. It fell on him like a shower of gold dust and sacrificial blood. They garlanded him with strings of red and white flowers. Then the hundred ascetics and the eight Angirasa lit lamps on leaves and waved them around Yuvanashva.
‘Nilakantha Bhairavi, we salute you,’ said the Angirasa touching their heads to the floor.
‘Yuvaneshwar, we salute you,’ said the hermits bowing their heads.
Tears of joy rolled down Yuvanashva’s eyes. I am both. I am the terrifying embodiment of society’s unspoken truth. I am also yet another of nature’s delightful surprises. I am the soul. I am also the flesh. This is who I am.
Amidst the circle of waving lamps, Yuvanashva had a vision of Ileshwara stretched out between the earth and sky, bedecked in all fourteen symbols of manhood and all fourteen symbols of womanhood. This was the ancestor who understood his particular pain. This was the divinity who understood everyone’s pain. His lips were curled in a tender smile. Her eyes were full of affection. The glance had only inclusions, no exclusions. Total understanding. Unconditional liberating love.
Epilogue
Hundreds of priests gathered on the banks of the Kalindi, their heads tonsured, their faces grim. It was the last day of the waning moon in the third month of the monsoons. The day when the land of the living was closest to the land of the dead. The day when every man pays his respects to his forefathers and renews his annual promise to rotate the cycle of life.
The crows waited patiently on behalf of the ancestors for the sons to arrive.
The Brahmanas had been busy all night. Senior priests updated the family tree of the households they served: the births and deaths that had happened in the last year. Junior priests organized the ingredients of the ritual: plantain leaves, black sesame seeds, rice cakes.
First the priests invoked their own ancestors. This happened before dawn. By first light they were ready to receive their Kshatriya patrons. Ceremonies for farmers, herdsmen, craftsmen and merchants were planned later in the day. For the rest, a collective ceremony was organized at the end of the day. The rituals continued at night for those whose names had been forgotten and for those who had left no offspring behind. Due attention was given to each and every ancestor of Vallabhi.
As the sun rose, the river bank was crowded with men belonging to warrior clans, all with tonsured heads, all dressed in simple white dhotis, sitting in small groups while their priest on their behalf invoked and offered oblations first to the gods who live in the sky, then to the demons who live under the earth, then to the spirits in between who protect the family, the home, the clan, the village, the earth, and finally to the ancestors. The chanting lacked melody and was occasionally interrupted by the wail of men who remembered their fathers.
The sky was grey. Even the trees, washed clean, bent their branches as if in mourning.
The barber had arrived at the palace at the crack of dawn. As he produced the gold razor, reserved for royalty, Mandhata protested, ‘But my father still lives. My mothers are not widows yet.’
Simantini, who had given up all solid food since her husband’s departure, replied, ‘It is the way of the Turuvasus. Your father is not physically dead. But he has renounced his role as head of this household and ruler of this kingdom. He has severed all ties with his family. Even given up his name. He is dead as far as society is concerned. Until this fact is ritually acknowledged, you cannot become king.’
‘Why did he have to leave, mother?’ asked Mandhata.
Like you don’t know, thought Pulomi. Keshini started to sob. Simantini looked at Mandhata. How long will we ignore the truth, she wanted to scream. But she controlled herself. Before her sat not the ruthless opportunist but a lonely boy consumed by guilt and shame.
She saw the tears welling up in his eyes. She straightened her back, and said, ‘It is inappropriate for members of the royal family to shed tears over the king’s decisions and its consequences. This moment is the way it is supposed to be.’
Jayanta sat next to his brother, holding his hands, feeling his guilt. He refused to judge Mandhata. Or be angry with him. Or make pronouncements of how royalty should or should not behave. He let his brother be. He made himself available for comfort and conversation. Whatever was needed to go through this day. He let himself be tonsured too.
The barber had left only a small tuft of hair on top of his head. ‘That’s to remind you to return to the world of the living. The shaved head to mourn those in the land of the dead.’
The sound of conch-shell trumpets and the sight of red flags announced the arrival of the king. For a brief period it broke the prevailing melancholy. Priests on the river bank rushed through the ceremonies of their patrons so that they could see the king. The patrons did not protest. They too were curious to see the new king conduct his first offering to the ancestors.
Head shaved, dressed in a single piece of cloth, Mandhata walked barefoot to the bend of the river reserved for royal ceremonies. There was no parasol above him. No elder beside him. Only his brother. On this day, he walked not as king, but as a mortal man. A son.
As Mandhata sat down, he felt strange. This was one ceremony where there would be no laughter or music. Only the sound of chants and the cawing of crows. Hundreds of crows. Flying overhead, seated on the fences, swooping down to eat the countless rice balls that lined the river. He felt anxious. He looked around and found his brother standing at a respectful distance, along with other members of the royal family and his curious subjects. The public spectacle of mourning made him uncomfortable. But it had to be done. With a gesture, he asked Jayanta to sit next to him. He could not go through the ceremony alone.
Plantain leaves were spread out before Mandhata— vertically not horizontally. His sacred thread was shifted so that it hung from his right shoulder not left. He was told to consecrate the food by pouring water from the wrong side of his palm. ‘While we respect our ancestors, at no point must we let them feel too welcome, lest they become ghosts and haunt our land,’ said the senior priest whose family had served the royal house for centuries.
Mandhata faced south. Far beyond the horizon the ancestors lived in a world that was all upside down. But Yuvanashva was not there. He walked on the northern hills known by his new name—Nilakantha Bhairavi.
A strange name. Nilakantha Bhairavi. The blue-necked god who evokes fear. Shiva’s name after he drank poison. Is that what he called the magic potion? Poison? Did he feel he was a monster after the poison changed him forever? A freak who frightens all? Mandhata felt the guilt returning. When the truth was revealed, he had rejected Yuvanashva, turned away from the truth. Yes, at that moment, Yuvanashva was Bhairavi, an ugly truth he did not want to face.
‘Your father’s name?’ asked the priest. This was a ritual question. The ritual demanded an answer. For in speaking the name, the dead were remembered. And in being remembered, they come alive.
‘What?’ Mandhata was shaken out of his thoughts.
‘Your father’s name?’ repeated the priest. Mandhata saw the plantain leaves before him, placed vertically. His mind returned to the ceremony. What was that question again? Father’s name?
Mandhata remembered his last real conversation with his father. ‘I gave you birth, son. I nursed you.’ Mandhata remembered his shock. His revulsion. Why did his father have to say it and make it real? The whole scene was so melodramatic, so surreal. Why could his father not be mature about it? Just keep silen
t. Let things be. As they were. Move on. But then, he was not a father. ‘There is no one here. Just you and me. Will you, just once, just this once, call me “mother”? Just once. I so long to hear it.’
‘My king, your father’s name?’ the priest repeated a third time, a little louder, but careful to hide his impatience.
Mandhata could not respond. The poison of deceit could not be swallowed. It could not be spat out either. It burned the throat. Like acid. Truth is that which is uttered. Mandhata could not reply. He did not know the answer. A tear rolled down his cheek.
Embarrassed, the priest looked away and pretended he had heard the answer, ‘Yuvanashva. We invoke you. Yuvanashva’s father, Prasenajit. We invoke you. Prasenajit’s father, Pruthalashva. We invoke you. We invoke all the ancestors who walked the earth before the father, the grandfather and the great grandfather, all those whose names have been forgotten. May Mandhata’s offering please all. He renews his vow to repay his debt, to father sons, to bring his Pitrs back, to follow the footsteps of all the men before him.’
Jayanta saw the tear. He heard his brother’s silence. In that silence he heard Mandhata acknowledge Yuvanashva for the first time, perhaps the only time, as his mother.
Jayanta wept.
He wept for his family, his mothers, his brother and for his grandmother, the venerable Shilavati, and for all the pain and suffering that we endure to maintain a façade of order.
He wept for his father, the pregnant king, for the imperfection of the human condition, and for our stubborn refusal to make room for all those in between.
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