— Perhaps your mother did not, Highness, but you are loved. Your sisters. Me. Prince Salva.
— Prince Salva pretended to love me! He didn’t truly, or we would not be here. My sisters’ love I will grant you, but it was a love of convenience, I was the closest thing they had to a protector and a mother. They have probably turned the full force of that needy love to their new husband, which is as it should be. As for you, Lalita...
— I know it is a poor love, Highness, but it is true.
— And you are the one with me in the end, so don’t call it poor. I am glad you love me, I am comforted. I find it hard to say that I love you too, because after all, I am the mistress and you are the servant. Some of what my mother taught me still stays with me, even as I lie here away from everything I have ever known. But I will throw off the shackles of my birth and admit it to you. I love you, Lalita. The day you were standing outside my bedchamber was a fortunate one for me. Not for you, poor creature. But for me, it was a gift from the gods. Stop weeping, your tears are falling on my face. Tell me more about Jinodaya.
—There is not very much more to tell, Highness. He realized his feelings were not what every other little boy felt, so he grew silent and distant that year. His mother worried, his father grew sterner with him, sending him to accompany grieving widows and orphaned children to the ghats. Perhaps his father thought this would make him a man sooner, but all it did was turn Jinodaya away from his caste. As soon as he was released from his duties, he would wash himself, so that the stench of death wouldn’t linger and he would wander through Kashi, looking for answers, without quite knowing what the question was.
— I am tired, Lalita. I would sleep a little.
—Rest, Highness. You can put your head in my lap, like so, and I will lean against this tree and keep the insects from your face.
— Lalita, I need to ask you for something.
— Anything, Highness.
— Would you call me Amba? It would be nice to hear my own name spoken by someone who loves me before I die. After all, in this forest, you are as much of a princess as I am. This is our palace, this tree. Look how pretty the leaves look in this light.
— Go to sleep, Amba.
— What must I look like now, Lalita? I can feel the bones in my body standing out, but is my face sunken in? Do I look like a corpse already? There was once a famine in Kashi one summer, I remember it, even though I was very small, because they came to the palace asking for food, and my father shut the gates. I remember the dead, their teeth were too big for their faces, the little children had stomachs that looked like they were carrying twins. I wonder if my father is haunted by all those ghosts. I won’t haunt him, I don’t have time. I have to die quicker.
— We cremated the paupers too, up in the ghats. The children were always the worst, their little bodies curled up and so light, like coconut husks.
— That’s the first time you said ‘we’ about your other life.
— It seems so long ago now, that it doesn’t matter.
— You never told me about the rest of your – I mean Jinodaya’s – time with his parents.
— Did you know when I move my hands through your hair like this, it comes away in my fingers?
— It is lucky that I was never a vain woman then. Do leave my hair alone, and go on.
— It was during his wanderings that he came across a whole house of not-men not-women. People like him. It was clear that they once had been men, but their bodies curved in and out, their hair rippled and stretched out to the tips of their hennaed fingers. They wore jewellery, and their voices were loud and full of laughter, not like his timid mother’s. He found a place from which to watch their comings and goings every day, and once, daringly, even followed them as they made their way to a feast. A Brahman had a baby boy and they were going to collect their share of the good fortune. Jinodaya watched them as they whirled in front of the house’s gates, and the other people of the area came out to watch and smile. He watched in wonder. He wanted to give that sort of pleasure to people.
— I just remembered, Lalita. The knife.
— What knife?
— There is a knife in my things. I took it when he was stealing us away. Forgive me, my mind wanders. It’s getting so hard to draw breath.
— It’s all right, I’m here, we have all the time in the world.
— You are ... so kind. The kindest person I have ever met.
— Is this the knife you meant?
— Yes, that’s it. Bury it deep, Lalita.
— Bury it?
— Yes, I want to bury it so that the earth remembers I am to be a warrior in my next life. Here, cut my palm with it and then bury it, because I think the end is quite near now, and build my pyre on top of it. It’s important, because I never used the knife against him as I planned to, and I must make a promise to my next incarnation. I will learn to use the weapon, it is my contract with Bhumi Devi. Someone will remember, once there was a princess called Amba. Someone will...
— There now, I am burying it, don’t tire yourself with talking.
— Lalita, what will you do when I die? Will you go back to Kashi? Or to Hastinapura? You should. You must start your life again.
— Amba, but I do not want to go on living once you die.
— Lalita!
— My life is tied to yours, I see that now. It’s become clearer to me ever since we got to this forest. Where you go, I shall go too.
— You’re not to. I forbid it.
— You can’t forbid me to do as I please with my life. Besides, you can feel it too, can’t you? The knot that pulls us closer together? Even when I was just your servant, and you were the princess that I served. There was that jolt of recognition when we first met, no, I don’t think this is the first life we have been together either.
— It would be less lonely to go through my births and rebirths with a friend.
— I wonder what we were in our previous lives.
— Birds in the same flock, flying to our nests together? Sister lionesses hunting prey for our lord and master? Fish at the bottom of the river, swimming up and down our whole lives side by side?
— Or just common sisters born to a common man with no greater destiny than to marry and have children?
— I like that. Common sisters. I wish I could be born to a common man again.
— But you can’t.
— But I can’t. Not if I want to do as I must. Tell me the end of the Jinodaya story now. I’m just going to close my eyes and listen to you. I find my heart is beating a little faster, like a bird trapped in a cage.
— Well, unknown to Jinodaya, he was being watched as he watched the eunuchs. Someone was paying attention to his rapt face, his stick-like legs, one wrapped around the other, the way one hand played with his mouth as he concentrated, and that someone rapped out, ‘Don’t touch your face so much!’ Jinodaya was so startled, he fell backwards into the open sewer he was standing on top of. He almost thought he would be swept away by the current, and he opened his mouth to gasp and swallowed some of the dirty water, which made him choke. He closed his eyes, preparing to meet his death, but just then strong arms reached in and pulled him out.
— I almost asked you whether he died. Silly of me.
— Not silly, because that marked the end of Jinodaya. Oh, he stayed alive for another week or so. He had to go bid farewell to his parents, and collect whatever things they would let him leave with. His father had to pay the eunuchs for his training, but he refused to, so Jinodaya was there on charity, something his fellow eunuchs never let him forget. But the chief eunuch, the Mother who pulled him out, she saw something of herself in that young face, and Jinodaya was always her favourite. He slept with her, it was she who personally tended to his wounds once he was cut.
— Do they have to cut? It seems cruel.
— It is the only way to give up one body and take up another. I don’t argue with it, because it marked a way for me to become La
lita, fully and completely. Lalita, who walks in the middle.
— Did you ever see your parents again?
— My mother – Jinodaya’s mother – died in the that famine you remember.
— Oh Lalita.
— You didn’t know.
— I am sorry.
— It’s not your fault.
— I’m still sorry.
— I know you are, dear. Well, us eunuchs had enough food stockpiled for our use, but others were not so lucky. Jinodaya’s father continued to burn bodies till the end, no one had any money or food to give him, so it is said in the end he crawled on the same pyre he was lighting, for a dozen or so men, and was consumed in the fire with them. I tried to help him when I heard of my mother’s death, but he wouldn’t accept assistance from me.
— You may not have been able to tend your mother, but you are working in her name as you care for me, Lalita. Think of that and be comforted.
— I often do.
— I wish my father had been a better man. A better king.
— We cannot help our fathers.
— No, I suppose we can’t.
— Lalita?
— Yes, Amba?
— How will you die? I mean, have you decided the means of your death?
— I will die, like my father, by jumping into the pyre that I light for you.
— Oh, but aren’t you scared?
— No, I don’t need to be scared for the Lord Shiva will look after us both, and I will soon be with you.
— I wish I were as sure as you are.
— You don’t need to be, I am sure enough for both of us.
— This forest is so beautiful. I am fed just on the bird song and the gentle breeze.
— Yesterday, I saw two deer come up to us, just beyond the clearing.
— Did you? Oh, I wish I had seen them too!
— You were sleeping so soundly, I didn’t want to wake you up, but I feel sure they were an omen.
— A good omen.
— A good omen. One touched the nose of the other, just very delicately, and then they both peered at us, completely unafraid, and then the first one turned around and walked away and the second one looked at us for another moment and then followed the first down a little path I hadn’t even noticed before.
— I saw a doe with her fawn once. When I was out with my father. He wanted to kill the mother and bring the child home as a playmate for us but I begged him not to.
— It’s a sin to kill a mother with her child. Anyone could have told you that.
— No one told him that. He laughed at me and called me soft hearted. Lalita, I wish ... I wish you would ...
— Anything, Amba. What is it?
— I want to be fed on my hate before I die. I want to remember my rage before I came to this forest. I want to remember my vows, and why I am doing this. It’s getting so hard for me to think, my mind keeps wandering. Maybe you could tell me my story again?
— Is that wise? Would you not rather leave with a peaceful heart?
— A peaceful heart? That is the most foolish thing you’ve ever said to me! I can’t rest in peace, because I cannot rest. I need to remember. I need to remember. When I am facing Lord Shiva in the world between this one, I have to have a story to tell him.
— All right, all right. Calm yourself, Amba. If you are very still and sit here quietly, I will tell you the story. Here, I will take your hand in mine and you must squeeze it if you feel like it’s too much for you. Do you promise?
— I promise, Grandmother. Sometimes you act like an old, old woman.
— I have lived two lives in one, what do you expect?
— All right. All right. I’m ready. You can begin.
— Where do I begin, Amba?
— Begin from where I went to see Salva again. Tell me about how I found him, sitting up on that throne, next to my father.
— For your father has adopted him now, Salva is the new crown prince of Kashi. It must have been a blow for him, losing his three treasures, but at least he gained a son.
— At least? It was what he wanted all along. I’m not sure my father doesn’t think he got the better part of the bargain.
— And when Salva saw you, he pretended not to see you at first. I noticed that, how his eyes darted towards us as we entered and how then he turned his face away and was absorbed in something a nobleman was telling him. Even as your father nodded his acknowledgement, Salva refused to meet your gaze. You asked your father if you could speak to Salva alone, and for a moment, I thought your father would disagree, but in the end, he let the two of you walk outside.
— I found it hard to know what to say to him. My Salva! So, I began by asking after my young mare.
— You said, ‘How is Sauvee?’ and your tone was light, but I could tell by the way your jaw was set that it was a difficult question for you to ask. He could probably tell too, but he just snorted and said, ‘Have you come all this way to ask after your beast? But since you ask, I have arranged for her to be fed and exercised so she may do for the woman I marry.’ You drew in your breath sharply at that.
— It was how he said it. ‘The woman I marry’ as though we were talking of the weather. It is terribly sunny today and oh, I’m going to marry someone who isn’t you.
— But I thought you were very brave with what you said next. You stepped closer to him, and I could barely hear you, but you said, ‘And she has returned to you, Salva. We may marry as we always wished to.’ You sounded so sure of yourself, I was proud of you. I looked the other way to give you some privacy, but when I turned around, Salva had moved far away from you and was regarding you as though you were a food stain on a fine cloth. This must be hurtful to hear, Amba. Must I continue?
— Continue.
— He – he said, ‘Why would I marry you?’ and it was the way he said you that made me move closer to you because I needed to move you away from there immediately. You looked at him, and your face was puzzled, and you said, ‘Why? Salva! It’s me, Amba! We love each other. We are betrothed.’
— Oh, that son of a dog.
— That son of a dog. He said, ‘So you think after everything – after you have been with that Bheeshma, doing things that no respectable woman would do, let alone a Kshatriya princess – you think I should just open my arms and let you rule my country with me?’ You began to find your anger again, I could see the flame begin in your eyes, and I was grateful. You raised your head and you looked at him and said, ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. If you’re implying what I think you’re implying, do you think I would be here talking to you? Do you suppose I have fallen that far?’
— By then I didn’t even want to marry him. I just didn’t know what else to do. There is no space for women in this world unless they have husbands and sons.
— He just wanted to hear you beg. His face twisted into a hateful smile and he said, ‘I saw you come back from the woods with him, I saw you laughing with him and touching his arm. I saw you wish for my defeat. Well, I release you. Go back to him that won you, for I will not spend any more time with a fallen woman than I should.’ He turned and left you then, and I just stood behind you, even though I wanted to put my arms around you and let you lean on me, your face looked like someone had given you a great blow. You looked stunned.
— He said one more thing.
— He turned around before he left and he smiled that nasty smile again and he said, ‘After all, I have my subjects of Kashi to think about.’
—What was it he always wanted? My kingdom or my love? I think it was always the kingdom, when he realized he could have it without having me, he took it with both hands and didn’t look back.
— I think we will leave the rest of the story till dawn, my lady. Your face is grey and your eyelashes are fluttering like moths around a shaded flame.
— I think that might be wise. My heart keeps starting and stopping within me, it’s so funny, it feels like a rabbit. Hop hop hop stop!
I do want to hear the end of the story though, Lalita. The end of that story, and the end of mine.
— I promise I won’t let you go until we have finished. Sleep sweetly.
— Amba? Highness? Amba!
— What is it?
— You were – I thought you had already left me.
— Without saying goodbye? I think I have better manners than that. I feel quite rested today, as a matter of fact. Rested, and alive. I don’t think I’m going to die today after all.
— That’s good news.
— Well, I thought I’d get a better reaction from you! What is this that’s good news with that face of yours? Aren’t you pleased I’m going to live another day?
— Amba, have you ever been around anyone who is dying?
— No, well, my grandmother, but she died in private like she did everything else. And neither have you, you only dealt in corpses, so don’t look so superior.
— Sometimes we went to the ashrams, to collect the pilgrims who were dying but not dead yet. It was a service we offered, along with prayers and a guarantee that you would be sent off with all the proper rituals. It set people’s minds at rest.
— That was kind of you.
— It wasn’t just kindness. My father made quite a lot of money from it. Oh, we helped paupers too, but mostly, it was for the rich and the alone, who came to Kashi for the sanyas of their lives. It was my mother who tended to them right before they passed away, and often she brought me with her, because they liked to see a young person. Something about how inevitable life is, how it goes on, people are born when other people die, it was a comfort to them. And sometimes, just before they died, they would be sitting up and playing with me, and telling my mother that they had the best part of the bargain, because here they were, as hale and hearty as they ever were, and she still had to wait on them. They always died the next day.
— Always?
— It’s the soul’s – the atman’s – farewell, I think. The last action your soul has in this body of yours. Then you cast it off, and start a new journey of birth and death. There will never again be a Princess Amba of Kashi, and your atman knows this. I think it only happens with people where the soul is very strong. Amba, I have no doubt that in your next life you will get what you want.
Girls of the Mahabharata Page 12
