Kacha said gently, ‘Devayani, what you want can never happen. Let me pass.’
But still she persisted. ‘Have you forgotten that it was I who urged my father to revive you when the danavas first killed you in the forest? And the second time as well, when you were in my own father’s body, even then I wished him to revive you and could not bear losing you forever? If not for me, you would not exist today! You owe me your life, Kacha!’
He bowed his head. ‘That I do, and for that I am eternally gratefully. I shall worship you no less than I worship your father. But I cannot marry you.’
‘Why not?’ she cried. ‘What do I lack? What do you find wanting in me? I sit beauty? Is it my body, my face, my eyes? At least tell me why you spurn me so cruelly? I have never loved anyone but you. And for a thousand years I believed you had never loved anyone before me.’
‘It is so,’ he admitted. ‘I did not. And to answer your question, no, it is not that I find anything wanting in you.’ He reached out, touching her face one last time, stroking her smooth cheek, her delicate jawline, her soft upper chin. ‘Your eyes, your face, your beauty, everything pleased me more than I can express in words. If I sought a wife now I would not seek anyone else. But I have a dharma to uphold and to marry you would be to violate that dharma.’
She started to speak again and he shushed her with his finger, gently.
‘Hear me out,’ he said softly. ‘For there is a very valid reason under dharma why I cannot wed you. It pains me as much as it pains you but it is a fact that cannot be disputed.’
Her eyes asked the silent question: WHAT?
He took a deep breath, released it, then said: ‘When I was killed by the danavas the second time, my body cremated, then crushed to fine powdery ash, mixed with soma wine, and fed to your father surreptiously, his body ingested and digested me.’
She nodded slowly. ‘Yes, I know this already. So?’
‘By the time your father sobered sufficiently to decide what to do to revive me, he had already digested me almost completely. I had become a part of his body, mingling with his blood, his flesh, his bones, his hair, his nails…there was no part of him with which my body had not intermingled.’
She frowned but was silent, considering this. Even though she had been aware that Kacha was in her father’s belly, yet she had never thought through the implications of that fact. Her beautiful forehead creased in thought as she listened to Kacha’s words.
‘When he revived me, it was not possible to perfectly separate every cell of my body from his own. Therefore, I was reconstituted from parts that could only be described as a hybrid of his and my bodies. In short, I was created from your father’s own body, no less than you yourself were created from a part of his own body.’
Devayani’s eyes widened as she finally understood what Kacha meant to tell her. She began to shake her head from side to side in denial, tears springing from her beautiful black eyes and streaming down her face.
‘I am as much your father’s son now, as you are his daughter. We are both created from his body and mind. It was the only way for him to revive me. I am literally now the son of his flesh. For us to marry would be a crime against dharma. Your father realized this and he and I exchanged awareness of it without needing to discuss further. He could not bear to tell you for he knew it would break your heart and plunge you into despair for the remainder of my stay here. He trusted me enough to know I would never violate my dharma by laying a hand in passion upon my own sister. Now that the time has come for me to leave, I am telling you the truth. Yet it is a truth of which you are already aware, even if you have not let yourself acknowledge it. Oh, Devayani. Before this happened, I would still have married you. It would have been hard to do so, with our fathers being preceptors to warring enemies, but I would have found a way. Somehow. Anyhow. But once I emerged from your father’s body, I was no less than your biological brother. I am not the same Kacha I was before, not exactly. You have suspected and known this for a long time but perhaps your heart did not permit your mind to accept the truth. Now you must accept it and accept also the fact of our parting. For we can never be what you wish us to be, man and wife. Therefore it is best that I leave here now and never return. I wish you well, my love. I wish you the best in life. I ask your blessings now before I go, wish me well too, as someone who never transgressed dharma even when it cost me my own happiness.’
Devayani staggered back, struck by Kacha’s words as by a lightning bolt. Her face was twisted with conflicting emotions: love, hate, anger, disbelief, frustration, all warred there and marred her beauty. ‘Bless you? I curse you, Kacha! Because you set your dharma and your promise to your father’s followers above your love for me, I curse you! The very knowledge you came to seek, the precious secret Sanjivani that everyone prizes so dearly and seeks out so desperately, you shall never be able to put that same method to use, not once, not ever! This I declare as my father’s daughter!’
At this, all those watching quailed, for a curse was a terrible thing, and the curse of a woman spurned, a brahmin’s daughter no less, was a thing to fear and dread. Even Maharishi Kavya Ushanas, listening to every word of the exchange, bowed his head sadly for he knew that while Kacha had earned only the fruit of his own actions, yet he did not wholly deserve the suffering meted out to him today.
Still, Kacha did not return fire with fire. Instead, he smiled and bowed his head in acceptance. ‘So be it. As I love you and as you are my guru’s daughter, I cannot refuse you. If you choose to curse me, then your curse will be fulfilled. I shall never be able to employ the Sanjivani for which I came and spent a thousand years, died twice physically, and died once more in every other sense this very day when I broke your heart as well as my own. Let this be my danda.’ He joined his palms together and continued, ‘But I still possess knowledge of the secret method. And I shall still teach it to my father’s followers. And others shall learn its use and put it to work. Therefore my dharma shall be fulfilled.’
And with those final words, Kacha, son of Angirasa, started forward and set out on his way, leaving the ashram of Shukracharya forever.
4
Strange are the ways in which events twist and turn, throwing the most unexpected of companions together and separating those that seemed destined to stay together forever. Oftentimes, by our own free will we choose to take the path of least resistance, flowing with the onrush of pressing expectations, rather than struggle against an obstacle-strewn white-water course. Kacha’s part in Devayani’s life was over yet the impact of his loss impacted Devayani herself forever and undoubtedly changed the choices she made thereafter as well as altered the course of other crucial events. Her path was about to cross with that of the Bharata line and the fates of the devas and mortals intertwine once again, this time in a manner that would affect the course of itihasa.
Thus does the pathway through the forest of stories turn and turn upon itself time and again, until we look down and see ahead of us footprints. Following them for miles, yojanas even, we realize at least that they were our own prints. Yet the forest we are passing through appears quite different and unfamiliar. Then we hear someone approaching behind us, and slowly turn to see who it might be. What if it is our own self, following in our own footprints, until we come face to face with ourselves once again? The storyteller tells his tale, hearing a strange echo, as if another speaker’s voice intrudes on his narration, and pauses in his narration to hear himself still telling the tale, with yet another voice in the background, also his own, also telling the same tale… Infinite storytellers, telling infinite versions of the same story…throughout history, across time. Who am I who speaks or writes these words now? Am I Vyasa? Ugrasrava Lomarsana? Vaisampayana? One of infinite retellers of a tale retold infinite times, what does my name matter? I am no longer merely the teller. The teller lives and dies, mortal. The tale lives on, taking on a life of its own, immortal. I am the tale itself, made manifest, imbued with a life of my own. I breathe, I feel, I
am blooded. I live.
Listen now.
It-i-ha-sa…
||paksha two||
the immortality of yayati
1
Kacha returned home and was welcome by his father Brihaspati. Together they proceeded to the court of Indra. All the gods were delighted to see him after the ritual formalities of greeting, they learned the great news of his success. Overjoyed, they praised him highly and promised that from that day henceforth a share of their sacrificial offerings would always be set aside for him, for what he had accomplished could never be forgotten. Kacha then passed on the knowledge he had acquired and taught others the secret of Sanjivani. Enthused by their achievement and confident that they could never be defeated now in battle, the devas entreated Indra, also named Shatakratu because he was the performer of a hundred sacrifices and Purandara, destroyer of cities, to launch a fresh assault on the asuras. Maghavan, for that was another of Indra’s names, assembled the armies of the devas and set out on a new campaign of war. On their way through the asura realms, Indra was distracted by the sight of many beautiful women frolicking in a forest that was exquisite beyond description. Watching the women as they sported in the river, his mischevious side could not resist playing a prank. Using the force of the wind, he mixed up their garments, then continued on his way for he had a war to wage. Unknown to him, one of the women bathing in the river was the same Devayani, daughter of Kavya Ushanas, whom Kacha had loved and lost so recently. And the playful prank played by Indra in passing resulted in a series of mishaps that changed the course of Devayani’s life considerably. With such tiny incidents are the lines of itihasa redrawn sometimes.
After the women finished bathing and emerged laughing from the river, Devayani picked up the garment nearest to her. The other women did the same, none realizing at first that their clothes were interchanged. As they dressed and saw each other dressing, realization dawned. Most of the other women simply laughed and assumed it was a prank played by some gandharva. Some even called out to whomever might be hiding behind the trees, teasing them about being too shy to come out and play with the girls. None minded the others wearing their garments for they were all asuras and regarded one another as equals. But when Devayani saw Sharmishtha wearing her garments, she lost her temper.
‘Asuri! How dare you wear my clothes? Don’t you realize you are inferior to me? I shall now have to burn those clothes. I cannot possibly be seen wearing them again! You asuris have no sense of how to behave or conduct yourselves, ignorant women!’
At this uncalled-for rebuke, Sharmishtha lost her temper as well. For though she was indeed an asuri, and as such supposed to treat Devayani with greater respect, she being the daughter of the guru of the asuras, yet her father was none other than Vrishaparva, a lord among asuras. She took offense at Devayani’s tone and words and lashed out sharply. ‘Who do you think you are? Just because you are Shukra’s daughter you think you can speak to anyone thus? I would have you know that my father is more respected than your own!’
Devayani stopped in the midst of stripping off the garments she had mistakenly pulled on and glared at Sharmishtha. ‘What nonsense are you spouting, asuri? Do you even know what you’re saying? My father is the preceptor of your entire race! Everyone bows before him. He is above every single asura, and more respected than anyone else in this realm.’
Sharmishtha made an offensive sound that drew nervous laughter from the other girls and a shocked reaction from Devayani. ‘Go speak your wild claims to the fish in the river. They might even believe you! My father is higher than your father in the asura race. Even when seated or lying down, he is still higher! In fact, you should see the way your father, the great Kavya Ushanas, bows and cringes before my father! My father says his compliments are so sweet, they sicken his stomach. Because that is what your father does: he is a man who begs and praises and pleads for alms, and always has his hand out for more droppings. He survives on the generosity of asuras like my father. Without us he would be nothing. And you? You are nothing. You are not even your father! You are just a beggar who is too deluded to realize it. We pity you and let you pretend and keep your airs but nobody here respects you at all! Even your great beloved Kacha spurned you and left rather than ask for your hand in marriage. And we all know how you begged and pleaded with him. Because that’s what beggars do!’
Devayani was furious. She had no words to offer. Twin points of rage burned on her high cheekbones like smouldering coals. Her dark eyes were as venomous as a queen cobra’s fangs. Tearing off Sharmishta’s garment, she flung it at her companion who had also been her friend until now. Then she stalked over to where Sharmishta stood and tried to wrest her own garment from the asuri.
But Sharmishta was an asuri after all, and no stranger to aggression and violence. She slapped Devayani roughly and at once, a fight broke out between the two girls. Devayani’s garment was ripped into half during the struggle. Sobbing and humiliated, Devayani clutched the half garment and began to stumble back homewards. But Sharmishta followed her and chased her down. They fought again in the forest and while fighting, Sharmishtha saw that the open mouth of a well behind the other girl. Manouevering Devayani in that direction, she pushed her into the well. Devayani’s arms cart-wheeled and she struggled to keep her balance but her feet slipped on the mossy rim of the well’s lip and she plunged down into the dark cold hole, landing with a scream and a splash far below. Sharmishtha threw the remains of her garment after her.
‘Wear this now and see who admires your beauty, you beggar’s daughter!’ Sharmishtha yelled down the mouth of the well. Her own voice came up, echoing off the stone walls. She remained flat on her belly, listening for several moments, but could hear nothing else, except the gentle slap-slap-slap of the water against the walls. Not a whisper from Devayani, not even a whimper or cry for help. Sharmishtha realized that Shukracharya’s daughter must be dead. She had probably struck her head or neck on the way down and either lay with a smashed skull or broken neck. In any case, if she was unconscious down there, she was as good as dead, for she would drown in the water. She already knew that Devayani could not even tread water to stay afloat for when they played in the river, the Maharishi’s daughter would never dare to venture beyond the reach of her feet.
Looking around, Sharmishtha heard the sounds of the other girls approaching. Acting quickly, she pulled the wooden cover of the well into place and ran to meet them. They saw her dishevelled, bleeding face and arms and exclaimed aloud. She told them that Devayani and she had fought and that she had beaten the guru’s daughter so badly, she had run home wailing to her father. She told them she had thrown the rest of the precious garment after Devayani, telling her to wear it to her marriage if she liked it so much! They all laughed at that, for everyone of them had felt the sharp edge of Devayani’s tongue at some time or other and all felt that the brahmin girl thought much too highly of herself.
Sharmishtha and the other girls went home and quickly forgot about the incident by the river. Sharmishtha assumed that Devayani was dead and never went back to the well again.
2
Around this time, Yayati, one of six sons of the supremely powerful Nahusha, happened to visit that same region of the forest, seeking deer to hunt. He rode one excellent horse and was followed by a spare, for he was fond of wandering far and wide in search of good game. This time he had ridden so far, both his horses were exhausted and so was he. Seeking water, he spied the wooden cover of the well into which Sharmishtha had pushed Devayani and moved the cover aside, expecting to find water to slake his thirst and refesh his horses.
Instead of water, he was surprised to see a woman at the bottom of the well. Unknown to Sharmishtha, the well was almost dry, with only a little water and muddy sludge at the bottom. This had broken Devayani’s fall and saved her life but the impact had knocked her unconscious. In addition, the sun had been slanted from the west, casting deep shadows into the well, which made it impossible for Sharmishtha to see inside cl
early. Assuming her silence to mean death, Sharmishtha had covered up her crime and gone about her way.
It so happened that when Yayati looked in, the sun was exactly overhead, and its light shone directly into the tube of the well, enabling him to see clearly. It was some days after Devayani had fallen in and while she was thinner from want of food, she was very much alive. If anything, her forced fasting only brought out her inner beauty and the unusual perspective of the well gave her a certain magical appearance, captivating Yayati on sight. What he saw was a beautiful young woman, with lips and fingernails as red as copper, eyes that glittered, high cheekbones and a dusky coal-grey complexion that was set off by a pair of scintillating earrings and a bejewelled nose ring, clad in barely any garments.
When Yayati looked into the well, hoping to find water, and was met instead by the unexpected sight of a beautiful young woman looking up mournfully, asking for help, he was taken aback. So unexpected was this discovery, he thought he must be viewing a hallucination brought on by exhaustion or thirst. Then Devayani spoke, her voice echoing softly and mournfully in the muffled confines of the well, and he realized she was no hallucination but a real flesh-and-blood woman. Regaining his composure, he peered down again at the vision of beauty, and asked with all the princely charm he possessed: ‘Beautiful woman with the nails of copper, earrings of gold, skin like polished ebony, and eyes like glittering gems, who are you? Why are you crying? What are you doing at the bottom of this well? Are you a gandharva, an apsara or some other beautiful spirit of this forest trapped here for some reason? Tell me honestly for I am new to these parts and am not familiar with the customs and denizens of the region.’
MAHABHARATA SERIES BOOK#2: The Seeds of War (Mba) Page 3
