‘Hastinapur’s history is a rich one,’ said Lohita, ‘and it owes a lot to the marriage of Shantanu with a mysterious maiden they say had descended from the mountains. Does anyone know who this maiden was?’
The boy who had his arms around Khyati’s neck piped up: ‘Lady Ganga, who keeps the Mysteries of the river.’
‘That is so, Nandeesha.’ Lohita nodded approval at the boy and clapped his instruments once. ‘But did you know that once upon a time, long before the land of men began to breathe, long before North Country became populated with the Great Kingdoms, the Great River flowed just on the mountain?’
‘This is pure fantasy,’ said a gruff man’s voice to Pritha’s right. ‘How can a river flow just on the mountain without running down to the sea?’
‘Shh!’ said the people around him.
The man had wrapped around him a black cloak, one that reminded Pritha of Surya. For a moment she was struck by a wild hope that it was truly him, but when she peered closely, she caught sight of the yellow eyes that darted at her. They did not belong to Surya. This man held a leash, at the end of which squatted two pink piglets. In the dark of the night Pritha could not see them well, but she heard them grunt and snort. The man took out a red apple from his sack and dropped it between them.
At Lohita’s sign the instruments on either side of the stage began to play, and Pritha found once more that her foot had begun to tap against the ground. She had heard the verses Lohita was reciting, and she had known the tale of Ganga’s descent ever since she was a girl of five, but the tunes were fresh and vibrant. In Kunti, the same verse had been set to a slow, meditative rhythm, but here it made her want to leap to her feet and dance.
There was a transcendent note to Lohita’s voice too. He seemed to know just when to drop it, when to raise it, and when to imbue it with just the right amount of emotion to rouse the story to life. Even the man with the gruff voice seemed to fall under the spell after a few moments, bobbing his head to the music.
At the point in the tale where Bhagiratha prays to Shiva, all the sages, the women and the children joined Lohita in reciting the verses of the dance of passion.
Jatatavi galajjala paravaha paavitasthale
Gale valambya lambitam bhujanga tunga malikam
Damad damad damad daman ninada vad damrvayam
chakara chanda tandavam tanotu nah shivah shivam
Pritha felt her soul awaken to the pulsating music. Whenever she had heard these verses earlier, it had been in the voice of an old Brahmin reading it out of a parchment in a flat, listless manner. But here they all chanted the words with perfect cadence, and they seemed to sway together, like the muscles of one living being.
Then another verse, this one chanted at a higher pitch:
Sahasralochana prabhartya sesalekha sekhara
Prasuna dhooli dhorani vidhusaranghri peeth buhu
Bhujanga raja maalaya nibaddha jaata jootaka
Shriye chiraya jaayataam chakora bandhu sekhare
Lohita’s face became gripped by devotion as he sang from the pulpit, arms aloft, garland blazing, skin glistening with sweat: Then Ganga fell to the ground in a torrent, in a giant wave, splashing, washing away everything in her path, at a force great enough to immerse all of Earth deep into the Ocean of Milk, but there stood the Destroyer, matted hair spread out in all directions like a thousand swirling snakes, hands hoisted on hips, smiling at the young maiden’s vanity.
And when she fell over him, his feet dug into the earth, and for just the fleetest of moments, said Lohita, Shiva wondered if he could indeed rein her in. Then his locks got to work, wrapping around Ganga in knot after knot, her arrogant laughter turning into mute cries of help as she found herself surrounded by black, dirt-ridden curls.
The crowd rose as one in rapturous applause at this moment, and Pritha knew that the end of the tale had come. Lohita would not be able to return to the rest of the story tonight, for the men and women were already on their feet, chanting their own verses, reciting their own poems, singing their own songs. Some spun around, their joined hands raised above their heads. Others prostrated themselves on the ground. Lohita signalled to the musicians, and they switched to a slower, trance-inducing tune that made Pritha shut her eyes.
‘Rubbish,’ said the gruff voice next to her. She became aware of the chomping sound of his pigs at once. ‘Tales, all of them. Each tale taller than the last.’
‘You do not look like a sage,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you must not pretend to know more than they.’
He snorted. ‘Up on the mountain, among us traders, we like to say that those men who do not know a thing end up becoming sages. The higher a sage, the less he knows about the world as it is.’
Pritha shot him a glance of anger. A dirty pig seller claiming to the wisdom of the sages. Was this what she had hoped to find here in the northern hills? ‘Who allowed you into this hermitage?’ she asked. ‘Do you not see this is not a gathering of your like?’
‘No, indeed, my lady!’ he said. ‘I find myself most at ease when I am among animals, who tend to make no great pretences about knowing the answers to life’s eternal queries.’ He looked down at his pigs, still fighting over the apple’s stump. ‘Look at them. Do they not appear at peace to you? Look into their eyes. Do you see any of the anxieties or doubts that flash in a human’s?’
‘That is your great wisdom, then,’ said Pritha, looking away, ‘that we must all be like animals.’
The man laughed, a snuffling, snickering kind of laugh that angered Pritha further. ‘We could never be like them no matter how much we wish, my lady. But yes, you are right. More of us ought to try.’ He inclined his head at the group of white-clad sages. ‘Men of that type, more than anyone else.’
‘These are learned people, sir.’ Pritha gathered her garment and got to her feet. ‘I shall not stand for them being derided in this manner.’
‘Learned, yes,’ said he. ‘But wise? Why, my pigs are wiser than all of them put together.’
‘I have gained nothing from our conversation so far,’ she said, ‘and I think I shall lose much if we continue for longer.’
‘The princess of Kunti,’ he said, in a tone that made her stop. ‘They told me you wear pride on the sleeve of your garments. And you do not have the beauty that makes pride bearable, my lady.’
Pritha frowned into the darkness and took a step closer to the man to see him better. ‘This is not the first time I have been told I am ugly, sir,’ she said, ‘and neither will it be the last.’ Then she said, ‘Who are you, and how do you know me?’
‘I know you not by sight, my lady, but by the tales they tell of you in the mountains.’
‘Indeed?’
‘From the stories I thought of you as a possessor of unnatural splendour.’
‘I regret the disappointment I have caused you.’ She stopped an arm’s length away from him. The smell of arrack on his breath repelled her, and she considered turning on her heel and walking away. ‘You have not yet told me who you are.’
In response, he dug into his sack and brought out a closed fist. He motioned to her to lean closer, and when she did, he opened his palm. Placed in the centre was a small round disc, twice as big as the biggest gold coin she had ever seen. It had sharp edges and smooth black sides. The moment her eyes fell on it, she thought of Mathura, of Nabha and the flying plough, and of Surya’s garment fluttering in the morning wind on Yamuna’s bank.
‘I thought you would recognize this,’ the man said. ‘It is to your credit that we have these on our mountain now.’
‘Did he send you here?’
‘No, my lady,’ he said. ‘But the tale has travelled throughout the mountain, and when Lohita announced your name, I had to get closer to have a word.’
‘When you speak of the mountain, do you indeed refer to “the mountain”?’
‘There is but one mountain for us all. I come here to this hermitage once every moon. I attend to the sick, the old and the weary. That is my tra
de, to cure ailments of the body.’ His eyes sparkled. ‘And some ailments of the soul too.’
‘What do they call you?’
‘Why, my lady, by my name,’ he said, brushing away the cloak to show her his full face for the first time. ‘It is Dhanvantari.’
With a night’s sleep and a wash the following morning, Dhanvantari looked in a much better mood. In the bright light the swarthiness of his features seemed to be more pronounced than it had been last night, and to Pritha, the grizzly hair around his chin and cheeks made him look more like a dacoit on the run than a healer from the mountains.
When he came to their hut, Pritha had just finished picking jasmines and had sat down on the front porch with twine and needle. The pigs waddled on either side of him, looking up with their smiling faces now and then and grunting. He was right, she thought – they did look enormously at peace with the world.
‘Have they had their morning apples, sir?’ she asked as they approached.
He clicked his mouth at them and they seemed to nod in response. ‘Not apples, my lady. Just one between the two of them. Teaches them to share with decency, do you not agree?’
‘They seem to be quite well behaved. Perhaps an apple each would do them no harm.’
‘Perhaps just for today, on your say-so.’ He came up to the porch and bent down to speak to the animals. ‘Sundana and Upasundana, this is Lady Pritha. I beg your pardon, Her Highness Pritha, who rules over the kingdom of Hastinapur.’
They offered her their snouts, which Pritha patted gingerly with the very tips of her fingers. She had been taught to stay away from pigs her whole life. If they served a purpose, it was on a table laden with food.
‘Do they not carry diseases with them, sir?’ she asked. ‘I never thought a healer would walk about with pigs on a leash.’
‘Very few of the diseases that afflict human beings are carried by pigs, my lady. These are gentle creatures, and far wiser than all of us, I think.’
‘Yes, you told me last night. Have you come here to complete that conversation, I wonder.’
Dhanvantari looked up at her and gave her a charming smile. ‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Your Highness. But this morning I come seeking your husband. Bhrigu tells me you have been wishing for children for a while, to no avail.’
‘That is true, sir.’
‘Have you just been wishing, or have you been trying as well?’
At the crassness of the remark, Pritha found herself flushing. She managed to mumble something.
‘Ah,’ he said, ‘that answers it well enough. I thought perhaps I could have a look at his body and see if I could help.’
Pritha sat up. ‘Could you, sir? I feel the people of Hastinapur have given up on his ability to sire progeny. They imagine that the affliction will last for life.’
‘It could, my lady, I cannot tell for certain. But I have cured many sterile men before, and I dare think that I could treat His Majesty as well.’
‘I do hope you will be able to,’ said Pritha. She got up, laid the flowers and the thread on the ledge, and took Dhanvantari into the hut. Inside, Pandu was just lifting a basket of fruit. In the far corner, Madri sat cross-legged in front of a vessel of boiling water, blowing at the blue fire through a tube.
Dhanvantari stepped forward and bowed to the king. ‘We have not met before this moment, sire, but my name is Dhanvantari. I am a healer who makes his home up in the mountains, and this morning, High Sage Bhrigu told me I must come visit you.’
Pandu’s eyebrows rose for a moment, then his lips spread into a cautious smile. He returned the basket to the ground and pointed Dhanvantari to a mat on the floor.
‘I think it is you who must lie down, Your Majesty,’ said Dhanvantari. He clicked his tongue at the pigs, at which they wobbled over to the corner and sat there quietly. Loosening his bag to the ground, he asked Pritha, ‘Do we have a longer mat, my lady, one on which the king could lie prostrate without getting dirt on his clothes?’
Pritha got one of the mats they used to sleep on and unrolled it in the middle of the room. In the corner, Madri sprinkled some water on the fire to put it out, then came to see what was happening. She helped Pritha arrange the mat and stood to one side, her face blank.
‘This will do very well, my lady,’ said Dhanvantari. Out of his sack he removed painted jars of different colours, one yellow, one green and one a deep maroon. He motioned to the king. ‘Come, sire, lie down here on your back and relax. I shall hurt you in no way.’
As the king lay on the mat, Dhanvantari looked up at Pritha and Madri and said, ‘If the two queens would be so kind as to leave us alone for a few moments. The king and I need to spend some time alone.’
What Dhanvantari called a few moments became more than an hour. Pritha and Madri sat facing one another in silence, weaving garland after garland with the flowers in the basket. Once or twice Madri asked Pritha if one row of twine would be strong enough to hold the flowers, and Pritha nodded. From inside the hut they heard voices, but the words were too muffled for them to understand what was being said. Finally, the door opened and Dhanvantari came out with his pigs in tow.
‘I have good news for you, my lady,’ he told Pritha. ‘The king’s issue was being caused by an injury to the base of his spine. I have seen such wounds before, and I am confident I have the herbs to repair the fallen muscle.’
Pritha and Madri looked at each other. Madri’s face had lit up at the words and her eyes had begun to water. Why would she not be elated, thought Pritha. A virile Pandu was good news for the world and for Hastinapur, but between the two of them, it was better news for Madri than it was for Pritha. Now she had to find another way to keep them apart, or she could give up and resign herself to the fate of the less important queen.
Madri held her hand out to her. Pritha took it coldly and squeezed it.
‘I have carried with me a jar of the medicine,’ said Dhanvantari, ‘that should last him for a week. I shall come again in seven days and give you the remaining. If he has a spoonful of it twice a day for a whole moon, I think he shall be quite capable of siring a child.’
Pritha bowed to him. ‘We thank you from the bottom of our hearts, sir. The kingdom of Hastinapur owes you much for this help.’
Pandu called from inside the hut, and Madri disengaged her hand from Pritha’s and rushed inside. Pritha watched her disappear. Her hands played idly with the garland of jasmines.
Dhanvantari said, ‘Is something the matter, Your Highness?’
Pritha shook her head and smiled. ‘I find myself speechless at your prowess, sir, that is all. It should not be long now before Hastinapur has an heir.’
‘Do you not wish that the heir to the throne is born of you, my lady?’
‘If there is one thing I know, sir, it is that the universe has no knowledge of or care for my wishes.’
Dhanvantari laughed, the same unkind laugh of the previous evening. ‘The Goddess holds a flower in one hand and a bloody dagger in the other. She gives with one and slits your throat with the second.’ The pigs nudged his leg with their snouts, and with a sigh he brought out another apple and dropped it between them. ‘But, my lady, you have been favoured by the Goddess once, have you not? You hold with you the power to sire five Celestials of a human father.’
Pritha sighed. ‘I know not if the spell works, or whether Surya was playing a game with me.’
Dhanvantari’s face became serious all of a sudden. ‘I have seen the Mystery of incarnation work before, my lady. If you follow the rites well and with devotion, it will work as you intend it.’
‘But, sir,’ said Pritha, ‘for me to give birth to the sons of Celestials, I must first lie with my husband. The king does not even look upon me with love. He saves all his desires for his younger wife. What hope have I to draw him to my side with an appearance such as this?’
Dhanvantari came up to her, and she realized that for all his roughness, he was a small man. He took her by the elbow and guided her a
way from the hut, toward a full-grown mango tree laden with green fruit. The morning was a still, humid one, but the air held a nip in it, which made Pritha wrap herself tighter in the shawl.
After ascertaining that nobody could hear them, Dhanvantari said, ‘My lady, I have heard the tale of the black stones from Surya’s own lips. He speaks highly of you, my lady. I know not what has occurred between you two, but I sometimes feel he is consumed by thoughts of you to this day. You have drawn a Celestial to yourself, therefore. Why do you doubt your ability with a mere man?’
‘Perhaps because Celestials look for different things in a maiden, sir,’ said Pritha, smiling up at the hanging fruit. ‘Madri is the riper of us both. Why, you yourself remarked upon my ugliness last night.’
‘Ah,’ he said, as his face twitched in impatient irritation. ‘I care not for who rules Hastinapur and who does not. I care not whether the king has sons by you or by her. But I do know for certain there was a reason why Surya gave you those five strands of hair.’
Pritha nodded. ‘I know. I am to bear sons to the gods.’
‘And you seem to have given up on your destiny already.’
Pritha looked down at the pigs, who were once again fighting over the stump. ‘It is as you said, sir. Why must we run after such things, when the ability to be happy lies in living life like a pig?’
He smiled, although anger flashed in his eyes at the impudence with which she had shot his words back at him. ‘I think not that you have it in you to live that way. Men come to that point late, as the bones begin to creak. At your age, you must want to have it all. That is, after all, the circle of life.’
‘It is not that I do not want it,’ said Pritha. ‘It is that I do not know the path I must take to succeed.’
The pigs grunted together in satisfaction and sat down on the fallen leaves. They tapped their tails on the ground. They licked their snouts. Their eyes, Pritha noticed, had become dreamy.
The Queens of Hastinapur Page 29
