Pregnant King Page 7

  the corner room

  A fortnight later, Pulomi bled. And she bled a month after that. And after that. The servant who conveyed the news to Simantini could barely contain her glee. Simantini’s maids laughed. They hugged Simantini, assuming the news had made her happy too.

  Simantini was happy. Delighted. Ecstatic, in fact. She wanted to smile. Gloat. Jeer and clap her hands. But she did not. This was not right. Such reactions were unbecoming of a queen. She remembered her mother’s parting words, ‘A queen is one who remains gracious even in the most ungracious of circumstances.’ She was ashamed. How could she let herself be reduced to the level of her maids? How could she find pleasure in another’s misery?

  Pulomi’s presence in the palace reminded Simantini constantly of her failure. ‘Had I given my husband a child, she would not have come into this house. I failed, she came. Now she has failed too. Will there be a third queen?’ These thoughts bothered Simantini.

  Simantini looked at the game of dice painted on the wall of her bedchamber. When she had seen it the first time, she had assumed she and her husband would be the only players. Then, she realized, four people could play the game. She had hoped it would be the two of them and their two children. After Pulomi’s arrival she realized the two of them would play the game, enjoy the game, and she would be an unwanted extra player. Now, it seemed there would be three wives playing Yuvanashva’s game of dice. A game without a winner.

  Simantini realized for all her gracious conduct and trained imperiousness she had the jealous heart of a commoner. She remembered her journey to the temple of Ileshwara shortly after her marriage. The silver doors. Above the silver door was a mask of black stone. A dreaded creature with no body, only a head. Staring at all those who came seeking the grace of Ileshwara Mahadev. Sticking out his tongue. Mocking them. Jeering them. ‘You may look noble. You may behave with reverence. But I know your dark thoughts and putrid emotions. I know you are pretending,’ he seemed to be saying. Simantini felt the black mask come alive in front of her. Licking her face like a lizard, spitting on her, laughing at the truth that hid in her heart. Simantini did not like the vision. Perhaps this is why she was not yet mother or queen.

  Pulomi did not deserve the pain of failure. No woman did. Simantini knew what it felt like to be isolated from the world for three days and three nights. She had years of experience. Restricted to the corner room of the women’s quarters. Looking out from the only window in the room. Watching the tamarind tree outside. The cradles on its branches. And the high wall beyond. Doing nothing all day except watching the blood flow out of the body and wiping it from time to time. Eating uncooked food. No spices. No meat. No fish. Not even boiled milk or butter. Being forced to mourn for the child that could have been. Feeling dirty and polluted. Touched by death, shunned by the living, finding comfort and empathy only in the arms of other menstruating women.

  ‘What does Pulomi do all day?’ Simantini asked one of her maids, who shared the corner room with the junior queen for three days.

  ‘Nothing. She just weeps uncontrollably.’

  Simantini instructed her maid, ‘The next time you see her in the corner room encourage her to play dice and draw on the walls. Make her smile. Take some of my dolls with you. Give them to her. She is only fourteen.’

  unworthy

  One day, in the audience chamber, Shilavati noticed the sadness in Yuvanashva’s face. ‘What is the matter, son?’ she asked, concerned, ‘All well?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Yuvanashva, not sounding too convincing. Shilavati glanced at the maids behind her and the elders in front of her. They got up and left mother and son alone.

  ‘Tell me. What bothers you?’ she asked, her voice full of concern.

  ‘I had a dream last night mother. I dreamt I was dead. On the shores of Vaitarni I saw Yama seated on a buffalo. He asked me to recount my achievements. I realized I had none. So I kept quiet. Yama walked away followed by all the kings and fathers of Ila-vrita. Only I was left behind. Alone on the wrong side of Vaitarni.’ Shilavati felt her son’s misery. Suddenly, Yuvanashva looked up and blurted out, ‘Am I like Vichitra-virya, mother? Will my wives bear children only when I am dead?’

  ‘Don’t say such things,’ said Shilavati.

  Yuvanashva raised his voice, ‘I have two wives, mother. But no children. I hold the bow of kingship but it is you who rule Vallabhi. Even you do not think I am good enough!’

  Shilavati did not reply. She looked at Yuvanashva and held his hand till he calmed down. As his breathing became steady, she said, ‘Do you feel I am denying you your birthright?’

  ‘No, mother,’ said Yuvanashva, looking down at her feet, hating himself for opening up this conversation. ‘I did not mean that.’

  ‘I have heard your friend Vipula calls me a leech.’ Yuvanashva did not look up. He was embarrassed. ‘My son,’ said Shilavati, her voice low and kind, ‘it is for your own good that I rule Vallabhi. So that you can focus on becoming a father. Don’t let your friends distract you with their petty wicked thoughts. I am your mother. Custodian of your inheritance. No one loves you as much as I do. Who will think of your welfare if not I? Who will think of your wives’ happiness if not you? Have you asked the two girls how they feel when servants shun them in the morning because they are barren?’

  ‘No,’ said Yuvanashva softly.

  ‘You must give them attention, Yuva. Make them happy. It is their battle as much as yours. Win it together. You are husband first, then king. Vallabhi is going nowhere. You have your whole life ahead of you to rule.’

  the astrologer

  Three years after Pulomi came to Vallabhi, Yuvanashva travelled on a barge down the Kalindi to Kashi, the famed city at the confluence of Ganga, Yamuna and Saraswati, to consult the most respected astrologer in Ila-vrita. ‘Is there anything, or anyone, preventing me from becoming a father?’ he asked the great astrologer.

  The great astrologer sat in a vast circular hall where the walls were covered with paintings of the twenty-seven star goddesses, known as Nakshatras, who dance on the rim of the celestial sphere. From the roof hung tapestries with images of the nine planet gods, known as Grahas, whose movements into the arms of the Nakshatras and out of them reflected the account books of Yama. Without raising his head from the birth charts, the great astrologer said, ‘No.’

  ‘Is there any need for a ritual? Maybe an offering to Shani, lord of Saturn, who delays things?’ asked an anxious Yuvanashva.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Maybe a prayer to Shukra, lord of Venus, who makes a man potent?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Should I wear a gem on my finger or around my neck?’

  ‘No. No. No,’ said the great astrologer raising his head. ‘There is no need to do anything. No gems, no rituals, no chants. Just be patient.’ Yuvanashva sensed the great astrologer’s irritation. He withdrew.

  The Grahas and Nakshatras admonished the astrologer of Kashi for being sharp with the king of Vallabhi. ‘He comes to you because he is unhappy and lost; don’t add to his misery,’ they whispered. Unseen by mortal eyes these gods and goddesses who play with time revealed to the astrologer that Yuvanashva was a great white horse, much loved by the Devas, but his path was blocked by an equally loved cow-elephant.

  As Yuvanashva prepared to leave, the great astrologer of Kashi spoke in a voice that was softer and kinder. ‘Have faith, O lord of Vallabhi. It is foretold that you will be father of a Chakra-varti. The stars speak less of life now and more of death. Mangala, the lord of the planet Mars, is gaining power. He is filling Ila-vrita with aggression, righteous indignation, outrage and the desire for vengeance. Soon everyone will be angry. And in anger no one will listen to sound counsel. There will be no compromise. Men will kill each other. The earth will be drenched in blood. Then, only then, will the skies clear and children will be born. Yours. Your wife’s. And those of the Pandava widows.’

  Discontented with the intangible answers of the sky-gods, Yuvanashva decided to take the
more tangible help of the earth-goddesses. On his return from Kashi, he sent for Matanga.

  the doctor

  Matanga was a Brahmana, well-versed in the art of health and healing, who lived in Tarini-pur, a village located a day’s journey from Vallabhi. Matanga knew all the secrets of herbs and minerals taught to the great Chyavana by the earth-goddesses known as Matrikas. ‘Help me,’ said Yuvanashva. ‘Make me a father.’

  Matanga replied, ‘I will try my best. When the juice of man is weak, it indicates disharmony. Disproportion between the wind, fire and water which animates our body. With the help of herbs and minerals, their oils and essences, I will restore harmony in your body and that of your wives. The rest we leave to the grace of the Matrikas.’

  Matanga and his son, Asanga, were given a courtyard in the palace. There they spent the day pounding herbs, grinding leaves, grating bark and mixing them in various pots of aromatic oils, some warm, some cold, all the while chanting hymns that evoked the magical Gandharvas, whose music made the juices flow.

  At night, two potions would be sent to the two queens. Bitter on one day and sweet the next.

  At dawn, Asanga would massage the body of the king. While massaging, he would wear an emerald ring and chant, ‘May this energize your seed, make it potent, propel it like an arrow leaving Prajapati’s quiver for its mark’.

  And when it was time to go to his queens, the king would be told to wear a coral ring on his right index finger. The queens would hold a betel leaf and wear pearls round their neck.

  ‘The energy of herbs, the oils, the hymns and the gems will work together to make the king’s seed cling to the soil,’ said Matanga.

  Matanga allowed Yuvanashva to be with his wives only on the second, fourth and sixth night after the bleeding had stopped. ‘Conception on the first, third and seventh days leads to the conception of girls. We don’t want that. Conception on the seventh day leads to the conception of a child who is neither male nor female. We don’t want that either. We want a boy, a king,’ he said. ‘And when you are with your wife, hold her thumb. That will make her red seed weak and ensure your white seed is strong. That is necessary to father a son. Don’t hold her little finger. That will make her red seed strong and you will end up with a daughter. Daughters are delightful, but for you, my king, they are not yet desirable.’

  After the sixth day, Yuvanashva was not allowed to see Pulomi. He would be made to wait until Simantini’s womb was ripe. When she was ready, she too would wait with the betel leaf in her hand and pearls round her neck. He would perform the rite of conception on alternate nights, holding her thumb, and then wait to go to Pulomi.

  Yuvanashva felt he had lost his freedom. He was reduced to being a performing bull in the royal cowshed. A pathetic sterile bull. But he had to endure this, if he wished to be father and truly king.

  Three years passed. The massage, the hymns, the herbs, the gems and the potions failed to show any effect. The bleeding continued.

  Simantini and Pulomi dreaded the day when blood seeped out of their bodies. In no time word spread from the inner chambers to the outer courtyards, across the city square, through the sacrificial halls and the gymnasiums and the cattle sheds and workshops, making its way into the fields, the orchards, the pastures and finally the highways. The crows would caw in the palace courtyards and Shilavati would lock herself in her chambers, trying to block them out. Gloom would descend on the whole palace. No lamps would be lit. No sweets would be cooked. The queens would not show their face to anyone in embarrassment. Yuvanashva, after a moment’s silence, would ask Asanga when the next queen would be ready.

  ‘Perhaps it is time to consider niyoga,’ said Mandavya to Shilavati. The process was simple. Get another man, approved by the husband, to go to the wife. The man had to be virgin, preferably one so evolved that he was totally detached from his body and dervied no pleasure from the act.

  Mandavya watched Shilavati take a deep breath. ‘Are you so eager to be with my daughters?’ she said.

  Mandavya lowered his head and replied softly, ‘If I were such a man, then it would not be the king’s wives that I would crave.’ Shilavati felt a quivering in her womb. She heard the cawing of crows. A year ago her womb had withered; she was not sure she was relieved or disappointed.

  Outside the palace, Vipula heard the bards telling pilgrims a story: ‘The elder brother could not be king because he was blind; so they crowned his younger brother instead. He had a wife. A beautiful wife, fertile for sure, for everyone knew she had a child before marriage. She went to his bed willingly, of her own free will, but did not bear him any children. If a cow does not get pregnant, you don’t blame the royal bull, do you? You get another cow. So a second wife was bought, an expensive wife with child-bearing hips. Forced into his bed, even she did not bear a child. Now it was time to blame the bull. But before that was done, the bull ran away. As fast as he could. Out of the palace and into the forest. To hunt deer, he told his wives. He released an arrow and shot a sage standing behind his wife as a mating buck stands behind a doe. Before dying, the angry sage cursed the king: If you spill seed again you will surely die. What a convenient curse! A valid excuse for the younger brother to stay out of his wives’ bed. No one will now know the truth of the royal bull, pale above as below, as unfit as his elder brother to be king. And the poor wives. They will never share the secret of their bed. What else could they do but follow the king to the forest and spread themselves before strange gods like cows in a temple shed?’

  Two wives. One willing and one purchased. Who were they talking about? Kunti and Madri or Simantini and Pulomi? As pale above as below? Were they referring to Pandu of Hastina-puri or…

  An outraged Vipula went to Matanga’s courtyard and paced up and down. ‘The bards are up to mischief once again,’ he said, ‘They mock the king publicly. Encouraged by his mother, no doubt. Say, when two cows have no calves, it is time to call the bull a bullock.’

  ‘The king is certainly not impotent. His genitals are intact and function well. And his seed is certainly not unhealthy. It is white as cream. Thin though, despite all my potions,’ Matanga clarified rather clinically.

  Vipula did not want to know how Matanga reached these conclusions. He was happy to know his friend was no bullock. ‘Any aspersions on the king’s virility threatens his rule. I am worried. If I had my way, I would rip out the tongues of these bards.’

  ‘To hurt a bard is against dharma,’ said Matanga. ‘You know that better than I do. They are the keepers of Ila-vrita’s memory.’

  ‘More like twisters of memory,’ said Vipula scowling. Then he looked at Matanga, ‘Niyoga would mean my king is a failure. Vichitra-virya allowed it only after he was dead. And Pandu did it in secret. Here it would be public. It will devastate Yuvanashva. Strip him of all self-confidence. That is what his mother wants. That leech. Is there nothing else you can do?’

  ‘Perhaps, when the red soil is not good enough for the seed, one has to plant it in black soil, a womb so strong that it can hold even the weakest of seeds.’

  ‘Are you suggesting an anuloma wedding?’ asked Vipula.

  According to the rules of marriage, women of Ilavrita were allowed to marry only men belonging to their varna. A Brahmana could only marry a Brahmana and Shudra could only marry a Shudra. Sometimes, for the sake of progeny, the Rishis allowed the anuloma marriage. This meant letting a man belonging to a higher varna marry a girl belonging to a lower varna. Yayati had an anuloma wedding. From an Asura wife, he had fathered the Yadus, Kurus and Turuvasus. Shantanu had married a fisherwoman and she had given him Vichitra-virya. A pratiloma wedding, where a woman of a higher varna married a man of a lower varna, was forbidden. Yuvanashva, being a Kshatriya, could marry a Vaishya or a Shudra but not a Brahmana. For, as the Rishis sang, ‘The Brahmana makes up the head of the organism that is society, the Kshatriya the arms, the Vaishya the trunk and the Shudra the feet.’

  ‘Why not?’ said Matanga.

  Why not indeed? Not a
n ideal solution but better than niyoga. Vipula himself was a product of an anuloma union: his father was Brahmana, his mother Vaishya. ‘Let us select a Shudra girl quickly. A weaver’s daughter, maybe. Or a carpenter’s. Or a potter’s. Yes, they do have strong wombs. They breed like rats.’

  ‘I know just the girl,’ said Matanga.

  the potter’s daughter

  A few weeks later, four Kshatriya elders travelled from Vallabhi to Tarini-pur and headed straight to the potter’s house. They came bearing gifts from Shilavati: six gold pots, each filled with honey, six finely woven red saris for the women of the household, six bullock carts piled with spices and grain, six pairs of tusks and six tiger-skin rugs, an indicator that the potter would soon be related to the royal family.

  The potter of Tarini-pur could not believe his fortune. His daughter, Keshini, had been chosen to be Yuvanashva’s third wife. He thanked Matanga profusely.

  The following day, six women arrived with servants bearing richly carved boxes. They were palace maids dressed better than the wife of the village chief. They had gold nose-rings and walked with an arrogance that comes with living in the same house as the king. Behind them was a palanquin carried by eight men. The children ran in front shouting, ‘It has silver bells on the sides.’

  The palace maids bathed Keshini with sandal water and went about transforming her into a royal bride. Keshini, used to silver and copper ornaments, was struck by the shine of gold. ‘Her wrists are too thick,’ muttered one of the palace maids as she struggled to slip a bangle up Keshini’s wrist. ‘These bangles are meant for princesses who have never done a day’s work with their hands.’ The other maids hid a smile. Keshini’s mother, who sat next to her, ignored the gibe.