‘The greatest archer in Arya-varta living as a woman. How did it feel?’
‘Liberating actually. I could get away with anything. I could cry and dance and sing as I pleased. I had to answer to no woman or man. I was no one’s husband or wife. But, Kama did not leave me in peace.’
‘What happened?’
‘The king had twins. A son and a daughter. Uttara and Uttari. I was employed to teach the girl song and dance. I spent all day with her in the dancing hall showing her how to move her fingers, her wrists, her legs and her head in response to the rhythm of the music. Her brother liked to watch his sister dance. He wanted to dance too but his father forbade it. “Dancing is for girls,” he said.’
‘Who taught you to dance?’
‘Krishna …
‘Then one day, a mad dog entered the palace and made its way into the dancing hall. Uttari screamed. The dog chased her barking, yellow froth pouring out of its mouth. I knew it would bite if I did not act fast. The guard was useless. As scared as the princess. I grabbed the guard’s bow and arrow, and shot the dog dead before the eye could blink. The speed with which I acted attracted a lot of attention. The prince saw this and said, “You are as good as Arjuna, I am sure.” I had to think fast and come up with a suitable lie. I told him that I knew Arjuna. I had met him in Manipur when he was courting Chitrangada. We had become friends. I had taught him to dance. He had taught me to use the bow. The story satisfied Uttara. “Teach me what Arjuna taught you. Teach me dancing too,” said the prince. His sister joined me, “Me too. Me too. Teach me to use the bow.” “Archery is not for girls,” Uttara told his sister. But Uttari was determined to have her way. “If you don’t want me to tell father that you want to learn to dance like a girl, you will let me learn to use the bow,” she said. My heart went out to both of them. They were like my children. My students. They reminded me of all my children. Draupadi’s son, Subhadra’s son, Pramila’s son.’
‘You said, Kama did not leave you in peace. What happened?’
‘At first, I saw the children as children. But they were hardly children. Virata was preparing for both their weddings. He wanted to sell his daughter and use the cows to buy a wife for his son. He was an apology of a Kshatriya. More fit to be a trader. While the king was busy negotiating the price of his daughter, I taught both brother and sister to dance and to use the bow. Spring gave way to summer. Then came the rains. When the monsoon clouds departed, Kama arrived gliding on the autumn moonlight. He struck me with his arrow. I noticed Uttari’s body as she danced. Round. Firm. Supple. Her expressions were perfect. She beckoned an imaginary lover. I thought she beckoned me. My heart fluttered. I realized, though stripped of manhood, I possessed the heart of a man. To Uttara and Uttari, however, I was a woman. They were both too young to know what a eunuch was. Yes, my gait was exaggerated. My speech pretentious. I was more woman than any woman they knew. I did not shy away from the stares of men. When they made comments, I took them as compliments. No, I was no palace maid who ran away. I was no modest queen who walked softly, with head bent and eyes lowered. I dressed as a woman but strutted like a peacock. I enjoyed flirting with the men, teasing them, making a fool of them. When the men tried to get too familiar, I would grab their testicles and squeeze them so hard that they begged for mercy. But the taunts continued from afar. They offered to kiss me. At first I was revolted but then I enjoyed the attention. The young prince noticed all this. He saw I was fun to be with. He spent all day and all night with me like a puppy. At first it was endearing but then I realized he was following me because he was in love.’ Arjuna shook his head and smiled. ‘The situation was hopeless. Brother chasing me. Me chasing sister. A doomed love triangle.’
‘You were man and woman at the same time. A man for Uttari and a woman for Uttara,’ said Yuvanashva thoughtfully.
‘I was neither. I was a eunuch. False man. False woman. I was relieved when the year ended and my manhood was restored. I saw the heartbroken Uttara. “I cannot stop loving you just because your body has changed,” he said. “My love is true, unfettered by flesh.” I laughed scornfully. “Grow up,” I said, hoping to hurt him, break his heart, make him forget me, find a true woman and make her his wife. I had to forget Uttari too. Virata was upset when he learnt my true identity. He feared that his daughter’s price in the marriage market would be compromised, having stayed the year with Arjuna, the womanizer. But the ever-alert trader found a better solution. “Marry her,” he said. I saw the greed in his eyes. He wanted an alliance with the great Kuru clan. I wanted to accept the offer. But I did not. I loved the little girl and could have made her my wife but she looked upon me as teacher, mother, friend, protector and parent. My year as a eunuch had made me acutely aware of the dark thoughts of man. I refused to marry her. I let dharma decide. She saw me as a father. I made her my daughter-in-law.’
iravan
Arjuna prepared to leave. He had said enough. Yuvanashva, however, could not resist one more question. ‘Did you ever feel like a woman? A wife? A mother?’
‘No never.’
‘Do you know of any man who would have experienced a woman’s emotions?’
‘Krishna perhaps.’ Arjuna then told Yuvanashva the story of Iravan, known only to the Pandavas. ‘Sanjaya who saw the whole war with his mind’s eye and narrated all to my blind uncle Dhritarashtra did not see this. It was done in secret.’
Long ago, Arjuna had met a Naga princess called Uloopi. He was bathing in the Ganga when she came from below, swimming like an eel, and dragged him under. He tried to come up but she kept pulling him down till he fainted. When he awoke, he found himself naked on her bed. She lay beside him. ‘Beautiful Pandava, make love to me, make me your wife.’ Arjuna refused. ‘You cannot refuse me. Don’t you know the price of refusing a willing woman in season.’ Arjuna protested. He did not love her. He did not care for her. ‘I love you. I want to be the mother of your child,’ she said. ‘Give me your seed, Arya. Don’t deny me that. It is against dharma to turn away from me. An ancestor stands on the threshold of Vaitarni right at this moment. Don’t disappoint him.’
Arjuna made love to Uloopi and then left her bed. Soon she was forgotten, like yesterday’s meal.
On the eve of the Kuru-kshetra war a young warrior presented himself to the Pandavas. ‘I am the son of Arjuna, born of Uloopi,’ he said. ‘My name is Iravan. Let me fight with you.’
Arjuna was not sure. Krishna said, ‘You have seven armies. The Kauravas have eleven. You need as many warriors as you can get. Acknoweldge him as your son, even if you don’t remember his mother. Hug him. Bind him. Don’t let him go.’
Arjuna hugged Iravan. Iravan felt so happy to finally meet his father that he fought furiously.
For eight days, the war continued with no end in sight. Both the Pandavas and the Kauravas were equally matched. Everybody turned to Sahadeva. He never spoke unless spoken to. He answered only what he was asked. ‘How must we win this war?’ they asked.
Sahadeva looked at the stars and said, ‘We must offer Kali the blood of a perfect man so that, satiated, she will force Yama to rewrite his books in our favour.’
‘Human sacrifice?’ Yudhishtira did not like the idea.
‘You must agree,’ said Bhima. ‘Blood has to flow. Either in the battlefield or in the sacrificial altar.’
‘How do we find the perfect man?’ asked Yudhishtira.
‘He will have thirty-six sacred marks on his body,’ said Sahadeva. Everyone looked around. They found not one but three. Krishna, Arjuna and Iravan.
The Pandavas said, ‘We cannot sacrifice Krishna, he is our guide. We cannot sacrifice Arjuna, he is our best archer. That leaves us with Iravan. Let us sacrifice him.’ Arjuna nodded his assent.
Iravan realized his father did not love him as he loved his father. No one in the battlefield really cared for him. He mattered only because he had thirty-six marks on his body. Krishna felt his pain. But the sacrifice had to be done. ‘We can only sacrifice you if you are wi
lling.’
‘I am willing. I want to be remembered as a hero who sacrificed himself for his father.’
Arjuna felt guilty. But there was no turning back. ‘Do you have a last wish?’ asked Krishna.
‘Nobody here cares for me. My mother told me not to go. She told me it would be so. She told me if I died, only she would cry. I defied her. Told her there would be others who love me. I want that to happen. I want someone to cry for me. A widow. Who beats her chest and unbinds her hair and rolls in mud in my memory. Who breaks her bangles to mourn for me. Give me a wife Krishna. Tell the Pandavas to find me a wife.’
‘No woman will marry a man doomed to die at daybreak. A bride of a night and a widow for eternity. Who will seal their daughter’s fate thus? Not all fathers are like Ahuka. Not all daughters are like Shilavati,’ said Bhima.
Krishna knew this was true. But the war had to be won. The boy had to be sacrificed. And he had to go to the altar willingly. ‘Cover your eyes, cousins,’ he said, ‘Let me do tonight what must be done. Few will understand this. Fewer still will accept this. A temple needs to be built in memory of this event. For no society will ever enshrine it.’
Krishna then became a woman. A perfect woman. Mohini, the enchantress. She became Iravan’s bride. She approached him bearing the sixteen love-charms of marriage. He put the sacred thread dipped in turmeric round her neck. He put vermilion powder in the parting of her hair. They took seven steps together around the sacred fire. Then they were taken to a tent. The bridal chamber on the battlefield. Through a tear in the tent, Iravan showed her the Arundhati star. She gave him betel nut and milk. They talked. She laughed. He felt loved. They spent all night in bliss.
The next day, Iravan was stripped of all his clothes, covered with neem leaves, smeared with turmeric and led to the altar. Sahadeva sang the hymns. Nakula lit the lamps. Yudhishtira offered flowers to the goddess. Bhima raised the axe. ‘One stroke, it must be. Just one. He must die instantly. No pain. No suffering. No curse,’ instructed Arjuna. The axe swung. The head rolled. Mohini wept as a widow should.
Arjuna told Yuvanashva, ‘We never spoke of that night ever again. But it was the only time I had seen Krishna cry. I have seen many widows cry. But none like Krishna.’
the fever-goddess
The royal horse of the Pandavas galloped through Vallabhi, followed by Arjuna and his army. Vallabhi accepted Yudhishtira as its overlord. Yuvanashva did not care. What bothered him was that his question remained unanswered. Arjuna knew what it was to be woman. Krishna knew what it was to be a wife. But neither knew what it was to be a mother.
That summer, a fever swept through Vallabhi. The skin of every child that clung to a mother’s breast became red with rash. Their bodies became hot. Asanga said, ‘Nothing can be done to remove this fever. Just wash the warm limbs with cool sandal water and rub the rashes with neem.’ It was the curse of the fever-goddess.
Both Mandhata and Jayanta were ill. They were irritable and kept crying. They could not sleep and they spat out whatever they ate. The whole palace was worried. ‘They must make offerings to the fever-goddess,’ said Shilavati.
The shrine of the fever-goddess stood outside the city, next to a lake under a neem tree. She sat on the shoulders of Jvara, a three headed, six-armed, three-legged, demon. Once she was married to a merchant. A king accused him of theft and had him killed. Deprived of the joy of marriage and maternity, she swore to sweep into the king’s city unless he appeased her with sacrifices. She made her presence felt through fever. She threatened babies. To appease her, women gave her gifts of bridal finery. They offered her lemons and sour curds. This calmed her down. She let the fever pass.
All the women of the palace made their way to the shrine of the fever-goddess. Simantini and Pulomi walked with them. One had to go to the shrine barefoot to demonstrate one’s sorrow and desperation. ‘There is no need for you to join,’ said Simantini to Keshini, ‘Watch over the two children while we are away.’
By the time the queens returned, Jayanta’s fever had abated. Mandhata’s fever, however, had worsened. ‘I am worried,’ said Simantini. Keshini said, ‘Maybe I should have gone to the temple too.’
‘Go, quickly,’ said Simantini but when Keshini returned Mandhata’s body was still hot. Delirium was setting in. ‘Mother, mother,’ he mumbled.
‘I am here,’ said Simantini. She could not bear to see the boy suffer. ‘Get the king,’ she told Keshini, who had already ordered the servant to fetch the doctor.
Asanga came and found Mandhata in Yuvanashva’s arms. He was limp. ‘Do something,’ said the king, an anguished look in his eyes. Asanga looked at the child. He was very weak. All he could do is reassure. Such fevers could not be healed.
‘Have you made an offering to the fever-goddess?’ asked Asanga.
‘We have. Lemons. Curds,’ said Simantini. ‘All three of us and all the palace maids. Jayanta responded immediately. Mandhata is still weak.’
‘Did Yuvanashva make the offering?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘Maybe you should,’ said Asanga, avoiding the king’s eye. ‘The goddess accepts only the offerings of she who has given life.’
Pulomi got up and walked away. Keshini looked at Asanga angrily. Simantini did not take her eyes off Mandhata. ‘I will go,’ said Yuvanashva.
‘Only women can go to the shrine,’ said Simantini without looking up, embarrassed by this conversation. ‘We have to wear green saris and sixteen love-charms of marriage. Earrings, toe-rings, nose-rings. We must offer the same to her in a wicker basket along with lemons and curd. How can the king go like that? What will people say?’
Yuvanashva said nothing. He hugged the child and closed his eyes. Asanga looked at the two queens. There were worried expressions on their faces. They cared for the little one. And they looked embarrassed. How does one get used to such a situation?
Late that night when the whole city was asleep, Yuvanashva slipped out of the palace unnoticed through the serpent gate carrying a bundle of cloth. ‘Where are you going?’ asked the two Pisachas, following him.
‘To the shrine of the fever-goddess.’
‘But men are not allowed there. The goddess will not like it.’
The king did not reply. When he could see the neem tree near the lake, he stopped and untied the bundle he was carrying. It contained a sari. Yuvanashva removed his dhoti and uttarya and draped the sari. ‘What are you doing?’ asked the Pisachas. The king did not stop to answer. He opened a box containing many ornaments and went on to put the toe-ring, the anklet and armlet. He even put on a nose-ring, wincing as he forcibly and hurriedly pierced the left lobe of his nose. He pulled out a chain of large silver coins and tied it round his neck. In a silver box shaped like a leaf was lamp black. He lined his eyes with it. He tied his hair with a string of flowers. The bundle also contained a small wicker basket filled with gifts for the goddess, prepared by Keshini and Simantini: six lemons, a small pot of curd and a lamp with clarified butter and a cotton wick. He went to the shrine of the fever-goddess and made the offering.
In the light of the lamp, the large silver eyes of the goddess stared at this mother with a moustache. Her two hands blessed the king.
Back in Vallabhi, Mandhata started breathing normally. He broke into a sweat. His fever abated.
‘Don’t go, mother,’ said Mandhata, grabbing Yuvanashva’s arm when he returned. The child’s eyes were squeezed shut. They were wet with tears.
‘I won’t go anywhere, little one’ said Yuvanashva. He picked the boy up and placed him on his chest. He was still wearing the green sari he had worn to the fever-goddess shrine. He was wet with perspiration after the long walk. It was a miracle that no guard noticed him. Or did they? Had they turned away? Did the palace know what the king was doing?
The sound of Yuvanashva’s heart, the rhythm of his breath, comforted Mandhata. He relaxed. He slept all night on Yuvanashva’s chest, clinging to him as a monkey clings to his mother.
&nbs
p; This was the first time Yuvanashva had heard Mandhata call him mother.
Just before dawn, Simantini picked up Mandhata and took him to her bed. Mandhata snuggled between her breasts. ‘Father’s moustache tickles,’ he said. Then he yawned and went to sleep.
That day, as they went to the Kshatriya section of the city on the royal chariot, Yuvanashva told Vipula, ‘It will not make sense to your logical mind. You will say, a parent is a parent, whether you are father or mother. But it is not the same. I cannot explain. You have to experience it. I don’t know what Bhisma told Yudhishtira. And I don’t know what Bhangashvana’s opinion was in this matter. All I know is what I feel. I feel, while there is sweetness when your son calls you “father”, there is more sweetness when he calls you “mother.”’
mother or king?
Yuvanashva told Simantini of his decision, ‘Henceforth, Mandhata will call me “mother.”’
‘How can he call you mother? Let him call you what Jayanta calls you. How does it matter anyway?’ Simantini said.
It mattered. Yuvanashva could not explain what he was going through. When Jayanta called him ‘father’ it felt right. But when Mandhata called him ‘father’ it felt wrong. ‘What’s wrong if he calls me mother?’ he asked.
‘It would be inappropriate,’ said Simantini.
‘At least in the palace.’
‘No, the servants will hear. Tongues will wag.’
‘I can’t bear it,’ said Yuvanashva. ‘Let him call me mother.’
Simantini grew tired. It was time to bring out the one argument that would stop this nonsense. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Choose. What would you rather be—king or mother?’
‘What?’