Shilavati told her son, ‘All other princes will ride into Udra on their chariots. But you will ride in on an elephant. The largest bull elephant in Vallabhi. It will be decorated with a silver head-jewel, silver anklets and a silver chain round its neck. Two Brahmanas will sit behind you, one holding a parasol and another holding a pair of yak-tail fly whisks, waving it from side to side. Walking beside the elephant will be Kshatriya warriors on chariots, each holding the royal banner of Vallabhi. Leading you into the city will be our royal herald and musicians playing the flute enchanting everyone in the city. Round your neck will gleam a necklace of gold and sapphire. When you cross the gates of the city, the king of Udra will look out of his window and tell his queen, “There comes the crown prince of Vallabhi. If our daughter chooses him, she will be his chief queen and we will have a king as our son-in-law. Krishna is no king. Shikhandi not even a man. Arjuna shares his kingdom and his wife with his brothers. And the Kauravas? Their father clings to a crown that is rightfully Pandu’s. Let us encourage our daughter to select Yuvanashva instead.”’ Shilavati paused. She saw her son’s eyes gleaming with excitement. ‘Sometimes Gandharvas have to be clever to get the Apsara,’ she said.
‘And for the bridal gift, I will give her a game of dice painted on cloth,’ said Yuvanashva.
‘What? A game of dice!’ asked Shilavati, taken by surprise. Then she smiled indulgently, realizing how little her son knew about women. ‘I think she would prefer a necklace of pearls or gem-studded armlets.’
Yuvanashva looked into his mother’s eyes. ‘No mother. No woman really wants that. A woman wants to know she is loved and appreciated and honoured. There is no greater sorrow for a woman, or for a man, to sit bejewelled knowing that nobody loves them or cares for them or appreciates them or honors them. A string of pearls or a gem-studded nose-ring will indicate my current fortune. But fortune does not last forever. Tomorrow, I may lose my kingdom, as Nala lost his, as Rama lost his, as Harishchandra lost his. My wife must continue to walk beside me, on my left side, close to my heart, whether I sit on the throne or walk in the forest. I want the princess of Udra to know that I invite her to reside in my heart and enjoy with me the game of life. What better way to express it than with a game of dice, each throw of the die filled with the uncertainty of Yama’s account book, each movement of the coin brimming with the assurance of Kama’s arrow.’
‘Where did you learn all this?’ said Shilavati, feeling proud of her son.
‘I hear everything you say, mother, when I sit behind you in the audience chamber. The bards whisper that you married my father to rule Vallabhi but I know you married him because you loved him. I watch you gaze at the bow he gave you. That look, mother, is what I would like my wife to have when she looks upon me.’
Shilavati felt a lump in her throat. She saw her husband smiling on the other side of the Vaitarni. Before him was the game of dice rolled out. He was waiting for her to make the next move.
Yuvanashva followed his mother’s advice. His grand entrance impressed the king. The princess loved his gift. Instructed by her father, directed by her heart, Simantini accepted Yuvanashva as her Gandharva and placed a garland of lotus flowers round his neck.
Neither the Pandavas nor the Kauravas, neither Krishna nor Shikhandi nor his brother, Dhristadhyumna, attended Simantini’s swayamvara. Shilavati wondered why.
Her spies gave her the reason. They were busy playing dice with their cousins and gambling away their fortune. ‘They gambled even their wife away,’ said the bards.
‘And no one stopped them?’ asked Shilavati in disbelief.
‘No, the elders felt everything was being done within the letter of the law. The Kauravas were not content to win everything the Pandavas possessed. They went on to humiliate the sons of Kunti. They dragged Draupadi by her hair from the inner chambers and tried to disrobe her in public.’
Shilavati felt sick. ‘Publicly humiliating a woman is within the letter of the law? Since when? Since Dhritarashtra became king?’
‘Embarrassed by the whole event, Dhritarashtra allowed the Pandavas to play another game of dice. The conditions were that if the Kauravas lose they return to the Pandavas their lost fortune. If the Pandavas lose, they live as exiles in the forest for twelve years and in the thirteenth year live in hiding. Should they be recognized in that year, they go to the forest for another twelve years. If they don’t, they get their kingdom back. The Pandavas lost.’
‘So the Pandavas have gambled away even their identity. Fools. Irresponsible fools.’
‘The princes of Panchala, Shikhandi and Dhristadhyumna, rushed to meet their sister in the forest. Even if this had not happened, they would not have attended the swayamvara at Udra.’
‘Why?’
‘Because Shikhandi loves his wife too much and Dhristadhyumna prefers war to wives.’
‘And where was their friend Krishna when this happened?’ Shilavati asked.
‘Defending Dwaraka. The ships of Shalva and Dantavakra had blocked the entrance to the harbour,’ they replied.
‘You have managed to get information from around Dwaraka too.’ Shilavati was impressed. She smiled. The bards bowed their head humbly. Shilavati asked her maids to give them cloth and rice and gold. More than the gifts, it was the look of appreciation that mattered to the spies. Shilavati was their mother. And they were her children ever eager to please her.
Shilavati then busied herself for her son’s wedding. Thirty years old. Daughter. Wife. Mother. Now mother-in-law.
the arundhati star
After the wedding ceremony, the countless rituals, the unending advice, the feasts, the songs and the celebrations, Yuvanashva and Simantini sat alone in the bridal chamber, facing each other, wondering what it means to be husband and wife.
Yuvanashva’s servants had removed all his jewels. He had been bathed in warm water and made to wear a fine white dhoti.
There was only one lamp in the room. Lighting up his new bride. She too had been bathed in warm water. She was dressed in a sheer red sari. The light of the lamp penetrated the fabric and revealed a soft sensuous body. She was chewing tambula, a rich mix of herbs and nuts wrapped in a betel leaf. It made her lips red and her mouth fragrant. Behind her was a window that opened up to the sky.
She bent her head and lowered her eyes. Afraid to look up at the man sitting in front of her. The crown prince who came into Udra on an elephant and won her heart with a game of dice. He was her Gandharva. She was his Apsara. No longer free like the river-nymphs. Now fettered by his music, ready to follow him wherever he went.
After a long period of awkward silence had elapsed, Yuvanashva finally found the courage to speak, ‘Can you see the Arundhati star?’ Simantini looked up and saw her husband staring at the window behind her. She turned around.
The sky was black. Stars glittered on it like diamonds set on Lakshmi’s hair. The Arundhati star? Where would it be? Next to the seven stars that represented the seven celestial sages, the Sapta Rishis, the first seven sages to hear the Veda from the four heads of Prajapati. Arundhati was the chaste wife, who followed them wherever they went, feeding them, taking care of them as a mother, a sister and a wife. Simantini located the Arundhati star easily. But as advised by her mother and her maids, she pointed to a star that was not Arundhati and said, ‘There is Arundhati.’
This was a game, to help husband and wife engage with each other, prescribed by the kama-shastra, the treatise on pleasure.
It was said that Prajapati, after singing out the chants that make up the Veda, sang out hymns related to conduct, wealth, pleasure and peace. These were the four shastras: dharma-shastra, artha-shastra, kamashastra and moksha-shastra. While the Veda explained the nature of the world, the shastras tried to organize and celebrate the same.
The kama-shastras recommended that to make the wife comfortable on the wedding night, the husband must look to the sky and ask her to find Arundhati. The wife must feign ignorance and point to a star that is not Arundhati
. The husband must then grab the opportunity, seize her hand, point to another star and say, ‘See that star. That is also not Arundhati.’ He must point to many more stars, each time saying, ‘See that star. That is also not Arundhati,’ each time making her more and more comfortable with his touch and his proximity, each time sliding his hand further down, from hand to wrist to arm to armpit then waist, hip and finally thigh. By the end of the exercise, Arundhati in the sky will not matter. There will be an Arundhati on the bed. Chaste and submissive and dutiful and wise.
‘I am scared, Arya,’ said Simantini. The words just slipped out as Yuvanashva placed his hand rather hesitatingly on her thighs. No man had ever touched Simantini’s thighs. As she felt his hand slip down her arm, her thighs craved for his touch. The desire frightened her. She regretted revealing her feelings. Would he withdraw, she wondered.
‘I am scared too, Bharya,’ admitted Yuvanashva, almost biting his tongue as the words left his lips. Kings-to-be must never show their weakness.
Simantini turned to face her husband. She saw the curiosity and the anxiety in his eyes. He was just a boy. Scared as she was. Nervous as she was. He had opened up to her. Revealed his vulnerability. Now it was time for her to open up. Part her thighs. She wanted to caress the fine hair on his chest. Run her fingers down his back. Bite his shoulders and his arm. But she controlled herself. He had to take the lead. She would comply. She would submit as good wives are supposed to. The Apsara dancing to the Gandharva’s tune.
A gentle breeze blew out the lamp. Yuvanashva kissed Simantini. His tongue sought entry into her mouth. She parted her lips. Let him probe her, explore her. She spread herself like the earth and welcomed him as if he was the rain. He slipped in effortlessly.
For Simantini, this was the moment when Yuvanashva became part of her soul.
For Yuvanashva, it was a moment of growing up. ‘She is the embodiment of Vallabhi,’ Mandavya had told him. ‘If she is happy, the kingdom is happy. If she is fertile, the kingdom is fertile. Take care of her. She is your Lakshmi and you are her Vishnu.’
For Shilavati, who sat alone in her room looking at the Arundhati star and remembering her own wedding night, this was the moment when the doorway opened between the land of the living and the land of the dead. If all went well, an ancestor would find his way into earth and the dreams would stop. And so would her rule.
five years
With a wife by his side, Yuvanashva was finally crowned king. As the Brahmanas poured milk and water on him during the ritual consecration, they noticed how handsome he was. His shoulders were broad, his waist narrow, his arms long. His thick long wavy hair extended right down to his hip. Yes, he is virile, thought the Brahmanas. He would father many sons.
Shilavati, however, did not let Yuvanashva rule. Court continued to meet in her audience chamber, not in the maha-sabha. When Mandavya insisted that the prince must take charge of his destiny the queen replied, ‘Why distract him from his husbandly duties? The ancestors are impatient to be reborn. Vallabhi is impatient for an heir. He needs to repay his debt to his forefathers who gave him his crown and his kingdom. There is no hurry. His inheritance is safe. I rule it well.’
Yuvanashva’s inheritance was indeed safe in the hands of Shilavati.
Those who entered Shilavati’s audience chamber, noticed on the copper plate behind her, the image of Akshya-patra, the vessel of the gods that is forever spewing out abundance. On the floor before her was the image of a turtle symbolizing the steadfastness of her rule. On the walls were paintings of lions standing proud on elephants. The elephant represented a rich and fertile kingdom; the lion represented its king, lord and master.
Who is the king of Vallabhi, wondered Mandavya. It was supposed to be Yuvanashva. ‘He is but a child,’ insisted Shilavati.
‘Old enough to wrestle bulls, hunt wild boars, capture elephants and make love to his wife all night long, but too young to rule?’
Shilavati did not respond.
Mandavya ensured that the most beautiful women of the palace waved yak-tail fly whisks every time Yuvanashva appeared in public, reminding all that the child was the consecrated king, scion of the Turuvasu clan. Shilavati, well versed in the ancient language of symbols and the demands of dharma, knew that she was restricted to use only a fan made of peacock feathers reserved for regents. She had long ago rejected the fan of matted palm leaves given to widows.
When Shilavati held court, the maids who accompanied her passed her fine slices of betel nut that she chewed with relish. This was permitted only for women whose husbands were alive. For the juice of the betel ignites the flesh. Shilavati chewed the nut nevertheless. ‘The juices ignite my mind. Help me think more clearly,’ she explained. No one stopped her.
In the months since marriage, Simantini had been bleeding with unfailing regularity. Yuvanashva’s seed did not cling to the soil. Every time this happened, the crows’ cawing became more intense. They were angry. ‘The bridge across Vaitarni has collapsed once more. Shilavati, when will one of us cross over to the other side? Make it happen. There may be dharma in your kingdom, but there is no dharma in your son’s bed,’ said the ancestors.
Shilavati ignored them. They did not frighten her any more. ‘I have done my best. Raised my son and given him a wife. Let him do the rest.’
The crows shouted, ‘Does it not bother you that your son’s seed is weak?’
‘It is not. His seed will sprout and you will be reborn when Yama decrees it. Don’t be impatient. It will get you nothing but a sore throat.’
A year later, Mandavya said, ‘The Brahmana elders feel the prince should go to his wife only when her womb is ripe, for seven days after the bleeding stops. Not before. Not after.’
‘Such regulation for a newly married man. My son is human not animal,’ said Shilavati. ‘Don’t take away his dignity.’
‘My queen, do you want him to father a son or not?’
Shilavati did not reply.
Yuvanashva resented the restrictions the Brahmana elders imposed upon him. He demanded an explanation but in a way felt relieved. Love-making had lost its charm. It had been reduced to a chore.
Mandavya told his son, Vipula, to talk to the prince. Vipula said, ‘The bull goes to the cow only when her womb is ripe. As does the horse to the mare. But man can go to a woman anytime. This is a gift of the gods to man. Manavas enjoy the sexual act. It is no chore or obligation. But embedded in the pleasure is a duty. A duty to produce a child. Perhaps your seed is being wasted in pleasure. We need to conserve it. Restrain its flow for twenty-one days. Make it potent and spill only in the seven days of season so that it embeds itself in a ripe womb and turns into the royal sapling.’
Yuvanashva saw sense in this. He did not tell anybody but he had noticed crows perching themselves on the tree outside Simantini’s bedchamber watching them make love. He had tried to shoo them away. But they were not easily scared. They stared and stared. Flapping their wings impatiently every time the foreplay got too long.
After the monthly bleeding stopped, Simantini’s maids would come to Yuvanashva with a tambula, informing him that the queen’s womb was ripe ready to receive seed. He would chew the nuts, ignite his flesh and go to her. They would be together for seven days and seven nights. Then Brahmanas would come and sing hymns in the corridor outside her bedchamber. ‘Stick. Sink. Cling. Like a leech. Like a crab. Hold on as fire to wood.’ This was an indicator that the womb was no longer ripe and that the husband should leave.
It was hoped that the songs would encourage the womb to cling to the seed. For fourteen days after the fertile period the whole palace prayed for the success of the soil. But then the bleeding would start. With the blood would come tears. Simantini’s. Yuvanashva’s. Mandavya’s. And the cycle would start once again.
pruthalashva’s renunciation
Meanwhile, an old man in Mandavya’s ashram was getting restless. It was Pruthalashva, Yuvanashva’s grandfather who had moved from grihastha-ashrama to vanaprast
ha-ashrama even before his birth and was now eager to move into sanyasa-ashrama.
Soon after Prasenajit’s death, Pruthalashva had gifted away his cows, his horses, his gold, his silver plates and copper pots and moved to Mandavya’s hermitage where no one addressed him as king. He spent his time teaching young Kshatriya boys the art of making the perfectly balanced bow. Or he spent hours staring at the forest, his final destination.
When Yuvanashva was seven years old Shilavati visited Mandavya’s ashram and introduced him to his grandfather.
The old man looked at the young boy and then his young mother. ‘Shilavati, I hear you are a good king. Vallabhi has prospered under you. You have even organized an elephant hunt. The Kshatriya council respects you more than they respected me. And you encourage young Kshatriya warriors to hunt tigers. I have heard of the temples you are building, the fairs you are organizing, the festivals you are celebrating and the large number of pilgrims and traders you are attracting.’
Shilavati saluted the old king. ‘I know you did not want a woman to take care of your kingdom.’
‘Men are foolish. We actually believe that just because someone has a moustache they make better kings than someone with breasts. The Angirasa knew better. Mandavya knew better. I am glad I listened to them. I wish my son had not died. But had he lived, and had he confined you to the women’s quarters, as he would, in foolish male pride, Vallabhi would not be what it is today. I hear you have asked the sculptors to make a new gate for the city.’
‘Yes. With the image of Ganga on one side riding a river dolphin and Yamuna on the other riding a turtle. On top is Lakshmi.’
‘Where is Vishnu?’
‘Here, right in front of you. We call him Yuvanashva. Your grandson.’
Pruthalashva looked at his daughter-in-law. She had a way with words. She looked so beautiful, though draped in undyed fabrics reserved for widows. A line of sandal paste stretched from the bridge of her nose across her broad forehead to where the parting of her hair would once have been. She had chosen to shave her hair and used one end of her sari to cover her tonsured head. The chain of gold coins and tiger claws round her neck gave her an air of authority, though she did not really need it.