Pregnant King

by Devdutt Pattanaik

  ‘I want to know who I am, Simantini,’ said Yuvanashva.

  ‘You are my husband. And we have a child. Leave it at that.’

  In Hastina-puri, meanwhile, they were celebrating the birth of Parikshit, Arjuna’s grandson. In Panchala, they were celebrating the birth of Amba, Drupada’s granddaughter.

  ‘Nobody wants to celebrate your birth,’ said Yuvanashva, looking at Mandhata. He felt sad for the little one. The circumstances of his birth were hardly his fault. ‘They don’t know what to make of you. I don’t know what to make of you.’

  No one in Vallabhi, except a few palace maids, knew of Mandhata’s birth. But they never talked about him. They never even looked in his direction. Something did not feel right. He had appeared so suddenly after the king’s illness. Had he been given to the king by the Devas? Was it created by the two Rishis? Had he been ploughed out of the earth through magical ceremonies invoking the Nagas? Why did Shilavati never go to him?

  Yuvanashva did not care. All he wanted to do was gaze at the child all day long. He asked for a cradle to be placed in his chambers.

  ‘A cradle in the king’s chambers. What will people say?’ asked Simantini. ‘Besides you have to attend to the kingdom. Vallabhi needs its king. It is your dharma. Let the little one stay with me. I promise to be a good nurse.’

  Yuvanashva agreed with great reluctance.

  Eight times a day, the king would go into Simantini’s chambers. Simantini would pick up the child from the cradle and place him in the arms of the king. Father and son would sit on a pelt of black antelope. The windows would be shut. A lamp would be lit. In the light of the lamp, Yuvanashva would let his son draw milk from his chest.

  Only once had Simantini peeped into the room and seen her husband nurse the prince. She saw Yuvanashva’s face fill with maternal tenderness. Tears in his eyes. Gentle sighs leaving his lips as he felt the milk ooze out his nipple.

  Yuvanashva asked the barber to shave his chest. ‘Why, my lord?’ the barber had asked. ‘You are blessed with such a rich crop of hair.’ The king had not answered and the barber had obeyed. For the following year the king never bared his chest in public. He always wrapped his chest in an uttarya.

  ‘I don’t think I produce enough milk. The child looks thin. And I have no breasts. My chest is as firm as it has always been. Where does the milk store itself?’ Yuvanashva asked Simantini. He spoke freely in her presence. Simantini struggled hard to hide her awkwardness.

  ‘I will have the cook give you milk and bananas. Asanga says it is good for nursing mothers,’ she said.

  When Yuvanashva was busy at court, he left his son with Simantini. When no one was looking, Simantini would offer her breast to the boy. He would suckle, and finding it dry, turn away and cry.

  pulomi laughs

  ‘Now he has a womb and breasts. Why does he need wives? He is complete. All he needs, perhaps, is a husband,’ said Pulomi. She laughed. It was a bitter laugh.

  News of Pulomi’s laughter reached Yuvanashva. He was not amused. Leaving Mandhata in Simantini’s care, he went to Pulomi.

  Yuvanashva’s face was grim when he entered Pulomi’s chamber. The handmaidens sensed his anger. They prepared to leave. ‘Stay,’ said the king firmly. The women stopped and moved against the wall. Pulomi rose from her bed to greet the king. ‘Sit,’ he said pushing her down. ‘I heard you questioned my manliness.’

  Pulomi was scared. She looked at her maids. They crowded in the corner, terrified of what could follow. ‘No, Arya, I would never do that.’

  ‘Maybe I am not a man. Maybe I am a woman. I have done what you could never do in the years of marriage.’

  ‘Please don’t say such things, Arya. They are listening,’ she said lowering her eyes, embarrassed. Her heart was beating faster. She regretted her laughter.

  The king moved closer to her. He placed his hands on her shoulders, his hips close to her face. She could smell the milk.

  ‘Are you a woman, Pulomi? Hmmmm…’ Pulomi felt like she was choking. From the corner of her eye she saw the servants watching this public humiliation. Oh, the shame. ‘My mother paid a lot for you. What a waste of cows! You could not make me a father. But can you make me a man?’ Pulomi turned away. ‘Look at me, when I speak to you,’ ordered Yuvanashva. Pulomi quivered and looked up. Tears rolled down her eyes. ‘I want you to show how much of a woman you are. Stoke my fire. Remind me I am a man. Your husband.’ He undid his dhoti. Pulomi saw her husband’s flaccid manhood in front of her eyes. She knew what he was asking her to do.

  ‘Arya, I am your wife. Don’t treat me like a whore.’ Yuvanashva’s eyes were cold. He took a step closer and put his hand on her head.

  finally

  ‘Devi,’ shouted Pulomi’s maid, running into Shilavati’s courtyard. ‘Devi. It has finally happened. My princess is pregnant. She is pregnant. She has not gone to the corner room for two moons. Asanga has felt her pulse. He has confirmed it. She is pregnant.’

  Shilavati’s heart leapt with joy. She remembered what the astrologers had said. ‘Patience.’ The magic potion of the Siddhas had done more than make her son pregnant. The magic had seeped into his seed.

  She got up and rushed to Pulomi’s room leaving her prayers midway. ‘So my son has been going back to his wives,’ Shilavati checked with the handmaiden.

  ‘Only once,’ she said. ‘Two moons ago.’ She ran ahead. She did not want to recount or remember what she had witnessed. But then, such things happen between husband and wife. Everything happens for the best. She was happy for her queen.

  A woman with life within her body is Prakriti, nature itself. She is a goddess. She needs to be worshipped. Especially when she is the wife of the king.

  Shilavati organized a great ceremony to celebrate Pulomi’s pregnancy. All the wives of the Kshatriya and Brahmana and Vaishya and Shudra elders gathered in the queen’s courtyard dressed in their finest. The courtyard was lined with flowers. The women came bearing gifts for the queen. ‘Finally, the doorway has opened,’ said one woman. ‘The ancestors will be pleased.’

  A lone crow watched the crowd from one of the roofs.

  A rich floral pattern had been created with rice flour in the centre of the courtyard. Pulomi was made to sit in the centre. The women showered flowers on her and walked around her with lamps in their hands. ‘Know that you are a diminutive double of the goddess. Life grows within you,’ they chanted. They gave her gifts to make her happy. Because happy mothers produce happy children.

  Food was cooked. All the women watched Pulomi eat. ‘Eat something sweet, then something sour, then something spicy, then something salty and finally something bitter. You must taste all five flavours. It helps the child.’

  They put talismans on her arms to protect mother and child.

  The women brought with them pots of sprouted grain. ‘You are the earth. Fertile. Fecund. You nurture. You provide,’ the women sang.

  The king was called into the women’s courtyard. Pulomi was made to sit on his lap. She avoided his eye. Everybody thought she was shy. Yuvanashva kept a stony face. It was the first time they had met since the night he had humiliated her. Yuvanashva justified his actions as necessary to put his wife in place. He was king after all. He felt Pulomi cringe when he put his arm over her shoulder. Pulomi had scrubbed her body for days trying to remove her sense of violation. But then the seed he had left in her womb had sprouted. She felt pure again. But she could not forgive the king.

  The women gave Yuvanashva a blade of grass that was dipped in the sap of the banyan tree. ‘Put two drops in her right nostril,’ an elderly Kshatriya woman instructed the king. Turning to Pulomi she said, ‘Try not to sneeze. The sap will ensure that the child being moulded in your womb is a boy. This kingdom needs an heir.’

  But the kingdom has an heir, thought Yuvanashva. He realized none of the women knew of Mandhata. He resisted the urge to tell them. ‘Beware of the implications,’ Vipula had said.

  There was great rejoicing in the cit
y. Shilavati ordered the streets to be watered. New flags fluttered on rooftops. Sweets were distributed on the streets.

  Yuvanashva realized how the arrival of the child had transformed the city and the palace. Such ceremonies celebrating the queen’s pregnancy would be held every month till the day of childbirth. There were no celebrations when Mandhata was conceived. Everybody assumed it was a disease.

  Keshini had prepared a basket of gifts for Pulomi. ‘Why are you doing that?’ asked Simantini.

  ‘For the ceremony,’ replied Keshini.

  ‘My dear, you and I are not invited.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because we are barren.’

  ‘But we are friends,’ argued Keshini. She had spent hours consoling Pulomi when she learnt how Yuvanashva had treated her. She had stopped her from cursing the king because a wife who curses her husband curses herself.

  ‘Did she ever come to you after her pregnancy was confirmed?’ asked Simantini. Keshini realized she had not. ‘We were all bound by barrenness. But that bond is broken now. Now she will rule the women’s courtyard. Mother of the king’s true son.’ Simantini felt her jealous outburst choke all her sensibilities.

  Keshini looked at the basket of gifts she had prepared and remarked, ‘She thought the king had violated her. But in fact he ended up giving her what she desired most. The ways of Yama are mysterious indeed.’

  ‘How do we know it is the king’s child?’ asked Simantini. Keshini’s jaw dropped. How could Simantini say such a thing? Keshini felt jealousy gnawing its way into Simantini’s heart.

  Palace gossip reached Pulomi’s ears. She did not react. She merely felt the child kick in her womb and smiled.

  the accident

  Women poured into the palace to see the mother-to-be. They came with gifts and lots of advice. ‘Milk, lots of milk, to make the child strong and fair.’ ‘And clarified butter to loosen the joints and lubricate the orifices, to make the delivery smooth.’ ‘No sour and bitter and spicy food. No tambula. Can cause the womb to contract and harm the child.’ ‘Churn butter and use the stone mill to grind flour. That is a chore for all mothers, even a queen. It keeps your spine supple, makes childbirth easy.’

  ‘And no sex,’ said Shilavati, who knew how much Pulomi enjoyed her son’s company. Pulomi smiled as she was expected to. Shilavati noticed the smile did not extend to her eyes. The spies had told her many things about how the child came to be. She brushed them aside. ‘And be careful when you bathe.’

  The bathhouse floor was scrubbed by the servants to remove all trace of moss and slime. This was the favourite place of the palace women. A place where they could indulge themselves. They spent hours anointing themselves with oils and unguents, then washing it away with warm water. The room was full of pots of various sizes and filled with the fragrance of many herbs. Pulomi especially enjoyed bathing there. She had six servants to help her. One only to manage her hair. One to massage her body. One to scrub her skin. One to pour the water. Two to help her dry and dress.

  Pulomi always bathed with at least one of the other queens. Mostly Keshini who could talk without a pause on any subject. But now she felt that only women who were mothers should be around her. So neither Keshini nor Simantini was invited to the bath. And only four of her six maids accompanied her. When she was done, Shilavati would come to her rooms followed by maids who carried a pot of sweet milk and a basket of fruits. Pulomi would sleep with her head on her mother-in-law’s lap all afternoon, feeling loved and secure.

  In the seventh month of her pregnancy, as Pulomi was leaving the bathhouse she slipped and fell. ‘I was pushed,’ she insisted.

  Shilavati was frantic. Asanga was called. But the baby was safe.

  Shilavati saw fear in her daughter-in-law’s eyes. ‘What is it, child?’ she asked, placing her arms around her.

  Pulomi snuggled closer to Shilavati and replied, ‘He does not want this child. It is only half his.’

  birth of jayanta

  Less than a year after Mandhata’s birth, palace maids could be seen running through the maze of courtyards that made up the palace of Vallabhi untying all the knots they could find. Knots on clothes, knots on tapestries and curtains and ropes. The royal washerman was told to open all the bundles of clothes. The Brahmanas were told to untie the threads that kept the palm leaf manuscripts together. The queen was delivering and knots in the vicinity could hinder the childbirth.

  It was evening when the pain started and night when Pulomi’s water broke. The palace was well prepared. For over a month, two of Vallabhi’s best midwives, one Shudra woman and one Kshatriya woman, were told to stay in the palace in anticipation of the childbirth. They placed their hands on the queen’s stomach and felt the quickening of the womb to distinguish true labour from false. ‘Not yet, but soon,’ they kept saying every time the pain came. This went on all night long. Over a dozen palace women participated in the royal childbirth.

  It was a great spectacle. The queen reclined on a seat of gold. She was being fanned with yak-tail fly whisks in anticipation that a male child would emerge from her womb. Pulomi was naked except for her gold anklets, armlets, necklace and nose-ring. Her hair was unbound. Servants kept wiping the sweat that covered her body as she writhed in pain. Pulomi insisted that Shilavati sit beside her. ‘Hold my hand, mother,’ she said. The pain frightened her. She squeezed Shilavati’s finger’s hard everytime the pain intensified.

  At the crack of dawn, the midwives announced it was time. Pulomi was made to stand. The midwives stood on either side. They held her by the waist and asked her to put her arms over their shoulders. Shilavati stood behind rubbing Pulomi’s back and shoulders, comforting her. ‘Push,’ the midwives shouted.

  Shilavati expected her daughter-in-law to scream in agony. She gestured to the maids to get the neem twig that Pulomi could bite into. But before the twig was brought, the midwives said, ‘It’s a boy. It’s a boy.’ The child had slipped out with the first push.

  The excited maids blew the conch-shells. Hearing which the palace guards began to beat the drums and the priests of Ileshwara began to clang the bell. Soon the whole city of Vallabhi was resounding with the sound of bells, drums and conch-shells and the cawing of crows. Everyone was excited. Shilavati had her grandson. The Turuvasu flame burnt bright.

  ‘He shall be called Jayanta, son of Indra, king of the gods,’ said Shilavati. Pulomi could not believe it was over so soon. The child was placed in her arms. Tears rolled down as she saw his tiny lips and tiny arms. She turned and looked at her mother-in-law. Shilavati was crying too. All the women were crying. Tears of joy, they all agreed. The women gathered around and sang a song to celebrate the childbirth and bless mother and son. ‘Green is the earth. Green is Gauri. Green is the mother. Rich in milk and rich in sap. Green is the earth indeed.’

  end of confinement

  After the childbirth, the mother was asked to rest. ‘She is inauspicious now. Full of foul blood. It will be a month before she is purified. Until then she must rest and no man must see her. Not even the father,’ said the midwives.

  Singers were called to entertain mother and child while Pulomi was in confinement. She spent her time allowing herself to be massaged, fed and bathed. They tied a long cloth tightly round her stomach to prevent it from sagging. They burnt cow dung cakes beneath her bed to help her uterus contract. Pulomi loved the attention. More than that she loved it when the nursemaids brought little Jayanta to her for feeding.

  Yuvanashva did not come to see Pulomi or his son. He stayed in Simantini’s chambers feeding Mandhata, ignoring the chatter of women that came from the courtyard outside. Simantini sat next to him, fanning him, no longer awkward at the sight of a man nursing a baby, angry at being excluded from the celebrations outside.

  Mandhata had almost been weaned. Simantini enjoyed feeding the child his first meal of rice boiled in milk. Had Mandhata been born of a woman, this annaprasanna samskara would have been a great ceremony held in the maha-sabha with the
child sitting on the lap of his royal father. But it was conducted privately in her chamber with only Keshini and Asanga as witness.

  No nursemaids were appointed to massage Mandhata. ‘I will manage,’ said Simantini. She realized this baby was no different from the others she had seen in her father’s palace.

  A month passed. Pulomi was healthy and pure. She was ready to present herself and her child to the city of Vallabhi. The day was fixed. The palace was decorated. A great silver seat shaped like a turtle with silver cushions and images of cows on the back rest was placed in the far end of the women’s courtyard. Women of all four varnas were told to come to the palace with their sons and daughters through the elephant gate. A royal feast had been organized. Shilavati ordered forty different varieties of vegetables, fruits, cereals and grain to be cooked.

  The women and children came with gifts for the prince. Toys, rattles, silver boxes with lamp black, tiny anklets and armlets, talismans with images of gods and goddesses.

  Simantini asked Yuvanashva, ‘Will you be attending the ceremony?’

  ‘It is only for women,’ Yuvanashva replied, all attention on his son.

  ‘It is for mothers.’

  Yuvanashva looked up at Simantini. ‘Are you trying to tell me something?’

  ‘The people will assume that Jayanta is your first born. Is that fair to Mandhata?’

  ‘We know the truth.’

  ‘People see what they are shown. We must present Mandhata.’

  ‘How do we explain his birth and this secrecy?’

  ‘We can say that we kept his birth secret to protect him from Pisachas who prevented you from fathering a child for thirteen years. And it was the condition of the Siddhas that after the child is born it should be isolated for at least a year. Otherwise the Pisachas would suck its life out.’