Pregnant King

by Devdutt Pattanaik

  In the evening, many residents of Vallabhi came to see her: the ivory merchant, the goldsmith, the chief of goat herders, the keeper of the mango orchard. They offered her gifts. Shared their problems with her. She offered no solutions—that was for the king—just a patient ear. This was enough for them. She was still the royal mother, the most reliable shoulder they could cry on.

  The most exciting days were when her spies came to her with information. They were as vigilant as ever and unflinching in their loyalty. ‘Yuvanshava does not appreciate the information we bring him,’ they told her, ‘He broods all the time.’

  The spies told her that the elders of the Kuru clan had left Hastina-puri, become vanaprasthis, wandering in the forest. ‘For a long time Dhritarashtra was not willing to leave the comforts of the palace,’ said the spies. ‘Especially the roasted meat, he loves so much. But Bhima made things unbearable. Every day Bhima would join them during meals and describe in gory detail how he killed each of the Kauravas. How he broke their bones. How he drank Dushasana’s blood. Dhritarashtra would hear all this. Tears would roll down his eyes. But he would continue to eat his meat. Finally, his wife Gandhari said, “Enough. Have some dignity.” At long last the blind old man gathered the courage to put down the meat, wash his hands, get up and leave the palace. Gandhari followed him as a dutiful wife should. Kunti followed them too. She found her son’s treatment of his uncle unbearable.’

  The spies also told Shilavati how no prince of Ilavrita participated in Amba’s swayamvara. ‘A slap on the face for the Pandavas,’ she told her dogs the next day.

  She learnt that Mandhata had also turned down the invitation. How this had upset Yuvanashva. How he had called his son to answer riddles in the maha-sabha. ‘I think he plans to tell his son the truth about his birth. If I know that boy, he will reject the truth. For he will realize its implications,’ she told her cows.

  When Shilavati learnt how troubled Mandhata was after spending the evening with Yuvanashva, Shilavati decided to call the boy for a meal.

  grandmother’s meal

  Mandhata was surprised by the invitation. ‘She has never sent for me,’ he said, not sure if he was excited or nervous.

  ‘Don’t be afraid. She is very nice,’ said Jayanta, who since childhood had invited himself to his grandmother’s kitchen. ‘She is our grandmother. She is supposed to love us and feed us,’ he would say. He demanded her affection. Shilavati, like everyone else, lavished him with it.

  In all these years Mandhata had always kept away from his grandmother. He would never go anywhere unless invited.

  Having finally received Shilavati’s invitation, Mandhata entered her courtyard with trepidation. Once, this was the centre of power in Vallabhi. Now, it was a desolate place. The floor was clean, the walls were painted, but an eerie sense of emptiness prevailed, as if the ghosts of the past had their tongues cut out and could not speak.

  Shilavati’s old maid, dressed in bright yellow with a massive gold nose ring, welcomed the prince. She kissed him on his forehead and embraced him affectionately. She looked at him with adoring eyes and then led him to the kitchen. ‘You look like your grandfather. He was very handsome.’ She laughed like a young girl, then covered her mouth in embarrassment and asked Mandhata what he would eat. ‘Devi instructed me to make sweet pancakes with coconut and jaggery. She said those were your favourites.’

  They were. How did she know? Her legendary spies? Or maybe Jayanta?

  After Mandhata had finished his fourth pancake and washed his hands, Shilavati walked in. He got up and fell at her feet. ‘Come,’ she said. He followed her to what was once her audience chamber, empty except for two blackbuck pelts. The walls were covered with images of creepers. ‘Sit,’ she said pointing to one of them.

  She wore undyed fabric. She was old, bent and wrinkled. She used a walking stick made of buffalo horn. The regal air was evident. She still had a vertical line of sandal paste stretching from the tip of her nose to her forehead. Around her arm was a gold talisman hanging from a black thread. No other jewellery. She had long ago stopped wearing the chain of gold beads and tiger claws.

  ‘So, you are afraid you will not be anointed king,’ she came straight to the point.

  ‘Have your spies told you this?’

  ‘I don’t need spies to tell me this. It is written all over your face.’

  ‘He says I am an aberration. Imperfect. Not born of a woman. Hence not fit to be king.’

  ‘You can twist that idea in your favour if you wish. Declare that by not being born of a woman, you are an ayonija, untainted by menstrual blood, as pure as the seven primal Rishis, born of Prajapati’s thoughts.’

  ‘Is that true?’

  ‘If you repeat it several times, it will become true.’

  Mandhata smiled. ‘Should I do that?’

  ‘You can, if you wish. But there is an easier way to secure your kingship.’

  Mandhata was all ears. ‘How?’

  ‘Marry Amba.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Hear me out. She is the princess of Panchala. If you marry her, you will have the Pandavas as your uncles-in-law. Nobody then, not even your father, will dare deny you the crown of Vallabhi.’

  ‘That is coercion.’

  ‘That is politics,’ said Shilavati.

  Mandhata felt the aura of authority around this old, bent and wrinkled woman before him. ‘But I have turned down the invitation to the swayamvara,’ he said.

  ‘That is not the only way to marry a girl. Follow the way of the Rakshasas. Abduct her as Bhisma abducted the princesses of Kashi. Make her yours by force. If you really want to be king.’

  Mandhata was speechless. Now he knew why his grandmother was regarded as a great ruler. She knew every twist and turn of the law. ‘You once did not want me to live. Today you are helping me be king. Why?’

  Picking up a slice of betel-nut, Shilavati said, ‘I see in you the soul of a king. That is all that matters. Vallabhi needs you. Imperfect or not, you must be king. I too have the soul of a king. The Angirasa saw that. But my body came in the way. I will not let these silly superficial rules hold you back. You deserve to be king.’

  Mandhata hugged his grandmother. As Jayanta said, she was not a bad person at all. With one conversation, she had made him master of his destiny. He did not feel helpless anymore.

  A few days later, the city of Vallabhi saw a sight that they had not seen for thirty years. A bejewelled elephant with great white tusks entered the city. On it sat Mandhata. With him was his new bride, Amba.

  gold anklets for amba

  Shilavati woke up to the sound of singing crows. Crows don’t sing. But they did that day. ‘She is pregnant. She is pregnant,’ they sang. ‘What more can you ask of a grandson. What more can you ask of his wife.’

  It was as if Amba entered Vallabhi pregnant. She bled not once.

  All Mandhata’s reservations about making Shikhandi’s daughter his bride were laid to rest the moment he saw Amba. She was ravishing. A woman’s woman. Doe-eyed. Full lips. Breasts like the bilva fruit. Thighs round and smooth as the trunk of the banana tree. He could not resist her charms. Struck by Kama’s love-dart, he made love to her on the elephant on the high road connecting Vallabhi to Panchala. Under a banyan tree next to the Kalindi, her field accepted the Turuvasu seed.

  Yuvanashva felt a stab of envy. ‘It took me thirteen years, three wives and a yagna to conceive my first child. He is more blessed by Ileshwara than I ever was.’

  Envy turned to rage when he learnt his mother had sent Amba a pair of golden anklets. ‘She wanted to kill the boy at birth. Called him a disease. A threat to dharma. Now she accepts his wife as queen as if Mandhata has already been anointed heir. She presumes too much. So what if he is now the son-in-law of the Pandavas. He who does not have the courage to face the truth, will never be king of Vallabhi.’

  Yuvanashva called for a council of elders. It was time they knew the truth about Mandhata.

  To his ut
most irritation, the elders of all four varnas came bearing gifts made by their wives for the royal mother-to-be. ‘Congratulations,’ said the Shudra elders. ‘Now you can retire in peace. The next generation is on its way.’

  ‘So when are you planning Mandhata’s coronation?’ asked the Vaishya elders. ‘Everyone thinks it will be in autumn, after the harvests, before the mists.’

  ‘Mandhata’s coronation? Where did you get the idea?’ asked Yuvanashva.

  ‘We assumed,’ said the Kshatriya elders, surprised by the king’s irritation.

  ‘Mandhata can never be king,’ said Yuvanashva. ‘He is imperfect.’

  A murmur spread through the council. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘Tell me why was Dhritarashtra not crowned king of Hastina-puri. Why was the crown given to his younger brother, Pandu, instead?’ asked Yuvanashva.

  ‘Because Dhritarashtra was blind,’ said the Brahmana elders.

  ‘And Devapi? Why was he forced to give up the throne in favour of Shantanu?’

  ‘Because Devapi had a skin disease,’ said the Vaishya elders.

  ‘A king must be perfect in mind and body and lineage. Dhritarashtra and Devapi were imperfect of body. Mandhata is imperfect of lineage. He is not the sprout of a king’s seed. He is not the sapling of a queen’s soil either. He was conceived in my body after I drank the magic potion accidentally. How then can he be king?’

  The Shudra elders could not believe what they were hearing. ‘What is the king saying? Has he gone mad?’ they asked.

  ‘Yes, he has,’ said Shilavati, when news reached her chamber. ‘Tell the elders, they must declare Mandhata king quickly, because Yuvanashva is going mad. He is saying things that make no sense. Imagine a man who claims to be a mother.’ She laughed.

  The elders of all four varnas laughed. Everyone laughed. ‘Yuvanashva has gone mad,’ they said. ‘Let us make Mandhata king.’

  Yuvanashva shouted over the deafening laughter, ‘I speak the truth, Mandhata is born of my body.’ The laughter continued ‘Believe me. Why don’t you believe me? If Draupadi can be born in a sacrificial pit why can Mandhata not be born in the body of a man?’ But nobody heard Yuvanashva. They only laughed and concluded his words were the ravings of a madman.

  When the sun had set and the elders had left, the Pisachas entered the maha-sabha of the Turuvasus. Their twin voices echoed in the empty hall, ‘The truth has finally been told.’

  ‘But it has not been heard,’ said Yuvanashva, a broken man. ‘Vallabhi gags my truth with the lies of my mother. My people laugh and see only what they want to see. They don’t see me. The real me. Why then should I stay?’

  renunciation of the king

  The next day, just before dawn, the gatekeepers of Vallabhi saw the king standing under the gate facing the eastern sky. They saluted him. He ignored them.

  His eyes were shut. They noticed he was silently mouthing a hymn. He unwrapped his uttarya and began unknotting his dhoti.

  Realizing what was happening, one of the gatekeepers ran to the palace. ‘The king is renouncing the world,’ he shouted.

  The news woke the palace in an instant. There was pandemonium. The queens ran into Shilavati’s courtyard, a confused look in their eyes. Was this true? Had the king actually left? The servants started wailing as if someone had died.

  ‘He cannot just do this without taking my consent. The Shastras insist on this,’ said Shilavati.

  ‘Devi, he is disrobing at the gate at this very instant,’ said the gatekeeper.

  That very moment, the whole palace saw Shilavati lose her regal majesty. She crumpled to the floor. Simantini and Pulomi rushed to help her up. She looked like a helpless old mother, wrinkled and toothless. Tears rolled down her cheeks. ‘All of a sudden. Without even a warning. Did he tell you anything?’

  ‘No, he did not,’ said Keshini.

  The tears kept rolling. The wailing of the palace women was getting louder. Shilavati beat her chest as she had done the day her husband died. Yama’s elephant goad had struck her soul once again. The pain was unbearable. ‘At least he could have told me. Oh my son. My son,’ she cried. Taking a deep breath she told Mandhata, ‘Take me to him. Let us at least see him before he departs.’

  The guards ran to the stables to prepare the horses. Mandhata and Jayanta mounted their chariot. Vipula joined them. Palanquins were made ready for the queens. ‘No, I will ride on a chariot,’ said Shilavati, ‘It is faster. We must hurry.’ She had to be picked up and placed on the chariot. Her knees were weak.

  A crowd had gathered at the city gates, by the time they got there. The news of the king’s renunciation had spread through the city. The sun was about to rise. Yuvanashva had just thrown mud over his shoulder and had started walking towards the horizon, his back to the city.

  He heard the chariots. The sound of familiar voices, accompanied by sobbing and wailing. ‘Wait, wait. Turn back.’

  Yuvanashva started walking faster. Away from Vallabhi, from the wailing of his people. Why were they crying like orphaned children? Was this just ritual? Had they not rejected him?

  ‘Father, turn back. At least bid us a formal farewell. Everyone is here. Your wives. Your sons. Your mother. Your subjects,’ he heard the sweet voice of Jayanta. It was full of affection, and pain. It took all his determination not to turn back.

  ‘Arya, please turn back for the venerable Shilavati. She deserves at least a glance.’ It was Vipula. But Yuvanashva refused to turn back. He could not. He had to continue walking.

  ‘Yuva. Yuva. Why so much anger? I am a foolish old woman. Forgive me. Turn back. Look at me. Know that I have always loved you,’ said Shilavati.

  Tears rolled down Yuvanashva’s eyes as he heard his mother’s frail voice. I don’t want to punish you, he wanted to say. I just want you to love me for the truth that I am. I want freedom from all lies. But he could say nothing. He did not want to defend or explain his actions. How he longed to turn around and hug her. Just once. Just once. Remember the time they were close. Before Mandhata, before Somvat and Sumedha, before Kuru-kshetra, before the three wives.

  Yuvanashva slowed his pace and strained his ears, waiting for Mandhata to cry out. What would he say? Father? Mother? Mandhata said nothing, and Yuvanashva increased his pace.

  Book Eight

  the story of bhangashvana

  The sun moved west. Yuvanashva crossed familiar rice fields and mango groves. He took the highway that ran north. It was lined with fruit trees, planted long ago by the far-sighted Shilavati, that sheltered travellers and pilgrims and fed them as they made their way to Vallabhi.

  By late afternoon, the landscape started getting unfamiliar. The frontier was near, Yuvanashva realized. Soon there would be no trace of order, no field, no orchard. No trees planted by the queen. The earth would be uneven and the grass wild. The only trace of civilization would be the highway cutting through the forest. Must he leave the highway? Abandon civilization itself?

  Yuvanashva saw a group of men walking towards him. They had paint on their faces, and were wearing colourful clothes. The bards! Yuvanashva realized. They blocked his path by prostrating themselves before him. ‘Let me pass,’ said Yuvanashva.

  ‘We have one last story for you,’ said the senior bard.

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The story we never told you. The story we never tell. The story that has never been told, except by Bhisma to the Pandavas before he died. The one that Arjuna said he forgot.’

  Bhangashvana’s story, Yuvanashva recollected. The man who, like him, had experienced motherhood. There was a time when he had believed that this story would stem the restlessness in his heart.

  ‘Why now?’ asked Yuvanashva.

  ‘We finally have an audience who will not laugh,’ said the bards.

  Yuvanashva sat down under a jambu tree. The bards sat before him. They hummed a tune, imitating bees in a meadow, as they prepared their tongues for the narration.

  ‘This is the story of Bhangas
hvana, also known as Sudyumna, better known as Ila.’

  ‘Ila? The Ila? Our great ancestor? Bhangashvana was Ila?’ asked Yuvanashva.

  ‘Yes,’ said the senior bard, with an apologetic smile. ‘In ancient times, a child was given many names to confuse malevolent spirits. Ila grew up to be a strapping young prince. Prithu gave him many wives. And the wives gave him many children, both sons and daughters. One day, Ila went hunting on his favourite horse accompanied by his favourite dog. They entered a forest not knowing it was the sacred grove of Tarini. It was spring. Flowers were in full bloom. The goddess was with her consort, Shiva, and wanted no man to interrupt her pleasure. For her sake, Shiva cast a spell causing all things male in the forest to become female. Ila fell under the influence of the spell. He became a woman. His horse a mare. His dog a bitch. He looked around and found a group of peahens. No peacocks. Running through the forest were herds of doe but no stags. In the pond there were geese, no ganders. Tigresses, cow-elephants everywhere. No tigers, no bull-elephants. Ila finally came upon the goddess sitting content on Shiva’s left lap, resting her head on his chest, smiling. He begged her to restore his manhood, told her that he had wives and children. But Shiva’s spell could not be undone. The goddess could only modify it. She said that Ila’s masculinity would wax and wane with the moon. He would be all male on full-moon days and all female on new-moon nights.’

  ‘Like Ileshwara?’ asked Yuvanashva.