“Wait for me,” cried Madhuralalasa. “Don’t leave me alone.” She tried to get up from the bed—but Kalapurna placed his foot on her thigh, pressing her down. She struggled to get up, bracelets and anklets clattering. “So much noise, my dear,” he whispered in her ear. “No one will believe you are so coy.” He held her.
“I can’t move without making a huge noise,” she said and started removing some of her jewelry, beginning with the anklets, drawing out the pins. “That’s a good beginning,” he said, touching her cheeks with his.
She didn’t turn away. She was listening to his words. He was able to touch her hand. This itself was the height of happiness for the king.
To calm the fear in her heart, he told her tales of love. Under one pretext or another, he managed to touch her breasts, bringing their bodies close. He made her smile by gently teasing her. First once, then again and again, he touched her secret places, so she had to hide her excitement. He prepared her for the highest teaching, the science of loving.
He was restoring the Love-God, who had been hiding inside her fear and shyness, to his full power. Soon the knot of her sari was untied. He kissed her, inflamed her, embraced her; they lost themselves in one another.
Days passed. Day by day her passion grew, and her timidity diminished. She had no time for anything else. At first she wouldn’t allow him to touch her breasts. She wouldn’t let him put his lips on hers. She wouldn’t let him touch her down below. But eventually the constant struggle wore her out, and she gave in, and gave him all of herself. It went on like this for some nights. After a while, though she still put on a show of resisting, she would let him kiss her—as if she lost attention for a moment. Or, pretending to be deep in thought about the bite he left on her lip, she would allow him to scratch her breasts with his fingernail. Or, as if busy examining her breasts, she would let him untie her sari. Then she would bend over to pick it up, meanwhile letting him reach between her thighs. So she managed to be at once both coy and intimate; she made it easy for the Love-God to steal past her defenses; easy for her husband, too.
Pretending to sleep, she would touch her lips to his lips and hug him; this went on for some nights, to her husband’s delight. After some time he knew she was pretending but didn’t let on—until he could contain it no longer and broke out in laughter. She laughed, too. Before long, she was beyond her self-imposed limits. She started laughing and chattering even while fending off his hands. Finally, she bit his lips and said, “That’s what you get for what you’ve done to my lips.”
Then he said, “Look what you’ve done to my lip. I’m going to show this to everyone—unless you do what I want you to. Don’t try to wriggle out of it.” As if frightened by this grave threat, she made love to him on top. He was lying back and enjoying the sight of her breasts, so, a little embarrassed, she lay close to his chest. He begged her to sit up and tried to prop her up with his hands; she tried to close his eyes with her hands. “Don’t worry, I won’t stare at them anymore,” he promised her. “Let me cover them myself.” He folded his hands around her nipples and played with them. This trick gave her a chance to be a little angry. Gallantly, he offered to help raise her heavy behind with his hands, and again she held him off. Suddenly, she realized she was completely open; desperately wanting to cover herself, she tried to dismount. All this was new to her. The beginning was slow, but once she began, she couldn’t stop.
His desire for her was continually increasing and his love grew deeper as they found ever new ways of making love. Spring turned to summer. They spent the hot days playing at love in ponds perfumed by the lotus and the blue water lily, in cool pavilions flowing with rose water, on terraces paved with moonstones and marble, or porches painted with camphor and draped with red water lilies. They dressed up in delicate cottons with necklaces of pearl and jasmine garlands, their bodies covered with sandal to heighten their passion.
Then the rains came. Madhuralalasa, as if startled by the lightning and thunder, hung on to her husband’s embrace; and he happily held her close to him and would not let go. After the monsoons, there was autumn, followed by the cold season. Under thick, hand-woven blankets, on warm beds enfolded by mosquito nets, with the brazier burning with coal and aloe, the king spent the cold months taking refuge in his new wife’s burning breasts. Season after season, he made love to her, his passion deepening as they enjoyed the bounty of each new day.
[ Abhinavakaumudi Becomes Jealous ]
The king, being the perfect lover, showed equal passion for Abhinavakaumudi, his first wife. One day, when Abhinavakaumudi was singing for him and playing her vina, the king sent a messenger to bring Madhuralalasa. She came and listened for a while. Kalapurna then said to her, “My dear, I hear you are an expert at this. Why don’t you take the vina and sing for me?”
She was afraid to say either yes or no. She took the vina and started fiddling with the tuning pegs. “Is something wrong?” asked the king repeatedly.
“Actually,” she said, “I’m wondering, lord of all the world, if my voice is right for the pitch of this vina.”
“Just sing as you normally would,” he said. So she showed her proficiency. It soon became clear that the tone of the vina was not up to her mark. Still, the king was amazed at her voice, as was Abhinavakaumudi, who thought Madhuralalsa must be unique in the universe.
The king thought a moment and said, “Bring your own vina. Let’s see how good it is.” Eyes wide as an unfolding lotus, she modestly replied, “Normally, I accept what anyone says, but I can’t hide the truth from you. There is no vina in the world that matches my pitch. That’s why my singing doesn’t sound quite right. I had heard about this vina, before, and I wanted to test it. You have heard the results yourself. Now you know.”
Said the king, “At the moment, this is the best available vina. This is the one I know from the beginning, so I never thought of looking for a better one. Only now, listening to your singing, which establishes the true limit to all three pitches—low, middle, and high—have I understood that the tones of this instrument are not the best for you.” He turned to Abhinavakaumudi. “Do you think there is a vina suitable for her somewhere?”
She answered, “I already told you, when we were speaking about music, that this vina of mine is the best of them all. That’s why Tumburu used to play on it; and he gave it to me, since I was his most gifted disciple. Where can you find one better?” She thought a while and added, “I heard that Tumburu was recently defeated in a music competition by Narada. I wonder what could be the reason.”
These words brought back to the king’s mind the story that Madhuralalasa had told about Narada’s determination to beat Tumburu.12 This then led him to memories of his previous life as Manikandhara. He also remembered that, as Manikandhara, he had left his vina in a secret place in the Lion-Riding Goddess’s temple. That, he decided, was the right vina for Madhuralalasa’s voice. In his mind, he decided to look for it and bring it to her. He turned to her and said, “There is another vina, and I know where it is. That might be the right one for you.”
As he was saying this, Abhinavakaumudi’s friends made a sign to her and took her away to a private place. “For a woman, you are very naïve. Not only are you supporting your husband in his love for your co-wife’s singing, but you are also helping him find a better vina for her. He knew from the beginning that her voice is better than your vina. He invited her here only to insult you. Believe us. For all external purposes, he was listening to your singing in your palace. So his mind wandered to her—that’s not too bad. But then why should he invite her here? And you want to know more? He’s wearing her little toe-ring on his finger. You don’t seem to notice. Why not pretend for a little while to turn your face away in pique? You don’t seem to be capable of getting angry with him. He takes you for granted and has just demonstrated that he’s in control. Have you ever listened to what we say? Just for our sake, somehow or other, take your life in your hands and stop talking to him—at least for a littl
e while. If he really loves Madhuralalasa’s singing, he could listen to her in his own place any time. Why did he have to insult you, and why did you put up with it? He’ll make amends and restore your pride—if you just stop talking to him for a minute. Trust us. We know what love is all about.”
Their words set off a change of heart in her. She thought to herself, “I never really thought about the way my husband treats me. I was too much in love. What my friends say is true, if you think about it. I shouldn’t be so friendly to him. People who hear about this will laugh at me if, out of passion, I blind myself to my husband’s shortcomings.”
She gave some temporary answer to her friends and went on behaving calmly, with her usual confidence. Later that night when the king came to her house, she showed him all the usual courtesies, but she did not put on her jewelry; she poured the water on his feet without saying a word, as if welcoming an ascetic sage. She didn’t smile or joke or flutter her eyelashes or give any hint of desire. She made their bed, smoothing all the wrinkles and spreading a soft comforter; she fluffed up his pillow. He lay down, and she sat nearby rolling betel leaves on a golden seat.
He noticed. “Usually all I need to do is to stand here and her face lights up with a gentle smile of desire; her eyes shoot arrows of love, volley after volley; her voice turns to honey, and her words are full of hidden meaning; her breasts bristle with goosebumps, like a thick bed of rice shoots. Today it didn’t work. Nothing is happening. She’s just acting the part of the dutiful wife—without feeling. She’s up to something.” Upon reflection, he concluded, “Today’s singing must have set off something. Let’s find out.”
“Is something wrong?” he asked her. “You seem a little off. I’ve never seen you like this.”
She didn’t say a word.
“Listen.
I love you.
A lot. I won’t last
if you won’t
laugh. Am I an unfeeling
log?”13
Wearily, she said, “Go talk to women who are good at singing. Why talk to someone like me? I always lose. Don’t try to be nice to me. Your love is elsewhere. I don’t want to whine. Anyway, what can I do? You were kind enough to come here, and I’m delighted to see you. This is all that I’m good for. I don’t expect anything more. To tell the truth, this would be the right moment to die, while I still have your respect, your love and closeness. Unfortunately, I can’t die; I’m stuck with this cursed life.14 But I can’t blame you. You’re perfect. There’s nothing wrong when a man exchanges one woman for another just because the new girl entices him with her singing.”
He listened. “You accuse me of so many things. What did I do to make you feel so hurt? You excite me, arouse me; you’re about to overwhelm me with your love—and then some bad luck of mine takes hold of you and plants doubt in your mind. But truly, I never did anything that should cause you hurt. I swear it.” He got up from the bed and fell at her feet, holding them with his hands.
“Don’t touch me,” she said, moving away from him. “Go grab the feet of the woman you really love. Why put the blame on me, great king?” She pried his hands away with hers.
“There’s no one I love more than you, my beautiful wife.” He stood up, raised her toward him, and embraced her tightly, chest to chest.
With tears in her eyes, her voice choking, she said, “I don’t doubt your love, your affection, or your kindness. But for some reason, today my mind is troubled. I feel humiliated, hurt, angry. It doesn’t go away.”
“I know why you’re feeling bad,” said the king. “Until today, your vina was incomparable. Suddenly, because of another woman’s singing, it has been found to be inferior. That’s what troubles you. I know a special vina that is far better than yours. I used to carry it myself in my former life—so I’m told. I am going to find it and bring it to you, whatever it takes. I’ll teach you to play it so that you’ll be the best in the world, better than anybody you can imagine. Trust me.”
Now she knew very well that he had once been Manikandhara,15 so she easily accepted that he might well have had such a vina. This made her happy. Kalapurna, once he had eased the pain in her heart, happily made love to her.
The next day all this spread, from mouth to mouth, from Abhinavakaumudi’s girlfriends in the palace to Madhuralalasa’s friends, and from them to Madhuralalasa herself. She started to think. “Some women, like me, have to win their husbands’ love by their singing. Other, luckier women don’t have to do anything like that. Even if they can’t sing very well, the husband takes it upon himself to make them happy. She made him promise to give her the vina he was going to bring for me. She set a trap for my husband’s love. That’s what I call a woman.”
She went on musing in this vein. That night Kalapurna found her a little different. When it was time to make love, he cheered her up by falling at her feet and promising to bring her, very soon, new anklets made out of the jewels from the crowns of the queens whose husbands rule the eight directions of space.
So now he had promised something to each of them, and he had to plan his moves. Both promises were on his mind. He tried to think things through. “If I tell Abhinavakaumudi where that vina is, she can easily go there and fetch it by herself. After all, she’s a woman from heaven. But that would not be right. It would mean that I am not capable of getting it myself. So that won’t work. If I send someone who can do the job, I have to be sure they can handle anyone who could cause problems. If instead I ask the king of that country to get it for me, he might fancy it for himself. If instead of all of these, I invade the country myself, I’ll get not only the vina but also the riches of all the kings en route. Besides, there doesn’t seem to be any way to keep my promise to Madhuralalasa except by conquering the whole world.”
He summoned his minister, Satvadatma, for consultations in the secret strategy room, with guards posted outside to keep everyone else away. The king set out his idea in some detail. Satvadatma was pleased. “Didn’t I tell you so?” he asked the king. “What I said that day, after studying Madhuralalasa’s features, has now come true.”16
“That’s true,” said the king, smiling. “What do we do now? Tell me what the strategists say, step by step. Advice by a good minister, given in private to the king, is as effective as Vedic mantras chanted by an expert during the ritual. That’s what people say. But to my way of thinking, all these traditional strategies are for cowards and weaklings. What are they really good for? Victory comes out of courage. Whenever a courageous man decides to strike, with whatever weapon, against whatever enemy, he will win. The moment he strikes is the right time; the place he chooses is the right place; the weapon he wields is the right one. When he sees the enemy before him on the battlefield, a certain power energizes the hero. If Fire wants to burn down a forest, does he prepare his flames in advance? Elephants may be as big as a mountain, but they are slow in movement. That’s why they get killed. Lions are smaller, but they have the advantage of swift attack. They are the killers. Victory belongs to the brave. People supremely skilled end up serving a powerful king. No talent can equal sheer power. If you’re really strong, you won’t waste time thinking about whether a task is easy or difficult. Only small-scale operators think like that. Does a blazing fire stop to ask if the wood is wet or dry? Therefore, a brave man should attack when the spirit seizes him. I think this is the right time to move—right now.”
Satvadatma replied, very humbly, “Great king, your understanding of politics is far deeper than mine. Nevertheless, I’ll tell you what I think, with your permission, and without fear. Good friends don’t talk just to please. If you feel my mild advice is appropriate to your fierce mood, take it. It might work like water on a red-hot sword. A king who forsakes the science of strategy, like a swimmer who lets go of a float or a sick person who disobeys his doctor, may still survive; but if they don’t, they can’t escape the blame. On the other hand, if a king follows the rules of strategy and still fails, people won’t blame him; they’ll say it’s
his bad luck. If an immoral man gets rich, people curse the goddess of wealth: How could she choose him? Look, elephants are much taller than humans, but we use strategy to climb on to them and ride them. The science of politics tells you how certain tasks can be accomplished. Such wisdom doesn’t automatically come with strength. If you want proof, remember how Siva used a whole, strong mountain as his bow in his war on the Triple City.17 If you shoot an arrow from a bow, it goes quite a distance. But if you just throw it with your bare hand—if even God tries just to throw it—will it go even half as far? The moral is, strategy is better than brute strength.
“Listen. There are six strategies: making peace, making enemies, invasion, staying put, creating dissension among your foes, and taking shelter with a more powerful king. The main thing is to act on them at the right time. If you use them at the wrong moment, it’s disaster. There are four means of success: conciliation, division, bribery, and sheer force. Everybody can name these four and define their characteristics, but it’s hard to find someone who can tell you when to adopt them and when not to. Some people use an axe when a fingernail would be enough; others try to use their fingernail when they really need an axe. If you can’t estimate the size of the problem accurately, it won’t help you to know about the four means of success. When your enemy is similar to you in status and power, try conciliation. If he’s stronger than you are and not easy to defeat, try to divide and conquer. If he has a lot of allies, try to buy them off. If you’re absolutely certain that he’s so weak that you can beat him, then, and only then, go to war.
“A king can suffer from fourteen weaknesses. He can be indiscrete about secrets. He can be indecisive or waste time fretting. He may be grumpy or unable to recognize intelligence when he sees it. He could act when it is not appropriate. He can be self-indulgent. He might tell lies. He can be lazy. He could be an atheist. He can fail to recognize what is good for him. He can take forever to make up his mind. He can be vindictive. He can procrastinate on routine matters. You should know these weaknesses and avoid them.
The Sound of the Kiss Page 19