Girls of the Mahabharata

by Meenakshi Reddy Madhavan

  Finally, we are done, and I am ready to leave for my ride with Ashvat, the ostler. The same eunuch who helped me this morning is back again and waiting to escort me to the stables.

  Out of my sisters, I am the best rider, I can say that without needing false modesty, because I am also the only rider out of the three of us. I think some of the blood of my chieftain grandfather passed on to me, and when we were put on horses, I took to it, and my sisters retreated indoors the first time they were thrown off their saddles. As a result, now they are ferried about on elephants or in palanquins, and I am allowed to ride, up to a point. Alone, and for exercise is one thing, but to make a journey on horseback while the rest of the royal women are in their veiled cabins? That is unheard of. But Salva’s is a rocky kingdom, and we need to go on horses if we are to get far, and I know the old queen, his mother, approves of women on horseback, which is my only saving grace.

  ‘Ready,’ I tell the eunuch and we walk through the cool palace and are hit in the face by the warmth outdoors. Ashvat is already waiting for me, my little mare, Sauvee, saddled. He holds out his hand for me to step into and swing myself up.

  ‘We will be here on your return, Highness,’ says the eunuch, and she looks so wistful, reaching up to touch Sauvee’s nose almost as though she can’t help it.

  ‘What’s your name?’ I ask, and she looks up, not answering me. I ask again and her face shows surprise.

  ‘I, Your Highness? I didn’t realize you were talking to me.’ Taken unawares, she has forgotten to use ‘we’ like she normally would.

  ‘I already know Ashvat’s name,’ I point out, and he snorts.

  ‘My name is Lalita,’ she says.

  ‘Lalita, do you know how to ride?’

  ‘Why, Your Highness, I...,’ her eyes shoot towards Ashvat for help, but his face is calm and gives nothing away.

  ‘Do hurry up, Lalita, my horse is eager to be away,’ I say, and Sauvee tosses her head and dances on her feet in confirmation.

  ‘Yes, I can ride, in a fashion,’ says Lalita.

  ‘Good. Saddle up a horse, which horse would you say, Ashvat?’

  ‘I think Tilika, Your Highness. She won’t do much harm.’

  ‘Very well, saddle up Tilika, tell the stable boy I sent you, and come and join us.’

  Lalita’s eyes and mouth are round as stones as she gapes at me.

  I nod at Ashvat, and tug on Sauvee’s reins, breaking her into a sharp trot out of the palace grounds. I don’t look back at Lalita. I don’t need to, I recognize that look on her face. She will be with us as soon as she can manage.

  The day is bright and bold and I will soon be married to my love. I click my tongue and Sauvee breaks into a gallop. I feel joyous.

  Chapter Three

  Sure enough, as soon as we are out in the open fields, Ashvat turns around and then looks at me and says, ‘The eunuch is catching up with us, Your Highness.’

  ‘She has a name,’ I say, glancing at him. ‘As do you.’

  Before Ashvat was given charge of my riding lessons, he was just known as ‘Ostler’. Worse was ‘hey boy!’ but my sisters and mother say ‘Ostler’ as though it is his name. I notice my father knows the name of most people working under him, and I strive to make that my habit as well. You cannot be a good queen if you’re not approachable by your people. Also, I am mindful that everyone, from the lowest cleaning slaves upwards, respects my father because he takes a moment to ask after them by name. My mother is treated with deference, as is her right, but if any crisis was to come about, the slaves would not go to her for advice. Instead, they petition for an audience with her personal maid and prime companion, who translates these wishes for my mother, while also, I assume, pocketing some fee for her services. My mother also would not know what to do if something were to happen while my father was away, she doesn’t seem aware at all that a world exists outside her chambers.

  After the birth of Ambalika, my mother was confined to her bed for a very long time afterwards. The healers and the midwives said her health would never be the same again, and urged her not to have any more children, if she valued her life. This is when my father would take me out with him while he toured the kingdom, short rides on the back of his horse, if I kept quiet and didn’t complain, I would earn a sweet, or a pretty doll, and I rarely found reason to whine. I liked being outdoors with him, the wind lifting my hair and kissing the back of my neck, I liked how our subjects bowed before us, and called me ‘a little doll, our little princess.’ Most of all, I liked having my father to myself; Ambika, already demanding though she could barely walk, always wanted the attention of the entire room. That was when I learned the names of all the men in my father’s retinue, and learned how important it was to use them.

  Lalita urges her horse into a gallop and catches up with us.

  ‘You ride well,’ I say to her, smiling, because I can see she is nervous. ‘A good seat is half the battle won, isn’t it Ashvat?’

  He knows I am trying to encourage conversation between them, so he obliges, as I thought he would.

  ‘Indeed you do. Have you been taught?’

  ‘When I was younger, before I was this...’ Lalita pauses, pushing her hair away from her face.

  When she does not continue, I look at the two of them and see Ashvat shaking his head ever so slightly at her.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask. ‘Do not keep secrets from me, Ashvat!’

  ‘I beg your pardon, Your Highness, but I was merely wondering if you would like to take a different path today, Sauvee is used to the old one and she needs to practise jumping. The new path has a fallen log, which I think would be easy for her to do.’

  I tell him to lead the way, and soon we are out of the field and cantering up a hill, the horses’ hooves beating a steady pattern into the ground, Sauvee isn’t even out of breath, my beauty, and she leans her neck forward as if to urge me on. I haven’t forgotten Lalita’s story, but for a moment, it is out of my mind as we go down the hill at a trot and then Ashvat tells me to let Sauvee run so we can jump over the stream, and she and I are one beast, I lean low over her neck, forgetting all my princess manners for one glorious moment, and beneath me, between my thighs, I feel the magnificent mass of her, the muscles tensing underneath me, the smell of her mixing with the smell of the evening air, the sound of her hooves in my ears the only thing I can hear. And we are leaping over it, it’s almost as though I am riding Surya’s seven-headed horse, given to him after the ocean was churned, but even the gods themselves would not love their animal as much as I love mine. Behind me, I hear Ashvat’s horse make the leap as well, but Tilika is too slow and so Lalita has to make him walk around the log. I make one wild sound of abandon, a hoot, a battle cry, and Sauvee, encouraged, continues to run, till it is just the two of us on the path, her hooves kicking up dust, the top of my cloth held in my teeth.

  If I were a man, I would be riding bare-chested like Ashvat does, and my pretty mare would be a strong charger instead, ready for battle at any time. If I were a man, my anklets would not jingle as I rose up on my feet to stand over Sauvee’s neck, and distract us both. I’d learn how to really ride, ride with armour, and with no hands, stringing my bow all the while, to release my arrows at the target. How odd it is, that I, a woman, am so firmly placed in my sex, while Lalita, who was born a male, can slip so easily into womanhood, as though she has only known this her entire life.

  We gallop for a while, and then stop by a stream to let the horses drink. The stream comes from the holy river, the goddess Ganga’s earthly form, which bends gracefully through Kashi. Depending on how you face the river, you can see the sun rising or setting, retreating into a great golden ball like a marigold flower offering. We are a blessed city because of Mother Ganga, we have water even in the worst draughts. We’ve had famine and plagues and all those things that seem like the earth having revenge on man, but not because of our water. She goes on and on, like a lifeline across an open palm.

  On either side of th
e river are large ghats, placed at intervals, and the function of those depend on the caste of people who live there. The Brahmans live closest to our palace, and there are temples dedicated to all the gods in the sweet-smelling streets around their ghats. Further on, there are the traders, who use the open waterways to get their goods, and there are shops clustered there which sell everything, from the type of incense the palace priests prefer, to fruits that have been dried with sugar and give you a taste of whatever season you prefer – like magic – when you put them in your mouth. Or, my favourite, even though I am a little old for it now, the toy maker, whose wares were good enough for even royal princesses, doll’s houses made of clay and wood, earthen dolls that are so skilfully painted, you’d think they’d speak to you, little horses that move when you pull them across the floor. Ambika always broke her dolls within the first week of acquiring them, Ambalika was only ever charmed by jewels or silk, even when she was a little baby, so I was the only one to collect a whole family of toys, which are now on a shelf near my bed, and I’m not ashamed to say that some nights I sleep with my smallest doll, one made out of cloth scraps left over from the weavers, which a weaver sent for us along with our new saris.

  Far further out from the traders, the weavers, the priests, and set away from where the farmers grow their crops, are the Doms, the cremators, the ones who deal with and dispose of our dead. On a clear day, you can sometimes see the smoke from their fires drifting up into the wind. Ambika, who has a fanciful mind, used to watch them and point out to us, ‘See, that used to be a person. Look, maybe those are his eyes. Maybe he’s watching us right now!’ This would invariably make Ambalika cry and I would have to speak sharply to Ambika, who would draw her knees to her chin and look sullen. ‘It’s not my fault she mewls like a blind kitten!’ she’d mutter under her breath.

  But it wasn’t just Ambalika who would be afraid of the Doms. On particularly moonless nights, our ayah would be persuaded to tell us scary stories, which she did after a little demurring, and then with a lot of relish. The stories were always the same: a good child from a high caste family strayed too far away from his or her family and wound up at the burning ghats alone and in the dark. Usually, this is as far as Ambalika would get, and she’d lie face down in the ayah’s lap, her fingers pressed into her ears, while Ambika and I leaned forward. Then what happened, ayah?

  Then, the story would turn depending on whether ayah was in a preaching mood (‘Then the spirits came out and told her to always be a good girl and listen to her parents and finish all the food on her plate before her time came to be burned too.’), or whether she was enjoying the story (‘The evil Dom’s eyes were red as he spotted her shaking with fear at the bottom of the boat. He reached out his arms and grabbed her!’). She’d grasp one of our hands, making all of us squeal in fear and delight.

  I’ve never actually met a Dom, but I can picture them in my head: fearsome stocky men with bright red eyes and bristly hair. They must be fearsome, or else, why would they enjoy burning bodies? I imagine the sound of a goat’s bones cracking when they are in the fire and surely, a human’s must be far louder. Do these men dance around the flames, their wild faces filled with glee?

  ‘You are very far away, Princess,’ says Lalita, coming up next to me.

  ‘Oh, was I? I did not mean to be.’

  She is sitting much more comfortably on her horse, I notice, her back is straight, her feet point outwards.

  ‘Maybe Your Highness was dreaming of her wedding?’ she suggests, tossing me a sideways smile.

  ‘It was nothing that pleasant, I assure you.’ I’m half-thinking about telling her my theories about the Doms, but why spoil this lovely day?

  ‘Ayyyy, hup!’ I call, no better than a common horse herder, but I can’t resist shouting into this peaceful evening, as the sun begins to set, sending shoots of flame through the sky. ‘Hup-hup-hup!’

  Lalita, next to me, laughing, calls out to her horse as well, ‘Come along, you great beast, let’s see you move!’ And Ashvat, behind us both, gives a wordless shout and his horse begins to gallop back towards the palace, and as if on cue, Sauvee sets off as well, her hooves pounding the dust as she moves, and all three of us are shouting now, at the top of our lungs, ‘Ayyyyy, hup-hup!’

  My throat is sore by the time we return to the palace, but it’s worth it, Lalita is off, back into the palace as soon as she dismounts, shooting me a backwards glance of gratitude, and I know she wants to leave before the syce boys notice an eunuch riding with the princess. They may not say anything while she is with me, but she will no doubt hear about it later.

  As I dismount, I hear Salva calling my name, and he is getting off his horse as well – he has a charger, naturally, named Mrigala, because he is as sure-footed and deft as his namesake, a deer. Salva received Mrigala as a present on his eleventh name day, from my father, his guardian, but Salva has always acted like he is slightly afraid of the beast. He would deny it if I were ever so tactless as to accuse him of it, but I can tell by the way he approaches Mrigala, sideways, like he’s scared Mrigala will toss his head and eat him.

  Personally, I would give all my jewels to be able to ride Mrigala. Sauvee is a beautiful mare and I love her dearly, but with Mrigala, we could go across the countryside, as far as a yojana, before he would even need to slow down to a walk. I long to go on those journeys, as my father does sometimes, to see how far his influence lies, to see how other kings are managing their armies. Salva has been with him once, and though he is no good at telling stories, even the most vivid details turn to one-word answers from him, I still understood that the world he saw was so different from the one we live in. Women do not see any other homes, but two: the ones we were born into and the ones we marry.

  Sometimes I wish I were a bird. I would just stretch my wings and go as far as I could. And Salva could be another bird, and together we’d have a nest and raise little ones, but every time the wind changed, we’d catch it and go far away.

  ‘Good ride?’ he asks, as I step towards him. ‘You seem all tumbled about, my love, were you riding or racing?’ His servants step back and so do my attendants, to give us some privacy. It’s in short supply, the moments we get to be alone, without prying eyes or chaperones, so I am glad our people understand this.

  Salva knows me well enough by now to know that I grab any chance I can to set myself free. Walking about all day with mincing steps makes my bones hurt, and if it weren’t for my daily rides, I fear I would go mad. In the rainy season, when I am confined indoors all day, my temper is short and Salva has often had to face the sharp side of my tongue.

  ‘What is riding without racing?’ I counter, and take his arm so we can walk back to the palace together. He flinches when I touch his arm, and when I look at it, I see the narrow long bruises from his bowstring. ‘Have you been practising hard?’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ he switches arms, so I’m on his other side, and smiles down at me. ‘All pain is worth it when there is a reward at the end.’

  ‘Still, let me get you a salve for it.’

  He leans forward and murmurs into my hair, ‘As long as you will rub it over these bruises.’ I smile at the intimacy in his voice, and just then we see my father’s procession approach as he goes round the palace, probably back from a ride himself. Immediately, I wipe the smile off my face and move further away from Salva, because my father does not think it is correct for a princess to be too familiar with a prince, even if they are going to be married in just a few days. My father is the kind of man who believes that unless a deed is done and final, there is no depending upon it. It is worthy, I suppose, but I am so sure of my future that I don’t see why I should hang back just for propriety. I hope we can make it inside the palace without being spotted.

  But too late.

  ‘Salva.’ My father’s stentorian voice, booming and low, and nevertheless loud enough to be heard by everyone within earshot. He never has to raise his voice, people just fall silent around him, even th
e chattering women of the harem.

  Salva steps forward, bows his head.

  ‘And Daughter. Where have you been this evening to cause your hair to look like that?’

  I reach one slow arm up to my plait and stroke down the wisps of hair that have come loose from my ride. The trick to resort with my father is not to appear intimidated by him. He is sometimes carelessly cruel, not caring whether his words cut to the quick, and my younger sisters are often in tears after a meeting with him. But I notice when I hold my head up high and appear to be unaffected by his words – not disrespectful, but just not affected – then he is almost amused, as if against his will, as if he has some respect for me after all.

  ‘I saw you at your archery,’ says my father to Salva. ‘You still seem to have some trouble with your bow arm. I require you to be perfect in this, Salva, or it will be very hard to justify why you win my daughter over some better bowman.’

  Salva trembles – from rage or fear? – but says nothing.

  ‘Well?’ says my father, ‘Do you have anything to say or shall I consider another match for the princess?’

  Salva says something softly and my father cocks his head as if to hear better.

  ‘Speak up, boy!’ he barks out.

  ‘I will improve, Your Majesty,’ says Salva, his head up now, chin thrust forward.

  ‘And how will you improve?’

  ‘I will return now to my task and seek more steadiness at my bow.’

  ‘Take one of my archers with you to help,’ says my father, looking around at his soldiers. ‘Who can you take? Ah, Yuvan. You go with the prince and see if you can steady his arm. That archery teacher is good-for-nothing, send him to me so I may speak to him about it.’ There is a glint in his eye, and I find myself feeling sorry for the archery tutor my father hired for Salva so long ago. He taught Salva everything he knows, and now the tutor will probably be dismissed with sharp words in his ear and less the pay he was promised for not grooming Salva to the kind of perfection that my father expects.