Then she turned to her daughter, who was hardly more attractive than her mother, and said, “So you hear what I’m telling you? Men are worth only as much as the size of their wallet. The ones with money—even if they are old and ugly like this one with the kid—you must love. Those who are penniless—even if they look like Kama himself—throw them out. Do you understand?” The girl nodded vigorously, as though trying to make up for an earlier mistake.
The old wench then turned back to her guests and rubbed her hands. “What can I do for you gentlemen today?” She eyed the boy with relish, but the merchant stepped in front of his son.
He pulled ten gold pieces out of his pocket and handed them over to Yamajivha. “My dear madam, you have already taught my boy everything he needs to know about love. I hope this is enough reward for the lesson.” He took the boy’s hand and led him out.
The old prostitute ran to the alley and called after them, “Come back anytime, master, there’s plenty more wisdom where that came from.” Then she walked back in and slammed the door.
By the time Udhay turned sixteen, he was begging his father to let him go out and earn his own fortune. Over his wife’s protests the merchant agreed, but he gave his son a large sum of money to get him started. As a concession to his wife, the merchant agreed to select a companion for the boy—Udhay’s paternal cousin Arthadatta, who was two years older. The young men set out at the head of a caravan, along the river in the direction of the sea. In a few days they reached Kanchanapuram, a ramshackle town of river traders where even morality was up for sale. They camped some distance outside of town, intending to continue on the very next day.
However, that evening the two young men dressed in fine silken clothes and went to see a dance at a local temple. Udhay made eye contact with one of the dancers—the most glamorous woman he had seen in his young life. The dancer, Sundari, smiled at him sweetly, and Udhay immediately told his companion to return to the caravan and unpack for a long stay.
“I think I’m in love, dear cousin,” he said grandly, as a wealthy teenager might.
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Arthadatta pleaded. “Why don’t we leave right away?” But he left the mesmerized boy at the temple and returned to camp.
Udhay had never been in love, but he always imagined that love would have to be won. Some of his favorite stories were about separated lovers or infatuated heroes having to pass a test or conquer a shy princess. This was thrillingly different. After the performance Sundari simply came over and touched the young man’s feet in respect. He introduced himself to the girl, who, blushing, invited him to meet her mother.
The two women lived in a well-appointed house—the foot-washing bowl Sundari’s mother brought out was covered with gems. The older woman, Makarakati, was dignified with quick and sharp eyes—like those of a hawk—that seemed to take everything in. The young man found her intimidating, but her devotion to Sundari was obvious, especially when she hugged her daughter and said, “He’s such a handsome young man, and obviously from a respectable family. Be nice to him, my dear!” That made Sundari blush again, and Udhay felt his own cheeks flush. They lounged on silk pillows all evening long, feeding each other fruit and sweets from crystal bowls, which were served by two discreet maidservants. Every now and then when Udhay felt his hostess accidentally brush against his arm or thigh, he recoiled in pleasure. He waited for some signal that he should leave, but it never came.
Late the following morning, Arthadatta saw his young cousin entering camp, floating like a sleepwalker. “Where were you, young cousin? We were all so worried about you!”
Udhay took that as reproach and snapped out of his reverie. “Don’t father me, Arthadatta. I spent the night with my beloved.” His face softened with the sound of that word. “Now, where is the chest? I need to withdraw some money.”
“What for?” Asked the cousin.
“I need to make a small loan to my beautiful Sundari; it’s just a temporary matter. Where is it?”
“Well, how much do you need?”
“It’s not your money and not your concern. But if you must know—one million.”
Arthadatta was appalled. A million bought you a stable full of the best horses, with food for a lifetime and an army of stable boys. It was nearly one-quarter of the boy’s total wealth. “Listen, boy, don’t you recognize a scam? You’re walking straight into it with your eyes open and your pocket bleeding dinars!”
These words deeply offended Udhay. “It was my idea to give her the money…She refused to accept it.”
“So what happened?”
“Her mother persuaded her…sensibly, I thought. She said that because we were lovers, we should be sharing everything, and that Sundari might as well accept my offer.”
“You’re a damn fool, cousin. And don’t forget, it’s not your money either—your father gave it to you.”
But Arthadatta was wasting his breath. The young man took the money and disappeared again. The trading expedition dissolved into a long, idle wait by the river, while the infatuated young merchant spent most of his time at Sundari’s house. Two months went by, and half of Udhay’s money found its way to his lover.
One day Arthadatta was angry enough to confront his cousin with harsh words. “Listen, cousin, you’re completely out of your mind. That girl, Sundari, she’s just a dancer—a performer. Do you have any idea what that means?” He got no response and continued. “She’s a prostitute, man, a whore. She’s had other men and now she’s out to rob you. Wake up!”
But even this brutal honesty had no effect on Udhay. “I know she’s a dancer, but she’s not like the other ones. She’s pure and beautiful, like my mother. You and everyone in father’s family are just jealous of beautiful women, but I’m not. Besides, she loves me with all her heart—I can feel it.”
“What you feel is not love, cousin. Trust me.”
Then Arthadatta had an idea. “Look, I’ll prove it to you. Let me come with you to Sundari’s house and just suggest that we should leave. She’ll drop you on the spot.”
The young man agreed, and in the presence of Sundari and her mother Arthadatta executed his plan. “Ladies, I’m sad to tell you this, but Udhay and I have spent our fortune and must now resume our business journey.” Looking at Sundari, he said, “Your beloved will only grow richer, and he will certainly return to you when the time is right.” He then paused to observe the reaction.
Sundari looked devastated. She began to shake and sob silently, allowing herself to be enfolded within her mother’s arms. Then she turned to Udhay and said in a pitiful manner, “You’re abandoning me for the sake of wealth. I was no more than a station on your journey. Oh, my fate…I gave you my heart…” she sobbed uncontrollably.
But her mother calmed her. “Don’t cry, my dear. I’m sure he will return. You must let him go now.”
Arthadatta led his cousin out by the arm. “You were wrong—she doesn’t want me to go!” cried the youngster.
But his cousin said, “Let’s just keep this going a bit longer. We’ll lead the animals away from town and see what she does.”
The next morning Udhay’s group prepared early and took the western road out of town, walking slowly toward the coast. Just then Sundari came running from the city, calling out for her beloved in despair, her hair blowing wildly. As the men turned to look at her, she suddenly threw herself into a well. Udhay reacted quickly, but before he could reach her, three shepherds who happened to be near the well scampered down and gingerly carried out the injured woman, whose clothes were in tatters.
The merchant was beside himself with guilt. Gathering Sundari into his arms, he begged forgiveness, tearfully promising that he would never leave her again. It was a joyful moment for the two lovers, whose great passion burst into flames, fueled by tears and fanned by remorse. Standing off to the side, Arthadatta watched glumly.
Udhay, now emboldened by conviction, moved into his lover’s home; he was hardly ever seen at the camp. Once a
week he came to collect clean clothes and more money, then disappeared into his sweetheart’s bejeweled bed with its silk canopy. He spent another two months of renewed sensual joy, until one day he returned to his cousin with ripped clothes, bruises all over his body, and a bewildered look on his face.
“What happened, cousin?” asked Arthadatta.
Udhay was too embarrassed or confused to speak. He stared down at his shoeless feet and remained silent.
“She threw you out didn’t she? She threw you out! What happened—did you tell her you ran out of money?”
“Well, I did run out of money, but so what? What does that have to do with anything? I thought she loved me…She threw herself into a well for me!”
“Cousin, I have let you down, and I failed your father too. Not only have I not protected your money, I’ve been unable to teach you even a modicum of common sense. Come on, we’re going back.” Within hours, the caravan was assembled and turned back upstream.
Back at home Udhay’s father was furious. “I’m very disappointed, son. Didn’t I warn you about women? Did you forget what the old whore Yamajivha said? Women are mercenaries, boy, all of them!” Udhay turned to look at his mother, but she was too meek to say anything. He was in no position to argue either, having lost almost five million of his father’s dinars. “Come on, son, we’re going back for more instruction,” his father barked. By the time the merchant’s wife finally spoke up, protesting that the boy needed some rest, the two were already out the door.
Yamajivha was also furious, but only at herself, and she showed it by laughing and swatting her daughter’s head. “She threw herself into the well,” she roared. “That’s one of the oldest tricks in the book. I should have warned you about some of these tricks.” She turned and slapped her daughter again. “Okay, gentlemen, you can have your money back, or you can have my daughter. Which will it be?” That made her laugh, and the two men looked at each other blankly. Their silence made the old woman shriek “Ala!” Then again, “Ala!” Suddenly a monkey jumped in through the rear window and scampered onto the old woman’s shoulder. “Gentlemen, meet Ala. She’s my gold-making animal. You can have her for a few weeks—she will get your money back.”
“How will she do that?” asked the merchant.
“Just feed her twenty gold pieces every morning, and she will do the rest.”
The merchant looked at her suspiciously. He was entirely predisposed to suspect the old prostitute of a scam, but this was his town—he knew where to send his friends in the police department if he had to. His son, meanwhile, seemed lost—it was not clear at all that he wanted his money back. On the way home the merchant warned Udhay, “Listen, son, I don’t know what you’re thinking—that girl did not love you; she just wanted your money. You may not believe me, but you will obey. You will take this monkey back to Kanchanapuram and win the money back. It’s not negotiable!”
The young man put on his best clothes and left with a small group, including Arthadatta. The monkey was allowed to sit in the saddle with him. He arrived at Sundari’s house looking fresh and eager, and he was greeted earnestly if not warmly. “How nice to see you, my dear young man,” said Sundari’s mother, who was the one who ordered him kicked out as soon as he had admitted to running out of money.
Now Sundari came and put her arms around her princely former lover and intoned, “Have you come back to show me your love? I’m so sorry my mother was upset with you.”
Udhay stammered and appeared uncertain as he announced that he was sure of Sundari’s love and that he had returned to reclaim it.
“Well then, to celebrate you must buy me a lovely meal in the finest restaurant!” She clapped her hands excitedly.
Before the young man could answer, Ala jumped in through the window, climbed up onto Udhay’s shoulder, and spit out three large gold pieces.
The two women could not believe their eyes. Sundari, who was as quick as her mother, immediately spoke again, “And, of course, I shall need a new dress.” The monkey spit out two more gold pieces. “And some jewelry.” Four gold pieces came flying out.
Udhay was treated like royalty again, and the next morning he returned to his friends’ camp. There he fed the monkey twenty gold pieces and returned to Sundari. They spent the day together, but when the young man saw his beloved flirt endlessly with the monkey, he finally realized that he had only imagined his perfect love. Eventually, Sundari offered to buy the monkey for thousands of dinars, and Udhay refused. Then she offered half her wealth, but he still refused. It was the first time in his young life that Udhay had conducted a business transaction, and he was rather pleased with himself.
The following morning, Arthadatta, who was thrilled by the recent developments, suggested that they feed the monkey three days worth of gold, and the animal gorged itself on sixty pieces. When Sundari and her mother begged to buy the animal in exchange for their entire fortune, including the money they had hoodwinked out of Udhay, he finally consented and left the monkey in their possession, along with these instructions: “You must let Ala roam about freely. She will spit out the gold only when you make a request.” To demonstrate he asked for two gold pieces, and the monkey obliged.
The caravan departed, loaded with a huge amount of wealth, its young leader finally liberated of his false notions of love. Back in town the two women rejoiced over their gold-making creature and greedily demanded more and more bits of gold.
After two days, when Ala had spit out all there was, the women flew into a violent rage—they realized they’d been conned. They attacked poor Ala, but she scampered off and disappeared into the woods.
Weeks later she showed up at her old mistress’s house hungry but happy.
The old guide stopped walking and turned to look at me. He seemed very happy with the way he told this story, a major achievement considering that one could see the story’s end halfway through.
“So what have you learned from this cautionary little tale, my young friend? Would you rather trust a woman or a monkey?” He tapped the bilva cane on the stone in soft rhythm till I spoke.
“If the story is any guidance, I’d go with the animal. Is that what the story’s really about? I mean, you’ve been digging beneath the surface of all your stories.”
He nodded in agreement and said, “Why don’t you tell me? You’re probably getting the knack for this kind of thing.”
Well, why not? I thought the meaning of the story was obvious, even if you didn’t take the gold and the mercenary sex literally.
I could not be sure how many steps we’d climbed—the view below was magnificent. The path reached a right-handed dogleg, and a large crimson rose butterfly floated gently in the direction of the sitting spot I was aiming for. The librarian reached out his cane easily, and sure enough, the dark butterfly came to rest on it. I took that as an invitation to sit too.
“I think you could say that men’s wealth represents our better aspirations, maybe spiritual goals. Women have the effect of distracting a man, or draining his spiritual energy, through sensuality and comforts. In the previous story you said that a man must learn how to give up his place in the world. Well, I suppose women represent a huge obstacle to that. I mean, don’t renouncers have to give up sexuality? I know Buddhist and Christian monks obey vows of celibacy above everything else.”
As I spoke the guide watched the butterfly, though he seemed pleased with what I was saying. At the end I thought he was ready to applaud. Instead, he just wiped some sweat off his face and said, “I can’t speak for Buddhism or Christianity. As far as P. K. Shivaram is concerned, this is misogynistic nonsense.”
“Okay, okay,” I jumped in defensively. “I don’t mean that the women themselves are obstacles—that they’re intrinsically bad. I mean that a man’s attachment to women is what holds him back, the same as his attachment to other things, like cars or fame.”
“That’s a decent recovery, young man, but we could do better.”
“How then?”
> “Let’s take the story as a parable about the different layers of experience. For instance, the relation between fiction and reality, dreams and waking experience, imagination and memory. Do you follow this?”
“Absolutely not!”
“Did you notice the relationships between the boy and his mother, the ugly old whore, and the pretty Sundari? The boy was particularly attached to his loving and beautiful mother, which made him construct an imaginary perfection out of Sundari. The stark realism of the ugly woman—and her lesson—was completely invisible to him. The imaginary worlds we create around us are projections of what we already know, the mother, and what we already know comes from those things that satisfy our basic survival needs. Isn’t that what mothering is all about? So the mother is the satisfying emotional reality, the whore is physical reality in its brute and unadorned form, and Sundari is the fantasy or fiction we create by projecting one type of reality onto the other, which we repress. In other words, the women in the story don’t stand for things in the world; they stand for different types of worlds. Are you following this?”
He made sense, I had to admit, at least as far as the theoretical consistency of what he was saying. It didn’t seem to match the story closely at all, but I was starting to get used to the fact that he picked and chose his way through anything that suited him in these stories. “What does the monkey stand for?” I asked.
“Good question, my friend. The monkey is that principle one uses to reverse the illusion he has created out of his experiences. It has to be an animal—the opposite of the humans who engage in world building. It gives back only what you put into it, and although it can deceive, it never does so with prejudice—it only deceives those who are predisposed to deception because they fail to see that it is a mere animal. If you’re good to it, it will be good. If you’re nasty, it can bite or in some cases sting you with poison.
“In short, the monkey stands for storytelling. What we are doing right now on this mountain is what the monkey represents in the story in relation to Udhay. Restoring a sense of balance—insight—to a world in which fiction and reality have become hopelessly mixed, where we fail to realize that what we see is conditioned by what we know.”
Climbing Chamundi Hill Page 10