The bards had spread news of the cow-giving ceremony of Yuvanashva as rapidly as the news of the war to be fought between the Pandavas and the Kauravas. Soon the highways were full of Kshatriyas going to Kuru-kshetra with their weapons and Brahmanas going to Vallabhi with their wives. Inspired, the bards sang, ‘Over there Yama will give blood to Kali. Over here Kama will receive milk from Gauri. In between, in perfect harmony, will sit Prajapati, the source and destination of rasa.’
Brahmana couples came from across Ila-vrita in hordes, accompanied by mothers and fathers and village elders, on foot, and on barges, on bullock carts provided by Vaishya elders, and on chariots of Kshatriyas on their way to Kuru-kshetra. Some of the boys and girls were still children, the cow in many cases the only reason for their marriage.
The men wore dhotis and uttaryas made of white fabric lined with gold. All had the sacred thread running across their chest hanging over their left shoulder, mark of their lineage that granted them the right to read the Veda and connect with God. Holding their parasols to shade themselves and their wives from the sun, they looked earnest and distinguished. As they walked past the city gate and took the road leading to the city square between the temple and the palace, the Vaishya women of Vallabhi, resting in the verandas outside their houses, admired their brown bodies, firm thighs, broad shoulders, long tapering arms covered with talismans and thin, really thin, waists. All newly married for sure, for none had the paunch that comes after husbands are fed by loving wives.
The women wore saris dyed in different shades of red. This was the colour of new brides; after they became mothers they would wear saris dyed in different shades of green. One end of their sari was draped as a dhoti: tied around the hips, drawn between the legs and tucked in the back. The other end was used to cover the upper half of the body. Women who came from the east draped it across the breasts over the left shoulder while women who came from the west draped it across the back over the right shoulder. As the women moved one could get tantalizing glimpses of their breasts, sometimes painted with tattoos. Husbands tried hard not to let their gaze wander beyond their wives but it was difficult. So many young brides, dressed in fine fabrics, bejewelled like star goddesses, like an army of red Apsaras emerging in waves from the three great rivers of Ila-vrita.
Over the sari, many women wore uttaryas to cover their heads and faces. ‘There will be many strange men of different varnas in and around the temple,’ warned their mothers, ‘You must not see them and they must not see you.’ All the women wore sixteen types of jewellery that indicated that they were married. Red kumkum lined the parting of their hair informing lustful sky-gods they were no longer virgins.
The women clutched the bundle of clothes they had carried along with them. Most had spent the night in the quarters provided by the royal family just outside the city gates next to a vast water tank. They had woken up early, bathed and bedecked themselves in anticipation of the ceremony. Each day, it was said the three queens gifted over two hundred cows to two hundred newly wed childless Brahmana couples. And the ceremony had gone on for over twenty-one days. ‘Four thousand two hundred cows at least,’ said a young Acharya, well versed in mathematics. ‘Now we know why it is said that Lakshmi resides in Vallabhi. This is surely the richest kingdom in Arya-varta.’
On entering the city, the Brahmana couples first made their way to the temple of Ileshwara to pay obeisance to the lord of Vallabhi. Special ushers had been appointed to welcome the Brahmana couples. As per the rules, couples could enter the temple any day and any night except on full moon days when only men were allowed and on new moon nights when only women were allowed. After the newly wed couples had gazed into the kind eyes of the god who is also a goddess, the priests garlanded the grooms with white dhatura flowers and the brides with red jabakusuma flowers taken down from the sacred image itself.
The couples were then directed to a vast thatched pavilion erected on the western side of the shrine. The crowds made many women nervous. Their husbands put a reassuring arm around their shoulders.
On one side of the thatched pavilion were the cows, all bathed, with tassels tied to their short horns and chains of tiny copper bells around their neck.
As they waited for the queens to arrive, some Brahmana boys began singing hymns from the Veda. ‘Let us always move from non-existence towards existence, from darkness towards light, from death towards immortality.’ Others sang, ‘Before there was creation, there had to be desire. For unless you want something, nothing can come to be.’
The herald finally announced, ‘The queens have arrived. They will wash your feet, then serve you food, then gift you a cow and seek your blessings. We request all Aryas with their Bharyas to please be patient and not to gather around the queens. No one must touch them. They are participants of a yagna and cannot be contaminated.’
An old Brahmana went around talking to the husbands. Where did they come from? Which Brahmana clan did they belong to? Were they Pujaris or Ritwiks or Acharyas?
The women chatted amongst themselves. It was rare for them to meet women outside their neighbourhood and rarer still to meet women from other lands. There was excitement all around and anxiety. Few had ever left their villages before in their life. And this would perhaps be the only time they did.
‘I am from Madra,’ said a particularly talkative Brahmana. ‘I came here on the king’s chariot. He is the uncle of Nakula and Sahadeva, youngest sons of Pandu, born of his second wife, Madri. Naturally we thought he would fight for the Pandavas, but he seems to have switched sides. Now he fights for the Kauravas who with their eleven armies, as against seven of the Pandava, are assured of victory. These are truly bad times when kings fight to win rather than to set things right. Mercifully, there are kingdoms like Vallabhi where rules are still strictly followed and even consecrated kings are not allowed to rule till they father sons. So where are you from?’
The Brahmana standing to his right, having tried hard to ignore him, finally replied, ‘I am from Pratishthana.’
‘From across the mountains? How did you reach here so fast?’
Before he could answer, the queens entered the pavilion. All conversations stopped and everyone crowded around them. They were laden in gold and were surrounded by maids who held in their hands parasols and yak-tail fly whisks, representing the king in his absence.
‘How do they walk?’ wondered the talkative Brahmana from Madra. ‘Even their servants have more ornaments than all the brides here.’
‘That is why they are called queens,’ replied the bride of the Brahmana from Pratishthana. Her head and face were covered with a long yellow uttarya.
‘Quiet,’ hissed the Brahmana from Pratishthana. ‘Women should not talk to men other than husbands.’
‘Laying down the rules, already,’ the wife retorted. The men around smiled. The Brahmana from Pratishthana lowered his head in embarrasment.
‘Stop talking, Bharya,’ pleaded the Brahmana from Pratishthana, ‘People are looking. And you are making me nervous. Did you not see the eyes of the goddess in the shrine? They were red and angry. She knows.’
bride without a toe-ring
The ceremony began with the blowing of conch shells and ululation by the royal maids. This was done to ward away the demons. The couples stood in a straight line. ‘One hundred and eighty seven couples,’ informed the old priest who maintained the accounts for the queens.
Directed by a Pujari, Keshini washed the feet of the assembled men and women. Her maids passed her gold pots containing turmeric water that she poured over their feet. She then wiped them clean with a white cotton cloth and smeared sandal paste around their anklets. ‘In the body of each Brahmana man reside all the gods of the sky; in the body of their wives reside all the goddesses of earth,’ said the Pujari who then identified the Brahmana couples one by one. ‘This couple is from Pratishthana,’ he said, pointing to the man with the outspoken wife in a yellow uttarya. Keshini noticed his young bride had hairy legs and no toe-ring
s. She looked up quizzically. Something was amiss. She sensed it. Brushing aside unholy thoughts she moved on to the next couple.
Plantain leaves were spread. Everyone would eat rice cooked in milk and jaggery served by the second queen. When Pulomi started serving the food, the priests chanted, ‘From food, from food, all creatures came to be. By food they live, in food they move, into food they pass. Food, the chief of things, of all things that come to be. What eats is eaten and what is eaten eats in turn.’ As she was serving, she noticed that the bride without a toe-ring, pointed out to her by Keshini, had started eating even before the groom. Something just did not feel right.
After the rice was eaten, tambulas were distributed. Satiated, all the Brahmanas burped in satisfaction and smiled. It was time to receive the cows and grant blessings. Simantini, as chief queen, performed the final ritual. She handed over the cows to the young couples one by one. She spoke to them for a bit, asked their names, and then touched her head to their feet. Behind her the other two queens also bowed their heads reverentially. The young couples, in awe of the royal splendour and humility, raised their hand in blessing, ‘May the brides of the Turuvasu clan be the mothers of a hundred sons.’
Simantini came to the bride draped in the yellow uttarya who she had been informed had hairy legs, no toe-rings and who ate even before her husband. After handing over the cow, Simantini turned to her husband and asked, ‘What is your name? Where do you come from?’
‘I am Sumedha, a Pujari from Pratishthana,’ he said. Simantini noticed he was tall with fine wavy hair falling on his shoulders. His shoulders were broad and he was thin, with sunken cheeks and full lips.
‘And hers?’
‘Somvati,’ he said.
Simantini raised the yellow uttarya. The bride quivered. ‘There is no need to be shy. I am like your mother. Won’t you show me your face?’ said Simantini affectionately. The bride did not raise her head. Simantini touched her chin and made her look up. Her eyes were firmly shut. ‘Don’t be scared. I will not hurt you,’ reassured Simantini who felt sorry for the girl. She wore no toe-rings. She must be really poor. No nose-ring either. Most inappropriate. ‘A new bride without a nose-ring,’ Simantini admonished the husband with a look. ‘Here, take mine,’ she said with a motherly smile. Everyone was touched by this gesture of royal generosity as Simantini removed her own nose-ring and offered it to the husband. He did not know how to react. ‘Go on, take it,’ said the queen encouragingly. He took it nervously, uncomfortable because of the attention they were drawing. ‘Put it on,’ the queen said softly. This was an order. He could not refuse.
‘Now?’ he asked, his heart beating rapidly.
‘If not now, then when?’ asked the queen’s handmaiden. Everyone laughed. Sumedha gulped. His hand shivered. ‘He is shy,’ said the handmaiden. ‘Here, let me help you.’ She took the nose-ring from him and proceeded to put it on his bride. Somvati pulled back. ‘It won’t hurt. Have you not put a nose-ring before?’ The bride’s hesitation drew even more attention. The women crowded around the couple. ‘No wonder he was hesitating. He cannot find her hole,’ said the handmaiden. The men gasped at what was being suggested. The women giggled. Even the queens.
A particularly buxom Brahmana bride offered to help the handmaiden. Soon nearly half a dozen women were all over Sumedha’s bride. All bedecked in bridal finery. Red and gold. The fragrance of mallika and champaka and jabakusuma. Sandal paste. Soft touch. Intoxicating eyes.
The woman closest to Somvati felt something stirring against her hip. Something hard. She screamed.
disruption of the ceremony
That night, Yuvanashva’s wives rolled on the ground and wept. ‘They have ruined everything. Now we will never be mothers.’
‘What happened?’ asked Yuvanashva.
With her head to the floor, the handmaiden explained, ‘The queens gave cows to two men masquerading as a Brahmana couple. One of them, dressed as woman, pretended to be the bride. They were treated as husband and wife, their feet were washed, they were fed with other Brahmanas and even given a cow.’
‘How can a man be a bride?’ moaned Simantini, ‘By acknowledging them as a couple we have surely angered the gods. They will curse us, shower us with demerit. The yagna is doomed.’
‘Kill them, Arya. Kill those imposters,’ said Pulomi.
Keshini said nothing. The boy who masqueraded as the wife looked familiar. She had seen them somewhere. Tarini-pur? But they said they were from Pratishthana. Were they lying? Wasn’t the one pretending to be the wife the Brahmana orphan who everyone called ‘donkey’ in the village pond?
Yuvanashva looked at his agitated wives. He felt their despair. With a grim look, he sent for the Danda-Nayak, captain of his guards.
a terrified boy
The sun was setting in Kuru-kshetra, the eighteenth time since the war began. In all probability it was the last.
In the dungeons of Vallabhi, a terrified young man named Somvat, dressed in a red sari and yellow uttarya, hoped the last few hours had been a nightmare.
After the woman had screamed in the temple, everyone had stepped back. His body’s reaction was evident for all to see. The queens had turned away in disgust. ‘Get them away,’ Simantini had ordered. The other queens followed her out of the enclosure. Terrified brides ran towards their husbands.
The temple attendants grabbed hold of his sari and pulled it away. He stood there naked, like a freak, with women’s ornaments on his hands, legs and neck, flowers in his hair, a yellow uttarya in his hand, and throbbing manhood jutting out of from the side of his tight loincloth that had failed in its purpose.
His friend, Sumedha, the ‘husband’, tried to cover his friend’s shame with his upper garment. He was held back and punched so hard in the stomach that he could not breathe. Somvat crouched on the floor and covered his face. Everybody stood back and stared.
Then came the pronouncements. Slowly at first, like the buzz of bees. Then it poured like torrential rains. ‘Flog the imposters.’ ‘Kill the defilers.’ ‘Burn them.’ ‘Behead them.’ ‘Blacken their face and take them across the city naked on a donkey.’ ‘Castrate them. Sell them to the Chandalas.’ Somvat was scared, embarrassed; he wanted the earth to split open and the Matrikas to swallow him whole.
The chief priest intervened. ‘It is not for us to decide this man’s fate.’ With a concerned look, he gave back the sari to Somvat. ‘Cover yourself,’ he said looking away. He then led the two boys out of the precinct. They had to be handed over to the Danda-Nayak who would then take them to the king. The Raja would decide their fate. Only the king had the right to do so.
Word of the two boys who duped the three queens dressed as husband and wife spread like wildfire. Men and women ran towards the temple street. It was soon bursting with curious onlookers. They made it difficult for the guards to take the boys through. When the people caught sight of the boy wearing women’s clothes, they started hurling abuses and pelting stones.
One young man slipped in between the guards and gave Somvat’s testicles a vicious squeeze. Somvat yelped in agony. ‘That does not sound like a woman, does it?’ said the man.
The crowd erupted in a chant, ‘Kill the man who marries the man. Kill the man who pretends to be a wife. Kill the defiling demons.’
Only when he was cast into the dungeon, did Somvat realize the enormity of his actions. Fear crept into his heart. He wished this had never happened, that he and Sumedha were back home. Tears rolled down his eyes. ‘If only I was really a woman,’ he thought. ‘Then Sumedha and I would become a real Brahmana couple. No one would accuse us of duping the queens or disrupting the king’s yagna. We could go home alive.’
No sooner did he think this thought than a strange being appeared before him. Pot-bellied, with short stumpy legs, buttocks as large as pumpkins, breasts as small as onions. ‘That sounds like a really good idea,’ it said.
Somvat jumped up. ‘Who are you? How did you get in here?’ he asked.
‘I am Sthunakarna. A Yaksha. Maker of riddles. Guardian of treasures. Follower of Kubera. Resident of Alaka-puri. I can go wherever I please—through walls, into dreams. Rules of Manavas do not apply to me. It was I who made Shikhandi a man and a husband. I can make you a woman and a wife.’
sthunakarna, the yaksha
Somvat had seen a creature such as Sthunakarna only on the walls of Ileshwara’s temple. Images of such deformed beasts lined the northern wall just below images of the Apsaras. ‘Because the world belongs not just to beautiful creatures,’ said the Pujari. ‘Shiva loves them. He is the indifferent one, who looks beyond bodies, beautiful and ugly, male and female, young and old, at the suffering soul.’
‘Do you see this?’ said the Yaksha pointing to the hairy slit between his legs. Somvat turned his head away in disgust. The Yaksha caught him by the hair and shoved his head towards his groin. ‘Look at it. Don’t be shy. It is what you must have if you want to wear a sari. Not this,’ he said grabbing Somvat’s penis with his other hand. Somvat screamed but no sound left his lips. ‘No one can see me. No one can hear you,’ said the Yaksha grinning. His teeth were deformed but sharp. Somvat was terrified. Would this goblin eat him whole? Or just parts of him?
The Yaksha let go of his hair and caressed him gently. ‘Don’t be scared. I don’t want to harm you. I am here to help you. I once had what you had. Gave it to Shikhandi, you see,’ he roared. ‘It was a full moon night. I saw him wading into the river Kalindi intent on drowning himself. I dragged him out and asked, “Why are you trying to kill yourself?” “To save my city,” he cried. “My father-in-law has sent his warriors on elephants armed with fire-arrows to set Panchala aflame unless I prove I am a man.” “And how are you supposed to prove you are a man?” I asked. He replied, “By making love to the buxom courtesan sent to my father’s house by my father-in-law.” “Why can you not just make love to your wife instead? That’s how husbands usually prove they are men,” I said. “That’s where all the problem started,” he said. Then he started crying like a little girl.”
Pregnant King, The Page 10