Seasons of Splendour

by Madhur Jaffrey

  So they set out towards the heart of the forest.

  Once there, Satyavan climbed a tree and began to saw off its dried-up branches.

  It was a scorchingly hot day in May. The trees had shed the last withered yellowing leaves. Savitri looked for a cool spot to sit down and just could not find any. Her heart was beating like a two-sided drum. Any moment now the year would end.

  ‘Ahhh …’ came a cry from Satyavan.

  Savitri ran towards him. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I have a piercing headache.’

  ‘Come down from the tree. It’s the heat. I will run and find some shade.’ Savitri found a banyan tree and helped Satyavan towards it. Many of the banyan tree’s branches had gone deep into the earth and come up again to form a deliciously cool grove. The leaves rustled gently to fan the couple.

  ‘Put your head in my lap,’ Savitri said to Satyavan, ‘and rest.’

  Satyavan put his head down, gave a low moan, and died.

  Savitri looked up. There, in the distance coming towards her was Yamraj, the King of the Underworld. He was riding a male water buffalo, and Savitri knew that he was coming to claim Satyavan’s soul. She turned to the banyan tree and implored, ‘Banyan tree, banyan tree, look after my husband. Shield him and keep him cool. I will return one day to claim him.’

  Yamraj took Satyavan’s soul and started to ride away. Savitri followed on foot. She followed for miles and miles. Yamraj finally turned around and said, ‘Why are you following me, woman?’

  ‘You are taking my husband’s soul away. Why don’t you take me as well? I cannot live without him.’

  ‘Go back, go back to your home and do not bother me,’ Yamraj said.

  But Savitri kept following.

  Yamraj turned around again. ‘Stop following me, woman,’ he cried.

  Savitri paid no heed to him.

  ‘Well, woman,’ said Yamraj, ‘I can see that you are quite determined. I will grant you just one wish. As long as you do not ask for your husband’s soul.’

  ‘May my in-laws have their sight back?’ asked Savitri.

  ‘All right, all right,’ said Yamraj, ‘now go home.’

  After several more miles Yamraj glanced back. There was Savitri, still following.

  ‘You really are quite persistent,’ Yamraj said. ‘I’ll grant you one other wish. Just remember, do not ask for your husband’s soul.’

  ‘Could my father-in-law get back the kingdom he lost?’ Savitri asked.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Yamraj, ‘now go, go.’

  Several miles later, Yamraj looked back again.

  Savitri was still following.

  ‘I do not understand you. I’ve granted you two wishes and yet you keep following me. This is the last wish I am offering you. Remember, you can ask for anything but your husband’s soul.’

  ‘May I be the mother of many sons?’ Savitri asked.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Yamraj said. ‘Now go. Go back home.’

  Several miles later Yamraj looked back only to see Savitri still there. ‘Why are you still following me?’ Yamraj asked. ‘I having already granted you your wish of many sons.’

  ‘How will I have many sons?’ Savitri asked. ‘You are carrying away the soul of the only husband I have. I will never marry again. You have granted me a false wish. It can never come true.’

  ‘I have had enough,’ Yamraj said. ‘I am quite exhausted. Here, take back your husband’s soul.’

  Savitri rushed back to the banyan tree so her husband’s body and soul could be joined again.

  ‘O banyan tree,’ she said, ‘thank you for looking after my husband. In the years to come, may all married women come to you and offer thanks and prayers.’

  Satyavan opened his eyes and said, ‘My headache has gone.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Savitri, ‘thanks to the kind banyan tree that offered us its shade. Let us go home now where a surprise awaits you. I will not tell you what it is.’

  Satyavan put his arm around his wife’s shoulders and they began to walk slowly back home.

  Shravan Kumar and his Wife

  Shravan Kumar was an upright young man.

  His wife, however, had traits in her character that were, at best, questionable. She was not completely bad, but she often came close to being so.

  She treated Shravan Kumar’s parents very badly. They were old and blind and lived with the young couple. Shravan Kumar’s wife not only resented this, she showed her resentment by doing some rather nasty things.

  For example, she kept two cooking pots in the kitchen. In one pot she made delicious sweet puddings for herself and her husband. In the other pot, she made sour puddings for her parents-in-law. The poor parents-in-law went on eating whatever they were given, but one day they said to their son, ‘Son, we hate to complain. The fact is, we are quite tired of eating sour pudding every day. Could we possibly have something else to eat?’

  Shravan Kumar could hardly believe what he heard. Whatever was put on his plate was always so delicious. His wife was a good cook.

  That day at dinner, he exchanged his plate for his father’s – and got a nasty surprise.

  ‘Ugh!’ he cried. ‘What foul stuff is this?’

  It was then that he discovered that his wife kept two pots in the kitchen, one for them and one for the parents.

  ‘Wife,’ Shravan Kumar said next morning, ‘what you have been doing is not a good thing. From now on all the food for our family must be cooked in one pot.’

  ‘Yes, dearest husband,’ his wife replied meekly. She really did want to be good. It was just so very difficult for her, and it was easier to be mean.

  Shravan Kumar’s wife went to a potter and said, ‘I have a special order. I need a clay pot with two stomachs, right away.’

  ‘With two stomachs?’ said the bewildered potter.

  ‘Yes, yes, two stomachs. It is not so hard. Just put a division in the centre. Start right away.’

  ‘Whatever you wish, madam,’ said the potter, and he proceeded to make Shravan Kumar’s wife a pot with two stomachs.

  That night at dinner, Shravan Kumar smiled benignly at his parents. His food was delicious. As all the food was cooked in the same pot, he was sure his parents’ food was just as good.

  The parents said nothing for a few days. Then, they called their son aside and said, ‘Son, we hate to complain. The fact is, we are quite tired of eating sour pudding every day. Could we possibly have something else to eat?’

  Shravan Kumar could hardly believe what he had heard. That day at dinner, he again exchanged his plate for his father’s.

  ‘Ugh!’ he cried. ‘What foul stuff is this?’

  It was then that he discovered that his wife had a pot with two stomachs.

  ‘Wife,’ Shravan Kumar said next morning, ‘what you have been doing is not a good thing. I am upset and disappointed in you.’

  ‘Dearest husband,’ his wife replied meekly, ‘I am really sorry for what I have done. From now on I will serve the same food to all of us.’

  This time Shravan Kumar’s wife was determined to be good.

  ‘Your fine intentions will have to wait for a while. My parents are very old and I fear they will not live long. They have asked me to take them on a pilgrimage. I intend to start out right away.’

  ‘May I come too?’ asked the wife.

  ‘No, it is best if you stay at home. You see, I want my parents to enjoy this trip. If you come with us …’

  He did not need to finish his sentence. His wife’s head drooped with shame.

  ‘I will stay at home, then, just as you wish,’ Shravan Kumar’s wife said. ‘When you return you will see how good I can be. How will you travel? Your parents are too old to walk or ride on horses.’

  ‘I have made two large baskets and attached them to the two ends of a pole. I will seat one of my parents in each of the baskets. I will sling the pole across my shoulders. That is how I will carry my parents to their place of pilgrimage.’

  ‘You
are such a good son, I will try to be a worthy wife.’

  That day, Shravan Kumar set off on a pilgrimage carrying his old blind parents in the two baskets.

  It was June and the sun was blistering all it threw its light on.

  Shravan Kumar’s parents said, ‘Son, let us stop and rest. Besides we are very thirsty.’

  Shravan Kumar put his parents down and left them to rest in a shady grove.

  ‘The River Saryu is not far from here. I will go and fetch some water for you to drink.’

  Shravan Kumar walked to the river and just as he was bending to get water, he was struck by an arrow and mortally wounded.

  It was King Dashrat who was out hunting and who mistook Shravan Kumar for a deer.

  Shravan Kumar began to cry out in pain. ‘O God, help me.’

  When King Dashrat heard these cries, he ran towards his quarry and begged his forgiveness.

  ‘There is no time to talk,’ Shravan Kumar said, ‘just … ease out the arrow … my parents are thirsty … they are blind … they were going on a pilgrimage … take them some water and tell them what has happened to me. Look after them.’ Shravan Kumar became unconscious and lay dying on the ground.

  King Dashrat took the pot of water and went searching for Shravan Kumar’s parents.

  The parents had been waiting in the shady grove wondering what had happened to their son. When they heard footsteps, they cried out with joy, ‘We are so glad you are back. Come and rest, son, you must be tired.’

  ‘I am not your son. I am King Dashrat. I was hunting for deer and my arrow accidentally hit your son. I’m deeply sorry for this. Your son sent this water and has asked me to do whatever you desire. I am your servant.’

  Tears began to fall from the blind eyes of both parents.

  ‘Our son’s accident is more that we can bear. Death is approaching fast and we are ready for it. Make us a funeral pyre and when we are dead, lay our bodies on it. That is all we want from you.’ Then they cursed King Dashrat: ‘We hope you are parted from your beloved son one day and die from the pain of it.’

  King Dashrat built a funeral pyre of sandalwood and when the parents had died, he put them on the pyre and cremated them just as a son would have done.

  The King then set out to find Shravan Kumar’s wife and tell her the news.

  The wife said, ‘Tell me where he is.’

  ‘You will find him lying on the banks of the River Saryu.’

  Shravan Kumar’s wife rushed to the River Saryu where her husband lay unconscious with a deep wound in his back where the arrow had pierced it.

  It was another scorching day and there was nothing near the river but sand and scrub. If the wound did not kill her husband, the heat surely would.

  Shravan Kumar’s wife scanned all directions. She finally spotted a tamarind tree:

  ‘Tamarind tree, tamarind tree

  Will you give us some shade?’

  ‘Not I,’ said the tamarind tree. ‘Look elsewhere.’

  The wife cursed the tree saying, ‘May your fruit always be sour.’ Then she ran towards the neem tree:

  ‘Neem tree, neem tree

  Will you give us some shade?’

  ‘Not I,’ said the neem tree. ‘Look elsewhere.’

  The wife cursed the neem tree. ‘May your fruit only be good for the treatment of boils and pimples,’ she said, running towards the banyan tree:

  ‘Banyan tree, banyan tree

  Will you give us some shade?’

  ‘Come,’ said the banyan tree, ‘take refuge in my cool arbours.’

  Shravan Kumar’s wife dragged her husband into the shade of the banyan tree. There she sat with his head in her lap, weeping and weeping.

  The great old banyan tree finally took pity on the poor woman. ‘You have not been perfect,’ the banyan tree said. ‘You were cruel to your parents-in-law, but as a wife you have done better. And you seem truly remorseful. I will restore your husband to you.’

  So saying, the banyan tree dripped healing milk into the wound and Shravan Kumar was cured.

  His wife was cured too. She was never mean again.

  All of India worships the blue god, Krishna. My feelings for him have always been a bit more personal. Not only was I raised on the banks of the Yamuna River, as he was, but I was born on the feast day of his birth – the dark, eighth day of the waning moon in August when monsoon winds, often laden with thick pellets of water, knock on all the doors and windows of Indian homes. On that day, we celebrated two birthdays, his and mine. While the Yamuna River never parted for me, as it did for Krishna, I did learn to toddle on its sands, to throw my first fishline from its rocky shore, and to swim in its unclear waters.

  In the winter, the Yamuna River was too cold for swimming. Only the fittest young men with well-oiled bodies took the plunge. In the monsoon season it was swollen and too dangerous, what with deep, swirling whirlpools and treacherous currents. It was in the summer, early in the morning and early in the evening, that it was just perfect. My cousins and I would roll up a fresh set of clothes into towels and in a large, chattering group, walk towards the river.

  ‘What stroke do you want to learn?’ a ten-year-old cousin once asked me. He was the swimming champion at school and double my age.

  ‘Any stroke will do,’ I answered as if I knew what strokes were.

  ‘Well, first you learn how to float and then I’ll teach you how to crawl. Now, lie flat in my arms and keep your head down.’

  ‘Shall I keep my eyes shut?’

  ‘As you want.’

  I kept my eyes shut. It was not so easy to float.

  ‘Wait,’ said my cousin.

  He swam to the far shore. I saw him walk up the sandy bank and disappear in the watermelon fields. Soon, he could be seen rolling a large watermelon towards the river. As soon as it hit the water, the giant fruit began to float. ‘Hang on to the watermelon with your arms outstretched,’ my cousin said. ‘Keep your head down and kick your legs without bending your knees.’

  That did it. I was held aloft by the watermelon and carried downstream by the gentle summer current. From the nearby temple came the sound of hymns sung to the accompaniment of conch shells. I was almost swimming.

  I wonder if Krishna, the blue god, learned to swim in the same way?

  The Birth of Krishna, the Blue God

  Once upon a time there lived a wicked king called Kans, who ruled over Mathura, a kingdom that sprawled on the banks of the Yamuna River.

  He should not have been king at all, for the real ruler was Kans’s father, but he languished in a dungeon where his wicked son had put him.

  Kans had a sister called Devaki, a sweet, gentle girl who had reached the age of marriage. Kans approached his sister one day and said, ‘Devaki, I have arranged a match for you with a young, handsome man called Vasudev. He is of noble parentage and very wealthy. Your horoscopes match perfectly. The marriage will be good for you, good for Vasudev, and will prove quite beneficial to this court.’

  The wedding took place as planned, but just as Devaki and Vasudev were about to leave for their new home, a wise man appeared at Kans’s elbow and whispered, ‘Do not let this couple go. Do you not know that you are doomed to die at the hands of their child?’

  Kans went wild with fury. He pulled at Devaki’s hair, drew his sword, and was about to cut her head off when his chief minister intervened. ‘Your majesty, why commit the crime of killing your sister on her wedding night in full view of all the guests? Would it not be easier to throw – quietly of course – the couple in prison? Then, as and when the children are born, we can dispose of them. No one need know what is going on.’

  Kans agreed to the plan. Devaki and Vasudev were thrown into prison where they became quite devoted to each other.

  In time, Kans received the news that Devaki had given birth to a baby daughter. He sneaked into the prison through the back door. ‘Where is the child?’ he thundered as he entered the cell. Before Devaki could let out a yell, he had p
icked up the baby and thrown it to the ground.

  The baby, instead of just lying there, turned into a bolt of lightning that zigzagged upwards towards heaven, calling:

  ‘Kans, you have done an evil thing

  But I am not the one you seek

  My brother is yet to be born

  He will come and kill you.’

  Six other daughters were born to Devaki. Kans came and killed each of them and as he did so each turned into a bolt of lightning that zigzagged towards heaven, calling:

  ‘Kans, you have done an evil thing

  But I am not the one you seek

  My brother is yet to be born

  He will come and kill you.’

  It was on the eighth day of the waning moon in August, and the monsoon raged outside the prison cell. Vast armies of black clouds marched across the skies, accompanied by drum rolls of thunder. The rain poured and poured. Roads were turned into rivulets and rivers into seas.

  On such a dark, dark night, yet another baby was born to Devaki. It was Krishna.

  No sooner did he let out his first little cry, than Vasudev, his father, heard a voice from heaven saying, ‘Now, now. Take the baby now. Take him to Gokul across the Yamuna River and exchange him for your sister’s newborn daughter. Return before dawn and all will be well.’

  ‘But the locks … the guards … the swollen river …’ Vasudev hesitated.

  ‘Have no fear,’ said the voice.

  Vasudev wrapped the newborn baby in the few rags he could lay his hands on. When he got to the cell doors he found that they were open and the guards around them were sleeping.

  He carried the baby Krishna past the cell door and out into the wet street. When the lightning crackled overhead it gave a brief flash of light. Otherwise, he was surrounded by the deepest darkness.

  At last Vasudev came to the banks of the Yamuna River. The monsoon rains had changed its gentle summer character so that it was now like an angry ocean, roaring in the darkness. Whenever the lightning flashed all Vasudev could see was water. Nothing but water, its surface stirred up into huge waves and nasty, circling whirlpools.