And one day she finds her soulmate, in a forest—a young man perfect in every way, bold and handsome, brilliant and loving, son of a blind hermit king. But there’s a catch, as you knew there would be. He is doomed to die in exactly one year. My mother says it’s because his parents made their own deal at his birth. When they fasted and prayed for a child, they were given a choice: an ordinary child who lives a long but ordinary life, or a perfect son who dies young, and they went with the latter.
Savitri’s father, not thrilled with the idea of a doomed son-in-law, tries to dissuade his daughter. “Are you sure about this?” he asks. “I know a king who knows a king whose youngest son is supposed to have a great personality. I could send out some messengers.” But she is sure. She gives up her silks and jewels and goes to live in the forest with Satyavan and his exiled parents. And they live in happiness for every day of that year.
Yama stiffens. He thinks he hears something. He pauses. Yes, there it is again, the soft crackle of footsteps through the leaves on the forest floor. He looks over his shoulder. Savitri is following him. He sighs. This is more like what he was expecting.
“Stay here,” he says. “This is your home. You can return with no regrets. You were a good and loving wife.”
“It is a wife’s dharma,” she says, “to go wherever her husband goes, as you of all gods must know.”
She has him there, he must acknowledge, however reluctantly. His full name is Yamadharma after all, for he is also responsible for upholding dharma, the eternal law of the cosmos inherent in the very nature of things, the law that even the gods have to obey.
“Your words are music to my ears,” he says with gritted teeth. “You are right. For displaying this wisdom I will grant you one boon, anything you ask—”
She immediately opens her mouth.
“—except your husband’s life!” he adds hastily, before she can speak.
She is unperturbed and has another request at the ready. “I ask that you restore the sight to my father-in-law’s eyes.”
“Done,” says Yama, happy that she has asked for something so simple. “He will be marveling at the beauties of the forest canopy before you have time to return to his side.”
“Oh, I’m not going home.”
“What do you mean?” Yama cries. “You can’t follow me. My kingdom is far away. You will tire long before we reach it.”
“I won’t be tired if I’m with my husband,” Savitri persists. “I will go where he goes. And one never tires in the company of gods; walking with gods is never futile.”
“Your words are water to my thirsty soul,” he mutters. He is annoyed and flattered at the same time. “I will grant you a second boon. And before you ask, the same rules apply.”
“I ask that you grant my father a hundred sons so his name will live on.”
“Done,” says Yama and spurs his buffalo to go. It’s not like Satyavan’s is the only soul he has to collect before the night is through. Several hours go by and when his buffalo stops to drink at a glistening stream, Yama dismounts to stretch his legs. And there behind him, at a respectful distance, but there against his express directive nonetheless, is Savitri.
“Seriously?” he asks. “What part of ‘go home’ did you not understand? Go back. You have walked much too far.”
“Too far from what?” Savitri demands. Her back is still straight and her feet, though bare, are unbruised by the tree roots and fallen twigs she has been walking over for uncounted winding miles. “How can I be far from anywhere if I am near my husband?”
Yama laughs. She is beginning to grow on him, this girl who won’t go away. He was a man first, before he became a god. The first man who ever died, in fact, which is why he gets to preside over all who die after him. So he can just about remember what it was like to live and then to die. He is pretty sure he did not want to die.
“One more boon,” he says, still laughing.
“I ask for a hundred sons for myself.”
He stops laughing but he is not angry. Far from it. She has surprised him. She has not only impressed him with her devotion, she has outsmarted him with her wit. He cannot grant the final boon he promised her without also returning her husband. He tugs Satyavan’s body off the buffalo and sets him down to stand beside his wife. And, passing from Yama’s cold hands to Savitri’s warm ones, Satyavan revives, and Yama rides on.
And every thousand years or so, if a wife, or a husband, is as devoted as Savitri was to Satyavan, if they follow their spouse almost to the gates of the Kingdom of Death itself, which I happen to know is situated somewhere between Cancer Ward 2 and the ICU at Sunnybrook Hospital, they can win them back. They don’t have to be perfect; they don’t even have to fight. They just have to be there for every single step. We make bargains every day whether we believe in the gods we make them with or not. In fact, it’s the gods you don’t believe in that can really fuck you up. And the only thing that can save you in the end is love.
That last line sounds poetic, but it makes me uneasy. I want to delete it because, while I feel that I was saved by love—from family, from friends, from a stranger—there are many others who are just as beloved but who still do not make it. At first, I’m depressed, thinking it’s so sad to have to admit that love can’t actually save us. But then I think, wait! Doesn’t that make love more amazing, as opposed to less? More touching? We can’t always save the people we love with our love, and yet…and yet we go ahead and love them anyway.
We hold our breath in wonder, so we can hear them breathe.
The End
(Really.)
Acknowledgments
This book was a lifeline thrown to me by my friend Peter Nosalik, who formed our writers’ group at the darkest time of my life. When I just served up snacks instead of stories for the first few meetings, his stern admonishment of “Less baking, more writing!” kick-started this book. A heartfelt thank you to him and the other members, Melany Franklin, Melanie Hazell, and Karyn O’Neill, for their enthusiastic support and insightful criticism. I am also deeply indebted to my husband, Simon, and friend Nancy Naylor for their detailed and thoughtful readings of my manuscript, and to my publisher Margie Wolfe at Second Story Press for believing in me from the beginning. And really, it started with my mother. Her passion for literature and her commitment to Nachiket Children’s Libraries, which provides books to children in rural India, taught me that a book is just as likely to save you as anything else.
If I listed all the friends, neighbors, colleagues, and family members who leapt up to help me in so many ways through this crisis, this acknowledgment section would be as long as the book itself. So, to those who are named in the book, and to the countless others who are not, thank you. I always knew I had great friends, but I did not know until now, just how many, and just how great.
Thank you also to the incredible doctors, nurses, and all the other staff that make up Canada’s amazing health care system. They made me so proud and so grateful to be Canadian.
Finally, thank you to Jay, for giving me life.
And thank you to Simon, Jack, and Anna, for making my life worth living.
About the author
Manjusha Pawagi has a law degree from the University of Toronto and a journalism degree from Stanford University. She has worked as a reporter for CBC Radio in Charlottetown, P.E.I., and The Associated Press in St. Louis, Mo.; and as a lawyer for the Children’s Aid Society of Toronto and the Office of the Children’s Lawyer. She was appointed to the Ontario Court of Justice in 2009 and she is currently a family and youth court judge in Toronto. She is the author of a best-selling children’s book, The Girl Who Hated Books, which has been translated into more than a dozen languages and made into an award-winning animated short by the National Film Board of Canada. She lives in Toronto with her husband Simon, children Jack and Anna, and a pet lizard who prefers to remain anonymous.
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Manjusha Pawagi, Love and Laughter in the Time of Chemotherapy
Love and Laughter in the Time of Chemotherapy Page 20