When Draupadi came into our home I tried to tell her about it, I thought she could take over my burdens. But she was never one to listen. She was so impatient, oh, so impetuous. I sometimes think they do girls a great wrong when they pamper them and make much of them as children; they make them think they matter. Draupadi was too much petted, too much indulged by her father and brother. Oh, I don’t blame them; she must have been such a lively, a sparkling child. But it does not help, no it never does. Only her mother, and it was she who told me this once, only her mother kept warning her—don’t think you can always get what you want. She must have had a ‘why’ even for that. Poor girl. Girl! What am I thinking of? She is a woman, a woman who has no more questions, not since she knew her sons were dead. No tears too now. She was tearless, dry-eyed when she bid me farewell. But … but … how strange, it comes back to me only now, after she took leave of Gandhari, her cheeks were wet. Gandhari’s too. They clung to each other, yes, I can remember that. I know what it is: when they look at me they think—what does she know of sorrow, she, who has lost no son? They forget, they all forget ….
Or do you think, Sanjaya, the truth is that Draupadi has not forgiven me? You seem amazed. Don’t you know I have wronged her? Yes, I have. I used to remember it, I used to think of it each time I looked at her. She entered the hut that day with joy, such joy, Sanjaya, I can never forget her face as she looked up at Arjuna. But I looked at the faces of my other sons and for their sakes took the joy away from hers. I could see Yudhishthira’s face light up when I told him what they should do, I saw Bhima’s joy. I did not look at her then, but later, when I did, it was as if the light in her had been dimmed. Yes, I did her a great wrong. She should have been only Arjuna’s wife. She would have looked up to Yudhishthira like a father and Nakul and Sahadeva, they would have been her friends; why, they were like friends, the three of them.
But what about Bhima then? No, I did what I had to do. I had no choice, I tried to tell myself at times, but that is not true. There is always a choice. And yet I must have been very hard to have made the choice I did that day. But I am a hard woman, Sanjaya, a very hard woman. If I had not been hard would I have survived?
You know, Sanjaya, I think it was good I was brought up the way I was—I was never pampered and indulged. But who would have pampered me anyway? My father gave me away—how easily he gave me away. As if I was a bit of property. Don’t you think it queer, Sanjaya? And I can’t even remember if it made me angry. But I remember I was frightened. I thought my father gave me away to his friend because he was displeased with me. And I thought—what if I displease this man too? Will he give me away to someone else? And so I did everything I could to please him, I tried so hard never to displease him.
But how I hated my new name—Kunti! I never realized it was I they wanted when someone called out that name. Now, if someone called me Pritha I would not know who it was. But there was someone who called me Pritha—yes, even after I became Kunti, there was someone who called me that. Who was it? This is one of the burdens of being old. Some things come back so easily and others …. Who was it who called me by my name? You are smiling, you are wondering why it should matter. I don’t know, but it seems terrible to misplace a memory. They are all we have at our age. Who was it? Pritha, Pritha I can hear someone saying and crying. It was by a river, I can remember that ….
Yes, it comes back. Nothing is so long ago, is it, Sanjaya? The consequences of an act go on and on. It was my nurse who always called me Pritha. But that day, by the river, I told her—I am Kunti now, call me by no other name. I sent her away, I remember. I wanted to be alone. But even when she left me and went away there was no silence. I could still hear the cries of the child, cries that drowned out the sounds of the river. I kept hearing them, however far I went from the river, I could still hear them. It was only that day, when I went to meet him, yes, again by the river, a grown man now, and he turned round and faced me, his face cold and distant—it was only after that that I stopped hearing the cries, as if the child had died at last. There were so many things I could have said to him—I was too young then, I could have said, I was only a child, I did not understand anything, I only did what they told me to do. But what was the use? He would not have heard me. It was my nurse who had put a bit of armour by him. Let them know he is a Kshatriya, she had said. When I met him after all those years, it was as if he was still wearing that armour. Nothing I said would have penetrated. My son, I called him, but he never called me Mother, not once. Perhaps he was more honest. But he thought too much of his birth. That armour—it never did him any good.
I have no sons, my husband used to cry. He was frightened of going into the darkness like his father had. It was I who had the courage to light that darkness; Madri dared only when she saw my sons. Yes, we gave him sons, Madri and I, five splendid sons. The sons of Pandu, they are called. And I could never claim my own son. It makes me want to laugh sometimes. I never laughed much when I was young. I used to wonder when I heard Madri laughing, beautiful, easy laughter. Perhaps it’s easy to laugh when you are loved. Is that why Krishna could laugh so much, so easily? He could make others laugh too, couldn’t he, Sanjaya? I remember how angry Draupadi was when she knew about Subhadra. Krishna soothed her and comforted her, though it was he who had brought Arjuna and Subhadra together. And he made Draupadi laugh finally, the rogue. Why Sanjaya, you are frowning, you seem, displeased. Is it because I called Krishna a rogue? I know how you revere him, but I love him like my own. He is my brother’s son. I knew him so well. Did I? I don’t know. But I remember he made Draupadi laugh. She was still angry with Subhadra though, for long she nursed her anger. Yet when Abhimanyu died, she was inconsolable.
Dead … is he really dead. Sanjaya? Did it all really happen and are they all dead, all our sons? Are they all really dead? Or was it just one of those terrible dreams we are happy to wake out of? No, it’s true, it happened. Like Gandhari we have opened our eyes too late. What mistakes we make, Sanjaya, what terrible mistakes. Is that why we don’t speak of the war? Because we are afraid we will ask ourselves Why? What was it all for? I remember the few feeble cries that greeted my sons when it was all over—victors they called them. Victors? It’s the dead who are the victors. They know it too now. Yudhishthira walks about like a puppet, Arjuna’s eyes are empty, and even Bhima ….
You know, Sanjaya, seeing the animals here, I have begun thinking that we are wrong, we are foolish, in clinging to our roles for so long. Does a grown deer seek its mother? At some time the bond should snap, it should be over. That is natural, that is wiser. No? You don’t agree? But then one should not live long enough to see the sight I saw. These tired old men my sons, I thought? It frightened me ….
That is enough. I am a fool to have spoken of these things. We are wiser not to speak of them. And what need is there? It is all over now; we are at peace, Gandhari the king and I. We want nothing any more, not for ourselves, nor for our children. That is real freedom, is it not? You know it too, don’t you? Is that why ….
But we must go back now, Sanjaya. We have been away too long. Come, come Sanjaya, we must go. The king and my sister must be wondering what has happened to us, the king must be impatient. Where is Sanjaya, he must be asking the queen, why did you let him go? Come, let us go. Look, the sun is setting. How bright the light is. It’s like …. The sun setting? So soon? There is still time for that, isn’t there? But what is that then? There—look there. What is it, Sanjay, what is it, why are you hurrying? You know I am too old, I can’t walk fast. Look, it is spreading, the brightness …. Oh, now I know. It is not the sunset. I know why the birds are suddenly silent. Yes, let us hurry. I have to be with them, with my brother and sister, we need to be together. But not you, Sanjay, not you. You must leave us. You are stubborn, but you will have to obey the king, I know you will. Yes, there they are, waiting for us. How still they are standing! Look at the king, his head held high, his nose sniffing the smoke. He knows, yes, they know it too. And th
ey are smiling. Let us go to them, Sanjaya. Let us hurry. No, not you. I have to go, I must go….
The Stone Women
Looking out from the cool darkness of the arched entrance, I am blinded by the glare. For a moment I can see nothing. Slowly things come into focus and I see a shining, chiselled jewel, gleaming in the sun, rising out of the earth, offering itself to me. I blink. The illusion disappears and it becomes what it is—a temple. I hear his voice calling out my name and I see he is already in the centre of the courtyard, vainly trying to shelter himself in the narrow shadow cast by the pillar of lights. Guiltily, I move forward. The sun strikes my head with savagery, the stone under my feet scorches my soles. I take quick steps, end up running and reach him in a rush. He holds me to steady me. His hands linger. Once again, for a few seconds, we ride the waves of physical pleasure together.
‘Guide, saar?’
We turn away from each other. A young man, dressed in a kind of slick smartness, is smiling ingratiatingly at us.
‘I can explain everything, inside the temple, outside, in any language—English, Hindi, Kannada ….’
‘Shall we…?’ He looks at me questioningly.
But even before I can reply, he begins to discuss terms with the guide and I retreat into the world that’s always waiting for me these days—the world of the wonder of the two of us, the marvel of the two of us together. The time before this seems so distant, I can scarcely connect myself with it, to the girl I was then.
‘All right, let’s go,’ he says. Abruptly he stops and looks at me. And smiles. ‘You’ve lost,’ he says.
‘Lost? What?’ Realization comes suddenly. ‘Oh God, was I humming again?’
‘You’ll never win,’ he says triumphantly.
The guide, waiting for us by the stone lions at the entrance, clears his throat impatiently and we hurry to position ourselves before him. He gives us a satisfied look, passes his hand over his sleek, oiled hair and begins in a tone quite different from his normal one:
‘This temple was built by King Vishnuvardhana of the Hoysala dynasty in the year ….’
‘You’ll never win ….’ Was there contempt in that? No, the feel of his palm against mine, warm and reassuring, tells me he isn’t really displeased. I relax. But I must conquer this silly habit, I warn myself. Why a tune gets hold of me this way, I don’t know. But there it is, a different one each day, dancing about in my head all day. Always Hindi film tunes. ‘Silly jingles,’ he says. ‘One day,’ he’s challenged me, ‘let’s see if you can control yourself just one day.’ I’ve stopped listening to film songs, I try to crush the tunes whenever I know they’re there, but they’re always biding their time, waiting to spring out, taking me unawares. Why, even now, as I’m listening to the guide narrating facts in a drab monotone, I can still hear the song going on inside my head. God, I must stop it. I give him a quick guilty look to see if he’s hearing it too. No, he’s listening intently to the guide and I force myself to listen as well.
‘Now these ladies you see above you….’
Obediently I lookup and—what did he call them? Ladies? God, no! They’re women, lush-bodied, high-breasted women carved on rectangular stone panels, leaning provocatively out of them, towards us, it seems. Women in all kinds of poses—looking into the mirror, doing their hair, playing on musical instruments, dancing, hunting. I walk along, looking at them, as if mesmerized, while the man goes on describing each carving in meticulous detail.
‘Madam will know this hair-style,’ he stops before one to say and names a film star who made the style famous. ‘Ladies are always the same,’ he adds and the two men exchange smiles. Must I smile, I wonder? But the men are not looking at me and we move on. The guide points out tiny details, like the fly on a woman’s arm, the seeds of the fruit a parrot is eating, the tiny bells on a woman’s anklets—‘You can see how they seem to be moving,’ he says. But it’s not these details in the carvings that amaze me, its what we’re seeing here—the joyous, playful, narcissistic existence of these women. Were they really like this? Could any woman ever have been like this?
‘Beautiful.’ I hear the word over and over again and I look at the women with their high, firm breasts, tiny waists, straight noses and elongated eyes and wonder—are they? I suppose they are. But they don’t look real, a voice inside me protests. And yet … no, I don’t know. Sometimes I think that’s the truth. I don’t know.
‘What an ugly thing,’ he’d said soon after we were married, touching the silver bracelet I was wearing.
Was it ugly? I had never known. In fact, I’d been wearing it for so long, it was like part of myself; I scarcely saw it. But I put it away that day. Yet even now, in idle moments, the fingers of my right hand grope for it and there is a sense of loss when they miss its familiar contours.
As we go on, from one panel to another, I find myself overcome by a sense of uneasiness. A strange feeling that the stone women are converging on me, pressing on me so that I can’t breathe. Is it the heat? Yes, it must be the heat, for I am conscious now of the faint beginnings of a headache.
I have a feeling of relief when we go inside, into the temple. There is a sense of space here. The guide takes us to a smooth shining dark circle. ‘This was the dance floor,’ he says. And then, ‘Look at the roof. The most beautiful carvings are here.’ I lookup at the canopy of complicated intricate carvings and have a sense of vertigo. I clutch at his arm and am conscious that my palm is clammy. I can no longer pretend. I am feeling sick. I retreat into a kind of daze and words come to me disjointed and fragmentary.
‘There was a queen who used to dance here,’ I hear the guide say.
‘The king didn’t mind?’
‘She danced for the gods, saar.’ The voice is reproachful.
‘Danced for the gods.’ At the words, I have a bizarre picture of a woman dancing on that smooth polished floor, a galaxy of gods lolling before her, dressed, like the gods in TV serials, in plastic heads and tinsel crowns.
At last it’s over. Thankfully I begin to move out.
‘Madam, you don’t want to do puja?’ The guide asks me in surprise. For the first time I realize that this is a temple with gods to be worshipped. No, just one god. ‘Chenna Keshava—the most beautiful god,’ bejewelled and beflowered, flanked by his two wives. As we wait for our offerings to be accepted, my uneasiness congeals into a heavy oppressive weight that threatens to suffocate me. I make an involuntary sound.
‘What is it?’ He turns to me.
‘I’m not feeling well.’
Solicitously he helps me out, the guide following us. I can hear him murmuring, ‘It’s the heat.’
‘Shall I get some water?’ the guide asks when we get out.
‘Water? No, wait, is there any tender coconut here? There is? Okay, you wait here, we’ll get you something to drink. All right? I won’t be long.’
They leave me on a platform below a tree and go away. The cool breeze chills my wet, sweating body. I wipe my face.
‘Not feeling well?’
It’s a woman, sitting cross-legged, a child sleeping on her lap, looking at me curiously.
‘A little.’
‘Must be the heat. Shall I give you some water?’
‘My husband has gone to get me a tender coconut.’
I can see the two of them standing before the coconut seller. They seem remote, there’s a dream-like quality about them, about the whole scene. A pleasant dream. I feel suddenly more peaceful.
‘Just married?’
‘Five months back.’
Where do I live? What does my husband do? Where are my parents? And my in-laws? And am I working too? Really? And what do I do? The questions gush out of her. My monosyllabic answers don’t seem to discourage her. I can see the guide coming towards me, a coconut in his hand.
‘This is your husband?’
‘No, he’s the guide.’
I sit back and sip the cool liquid, letting her words flow over me. The sound of the rustling branc
hes is infinitely soothing. A twig gently drifts down into my lap and I realize that this is a neem tree. The woman is telling me about herself now. ‘My grandchild,’ she says, tenderly passing her hand over the sleeping child’s hair. The child stirs and her voice drops a decibel. There’s such an air of ease and comfort about her, it’s as if she’s in her own home, conversing with one of the family.
He comes to me, putting his wallet back in his pocket. ‘Feeling better?’
‘Yes, much better.’
‘Shall we go?’
‘Your husband, hunh?’ she says rather than asks. I nod. ‘Look after her,’ she tells him.
‘What does she mean?’ he asks me as we move away.
I smile. ‘She thinks I’m pregnant.’
‘God!’ He makes a face. ‘I could see her going yak yak yak. She must have bored you to death.’
‘No, not really,’ I say. I can see he doesn’t believe me, but it’s the truth. There was something about her, a kind of rough warmth, that reminded me of my mother.
I go for a bath as soon as we get back to our room. I have a sense of washing away something more than just the sweat and the dirt. When I come out, I see he’s ordered some tea for us. I sit by him and pour it out. A new song enters my mind: Isi liye mummy ne meri tumhe chai pe bulaya hai …. I stop it, crush it, refuse to let it go on. He puts his arm round me. ‘You smell wonderful,’ he says, nuzzling into my body. His hands move over me. Suddenly he stops and moves back.
‘You’re wearing something new. I don’t like it. It hides you,’ he says, his hands moving as if tracing the shape of my body. For some reason, when I look at him, eyes narrowed, mouth pursed as he gazes at me thoughtfully, my mind leaps back to those stone women in the temple. This is how they must have looked, I realize, the men who sculpted the women in stone, as they shaped them from their imaginations. As if I have evoked the sound, I even hear the tap tap of the hammer as the men chipped away at the stone, working out their fantasies on it, creating women with unreal bodies, women who played and sang and danced all day. For a moment, while he looks at me, I am overcome by a sudden fear, as if I am becoming one of them too, women frozen for all time into a pose they have been willed into. Then I lean back and say, ‘It’s comfortable, I like it.’
The Intrusion and Other Stories Page 15