Jahnavi felt sweat accumulating on her palms. She rubbed them on the ends of the cloak and licked her lips.
‘Do not fret,’ said Ganga. ‘I shall tell you all that you need to do. And you must trust me that this is necessary for the mountain.’
Jahnavi bowed. ‘I trust you, Mother.’
‘Good. Unless you prefer one of the others, it is my view that you should lie with Vishnu. He shall give us a child that will fulfil all our wishes.’
‘As you say, Mother.’
‘The rite is tomorrow, at sundown,’ said Ganga, popping a berry into her mouth and chewing on it. She tongued her cheek, shook her head. Then she said, ‘The berries this season have been quite bitter.’
Jahnavi had often dreamed of making love in a ripe apple orchard, on the bank of a lake or a river. When she had heard from Mother Ganga’s lips the story of how she had lain with Shantanu under the peepal tree with the murmur of the river in her ear, Jahnavi had found herself tinged with envy, and had wondered if she would ever be so lucky.
But here she was, wrapped in the black cloak of the Goddess, seated on a bed of jasmines and roses that had been prepared just for her. She was under not just any apple tree, but perhaps the biggest, most majestic of them all, and the lake she sat watching was not just any other lake, but the lake of life, the untold treasure of the Meru people. She was going to lie with not just any other man, but with one of the Wise Ones. Not even Mother Ganga had been so fortunate as to bear the child of Vishnu, and now, she, Jahnavi, had been given the opportunity.
She ought to be pleased, she knew. Almost every maiden on the mountain would give an arm to be in her place, to be waiting for Vishnu, the Vishnu, to arrive and take her in his arms. Every woman in every hut in every hermitage was at that very moment wishing it was she who sat here in Jahnavi’s place, inhaling the fragrance of the flowers scattered for her by the rippling waters of the lake.
And yet. And yet.
The smile she wore on her lips was fake. Her heart skipped a beat every time she heard a rustle of the leaves, but it did so out of fear, not excitement. A blotch of sweat collected under her arms and refused to dry up, no matter how many times she wiped it with the fabric of her cloak.
Everything was so perfect, she told herself. You have what you wanted. The apple tree. The flower bed. The shimmering lake. Why, then, this discontent?
He came clad in white, wielding a staff in one hand and a silver vessel of berries in another. His hair had been washed, and his skin glowed in the pale moonlight. His feet were bare, but the toes had been dipped in pink. Marks of vermillion and turmeric appeared everywhere she looked: on his shoulders, forehead, upper arms, cheeks, neck, chest. The cloth he wore around his upper body fluttered and threatened to fly away as he walked toward her, and he did nothing to stop it.
He stopped by the flowery bed and bowed to her. It was then that she realized what was tormenting her about this all. In her fantasies, yes, she had seen the apple trees and the lake and the flowers. But she had also assumed she would lie with a man she had chosen, a man whose child she would willingly bear. She had thought that the right of every Meru woman – to choose with whom she partook in the fertility rite – would be hers too. But the Goddess had given her the rest of her fantasy, and had withheld that one little detail that mattered.
Vishnu stepped on a pink rose petal and crushed it.
Jahnavi looked up, her gaze suitably demure as Mother had taught her, and smiled.
‘The sage tells me that this is your first time, my lady,’ he said. ‘I shall be gentle with you. There shall be no pain, only pleasure.’
Even as he sat by her and took her hand, even as she felt his mouth wander up her arm, over her neck, even as he nibbled on her earlobe and sent a bolt of lightning through her spine, quickening her breath, she knew it was a lie. For the Goddess did not deal in absolutes. She did not – could not – give just pain or just pleasure. One either took neither, or took both.
He did not gaze into her eyes. When his lips met hers, she found them cold, distant. He did not undress her breasts. He did not whisper into her ears. He held her hands only to pin them down, to crush some more petals. Once every few moments he felt her between the legs with the tip of one finger, to see if she was ready. This was a fertility rite, she reminded herself, not the love ritual she had imagined.
Their bodies united when he deemed they should. His first few strokes were gentle and only just probed her virginity, but as desire engulfed him, his grip on her hands tightened and the sinews of his neck emerged, taut and stretched. Beads of sweat on his forehead. Raw lust in his unseeing eyes.
Discomfort turned to pain. Jahnavi wished it would stop. She looked up at the tiny patch of sky she could see overhead. Mother Ganga had said there had been a crescent moon with a star at its tip when she had lain with Shantanu. Now she could see neither moon nor stars. Somehow, it seemed appropriate. She spread her legs as wide as she could and shut her eyes, wishing she could cover her ears too and avoid hearing his throaty grunts.
She bit down on her bottom lip to numb herself. His thrusts came faster, with more regularity, and at some vague moment the pain eased and something akin to warmth enveloped her inner thighs. Perhaps this was what he had meant, she thought, before he had forgotten his promise to be gentle.
Eventually, she did not know when, he finished, and rolled over to the side. When she sat up to cover herself, she saw that the white jasmines were stained with blood.
Halfway into autumn, while carrying a pile of firewood from the yard to the kitchen, Jahnavi fainted.
When she came to, she was drinking water off an earthen vessel that Mother Ganga held. ‘The autumn feast will be an auspicious one,’ she said with a smile. ‘I have told the Wise Ones that you are with child.’
‘I saw Nishanta at your porch this morning, Mother. Did he bring any news of Earth?’
‘Yes, dear,’ said Mother. ‘He brings news from Mathura. Rishabha has told him that Devaki is carrying a child too.’
Not quite a Mystery, she had said, but something like it. She tried to prop herself up on the mat with great difficulty. ‘Mother,’ she said.
‘Shh, do not concern yourself with matters such as these now, my child. I am here to look after them all for you. Your belly will get a bit heavier as the moons go by, so you must not do much work around the hermitage.’
‘But the fire needs kindling. The yard needs cleaning.’
‘I have asked for two maidens to help us,’ said Mother, caressing Jahnavi’s forehead. ‘One of them to take care of you, and the other to attend to your duties.’
‘I … I feel as though my stomach is being churned, Mother.’
‘It is as it should be, my dear. Just drink this water and try to sleep.’
Preparations for the midwinter feast were on. The chill in the morning air was a slight one, and Jahnavi did not feel any discomfort as she sat near the edge of the cliff outside the hut, looking out at the White Rock and the river at its base. Her left hand, as it seemed to do at all times these days, ran up and down her stretched stomach.
Nishanta’s figure came running up the moss-laden stone steps. He bowed to her.
‘What is it, Nishanta?’ called out Ganga from the porch.
‘My lady,’ said Nishanta, moving away from Jahnavi toward Ganga.
Jahnavi gathered herself up, and as she stepped slowly toward the porch, she heard the last few words of their conversation.
Ganga turned to her. ‘Devaki is in her sixth month now, Jahnavi. The Goddess willing, you will both give birth around the same time, give or take a moon this way or that.’
‘I heard something about Shurasena,’ said Jahnavi, easing herself on to the ledge with a grimace.
Ganga and Nishanta looked at each other.
‘Did Kamsa invade Shurasena and occupy it?’
‘No, my lady,’ said Nishanta, ‘but he has sent a warning of attack, and Shurasena surrendered without a fight.’
<
br /> ‘Does Hastinapur know of this? I am certain that if Bhishma came to know—’
‘The army of Magadha and Mathura stand between Hastinapur and Shurasena, my lady. Both the land and water routes are blocked, so Hastinapur will not risk losing her entire army for the sake of a small Middle Kingdom like Shurasena.’
‘Where will Devaki’s child be fostered, then? If Shurasena is taken, it will be a dangerous place to bring up the heir to the throne.’
Ganga twisted the corner of her cloak in thought. ‘Indeed. It has always been my notion that Shurasena would be dangerous for Devaki’s child anyway. This merely forces our hand.’
‘Kunti, perhaps?’ said Nishanta.
‘Kunti is next on Jarasandha’s campaign of annexation, Nishanta,’ said Ganga. ‘None of the Middle Kingdoms are suited to foster the child.’ A frown of mild irritation covered her brow. ‘It would make life so much easier, would it not, if we could tell whether it will be a boy or a girl? All these Mysteries, Nishanta, and we have not yet acquired to ability to peek into the womb of a woman.’
‘My lady.’
‘Well, we must make do with what we have. If it is a girl, then we will foster her in Panchala, perhaps give it to King Drupad as a daughter. And hope that as she grows, Bhishma will look at her with favour and marry her into the Kuru house to forge a new alliance.’
‘And if it is a boy?’
Ganga looked away into the distance, at the light, cotton-like winter clouds littering the sky. Then she looked at Jahnavi and smiled. She extended her hand to her. ‘Give me a moon or two, Nishanta,’ she said. ‘I shall think of something.’
‘I need you to stay calm, Jahnavi.’
Her insides pounded, and she felt iron claws digging between her thighs to tear her apart. A low, continuous, mewling sound came from deep within her throat. On either side of her, holding her hands tight, were two girls from Vasishtha’s hermitage.
‘It is all as it should be. I just need you to stay calm.’
Jahnavi nodded, and gritted her teeth.
‘You have carried this child for nine moons.’
She nodded.
‘You want this child to be born. You want to take care of him. You want to suckle him at your breasts.’
‘Yes.’
‘I see your thighs tightening, my dear.’ Mother’s voice, as always, so calm, so quiet. ‘That will strangle the baby. Spread as wide as you can.’
Jahnavi obeyed.
‘And I need you to breathe. Breathe in. Breathe out.’
Jahnavi clamped her mouth shut. Breathe in. Breathe out. Another ravenous claw deep inside, and the mewling became louder.
‘It will all be over soon, my dear. I see the head. You just need to breathe and spread your legs as wide as you can.’
Her knuckles white with pressure. Her body coated with sweat.
‘Stay awake, Jahnavi.’ Ganga slapped her lightly on the cheek. ‘Stay awake. The child needs you.’
Jahnavi stayed awake, and she breathed. She breathed until the wrenching stopped, and her own wail was replaced by that of a crying infant. She heard the snip of a paring knife, and something tugged at her thighs.
When she half-opened her eyes she saw a bundle of linen in Mother Ganga’s arms.
‘It is a boy,’ she said.
The three of them sat on the porch, Nishanta, Jahnavi and Mother Ganga. The two helping girls were watching the baby sleep. Jahnavi sank back against the wall, both her breasts sucked dry. Her nipples stung with the marks of her son’s gums. Who had said that motherhood was a gift, that a woman’s life was complete only after giving birth to another?
A man, no doubt.
‘No doubt,’ said Ganga to Nishanta, ‘Kamsa has waited to consolidate his position in Shurasena all winter. Now it is spring. He will move any moment now, aiming to annex Kunti to his empire by midsummer.’
‘Lady Devaki has had a boy too, I hear,’ said Nishanta. ‘Fifteen days ago, on the first day of spring.’
‘So I have heard,’ said Ganga. ‘When is Rishabha planning to take the child out of the prison?’
‘This coming Amavasya night.’
‘That will be the night we send Jahnavi’s son out to foster as well. You shall take him with you, will you not, Nishanta?’
‘I shall, my lady.’
‘Amavasya is no more than ten days away. Take away two days for your travel, and we only have a week in front of us.’
‘Yes, my lady.’
From under her cloak, Ganga brought out a scroll of parchment. She gave it to Nishanta.
‘Take this to Rishabha and tell him that it must be seen only by Devaki’s eyes.’
‘Yes, my lady.’
‘Ride back as soon as you can, Nishanta, and give me her reply.’
‘Yes, my lady.’ Nishanta took the scroll and tucked it under his waistband.
‘Go,’ said Ganga. ‘Now.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
D
evaki pulled her ivory comb through her hair, patiently working through the tangles. The brass shield they had mounted on the table had begun to lose its polish. Grey smudges now dotted its edge. She would have to ask Rishabha to get it cleaned once again.
The babe slept on the bed, his fingers wound around Vasudev’s forefinger. In the shield’s reflection she saw her husband’s head bent over the parchment that had arrived that morning. The last fourteen days had been tumultuous – the joy of looking into the depths of her son’s eyes, knowing he would one day return to free her, the fear of being found out whenever he woke from sleep with a shrill cry, the doubt over where they should send him for fostering, the uneasiness over Kamsa’s growing invincibility.
She untangled all the strands and allowed her hair to fan out behind her back. ‘You have been reading that letter for over an hour, my lord,’ she said. ‘You are still surprised Jahnavi has remembered her side of the trade, are you not?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I am. I confess I thought we shall never hear from her again.’
She got to her feet and came to the foot of the bed. The boy’s free hand lay on top of his chest. Pink, little fingernails. It was too early to say who he would look like, but Devaki could see Vasudev’s wide forehead and floppy ears. The nose did not have the sharp, beak-like appearance of Vasudev’s, so Devaki hoped that in time, it would become more like hers.
‘Do you not think it better to ask for Kamsa’s forgiveness?’ said Vasudev, looking up at her. ‘Shurasena has been taken. By the time this boy grows up to be a youth, who knows, the whole of North Country will be Kamsa’s.’
‘Perhaps princes of Shurasena have been brought up on the milk of meek goats, my lord, and perhaps they forgive too easily for this reason, but in Mathura, they teach us to be ruthless and to do everything in your power to vanquish the enemy.’ She hated insulting him that way, but sometimes harsh words roused him to anger. She needed him to be angry at least today, when they had to decide where to send their son.
‘You are speaking to a prince of a Great Kingdom,’ he said, frowning, ‘and your husband and your lord. I shall not have you forget that.’
‘The prince of a Great Kingdom does not speak of asking forgiveness of a man who has murdered his children, my lord. Neither does the princess of Mathura.’
Her voice had risen without her knowledge, and the baby stirred. Vasudev took him on his lap and dandled him with practised hands. Years in prison had made a housemaid out of Vasudev, she thought angrily. Only the lord knew if he still remembered how to hold a weapon or the reins of a chariot.
‘Jahnavi wants us to send the boy to Shurasena,’ she said, ‘but not to the court as a prince. If he could be fostered at some secret place, where he could be trained for all that he will need in his youth—’
‘Where shall we find such a place?’
‘My lord, Shurasena is yours. Kamsa has already taken it, so his eyes will be fastened on the other Great Kingdoms. If we could find a home for our son within Shurasena, per
haps in one of the many settlements that litter its eastern edge—’
‘Devaki, I have not been king long enough to know the kingdom as well as that. There is a nobleman by the name of Vishakha who heads the trade between Kunti and Shurasena. He may have a place in his home for our son.’
‘A nobleman …’ Devaki looked back at the mirror. ‘A nobleman has no reason to serve an overthrown king. His loyalties will lie with the current king, will they not?’
‘Perhaps.’
A knock appeared on the door, two hard taps by a heavy hand. ‘Enter, Rishabha,’ said Devaki.
Rishabha came in and bowed, first to Devaki and then to Vasudev. ‘My lady, if I may, I have a suggestion.’
‘Yes?’
‘It is my understanding that you wish to find a place suited for the fostering of the prince.’
‘Yes, that is so.’
‘If so, my lady, perhaps you would consider sending him to Vrindavan.’
Devaki raised an eyebrow. ‘I have never heard of the place.’
‘Not many people have, my lady,’ said Rishabha. ‘It is a settlement of about two hundred cowherds that lies on the eastern edge of Shurasena. It pays tribute to the treasury every monsoon, so the people regard themselves as subjects of the High King.’
‘Indeed? Who is the chieftain of this settlement?’
‘A man who calls himself Nanda, my lady. He has taken two wives, Yashoda and Rohini, but neither of them has yet given him sons.’
‘What if he turns out to be loyal to Kamsa?’
‘There is no danger of that, my lady, Devaki. Nanda is a staunch subject of King Ugrasena, and I have already spoken to him about the fostering of the prince at his hut.’
‘And what has he said?’
‘He said he shall be honoured to raise him as his own son, my lady.’
Devaki and Vasudev exchanged glances. ‘Can we trust him?’ she asked.
‘I am a spy, Lady Devaki. I trust no one. But even I can vouch for Nanda’s integrity.’
‘How so? How do you know him so well?’
The Queens of Hastinapur Page 14