Until the Lions

by Karthika Nair

  oppressor, to another? If a son’s beloved wives, queens

  themselves, are deemed fields to rake and furrow till the perfect fruit –

  grown from passing brahmin seed – is borne, what kind of favour

  can other women, mere manure, expect? Like veins

  of the neck, trust once slit is hard to mend – but that, My Queen,

  is your only reverse. A small price, you state, for a dream.

  A dream is a saddleless steed – may your hands on reins

  stay a little longer, for life still remains.

  SPOUSES, LOVERS

  CONSTANCY IV

  SATYAVATI

  IX. FAULT LINES

  Listen. Listen, it owns me even now, I confess. It gnaws the throat and heart though the years, the decades have flown far beyond the sphere; many are the faces, the voices, the colours to have wilted. Enemies of yore grow well nigh dear, when their shades – so much more real than the blurred living – once in a while appear. Yes, it gnaws the throat and heart, this thought, gnaws night and the moon, over, over and over: where and when and how did it begin, our fearless descent into ruin, the fall of Kuru from grace? Was it there and then, with this man’s excess or that woman’s sin? Was it Shantanu’s concupiscence, twice multiplied? A gandharva’s malediction that did not end when Chitrangada died? Did it stem from Bheeshma’s savagery in heisting brides? Was it Dhritarashtra’s need – tireless – for the throne or Pandu’s fateful penchant for venery, two and fourlegged? Yuddhishtira’s devotion to right conduct, right intent or his fatal passion, the loaded dice? Could I blame Duryodhana, his greed for his cousins’ queen and kingdom, his boundless envy – the cardinal vice his uncle would urge and breed? Or – such is the current drift, I know – was my lust for a royal dynasty our scourge? I parse them all, lift and weigh each word, undress every deed and desire – innocent, venal – seeking the one to indict or mourn. I sift and probe and sift again; it gnaws night and noon, the thought.

  Listen, Vyaasa was both right and wrong – though not for reasons he’d named (my eldest, then, was blessed with less foresight than the legends claim). No, surrogacy was never deemed the blight; there had been too much precedent, besides niyoga soon became expedient, which is all we really assess. No, the error – with distressed hindsight, this I can admit – was partly mine. I should have never asked Vyaasa to inseminate his brother’s wives; it may well be the fault line that upheaved so many lives. For Ambika and Ambalika – they of the endless curves and perfect breasts – had thus far been tupped only by their gallant, zestful husband: ardent in courtship, skilled in foreplay and generous with sexual crests, both theirs and his own.

  Don’t get me wrong: Vyaasa was – and remains – a decent man, wise in his own way, kind, and clever with rhyme and song. Yet, for all his scholarship and yogic prowess, his expertise lay mostly in Vedic verse: sadly, none of his father’s velvet lures did he possess. Malodorous and squalid he stood; I doubt he’d roused a single woman in those interim years. And worse, like almost any ascetic, cocksure he stayed about his priapic powers. But it’s hard to tell a sage he looks and smells like compost – the fear of a manic curse jells the tongue, even when he’s your son. Yet I tried. I tried to clean him up; rout the odour of sewers; coax him to rehearse with concubines and palace dancers. Of course, he declined. I know all the moves, he declared, procreation is a simple act; birds do it, bees do it, so do weed and vine. Looks and smells cannot be deterrents. All that matters is to align and entwine femur and pelvis.

  I should have known better. I should have buried my plea when I heard his moonshine. But I didn’t. I didn’t, I was desperate. Instead, I forced Ambika, in the name of sacred, stately duty – our all-purpose anodyne – to open the doors to her room and quim and allow this man, her husband’s sibling, to scatter his spore in her womb. And so Ambika, never famed for her acumen, awaited Bheeshma, more with bated breath than dread. For I’d failed, I had failed to take Vyaasa’s name, for reasons I still cannot divine; Vichitravirya’s older brother was all I had said. And I failed too, or abstained – for it was not something to forget – to warn her of Vyaasa’s stench, his mien. You could say I had coerced an orchid to mate with a wolverine.

  Listen. Listen, I’ll spare you the sordid stuff: suffice to say the sight of an unwashed Vyaasa in the buff begat a mare’s nest of cosmic breadth, winged nightmare for the entire race. They muffed it, both of them, Vyaasa with his dire bird-bee erudition and Ambika, damn her higher senses, her aversion to the unsightly, the rough. Pain, she would later insist, lacquered both eyes, snuffing out sight. Pain, she’d say, spired, the pain of infidelity, when I saw Vyaasa’s likeness to Vichitravirya, beneath the slough of stench and mire. The pain, she’d say, the endless ache of coupling – over and over – with a briar bush: gruff the blade and seeds, moistless the conjoining. Relentless. Unfeeling. For Vyaasa had ploughed her – solemn with purpose, mostly misfired – all night long, all night until he came. But the rebuff of closed eyes, Vyaasa confessed next morning, had sparked baleful, ascetic ire. It was a sudden cuff; unmeant, I swear – but my curse struck the freshly formed egg, your heir. I’ll retire now, he said, to atone, gain greater mastery over brain and stem, and return when this child is born – return to create another son, buff and flawless this time. And off he went, attired in silent shame and scruff. In fear and fury, night and day I’d damn Ambika, berate her for not braving, for not trying enough, then hire every passing priest and saint to bless her and the unborn child. It was all in vain. Nine months on, we acquired the Kuru heir, I a grandson – Dhritarashtra, muscular, grave but born totally blind. Desire to pluck Ambika’s gut, to shred Vyaasa’s tongue with bare hands, surged in my veins like wildfire.

  It was Bheeshma who calmed me down, Bheeshma who – for all his early surliness when I’d sought him as father for future kings – devised the next act and reworked this plot. Bheeshma whose words infused good sense, and a smidgeon of hope – or so I thought. No more maledictions, Queen, and certainly none that touch Ambika’s womb or skin. This kingdom will perish if Vyaasa does not sire a healthy sovereign. Invite him back, for this is one battle I refuse to lose unfought. Couldn’t we appeal to a more suitable sage or paladin, I queried, now somewhat fraught over my firstborn’s wherewithal. But Bheeshma, on that matter, was adamantine: No, it ought to be Vyaasa, rather than any another brahmin: he’s already fathered a Kuru prince. Do not multiply kin for the unborn ones. If their mothers and fathers are both different, it can lead to carnage, internecine, a rotten war that only bedlam will win. That I cannot permit in my lifetime. Though reluctant, I concurred. And we went on to plot the next congress. This time, the slot was conferred on the younger twin: Ambalika, less prone, I felt, to spurs of panic. If frightened or distraught, she just turned a shade lighter, or murmured prayers in a slurred, foreign brogue – there’d be no fuss, no din. And I taught her, taught her at length, how to defer to a great hermit, how to feign pleasure in coitus, and – imprimis – how not to demur or shut her eyes when faced with what looked like a walking forest. But we had no real armour against another curse. I crossed my heart, prayed to once-preferred gods and welcomed Vyaasa, back to bless his blind, eldest son and engender another – with luck, this time, an unimpaired one.

  Listen. Listen, we blundered again: you could call it a royal mess. Ambalika tried her very best, the poor girl: she did not shudder or even flinch, though Vyaasa – after nine months without a wash, and encounters with a swarm of gnats – appeared fearsome, macabre I’d have said if he weren’t mine. And at first (he confessed the day after, once again), everything was fine. Vyaasa was gratified by Ambalika’s deference, combined with poise. Quietly, they conjoined; blessed, the first stream of his milky brine. And then disaster chimed: he rose to light a wick, to rest his gaze on Ambalika, to trace more than an outline of this full moon. And he saw, he saw how she blanched on sighting him, blanched to the marrow of her spine: paler, he
said, than the moon overhead. Pain rose in unearthly whine, pain torqued into livid bane: her son, he defined in his instant of pain, would be pallid as raw sago, and born infertile to boot. By the time his mind realigned, it was too late, too late to gag his callous tongue. Far too late for one more child, damaged beyond life, kingship and kingdom. Still, he tried, he tried hard to make amends, blessing the infant with the valour and libido of ten elephants, a heart larger than a kettledrum. Vyaasa, my wild, impetuous son – who would, one day, grow into the essence of wisdom, into the mild, omniscient person whose words would be intoned till eternity by men – almost undone by sudden yearning to be admired, or perhaps, just to be seen as human.

  And there it would have ended, had I not railed and ranted, risking another curse from Vyaasa whom I reprimanded in unvarnished fisher-queen tongue, residue that washed up whenever I was furious. I ranted and railed, while rhyme, rhythm and refrain fled, one by one, exodussed in fright, never to return. I railed and ranted, wielding thought and word as mantra, arms exiguous. Sages never get punished or checked, whatever your brutishness, your commissions and omissions, that’s the trouble – no one teaches you the meaning of restraint or consent; all you have to do is feel offended, and the world falls apart, with nobody exempt. Your own children – born and unborn – stand undefended from your attacks, venal, indefensible. Your words are walls of granite, built on the rubble of so many lives. Is it right, I demanded, for one so enlightened to indulge in wanton wrath? Is it just, I contended, for your lot to visit so much misery, inflict terminal aftermaths on people who sustain, even create, you? You stand and grow on the shoulders of men – and women – you destroy without a thought. Aren’t you selected, or blessed, by gods and elders or your own sacred texts to spread knowledge and light in the land, bestow comfort to the soul, not dread in every heart? You are right: I should have never asked you to further the Kuru line. But how can you leave before you’ve undone the giant gnarl your cursed words have wrought in Hastina’s fate?

  Listen. Vyaasa stood there. He stood there. He listened, and repented. I have, he agreed, many miles to walk before true illumination, before tongue and plume grow as sapient, as fluent and controlled as they must. I haven’t been fair to Ambika and Ambalika – nor, alas, to their progeny, who’ll be stunted from my unreasoned fury. I will, he added, describe all my doings and undoings, each terrible defect, in my story – warn future fathers of the perils rage engenders, yes, more so when topped by phallic pride, how an unintended word spells the end of a life, or dynasty. At this, I intervened. No, I told him, your children should never have to learn they were deformed by their father’s fury; that is a legacy I want neither my son nor grandsons to bear. Sometimes you need to wrap up history in hushed linen and bury her beneath a banyan tree. All I ask of you is compassion, hereafter, empathy and an end to all your curses; boons, besides, will bring you greater glory. And one more task, will you father a third child for the Kuru, sleep with one of the widowed queens one last time? One last time: he conceded, eager in remorse. He would depart now, but return when the second son arrived, and conceive the third by the same moon, he pledged.

  Sure enough, not long after, Ambalika’s son was born: Pandu, wan as whey, more speckled than a sparrow’s wing, but cheerful and spirited, even for a newborn. This time, we’d had time to steel ourselves for the shock; this time, I had lulled my querulous heart. Then I summoned Ambika to my wing, and bade her prepare for procreation, one last time. With Vyaasa, I clarified, to avoid delusions of any kind. She stared, transfixed, while I explained the need for more offspring; stared, for an indefinite while; inclined her head and left without a word. I put the oddness out of my mind – there was, indeed, much to prepare. This was our final effort at a healthy, wholesome heir. I had my maids strew full vials of perfume, musk and incense, everywhere that Vyaasa would step: from gateway to bedchamber to courtroom. Had them deck the grandest quarter for the night, and light the room with constellations of earthen lamps, unleash rabbles of fireflies, replicate the firmament. Spread acres of fur and hide on floors and walls, should Vyaasa disdain urban trappings. And I invoked every god I knew by name, loved and feared from childhood.

  I saw him the next day: Vyaasa, on his way back to the forests of Swarnadveep, in the eastern seas. I saw him, I say, but it was like greeting a star up close with naked eyes: he glowed, he blazed, he’d become a meteor in flight. Strangely, he seemed cleaner, tamer, hardly malodorous – surely, though, that wasn’t possible overnight? Then he spoke, and his voice shone as well. Mother, you will have a peerless grandson: strong and wise, brave and generous, like his mother. Learned from birth, more than I was. He will be the most precious gem in the Kuru coronet. And then, just as I began ululating in joy, he added: There could be no emperor worthier then he, but he will not be Ambika’s child, or royal in any sense except ones that count the most. Does that matter, Mother, as long as he is my son and your grandchild? My brain failed to understand, he had to spell it in as many words: Ambika did not appear, Mother. She sent a handmaiden in her place – a woman whose name I never learnt. A woman, more rare and priceless and gracious than any queen; a woman who taught me much across one night, the meaning of words I did not know – words like grace and largesse and parity, some feelings I could never pronounce: desire, shared bliss and harmony; a woman I will not forget easily though I must, I must, to keep my word to the earth and destiny. A woman who will birth a child more than worthy of this dynasty, whom I fear your court and kin will disregard. But that, like other oversights, is their birthright, is it not? I have fulfilled my promise, my last one, and must now withdraw to forget, to forge. It will take me decades of tapas to retrieve my core, become detached and indomitable as sage and bard once more. Stay one more night, I begged him. Impregnate Ambika again, I begged him. But he smiled in firm denial. Mother, one thing I learnt yesterday – which I should have as a child (had I been one), or perhaps would, had I grown up by your side – was that no good comes from forcing a woman, even with the noblest of reasons. Ambika does not wish to sleep with me, and it is her heart we should heed. And with that, he left.

  Listen. Listen, rage returned; with it flooded confusion and shame. I was a welter of emotion but before I could recall Ambika to extract an explanation, Poorna appeared at my door: Poorna, Ambika’s favourite maid, quiet, astute and full of grace. I had one question. Were you threatened or offered a bribe? She replied in usual, unhurried tones: No, My Queen. It wasn’t threat to life, greed, nor lust – as the hazel, restive moon is witness – that thrust me last night through the doors of your son’s chamber. It was dread in vile gust, Ambika’s dread. Deferential though she remained, Poorna spoke her mind, her words many-armed, weaponed with truth. Ambika, she revealed, had been driven near mad with alarm at the thought of sex with Vyaasa again – sanctioned rape, Poorna termed it – and would have killed herself to avoid any more. Turmoil swirled to guilt in full cascade: the maid did not lie, though I could have burnt her alive for numbering my sins, framing their names and contours, tracing their feet with kumkum. I had transformed from mother to empress; from human to – yes – monarch, ruthless dowager queen obsessed with stock and pedigree, working the lasses under her wing, a son’s beloved wives, as – her very words – fields to be raked, to be furrowed until the perfect fruit was borne. I had run through the stacked rooms of our past, to pillage other quarters, hurling comets at the futures of unborn sons and sentient daughters. Her words, many-armed, weaponed with truth, still whirl in my mind, jagged edges birthing permanent scabs. I will not expand on that – not all abasement can be shared, however penitent one is. But they stay with me, her words, loyal, deathless sentinels.

  Will you have me killed now, or after your grandson’s birth? Poorna asked, unruffled as before. I considered her young face with interest, and said, in all honesty, I do not know yet. We have gone to much too much trouble for a healthy grandchild, it would be a pity to lose him merely to appease my rage and spite
your mistress, tempted as I am. Besides, death can be so boring, so swift and uninspiring as punishment. And to make you a martyr would be adverse to crown and kingdom. For now, your pregnancy and childbirth take precedence. With that, I ended our interview, then marshalled all the king’s physicians, the court midwives, to charge them with the handmaid’s care. For now, she would have to live and deliver.

  Kurukshetra’s roots

  descend deep; not on earth, but

  in Time they belong.

  SAUVALI

  BEDTIME STORY FOR A DASI’S SON

  I.

  I have waited long to see you, Child, waited, day after day after day, with little to offer you but this one story, a tale without a distant once upon a time to gird it, to keep us safe. Once happens, again and again, and will, again. I need you to know how that once happens, each moment and each step, so clearly, so intimately, that you become the one within the recursive once. They will say you are not old enough to hear these things. But I was not old enough to live them either, and you will not stay young for long, Child. It is better I lead you out of childhood with my own hands, with my words before the world does. And so I wait, Child, I wait to tell you how once happened to me, how it happens to my kind. To say

  When the king decides to (say it, say it, say the word, I tell myself. But I cannot, I find, not yet, at least. I shall begin with periphrases and work my way towards the word. I must begin again.)

  II.

  When the king decides to take you, the eyes arrive first. Not his own, for he is blind. No, an unkindness of eyes, male and female and other, raptors that circle you, watching, weighing, measuring, probing and prying. An unkindness of eyes, each set different, yet so similar they could all be the same. Eyes that seem to have no tongues, no torsos either though you will feel their beaks inside your head for the rest of your days, pecking your words, gnawing on your thoughts, spitting out syllables, stretching vowels, screeching and cooing in turn, praising and threatening. It is an honour, they crow, that you must strive to deserve. An honour we are so grateful to be spared. A great honour you must not avoid. You know this already, in all the years you have tried to remain unseen, tried to stay unbodied even when present. For how could you forget your neighbour, the maid who fled, the maid who had reached the river, dived in and nearly crossed its waters when soldiers harpooned her through the neck, hauled her back, then slit her open like a common carp, nose to belly, and left her innards by the bank. For you were taught the tale of your great-aunt, chosen by another monarch many moons back; your great-aunt, who managed to vanish but returned when they fed her husband and her firstborn to a bonfire, feet first – famished bodies flammable as tinder but louder, so much louder – and fed the remains – two tiny hands, a thigh-bone, charred bowels – to red ants. An honour you cannot refuse, they caw. As though you don’t know that