your cousin Duryodhana – and yours
must win this war, must inherit my
planet: for order and not revenge.
Yuddhishtira? Someone must die,
but you understand why. There’s no time
to waffle or pine: if you won’t let me, Aravan
alone remains – your uncle Shalya would do
but he fights now on the other side.
So what if the lad’s an ally?
Someone must die, Yuddhishtira,
and he didn’t come to Kurukshetra
for a party. Yes, he’s keen on dying
in battle, but a sacrifice will bring him
greater glory – for once, it isn’t a lie. I’ll
convince Aravan and his parents too.
Someone must die, Yuddhishtira,
and Arjuna will have to bid his half-
serpent son goodbye, but he never
knew the boy, and this is a higher
cause than family. Besides, he has
other sons; but Ulupi won’t agree
someone must die, Yuddhishtira,
not when that someone to die
is her only son, heir to her throne. Nor,
though, will she deny Aravan his whims.
So we have to ensure this is an end
the boy desires. Not that easy, when
someone must die, Yuddhishtira.
Convince Aravan he’s the chosen
one, marked by destiny, marked through
his very body, proof irrefutable if
proof ever there’d be of his being
kalapalli, the one, the blessed
someone who must die. Yuddhishtira,
we asked and here’s Aravan’s reply.
You were right: he would prefer to die
in battle, but he will comply. On
condition, though, that he be wed –
in word and truly in deed – first.
Someone must die, Yuddhishtira,
yes, but not a virgin. Aravan
asks to be deflowered tonight,
or all offerings will be in vain.
We asked and asked again, but
no woman agrees to marry
someone, Yuddhishtira, who must die
on his wedding night. No woman
wishes to be widowed quite so soon,
nor gutted alive as sati. But if no such
woman exists, I’ll supply a bride. It is one
night’s tale, not a lifetime affair. If
someone must die, Yuddhishtira,
so must another be born, or remade.
There will be a woman by twilight, for
Aravan to wed and bed. You may be young,
but you’ve still heard, I guess, of Mohini?
You can count on her to lie with him,
Yuddhishtira. Someone must die,
must first sigh appeased, pleased. And hence
I shall transform, unsheathe my female form:
reap lush, tender breasts and fragrant hips,
sate him with the velvet of my thighs and lips,
drown him in embrace all night long. For
someone must die, Yuddhishtira,
and it is no sin to grant him this wish.
If that, thereby, entails a change of sex,
so be it. Why the horrified stare? If I can
morph into boar and fish and man-lion
to save the world, why not a woman?
Somone must die, Yuddhishtira,
and that someone deserves a wife to cry
over his death, if just for half a day. Besides
I’ve been Mohini once before, Enchantress
no deity could ever resist, nor forget. If
the gods didn’t mind, why should men,
Yuddhishtira? Someone must die,
your flesh and blood, it transpires,
to guarantee your conquest. And all you
find awry in this carousal of bloodlust
is that man will love man tonight? Ring
temple bells, garland weapons, and sing
instead, Yuddhishtira: someone shall die.
MOHINI
JEREMIAD FOR THE DEBRIS OF STARS
a curse
a curse a curse
on you
a
curse
on you
a curse on
all of you
gods demons sovereigns
oceans planets mountains moon
fire earth on all you
gaping
stars
a curse on creatures a curse on all that rises
of the night of day that gleams that shades
on trees on this air that razes that invades
a curse on all that
remains
For he breathes no more aravan breathes no more no more hears nor speaks no more sings with the breeze no more do his feet anchor the earth no more do his cheeks kiss the sun’s roving fingers no more does he taste the sandal the musk of these breasts no more does he savour nectar in the hollow of a neck no no more no more will his skin warm my skin shoulder to instep no more will his hands map the journey of filaments from navel to pudendal cleft no more can he rest his head between my legs no more his mouth no more his manhood no more pulse no more thought no more aravan
a
curse
on you
for he is no more aravan is no more no more he is no more than thirty-two slivers of flesh for kali’s tongue offering for pandava victory no more than gashes on a head a chest a belly nose temple the point the sacred point between eyebrows twin sets ripped of earlobes lips knuckles elbows wrists shoulders knees insteps then ten neatly-sliced toes yes thirty-two slivers of flesh that imbrue the earth with geysers of unending unfading ritual red while the rest the rest will be fed to agni’s hungry craw his blazing crimson craw nape of neck and clavicle ribcage breastbone gizzard spine and sinew gullet and tongue and teeth his burnished gaze his voice the river ripple of his voice his smile his smile his smile the colour of summer noon
a curse
a curse a curse
on you
a curse on kali a curse on
all heaven a curse on any god
that clamours offerings any
god that trades in blood and
breath for blessings a curse
on them all of them gods that
revel in bloody mayhem in
sacrifice a hundred curses
a curse on night on last night
heedless violet-skinned night
that sped towards dawn
flashing toe-rings and anklets
night that ended my heart
ended most of my life
a curse on hastinapur a curse on this feckless land on all its kings on the ancient house of kuru with its parricidal kin a curse on bheeshma for his dreadful vow on vyaasa who kept bharata’s line alive a curse on dhritarashtra on dead pandu on gandhari and kunti and their many murderous thoughtless good deeds a curse
a curse a bigger a viler a direr curse the same curse dark and vile and dire
on those five pandava brothers on duryodhana the cause of this
bastards all yuddhishtira the war on dushasana the next in
pious eldest who sends his line evil disrober of women
children to die for a paltry and all ninety-eight siblings
throne powerful bheem jealous bitter blood to be
who watched all this spilled on kurukshetra’s
injustice reign and sacred earth sacred
killed only his only to brahmins
cousins or the living
then arjuna oh
the bright peerless arjuna
precious to the gods arjuna
who fights behind krishna’s shield
arjuna who let his son his firstborn
aravan take his place at kali’s
altar bleating he is helpless
at every amoral turn
and a curse on you ulupi mighty queen grieving mother a curse on you for not keeping him safe for not keeping aravan away what use is free will if it fetters breath if it smothers pulse so why must mothers permit sons to follow noxious fathers but what curse could be worse than aching womb than empty heart what curse of mine could ever be worse ulupi
a curse
a curse a curse
on us
on you krishna lord of fourteen worlds a curse a curse the vilest of all curses on you on you for these gods these demons sovereigns oceans planets mountains moons for this fire this earth this heaven for all these gaping stars a curse on you the foulest of curses krishna for spinning this loathsome universe into light for this war that razes countless men and beasts hope and goodness a war that parches land and sea and sky the war that you willed into being a curse on your dharma that changes shape and colour and size to suit the wearer your mutant bootless justice and your lethal cosmic song a curse a curse a curse on you for this deadly master plan to ensure pandava victory the ruse to spare your cherished arjuna a curse on you for contriving aravan’s death and a million curses I hurl at you krishna for transmuting into maiden into mohini into me a curse for proffering this choiceless coupling this heady grief a million curses for your power o god that creates god that destroys god that forgets as gods so easily do
a curse on me a curse on me for I live while aravan lies unmoving reduced to thirty-two slivers of flesh to geysers of unfading ritual red for while I breathe he can no more dream for I speak while his tongue is a mere blaze of flame for while I walk his legs are firewood on a pyre while I taste air he is just a name while I dance he is dead sacrifice a curse a curse on my breast-cloth his fingers can no more undo on my bracelets that will never mark his skin on my eyes for they behold aravan no more only carcass and bone a curse on this gaze whose lust can stir him no more on nails that will never graze his spine again hands that will not wind around his neck fingers that need never entangle his a curse on my breasts for they will blossom in his palms no more on my lost laughter that will not caress his lips again a curse a curse on this womb that never will bear his seed and watch it grow and one last vicious curse on my transient woman’s soul that will forget aravan after this morning when it becomes male once more for krishna will not spare me a morsel of memory not the comfort of mourning nor the covenant of a married name
a curse
a curse a curse
on me
SPOUSES, LOVERS
CONSTANCY V
What more is there to say we breathe we act we live until we die8 there will be more there may always be more more thought more hope more prayer more pleas more planets and comets more orbits for moons more oceans with mountains more scree more rage in the rivers more livid fear more waves more trees more lore more birds more arms their feet more beckoning shores and yet and yet and yet more is not enough never nearly enough to hold this day in the heart of a palm to lull today to safety to stillness for time does not snag between our lips for thought just weighs a syllable for hope leaves no contrails for prayers deliquesce for pleas leave no ashes for comets care little for you or me for orbits have no desire for moons are lighted shadows for oceans cannot impale red stars for no mountains could halt today for rivers will not rise to snare the sun for trees hurl no branches to tangle the moon for birds will founder and arms and legs do tire for no waves stifle divine decrees for the lore always lies for the song must end for this day this one last day before the battle must blaze white and die with its colours like hours falling sideways shredding dry seas with rain staining indigo earth once again for night flows like sand for night catches like wildfire for this night is a beast three lungs two throats a belly with barbels but no eyes nor ears and never skin its throats spewing anthems of unreason for this night tonight churns living metal mineral souls old blood for the battle begins in the night of our fears for all that is left for all that is left to sight to claim to own is a distant shore of yesterday all that is left to touch to trace to memorize is the tattoo of my breath on your brow for until we die we live we love we kill and there is little more to say
SATYAVATI
XI. FAULT LINES
Listen. Listen, where do I begin? Or perhaps, should I wonder, how do I end? Isn’t that the question? How do we all end? Sequestered in tombs, sailed – rotting – down rivers, strewn on high mountains as soot and cinders? If only it were that simple, that final. And then, some of us are made to live on as symbols. Made to walk on the roof of myth or history and slide off the rafters, in never-ending tendril. Made to repeat our errors and stories through perpetuity. Made to dwell in the past and the future while the present alone stays elusive, invisible. Such random, ominous thoughts and notions slid about my mind, like plates beneath the earth’s crust: fault lines appeared, fractured, multiplied – and widened into seismic clefts. I clenched night, spinous, opalescent night, between my teeth. I heard the moon’s jagged edges carve my throat, I sensed it wedged in the larynx. It felt like all the light from Gandhari’s famous, shuttered eyes was caught in my gullet.
The journey seemed endless. The journey back to Hastina, it took three months, a week and two nights and swallowed several lives, human and animal. But I hardly noticed the dangers, the deterrents, only the delays. Those visions blitzed my night and day, not lucent and unambiguous as the first time, but chromatic, grotesque, a few all too recurrent. I saw a colossal, hideous lump of flesh egress from the loins of a woman, faceless in agony and shame. I saw the lump portioned into a hundred – then one more, though tiny – parts, stored in earthen jars by rough, efficient hands I knew at once – even in that nebulous, distant world – as those of my son Vyaasa. I saw the jars shake the palace walls, shake the earth with ululations; roil clouds and seas with unearthly thrums; saw the jars burst open to spill desolation, loud and clangourous, in the form of a hundred cherubs, soft and innocent. And I saw my grandson Pandu, flanked by two beauteous females – one childlike and blithe, the other intent – on a lush, high glade, far from court and capital, far from opulence but far from woebegone. I saw supernal beings descend from heaven and conjugate, first with the grey-eyed, pensive woman, then the younger one, while Pandu danced, danced in anticipation. The next instant I saw them flocked by five radiant sons, children who disgorged stone and metal, magma, meteors. I saw them all, palace-dwellers and woodlanders alike, transform; infants become rock warriors. I saw them whirlpool continents, wrack oceans; I saw them decapitate tens of thousands.
Listen. Listen, when we reached home and my eyes fell on Vyaasa’s face, I knew no surprise at all. There he stood, now a wizened sage, but tall and contained, with none of the rampant whiskers and mane, nor the mercury of yore. You returned, Mother, although you saw all the portents. I salute your sense of duty, your courage though not your lack of self-preservation. Clearly, my son hadn’t changed as much as his looks implied. And before I could respond, he continued, whether to himself or me I could not construe. You saw it all in your visions. Yuddhishtira, Kunti’s firstborn – fathered by Dharma, God of Death and Justice – was born some full moons ago. And Bheema – the second, this mighty one sired by Vayu, Lord of the Winds – will arrive before next spring. Yes, Mother, niyoga once more, at Pandu’s insistence lest he die without offspring to perform the last rites and dispatch him to heaven. Though Kunti is more amenable to persuasion than your daughters-in-law were – and Madri will actually clamour for her turn. In Hastina, though, Dhritara
shtra’s rage knew no bounds on hearing of his nephew’s birth. He declared Gandhari accursed and barren, though her belly – round as a melon – was full of his unborn children. He tupped and tupped again a dasi designated by his priests until she fell pregnant. Frantic and senseless in pain, Gandhari wrested aforesaid belly with an iron bar so she’d egest – but you’ve already seen that and the rest.
Mother, I’ve just shattered that lump into many bits and nested them in urns with sacred oil and my benedictions. In nine months, Dhritarashtra and Gandhari will become parents to a full century of bairns. While Pandu will have three more scions attached to his name: Arjuna, born to Kunti from Indra, yes, the King of Gods himself; then, Nakula and Sahadeva, the fruit of Madri’s tryst with the Ashwini Twins, those dashing godly physicians. Who could own a more refulgent litter! But prepare to mourn, Mother, prepare to mourn and never stop mourning. For Pandu will die before his youngest sons begin to speak, will die when he forgets the vile curse that hangs over his fate, will die from carnal bliss in Madri’s arms. And she’ll die too, unable to live with remorse, die leaving her two sons under Kunti’s aegis. Kunti, ordered – by both late husband and clan shibboleth – to be mother and grandmother of monarchs. Kunti, who’s always been more queen mother than either queen or mother; Kunti, who will strive – at all costs – to regain the throne for Pandu’s firstborn. Kunti, who will return to Hastina, and unleash her half-divine progeny amidst a hundred Kaurava pigeons – pigeons who are no less raptors. Mother, come away with me, come away now. Do not stay to watch your great-grandchildren tear each other and the world apart, then drown it in haematic flood. This is a splendrous – if gruelling – epic to read or write, but not one you want to inhabit, Mother, no, not when the killers and the killed will all be your own sinew and blood.
Bewildered and distraught, I interrupted: But surely no child is born evil, Vyaasa. Given the right care, with the right values, surely we can save them still. I cannot bear to surrender without trying. Nor to abide thoughtlessly by cosmic visions and rumour mills, be these sights so demonic. Vyaasa’s shoulders stooped at that, he bore the pain of centuries. No, Mother, no child is born evil, on that we full agree. It is not evil itself that will plague our descendants, initially, but hate – almost the same thing in effect, alas, though not in cause: many good men hate, and will destroy wantonly in their hate, yet reject the notion of evil influencing decisions or actions. These children, Mother, are being brewed in hate, and steeped in it they will grow. How many hates will you battle? Assailed by all the colours and tones of hate in the universe will the Kurus be. Hate that will play every instrument to sound a symphony of doom across the firmament. So many rhythms and colours emanate from that hatred, Mother, our eyes and ears may crumble and desiccate at their advent. At the near beginning stands Amba’s hate, a hate that consumes planets and stars and comets, that transcends, why, owns Time, hate that will resound as Bheeshma’s nemesis: the warrior Shikhandi, soon to be born to Dhrupad – a king who will embrace hate as his lifelong consort – in the nearby land of Panchaal. Amba-Shikhandi who will transform from woman to man by the sheer might of her vengeance, who’ll plague Bheeshma with the memory of desire and wrong until the day he shall perish. Add to this the silent, frightened loathing of Ambika and Ambalika that flowed, on leaving their latterly quietened souls, into Hastina’s mud and rivers – and perhaps their children’s blood.
Until the Lions Page 13