Pregnant King, The (12 page)

Simantini looked at the little girl, not sure whether to be shocked or amused. She noticed that Keshini was fully decked out. The flower garland had been squashed but it was still around her neck as it was around the king’s. And his dhoti was knotted. And the bed was not crumpled. Keshini’s nose-ring had not been removed. And the sandal paste patterns on her forehead were intact. Simantini frowned. Crinkled her forehead. Something was not right. ‘What actually happened here tonight? Tell me everything.’

‘Okay,’ said Keshini, smiling broadly, glad to have someone to talk to, relieved that her husband was not dead. ‘When he came in I was looking out the window looking for the Arundhati star. He must have been
standing there for some time for I found him staring at me when I turned around. I told him the sky looks different from the sky in my village. He smiled. He sat on the bed. I sat next to him. “Are you afraid?” he asked and I said, “Of what?” and he said, “Of me?” and I said, “Should I be?” and he said, “You know who I am?” and I said, “You are my husband and I have to show you a star tonight.” Then he said, “And?” and I said, “And what?” and then he said, “Do you want to sit close to me?” and I said “I want to sit on your lap”. He let me. Then he kept staring at me. I kept staring at him. He looked into my eyes. And I looked into his. He did not blink. So I did not blink. Then I got bored of staring so I twirled his moustache and told him my father’s moustache was thicker and longer. I don’t think he liked what I said. Then he gave me a slice of betel nut. I put it in my mouth. It filled my mouth and was bitter. I spat it out. He looked at me strangely. I thought he was angry. Then he smiled and said, “Tell me about yourself?” and I said, “What do you want to know?” and he said, “About your village, your family, your house. Everything”. And so I told him all that I could remember. I told him about my house, our courtyard and the potter’s wheel that I was not allowed to touch and where my father made pots and the furnace in our courtyard and the pit where I and my mother made clay and my brothers who loved throwing clay on me and the strange pots my father made for the doctor that I carried to his house every morning and the doctor’s son who had left the village and now lived in the palace.’ Keshini paused, ‘That’s when he looked at me curiously and asked, “You know Asanga?” and I said, “Of course. He always waits at the gate of his
father’s house every morning when I bring in the pots in the morning. He looks at me strangely. And wants to talk to me. But I don’t like talking to him.” Talking about Asanga was so boring so I changed the topic and told him of the seven-goddess’ shrines of my village, of the neem tree on whose branches is tied the sacred swing for the goddess in springtime and in autumn. I told him of the pots we bake for the temple, of the new pond in the village and the Brahmana boys who bathe there and one of them who everyone calls “donkey” though I don’t know why, and the girls who get into trouble when they steal flowers from Trigarta’s garden, and the little goat who slips into my house sometimes and breaks the pots, and the fair that is held each year after the rains, and the…’

Simantini felt her eyes growing heavy with sleep. Keshini kept talking and talking. But Simantini heard nothing. That did not stop Keshini. She kept chattering. Simantini realized how the king had ‘died’. She too was on the verge of ‘dying’. ‘Are you hungry?’ she said forcing herself awake, widening her eyes, straightening her back.

Keshini stopped. Then smiled. ‘Yes. I have eaten nothing since meeting the queen. They told me I have to fast. And I told them…’

‘I know. I know. Just keep quiet and I will give you some food.’

Simantini got up and Keshini followed her to the palace kitchen. A vast hall full of vessels and vegetables and pots and pans and stoves. There was someone moving inside. ‘Who is that?’ asked Simantini in a firm voice.

‘It is me, sister. I was hungry. Did not want to wake
up anyone.’ Simantini recognized Pulomi’s voice. She always ate when she was upset.

‘What did you find?’

‘Lots of food. Sweets mostly. Prepared for the morning feast.’

‘Now you have two more mouths to feed.’

Pulomi came out of the kitchen carrying a vessel of sweetmeats. ‘Two?’ She then noticed the little girl next to Simantini. She looked at Simantini curiously.

‘Don’t ask,’ warned Simantini, afraid the child-bride would start talking again.

Keshini did not look at either of them. She peered into the kitchen. ‘Oh my. This is bigger than my whole house. And there are so many pots here and pans and … Oh look.’

Simantini and Pulomi watched Keshini run into the kitchen and come out with a bamboo basket. In it were mangoes. Sweet, juicy mangoes. Keshini smiled. Her teeth were like pearls. Her eyes wide with excitement. Pulomi stifled a giggle. Simantini’s heart melted in maternal affection.

That night, while the palace slept, and the city slept, and Yuvanashva lay ‘dead’ on his wedding bed, his three wives sat outside the kitchen and sucked on the sweetest of Vallabhi’s mangoes.

Although she was given her own courtyard with a pond attached to it, Keshini preferred staying with Simantini. Simantini treated Keshini like a daughter,
braiding her hair, bedecking her with jewels and cooking food for her. Keshini liked this very much. She also enjoyed playing dice.

Simantini showed her the game of dice that had won her heart long ago. ‘Four people can play this game,’ exclaimed Keshini.

‘Yes, but two are enough,’ said Simantini.

‘But are we not four?’

‘Four?’

‘You, me, the king and the middle queen. We can all play together. It will be fun.’

Simantini found the idea outrageous. She organized a game and invited both Pulomi and the king to participate. To her surprise both came, Pulomi because she liked Keshini’s incessant chatter, Yuvanashva because he had nothing else to do. They played all night. The king and his three queens. And they had fun. By the time the sun rose, they were friends. Laughing and fighting over the rules of the game. It was a long time since the palace had heard such laughter. It scared the crows away.

The king allowed clay to be brought into the new queen’s courtyard for Keshini. At first everyone found the idea of a queen playing with clay disgusting. Then the clay turned into dolls. Kings, queens, monkeys and pigs, Ganga on her dolphin, Vishnu on his hawk, Shiva and Shakti on the bull called Nandi, the goddess Tarini and her seven handmaidens, the Matrikas, and their warrior son, Agneya, riding a peacock. She made dolls for the king, for the first queen and the second queen. She made dolls for her maids and the cooks who assisted in the kitchens and the guards who claimed it was for their children but kept it secretly for themselves. She
even made an elaborate doll for Shilavati. Indra seated on his elephant. Shilavati could not hold back a smile.

‘Let us play hide-and-seek,’ said Keshini one day.

‘Let’s,’ said Yuvanashva, indulgently.

And so they hid behind pillars and tapestries. The king was blindfolded. The queens ran through corridors trying to catch each other. They screamed and yelled and tumbled over pots and pans. The old servants rolled their eyes. The young ones clapped their hands and cheered enthusiastically.

Shilavati asked her servant, ‘What’s all this commotion?’

The servant replied, ‘The king is playing with his wives, Devi.’

‘Oh,’ said the queen, scowling.

‘You are not letting him rule. At least let him have fun,’ said Mandavya, trying hard not to smile.

It was while playing hide-and-seek that Keshini one day fell into the arms of Yuvanashva. She felt his strong arms around her waist. She realized she did not want him to let go. He kissed her neck and nibbled her ears. She moaned. His hand stretched down below her navel and between her thighs. Simantini ran into the room with Pulomi. They saw their husband making love to his new wife. Both withdrew quietly. Somehow, neither felt anger or jealousy. Simantini looked at the tamarind tree of the corner room across the wall and the cradles hanging on its branches. ‘Let us hope she bears him a son.’

‘Yes,’ said Pulomi. ‘Let us hope she makes our husband truly king.’

But this did not happen. Like Simantini and Pulomi, Keshini bled month after month.

Yuvanashva found himself going to three ripe wombs as the moon waxed and waned. He looked forward to those few days when he was under no such obligation. On those days, he would go to the maha-sabha alone, sit on the throne, hold the bow and imagine the day the elders of the four varnas would bow before him out of genuine respect and not merely in ceremony.

Two years passed. The Pandavas completed their thirteenth year in exile, having spent the final year disguised as servants of Virata, king of Matsya, stripped of their identity and dignity. Now it was time to return to Indra-prastha. But the Kauravas went back on the terms of the agreement. They refused to give Indraprastha back. Krishna tried to negotiate peace. Five villages for five brothers, he offered. ‘No, not a needlepoint of territory,’ said the Kauravas, declaring war. Invitations were sent by the two sides to all the kings of Ila-vrita to join them in Kuru-kshetra.

Yuvanashva wanted to go. But when he saw his mother’s look of disapproval, he said, ‘I will not go. Not until I father a child.’

Later, he opened his heart to Vipula, ‘I cannot pretend any more. The fields are fertile. It is the bull who is at fault. It is time to consider niyoga.’

Vipula was very familiar with niyoga. When his younger brother had expressed his wish to join the Angirasa, their father had said, ‘First you need a wife.’

‘No need for a wife,’ Vipula had said rather
magnanimously, knowing how his brother yearned to be free of all family fetters. ‘All he needs to do is father a child. For that he can go to my wife in her fertile period when I am away on pilgrimage. Then, when she bears him a son he can walk away as Kardama did when Kapila was born.’

Vipula went on a pilgrimage. When he returned a year later, his wife was with child and his brother had left to join the Angirasa. ‘My son,’ he said with a smile when the child was born. ‘Fatherhood,’ he informed his mother, ‘is kindled in the heart, not in the womb.’

But later, when he was alone and he saw the child in his wife’s arms, all erudition vanished. He felt a deep resentment against his brother. Anger. A sense of violation. The field was his but the fruit was not. It strained forever the relationship between him and his wife. They were strangers. When he kissed her, he felt his brother’s breath on her lips.

‘Easier said than done,’ said Vipula to Yuvanashva. ‘Would you really like a stranger to touch your wives?’

‘Perhaps a friend,’ said Yuvanashva, looking at Vipula.

‘Even a brother is a stranger when it comes to your wife,’ said Vipula bowing to his friend, honoured by the suggestion.

‘They accept me when I go to other women,’ argued Yuvanashva.

‘Are you sure, Arya?’

Yuvanashva thought for a moment. He remembered the look of despair in Simantini’s eyes. The envy in Pulomi’s. ‘I guess, they have got used to it.’

‘Will you get used to the idea that your wives have been with other men?’

‘No,’ said Yuvanashva, ‘I cannot bear the thought. I am frightened. What if they feel humiliated, violated? But do we have a choice, Vipula? I am not allowed to rule Vallabhi. I am not allowed to fight in Kuru-kshetra. I spend all day playing with my wives. All night making love to them. What kind of a life am I leading? I feel worthless, useless, a burden. I need that child. Find me a man who can perform niyoga as it should be performed, dispassionately.’

‘There is no such man,’ said Vipula.

‘Maybe the Angirasa? Rishis are not supposed to have such feelings.’

The image of his younger brother, now of the Angirasa order, flashed before Vipula’s eyes. ‘Oh really,’ he said sarcastically. ‘Why then do they shun the company of women?’

Unable to bear Yuvanashva’s anguish, Vipula rallied the younger members of the Kshatriya and Brahmana councils. ‘Who says a king must father children before he is allowed to rule? Ajaputra was king of Ayodhya before his three wives bore him four sons. These are just excuses that enables Shilavati to cling to power. The Pandava exile is over but the widow’s reign continues,’ he said.