Pregnant King Read online

  ‘I want to know who I am, Simantini,’ said Yuvanashva.

  ‘You are my husband. And we have a child. Leave it at that.’

  In Hastina-puri, meanwhile, they were celebrating the birth of Parikshit, Arjuna’s grandson. In Panchala, they were celebrating the birth of Amba, Drupada’s granddaughter.

  ‘Nobody wants to celebrate your birth,’ said Yuvanashva, looking at Mandhata. He felt sad for the little one. The circumstances of his birth were hardly his fault. ‘They don’t know what to make of you. I don’t know what to make of you.’

  No one in Vallabhi, except a few palace maids, knew of Mandhata’s birth. But they never talked about him. They never even looked in his direction. Something did not feel right. He had appeared so suddenly after the king’s illness. Had he been given to the king by the Devas? Was it created by the two Rishis? Had he been ploughed out of the earth through magical ceremonies invoking the Nagas? Why did Shilavati never go to him?

  Yuvanashva did not care. All he wanted to do was gaze at the child all day long. He asked for a cradle to be placed in his chambers.

  ‘A cradle in the king’s chambers. What will people say?’ asked Simantini. ‘Besides you have to attend to the kingdom. Vallabhi needs its king. It is your dharma. Let the little one stay with me. I promise to be a good nurse.’

  Yuvanashva agreed with great reluctance.

  Eight times a day, the king would go into Simantini’s chambers. Simantini would pick up the child from the cradle and place him in the arms of the king. Father and son would sit on a pelt of black antelope. The windows would be shut. A lamp would be lit. In the light of the lamp, Yuvanashva would let his son draw milk from his chest.

  Only once had Simantini peeped into the room and seen her husband nurse the prince. She saw Yuvanashva’s face fill with maternal tenderness. Tears in his eyes. Gentle sighs leaving his lips as he felt the milk ooze out his nipple.

  Yuvanashva asked the barber to shave his chest. ‘Why, my lord?’ the barber had asked. ‘You are blessed with such a rich crop of hair.’ The king had not answered and the barber had obeyed. For the following year the king never bared his chest in public. He always wrapped his chest in an uttarya.

  ‘I don’t think I produce enough milk. The child looks thin. And I have no breasts. My chest is as firm as it has always been. Where does the milk store itself?’ Yuvanashva asked Simantini. He spoke freely in her presence. Simantini struggled hard to hide her awkwardness.

  ‘I will have the cook give you milk and bananas. Asanga says it is good for nursing mothers,’ she said.

  When Yuvanashva was busy at court, he left his son with Simantini. When no one was looking, Simantini would offer her breast to the boy. He would suckle, and finding it dry, turn away and cry.

  pulomi laughs

  ‘Now he has a womb and breasts. Why does he need wives? He is complete. All he needs, perhaps, is a husband,’ said Pulomi. She laughed. It was a bitter laugh.

  News of Pulomi’s laughter reached Yuvanashva. He was not amused. Leaving Mandhata in Simantini’s care, he went to Pulomi.

  Yuvanashva’s face was grim when he entered Pulomi’s chamber. The handmaidens sensed his anger. They prepared to leave. ‘Stay,’ said the king firmly. The women stopped and moved against the wall. Pulomi rose from her bed to greet the king. ‘Sit,’ he said pushing her down. ‘I heard you questioned my manliness.’

  Pulomi was scared. She looked at her maids. They crowded in the corner, terrified of what could follow. ‘No, Arya, I would never do that.’

  ‘Maybe I am not a man. Maybe I am a woman. I have done what you could never do in the years of marriage.’

  ‘Please don’t say such things, Arya. They are listening,’ she said lowering her eyes, embarrassed. Her heart was beating faster. She regretted her laughter.

  The king moved closer to her. He placed his hands on her shoulders, his hips close to her face. She could smell the milk.

  ‘Are you a woman, Pulomi? Hmmmm…’ Pulomi felt like she was choking. From the corner of her eye she saw the servants watching this public humiliation. Oh, the shame. ‘My mother paid a lot for you. What a waste of cows! You could not make me a father. But can you make me a man?’ Pulomi turned away. ‘Look at me, when I speak to you,’ ordered Yuvanashva. Pulomi quivered and looked up. Tears rolled down her eyes. ‘I want you to show how much of a woman you are. Stoke my fire. Remind me I am a man. Your husband.’ He undid his dhoti. Pulomi saw her husband’s flaccid manhood in front of her eyes. She knew what he was asking her to do.

  ‘Arya, I am your wife. Don’t treat me like a whore.’ Yuvanashva’s eyes were cold. He took a step closer and put his hand on her head.

  finally

  ‘Devi,’ shouted Pulomi’s maid, running into Shilavati’s courtyard. ‘Devi. It has finally happened. My princess is pregnant. She is pregnant. She has not gone to the corner room for two moons. Asanga has felt her pulse. He has confirmed it. She is pregnant.’

  Shilavati’s heart leapt with joy. She remembered what the astrologers had said. ‘Patience.’ The magic potion of the Siddhas had done more than make her son pregnant. The magic had seeped into his seed.

  She got up and rushed to Pulomi’s room leaving her prayers midway. ‘So my son has been going back to his wives,’ Shilavati checked with the handmaiden.

  ‘Only once,’ she said. ‘Two moons ago.’ She ran ahead. She did not want to recount or remember what she had witnessed. But then, such things happen between husband and wife. Everything happens for the best. She was happy for her queen.

  A woman with life within her body is Prakriti, nature itself. She is a goddess. She needs to be worshipped. Especially when she is the wife of the king.

  Shilavati organized a great ceremony to celebrate Pulomi’s pregnancy. All the wives of the Kshatriya and Brahmana and Vaishya and Shudra elders gathered in the queen’s courtyard dressed in their finest. The courtyard was lined with flowers. The women came bearing gifts for the queen. ‘Finally, the doorway has opened,’ said one woman. ‘The ancestors will be pleased.’

  A lone crow watched the crowd from one of the roofs.

  A rich floral pattern had been created with rice flour in the centre of the courtyard. Pulomi was made to sit in the centre. The women showered flowers on her and walked around her with lamps in their hands. ‘Know that you are a diminutive double of the goddess. Life grows within you,’ they chanted. They gave her gifts to make her happy. Because happy mothers produce happy children.

  Food was cooked. All the women watched Pulomi eat. ‘Eat something sweet, then something sour, then something spicy, then something salty and finally something bitter. You must taste all five flavours. It helps the child.’

  They put talismans on her arms to protect mother and child.

  The women brought with them pots of sprouted grain. ‘You are the earth. Fertile. Fecund. You nurture. You provide,’ the women sang.

  The king was called into the women’s courtyard. Pulomi was made to sit on his lap. She avoided his eye. Everybody thought she was shy. Yuvanashva kept a stony face. It was the first time they had met since the night he had humiliated her. Yuvanashva justified his actions as necessary to put his wife in place. He was king after all. He felt Pulomi cringe when he put his arm over her shoulder. Pulomi had scrubbed her body for days trying to remove her sense of violation. But then the seed he had left in her womb had sprouted. She felt pure again. But she could not forgive the king.

  The women gave Yuvanashva a blade of grass that was dipped in the sap of the banyan tree. ‘Put two drops in her right nostril,’ an elderly Kshatriya woman instructed the king. Turning to Pulomi she said, ‘Try not to sneeze. The sap will ensure that the child being moulded in your womb is a boy. This kingdom needs an heir.’

  But the kingdom has an heir, thought Yuvanashva. He realized none of the women knew of Mandhata. He resisted the urge to tell them. ‘Beware of the implications,’ Vipula had said.

  There was great rejoicing in the cit