Pregnant King Read online

  ‘You have a very powerful imagination, Simantini.’

  ‘I have been thinking about it for some time.’

  ‘Have you also thought of a way to explain of how it was I, not any one of you, who came to bear the first prince?’ asked Yuvanashva sarcastically.

  Simantini took no notice of this. ‘There is no need for that. I will present Mandhata. I am his mother too.’

  ‘Since when?’ asked Yuvanashva sharply.

  ‘Since the day Pandu claimed to be the father of the Pandavas without making either of his wives pregnant. If a man is a father of his wives’ children through the rite of marriage, why can I not be the mother of my husband’s child through the rite of marriage? Surely motherhood is kindled in the heart too?’ she told Yuvanashva. ‘I may not be Mandhata’s mother by blood or milk. But I am his mother by love. When Krishna visited my father’s palace, my father asked him what surprised him most about life. Krishna answered, “That everyone asks me to choose between my birth mother Devaki and my foster mother Yashoda. I tell them, why choose. Everyone who loves me as a child is my mother.” I love Mandhata as my son. I am therefore his mother.’

  Yuvanashva handed over his son to Simantini, his first wife, Mandhata’s mother by love. ‘Now you will be the mother of the king’s firstborn,’ he said reading her mind. ‘You will bow to no one.’

  mandhata is presented

  The queen’s courtyard was full of women. Wives of Brahmanas, Kshatriyas, Vaishyas and Shudras. Mothers belonging to communities of priests, soldiers, farmers, herdsmen, weavers, potters, painters and dancers. They played flutes, drums and symbols and clapped their hands singing cheerful songs to celebrate the birth of Jayanta.

  Pulomi sat on green cushions on the silver throne. Next to her sat Shilavati and the wives of Rishis who had come all the way from the forests to bless her. In front of her spread on a reed mat were the gifts for her child. Each piece created with love and affection by the potters and silversmiths of Vallabhi.

  Pulomi sat with Jayanta in her arms beaming with pride when suddenly, without warning, the conch-shell trumpets of the king sounded.

  The singing stopped. The music stopped. Everybody turned to look at who was coming. Was it the king?

  ‘No, it is not him,’ said Shilavati realizing what was going through Pulomi’s mind.

  Pulomi heaved a sigh of relief when she saw it was Simantini. Then she was angry: she did not want the glance of a barren woman on her son. That was when she noticed what Simantini held in her arms. She froze.

  Draped in a green sari, wearing a gold nose-ring, a long garland of champaka flowers reaching up to her knees, in regal gait, flanked by maids who carried the king’s yak-tail fly whisks and silver parasol, Simantini cradled Mandhata in her arms. ‘This is the king’s firstborn. My son. We present him to you,’ she announced.

  All the women gasped and broke into an excited chatter. Shilavati kept an impassive face hiding her irritation. Pulomi looked at her son trying hard to hide her shock.

  The women looked at each other. Finally, the wife of a Kshatirya elder asked, ‘Why have we not been told of this?’

  ‘For the safety of the prince. He was born after great difficulty as you all know,’ said Simantini, smiling confidently, not taking her eyes off Mandhata even for a moment.

  The women understood. They had all seen their king visit the shrine of Ileshwara every full moon for thirteen years dressed in white begging the deity for a child. They had all seen the three queens dressed in red visit the shrine with garlands of jabakusuma flowers on new moon nights. They were the first to see the face of the deity. The last to receive her grace. ‘Ileshwari has given the king not one but two children. A torrent instead of a trickle of grace. Praise be to Ileshwari,’ said Keshini, who stood behind Simantini.

  ‘Praise be to Ileshwari,’ shouted the women.

  Shilavati watched as the women who were sitting around her second daughter-in-law got up and crowded around her elder daughter-in-law. They looked at the young Mandhata. He was dressed in a white cloth with tiny gold anklets and armlets and a chain of gold beads with tiger claws round his neck. He yawned and looked content in Simantini’s arms. The women started to sing. ‘Blessed is the queen. Blessed is our prince. Blessed is Vallabhi.’

  Pulomi and her son were all but forgotten.

  Simantini smiled in triumph.

  Book Six

  bhangashvana

  Just before the rains, at the height of summer, the image of Ileshwara was brought out of the temple and placed on a giant pedestal in the city square. Yuvanashva led his elephants out of the royal stable, each one ornamented with golden headgear and a plume of peacock feathers. They surrounded the sacred pedestal and on instructions of the king, raised their trunk to spray cool sandalwood water on the deity. ‘May the elephants turn into clouds. May the sandal water be rain. May the waters pour on earth as they did on you,’ sang the three queens.

  The image was then returned to the temple. The king stayed back and sat on the pedestal, replacing the deity. His three wives sat behind him. He held his two sons on his lap. Jayanta had started to crawl and Mandhata was able to mumble a few words. Both were fast asleep.

  It was the first time that all members of the royal family presented themselves to the public. It was a great occasion. The Brahmanas welcomed them blowing conch-shell trumpets and waving oil lamps around them. The Vaishyas showered them with grains of freshly husked rice mixed with turmeric. The Shudras brought pots of water which were poured into the extended palms of the king and queens. The king and the three queens drank this water. And the priests said, ‘This will bring the rains.’

  Yuvanashva’s mind was occupied by the two little ones in his arms. He looked at Jayanta. He will call me ‘father’, as he should. Then he looked at Mandhata. What should this one call me? Father or mother?

  After the festivities, he summoned the bards. ‘Is there anyone in the scriptures who had children who called him father and children who called him mother?’ he asked.

  ‘There was one Bhangashvana,’ they said.

  ‘Tell me his story.’

  ‘We don’t remember this story. Only Bhisma knows it,’ they said.

  But Bhisma was dead. Weeks after the Pandava victory, he had finally succumbed to the arrows shot by Arjuna from behind Shikhandi on the tenth day of the war. ‘Who will now tell me the story of Bhangashvana?’ wondered Yuvanashva.

  ‘Maybe the Pandavas know the story,’ said the bards. ‘They have heard much of what the old man had to say.’

  For days after the war ended, the Pandavas did not leave Kuru-kshetra. They sat around Bhisma nursing his wounds, waiting for him to die. As he lay on a bed made of arrows, Bhisma had a lot to say. He spoke on politics and economics and history and geography and science and philosophy. He spoke on the nature of time, space and dharma. He spoke on how people should behave. Brahmanas, Kshatriyas, Vaishyas, Shudras. Men, women, children. Hermits, householders. He had an opinion on everything. A story for all queries. Yudhishtira listened to all that the old man had to say. This was the wisdom of his forefathers. Unlike cows, and horses, and elephants, and women and gold and land and kingdom and crowns, it would not outlive death. Yudhishtira had asked Bhisma many questions. One of them was, ‘Who gets more pleasure in life: man or woman, son or daughter, husband or wife, father or mother?’ Bhisma replied that he did not know. All he knew was the opinion of a person called Bhangashvana who lived half his life as a man, a son, a husband and a father and the other half as a woman, a daughter, a wife and a mother.

  Yuvanashva was interested to know Bhangashvana’s opinion. Royal pride, however, prevented Yuvanashva from going to Hastina-puri and talking to Yudhishtira.

  He will wonder why I am interested in that particular story.

  He may not want to share his inherited wisdom.

  He may refuse to entertain the request of a king who stayed away from the war.

  As the days passed the restlessness inte