Pregnant King Read online

‘Yes,’ said the bards.

  ‘Did he establish the temple to remind people of his life?’

  ‘We do not know that, Arya. But no one sees Ileshwara as Ila. Ileshwara is a god. Ila, a man.’

  I wonder why that is, wondered Yuvanashva. Was that the only way this strange truth could be accommodated?

  The bards continued, ‘Ila returned home and found that he was more male when the moon waxed and more female when the moon waned. On full-moon days he was a complete man, enjoying the company of his wives. On a new-moon night, he was a woman, a beautiful woman that Budh, god of the planet Mercury, fell in love with. Ila fell in love with Budh too. They made love. Budh gave Ila children, both sons and daughters. They called Ila “mother”. The Devas asked Ila’s father, Prithu, if he thought of Ila as son or daughter. Prithu replied, “Ila is my child. Son or daughter, how does it matter? I love my child anyway.” So it was that Ila came to be both son and daughter, man and woman, husband and wife, father and mother. Then the problems began.’

  ‘Problems?’ said Yuvanashva.

  ‘Yes, problems. His wives did not know when to call him husband and his husband did not know when to call him wife. His subjects did not know when he was king and when he was not. The sons who called him “father” felt he preferred the sons who called him “mother”. The daughters who called him “father” felt he indulged the daughters who called him “mother”. There was complete chaos in the household. Even Ila lost control of his senses. When the moon waxed and his body turned masculine, he discovered that he continued to harbour a woman’s thoughts. He yearned for the company of his husband. When the moon waned and his body turned feminine, he could not stop feeling like a man and he yearned for the company of his wives. Ila gave the children who called him “father” his kingdom but reserved all his attention for the children who called him “mother”. He thought he was being fair. But the children did not think so. They envied each other, the ones receiving attention wanted the inheritance and the ones getting the inheritance wanted attention. They fought each other. Quarrels became brawls, brawls culminated to a great war where brother killed brother as in Kuru-kshetra. All of Ila’s sons died. His daughters, their sisters, were inconsolable in their grief. Ila wept for twenty-one days. Ten days as father and ten days as mother. And one day as a parent. Pained to see Ila suffer so, Prajapati instructed Yama, the god of death, to restore the children of Ila. Yama looked at his account books and said that there was merit for only one set of sons to be resurrected, either those who called Ila “father” or those who called him “mother”. But Ila could not choose. “Give me both,” he begged. But Yama, who did not like any juggling of his account books, refused. Then Kama came to Ila’s rescue. “Tell Yama to restore the sons whose call is sweeter,” said the god of desire. Ila did as instructed.’

  ‘What does that mean—whose call is sweeter?’ asked Yuvanashva.

  ‘If Yama felt there was more love in the call of “mother” then he could restore the sons who called Ila “mother”. If he felt there was more love in the call of “father” then he could restore the sons who called Ila “father,”’ explained the bards.

  Yuvanashva remembered the one time, long ago, in the delirium of fever, Mandhata had called him ‘mother’. Was that sweeter than Jayanta’s call of ‘father’? Whom would he choose to bring to life, Mandhata or Jayanta? How can such a choice be made, he wondered.

  ‘Yama had no children. So he consulted the Devas. The sky-gods, all male, had been fathers but not mothers; they did not know what the call of “mother” sounded like. Then he went to the earth-goddesses. The Matrikas, all female, had been mothers, not fathers; they did not know what the call of “father” sounded like. Yama then sought the help of the Rishis. The Rishis went around the world asking all men and women. Men said the call of father is sweeter. Women said the call of mother is sweeter. There was no man other than Ila who knew what it felt to be called mother. There was no woman other than Ila who knew what it felt to be called father. Realizing no one would ever know the truth, the Rishis advised Yama to restore both sets of children. “Only if I get a sacrifice,” said Yama, after making all the calculations, “so that the books stay in balance.” “Take me in their place in the land of the dead,” said Ila, determined to rescue all his children. Without further ado, Yama swung his noose and took Ila across Vaitarni. In his place all his sons, those who called him “mother” and those who called him “father”, were allowed to return to the land of the living.’

  The conclusion pleased Yuvanashva. ‘That is what parents do. Sacrifice themselves for their children,’ he said.

  ‘Maybe he died to escape the chaos his body had created.’

  ‘That cannot be true,’ said Yuvanashva vehemently. At some distance, he saw farmers weeding out their fields. Was Ila a weed in the field of society? As Somvati was? As he was? ‘Please continue,’ he said after taking a deep breath.

  ‘No sooner were the children resurrected than the quarrels over inheritance resumed. To prevent another war, for the sake of order, stability and peace, the elders decided to intervene. They declared that, in times to come, all the sons of Ila would be remembered as the children of Ila, the man, and all the daughters of Ila will be remembered as the children of Ila, the woman. Ila’s land would be divided amongst all his sons. And all his daughters would be given in marriage to the sons of Ila’s elder brother, Ikshavaku. Since all future kings will have in their veins the blood of Ila, this land watered by the three great rivers will be known as Ilavrita, the enclosure of Ila.’

  ‘What of Ila?’

  ‘His memory was restricted to the rituals of the temple.’

  Yuvanashva remembered chasing the bards as a child asking them if Ila was the son of Prithu and they questioning him, ‘Why do you presume he was a son?’ It all made sense now. He recollected how his mother had once addressed Ila as the false son of Prithu. Now he knew why.

  ‘Why is this story never told?’ asked Yuvanashva.

  ‘Because no one ever saw this as history,’ replied the bards. ‘They said it was a poet’s imagination. Men cannot be mothers, and mothers cannot be kings.’

  ‘What will happen to my story?’

  ‘No one will ask us to narrate it. It will soon be forgotten.’

  death of shilavati

  A group of cowherds attending to a young calf looked up and found a handsome naked man walk past briskly. Without his royal robes, his herald, and his entourage, they did not identify Yuvanashva as king. A hermit, they said to each other, and saluted him reverentially.

  But Yuvanashva did not think of himself as a hermit. The parting words of the bards disturbed him. He was hurt and angry. If he had truly renounced the world, why did he feel hurt and anger? Why did he want to be remembered?

  Yuvanashva felt the breeze curling around him. Tugging him back. He increased his pace and walked more forcefully. As soon as the sun slipped past the horizon, he heard the ghosts call out to him. ‘Not so fast, father. Wait for us.’

  A sanyasi has no children, Yuvanashva reminded himself. He is nobody’s father, husband, son or king. He is not even a storyteller’s theme. ‘I am not even Yuvanashva anymore,’ he mumbled under his breath, ignoring the call of the ghosts.

  The wind whistled. The moon rose. Yuvanashva saw the banyan tree that marked the frontier of Vallabhi, said to be haunted by a Yaksha. He felt the stab of hunger. He had not eaten all day. His muscles ached. His stomach churned. He felt weak. He remembered the vast kitchen of Keshini, with its gleaming pots and pans, and servants chopping vegetables endlessly. How she enticed him with food. He felt like munching fried lotus seeds flavoured with coarsely ground pepper and washing it down with fresh buttermilk. He brushed the thought aside. Only roots and shoots for me now. No cooked food. Not even milk. His mind wandered to the days before the children. When he and his wives were friends. When, after the evening meal, they all sat on the giant swing, and watched the sunset. Pulomi would rub the soles of his feet wit