Pregnant King Read online

  Yuvanashva thanked the Yaksha for leading him to the two Siddhas. He had accepted his flesh. They revealed his soul. They were no longer just sorcerers. They were now his teachers.

  As he was about to take their leave, Yaja shouted from behind, ‘Your soul is rich with wisdom, your flesh rich with experience. We have not forgotten you, Yuvanashva. Once you were the king of Vallabhi, our patron. Now you are our student.’

  ‘We wonder what makes you truly happy?’ said Upayaja. ‘That we changed your world with magic or that we changed your mind with knowledge?’

  ash of the elders

  Meanwhile, just below the northern mountains, a fire claimed the lives of three people. ‘Run,’ the old blind man had shouted as soon as he sniffed the smoke.

  ‘Why?’ asked his blindfolded wife. His sister-in-law remained silent as a wall of fire descended from the treetops upon them. Thus did the world end for the elders of the Kuru clan.

  Yuvanashva came upon the charred remains of Dhritarashtra, Gandhari and Kunti. But he could not recognize them. All he saw were three burnt bodies, almost ash. Were these kings or hermits, he wondered. He was not even sure whether the ash belonged to men or women. Were they young? Old? Fire had wiped out all identity.

  Yuvanashva picked up the ash and let it pass through his fingers. In the end this is all that remains of us. The flesh is burnt away. Was this flesh beautiful? Did this flesh bear a child? Did this flesh feel loved? Was it accepted? Rejected? Respected? Adored? Despised? It did not matter any more.

  All that remained of these three people, and there were three for sure, was ash. The remains that cannot be destroyed. He remembered the language of symbols. This ash running through his fingers was the symbol of the soul.

  It suddenly dawned on Yuvanashva that men and women, husbands and wives, fathers and mothers, sons and daughters are ultimately nothing but souls wrapped in different types of matter. He was nothing but soul wrapped in flesh; an unusual flesh that had created life within itself and outside. Flesh nevertheless. Mortal flesh that enjoyed, suffered, aged and would one day be ash. Within was the soul.

  Yuvanashva smeared his body with the ash. Let them see this ash, my soul. Let my flesh be ignored.

  Far away, the Angirasa opened their eyes. The youngest one said, ‘Yuvanashva has learnt a new language. His vision has expanded. He has started seeing what no one else sees. He is no longer Manava. He has become a Rishi.’

  ‘No, not yet,’ said the oldest Angirasa. ‘There is wisdom but not enough compassion.’

  yuvaneshwar

  Smeared with ash, Yuvanashva lay on the ground, his eyes shut, feeling the heat of the winter sun. ‘I am soul wrapped in flesh, nothing more, nothing less,’ he kept reminding himself. The knowledge brought him great joy. He realized that his whole life, with all its struggles, triumphs and sufferings, with all those unnatural and miraculous events, was just a series of indicators directing him towards the soul. Nothing else mattered.

  Then he opened his eyes and found a hundred hermits hovering around him like bees over a lotus flower. Some were wearing clothes of bark, others were wearing skin, some were naked. Some held sticks, others tridents. All were smeared, like him, with ash. ‘They are all Rishis. They should know the truth of the teachers,’ thought Yuvanashva. ‘That we are all souls. This wrapping of flesh does not matter.’

  But the eyes of the hermits were firmly fixed on the scar on Yuvanashva’s left thigh. ‘So what did Adi-natha say?’ asked one sanyasi eagerly, ‘Are you man or woman? Or are you a bit of both?’

  ‘Is your flesh still man enough to hold wisdom?’ asked another sanyasi.

  And a very disappointed Yuvanashva thought, ‘They see only my body not my soul. How dare they smear their bodies with ash? How dare they call themselves Rishis? They are still Manavas, fettered to the flesh.’

  A feeling of superiority quietly enveloped Yuvanashva. He had entered the forest later than them but he had moved far ahead. He had found the teacher of teachers. He had unravelled the greatest secret of life.

  Suddenly he heard someone speak words that stung him like a poisoned dart. ‘You are no Rishi, Yuvanashva. Not yet. You too are fettered. Not by flesh, maybe. But by your desire to be Mandhata’s mother. Don’t deny it. You have not outgrown that longing. The soul sees all.’ All the hermits who crowded around Yuvanashva stood up and turned around to see who had spoken so. Yuvanashva also craned his neck and saw, standing on rocks, behind the crowd of hermits, eight men with long matted hair. The Angirasa! ‘Do we not speak the truth, O king of Vallabhi?’ asked the youngest-looking of the eight. His questioning eyes bore into Yuvanashva’s heart like a thunderbolt.

  Yuvanashva, who had bloomed with the wisdom of the Siddhas, withered instantly. ‘No. I had just forgotten it.’ He started to weep.

  The eyes of the Angirasa softened. ‘The flesh still matters to you, Yuvanashva, does it not? You, who believe you have transcended your flesh, still long for society to accept that very physical truth.’

  Society with all its man-made rules and artificial hierarchy still mattered to him, Yuvanashva realized. He still valued people’s opinions. ‘I am still Manava,’ said Yuvanashva softly, his head bent, his voice barely audible.

  ‘We all are,’ said the oldest Angirasa, spreading out his arms. ‘Fettered by the flesh, yearning for the soul, struggling with the demands of society. You took your time to make sense of your life. Now let them take theirs. Be patient. Every tree bears fruit eventually.’

  ‘And until then?’ Yuvanashva blurted out, ‘How long must I wait? When will my son Mandhata accept that I am his mother? When will my family accept the truth of my life? When will Vallabhi stop laughing?’

  Yuvanashva began to cry. The wind stilled. All sounds vanished. Nothing could be heard. Not the rustle of leaves nor the chirping of birds. Only Yuvanashva’s heart-wrenching cry. He let out a wail, in a voice of deep agony, of a creature yearning for accommodation and validation.

  When Yuvanashva calmed down, the Angirasa spoke. ‘Look at the world around you, Yuvanashva. It is full of myriad creatures. Different types of plants and different types of animals. Not all fruits are sweet. Not all minerals glow in the dark. There will always be those like Mandhata in whom you will evoke discomfort, because you will shatter their certainties. In retaliation they will attack you or pretend you don’t exist. Then there will be those like Jayanta, who don’t want to make sense out of you. They love you for whatever you are.’

  ‘Why can’t everybody be at least like Jayanta?’ Then he paused, ‘No, I want more. Understanding and acceptance.’

  ‘When that happens, the world will lose its purpose and cease to be. The world exists only to make us wise. Ignorance fuels pain and from pain comes our search for wisdom. Give it time, Yuvanashva. Eventually, everyone will become a Chakra-varti.’

  Yuvanashva wiped his tears, and noticed that the sky above was a brilliant blue. The earth below was a brilliant red. Golden sunlight bounced off every leaf.

  ‘Will you let us worship you, Yuvanashva?’ asked the Angirasa.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Will you let us worship you, Yuvanashva?’ repeated the Angirasa.

  ‘Worship me? Why?’

  ‘Because you are the pregnant king. The greatest riddle of the sixty-four Yoginis. Why do you exist, they ask. You confound us. You confuse us. You remind us that what is impossible in the mind of man is possible in the mind of God. Vallabhi may reject you, but we will worship you. You will be our Adi-natha, our teacher of teachers. We shall address you as Nilakantha Bhairavi.’

  ‘Why Nilakantha?’

  ‘Because like Shiva, your throat is blue with a truth that threatens our sense of order. With compassion you withhold it and suffer it, until we are wise enough to receive it.’

  ‘You equate my truth with poison?’

  ‘The truth is not poison. It is our inability to handle it that makes it poisonous.’

  ‘Why Bhairavi?’

  ‘Bec