Yayati: A Classic Tale of Lust (7 page)

Maharishi Angiras ... did I tell you before that he comes from our family? ... has blessed the venture. He casually said in his blessing, ‘You are a Brahmin by birth. It is true you are going to acquire a kind of knowledge, but the venture is more appropriately that of a Kshatriya than a Brahmin.’ I replied, ‘If Prince Yayati had been here, I would have ventured into the Kingdom of Demons only with him; the daring part of the venture would have been his and only the acquisition of knowledge mine.’

What harm can there be in every class imbibing the qualities of another? In our worship, do we not mix the waters of many rivers for bathing the image?

Prince, we came together during the sacrifice for peace. I shall always remember you with affection. If I return safely with the power of Sanjeevani, we shall certainly meet sometime.

Some stars get together at short intervals ... some at long intervals. It is difficult to say when we shall meet but it is certain that we will. And that time, I fondly imagine, I shall meet my friend in a deep embrace as the meritorious King, the upholder of religion and of all that is holy in this world.

There is little else to write about. Even
Vedas,
the essence of learning, fall short in the expression of feelings! Maharishi Angiras sends you his blessing and we pray to Lord Shiva for the speedy recovery of King Nahusha.

Oh, I forgot one thing ... that sweet little girl next door is crying her heart out because I am leaving the hermitage. Her creeper is laden with flowers. She is worried as to who will admire them. So I have told her that the Prince will soon visit her cottage to admire not only their beauty but their fragrance also.

This letter of Kacha’s was very disturbing. Kacha had set out to lay his life for his side. And I? I even forgot last night that my father was on his deathbed. I was scouring round for happiness.

Did I sin? Last night was I guilty of sin? The thought of sin agitated me. That the beehive should come alive while one is tasting honey and bees should sting spitefully all over the body —

There was no improvement at all in Father’s condition. Mother was sitting before the golden awning of a miniature temple set up in the room. I sat near her and she stroked my back. The touch of her hand was like love incarnate.

My dejection grew at the sight of my grief-stricken mother and the idols before her. I could not dare to look at her.

Seeing that I was reluctant to look at her, she said, ‘You must have been restless all night, even in the Ashokavan anxiously thinking of your father and me. If the little ones are to waste themselves in anxiety, what are the elders for? See if you cannot find entertainment in song, dance, music and drama?’

Just then the Prime Minister came in and Mother said to him, ‘It looks as if the arrangements in Ashokavan ...’

The Prime Minister intervened, ‘There is a girl Mukulika by name ... She is new but she is very clever. She has been enjoined to cater to all the comforts of the Prince.’

Mother said, ‘Your arrangements there maybe very good, but Yayu must find pleasure and entertain himself with them.’

‘Madhav, the second son of our Poet Laureate, is a great connoisseur of the Arts and a good conversationalist. I shall ask him to keep the Prince company.’

I tried to smile and said, ‘You must ask him to first take me to a philosopher. At the moment, I am baffled by abstruse questions concerning life and death.’

Madhav took me to the house of a great scholar. On the way he related a number of tales commonly in circulation about him.

The scholar attended court only for the more important ceremonies. If a song or dance were in progress, he would lower his eyes and mutter verses to himself. You could never be certain what he would ask of a visitor. Once a hairy ascetic came to him for a discussion on the character of the God Almighty. The discussion was getting deeply interesting when suddenly the scholar asked him when he was going to shave. The ascetic was flustered, being unable to trace any connection between the question and God Almighty. He stared blankly at the scholar when the latter droned, ‘Ascetic, it is very difficult for sunlight to penetrate a deep forest. I am afraid the same is happening to you. Nothing seems to penetrate your head for this mass of tangled hair.’

Another time, a scholar from West Aryavarta who came to this learned man asked him how many children he had. Prompt came the reply, ‘I do not know. You had better ask my wife. I have no time to bother with such trifles.’

Madhav was gifted with a fluent tongue. He related these stories so delectably that it was impossible to stop laughing. The learned are queer in many ways. As their intelligence is uncommon, so is their behaviour out of the ordinary. It is because of this that we vie with each other in relating such coloured stories about them.

I was amused by Madhav’s colourful narration of them. The scholar welcomed us in the library itself. His first few sentences convinced me that the scholar’s whole world was centred in this room. He was in ecstasy when reading to me from a rare archaic volume. His learning naturally evoked respect. Even in meeting one of my simple questions, he quoted profusely from memory and took out numerous references in support of his view.

But he did not have enough erudition to answer to my satisfaction the questions which were worrying me. My saying that I was greatly troubled by the thought of death, he countered with the words: ‘Who has escaped death, Prince? We discard our clothes when they get old. In the same way the soul discards the body.

‘Prince, remember one thing, that life is essentially an illusion. There is only one eternal truth in this world, Brahma, the all pervading power at the root of all creation. Everything else is an illusion.’

My fear of death — unreal! The bliss which I had experienced in Mukulika’s arms was unreal and so was the prick of the conscience at the thought that it was sin. Gods and demons, both illusions! Then why did Maharishi Angiras take so much pains over the sacrifice for peace? Why has Kacha set out on his venture of acquiring the power of Sanjeevani? If the animate and inanimate world before our eyes and all the experiences, pleasurable and painful, are mere illusions and transient appearances, why do I grieve so much at the inert form of King Nahusha? The body maybe perishable but it cannot be an illusion. The intense experiences of pleasure and pain may fade with time but they cannot be untrue. Hunger is not unreal and neither are its pangs. Tasty food cannot be unreal nor the pleasure it gives.

Madhav requested me to spend the afternoon at his house. His elder brother was a poet. Madhav said that on his wife’s death, his brother had tired of life and had gone on a pilgrimage. That the philosophy of our erudite scholar was at material variance with the facts of life was no longer in doubt.

On our way to his house, Madhav recalled the story of how his brother came to be a renowned poet. Once in the capital, there was a poetic competition. Poets from far and near had assembled to participate in it. The composition was to be extempore and the subject for the competition was
The Spots on the Moon
. His brother did not at first join in. A bee in the lotus, the black of a rock on the Himalayas, and many such similes were used in the poems composed. In the end, a poet from the Land of the Five Rivers spoke of the moon as the white breast of a beautiful young maiden and the spot as its nipple. That wayward and sensuous flight of imagination had enraptured and carried away the audience. Everyone felt that the prize must go to its poet. It was the triumph of the theme of Love.

The judges now called others, if any, wishing to take part. His brother got up. He put forward, in beautiful words, the idea that the speck on the moon was a fingermark deliberately put on the moon, her child, by mother Creation to ward off from her beautiful offspring the evil eye. His composition appealed even more to the audience. He got the prize. It was a triumph of motherly love over passion.

Madhav’s orphan niece was waiting for him on the doorstep. She made a picture. Her unruly hair, sparkling eyes, small lips, delicate mouth and her defiant stance! She looked like a charming butterfly, momentarily sitting quietly on a flower. On seeing Madhav’s chariot, the butterfly rose and ran to him. She put her arms round Madhav, looked gravely at me and asked, ‘Who is this, uncle?’

‘Taraka, you must first bow to him.’

‘He is no God that I should bow to him,’ she said.

‘He is the Prince.’

‘What is a prince?’

Madhav had to find words of explanation which would be intelligible to her. He explained. ‘This chariot, the horses and all this belongs to him. That is why he is called Prince.’ Looking steadily at me, she folded her hands and said,
‘Namaste
, Prince.’

If I was a painter, I would have drawn her with that graceful figure of hers and the sweet innocent childish expression on her face.

‘Namaste,
’ I said.

She said, ‘Prince, will you give me one of your horses? A marriage is to be celebrated.’

‘Whose? Yours?’

‘Oh no, my doll is to be married!’

‘When?’

‘Day after tomorrow.’

‘Who is the bridegroom?’

‘Bridegroom!’ she exclaimed and with her hands made it clear that she did not know. That waving of her hands in uncertainty was very fascinating. It was like a sweet little fledgling moving its tiny wings to shake off a drop of water.

Taraka’s doll was to be married day after tomorrow but a bridegroom had yet to be found. I teased her with the words, ‘I shall give you my horse for the wedding but where would you find a bridegroom?’

‘Yes, indeed, where to find a bridegroom?’ said she and was engrossed in deep thought with her small chin cupped in her palm.

Madhav was inside. Taraka talked freely, smiling and playful. How enchanting was that little form absorbed in deep thought! I wanted to pick her up. But I was reluctant to interrupt her reverie.

In a little while she looked up gravely and said, ‘Prince, will you be the bridegroom?’

Just then Madhav returned. He had overheard that strange question. Another time he would have chastised the innocent little child for it. But in my presence he could do nothing and was fretting. How unrestrained is a child’s imagination! I pictured to myself the ceremony in progress. On one side, a tiny doll and on the other a tall hefty Yayati, with one of Madhav’s old overclothes for a wedding screen!

After lunch, I proposed to rest there and asked the charioteer to return after sunset so that I could spend the night in the palace.

In the afternoon, Madhav gave me a copy of his brother’s poems. I opened the book casually and glanced through it. One poem dealt with the mood of the ocean. This was a fascinating description of the waves on the ocean at high tide.

Reading his poetry brought back even more vividly the enchanting figure of Mukulika. I felt sorry that I had been abrupt with her in the morning. How was she to blame for what had happened?

I bade goodbye to Madhav and left in a trance steeped in poetry. The chariot was headed for the palace and I stopped the driver. It was then that I remembered my resolve of that afternoon. The poor fellow was not to blame and I said gently, ‘Take me to Ashokavan. I am not feeling well.’

When I stepped inside the room I found that it shone with flowers and decoration just like yesterday. Mukulika followed me into the room with a beautiful jar of wine. She poured some in a glass and gave it to me. I sipped it and asked her, ‘I had told you that I would not return and yet ...’

‘To tell the truth, Prince,’ she said biting her finger mischievously, ‘we women do not heed a man’s word but rather his eyes.’

* * *

I was leading a life of sheer self deception. The first moment of temptation is the first step down the ravine of sin. I have taken that first step. However beautiful it maybe, it is the first step in decadence and fall. Where is it going to take me? Into a frightful chasm or ravine? Or maybe to Hell! Sometimes the clash in my mind assumed terrible proportions, though it was rare.

One evening Madhav and I were returning from a dance, when I got a message from the Prime Minister saying that Father was now conscious and was asking for me. I quickly went to him. He was very pale, like the sun at eclipse. I was taken aback.

Father tried to lift his right hand to draw me beside him. It cost him a great effort doing so and tears came to my eyes. It was that hand that had given me courage in my first illness. That hand was my shield — and now, that hand —

By his bedside, there was also a small jar of wine. He pointed to it with difficulty and asked for a little.

I poured a little. He stared at it and asked for the cup to be filled up.

‘I have a lot to say to you and I must have the strength. Give me plenty, not just a few drops.’

I filled the cup and put it to his lips. He sipped it and closed his eyes for a while. When he opened them again he was looking refreshed.

He took my hand and said, ‘Yayu, my son, I long to live yet. If anyone could give me more life, I would be prepared to give him even my kingdom. But ...’

He had the reputation of being a lion of a man. But his eyes — now they were the eyes of a mortally wounded stag. He said in slow measured words, ‘Yayu, my son, I am leaving behind for you a very prosperous kingdom.’

‘Father, I am well aware of your competence and prowess. To be born to a father like you is a matter of great good fortune. Of that
I ...’

Father intervened with the words, ‘And misfortune too.’

I was shaken and did not know what to say. The curse Father was smarting under! Does he perhaps mean that?

Father spun out each word slowly. ‘Yayu, my son, your father once defeated God Indra. He was then the King of the Heavens, but as to why I had to leave that throne ...’

‘I was never told about it.’

‘Umm ... what was I saying? Oh yes ... I changed at the prospect of taking Indra’s throne. Yayu ... never forget one thing. Pride of one’s prowess and arrogance are two different things. In my arrogance I thought I could take Indra’s wife as a concubine. She accepted me on one condition ... that I should go to her in a unique conveyance. My palanquin, bedecked with heavenly jewels was carried by some of the great rishis. I was impatient and in order that the bearers might go a little faster, I kicked one of them on the head. That happened to be Rishi Agastya and he pronounced a curse.’ With the last words, Father was gasping. Those words were indistinct and blurred.

He could speak no more. He pointed to the jar of wine and as I could not bear the agony in his face, I poured a little more wine in the cup and put it to his mouth.

The wine cheered him up. His lips moved in an effort to speak when I said, ‘Father, you should rest now. We can talk tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow?’ he said, with all the pathos in the world.

He was introspective for a minute. He then said quietly, ‘Yayu, I, Nahusha and my children will never be happy! That was the curse! Both the good and the sins of the parents are visited on the children. That is a universal maxim. Yayu, your father is in the wrong, forgive him! Remember always, never transgress the decencies of life. I did and ...’

Father closed his eyes and his face was haggard. He was muttering to himself. I bent low to hear him — I heard the words — curse — Yati, death. I could not contain myself and said, ‘Father, Yati is alive.’