The Seduction of Shiva: Tales of Life and Love (5 page)

Here is a tale from the final conversations between the Pandava king Yudhishthira and the great family patriarch Bhishma
¹
while the latter was on his deathbed after the Bharata war.

‘In intercourse between a woman and a man,’ asked Yudhishthira, ‘who has the greater sensation? This is a matter of doubt, sir. Would you please explain it as it actually is?’

‘Ancient history gives an example of this,’ replied Bhishma. ‘It is drawn from the antagonism which occurred in times bygone between Bhangasvana and Indra, the king of the gods.’

‘Bhangasvana was a noble king,’ Bhishma continued. ‘Extremely virtuous, he was a
veritable royal sage. He had no son, and to obtain one, he performed a fire sacrifice.

‘The sacrifice this royal sage arranged is called the
agnishtupa.
It is done to repent some fault or to acquire a son. But it is disliked by Indra. On hearing about it, the god looked for some weakness in the king in order to thwart him. However, despite much effort, he could not find any vulnerability in Bhangasvana.

‘After much time had passed, the king once went out on a hunt. Indra took this as an opportunity for himself, and cast a spell upon the monarch and his horse who then got lost in the wilderness. They wandered here and there, tired out by effort, suffering the pangs of hunger and thirst.

‘Eventually the king saw a pleasant lake full of fine water. Getting off his horse, he watered the animal and, tying it to a tree, went into the lake himself. But as he bathed in its water, his gender changed to the feminine. The king was shocked, embarrassed and deeply worried to see
that he had become a woman.

‘The woman’s mind and senses were also filled with agitation. “How will I mount the horse?” she wondered. “How will I get to the city? I obtained a hundred mighty sons from the agnishtupa sacrifice. What will I say to them, to my own wives, to my people?

‘“The sages who know the essence of dharma describe tenderness, delicacy and timidity as feminine qualities,” the woman told herself. “Hardness in effort and prowess are masculine. For some reason manliness has disappeared in me and womanliness appeared instead. How can I dare to mount this horse?”

‘With great effort,’ said Bhishma, ‘the king mounted his horse and returned to his capital, but as a woman. His wives and sons, servants and subjects were astonished and wanted to know what had happened. “I had gone out for a hunt,” the now feminine royal sage told them. “I was surrounded by soldiers but, as luck would have it, I got lost and wandered into a terrible
wilderness. Suffering from thirst, I was almost out of my mind when I beheld a beautiful lake full of birds. While I was bathing in it, fate turned me into a woman.” Then calling out the names and titles of his wives and ministers, that excellent monarch told the princes, “Rule and enjoy this kingdom lovingly, my sons. I will now retire to some forest.”

‘Having spoken thus to his hundred sons, the ruler then proceeded to a wood where she began to live in the cave of a forest hermit. From him she had another hundred sons. She took them to the older hundred and told them, “I had you when I was a man. These hundred I have borne as a woman. Live together as brothers, and enjoy the kingdom.”

‘The brothers,’ Bhishma continued, ‘thereafter lived together, ruling that best of kingdoms fraternally. Seeing them thus, the king of the gods was overwhelmed with rage. “I have actually helped that royal sage,” he told himself, “I have not caused him harm.” Then he went to
the capital city disguised as a priestly brahman and sowed dissension in the hearts of the princes. “The sons of even one father do not necessarily share fraternal feelings,” he said to them. “Look at the gods and the demons. Both are the progeny of the divine sage Kashyapa, but even though they have the same father they dispute with each other over his realm. You are the sons of King Bhangasvana, the others of some forest hermit. Yet they are enjoying a kingdom which is your patrimony.” Thus he divided them, and they fought and killed each other.

‘The hermit woman, their mother, was deeply distressed. She was weeping when Indra came to her, once again in the guise of a brahman. “Fair one,” he asked her, “what sorrow makes you weep thus?”

‘Tearfully did she reply, “O priest, I had two hundred sons whom fate has taken away. First I was a king, O best of brahmans, and I had a hundred sons who all looked liked me. I went hunting once, and got lost in a dense forest
where I turned into a woman while bathing in a lake. Thence I returned to the city, established my sons in the kingdom, and went back to the forest where I bore a hundred sons to a great-souled hermit. I took these boys to my former capital, but destiny has led the two groups to destroy each other. That is why I weep.”

‘Indra gloated over the situation, and spoke harshly to the woman. “Good lady,” he said, “in the past you also gave me pain hard to bear. You held a sacrifice hated by Indra and concluded it without invoking him. I am Indra, you fool, and it is my anger which has brought you down.”

‘Thereupon the woman who had been a royal sage bowed down at Indra’s feet. “Best of gods,” she cried, “be gracious. I held that sacrifice only to get a son. Forgive me!”

‘Indra was satisfied,’ Bhishma said, ‘and he decided to make amends. “Tell me, O king,” he asked, “which of your sons should I restore to life? Those born when you were a man or those when you had become a woman?”

‘The hermit woman clasped her hands in entreaty as she replied. “O Indra,” she said, “may the sons born to me as a woman live again!”

‘Indra was amazed. “Why are you hostile to the sons born to you when you were a man?” he asked. “Do you love more those you bore as a woman? I would like to know the reasons.”

‘“Indra,” she said, “the love that a woman has for her children is something a man cannot have. That is why I asked for the sons born to me as a woman.”

‘Indra was very pleased with her answer, “You are indeed a speaker of the truth,” he said. “All your sons will live again. Now ask me for yet another boon. Would you wish to be a man again, or stay a woman?”’

‘“I prefer the feminine gender,” was the reply, Bhishma said, “I do not wish for manhood.”

‘“My lord,” Indra asked again, “how is it that you discard manhood and choose the feminine gender?”

‘To this the great king, now turned woman,
said, “Indra, in the intercourse between man and woman, it is always the woman who obtains the greater pleasure. That is the reason why I choose womanhood. I tell you truly, best of gods, I have enjoyed love more as a woman, and that is why I am pleased with femininity. Now you may go!”

‘“So be it,” said Indra, and he returned to heaven,’ Bhishma concluded, ‘and thus it is that women are said to have a greater capacity for pleasure than men.’

From Mahābhārata, Anushasana Parva, Danadharma, 12.11–53

There lived in Ujjayini
¹
a merchant called Sagaradatta, who was both wealthy and wise. Once, when he was sailing leisurely on the sea, he saw another boat signalling to his, its flag aflutter. He instructed his vessel to be taken close to it, and when the two were alongside, spoke to its master. ‘Tell us who you are,’ he asked, ‘and from where?’

‘I am Buddhavarma, a merchant from Rajagriha,’
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the other responded. ‘Who are you, sir, and from where?’ Sagaradatta introduced himself and they then sailed together, amusing each other with stories and poems, music and songs, drinking and dice games.

They went to the Golden Island and there
acquired large quantities of gold before returning to the seaside town from where they had started. Then Sagaradatta had a discussion with Buddhavarma. ‘To consolidate our friendship,’ he said, ‘let us do the following. My wife was pregnant when I left home and would have delivered during this time. If it is a daughter, sir, I betroth her to your son. If it is a boy, you too should betroth your daughter to him.’

‘This is most amazing!’ Buddhavarma cried. ‘I had the very same thought! Obviously you and I are one!’

And with this agreement, the two embraced each other before departing at the head of great buffalo caravans to their respective lands. There they paid homage to their kings, the rulers of Avanti and Magadha, and then went home to spend time being greeted by their families and extending courtesies to brahmans and others.

As Sagaradatta sat on his couch, a baby girl with a gleaming jasmine garland was put in his
lap. ‘Whose is this girl with the garland?’ he asked his wife.

‘Who else but yours?’ she whispered shyly.

‘Blessed would be the parents of a son like this lovely child,’ he said. ‘But, my dear, do not fret at having borne a girl. One goddess is now the mother of another.’ He then reassured her with an account of his meeting and friendship with Buddhavarma on the sea. As for the child, because the father had asked about the girl in a jasmine garland, she came to be known by that name—Kundamalika.

Buddhavarma too questioned his wife on return, but she remained silent. ‘Tell us what you delivered,’ he asked again, and she then showed him his son—a dirty dwarf, one-eyed and buck-toothed, with pendulous lips and a hunched back. ‘Why did you carry this ugliness?’ he exclaimed. ‘There was no need for it. Why didn’t you consult soothsayers and have an abortion? This ill-formed imp has ruined my agreement with Sagaradatta. If he informs me that he has
had a daughter, how can I tell him that I have a son?’ He then told his wife that if any messenger came from Avanti, no one should mention this ugly creature to him. As the father had used this word for the child, the town people also came to call him Ugly.

After some time a private letter was received from Sagaradatta.
Greetings to the respected Buddhavarma in Rajagriha
, it read.

Sagara from Ujjayini embraces you and conveys that a daughter has been born to your friend. She is embellished with auspicious signs and no girl will match her in beauty. It is good if your wife has borne a son. But if it is a daughter, we have been cheated by an adverse fate, for just as prosperity needs the protection of power to endure, friendship too remains precarious unless strengthened by an alliance.

The merchant Buddhavarma consulted his wife after welcoming the messenger bearing the
letter. ‘Tell me,’ he asked her, ‘what should be done now that the matter has come to this pass?’

‘What do women know?’ she responded. ‘They have just two fingers’ worth of mind. But you have asked and I will answer. A person like me is emboldened at being questioned. There is both truth and untruth in the merchant’s profession, and neither can be set aside. To do that with one’s natural vocation is both unprofessional and condemnable. You have a son and there is no falsehood in saying so, but his defects you should describe as merits. All things can be mentioned with contrived names. A lethal poison has been called a sweetmeat. Given the importance of the job, falsehood is indeed the truth. Didn’t the Pandavas say that Ashvatthama had been killed?
³
Consumed by greed for wealth, people like you even go out on the salty sea with its deadly waves as if in sport to a lotus pond. That man is a master sea trader. His daughter will not come to your house without great wealth from the sea in her train.
Don’t spurn such riches, difficult for poor folk to acquire. Tremendous efforts are needed to obtain them, but it is coming to you without any at all.’

‘Well said!’ Buddhavarma complimented his wife, as he gave his reply to Sagaradatta’s emissary. ‘Tell our friend that we too have a child, a boy. How can we describe his appearance or his merits, physical and mental? Our friend will see them for himself.’ With these rather imprecise words he sent the messenger off respectfully, with money for his journey back.

Eight years passed with messengers coming and going thus. Finally an emissary spoke bluntly to Buddhavarma. ‘Sagaradatta and his spouse have told me,’ he said, ‘not to come back without seeing the son-in-law. So, if you wish me to return to Ujjayini, show me the boy and his merits.’

The merchant looked at him for some moments and then replied serenely: ‘He is studying and staying with his uncle in Tamralipti.’
⁴

Another four or five years went by like this. Then some smooth-talking envoys came in a group. ‘Please listen to what your friend’s wife has to say,’ they told Buddhavarma, dispensing with the usual courtesies.

It is now thirteen or fourteen years, but we have not seen our son-in-law’s face even now. Haven’t you heard the saying that an article needs to be seen before it is bought or sold? As for your statement that he is in Tamralipti for his studies, it seems both laboured and deceitful. Even those whose vocation is to study spend only a part of their time on it. That your son spends his life on nothing else is just nonsense. So, stop this game and produce the boy, either here or in Tamralipti.

Buddhavarma panicked. ‘Please wait till he comes,’ he replied, and went back to his wife. ‘Hoping against hope, I did not even think of such a problem when I acted on a woman’s word,’ he told her. ‘Now, have your son’s bodily defects
disappeared with time? On the contrary, as the body grows, its defects grow even faster. Our boy looks like something from Shiva’s circus.
⁵
Show him to these people, or use your head and think of something else.’

She said, ‘I have a plan. We can carry it out if you agree,’ and whispered it into his ear.

‘Excellent!’ he cried, and put it into action straightaway.

He met privately with a brahman dependent and friend whom he had cultivated with kind words. ‘What can I say about my son, his looks and other qualities?’ he said plaintively to that man. ‘He is well known as something absurd, a crow that is white. You also know all about my exchanges with Sagaradatta and the visits of his messengers. Your friend is in trouble, and you can help him in your own interest, though I may be a fool to doubt that. Your son Yajnagupta is handsome, versed in the scriptures and adept in all the arts. Let him marry Sagaradatta’s daughter, bring her here untouched, and give her
to my son. Of the jewellery, gold and money that comes with her,’ he added, as if embarrassed, ‘a share will of course be yours.’

The brahman was spurred by self-interest. ‘There is no need for one like you to make such requests to me,’ he replied eagerly, and summoned Yajnagupta whom he told, in Buddhavarma’s presence, what they had discussed.

‘It is not for children to ponder over the propriety of their elders’ words,’ the youth observed, ‘so let it be as you say.’

After some days Buddhavarma presented a well-attired Yajnagupta to the representatives of his prospective in-laws. ‘Here is the boy, back from Tamralipti,’ he told them. ‘His appearance and merits are for you to see.’

The envoys were wonderstruck. ‘He is like the new spring!’ they exclaimed. ‘It will be perfect when Kundamalika is united with him. There is no need to examine his merits, for such looks and composure can never be seen without them. But his name is inappropriate, if it is indeed Ugly. It
is not correct to call the tree of paradise a stunted shrub. Of course, even good things can have bad names: the moon has been called a sore, and the wind a mother’s dog. But mere designation cannot denigrate anyone. You, sir, should now choose an auspicious day for the bridegroom’s travel as there is nothing to obstruct the nuptials.’

The wedding journey was then arranged. The brahman boy was attired as the bridegroom, adorned with the gold rings of a merchant’s son, and Ugly as his friend Yajnagupta. In time the wedding party arrived at the splendidly decorated capital of Avanti like a celestial army at the heavenly city of Alka. They stayed at a mansion in a fine park full of springtime beauty by the banks of the river Shipra.
⁶
Local citizens ignored their temple of Mahakala and, full of curiosity, crowded around to see the groom. He spent some time with the people of Ujjayini, preachers and scholars, rogues and gadabouts, skilled flautists and lute players, till his brothers-in-law came to escort him. Thereafter he proceeded to
Sagaradatta’s house to get married.

After the marriage ceremony the bridegroom pretended to be ill, much to the consternation of the bride and her parents. They sent for doctors to whom he said that he wished to return home. They informed Sagaradatta of this and asked him to make arrangements. ‘He might recover if he goes home,’ they told the merchant. ‘The sight of dear ones is a well-known cure.’

Sagaradatta then dispatched his daughter and the groom with an army of attendants headed by a nurse, and a huge troop of camels carrying hordes of wealth. With them he also sent some trusted servants, twice as many as the stages in the journey. ‘At each stage,’ he told them, ‘two of you should bring back the latest news of our son-in-law.’

The servants returning from the first stage informed the merchant that the groom was a little better. The news from each successive stage was that he was improving gradually. The servants back from the final stage told
Sagaradatta that his son-in-law was hale and hearty. Overjoyed, he distributed money to everyone, from scholars to sweepers.

Meanwhile the fictitious groom had abandoned that pretence. He put on his normal brahman garb and set off on foot on the road. Relieved of the artificial attire, he shone with his own innate radiance, like the moon emerging from a cloud streaked with lightning and rainbows. But Kundamalika was still within the bridal carriage. The villain Ugly was delighted and, now attired as the groom, climbed in beside her. His hideous appearance was worse even than that of any being in Shiva’s retinue. On seeing it, the bride could only shudder and shut her eyes.

Curious for a sight of the bridal couple, the people of the groom’s town had come out. They wrung their hands at what they saw: a pair as ill-matched as a pearl and an iron clod. They cursed heaven for this contrary joining of an angel with an imp. The merchant Buddhavarma too arrived with members of his guild. He led the bride to
his house, which surpassed a royal palace in its splendour. ‘May she be both a son and a daughter to you,’ he told his wife as he embraced the girl, and the day ended with sunset, music and dance.

Kundamalika was taken to a beautiful room together with Yajnagupta and his hunchbacked partner. She was seated on a colourful chair near the bed while the groom and his friend also sat on a high seat next to it. All seemed confused by the delicacy of the situation, and doodled on the floor with their toes, their heads lowered in thought.

‘Why doesn’t this brahman leave me and go away?’ thought Kundamalika mistaking Ugly for Yajnagupta.

‘Why indeed doesn’t he go?’ thought Ugly, who was eager for some fun in private.

Yajnagupta noticed the hints and, thinking that it would be best to leave, got up to go.

‘Where are you going, leaving your wife in trouble?’ Kundamalika asked anxiously.

‘Don’t call it trouble when you are by the
side of the man chosen for you by fate,’ was the reply. ‘Let him receive your embraces and kisses. I am just the bearer of a cruel burden of duty.’ Saying this, Yajnagupta went out with the servant maids.

The oaf Ugly then lunged for the unwilling girl. She quickly ran out after the brahman, the ornaments on her hips and ankles ringing as if for help. In the courtyard there were intoxicated citizens and servants dancing enthusiastically, but Yajnagupta was nowhere to be seen. She rushed out to the street and into a potter’s hut where she saw a
kapalika
ascetic,
⁷
dead drunk and fast asleep. ‘This is the best of protections,’ she said to herself. Then, taking off her expensive jewels and ornaments and tying them carefully within her sash like a trained merchant, she took the holy man’s skull-staff and other paraphernalia and, staggering in the kapalika’s garb, went out of the town to a village just beyond it.

There she saw a white-haired brahman woman sitting on the terrace of her cottage,
spinning cotton, bewailing her fate and cursing Buddhavarma. ‘He is a good, honest man of merit, madam. What has he done that you so deride him?’ she asked her.