Yayati: A Classic Tale of Lust (13 page)

I bent down to kiss the tears away. Suddenly she clasped my hands and said in an endearing tone — not unlike the drawl of a person half awake — ‘You will not take it again?’

I realised she was talking about liquor. My pride was hurt. But Devayani was ill. My Devayani was ill! It was necessary that nothing should be done to upset her.

She rubbed her palm — delicate as a flower — on mine and said, ‘You won’t take it? For my sake ...’

‘Promise me,’ she said, smiling.

Outwardly smiling I said, ‘To retain this tender hand in mine for all time, I could make a hundred promises!’

‘Oh no. It is not that easy. You have to swear by the feet of my father.’

It was very difficult for me to hold myself in this time. But I did somehow and took the oath.

Devayani was smiling now. It was not the smile of a lover only, it was obviously tinged with pride. It was the smile of a pretty woman, who in her arrogance thought she could reduce a man to utter subjection.

I had suffered sheer defeat in this first battle of love.
I religiously kept my word about liquor. Our life was now normal.

I still recall those days. The days hardly count. I mention them as days because the sun used to rise in between and separate us for twelve hours or so. Otherwise, if it were night, Yayati would be swimming in an ocean of pleasure, all the time.

At dawn, I would be annoyed at the twittering of birds in the garden. To me they appeared unromantic. Hearing their twitter, Devayani used to get impatient to return to her apartment. Then I would say, ‘The night is still young. You need not go away yet!’

She hardly ever believed me and I would protest: ‘No, I just cannot bear this long separation. How can I pass the time? Leave me something for a token.’

Then I would start kissing her all over — once, twice, thrice — but I was still hungry.

She would gently disengage herself and say in a tantalising tone, ‘Enough. Too much is bad for one.’

I would not stop and ask for only one more —

‘But your one becomes a hundred ...’

‘You have grown up in a hermitage. You will not understand the arithmetic of love. In this arithmetic, one may even mean a hundred, a thousand or a million; it depends on the occasion.’

She would smile and turn away. I would be left looking avidly at her retreating figure.

Other memories fade with time, but the colourful memory of love seems to shine brightly forever. I do not know why it should be but it is so.

For the first few months each night danced into my rooms, with tinkling bells made of stars, bringing with it innumerable jugs of honey. I drank them down and was yet thirsty. Those lights were beautiful lakes. Multi-coloured with the lotuses of love blossoming —

But what is the use of narrating all this? It is not considered decent to talk freely of bodily pleasures. But if one can talk of the soul which brings eternal happiness why should it be taboo to talk openly of love which brings to men and women as great a pleasure? What is there in it that one need conceal or be ashamed of?

The fragrance of those sweet memories of love has evaporated and its petals have fallen; all that remain are the thorns! That is why —

I strove for sometime to build an unusually beautiful world of our own round Devayani and myself. A world in which I was not the son of King Nahusha with the curse and she was not the daughter of
Maharishi
Shukra; a world in which if death called Yayati, Devayani would answer the call and if eternal
T
ime asked for Devayani, Yayati would meet the challenge; a world in which Devayani would turn her back on heaven and gladly face hell if Yayati was condemned to it, and no matter how bad Devayani was, Yayati would lay down his life for her — such a world was my dream. But —

Saris of every colour suited her. Like the sky made pretty by clouds of every hue, she would stand out in any clothes. If she wore jewels, it was the jewels which borrowed her splendour. What varied and beautiful coiffure she could make. At times she sat making herself up before the mirror for hours. I liked her doing this. But my one thought was that even — yes, even by day — Devayani so made up should be somewhere near me.

I cannot tell you how far my
thoughts were tinged with desire. But there certainly was at least a particle of sentiment — plain, straightforward, clean love.

She had beauty in full measure. She was a devotee to beauty, she was an adept at make-up, but none of it was for me. Devayani lived for herself and only for herself.

Sharmishtha once mentioned that she was a great danseuse. I was eager to see her dance. But she put me off with, ‘There are many dancing girls at court.’ When she was the daughter of a sage, she delighted in dancing — now, she was queen. If she danced even for her husband, what a great blow it would be to her dignity!

She often talked about herself.

The betel leaf which Sharmishtha made coloured the mouth better than any she could make; so in jest I had lightly remarked, ‘The betel leaf of hers who loves more colours the better.’ That was enough to rouse her temper — how she raved. And with what diligence she has kept Sharmishtha from me since then.

The golden hair of Alaka was kept away carefully as a memento in a gold casket. Accidentally it came to her hand once. She insisted on looking inside. She asked, ‘Where is this love of yours now?’

She wanted to throw the hair away. I alone know what considerable difficulty I had retrieving it.

I am unable to state coherently what I want to say — this thought persists. Is man incapable of laying bare his heart fully? How many outlets are there to the heart? Shame, decorum — setting all considerations aside, our first year together is narrated here.

No. It is very difficult. But one thing is certain. My imperfection was hurting and tormenting me. I wanted fullness of life. The hankering had reference both to the body and the mind.

Devayani did give me some bodily pleasure. But even in its giving, she never overflowed with life. Quite often she pretended to be asleep in bed. I would tip-toe up to her and place my lips on hers. But the kiss chilled me. During my sojourn with the victory horse, I had kissed the stone image of the goddess of love. I was unconsciously reminded of it. The kiss did not make my blood surge like lightning. My loneliness, my imperfection, my incompleteness remained to torment me. If we were near each other in body, we were poles apart in mind.

I had learnt from Mukulika that love was a natural escape from all fear and unhappiness. The love she gave me was like a forest path, and strewn with thorns untrodden. But Devayani’s love was quite unlike it. It was not stolen, it was not sinful in the least. It was pure, it was blessed and authorised by divine canons. It was the royal road laid over with carpets of flowers and ornamented with designs in coloured pigment. And even so, I was the solitary traveller on it.

I wanted love fragrant as a flower, imperceptible but gently pervading all round. I never had such love from Devayani.

Were we even at least of one mind? No. If she had given me a place in her heart — then perhaps Yayati’s life would have taken a very different turn.

If and then — all such speculations are mere flowers of fancy. That I was unsatisfied even with a beautiful wife like Devayani is the truth — nothing but the truth.

Hunger of love — what else is it but hunger? Hunger at midday, deep sleep at midnight and thirst in summer are all a strange phenomenon. It is as subtle as it is irresistible!

The physical part of the hunger of love is easily described. Every youth experiences it. But the mental counterpart of love is different. I also cannot clearly define it. But even when Devayani was in my bed, the consciousness of being lonely was often unbearable.

I had to spend my days in such loneliness. I was hankering for a mate all the time. I was looking for one to talk to, to joke with, to confide in, to share my unhappiness. I was looking for a companion, who would not move even if stung by a scorpion, lest I, who was sleeping peacefully in her lap, be disturbed. I was looking for a friend to whom I could relate my golden dreams and confess to my lapses. I was looking for partner who could create confidence in me that even if we did not get anything to eat on this uninhabited island, we would live on the honey and nectar in our lips — and if death came to take away one, insist that he take the other one also.

Devayani was never able to satisfy this hunger of mine.

Once I casually said to Devayani, ‘There is something I very much wish for; but I do not think it will be granted in this life.’

She said smiling, ‘What is there in this world that the King of Hastinapur cannot get?’

I replied, ‘Poverty.’

‘You want to be poor?’

‘Sometimes I wish that a powerful enemy would invade our kingdom, that I should be defeated, that then we two would sneak away into a forest in disguise and live among the open mountains where I would hunt for food, which you would cook into delicious recipes, that you should cling to me from fear when a serpent wriggles past, that a firefly should light up our faces when lying in each other’s arms we would be passionately kissing, and you would blush because the goddess of the forest had with the aid of this tiny light been witness to our amour.’

I might indefinitely have carried on in this strain when she interrupted with, ‘It was by a mistake that you were born to King Nahusha! In some poet’s house ...’

But she had married me only because I was the son of King Nahusha. She loved the royal splendour, she loved to be Queen! She did not love Yayati. Yayati was only an instrument of fulfilling her wishes.

This realisation often made me restless. And yet, I did everything possible to make her happy. I was not prepared to forego the pleasure, which I could take. Unbeknown she had ensnared me with the wile of her beauty. But I could never openly share my unhappiness with her.

One whose only thought is for himself, one who is absorbed in oneself, one who looks at the world through one’s eyes alone, indeed one who does not see the world as anything beyond oneself is never able to realise the sensibilities of another; but engaged in self worship, unconsciously turns blind in his/her mind and deaf in his/her heart.

Devayani would always find in everything only that which suited her own inclination.

This is what happened at the first town celebrations after our marriage. It was celebrated with great eclat. Everyone was all admiration for the new Queen. Every night there were staged varied items of entertainment. We were both present to
see them.

On the first day, a play based on the life of
my great grandfather Pururava was staged.

Urvashi was staying with Pururava on certain conditions. Unknowingly, he breaks the conditions. She, therefore, leaves him. The king is distraught at her separation and roves the world in search of
her. In the end he comes to
a lake. There he finds his beloved. The king entreats her with all he can to
return with him. But she will not give in. In the end, he is bent on suicide. Urvashi replies thus, ‘Do not throw yourself down the precipice. King, remember one thing, it is not possible to
remain friends with women for all time, because their hearts are like those of
wolves.’ With these words she vanishes into the air. The king embraces the stone where she was standing and faints away.

At this last scene, the audience sighed and were touched. Devayani was the only one in the audience who clapped in applause. Devayani was smiling at me, victoriously, perhaps implying that she was the Urvashi and I the Pururava of
this generation. That stung — but no — let me forget it.

Next day was scheduled a scene based on the dialogues of
Agastya and Lopamudra from the
Rigveda
. Agastya was a Brahmin sage and Lopamudra a Kshatriya princess. When I helped Devayani out of the well, she had mentioned Lopamudra. So, I said in jest, ‘In this scene, I should have acted Agastya and you
Lopamudra.’

Even after marriage, Agastya was a celibate for a long time. He was saying to
her, ‘Every dawn rises to bring a new day on earth. But everyday is slowly taking us nearer old age. In old age, the limbs of men and women weaken into senility. Their beauty fades. Dear Lopamudra, with this bitter truth openly staring us in the face, why should we stay away from each other any longer?’ Lopamudra doubts what he says. To resolve her doubts, he says, ‘There is nothing improper in a husband and wife coming together. If the pleasure of their union was undesirable as to be prohibited why should the Prime Creator have indulged in making man and woman two different beings?’

Even then Lopamudra does not go to him. In the end Lopamudra puts her head on his shoulder and only says, ‘Men talk about it; women don’t. But they are both longing for the same pleasure.’

This scene was appreciated by the audience with great understanding — even gaiety. But Devayani was displeased. She said, ‘Lopamudra is a great fool. She should have replied to this bearded sage in some such vein as Urvashi’s yesterday.’

She was however deeply interested in the show on the third day. The story depicted a king posing as a danseuse. The part was acted by a dancing girl herself. But Devayani said, ‘How well the king acts the part. I am wondering for sometime now what part would suit you most.’ After a little thought, she said, ‘You will make a perfect sage. With a beard and long hair, a
rudrakshamala,
wooden sand
al
s, a water carafe in the hand and a deerskin under the arm would do it. Even I could be deceived.’ And she burst out laughing.

Retorting in jest I said, ‘I have taken an oath before Mother in my childhood.’

‘All right. We shall see ...’

* * *

Messengers came from the north with the news that the Dasyus, tribals, were making a nuisance of themselves. Earlier, thanks to Father’s bravery, all tribals had stopped their raids into our kingdom and were peaceful. I knew that unless our authority was restored, trouble would not cease. I resolved to lead an army there myself.

An auspicious time was set for the departure. The day was drawing nearer. I had imagined that Devayani would be in distress. But even on the previous night, she had been calm. I had said, ‘I will find it hard to go away from you!’ She had retorted sarcastically, ‘Did you really escort the victory horse?’