Yayati: A Classic Tale of Lust (25 page)

In Mandar’s cottage, I saw many young and middle-aged men and women. It all added up to this — religion, morality, duty, soul and goodness — all these pious words are sacrosanct to man. But it is only a blind.

Life is transient. Death is uncertain and may come any moment. Therefore, every moment of life is worth its weight in gold. Man must accordingly assuage his desires wringing from life all the fragrance, sweetness and happiness he can. Such was the philosophy given to me by Mandar.

I started on this new life like the whirlwind. For eighteen years, one season followed another. Spring, summer, autumn and winter seemed to be chasing each other around. The wheel of time had covered eighteen milestones. Night and day played hide and seek. Night found the day and the day in turn found the night. Year after year rolled by. But there was no break or change in the routine of my life.

Beautiful young maidens tended to my pleasure one day and were gone the next. My one concern was to ensure that the cup of my happiness was full. Mandar and Mukulika did keep it filled and filled to overflowing for eighteen years.

There are two nights in this orgy which I cannot put out of my mind. They are gnawing at me. They are nightmares.

One evening, Mukulika brought to me for a companion a beautiful young girl. I took her to bed. All I knew at the time was that she had lovely eyes. The girl in my arms muttered, ‘Madhav, Madhav.’ I was gently trying to put my hands round her, when she hugged me closer and murmured, ‘Am I not yours? Don’t Madhav, don’t leave me like this!’

I was stunned. I peered at her. I recognised her. She was Madhavi. Mukulika must have doped her or maybe Mandar had hypnotised her. They alone knew what they did in replenishing my cup of happiness.

Gradually, Madhavi came to. She looked steadily at me. Then she screamed and ran out of the room, pushing open the door. Her body was found in the Yamuna the next day.

Another night, Mukulika brought to me a coy young maiden. Only next morning did I find out it was Taraka! She woke up as I was looking at her. She was in terror, as if bitten by a snake. The next moment she was screaming, ‘Snake, snake!’ and running out of the room.

I heard later that she had gone off her head. Some years later, someone told me that she mistook the sparks from a fire for flowers, went near to gather them and was burnt to death.

The bride-to-be of my dearest friend! His niece! Both lives were laid desolate because of me. I had ruined the life of Madhavi and had been guilty of the cruelest act towards Taraka whom I had seen playing with her dolls. ‘Will you be the husband of my doll?’ Those lisping words of hers. I brought her living death!

On these two occasions, I was upset for a long time. But I did not know of any way other than Mandar’s. I thought I was secure and fulfilled under the influence of drink, the excitement of the hunt, and the heavenly bliss in the arms of a woman. Away from them, I was obsessed with being lonely, unhappy and insecure.

The seasons followed one another and the wheel of time kept turning. The course of my pleasure was uninterrupted.

I heard Mukulika saying, ‘It is almost midnight, Your Majesty.’ I opened my eyes.

I smiled at Mukulika. She came forward quickly and dressed me in no time.

* * *

I stood before the mirror. I was happy looking at my full-length reflection. I was handsome enough to be attractive to any young woman. I looked as young as Yayati bending over young Alaka to kiss her.

I had a good look at myself in the mirror. In a few moments, the image dimmed and became hazy. Behind the vague outline, I could see the forms of innumerable young maidens, grinding their teeth at me.

I stepped back a little and the haziness disappeared. I looked at my reflection again. My hair was tousled. I looked more carefully. The next moment I was stunned as if by a blow. One white hair was peeping through an otherwise black mass. That white hair seemed to me like the ashen hand of a sage pronouncing a curse.

The banner of old age had been planted on Yayati’s head! Old age? The most unsavoury part of the drama of life. I would soon be old. I am still hungry and thirsting for pleasure. No, I shall not get old!

But that white hair? It maybe my imagination, as were those forms of young maidens a little while ago. I looked into the mirror again with great hope. The white hair was still there. It was a clear manifestation of what was coming.

I closed my eyes. I kept impressing on myself that the only real Yayati was the one who had kissed young Alaka. The white hair was the precursor of the cruel inevitable. I did not want to heed its message. I tried to escape from it into the past.

In doing so, I got back as far as Alaka. The Alaka of that glorious evening — with her golden hair — I had not yet had one with golden hair.

Mukulika quietly opened the door of the bedroom. The girl got up from the couch. She cast a luring glance at me and sat down.

The maiden was beautiful like the sculpture of an angel. I spread my arms ...

Just then I heard Mukulika’s tremulous hoarse words: ‘Your Majesty.’ I asked in irritation, ‘What is the matter?’

‘The Prime Minister is here.’

‘I have no time to see him.’

‘He has been here sometime and he will not take no for an answer. He says, the Prince has been captured.’

The Prince — captive — Alaka — golden hair — white hair — old age — death.

The Prime Minister talked at length. He prattled on and on. But I did not want to hear for a moment his idle talk about court matters. My mind was hovering round the girl near me.

Devayani was crying because Yadu had been taken captive. Devayani had deputed the Prime Minister to remind me of my duty as King and as a father but how far had she honoured her duty as wife? Did she once think of her husband in the last eighteen years? Did she ever feel that she ought to have forgiven him? Did she ever wish to rescue him from being carried away and drowned in the stream? Was she afraid of the huge flood? Sharmishtha would never have kept quiet in those circumstances. The fact is that she never loved me. What is the use crying now? She feels today that I should be true to my duty as King and as father. Only he who honours his duty has the right to expect others to honour theirs. Where did she leave her duty as wife for the last eighteen years?

The Prime Minister talked away. He was trying to persuade me to return to the palace.

Go on a campaign to free Yadu, take to the battlefield. What if I am killed! No, my life is yet to be lived. I am yet unfulfilled. My youth is still unsatisfied. The golden-haired girl — golden hair — white hair — old age, death. No — I shall not set out to rescue Yadu. I had by then lost control over myself and did not care what I said.

‘Please tell Her Majesty I am grateful to her for remembering me after so many years.’

The Prime Minister returned to the attack. By now, I was exasperated and lost my temper. I added, ‘Let alone Yadu, I shall not move my little finger even if Her Majesty were captured.’

As soon as I returned to the bedroom, my unknown bedmate stood up. But my white hair was bothering me. What if she sees it? No, the shadow of old age creeping over Yayati must not be noticed by anyone. Yayati is ever young! Yayati was going to
remain
ever young!

I stood before the mirror. What great hope I had that the white hair would have disappeared. But the wicked thing was impudently jeering at me.

I remembered the golden hair of Alaka. I was taken aback to find the girl standing close to me. She had put her hand on my shoulder. Seeing me inactive inspite of her intimacy, she put her arms round me.

I looked at her hair and shouted, ‘Go away.’

She did not know what she had done. She looked at me a little scared. I called angrily to Mukulika.

‘Take this flower of yours and throw it away. Don’t you know my taste?’

She went to the girl and lifted her head a little. She was crying. I bent her head gently, saying, ‘Look and see. Is there a single golden hair in this? I want a girl with golden hair! When can I get her ... tomorrow?’

‘How can I find one by tomorrow?’

Mukulika begged of me with folded hands, ‘If Your Majesty will kindly give us fifteen days?’

‘All right, I will give you the time. But if you do not succeed, the sixteenth day you and your preceptor will be publicly disgraced. What is today?’

‘It is new moon today.’

‘All right. If by full moon day, a girl with golden hair is not presented ...’

Mukulika stood there with folded hands. I shouted at her, ‘Get out.’

I woke up next day well after sunrise. Immediately on rising, I went to the mirror and looked carefully at myself. I was stunned. Not only was the white hair of last night mocking me but by its side was another white hair.

Distressed, I went and lay in bed. I tossed about from side to side. The tumult of thought, enough to split the head, would not stop. I was again and again reminded of Sharmishtha. I could have told her without reserve my fear of old age, death and lack of contentment with life. Her tears would have assuaged the unnamed fear in my heart. But I was alone. In this whole world, I was all alone.

I began thinking. Why should I not feel contented even after eighteen years of licentious pleasure?

What is the content of life? Why is man born? Why does he die? What is the purpose of life? What is its significance? Are life and death, youth and old age, the two sides of the same coin? Are they pairs as natural as day and night? Why then is man so afraid of old age and death?

What does man live on? Love? But what then is love? Are love, kindness and affection mere masks? Man lives only for his own happiness, only for the satisfaction of his ego.

The love of the parents, the love of man and wife — all love is pretension. It is mere playacting. At heart, man only loves himself, his body, his happiness and his ego. Even in that wonderful, tender and mysterious attraction between man and woman, this element of self does not change. Do a few hours of physical pleasure measure up to love? Momentary satisfaction of violent passion — does it amount to love?

No. Love is apart from desire. In the love of man and wife also, desire burns but that is sacred like the sacrificial fire. It burns within the bounds of the morals of life.

I did not keep the sanctity of it. My profligate life has been nothing short of a forest conflagration. Many innocent birds were scorched in that fire. Many tender fragrant creepers were reduced to ashes in it.

Is this repentance? Is this premature renunciation brought about by the sight of those two white hairs? To achieve pleasure, I spent every moment in indulgence. Why then am I still unsatisfied? Why am I unhappy? How is it that the stream of countless momentary pleasures does not produce even a drop of eternal happiness?

Really — what is happiness?

Pleasure is a butterfly. It flits from flower to flower, tasting honey. But can the butterfly aspire to be an eagle? If you wish to bring a jug of nectar from heaven, a butterfly is unequal to the task. Only the eagle can attempt it. The butterfly and the eagle. Momentary pleasure and lasting happiness are things apart. I pursued pleasure but getting it did not bring me happiness.

What constitutes happiness? Has it no relation to any physical pleasure? No, there was nothing wrong with the libertine’s life which I had led for eighteen years. I loved myself. I sought my own pleasure. Was I to blame for it?

Is man’s love confined to the love of his own self? Alaka’s love, Madhav’s love, Kacha’s love, were all these loves selfish? Were they not selfless?

And Sharmishtha — her love for me? There she is in the jungle eating roots and herbs, worshipping me at heart. And I? I am all the time mocking her sacred love steeped in wine. The lips sanctified by her kisses are sacrileged with kissing other tainted lips.

Why should it be so? Why should I not be capable of loving as Sharmishtha did? Why should I be unable to live a restrained life like Kacha?

Desire — desire in any form — is it man’s fault? No; desire is the very basis of life. Then what wrong have I done? That my desire was uncontrolled? That I did not realise, that in life the smallest happiness of any individual is circumscribed by his temperament, circumstances and the incompleteness of life?

Like me, Kacha also could have been steeped in pleasures when he brought the Sanjeevani to the gods. But he was unaffected. Where did he get the strength to do it?

Kacha was not born a recluse. He loved Devayani with all his heart. He put duty to his community before self. In honouring that duty, he renounced love. That sacrifice did not make his life futile, miserable, or idle.

I had the happiness of a household in the company of Devayani. I experienced a glorious, noble love with Sharmishtha. But I was not satisfied. I am still not satisfied. And yet, Kacha, who is unaware of the nectar of a maiden’s luscious lips, is satisfied. Why should it be so? Where did I go wrong?

Kacha wrote to me from this very Ashokavan. I very much wish to read that letter once again, but it is at the palace. Both the things are there. The golden hair of Alaka and that letter of gold of Kacha.

Shall I get peace of mind by reading that letter? But Devayani will not give it to anyone else. What if I go to the palace and fetch it? I shall never go there as long as I live.

But am I happy at least in Ashokavan? Why is my mind straining to drown the fear of death, roused by the white hair, in the infatuation of a golden-haired maiden?

Are desires akin to ghosts? My desire for Alaka in my youth remained unsatisfied. How has that desire, repressed in the subconscious for many years, come to the surface now?

Why should I not be able to conquer it? Is it the rule of the universe that unless the pursuit of pleasures is renounced, the ultimate truth of life is not revealed? Devayani had taken care to keep Yadu away from me all the time. My instinct of affection was unsatisfied. Would the void in my mind have been filled in Yadu’s company? If not Yadu, Puroo? Where is he? How heartless I have been. I have completely forgotten him in the last eighteen years. Do sensuous pleasures dull the mind? Do they lead to lack of humanity? How did Kacha acquire his restraint? Why could I not have it?

To all appearances, I was lying down quietly on the bed. I looked as if I was fast asleep. But inside I was shaken by blow after blow. Things which I wished to forget were stealthily peeping through the subconscious. They were tearing at my heart. I dared not look at my past life without trepidation. There was only one way out of my misery — suicide.

I shuddered. Then I laughed to myself. If I had the courage to take my life would I not have done so eighteen years ago?

I had another long familiar way of emerging from my queer depression. That was to go over the sweet moments of past indulgence.

Many figures who had served to keep my cup of happiness ever filled to the brim passed before my eyes. Here is one. What a beautiful head of hair she had. Not a head of hair, but a mass of bees attracted to her lotus face.