Yayati: A Classic Tale of Lust by V S Khandekar

from here is Ashokavan ... a beautiful haven of comfort. It is quiet and restful like a cave in the Himalayas and there is an underground passage from here to Ashokavan. It is very near that way. You should live there for sometime and visit your father twice a day.’
    The Prime Minister had provided well for my comfort in the Ashokavan, but I was bored. There was very little I could ask them to do. Among the maids was one Mukulika, evidently new. She was very clever and pretty. She was about twenty-five. To ensure quiet and peace for me, she used to send the other servants away as much as she could and remain in silent attendance on me.
    I was striving night and day to keep the shadow of death off my mind but my effort came to nought everytime I went to see Father. Death is supreme and sovereign in this world; the mind was distressed and helpless at the thought that none can defy it. I realised all the time that I would also be lying on the deathbed some day like Father. The childish thought kept recurring that I should run away and hide myself in a cave, where the cold hands of Death could not reach me.
    Death must be even more horrible as was evident from Father’s condition in that illness.
    Occasionally, the delirium would abate. Once when Father did not know that I was also there, he beckoned to Mother. She leaned forward. With difficulty he lifted his right hand and caressed her. In a low voice he said, ‘I must go leaving all this splendour and beauty behind.’
    Mother was confused. She did not know how to bring my presence there to his notice. Father was sobbing like a little child. ‘I have not had my fill of this honey but ...’
    Mother sent me away but that pitiful crying of Father’s kept ringing in my ears and rankled in my mind. It was uncanny. They were the tears of a hero whose prowess was acknowledged with reverence even in heaven. They were the tears of the Supreme Lord of Hastinapur. Those tears were unintelligible to me and I was baffled by the thought that some deep mystery of life lay behind them.
    Yet the experience which burnt in my heart was quite another. Mother was tired from keeping awake all night. I sent her away to rest and sat by my father. He was unconscious for a long time and the physician was administering medicine from time to time.
    The daylight was fading and it was getting dim and gloomy outside. When Father once opened his eyes he must have recognised me. Grasping my hand, he screeched like a terrified lamb, ‘Yayati, hold me fast! I want to live! No, I will not go. Yayu, look, there are the messengers of death. You are so mighty ... then how did they get here? How did you let them come here?’
    His hand was trembling. He screamed again. ‘You are all ungrateful. Even if you give me one day each of your life ... Yayu, Yayu, hold me fast!’
    He relapsed into coma. His hand told me what he could not put into words. How tightly that hand was clasping! That clasp contained all the fear of a stag mortally hit by an arrow.
    If death is the inescapable end of life, why is man born at all? I tried to recall to my mind the philosophy enunciated by Kacha and Angiras. But it did not provide a satisfactory answer. The darkness of the new moon night is not dispelled by a few glowing fireflies.
    I went to the Ashokavan in a dazed condition. Darkness was gathering outside. Mukulika came in quietly and lit the golden oil lamp. The place brightened up. In that glow, her bent figure by the lamp with her back to me, looked very beautiful.
    She was slowly moving towards my bed. Her steps were graceful like those of a dancer. She said softly, ‘Are you not feeling well, Prince?’
    ‘I am baffled, Mukulika, seeing Father’s condition ...’
    ‘They say, now there is no cause for anxiety. Only today, the royal astrologer was saying that all evil stars of the King will soon ...’
    ‘Bring me some wine. Stars, illness, death ... I want to forget everything.’
    She did not move. I shouted in