was supposed to be Yuvanashva. ‘He is but a child,’ insisted Shilavati.
‘Old enough to wrestle bulls, hunt wild boars, capture elephants and make love to his wife all night long, but too young to rule?’
Shilavati did not respond.
Mandavya ensured that the most beautiful women of the palace waved yak-tail fly whisks every time Yuvanashva appeared in public, reminding all that the child was the consecrated king, scion of the Turuvasu clan. Shilavati, well versed in the ancient language of symbols and the demands of dharma, knew that she was restricted to use only a fan made of peacock feathers reserved for regents. She had long ago rejected the fan of matted palm leaves given to widows.
When Shilavati held court, the maids who accompanied her passed her fine slices of betel nut that she chewed with relish. This was permitted only for women whose husbands were alive. For the juice of the betel ignites the flesh. Shilavati chewed the nut nevertheless. ‘The juices ignite my mind. Help me think more clearly,’ she explained. No one stopped her.
In the months since marriage, Simantini had been bleeding with unfailing regularity. Yuvanashva’s seed did not cling to the soil. Every time this happened, the crows’ cawing became more intense. They were angry. ‘The bridge across Vaitarni has collapsed once more. Shilavati, when will one of us cross over to the other side? Make it happen. There may be dharma in your kingdom, but there is no dharma in your son’s bed,’ said the ancestors.
Shilavati ignored them. They did not frighten her any more. ‘I have done my best. Raised my son and given him a wife. Let him do the rest.’
The crows shouted, ‘Does it not bother you that your son’s seed is weak?’
‘It is not. His seed will sprout and you will be reborn when Yama decrees it. Don’t be impatient. It will get you nothing but a sore throat.’
A year later, Mandavya said, ‘The Brahmana elders feel the prince should go to his wife only when her womb is ripe, for seven days after the bleeding stops. Not before. Not after.’
‘Such regulation for a newly married man. My son is human not animal,’ said Shilavati. ‘Don’t take away his dignity.’
‘My queen, do you want him to father a son or not?’
Shilavati did not reply.
Yuvanashva resented the restrictions the Brahmana elders imposed upon him. He demanded an explanation but in a way felt relieved. Love-making had lost its charm. It had been reduced to a chore.
Mandavya told his son, Vipula, to talk to the prince. Vipula said, ‘The bull goes to the cow only when her womb is ripe. As does the horse to the mare. But man can go to a woman anytime. This is a gift of the gods to man. Manavas enjoy the sexual act. It is no chore or obligation. But embedded in the pleasure is a duty. A duty to produce a child. Perhaps your seed is being wasted in pleasure. We need to conserve it. Restrain its flow for twenty-one days. Make it potent and spill only in the seven days of season so that it embeds itself in a ripe womb and turns into the royal sapling.’
Yuvanashva saw sense in this. He did not tell anybody but he had noticed crows perching themselves on the tree outside Simantini’s bedchamber watching them make love. He had tried to shoo them away. But they werenot easily scared. They stared and stared. Flapping their wings impatiently every time the foreplay got too long.
After the monthly bleeding stopped, Simantini’s maids would come to Yuvanashva with a tambula, informing him that the queen’s womb was ripe ready to receive seed. He would chew the nuts, ignite his flesh and go to her. They would be together for seven days and seven nights. Then Brahmanas would come and sing hymns in the corridor outside her bedchamber. ‘Stick. Sink. Cling. Like a leech. Like a crab. Hold on as fire to wood.’ This was an indicator that the womb was no longer ripe and that the husband should leave.
It was hoped that the songs would encourage the womb
‘Old enough to wrestle bulls, hunt wild boars, capture elephants and make love to his wife all night long, but too young to rule?’
Shilavati did not respond.
Mandavya ensured that the most beautiful women of the palace waved yak-tail fly whisks every time Yuvanashva appeared in public, reminding all that the child was the consecrated king, scion of the Turuvasu clan. Shilavati, well versed in the ancient language of symbols and the demands of dharma, knew that she was restricted to use only a fan made of peacock feathers reserved for regents. She had long ago rejected the fan of matted palm leaves given to widows.
When Shilavati held court, the maids who accompanied her passed her fine slices of betel nut that she chewed with relish. This was permitted only for women whose husbands were alive. For the juice of the betel ignites the flesh. Shilavati chewed the nut nevertheless. ‘The juices ignite my mind. Help me think more clearly,’ she explained. No one stopped her.
In the months since marriage, Simantini had been bleeding with unfailing regularity. Yuvanashva’s seed did not cling to the soil. Every time this happened, the crows’ cawing became more intense. They were angry. ‘The bridge across Vaitarni has collapsed once more. Shilavati, when will one of us cross over to the other side? Make it happen. There may be dharma in your kingdom, but there is no dharma in your son’s bed,’ said the ancestors.
Shilavati ignored them. They did not frighten her any more. ‘I have done my best. Raised my son and given him a wife. Let him do the rest.’
The crows shouted, ‘Does it not bother you that your son’s seed is weak?’
‘It is not. His seed will sprout and you will be reborn when Yama decrees it. Don’t be impatient. It will get you nothing but a sore throat.’
A year later, Mandavya said, ‘The Brahmana elders feel the prince should go to his wife only when her womb is ripe, for seven days after the bleeding stops. Not before. Not after.’
‘Such regulation for a newly married man. My son is human not animal,’ said Shilavati. ‘Don’t take away his dignity.’
‘My queen, do you want him to father a son or not?’
Shilavati did not reply.
Yuvanashva resented the restrictions the Brahmana elders imposed upon him. He demanded an explanation but in a way felt relieved. Love-making had lost its charm. It had been reduced to a chore.
Mandavya told his son, Vipula, to talk to the prince. Vipula said, ‘The bull goes to the cow only when her womb is ripe. As does the horse to the mare. But man can go to a woman anytime. This is a gift of the gods to man. Manavas enjoy the sexual act. It is no chore or obligation. But embedded in the pleasure is a duty. A duty to produce a child. Perhaps your seed is being wasted in pleasure. We need to conserve it. Restrain its flow for twenty-one days. Make it potent and spill only in the seven days of season so that it embeds itself in a ripe womb and turns into the royal sapling.’
Yuvanashva saw sense in this. He did not tell anybody but he had noticed crows perching themselves on the tree outside Simantini’s bedchamber watching them make love. He had tried to shoo them away. But they werenot easily scared. They stared and stared. Flapping their wings impatiently every time the foreplay got too long.
After the monthly bleeding stopped, Simantini’s maids would come to Yuvanashva with a tambula, informing him that the queen’s womb was ripe ready to receive seed. He would chew the nuts, ignite his flesh and go to her. They would be together for seven days and seven nights. Then Brahmanas would come and sing hymns in the corridor outside her bedchamber. ‘Stick. Sink. Cling. Like a leech. Like a crab. Hold on as fire to wood.’ This was an indicator that the womb was no longer ripe and that the husband should leave.
It was hoped that the songs would encourage the womb
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