Yayati: A Classic Tale of Lust (Library of South Asian Literature)

by Vishnu Sakharam Khandekar

We are all a little wiser towards the end of our lives and the wisdom often comes from the pain suffered by oneself.

‘Mother, I shall never, never turn a hermit.’

Sometimes I thought the motherland was standing before me in person. The rivers and streams like jets of milk, flowing from her breasts, the mountains. The thought that it was this milk which sustained her children was thrilling.

A woman is the epitome of all pleasures, that is why we ascetics look upon her as utterly forbidden.

‘Yayati, one day you will be king. You will be a sovereign. You will celebrate a hundred sacrifices. But

never forget that it is easier to conquer the world than to master the mind ...’

Once a lovely sweet fruit had a worm in it. He turned to me and said, ‘Prince, life is such. It is sweet and beautiful but no one knows how and when it will be infected.’ He paused in deep thought and recited a verse which said, ‘In life, it is the sweet fruit that is most likely to be infested.’

‘Is indulgence a sin?’ ‘No, not if it does not violate ethics. But life has other joys to offer, which are greater than those from indulgence.’ ‘For instance?’ ‘The joy of selfless sacrifice.’

‘Yes, but every man is born with a curse.’

‘What then is the purpose of human life?’ ‘Man must strive to free himself of the curse. The perception of the rest of the animate world does not extend beyond bodily pleasure and pain. Such perception is given only to human beings. It is by virtue of such perception that man has risen above the animal kingdom and is mounting the steep ascent of civilised culture. He will one day reach the peak, and he will be free from his curse. Never forget that bodily pleasure is not the principal aim of life. Its principal aim is the satisfaction of the soul.’

I had only to take her hand in mine! That was enough to snap the bonds of the world! I was no longer prince nor she a maid. We were just two lovers. Two birds, two stars — As soon as I put my lips to Mukulika’s my fear of death vanished. That night, how often must we have kissed each other! Can one count the number of stars in the sky? I had read poems of the beauty of women and I had been vaguely attracted by it for some years. The mad excitement of union with a beautiful young maiden and the spray of heavenly bliss which emanated from every part of her being, I experienced for the first time that night. I was wildly intoxicated with it.

In the end, a poet from the Land of the Five Rivers spoke of the moon as the white breast of a beautiful young maiden and the spot as its nipple.

He put forward, in beautiful words, the idea that the speck on the moon was a fingermark deliberately put on the moon, her child, by mother Creation to ward off from her beautiful offspring the evil eye.

‘To tell the truth, Prince,’ she said biting her finger mischievously, ‘we women do not heed a man’s word but rather his eyes.’

The first moment of temptation is the first step down the ravine of sin. I have taken that first step. However beautiful it maybe, it is the first step in decadence and fall.

She must have been crying outside. That is why like the earth after a shower she looked even more beautiful.

In the eyes of the world Yayati was now King, the lord of a great kingdom. But in fact Yayati had become an orphan, with no one to look up to.

In this world everybody obviously lives for himself. As the roots of the trees and creepers turn to moisture nearby, so do men and women look for support to near relations for their happiness. This is what the world calls love, affection or friendship. In fact, it is only the love of self. If the moisture on one side dries up, the trees and the creepers do not dry up, but their roots look for it elsewhere, be it far or near. They find it, draw it in and so remain fresh.

What does a Kacha, Yati or Yayati matter in this vast expanse of life on earth? How insignificant man is in the vast background of this world? Why talk of his pleasure or pain? Is anyone bothered about the feelings of a blade of grass floating on the waves of the sea?

I wondered when I would return to that beautiful spot. Perhaps never. The scroll of life is written by a wayward destiny in a sprawling hand.

I thought Mother would bring up the subject of Yati in the morning but she said nothing. She must have been very sorry that I had returned alone. In life there is no pain greater than disappointment.

Blood was oozing from it and I imagined it to be my lover’s head anointed with the auspicious red tilak[1]. I forgot that the head was lifeless. I danced up to it, knelt down and kissed it with the words: ‘Kacha dear, you did not want to kiss me, but there you are, I have you in the end.’

I fetched it from the pile of clothes set apart for the spring festivities. I wished to tear it up. But my hands would not move. Perhaps a man could have torn it. Almost certainly Kacha would have cut it up to bits, but I am a woman. The worship of the beautiful is our creed. Women can never destroy anything beautiful.

‘Some things, which are terrifying from a distance, are not in fact quite so frightful. Death is the same.

Having some hobby is an unfailing palliative for misery.

But man’s real enemy is not Destiny, but himself.

I had heard of the heavenly bliss that crowns the union of lovers. An empty pot reverberates while being filled; but the sound ceases when it is full to the brim. The hearts of lovers are the same; I recalled one poet describing this blessed state with the words — when the hearts are filled with love, there is no room for words.

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.

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?

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.

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.

‘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.’

‘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.’

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?’

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.’

That first touch of Sharmishtha — does the nature of man reveal itself even in a touch? Devayani was undoubtedly prettier than Sharmishtha — but her touch always felt like that of a statue in stone. On the other hand Sharmishtha’s was like that of a delicate flowering creeper.

I was attracted to Kacha by such traits in his character. I would not have given him a second thought, if from the moment he came into the hermitage he had hovered round me, seeming eager to be near me, or if I found him looking avidly at me. But I never saw desire in his eyes. There was no passion in his bearing. Women like just such men. They turn their backs on men who chase them and they chase men who turn their backs on them. How strange but true!

With the realisation that the man standing on the edge of the well was the King of Hastinapur .... In that instant I was determined to be his favourite queen. To forget the pangs of unrequited love, I needed the intoxication of splendour, the arrogance of power and a husband who would dance to my tune ... A lusting husband would stay in my control.

‘And what is the rule?’ ‘It is really nothing much. If one can sleep on a deerskin, why take the trouble of making a feather bed? If one must eat wild roots and herbs, why should one occasionally indulge in a banquet and pamper the tongue? Devayani, man’s tongue is his worst enemy. I do not mean that only in the sense that it indulges in words which hurt. But if it tastes a crisp delicacy one day, it prompts one to taste it again.’

I said with a smile, ‘It is many days since you came to Hastinapur. You never came to see me. So I wondered if the brother had forgotten his sister?’ ‘A rich brother might neglect a poor sister but how can a poor brother forget his rich sister?’

He kept calm and said, ‘I can understand that in a fit of anger you insisted on her being your maid. But man’s greatness lies in mastering the passions with the help of thought.’

Before leaving she drew me aside and said, ‘My girl, there is nothing that I now wish for. But for no reason, I am anxious about Yayu. He is like a child. Remember a word of wisdom from my experience. It is not enough for a young woman to be her husband’s wife. She has to be companion, sister, daughter

and indeed, on occasion, even a mother to him.’

He handed me the letter, adding, ‘Not really! But I keep thinking it would have been far better if, like Kacha, I had been born an ascetic.’

Nature does not differentiate between right and wrong; man alone can do it. If a mother’s only child is being drowned the river does not feel anything in the matter. But if another man is there on the bank ... provided it is a man who has progressed from the bare instinct to live to higher values ... he will do everything possible to save that life, even at the risk to his own.

In human life, the soul is the passenger, the body the chariot, conscience the charioteer and mind the reins. The different senses are the horses, all the items of enjoyment are the roads, and the soul with senses and the mind attached to it has to use them.

I am not being modest when I say that I often feel that the path of asceticism is much easier than life as a householder.

On the other hand, love of man and woman is another attractive form of the same struggle. But this love must not merely be physical infatuation. That can only lead to a union of bodies. True love is a communication of minds. After sometime, it grows into a communion of souls. This delightful path of the union of souls is perhaps even more difficult than the arduous path of asceticism, for the attainment of God. Being a householder is noble and pure sacrifice. But if this sacrifice is to bear fruit, the first thing that the husband and wife have to offer in sacrifice is their ego.

What a powerful weapon feigned anger can be in the hands of a woman!

I realised how difficult it must be to follow in the footsteps of Kacha, but he is a man. Sharmishtha is a woman. How different are a woman’s body and a man’s body. Her mind and his! Her life and his. What a world of difference there is between the two. Man naturally pursues the intangibles, fame, soul, meditation, heroism, God. Such things readily attract him. But not so easily does woman get caught in their lure. To her love, husband, children, service, household and such concrete things are a greater attraction. She will observe a rigorous code of conduct, make a sacrifice but only for something concrete. Unlike man, she is not drawn to the intangible. To worship with her whole being or to bathe in her tears, she needs an entity. Man is a natural worshipper of the abstract, woman prefers things earthly.