To Be Young Again (Part One)
Rohini Gupta
15 May 2008, 06:21Puru stood quietly behind the throne holding the long necked, golden jug of rose petal wine, watching Crown Prince Yadu get drunker by the minute. Yadu had been drinking since early morning. He had sent for Puru just before dawn. Puru had sighed, stumbled out of bed and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, taking time only to wash, put on a fresh white dhoti and elephant livery of the royal house.
Yadu always sent for him after a fight with his father. He drank and he complained about the stupidity of his father and brother, and how no one understood him. Puru did not have to respond, or even listen, he just had to make sure that there was no delay when Yadu held out his wine glass.
“My father hates me,” Yadu said, his words blurring, “he wants to deny me the throne. Am I not his eldest son and his rightful heir?”
Once, a long time ago, Puru had responded to that by trying to reassure him, and Yadu had given him tongue lashing he would never forget.
Yadu held out his emerald studded glass, mumbling, and Puru poured more of the deep coloured wine, filling it a little less every time as the Prince’s hand became more unsteady. There were already wine stains on Yadu’s blue silks and he knew the old maid who washed the clothes would grumble about those. She would ask Puru, what were you doing, why do you let him spill his wine?
The wine was the most expensive of them all, rose petal wine. Puru had heard that a thousand roses went to make a drop and even most small kings could not afford it, but Yadu drank it like water and always had a supply on hand.
It was not yet mid day. Yadu should have been attending on his father the king, listening to the morning briefing of Chief Minister Sumantu, but lately he had been making excuses, choosing to go hunting, or drinking instead. Puru wondered if that was what he and his father had argued about. Rumours in the servants quarters said his father was really upset with him.
At least he would not have to wait long. Yadu usually ended his binges by falling asleep. He might not wake till evening or even morning and that gave Puru a whole free day, a rarity in a servants life.
Puru waited until the wine glass rolled out of Yadu’s hand, leaving dark stains on the very expensive carpet. He retrieved the glass, checked that Yadu was snoring and woke the old servant who was dosing by the door.
“Why does he make so much work?” the old man grumbled, calling out to the rest. Yadu had hundreds of servants. Puru left them scrubbing the carpet and attending to the Prince and went gladly into a day of freedom. Only one last welcome chore remained. He had to inform the King that his heir was indisposed.
In the mornings King Yayati sat in his audience chamber, the outermost room of his sprawling red stone palace. The room was large and airy, fragrant with the scent of the flowers in the courtyard outside and cool with the breezes blowing through the open marble arches. Yayati’s throne was not as ornate as the enormous gold, lion throne in the main court but it was gold and studded with fist sized gems, emeralds from the north, amethyst and rubies from the south, red corals from the sea, trimmed with the midnight blues of lapis lazuli.
Yayati did not lounge on silken cushions as Yadu did. King Yayati scorned all cushions. He lived a warriors life, practising a gruelling morning weapons routine. He could out run, out fight, and out last any of his sons.
Puru thought him the handsomest man in the world, and he spent most of his days waiting for a glimpse of him, hoping for a word. Yayati was kind to him, had allowed him to study at the royal school with the Princes, and spoke to him gently, but only when no one else could hear.
Puru understood that. His mother had told him the truth. The King is your father, but he will never acknowledge you in public, she had said. Puru accepted it so long as he got a smile, a word in private, on these rare days when he had an excuse to enter the King’s palace.
The guards knew him and let him through. Puru entered, peering through the carved pillars to see who sat on the seats in the centre of the hall. If the Queen sat there, as she sometimes did, then he would wait for her to leave. His mother had told him many times, make sure you never speak with the Queen. Puru did not understand but he was very careful and always checked. He saw only the King and the Chief Minister and went in.
Puru’s heart skipped a beat when he saw his father. Yayati was a good looking man, everyone’s image of a King, tall, broad shouldered, powerfully muscled. His personality filled every room he stepped into wether he said a word or not. The eldest Prince Yadu took after him, but was not as charismatic as his father. Puru did not resemble his father at all. He took after his mother Sharmishta, inheriting her small build and weak frame. He was thin, quiet and very forgettable.
Yayati did not look up, he was listening intently to Chief Minister Sumantu reading from a scroll. Beside the Chief Minister, on a small carved wood table, lay the day’s scrolls, reports from every part of the country. The marble floor was scattered with the ones they had dealt with, only a few remained on the table.
Puru went and sat quietly on the cool, marble floor listening to the briefing. Neither of the men looked at him. The king had allowed him this privilege and Puru was careful not to abuse it by speaking unless invited.
He had so little time and so much to learn. He was the youngest of three brothers, and his mother was the Queen’s maid. If he wanted to be more than a servant in life he would have to do it himself. He had to learn everything he could about the running of the kingdom, and one day, find himself a place in some other kingdom.
King Yayati turned to him only after the discussion was over.
“Does this mean my son is not coming again?”
“Maharaj, the crown prince is unwell and unable to meet you this morning. He sends his apologies.”
Yayati frowned, “Where is he?”
“In his rooms, Maharaj.”
“I suppose that means he is too drunk to come.” he turned to his Chief Minister “Tell me, what use is a heir who knows nothing about the kingdom?”
“He is very young, Maharaj. Perhaps he will grow up.”
“This boy is even younger,” the king nodded to Puru, “but if I gave him leave he would be here every day. What use is having two sons if not one of them attends?”
Puru had risen to leave when the doorkeeper announced the Queen. Puru retreated a few steps, waiting until she was past the door. But he could not leave without the King’s permission so he tried to make himself invisible.
Queen Devyani was alone, dressed in red silks today, matched with diamonds. The red set off her dark eyes and there were red hibiscus in her hair. She was a striking, tempestous woman, a famous beauty and the ideal complement to the King.
Yayati said to his wife, “The mid morning briefing is over, but how many of your sons do you see here?”
Devyani said, “I am sure they are on the way.”
“My eldest son, heir to the throne, unwell as usual. What use is a son like that?”
“How can he help it if he is sick?” she said, seating herself, carefully arranging her silks.
“What, both of them?” Yayati told his wife, “what use are they? Sumantu has come and finished. Shouldn’t they be here, making themselves useful?”
“I will speak with them,” Devyani said, “I will go and make them understand.” she made no move to rise.
“Make sure you do,” Yayati told her, “sons like this are no use to me. I will disinherit them both.”
Puru stared at the floor and Chief Minister Sumantu politely examined a scroll. Puru kept still, not wanting to draw attention to himself by getting up. The servant’s quarters rumours said the King and Queen argued endlessly these days, mostly about their sons.
Yayati continued his complaint, “If they cant trouble themselves to come what kind of Kings will they make? You have spoilt them. I will disinherit them. I will find someone else.”
“Who?” Devyani asked him, “who will you put on the throne? Or do you have other sons I know nothing about?”
Puru, sighed when she said that. He knew what a sore spot that was. Now it would get bitter. He cast a quick glance at their faces. Yayati looked ready to explode.
Yayati snapped, “Haven’t I the right to get upset if my son is drunk even before the noon meal?”
“You don’t know that. But you always see the worst. They are always in the wrong.”
“We will find out right now. “ Yayati turned to Puru, “ boy, tell me, is he sick or drunk? Tell me the truth.”
Puru unable to answer, sat staring at the floor.
Devyani said, “All you do is accuse him.”
“I know him too well.”
“Have you no sympathy?” she snapped at him, “you do not care for your sons.”
“Is he drunk?” Yayati asked Puru again, “Am I right?”
Puru hesitated, wanting only to go as quickly as possible.
“Boy,” Yayati said, “I asked you a question. Is my son drunk this morning?”
Puru heard the anger in his voice and knew he would have to answer. “Yes, my lord,” Puru said meekly.
“See?” Yayati turned triumphantly to his wife.
Puru bowed and turned to leave when Devyani’s sharp voice stopped him.
“Wait, boy, where do you come from?”
“From the servant’s quarters, Maharani.”
“What were you doing here?”
“The Crown Prince sent me with his apologies.”
“And did he ask you to say he was drunk, boy?”
Yayati said, “what is the point of taking it out on a servant? Go, boy.”
Puru turned hurriedly to the door but Devyani called him back.
“What are your duties?” she demanded.
“I wait on the Crown Prince in his chambers, and I accompany him when he travels, Maharani.” Puru kept his eyes on the floor, standing as far away as he could.
The Chief Minister cleared his throat, “I have been meaning to ask you a favour, Maharaj. I am growing old and this boy is too bright to be wasted on menial labour. Let me train him and one day he will serve you well.”
Puru looked up at that, it was just too much. He looked at the king’s face, holding his breath. Devyani was frowning but Yayati looked approving.
Yayati said, “By all means, take him, train him, let him help you in your duties.”
Puru blinked rapidly to hold the tears. He kept his head lowered and stared at the carpet, trying to keep calm. No more servants chores. He would be allowed to do what he wanted most, learn all skills of running a kingdom. One day I too, will be Chief Minister.
“Are you taking away my son’s servants, Maharaj?” Devyani said.
Yayati told her firmly, “I am taking this one. Why should you care? Your son has no lack of servants.”
Devyani looked at him for a moment and then she turned to Puru.
“What is your name, boy?”
Puru tried to speak, and the words came in a squeak. “I am Puru, Maharani.”
“And who is your mother?”
“She is your maid, Maharani.”
Devyani glared at him, “Are you being evasive? I have hundreds of maids. Give me a name if you don’t want to be walking out of here permanently.”
Puru hesitated. His mother had told him, never say the king is your father, but she had not said, don’t say I am your mother.
“Don’t you know your mother’s name, boy?”
Puru kept his eyes down and said softly, “My mother’s name is Sharmishta.”
He knew at once that he had made a mistake. Devyani’s eyes flashed with anger, “Sharmishta who makes my garlands and sandal paste?”
“Yes, Maharani.”
“So,” Devyani said, “the woman has a son I know nothing about. Have you brothers or sisters?”
“Two brothers.”
“Three sons and she said nothing? Who is your father, boy?”
Yayati sighed, “my Queen, will you stop wasting my time? Go away and do your duties, boy.”
Devyani ignored that, saying, “Answer my question. Who is your father?”
“I do not know my father.”
“Have you no suspicion who your father is?”
Puru cast a quick glance at the King. Yayati was looking desperate. He tried to change the topic and Devyani cut him off, insisting on an answer. Yayati cast Puru a mute appeal and Puru said, softly, “My mother told me nothing of my father, Maharani.”
“And did you have no curiosity to ask?”
“What good will that do to a servant?” Puru said.
Devyani looked at him thoughtfully, saying nothing.
“Go,” Yayati snapped at him.
Puru made for the door before they could ask him anything else.
Behind him Devyani said, “You seem very fond of this boy, Maharaj.”
“Surrounded as I am by your sons, is that surprising?”
“Could it be that the rumours I heard were right?”
And then Puru was out of the door. Once past the guards he threw restraint to the wind and began to run down the long corridors, dodging startled courtiers, skidding around the corners, sprinting across the open ground outside, racing under the trees to the servant’s quarters.
He found his mother making garlands of lotuses and mogra for the queen. She was sitting on the uneven steps of the tiny room they shared, a basket of fresh mogra flowers by her side, carefully tying the tiny knots between the little flowers, adding a lotus at even intervals. Puru knew that it gave her headaches, that it was difficult for her to see the knots any more but she never complained.
She looked old before her time, her hair white, her frail form stooped and burdened. Yet Puru knew she was the same age as the Queen who still looked young and radiant, silk smooth skin kept that way by the sandal and turmeric his mother ground into a fine paste for her. She looked up and when she saw him running, alarm in her eyes.
Puru caught his breath, sat beside her and explained. At this time of the day all the other servants were at work so he could talk freely. He told her the whole story and, to his surprise, she went white and gasped, dropping the basket and spilling the tiny white flowers all over the steps.
“Why did you mention me? Why didn’t you say someone else?”
Puru said puzzled, “I said I did not know who my father was? Was I supposed to pretend I didn’t know you too?”
“You don’t know her, she will make us pay, she will make sure of that.” She started to pick up the flowers, then dropped them again and wiped her eyes with the end of her sari.
“Mother,” Puru said, “what is wrong? Please tell me what is going on?”
Sharmishta said, “Listen to me carefully, very carefully, she must never ever find out that the King is your father, do you understand that? Its very important.”
“I do not understand. Many kings have sons like me, and they usually acknowledge them and give them some post in court. What is the shame in being the son of a maid?”
“If I were truly a maid then your father would have acknowledged you long ago. Will you promise me that you will never say a word of what I am going to tell you?”
“Of course, mother,” Puru said, “I promise.”
“I am a maid now, but I was not always so. Your blood is far more royal than that of Yadu or his brothers.”
“How can I be more royal than the Crown Prince?”
“You are royal on both sides. From your fathers side you have the blood of the royal house of Kuru, the greatest of all kingdoms. From your mothers side you have the blood of the King Vrishaparvan, my father, and his great kingdom to the west.”
“King Vrishaparvan is my grandfather? Mother, what are you saying?”
“Yes, my son. Devyani is not royal, I am.”
“How can you be more royal than the Queen?”
“I am royal, but foolish in my youth and ended up a maid.”
“How could that happen? I do not understand.”
“I come from a far bigger court than even Kuru. Once a thousand hand maids waited on me and once an army followed wherever I went. My best friend was Sharmishta, the daughter of the sage Shukracharya, guru to my father, the King.”
“Queen Devyani?”
“Yes. We were young and hot headed. We quarrelled. One day we fought, and I, in my pride, pushed her into a well and went away.”
Puru stared at her, “You tried to kill her?”
“Of course not, son. It was not a deep well. I just wanted her to cool off a bit. I sent help but by then King Yayati had rescued her. Devyani complained to her father, Guru Shukra. Finally my father was forced to agree that Devyani would marry King Yayati and I would become her maid for life.”
She went back to picking up the flowers, crushing some of them in her haste. Puru said nothing, wondering how she could speak so casually about something like that. He said, “How could your father even think of doing that to his own daughter?”
She shrugged, “Daughters are expendable. The fate of a kingdom is far more important than a daughter. Our kingdom would have been overwhelmed without Guru Shukra’s protection. My father could not afford to let him leave and would have agreed to anything he asked. I think he might have offered me anyway. As soon as Devyani made her demand I took off my jewellery and got ready to leave.”
She continued to sweep up the flowers and Puru helped her, thinking it over. One thing bothered him the most.
“Can I ask you something, mother?”
Sharmishta looked up, “It’s no use Puru, this is for life.”
“No, what I want to know is this, did King Yayati force you, mother?”
Sharmishta smiled but there was no joy in her eyes, “No, my son, he did not come to me, I went to him. Where could I go? I wanted children, I did not want my father’s royal line to end and how could I go to a servant? King Yayati was willing but he told me he could never acknowledge any of my children in public. I wait in the hope that one day I can send you back to my father’s kingdom where you can live like the royalty you are.”
“Is that where you sent my brothers?”
“Yes, but you were too young.”
“I will never leave you here, never.”
She put her hands on his shoulders smiling at him, “My son, my life is over, I am old and tired. Your life is just beginning. As soon as you are of age, I will ask Yayati to allow you to leave.”
“Mother, I won’t go.”
“You must, my son, I live only for that. I do not want you to live out your life as a servant.”
“I will not leave here without you.”
Shamishta embraced him with tears in her eyes, then pushed him away, “You have brought back unpleasant memories, now go so that I can finish what I am doing.”
Puru turned back to the flowers, saying nothing, his face carefully blank as he had learned to keep it. Whatever his mother said or did, he was not going without her, if that meant they both lived as servants all there lives, so be it.
He had picked up the last flower and began to hand her the basket when she pushed him so hard that it fell again, spilling the flowers far beyond the steps.
“Go quickly, go now,” she said, “hurry.”
He heard the panic in her voice and turned to see Queen Devyani bearing down on them, thunderous and alone. Queens were never alone, but Devyani was by herself, walking wrathfully down the empty courtyard, her golden anklets ringing wildly with every footstep.
“What are you waiting for?” his mother whispered, “go now, hurry.”
Puru rose and folded his hands in respect but stayed where he was.
Devyani took no notice of him, glaring at his mother.
“I should have known you would betray me. But even I did not think you could fall so low.”
Sharmishta lowered her eyes and did not reply.
“Did you think I would never find out? Where are your other sons?”
“Beyond your reach, Maharani. I sent them to my father.”
Devyani smiled, “and you think that is beyond my reach? Your father has forgotten you but my father loves me. Shall I ask him to send them back?”
Sharmishta stared at the floor saying nothing, but Puru could see the trembling of her lips.
“I have no interest in your sons,” Devyani continued, “not even this boy here. But I see how wrong I was to treat you leniently and give you some freedom. You have betrayed me and I will never forget that, ever.”
Sharmishta did not answer. Puru looked at her downcast face and kept silent.
“But I want one thing made very clear. Neither you nor your son will come within the palaces again. He will never speak with my sons or the King again. From now on you will both work in the kitchens. Report there tomorrow morning. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Maharani.” Sharmishta said.
Devyani turned her eyes on Puru, “Do you hear me, boy?”
Puru hesitated.
“My son understands,” Sharmishta said hurriedly. “He will obey.”
“Make sure he does,” Devyani stepped on a lotus and looked at the flowers strewn under her feet. “Is this how you make my garlands?”
She turned away and then she looked back, “Resign yourself, my childhood rival. I am never going to let you go. You are going to die my servant. If you think that your sons will rule your father’s throne, think again. My sons shall be the Kings. Yours will always be servants, and count yourself lucky if nothing worse happens to you, because now I will go home and speak to my father.”
She laughed, turned and stalked away. Even after she had turned the corner Puru could hear the tinkling of her anklets.
Puru turned over the basket and began to look for the flowers once more. He could see the tears in his mother’s eyes, and had no idea how to comfort her. He collected the flowers, faithfully hunting for each stray, white bud in the cracks of the steps or in the bushes.
Sharmishta said, “I have been a fool. I have kept you here too long. I sent all your brothers as soon as they came of age, but I could not bear to send you too, so I delayed. Now you must leave at once.”
Puru picked up the last flowers and sat down on the steps, “What is it like, mother? What is your father’s kingdom like?”
Sharmishta’s eyes glazed with remembrance, “Our palace was so beautiful, stone and marble, built on the ocean. How do I describe the ocean ? You must see it for yourself. When you go there do not forget your poor hapless mother.”
“When I go there,” Puru said, “you will be with me.”
“Maybe one day I will see my home again, but I want you to go now. Pack and leave as soon as possible. I will give you a letter to my father. Go and join your brothers but do not forget me as they did.”
“Mother, I am not going.”
She looked at him tears still on her cheeks, “You must, my son. You must leave here. Do you want to spend all your life as a servant?”
“I will speak with my father. He was going to let me train under Chief Minister Sumantu.”
Sharmishta said, “Didn’t you hear the Queen? You are not to enter the palace again. Your father will not help you. He is too afraid of the Queen’s father.”
“Afraid of what?”
“His curse. Guru Shukra can kill with word. He can even revive the dead. His powers are beyond belief and Devyani is his favourite daughter. No, my son, we will remain servants as long as the Queen rules.”
“Is that why he will not free you, fear of a curse?”
“You do not know Guru Shukra. In his place you would also be afraid. I have no illusions. If you stay here you will remain a servant all your life.”
Puru said nothing, carefully straightening the crushed petals of a blue lotus.
Sharmishta sighed, “You are young, and the young are optimistic. But listen to me, my son. There is no way out. Fate has given us a role and we must bear with it.”
“Then fate will also give us a way out,” Puru said, putting the flower back in the basket.
“Accept your life,” she told him, “be happy with what you have. What else can we do?”
Puru said nothing to her, but he went for a long walk in the forest behind the palace. Even in the noon heat the forest was dark and cool. The sun, at its highest, could not penetrate the canopy of branches. The forest floor was dark, moist, and full of whispers.
The darkness comforted him. He sat on a thick, twisted trunk shaded by a curtain of hanging roots. Though it still morning a few fireflies drifted among the branches, tiny hopeful lights in the shadows.
Mother, you may have given up hope but I will not. One day there will be a way out. Either I will find one or I will make one.
Continued in Part 2.
