The only thing i know of kalidasa is he was a great sanskrit writer, why was the 'fuck you kalidasa' there in the post above? any ancient tea i'm unaware of?
Thanks for this ask!!
We do think Kalidasa is a gr8 sanskrit writer seeing how his works influenced sanskrit literature. He is a pookie and we love many of his works like Kumarasambhavam for example. It's the plays we have an issue with.
In Abhijanasakuntalam, Kalidasa whitewashes Dushyant who wasn't a good husband at all. He adds the point of Dushyant being cursed by Durvasa and hence forgetting about Shakuntala. In the Mahabharata he slut shamed her, called her and her mother Menaka harlots, only because he wanted the divine voice to "prove" to his entire court that Bharata was his son.
Then there is Vikramorvasiyam where Pururavas who was a good husband in Mahabharata, has a wife prior to Urvashi, and doesn't treat her nicely exactly. So yes, the "fuck you Kalidasa" was present to criticize him for twisting the plot of these stories in a weird way, otherwise he is our goated pookie. Hope this helped!
We do think Kalidasa is a gr8 sanskrit writer seeing how his works influenced sanskrit literature. He is a pookie and we love many of his works like Kumarasambhavam for example. It's the plays we have an issue with.
So I was rereading the Dushyanta and Shakuntala story, and I just noticed the worst thing ever. Every mortal couple in Hindu Mythology that anyone ever called the "definition of true love" has been sundered from one another in at least one version, and usually this involves the woman being innocent and the man being either duty-bound or a jerk.
Krishna has to leave Vrindavan and Radha for Mathura. I whole-heartedly believe this was inevitable unless Radha left Vrindavan, so I don't take Krishna-slander regarding this but. They never really get together together after that so Idk tbh.
Rama, of course, does the whole Agni-Pariksha thing, even if we don't take the Uttar Kand, and if we do, he goes from reputation-obsessed questionable man to utter jerk who absolutely doesn't deserve to be called Purushottam.
And although Kalidasa did an excellent job of making Dushyanta and Shakuntala's story one of star-crossed lovers, in most other cases, Dushtyanta (in an effort to pull a Rama) outright lies and calls Shakuntala a harlot in open court when she asks him to help raise their son. The only good thing about that "love" story is the ABSOLUTE Tongue-Lashing (TM) Shakuntala gives him. Other than that, it's basically a man coercing a sheltered woman into doing the deed, later trying to humiliate her in public when asked to take accountability, and then passing it off as 'upholding her reputation.'
Honestly, we have so many good love stories I did not expect these to be the benchmark of love 🥲🫠
hey everyone, as mentioned in my earlier post, i will be releasing chapters of my latest fic over the course of the next few days (and yes i purposefully planned it for festival season).
Kalidasa's protagonists are too romantic and ideal, while those in the Mahabharata are too pragmatic and realistic, bordering on cold. I have attempted to sort of meet them both half-way in this fic, and i hope you like it :D
Only one name reverberated inside her mind, as Shakuntala sat at the steps to her cottage, enjoying the winter afternoon sun even as her mind conjured up images of her lover. A full head taller than her, lean and strong, his bronze skin shining with sweat, a smirk on his face. Beads of sweat trickled down his abdomen and rolled down his sculpted figure in her imagination, as a blush rose to her cheeks. Her thoughts however were interrupted by an unexpected visitor.
A hush fell on the entire ashram. It was the fabled Brahmarishi Durvasa, known for his tiny ego, even tinier anger and an arrogance that rivalled even Mount Meru, the abode of the gods. Nobody knew what would happen in his wake – please him, and he would reward you handsomely through boons and gifts. Bring his water a little bit too cold though, and you could find yourself enduring hell on earth. The latter was far too common.
Students made way as the various elders assembled rushed to accommodate him and take them to their leader Sage Kanva, Shakuntala’s father. Shakuntala, being the woman who presided over the ashram in her father’s absence, was called upon to welcome him – after appropriately covering up her quickening belly. Pregnancies out of wedlock were no issues in the progressive, scholarly environment of the ashram – to men like Durvasa though, they heralded the collapse of society.
Fresh mats of grass were laid and attendants sent forth to sprinkle rosewater on him and fan him. Shakuntala then came forth with his meal : a pitcher of buttermilk, some roti, dal, rice and yams. Dushyant’s image however, wouldn’t leave her mind. She kept replaying that passionate night, and kept wondering when he would come to take her as his bride to his kingdom, and in the process, missed what the guest had just uttered. The next moment, all hell broke loose.
“What is the meaning of this?!” he shouted, flipping his plate over and scattering the food all around. “Is this how Kanva treats his guests? Through such blatant disrespect? I knew women could often be soft minded, but I never knew a lady could be a stranger to the rules of hospitality!” he shouted, disdain evident in his voice. Shakuntala was hastily pulled away, lest the man spring flames around himself, and comforted by one of her friends. Mustering up her courage, she retorted. Even as she said the words, her mind warned her to stop, but she couldn’t bear the insult offered to her father, or to herself. “Brahmarishi, you accuse us of dishonouring the code of hospitality when you yourself blatantly do so. Not only have you insulted your gracious host, but you have also insulted the food offered to you, and through that Goddess Annapurna. It does not befit a man of your station.” She said, chin raised, voice collected, her eyes meeting Durvasa’s. Her answer was followed by an audible gasp, and visible anger and discomfort on the other sages in the ashram. A cruel smile grew across the guest’s face, as he took in Shakuntala.
“Ah yes, of course. Pregnancy. That ought to play with a woman’s mind. But dear child, I don’t see your husband around, nor do I see you wearing any symbol of you being a married woman, except that ruby ring on your finger.” He said, his voice insinuating that which hadn’t been said. “You disrespected me while thinking of your lover. Well then, let this same lover who left you with a child out of wedlock, forget you forever.”
Her mind went blank. Surely she had misheard something. No human would ever inflict such a cruelty on anyone – for being forgotten by someone you loved was akin to a slow death. Tears welled in her eyes as she sat down, unable to register the shock of the curse, even as those around her begged the rishi to take back his curse. Satisfied with the unrest he had caused, Durvasa offered a solution to the curse. “Keeping two lovers apart is hardly any concern of mine. Show him something he gave you, and he would instantly recognize and fall in love with you once again.” He declared, and prepared to leave. However this time, he went minus his respect. The assembly of learned people all stared at him with fear, while those who like him had undergone tapas, looked at him with an expression of disapproval and disdain; and that was what got to Durvasa. Suffering disrespect at another’s hand was something that he never left unpunished, but losing it through his own deeds was unfathomable for him. Reluctantly turning around, he approached Shakuntala and sat by her feet. “I was harsh on you dear, and that surely is a mark of failure from my side as a man of learning,” he said, his tone and face both touching upon remorse as he apologized. That man’s nature was even more unpredictable than that of the Yamuna. “Mark my words though,” he continued, “the child you carry is no ordinary one. Your child will change the fate of this land, and will bring fame to itself and you of a stature unforeseen.” Blessing her so, he left as quickly as he had arrived.
Gloom hung over the ashram in his wake. The rishis and rishikas deliberated amongst themselves in quick, hushed tones, deciding the best course of action while the students milled around Shakuntala, trying to comfort her. By dusk, her father arrived and was promptly briefed in on everything that had happened in his absence. She expected her father to show the same reactions that those around him had had, but he, without saying a word, just drew her into his embrace. Shakuntala nestled her head into her father’s chest, and started weeping. Sobs racked her frame as she clutched onto him. She was like an open book in front of him; each tension, each thought in her mind erupted. Why did Dushyant leave her in the first place? Why hadn’t he come back yet? And why, of all things, did she have to get pregnant? She was barely an adult and still relied on others to look after her, how would she take care of a child? Finally, as her tears subsided, Kanva lifted her face up and kissed her on the forehead. “My brave girl,” he said, wiping off pearls from her cheeks, “everything will be just fine.”
“I want to go to Hastinapur father.” She said in a small voice, her eyes looking at her feet. “I must negate Durvasa’s curse as fast as I can, lest Dushyant forget me forever.”
Kanva’s soft gaze hardened and his mouth pressed into a thin line. After a long pause, he spoke, “Shakuntala, you are wise. I have instructed you in all the fields of academia, withholding nothing I knew. Then tell me, why aren’t you wise enough to see through Dushyant?” he asked, his eyes searching Shakuntala’s.
“Dushyant promised he would take me back as his bride. He promised…”
“When? When would he have taken you back? You were only together for a fortnight beta. It has been 8 months since you last saw him. I think we have to face the truth putri; Dushyant had forgotten you long before Durvasa’s curse.” Kanva said, interrupting her.
“No. I refuse to believe that. He wed me through the gandharva rites, we took the trees and the creek as our witness, we promised to be there for each other! Words hold meaning father, don’t they?” she cried, rebelling against the seed of doubt which had long been planted inside her.
“You’d be surprised dear at how often people throw them around.” Kanva replied wistfully.
“I am leaving for Hastinapur first thing tomorrow. I will meet Dushyant and I will make him remember me. Fate brought us together, and I won’t let it keep us apart.” She declared, daring the universe and all who thought her love was weak. Kanva drew a sigh of resignation, as he too was forced to bow before his daughter’s determination.
The girl he had found abandoned near a river, shielded from the sun’s harsh rays by a flock of cranes, wasn’t going to rest without a fight.
They are absolutely professional but they don’t know how to cope with improvised movements which you can then make a part of the performance. And it was a horrendous task because it took me nearly four weeks to thaw them out and when they were thawed - and this I feel very grateful about, as an Indian - they felt they had learned a new dimension of acting and theatre; where things can come without reason; a starting point, not of logic, but of just letting yourself go and then crystallizing it in performance. Vijaya Mehta in Rasa: Theatre and Cinema.
Pic 1: Gottfried Richter as Dushyant in Kalidas’ Shakuntala directed by Vijaya Mehta (lead) and Frtiz Bennewitz,, Leipzig (1980)
Pic 2: Thomas Schneider (Kapil) and Elke Wieditz (Padmini) in Hayavadana directed by Vijaya Mehta in German, Weimar National Theatre (1984).
“You have a meeting at 30 minutes from the second prahar with the minister of irrigation, then you have lunchtime with the emissary of Mathura and then at 15 minutes to the third prahar you will be meeting the Ambassador of Crete.” Dushyant’s assistant said so in a single breath, informing the king of his busy schedule. As a king, Dushyant had tried to take Hastinapur from a kingdom in the Ganga-Yamuna plains to a successful empire in his decade long rule. Part of that came from fighting wars for the devas, who granted him with resources and military might in exchange. Just hearing about his day made his temples throb. The minister of irrigation would just squeeze him dry for more funds, which would probably go towards financing his new mansion, but of course sacking him would anger other nobles. The emissary of Mathura now belonged to the Bhoja clan, since the Yadavas had once again elected a leader of a different clan and so negotiating with her would be tricky since she would hold all deals done under the previous rulers null and void. And the Ambassador of Crete was an insufferable prick whom he wanted to defenestrate. The only respite he had from all this was his wife, Yavanika.
Named ‘The Little Greek’, Yavanika was the princess of Gandhara. Their marriage had been one of necessity, mostly to form a matrimonial alliance between the two kingdoms, and partly from Dushyant’s desire to puzzle out the woman in the visions. Her memory was becoming fuzzier day by day, and yet he wanted to reach out to her, to find her; but it was impossible finding someone who only existed in your imagination. Yavanika fit that description the closest, but not quite. Though she could not be his wife, since she already had a partner and had wedded her here in Hastinapur - albeit secretly, with only Dushyant and a priest present along with their innermost circle for her wife was a commoner with no luminous ancestry, and that could’ve hurt diplomatic prospects - she was his constant companion and friend. She understood him like nobody else did, and often took up administration and statecraft and the occasional ambush troop, which is why he regretted to inform her of her dreadful future just about now.
“You’re handling the Cretean ambassador,” he said, hugging her as she planted a kiss on his cheeks.
“That’s going to cost you a trip to Lanka and a year-long supply of gujiya.”
“I would rather eat horse shit than even sit next to that high nosed imbecile.”
“Remember that at your next state dinner. I’ll make sure its fresh.” She added, chuckling as she saw his face morphing into amused annoyance.
“Well I’m going to need to give him a valid excuse as to why ‘The Little Greek Queen’ is meeting him instead of the king. He might think of it as a tactic, you know, since I’m half Greek.”
“Hmmm… tell him I’ve got a meeting with the fisherfolk and waterways guild.”
“And how do you get past the balls crushing truth spell?” she reminded him.
When he had ascended the throne, Dushyant had his court preceptor cast a truth spell on him – that way he could only speak the literal truth, which still opened multiple ways of manipulation and interpretation. His father had made a lot of empty promises in his short-lived reign, which had cost their kingdom a lot, and he didn’t want to make the same mistakes.
“Oh its true. They have been protesting for about three months now about taxes and a possible river monster and what not. Why do you think I’m meeting the minister of irrigation?”
“Because you’ve got to keep him happy?”
“No. I am a concerned king who truly thinks that digging channels in the ground is interesting… OF COURSE I’M DOING IT TO KEEP HIM HAPPY!” he replied in a sarcastic tone, his head and elaborate crown bouncing along.
After lunch, Dushyant set out on horse on a tour of the city, finally making his way towards the fishing sector. It was essential for the masses to get a glimpse of their king time to time, and to know that he was truly concerned about them, unlike their previous ruler who broke their backs with taxes which he used to blow up on prostitutes and his collection of oddities : which included a pot with ‘trapped air’ (it was an empty earthen pot. He sometimes wondered how his father even inherited the throne), and so it was important for the king to parade himself every now and then.
His procession soon reached the fisherfolk’s sector, which was decorated with wind chimes fashioned like shells, fantastic murals of marine and riverine life and covered in green fabric of multiple shades to mimic the sea. A shrine of Yamuna, the goddess of the river which flowed through the northern plains and joined Ganga at Prayag, along with Varuna, the god of the seas and oceans, greeted him at the entrance along with the stench of gutted fish. Had he not been trained in courtly etiquette, Dushyant would’ve barfed right there on the gods. Masking his expression, he rode on confidently towards the Dasharaj, or the Lord of the Ten, the leader of all the fishing clans in the kingdom. Sitting on a mock throne made out of a slab of granite, shaded by a palash tree like a mighty red parasol, his turban resembling the tree above and his white dhoti and angavastra billowing in the wind, the Dasharaj was actually a quite powerful member of society, who controlled the fisherfolk and through them the waterways – angering him could make the Yamuna herself your enemy. A tall, strapping man with a full moustache, a slightly protruding belly and oil smeared over his body, he was a former weaver who had left a lifetime of draining work in front of a loom to instead become ‘a servant of the Great Yamuna, the Daughter of the Sun’. Bowing to him, Dasharaj led him inwards to his house instead of the council chamber. “Hate to inform you, but if you think that this assassination plot is going to work then you’re sorely mistaken.” Dushyant teased him.
“Life is meaningful my liege. Don’t speak so tritely of it.” He said, chiding the king.
Taking out a small box from his drawer, he handed it over to him. “A fisherman died yesterday. He had no children, and was quite frankly disliked by many, so his property got turned over to the community. While most of his things were repurposed and utilised, this one seemed… odd, for a lowly fisherman to possess. So, in accordance to the law, I have passed it over to you.” He informed him. According to the law, all of the possessions should’ve reverted to the king, but Dushyant rarely interfered in internal matters unless peace and order were threatened. He was about to open the box when Dasharaj stopped him. “I’d rather not do it here king. Lot of prying eyes and wagging tongues you see.” He said gingerly, and then led him on towards the meeting.
Either the head of the fisherfolk was really bad at murdering people, or Dushyant was about to see something even more fascinating than an empty pot.
“So you are a woman and you have married another woman?” Bharat asked her as he sucked on his mango, sugary golden juice sticking and leaving its mark everywhere on his face and clothes.
Yavanika, who was also sucking on a mango, replied in the affirmative by grunting and nodding her head.
Dushyant and Shakuntala’s open declaration of their relationship had shaken the entire kingdom, and most probably the geopolitical landscape towards the north of the Narmada river, which divided Jambudvip roughly into the north and south. Shakuntala’s father, Sage Kanva, had arrived soon thereafter with an initial entourage of other learned people and tapasvins to help calm things down and further cement the couple’s claim on their marriage. Word had already reached Yavanika’s father, who had gathered his army and set off for Hastinapur to avenge his insulted daughter. And in all of this chaos, Bharat was left in her care. The two, though initially closed, gradually opened up to each other, and were now practically joined at the hip most of the times. Yavanika indulged his curiosity and other demands, while Bharat revered her candour and carefree attitude. She simply couldn’t stop adoring the little boy, her heart twisting, experiencing the throes of jealousy which shrouded her nowadays on her incapability to live freely with her wife, to have children, to just be.
A shadow fell across her as a woman bent down and kissed her on the cheeks. Turning around, Yavanika found her wife there, smiling from ear to ear. “Here you go with the proof too you monkey,” she said, kissing her back.
“Hello little boy, who do you be?” she asked, booping him on the nose and sitting near Yavanika.
“I am Bharat, son of Shakuntala, daughter of Kanva.”
“That’s quite an introduction. But then, what else do you expect of princes?” she said, laughing.
“Now what’s yours?”
“Malti, daughter of Sukarman, son of Manmath.” She replied, drawing to her full height and her elbows at her waist, imitating Bharat.
Shorter than Yavanika, Malti had an earthen complexion like most people in the northern plains. Flowers from the gajra she wore cascaded down her shoulders, contrasting with her red sari. She had a wide nose, and a wide smile which creased her eyes. Her arms were strong from years working as a distiller and dyer, and her body plump. Taking a mango, she too joined the party.
“Hey that’s for us!” Bharat cried, trying to snatch the mango from her, with Malti giggling and holding it higher above her head. Yavanika’s eyes grew hot as she watched her wife play with him, as if they were almost one family. Malti, catching her gaze, gave the mango over to Bharat and held her hand tenderly.
“Mother almost never lets me do anything even remotely as fun as both of you. It’s always ‘read this book’ and ‘learn this thing’. Why is it that I don’t see you both around more?” he asked.
“You white faced liar, you see us each day!” protested Yavanika.
“No but, I don’t see you together. I only see you together here in your own garden. Why is that?” he asked, finishing his mango with one giant slurp and smacking his lips.
Yavanika wanted to punch that kid. She knew how she had to live, but the fact that a little chit of a boy would even dare to hit her with that question felt like a personal attack. Even as she prepared a retort, letting off a sigh of concealed anger, Malti squeezed her hand. Her expression mirrored Bharat’s question, her eyes searching for the same answer in those that mirrored hers. Telling Bharat to run off and play with the gardener’s kid, Yavanika put her head in Malti’s lap. Shaded by the mango tree, with sunlight dancing on their faces and the summer breeze to cool them, both of them wanted to stay like this in paradise. Neither of them wanted to break this moment, but someone had to. It was Malti finally who mustered the courage to speak that which was on their minds.
“He’s right Chitra.” She said, addressing her with the name she had given her, or rather the name with which she had introduced herself the first time they had met. “Till when do we have to play this charade?”
“You don’t understand Malti. Its politics. Marriages affect entire kingdoms. You have already seen what happened when Shakuntala and Dushyant got back together.” Yavanika said, twisting and twirling a blade of grass in her hand.
“You’re right. Village simpletons like me would never understand the politics of love you people play.” The latter replied, voice thick with emotion and resolve. “But I do understand one thing. Either we are, or we are not. I can’t live like this anymore Chitra.” She said, head bowed as a single drop of sadness fell on Yavanika’s face. Getting up, she smoothed Malti’s hair behind her ear and held her chin in her hand.
“We will figure something out soon, my flower.”
“No, you are the one who needs to figure things out Chitra," Malti said, shruggin off her hand. "Your love is important to me, but so is my dignity. I can’t live and hide as if I have committed a crime by being with you. You are the one who has to choose now – your flower, or your crown.”
Fear numbed her. She had had nightmares about this, about Malti leaving her to be with someone else. About her rotting away as the queen, barren earth and sand without her flower. She leaned towards her, and kissed her on the lips. Full of tenderness and desperation, her lips still carrying the taste of mango submerged in the others, which smelt of the perfume she synthesised, as if they both wanted one last piece of each other, just in case that they were destined to separate. This one last kiss in a summer afternoon under a mango tree. It felt too short when Malti broke away, and left the gardens to go back to the distillery. The kiss seemed to warm Yavanika’s heart, and pull together her courage.
That evening, as Dushyant entered his bedchamber, he found Yavanika sitting there on the bed. Her eyes were rimmed red, apparently from the tears she had shed. Beside her, a sari and a mound of jewels stared at him – the markers of a marriage. Men wore a ring and a sacred thread dipped in turmeric as symbols of their marriage; women wore jewellery on each part of their body, from the toe rings at the tip of their toes to the mangatika in their hair, along with a smear of sindoor in the front. Returning them along with their wedding sari was an announcement of their separation. Placing her diadem with it was a symbol of her renouncing her queenship. Setting off his crown at the diwan, Dushyant sat beside her.
Both of them sat there, silent for a moment. Then, Yavanika spoke.
“You remember our wedding night? I was so afraid of what you might do to me. I knew by then that I had no romantic affections for men, and the fact of lying together with one chilled me to the bone. And then you came with a box of laddus. Just eating one after the another and talking to me. That day, I knew that I might not have found a spouse, but definitely someone just as close.” Dushyant nodded along sagely, a smile on his lips.
“I can’t keep doing this Dushyant. I am tired of playing your wife. I am tired of hiding.”
Dushyant, once again, just nodded. A while later, he asked, “Is there anything I can do?”
“You’ve done plenty already. Now I will see what needs to be done further.” She replied, her voice brimming with hope and determination. Holding Dushyant’s hand, she said, “No matter what, I will always remain your dearest friend, your sister. All you need to do is call on me and I will kick that fucker in the arse who dared to mess with you. Even if it is my new bhabhi, or my new nephew.”
Hugging her one last time, Dushyant held her hand and walked her out of the room. She was no longer the Queen of Hastinapur. But she was indeed the queen of a certain heady scented flower.
The ashram resounded with chants and sounds of the morning aarti. Shakuntala, who was now the de facto preceptor and leader of the school, took over from her father Kanva two years ago following his retirement. Under her, she had further expanded the ashram’s boundaries and even added a playground : mostly for her son Bharat. Agile and overtly energetic, as kids often are when they are twelve, it had become a near impossible task for Shakuntala to keep up with her son, even though everybody in the ashram helped her raise him. He had inherited his father’s drive for adventure and his mother’s curiosity, along with the former’s skin tone, which resembled that of freshly turned earth, and the latter’s facial structure.
He never really showed a fondness for books or literature, despite having a scholarly environment and a renowned erudite as his parent, who took every pain (including false threats) to make sure he was well read and knew how to write. The boy however showed a real talent for the arts and athletics. At any given point of the day, he could be found playing a flute or the veena. Already, he had taught himself how to wield a bamboo staff without any instruction and fearlessly led the occasional caravan departing from the ashram and brought in the new initiates from the riverbank. And so to keep his mind occupied and his energy utilised, the ashram’s boundaries had been expanded again and again : including a larger farm and a better playground and gymnasium.
That morning, as everybody in the ashram prayed to Saraswati and Aranyani : goddesses of learning and the forest respectively, Shakuntala noted her son’s absence. Hastily finishing the prayers, she went looking for him.
Soon enough, the sun reached overhead in the sky, and yet there was no sign of Bharat. The entire ashram got engaged in searching for him, with the students chatting away and giggling, grateful for the respite from the monotony of parchment and ink.
“Let him come today, I am going to teach him the best lesson of his life!” Shakuntala swore, sari tucked and hiked till her knees, feet caked with mud and her hair and skin coated with sweat. Crossing the wooden fence, she entered the sylvan realm. The forest, though surrounding the ashram, had always been a different world. Everything seemed brighter and sharper and enchanting, hiding the danger underneath. Shouting his name, she climbed over boulders and waded through a stream, until she finally came across her son and nearly fainted.
Bharat. Twelve-year old Bharat – wrestling a tiger! No, with his full hand inside the tiger’s gaping mouth! “Bharata, get away from him!” she shouted, warning her son. “It’s alright ma,” he said, never breaking eye contact with the fearsome beast, “he just has a toothache, I was checking if everything was alright. By the way his name is Ranga, he’s the naughty boy who ate two of our goats last month.” He continued, unfazed by the tiger. The tiger too lay next to him silently like a domestic cat, eyes widened and ears pressed against its head, tail swishing around. Shakuntala couldn’t help but gawk at the unusual scene, transfixed. She knew there was something special about that boy, but she never anticipated that which was happening now. She tiptoed to him slowly, and crouched behind him. No book, no treatise could’ve prepared either of them for this moment – nature favoured her children, and it turned out she considered Bharat one of her own. Mother and son sat there in the summer afternoon, trying their hands at animal dentistry, experiencing a bliss that the former knew she might not experience again. All too sudden, the moment shattered as Bharat raised a question Shakuntala feared might someday arise.
“Ma, who’s my father?” he asked innocently, sharpening a twig. Shakuntala stopped stroking the tiger’s head and looked towards him.
“Why do you ask Bharat? Am I not a good enough mother?”
“No, its just one of the students asked me. She said everybody has a father and a mother. Then she went on to tease you, so I cut her pigtails when she slept.”
“Well we’re going to apologize for that, but its not necessary for just a man and a woman to raise a child. Sometimes it can be two men and two women, or sometimes you don’t even need to be with someone. Your nanaji was born because his father just thought of him, and I was adopted by your nanaji. Neither of them was married and yet have children.” She elaborated, trying to make her son understand the complex society he would soon face.
“Well then am I either of those too?” he asked
“Uh… No. Well I suppose it is time I told you the truth.”
Shakuntala thus told her son everything about her past with Dushyant. How they met and fell in love and got married. How Dushyant left. How Durvasa cursed him to forget her, and how Shakuntala failed in negating it. Of course she left out the more angsty and depressing parts, but she tried to stay as true as possible. As her story got over, she gazed around her. The tiger seemed to have long gone, and now she could hear people shouting her name as well, perhaps still searching. Holding her son’s hand, she got up and walked with him, retracing their path to the ashram.
“Ma, did he not love us then?” he asked, his curiosity inflamed at knowing his mother’s past.
“Had he known about you he would’ve loved you very much beta.”
“Then did he not love you?” he asked again.
Shakuntala was stumped. Children had a way of making you confront your deepest insecurities through the simplest of remarks, and she wondered whether to drag him along in a storm and tell him to shut up, or marvel at his sensitivity. A question she had long stopped asking herself, perhaps because she dreaded the answer, was now propped in front of her once again. If he loved her, then that made their heartache all the worse. If he didn’t, then that made her heartbreak alone worse; that made her feel remorse. That made Kanva’s suspicions right and Durvasa’s curse meaningless, for one who doesn’t love you wouldn’t care about losing your memory.
That night, as Bharat slept, for the first time since she came back from Hastinapur, battered and having seen the cruelty of ‘civilization’, Shakuntala wept for Dushyant. She wept for the possibilities of life she could’ve had. Living with Dushyant. Spending her life with him. Them raising Bharat. Sometimes she wanted to pretend that Durvasa’s curse was just a bad dream, that Dushyant leaving her was an irrational fear and she would wake up with him beside her, his soft hair spilling around like tendrils reaching for her, his suggestive smile and his voice, thick as honey from slumber. But then she looked at Bharat and her cottage, stacked to the ceiling with books, filled with furniture that parents donated and she bought with the budget she could spare, a private prayer room with a small temple, and Bharat’s art from when he was a kid scribbled over the walls. Recently he had started repainting them in order to create a mural because “walls are too boring”. She looked at her ashram : people of learning milling about, engaging in heated debates even at this late hour. She even caught some students sneaking out, perhaps to explore on their own without adults interfering; she was going to have to re-enforce the wardings to keep the students from getting themselves killed in the forest on a whim. And yet, she found it amusing. This was truly a haven from the world, set inside the forest and protected by the stars. And Shakuntala knew she wouldn’t give up this life she had built along with those who loved and cared for her.
However, Bharat deserved the truth. He deserved to meet the man through whom he was born. And a part of Shakuntala believed that she needed to find the answer to her question as well.
“Please, just once!” she cried, beating the gates. A heavily pregnant Shakuntala had arrived to meet Dushyant finally, braving the dangers of the forest and the deceptive current of the Yamuna.
The journey till Hastinapur was quite uneventful. Shakuntala had set forth in a palanquin, along with a pair of warrior-priestesses who protected her as far as the river, bidding her off with charms crafted to ward off evil spirits from the mother and unborn child. From there, she boarded a ferry which took her across the Yamuna to the outskirts of Hastinapur, and then walked on foot till she reached the heart of the city, cutting through the bustling metropolis. Her garb, which identified her as a scholar and a holy woman, along with her prominent pregnant belly, helped her by drawing the attention of a kind innkeeper, who let her stay for free. After a day of rest and curing her sore feet, she set off for the royal palace.
Set in the western end of the city, built on a riverine island, the royal palace truly was a miraculous architectural marvel. Built of marble, it was inlaid with sculptures lined with gold and coloured with gemstones. Statues of elephants jutted from everywhere, testimony to the founding legend of the city – how a herd of elephants had led King Hastina, Dushyant’s ancestor, to the site of the great city. The gates to the palace itself were towering and imposing, reinforced with steel and menacing spikes. The gateway was shaped like a temple gopuram, row upon row lined with sculptures in brilliant colours all telling a story, and at the shikhara was a large figurine of the Keertimukh, a ferocious divine monster which devoured ghosts and evil spirits, his fangs bared and tongue lolling. As she approached the gates, a guard stopped her. Once again, her pregnant belly came to her rescue as the gruff sentry was replaced by a small ranking lady followed by her guard.
“O sadhavi, what has brought you to our gates today?” the lady asked.
“I am Shakuntala, daughter of Sage Kanva.”
“What great fortune! The daughter of the esteemed sage himself come to grace us! Pray tell madam, what do you seek?” A parasol and chair were soon arranged for Shakuntala, to shield her from the elements and provide comfort to her aching feet. Or rather to please her, for nobody wanted to anger the kin of a sage.
“I am here to meet Prince Dushyant. I am his wife, and pregnant with his child.” She announced.
Silence followed her statement. The guards looked at each other curiously, while the minister just gazed at her; and then quick as lightning, her nature changed from day to night. Her humble demeanour transformed, and so did her sweet-as-sugar tongue.
“How many times have I told you to keep prostitutes away from the palace? The crown prince has had enough problems as it is.” She said, screaming at the sentries.
“Oh no, I am not a prostitute, I am a scholar. And I’m speaking the truth, I did wed Dushyant!” Shakuntala protested.
“Oh yeah? Then where’s your proof?”
Shakuntala brought up her hand to show her the ring, but instead saw nothing but her naked skin. It was missing from her finger. She checked the folds of her sari and the bag she had brought along, but in vain. The ring, her only claim to her marriage, the only thing w;hich could negate Durvasa’s terrible curse, was missing. She racked her brain, trying to figure out when she might have lost the ring, when it dawned on her : the river. She had dipped her hand inside it while crossing it, and the ring must have fallen off then.
“Th-the river, my ring fell in the river, believe me I am his wife, we married through the gandharva rites!” she cried, desperate, as tears welled in her eyes.
“Look here whore, I have dealt with enough of you to tell truth from lies. The prince is very careful with his occasional romantic affairs, and there’s no way he would have even looked at jungle trash like you. I don’t want any trouble today, the royal coronation has me busy as it is. Just take your money and leave.”
Everything happened too fast after that. The parasol and seat were removed. A silk purse filled with silver coins was pressed in her hands and she was rushed out of the palace, whose doors closed with a definitive clang behind her.
She shouted. She banged her hands on the door until they drew blood, but nothing moved the guards. And then a terrible realization hit her.
Dushyant wouldn’t have married her. Her father was right. He had forgotten her already, despite having married her with the forest as their witness. Heck, he might even get married now, probably to a princess of a mighty land. The proposal would have been in the works for months, probably even before than when they had first met.
Just like that, Shakuntala’s world unravelled before her. She had loved Dushyant from the time he had stumbled in the ashram during that fateful afternoon. But to him, she was just another girl he had been with. Durvasa or not, she and him were never meant to be.
The trees who witnessed their love couldn’t defend her. And the river she grew up with sealed her fate.
Her visions plagued Dushyant. Since the time he woke up this morning, visions plagued him. He saw a woman – skin as fair and radiant as the moon, curly hair that reached her waist, her body full and toned. He saw him chasing her in a forest, her laugh and the sound of her anklets melting together in his ears. Each time he envisioned her, he felt an invisible pull, like a fish hook had dug itself inside his heart. And yet, he remembered none of it. He didn’t remember going to a forest or meeting a maiden. He didn’t remember losing his ruby ring, gifted to him by his mother and he was certain he hadn’t visited the tavern or drunk in months. None of it made sense, and the timing couldn’t be worse, for a madman who saw such nonsensical visions couldn’t obviously be made king. Dushyant didn’t know who that lady was, or if he had ever known her, but he was sure that meeting her might be the focal point of his life.
