As they grow older, Devayani organizes picnics to the forest almost daily, sitting near the well she had fallen into, waiting for something. Kacha’s threat still looms in her ear, becoming more and more real with each passing day, as no Brahmin is brave enough to defy Vrihaspati’s mandate and send her a marriage proposal.
One day, it happens. Yayati, once again, walks into the same grove by the well. This time, he sees Sharmishtha.
Devayani is seated on a throne, dressed in the best of Sharmishtha’s jewels, being adored by the one thousand Danava women, as Sharmishtha massages her feet.
To her dismay, Yayati does not even remember her. Instead, he kneels at her feet, and asks the princess, “Who are you?”
Devayani answers for her, “She’s Sharmishtha, my servant.” Sharmishtha doesn’t speak. Apparently, Devayani has forbidden it.
Yayati is still curious, so he doesn’t object when Devayani cosies up to him. After every few words, he keeps trying to get to Sharmishtha only to be faced with Devayani changing subjects with greater vigour. Finally, he allows himself to be taken to Shukra, but is completely taken aback when she introduces him to her father as, “My chosen husband.” Apparently, so is Shukra.
Yayati vehemently denies this, citing Devayani’s higher caste as the primary reason. Frankly, it was pretty much prohibited except for very special cases in that time, right?
However, Shukra is reminded of Kacha’s looming threat. On a practical level, he too knows that Devayani is not going to find a better match than Yayati at this point. So, when Devayani argues that she has been sort of married to him since the day that he rescued her, Shukra, despite his initial protests, supports her argument.
Devayani goes farther, by invoking Nahusha, Yayati’s father’s name, and his previous elevation to swarga, trying to prove, in a way to herself, as a rebuttal to Kacha’s curse, that Yayati is in fact equal, in respect, to a Brahmin. Then, father and daughter pretty much bully Yayati into saying yes to the marriage.
When Yayati then, is on his way back to Pratishthan with Devayani, Shukra pulls him aside to give him a warning. He has seen the look on Yayati’s face, and noted his curiosity regarding Sharmishtha, and he knows his daughter very well, “You may have a thousand mistresses, but not her!”
After marriage, Devayani refuses to house Sharmishtha in the same palace as herself, fearing that the public may think Yayati has two queens. Hence, Yayati arranges a separate mansion for Sharmishtha to reside in, along with her own servants. The arrangements are satisfactory, but it doesn’t change the fact that Sharmishtha is essentially being held captive in a golden cage.
Then one day, long after Devayani has had a child, Yayati, for some reason, just comes out for a stroll in Sharmishtha’s garden.
Devayani has always had a large personality. This, in combination with Yayati’s hesitation before marriage, has definitely not made for a very happy married life. Hence, when Sharmishtha asks, with an excuse tailormade for them, it doesn’t take long for Yayati to break. They had both loved each other from afar for a long time, and they both grasp at the first chance they get.
When Devayani asks about her children, Sharmishtha replies with a smirk, “A Brahmin it was.” Truly, that is what she had proven Yayati was, through his father, a long time back! Sharmishtha simply recycled it.
A few years after that, we see the secret tumbling out, Devayani finds out about Sharmishtha and storms off to her father’s house. When she complains to her father, she seems to be more concerned that Sharmishtha has three children (Anu, Druhyu, Puru), and she only two (Yadu, Turvasu)!
Then comes Shukra’s curse, which Yayati manages to defer, only by advocating for Devayani’s ‘enjoyment’. The explanation for the ‘old age’ is simple. It just means that Shukra, using his Brahmanical influence, forced Yayati to abdicate (maybe go live in a forest as punishment), while giving the throne to someone else.
Here, he manages to slip through an excellent political manoeuvre, one that would effectively defeat Devayani, once and forever.
See, Yayati knew his children. When he gets confirmation from Shukra, that the child who bears Yayati’s curse will be his successor, Yayati already knew who would. In this way, and later, with his general subjects’ vocal assent (an election), he is able to pass his kingdom to Puru, who continues the main line, while the other four children go on to head kingdoms which effectively function as democracies (as per Yayati’s curse/prediction).
The afternoon sun poured through the trees. A breeze flowed through the forest, picking up pace and then lazing back, like a cat trying to chase bees. Kacha, Sharmishtha, Prabha and I had gathered near a brook. It was our favourite spot in Vrishaparva. There were no prying eyes, and devas did not interfere in asura territory so we were safe from them as well. Everything seemed a bit too bright and colourful whenever Kacha was around. He chalked it up to the fact that his mother was a yaksha, so he had a connection with the forests. I sighed as I admired him – his flowing shoulder length locks, his wide nose and high cheekbones, his smile, the way he talked with the cows, his biceps as he whirled around his lathi. “Quit ogling him and just go up to him already or you’re gonna end up alone in a pit” said Sharmishtha, elbowing me. “I don’t even know what you see in him. I hear the other asuras call him a ‘deva bastard’ and a ‘twink’.” “That’s because they’re jealous of him. No asura could match the way he looks, or the way he behaves” I reply, cutting off Prabha’s useless critiques.
The wind picks up pace once again, and Sharmishtha gets up chasing her dupatta. A blue lotus flutters and drops near my feet, and I pick it up. It shimmers as if dusted with moonshine, and its scent made the fullest of roses in bloom in spring smell like stale bread. Prabha put it along with the other flowers in my gajra, and said “Even Lakshmi wouldn’t look half as beautiful as you when she sees you like this” she laughs merrily. I push at her playfully, and that is when Kacha arrives there. He was mostly silent, listening, observing, so it made me feel as if the lotus was a drug when he said, “Devayani, can I have that lotus?”
I hastily pluck it from my hair and give it to him. Sharmishtha returned by then, leaves in her hair, and her torn dupatta in her hand. “It was stuck in a branch and I had to climb 6 feet to retrieve it.” Kacha was oblivious to her rant, and he kept looking at the flower, as if studying a complex problem. “Do you like it Devayani?” he asks. I stare at him, slack jawed, dumbfounded to reply for a minute. “Yes she does. Now Kacha why don’t you get her those flowers?” “After all aren’t you the one who brings flowers for her priceless gajras?” say Prabha and Sharmishtha in order, teasing Kacha. A blush creeps up his cheeks, as he replies, “Lady Devyani is my guru’s daughter, it is my duty to serve her.” What I wouldn’t give to hear those words, but spoken with love instead of reverence. “They grow near the river’s source, in a lake nearby. That is the only place you can find these blue lotuses.” Sharmishtha says. Determination fills Kacha’s eyes. Sometimes I do wonder if he lies about his half yaksha parentage, for there is certainly something… different about his eyes. “I will return by dusk with your cattle Lady Devyani.” He assures me, and leaves for the lotuses, getting his lathi for the trek up ahead. I don’t believe his promise at all. Twice he’s promised me before, and twice before have the other jealous asuras murdered him, and twice before has father resurrected him through the mrita-sanjeevani on my plea. I look behind him, hopeful for the love budding in his heart, and dreading for his safety.
Dusk creeps its way into the ashram. I stand at the gate, looking anxiously for any sign of Kacha, when the asuras, led by Atibala, arrive at the gates. They were clearly coming after making merry, and I could smell the scent of honey wine on them. “Guru Shukracharya, please come accept our obeisance” says an asura, slurring his words and giggling half way through. Father arrives, in his flowing white dhoti and beard, annoyed at the disturbance in his prayers to Shambhu. “Who is it at this late – oh Atibala! Come, it is always great to see an old student!” says father, as he invited Atibala and his companions. Maybe he wouldn’t greet them the same way if he knew they were the ones who had murdered his favourite disciple in cold blood twice. Or maybe he did know, but chose to ignore it. Atibala brings a pitcher and a goblet towards father and offers him wine. Father took the goblet and greedily inhaled the scent, swirling the vessel. An enthusiastic wine connoisseur, father downed the goblet in one gulp, remarking afterwards that it tasted different. Atibala attributed it to fanciful terms like the right serving temperature, touched father’s feet and left. Father soon after retired to his chambers, leaving me alone.
The sky is now dotted by stars, illuminated by the first rays of moonlight, and I start panicking. There is still no sign of Kacha. I rush towards father’s chambers and wake him up. “Father, Kacha hasn’t returned yet. Please do something!” I cry. Father immediately gets up, all hints of the sluggishness from the wine gone. He instructs me to light a lamp, and to wait outside. After what feels like eternity, but would have been a blink of an eye for him, he calls me in. His expression is gaunt, and his hands are trembling. “What happened father?” I ask, warily. “Kacha is no more.” he says, as if tired. “What?” I reply, shocked. “I SAID HE IS DEAD. HE WAS CUT DOWN BY ATIBALA AND HIS PARTY, AND THEN THE SON OF A BITCH BURNT HIM.” “Father, you are the only person in this universe who can revive the dead. Twice you have revived him at my behest, I vow father this is the last time I ask of you, please bring Kacha back.” I plead again, trying to calm father’s rage. He goes into a meditative trance again, but returns back quickly, this time even more shocked than last time. “Kacha is in me.” I am too stunned to even comprehend what he means. “Atibala mixed his ashes in my wine.” Father says, disgusted and horrified at himself, his students, and fate’s cruel turn.
Dread floods me. I cannot choose the man I love, about whose love I’m not even sure, over my father. Father, as if sensing my thoughts, says in a resigned tone, “Devyani, I can only resurrect Kacha on one condition. I will have to teach him the mrita-sanjeevani, which Kacha will then use to resurrect me back once he comes out of my body.” Father sounds like a defeated man. Obviously, such a heinous act by ones students was bound to leave a teacher like this. I kneel beside father’s bed, holding his hand, calming and healing him through my powers, as he starts chanting the mantra. Slowly, a faint light starts emitting from him. Kacha then emerges, making a sickening sound as he tore through father’s abdomen. Immediately he kneels down beside father, laying his hand on his chest, and utters the mantra. Father’s stomach seals up, and his breath returns to him as he opens his eyes. He still has that odd look of resignation on his face, and looks at me with – pity?
Today has been a lesson to me, a lesson that matters of the heart while shouldn’t be rushed, should certainly not be stayed, lest the heart’s wish never take wings. I can’t even bear the thought of losing Kacha again, not without telling him how I felt about him. “Kacha,” I start, as I move towards him “, I am in love with you. I love you like the dawn loves the sun, like the river loves the sea, like the clouds love-“ “Stop Devyani.” Kacha says, interrupting me midway. I fear what’s going to happen. Is he offended? Or does he not love me? “Devyani, I must return back.” Kacha says. “Where?” I ask him. Kacha had showed up on our door once, and each time I asked about his origin or parentage, he shied away. “Back to Amravati.” he replies. The deva capital? I look at father, who has instead chosen to look at the floor. I look back at Kacha.
I now realize the heartbreak that poets so fondly mention, as if stating the weather. How idiotic they are. Heartbreak wasn’t beautiful. It wasn’t even painful. It was draining. Everything I thought I knew was a lie. The man I had fallen for saw me as nothing more than a tool. All those times I caught him looking at me, or when he caught I, was a performance. His demeanour? What about his silent laugh? Was the way he blushed earlier today also a performance, part of an elaborate use to manipulate me? A thousand questions flood me, but only one sentence makes it out of my mouth – “You lied to me. You-you used me?” Tears blur my vision as I take a step back. “You are just a deva spy, and you used me.” Kacha stays silent, his shoulders hunched and head bent. “And you knew – you knew and you kept this a secret from me!” I whirl at father. He looks at me with tear stained eyes. “Devayani I-“ “Don’t you dare even take my name out of your filthy impure tongue!” I shout as I turn back to Kacha. He flinches at my tone, and I see the glistening tears on his face as well.
“You knew how I felt about you. You knew I loved you, and you knew I would get father to resurrect you each time you died. Had you told me your truth, I would’ve kept my distance, I would’ve stayed out of your way, I would’ve respected you for fighting for your faction, and yet. Yet you chose to manipulate me and my love, you conniving betraying lying cheating deva bastard!” Kacha looks taken aback at my words. I can feel my features contorting from my rage and pain. I can feel the hurt I’m causing, the way my tongue bleeds Kacha’s heart like he bled mine. I muster all my powers, and then I utter words that would cause Kacha the most suffering – “Kacha. You have seen my love so far, but now you will see the power of my hatred and my wrath. Kacha, I curse you to never be able to use the mrit-sanjeevani. I curse you to forget the knowledge to use the same mantra for which you have died and returned to the world thrice. Let the devas know that their spy failed.”
Kacha’s expression turns to stone. He bows to my father and touches his feet, and my father, the chivalrous, honourable man he is, blessed the man who almost killed him and broke his only child’s heart with a curt “May you emerge victorious in all future missions.”. Kacha then flies out of my house, and a blue lotus, with petals that shone like moonshine and fragrance that made the fullest of roses blooming in spring smell like stale bread, falls at my feet.
