ERIC ALAGAN’S NEWSLETTER

Lotus in the Mud

Shantanu ascended the Kuru throne. When his aged parents, Pratipa and Sunanda, retired to
the forest, Shantanu found himself surrounded by enemies within and without his kingdom.
Courtiers who fawned on the royal family resorted to intrigue.
His eldest brother, a leper, had disappeared, never to re-emerge. Vahlika, his second
brother, who lived with his maternal uncle in the latter’s kingdom, Balkh, could not help.
After the uncle died, a power struggle erupted in Balkh and consumed Vahlika’s time and
resources.
This convergence of events plunged the Kingdom of Kuru into a series of conflicts
with vassals who sought to secede and enemy kingdoms who tried to annex Shantanu’s lands.
It was several years before Shantanu put down the rebellions and thwarted the
invasions. Though conflicts flared now and then, Hastinapura enjoyed periods of fleeting
peace.
Meanwhile, time had ran ahead of Shantanu. He was well into his thirties, and most of
his peers bounced grandchildren on their laps. Maidens suitable for his standing and age were
already married mothers.
“If you do not have an heir, little brother, your people will not see peace in their
lifetime,” said his brother, Vahlika. He had put down opposition to his rule and secured the
Balkh throne. “You are the age of my nieces and it will not bode well to be marrying your
grandnieces.”
“I will hand the kingdom over to you,” said Shantanu.
“Three kingdoms, and all not too friendly, straddle the lands between Kuru and
Balkh,” said Vahlika. “Even to visit you, I had to journey east to the sea, sail around the tip,
and wait for the monsoons before reaching you. How will I defend Kuru when I’m in Balkh,
and Balkh when I’m in Kuru if I have to cross two seas and an ocean?”
“We should conquer the lands that separate us.”

Copyright @ Eric Alagan, 2020

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“I tire of war.” Vahlika sighed. “What you should do, little brother, is find a maiden,
bed her and produce an heir. Mark my words. If you seek battle, take a wife and you will find
many opportunities to battle.” The brothers laughed. Before Vahlika departed for his home,
he said,
“Your courtiers and fortune-tellers had failed to find a bride. You were born under
stars that don’t match any princess’s horoscope. Perhaps you should travel your kingdom
incognito. Perhaps, you might find a lotus in the mud.”
Shantanu took his brother’s advice and toured Kuru Pradesh. He visited temples and
dance halls, mercantile guilts and markets, and even meditated in the forests and on river
banks. He came across many virgins with wasp-waists and full bosoms and spider’s legs for
eyelashes. But not a single damsel enticed him.
One such wandering day, after a simple lunch, Shantanu rested under a wide-canopied
tree by the river bank. He heard a voice, a song that harked back to a time long ago; a time
when he was not even born. The Kuru king recognised the tune but could not place it. He
breathed in scents of a fully bloomed garden; scents that intoxicated and lit a hunger within
him. He looked near and scanned far for the source of the song and scents.
It was a sultry afternoon, and the water shimmered. The river’s width prevented
Shantanu from seeing the opposite bank. A ripple broke the water’s surface; a fish it was not
and nor was it a water iguana. The thing slew through the rush with a grace he had not seen.
Whatever it was, it disappeared behind some brushes around a bend in the river.
The song and scents continued to fill Shantanu; teasing, intriguing and intoxicating.
His eyes glazed. He shook himself awake and blinked.
Before him stood an angelic being. Tall and statuesque; the most beautiful creature he
had ever seen.
“Who are you?” Shantanu’s words floated from him to the supernatural beauty; as if
he was in a dream where events made no logical sense. “Are you of this world? Who is your
father?”
“You have so many questions, O King of Kuru.”
“You recognise me, even though I’m draped in the clothes of a commoner.”
“Can a fabric hide a flame?” The strange, beautiful maiden laughed. Her laughter was
the tune Shantanu had heard. He flared his nose and breathed in the air.
“The same musical voice; the same natural scents, from some mystical time,” said
Shantanu. “You must reveal your identity.”
“Must?”
“Please.”
“Please? The All-Conquering King pleads.” She chuckled, but he took no offence. His
eyes turned wet with anticipation. The maiden moved from left to right and twirled, so he
might get a full measure of her beauty.
“I am of this world. My father’s name is Jahnu. He is of three kingdoms. As for my
name, you already know my father’s name.”
“The daughter of Jahnu. I shall call you Jahnavi,” said the king.
The celestial beauty smiled and sat on a tree stump. Shantanu went down on his knees
beside her and said,
“Marry me. Take me for your husband.”
“Is it not for a man, a king no less, to take a woman for his wife?”

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“Yes, yes. Tell me where your father lives and I shall visit him with an entourage
laden with gifts and auspicious things and ask, no beg, your father to let me take you for my
wife.”
“My father is not of this world.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. But I’m sure he lives in heaven among the gods.” Shantanu took her
hands in his. “Marry me and I will place at your feet my riches, my kingdom and even my
crown.”
“There is no need for such transient trivialities. As my husband, I’m sure you will
husband me beyond reproach. But I want something in return. Your promise.”
“Speak and it’s given.”
“If I accept your marriage proposal, you must promise not to question my lineage, not
to show anger on account of my words or actions, and never question my motives. Break this
promise, and I shall abandon you, and you will receive no recourse to make amends.”
“I cannot imagine ever getting cross with your words or actions. I swear on my head
to abide by your conditions.”
Shantanu, delirious with passion, escorted Jahnavi to his capital, Hastinapura. The
people rejoiced, but even a king had to answer to the Royal Council. The courtiers called for
a private audience to discuss matters of caste and lineage, to satisfy that their new queen-to-
be had the bloodline worthy to produce an heir acceptable to the Kuru clan.
King Shantanu resisted their demands. The Council baulked, but the chief astrologer
stayed his ground; insisted on reading Jahnavi’s horoscope. The king rose in anger, but before
he could speak, Jahnavi, who sat behind a curtained alcove, called.
Shantanu went to Jahnavi, and she gave him her horoscope. It surprised him, for she
had brought no possessions. Puzzled but pleased, he returned to his councillors. The chief
astrologer studied the parchment and expressed satisfaction.
“The stars align, sire, and this betrothal will produce many strong sons.”
All the council members exclaimed and commended the king’s resourcefulness in
locating such a worthy consort where all others had failed.
King Shantanu and Queen Jahnavi lived a blissful life. Her grace, modesty and
unrelenting love for the nation won the hearts of the people. Happiness swept the land, and
the people prospered.
Perfect happiness is impossible in an imperfect world. Man might reach the zenith but
from there with every step he will slide and sink. When the queen was in the last month of
her first child, an enemy kingdom offered war and shattered the peace.
Shantanu sat in war council with his ministers and generals. Jahnavi joined them and
observed the discussions. The enemy had marshalled a larger army. The situation looked dire
for Hastinapura.
“Send an embassy and stall for time, my husband,” said Jahnavi. “When the night
turns dark with the new moon, strike the enemy and you will prevail.”
Jahnavi spoke with such conviction that Shantanu took her advice. On the night of the
new moon, when the invader was blinded by the dark and dazzled by lit torches, Shantanu’s
warriors, who knew the land as they knew the curves of their wives, gave battle and routed
the invader.
A triumphant Shantanu returned to the capital with cartloads of war booty and lengthy
lines of captured slaves and herd animals. The king’s joy multiplied when he received news
that Jahnavi had given birth to a son.

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With a great shout, Shantanu threw off his helmet and weapons and ran up the steps to
his palace. He took the child from Jahnavi and held high his son, and the people roared with
approval.
That night, he slept the sleep of a deeply satisfied man, with his lovely wife and child
beside him.
In the morning, his newborn was dead. Drowned.
Next week’s story: The She-Devil.
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