Yashodhara Charite

Translated from Kannada by Usha J

Body pressed against body; they embraced and kissed. As their voices turned sweet and low in the heat of their meeting, they lost all sense of the world. Like puppets moved by the strings of Manmatha, the two became one.

This bliss of union left them completely entranced. Even as the tightness of their embrace loosened in sleep, their arms remained locked, entwined together without a break. As they lay in deep slumber with eyes shut, their eyebrows looked like two sugarcane bows joined together and tied. Along those "bows," the dark lines of their eyelashes sat thick, looking like a row of black bees resting on a string.

It was the dead of night. The heavy footsteps of the guards on their rounds had finally gone quiet. Just then, the mahout of the royal elephant, stationed right next to the palace, began to sing for his own heart's joy as his turn for the watch arrived. The sweet sound of that song acted like a Kataka nut upon Amrutamati’s sleep. Just as the nut clears the mud from a pot of water, his voice cleared the heaviness of her slumber and woke her.

She listened with her whole heart. The music moved her so deeply that she immediately surrendered her mind to him as a gift of love. The voice, filled with an extraordinary joy, moved through the Rumpa beats and flowed into the structure of a Prabandha. From there, it shifted into a graceful, dancing movement, leaping with a stylized skip until the raga took its full form. It was the Malavashri raga. Just as the flame of a lamp in a palace chamber brightens and glows, the raga took on a brilliant, decorative beauty. Following the proper rules of the art, the song moved forward flawlessly. Even without counting the beats, the melody fell perfectly into the rhythm of the tala. In this way, giving the music its true and perfect form, the mahout continued to sing.

It was the Malavashri raga, a melody of the land. Just as the flame of a lamp inside a palace chamber grows and casts a deeper glow, this raga gathered a rich, decorative beauty. It moved forward steadily, held safe within its own grace. Even without the counting of beats, the composition merged naturally with the rhythmic gaits of the tala. In this way, giving the song its truest form, the mahout continued to sing.

As he sang with such extreme sweetness, those strange and haunting notes kept falling upon her ears. Amrutamati’s mind was stirred to its very depths. Sleep vanished, and light seemed to break in her eyes long before the dawn. The heavy question of how she would see him, or how she could be with him, surged within her like a rising ocean.

As soon as day broke, she summoned her most trusted companion and laid bare the secret desires of her heart. She sent her at once to the mahout. Following the Queen’s command, the friend walked toward the stables, but the moment she caught sight of him from a distance, a wave of nausea struck her eyes and her soul. Unable to stand there for even a second longer, she turned and fled.

"O God!" she cried to herself. "Where is the grace of Amrutamati, and where is this deformed wretch, this Ashtavakra? It is a marvel! Truly it is said: Chitram! Aapatre ramate naari—how strange that a woman should find pleasure in one so unworthy! Has that wretched Fate no eyes at all?"

Such thoughts swirled in her mind as she made her way back, carrying the weight of what she had seen. And what did she behold? Amrutamati, the wife of that king of kings, sat with a face withered like a fading bloom. Her eyes were fixed upon the path, watching for her friend’s return. The constant heat of her anxious sighs had scorched her lips, robbing them of their natural crimson.

Approaching her restless mistress, the confidante spoke: “You, whose slender frame shines with the grace of the sword in Kama’s own hand—how did you ever seek out a Manmatha of this sort? How could you give your heart to him? I cannot fathom any of it! If I were to find a likeness for him, there is no one else in this world who could possibly compare.”

The Queen did not grasp the hidden sting in her friend’s words. Instead, her curiosity was stirred even further. “Tell me! Speak!” she urged. “Is my beloved so beautiful? O messenger, tell me quickly. You kill me with this delay!”

The friend began the grim account: “His hair is torn away in ragged patches. His forehead is a sunken pit. His eyes are rotted. Saliva spills constantly from his mouth. With a flat nose, shriveled ears, and cracked teeth, his neck has retreated into his shoulders, his chest has caved in, and his back juts out in a hump. His belly is bloated, and his very loins have shrunken away into nothing. His skin is caked with soot, and a stench like that of an ancient pit being unearthed wafts from his body. His hands, his tiny eyes, his hunched back, and his legs—they are more wretched than the limbs of a donkey with a broken spine. His complexion is as dark and coarse as an old bear’s hide; his frame as rough as the bark of a palm tree. He is twisted and gnarled in eight places like a bundle of firewood, or some sun-dried, crooked log of wood.”

As she listened to this harrowing account, a rattle rose in Amrutamati’s throat. Her eyes welled with tears and her chest began to heave. Like a forest deer suddenly struck by a hunter’s arrow, she stood there, paralyzed and trembling. Then, slowly, she found her voice.

“Musk is black—does anyone despise it for its color? Do men reject a log of sandalwood simply because it is knotted and gnarled? Even the bow of Kama is bent, yet who dares to mock its power? You foolish girl, when we truly love someone, the very flaws of their body become their ornaments. More than that—once the mind has surrendered, the question of outward form simply does not arise. When the purpose is fulfilled, what use is there in questioning the means? From this day forth, he alone is my family deity. He is my God of Love, my Indra, my Moon!”

With these words, Amrutamati pressed a bribe into her confidante’s hand, binding the woman to her will. She poured out every secret of her heart and, having secured the maid's consent, sent her back to her beloved. The messenger fulfilled her task, bringing the two together. From that moment on, day or night, whenever she found a moment of respite, Amrutamati spent her hours in his company.

To the Queen, who herself was like the presiding deity of beauty, there was a strange, intoxicating sweetness in the company and the embrace of that deformed man. After all, if a crow has developed a taste for the bitter neem, could it ever find pleasure in the sweetness of a mango? So it was with Amrutamati; her heart withered and turned away from King Yashodhara. Whether she was looking at her husband, speaking with him, or in those moments when he tried to dote on her, she was no longer the woman she once was.

Yashodhara, noticing this change, felt a seed of doubt sprout in his mind. He resolved to observe her closely. One night, he lay in bed and feigned a deep, unconscious slumber. Like a female bee that had been trapped within the petals of a water-lily all day and finally creeps out when the night is done, Amrutamati disentangled herself from the bond of her husband’s arms and stole away to her paramour. Yashodhara, too, arose from the bed.

Trailing her like the shadow of retribution following a crime, the King moved unseen, clutching a naked blade in his hand. Meanwhile, in the darkness of the stables, that base man was consumed by a fuming rage, his temper burning because the Queen had not arrived at the appointed hour. When she finally appeared, he took the offerings she had brought—the blossoms, the sandalwood, and the betel—and scattered them in the dirt.

Seizing her by the hair, he lashed her back with a leather thong, pouncing upon her with the violence of a hawk striking a royal swan. He grasped her thick tresses and pounded her as if he were crushing raw flax; not satisfied with this, he kicked her with his cracked heels until her skin began to peel away. Yet, through the pain, she rolled at his feet, writhing and pleading like a water snake.

“O beloved,” she cried, “it is true that I am late. Strike me as you wish, but do not turn your heart against me. Did I delay without cause? That sinner of a King took me upon his lap and began his amorous play; I was forced to wait and endure it. O Tamer of Elephants, your voice is honey to my ears, and your form is a delight to my eyes. If you abandon me, death is my only sanctuary. Believe me, all other men are but brothers to me.”

Thus she pleaded, speaking in many ways to restore his faith and soothe his anger. At once, the King’s sword swung high; his arm was poised for the strike. His mind spat sparks of fury. The intent to cleave the two of them in a single stroke surged within him.

But in that heartbeat, restraint dawned. “Fie! No!” his soul recoiled in disgust. “This blade of my arm is meant to pierce rival sovereigns, not these wretched creatures. Shall an elephant turn to confront an ant? A lion hunts the tusker, not the lowly jackal! Shall this blade, hallowed by the blood of heroes on the battlefield, lose its luster in the mire of this base creature’s life? If it were so, would not the vine of my fame, which has spread to the eight corners of the earth, turn as bitter as a wild gourd?

I have now seen with my own eyes that her heart belongs to another. If I were to hack her down, would her desire truly end? When a woman strays, is it not better to simply cast her aside as one would filth? To seek victory through such a deed would only lead to a hell teeming with worms. This is no wisdom.”

Determining thus that the sword had no place here, he did not linger. He returned to the palace and lay upon his bed as before. Shortly after, Amrutamati returned. Believing the King to be in a deep slumber, she stole toward him and lay by his side. Her skin brushed against his back. Once, her mere touch had filled him with bliss; but now that she had turned against him, those breasts—once firm and auspicious as young saplings—felt to him only like sagging, withered weights.