Parvati stormed into the palatial courtyard. King Dhruv had met her first in this now lifeless boulevard. He had told her how much he loved her and proudly talked about the wealth she would be privy to if she married him. The money did not concern her. She was born in modest circumstances and gold plated coins never did point their wretched and selfish fingers at her. Her ailing parents demanded most of her attention and her brother earned enough to keep the food warm and her parents alive. Dhruv and her were married the year after they had first met on the boulevard of false promises. The days and weeks were emotionally and physically satisfying until the others came into the fold. First it was Radhika. Then it was Shreya. Not long after came Pavitra. Ria followed. And so did Laira. Gita was supposed to be the last. Until Sheila finally rounded up the pack. Eight women. Seven days. One woman did not get her heart recharged every week. And this week it was Parvati’s plight.
She would refuse to be one of eight. Sixteen women in the near future was a distinct possibility. Dhruv had an insatiable appetite for unsullied flesh. It was time to leave. It was time to go back and serve her loving parents. She conversed with Dhruv and patiently listened to his childish tantrum. He would have none of it ofcourse. He promised her death by firing squad. Parvati would have to wait and bide her time. As she sullenly made her way back to the queen’s quarters, she reopened the note her servant had given her in the morning. It simply said “To the woman who will always be admired and adored. From the boy who may never have her".” On the back was an address. Parvati would go. Alone. She was notorious for making rational and secure decisions. Not this time. A lover patiently waited in the drunken expanse that made up Dhruv’s kingdom.
Mandakini washed her hands and set down the bronze plate her husband used. Arjun would be coming home soon and dinner was taking longer than usual. A silent drop of sweat made a slow, sacred descent down her tired face. She had nursed her baby son for most of the day. When the baby had finally closed its miniature darling eyes, she began mixing the dough and rinsing the vegetables. Arjun demanded something special every Wednesday. Physical abuse was the norm. A whipping was the exception. And if dinner did not satisfy his usually inebriated mind and body, a whipping is what she got. The fact that the vegetables were taking longer to cook was terrifying. Her fragile body was at its breaking point. If her son was to become a successful merchant someday, he would need his mother’s nourishing.
Arjun slammed the door shut. He was obviously in a bad mood. He glanced quickly at his son and then shook his head in disgust. Mandakini quickly removed the vegetables from the burning fire and faithfully served her husband. One scoop. Two. Arjun then roughly pushed her away from him. Mandakini creeped back into the darkness. She mouthed a silent prayer and closed her eyes for two minutes. As she slowly opened them she caught a reflection of the chaata. Time felt like an eternity before the numbing pain finally took over all the nerves in her body. A single stroke. Deathly pain. Blood from the recesses. A sufferer’s shame. Arjun fell asleep soon after the alcohol completely warped his brain. Mandakini prayed this was the night. She silently stripped herself off her rags and donned her husband’s clothes. A distraught soul staggered out into the nectar-sweet night sky.
She took him into her arms. He kissed her forehead and nudged her ears with his nose. He kissed her chin and in excruciating slowness made his way two inches to her lips. She bit his lip passionately and drew in the silent stream of warm red. As their tongues interlocked in an exhilarating embrace, she looked into his brown eyes and immediately drew comfort. He breathed in her fragrance as he brushed his tongue on her neck. Three subtle vertical strokes was all it took to feel her cringe in his arms. He traced his long fingers down her spine and tiptoed patiently to her breasts. He cupped her left while he gently circled the right with his puckered mouth. She grabbed his hair, drew his face to hers and kissed him with fervor and unblemished passion. Then began an uncompromising descent into his deepest secrets.
Dhruv did not suspect a thing. Parvati always left in the dead of the night and her faithful servant kept a constant lookout for spies and Dhruv’s numerous confidants. Dhruv questioned her new found happiness once but was immediately appeased when Parvati told him it was only because she looked forward with fiendish excitement to spending every eighth day with him. All was merry and happy until that fateful day in November. Parvati was coming back from the royal baths when the king’s chief minister blocked her path and told her that Dhruv was dead. A peasant woman had shot at him while he was on his weekly hunt. She had escaped before the royal guards could catch her. A massive hunt was organized nevertheless to find the killer. Blood rushed into Parvati’s head. As first wife, she would be forced by societal and religious custom to keep her husband company as their souls made their royal journey into the underworld. There was no escape.
Parvati was dressed in red. She looked beautiful even in the face of impending death. The procession snaked its way slowly through the city streets. Dhruv was being carried in a gold-plated chariot and thousands of people threw rose petals and tulsi leaves at his body.
Parvati walked a few feet behind and she received the same adolation and attention. She had wanted to see him before her final moments but he was nowhere in sight. It was futile – she had not heard from him in months and he had probably given her up for good. Just like Dhruv once did. Death would not be easy and all she wanted was to smile in a solemn moment of happiness before her soul wrenched itself away from the physical. Dhruv was laid on a bed of the finest sandalwood. Thirteen logs would suffice to take the couple into their next life. Parvati crossed her legs, folded her hands, and took a final respectful bow at her subjects. The head priest brought forward a shapely log of oak and lit it on fire. With a gracious sweep that signified finality, he set the pyre ablaze.
Parvati silently watched the flames surround her and caught a familiar figure in the background. Mandakini? She had come to say goodbye! To Parvati’s complete and utter surprise, Mandakini hastily took off her clothes. Arjun’s clothes. In stark nakedness and in full view of the public’s disbelieving gasps, she made seven gracious steps and stepped into the burning flames. The royal guards immediately recognized her. The peasant who had the audacity to kill the king. Parvati shrieked with delight as she embraced her in loving submission. The boy who claimed he would never have her. Her man. Her woman. Her blood. Her soul. As the fire burned away their flesh, Parvati looked into Mandakini’s brown eyes and fell in love again. They would be together forever. Hiding was no more an option.
©Govind Mohan – http://govindmika.blogspot.com. All rights reserved.
Parvati stormed into the palatial courtyard. King Dhruv had met her first in this now lifeless boulevard. He had told her how much he loved her and proudly talked about the wealth she would be privy to if she married him. The money did not concern her. She was born in modest circumstances and gold plated coins never did point their wretched and selfish fingers at her. Her ailing parents demanded most of her attention and her brother earned enough to keep the food warm and her parents alive. Dhruv and her were married the year after they had first met on the boulevard of false promises. The days and weeks were emotionally and physically satisfying until the others came into the fold. First it was Radhika. Then it was Shreya. Not long after came Pavitra. Ria followed. And so did Laira. Gita was supposed to be the last. Until Sheila finally rounded up the pack. Eight women. Seven days. One woman did not get her heart recharged every week. And this week it was Parvati’s plight. 
