Free Yayati: A Classic Tale of Lust by V S Khandekar Page A

stopped her with a sign. She was afraid and looked away.
    Mukulika asked with hesitation, when I would like dinner. She had got something made specially for me. I said brusquely, ‘Not now. Tomorrow morning please go away to the palace. Remember, you may not come here, unless I ask for you.’
    I was annoyed. I was angry with myself, the world, death and Mukulika. I did not realise what I was saying.
    I lay on the bed without taking my clothes off. Suddenly, I was reminded of Father. The signet and his longing to see the inscription on it. A little while ago, he had lost his sight — now perhaps his other movements have also stopped. Father had a worldwide reputation for having brought Indra to his knees. Now, he could not even move his hand without an effort. In a while his body will be lifeless like a piece of wood.
    The uncanny fear of death was haunting me again. I lay still with my eyes closed like a frightened child. By and by, I fell asleep. I do not know how long I slept. But I woke up with a frightening dream. In it, Yayati was lying on his deathbed instead of his father.
    I had heard for a long time that body and soul are two distinct entities, but without the body, what worldly pleasures can the soul enjoy?
    I was sorry that I had been cross with Mukulika earlier and called to her. I wonder if she was listening in at the door. She opened it, closed it behind her and slowly came forward. When she was near the bed, she stood with her head hung low.
    I said, ‘Why are you standing like this? Is it because as I said earlier that I did not want to see you again?’
    She looked up and gave me a delightful smile. She must have been crying outside. That is why like the earth after a shower she looked even more beautiful.
    I was about to get up and put my hand on her shoulder, when I heard someone calling, ‘Prince.’
    I asked her if she had called me but she said no. Yet she must have also heard it. She quickly moved away from the bed and was looking at the door, frightened.
    Again the same call: ‘Prince ...’
    Someone was calling across the wall. I was reminded of the tunnel leading from the palace to the Ashokavan. I scanned the wall carefully. It sounded hollow in the middle and nearby, barely perceptible, was a catch. On pressing it, a doorway slid open. At the top of the stairs of the tunnel, Mandar, the trusted servant of the Prime Minister was standing. He said in a broken voice, ‘Prince, please hurry. We do not know if the King ...’
    Without even turning to Mukulika, I descended into the underground passage, closed the secret door and followed Mandar like a puppet.
    In the eyes of the world Yayati was now King, the lord of a great kingdom. But in fact Yayati had become an orphan, with no one to look up to.
    Sometimes the memory of Father used to make me sad. The royal preceptor would then console me with the words, ‘Your Majesty, the soul of King Nahusha is now free from bondage.’
    Poor preceptor! I would listen to his verses from the Rigveda and would in irritation say to myself, where does this soul of man reside? What does it look like? What does it do? What is that something different that a body has not? The preceptor says, Father’s soul will now merge in the happiness of self.
    When the funeral pyre was lit for the last rites, the priests chanted:
    Oh, God of fire! Bring back to life for the service of the forefathers the dead who has been offered to you in sacrifice. Let him again take a body and come to life. May he get a body!
    What is the significance of that prayer? I toyed with this central theme of the prayer. It became an obsession with me. What body will Father take in the next birth?
    Would he be glad to be born as Yayati’s son? Is it possible? Perhaps rebirth is only a poetic fantasy! Why did I grow up into a youth? Why did I become King? Where is the Yayati who was equally attracted to the blooming flowers in the garden and the sparks flying from the sacrificial fire? Where is