Work Text:
April again, but then, it seems it always
is as we start to stir, stray from the hallways,
set forth, seek faith, take breaks, make waves, ring bells,
find new ways to invoke old gods, or tell
an old tale in new meter or new rhyme—
—Spring’s just another word for story-time.
Besides, there’s but a narrow gap to thread
‘twixt melt and monsoon, when it’s safe to tread
the narrow pass of Drolma La1 in spring,
a trek we took as tourists. (Here’s the thing
to note, though: you could raise your visa odds
if you checked off “Religious Pilgrim,” gods
being better bets than trekkers. Or at least
that’s how we snagged our spots.2) And so, from east
of Kathmandu, through Nyalam, through Tibet,
we trundled, trading tales with those we met
to break the ice, pass time, or simply greet
a friend, and ease the miles for weary feet.
(I thought in tisram3 till I lost that language,
Dactylic triplets of immigrant baggage,
but iambs come more freely now, and so
I’ll share this story in that form.)
Here goes:
Our group was nearly thirty, give or take,
plus mules, a yak or two. We made the lake4
within two weeks. They say it cleanses sin
(if you can stand the cold you’re cleansing in).
The first of us to test that glacial bath
was—well, let’s call her Mrs. Badrinath.
Of course she went in first. Her sari sodden,
plodding, big-hipped, making waves, she strode in
till she stood waist-deep—then ducked, and rose,
shucked off her pallu, challenged us: “Who goes
next then?” She swayed and staggered back to shore,
a dainty shilabalika5 of yore
now clad in life, well-padded, twice a wife
and then thrice more, or so she claimed. The strife
this history provoked, she scorned. “Bas, bas,”
she’d scoff, to still the protests, “such a fuss!
My husbands never made of widowhood
the ruckus all you sadhus do! And would
I marry them if I did not know how
to manage them? The first was from Lucknow
and traded in Benares silk. He’s gone
now, couldn’t long keep up with me....” And on
and on she went while wringing out her hair,
her sari clinging, doubtless well aware
of all the stares she drew (she knew!), and, true:
“My fifth and final husband’s home to do
whatever husbands do when I’m away.
You see, he’s learned to let me have my way!”
At that, a dangerous and knowing glint
lit up her glance. She tapped her ear, a hint,
perhaps, to me and other big-hipped girls
of violence felt and violence dealt: the churls
that men become, for all we find them fine
and fair at first.
Some things don’t change with time.
She shared a story later on that night,
when we had drawn around the cook-stove’s light
and warmth, of a young kshatriya6 whose life
was forfeit till he swore to make his wife
the crone who gave the answer that he sought,
with which his own survival must be bought.
The riddle: What do women most desire?
“Well, Draupadi, if asked, would have said fire—”
and here she added, parenthetically,
“she had five husbands too, so let mine be—
and Amba, vengeance, but, from what I’ve heard,
Subhadra had it best: wasted no words,
just took the driver’s seat and cracked the whip,
and carried off her man.7 And that’s the tip
the crone gave to the kshatriya. Said she,
‘What women most desire is sovereignty.’”
It was a tale we all had heard before;
but it was different as she told it, more
masala, maybe more of truth as well.
“That isn’t how it went! Come, come, now tell
it properly!” the Pujari8 broke in.
(He’d preached in every village stop of sin,
and preached to us, “To teach a crowd to trust
your temple-dust, to dazzle, not disgust,
you must arrive prepared,” with plastic gods
and ersatz rudraksha,9 and gilded odds-
and-ends for puja-fires, and little flasks
of ‘Ganga’ water well perfumed to mask
their faint mud-puddle scent. Prepared indeed
he was; departed yet more so: he freed
more sacred seeds and painted beads from stalls
we passed. “Earthly attachments, friends, are walls,”
he droned. “It is to liberate their cares
that I so lightly liberate their wares.”)
Cried Mrs. Badrinath, “Oh, is it not?
Then tell me where I erred, or lost the plot.”
Her voice was light; her smile, though, gained an edge.
The Pujari, careless, approached the ledge,
replying, “First, the kshatriya agreed
to wed the crone to save his king and free
him from a debt, not to atone for rape!”
He looked around, as if to share the jape
with other men. “And sentenced by a queen?
A queen in judgment? Hah! See what I mean?”
He laughed and went on, “Too, the whole affair
began because some land was claimed, but fair
remuneration to its lord not paid.
How far off from the proper path you strayed!
And of your errors, that’s not yet the worst:
The crone was not the flirt you claim, but cursed.
Some jealous relative—an aunt? stepmother?—
one female—classic!—ruining another.”10
“And is that all?” said Mrs. Badri then.
“Your version must be of, for, and by men.
But who, I ask, painted the lion? Lest
you all forget, the lion did digest
the man in that story. Yet still I hold
the tale unfinished and the truth untold,
for isn’t it the lionesses who
control the hunt? And don’t you think we too
have tales to tell amid the prey we fell?
Of course a male tale-teller wouldn’t dwell
on rape, but sell instead a sweeter tale
of kingly debt, and land annexed, a sale
then consummated at the last by trade
of wealth for woman’s hand. Of course it made
sense to a man to swap a man’s attack
against a woman’s body for a tract
of land. Men always deemed us property
in any case, to hoard or barter. See,
that’s why it took a queen to pass the sentence:
Men seldom ask for other men’s repentance.
And why should my tale’s heroine assure
her husband of fidelity before
he’s earned it? He at least, I must assume,
mended his ways at last, or else we doom
him and his kind to worse, if men can’t learn
to change, to grow, to listen, live, and earn
back trust.... I think they can. So life advances
through our munificence with second chances.
Achcha, that’s something, isn’t it? And think,
if it were not the case”—she gave a wink—
“how bored I’d be in bed at night! —Although
my husband knows: he slips again, I go!”
The Pujari, nonplussed and gaping, stared,
and no reply to this pronouncement dared.
But Mrs. Badrinath just raised a brow,
and said, “Who’ll tell the next tale for us now?”
She finished out the trek astride a mule,
its hips and hers a-sway, the heavy jewel
that pierced her nostril glinting in the sun.
I followed them on foot. When we were done,
and Kailash just a distant rearview peak,
she called me beti, laughed, and pinched my cheek.
It’s ten years since, and April, as I write.
And Mrs. Badrinath? Long out of sight.
_________________________________
1 The pass of Drolma La, at about 5,600m, is the highest point on the Kailash circumambulation trail.
2 It should be acknowledged, however, that religious and recreational travel in Tibet can be substantially easier for people like the characters here, who are Hindus from India (and for Westerners), than for Tibetans and especially Tibetan Buddhists. The political realities of Chinese occupation make it difficult if not impossible for members of the Tibetan diaspora to enter the region, while Tibetans living there face internal barriers to free travel.
3 Tisram denotes a three-beat rhythm in Carnatic music.
4 The lake referred to here is Lake Manasarovar, also called Mapam Yumtso, near the base of Mount Kailash.
5 A shilabalika is a stylized sculpture of a woman, often with exaggerated breasts and hips, usually depicted dancing, playing music, or arranging her clothes or hair beneath a tree. You know, as you do. Shilabalika sculptures are a prominent element of temple architecture in parts of India. Alternate names: shalabhanjika, madanika.
6 Kshatriya refers to the warrior-nobility caste in the Hindu caste system. Casteism and caste-based discrimination remain major issues in India today.
7 The version of Subhadra’s elopement with Arjuna to which Mrs. Badrinath alludes here, with Subhadra acting as the getaway charioteer, is to my knowledge unattested in any of the surviving Sanskrit manuscripts of the Mahabharata, which depict this episode as a forcible abduction. The version where Subhadra is a consenting and active participant occurs in some oral traditions and has been widely popularized by television adaptations of the Mahabharata. Some view it as a feminist revision that empowers Subhadra; others see it as a misguided attempt to sanitize the misogyny of the original. Either way, Mrs. Badrinath's adoption of this version may suggest that her familiarity with the Mahabharata derives mainly from oral storytelling and popular television rather than classical manuscripts.
8 The Pujari is of course this AU's version of the Pardoner. Chaucer's portrayal of the Pardoner in The Canterbury Tales (not to mention the conduct of plenty of real-life pujaris) offers rich fodder for critique, but once again, alas, there was only so much that would fit here given the constraints of form, length, and deadline involved.
9 Rudraksha, the seeds of the Elaeocarpus ganitreus tree, are traditionally used as prayer beads when dried.
10 The Pujari’s version of the story, which he evidently considers authoritative, derives from The Wedding of Sir Gawain and Dame Ragnelle, which may be found here.