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brigdhTitle: By hotter winds our fiery hearts are fanned
Author: Brigdh
Rating/Warnings: PG.
Summary: The story of Kunti.
Notes: Written for Yuletide 2011. This is a retelling of an episode early in the Mahabharata (an extremely important and famous Indian legend), when the mother of most of the main characters, Kunti, learns how to summon gods. I had originally intended to write this as more of a twist on the myth, instead of the fairly straightforward way it came out, but, well, I ran out of time. At least I didn't default! Posting this to LJ now because I realized I forgot to do it in January.
Once there was a princess who was virtuous and beautiful, as princesses should be. She was loyal to her husband and, after his death, devoted to her sons. She kept her faith through a long and difficult life, and for that we remember her.
Wait. This is not the story you think it is. Even princesses have secrets.
Kunti had always been an obedient girl, easily biddable, if perhaps too quiet. Kuntibhoja, who raised her, had doted on her when she first came to his house. She had been a small baby, with an oddly somber expression, slow both to cry and to laugh. But as the years passed and she grew into her pensiveness and his own children were born, he came, not to forget her, but to accept her as part of the surroundings of a king, like his jewels and palace, beautiful but accustomed.
And she was beautiful. Her hair, which she kept tightly pulled back into a single plait, was as soft and black as charcoal; it seemed as though to touch it would smudge your fingers. She moved with the careful grace of one who is always aware of her surroundings and thus has no need for missteps or falters, and when she lifted her hand to correct the drape of her pallu, the line of her wrist was like a blade of grass, and her bangles fell with a sound like ringing coins. It was said that she was the most beautiful woman on Earth. And this may have been true. But Kunti was rigorously correct; her head was always covered, her eyes always downcast. Her voice may have been like a nightingale's, but she rarely spoke, and when she did it was so soft and low that no one could say how clear or how lilting it was.
Thus it seemed natural that Kunti should be placed in charge of guests to Kuntibhoja’s palace. She would never forget any task that might increase a guest’s comfort; she placed their needs before her own; and she was not afraid of strangers. She adjusted herself to each one as though she had known them for years.
And this was her life, and this was the life of the kingdom. But things, inevitably, changed. One day a sage came to the door of the palace, a Brahman named Durvasa: Durvasa of the rigid vow, of the terrible curses, Durvasa born of Shiva’s anger. Anxious to placate his guest, Kuntibhoja welcomed the sage, gave him rooms large and sweet-smelling, granted his every request. Kunti was, as always, assigned to serve him, and she did her tasks as she always had. Durvasa was a difficult guest. He called her in the middle of the night; he made elaborate requests and, just as she had fulfilled them, changed his mind; he required her to always have his dinner prepared when he returned at night, but never told her what time he would arrive; he asked her to sing for him and, when she had finished, scolded her for distracting from his meditations. This continued for nearly a year, but never once did Kunti show displeasure or fail in her duty. If anything, she seemed eager to serve him, though she was solitary as always, and no one knew her true feelings.
Finally, Durvasa decided to leave. He called Kunti to his side and praised her for her attention, her patience, her steadiness. He offered to grant her a boon, anything she wanted. But Kunti refused, her eyes, as always, looking only at the floor.
Durvasa laughed, strange for the angry old man. His smile deepened the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, but nonetheless he seemed younger. “Perhaps you are too shy to tell me your secret desires. But I know women; I know what you want. You want sons that will be strong warriors, sons that will be famed for their bravery. I can give you this. Your sons will be the greatest heroes ever known.” And he taught her a secret mantra, a prayer that would call down any god, who would answer her request to sire a son.
“You must be careful,” Durvasa said. “One does not summon the gods lightly. You have proven your sense of decorum to me, but this is a powerful mantra, not to be used for pleasure.”
Kunti said nothing, but knelt to stroke his feet. She felt his hand on her head for a moment, a gentle touch. For once she raised her gaze, but the sage had disappeared.
By now Kunti was sixteen. She did not share her secret with anyone, though the possession of it granted her self-possession, and that air of mystery that increases beauty. But sixteen is a trying age. And Kunti, possessed of so many virtues, was curious.
She woke early one summer morning, and bathed in the pre-dawn darkness, when the air and water was still cool. As she finished, she glanced out of her window; the sun was just cresting the horizon, and the sky faded from purple overhead, a few stars still visible, to pink, to burning red. A few long, low clouds were the yellow of pure gold. The first light hit the Ashwa river, and the waters reflected it back like burnished metal. As the morning birds began to sing, Kunti felt the warmth of the sunlight on her skin, almost like the heat of a human hand, and the mantra came to her mind. Before she could consider the consequences, she had recited it, her eyes on the sun.
The sky darkened, as though the sun had passed behind a cloud. A few birds twittered in confusion. But even before the water still on her skin could cool, a wind blew through her room, tugging at her hair and the light robe she wore. It was a wind of the desert, dry and scorching, and carrying with it the scent of hot metal, rocks baking at noon, smoke. She closed her eyes and turned her face away, but even behind her eyelids she saw a flash of brilliant light. When she looked again, a man had appeared before her, searching her eyes as though he could see her soul.
“Here I am, O black-eyed woman!”
Kunti could not speak for a moment. He was tall and handsome, dark-skinned, as though he had spent his life outdoors, but dressed in fabulous robes the color of copper and bronze. His arms and neck were draped with gold and rubies, and he wore a crown of the same. His eyes were a warm brown, but as he smiled, yellow highlights appeared. “I am Surya, the sun. You called me, and I have come.”
Kunti realized she had been staring and quickly bowed her head. “O Lord, O slayer of foes, I recited the mantra only out of curiosity. I doubted that it could be true. Forgive my childishness, please, and return.”
“I know why you used the mantra. But cast off your fears, shy one; you have called me, may I not stay?”
Kunti dared to look again. He seemed to glow, to radiate heat, and she desired to come closer, to touch his skin and feel that warmth. “But I cannot. I am not married,” she said.
Surya laughed, and the sound was low and rich; Kunti felt it curl inside her. Sweat rose on her skin, and she swallowed against the need to lick her dry lips. “Am I not the sun? What will resist me? Embrace me, princess, and I promise you will still be a virgin to your husband.”
Kunti, who was proper, who never was at fault, reached out, and Surya’s skin was smooth and hot, but it did not burn her. He tasted of pepper and cinnamon and wheat, and she opened to him shamelessly as a flower.
After he left, when even the summer noon seemed cold, she was delivered of a son. The children of gods do not gestate like the children of men, and there was no sign that she had ever been pregnant, except for the infant itself. At birth he glowed as his father had, but it quickly faded, leaving a boy who appeared normal, except for the armor and earrings he had been born with. They were fitted to his small size, golden as the sun at sunset.
Kunti held him alone in her room, and the baby reached up to grab her hair, still loose and falling about her shoulders. He did not cry, as though he already knew hardship. She could not keep him. She had no husband, no protection, to reason for there to be a child. If she did, it was not just herself who would suffer, but the child as well.
Kunti did not feed him before she slipped out of the palace, did not even kiss him. It would only make it harder. On the bank of the Ashwa, the same river that had shone with promise a few hours earlier, she placed a basket in the water, the child tucked inside. He kicked his feet, and she could feel his strength already; perhaps he would be a warrior as Durvasa had promised. Perhaps he would even be a hero, great and famous. But he would not be her son.
Kunti released the basket, and the current took it, slow at first, but with steadily increasing speed. She watched for as long as she could, but it quickly vanished around a curve, the burble of the water and the renewed songs of the birds hiding any sound the infant may have made.
She watched still, though there was nothing to see. Perhaps the basket had overturned already, drowning her first-born. Perhaps a fish had eaten him, only to be found, miraculously whole, by a fisherman. Perhaps a washerwoman saw the basket and took the child, grateful for a son of her own. Perhaps.
Surya had promised to return her virginity. He had, physically, but Kunti had not forgotten. She would go to her husband with the knowledge of a mother, though she would never speak of this to him.
This is one way it happened. There are others. But in all of them Kunti gives up her son, and her choice shapes everything that comes after.
***
Author: Brigdh
Rating/Warnings: PG.
Summary: The story of Kunti.
Notes: Written for Yuletide 2011. This is a retelling of an episode early in the Mahabharata (an extremely important and famous Indian legend), when the mother of most of the main characters, Kunti, learns how to summon gods. I had originally intended to write this as more of a twist on the myth, instead of the fairly straightforward way it came out, but, well, I ran out of time. At least I didn't default! Posting this to LJ now because I realized I forgot to do it in January.
Once there was a princess who was virtuous and beautiful, as princesses should be. She was loyal to her husband and, after his death, devoted to her sons. She kept her faith through a long and difficult life, and for that we remember her.
Wait. This is not the story you think it is. Even princesses have secrets.
Kunti had always been an obedient girl, easily biddable, if perhaps too quiet. Kuntibhoja, who raised her, had doted on her when she first came to his house. She had been a small baby, with an oddly somber expression, slow both to cry and to laugh. But as the years passed and she grew into her pensiveness and his own children were born, he came, not to forget her, but to accept her as part of the surroundings of a king, like his jewels and palace, beautiful but accustomed.
And she was beautiful. Her hair, which she kept tightly pulled back into a single plait, was as soft and black as charcoal; it seemed as though to touch it would smudge your fingers. She moved with the careful grace of one who is always aware of her surroundings and thus has no need for missteps or falters, and when she lifted her hand to correct the drape of her pallu, the line of her wrist was like a blade of grass, and her bangles fell with a sound like ringing coins. It was said that she was the most beautiful woman on Earth. And this may have been true. But Kunti was rigorously correct; her head was always covered, her eyes always downcast. Her voice may have been like a nightingale's, but she rarely spoke, and when she did it was so soft and low that no one could say how clear or how lilting it was.
Thus it seemed natural that Kunti should be placed in charge of guests to Kuntibhoja’s palace. She would never forget any task that might increase a guest’s comfort; she placed their needs before her own; and she was not afraid of strangers. She adjusted herself to each one as though she had known them for years.
And this was her life, and this was the life of the kingdom. But things, inevitably, changed. One day a sage came to the door of the palace, a Brahman named Durvasa: Durvasa of the rigid vow, of the terrible curses, Durvasa born of Shiva’s anger. Anxious to placate his guest, Kuntibhoja welcomed the sage, gave him rooms large and sweet-smelling, granted his every request. Kunti was, as always, assigned to serve him, and she did her tasks as she always had. Durvasa was a difficult guest. He called her in the middle of the night; he made elaborate requests and, just as she had fulfilled them, changed his mind; he required her to always have his dinner prepared when he returned at night, but never told her what time he would arrive; he asked her to sing for him and, when she had finished, scolded her for distracting from his meditations. This continued for nearly a year, but never once did Kunti show displeasure or fail in her duty. If anything, she seemed eager to serve him, though she was solitary as always, and no one knew her true feelings.
Finally, Durvasa decided to leave. He called Kunti to his side and praised her for her attention, her patience, her steadiness. He offered to grant her a boon, anything she wanted. But Kunti refused, her eyes, as always, looking only at the floor.
Durvasa laughed, strange for the angry old man. His smile deepened the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, but nonetheless he seemed younger. “Perhaps you are too shy to tell me your secret desires. But I know women; I know what you want. You want sons that will be strong warriors, sons that will be famed for their bravery. I can give you this. Your sons will be the greatest heroes ever known.” And he taught her a secret mantra, a prayer that would call down any god, who would answer her request to sire a son.
“You must be careful,” Durvasa said. “One does not summon the gods lightly. You have proven your sense of decorum to me, but this is a powerful mantra, not to be used for pleasure.”
Kunti said nothing, but knelt to stroke his feet. She felt his hand on her head for a moment, a gentle touch. For once she raised her gaze, but the sage had disappeared.
By now Kunti was sixteen. She did not share her secret with anyone, though the possession of it granted her self-possession, and that air of mystery that increases beauty. But sixteen is a trying age. And Kunti, possessed of so many virtues, was curious.
She woke early one summer morning, and bathed in the pre-dawn darkness, when the air and water was still cool. As she finished, she glanced out of her window; the sun was just cresting the horizon, and the sky faded from purple overhead, a few stars still visible, to pink, to burning red. A few long, low clouds were the yellow of pure gold. The first light hit the Ashwa river, and the waters reflected it back like burnished metal. As the morning birds began to sing, Kunti felt the warmth of the sunlight on her skin, almost like the heat of a human hand, and the mantra came to her mind. Before she could consider the consequences, she had recited it, her eyes on the sun.
The sky darkened, as though the sun had passed behind a cloud. A few birds twittered in confusion. But even before the water still on her skin could cool, a wind blew through her room, tugging at her hair and the light robe she wore. It was a wind of the desert, dry and scorching, and carrying with it the scent of hot metal, rocks baking at noon, smoke. She closed her eyes and turned her face away, but even behind her eyelids she saw a flash of brilliant light. When she looked again, a man had appeared before her, searching her eyes as though he could see her soul.
“Here I am, O black-eyed woman!”
Kunti could not speak for a moment. He was tall and handsome, dark-skinned, as though he had spent his life outdoors, but dressed in fabulous robes the color of copper and bronze. His arms and neck were draped with gold and rubies, and he wore a crown of the same. His eyes were a warm brown, but as he smiled, yellow highlights appeared. “I am Surya, the sun. You called me, and I have come.”
Kunti realized she had been staring and quickly bowed her head. “O Lord, O slayer of foes, I recited the mantra only out of curiosity. I doubted that it could be true. Forgive my childishness, please, and return.”
“I know why you used the mantra. But cast off your fears, shy one; you have called me, may I not stay?”
Kunti dared to look again. He seemed to glow, to radiate heat, and she desired to come closer, to touch his skin and feel that warmth. “But I cannot. I am not married,” she said.
Surya laughed, and the sound was low and rich; Kunti felt it curl inside her. Sweat rose on her skin, and she swallowed against the need to lick her dry lips. “Am I not the sun? What will resist me? Embrace me, princess, and I promise you will still be a virgin to your husband.”
Kunti, who was proper, who never was at fault, reached out, and Surya’s skin was smooth and hot, but it did not burn her. He tasted of pepper and cinnamon and wheat, and she opened to him shamelessly as a flower.
After he left, when even the summer noon seemed cold, she was delivered of a son. The children of gods do not gestate like the children of men, and there was no sign that she had ever been pregnant, except for the infant itself. At birth he glowed as his father had, but it quickly faded, leaving a boy who appeared normal, except for the armor and earrings he had been born with. They were fitted to his small size, golden as the sun at sunset.
Kunti held him alone in her room, and the baby reached up to grab her hair, still loose and falling about her shoulders. He did not cry, as though he already knew hardship. She could not keep him. She had no husband, no protection, to reason for there to be a child. If she did, it was not just herself who would suffer, but the child as well.
Kunti did not feed him before she slipped out of the palace, did not even kiss him. It would only make it harder. On the bank of the Ashwa, the same river that had shone with promise a few hours earlier, she placed a basket in the water, the child tucked inside. He kicked his feet, and she could feel his strength already; perhaps he would be a warrior as Durvasa had promised. Perhaps he would even be a hero, great and famous. But he would not be her son.
Kunti released the basket, and the current took it, slow at first, but with steadily increasing speed. She watched for as long as she could, but it quickly vanished around a curve, the burble of the water and the renewed songs of the birds hiding any sound the infant may have made.
She watched still, though there was nothing to see. Perhaps the basket had overturned already, drowning her first-born. Perhaps a fish had eaten him, only to be found, miraculously whole, by a fisherman. Perhaps a washerwoman saw the basket and took the child, grateful for a son of her own. Perhaps.
Surya had promised to return her virginity. He had, physically, but Kunti had not forgotten. She would go to her husband with the knowledge of a mother, though she would never speak of this to him.
This is one way it happened. There are others. But in all of them Kunti gives up her son, and her choice shapes everything that comes after.
