Shashi Tharoor - The Great Indian Novel

‘But sons I must have,’ said Pandu one day, after a close reading of the holy books. In addition to Gangaji he had been spending some time with his grandmother Satyavati and with, need I say it, me, and we all had, as well you know by now, Ganapathi, fairly flexible ideas on the subject. Flexible, but sanctified by scripture, as Pandu explained to his doe-eyed wife Kunti:

‘I have learned to live without sex, as Gangaji has done for so much longer, but I cannot, like him, hope for salvation in the next life without a son. His is a life of exceptional merit and purity and good works; he need never spill his seed, yet a thousand sons will step forward to light his funeral pyre. I am not so fortunate, Kunti. No ritual, no sacrifice, no offering, no vow will help me attain the moksha that is denied the sonless man.’

He gazed at his wife with sorrowful eyes — no, Ganapathi, make that with eyes full of sorrow — and spoke in the firm voice of a preceptor, detached from the subject of his discourse. ‘I have talked to our elders and read the scriptures, and they tell me there are twelve kinds of sons a man can have. Six of these may become his heirs: the son born to him in the normal course from his lawfully wedded wife; the son conceived by his wife from the seed of a good man acting without ignoble motive; the son similarly conceived, but from a man paid for this service; the posthumous son; the son born of a virgin mother; and finally, the son of an unchaste woman.’

Kunti listened speechlessly, with widening eyes. Her learned husband went remorselessly on. ‘The six who cannot become his heirs are: the son given by another; the adopted son; the son chosen at random from among orphans; the son born from a wife already pregnant at marriage; the son of a brother; and the son of a wife from a low caste. Since I need an heir it is clear that I cannot adopt a son; you must give me one.’

Kunti looked at him with what the poet — and don’t ask me which poet, Ganapathi, just write the poet — called a wild surmise. She was beginning to get his drift, and she was not sure she liked the way his wind was blowing.

‘I cannot, as you know, give myself a son through you. I do not know how to go about obtaining the services of a surrogate father. But I leave it to you, Kunti. Find a man who is either my equal or my superior, and get yourself pregnant by him.’

Kunti raised a hand to her mouth in horror. ‘Don’t ask me to do this,’ she pleaded. ‘Ever since we met I have remained completely faithful to you. You know people have already gossiped about me before we were married. Don’t give them an excuse to start again, my darling. Besides, I know we can have children together. Couldn’t we, whatever that doctor might say? If we’re really careful?’

‘No, we can’t,’ Pandu replied, ‘and you know I simply can’t afford to take the chance. Look, Kunti, it’s very good of you to want to stay faithful to me and I appreciate it, really I do. But you’ve got to realize that for a good Hindu it is far more important to have a son, indeed to have a few sons, than to put a chastity belt on his wife.’

Kunti, still shocked — for you know the conservatism of our Indian women, Ganapathi, they are for ever clinging to the traditions of the last century and ignoring those of the last millennium — waited for the inevitable exegesis from the shastras. It was not long in coming. Pandu readjusted his lotus position, tucking his feet more comfortably under his haunches, and went on in high-sounding tones. ‘You know, if you read our scriptures you will realize that there was a time when Indian women were free to make love with whomever they wished, without being considered immoral. There were even rules about it: the sages decreed that a married woman must sleep with her husband during her fertile period, but was free to take her pleasure elsewhere the rest of the time. In Kerala, the men of the Nair community only learn that their wives are free to receive them by seeing if another man’s slippers aren’t outside her door. Our present concept of morality isn’t really Hindu at all; it is a legacy both of the Muslim invasion and of the superimposition of Victorian prudery on a people already puritanized by purdah. One man married to one woman, both remaining faithful to each other, is a relatively new idea, which does not enjoy the traditional sanction of custom. (Which is why I myself have had no qualms about taking two wives.) So I really don’t mind you sleeping with another man to give me a son. It may seem funny to you, but the deeper I steep myself in our traditions, the more liberal I become.’

He could see she was not yet convinced. ‘Look, I’ll tell you something that might even shock you, but which, in fact, is in full accordance with our divine scriptures and ancient, traditions. It’s a closely guarded family secret that even I learned only when I became a man. Vichitravirya, my mother’s husband, isn’t really my father. Nor Dhritarashtra’s, for that matter. Our mothers slept with their husband’s half-brother, Ved Vyas, when their husband died, to ensure he would be graced with heirs.’ Pandu saw that this story, at last, had sunk in. ‘So you see? You’d just be following a family tradition. You’ve always done as I asked you to — so go and find yourself a good Brahmin and give me a son.’

Kunti’s resistance melted at last. ‘The truth is,’ she began, ‘I don’t really know how to tell you this, but I already have a son.’

‘What?’ It was Pandu’s turn to register offended astonishment. ‘You? Have a son? By whom? When? And how could you talk so glibly of having been faithful to me?’

‘Please don’t be angry, my dear husband,’ Kunti implored. ‘I only mentioned it because you brought up the subject this way. And I have been faithful to you. My son was born before we even met, before your family asked for my hand for you.’

Comprehension dawned on a paling Pandu. ‘Hyperion Helios,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘The travelling magnate. So the scandal-mongers were right after all.’

Kunti hung her beautiful head in acknowledgement.

‘And where is your son today?’

‘I don’t know,’ Kunti admitted miserably. ‘I was so ashamed when he was born — though I shouldn’t have been, for he was a lovely little boy, his golden skin glowing like the sun — that I put him in a small reed basket and floated him down the river.’

‘Down the river?’

‘Down the river.’

‘Then there isn’t much point in talking about him, is there?’ Pandu asked a little cruelly.

‘Someone must have found him,’ Kunti said defiantly. ‘I’m sure he is still alive. And I know I’ll recognize him the moment I see him again. His colour — it’s so extraordinary I’m sure no one else in these parts would have anything like it. And then there’s his birthmark — a bright little half-moon right in the centre of his forehead. There’s no way he could have got rid of that.’ She turned to Pandu. ‘If you want a son, I know we can find him,’ she pleaded. ‘Let us have inquiries made in the area.’

A wind blew, Ganapathi, at those words, stirring up leaves, dust, shadows, clothing; eyelashes flickered in disturbed hope; an age sighed. ‘I’m sorry,’ Pandu replied. ‘It’s no use. A son born to you before we were even married, even if he were found, how can he be an heir of mine? No, you will simply have to find someone else, Kunti.’ A hard edge entered his voice. ‘And it shouldn’t be all that difficult for you. After all, you do have the experience.’

Kunti seemed about to say something; then her face assumed a set expression. ‘As you wish, my husband,’ she said. ‘You shall have your son.’

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