Sins and Virtues

I have been confined to this court room for almost a decade now. Earlier I used to travel a lot along with my master but with the onslaught of internet and technology, he too has started to work from home. That does not mean that I miss going out much; there is always a lot going on in here.

My current home is actually a huge room with intricate patterns engraved on the walls and bright decorative lamps placed at strategic corners. Now do not imagine this room as any one of the led-powered, 200 square feet of cramped spaces, which are popular with the mortals these days. This court room is larger than the largest area that you have ever seen. At one end is a podium on which a wonderfully regal throne made of pure gold and fitted with the softest cushion is placed. Two more chairs made of silver are stationed two steps below this dais and between the chairs is a small fountain called Agrasandhani, gurgling up crystal clear water.

The defendant sits at the left, the jury at the right and my master, Yama on the raised throne at the middle with me parked on the hand-rest. By the way, I am Danda, but you have probably guessed that by now. However, if you have never heard of me before then think of me as the stick from the proverbial carrot and stick. In this court of divine justice Chitra Gupta is the beautiful lady who acts as the jury while the defendant is usually a freshly dead human being.

The multitude of dead mortals is seated in rows behind a glass screen in the same room, awaiting judgment. They silent observe each defendant making their way towards heaven or hell, right after each trial.

A loud gong is sounded to signify the beginning of today’s first trial. Yama immediately picked me up and slammed me down with a huge smile. Sometimes he does it just like that, out of habit. But no, it does not hurt one bit, but it surprises me in a very unpleasant way.

A handsome, young man, dressed in a pinstripe suit came out of the sliding glass door and sat himself down on the defendant’s chair.

Chitra ran her fingers through her long, silky hair as she observed this man and then she knowingly winked at Yama.

 “Dear dead human, tell us your name, age and cause of death,” started Chitra.

The young man looked dazed.

“Aren’t you supposed to know everything about me?” he asked.

“Yes, but we still need an official introduction,” explained Yama. “We’ll add it to your list of sins, in case you lie.”

“Ok sir and ma’am,” said the young man. “Name: Shankar, Age: 25, Cause of death: Accident of office bus.”

“Shankar…eh? Isn’t that another name of Maheshwar?” Yama commented.

This made the defendant grin from ear to ear.

“Yes sir, I knew you’d be pleased to see someone named after your dear friend,” he happily said.

And without any warning, Yama slammed me down with a scary thud. He made an angry frown while Chitra got up from her seat and sauntered up to Shankar.

“You think sharing a name with Maheshwar will help you?”

“We just tried a dead human named Shiv,” roared Yama with another slam. “He even claimed to be your friend.”

“Why aren’t any of you named after the mighty Yama?” Chitra wondered aloud.

“Want to know what happened to Shiv?” smirked Yama. “We sent him to hell!”

“Yess!” exclaimed Shankar and threw up his fist in air. “I’ve often told Shiv to go to hell…am so glad that it finally happened.”

Yama cleared his voice and rolled his eyes.

“Chitra, please load this dead human’s data,” he commanded. Then he stood up and threw me in the direction of Chitra and Shankar. As I spun through the air towards them, I saw Shankar duck and Chitra jump up to catch me deftly. 

She walked up to the fountain Agrasandhani and dipped me three times from different angles. Two spurts of water leapt out and landed as two water drops on Chitra’s hands who promptly began to analyse them. A court attendant fished me out, dried me and ferried me back to Yama.

“Sir, this dead human has 3 terabytes of data in his sins’ folder,” reported Chitra. “And his virtues’ folder is just 3 megabytes in size.”

She climbed up the stairs to pass the drops to Yama’s outstretched palms and said, “I think it’s safe to send him to hell without wasting any more time.”

“Hey, what technology is that?” Shankar whispered as Chitra got back to him. “How do you store data in water drops?”

“You’d have found out, had you been eligible for heaven,” Chitra stuck out a tongue.

“Goodness gracious me,” Yama said as he lightly blew into the drop of sin and swelled it into a bubble.

And we all saw in fast forward motion what a great sinner this dead human called Shankar was.

“Look at this,” Yama slowed things down.

In the bubble we saw a thin young guy from the back, laughing his heart out and paying wads of notes to bribe an officer.

“You stole the engineering seat from a worthy candidate?” Yama paused and glanced at Shankar.

“That’s not me! Turn the guy around,” he protested.

And sure enough when Yama played it again we all saw that the guy was none other than a younger version of that Shiv fellow.

“Chitra, quickly report this to the maintenance team,” instructed Yama. “Information leakage is not to be taken lightly.”

Chitra scurried to her desk to make some notes and Yama resumed the bubble show.

“You’ve also gotten a girl pregnant,” said Yama, as he chewed his lip with a grave expression.

“I certainly did not!” Shankar stood up and his face was all red.

Yama pointed to the bubble and we all saw Shankar pricking the finest of holes into a small, square packet of blackish grey colour.

“Two years back a friend asked for your help at a moment of carnal urgency,” said Yama. “And you gave him tampered material as a prank. His girlfriend got pregnant as a result and they had to marry. Now they are a squabbling couple with a toddler. You turned a perfectly loving couple against each other. That’s abominable!”

Shankar sat down with a whimper as Chitra spoke up, “Shall we send him to hell then, sir?”

“No wait,” Yama said and blew again.

This time we saw Shankar’s parents scolding his little sister Sara while he was tiptoeing out of the room with a smug look on his face.

“So you manipulated your parents into not giving a smartphone to your sister?” Yama asked.

At this Shankar looked down and flicked away a few tear-drops.

“Hey, dead human, don’t cry,” Chitra placed her hand on his shoulder to comfort him.

“I bought an i-phone last week,” he sobbed. “And now Sara will be the one who’ll get to use it.”

Then he began to howl like a child.

Yama stood up and began to clap his hands loudly.

“After a long time I’m seeing a truly protective brother. Not only has he saved Sara from stupidity earlier; he’s now crying about not being able to help her further. All these years you got stupid yourself and let her flourish…exemplary! Huge virtue dead human, huge virtue!”

Chitra too raised her brows and nodded appreciatively at Shankar who stopped crying and felt totally puzzled.

“Let’s go for a Duckworth-Lewis system, sir,” proposed Chitra.

“Yes, a straight calculation will take too long,” explained Yama to Shankar. “Instead we’ll review your sins and virtues for the last seven days and announce the verdict.”

Yama threw me at Chitra again and she dipped me into the fountain to extract the water drops containing Shankar’s weekly reports. Once done she passed them to Yama as before.

 “You’re a very colourful man,” commented Yama as he blew into one drop. “I see that you were splitting your hours between two girlfriends.”

And sure enough we saw glimpses Shankar going on separate dates with two beautiful women.

 “For your information, both are in love with you,” Chitra shook her head disapprovingly.

Shankar’s eyes lit up in joy but he said nothing.

The bubble-show kept rolling.

“You have also hacked into your boss’s personal laptop and saved his search history,” Yama was now sitting with an open mouth.

“He gave me an impossible rating last year,” explained Shankar. “I needed something before the appraisal season to set my record straight.”

Chitra looked at the search details and giggled.

“Not all Sins are bad sir,” she said as she showed a muscled man’s clip to Yama. “Can’t we get this J Sins guy up here?”

“Yes certainly,” Yama smiled. “Get that girl too. And fire the apsaras and the gandharvas. Give them 3 months’ severance pay if they create too much noise.”

Chitra made another quick trip to her desk and made two new entries in the projected death table. By the time she was back we were watching a clip of Shankar pouring whiskey into an empty bottle with Cola label on it. And then he got into his car with it. Yama paused and turned toward Shankar.

“Well?” he prompted.

“I had planned to; but did not drink and drive,” Shankar clarified.

Yama resumed the video and we all went in shock to see the rest. Shankar stopped at a petrol pump to refuel his car. He got out with the Cola bottle and in one fateful moment, when he put it down on the ground to take his credit card out, it got exchanged with the Cola bottle of the mechanic.

Shankar left soon but the mechanic went on to finish his whiskey. And right after that he began to fix the braking system of a luxury bus. It turned out to be the same bus that eventually killed Shankar and his colleagues on the next day.

As all eyes zoomed towards Shankar he turned absolutely pale.

“I killed myself,” he managed to mumble with much effort.

“Let’s see for ourselves,” said Yama.

And in the next few slides we saw the luxury bus crash loudly into another huge bus. Within seconds the buses were reduced into a mangled carcass of iron and steel. Every single passenger had died.

“The second bus was carrying 42 corrupt politicians,” informed Yama. “And that’s why I found this clip in the virtues’ drop.”

Shankar rubbed his eyes in disbelief.

“It’s time to feed the data into the calculator,” said Chitra as she placed the two water drops on top of me and threw them into a small fire burning behind Yama’s throne.

For one whole minute we transfixed our eyes on the fire pot as the red and blue flames of sins and virtues danced and competed. And in the end no one won, they simply doused each other out.

“Wow!” Chitra was stunned.

“It’s almost a miracle,” Yama declared. “The verdict is that your sins and virtues are perfectly balanced; and hence you will go back to earth.”

Shankar was too numb to speak but he folded his hands in gratitude. Chitra began to guide him towards a secret exit.

“When you go back, remember to pick one girl and break up with the other one,” reminded Yama. 

“And in future name your son after me.”

Shankar nodded obediently and kept waking.  “I hope I get a daughter,” he told himself.

“I heard that,” said Yama.

Shankar swivelled around fearfully but Yama smiled.

“I don’t mind,” he said. “Just ask your fellow Indians to think more like you.”

That was the last that I saw of Shankar. He was undoubtedly the most remarkable defendant we had in here in a long time. I wish to not see him for at least another 100 years.

Not Destined to Happen

Sunaina stared hard at the red of the signal, wiling hard for it to dissolve into green but the Potter-style jinxing refused to do any good. She inhaled deeply to suppress the thin thread of panic that was trying to shimmy up her guts. The movie audition, she had prepared so hard for, was going to be over in the next 30 minutes. Maybe she should get out and run to the venue, Sunaina thought. She looked out, plotting to weave her way through the rows of stranded vehicles. She spotted a few people outside, on their way to work, braving the fury of the humid Kolkata summer. Continuous dribble of perspiration covered their skin and their sweat-soaked clothes stuck to their bodies.

Sunaina reflexively fished out the hand mirror from her bag and unhinged it in front of her head. And just like the good old mirror of Snow White, it did not fail to please her by reflecting back a perfectly made-up face, framed by defined strands of wavy hair. Venturing out will completely ruin the look she needed to land the titular role in “Rajnandini”. She sighed as she slid the mirror back into her bag.

In the painful minutes that followed, Sunaina attempted to keep calm by rattling away the rehearsed lines in her mind. The cab, however, did not move an inch. Finally when there were only thirteen minutes left for the audition to end, she pulled out two crisps bills from her purse, handed them over to the cabby and got out. Then she began to sprint wildly in the direction of the studio.

When she reached, her hair was frizzed out and her face was a smudged color palette but the audition, thankfully, had not concluded. Sunaina gave a confident performance in front of the panel; although her voice came out a little squeaky after all the running.

Thirteen days later Sunaina found out that someone else had been selected to play the protagonist in “Rajnandini”.

She kept mourning for thirteen months; and tried in vain, to find justification for the debacle.

Today while glancing through morning news, a single line caught her eye.

“Fatal accident in the sets of Rajnandini kills the leading lady.”

Sunaina reclined and heaved out a deep breath; she was just not destined to die so soon.

The Unfortunate Mother

Sharmila glanced at her exquisite collection of saris and hastily picked out a peach silk one. Then she spent fifteen minutes of careful attention to choose her lingerie. The correct selection assisted her to shave off inches of excess fat and perked up her sagging curves. Pleased with the visibly younger self reflecting back from the mirror, Sharmila started to pleat the sari around herself. And that’s when she heard a huge furor from the adjacent bedroom.

She hurried into the next room with the half draped sari trailing behind her. There she found her daughter Priyami hunched down and rampaging through everything while cursing out aloud. 

“Priya! What’s wrong with you?”

“The fucking packet of cigs,” Priyami pushed her voluminous curls back and looked up at her mother from behind the black rimmed big glasses.

“Are you high again?” Sharmila held Priyami by her bony shoulders and pulled her up.

“I’m always high mum.” A strong alcoholic breath made Sharmila flinch as Priyami placed her hands on her slim waist and looked at her mother defiantly.

“Where have you been all night?” she asked.

“I was with Jonty.”

“Aren’t you dating Rishi?”

“Yes, him too. Him too…him too! Hahahah…” Priyami started laughing incoherently.

“What’s so funny?”

“Hashtag him too is a cyberspace movement…against women like you!”

Sharmila raised her hand in a slap but stopped herself way before landing it on Priyami’s face.

“I can’t believe my own daughter has turned out to be such a slut.”

“I earn my salary as a journalist mum…I sleep around for fun. So technically, am not a slut.” 

Priyami sat down on an armchair and yawned casually.

“I think I’ll sleep a bit…”

With this sudden declaration she curled herself up and promptly fell into a peaceful sleep.

Sharmila walked up to the windows and closed the curtains to darken the morning and placed a pillow to prop up her daughter’s hanging head. She tucked in Priyami’s curls behind her ears, finished draping the sari, took her set of keys for the apartment and left.

For almost an hour Sharmila drove aimlessly in loops before braking her car at a by-lane close to her home. This was a place where the gloss of city affluence was peeling off, offering a peek into its true struggling condition. A huge gurgling canal was washing out the inky sludge of the humans, dousing the area in a perpetual methane stench. The abundance of trees and birds along its bank made it look like a cursed river doing its time, in the hope of being restored some day in the future by some magical touch.

Sharmila found a huge boulder on the other side of the lane, flattened conveniently at the top, probably due to erosion by hundreds of gossiping butts over untracked time. It is here that she sat down and placed one leg comfortably over the other. She watched the canal’s silent submission to fate as she smoked a cigarette. It gave her some solace.

She took out one more cigarette after a while and attempted to set it alight. But her lighter refused to work. She looked around in dismay, hoping for a little glimmer of fire somewhere. The small shop at the corner was closed and there was no other person to borrow a match stick from. At this moment a rag picker, who had been camouflaged against the brown and grey of the backdrop, stood up and hobbled towards her, holding out her lit-up bidi. Sharmila uncomfortably lit her cigarette and fished out ten bucks from her purse instead of voicing a thank-you.

The rag picker happily accepted it and sat down on the ground, right next to Sharmila’s feet. Her tattered sari was pulled high up, exposing her legs. Thick dirt had accumulated in the cracks of her feet and her matted hair looked like a perfect party zone for lice.

“Cigarettes remind us that we’ll go up in smoke one day…that’s why smoking makes us happy,” the rag picker made a comment.

Although startled, Sharmila chose to remain silent.

“Can you go sit elsewhere? I’d prefer to sit in silence for a while,” she added after a few seconds.

“Why? Is it because I’m ugly?” the rag picker asked.

 “Do you always sit exposing your legs…don’t you feel…mmm…” Sharmila quickly attempted to change the subject.

“Embarrassed?” The rag picker offered to end the sentence with a generous smile. Many of her teeth were missing and the remaining ones were blackened.

“Aren’t you scared of sexual assault?” Sharmila said.

“My legs aren’t creamy and enticing as yours. The scumbags would get turned off by the view.”

Sharmila took another look. They were mottled with a melee of wounds and scars, some still raw. She crinkled her nose and turned her face away.

 “I know all about you,” started the rag picker again. “You live in the C block…flat number 34. Strong locks installed in the doors. Only way to break in is by compromising the temporary security guard who comes during the summers.”

“You are planning to break in to my home?” Sharmila was surprised and vexed.

“Wouldn’t I have done it already if I had wanted to? I keep myself busy by plotting crimes I never commit. No money for entertainment you see.”

“Don’t you have any family?”

The rag picker laughed out aloud for 10 long seconds.

“You should know that I wasn’t repulsive always. I too had a pretty face in my youth. My parents had named me Phool kumari.”

There was no discernible trace of beauty left in her face and Sharmila found the name “Phool kumari” to be quite preposterous.

“When I was sixteen I had run away with Abdul, the son of the local ferry man, after he got me pregnant. Even though our families had shunned us, we were happy together. But one day his boat capsized in a storm, drowning him, and with him, my happiness. His family took away our boy who was a little over two back then. Then they threw me out of the village. When I went running to my parents, they called me a bringer of doom and sent me away.

That’s when I moved to the city. After trying a thousand odd jobs I settled to being a rag picker.”

She shrugged nonchalantly and took a long drag of smoke.

“Never saw your child again?”

The rag picker turned towards her, startled.

“I meet him every month,” she clarified. “He turned out to be a handsome man like his father. He’s a big shot in his village. Verrry rich…verrry powerful!” She looked immensely proud.

“Does he not treat you well?” Sharmila asked.

The rag picker thought of the first time that she had ventured to see her son after decades. The village where she used to live with Abdul was now a small town. Crowds were thronging the broad, paved street, hailing their mighty leader. The rag picker peered though the cheering men to catch sight of a tall and broad man, attired in green kurta and white pants, marching by confidently. He was waving at all, sporting a trace of smile at the corners of his lip, lapping up the cheers contently. It was her son, Hanif Abdul.

After he vanished into his palatial residence, his men came and distributed free lunch packets to all. The rag picker had saved her packet; she meant to have lunch that day seated by her son, in the rightful place of a mother.

She never disclosed her identity to the security people and kept pleading with them for an appointment. But the brawny men first tried to ignore her and then they tried to shoo her away with threats.

That’s when she lost her cool and told them who she was. About a handful of men had heard the audacious statement and they immediately took her in to see Hanif Abdul. 

The men bowed down and saluted their leader first. Then one of them pointed at the hapless woman who had sat down on the floor.

“She claims to be your mother, janab,” he said.

Hanif Abdul hinged his legs a bit, rested his hands on the knees and bent forward to observe the woman with squinted eyes for a minute. And then he stood up to his full height to let out a billowing laughter. His men immediately joined in and echoed the laugh.

“You all may leave now,” Hanif ordered his men. “I’ll give her some money and send her away.”

As soon as the men scuffled out Hanif brought a chair and sat down facing the rag picker.

Seated at his feet, the woman looked at him with open wonder.

“I’ll give you a sumptuous dinner,” he said. “Eat and leave.”

He pointed towards the door with his raised right hand.

“I came to eat with you,” she started. Her eyes were moist.

“Don’t waste my time,” he began to walk away.

“Son, won’t you have a single morsel from my hands?” she had begged with folded hands.

“No, you’re dirty!” He smirked casually and showed her the door again.

For seven days the rag picker had waited outside the palace, hoping for Hanif Abdul to change his mind. On the eighth day, she was taken inside again.

Abdul was seated on an ornamental chair with two men stationed at each side.

“Since you called me your son, I’ll help you to set up a business,” started Hanif Abdul. He casually threw some small packets full of a white powder towards her.

“Sell these to the rich dads and their rich kids. And then we can share the profit.”

Then as Hanif Abdul spent the next 20 minutes focused on his smartphone, his men shared with the rag picker, their expertise on selling drugs.

She listened carefully and nodded along. Her son was asking something from her after years, she had to do it well.

“Now go back to the city,” Hanif Abdul smiled condescendingly when his men were done. The men walked out noisily, expecting her to follow them.

“Do you not believe that I am your mother?” she asked him one last time as she prepared to leave.

Hanif Abdul gazed into her eyes with a strange ferocity.

“I don’t want to,” he muttered.

The rag picker left for the city that very evening. She gradually settled into her role. It fetched her some money. More importantly it gave her a sense of purpose in life.

And now Sharmila's sudden question made all her memories alive.

“Did your son not accept you?” Sharmila asked again.

“Never told him who I was,” the rag picker quickly lied without turning her head. “I thought it doesn’t befit his status to have me as a mother.”

“What does your son do for a living?” Sharmila prodded.

“He is a business man,” gloated the rag picker. “He deals with a very rare powder, it’s an expensive medicine.”

“So, your son is a drug dealer,” Sharmila saw through the ruse immediately. “How unfortunate for you!”

“Stop calling my son names,” the rag picker hissed and stood up. “He doesn’t take drugs himself. My son is a very kind man who helps the poor.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” apologized Sharmila.

“You, in particular, have no right to pity me,” she angrily chewed out the words.

Sharmila wondered what she meant while the rag picker continued to grumble under her breath and began to limp away down the street. As soon as her hunched figure disappeared at a turn, Sharmila got up too.

She walked up to her car leisurely, with a thousand thoughts clouding her mind. She unlocked her car and turned on English country music. There are so many ways in which children hurt their parents, thought Sharmila as she drove back home. Perhaps her Priya was not that much of an aberration.

She parked her car in the basement and took the elevator to her apartment. As she unlocked the door, she was greeted by the assorted aroma of Indian spices. The kitchen was clean, the table had been set and warm lunch was waiting. The maid had come, transformed the house and left, much like a genie.

Sharmila threw the keys casually into the drawers and sat down on her sofa. The sound of running water from the behind the closed door of the bathroom told her that Priyami was up. She came out soon with her hair wrapped in a towel turban and her body covered in a matching bath robe. Priyami seemed happy to see her mother this time.

“I’m sorry mum,” she sat down and hugged her mother tightly. Sharmila hugged her back.

“Why do you let alcohol control you? Can’t you see it takes away your sweetness and turns you into a monster?”

“Please mum…don’t get started again,” Priyami sat back, her forehead lightly creased.

“Let’s eat now…I’m famished.”

As mother and daughter shared space over the familiar tinkling of the cutleries the tension in their bond melted away slowly.

“Tastes heavenly,” commented Priyami as she savoured the first mouthful.

Sharmila smiled in contentment. After chewing the first few morsels she spoke up.

“I confess that I took away your cigarettes last night,” Sharmila said with a wink. “Sorry dear…but you have to promise me that you will limit yourself to one cigarette per day!”

“Oh no…mum,” Priyami was annoyed. “Why do you do these things?”

“I smoked one or two,” her mother said with a grin.

“What? You took two?” Priyami stood up and clutched her hair.

“No, I was kidding,” Sharmila was taken aback. “Your packet is untouched.”

She got up and walked to the sofa. There she grabbed her purse with her left hand and tossed the packet back to Priyami who promptly took a head count of her stock and sighed a smile of relief.

“Thank goodness,” she smiled. “I’m sorry if you felt bad. But don’t take them ever again. These are special cigarettes.”

“In what way?”

“They have an exotic flavor,” Priyami tried to explain. “I buy them at half price from a rag picker who smuggles them from the ports.”

Sharmila felt herself losing balance. She sat down awkwardly with a grimace as the full weight of the rag picker’s comment finally sunk in.

Changing Needs

The king is very worried today. He has four queens and no child. A fifth marriage will confirm what his subjects suspect and what he already knows. Yes, the king is impotent. He has not been like this always; but somehow he ended up losing his…well…his “virility”.

The royal attendant Suya enters the king’s chamber with a glass of green juice.

“Good morning, Your Highness,” she bows gently holding out the tray. The prime minister enters at the same moment and the king gulps down the juice at one go.

“A glorious morning; but alas, it is tainted with suspense,” says the diminutive man as he presents a golden envelope to the king.

The king scrutinizes the wax seal; the fine scratches tell him about the opening and resealing of the message within. Nevertheless he breaks it open and straightens out the enclosed piece of parchment. The prime minister quickly turns around, offering His Majesty a moment of ostensible privacy.

The king, however, is engrossed in the one liner content of the letter. He is being summoned to a secluded part of the dense woods adjoining his kingdom.

“I have some business to attend and will leave now,” says the king to the waiting minister.  “Meanwhile you should work on your tampering skills. Go home and practice a bit. ”

He throws the envelope at the minister, who manages to catch it with extremely agility and then remembers to contort his face in shock.

“Suya, the potion tasted really good today,” the king tells the royal attendant. “I feel invigorated. Convey my regards to the Kabiraj.”

Suya gives a measured smile and resumes her work.

The king walks out along the stately path that stretches amidst colourful gardens to mount his white horse. He acknowledges the stable boys with a kind nod and gallops away towards the woods. The fresh air and the stale memories combine in his mind to form a delightful interplay. He knows who has sent for him. After all, the letter is written in a code language that he has used with only one person in the past.

On reaching the agreed spot the king finds an open chest and a sumptuous breakfast spread waiting for him. He caresses the bevy of silken clothes in the trunk and spots a diamond ring concealed among the layers. He stands up and looks around. There is no one.

“Shakuntala!!! I’m here to see you,” the king begins to shout. “Shakuntala…where’re you?”

There is a slight rustle amidst the thick foliage and she glides out of a bush.

20 years later, Shakuntala’s beauty mesmerizes the king again.

“Dushyant, I called you here to return your gifts; take back the chest,” Shakuntala starts.

“Dear…let’s not be so sour today. Why don’t we sit down and eat first?”

“Breakfast is set for three. Did you see that?”

“Three?” The king scratches his head.

“Our son Bharat will join us too. I named him after Bharat of Ramayana. He too is deprived in life due to his mother’s folly. Today I’ll return all that you have given me, including Bharat.”

“Don’t do this dear…you know I love you. But our child was born out of wedlock. My subjects will shun me if I admit the truth.”

“So, who’s getting the kingdom after you pass away?” Shakuntala smirks as she picks out a succulent wild berry and sinks her teeth into it.

Suddenly the king feels something waking up in his loins. He looks down to get a surprise. His manhood is ready to break the long fast.  

The king nervously walks up to Shakunkala and enfolds her from behind.

“Dear, I have always loved you.”

Shakuntala slips out of his grip lithely and laughs.

“Please don’t deny me today,” the king urges.

“I want my son as the next king; and the huge country you rule, to be named after him!” Shakuntala holds out her palm asking for the word of the king.

“Ok…so be it,” the king clasps her hand, pulls her closer and tries to kiss her.

“Bharat! Show yourself,” Shakuntala raises her voice.

A tall boy with a sculpted body comes out. He is fully armed.

“So he has listened to everything,” thinks Dushyant as he loosens his grip on Shakuntala. His manhood takes the cue and wilts away immediately.

Bharat steps ahead, bends down and touches the feet of his father.

The king smiles...in relief.

“You have inherited our best,” he tells Bharat.

“Shakuntala, I can officially adopt him as my son,” offers the king. “I’ll pass him off as the orphaned child of a learned Brahmin couple.”

A pleased Shakuntala bows her head.

“Thank you, that’d suffice,” she replies.

And without furthering the conversation the trio sits down to eat together for the first and last time.

When it is time to leave, the king takes Bharat by hand and looks longingly at Shakuntala.

“Can’t you come?” he asks.

“To be your whore?” Shakuntala laughs out scornfully. “Your impotency is cured. I’ve lifted the curse.”

The king stares at Shakuntala in disbelief but she only waves once at her son and then disappears into the forest.

Back in her cosy hut Shakuntala finds Suya waiting. She throws her slender arms around Suya’s neck and snuggles up.

“Anasuya, do you know where Priyambada is?” she asks.

“She went to collect more of the impotency herb,” Suya hugs her back.

“We don’t need more of it. Continue with the revitalizing concoction you gave Dushyant today…as long as he treats Bharat well.”

Suya nods with a smile.

Shakuntala looks deep into Suya’s eyes and begins to untie her upper garment.

“We can’t start without Priyambada…she’ll be so angry,” Suya protests meekly.

“Angry and wild…just the way I like it,” explains Shakuntala and plants a kiss on Suya’s lips.

Suya gets up once to set the door ajar and then lets her aroused body sink into the warmth of Shakuntala’s bare arms.