Kuntibhoja assumed that he would never be able to experience fatherhood. Upon hearing this, the king Yadava Sur decided to give away his beloved daughter, Pritha, to his cousin Kuntibhoja. Childless Kuntibhoja became overwhelmed with happiness upon receiving a daughter. He named her Kunti after himself.

One day, the radiant sage Durvasa arrived at Sur’s home. Damsel Kunti served the sage with devotion and care, pouring her heart into every act of hospitality. Impressed by her service, Durvasa taught her a miraculous mantra. With this mantra, Kunti could summon any god, who would then grant her an exceptionally brave and noble son.

Curiosity in the teenage mind often flows like an untamed mountain stream, irresistible and overwhelming. Kunti, unable to contain her surging curiosity, chanted the mantra and invoked the Sun God, Surya.

Standing before the doe-eyed Kunti, the radiant Surya asked,

”What do you desire, O beautiful one?”

Kunti retold Sage Durvasa’s words and explained her situation. Surya then implanted a heroic son in Kunti’s womb. However, Kunti was still a maiden. Surya reassured her, promising that she would remain a virgin even after giving birth.

Despite this assurance, Kunti was frightened. Fearing the stigma of losing her chastity, she placed her newborn son in a basket and set him afloat in the river. Kunti herself drifted in an ocean of despair.

‍

2.

Ding-dong! The doorbell rang incessantly.

”Who could it be at this sweltering hour of a summer afternoon?” Pritha thought irritably as she unlatched the door. Before she could react, Mandra leaped onto her with a squeal of delight. It had been so long—thirteen years! Twice, at 23 and 13. Now both were 36. After completing her master’s degree at 23, Mandra had left for Helsinki to pursue her Ph.D., while Pritha had settled into domestic life. She married Pranshu and, at 28, gave birth to Arjun.

Mandra had mentioned she would visit, but Pritha had lost track of the dates.

Arjun, who was napping in his grandmother’s room, woke up to the unfamiliar commotion and laughter. Rubbing his sleepy eyes, he came with small steps and stood close to his mother’s side.

Mandra pinched his nose playfully and said,

“My goodness, how big our Swarnakumar (gold prince) has grown!”

Arjuna frowned and retorted, “I’m not Swarnakumar! My name is Arjuna, and I study in Class Three.”

“Oh, is that so? I thought you were in Class One! What was I thinking? Some kind of gatekeeper you are! Sorry, sorry, I was wrong.” Mandra handed over a box of chocolates brought from Helsinki to Arjuna. Then, leaning down, she offered her cheek and said, “Would you give me a kiss, dear Arjuna?”

Arjun broke into a wide, sunny smile and gently kissed her cheek.

“You go back to Grandmother’s room now, sweetheart,” Pritha said, sending Arjun back. The two friends retired to Pritha’s bedroom for a more private conversation.

Mandra began, “He shouldn’t even be here, you know.”

Pritha, puzzled, asked, “Why not?”

“Well, Arjun wasn’t supposed to be born in the first place. If he hadn’t been born, how would he study?”

“True,” Pritha laughed.

“Still, he’s a delightful little fellow, isn’t he? He is so cute and intelligent!” Mandra’s eyes wandered around the room, taking in the various artworks on the walls. On the eastern side wall hung a large, smiling photo of Arjun, while a framed reproduction of Leonardo’s The Last Supper adorned the northeast corner. Gazing at the painting, Mandra quipped, “Unlucky thirteen years since we met. From hell to heaven, what do you say?”

“Unlucky thirteen?” Pritha followed Mandra’s gaze to The Last Supper. “Ah, yes. On that fateful night when Jesus had his last meal, there were thirteen people present. And there—you see? The one in the thirteenth seat is the conspirator plotting to betray him.”

Mandra smirked. “You were a speaker of revolution, but in reality, you’re just a sheep.”

“Why, because I have hung The Last Supper on the wall? It’s just a Leonardo painting.”

“No objections to Leonardo. You know where the objection lies,” Mandra said, walking over to a picture of Arjun when he was two years old.

“I’d gladly be a sheep a thousand times over if it meant having Arjun.”

“But we weren’t even supposed to get married! Do you remember the final debate we had?” Mandra began pacing. “Back in university, we’d spend every morning and evening dissecting the theories of great philosophers, fancying ourselves as profound thinkers. We’d scrutinize revolutionary theological concepts, tearing them apart like seasoned critics.”

“Let’s not go there. Time erases everything,” Pritha tried to steer the conversation away.

“Why shouldn’t we go there?” Mandra demanded, as if seeking justice. “You were the first among us to break taboos. You proudly declared yourself as someone who stood outside the prejudices. Remember our heated debate in the library over Nietzsche’s theories on marriage? And the next day, you brought Marina Adshade’s Big Think article. We delved deep into it, dismantling one tradition after another, discovering uncharted territories like modern-day Vasco da Gamas and Columbuses.”

“I understand now. Back then, there was still so much I didn’t understand,” Pritha mused, lost in thought.

“There’s always more to understand. Comprehension is an ongoing process until the day we die,” Mandra persisted, as if determined to resolve something. “Do you remember how we began subjecting everything to the acid test of reason? Almost nothing withstood the scrutiny. Even the things that survived remained under suspicion. We were astounded—what kind of world were we living in? Hey, are you listening to me?”

“Yes, I am,” Pritha said, snapping out of her reverie. She smiled, meeting Mandra’s gaze. “We live in a world full of naked, countless lies and fantastical tales. Is that what you wanted to hear? Now shut up. What do you want to eat? I don’t think you had lunch.”

“No, I didn’t. Just make me some salad and coffee,” Mandra replied.

As Pritha went to the kitchen, Mandra stood silently, gazing intently at Arjun’s photograph.

Returning with two plates of salad, Pritha handed one to Mandra and sat down on the L-shaped sofa. 

Between bites of salad, Mandra said, “You must remember, Pritha. In our final year at university, our debate topic was: Marriage is a toxic institution. You argued for it. I argued against. And yet, you got married?”

“A debate is just a debate, Mandra. One says whatever it takes to win.”

“But you made a compelling, logical case: that marriage is psychological oppression, a prison of the mind, a chain that drags us into hell. And now, here you are, a resident of that very hell!”

“How else would I appreciate the taste of heaven?” Pritha laughed.

“But we had resolved to revolt, remember? Perhaps we couldn’t muster the courage for grand revolutions, but we vowed to make small ones, starting with the refusal to marry. Have you forgotten that, too?”

“No, I haven’t forgotten.”

“And yet, who knows better than you what marriage truly is?”

“It’s a seven-year itch. We’re scratching it now,” Pritha quipped.

“Stop joking!” Mandra scolded.

“Marriage is biological and social slavery. Better?” Pritha smirked.

Mandra paced back and forth while talking, “I remember everything vividly; you were the captain of the affirmative team, and I was the opposition’s. I presented strong arguments in favor of marriage. But you tore apart every argument of mine with the sharp blade of your logic. You argued that marriage was necessary—no doubt, it was. But when was it needed? At a stage in primitive human life when survival was at stake. Let’s say, a thorn gets stuck in your foot. You need another thorn to remove it. But once it’s removed, both thorns are discarded. Similarly, humanity invented the ’thorn’ of marriage to address a survival crisis. Eventually, the crisis subsided. Today, humanity is no longer on the brink of extinction. Instead, it has become the cause of crises for other living beings. So, do we still need the thorn of marriage? Yet, the thorn remains, constantly pricking humanity. Isn’t it pricking you?”

“It is. I’m quite deranged because of it now,” Pritha replied with a faint smile.

“And yet, we had decided not to let the thorn prick us. After all, we never let it pierce us in the first place,” Mandra spoke rapidly, like a high-speed train. “You once argued, citing research, that early humans didn’t need marriage for millions of years—specifically, from five million to nearly two million years ago. But then, humans noticed that in adverse conditions, children left solely with their mothers were dying. If fathers stayed with mothers for four or five years, the survival rate of these children increased. That’s how cohabitation began among early humans. But once the child turned four or five, the so-called parents would often part ways and return to their earlier ways. This was because humans, by nature, are polygamous. Polygamy was essential for survival.”

Pritha laughed and said, “Stop it. I remember everything.”

“Listen again. Hear your own words. When you said, ‘Had humans not been polygamous, none of us would have been here today to debate on this dais,’ I was stunned. I thought, what a scandalous statement! But you backed it up with references. You said it wasn’t just speculation but was based on events from 74,000 years ago. Indonesia’s Toba supervolcano erupted violently for nearly two weeks, causing catastrophic changes to Earth’s climate. Many species faced extinction, and humans, too, were on the verge of being wiped out. At one point, the global human population dwindled to just three to ten thousand! During this crisis, if humans hadn’t had polygamous traits in their genes, we would’ve ended up like dinosaurs—mere fossils. Genes don’t understand morality; they only understand the desperate need to survive through reproduction. That’s why humans are inherently driven by sexuality. It’s embedded as the greatest stimulant, the ultimate entertainment. This drive has fueled a whole industry of sexual commerce and morality.”

Pritha chuckled, “You remember everything, don’t you? I’ve not forgotten your arguments either.”

“My arguments? What did I say?” Mandra tried to recall.

Pritha turned on the coffee maker. “Do you take sugar? Or have you given it up?”

“I don’t have diabetes. But still, no sugar. It’s supposed to be ‘white slow poison.’”

“Alright! Prangshu can’t tolerate sugar either. 

I’m not that health-conscious. Pleasure is what matters.”

“True. Life itself is like slow poison. We’re all heading toward death, gradually succumbing to toxins. Everything is poisonous. There’s no elixir. Fine, give me a little sugar too.”

“You spoke about the bonds of family during that debate.” Pouring coffee into mugs, Pritha continued, “You presented statistics on how children from broken families often end up helpless, unfortunate, and easily go astray. Then you gave examples of how a loving marriage can bring heaven to Earth. You shared about your parents’ extraordinary relationship and how your grandparents remained each other’s shadow in old age. The playful anecdotes you narrated had everyone laughing. You received thunderous applause. And then you asked, ‘Surely, we’re not so foolish. So why do we act as if everything is over at the slightest misunderstanding or a minor conflict? Breaking is easy. Smash it, throw it away, and destroy every bond. But building something piece by piece takes immense effort. Preserving it requires effort, too. We don’t want to make that effort. We don’t want to sacrifice. And that’s why we fail to nurture relationships.’”

“Yes, I did say that,” Mandra admitted. “But I said it because I had to speak for the motion. Why nurture a relationship if it’s like a poison tree?”

Pritha laughed. “You also said, ‘Nowadays, many of us are no longer financially dependent on our partners. That’s why some think, why sacrifice? But even a little sacrifice or adjustment can help us build a paradise in our marital life, just as many of our parents managed to do. Such a paradise is more beautiful than any imagined heaven. We grew up in those heavenly families.’ You know, Mandra, your words left me in awe, even though I used my razor-sharp logic to counter them without hesitation. As the opposition leader, I had to argue against marriage.”

Mandra laughed. “Back then, weren’t you deeply in love with Prangshu?”

“Deeply in love? I was outright crazy. If any girl even glanced at Prangshu, I’d feel like killing her. If he smiled and spoke to a female classmate, I’d burn with jealousy.” Taking a sip of coffee, Pritha paused and said, “But after hearing your arguments, I went home and started reading extensively about ancient humans. I delved into internet searches and became obsessed. I borrowed countless books from the university library on the subject. After six months, I became a completely different person.”

“Was that when you realized it wasn’t Prangshu but me you loved?” Mandra sipped her coffee.

Startled, Pritha looked at Mandra, her expression bewildered yet smiling. “Maybe. I don’t know. But after that, I started feeling angry when I saw Prangshu. While sitting in the park, I’d find his affectionate gestures unbearable. If he tried to kiss me, I’d object, though earlier I’d have welcomed it with shivers of delight. Gradually, I felt trapped. After all, we had secretly registered our marriage a year earlier! I couldn’t just leave him.”

“Whenever I saw you with Prangshu, I felt intense anger and jealousy. But what could I do?” Mandra sighed.

Pritha quietly sipped her coffee. Mandra took out her phone, opened YouTube, and played a Rabindra Sangeet at a soft volume:

How many times I thought, forgetting myself,

To lay my heart bare at your feet,

To confess to you, my friend, in secret,

How much I love you.

Mandra held Pritha’s hand, and it was as though an electric current coursed through her—Pritha shivered.

I thought you were a deity from the heavens,

How could I dare speak of my love to you?

I vowed to worship you silently from afar,

Forever cherishing you alone in my heart—None shall know of my deep devotion,

Nor see my tears that silently flow.

Mandra stopped the song.

As she placed her coffee mug in the sink, Pritha asked, “Is that why you went to Finland to pursue a PhD? To stay away?”

“Yes. What a fool I was, wasn’t I?”

“A fool? Absolutely! Later, I realized independence is the ultimate truth. We must break free from all forms of bondage.” She waved her hands in a playful dance, reciting, “We are restless, we are strange. We break barriers, we are intoxicated by the red hues of Ashoka blossoms, we shatter the shackles of storms—we are lightning.”

Mandra was captivated. “You still recite so beautifully! But if you’re so unafraid of breaking barriers and bonds, why are you still with Pranshu?”

“Just because I could leave, why should I?”

“To be freed from being obliged.”

“We are free. Both of us are. Neither of us interferes with the other’s independence or personal matters.”

“But a psychological bond remains, doesn’t it?”

“No, not even that.”

“Then let’s test it.”

“How?”

Mandra stood and approached a photo of young Arjun hanging on the wall. “I want to be a single mother. I’ve always wanted to experience motherhood. I really like Arjun. Will you let me have Pranshu for a few days so I can conceive naturally?”

“Take Pranshu’s semen if you like. Why would I have any objections? It’s entirely up to him,” Pritha said with a smile.

“I don’t want a lab-made zygote using his sperm and my eggs. I want it to happen naturally, no matter how long it takes,” Mandra declared, as if dropping a bomb. But the bomb didn’t seem to explode in Pritha’s mind. She laughed.

“He’ll be home from work soon. Ask him yourself and see if he agrees!”

“You have no objection, do you?”

At that moment, Arjun entered the room, clinging to Pritha and saying, “I’m hungry, Mommy.”

Pritha hugged him tightly, swaying as she turned to Mandra and said with a laugh, “Not at all. You do not know me yet.”

“I’m really hungry, Mommy,” Arjun insisted.

“I know, darling. Let’s go eat,” Pritha replied with a smile.

‍

3.

As the spring afternoon waned, the rooftop, shaded by trees, became a quiet little island. The three of them spread a mat on this secluded retreat, accompanied by Russian vodka that Mandra had brought from Finland. After just one peg each, their imaginations began to take flight.

Pranshu played a song on his phone:

Ah, on this spring day, so many flowers bloom,

So many flutes play, so many birds sing…

“Turn off the music, Pranshu,” Pritha said.

Obediently, Pranshu stopped the music. As Mandra poured a second peg, she said,

“Let’s play a game today—a candid game. A game of unmasking the truth. All of us have secrets in our lives, hidden emotions, little bombs we keep buried. Today, let’s detonate them.”

Pranshu objected, “No. Secrets are meant to stay secret; otherwise, we couldn’t face society.”

“We’re not shouting it into a microphone or writing autobiographies,” Mandra replied, passing around the drinks. “But let’s see how free we truly are, how liberated our minds claim to be—if we even have the courage to explore that.”

Pritha declared, “I don’t have that kind of courage. I’m a coward.”

Pranshu frowned, gazing at her thoughtfully before taking a long sip.

“I’ll play,” he said.

Mandra laughed. “You just want to know Pritha’s secrets, don’t you, Pranshu?”

“No, I want to know everyone’s so-called sins.”

Pritha interjected, “I take issue with calling secrets sins. No one sets out to sin. Mistakes, yes—errors of judgment, perhaps—but sin? No.”

“What about murder? Is that just a mistake, too?” Pranshu asked, savoring another sip.

“Yes, a catastrophic mistake. The entire concept of sin, virtue, heaven, and hell—it’s all primitive fantasy.”

Mandra agreed. “Right. Sin doesn’t exist. Whatever we do, we do because it feels right at the time. Regret comes later when our conscience pricks us, making us realize we’ve made a mistake.”

Pranshu poured himself another drink, took a long gulp, and said,

“Fine. Then let me amend my words—we’ll share the events in our lives that have haunted our conscience. That’s the game, isn’t it, Mandra?”

“Yes, Pranshu. Let’s begin by taking an oath. Just extend your hands forward silently; no need to say anything. I’ll recite the oath: We swear that in this vast universe, we are unbound by any attachments, obligations, or biases, whether affectionate or hostile. We hold no fear, seek no rewards, nor dread any reprimands. Today, we spread our wings of thought freely, like unrestrained birds soaring to any corner of the sky. There are no constraints, no dominance, no psychological pressures. Today, we are free. We will speak of our so-called sins, of the moments when our conscience stung us. Let’s begin.“

Pranshu objected, “I won’t go first. I’ll go last. Pritha should start.”

Pritha said, “It was Mandra’s idea, so Mandra should begin.”

Mandra laughed. “Alright. Back when I was in tenth grade, I secretly watched a lot of adult content on the computer. It became an obsession, and one day, in an attempt to quench my curiosity...”

“Stop,” Pritha interrupted. “Everyone has their own struggles with sexuality. Let’s skip that and move to something else.”

“No, we won’t skip it,” Pranshu insisted.

Pritha sighed, annoyed. “Fine, then you go first.”

Prangshu said, ”I was ten years old then. My maternal uncle’s house was in a remote village. One evening, during Kartik (late autumn), I was standing with my cousin Shubhra, watching a man climb a date tree to tap the sap. Underneath the tree, two dogs, a male and a female, were engrossed in mating. Shubhra kept laughing quietly. I had already understood what they were doing. I started feeling uneasy. After a while, I saw that the dogs were locked together. Shubhra threw a stone at them. They yelped and struggled but couldn’t get away. We found it even more amusing and threw more stones. The tree climber came down and told us, ’Don’t throw stones, let them have their fun.’ Saying this, he climbed up another tree. At that moment, a terrible thought crossed my mind. Another sickle and a bunch of ropes were lying on the ground. I ran over, grabbed the sickle, and went to the dogs. I cut their lock—meaning, I castrated the male dog. The female dog ran away, but the male dog, shrieking in pain, started writhing on the ground. I saw the sorrow in his eyes, almost as if he was cursing me. The tree climber came down and, seeing the blood on the sickle and the dog’s distress, was horrified. He said, ’What have you done? What have you done?’ I stood there, silent and terrified. He snatched the sickle from my hand and said, ’You’ve committed a grave sin. A grave sin.’ He shook his head and left. The next day, I left my uncle’s house. About a week later, Shubhra called to tell me that the two dogs had died. I felt terrible. Now, it’s your turn, Pritha.”

Pritha laughed, ”Alright, let me tell you a fresh story then. Listen, Mandra wants to become a single mother. She wants your semen. Would you prefer to have sex with her directly, or would you donate your semen?”

Prangshu laughed, ”What are you saying?”

Mandra said, ”Yes, Prangshu-da. I really like Arjun. I want to become a mother, and I’m asking for you directly. Through natural means.”

Prangshu became embarrassed, ”Oh no, no. Is that how it works? I can only donate semen, following all the rules. Pritha, tell us your story.”

Pritha laughed, ”Okay, let me tell you something. Once I dreamt that I was very close to a man I really liked. My whole body shivered with intense pleasure. Suddenly, I woke up and found Prangshu struggling with me. I became upset.”

Prangshu’s face turned dark.

Mandra laughed loudly and said, ”But I’ve had many sexual fantasies thinking about Prangshu.”

Prangshu’s face turned red.

Suddenly, Pritha’s phone rang. It was her mother-in-law, saying that Arjun had a stomachache and was crying for his mother.

Pritha jumped up, ”I need to go.”

The conversation’s atmosphere shifted.

Mandra said, ”We’ll go too.”

Prangshu said, ”I’ll stay here on the roof for a little while. I’ve got a few lines of poetry in my mind. You go ahead.”

As they were heading downstairs, Mandra asked, ”Does Prangshu write poetry?”

Pritha simply said, ”Hmm.”

Mandra asked, ”Do you mind what I said?”

Pritha replied, ”Oh no. Are you crazy? Why would I mind? But I knew Prangshu wouldn’t agree to sex directly.”

Mandra asked, ”Why? Are you scared?”

Pritha laughed, ”Not at all. I’ll tell you later.”

‍

4.

After Dhritarashtra, the blind son, was born, Ambika became fertile again. Upon seeing the sage Vyasa’s form, Ambika’s co-wife Ambalika was so terrified that she became as pale as the color of the Pandu. So, Ambika decided not to go herself but to send a maid who was as beautiful as an apsara. Vyasa was enchanted by the maid’s beauty. He was pleased with her service and care. By his grace, the maid became pregnant and gave birth to Dharma’s son, who was named Vidura.

But why did Dharma’s son have to be born of a maid, as a Shudra?

The ascetic Mandavya was always silent. Once, while the guards were apprehending thieves, they mistakenly caught Mandavya as well and brought him to the king’s court. Mandavya, in his meditative state, remained absorbed in his austerities. The king, assuming him to be a criminal, ordered him to be impaled along with the thieves. However, Mandavya was no criminal, but a sage, and thus, although he was impaled, he remained alive. Everyone was amazed. When the king realized Mandavya’s identity, he was deeply ashamed. Mandavya was taken down from the stake, but the broken point of the stake remained lodged in his body, and he became known as Anī Mandavya, meaning ‘Mandavya with the broken stake.’

What great crime had Anī Mandavya committed to deserve such a punishment?

When Mandavya met Dharma, he asked him this question, and Dharma explained,

”In your childhood, you once stuck a blade of grass into the tail of an insect. For that sin, the broken point of the stake has remained embedded in your body.”

Mandavya became enraged upon hearing this. He said,

”You have punished me for a trivial offense with a great punishment. For this, I curse you. You will be born as a Shudra, from the womb of a maid. And I am also declaring this rule today: if anyone commits an act before the age of twelve, it will not be considered a sin.”

‍

5.

Mandra seemed to enter a new life after becoming a mother—a life filled with new emotions. Such an extraordinary sense of life cannot be comprehended unless one experiences motherhood directly. The birth of Abhaya happened in Helsinki. Mandra has come again to Pritha’s house, with little Abhaya, who is just one year old. It’s been nearly two years since the two women met. Mandra has come with an urgent message. While it could have been conveyed over the phone, Mandra feels it’s better to give the message in person.

Pritha has arranged an entire room for Abhaya. Arjun, now ten years old, doesn’t want to leave that room. He is sitting with the little Abhaya on his lap, unwilling to let go.

Pritha says, ”But you are his elder brother. As his elder brother, don’t cause him pain, okay?”

Mandra smiles and says, ”You used to run to shower affection on any child you saw. You’re still the same.”

”All children of the world are my own,” Pritha replies. ”When I see street children, my heart aches. Why are they suffering? Why am I going to my comfortable home and leaving them behind? What kind of a mother am I?” She wipes her eyes. Then, turning to the coffee maker, she says, ”What were you trying to say? You know, I’m still like a child myself, I can’t suppress my curiosity.”

”Not like a child—you are still a child. Listen, don’t be shocked, but I want to conceive through Pranshu again. This time, I want to do it directly. I want to test Pranshu.”

Pritha laughs. ”How many men have you tested until now?”

”Countless. I never bothered to count. The handsome men of the world are like a garden of flowers. Anyone who walks beside them in that garden feels good, especially in Helsinki.”

”Do I not appeal to you anymore?” Pritha asks, handing a mug of coffee to Mandra.

”I used to feel that way, but now not as much. My mind has changed,” Mandra replies, sipping her coffee.

”Yes, that’s true! The mind always changes. When a person dies, they turn to ashes or decay. But while alive, they change.”

”I can tell you about one of my boyfriends, Mrinal. A devastatingly handsome man. Try testing him.” Pritha seems to ponder for a moment. ”Although I might feel a little jealous. But Mrinal is a charmer, and he has many companions. I once asked him, ’How many intimate girlfriends do you have?’ What he said made me laugh uncontrollably. The funny thing is, do you know what he said? One night, while we were floating on the blue beach under the blue light and a soft song played—‘The laughter of the moon breaks the dam’—he trembled with joy and, in tune with the music, said, ’In a garden of flowers, whoever I walk beside feels good.’ Then he added, ’I’ve polished my iron rod so much among hundreds of girlfriends that if the iron rod were real iron, it would have worn away by now and turned to the size of a needle.’ I couldn’t stop laughing at Mrinal’s words.”

Mandra bursts into laughter, ”Indeed, how deeply ingrained is humanity’s essence in our genes, keeping our existence alive? How can we go against nature? Could you tell me?”

”We won’t go against nature, fine. But we should not betray trust either. Humans are the only creatures born as animals, but through the country, society, environment, and education, they gradually become human. Though despite having all the opportunities, many can never truly become human. Preserving trust is the key condition of becoming human.”

”Certainly. But aren’t you betraying Pranshu’s trust? Marriage means the slavery of trust and the mental anguish of being accountable to another.”

”No. There’s no betrayal of trust with Pranshu. We divorced long ago. We got divorced but live together. We are both free. Because marriage means being stuck in an unhappy relationship, it means dependence on a partner, it means diminishing attraction over time, and it means the destruction of one’s personality. Both of us feel this way, and that’s why we live together as free individuals. There are no attachments, only loyal friends. Pranshu is a very good man.”

”Then why doesn’t Pranshu agree to have direct intercourse with me?” Mandra finishes her coffee.

Pritha’s jaw tightens, ”I can’t tell you that. But let me warn you—don’t ever do this with Pranshu. You’ll fall into danger.”

‍

6.

In the dense forest, the sage Kimindam and his wife, desiring a child, took the form of deer and mated. A sense of sensual pleasure seemed to radiate from their bodies. The youngest son of Pandu, a man of extraordinary virility, went on a hunting trip. He encountered two deer in the act of mating and shot an arrow at them. The sage Kimindam, who was engaged in his union, was struck by the arrow and fell.

He looked up in astonishment at Pandu and said, ”What have you done? No wise man kills mating deer.”

The sage Kimindam gasped and uttered his final words, ”I curse you. At the time of union with your wife, you too will meet your death.”

Pandu, terrified, wept. What a terrible curse! He lamented, contemplating renouncing everything and abandoning his family. Upon returning from hunting, when he shared everything with his wives, they told him, ”We will practice self-restraint.” However, the sages predicted that Pandu would have divine sons. But how could this be possible?

One day, Pandu, in seclusion, spoke to Kunti, ”In times of distress, a woman can conceive a child through a man of superior qualities. You know, although I am the son of the great sage Krishna Dwaipayana, I was born of extraordinary virility. So, try to conceive with the gods.”

Following Pandu’s wish, Kunti used the mantra bestowed by Durvasa to invoke the gods one by one and conceive the five Pandavas. However, Pandu’s second wife, Madri, noticed that only Kunti was becoming a mother. What would happen to her?

One day, when Pandu was alone, Madri said, ”Please ask Kunti to help me conceive through a god.”

At Pandu’s request, Kunti taught Madri the mantra. Tempted by greed, Madri invoked two gods at once and gave birth to the twins, Nakul and Sahadev. Afterward, Madri wanted more children. She again expressed her desire to Pandu, who informed Kunti of her wishes. This time, Kunti refused.

”Don’t ask me again, my lord. Madri has deceived me. Instead of invoking one god, she called two at once. She is a liar.”

However, Madri, desperate for more children, continued her quest. One evening, alone, Madri took on the form of a seductress, and, in her enchanting beauty, Pandu’s self-control broke. Thus, the inevitable tragedy occurred. During their union, Pandu died. When Kunti arrived, she found Madri trembling, naked, beside Pandu’s lifeless body. Grief-stricken, Madri, overwhelmed by the guilt of having caused her husband’s death, committed herself to the funeral pyre, choosing to die with Pandu.

‍

*

The house was swarming with police and journalists. They gathered like ants do! Where do they find the smell of overturned cockroaches? Pritha was trying her best to stay strong. She held Arjun and Abhoy close to her on either side.

The journalists kept firing off odd questions: ”Do you have any idea how Pranshu and Mandra died together?” 

”No.” 

”They were found dead while having intercourse. What do you think the cause was?” 

”Pranshu was impotent.” 

”Important?” 

”Impotent, not important.” 

”So, then? What was the cause?” 

”How do I know how to explain?” 

”The police found the shell of a strong sexual enhancement drug. Do you think it was a heart attack?” 

”That will be clarified by the post-mortem report.” 

”Then why did your friend Mandria die?” 

”Ask the police about that. Please, leave me alone for a moment.”

Pritha did not say another word. Suddenly, it struck her—after seeing Mandra’s demeanor, she had sent an urgent message to Mandra’s WhatsApp last evening. If the police found it, there would be trouble. Pritha opened WhatsApp on her phone. Just as she had thought, the message had not been read by Mandra—it was marked as unseen. Why hadn’t Mandra read the message? If she had, she wouldn’t have had to die. The message had to be unsent.

Before deleting it, Pritha read the message once more: ”My Manda, you’re so good that it’s impossible not to love you. I warned you about Pranshu. He’s terribly weak in bed. You could call him impotent. Around five years ago, out of insecurity, he took strong sexual enhancement pills after some advice and came to meet me. He was already intoxicated with a few drinks. Under the influence of the drug, he turned monstrous within an hour. I was in unbearable pain. No matter how much I begged him to stop, he kept hurting me. At one point, he strangled me and said that he would kill me like Sudipa and torture my corpse the whole night. (The Sudipa incident was that Sudipa’s lover killed her and tortured her dead body all night. It had created a stir at that time. That was when I learned that it’s a kind of mental illness, officially called necrophilia.) Suddenly, Pranshu’s phone rang. I told him it was his boss’s call. He went to pick it up, and I ran and hid in the bathroom. I stayed there all night. The next day, he was completely normal. You can ask why I stayed with him even after that. After that incident, I didn’t stay with him for even a month. He begged for forgiveness, holding my feet and sitting for half an hour, saying he would never do that again. He had been ut of his mind because of the drugs. He’s a good guy, really—a good friend, and a helpful one. That’s why I forgave him. Also, Arjun isn’t Pranshu’s son; he’s Mrinal’s. Even your Abhoy is Mrinal’s child. Because Pranshu is not only impotent, his semen is very weak, too. I arranged for you to get Mrinal’s semen, since you liked Arjun. So be careful of Pranshu. He has necrophilia!”

Pritha deleted the message. After deleting it, she realized that she had mistakenly only deleted it, not unsent it. The message was still in Mandra’s WhatsApp. The police would certainly seize it.

Let whatever happens, happen. Pritha no longer finds these torments bearable. Embracing Arjuna-Abbyaya, she hid her tear-streaked face.

‍

‍

Tapas Kumar Dutta is a writer, editor, and filmmaker from Bangladesh, Faridpur. He has published several short story collection and novels in Bengali, and made the surrealist film Anuprobesh (Intrusion). His works explore philosophy, mythology, and social taboos. Currently, Dutta works as the Assistant Literary Editor at The Daily Ittefaq.

‍