As a legatee of Indian reform, I am grateful to the laws of the land and to the enlightened Indian fathers who let their girls out of the box over the last 100 years, to study, work, travel, and marry—or not marry—as they chose. However, it is still a heavily patriarchal society with sky-high expectations of a wife. In Tulsidas’ Ramcharitmanas from the 16th century, Aranya Kand, Verse Four, Rishi Atri’s wife Anasuya gives this advice to Sita: “Devotion of body, speech and mind to the feet of her lord, the husband, is the only duty, sacred vow and penance for a woman.”
This job description was detailed in South India in the 13th century in a popular verse by Telugu poet Bhadra Bhupala or ‘Baddena’:
“Karyeshu dasi, karaneshu mantri, bhojeshu mata, shayaneshu Rambha, roopeshu Lakshmi, kshamayeshu Dharitri, shath dharmayukta kuladharmapatni.”
It means, “Like a servant doing the chores, like a minister giving her husband intelligent advice, serving him food as a mother feeds her child, like the apsara Rambha in bed, as beautiful as Lakshmi, and as forbearing as Mother Earth: the woman who has these six qualities is the ideal wife.”
However, a well-known Sanskrit scholar in Kumbakonam could not tell me of any corresponding scriptural virtues and qualities required of a husband, when I asked him back in 2008. To his credit, he admitted it with unsparing honesty after spending a sleepless night trying to find an instance.
So, I was intrigued some years later to discover a forgotten story in the Markandeya Purana, said to date back to around 250 CE. The purana is a collection of stories-in-a-story comprising 9,000 verses. It is best-known for the section called ‘Devi Mahatmyaham’, recited every year at Durga Puja. But in this story that I would like to retell, Rishi Markandeya acquaints his disciple Kraustuki with the complex give-and-take between husbands and wives.
There was once a king called Uttama who was happily married to a beautiful queen named Vahula. Though shy by nature, she was a practical person. She knew she had a public role to play and took part with composure in all her queenly duties, be it in court or at the sacrificial fires. She ran the women’s quarters with utmost sense, discouraged petty behavior, and gave her household a good tone. The maids adored her and the public respected her.
But a star-crossed phase befell Vahula. She felt neglected by her husband and no longer found him interesting or attractive. She began to withdraw subtly from him and soon, more openly. The three pains according to Samkhya philosophy are Adhyatmika, born of the mind and body; Adhidaivika or supernatural; and Adhibhoutika, because of an incident or calamity. All three were to fall on the royal couple’s heads.
The tension between Uttama and Vahula grew and grew without a single conversation about it. One evening at a public dinner with rich merchants and foreign diplomats present, Uttama had a bit too much wine. He thrust his goblet at Vahula, who pointedly turned away. Uttama lost his temper and ordered the guards to take Vahula to the forest and abandon her there. Vahula swept off silently with a proud smile.
Soon after this catastrophe, a poor priest appeared in court to demand the king’s help. Someone had stolen his wife from their hut in the middle of the night.
“Describe her, we’ll send out search parties,” said Uttama.
“She’s not very pretty and she has a foul temper,” disclosed the priest.
“What?” exclaimed Uttama. “It would be easier to find you a new wife, you know.”
“King,” said the priest reproachfully, “My wife is my wife. It is my duty to protect her from the rest of the world, from my own family, and even from myself.”
“But where can we look without more information?” countered Uttama.
“Lord of the Earth, you take a sixth of our produce as your due. Your subjects are supposed to sleep peacefully because you uphold the law,” said the priest unyieldingly.
Abashed, Uttama assembled a hunting party and soon found the priest’s wife unharmed in the forest, placidly eating plums. It was the neighbourhood rakshasa who had kidnapped her just to disturb the priest’s pujas, which required his wife’s presence. The priest and his wife then cheerfully went their way while the rebuked rakshasa, already berated soundly by the hot-tempered lady, promised to behave itself in future.
This incident left Uttama deeply ashamed of the way he had treated Vahula, making no attempt to understand her but treating her like a well-oiled machine at his beck and call. Further, he discovered through a rishi with a supernatural sight that Vahula had been kidnapped by the serpent king Karpotaka and was hidden away in a cave by the serpent princess Nanda. Uttama made his way with great difficulty to the serpent kingdom and challenged Karpotaka to single combat. It was a close, fierce fight but the determined king had the best of it. When he found his wife, led by the serpent princess, he gathered Vahula lovingly to him with concerned, affectionate words, and manfully asked her to forgive him. At this, the queen found herself unable to hold a grudge and spoke to him with renewed love.
Nanda could not speak because she had been cursed by her angry father for hiding Vahula, and the queen wanted to perform a Saraswati Puja to beg the Goddess of Knowledge to restore Nanda’s speech.
“We can do that better at home, let’s take Nanda back with us,” urged Uttama, and all was made well for the principled and upright serpent princess. In due course, she was even able to go back home to her now-repentant father.
As for Uttama and Vahula, they lived in great harmony after these harrowing events brought them back together, and the king never took his queen for granted again…
“Know therefore, Kraustuki,” said Rishi Markandeya, “A husband has many duties, but chiefly, moral gallantry.”
Renuka Narayanan