CULTURE
The Dog that Stole the Sandals
A mythical reason why dogs don’t get a room
Pativratā. That’s the word that triggered me.
The 13-year-old me was sitting starry-eyed in the 9th-grade Sanskrit class. Sanskrit, the Latin of the Hindus, was closely associated with Hinduism and Vedic literature. So, our classes also involved stories from Hindu mythology.
The word in question was used to describe Draupadi, married to the Pandavas, the heroes in the epic Mahabharata. Pativrata is the one who’s loyal to her husband.
“Sir, how could she be a pativratā when she had five husbands?”
My teacher, Mani sir, paused for a few minutes in embarrassment. Holding a class of 13- to 14-year-olds in his spell, he was aware of how we were all discovering sexuality. But he had nothing to worry about, for I was way behind on that discovery. I didn’t have sex in mind, just the sheer technicality.
If pativratā involved monoandry and devotion to one’s husband, how could it be an adjective for Draupadi, who was shared among five brothers?
I wasn’t thinking about how pativratā was sprinkled across the myths, whereas the opposite was rarely mentioned. Even the god of Draupadi’s era, Krishna, had multiple wives. But nobody called him a PatniVrat, or loyal to his wife.
On the other hand, Rama, another god who held the rare virtue of monogamy, first lost his wife to a demon, then waged a war to get her back, and finally abandoned her because people spread rumors about her defilement by the demon. That says enough about the loyalty to the wife!
For the technical question, he gave me an equally technical answer.
“When she is with one husband, she doesn’t think about another. Hence, she is a pativratā.” I rolled my eyes at the load of bullshit and let it go.
When Pandu, the king of Hastinapur and Draupadi’s father-in-law, married Kunti, he must have dreamed of lots of sex and a son from each. How else was he to defend and expand his kingdom? He must have dreamed of that conjugal union and sharpened his personal tool since his childhood.
But even after days, months, and perhaps years of great sex, there was no son in sight.
Naturally, as any blue-blooded man would, he believed there was something wrong with Kunti. Centuries later, bowing to a different god, even Henry VIII believed it was their failure to give him a son when he got rid of Catherine of Aragon and Anne Boleyn.
So, Pandu sought out Madri, still dreaming of great sex and hordes of sons. The sex was still great, but there was no child in sight. At least for Henry VIII, there was Bloody Mary from Catherine.
I doubt if his physician managed to diagnose low sperm mobility in Pandu. Perhaps all those years of masturbatory emissions for sharpening his tool must have resulted in the reckless abandonment of potential life.
In any case, with intense grief, Pandu went hunting. After all, isn’t that the next best thing to sex and war? At the crack of dawn, he waited behind a bush for any signs of life.
As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he noticed two deer mating. The possibility of jealousy at their potentially successful son-manufacturing can’t be discarded. Aiming for both with a single arrow, he took a perfect shot.
But what’s a good story without a twist?
The male deer happened to be a sage with enough voodoo in his arsenal to issue long-lasting curses: ‘You will die if you engage in sex with your wives!’
Pandu returned from hunting with two trophies and a broken heart. Recounting the day’s adventure to Kunti, he lamented at how he’ll never have kids who will rule the world in his name.
“Um, listen, I have a superpower I never told you about.” Kunti hesitated.
“What? Can you erase the curse?” Pandu burst with a sudden ray of hope.
“Well, no. But I can summon Gods with the intention of having kids.”
“Er, okay. But it still won’t be my kids.”
“Yes, but at least no other mortal would know it is not yours!”
“You bring up a good point. Let’s summon a few of the gods. How about we start with Yama, the god of death? Maybe he’ll be pleased and offer us immortality.”
“Er, okay. But I wouldn’t bet on immortality.”
“While you’re at it, can you also summon a couple of gods for Madri? Why deprive her of the fun?”
“Um, sure.”
So, Kunti summoned Yama, the god of death, who gave her Yudhishtira. Then she dialed Vayu, the god of wind who left with her Bhima. Arjuna came from Indra, the god without whom no victory was possible.
Madri chose the athletic and handsome sons of Sun, the Aswini Gods, who gave her the twins, Nakula and Sahadeva. So, without any other mortal knowing about it, Pandu now had five sons.
But Pandu couldn’t ignore his tool for long. Looking lustfully at his young, beautiful wife, Madri, he forgot all about the curse and died in the act. And Madri died on his pyre out of guilt.
Thus Kunti became a single mom with five kids. But at least she didn’t have to hold three jobs to feed them. Pandu had left them a kingdom and enough stock options to last a few generations.
She brought them up righteously and treated all five of them as equals. Kunti often went to such extreme lengths to treat them equally that she even broke a cookie and macaron into five equal pieces.
But the sons had unequal strengths.
Yudhishtira was the righteous and wise one. Bhima was the mighty Hercules of his day. Arjuna was perhaps the most sought-after with his wits, charm, and beauty. The twins, Nakula and Sahadeva, were just the eye-candy chorus.
When Draupadi’s dad advertised in the local news that his daughter had come of age and would choose her husband in a competition, all five brothers signed up. Her beauty was legendary, as written in the Mahabharata.
Her eyes were black and large as lotus petals; her complexion was dark, and her locks were blue and curly. Her nails were beautifully convex and bright as burnished copper; her eyebrows were fair; and her bosom was deep. Her beauty was such that she had no equal on earth.
So, excited at the opportunity, the five of them seated themselves in the front row. The test was to lift and string a large bow and fire arrows to pierce the eye of a goldfish by only looking at its reflection in the pool. Only Arjuna won the contest.
The brothers, ecstatic that one of them won Draupadi, brought the newlyweds home and knocked on Kunti’s door.
“Mom, open the door! Look what we’ve brought!”
“Whatever it is, all five of you share equally!”
Didn’t she now know where they had been and what they might have brought? Was that a tricky command? Tricky or not, the loser brothers might have rejoiced. After all, Mom’s words couldn’t be ignored. So, they now had to share the damsel five ways!
They built a system to make it work; when Draupadi is with one brother, the other four must look at her as a sister-in-law. So, the brother who was with her would leave his do-not-disturb sandal outside the door.
But how do you determine whose chance it was to be with her?
At first, they went chronologically. Yudhishtira first, followed by Bhima, Arjuna, Nakula, and Sahadeva. Since the twins couldn’t decide who was born first, they always went in together.
But after a few rounds of this order, Nakula and Sahadeva appealed to their commanding officer, Kunti: “Mom, it’s a very tall order even with the two of us together to fulfill Draupadi after our giant brother Bhima had the chance. Could you please intervene and let us go first?”
Kunti, trying to be fair and equitable, agreed. So, giggling with excitement, Nakula and Sahadeva waited eagerly for their turn after Yudhishtira.
As the protocol instructs, Yudhishtira left his sandals outside the door and went in for his conjugal pleasure. It’s unclear if the era predates bolts on the doors. Perhaps the world was so safe from thieves and miscreants that people didn’t need door locks.
While the righteous Yudhishtira miserably struggled to set the mood, unable to think up any dirty stories, a stray dog snatched away the sandals lying aimlessly in front of the door. It’s argued that it wasn’t a stray dog at all, but one that followed Yudhisthira even to the world beyond.
It was his dog, whether he accepted the fact or not. It was just drawn to his smell, his sandals being a smorgasbord of that. The excited twins had been checking Draupadi’s doorstep every few minutes.
Having seen the sandals the last few times, their absence could only indicate one thing. It was finally their moment. They finally had a fair chance at pleasing Draupadi.
As they crossed the sandalless doorstep and barged through an unlocked door, they found their wise elder brother struggling in bed. Ashamed and embarrassed, they retraced their steps and closed the door behind them.
But the moment was gone. The couple quickly got dressed and got out. As they stepped out of the room, the dog jumped back in joy towards the scent holder; the sandals were held firmly in its jaw.
Furious at the dog’s actions, Draupadi cursed, “May you never have the dignity to fuck behind closed doors! May the world stand and watch as you engage in love! May you never get a room!”
And that, I understand, is why Gatsby, my manager’s dog, always chases other bitches in public.
Of course, I don’t claim the veracity of this story, less than half of which comes from the written word. There are facts. And there are alternate facts. Who is to say which is what?
