Page 1. Kids stories in Telugu - visit ronaldweinland.info Page 2. Kids stories in Telugu - visit Telugu neethi kathal the best guide to ielts writing. Yayati is the story of the lust of a king by the same name, who appears in the Mahabharata, one of the two epics of India. Though married to beautiful Devyani, . 'Yayati' is one of the most popular and respected novels in Marathi Literature. Revolving around the legendary love story of Yayati and Devyani, characters from.
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She was destined to be a maid in eternal service of somebody. That is why our ways parted. A heavenly fragrance intoxicated me.
My eyes were still closed. I slowly lifted my right hand. Alaka was bending over and carefully pouring the drops of medicine. One of her tresses was rubbing against my cheek. I felt that lock of hair with my hand and that soft touch sent a thrill through my whole body. I knew that Alaka would suddenly move away from embarrassment if I opened my eyes. Eyes closed, I said, Alaka, where is this delicious fragrance coming from?
It comes from the jasmine flowers in my braid.
Let me smell them where they are, I said. Alaka did not reply. I added, If you do not let me smell them in your hair, I shall scream. Then, they will all wake up and If you scream, they will all rush in panic and Mother will take me to task saying, You wretch, cant you even make a good attendant? She will hang me for it. Dont you think, I said, it would be better to let me smell the flowers in your hair than be hanged?
They say a good deed should be done on time. All the flowers in the garden of Eden must have contributed their share of fragrance to those jasmine flowers. I was intoxicated by the fragrance of Alakas hair. Apart from the flowers, the feel of her hair on my nose and cheeks was the height of pleasure.
I forgot myself when I realised that Alaka was withdrawing. I opened my eyes. She was moving away. I said, I have not had enough. I must have more Before I realised what I was doing, my arms were round her and our lips met.
Delicious is not the word her lips were full of nectar. Like the traveller in the desert, my lips were dry. I was dying with thirst. I drank deep of that nectar. I kept demanding for more and more of it. I was only conscious of one fact. I was swimming in happiness but its waters were not deep enough. The nectar of which I had drunk deep was burning me like poison. I was struggling to my feet. There was a shooting pain in my right leg and like a bird shot down, I screamed in agony and fell back on my bed.
It took me three or four months to get over my accident. But my piercing scream of that night brought joy to the palace.
Everyone was heartened that I had regained consciousness and had practically come to life from dead. The old physician, in fact, rushed into my room and wept with emotion like a child.
I was soon rid of my fever. But, the injury to the bone was more intractable. The physician had, however, imported from East Aryavarta a tribal known for his skill in bone setting. He set it well and there was no defect left, but those three or four months were very difficult for me. I was irritated with my disability when I saw birds flitting outside the window. I felt like going out of the window in the manner of a bird without caring for the consequences. My hands itched at the sound of a horse and the thighs strained for a mount.
I did not know where to wreak my irritation at the disability. In annoyance, I would gaze at my limbs. I had spent every day of ten long years to cultivate a strong and beautiful body but it had failed me. There is no limit to a mans love of his body but the body does not reciprocate.
Indeed, on occasion, it lets him down. Lying in bed, I tried to discover what was it that the body was antagonistic to, but never succeeded. I often thought there was a Yayati in me, different and distinct from the body.
But how was one to understand the nature of that other Yayati? I knew that mind, heart and intellect were not parts of the body but had their separate identity.
In the eight days of my unconsciousness, when with the rare drugs given to me, I would have quietly swallowed even poison, where was my mind? And the intellect? And the heart? There was no answer. I was completely in the dark. When, in exasperation, I gazed at my limbs, something whispered into my ear, You are wrong.
Has your body always been your enemy? What about the pleasure of that night, when you kissed Alaka? Was it not made possible by your body alone? That night was a sweet immortal dream. The thought of it made me forget all pain in my life. Even the bright sun outside was obscured in the memory of that night and it all came vividly back to me, like the indelible impression of a young maiden, setting out for worship with an oil lamp.
That maddening fragrance of the jasmine flowers, the softness of Alakas tresses, the sweetness of her lips the memory of it all was thrilling. Together with this sweet memory of Alaka, there was another which served to bring me happiness.
The tribal who set the bone had travelled widely in Aryavarta. He recounted enchanting tales of the caves, forests and cities, the sea and the hills, the old temples and the men he had come across. From those tales I conjured up a beautiful dream. In my dream I was escorting the sacrificial horse let loose in challenge of supreme sovereignty. In the end I returned as the victorious hero, conquering the world and at the head of the maidens waiting to worship me was Alaka with the oil lamp.
I was well again. I mentioned my dreams to the Prime Minister and my tutors. They all liked the idea and inspite of Mothers protests Father announced the sending forth of the victory horse. I still remember those days! Everywhere I saw the grandeur of this ancient sacred land. I was enriching my mind with the countless folk songs sung to her glory to the tune of the elements.
I stored in my eyes the ever new folk dances. We first headed north, then west, south and east. How exquisitely pretty was the countryside everywhere. With the changing seasons the land wore a new attractive garb and was bedecked with various ornaments. Sometimes I thought the motherland was standing before me in person. The rivers and streams like jets of milk, flowing from her breasts, the mountains. The thought that it was this milk which sustained her children was thrilling.
We were challenged in only a few kingdoms. Father had in his time put awe into the whole of Aryavarta by his bravery. It was the victory horse of that very King Nahusha who had defeated Indra. Who dared challenge it? Those who thoughtlessly threw a challenge soon learnt that Yayati was the worthy son of a worthy father.
I was extremely happy in all such minor conflicts. I was an adept hunter and bagged with ease most kinds of animals. But the joy of vanquishing an army which is as well armoured as your own, is quite different. It is on such occasions that a warrior is really inspired. Victory in war is more heady than hunting. It was that kind of heady victory that I was aspiring to. When I had risked my life during the festivities, it was because I had realised the intoxication of victory, but after all, that was only a victory over an animal.
I was often unable to sleep during the campaign. Not that I was restless thinking of Mother or something important. It was an undefined worry that dispelled sleep. I was weary. Just as one lively horse of a chariot takes to gallop unmindful of his slow mate, so did my mind ignore the weary body and indulge in wild fantasies. It used to dwell on things like death, love, religion and God. It was difficult to free myself from the web of that maze.
Every atom of my body wanted above all, to live. At this, the mind would intervene with the question, Why then are you escorting the victory horse? You maybe challenged, when there will be a fierce battle and you may fall on the battlefield. Why should you, who wants to live, go where death is disporting wildly? It was impossible to settle this paradox and then even a couch of flowers pricked like a bed of thorns.
I would stroll out, gaze at the stars and be soothed by the cool fresh breeze. The mango trees in the adjacent grove would rustle in a whisper and the charwak birds in the pond nearby could be heard wailing for each other. The mind was enchanted with such touching music.
Gradually peace and quiet would descend on me. The birds would have by then been stilled into silence and there was no sound of movement or flutter. The peace of the surrounding would inspire me to utter words of prayer. I would say them softly. In the end with folded hands, refreshed in mind and contented, I would look around at the expanse of heaven and earth in front and fervently say, Peace and goodwill on Earth.
Then sleep would enfold me in her fine silken garb and sing a lullaby. I valued this peace at night, just as much as the pleasure derived from the rough and tumble of the day. I could not, however, reconcile the two. While I was escorting the horse, time was moving apace. In this roving life I experienced in many different forms both peace and intoxication. These friendships bring to light the basic need of human beings for a shoulder, even if it is one that is not present at that time.
Friendship, good ones, guide the person into attempting to lead a better life and this has been beautifully highlighted by the author throughout this tale. Women in this story are depicted mostly as objects of lust, especially when seen through the eyes of Yayati. However, there is an innate strength in them which shines through despite his attempt to classify them otherwise.
These are not women who will simply crawl at the first sign of danger but these are women who will stand straight and face it. What lends more beauty to this book is the caricatures of the different women, whether it is the self centred and capricious Devyani, or the splendidly serene Sharmishta or the nubile Alaka or the servient Mukulika; women have shaped Yayati in different ways with their own charms and vile but they are not to blame for what becomes of Yayati.
As the fire blazes with an offering, so do the senses get incensed the more by indulgence.
This is the best takeaway that I have from this book and it is a lesson I feel that all of us should learn and practice. Closing this book, I felt as if it were my grandfather who was narrating the tale to me and who took me through this various motifs and learnings in this book. This feeling made the book more precious than it would have otherwise been. I will definitely say that this is worth all the effort one puts to read it and it will definitely not be time wasted.
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Add to Cart. Available Immediately. Khandekar was a Marathi writer from Maharashtra, India. He was the first Marathi author to win the prestigious Jnanpith Award. This app is a collection of s of Marathi books, sahitya , novels, story books, poetry collection and speeches.
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