Savitri Walks With the King of Endings

In a forest of sal and mango, a young woman named Savitri sat under a great banyan tree, sharpening a small knife on a flat stone.

Her husband, Satyavan, was nearby. He was a kind man with a woodcutter's strong arms and a poet's slow eyes. He had been born a prince but lived now as a forest dweller, caring for his blind father and his quiet mother in a small hut at the edge of the trees.

Savitri had chosen him for her husband. She had walked across half the country to find him. The sages had warned her — they had told her that this man, this woodcutter prince, had only one year left to live.

She had listened. She had nodded. And she had chosen him anyway.

This morning, that year was ending. This was the last day.

Savitri did not weep. She had wept her weeping long ago, in the dark, where no one could see. Today she had only one task, and weeping was not it.

"You are quiet," Satyavan said, setting down his axe.

"I am listening," she said.

"To what?"

"To the leaves."

He laughed gently. "You are strange, Savitri."

"You are not the first to say so."

They worked together until the sun rose high. Then, in the middle of a small movement — reaching up to a branch — Satyavan stopped. He pressed his hand against his forehead.

"My head," he said, surprised. "It is suddenly so heavy."

He sat down at the foot of the banyan. He laid his head in her lap.

"I will just rest a moment," he said.

"Yes," she said, smoothing his hair. "Just a moment."

His eyes closed. His breath slowed. And then, very softly, his breath stopped.

Savitri did not move. She did not call out. She had been preparing for this for a year.

In the bright air just beyond the banyan, a figure stood. Tall. Quiet. The colour of the deep evening. In his hand he held a small noose of light.

It was Yama, the lord of endings.

"Daughter," he said, not unkindly. "Lay him down. I have come for him."

Savitri lifted Satyavan's head from her lap and laid it gently on a folded cloth. She stood. She bowed.

Then she began to walk.

Yama walked away into the forest, the small light in his hand moving with him. And Savitri walked behind him.

After a long while, Yama turned.

"Daughter. You cannot follow."

"I am not following, lord. I am walking."

"To where?"

"Wherever a wife walks when her husband leaves."

Yama looked at her for a long time. Then he turned and walked again. She walked behind him.

After another long while, he stopped a second time.

"You are tired. Ask me for a boon. Anything but his life. Then go home."

Savitri thought. "My husband's father is blind," she said. "Restore his sight."

"It is done," said Yama. "Now go."

She bowed. She did not go. She walked behind him.

The path grew narrow. The light grew strange.

"Daughter. Ask another boon. Anything but his life."

"Let his father's kingdom be returned to him," she said. "He has lost it for too long."

"It is done."

She walked behind him.

The air grew colder. Even Yama seemed to grow tired.

"Daughter. Once more. Any boon. Not his life."

Savitri smiled, very softly, and bowed her head. "Lord," she said, "may I be the mother of many strong children."

Yama lifted his hand to grant it. "It is done."

Then he stopped.

He looked at her. He looked at his own hand. He understood.

"Child," he said, very quietly, "you have outwalked me."

For he had granted her many children. And she had no other husband. And he had given his word.

Yama set down the small light he was carrying.

"Go back," he said. "Your husband is waking under the banyan tree. Live long. Live well."

Savitri bowed all the way to the ground. When she lifted her head, the lord of endings was already gone, as quietly as a breath leaving a room.

She walked back to the banyan. The leaves moved softly in a breeze she had not noticed before.

Under the tree, Satyavan was sitting up, blinking, confused.

"Did I sleep long?" he asked.

"A little," she said. "Long enough."

She sat down beside him and laid her cheek against his shoulder, and the small forest grew very, very quiet around them, the way a room grows quiet when a great matter has been settled and no one needs to speak of it again.

Little mother, you are walking too. You have walked into this year of your life carrying a small one no one else can see, and you have not turned back. You will not turn back. You are made of the same steady, walking love that once made a god lay down his light.

Tonight, rest. The walking is enough. The walking is the whole story.