by Kavita Kane
westland publications ltd
The Fisher Queen’s Dynasty
Kavita Kané is the bestselling author of four books, all based on Indian mythology: Karna’s Wife (2013), Sita’s Sister (2014), Menaka’s Choice (2015) and Lanka’s Princess (2016). A senior journalist with a career of over two decades, she quit her job to write books. With a post-graduate degree in English Literature and Journalism and Mass Communication from the University of Pune, the only skill she has, she confesses, is writing.
Born in Mumbai, with a childhood spent largely in Patna and Delhi, she lives in Pune with her mariner husband Prakash, two daughters, Kimaya and Amiya, two dogs, Beau and Chic, and the uncurious cat Cotton.
westland publications ltd
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First published by westland publications ltd 2017
Copyright © Kavita Kané 2017
All rights reserved
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ISBN: 9789386850171
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, circulated, and no reproduction in any form, in whole or in part (except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews) may be made without written permission of the publishers.
To
My sister Asha
Who first introduced Bhishm to me as Devavrat.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE Bhishm
The Birth
The Fisher Girl
The Sons
The Fathers
The Crown Prince
The King and the Fisher Girl
The Dilemma
The Oath
The Sacrifice
The Wedding
The Queen
The Heirs
The Matsyas
The Death
The Panchals
The Regent
The Grief
The Swayamvar
The Three Sisters
The Rejection
The Waiting
The Reprisal
The Passing
The Widows
The Other Son
New Hope
EPILOGUE Satyavati
PROLOGUE
Bhishm
His life had been one of regrets; and so would his death. Bhishm lay still on his bed of arrows. It was not the arrows that hurt him but the memories piercing his defeated mind. They brought along a tide of remorse, regrets, promises and punishments— nothing of a joyous life, and courage born of faith. He knew he did not have much time to live. Death was upon him . . . that is, if he chose to die. . .
But he had died a long time ago. He did not know when. Was it when he had been twenty, and his life’s purpose was snatched away from him—his throne, his identity, his father, his future? Or when Amba, the princess of Kasi, had cursed him to a living death? Was it when Draupadi was dragged by her hair into the very court where once he had defended his step-mother Satyavati’s honour, but not the honour of Panchal’s princess, the wife of his great grandsons? Or had he died when her words taunted him, reminding him of his worthlessness? Or when the boys died one by one—his half-brothers, Chitrangad and Vichitravirya; his nephew, Pandu; and so many others?
He felt the heat of the tears which refused to fall. What if, by a miracle, the present turned out to be just a terrorizing nightmare, and he was to wake up young again? Would he avoid making the terrible mistakes that ruined so many lives? Would he marry Vatsala? Or agree to marry Amba to save her life and pride? Would he have his own children, and not spend his life looking after his half-brothers? Would he defy Satyavati, and not take his oath? Or not meet her at all?
Satyavati.
My father’s wife, the queen-mother, he sighed. He had a terrible longing to die. And a burning desire to live. Not for the sake of living, but to be given a chance to undo what he had done; rather, what he and Satyavati had irrevocably done. But she was long gone, leaving him to his wasted life, and, to face the consequences.
He had longed for his life to be just, righteous and majestic, as the heavens above.
Let me die!
He saw the setting sun; another day gone, another day of the war over, another day of battle won. Like the sinking sun, which does not rise twice during a day, life cannot be brought back; a person can only clutch at what is left of their life, and save it. . .
But, he had been given his chance to live over and over again; and like Yudhishthir, he had gambled it away, making unforgivable mistakes. No, they were not mistakes, they were misdeeds which cannot be pardoned. He shut his eyes tiredly, waiting for it all to end. . .
Who was he? He was Prabhas, a Vasu Deva, born as Devavrat to Goddess Ganga, to fulfil Rishi Vasisht’s curse. One can never run away from one’s own destiny. It will meet them on the path they undertake to avoid it.
He saw how his life had spanned across several generations. And how the sum total of his actions had worked its marvels and miracles. Each of his loved ones had visited him as he lay on the bed of arrows—his Arjun, the rest of the Pandavas, Duryodhan, Karna, Draupadi and Uruvi. To each he had begged for forgiveness, and beseeched them to never repeat his mistakes. To Yudhishthir, his eldest grandson and heir to Hastinapur, he had attempted to teach self-mastery because he wanted him to tell the world what happens when leaders fail in their knowledge and accomplishment, fail to defend and protect, fail to love, and are afraid to lose. . .
He saw on the wide expanse towards the horizon the sun glittering on the water so dazzlingly that it hurt his eyes to look at it. It was like his truth. He yearned to be that lovely river: Ma, always with him but never near. He longed to die—only to die, and nothing more.
He shut his eyes in self-repugnance as he thought about how he had failed all the women in his life: his mother, Ganga; Vatsala, his bride-to-be; Amba, Ambika and Ambalika, the three princesses he had abducted (but most of all, Amba, whom he lost in the fire of love and hate); Kunti, Gandhari and Madri, his grand-daughters-in-law, whom he had used as pawns for political power; Uruvi, Karna’s wife, to whom he had promised he would save her husband; and lastly, Draupadi, whom he could not defend at her worst hour in that very hall where he had killed a man who had dared to slander the good name of a Kuru queen, Satyavati.
He had destroyed them all, for her—for that one woman. . .
Satyavati.
The Birth
The tall, fair man refused to look down at the baby swaddled in the royal blanket. He turned his back and gave the fisherman a hard look.
‘The mother gave birth to twins, sire,’ said the fisherman, Dasharaj.
‘Yes, I know,’ replied King Uparichar Vasu, shortly. ‘I shall keep the boy with me. You can have the girl.’
Dasharaj looked at the king, aghast. He was abandoning the girl?
The king’s face softened slightly, seeing the expression on Dasharaj’s face. ‘I know you have been pining for a child for a long time, Dasharaj. Keep the girl, she is your niece, after all,’ he coaxed, but there was a firmness in his voice. It was not a request; it was a royal command.
Dasharaj could barely conceal his joy; he could keep one of the babies. He glanced at the infant girl again. Yes, after all, she was his niece—his dead sister Adrika’s daughter. Like Adrika, the baby girl was unusually dark—her smooth ebony skin and her huge black eyes, always ale
rt and watchful. She seemed to be staring at them now as if understanding each word. Did she know her father, the king of Chedi, was abandoning her, wondered Dasharaj. Dasharaj felt his heart contract. What the king had said was true: he had been yearning for a child for years, and ever since his wife had died last year he felt bereft like never before. Now Adrika was dead, too. . . He looked at the girl again. Both of them had nobody in the world.
‘Yes, sire, I shall take her with me,’ he said quickly, before the king could change his mind. He swiftly picked up the bundle and cradled her in his arms. Overcome by a strong, indecipherable emotion, he felt his heart surge with indescribable joy.
I shall never abandon you, he promised as he saw the dark eyes look up solemnly at him. I shall give you the love and life you deserve. I could not do much for your mother, but you are born the daughter of a king—shamelessly unacknowledged and deserted—but you shall be my princess. I shall never break your trust. I shall make you the royal princess that you are. And one day, the queen that you deserve to be.
‘No! Not again! Please!’ he screamed as he saw his young wife about to fling the baby into the deep water of River Ganga.
King Shantanu of Hastinapur rushed to save his newborn son from his wife’s hands.
‘No, you can’t kill another one!’ he shouted, snatching the child from her palms. ‘You murdered seven of them before! Who are you. . . a monster or a murderess?’
‘I am Ganga, the river nymph,’ said the fair lady. ‘Your wife. Your queen. But no longer.’
He barely heard her, tears of relief flowing uninhibitedly down his stricken face. He had saved his son, his eighth son from certain death.
His handsome face was contorted with cold fury. ‘I never thought I could hate you as much as I do now!’ he spat. ‘Which mother kills her babies?’
‘One who is destined to help them attain salvation,’ she said cryptically.
Her unusually cold composure now broke through Shantanu’s grief.
‘Don’t talk in riddles, Ganga!’ he snapped. ‘Since I fell in love with you, you have always been secretive, an enigma, refusing to tell me anything about yourself. I loved you, and you laid down conditions! But I was desperate enough to marry you in spite of your terms: “Don’t ever question my actions or I shall leave you,” you warned. All these years, I watched silently as you drowned each of my seven newborn sons. If you want to leave me, Ganga, do so. Don’t threaten me anymore. I can’t stand the sight of you, you heartless woman! I shall not allow you to kill my eighth son. . .’ he cradled the infant close to his thudding heart.
‘No, you cannot keep him. I have to go and so will he,’ she said quietly.
Hot anger flooded his face. ‘Don’t you dare!’
Shantanu was a gentle person and Ganga had never seen her husband so livid before. Nor so devastated. He clutched at the baby as if he was clinging to his last hope of happiness. The baby was his son, the heir to Hastinapur.
‘We are cursed, Shantanu,’ she stated sadly. ‘And so is this child. Today, after asking me this question, you have set me free from my curse, just like I set free seven of your sons from their curses.’
A look of incomprehension crossed his handsome face, replacing the rage for a while. ‘What curse are you talking about?’ he muttered.
Ganga continued in her soft, sweet voice: ‘Not long ago, the eight Vasus—the cosmic attendant deities of Vishnu—visited Rishi Vasisht’s ashram with their wives. One of the wives wanted to keep the rishi’s famous wish-fulfilling cow, Kamadhenu, for herself. She persuaded her husband, Prabhas, the God of Sky, to steal it. He and his seven brothers were caught in the act of stealing the cow, and all were cursed by the angry rishi to be reincarnated as mortals. The brothers begged for mercy, and the rishi agreed to alleviate the curse. He said they would be liberated from their human birth as soon as they were born. The Vasus implored me to give birth to them and to drown them in my waters as soon as they were born. I managed to release seven, but this child. . .’ she said sadly, looking down at the beautiful, fair-eyed, fair-skinned baby, ‘. . .this child is the cursed Prabhas. Had you not stopped me, he, too, could have been delivered from Rishi Vasisht’s curse.’
Shantanu looked stunned with horror.
‘Probably Prabhas, being the chief culprit, was cursed to endure a longer life on earth,’ she reasoned, giving a helpless shrug.
‘Why did you not explain all this before to me?’ said Shantanu, visibly shaken. ‘You could have saved all of us from this tragedy. . .’
‘Because both of us were cursed by Lord Brahma,’ said Ganga. ‘In your previous birth, you were King Mahabhish, who was privileged to visit Brahma’s court. We met there and fell in love. A gush of wind swept my angavastra away, and while the gods bashfully kept their heads bowed and their eyes downcast, you could not stop looking at me. I blushed in turn and reciprocated the look of desire for you. Our secret lay exposed. Lord Brahma was furious at this public display of desire. He cursed us both to be born on Earth and suffer the pain of love and separation, like ordinary mortals. I can return only after breaking your heart. And it’s all come true, hasn’t it?’ she raised her eyes, bright with unshed tears. ‘I have broken your heart.’
Shantanu stood there, his face ashen, the finality of her words crushing him right in front of her eyes.
‘No,’ he gave a strangled cry. ‘Don’t leave me, please. I take all my harsh words back. You know I love you . . . Oh, I love you so, Ganga! Don’t go, please, no!’
He was crying, holding the baby.
‘I have to go,’ she said, blinking away her tears, her voice hard. She gently prised the infant from his nerveless arms.
‘No,’ he whispered hoarsely, grabbing her wrist, his eyes imploring.
‘I have to go from where I came. And I have to take this child with me. . .’
‘Why, oh why are you punishing me? You could have killed me instead!’ he beseeched her. He looked up and cried out, ‘What curse is this, my lord, that I live a life without the woman I love and a son I can never see again!’
He fell to his knees, his broad shoulders shuddering with unrestrained sobs. ‘Spare me this sorrow, Ganga, please! Don’t curse me to a living death!’
She turned away from his tortured face, squaring her shoulders. ‘I have to go, but when the time is right, I shall return your son to you. That is all I can promise.’
It took King Shantanu a moment before Ganga’s words sunk in. ‘You mean it? I shall have my son back some day?’ he said hopefully.
‘Yes; not because I want to be kind to you,’ she said sorrowfully, ‘but because this poor boy is doomed to live a cursed life on earth. As your son, he is born pious, wise and devoted, but will have to endure endless mortal pain and suffering. I name him Devavrat, the one that possesses the piety of the gods. He is your son, but, as his mother, I shall groom him and teach him the wisdom of the maharishis and the craft of warfare from the gods. And then I shall return to you the heir to your kingdom, when he is of the right age.’
Defeated, Shantanu closed his eyes in despair to shut off the sight of his wife leaving him with his newborn son.
‘My son,’ murmured the distraught father. ‘My Devavrat, I shall wait for you. . . !’
The Fisher Girl
The smell of dirt and decay wafted in the damp air, but the girl sitting alone on the shore seemed unperturbed by it. She had sat down on the rock, burying her face in her hands, her slim body shuddering with silent cries. Never in my life have I been so deeply insulted. . . I, well-educated, refined, the daughter of a fisherman–chieftain, suspected of theft by the kingsmen, she thought. They had ransacked and rummaged through the boat she ferried across the river every day. She had been searched like a common street-walker.
She could not imagine a greater insult, her indignation unmitigated by an oppressive dread. All sorts of absurd ideas came into her mind. If they can suspect me of theft, then they can arrest me, strip me naked and search me, and then
lead me through the streets with an escort of soldiers, cast me into a cold, dark cell with mice and woodlice, exactly like the dungeons in which dethroned kings are imprisoned. Her heart quickened with such morbid thoughts, all the stories she had heard about atrocities coming back to her. Who will stand up for me? My poor, old father will probably not have enough money to come and rescue me. If taken to the city, I will be absolutely alone, like a solitary, lost person in a desert, without friends or kin. They can do what they like with me. . .
‘Kali!’
She instinctively turned in the direction of the voice. Everyone called her that—Kali—an unimaginative reference to her dark skin, dark hair, and dark eyes. Kali straightened herself, her eyes bleak.
‘Your father is looking for you. You have a guest!’ shouted her neighbour.
She roped the boat to the shore, securing it with an additional loop of a knot after piling the net neatly in it. That was the only functional one they had. They would have to buy a new one once this season got over. But, as always, they were short of money. The steep taxes were eating into the paltry amount they fetched from trips across the river.
As she walked towards her home, she decided against telling her father about the ignominious episode. She proceeded slowly to the only stone-roof house in the village, an anomaly in the bleak mass of mouldy, thatched huts. All of them seemed the same along the rutty road—decrepit and black with soot and filth, belching black smoke that had yellowed everything into uniform dinginess. There was a sordid, undisciplined feeling about the village which she had got accustomed to, yet loathed. The street was littered with trash and fish scales, groups of men stood around street corners eyeing her as she walked towards her house. Loafers, her lips curling in contempt, they are a sick, seedy looking bunch—dirty, tired and angry. Like me. Women hurried past like they had something on their minds. She was seized with a sudden temper. Everything about this place is disgusting. There are no roads any longer, she thought savagely as she waded through the slush. In summer, the track would be dry and dusty, and during the rains, like now, it was an open gutter, exposing them to disease, stink and discomfort. She detested the way the nobles and royalty lived their lives, while she was cursed to a life of hard work and stench, with no hope of ever bridging the gap.
