The Fisher Queen's Dynasty

by Kavita Kane

  Even as she ambled down the muddy street, she was aware of how people kept their distance from her. She was young and educated; yet, the fact was that she was a fisher girl, with the vile stench of fish and salt, sweat and grime, as rotten as mouldering fish, forgotten but for the stink they raised. Kali noticed how a passing lady visibly shrank from her, her face twisted in distaste, clamping her nose with her hand as if to keep the odour at bay.

  Kali was used to being treated as a pariah, the lowest of the low, only allowed a small vestige of dignity once she turned into the lane of the fisher folk. She was after all, their chieftain’s daughter. There was a certain regalness about the girl as she strode briskly with her head held high, her eyes openly contemptuous.

  Her father had a visitor, she thought resentfully, another stomach to feed!

  The visitor was a rishi. A thin, young man with a cadaverous chest and a pronounced limp, immediately lending him an aura of mystery. A lame rishi was an enigma unlike a limping soldier or a crippled prince whose handicap was assumed to be some glorious war injury.

  ‘This is Rishi Parashar, Satyavati. . .’

  Hardly anyone knew her as Satyavati, and only her father called her by that name.

  ‘He is the famous grandson of Rishi Vasisht, a famous rishi himself,’ Dasharaj was saying. ‘He is currently writing the Vishnu Puran, the first of a series. And he is also an impressive orator, but prefers to call himself a travelling teacher, wandering from one place to another. He was passing through our village.’

  Her father was beaming warmly, which was unusual. He had stopped smiling since they lost a dozen boats in a storm some years ago. He was a swarthy, little man with a wiry face and a narrow, bald head with thin hair making him appear much older. Yet, he exuded a charm and strength. ‘He will rest with us for a while, and then continue with his journey to attend some yagna. Do drop him to the other shore, whenever he wishes,’ he said.

  With the morning’s incident fresh in her mind, she shuddered at the thought of going near her boat again to work. But she couldn’t say anything, lest she had to explain her reluctance to her father.

  ‘Won’t you be having dinner with us?’ she asked politely instead.

  The rishi was staring at her with his deep, soulful eyes, the single attractive feature on his thin face.

  He shook his head. ‘I am fasting,’ he explained simply.

  That is one meal saved, she heaved a sigh of relief. Suddenly a thought struck her and she looked at the rishi with doubt. Why had such an illustrious rishi deigned to visit an impoverished fisherman?

  ‘Don’t underestimate your father, Matsyagandha,’ smiled the rishi, his face transforming magically.

  She was amazed at how he had read her mind. She laughed derisively; yet it was an attractive, husky sound. Matsyagandha, the girl with the fish smell, but he made it sound like the girl with a fragrance!

  ‘Your father, as you well know, was once the fisherman–chieftain of a formidable tribe that helped in wars.’

  ‘Was,’ she said dismissively. ‘As you can see, we have fallen on bad times.’

  ‘Not for long,’ murmured Parashar.

  ‘I take that as a blessing and not just a wish,’ she continued tartly, pressing her lips and placing a fingertip on the middle of the lower one, her brows furrowed in a frown.

  He fixed her with a blank stare. ‘I would like to leave before it gets dark. Would you mind helping me across the river, Matsyagandha?’

  Again that name, and again he had read her reluctance!

  He continued easily, ‘I have heard you are one of the most trusted and brave people who ferry boats, come storm, thunder or rain.’

  ‘It is Man who is the most dangerous, not Nature,’ she said glibly. ‘See how the rich and the powerful treat us, the downtrodden, without the right to live with dignity, to taste all the horrors of poverty and dependence! My father, as you pointed out rightly, was a chieftain, the king’s ally, but what is he now but a frail, bankrupt fisherman!’

  ‘It is the war,’ said Dasharaj. ‘Our guest here was attacked in his ashram. The limp is a reminder, is it not?’

  Parashar gave his small smile. ‘The war has taken its toll on all.’

  ‘But not on the king,’ she snapped.

  ‘Our king is a vassal to King Shantanu and Hastinapur. . .’ explained Dasharaj.

  ‘Our king surrendered to Hastinapur without a whimper,’ Kali retorted. ‘Yet the Kuru army took over our land and everything we own, with a double tax for both the kingdoms.’

  ‘You seem to know your politics well,’ observed Parashar, ‘for such a young age.’

  ‘It is not politics, it is injustice,’ she replied swiftly. ‘I am fifteen, young enough to experience it and old enough to realize it.’

  Parashar smiled warmly, and Kali found herself calming down.

  They were soon on their way across the River Yamuna, the boat setting off gingerly from the bank.

  ‘You know your way around, don’t you?’ he murmured.

  Kali knew he was not talking about the small boat she was manoeuvring in the choppy waters of the Yamuna. She was to ferry him across, but they were barely halfway there when the skies darkened ominously. If it rained, her task would be more arduous and she would have to return in a storm. She grimaced.

  ‘If you are saying I am good with the boat, yes, I do know my way around in these waters. And if you are implying I am worldly-wise, yes, I am that, too,’ she admitted, gritting her teeth, rowing the boat more strongly against the swirling eddies.

  He was sitting awkwardly, accommodating his left leg. She knew he was observing her: her strong, sinewy arms; her lissom body moving against the motion of the rocking boat; the sweat and the spray mingling to add sheen to her dusky, shining skin. Her damp angavastra was clinging to her upper body, straining against the generous swell of her breasts, the heaving movement accentuated by the strain of the exercise. She recognized the gaze. It was a look of lust. She neither resented it nor revelled in it. It was a fact that she was young, lovely and innocent. And she could see it blatantly in his eyes.

  She decided to ignore the young man. They were in the middle of the river, and she was surprised to find the waters relatively calmer now, as was the weather. She knew she could pause to rest.

  He seemed to read her thoughts again.

  ‘I am not in a hurry,’ he said calmly. ‘Why don’t you rest now?’

  She shook her head and continued rowing. She knew what it could lead to if she stopped.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw him inching closer.

  ‘Don’t move,’ she shouted sharply. ‘You might upturn the boat.’

  He touched her hand, gripping hard at the oars. His touch was fiery. ‘Give them rest,’ he repeated gently, his voice sounding like a hoarse whisper against the roaring wind.

  ‘If we stop, the boat will toss,’ she said shortly, careful not to be rude. She knew the man sitting across was a well-known rishi, no ordinary man, who could wield unnatural and mystical powers. A man of wisdom, whose words could result in either a curse or a blessing. A powerful man, she repeated silently to herself, seeing the naked arousal in his eyes.

  She felt a knot in her stomach. She looked around her: they were alone in a boat, in the middle of a river. He was a strong, young man, who could easily overpower her despite his crippled leg. But unlike him, she could jump into the water and swim back ashore. But she did not want to. He was an intriguing man. Curiosity and desire held her firmly, waiting for him to make a move.

  His intense eyes pinned on her, he put this hand in the waters. The river suddenly stilled.

  ‘Now the boat will not toss. Or turn,’ he said with an unsteady voice. He moved closer to her, his breath warm on her face, his hand on her thigh.

  ‘I want you, Matsyagandha.’

  It was not a confession; he could not have made his intention clearer. She felt no fear, no apprehension, no uncertain anxiety. Instead, she felt a strange sen
se of power over him.

  ‘Much gratitude for making it easy for me to row the boat now,’ she said casually. ‘We will reach faster.’

  ‘Let’s go to that island,’ he said gently, yet firmly.

  ‘Island? There is no island in the middle of the Yamuna!’ she laughed, but her smile died as she saw the silhouette of an approaching land mass. He had created an island in the river with his extraordinary powers!

  He remained silent, his burning eyes not leaving her face. She half hoped that by the time they reached ashore, the young rishi would have come to his senses.

  The boat hit the sandy bank and glided smoothly to the waterside.

  She dropped the oars, her hands placed demurely on her lap, waiting for him to alight and leave. But she knew he would not. He wanted to seduce her; yet, it seemed like it was she who was seducing him. Again, she had mixed feelings—the thrill of anticipation and a reluctant hesitation. He wants me, but do I want him? She felt a brief prick of trepidation. She was alone with him; how was she to deal with him?

  She eyed him sceptically. What would it be like making love to a mighty rishi? Menaka had given birth to Shakuntala, after being with the powerful rishi, Vishwamitra, she thought dazedly, as she watched the young seer get up. What would this rishi give me? She shivered in anticipation.

  Parashar got up unsteadily, and carefully stepped out of the boat. She expelled a long breath, wondering if he would proceed without looking back. Had his ardour cooled? He turned then, and from the one look he gave her, she knew it had not. With a slow, deliberate motion, he took her hand, and gripped her wrist. She could feel the fire within, searing in his eyes, in his touch.

  She knew she could not escape him. But was she not repulsed by him—either by his limp or by his desire for her? It was a decisive moment. I am going to make love to a powerful seer, not some young fisher boy or some callow villager. Her heart was racing, the thrill of fear and excitement coursing through her, and her blood was pounding rapidly.

  ‘Don’t be afraid,’ he said softly, pulling her up against his tall, lean frame. Their thighs touched, but she moved her leg adroitly away, tempting him maddeningly.

  ‘Do I have a choice?’ she asked steadily, ‘to refuse or accept you?’

  There was an imperceptible pause, as the question dimmed the smoulder in his eyes.

  ‘Then I beg you, love me, take me!’ he whispered thickly, pulling her hard against him. She stiffened.

  She had no chance against his strength. His fingers tightened around her waist, his left hand holding her wrists, crushing her into submission. Then aroused by the contact of her slim, half-naked body, he gently pushed her down till she lay sprawled on the sandy surface, half dazed, as he knelt over her.

  She placed her hand against his thudding chest, but did not push him away.

  ‘You have magical powers,’ she said as she furrowed her brows, thoughtfully. ‘I smell of fish. Can you remove it?’ she asked. ‘People flee from my stink. That is one of the reasons why I have very few admirers,’ she said. ‘Who wants to make love to a foul-smelling fisher girl?’

  ‘I do,’ he urged. ‘You shall never regret it.’

  She gazed at him, her heart hammering. Was his power for real? Well . . . he did still the waters of the river and created an island in it!

  ‘Then . . . make me fragrant,’ she said, more out of curiosity than as a challenge. She knew he was oblivious to her faint stench, and nothing would dissuade him now; yet, she wanted to bide her time.

  ‘Done!’ he smiled. He placed his hands on the soles of her feet in the shallow, lapping water, moving his thumbs in a smooth, circular motion. It was strangely erotic. Rubbing them gently, he continued to run a trembling hand slowly from her toes to the slim ankles, up her long, shapely legs, pausing at her waist, then brushing across her breasts, up her long neck to finally cup her face. Suddenly warm now, she smelt a scented glow of sandalwood and roses emanating all around her.

  ‘You, my Matsyagandha, are going to be my one weakness,’ he said, his face buried against the hot skin of her exposed neck. ‘That one weakness, I promise, which will make you strong. Can you smell the perfume?’ He unpinned her braid, his fingers combing through her loose, long hair, pulling her face closer to his fevered mouth. She was enveloped by the intoxicating scent of musk. ‘It’s emanating from your body. You will no longer be the stinking fisher girl. Matsyagandha will now be Yojanagandha; your new, musky fragrance will waft for miles together, and shall entice anyone whom you want. No one will dare call you Kali!’

  She gave a small shake of her head. ‘I am Kali; I don’t mind my dark skin,’ she said petulantly. ‘I don’t want to turn fair-skinned. However, what else can you give me, sir?’

  ‘What all mortals crave for: eternal youth and beauty,’ he whispered, cleaving her closer, his wiry arms hard around her waist. ‘Your fragrance and your eternal beauty will double your charm. And your power,’ he murmured. ‘That’s what you want, don’t you? That hot flush of unbridled power . . . the way you have control over me right now? I am your slave!’

  ‘And I am a virgin,’ she said, without a hint of coyness, pushing him back slightly, her black eyes mocking.

  Her restrain inflamed him and he found himself trembling as he reached for her again.

  ‘You won’t marry me, since you are a wandering mendicant,’ she persisted. ‘So how do I go back to the world I come from? And what if I have a child from you?’ she questioned shrewdly, thinking again of Menaka and Shakuntala. ‘Who will marry me?’

  ‘Whomsoever you want! You will remain a virgin,’ he chuckled, his lips on her bare shoulder. ‘Or rather, the man you will make love to next will not realize that you are not a virgin!’

  Before she could open her mouth to argue, he pressed it lightly with his. ‘You can go back to your world without the child. He will remain with me, brought up as a rishi’s child should,’ he whispered assuredly against her widening smile. ‘The boy will grow up to be a very famous sage, and will bring you great glory.’

  ‘As famous as you?’ she laughed softly, parting her lips for him to allow him to taste the sweetness of her mouth.

  ‘No. More famous than me. Possibly more than my grandfather, too,’ he promised. ‘The world will remember him thousands of years later. Rishi Vishwamitra had given me such a blessing. And you will be known as the mother of this extraordinary child.’

  She pulled back her face to look warily at him.

  ‘How can I ever acknowledge this child if it is born out of wedlock, oh wise rishi?’ she said, frowning, biting her lower lip. ‘I will be an unmarried mother. I neither want to renounce my child nor make him suffer the insult of being illegitimate,’ she said fiercely.

  Parashar bent his head to caress her smooth cheek with his lips to ease the tension from her face.

  ‘He will be our child, Matsyagandha. He will be so exceptional that no one will dare call him illegitimate,’ he said cryptically. ‘You are an extraordinary girl yourself. You can never be bound by conventions or be tied down by others. You were born to rule, princess!’

  She stiffened pleasurably against him, aroused not by desire but by ambition. Born to rule, she murmured to herself.

  ‘That is why I am with you now,’ he muttered, pulling gently at her lips. She could feel his heat seeping through her, her strength giving away in his crushing arms. She was being overpowered, trapped under the weight of his body.

  ‘I see,’ she said huskily. He was out of his mind with desire. His seeking lips trailed down her neck.

  Even though his words made no sense to her, she registered their prophecy. This was her opportunity. He could turn her unprivileged life into an unusual one. He had undone her flimsy bodice, his hands on her full, bare breasts. She glanced up at him with a half-smile, her eyes igniting him to heated urgency. If she had to give, she would take as well.

  ‘We could be spotted from here,’ she breathed, her eyes luminous.

  ‘Matsyagandha!
’ he groaned. As his lips crushed down on hers, she became aware that they had been ensconced in a thick blanket of fog.

  ‘Anything else?’ he sighed against the soft swell of her bared breast.

  She shook her head as she surrendered, finally and triumphantly, to him. She was dimly aware that he had pulled up her loose antariya. She became aware of a sharp stone grinding into her spine, but it was nothing compared to the pain she experienced when he thrust himself into her body violently, with fevered passion. She gasped. It was momentary, but unbeknown, she would feel the ache all through her life. She had lost her innocence to gain freedom.

  The Sons

  ‘Do I have to go to my father?’

  Ganga heard the faint impatience in her son’s deep tenor. His voice had changed, and so had he. Devavrat had grown up; it was not just his voice, he now towered over her. It was not merely a mother’s appreciative eyes which acknowledged that her son had grown to be a very fine lad—with his fair, good looks, his deep hazel eyes, thick, curly brown hair, and shy smile. He was no longer a boy, she mused, and no longer could she keep him with her. . .

  It was unlike him to be restive. Devavrat had a mild voice, rarely relaying any emotion. He had asked the same question several times in the past one year, and she had delayed answering him each time.

  ‘Why, are you too happy here?’ she asked lightly, but her pale, blue eyes were sceptical.

  He shrugged—another sign of discontent, she was quick to observe.

  ‘Have I completed all my training here?’ he asked instead, the slight shrug making a swathe of dark hair fall over his broad forehead. She leaned forward to gently push it back.

  It was a leading question.

  ‘Yes, almost,’ she murmured.

  ‘What is left?’ asked Devavrat quickly, a little too quickly, revealing his impatience and eagerness again, that persistent wisp of hair falling over his face.