The Fisher Queen's Dynasty

by Kavita Kane

  The Fathers

  Shantanu liked watching the sun set over the Ganga, deriving pleasure from his pain. He still missed Ganga. He had tried to wipe out her memory and his bitterness through several women and liaisons, but it had been futile. Defeated, he had given up all sensual pleasures, and finally channelled his energy on serving his subjects and looking after his neglected kingdom, sprucing up the army and expanding his kingdom into an empire. Yet, he felt lonely and fatigued. The diffused glow of the sinking sun reminded him of the life he was leading: tired and listless, pining for his wife and son.

  Suddenly, his thoughts were broken by some disturbance in the river. Am I imagining it or has the river suddenly gone choppy? Large waves were rising ominously and crashing over the bank, and he could see small boats bobbing in the water dangerously. The weather looked fine, but the river looked restless. He got up, his eyes searching for the cause, and decided to walk along the bank.

  Shantanu had walked almost a mile along the river when he halted abruptly. In front of him was a tall, young boy casually shooting arrows into the waters He would shoot a single one which would split into a swift row of thousands to make an embankment across the river, forcing the waters to be walled in and spill out in turbid eddies. He watched the boy continue his little amusement, often chuckling softly to himself. Who played around with the mighty Ganga, wondered Shantanu. That boy is hurting Ganga, he realized, and feeling a sudden surge of anger, he decided to confront the boy. Something about the boy made Shantanu approach him warily.

  But before he could take another step, Shantanu found himself with an arrow pointing straight at his chest. The boy had swung the bow around so swiftly that it took a moment for the older man to realize that he was unarmed himself.

  ‘Is this a game for you?’ Shantanu asked tersely. ‘What are you doing, damming the river with arrows?’

  ‘Oh, that? I am playing with my mother!’ shrugged the boy.

  Was this boy demented, Shantanu thought wrathfully. ‘You are hurting the river,’ he said icily. ‘And you happen to be pointing the arrow at a king!’

  The boy’s hand remained steady, as did his calm, hazel eyes, unfazed by the whip in Shantanu’s voice. Again he shrugged.

  ‘I could arrest you for treason, for attempting to kill a king,’ scowled Shantanu at the temerity of the boy.

  ‘Where is your sword, King?’ questioned the boy instead.

  ‘I was relaxing here,’ snapped Shantanu.

  ‘A king never relaxes, never rests,’ reprimanded the boy, but politely. ‘Neither for himself nor the public. And he should always be armed for their defence. And his own, too,’ he added, slight humour suffusing his solemn eyes. The boy looked around, his eyes searching.

  ‘Where are your guards? Is it not unsafe for you to move around without them? I could have easily killed you right away. In self-defence,’ he explained, with roguish charm. When Shantanu looked at him questioningly, the boy clarified, ‘You crept up from behind me, King.’

  ‘Stop teasing him, Dev!’ said a soft, sweet feminine voice. Before Shantanu could turn to see who the voice belonged to, the boy put aside his bow. ‘Greetings, Father,’ murmured the boy, his dark head bent low, his hands folded.

  If Devavrat had glanced up, he would have witnessed an array of emotions flitting across the older man’s face.

  ‘My son?’ said Shantanu, as the boy heard the tone of disbelief in his father’s faint voice.

  ‘Your son, Devavrat, as I had promised,’ interrupted the same melodious voice. It was achingly familiar, he thought dazedly.

  Ganga! She looked no different than the day she had left him. Tall, fair and exquisitely delicate; so much so that she seemed ethereal with her dark hair cascading down to her slender waist. Her pale blue eyes were glistening with tears . . . or was it unfiltered joy?

  Shantanu felt his heart contract; blood pounded in his head. This was not a dream.

  Ganga touched him lightly with her fingers, then closing them around his arm in a firm grip as if to hold him together. The boy supported his shoulders.

  For the first time, Shantanu looked closely at his son. He was taller than him, much taller, his lean frame not hiding the muscular breadth of his broad shoulders. He was very fair, like his mother, but the high forehead, the dark, flowing hair and soft hazel eyes over a strong, chiselled nose and thin mouth, gave him more the solemn look of a rishi than a soldier. There was nothing boyish about him. Shantanu knew that he must be around sixteen, counting the years that had passed between them, but he resembled a full grown man. It was the tender, raw look in his eyes that gave his age away. There was a shy uncertainty on that finely-boned face when he smiled.

  ‘Stop staring at him so hard; he is our son!’ teased Ganga, watching her husband’s apparent awe. ‘This is our son who is now no longer a child, but a master of all. As I had promised, he has been groomed to be a master at politics, philosophy, religion and warfare. He will follow the code of conduct of a Kshatriya like no other man has ever done, and no other man ever will. He equals Rishi Parashuram in the art of arms. . .’

  ‘Parashuram?’ echoed Shantanu incredulously. ‘He is the greatest of all warriors, but he loathes them; then how did he accept Devavrat as his disciple?’

  Ganga smiled. ‘I pleaded with him,’ she said simply, with a slight shake of her lovely head. ‘I begged and I entreated and, at last, Parashuram deigned to make our son his student, and teach him the deepest secrets of archery.’

  Shantanu could not believe his ears. ‘Then our son’s expertise must be the unrivalled!’

  Ganga nodded, her smile gentle. ‘I tried, Shantanu. I tried to bring him up learning from the best. He received his knowledge of the Vedas and the Vedanta under Rishi Vasisht, and the arts and sciences under Shukracharya himself. Take back your son, the finest archer and master state craftsman, for he is destined to bring immortal fame to his father’s name and dynasty; the greatest name of the Kuru race.’

  ‘I did what was expected of me, and I promise to continue doing so in the future,’ Devavrat said.

  Shantanu chuckled with delight. ‘His humility is charming!’

  Ganga knew it was time for her to leave both of them. She had united the father with his son. With a sinking heart, she looked at her boy for the last time; his eyes crinkling, smiling shyly with that unruly swathe of hair over his forehead. From Heaven to Earth, or would it be Hell for him, she thought, not daring to cry, lest her tears dried up the earth. Her son, so reluctant to escape her world, would now be trapped as the prince of an ancient royal house she had lived in and left.

  ‘You take our son back to the palace,’ she forced a small smile, before turning quickly to Devavrat. ‘I will not stay longer. Promise me that you will look after this kingdom and your father. Never fail me on both. Your father is old now, but he refuses to believe it,’ she laughed shortly.

  Devavrat nodded, not trusting himself to speak, the lump in his throat hurting him less than the ache in his heart. She was leaving him. Forever. His emotions at meeting his father had barely filtered through when he was being torn with a larger pain. He clenched his fingers to stop himself from holding his mother one last time. Not because he did not want to display his wavering emotions, but to help her stay strong. He would have his father now, but whom would she have? Heaven was a lovely paradise, but soullessly lonely.

  ‘Meet me whenever I need you, Ma,’ he whispered, as he bent down to touch her feet. ‘You will come, won’t you?’

  ‘Always, Dev,’ she nodded, dry-eyed, as she tucked back the fallen lock of hair. He could hear the tears trembling in her voice.

  He felt the warm touch of her hands in his, but before he could grasp them, she had slipped and disappeared into the swirling surf of the river, leaving the two men suddenly bereft.

  One story had ended, another was about to begin, thought Devavrat as he gently took the hand of his heartbroken father.

  The baby arrived sooner than expected, herald
ing its arrival with a loud cry.

  It was a boy, as Parashar had said it would be. Kali was filled with a sense of trepidation. She glanced at the baby sleeping blissfully in her arms. He was not fair-skinned like his father, but dark like her; with her ebony hair and large, thick-lashed, sooty eyes. She felt proud. She had already marked her stamp on him. He would be her son, her first-born. But she would have to let him go.

  Rishi Parashar had sent a woman to take the baby to his ashram. As promised, he would bring up his son. And he had given Kali the choice and freedom to meet him any time she wanted. But she wondered if she ever would.

  Kali stroked the soft cheek of the sleeping baby. ‘Krishna Dwaipayan,’ she murmured. ‘That is your name. Krishna, because you are dark like me. Dwaipayan, because you were conceived on an island, surrounded by the waters of knowledge, wisdom and prosperity.’

  Without further fuss, she handed the baby to the woman, who bowed and walked away as swiftly as she had arrived, the bundle held safely in her arms.

  Kali wondered how and why she had met a stranger and had had a child from him. Things happen for a reason, they say. What was the reason that she consummated a fleeting relationship with an omniscient seer like Parashar, who was a guest in her house; and why had she mothered his child and given it back to him, as if it was a gift for keep.

  She felt an irrational anger, a frustration that had surely been building up inside her for a long time. She detested her life—the constant ferrying of strangers across the river seemed like a cruel joke. She helped people reach their destinations, but she could not see her own journey’s end. Indeed, there seemed to be no journey in her horizon, to travel and be ferried across.

  Kali was surprised when she sometimes missed her son. He had hardly been with her for a week, yet the baby was the one person whom she could call her own. He filled her with a sense of family, of identification. She was his mother; he was her very own. Hers, she repeated. Unlike her father. Who had been this King Vasu, her famous father, who had deserted her, yet kept her twin brother? Why had he given her away so easily?

  She shuddered: she had also given away her son; too easily, she thought. But it was better her son remained with his father than with her. He would grow up with dignity, and be groomed with the best education. She had done what she thought was best for him, and it would remain a closed chapter of her life.

  Her thoughts kept coming back to her parents. Her mother had lived and died, shrouded forever in obscurity. Would she, too, continue living in this stinking lane, in this derelict house? Or would she be married off to some village boy, or a young fisherman, to live in inconspicuousness? Kali felt a cold fury grip her again. She would not be as helpless as her mother, living a life of seclusion and dying an ignominious, undignified death. She would not allow herself to be used, never again, she promised herself fiercely. Parashar, in his moment of passion, had been as mindless as King Vasu. If one had been a man of power, the other had been a person of knowledge—both privileged and powerful—imposing on the weak and vulnerable. But she was neither weak nor vulnerable now.

  ‘Who was my father really?’ she asked Dasharaj directly one day. ‘You worked for him, didn’t you? Tell me more about him.’

  ‘So that you hate him more or loathe him less?’ he asked shrewdly.

  Kali nodded. ‘I shall try not to judge him too quickly.’

  ‘Your father is an interesting man, he always was. He was the crown prince of the Puru royal line,’ Dasharaj said, watching his daughter’s face carefully. ‘But strangely, he had no affection for land and politics. He wanted to be a rishi, and, at a very young age, he took up meditation. He was so close to becoming an enlightened rishi that Lord Indra was alarmed. In desperation, he offered not an apsara or a woman, as he usually did, but two unusual temptations to the young prince: an eternal world of pleasure, and friendship with the gods. Besides that, he gave him Chedi, the wealthiest kingdom on Earth—with fertile and sacred land, rich in animal wealth, precious stones and mineral wealth, and honest, law-abiding subjects. Lastly, Indra bribed him with a strange, horse-drawn flying chariot, which he had earlier gifted to King Yayati, one of Vasu’s famous ancestors. It was the viman which every king in the world yearned for. Vasu yielded, and, soon, with his frequent globetrotting travels in the skies, he came to be known as Uparichar Vasu—the upward-going one. He is as famous as he is kind—’

  Kali snorted in open derision.

  Dasharaj ignored her interruption and continued, ‘Uparichar Vasu invaded the Chedi kingdom with Indra’s help, and, surprisingly, married not a royal but a lovely mountain girl, Girika, from Kolahala, whom he met whilst building a dam on the river Suktimati. Rumours abound that she was of dubious birth.’

  ‘What! Do you mean she was born out of rape?’ asked a startled Kali. ‘It could only mean that, couldn’t it, Father? Who was it?’

  ‘No one knew, but to squash the ugly rumours, a myth was conveniently encouraged about her birth. Ignoring the ugly talk, King Vasu fell in love with this orphaned girl, and married her.’

  ‘Yet he did not hesitate to seduce my mother?’ she lashed out, her face pale.

  Dasharaj shook his head wearily. ‘Yes, he is a married man, known to be madly in love with his wife, that’s why he never accepted Adrika. He succumbed to his one weak moment with my sister. He regretted it, but took in the boy as he needed an heir; but you . . . he could afford to give away to me. Who would have accepted an illegitimate daughter? Who would have married such a princess? I really don’t know how the royal minds work, but I gladly took you in. You are my blood!’

  Her face swiftly softened, as did her voice. ‘Because I was the only reminder of Adrika?’ she asked sadly. Her heart hurt for this man, who had to witness his younger sister’s agony, and her subsequent death.

  Kali had always loved her father unconditionally, but for the first time she respected him for his sense of honour and incredible integrity.

  ‘Will history repeat itself with me as well, Father?’ she asked with a frightened catch in her voice. Her face was stricken. ‘Will my son face the same humiliation and rejection? For what Parashar did to me? Will my past haunt my future? Will my son hate me as I hate my father?’ she cried, burying her face in her trembling hands. ‘I don’t know the answers to my questions; I don’t know whom I resent more—my father or Parashar, for their lust, or myself for surrendering to him and the situation!’

  ‘Don’t be so harsh on yourself,’ said Dasharaj, gently shaking her by the shoulders. ‘Your son is with his father. That is what matters; and the fact remains that you have the freedom to continue with your life. You wanted that, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but then what was I instrumental for?’ she countered angrily.

  ‘For a prodigy to take birth,’ said Dasharaj gently. ‘I told you, Parashar was so blessed. But he knew he would never marry. In you, he saw the ideal woman who could bear his child; the child he was destined to have.’

  ‘A poor ferry girl he could take advantage of?’ she said scornfully.

  ‘No; a woman who did not care for social norms, and one who had the courage to face the consequences. He wanted an unusual child from an unusual woman. That is you, dear. Never forget it. He was aware of your background; he recognized the simmering anger inside you, and that is why he willingly gave you all that you demanded: to empower you further. It was not just an act of seduction and consummation; you became a complete woman. You didn’t just give birth to a boy; it was your rebirth, too.’

  Kali listened to her father, but she knew she could never let go of the hatred she had developed since early in life: for the royal father whose uncaring decision sealed her fate and future; for what had happened to her mother; for allowing herself to be used; and for the poverty she lived in. Hate was as pervasive as the stench of dead fish that assailed her every day; as strong as the waves which could toss a dingy in the river and drown her in its whirlpool. She was determined not to suffer, but to struggle and
survive. She would bide her time.

  She shook her head to clear away any wayward thoughts. ‘I learnt about the ways of men,’ she said tartly. ‘I saw the ways of my biological father, then Parashar—both passion-driven, yet emotionally detached. I learnt to love like a man—to love without feelings. And I shall never forget this lesson in my life.’

  The Crown Prince

  Devavrat made the palace of Hastinapur his home, just as Mount Meru was. He missed his home terribly, as he missed his mother. But he loved his ageing father and understood that he needed him more. While he took his daily stroll with his father, the sun rose, flooding the garden with brilliant light. Foreseeing a long, bright, cheerful day, there stirred in his bosom a joyous, youthful feeling, such as he used to experience in his childhood, running about in the garden of Meru, with his mother. And in a sudden impulse, he affectionately held the frail hand of his father, happy that he was there for him. His father, he knew, was a sad and lonely man, still pining for Ganga. He could never fill the void, but he hoped his presence might bring a smile to his lips. Both of them, emotionally vulnerable, slowly strolled indoors, into the palace, to share more talk over fresh sweetmeats, which again acutely reminded Devavrat of his childhood. The delightful present blended with the impressions of the past that stirred within him; there was a tightness in his chest; yet, he was happy.

  Devavrat found, to his surprise, that apart from his father, there was hardly any other family member staying at the palace. There was a stark absence of a personal, feminine touch as there were no women here except for the chirpy Kripi, barely a girl of ten. She and her twin brother, Kripa, had been adopted by his father when he had found them as babies, abandoned in the woods. Which parent could be so heartless as to leave infants in a jungle filled with wild animals? Man was more cruel than beasts.