by Kavita Kane
‘That he can marry her only if her children are the heirs to the throne. Not you,’ Dasharaj stated. ‘If she is fit enough to be his wife, his queen, will her children from your father not be fit enough to be heirs? But your father does not agree with this. He does not want to disinherit you, oh Crown Prince.’
An image of his father’s sorrowful face and his mother’s request pierced his heart. ‘Look after your father, Son!’
The past four years had shown him that his father was essentially an unhappy, lonely man, wrapped in a blanket of despondency. Never had a day gone by when he had not mentioned Ganga, pining and bitter. She was his lost love; a love he sought in other women, earning him the disreputable reputation of a womanizer. It was a harsh assertion, not entirely fair. Shantanu missed Ganga and she would never return to him the way his son had. Devavrat often saw that vacant hope in his father’s eyes, wishing it was Ganga who was by his side and not him. So many years ago, had she thrown him into the river, he would have drowned and died and would have been released from his curse. And his mother would have continued to stay with her husband, happily ever after. . .
But this was not to be, because of me. Mother left Father because of me; she had to return to Heaven to groom me. I cannot bear to see my Father’s lonely, empty eyes; they weigh me down, and guilt lays heavily on my heart. Now, Father has found love again, and I am, once again, in the way. . .
Devavrat blinked as he was brought to the present with a start. He observed the girl again; her father was hovering protectively by her side.
‘My being the crown prince should not hinder my father’s decision at all. It was foolish on your part to have asked my father for what is mine,’ he said, his voice even, his eyes steady. ‘My father cannot promise you, sir, or you. . .’ he said, bowing towards Kali, ‘. . .or even your grandsons the crown of Hastinapur, because he has already given it to me.’
Kali heard the finality in his voice, and knew what was coming. He had come here to fight. She balled her fingers into a tight fist, trying to suppress her fear and frustration. Her father had got it all wrong. . .
The prince continued in a soft voice. ‘It was not his to give. But what is mine, I can give. And I give it to you,’ he said, as he again flicked Kali a cursory look before bowing graciously. ‘At this very instant, I give up my right over the throne,’ he said calmly, and he heard the girl gasp. ‘I vow that it will be your daughter’s children who will be the heirs; not me. Please, sir, let not this small issue stand in their way to happiness.’
Devavrat felt a sudden load lift off him, making him almost dizzy with light-heartedness. He would no longer be king; his heart filled with relief. He knew with certainty that he had never wished to be king, to have a crown forced on his head merely because he was his father’s only son. A father he barely knew; a kingdom that had never been his home.
He noticed the girl staring at him with open disbelief. There was no elation on her face, just plain confusion. Or was it guilt? Even the father looked surprised, slightly discomfited. Was the allure of the throne so strong that it had become a term of temptation, a deal to bargain, Devavrat thought with wry amusement. And then he took in his surroundings—the tattered room; the thin, peeling walls; the girl, proud in her shabby clothes; the old man, wasted and tired. For them, possibly, power and wealth were a dream to wake into; an ambition to achieve. Had he got it too easily?
Kali looked down at her twisting fingers, unable to look into the crown prince’s frank, open face. She had just wrested the throne from him and grabbed it for herself and her future children. She should be celebrating—the biggest hurdle to her way up had been removed. But this young man had removed it himself, gracefully stepping away to make way for her. His magnanimity made her feel ashamed and small. Her ambition had made her compromise on her values and conduct, violating ethics and moral standards. She alone would have to bear the significant responsibility of her unforgivable transgression.
‘If this is what is keeping my father away from his happiness,’ he was staring at her now, ‘then I promise that I shall never sit on that throne. Mother Satyavati can marry my father with no further delay.’
She felt her heart stop and then hammer rapidly. The new moniker with which she was addressed shook her.
The old fisherman was quick to gather his wits. ‘Young Prince, you are the brightest star of the Bharat dynasty. What you have done has never before been done by any royal person until now. . .’
Devavrat smiled, shaking his head, and Kali was amazed he could smile in a situation like this. ‘No, sir, it’s been done often in my family!’ he said dryly. ‘My uncles have refused the throne for my father who was the youngest of the three. And our ancestor, King Bharat, gave his throne, not to his sons, whom he found unworthy of the crown, but to his adopted son, a relative of Rishi Bhardwaj,’ he added.
Dasharaj looked suitably chastised, but he continued smoothly, ‘Nevertheless you are a hero, Prince Devavrat! It’s not easy giving up a throne. You have readily relinquished it now. That’s very generous of you! History will always remember your sacrifice. But I have one doubt. If your father has no right to make this promise on your behalf, then how come you seem to own the right to make the promise on behalf of your sons? What if your sons go against your word and raise arms against my grandsons for this very throne? Would your future wife and your children agree to this decision? Would they not revolt against it, against their step-brothers and step-mother? How do I know that they will not revoke their rights, as you have done? If they are anything like you, they, too, will be brave, mighty warriors and powerful enough to seize back the throne that is also their birthright. How, then, do I safeguard my daughter and her sons, Prince?’
Devavrat scrutinized the man standing before him, and he felt a strange admiration for him. This is how a father should be, fighting with all his dignity and conviction for the future of his child.
He bowed low, and said, ‘You are correct, sir! I cannot decide and make promises on behalf of my children. But I can certainly decide something on my own, for myself. To remove any further doubts and fears about the future of your daughter and grandsons, I have decided right now never to marry. The solution is simple, sir. There will be no sons of mine to usurp your daughter’s rights,’ he continued, rising his right arm to take the oath. ‘I vow to you, sir, I shall never marry, and, henceforth, shall dedicate my life to celibacy and unbroken chastity. I swear that I shall never be with a woman, nor father children. May my mother, Ganga, and the devas, be the witnesses to my promise to you—I, Devavrat, the son of Ganga and Shantanu, pledge never to marry and father children with any woman. I shall remain without a wife and child till my last breath. That is my promise to you!’
His words stilled the beating of her heart for the longest, excruciating moment. Was there a deafening silence plunging the world into a stillness of horror? It was as if the entire cosmos and every creature inhabiting it had been silenced with the profundity of his words. A strong breeze shattered the silence and whipped inside the house, as if to disintegrate the words uttered in this room and fling them out into the universe for all and the devas to hear. The wind whirled around Devavrat, showering the extraordinary young man with flowers, accepting and appreciating his extraordinary oath.
It was a terrible oath. It was not just an end of him and his future, but he would have none to call his own in life or death—no wife, no children, no throne, no kingdom, no legacy to bequeath; just his soul sealed with this oath for eternity.
‘Bhishm!’ the wind seemed to whistle, rising to a crescendo and into a revered chant.
‘Bhishm,’ repeated Dasharaj, bowing his head in genuine veneration. ‘The devas seem to have given you a new name, Prince. “Bhishm” means a man who takes the most terrible vow.’
Which I made you take, thought Kali with a heavy heart that was tightening painfully. She heard the soldiers outside shouting a chant, a war cry.
‘Bhishm!’
&nbs
p; The door unexpectedly flew open, not by the howling wind outside, but by his white-faced charioteer.
Manjunath fell at his feet, sobbing. ‘What have you done, my prince? Your pledge has disturbed even the cosmos. The clouds are weeping a downpour of heavy rains, and the devas have descended to Earth to shower you, sir, with flowers and blessings. Your words rang out loud, tore through the walls of this room into the open sky and beyond—and see what a tempest it has created! Time has never seen such a terrible oath being taken by anyone, nor will it ever see such a terrible sight. There are tears in the eyes of every soldier standing outside,’ he waved a wiry arm towards the narrow lane. ‘Princes and kings have been known to slaughter the weak to show off their might and valour. But here you are, the mightiest of kings, giving up everything for the sake of your old father. I don’t know if we are blessed or cursed to have seen the most historical moment in time!’
Manjunath paused. ‘Had it not been for me, who brought you to this damned place, you would have never met this witch!’ he snarled, throwing at Kali such a glare of visceral hate that she felt the physical impact of it. ‘I am to blame for letting you meet her and her evil father. You, in your goodness, Prince, and they, in their greed and evil . . . all of you cannot foresee the implications of this terrible vow on not just the Kuru clan, but Hastinapur as well! You have said it in your nobleness, sir, and they have happily heard it, but this is doom! Take it back, my dear prince. It will cost all of us dearly!’
The room echoed with the potency of Manjunath’s words and what they would portend. Kali had gone pale; fear clutched at her throat: First that oath, and now the loyal man’s warning. What have I initiated?
Devavrat looked unfazed. ‘My father will be a happier man now,’ he said simply.
Kali shuddered, an inaudible ‘No!’ slipping from her horrified mouth. ‘You can’t take that vow!’
‘Mother,’ bowed the Prince. ‘It is done.’
Mother—the word sounded horribly foreign to her, crushing her with the burden of its weight. The prince said it with strange detachment; it felt like a stinging slap on her face. By calling her his mother, he was reminding her of who she was: his father’s wife. The poor fisher girl who aspired to be queen. The girl who schemed to marry his father. The queen who usurped his throne. The woman who could never be his mother. That word was a profanity, a scornful abuse, a blasphemy to their new relationship.
Had she wanted this? To make her the queen, her father had deprived another of his birthright. With no throne, no crown, no wife, no children, what kind of a life would the prince live?
For the first time in her young life, Kali felt guilty. She had experienced anger and shame and humiliation, but never guilt. It was an unfamiliar emotion: painful, wrenching her heart, making her feel mortified with the searing realization that she had wronged an innocent person. The gravity of her offensive action was so overwhelming, it was drowning her in a tide of remorse and misgiving. She felt that she had lost respect for herself; that she had dishonoured her very being.
‘No! Please take back that terrible oath, Prince!’ she implored, ignoring Dasharaj’s furious glare. ‘What my father is asking for is worse than your life; even death would be kinder,’ she said, her voice getting firmer with each word. ‘What you are doing is an unwarranted sacrifice, surrendering everything to my father’s wishes. . .’
‘No,’ smiled the prince, his eyes almost mocking. ‘It’s for my father. I am doing this for him.’
Not you, he meant to say. He was not getting arm-twisted by her father, but he was willingly relinquishing everything he had for just one man—his father. The gentle correction was like a slap on her face. She, or what she had wrested from him, meant nothing to him. It was as if he was almost laughing at them.
Kali persisted. ‘Your father will not agree to this absurd vow,’ she said. ‘Which father will be happy after sacrificing his son’s hope to happiness?’
‘It is my vow, Mother; even my father does not have the right to take it from me,’ replied Devavrat, his voice quiet but hardened by an inflexible resoluteness.
Kali looked at him in utter amazement. Was he a naive fool? Or an idealist? But what she could gauge in that brief moment was that he was an excessively obdurate young man, having and showing an obstinate determination not to change his attitude, in spite of good reasons to do so. He was unyielding, she quickly realized, unwilling to revise his words and the course of his actions, of his life and future.
The onus of which will fall on me, she thought with a sinking heart. Neither Shantanu, nor his kingdom, nor the world will ever forgive me.
‘Now that I have taken the oath of celibacy and relinquished the crown, I hope there is nothing more to stop my father from marrying you, Mother. Shall we leave for Hastinapur now?’ asked the prince politely, taking in her troubled face. ‘That is if your father trusts me with my promise,’ he added sardonically.
Kali flushed, ashamed to even glance at her father. Or at the prince. She would never be able to justify the injustice she had inflicted on him.
‘Please could I talk with him before we leave?’ she muttered.
Devavrat bowed. ‘I shall wait outside,’ he said perfunctorily, taking Manjunath by his hand, and leading him out.
No sooner had the door closed behind him, than Kali turned on her father wrathfully. He was prepared for it.
‘You are heartless!’ she raged. ‘But the world will point fingers at me, not you, Father, accusing me of being a gold-digger!’
‘It is self-preservation,’ he replied smoothly. ‘As you said, would you rather be known as a vamp than a victim?’
‘What you did to the prince is unforgivable, Father,’ she said hollowly. ‘I shall never be able to look him in the eye. It will lay heavy on my conscience.’
‘That is better than to have regrets later! You do not understand the games the royalty play. If you are to marry a king, you need to know the game and that there’s always a price for everything,’ retorted Dasharaj.
‘Take it back, Father, please!’ begged Kali.
‘He took the oath, not I. How can I force him to take his words back.’
‘Do you realize what you have done? You have snatched everything from him, you have destroyed him, taken his present and his future. . .’
‘I know,’ said Dasharaj, his voice hard.
Kali shook her head in despair. ‘I just wanted to be a queen,’ she said simply, her face forlorn. ‘But not at this cost.’
‘You can and you will!’ he said forcefully. ‘I couldn’t do anything for my sister; I watched her anguish, her heartbreak. . .’ his voice trembled. ‘I won’t make you suffer her fate. I don’t care if someone else has to pay for that wrong. If not the King of Chedi, let it be the young crown prince who gets for you what you lost. So don’t undo what I did.’
‘If not Shantanu, there will be some other suitor. . .’ she started weakly.
‘Some other king who will walk the stinking streets of this village and fall in love with you?’ laughed her father mirthlessly. ‘Be realistic, child! You started it and I finished it for you. It went perfectly. Don’t allow your conscience to hurt you or your future children!’
Kali opened her mouth weakly to protest further, but the door opened and a young soldier entered holding silk robes.
‘The prince has sent this for you, my lady,’ he declared in a low tone, his eyes downcast.
Kali was not used to such a reverential manner of speaking. She would have to get used to it, she thought irrelevantly, as she accepted the silk raiment: it was a deep purple, fit for a queen. A queen, she rolled the word, silently, on her tongue. A sudden elation dispelled the guilt that had pierced her soul.
The Sacrifice
Hastinapur was overwhelming—both in character, and in the welcome that awaited them. As they sailed through the waves of happy faces thronging every street of the walled city, they were greeted with salutes, bows and cheers. Just hours before, Kali had b
een one of them: an inconsequential face in a mass of humans, lost in the herd.
‘Prince Devavrat! Devavrat! Our new king!’ they cheered in reverential chorus.
The crowds clearly adored him. The applause, the love, the veneration is for Devavrat, not for me, Kali quickly reminded herself. But one day, they will chant my name in the same breath, she vowed, pressing a fingertip on her lower lip. Once I become the queen, they will have to acknowledge me as their sovereign saviour, too. . .
‘Please respond to them,’ Devavrat’s curt voice interrupted her reverie, glancing at her with his dark, hooded eyes. ‘Or fold your hands in acknowledgement.’
Kali resented his tone, but obeyed him quietly. She was immediately greeted with a loud cheer.
They held each other’s gaze for several seconds.
‘Only when you give respect, do you get respect,’ he said crisply.
Kali bristled, eyeing him mutinously under her thick, sooty eyelashes, her face lowered. There was a certain air about him that made her feel like he was being dismissive.
He suddenly looked straight at her. He had been guarded till now, and, for a fleeting moment, she thought she saw undiluted contempt in his eyes. It was a shock to realize he thought so low of her. But that was to be expected, after what she had done to him. She could not blame him or resent him, but it was a shock all the same. She could see how complicated it was all going to be.
‘It is the people who make a king, always,’ he went on impassively.
Not a conniving game of crowns, she reckoned, was his sanctimonious insinuation. An angry flush mounted up her neck.
‘The people will always bow to a king. Or a queen,’ Kali reminded him icily. ‘Irrespective of who the king is—a Samaritan or a scoundrel. People are often in awe of the crown; they fear the king, not love him. I know that, Prince. I was one of them,’ she added pointedly.
He looked away, staring into the horizon, seemingly amused at her immediate defensiveness, which riled her further.
The palace was so massive that none could miss it even from a considerable distance. Her heart unexpectedly filled, not with animated anticipation, but a flood of dread, as it came into view. Situated almost at the top of a hillock, it resembled a fortress: immense and daunting. Now she would live here, amongst the rich, the powerful and the privileged, she forced some enthusiasm. She had yearned for this for years, all through her bleak childhood. But strangely, when it was now in her grasp, the dazzle of it was not so appealing. Could it be because of the people’s reception of her in the city or Devavrat’s silent hostility? Kali’s face twisted in an unconscious grimace: the rich and powerful were anyway harder to deal with than folks further down the social ladder.
