The Fisher Queen's Dynasty

by Kavita Kane

  Kali knew she was adept at love-making, yet she felt a slight shiver, cold and unsettling. The wasted good looks of Shantanu still lingered on his dissipated face, but she could not forget that he was old and wrinkled. . . She shuddered as she recalled his parched, rough skin against hers, his wet mouth on hers, his stale breath on her face . . . No! She couldn’t go through with this; not just tonight, but every single day of her life with him henceforth. . .

  But she would have to. She was his queen. It was her duty. Her status as queen would be uncertain till she produced an heir. And for that, she would have to surrender to her king, every day. . .

  She heard the door swing open and Shantanu being escorted inside the bedchamber by Bhishm. Her breath stilled as she took in the sight of the two men. Shantanu looking tired and leaning against his son, intoxicated with wine; and Bhishm, tall, young, handsome, with his shy smile, and the irresistible lock of hair falling over his inscrutable eyes—the eyes that saw more than they revealed. Could he see what she was going through as he bowed low before her? She turned her face away from him, biting her lips. He was responsible for this, she screamed silently, unreasonably bitter, as she felt the hot prick of angry tears smarting her eyes. He had brought her here to Hastinapur, he had fought for her with his father, he had seen that he got her married to his father, and he was the one who was in her bedchamber, escorting his father to his new bride. His mother, she thought savagely.

  Kali clenched her eyes shut, feeling a wave of disappointment wash over her. Why did I meet the king first, and not the prince, she thought as she saw Bhishm depart, leaving her strangely bereft.

  She felt Shantanu’s sweaty hand on her shoulder and willed herself to look at him. She shuddered inwardly again. She observed all that she had failed to see before: the fine crowfeet at the corner of his dull eyes, his face lined and slightly fleshy, sagging at the jowls to give him a forlorn look, the soppy downturn of his lips, not just the sign of a spoilt man, but the result of his constant coughing having slackened his cheeks. She had overlooked all this in her greed to have him, have the crown.

  She was supposed to be in love with this man. But she was not; she was incapable of falling in love. One has to stumble to fall in love or otherwise, she thought grimly, and I am not one who will ever stumble or fall. But to own the king, she had to give her all, she reminded herself.

  As she felt him lying on top of her, she was overcome by despair, the lingering image of Bhishm, his handsome face smiling, the hazel eyes cold, his beautiful lips mocking her as he whispered, ‘Mother!’

  She forced her eyes firmly shut. The final act had to be performed.

  The Queen

  From that day on, she was no longer Kali; she was Satyavati, the wife of Shantanu. But not yet his queen, honoured with the crown. Satyavati stared up at the gilded ceiling and felt a movement in the soft bed. Shantanu was lying beside her, gazing at her, feeling spent, thinking there was no woman he had ever slept with who could drain him as his bride had.

  Satyavati was startled by the sound of an angry roar. She stiffened. Shantanu was already at the window, looking out to check the rude commotion. Would it be another bad day like yesterday, her wedding night? She knew she had made him happy, but she shuddered involuntarily, shutting off the mental picture. There would be many more such nights. She shrugged and straightened against the pillows.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked curiously.

  ‘There is a mob outside the palace,’ he replied tersely.

  ‘Have your soldiers rounded them up,’ she suggested casually, stretching against the silken sheets. She slid off the bed, hugging her shawl, and he watched her sleek, beautiful back; her tight, rounded behind; her long, slim legs as she ambled towards him; and he felt the stir of desire again.

  ‘It’s just a commotion. Dev will look into it,’ he dismissed, holding her by the waist and edging her back to the huge bed. ‘Let’s start the morning in a better way,’ he said huskily, closing his lips on her surprised ones. He pulled her against him, his hands slid down her back. Pulling away her shawl, his fingers gripped her hips. She closed her eyes. His fingers, gripping her flesh, made her feel sick. She stiffened, pushing slightly at his chest. ‘Is it not already late?’ she forced a smile. ‘It is going to be a long day today as well. . .’

  ‘Yes, your coronation as queen,’ he sighed, releasing her. ‘But it’ll be a short, simple affair. Not anything like our wedding. It’s just a formality.’

  She breathed more easily, thankful for the distraction. ‘And I think the crowd outside needs looking into as well,’ she said with a delicate frown. ‘The people are clearly still unhappy.’

  And so were the nobles and the courtiers. There was a lot of criticism of King Shantanu from the court, and his subjects, as to why he had removed the crown prince as his heir. Bhishm had to face the crowd and tell the people that it was his decision to step down, and that his father should not be blamed for it. Rishi Devapi was not convinced, and asked him who would be held responsible if the future crown prince was not capable enough. Bhishm then took his second vow: that he would always serve and guide whoever sat on the king’s throne. Nobody was pleased. The crowd burst into a cry.

  ‘Bhishm! Bhishm! Our prince, our king!’

  The message was crisp and clear: the public wanted only Bhishm.

  ‘How long will they go on?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘Until they learn to accept you. Us,’ he corrected wearily, his face as tired as his voice. ‘Don’t let it dampen your happiness.’

  He seemed unusually upset. Had he sensed her repugnance a moment ago or that of the previous night? She had tried hard to hide it. Or was it a sign of the day to come, when she would be anointed as queen. Was he already regretting it?

  A manservant announced Bhishm’s presence. He was said to be the first person Shantanu saw when he woke up in the morning, and today was no exception.

  Satyavati left father and son together, and strolled outside. She was surprised to see a teenage girl waiting in her morning chamber.

  ‘I am Kripi,’ the girl said sullenly.

  ‘But who are you?’ Satyavati asked calmly, unperturbed by the announcement. ‘Your presence was not announced.’

  The girl raised a well-shaped eyebrow. ‘I don’t need to be announced. I stay here, Queen Daseyi; you are new to the palace.’

  Satyavati gasped at the open affront. The name ‘Daseyi’ meant one of the dasa—slave, or at the most polite, an aboriginal woman.

  ‘And, you, girl, whoever you are, need to be taught some manners,’ retorted Satyavati icily. ‘My name is Satyavati.’

  Kripi returned a wordless stare, and regarded Satyavati’s trim figure with distaste. Satyavati recognized the silent assessment: this impudent girl clearly considered her as the evil temptress who had bewitched the old king.

  ‘I know. As Satyavati, you are the epitome of satya,’ drawled Kripi, her tone implying otherwise. ‘You are well known as Kali, the dark one. But I have heard the king call you Matsyagandha and you make your presence felt sufficiently enough by your . . . er . . . smell. . .’ she said, as if to imply that the fragrance the new queen emanated was the stench of rot.

  ‘. . .but I meant no offence when I called you Daseyi. You are the daughter of Dasharaj, that fisherman; are you not?’ asked Kripi, with apparent innocence.

  ‘I would prefer Satyavati, though,’ the new queen said coldly.

  ‘Are you not your father’s daughter, then?’ taunted Kripi.

  Satyavati bit her lip. She knew she had been cornered.

  ‘Queen Daseyi, you are to be coroneted as queen today, and I am here to instruct you about the rituals,’ explained Kripi, enjoying her obvious displeasure. ‘I am your tutor.’

  Satyavati could not hide her look of amazement.

  ‘You are a rishi?’ she asked in open surprise, knowing she sounded stupid. The girl was so young, barely in her teens.

  ‘I am a rishi’s daughter,’ corrected Kripi. �
��A scholar myself and well-versed in the shastras, besides the daily matters of the royal court. Shall we start?’

  While Kripi introduced her to some rituals of the ceremony, all Satyavati could think was how wonderfully confident this girl was. She looked at her closely, guarded in her appraisal.

  Kripi was pretty in a sensible way. Her skin was pale and smooth, and her features were sharp and regular. She seemed more intelligent than pretty, even in her manners. Fair, with a sharp, straight nose over thin lips, and an alert pair of light eyes, Kripi was slim and diminutive, but her big ego made up for her lack of height, thought Satyavati with annoyance.

  ‘Are we done for today?’ she asked after an hour.

  Kripi gave her an almost pitiful look. ‘Clearly, Queen Daseyi, since you have never been exposed to any mantras of the Vedas or the Upanishads, I need to familiarize you with them,’ she explained smoothly. ‘Since you are going to be queen now,’ she added pointedly, ‘it would be better you start soon. Politics, I am sure, must be one of your stronger subjects, but you need to educate yourself on other things as well. And I have been appointed as your teacher by King Shantanu,’ finished Kripi in a voice which brooked no further argument.

  Satyavati took in her barb calmly. ‘Why not Kripacharya? asked Satyavati.

  And then it struck her, why the girl was vaguely familiar. She had been hovering around the yagna near Kripacharya during the wedding ceremony, chanting the mantras with him. She was Kripacharya’s sister!

  ‘He has more important tasks at the court, Queen Daseyi,’ said Kripi woodenly.

  She marvelled at the girl’s malicious juxtaposition of the term ‘queen’ with the name ‘Daseyi’. But Satyavati had always admired spirit, and this was a highly spirited girl in front of her. Kripi was clearly a woman of power in the palace.

  Kripi, in her brusque manner, saw that Satyavati was suitably attired for the coronation: she had ordered the maids to dress her up in gold and vermillion silk.

  ‘Red would be better. You are still a bride,’ said Kripi noncommittally, her face giving nothing away.

  Satyavati fumed, but she was pleased at her reflection in the long, gold-gilded mirror. She stood tall and majestic, resplendent in the flaming blood-red silk that hugged her full figure, the richly embroidered gold reflecting against her burnished skin.

  ‘Wear less head jewellery, Queen Daseyi, as you shall soon be wearing the crown,’ advised Kripi, her tone crisp. ‘It could get heavy.’

  Satyavati wondered if she should be charitable enough to retort or discreetly polite, as expected from a queen. She replied swiftly, ‘I have carried life’s burden so long and so well that I am quite sure the crown would not be that heavy to wear!’

  She glimpsed the look of surprise on Kripi’s face and decided to follow her suggestion to go easy on the hair ornaments. They were so confusingly varied, displayed on the silver tray, that she wondered at the ingeniousness of the unknown person who created royal jewellery. There was one for each strand of her hair and each part of her body!

  Hours later, Satyavati walked up to the court for the first time, taken by the sheer opulence of the hall with its columned aisles on either side. Each column was an exquisite piece of engraved marble, encrusted with gems of all colours. She sucked in her breath, finding it difficult to breathe—this was the grandeur of royalty. It was embossed in every stone, brick and pillar, and she couldn’t help comparing it to the filthy street which led to her dilapidated house.

  Satyavati squared her shoulders as if to shake off that memory, that burden she did not want to carry any more. She was stepping into a new world: as the wife of the king, and now, the queen of Hastinapur.

  She heard the rants outside the palace walls. The sound rang through the high domes of the hall, chinking lightly against the crystals of the chandeliers, reminding her how she was the most hated person in Hastinapur right now.

  No one looked happy; not a single person in the assembly hall. She was but an opportunist for them; someone who had dared wrestle away the crown from their prince. But she saw it differently. They were being forced to witness a momentous occasion—a fisher girl had become queen. An abandoned baby had become queen. A misbegotten, unacknowledged orphan had forced the world to acknowledge her as queen. Matsyagandha was now queen. Kali was Queen Satyavati.

  She saw Bhishm approach her, bowing. They eyed each other. ‘You don’t have to make me a stranger,’ she said cautiously. ‘We shall be seeing a lot of each other; it’s best we be civil, if not cordial.’ He saw her pressing her lips, pressing a fingertip into the middle of the lower one, her face thoughtful. It was a habit of hers, he had noticed, when she was either worried or was thinking.

  His eyes narrowing, he suddenly laughed shortly. It was a harsh sound.

  ‘It is your day, Mother,’ he said impassively, as he led her to the throne. ‘You will be my father’s queen.’

  She barely heard Kripacharya formally requesting her to sit on the throne next to the king’s. She sat gingerly on it, her heart thudding hard, and experienced a strange but sweet heart-soaring moment when the crown was placed on her head by a sombre Shantanu, with Kripa performing the rituals. Kripi stood nearby, stone-faced. And behind her was Bhishm, carved like a cold, beautiful marble statue. Satyavati’s smile slipped, and she quickly looked away; she could not face him, not during this triumphal moment.

  Satyavati felt the flow of power sweeping down over her as the crown was placed on her head. Power was often considered insidious, dangerous, operating silently. She knew it; she was using it, experiencing it. And sitting on the throne with a crown resting on her head was a blatant display of that invisible power—it was heady and uplifting.

  Satyavati thoughtfully regarded the throne she was sitting on, next to Shantanu. Clearly, the main throne was meant for one—the king, alone. Until now, there had been no queen to accompany the king.

  ‘We need a bigger throne,’ she said to Kripacharya, pronouncing it with a practised smile. ‘For both of us to sit together,’ she said charmingly, the tone carrying a hint of the imperiousness expected from a monarch.

  ‘It shall be done, Queen Daseyi,’ said Kripi, with feigned respect.

  There was a momentary shocked pause. Shantanu seemed taken aback, but remained mute. From that moment onwards, everyone started addressing her as Queen Daseyi, reminding her of who she was in the palace.

  Bhishm was relieved that his uncles did not have to witness this scene: Bahlik and Devapi had been spared the ignominy. The court was openly sneering at the new queen, despite her pitiful attempts to make her position as a royal accepted.

  Bhishm felt an unexpected gush of rage, more at his father than his new wife. Shantanu had just proven himself to be the weak man his brothers had often accused him of being. His son was now witnessing it.

  Bhishm could sense Kripi looking at him; perhaps he had felt him tensing up. He knew the world was looking at him, everyone feeling sorry for him. He did not want their pity, he seethed. These days, everyone threw him pitiful looks. He wished he could run away from them, this place, and this endless torture.

  He recalled his father’s last boon to him. Icchamrityu. He could die when he chose to. Was death the only escape from this new hell? How brave would it be to accept death and escape from the fate he was destined to endure? His vow had not just been to Satyavati’s father, but also to the people of Hastinapur whom he had betrayed. He could not accept his boon till he saw Hastinapur in better hands. But having witnessed the spectacle at the coronation this morning, Bhishm felt a cold chill—would his father be an able ruler, intoxicated as he was by his bride?

  And he had helped his father to be what he was now. Bhishm could not run away from Bahlik’s last reproach: You failed me, Dev, and you failed Hastinapur. You would have been a great king; but you threw it all away for the whims of your father. What about your responsibility to the crown?

  He had allowed this girl to become his father’s wife; he had made her quee
n. Only he was to blame, and no one else. He had no reason or right to feel fury. He could not afford the luxury of that pointless emotion. He had tried to assuage his guilt and gift his father a new love to replace the pain of his mother leaving him. He had tried to give his father back his lost time, his lost love, his lost joy. But not at the expense of Hastinapur and the people, Bahlik’s outburst ran through his churning mind.

  He had failed them—his parents. Just as they had failed him in some way, some time. He resented his mother for having abandoned him into this world—not as a defenceless baby like his more fortunate drowned brothers—but as a full grown young man to step from her cloistered, loving world into the uncertain world of his father’s. He had grappled with it with the grace that was expected of him. He had now come to love the ways of this world—the city, the people, the court and his unknown family. But all had turned away from him—his uncles in displeasure of his father, and his father for this dark beauty: the queen consort. His father had failed him as well, by proving that he was far less important to him than this woman. But, worse, he had failed himself—he was the reason and the cause for his own failure. He sighed as he made to leave the hall as soon as the ceremony was over.

  Satyavati saw Bhishm walking away, and she lifted her chin: her head held high and glittering with the crown now snug in her coiffure. Her face was serene, not letting anyone see the heady thrill of triumph running through her, making an effort to contain the dam of joy that was sweeping her. She felt the cold, hard crown upon her head. It was heavy, she found much to her surprise, though it had looked fragile, encrusted with diamonds and pearls, an odd combination.

  ‘It looks good on you, too,’ commented Shantanu, trying to make her feel at ease. ‘Ganga loved white; she hated loud colours.’

  ‘I am wearing her crown?’ she stammered in a shocked whisper.

  A borrowed crown for a borrowed queen, taunted her inner voice. A second queen, a second wife and an interloper. She was not allowed to forget that.