by Kavita Kane
The happiness dissipated as fast as it had filled just a few moments ago, and she felt a hot flush mounting up to her face. She would be wearing Ganga’s crown; she had taken Ganga’s husband, Ganga’s place, Ganga’s role. Even Ganga’s son. Ganga! She gazed out of the long window into the distance of the glimmering river waters, flowing quietly near the palace: a silent presence in her life from now on. But she, Satyavati, was now the queen, the wife of her husband, King Shantanu, and mother of her son, Bhishm, she reminded herself.
Her blood curdled: how she detested that word. She was not his mother! Each time he hailed her so, she withered a little. He was the reminder of her biggest offence. How was she to be a mother to a man more her age, mother to a man whom she had divested everything of—his love, his life, his marriage, children, crown and kingdom? A mother is one who gives selflessly; she had taken everything from him.
Again she looked towards where she had seen Bhishm go, and saw Kripi following the tall figure of Bhishm. A sudden rush of rage swept over her. That girl had branded her as Daseyi: the servant-queen. The insult would reverberate far beyond the palace walls, she knew.
She had believed that if she asked Shantanu to dismiss Kripi from her personal service, he would agree. But he had stoutly refused. He had eagerly obeyed all her earlier requests, and she was taken aback when he refused her request. As far as his association with Kripa and Kripi went, he displayed an obstinacy which was almost irrational.
Clearly, Kripi knew her power over both the king and the prince. This gave her the confidence to be openly hostile. Satyavati made a decision to find out more about her. From what she could gather, Kripi and her twin brother, Kripa, had been adopted by Shantanu after he had found them abandoned on the river bank. They were just babies then. The moment she heard the word ‘abandoned’, her heart had warmed immediately towards them. They were like me. But luckier than me, as they did not have to claw their way to the luxuries and power of the palace like I had to, she reminded herself. Also, unlike her, the twins were inseparable; her twin brother had been crowned the King of Matsya, while she was made to languish in indignity.
‘When I saw them lying in the grass by the river bank, I remembered all the babies I had lost. . .’ Shantanu’s voice had been infinitely sad when he told her the story. ‘I had no child, so I brought them home and raised them as my children. And I was relieved when they welcomed Bhishm so warmly when he came back to me and Hastinapur.’
‘They couldn’t not do that,’ she remarked dryly. ‘They might be your adopted children, Shantanu, but they are not your blood. Dev is.’
Shantanu threw her a strange look. ‘They love him nevertheless,’ he said simply. ‘Both are very close to him. Kripi adores him like an older brother, and Kripa is his most loyal friend.’
She did not miss the warning tone in his voice; she had to make amends and accept these people as friends. Bhishm was still his detached, aloof self. She had not yet spoken to Kripa personally, but he did not hide his disdain for her. For him, she was the woman who had usurped his friend’s future and happiness.
‘Did you find out who had deserted them?’ she asked instead, wondering if they, too, had been disowned by a heartless father.
‘Yes, a few years later, I was surprised to see Rishi Sharadwan arrive at the palace. He claimed the twins were his, from the apsara Janapadi, who had been sent by Indra to seduce him. Angered at her deception, he had retreated to the forest to continue with his meditation. Years later, he came to know that she had abandoned the twins. He then came to Hastinapur searching for them. He wanted them back, but the children refused. . .’
‘I don’t blame them,’ she commented wryly.
Shantanu shrugged. ‘Lord Indra had sent many apsaras to break Sharadwan’s meditation, but he remained undeterred, till Janapadi broke his concentration. According to rumours, his fallen semen split a weed into two halves. From it were born two children: a boy and a girl, respectively. . .’
He was interrupted by Satyavati’s short laugh. ‘Really, you believe that rubbish? This “divine” tale sounds more like a cover-up for an illicit relationship between the rishi and the apsara!’ she said scornfully, contempt curling her lips.
It was achingly similar to hers: the tale of a king and a fisher girl masqueraded as a celestial romance.
‘These are smart stories to camouflage dirty secrets,’ she remarked tartly.
Shantanu frowned, puzzled. ‘Why do you feel so strongly about the twins?’
‘I was moved by their story of abandonment,’ she said with a tight smile.
‘They were not! I took them in, and their father, Sharadwan, became their guru!’
Unlike my father, who preferred to throw me out of his life and palace. How would I react if I ever met my father, Satyavati wondered. Would I forgive him as easily as these twins did their father?
‘He was their teacher?’ she asked curiously.
‘Sharadwan was dejected with his children’s refusal to come away with him. I suggested that he remain in the palace as their guru, teaching his children the mastery of war and weapons, so he could be close to them.’
‘But shouldn’t a rishi be teaching the Vedas and the Upanishads?’
‘That, too, but Sharadwan was exceptional,’ explained Shantanu. ‘He was the grandson of Rishi Gautam, and a prodigy. Legend goes that he was born with arrows! He grew up to be the best master archer . . . the reason why Indra felt threatened. I decided to use his knowledge; it was too precious to let go. By imparting the secret of the martial arts to his children, he would be helping out Hastinapur.’
‘That’s why you made his son, Kripa, the royal head priest,’ she interposed shrewdly. ‘Also, as the acharya, he would impart the knowledge inherited from his father to the princes of Hastinapur . . . to the future scions?’
‘Yes,’ nodded Shantanu. ‘Kripa is no ordinary rishi. Don’t go by his skinny frame and studious looks. He is also a trained kshatriya, superior even to his father. He is so good that he can single-handedly fight a battalion. He is often compared to Kartikey, the God of War, who famously defeated the asuras. Kripa and Dev make a formidable pair on the battlefield. But he is no match to my Dev. No one is!’ beamed Shantanu, his voice suddenly tender. ‘Dev did not need a Sharadwan; he has been groomed by legends like Parashuram, Shukracharya and Vasisht. My Dev is the best!’
She heard the raw pride in his voice.
‘And so now Kripacharya will be the guru of our children?’ she smiled suggestively.
Shantanu’s face brightened immediately, catching her by her wrist. ‘Certainly! I am waiting eagerly for that day!’
And so was she. As Shantanu pulled her down on the bed, she gave a victorious smile. She felt his dry lips touch hers, his hands urgently tugging at the silk folds of her antariya, as if to complete a big task. She knew what it was. She was now queen, and she had to produce heirs for her kingdom.
The Heirs
She felt a cold thrill, looking down at her newborn son. Satyavati could recall Bahlik’s warning before he had flounced out from the palace a year ago.
‘This girl will be the queen, the grand matriarch of this new dynasty that she will start! Along with yours, it will be her bloodline as well from now on.’
His portentous words had been similar to her father’s hopes. This infant is the heir to the Kuru throne, she smiled victoriously. But she had another one, too; no one knew she had another son. What would Shantanu say to that if he ever got to know? He need not know. Ignorance would be his bliss, and a blessing for her. She might divulge that secret if the occasion demanded, and when she was in a position to proclaim it. He was her firstborn, and she was not ashamed of having him. But now was not the time. . .
With a single encounter with Parashar, she had managed to turn her whole life around. She had got rid of the stench of her past, and, like her fragrance, she had made her life pleasant.
Satyavati realized the power of love and making love—a means to an en
d. First Parashar, then Shantanu; she had got what she wanted from both men. Some would deem it immoral, but virtue was a quality invented by men to suit their needs. If men could use women, why couldn’t it be the other way round? Sex and beauty were the weapons of seduction that she could, and had, wielded in conflict and contest.
The end results of using these weapons were what she had in her arms right now. Or her other son. Both would be masters of their fate and future—one a king and the other a rishi—with the blood of their fishmonger mother flowing in their veins.
Satyavati remembered cradling her first son, Krishna Dwaipayan, in her arms. Where was he now? Wandering with Parashar, his father, or mastering the Vedas from him and his great-grandfather, Rishi Vasisht? The boy had been endowed with the legacy of famous scholars, and she was sure he would further it beyond compare.
In her vulnerable moments, she gave in to the guilt of giving him away so easily to his father. Would he bear the same resentment she bore for her own father? It was her worst fear. He had barely been with her for a week—a dark, wrinkled and quiet baby. Unlike this fair son, whom she pressed fiercely to her bosom, promising herself she would never let go of him, come what may. She looked at him affectionately. Her son was every inch the prince he was—all fire and fury; his light, pale skin mottled crimson in an indignant, lustful cry. He was already showing signs of being wilful, furious at having his slumber broken by the unruly holler beyond the palace walls.
Satyavati felt a surge of annoyance. Today, again, she and her baby had been awoken by the angry shouts of the mob at the royal gate. It had been over a year, yet the animosity towards her continued to simmer within and outside the palace walls.
She had tried to win them over several times, but was rebuffed unkindly each time. The ringing slogans from outside were a reminder of their displeasure. They orchestrated it on every special occasion in her life—her wedding day, on her coronation, at the birth of her son, and now, on the day of his christening ceremony. They openly loathed her. She looked towards the open window from where the harsh shouts wafted in with the soft breeze. She had underestimated the resentment roiling in the people of Hastinapur.
‘When do you intend to stop this open show of hostility?’ she asked her husband.
Shantanu coughed harshly, reminding her he was a sick man. ‘There was a promise made to them; we did not fulfil it, Matsyagandha,’ said Shantanu weakly. ‘They still hanker for Bhishm, and they have neither forgiven you nor me for what we did to him. . .’ his voice trailed away, his eyes distant.
She had to snap Shantanu out of his melancholy. ‘Today is the christening ceremony of our son,’ she interposed brightly. ‘Bhishm has personally selected clothes for you and the baby; the palace is decked like never before, and the street minstrels have been singing new ballads in the name of the Kuru kings since the day our son was born. . . Get up, Shantanu; it is a new day, a new beginning!’
‘I am well aware!’ he sighed weakly, lapsing again into his self-willed lugubriousness. ‘I have become a father again, but I have proved in the past that I am not a good father, and it will go down in history!’ he muttered wildly. ‘You have given me a son, the prince, the heir your father so wished,’ he added bitterly. ‘Dasharaj must surely be happy now.’
She looked back at him with a stiff smile; she noted his thin, shrivelled body and dark-circled, weary eyes and wondered how quickly Shantanu had dissipated into gloom.
‘My father is happy being a grandfather, and he doesn’t hide it,’ she said shortly. ‘What is so annoying about that?’
‘I have never liked him. He is too interfering!’ retorted Shantanu, his face darkening.
‘What is it that annoys you?’ she continued calmly. ‘That he is staying here in the palace, or the fact that he is a representative of the fisher community in your court? You agreed to this arrangement because you, too, realized that marginalizing the fishing community was not wise.’
‘Yes, you made me realize that,’ replied Shantanu, slightly mollified. ‘You saw to them very well—the children’s education, healthcare and employment. Your father got houses built for them, too. As you told me to, I have done everything for your people.’
‘Because it was needed,’ she argued with a smile. ‘They are your citizens, too. Make them feel that they belong, and they will serve you loyally. I know them. Treat them with the dignity they deserve. They are not pariahs that they should struggle with stigma and poverty, and be made to settle on the outskirts of the city, in ghettos.’
Shantanu looked peeved. ‘I agreed to everything that you said, Matsyagandha, but did you? I told you not to bring your father to the palace, but you did not listen. I am your king, not just your husband, and I expect you to comply with my commands!’
‘I am your wife, your queen,’ she said evenly. ‘I sit with you on the throne, sharing space and thought. . .’
‘And power. . . ?’ added Shantanu in an ironic tone.
‘Power, prestige and position,’ she agreed. ‘Power is craved for the pleasure it brings.’
‘Which you already seem to be misusing,’ he accused.
She was stunned by his accusation. ‘Because I brought my father here?’ she asked incredulously. ‘I just did what a daughter’s duty entails. He is unwell, and needs to be nursed.
‘Your “ill” father seems to be managing well enough at his new job and position at the court.’
‘He is working in spite of his illness,’ she said heatedly, her eyes narrowed, her chin up.
He interrupted her harshly. ‘I speak as a king! You have already antagonized the people, and getting your father here furthers their argument of favouritism. The racket outside is their voice against you.’
Shantanu leaned his head against the pillows, exhausted. ‘It’s up to you and Dev to take it up. I am too weak to handle them,’ he said wearily, with a deep sigh, before being wracked by another bout of coughing.
Satyavati frowned. ‘I shall call the doctor,’ she said shortly, now worried more about the ailing man lying on the bed than the disturbance outside. She would have to personally tend to both.
‘Don’t worry about those people outside; they won’t listen to you,’ he hacked hoarsely. ‘I shall tell Dev to handle them. Summon for him, please.’
Bhishm again. Shantanu could not function without that man, she sighed, pressing her finger abstractedly on her lower lip, thinking hard.
But she called for Bhishm regardless, and as always, felt secretly better when she did. His presence was soothing, and his voice slow and soft, as if he were speaking to a child. Previously, she had misunderstood it as condescending, but, with time, she had realized that he spoke like that with everyone, even the mercurial Kripi.
‘Is father’s health worse?’ he asked immediately, watching Shantanu’s inert sleeping form.
‘Yes. More because of these shouts we have woken up to today. The public is voicing their love for their king,’ she gave a dry smile. ‘And I am still their wicked queen. So, what do I do now?’ she asked, good-humouredly. ‘At the coronation, I had invited some of their representatives. They paid obeisance to the king, but not their new queen,’ she recalled, a finger tapping impatiently on her full, lower lip all the time.
She grimaced. ‘The insult was noted. What I cannot understand is that I am one of them; yet, they don’t accept me!’
Bhishm noticed a light stiffness in her voice. It sounded like something she said a little too often, a little too routinely.
He remained silent, out of habit; Bhishm kept his opinions to himself unless persistently asked.
‘What do I do?’ she repeated. She frowned in thought. ‘There is only one thing left to be done. . . You had personally talked to them, too, but in vain. Both of us tried in our own ways. Now let’s do something together, please?’ she added as a polite afterthought.
Bhishm hesitated. Last time she had spoken to the crowd, they had been unkind to her; some women had even pelted her with abuses,
but she had braved their wrath. For what it was worth, she had tried her best, but her efforts had proved inefficacious. Each of her gestures—be it sending food to the town, giving alms at the temple, personally distributing coins to the people—all seemed to be looked upon with open distrust and hostility. They loathed her, and Bhishm almost felt sorry for her. She was trying to win their hearts, but it was a losing battle.
‘What do you propose?’ he asked reluctantly.
‘Let’s talk to them right away?’
Bhishm baulked at the suggestion. The sight of her, the queen mother, with the infant prince, could incite them further, and she would expose herself and the prince to uncalled for danger.
‘Don’t; it’s not safe!’ he said.
‘It is,’ she said swiftly. ‘I will have you with me.’
He was taken aback at the trust she placed so implicitly upon him. But he was unwilling to accept it. He wanted nothing from her.
He shook his head absently, deep in thought.
‘Please, for your father,’ she said.
He hesitated. ‘I shall, for his sake, but there’s more to it, don’t you see, Mother?’ he said. ‘I can’t have them arrested if they misbehave, if that is what you want. That would surely worsen matters. It would anger them further.’
‘But this has to stop!’ she said peremptorily.
‘It won’t stop till you appease them in some way,’ he suggested.
He looked at her steadily in the eyes, cold and expressionless. She was sure that he was accustomed to intimidating people with that flat stare of his. But it did not work on her. She simply returned his gaze, keeping her chin up.
She grimaced. ‘I can’t throw my father out just to appease them!’
Bhishm looked at her dispassionately. ‘Exactly. You could have avoided this crisis if you had listened to Kripa’s suggestion to provide your sick father with a house and servants. But you brought him to the palace. . .’
‘I want to personally nurse my father, like I am doing yours, Dev!’ she snapped. ‘They are the two people most precious to me. I am what I am because of my father—’ she came to an abrupt stop, recalling that Bhishm knew nothing about her birth and her childhood.
