by Kavita Kane
‘I know,’ Bhishm agreed, a faint irony in his voice.
She looked away then, and began to turn the ruby ring around on her finger. He realized that she was suddenly uneasy.
‘Neither have I indulged in any nepotism, as accused, nor shall I betray my people,’ she said finally, bestowing on him that ingratiating smile of a queen which he had got accustomed to. ‘The fisher folk have as much of right to live with dignity, as the other citizens of your state. They, too, are your people, Dev!’
Bhishm heard her out, his head slightly bowed, his eyes shuttered. He knew she had done a lot for her people, but it had been regarded as preferential treatment by the other citizens, rather than good work.
He could not but commend her defiance, her open resistance to the system, her bold disobedience of the royal order; and her determination to help her community and her father. She was the son her father never had; she was the leader of her people. She was proud to be known as Kali by them. But in the palace, she had reserved more unkind monikers. The name Daseyi had stuck, and it was sniggered at her behind her back.
It was with a defensive hauteur that Satyavati treated the people of the palace, including him, much to everyone’s affront and his amusement. She regarded him as she would an obsequious minister, because she felt guilty for stealing the throne from him. He was given orders and asked questions, but she thought it unseemly to say more to him than was usually said to people of a lower order. He knew she pretended to be favourably disposed to him all the same, because of his father. She feared his popularity. But he suspected she behaved the way she did because if anyone in the palace could be humiliated easily, it was she.
However, at times when she was sending him on some official errand or explaining to him the things she wanted done her way, her face would soften, and she would look him in the eye. At such moments, he always fancied she remembered with grudging grace how he had allowed her to be in the position she was in now. Was it gratitude or guilt? Right now, though, her dark eyes had a brittle hardness as she watched him warily.
‘You don’t like me very much, do you?’ she asked bluntly.
‘Does anybody?’ he riposted with his usual equanimity.
She burst out laughing, her eyes crinkling in genuine amusement.
‘You are honest. So am I,’ she said in good humour. ‘Can we not help each other?’
An angry shout cut through their conversation. She cast him a last despairing look and then, deciding to take matters in her own hands, she strode out of the chamber, down the marbled steps, across the sprawling garden, towards the huge, barricaded gate.
His brooding eyes followed her.
‘Open the gates,’ she ordered, taking the guards by surprise.
The previous time she had summoned the protestors inside, but today she would face them outside the palace, on their ground, she swore defiantly. They had showered her with abuses, but she had to get through to them once and for all, she decided grimly. They did not know her; neither the people in the palace nor beyond it.
The waiting crowd were taken by surprise as the palace gates opened unexpectedly. Shouting abuses at their queen was their way to show collective displeasure. Their prince had requested them to stop, passionately arguing that no injustice had been inflicted on him, as assumed. But they had countered him by saying they were fighting not just for him, but for themselves as well.
Their surprise turned to shock when they saw the queen herself approaching them. Tall, dark and graceful, there was a purpose in her long strides, but there was no trace of anger or even annoyance on her face.
She folded her hands, bowing to them.
Most bowed out of habit, some stopping short to show their belligerence.
‘I invite you all for the naming ceremony,’ she said humbly, her voice soft, yet her eyes, straight and clear.
‘The prince has already sent the invitation to us, Queen Daseyi,’ said one of them rudely. ‘But we refuse.’
‘You would rather show your affection by shouting outside the palace?’ she asked with a faint smile.
He flushed. ‘The affection we reserve is for the prince.’
‘Not the king?’ she asked. ‘Is that not treason?’ she said, her voice low.
‘Are you threatening us?’ he snapped.
‘No, I am letting you know that you could well be arrested if you were in any other kingdom but Hastinapur,’ she replied. ‘But the king refrains from doing so because he loves his subjects.’
‘He clearly loves the new queen more than us and our prince,’ he retorted angrily. ‘That may be his personal decision but it affects us, the citizens. We want the prince as our king. He sacrificed it for you!’ he spat. ‘We cannot forgive him for that!’
Satyavati took in his stubborn expression, knowing she had to give in; but not too much, nor too little.
‘What are you achieving by shouting slogans against me?’ she took on an imploring tone, her face earnest. ‘I can see you are showing your displeasure well, but I am one of you, not just your queen.’
He shook his head violently.
‘You are not our queen. You were one of us, but what have you done for our good?’ he sneered. ‘Except helped your father and your own people. You are not a queen by birth. Or by worth. You took what was our prince’s, and now you have the temerity to invite us for the naming ceremony of the very person who will be sitting on the throne meant for our prince!’
There was a short silence.
‘If I were a queen by birth, would you have dared to speak with me like you are now?’ she flicked each of them a steady stare.
‘No, but you are not a queen by merit, just by marriage,’ he argued, throwing caution to the wind. ‘What have you done for us, or for Hastinapur, to make us want you to be our queen? You married the king by extortion!’
Matters were getting volatile, and, as he stood watching the scene from the palace terrace, Bhishm wondered if he should intercede. All he had to do was to speak out, but he knew the conflict would be delayed, not defused.
He glanced at Satyavati worriedly. She looked every inch the queen, glittering in gems from her tiara to her toe-rings; but the glitter in her hard eyes was fiercer. She wanted a confrontation; she did not want to run away from her opponents. She would get her closure today.
‘I agree I am a queen by marriage to the king,’ she pronounced with a calm dignity that forced them to look up to her. It was not arrogance of manner, but an honest confession proclaimed with elegance. ‘I have yet not had an opportunity to serve you. . .’
‘You served your fisher folk well!’ shouted a voice boisterously.
She nodded. ‘I did. Because they gave me a chance to help them. I ask for an opportunity to serve you, too. Today, I am a mother of the son of your king. . .’
‘We already have a prince; we don’t want another from you. Give us our prince back; give him his throne back! You took it from him!’
An angry chorus echoed his sentiments.
Bhishm made a movement, but Kripi, who had joined him on the terrace, gripped his arm.
‘It’s now or never for her,’ she warned. ‘She started it; let her end it.’
‘No,’ he said, his brow furrowed. ‘I made that pledge, not she. It was Father who chased her, not she.’
‘She made you take that awful oath, do you not see it? They were your words, but it was her wish.’
‘And I granted it to her,’ he replied evenly. ‘It was my decision.’
He was interrupted by the clear, ringing voice of Satyavati addressing the crowd below.
‘The throne is not mine to give, it is the king’s. And I am the king’s wife, and now the mother of his child,’ she announced, firmly. ‘I am the mother of your prince as well.’
‘She is using you for emotional exaction!’ gasped Kripi, giving Bhishm a questioning look. ‘You are right here, Dev, but she is speaking for you! You can never go against her in public, she knows that. She is cunning!’
The mention of Bhishm had the desired effect, as the people looked visibly mollified. Satyavati gauged the change in mood quickly.
‘Bhishm shall be the one naming my son, and I leave my son under his care from this day on,’ she bowed. ‘I vow to you, my people, that my son shall be the pupil of Bhishm,‘ she paused, raising her head. ‘Bhishm will ensure that his oath will not prevent his loyal service to the kingdom. He loves his king, his father, and the oath proves that. He loves his new brother, too. It is again his wish, his own will, that he shall serve the king sitting on the throne with utmost love and loyalty.’
Bhishm regarded her, startled. He could see that she was a woman of great strength, and he felt a surge of admiration for her run through him. He was completely convinced that she meant what she was saying.
‘But you were to be king,’ hissed Kripi angrily. ‘Oh, Dev, what did you do?’ she cried. ‘It was not about you relinquishing your right as a crown prince, as some of your ancestors did. Yati did it for his younger brother, Yayati, to become an ascetic, as did both your uncles. But you made the ultimate, incredible sacrifice demanded from any man: that of celibacy! Even rishis are not celibates and they marry; yet, you took on the worst punishment for yourself. Lifelong celibacy does not ever help anyone receive salvation. Brahmacharya is supposed to be a phase in a man’s life, not a life-long pledge. That is what makes your oath so terrible, Bhishm!’
When Bhishm remained silent, a scornful frown clouded her face. ‘You did it to sub serve your father’s infatuation for a fisher girl! And here this girl has the gall to proclaim you as her son’s mentor to appease the public. She has left you impotent, Dev, with nothing. Not even your pride!’
Kripi’s pale cheeks were flushed, but it was grief at his helplessness that made her lash out.
‘Surely you can rise above such pettiness?’ said Bhishm, shrugging and walking away from the terrace. ‘If it bothers you so much, then take no notice of her, and then she won’t anger you. And you won’t need to make a regular tragedy out of a trifle.’
Kripi threw him a searching look. ‘Is that how you handle it? How you comfort yourself?’ she grimaced. ‘I teach Daseyi every day. She is smart and intelligent. But I am scared to teach her more, never knowing when she will use all that knowledge against me one day. As she has done to you, Dev. She has defeated you, the king, and all of us.’
Bhishm looked down at the scene below—the queen and her people. He saw how she had won, going straight into the battlefield but not shedding a drop of blood. She had shrewdly aligned herself with him, understanding and diverting the interest of the mob.
‘I have you with me,’ she had said. Now he knew what she meant.
He had to be with her, too, and not just with his father, whether he liked it or not. He was to be her aide and her shield—protecting her from everything, be it the people’s ire against her or the rebuffs she received daily at the palace. This was her warning, her truce, her final victory.
‘She wooed and won, our Queen Daseyi,’ spat Kripi.
‘She already had,’ he remarked quietly. ‘You might have nicknamed her Daseyi, but who is serving who? She is the queen, remember. Now, she is queen of the people as well,’ he said, as he saw Satyavati leading the way for the crowd through the palace.
She owed him but he did not own her; no one did.
The Matsyas
He named his infant brother Chitrangad. As he held the wriggling baby in his hands, whispering his name in his ear, Bhishm knew he was a slave of this tiny being for the rest of his life. A strong, strange, undecipherable emotion filled his hollow heart with a warmth he had never known. He gazed at the small, smiling face with shining eyes—this wee little boy had given him a new vigour and purpose in life.
Bhishm glanced at the boy’s parents. His father looked pale and drawn, his haggard look a permanent feature these days. He was unwell again, the rasping cough getting worse with each passing week. The queen mother looked beatific, like a queen who had conquered all the three worlds. She had, after all; she had everything she had aspired for.
She was deferentially hovering by his father’s side, and Bhishm watched as she inappropriately sunk down onto the rug at his father’s feet. He could see she was worried from her subtle, anxious movements.
As his father sat in his easy-chair, she, like an efficient and alert nurse, handed him his dose of medicine.
‘May I get you some water?’ she asked, smiling softly. The adoring look his father returned nettled Bhishm. ‘Are you fine now?’ she enquired, deftly removing the full wine glass from the table.
‘You are always drinking while reading. . .’ she rebuked affectionately. ‘Do you know, Shantanu, what is one of the secrets of your success? You are very well read. What book have you there?’
Shantanu laughingly answered. A silence stretched, and Bhishm, standing stiff in their presence in the sun room, watched them as he played with his brother.
‘There is something I wanted to tell you,’ she said. ‘Shall I? Very likely you’ll laugh and say that I flatter myself. You know I hope that you will allow the unemployed into our infrastructural services. It would help hugely, wouldn’t it?’ she asked, driving in her point. ‘I know most of them are not natives, and they have always been on the social periphery,’ she continued, before Shantanu could protest. ‘But now, since they have become subjects of the sovereign state—of course, under stipulated conditions—they need to be productive. If the king is their protector, I think, as their queen, I, too, can grant them certain benefits?’
She was empowering the poor migrant community, and it had already riled many at the court and in the city. Bhishm secretly agreed with her, but was more amazed at how, with a pretty smile and honeyed words, she could get the toughest task done where the wisest ministers had failed with the king.
She did not wait for his reply and continued. ‘Why have you not gone for your hunt? Is it for my sake and the baby that you feel obliged to stay back?’ She threw her husband a reassuring smile. ‘Do go with Dev for the game—you need to be with him, too!’ she said. ‘Both of you will be happy in each other’s company. Besides, you need some fresh air.’
‘Yes,’ said Bhishm, laconically. ‘Happy is the man who thinks not just of what is, but of what is not.’
‘That was a long sentence which I did not quite understand,’ she riposted with a grin, but Bhishm knew she understood every single word. ‘You mean happy people live in the real world, and not in their imagination? Yes, possibly. Let us talk of our life, of our future,’ she pouted dreamily. ‘I keep making plans for our life, all sorts of plans and ideas! Shantanu, may I ask you a question? When are you going to give up your crown?’
Bhishm was startled, as was Shantanu.
‘I still am the king,’ he said weakly.
‘But you are so ill these days, dear. How about making Dev the regent to look after the court and the kingdom? Till Chitrangad becomes old enough to handle the throne, of course!’ she hastened to add, pressing her forefinger on her lower lip. ‘It would relieve you of all the responsibilities and duties. Your health is suffering even more because of the constant pressure of managing the kingdom. I know how it worries you so.’
Shantanu’s thick brows furrowed in swift thought, as he pondered what she had said for a moment. Then, he nodded, brightening slowly.
‘That’s a sensible thought,’ he agreed.
Bhishm was neither impressed nor impervious to her ways. ‘Chitrangad is barely six months old; he cannot be appointed as the heir so soon. . .’
‘But you are there, Dev, to look after him and the throne,’ Satyavati interrupted smoothly. ‘That’s why I requested the king to make you regent.’
Soon after, Bhishm was appointed as the regent of the throne, on behalf of a sick king and the infant prince. That day, his father looked pleased, but somewhat disconcerted with the deluge of guests invited for the official ceremony.
‘It seems like all the kings of Bha
ratvarsh are attending this show!’ Shantanu laughed hoarsely, a laugh that quickly descended into a long, dry bout of coughing.
His father could not have been more succinct. This show. It is. Right now, the palace of Hastinapur is hosting more than a hundred kings in the country, a thousand nobles and courtiers from various royal houses. Except for Uncle, he thought sadly. King Bahlik had sent his son, Somadatt, instead, with rich gifts for him, but not a single one for the queen mother. Bahlik would never forgive her.
The palace was as resplendent as the queen. She looked every bit like royalty, with her gems and attire. She was, after all, the mother of the heir to the throne. She played the courteous hostess, mingling with guests, attending to them, greeting them all with that ingratiating smile she reserved for such occasions.
Bhishm felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around to see his father with Prince Matsya, along with his own father, King Uparichar Vasu, of Chedi. Bhishm was meeting them both for the first time, and he was struck by the startling resemblance between father and son. They looked so much alike—tall, fair, light-eyed, with narrow faces, jutting jaws and a prominent, hooked nose.
But while King Uparichar Vasu was a hearty man with a hearty laugh, the young prince looked stiff.
‘How was the journey?’ Bhishm began politely.
‘Quick!’ laughed the older king. ‘Thanks to my viman, which I have inherited from our ancestor, King Yayati. He deigned to gift it to me, favouring us rather than your branch of the family, Shantanu!’
Bhishm was familiar with the family story. He also knew that the king always travelled in his air-borne chariot. His stories were as flamboyant as the man himself.
‘This is a big event to commemorate the new crown prince,’ Vasu commented, eyeing the decorated palace. ‘Shantanu, congratulations on your new son,’ he added perfunctorily.
Shantanu nodded slightly.
