The Fisher Queen's Dynasty

by Kavita Kane

  ‘But I consider you mine, and it is my duty to warn you,’ she said. ‘It will not be easy marrying a poor person. I know what poverty is, Kripi.’

  ‘Is that why you married King Shantanu?’ sneered Kripi.

  ‘Why does it come down to me, dear?’ smiled Satyavati. ‘I have lived my life; it’s yours which is going to start afresh. If you want to marry into poverty, so be it. But I will still say that following one’s heart does not always end in happiness.’

  ‘Yes, you have lived your life by depriving Bhishm!’ returned Kripi scathingly.

  Satyavati was disturbed at the raw rage glittering in the girl’s eyes. Kripi had always been hostile to her, but she had underestimated the depth of her hatred. For once, Satyavati found herself floundering for words. She decided to remain quiet, and not aggravate the situation.

  Kripi was more enraged at her silence. This was the woman who had ruined her brother; how had he forgiven her so easily? She had noticed the friendship between them, and she resented them both for it. With renewed anger, Kripi remembered what this woman had done to him: She had destroyed him, and yet she still had him. A familiar flame of fury burst alive. Kripi scrutinized Satyavati closely, that dark, haughty face gloating, smiling. . .

  ‘You think you have it all, don’t you, Daseyi?’ Kripi’s voice turned vicious, making Satyavati glance at her with surprise. ‘The crown without the burden of your king, the kingdom, the people who give you the respect and love you yearned for, Dev eating out of your hands, your two sons—the heirs of Hastinapur. . . But for how long, dear?’ Kripi had the pleasure of seeing Satyavati’s face redden. ‘I shall go from here, but I can never wish you well, Daseyi. You could never charm me; never!’ she spat. ‘Don’t push your good luck too far, too long. It might turn against you. The universe gives you answers in strange ways.’

  With a silent sigh, Satyavati decided to confront the accusations.

  ‘We are not friends, agreed,’ said Satyavati. ‘But that is what makes it easier perhaps to be frank with each other. I do care for you, Kripi, though you don’t believe me. I care for you because you are so precious to Dev,’ she continued tonelessly. ‘As you were to Shantanu.’

  ‘You mention King Shantanu as if he is an afterthought,’ retorted Kripi. ‘In fact, you rarely mention him these days. After all, you were married to him!’

  Satyavati looked at her, a strange expression on her face. ‘Kripi, don’t think I didn’t pay for that mistake.’

  Kripi was surprised at her outspokenness. Satyavati continued, ‘A girl has to live. And it isn’t always as easy as it looks. A girl can make a mistake, marry the wrong man, looking for something that is not there—security or whatever it is,’ she shrugged.

  ‘You are talking about yourself or advising me?’ laughed Kripi, sneeringly. ‘But you did not need any love to marry!’

  ‘Don’t be so cynical, so early and so young, Kripi. You will be surprised at how many girls marry to find a decent home, a simple roof over their heads. Especially girls whose arms are tired of fending off unwanted leers, fighting off poverty and the groping optimists that they pass by on the streets and dark alleys. You wouldn’t understand, Kripi.’

  ‘You had a home, yet you intruded on Dev’s home!’ argued Kripi, refusing to melt.

  ‘I settled for whatever I could get. I thought it would be better than what I had.’

  Kripi threw her a knowing look. ‘You are clever, Daseyi. And you are tough and wise. I suppose when you married King Shantanu, you thought you could get your hands on wealth and prestige . . . you were so right!’ she said, her eyes glittering with dislike. ‘You are a smart, ruthless woman who wrapped first King Shantanu and now Dev around your pretty finger! Why do you call him Dev when it was you who turned him into Bhishm? What right do you have over him? You are his mother by marriage, by deceit!’

  ‘I simply don’t dare to call him by the name the world now knows him by and calls out with such reverence. He got it because of me, and it’s like a taunting reminder of what he was made to do. I know you hate me for what I did to Dev, and I can never forgive myself either,’ she paused. ‘I live each day but I cannot forget that I am living on his borrowed rights and his borrowed throne. I never thought I could loathe myself—but I do. Each time I see him. . .’ her voice trembled as she tried to collect her emotions. ‘I can’t tell this to him or to anyone else; no matter how much I beg for forgiveness, it will be inadequate,’ she muttered under her breath, wanting to ease the crushing weight by her admission, hoping to relieve herself of some guilt.

  Kripi was too stunned to speak. For a moment, she could not believe her ears or her eyes, and was immediately suspicious of the other woman’s motives. Was she fooling her to soften her up? Her cautious distrust of Satyavati came rushing back, but as she slowly assimilated what she had heard and seen, all that her shocked eyes could register was the sight of a woman without her mask of pride. How many were brave enough to say it in words? Satyavati had thrown open her veil of ten years and more.

  Kripi gave a start. She could not but recollect all that she had noticed but preferred to ignore. She recalled that swift glow of delight that often dawned on Satyavati’s otherwise haughty face whenever Dev entered the room, or when she heard his voice and his footsteps. Or those moments when Kripi noticed him, patiently waiting at the door of Satyavati’s chambers, ready to accompany her to the court every morning. Or when he stood watching her as she tended to the young princes. Or when he courteously held out her shawl for her by the hall staircase, adjusting it neatly while she rested her hand on his shoulder, her eyes lowered, hoping to hide. . .

  Kripi forced herself to ask the one question she had avoided—was their closeness the reason for her resentment towards Satyavati? With a startled realization, she knew the answer was ‘yes’.

  Kripi often wondered if Dev ever longed to be in love, to have a wife and child of his own. But though she was one of those closest to him, someone he could bare his heart to, Kripi had never had the courage to ask him. Did he ever dream of what he could have had, and all that he lost forever, as he lies awake at night, gathering them all as his, tenderly cherishing them in his dreams, loving them and begging them of destiny? she had wondered many times.

  Kripi knew that Bhishm could never dare to hope or think of love. In his quiet way, he considered Satyavati as significant to him, just as he was important for her.

  Both of them had long realized that, for ruins like them, happiness was only to be reserved for their dreams.

  The Grief

  ‘You are too easy on your sons,’ Bhishm accused Satyavati with exasperation. Chitrangad had just thrown a violent tantrum, which Satyavati had endured quietly. It was the cold whiplash in Bhishm’s voice that had brought the young boy to his senses.

  ‘You are not a child, Prince. You will be king soon,’ Bhishm warned the young lad in front of him, his voice dangerously soft.

  Satyavati knew Bhishm’s terse voice was worse than his roar, and she did not intervene. Only Dev could handle this boy. ‘And if you do not learn to rein in your temper and temperament, Prince, I still have the power to see to it that you don’t sit on the throne!’

  Chitrangad threw his mother a belligerent glare but quickly lowered his eyes. ‘The first step is to be polite, then kind, helpful and humble. Do I need to teach you that too now?’

  Chitrangad was a good warrior, and he had quickly learnt war and warfare from his brother. But the boy had a vicious temper, and was yet to master the craft of administration and the art of diplomacy. That temper, Bhishm was certain, would prove more dangerous and damaging for himself than others. Few ill-tempered people realized that temper often corrodes one’s own reason. Rage was a parasite, feeding in and on the person it inhabited. And his mother seemed to encourage it by her overindulgence. Bhishm had often admonished her, but she had shrugged it off as a family trait. She had a temper, too, she reasoned.

  He had tried to make Chitrangad as capable as a k
ing should be. Chitrangad fought with him in numerous battles and was a brilliant warrior, helping Bhishm expand the kingdom and defeat the enemy at the gates and in the battlefield.

  Chitrangad, however, still relied heavily on his elder brother. The real reins of rule and power would remain with Bhishm till he thought the scion was a capable successor, able to take decisions as efficiently as expected from a benevolent king. And after that, Bhishm planned to leave Hastinapur, knowing that it would be in safe hands.

  But Satyavati had other plans.

  ‘I wanted to discuss Chitrangad’s marriage with you,’ she started, stubbornly.

  ‘No,’ he said as strongly. ‘He is just sixteen; he is too young.’

  ‘He is old enough to be a king, so why can he not have a wife?’ she returned hotly.

  ‘You just want him to have heirs,’ he sighed.

  ‘Don’t dismiss it as some illogical whim of mine. It is necessary.’

  He heard the worry in her voice.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked perceptively, his eyes thoughtful, his tone softer.

  ‘Chitrangad is young and strong, unlike Virya,’ she started uncertainly. ‘Virya is so ill most of the time that he has been nicknamed Vichitravirya. I am not too sure he can ever have children; that’s why I would like to have Chitrangad married off. If we start looking now, he can get married by the end of this year.’

  ‘And you can be a grandmother by next year!’ he quipped.

  But he understood what she was implying, and grudgingly concurred—Kurus would be stronger, in every way, with the lineage of Chitrangad rather than Virya, the weaker of the two.

  He nodded slowly, as was often his habit. ‘You may be right,’ he conceded. ‘I shall have a list of eligible princesses ready for you within this week.’

  ‘Eligible in the political context, too,’ she reiterated, throwing him a hard look. ‘I don’t want just a pretty face. She should have enough political clout to consolidate the Kurus as the most influential empire.’

  But three days later, Chitrangad was killed in duel with a gandharv.

  Bhishm was not in Hastinapur at that time, and when he got the news, he started back immediately.

  Never before had Bhishm been so shaken; not even when his mother had left him or when his father had died. He was used to war and violence, death and despair, but he had never considered that he would have to witness the death of his beloved boy. Bhishm blinked hard at his unshed tears. An image of the handsome boy flashed in his weeping mind: tall and slim, the fair, chiselled face with long, wavy hair, and easy laugh.

  Rage grabbed at his throat, and he could not console himself. How has Satyavati reacted to her son’s death? The thought sent a chill of cold fear and worry down his spine. He knew she would be devastated.

  Bhishm was barely aware of the journey back to Hastinapur. It was silent, as still as the palace, which was shrouded in darkness and gloom. He raced to her chamber. One look at her and he knew she was broken. He approached her with concern.

  Satyavati stood motionless as he drew near, her face ashen, and her eyes pleading. And then she slapped him hard, his head jerking back, the imprint of her fingers and fury raw on his cheek.

  ‘Where were you when we needed you the most?’ she cried, her voice dissolving in her tears.

  The slap did not surprise him. Had he been here in Hastinapur, he could have saved the king, saved his brother from the needless death he had brought upon himself, Bhishm kept telling himself.

  It was just the week before that he had to leave Hastinapur to visit a troubled outpost at the border of the kingdom. As regent, it seemed more appropriate for him to go rather than the king himself, and he was to return within a few days. But a gandharv chose that opportune moment to challenge the king. And for what, thought Bhishm. A name? Chitrangad was said to be such a great warrior and so successful that the king of the gandharvs, Chitrangad, challenged him to fight at Kurukshetra as he claimed that two kings with the same name could not exist at the same time. And so they had fought their absurd duel. It had lasted for two days, before Hastinapur’s king died on the battlefield.

  Satyavati began to weep quietly. ‘When the gandharv threw the challenge, Chitrangad was wary, but he agreed only because the brute was threatening to destroy the city,’ she recounted, her voice toneless in numbed grief. ‘Like a true Kuru king—and your true protégé that he was—Chitrangad did not want any unnecessary carnage. He opted to fight the gandharv single-handedly, confident that he could defeat him. But that gandharv managed to kill him with deceit!’ she choked, but then her voice rose. ‘He killed my son, Dev! He took away my everything—my son, my hopes, all my dreams!’

  She broke into sobs and his heart jumped into his throat, seeing her so broken, the anguish raw in her eyes. Chitrangad had been her one weakness.

  He had not seen her shed a single tear when his father died. Not even at her own father’s funeral. The last time she had cried was when King Vasu had visited them, but those had been tears of anger and humiliation. This was pure, undiluted grief.

  ‘This is my punishment, Dev,’ she muttered. She kept shaking her head, which she was holding in her hands. ‘This is what I get for what I did to you! My son had to suffer for my sins!’

  ‘Stop it!’ he said, shocked. She stared back, her face glistening with tears and a sheen of sweat, her icy, black eyes almost opaque in their intensity, which terrified him. That haunting look seared into his soul.

  He sat there for a moment, struggling against his own tears. Finally, he gently patted her hand and waited till she fell into a fitful sleep. He got up, staring down at her tear-soaked face, and made his way out of her chambers.

  It was an endless torture watching her suffer. When she sat up night after night, awake yet empty and dry-eyed, staring at the doorway, hoping to see Chitrangad walk through it, or when she shuddered and turned pale when she saw his armour, Bhishm suffered with her.

  This was not the Satyavati he knew.

  Her hair was loose, not tied in an elaborate bun as it used to be. She wore the same robes for days. Her face was drawn and wan. As he studied her, he realized with a start that she actually looked her age now. She was as old as he was, but she had always appeared younger, because of how animated and engaged she was. There was not a single strand of grey in her raven mane. Now, her anguish had aged her. She would just lie on her bed, wishing for bad things to happen in her life, and cursing herself and her past.

  Bhishm was frightened for her, wondering if she would ever make her way back from the pain the loss of her son had caused her, swerving fragilely on the precipice of sanity. Even the presence of Virya did not seem to help. This was quite unlike her.

  He would have to lance this festering wound as quickly as possible; but how was it to be done?

  Every day, Bhishm tried a new way to wean her out from the abyss of darkness. He talked to her and told her anecdotes of his family, hoping to provoke her into a reaction. Nothing worked.

  Her behaviour became erratic, leaving him bemused. Some days she refused to dress up, but on other days she would order expensive silks for herself. On some days, she could not resist glancing into a looking glass if she passed one and neatened her hair; on other days she would walk without looking anywhere. While on some days she would eat a feast, on other days she would not swallow a morsel.

  Five months had already passed since the tragedy, but she did not seem to notice the passage of time.

  ‘So be it, then,’ she murmured woodenly when she was informed of Virya’s ill-health, bedridden this time with high fever and a relentless cough. ‘He, too, might die; he is consumptive.’

  Until five months ago, she was the only dependable aspect in his life. He had learnt to trust her, her abilities, her motives and intentions. But seeing her condition, he feared that he was going to lose her as well.

  It was more than that—he missed her. Daunted as he was by her quicksilver mind, he needed her—her presence, her counsel,
her friendship.

  One day, he found himself sitting beside her as she cried.

  ‘Shall I call in the doctor again?’ he asked gently.

  ‘No, there’s no need; it’s nothing, just a headache!’ she said, and she looked up at him, her face tear-stained.

  He offered her some fruit to eat.

  Pale and worn, with her head propped up by pillows, she ate tentatively. Raising her eyebrows, she kept looking guiltily, first at her maid, Vibha, and then at him. When she finished what was on her plate, she appeared livelier.

  ‘You look thin, Dev,’ she murmured, as she tilted her head in her usual manner, and looked at him with concern.

  He had missed that caring look.

  He looked away, not wanting to think about it, feeling relieved that she had eaten well and spoken one long sentence to him after many days.

  ‘And how is Virya now?’ she said abruptly, sitting up straight.

  ‘Better,’ he said. ‘The doctor is with him constantly.’

  ‘He should be,’ she retorted sharply, pressing her lips and tapping an impatient finger on the lower one. ‘He has to nurse the heir to the kingdom back to robust health. Dev, when do we start training him as the new king?’

  That’s when Bhishm knew she was all right and suitably recovered.

  The Swayamvar

  ‘The king of Kasi is holding a swayamvar for his three daughters,’ began Satyavati.

  Bhishm at once registered the tone of her voice.

  ‘He has not sent an invitation to Hastinapur,’ she persisted belligerently.

  Bhishm patiently put down his quill. ‘You know why,’ he said quietly.

  She gave an exasperated snort, tapping her finger furiously on her lip. ‘Because you could not marry his sister,’ she said candidly.

  She saw him tightening his jaw. ‘I don’t expect him to invite us.’

  ‘I don’t want to be a guest,’ she said, her eyes flashing. ‘Virya should have been invited as a suitor.’

  Bhishm raised his eyebrows. ‘Virya is barely sixteen!’ he said, reprovingly.