by Kavita Kane
She heard raised voices, breaking her thoughts. Amba was creating a scene again, she was certain. It grew worse each day. It was Amba who was earning a bad name; some were even ridiculing her, including her sisters. But Amba was past caring.
Her sisters were not indifferent to their sister’s anguish. But Ambika and Ambalika lived in their own world, with Virya. Six years down, neither had produced an heir. Was it because of Virya? He had always been a sickly child, and recently she had noticed that his cough sounded nasty and persistent, reminding her of Shantanu’s; she felt faintly uneasy. Virya was like Shantanu in many other ways, too—his luxurious self-indulgence, his over-fondness for wine and women, though he mercifully restricted himself to his two pretty wives. Lately, though, it was these three who worried Satyavati more than the presence of Amba.
A pale Ambalika rushed into the chamber, interrupting her thoughts. She walked with a hurried step, her face ashen.
‘Mother, it’s Amba!’ she mumbled in fright.
Her heart hammering, Satyavati followed Ambalika.
It was a sight that did not surprise Satyavati. Bhishm was standing near the window, taking in Amba’s angry words, her voice hoarse, tears streaming from her eyes, her face grey, her hair dishevelled, the tendrils damp at her flushed forehead. She was still lovely, in a cold, hard way; the beauty drained by a vicious temper and thought. Amba stopped the torrent of words as they entered the chamber.
Her expression was something that Satyavati hoped never to see on a woman’s face again. There was pain, anger, frustration and bitter jealousy that had turned Amba’s face into a mask of despair.
Amba stood glaring at her sister. ‘Why have you got her here?’ choked Amba, her eyes on Satyavati. ‘You are the one behind all this; you are the reason for my ruin!’ she spat, her eyes wild. ‘You told him to get me here for your son, did you not? You claim to be a queen but you are still that fisherwoman, reserving the first catch for the king! Was I that catch for your son?’ she taunted, ignoring the gasp of horror from her sister.
‘Amba, please, come to your senses!’ cried Ambika. ‘Either you leave this palace which is your only home now, or behave yourself!’
The words stung like a slap, and Amba looked momentarily hurt, her eyes widening in disbelief.
Then she recovered. ‘My dear sisters,’ she sneered in vicious fury. ‘So happy in their conjugal bliss, forever in the arms of their dear husband! You call yourself lucky?’ she suddenly grabbed Ambika’s wrist with surprising strength, digging her nails into her skin. ‘What has become of you? You are as decadent as that drunken husband of yours. You follow his each whim, his every fancy. He calls himself king but it is that closed bedchamber, not the court, which is his favourite place, locking himself in that room and in your arms. Or is it our little, luscious Ambalika he prefers over you?’ her laugh turned into an ugly giggle. ‘He has made you his slaves, his sluts!’ she finished viciously. ‘I am relieved I escaped such a depraved life!’
Satyavati felt a cold, creeping dread. Amba, in her madness, was speaking the truth. Marriage had quickly made Virya succumb to erotic profligacy, overindulging in sensual pleasures with his two queens.
Amba was now talking to her, her fingers still clutching her sister’s arm. ‘Is that why you did not send your debauched son for the swayamvar but sent the invincible Bhishm instead?’
Amba rounded on him, her eyes livid. ‘You reject me for that damned oath you took for this conniving woman?’ she rasped viciously, her face suddenly unpleasant, almost ugly. ‘She fooled you just as you fooled me!’
Satyavati felt oddly detached from Amba’s anger and abuses; it was the unravelling of the girl that she found more distressing. The last six years had been unkind to Amba, breaking her in every way, turning her beauty into a bitter mask of disillusionment. The two rejections from Shalva and Virya haunted her, but it was Bhishm’s refusal which had unhinged her.
She remembered Amba as she had been when she first arrived: a fair girl with warm, brown eyes; angry and frightened, yet brave, hoping courageously that all would work out fine for her. And now, she was a woman who never smiled, only perhaps sometimes at Bhishm. But the last few months, she was slowly getting undone, her patience curdling, her despair deepening into hate. Hate for all of them but more for that one person whom she loved and hated with equal passion. Amba had found a prey her hate could feed on—Bhishm. She blamed him for everything: for her dashed hopes, her scorned love, and her hopeless future.
Bhishm’s silence seemed to incense her further, her demented mind not recognizing that in his silence lay his gnawing guilt.
Amba leaned closer to him, her eyes wild and agonized, her face white, her breath, love and fury mingled, fanning his face. ‘You are as noble as the world says you are. You turned my wedding day into a battlefield, defeated and disgraced my lover, and took me away against my will. You did it, Bhishm, only you. You abducted three women against their wishes and you can’t marry one? You say you are bound by your vow to be a celibate. Then you should not be here in this palace, in the royal court, but in the forest, meditating. What are you doing here, meddling with politics, power and progenies of this self-styled queen?’ she spewed out her scorn.
She clutched at his arm, pulling him closer to her. ‘You say you did your best, but your best is not enough. I want more. I want you!’ she raged, her breath coming in gasps, her eyes glittering in her pale, damp face. ‘You made my lover disown me. You showed me how shallow the man was; you made me turn my love for him into contempt. You got me here for a brother who refused me. You did it, Bhishm; you left me with no one but myself and my hopes on you. You were kind to me but unkind to my plight, giving yet not committing. What sort of a man are you? You made me fall in love with you! I begged for that love. . . !’ she choked in a pathetic whimper. ‘I raged, I ranted, I raved, I made it known to the court, to the world, I made a fool of myself—which girl says that; which girl does that?’ she swallowed convulsively. ‘But nothing matters to you other than your cursed oath! Is it more important than my life that you destroyed, or my love that you spurned?’ demanded Amba.
Bhishm stood stiff and stared vacantly back at her, his hazel eyes searching for solace in her frenzied ones.
‘How noble is that?’ wept Amba, shaking him. ‘Who are you loyal to? Where is your sense of fairness? Is life not more important than principle? Would you allow your soldier to die in the battlefield because you are helpless to carry him? That is what I am, Bhishm, that wounded soldier, your victim . . . you owe me, Bhishm, you owe me my life, my future, my happiness that you trampled upon!’
Amba stood trembling before Bhishm, her face twisted with the agony of hate; yet, there was vulnerable, wistful hope. Satyavati wanted to shake him herself to make him utter a word in defence, but he had only wordless silence to give. He looked stricken, his face haggard, crowded with lines of pain and guilt.
Satyavati, overwhelmed and drained, knew she could not remain in this oppressive chamber a moment longer. She made a move to leave.
The movement attracted Amba’s attention. ‘Don’t leave, Mother dear. Don’t you want to see the fruits of your deed?’ she jeered with an unpleasant smile.
She walked slowly away from Bhishm. ‘I demand that Bhishm marry me. Our marriage will be his penance, his punishment for the crime he has committed on me. He cannot escape in the name of his vow that he pronounced for himself. His oath does not concern me, his accountability does. He is responsible not to that damned promise, but to me!’
She paused, waiting for him to react, but he just lowered his eyes and shook his head.
‘Forgive me, Amba, if you can,’ he muttered at last, his eyes tormented, his voice ragged, a hoarse cry of anguish. ‘Forgive me, please, for I am your sinner. I cannot go against my pledge, but by doing so I am committing a worse, unpardonable crime. I cannot marry you, and I cannot forgive myself.’
‘I don’t want to forgive, I want justice!’ Amba shouted, her fists
clenched, as if to stop herself from hitting him.
‘You don’t want justice, Amba. Bhishm tried to give it to you in every way he could,’ said Satyavati, her voice icy.
‘For me, justice means revenge! I want to avenge the humiliation and suffering I’ve undergone all these years. He started it but I shall end it!’ she spluttered in fury, her eyes glistening.
‘Revenge will destroy you, too, Amba. What will you gain?’ Satyavati implored, hoping that an emotional appeal would reach the girl.
‘I have lost everything. . .’
‘So has he! Bhishm lost everything because of me!’ Satyavati shot back, trembling. ‘He could have finished me and my young sons when my husband died. . . He could have had his revenge on me, but here I am and so is he, standing before you. He is not your offender! He is a good man, Amba. Look at him. What does he have except that oath which traps him more than anyone else? He is a prisoner in his own cage, chained by the shackles of that damned vow. Look around you; you are not the only one suffering. You are demanding justice, but life is not fair; the world is not fair,’ she cried. ‘We are women, Amba; through justice we demand answers. We don’t get them, we live through them. Live, Amba, live, but not with hatred,’ she said passionately. ‘This is your pain talking; you need someone to hate, and you chose Bhishm. That hatred will destroy you, Amba; it cannot destroy him, for he has nothing to lose, nothing to gain. . .’
‘I shall call upon every king in the country to fight for me,’ said Amba through clenched teeth. ‘There will be someone who will help out a wronged woman!’
‘There will be none to help you, Amba,’ warned Satyavati. ‘No king will oppose Bhishm, as all fear him. And why do you keep harking on about being this wronged woman?’ she demanded, with suppressed anger. ‘You have been grossly wronged, yes, but that does not give you the right to wrong other people. You have lost reason! Is hatred easier than fighting back? Do you hate Shalva who deserted you in your hour of need, and who is married now? Do you hate your father for not taking you back as a father should? Do you hate Virya for turning you down because you loved someone else?’ she asked unhappily. ‘Then why do you hate Bhishm? He did what he did because I told him so!’
‘I detest both of you,’ replied Amba tonelessly. ‘You string up people and play with them as if they are your puppets in a show.’
‘I am sorry; I truly am,’ said Satyavati, folding her hands in earnest appeal. ‘Bhishm was against interfering in your swayamvar, but I forced him into it,’ she confessed, sinking slowly to her knees. ‘I did it, Amba, not him.’
Everyone, even Amba, was taken aback. She had never seen the queen so stripped of pride and poise. Bhishm took a step towards her, unable to bear the sight. The queen of Hastinapur was grovelling. Satyavati, who would not bow to any man, or admit her mistakes and misdeeds, was prostrating herself in abject surrender. Bhishm knew she was trying to obtain both forgiveness and favour from Amba for his sake. He swallowed convulsively, yet he could not find words to defend himself.
Amba recovered, more incensed. ‘Don’t protect him, Queen Mother. You are as guilty as him, but he is the one who won me like a trophy, a gift for his brother. So, he is accountable to me. Only him!’ she muttered through white lips.
‘Amba, let me tell you something more about myself. I, too, lived in hate. Hatred for everyone and everything. I am an illegitimate daughter of a king,’ she started, and there was a swift stillness in the room. Bhishm made a move towards her, but she stretched out her arm. She would do anything to make this demented girl see sense. Even if it meant exposing her past, baring herself.
‘I was born an unwanted princess, to live a life of a common fisher girl. I allowed myself to be seduced by an enlightened rishi, because it would serve some purpose. I had a son from him whom I could not keep. . .’
She heard a gasp. It was Ambika. Behind her, Bhishm looked ashen, his eyes suddenly brittle.
She continued unflinchingly, ‘. . .as I had to live . . . to survive. But I didn’t want to just survive in this wretched world, I wanted to rule it . . . to have power, position and prestige,’ she said softly, looking into the wild eyes of Amba. ‘For that I had to have a crown, a kingdom. I met Shantanu and I married him, but not before securing my position here in this palace for myself and my future children. I dethroned the crown prince to carve out my place,’ she paused, expelling a tired breath, feeling Bhishm’s eyes boring into her. ‘Amba, you talk about justice and revenge. Was I just to Bhishm? Was my royal father just to me? Was I just to my first son? I still don’t have answers, Amba, but I have realized that neither hatred nor vengeance is one of them.’
Pin-drop silence echoed in the room. Her words were not just revelations, but the confession of a queen.
Amba’s crazed chortle broke the silence. ‘But I am not you, Queen Mother. You gained everything, I lost all! I lost even my dignity,’ Amba whispered harshly. ‘I have thrown my love at him but he does not want it; so all I have with me is hatred.’
‘Because it makes you feel validated?’ said Satyavati, the edge back in her voice, her eyes flinty. She stood up, regal again, her voice indicating that she would not be tolerant of any further nonsense. ‘Like you, I was rejected by my father, and I hated him for a very long time because of it. But when I got my chance to confront him, I was met with another truth—that he meant nothing to me! I could not waste my hatred on him; I sought no revenge. I am me, on my own, with or without him. I refuse to be victimized; but you, Amba . . . you feel like a victim. It makes you more comfortable in your bitterness. Fight injustice with justice, for yourself, Amba. Have mercy on yourself. Is there no option but vengeance? You are a princess. . .’
‘I was a princess, I am a beggar now . . . at your mercy!’ corrected Amba.
Satyavati shook her head. ‘You are still a princess. Could you have not done anything better than hope for an impossible marriage to Bhishm?’ she asked, sadly. ‘Was there no one else but him or Shalva? Does the world end and begin with Bhishm? Is that your only succour?’
‘You are a fine one to preach, Queen Mother,’ Amba gave her a twisted grin. ‘You married an old man to be queen! And you made sure Bhishm never married, even a desperate girl like me. I know you don’t want me here; you don’t want me to marry the man you own, you possess, you. . .’
‘Stop it,’ thundered Bhishm, his face wretched. ‘Amba, please, don’t. . .’
‘Don’t what? You speak at last, for her!’ she scoffed. She looked at Satyavati and said, ‘Just as you wanted the throne through marriage, I want Bhishm through marriage! For the crown, you destroyed Bhishm. For my revenge, I shall obliterate him!’
Satyavati felt the blood drain from her face and then rush back.
Amba turned to look at him, her eyes burning into his. ‘You are kind, Bhishm, but you are as hard as stone!’ Her voice suddenly dipping, her face close to his, her whisper hot on his cold face, she continued, ‘And I hate you for it. I hate you, Bhishm, much more than I ever loved you!’ A choked sob caught in her throat. ‘You did not heed my love, but you will pay for my hatred. You will be mine; it’s your vow against my vengeance!’ she said, her voice hoarse. ‘If you forced me out of my swayamvar hall, I shall force you out of this very palace to fight me. I shall challenge you; I shall be the death of you!’ she shrieked, her voice dripping venom.
Drawing in a quick breath, Amba threw him a parting look, piercing him and his shattered conscience with her flashing eyes, spitting such hatred and intensity that it sent a cold chill down Satyavati’s spine. Amba smiled at him then, a tight, spine-chilling grimace, and flounced out of the chamber, out of the palace. And hopefully out of our lives, thought Satyavati as she stared after Amba. The demented look had seared into her soul, her curse hung in the air, filling her heart with unknown terror—this girl was going to be his nemesis. Their inescapable nemesis.
The Reprisal
Bhishm could never forget Amba. She had made sure he would not, thought Satyava
ti, as she heard the latest news of the girl from one of her spies. The first person she had sought help from was her maternal grandfather, King Hotravahan. Her mother, Queen Swargavdhini, had visited Hastinapur several times earlier to persuade Amba to give up her obstinate demand but had failed, as all others had. Her grandfather, too, implored her to give up, but the princess remained adamant. She wanted him to challenge Bhishm for her sake. He reluctantly refused. She was now a woman with a mission—to vanquish Bhishm. Counting on her powerful grandfather’s support and then losing it made Amba realize soon enough that none of her friends or family members was going to help her. She needed some other powerful king. And she set out in search of that king who would be willing to fight for her, travelling across the country, imploring princes and kings to challenge Bhishm for her. But none dared; none would, Satyavati thought wryly. Lost to the mortals, Amba turned to the gods for help, particularly Kartikey, the God of War.
Satyavati sighed. The girl is obstinate! . . . But I have worse matters to worry about, she thought, as she strode into her son’s room. The moment she entered, she was assailed by the stench of alcohol fumes. Her heart sank as she realized that he was drinking in the middle of the day again, as he did often. She wished she could talk to him but wondered if he would be in a state to even hear her. How can I force him to produce an heir, she thought despairingly. She had spoken to both her daughters-in-law and they had shrugged helplessly. Her son had laughed it off. Like he was doing now.
‘If I can’t give one, we can always adopt!’ he guffawed, more in inebriation, less in humour. ‘It’s been done before in our family!’
‘When Emperor Bharat did it, it was because his sons were incompetent,’ she said harshly. ‘Do you want me to do the same?’
‘Are you threatening me, Ma?’ Virya gave a weak grin, but his eyes were sharp.
