by Kavita Kane
‘You are incompetent,’ she replied, her gaze even. ‘You can barely walk to the court, let alone attend it!’
‘Yes,’ he agreed with a candid smirk. ‘But are you willing to give me up, give up the throne and reinstate another? Do you have that moral courage?’ he asked maliciously, his smile wicked. ‘You can’t, Ma, never. You are too attached to the crown!’ he added scornfully with a half-supressed laugh.
She found she had no words, not even anger; only disappointment. Clenching her fists, she screamed silently, frustrated at her powerlessness. Is this the heir I have produced to sit on the throne meant for Bhishm, mocked a small voice within.
‘You were wilful enough to remove my stepbrother from his throne, but do you have the strength to put him back or anyone else?’ taunted her son, sipping his wine, his hands unsteady.
For all his drunken senselessness, he was talking sense to her.
He finished half of the goblet’s contents at once, and then wiped his lips. ‘You are not as tough as you like to pretend, Ma,’ he rasped, reaching for the goblet again and emptying it this time. You only take, you don’t give. What do you want from me but an heir! I have no other purpose for you. You have been living too long with people like us who are scared of you. Wait till you meet up with some nasty shock that Fate is sure to deal you. . .’
‘I have had my share, and you, Virya, are one of them!’ she said expressionlessly. ‘Bhishm is virtually the king of Hastinapur, thanks to you,’ she countered coldly.
‘Hah, only by duty, not by right. You took that away from him!’
Ignoring the accusation, she continued relentlessly. ‘It is he who looks after the kingdom, not you. It is he whom the people love and respect, not you!’ she said cruelly, her lips drawn in a thin line, hoping to provoke him.
‘And whom do you love, Ma?’ returned her son, his silly grin plastered on his face, pouring himself another goblet. He drank from it, shuddered violently, and all at once his eyes seemed to get sane and cunning, bringing him a certain balanced moment of reality. She never knew when it would come or how long it would last.
‘Not me, not Bhishm, not my father, not anyone but your goddamned throne!’ he said violently, pouring out more wine and gulping it down too fast. ‘And I love it that I can’t give you what you want most—a bloody heir!’ She paled at his viciousness. ‘What are you going to do now, Ma?’ he chortled, his peals of insane laughter quickly dissolving into a fit of coughing. The goblet he held in his shaking hand slid on to the bed, and wine slopped all over.
‘I did what no one else could do, not even our great Bhishm! I defeated you, Ma, I did!’ he sobbed through his coughs. He threw himself forward, purple in the face now. ‘I . . . I can never give you a grandchild.’
‘Stop it, Son!’ she pleaded, rushing to his side. ‘Stop drinking, and you will get better! Just get fine, that’s all I want!’ she said gently, swallowing her tears, brushing the damp hair from his perspiring forehead. He let out a strangled sigh and drew in a shuddering breath. His face had lost pallor, and his chin quavered. Was this her once good-looking son, wasted to disease, drinking and debauchery? The arguments she had had with Bhishm came rushing back, when he’d rebuked her for her overindulgence and pampering of her son, and how she was responsible for his feckless dissoluteness.
‘I am sorry,’ he wept, tears sliding hopelessly down his gaunt cheeks.
‘No, Son, don’t; I love you!’ she cried.
‘And I was wrong; you did love that one person in your way. . .’ he whispered, his words slurring. ‘You adored Chitrangad, and you died a little when he died. And you do love me, much less than him, but still that mad, blind love you reserved for your sons. And you love Bhishm,’ he said flatly. ‘It’s there . . . I have seen it, I have sensed it, and it’s strange. You destroyed him, Ma, and you loathe yourself for it. And you can’t do without him. He loves us, too, so unselfishly, so unswervingly. I hate what we did to him. . .’ his voice trailed off, his eyes closing in a descending stupor. ‘I never could bask in borrowed power like you could. It’s probably your sins catching up. . .’ he mumbled, distinctly enough to sear her soul.
She stared down at him, insensible, his face buried in the pillows, his mouth open grotesquely.
She sat hunched forward, staring at her open palms. She absently wondered whether she had managed to outwit Fate. She had prided herself that she had chartered her own destiny, despite the setbacks in her life. It was she who had a sole role in shaping her life. She had been responsible for her happiness and her unhappiness, both, she thought bleakly.
She was aware of a presence in the room. She looked up. It was Ambalika, frail and fair, her eyes huge and worried, shifting from the unconscious form of her husband to the queen mother sitting next to him. Ambika, who had also entered, moved forward wordlessly and straightened him up against the pillows, pulling the silk coverlet high so he would be comfortable.
Satyavati made a move to quietly leave the chamber.
‘It’s about Amba, Mother,’ said Ambalika urgently.
A tired sigh escaped Satyavati. She waited, allowing her daughter-in-law to tell her some dramatic tale about her sister.
‘Lord Kartikey has given her a garland of ever-fresh flowers. Whosoever wears it is supposed to destroy Bhishm,’ started Ambalika, her tone breathless. She usually talked a great deal, often a cheerful chatter, more often to hide her diffidence.
‘How could he bless her when she was praying for revenge?’ Satyavati questioned harshly. ‘Penance is supposed to be atonement, a meditation.’
‘Probably to make her understand that none, even with the Lord’s blessing, can help her,’ answered Ambika quietly. ‘She has gone all over the country, visited every kingdom, but none of the kings have responded to her entreaties. Amba even approached King Drupad of Panchal.’
‘He will never help her; he is a close friend of Dronacharya, Kripi’s husband, and Kripi is from our family,’ dismissed Satyavati confidently. ‘Besides, Panchal is our ally.’
Ambalika look worried. ‘The last the spies heard was that, frustrated at King Drupad’s refusal, Amba flung the garland at his palace gate and it hangs untouched while Amba is back wandering in the forests. . .’
‘Amba was always a stubborn girl, but she met her match here,’ interrupted Ambika bitterly. A few years ago, she was pretty; but now the edges of her face had hardened and her mouth had begun to turn downward.
Satyavati looked surprised. ‘Why the rancour, or are you suffering from your older sister’s affliction?’
‘All of us are suffering, aren’t we?’ replied Ambika, belligerence in her voice. ‘We are only slightly better off than our sister.’
Ambalika interjected faintly. ‘I am happy,’ she said timidly.
‘You would be,’ retorted her sister, with a sneer. ‘Virya adores you! What am I supposed to be happy about? Being married to a drunk, debauched king?’ Her laugh was unpleasant. ‘He likes you more because you are so delicious and docile, and you spoil him! Had he been checked in time, perhaps he would not have become so debased, and our lives would not be wasted! But then, we get to console ourselves that we are queens,’ her smile remained mocking. ‘The lesser queens!’ she added, staring pointedly at Satyavati.
‘Every queen wears her crown, but not without her share of conflict, concession and compromise,’ returned Satyavati.
‘Yes, we heard!’ scoffed Ambika. ‘For you, Ma, everything is a deal, with terms and transactions. But, mostly, it is you who lays out the conditions and we are to follow—all of us here in this palace! For how long, Ma, and how much more?’ her voice cracked, her hand flying to her mouth, breaking into a small sob.
Satyavati glanced at Ambalika and said coldly, ‘Ambalika, though you are the youngest, you seem to be the most sensible of your sisters. Look after this one and try to knock some of your good sense into her. Let her know how fortunate you are, considering your older sister’s fate—roaming the woods, thirsting for revenge and all th
at she lost!’
‘We have nothing in this damned palace but a drunk, impotent husband and no children!’ muttered Ambika, under her breath, her voice notches lower so that Satyavati could not hear.
But she had, and, with those words, her old fear resurfaced. Where was Hastinapur’s heir? Satyavati could not still the panic in her heart, and Virya’s persistent cough reminded her constantly of some unspecified dread.
It came sooner than expected.
‘Are you going to war?’ Satyavati looked surprised as she saw Bhishm collecting his bow and arrow, his sword and dagger hanging at his trim waist. He didn’t bother to answer. He nodded wordlessly, with his steady look that may or may not have disguised his thoughts, depending on whether he had any he wanted to conceal.
‘That’s unexpected! With whom?’ she persisted.
‘Rishi Parashuram,’ he replied briefly.
Fear gripped her heart. Parashuram! The man who had massacred generations of royal warriors to appease the murder of his father. No one could defeat him, not even the gods, then why Bhishm, she thought wildly. Why was he confronting his own guru?
‘Why?’ she whispered through white, stiff lips.
Bhishm gave her his serene stare. ‘He is fighting for Amba,’ he said.
Stark fear flickered in her eyes as she stared at Bhishm. That wretched girl; she would be the death of them, of him. . .
‘You won’t fight your teacher, will you? You never would. . .’ she said, trying to stem the terror spiralling inside her.
He stood wordless, but his silence spoke volumes.
‘You are planning to fight him knowing you are going to lose your life!’ she accused, her voice shaking in fear. ‘You are preparing not to go to war, but to your death; isn’t it, Dev?’ she asked, her mind hammering, her pulse racing.
She moved her eyes over his inscrutable face. They stared at each other, a deadly stillness between them, speaking of an unspoken terror. She had gone pale, drained of colour and courage. He stood silent, tightening his bow.
‘You are, aren’t you?’ she said through clenched teeth. ‘You are going to ask for your death, your icchamrityu, while fighting your teacher! You would rather die than defeat him, is that not so?’ she whispered and she reached out for him, clutching at his arm, her fingers digging hard.
She stared at him piteously and said nothing, her eyes speaking to him, full of fear and entreaty.
‘I have to fight him. It’s an open challenge,’ he said at last, regarding her.
‘Go, then; I shall not stop you,’ she said, her voice low. ‘But you fight, Dev, you fight him like the warrior you are! Not his protégé, not his inferior, not a coward, who wants to die rather than face defeat. You will not surrender; you will come back to me! You will fight for the reputation that woman has tainted, for the infamy of her accusations. You will return a hero!’ she said fiercely. Her hands gripped his. ‘You will not die, Dev, you will not! You will fight and win and come back to me! For me.’
The words would stay in his mind, imprinted on his heart forever.
A ferocious light shone in her eyes. ‘Promise me!’
A shout interrupted them.
‘Come on out, Bhishm!’ Rishi Parashuram bellowed from outside the palace gates.
Satyavati peered through the wide palace window.
‘Get your weapons!’ he shouted, brandishing the arrow ready in his powerful fist. ‘We shall fight!’
And fight they did. Hours melted into a day and the day slipped into night, dawning into another day and the next and another. Two women watched them—Amba and Satyavati—each with a fire in their heart and bated breaths. Their duel raged for a fortnight, as glorious as it was gory. Whatever Parashuram came up with, Bhishm trumped, even as Parashuram countered each of Bhishm’s moves. The student bested his teacher, and the teacher never lost. . .
He will win, he will, he will, chanted Satyavati, and he will come back to me. She stared down at Amba, hating her as she had never hated anyone before, not even her father. Satyavati had prided herself that she was not petty, or mean, be it with people or emotions; but for Amba. If Amba hated Bhishm, she loathed Amba as much and more. . .
Satyavati was like a wounded animal struck by an arrow. She was in pain; she couldn’t move, she couldn’t concentrate . . . all she could think about was Bhishm battling his teacher. What was happening to him, she kept asking herself. Would he win? Was he dying? She stood rooted at the window, looking fearfully, longing to stop the bloody duel. . .
It was the twenty-third day of their battle, neither winning, yet both lost in their war. Bhishm could feel the stinging warmth of his own blood on his body, the wounds oozing, draining him slowly, his life sapping away. Her words kept drumming in his exhausted mind. He could not die; he would not die. He blinked; it was not tears, but blood, falling in a steady trickle from his wounds, obstructing his view of the bulky figure of his guru. His guru, who he had to kill; or get killed by him. He had to make his decision now or never. And as he saw his teacher raise his arm to strike him with his famous parshu weapon; Bhishm knew he was left with no choice.
He closed his eyes, the peace of surrendering to death beckoned him, almost bewitched him. In the scarlet haze, he saw Amba’s triumphant face, gleaming with a hatred he wished he could quench. And he saw the sad, sorrowful eyes of his teacher, contorted in pain. He turned his head towards the palace, where he knew she was watching him, watching over him. ‘Come back to me the hero that you are!’
Each word pierced him like an arrow and he raised himself, murmuring the most dreaded words. The Brahmastra—that horrific weapon of complete obliteration.
Parashuram roared, his face twisted in disbelief. Bhishm wouldn’t use that weapon of destruction, he shouldn’t! Like a prayer, he saw the gods descending to stop the duel. It couldn’t go on further or it would be annihilation for all. Though he was ready to take out his Brahmandastra to counter it, Parashuram stopped. He knew he had been defeated.
‘I would rather lose against my student than use this weapon,’ he declared, bowing to Bhishm, as his final gesture of defeat.
Bhishm bowed his head. ‘I do not desire your defeat, sir. I want to win back the respect that I lost in your eyes.’
Parashuram gave a tired sigh. ‘You never lost it, Son. I had to be gallant for this girl, and fight even a righteous person like you. I was the offender, never you!’
Satyavati thought her heart would burst. She was not sure if it was relief or joy that flooded her heart. As ecstatic tears filled her eyes, she heard a shrill cry.
An ashen-faced Amba stood distraught and demented, the scream wrenched out of her revealing her frustration, her hatred.
‘I am not a beggar, I do not want your pity!’ she shrieked, her voice harsh. Her face had suddenly become pinched-looking and her glittering eyes seemed to have sunk into their sockets. ‘Whatever the world may claim,’ she paused contemptuously, ‘or your guru may claim, you are the culprit, Bhishm! And you will pay for it; if not today, then some other day!’
Amba had lost; she was defeated and disappointed in love and life, trounced in her war of hatred and revenge. Watching her as she stood motionless, Satyavati saw a resigned, hopeless expression cross her death-like face.
Bhishm’s next words revived her. ‘If my death can liberate you of your hatred and me of my sins, pray, kill me, here and now,’ implored Bhishm, dropping wearily to his knees, removing his dagger and offering it to her on his bloodied palm. ‘All I can do for you, Amba, is die willingly.’
Amba took a step back, her hands trembling, her wild eyes running over his torn, handsome face. Satyavati’s breath caught in her throat, her lips moving in prayer, her hands clenched to her beating heart. No, please, no, don’t let her kill him! It was the longest moment in her life.
Amba’s lips drew back in a snarl. ‘If killing you was so easy, I would have already done so!’ she snarled through her clenched teeth, her voice dipping to a deadly softness. ‘But I w
ant my life back, Bhishm, and if no one can help me get it from you, I would rather die! But even in my death, I shall seek my vengeance, Bhishm. I shall come back for you again and again!’
The Passing
She had never thought she would be heartless enough to rejoice at someone’s death. But Satyavati had to admit that she could not have been more relieved, and, strangely reassured, when she got to know that Amba had committed suicide. Her thoughts immediately flew to Bhishm. How had he taken Amba’s death?
Two years ago, after the bloody episode at the palace gates, Amba had stormed away to renew her attempts to wreak vengeance against Bhishm. As a last resort, she took to praying to Lord Shiva, still seeking her justice. Shiva, though impressed by her devotion, had turned her down with the cryptic words, ‘I cannot help you kill a person in your hate. But you will be reborn to repay.’
The poor girl, deranged by her fury and desire for revenge, was ready to die, and without any further thought, immolated herself by jumping into a self-made pyre. It did not take long for the rumour mills to start working furiously, all across the kingdoms. One of the strongest being that Amba would be reborn to King Drupad of Panchal, as it was at his garden gate that the faded garland of flowers still hung, waiting for the person destined to kill Bhishm.
Satyavati dismissed the rumour, thinking that royal houses often made their own myths. Besides, the young Drupad would never go against them. He owed them allegiance, and was a friend of Dron.
Ambika and Ambalika had taken their sister’s death poorly, as expected. But what was disconcerting was the growing hostility of Ambika towards her, as she held Satyavati responsible for Amba’s death.
Both were weeping, as she entered their chamber. Ambika was trying to console her younger sister.
‘Amba would have been a different person, leading a different life, had she gotten married to Shalva that day,’ Ambalika was muttering.
‘Amba died, she escaped our fate,’ returned Ambika fiercely.
Satyavati went cold, stopping herself at the doorway, her whole body stiff and erect, formal and disapproving.
