The Fisher Queen's Dynasty

by Kavita Kane

  ‘If you have finished mourning for your sister, would one of you kindly attend to your sick husband?’ she cut in coldly. ‘As expected from a queen?’

  Ambalika hastily left the chamber and her sister followed suit, but not without returning Satyavati a blistering glare.

  ‘We are born princesses, raised to be queens,’ said Ambika mockingly. Unlike you, the impudent girl meant.

  Satyavati couldn’t care less. If opinions were likely to be based on fact and knowledge, judgements were often formed on emotions. What she was now bothered about was Virya, his failing health and the looming reality that there would be no heir. The thought consumed her even as his cough worsened by the hour. He had been spitting blood since the last week. Bedridden for the past six months, he was sinking fast. Satyavati had learnt to take premonitions seriously. Virya, her hammering heart told her, was going to die, like his father.

  Bhishm was by his side, through the long days and longer nights. She had not seen him so desperately sad before, enveloped with a dread of hopelessness and challenging death to dare take Virya from him. She would find him praying, a sight rarely witnessed. Amba’s violent death also lay heavily upon him.

  ‘Will praying save Virya?’ she asked cynically, but not without compassion. ‘The best doctors are with him,’ she said gently. ‘We are doing our best.’

  Bhishm turned, surprised. His eyes were weary from lack of sleep and strain. ‘What are you doing in this temple? You don’t believe in God. Only yourself,’ his lips twisted in a grimace.

  His terseness hurt her.

  ‘God, Fate, Destiny,’ she said, shaking her head, her finger moving restlessly on her lower lip. ‘They are just consoling words, descriptions of man’s weakness. Fate can be conquered. You need to have control of your life and decisions first. Blaming everything and everyone for one’s mistakes, for one’s situation, for one’s unhappiness in the name of Fate is escapism. Everything is our own responsibility,’ she reiterated. ‘You have to be your own God, carve out your Destiny, make your own Fate. If they make us behave as we do, then what about the choices we make? It is our actions that defines us, our lives.’

  Bhishm looked listlessly at the shimmering river in the distance. He is thinking of his mother. It is his way of self-reproach. Is Ganga watching us and counting our sins, Satyavati wondered. Ganga was supposed to be so pure and holy, that a dip in her waters could wash one’s sins away and lead to salvation.

  His eyes still riveted on the glistening horizon, he murmured, ‘You are arrogant in your self-belief. . .’

  ‘And you are a fatalist, Bhishm!’

  ‘Be your own God?’ he repeated her words. ‘Can you save your son now?’ he asked hollowly.

  ‘I lost him when he took to wine and women,’ she said slowly, her breath ragged.

  ‘Whose fault is that?’ demanded Bhishm angrily.

  ‘You are blaming me again for spoiling him,’ she said, a thoughtful frown on her face.

  Bhishm did not reply, but the contempt in his silence was clear.

  ‘Are you making me eat my own words?’ she said quietly. ‘When I say that we are responsible for our own Fate, when I say there is always a cause for everything, and that cause is always created by us, you are insinuating in your characteristic way, that it was my decisions that were the cause for all that has happened.’

  ‘Not just your decisions. . .’ he sighed.

  ‘Both of us have been doing what we have always done, which is looking after the kingdom. Virya knew that we were more than capable of dealing with the matters of the state, and the people of the kingdom never complained,’ she said. ‘Seven years have gone by, yet Virya never took the crown seriously. He went to waste instead, and the excesses have taken their toll.’

  ‘He got a throne and wives too early,’ Bhishm said. ‘Was it your haste to have an heir?’

  He was voicing her deep-founded fear. Seven impatient years down, her son was going to die childless, leave the throne without an heir.

  The raw pain in Bhishm’s voice cut through her stifling thoughts.

  ‘Virya is dying! I can’t bear to see him go!’ He moved his head in abject misery. ‘Why!’ he cried. ‘First Chitrangad, now him. . .’

  ‘He is carrying his father’s genes—the unhealthy ones,’ she replied tonelessly, her face frozen.

  He stared at her. This time, she was quite unlike when Chitrangad had died. Now she seemed a moving, ghostly figure of her original self: cold and perfunctory, ice flowing in her veins.

  A cry tore through the palace walls. Both of them heard the wails renting through the stillness. Her heart plunged. Virya is dead, she knew without conscious thought. She watched a white-faced Bhishm rush down the steps of the temple, his stride breaking into a run.

  She stood still, gazing at the idol in the temple, so exquisite and ornate in gold, but as hard and cold. Was that Bhishm’s God? Her face crumpled in grief, unshed tears scalding her eyes and, in a haze of pain, she turned to look accusingly at the idol. Bhishm’s prayers had not worked. Her second son, too, was dead.

  She could not show the world how battered she was, not even Bhishm. But she knew that, like her, his heart must be weeping dry tears. As she attended to the last guests at the funeral, she felt that the visiting kings resembled hungry vultures, waiting with bated breath for their quick fall. They reminded her of Ugrayudh at Shantanu’s funeral, eyeing the vacant throne while mouthing platitudes.

  She sensed something was wrong because of her innate alertness, and her spy confirmed her suspicions: some of her guests were hatching a plot. She needed to inform Bhishm. She sat alone in her room for a long moment, looking down at the procession of mourners. A sobbing Ambalika could barely stand on her feet, while Ambika stood tense, holding her close. Virya was gone but he had left behind a void, an heirless legacy, and worse, a political stalemate.

  The need of the hour was not to mourn, but to manage with whatever means and measure. Satyavati was doing what queens should. She was shattered within, but she would not allow her Hastinapur to break into fragments. A kingdom without an announced heir was like a rudderless boat, thrown adrift in a tossing river.

  She had to continue to rule: without her son, without the scion, without the king, without the regent. Bhishm was like a broken arrow, prostrate with despair. She glanced emptily at her daughters-in-law, feeling helpless at their grief, unable to console or comfort. She had been counting the hours, hoping each time she looked at the two widows: would either one of them be carrying an heir in her womb? But just this morning she had got to know that Ambika, too, had menstruated, like her sister a week before. So there was no hope—there would be no child, no successor.

  Would the dynasty die, burnt to ashes at Virya’s burning pyre? Satyavati shut her eyes in frustration, the tears refusing to roll down. She would not allow herself to sink into hopelessness; and prayers were of no use. Her God had long died, and she had faith solely in herself. She gripped her hands together; No, she vowed fiercely, I will not surrender, I will not be defeated. I have to find a way.

  She found her answer, and he was approaching her right now with his usual long strides—Bhishm. She had to convince him to break his word to keep another.

  ‘Have you eaten?’ he demanded the moment he glimpsed her wan face, her shrunken figure huddled behind the regal facade she employed to conceal the reality. He came to her side and gently took her hands in his. He was surprised to find them trembling.

  She shook her head, her hands clutching his in a gesture of urgency. ‘You were right—I shouldn’t have forced you to kidnap the princesses, Dev,’ she started in a slow whisper, the skin stretched on her pinched face. ‘It was all for nothing. Matters got worse. The girls are widows, Amba died. . .’ she paused. ‘There have been too many deaths. Shantanu died, Chitrangad was killed, and now Virya. I lost all of them,’ she said, a slight quiver in her voice. ‘But I am a survivor, am I not, a maker of my own decisions . . . even if they are wrong?�
� she sounded ironic. ‘I can confront the ugliest of truths. But the death of my young sons—first Chitrangad, then Virya? What does it mean?’ she whispered. ‘They paid for my sins. This is my punishment. You know why?’ she looked up at him, allowing him to glimpse the anguish in her eyes. ‘Because I stole what was not mine,’ she enunciated slowly. ‘I stole your throne, Dev, your rights as a son. That is why I lost both my sons, lost all that I had usurped from you.’

  Bhishm made an impatient movement. ‘You are torturing yourself needlessly!’

  He knew she was mourning, ripped from within yet striving to make a brave attempt to prove otherwise. Often, in these past few days, he had seen her submerged in the darkness, leaning her head on the arm of a sofa, refusing to break into tears even in the privacy of her chamber. But he saw how her head and shoulders were quivering, defenceless in defeat.

  ‘No, one can’t build palaces over others’ graves. I snatched from you all that’s been snatched from me now!’ she murmured, gripping his wrist urgently, her fingers biting into his fair skin.

  ‘Don’t!’ admonished Bhishm, a muscle jumping at his cheek. ‘You are stronger than this—don’t allow yourself to wallow in self-pity.’

  ‘It is self-realization,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I have to face a truth and so do you, Dev. The kingdom was always yours; the crown, too. It was never mine to have. It is yours, Dev. You talk about God and Fate, and both are telling you the same thing—you were meant to have the throne, never my sons. That’s why they died. The throne was never theirs. It was always yours. Take it! ‘

  ‘What are you saying!’ he muttered furiously, dropping her hands.

  ‘Take back your throne, marry and have heirs!’ she said quickly, her eyes darkening in silent appeal.

  He gave her a strange look. ‘What is this? Some ploy? Do you think I am a pawn to be played with?’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘I don’t want the throne, and nor will I marry!’

  ‘Because of that same wretched oath of yours? You took it for whom, Dev?’ she demanded. ‘For your father? He is dead! On my father’s insistence? He, too, is dead! For my sons? They are both dead, Dev. All are dead! The purpose of this vow is over; there is no successor from me who is likely to contest your progeny for the throne. What remains is an empty vow, and the empty throne which was yours, Dev. Please take it back; take back that damned vow!’

  ‘No, I can’t; I won’t! Amba died!’ he shot back, his eyes flashing in his white face. ‘She died for it, burning in her fire of hatred till her last breath, cursing me. . .’ he stopped, choking, and turned his face away.

  He is mourning for Amba! Satyavati held her breath, feeling more than a cold pit of fear uncoiling within her, as if her life was going to change forever. Is it Amba’s curse working on my family, this palace, on Hastinapur? No!

  She straightened her shoulders and forced him to look her straight in the eye. ‘Is your oath more important than the future of this kingdom you owe your allegiance to? Is that not your duty, your dharma, too?’

  Bhishm felt a slow anger build within him. He detected a shift in her mood and tone. She was no longer the bereaved queen mother of two dead sons. She was back to her assertive self, like the queen of Hastinapur that she was.

  ‘I won’t break my vow!’ he seethed, through gritted teeth, his eyes bloodshot, his face tense. ‘I will not marry. You know that.’

  ‘Not to strangers, Dev, but to Ambika and Ambalika!’ She did not pause, hurrying on firmly. ‘As their brother-in-law, you have a right of niyog over them. Break your vow and marry your brother’s wives!’

  The colour drained from his face and rushed back, flushing his fair skin all over.

  ‘They are like my daughters! Virya was like a son to me!’ he shouted, horror and disgust clouding his eyes. ‘You are sick! You were never yourself after Chitrangad’s death, but the death of Virya has unhinged you!’

  ‘No, I am not insane. I am being sensible,’ she said sharply. ‘Men and women handle their grief differently. Women can fall apart completely. They let all their feelings out. And then just get on with things and life. I am doing that. I can’t afford to grieve for Virya; it is Hastinapur I worry about. . .’ she sighed, scrutinizing him closely. ‘Some men are not used to handling any intense emotions, grief particularly. They lose their mind as they can never get to express the feelings of their heart. . .’

  Bhishm stood up, abruptly turning away.

  ‘Don’t run away from your emotions, Bhishm. That’s what you have been doing in the name of loyalty and duty!’ she said. ‘Each time you felt it—anger and hatred for me, disappointment and betrayal about your parents, your hapless guilt for Amba—’

  ‘Stop!’ he cautioned, his jaw clenched, his hands balled into fists, an indecipherable emotion glimmering in his eyes.

  He got up abruptly and moved away to the window, closing his eyes to shut out the pain. He could still see Amba, her eyes looking up at him with hope, love, eagerness and undiluted hatred. That ebony hair cascading down, framing her lovely heart-shaped face, sometimes beseeching, sometimes sobbing, hurt, raging. Or, she leaning her head on his arm, weeping bitterly, her shoulders quivering. Or her hair, escaping from her combs, covering her neck, her face, and her pale arms.

  Her sobs still racked his mind. It tormented him. She was dead. But he could hear her tinkle of uncertain laughter, the loathing in her voice when she had cursed him, the hurt in her eyes each time he refused her, the rage and frustration glistening in her falling tears.

  He found his heart beating furiously. Will I ever forget her? Will I ever rid myself of the clawing guilt tearing me apart bit by bit, day after day? Was it guilt, or just simple, unadulterated love I will not allow myself to feel?

  He knew that if he had ever loved her, he could have never dared to hope for the miracle of having her. Every day of the six years she had been in the palace were stamped in his memory. As he worked in the morning, practising with his weapons, he would sense her watching him from her chamber, and his skin had prickled with anticipation. He would wait with a thrill in his heart for the moment when he could hear her voice and her footsteps. To stand watching her as she listlessly gazed at him with her bared love, to hold her away, struggling with her, against her, as she wept, her head surrendering against his hammering chest, to hear the tinkle of her anklets on her slender ankles, the same tinkling as her rare giggle, the scorching heat each time she rested her hand on his shoulder, her face flushed, warm and rosy, shining with a thin film of perspiration, her eyes flooding with joy at the sight of him—if only she had known how much all that meant to him!

  The anguish had been more exquisite when he realized that she returned his love: that reflection had driven him to guilt. It killed him each time she had implored him, her eyes full of hope, her soft cheeks drenched with spent tears. He suffered with her. He had realized a long time ago that, for a ruin like him, hope and happiness were forbidden forever. Even now, each time she came in his dreams, he saw her clutching his hands, begging him, screaming at him as she jumped into the fire, her wail echoing in his numbed mind when he lay awake at night.

  He had wished a thousand times he could save her. He dreamed of it even now, as he gathered the memories, tenderly cherishing them in his dreams and loving them.

  Satyavati’s harsh words reminded him of the darkness and the fire that he was living in.

  ‘You felt each of these emotions every time, but each time you denied it,’ she was saying. ‘The only time you have displayed any feelings is when the boys died, and you wept like a child! So, you are capable of pain and tears, aren’t you? Yet, you use your oath as a shield, covering you from any onslaught! I won’t allow it anymore. Throw it away!’

  ‘You are mad!’ he exclaimed, breathing heavily, desperately collecting his scattered thoughts together. ‘In your obsession for successors, you destroyed three girls and your son; how much lower can you stoop?’

  She felt the heat of his words. ‘If you can fi
nd fault in my slavish commitment to get an heir for Hastinapur, you, Dev, the living institution of sacrifice and ethics, have caused more harm! All for your unreasonable devotion to your pledge! How long will you allow it to destroy people, the kingdom and you?’ she cried. ‘It was because of me you took it; and now I am begging you to take it back!’

  It was like screaming into the universe. Obduracy was a trait Bhishm had developed as his defence. Not even that obstinate girl could break him. Amba—clever, beautiful, fiery, demented and damaged—had gone hoarse demanding the exact same thing from Bhishm that she was asking of him now. But he had resisted her for full, six tempestuous years. The chances that she would succeed where Amba had failed, seemed bleak.

  Bhishm was pacing, consumed by a raging fire within him as he tried to stem the rush of thoughts her words had caused. What Satyavati was suggesting was outrageous; it was contrary to reason and conscience. Even coming from her, it was the last thing he had expected. Numb with shock, deprived of emotions and unable to think anymore, Bhishm wondered, in that one small moment, whether he abhorred or admired the woman before him. She had put aside her grief, and placed this absurd suggestion out of worry and love for Hastinapur, because she was desperate to give it the heir it did not have. An effective queen must remain unemotional when the kingdom and the people are vulnerable. She had displayed her sangfroid often enough, but today she had surpassed her passionless self.

  She would never give up. But neither would he, he promised himself grimly, shutting his eyes briefly and thinking of all that he had lost in that one swift decision of his.

  ‘I did it not for you but for my father. And promises are meant to be taken for oneself, not others,’ he retorted dully.

  ‘You have been left with just your empty promise to yourself! All are long gone!’ she said, incensed. ‘Your integrity and morality are the standards for the era. Yet you keep quiet in the face of tragedy and crisis. You pride yourself in being just, but being silent is not being fair, Dev, it is being evasive; you are closing your eyes to reality. You have never taken a decision that you think will make you fall short of your high standards. You protect yourself with that armour in the name of that darned pledge you made to appease your irrational love and guilt for your father. And that same irrational commitment to your pledge is your sole goal now; it is consuming you!’