The Fisher Queen's Dynasty

by Kavita Kane

  Each word thrown at him was true, and they pierced him. Slow anger flickered in his hazel eyes. ‘Who made me do that?’ he prompted, his voice low and hard. ‘You; my father’s mad love for you and my mad love for my father. You used me then, as you are using me now by asking me to produce your precious heirs this time! I am not some bloody weapon to be used in your wars and discarded in peace!’

  She threw up her hands in despair. ‘Don’t blame me. Your one spontaneous emotional promise that came out of love for your father will annihilate Hastinapur. What is more crucial—self-imposed ethics or the future of a kingdom?’ she shouted back.

  He gave the woman who started it all a look of unmitigated disdain. ‘And I ask you, was my vow more precious to me than the life of a person? Can I ever forget what I did to Amba?’ his voice was abnormally even, flat yet vicious. He threw her a scornful look. ‘Can I ever forget that I fought with my guru for the sake of that very oath? How easily you ask for something I cannot give, after all that I lost. . .’ he swallowed, his voice quickly hardening. ‘You expect me to break a promise just because you find it convenient now? Not me, it’s that empty throne that you are imploring to!’

  He was ruthless. ‘Why are you asking so much from me—to assuage your guilt or to whip your ambition further?’ he sneered.

  She had never known him to be cruel before, but now she was making him face his demons. As was she facing her own. It was their day of judgement, the time for retribution.

  ‘My ambition is lost, Dev; all my hopes reduced to nothing! Just like our family is now threatened with extinction, leaving the kingdom at stake,’ she replied dispiritedly. ‘We cannot forsake it. Can’t you see that we’re in real trouble already?’ she beseeched.

  His icy voice scraped at her like claws. ‘The things you made me do! I have committed the worst crimes!’ he blazed, his face white in cold fury. ‘I snatched three princesses from their swayamvar, against their wishes to win brides for my under-aged, sick, alcoholic brother. As a celibate, I should not have stepped inside the swayamvar hall at all! Perhaps Ambika and Ambalika could have got a better husband than Virya, but they did not have a choice. I took it from them by getting them here. I broke Amba’s hopes, her heart, and pushed her to a certain death. . .’ he drew in a tattered breath, his face bathed in anguish. ‘I broke all Kshatriya laws for you, tarnishing the reputation of even our family name by that needless abduction. And now you have the temerity to make me commit a more heinous crime—marry my brother’s widows!’ he spat, his face livid. ‘For your ambition. . .’

  ‘No!’ she said, her face white. ‘Not for me, Dev; for Hastinapur.’

  ‘For the throne, you mean, oh Mother of mine, for which you forsook your scruples, your conscience, even your sons!’

  ‘Then what do I do?’ she cried. ‘Hide from my responsibilities like you do? You think I like doing this?’

  He expelled a long breath. ‘All I could do was watch and submit each time because of that same vow which binds me . . . binds me to obey the throne, to obey the crown, to obey you!’ he hissed.

  ‘Then do it for Hastinapur!’ she pleaded. ‘It needs you right now!’

  He shook his handsome head.

  ‘You took that oath, Dev. You said those words, and only you can take them back as there is none and nothing left,’ she prayed, suddenly defeated, stunned and shattered by his obstinacy, watching him prowl in the chamber, restless and raging. ‘Or is it easier for you to condemn me instead? Does it make you feel more noble?’

  ‘You made me a monster; one that is hated and feared by all, and worse, one that I hate the most!’

  ‘No, that vow did you in!’ she cried. ‘That’s why I beg you to relinquish it. It is malignant, destroying you and everyone, and Hastinapur!’

  He walked up so close to her that she had to look up at him. ‘Don’t throw Hastinapur at me! Understand this once and for all, I shall not say it again and you will never ask me ever again!’ he said, his jaw clenched. ‘The Ganga might run dry, the sun may stop rising, the clouds may not rain, but I shall not give up my oath. I lost everything for it. And it is all I have now. It is my truth, my reality, and I shall not relinquish it.’ He turned away from her abruptly, and strode out of her chamber.

  She felt a cold chill, her skin prickling at the echoing icy silkiness of his voice. His outburst had been as sudden as rare. The calm that now followed was as uneasy and unsettling. What was she to do now?

  The Widows

  ‘What do we do?’

  Satyavati repeated the question to Bhishm the following day—the one for which she had no answer, and which he did not want to provide. By walking away from the chamber, Bhishm could not walk away from the crisis. The following day, for the whole day, he stayed away from her, unheeding further requests or commands. It was towards evening when she called for him again, and he surprised her by showing up in the very same chamber where they had argued.

  She was markedly changed since the previous day. There were no traces of tears on her pale, terribly sunken face, and her expression was different. Was it because he saw her differently, or was it that their relationship was different now? Or perhaps intense grief had finally set its mark upon her; though she was as elegant and as well-dressed as before, she struck him as being shrunken, her figure smaller. There was an abruptness and excessive nervousness about her, as though she was in a hurry.

  She caught him regarding her closely and she noticed that he looked more tired than usual. In spite of their concern for each other, she was aware of a hostile and uneasy atmosphere in the chamber.

  ‘Dev, what shall we do?’ she repeated, her voice flat, splintering the awkwardness between them. ‘After Virya, who is to be king of Hastinapur?’ she asked, her tone efficient.

  ‘We can adopt a worthy successor,’ he returned equably. ‘It has been done before.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but who?’

  ‘Uncle Bahlik’s son, Somadatt, would make a good king,’ he said.

  She frowned. ‘He is an able general, but his recent clash with Prince Sini over Princess Devaki of Mathura at her swayamvar has changed the political situation drastically. Sini, as you know, was fighting on behalf of his cousin, Vasudev, the Surasen king, and carried her away from her swayamvar. Devaki, too, is in love with Vasudev. But Somadatt, one of her suitors, challenged Sini and was defeated,’ she stopped abruptly. The story was strangely similar to Amba’s swayamvar.

  Women were political trophies, she conceded with a slight shake of her head. She continued, seemingly unperturbed, ‘Sini is said to have dragged Somadatt by his hair, pushed him to the ground with his foot on his chest, put a sword to his throat, humiliating him publicly. Typically, Somadatt is now bloodthirsty for revenge and this feud between the two royal houses has triggered a fresh diplomatic impasse. If we make him king, we will be earning more enemies and fighting his pointless wars.’

  ‘He is the next kin, an heir presumptive. But knowing Uncle, who gave up his claim for father, he won’t allow Somadatt to accept the throne of Hastinapur anyway,’ Bhishm said indifferently, shrugging. ‘We will have to search for someone else.’

  ‘There is no one,’ she said, frustrated. ‘The current scenario is too delicate, too precarious. All are watching Hastinapur; every king is aspiring to capture it. But till you are there, no one will dare covet it. Dev, you are the only hope. . .’ her voice softened into a plea, trying again to reason with him. ‘Please, Dev, take over the reign.’

  ‘I am anyway doing so, am I not?’ he said. ‘As the regent, I am looking after it. Both of us are. We shall, till our last breath. . .’ he said stoutly.

  ‘But after us, who?’ she asked urgently, and waited with bated breath.

  Observing his silent stance, she hardened her voice, and her eyes turned brittle. She announced, ‘If you do not have the courage to break your vow and accept your throne and life back, I am left with no choice but to choose niyog, for which I will search for someone else for the widows
of Virya.’

  ‘Niyog!’ spat Bhishm disgustedly. It was his turn to stare. ‘That is a right only a husband has over his wife, where he requests her to have a child through another man. You can’t do it; you are their mother-in-law!’ he insisted, his lips set in a grim line.

  Her mouth took on an obstinate pout. ‘I can; I am the queen. They will have to obey me for the sake of the crown. They are queens, too, and it is their royal duty to secure the future of the throne by providing heirs.’

  Bhishm expelled a long breath, tightening his fists. ‘What more are you going to impose upon those poor girls?’ he hissed. ‘You are a ruthless manipulator: without pity, compassion or conscience!’

  She twisted her head to look up at him. ‘Easy to put the blame on me, is it not, Dev? Why have you not taken on the responsibility, instead?’ she challenged. ‘That is why I asked you to be the king and marry them. Only you can help them now,’ she added, her eyes mocking him.

  He moved uneasily. It always agitated him that she could probe into his most secret thoughts. His handsome face twisted in a grimace.

  ‘I can’t even help myself,’ he said bitterly. ‘But I wish I could help them! You have me trapped, as always, but don’t trap them. Don’t, please, I implore you. Don’t make them go through niyog. We forcibly took them from their swayamvar; now you want to coerce them to be with some stranger to have an heir. . . It is wicked!’ he swore, his eyes blazing in outrage.

  ‘It is duty!’ she retorted. ‘As queens, it is their moral and legal obligation, a familial responsibility. Niyog was never meant to be a means to derive pleasure, but to beget a child.’

  He leaned back, running his fingers through his hair, surveying her with a half angry, half defeated expression, ‘What all will you make me witness?’

  Hurt, she gazed out of the window; his words had cut her to the quick. They reminded her of Shantanu’s accusations as he lay dying. Both father and son tended to place their decisions and drawbacks on her, ignoring the fact that they were the ones who had started it all.

  All the images of the past and all her misty thoughts, for some reason, blended into one distinct, overpowering thought—everything was irrevocably over for him and for her. She had crossed the line. The cold, inky sky outside the window contained a prophecy. She began to feel as though they had been together for a long time; that for ages they had been suffering, and that for ages she had had him at her side; but no longer.

  ‘I have not concocted this practice, Dev,’ she said quietly. ‘It is an accepted thing. Is it not common, though often done furtively, in most palaces?’

  ‘Your innate contempt for royalty and all things royal notwithstanding, there happens to be a more valid reason for niyog; it’s political,’ he said. ‘When Rishi Parashuram started his internecine vengeance, he killed not just the Haiyaya king, Kartaviryarjun, who had murdered his father, but all the existing royal warriors and kings. He is said to have annihilated twenty-one generations of them. Soon, kingdoms were left without king or heirs and it was then that the widowed queens approached learned men and rishis. It quickly became an accepted custom for the queens to have children with sages, and that custom continues even now. . .’ he took a breath, jutting out his jaw, ‘. . .by queen mothers like you, who want their bloodline to flourish!’

  She smiled, unfazed by his scorn. ‘I see it differently. I think the royal women defeated Parashuram’s purpose beautifully. By going to rishis and Brahmins, they were still the creators of their progeny, a new race. And through niyog, I am giving the same powers to my daughters-in-law. It is not the men who are important, Dev, it is the women who give birth and create a new life, a new hope, by perpetuating their family line, their dynasty, their clan, their race. Though men claim it to be theirs, in the name of patriarchy.’

  Bhishm tilted his head, regarding her thoughtfully. ‘You are doing the same in your irrational quest for a male heir,’ he accused.

  ‘Yes, because a queen is always the king’s wife; the ruler is always the king,’ she rued. ‘A princess is never born to be queen, as a prince is to become king. I want an heir, Dev; be it a girl or a boy. If so destined, a daughter might rule Hastinapur. But there has to be a scion in the family.’

  ‘There are good kings and allies . . .’ began Bhishm.

  ‘No,’ she said vehemently. ‘Such a man, if chosen to father the children, might grasp a position at the Kuru court by force, jeopardizing the political equation. He will simply make himself more powerful, and the Kurus weaker.’

  Bhishm sighed dispiritedly. ‘It is a suggestion that I do not approve of myself, but it is my duty to let you know,’ he added curtly, getting up, his manner stiff. ‘I shall inform Kripacharya, and ask him if he knows of a revered rishi for this noble purpose. Or do you know of any?’

  It did not take a fraction of a second to decide—there was only one name she could think of.

  Without further ado, she told him briefly about Rishi Parashar and their son.

  ‘Krishna Dwaipayan is your son?’ asked Bhishm, placing his powerful hands on the table and leaning forward to stare at her. He had been stunned when she had first mentioned this unknown son before marriage, but that the famous rishi was that son, left him speechless.

  For once, Bhishm could not hide the incredulity in his voice. He gazed at the woman before him. She was an enigma. She was baring her soul, telling him her deepest secret, darker than that of her own birth? She was a bravely honest woman even when it came to herself. What she had just divulged must have been difficult for her—as it had been when she confessed everything to Amba, in the presence of everyone—but she had said it all with a poise and dignity only she could muster. She sat there, calm and collected, sounding slightly urgent, but neither apologetic nor ashamed. No regrets, no recriminations, no rancour. For her, it was a fact.

  He understood and believed her—he saw that from her sudden pallor, and from the way her hands lay loosely in her lap. In one instant, all that had happened of late flashed through his mind. He reflected, and with pitiless clarity he saw the whole truth—her abandoned child; her quest for prestige through power; her fear of losing it all; her drive and determination, stemming from her basic instinct for self-preservation. Her zeal for heirs for her dynasty was not about ambition; she was beyond that.

  ‘What do you say?’ she interrupted his thoughts, her voice quiet, but firm. ‘He is known as Ved Vyas now, the compiler of the four Vedas, trained under the four Kumaras, Narad and Lord Brahma himself.’

  He detected a faint surge of pride in her voice. He was her son, the only one remaining, and she was unrepentantly proud to be his mother.

  He nodded, his tone now reverential. ‘Yes, he is a great scholar. The division of the Vedas was a feat in itself, making it easier for people to understand the divine knowledge that lies within.’

  ‘Vyas, it seems, means to split and differentiate, or describe,’ she said thoughtfully, a finger pressed against her lips. ‘He forsook the name I had given him.’

  ‘Just as you forsook him,’ he reminded her. ‘You should not expect anything from him; you gave him nothing but birth.’

  They were silent. She took in his anger and held his eyes for a couple of moments, her face wearing the same haughty expression.

  She said bluntly, ‘You are angry with me? That your father was not the first man I had?’

  She waited with bated breath for his reply, as his disapproval still mattered.

  ‘Nothing you do shocks me,’ he said indifferently.

  It was a reprimand; he was still angry with her.

  ‘You want to say that you despise my past, and you are right,’ she said, deeply stirred. ‘You belong to a special class of men who cannot be judged by ordinary standards. Your moral requirements are exceptionally rigorous, and I understand you can’t forgive things,’ she said ironically. ‘I understand you, and if sometimes I say the opposite, it doesn’t mean that I look at things differently from you. We speak the same languag
e, which is our common love for Hastinapur,’ she said proudly. ‘But I don’t despise my past, or Parashar or my son. But there never was love there either. It’s an absurd emotion,’ she said, going to the window and looking down at the river. ‘All this love does, is muddle the conscience and the mind. The meaning of life is in the struggle, the fighting. To trample and to crush it! That is what we have in common; that is what keeps us together, Dev. Our life, our throne, our battlefield is Hastinapur.’

  ‘But that does not give us the right to rule others’ lives,’ he said shortly.

  ‘It does, sadly; and I am not happy about it, as you seem to think,’ she remarked bitterly.

  From her unhappy eyes and face, he saw that she was miserable, and that the conversation would lead to no good, but he went on impetuously.

  ‘Though you suffered it once yourself with that rishi, you are willing to inflict the same on those two helpless girls. How can you? Have you no conscience, no consideration?’ he muttered under his breath.

  ‘Conscience often has to give way to consciousness of duty, however unsavoury,’ she remarked, her smile dry. ‘I did it then, and I will do it now,’ she said, inhaling deeply. Do you give me a choice, Dev? As I said once, if it comes to being either fair or firm, I would rather be firm,’ she said mildly. ‘Being firm means you have to take a decision, good or bad. I am ready to take that bad decision, for there is no good one to choose, is there?’ she goaded. ‘You would rather be fair, sheltered by a cloak of righteousness, whereas I bare myself to censure and criticism.’ She took in the hard lines on his unforgiving face. ‘When Ved Vyas arrives, I would like you, too, to meet him,’ she added, dismissively.