Girls of the Mahabharata

by Meenakshi Reddy Madhavan

  ‘What are you thinking of, Sister?’ Ambika comes up from behind me, and out of character for her, puts her arms around my neck and leans her head against mine. I lift my hand up and stroke her head. She too has slipped into Hastinapurian ways, even adopting the way they wear their cloth – without a vatkala, tied at the waist and shoulder – and her hair unbraided and loose, with a fresh garland of flowers pinned into it every day. She looks more beautiful here, this style suits her, the climate suits her, her face, once so pitted is now smoother, her eyes are brighter, and so she is happier, more affectionate towards me and towards Ambalika, almost generous in her loving.

  My sisters. I will have to leave them behind, and while this didn’t bother me before, I feel my heart twist unpleasantly at having to let go of them now.

  I shake my head to clear it and smile at her. ‘Nothing, I am thinking of absolutely nothing at all. Did you want something?’

  ‘They are having a feast for us tonight!’ Ambika’s face is pink with pleasure. ‘Nothing too big, the queen said she doesn’t want to overwhelm us, but we are to meet some of her family and the prince too! And there will be dancing girls and a bard, and we can play the veena if we want to, but she said we didn’t have to.’ She runs out of steam and looks at me eagerly.

  ‘A feast!’ I say, but a beat too late, and Ambika notices this and bites her bottom lip.

  ‘Sister,’ she gives me a squeeze, ‘I know this is not what we had planned, but it is so much better than the future we had. Look at this palace, look how well we are treated. Not that Father didn’t treat us well, but ... oh, you know what I mean.’

  ‘I do,’ I say, ‘Father bred us to be married, we were no different from his prize elephants. Our parents let us do as we wanted so that we wouldn’t bother them, and that is different from being treated with care. I do know. But Ambika, do you really want to be one of three wives of the prince? When our baby sister is one of those wives as well?’

  Ambika moves to sit in front of me now. Her face is serene and untroubled, in fact, she looks happier than I have ever seen her, even when she was a child she had two perpetual little frown marks on her baby forehead.

  ‘I never really wanted to be a wife,’ she tells me. ‘I mean, all the things a wife must do to have sons. You know.’ She says all this unblushing, looking me straight in the face.

  ‘I suppose I will have to have one child, just so people don’t think my husband is neglecting me or something, but I will get it over with quickly and then he will leave me alone because he has Ambalika – and you, of course – and then I shall still be queen and I won’t have to open my legs to him or anyone else.’

  She has trusted me to keep a straight face for this, and I do. I match her look for look and say, ‘Some women get great pleasure out of their husband’s visits, I hear. How do you know you won’t be one of them?’

  ‘I can’t explain it, Sister. I just know that I don’t want to be touched by any man. I think my idea of a perfect life would be one where I can do as I please without being expected to be anyone other than who I am. I can only do that if I am a queen married to an indifferent king. In fact,’ here she leans forward and lowers her voice, ‘I am counting on Ambalika bewitching him this evening itself. I have told the maids to dress her in her lilac and gold, you know how those colours make her look like an apsara. And I have chosen mustard and green for myself, the colours Mother once described as the most unflattering for my skin.’

  I reach out and clasp her hand. I am not worried about how she will fare, but I realize that this is not what I want, I want my husband to come to me, if my fumblings with Salva have taught me anything, it is that I desire as much as a man desires. I want, I crave, I need, and I can’t be like Ambika then.

  ‘Ah, poor Mother,’ says Ambika. ‘I hope she never realizes what happened to us. Tonight then, Sister, and if you want the prince to look at you as well as Ambalika, wear the pink, it makes your eyes look as though they were painted on. Oh my! I am full of compliments today, I must be very happy indeed.’ She tosses her head back and laughs.

  ‘Better not laugh like that in front of the prince,’ I say. ‘Or there’s no chance of him leaving you alone.’ She grins, lifts up my hand and kisses it and leaves.

  Bheeshma is sitting across from me in the marble hall, but he doesn’t meet my eyes. Not even once. Instead, he is occupied with our intended, Prince Vichitravirya, who obviously adores him. The prince has bowed to us all very properly, his dark eyes are very like his mother’s, but they twinkle instead of being hard like hers. He is handsome, I suppose, if you like those sort of looks. Unremarkable. On his face, his mother’s delicate straight nose is lost on top of his very square jaw, which must be from his father’s side, Bheeshma has it as well, but where Bheeshma’s face balances it out with its sharp angles, Vichitravirya’s cheeks are still round. Altogether, he doesn’t displease me, but he doesn’t please me either. At least he looks kind. And when he is an old man and his face is a little gaunt, he will look noble.

  Queen Satyavati is sitting at the head of our circle, it’s funny how I never thought of how a circle can also have a head, but this one does and it is her bright eyes that take in everything. Next to her is her foster brother, king of the fisher people like his father, and His Highness, the crown prince’s uncle for the rest of us. He couldn’t look less like her if he tried, he is short and fair and fat with prosperity and also by the way his body is made. His teeth are stained with betel nut and he is very confident – brash even – because he laughs the loudest in the room, asks for second and third helpings and leans across to tease his nephew from time to time. It is only when he grabs a passing kitchen slave and pulls her into his lap does the queen remonstrate, ‘Chiro, please,’ but other than that, it seems he has an uncanny power over her, from knowing her past.

  ‘You’re a lucky lad,’ he calls out to his nephew. ‘Three brides for the price of one, eh? I had to marry my queens one by one, and they still quarrel with me. Maybe I should have married sisters too.’

  ‘Maybe, Uncle,’ says Vichitravirya, and unexpectedly, he catches my eye and lets his own twinkle at me, and I almost laugh. I could be friends with him, I think, but then I look at Bheeshma again, leaning back, in a moment of unguardedness, his face set in lines of loneliness and disappointment. When I look away, I see Vichitravirya’s mother look at me this time, her eyes appraising what she has just seen. It’s funny how we’re playing thieves and watchmen with each other, our eyes going shift from side to side, who should be looking at whom? And who is?

  The last of the dishes are cleared away, the queen gestures to get up and we must all rise with her. Bheeshma is about to turn to go, the maids are gently herding my sisters and I away, but if I don’t speak now, I won’t be able to, later.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ I say, and the queen turns, ‘and Prince Bheeshma. I would have a word with you, if it pleases you.’

  ‘It doesn’t,’ says the queen. ‘It’s very late.’

  ‘Peace, Satyavati,’ says Bheeshma.

  The queen’s brother who has lingered to hear me also smiles at her wickedly, and says, ‘Let the girl say what she must.’

  ‘I would speak to you both alone,’ I say, darting a sideways look at the queen’s brother.

  He guffaws, not at all offended. ‘That’s me put in my place then! Come, Vichitravirya, walk with me to my quarters and tell me all you have been learning recently. Bring that jug of wine with you, there’s a good boy.’

  I look to see if my sisters have left, and see Ambika’s face as she is led away. It says such a lot, her face. It says please don’t and goodbye and don’t make us as well and I hope you’ll be happy with your choice.

  I close my eyes and pray to the gods as well. I hope I’ll be happy with my choice.

  I had caught Bheeshma in an unguarded moment a few nights prior – I was unable to sleep, the moon was so full it shone across my chamber like a lamp and my heart was sore with the decision I had to make. I
stood up, softly, so as not to disturb Lalita who slept on the floor near me, and I walked out of my cool bedroom and on to the verandah by the back garden.

  In the day time, it was a beautiful sight, this garden. It was grown just for the pleasure of the three or four chambers next to it, a hidden little space, where the queen sometimes sat in the cold weather, feeling the sunlight on her face and hands and letting her companions tell stories. It was only flowers, blooms everywhere, the jasmine with their sweet scent on creepers growing up the wall, the roses open and haughty, the marigolds bright as sunshine. It was an indulgent little garden, too small for a king to show off to his visitors, too out-of-the-way to be an ornament for nobility walking through the palace, just a space for the women who sometimes stayed in the queen’s quarters. My father would have thought it ridiculous to waste a trained gardener on something like this.

  I stepped out into the garden in the moonlight, not expecting anyone to be there – I was dressed in my sleeping cloth, my face clean and unadorned, my hair loose about my shoulders, and I heard a little noise and I drew closer and I saw Bheeshma lying on the ground, his head on Yashas’ lap, Yashas smiling down at him with a gentle expression I never thought I’d see on his face. They looked peaceful. Happy. I was aware of a pang of jealousy, but I wasn’t sure of what I was jealous. Their friendship? The look on Bheeshma’s face as he gazed up at Yashas, merry and tender all at the same time? I must have made some sound for Yashas looked up and saw me and started. In an instant, his face was as still as a tree trunk once more, nothing left of what I had seen. Perhaps I had imagined it all. Bheeshma too saw me and rose as I turned.

  ‘Princess,’ he called softly.

  ‘I couldn’t sleep,’ I told him, ‘The moon...’

  ‘Yes, the same with me,’ he said, and smiled. I smiled back. I couldn’t help it, I was so glad to see him, to have some of our old camaraderie back again.

  ‘Is something disturbing you, Princess?’ he asked. Yashas had risen by then and stolen away, and Bheeshma and I were alone.

  ‘I was just wondering if you meant your promise to me,’ I said, and he nodded.

  ‘I meant every word I said. Have you decided then?’

  ‘No, but I am on the brink of decision, and it hurts me here,’ I indicated the space between my heart and my stomach and he didn’t look amused, nothing except concerned.

  ‘It is hard to know what our soul wants,’ he said. ‘Harder still to keep that in line with what fate has in store.’

  ‘I thought you could help me decide.’

  ‘It’s not for me to say,’ he said, and how odd, his face looks so sad in the moonlight. If it were any other man I would reach out and touch his face right now, let my fingers caress his cheek, but Bheeshma holds himself still and apart from me.

  ‘I should probably go back to sleep before the night is over,’ I said finally to break the silence and he bows as I turn away. Then, just as I am about to step back into the balcony, I feel his hand on mine and my heart gives a great thump and I think now he will tell me of his passion for me, and how we must be married, but instead I feel something cold slip into my palm and I look down and see the hilt of the knife he took from me.

  ‘Just in case,’ he said. ‘There may be other people you need to defend yourself against. And a weapon is always useful.’

  Then he is gone, slipping through the shadows.

  The queen and Bheeshma don’t ask me too many questions when I tell them I would like to return and marry Salva, which I appreciate. The queen looks superciliously amused, like she finds it funny that anyone would choose another prince over her son, but she can’t blame me for my Kashi ways. Bheeshma looks sorrowful, but he doesn’t argue, remembering his promise to me.

  ‘I will give you an escort and a comfortable ride there,’ he says. ‘Be prepared to leave tomorrow at dawn. I don’t want you to linger here too long, and we’re organising the wedding for the next day or two as well.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say. I did want to stay for the wedding, see my sisters married off and comfortable.

  He reads my mind and half-smiles. ‘If you are not marrying the prince, you are here just as an unmarried maiden, and we do not have an older woman of royal parentage to assign to your care. The queen is too busy with preparations, as you can imagine.’

  ‘Besides,’ says the queen, ‘I would rather no one knew you were here or refused the prince. People talk, as I’m sure you know.’

  I do know what can happen with a rumour left untended, like a flame it will lick across the city and soon people will whisper, ‘There’s something wrong with the prince, that first princess of Kashi knew it and that’s why she didn’t marry him.’ Not an extraordinary way to start your wedded life.

  ‘First light,’ says Bheeshma again, and then leaves. I am standing there with the queen and she touches my arm so I turn and look at her.

  ‘Perhaps you wanted a different groom?’ she says, and for the first time, I see kindness on her face. I don’t say anything though, so she brushes past me, murmuring, ‘Safe journey.’

  And that, I think, will be the last I see of the Queen Satyavati or the Prince Bheeshma for the rest of my life.

  The In-Between

  — Lalita.

  — Your Highness.

  — Lalita.

  — I am here, Your Highness.

  — How do I know you’re here?

  — Feel my hand in your hand, here, Your Highness. I am touching you, I am holding fast.

  — Tell me a story, Lalita.

  — Once upon a time, there were three princesses...

  — No! Not that story. Tell me another story.

  — Once upon a time, in a wandering community of Doms, there was born a little baby boy called Jinodaya.

  — That’s a nice name.

  — His mother thought so too. Jinodaya was her first born, but she had already been married for seven rains, and yet, her womb was as barren as the desert. Around her, her sisters had three, four, even five children, as easy as a cat. People advised her husband to take on another wife, but he wouldn’t.

  — He wouldn’t?

  — He wouldn’t, because he loved her so very much. It’s funny to think of a love story to rival the gods in amidst Doms. They know what people call them – Cursed Ones, Crow Eaters, Lovers of the Dead. But disposing of the dead is a job, like any other, and the Doms do it with respect for the person the corpse once was.

  — I hope you will find a good Dom for me, Lalita, when I am gone.

  — You are still here, Highness. Hold fast to me, and let me finish my story.

  — Jinodaya was born.

  — Jinodaya was born, and the night he was born, a thunderstorm clapped across the sky, and in the flash of lightening, his father saw the first temple of Shiva in the town of Kashi, lit up as if by candlelight. ‘That is our home,’ his father said, and picked up his newborn son, holding him up to the sky. ‘Son, the goddess Parvati is calling us all to our new home, but especially you.’ So, the travelling Doms moved to Kashi and set up there at the cremation ghats. Young Jinodaya was part of his father’s business as soon as he could walk, and some people shook their heads at the idea of a little child fetching sandalwood or ladling ghee on funeral pyres. But his father always said ... Highness, are you awake?

  — Yes. I’m just resting my eyes. Tell me what his father said.

  — His father said, ‘There is no shame in what we do, and just as a jeweller teaches his son about gems, and a ship’s captain teaches his son about the sea, so must I teach my son about death.’ Every year, on his star day, Jinodaya’s father would tell him about death. It was one thing, he told his son, that was common to every single thing he saw around him. Trees died, birds died, kings died and beggars died. ‘You can be sure of death,’ he told his son. ‘And is that something you can say of anything else in the world?’

  — It’s funny how we fight death, isn’t it? I think we spend our whole lives – all of our lives being pun
y humans, but struggling against the one thing that will happen to us all. I think. I am better for embracing it, welcoming death to me like a lover. I never had a lover, you know, Lalita. I got close, but in the end, I will die a maiden just as I was born. Oh, Lalita, I can feel you being sorrowful even though I have my eyes closed. You know I have to do as I must. Go on with your story, I like it. It’s distracting me from the pain.

  — Have you a pain, Highness? I could fetch water?

  — Water will not soothe this pain, Lalita, it’s my insides, they are caving in at last. How long have we been here? Days? Weeks?

  — It’s not too late to go back, Highness.

  — It is, oh, it is. Don’t argue with me, Lalita, but tell me the rest of your story, there’s a good girl.

  — So Jinodaya grew and became a young lad of five rains old, and everyone said he was the spitting image of his father, but he was still his mother’s boy and clung to her whenever he could, which made all the women laugh. ‘Boys don’t belong with their mothers,’ they’d scold him, and send him off to the men. But Jinodaya always felt better in the company of women, safer, warmer, more himself than he did with the stern elders of his community. He admired his father deeply, but he wanted to be his mother, she was so beautiful, her hair was long and shimmered in the light when she unbraided it, her bangles clinked and chimed, she’d lift up her skirts and tuck them around her waist when she cleaned the floor of their hut, and he used to sit on the cot and watch her strong thighs, her square feet, the way her breasts moved as she went back and forth and back and forth, and somehow within him, he wanted to grow into her, to have a pair of breasts of his own, to be able to push his own long locks of hair from his face, to look up at his own baby son and smile with the kind of love only a mother can show you.

  — Can show you. My mother never loved me, Lalita, but I don’t think she ever loved anybody. Which is sadder? To go through life not being loved or to live it not loving?