‘I had thought a blindfolded princess would be eccentric enough. But this Kunti is even stranger!’
‘How so? I heard she is beautiful and virtuous.’
‘Well! In features and form, yes. But I have yet to see her smile or her jaw unclench. She is so stern that even poor Pandu has become quiet.’
Gandhari replied diplomatically, ‘I am sure she is a fine match. Kuntibhoja is a valuable ally, surely.’
Satyavati snorted: ‘Who knows why Bhishma chose her? Can’t trust a celibate to pick a good bride, that’s what I say.’
Gandhari asked curiously, ‘Were you not in favour of the match?’
Satyavati plopped down on a bench and Gandhari sat next to her. Some maids walked by, collecting flowers for the evening worship, wafting cones of incense to keep away the mosquitoes. ‘The more time that goes by, girl, I think it’s not so much the house, the lineage, the pedigree that matters. I think it’s the stock, the breed of the person, the strength of their stomach and will. Bhishma plots marriages like he’s looking at a map, picking territories over each other for their political value. But is that what holds up a family? A kingdom? Or is it character?’
‘Ideally, it should be both.’
Satyavati snorted again: ‘And what in this world is ideal?’
Satyavati rose and began pacing again. ‘Well, I have to say, even my other son Dvaipayana was in favour of the alliance. But for a different reason.’
‘Why is that?’
Satyavati drew in a breath. She paused. ‘You are the daughter of Subala, you tell me, girl. What do you think?’
Gandhari sighed inwardly but neither her face nor her voice betrayed her exasperation. She was constantly being tested on her political acumen and recall of the history and geography of the diverse territories of Bharat by members of the royal family and their ministers. It was grating to be perpetually under examination, but she bore it. ‘Kuntibhoja is a powerful ally and Kunti is renowned as a virtuous woman.’
Satyavati tut-tutted. ‘Yes, so are many other princesses around Bharat. Come, princess, think harder.’
Gandhari warmed to the challenge. She racked her mind and rattled off more statistics about the size of Kuntibhoja’s forces, the strategic import of his terrain, the pedigree of his bloodline. But she was missing something. Satyavati kept grunting, no, no, no, at each of the reasons Gandhari volleyed.
Finally, Gandhari gave up and admitted, ‘I cannot think of the reason then, queen mother. Please tell me.’
Satyavati sat next to her, sending up a cloud of perfume that filled Gandhari’s nostrils. She had been growing increasingly fond of that smell, associating it with the eccentric, always fascinating persona of Satyavati. She had never been particularly close to her own mother and she felt an unfurling of love for Satyavati that she had never felt for her own. She leaned close to Satyavati, breathing in the soft fabric of her sari, artfully and elegantly folded yet slightly tousled, too, a little dishevelled and careless, to show how unaffected she was by her own appearance. Gandhari did not want to appear so weak as to lean into her for an embrace, but she did sidle a little closer.
Satyavati’s voice changed into something softer, more measured, wise – the voice of a woman who had been with a rishi, who had been mother to one, who had earned her wisdom the hard way. ‘You see, daughter, you have infinite intelligence when it comes to the hard facts, that which can be gleaned from numbers and recitation of history and lineage. But there is an insight that goes deeper than that, that understands power is not gained through war and politics alone, that there are more mysterious forces at work in the universe. Forces that if we tap into them can alter the course of our destiny forever.’
Gandhari swallowed. A nervousness started twitching in her fingers and palpitating her heart. Her throat grew dry, her breath short. There was nothing ominous in what Satyavati was saying but she felt a frisson of foreboding.
‘Daughter, do you understand what I am saying?’
‘Yes, queen mother,’ Gandhari replied, her voice cracking from the dryness in her throat.
Satyavati rose and began her habitual pacing again. ‘Do you know what is the most important thing that Kunti brings to us, girl? Her most valuable asset? The whole reason behind the alliance with Pandu?’
‘What?’
‘Not what. Who.’
Gandhari lifted a tumbler of rose-scented warm milk to her lips. A puzzled frown creased her brow. ‘Who?’
‘Her nephew.’
Gandhari began tracing through the dynasty maps she had drawn in her head but she could not identify this suddenly important nephew.
Satyavati inhaled deeply and pronounced, ‘Krishna.’
At the very sound of his name, Gandhari was seized by a sudden dread and existential fear. She could hear the howls of jackals and cries from a distant battlefield. The tumbler of milk fell from her suddenly lifeless hands. She shivered violently. The very sound of his name inspired horror and revulsion within her, as if he would be the source of destruction of herself and all she held dear. She moved to cover her ears as if that futile gesture would remove the sound of that name from her consciousness, eradicate it from her memory.
‘What on earth, child? What has happened to you?’ Satyavati exclaimed, wiping off the spilled milk from her wet dress.
Gandhari’s voice was fainter than the heart hammering loudly like a kettle drum in her chest. It was barely a whisper. ‘Krishna? Who is that?’
Everyone else of import in the kingdom had to be referred to by his full name, his father’s name, the name of his kingdom, his title, his lineage. The more flourishes one had, the more powerful he purportedly was. Yet, the very name ‘Krishna’, shorn of all ornamentation and embellishment, was enough to thrill the heart, in desire, fear, attraction or hate. Who must this figure be if his very name was this powerful?
Satyavati called for a maid to clean up the spilled milk. Gandhari dabbed ineffectually at the droplets of milk staining her blouse. Satyavati continued, ‘As of now, he is nobody. A young boy of mysterious origins, tucked away in remote forests, where he sings and dances, plays with cows and seems to be slaying an endless slew of demons sent by the evil king Kamsa to kill him. He is said to be utterly charming, a mischievous, blue-coloured lad who has stolen the hearts of Vraj.’
‘I hardly see the value of that for our kingdom.’ She took deep breaths and willed her pulse to slow down.
Satyavati lowered her voice so that the servants could not hear. She whispered, ‘They say he is a god, child. They say he is Narayana incarnate, the next avatar of Vishnu after Sri Rama.’ An avatar was a manifestation of a deity in human form, an incarnation.
‘A cowherd boy as a god?’ Gandhari was incredulous. ‘That’s not possible!’
‘As I said, a boy of mysterious origins. Even my son Dvaipayana travelled many, many weeks to have sight of him as a baby. He – the great rishi my son is – bowed down at his feet, the feet of a baby! Can you imagine?’
Gandhari forced herself to shrug nonchalantly, as if she was not deeply troubled within. ‘Such tall tales abound. It is hard to know what is fact and what is fiction. It seems an awful lot to wager a marriage on.’ This is who they choose over me to marry Pandu? An aunt of a strange blue boy who is either a trickster or a god? Hmmph, Gandhari thought to herself, the spies of Gandhara were worth more than that.
Satyavati was thoughtful. ‘My son is not prone to superstition. And, I can feel it in the air. I have been around a lot longer than you, girl. I know the very air of the earth is changing. The book of history is turning a new page. One epoch ends, while another dawns. Such things only happen when the devas are here. It is better to keep them on our side.’
‘Hmm.’
Satyavati’s voice filled with amusement. ‘And in any case, if there is nothing to Krishna, how come you were so affected by the very mention of his name?’
Gandhari admitted, ‘I do not know. Something overcame me, some notion that my dest
iny is intertwined with his. And perhaps not in a good way.’
‘I must tell you, I’ve met so many interesting people in my lifetime. Even Dvaipayana’s father, who was a great rishi, one of the greatest rishis this world has ever seen – even he was nothing compared to what is being rumoured of this lad. I cannot wait to see him for myself.’
I never shall see him, not with my eyes, thought Gandhari to herself. Imagine that, a once-in-a-million years event, the coming of an avatar and I have blindfolded myself, robbing myself of the sight of him, a vision that would surely bless me and my family. Gandhari quickly changed the topic, unwilling to entertain the thought of what she had lost by blindfolding herself and even more unwilling to think more about this strange, perplexing figure of Krishna who made her hairs stand on end and sent trickles of dread down her spine.
Satyavati arranged for Pandu, Kunti and Gandhari to go on an outing at one of the pleasure gardens nearby. It was a garden full of fountains and shaded groves with flowering rosebushes and a large lake at the centre for boating, built for the royal family as a retreat. Satyavati did not even bother inviting Dhritarashthra, who was convinced that he would die of fever if he were to step outside of the palace gates. Satyavati was keen that the brothers and their wives get along with each other, and this was her way of getting them to bond. Pandu dismissed the servants and rowed the boat himself. He liked to exercise to keep himself fit and robust. Gandhari thought he pushed himself a little too hard, perhaps defensive against the rumours that there was still a weakness in him, a pallor that robbed him of full health. She wished she were able to see him with her own eyes to judge his strength for herself.
He rowed near the banks of the lake, under the shade of tall trees, to shield them from the heat of the sun. Gandhari turned her face upwards to feel the breeze ruffle against her cheeks, to inhale the fertile scents emanating from the leaves. It reminded her of home, and she felt a deep pang of homesickness for the orchards where she would ride on horseback with her brothers for hours on end, pounding the earth beneath her feet, outpacing even her brothers. Now, it was a miracle if she could manage to walk ten paces without stumbling.
Pandu was trying desperately to make conversation with Kunti. He was such an affable person that it should have been easy for Kunti to warm to him. But she was so stoic and severe in response and countenance that Pandu gave up. Even Gandhari, out of pity for him, tried gamely to start a conversation. She asked what it was like to grow up with Kuntibhoja, how it was to serve Durvasa, the legendary rishi who was infamous for being impossible to please. It was said that Kunti had pleased him with her steadfast devotion and ministrations to his eccentric needs. Gandhari was genuinely curious but Kunti refused to share anything at all. When it came to Durvasa, Kunti simply said in a flat voice that brooked no follow-up: ‘He is an illustrious rishi. It was the boon of a lifetime for me to have the opportunity to even serve such a great one.’
Pandu tried to soften her up: ‘Indeed. And it is a credit to you, my dear, that you were able to win his favour. Most people earn his wrath. But he has always spoken so highly of you.’
Kunti’s voice sharpened to a shrewish tone: ‘I did not seek any favour from him! If he was moved to bless me, that was his greatness of compassion. The rishis always bless those who cross their path. There was nothing special about me.’
Pandu and Gandhari lapsed into silence at that point. They rowed and ate wordlessly. It was awkward for Gandhari to eat lunch out in the open without the plates and vessels she was used to. Kunti took to feeding her, briskly scooping up the thick lentil gravies mixed with rice and pressing them to her mouth. Gandhari’s cheeks flamed in embarrassment as she tried to protest but Kunti persisted.
‘You are my older sister,’ Kunti told her. ‘It is my duty to serve you. Now eat.’ And she prodded the spoon so firmly into Gandhari’s mouth that Gandhari had no choice but to comply, uncomfortable as she was.
Afterwards, when they came back to the palace, Pandu accompanied Gandhari to her and Dhritarashthra’s private audience chamber. He talked to her quietly as they walked. By now she had memorized the route to her chamber from all the various other chambers and sitting areas in the palace, so she easily kept pace with him. If one did not see her blindfold, one would not have guessed at her incapacity.
Pandu whispered to her, ‘May I confide in you, as my older sister?’
‘Of course, you should not even hesitate to ask.’
Pandu let loose. ‘Of course, I know what a virtuous and admirable woman Kunti is. I am very fortunate to have her as my wife. But, you see, do you not, sister, that I cannot possibly connect with her? It is like being with a statue! I really do not think I have ever even seen her laugh.’
Gandhari tried to comfort him: ‘Well, surely, she is shy. She was a lone child in Kuntibhoja’s home, secluded in prayer and serving the honoured guests who came to his place. It must be a big change for her to suddenly be here in the midst of such a great family, to finally have companionship after being alone for so long. Try having some patience with her.’
Pandu sighed heavily. ‘I have won so many battles, sister. Conquered so many kingdoms. Ravaged so many palaces. But I do not think I have encountered a fortress stronger than the one that she has built around herself.’
Gandhari was amused: ‘Perhaps that is a good thing. It is a challenge you might enjoy.’
Pandu hesitated. ‘Sister, I do not think I will like what lies inside the fortress.’ The words fell from his lips like lead.
They had reached the audience chamber by then, and at Pandu’s knock, a servant from within opened the ornate wooden door. Dhritarashthra was sleeping, so it was just Pandu and Gandhari inside the room. They sat while Ayla fetched them cooling hibiscus tea. Gandhari did not respond to Pandu’s confession. There was nothing appropriate to say.
Pandu continued, ‘Sister, I have come to seek permission from you and my older brother. Since he is – occupied, I will make the request of you.’
‘Yes, little brother. Ask.’
‘I would like to go to Madra.’
Gandhari hid a smile. She knew well that the princess of Madra, Madri, was famed to be a woman of uncommon beauty, coquettish charm and a giggly, exuberant nature that compensated for her lack of brains. She could imagine how appealing Madri would seem to Pandu after having been wed to Kunti.
‘And what is it you wish from the kingdom of Madra, little brother?’
Pandu chuckled. ‘Do not play dumb with me, sister. You know well exactly what it is that I seek. Do I have your blessing to bring you another younger sister, who shall be at your service and command, as the eldest wife of this house?’
Gandhari smiled but inwardly she fumed. She may have been the senior-most wife of the house, but Kunti was the one who was queen. Gandhari would be closer in stature to the frivolous Madri, an irrelevant queen who would not rule. The weight of the crown mattered more than the weight of age.
‘You have my blessing,’ said Gandhari to Pandu nevertheless. She sincerely wished that he would find happiness and fulfilment somewhere. It was so easy for princes like Pandu to simply go elsewhere when they were dissatisfied with their lot in life; if they tired of their first wife, they could find a second or a third or a fourth. Gandhari did not have that choice, but even if she did, she could not conceive of the possibility of it, of being with anyone other than Dhritarashthra, so complete was her devotion to him. So, there was no resentment in her, no grudge, when she leaned forward to place her hand on Pandu’s head in blessing. She did, however, despite herself, feel a twinge of pity for Kunti.
The days that followed were miserable. Pandu’s triumphant return with the lovely Madri in tow made Kunti even more sour and dour. Gandhari now felt overshadowed by both the wives. The attainment of Madri appeared to embolden Pandu. He began a period of intense warfare to show off his military and physical prowess, as if to defy those who had said he had been born with a deformity. The brighter he shone with victory afte
r victory, the more bitter and angry his brother Dhritarashthra became. And, Gandhari, too, began to resent being eclipsed by women who lacked her political savvy and her intent eagerness to rule.
The lowest point was when they had to preside over the city’s celebration after Pandu’s triumphant return from a string of military victories over other kingdoms. He brought in tow wagon upon wagon full of gems, pearls, coral and other glittering stones – cows, artwork and even slaves. Then there were multitudes of horse-drawn chariots, elephants, donkeys, camels, buffaloes and some goats and sheep. The crowds went wild for him. Gandhari’s maidens oohed and aahed over the display.
Bhishma had arranged an opulent celebration ceremony for Pandu. It was held outdoors to accommodate the thronging crowds. He and Satyavati, along with Ambika and Ambalika, sat on a high dais on an elevated platform so they could be visible to the people. Sometimes Gandhari forgot that the two mothers of Dhritarashthra and Pandu were even in the palace. They were always in seclusion, perpetually, it seemed to Gandhari, in hiding. Gandhari, Kunti and Madri sat to the left on a slightly lower dais. Even Dhritarashthra had been persuaded to come out on this day. It was perhaps part of his masochism to put himself at the centre of his brother’s glory. Vidura sat next to him to tend to him and inform him of the happenings.
Ayla was the only one in Hastinapur that Gandhari dared to fully trust, so she had Ayla sit next to her and be her eyes and ears. Ayla had a quick mind, and she was able to rapidly relay to Gandhari just how many wagons were in the caravan, guessing at the weight of the various barrels of golden coins and gems, the number of cattle being paraded through the streets of the city. She whispered in awe how Pandu was calmly at the front of the procession, leading it with a smile, pausing to wave and exchange pleasantries with people in the crowd who pushed closer to him. The procession was leisurely, giving Pandu ample time to soak up the adulation.
The Curse of Gandhari Page 9
