‘I was born in Vrindavan, my lady, and lived there for fourteen years before I made my way to Kunti. Nanda and I were good friends in our youth. We used to go swimming in the Yamuna. We used to play the flute in the meadows to keep the cows calm.’
‘He knows he will have to give up the prince once he grows into a man?’
‘He does, my lady. In any case, he says, sons leave home as soon as they are able.’
For the first time since she had given birth, Devaki felt a tingle deep in her heart. All this while, the talk of giving away her son had been just that: talk. But now that a definite plan was forming, she found that a small part of her wanted to listen to Vasudev and fall at Kamsa’s feet. What was better, she thought. Keep your child with you for a short while, until his throat was cut by his uncle’s sword, or give him away and live in constant fear that he would be found?
On one side there was sharp but certain pain. On the other there were years of waiting, uncertainty, fear.
But there was hope too.
She clasped her hands together and faced the spy. ‘Rishabha,’ she said, ‘if we stand here today debating where to send this child, it is because of all that you have done for us. It is your sense of patriotism to Shurasena that has made it possible for an heir to be born.’
Rishabha bowed. ‘My life for the throne of Shurasena, my lady.’
‘If you speak well of the integrity of Nanda, if he is indeed your friend and fellow villager, then he must have some of your qualities too. I hope – for all our sakes – that he loves Shurasena as much as you do.’
‘He does, my lady.’
‘Then we shall send the baby to him. Inform him that the coming night of the no moon, the night after the spring feast concludes here in Mathura, you shall bring him the boy.’
‘I shall, my lady.’
‘Bring me a tipped feather and a roll of parchment,’ she said. ‘I shall tell you what to write in reply to Jahnavi.’
Five nights from the fated night, Nishanta and Kubera stood by the porch of Mother Ganga’s hut, their hands joined. Jahnavi checked the boy’s bottom to ascertain it was still dry. She had asked Mother how someone like her – with the complexion of just-fallen snow – could give birth to a boy who looked like he had rolled in a heap of wet black mud, and Mother had just shrugged and smiled.
He bore no traces of either her or Vishnu, not in the shape of his face, not in the colour of his skin, not in his smile, not in the knowing look in his eyes. They said children of the fertility rite take birth straight from the Goddess, and the actual mother that bears them is but a carrier, and she had scoffed at the tales as a maiden. But now, looking at her son (he was hers, no Goddess could take that away), she wondered if there may not have been a kernel of truth to those words.
Mother Ganga had asked her not to fuss, that eyes and ears took time to take shape, that she could see in his eyes the same courage she had seen in Jahnavi. But one could never tell when Mother was being serious and when she said things just to soothe.
Now she sat at her usual spot on the edge of the porch, her staff hoisted up to her right, in the manner of a queen. And why not? She was the queen of the mountain, although they called her by a different name.
‘This chieftain of Vrindavan, Nishanta,’ said Ganga. ‘Is he to be trusted?’
‘Rishabha swears by his trust, Lady Ganga. He knows Shurasena better than I do.’
‘We shall keep a close watch on his settlement, of course, from now on.’
‘Yes, my lady, of course.’
‘You have told Rishabha that Nanda is to expect two sons from Devaki.’
‘Yes, my lady. Nanda has been told that Lady Devaki has given birth to twins.’
‘He has two wives, I hear.’
‘Yes, Lady Ganga. The older one goes by the name of Rohini, and the younger one is called Yashoda.’
‘We shall give Devaki’s son to Rohini, then, and Jahnavi’s to Yashoda.’
‘As you say, my lady.’
Ganga turned to Kubera. ‘Lord Kubera, you have mastered the practice of the Mystery of the shroud, I gather.’
Kubera lowered his head. ‘My lady, Sage Brihaspati has been teaching me tirelessly over the last few moons.’
‘With success, one hopes.’
‘With reasonable success, my lady.’
Ganga’s voice rose just a touch, to address the both of them. ‘Shurasena’s port is now watched over by Mathura’s soldiers. So taking a boat from Mathura to Shurasena would be folly.’
Nishanta said, ‘Just so, my lady. Rishabha is a well-known citizen in the main market of Mathura. He will transport the baby in a fruit basket out of the western gate and hand him over to me.’
‘What if the baby cries at an inopportune time?’
‘Rishabha will mix a herb in the boy’s milk that night. He says the baby will not wake for at least ten hours.’
‘And after he hands over the basket to you?’
Kubera said, ‘We are going to employ the services of a cart driver, my lady, by the name of Suhasana, who will take us to his fishing settlement. Here is where I will call on the Mystery, so that no one may see us.’
‘Suhasana’s horse can ride through the mist, one hopes.’
‘Yes, my lady,’ said Kubera, and he looked at Jahnavi and smiled. ‘She flies like the wind.’
‘Once we reach the settlement,’ said Nishanta, ‘we shall lay the babies in another basket, big enough for two. And we will take one of the fishing boats to cross the Yamuna. Once we land on Shurasena’s shores, we will take the road to Vrindavan.’
‘Is it unguarded?’
‘It is mostly unguarded, my lady, but wherever it is guarded, we will use the shroud.’
Ganga nodded. ‘That is good. I do not want even one guard laying eyes on you.’
‘They will not, Lady, Ganga.’
She gave Nishanta another rolled-up parchment. ‘I trust this will be the last of our letters to Lady Devaki. Ensure that Rishabha knows all that we intend to do, and also that you carry Lady Devaki’s missive to Nanda when you go to Vrindavan.’
‘I shall, my lady.’
They sat by the orange light of the lantern inside the hut, their cloaks drawn close around them. Jahnavi’s hand idly caressed her son’s stomach as she stared into the depths of the flame. In Ganga’s eyes she saw a deep sadness she had seldom seen before. In her garb of the wisest woman on the mountain, the lady had learned to keep her eyes covered in an opaque veil, but sometimes, perhaps without her knowledge, it slipped to the side.
‘You wish to keep him, do you not, Jahnavi?’ she asked.
‘More than anything, Mother.’
‘Are you not going to ask me if you could?’
‘I already know the answer, Mother. You have taught me that the Lady of the River must forego all for the sake of the mountain.’
Ganga smiled. ‘I have seen you look into his eyes, child. I think your love for him exceeds that of my love for Devavrata.’
‘I should not say so, Mother, no.’
‘I tried everything in my power to keep Devavrata here, with me. I fought the whole mountain, everyone who said that he was human, that his true place was on Earth. And then, when the Wise Ones themselves came to invite him to the court of Indra, he left, of his own accord.’ Her voice was quietly strong, the voice of a priestess. ‘I fought the whole mountain, but I lost to his will.’
Jahnavi looked at the sleeping figure under her hand. He was no bigger than her arm. Would he, too, grow up to defy her one day? Were the paths of men and women so different in this world that they could not unite but for the shortest moments of time?
‘You can still your heart by telling it that sons are forever to be fostered, Jahnavi,’ said Ganga. ‘When the Goddess made men, she gave them wings. When she made women, she gave us roots.’
‘Will he become a warrior, Mother?’ Jahnavi ran her finger over her son’s oiled arm. His skin had the supple touch of ripe blackberries.
‘Will he one day rule all of North Country?’
Ganga shook her head. ‘I hope not. If one man rules all of North Country, Jahnavi, then he will invade Meru and take it.’
‘No,’ said Jahnavi, ‘not my son!’
Ganga extended her arm to her. ‘Come, dear, let me comb your hair. Ever since you have had him, I feel like you have not looked at yourself in the mirror once.’
Jahnavi went and sat by Ganga, with her back to her. She felt nimble, sure fingers separate sections of her hair. ‘I shall teach you all that I know,’ she said, ‘if you will stay by me and be my daughter.’
‘I will, Mother.’
‘You will make a fine keeper of the Water Mysteries, and in time, you will make a fine Lady of the Great River too.’
‘I hope so, Mother. I do.’
‘You will be much better than I ever could be, Jahnavi. You will perhaps be as good as my mother.’
They sat for a while in silence, each looking at the lamp. Ganga’s fingers moved through Jahnavi’s hair with tenderness, undoing the knots and tangles. Jahnavi hummed the song she had heard on the poet’s lips that night on the boat, and to her surprise, Ganga hummed along with her.
The night was breezy but pleasant. It brought into the hut the whiff of chrysanthemums in full bloom.
‘It is difficult to tell what a child will grow up to be, Jahnavi,’ said Ganga. ‘He is not just your son, remember. He is also the son of a Wise One. Vishnu will keep a watch on him, although he has not come to visit him once.’
‘Will he, Mother?’
‘Men are drawn to their sons after they have grown a bit, my dear. Your son will be the younger brother to the heir of Shurasena, son of Devaki. So it is likely that he will never rule a city as king.’
‘Ah, just like Bhishma, then.’
‘Yes, perhaps. He will not be the most powerful warrior in North Country. Meru men are not renowned for their physical might. But he will snatch Kamsa’s kingdom from under his feet, and he will crown his brother king of Mathura in due course.’
‘You speak as though you can see the future, Mother.’
Ganga laughed. ‘Do I not? And yet I preach to everyone that would listen that no human can see the future. It is a temptation I must win over, Jahnavi. Being so close to the Goddess, one cannot help but wonder if the she gives us glimpses, once or twice, of what is to come that she denies the common folk.’
‘Do you, then? Do you see what will occur in North Country in the years ahead?’
‘I see some things, yes. Here on the mountain we call it the gift of the sight. It visits people of its own will, although there are some who can see more clearly than others.’
‘So is there no way to tell what my son will become as a young man?’
‘No, my dear.’ After ridding her hair of knots, Ganga began to comb it with her fingers, lulling Jahnavi’s senses enough to make her eyelids heavy. ‘At the very least, he will be Meru’s eyes and ears on Earth, and for once, we shall have one of Meru’s foremost men at the helm of one of the Great Kingdoms. That gives us more control.’
Jahnavi realized her eyes had strayed away from the lamp, toward the boy. It made her giggle to think that Ganga was referring to this little bundle of limbs as the ‘foremost man of the mountain’. She wished he would not grow up too soon, for that would be a pity. No one ever had any fun as a grown-up.
‘We should give him a name,’ Ganga said.
‘I already have,’ said Jahnavi. ‘His skin is as dark as the rainclouds that I saw on Earth. So I have been calling him Krishna when I speak to him.’
‘Krishna,’ said Ganga.
‘Do you not like it?’
‘It is not as grand as Devavrata, but he is your son, not mine.’
They laughed together. Ganga tied her hair into two plaits and placed a white rose at the base of each.
‘Krishna,’ said Jahnavi, looking straight at the mirror. ‘Krishna. The Dark One.’
The White Rock gleamed in the starlight. Jahnavi stood in ankle-deep water, holding Krishna up in her hands. She had dressed the boy in the black cloak of a priestess, and his eyes had the shape of inverted crescent moons, so he looked very much like a baby girl. How I wish you were, she thought; I would not have to give you up then. You could stay with me and learn the ways of the Lady of the River. I could give you up to Lady Ganga and spend the rest of my life just watching you two.
It struck her at once that such a thought did not belong to the mind of a fifteen-year-old maiden. She had heard people say that women attained fullness only after motherhood, and she had often wondered what that word – fullness – meant. Perhaps it was this. Perhaps it was contentment. Perhaps it was apprehension. Perhaps it was a heightened sense of belonging. Perhaps it was fear. Perhaps it was love. Perhaps it was all of those at once.
Lady Ganga laid a hand on Jahnavi’s shoulder, which meant that it was time.
Jahnavi had not expected fanfare at the White Rock to mark the departing of Krishna – nothing on Meru attracted fanfare as it did on Earth – but she had thought that at least the Wise Ones would come to bless the child. Indra would be there, she had thought, watching from atop his white elephant. The seven sages would stand in file and chant verses into the morning air.
But apart from Vasishtha – who leaned on his stick and morosely tugged at his beard – no one else came. Nishanta and Kubera were present, of course, for they had been tasked with carrying the child to Vrindavan. If this event was truly as important to the mountain as Mother had said, where were they all? Why did they not give the occasion the importance it deserved?
‘Come,’ said Ganga, and led her out of the river on to the grass. ‘The Wise Ones have sent a message that they bless the child with all things good and worthy.’
‘Did they send a parchment?’ asked Jahnavi. ‘May I see it?’
Ganga shook her head. ‘You must know that their thoughts are with you, my dear. And remember what I told you. When the time comes, Vishnu will protect his son with all his power. I know men.’
‘He is so small, so alone.’
‘He is not alone, Jahnavi. He has Nishanta and Kubera to protect him. He will have his elder brother to care for him in Vrindavan. He will have a father and a mother. He will have the family that we cannot give him here.’
Ganga took Krishna from Jahnavi’s arms and placed him in the basket lined with soft linen. From under her cloak she brought out a closed brass vessel, which she handed to Nishanta. ‘Jahnavi’s milk for the boy, until you reach Vrindavan.’
‘My lady.’
‘You have enough Crystal Water to last you the journey, one hopes.’
‘We do, my lady.’
‘Do not forget that the boy needs it more than you do.’
‘We shall not, my lady.’
Nishanta and Kubera loaded their belongings on the barge. Ganga came back to stand with Jahnavi. She circled her arm around her and took a deep breath, watching the boat. ‘You are a brave, brave girl,’ she said. ‘Braver than I ever could be.’
Jahnavi smiled at the basket. She saw Krishna’s arms and legs kick up now and then, and the anklets jingled over the buzz of the river. He did not seem bothered in the least that he was being taken away from his mother. Why would he, she thought; a life of adventure awaits him on Earth. Even if he did cry now, he would forget her in moments, perhaps as soon as the barge turns the bend and heads toward the Cave of Ice. At least Mother Ganga had the pleasure of tending to her son, of watching him grow, of receiving love from him in return. For Krishna, she would be just a hazy memory, if that.
Perhaps some time in the distant future, he would remember the taste of her nipples, the marks his gums left on her breasts. Perhaps he would come running up the slopes of Meru for her. If Bhishma could forsake Mother Ganga for Earth, was it too much to hope that Krishna would one day forsake Earth for Jahnavi?
Without her knowledge, her eyes had welled up and tears had begun to slide down her cheeks.
&
nbsp; The boat was pushed out into the water, and the basket bobbed on Nishanta’s lap. His red eyes were fixed upon her, and as they floated away, she thought she saw him nod at her as if to say, ‘I will take care of him.’
He did not understand. Of course he did not, for he was a man. She did not much fear for Krishna’s welfare, for she knew he would be protected by many. She did not worry he would not be cared for – after all, he would have two mothers on Earth who would see to his every whim.
Nishanta had seen the tears in her eyes and thought she was crying for Krishna. But she was crying for herself.
BOOK TWO
VICTORY AND DEFEAT
PROLOGUE
GANGA SPEAKS
T
he Lady of the River is known by two names: Jahnavi when she is yet to complete her training, and Ganga after she takes over the mantle from her mother. When I gave up my son for fostering at the settlement of Nanda, I was but a girl of fifteen. Three years after that, I became the Lady of the River, and my mother, Lady Ganga whom I had come to revere, moved to a remote corner of the mountain. She lived much the same life as she did atop the White Rock, they told me, gathering herbs, tutoring daughters of the Celestials and the sages, making her own food, singing the song of the river each night at sundown.
I tried to seek her audience once or twice, but she refused.
On the day she left me, she said I was not to ask for advice any longer. ‘The Lady of the River serves no one,’ I was told, ‘and it is her duty to guide the lives of the Meru people. She must not seek guidance from anyone save the Goddess. Let the quiet hush of the Goddess’s breath be your sole beacon.’
On the day of my coronation as the Lady of the River, the day on which my name changed from Jahnavi to Ganga, they celebrated Krishna’s third birthday in Vrindavan. I did not know at that time – neither did Mother, I am certain – how important a role my son would play in the eventual unravelling of the Kuru clan and the battle of Kurukshetra. All we thought we were doing was strengthening the kingdom of Shurasena against the combined might of Mathura and Magadha. At some point in his life, we thought, Krishna would become king and unite all of the Middle Kingdoms, which would serve as the right ally to the might of Hastinapur and Bhishma in North Country. With two powerful chieftains presiding over comparably powerful armies, neither of them would look to the north, at Meru.
The Queens of Hastinapur Page 15
