Pritha’s hands relaxed in Gandhari’s and her breathing seemed to return to normal. Gandhari squeezed the tender palms. ‘No one shall know of it, of course. It shall be our little secret, yours and mine. Hmm?’
Pritha did not reply, but she did not withdraw her hands either. Gandhari raised her head a little and called out for the waiting woman at the door. She waited for the steps to approach and stop. Then she said, ‘Tell Shubrasi I have asked her to come.’
‘My lady, Shubrasi is sleeping in her chamber.’
‘Then wake her up,’ said Gandhari. ‘I wish to see her this very moment.’
‘Very well, my lady.’
‘Just once a month, Pritha,’ said Gandhari in a whisper as the maid disappeared. ‘Once a month, you shall give Madri the herb.’
‘It feels so wrong, sister, that I must do this to a woman like myself.’
‘Well, dear, be assured that if Madri were in your position – indeed, if any other woman were in your position – she would do the same.’
They sat in silence for a while, Pritha’s hands limp to Gandhari’s caresses. Then Shubrasi’s walking stick clacked against the floor, and she came to where they were sitting. ‘Your Highness.’
Pritha’s hand rose and then fell back into Gandhari’s.
‘You summoned me in urgency, Lady Gandhari?’
‘Yes, Shubrasi,’ said Gandhari. ‘Her Highness Pritha is in need of the herb that we grow in the far balcony, away from the sun.’
A moment’s silence. ‘Certainly, Lady Gandhari,’ said Shubrasi. ‘I shall get one stem for her right away.’
The doors to her chambers locked and the curtains of her windows drawn to keep out the light of the setting sun, Gandhari went to the darkest corner of the room and sat cross-legged, facing the wall. She reached out and placed her hand flat against the coarse brick; her mind filled with the sounds of a white, wintry gale. Autumn had rushed past them this year in a flurry of weddings and ceremonies. First, there had been her own wedding, on the last day of spring, and then, two fortnights later, on the same cycle of the moon, Pandu had been wedded to Pritha.
No one remembered the midsummer feast this year, for it had been eclipsed by Pandu’s second wedding to Madri. How Bhishma had managed to secure an alliance from such a far-off country in such a short space of time, Gandhari could not fathom. They had thrown open the palace gates on the night after the union, for peasant and pauper to come by and bless the couple.
That had been the night on which Gandhari first became aware of a note of worry in Dhritarashtra’s touch. The whites in her mind gave way at this moment to the flickering violet shapes of despair her husband had worn that night, as palace guards kept the long file of subjects in check. She had taken the seat next to his and his grip on her hand had been limp all evening, and when he spoke in her ear, it was in a distant, resigned voice.
It was on that night, on the night of Pandu’s second wedding, that Dhritarashtra felt the throne of Hastinapur slip away from his hands.
For the number of wives a man had spoke, in some strange way, of his status in the royal house, just as for women, it all had to do with the number of sons she bore. Pandu had two wives now, one from each of the more prominent kingdoms of North Country, and even if Dhritarashtra and Gandhari wanted to ignore the hidden message behind this move, the people who thronged to the palace did not let them.
‘King Pandu looks like the sun himself,’ said some.
‘Queen Madri and Queen Pritha – they possess the grace of Parvati and Ganga, do they not?’ said others.
On the fourteenth night of autumn, just as the brightest full moon of the year ascended the sky, Bhishma made a quiet announcement that Pandu would be crowned king the day after, and in a small ceremony attended by just the royal house, the crown had been placed on his head and the sword of Shantanu – decked in vermillion and turmeric, sheathed in a scabbard lined with gold thread – had been presented to him.
Anger welled up in Gandhari as these images rose in her head. Unlike the image of the morning, which was hidden under grey mists, these visited her in full, colourful glitter. She had not seen this scene with her own eyes, of course, but she had had Shubrasi narrate it to her afterward, and she had had her own ears and nose to catch the magnificence of it all.
With anger came the wavering of her mind. Without her bidding the images became dimmer and blunter. The colours dropped off, and the faces receded to mere blobs, as if Shubrasi had filled the clay with more water than it needed and now Gandhari could not mould it into any shape. All she could do was feel it run through her fingers, like muddy water.
She placed her other hand on the wall. The coldness returned.
Once again her mind filled with howls of the winter wind, rushing across the plains of Hastinapur from up north. It hit her cheeks and stung them until they turned blue. Her breathing became more regular, and she felt the tendrils of anger retreat from her mind.
Calmer the mind, she told herself, clearer the sight.
She had heard that when one sense was put to sleep, the others awakened. Dhritarashtra, for instance, could tell who was approaching by the sound of their shoes on the floor. He could touch the fingertips of someone’s hands and recognize them in an instant, even if he had only met them once before. On their wedding night, he had taken a full thirty minutes to feel every inch of her body, both with his fingers and his lips.
‘It is my way of remembering you,’ he had said.
She had expected that her own senses would awaken, but they had not. She did not live as a blind person for all moments, of course; twice every day, during her bath, she undid the cloth, washed her eyes, and looked around at the room. She had had the pictures of all the royal house members brought into her chamber, so that whenever she felt that the memory of one was fading, she could reinforce it again.
Perhaps that was why her other senses refused to wake. Perhaps that was why her sight would not come to her as readily as she wished. Kubera had said she would have to close the eyes of her body to bring to life the eyes of her mind. She had taken to shutting her eyes, but not forever. She had not yet accepted blindness as a complete part of her; she still viewed it as a handicap, a disease.
And if she felt this way, was there any surprise that Bhishma and Vidur did too?
Dhritarashtra surpassed Pandu in every way; he held the physical bearing of a king, shoulders broad as those of an ox, gait regal as that of a white tiger. He was as good with the mace as the best of fighters in Hastinapur. In hand-to-hand combat he had no peer. With a sword and shield he was not as good, but he had still beaten Pandu in all the palace tournaments when they were growing up.
Pandu was the better archer, Gandhari admitted it, but archery was perhaps the only form of fighting that required a keen eye. She had heard of great archers in the past who would shoot in the dark, aided by nothing but the swish of a flying bird, the clang of a shield, but she did not believe them. Sending a shaft piercing into the neck of an enemy on a chariot was hard enough for a man blessed with excellent sight. For a blind man the task was impossible.
Hastinapur, though, was an archer’s kingdom. The people feted bowmen. Young children played not with swords and maces but with bows and arrows. They grew up wanting to be the greatest archers in the land. Stories were still being told today of how Bhishma subdued the kings of North Country during the fight for the three princesses of Kasi. The cloud of arrows was so thick and dense, they said, that it blocked out the sun.
In such a kingdom, Pandu was the worthier warrior.
In cities to the east, those that cocooned themselves between crags and rocks, where one seldom saw the enemy until he emerged from behind a boulder right in front of you, someone like Dhritarashtra, with his iron arms and wolf-like hearing, would be the hero of the age. A man with Pandu’s sickly build, no matter how skilful he was at tying the bow, would not be allowed anywhere near the army.
Rage threatened to tear her apart again, and she
felt her mind slipping from her grasp. What of other aspects of being a king, she thought savagely. Pandu regarded the throne with the disinterest of a philosopher. Soon, perhaps on the first day of winter, he would be sent away on an expedition to all the Northern Kingdoms. What would he say to them all? Would he fall on his knees and beg for tribute? Sometimes a king needed to be ruthless, and if a vassal state rose up in rebellion, he must have the wherewithal to quell it with enough force to serve as a reminder to the rest of them.
Did Pandu have that?
For certain, his army would be huge, and it would be enough to deter most kings from fighting back. But some of them would. A king – a true king – would think nothing of severing the heads of a hundred men during the day and returning to his tent at night to serenade his queen with verses of sweet love. Pandu did well with the verses, but did he have enough stone in his heart to watch his enemies fall?
Gandhari did not think so.
Her mind went blank for a moment, and all she could feel was the coldness of the wall on her palm. Then the image of the morning sprang up again, the one with the toppling rider and the laughing child. It came as a flash, but a sharper, grainier flash, in which Gandhari saw the rider was wearing a yellow upper garment that fluttered in the wind, and the laughing boy had a dead, distant look in his unseeing eyes.
CHAPTER TWO
S
he laid her head on his chest and listened to his heart. She felt his eyes and saw that they were closed, those eyes that had been born dead. It did not make any difference to him, but for her, bright light seemed to touch her closed lids with more harshness than did the black of dark.
One of his arms cradled her close, his fingers wrapped around her upper arm. With his other hand he grazed her inner thighs. She felt no desire – he had drunk it all in the last hour – but her mind grew light. She lowered her hand down his torso to feel him too and found him hardening to her touch.
She had no way of knowing for certain, but at that moment, she felt that Dhritarashtra was just about the most virile man in Hastinapur.
‘You are lost in thought, my queen,’ he said, and turned to kiss her on the forehead. His moustache pricked her skin. ‘There is something on your mind.’
‘I am thinking how fortunate I am to be wedded to you.’ The words tumbled out of her, and she smiled when she realized she meant them. ‘I am thinking that surely, tonight, I am the most blessed woman in Hastinapur – perhaps all of North Country, even.’
‘May all women love their husbands with as much fervour as you, Gandhari,’ he said, and his fingers travelled up into her hair. ‘I know not what I have done to deserve you. I sometimes think that for a queen of your stature, a place on the throne of Hastinapur would have been more appropriate.’
‘We may still get it, my lord. We are still young, all of us. Who is to tell what will happen in the future?’
Dhritarashtra sighed. ‘If I have learned one thing in my life, my dear, it is this: there is no future for a blind man in the royal house of Hastinapur. Perhaps we ought not to hope against the will of the elders.’
‘But you are worthier than he, my lord,’ said Gandhari, ‘and I say this not as your wife, but as a queen who knows a king when she sees one. I see Pandu and I do not see a king.’
‘Perhaps you are consumed by envy.’
‘Envy? For that man, who without shame accepts whatever Bhishma gives him? If he had any of the virtue people praise him for, he would have returned all he has been given, and he would have bowed to your rule.’
For a minute Dhritarashtra did not speak, but the beating of his heart grew a touch faster. Gandhari wondered if she had been too outspoken; after all, Pandu was her husband’s brother, and she had only entered the family two moons ago. Perhaps it was too early to start fights.
When he spoke, his voice had an edge to it. ‘It is not Pandu’s fault that Uncle Bhishma favours him. Not all men may covet the throne, Gandhari, but I have yet to see a man who would turn it down when he is offered it.’
‘I beg your forgiveness, my lord. I did not wish to speak ill of your brother.’
His tone softened, and he sighed. ‘I understand. You speak out of love – blind love, perhaps – for me.’
‘You said not all men covet the throne. Are you one of those men?’
‘You are asking if I would like to be king.’
‘Yes.’
‘I would,’ he said, ‘but I know not if I can be persuaded to act against my brother in order to ascend the throne. I think Hastinapur would be better served by no infighting. So many kingdoms have lost their way because one brother could not stand the sight of another.’
‘But perhaps we may not need to fight at all,’ said Gandhari. ‘Perhaps if you could accompany Pandu on his annexation campaign—’
Dhritarashtra laughed. He had a deep, gravelly voice that could drown out every sound even in open court, but when he laughed he slipped into the garb of a child. The image of that morning flashed in front of her eyes once again; now the laughing boy sounded much like Dhritarashtra. She twined her forefinger around his chest hair and pulled.
‘They are going to march forth on chariots loaded with bows and arrows,’ he said. ‘What shall I do with them?’
‘Certainly they will take with them a group of footmen?’
‘No doubt. But the footmen will then need to be tasked with protecting me on the battlefield.’
‘Only if it comes to that,’ said Gandhari, raising her head and facing his eyes. ‘This is not a fighting campaign, is it, my lord? It is a campaign of diplomacy, where Pandu will need to speak to the kings and the noblemen in court. Surely you can be of much help to him?’
‘Ah, I know not. Uncle Bhishma says there is much likelihood of battles erupting, especially in the Far Eastern Kingdoms. And Uncle Bhishma is not accompanying Pandu; he says the king must go on this campaign alone, without support. If it turns out that Pandu needs support, Uncle Bhishma will ride out to help.’
‘Is Pandu eager to go?’
‘Dear Pandu,’ said Dhritarashtra. ‘As good a hand as he is with a bow and arrow, and as much enthusiasm he shows for hunting, he does not like to fight.’
‘Is that not strange for a Kshatriya?’
‘Kshatriyas are also men, Gandhari. No man likes to kill another, if he could help it. After all, every king is a husband to a lady, a father to princes and princesses, and a protector of thousands of subjects.’
‘But every king needs to fight with honour when he needs to.’
Dhritarashtra nodded. ‘We do, yes. Pandu says there is no honour in dying, nor there is honour in killing. I understand what he says, and sometimes I agree with him. With Hastinapur as strong as it is now, do we indeed need to go on a further campaign of annexation? Are we not happy enough with what we have?’
The curtain of the west window rustled in response to the breeze, and they both shifted together on the bed. Dhritarashtra turned to face her, so that their foreheads touched. He placed a cold, moist kiss on her lips and locked her thigh between his legs. She felt as though she was being hugged by a bear, but one with hair that smelled like a meadow. She took a deep breath and buried her face in the crook of his neck.
‘Sometimes I think you do not desire the throne enough,’ she said, knowing it would perhaps anger him. ‘If not for yourself, for your progeny?’
He stiffened and lowered his voice, as if suddenly conscious of dark shadows listening in on their words. ‘Our progeny, did you say?’
‘Yes.’ Gandhari drew back a little from his moustache. The oil in it left a greasy feeling on her face. ‘My bleeding did not arrive this month. It should have come four days ago, on the fourth night of the waning moon.’
Dhritarashtra sat up in the bed and felt her lips with his fingers. ‘You are not jesting with me, Gandhari. You truly are with child?’
‘I have always bled according to the cycles of the moon, my lord,’ said Gandhari. ‘This is the first time that it ha
s not come when it should.’
‘And there cannot be any other reason?’
‘There can, which is why I am telling you this in secret. We shall wait for a month longer, perhaps, and then we shall know for certain.’
‘Oh, Gandhari!’ He held her by the arms and shook her in delight. ‘You shall have the firstborn child of the Kuru house. How happy this makes me!’
Gandhari said, her voice still low, ‘It may not be a son, my lord.’
‘I care not!’ he said. ‘If it is a girl, she will be the foremost princess in all of North Country. We will make her the most beautiful, most graceful lady that has ever walked on Earth. We shall educate her, we shall ensure that she can wield a sword – oh, and even a bow, perhaps. We can ask Pandu to teach her—’
‘And if it is a boy?’
Dhritarashtra fell silent for a few seconds. Gandhari felt his lips with her fingers. The smile had disappeared. His leonine brow was knotted into a frown. His cheekbones seemed to twitch.
‘He shall be king, of course,’ he said at length, in a tired voice. ‘If we have him before Pandu has a son of his own, then he shall be king.’
‘Then let us hope that he is growing, as we speak, inside me.’
They did not sleep for the rest of the night. Dhritarashtra kept telling her what their child would be called, what heroic deeds he would accomplish, how high a reputation he would earn among the princes of North Country, and how he would etch his name into the history books so that he would be spoken about for a thousand years hence. He would unite all of North Country, he said, and perhaps one day, he would gather arms and march against the gods that lived on the mountains beyond the hills of ice.
Gandhari just stroked her stomach and listened. Dhritarashtra was not shorn of desire, she thought; it just had to be kindled the right way.
From that night on, for fourteen days, Gandhari kept a close watch on the cycle of the moon. The day of Pandu’s departure was approaching, but Gandhari felt an ever increasing weight in the pit of her stomach. Whether it was fear that an announcement would come from Pritha or Madri that their stomach had quickened, or whether it was just her womb preparing to bear her child, she did not know. She asked Shubrasi once or twice how many moons it took for expectant mothers to feel the heaviness in their bodies, and the old maid said that the first feeling of dizziness appeared around the end of the third month, at the missing of the third bleeding period.
The Queens of Hastinapur Page 17
