She was not even in her second moon yet, so this feeling could not be real.
But it was there. Every morning she woke up, the first thing she did was check her nether regions for blood, and every morning her fingers came out from under the sheets dry and colourless. She would smile and cross another day off.
She did not see much of Pritha or Madri during this time; she guessed that the High King must be doing all he could to impregnate them before he left on his tour. After all, if she had the good sense to know that the firstborn of the Kuru house would be first in line for the throne, Bhishma did as well, and he must have whispered into Pandu’s ear what he had to do.
Dhritarashtra came to visit her twice a week as he did at all times, but he did not make love to her with the same passion of old. He smoothed her hair gently where he would tug at it with ferocity in the past, and when he entered her he did so amid soothing whispers in place of his earlier lusty animal grunts.
On the fifteenth night, craning her face up at the silvery crescent hanging low in the horizon, feeling the moonlight caress her cheeks, Gandhari allowed herself a little crow of joy. Her legs had remained dry throughout, and in no more than a week she would enter what would have been her second period of bleeding. One whole cycle had come and gone, and the knot in her stomach had descended further down, toward the base of her womanhood.
She walked along the wall, with one hand touching it, and reached the corner where she had sat that morning of Pritha’s arrival. With no effort at all she saw every strand of hair in the horse’s mane, every speck of dust that clung to the yellow garment of the rider as he hit the muddy earth. Her hand rubbed her stomach in a long circle, sending waves of delight into her mind, and with each moment the image in front of her eyes sharpened.
The boy who fell cried out in pain when he hit the earth. Another boy, bigger, with more beautiful eyes, sat leaning against a tree, laughing. Gandhari felt she knew them both; the straight nose and thin lips of the yellow-clad prince reminded her of Bhishma, but her eye focused on the laughing fellow – his ox-like shoulders, torso strong and sturdy as an oak trunk, that deep voice with the rattle of a chariot’s wheel, those unseeing eyes …
At once she pushed against the corner and stumbled back into the middle of the room, where she felt strangely comforted when she sensed the light from the torches. Her cheeks and lips thawed to the heat. She kept stepping backward until her shins hit the base of her bed, and she plopped on the edge, feeling the satin sheets on her palms.
All the fears that had plagued her these last few months – that Pritha would bear Pandu’s child before she would bear Dhritarashtra’s, that Madri would prove to be more fertile than the two of them, that she herself would perhaps turn out to be barren, bringing disgrace to all the princesses from the Western Kingdoms – all those fears, in one moment, flew out of her mind, and in its place was left a pristine white, peaceful spot where no howling wind could reach.
Her lips spread into a smile. She still did not know the nature of the knowledge that had just come to her – she would need to sleep over it for some time – but for now, this much she did know. Pritha and Madri had not gotten with child, nor would they. Even if she had not given Pritha that herb Shubrasi had brought with her from Gandhar, they would not have borne Pandu’s children.
Tomorrow he leaves, Pandu, at the head of a retinue of archers and spearmen, bearing the missives of diplomacy crafted by Bhishma, to implore the kings of North Country to continue their allegiance to Hastinapur. Perhaps for this once they will listen, thought Gandhari, but for how long? When will they look up and notice that Hastinapur has no heir, that within the walls of the palace, a battle of a different kind is brewing? Would Bhishma, who had been so successful in defending Hastinapur from outside attacks, know how to mount this challenge?
Bhishma, he who has never known a woman.
A sudden sense of fatigue washed over her like a downpour, leaving her cold and shivering. She eased herself on to the bed, covered herself in the sheets. ‘Extinguish the torches!’ she called out, and willed herself to close her eyes.
Darkness surrounded her. In the white spot of her mind she saw a dazzling golden chariot, with the red flag of the sun hoisted on top of the mast. Then, in front of her eyes, cracks appeared at the wheels, the carriage, the charioteer’s seat. A gust of wind blew and tore the flag in two.
A streak of lightning appeared in the black clouds. It hacked at the chariot once, and it crumbled into pieces, falling to the ground in a cloud of dust. The shine was gone now, and the mass slumped like melting clay. She thought she heard the sound of weeping women somewhere in the distance, beyond the drifting tatters of fog that had begun to gather.
And before she knew it, everything was covered by rapidly blackening fog. She surrendered her mind to it and fell asleep.
CHAPTER THREE
‘Y
es, Lady Gandhari,’ said Bhishma. As she entered with her hand in that of the maid who led her into his room, Gandhari heard the rattle of bracelets and surmised that Bhishma had just got to his feet. ‘I hope against hope that you shall one day cast off that veil from in front of your eyes, my lady.’
Gandhari fumbled for her chair and sat herself down on it primly. Bhishma’s bearded face and shifty eyes sprang up in her mind. Ever since she had come to the palace, his tone while addressing her had lost all the condescension it had borne during their parrying in Gandhar, and now his voice dripped with fake, cultivated respect.
‘I shall not dream of letting go of this veil, my lord,’ she said. ‘I have come to grow quite fond of it ever since I have come here.’
‘You, of course, know best what you ought to do,’ he said. ‘The princess of Gandhar is known for her fierce independence, is she not?’
She laughed in the easy manner of a diplomat. Now Bhishma was family, but she could not shake off the feeling that he was laying out verbal traps for her, eager to watch her stumble and trip so that he could smile away with those cruel eyes.
‘That was then, Lord Bhishma. Now the Kuru house has chained my fierce spirit, and I willingly serve the throne of Hastinapur.’
‘Indeed, it gladdened my heart to see that you came to bless Pandu this morning.’
‘As the eldest queen, it is my duty to see off my king when he is to embark upon the most important quest of his life.’
‘It shall not be the most important quest,’ said Bhishma, ‘but he shall learn a lot from it.’
He clapped his hands, and Gandhari heard a patter of footsteps arrive from the open door. Sounds of heavy plates being laid to rest on the table between them. The smell of ripe guavas and cut oranges. Gandhari leaned forward, ran her hand along the edge of the table. Teak, she thought, imported here from Chedi, if she did not know better.
‘I have come to speak to you of an important matter,’ she said. ‘It concerns High King Pandu, and therefore all of us too, I suspect.’
‘Yes, my lady? If this is about the kingship of Pandu, and if it is to further argue in favour of Dhritarashtra, I am afraid the court has made its ruling quite clear.’
Anger rose up in her heart, but she steadied herself. ‘I do not wish to rake up old matters, Lord Bhishma. The gods know that injustice has been done to Lord Dhritarashtra for no fault of his own, but I shall not belabour that point.’
‘I thank you. Shall I ask the maid to cut you some guava? They come from our own orchards to the south of the city. Line them with salt and they will be just about the best fruit you have ever eaten.’
Gandhari cleared her throat and said, ‘It has come to my notice that King Pandu is impotent.’
For a moment, all she heard was the troubled breathing of the older man. She smiled to herself and sat with her hands laid flat on her lap, smoothing the cotton frills of her upper garment and giving him all the time he needed to recover.
‘That is quite a grave claim, Lady Gandhari.’
‘I am, however, certain that it is true.’
/> ‘I do not believe you.’
‘You do not believe my claim, or you do not believe my certainty that it is true?’
‘Both.’
‘In that case, perhaps I must make a public announcement of the matter, and then everyone will have the opportunity to test its truth.’ She thought it the right time to reach for a piece of fruit. Bhishma was right – the guava was delicious. She did not hear any other sounds around them, which did not confound her. As soon as she had mouthed her revelation about Pandu, Bhishma would have gestured all the servants out of the chamber.
‘A public announcement will only hurt us, my lady,’ he said at last, and Gandhari thought some of the bravado had left his voice. ‘It will set tongues wagging, not just in the city but outside it as well.’
‘Perhaps it is to be welcomed. Such a thing ought not to be kept a secret.’
‘First of all, you shall tell me how you came to possess this knowledge.’
‘You admit its truth, then?’
Another moment of hesitation, then, alongside a sigh, ‘Yes.’
‘Then let me just say that I have my own eyes and ears in the palace.’
‘You have not been in the house for two moons, Lady Gandhari, and you already have eyes and ears that hear the deepest secrets of Hastinapur.’
‘My lord, you flatter me.’
‘Even though it is true,’ said Bhishma, with some of the old vigour returning to his voice, ‘how does it alter anything?’
Gandhari said, ‘How does it alter anything? Of all the things a king ought to be, one of the first is that he must be fertile, my lord.’
‘Not necessarily,’ he replied. ‘King Vichitraveerya was sterile. That did not stop the Kuru line. What we need is for our queens to be fertile.’
‘You have a virile man in Dhritarashtra, who will give you a hundred sons of strength and valour, and you cling to an impotent king?’ Gandhari bent forward in her seat and tried to peer through the blindfold at Bhishma. She lowered her voice. ‘Why, Lord Bhishma? Why this mad dislike for one of your own? You are sowing the seeds of discord in the very walls you wish to protect.’
‘I have no enmity for Dhritarashtra,’ said Bhishma woodenly. ‘I love them both as my very own children, and if I could, I would have broken Hastinapur in two and given them a half each.’
‘You lie, sir,’ said Gandhari, and once again she saw she had surprised him with how much she knew. ‘You lie, because you think I do not know of the fall that Pandu had from the horse when he was a child. He became sterile after that fall, did he not?’
Bhishma did not reply.
Gandhari continued, ‘And I know it was Dhritarashtra who loosened the stirrups and replaced the saddle. You arrived on the scene and saw Dhritarashtra laughing at his brother, did you not?’
‘These eyes and ears of yours are quite powerful, my lady.’
‘Do not hold Dhritarashtra’s childish prank against him, Lord Bhishma,’ said Gandhari. ‘He loves his brother, and he carries much regard in his heart for you too.’
‘But he is too covetous,’ said Bhishma. ‘Too covetous for the throne, too covetous for possessions.’
‘One would say that I am covetous too.’
‘You are. That is why you will not make a good queen. And Dhritarashtra will not make a good king.’
‘He will be a better king than Pandu!’
‘I am aware that Pandu will not be the king Hastinapur needs or wants. But he shall have children, and they shall inherit the throne.’
‘You forget that he is sterile.’
Bhishma’s voice rose, but it still carried that tethered tone. ‘Pandu’s wives will bear him children, and they shall come to be known as his sons in time. It is to them that I will hand over the throne.’
I will have children before either of Pandu’s wives. She thought of telling him right now that she was pregnant with Dhritarashtra’s child. Oh, how she wished she could tear open the band and watch his smug face shrivel at her words. Her hands gripped the edge of the table. With a few deep breaths she calmed herself.
‘What if Dhritarashtra has a child before Pandu?’
‘Dhritarashtra’s sons do not matter. He is not the king. Only the king’s sons have a claim to the throne, my lady. You have ruled a kingdom before. You should know that.’
‘If that is so,’ she said calmly, ‘then you must know as well, my lord, that the eldest son has the foremost claim to the throne, in spite of his perceived shortcomings. There have been many blind kings in the history of North Country. You have travelled far and wide. You should know that.’
She heard his breath grow hoarse and heavy, like that of a horse. ‘I know not where you get these notions. The decision of who must be king has been made—’
‘But only because the true king was deemed unworthy,’ said Gandhari, ‘by you. So it is only just, is it not, that the sons of the true king must be given their chance to ascend the throne, if they are able?’
‘Perhaps.’ Bhishma sighed. ‘My dear Gandhari, you must not covet the throne of Hastinapur with such fervour. Such single-minded passion leads to destruction, my child – of you, me, Pandu, Dhritarashtra, of everyone.’
She thought of the crumbling golden chariot, the falling flag of the sun.
‘I have Hastinapur’s good at heart as much as you do, Uncle Bhishma.’ A crack entered her voice, but she cleared her throat and said, more firmly, ‘I just think we must all stand for what is just.’
‘Justice sometimes comes wearing the claws of a tiger, my child.’
‘Even so, what has been denied Dhritarashtra must be given to his children.’
Another sigh came from Bhishma. ‘We shall see.’ Then, he asked quickly, ‘Are you with child, Gandhari?’
‘No, sire,’ she lied. ‘My bleeding has not stopped.’
‘If and when you have the first child,’ he said, ‘we can call the court to council and ask for their decision. I am but a servant of the throne. I shall serve whoever is placed upon it.’
Gandhari got to her feet and felt her way around the table to where Bhishma was sitting. She fell to her knees and touched her nose to the polished marble floor, her fingers touching his toes. She heard another rustle of jewels, which meant he had stood up too.
‘May all your wishes come true, my child,’ he said.
In her mind, Gandhari thought: he does not truly mean that. But he has given his word that he will call a council and raise the matter for debate if she is to have the first child. In any just court, they will hear her pleas, they will listen to her arguments, and they will pass that the son of Dhritarashtra – if able – will have the first claim to the throne.
He clapped his hands, and in a moment, Gandhari felt a girl’s hands touch hers. As she was led away from the room, Bhishma said, ‘Remember, Gandhari, my girl, do not covet the throne, for it cannot be owned. If you serve it instead as a slave, it will be yours for as long as you live.’
Gandhari walked away in silence.
That night, Gandhari waited in her chamber until all the candles had been put out. Then she sent a waiting girl to bring Shubrasi.
The old maid hobbled in, clacking her walking stick on the floor and muttering something sleepily to the maid. Shubrasi spoke with the heavy dialect of the western mountains, and when Gandhari was not paying attention, many of the hag’s expressions escaped her. She waited for the sounds to quieten down, and then asked Shubrasi if the door was closed.
‘Yes, princess,’ said Shubrasi. ‘I hope you did not call me here just to ask me that!’
‘Nobody listening on the other side, I hope?’
‘Aye, that depends on how well you have trained your maids, princess. If this was Gandhar, and if I found anyone hovering around closed doors, you know what would happen if I took the name of the servant up to Prince Shakuni.’
Shubrasi’s stick clattered again as she retraced her steps back to the wall and pushed open the door. Gandhari waited patiently. If there had
been anyone there in the first place, she would have had ample warning due to the noise Shubrasi made. Still, it never hurt to be careful, especially in Hastinapur’s court.
When the maid was back, Gandhari said, ‘You have made yourself quite scarce, Shubrasi. Why do I not see you every day any more, as I used to?’
‘My princess, I am forever at your command, you know that. But my grandson has arrived from Gandhar, and he has set himself up with a weaving station in the city. I have been to visit him once or twice.’
‘Indeed. How is he faring here in Hastinapur?’
‘He misses the water of Gandhar, my lady, but he is a young one. He will get used to it all before the moon is out.’ Shubrasi chuckled. ‘Besides, the cotton trader he deals with has a comely daughter who has been making eyes at him, so I dare say he shall not remember Gandhar for long.’
Gandhari smiled too. ‘And they do have beautiful eyes, the women of Hastinapur.’
‘Nay, princess, you say that out of the goodness of your heart. May I sit down? My legs hurt me so.’
‘Please do.’
Shubrasi let her stick fall to the floor as she sat down in the chair. ‘They may have beautiful eyes, but have you seen their hips? So thin and sickly, as though they get nothing to eat. And yet I hear there is a bounty of corn every year in the fields of Hastinapur.’
‘I have heard that too, yes,’ said Gandhari, turning her face in the direction of the window so that the breeze would hit her full on the face. This dry wind reminded her of the dusty mines of Gandhar, where once there had been no dearth of gold year in, year out – as in Hastinapur now.
The Queens of Hastinapur Page 18
