The Queens of Hastinapur

by Sharath Komarraju

  ‘Brother Pandu,’ said Dhritarashtra. ‘What delight it gives me to welcome you back to Hastinapur. You have come after subduing all the Great Kingdoms that lie to the east of us, and now, every man, woman and child in North Country, from here to the edge of the great ocean, know that it is you who rules the foremost kingdom of them all.’

  He paused, allowing the people to cheer. Dhritarashtra had always been the best orator in the Kuru house, Gandhari had heard, sometimes even beating Lord Bhishma in debate. While Bhishma relied on exactitude and the precision of his knowledge, Dhritarashtra spoke to the people in a language they understood. He switched between the various dialects of Sanskrit with little effort. He seemed to know what the peasant on the street was thinking – without ever having spoken with him – better than Bhishma did.

  With Pandu, there never was any contest. For all his majestic good looks, Pandu was never comfortable in a large group.

  ‘King Pandu,’ Dhritarashtra continued, after the applause had died down. ‘What pride it gives me to serve your throne as your humble slave. How my eyes wish they could see this spectacle for just one moment, so that I could revel in the splendour of this day for the rest of my life. If there has ever been anyone in the city of Hastinapur who has doubted your ability, your heroism, your valour, your majesty, today they will find their own thoughts retreat into the deepest corners of their minds.

  ‘For what other proof does one need than this rousing reception you have received. Cast a look at these people, brother. Peasant and priest, robber and wretch, servant and sage – they have all come here in the hope of one glimpse of your glory. Take a moment to look at them, and in their eyes you will see love of a kind that only Grandfather Shantanu has last seen.’

  Again he paused, and this time the cheer was louder and lasted longer.

  Gaurika stepped forward and whispered, ‘Lord Dhritarashtra is going down to meet the High King.’ Gandhari heard his slow, laboured step travel down the flight of stairs.

  ‘It is a pity indeed that Lord Bhishma does not stand in this august court today, for his heart would have swelled in pride at your sight. But he is otherwise occupied in the city of Gandhar, as you know, and on the day he departed, he placed the responsibility of the throne on my servile shoulders.’

  A moment of silence, in which Gandhari imagined Dhritarashtra looking around the court, even though he could see nothing.

  Then: ‘But a servant can only remain a servant. He cannot be king, and he shall never aspire to be one.’ At this, the hall exploded again, this time with unrestrained vigour. The trumpets went up. The flutes played a faster tune, accompanied by the tabla and the mridangam.

  Even without Gaurika’s prompting Gandhari could tell what was happening in the court. Dhritarashtra would escort Pandu up the stairs to the throne. Then he would remove the crown from atop his head and place it on Pandu’s. The hall would once again erupt. Gaurika and her ilk would still fawn over Pandu now, in the throes of joy, but later, at a quieter time, ruminating over the day’s events while lying on their beds, they would all spare a thought for Dhritarashtra. They would think of the grace and humility he showed his brother, and his utter lack of greed. Nothing bad could ever befall the Kuru house, they would say, as long as it had Pandu as king and Dhritarashtra as his able ally.

  And perhaps, as an afterthought, some of them would think of Gandhari too.

  That was what she wanted. Dhritarashtra could be relied on for all gestures aimed at pleasing the people. Bhishma’s departure and Pandu’s return had both accomplished much more than she had imagined. Now all that was left was to move the final piece into place and wait for her time to arrive.

  She raised her head to better hear the clapping and the music. One day, all this would be hers. Now, no one, not even Bhishma, could stop her.

  They assembled at sunset in the Kigh King’s chamber. It was a meeting of the brothers, and Gandhari had no cause to be present, but she had come along with Dhritarashtra, knowing full well that Pandu would be too respectful to question her. When they appeared at the entrance together with Gaurika at her side, she thought the room was a bit too quiet, a bit too laden with silence.

  ‘The maid’s son is here too,’ said Gaurika, and at once Gandhari gathered her wits about her. ‘He seems to be wearing a new turban.’

  Pandu’s voice greeted them. It carried the same breathy sound as Bhishma’s, and it struck Gandhari that the younger prince looked and spoke much like the son of Ganga. She wondered if this was one of the reasons why the older man was besotted with Pandu.

  ‘Welcome, brother,’ he said, ‘and welcome, Lady Gandhari. I must thank you both for the grandest reception I have ever received in my life, king or not.’

  ‘You deserve every bit of it, Pandu,’ said Dhritarashtra. ‘Gandhari would have it no other way but to give you a hero’s welcome.’

  Gandhari smiled in Pandu’s direction. ‘You are Hastinapur’s favourite son, High King. It would have been amiss of us if we had done any less.’

  ‘You all,’ said Pandu, ‘you all shower me with so much love. How I wish Uncle Bhishma were here.’

  Vidur’s considered but certain step advanced in her direction, and she felt the touch of his reed-like fingers around her wrist. He placed her hand on his forearm – bare as a child’s – and said, ‘It is indeed opportune that you have accompanied Lord Dhritarashtra, Your Highness. We have been speaking of the help that Lord Bhishma needs in Gandhar. I am certain your knowledge of Gandhar will help us in knowing what to do best.’

  ‘Vidur,’ said Gandhari, squeezing his hand once before letting go. ‘You flatter me beyond my station. I have been queen of Gandhar, yes, but I no longer live there. I have busied myself with matters of the Kuru court, and I have been a blind woman, in addition. I doubt I can help to resolve your predicament in any way.’

  ‘Vidur thinks I should march out at the earliest, at the head of the battalion, toward Gandhar,’ said Pandu. ‘He says I must start at sunrise.’

  Dhritarashtra said, ‘I do not recall that Uncle Bhishma asked for you, Pandu.’

  ‘He did not,’ replied Vidur. ‘But it is my thought that the High King’s presence will only help the regent crush the rebellion faster.’

  ‘I think so too,’ said Pandu. ‘I would like to go to Uncle Bhishma’s aid.’

  Gandhari turned to Pandu. ‘High King, may I for a moment speak to you as your brother’s wife?’

  ‘By all means, Lady Gandhari.’

  ‘It is perhaps understandable that this group of men thinks just of fighting and winning battles fought with weapons. But you must know that a king is not only he who wages wars, Pandu. A king is a husband too and in time he must become a father to a prince who will become king after him.’

  ‘My lady, I do not quite know what you wish to say.’

  ‘Your wives have not seen you for two full moons, Pandu, and that is twice the amount of time you have been married to them. Now you have returned for a few hours to the house of your birth, and already you speak of leaving on another expedition.’

  ‘But, my lady, Uncle Bhishma fights there all alone.’

  Gandhari said firmly, ‘And I am certain Lord Bhishma, the most powerful warrior of North Country, will hold his own against the defences of Gandhar. Indeed, as Lord Dhritarashtra said, he has not asked for your presence. He has merely asked – if I am correct – for reinforcements in the form of soldiers.’

  ‘That is so,’ said Vidur. ‘But I think that the king—’

  ‘The king has just returned from an exhausting campaign of annexation and diplomacy, Vidur,’ said Gandhari, and felt the touch of an icy look from him in return. ‘I think your two wives, Pandu, will wish you to remain with them. In fact, I would urge you to leave the matters of governance to Lord Dhritarashtra for a while yet and spend some time with your wives. You cannot be a good king if you refuse to be a good husband.’

  ‘The king leaving issues of governance to someone else is quite un
necessary, Lady Gandhari,’ said Vidur. ‘If anything, he must hurry back into the fold of things—’

  Gandhari kept her voice tender and soft. ‘As the prime advisor to the king, you have your own way of looking at things, Vidur. And you are not wrong. But what of Queen Pritha, who has not seen her lord for so many days? What of Queen Madri, who had bid farewell to her husband just fourteen days after she had been wedded to him? What must they be thinking? Is their well-being not your concern at all?’

  Vidur did not reply.

  ‘Before we neglect the needs of our queens,’ said Gandhari, ‘perhaps we ought to remind ourselves, Your Majesty, that the heirs of Hastinapur shall be born to these women. And they shall not be born if you spend all your time immersed in matters of the state.’

  ‘Your Highness,’ said Vidur, sighing, ‘I shall just say this. Lord Bhishma would not have wanted this if he were here.’

  ‘That is a rather quaint way of telling us what you want, Vidur. None of us can tell for certain what Lord Bhishma would have wanted in this respect.’ Gandhari turned to Pandu once again. ‘In any case, High King, you are in much need of rest and comfort. You have returned from your campaign pale and parched. This is hardly the time for you to think of riding out into the wild again.’

  For a moment none of them said anything. Then Dhritarashtra said, ‘I agree with Gandhari, Brother Pandu. What is the need to dive back into the matters of Hastinapur? You have been away from home for so long. Take a month or two to rejuvenate yourself and spend the time in the company of your lovely queens. Whenever you feel happy to return to the throne, all you need to do is tell me and I shall step aside.’

  ‘If your main concern is the safety of Lord Bhishma,’ said Gandhari, ‘you need have no fears. I have heard there is no open battle taking place in Gandhar. The gates have been drawn shut, and Shakuni fights from the inside, keen to protect his mines. Lord Bhishma intends to break down the walls and claim the mines again.’

  Pandu asked, ‘Is that true?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Vidur.

  ‘Then perhaps what Brother Dhritarashtra and Lady Gandhari say is for the best. I do feel too weary in my limbs to set out tomorrow once more on horseback. And I have not seen my dear wives in such a long time. I am certain they must be eager to meet me.’

  ‘Very eager, sir,’ said Gandhari. ‘I can certainly speak for Pritha when I say that she is desperate to lay eyes on you again.’

  ‘Then that is settled,’ said Pandu. ‘Vidur, please arrange for all the reinforcements Lord Bhishma has asked for to be sent to Gandhar at the earliest hour. The sooner we have him back in Hastinapur, the easier my mind will be.’

  ‘As you say, sir,’ said Vidur.

  ‘And let us, for one night, not speak of battles,’ said Pandu. ‘It is such a pleasant feeling to be home, breathing the air of your own country, and to be alive, safe and sound, among your own brothers and sisters.’

  Gaurika’s hand appeared at Gandhari’s elbow. She seated Gandhari on a cushioned chair, left her alone for a few moments, and then returned with a glass of lemonade. ‘The men are partaking of wine,’ she whispered into Gandhari’s ear and sat down by her feet.

  ‘Let us all drink to the power of love,’ said Pandu. Ironic, thought Gandhari, that he spoke so of love at the end of a fraught campaign, but men were nothing if not paradoxical. ‘Let us all drink to the rise of Hastinapur as the greatest kingdom in North Country, and let us all not forget to be thankful for being surrounded by those that love us.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ said Dhritarashtra. The sound of glasses clinking together came to her ears.

  Vidur simply said, ‘To Hastinapur.’

  At that, Gandhari raised her glass too. ‘To Hastinapur,’ she said, ‘both to its present and its future.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  G

  andhari stationed herself by the edge of her bed, waiting for her visitors. She had asked Gaurika to dress her in a pink silk tunic instead of the usual cotton, and already she was regretting her choice. The morning was a humid, cloudy one. The garment clung to the skin at the back of her neck and plucked at the hair there whenever she moved.

  She had woken up in a black mood. Again, she had had the same vision, of the old crone with Pritha’s face stirring the black hollow of the oak with a twig. The sight only sent you things to see, it did not tell you whether they were real or false, and whether they belonged to the past or the future.

  The way the old woman in her dream sat on the patch of grass, the way she bent forward, the manner in which she turned around and blinked at her – they all reminded her of something, of someone.

  ‘The High King and his queens are at the door, Lady Gandhari,’ said Gaurika.

  ‘Send them in.’

  Three sets of footsteps entered the room, one Pandu’s, the other Pritha’s, and the third belonging to a person she had never spoken to before.

  Madri.

  From Gaurika’s description Madri had the long legs and tender torso that typified maidens from the deserts. Both her eyes and her skin bore the same sandy shade of brown. She was taller and stronger than Pritha, Gaurika had said, and although she could not perhaps be called more beautiful, she was certainly more handsome.

  Gandhari laid her hand on the heads of all three, starting with Pandu and ending with Madri. To the princess she said, ‘I have only seen you from a distance, Madri, and I have blessed you once or twice before, but we have never had occasion to speak.’

  ‘No, Lady Gandhari.’

  Her voice carried a deep husk, which Gandhari had heard that men liked. If she looked indeed as Gaurika had described her, the rumours that Pandu preferred to spend most of his time with his younger wife were likely to be true. For all her attributes, no one would ever call Pritha a physically desirable woman. Her woe at Pandu’s intimacy with Madri must be legitimate.

  ‘Pritha calls me “sister”. You may as well if you wish.’

  ‘I shall, sister,’ said Madri.

  ‘We have come for your blessings, Lady Gandhari, for we leave for the edge of Naimisha today, as per your and Brother Dhritarashtra’s decree.’

  Gandhari smiled. ‘I would that you do not use the word “decree”, Pandu. Who are we to pass decrees on the king himself? We have just made a suggestion that we think is for the good of the land.’

  ‘Every suggestion my elder brother makes is but a decree for me, my lady.’

  ‘You say all the right things, Pandu. Lord Dhritarashtra is indeed fortunate to have a brother such as you.’

  ‘And I to have a brother such as he.’

  Gandhari noticed the strong smell of roses that came from Madri, while on Pritha she smelled a fair amount of sandal paste. Already Pritha was descending into the role of the older wife. While the younger, more nubile woman served the husband’s sexual needs, the older one tended to his spiritual side, gave him the pleasure of intelligent companionship, played the reserved, responsible one.

  She thought of Pritha just a month ago – the garrulous, clumsy princess from the other side of the river. A few mornings moulding clay had smoothed some of those edges, at least enough to trick the unobservant eye.

  ‘Has Lord Dhritarashtra arranged for all that you need?’ asked Gandhari.

  ‘Yes, my lady,’ said Pandu. ‘The servants have set up tents in a clearing a few hundred yards into the woods. I have visited the place twice in the last few days, and it does give one a sense of peace.’

  ‘A sense of peace is what a king needs, after a campaign as long as the one you have fought.’ Gandhari extended an arm toward Pritha and felt the girl’s hand settle into hers. ‘I am certain your queens will love this opportunity to spend such great lengths of time with you.’ Gandhari let out a small sigh. ‘Men tend to not know how much their women miss them.’

  Pandu said, ‘I have been told the same, Lady Gandhari.’

  ‘I am certain.’ Gandhari nodded and smiled. ‘May you use this time well, Pandu, for Hastinapur needs an
heir. A kingdom as powerful as this that does not have a prince is bound to attract whispers.’

  ‘I agree, my lady.’

  ‘A good king is everything to everyone, Pandu. A ruthless warrior on a battlefield, a charming diplomat in court, a patron for the arts, a tender lover for his wives, a stern disciplinarian for his subjects, a creator, protector and a destroyer all merged into one.’

  ‘News has arrived from Gandhar that the reinforcements have helped Uncle Bhishma,’ said Pandu, and Gandhari hardened at once. ‘The catapults have broken through two of the outer walls, they say, but the people of Gandhar have all rallied behind their king, my lady. As soon as a wall breaks down, they swarm together and build another one in its wake, overnight!’

  Gandhari inhaled deeply.

  ‘Do the people of Gandhar not wish Hastinapur to rule them, Lady Gandhari? I ask you because you have once ruled them, and you perhaps know them better than we.’

  ‘You must not concern yourself with these matters, Pandu,’ said Gandhari, laying a hand on the young man’s shoulder. Thin and weak, like that of a maiden. But there was great skill, they said, in his hands. Not like Dhritarashtra, who had fingers of clay but a chest of iron. If she had to do it, she thought she could close her fingers around Pandu’s neck and strangle him without effort. With Dhritarashtra, her fingers would snap into pieces if she tried.

  ‘You must let go of all of this, brother,’ she said, in a soft, distant voice. ‘I have. Gandhar is no more my home, and her people are no more mine. Lord Bhishma knows what is best for Hastinapur, and I shall bow to his wishes.’

  ‘But, my lady, there must be a better way than to just fight all our lives.’

  Dear Pandu, Dhritarashtra had said, he does not have a Kshatriya’s heart to fight. He did not have the mad lust for kingship that consumed his fellowmen. Give Pandu power, and he would wonder what to do with it. Tell Pandu what to do firmly enough, and he would obey you without question. What an able minister he would have made, Gandhari thought. If only Bhishma had a scrap of wisdom, if only he understood the natures of his nephews as well as he knew the ins and outs of battle strategy and what he called dharma, if only he knew what he did not know – oh, if only.