The Rise of Hastinapur

by Sharath Komarraju

  But I must not make it seem that the tale of the Great War is all about the death of my son. If there is one thing that I know from being a priestess to the Great Goddess Bhagavati, it is that men and their lives are fleeting. The Goddess and her creations have always existed, and shall continue to exist even after the last man on Earth draws his final breath. What the purpose of this universe is, where it began and where it will end, only the Goddess knows. Hers will be the real great tale of the ages, if she ever chooses to tell it. All other tales, like this one, are but tiny particles of sand that make up the shore on which the Goddess treads, at her own speed, quietly, speaking to no one.

  That is why, perhaps, all wise men who have looked for meaning in life have found none, and that is why this tale of the Great War must be read as if there is no purpose to it. There is no good, no bad, no justice; there is just life, and there is desire. From the time they are born, men are plagued by desire, and some men – like Devavrata, like Satyavati, like Amba – are prepared to lay down their lives to fulfil their desires. I am telling this tale to bring these people out, to show the world that they lived.

  Now in my ears I hear laughter, that of a sixteen-year-old girl with a large and crooked nose.

  ONE

  Devaki raised the golden silk hood from her face and peered out at Pritha, who was combing herself in front of the mirror. She saw the girl’s lips crumple up in distaste, and smiled to herself. Pritha was at that age. Devaki remembered her own days as a maiden of fourteen in this very room, in front of that very mirror. Her brother Kamsa had grown up faster than she had; men had to put on their royal faces from the time they were ten, it seemed. He would return from a day of riding or hunting and stroll into her room, and when he spotted her turning around in front of the mirror he would chide her.

  ‘Do not worry, sister,’ he would say, ‘there is no one in North Country that has hips like yours.’

  ‘Do you not feel shame, brother,’ she would reply, ‘for saying such words about your kinswoman?’

  He would throw his head back and laugh. In all these years, many things had come to pass, and people around the country today called him tyrant and usurper, but in her company he would still laugh like he used to when they were growing up. Once or twice she had asked him if it was necessary to keep their father in his prison, and his face had turned grave. ‘Devaki, my dear,’ he had said, ‘our father enjoys all kingly comforts in his room.’ He always insisted on calling it a ‘room’; not prison, not cell.

  ‘But–’ she would say, and he would wave her arm gently at her. ‘No, sister, you and I have been good friends, have we not, all our lives? Is it not enough if I tell you that I had no other choice, that my hand was forced?’

  This would make her grow quiet, for what he had said was true. They had been the best of friends all their lives, and there was some truth to what he said. Devaki had visited her father now and then in his ‘room’, and she had seen him being attended to by three menservants and two waiting-women. She had not asked him explicitly, but his manner conveyed deep contentment, the kind which she had never seen on his face during his time as reigning king.

  Devaki turned her hands over and adjusted her rings so that the diamonds faced the ceiling, caught the light, and glimmered. Still at the mirror, Pritha said, ‘Hmph,’ and threw her hair over her shoulder to look sideways at her neck. It was scrawny, noticed Devaki; like most girls her age, Pritha’s growth had all been in her chest and hips, with her thighs yet to acquire the contours that would lend shape to her legs. She had the right-sized head, and the eyes were the shape of lotus petals with long lashes fluttering over the lids every time she blinked, but she had a nose that looked bitten by an angry bee. Her lips were thin, and when she pursed them, they set together into a pout not altogether ugly, but well short of beautiful. If only Mother Nature had given her nose’s voluptuousness to the mouth and the mouth’s curves to the nose, thought Devaki, Pritha would have been a beauty.

  ‘Come here, Pritha, my dear,’ she said, ‘sit by my side. Will you do my hair while I set right my nose ring?’

  Pritha came to the bed and sat by Devaki. She was trying to be lady-like, thought Devaki with a pang, but she was not old enough to be one yet. She wanted to tell her that her time would come, but she stopped herself. Instead, she removed her hood and untied her hair, placing the clips by her side and gesturing with one arm to the attendant at the door for a tray. Pritha took a sandal comb in her hands and began to run its teeth down her hair, and in front of her, Devaki held the mirror such that she could see the younger girl’s reflection.

  ‘You are worried about something, my girl?’ Devaki said. She would be no more than four years older than Pritha, but she felt as though she were her aunt. She had been told that maidens grew up fast in their second decades, especially after they got married. Perhaps when both of them would be past their childbearing time, years from now, they would address themselves as equals. But now, it had to be this way.

  Pritha did not reply at once. She held Devaki’s hair in one hand and ran the comb with the other. Her fingers did not fumble once. The attendant came with the tray, took away the hair clips, and on Devaki’s mute gesture he cleaned the ash from the incense sticks next to the mirror and replaced them with new ones. Devaki’s eyes smarted at the fresh burst of grey smoke, and the reddish gray tips made her look away.

  ‘Not I,’ said Pritha, sullenly. ‘Perhaps you have something on your mind? You will swat away all my concerns about my looks, surely, and you will say that I will be a beautiful maiden once I grow up. But I know I shall not be, sister; I know how you used to look when you were my age.’

  ‘I? What can I have on my mind, my dear? I got married today; this is the day every maiden dreams about her whole life. And what have I got to fret over when I am marrying such a kind king as your brother?’

  ‘Aye, how am I to know? Perhaps you are sad that you will have to leave Mathura.’

  Devaki asked herself the question, and the reply did not shock her. Leaving Mathura would create a void, sure, and she would miss the boat rides on the Yamuna on which her brother took her on the night of every full moon. He would himself row them in a canoe downstream all the way until they reached the city’s walls, lined on each shore with seventeen of their best war barges. Though she would say she was not interested, Kamsa would relate to her what he had done since their last visit to improve the strength of the fishing nets and the speed of the battle boats.

  Yes, she would miss that, but only a little. She would miss her brother chiding her and laughing with her, but then that time had long passed. When was the last time Kamsa had come into her rooms and spoken to her? When was the last time he had given her a gift for no reason other than to see her smile? When they were children he would pick wild flowers from the forest and arrange them in a little round bouquet in a straw basket for her. Every time she asked why, he would just shrug, fold his arms over his chest, tilt her head at her and smile.

  She would miss all that, yes, but she had already lost it all. She would not miss having to go down to her father’s chamber to visit him, more out of duty than love. She would still send a letter or two every moon, enquiring about his well-being, but that would be it.

  So she said, ‘No, Pritha, that does not make me sad, though I rather think it should.’

  ‘But something is on your mind, is it not, sister?’ Pritha asked. She set aside the comb and crawled over to Devaki’s side. She turned her face to her by the chin and looked into her eyes. ‘There is a certain emptiness in your eyes, my lady, which I did not see this morning when Lord Kamsa took you and my brother out on the streets on his own chariot. What magnificent horses he has!’

  Devaki nodded and looked away. ‘Indeed, yes.’ The incense sticks made her eyes water, and she allowed the tears to drip down her cheeks. One part of her laughed at her trepidation, said she was foolish to think of her brother that way, but another part of her cowered at the memory of Kamsa’s
gaze directed at her earlier that afternoon.

  Pritha saw the tears and hugged her with her long arms. ‘My lady, sister!’ she said. ‘This is not how a wedded bride ought to look. Your cheeks are smudged by tears instead of turmeric. The vermillion on your forehead is falling away. Here, let me help.’ With the tip of her garment she dabbed at Devaki’s forehead, then blew on it softly. ‘There. Now, my lady, you shall tell me what is bothering you, for if it is my brother that has caused you grief, I intend to–’

  ‘No, no,’ said Devaki. ‘It is not your brother. It is mine.’

  ‘Yours?’ said Pritha, surprised. ‘Lord Kamsa seems nothing but overjoyed at your marriage to my brother, my lady. He shed tears when you touched his feet this morning. I saw him when he took you around Mathura in his chariot. He drove it himself, and he yelled at the top of his voice every few yards. He was the very picture of delight.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Devaki wistfully, ‘he was.’

  ‘But then where does this worry come from, my lady?’ Pritha planted a kiss on Devaki’s cheek. Her lips felt cold, and Devaki shivered. ‘Did something happen during the chariot ride?’

  Devaki got up and walked to the window that looked out at the Yamuna. The bank had been raised some twenty-odd feet so that more fishing docks could be constructed. On one of the half-built docks, two labourers worked in the evening sun with pulleys, lifting and suspending a large block of teakwood and shouting instructions to each other. Even though Mathura was situated in the narrowing stretch of land between the two Great Rivers, agriculture was not possible because of vast stretches of wetland that housed only moss and algae. Fishing was the kingdom’s lifeline, and the docks that stretched along Mathura’s shoreline made not only the fishing boats that fed the people, but also the war barges that kept watch on the waters day and night.

  On the flat platform that led to the dock a holy man stood on one leg like a stork, facing the sinking sun. He had his arms stretched out, and water dripped to the earth from between his hands. The white thread around his shoulder dangled in the breeze, and his orange lower garment fluttered. It was such a holy man’s voice that they had heard, all three of them, that afternoon in the chariot amid the din of men and women clamouring over one another for a glimpse.

  Or was it one of the labourers? Or a fisherman, perhaps? She could not be sure. It came from the crowd, and when Kamsa looked again with his ears pricked, he had heard it no more. But that one time had been enough.

  A sound at the door stirred her, and Devaki turned from the window to face the approaching footsteps. Unannounced, her brother walked in. When she searched his face for a smile, she found none. Pritha, hunched on her knees on the bed, looked at him, then at her, and then back at him again. Kamsa set his black slit-like eyes straight on Devaki, twirled his moustache once, and said, ‘Devaki, we need to speak.’

  Kamsa had always been a boy too big for his age, and in his youth, Ugrasena, Devaki’s father, used to go to some length choosing waiting-women for him that were heavy-boned. When she was a child, Devaki had not understood the meaning behind her father’s words that ‘they must not be crushed by him’. But as she grew into a woman, she appreciated her father’s concern. In their games Devaki had always taken care not to anger her brother. Once, when she had pushed him past the edge of his fury, he had dragged her by one arm and tossed her over the bed against the wall. She had spent the next ten days nursing a near-broken elbow.

  Over the years, Kamsa had learnt to conquer his anger, thanks to some training in diplomacy and trade that their father put him through.

  ‘Pritha,’ he said, ‘go to your chamber, please.’

  Pritha got up to go, but Devaki motioned her to remain where she was.

  ‘Let her stay,’ she said, with a firmness she did not feel. ‘Whatever you have to say to me, I am certain it concerns her equally.’

  ‘It concerns Vasudev,’ said Kamsa, clearing his throat. ‘Not her.’

  ‘Vasudev is her brother,’ said Devaki, glancing at Pritha for a moment. ‘She will certainly care for his well-being, will she not?’

  ‘For his well-being?’ said Pritha, stepping forward, frowning. ‘What is this about, my lady?’

  Devaki looked at Kamsa, who returned her stare.

  ‘Who was the soothsayer, dear brother?’

  ‘A Brahmin of very high birth, I assure you.’

  ‘So you believe him, then.’

  ‘Do I have a choice?’

  Devaki thought she recognized the expression on Kamsa’s face. It was the same drooping, despondent look that he wore when he had told her, all those years ago, that he had had no choice but to imprison their father. Now too, she thought, like a parrot he would repeat the same things: His hand was being forced; he had no choice.

  ‘What is this?’ asked Pritha. She turned to Kamsa and said, ‘My lord, what is the lady Devaki saying? Is my brother all right?’

  ‘Oh, he shall be all right!’ said Kamsa. ‘But I shall not have my own usurper growing underneath my wing! If I had known this before your wedding, Devaki, I would have made you stay a maiden forever.’

  ‘Brother,’ said Devaki calmly, ‘I can still be a maiden if you decree it.’

  Greed filled Kamsa’s eyes. ‘Will you?’ he said. ‘Will you, my sister, do that for me?’

  ‘No. But if you will force me to do it, will I have a choice?’

  ‘Ah, I cannot treat a woman that way. If you swear by your word that you shall be celibate, I shall let you go free, dear sister. Go to Shurasena, rule your kingdom well, but have no children, for if you do, I shall knock on your door and take them away.’

  Devaki felt her knees shiver. Out on the fishing boats they sang the tale of a man who once made a fishing net with the spine of his father. No fish could bite through the net, it was said, and the man became a wealthy fisherman. In due course he married, and the very first thing he did on the night of his son’s birth was to use his slicing knife on the babe’s neck. When the wailing mother asked him what he had done, he said he had a dream in which his son flayed open his back and used the marrow to strengthen the strings of his net. And then he killed his wife too, and they say he sailed off in his boat with his net into the Yamuna, never to return again. Today, as the boats floated by on silent dark nights, over the sound of crickets from the bushes, the fisherpeople swore they heard the wailing of a man, and the splash and gurgle of a net hitting the water.

  Devaki saw Pritha’s eyes lightening up in gradual realization, and she joined her hands in Kamsa’s direction. ‘My lord,’ she said, ‘let your sister and my brother go. I shall tell them to keep their children away from you. I shall see to it that they grow up loving their uncle so much that they would never think of lifting their sword against you.’

  Kamsa shook his head indulgently. ‘Pritha, my girl, you do not understand. I have only two options ahead of me. Either Devaki takes an oath that she shall forever be celibate, or I imprison them.’

  Perhaps nowhere else but in the court of Kamsa, thought Devaki, would the princess be asked for a vow of celibacy on the day of her wedding. Her tone dead, she said, ‘Why do you not separate us, brother, and you shall have your wish.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Kamsa. ‘The gods do not forgive a man who would keep his sister away from her husband against her wishes. I do wish you see my way in this, sister, and take your oath and leave the shores of Mathura with my blessings.’

  Devaki considered spitting on Kamsa’s face, but stopped herself. It would only make things worse. The wedding party from Shurasena had set sail back home that afternoon. Vasudev only had Pritha and two of his personal guards from his land in Mathura. If Kamsa did decide to take her prisoner, he would not have a smidgen of regret in doing so. That would anger the people of Shurasena and Kunti, yes, but what would anger achieve? No other kingdom in North Country boasted of Mathura’s prowess in naval warfare and defence. Shurasena could not even hope to lay siege to Mathura and rescue them.

  ‘I hav
e one thing to ask of you, brother,’ she said, ‘and then you can do whatever you wish with me and my lord.’ At Kamsa’s head inclining, she said, ‘Let Pritha go to her town in Kunti. She is but a girl. She is not related to you in any way. Though she is the sister of Vasudev by blood, she is the adopted daughter of Kuntibhoja. So let her go.’

  Kamsa looked in Pritha’s direction. ‘I shall do that, but what of you? Will you take the vow of celibacy?’

  Devaki shook her head. ‘No, I shall not, though I wish our mother had taken it.’

  Kamsa’s breathing grew heavy and laboured, and his nostrils swelled. In two slow steps he came to her and looked into her eyes. He raised his arm and struck her across the face.

  ‘You ungrateful wretch!’ he said. ‘What have I not done for you all your life? How much love have I given you? And this is how you repay it? You shame me, Princess of Mathura, for I no longer think that it is royal blood that flows in your veins.’

  Devaki wanted to get back up to her feet so that she could spit in his eyes, but she found that she could not. The shooting pain in her cheek dulled her left eye and closed it. When she opened her mouth, all she could utter were incoherent sounds.

  ‘There, my lady,’ said Pritha, rushing up to comfort her. ‘I am here with you. Do not move.’

  Kamsa sent a flower vase flying to the ground with a clatter. Next, he picked up one of the pots lining the fireplace, lifted it up above his head and crashed it into the ground. Panting, he strode up to Devaki and jabbed his finger at her. ‘You! Do you think I do not have plans of my own if you do not listen to me? Do you think I am fool enough to give my kingdom to your son?’