The Fisher Queen's Dynasty

by Kavita Kane

  Nothing, she silently acknowledged, leaning forward again to tuck his hair, but he moved his face away restlessly.

  Devavrat had completed his training and had far surpassed everyone’s expectations. She had seen to it that he had got the best of teachers in various fields, and he had excelled in each, be it under Rishi Vasisht, Parashuram, Shukracharya or Brihaspati. She had taken him to every prestigious gurukul, crossing realms and reigns. Rishi Markendaya had taught him the complexity of duty and dharma in the Brahmanas; from Sanatkumar, the eldest son of Lord Brahma, he mastered the anvikshiki, the mental and spiritual sciences; Shukracharya, the guru of the asuras and danavs, taught him political and social sciences with an emphasis on politics; and Brihaspati had concentrated on the various shastras.

  ‘I know I have finally mastered all that you had in mind for me, Ma,’ he said. ‘You have been ambitious for me. . .’

  ‘Why?’ demanded Ganga. ‘Because I wanted you to be exceptional; even extraordinary. But what use is it if your skills are not put to use. What has been sown has to be ploughed and reaped. When do you show your skills to the world, Devavrat? You have shown exceptional skill at mastering all the arts and proving yourself in Devlok. But you do not belong here,’ she murmured brutally.

  His solemn eyes flashed with uncharacteristic fire. ‘Why? Give me the chance, Ma.’

  She sighed. ‘Devavrat, you are not a god, a demigod or a gandharv to be allowed to stay in Indralok! You are a mortal, meant to live on earth!’ she said simply. ‘You have to return to your father’s kingdom.’

  It is not as simple as I make it sound, she cried silently. The world down there is a cruel, ugly place.

  ‘So now, since I am done here, I have to meet my father whom I have never seen, never known,’ said Devavrat, his smooth jaw tense. This time it was not a query or a request, but an assertive statement.

  In that devastating moment, Ganga discerned that her responsibility as a mother would soon be over. It was time for the son to be with his father. It was going to be hard on her as it was for him, though he didn’t show it; he was being deliberately impassive. That is why he resents his potential departure. But she would have to convince her on that he had to be with his father too, no matter how much the mother loved him. A child needs both parents, a sane voice advised her. She herself had experienced a happy childhood, with doting parents and a younger sister. And here she was, reluctant to give her son the time and love of his father. Ganga loathed herself for being selfish, but she hated the thought of separation more. Separation, her heart contracted at the emotion that word evoked. I had to leave Shantanu, too, she thought, and it left a void that has never been filled. He too must have been pining for me as well as for his son all these years. . .

  Ganga knew she was being irrational, but maternal love often made the wisest woman a sentimental person. Her heart was torn, unwilling to let go of her son. . .

  ‘Ma?’ she heard him say, slipping his large hands into her soft ones. ‘Do I need to prove myself more to remain here?’ he asked hopefully, his tawny eyes eager. ‘I have accompanied Lord Indra for most of the wars, and, each time, we have tasted resounding victory.’

  She forced a smile. ‘You can’t boast too well, can you?’ she teased. ‘I know you were the reason why the devas won most of the time. Indra is uncharacteristically happy, and he admits he is going to miss you once you leave. . .’

  ‘He didn’t seem too happy when Lord Vishnu complimented me on the win over the danavs,’ interrupted Devavrat wryly.

  ‘Indra cannot bear competition of any sort, and the fact that a mere fifteen-year-old is winning wars for him must be difficult for his ego!’ she lifted her shoulders dismissively. ‘He is fond of you or he would not have given you so many of his secret war weapons; that’s rare, coming from him! In fact, he is not too keen about you going back to Earth at all. Nor are the Trinity, especially Lord Shiva,’ she nodded. ‘You are his favoured one.’

  ‘Then I won’t!’ he responded quickly, squeezing her hand pleadingly. ‘But I am your son, too—I am Gangaputra—should I not be with you, too?’

  ‘Not anymore,’ she shook her head sadly.

  Her heart contracted. Devavrat would have to return to Earth one day—the curse lay heavily on his head. But Devavrat was blissfully unaware of it. Should I tell him? No! But she would have to: there was no other way. He was entitled to know the truth of his birth, his past, his present and now his future. In calm, crisp words she told him everything. It will shatter him, her mind screamed but she hardened her heart and continued.

  Ganga was a woman who betrayed no emotions, and it surprised Devavrat as to why his mother was being so insistent, yet clearly reluctant. Now he knew. He was fifteen years old, and till now, he had had no curiosity to meet the man who was his father. His mother was his world, and he wanted to be with her. He studied her with his steady, searching eyes.

  ‘So you left him for me,’ he said softly, after an excruciating pause.

  She nodded, her throat thick with unshed tears.

  ‘And he lost his all because of me,’ he emphasized. ‘His wife and his son. Because of this curse I was born with.’

  Ganga looked puzzled but nodded slightly.

  ‘Had I been drowned then by you, you would still be with him, is that not so?’ he persisted. ‘It was because of me, that both of you are not together.’

  She had no further words of explanation. The silent anguish on his mother’s face tore at his heart, wordlessly confirming his growing guilt: it was he who had separated his parents.

  ‘Don’t you ever feel like going back to him?’ he asked quietly.

  Ganga was taken aback by the bluntness of his question. He was a fearless fellow, unhesitant to question even the gods—frank, but never rude.

  She eyed him, confused. Was that what he wished for: all of them to be together? But that could never be, that was a mirage. . .

  ‘We live in Heaven, and you should know by now that mortals live in a different world,’ she said evenly. ‘I couldn’t have stayed with him forever.’

  ‘Then if I am the son of a mortal, I shall have to go,’ said Devavrat slowly, in his most reasonable voice, though she could hear his raw pain.

  ‘You are his wife, yet you stayed away from him all these years, keeping me away as well. . .’

  Ganga felt the first prickle of fear. Did her son resent her for having kept him with her, instead of with Shantanu?

  ‘. . .because you are a celestial nymph, meant to reside in the Heavens or the Himalayas . . . your abode. But I am no longer a child, Ma,’ he continued gently, his eyes alit with sudden insight, knowing it was up to him to make the parting as pleasant as possible. He could not bear to see his mother hurting and so anguished. ‘What you say is right; my days here are done. I am no longer needed here. As a mother, you have given me love, and guided me all through these years; provided me the best education in the best possible places! Now, it is time for me to learn more from my father.’

  The moment he said the quiet words of acceptance, she broke down, desperation flooding her.

  ‘Earth is hell, dear son!’ she exploded in a moment of panic. ‘There is only grief, violence and disillusionment, unlike the eternal joy here. I shall plead with the lords—Brahma, Shiva and Vishnu—to allow you to live here. I shall fight if I have to!’

  There was a frantic tone to her voice, the azure depth of her eyes conveying her frenzied dilemma. Devavrat had never seen his mother so fragile and vulnerable to emotions; he knew he had to be brave for her, too.

  ‘Ma, it is futile to fight a pointless battle,’ he smiled sadly. ‘And have you not been punished enough that you wish to take on the ire of the gods again?’

  He took her hands. ‘And I am a mortal, remember,’ he reminded her gently, shaking his head with that errant lock of hair, a shy smile tugging at his lips. She instinctively tucked it back. ‘I am meant to live and die on Earth.’

  His words hit her hard, forcing
her to come to her senses. Her son had to go back, live his life on Earth, suffer his spell, and finally die. He would then come back to her. . .

  She turned her face away to hide the warm prick of sudden tears.

  ‘We shall leave,’ she said brusquely, as if to end the painful conversation. ‘Soon.’

  Kali never saw Parashar again. They parted ways as if they were strangers, and not lovers; no tears or regrets. The fog had cleared as quickly as it had settled, and, once the boat had reached ashore, he walked away without a single backward glance.

  She had transformed: from a young and innocent girl to a woman who was aware of her sexuality, and her power over men.

  She was a virgin again; Kali smiled with a curl of her lips, though not as chaste as social norms dictate, she thought. She could not care less; she could not help but laugh at how that sheer skin was considered a trophy for men to want and venerate. It had freed her: she had power and control over her life and love.

  Suddenly, it was a new Kali that the village saw—one with a sweet fragrance, not the repelling fish odour. Those who had turned their noses at her in the past, now looked at her with frank admiration. Contempt had quickly turned to commendation. People were as shallow as the river shore, never as deep as the river. Beautiful, bold and brazen, Kali knew the effect she was having on the young men of the village. She saw it in their eyes, in their flushed faces when she approached them, and in the quick intake of their breath. She sought and selected her admirers as if she were picking the best fish in the basket: not using her status as the chief’s daughter, but her power as a desirable woman. Kali found that she was rediscovering herself, unrepentant and unapologetic about her deeds and her decisions. Desire did not shame her, nor did lust overawe her. After the episode with Parashar, she knew it was her sharpest weapon to cleave and carve a better life for herself.

  But Kali also respected the intellect she was born with. She found herself involved in matters of the village, be it resolving a domestic fight or the mending of the fallen school roof, or demanding a fairer share in the fish market from the bigger merchants. She was the voice of the poor and the wretched, a leader most were wary of; even the soldiers dared not intimidate her anymore.

  It was several months later, more as an afterthought, that she informed her father about Parashar. He did not look surprised.

  ‘You knew, didn’t you?’ she realized suddenly.

  ‘My dear, I sent you with the great Rishi Parashar knowing very well that he would bless you in some way or the other,’ he said quietly.

  ‘I am going to have his child,’ she stated, her voice even.

  Dasharaj nodded. ‘As planned,’ he said cryptically.

  ‘Planned? A sexual favour, you mean, Father?’ she raised her brow, but Dasharaj returned her look, unfazed.

  ‘To get, you have to give,’ he replied. ‘You turned it to your advantage and got what you wanted.’

  She twisted her lips into a thin smile. ‘I was staving him off with my list of conditions—eternal youth, a rare fragrance all my own, unimpaired virginity. . .’

  ‘He did not just want you, but also a child from you,’ said her father gently.

  She frowned, bemused.

  ‘Not just any ordinary baby, but an illustrious son. Mark my words! It was destined to be so! Parashar received a boon from Lord Shiva that his son would be a Brahmarishi, like his grandfather Vasisht,’ explained Dasharaj.

  He eyed her as she served him some fish and rice. ‘Are you worried that the child will be branded illegitimate?’ he asked. ‘He won’t. We can leave this village for a while. I can say that I am unwell and am going to my cousin’s home. We can return after you give birth,’ he shrugged. ‘But are you going to keep it?’ he asked carefully.

  ‘No,’ she said, nervously tapping a finger on her lower lip. ‘It was so decided that he will bring up the child. He honoured my freedom,’ her lips twisted. ‘It’s for the best, for I don’t want to be bound by a child now or be an unwed mother,’ she said restlessly. ‘I want more. I could have demanded marriage, too, but I don’t want to be a rishi’s wife and live in an ashram. I was born a princess and I shall be queen some day!’

  ‘You are ambitious,’ he murmured, chuckling softly.

  ‘Is that bad?’ she challenged. ‘It was not the only reason. I cannot expose the baby to shame and stigma, or be termed a bastard. That is the least I can do as his mother.’

  ‘I was more worried that he would be forsaken,’ he remarked, dryly.

  ‘Like my father forsook me?’ she retorted belligerently. ‘That’s what kings do. I shan’t.’

  ‘That is my concern. As is yours, I know,’ he added gently, knowing how much it hurt his daughter that she was abandoned. ‘You have grown so bitter at so young an age!’ he remarked worriedly.

  ‘It’s my birthright, is it not?’ she asked ironically. ‘You may have spun a fine story about me being this gift between King Uparichar Vasu of Chedi and an apsara, Adrika. I remember the story clearly: King Vasu, while hunting, sorely missed his beautiful queen, Girika, and while dreaming about her, was so aroused that he spilled his seed. He wrapped it in a leaf and gave it to a hawk to carry it to his wife. Instead, the hawk was attacked by another hawk and the semen fell into a river, to be swallowed by a fish named Adrika, who was a cursed apsara. After ten months, a fisherman—that’s you, dear father—caught the fish and killed it, and when you cut it open, you saw two babies, one male and one female, inside the fish. You gave the babies rightfully to the king. The boy child grew up to become a famous Matsya king, and the daughter was suitably named Matsyagandha, and was destined to be brought up by the childless fisherman. As for their fish-mother, Adrika, she was freed of the curse and went back to Heaven!’ Kali laughed mirthlessly. ‘What a fairy tale you spun to fool the world, Father! To protect whom? The king? Or me, his deserted daughter? And who was my mother? Adrika, the mythical apsara, or a poor fisherwoman whom King Vasu seduced, impregnated, and abandoned, and who died at childbirth?’ she asked scornfully. ‘So who was she, Father?’ she insisted.

  Dasharaj flushed, not out of embarrassment, but unforgotten resentment. ‘She was my sister,’ he said in a low tone. ‘King Vasu took a fancy to her and. . .’ he pursed his lips, releasing an angry sigh.

  Kali felt a momentary pang for her unknown mother. I will not be a wretched victim like her, she vowed.

  ‘Yes, I get it,’ she said harshly, her eyes brittle. ‘He didn’t marry her. She was what—a passionate moment?’

  Dasharaj’s face hardened. ‘Yes, she was. But she was a fool to hope that a married king would marry her. He was riding by the River Kalindi one day, when he spotted her. She was a lovely girl and he was totally besotted with her, but only for those few hours of passion. She thought it was love,’ he gave a sad, short laugh. ‘He immediately left for Chedi, never to return. I tried to convince her that he had left her for good, but she kept waiting for him. . .’ Dasharaj sighed at the memory, his eyes distant. ‘She was pregnant but she did not lose hope, determined to have his child. She died barely a few hours after giving birth to both of you. Adrika didn’t deserve her horrible death!’ he said violently. ‘She begged me to take the children to the king, wanting them to have a better life than she had. . .’ his voice shook, rough and rasping. ‘I obeyed her dying wish. He accepted the son because he was childless at the time; he had five sons later, after he adopted your brother. But he refused to keep you. I returned home with you, and with the fancy story everyone likes to believe about their beloved king and a heavenly apsara. I had a selfish motive too—I wanted to keep you. And I did it for you, too,’ he said helplessly.

  ‘I was born a princess,’ she said forcefully. ‘I am a king’s daughter. Just like my twin brother who is now, I hear, the king of Matsya, the new kingdom carved out from Chedi. He roams across the country in his chariot, it’s a silk white flag embossed with a shimmering golden fish flying aloft, while I sell fish and ferry people! Why was I denied m
y right?’

  ‘Because you are a girl,’ he conceded. ‘Kings need princes, not princesses! If it had been up to him, he would have probably drowned you in the river,’ Dasharaj said.

  Watching the hurt and distress on her father’s face, Kali felt ashamed of herself. ‘I am not angry with you, Father,’ she said abruptly. ‘I owe you my life. But I cannot forget that I was deprived of what I deserved.’

  The old man nodded. ‘You are a princess, but had to live the life of a commoner. But better alive than dead, right?’

  ‘Alive as what, Father; an underprivileged?’ she scorned. ‘How can I forget the humiliation heaped on us? Maybe not his name, but he could have offered gold to you to take care of me and save us from this poverty? Look at this hovel we stay in! He couldn’t afford either generosity or conscience,’ she said bitterly, expelling a long breath. The weight of what had happened with her stayed with her continuously. She felt wronged, and the need to earn her birthright back burned strong within her.

  ‘I—not Fate or God—shall be responsible for my own happiness, my own future. I promise myself, I will not be the victim anymore; nor will my child. His father is famous and respected, so let him live with him. He will gain more respect there than with an unwed fisherwoman.’

  Her mouth tightened; her eyes unflinching, she continued, ‘It is better I use my ambitions wisely. I would rather make use of a powerful man and get some benefits, as I have done with Rishi Parashar. If it is looks and lust which can seduce a man, weaken him, then I shall employ them as my means; I shall use my charms to get what I want. I cannot afford to have morals like the rich and the royal. The righteous would argue that it is unscrupulous, but I would rather be branded that, than be a forgotten casualty, as my mother was. If men can use women, why can’t women get something out of men? Beauty and lust is just that—a means to an end.’

  Dasharaj was not shocked by his daughter’s words. He recognized in her an astuteness, and a sharp power of judgement. The innocent girl was long gone, and in her place stood a wronged woman. And Dasharaj promised himself that he would see to it that he made it right for her in some way, some day.