The Fisher Queen's Dynasty

by Kavita Kane

  In Indralok, he was surrounded by so many entities—apsaras, gandharvs, devas, rishis and gurus. Vishwakarma, Vasu, Timburu, Indra, Varun, Agni, Menaka, Rambha and Urvashi—they were all his family, and he missed their presence from time to time.

  Like a curious child, Shantanu eagerly wanted to know every small detail of his life with his mother. Was the selective Guru Parashuram as notoriously formidable as was reputed? And was Shukracharya as acerbic? Devavrat found himself patiently answering each of his father’s queries. Shantanu could not stop gushing about Ganga, and Devavrat was filled with mixed emotions. He did not want to discuss his mother: he felt her absence more acutely when remembering her. Every time he answered a query about her, he was reminded that he could never have both his parents—he had had to lose one to love and be with the other. The more his father persisted, the more taciturn he became.

  ‘You are so much like her,’ mentioned Shantanu several times through the day, every day. ‘The way you talk, the gestures—soft yet firm. I wonder how much of me is in you!’ he sighed.

  ‘Oh, she used to claim the same,’ smiled Devavrat. ‘That I am so much like you, especially when I was growing tall rapidly!’

  ‘Yes, we Kurus are very tall,’ Shantanu nodded. ‘But I am the tallest amongst my brothers, though I am the youngest.’

  ‘You have brothers? I mean, I have uncles?’ asked Devavrat, surprised. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘You know nothing about our ancient family, do you?’ said Shantanu. ‘Let me take you to the hall of our ancestors. Hopefully, you will get a fair idea.’

  Soon, Devavrat got to learn that he had two uncles: Devapi, an enlightened rishi, and Bahlik, the king of the neighbouring kingdom of Bahl. A Kuru prince, and the eldest son of King Pratip of Hastinapur, Devapi had been very popular with the people and the nobles alike; yet, much to the chagrin of the adoring citizens, an order was put out by the royal council of priests that forbade him to sit on the throne as he was afflicted with leprosy.

  ‘There would have been a civil war between the priests and citizens,’ said Shantanu. ‘It was ugly politics, started by a wily minister, Ashwavar, and a few priests who were against my elder brother’s liberal ideas on religion and rituals. Devapi was dead against customs and rituals that differentiated people on the basis of class and caste. The only way to stem the ensuing public revolt was by publicly renouncing his throne, and leaving for the forests. He soon became a rishi, taking up meditation and yoga at Kalpagram, in the mountains. Hastinapur faced a severe drought then—legend goes that even the gods were angry that the deserving prince was deprived of his throne. It was only when Devapi persuaded both Lord Indra and Lord Agni, that the kingdom was blessed with rain, ending the twelve-year famine.’

  ‘He did what he thought was best for the kingdom,’ said Devavrat.

  ‘Was it?’ said Shantanu, cynically. ‘Devapi would have made a fine king. I was a toddler when he left Hastinapur. But I consider him my hero.’

  Devavrat was very impressed.

  ‘And your other brother?’ he asked.

  ‘When Devapi was the Crown Prince, my second brother, Bahlik, was handed the post of the army chief. He got busy with war and military campaigns very early,’ recounted his father. ‘He inherited Bahl, a part of the kingdom from our mother, Queen Sunanda, and was more eager to look after it than Hastinapur. When the crisis arose, Bahlik flatly refused the crown, proclaiming that he would never usurp his brother’s rights. My father was dejected as he had lost two able sons; he retired to the forest a very disappointed man. He gave the responsibility of the crown to me when I was barely eight years old. Bahlik helped me look after Hastinapur. He still does!’ remarked Shantanu affectionately. ‘I don’t take any decision without his opinion.’

  ‘Opinion or permission?’ asked Devavrat astutely.

  ‘Call it by any name,’ his father said, laughingly. ‘But his views do matter to me. Even when Ganga left, he didn’t allow me to remarry, warning me that, as a father, I should wait for my son. Wait for the warrior, he said. He will be worthy of all those long years. And he was correct!’

  Devavrat felt a certain warmth towards his uncle. He was the epitome of loyalty and justice, unhesitatingly giving up his throne for his brother and personal principles.

  ‘I am eager to meet him as well,’ he said, strangely reassured that he had a family now. ‘Do you meet your brothers often?’

  ‘Devapi is our royal priest, but he visits us only on special occasions!’ grinned Shantanu. ‘He is old and cannot attend all the court functions, but he is training Kripa, who is still very young,’ he explained.

  Kripa, and his twin sister, Kripi, were already proficient in the Vedas.

  His father continued, ‘. . .I hope to make Kripa the royal priest after my brother. But I shall see to it that Devapi will be there during the coronation when you are named the crown prince!’

  Devavrat gave his father a steady look. ‘I may be your son, Father, but I have yet to prove myself a worthy crown prince.’

  Shantanu was taken aback by his son’s honesty. Or was it his humility? He smiled, recovering quickly. ‘You are Gangaputra; who better than you to sit on this throne? You have excelled not just in governance and statecraft, but you also know the humane side of kingship. You never humiliate the defeated nor play petty politics, as is the rule,’ he said, proudly. It was at moments like these, when he looked at Devavrat that he missed Ganga even more. His son was a reminder of what he had lost, and Shantanu wished he could relive those years with her. Swept with a sudden desolate feeling, he murmured, ‘I am old, son; I am tired. I want you to look after everything from now on. That’s your so called “test”.’

  ‘That’s not enough!’ exclaimed his son.

  ‘It is more than enough,’ chuckled Shantanu. ‘You are the greatest disciple of Parashuram and Shukracharya, and have mastered the art of royal politics! You don’t shirk from the banalities of court matters and public administration; you excel in warfare and diplomacy. You have toured all over the kingdom, getting to know the country and your people. You have proved yourself capable enough; you don’t need a heroic deed to be pronounced king, my son!’

  ‘But what do you know of me, Father?’ reasoned Devavrat. ‘Just now you recounted to me the glory of our family, saying that each member has been extraordinary. I am your son, but please give me a proper chance to prove myself.’

  ‘What do you want, Son, a war to prove your prowess?’ laughed Shantanu, mirthlessly. ‘Neither I nor the nobles in court doubt your credentials. You have won wars for Indra, and, when the time comes, you will do the same for me and Hastinapur. You do not have to prove that you are worthy enough to be either my son or the crown prince,’ sighed the old king. ‘You are my only son, Devavrat, and you will be my heir. It is just a matter of time.’

  Four years later and Devavrat found what his father had said was true. Administration was more complicated than war—it was a daily, mundane battle. While the end of war meant either defeat or victory, there was no such outcome in looking after the kingdom—because defeat was not a choice. One had to win: for both the people and the state.

  Devavrat had just cleared the taxation for merchants entering the city, but could not stop thinking about how to stave off the belligerent Chitramukh, the prince of the neighbouring state of Shalva. Wars were often started to appease royal egos and insatiable greed. Devavrat hated war. It was the people and the state which suffered the most. There was no difference between mortal and heavenly wars. Indra was no worse than the petty prince, both of them threatening to go to war and inflict violence with their privileged whimsicality. War was never an answer; it was always a question of power intrigues, to be dealt with statesmanship and astuteness.

  ‘You are still awake?’ Devavrat’s thoughts were interrupted by a surprised voice.

  It was his father, ambling into his chamber.

  ‘What are you working on at this ungodly hour?’ he demanded. ‘It’s your cor
onation day tomorrow. You should rest well before the early morning rituals begin. And dawn, my dear son, is barely an hour away!’

  Devavrat frowned. ‘But why are you awake, Father?’

  ‘Oh me,’ shrugged Shantanu. ‘It’s age catching up. I am too excited to sleep tonight and I decided not to toss in bed and go for a walk instead. Anyway, I don’t sleep well.’

  ‘Your walks are getting more frequent and longer,’ said Devavrat worriedly. ‘The other day I had to send troops in search of you!’

  ‘And what did this search party find? Me sleeping blissfully under a banyan tree! I am going to be retired soon, Devavrat. Let me enjoy my freedom!’

  ‘If you had gone further, Father, you would have entered the Matsya kingdom,’ Devavrat smiled, ‘and might have well started a war!’

  Shantanu shrugged nonchalantly. ‘Matsya is our ally, recently formed by my friend, Vasu, the king of Chedi,’ he said airily. ‘It was formed to accommodate his son Matsya, who, rumours insist, is of dubious birth!’ laughed the old king. ‘So much so that he has even named that part of his kingdom after this son!’

  ‘The birth of a child is never dubious; it is a fact. The conception possibly is, but the onus of it falls on the conceivers, not the newborn,’ said Devavrat thoughtfully, his lips pursed. His father’s flippancy lacked sensitivity, and came across as almost coarse.

  Was he, too, of ‘dubious birth’, a result of consummation between a godly nymph and a mortal king? Was he fit to be a crown prince or was it an entitlement he was born into?

  He felt uneasy.

  ‘I am happy you are being coroneted tomorrow,’ Shantanu continued. ‘The month of shravan starts tomorrow. It is an auspicious time, and an auspicious occasion. I have been procrastinating the coronation because of your pointless reluctance to let me work. Both my brothers are cross with me, especially Bahlik, for my laxity in taking the usual amount of responsibilities. He is on his way here and he plans to stay put until he helps you settle down. So get ready to welcome him. He should arrive in a few hours, and the first person he wants to meet is you.’

  Each time Devavrat saw his uncle, he pondered over how different the two brothers were. Both were tall men, and handsome. Yet, his father looked surprisingly unimpressive and slight compared to the muscled Bahlik.

  The difference was not only restricted to physical stature but the face as well. His father was a handsome man, with classical good looks, but his face lacked the firmness of his uncle’s. His father’s eyes were more dreamy and the softness in his face was accentuated by a weak chin and full lips that spoke more of sensual pleasure than bravery.

  His uncle was fair but sun-flushed, with a stubble of a beard. He had curly grey-black hair and heavy eyebrows that almost met over his thick nose. His ears were small and neat for a man of that size, and his eyes, which had a shrewd glint in them, had a shine close to tears that grey eyes often seem to have.

  When he arrived in the morning, he didn’t waste any time to greet Devavrat. ‘Each time I meet you, you remind me of Ganga! You are Gangaputra; you look just like her!’ he exclaimed with delighted surprise, spontaneously enveloping the young man in a hearty embrace. He was someone who did not display much emotion, and Devavrat was elated by the gesture, and happy to see his uncle again. ‘The few times I met her, I surmised that she was an extraordinary lady who knew how to handle my brother! My brother, well, he succumbs to women too easily!’

  His guffaw fading, Bahlik turned serious as he said, ‘You have inherited not just her fair beauty but the same maturity of handling situations and people—be it the nobles or the soldiers, the man demanding justice at the court or even your stubborn father. I have been observing you as keenly as you have been watching me these last few years!’ he grinned. ‘What’s troubling you, Son? Are you still uncertain about becoming a king?’ he said.

  Devavrat was not affronted by his uncle’s uncompromising forthrightness; it was admirable, even endearing, the reason why he was so fond of him. Bahlik was a king without any royal hauteur or sweet diplomacy; a shrewd man who said what he believed, however unpleasant or uncomplimentary.

  ‘Careful what you wish for, Son. . . A reluctant crown prince is not good news. And we don’t want the crown going to someone else!’ he added tersely. ‘It’s happened often enough in our family. It’s the curse of our dynasty.’

  His uncle was not merely referring to his brothers; Devavrat knew his family history well by now. He was talking about King Bharat, the founder of their lineage, the son of King Dushyant and Shakuntala. The disillusioned emperor had disinherited all his nine sons whom he considered unworthy, and had chosen instead Vitath, a relative of Rishi Bhardwaj, as his heir.

  From then on, the practice of primogeniture, which was followed by most royal dynasties of the country, ceased to be a mandatory rule for his family. Succession was not a privilege; it had to be earned by worth, not birth. Moved profoundly by his family heritage, it was a legacy Devavrat meant to follow.

  ‘A king, always remember, Son, is chosen for his merit and not because of privilege,’ warned Bahlik. ‘It’s a sacred rule in our family.

  ‘You will be inheriting the throne at a time when the two rival sections of the most ancient families—Kurus and the Panchals—have just about buried the hatchet and agreed to follow a common civil and economic code,’ warned his uncle. ‘Peace prevails, but temporarily.’

  His uncle was referring to an old feud. The neighbouring Panchals, who shared their Puru lineage, were bitter rivals of the Kurus since many generations. It started during the long famine in the land, when the Panchal king, Sudas, also a descendant of King Yayati, attacked Hastinapur, forcing its King Samvaran into exile in the forest along the River Sindhu. It was his son, Kuru, reinstated by the powerful Rishi Vasisht, who regained the lost land and its glory when he defeated the Panchals to form the Kuru dynasty. This was a story that had often been recounted to him by his mother, to emphasize that while it was through birth that one inherited legacy, it was through worth alone that one sustained it. The burden of that legacy was already getting heavy.

  ‘But neither is war a way out,’ gently argued Devavrat. ‘We need to have a pact instead.’

  ‘You are sound in political conduct and polity,’ murmured Bahlik, visibly impressed. ‘Shantanu, you should be proud of your heir. I think he has delighted not just me, the Kurus and you, but, most importantly, the people of his country, too, with his demeanour and devotion. May you live a long life, Son!’

  ‘Let the ceremonies begin,’ Shantanu said, and nodded towards his eldest brother. Devapi’s benign face had a sharp glow.

  ‘You will be the brightest star of our race, Devavrat,’ he said. ‘For now, and for ever.’

  Devavrat felt small under the weight of such lofty praises, and the rishi’s words deepened his misgivings. But he no longer had the luxury of doubt. Before the sun stood high at noon, Devavrat found himself being named the Crown Prince of Hastinapur. He had everything; he just wished his mother had been there too.

  The King and the Fisher Girl

  ‘Are you lost, sir?’ asked Kali, frostily polite. The man had been following her all the way from the river.

  He looked lost, his eyes partially glazed. Was he drunk, she frowned, he certainly looked pale under his skin. He was old, she noticed as she appraised him, noting his splendidly bejewelled attire and silken robes. Clearly a wealthy man; possibly a nobleman, she thought. Hopefully not one of my admirers. She was weary of lewd, old men.

  She repeated her question.

  ‘No,’ he said in a pleasant voice, without the haughtiness she often associated with the rich. ‘I know my way around here. But I want to go across. Will you please ferry me to the other side?’

  She wondered if it was just an excuse to be with her. She gestured for him to climb into the dinghy with a wave of her hand. He stepped in gingerly, and the boat rocked slightly. She hid a smile; she knew most people were not prepared for the sudden motion.
>
  The man settled down and openly stared at her. ‘I hope I am not being impolite. I noticed or rather smelled a certain overwhelming fragrance, and I have been following it since. . .’ he looked unsure, struggling to word his obvious discomfiture. ‘I thought I had imagined it, but is that fragrance emanating from you?’ he sounded incredulous, his eyes riveted on her.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ she said wryly. ‘A blessing from a rishi.’

  His brow rose. ‘What did you do to be so blessed?’

  She did not respond, her eyes becoming hard and dark.

  He gazed at her as she rowed. He felt a rush of blood through his body. Her beauty was arresting. She was very tall and sculpted, with the strength to manoeuvre the wooden boat in the choppy waters. She was dusky and ravishing, with broad shoulders, a provocative bust, a small waist, voluptuous hips and long legs which were taut and tense, swaying with the movement of the boat as the fabric of her short cloth rode up her smooth thighs. Her thick, dark hair rested loosely on her bare shoulders. He took it all in at one glance. She was not classically beautiful: her mouth was too wide, her lips thin, her nose long and too sharp for perfect beauty. But she was the most sensual woman he had ever seen. He felt his stomach clench in swift desire that coursed through his body, his mouth turning dry.

  For a long time, they stared at each other, then her lips parted provocatively as she smiled, showing white, even teeth. She looked heavenly.

  ‘That’s why some call me Yojanagandha now. But the name Matsyagandha remains,’ she murmured, ignoring his question and deliberately not giving any further information. She swept her hair away from her bare shoulders and tied a neat bun before resuming to row.

  ‘Are you a river nymph?’ he said, staring at the strange shell anklets adorning her slender ankles.

  ‘Nothing that fancy,’ she said dryly. ‘I am a working girl who ferries a boat across the river to make ends meet.’