by Kavita Kane
She looked at him closely. Even sitting down, he seemed like a tall man. He was handsome, with a generous sprinkle of grey in his thick hair. He was surely close to her father’s age, she guessed. But the man looked fitter, his slim frame without an ounce of flab or sagging muscle. Must be the result of a rich man’s diet, she thought sourly.
She instinctively gauged what he wanted from her, instantly recognizing the appraising look in his eyes. She moved the oars faster, hoping to reach the shore quickly, wanting to get rid of him.
Suddenly she spotted a brief movement in the water. She stopped rowing, and realizing what it was, picked up the net at her feet and threw it into the water.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked surprised.
‘Catching fish. It’s a big one, and shall fetch me a big price.’
Having deftly caught the fish in the net, she started pulling it in, but it was heavier than she had imagined. She pulled harder, feeling a thin film of perspiration form on her forehead, her breath coming in short gasps.
‘I’ll help you,’ the man offered gallantly.
‘Don’t!’ she shouted, staring intently at the furiously thrashing fish. ‘You will rock the boat and we may topple into the water! I will manage. . .’ she gasped, as the fish tugged harder at the net, desperate to escape.
She felt the net biting into her hands, the skin breaking and the warmth of her blood trickling between her clutched fingers.
‘Hand me your dagger!’ she ordered, pointing to the weapon at his waist. He handed it to her silently, fascinated by the show of strength and determination in the girl.
She snatched the dagger and nimbly threw it at the frantically squirming fish, catching it straight at the gills. It lay still and she hauled in the loaded net.
‘Got him at last!’ Her face was alive and sparkling, chortling over her conquest. ‘That’s the thing about fishing. Catch it while you can, or they slip away and you never get the chance again,’ she explained with a triumphant smile, wiping the blood off her hands.
‘You are hurt. . . !’ he frowned.
Kali shrugged, smiling mockingly. ‘I had to use my bare hands to catch that fish. Or it would have escaped liked a lost opportunity.’
‘You don’t allow any opportunity to slip from your fingers?’ he asked, impressed with her pragmatic philosophy. ‘Even if you get hurt in the process?’
‘We work with our hands: they are our sole fortune.’
‘Don’t you think you were stubborn about catching that fish? You could have got badly injured!’
‘Sir, I rely on these hands for my present, my future,’ Kali’s face twitched in a quick grimace. ‘Unlike the fortunate rich who hold their wealth in their hands. And wealth is power.’
‘But in your hands lies strength!’
‘Labour, you mean! That’s why we poor have to work hard,’ she said flippantly. ‘Strength lies in the mind, in the heart; not just in our hands,’ she asserted.
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Is it not better to contain only as much as you can hold in your hands?’
‘That is so limiting,’ she challenged. ‘Then the poor remain poor and the rich get smug and lazy,’ she said saucily. ‘If desire and ambition are to be restricted to our two puny hands, why do we have such small eyes to see the large sky? And two small ears to hear the wildest storms? No, sir, we can make our future with our hands!’ she laughed. ‘And with our minds, we can dream big!’
She resumed rowing smoothly, but the friction of the oars on her bruised palms made them bleed again. She impatiently tore the end of her angavastra and tied strips of the cloth around both her wounded palms.
‘I think it will be better if we turn back,’ he said, looking at her swaddled hands. ‘They need looking after,’ he added tenderly.
As she felt the breeze against her face, she was reminded of the long forgotten incident years ago, when she was with Parashar. . .
She was sure now that this boat trip had been an excuse for this stranger to spend time with her.
‘What do you want?’ she asked quietly.
‘You,’ he replied. ‘I want you!’
It was an admission of all the emotions churning within him since he had set eyes on her this morning. He had first been assailed by her exotic fragrance. As he inhaled more deeply, he was immediately intoxicated, unable to think. And then he had seen her and stared, unable to take his eyes off her.
Sitting on a dinghy was the most attractive girl he had seen for a long time. Sultry and almost sullen in her beauty, she oozed a raw appeal, a smouldering magnetism that drew him to her like a spider in her web.
Shantanu felt his mind go numb. He remembered how he met Ganga on the riverbank eons ago. This mystery woman—was she real or was he imagining Ganga?
No, she is not Ganga. This one is as dark as Ganga is fair, yet, just as alluring. Who is she?
Shantanu knew he was handsome, and usually that was enough to charm any woman. Not this one, though, he thought with some exasperation. He was now sitting close to her, feeling the heat of her body, their feet touching. . .
‘I want you!’ he had blurted out, the words torn from him, to whistle in the wind.
Did all men seek me only as a quick catch, she sighed, as she continued to row the boat, rapidly heading toward the shore. She was used to flattery and blatant propositions. She was also conscious of the fact that she was attractive, and not to be wasted on all or anyone. She was aware of the impression she had made on this stranger. She instinctively knew when she raised lust in men, and she knew she had stirred his desires. However, she was not sure about herself: should I reject his advances, or do I have the will to go through this again and wrangle another deal for myself?
She felt the boat hit the sands and she jumped out gracefully, and started to tie the boat, ignoring him and his declaration.
‘I said I want you,’ he repeated, his shadow falling on her. ‘I love you!’
Kali raised a knowing eyebrow. ‘You want me as what—a maid?’ she smiled, her tone irreverent.
‘Don’t tease me, please!’ he begged. ‘I have fallen in love with you, lovely maiden,’ he said earnestly. He inched closer, leaning his face forward.
Her eyes widened in mock wonder. ‘We just met. I hardly know you!’
‘My dear girl, do you know how beautiful you are?’ he sighed, taking in her body and face as he inhaled deeply.
As most poor people did, she was attired in rough cotton. She was scantily dressed more out of poverty than to seduce—a tiny uttariya barely covered her bodice, the lower antariya was short and without the usual kamarbandh most ladies wore. It was instead knotted tantalisingly low at her toned waist, hugging her voluptuous hips and half covering her rounded thighs, exposing the bare flesh of her long legs. She was wearing not a single piece of jewellery except for a shell bracelet on her right wrist and its counterpart at the ankles. Yet, she looked as regal and arresting as a queen. It was what had attracted him at the first instance. And she was young, he realized as he felt a rush of hot blood pounding in him. He would have grabbed her and silenced their irrelevant talk, but better sense prevailed and he took in a deep breath. The scent wafted enticingly again. He clenched his fists.
‘I know you—you are the girl I am in love with. And I. . .’ he paused, uncertain.
Without a conscious effort, he moved into his regal stance. His expression, schooled by years of experience, was arrogant and alert.
‘I am a king,’ he declared, more firmly.
Despite her initial shock, Kali was astute enough to notice the slight hesitation. A king! This man is a king! Her eyes did not reveal her disbelief, wondering why he had vacillated. Clearly, he did not want his identity to be revealed. It had been his last resort. He would have preferred a quick, anonymous seduction, she thought grimly. But for once, she would not be the conquest of a man. It would be she who would conquer and defeat him. Just this one time, she swore grimly.
She forced a smile which she knew would make his
blood boil, with just the right dose of innocence and reticence. ‘But you can’t be the king of our region,’ she said, her eyes becoming wider. ‘Is it a ruse to impress me?’ she asked sweetly, arching her breasts at him and lifting her dark eyebrows invitingly.
‘I am the king of Hastinapur,’ he blurted. ‘King Shantanu. I was riding through this village and I noticed you near the River Yamuna. I have been watching you this whole day!’
Kali barely heard his hurried explanation: the king of Hastinapur; one of the most powerful kings of one of the most powerful dynasties. Her heart raced erratically. She was sitting before the king of the land, the cause of her woes but a slave to his desire for her. She took a moment to savour her power over this mighty man.
She bowed her head, elegantly. ‘To our king,’ she murmured, her mind working furiously. She had not angled for him, yet he was already in her net. Do I want him, she asked herself as her eyes shrewdly took in the grey hair, the finely lined face and the dry, shrivelling skin on his hands. Am I ready to give my girlhood to this old man, and sacrifice my youth for security? I could be a young queen to an old king. . .
Kali drew in a deep breath, inhaling the salty scent of success. She would not allow ambition be a dirty word. It would cleanse her, empower her and be the cause of her re-birth. She was sick of poverty; it made her ill. She needed a cure; she wanted wealth, which was power. She wanted power, too.
Kali raised her head to look at him again with fresh eyes. He made a distinguished king with his fair, good looks, coupled with his hair greying at the temples, the silk finery and sober display of gems and ornamentation, riding recklessly in the kingdom. . . Was that how King Vasu had seduced her mother?
Her heart hardened, but in her eyes was a soft glow.
‘You are a king—the mighty King Shantanu—and I am but a poor fisher girl,’ she said in a low, respectful tone, her eyes suitably downcast.
‘No longer,’ he said peremptorily, taking a bold step closer. He felt an intense sliver of excitement run through him.
She knew he was yearning to touch her. Her scent grew stronger, and she saw his eyes flare with quick arousal. She felt a heady sense of success: she seemed to attract the most powerful of men—first Parashar, now this king.
‘And how does it matter that I am rich and you are poor?’ the king murmured. ‘You shall live with me!’
Kali ran a tongue over her lips, her eyes luminous. His eyes were riveted on her, taking in her deliberate gesture.
‘But I will have to ask my father. . .’ she started, infusing a tinge of helpless confusion in her smoky eyes. Her inviting lips were so dangerously near that he could have kissed her if she had not lowered her head to make him roil in his new passion.
‘Later, dear. Later, I shall seek your father,’ he muttered impatiently, taking her hands. They were surprisingly soft, despite the hardships they bore each day. She winced, but did not pull them away. She turned her wrist around to display her open palms.
‘You want a girl with such calloused hands in your harem?’ she asked. She was teasing him and his heart skipped a long beat. Just the way Ganga used to. . .
‘I have no harem,’ he said huskily. ‘You shall live in my palace at Hastinapur. You, dear maiden, I promise, shall be my special lady.’
‘Your queen?’ she said innocently, her eyes looking questioningly, full of hope and trust. Kali hoped she had got it right, to make his heart melt. Lust was a quick flare, but what burned longer was unrequited love. She wanted him to fall hopelessly in love with her, and not simply lust for her.
He inhaled sharply, frowning, at a loss for words. At that moment, she snatched her hands away and he felt acutely bereft as if the warmth in his life had slipped away from his grasp.
‘I have to go; it is getting late. . .’ she mumbled, raising her large eyes in feigned panic. ‘My father will be waiting for me.’
And before he could reach for her, she had capered over the boat and was running along the sandy shore, towards the shrubbery.
‘When can I see you again?’ he called after her, taking quick steps to follow her.
She darted him a quick smile and vanished among the shrubs. He chased after her, but the slushy marsh slowed him down while she skipped deftly between the thickets.
Perhaps she will come back; I shall wait, he thought, as he abandoned himself to this faint, vain hope which intoxicated him.
Kali watched him from behind the mangroves, hidden by the thick, long grass. She saw him staring listlessly into the distance, lost, confused and annoyed. It had been the right time, the right action when she had broken away from him. He would search for her the whole day and then another. She smiled, pleased at having so easily taken in a man so powerful, and at being the object of such intense passion.
Kali wondered if she should mention this encounter to her father, but decided against it.
As she had hoped, King Shantanu was waiting for her in the pale hours of the early dawn when she went to the river the following day. He took a step forward so as to speak when she cut him off, careful not to be brusque, but firm.
‘Good day, sir,’ she said brightly, bowing, her smile as inviting as her huge, dark-lashed eyes. ‘I cannot stay to chat with you. I have to work and ferry these waiting people to the other side,’ she explained, still smiling. With another low bow, Kali ambled away to the waiting motley, knowing his eyes and heart were achingly on her.
He was standing among the tall thicket when she returned late in the evening, a silhouette in the shadowed light of the dusk. The moon was shining. It was still a warm summer night. The stray dogs were howling in the distance. As if in warning. . .
‘Matsyagandha,’ he said, the royal command stark in his voice.
Kali turned and smiled, and the anger melted from his face, his eyes turning bleak, almost pleading. Shantanu wanted to cry out loud that he wanted to love, that he was eager for her at all costs. To him, she was not a mere girl but a beautiful body in the moonlight, a luscious shape hiding bashfully in the shadows of the trees, waiting to be devoured.
‘For God’s sake! I entreat you, don’t torment me. Let us go into the mangroves!’
She looked perplexed, but meekly allowed herself to be led into the woods. He grabbed her roughly and before she could utter another word, covered her soft lips with his hungry ones. She allowed it, closing her eyes as if drowning in new-found passion, her hands roaming delicately over his back. She felt him shudder, and softly slipped a moan from her throat—the low, long sound of ecstasy driving him into a new frenzy. Through her half-closed eyes, she could see his lips were moving down her neck to the rounded swell of her breasts. While one hand tugged adroitly at her knotted bodice, the other ran up her silken thighs. He is an adept lover, she mused. Must have done this to all the palace maids, she sneered silently.
Her bodice was completely undone, and she felt him tremble as he gaped at her half-nakedness. Kali permitted him a long look of her magnificent bare breasts before she stepped back in apparent confusion, coyly pulling up her fallen uttariya to cover herself.
‘No, no, I can’t do this!’ she cried. ‘My father will kill me if he gets to know what I have done!’
‘What?’ he gasped, bewildered, fumbling desperately. ‘What are you doing? Come back!’ he shouted at her retreating back.
She did not bother to reply but continued to run daintily away, making him rage in kindled fire.
She was humming lightly as she opened the door to her house, the fragrance filtering in before she did.
‘You sound happy,’ remarked Dasharaj, expertly tying knots to mend a torn net. ‘Got a prize catch?’
Kali nodded slowly, a small smile playing on her lips. ‘Yes, Father. A prize catch. But not the finned variety.’
Dasharaj’s hands stopped abruptly.
‘King Shantanu,’ she said shortly, waiting for the impact of her words.
‘You met him?’ her father looked incredulous. ‘What is he doing in this
part of the kingdom?’
‘He was out hunting it seems, and I caught his attention. Or he followed my scent,’ she said airily.
‘Surely he didn’t try to seduce you?’ he asked, but she could hear the fear in his voice.
‘He thinks he did, but it’s I who is enticing him,’ she shrugged, recalling the brief tussle at the banks. ‘I will marry him before I allow him to seduce me. But right now, my absence is slowly making him go wild.’
‘Don’t believe him. He’s not a fool, Satyavati. He’s a seasoned womanizer,’ he warned. ‘It runs in that family. Remember that infamous story of his ancestor, King Dushyant, and how conveniently he forgot his wife, Shakuntala, feigning denial when confronted by her? Though she fought for her right for her son with all her dignity, the king only accepted her because he was childless, and he needed a son for his throne. This man is no better. At the pretext of mourning Ganga, his estranged wife. . .’
‘Estranged?’ questioned Kali, curious.
‘Yes, King Shantanu met this beautiful girl near the River Ganga, he fell in love with her and married her with his father’s blessings. They had seven sons, but the queen seemed to be suffering from some illness. Rumour has it that all seven died. An uglier rumour has it that the mother threw the babies in the river herself. No one knows, but our present Crown Prince is the eighth son of King Shantanu. Ganga took him with her when he was born, and the king is said to have gone quite mad with grief, having lost both wife and son. Whether it was certain madness or simple lust, we don’t know, but he is said to have seduced half the maids in the palace and made a harem of the other half. It’s only when his son returned to him a few years ago that he came to his senses.’
‘He got back his son?’ enquired Kali, more intrigued, suddenly filled with a vision of a younger version of the man she had almost made love to.
‘Yes, Devavrat is the crown prince. What is going on, Satyavati?’ he quizzed sharply.
‘To make a long, lusty story short, King Shantanu wants me—’
‘Desperate enough to marry you?’ he interrupted swiftly.