The Fisher Queen's Dynasty

by Kavita Kane

  ‘Where is your father?’ asked Bahlik with mounting frustration.

  ‘He has returned, but has not emerged from his chamber since last evening—again,’ replied Devavrat with a worried frown.

  ‘Don’t worry about him,’ his uncle assured him with a heavy pat on the shoulders. ‘Does he know about your extraordinary victory? You won your first war without shedding a drop of blood!’ beamed Bahlik, enveloping him in a bear hug, much to Devavrat’s embarrassment and Kripa’s amusement.

  ‘There was some blood, but it was the enemy’s,’ grinned Kripa.

  They were gushing over Devavrat’s victory over Chitramukh, the prince of Shalva, who had sent his troops to the border of Hastinapur. Instead of retaliating with war, Devavrat had shrewdly challenged him instead to the outmoded practice of an open duel. Devavrat had won and sent the humiliated prince back to Sauba, Shalva’s capital.

  ‘To the crown prince,’ proclaimed Bahlik, slipping him a goblet of wine.

  ‘You are all grown up now, Son; you are no more a boy,’ said his uncle heartily. ‘How old are you? Twenty? You wanted to prove yourself. You have. To all of us. To you, Son. To our future king of Hastinapur!’ He cheered loudly.

  Devavrat took a tiny sip, allowing the goblet to rest in his hands. He did not need wine to feel happy. He had got what he had wished for so long—to be on the battlefield. He had been there, however briefly, inhaling the scent of the raised dust blending with the thud of racing hooves and the clang of the sword. . .

  Bahlik pinched his moustache, and after a moment’s pause, said, ‘But a small error on your part. . . Was it prudent to let that young cad live?’

  Devavrat blinked. He had to be honest not just to his uncle, but to himself. He shook his head slowly. ‘I realize that,’ he rued, his voice strong with self-reproach. ‘My gesture seems magnanimous, but my error of judgement is not a small matter.’

  ‘It happens; you will learn,’ shrugged his uncle. ‘It’s better to fight with violence and not mercy, as you so claim. Mercy is often misinterpreted. Possibly the fool’s father might be indebted to you, or he might seek vengeance. . .’ he shrugged. ‘Where is your father? He should be here, celebrating with us,’ he threw his nephew a big grin. ‘Drink up, Son, take quicker, bigger mouthfuls!’

  His uncle sounded too jovial, and he knew it was not just because he was intoxicated with wine.

  ‘You are old enough to sit on a throne, fight a war, drink and get married!’ guffawed Bahlik, but his eyes suddenly went serious. ‘Have you not thought of it?’

  ‘Thought of what?’ asked Devavrat, genuinely surprised, pushing his hair back.

  ‘Marriage, boy!’ laughed his uncle. ‘Don’t you want to marry?’

  Devavrat found himself flushing, hating the heat spreading from his neck up to his face.

  ‘Uncle, there’s a time for everything,’ he murmured, nonchalantly. ‘I got the opportunity to fight my first war after so long. The rest, too, will follow.’

  ‘For pampered princes, it is often the other way round!’ argued his uncle. ‘Women first, then war! You mean you have not been to any swayamvar yet? You are almost twenty now, time you started your family!’

  He saw his nephew redden, and was amused at his evident embarrassment. ‘I have a wife and three sons, Dev, and the succour and satisfaction I derive from them . . . no wealth, no war, no crown can compensate! War’s over, now for your wedding, Son! What is that brother of mine doing?’ he exploded. ‘His young son, the crown prince, is the most eligible man in this land, and he hasn’t yet found him a bride!’

  There was a slight trace of exasperated annoyance in his uncle’s high, jocular octave.

  ‘Or do you have any girl in mind?’ persisted Bahlik, eyeing his nephew with bursting pride. He was truly a handsome boy, and he would see to it that he got him the fairest princess.

  ‘Uncle, I don’t know of any girl,’ said Devavrat, in mock solemnity, his eyes crinkling, ‘beside Kripi, my sister!’

  ‘Not even those apsaras of Indralok?’ teased the older man. ‘What were you doing there? I’ll get you a lovely girl, Son. I hear the princess of Kasi is exquisite; I shall talk with her father soon. And she will be your queen.’

  ‘What queen are you talking about?’ demanded Shantanu, as he entered the chamber.

  ‘Oh, good, you are here, finally. We are discussing Dev’s marriage. I was thinking about approaching King Kasiraj for his daughter, Princess Vatsala, for Dev. What do you say, Shantanu?’

  Shantanu looked stupefied. ‘I am the father; why did you not discuss this with me first?’ he said furiously, not attempting to hide his annoyance.

  ‘That’s what I am doing now,’ his brother replied calmly. ‘Where were you?’ he asked curiously. ‘Matters of the court and the heart need to be settled fast. I was taking the groom’s permission to seek the bride’s consent as well. That is what matters. Weddings are not made in heaven, but here in our hands.’

  Shantanu winced. ‘When is the wedding of my son to be?’ he asked sarcastically. ‘I shall be the most honoured guest, I presume.’

  ‘If Kasiraj agrees, four months from now should be a good time,’ said Bahlik, unfazed.

  Shantanu looked sullenly at his brother and son. ‘Within a fortnight, it is Devavrat’s formal coronation as king. It should all fit in nicely,’ he said.

  His words still hanging in the air, he walked away, clearly not in a mood to continue the conversation.

  Devavrat watched him leave, gruff and sullen. He turned to his uncle, a thoughtful look on his face, wondering if he should voice his doubts. The last few days had been very difficult between him and his father, and he did not know the reason for it. He barely got to see his father these days; the latter either locked himself in his chamber or saw to it that, in the evenings, he retired to bed so early that he would not have to face his son. Devavrat sensed something was hugely amiss. Each time he had tried talking to his father, Shantanu had shown either indifference or dismissed him airily. Just the way he had done now.

  ‘Your coronation and your wedding—that is wonderful!’ enthused his uncle. ‘Kripa, we need to discuss this with Devapi urgently and select an auspicious day. I shall send a letter to Kasi right away!’

  ‘Wait, Uncle,’ said Devavrat urgently. ‘Father is clearly unhappy about this. It is strange, is it not?’

  ‘Ignore him, Son,’ advised Bahlik. ‘It’s your time now; you are going to be king, and are to be married soon! Then you can worry about your father. By then, he, too, will cheer up, I assure you!’

  ‘No, there’s something more to this,’ insisted Devavrat stubbornly. ‘Father is behaving very strangely since the day he came back from his hunt near the Yamuna . . . all was fine before he left, but since his return, it seems as if he’s avoiding me,’ he said evenly, not letting his uncle see his bewildered hurt. ‘What happened in the forest? Did you find out where he had disappeared to for all those days?’ he asked.

  Bahlik licked his lips and shook his head. ‘He refused to say anything.’

  But Devavrat heard the slight hesitation in his uncle’s tone.

  ‘Tell me, Uncle, what is it?’

  ‘Son, let me be frank with you,’ confessed Bahlik uneasily. ‘I know my brother better. He has his moods, especially after his escapades. . .’

  ‘His escapades?’ repeated Devavrat. ‘There is some woman?’ he guessed.

  ‘Women,’ corrected his uncle disparagingly. ‘He must be missing them; that’s all. Shantanu has his exploits, comes home dejected and his vanity broken, often a little ashamed—if his guilt of betraying Ganga gnaws at him or if he’s ever refused. But he usually gets what he wants. After all, who would dare refuse the king? He must have been rebuffed this time. He is just feeling sorry for himself! That’s why he is so irritable. With Shantanu, it’s always a woman, it’s always been about some woman!’ he added dismissively.

  With an reassuring clap on his shoulder, his uncle considered the matter closed, bu
t Devavrat felt restless, and it had nothing to do with either his impending coronation or the wedding. It was his father. . . He had to speak with him; he had procrastinated too long.

  Later that day, he slowly made his way to his father’s chambers.

  ‘Don’t ask me anymore about the state’s affairs,’ said Shantanu wearily, seeing his son entering. ‘It’s all in your hands. Hastinapur is yours.’

  ‘It is ours,’ amended Devavrat. ‘It is our responsibility.’

  ‘No more,’ sighed his father. ‘I am tired, Son. I shall arrange for your coronation to take place next week. The sooner the better.’

  ‘Better for whom?’ asked Devavrat shrewdly.

  ‘I want to formally retire,’ Shantanu said, with unusual anger. ‘It’s your time; you have to be king!’

  Each time he looked at Devavrat, Shantanu saw the woman he had lost because of him. Frustration and rage filled him; the sight of his son was suddenly irksome. He knew he missed his love miserably. The fragrance of Matsyagandha tormented him, the shadow of her presence taunting him all through the days and the sleepless nights. He looked at his son with mixed emotions: Had it not been for him, I could have had her by my side now. . .

  He regretted it almost immediately, but the thought could not be wiped away. And as Devavrat continued talking with him in all earnestness, Shantanu felt a flash of unnamed emotion.

  ‘Please stop, Dev, don’t argue with me!’ he snapped, confused and annoyed.

  Seeing the bemusement on his son’s face, he tried to soften his tone. ‘I am tired,’ he amended lamely. ‘We can talk later. . .’

  ‘What is it, Father?’ asked Devavrat gently. ‘What is troubling you?’

  His son’s thoughtfulness tore at the old man’s heart. He turned away from him.

  ‘It is nothing,’ he dismissed listlessly. ‘I am simply worried about us, about you. . .’

  ‘Me?’ Devavrat’s handsome face creased in a puzzled frown. ‘There is nothing wrong with me,’ he added with a reassuring grin.

  ‘Having one son, the king is always scared of losing him. Losing the heir,’ said Shantanu, and Devavrat noted the hesitant tone. ‘The great clan of Kurus needs an additional offspring, for however great a warrior you are, my Devavrat, your death in battle would bring an end to our lineage. According to the nobles and priests, having a single son is like having only one eye. It is a serious handicap. If the only son predeceased the father, the clan would be ruined. . .’

  Devavrat looked perplexed, his clear eyes not revealing the confusion that was building within. Why is Father scared? Is he scared of his death, or mine? And what is this talk of another heir?

  As if to voice his thoughts, Shantanu continued, ‘I heard about that unwarranted skirmish with that rascal Chitramukh! You could have been killed! Then what would have happened to me?’ he paused, wondering what to say next. ‘And Hastinapur? You are the heir, Devavrat. You can’t be so careless. If you had died, this kingdom would have lost its only heir!’

  ‘Then get him married soon,’ interrupted Devapi’s calm voice. ‘Bahlik told me to discuss the dates of the coronation with you. Shantanu, you worry needlessly. Devavrat is a young man, fit to have a throne and father children.’

  Shantanu scowled in irritation.

  The brothers eyed each other warily. Devapi had entered the room quietly and noticed immediately the unfinished goblet by Shantanu’s side: he had always been fond of wine and women. Watching him, Devapi realized his younger brother had been with a woman. The relaxed, satiated expression on the handsome face was enough to confirm his doubt. It did not worry him, it was usual; but that cocky look quickly twisted into a scowl at the sight of him. He was intrigued. His brother now wore a sullen, abject expression, which was new.

  ‘I am serious,’ said Devapi, his eyes solemn. ‘Devavrat should have been married by now, and you would have had grandchildren instead of brooding about the future,’ he added in quiet reprimand.

  Shantanu sighed, ‘I apologize. Consider my grouchiness a result of the many things on my mind,’ he said weakly, but Devavrat noted the emptiness in his words as well as in his tired eyes.

  There was one person who could help him out: Manjunath, his father’s personal charioteer. He must know where his father had disappeared the past few weeks.

  Devavrat pursed his lips in a stubborn line; he knew he would get his answers.

  The Oath

  Kali heard the resounding echo of thundering hooves in the distance; her heart raced, and she jumped to her feet. It must be the kingsmen again, she thought fearfully. She was sure her father’s impertinence had enraged Shantanu enough to destroy the entire village and its chief who had dared to defy him.

  Kali glanced frantically at her father, who seemed calm. She peeped out of the window cautiously.

  ‘It’s the crown prince himself,’ she said, her voice low but tense. Had he come along with his father to confront her about their attempt to sabotage his prospects of inheriting the throne?

  A small crowd was gathering as news of the crown prince visiting their village spread swiftly.

  The prince was with the same swarthy, middle-aged man—the king’s charioteer. Kali watched them come in from a corner at the end of the street. She looked at the prince curiously, and her fingers stopped twiddling. He was standing in the doorway with the charioteer just behind him. She saw his face turned at an angle; there was a strange magnetism about him. And as she looked at him, she felt a thickness in her throat.

  ‘Has he come to arrest us, Father?’ she whispered.

  Kali recalled the humiliation from her last run-in with the kingsmen and her near arrest. No, if he wanted us arrested, the crown prince would not come here himself. He would have sent his men, she told herself over and over again, to allay her growing fear.

  ‘Strength, particularly of the powerful, is often misunderstood by the weak, ,’ her father said cryptically, as they heard a polite knock on the door.

  Dazed, Kali was seized by a strong sensation of déjà vu—the day when Shantanu had come to their very door. But there had been a certain sanguineness then, not this stifling trepidation.

  As soon as the crown prince entered the room, he filled it with his presence, unlike his father. Her heart hammering, fighting curiosity and dread, Kali braved herself to look up at him, her chin raised more in unconscious defence than habit.

  He was truly Ganga’s son, the Gangaputra. He looked like a god, with his good looks, dark hair and penetrating gaze, tall and looming, swathed in royal raiment of silk, pearls and gems. The perfect prince, though the look was slightly flawed by an irreverent lock of hair falling over his wide, intelligent forehead. It humanized him.

  He had a pinched face and a very thin, tight mouth. It was not until she encountered the full force that dwelt in his eyes that she realized she was in the presence of a powerful man. He gave her his full attention, keeping a steady gaze on her. She found she was perspiring slightly; she was careful not to stare at him, although she wanted to.

  Devavrat had had to quickly rein in his shock on seeing Kali. Heavens! Is she the one my father is so desperately in love with? He had been expecting a woman, but the person standing before him was a very young girl: slim, dark and attractive, barely his age, probably younger, he thought noting that her expression was one of an intelligent person, mingled with a certain childish charm. Her figure, though, was nothing girlish, but all womanly, with feminine grace. He swiftly realized why his father had fallen so deeply for her.

  He broke his thoughts and turned to the old man who was watching him warily: sour, rumpled and dishevelled. There was an expression of displeasure on the old man’s grey face, as though he were offended by something.

  ‘I apologize for this unexpected visit, sir,’ he said, his voice soft and slow, a careful deliberation in every word. ‘I am Prince Devavrat of Hastinapur, and I have come here to discuss an urgent matter.’

  The old man did not say anything, neither did the
girl.

  ‘It concerns my father,’ he began tactfully, determined to resolve the puzzle of the mystery woman the king had been visiting. ‘He came here and visited you, I hear, but since his return he has not been the same. Clearly, something must have happened here that disturbed him. And I am not aware of what it could have been; please could you help me with this, sir?’

  ‘I am Dasharaj, the chief of the fishermen of this village, and this is my daughter, Satyavati,’ said the old man finally. Crafty eyes, steady and attentive face, observed Devavrat. ‘The issue is simple. Your father wants to marry Satyavati.’

  Devavrat did not show his shock. So, it was not a wilful fancy; his father must be seriously in love with this girl to be ready to marry her. He gave the girl a second look: was she in love with him, too, or was she an opportunist, using the situation to her advantage? His bland expression did not betray his thoughts.

  ‘What, then, is the problem?’ he asked unperturbed.

  ‘The problem is you,’ said the old man bluntly.

  He saw the girl wince, a finger furtively playing with her lower lip.

  ‘Me?’ Devavrat sounded surprised, unable to conceal his astonishment.

  The fisherman nodded. ‘Yes, you are the reason why your father is not ready to marry my daughter.’

  ‘And how am I concerned with my father’s decision?’ Devavrat asked, curious about this man’s cunningness. He knew he was being arm-twisted, but with what?

  Kali saw the quick flash of contempt in the crown prince’s eyes. He thinks we are shrewd and greedy, particularly me, who made his father fall in love to extract coin and crown, who seduced a king into marriage. She was strangely piqued by his dismissive glance.

  ‘When you father revealed his desire to marry Satyavati, I, as a concerned father, laid down a condition for the marriage,’ explained Dasharaj.

  I was right—there had to be a crushing term under which Father was trapped, Devavrat thought. He waited for the man to continue, his face expressionless, his eyes alert.