by Kavita Kane
Kali had been trained to mask her emotions and expressions, but the grandeur of the palace snatched her wits away. For a girl who had been born and breathed in squalor, the palace was like heaven. The huge domes were what attracted the attention at once, all shaped like large, upturned flower petals. They hung over huge, columned halls, ornate balustrades and carved doorways. From the edge of the high walls, a half-acre of unbridled green grass spread in a gentle slope down towards a serpentine path. The sidewalk and the path were cobbled, both very wide, probably for elephants to amble right in, she mused. The old park, laid out in elaborate style, gloomy and severe, stretched for almost three-quarters of a mile to the river Ganga, and there it ended in a steep, precipitous clay bank, where she could glimpse tall trees growing. The water shone below with an unfriendly gleam, and the birds flew up with a plaintive cry: an unwelcome sound to her ears. But near the palace itself, in the courtyard and orchards, it was all life and gaiety even in this hot weather. Such marvellous roses, lilies, marigolds of all possible shades, from glistening white to deep crimsons—such a wealth of flowers, that she thought it a veritable garden of paradise.
‘This is beautiful!’ she gushed, the words coming out in involuntary wonder.
‘Yes, it is.’ For the first time, he allowed himself a small smile, which did not do much to ease the inscrutability on his face. ‘I believe everyone should have some hobby,’ he shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘I love flowers. The place where I grew up was surrounded by flowers. I wanted to keep that bit here with me!’ He stopped abruptly, as if he felt he had talked too much.
‘You have grown some of the finest flowers I have ever seen,’ she smiled indulgently.
Devavrat flushed self-consciously. They pulled up at a well-manicured, circular garden in front of a marbled porch. She was met with a host of maids and manservants, all noiseless and sharp-eyed, looking at her with frank distrust and curiosity.
Devavrat led her through the marbled maze of long corridors and steps. Kali followed with her head high and her heart fluttering, refusing to be daunted by his glacial formidability. She found, to her surprise, that her initial awe was swiftly dwindling—the ornate furniture was ugly and the ubiquitous chandeliers, garish. Was this how the wealthy lived, in a crass display of their gold and gems? The palace, heavily ostentatious, was especially cavernous, and the walk to Shantanu’s main wing seemed disagreeably long.
Kali soon realized she was being ushered into Shantanu’s residential section of the palace. She felt a slight prickle of apprehension: Would Shantanu be surprised, happy or angry?
‘Father, I have got someone for you,’ announced Devavrat softly, as he entered his father’s chamber.
He was welcomed by a brooding silence; then Shantanu asked, disinterestedly, ‘Who is it?’
‘It’s me, Matsyagandha,’ whispered Kali demurely.
Devavrat masked his surprise well, intrigued by her name. He had noticed the fragrance, of course, and it was intoxicating. She wore it like a jewel—rare and priceless—and flaunted it with a natural hauteur he found faintly annoying.
Shantanu whirled around. ‘How?’ he muttered, his voice as incredulous as the expression on his face.
Devavrat watched his father’s face flood with unconcealed joy.
‘I did what her father wished for, and he agreed to give her hand in marriage to you,’ supplied Devavrat briefly. ‘I brought her here for you; your new queen. My mother.’
Devavrat saw the elation seep out of his father’s frame as quickly as it had suffused it earlier.
‘You did what?’ he whispered hoarsely, his face drained of colour and emotion. He was not gazing at Kali anymore; his eyes bored into his son’s.
‘Please tell me you did not agree to those terrible terms her father put forward!’ Shantanu said hoarsely, his eyes filled with dread.
He swung around to look accusingly at Kali. ‘What did you make him do?’ he cried.
Watching her momentary confusion, Devavrat decided to intervene. ‘Father, it was my decision. I did it. No one forced me into it,’ he clarified quickly.
‘No! I can’t let you do it!’ argued Shantanu, clutching at his son’s hand. ‘It’s your birthright! You are the rightful heir to the throne! I cannot let you sacrifice it! No!’
His guilt was contagious, shooting a sharp dart at her as well. Kali stared at her hands, her head dropping in silent shame. She had thought it would be an easy job to win man and crown; she had not reckoned with the ugliness of it all.
‘Father, you were right. Hastinapur needs heirs: a bigger royal family,’ said Devavrat, his face soft and smiling. ‘There is nothing to get so upset about. It is a time to celebrate. I shall start with the preparations. . .’
‘Stop it, Dev!’ said Shantanu forcefully. ‘There won’t be a wedding! I cannot accept Matsyagandha as my wife over your ruination,’ Shantanu was openly overwrought. ‘I can’t do this to you. I am your father!’ he cried, burying his face in his hands.
‘And I am your son,’ said Devavrat quietly. ‘It is my duty to see you happy.’ He ignored his father’s loud protest, his tone hardening. ‘I have taken my oath, and nothing will take it back, not even my death.’
There was a deadly certainty in his words, and Kali, a finger pressed on her lower lip, did not miss the bleak determination in his tone. Nothing will take it back, not even my death. She had won, after all, she realized with a delayed sense of triumph.
Devavrat’s wilful self-destruction broke Shantanu’s remorse.
‘You are Bhishm!’ Shantanu said in an awed whisper. ‘I don’t deserve you; I don’t deserve to be your father!’
The raw grief on his father’s face tore at his heart, and Devavrat wondered what he could do to make him feel better. ‘But I am your son, Father,’ he tried to cajole weakly. ‘Can’t a son give something to his father: does it always have to be the parents?’
‘But I gave you nothing, Son!’ cried Shantanu. ‘Neither my love, nor my blessings; and now, not even my legacy!’
Shantanu’s lips trembled, as Ganga’s words reverberated in his mind, ‘Our child is cursed!’ It was slowly unfolding before his eyes. And he had unwittingly played his role in his son’s destined misfortune.
‘No!’ he wept, tears of shame and regret flowing down his cheeks. ‘Don’t make me my son’s nemesis, God, please!’ he staggered, swaying with the horror of his realization.
Kali made a move to hold Shantanu, but Devavrat reached him before she did. She could not decipher what the king was muttering through his tear-stained voice, but she could see he was a broken man: a defeated, ashamed father who was crumbling under the crushing magnanimity of his son. Devavrat’s oath is going to kill him, she thought in despair. Oh, Father, what did you do? What did I do? The crown was already losing its glitter.
Shantanu gazed searchingly into his son’s eyes.
‘My son!’ he murmured. ‘I can give you nothing but this one blessing. . .’ he started wretchedly.
‘You are too noble, Devavrat, and the whole world will know you as Bhishm,’ he said hollowly. ‘All I can do is bless you with icchamrityu—the power to choose the time of your own death.’
I have taken everything from you, thought Shantanu bleakly, but by this boon, may you escape the further cruelty of this world you have been cursed to be born and live in, oh Devavrat. I failed you, Son. I failed you, Ganga, he cried silently. Will my blessing release Devavrat from this world; a world in which he is trapped by his birth? Unburdened of kingdom and marriage through his oath, and endowed with the power to die at will, his cursed son was now free to leave the world. But one look at his strong-willed son told Shantanu that no blessing would help him escape his cruel destiny, and that, somehow, he would once again be cast back into the fetters of love and duty. I am that fetter, and Hastinapur is his duty.
Kali was visibly shocked, her eyes travelling quickly between son and father. Which father wishes for the death of his son and bestows it as a blessi
ng? What had Devavrat received in return for his sacrifice: death at will?
What Shantanu had bequeathed to Devavrat was a legacy worse than death.
‘I am blessed, Father. I am your son, and Ganga’s,’ said Devavrat calmly, watching the stark hopelessness on his father’s face. There was more to this blessing, he knew, portending a certain ominousness. . .
‘Is that all you can give your son?’ interrupted an angry voice. ‘A death wish!’
Devavrat dreaded what was to follow as soon as he heard his uncle’s voice.
‘What sort of a father are you, Shantanu, that you are willing to live happily at the cost of your son’s happiness?’ demanded Bahlik, his face mottled red. ‘Your son gets a wife for you, when it is you who should have gotten one for him!’ he said, throwing Kali a look of disdain.
He reminded her of a vigilant guard, big and muscular, with his beaky, fleshy nose and thin, cruel mouth. His small, watery eyes crawled over her, filled with unadulterated contempt.
Devavrat swiftly realized it was up to him to defuse the situation.
‘Uncle, please, it’s time to plan a wedding, not argue!’ he pleaded.
‘It’s time to mourn!’ snapped Bahlik, his rheumy eyes gleaming. ‘I will not allow this injustice. This is sheer madness. A chit of a girl aspires to be queen, and snatches your throne to win!’ he threw another shrivelling glance at Kali, who was standing proud and defiant in the corner of the long chamber.
‘We don’t treat our guests so badly,’ Kali said softly, through gritted teeth.
Bahlik stared at her with loathing. Her dark complexion, her slim, sensual body, her big, sensuous eyes and her hard mouth reiterated his doubts. ‘You are not a guest; you are nothing!’ spat Bahlik, a nerve throbbing at his temple. ‘If you are hurt by my words, feel free to leave!’
Shantanu made a movement. An incensed Bahlik was quick to notice his reaction.
‘See, my brother is more worried about this girl than his son!’ lashed Bahlik. ‘Shantanu, is that what you are reduced to—an old man seduced by an opportunist, consigning his young son to a living death?’
Shantanu went white. ‘You are being irreverent!’
‘And you, my dear younger brother, are a selfish fool!’ retorted Bahlik, furiously. ‘Like our father who set an example, you should have retired and relinquished your crown to your young son. Instead, you got yourself a bride! How could you allow some girl, young enough to be your daughter, to make you lose sense and bearing? You are a king, and a father; but you have failed miserably as both!’
Kali could not believe she was being so brutally insulted. She was seething with anger, but remained quiet; one false move now could undo all that she had earned and gained.
The prince would have to play saviour again, she thought, as he is the only one whom the enraged old man will listen to at the moment.
Devavrat rose to his father’s defence. ‘Uncle, calm down. It’s my own decision. Father is not responsible—’
‘It has everything to do with him, Son!’ interrupted Bahlik. ‘Shantanu has brought this upon us.’ He shook his head. ‘For him to be led on by this. . .’
Shantanu looked up despairingly, and said, ‘I love her, Bahlik. Do not insult her so!’
Bahlik snorted. ‘If you could not control your desires, you should have kept her in your harem, Brother. Your throne is what she wants; not you, you fool!
Shantanu looked livid, ‘You have gone too far, Bahlik!’
‘No, you have, Brother, and now it’s too late,’ said Bahlik. ‘Too late for all of us. You still have no reckoning how deep into the chasm you’ve fallen, not just because of this damned girl, but your self-pride and self-love as well. You were always a spoilt child, because you were born late to our parents, in their old age. But I never imagined you would turn out to be a debauched character!’ roared his brother, derision glittering in his disillusioned eyes. ‘Had I suspected it, I would have never handed over Hastinapur to you, Shantanu, just so you could squander it away so carelessly for your lust for a young girl!’
Kali could see a vein throbbing at his temple, and she thought he would explode in an apoplexy of rage.
Bahlik thrust his face close to his ashen-faced younger brother and said, ‘How can you be the son of our father, King Pratip? Or do you claim to carry the selfish, decadent blood of our forefathers like Yayati and Dushyant? Cursed with premature old age because of his infidelity to his wife, Devyani, Yayati had the gall to borrow youth from his young son, Puru. Much later, in our same lineage, Dushyant came close to denying his son, Bharat, the right to his name. You are just as shallow as them!’ he roared. ‘Our Paurav dynasty seems full of such tales where sons are repeatedly asked to make sacrifices to accommodate the whims and fancies of their self-centred fathers. Is that not so, Brother?’ he said savagely. ‘But yours is an extreme case. Most of those sons eventually regained their birthrights and their throne; but what about Dev? Can you ever give back to him what you have taken?’ he demanded. ‘You will live in lust, and he in celibacy; how cruel is that? Even Yayati realized his mistake and returned his youth to Puru. You know what he is said to have famously confessed to his son, Shantanu? Yayati is said to have confessed that not all the wine, wealth and women of the world can appease the lust of man. Desire flares with indulgence like fuel to fire. Having found this wisdom at last through his excesses, Yayati, once again, as an old man, renounced his kingdom to spend his remaining days as an ascetic. It was his last days that brought him his salvation, Shantanu, not his full, hedonistic life. But will you ever repent?’ he shook his head gravely. ‘I cannot stay around and watch the doom of our family.’
He turned to Kali. ‘Our family is known for one brother gladly giving up the crown for another. But you twisted it and forced Devavrat to do the same. There is no nobleness or greatness in that deed. It only proves your rottenness. I cannot curse you; for if I do, I shall be bringing ill-will to our family. You have already brought bad luck into our home and my nephew’s life. May you live long enough to regret every one of your decisions.’
His burning eyes seared into hers, and she felt the silent curse pervading from him, seeping into her mind and senses. It was a jolt: the pure, vitriolic hatred in the old man’s eyes. She trembled, her face pale, in fear and anger.
‘I love your brother, sir,’ she said demurely.
‘But you want his crown more,’ taunted the old man, leaning forward. ‘You could fool Shantanu and Dev, but not me, girl. You wanted to be queen, and you used my brother and ruined my nephew for it. I hope you believe there is a God, and justice, somewhere, sometime.
‘Dev forfeited his all; but do you know what will happen to our family henceforth?’ he questioned both father and son, while staring hard at her. ‘This girl will be the queen, the grand matriarch of this new dynasty that she will start! Along with yours, it will be her bloodline as well from now on.’
Devavrat made a move to stop his uncle. ‘You cannot leave Hastinapur, Uncle, with so much anger,’ he said imploringly.
He was surprised to see his uncle bow before him. ‘You would have been king, Prince Devavrat. I came back to Hastinapur for that, not for my brother,’ he said tonelessly. ‘I returned for you. So did Devapi. Both of us came to give you our blessing . . . to the future king, the crown prince of Hastinapur. But you threw it away so carelessly; without a thought, either for the kingdom or its subjects, both to whom you were morally accountable. Without a thought for the people who love you, have expectations from you and who made you their king. Without a thought to the law and rule of this land, that a king owes allegiance first to the throne, to his subjects, and not family.’
Devavrat felt his heart stir with an unfamiliar apprehensiveness: his uncle, his mentor, his teacher was not just angry and displeased; worse, he was disappointed with him.
‘Dev, what have you gone and done?’ asked his uncle. ‘If I have anger for my brother and contempt for this girl, I am deeply saddened by what you
have done. You failed me, Dev, and you failed Hastinapur. You would have been a great king; but you threw it all away for the whims of your father. What about your responsibility to the crown?’
‘I have not turned away from my responsibilities, Uncle,’ Devavrat said in a low voice. ‘I have given up the crown, but I shall always be loyal and true to it, and serve it honestly till the last breath in my body,’ he said passionately, his voice soft with a strong undercurrent of admirable purposefulness.
‘Serve the crown as what, Son?’ mocked Bahlik. ‘As a loyal servant, a minister, a noble or a regent? Now you won’t serve the crown, but any wilful person wearing it!’ He continued relentlessly, ‘You won’t serve the kingdom, but you will serve the king. You will be reduced to just a chattel; with no voice, no opinion and no power.’
His eyes as calm as his voice, Devavrat answered equably, ‘I shall do that gladly, Uncle. I was born in Hastinapur. I shall live for it, protect it and die for it. That is my promise to you.’
His father had lost pallor; the girl looked uneasy, but she remained silent and motionless.
‘Another promise!’ exploded Bahlik. ‘They are a bane, not a boon, Son. Who gave you the right to give up the crown for this woman and her unborn progeny? Who gave you the right to play with the throne and put it at stake for your irrational love for your father? It was not yours to gamble, Dev; it was the people’s. It belonged to this kingdom of Hastinapur. Neither you, nor Shantanu nor this wretched girl are above Hastinapur. You promise to look after Hastinapur all your life, but you, Son, destroyed it in one stroke with that oath of yours.’