The Fisher Queen's Dynasty

by Kavita Kane

  The harshest words were reserved for him, realized Devavrat, his face anguished. He bowed his head to hide the effect of the heat of his uncle’s wrath, the cruel truth of his words.

  ‘You may think now that you helped your father by gambling away your birthright, but you haven’t understood the consequences of this decision. You have not only altered your life, but the family lineage. In your bid to make one person happy, you relinquished your promise to the citizens of this kingdom. You are emotional, and for this you will suffer for the rest of your life, Bhishm! What you did was not sublime, but simply an act of misplaced devotion to a man not worthy of it!’ Bahlik said with despair, his eyes bleak. ‘Indeed, like your new name, Bhishm, between the ideal and reality, falls the shadow. You are a fallen hero, Dev; a leader who fell too early on the way! Your resolve is a wilful act; it is your impotence to see reason! It should not have been a personal, but a political decision,’ lashed Bahlik, his eyes fixed on the tormented hazel ones of his young nephew.

  Each word was like a welt, and Devavrat took it silently as he had no words to explain his actions. Because he could never forgive himself for separating his father from his mother; he could never tell his uncle his worst guilt. He had tried his all, given his all to bring his father and his newfound love together. Because he, and everyone else, assumed that it was Dev’s irrational sense of duty that made him act so. But this was far removed from the truth.

  His father looked the pusillanimous man that he was, trembling with indignant rage but unable to mask his fear at Bahlik’s ominous words. Was his uncle right? Had his desire to return to his father his lost happiness made him as ineffectual as him?

  Kali stood silent. This man was brutal, bleeding both the men with stabbing words. He was the man to watch out for, the one she should be wary of: not Shantanu or Devavrat. Both were—as Bahlik had correctly said—weak-hearted. But not this man, and she was thankful that he was leaving them and the kingdom.

  ‘You, my brother and this woman have started the end of Hastinapur,’ Bahlik whispered, his bulky shoulders sagging.

  It was a sad, soft, broken voice emitting from such a massive man.

  ‘I am leaving, for I cannot bear to see the doom of my home, my family, my kingdom, Bhishm,’ he said with emphasis, ‘for that is not just your name from now on, but also the terrible life you shall lead!’

  The silence he left behind was painful.

  The Wedding

  Kali was in the midst of her wedding preparations. The feel of silk on her skin and the glitter of diamonds on her throat were new to her. They are like me, she smiled, beautiful and seductive, the sparkle never wearing off. The light reflected off the dazzling stones on her dark face, illuminating it with a strange incandescence, her inky eyes alight. She was going to be married to a king today, and she would be queen; her dream had just begun. However, one glance around her, and she was warned of things to come. Kali had never witnessed such opulence—rich carpets to warm cold marble floors, engraved furniture pieces, exquisite tapestry, an oversized bed. But neither had she witnessed such open hostility. The maids were dutifully helping her dress, but she could feel their resentment, almost palpable in the huge, chandeliered chamber allotted to her. They moved around her, their faces stoic but bodies bristling with antagonism. Kali found herself having to repeat her requests once too often.

  ‘Strangely, the whole palace seems to be afflicted with deafness,’ she pronounced with all the hauteur she could muster. ‘But I have a cure: hear it loud and clear. Get used to your tasks, and don’t make me repeat them. I shall be your queen, and you are bound to serve me,’ she said, with a lash in her voice.

  The maids did not stare back at her as they did before; their eyes were resentful but their heads were suitably lowered. You have to be born royal, she reminded herself bitterly, or you do not command respect. That seemed to be the rule of the palace. When she voiced it to Shantanu—the only person whom she could talk to—he shook his head.

  ‘They resent you not because you are a fisher girl,’ he remarked. ‘They don’t like you because, in their eyes, you are nothing but a. . .’

  ‘Go on,’ she prompted defensively.

  ‘. . .a common thief who stole Dev’s rights, yet roam about in the palace, unpunished. Weren’t Bahlik’s parting words a hint?’

  Shantanu sighed, an expression of unfiltered pain flitting across his lined face. He slipped his hand into hers. ‘It is going to be rough,’ he cajoled, ‘for both of us.’

  Much to her shock, after Bahlik’s acrimonious words and exit, she had faced hostility from Shantanu, who announced shortly to her that they would have a quiet wedding.

  ‘I am apprehensive about how people will react. I have been informed that they have not taken the news kindly that Dev is no longer their crown prince. . .’ his voice trailed off uncertainly.

  Why would a king fear his subjects, she frowned. They had to bow down before him, not question him.

  She decided it was wise not to show her displeasure. ‘Are you ashamed of me; embarrassed to introduce me as your wife?’ she asked coyly, masking her disappointment. ‘As your queen?’ she added more insistently, stroking his raddled cheek.

  Warily, he said, ‘They loved their queen Ganga so much, she is irreplaceable for them. And they love Dev more. They see you as an intruder—a usurper—who snatched his rights, his crown and his future. They hate you, Matsyagandha, and they will never forgive you,’ he paused. ‘Nor me. They now despise me, too.’

  This was a new experience: she was a leader, popular with the people in her village. But not always. I had to earn it, she reminded herself. She would have to work at it here at Hastinapur, too.

  Kali threw Shantanu a swift, sharp look. He seemed to have aged years in the last few days, since she had arrived at the palace. She had thought that he would be deliriously happy with her by his side, but he was being torn by an anguish: over the quarrel with his brother as well as Bhishm’s vow. If she had been considering that oath a boon, and the quickest way of getting Shantanu and Hastinapur, neither were yet firmly in her grasp. For one, she would have to wean Shantanu off his melancholy.

  ‘No, they don’t hate you. You are their king!’ she reminded him gently, with a soft smile. ‘They love you, and they will do what the king wishes. . .’

  ‘They are resentful, and an angry public is not good—neither for the king, nor for the kingdom. I don’t want to upset them even more. That’s why we should have a simple wedding. It is appropriate.’

  She nodded slowly, disconcerted that he was unwilling to grant her what she wished for. She had thought he would comply easily.

  ‘Still, it is a royal festive occasion, not a mourning,’ she laughed lightly. ‘When they see that you are happy, they, too, will be happy,’ she said persuasively. ‘Don’t they also want to see their king smiling after a long time?’

  ‘You are going to be my bride, Matsyagandha, and I am ecstatic that I have you now. . . But I can’t share this moment with them because it was Dev whose wedding they were looking forward to, not mine!’ he shook his head agitatedly. ‘We have upset too many people, hurt too many. . .’ he muttered, and, after a pause, said, ‘Matsyagandha, please understand. You seem to have forgotten you were like them once!’

  She gave a tight smile. ‘No, I have not,’ she said. ‘We were used to obeying our king—whatever he said or did. We had to.’

  ‘But this is Hastinapur,’ murmured Shantanu. ‘Here, the Kuru king bows to his subjects, listens to them and rules his kingdom. Dev was the chosen one; not by privilege but by merit. Besides, he was chosen by the people as well. You—we. . .’ he hurriedly corrected, ‘have shocked them and gone against their wishes. They don’t like us for what we have done to him.’

  Her mouth tightened. ‘Agreed, we will have to win them over. But you are still the king!’ she said quietly, though her voice was hard. ‘A firm hand stills unrest and dissent before it erupts into a revolt. If you comply with your peo
ple’s wishes too much, you will be known as a weak king,’ she said, and Shantanu thought he heard slight scorn in her voice. ‘People don’t like weakness; they respect authority, and fear it.’

  He looked at her for a long time. ‘Have you forgotten the sentiments of the common man?’

  Flushed, she smiled grimly. ‘I say so because I know. I have suffered.’

  ‘The people are hurt and angry. I have lost my two brothers, and . . . the respect my son had for me,’ he muttered, his face pale. ‘Dev does not show it, but I can feel it. I have lost everyone, Matsyagandha!’ he coughed dryly, his voice slowly drowning in a violent paroxysm.

  She quickly handed a tumbler of cool water to him.

  ‘Please do not get upset; I understand,’ she nodded, with a gentle smile. ‘I was one of them. And that is why I say—let us have a big wedding, where we invite not just kings and nobles of all the kingdoms, but our citizens as well. People love a festive occasion; we will make them part of the royal revelry. Let our wedding be a public celebration, bringing all of Hastinapur together. Why just this wedding: from now on, let us celebrate our festivals, too, with them. That way, they will forget their animosity and might forgive us.’

  Shantanu’s frown deepened, and his brows furrowed thoughtfully. Kali allowed him his deep contemplation, not interrupting his thoughts with further words. ‘Yes, I think that might please the people and win them over. I shall let Bhishm know,’ he said finally.

  Kali smiled and nodded.

  Shantanu called for Bhishm, and he arrived almost immediately, standing aloof yet expectantly.

  ‘Your father is troubled. He wants a quiet wedding. . .’ Kali said, coming quickly to the point.

  ‘Does he?’ he looked surprised. ‘But the arrangements have started in full swing.’

  Kali winced. The preparations had been for his coronation, not her wedding. They had started even before her arrival at the palace. She looked at the tall, young man with the serene eyes. It should have been his wedding, not hers. He was supposed to have married the princess of Kashi this month. Instead, it was his father’s wedding he was attending to. She felt a twinge again: would she never savour a glimmer of happiness; that same share of happiness she had snatched from this man? Would she be as cursed as him?

  Shantanu looked vexed. ‘We can’t have a public wedding! That was what I was telling Matsyagandha now.’

  ‘But. . .’ Bhishm protested.

  ‘We have already upset your uncle,’ she started cautiously. ‘We don’t want to anger the people further . . . I suggested to your father that we have a grand affair where we invite the people of Hastinapur into the palace, and include them in the celebrations.’

  Bhishm looked surprised, and then, after a long pause, nodded. ‘It is an excellent idea.’

  He turned to his father. ‘Do not worry, Father. You are apprehensive because you think it will upset the people, but I shall see to it that every house in Hastinapur celebrates!’

  Seeing Devavrat’s eyes glow dulled her triumphant moment, guilt flooding her instead. He was so happy in their happiness; she turned away, hating herself suddenly. Breaking through his armour of cold reserve, she saw him visibly elated for the first time, and could see how much he loved his father and was ready to do anything for him. She twisted her fingers together, her heart stirring uneasily. This was not meant to be her day, a voice taunted her. It should have been his.

  Bhishm saw Kali smile tentatively. ‘Hopefully, the people will forgive me,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to anger the people further. But nor do I want you to feel guilty on my account.’

  ‘No one is blaming you,’ said Shantanu with a weak, reassuring smile.

  ‘I have already turned your brother against you,’ she said, and Bhishm was surprised to hear a quiver in her voice. ‘The nobles are displeased, too; all because of me. . .’

  ‘I have dismissed those who were vociferously against you, Matsyagandha,’ Shantanu cut her off mid-sentence in his brusquely imperious manner.

  ‘I know! And this wedding should not antagonize anyone, but bring us all together,’ she paused, dropping down before Shantanu, and laying her head on his knees. ‘I am miserable that I have made you miserable. I can’t bear it; I was supposed to make you happy! You are a true, generous, rare man. . .’ she swallowed her tears. ‘All you have earned is ridicule and reprimands, because of me!’ she went on, the tremble getting stronger in her voice. ‘I know that I will be your wife, but never a queen who is loved and respected by everyone. Because I am but a poor, young fisher girl. But what can I do!’

  Bhishm saw his father flushing uneasily; his face wore a look of stupid, boyish dismay.

  ‘My darling, you are misunderstanding me,’ he muttered helplessly, touching her hair and her shoulders, dragging a soothing smile over his face. ‘Forgive me. I was unjust, and I hate myself and all those who hate you! If you want a big wedding, you will have it; and we shall invite the whole city, as you wish!’

  She played it well, Bhishm thought, with a mental shrug. So she does want a grand ceremony. Bhishm turned away, more defeated than disgusted at the sight of how servile his father was to her, and at the depth of her insincerity.

  As Matsyagandha had desired, the wedding was a glittering event. The ceremony was performed within the quiet precincts of the family temple, attended by Devavrat and a few nobles only, but the celebrations that followed were open to one and all. Rishi Devapi, the royal head priest, had refused to perform the rites, and his absence was glaring, displaying the depth of resentment simmering against her.

  However, the bride looked lovely in her new jewels, and Bhishm almost did not recognize her in her bridal raiment. The ceremony was lavish, and she had appropriately decked herself up: like the royal wife she aspired to be. He admitted, watching her, that she was a very beautiful woman. She glowed with the triumph of a victor. Kali could not contain her happiness, and it shone radiantly on her face, more than the gems on her body.

  The palace was richly decorated and the thick scent of jasmine and incense hung heavy in the air. The flaming yellow of marigolds melding perfectly with the soft glimmer of the dancing diyas dotting every corner of the palace. She was led across the hall, out into the sunshine that blazed down on a patio, through arched doorways and along a passage, to the temple which lay in the middle of a huge garden. Six weary looking priests stared at her with indifference.

  Rather than a celebration, it looks more like a mourning. But I hope I shall be given a fancier funeral than this, she thought with morbid amusement. I might lose small battles like these, but I have won my war. I am getting married to the king of Hastinapur, and will soon be crowned as queen. . . today, Kali will be reborn as Satyavati.

  Bhishm was sitting next to his father, staring into the blazing yagna fire. He looked aloof, detached from the ceremony, even though he had managed the preparations single-handedly.

  What is he thinking? Of the princess he was to marry? Of all that he has lost? She felt that unfamiliar emotion again: it afflicted her each time she looked at him. Was it her guilt? Or something else she could not fathom? She frowned, hating that her moment of triumph was being marred by that undefinable feeling.

  As she sat down in front of the fire, she glanced at Bhishm, silently asking him to come to her. He went to her and bent down, his ears close to her lips.

  ‘I know no one is happy about this wedding, but could some food be sent to every home in Hastinapur from the palace kitchen for a week?’ she murmured. ‘And also to the fishing community. They, too, would like to be a part of the celebrations,’ she said dryly.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ he returned blandly, but she detected a hesitant sliver of warm approval. She glanced at him, feeling her face flush to her neck. She heard him giving instructions to one of the courtiers.

  She sighed, and brought her attention back to the rituals. This is what she had wanted. His respect. And the people’s blessings too, she hoped fervently. But why was his approval
so important to her?

  ‘Don’t talk when the mantras are being chanted. They are marriage vows of love and fidelity,’ the icy voice of Kripa, one of the priests, filtered through her happy thoughts.

  Kripacharya looked frosty, affronted by her whispering to Bhishm in front of the holy fire. He was tall, fair, very young, with a long and thin nose, deep-set and intelligent eyes, and a dome of a forehead, which accentuated the disdainful expression on his handsome face.

  Kali flushed, the reproach smarting. She fidgeted in frustration, looking around her.

  In this enormous, unfriendly palace, she suddenly felt bereft: alone and lonely. Her father was too unwell to make it to Hastinapur, though Bhishm had been courteous enough to send a special carriage to bring him. But Dasharaj had refused, instead sending her a silver anklet of her mother’s as a gift. She was wearing it now: a slender silver coil ending in twin fish heads, graceful and entwined in each other. He had fulfilled the promise he had made to himself: that he would make her a queen one day. But her father wanted her to fend for herself from now on, starting from her wedding day. It seemed more like a battleground. The nobles were coldly courteous, and the palace staff stiff and resentful. Except for Vibha, a girl of sixteen, who had been assigned to her as her personal maid.

  Why am I thinking such horrid thoughts? She would see to it that things changed, and changed fast, Kali vowed to herself. She would make these people bow to her!

  The day had been trying enough, and then suddenly the wedding night loomed wretchedly over her. Her fingers curled into tight fists as the thought—I will have to make love to Shantanu tonight. Not furtive kisses and desperate lunges or heavy groping in the mangroves, but as a lover would with her partner; as a wife would with her husband; and as a bride would with her groom.