The Fisher Queen's Dynasty

by Kavita Kane

‘She is a fisher girl, is she?’ asked Vasu jauntily.

  Bhishm saw his father wince. The king of Chedi was being crudely curious.

  ‘Yes, Matsyagandha comes from the fisher community,’ answered Shantanu, tersely. ‘But why have you named your son Matsya? He has no connection with that community, does he?’ he asked innocently.

  Vasu gave a thin smile. ‘As you well know, Matsya is my special son from Adrika, an apsara, unlike the five sons I have with my queen, Girika. Adrika abandoned him, as apsaras often do, and he was found by a fisherman. I named him after the community who saved the poor boy’s life. Matsya respects that, and that’s why the name of the new kingdom I created for him has the same name—Matsya—and the royal emblem is the fish.’

  Bhishm’s fingers curled into a fist, as he involuntarily felt the need to defend the queen. She did not deserve this man’s contempt merely on the basis of her birth. Before he could say anything though, his father spoke up.

  ‘Strange, you give a lot of credit to a mere fisherman,’ said Shantanu. ‘I guess I went a step further. I married one and made her my queen.’

  Bhishm threw him a surprised look, as his father was rarely rude to his guests. Not that his father was ashamed that his queen came from the fisher community, but he never defended her so bluntly.

  ‘Her father, Dasharaj, is the chieftain of the community,’ added Shantanu, as if that would redeem her dignity in the jaundiced eyes of the king of Chedi.

  To his astonishment, Bhishm noticed the colour drain from the king’s fair skin, making him look deathly pale. Vasu pursed his lips thinly and turned to look up at Satyavati, who was at the top of a marbled staircase. As he gazed at her, several expressions swept across his face.

  She was in conversation with the king of Surasen, courteous and attentive, her brows knitted in a slight frown as she listened to him. She was no silly queen; she was not absurd nor foolish; she did not show a lack of common sense or judgement. Instead, she was fast proving herself to be an astute woman, without the submissiveness usually associated with being a king’s wife.

  If the world condemned her as a crafty woman, little did they know that right then, using the occasion as a pretext, she had managed to negotiate a pact with the wily king of Surasen. Bhishm had warned her about him but she had airily hinted that she would convince him with words, not war. She had made her move and she had won, as always. They were both smiling at having reached an agreement when she caught sight of Shantanu and Bhishm in the hall below.

  ‘Do you want to meet the queen, King Vasu?’ asked Bhishm politely.

  As if on cue, she looked down towards them and their eyes met. Bhishm saw her gaze trail to the two men standing next to him and recognition seemed to flood her eyes. Bhishm found it hard to hide his surprise. She knew them! He frowned But she has never met either the king of Chedi or his son Matsya till now, though, of course, she knew they had been invited for the occasion. He saw her face freeze, the smile slipping from her face; her dark eyes dulled with a sudden emotion.

  When Satyavati saw her father for the first time, she became numb with shock. She had imagined this meeting a thousand times through the years. How would she react if she ever met the famous King Vasu of Chedi; the man who had thrown her out of his life as if she were a piece of trash? And then she knew why. One look at the two men, and she knew why her father had not wanted to acknowledge her as his daughter. Prince Matsya might be her twin, but he was so unlike her. While her skin was a dark, deep olive, and she had lush raven hair and ebony eyes, Matsya had pale skin and sharp hazel eyes, and was handsome, like her father. She had clearly taken after her mother, a reminder that King Vasu had not wanted around. Was she a physical aberration, and therefore a departure from the respectable, her dark skin unsuitable to the fair-skinned royalty of Chedi?’

  Did she want to meet him? She could turn around and walk away from him, like he had done many years ago. Or did she want to watch him wilt with embarrassment?

  Satyavati could see the king’s face already mottled red with acute self-consciousness. Or was it awkwardness, shame? Plain mortification? She realized that he knew who she was; and he could not face her.

  Unknowingly, she started moving towards them. The decision was made for her.

  Her brother was talking to his young wife, Rekatwati, and glanced at her with blatant curiosity as she walked down the stairs. He probably didn’t know about their father’s deception, and was kept in the dark about his sister. She bestowed them with a small smile. It was neither friendly nor hostile; she smiled like a hostess welcoming a stranger in her home—no more, no less.

  King Vasu stood rooted, pretending an unconcern for what may happen or be said, but his hazel eyes were dilated. Bhishm’s quick, keen glance noted this shift, and also how Vasu had suddenly gone quiet. There was something very amiss, and Bhishm could feel the tension, palatable and thick with every step that drew Satyavati closer to them. . .

  She still had time. She felt her heart racing, her hands suddenly clammy. And then, suddenly, she did not want to meet her father or her brother. It was a swift, instinctive decision. She could not face them. They—wealthy and powerful, like the others in the hall—no longer held any interest or even curiosity for her. She was like them, too: rich, beautiful and powerful.

  Satyavati tried to recall the passionate hatred she had felt for her father since the time she had known who she was. She urged herself to bring out at least some trace of that former emotion, but failed. Her father’s aged, crinkled face doused the burning embers of resentment, and brought out nothing but cold indifference. Perhaps she found it difficult to strike a flint against a crumbling stone. The cold glitter of his crown made her realize the transitory nature of everything—power, prestige, even pain.

  She continued to converse with the king of Surasen, who was still by her side, walking down the marbled steps, and turned her face away deliberately from the king of Chedi. She does not want to meet them, And the king of Chedi does not want to meet her, Bhishm realized, noticing that Vasu was still pale under his fair skin.

  Shantanu had not noticed any of this; conversing as he was with Prince Matsya and his bride. She passed by them—her head turned away, her eyes glacial—with regal hauteur.

  ‘If a treaty doesn’t work, an army does,’ the king of Surasen was saying with a loud guffaw.

  Suddenly sick of the luxury surrounding her, she wanted to flee from all of it. There was a big crowd still pouring in—every woman wore diamonds and embroidered silks—the uniform of the rich. Some of them looked at her with interest, their curious eyes lighting up with malice, staring at her in that contemptuous way only the rich can at the impecunious. Others gaped at her long enough to satisfy their curiosity, before they went back into their collective coma. There was an odd, mundane routine to the whole event. Everyone trying to prove themselves better than the other, playing the same game; they even looked the same. Suddenly, the vast hall felt claustrophobic. She excused herself from the king’s company, pretending that she needed to check on her son.

  For a moment she paused to look around, noting that the guards looked young, aggressive and alert as they stood by the king and the sleeping newborn in his enormous and elaborate cradle. She walked across the ornate hall, towards the nearest exit. She needed to be alone for some time to recover her flailing composure. She wanted to rush to the quiet precincts of her own chamber, but she knew that there would be guards there and everywhere; she had no private space in this vast palace.

  Finally, she found a quiet alcove, and tried to recover her breath and composure. She was filled with self-contempt: how could she not face her offender when she had the chance? Was it cowardice or procrastination? Or a weakness she refused to admit? Or a wound she had allowed to fester too long? Would it ever heal?

  All she could think was that she could not bear to see the man whom she had grown to detest all her life. It was making her feel queasy at the pit of her stomach. And he was in her palace, her
home, her haven. That hatred which failed her in the hall when she had laid her eyes on the old king, took possession of her now. She wanted to rush to him and throw him out, along with all his memories and all the associations she never had. She wanted to fling curses at him—some coarse words of abuse.

  ‘Yes, I am angry; angry!’ she repeated, and tears of fury glistened in her eyes. She pressed her hands on her temples, and went on wildly, ‘I hate him! How much more can I hate him!’

  She began crying, the tears gushing out. The rage inside her swirled with thoughts of what could have been and of what was; of what she had endured and suffered; of what she had done to get what she had achieved; and she cried violently.

  Were these the only memories she was going to inherit from her father? The hate, the anger and the aggression . . . were they a part of her? Is this what made her hate the world and the people around her? Her father was a monster, as far as she was concerned. She had nothing to fear from this frail, old man. In fact, he deserved to feel her rage. Why then could she not face him?

  She felt herself shudder at the thought, and took in a long breath, trembling in the quiet sanctum the empty portico temporarily provided. She did not know how long she stood there, motionless as within her churned the unforgotten, familiar emotions: hatred, anger, pain and humiliation.

  In a corner of the portico, Bhishm stood, having entered the area silently some minutes back. His sense of apprehension deepened. This was not the Satyavati he knew, always so sure and ruthless, having no pity or compassion for others, or even for herself. The resigned stoop of her shoulders, the bowed head as she leaned against a column, the bent curve of her slender neck revealed a strange surrender. To what? He stood watching her, allowing the silence and her ragged breathing to speak.

  She suddenly swivelled around, as if sensing his presence, her face drenched with sweat and tears. He reeled at the grief he saw lying bare in her eyes, stark and livid. He had never seen her crying before; in fact, he had never seen anyone crying so disconsolately before. It reminded him of a dying doe, hurt, mangled and gasping for its last breath.

  She blinked desperately, hoping to stop the tears. He saw not apprehension, but a flash of embarrassment in her dark eyes, as if she had forgotten where she was, and who she was. He had found her in an unenviable, vulnerable state. She quickly covered it up with her characteristic smile and straightened herself up. Yet she could not quite gather that composed aura he suspected she used as a mask. She still looked like that dying, wounded deer, her eyes huge and haunted, as he gazed into her face.

  He was standing close to her, and though she stood tall, she seemed small and fragile, as if cowering from a fact she did not want to confront.

  It had to do with the King of Chedi, he was sure, but what? What was it about that man that had disconcerted her so profoundly? He frowned. King Vasu had looked equally uncomfortable, if not more so. But not the prince; he had not been aware of the tension. And suddenly, Bhishm knew what it was; it came to him like a lightning bolt through a dark cloud.

  As they stood in thick silence, she avoided his eyes. This was his chance to break her—from the inside. But, strangely, he felt consumed by her sadness. It had left her looking bereft and defenceless—the warrior without her weapons.

  His mere presence, so close and warm, was unnerving. She stopped twisting her fingers together.

  ‘King Vasu. . . ?’ he asked abruptly, but the tone was not demanding; it was so tender that she thought her heart would burst and she would shatter again into a thousand tears.

  The blood seeped out of her face and rushed back, and she could feel the heat of it. How did he guess, she thought wildly. There is nothing he knows about me; I have not told a soul about it, and yet he knows . . . how? The best defence was, of course, denial. But one glance at his even, steady gaze crumbled her from within. Her voice died in her throat. Her answer did not matter: he knew the truth. Her truth.

  She opened her mouth to protest, but she heard no sound; the words were buried in choked-back tears. He saw the swift look of pain and fear flaring in her eyes. She was clearly scared that he knew her truth. He wanted to hasten to assure her that she need not fear him, but before he could say anything, she shook her head violently.

  ‘Don’t, no. . . !’ she whispered, her voice quivered and broke. She was evidently trying to restrain her tears, desperately stifling her sobs.

  ‘Don’t what: pry further with words, or reveal her secret to his father? It was hard for him to see her in this state. Her truth had exposed her and made her vulnerable. Gone was the anger and arrogance of this woman who was destined to bring him down in every way. Now, he had the power to overthrow her, to turn the tide against her and drown her in the depths of despair as she had done to him. He suspected it was more rage than grief that filled her: the anger of a deserted daughter. To be recognized as one had been her single hope, which turned into a tale of desire and determination.

  Through her broken sobs, Bhishm saw who Satyavati was—a child who could have been a princess, but was rejected and forgotten. Now he knew where the burning desire and ambition came from. Her ruthlessness had been her sole weapon of survival, of fighting back. No means would be too despicable, no method too deplorable. Why should she owe anything to him or his father or Hastinapur or the society at large to live and conform to their wishes? He could also understand why Dasharaj had behaved the way he did: he was ensuring history would not repeat itself.

  He was afraid to touch her, to console her with word or gesture He knew that any words of consolation would be received with hostility. She hated him now for knowing her truth.

  They looked at each other again, and he quickly shifted his gaze. He knew what he had to do; the only thing he could do. Pity and sympathy and an irrational helplessness seemed to have robbed him of all words. He pursed his mouth, bowed his head slightly, and turned on his heel, quietly leaving the room, giving her the respite and release she wanted.

  She turned her head to stare at Bhishm’s retreating back through glazed eyes. She could hear her heart hammering. He had left, but his unsaid words floated back to her. How could she ever allow herself to forget that he now knew her truth? Fresh tears spilled onto her saree, staining it with memories.

  The anguish broke something inside her. She felt like she had been reborn out of the shell of hatred, anger, revenge and humiliation. She remembered her shanty house, her old father and neighbours and friends, and her first thought was how she had long past overcome her inadequacies without ever realizing it. She only knew one thing—that before King Vasu’s visit, her position as a queen had a meaning; it now appeared absurd to her.

  She felt her hatred and sadness dry up as fast as the tears dried on her face. She was ready to embrace and include in her life every possibility open to her. She was free: to let go of her anger and bitterness, and, at the same time, to be happy. Life was crass and brutal, and she would battle it. The crown, somehow, seemed lighter now.

  The Death

  They were arguing again. It seemed to Satyavati that Shantanu had little strength, and the little he had, he reserved to fight her.

  ‘You took the crown, the kingdom, Dev’s rights . . . you have two sons now, and your father is a minister at court. . .’ Shantanu was saying. ‘Yet, you are insecure. Or is it simply greed?’ he muttered tiredly.

  It was a strong accusation, but she was used to it. It was his way of attempting to alleviating his own guilt.

  ‘I am not insecure about Dev, if that’s what you are insinuating,’ she said calmly. ‘He loves my sons as his own; he’s like a father to them, and he has taken over the responsibility of their upbringing completely.’

  ‘This was his kingdom to rule. He should have been fathering his own children, not looking after his stepbrothers!’ said Shantanu unhappily. He moved restlessly in his bed. He was bedridden since their second son was born, six months ago. ‘Both are still babies, Matsyagandha! Chitrangad cannot be anointed heir, as you
are requesting. He has to be of age; he is barely five!’ coughed Shantanu angrily. ‘Till he comes of age, Dev is regent. How can I make a child the crown prince when the most capable of all, my Bhishm, is on the throne!’

  She quietly wiped his damp brow. ‘Dev will always be there. He has promised loyalty to the throne and whoever sits on it—be it his father or his brother,’ she said quietly, reminding her delusional husband of the reality he desperately wanted to escape from.

  ‘Dev is the king, no one else,’ he muttered stubbornly. ‘The people will not accept it.’

  ‘The people have accepted me now, as well as our sons. . .’

  She heard her husband snort derisively. ‘Never as much as Dev!’

  She hugged the baby closer, as if to reassure herself that she now had two sons—her two heirs.

  ‘I want to make him king!’ confessed Shantanu with a loud sigh. ‘But even if I want to . . . you won’t allow it, and Bhishm will never agree. . .’ he lapsed into a dejected silence.

  ‘He won’t break his vow. Ever,’ she said confidently.

  Shantanu threw her a scathing look. ‘You know him so well, don’t you?’ he charged, his eyes flaring with sudden fury.

  Her heart stopped, thudding wildly. What did Shantanu know?

  ‘You know he will never turn against you or the boys,’ he said, and she breathed more easily. ‘He is too loyal; and worse, he will tolerate you and your wickedness only because you are my wife and they are my sons, and thus his brothers by blood!’ he seethed. ‘The people of Hastinapur and I will have to suffer the oath you made him take!’ he accused, his eyes glazed with grief.

  ‘I did not make him do anything. He took it, Shantanu, for you,’ she interposed evenly.

  Shantanu went berserk. ‘His kindness lies too heavily upon me; it is too cruel. I would rather endure his unkindness any day . . . oh my Dev, what have I done!’ he wept uninhibitedly.

  Satyavati watched her husband cry; her heart contracted at the misery on her husband’s lined face, and the pain he was inflicting on himself. He could never forgive himself for what he had wreaked on his son. Nor could he forgive her. In his grief and guilt, he saw her as the culprit; he barely endured her now. Love had soured to bitter loathing.