by Kavita Kane
Bhishm raised his brows in frank admiration.
‘Videha becomes our new ally and a cornered Kasi is reined in,’ she said and shrugged one elegant shoulder.
He felt much more relaxed. The more he listened to her explain the plan, the more confident he became of success.
‘But you yourself are in a vulnerable position now,’ he cautioned. ‘You will be wooed by other mighty kings, more interested in the crown than you,’ he stated brutally. ‘As Uncle said, it’s a bloodless double coup—the enemy gets the crown and the queen.’
‘I shall never remarry,’ she said unequivocally. ‘I know that if I remarry, it will be dangerous. I will not gain a husband but lose Hastinapur to some king,’ she said wryly. ‘It is convenient to believe that a queen needs a husband to fight wars and make political decisions for her—that she is incapable of taking any of her own.’
‘I serve you instead, Mother,’ he murmured, mockery in his voice.
Was he laughing at her or being ironic, as always? With seeming nonchalance, she continued, ‘All that is expected of the queen is to provide male heirs to further the royal bloodline.’
Bhishm looked grave. ‘But heirs have been murdered, too! We avoided one battle today, but, right now, our nation has a pack of hungry kings roaming, searching. This is just the beginning. Each one of us, every powerful royal dynasty, is trying to take over, to terrorize its own country and the world with their armies. Any powerful king can now send his army and start a war. Ugrayudh tried it today through you, but this will go on, get worse till one day we will be killing each other on some huge battlefield. . .’
‘Can’t it be averted?’ she whispered in a shocked undertone. ‘How can war be heroic; why bestow it with grandeur when all it leaves behind is a trail of blood, carnage and suffering?’ she mulled. ‘A war leaves widows, not dead heroes on the battlefield. An entire generation of people and society get subjected to its endless horror, killing not just warriors but women and children, old and young, scholars and statesmen, thinkers and workers. All that is left is a ravaged country full of weeping women, children and crippled men!’
She had always hated violence, and war was a flagrant justification of it. Ugrayudh had been defiant and died for it. She had seen Bhishm putting down a man in cold blood, without remorse or restraint. War and violence, war and women; the lines blurred in her mind, convincing her, providing her now with a valid, deeper reason for her reluctance to remarry—the idea was preposterous and had never occurred to her. She had to keep her crown and throne safe for her sons. She would not lose all that she had gained. She would not lose her powers to some man, some king.
Her biggest fear was that the throne would slip from her hands. She would never lose her own independence and her sovereignty as queen, she swore to herself. She would not allow any man, marriage or motherhood to erode her power. She had to decide her priorities as she sat on the throne. And she was far too intelligent to compromise herself.
‘I am married to Hastinapur. I need no king, I will be its queen,’ she said slowly to the man she knew would protect Hastinapur and her all his life. She needed no king. She had Bhishm.
The Regent
Bhishm was restrained by the fear of appearing sentimental and ridiculous. When he wanted to be affectionate or to say anything tender, he did not know how to express himself naturally. And it was that fear, together with lack of practice, that prevented him from being able to express with perfect clarity what was passing in his mind, his heart, all this time, all these years.
He allowed a sigh to escape his lips. He had never ordinary feelings for Satyavati. He had seen her in all her shades—deceitful and despairing, loving and bitter, pained and proud—but when he saw her with her boys, Bhishm knew that was when she felt most fulfilled. There was youth, freshness and joyousness in the way she loved her sons unconditionally.
As he did, too. Five years had passed since his father had died. Circumstances had changed. He was no longer afraid of coming across as sentimental, and gave himself up entirely to the fatherly, or rather idolatrous, feeling roused in him by the two little boys. His thirst for normal, ordinary life became stronger and more acute as time went on, but it was cut short by the princes, and he found what he needed with them. He adored the two boys; he could go on living in those twin pairs of crinkled dark eyes, their silky, curly hair, and those dimpled pink hands which stroked his face so lovingly and clung around his neck.
He gave a start. He realized that he was even dreaming about being back with them once he finished his work. It was late morning, and he was quietly listing out the daily chores of the court, but he could not but help look out of the window to catch a glimpse of Satyavati chatting with the boys. He saw how her impatience died down as she tolerantly tended to each of them—the precocious and fair Chitrangad, and the dark, sickly, six-year-old Virya. She fed them with her own hands, never assigning the task to any maid. She gave them their baths, put them to bed, and never took her eyes off them for nights together. She was devoted to them.
The world had gotten kinder to her now. He supposed it was more to do with her personal efforts to win the people over than her being the widow of his father. The people now acknowledged her as Queen Satyavati and not Daseyi, as she had been disparagingly called for so long. Again, it was not that the moniker had died with her father, Dasharaj, who had passed away soon after his own father, but because today she was more Satyavati than Daseyi. She was the Kuru queen, mother of the heirs and champion of the people. It had been a trying task, with the public and the nobles both casting aspersions and accusations on her intentions and integrity, but she had eventually won them all over.
But behind her charm was a ruthless efficiency that had brought about a miracle in the palace and the kingdom.
She tolerated no slackness, nor lazy service. She had made this palace the best in the country, and she was determined that it would remain the best. She left the running of the palace to highly trusted experts, but she supervised them all, correcting and making suggestions.
Each morning, she left her chamber and visited every room, hall and court of the palace, smiling, but constantly checking for possible faults. She began with the royal wash house, exchanging a nice word with the chambermaids who adored her; then she would go to the cellar to inspect the wine and the victuals, after which she visited the three kitchens, and discussed the day’s meals with the royal head cook.
The morning’s rituals took time, after which, she would come into the court and speak, with her earthy accent and unpretentious attitude, to the nobles and the ministers who were sufficiently charmed.
She actively looked into the matters of the court since his father’s death, a decision precipitated by the Ugrayudh incident and the determination to never be used as a political pawn again.
Finally, she would settle the young princes and join him to discuss the court matters of the day. It was with shock that he had realized that he looked forward to her inputs. He was often taken aback by her sharp mind; her brilliance dazzled him, but he preferred not to let her know. As they worked, sometimes until late in the evening, her mind often ran on excessive energy and excitement, always eager, curious yet cautious.
He inhaled the faint smell of musk and knew she had arrived in the room.
‘How is it today?’ she frowned, with a tilt of her head, pursing her lips and absently tapping a fingertip on the lower lip. For the first time, he noticed, she was wearing pearls and not gold. He suddenly realized he was noticing things about her that were new to him: like her string of pearls, the way she arranged the angavastra on her shoulder, how the grey-white sari complemented her skin, or how her calm, intelligent eyes flashed when provoked.
Her eyes widened as she pored over the information supplied by his spies posted in every village of the kingdom.
‘Each one of them hopes to invade Hastinapur,’ she grimaced. ‘They want to, but they can’t, as your reputation as a warrior is getting more fearso
me by the day, Dev! Yet you claim to hate wars.’
‘I attack only when provoked,’ he explained laconically.
‘Defence, never offence,’ she smiled. ‘We win, Dev, yet we win.’
The ‘we’ added a strange ring of togetherness, belongingness and agreement, a new cordiality and confidence in each other. They did everything together. There was a camaraderie between them, a fondness and a fellowship neither denied.
‘And, yes, there’s this person, Dron. I wanted to talk to you about him,’ she remarked, a frown pleating her smooth forehead. ‘Who is he and what is he doing here at our palace for the past one week?’
Bhishm was used to her forthright manner of speaking. It sounded imperious to some, and plain arrogant to most. But he never found it off-putting, as she often did not mean it; she was simply blunt and had no time to waste.
‘Dron is the son of Rishi Bhardwaj and the apsara Ghritachi. . .’
‘Another story of romance and quick lust? What did he do? Leave her with child?’ she interrupted, warily.
‘She left him,’ he corrected her. ‘With the son to keep.’
As I left Vyas with Parashar, Satyavati flushed instinctively.
Bhishm noticed her face tightening with sudden tension. She is hiding something, he was quick to perceive, but had no intention to prod further. Is it another secret she hopes I will not find out? She will tell me one day when the time is right; I am sure of it.
‘In fact, he got his name because of his birth,’ he continued smoothly. ‘It is quite a dramatic story, as dramatic as his name. It seems when Bhardwaj caught a glimpse of Ghritachi, who had come to bathe at the river, he forgot to perform his morning ablutions and er. . .’ he paused, wondering how to explain further discreetly.
She grinned. ‘Don’t say that he ejaculated and kept the semen in what . . . a dron . . . a vessel made of leaves, and thus that name!’ she said with her incorrigible candour that made Bhishm smile.
He nodded and then his eyes narrowed at her brooding expression.
‘It sounds similar to my story!’ she scoffed.
It came off easily now with him, without shame or pain, anger or aggression. She could tell him everything.
‘The same story but a different apsara. . .’ she added harshly.
‘That’s how his story goes,’ Bhishm shrugged. ‘He remained with his father, who got him to master the art of war weaponry and martial arts, especially archery.’
‘That’s unusual,’ she stated. ‘A rishi knowing warfare. Like Rishi Sharadwan, Kripa’s father.’
‘Dron is considered something of a genius. He is a student of Parashuram. . .’
‘Like you, which means he, too, must be exceptional,’ she said swiftly, without hesitation.
Bhishm’s eyebrows went up. ‘Praise?’ he murmured. ‘No, he was not groomed entirely by Guru Parashuram. When Dron came to know that Parashuram was distributing his possessions to the Brahmins, Dron approached him but arrived too late. Parashuram was left with just his weapons and he offered them to Dron, the weapons as well as the knowledge of how to use them. Gleaning this rare knowledge and all his weapons, Dron thus received the title of acharya,’ remarked Bhishm.
‘But why is he at our court to train Chitrangad and Virya?’ she queried, slightly puzzled. ‘They are being taught by Kripacharya. . .’
‘No, Dronacharya is in Hastinapur not to teach, but to wed Kripi,’ he said shortly.
She glanced at him incredulously. One look at his sure, stern expression, and she knew the decision had been made.
‘And you agreed?’ she demanded. ‘You think he is good enough for her?’
‘Yes,’ he drew in a long breath. ‘He is supposed to be cleverer than Kripa, and that’s something.’
‘But is he as smart as Kripi? That’s more important!’
‘She likes him,’ he shrugged.
‘Well, that’s more important than anything else,’ she agreed. ‘I am surprised that she said “yes” to this man. She has refused so many proposals previously,’ she started hesitantly, not wanting to vex Bhishm.
He was excessively defensive about Kripi, though the feisty girl needed no protection whatsoever. She looked after herself well enough with her sharp tongue.
‘Where did they meet?’
‘At Rishi Bhardwaj’s ashram,’ supplied Bhishm.
Satyavati was surprised. ‘As early as that? She was a child then,’ she said.
‘Kripi continued to visit the ashram even later, as a teacher, and that’s how she got to know him better. As she got to know Prince Drupad, too. The three are said to be very close.’
Satyavati quickly surmised the situation. ‘Drupad is the Panchal prince, King Prishat’s son, isn’t he? When you killed Ugrayudh Paurav, Drupad’s father got back his throne. They owe us,’ she said, a defiant glint in her eyes. ‘And now this friendship of these three bodes well for us, too.’
Bhishm nodded, the lock of hair falling forward. ‘Yes, Panchal is a peaceful neighbour now.’
‘But that’s unusual—a friendship between a rishi and a prince,’ she commented. ‘It makes for good politics, though. I presume Dron will be the royal rishi with the Panchals soon?’
‘I doubt that,’ Bhishm shook his head. ‘Dron’s father, Rishi Bhardwaj, is the royal purohit of Kasi since the times of King Divodas. But King Prishat and Rishi Bhardwaj were great friends. Rumours are that he took refuge in his ashram when he was hounded by Ugrayudh. Their fathers being friends, Drupad used to go to Bhardwaj’s ashram to play with him.’
‘So Dron is now without any royal patronage?’ she asked shrewdly.
‘But, pray, why are you asking so many questions?’ Bhishm’s eyes narrowed in sudden suspicion.
‘To be aware of the changing relations between kings and their rishis!’ she replied lightly.
‘No . . . you are checking whether he is truly eligible for our Kripi,’ he retorted with a knowing smile. ‘But whatever he does, or wherever he goes, Kripi is determined to marry him,’ he sighed, betraying his anxiety. He was upset about the news—not because Dron would be an unsuitable suitor, but because he was inordinately fond of Kripi.
‘It’s time she did; she’s already well past marriageable age. Most girls her age have children by now,’ he said, forcing a small laugh.
‘But you had ambitions for her, didn’t you?’ she guessed shrewdly.
‘Yes, she is a bright girl, destined to be a scholar,’ he nodded. ‘I thought she would pursue her studies and start her own ashram one day, especially for women, like Gargi once did. Marriage, I am afraid, may kill that dream.’
‘It was your dream for her, Dev, not hers,’ she pointed out mildly. ‘She wants to marry. It’s her choice.’
‘Hmm,’ he murmured resignedly.
‘And she could still do that after marriage,’ she said dubiously.
One glance at Dron when he arrived at court reaffirmed her doubts.
‘He is . . . he is . . . so poor!’ Satyavati whispered, aghast at the young rishi’s appearance.
Bhishm raised an eyebrow. ‘He is a rishi, not a king! He is meant to wear clothes of bark, not silk,’ he said, but she could hear the smile in his voice. He was laughing at her again, but he could not understand what was troubling her.
She tightened her lips in impatience, scrutinizing the young man standing before them. He was a man of few words, saturnine and lean, of average height, probably as tall as Kripi, a disconcerting intensity emanating from his flashing eyes. As if they were perpetually angry with the world.
‘Compliments and good wishes, Kripi. But you never told me you had a man in mind to marry!’ she teased when Kripi visited her in her chamber that evening. ‘What a huge secret!’
The hard lines of Kripi’s mouth melted into a soft smile and she blushed. ‘I was waiting for Dron to complete his studies,’ she said.
Satyavati frowned. ‘He is still studying? Does he not want to settle down, now that he is going to marry?’
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‘I don’t mind,’ replied Kripi tersely, resenting the peremptory tone. ‘I have waited long enough for him.’
‘But he needs to work to earn money!’ exclaimed Satyavati.
‘He intends to start his own ashram where he will teach,’ returned Kripi, her eyes turning stormy.
Satyavati threw Kripi a worried look, wondering whether she should voice her doubts to the woman she knew would not take kindly to what she had to say. But she said it nevertheless.
‘Will you be able to live as he does?’ she said. ‘He is poor, Kripi, and you have lived all your life in this palace. . .’
‘Not as a princess,’ snapped Kripi.
She ignored the girl’s rudeness. ‘You were regarded and respected as a reputed scholar at court, a priestess of royal position,’ she reminded her gently. ‘Dron might be an intellectual and learned rishi, but he is a man of no means. I am not questioning him, but are you prepared to live a life of poverty henceforth?’ she asked bluntly.
Kripi resented the words more than her tone. ‘I shan’t be marrying for money,’ she scowled, ‘. . .or fame or status, but love. I don’t want to be a queen, but a wife,’ she added with a jeer. ‘But I don’t expect you to understand because, let me be frank like you, you did not marry for love, did you?’
‘It’s not me we are talking about, but you, Kripi,’ she said, placating. ‘I am genuinely worried, and not disrespectful towards your decision. I am sorry if I have overstepped the bounds of acceptable protocol. I speak as your friend, not as your queen,’ she said.
She saw Kripi smile sardonically. ‘But you were never my friend, Queen Daseyi. For me you will always be that, though, for the world now, you are Queen Satyavati. I was appointed to help you, educate you and groom you. I did just that. We were never friends,’ she finished with cold candour.