by Kavita Kane
‘You had the same argument for Chitrangad. I shouldn’t have listened to you!’ she gave a decisive shake of her head. ‘Had he gotten married then, he could have had a child before he got killed.’
‘An heir,’ said Bhishm grimly, wondering again if her son’s death had made her cold-hearted. Was she regretting the absence of an heir from Chitrangad, or mourning the loss of her son? Be it because of her initial hardships or her innate nature, Bhishm had long realized that Satyavati was unrelenting, especially when it came to asserting her authority. Essentially unsentimental, she was someone who could plan ahead dispassionately, while setting her grief aside.
He remembered something that had happened soon after Chitrangad’s death. The priest of a local temple had stopped the daily worship when his young daughter died unexpectedly. Satyavati, when she came to hear of the complaints, personally rode out to his hut and, while offering her condolences, offered some advice as well. The priest, utterly overawed by the bereaved queen mother, had promptly opened the doors of the temple that very day.
‘A queen needs to be more sensible than just sensitive,’ she said in brief explanation.
But had her unbridled grief trampled upon the compassion she was capable of? She looked older, her eyes were harder and her lips seemed to have forgotten how to smile.
‘I have mourned enough for him,’ she said harshly, reading his thoughts. ‘But we cannot escape our responsibility to secure an heir for the throne. We didn’t act on time for Chitrangad, and I don’t want to repeat the mistake this time with Virya. He is of age, he is the king, and the king needs his queen. Or queens,’ she emphasized. Immediately after Chitrangad’s death, Bhishm had taken it upon himself to groom the young Virya as the next king. It helped Bhishm recover from his grief. Virya was a bright boy and, despite his poor health, quickly picked up administration of the kingdom; and with his amiable nature and fluency in languages, he turned out to be a good diplomat, besides mastering weapons and warfare under Bhishm’s stern tutelage.
Two months ago, he had been anointed as the new king, but the reins of power were shared by Satyavati and Bhishm.
‘None of the three princesses is going to marry Virya,’ he said dryly. ‘It is a swayamvar. The princesses get to choose their own grooms.’
‘A swayamvar for which we were not invited,’ she said. ‘Kasi will have to pay dearly for this insult!’
‘This is not just about affairs of the heart; it’s also the affairs of the state,’ warned Bhishm. ‘You can’t wage war against Kasi because the father of the brides did not invite your son!’
‘You make it sound petty and personal, Dev,’ said Satyavati calmly. ‘But it is an open affront to us. He has called all the kings of the country but us. Is that not humiliating for Hastinapur? For the Kurus?’ she taunted.
‘Yes, but it is personal,’ he admitted in a toneless voice. ‘I have hurt the king of Kasi once, by not marrying his sister, when it was promised and arranged.’
Bhishm struggled to keep his face straight, his eyes flat and cold, but a storm raged within him, remembering the untold distress he had bestowed on the unfortunate girl and her family. ‘I am guilty as accused; I am the offender.’
Satyavati bit her lip. Bhishm avoided talking about his past, and his wedding was a forbidden subject; yet, she had to bring it up again.
‘What happened to her?’ she asked softly, her dark eyes probing.
He shrugged, his broad shoulders slumped in sudden dejection. ‘She got married later to the king of Vidarbha,’ he said ambivalently.
‘All’s well that ends well. So, why does the father hold a grudge against you? ‘
‘Bruised honour,’ corrected Bhishm. ‘If they have not sent an invitation, it is their right, their choice.’
His expression grew taut and severe, as if to end the topic of conversation.
Satyavati felt the atmosphere suddenly thicken with tension, but she cut through it.
‘But this time it’s not about you, it’s about Virya,’ she said, her face hardening. ‘Virya is an eligible suitor. . .’
‘He is not eligible,’ said Bhishm strongly. ‘Neither as a king nor as a husband! He is consumptive and has started drinking, too. We need to curb that. . .’
Satyavati was shocked, then angry. ‘What are you talking about? You have trained him yourself!’
‘That doesn’t mean he is an able king,’ he said succinctly. ‘You forced him on the throne, in spite of my misgivings. I am talking about his health. You should know better. He is a sickly boy. You have nursed him so devotedly all these years,’ he continued, his voice more gentle. ‘Frankly, his ill health does not permit him to be on the throne. I told you earlier. So did Kripa. . .’
‘How does mere illness prevent a rightful heir to sit on the throne?’ she said.
Bhishm expelled an exasperated sigh. ‘It has happened before. Uncle Devapi, though an exemplary prince, was not allowed on the throne because he had leprosy. . .’
‘My son is ill, not diseased!’ she shot back furiously. ‘And even if he were, no one, not even you, Dev, would have stopped me from crowning Virya as the king. It is his right, he is Shantanu’s son!’
So was Dev, the taunt swirled in her mind. He was the rightful heir, never my sons.
Bhishm lapsed into an abrupt silence, pursing his lips thinly as if to stop a retort. She knew what he could have said—it never stopped echoing in her head.
She raised her chin in defiance. ‘I shall send Virya with an army to get all the three girls and marry them here in Hastinapur,’ she said curtly, her hands raised as if to end their argument.
He raised his hooded eyes, giving her a look that scared many people. She returned his stare, her eyes as cold and impersonal.
‘Virya is not fit enough to battle,’ he repeated, after a long pause. ‘Just as Chitrangad wasn’t up to handling the gandharv alone,’ he added deliberately, watching the colour recede from her face. ‘Virya need not go; I shall go to Kasi instead.’
She knew what he was implying—that her sons were helpless without him, Hastinapur was defenceless without him. Bhishm was the protector and the destroyer.
‘You will get the three princesses?’ she said.
It was not a doubt or a request. It was a command.
‘Yes,’ he replied impassively, but a nerve twitched at his temple. ‘I shall go uninvited and take them away uninvited from their swayamvar—I couldn’t be more unchivalrous!’ he said with some difficulty.
She nodded.
He persisted. ‘Would you have liked it?’ he asked. ‘It is force!’
He looked visibly disgusted.
She shook her head and said, ‘It is an accepted form of marriage, Dev.’
‘That is why it’s called the rakshas marriage,’ he said. ‘You are using not just your under-aged son but three innocent girls to fulfil your mad wish. If you want a bride for Virya, surely there are others. We could send forth a formal proposal to any princess he—or more importantly—you wish for!’
‘Right now, there are none more eligible than the princesses of Kasi,’ she pronounced, her expression impatient. ‘Besides, I want Kasi. We tried many ways to subdue them. By marrying all three of them into Hastinapur, Kasi will be solely ours. If the three princesses marry three different suitors, we will be in conflict with them all our lives. This is politics, as you said, Dev, you should know better. We have to seek alliances, not just brides.’
‘You are a cold-hearted woman,’ he rued.
She shrugged. Her face was hard and her eyes were bleak and indifferent. He knew he had no power to hurt her. Her past life had armoured her against contempt.
‘Do you think I care about what you say about me? Or the others? Don’t forget who I am,’ she reminded him. ‘I am your queen, Regent! I command you and you obey me!’ she said arrogantly.
His handsome face showed amused cynicism.
‘Yes, I know well who you are, Mother,’ he said. ‘I am trying to addre
ss the mother . . . to convince the woman, not the queen. I ask again, would you have liked to be forced to marry someone?’ he repeated, his voice insistent.
A memory arose from the depths of her mind—she in that boat with Parashar; she making love to Shantanu. She suppressed a sigh. She had enjoyed neither experience, yet it had been consensual. It was for a purpose, not pleasure.
‘What you are contemplating is horrifying,’ he continued, his face drawn. ‘It is a crime! It’s abduction, snatching them away without their consent.’
‘Then let there be a duel to win the brides,’ she said airily. ‘After all, of the eight types of marriages practised by the royals, there is the practice of veershulkaa, when the suitor proves himself valorous and virtuous by carrying away the bride after defeating the other suitors. You can easily defeat all of them, Dev, and win the brides, not snatch them away, as you say.’
She saw him hesitate. ‘Or are you too scared to confront the king of Kasi?’
‘Don’t seek to justify your intentions with my inclinations,’ he returned placidly.
Had she gone too far? She had wanted to rile him into action, rouse him from the stand he had stubbornly taken.
In the end, she did succeed. Bhishm continued contemptuously, ‘I offered to save Virya, for his life and as my duty as regent. Not my honour, Mother. He will be killed the moment he enters Kasi. It is better I get the princesses.’
Bhishm had never visited Kasi before. It rested by the calm waters of the Ganga. He stopped and got down from his chariot and bowed to the river.
‘I don’t expect your blessings, Ma, for I know that what I am going to do is unforgivable,’ he murmured, agony burning in his heart. The waters remained still, not deigning to respond.
He stood motionless for a long time, looking at the silver waters of the river, washed with the tender rays of the rising sun in the horizon.
‘If your heart so bleeds, why are you doing it?’ the breeze seemed to whisper around him. He could hear his mother speaking to him.
He closed his eyes, his lips pursed, his head bowed.
‘For Hastinapur,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I have given my all to it, and today I give my conscience and my soul.’
‘You don’t need to,’ she said softly, her voice coaxing. ‘Come with me, Son. Walk into the waters and end your misery.’
He jerked his head. ‘You are telling me to give up my life? And what about my life’s goal?’ he asked wretchedly.
‘I am stopping you from committing a crime,’ answered Ganga serenely. ‘Your father blessed you with the icchamrityu for a reason—when you realize that your deeds on this earth are over and death is the next step forward. Your work is done here, Son. You have inflicted grave pain on yourself till now, but now, under the burden of your loyalty to the throne of the Kurus, you might wreak injustice on others without even realizing it. You did what you could for your father, your kingdom, your vow. But not anymore,’ she said.
‘I cannot not protect the crown. Who is there after Virya?’ he muttered, but he did not sound convincing even to himself. ‘He has no heirs. I have to find a suitable wife for him.’
‘Is abduction the answer?’
‘The princesses may agree. Or I shall win them,’ he argued, his voice earnest; but again, he feared he was giving himself false assurances.
‘Hopefully,’ she whispered; and then he knew she was gone. But her warning kept ringing in his heart even as he entered the palace of Kasi, unhindered, the guards intimidated by his very presence.
King Senabindu appeared visibly shaken at the sight of Bhishm sauntering into the assembly hall, his long, lazy stride purposeful. So were the other princes and suitors; they were all struck speechless with horror. He heard his daughters gasp in dismay. Rage gripped his heart. He straightened his shoulders, narrowing his eyes into fiery slits.
His expression was cold and hostile. ‘What are you doing here, Bhishm?’ he asked. ‘When did you start attending swayamvars?’ he taunted. ‘Especially ones to which you have not been invited!’
Before Bhishm could reply, the court broke into a nervous titter. The two men eyed each other, both recalling the reason for their hostility.
‘Has the beauty of these princesses caused you to break your famous vow of celibacy?’ asked a voice sarcastically.
Bhishm turned to see young Prince Shalva. He was as arrogant as his father, Bhishm thought grimly, recalling that hostile encounter with Prince Chitramukh years ago.
The hall burst into rude laughter.
‘Prince Bhishm, don’t you think you are too old to marry now?’ sneered a suitor in the crowd.
Chuckled another, ‘He is getting old, that is why he wants to wed!’
‘Like father, like son,’ chorused a few.
Bhishm shot them a frosty glance, his eyes on each one of them cutting short the irreverent jocularity.
‘If I am old, will anyone dare to fight me right here, right now?’ he asked casually, naked derision flaring in his pale, hazel eyes.
He received a long silence in reply. He bowed to the king instead. ‘Kasi has always been married to Hastinapur since the time of King Bharat,’ he began. ‘He married Sunanda, the daughter of Sarvasen, the king of Kasi. Recently, our cousin King Vrihadrath, the king of Magadh, married the twin daughters of your cousin—’
‘And you, when you were the crown prince, Bhishm, were to marry my sister,’ reminded Senabindu, his voice dangerously soft. ‘I have not forgotten the recent past.’
Bhishm remained calm, not a muscle moving on his face. He nodded and said, ‘It is too late, but I apologize,’ he said. ‘Deeply, with all my heart. . .’
‘You have no heart, you cad!’ shouted the king. ‘You broke my sister’s heart!’
Bhishm’s hands clenched as he looked into the hate-filled eyes of the king, whose face was contorted with rage.
Then he folded his hands and bowed his head. ‘I have come to ask for the hands of the three princesses in marriage. . .’
He heard one of the girls gasp in bewilderment.
‘Not for myself, but for my brother, Virya, the king of Hastinapur,’ Bhishm rectified curtly.
Senabindu laughed openly. ‘Virya? Vichitravirya, you mean? That’s how the world knows him—a sickly boy who has been made king by his excessively self-assertive and ambitious mother!’ he said scathingly. ‘That woman for whom you gave up my sister, Bhishm! And now you dare come here to ask for my daughters in marriage?’ he thundered. ‘Kasi does not permit marriage by proxy, and Kasi does not recognize the Kurus. Your brother might have given you the authority to represent him, but I do not! My daughters would prefer to meet and choose the man they want to marry for themselves. You do not decide for them as you clearly do for your brother, that puppet king!’ he sneered. ‘He is nothing but your toy, a weakling, and a coward. Besides, why would I marry off my daughters to my enemy?’ he rasped, his eyes glittering with fury.
There was a momentary flicker of remorse in Bhishm’s otherwise expressionless eyes. He knew, though, that contrite words might assuage his own guilt, but would not douse that anger of the king, the embers of which still smouldered.
He took a step forward. ‘I come here with my apologies and my blessings,’ he said persuasively, his voice softening perceptibly. ‘I have no desire for a fight or war. I simply ask for the hands of the princesses.’
There was a movement. One of the princesses looked restless, noticed Bhishm.
He turned to them, bowing, ‘I repeat the entreaty to you as well. I wish to take you all to Hastinapur as brides for my brother, King Virya.’
He saw the restless princess open her mouth to say something, but she was interrupted by Shalva.
‘This is a swayamvar, Bhishm, which involves a choice, and not a contest where the princesses are trophies to be won,’ he said testily.
‘I repeat, I want no fight. It is a request,’ said Bhishm mildly.
‘We well know your requests are often camouflaged thr
eats,’ remarked Shalva. ‘That is how you win your wars, don’t you? But you can’t win women and wives that way, Bhishm! You arrive with an army and threaten the king with a demand to surrender. The king concedes from fear of you and your barbarism! But not this time, Bhishm. I am ready to challenge you. You cannot take away the princesses without a fight!’
Bhishm felt a flicker of annoyance at the young man’s brashness. He had wanted to avoid any sort of confrontation, but Shalva was as belligerent as his father who had challenged him to a duel a long time ago. The son was repeating history. Bhishm sighed; he had no choice but to fight him.
There was a lusty cheer in the court, all eager for the duel, baying for blood.
Bhishm nodded slowly. Gripping the hilt of his sword, he approached the centre of the hall. Shalva did likewise, with his sword drawn. Both bowed to King Senabindu. He looked pale, as worried as the tall princess near him, her dark eyes troubled. The other two princesses appeared faintly excited, their lovely faces lit up with animation at the sudden action in their swayamvar.
The duel started. With each stroke of the sword, Bhishm realized the father had taught his son well. Shalva was not committing the mistakes of his father, whom Bhishm had trounced so heavily decades ago.
Shalva persisted, but soon it was clear that the young prince was getting tired and was seriously outmatched; yet, he refused to give up. Desperate fury etched starkly on his face. He charged towards Bhishm over and over again, but each time, Bhishm met him blow for blow. Each thrust of the sword didn’t seem to hurt him as much as it did his ego. Driven to apoplectic rage, Shalva came back again, bleeding profusely from his hands, but Bhishm knew they were flesh wounds, not deep or lethal. He had no wish to kill this young boy and turn the swayamvar into a battlefield. The other kings cheered for the flailing Shalva as Senabindu looked on, his face twitching with excitement. As the father of the princesses and a king, he could have forbidden the fight; but he had no wish to. He wanted to see Bhishm dead. But with rising apprehension he saw that the duel was not going the way he wanted.
Bhishm realized that if he did not strike decisively now, the fight would get bloodier and uglier. He glanced at Shalva, who looked insane with rage. That was in his favour. As he rushed, Bhishm fell forward and, diving in neatly, struck straight at Shalva’s chest, piercing him high above the heart. Shalva collapsed in a fast-spreading pool of his own blood. Bhishm heard an anguished shriek from a girl, but he was not sure who had screamed in the ensuing pandemonium. The other kings quickly stepped back, hesitant and fearful.