The Fisher Queen's Dynasty

by Kavita Kane

  Satyavati regarded her with helpless anger. ‘The poor boy is blind, thanks to you. How can he be king of a kingdom? How can he lead an army? My next choice would be Pandu. . .’

  ‘No!’ Ambika rounded on her fiercely. ‘Not Pandu! He cannot be king. If my son is disqualified because he is blind, neither can Pandu take the throne as he is. . .’

  ‘Why?’ challenged Satyavati, furious. ‘Because he is pale-skinned? An albino king is deemed better than a blind king, foolish woman. I gave you a second chance, and you threw it away!’

  ‘To hand you a healthy heir?’ barked Ambika. ‘God, how I hate that word—heir. It is ironical isn’t it, Mother, that for seven years, your son could not give us heirs. But one night with your other son has got what you so desired.’

  Satyavati went white. She knew Ambika was implying that Virya had been impotent, and she would have never received a successor to the throne from him.

  Smug contempt flitted on Ambika’s face. ‘I don’t want a second child, Ma. I have Dhritrashtra, and he is the rightful king. No one else!’

  ‘We shall see when the time comes,’ retorted Satyavati. ‘Bhishm and I will be very much there to anoint the next king. But right now, I want to know, you lying coward, whom did you sacrifice for your selfish ambition? Who did you send to Vyas?’

  ‘My maid,’ shrugged Ambika. ‘Parishrami. I thought she would suit him best. After all, the rishi, too, is a low-born like her, isn’t he?’ she taunted.

  Satyavati was too stunned to register the jibe.

  ‘Do you realize what you have done, fool?’ she whispered, horrified. ‘Your maid’s son, Ambika, will be perfect, unlike yours.’

  Nine months later, her words came true. He was the perfect baby, cheerful and smiling, without any physical defect or any imperfection. Satyavati held him close, and instinctively she knew he would be her favourite. Not because he was handsome and healthy, but because he was destiny’s unfortunate child. He would have the qualities, yet not be qualified to be king. It was his birth—as a maid’s child—and not his worth, that would be his lifetime’s burden to carry. Like she had done. But she had managed to clamber and claw her way up. Would he? Could he?

  ‘I can never thank you enough,’ Satyavati told Parishrami. The girl smiled wanly. ‘Nor can I express regret for what my daughter-in-law did,’ she apologized earnestly.

  ‘Please don’t ask for my pardon again, Queen Mother; you have said it before,’ assured Parishrami, embarrassed. ‘The moment you came to know, you asked me if I wanted this baby. You gave me a choice, oh Queen, and I shall forever be thankful for that. I wanted to have the child and you agreed. It is you who have tended to me all these months, given me a new status, wealth and house. I am no longer a maid,’ she said gratefully, tears welling up in her eyes. ‘I did as I was ordered, but what you have done was not your royal duty. You did it out of compassion, and I shall ever be indebted to you!’

  ‘No, I remain indebted to you. You have given me a beautiful grandchild!’ smiled Satyavati, pressing the girl’s hands.

  It was not compassion; it was empathy, Satyavati reflected . . . a certain affinity she felt more for this girl than her two daughters-in-law. It was the dilemma that she had faced when she had Vyas: whether she wanted to have the child or not. She had wanted it, and not because Parashar wished for it. She could not inflict the same pain on this poor girl, who had been forced to be with a man when it was neither her duty nor her decision. Parishrami was a slave obeying orders, and Satyavati had freed the girl from the shackles of royal command. She was, after all, the mother of Vyas’ son.

  ‘Vidur, the wise, that’s your name,’ she said softly, gazing down at his wise, warm eyes, just like his father’s.

  She heard a movement behind her, but she knew who it was before she turned around to look at him, her eyes shining with anguish and joy.

  ‘So I got my heirs, Dev,’ she breathed, her lips stiff, finding it difficult to say the words. ‘Three of them . . . though Vyas had said one would be enough, as more than one often results in rivalry, particularly in royal houses. But I had two, and both died. . . I wanted to take no chances,’ she said, her shoulders slumping. ‘Vyas, like you, was openly shocked and refused to obey my orders, warning me that preserving the dynasty by adopting such means was improper. I argued with him that improper orders from elders ought to be obeyed when it comes to royal duties. That such obedience carries no blame. But I am to blame, Dev! I even used the low trick of using sentiments against my son.’

  ‘I am to blame, too; I should have stopped this when I could,’ interrupted Bhishm harshly. ‘But I urged him as well. . .’

  She threw him a look of utter amazement.

  He sighed wretchedly. ‘I saw we had no choice, and told him so too. It was then that Rishi Vyas agreed to engage in what he described as “this disgusting task”.’

  Satyavati’s hands tightened into fists. ‘Vyas had asked that Ambika and Ambalika live a year of austerity so that they would be cleansed of the last seven years of overindulgence. He meant to purify, not the girls, but me so that I came to my senses! I now realize that he was simply trying to defer my decision,’ she shook her head in abject despair. ‘But I paid no heed; I was in a hurry for an heir and was in no mood to wait. I ordered Vyas to be done with his task at the earliest. And see what happened! I now have three heirs but none are perfect for the throne. Not even this one, my Vidur. Look at him, Dev, he is so tragically perfect!’ she cried, placing him gently next to the two princes in the cradle.

  ‘But he can never be king,’ Bhishm said sorrowfully.

  ‘Why?’ she cried. ‘When I place him with the other two princes, he is like them: the son of Vyas. Under you, all three children will train and flourish. Why then should this child be denied, though he is superior to the other two? Just because he is a maid’s son? Will he have to suffer that stigma all his life?’

  ‘Yes. He is a reminder of our mistakes and manipulations.’

  ‘But why should he suffer for our transgressions,’ she protested.

  ‘As Vyas voiced his doubts and openly wondered whether such progeny could ever be a source of happiness for anyone!’

  ‘They are. However disappointed we may be, Dev, the two mothers are now very happy. They are now mothers, and each have a son they adore. They are both glowing with unbridled happiness.’

  Bhishm noticed a slight change in her voice. ‘What is it?’ he asked quickly.

  ‘There is also unbridled ambition glowing in Ambika’s heart,’ she looked up into Bhishm’s unhappy eyes. ‘She is already dreaming of Dhritrashtra as king, as he is the firstborn. But how can it be? I have heard her cooing it to him in his ears. She will poison his mind this way as he grows up,’ she cried frantically.

  ‘The glitter of the crown is mightier than the burden of it,’ he said bleakly. ‘But till we are here, we can look after the throne as we have done until now.’

  ‘Did we really take care of the throne, or ourselves?’ Satyavati said wistfully, as if she was speaking to herself. ‘Do we have it in us to protect this boy so he will get his rights as a royal?’

  ‘We cannot dispute the thought itself, we are chained by rules,’ he hesitated. ‘Rules, ironically made by us, often unfair, inconvenient and prejudiced . . . making life difficult for others, and of no use to anyone!’ he threw open his arms helplessly. ‘I made my oath a rule for myself, made it rule me instead. The strength with which I persevered with that oath—I wonder if I have that strength in me to start a new order, make a beginning, pioneer a new path. Yes, I am a coward!’ he said, his eyes burning in strange intensity. ‘But I hope I do have the strength to fight for this little boy!’

  ‘I shall!’ she said fiercely. ‘He shall grow up as a Kuru prince, with the other two boys. You will make him fit to be a king! You have to. Dev, you talk about your ancestors; of how they were never ruled by the dictates of society, that the best deserved to be king. And I say it is this boy who will be the best amo
ngst the three.’

  She recognized the defeat in Bhishm’s eyes.

  ‘I did it for myself, Dev; why can’t I do it for this boy, too?’ she pleaded. ‘Who doubts it? I am not advocating revolt, but a change. A good king makes rules, but a great leader is one who knows when to break them. You have done it all along; I am sure you will do it for Vidur, too, and give him the status he deserves as the third Kuru son.’

  She glanced at the sleeping infant.

  ‘I shall, I promise,’ she vowed. ‘But I need your support as well, Dev. We must look into the root, the very cause of all the other causes. I don’t want to be like the others—everyone seems to have grown smug and, slack—we fear change, we don’t want reforms. We are now a people of fatigued whimperers; we do nothing but talk of war and victory, glory and gold. But why are we not accountable? We fight wars in the battlefield, but what about our internal wars of progress? Why are we so fearful of change? A king is a leader, too, more than just a head who wears the crown; a king has the power to make a change. Then why does he not? Why can we not make new laws, new rules that break shackles, instead of chaining us? If I, a fisher girl, could be queen, I shall see to it that a maid’s son gets his rights! Can we not together make it happen?’

  Bhishm hesitated, his frown deepening. ‘Can we in our arrogant capacity do so? You thought you could make your own future, but it eventually led you to the path you were avoiding for so long. That is the irony; that is Fate. This boy and the other boys were meant to be born. . .’ he sighed. ‘We are of too little consequence to affect the destiny of a whole generation,’ he murmured. ‘We thought we could do it, and we tried; but we failed. We must hope for that larger, more general good and better future. But not one wish from our lips is made without the will of Fate—nothing happens by chance or coincidence. Everything has its cause, and is inevitable.’

  ‘That’s all very well; you are a fatalist, with a more submissive outlook. I am not,’ she retorted, agitated. ‘I believe the future will be clearer for the generations to come, and our experience will be at their service.’ She threw him a doubtful look. ‘But what about our mistakes, Dev? They get carried forward, too, don’t they? I don’t worry about Fate because I don’t believe in it. I am more worried about our mistakes becoming their mayhem?’ she said anxiously. ‘One wants to live beyond death, to last through the next generation. Life is only given to us once, and I wanted to live it boldly, with full consciousness and beauty and honesty—at least to myself. Often one wishes to play an important, noble part; one wants to make history so that later generations do not dismiss us as non-entities or worse, failures! I want to be remembered not for my errors, but my endeavours. I might agree that what is going on is inevitable and not without a purpose, but then, what do I do with that divine inevitability?’ she lifted one elegant shoulder. ‘I have power over only myself, and not others.’

  Bhishm smiled a hollow smile. ‘Do you know what’s inevitable about you—you take the bad with as much grace as the good, and move on. You will never give up; your never-say-die spirit will not allow you to surrender. But then, if so, why should we worry and despair for what we cannot escape? We have that much control over the good and the bad. What is cruel? What is unfair?’ Bhishm looked weary. ‘What is right? Which wrong is right or which right is wrong? There are no clear answers, just questions we need to ask ourselves. The art of righteousness is very subtle, indeed!’ he sighed. ‘If you observe our family history closely, right from King Bharat till now, see how we perceive and discriminate unconsciously. The reasoning behind our discrimination might make sense, but would it still be right? Stop seeing differences, and you see the truth.’

  ‘What is our truth, Dev?’ Her voice faded into a sad whisper. ‘That I tried to make a difference in my life, but at your expense. Yet you let go and served us loyally, without rancour or regret. Dev, you are the prajnamanin, the wisest, most unselfish and the most revered man in the country, and will be so for generations to come. Possibly your wisdom is the result of the hard life you have endured. Is it your kindness and your selflessness that make me what I am?’

  ‘I do not deserve the glory thrust upon me,’ he said, clenching his jaw. ‘For my own sense of mission, I have wrought great injustices. I am not noble. I made mistakes, and some died for it,’ his voice crumpled in a hoarse whisper, his eyes clouding in sudden anguish. ‘And some will live through it. . .’

  Fearfully, her eyes came up slowly to meet his.

  They heard a chortle, as if a sound in agreement. Both of them turned to look at the three babies, swaddled in a crimson and gold royal shawl. The babies stared back at them attentively, without blinking, as though they knew their futures were being decided.

  EPILOGUE

  Satyavati

  The reflection she could see of herself in the cold waters of the Ganga was blurred, but Satyavati could see her life clearly. . .

  ‘They will destroy each other: the sons of Dhritrashtra and the sons of Pandu. It will be annihilation! The seeds of decay have been planted; the harvest will be gruesome. Do you want to live to see the destruction of your grandsons . . . the heirs of Hastinapur?’

  Vyas’ words, condoling Pandu’s unforeseen death, rolled over her, stinging more than the icy breeze against her raddled face. Had she planted the seeds of war for that tree of decay to grow and destroy? She remembered how the three princes had been born. ‘Disgusting,’ Vyas had said. And so all had come to nought. Ambika had a son, Dhritrashtra, born blind and manipulative; Ambalika had Pandu, pale and impotent, who had ironically died, lusting. And Vidur, the maid’s son, had been made prime minister–counsellor to his brothers, the kings, but never to be a king himself.

  When Satyavati had once asked about her grandchildren’s strengths, Bhishm had acknowledged Dhritrashtra’s strength, Pandu’s military acumen and Vidur’s intellect. Vidur amply displayed his knowledge and intellect when it was time to choose the crown prince. It had been his wise suggestion, albeit controversial, which upset Ambika, Dhritrashtra and the assumed primogeniture that, though the eldest, Dhritrashtra’s blindness made him an unfit king. He supported Pandu’s election to the kingship, much to her secret relief and Bhishm’s as well. Though reluctantly agreeing with the verdict, Dhritrashtra had never forgiven Vidur.

  Upon Pandu’s later abdication and departure for the forest as penance for having killed a rishi, and the blind Dhritrashtra’s resultant succession, it had been Vidur—impeccably groomed by Bhishm—who had taken on the reins of the kingdom, steering his brother’s reign till a new heir was appointed, a move that would end in a bloody battle, if Vyas’ words were to come true.

  If only Pandu had not abdicated the throne, Satyavati thought wistfully. She should have been more adamant. . . And then he had died, killed by that same lustful urge that had killed Shantanu and Virya. His widow, Kunti, had come home with the five sons—the Pandavas—whom she and the dead Madri, Pandu’s second wife, had conceived through niyog.

  But her family was not impotent, Satyavati told herself fiercely. Pandu had five sons, the Pandavas. And Dhritrashtra had a daughter and a hundred sons—the Kauravas—who were the Kuru heirs. She was now the great-grandmother of one hundred and six grandchildren. The Kurus would henceforth rule over the entire nation; now her family and her kingdom would be invincible, invulnerable. It would flourish, not perish. . .

  But Vyas had portended otherwise. ‘The green years of the earth are gone. Do not be a witness to the suicide of your own race.’

  The palace was filled with family and laughter. Satyavati had listened to the children’s’ chatter in the courtyard, filling the corridors, pervading the palace as they played below in the garden—the same garden where Bhishm had taught her sons to string the bow and arrow, where Dhritrashtra, Pandu and Vidur had been groomed to be astute marksmen. The sound of the children had suffused her heart with hope and happiness. They were her new band of valiant warriors who would take over the nation. They were all together once a
gain, they would all live and love happily ever after; they would conquer, they would marry, they would have more children, and they would be kings.

  ‘No, they will die fighting each other for the throne! Leave before you witness this internecine bloodshed! Use Pandu’s death as a pretext to retire to the forest, Ma. . .’

  The ominousness of his words had frightened her then, but the fear had receded to make way for the realization to sink it, drowning in its sorrow. For once, she heeded him, and decided to leave Hastinapur. She could not shed anymore tears, her heart was so broken that she felt like the last piece of her had been wrenched away. She had thought she was unvanquished. She had power, wealth and progeny, but in her heir-yearning, prestige-hungry life, she had witnessed her husband, her two sons and one grandson die. She thought she had succeeded in using authority to achieve and accomplish, but where had it taken her? At this crossroads where her family would be annihilated in a bloodbath? Was her leaving for the forest an escape from an end that was so lost that she could not bear to face it? But she had to let Bhishm know why, to warn him about the future as well; Fate, as he called it. He had been her constant companion. He had been the only one who knew that, beneath her strength and ambitions lay her uncertain fears; it was this that made her the ruthless, assertive woman that the world saw. It was only he who had recognized her vulnerabilities and her attempts at self-preservation. How could she leave without him?

  Ambika and Ambalika had surprisingly agreed to accompany her. Ambalika had never been the same since Pandu had left for the forest with his two young wives, but his unexpected death had undone her completely. She now reminded Satyavati of herself when Chitrangad had died those many years ago.

  Possibly, Ambika, too, had intuitively observed the beginning of the terrifying truth Vyas had foretold. Dhritrashtra had never forgiven her, blaming her indirectly for his blindness, his resentment churning to hate over the years. He barely tolerated her, as did her grandchildren. All had turned their back on Ambika a long time ago. Though she had fiercely held on to her ambition, her son’s hate had completely disarmed her. Shunned by her own family, she now sought her salvation.