MAHABHARATA SERIES BOOK#2: The Seeds of War (Mba)

by Ashok K. Banker

  He sighed and lay back against the ornate golden rack of the enormous bedstead. They were laying in their bedchamber after a session of lovemaking. The moonlight was soft on the marbled floor, the wispy curtains fluttered in a cool night breeze, and somewhere a nightbird was singing to its mate a song of sweet sad love. His life was perfect and about to enhanced by the arrival of a new level of perfection: parenthood.

  ‘How long?’ he asked, smiling up at the curved ceiling, inlaid with precious stones and carvings.

  ‘Soon,’ she said.

  He assumed she meant a few months. He had heard that women often did not ‘show’ their condition of motherhood until several months after conception. He did not know the exact numbers but he knew that the total gestation was about ten moon-months so he assumed she meant three or four or five months still to go.

  ‘When our child is born,’ he said, ‘we shall have a grand celebration. I shall declare a feast day. There shall be—’

  And he went on to describe all the wonderful things that would be done to mark the occasion of his first child. He did not even assume it would be a boy, merely that it would be his child, their child, and that was enough happiness for now. If it did indeed turn out to be a son, well, that would also satisfy the legal requirements of producing an heir and fell two deer with a single bow-shot. In which case, he would also…And he rambled on, spelling out the various things that he would be expected to do if it was a son and heir to the kingdom.

  When he looked around, wondering why she had not spoken for awhile or participated in his plans, he was surprised to see her gone from the chamber. Evidently, she had walked away while he was still speaking and he had no idea whether she had left a moment ago or several moments ago.

  Puzzled, he rose and walked through their chambers, expecting to find her at any moment. His search took him all the way to the queen’s apartments where he was surprised to find a flinty faced old daiimaa barring his way.

  ‘My apologies, your highness,’ she said, ‘The queen cannot receive you at this time.’

  He frowned. ‘I don’t understand. She was with me only a short while ago.’

  The old woman looked up at him with a strange inscrutable expression. ‘It is her time, sire. She must be alone.’

  He had no idea what she meant. ‘Time? What time?’

  She gazed up at him with the same infinitely patient look which all aging daiimaas seemed to reserve for princes and yuvarajas. ‘A woman’s time, my lord. Her confinement.’

  He stared at her. ‘Confinement?’ He had heard the time before. It meant… ‘You mean to tell me that she is with child. Yes, I know this already. I wish to see her and have words with her.’

  But she raised a hand as he tried to step around her. ‘Please, sire, I dare not bar your way but she bade me tell you personally that if you enter her chambers now, you do so against her will and thereby break your promise.’ The daiimaa swallowed nervously and joined her palms together. ‘I am only repeating my mistress’s message. Please, do not judge me harshly for it.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ he said, irritated by her obsequiousness and her sudden concern. He was not the sort of king who went about ordering the execution of daiimaas simply because they prevented him from…from what exactly? Bursting in on his own wife while she was pregnant with his child? He could not fathom how there could be anything objectionable in that. But he knew that the mysteries of women’s bodies, especially those mysteries they chose to keep to themselves, were sacred and unassailable. And those words by the daiimaa – ‘if you enter her chambers now, you do so against her will and thereby break your promise’ – had chilled him to the bone. So it had begun at last. The things that she chose to do which he would neither question, comment upon, criticize by word, deed, gesture or expression, and never stop her from doing herself. This was apparently the first. She intended to confine herself to her chambers for the duration of the pregnancy and only see him…when would she see him again? After the birth of their child? Months from now? He felt a surge of panic, as an addict of soma feels when told that there would be no further supply of his precious honey wine for an untold length of time. Months? He could not stay without her for months! Not like this, without even being able to see her, speak with her, touch her!

  ‘How long do these things usually last?’ he asked tentatively, not looking directly at the daiimaa because he was quite sure that she had been one of his many daiimaas in his infancy, which meant he had probably suckled at her wet teats at some time and it embarrassed him to be asking questions that reminded them both of that bond that linked them.

  ‘In her state, your majesty,’ he heard her reply with evident relief, ‘no more than a day or three. Perhaps even hours, if the goddess wills it.’

  He had a moment of disorientation wherein he was confused about whether, by the term ‘goddess’ she meant his wife. But the earlier part of her reply obfuscated that query altogether. ‘You mean months, of course,’ he said, certain that he must have heard her wrong. Of course she meant months. He had only just made love to his wife less than an hour earlier, her belly had been flat as ever. She could hardly conceive, gestate and produce a child within a few hours, at most a day or three! It was impossible.

  Not to a goddess, he heard himself say. And you know she is no ordinary mortal woman.

  He looked down at the daiimaa and saw her looking up at him strangely. ‘Why, no, your highness. She is almost ready! I saw her only moments ago, before she sent me out here to await you and she was in the final stages of her labouring. The child has already turned and is coming soon. Perhaps even within the hour. The queen is blessed in her womanly perfection and it is possible she might deliver herself of your heir within—’

  He turned on his heel and walked away, unable to listen to more.

  Madness!

  A woman who had made love to her husband only an hour earlier, then told him she was with child, then came to her chambers and summoned her daiimaas to her, and was now ‘in the final stages of her labouring’ and about to deliver herself of child ‘within the hour’.

  Impossible!

  But not for a goddess.

  He went to his throne room rather than his bedchamber, and sat in the vast empty hall, upon the great seat where his father and ancestors had sat before him, surrounded by the might and splendour of the Puru nation and the Bharata race.

  And he waited.

  It was all he could do.

  7

  ‘Your majesty!’

  The old daiimaa’s cry was cracked and heart-rending. She shambled in as quickly as she could, raising her arms in relief as she caught sight of the lone figure seated upon the throne at the far end of the hall.

  ‘Come quickly!’ she cried. ‘Stop her!’

  He rose at once from his seat, soma spilling from the goblet, running over his hand. He cast the goblet aside and ran from the throne chamber. The palace corridors were brightly lit and there seemed to be people clustered everywhere, speaking in whispers – the atmosphere was tense and curiously unnatural. The night on which the heir to the Bharata line was born should be a bright, cheerful night, a night of feasting and revelry. But he sensed that the unusual circumstances of the birth had unnerved everyone, just as they had unnerved him. He caught fragments of conversation as he raced through the corridors, the footfalls of his mandatory king’s guard echoing behind him: Yesterday…slender waisted as a newly wed…today delivered of child…Unnatural…Uncanny…Impossible… All his own anxieties and fears spoken aloud, the echoes of the whispers filling the endless corridors of the great house.

  He burst into her chambers, startling the daiimaas, all of whom were sitting or standing around in a state of distress. Some cried out as if fearing the entrance of a rakshasa. They silenced themselves perforce when they saw it was their king. The sleeping chamber was in disarray, the usual evidence of childbirth – hot water vessels, towels and cloth, some blood and unguent bodily fluids drying stickily on the bed
ding. All the things one might expect after a queen had birthed a child.

  There was no sign of his wife or the newborn life she had just released from her body.

  The daiimaas avoided his eyes, looking down as if in shame.

  ‘Where is she?’ he thundered.

  One woman, nervous but strong, younger than the old wrinkled one who had come to him in the throne room – and was no doubt still shuffling her old bones back here again – pointed to a doorway.

  He leaped across the bed and went through the doorway.

  Racing through ante chambers, he found this led to the way out of the rear of the palace. He pounded down the rear steps of the palace where several of the bhojanalaya staff stood around, looking as unsettled and unsure as the daiimaas upstairs. He looked around, seeking her familiar feminine shape, the distinctive way she walked, swaying her hips, exactly like a queen of the world. There was no sign of her in the dark night.

  ‘Which way?’ he shouted.

  A fat young man, probably a cook in the royal bhojanalaya, pointed.

  Outside the palace compound? But that way led…out of the city! Why would a newly delivered mother take her newborn and leave her bed, her home, and walk out of the city itself? It was madness, all madness.

  Suddenly, he understood the reason why his father had forewarned him. He had been too young then to understand, had only thought of pleasure, of taking, of getting, of enjoying.

  There was another side to those things, there always was. He had learned that painful lesson often as a king, a warrior and a commander of armies.

  He was about to learn the same painful lesson now as a man.

  He leaped on the first horse he saw, throwing off the man riding it. The man grunted in surprise as he fell, landing on his side with a thump, but recognized his king and bowed his head silently, joining his palms, making no complaint.

  Shantanu rode through the city, startling the few citizens out and about at this late hour. Most appeared to be standing around in groups near the palace complex. The word had surely spread about the queen delivering a child as well as of the strange circumstances surrounding the event. He glimpsed nervous faces turned up towards him as he flashed past. Until today, everyone had accepted the queen as she was for what she was, her considerable charm, wit, intelligence, eloquence and numerous other skills negating the obvious lapses – Who was she? What was her family? Where was her homeland? What was her name? But now, everyone’s unspoken doubts and suspicions had been proven true: the queen was no normal woman. She was something other than normal.

  What that meant exactly, he knew he was about to find out.

  From time to time, when people saw him coming and recognized him, they pointed out the way to go. Some even called out to each other: ‘The king! The king! Show him where she went.’ And others standing further on the road lifted their hands and pointed.

  He left the city behind and rode through the darkness of a moonless night, finding his way by instinct. Once outside the city avenues, there were a dozen different ways to go, depending on one’s destination. There were no citizens here to point the way – evidently none wished to follow the queen on her strange night errand. But he was certain he knew where she had gone.

  The river.

  The place where they had first met, or close by.

  He burst through the thicket, the horse exhausted, and ran out towards the river. He wanted to call out her name but he had no name to call out. All the words that seemed so charming in the bedchamber – ‘Queen of my heart’ ‘Empress of passion’ ‘Sovereign of my body and soul’ – he could hardly run about on the bank of the Ganga yelling such endearments.

  He looked this way then that, harried, at wits end, unable to understand what she could be doing here in the dead of night. More than that, he found it hard to believe that a woman who had just been delivered of child could have walked this long distance so briskly. He feared that perhaps he had come to the wrong place after all. Perhaps she had gone some other way, to the city of his enemies perhaps…

  Then he saw her.

  Exactly as she had been the day of their first encounter. Clad in the same white translucent flimsy garments that swirled around her like white mist – or like the whitespray flung by cascading waves. She clutched the baby in her arms, gently, lovingly, exactly as a mother should. She appeared as slender as ever, and as strong, neither her outward form seeming altered nor her inner resilience reduced a whit, moving with that same sinuous grace that drove him mad with desire. Except that this time, it was not desire she evoked in him, but awe and terror.

  For she was not standing on the bank of the river this time.

  She was standing on the river itself.

  Upon the cascading water, which seemed not to wash around her feet so much as worship them, like hands of water raised in praise and homage. Hands that bore her aloft as she stepped gracefully, as gracefully as if she were on solid firmament, until she stopped, in the middle of the vast concourse, between the banks.

  She turned, facing towards him, northwards.

  Somehow, despite the lack of moonlight, he found he could see her face as clearly as if in daylight. The river itself seemed to glow with energy, palpable power that exuded a luminiscence that illuminated her from below. In that glaucous light, she appeared more beautiful than ever, but forbidding as well, like a woman far, far older than the young nubile nymph who shared his bed at nights, like a woman much more than just a woman, a being of great age, energy, power and wisdom.

  She raised the newborn babe in both hands, cradling it gently upon her palms, holding it out above the rushing waters.

  He broke out of his reverie and began racing towards her.

  As he ran, it seemed as if the river itself raced alongside him, rushing downstream towards her. At first, he thought it was a blurring of his vision due to his emotional state, then he turned his head and saw that the river itself was rising up, to form a maw, a great open mouth of white water that roared towards her. He cried out and increased speed, pushing himself to the limit of his abilities. Yet he knew he could not win this race. These were forces far greater than he could possibly comprehend, let alone control. Still, he ran. For that was his son she was holding. If she did not care for him, he did. And if he had to wrest the child from her by force and violence, he would do so as well.

  The maw of water grew until it resembled a great white serpent, and as it reached her, it released a bellow of such power and intensity, that the resulting blast of air and waterspray blasted Shantanu sideways and off his feet, raising him up in the air for several feet, to land with a cushioned thump on a midden of lavya grass. He lay there, winded, drenched, and stared at the incredible sight.

  His wife, standing in mid-river, surrendered their newborn babe to a great serpent made of water. The serpent snatched the babe in its giant maw, roaring as it did so, and swept over and through and around his queen, overwhelming her.

  Shantanu cried out in horror.

  Then the cascade of water passed by, leaving behind a backwash that sloshed on both banks before falling back and settling.

  And he made out the figure of his wife, walking back towards the shore on which he lay, stunned and breathless.

  She stepped out of the river and onto the bank. He saw that the water clung to her with tentacles of longing, reluctant to release her. He saw also that her feet were not wholly human feet, they were something else, an amalgam of water and fish-tail that formed instantly into flesh, blood and bone, the perfect replica of human female feet, just as she stepped on solid land. Her form clarified, and she was the woman he knew again, the young eager loving wife who pleasured him and took pleasure with such intensity night after night. His beauty, his queen, his empress of desire, his sovereign of body and soul.

  As she strode up the bank to where he lay, a smile playing on her lips, the wind whipped away her garments, snatching them with a single rough action, and she was left naked, perfect, flawless as ever, wi
th no sign that she had ever been a mother, or that so much as a single day had passed since the first day he had met her here, in this very spot. Naked and undulating like water in human form, she came towards him, and despite the circumstances and his emotional turmoil, he was aghast to find his body aroused at the sight of her nudity.

  Unable to stop himself, he raised his hands to greet her as she fell upon him, laughing with pleasure and desire. And despite himself, he found that he was smiling in response as well. Unable to prevent what was happening, he entered into loveplay and cojoined with her, the actions familiar and all the more pleasing for their familiarity. Men who seek comfort in the arms of new women each night are men who have not discovered the supreme pleasure of the perfect union. Those few, those lucky few, who are blessed with the perfect mate, achieve heights of pleasure that no grunting copulation between strangers can ever attain. For it is love which is the ultimate aphrodisiac and without that emotional bonding and joining of souls, the act itself is merely violence without weaponry. An act of rage rather than of pleasure. Shantanu’s love and desire for his woman outweighed all else and he found himself unable to even speak out against what she had done – for he knew that the instant he spoke, all would be over between them. Those were the terms of their marriage and he had no doubt she would abide by them to the letter. So he kept his silence and took his pleasure and by morning, he was even able to pretend that nothing had happened at all, it had only been a bad dream. How could she have conceived, gestated and borne a child then killed it, all in one night? It was impossible of course. He had probably drunk too much soma the night before and suffered an impossible nightmare.

  And like any nightmare, it was easy to push aside and pretend it had never occurred at all.

  Until the next time.

  8

  In retrospect, it was extraordinary how easily life went back to the way it had been before. The events of that night might never have happened: the palace staff knew better than to spread tales openly and the citizens who heard the rumours quickly wondered at their veracity. After all, here was their Queen, flat stomach and beauty intact, as winning as always. And the King beside her at all times, rarely apart for long, mooning over her as much as ever. The sight of them riding together in their royal vaahan, the ornamental bejwelled carriage, brought people running out of doors, leaving aside their work to watch the king and queen pass by. Shouts of joy were heard everywhere and those who possessed conch shells – or rather, those merchants and nobles rich enough to possess their own guard, ordered them to blow the conch shell trumpets – heralding the approach of the royal couple. They were too dearly loved for the rumoured scandal of that one night to cast a shadow upon their reputation. People quickly dismissed it as an idle rumour and soon even the palace staff wondered if that had been the Queen’s newborn son she had walked out carrying that night, or merely a bundle of clothes. People even surmised their own explanations, assuming that in her homeland, wherever that mythical place was, they had such unusual customs as walking to the river and throwing in articles of clothing as a means of appeasing the gods and asking for the gift of an heir. This theory, that it was all an arcane ritual designed to obtain a son, was the most favoured, for it explained everything quite neatly.