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

by Ashok K. Banker

  Only the daiimaas who had been present in the queen’s bedchambers when she gave birth to that beautiful dark-hued black-skinned prince of a child, knew the truth. And they were accustomed to keeping secrets and silencing rumours. They did so. For they understood that the King loved the Queen and she loved him as well, madly. Whatever reason she had had for that extraordinary deed, or how in fact she had been able to produce a child within an hour of copulation and conception, were things they did not dwell on too long. They were superstitious women given to the wearing of amulets and sacred threads and chanting of shlokas designed to ward off evil eyes and spirits. They accepted supernatural impossibilities as a part of life.

  Time passed, healing all hurts, annulling all hurtful memories. The human spirit survives by selective forgetting.

  When a year had passed, on another night much like the first one, Shantanu and his Queen were in their bedchamber, entwined in the grip of passion. When their ecstasy was spent, she looked at him in a certain way, rose, and left him. This time, he knew at once that something was amiss. He rose as well and followed her. He was just in time to see her enter her bedchambers. The daiimaas were already waiting with pans of steaming hot water and cloth. They looked at him sadly as they went into the chamber and shook their heads in commisseration before shutting him out.

  After the child was born, he followed his wife once again, this time close on her heels.

  On this occasion, the daiimaas had not informed anyone of the queen’s impending delivery, even though she had asked them to make arrangements for the same. They had thought it best to wait and see. If this was to be a normal birth – or as normal as an hour’s gestation and delivery could be – then they would inform the whole city. Until then, it seemed best to hold their silence.

  So the streets were empty and silent when Shantanu followed his wife. It was a long walk and he dearly wished he could offer her a ride on a horse or chariot or even a carriage if she preferred. But he dared not speak a word or delay her progress in any way for the terms of the agreement had been quite specific on those points. And so, he only followed at a discreet distance, going on foot this time as he felt ashamed to ride when his own wife could walk the distance.

  Things went as they had the previous year. She reached the river, stepped out onto the water, then walked out to the middle of the concourse. Raising her hands, she held the baby out. Shantanu felt a great piercing pain enter his chest and flood his being with sorrow. That was his son, their son! How could she do this? Why? Was it a sacrifice? For what? What deity could demand the sacrifice of one’s own newborn child? And two sons in as many years? Why? But the terms of the agreement caused him to keep his silence. And he watched in silent anguish as the river came once again, roaring with deafening rage, and swept the child away as before. Once again, she walked back to the bank, stepped onto the ground and came towards him, growing visibly younger and more beautiful than ever. Once again, he succumbed to his love and lust and received her in his welcoming arms. As he held her tightly, feeling the stirring in his groin belie the sorrow in his heart, he shed a tear from each eye. Just the two. One for each lost son.

  The next one, he promised himself silently. The next child she will keep. This is some ritual to ensure that the third child will be a great king of kings. It was the only explanation that appeased him and allowed him to accept her cruel actions as necessary in some fashion.

  But of course, the next year, she did it again.

  And again.

  And yet again.

  Seven times in all, over as many years, she threw his newborn sons into the river.

  Finally, a day came when he could take it no longer.

  The past eight years, he had wept silently, containing his grief within himself, keeping it all a secret between himself and the daiimaas. Nobody else suspected or knew, and those who heard the rumours dismissed them out of hand. One child might have been believable, for some arcane ritual. But eight children? Impossible! Even a rakshasi would not sacrifice eight of her newborn children for any reason.

  On the eighth night when he followed her to the river, he broke down. ‘Stop,’ he cried out just as she stepped out onto the water. ‘I beg of you, stop!’

  She paused upon the water, standing as easily as if on an unseen rock beneath the surface. He knew she was not standing on any rocks for he could see the water rushing beneath her feet, even the occasional fish or turtle swim beneath. She was standing upon the water itself, her feet melding with the fluid to become partly water as well.

  He fell to his knees on the bank. ‘Goddess, devi, demoness, whoever you are…’ He pressed his palms together in supplication. ‘I cannot stand by silently anymore. Please. Do not kill our son.’

  She looked back at him, her face still set in that resolute expression she always had during these nights, when she seemed older, wiser, more powerful than the woman he shared his bed with, and said, ‘It is what he wants.’

  It took him a moment to realize that she meant the child in her arms. ‘He? How can he possibly know what he wants? He is a babe! Newborn! How can a newborn wish to commit suicide?’

  She sighed and shook her head. ‘It is for his own good.’ There was a tone to her voice that suggested that he could still back away and let her continue, and she might not consider the agreement broken yet.

  But he no longer cared. ‘Who are you? What sort of mother would kill her own newborn children? Eight years! Eight beautiful perfect young children. Sons! Why do you do this? Who are you?’

  She paused and nodded. Turning around, she walked back to the bank and stopped just short of solid ground. Still on the water, she looked at him with the same loving expression he knew so well. ‘Very well then. Since you have asked, I must tell you. For I cannot lie, nor can I conceal truth once it is demanded of me. I am transparent as clear water, as the glacial Himalayan ice from whence I come, and to do otherwise would be to dishonour my father. Therefore I shall tell you the truth as plainly as possible.’

  He could not make head or tail of what she said, except that she was offering to answer his questions. His confusion only made him more belligerent. ‘Tell me then. What sort of evil creature are you to do this terrible thing year after year? Answer me!’

  A peculiar expression came over her face then, one that he had never seen, not even in her most vulnerable, naked moments. ‘I am Ganga,’ she said, ‘daughter of Jahnu.’

  He stared at her, then at the river, then at the place where she stood, upon the rushing water. And he knew she told the truth. Everything made perfect sense then. If she was indeed Ganga, the river-goddess, then it explained how she could appear and disappear at will on the banks of the river, how she could walk upon its waters – for she herself was water – how she could be so passionate and tempestuous, as the river was, and numerous other half-glimpsed half-understood mysteries and doubts were cleared up at once. All save one.

  ‘Then why do you do this terrible thing?’ he asked. ‘As Ganga, you are the most honoured of all maharishis, sacred river of the Gods themselves. How can you commit such a heinous crime? How could you kill your own newborn sons?’

  She smiled. Tears sprang into her eyes and trickled down her face, and as she rolled down those smooth unblemished cheeks, he saw that the water was the reality and the flesh the illusion, for each teardrop erased the skin and body down which it ran. She was turning back to water again even as she spoke. ‘These were the eight Vasus, great demi-gods from the heavenly realms. Due to a curse by Vashishta, they were compelled to spend a year each on earth. They approached me and asked for my help. I agreed to take human form and give birth to them and to destroy each one at the time of his birth so that he could return at once to his true place in swargaloka. I was killing our sons, it is true, for I was destroying the physical bodies in which they took birth upon this plane. But by doing so, I was freeing their immortal souls which were never destined to remain here. If not by my hands, they would have died anyway. Better
to throw them into my own waters for a quick merciful death, than for you and I to watch them grow for a full year only for them to die by some unimaginable unexpected method each time. Cruel as this was, and difficult for me to do – you cannot imagine how difficult – it still had to be done. It was the only way. Surely you can see that now, Shantanu, my love?’

  He passed a hand across his face roughly. He was already drenched from the riverspray. His head swam with understanding and shock. A curse! A remedy. And each one a demi-god, herself a goddess. Then nothing was what it had seemed. All this was part of some cosmic plan that would have unfolded regardless. What she said was true: to live with each child for a full year and watch them grow, until their every action, expression, gesture and sound became intimately familiar, and then lose them…that would have been unthinkable. And to endure that eight times over? Impossible. He would have been driven insane, he was certain of it. There was a limit to how much anyone could endure.

  He rose to his feet. ‘I had no idea…’

  She nodded. ‘I know. But it was impossible to tell you. As a mortal, I could not share such knowledge with you. It is forbidden. Besides, it was necessary for things to proceed exactly in this manner, for even this was part of the plan.’

  He looked around, stunned. ‘You mean that even my protesting before the death of the eighth son was part of your intention?’

  ‘Yes, my love. For I wished you to have the pleasure of raising one son from my womb. And by testing your patience all this while, I knew that you would eventually stop me. Thus, I am now entrusting to you your lawful son, born of our union. Take him now.’

  She handed out the newborn to him. Shantanu took the bundle of warmth and softness, scarcely able to comprehend what was going on. The child began to wail and cry, dismaying him further.

  ‘He will be a great man, a great king. He will do great things and when he takes a vow, any vow, no matter how terrible, it will be as rigid and unyielding as the sky and the earth in resoluteness. He will do all he does for your sake and the sake of your kingdom and your lineage. He will do the Bharata race proud, and be a shining example of the Puru line. This is my last, my only gift to you, my beloved.’

  And now her tears came faster and thicker, as her lower body melted away, turning into a whirlpool of raging water. Only her head and upper body remained recognizable as the woman he had loved for so long. In his arms, the child’s crying grew more plaintive and mournful.

  ‘But I don’t wish to lose you!’ he cried. ‘Now that I understand everything, I forgive you! I didn’t know, my love. Do not blame me. Do not leave me.’

  ‘I must,’ she said, ‘for that too was foretold.’

  ‘Stay for the sake of our son,’ he said. ‘Stay and rear him with me.’

  ‘I cannot,’ she said, ‘stay another day in the world of men. Once even a single mortal knows my true identity, I must return to my original form. That is the dharma that binds me.’

  He shook his head and held out the child again to her. ‘Then take him with you. Raise him yourself. Raise him like a god, a great being. His true place is with you, not on this wretched mortal plain. Let him not suffer the misfortunes of mortal living when he can live like a god among gods!’

  She hesitated then dipped her head. Already, he could see, the back of her head had turned to water, only the face and ears remained intact. Her arms were melting too. She reached out hands that were more water than flesh and accepted the child once more. She cradled him to her watery bosom, and he gurgled as if content and fell asleep again.

  ‘I shall keep him and rear him as befits your son and heir,’ she said. ‘When he is ready, I shall send him to you again. Thereafter he must live out his time on earth. Indeed he shall live a great length of time, for he has taken his brothers’ ages on earth upon himself as well. He shall live all their mortal lives in his own lifespan, and only by his own choice shall he eventually succumb to death, only when he has endured and suffered enough to atone for them all.’

  Shantanu had nothing to say to that. He joined his palms together. ‘I am honoured to have been your mate in this world. I have loved you as I can love no other woman ever again. I shall remain without a wife for the rest of my life henceforth. For no other woman can ever take your place in my heart.’

  She smiled sadly, her face melting away even as she spoke her last words. ‘Matters of the heart do not always turn out the way we plan, great Puru. As a man you may desire to live alone but as a king you owe it to your people to produce an heir. In time, you may learn to love again. Until then, remember, I am always here, always running beside you, as fast as you run, sharing in your every triumph and achievement. Come to me anytime you please. Except for that one limitation of the physical form, I shall always be your beloved Ganga forever.’

  And with those terribly final words, she fell back into the river, the water spout that had been her body dissolving back into the body of fluid from whence it had come.

  9

  Shantanu grieved for his lost wife and sons. The official word given to the people was that the Queen had dropped her child still-born and had taken her own life by flinging herself into the Ganga. This matched the rumours and gossip that had circulated for years and was in keeping with the Queen’s legendary love for the river. The people grieved with their king, for they had loved her dearly too. In time, they got over the loss and went on with their lives. There were enemies seeking to overthrow the might of the Purus and take over Hastinapura’s territories, there were great swathes of newly conquered dominions to govern, and the countless other duties of any king. In time, Shantanu too got over the loss of his beloved Ganga. From time to time, he went to the spot by the river and sat upon the bank as his father had once done, but instead of meditating he talked to the river, confident that the steady roar would prevent his words from being heard by anyone within sight. He spoke of matters of kingship and governance, of palace intrigues and political maneuvering, of skirmishes and rebellions, fights and outbreaks, all the usual things that kings talk about to their wives at night behind closed doors. The river listened and in its steady relentless roar he often thought he heard an occasional word or phrase or sound of commisseration, sympathy or even, on rarer occasions, a few words of advice. Once, when discussing a certain noble and his daughter who were needlessly haranguing the ministers with constant demands, he was taken aback when a face appeared in the water below him. The face was exactly that of his former Queen and wife, if it were to be formed of water. ‘Beware. They mean to assassinate you,’ she said in a watery gurgle that none but he could hear. Then smiled, pursed her lips in an action that resembled an affectionate kiss, shut her watery eyes, and melded back into the river. The following week, the noble and his daughter did indeed try to use a clever ruse as a cover for an assassination attempt – and failed because Shantanu had been having them watched constantly since the day by the river.

  In time his visits grew less frequent as the empire grew and his responsibilities increased. He admittedly threw himself more completely into his work and vocation than he had before, as if conquering new territories or suppressing distant mleccha rebellions in foreign lands could ever compensate for the loss of his beloved mate. They did not, of course, but they did help keep him from thinking as often of her. In his travels he found also that while the river was always benign to him – on more than one occasion, he was able to cross her in spate under impossible weather conditions, always to the astonishment of his own local allies in the region – the special bond he shared could only be explored in that particular spot on her bank, near his own capital city. At all other places, she would listen intently, but only here would she speak aloud or show herself in subtle deliciously feminine ways: a wave of butterflies risen from the water itself, dissolving to a cloud of spray as they rose up in the air, a pack of dolphins mating in the water within sight of him, patterns in the water that defied the tide and made pleasing designs that reminded him of places they had been a
nd things they had done in those places. These intimate secret communications kept his heart alive and kept love awake within him. Even though he had long since accepted that he could never have her back again, the sheer glorious intensity of their years and experiences together kept him emotionally afloat for another decade and a half. If nothing else, these platonic dalliances kept him from growing bitter and indrawn and from hating the sight and touch of all woman.

  In time, gradually, he began to form the idea that perhaps, just maybe, someday, he might learn to love again.

  ||paksha six||