‘So you are a foreigner then?’ Shantanu asked with interest. ‘Which part of the world are you from? Are you from this continent of Jambudwipa or…?’
‘Of course!’ The boy looked as if he had been asked if he was from another vishwa, a distant planet. ‘This is my home.’
Shantanu wasn’t sure what he meant. The boy had indicated the river, by which he probably meant here, this kingdom, this place. That seemed credible. The boy had the look of a Bharata about him, a Puru even. He had the same aquiline features, prominent nose, swept back ears and angular jaw, intense deep-set eyes beneath bushy brows, dark eyes and dark skin, crow-black hair, fine straight limbs and the posture of a man with enough muscle on his body to use weapons well yet not so much that it hindered his movement in combat. Taller than most other people, tall even among kshatriyas…if anything, the boy was unusually tall, standing a good head above Shantanu’s own height. Shantanu was not accustomed to looking up at a man and he found the effect disconcerting. Yet despite his considerable height, size, width, strength and evident skill, the boy was almost… bashful, shy, given to speaking with almost childish innocence and delight. At first, it made Shantanu suspicious, especially after the arrow that came unseen and the speed with which the boy himself had moved from the bank to the treeline, but as he came to understand that this was the boy’s natural manner, his suspicion turned to amusement. What an odd fellow! Built like a giant warrior, skilled with a bow and arrow to rival Purandara himself, and yet he spoke, gesticulated and contorted his face in expressions that befitted an immature boy rather than a kshatriya of high breeding, which he obviously was.
‘So what exactly did you do?’ Shantanu asked again. They had walked to the riverbank together when the boy had explained that he had merely been “practising”. Shantanu still had no idea what that “practising” entailed.
The boy looked at the river again, pointing. ‘You see…’ he stopped. ‘No, of course, you cannot see. Nobody can.’ He looked around, as if searching for something, then turned back. ‘Do you know of—’ He broke off abruptly, interrupting himself. ‘No,’ he said as if to himself, ‘Pramaataamaha said I was not to speak of that to anyone. Anyone!’
‘Did you say Pramaataamaha?’ Shantanu asked, curious. ‘Is your great-grandfather from this region? What is his name? And your father’s name?’ He moved toward the boy, speaking gently. ‘Where is your home, boy? Where do you come from?’
The boy looked at Shantanu again, as if seeing him suddenly for the first time. He shook his head and pointed again, as he had before. ‘I do not know exactly but this is my home. This is where I come from. That is all I can tell you…in your language. If you wish to know more, you must ask my mother. She said I am forbidden to speak to people.’ He looked around. ‘I am not supposed to be here even. I was only practising.’
Shantanu could make neither head nor tail of this extraordinary young man. He decided to focus on something simple. ‘What were you practising? Can you show me?’
The boy looked at him. ‘Of course! I can show you! So much simpler than explaining and learning new languages. Although Maatr says I must learn new things everyday, for I am to be king and kings must know a great deal about the worlds they govern.’
Shantanu said nothing to this, merely watched as the boy stepped up to the edge of the ridge. He was a handsome young man, and something about the way he moved, that peculiar gait that certain very tall muscular men favour, a graceful way of moving that came from their unusual height and strength of body, reminded him of someone else. But he could not place the person it reminded him of immediately.
The boy stood on the edge of the ridge, looking down at the river, silhouetted by the evening sky. It was not more than an hour or so to sunset and the colouring sky and distant mountain ridges behind him gave him the appearance of some prince in a royal portrait, the kind of portrayal that adorned the walls of the Hall of ancestors in his palace in Hastinapura. He arched his back and shoulders in the exact stance of a bowman aiming downwards at a sharp angle and Shantanu frowned, for there was neither a bow nor an arrow—
A bow and arrow appeared in the boy’s arms.
It was as if they had never existed before, and suddenly came into being at that precise instant. Out of thin air.
They were like no bow and arrow Shantanu had ever seen before.
He corrected himself: the bow was like no bow he had seen before.
The arrow he had seen a twin of only moments earlier. It resembled the arrow that had cleaved his bow-string and imbedded itself in the tree trunk behind him. The arrow that gleamed and was rainbow hued like a thing made of solid mercury or some fabulous liquid metal.
The arrow in the boy’s hand was exactly like that, a liquid silver missile that caught the light of evening sun and flashed in rainbow hues. Indeed, as Shantanu watched, the arrow’s reflection created a small rainbow, just for an instant, curving around the boy’s hand in mid air.
The bow was like the arrow: quicksilver. Firm as metal. Reflective of light. Beautifully resplendent. It made a larger rainbow. The smaller rainbow of the arrow intersected the larger rainbow of the bow.
Shantanu never saw when exactly the boy loosed. Or the flight of the arrow as it left the bow.
All he saw was the twanging cord of the bow vibrating in the air.
Then the bow disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared.
Its work done, it returned to the invisible place from whence it had come.
The sound of the river, roaring magnificently, subsided abruptly.
Shantanu ran to the edge of the ridge and looked over.
He saw the quicksilver arrow shot by the boy, fixed in the ground of the riverbed, standing straight. From the arrow emerged a wall of silvery light that extended from bank to bank, translucent, shimmering with rainbow hues, reflecting the sky and trees and landscape. This wall of shimmering silver light barred the passage of the river as effectively as a dam built of solid rock. A mountain could hardly dam the river more effectively!
All this from a single arrow.
Downriver of the arrow, the river’s flow had turned into a muddy trickle. The same as he had seen earlier. Fish flopped on the riverbed, dolphins cried out in outrage, turtles moved their limbs helplessly, and weeds and undergrowth hung limp and immobile on the muddy naked riverbed.
Shantanu turned and looked at the boy in disbelief.
The boy beamed at him, pleased at what he had done. It was the grin of a boy who had shot his first bird from the sky perhaps, or ridden his horse over a chasm for the first time. Shy, proud, yet guileless and utterly innocent.
Then, as he saw Shantanu’s expression, the boyish grin faded.
And turned to one of trepidation.
‘You needn’t worry about the wetones. I would never harm them. They are my bhraatr. I only tease them this way sometimes. In sport.’
Shantanu stepped closer to the boy, examining him as if for the first time. He caught hold of him by the shoulders – he had to stretch out his own arms to reach those two wide muscled trunks – and said, ‘I know who you are. You are the eighth son! Her eighth son!’
The boy looked at him with total incomprehension. Then suddenly, he glanced over Shantanu’s shoulder and reacted to the sight of something else.
‘Maatr!’ he cried out, with the childish alarm of a boy caught doing a mischevious prank he has been forbidden to play many times before. ‘I was only showing the nice mortal how—’
‘SILENCE!’
The word was a crashing no less than thunder.
Shantanu spun around to see the river break through the barrier of the arrow, splitting the arrow’s shaft into countless slivers, each as beautifully reflective and metallic as the arrow itself – it was like watching crystal explode – and roar along its concourse again, stronger than ever. The waters boiled and seethed, throwing up a spout that hung in mid air several yards high.
From the angry spout, a figure was sculpted.
‘Gangey,’ he said softly, altering the last syllable of her name to the affectionate ‘ey’ sound as only a spouse could do. ‘Then this is…’
‘My son,’ said the angry goddess of the river, moving across the surface of her waters with a great churning energy. ‘I have forbidden you from playing these games. Indeed, you have been forbidden from stepping out onto land unsupervised, have you not?’
The giant of a boy hung his head. ‘Yes, maatr,’ he said miserably, ‘but I was only—’
‘Silence! Not a sound from you!’ she said, and there were teeth in her watery mouth, Shantanu saw, long white teeth as sharp as any predator’s. ‘I wish to have words with the dryone…with this man.’
The boy stood by silently.
Ganga turned to face Shantanu.
He joined his hands before her. ‘Mother river,’ he said, ‘it is such a pleasure to see you again.’
‘And you, my husband,’ she said gently. She assumed the form he had known her by, partially, just the face and a suggestion of the upper body, while still retaining her river aspect. It was enough to make his heart ache for all that they had shared, for the companion he had lost. ‘I see you still remain single, still wifeless.’
‘None but you,’ he said simply. ‘You know this well. If you wish me to be loved and to love again, then come back to me. Come back now.’
She smiled and laughed a throaty watery chuckle. ‘Would that I could. But my time on the mortal plain is past. It can never be again.’
He sighed, feeling the pain of their parting as freshly as if it had been only yesterday. ‘Then I remain wifeless forever.’
‘No, do not say that,’ she whispered. ‘For to remain wifeless is to remain childless. And that is not ordained.’
He was about to ask her what she meant. For he remembered her saying something similar fifteen years ago, when they had parted. But before he could speak, she gestured to the boy standing beside him.
‘You were right. This is he. The eighth child. The one I did not drown, but took away with me.’
He nodded slowly. ‘It took me some time, for somehow…’ He passed a hand across his face. ‘Somehow I had forgotten! Forgive me for that lapse.’
She shook her head in commisseration. ‘The mind forgets what it cannot bear to remember. If only the heart could forget so easily.’
‘Exactly. My mind had forgotten about the last child, but my heart recognized him somehow…’ He gestured towards the boy, still standing contritely, watching and listening to them with a curious look on his innocent handsome face. ‘He has your aspect about him…and clearly your supernatural powers.’
She smiled proudly. ‘He has great abilities and profound knowledge. He will do you proud. He will be the greatest son you could ever desire. It is he who will ensure the survival of your kingdom through darkest days…until…’
Shantanu frowned. ‘Until?’
She shook her head, water droplets flying hither and tither. ‘I cannot say more, I have said too much already. Only know this, he is your son and a great being. His name is Devavrata.’
‘Devavrata,’ Shantanu repeated approvingly, ‘God’s vow. A fine name.’
‘But he is accustomed to being called Gangeya. If it pleases you, call him that as well, sometimes. It will remind you of me and keep my name upon your lips.’
And now she was already moving back into the water, dissolving, descending…
‘No,’ he cried. ‘Wait! There is so much I wish to say to you! To ask you! Please stay.’
She joined her palms together in supplication as he had at first sight of her. ‘Henceforth, you may say and ask all of Devavrata Gangeya. He shall answer and advise you perfectly in all matters. He has been groomed for this purpose. Love him as well as he shall learn to love you, and use his powers wisely, for he is greatly gifted and no mere mortal.’
And then she was one with the water and the waves enveloped her and she merged with them and was gone.
Shantanu sat for a long moment, crouched by the riverside, staring down at the place where Ganga had emerged from and returned to again.
If there is one pain that can equal the pain of grief and parting with our most dearly loved one, it is the pain of seeing that dearly loved one again, years later, long after one has finally forgotten, and to be reminded once again, if only for a fleeting moment, of all that was, could have been, should have been, but can now never be again. Who among us can know the pain that Shantanu felt at that moment, to have seen his beloved wife again, if only for a few moments, and to know that she was always here within reach, yet always out of reach to him.
And the Ganga flowed on by. And the greatest love he had ever known, might ever know even in years to come, was gone forever. Like a poet’s lyric spoken into a storm. Like a reed-flute’s song drowned by a hurricane. Like a love story written on water.
Finally, as the sun was setting, he felt strong arms with a gentle touch upon his shoulders.
‘Father,’ said a gentle voice behind him. ‘I understand now. This is the day I was told to prepare for. I am ready. Let us go home now.’
And Shantanu permitted his son to help him to his feet and together they walked back towards the city of his ancestors.
||paksha seven||
bhishma and the terrible vow
1
The nation greeted Devavrata with great warmth and approval. They were told the truth: that he was the son of their late Queen, that she had had to leave them unexpectedly before delivering him, and his nurture and education had been accomplished by the most renowned sages possible. Now that he was of age, he had returned to aid his father in administering to the needs of the kingdom. Shantanu waited a respectable time before announcing Devavrata as his heir apparent. During this period, the young prince won hearts and dazzled even the most skeptical minds with his natural boyish charm, incredible mastery of weapons and unmatched valour. Soon, there seemed to be nothing Devavrata could not do, and do with charm, grace and the gentle manner of all truly strong men. By the time Shantanu installed him as crown prince and Devavrata became Yuvaraja Devavrata, he was already the most beloved king to rule Hastinapura. In four short years, the young boy Shantanu had encountered by the river had grown to become an admirable young man. His innocence had been honed away through exposure to the daily politics of statecraft, replaced by a canny understanding and insight into human nature and ambition. Yet he never succumbed to shrewdness, grew wiley or resorted to manipulations in order to have his way. He proved himself a much more resourceful player than all those who stooped to such petty trickery. He was a gentleman of the game of thrones, a master of the art of kingship, and his natural innocence and boyish charms belied a keen and insightful knowledge of every aspect of governance. He routinely shocked opponents by turning the tables on them just when they were certain of success, or thwarting their designs by the simplest and most obvious of methods. Yet even in his moments of triumph, he never rubbed salt into their wounds or pressed their snouts into the foulness of their mistakes, choosing instead to smile with a twinkle in his eye and a friendly pat on the back. This won over more rivals and opponents than outright conflict, and in time, even those who had resented him the most began to ease their efforts to unseat him or thwart him, choosing instead to ally and benefit from his rise and governance. Many became his disciples in all but name, studying his moves and choices, marvelling at the way he handled delicate matters, learning his methods – yet even they came to realize in time that his store of wisdom was far deeper than they could fathom in one lifetime. He had no set methods or approach; it was as if he knew precisely how to deal with each individual problem on its own merits. The only thing they truly learned from him was that they could never govern as wisely as he did.
In four years, everyone who knew him came to love, respect, admire and rely on Devavrata. Even those who hated him grudgingly accep
ted his superiority and allied with him for their own benefit; little realizing that it was he who was wise enough to let them stay alive and in power so that he might know, monitor and control his enemies. Even at that tender age, he was still wise enough to know that a powerful king always had enemies. It was best to keep them close to oneself and watch them closely, rather than foolishly waste one’s efforts battling and chasing them constantly. This way, it was in his enemies’ interest to see Hastinapura prosper and the Puru empire grow in strength and wealth, so that someday, when the time was right, they could reap the rewards of all these decades of sowing.
Shantanu watched with constant amazement as his son took over the reins of kingship so effortlessly that it soon seemed as if Devavrata had always ruled and would always rule. He was like a force of nature: immutable, constant, dependable, perfect in his judgement and knowledge, just in his choices, merciful in his sentencing, and wise beyond measure in his foresights and foreknowledge. Even Shantanu found himself learning from him rather than teaching him. He recalled Ganga’s words that their son had been well schooled by the greatest of gurus and he marvelled at how much had been taught to the young man in so short a time. He had no way of knowing, of course, that Devavrata had spent not merely fifteen years in study but fifteen hundred! For in the ocean of stories, time flowed at a different pace and their young son had imbibed all the collective knowledge of all the Puru and Bharata kings of his line, learned from their mistakes and successes, and gained wisdom that no ordinary mortal could hope to acquire in his lifetime. There were many advantages to being the son of a goddess and the reincarnation of a demi-god; this was one of them.
The other great advantage was his prowess at war. In a sense, it was this formidable ability, coupled with his keen political acumen, that forced his enemies to resort to quietude and alliance to survive.
For Devavrata could not be beaten in battle. This premise was tested frequently at first, then rarely, then almost never, for there comes a time when such a man’s fame itself becomes his most powerful weapon. Any challenger to the Puru dominance had only to be told the single word: ‘Devavrata’ and he would pale and put down his weapon and go home to his cookfire. For the whole wide world soon came to know that the son of Shantanu could not be bested in any form of combat: single, melee, or pitched battle. Or for that matter, in the use of any weapon.
MAHABHARATA SERIES BOOK#2: The Seeds of War (Mba) Page 18