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

by Ashok K. Banker

  But there was a secret dread in her heart that she could not dispel. It was the knowledge of her own indiscretion. She had cohabited with a man, had borne his child. She was a mother. It did not matter if nobody else knew or could ever know, it did not matter if her virginity had been restored and her body returned to its virginal state in every respect, as if her womb had never been filled with child, her hips had never parted to birth a babe. She knew. That was all that mattered. And though she knew that what had happened was more in the nature of a supernature aberration than a typical everyday occurrence, she nevertheless felt guilty about it. She had mated with another man. She had experienced the bliss of physical union. She had watched her own belly swell with child then undergone the wonderful trauma of birth. She had held her newborn babe in her arms, slippery, and beautiful. Whatever else had occurred, however bizarre and extraordinary, was beside the point. These thing had happened and were real. She could never change that fact. Even the brahman power of Parashara could not undo her memories, her feelings, her experiences.

  That guilt made her fear that perhaps, just maybe, she did not deserve to be loved by such a man – not without him knowing the truth about her past, and naturally, she could never tell him that truth. For regardless of how much he loved her, it would change everything. She would not be what he had perceived her to be, she had kept a great thing secret, and that act of secrecy was what made her feel guilty.

  And yet.

  Keeping that secret was the only reason the king of Hastinapura was in her house now, asking her father for her hand in marriage.

  And as for the guilt and her deserving this, yes, she did deserve it. For whatever had happened in the past, she was genuinely attracted to Shantanu, felt a powerful connection. Surely he too must have experienced love before now. She knew he had been married, had a son, and there were mysterious rumours surrounding the late Queen’s demise in childbirth. Something scandalous that nobody knew about fully. So he was no virginal innocent either. He must have his secrets too.

  If he loves me and I love him then that is all that matters. Today we begin our life together. And it is our life together that matters.

  She smiled, straightening her head, releasing the dread that had been clouding her heart at unexpected moments these past days as she had waited.

  We all deserve love. No matter what went before, no matter what might come later. Today belongs to us, today we stand naked and true before one another, and today is all that matters.

  Satyavati waited for Shantanu to emerge and for her new life to begin.

  3

  Shantanu liked the chief. He was a man rarely seen in royal circles. A man unconcerned with appearances and protocol beyond the bare necessity required for social nicety. His oiled moustaches, bulging belly, hairy chest and arms unabashedly exposed in his simple fisherman’s vastras, the simplicity of his house and belongings, all represented a man who was exactly what he appeared to be. Honest, hard working, tough, yet soft-hearted, fair, decent, and a servant of dharma in his own right. Such men were the backbone of a nation. Nobles postured, traders cared only for profit, soldiers protected and expanded the nation, brahmins guarded the precious light of learning, but it was men like Panchmani who did the work that actually enabled a nation to prosper, grow and progress. Farmers, fishermen, workers. They built, maintained, fed and clothed the nation. Citizens. Praja. It made him proud to be Prajapati, lord of the people, when the people he ruled were of the mettle of Panchmani. Even his name, simply an appellation referring to the region and tribe he administered to, was a demonstration of his true nature. The individual man and the chief of the people who worked alongside them daily were one and the same. When Shantanu spoke to him he felt as if he were speaking to all of Panchmani and as if all of Panchmani listened. That might have something to do with the fact that the whole population of the region was gathered outside the Chief’s house, waiting eagerly to know why the King of the Purus was visiting but it was also indicative of the grassroots power such men possessed. They were the land, and like the trees, fruit and other things of that land, the land and they grew, prospered or fell together.

  Right now, all Shantanu wanted was for Panchmani to agree to his proposal. He had said what he had to say. The chief had listened with an impassive face, his broad coarse features displaying no clear emotion. Now he was stroking and twirling his moustaches, a gesture Shantanu was familiar with. From the odour in the room, it was evident the chief used fish oil to lubricate and maintain his considerable facial hair but the stench of fish did not bother Shantanu overmuch; not when the sweet unmistakable fragrance of Satyavati wafted in from the very next room. Gandhavati, she had been dubbed because of the unusual sweet odour. Yojanavati even. And that fragrance overpowered all the fish smell in this entire village. But even had it not, it would take far, far more than the stench of fish to dissuade Shantanu.

  Yet there was a sense of something in the chief’s manner, the heavy-lidded gaze with which he observed Shantanu, the way he kept sighing again and again, a sense of something troubling. Shantanu felt a curious foreboding. He had a good instinct for how his proposals or ideas would be received, the result of a lifetime spent in political deal-making. He sensed that for reasons he could not fathom, this proposal was about to be rejected. Impossible though it seemed, a fisherman was about to refuse a king as a son in law!

  In a sense, he was right as well as wrong.

  ‘King of the Purus,’ said Panchmani in a rough voice, ‘I am a simple man of plain mind. Therefore forgive me for speaking plainly.’

  Shantanu said nothing but dipped his chin in acknowledgement.

  ‘What father would not want you for a son in law?’ Panchmani said, gesturing as if to indicate the whole world. ‘It would be a father’s dream to see his daughter marry such as you.’

  And yet… The caution was implicit in his tone. Shantanu waited with pounding heart and sweating palms. He had not felt this anxious before major strategic battles. Yet here he was in a fisherman’s hut, waiting as if his life depended on it. And it does, for I must have Satyavati, she is the only chance I have to find love and hope and happiness again in life.

  ‘I would be proud to call myself your father in law,’ the fisher king said. ‘You know this and I know this, the whole world knows this for it is sense. All I ask is that you pledge one thing to me. If you pledge this thing, you may marry my daughter at this very moment if you so desire. I shall bless both of you with all my heart, I shall even throw a lavish wedding that all of Panchmani will recall for a hundred years.’ He paused, thinking as he stroked his oiled beard into curls. ‘Perhaps not lavish by Hastinapura standards. But the most lavish that this little hamlet has ever seen or will see again. I will see to it that nothing and nobody prevents you and my daughter from spending the rest of your lives together in blisssful harmony—’

  ‘Speak then,’ Shantanu said, almost stepping on Panchmani’s last words. ‘I am a direct man too. But I cannot pledge something unless I know what it is. Name your condition and I shall grant it if it is within my means.’ Now it was his turn to pause thoughtfully, ‘And as you can well imagine, there is little in this world that is not within my means to possess, gift or grant.’

  Panchmani sighed. ‘Her son.’

  Shantanu frowned. ‘Her son?’

  ‘Her son by you. Whenever a son is born to the both of you.’

  Shantanu felt a glimmer of hope. ‘Then you consent to our marriage?’

  ‘On condition that as and when she bears you a son…’

  ‘Yes?’ Shantanu leaned forward, eager now, anxious, a spark of joy igniting in his heart. ‘When we have a son, yes…?’

  ‘You must pledge that he and he alone will inherit the throne.’

  Shantanu blinked, absorbing the meaning of the chief’s words. ‘Of course. Any son of mine will inherit…’ He stopped. ‘…will inherit the throne, in order of succession. Naturally. That is dharma.’

  Panchmani sighed
again. ‘I know this. And you already have a son. And he is already acting regent and a good one at that. He is loved, popular, efficient, a great warrior, a formidable emperor…he has no flaws, lacks nothing. He is healthy and robust and indomitable in battle or combat. He might well outlive us both!’

  Shantanu was silent. The spark that had flared was already flickering out, the glimmer fading.

  ‘So long as Devavrata lives, he is the rightful heir to your throne and legacy. I know this already. That is why my heart cries. It cries like the female wetun who loses her partner for dolphins of the river are like wolves and hawks, they mate for life.’ Panchmani spread his large hairy hands wide. ‘What can I say? I ask only that you pledge that when you and my daughter have a son, it shall be that son who inherits, not Yuvaraja Devavrata. I have no animosity towards Devavrata. I hear he is a fine king. But as a father in law, I wish to see my line continue as well. I need to ensure that my grandson should have his fair share in life. If he is a fisherman’s son, then he should inherit his father’s boat and nets and fishing sticks and other belongings. If he is a king…’

  Panchmani gestured as if the rest was obvious. It was.

  4

  Satyavati almost cried out with excitement when she saw Shantanu emerge. Several in the crowd did cry out and the cry was taken up and carried out throughout the village and perhaps the whole region, from the sound of it. But she saw Shantanu’s face and her heart caught, like a fish trapped in a hook that would rip its life out if struggled against. And she knew without having to ask that something had gone wrong.

  She pushed her way forward through the crowd of well-meaning relatives and neighbours, all the women eager to see and be seen by the king. Shantanu caught sight of her and his eyes softened for a second, but then they filled with a look of such pain, her heart went out to him. Then he shook his head once, slowly, and walked past her. His gait was as heavy and forlorn as if he were attending a funeral rather than a potential marriage. He had not looked so sad even on the day she had first met him wandering on the banks of the Yamuna. He looked utterly lost and heartbroken now.

  5

  Devavrata knew something was seriously amiss. He had been aware of his father’s gradual withdrawal from matters of state and governance. That was something he himself had encouraged over the past four years, assuring Shantanu that he would take care of whatever needed doing. And it was a matter of pride that he had lived upto his assurances: Shantanu himself had embraced him warmly on more than one occasion and congratulated him on how well he was managing the affairs of the kingdom. He had even admitted that for the first time in his life he felt able to take time off for himself without the constant sense of anxiety that had always plagued him earlier. Devavrata had encouraged him to do as he wished, going hunting for weeks on end if he desired, or travelling to remote places he had always wished to see incognito, unburdened by the military and royal entourage a king had perforce to take along. The past year, he had taken to coming to court only occasionally, dropping by unexpectedly just to observe and listen in on the sabha sessions, often without saying a word the entire time. What a contrast this was to the king who had rarely slept a full night and was constantly on edge dealing with one political crisis after another all day long, day after day, during the first several weeks after Devavrata had come to live with him. So much so that he had rarely found time or leisure enough to do the things he dearly wished to do with Devavrata. Each time they were out visiting some site of pilgrimage, or viewing the actual field where great battles had taken place, or observing wildlife in its natural habitat, the ubiquitous messenger would invariably turn up with an urgent summons to return to the city. It had become such a predictable pattern. Yet Shantanu had made the effort and clearly enjoyed that time away immensely: Devavrata was young and innocent by mortal standards but he was in fact older and wiser than anyone else around and knew how much his father pined for his mother and that lost companionship. A king has no real friends. His only true friend is an understanding spouse or son or daughter. Devavrata was all Shantanu had now and he poured his heart out to him often, not by bursting into long monologues, but through the subtle way he said or did things, communicating more through pauses and sighs than by eloquent explication. Over time, this burden of sadness reduced considerably as he found genuine companionship and support in Devavrata’s company and came to rely on his judgement not only as a statesman but also as a friend and confidant. Over the course of these four years, their relationship had developed to the point where Devavrata would see his father looking troubled over some issue of a border dispute or political complication and put his hand on his shoulder, smiling. That was enough for Shantanu to lose his wrinkles and smile back, then pat his son on his shoulder in return before walking away, confident that Devavrata would handle the problem, whatever it might be. And Devavrata had handled it – had handled everything that came his way these past four years. To the point where those wrinkles rarely appeared on Shantanu’s forehead and his father actually began to look younger and healthier. It was amazing what a difference the simple removal of daily stress could effect on a person. Shantanu had become fitter, leaner, more confident, less given to outbursts and dark depressions, drank less, slept more soundly, ate sensibly, and indulged himself in leisurely pursuits that he would never have dreamed of pursuing just one score months ago: he painted from time to time, played musical instruments, taught children their alphabets, and did things because they pleased him not because they were expected of him as a king. And in the past several months he had begun to go off on trips frequently, returning with a spring in his step and a sharpness in his eye. At night when he told Devavrata of his experiences in the wild, Gangeya felt a great sense of joy and satisfaction, for he knew that he had helped make this possible. Had he not come to Hastinapura, had he not taken the reins of the kingdom from Shantanu so efficaciously, Shantanu would never be this happy and relaxed today.

  It pleased Devavrata to see this dramatic change. He looked forward to those times when his father and he would sit and sip freshly squeezed pomegranate juice and he would listen as his father regaled him with stories and anecdotes gleaned on his travels.

  But the past several days, something had gone amiss.

  He knew this because Shantanu had not spoken with him for several days, had in fact been avoiding him in the palace and at various occasions. This was not unusual in itself but there were the reports from various sources that said the king was looking like his old gloomy self again, that reported that Shantanu was drinking again, had cloistered himself in his palace and was not seeing anyone or venturing forth, had given up his activities and pursuits and sent everyone away. All this had happened after Shantanu returned from a trip which he had made with a full royal entourage. Since all matters of state were overlooked by Devavrata himself, he had been curious as to the nature of this state visit. Shantanu had laughed and said that it was a secret he would share with Devavrata if the trip was successful, but in any case it was not a matter of state, it was a matter concerning the state of his heart! Devavrata had laughed at the pun and wondered if this meant his father had found a woman he desired. His mother had told him that this day might come and when it did, he was to encourage his father in every way, and do whatever was required to ensure that his father found happiness in the new match. He had been a little surprised at her insistence on her own husband finding happiness with another woman but after he had come here he had understood how bereft Shantanu was, and that Ganga was never coming back, and resolved to do exactly as his mother had instructed. Shantanu deserved happiness again. So when he had received word that his father had returned from the visit of state – or state of the heart, as Shantanu had wittily put it – he waited eagerly to hear the good news. But it had never come. And then Shantanu had avoided him for all these days. And then these disturbing reports came to his ears of his father’s lapse into the old, gloomy depressive ways…

  Now, he entered his father’s
palace with only one goal in mind: To find the source of Shantanu’s sorrow and resolve it.

  He was shocked at the sight of his father.

  Shantanu lay sprawled on a couch, his hair and face and garments unkempt, dishevelled, uncared for, eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep and too much wine, the discarded goblets around him testifying to his lapse into the old over-indulgent habits. But more than these things, it was the look on Shantanu’s face that alarmed and dismayed Devavrata. Shantanu looked as if he had aged a decade in as many days. He had not looked this haggard and miserable even during the worst crisis which occurred in the first several months after Devavrata’s arrival here.

  Devavrata sat beside him, waiting for Shantanu to speak first. That was always their way. Devavrata simply sat beside his father and waited and eventually Shantanu spoke, confiding in him, speaking his mind – and his heart – and Devavrata listened and replied and advised.

  But this time, Shantanu said nothing. There was only silence between them. Silence and a sense of something dark and dismal that hung over them like a fetid pallour.

  Finally, Devavrata took the initiative and spoke.