‘Father? All is well with the kingdom. The last peace pact with the border rebels was sealed three days ago. The foreign envoys returned home to their respective distant nations with our gifts, beaming with pleasure, and promising to tell their nations of our great hospitality and rich resources. Within the sabha, the feuding over the sudra-vaisya land disagreement has settled as well. We have reached a mutual compromise that is more than acceptable to all concerned. There is no fear of rioting any longer. Things are very well. They are as close to perfect as possible. Yet you sit here all day, quaffing copious quantities of soma, alone and in darkness, seeing no one, speaking with nobody, uncaring for your own appearance and well-being. What ails you, father? Tell me.’
Still, Shantanu was silent. As Devavrata had begun to speak, he had covered his face with his hand, as if closing his eyes for a moment, and the hand remained there even now, masking his features and expression.
Devavrata tried again. ‘Father, in the time since I came to live with you, you have confided everything to me. Have I ever betrayed your trust? Have I ever given you reason to regret having confided so much? Have I disappointed you somehow without being aware of my lapse? If I have offended you in any way, then forgive me at once and tell me how I may atone for my mistake. For I cannot bear to have you angry with me and refusing to speak with me. A day without hearing your voice speaking affectionately and feeling your arm upon my shoulder is like a day when the sun has failed to rise.’
At this emotional appeal, Shantanu removed the hand covering his face, revealing eyes filled with tears. He reached out and took hold of Devavrata’s forearm. ‘Nay, my son. Nay! You have done nothing to offend me. Do not blame yourself. You are the perfect son. No father since the beginning of time has been blessed with a son as fine as you. In every respect, you are perfect. Do not question your own merits or blame yourself for anything.’
‘Then what is it, father?’ Devavrata asked earnestly. ‘What ails you? I have not seen you this troubled since I first came here and you were sad over the loss of my mother. I know you well, father. I know something is eating at your heart, destroying you from within. Confide in me. Tell me. Maybe I can help you.’
Shantanu shook his head vehemently. ‘No, Gangeya,’ he said emotionally. ‘I cannot tell you this. It has nothing to do with you. It is only the misery of my own dark soul. I have to bear this myself and I shall. Go about your life as usual. Do not worry on my account.’
‘How can I ignore my father’s sadness? How can I smile and live my life happily if you are not happy? What is a son if not his father in a new life? How can a part of you go on living as normal when you are suffering some inner turmoil?’
But still Shantanu would not confide in Devavrata. He spoke in elliptical riddles, referring to various ancient texts that advised men to have more than one son, that elaborated the merits of having many sons. He lapsed into a discussion on whether or not a man should take a new wife, what the reasons were for such an act, and spoke on this for a while. He spoke also of his lineage, of the uncertainties of life, of war and the risks a king faced, of fearing for Devavrata’s early demise in battle…but then he mused that Devavrata’s prowess at arms was so formidable that it was his enemies who should fear losing their lives, not he. So it went for a length of time, Shantanu speaking round and around the subject without clearly stating what was on his mind, and Devavrata understanding much without understanding fully.
Eventually, Shantanu was exhausted, emotionally and physically, and Devavrata put him to bed tenderly. Watching his father fall into uneasy sleep, he vowed to find the source of this misery and end it at once.
Whatever it takes, he told himself.
He went in search of the old guard.
Not literally guards, these were aging kshatriyas who had fought and seen great conflicts in yester years. Now, they were ailing or aging and unable to take part in active combat but they gathered daily in a garden adjoining the royal palace and talked robustly of old wars and battles and enemies. Shantanu had brought Devavrata here to listen to them, then later to speak a little only if he was spoken to, in order to learn about the art of war from those who had actually waged war. ‘This score of old kshatriyas,’ he had told Devavrata fondly, ‘when taken together, they represent close to two millennia of fighting knowledge and experience. No guru can possibly tell you all they know. You can learn more simply by listening to their arguments than from most masters of weapons and pundits of strategy.’
Devavrata did not tell him that in fifteen hundred years he had seen, experienced and learned possibly far more than these twenty old warriors had in their combined lifetimes, indeed, he possibly knew the same battles and conflicts they spoke of as intimately as they did, for he had watched many of those wars when they were waged through his supernatural abilities, under his great-grandfather’s guidance, and then been taught what was done rightly or wrongly and how it could or could not have been done better. But he listened. And he learned a great deal. And in time, gradually, he began to share his own observations as well. At first, the old guard were suspicious, even hostile to this upstart young boy who dared to speak of conflicts waged when he was not even born. But they soon realized that he was no mere self-important prince airing his half-baked views, he was a prodigy who somehow knew crucial details and elements that even they lacked full knowledge of, and spoke of battles with an authority suggested that he had actually been present there. The old guard began to use a term to describe this extraordinary perceptiveness that Devavrata displayed: they termed it blood memory. ‘His blood is the blood of his Puru ancestors,’ said one of them, ‘and that rich blood carries with it the knowledge of all the deeds and experiences. Somehow, young Devavrata is able to access that vast store of knowledge and speak of it.’ And the others all dipped their white heads and beards and agreed solemnly, ‘It is in his blood. His blood speaks.’ And in time, they began to respect his deep insights and formidable store of knowledge and even picked his brain. Whenever any two or more of them reached an impasse in an argument over some detail of some battle or campaign, they would eventually turn to Devavrata and sigh, ‘Yuvaraja, settle it!’ And he would always provide the crucial missing link of information or detail that would enable them to resolve the argument, without actually taking any one’s side.
He came to them now. They greeted him with warmth for since his duties of kingship had increased, he did not have as much time to spend with them as before. But they did not resent this. They were old warriors. They knew their place in the world. They felt proud that he came to them at all, deferred to them and treated them with such respect. They were even wise enough to refer to him jokingly as their ‘guru’.
‘Guru!’ they cried out as he entered their corner of the garden. An argument over the Dasarajna battle and whether or not Indra had actually descended to aid Sudas against the Anu was raging; it died down as they saw Devavrata enter and greeted him warmly. Then they quietened down, seeing from his face that he had come not simply to chat but on some important matter. They were kshatriyas, they believed in coming straight to the point.
He told them what was troubling him. ‘My father,’ he said simply. ‘What is it that ails him? Do you know?’
They looked at each other as if they had been expecting him to come and ask this very question, then looked at him again and nodded. He sighed and sat down. ‘Tell me,’ he said.
They told him.
When they were done, he thought for a moment, then said, ‘Very well. Will you come with me…to Panchmani?’
They looked at each other and grinned toothless grins. They were old warriors. Nobody asked them to go anywhere. They went nowhere. Now the emperor of the Bharata race was asking their help in a crucial matter.
‘Of course!’ they said, raising their walking staffs like weapons of war and waving them in the air.
6
Panchmani was holding a meeting of the fishermen when Gangeya arrived. He received Devavrata with
great respect and proper protocol. Once again the word went out that the king of the Purus had returned to see Satyavati’s father. This time, Satyavati herself was away, ferrying her boat across the Yamuna as usual. Heartbroken after Shantanu’s proposal had failed, she had overcome her own despair and reluctantly gone back to her old routine. But where she had often sung sweet songs while ferrying passengers across, she now sang melancholy songs that brought a tear to the eyes of those she ferried. She did not hear of the news of Devavrata’s visit until later that evening and even then, she did not allow herself to raise her hopes once again. What was to be would be, nothing she did could change that now. She loved her father too dearly to ever go against his wishes. And much as she had come to love Shantanu, or at least the idea of marrying Shantanu, she had always known that their union was a highly unlikely one. It did not make the disappointment any easier but it did make it seem more logical and inevitable. How could a fisherman’s daughter marry a king! It was quite absurd of course. And yet, when she sang of Shakuntala and Dushyanta, and of how Shakuntala had pleaded for hours in full court, and been repeatedly humiliated and insulted by her own lover and husband, father of her child, her voice had such pain in it that even the kraunchya birds on the shore cried out in commisseration.
‘Yuvaraja,’ said Panchmani warmly. ‘How may I serve you?’
Devavrata leaned forward. He gestured to the old guard that had accompanied him. Except for them, he was alone. He had elected not to bring the whole royal and military entourage as it would have required time to prepare them, and he did not waste time. ‘It has come to my notice that my father, King Shantanu, proposed to marry your daughter. And yet you refused.’
Panchmani paled at Devavrata’s words. ‘Nay, prince! Who am I to refuse the king of Purus? Even Indra himself could not refuse such a match for his daughter. Besides, Satyavati was born from the seed of a great raj-kshatriya. She is not ordinary fisherman’s daughter. I have always known that her future lay in palaces with kings, not ferrying a boat across the Yamuna and cooking river fish for one of us! So when Samrat Shantanu came to see me, it was the fulfillment of all my dreams and expectations. Where is the question of refusal?’
Devavrata looked around. ‘And yet, I see no signs of preparation for a marriage. I see no festivities. No indication that you are expecting a bridegroom’s procession to arrive, much less a royal one!’
Panchmani cleared his throat. ‘I cannot dispute what you say, great one. Your reputation as a master of governance is a formidable one, outmatched only by your reputation as an indomitable warrior. Who would dare argue with anything you say? But I did not refuse the proposal of Shantanu. I merely laid out a condition. Should he promise to uphold that condition, I shall be happy to make the arrangements at once!’
The other fisherman all nodded vigorously, lending their chief support and encouragement. Devavrata saw the anxiety and genuine concern on their faces. They genuinely desired to see a daughter from their village marry a king of the Purus. There was no ulterior motive here or secret agenda. All was as it seemed. He could even sense Satyavati’s sorrow as she rowed her boat and sang her sad song, for the Yamuna was his maternal aunt and he was privy to her knowledge as well. ‘Your condition is that your grandson, Satyavati’s son, should inherit the throne of the Purus from my father, is it not?’
Panchmani glanced at his fellow fishermen. That glance communication the fisher king’s own concern and doubts. As the obvious heir and already crowned Yuvaraja, Panchmani’s condition affected Devavrata far more than it affected Shantanu. There could only be one reason why Devavrata had come to confront Panchmani personally: He must resent anyone asking that he be set aside in favour of a future step-son of his father.
Devavrata knew that fishermen across the village were secretly preparing to take up arms and attack him if need be. Not because they were violent or aggressive but because they feared his motives for coming here. He could glimpse the taking up of hooks and fish-spears around him.
He held up his hands and turned a full circle, addressing the village at large. ‘I am not here to make war on you. Look at my companions.’
He indicated the old guard. The toothless white-haired men waved and grinned at the fisherman who stared at them curiously.
‘Does this look like an attack party? I deliberately brought only my father’s oldest advisors in order to show you that I have only peaceful intentions here. Had I meant you harm, I would have brought an army and you would all already be dead.’ He did not need to add that even an army would have been an overkill; he could have massacred the entire community single-handedly if he had desired, and still could. But he meant what he said, he had no desire to do harm to anyone here. These people were relatives of his father’s chosen beloved, therefore they were related to him as well, or would be soon. Being fishermen, they were also close to the river and that affinity gave him a sense of greater understanding of their ways and attitudes. He knew such men well enough to know that they had their own sense of pride as well. They might not live in palaces and their homes and clothes may always smell of fish but in their own way, they were kings and queens and princes of the earth.
‘You are kings of the river,’ he said to them, and at once saw a change come over their faces. ‘You are no less masters of the world than my father or his illustrious ancestors. The goddess of the river is herself your patron and she watches over you in all you do or say. I bow to her, mighty Yamuna-devi, and in her sacred presence, I ask you sincerely: What can I do to make this marriage possible? I love my father deeply and desire his happiness more than anything else in the world. Tell me what I must do to ensure his marriage to your daughter and I shall see that it is done. You have my word as Yuvaraja of the Puru kingdom and leader of the Bharatas.’
Chief Panchmani stared up wordlessly for a moment then rose suddenly and raised his hairy arms to Devavrata in a gesture of acknowledgement. ‘Great one, what they say about you is true. You are a great, great yuvaraja and someday shall be a great king. You are capable of defeating your enemies with a single blow yet you choose to use conciliatory words and kindness instead. But I fear there is nothing you can do here. I have told your father my only condition for this marriage. If he cannot fulfill that condition, then what can you do?’
‘The condition is that only your daughter’s son shall inherit and rule in my father’s stead, is it not?’ Devavrata asked.
Panchmani nodded, gesturing broadly again. ‘Aye. So it is. For it is the dharma of a girl’s father to ensure that she is always treated well by her husband and I know that if Satyavati were assured that her son would inherit then she shall be queen mother in time and guaranteed of life long security and status.’
‘She shall be guaranteed all that in any case,’ Devavrata said, ‘but if it is this assurance you desire, then I shall give it to you right here and now. Your daughter’s son shall inherit the throne, not I. I give you my word in this matter.’
Panchmani stared at Devavrata in wonderment, then turned to look at his companions, who also raised their eyebrows and gestured as well. ‘What a great being! He offers to step down as heir apparent and surrender his rightful inheritance in order to secure his father’s happiness! What son would do this for his father? Truly he is a great one.’
‘Aye!’ said the other fisherfolk. Even the old guard joined in heartily.
Panchmani paused, bent over in thought, his back to Devavrata.
Devavrata waited a moment then, when there was no further word from the fisher king, he said, ‘Is it agreed then? You will make the arrangements for the marriage?’
Panchmani turned suddenly and stared at him. ‘Would that it could be so, Yuvaraja! Would that it could.’
Devavrata frowned. ‘I fail to understand. I have agreed to your condition. You have the assurance you desire. Now what prevents this marriage from taking place?’
Panchmani sighed heavily. ‘Alas, young prince. Your assurances are honourable and I have no dou
bt you shall keep your word from now to the end of your days. I know you would never violate your oath once given. But…’
‘But…?’ asked Devavrata.
‘But what of your sons?’ the fisher chief said, looking up at Devavrata. ‘Your future sons by one or more wives you may take in years to come?’
Devavrata frowned, listening.
Panchmani went on, gesturing as he explained. ‘You are a virile young man. Handsome. Powerful. Wealthy. Even if you step down as heir apparent, you shall always remain prince of the Puru empire. You shall have no dearth of wives or lovers. You shall love them in time and produce sons of your own. You will adhere by your vow, of that I have no doubt. But will they? What about after you have passed on or died in combat? They may well rise up and claim the throne, one or more of them? My grandson’s place will be jeopardized. The people love you dearly, I have heard. They may well support one of your sons over my daughter’s son. What then?’
Devavrata listened silently. He looked at the faces of the old guard. They had finally stopped smiling and were shaking their white heads in commisseration. The other fisherfolk were looking down as well, for they did not wish to spurn a king’s offer, nor miss the opportunity to align their tribe with the most powerful one in the world. Yet what Panchmani said was true: any assurance that Devavrata might give was useless because he could not predict what his sons might do in future. And by law, regardless of whatever he promised, it was his rightful claim to be King of Hastinapura and by extension, his sons who would inherit that throne. This was indisputable.
‘Therefore, great one,’ Panchmani was saying sadly, ‘I fear we still face the same dilemma. Even if you swear the most powerful oath on earth, it will not prevent your future heirs from rightfully staking a claim to the kingdom and that will disinherit my daughter’s line, which is unacceptable to me and my people.’
Devavrata held up his hand. ‘I shall take a greater vow.’
MAHABHARATA SERIES BOOK#2: The Seeds of War (Mba) Page 21