In response to the mantra a bow appeared instantly in his hands. The moment it appeared a thunderclap sounded in the clear sky, deafeningly loud. The bow itself was immense, the size of a lance from tip to tip, and the only way it could be held was by standing it on the floor of the chariot. Even so, it towered above him. The texture of the bow itself was not wood but water, for it was made of water held in solid form; not ice, but simply water held rigid by the power of the mantra. The arrow that appeared, accompanied by a flash of lightning was white as a vajra. It was made of densely packed ocean salt, as hard as lohitwood and as heavy. Hard enough to penetrate armour and bone and punch through flesh with the same impact as any wooden missile. Yet when it penetrated flesh, it would dissolve to its natural state, filling the wound with pungent ocean saline.
He was within a hundred yards of Shalva’s chariot now and could see Shalva berating his sarathi. The charioteer was panicking, and in the confusion, their horses were rolling their eyes and whickering restlessly, unnerved by the thunderclaps and Bhishma’s chariot, which was bearing down on them at relentless speed. Bhishma loosed the first arrow from Varuna’s bow and watched it slash through the reins and rigging of the team. Freed of their harnessing, the horses milled about a moment, then realized they were free and began to race away.
The chariot itself settled to the ground with a rude thump, spilling the sarathi out and onto the ground where he sprawled.
Shalva shouted with anger and raised his bow again to fire back at Bhishma. He loosed an arrow which spread into a wall of fire that raged towards Bhishma’s horses. The team whinnied, unable to control their natural terror of fire, but Bhishma’s next arrow turned to water, dousing the wall of fire before it could come close enough to harm his horses.
What followed then was a humiliation and a rout.
Bhishma snapped Shalva’s bow with his next shot. Then shattered his chariot wheels.
Turning around Shalva’s chariot, he rode in a circle, firing inwards at the suitor, demolishing his chariot piece by piece. Each time Shalva attempted to raise a weapon – an axe, a sword, a spear, a javelin, another bow – Bhishma destroyed it with a single shot.
Soon, Shalva lay on the ground, the ruins of his chariot around him. He beat his chest and slapped his arms in anger, challenging Bhishma to do his worst.
Bhishma ripped his clothes off, rendering him naked for all to see.
Then he sliced off his moustaches and hair, turning him bald-faced and bare-headed.
Then, unleashing an arrow that turned in mid-flight into a storm of tiny birds, he pinned Shalva down on the ground, arms and legs spread akimbo, naked and bald, and helpless.
The suitor of Amba cried out with shame and humiliation and begged Bhishma to kill him.
Instead, Bhishma turned on the watching kings instead. They had stayed to watch Shalva’s humiliation, unable to look away from the denigration of one of their own rivals. The truth was, while they had cheered Shalva on earlier, he had been the prime contender at the swayamvara and most likely to have his pick of the princesses. That earned him a great deal of animosity. So long as he was victorious, they cheered him. Now, they jeered instead. And applauded Bhishma’s skill at arms and extraordinary ability.
But their jeers did not last long.
When Bhishma turned his bow on them, they quailed with fear. At once, those that were expecting this, loosed their own volley of arrows. Another storm of missiles shot towards Bhishma. But this time, he had time enough to counter it. He shot a single arrow that exploded with a blinding blue flash in mid air. So powerful was the explosion, the hail of arrows was shattered into fragments which were in turn driven back at the kings who had loosed the arrows. Thrice each king was pierced by his own arrows, and cried out in agony as he fell to the ground or to the floor of his chariot, clutching his wounds.
Those who remained unharmed applauded Bhishma’s skill nervously, hoping they would be spared his wrath. They were. Bhishma did not harm those who did not attempt to harm him.
Then Bhishma turned the heads of his horse team and rode away, heading towards Hastinapura.
This time, he was not followed.
6
After travelling for the rest of that day, they stopped to make camp for the night. The princesses had been silent after the battle with their suitors, although they held one another close and averted their eyes from Bhishma’s wounds. Bhishma’s terrible wounds, bhishma wounds.
Once they had a fire going and had eaten the game Bhishma hunted down for them, and the horses had been watered, fed and groomed, he asked Amba’s help in removing the arrows from his body. She agreed readily. It was a long and painful process, the worse for him of course, but no less for her, because she could feel the pulling and tearing of each barbed head as she teased and worked it free of his flesh. His wounds began to bleed again and soon the grass beneath his body was soaked with his blood. She began to weep then unable to help herself. He turned his head to look at her but did not say anything at that time. After a brief respite, she regained control of her emotions and resumed her work. It was late, the night was quiet, the moon was high, and her sisters were asleep when she finished. The pile of arrows laying on the ground was half a yard high. It was impossible to imagine that they had all been embedded in his flesh only hours earlier.
And yet, even as she washed the last of his wounds clean under his direction, she saw that the first ones, the ones from which she had first removed the arrows, were already closed and starting to heal. It was remarkable. She had never seen the likes of it before. Clearly, his ability to endure pain and injury and to recover successfully from them was beyond human measure. The fact that he could still sit, stand, move and talk was in itself a miracle.
He thanked her quietly and was about to turn over and sleep when she spoke.
‘Great Puru,’ she said, still too self-conscious of his stature to call him by his name directly. She was a princess born and raised, she could not overlook protocol and etiquette, even under the circumstances. Besides, for all his actions, he was still very much a gentleman and a royal, as was she. ‘I had already chosen the king of Soubha as my husband to be. He had accepted me and made his desire known to my father. It also pleased my father to have him as his son in law. Once he excelled at the swayamvara, I would have declared him as my choice of husband. But now, I can never do so. This is your doing. You appear to be a man who knows dharma. Therefore decide what is the right course of action for me to follow under dharma.’
So saying, she went to bed beside her sisters. But she did not fall asleep at once. Instead, she lay awake, hoping that Bhishma would come to her and answer her proposal in words or deed, or both.
Bhishma lay on his pallet of grass and thought long and hard on her words. He knew what she meant but could not say more directly. You have defeated the man whom I intended to marry. By defeating him and proving yourself the better man, you earn the right to claim my hand. It would not displease me if you declare your intention to marry me.
He knew that she was awake yet, sighing and turning from side to side in order to let him know that she waited for his answer. He knew she meant for him to come and claim her, as was his right under dharma. She desired him and wanted him to desire her as his wife.
In another life, at another time, perhaps he would have done as she wished. Perhaps he would have wished the same.
But in this life, he was foresworn from marriage, cohabitation, love, sex…and that meant he could not allow himself even to feel such desires for a woman, let alone express them. To him, the line between brahmacharya and grihasta was not a fine one. It was clearly etched, large and bold. And he could not approach it even from afar, let alone broach it.
Moments later, he woke Amba with a hand on her shoulder.
She started awake at once, beaming with pleasure. For she thought he had come to steal her away into the shadows to demonstrate his desire for her. She was excited and waiting it eagerly. Never before had she d
esired a man as she desired Bhishma. Even Shalya’s proposal and her infatuation for him seemed juvenile and puerile now in retrospect. This was a real man, and real love. And under the circumstances, what could be more thrilling than to give herself under the stars to a prince of the Puru empire after being abducted from her own swayamvara? It was like being the heroine of her own puranic fable.
What she failed to remember was that the heroines of puranic fables almost always found their stories ending tragically.
Bhishma took her around the trees to where the horses were tethered. Her heart was pounding and she found her breath catching in her throat as she prepared to receive the touch of her first lover. She was surprised to see that he had separated a horse from the team and had saddled and harnessed it for individual riding. She was even more surprised when he turned to her and said, ‘This horse will carry you to your destination. Ride southwards and westwards and you will find your way.’
She stared at him blankly. Southwards and westwards? What did he mean? Then she remembered what kingdom lay in that direction.
‘Shouba?’ she asked. ‘You are sending me to Shouba?’
It was impossible to see his face clearly in the shadows of the tree. ‘It is what you desire, is it not? You were all but betrothed to King Shalva of Shouba. I am doing the right thing under dharma, as you requested. Your two sisters will continue to Hastinapura with me, to be married to my ward Vichitravirya. They shall be treated as princesses deserve and shall be as happy with him as they could ever desire. He is a handsome young man and a good king. They will not lack for anything and shall live as queens of the earth.’
She was still trying to get over the shock of disappointment. ‘But…you do not wish me to go as well…to Hastinapura?’
‘Two wives are good,’ he said. ‘And yes, had you not asked me to release you, I would wish you to go to Hastinapura as well. To wed Vichitravirya. But since you asked for my mercy, I am granting you this reprieve. I wish I could let your sisters go as well, but trust me when I say, I am sure they will do far better with Vichitravirya than with any of those dolts at your swayamvara!’
She did not know what to say. This was an unexpected turn of events. Clearly, he had misunderstood her, or…Or he had deliberately rejected her overture and invitation, spurning her. Why else would he send her to that naked blubbering fool? That coward who had tried to kill her and her sisters to prove his own valour as a warrior and had then proved himself utterly incompetent before a real warrior like Bhishma! She didn’t want to go to Shalva now! She had no desire to see Shalva ever again. Yet she seemed to have no choice. She could not refuse to go now, for it would be humiliating to beg him and be rejected again.
She made one last attempt. He was turning to go and she reached out and caught his arm. He stopped and looked down at her hand holding his forearm.
‘Will you not take me yet?’ she asked, leaving it open for him to interpret in any way he pleased. To say more would be to say too much, and that would mean a loss of dignity. For a princess raised as she had been, dignity was more important than anything else.
He reached down and removed her hand from his forearm, gently.
‘Goodbye, princess,’ he said softly.
And walked away.
She left in tears, riding hard.
He lay awake, listening to the sound of the hooves fading into the night.
||paksha nine||
the seeds of war
1
Hastinapura was alight with word of Bhishma Pitama’s amazing feat. Satyavati, while taken aback at the manner in which it had been accomplished, nevertheless bit her tongue when she saw what had been accomplished. The two daughters of the king of Kashi were beautiful. At the wedding, they were the envy of every beautiful woman in the court. Tall, with full heads of thick, lustrous blue-black hair, fingernails and toenails painted blood red, heavy of hip and breast, heart-faced with a glow to rival the moon, they walked like queens already. Vichitravirya was equally astonished but the instant he met his wives to be, he was equally amazed. They brought out the best in him. He never looked handsomer or more alive and virile than on his wedding night. After a grand ceremony and lavish festivities which ranged across the land for days, it was evident that the quiet young king was in fact an artful lover. He disappeared for days on end with both his beautiful wives, and the reports the serving maids and daiimaas brought to Satyavati’s ears were enough to make her blush with embarrassment. Clearly, the new groom and his brides were consumed by passion. As the days turned into weeks and weeks into months, and months into years, neither did their passion dim nor fade. Vichitravirya blossomed and became a great patron of the arts, compared by the court poets more than once to Kama-dev himself, lord of love and pleasure. He lived like Kama-dev, often seeming more interested in pursuing the arts of pleasure than the craft of kingship. Satyavati often complained to Bhishma that he took too much of the burden of governance on himself – indeed, he took all of it on himself – and he spoiled Vichitravirya by letting him dally his life away in the arms of his two buxom wives. But secretly, she was glad to see her son so happy and full of life and vigour. For the truth was, Vichitravirya could never equal Bhishma in the management of the kingdom. In a sense, his real responsibility was producing heirs for the dynasty. And how else was he to accomplish that if not by dallying with those buxom brides?
And so Vichitravirya passed the next seven years in blissful ecstasy, tasting of the fruits of desire to his heart’s content.
But despite tasting of all those fruits, his seed produced no heirs. Neither of his wives conceived by him for seven long years – and not for want of trying!
As the seventh year came to an end, the royal vaids came to Satyavati and Bhishma with news that was worse than the failure to produce heirs.
Vichitravirya was striken by consumption, the awful tuberculosis of the lungs for which there was no known cure at the time. The vaids tried everything within their power, and Bhishma sent envoys far and wide across the world to seek cures in other foreign lands. But all efforts were in vain. Vichitravirya steadily sickened and even as his beautiful wives wept over his wasting body, he passed into Yama’s abode one evening. The sun seemed to be setting on the Puru dynasty even as it set that day.
In the absence of an eldest son, Bhishma performed the funeral rites at Satyavati’s request.
Once again, the Puru dynasty was without a legitimate heir, or even the possibility of one. For now there remained no sons to further the lineage.
Except Bhishma.
2
She came to his chamber after hours. Bhishma was never truly at rest. He seemed tireless, forever dealing with some aspect of kingship or other. Watching him work, she marvelled at his ability to devote every gram of his energy to building, consolidating and expanding an empire in which he himself had no future stake. Without progeny of his own, who would inherit the fruits of all this labour. And during his lifetime, he was as much a servant as a ruler. Regent in name and deed, he had once behaved like a king or sought undue power or credit. Truly, he was a god among men, Satyavati thought as she waited for him to finish dictating some order of business to a trio of scribes who listened reverentially to his every word. When he was done, he thanked them for their time and effort politely. That in itself was a marvel. Most kings would have snarled and told them to get lost when the work was done, eager to get on with their carousing and whoring. Even the best behaved dharmic lords would at best have remained silent. To actually thank even the lowest minions who served under his aegis was a hallmark of Bhishma Pitama’s regency. It earned him his loyal following and devout subservience, even though he did not do it in order to gain these benefits. Satyavati herself had had her share of arrogant nobles and aristocrats, as well as rude kshatriyas full of wine and their own self-worth, men who tossed coins at her rudely, made lewd advances or comments, or generally acted boorish. And here was Bhishma, the greatest warrior of the time, ruler of the most wealthiest and
powerful empire, legitimate son and heir to the very dynasty that had originally settled and civilized this vast sub-continent. And yet, he lived frugally, as austere as any ascetic or hermit. His chambers in which she now stood, were as bare and bereft of luxury as the hut of any sadhu in a forest ashram. He drank no intoxicants, had no vices and spent all his waking hours engaged in the service of the kingdom. She had known priests who took more pleasure from life than he!
When they were alone, she said, ‘Gangeya, my son, what do you seek in life?’
He looked at her with a startled expression. It was rare to evoke such a reaction from Bhishma but she had known that name would produce the desired response. ‘That name…’ he said.
‘Shantanu told me,’ she said. ‘He told me everything about you. I know who you truly are. I know that you seek only to live out this life on earth and return to swargaloka to be with your brothers once more. I know that you spend your entire life working selflessly in the service of others because you are atoning for an error made by your brothers and yourself – atoning for their share of blame as well as your own. I know that your mother was no foreigner who died in childbirth…’
Bhishma nodded. His eyes were unsettling: bright and reflective yet dark brown and deep set in his broad-browed face, they were fearsome when the full light of their intensity was turned upon a person. He rarely looked at anyone for too long and when he did it was enough to make even the innocent want to confess to crimes they had not committed. ‘He had every right to confide in you. You were his lawful wife. He loved you deeply. I wish you had more days together on earth.’
She bowed her head. ‘I wish that too. But it was not to be. Just as my sons were not meant to become fathers and know the pleasures of parenthood. But now we face a great crisis, Gangeya. A dynasty without an heir is like a pillar that will crack and crumble at any time, bringing down the empire it holds in place. All this work you do, your life’s work, your constant effort to build, grow, establish, expand, consolidate, all this will be for naught if the Puru line is not extended.’
MAHABHARATA SERIES BOOK#2: The Seeds of War (Mba) Page 25