Navaratri: the nine-night festival in honour of Devi, had begun by the time they reached Hastinapur. Combined with welcoming Gandhari, the first bride of the Kuru princes, the city was at peak festivity. Ayla described to Gandhari how the wide avenues and brick walking paths were swept clean, doorways festooned with green mango leaves, bulls and cows garlanded with bright marigolds. The chariots of Bhishma’s entourage slowed as they entered the city gates. Even Shakuni remarked in awe at the towering stone elephants that stood guard at the doorway to the city.
Bhishma was at the forefront of the procession and was forced to slow their progress as the citizens rushed out onto the roads to throw rice and brightly coloured flower petals at their beloved regent. He stood proud and graciously acknowledged their adulation with pronouncements of blessings, as stern and methodical as if he were reading aloud an ordinance. Despite his stiffness, it was clear the kingdom adored him and even Gandhari had to admire the standing he commanded among his people. How happy they would have been, she thought to herself, if only he had become king.
She could smell chickpea flour fritters frying in sesame oil, the scent of ghee lamps burning, the simmering rice puddings being cooked as offerings to Devi, the crush of flowers being torn into petals for worship during this holy period. It was hot here, hotter than she was used to, and she could feel the sweat pooling beneath her armpits, staining the red blouse of her outfit. She could feel her hair growing damp and untamed, the sheen of sweat that would make her face look oily and shiny. She was desperate to compose herself before meeting anyone else in the royal family, not trusting Ayla to do complete justice to her toilet in the chariot, but she didn’t know whether Bhishma would extend this courtesy to her. She ran her hands up and down her arms and necks, checking her earrings and other jewellery to make sure Ayla had put the right ones on her for today – she wanted the flaming ruby set that sparkled and glowed even in the dimmest of lights. She had a feeling that Dhritarashthra’s chambers would be dim indeed.
Finally, the chariot drew to a graceful halt. Ayla whispered, ‘We are here,’ and took her by the elbow. Gandhari descended from the chariot, heart pounding. She did not want to seem weak, so she did not dare ask Ayla how many people, if any, were standing there in front of the palace entrance, to have their first view of her. Was it just the servants, or had others come, too, citizens from the city, from far and wide? Her senses were not yet sharp enough to discern this on her own.
Best to act as if they were there in the thousands. She held her head up regally, picked up the edges of her sari delicately and moved forward in small, graceful steps. The driveway was pebbled, and it was difficult to keep her balance atop the hot, shifting gravel. But she managed. She shook off Ayla’s hand, not wanting to appear incapacitated. The Kurus should not think they had gotten a burden with her as a bride. They should feel grateful and honoured.
Bhishma was greeted by an onslaught of ministers and commanders, pestering him with updates and questions, eager for his counsel and decisions after his time away. Bhishma walked away with them, barely paying Gandhari a second thought. Gandhari did not move or turn or in any way betray the slightest uncertainty or inquisitiveness. She would wait until someone came to fetch her.
In a few moments, Gandhari caught her smell. She smelled her before she heard the tread of her footsteps, before she saw her shadow fall across her line of vision through the blindfold. It was Satyavati, Gandhari realized, the Queen Regent of Hastinapur, whose grandsons were Pandu and Dhritarashthra. She was known as Yojanagandha, one whose fragrance spread for over a yojana, approximately twelve or fifteen kilometres in distance. Finally, Satyavati stood still before her, even her shadow imposing and haughty.
Gandhari bent down to prostrate in front of her, aiming to touch her feet but she missed by half a foot, touching the stones of the driveway instead. She reached forward again until her fingers felt the cool softness of her grandmother-in-law’s feet. She touched her own forehead with that hand in respect and then rose, a sign of respect due to her elder.
Satyavati drew a finger lightly across Gandhari’s blindfold: ‘So. The reports of the blindfolded princess are true. Well, it sounds like something someone from Gandhara would do.’
Her voice was steely and rough, a contrast to the urbane refinement of her stepson Bhishma. Gandhari’s heart pounded as she followed Satyavati into the palace. Of all the people she was to meet in Hastinapur, it was Satyavati who intimidated her the most. Nervous and on guard as she was, Gandhari was also careful to count the steps she took from the entrance, along the marbled floors of the palace to the chamber where Satyavati led her. She wanted to build a map in her head of the palace, of every wing, chamber and seating area, so that she would never be lost or dependent on others.
Satyavati instructed one of the maids to take Gandhari to a chamber where she could bathe and refresh herself. She told Gandhari to come to her personal audience chamber afterward, so they could converse privately. Gandhari quickly washed herself and straightened out her clothes. She did not want to keep the queen waiting. It was late afternoon when she arrived, the period during which most of the household was resting at the height of the heat and humidity of the day, and by the time she was ready to meet the queen, dusk was approaching. Gardenia-scented breezes wafted through the heavily curtained doors and windows. The marble floors had become cool to her feet’s touch. She could hear the ringing of bells and drones of Vedic chants as the evening prayers commenced. There was a full retinue of priests here, performing all the rites to ensure the well-being of the kingdom and royal family. Her mother would have been envious.
The maid took her into Satyavati’s audience chamber, seating her on a bench right next to Satyavati’s cushioned chair, at a small but noticeable height above hers. The queen entered, sat on her chair and swung her legs up, reclining back on the cushions. Satyavati commanded the maid to offer Gandhari refreshments. A heavy silver tumbler of flavoured sweet hot milk was placed in Gandhari’s hands. She sipped at it politely, the milk scalding her tongue and coating her throat chalkily. She did not care for heavy dairy but didn’t dare offend the queen. When the maid placed a plate of foods in her hands, Gandhari, however, demurred.
She explained to the queen, ‘I fast during Navaratri. I will only take milk and fruits.’
Satyavati sighed: ‘Girl, you’ve been on the road for weeks. As it is, you’ve already blinded yourself. No need to starve yourself, too. We cannot have any more weakness and infirmity in this family than we already do.’
‘I assure you, revered mother, I will not be in any way weak or frail. My body is used to fasting.’
‘Have it your way then.’
Satyavati waited until Gandhari had swallowed some more of the milk. ‘Now, tell me what is this nautanki, this melodrama, with the blindfold. I had not expected such histrionics and melodrama from Subala’s daughter of all people.’
Gandhari kept her voice even. ‘It is not melodrama. It is part of my pativrata, my vow of marriage and devotion to my husband, to sacrifice my eyesight in honour of he who has been blind since birth. I am sure this sacrifice of mine will bring blessings for him and the entire family.’
Satyavati popped some nuts into her mouth, munching them loudly. Gandhari was taken aback at her brazen manner, until she reminded herself that Satyavati was a woman of low social standing originally. She was the adopted daughter of a fisherman, after all. In her youth, she had helped her father ferry passengers back and forth across the river in his boat.
‘You know what a disaster my daughters-in-law were, I presume.’
‘I’d always heard how virtuous they are, queen mother.’
Satyavati snorted. ‘One grandson ended up blind because one daughter-in-law couldn’t bear the sight of my son; the other ended up a pale weakling because my other daughter-in-law shuddered in fright at my son’s countenance.’
Gandhari said nothing. To disagree would be an affront to Satyavati. To agree would be an insult
to her mother-in-law.
Satyavati leapt up and began pacing the floor of the small chamber furiously. ‘Fools! Their inability to deal with reality ruined our lineage. I did not want the next bride for this family to be another such simpering miss. That’s why I told Bhishma to go to Gandhara. I had thought you would be bred of sterner stuff.’
‘Is that why? I thought it was because of the boon that I would bear one hundred sons.’
Satyavati chuckled and resumed her seat. ‘Well, that helps, I confess. You must realize how precious the guarantee of sons and a continuing lineage is for us, especially in our circumstances.’
Gandhari simply nodded.
Satyavati appeared to be studying her for some moments. When she spoke next, her voice was quieter, more thoughtful. ‘I know what they say about me. How I schemed and tricked my way onto the throne and my sons into the succession. The tricks I used to keep the dynasty and my bloodline going after my sons died. But the thing is, daughter, while Bhishma and the others are out winning wars and conquering kingdoms, and winning fame and glory for our name, it’s we women who keep the kingdom intact.’
Her voice hardened: ‘So, girl, what is it you’ve heard about me and our family? I know of Subala’s spies and I know of the gossip that has travelled the furthest reaches of Bharat.’
Gandhari smoothed the sari over her lap. When Bhishma had tested her, it had been cerebral. This was different and far more nerve-wracking. She replied diplomatically, ‘Many things are said, queen mother. It is difficult to separate fact from fiction.’
She laughed. ‘Probably the truth is even more bizarre than what you’ve heard. Don’t worry, girl, I won’t quiz you. I believe if you’re going to be part of the family, you should be privy to its history and secrets and all the skeletons in the closet, including mine. How else can you do your duty to the Kuru clan? But are you really one of us now?’
Gandhari carefully got off the bench and knelt at Satyavati’s feet. She placed her hands in the queen mother’s elegantly shaped, soft as satin, be-ringed hands. Satyavati’s hands stayed as they were and made no move to curl around hers. Gandhari said slowly and steadily, ‘This blindfolding was not an act of pique. I am a girl of devotion and penance. If not, I would never have won the boon from Shiva for one hundred sons. Yes, it was a shock to me when Bhishma asked for my hand for Dhritarashthra, but when I stood in front of the altar on the morning before coming here, I knew this was my destiny. During the journey here, I felt myself more and more bound to him. He is my life, my family, my husband, my fate. I will never utter the name of a man who is not my husband or entertain the thought of any man in my mind. You will never find a more devout or chaste bride than me. In the name of all the thirty-three million devas, revered grandmother, I promise you this.’
Satyavati murmured in satisfaction and pressed her hands gently, placing her right hand on the top of Gandhari’s head for a few moments in blessing. She herself led Gandhari back to her seat on the bench and then resumed her seat. ‘My daughter, now I shall tell you my story and the story of this family since I married into them.’
Satyavati murmured for the maid to bring sliced mango for Gandhari to eat. Then she began in a confiding tone, as if she were narrating a tale from long ago and not her own life story: ‘It is true that I was raised by a fisherman, but it is said that I was the daughter of a Chedi king. Once, the king had travelled deep into the forest for a hunting trip. He had been away from his wife, the queen, for days, perhaps weeks, and one night in the forest, he — hmm, how shall I put it— released a nocturnal emission, and did not want it to go to waste.’
Gandhari did not blush at the queen’s frank language. It was true that a man’s virya held his life force and was not to be wasted; his semen was to be carefully preserved and used to further the family and lineage, to produce the progeny who would ensure his and his family’s immortality, to please the ancestors and the devas.
Gandhari could feel the queen shrug, felt her strong perfume disperse afresh through the cool air surrounding them in the small chamber. ‘Well, who knows the truth of the matter, but it is said that he placed it in a leaf to be carried back by an eagle to the queen for insemination. The leaf – err – dropped when the eagle started fighting with another eagle mid-air and was eventually consumed by a fish and then the fish became pregnant. Then the fish was caught by the head fisherman, my adoptive father. When he sliced open the belly of the fish, he found me there and I became his daughter.’
Satyavati did not say so but Gandhari knew that Satyavati also bore the smell of fish since the day she was born. The acrid, gagging smell of cold raw fish clung to her like scales. Satyavati laughed: ‘What a beginning I’ve had, and now look where I’ve ended up! A widowed queen who has outlived both her sons – is there a more inauspicious fate? And yet, by tooth and nail, I’ve kept Hastinapur intact! I’ve held onto this throne for my grandsons and no one knows how many prying hands I’ve had to fight off, desperate hands who have longed to hold my body as much as they longed for the throne of the Kuru kingdom, men who wanted to make me their wife and become king of this throne that has for so long been empty of a proper king.’ She swallowed hard. ‘I may not be conventional; I may be an outsider forever and always to this court. But, princess, I have done whatever has been needed to keep our lineage going. Mind that, Gandhari.’
Your lineage, perhaps. But you also saw fit to end the lineage that would otherwise have continued with Bhishma.
There was a long silence as crickets chirruped and in a chamber some distance away, far removed from the women’s chambers, voices were droning in debate, a council of ministers perhaps plotting a war strategy or debating a tax policy.
Satyavati waved her hands. ‘I’ve been rambling, and the night is fast approaching. You have to still meet the others. Well, let me make it quick. I know you have heard about my sons, Chitrangada and Vichitravirya, the heirs to the throne, each of whom was crowned king albeit for too short a time. But probably you have not heard of my first-born.’ Satyavati’s voice softened with affection. It was the first time that Gandhari sensed the mother in her. ‘Dvaipayana, the island-born one.’
‘No, queen,’ Gandhari said softly. ‘I have not.’
Satyavati’s voice took on the fond tone of an old woman given to reminiscing; the queen giving way to the inner woman. ‘As a girl, I helped my father, whose job it was to ferry passengers from one bank of the river to another. Sometimes I would ferry customers on his behalf. One day, oh, I shall never forget this day, this giant of a man came on my boat. He was toweringly tall, his face sunburned and fierce, covered with a beard. He was a rishi, there was no doubt. The fires of his penance emanated from his body. He was so fierce in form that all the other customers were scared and ran off as soon as he appeared. He was the most fascinating man I’d seen in my life.
‘He did not say a word, merely grunted at me, and got in the boat. He stared at me so intently, unblinking, that I almost lost my grip on the oars. Suddenly – we had hardly left the shore – he grabbed my right hand.’
Gandhari lifted a brow. To hold a woman’s right hand meant one wanted her sexually.
‘I tried to snatch my hand back. I told him a brahmana of his stature should not desire a lowly woman like me, especially a woman who stinks of fish. But he would not listen. He moved towards me again and again, so forcefully, I thought the boat might tip over. I was so out of my element; no one else had ever desired this fishy girl and I didn’t know how to handle him. But I’ve always kept my wits about me, girl; there’s no other way of surviving in this world. So, I told him to keep a hold on himself and wait until we reached the bank on the other side of the river.
‘He obeyed and then reached for me as soon as we stepped on dry land.’ Satyavati laughed heartily. ‘Isn’t that always the way of these ascetics? They spend years and years denying themselves food, warmth, women, civilization, and then desire comes on them like a storm and they cannot stop themselves.
> ‘Anyway, I told him that my body stank and our time together should be enjoyable to both of us. That powerful rishi, Parashara – he finally deigned to tell me his name – wove a spell removing my bodily odour and replacing it with a beautiful fragrance of musk. That fragrance has stayed with me ever since, enchanting men even now. He approached me again, and I insisted that he wait until night. How could my reputation survive if my father and others saw me? He was too impatient even for that. Out of his powers, he created a dense fog that shrouded the land. He touched me again, but again I dissuaded him until I got from him the following promises: that our liaison would remain a secret and that my virginity would be left intact; that the child of our union would win fame and glory; and that the fragrance he bestowed on me would stay with me forever.
‘He agreed eagerly and… afterwards… he bathed in the river and left. The same day, I gave birth to the dark-hued Dvaipayana. He was born practically an adult and left for the forest to do penance shortly after. Too much like his father, I suppose. But he agreed to come to my aid whenever I needed him. Imagine that! He only ever saw me on the day he was born, and yet, every time I need him, he appears. In some ways, he has been dearer to me than the sons I raised with my own two hands.’
Her voice softened to a whispered longing for this strange child of hers who by now must have been a man verging on old age himself. ‘I think, one day you shall meet him, too, Gandhari. Oh! I wish you could see his face. I do not think you would be repulsed as my weak-kneed daughters-in-law were. He looks like a wild man, barbaric, orange tangled hair and dark, swarthy face and features. But I think you would not be scared of him.’
The Curse of Gandhari Page 6