Later, much later, Gandhari would remember these words, when Kunti shared her anguish over the son she had abandoned, and she would wonder at the intensity of love that ripens in absence, the brew of guilt, regret and longing that went into these women whose first-borns were taken away from them because of their impossible situations, both of whom were the hardest, toughest women Gandhari knew. Maybe it was something about that kind of love, that kind of longing, that kind of loss, that hardened a person, made her impervious to all things, made her ruthless and reckless, a dire sense that after giving up one’s own blood and flesh, there was nothing left to lose.
‘That was it. The rishi saw to it that no one ever came to know of the indiscretion. He went on his way and I on mine. Only Bhishma and now you know of this. Now tell me what do you think of it?’
Another woman may have commented on how blessed Satyavati was for having attracted the attention of such an eminent sage, or sympathized with her plight at having to deal with such a difficult personality. But Gandhari was different. She said thoughtfully, ‘I’m glad to be married into this family under your wise stewardship, queen mother. In that difficult situation, you kept your wits and you protected your interests time and time again, to ensure he did not take advantage of you. Another in your place may have ruined her life unwittingly by not taking the precautions you did. You protected yourself and your family.’
Gandhari could feel Satyavati nod vigorously, through the gentle chime of her bobbing earrings and the fresh waves of fragrance bombarding Gandhari’s nostrils. Gandhari admired the power of Parashara’s spell that had devised this fragrance that was ever charming, never cloying.
Satyavati continued, ‘It is always different with rishis, you know. They take care that no harm is done to the woman or others involved. He left me with the most wondrous son I could have dreamt of. But one has to take care of oneself these days with other men, human men. It was different before. Before, women could go freely where and with whom they wished. Since then, since the time of Shvetaketu, it has all changed. Now one has to be careful.’
Gandhari nodded soberly. Chastity was now a woman’s greatest strength. Chastity was now something different than what it once was.
Satyavati sighed airily. ‘You know about my wedding to the king, of course, and Bhishma’s vow?’
‘Yes, queen mother.’
‘Well, Shantanu and I had two sons. The first died in a stupid battle he picked against the king of the Gandharvas. The second, Vichitravirya, died heirless. Bhishma got him three brides – the sister princesses from Kashi: Amba, Ambika, and Ambalika. So like a man, Bhishma thought he could get three brides in one go. Always so efficient. He brought home all three sisters, or tried to.’
‘What happened?’
‘The eldest, Amba.’ Satyavati’s voice soured. ‘She did not like that Bhishma had won her hand in the swayamvara through defeating the other suitors. She was in love with another man who she had thought would win her hand at the swayamvara. But he, like the others, was defeated by my stepson. Bhishma returned her to her home when he realized her heart was set on another man, but that man would not have her. Nor would Vichitravirya, once he learned of her attachment. Then, she asked Bhishma to marry her as a last resort. But, of course, he refused. She went away to the forest then, for penance. I would say, for revenge. We will yet sow the karma for that, I am sure.’
Gandhari shivered with sudden foreboding.
‘Vichitravirya died heirless – so besotted with his wives, yet unable to produce a child. It seemed then that our dynasty had come to an end. Oh! The proposals I got. You can well imagine, how hungrily others eyed the kingdom and me. But I would not give up so easily. Shantanu would not see his line come to an end like that; not when he had entrusted the future of this family to me. He would not regret from Swarga, the heavens, that he had married me. Never!’ Satyavati gritted her teeth. ‘There was still the path of niyoga.’
Gandhari knew immediately what she meant. Niyoga was the practice of requesting and appointing a man to sire a child with a woman whose husband was either incapable of fatherhood or had died childless. The man was often the husband’s brother or else a revered person of elevated spiritual stature. In niyoga, the child would be considered the child of the husband and not the biological father. The biological father would never seek any paternal or other relationship with the child. The man was permitted to perform niyoga only a maximum of three times in his lifetime. It was considered a sacred act of Dharma and not one of passion or lust.
‘First, I asked Bhishma.’
Gandhari gasped. She could not help it. She had not guessed that even this daring queen would have had such temerity. Satyavati acknowledged stiffly, ‘Yes, well, he did not take kindly to that suggestion either. He was not ready to sacrifice his vow of celibacy.’
‘How could you think he would? Especially when he had taken that vow at your father’s behest!’
‘Well, you tell me! What choice did I have?’ Satyavati rose and paced. ‘The lineage would have died without his intervention. He put his vow above his duty to continue the lineage and safeguard the kingdom.’
‘The vow he took for your sake,’ Gandhari could not help snidely pointing out.
Satyavati paused. ‘He did not have to take the vow, you know. His father had agreed to not pursue me if it meant Bhishma losing his right to the throne. No one forced Bhishma into that vow. He should have thought about it more carefully in that case. And what was I to do? Or my father? Did we not have to look after ourselves? How was I to compete with the ghost of Ganga, the goddess? Or my son with Bhishma? Our position would have been precarious at best, once Shantanu had had his way with me, once we were married and he had passed. Who would take care of me then? My father and I also needed to secure our own future.’
Gandhari murmured, preferring to stay non-committal. Bhishma would never have abandoned her. There was security, and then there was naked ambition. She would have liked Satyavati all the more had she admitted it openly.
‘In any event, Bhishma refused; but then I called upon my other son, Dvaipayana. He came instantly. He took after his father, that ferocious rishi, in his fearsome, dark appearance. His radiance was even more bewildering than his father’s. To city folk it was intimidating, perhaps. At least it was to my daughters-in-law. They reluctantly agreed to the niyoga with him. But one was so terrified, she closed her eyes at the mere sight of him. The other shrank bank from him. Thus, one grandson was born blind – your fiancée – and the other a pale, nervous thing, Pandu. Hmmph! Pampered princesses! Milk instead of blood coursing through their veins.
‘Then there was the maid who happily took to my son. She gave birth to the wisest of my three grandsons: Vidura. He, born of a maid, shall never inherit. But, mind you, girl, he will be the best counsel you can ask for, the best advisor.’
Gandhari stored that information carefully.
‘And now there is you.’
‘Yes,’ repeated Gandhari sardonically. ‘Now there is me.’
Satyavati slid closer to her and leaned forward to lift up Gandhari’s chin. Even blindfolded, Gandhari could feel the intensity of the queen’s eyes boring into her. She steadied herself resolutely.
Satyavati said slowly, ‘I think, princess, you are like me. We know how to survive, how to be tough, how to be ruthless in this world when we need to be. We are strong.’
‘That’s a good thing, isn’t it?’ Gandhari could not quite keep the tremor out of her voice.
‘I thought so. I thought so, daughter. I prided myself on it, all these years. I endured and prevailed where others would have been smothered into the dust. But, sometimes I think – Satyavati was lost for some moments, struggling in thought, and Gandhari could feel the weight of her memories pressing down upon her, the desire of two powerful men who wove her into their destinies and how she wove them into hers, the sons who disappointed her, the one who surprised her and came to her in her hour of need, the strange relatio
nship with her stepson who outlived her own blood, the gossip ever-swirling about her, the ghost of her husband’s first love who lingered in the hallways of the palace long after the river goddess had disappeared.
‘–Sometimes, I think, did I do it the right way? Or was there a better way? My son,’ her voice filled with tears as she remembered him, ‘My son, Dvaipayana, when he had come to perform the niyoga, he looked at my face, and said: “Mother, there is strength, there is sharpness of intellect in you and that has always served you well. But there is something even more important, more elusive, something you have lost. Subtlety of wisdom, the soft fluidity of water that goes where rock cannot enter.” That softness was gone in me long ago. And my hardness has become something brittle, frail.’
Gandhari shivered. It was a warning that perhaps she should have heeded.
Then Satyavati rose abruptly. ‘Come, the others are waiting. It is time to meet the rest of the family.’
Satyavati led her to a formal audience chamber. She was suddenly pressed on all sides by the Kurus and their ministers, plying her with prying questions and morbid curiosity about her blindfold. None dared to touch her or it as Satyavati had, but she felt naked and vulnerable in front of them, all the same. Despite her best efforts, Gandhari could not remember the names and titles of all who surrounded her in the small audience chamber, which felt claustrophobic with its stifling heat and thick stone walls. The only voice she could distinguish was the kind, gentle, wise tone of Vidura; aloof from the others, removed, yet who reacted with sharp alacrity to the words of others. Gandhari privately agreed with the queen grandmother that he was one whose counsel should be heeded.
It was Pandu who rescued her from the crowd. Nearly an hour after Satyavati had relinquished her to their custody, a laughing Pandu entered the chamber and told the others to back off. He shooed them away so he could escort her to finally meet her betrothed. Dhritarashthra was not present with the others. He was resting, she was told.
Pandu had brought along a chambermaid to hold her hand and guide her along the hallways. Gandhari hesitated, torn between wanting to appear self-sufficient and not wanting to embarrass herself by falling or stumbling. She reluctantly took the maid’s hand. Pandu slowed down his pace to keep up with them.
He asked after her health and the wellbeing of her family and the kingdom she left behind. Then he said affably, ‘I cannot tell you how excited my brother is to meet you.’
Gandhari blushed. ‘Is that so?’
‘Oh, yes! For weeks, he has been asking me about you, to describe the portraits we received of you. Word has spread of your charms and he was eager to know what I’ve heard. I have never seen a man more excited about the prospect of matrimony. He is thoroughly besotted just with the thought of you.’
‘I see.’ Gandhari’s heart thudded in her chest. She supposed she should have been flattered, but there was something unsavoury and sinister in what Pandu was describing. She shook her head slightly to dispel the niggling doubts about this man she was going to marry.
‘Not much further now. This palace is a maze of hallways, chambers and secret chambers. I still find myself getting lost.’
‘Never mind, prince. I shall learn my way around in no time at all. Even the secret chambers.’
Pandu laughed. ‘I do not doubt it.’
They stopped in front of a chamber with a locked door. It was cooler here, the torches dimmed to keep it darker than the rest of the palace. Here no other sounds of the palace were decipherable. It was as reclusive as could be. Pandu rapped on the door lightly.
In a few minutes, a squeaky voice asked, ‘Who is it?’
Pandu grunted. ‘It’s me. Open the door now. I’ve come with the princess of Gandhara. Make sure your master is in a decent state, and open the door. Do not leave the princess waiting.’ By Pandu’s tone, it seemed that he had been kept waiting by this person at this door more often than not.
There was a rapid shuffling of feet, and then the door opened. Chapped, rough, sand-dry hands reached out to grab Gandhari’s arms, holding her painfully tight, and then dragged her into the oppressively dark and hot chamber. She squeaked again, ‘Ah! So, the princess has come.’ The speaker seemed to be a short elderly woman, judging by the sound of her voice that emerged somewhere at Gandhari’s chest level and the gnarled fingers wrapped around her arms.
It felt like the chamber of an invalid, as if her husband were a dying man.
Pandu exclaimed, ‘Kutili! Unhand her at once. Show some manners for once, woman. Give some respect.’
Kutili quieted down and politely but firmly pushed Gandhari down into a cushioned bench.
From a distance, a feeble male voice called out, ‘Pandu? Is it you? Have you brought my bride?’
Pandu sighed. ‘Come, brother, you are not deaf or lame. Come forward to meet the princess of Gandhara.’
Gandhari heard him get up out of bed – how could he be sleeping at such an hour? – and shuffle with the help of Kutili towards her. Gandhari bowed her head deeply at his approach, although she knew he could not see the gesture.
‘Pandu,’ he called out weakly, ‘I cannot see her. Describe her to me. Is she beautiful?’
Gandhari gritted her teeth. She despised weakness in any form and though she understood his physical disability, she found it hard to respect someone who relied on his brother for courtship. It disgusted her – a man who had to depend on his brother for romance, who was content with second-hand accounts to form his opinion of her, who was not man enough to fall in love with her on his own.
Pandu was a little short with him: ‘Brother! Get hold of yourself. You shall get to know her for yourself and discover how blessed you are by this union. Her beauty is matched only by her intelligence and grace. She has blindfolded herself in honour of you, as a token of her regard for you. You should be grateful to have won the hand of such a noble woman.’
‘I am, Pandu, I am.’ His voice was tremulous.
Pandu headed towards the door. ‘I will let you get to know each other on your own. Honoured to have met you, princess.’
Pandu left, and Gandhari found herself wishing he would have remained. He was so friendly and gregarious that he could make up for the silence and passivity of his brother. An awkward silence ensued. Gandhari wondered what Dhritarashthra looked like. How odd that she would never see the face of her husband. Perhaps she should ask Kutili to describe him to her, Gandhari thought to herself bitterly, and ask whether he was handsome.
Kutili spoke again in a wheezing voice. ‘My master is of very delicate health. I do not know how you will ever manage to do for him what I do, but I suppose you must learn. Well, I will teach you, there’s nothing else for it. No one else in this household knows how to keep him happy but me. Now it is up to you.’
‘It is true,’ Dhritarashthra said. ‘She is the only one who has ever bothered to take care of me.’
So, this is how it is, Gandhari thought to herself. Distaste shivered down her spine. Perhaps she was being overly fanciful and letting her imagination run riot, but she kept envisioning Dhritarashthra in the care and at the whim of Kutili, ensconced in darkness in the furthest reaches of the palace where none dared to trespass. She wondered what kind of poisonous words Kutili may have been pouring into the ears of Dhritarashthra, perhaps even about Gandhari.
Gandhari bit her tongue. She slowed down her breathing and silenced herself as she began listening and taking mental notes from his servant on how to care for him as his wife.
Now was not the time to say anything.
The wedding was a blur to Gandhari. She felt the heat of the fire, she felt her hand being pressed by her brother Shakuni into her new husband’s; she felt the heaviness of her sari and jewellery; heard the droning of the priests; smelled the burnt coconut and herbs offered into the sacred fire to bless their union. She remembered the richness of the food – the plates heaped with cuts of fish and meats, vegetables simmering and sizzling in succulent gravies, flatbreads of
barley and millet. It was so rich that it turned her stomach inside out. But she had to eat. She did not want to be fed by her maids, to appear weak and dependent, so she had Ayla whisper into her ear what had been placed on her plate and where on her plate and fed herself by hand.
Then it was night. Her wedding night. Her mother had not prepared her, but she knew what was to come. She was not dumb. But how to go about it blindfolded? With a blind man? Gandhari’s throat turned dry. She had not considered this logistics.
It was a peculiar night. For a long time, for almost an hour, Dhritarashthra reverentially touched her face. His fingers were tentative, groping, yet eager. He traced her eyebrows, the curve of her hairline, her cheekbones, the lines of the bandage newly wound around her head, the shells of her ears, the contours of her lips. He stroked her chin as gently as if she were a child, chucking it like her father once had. It had made her almost cry.
He had marvelled at her hair, weighing it in his hands, sifting it like sand through his trembling fingers, crying out with pleasure at the feel of it. He had leaned into her neck and inhaled deeply for several breaths, before sighing in contentment.
For months, he did not even want sex. She was impatient for it, not out of desire for him, but out of desire for children who would be their heirs. But he did not even want to talk of such things. He became a child around her, a petulant child, tugging at her as if she were his mother rather than his wife.
Dhritarashthra kept Kutili around, and it was often just the three of them in the dark chamber. He would ramble and ruminate about whether someone was trying to poison him; whether a light cough he had developed was a sign of a terminal illness that would soon kill him; whether Pandu was hiding treasure and information from him, not that he ever showed curiosity about the goings on of the kingdom. Kutili delighted in indulging his paranoia and Gandhari was constrained in how dismissive she could be of his paranoia without seeming a disrespectful wife. She did not even have the power to dismiss Kutili. She still had to earn the trust of her husband; of all the Kurus.
The Curse of Gandhari Page 7