The Queens of Hastinapur

by Sharath Komarraju

  The barge slid ahead, cutting across the circular section of the river. The presence of all the white puzzled Jahnavi, because she did not feel the nip in the air. In fact, she had felt colder up at the White Rock, with all the greenery around her, than she did here. The path ahead of them was covered in a light mist, and as it cleared, she saw that they were approaching a large, sheer rock, the top of which she could not see. The boat rowed right up alongside it, close enough to allow her to touch the mossy wet surface. She noticed that there were no icicles on this rock and that it felt warm on her fingertips, as though she were holding out her hand to the burning firewood in Lady Ganga’s hut.

  Every few feet or so the oarsman stopped and tapped the rock. Then he listened for something. Then he moved on.

  ‘Is this the Cave of Ice?’ she whispered to Kubera. He nodded.

  She looked back at the stretch on which they had come and saw nothing but a blanket of grey fog. The air seemed to be thicker here, seemingly making it harder to draw breath. The metal frame of the barge was covered in a thousand water droplets, and yet when she ran her hand over them, they were not as cold as she expected them to be.

  The oarsman stood straight, with the oar held above his head in both hands. In a hoarse voice he called out to the rock, in a tongue she did not understand. He paused and cocked his head, as if listening for a response. Then he raised his arms again, and this time knocked at the crags while repeating his chant.

  This time, the rock shook.

  The veil of mist dissolved for a short distance ahead of them and a tunnel appeared. As Nishanta had promised, the current picked up, and the boat sped toward it, as if a great mouth was sucking them in. Jahnavi felt her pulse quicken, but the stoic masks the men wore on their faces comforted her.

  For a few minutes, they rowed inside the tunnel, in absolute darkness. Jahnavi did not ask how the boatman knew where he was going. She just clutched her sack tight in her arms and sat with her chin sunk over her chest. She heard bats shuffle against one another on the roof, lizards and rats slither into and out of holes in the walls. The smell of dead fish hit her nose, and she had to grip the edge of the boat to stop herself from throwing up.

  Thankfully, a point of light appeared ahead, and it grew larger and larger until it became wide enough for them to pass through. The air had become lighter now, and once again she was able to smell flowers and rain, but the mist did not leave.

  ‘Where are we?’ she said.

  The edge of the boat rasped against hard land, and they anchored it. Kubera got up and gave her his hand. Nishanta placed two gold coins in the oarsman’s grubby hands, and after they had all dismounted with their sacks, the black barge turned and re-entered the Cave of Ice.

  ‘We shall wait here until the mist clears,’ said Nishanta. ‘We will take a boat to Hastinapur, and from there, yet another to Mathura.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  T

  hree days after they had left from the White Rock, they alighted at Mathura, just as the sun was about to disappear into the western sky. Jahnavi had wanted to stay in Hastinapur for longer than the few hours Nishanta had allowed; she had hoped to perhaps catch a glimpse of Bhishma on horseback, riding among his people, enquiring after their well-being.

  ‘The Kuru kings do not ride on the streets any longer,’ Nishanta had said. ‘It used to happen when Hastinapur was a small kingdom, a mere vassal of Panchala. Now it is one of the Great Kingdoms, perhaps the strongest in North Country. Its High Kings need to be protected, for there are spies and enemies lurking in every corner.’

  Jahnavi had wished to point out that Bhishma was scarcely a High King. He was a mere regent. But the tone of Nishanta’s voice stopped her. It was plain from his words that no matter who sat on Hastinapur’s throne, it was Bhishma who mattered more than anyone else. Even she had not wished to see Dhritarashtra, the blind crown prince, or the pale Pandu. She had had no designs of meeting the princesses either – not the blindfolded Gandhari or the determined Pritha. But Bhishma, Devavrata – the man who became a Celestial, the Celestial who again became a man – he filled her with intrigue...

  They had taken a larger boat from Hastinapur along the Yamuna, with forty other travellers. When they passed the fishing settlement, Nishanta pointed out the former dwellings of Queen Satyavati and her people. Here, too, Jahnavi had wanted to disembark for a look, but Nishanta had said they had no time. When they passed the island of mist where Satyavati was said to have given birth to her firstborn, Jahnavi had shut her eyes and inhaled deeply, and she had thought she could sense the flavour of musk in the breeze that came floating up the river from the southeast.

  The boat let them off at the western end of Mathura. The air here was thinner than it had been in Hastinapur, and Nishanta told her that Mathura sat atop a small hillock, which gave it a fortress-like appearance when seen from a distance. The land was rocky and hard as well, she thought, tapping it with the tip of her foot.

  ‘Come,’ said Nishanta, leading them along the mud path that went into a clump of bushes. ‘We shall take a horse cart to the northern gate, and we shall spend the night there.’

  Jahnavi craned her neck downriver, where the boat had just disappeared. In the gathering shadows of the evening she saw a few flickering spots of orange light. They moved in quick, quiet lines across the water, to and fro. A strange anger awoke within her mind when she thought of Kamsa claiming this section of the Yamuna as his own. How small was one man’s life when it stood against an element of nature! How pompous of one man to claim a river belonged to him!

  Kubera walked alongside her as she followed Nishanta. Even land was the same, was it not? Men erected walls between them and their neighbours. They mounted flags and claimed ownership. This is mine, they said, and that is yours. But not for long, for I shall come and fight you, and take all that you own and annex it to mine.

  And yet, what was land? It had existed long before men had come and kingdoms had arisen. It would exist long after Hastinapur and Mathura became mere memories. Lady Ganga would say that all things in the world belonged to the Goddess, that it was mere folly to think that in our short lives, men could own anything.

  Her slippers were made of the softest leather found on Meru. They cushioned her feet well, but her heels had begun to ache. On the mountain the land was covered with either snow or grass or leaves. Even untilled land had a cottony texture to it. One never needed to protect one’s feet.

  They came to an opening in the road, where one stone path branched off to the east, and the mud road on which they were walking continued on toward the west. Three horse-drawn carts stood along the stone road. One of the riders sat up, collected his whip and whistled in their direction as they approached.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘Come and take a ride in our cart. My Chameli runs as smoothly as the wind. The dainty lady shall not feel a thing.’

  ‘We wish to go to the northern gate of the city,’ said Nishanta.

  ‘The northern gate, sir?’ The rider hesitated. ‘They say there is fighting going on over there. It will not be a suitable place for a young lady.’

  ‘We are emissaries of the king. We wish to speak to the raiding party from Magadha, and we hope they shall leave us in peace. Long live King Kamsa.’

  The rider snickered. ‘Indeed. But not too long!’ He waved them into the cart and pulled on the reins, making the beast neigh in protest. ‘There, Chameli. You have had enough of a nap since evening. You have become lazy, I tell you.’

  Kubera helped Jahnavi into the cart, and the two men sat facing each other, while she stretched her legs behind the rider.

  The rider looked over his shoulder, and on getting a nod from Nishanta, cracked the whip on the timber frame of the cart. The sound frightened the horse into motion.

  ‘Off we go,’ said the rider. ‘It will be two gold coins, sir, to the northern gate.’

  ‘It was only one two months ago,’ said Nishanta.

  The rider shrugged. ‘Just
for you, sir, and the lovely lady, I shall make it one gold and three silver.’

  It was dark by the time they reached the northern gate. Jahnavi had imagined it to be a grand structure, fortified by walls and armed towers. But it was just a stone arch, not even as big as the one they had passed through at the Cave of Ice. Two guards stood by each pillar, spears in hands.

  ‘The western gate is better guarded,’ said Nishanta, looking at her. They had asked the cart to leave them a good distance away from the gate, and after grudgingly paying the rider the extra silver coin he begged for – I will buy some fresh green grass for my Chameli, my lady, he said – Nishanta had led them off the road, away from the gate, into the woods.

  Now they stood covered by bushes and low-hanging branches. The spot afforded a good view of the gate. ‘We shall camp here for the night,’ said Nishanta.

  For the first time that evening, it seemed, Kubera spoke up. ‘Where are you taking us, messenger? I thought we were meant to enter the court of Mathura.’

  ‘My lord.’ Nishanta bowed elaborately. ‘I request some patience. May I suggest that we gather some firewood for the night, so that we may be able to cook something for the lady? I have arranged for a tent to be erected not far from here. She can spend the night there.’

  ‘First, tell us what it is we are doing here in the woods, and why we need to spend the night here. Does Mathura not have inns?’

  ‘It has many inns, my lord. But we wish to enter the court of the High King, and this is the easiest way I could think of.’

  Kubera looked at Jahnavi and bowed. ‘I beg your pardon, my lady, Jahnavi. I did not know that the messenger would bring us all the way here. I was under the impression he knew what he was doing.’

  Nishanta smiled, but his eyes glowed red like burning coals. ‘I shall tell you everything, sir, if only you would sit and slake your thirst with some water while I gather some firewood.’

  He gestured them to a tree, and reaching into his sack, brought out a large white cloth he spread on the ground for them to sit. He placed a sheepskin water tumbler in the corner. Kubera reluctantly sat down on it, and Jahnavi followed suit.

  ‘I shall be back in a moment,’ said Nishanta. ‘I am famished, and I do not like to speak much when my stomach is empty.’

  He took longer than a moment. He disappeared into the woods and returned with his arms full of dried twigs and branches. He laid them in a heap in the middle of the clearing, and dropping to his haunches, pulled out from the folds of his garment two firestones, which he rubbed together until a spark caught the end of a stick and threw out a line of smoke into the air. He blew at it gently, moving around it and pleading with it in murmurs.

  ‘Do not go away,’ he said. ‘No, no, do not go away.’

  He held some dried leaves to the smoke and scattered them around the heap to spread the fire. Soon a flame appeared, hesitant and small. Nishanta took out from his sack a bottle of oil and sprinkled it over the wood. The fire became steadier now and began to lick at the leaves to crumple them into black char.

  Jahnavi and Kubera stayed away from the fire; the night was warm enough. Apart from the occasional sound of squirrels scurrying by, the forest stood silent. The trees did not sway. The leaves did not move. A layer of sweat had collected under Jahnavi’s robe, and she longed for the cool bracing breeze of the mountain.

  ‘Do we need a fire, Nishanta?’ she asked. ‘It is quite warm here already.’

  ‘Forests of Earth are full of wild beasts, my lady,’ said Nishanta, throwing another log into the fire and emptying the oil container over it. Then he walked over to where they sat and dropped to his knees. ‘I have not seen them myself, but these woods are said to house a great number of tigers.’

  ‘All the more reason for us to have entered the city and looked for an inn,’ Kubera said acidly.

  Nishanta said to Jahnavi, ‘Remember what the cart rider said, my lady? There is fighting going on at this gate. For a few weeks now, Magadha’s horses and Mathura’s archers have been skirmishing not far from here. I have some eyes and ears in Mathura, and they too have told me this is true.’

  ‘How is that any of our concern?’ asked Jahnavi.

  ‘Normally, it would not be. But now we wish to enter the court of Mathura and win the favour of the king. Kamsa is distrustful of all strangers now, and he would have us watched by guards, even if he did grant us an audience. So we must begin by winning his trust.’

  Kubera sat up. ‘The Meru people do not use weapons until they have to.’

  ‘This may be one of those times, my lord.’ Nishanta’s voice was patient, but Jahnavi could see annoyance in his eyes. ‘If we help Mathura’s archers, if we are able to drive away Jarasandha’s horses in the next battle, they may just present us to the king.’

  ‘There is an issue here,’ said Kubera. ‘How do we know when the next skirmish is? Surely we cannot wait here for days on end for the clash.’

  ‘My men tell me that fighting has occurred every morning for the last four days. The horses are fresh at daybreak, and it is hard for archers to see in the gloom of dawn. So Jarasandha’s men will strike again in the morning. I am almost certain.’

  ‘Almost certain. What if you are wrong?’

  Nishanta bowed. ‘My lord, then we shall go into the city and look for an inn.’

  Jahnavi suppressed a smile.

  Kubera was persistent. ‘But there is danger. It is not safe to place our lives in the hands of these barbarians just to seek an entry into the king’s court. I can summon as much gold as you wish in a matter of hours, and we can make a gift of it to Kamsa. He will not refuse.’

  ‘High King Kamsa is extremely suspicious of strangers bearing gifts, my lord. You are right, he will not refuse our presents. He will take them all, and put us in prison.’

  ‘You exaggerate.’

  ‘Besides, Lady Jahnavi here will stay away from sight, hidden inside the tent. It is just you and I who will go to fight, and as you say, they are barbarians. Their weapons are not sharp enough, surely, to pierce your armour?’

  Jahnavi said to Kubera, ‘Come now, my lord. This does seem to be the easiest way to gain entrance into Kamsa’s palace. I know you have led cavalry units before in the battle of Gandhar, so you must know their weaknesses. Your knowledge of battle will be of utmost use to us tomorrow. Will you not help us?’

  Kubera removed his crown and placed it on the ground in front of him. ‘I am just wary, my lady. I have seen many battles that did not have to be fought. The Wise Ones have instructed me not to fight unless absolutely necessary.’

  ‘But the Wise Ones do not know matters of Earth as well as Nishanta does, my lord.’

  Kubera tightened his lips and nodded. ‘If it is the lady’s wish that we fight tomorrow, of course I shall do whatever I can to fulfil it.’

  Jahnavi clapped her hands in glee. ‘There. That is settled. Now, Nishanta, you mentioned that you were famished and that we should eat.’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’ Nishanta got hurriedly to his feet. ‘Give me a moment and I shall return with all that we need.’

  Again he was gone for more than a moment. But he returned with a large brass vessel filled with food. Jahnavi smelled pears and grapes. A few shiny raisins fell out at Nishanta’s feet as he approached the fire. ‘Not the kind of fare you will find on Meru, my lady,’ he said, ‘but it is the best I could muster.’

  ‘And I am certain it will be a feast,’ said Jahnavi, getting up.

  Later, their hunger sated, they sat in the clearing and talked. Nishanta sang in a low voice – must not alert the guards, he said – about a fish that carried the seven great sages through a flood. It was in an ancient form of Sanskrit, one Jahnavi did not understand well, so he stopped after each verse to narrate the story in prose. Even Kubera became more voluble as the night wore on, telling them about the slaughter of Gandhar’s army by Hastinapur, and how he had stood by and watched it all happen by the light of the moon.

  Around mi
dnight, Nishanta got up and bowed to Jahnavi. ‘I shall take you to the tent, my lady. We must wake up early tomorrow, so I suggest you get some sleep.’

  They walked together into the woods for a few minutes, into another clearing, this one darker and better hidden. A brown tent had been erected at its centre. Nishanta raised the flap in front and gestured her in.

  ‘I shall come for you in the morning, after it is all over and safe.’

  She nodded at him. ‘Sleep well, Nishanta.’

  Jahnavi woke up before daybreak and dressed in her riding clothes. She had not thought they would need to fight during this task, otherwise she would have brought along her sword and combat knife. She rummaged in her sack and found a sturdy teak staff about the length of her forearm that could serve as a weapon against unsuspecting soldiers. She dove in one more time and brought out a paring knife, not suited for much else besides peeling fruit. But she tucked it into her cummerbund.

  Tying her hair over her head in two knots, she went out to meet the men.

  Nishanta and Kubera stood facing one another in the clearing. When she approached, both of them looked up, perplexed.

  ‘My lady,’ said Kubera, ‘it is not safe for you to witness the battle. A stray arrow is all it takes for a fatal wound.’

  ‘I know how to protect myself from stray arrows, Lord Kubera,’ said Jahnavi. ‘I have trained at Indra’s archery ranges, so I know my way around a bow.’

  She smiled at Nishanta, whose eyes seemed to glow with admiration. ‘I do not know of many other women of the mountain who can fight, my lady.’

  ‘There are many, but not enough. Will you lead us to the place, Nishanta?’