The Queens of Hastinapur

by Sharath Komarraju

  As the light of the day streamed into the room and brought with it distant scents of roses from the flower gardens and lime from the orchard, Gandhari closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She walked to the window closest to her and held the frame on either side of her, with both hands. Outside the palace walls, on the dusty plains of Hastinapur, she thought she saw a galloping silver horse on which rode a figure cloaked in black. He was coming toward her.

  She did not smile. Under her clamped lips, her teeth gnashed together.

  She would yet have the final say in this matter. And this time she would seek the help of no one – not Shubrasi, not Dhritarashtra, not even Shakuni.

  She would do it alone.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  GANGA SPEAKS

  I

  t was on this day that the hate that had been burning inside Gandhari’s heart changed its very nature. Until now it had been a ball of orange fire, hissing and spewing, forever keeping her on the edge of reason. But now, with the light of her womb plucked out, her hate curdled into a blue-black ball, containing all the molten blaze within. The smile that had forever lingered on her lips even through the darkest of days during the fall of Gandhar today took on a more sinister, cruel aspect.

  All her life, Gandhari had been a woman driven by passion – quick both to anger and love, joy and sorrow. But today, with the freezing of the fire inside her, she experienced a strange state of calm – she found that she could hear and feel the world around her anew. She felt no emotion of any sort, not even peace. She felt as though she were one with the baby that had begun its final journey, perhaps hurtling through the grey clouds to the top of a mystical mountain.

  Death had reached into her with his black arms and had plucked out the swarming mass of flesh. She had been touched by death in the deepest manner possible for any living thing. What else was there to know of life? What else was there to fear? What else was there to desire? At that moment in which Gandhari bore the cold north wind full on her face, she found herself freed from all of life’s shackles and united – if for a moment – with the Goddess herself, walking along the shore of the ocean of time, leaving footprints on the sand.

  I have watched Gandhari all her life from my vantage atop Meru, right from her time as princess of Gandhar to her very last days, long after the great war had come and gone. I can safely say this is the day on which she grew into an adult, the day on which she resolved – with the calm, patient, murderous finality of the Goddess herself – that her children would rule Hastinapur at all costs. So far, she had coveted the throne a bit too much, and she had grasped for it in impatience, but now she was willing to wait. Once she had been touched by the Goddess, she found how long the shore of the sea really is, so now she realized that she need not hurry, that good things happened to those who waited.

  She had learned to keep her hate from burning her. She had learned to cover it in a shell of ice, to harness it, to allow it to make her more ruthless, more conniving and more unfeeling, all the while presenting to the world her beauteous smile devoid of all life.

  People say that Gandhari had the sight and therefore had enough power anyway, but without this hardening of the heart, this awakening of calm that filled her being on this day, she would have always been defeated by Devavrata. Instead, she lived to see all her dreams fulfilled: her sons became rulers of Hastinapur, she became queen mother, and indeed, right to the very end she maintained her position as the elder queen of the Kuru house.

  She did it with the sight, but perhaps more importantly, she found that place inside her that all of us have, that spot of utter quiet where the Goddess resides. Some of us find it through events that cause us great pleasure, but some, like Gandhari, come to it along the path of excruciating pain.

  Now we must part from the royal palace of Hastinapur and journey eastward, to the dense forest of Naimisha, where Pritha, Madri and Pandu have begun on a journey of their own.

  CHAPTER NINE

  A

  s on most mornings, Pritha allowed her mind to wander while braiding Madri’s hair. The younger queen had soft, velvety locks that bent willingly to her fingers. Madri was speaking to the mirror in her dulcet voice, something about how the king had been busy preparing a hunting party to explore Naimisha, and how the white horses that had been brought from the royal stables were just not strong enough to carry the king’s chariot at the required speed to chase down deer.

  Pritha did not find any of those words of interest. Even in Kunti she had been thoroughly indifferent to the affairs of men; where her father went hunting and how he procured and inspected his horses, she neither knew nor cared.

  ‘Sit still, Madri,’ she said. Picking up two of the reddest roses from the basket the maids had brought in at dawn, she inserted them into Madri’s hair. She looked down her neck, at the curve of her shoulder and the tiny knot that was keeping the yellow shoulder cloth in place. Just the night before, when they had gathered together for dinner, she had seen the king’s hand slide over Madri’s back and had pretended not to notice.

  In the mirror she caught flashes of reflection where she saw Madri’s straight nose, and that plump bottom lip that reminded her of a ripe cherry. In spite of Sister Devaki’s assurances, Pritha’s nose had not changed in appearance in these last two years and she had not grown into a beautiful maiden.

  All the royal young women of the Middle Kingdoms were small in stature, which lent them a certain natural feminine grace. For some reason, Pritha had been denied that. Her arms were stocky, almost twice as thick as Madri’s. In the last two years she had grown in height too, so that she now stood almost at eye level with the king. When they walked together, the three of them, she imagined people whispering to each other that the older queen looked more like an elder sister to the king.

  ‘Did you know Queen Gandhari has lost a child in the womb?’ said Madri.

  Pritha’s fingers stiffened. Gandhari had told her she had no designs on the throne, but if she had had a child – a son – now, he would have grown up with a strong claim to kingship of Hastinapur. She placed a white rose between the two red roses, so that they formed the shape of a crown on Madri’s head, and joined the three flowers with a thread of jasmines.

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘The king got a message from Hastinapur yesterday,’ said Madri.

  ‘I wonder why they saw it fit to announce it,’ said Pritha, setting one of the leftover roses in her own hair and turning away, her feet sinking into the thick carpet laid out on the mud floor. ‘It is hardly an occasion to celebrate.’

  ‘That is what I said too. The king thinks it is a way to tell the people of Hastinapur that their queen is not infertile.’

  They had left the front door and the west window of the hut open to let in the morning air. Although they were close to the onset of autumn, remnants of summer’s heat and dust refused to leave. Madri had asked Pandu on their first day here if they had to live in mere huts such as these, like peasants. Could we not have a stone house built for us, my lord, she had said.

  Pritha had not asked the king anything. It was not the place of the elder queen to demand things of His Majesty. He had enough turbulence in his life, with wars and politics and diplomacy. The role of the first queen was to calm him, and provide him with companionship and a patient ear.

  The younger queen – well, thought Pritha with bitterness, she gave him all the pleasures of the flesh.

  ‘Are you listening, sister?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘I was saying that perhaps you and I ought to get with child too, so that the people at court know we are not infertile either.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Pritha. ‘You visit the king in his chambers every night, so I am certain that day is not far off.’

  Madri’s face darkened and her eyes narrowed. Like all people from the western kingdoms, she was quick to anger. Pritha had heard that the hot desert wind made people’s blood boil for no reason. ‘I do not visit the king unle
ss I am summoned,’ she said. ‘Perhaps if you wished to warm his bed more often, you would take more interest in what he likes.’

  ‘You shall not use that tone with me, Madri,’ said Pritha. ‘Remember that I am the elder queen, and I shall remain that for all our lives.’

  Madri huffed and turned away, staring into the mirror instead. Pritha sighed, knowing there was truth in what Madri had said. What fault was it of the girl if the king preferred to have her by his side at night? She had youth, beauty and the presence of mind to at least pretend that she loved to ride. Once or twice she had even accompanied the king on his hunting trips, and every time Pandu spoke about weapons or horses over a meal, she was the first to flutter her eyes and ask him to go on.

  If Pritha could not bring herself to do all that Madri did, she had no one but herself to blame.

  ‘We must not fight about this, Madri,’ she said, and placed a hand on the younger girl’s shoulder. ‘I have spoken harshly with you.’ Another duty of the elder queen was to maintain cordial relations with all the other queens, Pandu had said. The younger queens had the right to be child-like, to throw tantrums and hurl insults. We, the elder ones, must learn to adjust. ‘Will you forgive me, as you would a sister?’

  Madri turned around, all trace of her rage gone. ‘Yes, sister, of course. I was never angry in the first place.’

  They held hands for a while and smiled at each other.

  ‘Shall we go for a walk along the edge of the forest?’ said Madri. ‘I know a place where you find the most beautiful blue flowers. You must braid your hair with them, sister.’

  ‘Not too far from here?’

  ‘No more than a few minutes’ walk to the east.’

  Pritha looked out of the window. The day was shaping up to be a cloudy one. The outing would help her, she thought, rouse her spirits. For some reason she thought of Gandhari and her warning, that she must be wary of Madri and treat her as she would a rival. She had said in false bravado that she would remain the first wife of Pandu for all their lives, but she knew that Madri could leap over her in status by bearing the king’s first child.

  She would not, of course. Not until Pritha continued to add a leaf of that herb to Madri’s food every fortnight. She had resisted the urge to use the plant until Pandu returned from his campaign, but now, with the three of them in the forest with the sole purpose of having children, she could not afford to take chances.

  A look at the fresh-faced smile on the girl sent a pang to her heart, but she steeled herself. With a returning smile of her own, she allowed herself to be dragged out of the hut into the open.

  The blue flowers that Madri had taken her to had turned out to be too small for her liking. Pritha had forever been that way; while the waiting women in her palace in Kunti showed a liking for small and pretty objects bunched together into a heap, she had always been drawn to big things that could stand on their own – an earring with one sapphire, a necklace with one black pearl hanging at the chest, one white rose corseted within her dark locks.

  Unconsciously, perhaps, she had dreamed of being one queen, one wife to one husband. She had never given the matter thought while growing up. No one had even told her of the possibility that she might have to share a man with another woman. In all the old tales of love she had read, a man and a woman were wedded together, and they grew old and grey in each other’s arms, with nary a need for another person. There must have been stories of kings with multiple wives, for certain, but had she ever thought it would happen to her?

  Not once.

  With a quick breath she raised her chin and looked out of the window at the gathering darkness. Today would be Pandu’s fifth night with her for this fortnight. On the table lay seven silver bowls covered with plates of gold. She had asked for the meat to be roasted on low embers and to be coated with fine peanut powder and sesame seeds. For a man who loved to hunt, Pandu did not enjoy the tough texture of deer. He liked chickens from the royal poultry, and on occasion a young lamb brought over from the farms.

  Today she had arranged for a dish of fish as well, with all the bones extracted, cooked with coriander and a generous helping of chillies. Pritha did not ask the king what he did with the bodies of the animals he hunted down. She guessed he gave them to the servants so that they could have a feast of their own.

  The diamond armband slipped down to her elbow. She pushed it back up. The jewels left red marks on her body and she detested wearing them, but they said a queen ought to be decked up for her king. She had to wait for him to gaze upon her in this form, made up like a doll, and then give in to his desires, those that arise from his loins.

  Yet the man wore ugly scars on his shoulders, sometimes returned from the hunt without washing himself, covered in sweat and grime. Pandu had come to her often – before his marriage to Madri – wearing the look of a manservant while she had always had to spend hours in the company of her maids, fussing by the mirror and putting every strand of hair into its proper place, before entering his presence.

  Perhaps the woman’s desire, she thought, was not so important.

  A maid entered the hut and bowed. ‘King Pandu has returned from the hunt, Your Majesty,’ she said. ‘He shall be here in but a few moments.’

  Pritha nodded at the girl. She got off her bed and walked to the mirror, even as the heavy cloak they had wrapped around her bare shoulders pricked her skin. It was certain to leave a rash the following morning. She entwined her hands in front of her with care, so that the red ring on her finger caught the light of the lamp and burned with a quiet glow. This was the standing pose of a queen, was it not? She had seen Gandhari stand this way in the court of Hastinapur, all the while assuring her she had no designs on the throne.

  That nose, she thought, with no expression on her face. Her love for big things probably stemmed from having to look at that humongous thing every day of her life. She had plain lips too, not the kind that would send shivers down any man’s spine. How had Surya liked her? Perhaps he had seen so many beautiful maidens on Meru that ugliness had in itself become a desirable trait.

  She smiled at the thought.

  All of a sudden, Gandhari came to her mind and she found her lips trembling. If the news of her losing a child was true, it meant that throughout the time she had assured the three of them they must go away, she had been pregnant. She must have known it too. Could it be that she had done it all as a pretext to send them away, so that she could claim Hastinapur for herself and her child?

  Pritha licked her lips. Her eyes narrowed, and she thought back to the morning by the fountain when Gandhari had held her hands. She had been a constant friend ever since Pritha had arrived at Hastinapur, and if it were not for the herb she had given her, who knew? Perhaps Madri would be walking around this settlement with a growing belly. And what did it matter if Gandhari had a child? He would not be the son of the king, and he would not have a claim to kingship.

  My battle, she thought, is not with Gandhari. It is with Madri, and with Pandu.

  She heard the door of the hut open again, and this time the maid announced the king’s arrival.

  He had taken pains to bathe before he arrived in her chamber this time, noticed Pritha. But then, perhaps he had stopped by at Madri’s hut on the way here. His pale face seemed to glow a shade of pink, and his lips appeared fuller than normal. As they bowed to one another and took their seats, on opposite sides of the table, she saw that the king’s hair was dishevelled on one side.

  ‘I trust that my queen has had a wonderful day,’ he said, looking up at her. ‘I have ridden for many an hour throughout the afternoon, my lady, but my mind was filled every moment with thoughts of you and the warmth of your embrace.’

  She smiled at him. These were empty words, mere utterances that every king learned to mouth in his lessons of chivalry at court. But the game had to be played by both sides. So she said, ‘I dream of you my every waking moment, my lord. Ten nights out of fourteen are not enough to get my fill of you, O K
ing. I would that I could keep you for myself every night.’

  ‘Madri says the same thing, Pritha. But I have instructed her that she must be content with her share, and she has made her peace with it.’

  ‘Perhaps if I get as many surprise visits from you as she does, Your Majesty, I would have no cause for complaint.’

  He sent her a glance of displeasure, but she airily signalled to the maids to open the lids on the vessels. The plates were turned the right way up. The smell of spices and freshly cooked meat mixed with the air. Pandu took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

  ‘You have arranged for all the dishes I like, Pritha.’

  ‘Indeed,’ she said. ‘As your wife, my deepest desires are to please you.’

  He waved away the maids and waited for them to leave, hands placed on thighs, examining the contents of each vessel in turn. A silver silk shawl draped his lithe upper body and a red dhoti covered his knees. On his feet he wore bare wooden sandals shorn of all adornments, while on his fingers the rings gleamed as though the stones had just been polished. Pritha gazed at his face and thought she could still see glimpses of the good looks she had noticed on that day of the groom-choosing. Some of her companions at the castle had whispered that the prince looked emaciated, as though there was a drought in Hastinapur, but Pritha had never thought much of men with bulging muscles carrying heavy maces on their shoulders.

  The grace of a skilled archer was matchless. What was more, Pritha had seen kindness in his eyes that day, when she had looked into them through the upheld garland of white and red roses. He had carried a look of calm, very different from the restless energy other Kshatriya kings bore on their countenances.

  ‘You shall please my desires the most,’ he said, ‘if you give me your word not to feel threatened by your sister.’