The Queens of Hastinapur

by Sharath Komarraju

  ‘She is not my sister, my lord.’

  ‘She is my second wife and you are my first. The two of you will be sisters, whether or not you agree with me.’

  Pritha leaned forward to serve him some food, but he stopped her with a raised hand to help himself.

  ‘I do not think ill of her, my lord, king,’ she said, after chewing tastelessly on the food on her plate for a few moments. ‘But your affection is divided between us. I know it is.’

  ‘I know not how you can make that claim, Pritha,’ he said. ‘Out of every fortnight, it is you that I spend ten nights with. Madri gets but four. If my affection is divided, some would say it is divided in your favour.’

  ‘My favour, my lord? The whole camp here knows that you visit Madri much more than you do me. The servants, the maids, the riding party that accompanies you on your trips every day – they all know, and so do you.’

  Pandu pulled out a tiny fishbone from between his lips and placed it on the edge of his plate. ‘You have nothing to fear, Pritha. You are the elder queen of the High King of Hastinapur. Maidens all over North Country would kill to be in your place, and all you can find in your heart is envy for the younger wife.’

  ‘It does not sadden me that you love her more, Your Majesty.’ Pritha heard her voice grow more agitated. ‘It does not sadden me that you would think her more beautiful, that you would seek her bed more often than mine. After all, she has been blessed with more, and I shall not grudge her what the gods have decreed.’

  ‘As you should not,’ said Pandu.

  ‘But I wonder sometimes whether she is as innocent and fair as you seem to think she is. Madri knows well that she is entitled to no more than four nights out of every fourteen, but she constantly summons you to her hut on some pretext or the other.’

  ‘Now, Pritha, that is not quite true.’

  ‘She accompanies you on your hunting, my lord! Do you think she is really interested in horses and game?’

  ‘Yes, and she is quite well versed in the matters of men.’

  ‘She pretends to be well versed in matters that interest you, my lord, because she knows she must steal you away from me.’

  Pandu laughed and shook his head. ‘Envy has blinded you, Pritha.’

  ‘Or lust has blinded you, my lord.’ She said the words evenly, holding her voice down to a soft whisper. ‘I am a woman, and I know how other women think.’

  Another fishbone came out of Pandu’s mouth, coming to rest at the edge of the plate, next to the first one. Pritha reminded herself to have a word with the cook – one bone could be dismissed as a mistake; two hinted at negligence.

  Pandu took a gulp of water, and swallowing with a sigh of pleasure, said, ‘Let us assume for now that you are right, that Madri is indeed trying to steal me away from you. Why would she do that?’

  ‘Is it not plain, my lord? She knows she is the younger queen. Her best chance of rising in status is to have your first child.’

  ‘Ah, Madri is not yet old enough to have designs of this sort. She is but a girl!’

  ‘She is a maiden of fifteen, my lord,’ said Pritha slowly. ‘Just two years younger than I am. And if you have warmed her bed so many times, she must know some ways of a woman.’

  ‘Pritha! Madri loves me as a woman ought to love a man.’

  ‘And I, my lord? Do I not love you?’

  Pandu put the tumbler of water down on the table with a clang. ‘I am yet to see proof of it, I dare say.’

  ‘It is perhaps because you do not see fit to visit me for anything but the fleetest of moments, Your Majesty. And the few minutes you sit here, we spend fighting about Madri.’

  ‘And whose fault is that, should I say? When I am with Madri, we hardly ever speak of you, Pritha. I am beginning to think that you may possess the older body, but she possesses the older mind.’

  Pritha closed her eyes and her fists. She knew that the king had not meant his words. Had he not admitted just a few moments before that Madri was just a girl? Had he not told her so many times in the last few months that she, Pritha, the older one, must adjust to the whims of the younger, more child like wife? Had he not consulted her on matters of state, and had he not admitted he could never speak of all this to Madri? Had he not confessed that Madri’s allure lay in the seductive sweetness of her body?

  But a king did not take back his word, especially if you asked him to.

  So she said, ‘I shall ask the servants to clear the table.’

  They sat in silence as the maids took the vessels away. They washed their hands in cold rose water. Pritha pushed the pink petals to one side and avoided touching them, while Pandu wiped his hands with them, crushing them between his fingers. She thought she could smell the scent of the blue flowers of the morning in this room, and wondered if he had carried a bit of Madri’s smell into the hut.

  It was as if Madri stood between them this very moment, looking on and laughing quietly.

  When they were alone again, she asked, ‘You went to Madri today before coming to me, did you not?’

  He shot her look of defiance and then nodded. ‘I did. I see no reason why a king must conceal the fact that he visited his wife.’

  ‘Neither do I, my lord,’ said Pritha, smiling. ‘All I shall remind you of is the promise you made to me on the day of your wedding to Madri.’

  ‘You do not need to remind me of anything, Pritha,’ said Pandu, bristling. ‘To this day I tell you that you shall bear my first son. You shall be the queen mother of Hastinapur. I shall not let anything happen that will rob you of your position.’

  Pritha did not ask him how he would make sure that Madri would not get with child first, because it would only anger him further. They did not have much more of the night together, so it would be foolish to raise another matter for debate. Kings did not like to be reminded of their promises, more so those they did not wish to keep.

  She got up to her feet and gave him her hands. ‘Come, my king,’ she said, ‘lie down on the bed here. Let me fan you and press your feet.’

  Pandu held her gaze, his eyes softening as her palms settled into his. They walked together to the bed, and Pritha sat cross-legged at its edge, allowing Pandu to lie on his back with his feet hoisted on her thigh. She pulled his toes. She rubbed his heels. She squeezed his ankles.

  ‘Did you hear that Lady Gandhari lost a child in the womb, Pritha?’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ she replied. ‘Madri told me this morning.’

  His eyes stayed closed and his voice seemed to drip with exhaustion. ‘I sometimes wonder if it may not be the best thing for Brother Dhritarashtra to have the first son. He can rule the kingdom and leave us to live our lives in peace.’

  Pritha did not answer. This was the way of Pandu, she had come to realize, one who would say one thing one moment and the exact opposite thing the next. He would promise her she would become the queen mother, and in the next breath he would wish that Hastinapur would become someone else’s. Kshatriyas were fond of fighting, she had always thought. They measured the worth of their lives in the number of battles they won and the number of scars they wore on their bodies. They took pride in tales of glory, in the size of their kingdoms.

  But not all Kshatriyas wanted that life. Of all the months Pandu had been king of Hastinapur, he had sat on the throne for no more than a few days. He had found one reason or the other to be away from it all. Could it be that he did not wish to be king, that he was content being the brother of a king?

  She saw that his breathing had steadied and his lips had parted just a little. Pritha motioned for two girls with fans to stand on either side of the bed. Gently placing the king’s feet on a cushion, she got up and went to the main door of the hut to stand there for a moment. She looked out into the murky darkness of the clearing. For some reason it reminded her of Surya and their union on the bank of the Yamuna that misty morning.

  And she thought of the son she had abandoned.

  Pritha awoke on an empty bed, the harsh m
orning sun streaming in through the open window, warming her legs. She sat up and pulled her garment down to her feet. Then she looked around to find that there were just two other people in the room, the two girls with the fans.

  ‘When did the king leave the hut?’ she asked.

  ‘My lady,’ said one of them, ‘His Majesty left at the break of dawn.’

  Pritha waved the two of them away, with instructions to warm water for her bath. She went to the corner where the wicker baskets sat and rummaged down to the bottom of one until her hand found what it was seeking. She pulled out a marble jar, small enough to fit into her palm. Fingering the red stones embedded into the lid, she twisted it open and pulled out a lump of frozen gum.

  She walked to the window and held it up to the sunlight.

  Five long strands of hair stood entwined as one in the midst of the hardened, dark brown substance. Unbidden, the words of the incantation that Surya had taught her came running to her lips, and before she knew it, she had recited half of it. This was a special kind of gum, Surya had said, found only on the slopes of Meru, and these were special strands of hair, infused with the magic of the gods.

  Sometimes she thought herself a silly girl, for believing in such tall tales of hair strands carrying the essence of a Celestial. But she had drunk that queer-tasting water from Surya’s sack of animal hide that morning at Nabha’s house. She had seen Surya hurl balls of fire from his bare hands on to bales of hay to light them up. If all that were possible in this world they called Meru, why would hair strands refuse to bend to magic?

  If only some spell could be cast on her now so that she would get with child. Pandu had entered her often since they had wedded, and not once had she missed her bleeding. She had given birth to a child once, so it could not be that she was infertile. Unless – unless that first birth had altered her body in such a way as to render her impotent.

  She brushed away her fears with a nervous laugh. How utterly ridiculous.

  If there was one among the three of them who was incapable of siring a child, it would be Pandu. There had been umpteen tales of Dhritarashtra’s virility, but of Pandu Pritha had heard nothing but a strange silence. She had thought that perhaps he had been a demure child, shy to indulge in his sexual desires. But after all these months of being married to him, she had begun to feel doubtful.

  Once again she thought Lady Gandhari had the better husband. What if he was blind? He was stronger, bigger, more resourceful, wiser – and most of all, he had it in him to give sons to his queen. And if Pritha did nothing about it, she would never have sons and would have to watch Gandhari’s children grow up and rule Hastinapur.

  Of what use was a boon to have gods for sons when one’s husband was impotent? She did not know for certain that he was, which was why she must continue to feed Madri leaves from the herb, but as more and more days passed without her stomach growing heavier, the surer she became of the king’s disease.

  She turned away from the window toward the dark corner, set the block of gum back into the marble jar, and buried it deep under the pile of clothes. Outside in the clearing she heard the sound of a galloping horse’s hooves pounding the dusty earth. A neigh, and then a patter of steps.

  Something about it all made her uneasy. Her fists clenched and she took a faltering step toward the open door.

  A moustached messenger entered, removed his turban and bowed. ‘Your Majesty,’ he said in a shaky voice, ‘I bring news of King Pandu.’

  Pritha found her throat had gone dry. ‘Is he well?’

  ‘His Majesty was accompanied by Queen Madri today, my lady. The hunting party went deeper into the woods than they have before, and … and … Sage Kindama has a hermitage a few leagues westward of here.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The king accidentally killed two of the sage’s deer, Your Highness,’ said the man, ‘and has caused him much anger. I have been sent to give you the message that you must start at once for the hermitage.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  T

  he chariot entered the hermitage through an open log gate, along a path lined on both sides with young fern trees, swaying as one to the breeze. Middle-aged men dressed in saffron clothes walked about in the grass, carrying a staff in one hand and a brass vessel of water in the other. Some of them were accompanied by maidens with white flower bangles around their wrists. Cuckoos called out into the chilly morning air – it seemed chilly to Pritha, at least – even though spring was four moons away. A band of children, led by a strapping boy of six or seven with a tarnished brass bowl tied to his head in the manner of a helmet, ran this way and that amid the bushes, laughing and cheering.

  Pritha felt as though she had entered a different world.

  As they neared the clutch of hovels in the centre, the whiff of yellow water lilies hit her nose and she perked up, for it reminded her of the lakes inside the palace walls of Kunti. Outside each hut stood a basil plant surrounded by a circle of rocks that had been smeared with turmeric and vermillion. The chariot threaded its way around clusters of marigolds and jasmines that had been planted together, infusing the air with a heavy scent that made her eyes droop.

  Not one patch of sunlight showed on the ground anywhere. Pritha thought that perhaps as the day wore on and the sun climbed up to the zenith, it would become hotter. But for now it seemed as though they had wandered into some winter wonderland where the green leaves forever shaded you from the harsh sun, and the breeze forever carried on its wings the smell of damp mud and morning dew.

  The chariot stopped by a large hut, outside which a line of earthen pots had been set on the ground, amid fallen leaves and stones. Close to the main door, Pritha saw a figure bundled in a pure white cloth, inside a circle of blue and yellow flowers, not unlike the ones Madri and she had collected the day before. A child and a maiden came up to the bundle. On a whisper from the lady, the boy joined his hands, murmured something and bent to place another flower in the ring.

  Her charioteer escorted Pritha past them to the entrance of the hut, and she heard the thin, shaky voice of an old man.

  ‘Your queen has arrived,’ he said. ‘Come, my dear, and mind the low height of the beam while you enter.’

  There were three people in the room: Madri and Pandu, seated on straw mats next to each other along one edge, and an excessively frail old man who sat cross-legged on a stone ledge, with his stick-like right arm propped up by his staff. He had long, gnarly fingers that swam in the air like live worms as he spoke.

  ‘Welcome to my hermitage, Lady Pritha, princess of Kunti, queen of Hastinapur,’ he said. ‘I regret that we could not meet under happier circumstances.’

  Pritha joined her hands and bowed. ‘We shall endeavour to return whatever joy we have stolen from this place, High Sage. Has my lord, the king, hunted one of your animals?’

  ‘He has hunted the deer most beloved to my heart,’ said Kindama. ‘We called him Dileepa. He would accompany me every evening on my walk to the stream, and while I filled my vessel, he would stand watch for prowling animals.’

  Pritha wanted to ask how a deer would protect a human from predators, but this was no time for such queries. If the sage said that the deer protected him, the deer protected him. ‘I am deeply sorry,’ she said. ‘The king too, I am certain, is filled with remorse for his act.’

  ‘I am certain that he is. But he has not killed just a deer, my lady. He has slain the spirit of our hermitage. Yesterday morning, if you had come here at this time, you would have seen rabbits, squirrels, fawns and birds wherever you looked. But now you see it as barren as a cemetery. They know that one of them has met his death here, and they are scared to return.’

  Pritha glanced at Pandu and Madri. While Pandu wore a look of penitence on his face, Madri’s held one of mild disinterest. If she were allowed to speak, Pritha thought she would ask when they could go back home. ‘It is a grave, grave error, High Sage,’ she said. ‘What shall we do to atone for it?’

  Kindama’
s wrinkle-ridden face came alive with anger and his fingers clawed at the air. ‘Do you know what makes the king’s error graver? At the moment his arrow found the flesh of Dileepa, he was just about to unite with his doe. And now Akshara will not touch a morsel of food until she sees him alive. His Majesty took a life, yes, but he took a life brimming with love and yearning for the pleasure of union.’

  Pritha had not read the scriptures, but even she had heard that it was a sin to claim the life of any living thing while it was entwined in the embrace of love. An old tale she had heard as a princess in Kunti told of a hunter who burned alive two mating snakes, and found that from then on, whenever he released his seed, there were live maggots swimming in it.

  Pandu had been trained with much more zeal than she; could it be that he had not heard this? She shot another look at Madri’s guileless face, and with a flash of anger realized what must have happened. The younger queen must have goaded him to kill the deer, and he, blinded with lust, must have shot the arrow in his eagerness to please her.

  ‘Is there anything, High Sage,’ she said, ‘that we can do to wash ourselves of this sin?’

  Kindama’s voice became gruff, and Pritha saw the pale eyes turn red with rage again. ‘You are not mere children, Queen Pritha, that I must tell you how to atone for your sin. Grown men and women ought to know what they must do to make amends for their wrongs. If they have to ask, perhaps their minds are not clear enough of cruelty yet.’

  He glanced at Madri while he said those words. Pritha said, ‘Then we shall stay here with you, High Sage, and be on hand to help with whatever task needs finishing. We shall perform the final rites of Dileepa with all respect due him, if you permit.’

  The lines of Kindama’s face lightened. ‘You will cremate him first, on a pile of firewood that you gather with your own arms, the three of you.’

  ‘Yes, High Sage.’

  ‘And you shall bury his bones on the bank of the stream that flows to the west.’

  ‘We shall, High Sage.’

  ‘And his ashes – you will scatter them in the air and into the water, with the proper incantations, as though Dileepa were the most pious Brahmin.’