The Queens of Hastinapur
Page 31
Pritha turned to Madri. ‘What do you know of deceit and trust, Madri? Do you claim to know more of these people than I, who has seen one of them in the flesh? Do you claim that having Celestials for children could in any way be a bad thing?’ To Pandu, she said, ‘But I do have one condition, my lord.’
‘A condition?’
‘Yes. It is my wish that I should have all the five children through this Mystery. After my five strands of hair are finished, let Madri have as many children through you as she can. After all, they shall be mere men.’
‘All five?’ said Pandu, frowning at Pritha. ‘You do not wish to share in your good fortune with Madri?’
‘She has not seen fit to share any of her good fortune with me, Your Majesty,’ said Pritha. ‘If you deny me this wish, I shall destroy these strands of hair, and you shall forego forever your opportunity to father gods on Earth.’
Pandu looked at her closely, as though he were looking at a strange beast from another land. ‘You called her a wanton harlot,’ he said, his voice calm. ‘But it is you who is the ruthless one, Pritha. Is it not?’
Pritha stopped and looked at Madri. The young girl’s face had a puzzled look. Pretence! she thought to herself. All pretence! She shrugged and said, ‘So be it. One has to be ruthless to get what one deserves. Such is the way of the world. Do not think you can steal this container from me and have your own children, Madri. You do not know the incantation that will start the Mystery, and I shall never, ever tell it to you.’
Madri bowed, with what Pritha thought was a faint smile on her lips. ‘So be it, sister.’
‘It is I who shall be the queen mother,’ said Pritha.
‘Just so,’ said Pandu.
‘Just so,’ said Madri.
A tap appeared on the door again, and this time the High Sage himself stepped into the hut. ‘Your Majesty, everyone in the hermitage awaits you by the fire. I have come to escort you out.’
Pandu looked at Pritha, then at Madri, and sighed. With a wide smile at the sage he got to his feet. He gave each of his hands to Madri and Pritha, and followed Bhrigu out into the courtyard. The grip of his hand felt lifeless to Pritha, as if she were clutching a dead man’s limp, cold fingers.
As they stepped out together, she took a deep breath of the chilly night air and smiled at the glowing fire, at the dancing children and the lined-up flute players. Now nothing could stop her from claiming her rightful place by Pandu’s side. Now nothing could stop her from becoming the queen mother of Hastinapur. Now nothing could enable Madri to win over her. In one stroke she had vanquished her. She turned her head just enough so that she could catch a glimpse of Madri’s face from the corner of her eye. The girl’s face was set in a mask of utter serenity and calm. The smile she wore on her face reminded Pritha of the smile on Surya’s face the morning after they had made love.
A tiny pinprick of pain shot through Pritha’s heart. How was Madri able to smile through it all? After all she had done, why had she been unable to strike that look of innocence off Madri’s face?
Why do I feel, she thought, as if Madri has somehow won?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
PRITHA SPEAKS
A
s it is true of battles of might, so it is true of battles of the mind: you know not if you have won or lost until long after the final blow has landed. It is said that at the break of dawn on the nineteenth day of the great war, as the last of the battle groans on Kurukshetra died amid the flapping of vultures’ wings, Yudhisthir walked amid the broken chariot wheels and exclaimed to the heavens, ‘Have I won or have I lost?’
On the day I laid down the rules of our mating rights to High King Pandu and Sister Madri that night at the hermitage of Bhrigu, I felt the same question touch my heart. By all outward appearances I was winning; I would bear the firstborn princes of the Kuru line, one of whom would certainly become king. That meant that I would be the queen mother before Madri, and that my sons would forever rule over hers. In one stroke I etched our respective destinies into the history of North Country: mine as the elder, first, more prominent queen, and hers as the forgotten mother.
But the game of life is seldom so black or white. Unlike a chariot race that begins and ends by the gong and crowns one rider victorious, in life the Goddess herself casts the dice. She watches the unending sweep of time to the past and to the future. She alone knows who wins and who loses, and by what rules and when. The victor of today can be the vanquished of tomorrow; he who is vilified today for being the manifestation of supreme evil can one day be celebrated – venerated! – as a hero.
Perhaps even crueller, the Goddess can hand you victory and defeat in the same moment. When I snatched Pandu’s seed away from Madri for my own progeny, I did win, but so did Madri, because the High King became forever hers in that moment. From that day to the day he breathed his last, he would not smile at me with genuine affection. He would not braid my hair. He would not take my hand. He stayed true to his word and gave me his children, but those nights were over before they began – in two or three minutes, with no loving caresses accompanying them.
Even in death, Madri won over me, because it is she who went with the king to his heavenly abode, to unite with him in another plane, whereas I was left to fend for five children in the Kuru court. Hers was the short life of youth, beauty and desire followed by everlasting union with the one she loved (and who loved her), while mine has been the arduous, suffering-filled journey during which I had to witness the end of the age of kings.
I have lost what little beauty I had, and now my spotted skin looks like that of a witch. Death threatens to take me every morning, because I dream of Yama atop his water buffalo, rubbing the folded noose in his hand with the tip of his thumb. He asks me if it is time, and I nod eagerly and say yes, but then the shadows fade and the bright light of the sun opens my eyes to yet another dreary morning.
If I am to die now, I sometimes think, will I go where Pandu and Madri live together on Meru, twined in their timeless bubble of love? Will this withered crone reclaim her position as the first wife of the High King of Hastinapur?
They say that when you die, you can choose to return to the happiest time of your life and remain there. If it is indeed true, I shall ask Yama to transport me to that misty morning on the Yamuna, when Surya and I returned from Mathura to Shurasena, after which we lay together on the grass and made love. I shall beg for that moment to stretch into eternity, from past to present to future, for as long as the Goddess allows me to savour it.
In my foolishness, I had once thought I would write the story of Hastinapur, that the tale of the city’s glory would entwine with that of mine. I, Pritha, princess of Shurasena, mother to the Pandavas, would be the axle around which the wheel of time would turn. I, Pritha, would shape the history of North Country, would see to it that Hastinapur became the undisputed leader of all the Great Kingdoms that dot the land. I would write this story, I thought. It would be my story as much as that of Hastinapur.
But only as I grew older did I see – as did Bhishma and Gandhari and Dhritarashtra and Krishna and all the others – that I was but a drop of water in the cosmic ocean, and now, as death knocks on my door in a dream every morning, I begin to see more and more of the great sea that extends into the unknown and of which I am a part. And on the shore of it stands the figure of the Goddess, clad in red and gold, trident in hand, black hair unfurled into the windy air.
There is no hero in this tale of the great war. There is no villain.
There is no victor in this tale. There is no vanquished.
There is no right. No wrong.
There is just humanity and its many faces, all of them beautiful, all of them hideous, all of them true, all of them false, all of them heroic, all of them drunk with depravity.
In this realization I forgive everyone I have raced against and craved to win over – Madri, Gandhari, Surya, Devaki, Krishna, Draupadi, Duryodhana, Karna, Bhanumati – I forgive you all. And yes, I beg for
your forgiveness too.
In this realization lies peace, peace that eluded even the righteous Yudhisthir who had to ask the dead battlefield whether his life had been one of success or failure.
In this realization lies fondness – for the prancing squirrel, for the sound of the river’s murmur, for the coolness of the full moon, for the silence of the night, for all the moments that make up life, for the moment that ends it.
In this realization lies harmony – with all the other drops of water that make up the unending Great River, with the Goddess watching from across the shores of Time.
In this realization lies my victory. And my defeat.
About the Book
This is the story of Ganga, Madri, Pritha and Gandhari: women of the Mahabharata who, driven by their fears and ambitions, trigger events that lead to an epic war, propelling kings, princes and warriors towards glory and bloodshed, sin and redemption.
What came to an end at Kurukshetra took root in throne rooms and bed chambers, hermitages and sacred lakes, prisons and shrines, on horseback and under the stars.
This immersive, gripping retelling of the Mahabharata through the eyes of its female characters reveals how fates are sealed and destinies altered when women begin pulling the strings.
About the Author
Sharath Komarraju is an author of fiction and non-fiction based in Bangalore, India. His best known work is the Hastinapur series, written in the voices of the Mahabharata’s many women characters. His first novel, Murder in Amaravati, was longlisted for the Commonwealth Book Prize, 2013.
Once a software engineer, he now tells stories full time. When he is not writing or reading, he can be found watching cricket on television, talking to his wife, or munching on the nearest chocolate bar.
Also by Sharath Komarraju
Novels
Murder in Amaravati
Banquet on the Dead
The Winds of Hastinapur (Hastinapur, Book 1)
The Puppeteers of Palem
Nari
The Crows of Agra
The Rise of Hastinapur (Hastinapur, Book 2)
Non-fiction
Money Wise: The Aam Aadmi’s Guide to Wealth and
Financial Freedom
Short Fiction Collections
The Narrow Road to Palem
Jump, Didi!
A Special Friend
The Measure of a Man
The Boy Who Played Rama
Echoes From Vrindavan
The Chill of Hemlock
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First published in India in 2017 by
HarperCollins Publishers India
Copyright © Sharath Komarraju 2017
P-ISBN: 978-93-5277-313-8
Epub Edition © September 2017 ISBN: 978-93-5277-314-5
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Sharath Komarraju asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
This is a work of fiction and all characters and incidents described in this book are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under The Copyright Act, 1957. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins Publishers India.
Cover design: © HarperCollins Publishers India
Cover illustration: Medha Gupta
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