Until the Lions

by Karthika Nair

Revenge, you roared, striking my land with all the rage

  of dying nebulae, with scourge-like speed and skill.

  Revenge, that reverse alchemy: transmute laughter

  and song to teeth ground in dust; calcine kingdoms; swage

  homes to rubble and rust; temper all overkill

  with tradition, tested spell to gild disaster.

  Who could stand a chance? Who? Not kin, not kinsmen, not the siege

  of royal suitors from Kosala, Vanga, Kalinga

  and more. Nor the one who’d sworn to honour, love, defend me

  through seven lifetimes, through hell and heaven and afterlife:

  Shalva of Saubala, the man – no! King, for king was all

  he had learnt to be – whose ardour your three arrows dethroned,

  quelled and replaced with those twin deathless regents, pride and shame.

  Shalva who would re-return me, for the sin of being

  seized and stolen – yet unpossessed – by Bheeshma, brand me your

  alms. Shalva, sure once as daybreak, dearer than desire, once

  near as the blood within my bones; Shalva, now just a word

  whose lineaments disperse as fumes into endless skies,

  whose troth and trust snapped louder, quicker than frail twigs in rain-starved plains. Love dies. So love dies – as does remembrance – before

  hate, and some, like mine, with neither the splendour nor comfort

  of last rites, of bodies to memorise before burning.

  Who could stand a chance? A chance or an instant,

  an instant was all it seemed: the instant you had

  seized for erasure. Father, mother, aunts

  and servants, streets and city – Kashi,

  Rudra’s ear-ornament dropped to earth –

  and future, past and present: you vanished

  them all. Father mother aunts and servants streets,

  you vanished all, in an instant, diminished

  my world, my lord, to so much

  less than lore or history – a nothingness

  no god or sage could inverse. The gods were nowhere

  seen nor heard, the resident ones played

  dead and who could blame them

  they had always hated losing battles. Heisted

  then, two transfixed little sisters – their names

  scarce matter, both happy ciphers at most

  times – and I, your “sole, unmeant error”, heisted.

  Heisted pedigrees and wombs, balm to contused

  Kuru pride, hand-grabbed brides for the Crown

  Prince – “A real steal,” your stepmother marvelled,

  “Three for the price of one and khatam

  Kashi’s stiff-assed might!”

  Khatam yes, khatam

  might and right and some things more,

  khatam. She spoke and knew

  her mind, that queen, the one voice

  in Hastinapur who did, demanding I be taken

  at once to where lay my heart when she heard

  its truth, back to Shalva; she spoke and knew

  her mind that queen, enjoining – after that night

  and day and night first of capture then return

  rejection re-return – enjoining son and stepson

  in turn to take my hand, attempt to expiate, to save,

  salvage hope and honour, mine in shreds. Khatam

  yes, khatam some things more she hadn’t known:

  how swift they grow, sons, overgrow

  into kings and pedants, how queen-mothers lose

  overnight their ruling prefix, how they need heeding

  no more, how anile oaths outweigh breathing

  women.

  But this all this and what came after,

  verse and chapter, are as much yours

  as mine, as the pulse plunging down your throat:

  those next six years – unyielding palsied years – spent

  at palace doors begging justice your name a home

  the wedding you wasted, Spouse-by-Kshatriya-law.

  Six years unyielding palsied years spent receiving

  a full kingdom’s worth of ruth but no redress, then came

  the laughter – painful, public – then came the jeers. Shame snapped

  and there shame snapped thought and heart, my brittle heart

  singing like aged firewood, and there on a night

  dark with blood unspilled I learnt what day had dared

  not tell: for our lives to recommence you’d need be

  killed, that oath skewered, tongue speared into throat.

  For life to recommence I’d need pluck breath

  from your belly tear it to shreds return

  those to your mother your real river

  mother, her fellow gods, unwrap your gullet

  release that heart from its cage swallow it

  whole and own you – own you word and echo.

  Who could stand a chance, they did ask. Who? I, Amba. I stood

  and withstood, though chance there little was; stood – with no wish, no

  word, no thought but one – on the tips of toes entwined in root

  and shale, nibbled and licked by hungry winds, slivered by rain;

  stood through hoarfrost and sandstorm and landslide, stood still, so still

  vines wound around these thighs and lion cubs nuzzled beneath

  my shade; stood baying, beseeching, craving freedom from this

  faultless, futile woman’s form, seeking another – minted,

  invincible – self, a self that slays. Silent they stayed, all

  the gods, the hermits, dead or alive, still absent; silent

  too were oceans, mountains, unnumbered planets, the ceaseless

  tide. Yet I stood, stood longer, now drinking night, night after

  night, drinking each one – cloud-quilted, silken, lonesome, star-kissed –

  till night vanished, coursing through four limbs, spine, vein and marrow,

  draining eight worlds of slumber, dreams, desire; stood till day reigned

  alone to parch the earth, burn heaven and all its beings.

  Fire brought freedom. Fire was my haven, my arm. Fire

  drove the gods, errant overlords, to acquiesce,

  finally appear, grant me the boon of redress –

  call it revenge – and respite, freedom from the mire

  of my being. Rudra the Archer, destroyer

  of sin, purveyor of peace, relieved my distress:

  “Great warrior you will be, slayer of remorseless

  foes, reborn with full memory and, your desire,

  the aegis of manhood. Now go, build your pyre, die.

  Rejoin the future.” Fire: arm and haven once more.

  They thickened and dried, my fingers and feet, to brushwood,

  matted hair formed tinder, these eyes melted to ply

  sacred oil, last unction. This self, the pyre I wore

  for long years, then blazed, blazed as only death stars should.

  IV.

  Now begin again

  Begin to win

  Begin to end

  Ignite them all failing moth-winged hearts blood-soaked skulls hands you tugged footsteps you followed impale tongues that imbued speech inter eyes that will not close immolate the rest invoke the gods the cruellest the avidest the ones that idolise the epithet invincible jackknife past battalions heroes demons to reach the foe the malediction jag every standing throat in your path each one prince foot-soldier slave jilt those perilous raucous questions on right means on noble ends jugulate the sacred laws of
warfare keep your conscience in fetters kill kill uncurbed speech kill compassion kill thought then keen it was the work of the enemy kindle blind faith and fury among the forces lend them hatred lavish fear and rumour to distract but lasso your people with the word peace lest hope is lost and they leave this realm lilt death’s name under your breath lilt and lilt again till death manifests beside you mirroring that frame mackling both now march march arm-in-arm towards vengeance

  V.

  For it is time, for it is I: the two stories

  you cannot flee, we are your death and destiny.

  For this time, I shall battle you unfettered, free

  of my female frame, free as the primeval seas.

  For this time, I traverse death and rebirth, and lease –

  no, beg – manliness from a yaksha, nameless tree-

  sprite, lord of the night. This time, there’ll be no debris

  of woman in me: my head grows sunwards, my knees

  and back hard, unbending; the voice, the voice unreels

  into bark. I scour softness, scrub grace from the skin

  till what glows is pure steel; unfurl my womb and fly

  it – dripping rust – as pennant, perhaps shroud; then peel

  and burn the breasts. This time, we meet – neither shall win:

  for I will slay you, but first, you shall watch me die.

  So begin

  Begin to begin

  Begin to end

  March arm-in-arm with death towards your vengeance the vengeance you nursed like a first-born name and number the iniquities of the enemy nail grief needle wrath narrow its gaze on that single being obliterate all others for practice warriors archers charioteers order your army to excess overrule elders counsellors judge and jury outlaw poets and peacekeepers pursue dharma but at casual pace persecute those dearest to the foe plague him plague him till he prevails prepare to see present and future quashed nephews fathers sons quartered the women questing for lost kin quiesce quiesce and quaff your impending victory your irrevocable loss revel in its flavour recall that thirst resurrect the lost years the yearning release yourself from oath and loathing sound the kettledrums the conches salute the foe and strike strike that spear through gullet and lung and ligament shatter his skull shred might and right and thought to blood bone gristle snuff out your soul triumph

  SHUNAKA

  BLOOD COUNT

  Shyama, Sister, why again and again:

  the need for dazed allegiance in books five, one, three and four

  to men? We’re canis of the Rig-Veda,

  lupus first, familiaris in the Atharva, and more.

  can come later – if it must. Later, of course, the bipeds

  Assurance befits would try their darnedest

  our kind more than reverence. to brand her traitor, faintheart,

  Remember, even Indra’s upstart pet;

  Indra – yes, him, lord of rain would try to unspool legend.

  and lightning, tsar of heaven – But we know. We – mountains, trees,

  could not command fore- birds and beasts, time, tide,

  mother Sarama, divine and the morning breeze – know she

  bitch, the dawn-goddess, obtained milk and food

  the fleet-one, Speech herself – she for humans, brought light to earth

  that spins words into living and truth to the mortal mind.

  Earth and fades the night (Wear your name in fine

  with the glister of her tread. pride, Shyama: you share it with

  Yes, Sister, Indra Sarama’s firstborn,

  had to yield, repent and beg the four-eyed, pied sentinel

  till Sarama agreed, stepped on the stairway to heaven.)

  in, saved his sphere, seat Sister, we have lived,

  and skin: those gods, ornery loved, died here, since long before

  buggers, would have carved this land became man’s

  lush, new planets from his scalp, domain. We take no masters.

  had their holy cows (their sweet, We claim no terrain. But men

  charmed milk, above all) kill and kill again,

  stayed missing. You know, the time scorch the rivers, rape the earth

  heaven’s herd AWOLed? and deluge jungles

  All snatched by Panis, dark cave- with death, all to prove manhood.

  dwellers the gods named demons The blaze that gorged Khandava?

  and consigned beneath Gorged snake and lion,

  the ground? Seers and minstrels (both oak and sparrow, chital, pine,

  godly and bovine) chinar, gharial?

  hymned the great rescue and her Strangled air and loam and stream?

  role – vital, valiant – therein It was gallant Arjuna.

  His coronation (And Grandpa’s own role

  gift to the elder brother: in this sighting still distressed

  yes, Yuddhishtira – his heart and larynx:

  the essence, they say, of all a dumb witness has control

  that’s just and right – who allowed on squat – least of all the lore.)

  a forest of lives Drona, though impressed

  to bonfire into birthright;by the boy’s grit and brilliance,

  the king Cousin Shwan was mostly aghast:

  adores – why, I bet he’d trail Arjuna, his favourite,

  the bloke to the ends of hell, had to remain unrivalled.

  the stupid, trusting Besides, how could he –

  mutt! Can’t he see they don’t spare royal preceptor, himself

  even their fellow a loyal Brahmin –

  beings, booby-trapping souls permit low-caste whelps to win?

  through tortuous, wretched spans So he claimed a teacher’s fee.

  in spiked-iron castes? The thumb of his right

  Imprint his birth on a man, hand – an archer’s golden arm –

  call it unchanging Drona would demand

  (god’s own decree), manacle of the lad: a gruesome price,

  his will, his brain in belief – sealed in Eka’s gore and flesh,

  such a masterly in his buried dream.

  legerdemain! Grandpa Shwan I have little more to say

  (so much cannier of this strange species

  than our cousin) often howled you would serve, whom you esteem

  of Ekalavya, matchless worthy allies for our kind.

  archer – yet lowborn Except this: beware

  tribal – whom Drona, guru of their wars and victories,

  to prospective kings, how friends may become

  first rejected as outcast, captives or janissaries.

  despite the lad’s striking skill. Fetters are not always felt,

  Then, Grandpa would bay nor seen. Dear Sister,

  (his pitch rising) of the day do not bear their sky, it holds

  Drona – with his horde blood – the blood of kin.

  of princely pupils – espied Do not share their bread, it reeks

  Ekalavya in action. lifeless earth: the final sin.

  SPOUSES, LOVERS

  CONSTANCY II

  SATYAVATI

  VII. FAULT LINES

  Listen. Listen, can you hear the keening? It rushes, it rises, it whirlwinds from Kurukshetra, sometimes indigo, sometimes incarnadine. Death’s astra in full livery, it congeals earth’s heart and arteries, engulfs sea and spring and sunshine. I do. I still do. Every chord and word – for an age and more, I heard it through dewfall and moonrise, heard it surge before the sun and trace his arc across the skies. And now, it escalates;
it reigns over carnage, pounds beside blood dying in scorched veins, above the howl of severed limbs, while in winter mud brains disintegrate. A voice, and its echoes, the unending echoes of a voice I could still locate when reduced to bone and smoke or carrion for crows. It is she, Amba. Amba, who should have been empress of a whole realm; Amba, a page now in a chronicle only one more soul can recall; Amba whose thirst for redress can annihilate this land and age.

  Forgive me, you say I digress: you find me garbled, fraught, unhasty; you just want to know what happened next. But stay. Stay, so I can return to this continent of our past, where devastation looked so distant as to be untouchable: a land unmapped, outcast.

  Listen. Two years had passed, perhaps a little more. Two years that were a river in spate with armies, campaigns, soldiers and Hastinapur’s boundaries that rushed and rolled and tumbled northwards, westwards, over large kingdoms and proud mountain states, all crushed or humbled by Bheeshma. Two years, years we had hoped would make a sovereign of my remaining son. But Vichitravirya was cursed with the virtue of consistency: he stood unchanged, unvexed before the cascade of our collective will – a solitary rock no current could move nor abrade. Even princes cannot stay forever on dole. We needed, Bheeshma and I agreed, to do more than coerce or cajole. We mulled, we argued, we consulted, then it struck me – my own salvation, inverted. Matrimony, I said, might be the lure: make him worldly-wise, committed, confident. Matrimony, my stepson echoed, with the sure faith of innocents. Out rode messengers, a minister, the family priest to quest a suitable bride. It would, we learnt all too soon, be easier to reverse eventide, to wrest night from the stars than override the dread, the scorn – inbred, putrescent – our royal neighbours nursed for Hastina’s future gerent, Shantanu’s half-blood son. Mongrel, Machua, prince of inglorious descent, grew the vicious chorus. Then came a slight no suzerain can afford: We’d sooner kill our women than plight them to filthy caste invaders – fully heard though unspoken – from vassal lords.

  Other matches were sought, other rulers – hunchbacks, syphilitics, impotents – tied the knot but no princess-brides ever graced our court. Till the day word came that Kashi’s king would hold a swayamvar, allow his three cherished daughters to pick their consorts: no uncertain slur. Kashi – Shiva’s city of light. The land that offered its royal damsels to Hastina, each and every time, since the time the dancing deity had birthed its perfumed city. That Kashi was to let her first maidens choose bridegrooms. And our prince is not invited: by that jagged, burnished smart was Bheeshma consumed. That was the day hate – or broken caste pride – murdered decency: snuffed its breath, sliced the corpse into three and ate each part.