Listen. Listen, I did as queens should – ousted clemency, slit every vein of sisterhood and charged the regent: Go. Take the army and fall on that land like scourge. Return once you loot pride from Kashi’s palace walls; purge her name of foul purity. Singe her high repute. Give her king a taste of shame: snatch one of his precious gems. He heard me, unblinking, his own rage drumrolling in teal beneath a jaw line yet still, almost stone; and paused only to pronounce, Bheeshma needs no army – my chariot and charioteer are all I take. I will trounce Kashi alone. They say he’d steered the river as a child; I saw him return striding summer skies, proud and wild as forked lightning. We heard it first – long before he reached the inner chambers: giant swells of communal cheer, high as minarets, crest then surge over citadels. I have charred Kashi’s conceit, just as I had sworn: she lies darker, grimier now than a Chandala in defeat. Here, Daseyi, her prized honour that I ruined. The next chapter of the Kuru half-caste history Kashi so decried will be written on her daughters’ bodies, when flesh and flesh conjoin. For I seized all of her crown jewels – Amba, Ambika, Ambalika – from the swayamvar sabha, dispelled her armies and thrashed the herd of regal suitors.
This is the moment it starts to unravel, this is where the story trips, sprawling pell-mell; this is the part I’d give seven lives to quell yet it rushes headlong, stalls then distends. It is a waterfall in a void; it is doom’s portent. You would think I’d foretell all the grief, the trials that come of using women as requital, but I didn’t. Instead, I swore and crowed in brazen delight. By then, you see, I’d transformed from human to royal.
The younger two walked ahead: Ambika and Ambalika, comely and curvaceous, near identical and thoughtful as my two breasts. A little tremulous after Bheeshma’s harsh conquest yet pleased – and flattered? – by our people’s jubilant zest. They’d be fine wives, I knew, for our hedonist. Winsome, wide-eyed and oh! amenable, potentially multiparous too by the look of those hips. Impossible for Vichitravirya to resist. And for just that instant, I was awash with a lifetime of content: children, grandchildren, a full dynasty, a heaven-sent tryst with peace and prosperity…the pictures flowered in my heart, more real than reality. Then came Amba, and everything but the present ceased to exist.
What can I say of Amba, of that pale, portentous day? That she was candescent, that she was furious – the Dog Star descended? That I saw the bruised obsidian of her gaze and I knew: I knew envy and awe; I knew fear, for here was a woman who’d never forget? That she stated – with neither reserve nor regret – her heart belonged to another, a king she’d near garlanded when Bheeshma’s arrows smashed her suitor’s verve and wronged their fates? That she reclaimed the freedom – her voice statuesque, still courteous – to wed Shalva? That Bheeshma exclaimed softly, surprisingly, Shalva! Ruler of such a minor kingdom as Saubala – but Amba deserves a finer squire? That promptly I conceded (reminding son and stepson royal dharma would require no less), demanded the eldest princess be sent – with honour-guard and maids and gifts – to her king? That I’d thus acted not from guilt, goodness or fraternity but to reverse a spring tide of dread, the dread of this maiden’s curse? That Vichitravirya was swift to consent, his eyes suffused with the younger sisters – zaftig so much more his style than sylph? That Amba smiled – a sprig of joy and lustre – before she left, and thanked me for my sense of right? That I hastened Ambika and Ambalika’s troth to Vichitravirya that very day, married them before the fall of light, for the smile had snagged in my throat, cleft then clustered, spread deeper, wider in gentian outgrowth?
Five nights later I dreamt I saw her heart shatter, ninety-eight shards pierce the ground, four kingdoms away, west of the Sutlej, south of Gandhara, where rain scars and sorrows seldom melt into sound. A week after, she stood at the city gates – Amba, spurned by Shalva. Maimed vanity, male vanity that must burn Amba’s trust and pound her life to use the slag for balm. She stood, her hair turned a stream of unbound silver; stood, on a cairn of eerie calm; stood, invoking my stepson, over and over, in one-note psalm till he appeared. Shalva re-returned me, Bheeshma: he branded me second-hand chattel, your alms. He may have lost the battle, he said, but not his honour nor station; a fallen woman would have no harbour in his hearth, he said. He savaged my future then offered me a free education: a woman, he said, cannot be redeemed once snatched like cattle, not by prayer, guile or devotion. That makes me, he said, your spouse by Kshatriya law, yours till the end of breath or tattle. Here, Bheeshma, reclaim my right hand, the one you seized, but this time, for yourself and not for your brother. You alone can retrieve the life you smothered in this senseless, cruel game of primacy. Love dies, Bheeshma, love dies but it can be reborn – while not quite the same – for another. Marry me, and restore my good name, my stolen dignity. Marry me, and I pledge passion and fidelity.
Listen. Listen, have you seen a heart struggle with its own renegade shoots? I saw Bheeshma that twilight – he of the terrible, tungsten oath – shiver before forbidden fruit, so near, so luscious – shiver, then uproot tree, bud and blade, throw them out of sight. I saw him persevere to evade the sun and embrace the dullest shades. I saw him refute her plea, again and again, fazed and ungracious, But I have sworn a vow of celibacy, and my word is not for trade. I stepped in then, begged Bheeshma to reconsider, invoked Kshatriya dharma, sanctuary to the helpless. But it only made him odious, retort his oath was not bespoke, now made and now unmade to suit my changing purpose. To Vichitravirya I turned in hope, but my idiot child chose that moment to become pious, to declare he could not take a woman who had once loved another as wife. So do sons – with arms spoken and unspoken – betray their mothers, so do stygian codes destroy a life, then a dynasty.
What more is there to know of Amba? So much remains a mystery, so much now is lore. That she waited six years outside Bheeshma’s palace doors; waited with creature comforts but incessant pain; awaited justice, demanding he relent. That she bore – her head just as high, her voice unbent – the jeers, the whispers that bred through city streets like spores. That my fear grew each hour and day, green and viscous, for I knew Amba’s rage would have no shore. That I’d tried at first to convince both men we’d live to die from her doom. That more tragedies leapt to the fore, more deaths and regrets reared over thoughts and weeks, and I strove no more. That I’d near forgotten Amba when all at once, six years on, she vanished, quiet and swift as musk deer. That once she left, things seemed much as before, save a guilt that soared and kept on soaring, save a Bheeshma seared by his own longing. That tales and rumours roared and thumped their chests in squares and gardens – sheer drivel, most, but diverting: tales of a duel between Bheeshma, mere prince, and Bhargava, the last avatar, over Amba’s cause, duel that tore galaxies apart till the gods pleaded for a cosmic pause; limericks on the twenty-four kings who quaked and declined to battle Bheeshma on her behalf, some fleeing in panic; tales of Amba’s austerities stopping the sun’s orbit and the planet’s seasons, whispers of how she had become the very earth…and a rumble all of the kingdom wore for hair-shirt: that Shiva had heard her story, had been roused by our treason to lasting fury and granted her powers beyond credence: manhood, a new life as Bheeshma’s nemesis, and final vengeance. Those were just some stories, and for a while, they grew and spread and blossomed in wondrous hues, then they scattered or shrivelled or sprouted on other tongues, as tales often do.
Listen. I never sighted Amba again, but a few dozen new moons later, it would return to settle in brain and marrow, alight and never depart again: a voice, an oath to ignite tomorrow. Death’s astra in full livery, it congeals earth’s heart and arteries, engulfs sea and spring and sunshine. Amba’s voice, sometimes indigo, sometimes incarnadine. She was – she is – dark lightning. She is amaranthine.
A bed and headrest of
arrows: Bheeshma’s repose,
his final behest.
DHRUPADA’S WIFE:
Queen of Panchala;
Mother of Shikhandi
,
Draupadi & Dhrishtadhyumna;
Woman Without A Name
SUSTENANCE
Anger. We eat anger at each
meal, night and noon – mostly Dhrupad,
monarch of Panchaal, and our three
children, though I have to swallow
my share too: this is a staple.
Anger. The shoots burgeon; it grows,
unfurling fibrous, sightless roots
through castle walls, through words, veins
and arteries. The leaves cover
rooftops and thoughts, they colour tongues.
For Dhrupad has raised our children –
Shikhandi, Bheeshma’s nemesis;
Dhristadhyumna and Draupadi,
fire-born twins, seraphs, slayers – as
battlements, as lethal weapons.
Words transform flesh, marrow and bone
into granite, iron. Words forged
our children: not words like love, hope,
laughter, desire – no, those belong
to foreign lands, to alien tongues.
The words that alloyed them, smelted
heroes, now dwell in granite bones:
honour, rage, revenge and purpose –
polite, unfailing – that estrange
even my aching mother’s heart.
For they were never mine, these brands
from Dhrupad’s inferno – fury
that first engulfed his soul, now all
of Panchaal. Not mine: even young,
they had suckled paternal dreams.
For dreams seep into neighbouring
heads: theirs traverse my own each night.
Dhrupad’s dreams, where enemies stand
crowned in shame; where blood and breath turn
black and tidal rocks tear down skies.
While Shikhandi – whom I had borne
as a bubble beneath my breasts
through nine months of eternity –
dreams, yet again, of the horrors
of a past; of future terrors.
In these dreams, Shikhandi crushes
both breasts and unwraps sinewed legs,
casts shoulder and pelvis in male
mould then carves muscles till they shine –
bronzed, blood-soaked, a warrior’s shield.
Is that past or future? He slips
into Bheeshma’s sleep, a land he
has owned for thirty-six thousand
nights and days. Honour lies in wait,
a quivering, tongueless, wild beast.
For they who’ve never tasted love
cannot know hate, and Shikhandi
has hated longer and better
than most on earth. He borrows rage
from the sun, endurance from stars.
Hate is thus, said Shikhandi once,
I become my bane: unthinking,
uncontained flame, eager to blight.
He becomes me; he longs to die.
Till we meet, both wander twilight.
Dhrishta and Draupadi too dream,
though theirs is hate inherited:
its contours blurred, origin roiled
in the story they’ve learnt by rote.
For hate can outgrow memory.
For Dhrupad will never recall
his own youthful pride, the malice –
careless – towards Drona which spurred
abject disgrace at his playmate’s
hands (a disgrace now made blazon).
For stories half-true can unleash
much power, much more when retold.
Dhrupad erased the preamble
and part one of shared history:
childhood, oath, kingship, reunion.
He closes his eyes, wills away
that far-off day in Kampilya’s
court when he denied Drona’s words
and smashed a sacred pledge: the first
betrayal, the one that birthed war.
Betrayal, in Dhrupad’s readings,
will remain one-sided: Drona
had no cause to attack Panchaal.
Hadn’t he offered alms as kings
ought? How could a sage ask for more?
I could forgive my king even
this sad guile would he not dispatch
Dhrishta to Drona’s hermitage –
to master the divine astras,
to plan future near-patricide.
Perfidy that will tear the boy,
almond-eyed Dhrishta, who aspires
to honour and morality –
mythical beasts in our royal
household, he will learn in distress.
And Draupadi – fire-maiden, gift
of the gods that Dhrupad dared not
return (though he saw no use first
for a mere woman in his grand
ballet of vengeance). What of her?
What solace can I give her, she
who is Earth’s anthem, whose learning
rivals that of the seven seers,
whose speech is scimitar and yet
full moon, she who’ll be cast as bait?
What solace could I give her, she
who must survive? She who will face
dishonour, death, and – worse, by
far – disillusion? Who’ll learn how
difficult it becomes to die?
For Dhrupad’s designs sing vilest
around his daughter – the price, it
seems, for being born. For she must
bring home the greatest warrior
of the land as husband, as arm.
Arm that Dhrupad will turn against
his enemy, arm that will strike
its own eyes – for it is Arjun,
Drona’s prize pupil, the king seeks
as son-in-law. Honour must bleed.
Then, then alone, can Dhrupad strike
Drona in the hidden chamber
of his heart, display the fragments
as trophy to a heedless world –
his blind, recurrent fantasy.
It is written, proclaims Dhrupad –
those words his second escutcheon –
after parleys with Krishna, his
war counsel, every time the word
clemency falls from a rain-cloud.
The stranglehold of fatherhood
will prevail, mothers will weep stones.
Grey is the night, grey is this land’s
pelt, grey our blood that flows beneath.
We replay our stories, our sins.
No mother should have to set flame
to her sons. No. No mother should
outlive her blood. I will. I will.
The heart has no bones to shatter.
It will keep beating just the same.
SPOUSES, LOVERS
CONSTANCY III
They are here. Again. Night rises in my gut. Skies capsize.
Henchmen. Overlords. Allies. High priests. Demigods. Perhaps
Even kings. Here. A constellation of despots and lies.
Do not speak to us, Masters. Do not blaze Faith Honour Duty
Allegiance to God and Country in hearth and head until we
Yield: pledge future, selves and reason. Do not hail prophets, holy
Spirits, the saints. Do not invoke heaven and hell. Do not
Browbeat, do not cajole. Do not feign pity, nor kinship, nor
Entice with promises of unseen treasures – justice, safety
Freedom. You would arrive, we knew, with the threat of gifts
– and more.
Only answer, then leav
e: where is the battle this time, on whose
Rightful land? And how many men will you summon from our door,
Enlist as living shield for heroes? Spare him. Spare us. Spare us
Three days. And he is yours. Yours, for we never had a choice.
Hunger or royal dungeons are yet more spears to tear out
Entrails – war but a swifter end. Now leave, lest rage find voice,
Blight you, finally hurl: may you never taste faith or grief,
Amity, awe; you waging war and peace to metre
Time on earth, may your eyes never enjoy your own fief.
Three days, then, to steep each nook of home and heart with his
Lilt, his laugh. Three days to touch a gaze in relief,
Etch smile and sudden frown in folios of the mind.
SATYAVATI
VIII. FAULT LINES
Life flowed on. It had to, as it usually does, and so did we, Amba or not, fear or guilt or thought. Time slowed for no one, not even gods, and Amba was a mere mortal, or so our wise men foretold. Then a strange thing followed. Joy blossomed. Joy blossomed, complete with calyx and petal and stamen. Against all faith and probability, yes, joy grew lissome – in city and river and glen, on branches and stems, over minarets, in hutment and citadel. Hastina succumbed; glowed, glowed to match her new royal women, both shanghaied but vibrant: brides in rare fettle, queenship and ardent spouse magic pabulum, with sanctioned lust for fine condiment. Kashi and family, even the elder sister nearby – shattered, defamed – crumbled into forgetting distance. Mirth and song and murmur effloresced in chambers, crannies, corridors (monsoon, spring and summer), trellised along casement and rooftop and floor; voices, views, even laughter outbloomed in court, a court now tended by a king, for king Vichitravirya deigned to dabble at, to our collective comfort at last. Dabble was all Vichitravirya did, with Ambika and Ambalika – and their perfect waists and breasts – close enough to graze or nibble but it was more than the court had believed possible and Bheeshma began to smile: this, a first since he’d shunned Amba’s hand. Years passed. I dared to hope, in heirs, in ability, in promises and prophecy, in caste-free opportunity, in my fisher-queen dynasty. I dared to hope again.
Until the Lions Page 6