MAHABHARATA SERIES BOOK#2: The Seeds of War (Mba) (20 page)

The boy stood on the edge of the ridge, looking down at the river, silhouetted by the evening sky. It was not more than an hour or so to sunset and the colouring sky and distant mountain ridges behind him gave him the appearance of some prince in a royal portrait, the kind of portrayal that adorned the walls of the Hall of ancestors in his palace in Hastinapura. He arched his back and shoulders in the exact stance of a bowman aiming downwards at a sharp angle and Shantanu frowned, for there was neither a bow nor an arrow—

A bow and arrow appeared in the boy’s arms. 

It was as if they had never existed before, and suddenly came into being at that precise instant. Out of thin air. 

They were like no bow and arrow Shantanu had ever seen before. 

He corrected himself:
the bow was like no bow he had seen before. 

The arrow he had seen a twin of only moments earlier. It resembled the arrow that had cleaved his bow-string and imbedded itself in the tree trunk behind him. The arrow that gleamed and was rainbow hued like a thing made of solid mercury or some fabulous liquid metal. 

The arrow in the boy’s hand was exactly like that, a liquid silver missile that caught the light of evening sun and flashed in rainbow hues. Indeed, as Shantanu watched, the arrow’s reflection created a small rainbow, just for an instant, curving around the boy’s hand in mid air.  

The bow was like the arrow: quicksilver. Firm as metal. Reflective of light. Beautifully resplendent. It made a larger rainbow. The smaller rainbow of the arrow intersected the larger rainbow of the bow. 

Shantanu never saw when exactly the boy loosed. Or the flight of the arrow as it left the bow. 

All he saw was the twanging cord of the bow vibrating in the air. 

Then the bow disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared. 

Its work done, it returned to the invisible place from whence it had come. 

The sound of the river, roaring magnificently, subsided abruptly. 

Shantanu ran to the edge of the ridge and looked over. 

He saw the quicksilver arrow shot by the boy, fixed in the ground of the riverbed, standing straight. From the arrow emerged a wall of silvery light that extended from bank to bank, translucent, shimmering with rainbow hues, reflecting the sky and trees and landscape. This wall of shimmering silver light barred the passage of the river as effectively as a dam built of solid rock. A mountain could hardly dam the river more effectively! 

All this from a single arrow.

Downriver of the arrow, the river’s flow had turned into a muddy trickle. The same as he had seen earlier. Fish flopped on the riverbed, dolphins cried out in outrage, turtles moved their limbs helplessly, and weeds and undergrowth hung limp and immobile on the muddy naked riverbed. 

Shantanu turned and looked at the boy in disbelief. 

The boy beamed at him, pleased at what he had done. It was the grin of a boy who had shot his first bird from the sky perhaps, or ridden his horse over a chasm for the first time. Shy, proud, yet guileless and utterly innocent. 

Then, as he saw Shantanu’s expression, the boyish grin faded. 

And turned to one of trepidation. 

‘You needn’t worry about the wetones. I would never harm them. They are my bhraatr. I only tease them this way sometimes. In sport.’

Shantanu stepped closer to the boy, examining him as if for the first time. He caught hold of him by the shoulders – he had to stretch out his own arms to reach those two wide muscled trunks – and said, ‘I know who you are. You are the eighth son! Her eighth son!’ 

The boy looked at him with total incomprehension. Then suddenly, he glanced over Shantanu’s shoulder and reacted to the sight of something else. 

‘Maatr!’ he cried out, with the childish alarm of a boy caught doing a mischevious prank he has been forbidden to play many times before. ‘I was only showing the nice mortal how—’

‘SILENCE!’

The word was a crashing no less than thunder. 

Shantanu spun around to see the river break through the barrier of the arrow, splitting the arrow’s shaft into countless slivers, each as beautifully reflective and metallic as the arrow itself – it was like watching crystal explode – and roar along its concourse again, stronger than ever. The waters boiled and seethed, throwing up a spout that hung in mid air several yards high.

From the angry spout, a figure was sculpted. 

It was the figure of his former wife, his Queen, the only woman he had ever loved. 

‘Gangey,’ he said softly, altering the last syllable of her name to the affectionate ‘ey’ sound as only a spouse could do. ‘Then this is…’

‘My son,’
said the angry goddess of the river, moving across the surface of her waters with a great churning energy.
‘I have forbidden you from playing these games. Indeed, you have been forbidden from stepping out onto land unsupervised, have you not?’

The giant of a boy hung his head. ‘Yes, maatr,’ he said miserably, ‘but I was only—’

‘Silence! Not a sound from you!’
she said, and there were teeth in her watery mouth, Shantanu saw, long white teeth as sharp as any predator’s.
‘I wish to have words with the dryone…with this man.’

The boy stood by silently. 

Ganga turned to face Shantanu. 

He joined his hands before her. ‘Mother river,’ he said, ‘it is such a pleasure to see you again.’

‘And you, my husband,’
she said gently. She assumed the form he had known her by, partially, just the face and a suggestion of the upper body, while still retaining her river aspect. It was enough to make his heart ache for all that they had shared, for the companion he had lost.
‘I see you still remain single, still wifeless.’

‘None but you,’ he said simply. ‘You know this well. If you wish me to be loved and to love again, then come back to me. Come back now.’

She smiled and laughed a throaty watery chuckle. ‘Would that I could. But my time on the mortal plain is past. It can never be again.’

He sighed, feeling the pain of their parting as freshly as if it had been only yesterday. ‘Then I remain wifeless forever.’

‘No, do not say that,’
she whispered.
‘For to remain wifeless is to remain childless. And that is not ordained.’

He was about to ask her what she meant. For he remembered her saying something similar fifteen years ago, when they had parted. But before he could speak, she gestured to the boy standing beside him. 

‘You were right. This is he. The eighth child. The one I did not drown, but took away with me.’

He nodded slowly. ‘It took me some time, for somehow…’ He passed a hand across his face. ‘Somehow I had forgotten! Forgive me for that lapse.’

She shook her head in commisseration.
‘The mind forgets what it cannot bear to remember. If only the heart could forget so easily.’

‘Exactly. My mind had forgotten about the last child, but my heart recognized him somehow…’ He gestured towards the boy, still standing contritely, watching and listening to them with a curious look on his innocent handsome face. ‘He has your aspect about him…and clearly your supernatural powers.’

She smiled proudly.
‘He has great abilities and profound knowledge. He will do you proud. He will be the greatest son you could ever desire. It is he who will ensure the survival of your kingdom through darkest days…until…’

Shantanu frowned. ‘Until?’

She shook her head, water droplets flying hither and tither. ‘I cannot say more, I have said too much already. Only know this, he is your son and a great being. His name is Devavrata.’

‘Devavrata,’ Shantanu repeated approvingly, ‘God’s vow. A fine name.’

‘But he is accustomed to being called Gangeya. If it pleases you, call him that as well, sometimes. It will remind you of me and keep my name upon your lips.’

And now she was already moving back into the water, dissolving, descending…

‘No,’ he cried. ‘Wait! There is so much I wish to say to you! To ask you! Please stay.’

She joined her palms together in supplication as he had at first sight of her.
‘Henceforth, you may say and ask all of Devavrata Gangeya. He shall answer and advise you perfectly in all matters. He has been groomed for this purpose. Love him as well as he shall learn to love you, and use his powers wisely, for he is greatly gifted and no mere mortal.’

And then she was one with the water and the waves enveloped her and she merged with them and was gone. 

Shantanu sat for a long moment, crouched by the riverside, staring down at the place where Ganga had emerged from and returned to again. 

If there is one pain that can equal the pain of grief and parting with our most dearly loved one, it is the pain of seeing that dearly loved one again, years later, long after one has finally forgotten, and to be reminded once again, if only for a fleeting moment, of all that was, could have been, should have been, but can now never be again. Who among us can know the pain that Shantanu felt at that moment, to have seen his beloved wife again, if only for a few moments, and to know that she was always here within reach, yet always out of reach to him. 

And the Ganga flowed on by. And the greatest love he had ever known, might ever know even in years to come, was gone forever. Like a poet’s lyric spoken into a storm. Like a reed-flute’s song drowned by a hurricane. Like a love story written on water. 

Finally, as the sun was setting, he felt strong arms with a gentle touch upon his shoulders. 

‘Father,’ said a gentle voice behind him. ‘I understand now. This is the day I was told to prepare for. I am ready. Let us go home now.’

And Shantanu permitted his son to help him to his feet and together they walked back towards the city of his ancestors. 

||paksha seven||

bhishma and the terrible vow

1

The nation greeted Devavrata with great warmth and approval. They were told the truth: that he was the son of their late Queen, that she had had to leave them unexpectedly before delivering him, and his nurture and education had been accomplished by the most renowned sages possible. Now that he was of age, he had returned to aid his father in administering to the needs of the kingdom. Shantanu waited a respectable time before announcing Devavrata as his heir apparent. During this period, the young prince won hearts and dazzled even the most skeptical minds with his natural boyish charm, incredible mastery of weapons and unmatched valour. Soon, there seemed to be nothing Devavrata could not do, and do with charm, grace and the gentle manner of all truly strong men. By the time Shantanu installed him as crown prince and Devavrata became Yuvaraja Devavrata, he was already the most beloved king to rule Hastinapura. In four short years, the young boy Shantanu had encountered by the river had grown to become an admirable young man. His innocence had been honed away through exposure to the daily politics of statecraft, replaced by a canny understanding and insight into human nature and ambition. Yet he never succumbed to shrewdness, grew wiley or resorted to manipulations in order to have his way. He proved himself a much more resourceful player than all those who stooped to such petty trickery. He was a gentleman of the game of thrones, a master of the art of kingship, and his natural innocence and boyish charms belied a keen and insightful knowledge of every aspect of governance. He routinely shocked opponents by turning the tables on them just when they were certain of success, or thwarting their designs by the simplest and most obvious of methods. Yet even in his moments of triumph, he never rubbed salt into their wounds or pressed their snouts into the foulness of their mistakes, choosing instead to smile with a twinkle in his eye and a friendly pat on the back. This won over more rivals and opponents than outright conflict, and in time, even those who had resented him the most began to ease their efforts to unseat him or thwart him, choosing instead to ally and benefit from his rise and governance. Many became his disciples in all but name, studying his moves and choices, marvelling at the way he handled delicate matters, learning his methods – yet even they came to realize in time that his store of wisdom was far deeper than they could fathom in one lifetime. He had no set methods or approach; it was as if he knew precisely how to deal with each individual problem on its own merits. The only thing they truly learned from him was that they could never govern as wisely as he did. 

In four years, everyone who knew him came to love, respect, admire and rely on Devavrata. Even those who hated him grudgingly accepted his superiority and allied with him for their own benefit; little realizing that it was he who was wise enough to let them stay alive and in power so that he might know, monitor and control his enemies. Even at that tender age, he was still wise enough to know that a powerful king always had enemies. It was best to keep them close to oneself and watch them closely, rather than foolishly waste one’s efforts battling and chasing them constantly. This way, it was in his enemies’ interest to see Hastinapura prosper and the Puru empire grow in strength and wealth, so that someday, when the time was right, they could reap the rewards of all these decades of sowing. 

Shantanu watched with constant amazement as his son took over the reins of kingship so effortlessly that it soon seemed as if Devavrata had always ruled and would always rule. He was like a force of nature: immutable, constant, dependable, perfect in his judgement and knowledge, just in his choices, merciful in his sentencing, and wise beyond measure in his foresights and foreknowledge. Even Shantanu found himself learning from him rather than teaching him. He recalled Ganga’s words that their son had been well schooled by the greatest of gurus and he marvelled at how much had been taught to the young man in so short a time. He had no way of knowing, of course, that Devavrata had spent not merely fifteen years in study but fifteen hundred! For in the ocean of stories, time flowed at a different pace and their young son had imbibed all the collective knowledge of all the Puru and Bharata kings of his line, learned from their mistakes and successes, and gained wisdom that no ordinary mortal could hope to acquire in his lifetime. There were many advantages to being the son of a goddess and the reincarnation of a demi-god; this was one of them. 

The other great advantage was his prowess at war. In a sense, it was this formidable ability, coupled with his keen political acumen, that forced his enemies to resort to quietude and alliance to survive. 

For Devavrata could not be beaten in battle. This premise was tested frequently at first, then rarely, then almost never, for there comes a time when such a man’s fame itself becomes his most powerful weapon. Any challenger to the Puru dominance had only to be told the single word: ‘Devavrata’ and he would pale and put down his weapon and go home to his cookfire. For the whole wide world soon came to know that the son of Shantanu could not be bested in any form of combat: single, melee, or pitched battle. Or for that matter, in the use of any weapon. 

Still, there were some who were foolish enough to test this reputation. They rarely survived long enough to realize their own folly. 

After four years had passed, Shantanu was satisfied that his son’s kingship and governance was secure and would endure even without his presence. Indeed, he had deliberately chosen to take a back seat and let Devavrata take on more power and responsibility with each passing year. He began to withdraw from the daily tasks of a king and began to prepare for an early retirement. Yet he was still young, too young to go into the forest and spend the rest of his life pursuing austerities. As his responsibilities decreased and his mind had more time to turn to other matters, the loneliness that had engulfed him those many years ago returned, gradually at first, then with an overwhelming rush that threatened to overpower and incapacitate him. The very sight and sound of Devavrata reminded him constantly of his lost love. He loved his son dearly but that intense love only made him long for his wife all the more. He lamented the fact that they could not be together as one united family, enjoying one another’s company and love. But he also longed for a woman to love and be loved by once more. For having known true love once, the heart can never accept the solitary state as anything but a lesser condition. 

In time he ceased his visits to the riverside that he had loved for so long. He had accepted the cruel sentence that fate had condemned him to and knew that Ganga could never return to him. Seeing her watery aspect, however remote that might seem from the living breathing flesh-and-blood woman he had held in his arms, kissed and loved, only served to aggravate his heartache. He took to travelling by different routes, hunting in different forests. Since being within reach of a river was essential and inevitable on his travels, he made sure that it was any river but the Ganga. Little did he realize that all rivers are sisters and Ganga watched over him no matter where he went, whether through her sister Yamuna or others, and not a day went by when she did not miss him as much as he missed her. If anything, her heartache was greater for she could see him anytime she wished and so she was constantly reminded of the love and companionship she had lost forever. 

Not coincidentally, it was while walking by the Yamuna that the course of his life took another turn. Listless and unable to enjoy the pleasure of the hunt as he once had, he was wandering the banks of the river, lost in his own thoughts. After a while, he grew aware of an exceptionally sweet floral fragrance that enveloped him on all sides. The sweetness of the odour was the more remarkable because it was not the season for such aromatic flowers to blossom and try as he might he could find none in sight. Using the same skills that served him so well as a hunter, he tracked the fragrance to its source. When he saw a boat pulled up by the bank and a woman seated within it, an oar in hand, he was struck by her beauty. She rose at the sight of the stranger, assuming him to be a passenger. He stood before her, staring unabashedly, unable to believe that she was the source of the powerful aroma. Embarrassed by his stare, she lowered her eyelashes demurely and waited for him to board her boat. 

Understanding that she was a ferry woman, Shantanu climbed aboard her craft. She reached out a hand to help him aboard and as she touched him, he felt his skin ignite with a fiery sensation he had never felt before. He jerked back his hand, seating himself heavily and setting the boat sloshing to and fro. She steadied it with the use of the oar, her shoulders and arms displaying considerable strength coupled with feminine grace. He could not help but watch her back and shoulder muscles move as she worked the oars, turning the head of the boat around to push it off shore. He could see her shapely legs beneath her garment and they were strong yet perfectly shaped as well. Her physical beauty captivated him, her aromatic body odour aroused him, and the intelligence and intuitiveness he glimpsed in her eyes caused him to respect her as well. He could not recall the last time he had been so overwhelmed by any woman. Except of course, Ganga herself. He was simultaneously surprised and a little guilty at the stirring in his loins and attempted to look away, staring out across the river as they commenced the long slow crossing. The tide was relentless if steady and it took considerable skill and effort as well as a keen knowledge of the currents for her to steer and row the boat in a reasonably straight line across the river. Lesser boatmen would have offloaded their fare half a mile downriver, given the width of the river and the strength of the current. He found another reason to desire her, for he admired great prowess in any person, no matter what his varna or vocation. He could see that she was a highly skilled ferry woman, apart from her extraordinary beauty and allure. That awareness of her skill only made her desire her all the more greatly. 

Still, being a king and a widower he tried his very best to contain his passion. It would not be right for him to simply throw himself at a ferry woman thus. She could well be married and a mother herself for all he knew. And so firmly had he put all thoughts of loving or marrying again out of his mind that it was difficult to even contemplate the thought of broaching the matter. 

But the heart wants what the heart wants and by the time the beautiful ferry woman had rowed Shantanu across the river to the far bank of the Yamuna, he could not bear to leave her company without at least speaking with her briefly. He had his opportunity when she brought the boat to rest on the south bank and waited quietly, keeping her eyes lowered to the rippling wash. 

‘How much do I owe you, beautiful lady?’ he asked. 

She started at the compliment. This pleased him for it indicated that she had not been complimented too often. With her extraordinary beauty that could only mean that she was too young to have met enough men for he had no doubt that were she to go out into the world, there would be a rain storm of such compliments showered down upon her daily. But then she spoke and her voice thrilled him, sending a flurry of unwanted emotions surging through his being like a sudden current flux under the surface of the river. ‘I am but a fisherman’s daughter, sire. You may pay me what you can. My father says that it is our dharma to help those who wish to cross and how can one put a price on dharma?’

He was pleased at her response as well. It indicated good breeding and learning. But that voice! And that beauty. It was beyond his tolerance now to ignore how he felt. 

He was a king and kings did not carry coin or items of trade. He tugged off the first ring that came to hand and held it out to her. 

She was demure and innocent enough that she accepted it without a glance. But as her palm opened to receive the payment, he enfolded her hand in his own, tightly. She gasped at the sudden contact and her eyes instantly went to his face. As her dark beautiful eyes with their lovely black pupils stared directly at him, he felt a rush of pleasure such as he had not experienced since…since too long. His entire body was ablaze, his skin tingling from the contact of their open palms. He moved closer to her, close enough that he could inhale her body’s scent, deliciously aromatic and irresistible. He had never known any woman whose scent alone could provoke such arousal. The way she sought to pull her hand back, the way her back arched, her lips parted, her dark skin and coal-black complexion, her dusky aspect and perfectly shaped features, her musical voice, every single thing about her pleased him greatly. He knew then and there that if he were to ever find happiness again with any woman, she was that woman. He might search the world over and not find another like her. She could never replace his Ganga. No woman could, for Ganga was a goddess and the first great love of his life, possibly the greatest. But she would very well. Very well indeed! 

‘My lord,’ she said, ‘Why do you take my hand thus? What is it you desire?’

He looked into her eyes and inhaled her anxiety and her excitement, and saw that there were indications of arousal in her as well. She was flushed and blushing, a thin layer of sweat had appeared on her upper lip, and while she had attempted to pull her hand free, her body was arched towards, not away from him. 

‘I desire you, lady,’ he said gently, unable to stop himself. ‘I would have you row me through the journey of life.’

She stared at him incomprehendingly for a moment then understanding dawned slowly. Now she blushed even more profusely and he was thrilled to see the change in hue of her dark complexion as her excitement showed itself. Yes, she was not disgusted or dismayed by his proposal; she was aroused. That meant that she either desired him as well or at least found him pleasing enough to accept as a mate.