THE MAHABHARATA: A Modern Rendering, Vol 1 (5 page)

In the palace, the yuvaraja ran to the king’s apartment. Bheeshma bowed to Shantanu and cried, “Father put away your sorrow. I have brought her for you.”

Shantanu had expected something of the sort, if not so quickly. Rising, the king said, “Who have you brought?”

“Satyavati.”

“But her father wouldn’t give her to me, unless…what have you done, Devavrata?”

“I have only renounced the throne and my manhood: they are as nothing to give if they can buy your happiness, why, your very life. My lord, you will not live another month without her.”

“Oh, my son!” Shantanu sat down heavily; the world spun around him and his legs were weak. When he heard of the bargain his prince had struck with the fisherman, the king’s guilt threatened to overwhelm his excitement.

Tears in his eyes, Shantanu said, “You are noble and dishonor would break your heart. Otherwise I would ask you to take her back to her father.” The king took his son’s hand, “You have always been more like the father and I like the son. But my shame will not change that, because you are strong like your mother, while I am only a weak mortal.

Yes, I confess I love the fisher-girl. And now, knowing what you have done for my sake, I will enjoy her as well as I can.”

Shantanu paused; a wan smile lit his face. “I too have the punya of my celibacy of twenty years. I bless you, my son, with this father’s blessing:
let death come for you only when you call him yourself
. For what you have sacrificed for me, you shall choose the hour and the manner of your own dying.”

And so Shantanu, king of the Kurus, married the fisher-girl Satyavati in Hastinapura with pomp and ceremony and some unkind whispering among his subjects who, despite her unworldly aroma, compared the new queen unfavorably with Ganga. Most of all, the people were heartsick to hear that Devavrata would never rule them.

But time heals almost any wound and the kingdom settled down to its new circumstances. Even if Bheeshma never actually sat on the throne of Hastinapura, he would be the virtual king for many years, until Satyavati’s son came of age. And so it happened. Shantanu gave up most of his powers to his son and immersed himself in his young wife, who delighted him with her wild simplicity, her passionate nature and, of course, the heavenly scent of her dark body.

Two sons were born to Shantanu and Satyavati and they were named Chitrangada and Vichitraveerya. Their half-brother Bheeshma doted on them; it was he who raised them. Shantanu was too old and also too absorbed in his queen, to raise them himself; and after the children were weaned, Satyavati showed no maternal possessiveness. She was genuinely glad of the love the powerful Bheeshma lavished on her boys.

Shantanu’s last few years were deeply happy ones. Surrounded by a close and loving family, it was as if near his end time repaid the old king for whatever fierce sadness she had inflicted on his earlier life. And so, at peace, Shantanu of the Kurus was gathered to his fathers.

Chitrangada, Shantanu’s older son by Satyavati, was still too young to become king. Bheeshma ruled Hastinapura as regent, if in his younger brother’s name: for he had Chitrangada installed as yuvaraja even before Shantanu died. The reign of Bheeshma, the uncrowned king of the Kurus, was a halcyon season for the kingdom. It was as nearly perfect a time as it could be in those last days of the dwapara yuga, when darkness gathered ominously over the world.

But as if fate herself resented the prosperity of those years and the harmony and affection between Satyavati, her sons and Bheeshma, tragedy struck with no warning at the very heart of the royal House of Hastinapura. And its agent was a being not of this earth.

SIX TWO PRINCES
 

There was a gandharva whose name was also Chitrangada. For reasons of destiny more inscrutable than we can unravel here, one day this immortal decided to appear at the gates of Hastinapura. Splendent he was, as if his body was full of light. He was taller than any human, unimaginably handsome and his eyes deep and luminous. His blue-black hair hung below his shoulders and he seemed made more of the stuff of dreams than of flesh and blood.

Chitrangada the gandharva appeared out of thin air one morning outside Hastinapura and blew a sweet blast on the golden horn he carried at his waist. When the astonished guard asked who he was, he cried in his fine singing voice, which was thick with the wine the gandharvas drink, “I hear a mere mortal has stolen my name! The apsaras of Devaloka laugh at me. I hear he is a prince, the yuvaraja of your city. If he is a kshatriya, let him come out and fight me. Tell him that only one Chitrangada will live to see the sun set today.”

Bheeshma was away from his capital, visiting remote corners of the kingdom. For his honor as a kshatriya the yuvaraja Chitrangada had to accept the drunken gandharva’s challenge. It was a month before he was to be crowned king of the Kurus. Frightened and brave, curious because he had never seen a gandharva before, though he had heard wondrous tales of them, Satyavati’s son came out to face Chitrangada of heaven.

The gandharva waited for his namesake, whistling like a tree-full of birds so a crowd gathered. The birds of the air flew down to the trees outside Hastinapura. They knew this was song such as their own wild songs were first made from: the music of the Gods. When the human Chitrangada came out of the city-gates, the Elf grew quiet. His hands on slim hips, he stood glaring at the youth that dared use his name.

In a moment, the gandharva began to laugh. Satyavati’s son saw how tall and wonderful the immortal was, his hair shimmering and his face full of soft splendor. The gandharva challenged Chitrangada of the earth.

“Mortal! You dare take the name Chitrangada, whose meaning you cannot even know. I say you are guilty of theft worse than of gold or jewels, or even kingdom.” His beautiful face turned dark. “I see you are just a boy, so I will give you a chance to save your life. Declare that you renounce the name Chitrangada, which has been mine for eons. Kneel before me and beg my pardon and I will give it to you. If you like, I will even give you a new name you can bear through your brief human years.

This is your only chance to save yourself. If you fight me, you will die. Then what use will my name be to you? The choice is yours, boy.”

Satyavati’s son’s eyes turned the color of plums. He said, “You must indeed have lived for eons, vain gandharva, that you have grown so tired of your life. I am Chitrangada, yuvaraja of Hastinapura and I know of no other Chitrangada. If you want to fight me for the sake of my name, I think you are a fool and deserve to die.”

Chitrangada of Hastinapura drew his sword. The people gathered there hardly saw what happened next; it happened with such blinding swiftness that mortal eyes could not follow it. They heard a growl, as musical as the rest of his speech; they saw the gandharva’s hand streak to his side. Next instant, they saw their prince keel over clutching his neck that had been pierced by a silver dagger. The Elf whistled softly and his slender blade flew back to its jeweled sheath. The yuvaraja’s life went out through the neat wound in his throat. In a flash of light the gandharva vanished, leaving Hastinapura bereft, her destiny transformed.

Bheeshma was heartbroken. He had loved Chitrangada as his own son. Carefully, since the boy’s infancy, he had groomed him to sit one day on the throne of the Kurus. He had taught him archery and the Vedas, politics and history, astrology and metaphysics and everything else the yuvaraja knew. They had been so close. Now all that was left, after Chitrangada’s body was cremated beside the Ganga, was an urn of ashes. Wondering for what crime of another life he was being punished with such torment in this one, Bheeshma floated those ashes down his mother’s serene currents, toward the ocean, which receives the remains of the dead.

His dreams shattered, Bheeshma began all over again with Satyavati’s second son, Vichitraveerya. Whereas so far he had brought him up only to become his brother’s loyal minister, now he groomed that prince to be a king. Bheeshma crowned the younger boy yuvaraja and continued to rule Hastinapura himself.

Chitrangada’s death had fallen on him like summer lightning; but in a few years, Vichitraveerya grew into a fine young kshatriya and Bheeshma crowned him king. Vichitraveerya was a modest youth who worshipped his brother and it was in Bheeshma’s able hands that the real power in the kingdom of the Kurus still rested. The people, Satyavati and Vichitraveerya himself were all content with this arrangement. It would never do that a younger brother ruled while his older and wiser brother was alive.

Some years went by, in peace and plenty and they were kind to Hastinapura and her people. Then Bheeshma decided it was time Vichitraveerya married. News arrived in Hastina that the king of Kasi was planning a swayamvara for his three daughters, Amba, Ambika and Ambalika, all of them reputed to be beautiful and accomplished. From time immemorial, indeed ever since the two kingdoms had existed, it had been the unvarying practice for the princesses of Kasi to be given as wives to the princes of Hastinapura. Never had there been any question of a swayamvara. The slight did not escape Bheeshma: Vichitraveerya was not being offered the hand of any of the Kasi princesses because he was a fisher-girl’s son. But Bheeshma was not about to let the matter pass.

SEVEN THREE PRINCESSES OF KASI
 

The city of Kasi was festive: Manikarnika, the ornament that once fell from Cosmic Siva’s ear, to be his special place on earth. Kasi was decked in colorful archways; her streets were choking with a million garlands. Singing, dancing crowds swung through her aisles.

In the hall of the swayamvara, a thousand of the most eligible kings and princes of Bharatavarsha had gathered. Each one had come in the hope that one of the princesses of Kasi would choose him to be her husband. The jewelry those kshatriyas wore caught the shafts of the morning sun and the sabha glittered. Jasmine-laden air eddied softly around those high born masters of the earth. Their refined laughter could be heard there, tinged with some anxiety.

Amba, Ambika and Ambalika were all named after the Devi who is Siva’s consort. Wearing wedding finery they sat haughty and ravishing beside their father. The custom was that when the auspicious muhurta arrived and the planets were in their most benign places, the palace priests, who were avid at their ghatikas, the water clocks, would announce the hour. Each princess would then be given a garland of wildflowers, which she would drape around the prince or king she chose. It was age-old custom that a princess could choose her own husband, her vara. This was why the ceremony was called a swayamvara, meaning literally ‘her own husband’.

The moment had arrived and the oldest princess, Amba, had just been handed her garland. Suddenly they heard chariot-horses’ hooves outside. Silence fell when they saw who had arrived: it was Devavrata of Hastinapura. Some kshatriyas in the sabha snickered, though none too near Bheeshma.

“Has the celibate found his celibacy unbearable?”

“Isn’t he a little old for this?”

“Has he decided to break his oath?”

“Who can blame the poor man? These princesses could shake the vows of the rishis of the forest.”

Someone shouted, “I think you’ve left it a little late, Devavrata. Your hair has turned grey!”

And loud laughter. Bheeshma’s eyes glinted dangerously. With a soft growl that froze the assembly, he said, “I rather think I am just in time.”

Amba stood unmoving before the groom of her choice, the king of Salva. She had raised her hands to place her garland around his neck when Bheeshma arrived. Next moment, Bheeshma was a flaming immortal in that sabha. When he was just a stripling Ganga’s son had dammed her flow with golden arrows; now he was a grown man at the height of his powers.

He was among them like some invasion. One moment they were mocking him and Amba was about to garland the king she had chosen. Then Bheeshma had seized not only that dazed princess but her sisters as well and swept them into his chariot in a blur.

As he went, he cried, “They are for my brother Vichitraveerya. They shall be queens in Hastinapura like their mothers before them. Come and fight me, Kshatriyas, show me your mettle.”

Those were days when honor meant more than life itself. A throng of kshatriyas flew after Bheeshma. For a while it seemed he would outrun them and escape. But then he whirled his chariot round. His bow was raised and it blazed arrows at his pursuers in a storm. Every shaft found its mark, shattering chariots, piercing armor and blood leaked on to the earth.

But there was a king that one of the Kasi princesses had actually chosen and Shalva gave Bheeshma a ferocious fight. He struck him with three scathing shafts. Roaring in surprise the Kuru plucked them out and his blood gushed after them. In a flash he cut down Shalva’s chariot and killed that king’s horses and sarathy. Shalva stood exposed and Amba shut her eyes and prayed for his life. But Bheeshma did not intend to kill a defenseless man. Growling deep in his throat, like some lion, he swung his chariot around again and rode back to Hastinapura.

The people of the city came streaming out of their homes. They crowded into the streets to see what Bheeshma had brought back. They set up a cheer when they saw the three princesses in his chariot: bashful, but two of them so excited by the romance of having been abducted by the magnificent Kuru. They were flushed with the battle that had been fought for them; what more could any princess ask for on the day of her swayamvara?

When the people of Hastinapura welcomed them exuberantly, asking their names and calling them their queens, Ambika and Ambalika began to wave back to that sea of friendly faces. They felt thrilled to be called queens and no sooner had they ridden into it, than they knew Hastinapura was the city of their destiny. But Amba kept her head bowed.

Bheeshma thundered up to the king’s palace and leapt down from his chariot. The princesses followed him meekly. He strode straight to Satyavati’s apartment and knocked on her door. When she opened it, she saw him standing there with a rare smile on his face. He said, “Mother, look what I have brought for you.”

“What is it, Devavrata?”

He moved aside and she saw the princesses behind him. He cried, “Daughters-in-law! Three of them from Kasi.”

As they came forward to touch her feet, Satyavati saw how beautiful they were. Bheeshma said to a guard, “Take word to the king that his mother wants to see him urgently.”

Vichitraveerya arrived and when he saw Amba, Ambika and Ambalika he fell at Bheeshma’s feet. Bheeshma raised him up like a child and embraced him. The young king saw blood on his brother.

“You are wounded! Mother, quickly, fetch warm water and ointment.”

Bheeshma protested that it was only a scratch, but the king would not listen. Luckily Bheeshma’s armor had endured the brunt of Shalva’s arrows. Vichitraveerya dressed his brother’s wounds with the herbs his mother’s women brought. When he had finished, a quivering voice said, “I beg you, give me leave to speak.”

It was Amba, the oldest princess. Bheeshma said, “Speak freely child. Have no fear, this is your home now.”

Mustering her courage, she said, “When the lord Bheeshma stormed into the swayamvara and took us, I was in the very act of placing my garland around king Shalva’s neck. With all my heart I had chosen him to be my husband.”

“Why didn’t you speak out?” said Bheeshma. “You did not say a word, not even when I was fighting Salva.”

She whispered, “I was robbed of my courage. And before I breathed freely again, we had ridden to Hastinapura.”

Now Vichitraveerya said firmly, “It isn’t right that I marry her if she has given her heart to someone else.”

Bheeshma was relieved; he had hoped his brother would not make this an issue of kshatriya honor. Satyavati also agreed. Gently, Bheeshma said to Amba, “If what you say is true, you must not remain here.”

He clapped his hands for the guard.

“Arrange for the princess Amba to have a royal escort. Prepare my own chariot for her and let her be driven at once to Salva.”

Such a smile broke out on the lovely Amba’s face that the others laughed. Blessing them all, blessing Hastinapura, seeking Satyavati’s blessing herself, Amba mounted the chariot and drove away. Little did she realize how short-lived her joy was to be.