THE MAHABHARATA: A Modern Rendering, Vol 1 (8 page)

As he fell, shot with a hundred shafts, Bheeshma said, “Ah, these are all Arjuna’s arrows.”

Then he found the deepest one, lodged next to his heart. Feeling it gingerly, he breathed, “This one is Amba’s.”

When the sun turned north again, it was through that wound his spirit left his body and Ganga’s son was free.

TEN THE SOLEMN OATH
 

King Vichitraveerya of Hastinapura was perfectly content to allow his half-brother Bheeshma to rule the Kuru kingdom, while he himself remained absorbed in his young wives Ambika and Ambalika.

It was a blessed time for them all. Satyavati was happy and Bheeshma at doing what he did best—ruling ably. And of course, the king was more than happy. Day after day, you could hear him laugh with his queens in their royal apartment. The three of them would lie together long after the sun had risen, long after the moon had set, tenderly entwined. Or they would be out walking in their gardens, or hunting in the forest even as Shantanu once used to. Vichitraveerya was a poet and a musician. He composed and sang so beautifully the people of Hastinapura said their king was surely a gandharva minstrel born among them as a man.

But fate is seldom content to allow such earthly happiness to endure; and when only a few of those golden years had passed, she struck again at the heart of the Kuru kingdom. Vichitraveerya contracted a virulent consumption and died when he was hardly more than a youth.

For a black month Satyavati took to her bed and would see no one, not even Bheeshma. She lay without eating or drinking and with grief devouring her. She entertained thoughts of taking her own life. But the truth was, that over the years, the fisherman’s daughter had become too much of a queen to give up courage.

In her solitary mourning, she recovered from the first tremors of the tragedy. To her own surprise, Satyavati realized what disturbed her, most of all, was that Hastinapura had no heir. Vichitraveerya had died before he made a mother of either of his wives.

Rising at the end of a month, the fragrance of her body faded with sorrow, Satyavati called for some warm water. She bathed and dressed herself in crisp, fresh clothes. When she had eaten enough to give her strength to speak, she sent for Bheeshma.

His face lined and old—he also felt he had lost another son—Bheeshma came and stood silently before his stepmother.

She took his powerful hand in both hers. “Devavrata, all this is because of my father’s greed. And of what use has your vow been? Even while they lived, my sons preferred to let you rule.” She choked, “No one has ever prospered at the cost of another’s misery. And in all time no one shall, though they may deceive themselves briefly that they do.”

Bheeshma pressed her hand consolingly. Kneeling beside her, he said softly, “Mother I am not miserable. My life is a full and rich one. Only the grief of my brother’s death savages me. But for the sake of the kingdom I must be calm and that pain will also pass.”

He saw her eyes glowed in the falling darkness. Her tears had stopped and she said to him, “And after your time, Bheeshma? Who will rule this kingdom after you? What will become of the people, their children and grandchildren? The unborn generations. Have you thought of that, Devavrata?”

She paused, then said, “The Kuru lineage must not perish for the sake of an oath sworn to a dead man.” He knew what she was leading up to. Clasping his hand tighter, she went on feverishly, “It is time the Gods were appeased with justice in Hastinapura, before they visit us with more punishment. I have decided what must be done and you must not refuse me. What I ask is only dharma.”

“What do you want from me, mother?”

A smile trembled on her face. Her body’s fragrance rose again, at the very thought of the justice she was going to see done. “Ambika and Ambalika are so young and their nature’s needs are unfulfilled. You are Vichitraveerya’s brother. You must make his widows your wives and the mothers of the future scions of the House of Kuru. You must do this for the sake of your ancestors, to preserve this line come down from Soma Deva. It is your dharma and your oath means nothing, anyway, after Vichitraveerya’s death.”

She stopped and waited for his answer. After a brief silence, during which he still stroked her hand, he said, “You are not yourself, mother. How can you ask me to marry my brother’s wives, when I have sworn no woman will have any place in my life? You are unhinged with grief, or you wouldn’t ask me this.”

A sob shook her and she let him hear it. “Chitrangada and Vichitraveerya are dead! What use is your oath any more? Can’t you see the Gods are trying to tell us that it is you and your sons who must inherit the throne of Hastinapura? Devavrata, you must not let the line of Kuru die.”

A tide of memory rose in Bheeshma’s mind, in flashing clarity. He saw a thousand moments of his childhood with his mother Ganga. He saw her, he touched her; he smelt her sweetness, as if it were all happening again. He saw himself, a stripling, learning the Vedas and Vedangas from Brihaspati and archery and politics from Bhargava. He heard his mother’s voice telling him, “Learn well, my son, because you must be the greatest king who ever sat upon the Kuru throne.”

The fine tide turned another bend in the maze of memory. He saw the times he spent with Shantanu: those perfect four years, before his father met Satyavati. He clearly saw the fateful day of his own visit to the fisher-king’s hut beside the Yamuna: the day of his vow. And then, a brief darkness, before the clearest of all the memories rose.

Bheeshma saw Amba’s face. He heard her begging him, not once but a hundred times, to marry her; and he heard himself refusing her again and again. Bheeshma knew why those last images roiled him. Deep inside himself, locked away safely out of harm’s way, there nestled the secret that he loved her: that still his dreams were often of Amba.

Tears stung Bheeshma’s eyes. The fisherwoman before him, for whose sake he had sacrificed his manhood, actually expected him to break his oath just because she asked him. When he had been prepared to kill his guru for that oath. And why? Because his master had asked him to marry the woman his soul cried out for! Bheeshma turned on his stepmother. His voice was quiet, but it was cold and haughty now.

“You don’t begin to know me,” he said, with contempt, “or what my dharma is. But then, how could you? Let me make this clear once and for all, so I never have to repeat myself.”

She shivered at his tone. He drew a breath and went on, “The earth may lose her fragrance, water its sweetness, the sun may lose his luster, or the moon his enchanted coolness; Lord Dharma of the Devas may abandon the truth, but Bheeshma will never break his oath.

My oath is everything I live by. That day at your father’s hut my life changed forever. My oath is my truth and truth for me is greater than all the anticipated rewards of heaven.”

He was still speaking quietly; but if Bheeshma could rave, this was his raving. “Mother, please give up this foolishness and think of a less absurd solution.”

He turned and walked out of her room.

ELEVEN SATYAVATI’S OTHER SON
 

Satyavati did not give up hope. When she emerged from the seclusion of mourning Vichitraveerya, she would at times summon the courage to speak to Bheeshma about an heir for Hastinapura. He was always busy with pressing affairs of the kingdom and most often contrived to avoid her.

Yet, now and then, she did manage to waylay him along one of the interminable passages of the palace. And her eyes full of tears, she would implore him again. But Bheeshma was adamant. Other nobles of the sabha, those that dared, began to broach the subject, delicately, of an heir for the Kuru throne. In the streets, the common people began to ask what he had done to ensure the kingdom had an heir.

Early one morning, as the sun was rising and the birds all sang, Bheeshma was returning to the palace from the bathing-tank, when Satyavati accosted him yet again. Today he did not avoid her, but said with a smile, “I think I have the cure for your anxiety. When I rode out to hunt yesterday, I met a rishi in the forest and he reminded me of a custom we had all forgotten.”

Her eyes lit up, “What is it, my son? Will you relent?”

The smile on his craggy face grew wider. “When a royal line is in danger of becoming extinct, ancient custom allows that a brahmana may be called in to father sons on the women of the threatened house. If you can think of a worthy brahmana, mother, your fears can be laid to rest.”

Satyavati cried out as if he had stabbed her. Her eyes grew blurry and she ran from him, trembling with outrage. He stood staring curiously after her; she would always remain an enigma.

Came evening and Bheeshma, regent of the Kurus, was summoned to the queen mother Satyavati’s chambers. Waving away her maids, she received him alone. Making him sit beside her, she said, “I have something to confess to you, Devavrata.”

He saw the struggle in her eyes. Gently he said, “If it is so hard to tell, let it be, mother.”

He rose to leave, but she took his hand. And once she managed to begin, it came tumbling out of her: her old secret. It was the tale of the Rishi Parashara and how, long ago beside the midnight-blue Yamuna, he had taken a mad fancy to a slip of a girl who smelled, in those days, not of heaven but of fish.

She stammered, she flushed and kept her face turned from him. But she managed to tell her story, ending with how Parashara blessed her. She had her virginity back, kept the new fragrance of her body and she bore a rishi for a son: Vyasa the poet, who was born on an island in the river as soon as she conceived him. He was full-grown in moments and illumined and said to her, “Mother, our paths lead away from each other. But if ever you need me, just think of me and I will appear before you.”

And he had wandered out of her life.

When Satyavati finished her story, she sat shyly before Bheeshma, her eyes turned from him. She knew how much he had sacrificed for her sake and feared his anger when he discovered his father had not been the first man in her life. But then, Bheeshma had always suspected the truth.

After a moment’s silence, he took her hand kindly. When she saw he was not angry, she burst out with, “Devavrata, if you really meant what you said to me this morning, I will call my son Vyasa to sire the heirs of Kuru on Ambika and Ambalika.”

Bheeshma greeted this imperturbably. “So be it, mother. I am adamant and, after all, the Muni Vyasa is your son. Summon him if the queens are ready to receive him.”

When Bheeshma left her apartment, Satyavati chanted the mantra her first child had given her, a life ago, on the island in the stream.

Hardly had she said, “Vyasa my son, I have need of you,” than a spirit light appeared in that chamber. As it grew brighter, a figure became plain at its core, dark as moonless nights, wild as forest’s hearts, his beard and matted jata hanging coppery to his waist. His eyes smoldered and he looked altogether fierce.

He bent at her feet to take his mother’s blessing. He embraced her and said affectionately, “How wonderful to see you again! But surely, you have thought of me today for some other reason besides a mother’s love?”

Satyavati told him about her life in Hastinapura. He listened gravely, never interrupting. Finally, she came out with what she wanted from him. She said that, being a brahmana and also Vichitraveerya’s brother, he was the one she had chosen to beget the Kuru heirs on Ambika and Ambalika.

For just a moment, Vyasa shut his heavy eyes in dhyana. Opening them, he said, “Why, it is the very least I can do for you who gave me life. But I have seen your daughters-in-law in my mind and, mother, they are so young. Hadn’t you better speak to Ambika and Ambalika first? Their husband was a handsome youth and I…” he smiled and did not finish.

“I will speak to them at once.”

She did not give him a moment to change his mind, but hurried away to Ambika’s apartment, where that queen lay in mourning still, like a wilted lotus.

Satyavati dismissed the maids. In a fair delirium of hope by now, she explained her mission to the young widow. She brought tears to the girl’s eyes. The shock of Vichitraveerya’s death still lay on Ambika like a shadow, but Satyavati was in no mood to let her refuse what she asked.

“Just one night,” she told her daughter-in-law firmly. “And remember he is a great rishi, so make him welcome.”

Ambika sobbed. But what was being asked of her was her dharma. Besides, she was not being asked, but told: because the future of the House of Kuru was in her hands. As she went out, Satyavati turned at the door, “By the way, he is a little fierce-looking, but he is a gentle soul.”

TWELVE
 

THE BLIND NIGHT AND THE PALE ONE
 

Ambika waited for the stranger to come to her apartment. Evening arrived; the world outside her window grew dark. Her maids came in and lit the lamps. Ambika grew increasingly dismayed at what she had to do. She crossed to the long mirror on the wall and examined herself in it: an old habit, would the strange man be pleased with her? Her fair body was boyish, with its small high breasts and lean satin flanks. She was not yet seventeen.

Came night and the soft dreaded knock at her door. Her hands clammy, Ambika went to answer it. Despite her wildest apprehensions, she was unprepared for the appearance of the man who stood in the passage. His coppery beard obscured most of his long face. He was jet black, his eyes were deep and so intense and his manner altogether untamed. A whimper escaped her when she saw him standing there, tall and grim, from a savage world out there, full of dark jungles, wolves that bayed a shining moon, tigers that were evil spirits and hermits who flew ominously through the air. From the first moment she saw Vyasa, poor Ambika was lost.

She was so terrified she could barely wash his feet in the silver trough to welcome him, as she must. Her hands shook and she could not look up at his face. Yet when she thought about that night later, when she was alone, she remembered Vyasa had been patient with her. He was a far cry from the irascible rishi who took umbrage at the slightest fault and cursed one to be born as an insect or a snake in one’s next life. Indeed, when she looked back calmly, she felt he had been full of a deep good humor.

But that night itself was a calamity and it was only because of him that they managed to get through what they had come together for.

She remembered later that he did not speak much; but when he did, his voice was soft and kind. Somehow, she did wash his fine feet, almost dropping the water for the wretched shaking of her hands. With a wry smile, a flash of white against his night-black skin, he took the silver pitcher from her and set it on a table. He took one of her small hands in his knotty one, callused by his life in the wilderness, so full of grace.

Vyasa’s was a reverberant presence, after the only other man she had known, the elegant Vichitraveerya. She found his stranger’s touch overwhelming and the blood rose dizzily to her head. She longed to put out the lamps that burned in the room and were reflected in his deep eyes. But she lacked the courage. With not a word exchanged between them, he led her to the bed, gently but with an eerie detachment. How different, how unthreatening, love had been with Vichitraveerya. Through her tumult, she had sense of a part of Vyasa watching himself in this obviously unaccustomed role and smiling inwardly.

But he was adroit when he peeled her clothes away from her slender body. With a quick sigh to see her naked, he lifted her easily on to the bed. He stroked her pale breasts. Ambika shut her eyes tightly from fear and from something else as well: an excitement so yawning she would not admit to herself what it was.

She teetered between a dream and the reality of him, darkly potent above her, inside her. She felt his rough beard against her cheek, as he nuzzled her in deep tenderness. She clawed his back each time the swell crested in her head in a white flash. But though he loved her all night, with his rishi’s great control and virility, not once did she open her eyes to look into his face.

Only when dawn flushed on the world, Vyasa spent himself into Ambika’s body in a warm cloud streaked with lightning: the golden seeds of life. She lay in a swoon. He rose from her bed and, dressing himself, went out from her apartment.

Satyavati could not contain her excitement when Vyasa arrived in her chambers. She clutched his

hand and cried with a fisher-woman’s curiosity, “How was the night? Did you succeed?”

He said quietly, “Ambika will have a powerful son. The night was perfect, except for one thing.”

She was anxious, “What was that?”

He grunted, “She was frightened and never opened her eyes to look at me.”

“And?”

“Your grandson will be born blind.”

She felt faint; she cursed the stupid girl. Sighing at her fate, Satyavati said, “Be comfortable here. I will take you to Ambalika tonight. She is a bolder child than Ambika; you will have no trouble with her.”

Vyasa settled himself on the floor of the opulent room. He shut his eyes and began to meditate. Satyavati went to prepare Ambalika to receive Vyasa. She said to her younger daughter-in-law, “Your sister had her eyes shut all night like the spoilt princess she is and her son will be born blind. Don’t you do anything so foolish.”

Then she went off to give Ambika a piece of her mind. What did she think: that being with a rishi was like sleeping with a boy like Vichitraveerya? After all, Satyavati did know a thing or two about rishis and their love. She had not shut her eyes out on the island with Parashara. But she had been raised on the banks of a river, a child of nature; not a pampered princess in a palace.

Late that evening, there was a knock at Vichitraveerya’s younger widow’s door. Braver than her sister and rather excited at the prospect of spending the night with another man, she opened it. Unlike Ambika, Ambalika had very little imagination; she had not worked herself up at all. But when that queen, who was barely sixteen, saw Vyasa in the passage she turned pale. She had never seen anyone as fearful as the black stranger who stood at her door.

Her excitement vanished; her gumption was gone. For fear of having a blind child, she managed to keep her eyes screwed open. Why, she managed to look at the rishi’s face and to keep her voice steady, as she asked him in. But with each moment she spent with him, poor Ambalika grew paler and paler.

The way Vyasa made love to Ambalika was as direct as it had been with Ambika. He wasted little time and fewer words, before he drew the brave princess to him and plucked away her clothes. He picked her up and laid her on the bed. Though she was younger than her sister, her body was more rounded and womanly. She kept her eyes open; she even managed a smile.

But when he came to her, in a feverish mixture of fright and lust Ambalika turned white as a sheet. And so she remained all through the night. Because he had spent some of his passion on her sister, Vyasa was gentler with Ambalika. His lovemaking was slow and languorous. But while her body responded helplessly, some part of her mind could never reconcile itself to him. She remained blanched all night; though she never shut her eyes, not even in pleasure.

In the morning, Vyasa returned to his mother, waiting eagerly to hear his news. He said, “A handsome and bold boy will be born to your younger daughter-in-law. But he too shall have a defect.”

“Why?” she cried.

“Ambalika didn’t shut her eyes, though she wanted to. But she was so afraid she turned the color of moonlight. Your grandson will be born as pale as his mother was when I was with her.”

Satyavati groaned. Ah, these foolish girls, had they been taught nothing about life? She clasped her son’s hand and implored him, “You mustn’t be angry with them, they are just children. I have another favor to ask you. After these two princes are born, you must come back again. You must go to Ambika once more. She will be a mother by then and mature. You must give me your word.”

Laughing, he gave it and went back into the wild world from where he had come.

In course of time and a day apart, sons were born to the widowed queens of Hastinapura. Just as Vyasa had predicted, Ambika’s son was a large and powerful infant; but he was born sightless. At his father’s instance, the blind prince was called Dhritarashtra. The day after Dhritarashtra, an elegant, quiet son was born to Ambalika. There was no rich pigment in his skin: he was an albino. He was also given a name his father had chosen. He was called Pandu.

Using the mantra he had given her, Satyavati called Vyasa again and he appeared before her. She showed him his sons and how they were exactly as he had said, one blind and the other white. The rishi blessed the two children. But he showed no attachment for them: they might have been anyone’s sons. He said, “Tell me why you called me, mother.”

“I want you to spend another night with Ambika. I want a grandchild who is whole in all his parts. I had two sons and both died. If there had been a third one to rule Hastinapura, I wouldn’t have to trouble you like this.”

Vyasa said. “Prepare your daughter-in-law to receive me.”

Satyavati went off to do just that.