ISSUE 36

I am in the midst of a crowd. I can hear angry male voices, the clang of weapons, the heavy thud of the mace, I hear the swish of an arrow as it goes past my ear – the sounds confused, yet meshed together. But that is all there is; I can see nothing, there is only darkness. And then I see her, Amba, my sister, the way she was when I last saw her, young, beautiful, angry and desperate. She seems to be saying something to me, but now the sounds have been muted and I can’t hear her words. She is trying to tell me something, I am frantic to hear her, I must get closer. I begin to run and suddenly, there is nothing under my feet, just emptiness. And I fall.

I wake up. It was only a dream. I am in my own bed and the sounds I hear are the sounds of the beginning of a day, a day like any other. But why is there so much activity outside, hushed whispers, sounds of shuffling feet? Slowly it penetrates through the haze of my dream-filled sleep. This is not a day like any other; today we, my sister Ambalika and I, are leaving the palace. For ever. We will never return. There was a time when we would have rejoiced at the thought of going away from here. I remember the day we came here, were brought here, rather, all three of us. Bewildered and frightened we had looked around. What place was this? And why had we been brought here, abducted from our own swayamvara? A small crowd of people, many of them maids and male retainers, gathered round us, looking curiously at us, making us even more nervous. But Amba, our eldest sister, was not one to be cowed down. She called out loudly to the man who had abducted us, the man briskly walking away from us, like someone whose work was done. Making it clear that he had nothing more to do with us

‘Bhishma,’Amba called out loudly. ‘Bhishma,’ she said to his receding back.

He had turned round then, shocked, perhaps, at the way Amba had addressed him. Clearly, no one addressed him in that manner. He stared at her and then, deliberately turning away from her, ordered the maids, as if Amba had not spoken. ‘Take them inside,’ he said and walked away. It was only when we had been taken into the women’s rooms, Ambalika and I, that we realised Amba was not with us. We never saw her again. Eventually, the news of her death reached us, travelling through the palace at great speed, as bad news always does. For a long time after that day, I regretted that Ambalika and I had not gone with her, that we had shown such little courage. But she would not have let us accompany her. She was set on her lonely path, she had begun the solitary journey which would lead her to her fiery end. The day we heard of her death, Ambalika and I crouched together, Ambalika crying, the repeated hiccupping sobs of a child. But my eyes were dry, they were burning, as if the fire which had embraced Amba was reaching out to me. Rage, more than grief, filled me and I thought that Amba, when dying, had left me her anger, the only thing left to her at the end.

Amba died, and the two of us, Ambalika and I, tamely married the boy-King. At first, we had thought that Bhishma was the King, he was so full of power and authority. But no, it was his much younger brother, his stepbrother, who was the King. All Princesses, maybe all girls, dream of marrying a handsome young Prince. So had Ambalika and I dreamt. Instead we got this boy, a sickly peevish boy who did not even look at us. In earlier happier days we would have laughed at the thought of this boy as our husband. But there was no room for laughter in our lives after we came to Hastinapur. Even less when the poor sick boy-King died and we became widows. Widows, without having been wives. We had never been Queens either, though we were married to a man who was called King. Which meant nothing; the real power, we realised very soon, was with Bhishma, the boy-King’s brother and with his mother, Satyavati, who was always addressed as ‘Queen’. To Ambalika and me, however, she was always Matsyagandha, her name before she married Bhishma’s father, the King. Matsyagandha, the fisherman’s daughter, who did not want even to remember her earlier name, her earlier life. Pretending that she had been born to royalty. But we never forgot that she was only a fisherman’s daughter, while we were Princesses, the daughters of a King. Yet,we had to accept that in the palace in Hastinapur we were nobodies. And after the boy-King’s death, we mattered even less. Clearly, we were of no use to anyone.

So I thought, until I got a message from the fisherman’s daughter. It was a short and cryptic message. ‘You will have a visitor tonight.’ That was all. I wondered then who it could be. Had our father heard about the boy-King’s death and sent someone to take us back home? Vain hope. If he had done nothing for Amba who had trudged hopelessly from man to man, why would he do anything for us? We heard that she had refused to marry the boy-King and gone to the man she loved, Salva, who rejected her. She came back to the boy-King who, in his turn, refused her. And then she went to Bhishma and asked him to marry her. Now, years later, I can imagine the desperation that drove her to the man who had ruined our lives. Bhishma too refused. And so, she killed herself. Burnt herself. No, the visitor could have nothing to do with our father. Who could it be then?

Some time after the fisherman’s daughter’s message, the maid came to me. I looked in astonishment at the things she had brought – rich clothes, flowers, perfumes, jewels.

‘For me?’ I asked, incredulous.

She smiled, an enigmatic smile.

‘Why?’

‘You are receiving a visitor tonight.’

‘Who is the visitor?’

She parried my question with a ‘You will soon know’.

‘And Ambalika?’ I asked

‘Her turn will come,’ she said.

Her turn? What did she mean? After she had gone, I continued to puzzle over who my visitor could be. I think it strange now, that, in all my confused thoughts, I never once thought of the desperation of Bhishma and the fisherman’s daughter for an heir to the kingdom.

I was left alone after the maid had gone. No one came to me, not even Ambalika. As evening slid into night, a silence fell on the palace. There was something sinister about the silence, about the way I was left alone. I was drowsing when a sound alerted me to the fact that someone had entered the room. I got out of bed in a flurry of movement. I could not receive a guest in bed! And then, in the dim light of the flickering lamp, I saw a man. He looked wild, his hair knotted and tangled, his beard and moustache a bushy growth covering almost his entire face. He brought a strange smell with him, the smell of the forest, the smell of rotting leaves. I was terrified, I moved as if to flee.

‘Sit down, child,’ he said, his voice unexpectedly gentle. ‘Have they told you who I am?’

I shook my head. My voice no longer obeyed me, it refused to emerge.

‘Then they have not told you why I am here, either?’

Again I shook my head.

‘Listen, then. This kingdom, your husband’s kingdom, needs an heir.’

He waited for my response. But I still could not talk,

‘You will give the kingdom the heir it wants.’

‘I?’ Finally my voice came out, shamefully shrill and childish.

‘Yes. You and I together.’

What did he mean? I was not wholly ignorant, I had heard vague talk about this secret thing between men and women. As girls we had listened to the talk of older girls, we had giggled, but we had never really understood what it was all about. The boy-King, our husband, had never come near us either, never touched us and our knowledge remained confined to the vague hints we had heard earlier. Now this wild man was telling me that he and I would together produce an heir for Hastinapur.

‘Do you understand?’

Once again, I shook my head.

‘We will come together like a man and a woman do to bring a child into this world.’

He was so matter-of-fact that it seemed an entirely normal thing to do. Yet when he moved towards me, I was overcome by fear and opened my mouth to scream. He was by my side in a flash, his hand, rough and hard, clamped on my mouth, his other arm encircling my body.

‘No!’ he said sternly. ‘No. No noise. You must be silent.’

He let go of me and I staggered. He picked me up as easily as if I was a doll and placed me on the bed. He sat by me and said, like a parent or a guru, ‘You have to be quiet.’ He bent down, his face close to mine and stopped my mouth, not with his hand, but with his mouth this time. I closed my eyes, I tried to keep myself from breathing so that I would not have to smell his breath.

‘Open your eyes,’ he said.

I squeezed them even tighter.

‘Open your eyes.’ More urgently this time.

No, I would not open them. It seemed to me in that fear-filled moment that this was the only way I could resist him, the only way I could escape his control. Though my eyes were closed, my ears were open, and I felt him get off the bed, I heard rustling sounds. I thought of fleeing from the room. Take flight like Amba had done. But I was not Amba. She had the wings of courage. I didn’t. And where would I go? Everyone in this palace was my enemy – except for Ambalika.

He came back and again sat by me, his hands roving over my body, venturing through my clothes to my bare skin. Not a fond touching, but not ungentle either. It was like he was making sure that everything was as it should be – my breasts, my waist, my abdomen …

Suddenly, taking me by surprise, he heaved himself on top of me. The weight of his body drove the breath out of mine, a small cry escaped me.

‘Sssh,’ he said, ‘be quiet. Don’t be frightened. I will do everything. Just lie quietly. I will try not to hurt you.’

Not hurt me? Not hurt me? I lay still after he had done and moved off me. There was a pain where he had forced himself into me, a pain as sharp and hurting as a wound caused by an arrow.

He got off the bed. ‘Rest now,’ he said. And added, ‘For a while.’

For a while? Had he not done what he had come to do? Why was he lingering? There was complete silence and I thought he must have gone. Cautiously I opened my eyes. He was still there, sitting now, his legs crossed under him, as if he was meditating.

After a while he came back to me. My body instinctively curled up, trying to protect itself. He held me by my shoulders, made me lie on my back and straightened my legs, keeping them apart.

‘It will be easier this time,’ he said.

It was not. It was I who didn’t make it easy for him. I fought him, my body thrashing about under his, making it hard for him to have his way with me. Finally he became rough, pinioned my body under his, pinning my arms down by my wrists. He was like an unbridled horse which has gone out of control.

When he let go of me, I felt as if I had been trampled on by an elephant. I lay on my side, shutting out the world, the tears trickling down my cheeks, making a puddle under my face. In a while I felt him standing by me. I opened my eyes and looked at him fearfully. He put out a hand and I shied like a frightened animal. But he did nothing more than touch my cheek with a finger. A rough rasping finger.

‘Go to sleep, now,’ he said. ‘You will be all right by morning.’

When he had gone, I wanted to howl like an animal, to cry out my agony to the world. But shame was part of it, I knew I could not speak, I could never speak of what had been done to me. Strangely, I soon fell asleep. And woke up in the early hours of the morning conscious of a wetness, a stickiness between my legs. I was bleeding. And the pain at the spot where he had entered me was like none other I had experienced, until then. The maid came to me early, as if she knew I would need her. She gently massaged my hurting and torn body, she murmured soothing words as if I was a child. And when she had made me comfortable, she said, not once, but over and over again, like a mantra, ‘He is a wise man, a great rishi, a learned man.’

When she was going, I caught hold of her hand and asked her ‘Who is he?’

She looked thoughtfully at me and then, deciding, perhaps, that now I had a right to know, she said, ‘He is Queen Satyavati’s son.’

I looked at her astonished. ‘But her sons – both of them are dead.’

‘This is the son she had before she married the King.’

It explained everything. To them, this was the best way to get an heir for the kingdom. The right way, for he was my husband’s brother. I was overpowered by a feeling of helplessness. They could do what they wanted with us, with Ambalika and me….

Ambalika! ‘Her turn will come,’ the maid had said. I should warn her. But of what use was it? She would have to go through it as I had done. We had no choice. We had never had a choice since the day Bhishma brought us here. I walked restlessly in my room, thinking of our childhood and how Ambalika and I had longed to grow up and become beautiful Princesses. We had thought of marriage, of a husband, but children had never entered our dreams. Now I was learning, Ambalika would learn too, that children are the biggest part of every story. We had dreamt of love, of being loved. But the man had been like a beast, a beast which has not eaten for a long time. Uncaring of my pain, thinking only of my female body. Doing what his mother had told him to do. To impregnate me. Did he find any pleasure in it? Who knows? A wise man, a learned man, the maid had called him.

Ambalika was subdued when we met. Did she know? Had he gone to her? But she said nothing. I was silent, too. And then there came a day when I knew the man had visited her. She didn’t have to tell me, what had happened to her was implicit on her face. Perhaps she too knew the shame I had experienced. We buried the man and what he had done to us in silence. In a while there was no need for us to say anything; both of us were pregnant.

‘If we have children,’ Ambalika said suddenly one day, ‘let us pray that they will be sons. Then we will have power like the fisherman’s daughter.’

My poor deluded innocent little sister, trying to play the game they played in palaces. Did she imagine she could play and win against such seasoned players as Bhishma and the fisherman’s daughter? We had no weapons to fight them with. Except our sons. Happily, when our sons were born, we forgot everything except our joy in them. These babies were ours, they were our sons, they were the only truth. The man had nothing to do with them, that night was wiped out of our lives. My happiness, however, was tinged with a great sorrow for my son was born blind. That my son would never see the world, never see my face, that he would always be less of a human being, kept out of the world of normal people – I carried this burden day and night. But blind though he was, he was still my son and I loved him like any mother loves her son. More, perhaps, because he was helpless. I told myself I would be his eyes, I would show him the world through my eyes, I would protect him. It never happened. Has anything happened in this cursed family, in this cursed palace, the way I would like it to? Our sons were taken away from us. Kshatriya boys could not live among women, they had to be trained to be warriors…

Now, years later, when Ambalika’s son is dead and my son is king, when our grandsons are in turn being trained to be warriors, that night comes back to me. And I wonder if a thing that was born in violence will always carry some traces of violence in it. But my son is soft, maybe too dependent on others, perhaps unable to command obedience like a King should. There is not a trace of aggression in him. And Pandu, though brave, was never militant; he fought only when he had to. It seems to me that the aggression has skipped a generation and the violence of my son’s conception has erupted in my grandsons. It frightens me. It is not just because of the dream I dreamt this morning, or the dreams of war and killing that I have so often. I see ominous sights in the palace every day – angry words, sudden clashes, a rivalry that is becoming louder day by day, ugly quarrels that come out of trifles. I hear that my eldest grandson often speaks of, ‘When I am King…’ I heard that when someone said that Pandu’s eldest son had a better right to become King, he had retorted, ‘Over my dead body. My father is the King, I will be King after him. No one else can be King.’ The hostility frightens me. I tried to speak to my son about it but he would not listen. ‘They are only children,’ he said. ‘Mere boys. It’s their high spirits. It’s innocent mischief.’

It is not innocent mischief to harass the maids, not innocent mischief to provoke Pandu’s sons into quarrels, not innocent mischief to be cruel to those who cannot retaliate. The eldest two, I was told, walk with their arms akimbo and if someone does not move quickly out of their way, they jab him painfully with their elbows. And laugh. This is not innocent mischief.

My son, with the obduracy of the weak, refused to listen to me. Finally he turned his face away from me and said, ‘Enough. Your sister’s grandchildren mean more to you than your own. She wants her grandson to become King, that’s the truth, isn’t it? She’s turning you against me and my sons only for that, isn’t she?’

I gave up. He has been a foolishly indulgent father, he has spoilt his sons, specially the eldest. He can’t do anything now; his sons will not listen to him. Besides, what else can I expect from a man brought up by Bhishma? I had wanted to bring up my son to be gentle with women, never to be the cause of tears in any woman’s eyes. Instead, he has learnt from Bhishma to disregard women, to look upon them as being of no importance. Sometimes I think that if Bhishma had had a mother, if he had had a wife, sisters, if he had lived even a part of his life among women, he would have been a different man. But he never knew women, any woman, intimately. He sees them only as creatures meant to bear children, heirs for the family. And I now realise that everyone would have laughed at my son if he had become what I wanted him to be, they would have considered him unmanly. I know there are people who consider the compassion of Yudhishtira, Pandu’s eldest, as a sign of weakness. No, there is no place for such a man in this world. There is nothing I can do. I am glad we are going away, I am eager now to go, I want to put all this behind me – the scheming, the plotting, the cunning games. When I first heard that Ambalika and I had to go with the Queen to the forest, to serve her and look after her, I had been furious. It was she who was of an age to retire to the forest, we were not. Ambalika and I would have liked to stay here, more independent, able to play our roles in the lives of our grandchildren. She had had it all. She was loved by a man who made her Queen, she had had two sons, she had the powers of a Queen even after her husband’s death. And we …?

But my anger was against Bhishma, not the Queen Satyavati. I no longer hate the woman I called the fisherman’s daughter for so many years. After Pandu’s death, my hate for her dissipated like the mist when the sun rises. It was Ambalika who brought my hatred to an end when she said, ‘She lost both her sons.’ For the first time I thought of Satyavati as a mother who had lost two sons. Ambalika’s grief let me imagine Satyavati’s grief. Something has gone out of Ambalika after Pandu’s death. She looks lost, as if she finds the world a strange place, her eyes are blank. I grieve for Pandu too, he was as much my son as Ambalika’s. But Ambalika carried him within her body, she fed him from her body. When he died, a part of her was wrenched out of her. Looking at her, I remember, with sorrow, the mischief in her eyes as she mouthed, not said, the word `Matsyagandha’ to me, even while in the Queen’s presence, stifling her laughter as she did so. There is nothing left of that lively Ambalika in this woman. To lose a child is the greatest grief a human can experience, for a mother nothing worse can happen.

Yes, Satyavati is no longer the enemy. I have laid down the burden of that hatred along with my other possessions. But there is Bhishma. He is the man responsible for all the tragedy in our lives. I am bitter and angry when they praise him for being a great warrior. A great warrior? A man who abducted three helpless girls? They speak of his great act of renunciation, of how he swore to his father that he would be celibate all his life so that his father could marry the girl Matsyagandha. What did his vow do but satisfy his father’s lust for a young girl? The fisherman, I think, was a better father to his daughter than our father, a King, was to us. The fisherman made sure his daughter would be a Queen, made sure that her sons would be the King after her husband died. Whereas our father … No, let that go, it is too late to think of such things. But I am still bitter when they praise Bhishma for keeping his oath.

Once, on the day of our swayamvar, we thought we had a choice. But it was snatched away from us by Bhishma. It is Bhishma who has caused all the tragedy in this family. What did he achieve with his great act of renunciation? Amba, Ambalika and I – our lives destroyed, Amba’s hopes of marrying the man she love dashed to pieces, our dreams, Ambalika’s and mine, ruined even before we could see their shape. What good has Bhishma done? Why did he not marry when both his brothers were dead? Why did he not have a child of his own? Did he never think of what he was doing to us when he sent a strange man to use our bodies for his purpose? However much I hate him, I know that he would have been a good king, that the kingdom would have prospered under him. His sacrifice has been futile and stupid, destructive of so many lives. If I believed in curses, if I was evil enough to curse, I would curse Bhishma. Not his family, because it is my son’s family, it is my grandchildren’s and Ambalika’s grandchildren’s family. Actually, I don’t even know whether women can curse, though I think women’s curses should be more powerful than men’s. Don’t they say that rishis get their power to curse from their penances? Penances? Standing on one leg for days, holding their arms above their heads for months – I have to laugh at the childishness of it. Is that a penance? To be violently torn from your family, from your life, your dreams, to be carried away and forcibly married to a man who does not even look at you, to be widowed without having been a wife, to have a strange man come to your bed and force himself into your body, to know that your son is blind– what is standing on one leg compared to this? My entire life has been a penance. And therefore, my curse should be more powerful. Which is why I will not curse Bhishma. But I can hope. And I hope he lives long enough for his wishes to be ignored, for his commands to be flouted, for his voice to be unheard. I hope his end will not be a swift and kind one, that he will linger, and will have time to look back at his life and see what he has done. I hope he will finally know what it is to be a woman, helpless and powerless. And that he will remember us then, Amba, Ambalika and I, Ambika – the three Princesses of Kashi.