The Rise of Hastinapur (12 page)

‘Let us fight on land, Devavrata!’ cried Parashurama, setting his bow aside and raising his hand.

Shooting down the last of his teacher’s arrows, Bhishma said, ‘Yes, my lord, our horses and our men need rest and nursing.’ He was just being polite, thought Amba. His man and horses did not need nursing; they would be ready to fight after a few minutes of rest. But Parashurama’s horses needed to be tended to, and Bhishma knew that the sage wanted to draw him out of the chariot onto the ground. And yet he agreed. How confident must he be that he would win? All this was just a game to him. After all this, not one mark on his body, not one scratch on his armour, whereas Parashurama appeared as if someone had sucked out all the air from within him.

They descended from their chariots and stood by them for a few moments. Parashurama gathered his weapons and made his way to the center. Bhishma carried a mace and sword in either hand. His sword was not jagged like Parashurama’s was; men from the plains fought with light, smooth-edged swords, and their maces were light too. In hand-to-hand combat they relied on defence and endurance. Her archery trainer had once told her that the Kuru princes trained with maces for days on end at a time, without stopping for food or for water. Amba wondered what that meant during this battle, both for her and for Parashurama.

As they approached each other, Amba thought she saw a hint of a smile on Bhishma’s face as he looked at the sage, haggard and sweating. ‘Let us not fight over a woman, my lord,’ said Bhishma, extending his arm towards the sage. ‘What you ask of me, I cannot do, and you are no longer the warrior you once were.’

Parashurama spat at the ground. ‘I am still the same, Devavrata, but you seem to have grown into a man since the last time I saw you. Do you remember the bouts we used to have on the slopes of the Meru, by Vasishtha’s hermitage?’

Amba hovered from one to the other, listening but still thinking of how the regent had twice appealed to Parashurama to not fight over a woman. Yes, she thought, a woman was not worthy enough to be fought over, and yet this man had once done the same thing when he wanted a queen for his city. One rule for Kshatriyas then, and another for the rest of the world. Amba wished she could pick up the sword in Parashurama’s hands and slit Bhishma’s throat then and there. Hastinapur would be truly without a protector, she would get revenge, North Country would have its emperor in Drupad, and all would be well with the world.

‘I do, my lord,’ said Bhishma, ‘but then I was but a boy and you were in the prime of your age. Now – now I do not think it fair that I should take up weapons against you. The gods know that I have sinned enough today by taking up arms against a Brahmin. Do not make me strike my teacher too, I pray of you.’

Parashurama stood up to his full height – and when he did, he stood almost eye to eye with Bhishma – and said, ‘You are not the only one that has words to keep, Son of Ganga. I give promises too, and I must do my best to keep them, whether you allow me or not.’

Bhishma turned to look in Amba’s direction, and for a moment she wondered if he could actually see her. Then he turned away from her and reached for his mace. ‘If that is so, High Sage,’ he said, ‘let us both keep our words and do what is right.’

ELEVEN

A
ll sages trained themselves in the craft of weapons, though it was not their primary goal. Their daily lives – in the midst of forests and mountains teeming with wild animals and game – were much more eventful and prone to accidents than those of kings, and it was only prudent that they equip themselves with skills to defend against chance encounters with hungry predators. It was part of folklore that they cursed animals and intruders with death and disease, but a curse would only come true in due course of time, at Mother Nature’s own slow pace. For immediate dangers a curse was useless.

This fact did not surprise Amba. Upon some thought, it only seemed natural. If kings broadened their minds by the study of religious scriptures, why should Brahmins not educate themselves in the art of warfare and weaponry? She had heard that Vasishtha, the first High Sage of them all who tutored Rama and his brothers all those years ago, was a fine hand with the staff and spear.

Because they lived in places dense with rocks and trees, and because they wanted to defend themselves against animals, they wielded hand weapons like knives and axes. Parashurama’s axe had been the biggest she had ever seen in her life, and if legend were to be believed, it was with that weapon alone that he went on his killing spree, wiping out the bloodline of the Kshatriyas twenty-one times.

Now it was the blade of the same axe that Amba saw glisten in the afternoon sun as the two men, Bhishma and Parashurama, circled each other, one holding the axe, the other a mace with the tip pointed at his adversary. She felt as though she were standing close enough to reach out and touch either of them, and yet she saw only in grey smudges and dusty shapes which threatened every minute to crumble to powder if she so much as made a quick movement.

The first salvo came from the sage. He held his axe in both hands above his head and jumped high into the air in Bhishma’s direction. The latter took a step back and warded him off with a deft block. Parashurama turned a full circle to aim at Bhishma’s unprotected ribs, but he only met his pupil’s forearm that absorbed the full force of the blow, then pushed it down to the ground, throwing him off balance and sprawling in the dust. Amba thought this would be the best opportunity for Bhishma to keep the sage down on the ground, but instead he pulled back a couple of paces and waited, breathing evenly.

He is only playing with him, she thought bitterly, and willed the sage to his feet.

Parashurama sprang up with his axe in one hand, and with the other he drew a hand knife. Watching him, Bhishma transferred his mace to one hand and kept the other free to defend himself. A mace was traditionally a weapon used to overwhelm enemies with weight and momentum, and it was generally accepted as a weapon of choice for men with thick heads and broad shoulders. Perhaps the Kuru line of kings was the first to wield the mace in one hand and use it as a defensive weapon. In hand to hand combat the men from the plains all behaved the same way – they never struck first, preferring instead to wear out their opponents and wait for the right moment to strike.

Parashurama lunged at Bhishma, showing his axe but attacking with the knife, but Bhishma was equal to both, knocking off the axe with one hand and letting the knife fall on his metal wristband with a clang. When it slid off the polished metal and scraped his forearm, Bhishma cried out, and punched the sage with his fist full on his left cheek, sending him reeling onto the ground.

Amba began to realize that this was no match. Even though Bhishma looked slender and graceful, his closed fist resembled the paw of a grown panther, and the way in which he waved the mace with one hand bespoke the strength he held within his shoulders and arms. Where Parashurama was dragging his axe with both hands, Bhishma just lay in wait, watched, and swatted him away. This had never been a match, she thought sullenly; apart from feeding the sage’s ego, this fight was not going to accomplish anything – besides, of course, distracting Bhishma from the northern stone quarry where Jarutha was right now driving Hastinapur’s miners away.

Parashurama got up to his feet again and shook his head this way and that, and Amba saw that his right cheek had swollen to twice its size. Standing a good ten feet away from Bhishma, he reached for his spear and threw it at him. Bhishma caught it, broke it in two over his thigh, and cast it away.

‘You have become too strong for me, Devavrata,’ said Parashurama, panting. ‘But I shall fight you to death.’

‘No, my lord,’ said Devavrata. ‘I shall not let you.’

Amba stopped feeding the block of wood to the fire and got to her feet, turning her head away in disgust, allowing the image to fade away into the shadows of the gathering dusk. She had not eaten the whole day, but she was not hungry. A dull thud knocked at her head from inside, and she felt like screaming out at the top of her voice. With a grunt, she hurled the piece of wood against the mud wall.

She went to the window and looked up at the black, moonless sky. Today was meant to be the day Bhishma would be vanquished. Today was meant to be the day on which all her wrongs would be righted, said the sage. But how pitiful was his duel! Was this the same man who had once single-handedly vanquished the whole race of kings? How could he be defeated by his own pupil with such ease? Perhaps it was true what they said: Bhishma was invincible.

Now what else was she to do? She had no one to support her. Once again, the man whom she trusted broke her faith, though she did not feel anger toward the sage; just pity. He had done his best, and he was still doing his best, willing himself on against her enemy in spite of knowing that it was fruitless to do so. He would learn soon enough, she knew, and he would come back, his body bruised and his soul shattered, and he would ask her to go elsewhere if she still wanted to have her revenge.

Or, she thought with a sneer, he would tell her to forget it all and live in peace.

She called out: ‘Mother!’

An answering breeze touched her face and cooled it. Outside, each of the huts had lamps burning at their front doors. Only hers was dark. She felt a shadow move across the doorway, but when she walked out and stood under the stars she found no one. ‘Mother!’ she called out again, ‘why do you place me among impotent men who can neither wield weapons nor study the scriptures? Where must I turn now? Is there not a man in all of North Country who could stand up to Bhishma and subdue him?’

Another breeze blew from the direction of the well, and she ran to the fence, looking out to see if she could hear anything. All she heard was the faint hiss of the Yamuna flowing in her own unfettered way. The smell of night queens made her nose hair tingle, and when she picked one up, she saw that it had been trampled upon. She smoothed the petals tenderly and set it in her hair just above her right ear, and looking up she said again: ‘Mother, give me a sign that you hear me speak!’

A third gust of breeze blew, this one so strong that it sent her hair flying and knocked off the flower in her ear to the ground. From far away in the woods, she heard the distinct call of a nightingale. She looked all around her to see if anyone else was present, and when she looked back at the tree, she heard the call once again. She took two steps toward it, but she hesitated and stopped, for it was dark and cold out there. ‘Mother,’ she whispered, ‘whom shall I turn to now?’

A fawn sprang out of the woods, startling her, and blinked at her with big blue eyes. When she extended her arm to him he merely held her gaze for a long minute, then turned and skipped away into the bushes. Amba followed him.

The fawn led her to the riverbank where she had often sat with her head buried between her legs, weeping at her fate. The stars seemed to have drawn closer this night, she thought, looking about herself, marvelling at the blue light that bathed the trees, the silver sparkle in the calm waters of the Yamuna, and the white heads of wildflowers that waved this way and that in the breeze. When she neared the shore and extended her arm for the fawn he once again bounded away out of reach, and looking at his thick purple coat she thought of the corn fields of Panchala.

As she sat on the edge of the bank, with her feet immersed in the water, she repeated the question, this time to herself: ‘Whom do I turn to now?’ At the same time the fawn came and sat by her, stretching himself out on the sand such that his chin came to rest upon her thigh. She leaned forward to run her hand over his head, and in so doing she caught her reflection in the water.

She had perhaps changed more in the last one month than she had throughout her life, she thought, looking at her naked toned arms, her loose hair, her unruly skin. Once a princess, now she had become half a priestess. And what had the High Sage said?
A priestess is slave to no man. She only answers to the Goddess.
Why should a priestess, then, depend upon men to do her bidding?

The fawn closed his eyes and nuzzled against her hand. His fur was cold and soft to the touch. She had raged against Sage Parashurama and blamed him for not giving her what she had wanted, but she had not realized that he had given her all that she needed. She had held him responsible – like she had held Drupad responsible – for not being brave enough for taking on her problems on his shoulders and delivering her to her goal, but she had not stopped to think for even a moment why he must fight her wars. By starting her on the path of a priestess, he had given her all the tools she needed; now it was up to her to find her path and walk along it, wherever it may lead.

She could not – she would not – stay on at the hermitage and rely on the sage. The longer she stayed on, the more she would resent her life and his inability to fulfil her dreams. She had to move on. She had to learn to look inward in times of strife and find the solution within, and she had to remember that a true priestess bowed to no man.