The Rise of Hastinapur (47 page)

‘And the constant refrains in his letters to you, saying that war was bad for everyone?’

‘He knew. He knew that the more he restrained me from fighting, the more I would be bent on doing so. It must have been their ploy all along, that Bhishma would speak against war, giving the impression that he was afraid of our might, and that Kubera would encourage us to fight and take back what was ours by right. How well they played it, and we are such knaves, brother, to be fooled by the same man twice.’

‘I cannot believe this,’ said Shakuni, shaking his head. ‘I cannot believe this.’ She felt a faint wave of pity toward him. His eyes had a dazed look about them, and his hands trembled. Gandhari thought again that there was no king in him; never had been, never would be.

‘Think to yourself, Shakuni,’ she said sadly. ‘How else did we lead our army straight into a trap on the bank of the River Iravati? How did all of Hastinapur’s army attack our west gate and fell our towers? How did the supposed guards of our mines lose so easily, and where have they gone now? Where is Kubera now? He is not dead, oh no, he is perhaps sitting with Bhishma now, and they must be sharing a pitcher of wine, laughing at us. The mines … the mines are gone …’

Her eyes welled up. She craned her neck so that she could see the extinguished torches lining the path to the mine’s gate. Brighter fires had been lit at the gate, and she saw two rows of armed men guarding it. They did not need to be there. Gandhar’s army had been decimated, and they had no resources to raise a new one. Gandhar was now utterly routed, nothing more than a slave city to Hastinapur.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘They are gone.’

‘We shall never reclaim them again!’

‘No, we shall not.’

‘Then all is lost, sister. You say I shall be king, but there is nothing to rule but rubble, and there is nothing to do but beg from Hastinapur, from Bhishma, the man who killed us all.’

She thought of the slender, smiling figure of Bhishma in her chamber, and rued the day she had let him return to Hastinapur without ordering his execution. If he had been killed that day, things would have turned bad, but not as bad as this, surely. She remembered the letters the man had written her, the number of times he had implored her to not take up arms, though he had known – he must have known – that she would not listen, that she would believe, like Kubera had wanted her to, that Gandhar had the power to take Hastinapur.

He had played them once with the vault-keepers, and he had played them again. A sour lump took shape in her throat, and she swallowed with purpose. She closed her eyes, and an image sprang up in front of her eyes, one that equally surprised and pleased her. She cried out loud, for in front of her she saw Bhishma – not as he was now, but older and greyer – prone on the ground with his arms thrown out, arrows sticking out at every possible angle, some long, some short. And there was blood, everywhere.

She saw him smile, and when his lips parted she saw no teeth or tongue but just a red mass. He spat on the ground and held out his arm into the fog. In the distance she heard footsteps approach, and from the film of smoke emerged a woman about as old as he was, and this woman had a blue satin band over her eyes.

Gandhari opened her eyes with a start, and saw that she was bathed in sweat. She had recognized the woman that had stepped out of the fog and taken Bhishma’s arm, but she could not understand why tears were flowing down her cheeks, why she had not spat on his face.

And if it were really true that Kubera and Bhishma together plotted all this, why had he given her the oil for improving her vision? And this image she had just seen, what did it mean? She looked about her, at the ceiling, at the weapons, at the pitcher of water, at the puzzled face of Shakuni. She called out to a mother she had never known or seen.
What do you want of me, mother?

All that came back to her was silence, and yet in that very moment she knew what she must do now. Shakuni was right; Gandhar’s mines were lost forever. From now on, Hastinapur would perhaps give Shakuni a tiny amount of gold, just enough to run the town, and take most of the bounty for themselves. Now Hastinapur would become the wealthiest and strongest kingdom of North Country, stronger, perhaps, even than Panchala.

But – that did not mean there was nothing to do.

‘Is all lost, then, forever?’ muttered Shakuni.

She smiled at him and ran a palm over his cheek. Then she shook her head.

Gandhari watched the round red blobs on the ceiling coalesce into one another. It did not bother her any more that she could not see the shapes. When she closed her eyes and reached into her mind, now, she would see images sharp as tacks. They had been flimsy at the start, staying in place only for an instant or so, but now, after four months of practice, she was able to hold an image for five or six seconds. Soon she would be able to make them move, she thought, not wondering about where that knowledge came from.

She thought of the vision of herself blindfolded, her hand twined with that of Bhishma on a bed of arrows. They shared a lot of traits, she and Bhishma; not least in the love they had for their lands. Now Gandhar was no more, and its star would descend. In less than three generations from now Gandhar would be but a distant memory, but Hastinapur had won, and with Bhishma at the reins, it would go on to become a true paradise on earth.

Not if she could help it, though. There was little she could do now, with the battle fought and lost, but just over forty years ago, Hastinapur had been as Gandhar was now. They had clawed themselves back, and by sheer power of will (and more than a little subterfuge), had placed themselves ahead of the clutch of kingdoms that littered North Country. At that time Bhishma would have been as old as she was now, so perhaps now was not the time to give in to despair. If she could pick herself up and plan well enough, was it possible that in about forty years from now, Hastinapur could be brought down to her knees?

She thought of the vision again, and tried to see again the folds of skin on her cheeks, the grey in her hair. She looked as old as sixty in that image, and in a curious way it made sense, because that would put it exactly forty years into the future. Perhaps this battle was not the conclusion, then, as much as it seemed like one. Perhaps it was only a prelude to a bigger event that would come, that she would orchestrate. And on that day her revenge – and Shakuni’s revenge too – would be complete.

Bhishma was about to arrive in Gandhar the next morning. She closed her eyes, and hoped that her sight would show her something that would tell her what to do. But nothing came to her; all that she saw were black shadows whoosh about, and strange dark shapes forming wherever she looked.

Just as she was about to slip off to sleep, she had a vision where she saw herself standing to her full height, streams of water flowing down her naked olive body, a black ribbon plastered across her eyes, neck craned toward the sky, her black nipples erect. She realized at once that she knew what she must do.

Her path of revenge and deliverance had finally come into view.

When Bhishma was ushered into her chamber next morning, Gandhari, dressed in a white sari, gown and tunic, looked less a queen and more a chamberlain, which was befitting, for she was now no more than Hastinapur’s slave. She hoped that Bhishma saw that. She looked up when the sound of his footsteps came to her ear.

He had a bloody gash on his right cheek which disappeared into his beard, but he strode into her chamber like a king, holding the hilt of his sword in one hand and letting the other arm hang loose. Gandhari got off the bed and fell to her knees, clutching her chest with both hands.

‘Your slave, Gandhari, my lord,’ she said, ‘at your service.’

He made no motion to pick her up. He sat on the same throne that he had taken on his last visit. He folded one leg over another and rested his elbow on his thigh, looking at her with amused interest.

‘I wish it had not come to this, Princess,’ he said. ‘But you forced my hand and left me no alternative.’

‘Please do not have mercy on my life after all this, my lord. Use your sword and slit my throat, and end my life right here.’

‘Why do you wish to die, Gandhari?’ His voice lowered a touch when he said her name. ‘You will rule the city of Gandhar yet, but now your tribute to Hastinapur shall increase, for we have to recoup the losses of war.’

‘I shall not rule Gandhar, my lord,’ she said, looking up to meet his eye. ‘My brother will. And there is no king in the land who would take the hand of a maiden that belongs to a kingdom as poor as Gandhar.’ She looked out of the window, and she longed to see the torches at the mine gate alight again. ‘Without the mines, Gandhar has nothing. Shakuni has nothing. I have nothing.’

‘It is perhaps true,’ said Bhishma, ‘but death is not the answer, my lady. We all but live once, and we must make the best of what life gives us.’

‘That is easier to say when you are a victor at war, sire. I am a woman, and I have already passed my twentieth year. Who shall marry me? Whom shall I bear my sons to?’

‘I am certain any nobleman in Gandhar would be pleased to marry you, my lady.’

‘Noblemen?’ she said. ‘Do you think that Gandhar still has noblemen, my lord? All we have now is dead bodies of soldiers, and the living corpses of farmers and miners. Nothing more!’ She spread her arms in his direction. ‘You have taken much from Gandhar as spoils, my lord. Take me also, and I shall serve in your palace in whatever capacity that you see fit.’

The suggestion seemed to catch Bhishma off guard, for he buried his chin in his palm and thought for a while. At length, he said, ‘The job of a chamberlain is hardly worthy of a queen of your stature, my lady.’

‘I am no longer a queen, my lord, Bhishma. I am but your slave, and I shall do your bidding and serve you for as long as I live.’

‘Then I offer you the same thing that I offered you last summer. You said no one would marry you because of your poor kingdom. I have in my court my nephew, whom no one wishes to marry because he is blind.’

Gandhari raised her head, and in the moment it took her to blink, she saw in front of her eyes the frozen image of a bare-chested warrior wielding a mace. His eyes had no shape or colour, and they appeared to be mere glass holes. She knew that her physical sight would be like his in a few years, and they shall have to be waited upon by servants and maids.

‘Dhritarashtra is his name,’ said Bhishma, as though he knew what she had seen.

Dhritarashtra
. He would suit her much better than the strong Pandu. It would allow her to lay low, behind the palace walls, hidden by the curtains, and put her ideas to work. They would never make a blind man king, and they would never take notice of the blind man’s wife, who herself could not see well. But if she could push herself further away from public view, if only she could find a way to practice her Mystery in peace, to strengthen the effect of the oil on her lids. Kubera had said the only way was to close her eyes …

When she trained her eyes back to Bhishma, she saw him look at her in a puzzled manner. She joined her hands and bowed to him. ‘There shall be no greater honour, sire, that you can bestow upon a woman as lowly as I.’

‘You are the highest of all women,’ said Bhishma, getting to his feet and helping her up, putting his hands gently on her shoulders. ‘You shall be his eyes, then, and may you have a hundred sons by him that will unfurl the flag of Hastinapur high against the wind for years to come.’

‘Sire,’ she said, bowing, ‘May the gods grant me the hundred sons that you wish for Hastinapur. But I shall not be my lord’s eyes.’ Bhishma’s face changed. ‘Do not think I will not take care of him, sire, I will with all my love, but I shall not see the world when my husband and lord cannot. The scriptures say that a wife must share in all of her husband’s joys and sorrows, and that she must see the world as he does. I will therefore see the world just as Prince Dhritarashtra does, my lord, and not as Gandhari has for all her life.’

As she said those words, and not a moment before that, she understood the full meaning of the vision that she had seen the night before and the dark path that lay in front of her was now lit by light – not of lightning that was there this moment and gone the next – but that of the constant, resplendent full moon.