The Rise of Hastinapur (5 page)

‘Brother Bhishma,’ I said, bowing low.

‘My lady.’

He pushed back his red cape and held his arms behind his back. His eyes did not leave the portrait of the dead king. Outside, even though it was past sundown, the lamps had not yet been lit.

‘My servants have told me that you nursed the king in his poor health,’ he said.

‘I did what any subject would do, my lord.’

‘You did much more than even his wives. For that I am thankful.’ He paused for a moment. Then, summoning some purpose, he said, ‘Vichitraveerya was a fool to have not taken you as wife, Princess.’

‘We all have our foolish moments,’ I said.

‘The day you came back, I told him that if you ask to be his wife, he must say yes. But he … he has always been a child– always seeing, but never knowing.’

As the shadows lengthened, attendants stole about the room, lighting lamps in every corner. On each side of Vichitraveerya’s portrait were kept two small earthen pots with oil-dipped wicks leaning to the side. Once they were lit, Vichitraveerya’s eyes seemed to look down upon us eerily, and I felt, just for a moment, that he passed by the room like a shade.

‘The court doctors told me that the disease that afflicted the king was brought about by excess time spent in the company of women,’ said Bhishma. ‘And I think in the month or two before his death, he had been spotted visiting your chambers almost three times a day.’

‘The king wished it, my lord, and I could not say no,’ I said. It was not a lie, not strictly, because he had wished it as much as I.

‘That may be so,’ said Bhishma, ‘but the whole kingdom now knows that you were his lover. The rumours may not have escaped you.’

‘They have not.’

‘After these ten days have passed, after the people of Hastinapur wake up to their king’s death, they will all look for something – or someone – to blame.’ Bhishma turned to face her. ‘They will ask for the price of their king’s life.’

I met his gaze, only fully understanding now. ‘Brother Bhishma, are you saying that I am responsible for the king’s death?’

‘The people will say that, not I,’ said Bhishma. ‘The astrologers at the court will curse you and brand you as a witch who cast a spell on the king. The doctors will nod along. So will the courtiers, and so will the people.’

‘And you? What of you, sire? Can you not tell them what truly happened?’

‘What truly happened,’ Bhishma said, his eyes narrowing at her,‘was that you lured Vichitraveerya into your bed in the hope of becoming queen before your sisters, my lady. I shall not judge your actions; I am merely telling you how
the city
will judge you.’

‘But surely I, the princess of Kasi, cannot be called a murderess!’

‘You are no longer the princess of Kasi, my lady. You are but a waiting-woman at our court. Your father disowned you long ago.’

I looked into his eyes, wishing there was something behind that cold facade he always hid behind. He could make all this go away, I knew. If he were to stand in front of the court and declare me innocent, all of Hastinapur would go by his words. Better still, if he would take me to be his wife…

‘I will not take you for a wife, my lady,’ he said, as if reading my thoughts.‘Please do not ask me that.’

‘But why?’ I said. ‘You won me by fighting my suitors. You brought me here against my will when my heart was with another. You caused me this heartache, and now you brand me a witch on behalf of the people. You accuse me of murdering the king. Do you not feel responsible for my plight, my lord? I, who was meant to be a queen of a kingdom, am now a witch because of you. Does that not weigh on your heart?’

Bhishma’s lips fused together, and in a low, controlled voice, he said, ‘I did not call you here to debate with you, Princess. I have called you here to warn you of your future. I shall not marry you – indeed, I shall not marry anyone – nor shall I question the will of the people of Hastinapur.’

‘Then allow me to die!’ I said. ‘What have I got to live for, now?’

‘That is up to you,’ he said, turning away from her. ‘But Hastinapur shall not have your blood on her hands. Years from now, all of this will be forgotten, but the fact that we have killed a scheming princess, a witch of the land, shall not be.’

Of all the things that he had done to me, this was perhaps the worst, I thought. He did not care about my present or my future. He would shed no tear on my death, just as he shed none at his brother’s. All he thought of was what would happen to Hastinapur, to her legacy, to her name. Who was Amba when placed against Hastinapur? Nobody!

‘I have a horse and a riding companion waiting. You shall ride straight away, after retiring to your room to gather your belongings. I have given your companion instructions to take you wherever you wish to go.’

‘But where shall I go, Brother? Where have I left to go?’

‘I shall give you a sack full of gold coins carrying Hastinapur’s seal. That should provide for your food and shelter anywhere you go in North Country.’

With those words he sent me away. To this day, I do not know if he truly believed that I was under danger to my life in Hastinapur. But many years later, when I passed through the city on my way to Panchala, I spoke to a few cloth traders in the kingdom, and they still told tales of the witch from Kasi who stole the life of their beloved king. So perhaps he was right; perhaps he acted to protect me. Or perhaps it was he who sowed the doubt in people’s minds to get rid of me, for had I milled about the palace with my sisters, my jealousy would only have driven me against them. Perhaps he foresaw that. People even say that the blue moonstone he wears around his neck shows him the future and guards him against it. Perhaps they are right.

Now, in the throes of my death, I can forgive Bhishma his sins – and who on earth is truly sinless? – but on that night when he banished me from the kingdom, I was but a maiden of seventeen, sharp of tongue and heart and not as quick of mind. If I had then possessed the prudence that I do now, I would have taken his gold and gone to one of the neighbouring kingdoms as an heiress to a dead nobleman, and perhaps, someday, I would have married someone and have had a respectable life of my own.

But I spurned his gold and his companion. I gathered my clothes into a bag, put my riding clothes on, and set off on the back of a dark colt with nothing more than a few days’ food in my knapsack. I also took a sword with me. I did not know where I wanted to go, but I set off eastward, in the direction of Panchala.

FOUR

A
mba tethered her horse to one of the wooden poles outside the cowshed. She filled the feeding box with two bales of hay from the corner. Then she ran her hand over the white streak on the animal’s forehead and whispered something into its ear. The horse snorted, shook his head free of her, and buried his face in the box.

She drew her hood over herself and stepped into the shed. To her right, seated on an inverted water vessel, a thin young man with a straight nose had his lips to the mouth of a flute. To her left, a portly middle-aged woman washed a dirty brass utensil in a tumbler of dirty water. In the middle of the room were three tables set in a triangle, and men sat hunched over their glasses of barley juice. As she entered, all of them stopped what they were doing and looked up at her.

Amba crinkled her nose and kept to the edge of the wall, where the light of the torches was the brightest. She made her way to an old wooden casket by the corner, closest to the woman washing dishes, and sat down, taking care to cover her legs. She told herself that she would get used to the smell of cow dung and foul breath; she just had to sit there for a few minutes. She kept her eyes low, and wrapped her cloak tighter around herself. Into the heavy air, someone said from the centre table:‘Who is the piece of lightning, Asvini? Never seen her around these parts.’

‘Shut up and drink your juice, Sirisha,’ said the woman from behind the table. Bending towards Amba, she asked, ‘What will you have, dear?’

Amba found her voice. ‘I will have some goat’s milk, please.’

A cackle of laughter shot through the men’s huddle. ‘Drink some barley juice with me, lady,’ said someone in a thick voice, ‘and I shall follow you like a dog.’

The man with the flute, sitting along the opposite edge of the room from her, lifted his instrument back to his lips. The shed fell silent for a few seconds, then the men began to wave together, singing along to the notes and holding up their glasses.

Amba drank her milk, tapping her feet to the rhythm, and kept the empty glass beside her. She narrowed her eyes at the group of men, but she could not make out their features. All the fire torches in the room were perched on the walls, leaving the middle of the room in shadow.

‘Asvini!’ one of the men called. ‘Fill me up again with some of your nectar!’ A giggle went around the group, and the speaker looked up and threw up his eyebrows at the landlady.

‘Only if you show me how many coins you have on you, Kavasha. Your woman told me today that I should not give you more than a glass no matter how much you plead with me. And you have already had four by my count.’

‘Eh! This is my second one, I swear to the gods.’

‘Show me your money bag,’ said Asvini.

The man called Kavasha slumped in his chair and played with the rim of his glass. ‘Asvini, you know how bad the rains have been this year.’

‘Aye, I do. That is why you must not drink so much, Kavasha. Why do you not go back to your wife and sleep with her? Go. Make love to her tonight.’

‘Eh, I make love to her every night. But I do not get any love from you, Asvini, and I have been coming to this shed all my life!’

‘When my man comes back from his travels I will send him to you, and he will give you all the love you need.’ Asvini’s reply sent a hoot through the group, and the men banged on their tables with their glasses, drowning out the mellow tone of the flute. She filled up the men’s glasses one by one, collecting a coin from each and depositing them into the little yellow cloth bag that hung off her waist. When she came to Kavasha, he rummaged his pockets but came up empty-handed.

‘I have nothing, Asvini,’ he said, blinking up at her.

‘Then I have nothing for you, you good-for-nothing oaf.’

‘At the next harvest, I will give you all the rice you need for the whole winter if you fill up my glass just this once. I pray to you, Asvini. Your hands are those of Annapurna herself, and your barley juice – ah, the gods can keep their nectar, I tell you.’

‘Shut up,’ she said, but Amba saw that he had broken her. She had begun to smile, and she filled his glass even as she said, ‘That field of yours will not yield anything this season or the next, Kavasha. We have not had rains the whole year. Where are you going to get the sack of grains from?’ She got back to her place behind the table and began to wash a fresh batch of vessels. As she wiped the first one, she looked at Amba and asked her if she wanted another pail.

Amba nodded. ‘Yes, please.’

She heard whispers from the men, and then one of them nudged Kavasha and giggled. The latter got up, cleared his throat, steadied himself, and bowed in her direction. ‘My lady,’ he said.

Amba bowed too, without removing her hood or cloak. Somebody thumped him on the back and he sat back down. ‘What if my field does not give me anything?’ he said, after taking a big gulp of his new drink. ‘I have my cattle which will give me milk, and I will open a shed just like this one, and I will only allow maidens to come there – maidens that would drink nothing but goat’s milk.’

Asvini motioned to one of her servant boys to attend to the unwashed utensils. She came to the edge of the table and said, ‘What self-respecting maiden would come to your shed, you idiot? And you speak of cattle – let us see if that cattle lasts this year, shall we? If you have not heard, Hastinapur is readying for battle, they say. Once they come and go, neither will you have cattle nor a wife.’

‘Eh! Hastinapur will never take Panchala!’ Kavasha replied.‘And they will take my cattle only over my dead body!’

‘So they will,’ said Asvini, filling up Amba’s vessel up with milk. ‘They shall have no trouble killing you, and all you men who sit here – go and protect your women, because if Hastinapur comes, even the royal house will have nowhere to run.’

‘Yes,’ said a big man with a long beard and smooth head, brooding over his glass. ‘The king of Hastinapur is getting married to the princesses of Kasi, they say. If that is true then Panchala is caught in the middle, is it not? If only our king had a daughter to give in marriage to the king of Hastinapur. Being relatives is much better than being enemies, if you ask me.’ He downed his glass and brought it down with a thump on his table. Asvini hurried over to fill it up. He tossed her a coin, which she caught and slid down her bag.

‘If you ask
me
,’ said Kavasha, ‘the king should give us a son who will lead us in war against Hastinapur. All that land between Ganga and Yamuna – just imagine how many sacks of grain will grow on that land every year.’ His eyes watered at the thought, and he gave Asvini a sly look. ‘Then you shall have no say in when I come and when I leave, Asvini, huh? I shall be rich, and I shall shower you with gold coins.’