THE MAHABHARATA: A Modern Rendering, Vol 1 (4 page)

THREE THE RIVER’S SON
 

For sixteen years Shantanu lived alone like a hermit, in his palace. He turned all his attention to his kingdom. The rule of Shantanu, son of Prateepa, of the House of the Moon, was a just and prosperous one and his people were contented. More than anything else he was a sad man; but his very sorrow seemed to give Shantanu strength and wisdom, so his reign could be a finer one than before.

The king had one pleasure he still indulged in: he hunted. But now Shantanu never killed any creature. He only watched their wild lives as an avid spy. Most of all, his hunting took him back to the place beside the river, where, to his mind, he had found and lost everything.

Whenever he came there he would grow strangely peaceful, as if he sensed her presence near him; though not once did she appear before him, for sixteen lonely years. But he would set himself down at the deep-flowing water’s side and lose himself in the murmuring of her currents and the mists that clung and drifted across her expanse. And it was as if she reached incorporeal fingers through daylight and darkness and took his pain from him.

Sixteen years passed and one day Shantanu fell asleep beside the Ganga, dreaming of the past. He saw her standing before him once more, stroking his face with her cool hands, smiling at him, calling him with her eyes and with open arms. It was midday. Shantanu dreamt that the river had stopped flowing.

The king woke up and saw the dream was true: the Ganga was dry beside him! A short way upstream, all her water had gathered in a huge wave: froth-flecked and swelling higher every moment, but powerless to flow. Shantanu saw an exceptional dam across the river, which she could not breach.

It was a filigree wall of golden arrows, a brilliant net through which no drop of water passed. He heard a soft laugh at his back and whirled around. There she was her face wreathed in a smile.

Shantanu cried, “So you’ve decided to take pity on me! Shall we go back to the palace? Shall we tell the people their queen has come home?”

But she said, “All that is past. When the sun sets on one day, who can call him back so you can live the same day again? There is no returning; not a moment may we retrieve. Turn your heart away from what is over.”

Something in her voice startled him. He realized what she said was true; moreover, he felt changed himself by the years. Now that he knew who she was, he felt worshipful toward her. Shantanu struggled briefly with himself. Then, growing calm, he asked, “Why have you come back?”

“Do you see the river, my lord?” she said, a laugh in her fluid throat.

“Yes,” he breathed. “Who has done this?”

He also smiled. He did not quite know why, except that a great happiness was dawning on him. Wryly, he added, “Who holds your tameless flow in check, which all my love could not bind?”

Before she could answer, there was a deafening report. The dam of arrows gave way and the immense wave that had built up behind it came roaring down the empty riverbed. A youth who shone like a God rode that cataract, effortlessly at its crest.

Ganga called out in her river-tongue to the boy. He turned toward them, laughing in exhilaration, walking on the water as if he trod solid ground. He gained the bank, ran flushed and breathless to the river-Goddess and flung his arms around her.

“Mother, did you see? I held the river up again!”

Only then, he seemed to notice Shantanu. He looked at the king with his great dark eyes, uncanny recognition sweeping across his heart. The young face was a picture of confusion, as delight and disbelief chased each other across it. Laughing, Ganga said, “My child, this is your father. And this is our son Devavrata.”

The boy prostrated himself at Shantanu’s feet. With a cry, Shantanu raised him up and embraced him.

Ganga said, “Devavrata is sixteen today and he knows everything a prince should know. Vasishta taught him the Vedas and Vedangas. Brihaspati taught him politics and at my begging him, the bane of the kshatriyas, Parasurama himself taught him archery.

I do not think the Kurus will find a better heir for their ancient throne than my Devavrata. He is a kshatriya, my lord, take him with you to your kingdom of heroes.”

The boy stood beside his father, bright with the sense of the destiny that was upon him. Though his eyes were full, he embraced his mother in farewell, unflinchingly. Smiling bravely, holding back her tears, Ganga vanished.

Arm in arm, father and son turned back toward Hastinapura and the future. Shantanu was full of joy.

FOUR A SCENT OF HEAVEN
 

Four perfect years went by. Shantanu named Devavrata Yuvaraja, the heir apparent; the people were delighted, because they saw what a prince Ganga’s son was. Shantanu doted on the boy and for his part Devavrata was a perfect son. He too was absorbed in his father, soon anticipating his every wish. Devavrata was mature far beyond his years; in their bond of love, the son was the stronger one. He bore the responsibility of their intense relationship.

Then one day Shantanu went hunting again. He was not lonely any more and he hunted far less frequently than he used to. But the habits of his youth seldom leave a man entirely and that day Shantanu came once more to the bank of a river. It seemed that, as in the past, a river would again play a fateful role in his life. However, this other day of moment he did not come to the Ganga. He rode instead to the banks of the Yamuna.

As his charioteer led his horses to the water to let them drink, an ineffable fragrance swept over the king, a scent of heaven that set his senses on fire. This scent on the breeze was so exciting that Shantanu had to seek out its source.

As he moved toward it, he wondered what exotic flower it was which had this effect on him. Had some gandharva in rut dropped a garland he had made for his love from unearthly blooms?

Shantanu rounded a shoulder of thick woods and found himself in a small clearing beside a bend in the river. He saw a rough hut of timber and thatch, with smoke issuing from its chimney. In front of that hut, sitting on a smooth slab of rock beside the Yamuna and dipping her feet in the midnight-blue water, was a young woman so fragile and beautiful it was hard to imagine how she was here in this wilderness. As Shantanu went nearer, desire woken in him by now, he realized that the irresistible heavenly scent was the fragrance of the young woman’s dark body.

Some years ago another man had found the same young woman, much as she sat today and the Rishi Parashara had also been overcome; though then she did not smell of heaven but of very earthy fish.

Now Shantanu stood right behind the young woman, whose name was Satyavati. He whispered, “Who are you?”

She looked up at him and turned her eyes down quickly from what she saw in his gaze. The king felt faint now that he was so near her. Shantanu said again, “Who are you, lovely one? I am Shantanu, king of the Kurus and I want you for my wife.”

She did not seem surprised. Her eyes still turned down to the boat tied to the rock on which she sat, she said huskily, “My name is Satyavati and my father is the king of the fishermen on the river. I ply this boat across the Yamuna as a ferry.”

He saw in her eyes that she was pleased with the idea of being his queen; though he doubted she knew a thing of what it would entail.

“Where is your father?” he cried impatiently.

She turned lissomly and pointed. He was loth to leave her for even a moment. But bending quickly to caress her cheek, he tore himself away and strode across to the fisherman’s hut.

Inside, the old fisher-king, black, with unkempt locks hanging to his shoulders, sat hunched over his midday meal, savoring the fish his daughter had smoked for him on a spit. Deftly, he separated the flesh from the skeleton so no morsel fell on the ground. Without rising, the fisherman peered at his obviously noble visitor and waited for him to speak first.

Shantanu was in a hurry and said, “I am Shantanu, king of the Kurus of Hastinapura. When I was hunting along the river, a scent like I had never smelt before swept over me. I followed it and found it came from a young woman. She says she is your daughter. Fisherman, I have come to ask you for her hand.”

The fisher-king did not rise even when Shantanu said who he was. He merely listened, all the while taking the flaky flesh off the big fish’s bones, with stained teeth. He squinted shrewdly at the king, then got up and went out to wash his hands. When he returned, he folded his palms to Shantanu. “Lord of the House of Soma Deva, my daughter could never hope to find a husband like you. I am happy to give her to you to be your queen.”

Shantanu gave a shout of delight. But the fisherman stopped him with a look from heavy eyes and said, “However, there is one condition I must impose, my lord, before she becomes yours.”

“What?” cried Shantanu, certain he could easily satisfy any greed for wealth this crude fellow might have, even in his dreams.

Wiping his hands carefully on a square of rough cloth, the fisherman said, “A rishi told me that one day my daughter’s son would be king of all these lands.” The man’s eyes shone with that prophecy he had cherished so long. “You can have my Satyavati, if you give me your word that her son will be king after you.”

Shantanu gasped. What would become of Devavrata if he agreed to this man’s condition, as he so frantically wanted to? In his mind he saw his son’s face. He saw Ganga’s face; he heard her say to him, “Here is your son, Shantanu. He is a kshatriya, take him with you to your kingdom of heroes.”

The day of Devavrata’s investiture as yuvaraja rose before his eyes. Yet the fisher-girl’s unearthly scent made his heart falter. Without a word and with an effort that took all his strength and all his love for his son, Shantanu turned and walked out of the hut without committing himself to the fisherman.

He wrenched his treacherous gaze back from where it strayed wretchedly to the girl, who still dangled her feet in the blue river, now humming a snatch of song as sweet as the scent of her. Shantanu trembled. He dragged himself to his chariot and cried to his charioteer to ride home to Hastina, to go like the wind. But the fire Satyavati had kindled in his blood raged on.

FIVE A SOLEMN VOW
 

Shantanu was a changed man after his encounter with Satyavati. He became morose and moody and hardly saw even Devavrata anymore. At first his son was pained. Once his father doted on him. He wanted him at his side always and spoke endlessly with his prince about anything under the sun he cared to, from the shapes of the clouds in the sky to the affairs of the kingdom Devavrata would inherit one day. Shantanu had been so happy with his son, every day of four wonderful years. But now he did not care to even meet him. Feigning tiredness or illness, the king turned Devavrata away when he came to see him. Or he said he was too sleepy tonight; they would speak tomorrow: which never came.

Devavrata guessed that something had happened to his father the last time he went hunting. After he saw Satyavati, Shantanu not only became dejected he gave up the hunt. Soon Devavrata was more concerned for the king’s health than hurt at his distant behavior. But knowing his father’s nature as he did, he was sure it would not be long before Shantanu confided in him. He was not mistaken.

One day the king sent for him. Even as Devavrata entered his chamber, his father fetched a sigh.

The youth said, “Some terrible grief consumes you, but you will tell no one what it is.”

Avoiding his son’s eyes, Shantanu said, “It is the burden I must bear as a king, the anxiety that feeds on my very life.”

“What is it, father? Won’t you speak plainly to me?”

“Oh my child, you mean more than a hundred sons to me. But the wise say that having just one son is like having one eye to see with. If you lose it, you are blind.

You are a kshatriya, by both your birth and your gifts. And kshatriyas must satisfy themselves with wars. Who knows what happens during any war: who lives or dies, or who is killed by a cunning arrow through his back? These are dark times and if, God forbid, something happens to you Devavrata, the kingdom will be without an heir. I cannot bear to think of it—that our bloodline will not be continued from father to son, as it has since time began; and some usurper will sit upon the throne of Hastinapura.”

The father cast a canny look at his son, “Devavrata, I am full of fear when I think that you are an only child. Kuru was seventh in the line of Bharata himself; it is after him that our branch of the Paurava tree is named. The thought that our royal lineage may be broken robs me of my peace.”

Devavrata stood quiet, suspecting the truth, waiting for his father to come out with it. Shantanu gazed outside through a lofty palace window. He said in a low voice, “Of course, I shouldn’t like you to think I want another woman. I am only anxious for the kingdom. If an outsider takes our throne, that will be an end to everything, why, of Bharatavarsha herself. Perhaps in kali yuga such a thing may happen, but not now.”

Suddenly Devavrata knew what he must do. He cried, “It will not, my lord! Give me leave.” Bowing quickly, he strode out of the king’s apartment. He knew what ailed Shantanu: it was that old and mighty illness, love.

The prince sought out the sarathy who had last taken Shantanu hunting and came unannounced into his home. Briskly the yuvaraja said, “My friend, I have a question the king would like you to answer honestly. Where did my father go the last time you took him hunting and whom did he meet?”

The old man smiled. A gleam in his eye, he said, “Are you sure, my prince, that your father would have me answer this?”

“It is imperative you do. The king has not been himself since that day, but languishes from some deep sorrow.”

Still the man hesitated. Devavrata aimed a shaft in the dark, “Say old one, what woman was she?”

“She was a fisher-woman, but an extraordinary and beautiful fisher-woman. We found her beside the Yamuna and not by seeing her at first but only by her unworldly scent.”

He shook his head in wonder to remember that scent. Devavrata cried impatiently, “And?”

The man turned his eyes away. “The king was smitten by her. He went to her father and asked for her hand.”

The old man paused, embarrassed. The yuvaraja said, “The fisherman was fool enough to refuse the king of the Kurus? Impossible.”

“No, my prince, he was no fool. He took his time about answering your father and proved shrewder than is good for any of us.”

“Tell me what happened!”

“The fishermen’s king, for so he was, said to your father that he could not hope for a better husband for his daughter. But he would only give his Satyavati to him if…my prince, don’t make me tell you.”

Devavrata’s eyes flashed in warning and the charioteer said, “He would give his girl to your father only if her son became the Kuru king after him. And he would not budge from what he said, that coarse and ambitious fool.”

The sarathy grew silent, fearing the yuvaraja’s anger. For a moment Devavrata was still as a stone; then he began to laugh softly.

“Is that all?” he cried. “Is this what stands between my poor father and his happiness? That I am the yuvaraja?”

Devavrata seized the sarathy by his arm. “Take me to where my father’s sorrow began, so I can mend it. Come, at once!”

Without telling the king, even perhaps as Shantanu had hoped, his son rode to the banks of the Yamuna. Arriving, Devavrata sprang lightly from the chariot and took the old sarathy with him for a witness.

A yojana before they came to the river, the unearthly fragrance swept over them. They saw Satyavati sitting where Shantanu had first seen her and to be near the scent of her body was so intoxicating, even Devavrata felt his blood quicken.

Turning her head when she heard their chariot, she stared with black eyes at the visitors. For a moment she caught her breath: she thought Shantanu had returned, but a life younger and so handsome! Her eyes shone. Devavrata ignored her. The sarathy pointed out the fisherman’s hut and the yuvaraja strode toward it.

The fisher-king had just finished his meal when Devavrata burst in on him. “I hear you were arrogant enough to refuse my father your daughter’s hand. Were you in your senses, or were you drunk on jungle brew and thought you were dreaming?”

The man cringed, but slightly; Devavrata saw he was dealing with a brazen soul. The swarthy fellow was quite calm, as he said, “I did not refuse to give my daughter to your father. My daughter is my only child and she is all I have.” He paused, crossed to the window and spat a stream of scarlet juice from the betel-leaf he was chewing. Lowering his voice, he confided, “She is no common girl, my prince. She was not always as lovely as you see her today; nor did she smell so fine. Once she smelled powerfully of fishes, so I called her Matsyagandhi. And I feared I would never find a husband for her even among our own people.”

Devavrata listened impatiently. But his curiosity was roused by the tale of Matsyagandhi, who was born smelling of fish but smelt of paradise now. For fear of being thought a liar, the fisher-king did not tell him how he had found his daughter. He squinted at his royal visitor and saw he had his attention. The wild man went on, “But one day when she was still a slip of a girl, barely thirteen, a rishi came this way wanting to cross the river in my boat. He was so illustrious, his face and his hair and he looked so ancient that I doubted he was a man of this earth.

I was at my lunch and Matsyagandhi ferried the muni across. It was a fine afternoon and the old man stared at my daughter with piercing eyes. If he were not a sage, I would not have let her go with him alone. When they reached midstream, near that island,” he pointed through the door to an island in the stream, “suddenly lightning and thunder gashed the sky and a blizzard of snow swept the river. It was the middle of summer, mind you. I called out to them. But the thunder was so loud they could not hear me and I had to run back indoors.

That snowstorm lasted two hours. I fell into a strange slumber full of dreams such as I had never had before. When I awoke my Matsyagandhi stood beside me and she was like someone who had stepped out of my dreams. Not that her face had been transformed altogether, but it had been changed subtly as if with a few perfect touches. And now my plain girl was a ravishing beauty.

The other marvel was that her old smell of fish was gone. In its place was the scent of heaven you smell now, spreading from her for a yojana on every side.”

He paused again and scrutinized Devavrata’s face. The river man was as sharp as he was ambitious. Seeing how full of haughty nobility this poor prince was, the fisher-king was not about to let this great opportunity slip through his fingers.

Devavrata had heard him out in silence. He was happy for his smitten father’s sake that the girl was not entirely common, but had been blessed by a holy rishi; though the yuvaraja did wonder about the real circumstances of that blessing.

Devavrata said again, “Say, fellow, what you want and I swear you shall have it.”

Passing his tongue over his lips, the black man said softly, “Whatever I want?”

“Yes! But hurry, I am growing impatient.”

The fisherman drew a breath to steady himself. “I already told your father my only condition. I want no gold or jewels for myself, or horses or palaces. I only want my daughter’s son to be king after your father’s time.”

Devavrata stood staring at him. Losing his nerve the man said, “Of course your father would not agree. So I also could not give him my daughter. As I have told you…”

But Devavrata held up a hand to silence him. “Listen to me, fisherman.
I, Devavrata, yuvaraja of Hastinapura, relinquish all my claims to the throne of my ancestors
. Your daughter’s son shall be the next king of the Kurus. Are you satisfied now?”

At first the fisher-king gaped in disbelief. These were the very words he had hoped, against hope, to hear. Then he saw from the prince’s face that the boy meant what he had said. The fisherman let out a long, slow breath. Growing bolder, he said, “I see, Yuvaraja, that your father’s happiness is more important to you than his kingdom. But I must make sure Satyavati will not just be made brief use of for as long as her youth lasts and then cast out. Kshatriyas like you and your father have been known to do worse to folk like us.”

Devavrata recoiled from the resentment he saw in the man’s eyes. He held his peace, thinking of Shantanu. The fisherman went on, “Yuvaraja, you are indeed as noble as fortune has made it possible for you to be. I have no doubt that not the fear of death will make you forswear yourself.” He stopped and leaned forward. Devavrata could smell his rancid breath. The fisher-king hissed, “But what about your sons, my prince? Will they be as generous as you are?”

Devavrata did not understand what the fellow meant; but he was not about to leave him in the dark for long. Stuffing some thick tobacco into his mouth, the fisherman continued, “Devavrata, you are a great kshatriya. I have heard there is no warrior like you in all Bharatavarsha. Your sons will inherit your prowess; while my grandchildren will also be a king’s sons, surely, but a fisher-girl’s as well. How do I know your princes will not kill my grandsons and take the throne for themselves? Answer me that and my daughter shall be your father’s wife.” He grinned and said, “Though, for sure, your father is old for her,” with a leer that Devavrata ignored.

Without a moment’s pause, the prince replied, “If you give your daughter to my father, I will do more than renounce the throne of my ancestors. Come!”

He seized the surprised fisher-king’s hand and pulled him out into the sun. Throwing back his head, the prince cried in a ringing voice,
“
I, Devavrata, swear before all you Gods of heaven and earth, in the name of everything sacred to me, in the name of my guru Bhargava, of my mother Ganga and eternal dharma, that I will never marry but remain celibate all my life
!”

In that moment’s resonant silence it seemed the elements and those who are the elements’ deities—sun, earth, wind, sky and river—all fell hushed at Devavrata’s vow. Then they heard faint music in the sky and fisherman and prince were covered in a fine rain of flowers of light. These vanished in a moment, but their fragrance dimmed even the dusky Satyavati’s scent. And now a name resounded all around, from earth and sky, from river, trees and rocks, from invisible throats.

“
Bheeshma!
” chanted the unearthly voices,
“Bheeshma! Bheeshma!
”

Because his oath was so awesome, so terrible, the oath he would never break. For a while, the fisherman was dumbstruck. But he was a son of the forest and, recovering quickly, he beckoned to Satyavati. When she came up, innocent as the wilderness, her father said, “Here, my prince, is your new mother. Take her to the king.”

Without another word, not even pausing to say farewell to his daughter, the fisherman turned back into his hut, as if some weighty matter awaited his attention inside. As indeed it did; but he would not have gone to it so impatiently if he had known what it was. That same night death came for the fisher-king, as if everything he had been born for was fulfilled; or as if losing his fragrant daughter broke his heart.

Bheeshma, as we will call Ganga’s son from now, took Satyavati back to Hastinapura in his chariot. All the way home the old sarathy never stopped muttering his astonishment and his disapproval, while his yuvaraja urged him to go faster: his father’s joy must not be delayed. It was that charioteer who spread the word like fire through the city: about Devavrata’s vow and how the Gods themselves had named him Bheeshma.