The Rise of Hastinapur (4 page)

‘But you cannot know that. You don’t know that you will bear a son.’

‘Ambika and Ambalika are but children, Your Majesty. You must have already lain with both of them. Did they please you as a king ought to be pleased? Or did you have to guide them by their hands and tell them what to do?’

Alarmed, Vichitraveerya looked away at the door and motioned to the attendants to leave. After they did, he turned to Amba and said, ‘Ambika and Ambalika have the same blood in them as you do, my lady. If you can give me a son, so can they.’

‘Only women in the peak of their womanhood can give birth to valiant sons, my lord. Do you see signs of womanhood in either of my two sisters? Look at me.’ She opened her arms on her sides, palms facing out. ‘Look at me, and think of them. Ask yourself with a calm mind, then, about who can give you a better son.’

‘Will Ambika not be your age in two years?’

‘Yes,’ said Amba, and though it pained her to speak so of her sister, she said, ‘but can you be certain that she will come to be as I am today? Even if she does, my lord, I can give you a son right now, not in two years. Why do you still hesitate so?’

‘I cannot take you as my wife,’ he said looking so utterly helpless that she pitied him. ‘Hastinapur’s honour will be lost. Brother Bhishma will surely say no.’

‘Is Brother Bhishma the king of Hastinapur, my lord, or are you?’ she asked.

‘He is, no doubt. I am but a figurehead, the puppet of a man who happens to sit on the throne while he rules. I do not like it, but what shall I do? Brother Bhishma is a great warrior, and he does know a lot more than me about matters of state.’

‘He is older than you are, my lord. With the passing of time, I am certain that you will rule as well as he does. But you shall need a son of Kshatriya blood, of a woman who is in the fullness of her youth. Ambika and Ambalika are Kshatriya princesses of the best kind, but they are yet to reach that age where the womb is at its supplest.’

‘Yes,’ said Vichitraveerya, ‘perhaps you are correct. But I cannot marry you after having given you away.’

Not relenting, Amba said, ‘You do not have to, my lord. Not now.’

‘Eh? What do you say, Princess?’

‘I do not wish you to marry me and soil your name. All I wish to do is give you a son. Once I do that, you can either choose to take me as your wife and seat me by your side on your throne – or you may not. But please let me give you a son who shall be king after you.’

‘Why, why, that is unheard of – a princess staying at the court of the king who is the husband of her sisters.’ His eyes, which had been shifting all this while, came to settle upon hers, and then they travelled down to her neck. Amba saw desire in his eyes; not desire for a son, but desire for her body. For a moment she wondered if she had played the wrong way, whether she should have seduced him instead of promising him a son, but she steadied herself. It did not have to be one or the other.

She lowered her voice, her gaze, and said, ‘Do not look at me that way, my lord.’

He looked at the open door to make sure that no one was approaching. Then he turned to her and said, ‘Do you know what a man needs from a woman, my lady?’

Amba did not know what to say, and she did not want to be wrong. She lowered her gaze further and said, ‘Mmm?’

‘A man needs a woman to parry with him. Not with swords and spears, no, but with words, like you do with me. And he needs her to parry with him in bed. Do you know why it is so common for the kings of North Country to sleep with their waiting-women?’

Amba shook her head, her gaze still lowered.

‘Because waiting-women are whores in bed, oh yes, they are. They give the king what he wants, and they take from him what they want. But women bred in royal households are not like that, my lady. They are too demure, too soft, too giving. They relent when they have to rebel.’ He pushed aside his robe and pointed her to the red marks on his shoulders and neck. ‘You see these marks? Let me tell you, these were
not
caused by Ambika and Ambalika.’

‘I understand, my lord.’

‘That is what a man needs, more than sons or victory in battle or any of that nonsense. Brother Bhishma is an impotent fool; he neither has desire nor the ability to sire sons. No wonder, then, that he values valour and violence. But I – I possess the hunger, and I possess the means to satiate myself. And I will.’

A slow realization came to Amba, by the way Vichitraveerya’s voice dropped a notch when he mouthed the words ‘impotent fool’, even though he knew they were alone. This was how Vichitraveerya got back at the world, then, for putting him second to Devavrata in everything: by indulging in the one thing that Devavrata could not – or would not. No matter how many more men Devavrata defeated in battle, Vichitraveerya would always have more women. The more ruthless Devavrata became in strengthening Hastinapur’s hold on North Country, so did Vichitraveerya become in his pursuit of women. One would never acknowledge the other as right, and each would assume that he had won over the other.

Amba wondered if there was any truth to what Vichitraveerya said about Devavrata – was he, indeed, impotent?

She decided that it was not her concern. Vichitraveerya had told her what she must do. She got up to her feet, went to the door, and locked it. She came back to the chair on which Vichitraveerya sat, and with her hands on his chest, mounted him.

THREE

AMBA SPEAKS

V
ichitraveerya’s wedding to my sisters was the first wedding in the Kuru household for nigh on twenty years. It was as if the festival of lights and the festival of colours had come together to the city of Hastinapur. I did not venture into the city, but my companions told me that every house had been painted in elaborate patterns of red and green, that every temple had rows of lamps lining the walls of its courtyard, that bulls were decked with silk and vermillion and turmeric, that legs of calves were tied with anklets so that the air would fill with jingles. Doors had divine chants written on them with sandal paste, and men and women broke into songs and dances as though it were the harvest season and they had been blessed with a bountiful crop.

The gates of the royal palace were thrown open to let in the throngs of people. Kings and regents from all sixteen Great Kingdoms attended as guests, even those that Bhishma vanquished in Kasi. (King Salva sent his minister, who read out a lengthy message in court on his king’s behalf, wishing the threesome a hundred valiant sons.) My own father was there too, and though I tried to catch his eye during the ceremony, not once did he turn from my sisters to look in my direction. Some of the other kings did, but whenever I met their gaze they would look away, and they would lean to the person next to them and whisper something.

This was no more than two weeks after Vichitraveerya and I began to see each other in our bedchambers. Watching him perform the holy rites with my sisters while I attended to their hair and jewellery ought not to have made my heart heave – Vichitraveerya and I had, after all, become one in the one way that matters – but it did. I resolved to myself then that my own marriage to him would exceed this one in pomp, and the dances on the street would be more passionate because I would be mother, by then, to the future High King.

Wise men who had visited the court of Kasi long ago often told my father that if you truly desire something, that if you work for it, the gods will make sure that you get it. In those days, when I was still a maiden, I believed it. But now, on the cusp of death with my newborn child next to me, I do not. Enough has happened in my life to make me certain that the gods do not care for you at all. Even if they do, they take pleasure in making you run after this or that all your life, and when they tire of it they let the thread snap and allow you to wither away.

On the night of their wedding, Vichitraveerya came to my chamber. Ambika and Ambalika had gone to bed, he said, because they were tired after the day’s duties. This was the fifteenth night in a row that he had slept by my side, and I remember laying awake at night long after his breath had slowed, staring at the dark ceiling and counting the days of my month. It was the fertile period of my cycle, so if all had gone well, this month – and for the nine months following it – there would be no blood between my thighs.

But come the night of the full moon, I woke up from a deep afternoon slumber (you sleep well during the day when the nights allow you none) with a headache, a cramp in my back, and an unmistakable moistening between my legs. That saddened me, but I let it pass since this was yet only the first month of our union. That night and for the four nights that followed, the king came to my chambers, and I did not desist lest he became angry with me.

It was only after two or three more moons had come and gone that I began to wonder if something was wrong. The king, by all accounts, was virile and strong, and when I surreptitiously asked Ambika and Ambalika about it they told me that he would make love to them every morning. The number of lovers that Vichitraveerya had taken in his early days of adulthood was by now already legend. If that were the case, should my stomach not have slipped by now? I now know how foolish I was, and with my child by my side I can say that I had always been worthy of being a mother, but back then I was but a young maiden, and Salva, when he made love to me, had not entered me with his organ. So as women are taught to do, I blamed myself, and resolved to strengthen my efforts to bear a child.

I began actively pursuing the king now, sending word for him when he was at court, when he was out riding, when he was engaged in mock battles with Bhishma – and he always came. Two or three times a day he came to my chambers now, and every time he left me I would lie on my bed, awash with sweat, certain that
this
time he must have sown his seed in me.

But every time, as the month rolled over, I would wake up with blood on my undergarment. In my frustration, once or twice I contemplated seducing a stable boy just to see if it was me or if it was the king, but prudence stopped me. I think, even back then, in the heart of my hearts I knew that there was nothing wrong with me. The king had lain with so many women and he had yet to bring a son into the world. Ambika and Ambalika too were barren. It was impossible that Vichitraveerya himself did not doubt his ability: the venom with which he spat out the words ‘impotent fool’ when he referred to Bhishma was perhaps nothing more than despair at his own condition.

All of these are still mere speculations, of course, because six months into his marriage, Vichitraveerya fell sick, and by the end of the year he had breathed his last.

I nursed him through his illness, even as Ambika and Ambalika shied away from the white bubbles on his skin, the pale lines on his cheeks, and his withering limbs. Once you have lain with a man, something akin to tenderness takes birth in your heart, and you cannot will it away. I saw that with Salva too; on the day he betrayed me, I had been angry, yes, but now, as I look back, I only remember the sprightly rider who took me on moonlit walks. My relationship with Vichitraveerya, meanwhile,was never a loving one – he did not stay back after our passion had abated to hold me close or to whisper in my ear – and yet, when he fell sick and his own wives deserted him, I could not find it in my heart to do the same.

Perhaps a doubter may say that it was hope that drove me. One could say that I saw my hopes of becoming the queen of Hastinapur ebb away with the life in his body, and that I nursed him only to resurrect my falling plans. But I – only I – know what I felt. Once you have lain with a man, you become one with him. Mother Nature makes it so. And when he slips away in front of your eyes, it is as if a part of you is slipping away.

After Vichitraveerya died, after I had mourned his passing for nine days – really mourned, unlike my sisters – Bhishma summoned me to his chamber. His face showed no signs of sadness. His eyes, like two perfect spheres carved out of blue sapphires, looked at the portrait of Vichitraveerya that hung on the wall opposite. Years ago, when he was yet a youth, Bhishma must have been like all of us, with ambition and desire. But something must have happened for him to shun it all, to step away from it and choose to just stand by, watching. ‘Impotent fool,’ Vichitraveerya had called him, this man who chased desperately after every woman in sight.