MAHABHARATA SERIES BOOK#2: The Seeds of War (Mba) (16 page)

The river. 

The place where they had first met, or close by. 

He burst through the thicket, the horse exhausted, and ran out towards the river. He wanted to call out her name but he had no name to call out. All the words that seemed so charming in the bedchamber – ‘Queen of my heart’ ‘Empress of passion’ ‘Sovereign of my body and soul’ – he could hardly run about on the bank of the Ganga yelling such endearments. 

He looked this way then that, harried, at wits end, unable to understand what she could be doing here in the dead of night. More than that, he found it hard to believe that a woman who had just been delivered of child could have walked this long distance so briskly. He feared that perhaps he had come to the wrong place after all. Perhaps she had gone some other way, to the city of his enemies perhaps…

Then he saw her. 

Exactly as she had been the day of their first encounter. Clad in the same white translucent flimsy garments that swirled around her like white mist – or like the whitespray flung by cascading waves. She clutched the baby in her arms, gently, lovingly, exactly as a mother should. She appeared as slender as ever, and as strong, neither her outward form seeming altered nor her inner resilience reduced a whit, moving with that same sinuous grace that drove him mad with desire. Except that this time, it was not desire she evoked in him, but awe and terror. 

For she was not standing on the bank of the river this time. 

She was standing on the river itself. 

Upon the cascading water, which seemed not to wash around her feet so much as worship them, like hands of water raised in praise and homage. Hands that bore her aloft as she stepped gracefully, as gracefully as if she were on solid firmament, until she stopped, in the middle of the vast concourse, between the banks. 

She turned, facing towards him, northwards. 

Somehow, despite the lack of moonlight, he found he could see her face as clearly as if in daylight. The river itself seemed to glow with energy, palpable power that exuded a luminiscence that illuminated her from below. In that glaucous light, she appeared more beautiful than ever, but forbidding as well, like a woman far, far older than the young nubile nymph who shared his bed at nights, like a woman much more than just a woman, a being of great age, energy, power and wisdom. 

She raised the newborn babe in both hands, cradling it gently upon her palms, holding it out above the rushing waters.

He broke out of his reverie and began racing towards her. 

As he ran, it seemed as if the river itself raced alongside him, rushing downstream towards her. At first, he thought it was a blurring of his vision due to his emotional state, then he turned his head and saw that the river itself was rising up, to form a maw, a great open mouth of white water that roared towards her. He cried out and increased speed, pushing himself to the limit of his abilities. Yet he knew he could not win this race. These were forces far greater than he could possibly comprehend, let alone control. Still, he ran. For that was his son she was holding. If she did not care for him, he did. And if he had to wrest the child from her by force and violence, he would do so as well. 

The maw of water grew until it resembled a great white serpent, and as it reached her, it released a bellow of such power and intensity, that the resulting blast of air and waterspray blasted Shantanu sideways and off his feet, raising him up in the air for several feet, to land with a cushioned thump on a midden of lavya grass. He lay there, winded, drenched, and stared at the incredible sight. 

His wife, standing in mid-river, surrendered their newborn babe to a great serpent made of water. The serpent snatched the babe in its giant maw, roaring as it did so, and swept over and through and around his queen, overwhelming her. 

Shantanu cried out in horror.

Then the cascade of water passed by, leaving behind a backwash that sloshed on both banks before falling back and settling. 

And he made out the figure of his wife, walking back towards the shore on which he lay, stunned and breathless. 

She stepped out of the river and onto the bank. He saw that the water clung to her with tentacles of longing, reluctant to release her. He saw also that her feet were not wholly human feet, they were something else, an amalgam of water and fish-tail that formed instantly into flesh, blood and bone, the perfect replica of human female feet, just as she stepped on solid land. Her form clarified, and she was the woman he knew again, the young eager loving wife who pleasured him and took pleasure with such intensity night after night. His beauty, his queen, his empress of desire, his sovereign of body and soul. 

As she strode up the bank to where he lay, a smile playing on her lips, the wind whipped away her garments, snatching them with a single rough action, and she was left naked, perfect, flawless as ever, with no sign that she had ever been a mother, or that so much as a single day had passed since the first day he had met her here, in this very spot. Naked and undulating like water in human form, she came towards him, and despite the circumstances and his emotional turmoil, he was aghast to find his body aroused at the sight of her nudity. 

Unable to stop himself, he raised his hands to greet her as she fell upon him, laughing with pleasure and desire. And despite himself, he found that he was smiling in response as well. Unable to prevent what was happening, he entered into loveplay and cojoined with her, the actions familiar and all the more pleasing for their familiarity. Men who seek comfort in the arms of new women each night are men who have not discovered the supreme pleasure of the perfect union. Those few, those lucky few, who are blessed with the perfect mate, achieve heights of pleasure that no grunting copulation between strangers can ever attain. For it is love which is the ultimate aphrodisiac and without that emotional bonding and joining of souls, the act itself is merely violence without weaponry. An act of rage rather than of pleasure. Shantanu’s love and desire for his woman outweighed all else and he found himself unable to even speak out against what she had done – for he knew that the instant he spoke, all would be over between them. Those were the terms of their marriage and he had no doubt she would abide by them to the letter. So he kept his silence and took his pleasure and by morning, he was even able to pretend that nothing had happened at all, it had only been a bad dream. How could she have conceived, gestated and borne a child then killed it, all in one night? It was impossible of course. He had probably drunk too much soma the night before and suffered an impossible nightmare. 

And like any nightmare, it was easy to push aside and pretend it had never occurred at all. 

Until the next time.

8

In retrospect, it was extraordinary how easily life went back to the way it had been before. The events of that night might never have happened: the palace staff knew better than to spread tales openly and the citizens who heard the rumours quickly wondered at their veracity. After all, here was their Queen, flat stomach and beauty intact, as winning as always. And the King beside her at all times, rarely apart for long, mooning over her as much as ever. The sight of them riding together in their royal vaahan, the ornamental bejwelled carriage, brought people running out of doors, leaving aside their work to watch the king and queen pass by. Shouts of joy were heard everywhere and those who possessed conch shells – or rather, those merchants and nobles rich enough to possess their own guard, ordered them to blow the conch shell trumpets – heralding the approach of the royal couple. They were too dearly loved for the rumoured scandal of that one night to cast a shadow upon their reputation. People quickly dismissed it as an idle rumour and soon even the palace staff wondered if that had been the Queen’s newborn son she had walked out carrying that night, or merely a bundle of clothes. People even surmised their own explanations, assuming that in her homeland, wherever that mythical place was, they had such unusual customs as walking to the river and throwing in articles of clothing as a means of appeasing the gods and asking for the gift of an heir. This theory, that it was all an arcane ritual designed to obtain a son, was the most favoured, for it explained everything quite neatly. 

Only the daiimaas who had been present in the queen’s bedchambers when she gave birth to that beautiful dark-hued black-skinned prince of a child, knew the truth. And they were accustomed to keeping secrets and silencing rumours. They did so. For they understood that the King loved the Queen and she loved him as well, madly. Whatever reason she had had for that extraordinary deed, or how in fact she had been able to produce a child within an hour of copulation and conception, were things they did not dwell on too long. They were superstitious women given to the wearing of amulets and sacred threads and chanting of shlokas designed to ward off evil eyes and spirits. They accepted supernatural impossibilities as a part of life. 

Time passed, healing all hurts, annulling all hurtful memories. The human spirit survives by selective forgetting. 

When a year had passed, on another night much like the first one, Shantanu and his Queen were in their bedchamber, entwined in the grip of passion. When their ecstasy was spent, she looked at him in a certain way, rose, and left him. This time, he knew at once that something was amiss. He rose as well and followed her. He was just in time to see her enter her bedchambers. The daiimaas were already waiting with pans of steaming hot water and cloth. They looked at him sadly as they went into the chamber and shook their heads in commisseration before shutting him out. 

After the child was born, he followed his wife once again, this time close on her heels. 

On this occasion, the daiimaas had not informed anyone of the queen’s impending delivery, even though she had asked them to make arrangements for the same. They had thought it best to wait and see. If this was to be a normal birth – or as normal as an hour’s gestation and delivery could be – then they would inform the whole city. Until then, it seemed best to hold their silence. 

So the streets were empty and silent when Shantanu followed his wife. It was a long walk and he dearly wished he could offer her a ride on a horse or chariot or even a carriage if she preferred. But he dared not speak a word or delay her progress in any way for the terms of the agreement had been quite specific on those points. And so, he only followed at a discreet distance, going on foot this time as he felt ashamed to ride when his own wife could walk the distance. 

Things went as they had the previous year. She reached the river, stepped out onto the water, then walked out to the middle of the concourse. Raising her hands, she held the baby out. Shantanu felt a great piercing pain enter his chest and flood his being with sorrow. That was his son, their son! How could she do this? Why? Was it a sacrifice? For what? What deity could demand the sacrifice of one’s own newborn child? And two sons in as many years? Why? But the terms of the agreement caused him to keep his silence. And he watched in silent anguish as the river came once again, roaring with deafening rage, and swept the child away as before. Once again, she walked back to the bank, stepped onto the ground and came towards him, growing visibly younger and more beautiful than ever. Once again, he succumbed to his love and lust and received her in his welcoming arms. As he held her tightly, feeling the stirring in his groin belie the sorrow in his heart, he shed a tear from each eye. Just the two. One for each lost son. 

The next one, he promised himself silently. The next child she will keep. This is some ritual to ensure that the third child will be a great king of kings. It was the only explanation that appeased him and allowed him to accept her cruel actions as necessary in some fashion. 

But of course, the next year, she did it again. 

And again. 

And yet again. 

Seven times in all, over as many years, she threw his newborn sons into the river. 

Finally, a day came when he could take it no longer. 

The past eight years, he had wept silently, containing his grief within himself, keeping it all a secret between himself and the daiimaas. Nobody else suspected or knew, and those who heard the rumours dismissed them out of hand. One child might have been believable, for some arcane ritual. But eight children? Impossible! Even a rakshasi would not sacrifice eight of her newborn children for any reason. 

On the eighth night when he followed her to the river, he broke down. ‘Stop,’ he cried out just as she stepped out onto the water. ‘I beg of you, stop!’

She paused upon the water, standing as easily as if on an unseen rock beneath the surface. He knew she was not standing on any rocks for he could see the water rushing beneath her feet, even the occasional fish or turtle swim beneath. She was standing upon the water itself, her feet melding with the fluid to become partly water as well. 

He fell to his knees on the bank. ‘Goddess, devi, demoness, whoever you are…’ He pressed his palms together in supplication. ‘I cannot stand by silently anymore. Please. Do not kill our son.’

She looked back at him, her face still set in that resolute expression she always had during these nights, when she seemed older, wiser, more powerful than the woman he shared his bed with, and said, ‘It is what he wants.’

It took him a moment to realize that she meant the child in her arms. ‘He? How can he possibly know what he wants? He is a babe! Newborn! How can a newborn wish to commit suicide?’