MAHABHARATA SERIES BOOK#2: The Seeds of War (Mba) (24 page)

‘The condition is that only your daughter’s son shall inherit and rule in my father’s stead, is it not?’ Devavrata asked. 

Panchmani nodded, gesturing broadly again. ‘Aye. So it is. For it is the dharma of a girl’s father to ensure that she is always treated well by her husband and I know that if Satyavati were assured that her son would inherit then she shall be queen mother in time and guaranteed of life long security and status.’

‘She shall be guaranteed all that in any case,’ Devavrata said, ‘but if it is this assurance you desire, then I shall give it to you right here and now. Your daughter’s son shall inherit the throne, not I. I give you my word in this matter.’

Panchmani stared at Devavrata in wonderment, then turned to look at his companions, who also raised their eyebrows and gestured as well. ‘What a great being! He offers to step down as heir apparent and surrender his rightful inheritance in order to secure his father’s happiness! What son would do this for his father? Truly he is a great one.’

‘Aye!’ said the other fisherfolk. Even the old guard joined in heartily. 

Panchmani paused, bent over in thought, his back to Devavrata. 

Devavrata waited a moment then, when there was no further word from the fisher king, he said, ‘Is it agreed then? You will make the arrangements for the marriage?’

Panchmani turned suddenly and stared at him. ‘Would that it could be so, Yuvaraja! Would that it could.’

Devavrata frowned. ‘I fail to understand. I have agreed to your condition. You have the assurance you desire. Now what prevents this marriage from taking place?’

Panchmani sighed heavily. ‘Alas, young prince. Your assurances are honourable and I have no doubt you shall keep your word from now to the end of your days. I know you would never violate your oath once given. But…’

‘But…?’ asked Devavrata. 

‘But what of your sons?’ the fisher chief said, looking up at Devavrata. ‘Your future sons by one or more wives you may take in years to come?’

Devavrata frowned, listening. 

Panchmani went on, gesturing as he explained. ‘You are a virile young man. Handsome. Powerful. Wealthy. Even if you step down as heir apparent, you shall always remain prince of the Puru empire. You shall have no dearth of wives or lovers. You shall love them in time and produce sons of your own. You will adhere by your vow, of that I have no doubt. But will they? What about after you have passed on or died in combat? They may well rise up and claim the throne, one or more of them? My grandson’s place will be jeopardized. The people love you dearly, I have heard. They may well support one of your sons over my daughter’s son. What then?’

Devavrata listened silently. He looked at the faces of the old guard. They had finally stopped smiling and were shaking their white heads in commisseration. The other fisherfolk were looking down as well, for they did not wish to spurn a king’s offer, nor miss the opportunity to align their tribe with the most powerful one in the world. Yet what Panchmani said was true: any assurance that Devavrata might give was useless because he could not predict what his sons might do in future. And by law, regardless of whatever he promised, it was his rightful claim to be King of Hastinapura and by extension, his sons who would inherit that throne. This was indisputable. 

‘Therefore, great one,’ Panchmani was saying sadly, ‘I fear we still face the same dilemma. Even if you swear the most powerful oath on earth, it will not prevent your future heirs from rightfully staking a claim to the kingdom and that will disinherit my daughter’s line, which is unacceptable to me and my people.’

Devavrata held up his hand. ‘I shall take a greater vow.’

Panchmani shook his head, sighing again. ‘No vow can suffice, Yuvaraja.’

Devavrata looked at him. ‘Hear the vow first, then decide. As of this moment, I relinquish all rights to the kingdom. I divest myself of the title and status of Yuvaraja. I am neither prince nor heir to the Puru throne. This I say in presence of my father’s oldest advisors and most wise in the knowledge of kshatriya dharma.’ He held his hand out to indicate the old guard, who dipped their heads soberly to acknowledge his words. ‘They will assure you that such a pronouncement is akin to a writ of law as I speak with the full authority of the position bestowed upon me – even as I divest myself of that very authority and position! Confirm that my words are truth, wise ones.’

And the old guard nodded and said as one, ‘Devavrata speaks truth!’

Panchmani looked stunned. ‘You disinherit yourself? But for what purpose? I have already told you, it will not suffice to appease my fear—’

‘Your fear is that I may someday, knowingly or even unknowingly, sire one or more sons who will lay claim to the throne, thereby preventing your future grandsons from inheriting, am I right?’

Panchmani nodded, looking around at the gathering as if asking if they saw and heard this extraordinary debate. All raised their voices in agreement, speaking for Panchmani. ‘Aye!’

Devavrata raised his fist, clenching it tightly, and held it to his chest. ‘Then let me remove that last fear from your heart, king of the Yamuna. Now that I am no longer Yuvaraja of Hastinapura, my dharma to my people has ended. Therefore I am merely an individual and may choose to do as I please with my life and body. I am not required to produce heirs for the sake of the continuance of my lineage. Therefore, from this moment on, I swear the oath of brahmacharya. I am a virgin and have never known the pleasures of woman until today and never again shall I know those pleasures. I shall remain celibate as I am now for the duration of my life on earth.’

A great outcry rose from across the village. Even the old guard rose to their feet, astonished and shaking their heads in dismay. Every single fisher man and woman cried out in horror and shock. Panchmani himself staggered back, as if struck a heavy blow. 

Devavrata continued: ‘Panchmani, king of the Yamuna! I have fulfilled your condition! As I am now a brahmacharya, and incapable of fathering children, the throne of Hastinapura has no heir. Only by wedding your daughter and siring a son upon her can Shantanu produce an heir. So what say you now? Do you consent to marrying your daughter to my father?’

Panchmani fell to his knees. ‘Yes! Yes! Of course. But this vow you have taken…it is too terrible! It is bhishma, monstrous!’

Devavrata lowered his hand at last, uncoiling his fist. ‘It is what I had to do in order to ensure my father’s happiness. And his joy is my only goal.’

He reached out the hand, open now and offered as a gesture of friendship. ‘I have your word then? This marriage shall take place at the earliest?’

‘YES!’ Panchmani said. ‘As Yamuna is my witness, yes!’ He was crying now, tears rolling down his face. It was impossible to say whether they were tears of joy for his daughter’s impending happiness or tears of shock at Devavrata’s extraordinary sacrifice. 

Devavrata gestured to the old guard. They came towards him, their faces pale and shocked, gazing up at him as if seeing him for the first time. He turned to the chief one last time. ‘I shall go and make arrangements. When next I return, it shall be as my father’s charioteer, bringing him as a groom to collect your daughter. Ensure that all is in readiness. You are about to be allied with the House of Puru and join your fortunes to the Bharata nation.’

And he turned on his heel and walked out through the village. As he went, people crowded close to get a better look at his face, his aspect, his eyes. From behind, he heard the chief call out again, ‘Bhishma! The most terrible vow ever!’

The fisherfolk took up the chorus: ‘Bhishma! Bhishma! Bhishma!’

Overhead the skies growled thunderously as if echoing the same word. 

The old guard struggled to keep pace with him but caught up by the time he reached his chariot. They looked up at him, spreading their hands in plea. ‘This vow,’ they said, ‘how could you take such a vow? To give up your life, your own future, your happiness, all for your father’s sake? It is too much! What the chief said is true, this is a monstrous oath. Bhishma! Never before have we heard of any kshatriya swearing to a life of brahmacharya for his father’s sake.’

Devavrata shrugged. ‘It is what had to be done. It is done.’

He climbed aboard the chariot and clicked his tongue at the horses. 

One of the old guard were saying to the others, ‘He shall henceforth be known by the vow he took here today. It shall make him legendary!’

Behind him, the fisher tribe of Panchmani roared with one voice: ‘Bhishma!’

7

Shantanu wept when he heard of Devavrata’s terrible vow. But the old guard informed him that as per his son’s wishes, the vow was already taken and in effect. He would not take it back under any circumstances. Therefore, they argued, Shantanu must go ahead and wed the fisher king’s daughter now. ‘He sacrificed his happiness for you,’ they said, ‘we have never seen or heard the like of it before. Accept it. This is a gift from the gods!’ 

Shantanu embraced Devavrata, still weeping. Devavrata held his father upright, embracing him fiercely as well. ‘Gangeya,’ he called him in his moment of extreme emotion. ‘What have you done?’

‘What any son would have.’

‘No,’ Shantanu said, shaking his head. ‘No other son but you. I shall honour your sacrifice. Satyavati’s son shall be king of Hastinapura in time. But you shall be king among all sons everywhere, from now to the end of time.’ He cried profusely and said, ‘If the gods are listening then I pray they hear me now: Any boon you desire is your’s to have. Ask me anything. You have given up your inheritance, your throne, your status. What shall I give you in return, my son?’

Devavrata bowed his head. ‘I desire only your blessings, father. But if you wish to grant me a boon then grant me this one gift: Give me permission to die only when I will it. Not a moment before, regardless of my wounds or condition.’

‘It is done!’ Shantanu cried. 

As word spread through the city and the kingdom, people began to gather and talk in crowds, then cry out in lament and wonder at the great sacrifice of their Yuvaraja. Soon all knew of the terrible vow he had taken and of the word the Panchmani fisherfolk had shouted as he left. 

And from that day onwards, Devavrata came to be known as Bhishma. Taker of the terrible vow. 

||paksha eight||

a problem of progeny

1

Shantanu and Satyavati lived together in great happiness. With his second wife, Shantanu found all the fulfillment he desired. Even more than with Ganga, he experienced the full spectrum of mortal companionship, for Satyavati was mortal and had no secrets to hide, nor any hidden agenda. In fact, it was for the ways in which she differed from Ganga that Ganga herself had chosen her as Shantanu’s second mate, guiding him unknowingly towards her boat on that fateful day of their first encounter. In time, he filled her womb with child and she gave birth to a beautiful son. They named him Chitrangada. From the very outset he was fond of sports and games of valour and it was evident he would turn out to be a brave and famous kshatriya. Soon after, Satyavati gave birth to a second son, whom they named Vichitravirya. While unable to keep up with his elder brother in sports, Vichitravirya discovered that he was superior with the bow and concentrated his efforts on mastering that weapon. Soon he was one of the best young archers in the city. 

But the happiness did not last. The malaise of dynasty that had plagued the Bharata since the origin of their race continued to take its toll upon the Puru race as well. 

Before his sons could attain maturity, Shantanu succumbed to a fatal condition. Before he died, he instated his elder son Chitrangada as heir apparent. Chitrangada took his position and his father’s loss very seriously – perhaps too seriously. At a young age, he accepted the challenge of a powerful gandharva. Unable to draw the legendary Bhishma into battle, the gandharva saw his opportunity to best a Puru king by provoking Chitrangada. Against Bhishma’s advice, the young king joined combat with the notorious rascal. On the banks of the river Hiranyavati, they met one day and began to fight. Days later, they were still fighting and camp had to be set up nearby to provide for them and their supporters. That duel continued for three long years with neither champion able to prove himself superior. Finally, resorting to trickery, the gandharva used asura maya – the power of illusion – to delude the young Puru king, turning himself into a mirror image of Chitrangada himself. His ploy was successful: unnerved by facing himself in combat, Chitrangada hesitated and the gandharva struck a fatal blow. But even as Chitrangada fell, he struck back, slaying his opponent. Both Chitrangadas died together, equal in death as they had been in life. 

After this tragedy, Bhishma installed Satyavati’s younger son Vichitravirya as the king of Hastinapura. Vichitravirya was still but a boy and sensible enough to know that Bhishma Pitama, as he called him, was the real force being the governance and administration of the empire. He did as his step-brother advised and the kingdom ran as efficiently as ever, for the people, and the enemies of the kingdom, all knew that so long as Bhishma stood by the throne, none could challenge it successfully. 

2

Unlike his over-eager brother, Vichitravirya had no appetite for war or combat. Perhaps it was the result of being in his brother’s shadow during his formative years, watching the elder one achieve such mastery at such a young age, and knowing he could not match that level of achievement or talent. And then, later, to see that same valorous brother whom he had come to think of as indomitable and invulnerable, killed in combat. Perhaps the shock was too great, or perhaps he simply lack as great a desire to do battle, but Vichitravirya was careful to choose his fights wisely and engage in violence only when he had no other resort. When he did fight, he did so bravely and fiercely and none could question his ability or his courage. But with Bhishma Pitama as his champion and protector, he rarely had occasion to lift a sword or put an arrow to a bow-string. And this perhaps was the real reason why Vichitravirya never had a chance to acquire the fame of a kshatriya as his brother and so many others in their line had before him. Who could emerge from the shadow of Bhishma Pitama – and would Bhishma Pitama ever let his ward face any real danger? 

This became most evident when Vichitravirya became an adult and of marriageable age. Bhishma and his step-mother Satyavati both knew that it was imperative that Vichitravirya marry soon and sire children, in order to further the dynasty. It was rare for there to be only one Puru male extant; if anything were to happen to Vichitravirya, the dynasty would end abruptly. That would be the greatest tragedy of all. Bhishma assured Satyavati that he would not let such a tragedy come to pass. 

So, when he heard that the king of Kashi was seeking suitable husbands for his three daughters, each of whom were famed for their beauty and talents, he resolved that he would marry at least one of them to Vichitravirya. Now, the lord of Kashi had arranged a swayamvara and invited all the kings of the land to come and prove their prowess at arms in order to claim the attention of his daughters, each of whom would then choose her husbands from among the victors. The expected thing would have been for Vichitravirya to attend the swayamvara and compete for the hand of the princesses. But Bhishma knew the level of competition was high, far higher than his ward was capable of matching. At best, Vichitravirya might fare as well as some of the others in archery. At worst, he would be hopelessly humiliated and stand no chance of winning even one of the girls. Vichitravirya had grown up in the shadow of first his brother and then Bhishma, and this over-protectiveness had made him softer and less aggressive than most. Bhishma knew the kings who would attend the swayamvara: they were lions and hyenas and would happily tear one another apart with their bare hands just to prove their masculine superiority. With three beautiful princesses at stake, they would do anything. Vichitravirya would be lucky to return home unscathed and alive. 

Bhishma knew what he had to do. He informed neither Vichitravirya nor Satyavati of the swayamvara, nor of his plan. He had a single large chariot prepared for himself and set out for Kashi. Arriving at the tournament pavilion, he observed the thousands gathered there. There were hundreds of participants alone: all kings of larger or lesser kingdoms, each a champion in his own right. Tens of thousands of Kosalans had come to view the competition. Upon the great dais sat Raja Kashya after whom the capital city of Kosala was named. Beside him were three young women of such breathtaking beauty that even Bhishma Pitama, brahmacharya though he was, knew that he could not find a better wife for Vichitravirya if he were to search the entire kingdom. 

Swayamvaras were elaborate affairs and Raja Kashya intended to make the swayamvara of his daughters the grandest ever. There were endless formal gestures and protocols, culminating in a lengthy laborous recitation of the long list of participants, with suitable introductions for each of the kings present. This itself went on for an hour or more and it was while the recitation was at its most boring point, with even the kings themselves eager for the contest to be underway, that Bhishma made his move. 

Striding on to the dais, he walked right up to the bejewelled thrones on which the three princesses sat. They looked up at the unexpected stranger, puzzled at his appearance. Bhishma smiled at them, then bent down and grasped their wrists. His hand was large enough to clutch two of them in one fist, and he caught hold of the third princess’s arm with his other hand. Forcing them to their feet, he began walking off the dais with them in tow. At first the princesses were too shocked to react. They stumbled after him, not fully comprehending what was going on. It was their father the king who saw the tall black-bearded leading his daughters away and rose to his feet, stunned. 

‘Halt!’ cried Kashya. ‘Unhand my daughters! Who are you? How dare you lay hands on my princesses?’

Bhishma continued walking without bothering to respond. 

‘Guards’ cried the king. ‘Stop that man!’

There were thousands of guards present at the event and all of them were alerted by the king’s cries. The announcer who had been droning on with his recitation of the names of the participants, ceased speaking and by degrees everyone present began to grow aware of the commotion on the royal dais. Several scores of soldiers began approaching and surrounding the dais, blocking Bhishma’s path. With drawn swords, spears and bows, they threatened him on every side. 

In response, Bhishma pushed one princess towards her two sisters and grasped hold of all three wrists in his left hand. Then, with his right hand he drew his sword and held it to their throats, or close enough that he could stab them with a quick jab if he wished. 

At once, the king cried out in dismay. ‘Please! Do not harm them! They are the jewels of my life. Tell me what it is you desire.’

Bhishma indicated the soldiers with a jerk of his head. ‘Ask your soldiers to withdraw. Let no one threaten me or your daughters may fare the worse for it. I will not leave without a fight, and if we fight, these three jewels will surely be reduced to precious dust.’

King Kashya swiftly gave orders for the soldiers to back away. Bhishma saw that his request was being obeyed and waited for a pathway to be cleared so he could leave with the princesses. Meanwhile, they had begun to struggle against his grip. Amba, the eldest, struggled most fiercely, and when she found herself unable to break free of her captor’s iron grip, she said to her sisters, ‘He must be too cowardly to take part in the swayamvara and win us by fair means, therefore he manhandles us and steals us away by force!’

Bhishma grinned at her words and turned to her father, the king. ‘Kashya! Your daughter calls me a coward. Do you think me one as well?’

The king was too diplomatic to answer aloud but stared balefully back at the abductor of his daughters. 

It was Ambika, the second sister, who spoke up. She said spitefully, ‘What else can we think of a man who behaves in this barbaric fashion? If not a coward, a mleccha!’ 

Bhishma laughed long and hard. The other watching kings, now aware of what was going on, stared balefully at the man who was attempting to steal away the women they had dreamed of making their wives. ‘Listen to me, all of you! My name is Bhishma Devavrata, son of Shantanu. Do you know who I am?’

At the mention of his name, everybody reacted. Champions and warriors all, they each knew who he was and what he was capable of doing on the battlefield. ‘Do you think me a coward?’ he asked. ‘Or a mleccha?’

They shook their heads, many speaking aloud to say ‘Nay’. 

The king of Kashi knew who Bhishma Devavrata was too. He decided to chance speaking: ‘Then why do you do this deed? You are a legendary warrior from one of the greatest dynasties. If you desire one of my daughters as your wife, win her hand fairly. If the legends are true, you are capable of besting all the kings present here!’ 

‘I am,’ Bhishma said, completely without arrogance for he knew this to be a simple fact, ‘And that is precisely why I assert my right to take your daughters home today. I do not need to participate in this week-long contest to prove my superiority at arms. But I wish you to know that I do not do this for myself. For I have taken a lifelong vow of brahmacharya. I am taking them to Hastinapura to be wives to my ward Vichitravirya. Take comfort in the fact that they shall be queens of Hastinapura, Kashi-naresh. Surely you would take pride in that?’

Kashya had to admit the thought of being allied to the House of Puru was a fine one. The Bharata nation was more powerful than any of the others represented here. He was silenced by Bhishma’s words. 

But his daughters were not. ‘What of our choice?’ cried Ambalika, the third sister. ‘In a swayamvara, we have the right to choose our husbands from among the victors. This violates our right to choose!’

Bhishma nodded. ‘I cannot argue with that. But under dharma, this form of marriage is equally acceptable. It is one of the eight known forms. And as your father and many others here will attest, it is a long time-honoured tradition to take brides by force. If any here is brave enough to stop me, I shall face him in combat and prove my worth. If not, then I assert my right to win these princesses for my ward Vichitravirya!’

And with these words, he began walking again, dragging the princesses past the cordon of guards that stood and watched powerlessly as he went upto his chariot. Lashing the girls to the reins-post so they could not escape while he drove, he started the chariot and began riding away at great speed. He had asked his sarathis to harness the strongest fastest horses in the royal stable, and the chariot raced away from Kashi with the speed of lightning. At once, most of the kings present began wearing his armour and calling for his chariot or horse in order to give pursuit. A few were wary enough of Bhishma’s reputation to decide to abstain from any direct conflict, but they were willing to follow to view the encounter. 

The king of Kashi’s chief minister asked him if the army was to be sent out to follow after the princesses. 

King Kashya watched the hundreds of kings who had come to participate in the swayamvara, clambering aboard their chariots and mounting their horses, clad in full armour, each accompanied by their retinue of personal guards, all wheeling and turning to leave the city, giving chase to the kidnapped princesses. ‘How many armies shall we send?’ he asked. ‘Besides, these were the men who were to compete for their hands in marriage. Let this be their test.’

The chief minister was an old man and he saw the wisdom in the king’s words. In older times, this was in fact what a swayamvara meant: A melee in which all suitors fought to the death. Once the dust and bloodspatter settled, the women chose their husbands from among those left standing. All Bhishma Devavrata had done was to cut short the ceremonial pomp and regress the event to its older, more brutal origins. Now, all that remained was to wait and see who ‘won’.