TEN
King Vichitraveerya of Hastinapura was perfectly content to allow his half-brother Bheeshma to rule the Kuru kingdom, while he himself remained absorbed in his young wives Ambika and Ambalika.
It was a blessed time for them all. Satyavati was happy and Bheeshma at doing what he did best— ruling ably. And of course, the king was more than happy. Day after day, you could hear him laugh with his queens in their royal apartment. The three of them would lie together long after the sun had risen, long after the moon had set, tenderly entwined. Or they would be out walking in their gardens, or hunting in the forest even as Shantanu once used to. Vichitraveerya was a poet and a musician. He composed and sang so beautifully the people of Hastinapura said their king was surely a gandharva minstrel born among them as a man.
But fate is seldom content to allow such earthly happiness to endure; and when only a few of those golden years had passed, she struck again at the heart of the Kuru kingdom. Vichitraveerya contracted a virulent consumption and died when he was hardly more than a youth.
For a black month Satyavati took to her bed and would see no one, not even Bheeshma. She lay without eating or drinking and with grief devouring her. She entertained thoughts of taking her own life. But the truth was, that over the years, the fisherman's daughter had become too much of a queen to give up courage.
In her solitary mourning, she recovered from the first tremors of the tragedy. To her own surprise, Satyavati realized what disturbed her, most of all, was that Hastinapura had no heir. Vichitraveerya had died before he made a mother of either of his wives.
Rising at the end of a month, the fragrance of her body faded with sorrow, Satyavati called for some warm water. She bathed and dressed herself in crisp, fresh clothes. When she had eaten enough to give her strength to speak, she sent for Bheeshma.
His face lined and old—he also felt he had lost another son—Bheeshma came and stood silently before his stepmother.
She took his powerful hand in both hers. "Devavrata, all this is because of my father's greed. And of what use has your vow been? Even while they lived, my sons preferred to let you rule." She choked, "No one has ever prospered at the cost of another's misery. And in all time no one shall, though they may deceive themselves briefly that they do."
Bheeshma pressed her hand consolingly. Kneeling beside her, he said softly, "Mother I am not miserable. My life is a full and rich one. Only the grief of my brother's death savages me. But for the sake of the kingdom I must be calm and that pain will also pass."
He saw her eyes glowed in the falling darkness. Her tears had stopped and she said to him, "And after your time, Bheeshma? Who will rule this kingdom after you? What will become of the people, their children and grandchildren? The unborn generations. Have you thought of that, Devavrata?"
She paused, then said, "The Kuru lineage must not perish for the sake of an oath sworn to a dead man." He knew what she was leading up to. Clasping his hand tighter, she went on feverishly, "It is time the Gods were appeased with justice in Hastinapura, before they visit us with more punishment. I have decided what must be done and you must not refuse me. What I ask is only dharma."
"What do you want from me, mother?"
A smile trembled on her face. Her body's fragrance rose again, at the very thought of the justice she was going to see done. "Ambika and Ambalika are so young and their nature's needs are unfulfilled. You are Vichitraveerya's brother. You must make his widows your wives and the mothers of the future scions of the House of Kuru. You must do this for the sake of your ancestors, to preserve this line come down from Soma Deva. It is your dharma and your oath means nothing, anyway, after Vichitraveerya's death."
She stopped and waited for his answer. After a brief silence, during which he still stroked her hand, he said, "You are not yourself, mother. How can you ask me to marry my brother's wives, when I have sworn no woman will have any place in my life? You are unhinged with grief, or you wouldn't ask me this."
A sob shook her and she let him hear it. "Chitrangada and Vichitraveerya are dead! What use is your oath any more? Can't you see the Gods are trying to tell us that it is you and your sons who must inherit the throne of Hastinapura? Devavrata, you must not let the line of Kuru die."
A tide of memory rose in Bheeshma's mind, in flashing clarity. He saw a thousand moments of his childhood with his mother Ganga. He saw her, he touched her; he smelt her sweetness, as if it were all happening again. He saw himself, a stripling, learning the Vedas and Vedangas from Brihaspati and archery and politics from Bhargava. He heard his mother's voice telling him, "Learn well, my son, because you must be the greatest king who ever sat upon the Kuru throne."
The fine tide turned another bend in the maze of memory. He saw the times he spent with Shantanu: those perfect four years, before his father met Satyavati. He clearly saw the fateful day of his own visit to the fisher-king's hut beside the Yamuna: the day of his vow. And then, a brief darkness, before the clearest of all the memories rose.
Bheeshma saw Amba's face. He heard her begging him, not once but a hundred times, to marry her; and he heard himself refusing her again and again. Bheeshma knew why those last images roiled him. Deep inside himself, locked away safely out of harm's way, there nestled the secret that he loved her: that still his dreams were often of Amba.
Tears stung Bheeshma's eyes. The fisherwoman before him, for whose sake he had sacrificed his manhood, actually expected him to break his oath just because she asked him. When he had been prepared to kill his guru for that oath. And why? Because his master had asked him to marry the woman his soul cried out for! Bheeshma turned on his stepmother. His voice was quiet, but it was cold and haughty now.
"You don't begin to know me," he said, with contempt, "or what my dharma is. But then, how could you? Let me make this clear once and for all, so I never have to repeat myself."
She shivered at his tone. He drew a breath and went on, "The earth may lose her fragrance, water its sweetness, the sun may lose his luster, or the moon his enchanted coolness; Lord Dharma of the Devas may abandon the truth, but Bheeshma will never break his oath.
My oath is everything I live by. That day at your father's hut my life changed forever. My oath is my truth and truth for me is greater than all the anticipated rewards of heaven."
He was still speaking quietly; but if Bheeshma could rave, this was his raving. "Mother, please give up this foolishness and think of a less absurd solution."
He turned and walked out of her room.