The Mahabharata: A Modern Rendering (2 Vols.), page 4
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 towards 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 sixteen, 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 even 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.
In the palace, the yuvaraja ran to the king’s apartment. Bheeshma bowed to Shantanu, and cried, “Father, put away your sorrow. I have brought her for you.”
Shantanu had expected something of the sort, if not so quickly. Rising, the king said, “Who have you brought?”
“Satyavati.”
“But her father wouldn’t give her to me, unless...what have you done, Devavrata?”
“I have only renounced the throne and my manhood: they are as nothing to give if they can buy your happiness, why, your very life. My lord, you will not live another month without her.”
“Oh, my son!” Shantanu sat down heavily; the world spun around him and his legs were weak. When he heard of the bargain his prince had struck with the fisherman, the king’s guilt threatened to overwhelm his excitement.
Tears in his eyes, Shantanu said, “You are noble, and dishonour would break your heart. Otherwise I would ask you to take her back to her father.” The king took his son’s hand, “You have always been more like the father and I like the son. But my shame will not change that, because you are strong like your mother, while I am only a weak mortal.
“Yes, I confess I love the fisher-girl. And now, knowing what you have done for my sake, I will enjoy her as well as I can.”
Shantanu paused; a wan smile lit his face. “I too have the punya of my celibacy of twenty years. I bless you, my son, with this father’s blessing: let death come for you only when you call him yourself. For what you have sacrificed for me, you shall choose the hour and the manner of your own dying.”
And so Shantanu, king of the Kurus, married the fisher-girl Satyavati in Hastinapura, with pomp and ceremony, and some unkind whispering among his subjects who, despite her unworldly aroma, compared the new queen unfavourably with Ganga. Most of all, the people were heartsick to hear that Devavrata would never rule them.
But time heals almost any wound and the kingdom settled down to its new circumstances. Even if Bheeshma never actually sat on the throne of Hastinapura, he would be the virtual king for many years, until Satyavati’s son came of age. And so it happened. Shantanu gave up most of his powers to his son and immersed himself in his young wife, who delighted him with her wild simplicity, her passionate nature and, of course, the heavenly scent of her dark body.
Two sons were born to Shantanu and Satyavati, and they were named Chitrangada and Vichitraveerya. Their half-brother Bheeshma doted on them; it was he who raised them. Shantanu was too old, and also too absorbed in his queen, to raise them himself; and after the children were weaned, Satyavati showed no maternal possessiveness. She was genuinely glad of the love the powerful Bheeshma lavished on her boys.
Shantanu’s last few years were deeply happy ones. Surrounded by a close and loving family, it was as if near his end time repaid the old king for whatever fierce sadness she had inflicted on his earlier life. And so, at peace, Shantanu of the Kurus was gathered to his fathers.
Chitrangada, Shantanu’s older son by Satyavati, was still too young to become king. Bheeshma ruled Hastinapura as regent, if in his younger brother’s name: for he had Chitrangada installed as yuvaraja even before Shantanu died. The reign of Bheeshma, the uncrowned king of the Kurus, was a halcyon season for the kingdom. It was as nearly perfect a time as it could be in those last days of the dwapara yuga, when darkness gathered ominously over the world.
But as if fate herself resented the prosperity of those years and the harmony and affection between Satyavati, her sons and Bheeshma, tragedy struck with no warning at the very heart of the royal House of Hastinapura. And its agent was a being not of this earth.
SIX
Two princes
THERE WAS A GANDHARVA WHOSE NAME WAS ALSO CHITRANGADA. For reasons of destiny more inscrutable than we can unravel here, one day this immortal decided to appear at the gates of Hastinapura. Splendent he was, as if his body was full of light. He was taller than any human, unimaginably handsome, and his eyes deep and luminous. His blue-black hair hung below his shoulders and he seemed made more of the stuff of dreams than of flesh and blood.
Chitrangada the gandharva appeared out of thin air one morning outside Hastinapura and blew a sweet blast on the golden horn he carried at his waist. When the astonished guard asked who he was, he cried in his fine singing voice, which was thick with the wine the gandharvas drink, “I hear a mere mortal has stolen my name! The apsaras of Devaloka laugh at me. I hear he is a prince, the yuvaraja of your city. If he is a kshatriya, let him come out and fight me. Tell him that only one Chitrangada will live to see the sun set today.”
Bheeshma was away from his capital, visiting remote corners of the kingdom. For his honour as a kshatriya the yuvaraja Chitrangada had to accept the drunken gandharva’s challenge. It was a month before he was to be crowned king of the Kurus. Frightened and brave, curious because he had never seen a gandharva before, though he had heard wondrous tales of them, Satyavati’s son came out to face Chitrangada of heaven.
The gandharva waited for his namesake, whistling like a tree-full of birds so a crowd gathered. The birds of the air flew down to the trees outside Hastinapura. They knew this was song such as their own wild songs were first made from: the music of the Gods. When the human Chitrangada came out of the city-gates, the Elf grew quiet. His hands on slim hips, he stood glaring at the youth that dared use his name.
In a moment, the gandharva began to laugh. Satyavati’s son saw how tall and wonderful the immortal was, his hair shimmering and his face full of soft splendour. The gandharva challenged Chitrangada of the earth.
“Mortal! You dare take the name Chitrangada, whose meaning you cannot even know. I say you are guilty of theft worse than of gold or jewels, or even kingdom.” His beautiful face turned dark. “I see you are just a boy, so I will give you a chance to save your life. Declare that you renounce the name Chitrangada, which has been mine for eons. Kneel before me and beg my pardon, and I will give it to you. If you like, I will even give you a new name you can bear through your brief human years.
“This is your only chance to save yourself. If you fight me, you will die. Then what use will my name be to you? The choice is yours, boy.”
Satyavati’s son’s eyes turned the colour of plums. He said, “You must indeed have lived for eons, vain gandharva, that you have grown so tired of your life. I am Chitrangada, yuvaraja of Hastinapura, and I know of no other Chitrangada. If you want to fight me for the sake of my name, I think you are a fool and deserve to die.”
Chitrangada of Hastinapura drew his sword. The people gathered there hardly saw what happened next; it happened with such blinding swiftness that mortal eyes could not follow it. They heard a growl, as musical as the rest of his speech; they saw the gandharva’s hand streak to his side. Next instant, they saw their prince keel over clutching his neck that had been pierced by a silver dagger. The Elf whistled softly and his slender blade flew back to its jewelled sheath. The yuvaraja’s life went out through the neat wound in his throat. In a flash of light the gandharva vanished, leaving Hastinapura bereft, her destiny transformed.
Bheeshma was heartbroken. He had loved Chitrangada as his own son. Carefully, since the boy’s infancy, he had groomed him to sit one day on the throne of the Kurus. He had taught him archery and the Vedas, politics and history, astrology and metaphysics, and everything else the yuvaraja knew. They had been so close. Now all that was left, after Chitrangada’s body was cremated beside the Ganga, was an urn of ashes. Wondering for what crime of another life he was being punished with such torment in this one, Bheeshma floated those ashes down his mother’s serene currents, towards the ocean which receives the remains of the dead.
His dreams shattered, Bheeshma began all over again with Satyavati’s second son, Vichitraveerya. Whereas so far he had brought him up only to become his brother’s loyal minister, now he groomed that prince to be a king. Bheeshma crowned the younger boy yuvaraja and continued to rule Hastinapura himself.
Chitrangada’s death had fallen on him like summer lightning; but in a few years, Vichitraveerya grew into a fine young kshatriya and Bheeshma crowned him king. Vichitraveerya was a modest youth who worshipped his brother, and it was in Bheeshma’s able hands that the real power in the kingdom of the Kurus still rested. The people, Satyavati, and Vichitraveerya himself were all content with this arrangement. It would never do that a younger brother ruled while his older and wiser brother was alive.
