Fragments from a shattered Image: Fragment 14

Kripa welcomed Drona with open arms. Kripi too was happy to be with her brother, in the land where she grew up. Drona tamped down on the resentment he felt as he saw Kripa's house. How fortunate Kripa was! He was all but adopted by the King and was now the Guru to princes. He lived in luxury.

In contrast, he, Drona, spent his days in stark poverty. In spite of being superior to Kripa in both knowledge of weaponry and in skills, he was in the position of having to depend on his brother-in-law! It was galling.

Aswathama showed no visible enthusiasm for the changed surroundings. But he was grown now. The years that Drona spent with Parasurama seemed to have driven a wedge between him and his only son. Aswathama was a stranger to him now. But Drona was too caught up in his own plans to notice that.

Drona was resolved to change his situation. He would become the guru to the princes. And he knew Kripa well enough to know that he would not mind. He might even be glad.

Fragments of a Shattered Image: Fragment Thirteen

The palace of Panchala was too big. Drona had to crane his neck to see the standard of the King that flew from the ramparts of the surrounding fortress. The palace was nestled inside, a building that seemed to occupy as much space as his entire village.

The palace was built almost entirely of stone that had been polished so much that it shone like gems. Beautiful gardens surrounded it. The path leading to the palace was flanked with shady trees. The path was crowded just then, full of people going to meet the King's ministers or the council and to submit their grievances. Drona felt superior to them.

The guards looked at him with contemptuous sneers, but he did not mind that. He was above all that. He was the King's own friend. He chuckled inwardly as he thought of the expression on these guards' faces when Drupada would embrace him as a friend. Of course, he would tell Drupada he did not need half the kingdom. Revenue from one or two villages would be enough. And with the knowledge acquired from Parasurama, he could start a Gurukula where he could train Kshatriya princes. He would become famous all over the world as a teacher par excellence.

He was asked to wait a while when he said his business was with the King. He did not mind waiting. He refused to give his name to the heralds. He would go in unannounced, like an unknown Brahmana. How surprised his friend would be! He would probably jump up from the throne and come to embrace him!

He smiled to himself as a courtier beckoned him forward. The hall was very long and he paid no heed to the condescending, pitying or sneering glances by those who were seated there. He felt no shame about his patched clothes or beggarly appearance. He was in his friend's presence!

Drupada gave him a disinterested glance.

"Speak, Brahmana," said he, politely. "What do you wish from me?"

Drona smiled widely. "My friend," said he, "I am Drona. Do you not recognize me?"

Drupada's gaze turned cold. "Friend?" His voice was like a whiplash. "How is it possible for there to be friendship between one such as you and one such as me? Friendship is possible only between equals. Do you not know this yet, Brahmana? Now tell what it is you desire! I have weightier matters to attend to!"

Drona stared at his friend, stunned. Was Drupada serious? Was he testing him, perhaps? How could he speak so to him?

"But," he stammered, confused now. "We were in the Gurukula together! You said you would give me half the kingdom when you become King..." His voice trailed off as he saw Drupada's gaze becoming fiery.

"For uttering such words," spoke the King, "I ought to throw you in prison! Had you been of any caste but a Brahmana, I would have you beheaded for that!" Drupada controlled himself with an effort. "However, I am generous. I forgive you. If you require alms, state it. I shall be happy to provide such!"

Drona felt his face burning. Blood was pounding in his ears. Unbidden, came to his mind the mantra to invoke the most destructive weapon he knew, but he thrust it away. He could destroy this entire kingdom if he so wished, but that was no fitting punishment for the arrogance of Drupada.

"I do not come as a beggar!" Said he. "I come as a friend and you have seen fit to insult me! So be it, Drupada! But a day shall surely come when you shall be too glad to accept my hand in friendship!"

He turned around and walked away, trying to ignore the guffaws by the courtiers. He would show them! The outline of a plan began to form in his mind. But he needed a powerful patron. And students. And not just any students. Kshatriya students.

The solution came to him just as he was crossing the threshold of Drupada's palace. Hastinapura! His brother-in-law, Kripa was the teacher of the princes of that kingdom.

His eyes were blazing with joy as he left Panchala.

Fragments from a Shattered Image: Fragment Twelve

Drona was panting by the time he reached the abode of Parasurama. It was the rumours that sped him hence. He had heard that the warrior sage was giving away the wealth he had amassed over his life time to Brahmanas. And he had come there in the hopes of getting something, at least a cow or two. His face twisted as he thought of his abortive attempts to gain a cow till then. No one in their part of Bhatatavarsha seemed able to gift a poor Brahmana with a cow. All were too poor! His lips curled in contempt. The advent of Kali was too near if this was how Brahmanas were treated!

He wiped the sweat of his brow, catching his breath. The area was quite deserted. He wondered if he'd been hoaxed. Surely, if the sage was giving away his possessions, there ought to be a crowd of Brahmanas there? Had he been made a fool of?

Just then, a man came out of the hut. Even though Drona had only heard tales of the great sage, he could recognize him. The warrior-like stance, the scars on his arm, the fierce gaze, all told him that he was in the presence of the great Parasurama himself. He hurried to the sage and greeted him with folded palms.

"I am a poor Brahmana," said he. "Drona, the son of Bharadwaja. I have come on hearing that you are giving away your possessions. Please do not send me away empty-handed!"

A shadow crossed the serene face of the sage. The fierce eyes became sad.

"You have heard right, O Drona. But you have come too late. I have no possessions left in the world now."

Disappointment, starker than anything he'd known before filled Drona's heart. There was a bitter taste in his mouth.

"However," the sage continued. "I cannot send you away empty handed. Therefore I offer you to choose between the only two possessions I have left in this world: my life or my knowledge of weapons. I have nothing else to give you."

Knowledge of weapons? Drona had never aspired to that. He knew enough of warfare to impart basic training to any student who might come to him. But what Parasurama offered went beyond that. It was knowledge, the likes of which, he had never even dreamed of. The sage was the student of Lord Siva himself. The knowledge he could give was going to ensure that Drona would be unique. His skills and knowledge would be coveted. He would be sought after by all.

He bowed low, "Accept me as your pupil, O great one, and impart to me your knowledge of weapons."

Fragments of a Shattered Image: Fragment Eleven

The Brahmana was young, but not youthful. He was of medium height, and in spite of his young age, his hair and beard were shot with grey. He was thin, though not emaciated. His clothes were simple and patched in many places. The bundle he was carrying was also in a similar condition. He clutched it in one hand, the other held a begging bowl, which was half full of rice. The bundle held the vegetables and fruits he received in alms.

As he turned the corner, he could hear the loud laughter of the children. He smiled to himself as his steps quickened almost automatically. He could distinguish the laughter of his own son, Aswathama. Soon, the children came into sight. Aswathama came running to him.

"Father!" He cried in delight. "Father, I drank milk today! I drank milk!"

The suppressed giggles of the older children were not lost on the Brahmana. He looked at his young son with affection as he transferred the bundle to his shoulder and the bowl to the hand holding the bundle. Then he stooped down and picked up his son, carrying him in the other arm.

"Tell me all about it," said he, forcing a smile and feigning an enthusiasm he did not feel. He could hear the loud snickers of the older children, but he ignored them. The mocking glances sent his way confirmed his suspicion that his son had been made the butt of a practical joke, but he did not want to dampen his child's joy or his enthusiasm.

As he entered his small one room hut, his sharp ears caught a whisper one of the children, "The learned Drona's son can't even tell the difference between milk and water mixed with powdered rice!"

He felt his face burning and his hand clenched tightly on his bowl. Aswathama who was chattering away about how tasty the 'milk' he drank, was oblivious of his father's turmoil till then.

"Father," said he, "it pains,"

Drona noticed then that he was holding his son in a vice like grip too. He relaxed his grip, and put down the child.

"I didn't want you to fall," said he, putting the bowl and the bundle down and rubbing the boy's midriff gently.

Kripi came in just then, bringing water for him to wash his hands and feet.

That night, after Aswathama had slept, Drona told his wife that he was leaving.

"I see no benefit in the life we are leading now," he told her. "I shall go out into the world and make my fortune. My friend Drupada will surely help me."

Kripi kept her eyes lowered and Drona failed to see the anguish in them. He was too lost in what had happened that day to pay attention to her.

Fragments of a Shattered Image: Fragment 10

He came to, slowly, opening his eyes with difficulty. Everything appeared blurred. He was feeling disoriented and groggy, not feeling as he normally did. He also felt weak. There was a roaring in his ears. He tried to move and found something was restraining him. He was cold too and he shivered.

Slowly his vision cleared. He found he was lying on a grassy bank by a river. Some wild looking men with snake symbols tattooed on their bodies were standing around him. He was bound by cords.

He strained and the cords snapped. He tried to get up. One of the men pointed a spear at him and he swatted it aside. The man laughed and extended it again. He realized the man was trying to help him up. He caught hold of it and the man pulled him up.

He stood there looking around in confusion.

“Where am I?" He asked, his voice a hoarse rasp.

He was a boy and yet he was taller than most men. His face was beautiful, not unlike most children of his age, but now his face reflected bewilderment as he looked at the strangers.

The men too looked at each other in confusion. Then there was a commotion. The men bowed low as they parted way for an old man to come through. He was wrinkled and old. The image of a snake with raised hood was tattooed across his entire body giving him the appearance of a snake.

The man stood before him. "Who are you child, to venture into the land of the Nagas?"

He swallowed, hiding his fear and confusion behind bravado as he stood straight and answered, looking the man in the eye. "I am Bheemasena, son of Pandu and Kunti, the Prince of Hastinapura."

"Son of Kunti," murmured the old man. "Your mother is related to the Nagas by blood, though the relation has been forgotten by both our families. Vasuki, the King of the Naga people welcomes you to this land."

He turned to the others and said something in another language. The men broke into words in the same language. Vasuki's next words were sharp and the men said something in an emphatic tone. Vasuki turned back to Bheema, his face grim.

"You had been drugged and thrown to the river according to my men. You had also been bound with cords." He paused. "My men rescued you, not without difficulty, as you were fighting them in your unconscious state."

He sounded pleased and proud though Bheema felt abashed. But he was also angry. It did not take him much reflection to piece together what must have happened. It was obvious that his cousin had attempted to kill him.

Watch out Suyodhana! He thought. I am coming for you!

His hands had clenched into fists and his face was grim.

Vasuki looked at him with a smile. "Come, my child." He said. "You rest for today. I shall arrange for your return to Hastinapura soon."

Bheema lived with the tribe of Nagas for some time. He was too weak to return yet, Vasuki told him. Though he felt fine, he accepted the old man's argument. It was better to let Suyodhana think that he had succeeded. Bheema chuckled to himself thinking of the expression on his cousin's face when he would walk in.

Of course, thought he, Suyodhana won't have too much opportunity to be surprised. For Bheema was going to pound him to the floor as soon as he reached. He would break every limb of that loser.

The food was one added reason that tempted him to remain. It was the best he had ever tasted. The spices and condiments and herbs that the Nagas used were completely unknown to the cooks at Hastinapura. And the drink that they gave him every night after the meal tasted like nectar.

"It is a Naga medicine for restoring health," Vasuki told him. All Bheema could think was if all medicines tasted so good, he for one, would not mind being sick.

The Nagas also taught him how to row a boat and to make loops from rope. In the little time he had, he mastered the basics of whatever they taught him. He also haunted the kitchens often enough that the cooks too took to teaching them their way of cooking.

One day, Vasuki came to him and told him that one of his men will take him to Hastinapura.

"He will take you to the palace where your mother and brothers are," he said. "Do not confront anyone till you have met with them. I have informed your mother that you are safe in my care. But it is for you to apprise her of how you came here."

Bheema nodded. Pounding Suyodhana could wait after meeting with his mother. He could wait. He had time.

Fragments of a Shattered Image: Fragment 9

Satya sat down on a couch. Her limbs ached.

'I'm growing old,' she thought. But that was only to be expected. She grew more tired but less sleepy. She also felt less hungry these days, though her memory was still sharp.

Small mercies, thought Satya. Small mercies.

She sighed. Her tiredness and physical aches were less than the grief of her heart. The last rites of her grandson was over. His five sons were so small. She wondered if her step son and grandson would care for those.

She had no energy left to worry for them now.

She looked up as her son was announced.

"Krishna," she smiled at him. He was called Vyasa by all these days, Veda Vyasa. But to her he would always be Krishna.

"Mother," he bent down to touch her feet.

"Ayushman bhavah" she blessed him.

"Mother," he said as he sat down next to her on her invitation. "It is time you left the palace. It is time for you to leave the world behind."

She gazed at him. He was right of course. She should leave for the forest. It was the way of things, of life.

She sighed again. She had buried her husband, two sons and now a grandson. She did not want to watch more deaths. Her son was right. She should leave.

She gave him a faint smile and nodded.

"It is time," she echoed.

Fragments from a Shattered Image

Fragment 8

Pandu found the burden of his heart only increasing. The days passed in affairs of the state but the nights were nightmares. His wives were patient and understanding, neither uttering even a sound of reproach. He wished they would at least shed a few tears. But they kept smiling as if his impotence did not cause them any heartburn.

Their attitude only made him feel worse, not better. No one spoke a word, but he felt the crushing weight of their expectations. The bards sang his praises, the citizens extolled his greatness and all it served was to remind him of what an utter failure he was. His whole life seemed meaningless and futile.

He left on a Dig Vijaya. It was an escape, he knew, but he did not want to be in the palace anymore. He did not want to be in the proximity of the two women who had chosen to share their lives with him and to whom he had been unable to give anything. He did not want to wait for the inevitable question of when he was going to give an heir to his Kingdom. He did not want anyone to know that he was unable to do what even a mindless beast was able to.

So he went to war. And he vented all his anger, all his frustration in the battlefield. He had been ruthless, trampling his enemies to dust. He was not satisfied with defeating; he had to destroy.

For, in the battlefield, he could fool the world that he was a man.

He enjoyed the battlefields; he reveled in the trumpet of elephants, the neighing of horses, the clanging of swords, the twanging of bowstrings, the whoosh of the arrows and spears. He rejoiced at the smell of blood intermingled with that of sweat, metal and the excrements of men and beasts. He laughed at the carrion birds circling high above, waiting for the day’s battle to end.

At the end of one day’s battle, he came upon one of his soldiers, retching by the side of a tent. He was a young man and it was evident that it was his first campaign.

The young man was embarrassed by his weakness and had mumbled an apology. But Pandu was staring at where the soldier had emptied the contents of his stomach on to the grass.

He had done the same on his first campaign. He had never imagined that a battlefield could be a place of such brutality, where men turned into killing machines, where life had no sanctity, no value. His uncle had placed a hand on his shoulder and had told him. “Do not be ashamed of the horror you feel. It is not your weakness, but your strength. We are Kshatriyas and we cannot shun warfare. But the day we lose our compassion for those we kill, the day we stop being horrified at the brutality of our acts, that day we lose our humanity and Dharma as well.”

Pandu looked around him with sightless eyes. What had he been reduced to! What monster it was he had become!

He had come to escape, to prove himself a man by ruthlessly destroying his enemies. But all he had proved was that he had become a monster.

And he returned, smiling outwards, but chagrined inside. All the wealth he had conquered, he had placed at his brother’s feet. His brother who should have been King if he had not been born blind; his brother who would have been a better ruler, who would not have reveled in the fearful screams of his enemies. His brother who wanted to be King, who resented him for stealing his birthright.

The decision to leave the palace for the forest had been taken on that day. The day of his return. He told everyone he was going on a hunting trip to the forest with his wives. No one objected. After all, they had had so little time together.

His wives suspected something. Kunti it was who asked him, “Swami, why are we here?”

He drew a deep breath. “I am abdicating the throne Kunti,” he said calmly. “I am not worthy to be King. I am not going back,”

“And what reason would you give your people? Your elders?”

“I killed a couple of deer today,” he said. “I’m going to tell everyone that it was a sage and his wife sporting in the form of deers, and that they cursed me to fall dead if I ever touch a woman in desire again!”

“Convenient,” Kunti observed. “It resolves all your difficulties. But have you spared a thought to us? Your presence in our lives is all we demand. Is that too much to ask for?”

He looked at her. He had never loved her more than he did at that moment.

“If my presence is all you require,” he said. “Then you must accompany me. God knows there isn’t much else I can give you!”

“Don’t speak like that!” Madri’s hand was over his mouth. “We do not require anything more for our happiness!”

He nodded. He was powerless to resist their demand.

Fragments from a Shattered Image

Fragment 7

Pandu often felt stifled in the palace. His grandmother was obsessed with the continuance of their line. From his early childhood, Pandu could remember her disproportionate fear if he or his brother caught so much as a cold. If not for his uncle’s firm yet loving hand, Pandu and his brother might have grown up without ever having set foot outside the palace. His uncle was concerned about the succession, but he was not obsessed with it.

Pandu was told that his own father had died childless, endangering their line and he and his brother were the result of Niyoga. His grandmother told him the story so often that Pandu felt like screaming. She had told him how his mother and aunt had agreed to Niyoga, though it was repugnant to them. “It was their duty,” she told him. “And they knew it.”

Duty was the watchword by which he grew. His duty to Hastinapura, to the Kurus, to the people. From childhood Pandu knew that his duty was not just to be a Prince, but to produce heirs to ensure continuance of the line. Being blind, his brother was spared all those lectures on duty and succession. But Pandu was not so lucky.

But though he wasn’t happy about the constant harping on the importance of having heirs, he knew better than to show it. Self-control and discipline were among the first lessons his uncle had taught him.

A Kuru! A Bharata! He was not only heir to the throne, but heir to the expectations inherent with the post of King. And in his case, it was not enough that he become a good King or an all-conquering one. He had to prove his virility too.

Pandu knew his brother held him in contempt. And he also knew that his brother coveted the throne. There were times when he felt like telling his brother, “Take it and be happy, and at least I can have a life that is mine!”

He thought how ironic it was that his brother who wanted the throne was denied it and he who was apprehensive about his own worthiness, should be given it.

What was worse was his brother knew his deepest anxieties and fears.

“Why don’t you take one of the maids to bed?” Dhritarashtra asked him one day. “You must be the only crown prince who’s still a virgin!”

He blushed deeply but did not answer.

He did not go to any maids either. His virginity was his wife’s. He would not despoil himself.

Then he won Kunti’s hand in the Swayamvara. It had made him more relieved than happy. He would finally be able to fulfill his obligations to Hastinapura by giving it an heir. But- what a fiasco it was, his marriage night!

He did not even look at her or speak to her as he got dressed and stalked out of the room.

He drank himself to a stupor and did not know when he fell asleep. In the morning, he woke with a splitting headache and a guilty conscience. He rose from the couch on which he had spent the night and went to her. Kunti was still asleep, and his sense of shame and guilt increased as he saw the dried tear tracks on her cheeks.

He sat down next to her. She was so beautiful. What had been her fault anyway? To have chosen him? He had been the one at fault. And yet, he had run off without a word, demeaning her choice of him.

He touched her cheek gently and she woke.

“Swami?” She whispered and then her face clouded.

“Kunti,” he spoke softly. “I know I am at fault. Please forgive me.” He paused. "I do not know why I ran off like that. I did not mean to degrade you. You should never have chosen me, Kunti. You should have chosen someone else.”

“Please do not say that, Swami,” she had implored. “It does not matter. I am your wife. I am strong enough for this,”

But there was a shadow in her eyes that told him that it mattered. It mattered a lot.

He did not try anything after that night. He slept in the bed and she on the couch since she was adamant that he should have the bed. But no matter how hard they tried to keep it a secret, the servants and the spies took the news to his uncle. What conclusions uncle Bheeshma drew, he did not know.

But a month after, his uncle arranged a second marriage for him and got him married to the sister of the Madra King.

Pandu had not objected. He was in despair. But there was a part of him that was eager too, a part of him that still hoped, that with another woman, perhaps he might succeed. That part of him whispered to him that he was whole.

But after his second marriage, no part of him had any doubts. It was his problem. His alone, and he could not find a solution to it.

Fragments from a Shattered Image

Fragment 5

She watched with misty eyes, the coronation of her youngest son. Vichitravirya was young, having just turned sixteen. Yet, Bheeshma and the priests had deemed he was old enough to assume his responsibilities as King.

Her worries should have been over, but they were not. Vichitravirya had not been trained for Kingship. He was indolent and pleasure loving and had been pampered too much. Chitrangada had his brother’s firm but loving hand to guide him throughout his life. Vichitravirya was left to her, and she had indulged him too much.

It was only after Chitrangada's death that Bheeshma had started taking Vichitravirya to hand. And his firmness had had its effect, but Satya worried that with Kingship would come the disinclination to follow his brother's advice. Bheeshma could advise, but no longer impose his will.

We should have waited, she thought. We are being hasty. We should have waited till he is more mature. Physical age isn’t everything.

"You are worried, mother?" Bheeshma asked as he came near her. "You are frowning."

"Yes, Bheeshma," she said. "I fear he is too young. The power and authority may go to his head. He is not duty bound to obey you or me any longer. We are duty bound to obey him!"

Bheeshma nodded. "You are right. Maybe we should think of getting him married. Marriage will teach him responsibilities, and if we choose wisely, his wife may be able to guide him too."

Satya opened her mouth to say the number of wives who guided their husbands were so few. But she did not. Vichitravirya was so young. If he marries a woman slightly older, she might try to guide him and he might actually listen to her too.

"The King of Kasi has announced the Swayamvara of his daughters," Bheeshma said. "The Kasi Princesses would be suitable wives to the King of Hastinapura."

Satyavati nodded. "What do you propose? Vichitravirya has not been invited."

"No. The King of Kasi has slighted us by not inviting us to the Swayamvara. I propose to go to Kasi as my brother’s representative and win those princesses for him. That would avenge our honour too."

She nodded. "May you be victorious."

The blessing was only tradition. Bheeshma was going to be victorious anyway.

Fragments from a Shattered Image

Fragment 4

Her eyes were dry now. She was past tears. What more could fate have in store for her! First her husband had died, leaving her widowed and with two small sons, not yet old enough to take the reins of the Kingdom.

But Bheeshma had been there. In spite of her tearful pleading to be King, he had refused, choosing to be regent instead. He respected her and sought her advice and it surprised her to no end when he started following her advice.

Satya had bloomed under her husband’s love and affection and when Chitrangada was born, she was content. Vichitravirya was an added blessing. She had contemplated a happy and contented old age when she and her husband could leave the Kingdom in Chitrangada's able hands and leave for the forest. With Bheeshma to guide and advise him, she had no doubt her son would lead the Kurus to even greater glory than before.

But all those dreams had been dashed to pieces when her husband had died so unexpectedly. Though he was very much older than her, she had never paid much attention to the difference in their ages. But at the moment of his death, she had noticed how worn and tired he looked. She had stopped her tears till his death, because he had always wanted to see her happy and smiling.

"Devavrata," he had whispered. He was the only one who still called Bheeshma by his given name. Devavrata had knelt by the bedside.

"I will take care of my brothers, father," he had said. "Chitrangada shall be a worthy successor."

Satya had seen the flash of anguish in her husband’s eyes as he gazed at his eldest son. Instinctively, she knew that Shantanu wanted Bheeshma to be King after him, and she too felt that it was the right decision. She had pleaded with him, even ordered him, but he was adamant. His vow was no light matter. He would not break it.

Then had come her father's death. He had sent for her from his deathbed. It was Bheeshma who took her to him. She had also taken her sons along.

"They are fine boys," Dasharaja had wheezed. "That elder one will make a fine king."

"Why, father?" She had asked him. "I would have been content even if my sons had to remain as princes. Bheeshma deserves to be king. He is worthy in every way."

"Maybe," he had said. "But it was my right to demand that for you. They could have refused."

"I don’t deny you had the right. But why such an ambition? Why King?"

He had looked at her, "I had the right," he had said finally.

She had sighed. "I do not," she had said.

He had fidgeted and then said. "You are the daughter of a King. I am only your adoptive father."

She had stared at him in consternation, believing his words and yet disbelieving.

"I am not going to tell you who your real father was. But you are a Princess. You have the right to be queen and your sons have the right to be Kings!"

She had turned from him, her thoughts in turmoil. Daughter of a King! Adopted by a fisherman. That spoke volumes for her status! She might have been a King's daughter, but there was no doubt that she was illegitimate. She was suddenly infinitely grateful to her father, not the unnamed King, but to the man she had called father all her life.

He had died the next day and she had returned to the palace after the funeral, not revealing the truth to anyone, not even to Bheeshma.

She had thought all her travails over when Chitrangada was crowned King. She had also seen the palpable relief in Bheeshma's normally impassive face. He had felt he too could relax his vigil.

And now this. Satya sighed. She had no more tears left to cry.

"Mother," Bheeshma walked in, still dusty and disheveled from his journey. He had not stopped to change. He had rushed in to see her straightaway.

She held out her hand and he took them, kneeling before her.

"If you had been there, he would not have died," it was not an accusation, but a simple statement of fact. Bheeshma was invincible in battle. Had he been in Hastinapura, the Gandharva would never have dared challenge her Chitrangada to a battle.

Bheeshma's hands tightened over hers. "Shall I get the Gandharva’s head for you?" His voice was even.

She shook her head. She had had enough tragedies, enough fighting, enough death. Revenge would not bring her son back. "Your brother needs you. Hastinapura needs you. Till Vichitravirya is old enough to be King, you should be here, by his side. And afterwards too."

He had gone to put down a rebellion in the eastern provinces. They both knew he had had to go. The rebellion had been crushed and he was on the way back when the news of his brother’s death had reached him.

"Chitrangada died in battle, as befitting a Kshatriya," Bheeshma said. "Be comforted, mother."

She nodded. It was cold comfort to a mother, but her son had not shamed his heritage, fighting valiantly till the end.

Fragments from a Shattered Image

Fragment 3

Many times during her journey to Hastinapura, Satya wondered if she was in a dream. She, Satya was going to be queen of Hastinapura! It had to be a dream.

Devavrata rode alongside the chariot. She wondered about him. The oath he had taken, to remain celibate for ever, never to know a woman, to have a child… What sort of a man makes an oath like that? She was awed by him. He called her Mother but it seemed to her as if she should be bowing to him.

He seemed not aware of the magnitude of the sacrifice he had made. How could he! He was young yet. And still, he had made it with a smile. But from the resolution implicit in his jaw and the steely glint of his eyes, Satya knew he was never going to retract it.

Does he hate me? She wondered. The thought oppressed her. One couldn’t really blame him if he did. But it would still be unfair, thought she. She had had no role in what happened. She was only an instrument.

She resolved that from henceforth, she would not be a passive spectator to life. She had allowed Parasara to take advantage of her out of fear. She had allowed her father to make her into a bargaining chip out of obedience. And in so doing, she had deprived Hastinapura of a good King. Now, it was her duty to see that the Kingdom did not suffer for it. No matter what happens, she thought, I will always put the interests of my Kingdom before anything else. It was the least she could do for Devavrata who had chosen to make this sacrifice.

She sat up straight. She was going to be married. She might not be excited about it, but she was going to try to be happy. And she was going to make sure that neither her husband nor her step son was ever going to have any reason to regret the oath that her father had caused Devavrata to make.

But she was still afraid. She wondered what Devavrata would say if he knew of the sage and of her Krishna. And the thought of Krishna made her sad. She would not be able to see him again. But he had told her the last time that he would come to her whenever she needed him. All she needed to do was to send word to him.

Though the memory of those words comforted her, she still felt sad. Krishna hadn’t anticipated this parting any more than she had. And she would not be able to see him or call him to her at her whim. She was going to be a wife. More than that, she was going to be a queen. And she would not be able to indulge in whims for any personal gain.

The chariot lurched to a stop. Satya sat up, quaking, waiting for the chariot door to open. The door opened suddenly and for a moment she was blinded by the sunlight. A shadow filled the doorway and she shrank back in fear.

"Mother," it was that respectful voice again. "We have reached,"

She saw that he was holding out his hand respectfully. She placed her hand in his as he helped her alight.

Fragments from a Shattered Image

Fragment 2

Satya wondered why she was destined to meet this man that day of all days. It had been a busy day for her, and she had returned from ferrying the last of her passengers across. She was still waiting, in case someone came along. No one generally came, but sometimes a stray traveler would come seeking a way across the river.

Sometimes Krishna would come, accompanied by his father. Sometimes he would come alone. He was old enough now to travel on his own. She did not resent it that he was close to his father or that he wanted to be a sage. She knew her resentment would only drive a wedge between herself and her son, so she swallowed it and learned to let go of it.

But on that day, the one who came to her was a total stranger and he was seeking, not a way across the river, but Satya's home. He was tall and majestic and she could see that he was almost as old as her father. But he was not wrinkled or stooped, but handsome still and stood straight as a sapling. He was like the Kings in the tales that the village story teller used to tell her so many years ago. He had gazed at her in wonder and then had asked her for her name and asked about her father and asked where he could find him.

She had told him, wondering if he had come to buy the new boat her father had built. Boats were her father’s passion and his boats were bought by Kings and Princes from far.

Seeing his grandeur, Satya wished he had found her in the morning before she started her work, before she became all sweaty and her hairs all blown out of the coil in which she had wound them in the morning.

Satya had forgotten all about him by the time she returned home that day.

For the next few days, Satya noticed a sense of impatience coupled with a suppressed excitement in her father. She wondered why that was; she had never seen him like that. But her questions elicited no straight answers. He made vague references to good fortune and Goddess Lakshmi from which Satya could understand that he had had an opportunity for realizing his ambitions. She always knew her father was ambitious, though what exactly his ambitions were, were a mystery to her. She wondered if some coastal chieftain or ruler had hired him to build a fleet of boats.

All speculation ended the day the chariot bearing the standard of Hastinapura came to their hut in the morning. Her father had hurried out eagerly, but had stopped with face pale as he saw the man who stepped out. Satya had looked at the stranger. He was dressed in white and was young, though she could not tell if he was older or younger than her.

Something about him reminded her of the man she met the other day. But there was an arrogance about this man that was lacking in the other one. She stood just inside the door as he looked around with a kind of surprised wonder.

"Are you Dasharaja?" he asked, his voice deep and resonant. Her father had nodded and asked him to come in. Satyavati went into the kitchen as her father led their guest to the room which served as their dining and bed rooms, spread a mat and bade him to sit.

Fragments from a Shattered Image

Fragment 1

The girl wiped off the sweat from her brow. She gazed up at the sky. The sun was too bright that day just as it had been the past week. Yet, the village astrologer had predicted rains. She snorted as she thought of him. Him and his rains!!

She looked all around. The woods were still. An occasional breeze skimmed the grass and reached the trees, only to die a strangling death among their branches. The river's surface too was unmarred by ripples.

She sat down wearily on a rock on the shade of a tree. She was grateful for the shade. It was boring, this work of ferrying the occasional passenger across. And tiring too. She looked at her arms in distaste. They were tanned brown from the hours she spent in the sun. And she was already dark to begin with.

She would not have felt so bad if she hadn’t heard the stories of princes and princesses told by the village storyteller. Beautiful they were, according to the story teller, fair and shapely with ornaments adorning their limbs and fragrant with oils and unguents. Not like Satya who was dusky and smelling of fish. And the princes were handsome and brave wearing golden armor and divine weapons, quite unlike the men in Satya's village who carried fish nets and looked taciturn.

Absently, she picked up a blade of grass and began to chew on it.

It was thus the sage found her. In the first blush of her youth, her lovely eyes fixed on the faraway horizon, a blade of grass between her teeth, her pose was languid and seductive.

The girl was unconscious of the picture she presented. She was aware of her arms and body, baked brown from the sun, of her clothes which she was beginning to grow out of and which were patched at several places, of the fishy odour which refused to leave her no matter how many times she bathed, of the calluses in her hands and feet from her hard labour and miles of walking.

The man saw the shapely limbs, the clothes barely adequate to cover her youthful body, her curves straining against them. He saw the straight nose, the firm jaw, the dimpled cheek. He saw her as a temptation and wondered if he should leave.

But he had to cross the river and go to the ashram that day. That decided it for him. He was a sage with control over the senses, he told himself. He was not going to lose control over some fisher girl ferrying the boat no matter how attractive she was.

Even the odor of fish that clung to her combined with the musk of her sweat was intoxicating him.

'Stop it, Parasara,' he told himself sternly.

Satyavati saw the young sage and she rose from where she sat.

"O venerable one," said she. "Do you wish to go across?"

The sage nodded. He was nice looking, she noticed, or would have been if his expression was not so forbidding. There was a look in his eyes that made her tremble, though not from fear. And yet, there was something frightening about him too.

He boarded the boat in silence, his eyes not leaving her. She felt as if his eyes were devouring her whole and she shivered though the day was hot.

"Where to, O great one?"

The question was only a formality. They all came here to go to the ashram on the north east. It was a journey Satya did not like, for sometimes the fog banks would roll in and once they did, they would stay for hours. It would be impossible to guide the boat and Satya would have to drop anchor and wait it out. It would get so cold that she would shiver and worst of all would be her passengers who seemed totally unaware of the situation and would sit still and silent without saying a word.

"The ashram." His voice was a croak, as if his throat was dry.

No wonder, thought she. It was such a hot day.

As she pushed off from the bank, she noticed the fly caught in a spider's web on the grass near the landing. No time to free that now, she thought, feeling agitated. Her passenger would not like waiting. With a sigh, she dropped the pole and picked up the oars.

In later years, Satya asked herself many times if she could have done something differently. Something. Anything. But her mind never gave any answers. It mocked her for being a fool. He was a powerful sage. What could a fisher girl like you have done? It asked her. Why do you even think that you had the power to do anything?

When the fog rolled in, Satya had expected another boring wait. In retrospect, she would have exchanged that afternoon for all the boredom in the world.

"I am a powerful sage," he had told Satya when it was over. "As such no sin will come to you for this."

Satya had heard his words, but had not believed them. She had lost her belief in sages.

Her father had been aghast when he learned the truth. He had been angry but he was practical enough to know that Satya was helpless to stop what had happened. He was also a shrewd man. He had sent Satya to his sister who lived in one of the islands that dotted the great river. And he had also tracked down the sage.

Her father had made a big gamble counting on the sage's youth when he threatened to publicize his act unless he took responsibility for the baby that was growing inside Satya. The sage had less to fear from exposure. Satya's father knew this. If the sage had called his bluff, there was nothing else he could have done but to bury his dreams and his grand ambitions.

But his reading of human nature was not faulty, as it turned out. Parasara was contrite. He agreed to take responsibility for the child. He would have been happy never to see Satya or her father again. It was Satya who stipulated that the child's whereabouts be informed to her.

All that was a thing of the past now. Years had passed. Satya still had nightmares of arms holding her like vices… of hot breath fanning her body… of a knee nudging her legs apart... and in her nightmares, her voice was not stolen by fear and she screamed her “No!” so loud the skies echoed them back.

But in spite of the nightmares, all Satya felt was a curious kind of indifference when she thought of the sage. She was grateful to the sage for two things. The first was the child. Her son Krishna, the dark one who was named Dwaipayana by his father as he was born on an island. The second was for teaching her how to get rid of her body odor and the fishy smell. The sage had told her how to extract fragrances from flowers and herbs and how to use them so that her body would remain fragrant for hours. In fact, she became known as Yojanagandha among her people who were amazed at how fish smelling Satya suddenly became so sweet smelling. Her aunt thought it was the sage's magic. Satya never attempted to correct her. She knew that her aunt's superstition was the best protection for her reputation.