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.

New Series in Channillo

Check out my new series in Channillo, and don't forget to leave a comment!!

Never a Good Time

Fragments from a Shattered Image

Fragment 6

Satya could hardly contain her joy. The two Princesses were beautiful and seemed quite docile. Unlike their eldest sister. Satya wanted to forget the unpleasantness caused by Amba. Vichitravirya's marriage was the perfect opportunity.

She smiled at her step son. Bheeshma's expression was inscrutable, but she felt that he was just as happy as she was.

She was grateful to Bheeshma for procuring such excellent brides for his brother. With two young and beautiful wives, her son would surely develop a sense of responsibility.

It was not long before all Satya's relief and joy evaporated. Her son seemed to be interested only in spending time with his wives. The affairs of state were left to be managed by Bheeshma and herself.

She had seen the worry on Bheeshma's face and knew it was reflected on her face too. She was steadily growing more anxious. But Vichitravirya seemed not to care.

Neither she nor Bheeshma could do anything other than counsel him. And yet, their words seemed to have no effect. Satya tried to get her daughters in law to counsel their husband. But they were too docile and too much in love with him. If they spoke, he overrode them with no difficulty.

Satya resolved that she would give her son a piece of her mind. It would not be meet. But she was Rajamata. And she had responsibilities.

She was on her way to her son's apartments when the soldier came running. "Rajamata," he gasped. "The King!"

She ran the rest of the way, heart hammering.

"Rajayakshma," the physician said, rising from the side of the bed where the lifeless body of her son lay.

Bheeshma stood impassive. The queens lay on the floor at the foot of the bed. They were beyond tears now.

Satya sat on the bed, stroking the cold face of her son.

"I am sorry mother," there was a finality in Bheeshma's tone. "My vow is irrevocable."

Satya slumped in her seat. Her last hope was gone. But she made one last attempt.

"Do it for Hastinapura, for your line,"

He shook his head. "I would die for Hastinapura," he said. "But I would not break my vow."

"Your death is of no benefit to Hastinapura," her voice held a touch of asperity. And your life is of no benefit too, she added silently. Not unless there was an heir to the throne. Bheeshma had refused to be King yet again. And he had also refused to impregnate his widowed sisters in law as per custom.

"Hastinapura needs a King. It needs an heir."

"I cannot provide that heir. But I can tell you how an heir may be possible."

She looked up at his words, hope fluttering in her breast.

"When my Guru, the great sage Parasurama, purged the earth of Kshatriyas, all the Kshatriya lines faced a similar problem. But the women were advised to approach sages or Brahmanas to impregnate them through the custom of Niyoga. Thus it was the Kshatriya lines were continued." He paused. "If you, mother, can think of a suitable sage or Brahmana, we may approach him for Niyoga on my sisters."

"Vyasa," she said. "My son, Krishna Dwaipayana Vyasa."

And she told him about how her Krishna had come to be born.

"We are truly fortunate that such an illustrious sage is to propagate our dynasty," Bheeshma said. "Send word to him immediately, mother. Let us not waste any more time."

She sent for him, and he came, just as he had promised her. He had changed, she saw. His austerities had made him darker, thinner and his hair was now matted. He had never been very tall and next to Bheeshma, he really looked short.

He had agreed but insisted that her daughters in law should do austerities for a year. But Satya was in a hurry. She was not prepared to wait.

"Then, they will have to embrace me as I am," he had said. "For I cannot clean my body for them."

Satya had agreed. She would talk to Ambika and Ambalika. They would understand. They had to. It was their duty to Hastinapura and the Kurus.

It was Ambika who received the sage. But her son was born blind. Satyavati was distraught. What ill luck it was that plagued the Kurus! How could a blind man be King! In desperation, she sent for her son again.

Krishna agreed to go to Ambalika. She too gave birth to a son. But he was unnaturally pale and seemed weak.

Satya again sent for her son. On her pleading he agreed to go to Ambika again. He came to Satya in the morning.

"It was her handmaiden who received me," he said. "You must ensure that her child is given education befitting a prince too."

"But," Satya said, "You cannot go. I will talk to Ambika."

"For a sage," he said. "Being with a woman more than three times is forbidden. I am sorry mother. I cannot help you any further."

The maid gave birth to a healthy, beautiful baby, leaving Satya to reflect bitterly on the perfidy of fate. But a part of her also rejoiced, for this child alone she could claim as her Krishna's.

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.

Blurb for Elitist Supremacy

Been fiddling around to create a blurb for Elitist Supremacy.

The galaxy of Cynfor is ruled by the immortal despot Cesar Thaxter and his Elite, a highly trained squad of immortal warriors. The Resistance has been trying unsuccessfully to undermine Thaxter’s rule for 800 years, but with no way of neutralizing the Elite and lacking the resources to fight, the Resistance is confined to small pockets in the Galaxy. Forced into hiding, Zain Baako, their leader comes up with a plan to build themselves a safe haven away from the all encompassing reach of the State. But for the plan to succeed, they need to ally themselves with Alexander Selwood, a successful businessman, who is hiding a terrible secret of his own. The Resistance needs Alexander to achieve their goals, but Alexander has his own agendas. Allying with him might be their only chance to further their goals, but what if it places them in even more danger? With his past, how far can they trust Alexander?