Geetha Krishnan's Blog, page 24

Love Triumphant

One

She lay by the pool, her fingers in the water. The water was icy cold, but she hardly felt it. Her mind was still in shock. Were someone to ask her, she would have no answers as to how she reached here. Her feet had carried her here, to this spot, of their own volition. Once upon a time, a lifetime ago, this had been her favourite spot in the garden. And in the aftermath of the devastation she’d experienced and witnessed, she’d made it here, purely on instinct.

Her eyes went to her reflection in the water. Distorted as it was by the ripples on the surface, it still was clear enough to cause a frown to appear between her brows. How could she look as if nothing had happened? She looked just as immaculate as when she had set out that morning. That morning already seemed so long ago. Was it really her in that reflection? Her eyes moved over the intricately knotted hair with jewelled clips holding them in place, to the face with its delicately arched eyebrows, wide eyes, straight nose, moulded lips and firm chin. The nose-ring and chain shimmered in the reflection as did her ear-rings and the jewelled necklaces which were around her neck. Her dress, of a delicate shade of pink that complemented her dusky colour draped her form in silken folds. The sunlight glinted off the wide gold bangles she wore and the water flowed over the rings on her fingers. A delicately wrought gold chain was around her waist, embracing her lovingly. The breeze lifted the hem of her robe to reveal the silver anklets that tinkled musically with every step she took. She looked at herself in distaste. Thus had she adorned herself this morning, thus had she gone to Him….

Him…. she closed her eyes, the pain that lanced through her heart at His thought was so intense it left her breathless. And well might she be, thought she. For He was the sole purpose for which she drew breath. Without Him, she might as well be dead.

And He was gone now. Gone forever from her life. And she did not know how to find Him again. It was an answer to all her prayers, His coming here. And now He was gone, and her dreams were but ashes.

Like the ashes He’d left behind. The ashes that Kama Deva had been reduced to. She still saw it in her mind’s eye. His furious gaze finding the God of Love, his arrow aiming straight at His heart. And then He’d opened His third eye and all that remained of the Deva and his arrows were a heap of ashes.

And yet…. and yet, there had been a moment before that… a moment where His eyes had locked on her as she was offering him the lotus flowers she had gathered. A moment when His eyes had softened, an expression of tenderness had come to them, and a moment when He seemed to notice her, and His eyes had darkened with-desire? She had trembled then, but not with fear. A thrill had gone through her….

And then, the moment had passed, and He’d regained mastery over His senses, but not before punishing the one responsible for that momentary flutter.

She looked at herself again. She looked what she was. A princess. Pampered, sheltered, soft, privileged. Her dress, her ornaments, her adornments, her appearance, all proclaimed her status.

Had she thought to win Him over thus? Had she sought to win him with her charms? With her graces? With her beauty? Him, who was the master of all three worlds, who was the master of his senses, who was above all desires? Him who disdained his own beauty by smearing himself with ashes and covering himself in skins? Him who sought to emphasize his detachment from the world by choosing to dwell in graveyards, by choosing to consort with ghosts and ghouls?

And she had gone to him thus, a painted doll, her heart on her sleeve. Did she really think He’d be moved? Did she really think He’d spare her a second glance?

She drew her hand from the water and rose, not languidly as was her wont, but energetically. There was a determined glint in her eyes and resolution on her face.

She’d chosen Him. She would win Him. But not with her beauty or with her femininity, but the way all His devotees had won Him. With devotion, unshaken by anything. With meditation, unbroken by needs of the body. She would cast aside her silks and her ornaments and would garb herself as He was garbed. She had set her heart on the greatest renunciate of all. And she would win Him through renunciation.

But win Him, she will. For her life had no meaning without Him.

Inexorable

The night was warm, though the room was at a comfortable temperature. But Bheeshma tossed and turned in his bed, unable to sleep. He should have been sleeping peacefully today. For, he was in Indraprastha where his grandson was conducting the Rajasuya.

He could blame it on the long journey from Hastinapura. He could blame it on the excitement. He could blame it on the unfamiliar surroundings.

Or he could be honest and blame it in the shock of seeing a pair of dark eyes and the hatred burning in their depths.

“Sikhandi, our brother-in-law, elder brother to Panchali,” Yudhistira had introduced the owner of those eyes who’d bowed gracefully and yet, managed to express his contempt even in that bow.

Sikhandi! The son of the King of Panchala. Nay, the daughter of the King of Panchala, for it was rumoured that he’d been born a woman and been brought up as a boy by his parents. They even found him a bride. And the trouble had started then.

Bheeshma still remembered all the reports his spies had laid before him. There had been threats of war from the bride’s father, till somehow, Sikhandi turned into a man. His father-in-law was appeased and Sikhandi had even fathered a few sons.

But the eyes that looked out of that handsome visage belonged to Amba. Behind the masculine body, hid the feminine soul that thirsted for one thing only. Bheeshma’s death.

Bheeshma sat up. It was no use fighting this any more. He would nor be able to sleep. Not tonight. Not as long as Sikhandi and he lived under the same roof. But lack of sleep bothered him less than the presence of Amba’s reincarnation at such close proximity.

He went out of the door, the guards looked at him in question, but made no attempt to follow him. He was grateful for that. He did not want a retinue of body guards while he took a stroll around the garden. Even less did he want his grandsons to learn he was unable to sleep. And he definitely did not want them to learn the reasons for that. A day might come when he might tell them about Amba, but that day was not here yet.

It was cooler in the garden. The moon was a pale sickle in the sky and the garden lay more in shadow than in light. Somehow, Bheeshma did not mind it. The night was mostly still, with an occasional breeze stirring the leaves of the trees that bordered the path.

Bheeshma’s feet carried him to the pool that lay in the centre of the garden. It was surrounded by flowering shrubs and the path leading to it was lined by trees laden with fruits. Some of the fruits had fallen on to the path and Bheeshma could feel his shoes squashing them underneath.

There were carved seats near the pool from which one could watch the ornamental fishes frolicking in the pool or the fountain that played, creating rainbows in the sun. In the night, the pool was still and lay without a ripple. There were no rainbows in the night.

Bheeshma sat down on one of the seats, his eyes lingering on the shimmer of the water, reflecting the pale moon. He wished he could be as serene as that water. But his mind was in turmoil. By focussing on his surroundings, he was trying to forget the reason for his disquiet.

“What happened, old man? Could not sleep?” The mocking voice jarred his ears, breaking the silence of the night so rudely.

Bheeshma did not turn to face the speaker, not even when the man seated himself on a nearby seat. He did not want to look at Sikhandi. He did not want to see Amba’s eyes looking out from behind this stranger’s face.

“Sleeplessness is common among the elderly, I’ve heard,” the mocking voice continued.

“So it is,” agreed Bheeshma. “What is your excuse?”

“I came to meet you. I came to your room but saw you slipping out and I followed.”

Bheeshma frowned. He had not noticed. And such a thing was rare. He had been too distracted, he thought. He’d been careless.

“Why did you want to meet me?” He asked now.

“To renew our acquaintance.” Sikhandi was on his feet and was leaning over Bheeshma. His arms were on the sides of the seat on which Bheeshma was sitting and his face was inches away. Bheeshma found he could not look away from those eyes. Amba’s eyes. Thus had she looked at him the last time he’d seen her, just after his duel with his Guru. The same fire burned in her eyes. The fire of hatred, of revenge. Bheeshma shivered in spite of himself.

“Are you afraid, Devavrata Bheeshma?” Sikhandi whispered. “I can smell your fear. What are you afraid of? Are you afraid of ghosts? Or of death?”

“I do not fear death,” Bheeshma’s voice was steady enough. “Nor ghosts.”

“Good,” Sikhandi murmured. “I do not want you afraid. I want you as you were the day you abducted me. I want you as you were the day you defied your own Guru.”

“My Guru asked the impossible,” said Bheeshma. “I would have laid down my life had he so commanded, but I cannot break my oath.”

“Your life is all I wanted then,” whispered Sikhandi. “Your Guru never saw that. He thought he could make you marry me!” He snorted. “All I wanted was your death! But he loved you too much to demand it! But now I need no one. I will kill you myself! And when the day comes that I stand before you in battle, not even your father’s boon will protect you!”

“If that is my destiny, then so let it be. But if you think that I will face you in battle ever, you are deluding yourself.”

Sikhandi’s eyes narrowed. “What game are you playing, old man?” He demanded harshly. “You think because your grandsons are married to my sister, we would never meet each other in battle? It will happen, I assure you! Even if I have to wait for another lifetime, it will happen!”

Bheeshma shook his head. “I could never raise arms against you. Sikhandi is only a cloak. You are Amba. And I would not lift arms against a woman.”

“You’re a fool, old man. And your foolishness is going to get you killed one day!” Sikhandi grated out. “And make no mistake, I will be there facing you on that day!”

He straightened, turned and left, as lithe and as silent as when he came, leaving Bheeshma alone and still in the night.

A Golden Day

She smiled into his eyes. The breeze played with her hair and caressed her body, lifting her Uttariya that she caught it and hugged it close to her. He suddenly felt jealous of the breeze, of her Uttariya, of the jewelled bangles that adorned her shapely arms, of the rings on her fingers, of the chain that wrapped itself lovingly around her hips and which swung seductively as she walked, of each and everything that touched her when he himself was not able to.

It was the circumstances that prevented him. Had they been somewhere more private, those clothes and those ornaments would be off her and it would be his hands that would be roaming over her body. But they were outdoors and in plain view of their son, who was practicing with the sword. He was readying himself for the coming war. His eyes lingered on the man who was his son’s sparring partner. And he felt a wave of emotion that was so overwhelming that it surprised him.

Bhanumathy placed a hand on her husband’s arm. She could imagine the thoughts that might be going through her husband’s mind. The war was coming. The war that would end only with the end of him and his allies or with the end of his cousins. She knew there was no preventing it.

Suyodhana smiled at her, but he still looked distracted. She looked at where Vasusena was sparring with Lakshmana with Vasusena’s sons as interested spectators. Padmavathy was also there, her hands on the shoulder of her youngest who was making vain attempts to shrug it off in an effort to look like a man and not still the mother’s boy that he was.

It hit her then, the realization that this might well be the last time she might be seeing all of these people. This might be the last time she might be seeing her son. This might be the last time she might be seeing her husband. It chilled her, that realization.

Was that why Padmavathy was holding on to Vrishaketu so tightly? Was that why she stood watching her husband spar, not from afar as a woman was supposed to, but standing close to the arena that she could see every muscle ripple as he moved?

Bhanumathy turned her attention to her own man. He was watching the sparring too and his pride and his love was easily discernible from his expression. Her eyes traced the firm jaw, the aquiline nose, the moulded lips, the hair that now was being played on by the breeze. She wanted to run her hands through his hair, to place her lips against his, to make him forget, as only she could, the world that waited for them outside, of the war that was in store for them.

And maybe she wished to forget too, and only in his arms, joined with him, his mouth on hers, was she ever able to do that. He made her forget everything, even herself. And she did not think she would survive one day without him. At which thought, her grip on his arm tightened almost unconsciously.

“Bhanu?” He did not know what caused that shadow on her face, but he was ready to do everything in his power to chase it off. She was everything to him, this woman who had won his heart through her rejection and pride and love, who had taught him that love was no mere possession, that it went beyond the physical.

She gave him a tremulous smile. He drew her into his arms, her head resting against his chest. His hand caressed her head.

“What is the matter, my love?”

“I’m afraid,” she whispered. She knew it was a weakness. She was a Kshatriya woman, a princess, a queen, the mother of a Kshatriya, the wife of a Kshatriya warrior, the daughter of Kshatriyas. She could not shame her line and her clan by weakening at the thought of war. War was the most sacred duty for a Kshatriya. It was the most certain way to attain the heaven reserved for warriors.

And if she repeated it often enough, she might reconcile herself to losing all whom she held dear.

“Don’t be,” Suyodhana murmured, dropping a kiss on top of her head. “Whatever happens in this war, you will not lose me.”

She looked up at him in wonder. “How can you say that?”

Because I live in your heart, thought he. Because I always will even if I am not here anymore. But he lacked the articulation to put it in words. So he smiled and placed his hand on her heart. He could feel the fluttering of her heart beneath his hand.

“If a day comes that I’m not here, just place your hand here. I’m always there. You will not lose me, ever.”

She felt a lump rise to her throat and tears prickled her eyes. She buried her face in his chest and could hear the steady beating of his heart. It grounded her. He was here. Her son was here. Her friend was here.

And they still had time.

She lifted her face to look at him. “Take me riding,” she said. “Just you and I. For today, let us pretend that there is no war looming in the horizon. For today, let us just be two people who love each other and want to be together.”

He nodded. It was such a small thing she asked for. He would have done far more for her. But she never asked him to be other than he was. She loved him with all his faults and flaws and for her, he’d tried to be a better person, a better son, a better King.

But he had his blindspots and she knew them too. And she knew that some compromises would have been worse than death to him. And so, she had never asked.

He was smiling as he saddled the horses and helped her mount. He was looking forward to this ride, to this day when he had no cares other than how to make her happy. She was smiling too. Only he had this power, to make her forget the world, the future, everything. She smiled into his eyes.

“Ready?”

“Whenever you are.”

Whatever the future held, they still had today. And nothing would ever take this day from them.

She knew then that he was right. She would not lose him. Ever.

Kanyakumari: A confluence of Three Seas

My story in wattpad

A Story Lost In Time

Into the Light…. My new book

Into the Light

My new book

My book available in amazon kindle store

 

 

https://www.amazon.in/gp/aw/d/B01I1IW2SU

The Homecoming

The palace was the same and yet, Pritha felt the difference. It was the same in appearance, but the atmosphere had changed. From the suspicion in the eyes of her nephews to the barely concealed hostility in the eyes of the Prince of Gandhara, Hastinapura had changed.

Pritha tried to tell herself it was her imagination, though she knew better. But she hoped that she could change the suspicion of her nephews to acceptance and even love. After all, they were the sons of Gandhari.

She knew that there was nothing she could do about the hostility of Sakuni. But he was only a visitor and was not of much moment. She dismissed his hostility as chagrin.

She was saddened by the decision of Satyavati and the two queen mothers to take sanyasa, but accepted it. It was the way of Kshatriyas. To go to the forest, to be an ascetic. The last stage of life.

She looked around her apartments nostalgically. They were not the same ones she occupied before. But almost all the apartments in the royal palace followed the same design. The rooms were large, well lit and luxurious.

She sighed as she sank down on to a chair. Already, her life in the forest seemed a lifetime away. She felt tears seeping out of her eye and did nothing to stop them. The cremation and last rites of her husband and Madri had to be done the next day. She would need to be composed and dignified. And she would need to hold her tears in check then.

She thought of her life with her husband. A slight smile appeared on her lips, though tears still flowed down her cheeks.

“Kunti,” she could hear his voice. He lifted her chin and looked into her eyes. “Shy of your husband?”

She dropped her eyes, her heart racing. His eyes held passion and yet his touch was gentle.

He cupped her face with both hands and lifted it to his. She closed her eyes and raised her face in anticipation of the touch of his lips.

She opened her eyes as cold air met her upturned face.

Pritha buried her face in her hands and wept.

Rumination

A/N:  A short story on Bhanumathy’s feelings after the dice game.

“Why are you sitting here in the dark, my dear?” He had asked before lighting the lamps one by one. Those were his first words to me. And ever since that day, all he ever did was to fill my life with light, to dispel all darkness from my heart.

Today I remember that time. And I wonder how that man could have been so diminished. Is this what it is to be intoxicated? But he had not touched wine all evening, they tell me.

But a man does not need wine. He can be intoxicated with hatred too, with avarice and envy too, with anger and with lust and with success too. And who can decide what my husband was intoxicated with today?

His cousin was intoxicated with avarice and also with dharma. The rest of the Pandavas were intoxicated with their own Dharmas. I do not know what Dharma it is that dictates that they have to accept whatever is said by an intoxicated man. I hope their Dharmas will keep them warm during the cold winter nights in the forest.

Even grandsire and uncle were silent today. They were silent when a woman who was entitled to their protection was being grossly insulted in front of their eyes. They say uncle was not silent. He kept telling my husband to stop, they say.

Why did he tell only my husband to stop? Why did everyone try to stop only my husband? Why didn’t they try to stop the other one, the embodiment of Dharma, the one who obeys his elders? Why didn’t they stop him from staking his brothers and his wife? Maybe they knew the limits of his obedience and his Dharma. And a man in the throes of intoxication is not in the habit of listening to anyone.

The one I feel for is her. She was made to suffer by all. And she was left to suffer by all. But suffering does not diminish if others ignore it. It only makes it worse.

But I still do not understand why my husband did what he did. He is the light of my life, and that of his parents. How can he act in such a way? How can he spread darkness?

And Vasusena. They tell me he was silent today. Why? What was it that bound his tongue? Did he feel his words might be adding oil to the flames? Did he bite his tongue so that he might not speak what he might regret later?

She stood there, they say. She stood their trembling, her hair loosened and clad in a single piece of cloth. The servants had to scrub the floors afterwards to remove the blood. The bloodstains are still there in the chamber from where she was dragged. That room is never to be used again. Another room has been prepared for use of the women when in their season.

It is said a woman in her seasons is the goddess incarnate. She is hidden away so that her energy might not absorb the energy of all those who come in front of her. If she visits a temple, it is said, the energy will leave the idol to reside in her, for she is purest at such times. And hence she is not allowed entry in sacred places. Brahmanas leave her presence for fear of losing their divine energy to her.

I had always wondered if there was any truth in that. Today I am certain there is not. For she was taken there, in her blood, and no one lost anything. The Brahmanas firmly stayed in place. Maybe they too knew that they had nothing to fear. And the supposed loss of divinity was better than the actual loss of royal favour.

I wish he would come to me. But somehow I feel that, tonight of all nights, he might find it difficult to face me. He might have come to his senses and felt that I might question his act.

He is right. I shall question his act. It is my duty as his wife to do so. Had he stopped with simply making her a slave, I might never have questioned him. For, if his cousins were foolish enough to make themselves as slaves, what right has anyone to question that?

But he was not happy with that. He had to humiliate her. And such acts are never without repercussions. My questioning him might be the least of his worries. Or maybe not. He is a warrior. Enemies he knows how to face. But a wife’s questions are never that easy. Nor so simple.

But I shall question him not for the reasons he fears. I do not care that he took their kingdom from them or forced them to slavery. King Yudhistira had every right to refuse. He had every opportunity to stop when he found he was losing. Had he stopped playing, none of this would have happened. He has only himself to blame.

But I shall still question my husband because another’s blame does not absolve him. King Yudhistira might have given him the opportunity, but my husband was the one who did the deed. And however justified he might be in hating his cousins, he is not justified in trying to humiliate their wife.

Of course, there were a lot of others who could have stopped him. But none of that changes his responsibility. What prompted him? What was it that intoxicated him to such an extent that he forgot himself?

I sigh. They tell me he has gone out. He has taken his horse and ridden out. He and Vasusena. And no one knows when they will be back.

I know that sleep shall evade me tonight. For my mind shall be riding with him into the night. And I hope he shall come back to light lamps to dispel the darkness of the night again.

The Song of the Bharatas

Part One: The Last of the Kurus

Time. Where had all the time gone? Wondered the grandsire of the Kuru dynasty. How did it come to this? This carnage of the entire Kshatriya clan because of an internal feud in his family? Where had he failed? How did he fail so badly?

Questions, thought he. Questions which held no answers. It was too late anyway. Answers held no meaning anymore. Is this to be my legacy? He asked himself. To die like this, reflecting on the futility of my own life?

A sigh escaped his lips. Sometimes he longed for the pain to return. At least, the pain obliterated all questions. Questions which held no answers and answers which came too late.

But the Lord had removed his pain. The excruciating agony he had experienced for a brief while was taken from him. The bed of arrows no longer hurt though his body protested the discomfort.

Krishna had blessed him by removing his pain, he knew. And yet, he wished he hadn’t received that blessing. All my blessings have turned into curses for me, he thought.

His father had blessed him with the power to choose the hour of his death. Swachchanda Mrityu. And that gift had only helped in prolonging his agony. Bound to the throne of Hastinapura by invisible fetters stronger than the strongest chain, he could not leave his life since the need of his Kingdom was dire. And yet, in the end, he had failed. Failed to save Hastinapura from internal feud; from the fight for its throne.

And now Krishna’s blessing had taken from him the one thing that could have helped him to forget. To forget the mistakes, the failures, the utter futility of his life in retrospect.

When first the arrows pierced him, the pain had been momentary. And then it became debilitating; an exquisite agony that took his self away. He was no longer Devavrata, the pampered son of Ganga; he was no longer Bheeshma, the strength of Hastinapura and the Kurus. The only reality was the arrows that pierced every part of his body. The only experience was the torment of pain.

How he longed for that sweet oblivion again! The pain that had erased his identity! How he longed again to float in that nothingness where there was no Devavrata and no Bheeshma; only a being who floated in a sea of blood and gore and who felt nothing but a pain that was endless!

A tear trickled down his cheek, startling him. Have I become so weak? He pondered. How could I have resorted to self-pity and ingratitude? The Lord in his mercy had chosen to relieve me of my affliction and I am complaining?

“But, O Govinda,” he whispered. “This regret that is coursing through me is worse than any torture!”

He closed his eyes as another tear found its way down his face. And he remembered….

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The great war of Kurukshetra is over and death is the only victor. In the aftermath of the war, a few of the survivors look back into their lives, into what might have been….

This is the tale of The Unvanquished….

Pitamaha Bheeshma, the Last true heir of the Kuru Dynasty, who renounced the throne, but not the responsibilities……..

Dhritarashtra and Gandhari, one blind by birth and the other blind by action, but both chose not to see what they did not want to till it was too late….

Atiradha and his wife, Radha, mute spectators to the tragedy of their son’s life………..

Padmavathy, wife of Karna who remained nameless in the epic, and whose role was often neglected…..

Queen Mother Kunti, whose shrewdness and strength helped her sons survive and stay united, but who hid a dark secret……..

Prime Minister Vidura, the incarnation of Dharma who yet failed to hold his family together……..

The princess born from the fire, Draupadi, whose thirst for vengeance was blamed for the carnage, but who lost everything she held dear……..

The Yadu princess, Subhadra who was forced to sacrifice her only child……..

The brahmana turned warrior, Aswathama whose deeds earned him a curse for all eternity………

Bhanumathy, whose name and role were relegated to the background in the epic………

Through their eyes, the story unfolds; the saga of greed, of envy, of love, of hatred, of sacrifice. They are The Unvanquished.