The Winds of Hastinapur (Hastinapur, #1)
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Prologue
Through the ages this tale will be re-told by many; courtiers, poets, saints, peasant-folk – and it will change with each recital, for no man can relate a story exactly as he has heard it. This is as true up high on the Meru as it is here on Earth; it is said that Narada, Chief Musician at Indra’s court, has never told a tale the same way twice. So perhaps men of Earth could be pardoned the slight if they cannot help but bend this story of the Great War to suit their whims. They do so bidden by instinct to which all men serve as slaves, no matter where they live and unto whom they are born.
Yudhishthir lies dead by my feet, his old brown eyes staring up at me. His skin has already begun to shrivel and harden, and his limbs have turned blue under the falling snow. But on his face he wears the smile he died with; the smile of knowing, at long last, that he had arrived at his journey’s end, and if he felt any disenchantment at being told that there is no heaven at the tip of the Ice Mountain, he did not show it. But perhaps the knowledge broke his will, for no sooner the words escaped my lips than he buckled down on his knees and rolled over on his back. He may have breathed once or twice after that; not more. The Wise Ones have said that if you wish to kill a man, find the flame of hope that glowed steady in his heart and extinguish it, for that will snatch away from him the will to live, and he shall drop to his death of his own accord.
Arjuna sleeps among the black rocks a few hundred meters down the mountain, and then a short distance further down Draupadi and Vrikodara lie entwined as one. Nakula and Sahadeva are sprawled on their sides at the bottom of the mountain, their eyes shut. They all wear Yudhishthir’s smile on their lips, for they all saw what Yudhishthir saw just before his last breath: that their journey’s end had come with no heaven in sight.
The gates to the Holy Lands of Meru are now closed to the Earthmen. Not too long ago, a man sufficiently pure of thought and cognizant of magic could walk upstream along the Great River and arrive, eventually, not at the tip of the Ice Mountain and the Cave of Ice, where the River now takes birth; but at the gateway to the Holy Lands of Meru, through which the River once flowed in a torrent on her way down to the plains of Earth. Now the clouds have descended on the peak of the Ice Mountain, and the Cave of Ice is covered by a high, impregnable white wall. The world of Meru lies beyond this wall, shrouded by a veil of magic woven together by the Mysteries, and it is no longer one with this world of men.
Perhaps with time tellers of this tale will refer to Meru as a world that never existed within the realms of Mother Nature, of whom we are all born and to whom we shall all return; perhaps in speaking of the people of the Meru they will refer to them as Gods; as all-powerful, all-knowing beings; and it will not be their fault, because to men who have not studied and practiced the Mysteries, everything is magic. And now that the world itself is unreachable, so are its Mysteries – until the people of the Meru decree otherwise, if they ever do.
From the beginning of time the Great River has flowed both on the Meru and on Earth, and I, Ganga, Lady of the River, hold within me the knowledge of all the Ladies that have come before me. I know every place that the River has been to, and I know every man and Celestial that has taken a dip in me. And the longer I live, with more assurance I know this: there is no difference between those on Meru and those on Earth. Those on Meru live for longer; and on their deaths they pass on their memories to their successors (much like my Mother, the Lady of the River before me had done, coaching me in the Mysteries); perhaps because of this they can be called immortal, but they do die when their times come; in that we are all subservient to the only Goddess there is – the Goddess of nature.
My hair is white and thin, now. In a few moons the Goddess will claim me, and I do not have a fresh young virgin by my side to absorb my knowledge and take my place once I am gone. The Mysteries of Ganga and her Sight will vanish with me, and the Great River will become nothing more than a body of lifeless water, beginning at the Cave and ending, as per the wishes of the Earth, in the Eastern Ocean at the end of the world. It is my intention, therefore, to tell you the story as it happened; as I saw it happened. And once I am finished, I will lay down next to Yudhishthir and sleep, with a smile on my face.
I do not make claims that my tale is the One True Tale. The Wise Ones have said that there is no such thing as a true story; that no man can tell a tale without bending it in some way. Therefore all I can say is that this is my truth; the truth as I know it; the truth as I saw unfold, both through my eyes and through the eyes of my sisters.
***
In telling this tale I may come across parts of it that I do not recollect well, and perhaps this might make my listener draw away, but I cannot avoid it. I no longer drink of the Crystal Lake, and my mind bears the same wrinkles of age that my body does. Also I speak of events that have occurred over four generations of men, so it is perhaps only just that my hold wavers here and there, more so on details that are mundane.
But I remember, like it was but this morning, where it all began; with the visit of Prabhasa, the Elemental of dawn, to our hut one cloudless spring morning when I was all of nine years old.
Mother had sent me down to the bottom of the White Rock early that morning to bring back a handful of wildflowers – that spring’s first bunch – so that we could make an offering to the Goddess before we broke the fast of the new moon. It was on my return to the hut that I saw the stranger sitting at the feet of my mother, his hands joined. He opened his eyes upon hearing my step to look at me for a second, but only for a second; the next moment his gaze was back upon the Lady of the River. There was a faint shade of brown in his long hair, especially where it curled around the ears and covered the upper halves. His upper garment, light orange in colour and smooth in texture, lay flat on the rocks by his side – the garment of a hermit; but hermits seldom wore that youthful mirth on their faces, and their bodies were seldom so firm and strong.
‘You have brought the flowers, Jahnavi,’ said my mother without looking in my direction, and when I went up to place the flowers and fruit by her feet, she ran a hand along my hair. ‘What you ask for, Prabhasa,’ she said, and gently guided me next to her on her seat, ‘is impossible. Are you certain the Sage’s wife wanted you to see me?’
‘You are the only Lady of the River I know.’
‘So I am. But you ask of me a miracle that even I cannot perform. I am past child-bearing, O Vasu. If I still look like I might give birth to a live babe I assure you it is only because of the water of the Lake. But tell me this; why do you have your sight set on me? Surely Meru is not shorn of young maidens who would do your bidding.’
Prabhasa said, ‘Who on Meru is more able than you to be mother to the Vasus, my Lady?’
Mother smiled, and picked up a flower from her foot to smell it. ‘It has bloomed at dawn today,’ she whispered close to my ear, placing it in my hands. To Prabhasa she said, ‘But the sons are not going to live their full lives, are they, Prabhasa? It matters not who the mother is if the sons are not going to live. Or does it?’
Prabhasa bent his head, as if he wished to hide behind his joined hands. Then he sighed heavily. ‘It is the eighth son, my Lady.’ He brought his eyes up to meet my mother’s. ‘He is to be born in Hastina.’
For a long time Mother did not move; neither did the smile leave her face. She stared at the flower in my hands with what I thought was love, but then I saw that she was no longer looking at the flower at all.
‘And he is going to live,’ she said at last.
‘Yes, my Lady.’
‘This is not just about the curse, is it, Prabhasa?’
‘I do not know enough about it, my Lady, but I think Indra has decreed that –’
‘Indra? Indra himself?’
Prabhasa said, ‘Yes, my Lady. Indra has decreed that the time may have come for an intervention in the land of men.’
Mother’s smile broadened, and she kept looking past the flower and the rocks beyond the flower; perhaps she was looking at the base of the White Rock, I thought, where the river took its birth. ‘And he has chosen you as the bringer of change,’ she said, musing.
‘It appears so.’
‘And me? Why has he chosen me for this? Do you not know?’
‘I do not, my Lady. The Sage’s wife, Arundhati, bade me here.’
‘Ah, Prabhasa,’ said Mother, and smiled at him, ‘I think I know why they sent you after me. Yes, I think I do.’
Prabhasa did not ask her why, as I almost did but stopped when I saw a tear slide down Mother’s cheek. Prabhasa just bent his head and acknowledged her words. I did the same, holding the flower close to my chest and looking down upon its coarse, blue-white petals.
‘I still cannot help you,’ said Mother, ‘because I am past bearing even one child, let alone eight! Alas, the water of the Lake cannot return a woman’s womb. What you need, Prabhasa, is a tender young virgin of fourteen – which is what little Jahnavi here will be in five years.’
Prabhasa looked up, and for the first time that morning, looked closely at me. I returned his gaze and tried to learn what it was that he thought while he stared. Mother had taught me the importance of reading men’s thoughts from the way they looked, but this one gave me nothing. There was a small tightness in the jaw muscles when his eyes came to rest on me, as though he had given me a tiny nod, but his emotions were as blank as the white flatness of the Rock.
Finally he said, ‘Yes, my Lady.’
‘It is a good thing to wait these five years, I think,’ said Mother, ‘because Hastina is still being ruled by Pratipa, is it not?’ Upon a nod from Prabhasa, she continued, ‘Yes, and Ganga cannot belong to Pratipa. No, I am convinced that we need to wait for the next king to arrive. How old is his son now?’
‘He will turn fourteen this winter, my Lady.’
‘Ah, yes, so two more years for his kingmaking, and give or take two more before the old king hands over to the new.’ She took my hand in hers and pointed at the apple by her feet. ‘The time will be ripe then, for them and for us. I do not think even Jahnavi is prepared just now for what you propose.’
‘Yes, you are right, my Lady, Ganga.’
‘Will you take this word back to Indra, Prabhasa, and tell him that we ought to wait – that Hastina’s time has not yet come.’
‘I will.’ And at a gesture from my mother the man got up, wrapped his garment about his body, and with a final bow at us both, departed by the steps that led down to the Rock. For a minute we sat in silence listening to the murmur of the river down below, mother’s hands caressing my own, her breath on my cheek. ‘Jahnavi, my child.’ She gathered me in her arms and clutched me close to her. ‘It is time for you grow up,’ she said. ‘And it is too soon. Yes, it is too soon! If only you could be a child just a little bit longer.’
‘No,’ I said, cross, wriggling free of her grip. ‘I want to grow up right now!’
***
I would that I knew what I was saying then, but like all children, I was in a hurry to grow up and be one of the big people, take part in their conversations, have men speak to me as they do to my mother; and I realized only after I had become one of them that it had come to soon, as my mother said; much too soon…
And yet this is not the true beginning of the tale. It is merely where I first came to be part of it, so perhaps in my mind I have set it as the beginning. But this is not my tale. This is the tale of the Great War, of the men and women that have played parts in bringing it about, of the victors and of the fallen. The tale of the Great War, then, began not with a nine-year-old girl’s burning wish to grow up, but with the theft of a cow.
The theft of a cow, and a curse.
***
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