Free THE MAHABHARATA: A Modern Rendering, Vol 1 by Ramesh Menon Page B

stood silently before his stepmother.
    She took his powerful hand in both hers. “Devavrata, all this is because of my father’s greed. And of what use has your vow been? Even while they lived, my sons preferred to let you rule.” She choked, “No one has ever prospered at the cost of another’s misery. And in all time no one shall, though they may deceive themselves briefly that they do.”
    Bheeshma pressed her hand consolingly. Kneeling beside her, he said softly, “Mother I am not miserable. My life is a full and rich one. Only the grief of my brother’s death savages me. But for the sake of the kingdom I must be calm and that pain will also pass.”
    He saw her eyes glowed in the falling darkness. Her tears had stopped and she said to him, “And after your time, Bheeshma? Who will rule this kingdom after you? What will become of the people, their children and grandchildren? The unborn generations. Have you thought of that, Devavrata?”
    She paused, then said, “The Kuru lineage must not perish for the sake of an oath sworn to a dead man.” He knew what she was leading up to. Clasping his hand tighter, she went on feverishly, “It is time the Gods were appeased with justice in Hastinapura, before they visit us with more punishment. I have decided what must be done and you must not refuse me. What I ask is only dharma.”
    “What do you want from me, mother?”
    A smile trembled on her face. Her body’s fragrance rose again, at the very thought of the justice she was going to see done. “Ambika and Ambalika are so young and their nature’s needs are unfulfilled. You are Vichitraveerya’s brother. You must make his widows your wives and the mothers of the future scions of the House of Kuru. You must do this for the sake of your ancestors, to preserve this line come down from Soma Deva. It is your dharma and your oath means nothing, anyway, after Vichitraveerya’s death.”
    She stopped and waited for his answer. After a brief silence, during which he still stroked her hand, he said, “You are not yourself, mother. How can you ask me to marry my brother’s wives, when I have sworn no woman will have any place in my life? You are unhinged with grief, or you wouldn’t ask me this.”
    A sob shook her and she let him hear it. “Chitrangada and Vichitraveerya are dead! What use is your oath any more? Can’t you see the Gods are trying to tell us that it is you and your sons who must inherit the throne of Hastinapura? Devavrata, you must not let the line of Kuru die.”
    A tide of memory rose in Bheeshma’s mind, in flashing clarity. He saw a thousand moments of his childhood with his mother Ganga. He saw her, he touched her; he smelt her sweetness, as if it were all happening again. He saw himself, a stripling, learning the Vedas and Vedangas from Brihaspati and archery and politics from Bhargava. He heard his mother’s voice telling him, “Learn well, my son, because you must be the greatest king who ever sat upon the Kuru throne.”
    The fine tide turned another bend in the maze of memory. He saw the times he spent with Shantanu: those perfect four years, before his father met Satyavati. He clearly saw the fateful day of his own visit to the fisher-king’s hut beside the Yamuna: the day of his vow. And then, a brief darkness, before the clearest of all the memories rose.
    Bheeshma saw Amba’s face. He heard her begging him, not once but a hundred times, to marry her; and he heard himself refusing her again and again. Bheeshma knew why those last images roiled him. Deep inside himself, locked away safely out of harm’s way, there nestled the secret that he loved her: that still his dreams were often of Amba.
    Tears stung Bheeshma’s eyes. The fisherwoman before him, for whose sake he had sacrificed his manhood, actually expected him to break his oath just because she asked him. When he had been prepared to kill his guru for that oath. And why? Because his master had asked him to marry the woman his