Free The Rise of Hastinapur by Sharath Komarraju

was the sole reason for everything that her life had become today. And over all these thoughts Mother Satyavati’s voice spoke again and again: ‘You do not understand the ways of men, my dear.’
    Tears flowed down her cheeks.
    ‘Yes,’ said Parashurama with a sigh, ‘that is the lot of women in our world.’
    Jarutha said, ‘It seems to me, your grace, that lady Amba here was particularly wronged by Bhishma, who abducted her and then failed to provide her the home she deserves.’
    Parashurama nodded. ‘Not just Devavrata. All the men in your life, my child,’ he said, turning to her. ‘All of them seemed to have wronged you in one way or another. Do you not fear, then, that I may fail you? For after all, I am a man too.’
    Amba said, ‘No, your grace. You are said to be a learned man. You have studied the scriptures, you have taught the Vedas to the gods that live on the Ice Mountains. You are said to have trained Bhishma in the art of war when he was a young lad. You are the only man in North Country that I know of, my lord, who can stand up to Bhishma with a hope of winning.’
    ‘I am certain,’ said Parashurama. ‘I am certain of that. But I wonder if that is the right path for you to choose.’
    ‘I shall walk any path you direct me to, your grace.’
    Parashurama smiled. ‘We shall see.’ He turned to Jarutha. ‘You can leave the maiden here with me. I have come to stay on Earth for at least six moons from now, so she will serve me here. Let her live the life of a priestess for some time.’
    ‘Yes, my lord,’ said Jarutha, getting up to his feet.
    ‘And tell Drupad that I understand his intentions very well,’ said Parashurama, his face clouding over suddenly. ‘Tell him that I do not like being manoeuvred this way, but I shall do it, this one time, for this maiden.’ The muscles of his wiry body tensed, all at once, and his lips fused together. ‘But tell him this is to be the last one – the very last.’
    ‘Yes, my lord,’ said Jarutha, retreating two steps.
    ‘You may go.’
    After Jarutha had left, Parashurama said to Amba, ‘The life of a priestess is a tough one, my girl, but it gives you victory over the one thing men have always failed against – the self. Will you stay with me and serve me? I promise you a way out of your pain.’
    Amba bent down so that her nose touched the ground, and she laid the very tips of her fingers on Parashurama’s feet. She heard the murmur of the sage’s blessing, and she felt a certain warmth enter her through her back and fill her, loosening her muscles and clearing her mind. She felt like she had come home.

SEVEN
    AMBA SPEAKS

    I n Kasi, when I was four or five years old, we used to play a game with a wooden bow and a ball of flowers. The attendants would place the bow on top of a wheeled table, covered in drapes, and they would hide the ball underneath. Ambika, Ambalika, and I would then fight each other to push aside the table and retrieve the ball. Because I was the eldest, and because I always liked to win games of this sort, I generally emerged with the ball in hand, and my father, King Kasya, would arrive and gather me up in his arms to hug me and shower me with kisses while Ambika and Ambalika enviously looked on.
    That, my father’s hug, is my oldest memory of warmth – not the kind that touches your outer self, but the kind that lights you from within. I felt the same warmth on that morning I knelt in front of High Sage Parashurama; my own father had discarded me, but it looked like I had found another.
    I did not fully understand what the High Sage meant when he said the life of a priestess was tough. I did not quite comprehend what it meant to conquer the self, either. Some of the people in Panchala who now call me a witch would perhaps say that I have not yet conquered my self. They may be right. My father – that’s what I call him now – Sage Parashurama, never conquered his self, either; even today, he is given to losing