THE MAHABHARATA: A Modern Rendering, Vol 1 Read Online Free PDF Page B

dark, “Say old one, what woman was she?”
    “She was a fisher-woman, but an extraordinary and beautiful fisher-woman. We found her beside the Yamuna and not by seeing her at first but only by her unworldly scent.”
    He shook his head in wonder to remember that scent. Devavrata cried impatiently, “And?”
    The man turned his eyes away. “The king was smitten by her. He went to her father and asked for her hand.”
    The old man paused, embarrassed. The yuvaraja said, “The fisherman was fool enough to refuse the king of the Kurus? Impossible.”
    “No, my prince, he was no fool. He took his time about answering your father and proved shrewder than is good for any of us.”
    “Tell me what happened!”
    “The fishermen’s king, for so he was, said to your father that he could not hope for a better husband for his daughter. But he would only give his Satyavati to him if…my prince, don’t make me tell you.”
    Devavrata’s eyes flashed in warning and the charioteer said, “He would give his girl to your father only if her son became the Kuru king after him. And he would not budge from what he said, that coarse and ambitious fool.”
    The sarathy grew silent, fearing the yuvaraja’s anger. For a moment Devavrata was still as a stone; then he began to laugh softly.
    “Is that all?” he cried. “Is this what stands between my poor father and his happiness? That I am the yuvaraja?”
    Devavrata seized the sarathy by his arm. “Take me to where my father’s sorrow began, so I can mend it. Come, at once!”
    Without telling the king, even perhaps as Shantanu had hoped, his son rode to the banks of the Yamuna. Arriving, Devavrata sprang lightly from the chariot and took the old sarathy with him for a witness.
    A yojana before they came to the river, the unearthly fragrance swept over them. They saw Satyavati sitting where Shantanu had first seen her and to be near the scent of her body was so intoxicating, even Devavrata felt his blood quicken.
    Turning her head when she heard their chariot, she stared with black eyes at the visitors. For a moment she caught her breath: she thought Shantanu had returned, but a life younger and so handsome! Her eyes shone. Devavrata ignored her. The sarathy pointed out the fisherman’s hut and the yuvaraja strode toward it.
    The fisher-king had just finished his meal when Devavrata burst in on him. “I hear you were arrogant enough to refuse my father your daughter’s hand. Were you in your senses, or were you drunk on jungle brew and thought you were dreaming?”
    The man cringed, but slightly; Devavrata saw he was dealing with a brazen soul. The swarthy fellow was quite calm, as he said, “I did not refuse to give my daughter to your father. My daughter is my only child and she is all I have.” He paused, crossed to the window and spat a stream of scarlet juice from the betel-leaf he was chewing. Lowering his voice, he confided, “She is no common girl, my prince. She was not always as lovely as you see her today; nor did she smell so fine. Once she smelled powerfully of fishes, so I called her Matsyagandhi. And I feared I would never find a husband for her even among our own people.”
    Devavrata listened impatiently. But his curiosity was roused by the tale of Matsyagandhi, who was born smelling of fish but smelt of paradise now. For fear of being thought a liar, the fisher-king did not tell him how he had found his daughter. He squinted at his royal visitor and saw he had his attention. The wild man went on, “But one day when she was still a slip of a girl, barely thirteen, a rishi came this way wanting to cross the river in my boat. He was so illustrious, his face and his hair and he looked so ancient that I doubted he was a man of this earth.
    I was at my lunch and Matsyagandhi ferried the muni across. It was a fine afternoon and the old man stared at my daughter with piercing eyes. If he were not a sage, I would not have let her go with him alone. When they reached