Satyavati stood in the dimly lit room, the weight of the task she had set before her pressing heavily upon her. Her mind was clouded with doubt and fear, but there was no turning back now. The kingdom's future depended on the children she had promised Vyasa would father. Her heart sank at the thought of what might happen, but she had to believe in her son's wisdom, in the power of destiny.
When Vyasa, her son, spoke, his voice was calm, yet carried an unmistakable edge of uncertainty. His features were stark—rough and unpolished—as though he had been chiseled from the earth itself, a figure that bore the signs of ancient austerity rather than mortal beauty. His eyes were sharp and piercing, but his form was uninviting, draped in the grime of asceticism. Though revered by sages and deities alike, in the world of men, he was a pariah.
"Mother," he said softly, "I will fulfill your command, but... do you think Ambika will accept me?"
His words struck Satyavati like a dagger. Vyasa, despite his wisdom, had never been one to care for his outward appearance, yet she knew all too well the fears of mortal women—their vanity, their need for beauty and grace. She had heard the stories, the whispers in the court of how Vyasa's form repulsed all who beheld him, and how his very presence sent tremors of unease through the hearts of men and women alike.
But Satyavati was resolute. She knew what was at stake.
"Do not fret, my son," she said with a reassuring smile, "Ambika and Ambalika are not like other women. They are daughters of the royal lineage, bound by duty and honor. They will not refuse you. Wait here, I shall bring them."
With that, she turned on her heel and made her way to Ambika's room. Her mind raced as she entered, but her face remained steady.
"Ambika," Satyavati began softly, "there is no time to waste. The child you bear must be fathered by Vyasa. Do not fear him. His wisdom is unmatched, and though his form may seem... unappealing, know that it is his mind and spirit that will shape your child's fate."
Ambika, though noble and composed, trembled at the mention of Vyasa's name. Her hands gripped the edges of her royal robes, and her heart skipped a beat at the thought of the hideous sage. She had heard the rumors—how his appearance was monstrous, how his very presence was said to stink of foulness, as though he carried the weight of a thousand years of filth upon him.
"But, Mother," Ambika protested, her voice wavering, "I... I have heard dreadful things about him. That his temper is like a fire, that his looks would drive a woman to madness. What if... what if I fail him? What if he curses me for not pleasing him?"
Satyavati's gaze softened with compassion, but there was a fire in her eyes. She placed a hand on Ambika's trembling shoulder and whispered, "You must trust me. Do this for the kingdom. Your fear is of no consequence now. Go to him, and do not close your eyes, no matter what you see."
With a final prayer to the gods, Ambika nodded, though dread clouded her features. She was clad in the finest silks, her body adorned with jewels of unmatched splendor. But her heart was heavy, and she dared not look into the eyes of the man she had been sent to bed with.
Satyavati led her to Vyasa's chamber, and without another word, she shut the door behind her. The night was thick with tension, as Ambika stood trembling on the threshold, her mind torn between the fear of what she would encounter and the duty that bound her.
Vyasa, seated in the shadows, awaited her. He said nothing. His form was as she had imagined—grotesque and shrouded in the scent of austerity and wildness. His clothes were simple, his long hair unkempt, and his presence was overpowering. Yet, as Ambika entered, she remembered Satyavati's words: Do not close your eyes.
She focused on the walls, on the air, anything but his face. Her gaze remained fixed ahead, though her mind reeled. But in the end, there was no escape from the truth—Vyasa was not a man to be admired for his beauty. But the night passed in silence, the duty done.
The morning came, and as the first light of dawn crept into the chamber, Vyasa turned to Satyavati and spoke with a voice as soft as it was final: "The child shall be born strong and healthy. He will be a warrior, his power unmatched. But his eyes will be blind, for he will not see the world as others do."
Satyavati recoiled in horror, her mind racing. How could a blind child rule a kingdom? How could he lead when he could not see the very people who would follow him? The thought was unbearable.
"No!" she cried, her voice rising in panic. "This cannot be! A blind ruler... How could I present such a child to the court? No! This is not the legacy I envisioned!"
A moment of quiet passed before Satyavati's sharp mind seized upon a solution. "I will not accept this," she murmured to herself, before turning toward Vyasa again. "I have another plan. We shall try again."
Satyavati summoned Ambalika, her face pale with fear. "Go to him, Ambalika. You must not fail. Do not close your eyes, whatever you do. If you do, your child will be the one who will rule the kingdom with valor."
Ambalika hesitated, fear seizing her heart. Her previous experience with Vyasa had been harrowing, and now the thought of facing him again filled her with dread. But her duty to her mother, her duty to the kingdom, left her no choice.
With trembling hands, Ambalika was escorted to Vyasa's chamber. As she entered, her eyes immediately found the floor, but the memory of her mother's command burned in her mind. Do not close your eyes. She fought to hold her gaze forward, but her heart sank as she beheld Vyasa's hideous form. Yet, she did not close her eyes, for to do so would be to defy the will of fate.
When the night was over, Vyasa again spoke in the morning light. "The child will be strong and noble, but his skin will be pale, sickly in appearance. He will be a warrior, but not one who is pleasing to the eye. He will be a man of great strength and courage, but his looks will not inspire love."
Satyavati was not pleased. A child who would be strong in mind and body, yet one whose appearance would turn others away—this was not the ruler she had hoped for. She could not accept it.
"No," she said, her voice a soft but urgent plea. "This is not the answer. The kingdom needs a ruler who will inspire awe with his presence, one whose beauty matches his strength."
Her mind raced with possibilities, and then the idea came to her like a flash of lightning. There was one more chance to fulfill her vision. The third attempt would be the last.
Satyavati went to Ambalika again, this time with a plan more drastic than before.
"Ambalika," she said, her eyes filled with expectation, "go to Vyasa once again. You must not close your eyes. This time, you will bear the child that will be the kingdom's true ruler. He will be beautiful, wise, and strong. Go to him, do not fail."
But Ambalika, though obedient, was now filled with a deep sense of dread. The thought of facing Vyasa again, of looking upon his monstrous form, was more than she could bear. The horror of the previous night had shaken her to her core. She could not endure it again.
In her desperation, Ambalika turned to her maid, Parishrami. The woman was gentle in heart, kind, and full of grace—though her birth was humble, her beauty was undeniable. In Ambalika's heart, a plan began to form: If I cannot go, perhaps Parishrami can. She could pass for me, dressed in the finest clothes, with all the jewels and ornaments that belong to a queen.
Without consulting Satyavati, Ambalika hastily summoned Parishrami, giving her the finest silks and jewelry. She instructed her maid to dress as she would, to act as though she were Ambalika, and to go to Vyasa's chamber in her place. Though Ambalika was gripped by guilt, the terror of facing Vyasa again drove her to this act of desperation.
Parishrami, though confused by the suddenness of the task, did as she was told. She dressed in the most luxurious garments, the jewels glittering in her hair and at her wrists, and was escorted to Vyasa's chamber. She entered, unaware of the weight of the task placed upon her.
Vyasa, though surprised by the sudden change, did not question it. His focus was always on the soul, not the body, and so the night passed quietly.
When morning came, Vyasa emerged once again. This time, he spoke in his usual, composed manner, but his words were tinged with a deeper understanding.
"The child she bears will be the most handsome of all," Vyasa said, his voice rich with certainty. "His wisdom will surpass that of any ruler before him. He will be a man of unparalleled beauty, and his heart will be filled with both intellect and strength. He will be a king like no other."
Satyavati's heart soared as she heard the prophecy. This was the child she had longed for—the one who would rule with both beauty and brilliance, strength and wisdom.
Yet, the truth of the situation unfolded only when Satyavati went to Ambalika to check on her progress. She found the woman pale, her eyes filled with guilt and fear. "Mother," Ambalika confessed, her voice shaky, "I could not face Vyasa again. I sent Parishrami in my place. I thought... I thought it would not matter."
The shock of the betrayal hit Satyavati like a thunderclap. She was silent for a long time, her heart heavy with the weight of the deception. How could Ambalika, her own daughter-in-law, have done this? But there was no time for anger. The fate of the kingdom had already been set in motion, and Satyavati had no choice but to accept the outcome.
The third child, born of Parishrami's night with Vyasa, would indeed be the handsomest and wisest of them all. His name would become known in legend, and his beauty would inspire awe wherever he went. His body, though thin and frail in appearance, would not be sickly—he would be a warrior in mind and spirit, his sharp intellect outshining all others.