‘We did what we had to then, as we need to now. But, yes, you’re right. The Emperor is not above using the Firewrights he took in. We need to hunt down any Wrights who may be left – whether in Jarasandha’s custody or otherwise – before he can put them to use. And I have just the man for the task.’
Bhisma paused, realizing whom Dwaipayana was referring to. ‘Do you trust him?’ he asked, frowning.
‘He’s the best his father ever trained, the princes of Hastina included. And I suppose there’s something to be said for his blood and ancestry after all. He’s a dangerous man, one of the few who can find the last few Wrights who remain unaccounted for, no matter where they hide or who protects them. As for us, we need to turn our attention to more refined, though equally important, issues. There still remains the matter of Jarasandha’s huge armies. This kingdom has neither the money nor the military strength to defend itself, particularly if we’re attacked from both the east and the west. Nor do we have enough political leverage, or the right kind of alliances, and we certainly can’t presume on the Emperor’s kindness, no matter how good a friend of Syoddhan’s he claims to be. The Kuru kingdom is in a precarious position. We must act at once.’
‘We need Southern Panchala on our side,’ Bhisma said. ‘Dhrupad’s armies are formidable and his treasuries brim over.’
‘So take Southern Panchala! Or do you need me to teach you how?’
Both men stared at each other in the silence that followed, each angry with the other for being able to provoke such emotion. They knew they had little choice but to trust each other, yet there was the childish need to gain the upper hand and put the other down. At length, an unspoken consensus settled in, and the conversation continued.
‘I trust Dhrupad,’ Bhisma pointed out. ‘But his children, his sons … they’re grown men now. Is it really possible to rely on their loyalty?’
‘True. Diplomatic ties alone won’t suffice, not in times such as these. When Dhrupad gives his daughter in marriage, she must be brought into the house of the Kurus.’
‘I didn’t hear she was to be married …’
‘You soon will. I intend to go to Kampilya right away and remind Dhrupad of a father’s duties towards his daughter. When all else is in doubt, it’s the simple, familial ties we must trust. Even those who would throw their lives away on a whim will stop to think if the well-being of their children is at stake. We must bind together the futures of the two nations. We cannot depend on diplomacy and friendship alone.’
Dwaipayana placed a hand on Bhisma’s shoulder. To his surprise, Bhisma did not flinch, his expression remained stolid. The diminutive scholar leaned forward, bringing his mouth close to the tall man’s ear. ‘Dhrupad won’t refuse us what we ask him. He can’t afford not to see reason … But Dhrupad isn’t the only one with secrets, is he? Surely you haven’t forgotten, Devavrata? I know it’s been many years, but I’m sure you still carry the guilt, just as he does?’
Bhisma stared, wide-eyed with disbelief. ‘Why you …!’
Dwaipayana’s whisper was a hiss, as he said, ‘We both know how they screamed that night. I’m sure you remember every excruciating moment, don’t you? But, it was done for the good of this nation and by the will of the gods. Or, did you perhaps do it because deep inside you regret, even resent, your forced emasculation? It still bothers you, doesn’t it, that there was a third woman, who didn’t scream after all?’ Bhisma gave a roar of anger, but Dwaipayana was not at all affected.
He straightened up and continued, ‘Sometimes, for the greater good of a family, an individual must be sacrificed. An individual for a kingdom is a very fair trade. We are in this together and I, for one, won’t fail. Please don’t let your self-indulgent sense of virtue get in my way.’
Bhisma sat gripping the arms of his throne in festering rage. He shuddered from the effort, but did not dare look at Dwaipayana for fear of losing his composure. His face had turned red, in striking contrast to his silver hair and beard, and his breath hissed from his nose, as he tried hard to ignore the throbbing pain that rose to his head. ‘How can you justify what you did, Dwaipayana?’ he asked in a hoarse voice quite unlike his own. ‘How can you answer to the gods you worship; you, who are learned and enlightened? You who claim true devotion to the Divine? How do you answer to the judgement of your conscience?’
A lesser man would have quailed before the Regent’s fury. The Vyasa, however, remained unperturbed. ‘I answer to the most fundamental of truths,’ he replied. ‘What we call the world is sustained by the Creator, and we are just a pale reflection, a tiny spark of the Great Divine. This, our kala-kalpa, the cycle of existence, is but one day and one night for Bramha; one day in the fifty-first year of His life. Within this single kalpa are a thousand aeons, of which we are in the twenty-eighth. Each such aeon, my dear Devavrata, spans over four million human years and is spread over four epochs. Kali, the fourth of these ages is almost upon us. Does that give you some sense of who we are and what our destiny is? We’re the servants of this greater power; to understand this duality is to see the earth transformed into heaven itself. As there are heaven and earth, there are rulers and the ruled; there are gods and there are kings. To lower our heads in reverence is our duty and to accept destiny is the greatest worship. Only heretics and demons seek to question their roles, the way of life that has endured for millennia.’
The words only heightened Bhisma’s confusion. Dwaipayana regarded him with sincere sympathy, feeling sorry that the old warrior struggled so hard with his conscience to do what was indisputably right.
‘Don’t let your conscience bother you too much, Bhisma. There’s much you don’t fully understand, and there’s much more that you don’t know.’ He added with a smile, ‘But, don’t you worry. I am Dwaipayana, the Vyasa of the Firstborn. Aryavarta is in my charge.’
5
A LITTLE BEFORE DAWN, GOVINDA LEFT DWARAKA, HEADING EAST. His silver-white Qamboja stallion, Balahak, blazed across the mist-covered fields like a ghost, and by the time the sun came up they were a good distance from the city.
They pushed on, crossing the Raivata mountains and then turning northward, to ride alongside the River Charmanvati. Around noon, man and horse sought refuge from the burning sun in a shady glen, but were back on the road before long. They stopped again in the evening, when Govinda caught a little sleep, and shortly after moonrise the two set off once more, galloping over silver-blue plains as a wild happiness took over them. At their current pace, Govinda was three days’ journey from his destination in central Aryavarta. Balahak, named so for his strong legs, would make short work of the leagues that took the common warhorse nearly a week and a packhorse much longer. Balahak’s speed, coupled with Govinda’s exceptional skill with his beloved steeds, made him one of the fastest riders in Aryavarta, and when he yoked all four of his temperamental silver-white stallions to a chariot, few could keep up with them.
In the misty darkness before the second dawn of his journey, he realized that he was being followed. Even before he saw or heard the riders behind him, he sensed them. Closing his eyes, he focused on the faint hoof beats. Three riders, he concluded, chuckling softly as he guessed who they were. Slowing down, he whispered a few calming words in Balahak’s ear and let out a slow, long-drawn whistle. It rose in a reedy, quavering note before he cut it short. Within moments, he heard the horses behind him rear. Govinda stopped and, wheeling Balahak around, waited.
‘Watch out!’ a familiar voice cried through the mist.
Another protested, ‘I am, I am!’
‘Mih!’
‘You oaf. Oww!’
‘No! Not that way! That’s me, you cross-eyed paayu! Look out!’
‘Steady, steadyyyy! Dumb horse!’
‘Stop butting me, Muhira! You idiot! Arrgh.’
‘Oh Rudra!’
‘Oi! Oi! Ohhhhhh …’
The neighing, and jostling of horses and human expostulation, reached Govinda, followed by the sound of a deep, rich laug
h. One of the pursuers seemed to have fallen off, for a riderless horse emerged through the mist at a light canter. It trotted up to Balahak with the relief of familiarity and the two horses nuzzled each other in greeting. Govinda reached out to stroke the newcomer, a brown stallion with a trident-like white marking on its forehead.
‘Are you hurt?’ a young voice called out.
‘No, I’m dancing with the nymphs of heaven, you imbecile. Help me up!’
‘You think he heard us?’
‘Vathu! Hush!’
‘Of course he heard us,’ a third man said, before bursting into more laughter at the antics of his companions.
Unable to resist any longer, Govinda guided Balahak back along the path, the brown stallion following alongside. He could not help but smile at the scene that greeted him. On the ground, his feet still tangled up in a mess of stirrup and reins, lay Govinda’s young cousin and adopted heir, Pradymna. Standing over the youth, trying without success to unravel the tangle, was the dark-skinned Samva, the second of Govinda’s adopted sons.
‘Aah! Not that way, you idiot. You’re going to kill me!’ Pradymna shrieked, as Samva tried to help the struggling youth out of the jumble that bound him.
‘I’d do a better job of killing you if you’d shut up,’ his brother exclaimed.
Both men noticed Govinda and fell into silent sulks.
Govinda paid no heed to them. Instead, he led his horse towards the third rider, a fashionably dressed man of his age, who still remained comfortably astride his horse. ‘Yuyudhana,’ he nodded in greeting.
‘Cousin,’ the man inclined his head. ‘I left as soon as I saw you weren’t present at the Council meeting. Couldn’t let you have all the fun, could I?’
Govinda said nothing, but he was far from displeased. He trusted Yuyudhana implicitly and was glad of his company.
‘Those two,’ Yuyudhana continued, with a nod towards the squabbling youth, ‘came along at the last moment. Impetuous brats!’
‘Hot-headed, impetuous … I’d love to call them a few other things, too,’ Govinda noted. ‘Pradymna’s nearly twenty-one, but by Rudra, can he act like a child! And Samva …’ he let the phrase hang as his face broke into a wide grin.
‘Oi! We’re right here, you know. We can hear you,’ Pradymna protested.
‘Indeed, your presence might be more notable and respected if you could at least stay astride your horse!’ Govinda retorted.
‘Or follow the instructions of your elders,’ Yuyudhana wistfully added. ‘In any case …,’ he turned to address Govinda, ‘shall we?’
‘Of course.’ Govinda set off along the path at a slow amble, Yuyudhana riding alongside.
‘Wait! What about us?’ Samva cried, leaving Pradymna behind to run after the two departing men.
‘Next time!’
‘If you learn to ride, by then,’ Yuyudhana quipped.
‘And you’re any smarter,’ Govinda added.
‘Which alas is …’
‘Impossible?’
Laughing, the two riders tugged at the reins, urging their horses into a gallop. With a great deal of shouting and cursing, the two youths followed.
The four horsemen made good time during the day, and it was a little past sunset when Govinda veered away into a small forest abutting the riverbank. He proposed to set up camp there for the night. In the morning, Pradymna and Samva could head back to Dwaraka, while he and Yuyudhana forded the river, crossing over into the region commonly known as central Aryavarta. Govinda knew his sons would not be happy with his suggestion that they return, but they would not disobey his command.
Ignoring the matter for the moment, he and Yuyudhana hunted some jungle fowl and cooked it, while Pradymna and Samva let all four horses drink from the river, then removed their saddles and rubbed them down before setting them free to graze. The men then washed up and threw themselves down on the ground, by the fire. Soon the fowl was done and eagerly consumed. Their upper robes serving as cushions, they stretched out on the soft grass in a well-nourished stupor. For the time being there was no need to keep watch or guard. In these territories, their instincts would suffice. As the dying fire crackled a soft lullaby, Govinda’s eyes closed in an invitation to sleep. He was vaguely aware that Yuyudhana was speaking, addressing the two youngsters.
‘… Aryavarta wasn’t always as we know it, nor were its people. Some talk of simple hunter-tribes who lived in peace and had a great spiritual connection with their natural surroundings. Others still believe that it was full of ruthless fiends who practised human sacrifice and cannibalism. You see, what we today call the beginning of civilization is really only the beginning of recorded history. The further back we go in time, the less we are certain about. Different people then begin to interpret and understand things differently. Some of these stories become indestructible myths and even acquire a supernatural tinge, because we start taking literally what might have been merely symbolic.’
‘You mean things like Bramha the Creator giving life to the first of beings, his sons?’ Pradymna intervened.
‘Yes and no. I don’t question that Bramha did give life to us all, including the very first of us. But we know nothing about who or what existed before the five brothers our scriptures name as Bramha’s sons. The eldest of these, Vasishta, was the ancestor of the Firstborn. Marichi’s children live on today as the Solar Kings, and Atri’s son Soma founded the Lunar Dynasty. Pulastya’s descendants chose Dakshinavarta as their home. Angiras, the youngest, was the progenitor of the Firewrights.’
With an expression of great humility, Samva said, ‘Uncle, just because Pradymna here is an absolute blockhead, there’s no need to tell us what we’ve known since we learnt to crawl … I want to hear about the Firewrights, about Ghora’s line.’
‘That’s Acharya Ghora to you, young man,’ Yuyudhana corrected Samva. ‘He was a teacher – show him that respect!’
Pradymna grinned, enjoying watching his brother get rebuked. Samva made a show of ignoring them all, and waited with a look of polite anticipation for Yuyudhana to resume his tale.
‘It’s kind of simple if you know your history,’ Yuyudhana complied with shake of his head. ‘A long time ago, the Firewrights were well-respected, revered even. In fact, it was their skill at weapon-making and metalcraft that kept Aryavarta safe from many invasions and led to the evolution of an empire – a reasonably cohesive region, set off from the rest of the world by the seas and the Great White Mountains. At the same time, the Firstborn concerned themselves with temporal and spiritual affairs. I suppose we could even say that the Firstborn and the Firewrights complemented each other in their own ways. But you know the old saying – you can’t have two swords in one scabbard.’
‘But wasn’t whoever held the title of Vyasa considered the most powerful?’ Samva asked.
‘No. That happened over time. As the empire grew, so did its knowledge. Some generations ago, the Firstborn began gathering and managing the collective knowledge of Aryavarta, creating an intricate system of scriptures and rituals. That’s when the head of the Firstborn order took the title of Vyasa, or Record Keeper. The Vyasa, however, was more than that. Since he controlled the scriptures, the rules of life handed down to us by the gods, he became the man who determined what was right and wrong, moral and immoral.’
‘And the Wrights?’ Pradymna chipped in, intrigued despite himself.
‘They assumed that their knowledge of warfare made them indispensable, that the kings of Aryavarta – the Solar and Lunar dynasties – would take their side. But, at the same time, the kings were completely dependent on the Firstborn to legitimize their rule, to keep them in power. Chaos was inevitable, as was war – not just between the two orders, but also the different kingdoms that supported each of them.’
A short silence followed as Pradymna and Samva thought over what they had just learnt. Hesitantly, Pradymna began, ‘What about us, our people? Whose side were we on?’
‘Us …? I’ll leave it to you to
decide whose side we are on. And whose side we should be on. But our people, the Yadus, have never really had the same kind of hatred for the Wrights that some of the central kingdoms do. Perhaps because our clans were too busy fighting each other we somehow stayed relatively neutral when it came to others’ squabbles. In fact, one of the largest Firewright settlements used to be near Mathura …’
‘And that’s where Ghora … I mean, Acharya Ghora used to live,’ an excited Samva said.
‘Yes. But the settlement was abandoned almost two decades ago. Ghora Angirasa, then the leader of Firewrights, or Secret Keeper, as they called their head, went into hiding. He wasn’t seen again in Aryavarta till the day of his death. Many believe he was the last of their order.’
Pradymna was surprisingly mournful. ‘Then it’s over? The Wrights are really gone?’
Yuyudhana glanced at Govinda, who lay still, his eyes closed. He took a deep breath and let it out. ‘We don’t know. Yes, spurred on by the Firstborn, many other nations heartily joined in the scourge, hunting down and killing the Firewrights one by one. For a while it seemed the Wrights might rise again when Jarasandha tried to rally them to his side. When that didn’t work the way he expected, the Emperor simply found it more expedient to wipe them out and ally with the Firstborn instead. Rumour goes that the few Wrights who swore loyalty to the Emperor were spared, but they remained little more than prisoners and slaves.’
Samva frowned. ‘But is the rumour true?’
‘Not too long ago Firewrights filled the prisons of every kingdom in Aryavarta. Few men could’ve resisted the temptation to exploit their skill, Jarasandha included.’
Govinda (The Aryavarta Chronicles) Page 4
