Govinda (The Aryavarta Chronicles)

by Krishna Udayasankar

  He must have headed towards the road, Govinda surmised, noticing his companion’s light tracks. But the soldiers, he judged, were approaching from the other direction. With a quick check on his sword-belt, he went deeper into the forest, moving stealthily. Soon he spotted his quarry, thanks to the light of the still-resplendent setting moon. Three soldiers, of the Emperor’s Western Battalion by their uniform, were trying to trace the tracks he and Yuyudhana had left the previous night.

  There was something else, too. Not danger, but something pleasant, familiar almost. He grinned, recognizing the person standing right behind him without having to look. For once, he had been caught by surprise.

  ‘Panchali,’ he said, and turned around. The young woman acknowledged him with a nod and a smile. She raised a finger to her lips, indicating to him to remain quiet.

  Govinda heard the soldiers as they followed his trail into the thicket. Panchali nodded a signal, and on the silent count of three the two of them moved, Govinda throwing himself onto the path with his sword drawn and Panchali disappearing into the thicket behind her. It took them little time to fall upon the unwary soldiers, from opposite directions. One of the soldiers stepped forward to engage Govinda, while the other two teamed up against Panchali, whom they judged to be the weaker quarry. Govinda finished off his opponent with cold efficiency and made to help her, but found that it was unnecessary. Both the soldiers lay dead. Panchali, for her part, was breathing hard from the exertion but was otherwise unhurt.

  Govinda studied the attractive woman, a smile dancing at the edge of his lips. She was dressed in the androgynous attire typical of the central kingdoms – a pleated antariya, like the men wore, and a wide band of leather branded with intricate patterns covering her bust and midriff, fastened at the back with silken strings. Her upper garment was a long robe that went over her left shoulder in gathers and fell till her knees in front and at the back, almost like a long tunic. Her dark skin set off the thick cord of gold around her neck and she wore delicate gold rings in her ears as well as a thick amulet on her upper arm. Instead of bangles she sported leather gauntlets, her only concession to fashion being that the gauntlets were trimmed with gold studs and the leather matched her vest in colour. Over her right shoulder was a baldric-like device that strapped a quiver of arrows and her scabbard to her back. Panchali returned her sword to its sheath with practised ease. Her warrior’s attire and her lack of elaborate coiffure or clothing served to enhance her fiery beauty.

  Panchali was not tall, barely coming up to Govinda’s shoulders, but carried herself with grace and confidence. Her piercing black-brown eyes were housed in large, rounded lids fringed by thick, luxurious lashes and her face was sculpted yet soft, with full, rosebud lips that were now curved in a smile. Save for the dark kohl that lined her eyes and extended outwards from the edge of her lids in intricate patterns, and the small designs drawn on her chin and arms in fragrant sandalwood paste, her skin bore no embellishment. Long, jet-black hair had been pulled into a thick fuss-free braid that hung down her back, falling below her waist.

  Central Aryavarta was much more conservative than the northern or western kingdoms, and it was unusual, though not unheard of, for a woman to join or lead soldiers in battle. Govinda knew, though, that as far as Panchali was concerned the issue was not personal. She found the status of women to be one of the many ways in which society had failed and drew on its personal relevance as inspiration to fight for a greater cause. Yet, as she would often admit to Govinda, her defiance was flawed. She was an elite product of their elite society, talking of others’ travails while she dressed in fine silks and slept with a full stomach. It was this self-realization that inspired her brothers to take her with them on their adventures, despite their father, King Dhrupad’s, constant protests.

  ‘Govinda?’ her voice was a pleasant intrusion on his reverie.

  He quietly met her gaze.

  Eyes flashing bright, Panchali laughed and said, ‘My, my! How a great warrior like you can get into such trouble was beyond me! Now I know …’

  ‘Well, Princess,’ Govinda bantered, ‘I’m a simple gwala boy, a cattle-herder, and know nothing of fighting, armies or warfare.’

  ‘Then I’ll have to see you to your destination, safe and sound.’

  ‘I’d be honoured.’

  ‘Come,’ she said, ‘my brothers will be so happy to meet you. We knew you’d turn up, sooner or later.’

  Before Govinda could ask her what she meant, she undid Yuyudhana’s tethered horse, intending to lead the stallion towards the road. Govinda quickly rolled up his saddle bag and Yuyudhana’s, threw them both on to Balahak’s back and followed. He stepped out of the thicket and onto the main road to discover Yuyudhana in conversation with an old friend.

  The man cut a strapping figure, standing half a hand above Yuyudhana. His simplest movements contained the suggestion of restrained power, a mysterious mix of strength and grace as though he were both fighter and dancer. He sported his taut muscles and battle scars with an unassuming air, and his grey-brown eyes held a dangerously feline glint, reminiscent of a wild panther that watched and waited for the perfect moment to kill.

  Like Panchali, the man wore an antariya of dark grey linen and his black upper robe was wrapped as a sash, around his waist. A wide leather baldric went across his chest and back, leaving his sword hanging at his left hip. He wore a short string of tiny, intricately engraved metal beads strung together in the form a thin chain – the only piece of jewellery on his tanned body. Most remarkable about the man was his long hair, set into many tiny braids, all pulled back and tied together at his neck. It gave him his name: Shikandin.

  With a roar of affection, the man stepped forward to embrace Govinda, slapping him on the back with familiarity.

  Govinda returned the embrace with gusto, saying, ‘I can’t tell you how good it is to see you, old friend.’

  ‘As usual, we’re in time to save your stiff Yadu neck!’ Shikandin teased.

  A small cohort of well-armed, fierce-looking cavalrymen came up the road, led by a young man of regal bearing. Dismounting, the man pulled Govinda into a friendly grip. Every gesture of his screamed of royalty and privilege.

  ‘Yuyudhana,’ Govinda made introductions. ‘This is Dhrstyadymn, the Crown Prince of Panchala.’

  Yuyudhana politely acknowledged the other man, but said nothing. He noted that the prince was far more handsome than artists and minstrels visiting Dwaraka made him out to be. While it was not unusual for bards to use their talent to embellish royal features that were otherwise plain, Dhrstyadymn’s reputation for his statuesque looks was well merited.

  ‘The young lady here is his sister, Panchali,’ Govinda continued. ‘And Shikandin, their elder brother, you already know.’

  ‘Who doesn’t?’ Yuyudhana quipped. ‘I also know of many gorgeous women back home, from princesses to courtesans, who pine for his company.’

  ‘I trust you’ve personally consoled them, you rogue!’ Shikandin bantered, as the five descended into open, hearty laughter.

  ‘I’d love to catch up on all the gossip,’ Panchali said as she pulled a thick cloak off her horse and bundled herself up in it, ‘but the horses tend to cool down far too much standing around, and so do I …’

  ‘You woke me from my sleep, Mahamatra,’ Yuyudhana good-naturedly complained, ‘and now you want me to ride in this cold, misty weather. Well, since you come so well-mustered, I have no choice but to obey you.’

  ‘You have no choice but to obey if you’d rather keep your head on your neck! There’s more where those three came from,’ Panchali said, nodding towards the depths of the forest behind her. ‘Damn those murderers!’ she added, suddenly angry.

  Shikandin explained, ‘There’s an entire unit of these soldiers on your trail and more waiting along the way.’

  ‘How did you …?’ Yuyudhana was surprised.

  ‘I have a very reliable source inside Jarasandha’s garrison at Mathura …’


  ‘Shikandin has a knack for finding the best of spies in the most unlikely places,’ Govinda added.

  Shikandin nodded. ‘Truth be told, I was expecting you, Govinda. Ghora Angirasa’s death has thrown Aryavarta into complete disarray. Magadha’s moving troops all over the empire and, as a result, so is every other kingdom. Armies are being mustered, and every soldier has been ordered to report for duty. Seems to me like the kind of hornets’ nest you like playing with so much.’

  Yuyudhana said, ‘Jarasandha won’t let Dwaraka be. I can only hope that when war does come to our doorstep, it is of an honourable kind …’

  ‘Then, in your interests and ours, we’d better get moving,’ Panchali cut in. ‘They won’t dare follow us into Panchala. If we ride fast, it’ll save us some needless fighting. When there’s battle, friend or enemy, it’s still human life that’s lost.’ Even as she said it she seemed to realize that the statement sounded incongruous coming from her, for she softly added, ‘That’s what I’ve learnt from Shikandin …’

  Her innocent but fervent zeal was nothing short of charming. With a smile of submission, Yuyudhana swung on to his horse and readied himself for the ride ahead. In a habit born of long use, he took off his quiver and made sure that the arrows were neatly stacked inside. He then refastened the quiver across his back, pulling the belt tight to bring the edge up high on his right shoulder. The Panchala soldiers watched him, impressed. Yuyudhana was one of the fastest archers in Aryavarta and the best bowman of the many Yadu clans of Dwaraka. He could, in fact, as the old saying went, shoot faster than one could blink.

  Soon all of them were back in the saddle. Shikandin whistled a signal to his soldiers and the cohort set off in perfect unison.

  ‘I still haven’t thanked you for your timely help, Panchali,’ Govinda said, as they rode side by side. ‘As always, I’m left in your debt.’

  ‘Must we play games like adversaries or, worse still, strangers?’ she asked him in a low voice. ‘Why don’t you speak to me plainly? You come and go at a whim; sometimes you sail away for months on end. Every day I wait to hear from you, but …’ She breathed out hard and added sharply, ‘And now, you finally turn up, but it’s taken a dead old man to bring you here. I demand no explanations, but won’t you at least be honest with me?’

  ‘I have no honest words to explain my actions, Panchali, not at this moment.’

  ‘Then keep your mouth shut!’ she snapped.

  Govinda nodded meekly as Dhrstyadymn called to him above the thud of hooves, ‘There’s no arguing with that one, don’t even bother!’

  The company had been riding for only a short while, when the sound of galloping horses closed in on them from behind.

  ‘Keep going,’ Shikandin ordered. ‘We’re at the border. Cross the stream, and we’ll be in Southern Panchala.’

  They emerged from the woods onto a short, open stretch that led to the stream. As one, the riders urged their steeds on as fast as they could. Hardly had the first horse set foot in the water, when imperial soldiers poured out of the forest behind them. The first of the enemy’s arrows fell short, but by the time Govinda and his companions were halfway across the stream the distance between them and their pursuers had decreased. With a whistle and a dull thud, an arrow caught one of Shikandin’s men in the arm.

  ‘Go!’ Shikandin urged the others, as he went to help the wounded soldier. ‘Go! Don’t engage! Just go!’ The last thing he wanted to do was make a stand in the middle of a stream.

  Arrows began falling around them as they urged their horses on through the strong current. Fortunately, the stream was narrow and soon they were all across. They kept going till they were within the first of the woods of Southern Panchala, then slowed their horses down to a gentle trot. Barring the soldier who had been hurt, there were no casualties. They stopped and slid off their horses, letting the animals catch their breath.

  Yuyudhana cast a look over his shoulder. ‘They’re not crossing …’ he pointed out.

  ‘They’d better not,’ Dhrstyadymn said fiercely. ‘This is Panchala. We’re its princes!’

  ‘And,’ a confident voice interrupted, ‘Lord Jarasandha is its Emperor.’ More imperial soldiers emerged from the surrounding thicket to form a circle around the companions and their men.

  Dhrstyadymn growled at the speaker, a man they recognized as one of Jarasandha’s generals. ‘Emperor he may be, but how dare you stop the Crown Prince of Panchala in his own realm!’

  ‘I have no quarrel with you or your men, Prince,’ the Magadhan replied. ‘It’s just that some of your companions fit the description of much sought-after spies.’

  ‘I can vouch for my friends, soldier! These aren’t the men you’re looking for.’

  ‘Unfortunately, I’m duty-bound to take them in for questioning. I’m sure you’ll have no objection to that if these men aren’t really traitors, or the lovely woman there isn’t a spy … You wouldn’t want us to interrogate her, would you? What say you, Prince?’ he turned to Shikandin, ignoring the look of pure rage that Panchali cast his way.

  ‘I say you talk too much.’ Before the man could react, Shikandin’s slender wooden arrow had pierced the man’s throat, running right through his neck.

  The Magadhans watched, stunned, as their leader fell to the ground. Then, with a blood-curdling yell, they rushed forward. Govinda and Dhrstyadymn drew their swords, as did the Panchala soldiers around them. Yuyudhana was ready with his bow, the man-high weapon poised on the ground in front of him. Arrows flew from the string at an impossible speed.

  The enemy, however, had the advantage of numbers.

  ‘Mih!’ Govinda cursed, as he heard them shout to each other to ‘take the woman alive’. He glanced over at Panchali and could not help but chuckle as he saw her kick an enemy soldier, coming up from behind her, in the groin without a second thought. Then she turned and drove her sword right through the man in one fluid move.

  Reassured, Panchali’s companions fought on with a fury that stunned their enemy.

  The skirmish was bloody, but it was soon over. ‘We’d better get out of here, and quick,’ Shikandin instructed, panting slightly as he looked around. ‘I just hope those fools on the other side haven’t heard anything …’

  He moved around checking on everyone, and spat on the ground when he found that nearly half their men were dead. Panchali had a huge red welt on her forearm, where her leather gauntlet had taken most of the blow from a heavy sword. The rest of them, thankfully, were unhurt.

  Setting off at once, the company rode till noon, at which time they stopped for a while to tend to their wounded with greater care. Although exhausted, they still trudged on. Kampilya was not too far away.

  ‘The King, how can he … How can your father stand for this?’ Yuyudhana asked Dhrstyadymn, as they rode alongside.

  ‘What can he do? Unless Hastina defies Jarasandha, Panchala can’t. Panchala won’t.’

  ‘But surely your saamantas and your …’

  Dhrstyadymn interrupted, his voice a low rumble, ‘This isn’t your democratic island on the sea, Yuyudhana. Panchala is a monarchy, one of the oldest in Aryavarta. Here, all land and all life belongs to the king.’

  8

  THE MAN WAS TALL, AND HE LOOKED TALLER STILL FOR THE WAY he held himself, rigid and unyielding. The black upper robe he wore as a shroud flapped around in the wind, giving him a frightening, unreal appearance. An alabaster hand held a stained sword, from which dots of crimson slowly dropped at his feet, as if in adoration. He strode over the burnt remains of man and beast alike, unaffected by the gruesome scene around him, the wails and shrieks of those who were, as yet, painfully alive.

  A woman, bruised but otherwise unhurt, dragged herself away from him in ineffective desperation. The man noted that she was attractive, as a point of information. Women, wealth, power – all these things were at his beck and call; they did not interest him in more than a mundane way. He glanced around at the charred remnants of what had been a small, happy v
illage. This was what he lived for: The perfection of death. The pinnacle, the ultimate purpose of life, was the dying, for it was a journey into the truth, into the darkness that dwelt inside every human being. The very notion sent a shiver of pleasure through him.

  He stepped past the crawling woman, kicking away, without breaking his step, some debris she weakly threw at him. She drew a breath of relief as he walked on by, but perhaps too soon. For in one effortless move he turned around, grabbed her by her hair and slit her throat. The fear on her face delighted him beyond any pleasure she could have possibly given him. His eyes blazed, a reflection of his inner fire, as blood spurted out of her neck onto his light-skinned hands. He waited till the woman’s life ebbed out of her and let her fall to the ground.

  Enough distraction, he reminded himself. It was time to finish what he had come for.

  A small hut still stood at the edge of the village, its walls cracked but still intact. The man walked up to its entrance and paused, savouring the momentous occasion.

  He entered.

  ‘So you’ve finally come,’ a low, tired voice greeted him. ‘Good. I’m tired of waiting.’

  The man paused, amused. The speaker seemed to think that he had come to rescue him from captivity. He would regret his words when he saw the death that awaited him.

  It was dark inside the hut, and the man used his sword to hack away part of the thatched roof, letting in the sunlight. The beams fell on a wizened figure within, withered not so much by age as by tragedy. He wore the ochre robes of a scholar–sage, but had neither the tell-tale matted hair nor the rosary of rudraksha beads.

  The scholar turned, unseeing, toward the light his visitor had let in through the roof, feeling its warmth on his face. Suddenly, he smirked. The action made the tall man recoil. It was an impossibly joyful action, by smooth, almost young, lips on a face that had been partly burnt and completely blinded.

  ‘Well? Are you going to save me or kill me?’

  The visitor responded, ‘Whatever I do, I won’t do it just yet. But I can make it sooner than later.’