‘And you kings have the answer? Indeed, you do, but it’s not a solution you like too much, is it? Why not learn, why not trade? But no! As far as the kings are concerned, wealthier vassal lords mean more tax, but wealthier peasants usually mean trouble … So, we’ll let the people struggle to earn every grain of rice they eat, even though the royal granaries may be full of paddy. Keep them hungry and dumb, and we can stay noble! Isn’t it? What a conundrum …’ Govinda’s voice brimmed with sarcasm. ‘Aryavarta is both attractive and indefensible. We’ve fallen into the dregs of mediocrity and sloth, yet are so knowledgeable, so prosperous, that foreign invaders find us to be a very desirable conquest. Indeed, what do they want from us? Our corrupt and greedy rulers have already sold them the very weapons they use to attack us.’
‘Just as it’s a conundrum,’ Yuyudhana glibly replied, ‘that our rulers are power-hungry, corrupt tyrants, but we need them to form an empire and rule us for our own good? Then what you’ll get is what you deserve – a vengeful fiend who lets half his empire rot and fall into ruin while the other half prospers and flourishes!’
‘Perhaps my expectations of an emperor are lower than yours?’ Govinda offered. ‘I’m willing to settle for a human emperor. Not some god-like half-celestial buried under a mound of legend and mysticism, but someone who talks to his people more and to the seers and their gods less. But the fact remains that our approach to dominion is flawed – an emperor, any emperor, who tries to reduce the differences among the nations of Aryavarta does so at the expense of his own dominion. By enhancing the prosperity of other nations, he sets the stage for one of those kings to rise up and take his place. Surely, that’s something you’d understand, Prince?’
A moment of silence followed, as Govinda recognized he had been unusually scathing. It was not often that he let his ire get the better of him. He looked at his cousin and could tell that Yuyudhana was desperately fighting to keep his temper. Even among the hot-blooded, impetuous Yadu clans, Yuyudhana had a reputation for being easily provoked. Few people, family included, would ever speak to the man this way.
‘Silly of us to argue, you know,’ Govinda continued lightly. ‘We’re both agreed on the problem. You know and I know that the perfect empire is an impossible dream. It’s our solutions that differ. You’d rather not settle for an imperfect resolution, while I think it better to try and make do …’
Yuyudhana made a strained effort to smile. ‘It’s gone from afternoon to evening and all I’ve done today is listen to you prattle on,’ he complained. ‘I haven’t had even a drop of water, on my inside or outside. First, I need a bath and then some food. Perhaps some drink too, if we can find the stuff …’
‘Find the stuff? My dear Yuyudhana, you can have all the drink you want, all the wine in Panchala if you like! Don’t you see the flares being set up all around the palace? A grand wedding is in the offing. Just this morning, Dhrupad announced that his daughter is to be married in less than a month. All the royals of Aryavarta have been invited to Kampilya to compete for her hand. A tournament is the plan, I think …’
‘Panchali?’ Yuyudhana gasped.
‘Yes, Panchali!’ Govinda laughed. ‘A relief, isn’t it?’
‘A relief?’
‘But of course! A tournament and a grand wedding. It will be the diplomatic event that will determine Aryavarta’s future and Dwaraka’s with it. At the very least, Jarasandha won’t start an unnecessary war till the new political landscape becomes clear. It gives us time, and it gives us a huge opportunity. The king is hosting a banquet tonight to mark the announcement. Be a good diplomat and get dressed up to look important, will you? There are three attendants waiting outside …’
Yuyudhana studied Govinda for a few moments, trying to decipher the inscrutable emotions that showed in the man’s eyes. With a shake of his head, he gave up. ‘Looks like you need their help more than I do.’ He gestured towards Govinda’s simple cotton robes.
With a reluctant groan Govinda said, ‘You’re right. I’d better get changed too. I think I’ll borrow one of Shikandin’s silk tunics …’
Yuyudhana watched his cousin leave and then set about his routine. As a purple darkness spread over the sky, the Great Road and its travellers disappeared into the horizon. In and around the palace, a dazzling array of lights flickered to life.
In a shadowy room, not too far away from where Yuyudhana stood lost in contemplation, King Dhrupad ambled around in an attempt to keep anxiety at bay. Braziers set into the many pillars that ran down the length of the hall panelled the floor in light and shadow, now throwing the monarch’s face into relief, now hiding his thoughts. He came to stand, pensive, in front of a portrait of his father, the previous ruler of Panchala.
The memory of his father made Dhrupad swell with pride and, at the same time, bristle with rage. Within moments those emotions changed to shame and disgust, as other thoughts flooded over him. Half their territory and all their honour had been lost because of that weakling, his wastrel of a son. With a shake of his head, he resumed pacing, flinching as loud laughter erupted from the banquet hall, where the feast was still in progress. He would have to join them soon. But before that he had to see to an unavoidable task.
‘You sent for me, Father?’
Dhrupad turned around. Shikandin looked every bit the prince he was. His hair was no longer wild and matted; instead, it fell sleek and straight down his back, in sharp contrast to the white linen tunic he wore over his pleated lower robes. He had no sword, as was the etiquette expected at a banquet, and so had swapped his baldric for a belt, which he wore over his tunic.
Dhrupad felt neither happiness nor pride at the sight of his son. A grimace was all he had to spare as he coldly declared, ‘The alliance we’ll make through Panchali’s marriage can secure the future of this kingdom. Dhrstyadymn finally has the chance to rule a great nation, perhaps even a unified one. I won’t have his destiny compromised by your folly or your treachery. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, Father.’ Shikandin’s eyes shimmered their usual green-brown; his face remained impassive. It irked Dhrupad no end.
‘I have recalled Yudhamanyu, the boy you claim to have fathered, from his training. Henceforth, he’ll stay here under my watch. If I sense even a hint of betrayal on your part, even a whisper of your past treason, he’ll suffer the consequences more than you will. It may be too much to bear for a motherless son …’
Dhrupad looked at the younger man with expectation. Surely, he would show some emotion. But all Shikandin said was, ‘Yes, Father.’
The brief interaction between father and son would have ended there, but for the small glint of metal that escaped from under the high neck of Shikandin’s tunic. Dhrupad felt his heart speed up as he realized what it was. Before he could help himself, the images came flashing, hard and strong – the desperate princess at his doorstep asking for his help, the rage in her eyes at being turned away, the curse she had spewed before leaving, never to be seen again …
He drew in a deep breath at that thought, even as more memories followed, filling his mouth with a bitter taste. Shikandin, all of seven years old, saying, ‘But, Father, they are people, too,’ staring wide-eyed as those heathen Firewrights had been executed in public, and then the day he had found the fine beads and brought them to Dhrupad, saying excitedly, ‘Father, look what I’ve found …’
Dhrupad felt a fresh surge of anger rush to his head. The wretch of a boy had not done one right thing as a youth and certainly nothing as a man. His folly had been somewhat bearable when he was a child, for Dhrupad could give vent to his anger with a few well-chosen strokes with the flat of his sword, but Shikandin was a grown man now. A part of Dhrupad toyed with the idea of ordering his guards to take his son down to the dungeons and whip him, just to see pain, any emotion really, in those stone-cold eyes. The temptation passed, pushed out of his mind by the thought of the banquet that was on, of his daughter’s imminent wedding and its political implications, all weighed by the s
ame ambitious pragmatism that had guided Dhrupad’s every decision as a prince and as a king. He settled for barking out, ‘And take that damned thing off! How many times have I told you not to wear it! Now, get out!’
Shikandin bowed, stiff and formal. Then he strode out of the room and did not stop till he was a long way from Dhrupad’s private audience hall. Pausing for a moment, he tucked the chain of beads into his tunic so that it did not show, but he did not take it off. He knew better than to waste time on trying to please his father – that was something he could never manage to achieve no matter what he did. He also knew better than to feel hurt. His father’s offences against him paled in comparison to what others had suffered at Dhrupad’s orders.
A burst of merry laughter from the direction of the banquet brought Shikandin out of his solemn thoughts. He recognized the voice as Dhrystydymn’s and smiled. The sins of the father shall lie heavy on the son … Better me, than my siblings. Turning around, he headed directly for the quarters that had been assigned to the Yadus. He found Govinda in the middle of pulling on a borrowed tunic. Govinda paused and gave him a questioning look.
’The usual,’ Shikandin replied. ‘Don’t bother getting all dressed up. We’d better get going while the banquet is still on and no one notices. One of my spies just sent word …’ he remained cryptic, knowing that there were many hidden ears listening, even within the royal palace.
Govinda nodded and followed Shikandin out of the room. Soon the two men were riding into the night. Behind them, the celebrations continued.
10
PANCHALI HAD REFUSED TO ATTEND THE BANQUET. SHE SAT ALONE in her room, dazed, and thankful that no one was around to notice. Ever since the news of her wedding had been broken to her, she had been overcome by a sense of foreboding. She felt angry, desperate and, as she ultimately admitted to herself, terrified.
Govinda had greeted her father’s announcement that she was to be married with the diplomatically expected degree of enthusiasm, but nothing more. He had displayed no emotion at all, not even surprise. Worse still, he had taken the news that she would be married away to whoever won the tournament without a stir. She had been made a prize, an object, a thing, and it had not seemed to bother him in the least. That had hit her hard.
All these years Govinda had been privy to her deepest secrets and passions, the anger she felt against the world around them, her joys and sorrows, hopes and dreams. She was brutally honest with him, always. He, on the other hand, had many secrets, secrets she often never knew he had. Their differences, their similarities made little sense by themselves, but it all came together when they were together. They were two halves of a whole – equal yet opposites, similar yet complements. They had never spoken about their relationship, or put a name to what they shared. It was sometimes perfect, sometimes imperfect, but far from mundane and normal. Or was it?
Watching him as her father had made the announcement, Panchali had no longer been sure of what to say, or if she ought to say anything at all. She had cut short her ineffectual protests and meekly assented. Somehow, in that single moment, her usually fiery will lost some of its effulgence. She had often been accused of trying to emulate her brothers, of assuming an air of masculinity – something she had vehemently denied. But now she wondered if the emotions had been borrowed, after all.
Panchali cringed as raucous laughter blasted into the night from the banquet hall. With some effort, she willed herself to be patient, to wait for the festivities to end. At last, when the bustle of activity slowed down and then stopped as everyone retired for the night, she made her way through the silent corridors of the palace, to Dhrstyadymn’s room. She waved aside the guards on duty at his door and knocked on it. Knowing her brother well, she kept knocking till she heard sounds of movement and wakefulness from inside.
The door opened, and one of her mother’s many lovely personal attendants stepped out. The sairandhari looked back and smiled at Dhrstyadymn before disappearing down the dark corridor.
‘Well, come in then,’ Dhrstyadymn invited his sister in.
Panchali stepped in and seated herself on a cushioned bench next to a window overlooking the balcony. Her brother moved around, lighting up a few of the brass lamps that hung suspended from the ceiling. That done, he sat down next to her and studied her for a while.
‘This had better be important, Panchali. I was having a rather good time.’ He tried to feign irritation but his tone gave him away.
Panchali remained serious. ‘Do you remember anything from, you know, before …?’ she asked him.
Dhrstyadymn regarded her critically. ‘What does it matter?’
‘I need to know,’ she confessed. ‘I need to know if I am even half the person that I long to be. Don’t you wonder?’ Panchali keenly considered her brother. Their stark resemblance had earned them the label of twins, but she was the younger of the two by a couple of years or so. As best as they could tell, Dhrstyadymn was hardly twenty-three or twenty-four, but right then he looked so much older. Older and tired. Or, perhaps, she wondered, she just felt that way because things were no longer the same between them.
Once, Dhrstyadymn had been her best friend. These days, though, he had grown distant. Panchali could not understand whether he was trying to protect her from the many burdens she knew he carried, or if they had truly grown apart. She had thought many times to ask him directly, to force him to share his life with her for his own sake. But to her that was the ultimate admission of estrangement. Her brother would have to bare his soul of his own will or not at all.
‘What time is it?’ Dhrstyadymn suddenly asked, looking out of the window at the stars. The skies of Aryavarta served well to keep track of the sidereal day, which all its nations followed. The day, which began and ended at sunrise, was divided into thirty periods, or muhurttas. As though looking for a way to ignore what he would soon have to do, Dhrstyadymn allowed his mind to abstractedly ponder the significance of the number thirty, which so dominated chronology: Thirty kashtiha made up one kala, thirty kalas made one muhurtta, of which there were thirty in a day, and, finally, thirty days made a month. Each kashtiha itself comprised fifteen nimisha, or blinks of the eye. The measurements then went into factors, rather than multiples, with three lava making up a nimisha, three vedha making a lava. A vedha was measured as a hundred thruti, a thruti being the time it took to integrate three trasarenu, or molecules, each made as a combination of six celestial atoms, the most fundamental unit of existence itself.
Oblivious to her brother’s ruminations, Panali followed his gaze and noticed that it was late. ‘Six muhurttas to sunrise,’ she estimated.
Dhrystydymn thought for a while longer and then said, ‘Come with me.’
A trusted attendant brought them their horses, discreetly saddled and retrieved from the stables. The two set out, leaving Kampilya unseen through an inconspicuous gate between the palace wall and the army garrison.
Panchali kept quiet till they were a fair distance from the city and among open fields. She then pulled on the reins, making her horse rear up and whinny in challenge. ‘Care for a race?’
‘Go!’ Dhrstyadymn instantly cried out and spurred his horse into a gallop.
‘Not fair!’ Panchali shouted and set off after him, laughing.
Their melancholy dispelled by the magical stillness of the moonlit night, the two rode at a steady pace, heading south-east from Kampilya. They occasionally stopped to let their horses catch their breath or slowed down to a serene canter in the moonlight as they conversed, but for the most part they rode in silence. Panchali found herself enjoying the unspoken companionship that she had regretted as lost just a while ago and felt happier than she had all day.
A little before dawn, Dhrstyadymn turned due south and into the large forest tract that formed a border with their westward neighbours, Kuru and Surasena. Panchali followed without question as he led them into the deepest part of the woods. The soft twitter of birds and the gentle susurrus of awakening forest life
helped dispel the heavy, somewhat ominous, air. Beams of sunlight shone through the occasional gap between the trees, trapping eddies of fresh mist and forest-dust in fragile sculptures of light and shadow. For the most part, though, the forest was still dark and the horses carefully picked their way through the thick undergrowth.
Without warning, the dark canopy overhead gave way to a burst of white brightness, and the thick air felt lighter. They stood at the fringes of a clearing. Blinking, Panchali urged her horse into the open space. The semi-circular glade was filled with stone debris and the remains of what looked like a lined pit or shallow well. The grass underfoot was young and green, but grew only in patches. Some of the older trees overhead bore signs of charring.
She gasped. ‘Hai! Is this …?’
‘Yes. Father brought me here once, hoping it would stir my memory. It didn’t, though I tried. Rudra knows, I tried.’
Panchali looked around, suddenly feeling weak and frightened. Her life as she knew it had begun here, with fire.
Fire. It had spread from the crumbling walls to the thatched roof in moments. Panchali remembered every detail, as if it had happened slowly and she had been an engrossed spectator. She had not screamed. She was terrified, but some instinct had told her to get out because she had to live. Fumbling around in the smoke, her vision hazy, her hand touched another’s. Her brother’s. She knew, somehow, that he was her brother. She clung to him in relief, the will to live no longer just her own.
Govinda (The Aryavarta Chronicles) Page 8
