Govinda (The Aryavarta Chronicles)

by Krishna Udayasankar

  Dharma thoughtfully sipped his drink. ‘You don’t like this new edict, do you?’ he began, having guessed already what it was that irked Panchali.

  Panchali shook her head. ‘No, I don’t. I find it reprehensible. Don’t you?’

  ‘It’s undeniably based on scriptures and good authority, a compilation of key prescriptions from the various records the Firstborn scholars have put together.’

  ‘This is not law, nor meticulous record-keeping! It is a recasting of our very moral principles. Every fact is being quoted out of the context of the record it is actually a part of! String many such pieces together and it can mean something entirely different from what was originally intended.’

  ‘Panchali, relying on authority to lend weight to one’s arguments is an old practice. If it was so laid down by the wise elders, it must be with good reason. Why does this make you so angry?’

  ‘My anger,’ she snapped, ‘comes from the fact that this “Dharma Shastra”, a supposed compilation of codes of human conduct, suggests that women are weak and promiscuous by nature, that their monthly period renders them perpetually unclean and unfit to rule, or to learn the scriptures. As a result, they require the protection and supervision of father, brother, husband or son at all stages of life. In return, they owe their unquestioning servitude and loyalty to these men.’ She looked at Dharma sharply as she added, ‘You don’t see this position as having political undertones? You don’t think it sheer chauvinist rat-droppings, the ignorant rant of deluded old ascetics who resent their forced celibacy and desperately need to justify their self-denial by representing women as the embodiment of all that is bad and evil on earth?’

  Dharma considered her pensively. Initially her outspoken nature had given him many an uneasy night, but now he found it rather amusing. With a smile he said, ‘Well, all the rhetoric apart, what political purpose could something like this serve?’

  ‘It’s never a single, overwhelming purpose. In this case, the motivation is that if a woman is considered incapable of being her own person, it follows that she is also incapable of inheriting property.’

  ‘And all this for property and power?’

  ‘Of course!’

  He looked into the distance, thinking over what they had just discussed. ‘Isn’t it a rather convoluted way of doing things?’ he eventually asked.

  ‘No act of discrimination or oppression is ever truly an isolated one. Each seemingly trivial distinction justifies the larger principle. It may begin with the notion that women are not equal to men, but very soon something will emerge to prove that not all men are equal. It’s never about a specific instance or selective events. It’s about what we believe in as human beings.’

  ‘But we’re not – equal, that is. There’s a world of a difference between a prince and a slave. We, the noble Aryas, were meant to rule these lands and preserve Divine order. That order isn’t served unless we remain true to the hierarchies. We owe our duty to our superiors and I see nothing wrong with that. It baffles me that you should call it oppression and discrimination.’

  Panchali regarded Dharma with astonishment. ‘So, you’d follow your liege-lord even if he led you wrong?’

  ‘It’s complicated, Panchali.’

  ‘What could be complicated about right and wrong, Dharma?’ she emphasized his name ever so slightly. ‘How can you allow injustice in your realm? Speaking of which,’ she finally poured out what had been weighing on her mind for a while, ‘when do we leave for Kandava?’

  He laughed softly at Panchali’s irritation. ‘Kandava …’ he sullenly added. ‘We’ll never leave for Kandava. There’s nothing there. It is nothing more than a title to keep us quiet. We’ll remain Dhritarastra’s dependents, always. What right do I have over anything, after all?’ He was suddenly quiet.

  Panchali waited a while, hesitant. ‘Dharma?’ she eventually prompted, her concern getting the better of her anger.

  Dharma sighed. ‘It’s an old and long tale. But it’s time you heard it,’ he said, sitting down on a couch and inviting her to join him.

  ‘It was a complex matter,’ he said, ‘and one of dishonour for my father, when he failed to produce heirs despite having two wives. He abdicated the throne in favour of his brother and retired to a hermitage with his wives. And then we have the commonly accepted account that through the use of sacred chants and prayers both my mother and my stepmother conceived the offspring of celestial beings. No, wait a minute …’

  Dharma raised his hand at the incredulous look on Panchali’s face. ‘It’s called niyoga, a practice by which heirless kings take the children of their wives by their brothers or by honourable men, such as seers, for their own. Such male surrogacy is much more common than you might expect, especially in the Kuru dynasty. It is no secret that Dwaipayana, the Vyasa, fathered Uncle Dhritarastra, my father, as well as the Kshatta, Vidur. But for some reason, in our case the true identities are … well, neither hidden as such nor explicitly acknowledged. I’m said to be born of the God of Justice, Bhim of the Wind-God Vayu, Nakul and Sadev of the Ashwins, twin gods of Healing and Medicine. Partha is the son of Indra, king of the celestials. Legally, of course, we’re all Pandu’s sons.’

  ‘Do you ever wonder …’ Panchali began. ‘Never mind,’ she said, as a wild conjecture about Dharma’s father’s identity took form, an idea she knew better than to dwell on.

  Dharma appeared to be of the same mind. ‘What’s the point wondering, Panchali? There’s no point placing bets if you won’t cast the dice. The question has no conclusive answer. My life is what it is, and for all purposes I am the son of Pandu and Pritha. Does it really matter whether I can conclusively affirm or deny the version that was handed down? If something is repeated often enough it becomes the truth. Frankly, I’m grateful that it has avoided us the tag of bastards for the most part …’

  He grimaced for a moment at some memory, and then continued, ‘We grew up in a hermitage in the White Mountains, since my father had already abdicated the kingdom. We came to live at Hastina after he died. I was nearly eighteen then. Syoddhan wasn’t happy when we turned up, nor was Uncle Dhritarastra. I can understand their resentment. The throne was originally my uncle’s as he was the older of the two brothers, but my father was crowned instead because my uncle was blind. My father then abdicated the crown in my uncle’s favour.’

  ‘So the question remains, who ought to be the heir?’

  ‘Yes,’ Dharma confirmed, ‘and with good cause too. The Kuru kingdom is today half the size that it used to be. What we call Kuru is what was once Eastern Kuru, the land between the rivers Ganga and Yamuna. Beyond the Yamuna, on the other side of the river, is what used to be Western Kuru. The land that’s now been given to me, as my kingdom, is a land that’s not even ours anymore!’

  ‘The land was lost?’

  ‘The land was lost or usurped, depending on how you look at it,’ Dharma stated. ‘In any case it’s now the realm of Takshaka, the Naga king. For the longest time it was the hiding place of the last of the Firewrights.’

  ‘How …?’ Panchali stuttered. ‘How can King Dhritarastra give us something that’s not his?’

  ‘Bhim thinks it is a trap,’ Dharma admitted. ‘Kandava is definitely no great treasure, other than for its old reputation. There’s nothing but dense forest and craggy mountain all the way till the place known as Kuru’s Fields. It’s why the Wrights were sent there by the old kings in the first place. They supposedly had a method by which they could cleave rock, even mountains, in two. It was once planned for the Great Road to run beyond Hastina, right through the rock and stone of Kandava. But till today Kandava remains impassable. The heathen Firewrights may well have failed to build the road, but they sure did leave enough of their craft behind for the Nagas to be able to defend themselves well. Even Grandsire Bhisma hasn’t been able to drive the Nagas out of Kandava. In fact, giving this land to me may even be a challenge, daring us to claim what is rightfully ours,’ Dharma concluded.

 
‘The Kuru kings sent Firewrights …?’ Panchali asked, astonished.

  ‘Yes. A long time ago. Once, Kandavaprastha used to be the capital city from which my ancestors Bharata and Pururavas ruled the empire of Aryavarta. Kandavaprastha was known as the Throne of Indra on Earth. For long, many have believed that the royal sceptre of the Kurus is Indra’s Vajra, the thunderbolt made for him by the Firewrights.’

  ‘The Firewrights made the royal sceptre?’ Panchali stuttered.

  Dharma’s surprise at her ignorance was less only than his concern. ‘Are you …? You’re asking me the most … never mind …’ he trailed off, not wanting to hurt her feelings.

  Panchali swallowed her ego and set her face into a composed expression. ‘No, honestly, I didn’t know that Firewrights once held such prominence in Kuru. I always assumed that, like Panchala, the Kurus too had laws against the Wrights.’

  ‘Ah, Panchali,’ Dharma gently clucked his tongue. ‘It’s not your fault. Perhaps your father thought it better for you not to know about the Firewrights at all. But the fact is, it is well-known and widely accepted that the Wrights were responsible for the rise of the central kingdoms, the glory and the prosperity we see today. Not just Kuru, but Panchala as well. Of course, little record remains of what they may have achieved. It’s not uncommon for new rulers to take credit for good work done in the past.’

  Panchali nodded. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘It’s a way of legitimizing the new rule by reaffirming past glories in their name. But, then, how did things come to this – this great animosity that the Kurus and Panchalas have for the Firewrights?’

  Dharma’s smile faded. He thought silently for a while and said, ‘Human beings are creatures of duty, Panchali. The moment we neglect duty and start to question the workings of divinity and fate, we fall from grace.’

  ‘You mean, power corrupts?’

  ‘On the contrary, that’s what the Wrights believed. But as long as the Divine order of things, the hierarchies set by scripture, are maintained, that power is the means of achieving great things. In fact, I’d say it is our duty as kings to seek power and prosperity – the notion that we, descendants of the gods themselves, can act contrary to duty is itself profane. We are Aryas, the noble. To us, virtue is victory and in victory is virtue.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Panchali conceded.

  ‘Morality is a subtle thing, Panchali. It often depends on what is considered moral by the prevailing voice, those in power. Right and wrong, I’d think, are relative, not absolute. This brings us back to why Syoddhan dislikes me so much. His absolute sense of honour tells him that it is the worst compromise to put me, a bastard son, on the throne.’

  ‘And your relative sense of justice allows it?’

  Dharma’s voice lost the note of grandeur it had taken on. He sighed and said, ‘I have a confession. I’ve often wondered what is the point of it all. I know you’ll believe me if I say I’ve considered this matter as one of law and principle, and not out of my desire for the crown. I’ve often wondered who really has the claim, in law, as the king’s heir. My father was the younger of two brothers and ruled only because Uncle Dhritarastra was born blind. Did it mean that my uncle’s heirs had lost their right too? Or did the right revert back to Syoddhan, and his sons and grandsons, when my father abdicated? Maybe the line of succession is irrelevant and the eldest of each generation ought to be king. If so, Syoddhan can’t rule because I’m the oldest of all the cousins, the sons of both brothers. It’s a contentious matter, one fit to wager a kingdom on! But, as it stands, I’m nothing more than the titular ruler of a land that doesn’t exist.’ With a dry snigger, he added, ‘As I told my mother the other day these are times when I wish I had an elder brother. It would be his problem then!’

  To that statement, Panchali made no response. Much as she now shared a comfortable relationship with three of Dharma’s brothers, she could not help think that one more might just have been too many. Especially since there remained a brother with whom things were far from comfortable.

  21

  DHARMA’S WAS NOT THE ONLY FRIENDSHIP THAT PANCHALI managed to cultivate as she settled into her new life at Hastina. She found the youngest of the five brothers, the twins, easy to get along with. Nakul and Sadev were not much older than Dhrstyadymn, and they made her feel at home with their casual banter and their jokes. Nakul was considered the most handsome of the Kurus, surpassing both Partha and Syoddhan, though Panchali knew from Dhrstyadymn’s experiences that it was not easy on an Arya prince if he were exceptionally good-looking; in fact, it was far worse for him than if he had been plain or even downright ugly. Nakul had to constantly deal with the misconception that he was not much use as a warrior. Unfortunately, Sadev shared that reputation with him, for little reason other than them being twins, though not completely identical in appearance. Sadev was also acknowledged, though not as widely and as often as he deserved, for his intelligence and acumen. His reputation for being an excellent astrologer was, however, one of the few things that people actually knew about him. It served at least to open the door to conversation and he patiently engaged the sceptical Panchali in endless debates on the science and philosophy of prophecy. As she spent more time with the twins, Panchali also realized, for the first time, that she really was as good an archer as her brothers gave her credit for. She had always supposed that they were just being indulgent, but when she tried her marksmanship against Sadev and Nakul she found she more than held her own with ease. To her surprise, the twins ungrudgingly admitted her to their practice sessions and took her with them on their rides and hunts.

  Bhim, Panchali could not help but like. For a man with his reputation for physical strength, Bhim was rather lean. He was big-built and broad-shouldered, as most trained wrestlers were, but there was nothing otherworldly about his size. He laughed easily and had a great zest for life and, as a result, many at Hastina tended to dismiss him as a boor, a brawny, coarse lout – all of which was undeserved. As Panchali found out soon enough, Bhim was a man of fine senses, who loved music and art. He often slipped out in disguise to watch the wandering minstrels and performers in the street corners of Hastina, and was glad to take a curious Panchali along. He was also a superb cook, a skill she completely lacked, as was expected of her stature. She had never developed an interest in the activity; nevertheless, she loved to sample Bhim’s culinary creations and would keep him company while he conducted his delicious experiments. Most of all, Panchali admired Bhim for his courage. He was outspoken, perhaps even a touch too frank, but it made for a refreshing change from the world around them. In Hastina far too much was politely said and cruelly meant. Here, the truth was always veiled. It was the sort of place where while, in principle, the five brothers were equals in every way, all of Kuru revered one of the five above the others.

  Then there was Partha. Everything about the third of the five brothers was just like his name – unimaginatively ordinary but unmistakeably special. Of the three sons born to Pandu’s first queen, he alone was Partha, the son of Pritha. Panchali hardly knew him beyond the endless talk that ran through the palace, most of which centred on one or both of his two distinctions – he was considered a superb archer and could shoot in the dark using sound alone to guide him. Equally superlative, Panchali heard, was his skill with and exploits involving women. He remained an exception to the easy camaraderie she shared with the other four, for he pointedly avoided her, to the extent that she had never even had an opportunity to ask him why. Not that she ever would, for it was not difficult to understand why he behaved the way he did. He had won her and for a short while she had been his, and now she was not. They were both acutely aware of that. The realization had already made their presence in the same room a near-impossibility and Panchali shuddered to think how uncomfortable a private moment of admission might be. In her heart, she was glad that he kept his distance.

  It was, therefore, most awkward for Panchali when, late one evening, Partha walked out on to one of the many c
overed terraces of their palace to find her there, watching the thunderstorm that was in full swing, unmindful of the rain that splattered in through the open sides.

  She rummaged ineffectively in her mind for something to say or do and, finding nothing, made a trite comment about the rain being lovely. Partha merely nodded. Thinking it best to give him some space, she turned her attention back to the elements outside. The evening storm had lit up the sky and the treetops in impossible colours of red and brown. The downpour was a sultry haze as it hit the dry, sun-parched ground, giving rise to a slight mist.

  Panchali revelled in the feel of the light spray on her face, the smell of wet earth and the strong, steady breeze. How good it is to be alive, she thought. Closing her eyes, she soaked up the sensations – the rain, the wind, the touch of a hand on her shoulder, on her bare waist, the feel of a strong body against hers, of gentle lips, now warm on the soft skin of her neck, now whispering in her ear, ‘Panchali …’

  She felt her heart thudding wildly as he drew her closer, his words and actions leaving little doubt about his desire. Panchali had heard much gossip about his exceptional lovemaking skills and how he could seduce any woman into submission. Now he wanted her. Partha wanted her. Part of her felt a grim satisfaction at this proof that Dharma’s disgust on their wedding night had not been her fault, but his own. In husky whispers and with promise-laden words Partha gently reminded her of how he had won her, of the way they had held hands in anticipation of a lifetime together – a lifetime that he wanted to offer her, still.

  Panchali gasped with muted pleasure at his determined touch as he made her turn to face him. She wanted desperately to believe his reassurances, his declarations, the words of affection. She let her fingers slide softly up Partha’s arms and as he pulled her closer still she wrapped her arms around his neck. Even as she instinctively responded to his attentions, the vague sliver of a reflection came to her mind.