Govinda (The Aryavarta Chronicles)

by Krishna Udayasankar

  Or, she wondered, as she remembered her strange encounter with the Firewright scholar, was this entire plan of Govinda Shauri’s devising after all. Who manipulates whom? Who holds the strings that makes us all puppets?

  She realized that Dharma was anxiously awaiting her response to his proposal. One that was for the greater good, no matter what other private motives it served. An individual for the sake of the family …

  Panchali nodded her assent. ‘But of course,’ she affirmed. ‘I agree that it would be best …’ She faltered, gasping as, without warning, Dharma pulled her close and into his arms.

  To Panchali’s surprise, there was no trace of the man she had known on her wedding night, the guilt-ridden, morally tormented man. Instead, Dharma was far from restrained as he romanced and seduced her. As he led her to the bed, she thought to resist him, out of sheer spite. She felt as though she were outside of her body, watching herself in Dharma’s arms, amused and abstractedly pondering her own dilemma because the problem was far more interesting than the solution. Laughing softly, she gave in.

  Later that night, as she lay in Dharma’s arms, sated and tired, Panchali smiled softly into the dark. She would see Govinda again, very soon.

  29

  ALL OF HASTINA TOOK ON A FESTIVE AIR TO GREET GOVINDA Shauri. Dhritarastra gave explicit orders that no cost or effort should be spared on the occasion. If the order arose from the king’s genuine affection for Govinda, that appeared to have been overlooked entirely as everyone, from the attendants to Dhritarastra’s sons, laboured to show off Hastina’s might and glory. Even the stones of the fortress and the marble walls of the palace seemed to shine brighter, almost dazzling the eye.

  A few days before Govinda was due to arrive, every vassal and saamanta, every friend and ally of the Kurus rode to Hastina, accompanied by impressive guards of honour and some with even a full battalion of soldiers. At Dhrupad’s insistence, Dhrstyadymn led in a full division of the Panchala army. Shikandin, however, came into the city as a discreet, lone traveller. He used one of the minor entrances to the palace grounds, a small portcullis manned by just two guards. Bhim met him at the gate and escorted him directly to Dharma’s palace.

  The moment Shikandin stepped into the hallway, Panchali threw herself into his arms and burst into tears. A thoroughly perplexed Shikandin tried to console her and she finally got a hold of herself.

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that I’ve missed you so much …’ Panchali smiled through her tears and added, ‘Who’d have reckoned me for a sentimental woman?’

  ‘Woman?’ Shikandin exclaimed in mock astonishment. ‘Panchali, only adults are considered women, not blubbering children …’

  ‘So say you, you overgrown infant!’ Panchali retorted, and the two siblings laughed heartily.

  The next few days, Panchali felt almost as happy as she used to back in Kampilya. Dhrstyadymn bore the brunt of the inevitable diplomatic meetings and exchanges with good grace, leaving Panchali and Shikandin with all the time they needed with each other. Despite his happiness at seeing his sister, though, Shikandin was clearly not comfortable being at Hastina. At first Panchali thought it the result of their father’s usual distrust and malice, which indeed was reflected in how the Kurus dealt with him as compared to Dhrstyadymn. But she understood the real cause of Shikandin’s unease when she saw his reaction to the small figure who sat alone on a stone bench under one of the many broad arches that artistically dotted the gardens of Hastina’s palace.

  Subadra saw Panchali look in her direction, but pretended that she had not noticed. She tried to ignore the pang of jealousy she felt for the slightest of moments, but gave up, feeling tired of the simple purposelessness of her own life. If it had not been for Panchali, Subadra knew, she would have gone mad at Hastina.

  It had been easy for Subadra to be a rebel in the comfort and safety of her brothers’ indulgent care. She had spoken freely, thrown caution to the winds and lived a carefree life. But Hastina was not Dwaraka, and to her own surprise she had found that she did not have Panchali’s courage. She submitted to the expectations of Kurus and pretended to be the shy, passive woman they wanted her to be. A part of her wondered if she did so just to be anything but the person Partha had seen at Dwaraka. Perhaps, she concluded, this was her way of seeking a convoluted revenge for what he had done.

  Panchali’s support and affection had been unconditional. Not once did she judge or question Subadra’s submissive behaviour, but in her own, silent way she signalled that she would not hesitate to stand up for her younger companion. In turn, Subadra had been what Panchali had needed to resume a cordial relationship with Partha. Still, his attraction for Panchali was not something he managed to hide successfully. Subadra, for her part, pretended not to notice, more for Panchali’s sake than Partha’s.

  The young woman looked unseeing into the distance, fighting back the tears that welled up in her eyes. This was not what she had thought she would become. Worse still, this was not what Govinda had wanted for her. She dreaded her brother’s arrival, as much as she longed for it; she dreaded to let him see her this way.

  A painfully familiar voice intruded on her reverie. ‘You look worried, whether you’ll admit it or not …’ Shikandin was alone. Panchali, now a distant image, was headed back indoors.

  Subadra looked at him with mild disapproval. ‘I’m just bored,’ she responded lightly.

  ‘Bored?’ Shikandin teased, ‘Mahamatra, you break my heart. Barely moments of my company and you’re already bored!’ He clucked sadly. ‘I really must learn to be more interesting.’

  ‘But you don’t need to be more interesting! In fact, your wretched situation is to your advantage. Women would lavish their affections on you out of pity, if nothing else. Then, of course, you’d have little time for me, but I suppose I must make this sacrifice for you,’ Subadra finished with feigned resignation.

  Shikandin stared into her eyes, marvelling at the innocence, the openness they held. She was trying to be playful, he knew, but every emotion, every move of hers was so obvious and clear to him. How could anyone be so trusting, he asked himself.

  ‘I’m the father of a ten-year-old boy, Subadra. I don’t think there is room in my life for a woman’s affections anymore,’ he casually said.

  She did not reply. Shikandin took a seat next to her on the bench and looked at her. She was every bit as gorgeous as he remembered her to be. Subadra had Balabadra’s light skin, and oval, cherubic face, but Govinda’s cheeky grin. She wore a long antariya, wrapped around her hips to fall till her ankles, with a few pleats thrown in to allow for easy movement. A short, fitting, tunic covered her bust, and her upper robe discreetly hid the tell-tale bulge of her abdomen.

  ‘I’m glad to see you, Shikandin,’ she told him. ‘It’s been long, far too long.’

  ‘I didn’t think I’d ever see you here of all places, Subadra,’ he replied.

  ‘Or perhaps you didn’t want to see me at all? I’ve been here so long, and Kampilya is but a day’s ride … It would have meant so much to me to hear a kind word from you …’

  ‘Hmm, let’s see, a kind word. Do you remember when I told you that even if I were the dumbest stone, I’d come to life at the sight of you? That I’d gladly become a brick in the walls of Dwaraka just to have a glimpse of your enchanting face every day?’

  Subadra laughed. ‘You were drunk that day!’ she reminded him. ‘And you still haven’t told me which poor poet you stole that line from,’ she teased. ‘Or will you now admit that you were driven to your wits’ end by my incomparable beauty?’

  ‘Beauty? What beauty? It was the shock of nearly being run down by you and your horses!’ Shikandin roared with mirth as Subadra feigned offence. Finally, their laughter softened and stopped. The two enjoyed the brief quiet that followed.

  ‘I’m glad to see you, too,’ Shikandin suddenly declared, his voice hoarse. ‘I just wish the circumstances had been otherwise.’

  Subadra gasped and looked at him in
amazement. His eyes said more than he had. ‘What … what do you mean?’ she whispered.

  Shikandin looked down at his large, calloused hands. ‘When I heard that two of Govinda’s stallions had been yoked to the chariot it was easy to guess what had happened. If you’d eloped of your own accord, you’d have driven all four horses. I doubt Partha can manage that, skilled as he may be. The fact that only two horses were taken …’ He shrugged.

  Subadra said nothing, but turned away to stare into the distance once again.

  ‘I hope you’re happy here … with Partha.’ With that, Shikandin stood and bowed regally before he walked away.

  Inside the palace, Bhisma watched from a window as Shikandin strode across the green lawns.

  ‘He would have made a great monarch,’ Asvattama pointed out in his slow, sardonic manner, relishing the way Bhisma’s smug smile disappeared. ‘He’s the kind of man who deserves First Honour at every ceremony he graces. But, alas, neither distinction will ever be his, will it?’

  Bhisma glared at the younger man. ‘I’ve done whatever it takes to preserve the honour of the Kurus. The son must pay for the sins of the father. Shikandin must pay for Dhrupad’s errors, just as you must pay for Dron’s. For my part, I’ve wished no one ill, but I won’t hesitate to destroy anyone who threatens the glory of this great dynasty. Is that clear?’

  Asvattama nodded. It was not without cause that Bhisma had mentioned his father.

  ‘You wished to speak to me about something, Grandsire?’ he asked, emphasizing on Bhisma’s epithet. He wanted there to be no doubt that his deference to the older man was based on age alone and not on title. Bhisma was just a regent, where Asvattama was a king.

  ‘You know that Dharma has been given the western half of Kuru as his to rule?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘And? What do you think?’

  ‘It’s not for me to comment on the internal policies of the Kurus,’ Asvattama said. ‘After all, yours is a sovereign state, just like mine.’

  The older man did not rise to the bait. He said, ‘And the Nagas, what are they?’

  Asvattama said nothing, but waited in silence, as if Bhisma had not finished speaking.

  ‘You are a Firewright …’ Bhisma said at length.

  ‘No. I’m merely a descendant of Agni Angiras.’

  ‘It is more than birth, Asvattama. I’ve seen you since you were an infant, my boy; you have the Firewright talent, something that your father and your uncle Kripa both lack completely.’

  Asvattama frowned, not sure if the old Regent meant to condemn or compliment him. His father Dron, he knew, would not be pleased at either possibility.

  Bhisma went on, ‘I just thought you might be in a good position to assess the chances that Dharma has of getting rid of Takshaka. It seems to me that the Nagas have always had a surprising affinity, friendship even, with the Firewrights. I only wonder how deep that affinity goes. Is it possible that they have weapons more powerful than ours? I can’t help but worry sometimes … What if there is some astra, weapon, far more powerful than every other force on earth? Do you believe in it, Asvattama? Do you think someone has it?’

  Asvattama now understood what Bhisma wanted. It amused him a lot more than he let show. ‘You must have considered all possibilities before you advised the King to give Western Kuru to Dharma. Ghora Angirasa’s death, Agniveshya Angirasa’s death – you must have considered the fact that no Firewrights remain to fight for your enemies, and against you and your kinsmen. What makes you doubt your own conclusions?’

  Bhisma fixed Asvattama with a penetrating look. He found the man just a little too perceptive for his comfort. He turned away to look out the window, again. Shikandin was nearly at Dharma’s palace, at the far end of the grounds, and would soon disappear from view.

  ‘What about Govinda Shauri?’ Bhisma asked, disdain ringing in his voice.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Is he … dangerous?’

  ‘He remains undefeated in battle,’ Asvattama replied.

  ‘Which is no great feat if one surrenders or runs away from a fight,’ Bhisma snorted. ‘Besides, I can’t think of any notable wars he’s fought. Dwaraka was built on uninhabited land and there was no conquest there. His only claim to valour is the killing of Kans and, of course, the so-called downfall of the Firewrights. Frankly, that’s far too much credit to a man who did nothing but stand aside and watch while others finished them off.’

  ‘Itself a great achievement, I’d venture. Others would have gladly scavenged on the remains.’

  Bhisma glowered with restrained rage. He was not as tall as Asvattama, but had the burly physique that was quite common among Kuru men. As a matter of habit, he hovered over Asvattama menacingly as he said, ‘I am the Regent of Kuru, born of the blood of Pururavas himself. I’ve earned my arms and my reputation both by defeating the great Firewright warrior Barghava Rama in battle. Don’t try my patience, young man!’

  Asvattama, however, was not a man to be intimidated. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it, Grandsire,’ he lightly replied, adding, ‘it’s unfortunate that you should think I would.’

  Bhisma paused, then leaned closer still. Dropping his voice to a whisper, he hissed, ‘Tell me, plainly, do you think Govinda is capable of treachery? Do you think he was a traitor?’

  ‘A traitor to whom?’

  A strained, palpable silence followed as Bhisma stepped back, carefully avoiding his companion’s eyes. Eventually he said, ‘Thank you for coming to see me. It’s kind of you to indulge an old man.’

  Asvattama nodded and turned to go. He was almost at the door when he turned around to ask, softly, ‘Is there anything else I can do for you?’

  A look of relief flooded Bhisma’s face, as though he had been waiting for the offer. He nodded. ‘Kandava is not an easy conquest, even for the best of men. Dwaipayana is a scholar and may have overestimated his grandchildren. Dharma and his brothers will need help if they really are to have a chance at conquering the Nagas …’

  ‘And what is it you want me to do?’

  ‘My teachers – the Barghava warrior–scholars – had some of the most excellent weapons ever crafted in the history of Aryavarta. I’ve heard that the last of the Jamadagni line passed many on to your father, and to you …’

  Asvattama nodded. ‘I understand. I’ll make the arrangements.’

  ‘It’ll have to be done very discreetly. I don’t know if Dwaipayana …’ Bhisma hesitated, and then continued, ‘it’s best that these arrangements are known only to those who understand – not all scholars are warriors and many warriors are not politicians.’

  ‘Yes, Grandsire,’ Asvattama nodded reassuringly and left the room.

  Bhisma turned back to the window. All was quiet and still, almost as if the palace was uninhabited. There was neither bird nor cloud in the sky, and nothing moved. Nothing at all. He found the scene oppressive. It made him feel helpless, as he had most of his life. A life filled with virtue, painstakingly earned by fulfilling every duty destiny had laid at his door. But it gave such little satisfaction.

  30

  BRAZIERS FLICKERED, ALIVE IN A SLOW, REASSURING PATTERN OF menial efficiency, as dusk fell over Hastina’s palace. Partha cast a blurred shadow on the well-polished floor as he paced up and down. Dharma looked up at his brother, as the man fitfully strode around the room, sometimes eager, sometimes with a frown.

  ‘He’ll be here soon, you know,’ Dharma said, laughing softly. ‘And it’s not as if he’s bringing you his sister, you already have her here …’

  The younger man stopped, and threw himself into a chair at his brother’s desk. Dharma instinctively reached out to steady a container of ink as Partha knocked against the table with some force.

  ‘You’ve got to see it, Agraja,’ Partha said. ‘You must see it to believe it – Dwaraka … It’s nothing short of magical. I can’t imagine us building something even close to it here in central Aryavarta. And the fort, the armies, the Narayaniyas. Wh
at commitment, what discipline! The wealth, the opulence, the very air seems to be full of joy and laughter, like Indra’s heaven on earth.’

  ‘He really has impressed you, hasn’t he?’ Dharma laughed.

  ‘He didn’t have to try,’ Partha pointed out. ‘You know I’ve always had some respect for the Yadu lot … I knew Yuyudhana and Kritavarman from before. Imagine, armies upon armies, the ranks teeming with soldiers of that calibre …’

  ‘It may be as you say. But then, why did Govinda run from Jarasandha? Why surrender Mathura? You do realize he’s no longer ruler of anything … he ceded his own kingdom.’

  Partha emphatically stated, ‘He gave up a crumbling, good-for-nothing nation and, instead, built this mighty power called Dwaraka. You may think he’s lost his crown, but you have no idea what he’s gained. You should see the way he’s treated in Dwaraka. He’s no king; he’s a god to his people.‘

  Dharma shrugged. ‘Well, I won’t get into this argument with you, Partha, but I do realize this much – Govinda Shauri is a useful ally to have, and not just you, but Shikandin and Dhrstyadymn both insist as much. At the very least Govinda is popular with the Panchalas. And his personal forces, as well as the armies of Dwaraka, are indeed a fair strength. It serves no purpose to offend him, I think, and it wouldn’t hurt to please him. In any case,’ he concluded, ‘he is our cousin and he’s now maternal uncle to the legal heir … so there is some natural affinity, I hope.’

  Partha now broached the issue on his mind. ‘Dharma, I’m sorry … I know you plan to take another wife, maybe I should’ve waited …’

  Dharma understood, and reassured his brother. ‘It’s all right, Partha. All our children, all children of us five brothers, are legally the children of Dharma and Panchali. Your child is the eldest of the next generation. He will be the heir to our kingdom, if Kandava is ever reclaimed …’