Govinda (The Aryavarta Chronicles)

by Krishna Udayasankar

  ‘Ah, but the dead friends get the pick of Indra’s nymphs in the celestial afterlife, or so we hear.’

  Shikandin feigned a serious look, though the gleam in his eyes gave him away. ‘Royal propaganda!’ he declared. ‘Nothing but utter rubbish designed to lure innocent fools like me into throwing their lives away for these entitled nobles. Dead men get nothing!’

  Partha did not find the exchange amusing at all. ‘Dead men don’t win battles either. This whole plan is pointless, Shikandin. Worse, it may provoke our enemy in ways we can’t foresee yet. It’s sheer foolhardiness.’

  ‘Is it?’ Shikandin raised a contemptuous eyebrow. ‘Think about it, Partha. If I don’t come back, you’ll know for sure that danger lies ahead. You can then decide what to do. It’s better than sitting here, waiting and wondering if we ought to trust Sudakshin or Bhagadatta, not knowing whether to stay or leave. Let me do this …’

  ‘All right,’ Govinda nodded.

  ‘But …’ Partha began to object.

  Govinda interjected, ‘Do you trust me, Partha?’

  ‘Yes, of course!’ Partha regarded Govinda with affection. Either spurred by the feeling or for emphasis, he threw an arm around Govinda’s shoulders and slapped him on the back.

  Govinda nodded his thanks. ‘In that case, prepare your armies. Spread the word that we’ll cross over into Kashi territory at the earliest. In the meantime, Shikandin, go ahead with your plan.’

  Partha stared, open-mouthed. ‘But …’ he repeated.

  ‘If our enemy’s idea was only to dissuade us, they’ll know that they’ve failed. Once we start mobilizing the men, our enemy, whoever they might be, will be forced to make their next move … It may give us some clue as to what is really going on.’

  ‘And then? What if it really is a trap …?’

  ‘Then we must walk into it,’ Govinda said. ‘We’re running out of time and, sitting here, are far too isolated from Dharma and the others to change our strategy. We must get back quickly if the imperial campaign is to succeed. Failure means more than just dishonour, Partha. It means death. We and those we love wouldn’t live for more than a week, with all the new enemies we’ve made …’

  Partha immediately longed to ask a question of his own, but restrained himself. The thought, however, did not disappear easily. A man like Govinda could have been Emperor if he had put his mind to it. Instead, he chose to remain a vassal to Dharma. For once, Partha could not help but wonder why.

  17

  THE WOMAN WAS ASTONISHINGLY GORGEOUS. HER ATTIRE WAS not sheer and revealing, like a courtesan’s; instead, she was draped in the fine cotton robes worn by the highest class of attendants. Nevertheless, there was something seductive about her, and she knew it well. She walked into the main hallway of the palace without hesitation, inclining her head ever so slightly in greeting at the departing Shikandin. Shikandin’s steps slowed down just that much and his eyes twinkled with appreciation, but he did not stop.

  Just as well, the woman made a mental note. This was the Panchala prince she had been told about. While she knew better than to indulge her temptation and be rid of him, too, for a fleeting moment the thought did cross her mind. Not that he was safe from harm. If he was going into the forests on the other side of the river as his clothes suggested, death was certain anyway. As for her, she had another quarry to hunt. Govinda Shauri.

  That evening, she came up to where Govinda sat in the banquet hall with Partha, bringing them some more wine. Govinda shot her an appreciative look. Her skin was smooth as velvet and her impossibly proportionate body was voluptuous, yet delicate. Her full red lips and her swaying gait were delightfully predictable, stereotypically feminine, yet he found her presence inexplicably pleasing. She met his gaze and colour flooded her pale cheeks. Lowering her eyes, she refilled their cups and moved away. A light, seductive fragrance lingered, stirring up the most primal instincts in the two men.

  ‘She’s new,’ Partha noted, breathing out hard to regain his senses. Govinda merely furrowed his brows and nodded. ‘You don’t suppose this is Bhagadatta’s doing? What monarch would allow new palace staff in times like these?’

  ‘Times like these?’ Govinda was disdainful. ‘We’re the ones at war, Partha, not he. But you’re right. We’d better suggest to him that he double his guards and give them strict instructions not to let any new courtesans or handmaidens into his bedchambers.’

  Partha was not assured, ‘I doubt she’s after him. Assassins are rather expensive, but worth every piece of gold when it comes to getting the task done.’

  Govinda’s tone was soft, but chilling. ‘There are worse things to fear than a simple assassin …’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘She’s a Kritya.’

  ‘Kritya?’ Partha was shocked. ‘They’re some kind of killers, right?’

  ‘Indeed, Krityas are assassins like no other. They are brought up from childhood on a perfectly balanced diet of poison and antidote that makes their very bite and scratch lethal. They are also trained to use their body as a deadly weapon, not to mention the other tools they supposedly have – daggers that fold up into innocuous hair ornaments, jewels coated with poultices that can seduce a man or render him senseless.’

  Partha glanced at the now-distant figure of the woman and let out a deep breath. ‘I thought … I thought only the ancient kings used Krityas and such. Do they really even exist anymore?’

  ‘Apparently they do. You see, Partha, when the Firstborn sanctioned the scourge, the systematic hunting down of the Firewrights many decades ago, not everyone showed the same diligent obedience as the Kurus. Some kings, particularly those of the east, were happy to take young Firewright girls alive …’

  ‘To be trained as Krityas? Does that mean this woman is …’

  ‘I’ve no idea who she is. But of what she is, I have no doubt. Mmm! Bhagadatta’s cook has outdone himself tonight.’

  Partha grimaced at Govinda’s sudden frivolity, but said nothing. He couldn’t help but wonder if their host had been the one to engage the Kritya, after all.

  The Kritya was waiting in Govinda’s rooms when he returned from the banquet. She pretended not to notice him as he walked in, busy as she was with lighting the many lamps in the chamber. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him throw off his upper robe and settle himself in a chair, with a scroll.

  She turned around, feigning surprise at finding him there. Blushing slightly, she walked up to where he sat and, standing close, reached out to touch him. The tips of her fingers rested lightly on his inner wrist, exactly on the pulsing spot at a certain angle off the median nerve. No man she knew had ever resisted this gesture. Govinda looked into her eyes and smirked.

  Embarrassed and enraged, she tried to turn away, brushing against him in the process. He ignored her, and went about his business as though she did not exist. He did not look up even when she ran out of his room, pretend tears sliding down her cheeks. It was, she admitted to herself as soon as she was outside, possibly a tactical mistake on her part. It would have taken just a moment to stab him if she hadn’t felt the urge to kill him the way only she could. But then, she reasoned, this once she would allow herself the indulgence. After all, there was no way she could fail.

  No man could resist her beauty, not even the famed Govinda Shauri. That was a lesson she had learnt early in life.

  The Kritya paused for a moment in the open corridor, enjoying the clean breeze, the light spray from the omnipresent rain. She remembered little of the initial years of her training, except for the dark hall-like castle, which had been perpetually lit by braziers and fires. She had hardly seen the sun, and remembered no face and no name, not even her own. There had been no other children, just an endless bustle of adults, and though she lived in luxury and was waited on hand and foot, there had been something dismal and horrible about it all.

  When she was sixteen, her guardians had deemed her ready to be presented to the king. She had walked into the room, dressed in bridal finery
, expecting an old man. To her surprise, it was the young crown prince who was waiting for her.

  ‘My little assassin!’ he had greeted her. ‘Father will soon leave me a splendid gift along with his throne, I see … Perhaps we can begin with a small demonstration of your skills …’

  Rising, she had made towards the bed, only to stop as the prince began laughing uproariously, slapping his thigh in glee.

  ‘Do you take me for an idiot? Or do you think that I’m as weak as other men? If I’ve resisted you despite your beauty, if I’ve let you train as a Kritya all these years, it was only because you’ll be more useful in other men’s beds than mine. The slightest nip of your teeth during a tender kiss, or a scratch from your nails in the heat of passion … I’d be a dead man!’ he burst out laughing again. ‘Go,’ he waved her out of the room. ‘You’ll have your first quarry to hunt soon, I promise.’

  That night she had cried for the first and last time in her adult life. It took a while for her to really understand the prince’s words, for the last thing that she had thought to do was harm him. But, she realized, this was what she had become. No living being could ever trust her again, care for her. She was Death itself.

  The prince soon became a king, and he kept his promise. She hunted many a man down, killing without a trace. She met the monarch often and he had soon warmed up to her. There had been times when the two of them had spent a pleasant evening in conversation. But he was always careful to maintain his distance. He would not as much as touch a glass of wine if she poured it for him, or take directly in his hands a scroll she held out. That apart, he treated her well. She had her own palace and staff, and occupied a place of honour at social occasions, even appearing sometimes at his court. Jewels, riches, land – anything she could want was hers. She was special, and he let her know it.

  Years passed and there came a time when he summoned her only to perform the most critical of tasks – tasks that he undertook on behalf of Emperor Jarasandha. She had met the Emperor once. It was all the same – politeness, geniality and distance. As she left the room, she had overheard Jarasandha remark, ‘It’s a real pity! She’s a fine woman. Almost makes you want to risk it …’

  It had made her smirk with self-satisfaction. The only thing more powerful than her beauty was the fear of death.

  Content for the present at that thought, she made her way through the dark corridors of the palace, towards the handmaidens’ chambers. Just as she left the royal enclosure, one of the guards on duty accosted her. She neither wanted to submit to his attentions nor run the risk of drawing attention by calling out for help. She dealt with the leering man in the simple, effective way of driving one of her poisoned hairpins through his neck. Taking great care to draw the pin back out and making sure that she had left no tell-tale sign, she made her way to the room she shared with two other girls. In a place like Pragjya, drunken squabbles were common, and a dead soldier was not a matter for much comment.

  As the Kritya had expected, Bhagadatta did indeed dismiss the death of the nightwatch as being of no worth. However, in a rare act that strained his authority somewhat, the commandant of Bhagadatta’s personal guard sent for Govinda and Partha.

  Govinda had to take just one look at the already-darkened skin around the dead man’s puncture wound to know that the Kritya had done it. He mentioned nothing to Bhagadatta, and merely reminded the commandant to double the guards around the king’s quarters. He waved off the offers for more sentries around his and Partha’s chambers, and made his way back to the privacy of his room, a clearly irate Partha in tow.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell them? They could have hauled her out in moments and we’d be done with this.’ Partha challenged Govinda, the moment they were alone.

  Govinda didn’t reply, instead posing a question of his own. ‘What do you think it feels like, Partha? A life where you can’t know simple human touch, the most meagre of affections, because people fear you? Or, worse still, because you’re afraid of hurting them? How horrible it must be …’

  ‘Is that why you …? Oh Rudra! Come on, Govinda. She’s an assassin. She doesn’t deserve such compassion.’

  For a moment, Govinda thought to make some comment about Partha’s rather obvious, and perhaps excessive, proclivity for female companionship, but then decided against it.

  Oblivious, Partha went on, ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘She’ll be back tonight. I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Right. Will you kill her, or shall I?’

  Govinda’s eyes were cold as he declared, ‘I’ll take care of her.’

  18

  IT WAS WELL PAST MIDNIGHT WHEN THE KRITYA RETURNED TO Govinda’s room. The entire palace had settled into a deep stupor despite, or perhaps because of, the unexpected excitement the guard’s death had caused earlier that evening. Govinda woke up as she lit the single lamp that hung overhead, just off his bed. Smiling all the while, she pulled off her robes languorously, letting him get a good look at her naked form. Then she slipped into bed next to him.

  ‘Please,’ she whispered, letting her tongue lightly graze his ear, ‘please let me stay. Don’t tell me to go.’

  ‘Is that what you say to them all?’ Govinda asked her, his tone amused but undeniably scathing. He lay on his side, one arm tucked under his head.

  ‘Who am I to refuse orders …’ she said, tracing her fingers across the tattoo-like mark on his bare chest, before slowly wrapping her arm around him and sliding closer.

  Govinda did not stir. ‘Indeed,’ he said, ‘especially if you’ve been ordered to take pleasure in your quarry’s attentions.’

  ‘Don’t tease me,’ she pouted, feeling confident of her skills once more. ‘Which one of us is the hunter, and which one is the quarry? Women willingly become your prey at one look from you. What woman would turn down the attentions of Govinda Shauri, Commander of Dwaraka? Do you have any idea what’s said about you, what’s whispered among the courtesans and handmaidens? Every woman in the land longs to share your bed.’

  ‘I just hope you have some new lines for me, young lady. I’d feel sorry to know that you repeat yourself to every man.’

  ‘What do you take me for?’

  ‘For what you are …’ Govinda propped himself up on his elbows, still looking at her.

  ‘And what’s that? A prostitute, or a spy?’ she asked, with a flash of anger.

  He clucked his tongue in mild remonstration. ‘A person. Perhaps a prostitute, perhaps a spy … but that doesn’t make you more or less than what you are.’

  She gave him a cold look. ‘And is your sympathy, your false respect, supposed to warm my heart and make me melt? I don’t need it!’

  ‘No, you don’t. You carry all the warmth and respect you need inside you – it’s not something that I can give or take from you. And I must say, that’s really why I find you so attractive …’

  The woman sat up straight, not bothering to cover herself. Her voice was matter-of-fact, as she said, ‘You needn’t bother with the flattery. I don’t expect it like your other lovers might.’

  ‘What makes you think I flatter any of them? It would kill me to have to spout adjectives or endearments that I don’t really mean.’

  A peculiar look entered the woman’s eye, like a cat studying the lone sparrow. ‘You shouldn’t speak so flippantly of death. You never know, Yama – the Lord of Death – might be listening. It could hasten your end.’

  ‘The only way to speak of death is flippantly. Death is what makes life ironical – it eludes you when you want it the most, and seeks you out when you desire it the least. Perhaps, if we manage to perfect our longing for death, we may even become immortal …’

  Her perfectly arched eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘Why would someone like you long for death?’

  ‘Why do you desire life?’

  ‘Because, it’s what is around us. It is reality.’

  ‘So is death. Death is the only reality.’

  She pouted and said, ‘I hadn’t
taken you for such a dark, depressing person.’

  ‘And I hadn’t thought of you as a philosophical one.’

  ‘I’m a quick learner.’

  Govinda placed a gentle hand on her cheek and turned her face towards him. She gasped involuntarily as she looked into his eyes, losing herself in their darkness.

  ‘Well then, aren’t you going to finish what you came here for?’ he asked her.

  The Kritya’s hand instinctively curved into a clawed weapon and her shoulder twitched ever so slightly as her mind went through the motions. She could reach for the poisoned brooch on her robes or strike with her bare hands, letting her nails rip right through his flesh to sink into his heart. Better still, she could let him take her, pleasure her, before she sunk her teeth into his skin, drawing blood and letting her poison seep in. A flush of some new emotion – a pleasant shyness mixed with brazen excitement – ran through her at that thought. She preferred to kill quickly, not wasting time on unnecessary intimacies, but perhaps this once, she mused, the exception might be worth the effort.

  There was, of course, another choice.

  As if he knew what was running through her mind, Govinda gently took her hand by the wrist and brought it close to his lips. He laid a gentle whisper of a kiss on her palm before placing her hand over his heart. She could feel the strong, fearless beat against her fingers. A shiver ran down her spine.

  He knew. He knew exactly what she was, the excruciating death that lay ahead of him if she moved but one finger. But he neither feared nor loathed her.

  She whipped her hand back and drew in a sharp breath before taking hold of her senses. ‘No.’ She turned and slid off the bed, her hand outstretched for the robes on the floor. Govinda sat up, and in the same move caught her by the wrist, this time his grip stronger, more urgent.

  ‘Call it what you will,’ she said, turning around to face him, ‘but I’ve never killed a man who didn’t fear death or hate me for bringing him to it. I can’t kill you this way, not by sneaking into your bed and deceiving you. That’s something I reserve for indolent cowards … But, before you ask, I’m not going to tell you who sent me. If you want to call the guards and have me arrested, go ahead. Although, something tells me you won’t.’