Govinda (The Aryavarta Chronicles)

by Krishna Udayasankar

  Shikandin waited till he was sure she was gone. Muttering something about Kashi and women under his breath, he cast aside his armour and went to see about the hot bath the queen had suggested.

  It took another two weeks for the rebuilding of Kashi city to begin. Meanwhile, Govinda and Shikandin called upon the vassals of the kingdom to reaffirm allegiance to the new monarch, Sudakshin the Second, and pledge their greater loyalties to the empire.

  Govinda left the affairs of Kashi city to Shikandin’s care, while he spent his time negotiating and dealing with the many saamantas, rallying the smaller chieftains to the cause of a united Aryavarta. Though he had lost none of his charm or fervour while playing the role of diplomat, Govinda was clearly more muted in private. At some point, Shikandin let his concern show.

  ‘I’m tired,’ Govinda countered. ‘Frankly, I can’t wait to get back to Indr-prastha and be done with this!’

  ‘Is that all, Govinda?’ Shikandin pointedly asked.

  Govinda thought hard before he resolutely declared, ‘Yes, that’s all, Shikandin. I don’t have the time or the energy to waste on irrational emotions. All that was done, every life and every death, was a calculated and well-merited sacrifice. There’s no need to mourn for any of them. I’m just tired, that’s all.’

  Shikandin did not press his friend any further and kept his opinions to himself. After that conversation, Govinda was completely his usual self. The two men spent a few more days instructing the young Sudakshin and his mother in the many matters that were left to handle before finally setting out for Indr-prastha.

  ‘Thank you,’ the queen softly told Shikandin as he said his farewell. ‘You’ve done so much for our people that we’re all indebted to you. But, remember, this doesn’t change anything between us.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have it any other way, Mahamatra,’ Shikandin riposted. He swung on to his horse and with a graceful bow of goodbye rode away to join Govinda.

  ‘That’s one romance I never did expect from you, Shikandin,’ Govinda teased him as they set out at the head of their forces.

  ‘More like a non-romance, don’t you think?’

  ‘Passion is passion. Don’t you think?’

  Shikandin shrugged. ‘Well, what can I say …? The women of this city find a way to claim my very soul! I suppose there’s something to be said for them, after all.’

  ‘Right. Will you tell Panchali that, or shall I?’

  The two men broke into a loud, raucous, laugh that sent a wave of mirth through the army as a whole. Soon, marching songs ran up and down the ranks and the men set a brisk pace of their own accord. Hearts filled and content, the armies marched back home under the shade of blossoming spring trees, along verdant, harvest-laden fields. The imperial campaign was over. Aryavarta was one, a vast empire poised to reach the pinnacle of its power and prosperity.

  For the moment, though, their pleasures were simpler. They were going home.

  26

  TEN YEARS AND A MONTH SINCE DHARMA AND GOVINDA HAD sat together, the dream of an empire between them – and now, it was time.

  The day of the imperial coronation turned out to be inappropriately overcast. An irritatingly soft, persistent drizzle had started sometime during the night and continued past an unnoticed dawn. The weather, however, did little to dampen the spirit of revelry that ran through the entire city of Indr-prastha, culminating at the newly constructed coronation hall – a mighty rectangular structure with high ceilings and huge, intricately carved pillars of marble and stone that ran around its vast periphery. Its walls were a translucent white, finished with crystals. Just as it seemed that their starkness was tiring, one saw the delicate gold trim that had been embossed into the surface. Small fountains dotted the extent of the hall in what appeared to be a purposively asymmetrical arrangement. Some of these were set into the floor itself, spurting up suddenly to surprise and amuse the unknowing guest. In the middle of that awe-inspiring grandeur, a sacrificial fire crackled in jubilation. The rhythm of chanting rose and fell, mingling with the hum of conversation among the thousands of vassals, spectators and guests seated around the hall.

  For months now, preparations had been on to ensure that the guests had every comfort imaginable. Everyone who was attending the ceremony, from king to commoner, was housed in luxury and fed the finest feasts. Wine flowed freely at all times of night and day. Musical performances and entertainment of various sorts had been arranged for, and not a moment passed without the sounds of laughter and merriment emanating from some or the other corner of Indr-prastha.

  Meanwhile, scholars and sages from the length and breadth of Aryavarta had arrived to invoke the gods to bless the new empire. Presided over by Dwaipayana Vyasa, his son Suka and the royal priest Dhaumya at his assistance, the sages sat around the six massive sacrificial fires that roared high in the huge coronation hall. The sound of their chanting filled the air, drowning out the excited hum of conversation from the assembled guests.

  This was the day they had all been waiting for, this was the pinnacle of all revelry and ritual. In a short while, Dharma Yudhisthir, aspirant Emperor of Aryavarta, would call on the kings of the land to offer him their allegiance and accept his reign. One by one, each of the Aryas would come forward to swear their allegiance by accepting Dharma’s offering of the arghya – a fragrant paste of sandalwood, incense and gold.

  Syoddhan smiled to himself as he recalled the pleasant smell of the paste, the way it felt cool and sent a pleasant tingle through his fingers. He knew he had been marked with the sacred arghya when he was born. But the last, no, the only time he had touched it had been at Dharma’s investiture as crown prince of Kuru all those years ago. And now he would do so again at Dharma’s coronation as Emperor of Aryavarta. To his surprise, the thought of bowing to Dharma irked him more now than it had back then. Perhaps, he mused, it was because he understood what the arghya meant to him, to them all. It was considered the mark of the gods themselves and was the ultimate symbol of overlordship that kings and preceptors, the best of the best, alone were permitted to sport.

  There was something primal about the moment one bowed before the vessel containing the arghya, the way one filled one’s hands with the sacred substance, relishing its smell and texture. Then followed the savage smear across one’s forehead, the surrender to a symbol – not of man, but of the gods and of their noble way of life. The arghya was the very blood-and-marrow of being Arya. It was what gave meaning to the empire – life on earth as a mirror to the order of the heavens, to Indra’s dominion. It was from this sanctity that every one of them derived his identity, such that Aryavarta became heaven on earth. And now, Syoddhan admitted with a frown, it would give legitimacy to Dharma’s supremacy, his empire.

  Syoddhan knew that at least a part of his muted anger was nothing but festered regret. When the imperial campaign had started, he had thought it but an exercise in Dharma’s vanity, a futile endeavour that was better ignored than envied. Now he wished he had shown more ambition, after all. Instead, all he had done these past years was to watch, silent, when with the support he had rallied he could have risen to become …

  No! Syoddhan stopped himself on the brink of what he knew was a very dark, angry path; one he had seen his father traverse. It held nothing but pain; worse, pain disguised as redemption, the promise of relief. It was not a road he wished to walk, no matter what lay at the end of it. Firmly, Syoddhan reminded himself of all the factors he had considered and weighed, nearly a decade ago, when he had watched Dharma’s armies march through Hastina. The choice had been his, and he had made it. For better or worse, he had chosen to support Dharma. There was no point in hating anyone, including himself, for that choice.

  Breathing hard, he returned his attention to his surroundings. He stood in the huge, airy corridor that lay between the coronation hall and the new assembly hall that had been built as its twin. The entire length of the corridor was set with huge vaulted windows – or were they doors – on one side. On the other
ran an unbroken wall, decorated with the most intricate patterns of creepers, birds and flowers, which came together seamlessly in the centre to form part of a gold and silver inlaid depiction of the legendary battle of the celestial Indra against the demon Vrtra. Along the middle of the corridor, and running its entire length, water flowed through a sunken pool that was more than a few feet wide. Syoddhan sighed softly, enjoying the soothing cadence of the running water. Unlike the hall, the corridor was empty and for that he was thankful. He needed to be away from the noise and the crowd for a few moments.

  Syoddhan sauntered along the edge of the pool, casually admiring the stonework on the walls till he reached the fountain at the centre of the hallway. Here the pool widened to occupy the complete width of the corridor, effectively bifurcating the passage in two. He considered the fountain with interest. Out of the base of the feature rose the sculpture of a tree made of marble and inlaid with gems. Emeralds were set as leaves, and rubies and yellow sapphires as fruits. The fountain drenched the tree in a perpetual rain-like shower, the water trickling musically off the gems to fall back into the pond. This was a constant in the architecture of Indr-prastha, he noted – there were fountains everywhere and twice as many in the twin halls. This one, he found, surpassed them all.

  Just the other day he had been standing in the same place wondering how to get across without getting his robes wet, when Panchali had happened to find him there. She had laughed softly at his predicament and explained, ‘It’s not all water. The water flows only along the edges of the pool and around the tree. The rest of it is crystal, cut to convey the effect of water. It is difficult to tell the difference.’

  Syoddhan had been genuinely amazed at the craftsmanship and had spent a pleasant while discussing that and many other things of note about Indr-prastha with Panchali. Somehow, the thought of her as Empress irked him less than did the idea of Dharma as Emperor.

  ‘They’re assembling, Your Highness,’ an attendant intruded on his thoughts.

  Slowly, almost reluctantly, Syoddhan nodded at the man, who scurried off to find others to notify. With a last look at the fountain, he turned and made his way back to the coronation hall. Syoddhan looked around the congregation and walked over to a group of men who stood together, conversing.

  ‘Ah! There you are, Syoddhan,’ Vasusena greeted him. ‘Come, I suppose it’s time to go see the theatricals … It’s a farce, this empire!’

  ‘Well said!’ Shisupala added. ‘It surprises me that the coronation is such a grand one. Surely, Dharma knows that this is an empire in name and not in fact. Look around you. I, you, King Saubha here, Syoddhan … it’s the likes of us who form the true might of Aryavarta and we’ve deferred to Dharma’s reign as a matter of respect and goodwill. It’s not as if he defeated any of us … he requested our assent, and we gave it. He can’t presume that assent also includes allegiance!’

  ‘My dear Shisupala, what difference does it make what you call it? Would anyone dare oppose Dharma even if the cause arose? In fact, it seems every cause under the sun has been abandoned – no one has questioned the shameful way in which Jarasandha was killed. Perhaps there was no affection lost for the former king of Magadha, but what bothers me is that tomorrow his fate may well be ours. I’d hate to think that such dishonourable conduct is beyond reproach,’ Vasusena finished.

  Syoddhan laid a gentle hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘Dishonourable action is never beyond reproach, my friend. What does any Arya have at the end of his life but his honour? An honourable life and a valiant death! No, honour can’t be forsaken, no matter who it is we must oppose to preserve it.’

  The fifth man, who had stood for so long on the fringes of the group listening politely, now softly intervened, ‘Ah, Prince, in you runs the true blood of the line of Pururavas. Your right equals that of the Emperor-designate. Indeed, one could argue that yours is the greater claim. Your father is the rightful king of the Kurus, the monarch who sits on Emperor Hastin’s throne. Your grandfather Dwaipayana and your grand-uncle Bhisma love you no less than they do your cousin. But, sadly, they remain prisoners of politics. My station precludes me from calling it a shame, but I will nevertheless impose on our childhood familiarity to deem it exactly that …’ He looked resignedly in Dharma’s direction.

  ‘Sanjaya!’ Syoddhan chided.

  Sanjaya immediately bowed. ‘My apologies. I’m clearly not myself today. Of course, the Grandsire and the Vyasa would do right by you. The First Honour at today’s ceremony will surely be yours. You alone have the right to touch the sacred arghya before any other man here.’

  ‘I should expect so!’ Vasusena added. ‘Is there another here who can stake claim to it?’

  ‘There are many, my friend,’ Syoddhan pointed out with a smile. ‘The Vyasa himself, for one. For years now, across all of Aryavarta, wherever First Honour has been shown the recipient has been Dwaipayana or, with his blessings, the Grandsire Bhisma. Then there’s Acharya Dron, who was teacher to us all. King Dhrupad – the eldest of the Panchalas. Don’t forget that they’re as old and respected a line as the Kurus.’

  Sanjaya said, ‘Age is just one part of it. The First Honour is a rare accolade, given only to those of exceptional valour, scholarship and nobility. Men defeated even once in battle, or those of low birth cannot aspire to it. I’ve heard,’ he lowered his voice slightly, ‘that even the former Emperor was refused the honour by the noble Firstborn seers.’

  ‘That’s rot!’ Vasusena bristled. ‘The First Honour always goes to the most influential man, irrespective of status, nobility, valour and that sort of thing. Military and financial might both lie in the hands of a few. And right now they lie dominantly in our hands, a fact Dharma would do well to keep in mind.’

  ‘Surely, the Vyasa knows …’

  ‘The Vyasa may or may not know, Sanjaya. Isn’t what’s happening around us proof of it all? Or have you forgotten what I said but moments ago, you two-faced muhira!’

  ‘I do remember, and I beg your forgiveness for offending you. But I remain loyal to my liege and my teacher both, and I speak here of an offence against the one but not necessarily an offence by the other. There are others present at this coronation, those with great power and whom we have much cause to dislike … for more reasons than one.’ With another bow and an inciting look that said much he walked away, blending quickly into the endless mass of royal glitter and finery that now filled the hall.

  The others of the group too slowly dispersed, relieved at having expressed their displeasure but still burdened by their helplessness in the circumstances. One, however, stood lost in his thoughts.

  ‘What is it?’ Syoddhan asked, wrapping an arm around his friend’s shoulder.

  Shisupala pensively regarded Syoddhan. ‘He’s right you know … Sanjaya’s right,’ he began.

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘This isn’t just about you, your cousin, or the Vyasa. There is another here, one who has done much to bring this to pass. Someone whom we have, as Sanjaya says, more than one reason to dislike.’

  Syoddhan sighed, a little tired of the veiled statements, the underlying discontent and intrigue. A while ago, standing by the crystal fountain, he had felt light-hearted and joyful at the thought of the Empire, the unification of these lands. Now, it was back to the same, tired resignation that he tended to associate with the royal court of Hastina. ‘What do you mean, Shisupala?’ he asked, reluctant.

  Shisupala said, ‘There’s an old legend back in the forests of Chedi–Surasena. It tells of how the Firewrights had the craft to cleave through rock and stone. Both the Danavas and the Nagas inherited their skills from the Wright scholars of old. The Danavas learnt how to fashion rock into brick and tower to build, and the Naga sacquired the skills to burrow through the very mountains. Strange, isn’t it, that all it would take is such a tunnel through the Western Mountains for Dwaraka’s armies to reach Vidharbha in less than a night?

  ‘And who in this day and age could build such a tunnel? My dear
friend, for all the talk of love and romance, the fact remains that Govinda Shauri could very well have planned the whole affair. There’s nothing astounding about what happened at Vidharbha, if we’re willing to admit we were outfoxed. Dwaraka’s armies must have left some days earlier, sailed along the coast and somehow rounded the northern end of the Western Mountains. Or the yadus might have found the tunnel of old but kept it a secret. But to think that they could have carved a tunnel through sheer rock …? The Western Mountains are both broad and impregnable!’

  Shisupala’s voice was soft as he said, ‘As were the mountains of Kandava, the rock and stone that once stood in this very place … Perhaps, my friend, a kernel of truth lies hidden in the most absurd of tales?’

  ‘Shisupala …’ Syoddhan looked at his friend askance.

  ‘They also say the Danavas helped build Dwaraka. Even helped design Indr-prastha, if rumour is to be believed …’

  Syoddhan gradually understood where this was leading and even the mere suspicion made him feel uneasy. He shook his head in an attempt at denial. ‘Dwaipayana … he would never allow it. You remember how he maligned Jarasandha’s name by saying he harboured Firewright magicians? How then could he approve of Dharma’s actions if …?’ He glanced at the largest of the six ritual fires, at which the Vyasa sat officiating as chief priest.

  Shisupala appeared not to have heard. His eyes rested on a figure that stood laughing and bantering with a group of Yadu chiefs and nobles.

  ‘Look at him,’ he hissed, contemptuous. ‘Look at that cowherd strutting around as if he were one of us! I first saw him when he was about seventeen. I was the same age. He looked every bit the lowly commoner he really is. And now? Does no one see what I see, Syoddhan? Or have we all become wilfully blind because all we care about is ourselves, our thrones and kingdoms, and our greed. Won’t anyone ask how a man can come to this, how he can build a veritable empire, if the very demons of the earth haven’t become his slaves? Hai! Even your Vyasa … even he makes his peace with the evil Govinda is, just to see his grandson on the imperial throne. The blood of Varuna and Pururavas have indeed both failed!’