The Aryavarta Chronicles Book 03: Kurukshetra

by Krishna Udayasankar

  ‘And do you think Dharma does otherwise?’ Syoddhan said. ‘He too, like us, has been preparing his armies and plotting his moves. The only reason Govinda Shauri comes here now is because he knows, whether Dharma does or not, that from this point on, time is not on their side. They are as prepared as they can ever be, and to wait any longer will be to their disadvantage and our advantage. He is the one determined to have this war.’

  ‘Are you not listening to me? Have you not heard a word I’ve just said?’ For a moment, Vidur sounded far more like his mighty half-brother Dhritarastra than his usual, soft-spoken self. He continued in the same tone, ‘This discussion is not about the viability of war, but about its morality.’

  Suka said, ‘If I may…Morality is a subtle thing. It would be immoral to not fight a war we are bound to win, just as it would be unthinkable that we not win a war when we fight to preserve Divine Order and our way of life. Surely, Vidur, you know that! Or does affection for Dharma and his brothers affect your judgement, that you call into question the Grandsire’s?’

  ‘Why you…!’

  In all his life, no one had ever heard Vidur speak a harsh word but the possibility that he might now do so threatened to prove Suka’s assertions of irrationality beyond all doubt. It was enough for Bhisma. ‘Vathu, Vidur! The acharya is right. There is no room for dispute. I will serve Syoddhan and this nation till my final breath, on the battlefield or in the assembly. We will prevail. Divine Order will prevail.’

  The categorical assertion drew many reactions, mostly of jubilation. The Grandsire’s declaration of loyalty gave Syoddhan both moral and martial advantage, a fact that was not lost on the others in the room, particularly Syoddhan’s numerous brothers. Dhritarastra fought back tears of joy, while Dussasan drew Syoddhan into a hearty embrace while spewing profanities meant for Dharma and his brothers. Shakuni gave the brooding Syoddhan a look of admiration.

  Bhisma did not miss the exchanges that filled the room, nor did he ignore the sense of foreboding that filled his heart. But he had no choice. Once, he too had placed his faith in Govinda Shauri; like Dwaipayana, he had believed that Govinda was one of them, one who understood what it meant to be Arya, to be noble. Now that Govinda had failed… He gave Syoddhan’s shoulder another squeeze and turned away to stare out of the window once again.

  From the corner of his eye, he noticed Dussasan draw Sanjaya into a hushed conversation, at the end of which Dussasan signalled to a figure that waited in the shadows, just outside the room. Bhisma did not turn to see who it was. He did not want to know. After all, he reminded himself, morality was a subtle thing.

  3

  GOVINDA SHAURI MOVED THROUGH THE THICKET WITH THE quiet grace of a wild animal, convinced that his quarry remained completely oblivious to his presence. He smiled to himself as he thought of how a similar trap had been the undoing of six enemy soldiers just three days ago. That affair had been bloody, and the enemy less difficult to deceive. His present object of pursuit, however, was of a different order, in more ways than one.

  Indeed, as he stepped into the empty clearing she said, without looking up from a sheaf of parchment that was covered with her neat, quick markings, ‘I was waiting for you, Govinda.’

  Govinda gave no indication of his original intent to surprise her. ‘Interesting lesson today?’ he began, walking over to where a large tree let its thick roots spread down a gentle slope towards the nearby river, to find her settled, as she often was, in the natural cradle at its base.

  ‘Very!’ the woman replied. ‘Did you know that the human heart is shaped like an inverted lotus? And that in the average person it is located precisely…’

  ‘Precisely…?’ Govinda prompted, sitting down next to her.

  ‘Well, as precise as one might get after you’ve cut open a hundred dead bodies, I suppose. But will you listen! The heart…’

  ‘And why would the average person find this interesting at all?’

  ‘It depends on what the average person wants, Govinda. This knowledge might save a life. Knowing exactly where the human heart is and how it works gives us a chance to help a weak heart function better, or even get a stopped heart to beat again.’

  ‘And so it is that the Firewrights will bring the dead back to life. Do you know how many times over the Firstborn would want to kill you for that idea? Life and death is the domain of divinity, of destiny, as far as they are concerned.’

  ‘And compassion is the domain of humanity. Besides, it’s not like the only use this information can be put to is to revive the dead. It can make one a better killer, it can help one design deadly weapons. I guess that’s also part of what the Firewrights do, isn’t it? In fact, that is what we are most likely to do. Perhaps we are better off hunted down and destroyed.’

  The statement made Govinda frown. ‘You shouldn’t say such things out aloud, little one.’

  ‘Oh, come on. It’s just the two of us here. Stop being such a diplomat and speak your mind!’

  ‘My mind,’ Govinda turned back to jesting, ‘is even less interesting than my heart. But since you insist: You’re right. We are better off destroyed. Yet it’s only natural that we – I speak of the entire Order here – we act to survive, as every other creature does. But when the day comes it won’t be some external force that destroys us. We will end ourselves, little one, we will end ourselves because reason will dictate it. It is but a matter of time.’

  ‘If that is what you truly think,’ she said, ‘why did you bother to save the Yadus? Why not let them destroy each other through civil war? Why move them from Mathura to Dwaraka? And what of Garud’s people? Why did you save them? Why save anyone, Govinda? What is it about humanity that makes it worth doing all that you do?’

  Govinda sighed, exasperated. ‘Must we go over this again?’

  She turned to him and laid a hand over his. ‘Don’t save something because of what it is, Govinda, because you think it worth saving. Save it because of who you are. Let compassion guide you, not reason.’

  Govinda responded with a stubborn yet indulgent reticence. In response, she pouted, childlike. He studied her for a while, overcome with the desire to run his thumb over her lower lip. He fought that impulse and the others that followed as both reason and emotion clamoured to justify his giving in. She had been a child when he had first met her, but she was a woman now, an intelligent, strong-willed adult. Surely, it was not inappropriate to…?

  The question formed the answer: It was always inappropriate. She was the daughter of a man he considered his teacher, and the great-granddaughter of Ghora Angirasa, Secret Keeper of the Firewrights. It was, conventional morality decreed, treachery of the highest order to entertain such thoughts.

  As though she knew exactly what was running through his mind, she said, ‘Ah yes, the old objectification argument. I am …property… aren’t I? A thing in my father’s keeping to do with as he sees fit? For all your talk, Govinda, you see me the same way. Else…’

  ‘Else…?’

  ‘Never mind! As you rightly pointed out, what could anyone find interesting about the human heart?’

  Govinda laughed. The veiled meaning of her words seemed to him as obvious as the emotions she tried to hide. ‘Believe me,’ he said, pushing a windblown strand of her hair away from her dark cheeks, ‘I find nothing more interesting than your heart. But…’

  ‘But you’re afraid that you will break it, some day.’

  ‘Yes.’

  It was her turn to laugh. ‘You will, Govinda. You need to accept that, not fear it. You see, the more you break my heart, the more I will know that you care for me. Now come along; the Secret Keeper is waiting for his cowherd prince…or, should I say Commander? Come, he says he has much to discuss with us.’ She made to get up, but Govinda caught her wrist and leaned in close, feeling the quickening of her pulse, letting the smell of lotuses that was uniquely hers wash over him like life-giving rain. He breathed in deep. The fragrance filled him completely from the inside. And then he l
et go.

  ‘Commander? Commander, we are here.’

  Govinda Shauri looked up as the vehicle came to a stop. The memory of her fragrance faded, bringing him uncomfortably back to the present. For once, he had chosen to make the journey to Hastina in a carriage, rather than on horseback. Such symbolic gestures, he knew, were important when dealing with the formal, tradition-bound Kurus. To arrive on a stallion was to suggest virility and aggression whereas to amble in by horse-drawn carriage carried subtle suggestions of conciliation and diplomacy. As things stood, no gesture was too deferential, not after months of negotiation by the able and mild-mannered Acharya Dhaumya had failed.

  ‘Commander?’ Daruka, Govinda’s trusted captain, prompted again.

  ‘Thank you,’ Govinda said. He got out of the carriage, bracing himself against the gust of wind that hit him. Daruka dismounted from his seat as driver and wrapped a cloak around him.

  Govinda smiled at the man and said, offhand, ‘By the way, you really should stop calling me that, you know. I’m no longer Commander of Dwaraka’s armies.’

  ‘You’ll always be my commander, Commander,’ Daruka insisted, a smile playing on his lips. Then he said, his voice more serious, ‘But there are also times when you will simply be Govinda, the young, rebellious gwala I met… By Rudra! Has it been so long?’

  ‘It has,’ Govinda said, shrugging to settle the cloak closer around him. ‘And you’ve stood by me through much, in all these years. But what lies ahead…’ Govinda stared hard at the looming outline of the palace of Hastina, but his expression eased as he caught sight of an approaching figure. ‘Well, Uncle?’ he addressed the newcomer. ‘What news? Or will you say that your allegiance to the Kurus prevents you from telling me?’

  Vidur walked up to the carriage to greet Govinda with an embrace, but his mind was clearly on other things. ‘There is nothing that you won’t find out for yourself in a few moments, Govinda, so I might as well tell you.’

  Govinda laughed. ‘Let’s get the obvious out of the way first, shall we? I suppose by now Bhisma Devavrata has decided on his stand?’

  ‘Yes. He favours Syoddhan.’

  ‘That is hardly unexpected. The Grandsire, Acharya Dron, Vasusena of Anga, Jayadrath…their choice of allegiance to Syoddhan was never in question. What remains to be tested, however, is the strength of their influence; particularly Bhisma’s influence over Dhrupad of Panchala.’

  ‘And your brother’s loyalty? Does that also remain to be tested?’

  ‘Balabadra? What about him?’

  ‘Perhaps it is despite him, rather than because of him,’ Vidur said, ‘but your Federation has made its choice. Dwaraka will stand by Syoddhan. Kritavarman arrived last night bearing the news. You must understand your brother’s decision, Govinda. He believes that your actions have condemned your people… He fears for them, as any good leader should.’

  ‘I understand,’ Govinda said, glancing at a resigned Daruka. ‘Dwaraka aligns with Syoddhan for more than one reason – in the least only because he is the more powerful one. Unfortunately, that is all the more reason why I act. We see the world in terms of power and legitimacy, might and action. Such a world is doomed by its own inevitable oppressiveness. It will decay… But I digress,’ he finished, with a shake of his head.

  Vidur took the opportunity to add, ‘Kritavarman is not alone. Yuyudhana is here too. I could tell his heart is not in the Council’s decision, but as the current Commander of Dwaraka’s armies I suppose he has no choice. Also…’

  ‘Also?’

  ‘Philista, your…friend.’

  Govinda gazed into the distance as he asked, ‘Is she dead yet?’

  ‘Yes. Govinda, I…’

  Govinda raised a hand, cutting Vidur off. ‘Then there is nothing more to be said about her. Come, they must be waiting for us.’

  4

  A BARD HAD ONCE SAID OF HASTINA’S ASSEMBLY HALL THAT NONE could step into it without gasping in amazement, yet the true marvel lay in that no two people were ever amazed by the same thing. Indeed, it was claimed, there were so many things to look upon that one could hardly predict where the gaze would go: The great Elephant Throne that stood on a dais at the far end of the hall, the painted ceiling that, through high windows, took its colours from the changing sky outside, or the images of celestials, drawn to such lifelike proportions that it seemed Indra’s own assembly stared with awe at that of the Kurus. Jewel-bedecked seats, each of the one hundred thrones made for the Kuru princes included, gold-covered pillars with their ornamental statues, the bearing and might of the princes and warriors who occupied the space – the hall of the Kuru kings was breathtaking in its entirety, and over and over again in its details.

  Govinda’s eyes, however, rested on one thing alone: The pristine white marble floor.

  Here. Right here. Right where he stood. The stone that had been smeared with Panchali, Empress of Aryavarta’s blood when Dharma Yudhisthir had lost her as a stake at dice, and the entire assembly of noble Aryas had watched as Dussasan had dragged her in and made to strip her of the robe she wore. He imagined he saw the streaks of red where Panchali had lain, her menstrual blood staining flesh, cloth and the marble floor. What had she felt then, he wondered. Shame? No, though he knew that was what society, the system, demanded that she feel: ashamed at being exposed, ashamed of her womanhood. Indeed, that was why Dussasan had dragged her in that way, to dishonour her and thus, dishonour Dharma and his brothers, strip them of their masculinity.

  Despite the horror he felt, Govinda’s lips lifted in a private smile. Panchali, he knew, had felt everything but shame. Anger, defiance, possibly fear, but not shame. And now, standing here, he saw what she had seen: that like all else, she had been but a means to an end in a world that believed that as long as the ends remained justified so were the means. This fundamental principle, this irrevocable faith in the sanctity of the system, of Divine Order and its ultimate triumph had allowed numerous things to happen over the years: The Firstborn sanction of the Great Scourge; the Firewrights turning into power-mongers and peddlers of weapons, allowing men like Bhisma and those of his choosing to use, with the blessings of the Firstborn, Wright-made weapons to ensure the martial supremacy of the Kurus and their allies; at the same time, those born into the Firewright clan, such as the acharyas Dron, Kripa and Asvattama, abandoning their order to swear allegiance to the Firstborn simply in order to survive, no, not survive, but to thrive.

  These great elders had sat and watched as a woman, a human being, was lost and claimed as property, not because they did not find it reprehensible or discomforting. They had watched, silent, because that was the way of the world, of Divine Order. Because the ends justified the means. Sacrifice an individual for a family, a family for a village, and a village for a nation… A trade Govinda had always considered worthy till Panchali, an individual, had stood larger than an empire and called into question the very principle he had lived by. Till compassion had taught him what reason had not: the system must be worth the sacrifice. And a system that could not protect those it was meant to serve was a failure.

  Drawing himself out of his reverie, Govinda faced the packed assembly with determined eyes. The hall held all the expected occupants: Vasusena, Asvattama, Acharyas Dron and Kripa, King Jayadrath, as well as emissaries and representatives from Syoddhan’s newfound allies. Sanjaya had taken his usual position of influence, standing behind Syoddhan’s throne. Though it was not totally unexpected, it still came as a mild surprise to Govinda to see Devala Asita openly at Sanjaya’s side.

  In keeping with tradition, a whole upper corridor of the assembly hall was filled with ochre-clad figures – the large group of Firstborn scholar-seers, from acolyte to elder, who oversaw and maintained the great library of Hastina. Govinda did not miss the near-inconspicuous presence of Suka, Dwaipayana’s spiritual heir, nor did he fail to see how the Firstborn strove to maintain the semblance of an apolitical stance. Suka could have, by all rights, occupied a throne in the main a
ssembly area, and that too in a position of importance comparable to Acharyas Dron and Kripa. But he did not. It was, to Govinda, the ultimate proof that the Firstborn had no intention of being apolitical at all.

  His cumbersome arrival in a chariot rig, the preceding messages of conciliation and the need for diplomacy all forgotten, Govinda let the hard anger he felt come through as sarcasm. ‘Well, well,’ he began. ‘You’re all early risers, I see. Is that a matter of habit, or have I merited your special welcome? In any case, morning greetings to you all.’

  It was the utter lack of reaction on Syoddhan’s part that made Govinda turn, just in time. Even as he moved, his Yadu kinsmen, Kritavarman and Yuyudhana, leapt to his side, but they were too late.

  The attack was a well-planned one, in both a strategic and a political sense. Many things happened at once. In a seemingly innocent move, the omnipresent serving girls who plied food and drink on the assembly clustered in a group right behind Govinda, effectively shielding Syoddhan, Dhritarastra and others of importance in the assembly. At the same time, one of the handmaidens dropped her wine-cask, apparently in shock, and a viscous liquid that certainly was not wine snaked its way across the floor, providing a further barrier. To allow oneself to be distracted by these small events would prove fatal, for the true danger came from the other direction.

  A sudden throng burst in through the main doorway and surged forward. At first sight, it gave the impression of a mob of angry commoners, a fact strengthened by their chants, both those affirming Syoddhan’s rule over Hastina and Aryavarta as well as those calling for the death of the traitor, Govinda Shauri. But a little attention revealed that the chants sounded rehearsed, and that the members of the mob were far too organized and well-armed to be anything but soldiers.