The Aryavarta Chronicles Book 03: Kurukshetra

by Krishna Udayasankar

  A dazed survivor, a man who wandered through the destruction, covered unrecognizably in blood that was not his, pointed wordlessly to the centre of the camp, in the direction of a partly burnt tent. Shikandin’s tent.

  As one, Govinda as his companions began to run in its direction. Their eyes first fell on Subadra, slumped in the shade of a collapsed canopy. Partha cried out and ran to her, falling to his knees by her side. The others paused to look at each other with dread, and followed. As they neared the tent, as one, they staggered back. The sight that greeted them was worse than anything they had feared or imagined. Despite all the battle and devastation they had seen these past days, nothing compared to what they now felt, the sense of futility and resignation, the hopelessness at the thought that it was not yet over and perhaps could never truly end.

  Bhim took one step, and another, before collapsing to his knees where he stood. Sadev began to weep. A ghostly pallor spread over Panchali’s face. She swayed, unsteady on her feet. Govinda caught her just in time. She buried her face in his chest, and her body shook with silent sobs. Dharma retched, Yuyudhana let out a horrified shout, and each one of them let their pain take them, as it inevitably would. At length, knowing that they had no choice but to face the travesty that lay ahead, the companions went forward, the story Bhim leaning on Nakul and Sadev for support.

  They entered the tent, or what remained of it, to find Dhaumya was already dosing Subadra with his calming potion. Uttara sat cross-legged and tall in a corner of the tent, as though she ruled over the situation, her stance conveying her apparent cognition of the devastation around her. Yet, her empty, uncomprehending gaze was enough to terrify the onlookers. Nearby were the dead

  Yudhamanyu and Uttamaujas had greeted their end together, fighting and falling side by side as brothers. Their open eyes seemed to hold regret, not only for the life as yet not lived as brothers, but also for the past spent in fraternal strife. The two men had clearly been trying to defend young Kshatradharman, their rent skin and gash-covered bodies evidence of their futile valour. Uttamaujas had died wielding his father’s sword; the Panchala emblem on the hilt was now crusted with the forester’s dried blood.

  Kshatradharman had been more fortunate. Dying in a drugged sleep, he had passed blissfully into the end he had not foreseen. An intricately crafted silver-white dagger ran through his heart, impaling his innocence in the chair he had fallen against. His eyes were closed, and he remained unaware of the depredation, of the depths of human madness that had been on display around him.

  Not too far away lay Dhrstyadymn’s corpse, clean and bloodless. His face was swollen and grotesque, the bruises around his neck a sign that the assailant had strangled the strong warrior to death with bare hands. None who looked upon his lifeless form could help but be saddened and terrified by the thought that the commander of their forces, a tried and tested warrior, could have been so overcome.

  And then there was Shikandin. A gash ran across his chiseled features, splitting his skull into two. The blood had drained out the back of his skull to pool under him, drenching his clothes. His face was pallid, the flesh a lifeless, leathery cover over white bone. Yet, he was inexplicably content in his expression, and his long fingers lay over his heart as though he had died holding in it a cherished thought.

  None of the living spoke, lacking utterly the words to frame their rage and grief, or the strength to mourn their loss.

  ‘Who?’ Partha finally asked, through clenched teeth.

  Dhaumya pointed to the knife in Kshatradharman’s chest. ‘Asvattama. I suspect Kritavarman and Kripa aided him. They must have poisoned the water, or set a toxin in the air. The soldiers, and your remaining sons, your kinsmen and allies…they died without offering much resistance… But these men…’ He nodded at the corpses, ‘This wasn’t the work of a man. Only a fiend could have done this.’

  4

  ASVATTAMA WATCHED AS THE BLOOD WASHED OFF HIM, SPREADING into the water in dark, oily circles.

  Every day for the past week, he had bathed in this river, the cold, tempestuous waters that ran past the Firstborn hermitage that was home to the Vyasa. Every day, it seemed to go still at his very touch, as though it had lost the will to flow. Every day, he tried to stay under the surface, hoping the cool waters would soothe his battered soul; that he would never have to resurface. And every day he watched as in his mind’s eye Shikandin’s blood and the blood of the helpless young Kshatradharman drained off his body.

  The first time he had waded into the river, Asvattama had stayed in the water for so long that he had nearly frozen – until the Secret Keeper had bodily pulled him out. After that it was the Secret Keeper who greeted Asvattama every morning. He walked with the warrior to the river and sat by its banks for as long as Asvattama stood in its waters. He brought Asvattama his food and clothing, as though he were some menial or a new acolyte, and kept him company as the warrior stared at the night sky, unable to sleep.

  On the third day, Asvattama had come out of his hutment and sat silently with the others as they offered their prayers and went through their studies and rituals for the day. The same night, as the Secret Keeper had seen Asvattama to his lodging, the warrior had spoken for the first time since his arrival at the hermitage. He had handed over all his weapons to the scholar and said, ‘I don’t need these anymore.’ The Secret Keeper had taken the offered weapons without a word.

  As soon as they had left his keeping, Asvattama had stood taller, as though a heavy burden had lifted off him. He had said, without prelude, ‘Did you know?’

  ‘What is it you speak of, Asvattama? There are many things I did not know, but now see and understand. It has taken innumerable deaths, and one above all, to bring me to this. The same blood that you try to clean yourself of stains my conscience. You knew it would and that is why you came here – to me. Maybe, if I had seen what it was that Govinda had meant to do… No, let me restate that. I had seen it all along, but for a while there I could not accept it, I could not trust him, not enough.’

  ‘Do you not wonder, Acharya, why he did not tell you? Why he did not explain?’

  The Secret Keeper had appeared uncomfortable but admitted, ‘Because I wouldn’t have agreed with him..’

  ‘And now? Do you still not agree?’

  ‘Now it makes no difference. It is done. The inexorable turn of the eternal wheel has brought us to this. It is time for the people of this realm to make their own destiny.’

  After that conversation, Asvattama had become one of the scholars at the hermitage, performing chores and saying prayers like any other acolyte. He was no longer Asvattama the unvanquished warrior, or Asvattama, Firstborn faithful and Firewright traitor. He was merely a man.

  A condemned man.

  He glanced up as one of the young acolytes came running towards the river. ‘They…they’re coming.’

  With a sigh, Asvattama rose out of the water, slicking back his long hair. The thought of facing judgement made him weary and tired; the thought of facing death filled him with hope. Throwing a white robe around his wet torso, he made his way towards the edge of the hermitage, and watched as five figures dismounted a respectful distance away from the unmarked perimeter of the hermitage and made their way up the gentle slope of the hillock. Dharma, Bhim and Partha. And, of course, Asvattama observed, Panchali and Govinda.

  Chin raised, shoulders broad, Asvattama waited. At the sight of him, Partha sprang forward, shouting, ‘Why you whoring son of a jackal! I’ll flay you alive!’

  Bhim cursed and drew his sword.

  ‘Wait!’ Panchali’s voice rang out. The two men stopped where they were as Panchali went ahead. She and Asvattama studied each other for a while.

  Asvattama spoke first. ‘Will you forgive me, Panchali?’

  ‘It is what my brother would want. But the truth is, Asvattama, there’s nothing to forgive…’

  ‘I didn’t think I’d kill him, Panchali. I didn’t mean to. We both know what eventually had to happen, b
ut I did not mean for it to happen this way. I was so sure that Shikandin would kill me to protect his brother and his sons but… The next thing I knew, they were all dead. Everything was burning and I…I thought I’d gone mad… But when I came face to face with Uttara, I realized what I had done… I came to my senses before I could hurt her but I fear for her…’

  ‘Unborn child,’ Govinda completed. Around him, Dharma, Partha and the others started in surprise, but stopped as Govinda gave them a meaningful glance.

  Panchali reached out to squeeze Asvattama’s large hands. ‘Hush! This is not your fault. The pain of your loss is no less than mine. We have all done what we believed we must…my brother, included.’ She shivered, despite the pleasant, bracing climate.

  Asvattama nodded. ‘And now, Panchali, it is my turn to do what I must.’ He went down on one knee in front of the still-astonished Dharma. ‘I don’t deserve an honourable death. But I ask you in the name of my father, whom I was duty-bound to avenge, to give me a quick end. Please…’

  Bhim let out an eager breath, but Dharma waved him back as he moved his hand to his sword, the memory of their burning camp fresh his mind. He stopped as he felt Panchali’s fingers curl around his wrist.

  ‘Enough death, Dharma! Do you still not understand? Shikandin died, he let his brother, his sons die, so that nothing remained of Panchala’s royal past. He died so that we, the people, could make this choice for ourselves, and ourselves alone. He set us free.’

  Dharma did not respond. Bhim and Partha glared, incredulous. Panchali met their gaze, defying them to argue. It dawned on the two brothers that they had neither words nor thoughts left to spare.

  ‘It’s over now, isn’t it?’ Dharma turned to Govinda, tentative. ‘We came here to find Asvattama and we have. It’s over now…’

  All Govinda said was, ‘Come with me.’

  Handsome and undeniably radiant, Sukadeva Vashishta Varuni, son of Dwaipayana and the new Vyasa of the Firstborn, towered over the gathered scholars from where he was seated, on a dais under a blossom-laden tree in the small, square clearing that was the heart of the hermitage. The mild sun of the White Mountains beamed through its canopy to cocoon the entire clearing in a gold-green glow. His father, Dwaipayana, was seated next to him, and the acolytes and other residents of the hermitage were gathered around them in a blissful equanimity that was characteristic of this, the most lauded hermitage in all of Aryavarta and the oldest home of the Firstborn.

  Yet, even here bliss was fleeting, for at the sight of Govinda and his companions, Dwaipayana clenched his frail, emaciated fingers into fists. He looked as though he were about to speak but decided against it, and his accusatory eyes moved to rest on Govinda alone.

  In response, Govinda raised his eyebrows, the gesture clearly a question.

  With a sob, the old scholar let his shoulders droop. ‘I am told a child was killed. A child! Was that worth it, Govinda? Is there no justice anymore; no divinity worth bowing to? The blessed ones of old spoke of yajna – sacrifice – as the most noble act an Arya could ever hope for. But yajna was more than a ritual offering or a materialistic exchange for favours from the gods. It was an act of self-denial that resulted in piety and preserved Divine Order. What happened to the Divine, Govinda?’

  Govinda said, ‘The limitation lies not in our language, but in our minds. Yajna is nothing but the transformation of the self. It is giving something up, yes; for one has to give up ignorance, fear and prejudice. And when we act as one, as this living organism called society, humanity –we are nothing less than the force of the eternal Universe, a playful Primordial Being. If only I could explain to you what a joy it is to wake up from this dream-like state of illusion, then you might see why we fell asleep in the first place…’

  Govinda knelt down in front of Dwaipayana and placed his hands on the old man’s shoulders, as he would with a grandfather he loved. ‘Why is it so difficult to believe in yourself?’ he asked. ‘Day follows night, and we wouldn’t know one without the other. Why must things always be complicated or simple; the truth is they are both. We are both! Can’t you see who you really are…?’

  It appeared to those gathered that the man they saw was not a middle-aged warrior, but a child of six or seven years, his chubby cheeks flushed with excitement, and large, round eyes wide with wonder and joy as he saw the beauty of existence. The world, it seemed– no – the Universe had come alive in Govinda’s eyes.

  Dwaipayana gaped, ecstatic. ‘Who are you, Govinda?’ he asked, his eyes brimming, ‘Who are you?’

  Govinda’s reply was to throw his head back and laugh. In the silence that followed, each one found the answer to Dwaipayana’s question in their own way.

  Dharma spoke, confessing: ‘I now understand the riddle that is you, Govinda,’ he said, ‘though I still do not know the solution to it. But I can now see the purpose of your words and your actions all these years. The point of the war, the point of it all was not to make me and my heirs rulers in perpetuity. My role now is to hold this title in trust for the true emperors and empresses of Aryavarta, till they are ready to stake claim on what has always been theirs. It has taken me long to understand that we – the kings of the realm – were meant to be nothing more than a means to an end… I do not fully know the story of how we usurped the role to become an end in ourselves, but I do not need to know. It is time we faced the future, not leaned on the past. It is time the people became their own sovereign. Is that not what you want, Govinda?’

  Govinda said, ‘It is not for me to want or not want, Dharma. Time has brought us to this pass. It is what we, the people, want. Isn’t that so, Acharya?’

  Suka’s voice held contentment and confidence. ‘Yes, Govinda.’

  5

  GOVINDA WAS ADAMANT. HE REFUSED TO GO WITH DHARMA AND his brothers on their new Imperial campaign – a campaign of peaceful conquest, whereby Dharma and his kin spread the idea of a future empire, united, and ruled by the people. Not all parts of the realm had welcomed them or the notion, but for those nations they had words of persuasion spoken by Krishna Dwaipayana Vyasa himself: Kali is upon us.

  For his part, Govinda openly admitted that after the Great War at Kurukshetra, conquest and peace had taken on very different meanings in his mind, and he no longer really cared for Dharma’s temporary empire. Aryavarta, he proudly avowed, was already in the throes of change. Nothing could stop the wheels of Time.

  There was only one reason Govinda remained at Hastina, and that was to protect Uttara. Govinda had felt a lump in his throat as it dawned on him that Abhimanyu would live on through his son. But when he had seen Dharma and his brothers begin making their plans for the future, it had struck him with cold dread. He had thought out loud of Shikandin, of the Panchala prince’s painful solution to the final problem, and prayed that when the time came Dharma Yudhisthir would have the strength to let go of his past legacies.

  Panchali alone remained privy to his fears, but could not refrain from adding to them. ‘Devala Asita,’ she said. ‘Remember the night when Abhimanyu was born? We can’t run the risk of that happening all over again. Not to mention, we don’t know how the poison at our camp site may have affected her…’

  Despite the reports from spies that Devala had long left Aryavarta, Govinda had agreed with her. They had to protect Uttara. Together, he, Panchali and the now-recovered Subadra watched over the girl right till she went into labour.

  The young mother-to-be smiled at Govinda. ‘I hope he looks like you…’ she said.

  ‘And I, on the other hand, hope he is handsome!’ Govinda said. ‘Take care of my daughter,’ he told Subadra with mock sternness, and left the room.

  The frenzied activity from inside the birthing chamber gave way to an ominous hush. Govinda let out a curse followed by a prayer. With a knock on the door, he made his way into the outer room. Panchali came out from the chamber, looking strained and grim.

  Govinda understood. ‘Oh Rudra! And Uttara?’ he asked.

  ‘S
he is…alive. I don’t know how to tell her.’

  ‘Govinda!’ Subadra rushed out holding an unmoving infant in her arms, Dhaumya right behind her. ‘Save him!’ Subadra thrust the child at him. ‘You’re a Wright. I’ve heard you speak of all that you’ve learnt from Ghora, and I’ve kept your confidence all these years. Save him, Govinda!’

  ‘Govinda?’ Uttara stumbled out of the inner chamber, uncaring of her bloodstained robe.

  The matrons bustled around her, ushering her into the room. To everyone’s surprise, she complied without protest. Govinda could hear her voice as she told the nursemaids, ‘I’ll sleep now. My husband trusted Govinda Shauri, as do I. I am not afraid. I’ll sleep now. Wake me when my son needs me.’

  A nursemaid tried to explain to Uttara that her son was dead.

  ‘Dead?’ Uttara sounded far from upset. ‘It doesn’t matter. Govinda lives.’

  Outside, Subadra burst into tears. ‘Did you hear that? Did you hear that? What are you waiting for? Stop wasting time! Save him!’

  ‘I…’ Govinda looked at the stillborn infant. The boy’s resemblance to Abhimanyu was unmistakable. Like his father, the boy would no doubt grow to be a brave, strong, prince.

  An Arya. One of those who had ravaged these lands and harnessed its people into submission in the name of hierarchy and Divine Order. Yet another prince, like those who had died on the battlefield of Kurukshetra, those who were the backbone of the system Govinda had destroyed, despite the price he had paid for it.

  Govinda reached out with a trembling hand, willing himself to see that it would not end if somehow he could… No! I must pay the price too, as we all have.