‘If a woman is truly your equal, prince,’ she had said, ‘then there is no need to talk about it. The more you spout these declarations and postulates, the more you reveal the truth of the matter – that in your world, women are not equal to men, and so rhetoric to the contrary is required.’
It had also astonished Abhimanyu to find that Uttara preferred his mother Subadra’s company more than she did Panchali’s. He had thought that Panchali and Uttara had more in common, given their outspoken nature and their battle-training, but Uttara seemed more comfortable with the demure and feminine Subadra. When Abhimanyu had questioned Uttara about this, he had been rewarded, not with a rant but with an equally critical explanation: ‘Subadra made a choice. A free choice to be as she wishes, as aligns with her nature. Panchali – don’t get me wrong, she is an admirable woman – but I suspect in her youth a lot of her behaviour and mannerisms came from the need to show herself as a man’s equal.’ Uttara had laughed at herself and admitted, ‘See how difficult it is to talk of such things in a language, a way of thinking, that defines how we are. I, who hold to such views, must talk of Subadra as feminine and Panchali as masculine, to distinguish their behaviours. How can we change a system when we remain inside it?’
The question had been rhetorical, but had spun another one in Abhimanyu’s mind, and yet another after that, till he was left with the ultimate doubt of them all: How could Govinda, how could anyone, change a system that they were already a part of, and yet remain within its bounds?
Lost in thought, Abhimanyu did not notice the man hidden in the thicket or the arrow that left his bow. He reacted with the instinct of training to the twang of the bowstring, but it was already too late to counter the shaft that came at him. Before he could do anything further, a strong body hurtled towards him, pushing him into cover in a rough but effective way.
‘The arrow would have hurt less,’ he grumbled. Uttara did not bother to retort; she was already back on her feet, bow drawn, arrow notched, ready to engage with the man who had shot at them. But she did not. Guessing the reason for her inaction, Abhimanyu stood up, his bare hands held up in a sign of submission. ‘We come in peace!’ he called out. Uttara stayed as she was, waiting for a response from their attacker. They remained that way for a few tense moments, Abhimanyu not daring to move, not even to wipe the sweat that ran off his forehead and into his eyes. At last, a voice from behind the trees called out a command to lower all weapons and move into plain sight.
Over twenty Rikshasas – forest-dwellers – mostly men but a few women also among them, came out from the cover of the jungle, their bows down but with arrows still set to the string. The sight was an impressive one, all the more so for the horned headgear that each soldier wore. Dark streaks of some oily substance, applied in a pattern that the couple could not readily identify, covered the warriors’ faces and arms. Bright jungle fowl feathers and simple wooden beads made for jewellery as well as decorations for their slim wooden bows. But it was the man who now joined the forest warriors who completely took their breath away.
He was tall by any reckoning and appeared more gigantic for the way he emerged through the morning mist. Slender but well-built and broad, the man moved with the lithe grace of a jungle creature, his dark, shining skin rippling with the strength of his muscles. Of his face there was little to see but white teeth that shone through a wide grin and his head, round and smooth as an overturned pot.
The man spoke, revealing himself as the command voice that had called off the imminent attack: ‘Strangers don’t come in peace to these lands, without reason. They are either desperate or ambitious, usually both, to risk encountering us Rikshasas. Do you know what they say about us, in the land of our neighbours, the Kurus?’
Abhimanyu said, ‘They call you demons and magicians. But I’ve hardly met a person I’ve liked whom the Kurus did not find some fault with… The people of Eastern Kuru, that is.’
‘Interesting choice of words. Who are you and what do you want?’
‘We are emissaries of Dharma Yudhisthir, Emperor of Aryavarta and King of Western Kuru. We have come to see your chief, Pallavi Hidimbi.’
The declaration had an effect, not just on the Rikshasa leader, but on all the assembled forest-dwellers. At length, the leader said, ‘You come many years too late. Pallavi Hidimbi is dead.’
‘I…oh…’ Abhimanyu faltered, unsure of what he ought to say next.
Uttara cut in, ‘Please… Our condolences to you for the loss of your Chief, though I realize it may be too late. The loss is also mine – I had heard a lot about her, her valour and wisdom, and had greatly desired to meet her.’
The words seemed to placate the gigantic man, or at least stir his curiosity. He said, ‘You say you are emissaries of Dharma Yudhisthir.’
‘We are,’ Uttara said. ‘We have come to seek an alliance with your people, to our mutual interest; indeed, in the interests of all Aryavarta. Who succeeds Chief Hidimbi?’
‘I do,’ the bald man replied. ‘I am her son, though I rule by the will of my people and not by virtue of descent.’
‘Chief,’ Abhimanyu stepped forward. ‘We have much to talk about, to discuss…’
The Chief held up a restraining hand. ‘Impressive. But not enough. You come bearing big promises and claim the backing of those who do not know who I am, or the simple fact of who leads us. You have come because you find us useful. As I said earlier, desperation and ambition are the only reason why your kind have set foot in these forests, including, I might add, your Emperor, Dharma Yudhisthir or any of his kin. Why then should we place any faith in you or what you say?’
Uttara said, ‘We could give you a number of reasons, Chief. We could say that your trust in us is well-placed because I am Princess Uttara of Matsya, the daughter of Chief Virat. Like you and your people, I know what it is like to be ostracized and shunned because we upset the precious hierarchy of those in power. Or we could say it is because my companion here is Abhimanyu Karshni of the Kurus, heir to Dharma Yudhisthir’s throne and a man who means for the future to be different.’
‘Indeed,’ Abhimanyu added, ‘because, Chief, both you and I know that the future must be different…Purbaya Hidimbya, son of Bhim Vikrodara and Chief Hidimbi of the Rikshasas.’
The statement was no revelation to the Chief’s people, but Uttara was taken aback. She swore under her breath, the action drawing smiles of amusement from those who heard her, and regarded Abhimanyu with new respect.
Abhimanyu continued, ‘But the point is, Cousin Hidimbya, that none of those reasons matter. For too long we have been slaves to these norms and hierarchies, these complex webs of politics and power that overshadow the very reason why civilization came into existence; for too long you and your people have paid the price. Firewright, Firstborn…Kuru, Arya…for too long their fights have been ours, though our fight has never been theirs. What difference has it made who leads us, because we have never led ourselves… I am not one of them, no matter my birth. I am one of you, one with everything, because my mind is capable of reason and my heart is capable of compassion. Will you not accept me? Will you not help me? Will you not hear me out?’
Hidimbya looked around at his people, taking silent counsel from them. Some had tears in their eyes; many smiled. Hidimbya was deep in thought, considering all that Abhimanyu had said. He then opened his arms in welcome. ‘Come, you both must be tired. You must rest and eat while you tell me more of what it is you need of me.’
‘You will help us?’ Uttara could not believe the task was so easily done.
‘But of course,’ Hidimbya said. He turned to Abhimanyu. ‘I shall help as far as I can. Your words hold truth, brother, and for that I will also accept the wisdom in them.’
Abhimanyu laughed, as an unnamed joy welled up in him. ‘The truth is mine, brother, for I stand by the words I have spoken. As for the wisdom in them… That, I cannot lay claim to. They were taught to me by another man, one who lives his very life by them.’
‘A wise man, indeed!’
‘You might have heard of him. His name is Govinda Shauri.’
14
AS UTTARA HAD SUSPECTED, THE TASK SHE AND ABHIMANYU HAD come to accomplish was not that easily done.
Hidimbya and the Rikshasas spared no effort in making her and Abhimanyu feel welcome and comfortable. The thatched hut they were given for their stay was unique, inasmuch as it was set on the branches of a tree. Considering the newness of the experience, the couple was placed in a dwelling close to the ground, but save this aspect there was little that distinguished one hut from another; not even the Chief’s. It was not that they always lived in such houses, Uttara was told – in other parts of the woods, their huts were built on land or sometimes set up against hillocks and stones, or within natural caves and hollows. But, Hidimbya confessed to her, he personally enjoyed about living in the tree canopy. ‘It feels like a green womb,’ he said.
Abhimanyu had said, ‘I have heard that description before.’
‘We have a fondness for naming things as we see them,’ Hidimbya said. He smiled to himself, ran a hand over his shining head and said, ‘For instance, here I am blessed with a perfectly good and respectable name like Purbaya, and do you know what everyone insists on calling me?’ He paused, looking from Abhimanyu’s curious face to Uttara’s, before saying, ‘Ghatothkach. They call me that because they say my head is shaped like a pot.’ He smiled at them with good-natured pride and his visitors burst out laughing. Uttara muttered the name under her breath a couple of times, enjoying the way the earthy word rolled off her tongue.
‘It’s not a bad name, you know,’ she said. ‘You could do worse. Imagine if you were called Abhimanyu! How difficult it would be to scold you…’
‘Well said, Mahamatra,’ Hidimbya joined in on the opportunity for some harmless amusement at Abhimanyu’s expense.
Despite the familiarity and banter they had developed with Hidimbya, politeness kept Abhimanyu and Uttara from pressing the Chief to discuss the reasons for their visit. But after two days of exploring forests in his company, as well as feasting and merrymaking with the tribe as a whole, the two began wondering when the opportunity might present itself.
It was, therefore, completely unintentional on Uttara’s part when she finally spoke of the imminent and that too in such a casual way. She said, as she swallowed the last drops of a rice and fruit gruel that formed part of their evening meal, ‘Oh Chief, this is excellent! I had thought no one could be a better cook than your father, but truly you excel him! One more week of eating this way, and neither I nor Abhimanyu shall fit into our respective armours, if it comes to war…’ She stopped short as she realized what she had inadvertently done and glanced up from her gruel-pot, first at Hidimbya and then at a stunned Abhimanyu.
After an awkward pause, Hidimbya said, ‘Eat. Gruel is always best had hot off the fire.’
Uttara gratefully turned her attention back to her food. The three of them finished eating in silence, save for the few words they exchanged with those attending to them as a matter of courtesy.
Once the meal was cleared away, Hidimbya returned to the topic of his own accord. ‘Well,’ the Chief began, ‘it would undoubtedly be pleasant to pretend that my culinary skills and our sylvan surroundings are what keep you here, but we all know that it is not so. You presented me with a proposal. It is time I gave you my answer.’
‘You have thought over it?’ Uttara asked, glad that her error had served a purpose after all.
‘Yes,’ Hidimbya replied, ‘and my concerns have increased, not lessened.’ Before Uttara could protest, he held up a restraining hand. ‘Please, allow me to explain: Cousin Abhimanyu here knows the story, though you may or may not. My mother, Pallavi, met and married Bhim Vikrodara of the Kurus when he was in rather dire circumstances. He and his brothers, and their mother too, were fleeing for their lives. They had just escaped an attempt at assassination by faking their own deaths in a fire at Varana, and were little more than hapless refugees when they entered this forest.’
‘If you think it was a marriage of convenience…’ Abhimanyu started.
Hidimbya shook his head. ‘No. I trust my mother’s heart as well as her head. She would not have married a man unless she loved him, nor would she have been fool enough to mistake any ulterior motive on his part for love. I have no doubt that my making was a sacred act of affection. But the story does not begin there, Cousin. Have you ever wondered why your uncles and grandmother came into our forest when they fled from Varana?’
‘Surely, proximity to Varana is the obvious explanation.’
‘Yes, but there is another reason, and it is equally obvious once you come to know of it. Our people, our lands… We were conquered by Prince Pandu of the Kurus. He was not known for his military achievements as such, but this much is fact: He was our overlord. Who would you go to in times of trouble, Abhimanyu? The vassal who is sworn to your fickle enemy? Or one who was sworn to your father, conquered by him in person?’
‘I still don’t understand…’
‘My father and mother… Their story is an aberration, one that has, till now, remained untold and unknown. It is only out of great need that Dharma Yudhisthir allows it to be revealed – not very different from what his father did, or what he did, all those years ago. Where was Dharma Yudhisthir through all the years when he ruled as Emperor? What did he do for us? I hold no ill-will towards my father, nor towards you as a brother, but I’d be a fool of a chief if I didn’t look out for my people. You ask us to come to war? You ask us to come to die for you? What have we ever got from the Emperor to owe him our allegiance? What have I ever got from my own family? How do I trust that if Dharma Yudhisthir is restored to power, he won’t just discard us, as his kind always have?’
Uttara said, ‘But it is not Dharma Yudhisthir you fight for. We of Matsya stand by this cause for a greater reason.’
‘Mahamatra, I make no judgement on your people’s decision to side with Dharma Yudhisthir or his cause. I can only say that I have consulted with mine, and we find the risk too great.’
‘The risk of death?’ Abhimanyu was terse.
‘The risk of dying in vain. Forgive me, cousin, but though I like you, I cannot trust you. You are, after all, heir to Dharma Yudhisthir’s throne.’
‘And you, Chief? Would you trust yourself? Would your people risk trusting you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, Chief, that it is not I who am the true heir to Dharma Yudhisthir’s throne. It is you. So the real question here is: Can you trust yourself? Can your people trust that you will fight this war, not to make Dharma emperor but to prove that he could not have lost his empire in the first place? This is a revolution, Chief, it is a way of telling every living person in Aryavarta that no one, not even its Emperor, can treat its people with impunity. Aryavarta belongs, has always belonged, to its people. It was never any emperor’s to lose.’
15
UTTARA AND ABHIMANYU LEFT AT DAWN THE NEXT DAY, CARRYING both pleasant memories of their stay and a solemn promise from the Rikshasas that they would side with Dharma Yudhisthir. Afternoon found the couple taking a short break on their journey to Kamyaka, and from there, home to Upaplavya.
They were still in well-forested regions, each glade as scenic and verdant as the next, but Abhimanyu chose their resting place considering the abundance of fruits and berries around them. They were not as yet hungry enough to need to hunt, nor was he inclined to do so for sport and so, tethering both their horses to a tree with thick tufts of grass amongst its roots, he set about bringing fruits down by the simple but expedient method of throwing stones at them. Through it all, Uttara stood silent and stunned as she had been since the previous evening.
Abhimanyu tapped her on the shoulder, bringing her out of her daze. ‘Are you all right,’ he asked as he handed her some fruit. He found himself an overturned tree trunk nearby to sit on, and bit into his own fruit with relish. ‘Eat!’ he commanded, whe
n he saw Uttara rooted to her spot.
Uttara suddenly came to life and turned to face him. He stopped mid-bite as his eyes caught the flash in hers. ‘What you told Hidimbya…’
‘It’s true. Dharma Yudhisthir and Panchali resolved not to have children so that there would be no conflict over which of the brothers’ children inherited the throne. They decided that the eldest of all the brothers’ children would be deemed their heir, though at that point it was not the Imperial throne they spoke of. In any case, now you see why our little trip was such a secret.’
Uttara said, ‘It isn’t a secret we need to keep from Syoddhan alone… But how will we get Emperor Dharma to agree?’
‘Father…that is, Uncle Govinda, will see to that. He would never speak anything but the truth, but he has no qualms being parsimonious with it. As far as I understand, the Emperor believes we intend to rely on filial affections and not political assurances. But it is a conclusion he has reached on his own, and Father simply does not inform him to the contrary.’
‘Why do you call him “Father”?’ Uttara asked, giving voice to the question she had nursed for a long time.
‘Because Govinda Shauri is the first – and only – father I’ve truly known. Partha Savyasachin wasn’t around often, when I was a child, and I grew up mostly at Dwaraka. Pradymna, obviously, called Govinda ‘father’ and I just followed him. It’s like when my other cousins – Uncle Bhim and Uncle Nakul’s sons, for example – call Emperor Dharma “Agraja” because that is how they’ve always heard their parents refer to him.’
Uttara laughed. She then added, ‘And so, you have one more cousin now. One you should call “agraja”.’
‘Yes. By Rudra, I can’t imagine how Hidimbya must have felt when he saw us standing there. Frankly, I’d expected fighting. So had Fa… Uncle Govinda.’
The Aryavarta Chronicles Kurukshetra: Book 3 Page 9
