‘I am clear on what I must do, Partha. What you wish to do is your choice,’ Dharma declared. He turned to Govinda. ‘Do you still think this is a cause worth fighting for, Govinda?’
‘I thought it a cause worth dying for, Your Highness.’
‘Be that as it may, I stand by my word. You shall not bear arms. Not if my cause must be your cause.’
‘Very well.’
‘Dharma…’ Panchali stepped forward. In response, Dharma held up a hand. She looked from him to Govinda and then to him again. At length, she undid the baldric that held her sword and let it fall to the ground, at Dharma’s feet. She left without saying another word, her eyes filled with tears.
Dharma waited till she had gone. ‘It is settled,’ he said. ‘Give the orders, Commander Dhrstyadymn. Assemble our men in a final muster. May Rudra protect us.’
‘Rudra protect us,’ the others echoed the prayer. Partha alone remained silent.
35
SYODDHAN FOUND THE WEIGHT OF HIS WROUGHT ARMOUR pleasantly heavy, for it reminded him of his strength and his ability to bear the weight, not only of the metal but also of the war for which it was worn. His imposing figure inspired respect from the oldest and most accomplished warriors in his army, including his granduncle, Bhisma. As for the others, his own brothers included, they watched, open-mouthed with awe as he directed his rig up and down their lines in inspection, his mere presence serving to affirm among those gathered on his behalf at Kuru’s Fields that they fought for the right side, the right cause and, above all, the right man.
Syoddhan himself remained oblivious to the adulation he stirred, his entire attention on the army before him. Each of the huge divisions was arranged either into functional units of chariots, cavalry, infantry and elephant cavalry, or into smaller tactical units. A full tactical unit comprised one chariot, one elephant, five horses and a contingent of foot-soldiers, all of whom would move together as one cohesive group. It was not uncommon for the division commanders and lieutenants to keep their immediate guard in such tactical formations while the rest of the army fought as functional units. That way, the best warriors could do the most damage. Yet, all those preparations, these subtle elements of warfare paled against the sheer size of the force that stood amassed.
Eleven akshauhini divisions, Syoddhan noted with pride. Not even the famed emperors Hastin or Kuru had been able to draw so many men to their side. Indeed, he felt, a moral battle had already been won. The identity of the true ruler of Aryavarta had been established after all. All that remained now was victory. He smiled as he neared the head of the army formation, where the leaders were clustered together in meeting. Bhisma, Dron, Vasusena, Asvattama – they were all here, on his side. Whatever distrust or doubt Syoddhan may have nursed before, he let go of now. All he felt was the warmth, the commitment and conviction that throbbed as an irrepressible energy through the entire army.
Banners fluttered in the breeze, trumpets trilled, men and animals alike shone in their armour – cast iron and leather worked with gold insignia for the rulers, silver devices showing rank and allegiance for the captains and lieutenants, and copper markings for common soldiers. Horses, too, wore mail, commensurate with the station of the warriors who rode them. Elephants, valuable as they were, were fitted with the best of mail – panels of armour that covered their torso and throat while allowing them to move freely. The tips of their trunks were unprotected, but a number of the animals had knives or dagger-like devices attached to the ends of their tusks. The lead bulls also wore head plates of gold and metal-sewn caparisons of the most luxuriant silk. The finery, however, would not compromise the safety of the valued animals. Both Bhagadatta, who had brought with him the largest division of elephants, and Syoddhan had made sure of that.
The breathtaking ranks of pachyderms were matched only by the sight of Syoddhan’s key commanders themselves, and not just for the sheer prowess and nobility they exuded – for never since the Great Scourge had such a collection of Wright-metal been seen in all Aryavarta. Bhisma, Dron, Kripa and Asvattama stood resplendent in fiery white – from the metal tips of their covered sandals to the crown-like helmet that Bhisma wore. Their weapons gleamed in colours to rival nature – every shade in the spectrum reflected without flaw by their burnished surfaces. Here and there was a flash of gold in a tasteful artistic touch to a quiver-rim or a sword hilt, and occasionally of copper used in the same way. Any edge that could maim, kill, cut or strike was, however, made of Wright-metal. The other commanders too did not lag behind – where their armour was sometimes a mix of iron and Wright-metal, most carried at least some arms that were remnants of the massive hoard that had been acquired rather than destroyed during the Great Scourge. These weapons were, at the command of the Firstborn, to have been kept safe by the noble rulers who now displayed them. And now, with the blessings of the very same Firstborn, these same weapons would keep safe and protect their noble way of life.
In the past, Syoddhan had not given much consideration to his sword, his own armaments. They had always been treasured heirlooms, instruments with a life and history of their own, once wielded to high fame by his ancestors. To wear them today was a mark of pride in more ways than one, and it made him hold his head higher. With that thought, he reached his place at the head of the army and ran his eyes over the enemy before him.
Dharma’s divisions were fewer and comprised mostly infantry, that too of a diverse kind – the soldiers’ uniforms, such as they appeared to be, were varied and not all the men wore armour. Elephants were few, but the cavalry was adequate – as adequate as could be, given that Dharma’s forces were but a fraction of Syoddhan’s.
Turning his attention to the enemy leadership, Syoddhan caught the tell-tale blaze of Wright metal, though in less abundance. Like the Kurus, the Panchalas and Yadus had also kept safe their heritage – the swords and bows of their ancestors. Dharma and his brothers, too, had once enjoyed the pick of Kuru’s armouries and had held on to their gleanings when all else had been lost. But beyond the arms in the hands of the best warriors there was no other sign of Wright-craft. Most importantly, Syoddhan reflected, he could not make out the distinct and unique shapes common to astra-weapons. That still does not mean they have none, he reminded himself. After all, Govinda Shauri…
He let the thought wander from his mind as the man who was its focus came into view. Syoddhan smiled his satisfaction at having been right – Govinda stood at the reins of a rig unlike any they had seen before. Every finger’s breadth of it, any surface that was not wood, shone white, and the vehicle itself stood as a stark reminder of the Firewrights’ most celebrated creation – their metal. The rig’s makers had not bothered to decorate it with gold or coloured stones and the singular concession to relief was the crimson banner that fluttered from the rig’s flagpole. Syoddhan could imagine how light and swift the vehicle was compared to all the others on the battleground, especially when it was led, as it now was, by Govinda’s famed silver-white stallions: Shaibya, Sugriv, Megha and Balahak. The horses were decked in armour made of Wright-metal, as was the warrior they served: Partha Savyasachin. Gandiva, the great bow, flashed as lightning as he raised it and twanged the string in a sign of readiness. The bow, they said, had been named after its ability to strike fear in the heart of enemies by the very sound it made.
Syoddhan did not look to his own men to see whether that was true or not, but the twanging set off a rallying roar from Bhim that was taken up by the rest of Dharma’s army. Yet, there was a lack of vigour, a perceptible slowness to Partha’s movements, which made him seem far from ready or rallied. Before he could comment on the matter to the others with him, Syoddhan found his eyes drawn again to Govinda as the white rig moved out of formation, leaving the rest of their army behind.
‘Do you think they are advancing to challenge us?’ Dussasan said, next to him.
Syoddhan did not reply, all the more to not encourage the amusement in his brother’s voice, and kept his eyes on the fast-appr
oaching rig. He had not noticed it the first time around, possibly because he had rarely seen Govinda arrayed for war, but he now noticed that Govinda was not at all dressed as a warrior of his stature, not even, in fact, as a common soldier ought to be. He carried no weapons, wore no armour; instead, his upper robe was crossed over his chest, running diagonally to each shoulder and then down to his waist and around it. Like all the others, he wore his antariya shorter and tighter. His hands were empty, save for the horses’ reins.
‘What in Hara’s name…?’ Syoddhan started, looking to the others around him for a possible answer to the obvious question.
Shakuni replied, ‘Well, Dharma did say to Uluka that he would not let Govinda fight. Still, that conniving scoundrel has wormed his way on to the battlefield, I see. Hai! I wouldn’t trust that man to stay true to his own mother.’
‘Shakuni is right, Syoddhan,’ Jayadrath added. ‘We must be careful. For all we know he hides his arms in the rig and means to use them when we least expect it. I have no doubt that he feasted the best on the remains of the Great Scourge.’
Dron said, terse, ‘Such caution is unnecessary, Jayadrath. For my part, I still have faith in Partha. He is the son I never had, and I know well that his conscience will not allow for this war. And all it will take is a hint of reluctance, the slightest hesitation on his part for Dharma to also see reason.’
Syoddhan did not respond, but he and Asvattama exchanged a look, confirming that they were of one mind with each other – and with Acharya Suka. The war would indeed stop before it began, but the only man responsible for that would be Govinda Shauri.
‘What do we do now?’ Dussasan asked, impatient, as Govinda and Partha came to a halt at the centre of the battlefield. Surrender or challenge, whatever it was that Govinda had in mind, this was the moment for it.
Syoddhan stared for a long while at the two dark-skinned figures on the silver-white rig before he said, ‘We wait.’
36
IT HAD TAKEN, GOVINDA NOW REMEMBERED IN WAKING, THE long and laboured efforts of half the men in the village, the strong Balabadra included, to somehow loop a rope around him and the calf and pull them out of the Yamuna’s raging currents.
As soon as his feet touched the ground Govinda had felt a not-very-hard but still telling rap of knuckles on his head. It was followed by a strong, open-handed slap on the same spot. The first, he knew, was from Balabadra and the second from his father, Chief Nanda.
‘You stupid fool!’ the Chief had begun. ‘You could have drowned! You should learn to pick your battles, Govinda. You can’t just do as you please! The men have had to abandon their herds just to rescue you! Our bulls must be spread all over the countryside by now! It will take us two days to find and bring back all the animals; that is, if one of our noble lords doesn’t decide to take them for his own barns or hunt them down for sport first. See how much trouble you’ve caused! What were you thinking? Muhira!’
Nanda had moved away, leaving Balabadra to continue in the same vein, and each villager who had gathered added a few words of his own as they led a shivering Govinda and the traumatized calf back to the village. Govinda had not dared to argue; he did not speak a word till later, when he was safe and warm in his mother’s arms. Yashoda had taken the calf, too, into her keeping, and the animal lay nearby, his large head sticking out from under a coarse blanket as he stared, content, at Govinda.
A fresh lot of complaints had accompanied Govinda being handed over into his mother’s custody, but she had let the villagers’ ire wash over her with a smile. Only when they were alone had she asked her son, ‘Why did you jump in, Govinda? What were you thinking?’ Her voice had held neither anger nor pride, neither recrimination nor wonder. It was a voice without judgement, a voice that knew and understood.
He had told her the truth. ‘I didn’t think, Mother. I jumped, that’s all.’
Yashoda had smiled. ‘You were one with the calf, Govinda. You were one with all Creation. It is not an emotion you can hold on to, nor an action you can repeat. It is a state of being, a state beyond mura – ignorance. Perhaps I should have named you Murare… One who conquers ignorance.’
She had continued to talk about things that the young Govinda had not quite understood. Finally warm, and worn out from the day’s happenings, he had let out a loud yawn and fallen asleep, his head on Yashodha’s lap.
At that moment, on the hallowed ground of Kuru’s Fields, Govinda wanted nothing more than to find once again the peace he had known then. His eyes were on Gandiva, Partha’s bow, his mind in disarray at the improbability of where he saw it now – the weapon, stunningly wrought of silver-white Wright-metal, lay inert on the dust of the battlefield. He stared at it, letting the feeling of helplessness, of incompetence, both swallow him and fill him at once. Partha’s movements seemed blurred, but Govinda could not tell whether it was because the other man found it difficult to move, or if it was he who could not see clearly through his daze. Laughter rang loud around them, though a part of his mind told him that it came from the direction of the enemy, far away. The sound echoed through him as an inexplicable shiver.
Willing himself to speak, Govinda formed the words: ‘Partha… what…what are you…?’
Partha’s voice was a suffocated wheeze. ‘I cannot do this, Govinda…’
‘Partha…’
‘I can’t. Don’t you hear me? I can’t!’ Partha shouted. He began pulling at his quiver strap, his hands trembling. ‘This is madness. I… This…this was a mistake. Look at these two armies. Look at their forces. What folly was this!’
‘Partha, you cannot give up now…’
Partha was taken aback. He asked, softly, ‘Isn’t this what you wanted, Govinda? Isn’t this yet another part of your plan? You, the man who was willing to give up his life for peace… How can you stand in my way now? I am with you, Govinda! I have always been on your side. Listen to me… We can still see this through to the end you have wanted. If I give up then Dharma will give up, they will all give up. But maybe it is not about giving up, Govinda. Maybe this is the ultimate act of courage, to say and do what no one else will.’
For a moment, Govinda wanted nothing more than to agree. He could not ignore the rush of relief he felt at the thought that peace could be had, after all. It was a balm for all fears, a pleasant feeling that he knew Dharma and the others would be happy to embrace. But he did not know what to say, or how.
Partha commanded, ‘Take me back to the camp. I’m not going to fight! Syoddhan can accept this as surrender if he wishes, or else he can fight this war alone. I will not resist him.’
War. The word felt bitter on Govinda’s tongue; it made him want to vomit, retch till he was empty of all flesh, one with the blood-crusted earth, endless in its redness like a dream that would not fade. He felt as though he were some carrion crow flying over his dreamscape, gorging on the flesh of those who would die. He was black and red, and around him was darkness and blood, and he no longer knew where he ended and where the ravaged world began. Partha is right. This is my one last chance. We can stop this war before it starts if we turn back now. He drew in the reins, intending to bring the horses around. Dwaipayana’s voice, old and familiar yet new in its vigour, spurned him, spurred him on.
Yes, Govinda. Now you see? You cannot defy the gods! Divine Order is imperishable; it is the way of the gods. You cannot change this system. You were always doomed to fail. Turn back. Turn back now.
Yet they stayed where they were, as though anchored by the voice that followed. Deep inside Govinda’s soul, Panchali spoke, her earnestness a reminder of what they had worked so hard for, the principle for which they risked this war. You must do what you must!
But how? Govinda’s mind raged. And what is the point? I did all I did for the people of Aryavarta. But I have failed. Between slaughter and subjugation, what am I to choose? If I turn back now, surrender unconditionally, it only affirms the power of the system; it asserts Dharma Yudhisthir’s authority to decide with impu
nity the future of nations, of people, of those who trusted him and came to die for him. It would be the dice game all over again. It would be the end. I have failed. I tried to change things and I failed. It is over.
The same sense of despair and hopelessness that Govinda had wallowed in for years after the dice game began to swathe him in its folds once again. He tried to fight it, reminding himself of the trust that others had placed in him, of his friends and his brothers, of Panchali, of Philista and her sacrifice. But where he could hold off the dejection and anguish, he could not deny the futility of their faith or that their sacrifice had been in vain. His vision blurred with an amorphous pain and he felt unsteady on his feet.
Holding on to the side of the rig for support, Govinda closed his eyes, the rush of thoughts in his head drawing him into unfathomable depths, just as the river had drawn him in that day all those years ago. He remembered the water entering his nose and mouth, his lungs; he had tried to swim, to surface, but the current had been too strong. Through the water, the afternoon sun had appeared far and dim, and the depths below inviting and cool. His arms had burned with the effort of trying to stay afloat; his chest had been on fire. His sight had dimmed, his eyes closing of their own accord, but he remembered one last thing from before the memories blurred into a murky darkness – a gangly limb prodding him over and over, forcing him to open his eyes.
That day, Govinda had seen hope.
The people of his vraja had always said that he had saved the calf from drowning, but Govinda knew it had been the other way around. That day he had seen the ultimate destination.
Why did you jump, Govinda? He remembered his mother’s calm question.
Today he had the answer, the one answer to all questions: No one person can save the world, leave alone a single calf. But the fact that we each try, against all odds, is what the world is worth saving for. And we do what we do, not for the world but because of who we are. We are humanity.
The Aryavarta Chronicles Kurukshetra: Book 3 Page 21
