Govinda (The Aryavarta Chronicles)

by Krishna Udayasankar

  From the core of the rock, a city rose, floating between the sky and sea. Towering white spires made of crystal caught the sun, dispersing its rays in a medley of fire and colour that could be seen all the way to Gomanta, where Partha now stood. At night, the city would reflect the soft light of the moon, like a pearl that tossed on the waves of the ocean. Sometimes, he had heard, it would be lit by thousands of small lamps, creating a carpet of stars on the sea to rival the natural spectacle in the sky.

  Dwaraka. This was where his tormented journey had brought him.

  When Partha had left Hastina two months ago he had headed eastward, wandering as his fancy took him till he had reached the farthest nations of Aryavarta, the lands close to the city of Pragjya. Every day, though, even as he had urged his horse on, he had looked back with longing to the west. Finally, he had begun retracing his steps. But instead of passing through the lands of the Panchalas and returning to Hastina, he had ridden southwards through Dasarna and Vidharbha. Crossing the fertile regions fed by the River Charmanvati and its tributaries in the kingdom of Avanti, he had made good speed over the dry land that followed, to Anartta. Only as he began ascending the Raivata mountains, towards the peak known as Gomanta, had he admitted to himself where he was headed, where it was he had wanted to go since the day he had left home. Now here he was, and the dream that was Dwaraka was right before him.

  Partha was amazed, as most people were, at the first glimpse of the citadel on the sea – its size, its prosperity and, most notably, its cheer. Colourful banners decorated the tallest towers and the gates were flung wide open in welcome. Two huge flares burned day and night, visible across many leagues both landward and towards the sea. The flames marked the gate to the port of Dwaraka and its adjoining harbour, which housed the Anartta and Yadu naval forces. Under the protection of this navy, many distant foreign countries sought to trade with Aryavarta. But, at all times, watchful eyes carefully judged whether an approaching fleet came to trade or to invade.

  Despite its splendour the city was no compromise as a fort. The shoals connecting the island to the mainland had been identified and used to construct a great bridge and three other smaller ones. The main bridge comprised many guardrooms and turrets, all of which stored arms and flammables. Sharp, spiked gates were discreetly set into ornamented archways at different points along the bridge, and a complex mechanism of gears and chains operated the gates from within the fort. Before the bridge reached the main gate to the city it ran over a unique moat of weapons set into the seabed along the circumference of the island. Iron spears and lances lay covered by the sea, their pointed heads awaiting the unsuspecting invader.

  The walls around the city were made of a combination of rock and crystal, for strategic as well as aesthetic purposes – they provided no hold for grappling hooks or ladders, particularly in case of an attack from the sea. The main gate, set into the wall, was a veritable tunnel and gave the impression that the wall ran over fifteen feet deep. In fact, the wall was more of a trench within which catapults and other armaments were concealed – though the elegant walkways and coloured shrubs set on top of the wall could well mislead enemies into thinking that the city was designed as an abode of pleasure, lacking completely in customary defences.

  But few cities in Aryavarta were better prepared for war. Smaller walls of similar construction at the outer wall had been placed at various points within the city, splitting off the lower levels that housed the mercantile and trading activities from the higher residential and administrative zones. In case the fort was breached, it was always possible to retreat to another level of the city and continue to defend it from there. For all these measures, though, Partha had heard, Dwaraka, the many-gated, welcomed every living being into its fold. None was denied refuge, irrespective of his origin. In Dwaraka, every life was worthy of honour and respect.

  Spellbound, he entered the crystal city on foot, leading his horse in by the reins. He had to see Govinda. He had to understand what sort of a man could build a nation like this one. He had to know what sort of a man could resist a woman like Panchali.

  The guards at the gate watched the visitor with a practised eye, evaluating his fine horse and the mark on his shoulder left by his bow, which lay wrapped and concealed in a bundle of cloth. Partha tried to behave as any well-intentioned newcomer to the island city would. He did not have to try hard. Despite his weariness, he could not help but gape at the sparkling towers, gem-studded pillars and smooth marble terraces of Dwaraka’s magnificent edifices, at its order, prosperity and splendour. His esteem for Govinda and Balabadra grew immensely.

  Not wanting to make his presence widely know, Partha did not enquire the way to Govinda’s residence, nor did he send any message. He made his way to the largest, most magnificent-looking building on the island, convinced that it must be the palace of the rulers of this great city. There were no guards to stop him here, nor attendants to guide him. He walked in through a gateless archway to find himself in a garden that housed the rarest and most spellbinding of trees and flowers. Some, he knew, had to have come from outside Aryavarta and were heard of only in legend or read about in travellers’ accounts. He walked slowly, conscious of the gravel crunching underfoot with every step. Only when he paused to tether his horse to a beam set in the ground for that very purpose did he realize that the pathway was covered, not with gravel, but with an unbelievable assortment of gemstones.

  Spurred on by his astonishment, Partha strode quickly to the massive marble doors of the building. Here, too, there were no guards or attendants. He sounded the small brass gong that hung from a low pillar nearby, but there was no answer, nor was any person to be seen. Realizing that the building had many entrances, he walked around it trying to open some of the doors. He also tried sounding the bells that were placed on the other three sides of the building. Still there was no reply. Finally, he saw a small wooden door, which appeared to be ajar, set almost at one corner of the edifice. Readying himself for the inevitable explanations he would have to give for his trespass, he let himself in.

  The building was no palace, no residence even, but a single hall of mammoth proportions. Its interiors were a simple, crystalline white, and the starkness gave it a dignity that no opulence could have afforded.

  ‘What place is this?’ Partha whispered in wonder. ‘Who lives here?’

  ‘The people’s dreams live here, my friend,’ a voice answered. ‘Freedom, dignity, hope – it is home to these noble beings. We call this place “Sudharma” – the hall of justice.’

  Partha turned around to face the speaker. ‘Govinda!’

  ‘Yes, indeed! I was told that a rather handsome young archer had come into the city. I suspected it might be you and concluded as much the moment I heard a strange restlessness had fallen over all the young women of Dwaraka,’ he said, coming up to grip Partha’s arm in a gesture of greeting. ‘This is a most unexpected but very pleasant surprise, Partha.’

  ‘It’s good to see you too, Govinda …’

  The two men stood looking at each other for a while, with all the awkwardness of acquaintances who knew little of each other. Govinda then laughed at his own omission and warmly invited Partha home.

  It came as a yet another revelation to Partha that ‘home’ was hardly the gargantuan palace he had expected. Govinda’s residence was immaculate and spacious, but hardly a contrast to other residences in Dwaraka. The concession granted to him, if any, was that he occupied one of the highest levels of the multi-tiered city, and every vista from the house commanded the most spectacular views of the ocean around them.

  After he had seen to his horse, Partha was led to a comfortable room. Tired, he stumbled to the bed, and just about managed to remove his sword and put it safely aside. Lying back on the soft, comfortable sheets, he gradually grew aware of the soothing, rhythmic splash of the sea against rocks. Lulled by the sound, Partha fell into a dreamless, wholesome sleep. He slept through the night and most of the next day, and woke to a glori
ous sunset and the sounds of evening life around him. Stirring, he forced himself out of his bed and walked over to the large window on his left, which looked out over the city. Below, people went about their routine chores in the colourful medley that was common to large cities. Occasionally, laughter or song rose with the breeze, a tangy sea-wind.

  Eventually, Partha turned away from the window to look at the room around him, wondering about a bath and clean clothes. As he stood, hesitant, there was a gentle knock at the door, which was then pushed open slightly. Two stunning women came in on seeing him awake. Partha silently waited, confused. The women wore fine jewellery and clothing, far too opulent for them to be slaves or even attendants. Courtesans, perhaps, he wondered, though they came in carrying what seemed to be silk robes. He immediately dismissed the notion. No courtesan he knew would lift even a feather with her own hands.

  ‘Did you sleep well?’ the first of the two asked conversationally, as they nodded in greeting.

  Partha marked that they did not bow to him deferentially, as he was accustomed to, though they lacked nothing in politeness or courtesy. ‘I did, thank you,’ he replied, still a little curious.

  The women smiled pleasantly in return and made their way about the room with simple efficiency. The first pushed open a smaller door that Partha had not noticed, to reveal a small, sparkling bathing chamber. A pool was set into the marble floor, and the clear water gave off steam from the hot rocks that had been dropped into it. Rose petals and fragrant oils floated invitingly on its surface.

  The second woman gestured towards the room, also pointing out that clean robes of a fine silk had been placed on an ivory pedestal near the pool, ready for his use. Partha stepped into the chamber, wondering if the ladies meant to do more than just guide him there. That settles that, he thought to himself as they did not follow him in.

  Well rested and refreshed, Partha meandered downstairs in search of Govinda. He stepped into a large dining hall to find that celebrations and jubilant merriment had already begun.

  ‘Aah! There he is!’ A red-eyed Balabadra cried, and rising from his seat at the head of a long wooden table came forward to greet him.

  ‘Slept well, I trust?’ a gentler voice said. ‘I hope Sunanda did not wake you up too soon?’

  ‘No, she didn’t, Govinda,’ Partha answered, as he was guided to a seat of honour at the table. Around them, busy in their revelry, were many young warriors, some whom he knew by face and others by reputation. All of them came up to him in ones and twos to welcome him or to introduce themselves. Yuyudhana and Kritavarman, both of whom Partha had met on many other occasions, promptly pulled up chairs next to his, jovially evicting the former occupants with feigned disdain.

  The banquet was well underway, when Partha leaned over and asked Govinda in a low whisper, ‘Err … Forgive me for being discourteous, but I fear that I may make a terrible mistake if I don’t clarify …’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Sunanda … is she … what … who is she?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’ Govinda queried, his expression inscrutable.

  ‘I’m sorry if I offend you, but …’ Partha hesitated, choosing his words carefully, ‘it’s usually not this difficult to understand whether such an attractive woman is sent just to wait on a guest, or …’ Irked at being placed in such a position, he brusquely pointed out, ‘To be honest, Govinda, I’m not used to asking this. I’d have already had my way with her but for the fact that this is your realm and that I have the greatest respect for you.’

  Govinda laughed and genially slapped Partha on the back. ‘My realm …’ he softly repeated. ‘This is Dwaraka, my friend,’ he declared with pride. ‘Here every life deserves respect. By our laws, if a man forces himself on a woman, whether she be his wife, a courtesan, a prostitute, anyone … the penalty may even be death.’

  After that exchange, Partha did not find the banquet so pleasant anymore. He made his excuses after a decent interval, claiming that he was tired. As he strolled up to his allotted room, the pleasant sound of laughter came floating on the wind. He paused, looking around from the open corridor. He saw a woman in the courtyard below, exchanging some joke or casual banter with some others. It was not difficult to guess her identity, so clear was her resemblance to Balabadra.

  So this was Subadra, Govinda’s beloved younger sister.

  Partha’s first reaction was one of shock, even censure. No woman of Hastina’s royal household would ever be seen this way, laughing openly, bantering with men, even if they be cousins or brothers. He continued to stare at her, enraged almost, when she suddenly looked up at him. Without hesitation, Subadra inclined her head in a polite greeting and went back to her conversation. Partha continued to stare for a while longer and then turned on his heel and headed into his room. Never had a woman been so unaffected by his presence. Most of them blushed, bashfully averted their gaze, or did something brazen, if not modest. Except, of course, Panchali – and now Subadra.

  With a vigorous shake of his head, he forced both women out of his mind. He went over to the window and stood looking down at the wonder that was Dwaraka, trying to decipher the mystery of Govinda Shauri. A knock at the door intruded on his thoughts. To his surprise, Sunanda entered the room. This time, she was alone.

  No doubt she comes to tuck me into bed, or to put out the wick lamp, Partha sardonically noted, waiting to see what she did.

  Eyes lowered becomingly, the young woman walked over to where he stood and placed a knowing, expert hand on his chest. When he did not react, she gently guided his hands to the curves of her shapely body. Partha needed no further encouragement.

  26

  PANCHALI FOUND IT HARD TO PRETEND THAT HER MEETING WITH Asvattama had been of no consequence, though she managed to satisfy Dharma’s curiosity with truthful, though incomplete reports of how much she had enjoyed seeing the pastoral side of life in Aryavarta.

  Her own curiosity was far more difficult to settle, and she spent many sleepless nights trying to rationally order what she had now found out about the Firewrights and the Firstborn. Caught in a silent turmoil that she could share with no one, she settled for focussing on the more immediate mystery of how Wright-craft had played a role in bringing her to Hastina.

  She took to poring over maps and reading through the few descriptions of the Kuru–Panchala region that she could lay her hands on. Most of all, she spent days listening to the bards, the keepers of history through the songs and ballads. It bred nothing but frustration but Panchali pushed on, trying to make sense of the lyrical metaphors that somewhere, deep inside their keeping, held a glimpse of fact. One more good-for-nothing little saamanta described as a heavenly hero and I’ll give up, she promised herself almost every other day.

  But she did not. And then, in some obscure lay about one of her great-grandfathers, she found a small reference to a gift from the gods to the kings of Panchala. A bow.

  The bow. Panchali’s mind instantly jumped to the archery contest where she had been the prize.

  And that bow is here.

  Making no effort to curb her excitement, she braved the stinging wind that swept the corridors in a prelude to some great storm and half ran towards the small armoury on the eastern end of their palace. The chamber was empty, given that it was almost midnight. A solitary guard was posted at the door. He looked at her with curiosity, but quickly snapped to attention and admitted her inside.

  Panchali savoured the change from the chilling gale that screamed outside. Rows of torches burnt merrily in iron brackets set on the walls, their even arrangement throwing shadows in overlapping patterns on the roof of the armoury. Armouries were customarily built of the hardest stone and were naturally dark, but always kept well-lit in case of an exigency. The steady flame of oil-soaked linen was preferred to the more accident-causing wick lamps used in other rooms. Panchali smiled as she stood looking at the soot-stained walls, the familiar smell of oil-smoke bringing to mind the feel of strapping on battle armour, sliding a sword
into its scabbard, the solemn yet joyful injunction to die well, the clear clanging sounds of heated battle and the flash of golden sparks as metal caressed metal. Thrilled at her surroundings, she ran a practised eye over the carefully stacked array of weapons.

  At the far end a rack housed a number of wooden bows, all of them embellished with gold and small gemstones in tasteful patterns. Dharma’s bow bore the insignia of a winged creature, Nakul’s had the image of suns. Bhim’s was marked with elephants and Sadev’s with flowering creepers. Where the empty space for Partha’s bow ought to have been was now the bow she had been looking for, the one he had brought back from Kampilya.

  Panchali touched it reverently, marvelling at its strength and suppleness. Closing her eyes, she went over the events of the contest in her mind, trying to pick out the details that her eyes had seen but her mind had not quite marked. She tried to remember the way she had been won, as if she were a … a thing, a lifeless object. Her mind flitted despite herself to what had happened next, the way she had been passed on like an unwanted prize and married off to another, how she remained an object, a thing of use. Anger coursed through her as she remembered the touch of Partha’s hands, his unabashed desire for her.

  Maraka! Every curse in existence upon your head, Govinda Shauri!

  As her fingers clenched the weapon she felt a slight unevenness on its surface, just at the grooved grip. Not quite sure if she had imagined it, she ran her fingers and then her palm over it a few more times and carefully examined the metal. She missed it the first few times and had to run her fingers over the shiny surface again to find it – an engraving. Panchali felt her heart speed up. It was not uncommon for weapons of such craftsmanship to be engraved with a mark or symbol identifying the maker or even the warrior meant to wield it. Squinting, she scrutinized the surface. To her surprise the engraving was not a symbol, but script. The lettering was tiny but unmistakeable. Her breath came heavy with excitement. Who else but the Wrights could have used writing so many generations ago, she supposed. Holding the metal up to the light, Panchali read the words.