Blessings on the Noble Lords of Panchala. May he who tames the elements bear this bow to great fortunes. Agni the Effulgent himself hath made this, and Varuna, Lord of the Waters, hath held it in his keeping.
Panchali smiled as, like the sun breaking out from behind storm clouds, she understood. A bow made by Agni and kept safe by Varuna. Agni, she knew, had to mean the Wrights. Varuna, she supposed, was a reference to water. And in all of Panchala ‘water’ meant just one thing. The Life-Giver, the River Ganga.
The next day, she demurely expressed her desire to visit her parents for a short while. Dharma was quick to oblige her.
Panchali was affectionately welcomed at Kampilya. She responded with mixed feelings to the news that Shikandin and Dhrstyadymn were both away on military duty and arranged for a message to be sent to them. Much as she longed to see her brothers, she was glad that they were not around to notice her movements and ask her questions. She had to act quickly, before they returned.
A couple of days after she arrived, once the excitement of her arrival had somewhat abated, Panchali asked for her horse to be saddled for her usual ride around the countryside. Her mother’s matron and nurse protested, ineffectively, that she simply could not be as irresponsible as before now that she was married. Panchali silenced her with a glare and set off, her pace casual and unhurried. She rode towards the forestland near Utkochaka, but instead of entering the woods she turned eastwards. As the heat grew oppressive Panchali stopped to rest, settling herself in the shade of a tree while her horse grazed nearby. She pulled out from her saddlebag some leavened bread that she had requested her matron to have packed for her and a roughly drawn map she had brought from Hastina. She unfurled the map and studied it once again while she ate.
Panchali traced the course of the Ganga on the scroll. The map as well as the gradient of the land around her suggested that her path should have intersected with that of the river. But it had not. To her right the forest went on, unbroken. To her left she could see the bright flash of the river as it descended along the highlands in the distance and then merged indistinctly into the vast green-blue plains of the lowlands. It did not seem to enter the forest at all. There was nothing ahead but field upon field, simple, verdant and inviting.
Unlike Utkochaka.
Instinct drew her towards the ominous forest, the theme of many colourful, even frightening legends. Most of these tales were fantastical and implausible, but they served to keep out the villagers who tilled these lands. They had kept her out, Panchali noted. An involuntary shiver ran through her at the very notion of invading its depths. Rebuking herself for being silly, she swung back onto her horse, urging the animal on in a gallop before she could change her mind. She slowed down as the forest drew near but kept going and soon entered it. The woods – a thick mix of towering mahogany and sprawling banyan trees – clustered dark and heavy around her. Bramhi creepers fell in familiar curtains every now and then and Ashwagandha and other fruit-bearing shrubs grew clustered in places where sunlight came through the foliage. In these spots, Panchali could catch a glimpse of the sun but the view was never clear enough to check her direction. Eventually, she pulled out her direction-pointer, a light fish-shaped piece of iron hanging from the string that was passed through it, and used it as her guide. She was still going the right way, along the supposed course of the river that the map had indicated, though she now began to wonder if it would lead anywhere at all. Promising herself that she would turn back after a muhurrta or so, she headed deeper into the forest.
The landscape changed little as she moved forward and it seemed to Panchali that every clump of shrubs and cluster of trees she passed looked exactly the same. If it were not for her direction pointer, she would have thought that she was going around in circles. And then she heard the gurgle of running water. Panchali listened, trying to locate the direction from which the sound came. She urged her horse right into a thicket on her left, hissing slightly as a branch she pushed away whipped back and caught her on the shoulder. Just when she thought to draw her sword and hack away at the thick foliage in her way, she came upon the river.
The river ran crystal clear through the forest itself. The canopy of trees had given way here to let the sun illuminate the water in an almost incandescent green glow. Panchali dismounted. From the direction of the flow and the incline of the land she concluded that this was a hidden stream that had branched off from the river just before it hit the plains. But the map shows no such thing … She pulled out the parchment and looked at it a second time, tracing the current path of the river, as it ought to have been drawn, with her finger. She gasped involuntarily as the explanation struck her. What if this had once been the main course of the river? As she considered the kind of effort it would take to divert the stream, she felt a renewed hope surge through her. Only the Firewrights would have had the knowledge, and the ability, to carry out such a diversion. Perhaps this was the right way after all. She washed her face and arms in the cool water, resisting the temptation to swim. As her horse drank thirstily from the stream, she settled on the grassy bank wondering what to do next.
‘Upstream or downstream?’ she said out loud, ostensibly asking her horse the question.
‘That depends, Mahamatra, on whether you can keep a secret.’
Panchali jumped to her feet and whipped around to face the speaker, her hand instinctively moving to the hilt of her sword. A young man in rough ochre robes stood facing her, casually smoothing his short, dark beard. Panchali tried not to look too affected, but could not completely hide her surprise. There was no mistaking the familiar features, the undeniable resemblance to the scholar–priest Ayodha Dhaumya.
The man seemed to understand her confusion. ‘You’re wondering who I am, and the answer to your suspicion is, yes. But, beyond blood, my brother and I have nothing in common. My name is Devala Asita. As for who or what I am … Tell me, can you keep a secret?’
Recovering quickly, she said. ‘Ah! That depends on what the secret is.’
The ochre-clad scholar did not reply, but stepped forward to take the reins of her horse. ‘Come.’
Panchali followed him as he headed downstream, walking casually along the riverbank. He did not seem surprised to see her at all, and made light conversation, occasionally pointing out plants of medicinal value or identifying a bird by its call. Ahead, the river split into two, divided by a huge rock that was part of its bed. Panchali noticed that the smaller of the two streams had been diverted into a stone tank that was obviously of human make. At the other end of the tank, the water flowed over and fell back into the stream, pushing past a familiar-looking series of wooden wheels set on a single axle. It was, beyond question, Wright-work. The many-teethed cogs, the water wheel, the wooden beam pushing down into the ground, were almost identical to what she had seen in Northern Panchala, except she saw neither grain bin, nor mill. Also, a series of stone lattices were set into the ground a few feet away from the tank.
‘The mill is underground?’ she asked.
‘Not a mill, a forge. The water-wheel powers the bellows for the furnace.’
Panchali gasped, delighted, as she understood the functions of the mechanisms before her and consequently the origins of the mighty bow. The wide water tank and the lattices were meant, obviously, to cool down the forge and make working there bearable. Her happiness soon faded as she tried to take stock of her recent discoveries and what they meant.
The scholar waited patiently.
‘How many of these are there?’ she eventually asked.
‘Only this one. The one near Mathura lies broken to pieces. I’ve heard that Agniveshya Angirasa built another one during his days in hiding, but I don’t know for sure.’
Panchali’s voice was a whisper, a sad, hushed prayer almost, as she asked, ‘How many more Wrights …?’
‘I’m the last of the faithful among my order. Many traitors remain – those trained by us, who’ve turned against us, joining with the Firstborn.’ He sh
ook his head dolefully. ‘I’m the last. I spent all these years in hiding. Few people know that I’m still alive. After Ghora died, I’ve tried to find those of us that may be left. So far there’s been no one. Perhaps they’re afraid to reveal themselves, or even think this is a trap set for them by the Firstborn,’ he finished quietly. Then he drew himself up and fixed Panchali with an honest, compelling stare. ‘It doesn’t matter. You are here.’
‘Do you know why I’m here?’
‘I think I do. You have a good heart, Princess. Privileged you may be, but you haven’t lost your sense of justice or empathy.’
Panchali was too startled at his response to say anything.
‘We Wrights were inventors, discoverers, not just weapon-makers,’ he went on. ‘Through the centuries, we’ve found ways to till the land, irrigate it, work metal in different ways, mix herbs and essences to create medicines and poisons both … To be known as a Wright, even as the youngest of their students, was an honour across all of Aryavarta. But then, we were destroyed, from the oldest man down to the smallest infant …’
Panchali shifted uncomfortably, as she realized that her own little drama, the way she had been played as a political toy, now felt trivial in comparison. ‘What do you want from me?’ she finally managed to say.
‘I ask for little, Panchali. In fact, I ask for nothing more than that you follow your heart, that you do what you know to be the right thing.’
Panchali tried to keep the quiver out of her voice. ‘What … what do you want me to do?’ she asked.
‘Govinda Shauri.’
‘Govinda?’
‘Yes. He’ll listen to you. Perhaps only to you. You alone can turn him from the bloody path that he plans to take.’
‘Govinda? Bloody path? I don’t …’
‘Understand?’ The Firewright smirked coldly. ‘I’m not surprised. Few men hide their intentions as well as Govinda does. There’s only one thing Govinda wants, my dear. He wants to be Emperor.’
‘Emperor? Govinda?’
‘Think about it. Think of how he slowly earns the gratitude of the Kurus and Panchalas, even as he undermines Jarasandha’s power. He’s not stupid. He’s a consummate politician; in my opinion, a better diplomat than he is a warrior. Even the Vyasa fails to see where that cowherd is dragging them all.’
Panchali flinched at the Wright’s derogatory tone. ‘While you of all people seem to be able to see right through him?’ she challenged.
‘Yes. Because I know better than to trust him. Ever.’
Panchali was all set to retort, but hesitated as a mix of emotions struck her. Her first response was, strangely, happiness, even pride at the thought of Govinda as Emperor, ruler of all Aryavarta. It lasted only for a moment as the sad truth hit home. He had played her, toyed with her, spun half-truths to serve his ends. He had given her up for a greater cause – the cause of power, of empire. His empire.
The pain of the realization gradually filled her, turning into disgust, anger and, ultimately, the bitter heartbreak of betrayal. Tears stung her eyes, and she looked away into the distance, careful not to meet the eyes of the man in front of her. Yet, as she inhaled sharply to clear her head, Panchali could not imagine Govinda as Emperor without some sense of hope and even anticipation. She had no doubt that he would be a good ruler to his people. That was the most important thing.
‘I can’t help you stop him if that’s what you want,’ she snapped at the scholar.
He grimaced. ‘I don’t think we could stop him even if we tried.’
‘What do you want then?’
‘Help me save those that can be saved. Help me avoid bloodshed and battle.’
Panchali felt a shiver run down her spine. Not too long ago she would have thought Govinda incapable of wanton violence, just as she had once thought him incapable of betraying her trust. She suddenly felt afraid, but with each passing moment her fear gave way to a focussed confidence. There are no coincidences in the Eternal Universe, she reminded herself. Everything had a meaning, a purpose. She had found hers. Her own silent acceptance, her helpless acquiescence to the way she had been manipulated and used now felt like purposive patience, as though she had been waiting for fate to bring her to this juncture. It was her destiny.
She looked up at the Firewright, her eyes filled with a dull pain. ‘How?’
Devala Asita smiled. ‘When the time is right you will know what you must do. Till then we must be patient.’
27
LIFE HAD NEVER BEEN BETTER FOR PARTHA, NOR HAD HE EVER been happier than in the few months he had spent at Dwaraka.
Govinda was capable of companionship without speaking a single word, even for hours on end. They rode around the countryside together, sometimes hunting in the wild or else marvelling at the scenic beauty that surrounded them. At these times, Partha could just about believe that Govinda had once been a cowherd, but hardly a common one. The man loved nature and seemed to be a part of it, always. He could blissfully sleep on the grass, like he had never known the silk sheets and soft mattresses of his palace and he would drink water from a clear, gurgling stream as though it were ambrosia. Once, Partha had gone down to the stables adjoining Govinda’s mansion, to find him stripped to a short waist-cloth, rubbing down Balahak and his other three Qamboja stallions – Shaibya, Sugriv and Megha – the way a stableman would. Yet, as the oil-stained, sweaty Govinda kept up an incessant conversation with his horses, Partha could have sworn that the animals not only understood him but also clearly answered in their own way.
At other times, Partha sat discreetly as an observer during Council meetings, marvelling at the way the Yadus ran their nation. He was most amazed by Govinda’s ability to take control of any and every situation. Even after all these days, he still could not understand exactly what it was about the man that was so compelling, but there was no denying that behind that lop-sided grin and the light banter was an incisive mind and a keen sense of justice. Govinda was honest, undeniably honest, but not above innuendo, both in jest and as a tool of persuasion. His warm smile disarmed even the most hostile of opponents, and his equanimity was beyond belief. Nothing ever quite moved him, and the only extreme of emotion that he showed was to occasionally laugh out loud.
With a twinge of guilt Partha admitted to himself that he felt a lot more at ease with Govinda and without his brothers around. He loved the four of them, but with Dharma the Noble, Bhim the Mighty, Nakul the Handsome and Sadev the Wise around, Partha’s only claim to fame had been his reputation as a womanizer. Of course, he had been the one to win Panchali … With grim determination, he forced the thought out of his mind. It did not matter. Not here. The friendship and camaraderie he had found was far more precious, for Govinda neither judged nor indulged him. Partha made a firm resolution that in this matter he would remain unique; none of his brothers would ever be friends with Govinda the way he was.
Finally, reassured by his newfound friendship and the air of informality and camaraderie that was far removed from the staid routines of Hastina, Partha was ready. He found Govinda discussing the arrangements for the next day’s mountain festival with Balabadra and Subadra. After a moment’s hesitation, partly because he was reluctant to interrupt and partly because he felt his heart skip a beat when he glanced at Subadra, Partha asked Govinda if they could talk in private. Govinda looked surprised, but immediately obliged. Partha left the room without looking at the others. It was time for the conversation that had made him come all the way to Dwaraka.
The two men sat in Govinda’s personal chamber, an airy room with large windows on every wall. By accident or by design, the soft mats on the floor and large seating cushions were all in shades of white and blue. At the far end, the room opened out on to a large terrace, set with the shining white fluted balustrades that were characteristic of Dwaraka. Partha felt like he was sitting on a piece of the evening sky or on the very ocean itself. Whether it was the pleasant dissipation of his anxieties, or mainly that Govinda was a patient listen
er, but he soon found himself recounting every incident, pouring out every feeling he had known, since the tournament at Kampilya.
Govinda showed no emotion throughout the narrative and stood staring out of the window, at the sea.
Then Partha tonelessly spoke of the events leading to his departure from Hastina.
Govinda said nothing still, but for just one moment, every line in his body, every muscle, every nerve, went rigid and taut. Partha did not dare justify his actions. ‘Help me, Govinda,’ he said, earnest and sincere. ‘You have to help me.’
When he replied, Govinda’s voice was even. ‘What would you have me do, Partha?’ he asked.
‘Tell me, how can I make up for my actions? How can I go on with the rest of my life this way?’ Partha met Govinda’s gaze, as he admitted, ‘We each wanted Panchali, there’s no denying that. I won her, we all stood ready to defend her and Dharma married her. But to whom does she truly belong? How can we, all five of us, go on this way? What do we do?’
‘Even if I told you what to do, you wouldn’t be able to do it, Partha,’ Govinda said. ‘But I’ll tell you anyway. Do nothing.’
‘How can I do nothing? Don’t you realize what a terrible position we’ve placed her in? Why did she react that way when I touched her? How can we set her free?’
Govinda chortled in disdain. ‘Panchali isn’t someone you set free. You can’t tame her or cage her in the first place. She makes her own decisions, and she decided to submit to the circumstances and marry Dharma. You’re not responsible for that.’
‘What am I responsible for?’ a disconsolate Partha asked.
‘Yourself. Only yourself.’
‘And you, Govinda? Do you hold responsibility only for yourself?’
Govinda (The Aryavarta Chronicles) Page 20