Govinda (The Aryavarta Chronicles)

by Krishna Udayasankar

‘If we try to seduce a sairandhari or some such attendant …?’

  Govinda did not hide his scorn. ‘Why not try for a princess, while you’re at it?’

  Bhim was less dismissive. ‘We certainly can’t demand admittance as monks or sages,’ he said. ‘We can’t lie outright! All of Aryavarta would spit on us if we defeated Jarasandha by cheating and lying.’

  Govinda gave a derisive snort. ‘True! It would be unspeakable! Trivial matters like winning the hand of a princess dressed as a scholar, or sending in assassins to kill an Emperor – such things are fine, but this – perish the thought!’

  ‘Say what you want, but I won’t lie.’

  ‘Then keep your mouth shut. Don’t speak.’

  ‘What?’ Partha exclaimed.

  Govinda sighed, as if he were tired of arguing. ‘Don’t speak, Partha. Indeed, you might do me a favour and try to observe a vow of silence. It’ll go well with your clothes and hair, in any case.’

  ‘And I suppose, by standing around silently we’ll be ushered into Jarasandha’s presence?’ Partha snapped.

  Govinda’s eyes narrowed as something suddenly occurred to him. To Partha’s surprise he broke into a sudden smile and said, ‘Something like that.’

  10

  THE THREE MEN MADE THEIR WAY TO THE OUTSKIRTS OF THE CITY. Govinda found a calm spot by the river, a small but strong tributary that would join the mighty Ganga not too far away. There, seemingly oblivious to Partha and Bhim’s questions and recriminations, he laid aside the beads and ochre robes that were currently his only possessions, and waded into the water. He knew that time was a luxury they did not have, but he needed a few moments in the womb-like silence of the dark, deep currents, to think his plan through. By the time he stepped back ashore, his mind was clear and his eyes held a conviction that the glowering Bhim and Partha could not argue against for long.

  ‘It won’t be easy,’ Bhim cautioned. ‘We’re asking to attract attention to ourselves. One slip, one inadvertent word or action out of place, and they’ll arrest us for being spies. Of course, once they find out our real identities, that can only make it worse – not just for us but for Dharma and, of course, your people as well.’

  ‘He’s right,’ Partha added. ‘Passing oneself off as an ascetic for a short while is no matter; we’ve done it before. But to do as you say; to not speak or eat or drink … only the best of men, or those trained for such hardships can do that, Govinda. The mind starts to play tricks when faced with hunger and thirst. It’s … it’s a dangerous ploy.’

  Govinda smiled and said, ‘But an effective one if we succeed, yes?’

  ‘Yes, but …’

  ‘Then it’s settled. Let me do this.’

  Exchanging reluctant glances, Bhim and Partha finally agreed. Reminding them yet again of their newly assumed vows of silence, Govinda made for a banyan tree, next to the river, and sat down under its shade in a meditative posture. The two brothers exchanged sullen glances, but took their places alongside him.

  At dusk, Bhim and Partha stirred, thinking of food and then sleep. To their surprise, Govinda did not as much as twitch. Whether he remained still out of incredible discipline, or he was truly lost inside himself in meditation, the two brothers could not tell. They waited for a while and then, rather than draw suspicion to themselves, decided to play the part of acolytes. Silently, they gathered some fruits and made as best a meal as they could. Bhim proposed that they sit up with Govinda and Partha agreed. They passed a quiet, restless night. The next morning, their routine induced less guilt. They kept themselves occupied by building a small thatched hut, in case it rained. In the evening they made do with a little food, and then slept a while, taking turns.

  On the fourth day a few Magadhan citizens approached the trio, silently offering fruits and seeking blessings. Within a week, their audience had grown into a small crowd. Many people stood around looking on with curiosity, some with suspicion, at the never-moving ascetic. Most of them sat in prayer, waiting with patience that could only be inspired by devotion. The lack of water, rather than food, began to show on Govinda’s appearance. His features took on frightening gauntness, his skin looked leathery, and his lips were cracked and bleeding. Still he did not stir.

  Sunset on the eighth day drew the largest crowds of both onlookers and would-be devotees, as well as a huge thunderstorm. Partha and Bhim silently gestured to their audience to take shelter in the small hut as best as they could and stood in the doorway, watching. Through the storm and the rain, Govinda did not move. This was no longer just an act.

  At some point during the stormy night Partha could not take it any more. Under the cover of thunder, he whispered quietly to his brother, ‘Govinda has to be the craziest man I’ve ever seen.’ Bhim simply had to agree. This madness was beyond what either of them could understand. Hunger, pain, weariness – these were things that every soldier was trained to fight against. But to suspend all action, perhaps even thought, to bear discomfort with serene surrender, was not the way of the warrior. For a moment, Bhim thought himself justified in the simmering anger he had been feeling against Govinda for the past some days. Perhaps, he wondered, Govinda was not quite Arya after all. His mind did not seem to abhor surrender – be it in the military sense or the philosophical – the way any true-blooded warrior’s ought to. And yet, as Bhim continued to look upon the tranquil, rain-drenched figure, he felt his rage dissolve and a grudging respect take its place.

  The next morning, as the rain abated, even the most sceptical of onlookers silently bowed to the ascetic and sat down in prayer. Many more came to join them, moved by the man’s austerities. A rumour began running through the crowd that the Emperor himself was on his way to invite the holy one to the palace. By noon, the approaching contingent of royal guards confirmed that it was so.

  Bhim expected that he would have to remind himself to keep from attacking Jarasandha as soon as he set eyes on him, but the Emperor’s dignified behaviour surprised him into restraining himself. Jarasandha had come from the city on foot. He left his retinue, his crown and sandals at a distance and approached the ascetic, still meditating and immune to the world, barefoot. With folded hands and bowed head the Emperor respectfully invited him to grace the royal palace. To the surprise of all assembled, the ascetic stirred. He opened his eyes to look at the Emperor, and slowly nodded his assent. The three ochre-clad men joined the royal contingent, which made its way to the palace.

  Jarasandha personally saw the three men to lavish rooms, and made every comfort available to them. He left them to rest in privacy, but made sure that the attendants reported back to him on what transpired next. The ascetics, he learnt, ignored both the courtesans and the fine silk beds placed at their disposal, and slept on the floor. They ate only fruits, and did not speak a word, even to each other. Caught between doubt and certainty, Jarasandha invited them to his court at midnight when, his royal priest advised, the scriptures allowed for vows of silence to be temporarily set aside.

  Despite the late hour, all the nobles had assembled and taken their usual places. The ascetic and his companions, too, waited for the Emperor. Jarasandha entered the court and, making his way directly to the guests, welcomed them.

  ‘And what may I offer you, wise acharyas?’ he asked most formally. ‘The Emperor’s riches pale in comparison to the gods you seek, but whatever it is you wish of me will be yours.’

  A strong voice replied, ‘My only wish is to have a duel with you, Your Imperial Highness. I challenge you to single combat with me. Accept if you dare.’

  A benumbed silence filled the space.

  It was broken as Jarasandha laughed a loud, fearless laugh. Finally, turning to the trio, he demanded, ‘And who are you to challenge me, you pretenders? Do you dare reveal your identity?’

  ‘Our identity was never hidden. All you had to do was ask, but you didn’t,’ the man replied. Eyes blazing, he stepped forward. ‘I am Govinda Shauri of the line of Yadu and Vrishni. With me are Bhim and Partha, mighty Kur
u princes, sons of Pandu, brothers to Dharma Yudhisthir, king of Indr-prastha.’

  The Emperor appeared taken aback, but only briefly. His astonishment was soon replaced by the most apparent disdain. ‘You’re challenging me to a fight? You? A man so obviously afraid of me that you’ve sneaked into my palace in disguise … Why would I fight a coward like you, Govinda?’ He sighed in mock exasperation and continued, ‘Didn’t you ever wonder why the Emperor of Aryavarta, the man whose armies are feared and respected through the entire world – didn’t you ever ask yourself why I’ve let you be all these years? I could have killed you as you ran, tail between your legs, from Mathura. But I didn’t. You’re just the son of a slave, for all I care. Do you know how many of you fill my dungeons and clean the horse-shit from my stables? Why, some of you even wipe my backside! When I want one of you dead, gwala, I send him to the rat-catchers. For you, you coward, I think even that is a waste of good men. As for your challenge … Mih! I refuse to fight you!’ he thundered. ‘I refuse your challenge, and I piss on it!’

  With that, he spat on the ground at Govinda’s feet. Not a sound came from the gathering of nobles, and then, as one, they burst into mocking, cackling laughter that rang, deafening, off the walls.

  Govinda stood in the middle of it all, letting the barbs of ridicule, the shame and derision all wash over him as though he cared nothing for it. In fact, he smiled – his very own mysterious but undeniably sad smile that he alone knew the meaning of.

  It was more than Bhim could take. Seething with anger, he stepped forward. ‘Then I dare you to fight me!’ he challenged Jarasandha. ‘Fight me here and now, as we stand, and I’ll prove by your blood that Govinda Shauri is no coward!’

  A horrified Partha looked from Bhim to the impassive Govinda, and then at the delighted Jarasandha. The Emperor was known not only to be a hardy fighter but also a tough wrestler, on par with Balabadra himself. Bhim had been undoubtedly one of Balabadra’s best students, but … Partha shuddered at the thought of what defeat would mean to them all. ‘Bhim, are you …’ he began in an urgent hiss, but fell quiet as he saw it was too late.

  Jarasandha considered the exchange with an amused expression, as though waiting for Bhim to back out. He then chortled maliciously and said, ‘Very well, son of Pandu. If the gods decree that Kuru blood be spilt for this son of a slave, then so be it. But for my part, once I’ve beaten you I’ll avenge and honour your death by cutting Govinda’s head off his neck.’

  Without further ado, the Emperor cast aside his upper robe and stripped off the crown and other jewels he wore. He ordered his noblemen and soldiers to move back, creating a ring-like space in their midst.

  Bhim could not help but notice that Jarasandha bore no signs of injury, no mark at all from their assassin’s attack. It reminded him of what Govinda had said about the Emperor having been forewarned. With it came the chilling realization that perhaps their presence here, too, was expected and their efforts doomed to failure. Pushing the thought out of his mind, he tried to focus on the moment. Handing over his robe and ascetic’s beads to an anxious-looking Partha, Bhim pulled his long hair into a tight knot and stepped up to face his opponent.

  The two men regarded each other for a moment. Without warning, they threw themselves at each other, grappling furiously, moving fast and striking hard. Around them, the courtiers shrunk away in fear, astonished at the animal rage that coursed through both fighters. Jarasandha drew first blood, beginning with a series of hard punches to Bhim’s face and then by lifting him up and throwing him over his shoulder.

  Partha swore out loud, visibly astonished at the Emperor’s strength. Few could match Bhim move for move, as Jarasandha was. He glanced over at Govinda. The man looked as unflappable as always, but his dark eyes smouldered with a new emotion that Partha did not recognize.

  Bhim quickly got back on his feet, but Jarasandha had a psychological advantage and he pressed it. He threw scathing remarks at his opponent, which the many nobles around them also took up, adding a few insults of their own. Bhim responded by rushing at Jarasandha, but the monarch was ready. Grabbing Bhim’s arm, Jarasandha used the force of the attack to twist it, slowly forcing him down on one knee. For a while it looked as though neither man was moving, though their muscles were taut with the effort. The audience fell silent, hardly daring to breathe. At last, after what seemed like ages, Bhim slipped out of Jarasandha’s grip. With a cry that echoed through the air, he landed a hard backhanded punch to the side of his opponent’s head and followed through with an elbow to the man’s stomach. Then, as Jarasandha staggered back, Bhim butted him like a raging bull.

  Unsteady on his feet, the Emperor still tried to grab hold of Bhim. The younger man deftly side-stepped the attack and wound his left arm around Jarasandha’s neck in a stranglehold. He then locked his right hand around his left wrist and began pressing down on Jarasandha’s windpipe. It was the toughest thing Bhim had ever tried to do. It took every bit of strength, will and courage in his body, mind and heart to execute the move. Jarasandha kicked and flailed, clawed at his opponent’s arms, elbowed him in the stomach. He had gone red in the face, and his eyes were nearly bulging out of their sockets, but he still would not give up.

  Bhim felt his arms burn from the effort. Teeth clenched, he tried hard to coax a little more strength out of his body, but it was all he could do just to hold on. Sweat poured from his forehead, trickling down into his eyes, making them smart. He had to do something, and quick. In a sudden move, he let go of Jarasandha, and in the same instant brought his knee up to hit the man hard on the small of his back. Before the Emperor knew it, he was face down, on the floor. His chest heaving from the exertion, Bhim stepped back and waited for Jarasandha to get to his feet.

  Gone was Jarasandha’s earlier arrogance. The Emperor was obviously in great pain, and though he tried to push himself up, he was unable to. He looked around him in a helpless daze, as though he could neither see nor think clearly. With a groan, he finally managed to get onto his hands and knees.

  Bhim snarled at the spent Emperor, goading him to stand up and fight. As he waited, fists clenched, he felt a gentle touch on his arm.

  In the middle of the tumult, of that noisy torrent of primal fury and hatred, Govinda’s presence was as cool and soothing as a spring breeze. ‘Enough,’ he gently advised Bhim. ‘This fight is over. You attack a man when he’s tired and weak, you will kill him in ways you can’t imagine. Enough, my friend.’

  Jarasandha staggered to his feet, seething with hatred as his bloodshot, bulging eyes stared at Govinda. Govinda met the Emperor’s stare, the silent odium and the implied accusations in them, without flinching.

  Bhim felt rage flow through him, renewed. In that moment, he knew: As long as he lived, he would never forget the sadness he had seen in Govinda’s eyes. One chance to kill Jarasandha in fair combat and thereby salvage his pride, one chance to avenge himself against the man who had driven him out from his own home, reduced him from the Crown Prince of a great nation to an object of ridicule – and Govinda had given it up.

  For what, Bhim wondered as blood thundered in his head. Power? Friendship? Surely not for Dharma?

  The people, Partha’s words rang in his ears. A voice in Bhim’s own mind added an answer of his own he dared not whisper aloud or even admit to himself. It coursed through his limbs like fire, giving him a strength he did not know he had left in him. With a terrible yell that stunned every onlooker, Bhim threw himself at Jarasandha, pinning him down to the floor once more. The weary Emperor had no strength left to resist.

  A courtier screamed, guards began to move towards the duelling men and the room filled with the sounds of panic, anger and confusion. Partha threw himself at the nearest guards, laying a few punches of his own as he screamed out warnings, first to Bhim and then to Govinda. Both men ignored it, their attention on nothing but the man who lay spread wide on the floor, no longer an Emperor, nothing but mortal like them all. A man made of flesh, blood and fading hope. />
  Bhim glanced again at Govinda, at the silent, expressionless stance, which suddenly seemed to speak volumes that he had never noticed or understood before. Govinda’s pained detachment was more than he could take. With determined precision, Bhim placed one knee against Jarasandha’s spine, braced his other leg against the man’s right ankle and wrapped his arms around his torso. With a loud yell, he drew on every scrap of strength that he had left and pulled.

  The thundercrack of Jarasandha’s backbone snapping in two could be heard above the tumult. It was followed by the softer, more gut-wrenching sound of muscle and flesh tearing apart.

  11

  PANCHALI HAD NEVER THOUGHT SHE WOULD BE THIS RELIEVED to see Govinda again. But she was. She had casually walked into Dharma’s outer chambers, and stopped in her tracks when her eyes fell on Govinda.

  ‘Ah, Panchali,’ Dharma greeted her. ‘I was just about to send for you …’

  But she had already broken into tears as she faced Govinda. ‘When did you arrive? How tired you look!’ she said, in a gentle, chastising way, ‘And you haven’t combed your hair in ages.’ She reached up to touch his curly hair, still short but thicker and more unruly than she had ever seen it. He was in his dirty, travel-stained robes, with some of his gear and weapons still strapped to his back.

  ‘Panchali …’ Govinda whispered, feeling content at the mere sight of her.

  He hardly took his eyes off her for the rest of the evening, as he emotionlessly, tonelessly, reported every detail of the expedition to Dharma and Panchali. He told them also about Jarasandha’s son, who lacked his father’s ambition but not his sense of honour and pride. After Jarasandha had been defeated, Govinda had installed the young man in his father’s stead as the king of Magadha. The newly crowned king had been grateful, particularly since he had no advisors to suggest he feel otherwise. He took easily to Govinda’s suggestions and not only pledged allegiance to Dharma of the Kurus but also sealed the alliance in the time-honoured fashion of Aryavarta – through matrimony. His sister, the princess Valandhara, was now Bhim’s wife.