Govinda (The Aryavarta Chronicles)

by Krishna Udayasankar

  Panchali knew she had no right to feel hurt, but she did. Hurt, used and furious, too, that she had allowed Govinda to make her feel this way. She longed to despise him, tried to will that emotion into being, but she simply could not. All she could think of was that Govinda had set himself on a course that placed his very life in danger. There were those who would now seek to stop him in ways that were for more direct than hers. As cold fear pushed all the rage and silent rhetoric out of her mind, Panchali found herself praying for the man she wanted to hate but could not.

  Oh Rudra, please, please keep him safe!

  12

  THE YOUNG, BEARDED SCHOLAR WALKED THROUGH THE PALACE with the deference expected of him. He effusively greeted every dignitary, and stood hesitantly at doorways till an attendant came to his aid. Even then, his manner was meek and apologetic. In all, he played to perfection the part of a young acolyte raised to the unexpected honour of an audience with the Grandsire of the Kuru line of kings. He very nearly blushed when Bhisma came into the room.

  Bhisma, however, was not amused to see his visitor. He tersely got rid of the others present, even the attendants. ‘We’re alone,’ he finally declared, ‘you can stop your pretence.’

  Devala Asita raised his head. There remained no trace of his former deference. As a matter of habit, his hand moved to his beard in a prelude to speech. ‘You know why I’m here …’

  ‘Yes. And I also know that your journey is wasted. There’s nothing I can do.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Nothing you say can make me change my mind. In any case, it’s too late. The last of Dharma’s troops marched out of Indr-prastha over a month ago. His campaign has now well and truly begun and it’s for the people of Aryavarta to judge Dharma’s worth as an Emperor-aspirant, not for you or me to decide.’

  ‘Surely,’ the scholar began, ‘you wouldn’t refuse assistance to one who begs it of you?’

  ‘I have every right to refuse assistance to an immoral end. Don’t argue with me!’

  ‘And you owe us nothing? You, the epitome of morality, claim that you owe us nothing? Forgive me, but I always thought that the debt of a student to a teacher is the greatest duty of them all …’

  ‘There’s no need to be sarcastic. In any case, you are not my teacher.’

  ‘But those of my order are. It’s on Barghava Rama’s shoulders that your reputation as an unparalleled warrior was earned … Grandsire. The Firewrights have been your teachers, we’ve been your friends, keeping your secrets and aiding your cause when you’ve needed us the most. Yet you’ve turned your back on us when we needed you the most. Our blood is on your hands. I’m here to claim on that debt, to hold you to it.’

  ‘By whose authority?’ the Grandsire asked. ‘The Secret Keeper is dead. The order of Firewrights is broken. Go back to your hermitage, or wherever it is that you came from, and spend your days in prayer.’

  ‘You of all people should know better. The order can never be broken.’

  ‘Ah! One stupid myth to hold up another!’

  ‘It’s no myth. Ghora did his duty. He taught those who were the best of students, me included, and prepared us to take his place.’

  ‘Except, of course,’ Bhisma scathingly noted, ‘he did not anoint you as his heir! Are you telling me that you’ve been so appointed? That you are, in fact, the Secret Keeper?’

  ‘Alas, I’m not. But when a nation has no king, a regent must suffice, isn’t it? My time will come. I will rebuild my order before I rightfully make my claim to lead it.’

  A tense silence followed, broken at length by the younger man. ‘I had hoped that Agniveshya – Ghora’s grandson – was alive. But with the fall of Kandava and then with Jarasandha’s death I’ve lost that hope. Now, as one of Ghora’s chosen, I am in fact the head of our order till such time that a better Wright comes forward to relieve me of this burden. By this authority, I charge you to fulfil your obligations to us.’

  Bhisma stared at him, disbelieving. Then, with some effort, he stirred. ‘My obligations, such as they may have been, were discharged long ago, and many times over,’ he tersely pointed out. ‘In fact, it’s only kindness, not gratitude, that keeps me from having you arrested and executed this very moment. You have shamelessly revealed yourself as a Wright in the presence of the Regent of Hastina, no less. It’s a crime, one that is punishable with death. I can only put down such folly to your youth and inexperience … Go, Devala! Leave before I lose my temper. Or else even your brother’s good name won’t keep you alive in Hastina.’

  Devala’s eyes blazed with anger and his chest heaved as he tried to keep his temper. Finally, when he trusted himself to speak he softly said, ‘Very well,’ and made to leave. He had taken just a few steps towards the door when he glanced back at Bhisma. ‘Don’t you think I know? That neither you nor Dwaipayana imagined for even a moment that Govinda Shauri’s blood will emerge as heir to the Kuru throne? Why do you still pretend then that you rule these lands? The truth is you are but puppets in the hands of that bloody cowherd! I don’t know what promises the Vyasa has made to you, but he is an idiot, and you’re an even greater one that you follow him blindly. I warn you, Grandsire, if the imperial campaign continues, your kin will die for your stupidity. You have no idea what I’m capable of.’

  Bhisma looked at the young man askance, and a cold and mirthless laughter broke suddenly from his lips. The Firewright was dumbstruck.

  ‘Bakaa! You fool!’ Bhisma chortled, still laughing. ‘You poor, pitiful fool! Do you really believe that there are terrible weapons hidden somewhere? That you’ll find these and save the Wrights? Hah! You were at Magadha … Don’t bother denying it – everyone knows you were there! You promised to help Jarasandha defend his empire and reaffirm his power over Aryavarta, in return for what? Did you find even a single Wright worth saving in his dungeons, or weapons worth oiling in his armoury? What did you get for all your trouble? And at the end of it all Jarasandha died at the bare hands of a better man. Certainly not an end you’d expect for a king with Firewrights at his beck and call. There’s nothing left!’

  ‘Do you really believe that? You know how desperate Govinda and Dharma both were to avoid open war with Jarasandha. Do you really think there’s nothing left?’

  ‘There was a time when I didn’t,’ Bhisma admitted. ‘And, yes, perhaps a part of me still does believe that there are weapons out there, weapons worthy of an Arya warrior. But that they were made by your people counts for nothing, and they certainly won’t bring you Wrights back to power.’

  ‘Worse things could happen. If you won’t let us control these powerful things we have created, you risk letting them fall into the wrong hands; hands that may now seem to grip yours in friendship but would just as soon squeeze your neck. Take it from one who knows the bitter pain of betrayal – Govinda cannot be trusted.’

  Bhisma clucked his tongue in an indulgent way. ‘This is Dwaipayana’s realm,’ he softly declared. ‘What the Vyasa believes is what matters. After all that has happened, you still don’t see who holds the reins of Aryavarta in his hands? You’re the fool then!’

  ‘But …’

  Bhisma came up to the young man and placed a hand on his shoulder, as he would with one of his grandsons. His expression showed a mixture of emotions – pain, anger, even despair – as he said, ‘There’s a demon that haunts us all, my boy. Within us all, within every human being, even Aryas, there is a corner of darkness. With the blessings of the gods and the help of the scriptures, we fight this darkness, overcome it to become honourable men. He … he guides us through that darkness. Every human weakness, every foible, each despair and every hope – he knows it all, and he helps us fight it.’

  ‘And what if he fails? Dwaipayana – what if he fails?’

  ‘And what if he doesn’t?’

  ‘By Hara! What power does Dwaipayana hold over you that you fear him so? You, the man who once defeated the best of the Firewrights in fair battle?’

  Bhisma glared
at Devala. His tone was again clear and commanding as he firmly said, ‘I can’t do what you ask of me. I can’t stop Dharma.’

  Devala’s eyes held grim resolution. ‘Then you leave me no choice.’

  Syoddhan watched as the young ochre-clad scholar left Bhisma’s chambers and quickly made his way out of the grounds of the palace. With a sigh, he turned back to where his son, Lakshmana, was training with Vasusena’s son, Vrishasena.

  ‘Higher there. Block him! Block him! And you, Lakshmana, go under his shield-arm,’ he called out instructions to the boys with the instinct of experience, even as he turned back to watch the scholar till he disappeared out of view.

  He tried not to bristle at the thought that followed, but was only partly successful. Hardly had the news of Dharma’s imperial campaign made its way to Hastina, first as rumour and then as fact, than Dwaipayana had begun his persuasion – persuasion that Syoddhan found to be less than palatable. First the Vyasa himself and then his acolytes had consistently impressed on Bhisma and Dhritarastra how important the campaign was to the Firstborn, to the establishment of an empire of divine order and to sealing the fate and prosperity of the Kurus. It was, Dwaipayana had pointed out and Sanjaya had echoed, of great economical and political benefit to Eastern Kuru should its western namesake become the imperial capital of Aryavarta. Syoddhan, however, had been less taken in by the talk than his father or his grand-uncle. He had soon understood what Dwaipayana wanted of him: Silent support, not only his own but also that of his friends and allies – support that Dharma did not and could not hope to have on his own.

  Syoddhan had found it rather amusing that he seemed to enjoy far greater popularity and support in Aryavarta than the Emperor-aspirant. In fact, the more he dwelt on it the more convinced he became that perhaps his own claim on the imperial throne would have been better justified and certainly more successful. But his patience had prevailed and he questioned neither Dharma’s campaign nor the Vyasa’s injunction that he support it. Slowly, as he watched the armies of Indr-prastha march out in different directions, many of them through Eastern Kuru, Syoddhan came to terms with the sad fact of the matter – if he made a bid for imperium, it was bound to fail.

  The reasons were many – the foremost being that he certainly could not trust his brothers the way Dharma trusted his. If he sent Dussasana or some of the others out to conquer the periphery, he could surely expect them to declare themselves rulers of those lands with the intent to sooner or later annex Aryavarta. Those who remained with him at Hastina would constantly be on the lookout for the opportunity to capture the throne from within. Indeed, this was the very reason his father gave to justify his remaining king of Kuru – to keep his heirs from squabbling for the crown. Yet another reason, Syoddhan sullenly admitted, why he could never aspire to be Emperor. At the end of the day, he was not even a king. He was just a prince.

  ‘Ah! Why you …’ A shout went up from one of the two boys, drawing Syoddhan out of his ruminations. Vrishasena stood clutching at one shoulder, his training sword on the ground, even as Lakshmana stood apologetically by.

  Syoddhan rushed to the injured boy, dispelling all thoughts of Dharma’s imperial campaign from his mind. The only trace that lingered was a casual calculation of how imperial campaigns were few and far between and, even so, for every five campaigns that were well-begun four were doomed to failure. Dharma’s had no cause to be an exception. Indeed, he noted with a trace of grim satisfaction, there was nothing exceptional about Dharma at all.

  13

  AS PLANNED, GOVINDA AND BHIM MADE THEIR BASE AT MAGADHA and set about the eastern leg of the imperial conquest. It took them half a year to move all their men eastwards to Magadha and another few months to set up a full garrison there – particularly since Govinda insisted on disbanding Jarasandha’s Imperial Army and re-mustering the soldiers to form new troops.

  ‘You should trust them,’ Bhim said, protesting against the disbanding. ‘They’re all good, honest men.’

  ‘Indeed, they’re good and honest,’ Govinda said, ‘and that’s why we cannot trust them. Not yet.’

  Bhim remained unconvinced, but he soon forgot his concerns as the endless preparations were finally completed and the real conquest began. He set out from Magadha, leading his new troops much further east, beyond Pragjya.

  Govinda stayed back, his task now one of diplomacy, a role that was also mirrored at Indr-prastha by Dhaumya and Panchali. It did not take long for Govinda to set in a place a treaty with the Kalinga’s King Srutayus – one that gave them all much cause to celebrate since it proved to be a persuasive point during Sadev’s negotiations with the ruler of Andhraka in Dakshinavarta. The possibility of access to trade with the peninsular regions of the south also paved the way for a subsequent treaty, a year later, with the foreign Danava kings. The agreement ensured that the Danavas would not interfere in what the treaty diplomatically deemed as the internal affairs of Aryavarta. In effect it meant that the Danavas would not interfere as Nakul forcibly reclaimed the north-western lands from the Hunas and Pahlavas and brought them under the control of his uncle Shalya, the king of Madra.

  Around the same time, it became clear to Govinda and Bhim why Srutayus had been so eager to accept Dharma’s overlordship. It was the only way Srutayus could survive or even keep his own throne safe from his vassals, the coastal chiefs of Kalinga as well as those of the neighbouring regions of Vanga. Though these coastal chiefs had accepted Srutayus’s rule in name, it soon became apparent that they were little better than pirate lords. Their fortunes were made by capturing merchant ships that were sailing close to the coastline and leading them into the thick forests, murky swamps and humid mangroves that covered most of Vanga as well as the coastal stretch of Kalinga. Then the pirates would either sell off the stolen goods or else demand huge ransoms for the release of the merchandise and crew. Imperial presence, the pirate chiefs knew, would bring with it strict enforcement of law and little mercy for piracy. And so they did everything possible to disrupt Dharma’s campaign in the region, often resorting to ambush and sabotage against Bhim’s soldiers.

  Bhim tried his best, but neither he nor his men were adept at fighting in this sort of terrain. Srutayus and his forces too were of no use, for the king and his nobles merely looked to their new overlord for protection, though not with much hope. After all, they pointed out, even Jarasandha had found it easier to ignore the pirates than engage in battle in the dark, murky swamplands of the region.

  ‘It’s hopeless, Govinda,’ Bhim despaired after he had personally led a futile expedition into a thick swamp not too far from Kalinga’s capital, Rajapura. ‘Snakes, tigers, scorpions … and not to mention the pirate lords and their men, who are like animals themselves. Only a creature of the wild can survive in there!’

  At those words Govinda burst out laughing, wondering how he had overlooked the obvious. He then suggested they send for Shikandin and Panchala’s Eastern Guard.

  Dharma received Govinda’s small scroll bearing this suggestion within days, thanks to the messenger pigeons for which Panchali had petitioned DwaipayanaVyasa at the very beginning of the imperial campaign. The Vyasa had graciously acquiesced and his beloved messenger pigeons now seamlessly knit the web of information that held the campaign together while more permanent methods of communication were put in place.

  If Dharma found the slightest joy in the ease of correspondence, he did not show it, reluctant as he was to follow the advice that this particular missive held. Over time he had come to notice both Govinda’s fondness for Shikandin as well as Dhrupad’s dislike of him. Both factors made him reluctant to trust the man.

  ‘Perhaps you should lead the men there instead, Dhrystydymn,’ Dharma suggested to the younger Panchala prince.

  Dhrystydymn said, ‘With all due respect, Dharma, do you have any intentions of putting an end to the piracy, or do you just want to look like you’re trying to do something?’

  ‘Why, certainly I plan to end this horror. I wan
t those pirates brought to justice!’ Dharma bristled.

  ‘In that case,’ Dhystydymn pointed out, ‘send Shikandin.’

  Panchali too prevailed on Dharma in her own, subtle way, sympathizing with his need to make the difficult moral decision to send his brother-in-law on such a hopeless mission. ‘One can’t even roll a pair of dice there to bet on his chances, I suppose,’ she jested. ‘I hear there’s hardly any land – it’s all one huge swamp.’

  Her persuasion, coupled with the news of more casualties, finally led Dharma to agree. And so it was that four years and a month to the day since the first of the troops had left Indr-prastha, as Nakul marched to war to reclaim the frontier lands, Shikandin and fifty of his men from Panchala’s Eastern Guard arrived at Magadha to begin their own smaller, but equally dangerous, war with the pirate chiefs of the east.

  Shikandin and his soldiers were no strangers to ambushes and waylays or to jungle warfare. For generations the Eastern Forests of Panchala had been the veritable border between central Aryavarta and the lands beyond. The men of the Eastern Guard had been trained to defend their homeland against every kind of enemy. What made these soldiers unique, though, was that the Eastern Forests were dangerous in themselves, serving as home to many wild beasts as well as deadly forest tribes who chose to live in seclusion and fought hard to protect it.

  Bhim expressed his relief at the arrival of the hardy fighters, but it was not without some concern.

  ‘Just the fifty of you? You won’t last two weeks in that place!’

  ‘Your Highness, Shikandin alone could last years in there and wreak havoc while he’s at it. Fifty of us is more than enough,’ said Devajit, a tall, lanky man with a sharp, patrician nose. He was Shikandin’s half-brother by a palace concubine, and proud of it. His easy familiarity with Shikandin, however, came not from this relationship but from hard-earned rank. Devajit was a captain of the Panchala Eastern Guard and a fellow fighter.