Govinda (The Aryavarta Chronicles)

by Krishna Udayasankar

  ‘Get back!’ he shouted. ‘Get back now!’

  He pushed himself up off the ice, hissing under his breath as he felt the frozen surface shift, ever so slightly. A small fissure was opening up, right where he had lain. The men he had pulled out were not yet out of danger. With a grunt Govinda picked up the lighter-looking of the two men and swung him over his shoulder. He tried to pull the other man along by his cloak but the wet leather slipped out of his grip.

  ‘Maraka!’ Govinda swore. He thought for an instant, and then, using his teeth, pulled the thick hide covering from off his right hand. Unmindful of the way the cold wetness shot through his fingers as he caught the soldier’s wet cloak, Govinda began his harrowing trek back to solid ground.

  The cracking sound grew louder. He heard a fresh round of screams and saw from the corner of his eye that to his right another piece of ice had given way. Grim and resolute, he kept moving forward, knowing that all he could do at that moment was get the two men with him back to safety. Around him, many others tried to help their fellow soldiers as best as they could, but for the most part they could only watch, horrified.

  Govinda stumbled as he felt the ice give slightly underfoot, but it did not break. He breathed out hard, willing every bit of speed he could out of his limbs. Only then did he realize that he no longer had any feeling in his right arm; nor could he feel the weight of the prone soldier on his left shoulder. But there was no time to think as Partha shouted to him at the top of his voice and began to run forward.

  ‘No!’ Govinda tried to warn him, but his voice was lost in the loud, whip-like crack that rose and fell. He felt the sudden, painful, surge up his feet as the clear, chilled water of lake filled his boots. The man he was dragging along fell once again into the water. Govinda’s mind told him to let go, that he could not pull him out again, that he still had a chance to help the other man. But he could neither feel nor move his fingers. His hand remained curled around the dead soldier’s cloak and he felt himself being tugged into the water as the body began to sink.

  Then Govinda felt Partha’s arms around him. ‘Keep moving, you fool!’ Partha shouted. Together they stumbled the last few feet to safety, the two soldiers – one dead, one barely alive – still with them. Just as they touched solid ground, the ice behind them gave way completely. A sudden storm of cries rose into the air, some ineffective pleas for help but the others shouts of horror and despair. Slowly, the last of the screams faded and all was quiet.

  In a low, tired voice, Partha ordered for fires to be built. He knew many more men would die before the day was over.

  Night had fallen by the time Partha came up to join Govinda where he sat, warming himself up by a fire.

  ‘Well?’ Govinda asked pre-emptively.

  Partha let out a sigh and threw himself on to the furs that had been laid out on top of a thick hide. ‘We found a clump of dried-out shrubs not too far away, so firewood should not be a problem. As for the men – we’ve lost twice as many as we did in the morning. The medics are trying to save another twenty of them or so by amputating their limbs, but we can’t say for sure if they’ll survive. The soldier you carried out … he’s going to lose a leg, probably both.’

  Govinda sighed, but said nothing. His shoulder and chest still throbbed relentlessly, but he was almost glad of the pain for it told him that sensation had returned to his body. However, he still could not feel the fingers of his right hand and had to rely on his sight to keep the flesh from burning as he tried to thaw it. Around him, he knew, many soldiers had already made the mistake of letting their limbs get too close to the fire for the lack of sensation, and the unpleasant smell of charred skin and flesh that filled the air.

  Partha cleared his throat, trying to find the words to say what he had to. ‘The medic says that if you don’t regain sensation in your fingers soon, we may have to …’

  ‘Cut them off?’ Govinda finished, apparently unperturbed at the prospect. ‘Did you know that the Nishada prince Ekalavya is supposed to be a really good marksman, even though he’s lost the thumb of his arrow-hand?’ He considered his right hand for a moment, and then used the left to twist and turn his benumbed fingers a bit. ‘I suppose, if the medics leave me a couple of fingers, I should be all right … I could get by using a sword with my left hand, but I don’t think I’d be much good with arrows. Not that I’m half as good as you, anyway …’

  Partha could not take it anymore. ‘Govinda, I’m sorry,’ he gasped out. ‘I …’

  ‘Enough, Partha,’ Govinda gently chided. ‘Your problem is that you take on far too much guilt. You really should learn to be a little more arrogant about your mistakes. There’s nothing wrong in making them, as long as one does a good job of that …’

  ‘But, I …’

  ‘Please, let it go. Or else I’ll have to get the medics to remove my ears, frozen or not.’

  Partha drew in a deep breath and nodded. He watched the fire for a while and then stood up. ‘I need to go check on our supplies,’ he said. Pausing, he added, ‘I hope to be able to leave here in two days. With so many men lost, we have enough horses for the injured to ride on, so I think it’s best we move as soon as we can. I … we … we’ll head south, Govinda. We’ll head for the Lauhitya.’

  Govinda nodded silently. He waited till Partha left before stretching himself out next to the fire. He tried to remain awake and keep moving as much of his right arm as he could, but at some point a weary sleep took him. The next morning, he woke up to a sharp, stinging pain at the tips of his fingers, the beginnings of sensation returning to them. He also found out from one of the medics that Partha had sat up next to him all night, rubbing his numb hand.

  As planned, they broke camp in two days and headed south. It took them a little less than three weeks to reach the gorge through which the Lauhitya flowed. The sound of the wild river thundered up the walls of the narrow gorge to reach them where they stood, looking down at its foam-flecked waters. A few murmurs of apprehension rose as the men considered the descent before them, but Partha remained resolute. He sent scouts to look for the path that Govinda had heard about, in the meantime quelling all discontent with an even mix of reassurances and punishments. It had been nearly a week by the time the scouts returned with news of a narrow but relatively clear path that had been cut into the face of the cliff.

  The descent proved to be a test of endurance and courage rather than a danger in itself. The path was wide enough for no more than five men or two fully laden horses to walk abreast, which meant that the entire army had to spread out in a long procession. What also made it demanding was that, once on the path, it was difficult to stop for more than a short while, and absolutely impossible to set up camp of any sort. Fighting hunger and sleep, the men had to march on at a stretch.

  It took nearly two days and a night of incessant trudging before the first group of soldiers reached the rocky ledges that served as the banks of the river. The air was palpably warmer and brought with it the first traces of verdure the men had seen in a long while. Despite his weariness, Govinda immediately stripped off his clothes and jumped into one of the pools formed by the spray from the raging river collecting in hollows along the ledge. It was far too dangerous to swim in the river here, or to even try and stand in the water along its banks. Partha laughed as Govinda finally emerged from his impulsive bath feeling a bit cold, but cleaner than he had in months.

  ‘Almost there now,’ he remarked. ‘We are almost in Aryavarta.’

  Govinda raised a surprised eyebrow. ‘Almost? My friend, every person, every chief and king in the lands we have crossed owe their allegiance to Dharma Yudhisthir. This is Aryavarta.’

  16

  ‘SOMETIMES, PARTHA,’ GOVINDA SAID, ‘I CAN’T HELP BUT wonder … Are we warriors, or politicians? The question has come to mind many times over these past years …’

  Partha adjusted the heavy armour he wore under his leather cloak, redistributing its weight on his frame. Underneath the metal, his clothes
clung to his skin, wet and heavy. The two men stood on the turrets of Pragjya, the mighty city on the eastern border of Aryavarta. The city was nestled into the rocky terrain of a lesser mountain range that ran parallel to the White Mountains, taking advantage of what shelter the hills could provide against the rain. In all, it was a dreary, monotonous expanse of black rock and dark forests, ominous and foreboding.

  It had taken Partha and Govinda another seven harrowing months to trek from where they had descended into the gorge of the wild Lauhitya in its upper reaches all the way down to where the river split, timid and harmless, on to the plains. From there, their journey had grown immensely more comfortable, for they had lacked neither hospitable vassals nor adequate supplies. When they had finally neared Pragjya, Partha had soaked, overjoyed, in the warm rains he encountered there. His joy had been short-lived. After all those years in the White Mountains, Partha had reckoned himself seasoned, both in terms of weather and in terms of terrain, but never in all his travels had he found the weather so enervating, depressing even. It never stopped raining in these lands.

  Govinda, however, treated the elements with a mix of reverence and diffidence, which allowed him to find simple, though admittedly less-than-comfortable, solutions. In this instance, he had opted to discard his armour completely and let the heavy cloak rest directly on his thin tunic. The only obvious reaction he had shown so far to the rain was to express concern over the rust on the metal bits of his horse’s saddle. Both men kept on their hide-covered boots, as did the rest of the soldiers. It would not do to underestimate the infestation of snakes and leeches in the verdant undergrowth that was the result of the unique weather.

  And then there was the river.

  The sparkling waters of the incredibly wide and mighty Lauhitya shimmered as far as the eye could see. Like a sea, the opposite shore lay out of sight, even on a clear day. Its sheer expanse was breathtaking, movingly so. And now it was also impassable. Humble and unaware of its own might the river meandered on, slow and inexorable. Incessant storms broke over it into a million insignificant drops of rain that were no match for the great sheet of water. The river simply consumed each droplet and moved on. The rain fell all the time. The river flowed on. Nothing, it seemed, could quench its thirst.

  Once, many years ago, Govinda had been here. It had been one of the battles that had brought him his early fame. All of Aryavarta knew that he had fought and killed the former king of Pragjya. Few knew why that battle had been fought. Then, he had been here as an enemy and conqueror. This time he was the honoured guest of the young ruler, King Bhagadatta.

  The son of the man I killed. Govinda had never thought he would return to this place, but now that he had, he knew better than to dwell too long on the fact. Bhagadatta had, so far, been nothing but genuinely friendly. He had welcomed them and their army without hesitation and he had also helped Govinda send a message to Magadha, advising Bhim of their arrival at Pragjya. As a result, Shikandin and his men joined them at Pragjya a few weeks later, bringing with them the news that Nakul and Sadev had successfully returned to Indr-prastha, their missions successful. Now, all that was left for Govinda, Partha and Shikandin to do was to make their way to Magadha and then, along with Bhim, begin a victorious march home to Indr-prastha. The imperial campaign was nearly at its end.

  Yet, Govinda found it hard to share in the general sense of victory and jubilation that was in the air. The conquest, he knew, was not over till it was truly over. Their intentions were no longer secret and Western Kuru itself was vulnerable and exposed. As for their armies – they still had to return to Indr-prastha. Now, it appeared, the hardest task would be getting them home.

  Just that morning Bhagadatta had offered to have his best guides lead them south from Pragjya, following the course of the river to parts that were under his control. From there, Govinda, the others, and their men could cross the river and begin making their way westward, towards Indr-prastha. However, his proposal had not been without due warning.

  ‘As a man of war,’ Bhagadatta had pointed out, ‘I must counsel you – the packed-mud bunds and the smaller bridges of the south won’t take the weight of your marching armies. Death is not just a risk, it is a certainty. Given this weather, you’re better off crossing at the ford into the kingdom of Kashi. It is the only one strong enough to get you across the river.’

  Kashi was indeed the most direct and easy route back to central Aryavarta. To its south lay Magadha, the land stretching eastwards till it ended in a dark, dense forest along the banks of the Lauhitya – the effective boundary with Bhagadatta’s kingdom. For all ostensible purposes Kashi and its king, Sudakshin, held no hostility towards the returning Kuru armies – after all, Govinda had passed through Kashi–Kosala to reach Deva-prastha. But the memory of the landslides at Deva-prastha still lurked in their minds and now Shikandin’s scouts warned of a trap, of strange, inexplicable events that they did not quite know what to make of. Villages, it was said, had emptied overnight, farmlands left fallow, and strange men came and went from the forts around the eastern borders of Kashi. It was enough to make Govinda hesitate, particularly as Bhagadatta continued to dissuade them from crossing the river anywhere but at the ford into Kashi.

  Partha, too, remained suspicious of their host. He wondered if this was part of Bhagadatta’s plan to seek vengeance against Govinda. Or perhaps I just blame him for the despair which already cloaks my reason, he mused as he watched the rain cover the grey stone walls with a shiny veneer of green. The endless downpour, he noted, was enough to depress anyone, even someone as imperturbable as Govinda.

  ‘You’re a warrior in every sense of the word, my friend,’ Partha finally replied to Govinda’s questions. ‘It’s these endless conspiracies that have made a politician out of you. Does Bhagadatta lie, or does he tell the truth? Is the way through Kashi truly barred? Were the landslides at Deva-prastha really the act of an enemy, or a freak act of nature? How can we make any sense of all this?’

  Govinda laughed. ‘There’s a phrase I once heard from a very wise man. He told me that there’s a difference between the reason for something that has happened and the explanation for it. We often mistake one for the other. The landslides, Bhagadatta’s warm welcome and his warnings … We’re left with only one way back home. Through Kashi.’

  ‘Which doesn’t sound too bad, really. After all, Sudakshin of Kashi, has only been too glad to accept Dharma’s suzerainty in place of Jarasandha’s. Not to mention that he has affirmed enough treaties to that effect and paid Bhim a generous tribute these past years.’

  ‘And in return he has received a great degree of autonomy and independence – I can’t help but wonder if it was a mistake. Rudra knows what he’s been up to inside his old fortress. Don’t forget, Kashi is an ancient kingdom and has historically been a powerful one till the past half-century or so. It won’t do to dismiss it.’

  ‘But Sudakshin’s never shown any hostility towards us. Well, not yet …’

  ‘Neither did we, once, when Jarasandha was our Emperor. Never forget how we got here, Partha. Our would-be ousters will take exactly the same path. If this is a trap …’

  Partha looked despondent. ‘Then, there is no way out, is there? The snare has been well set. Even if we win a battle against Sudakshin and his armies, the political repercussions are enough to doom the imperial campaign as a whole. And if we lose … If only we had more time!’

  ‘We certainly can’t wait any longer,’ Shikandin said, coming up to join the two men. ‘Bhim doesn’t know why we are stuck here. He may even suspect Bhagadatta … I worry that Indr-prastha is already beset with rumours of our failure, even our death.’

  ‘What I don’t understand,’ Partha said, exasperated, ‘is why they can’t get word to us! Surely, someone of Dwaipayana’s wisdom and resources … Couldn’t they get even a sage, or a spy dressed as one, out to us? And what about those pigeons? They worked even in the snow-tipped heights of the White Mountains, till we entered the Highland
Core. Why then can’t they get here? There’s no way I can keep the men in line much longer. The weather here is enemy enough to kill them. It rains incessantly and the mist hardly rises. Sickness is inevitable despite Bhagadatta’s hospitality, and so are discontent and rebellion.’

  ‘Look,’ Shikandin said, ‘let me try getting across with a few of my men. Either we’ll make it through and come back with reinforcements, or else I’ll at least track down the messengers we’ve sent already. Give me a couple of weeks. I’ll come back with news either way.’

  ‘And if you don’t?’

  ‘If I don’t, I don’t. Frankly, I’m surprised that none of us is dead yet!’

  ‘It’s like the old stories the bards tell,’ Govinda lightly remarked. ‘The heroes never die.’

  ‘That’s because dead men don’t make for good heroes,’ Shikandin retorted. ‘They are there in the stories all right – as the honourable friends and companions who fall by the wayside. And then the heroes go back and romance pretty princesses.’