A gasp somewhere nearby, a cry of triumph closer still and an amorphous cheer made of many voices filled the air. Govinda heard nothing. With calculated decisiveness, he twisted to his left, coming up from under Shisupala’s outstretched sword-arm, to partly face the man. He then butted him in the head, hard. Shisupala reeled, as much from surprise as from the impact. It was just the opening Govinda needed. He pulled his now empty sword-hand out from Shisupala’s grasp. At the same time he used his other hand, still wrapped around Shisupala’s sword-arm, to jerk hard at the man’s wrist. Shisupala’s wrist-bone snapped with a soft crack. With a cry of pain, he dropped his sword.
Govinda spun down on one knee and reached out to catch the weapon before it hit the ground. In the same move, he stood up and turned around, whipping the blade through the air with smooth precision.
It was over. A terrible quiet descended on the hall, in which only the crisp crackling of the sacred fires could be heard. The sword hung loosely from Govinda’s hand. The slight rise and fall of his chest was the only evidence of movement as he stood still, his eyes closed. His upper robe had fallen off and his bare chest was streaked with blood. It had splashed across his face and he could taste its metallic tang, feel it invade his every sense. Mixed with the fragrance of the arghya, it was sanctifying and sullying at the same time.
Slowly, he stirred. He opened his eyes, and in a matter-of-fact way, threw aside Shisupala’s sword. He then picked up his own blade, returning it carefully to its scabbard. Finally, he bent down to grab Shisupala’s waist sash and began dragging the man’s huge bulk towards the doorway. In his other hand he held Shisupala’s severed head.
At the threshold, Govinda turned, considering the scene he left behind. Bhisma, his chest still heaving, stared at the blood-stained floor and then at him. A wide-eyed Dwaipayana reached out to hold on to the tall, strong, Suka next to him as his well-masked fear finally gave way to obvious relief. Around them all, shock, awe, surprise and reverence played across the faces of those present as each one came to terms with what had just happened. Syoddhan alone showed no visible emotion, his face expressionless. His eyes nevertheless betrayed his pain; the excruciating torment of guilt and regret. The same pained regret flashed in Dharma’s eyes as he finally looked up to meet Govinda’s cold, piercing gaze.
‘Finish it,’ Govinda ordered and disappeared into the bright glare outside.
For a while there was only silence. Then, in a hoarse voice, Dharma gave instructions for the coronation to continue. A slow hum of activity rose once again but conversation remained muted. A sense of gravity, of newfound respect, infused the proceedings, as the sheer power of the new empire made itself felt.
Govinda did not return. He could not, for he was now tainted with death.
Panchali stood where she was, watching the empty space where Govinda had been just moments ago. He had not as much as glanced at her. She felt as though she was being melted, tempered and wrought in the blue heat of the sacrificial fire. The moment of blind joy that had filled her at the affirmation that power and ambition had meant little to Govinda after all, had not lasted long. She knew he had killed Shisupala for a reason and it had little to do with the First Honour. He had killed the prince to protect a secret, a dark, horrifying secret – one she had perhaps known for a while, suspected for a while longer, but admitted not at all.
There was no running away from it now, no turning back. She took her place for the second time on the huge, gem-studded throne, painfully aware that Syoddhan now stared at her with undisguised rage and hatred.
As one, Aryavarta’s kings declared their allegiance. Then, to the resounding chant of the sacred invocation to Sri, the goddess and the very source of power in the imperial sceptre, consecrated water from many brass, silver and gold vessels was used to anoint the new rulers of the empire. With loud cheers, the entire gathering hailed Dharma and Panchali, while drums and trumpets rang loud.
The Empress of Aryavarta humbly accepted her new destiny, her hands folded in silent prayer.
31
DWAIPAYANA WATCHED FROM AN ORNATE WINDOW OF DHARMA’S palace as yet another royal convoy left Indr-prastha with due pomp and bustle, seen off by one or the other of Dharma’s brothers, as was appropriate. He breathed in deep of the crisp evening breeze, feeling satisfied and content. The coronation was over. One by one the guests were leaving, returning to their homes as the loyal subjects of Emperor Dharma. It would not do to overstay their welcome, especially not after what had happened to Shisupala.
The old scholar smiled at the recollection of recent events. Although somewhat unexpected, the conclusion had been wholly gratifying. Sanjaya had been right to suggest that the First Honour go to Govinda. It had indeed placed the man, officially and functionally, in the highly useful position of protector of the Empire. Like the crack of a whip, Govinda’s cold wrath and violence had revealed the might behind the benevolent face of Dharma’s reign. It had made the coronation that much more effective and, to the Vyasa personally, infinitely more satisfying.
Dwaipayana continued to revel in the still-fresh memories, even as an attendant appeared at the door, announcing a visitor. A tad reluctantly, he turned. As he had expected, it was Dharma. Somehow, the new emperor brought him less joy in person than he did as a notion. ‘My son, come on in,’ he greeted him.
Dharma entered the room and went down on one knee in salutation.
‘Come, sit comfortably, come …’ the Vyasa prompted.
Dharma rose, and sat down on an ornate chair, saying, ‘Your carriage is ready, Acharya. But must you leave already? Indr-prastha quickly empties of its guests. Just this morning I was crowned, and now …’ he shook his head, looking doleful.
‘Ah, the anti-climatic aftermath of a grand ending … Sadly, it’s time to stop celebrating, and start ruling, Dharma. We all have our duties to get back to, you included.’
‘Won’t you stay a little longer?’ Dharma urged.
‘No, my son, I must go.’ Dwaipayana began bustling about the room, collecting the many manuscripts strewn about the room. With genuine anticipation in his voice, he said, ‘And this is one journey I look forward to very much. By divine providence, my retirement from politics in Aryavarta has come about sooner than expected, Praise be to Varuna! My students are an intelligent and impatient lot and Suka will work me hard to make up for their missed lessons. I’m an old man … It’s time for me to go back to my parchments and my quills. Besides, I leave Aryavarta in good hands.’
He paused, gazing contentedly at the younger man. With sombre satisfaction, he proclaimed, ‘Dharma, Emperor of Aryavarta … And the unhappiest Emperor I’ve seen, I must say!’
‘Acharya …’ Dharma started.
With a merry laugh, Dwaipayana went on, ‘I know you, my son. You’re a man after my own heart, a man who believes in Divine order, in destiny, and the essence of being good. And your conscience, the one that gives you your name, now tells you that this empire, even your coronation, are tainted with things you find loathsome, isn’t that so?’
‘I … Acharya …’ Dharma began to protest but the relief at being understood without having to explain himself shone on his face. He made to stand, as a prelude to pouring out his heart.
The Elder waved him back to his seat. ‘It doesn’t matter how you got here, Dharma. What matters is why. The mission of the Firstborn is fulfilled, thanks to you. You see, my forefathers believed that if they could concentrate all power and authority in the scriptures, some degree of accountability would be established. These scriptures set immutable notions of justice, duty and goodness. And that, my son, is what gives us stability. Birth, nobility, honour – these things did not matter to the Firewrights. They have fully paid the price. Their philosophy, their very system has failed. You now rule as emperor over a confederation that values virtue, and will remain united by their common duty. Life will go on according to the scriptures. But …’
Dwaipayana put the scroll he was holding down on a t
able and purposefully went over to Dharma. In a soft but compelling voice he said, ‘It’s your task to maintain stability and peace. I can’t stress how important this is. You can’t concern yourself with details, trivialities. All that has happened, loathsome or otherwise, is destiny. Destiny has brought you to rule over us all, because it’s time for righteousness and good to prevail. This is how it was meant to be! Those who have served you, those who’ve built this empire for you – have done so in your name and by the will of the gods. Their fate, their future is their own to face. Don’t think yourself beholden to them for honours you’ve showed them, or feel bound by their service to you. Do you understand me?’ He paused, knowing that Dharma understood who it was he spoke of in such veiled terms.
The Emperor responded with a hesitant silence.
‘I said this to you at your coronation,’ Dwaipayana sharply continued, ‘and I say this again. Listen! You may not have realized what a historically significant moment this is. Future generations will point to you and say that it was during your reign that the Firstborn taught the noble Aryas to walk along the path leading to the heavens and brought to earth the power of the gods. By your very life, you’ve earned your name, Dharma. Don’t let me down, do you understand? Don’t let me down!’ he finished. His voice was strained and his cheeks glistened with tears of fervour.
The Vyasa’s words stirred a host of emotions in the newly crowned Emperor. The happiness Dharma had denied himself for the past days, no, years, finally flooded through him, filling him with relief as it all made sense. This was how it was meant to be. Whatever means the gods had used, in the end, dharma, righteousness, would prevail. Just as he would now prevail, restoring order and honour to Aryavarta. Joy blossomed on his face, and he wished he could rip his soul from his body and lay it at the Vyasa’s feet. Never had he felt so overcome with reverence and emotion.
‘The gods have brought me to my destiny. It’s my duty to see this done,’ Dharma plainly stated.
Dwaipayana placed a hand on the younger man’s head in blessing, and let out a sigh of satisfaction. Dharma, he knew, would now rule in peace.
‘May your glory rival that of Indra himself!’ he declared. ‘Now go. Leave this old man to potter around with his memories for few moments. I’ll see you and your brothers by the carriage in a short while.’
With a grateful bow, Dharma took his leave of the Vyasa.
Dwaipayana watched him walk away down the corridor and disappear from view.
‘So, that’s done,’ he remarked, as Sanjaya stepped out of a small anteroom. ‘You won’t need me anymore, my son. Aryavarta’s greatest days lie ahead. Make sure you deal with the loose ends that are left, won’t you, Sanjaya. Dharma’s rule must be absolute. Get Asvattama to hunt down that Firewright, Devala. Tell him to make sure that the bastard screams so loud that no one in Aryavarta ever dares utter the name of those heretics again!’
Sanjaya nodded, his face impassive.
The Vyasa continued, ‘And then, of course, there’s Govinda Shauri. He should be a happy man, I think. Recognized as first among Aryas, his sister’s blood eventual heir to the imperial throne … and he and his people are now safe. Dwaraka will prosper under Dharma’s rule, and Govinda will prosper with it. Yes, he’s a content fellow indeed, I should expect. As far as we’re concerned, the tiger having served its purpose has been tamed and caged, in no small part due to your foresight. Make sure, though, that it doesn’t break free. Govinda must fade into obscurity, and if he is remembered it can’t be as anything more than a womanizing charmer. He must stay out of Aryavarta’s affairs.’
‘And if the tiger should …’
‘Then do what you have to, Sanjaya.’ In a softer tone, the Vyasa added, ‘The Firewrights are dead, Dharma is Emperor and the Firstborn guide his conscience, Aryavarta’s conscience. Nothing else matters. I’ve waited very long for this day. There’s nothing I want more than to spend my time in quiet meditation, in a place far removed from these mundane shackles and material quagmires.’ His voice fell to a whisper, as if he spoke to himself, or perhaps to an absent one for whom he held great affection, ‘My duty is done, my promise has been kept. It’s time I seek the Truth, the Maker … or whatever lies beyond it all.’
Sanjaya went down on his knees as his emotions brimmed over. He made to speak, many times, but could not find the words. Eventually, he gave up, and bowed his head low.
Dwaipayana stirred and looked at him with affection. ‘I’ve been fortunate indeed to have had you with me. You bear the burdens of my conscience and are the one who truly understands what I’ve done and why. But … have I done you wrong, Sanjaya? You came to me to learn of the gods and I have made a politician of you … You, whom I love as a son! But, it’s not too late to let you go …’ he remarked humorously. Then, with a sigh, he declared, ‘I set you free of this old fool, of your binding to me as student. From today, you are your own man and your debt to your mentor is discharged.’
A moment of strained, almost painful speechlessness hung over them as both men came to terms with what had just happened. With that simple statement the Vyasa had relinquished his final hold not just over Sanjaya, but over all of Aryavarta.
Sanjaya bowed low again and remained silent for a while longer. In the end, when he spoke, it was in a measured tone. ‘Acharya, I repeat the Emperor’s question – must you really go?’
Dwaipayana let out a heavy breath. ‘It’s a relief not to be needed. One I intend to enjoy fully and in total seclusion. Come, the carriage is waiting. I wish to leave the city before nightfall. I shall travel till the foothills of the White Mountains as the Vyasa, this one last time. From there on I shall become Dwaipayana the ascetic once again.’
32
THE SUN HAD NOT YET RISEN ON THE FIRST NEW DAY OF HER imperial reign as Panchali rode towards the river. It was dark, but the distinct smell of morning was already in the air, a unique mix of midnight blooms and daybreak jasmine. A gentle, insistent wind tugged at her hair, pulling it out of its loose bun till it streamed out behind her. She smiled at nature’s wild irreverence, thankful that some things remained beyond the control of any emperor or empress.
Empress, hah! The thought reminded her of why she was there, and she drew yet again on the anger and bitterness of many years that served always to give her strength.
Today, it would end.
Panchali swung off her horse and walked the remaining distance towards the river. She emerged out through a small grove of shrubs, right on to the riverbank. Tethering her horse to a nearby tree, she waited. Govinda’s first act that morning would be to offer prayers for the man he had killed, Panchali knew that well.
Just as the blue night lightened to a purple dawn, Govinda waded out of the river, his hair sleek with the damp and his wet antariya clinging to his lean body. It was cold, but he seemed oblivious to it, despite his bare chest and feet. He picked up his sword from where he had left it and walked directly towards Panchali. She knew he was daring her to look away, to act modest and bashful as she ought to, but she did not take the bait. Instead, she brazenly met his gaze.
‘Mahamatra,’ he greeted her, his eyes sparkling with a strange light.
Panchali’s expression was taunting. As he drew closer, she said, ‘You remind me of Indra himself, Govinda, as Ahalya saw him, emerging from the water.’
‘Do you find me that tempting, Panchali? Or do you fear that I will seduce you?’ he asked, teasing and sensuous.
‘Tempting, Govinda? Is that your opinion of Ahalya – an easy-to-seduce, desperate woman?’
‘Ahalya,’ he said, ‘was a great woman and not just for her beauty. She was forced to marry a man other than the one she loved … marry, bear him a son. And then, after many years, she met her beloved, Indra. What did temptation and seduction have to do with it … they’d loved each other, always. Pity …’ he trailed off.
Panchali sighed. ‘It always amazes me how such a wonderful tale was turned into such a frightening one. I’ve hea
rd it said that Indra deceived her and there was no fault on her part. If so, how did he remain the King of Heaven while she was cursed to turn into stone?’
Govinda’s words were a whisper. ‘She was turned to stone … They’d both known others, but it didn’t matter because Indra made love not to her body but to her soul. And once he was gone …’
‘Why did it have to end that way? Imagine, if things had been otherwise … but it can’t be, can it?’
‘No, it can’t. The world as we know it wouldn’t make sense unless Ahalya were turned to stone. A world where love remains unrequited is an anomaly, an imperfection. Judgement and blame are the only way we can reason out the imbalance and continue to believe in a Perfect Universe.’
‘Oh please!’ Panchali was suddenly scathing. ‘Spare me the philosophical explanations. I’ve had enough of you acting like the consummate model of reason and dispassion. I once used to think that you were just a masochist who believed that if he makes enough sacrifices, if he keeps giving himself up for the sake of some greater cause, he can fight the darkness. Then I realized you’re something worse. Whether that makes you a god or a demon, I don’t know …’
Govinda looked amused. He clucked his tongue and said, ‘What complicated threads are you getting in a tangle? I can sense your mind working into knots. You can’t stop thinking, even if you try. But go on,’ he urged, ‘you know I find it absolutely wonderful.’
‘Really? And I suppose you’re equally amused by the way it has all fallen into place, aren’t you? Aryavarta lies under your feet … What will you do next, Govinda? What will you conquer now?’
Govinda (The Aryavarta Chronicles) Page 47