The Aryavarta Chronicles Kaurava: Book 2

by Krishna Udayasankar

  Shikandin considered the analysis briefly, before declaring, ‘Yes. It is also an ambition that you can fulfil as well as any other man.’

  ‘You mean…find whatever Firewright weapons are left?’

  ‘Yes. Why not?’

  Asvattama slowly shook his head. ‘No, Shikandin.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I don’t trust myself. I don’t trust what I could become if the power of Hara himself came into my hands. I’m just a killer, an assassin, and a good one at that. Don’t tempt me with power. I lack your nobility to resist it.’

  ‘You underestimate yourself,’ Shikandin declared, forceful. However, he did not press the point. Instead he concluded, ‘So we do nothing.’

  ‘We do nothing. Especially since…’ Asvattama did not finish, but knew that Shikandin had understood. It was the best decision they could make in the current ambivalent situation. A situation both men suspected they would have to soon get used to. A situation that he did not like in the least. ‘It could have been you,’ he said.

  ‘What could have been me?’

  ‘You, Shikandin. You could have been Emperor of Aryavarta. The house of Panchala comes from the blood of Pururavas and Yayati. Your claim to the throne by blood and deed is as strong as Dharma Yudhisthir’s. In fact, if it weren’t for you, I know Dharma could never have conquered the east. Did you never wonder why…’

  ‘And what has my brother-in-law done now to irk you so?’

  ‘Don’t change the topic, Shikandin. I asked you a question.’

  Shikandin showed neither affront nor regret. ‘And I answer: I would not have served the purpose. Dharma is Emperor by consensus. Whatever he thinks of himself now, he will soon see that the only way to remain Emperor is to do what serves the larger interests of the realm, not just that of his conscience.’

  ‘If I didn’t know better I’d call you muhira. And not just any fool, but one blinded to ineptitude by his own wisdom. I said I lack your nobility to resist power. I am not the only one.’

  ‘All men have a weakness.’

  ‘And most have the same one.’

  ‘As do I…’

  Asvattama smiled, the edges of his eyes creasing to reveal warmth that few had seen in him. ‘Someday, Shikandin, I will tell you what I think your weakness is. But not today.’

  ‘In that case, you had best leave now. The road is well-patrolled, and though I have no doubt of your skills, I don’t want to lose any of my soldiers in an unnecessary scuffle.’

  ‘But of course! I’d sooner be taken for a spy and arrested than be seen fraternizing with you, you old crone!’ He gripped Shikandin yet again by the shoulder. Shikandin clapped him on the back in return and walked with him a few steps to the horse that had been tethered outside. Without another word, Asvattama swung on to his steed. He was soon gone, a silent shadow vanished into the night.

  Shikandin stood as he was for a while, listening intently. Then he mounted his horse and made his way back towards the city.

  Silence fell once again over the ruins as the soft thud of hooves on grass faded away. A sigh that was almost a sob tore through the heavy stillness. Assured that he was alone and could not be heard, or uncaring that he might be, Dhrstyadymn fell to his knees in the shadowed corner that had hidden him all this while. Not a word of the conversation had escaped him. Indeed, every word was etched in his mind, stirring questions too painful to answer. He was oblivious to the sharp shards that cut into his knees as he crumpled into a heap, relishing the sting on his palms as jagged debris cut into the skin.

  My brother! My brother!

  Never had he believed the rumours that had floated around the palace, the hushed whispers hinting at Shikandin’s dark deeds, at actions that had irrevocably stained King Dhrupad’s honour. He had always thought their father’s anger against his brother was undeserved, and used every opportunity he got to try and prove his brother innocent. Now he wondered if it truly were so. What else was he to think after having heard and seen what he had?

  What did anyone ever want from the Firewrights? Power.

  Dhrstyadymn shuddered at the thought of an ambitious Shikandin – it felt unnatural, even frightful. There was no doubt he had been denied his right, been treated unfairly at many a turn – but to resort to treachery and deceit of the worst order? Shikandin had only to ask and Dhrstyadymn would gladly give him the throne, no matter what Dhrupad had to say about it. But to join forces with Asvattama? To find Firewright weapons? And to what end? Rebellion? Patricide?

  The last thought made Dhrstyadymn retch silently. He had no idea how long he remained that way, before finally pulling himself together and forcing himself to face facts. If things did come to that, he reasoned, if he had to protect his people, his family and their kingdom against an attack… Could he? He felt anger – wide, undirected rage – swell up within him as a sense of being completely alone fell over him. Not just he, but his kingdom, his beloved Panchala was on its own. For all his talk condemning the Firewrights, Grandsire Bhisma of the Kurus had not balked at learning from them or taking the best of their weapons. His grandchildren too had been trained by Dron and Asvattama, not to forget Acharya Kripa, Dron’s brother-in-law. Rumour had it that Vasusena of the Angas had also acquired Firewright weaponry. And Panchala? Panchala had nothing, except a fearful king, a traitor of a prince and, worse, an inept muhira of a crown prince!

  An ambition that is best fulfilled now, while the Firstborn are weak.

  The words continued to haunt Dhrstyadymn as he slowly trudged across the silver fields to the city he had called home for as long as he could remember.

  15

  IN ALL THE YEARS THAT VIDUR HAD SERVED THE BLIND KING Dhritarastra of the Kurus as minister, advisor and companion, he had taken the utmost care to never impose on the ties of blood that bound them. He could not, for they were not equals. Though they shared the same father, Dhritarastra was born of a queen, whereas Vidur was the child of an unknown serving woman who had died at childbirth. Or so he had been told as a child by Bhisma Devavrata, then Regent of Kuru and its effective ruler. Bhisma had also ordered that despite his unequal birth he be brought up in the same manner as his royal half-brothers.

  Vidur had soon developed a reputation for great intelligence and wisdom, and the young boy quickly learnt his place in the larger scheme of things. He was not a prince, but a kshatta – the polite term used for sutas, those of his kind. The same acumen had made him Dhritarastra’s constant companion over the years and, more importantly, the blind king’s eyes. It was a role Vidur had played with consummate discretion, never transgressing the bounds he had set for himself in childhood. He had, thus, earned Dhritarastra’s affection and implicit trust. Now, for the first time in all these years, Vidur wondered if he might impose on the privilege and proffer his opinion, though unsolicited.

  ‘Is this all right?’ Dhritarastra’s voice cut in on his thoughts.

  The king stood in his private anteroom, adjusting his robe before a mirror that he knew to be there as a matter of habit. Dhritarastra often behaved as though he were a sighted man, partly from a childhood kindness to spare others the discomfiture of his condition, and partly to prove that he was in no way incapacitated by it. Indeed, the other two men in the room – Grandsire Bhisma, still the titular Regent of Hastina though no longer its effective ruler, as well as Acharya Dron – ignored the king’s question as rhetorical. Vidur, however, stepped forward to adjust the pale blue silk over his half-brother’s broad shoulders. Barring his blindness, Dhritarastra was a splendid specimen of Kuru manhood: wide-chested and well-muscled, with a ruddy face and an excessive but not unpleasant tendency towards the hirsute. A strong chin sat well on his square jaw, the mark of King Hastin’s line that Syoddhan too displayed. Nature’s mockery was not lost on Vidur. He and Dharma looked nothing like their great ancestor, while both Dhritarastra and Syoddhan did. Yet, none of them was truly of Hastin’s descent. In them all ran the blood of Krishna Dwaipayana, once Vyasa
of the Firstborn.

  When the young prince Vichitravirya had met his untimely demise, Bhisma Devavrata, bound by his vow to never take a woman or the Kuru throne, had sent for Dwaipayana. As the situation demanded, the assistance rendered had been extremely direct, to the point that neither Dwaipayana nor Bhisma had ever attempted to conceal the fact that Pandu, Dhritarastra and Vidur were all Dwaipayana’s sons.

  Vidur was not a man to believe in curses or boons, but he was briefly tempted when it turned out that the lack of progeny would haunt the Kuru line yet again – Pandu was, to everyone’s dismay, incapable of consummating his union with his two wives. This time, the resultant niyoga surrogacy, though not denied in fact, was never admitted in detail. No one quite knew who had fathered Dharma and his brothers beyond the metaphorical allusion to gods and their boons – a strategy Vidur had heartily approved of, hoping that it would help seal the legitimacy of Dharma’s eventual claim to the Kuru throne. He had not accounted for Dhritarastra’s fecundity or his ambition, both of which had led to strained relations between the monarch’s many sons and Pandu’s five. And now, after all these years and the building of an empire, trivial sibling rivalry was raising its head.

  Vidur made up his mind to speak. ‘My King…’

  Dhritarasthra interrupted, ‘Do you know, Vidur, you sound exactly like my dearest wife Gandhari did this morning. It makes me wonder if, like her, you too are going to counsel me at length to stop this evening’s entertainment. A pity, since I believe Syoddhan entrusted the arrangements to your care. Things are coming along well, I hope?’

  Vidur inclined his head, the action both answering and ignoring the question at once. ‘It’s more than entertainment, Your Highness,’ he said, ‘and the queen remains as wise as she has always been, so we would all do well to heed her words.’

  ‘She is as persistent as she is wise,’ Dhritarastra laughed, though it sounded more like a rasping cough. ‘So much so, that I had to rely on Grandsire Bhisma here, as well as on Acharya Dron, to rescue me. I do hope their presence is enough to dissuade you, Vidur. I don’t want to go through all that again.’

  ‘Your Highness…’ Vidur stopped short as Dhritarastra frowned, the gesture all the more pronounced for the vacant stare that accompanied it.

  ‘My son is a patient man, a very patient man. He is a loving and dutiful child who is content to thank the gods for the long life and reign that they have blessed me with, instead of resenting them or me for it. The least I can do, Vidur, is to allow him these small adventures that please him so. It is but a game, a dice game. What sort of a father would I be if I were to deprive my dearest son of meaningful pleasures?’

  ‘My king, with all due respect, a dice game is not meaningful in the least.’

  ‘All the more reason to allow it then, don’t you think? Why fret over such trivialities? At best a few coffers of treasure and a few herds of cows and horses will be lost or won. At worst, my children – and I include here my brother’s sons – will drink themselves into oblivion, bed a few courtesans and leave the game forgotten for other pleasures. And you want me to forbid that? You think too much, Kshatta!’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Enough, Kshatta,’ the irascible Dron interrupted. ‘This is no longer a matter for us old men. Dharma is Emperor of Aryavarta. Syoddhan is his brother. These lions among men are more than capable of making decisions for themselves. Ours is the task to watch and applaud, to share in their joy and laughter. It is not for us to decide what must be done.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘He is right,’ Bhisma added. ‘It is time we learnt to gracefully accept the honour these youngsters still show us, and leave them be. Let Syoddhan do as he wishes.’ The subtle implications of the statement carried far more finality than the words themselves.

  Vidur allowed his gaze to rest lightly in turn on each of the three men. He did not fail to notice Dron’s defiant glance, or the Grandsire’s patronizing smile. Dhritarastra’s face was set in a careful expression of apathy that Vidur knew was the king’s attempt to conceal ambition. ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘I shall go see to the arrangements right away.’

  The royal assembly of Hastina was, even in these times of prosperity, a marvel that could only be described as excessively lavish. Those who stepped into the hall could not help but raise their gaze upwards each time they entered. The high, vaulted ceiling was painted to rival the blue of the clearest skies, and a series of precisely placed skylights allowed for the sunlight to colour the hall in the shades that nature was disposed to don. Against this tapestry of light were set the images of gods and ancestors, great men who looked downward at the mortal occupants of the hall. They were meant to be a constant reminder to those who sat on the Elephant Throne of King Hastin.

  And now, the grand legacy of King Hastin comes to this… Vidur dismissed the thought and squared his shoulders in resolution. He briefly observed the on-going preparations for the dice game. A multitude of activities were underway – from laying out the seating to decorations and lighting – for the Kurus had no qualms about playing through the night. Sharing a few words of instruction and encouragement with the attendants overseeing the arrangements, Vidur made his way to the slim, pleasant-looking man who stood against a pillar, watching.

  ‘Don’t tell me you condone this travesty?’ Vidur began as he neared the man.

  Dhaumya shrugged. ‘Dice? I have no love for it. But I have no principled argument against it either.’

  ‘Dharma insists that it was Syoddhan who proposed a game and that to refuse to play would be cowardly. I tried speaking to Syoddhan for the few trasenus he would suffer to hear me. He agrees that he suggested a friendly game, and this…’ he waved his hand at the elaborate arrangements around them, ‘…was Dharma’s idea. As a host, Syoddhan was bound to honour the request. My brother will not heed my warning, and the only person who shares my concern is Queen Gandhari. Unfortunately, this once, she is as powerless as I am.’

  ‘It is not like dice has never been played here before, or that it shall never be played hereafter. I don’t understand why you are in such a state.’

  ‘Even when you know what sway it holds over a man like Dharma?’

  ‘He is compulsive…’

  ‘Compulsive?’ Vidur’s eyes took on a faraway glaze. ‘Compulsive may be one word, and an apt one for sure. But it is not enough. No one knows Dharma better than I do, Acharya… Not his mother, not Panchali, and not you. Perhaps not even Dharma himself. His ambition is of the most dangerous kind, for its existence is neither suspected nor admitted. He is Emperor, but he wants more.’

  Dhaumya said, ‘What more could he want?’

  ‘He wants to deserve his title.’

  ‘He can deserve it by ruling well. Really, Uncle Vidur, you make the Emperor of Aryavarta sound like a child.’

  ‘I make him sound like a man, Acharya. And a man he is. He wants to believe that what is his is so because he has earned it by his own deed, or because he was destined to it by a greater power. And that sense of self-respect is really not too much to ask for, if you think about it.’

  ‘It’s not self-respect; it’s sheer self-indulgence. And, frankly, I care little about it at the moment. There’s something else that has been bothering me,’ Dhaumya said with a frown.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Panchali tells me we are missing a report, and the man who was supposed to bring it.’

  ‘A report?’

  ‘Yes, she had instructed that a daily summary of all administrative reports be delivered to her…to Emperor Dharma, that is, here at Hastina. Yesterday’s messenger has not arrived as yet.’

  ‘But today’s has?’

  ‘Yes. His material was the most mundane, but our interview with him was not. He said that he and his possessions, including the scroll he carried, were subject to inspection. Possibly, the other messengers too were so searched.’

  ‘It is unusual, and not the most diplomatic of behaviours, but certainly not cause for
suspicion? Unless you think that… Surely the scrolls were sealed?’

  ‘They were,’ Dhaumya confirmed. ‘In fact, Panchali insisted on receiving written messages for that very purpose. These may be days of peace but she knows, as an Empress should, that such times are cause for more caution, not less.’

  ‘She is a wise one,’ Vidur noted with a dash of affection.

  ‘Dharma is a fortunate man.’

  ‘All the more reason for him to be careful.’ Vidur frowned. ‘I don’t like it,’ he repeated, this time with far more vehemence.

  Dhaumya shook his silver-grey hair out of its loose knot and decisively pulled it back, securing it with a scrap of ochre cloth. ‘You’re right,’ he said, ‘I don’t like it either. And it’s time I did something about it.’

  ‘What…?’

  ‘For one, I’m getting out of here. I shall find Shikandin, or send a message to Asvattama. By Rudra, I’d feel so much better about everything if either one of them were here.’

  In a sad, hushed whisper, Vidur declared, ‘I’d feel better if Govinda were here.’

  Dhaumya stiffened and then forced himself to relax. His eyes held warm memories but his voice was cold as he said, ‘There is no point speaking of those who are gone; of those who had best stay away. Trust in those who remain. Trust in our Emperor and Empress…’ He left the hall, making his way directly to the stables.

  With a heavy heart, Vidur turned back to supervising the preparations for the evening’s festivities.