The Aryavarta Chronicles Kaurava: Book 2

by Krishna Udayasankar

  Kings and queens, wise courtiers and acharyas of great learning, and those of no station at all, but still people, living, sentient beings, had all failed and now looked on in mute awe as one of their own dared to do what ought to have been unthinkable. There had been law, a system beyond the folly of human beings and their fickle minds, but that too had failed, as had the ultimate fibre of life as ordained by Divine Order – morality. She had called on the noble keepers of the empire to deliver justice, but they had failed her. Dharma had not spoken a word, and by their laws she was a slave.

  While Panchali weaved in out of the universe in lightning bolts of thought, time expanded, and the single action of Dussasana pulling at her robe spanned many lifetimes. Instinct told her to resist, reason told her to submit.

  This is not justice, her inner voice railed. An unjust law is no law at all; an unjust monarch is no ruler. The realization made Panchali more despondent than before. She felt surrounded by the empty blackness of a soul in despair, stripped of every hope, every joyful feeling she had ever known, of any sense of calm and contentment. Her fingers, which had clutched reflexively at her robe, were weak and lifeless, and she let go. Like the slow, inexorable movement of the planets, Dussasan kept pulling. She did not know if she was smiling but felt as if she did – a sad curve of the lips that was worse than tears.

  Is this what death feels like, she asked herself. The cool marble of the floor was soothing against her cheek. It reminded her of the spring winds, cool and laced with the heady smell of jasmine. Then she was elsewhere. She did not want to open her eyes, and look, lest she still find herself here and not there. As her senses took over, she could smell the fresh grass, its own crisp scent mingling with that of the heavy pollen that dotted its blades. The wind blew soft but incessant, now whispering, now singing in tune with the music of the birds. She waited for her pulsing heartbeat to ebb, listening to it with a vague sense of curiosity. Gradually, it seemed to slow down and fade. Panchali waited for it to stop, certain that it would soon fade away. All that was good and happy, dreams of an empire, of glory and prosperity – all of it would shatter into tiny invisible specks and disappear forever.

  There is nothing left to fight for, she heard herself say, though it was in another time and another place.

  A voice replied, Then there is nothing left to lose… It is time to rise.

  Panchali felt a detached sense of surprise as she recognized the voice, though she had no recollection of these words having been spoken. The words brought with them the sensation of another touch, quite unlike the filthy hands that groped and squeezed at this shell that no longer felt like her own body. That touch had been strong but gentle, as respectful fingers had picked up a ragged cloak and wrapped it around her in a promise of protection and hope. That touch, she knew, was from before the fire that had made her who she now was: Panchali Draupadi, Empress of Aryavarta. As was the warmth that had coursed through her body, thrusting life into it as though against its will. Her body heaved as she took a great, long breath into her near-extinguished lungs and blood began to pound once more through her veins. She remembered his eyes – his dark, infinite eyes, filled with love. She felt his warm breath on her skin, as he placed a soft kiss on her forehead.

  A single name screamed through her head and spilled from her lips, bringing her crashing back to reality.

  This isn’t death. This is life.

  Her consciousness returned as though she had been in a dream, falling headlong only to wake up before she was smashed into nothingness. She realized that Dussasana was no longer pulling at her robe, and had stepped away from her, letting the garment slip from his hands. It had fallen to cover her bare shoulders and back, the soft silk forming a loving cocoon. Then she became aware of the silence around her.

  She did not understand what had happened, what she could have said or done that might have turned the earth over in a moment. Her eyes met Syoddhan’s and she was stunned by what she saw there. He looked as though he had just been slapped hard on the face, the force enough to make him lose all hold on the present. And in his eyes she saw how it was that he saw her, as though he were trying to remember where it was he had seen her before. But it was not quite her he was trying to place but the conviction, the subtle confidence she exuded as if she wielded the very power of the Universe. Through the haze that briefly surrounded them both, she gradually became aware that Vasusena was speaking, instructing Dussasana once more, to take her to the pleasure-quarters. But it did not happen.

  ‘Vathu! Enough!’ Syoddhan called out, speaking for the first time since Panchali had been dragged into the assembly.

  A hush fell over the entire hall. Bhisma’s grip on the arm of his seat tightened, and Dhritarashtra sat forward. Dron and Kripa remained as they had all this while, staring into the distance as though the events around them were of no immediate concern. Sanjaya was the only one to show obvious emotion, the act as unusual as its content: unfettered contempt. It only served to fuel Syoddhan’s newfound resolution.

  ‘Mahamatra,’ he said, his respectfulness surprising many in the audience, ‘let even one of Dharma’s four brothers endorse your claim. Let even one say that the stake was not valid and that Dharma isn’t their master. I swear to you, all shall be as before.’ He then turned to Dharma and his brothers. ‘We can end this now at one word from any of you. One of you, any one of you, can set Panchali free if you as much as question Dharma’s right to stake her. Or even if Dharma himself admits that he was at fault and ought not to have staked Panchali, I’ll accept it.’

  A tense silence followed.

  Trying hard to contain his earnestness, Syoddhan tried yet again to appeal to Dharma, willing him silently to stand up just this once, to come forward and accept his part of the blame. ‘Dharma…?’ Syoddhan prompted, promising himself that for what Dharma would say now he would forgive all his cousin’s past silences, the many instances since their youth when Dharma had failed to rise to his rightful defence and led them all down the path of antagonism that had brought them to this juncture. But Dharma remained resolute.

  Unexpectedly, it was Partha who stepped forward. He said, ‘I…we… We have always been loyal to Dharma, and so we remain. Dharma was our master as he began to play. But…’ He took a deep breath, and fixing his gaze on Panchali, continued, ‘whether he remained master of anyone or anything after losing himself is doubtable.’

  Murmurs ran through the audience. If Panchali was relieved, she did not show it. Syoddhan breathed out hard and looked to his father. Vidur was already whispering in Dhritarastra’s ear, vehemently waving an eager Sanjaya back.

  The king stood up and all conversation subsided. He addressed Panchali, ‘Come here, my daughter. Come closer.’

  Silently, expressionlessly, Panchali complied. She did not bother to adjust her clothing as she stood up, or attempt to cover her body further as she moved forward. Dhritarastra continued, ‘Ask of me anything you desire.’

  Panchali did not hesitate. ‘Father, I ask that you set Dharma free from slavery,’ she plainly stated.

  ‘So be it,’ the king ordered, raising his voice over the murmurs that filled the court He then added, ‘My heart isn’t yet filled, Panchali. Ask of me another wish.’

  ‘I ask that you set Bhim, Partha, Nakul and Sadev free from bondage so that their mother and children may not suffer.’

  ‘It is also done. Ask for more, Panchali. Ask now, for your own sake, what you will.’

  Panchali looked at the old king with an expression that was haughty and innocent at once. The blind king remained unaware of her stance and waited to hear her words.

  ‘Thank you, Father,’ she said. ‘I fear that asking for one more gift is but avarice on my part. I already have my freedom. It was never taken from me. I need nothing more.’

  Dhritarastra was all affection. ‘Go in peace, my daughter. Take back all that was lost, including your realm. Forget these tragic events, and do not hold it against your cousins. Remember alw
ays that you are all my children, you are Kauravas bound by blood. Let there be peace and prosperity in the empire. Go now, return to Indr-prastha and rule again as Emperor and Empress.’

  Dharma gave a discreet sigh of relief and looked uncertainly at his brothers. They refused to meet his gaze, each one of them lost in their own private nightmare of fury, shame and regret. A soft babble of conversation filled the air, a mix of disappointment and reprieve. The rustle of people standing, of moving, of the general conclusion of things was a soothing melody. In the middle of that meaningless rustle of activity, Dharma smiled.

  Syoddhan flinched at the unexpected reaction. It turned to contempt as he saw Dharma glance longingly at the dice, the board, and the remnants of the game, unaware of his cousin’s gaze on him. The spark in the reinstated Emperor’s eyes was neither lust, nor ambition, for even those Syoddhan might have condoned. Dharma looked at the dice with nothing short of reverence, as if they had the power to redeem his soul.

  Syoddhan glanced at Panchali and found that she too was staring at Dharma. In her eyes he saw acceptance, even understanding, and it spurred his own. For all his talk of destiny and fate, Dharma Yudhisthir could not bring himself to accept that once again his empire had been given to him by another. He would either win it on his own, or lose it all. But Syoddhan had no pity left in him, not for the creature he saw in front of him. He said, ‘One more throw?’

  Dharma nodded. Yet another silence fell over the assembly. His brothers stood dumbfounded. Panchali watched, expressionless.

  ‘Identical stakes, this time. Even and identical stakes, for one throw.’

  Dharma nodded again. ‘And the wager?’

  Syoddhan’s voice held the pride of a man ready to die a warrior’s death, a man bound by honour to the way of life that they all stood for. A man who could no longer let Dharma Yudhisthir rule. ‘The empire. We play for just the empire. And the right to be known as Emperor of Aryavarta. The loser must retire into exile.’

  ‘I agree.’

  Shakuni reached for the dice, but Syoddhan waved him back. His eyes fixed on Dharma, he picked up the dice and passed it over for him to throw. Shakuni made to protest, but decided against it. This, he realized, was his nephew’s destiny. Fame or dishonour, Shakuni was merely an agent. It was Syoddhan who would be praised, or cursed, for millennia to come.

  When the dice fell, Syoddhan did not look down at them at all. He said nothing. No one did. Even the loud Dussasana could not bring himself to break the tense silence.

  ‘Kali…’ Dharma tremulously said the word.

  Kali.

  The single dot.

  The ultimate losing throw.

  After what felt like a long time, Dharma rose from his seat. He silently bowed to the assembly and walked out, his brothers behind him.

  Panchali followed the five men, the outline of her feet leaving red stains on Hastina’s white, marbled floors.

  23

  THE GATHERING STARED AT GOVINDA LIKE A CROWD AT A RAGING bull, not knowing whether to run for their lives or fall with unified strength on the frightening creature and destroy it. Govinda’s eyes were transformed. What was once infinite bounty was now barren, not the bleak barrenness of drought but the charred, blackened devastation of burnt prosperity, as though the endless ocean of eternity had collapsed in on itself, leaving an empty, formless void filled with pure, molten, wrath.

  Govinda neither looked at nor spoke to any of them. He no longer cared for Dhaumya’s relieved greeting or the description that had followed of what had transpired at Hastina and since. He paid no attention to the many questions that came at him of what had happened at Dwaraka, or the answers that Balabadra and Yuyudhana gave. His eyes roved over the gathering, searching for the only face he wanted to see.

  In the three days it had taken him to reach Vyasa Markand’s hermitage in the heart of the Kamakya forest, where Dhaumya had brought the six exiles, much had changed in the empire he had built. Treaties had been recast and alliances remade. Allegiances had been sworn anew, titles given and taken. The heart of Aryavarta had swiftly shifted to Hastina, the hallowed seat of ancient rulers of the realm and rested, tenuous, in the hands of an old king and a prince yet to be Emperor. It was, everyone knew, only a matter of time that the prince would claim the throne. Without doubt, Syoddhan was the most powerful man in all Aryavarta and wise enough to know its perils. He had left Indr-prastha, with its armouries, armies and treasury, in the hands of the man he trusted the most. Neither enemy nor ally would dare covet Indr-prastha while Asvattama Bharadvaja served as its regent, and a quiet peace hung over the famed White City.

  In contrast, what ought to have been a serene hermitage, refuge and home to scholar-seers, was abuzz with activity. The visitors were not many, but were of a nature that had thrown the settlement’s placid routine askew. A horse whinnied; Govinda recognized the dark steed as Shikandin’s but bothered neither with beast nor man, not even when Dhrstyadymn called out to him or when Yuyudhana went forward to grip his dearest friend’s hand in a silent pledge of support.

  ‘Govinda!’ Partha’s voice held many sentiments – hope, apology and plaint.

  ‘Govinda?’ The question was Bhim’s and held its own agonizing answer.

  ‘Govinda, where have you… If only…’ Sadev began, and it was clear he spoke for Nakul too.

  Dharma said nothing, but stepped forward. Govinda ignored him and walked on through the hermitage. He ignored the clusters of people, his eyes searching instead among those who sat alone.

  He felt her presence before he saw her. She came up to him, a cool, soothing breeze that enveloped his pain. Panchali smiled and took his hand in hers. His eyes filled with agony. He tried to speak, but could not find any words that would do.

  When she spoke, her voice was soft, but it cut through the oppressively heavy moment. ‘I keep trying to remember the first time we met, Govinda,’ she said. ‘Maybe it was many lifetimes ago. The point is, I can’t. I can’t remember how it all began, and I think I’ve known you ever since I existed and there was no first meeting. But I feel that you were there even when I didn’t exist. The very thought of you was a warm cocoon of safety, Govinda. It made me feel clothed and covered, no matter how many times I was stripped naked by Vasusena’s harsh words and Dussasana’s ugly hands. By Rudra, how much affection you must hold for me.’

  She laughed softly and went on, ‘See now, how the mighty have fallen. We bowed to kings and seers, and hailed them as gods on earth, gave them unimaginable power over our lives. But what about the benevolence they owed us?’ She paused, as though hoping the silence would be filled with an answer, then resumed. ‘What we call corruption, the failed strength of the noble, is nothing but a system of power without responsibility. A man, an emperor, saw it fit to wager those he was sworn to protect. A court of kings sat in judgement, but declined to pass its verdict. Honestly, I ask you, why then do we need to be ruled? Am I not better off fighting for myself? I’ve asked myself time and again how it came to this, and I can find only one explanation, however difficult it may be to accept. It isn’t the gods who have failed, it is us humans. Nothing moves us anymore; nothing moves us enough to question what is just…’

  ‘Panchali…’ Govinda began, but faltered. He tried to reach inside himself, searching for the fount of dispassion, the beatitude that he had wrought himself into a long time ago. He had selflessly given up all that he could ever have or want even before he wanted it. Nothing could affect him, or hurt him, for he had neither purpose nor meaning of his own.

  For the sake of all that exists, the Primordial Being sacrificed himself. From him came all existence. I am the Primordial Being, Existence itself.

  Those words had defined Govinda’s life, taught him that nothing was more precious, or sacred, than the willingness to give up one’s own self. It had made him who he was, showed him what to aspire to. He had denied himself the essence of being human, an imperceptible but acute torment that no one had noticed or understood
. Except for Panchali. And that is why, Govinda told himself, she is your greatest sacrifice.

  He tried to remember the decisiveness with which he let her marry Dharma, let her serve his purpose in building this empire, let her draw the Wrights out of hiding. But he could not. He could feel only passion, as it flowed through him, filled him with life, with strength, though he had tried for years to smother it. To his own surprise, Govinda realized he was enraged, and was forced to admit the anger that had smouldered in him ever since he had heard of the dice game and what Panchali had endured.

  He took both her hands in his, uncurling slender fingers that she had rolled into tight fists. Her palms were red and welts showed where she had dug her nails in deep. He stroked her palms over and over, as though with this action he could erase her terrible memories. Or, perhaps, erase his own guilt, the burden of knowing that he had failed.

  What Panchali said next cut him to the core. ‘You raised me to the greatest possible heights, Govinda. But you too staked me, used me, for what you thought was a greater cause. Look what has become of your precious Empress now… Or, this is what I deserve for charging you to never to set foot in these lands while I reigned… This is what was needed to bring you back. And you had to come back, to see what has happened to the glorious empire you left, your promises and dreams of a spectacular future…’

  The tears she had fought back since Hastina now spilled out of her being. ‘Before he staked me, Dharma had gambled away our citizenry, and their property, their lives. Such was the empire that you created! Why didn’t anyone stop him? Why didn’t anyone say that this sovereign had lost his power over the people as soon as he abandoned his responsibility? Why don’t we protest now, to say that the Kuru court had no authority over us once they refused to judge the plaint before them? And why do we sit here now, bemoaning what we’ve lost, instead of asking whether anything was lost at all?