The Aryavarta Chronicles Kaurava: Book 2

by Krishna Udayasankar

  ‘Because I’ve taught them to be on the lookout, Acharya. I teach the youngest and newest ones every year.’

  ‘For how long have you been doing this?’

  ‘Ever since we’ve been here.’

  ‘What are they watching out for, Panchali? Who was it you were expecting? Enemies such as these…? Or are you waiting for a friend? Because if you are…’ Dhaumya faltered. ‘My dear child, if you are waiting for him to come, he won’t. He won’t. Don’t you see? He has lost all hope. It is useless to wait for him.’

  Panchali looked up into Dhaumya’s face. It looked familiar through the blur of her tears, not as the face of one she had seen all these years but a memory she had almost forgotten. She thought she had heard him tell her stories that had made her laugh but had also made her ask questions. There had been one tale, in particular, about a princess in a desert, and a vulture. No, that story had been told by an older man, a much older man she could not identify, though his image flickered in her mind’s eye. She tried to remember, but it only brought the darkness spinning down again to hit her hard, and she gave up.

  ‘Panchali?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, Acharya…Govinda Shauri is hope.’

  9

  ‘GOVINDA!’ THE NAME ESCAPED HER LIPS IN A GASP, HER BODY taut with ecstasy, fingers digging into a strong, sweat-stained back.

  Govinda Shauri smiled, but it was merely a curve of his lips. His eyes remained as they had been for twelve years now, like a mighty fort gone to ruin: haunted when empty, pitiable when filled.

  ‘Govinda!’ the woman cried out again, clutching at his shoulders as if by doing so she could bring their naked forms any closer. Govinda closed his eyes and let his body surrender to pleasure, finding relief not in his being’s release but in the sharp ache it left behind in his heart. All joy was torment, all desire was punishment and all pain was penance. Yet, he felt no closer to forgiveness.

  Sitting up as the whirl of sensations faded, leaving behind nothing but the dull throb of reality, Govinda looked out of the window at his beloved city. Dwaraka, the western jewel of Aryavarta, shone with muted grace by the light of the moon. It was late. All lights except those that burnt incessant – flares that lit the city gates and its roads, and the huge torch that blazed at the mouth of the port as a warning to approaching ships – had been put out for the night as the city’s residents slept. The fateful events that had shaken their lives over a decade ago were now a part of a past that would not fade with time, partly because the people of Dwaraka had changed since and partly because the empire around them had transformed. All lights but Govinda’s own. Darkness had always soothed him and so he denied himself of it. Now, lights always shone in the tallest turret of Dwaraka, which had been home to Govinda Shauri since the day the city had been built.

  That he was still allowed to live in it was an act of kindness and residual gratitude. In truth, it was a luxurious imprisonment, partly determined by the Council of Representatives that governed the Federation of Yadu Nations, and partly assumed by Govinda himself. No nation in Aryavarta could have a Firewright for its Commander, or even as one of its leaders, and after Dharma Yudhisthir’s public denouncement that was what Govinda undoubtedly was and unequivocally identified as.

  In a perverse way, Govinda felt relieved. He finally had an identity, an allegiance. He had not bothered to counter or question the assertion, facing without demur the trial that the council had put him through.

  Yes, he was a Firewright.

  No, he had not trained any others.

  No, his children did not know.

  No, his brother had not known either, but had suspected as much and counselled him to keep his loyalties where they ought to lie.

  When asked whether Dwaraka had been built by Firewrights, Govinda had simply said, ‘No.’ His inquisitors had, very wisely, refrained from asking whether any Firewrights had been involved in designing, planning and overseeing the building of the city. No doubt they had been all the more glad of it in the decade since as the many nations of Aryavarta raced to build their arsenals and armies.

  Thus satisfied, the Council had concluded the trial by asking Govinda whether he intended to act as a Firewright in times to come. He had replied, ‘I do not intend to.’ With that the Council had divested him of his post as Commander of Dwaraka’s forces and left him to his own devices, though he knew his every move would be supervised.

  Govinda had since lost track of when his imprisonment had been handed down as a sentence. To him, it was self-imposed; a punishment he deserved. He stayed in his chambers, drinking, reading and writing. If he emerged from his rooms, it was to visit his horses. Occasionally, he would ride along the seashore, always staying within sight of Dwaraka’s watch tower, so that he could be spared the ignominy of an escort, and he refused even the company of his closest relatives.

  In the initial years of his seclusion, Balabadra and Yuyudhana, and even Pradymna and Samva, had tried to draw Govinda out of his dark melancholy. His sister, Subadra, had been persistent in her efforts to restore normalcy to Govinda’s life. He, on the other, hated the sight of her as much as he loved her, for he could hardly look at her without thinking of Partha, of Panchali, and of all that had happened. At first he had accepted her company because to be reminded of his failure was a punishment he forced himself to endure. But her kindness and love threatened to be a balm for his wounds and he roughly told her never to see him again. Not her, and not the one person who could still make him want to look for hope within – her son Abhimanyu, the boy he thought of as his own.

  Subadra’s tearful exit had finally brought Balabadra and Pradymna back to his doorstep, this time commanding and cautioning him where they had earlier cajoled.

  ‘What’s the point?’ Govinda had protested at first.

  It had taken them a long time to understand his complete withdrawal, and the moment of realization came only after a hysterical Pradymna had shouted at his father asking him when exactly he was planning to get around to doing something about Panchali’s plight, the state of affairs of Dwaraka and his own increasing despondence.

  ‘There is nothing to be done,’ Govinda had declared.

  His response had infuriated his son further. ‘Nothing to be done? I suppose not, given that you hardly have time to spare, what with all the women who are in and out of this place. Really, Father, does blood even flow to your brain anymore, or…?’

  ‘Pradymna!’ Yuyudhana said, reprimanding. ‘Is that how a man speaks to his father?’

  ‘Is this how a father behaves? He’s bedded more women in these past two years than a whore entertains customers. What does that make him?’

  Govinda had sighed, running a hand through his silver-gray hair. The rest of his appearance remained as it had always been, except for his eyes. They had lost all their light. To look into his eyes now was to see darkness so plain, so hollow, that it felt like the end. Not the cataclysmic end of all things but a hopeless, meaningless, finite end as though to cease living with the promise of death removed. To see his father this way was more than Pradymna could bear.

  ‘Why?’ he shouted. ‘Why in the name of every god have you become like this? Dwaraka is not what it once was, Father. Your beautiful dream, your democratic island on the sea is crumbling and turning once again into a rubble ruled by a bunch of squabbling princes. We need you, we need you to set things right. How can you ignore us now? How can you be so cruel?’

  Pradymna’s outburst had drawn a quiet response. ‘Don’t you see?’ Govinda had said, ‘This time, I don’t have a plan.’

  The simple declaration sealed in his own acceptance as much as everyone else’s. Govinda Shauri had failed. Govinda Shauri was defeated. All that was left for him to do was to spend his life flitting from pleasure to meaningless pleasure, never quite forgetting his pain. He was useless, a spent force, a lamp that burnt dim. Yet, in his mind, the flame of guilt and self-loathing blazed with a fury. Govinda spent the next ten years as he had
the first two. Day and night he grappled with the regret and the pain of what he had done, and the terrible consequences of his actions that she had faced. But he would not allow himself the simple joy of saying her name, not even in a secret whisper.

  ‘Who is she?’ The woman next to him asked, pushing her touseled golden-red hair off her forehead.

  Govinda frowned, wondering if he had spoken out loud without meaning to. He said, ‘What makes you think there’s another woman, Philista?’

  ‘I know there are many other women. As does all of Dwaraka. And frankly, I don’t care. But this woman, she is different. She is special. You don’t think of her with desire or lust…even affection is too worldly a word to use for what I see in your eyes, Govinda. Whoever she is, this woman is as much an idea as she is a person.’

  In response, Govinda turned to rest his head in the crook of Philista’s neck. She shifted, taking his weight on her shoulders so that he was comfortable. He trailed his fingers on her bare skin, but his eyes looked into the distance. At length, he said, ‘Yes, she is special.’

  Philista laughed. ‘That much was obvious from the beginning. But what is bothering you? Is she in trouble?’

  ‘She has been a homeless exile for the past twelve years, because of me.’

  ‘You give yourself too much importance!’

  ‘It’s true. It’s as the philosophers in your Yavana agora always say: guilt is a rather conceited indulgence.’

  Philista knew better than to argue or affirm. Instead, she took simple delight in studying the man in her arms. Glancing at Govinda again, she realized that he was still staring into the distance, completely unaware of her ruminations. She frowned and ran her hands through his hair in silent reassurance. He stirred, smiling up at her.

  ‘Why did you leave her? What if she’s in trouble?’

  Govinda sighed. ‘I could say I had no choice but the truth is, I did. And the choice I made was to leave her. As for why… It’s because I failed her. She trusted me and I failed her. I used her time and again, claiming it was all for a greater cause that was far more important than one individual, even her. But I did not achieve what I’d hoped to…’

  ‘And what do you hope to achieve?’

  ‘Peace. Glory. Stability. Not for me, Philista. For my homeland. For Aryavarta. And then beyond, for peace and glory grow when shared.’

  ‘How can a realm be peaceful or glorious if it can hurt those you care for so much?’

  ‘Believe me, I’ve asked myself that question many, many times.’

  ‘And the answer?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Perhaps that is what you search for among the stars. I’ve seen you, you know, staring endlessly at the night sky, looking for something.’

  ‘Perhaps. But some answers must be found elsewhere. I knew a bunch of old men once, like your uncle and your teacher. They used to say that infinity lies not in the skies, but within.’

  ‘Do you believe that?’

  ‘I’m a man of knowledge, not of faith. I prefer to know things and arrive at conclusions through reason. Faith – that is not for me.’

  ‘All right. What do you know? What drove you here, away from her, when she needed you to be with her?’

  Govinda cleared his throat as he settled back against the pillows, his hands tucked under his head. ‘I know that if there is change, if the system – or the “State” as your people call it – can be turned into an instrument of justice and equality, if it can do right by those who come after us, then it is worth giving up those we care about for the cause.’

  ‘But if wrong was done to her…if she was harmed…’

  ‘Do you know why our ancestors – yours and mine – invoked the gods for everything? Why both our lands have a rather large and admittedly temperamental pantheon of divinities which is a part of every aspect of our lives? It was because those wise old men wanted a way of life, a system, based on forgiveness and benevolence. Perfect gods don’t teach patience, kindness or the other virtues we need as human beings.

  ‘Before you ask me what that has to do with this situation, let me explain: The State or system is the best and possibly the most benevolent aspect of what is, admittedly, a flawed design. It is meant to defend and protect, but also to be defended and protected. If, however, the system begins to place its own existence, its own defence and protection, over that of its people – those it is meant to defend and protect – then it has failed. That is what I know. But it doesn’t help me to understand how an edifice can come to this; how it can hurt the very people it is supposed to protect.’

  ‘And so, you have given up? Because you cannot understand the world as it is? Because you cannot understand why you failed?’

  ‘How can I fight that which I do not understand? I have tried. My efforts have brought nothing but pain to those I care about. Either what I fight for is not worth it, which is something that I cannot bring myself to accept, or…’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Or, I am not the right person for this. The greatest folly of the fool is that he does not know the limits of his folly. And that makes him a dangerous man. Dio, as your uncle would say, this system is flawed, or I am. Either is reason enough to…’

  ‘To…?’

  ‘To give up. Which…you never do. Must I complete every sentence?’

  Philista said, ‘Yes, if you wish me to continue thinking of you as a rational man.’

  ‘Can fools ever be rational?’

  ‘I don’t think you are a fool, Govinda. But there is, as you say, a flaw. But not so much in the system as in your reasoning.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Remember, you once explained to me the notion of kala, or time, in Aryavarta. You told me that the manifested world was cyclical in nature, with interregnum of dissolution or inexistence between every cycle of creation or destruction?’

  ‘So I did… Go on.’

  ‘In that case you would also remember how I explained to you the uncanny parallels between our concepts of time – Kronos and his consort, the serpent Ananke, hold in their circular embrace the primordial egg that was the origin of the cosmos and all creation. Not unlike what your people call Hiranya-garbha – the primordial womb with a golden egg within.’

  ‘My, you’ve been paying attention,’ Govinda teased.

  She gently swatted at him. ‘What did you think I was, a dumb Yavana girl with half a brain whom you could charm with your sweet talk? Anyway, you’re getting me off the point. I meant to say; we also have another concept of time. I don’t know its equivalence in your pantheon or scripture, but we call it Kairos and it holds a sense of many things: opportunity, potential, crisis. Essentially, it thinks of time not as a temporal unit but as linked to the context and the events within which it is placed. The gods’ concept of time, some call it, but…’ she stopped as next to her she felt Govinda stiffen and then relax.

  ‘We call it Pralaya. The beginning of the end, of dissolution. It happens when Vasudeva Narayana, he who sleeps on the Eternal Ocean, wakes.’

  Philista turned on her side. She placed her hand on Govinda’s bare chest, enjoying the way it rose and fell with each breath. Her fingers traced one of the scars that ran across his body before gently threading into the smattering of fine hair. ‘Then it might be time he woke.’

  ‘It’s not a flippant event. The world as we know it is destroyed when he wakes.’

  ‘And what is wrong with that, Govinda? If the world has shown me nothing but despair and pain, I would much rather it were destroyed, if only in the hope that it might be a better…as you say…more benevolent place when it is made again. It is what I would want if I…if I were she… Ask yourself what she would say to the gods… or the State or system. When the State can no longer protect the weakest and the most powerless, it is time for change. Even if that change is Pralaya.’

  Govinda did not answer, nor did she press the issue. They lay there for a long time, the smell of their mingled sweat forming a
pleasant cocoon in the still night air. Time and space blurred in thoughtlessness, or as close to it as Govinda had ever been in years, when a loud knock, insistent and impatient, came at the outer door.

  Govinda slid out of bed and put on his clothes. He walked out of the bedchamber and into the adjoining sitting area, pausing at the doorway. ‘There is one more meaning to Pralaya, Philista. It also means revolution. And I have no stomach for that, not anymore. It’s time for you to go back to Elis. Tell Pyrrho that there is nothing more I can do. Once, my dreams of glory and progress had been not just for Aryavarta, but the whole world. I’d thought he and I, we could help each other…that our nations could work together…but when I can’t even protect those I love, what talk of dreams and glory?’

  ‘But…’ Philista began.

  Govinda did not react as he stepped out of the door, his tread heavy and resigned.

  Philista stared at the space where he had been, then threw herself back against the cushions and closed her eyes. Fighting the instinctive jab of pain she felt at the thought of what might follow, she made up her mind.

  Not once in the past years had Govinda ever locked the door to his rooms from the inside – it would not, after all, be incarceration if the prisoner could keep his holders out. Balabadra would have been well within his rights to have had the bolts removed or, even now, to enter the room as though he owned the premises, which, in fact, he did. But he waited for his brother to let him in and wave him towards a seat, which he declined. Finally, not knowing how else to delay the inevitable, he related, in as few words as possible, the news of Jayadrath’s attack on Panchali.

  In the silence that followed, Govinda crumpled, falling to his knees. His head bent to the floor, and every line in his shoulders was taut with the effort of restrained emotion. His fingers clawed into cold stone, the veins on his hands bulging, threatening to burst.

  Balabadra could not tell whether the emotion was fury or pain, for he could not see his brother’s face behind the veil of curly silver-grey hair. He decided it was best to leave him alone, and turned away. Govinda called out, ‘Agraja…’