Govinda (The Aryavarta Chronicles) (10 page)

HASTINA, THE CAPITAL CITY OF THE KURU KINGDOM, LAY AT A
unique junction of the Great Road and the River Ganga. Large crowds moved incessantly from the Great Road in through the
city gates and out again.

Inside, a medley of smells and sounds, the endless bustle of life. Canals from the river ran through the city, the veins of
its flourishing
commerce. Small boats plied to and from the larger barges moored on the river, carrying various goods and occasionally people
to the large marketplace that had sprung up along both banks of the largest of the canals. From this point, a series of narrow,
cobbled streets branched off into various parts of the city, their haphazard pattern a stark contrast to the well-laid-out
canals. Both close to the canals and in the more distant parts of the city, the streets were packed with residents and visitors
alike, and many more people occupied the stone buildings flanking the narrow pathways. These structures were built over three,
sometimes four levels and could house close to twenty large families. Some of the slightly more affluent buildings had a small
inner courtyard with a common well. It was said that to find a piece of bare land in Hastina was impossible. Unless, of course,
one was a king or a prince. Then the crowds would easily part despite the packed streets, and heads would bow in unquestioning
obedience despite their many everyday cares.

As they did now for the tall rider. The hushed whispers that ran through the crowd, however, held more than habitual servitude.
Those who knew him spoke of him with warm respect, and those who did not stared at him in admiration. His eyes were a warm,
molten brown and his chiselled face sported a distant but pleasant expression, quite unlike the disdainful looks nobles readily
bestowed on commoners. The flaming jewel he wore on his forehead hung between his brows like a third eye. Men stopped in their
tracks, awed by his presence and manner, while women of all ages fawned over his pale, flawless complexion, which they said
shamed even the white silk of his robes.

The rider left the narrow streets and entered the vast stone courtyard that separated one part of the city from the other.
He headed straight for the huge edifice that dominated the cityscape – the golden palace of Hastina, home to the royal dynasty
of the Kurus. The palace was a low-lying structure that occupied a small part of the grounds that it was set in. Built in
a complex symmetry to house the many immediate and distant members of the royal family as well as a large part of the kingdom’s
administrative offices, it looked all the
more amazing for its garden-like surrounds. The grass underfoot was velvet-soft, a carefully maintained species that was not
native to the sometimes inhospitable climate of Kuru, but the shrubs and trees were native to the region. The flora had been
arranged to form many smaller parks – areas discreetly enclosed by shrubs and bushes to offer privacy for the many undoubtedly
pleasant uses the members of the royal household had for them.

At that moment, however, the general air of stillness around the parks and the entertainment podiums told the warrior that
the hundred princes of Hastina, their courtiers, and their lackeys had already left for the tournament at Kampilya. The city
was but a day’s ride away, but the brothers would no doubt stop to hunt or be otherwise entertained on the way, and it would
take their convoy at least three days to make the journey. Their absence did not bother the rider and, in fact, he relished
the feeling of orderliness and calm that reigned over the palace grounds. The Crown Prince, Syoddhan, was his friend, but
there were many in that lot of brothers that he thoroughly despised, for he had little patience with those who did not treat
him with the respect he deserved. He came from an old and powerful line of scholar–warriors and was one of the best fighters
in the empire. His father, Acharya Dron, had been teacher to all the Kuru princes and many nobles from other kingdoms too,
and there were many assemblies across the land in which the acharya would be shown First Honour and recognized as the best
of men unless, of course, the Vyasa Dwaipayana himself were present. Above all, he, Asvattama Bharadvaja, was not only the
son of such a man but also a king in his own right, and his realm of Northern Panchala was one of the most prosperous and
verdant in all of Aryavarta.

Asvattama left his horse in the care of an attendant and walked through the gilded halls as though he ruled the place. His
hard sandals clacked loudly against the pristine, polished stone floors. He found the sound pleasing; it affirmed the idea
that he would leave his indelible mark on the palace.
We should rule here
, he thought to himself.
Instead, Father has us remain servants with his talk of outdated morals and codes of duty and loyalty
.

In truth, Asvattama lacked no comfort that the kings of the realm had. As Dron’s son, as a man who had served the Kurus faithfully
time and again, he knew he was more than welcome to stay at the palace, attended by his own retinue of servants and soldiers
both. Still, he felt different. After all, he was one of those who had given in, one of those who had traded the sacred, secret
knowledge of his former order for gain. To live in Hastina would be too stark a reminder of his choices, and his guilt would
condemn him to live in servitude – a privileged and honourable one, no doubt, but still servitude.

Bristling slightly at the thought, Asvattama entered the opulent central wing of the palace that housed the famed assembly
hall of the Kurus as well as minor offices of the administrative machinery of the nation. It was to one such office, unremarkable
in its location and appearance, that he now made his way, walking right in without announcement.

Sanjaya stood up on seeing him. ‘Asvattama, welcome!’

Asvattama did not return the greeting. He did not need to; Sanjaya was a lowly Suta.

‘Agniveshya Angirasa is dead,’ he declared.

‘But … you … are you sure … it was him?’ Sanjaya looked far less pleased than Asvattama had expected.

‘Have I ever been wrong?’

‘No …’

‘Surely, the Vyasa would be happy to know that his enemies are destroyed?’

‘Yes. Yes, of course,’ Sanjaya tried to show enthusiasm. ‘But I must confess, I didn’t expect this – I’ve been quite worried
that a man like Agniveshya, a man who could rise to claim the title of Secret Keeper, was still at large, but now … It is
good news indeed. And I thank you for it, Asvattama.’ He paused and fixed his visitor with a piercing look, ‘This means, then,
that you are all that’s left of the Wrights, doesn’t it? I sincerely hope you don’t become the very danger we asked you to
eliminate.’

Asvattama’s voice was cold. ‘It’s true that I am of the lines of Bharadvaja and Gautama, descendants of Agni Angiras through
his
first and second sons respectively. But make no mistake, Sanjaya. I am not a Firewright. My father pledged allegiance to the
Vyasa many years ago.’ The emphasis on the last few words was unmistakeable.

Sanjaya spread his hands in what might have been an apologetic gesture, but said nothing.

Asvattama continued, ‘As for whether any other heathens remain alive, both you and the Vyasa know what the situation is. Agniveshya,
my uncle, is dead and only his children, if they’re still alive, are of any consequence. But pretty much anyone who would
know their identity is now gone. All I’ve heard was that Agniveshya’s older child was sent to Dakshinavarta to study, while
the younger one remained with Ghora. But I’ve never seen them, not even as a child; or, perhaps, I have seen them and didn’t
know who they were. My uncle used to say that both his children were as skilled as he was, that they had all the makings of
warriors. One powerful Firewright is enough to be noticed; surely we wouldn’t miss two of them? Of course, if you want to
believe every madman who rants on about the order never dying out … Well, what can I say?’ He finished with an indifferent
wave of his hand that hid nothing of his contempt.

Choosing his words with care, Sanjaya asked, ‘So you’re convinced that this is the end? Some claim that Agniveshya’s father
– Ghora’s son – is still Jarasandha’s prisoner in one of the Kashi kingdoms. It might be best to get rid of him, too.’

‘What do you think I am, Sanjaya? Your servant? Or your deputed assassin?’

‘I think you’re a man who has much to gain from the death of these men. The Vyasa, on the other hand, wants them gone because
they are a danger to Aryavarta.’

‘Surely a man of learning and nobility such as the Vyasa doesn’t place faith in childish tales of magic and sorcery? Or have
you been sharing your commoner’s superstitions with him?’ Asvattama was intentionally insulting, but Sanjaya remained unfazed.

‘The Vyasa encourages independent thought, even disagreement, in his students,’ he slickly replied. ‘I’m fortunate to not
have to serve as a sycophant to some prince or some decrepit Regent …’

‘Pity! Such a calling is exceptionally suited to those with some ability and no nobility whatsoever. You’d have done well
as a lackey to more than just the Kurus. Perhaps you could reconsider; it’s never too late to bend further than you already
have …’

Sanjaya tried to keep a rein on his temper, reminding himself that he acted on Dwaipayana’s behalf. Asvattama was an important
element in the Elder’s plans, an element that could not be compromised. He was only partly successful, and his voice held
just a trace of smugness as he said, ‘Speaking of bending – I suppose, Asvattama, you won’t vie for Panchali’s hand …’

It was a statement, not a question; an order that clearly came from Dwaipayana himself. Asvattama hesitated a moment, wanting
to disobey the Vyasa just to prove a point, but decided to settle for the satisfaction of knowing that not a single Kuru prince
could hope to win against him if he chose to compete. Panchali was nothing more than his charity to them, a scrap for stray
dogs. Keeping his thoughts to himself, he calmly replied, ‘You can assure the Vyasa that the Kurus have my support. I’m sure
one of them will make him proud.’

‘It’s your father, Acharya Dron, who will be made proud. He is, after all, their teacher and yours. A Kuru victory at the
tournament is to your father’s advantage in many ways … and yours. The resulting alliance will serve to keep Northern Panchala
an independent state. Or would you rather be Jarasandha’s vassal?’

Asvattama grimaced. There was no need for Sanjaya to drag Dron into it. ‘What more do you want?’ he rudely snapped.

Sanjaya held out his hand. ‘Not I, Asvattama. I’m merely a servitor.’

His eyes boring into the other man, Asvattama reached into his waist-sash and pulled out a small, well-wrapped bundle.

Sanjaya took it, with a cautiousness marked by reverence. ‘You made it stronger this time?’

‘Yes. Don’t break the damned bottle,’ Asvattama warned, almost gleefully. ‘A whiff of this can damage your nerves and even
a single drop of it will leave you a blathering idiot for the rest of your life. Though I doubt we’d know the difference.’

Ignoring the temptation to retort, Sanjaya said, ‘Thank you.’

His face set in its characteristic expression of cold contempt, Asvattama walked out of the room.

Alone, Sanjaya smiled to himself, revelling in the simple satisfaction of serving a greater cause. He was ready. If Govinda
Shauri or, for that matter, anyone but the right man tried to wed the girl, they would rue their decision for as long as they
lived.

THE PREPARATIONS FOR PANCHALI’S WEDDING HAD REACHED A
feverish pitch.

All of Kampilya had been brightly decorated with flowers and creepers, and the streets rang with the sounds of festivity.
Over the past few days, scores of Panchala’s subjects had been pouring in from every corner of the kingdom to witness and
celebrate the marriage of their beloved princess to the hero who would win her hand. Just when it looked like the city would
burst with revellers, the royal guests began to arrive. Convoy after convoy marched toward the city in slow ceremonial processions
designed to show off wealth and power. Gold-laden elephants, massive horse-drawn chariots and bejewelled attendants pushed
through the already-packed streets of Kampilya in a grand spectacle as the crowds looked on in wonder.

Panchali watched discreetly from a balcony in the royal palace as wheels trundled through the palace gates in a solemn, boring,
rhythm. Most of the central kingdoms used horse-drawn vehicles, the term chariot itself implying the ornately designed ceremonial
monstrosities that rattled along slowly on special occasions. Compared to the simple, unshielded military rigs that were used
in battle, the ceremonial chariots that now made their way towards the palace were covered on most sides, heavy and highly
ornamented.

Not unlike their occupants
, Panchali snidely noted as yet another bejewelled suitor descended from his vehicle and was welcomed in state by a member
of the royal family.

Her face lit up as she spotted the people she had been waiting for. A small, boisterous party made its way through the gates.
Conspicuously absent were the hosts of soldiers and war elephants. Instead, the group was escorted by a small retinue of guards
and heralds. The heralds moved aside and raised light trumpets to their lips to let out a short, merry trill that announced
the arrival of the leaders just as four blazing silver-white stallions led in a light two-wheel rig.

For a few moments Panchali indulged in fantasies of escape, of being carried to the farthest corner of the world by the fastest
horses in Aryavarta, away from this honourable prison of red stone walls, this palace where every brick and pillar seemed
to stand as a testament to the duty and gratitude she owed her father, her family. She finally managed to pull her attention
back to the present and stepped off the balcony and through the adjoining room to emerge onto a corridor. She sprinted lightly
down the corridor and up an open stairway to the huge terrace that connected the various buildings that comprised the palace.
Running across the burning mid-day stone, she took her place in a corner overlooking the royal courtyard. She was just in
time.

The rig entered the courtyard and came to a stop. Shikandin and Dhrstyadymn stood ready to welcome the Yadus on behalf of
their father, and Yuyudhana stood with them to receive his kinsmen. Balabadra dismounted and was welcomed formally by Dhrstyadymn.
Behind him came two young men, who Panchali guessed were Pradymna and Samva. The two of them politely greeted Dhrstyadymn
and Shikandin, but the men pulled them into a delighted embrace and indulged in light banter. Govinda remained at his place
at the reins, taking in the flurry of excited greetings and exchange of wishes. Quite suddenly, he looked up, as though he
had known Panchali would be there, watching. She managed a tentative smile, her eyes revealing the storm of thoughts that
swept across her mind.

In response, Govinda gave a discreet nod to say he understood.

The purple-red night sky seemed to have been coloured by Panchali’s mood. Lightning flashed in the distance, teasing with
the promise of a cooling downpour that would provide comfort from the sultry
heat. She stood at the window of her room, but it was of little avail. Soothing incense burned in the background to keep nocturnal
insects at bay. The smoke gave her a heady feeling but the fragrance was far too sharp for her to relax.

‘Mih!’ she swore in exasperation.

‘Careful, Princess. Your father will have to empty his coffers to meet your dower if you’re heard using such language,’ a
familiar voice teased from the dark doorway.

Panchali held her breath as she turned, forcing herself to remain impassive. ‘About time,’ she said. ‘What took you so long?
Such impoliteness doesn’t become the Commander of Dwaraka.’

Govinda laughed. ‘Am I to be held to task for remembering you and coming to see you, Panchali?’

‘I’ll forgive you on one condition, Govinda,’ she offered. ‘Tell me, what am I to do?’

‘About what?’

‘About my wedding, you miserable …’

Govinda sat down on a cushioned swing that hung on brass chains from the ceiling in the middle of the room. He pulled Panchali
down by her hand to sit next to him. She pointedly refused to meet his gaze, and fidgeted with the wrought brass fastenings
of the swing absent-mindedly.

‘Your father is a powerful man,’ Govinda began, ‘and this kingdom is one of the mightiest in the entire land. You may not
like it, but this makes it a rather complicated political situation. Your wedding could well determine the future of Aryavarta.
Surely that’s flattering?’

‘Don’t provoke me, Govinda. I feel like … like …’

‘An animal at a sacrifice?’

‘An animal at a village auction,’ Panchali snapped. ‘And not just any animal. I feel like a cow, because that’s what I am
supposed to do – stand there and chew cud till someone grabs me by the tail and takes me home.’

‘Wouldn’t you rather be a cow than a sacrificial bull, Princess?’

Ignoring the bait, Panchali continued, ‘Dhrstyadymn mentioned Syoddhan of the Kurus.’

‘Hmm. He’s a good man.’

Panchali felt anger flood her insides with such venom that it frightened her. She did not understand her rage, but knew she
could no longer resist it. ‘Be that as it may, I don’t want to marry him,’ she stated, feeling very much like a stubborn child.

‘Why not? He’s a very handsome fellow …’

‘Hah! More handsome than you, Govinda?’

‘No one’s more handsome than I am, Panchali!’

‘Then, I shall marry you …’

‘But I’m a bad choice. Don’t you know? The people of Dwaraka are mere cattle herders, our vagrant chiefs not the least. You’d
be treated like a cud-chewing cow. You should marry a brave warrior. Don’t you love some warrior, Panchali?’

‘Only you, Govinda. Only you.’

‘Careful, I’ll hold you to that,’ he said, beaming joyfully at their interchange.

Panchali longed to reach out, to touch him, to feel the warmth of his skin. She laughed at her own thoughts, her dark eyes
sparkling, and impulsively took his hands in a friendly grip. Govinda grinned at the sight of her small, graceful hands wrapped
around his much larger ones. She was dark-skinned, just as he was, dark and alluring as the night. But where her skin was
the sultry copper glow of a storm-clouded sunset, his was the cool, translucent obsidian of moonrise.

Slowly, he pulled his fingers out from between hers. She reacted with a look of surprise, but quickly hid it. Standing up,
she began to pace the room, trying not to let her embarrassment and disappointment show.

Govinda smiled in his characteristic way, a slight curve at the edge of his lips, as if both amused and sad at some private,
secret thought. Leaning back against the cushions with an exaggerated sigh, he said, a hint of the smile in his voice, ‘Ah,
Panchali. Have mercy on your suitors … What man could resist you, resist his desire for you? Do you know how many hearts you’d
break if some crownless cowherd were to steal you away?’

Panchali did not stop pacing as she glared at Govinda. Her
supposedly impeccable beauty meant little to her beyond the evaluation of her value as a breeding animal – eyes, ears, nose,
all properly set and working well; slender fingers on strong hands to wait tirelessly on a husband; childbearing hips that
curved wide from a small waist; and firm breasts to suckle children. She was beautiful, yes, but surely there was more to
her than just that.

Meanwhile, Govinda continued in a dramatically lovelorn tone, ‘Like Ahalya of old, the Creator has made you peerless. Truly,
your beauty knows no bounds.’

Despite herself, Panchali laughed at his choice of words. Ahalya was a woman cursed to turn into stone for her passion. Only
Govinda could speak of her with such reverence, she reflected. Putting on a coquettish expression, she petulantly complained,
‘How would I know? I’m only what you see me as – the childish, useless princess of a powerful nation. Besides,’ she said,
feigning an offended pout, ‘it would make for very dull gossip if the princess of Panchala were anything but attractive.’

Govinda laughed. ‘You foolish girl! Have you never seen yourself in a mirror that you need me to tell you this? Don’t you
have any idea how exquisite you are? Whether you like it or not men will yearn for you to the point of being driven to madness.’

‘I don’t care,’ Panchali shouted, as her patience snapped. Exhaling hard, she lowered her voice and repeated, ‘I don’t care.
I don’t want to marry any of them. I don’t love any of them. I know that’s the whim of a spoilt girl and has little merit
for reasons of state. But I just don’t care, Govinda.’

‘You don’t care, or you won’t care?’

‘Damn you! You could milk a bloody bull with your words.’

‘I
am
a cowherd, Panchali.’

‘Fine!’ she said, furious now. ‘I don’t and I won’t. Does that please you?’

‘It’s rather simple then, isn’t it?’

‘Is it?’

Govinda gave her an exaggerated look of bewilderment. ‘You don’t care, do you? So why should it bother you?’

Panchali ignored the jibe. ‘Please …’ she said. Coming closer, she knelt down on the floor before him in a gesture of earnestness
and trust. ‘Please, Govinda. I know you can.’

‘You know I can do what, Panchali?’

‘Marry me, Govinda.’

There was no levity in the suggestion, only unabashed innocence and stark, painful sincerity. Govinda studied her for some
time, gazing deep into her eyes. Then he reached out to place a hand on her head. It was an incongruent gesture, one that
held far too much tenderness to be a benediction or a patronizing pat. But his voice was cold as he told her, ‘I can’t, Panchali,
my love. You know I can’t.’

‘Why not?’ she asked him, adding, ‘and do me the courtesy of telling me plainly, Govinda. Don’t insult my intelligence or
my respect for you by bothering to lie.’

Govinda leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He took her hands gently in his and said, ‘You must know that I care
immeasurably for you. But if I married you, it would put far too much at risk … After a long time there’s a chance for stability
in the realm, a chance to create alliances of trust rather than arrangements based on political intrigue. I owe it to my people
and to those who’ve placed their trust in me to do what is best for us all.’

‘And what of me? Do you owe me nothing?’

‘Ah, Panchali. You … you’re a wondrous dream, a dream that fills me with purpose. You have fire in your soul and radiate hope
in a world where everyone is resigned to a life of defeat … You are why I make this choice, don’t you see? ‘

Panchali stared at him, incredulous. ‘Why must I be your dream, your purpose, when you won’t be mine? Do you not see … the
very hope I feel is because of you?’

‘Why must you always respond with a question?’

‘Why do you never answer mine, Govinda?’

‘Is that what you want?’

‘Is that what you’d willingly do?’

‘Will you stop?’

‘No. Will you?’

Govinda said nothing, and a strained silence followed. Finally, he spoke. ‘I can’t give you what you want, Panchali,’ he softly
confessed. ‘I can neither fulfil your dreams nor protect you from your fears …’

Panchali stood up in a single graceful move. ‘I understand,’ she said, her face taking on a polite distance. ‘Govinda Shauri
always has a plan, doesn’t he? And now his plan involves using me as though I was of no consequence at all …’

‘You amaze me. Surely you’d know by now what is of consequence to me and what isn’t?’ ‘

Panchali opened her mouth, intending to say something extremely nasty but gave up in disgust. ‘What about me?’ she simply
asked.

Govinda burst out in a short, incredulous laugh. ‘Aren’t we both guided by the same belief that a family is more important
than the individual, the village more than the family, the nation more than the village, and a federation of nations, an empire,
greater than a single nation?’

‘What does it matter to you what I believe in?’ Panchali snapped.

‘Because we have to give up certain things to stand by what we believe in. Emotions, affections – these things just get in
the way of what needs to be done. The question is, are you willing to make the sacrifice it’ll take?’

‘By Rudra,’ Panchali said in a horrified whisper, ‘what kind of a man are you?’

Govinda’s lips curved in a noncommittal gesture. ‘I’m just a calculating instrument, Panchali, an unbiased measure of the
greater good.’

‘Why would you do that? Why become this … thing, this horrible, insensitive thing?’

‘Ah, Princess, what you call inhuman is just dispassion. Without dispassion, we cease to be creatures of reason, and that’s
the worst thing we can be. But this isn’t what you want, is it? I know what goes on in that pretty little head of yours. You
want fame and glory; you want to be part of such great deeds that minstrels will sing of you for centuries to come. But I
can’t offer you that. You’d be rather unhappy with me, I think.’

Panchali regarded Govinda with an unfathomable expression.

He stood up and started to say something, but she snatched her hands out of his grasp and sharply turned away. In a cold,
regal tone she said, ‘You’d better leave. I’m to be married very soon.’ Scathingly, she added, ‘Go away, Govinda. The sight
of you disgusts me.’

Panchali willed herself not to show any emotion, even though all she wanted to do was spin around and slap Govinda hard for
rejecting her in such a callous manner. Shaking with fury and pain she began to walk away, but Govinda reached out and grabbed
her wrist. She resisted, refusing to look at him. He laughed at what he saw as petulance, and stepped closer. Panchali tried
to ignore his touch, his warm breath on her shoulder, the sensation of having him so close to her. She closed her eyes, unable
to understand whether she cherished or hated every moment that they stood this way.