Govinda (The Aryavarta Chronicles) (17 page)

THE GARRISON WAS QUITE SIMILAR TO A FEW THAT THEY HAD
passed earlier, and Panchali wondered why so many guards were stationed in such close proximity to each other. She found
her answer the moment she stepped inside.

On the left was a small stable meant for no more than two horses. An even smaller store-house and rudimentary sleeping quarters
for a few guards occupied the corner on the same side. Another room, built of the same stone as the walls, was set a little
off the middle of the enclosure. The main purpose of the garrison, however, was something Panchali had not expected at all.

A metal sluice at the far end carried water from the canal outside and fed it into a stone-lined tank about ten feet long
and as high as her shoulders. At the near end of the tank a wide, paved conduit had been set into the ground. The water fell
from the tank into the conduit, pushing past a row of four cogged wooden wheels set on a single, stationary axle that was
attached by two short wooden arms to the outer wall of the tank. The wheels rotated continuously
against a corresponding set of larger wheels set on a wood and metal beam that was held up by two wooden pillars. Unlike the
other axle, this one turned in tandem with the wheels, its ends rotating within hollowed-out recesses carved into the supporting
pillars. The recesses were abundantly coated with some sort of oily substance which, Panchali supposed, made it easier for
the rotating piece to turn on the groove. Stepping closer, she observed the last and central piece of the mechanism – the
rotating axle pushed down on a broad wooden beam nearly the girth a man, driving it with considerable force into a pit-like
receptacle, which was filled with ears of grain.

‘A pestle!’ she exclaimed, and did a quick estimation. ‘I guess it does the work of fifty men in a day?’

Asvattama nodded. ‘A pestle that rises and falls on its own, without any human intervention. Would you call that magic?’ he
asked.

Panchali studied the mechanism with wide-eyed delight. ‘I call it genius,’ she declared and looked expectantly at him.

‘We can talk while we eat,’ he politely offered.

Handing the reins of their horses to an attendant, Asvattama paused to give instructions to the soldier in charge, while Panchali
quickly washed up at a smaller tank behind the main building. The two then went inside the stone building, which comprised
just one room, with windows set into all four walls. A section of the wall near the door had been cut into recessed shelves,
on which were neatly arranged an assortment of scrolls and parchments of various sizes. Simple reed mats and cushions made
of rough linen were laid out on the floor. On a low table in the middle were an earthen jar and a few cups.

Asvattama sat on Panchali’s right, facing the wide doorway. He said, ‘I’ve sent a message to Hastina, letting Dharma know
you’re with me. I’ve said that you were out watching the sunrise when I ran into you …’

‘Thank you.’

Asvattama did not reply, waiting silently as an attendant brought in some bread and fruit. Only then did Panchali realize
how hungry she was, her appetite whetted by the early morning ride. Neither of
them spoke till the meal was done and the attendant had cleared away the remnants. Asvattama then rose and walked over to
the stone shelves. He sifted through the stacked parchment rolls till he found what he was looking for.

‘Here,’ he said, unfurling a large hand-drawn map of central Aryavarta on the table.

Panchali eagerly leaned forward and Asvattama knelt down next to her. He reached for a piece of smooth charcoal that lay on
the table and used it to mark a spot on the parchment.

‘Ahichattra,’ Panchali identified. ‘The capital of Northern Panchala.
Your
capital.’

Asvattama marked a point north of Ahichattra, along the course of the Ganga, very close to its source, and said, ‘This is
where I grew up – the hermitage of the Barghava or Brghu sages, those of the line of Rama Jamadagni. My father was a student
of Barghava Rama the Fifth.’

‘But I thought your father and mine were fellow students at your grandfather’s school.’

‘Yes, they were,’ Asvattama confirmed. ‘That hermitage is in eastern Aryavarta, in the Kosala kingdom. Many years after that,
my father came to study the science of weapons under the Brghus. We then continued to live in the Himalayan foothills and
I was brought up there.’ He paused and then added, ‘I was trained by the Firewrights.’

Panchali started, but said nothing. She simply nodded, trying hard not to betray any emotion.

Asvattama smiled to himself at her efforts and continued, ‘Coming to what happened, it’s easier to understand why we fought
against your father if you consider the geography of the region, especially the two rivers, Ganga and Yamuna. The Ganga lies
east of the Brghu hermitage and the Yamuna to the west. The courses remain parallel for a long time – both flow south and
then turn east. We met this morning at the eastern bend of the Ganga. The river flows through Panchala, past Kampilya, and
ultimately converges with the Yamuna near a city in the Kashi kingdom, to the south-east of Kampilya.’

Panchali nodded again, her eyes on Asvattama’s finger as it traced the course of the river on the map. ‘Eastern Kuru,’ he
pointed, ‘lies partly in fertile alluvial tract between the two rivers. This land has made the Kurus and the Panchalas the
most powerful kingdoms in Aryavarta for many centuries. Hastina lies on the Ganga, while the old capital, Kandavaprastha,
used to be on the Yamuna. You probably know the place better as Kandava forest.’

‘Yes,’ Panchali affirmed.

‘The Yamuna bends from its southern course to an easterly direction near Mathura in the Surasena part of the alluvial tract.
Just beyond this lies another fertile region. Where the two rivers join to run as the one mighty Ganga, is the vast feudal
kingdom of Magadha.’

Panchali’s eyes lit up as she began to see where Asvattama was going with this. ‘So,’ she ventured, ‘the lands that are in
the alluvial tract between the two rivers, or fed by the Ganga, are the most verdant and prosperous, are they not? And the
part of Northern Panchala through which the rivers run is actually mountainous terrain. I suppose it’s impossible to grow
crops there?’

‘Correct. The region south of Ahichattra has fairly fertile soil, but …’ He used the coal to mark out a few of the main tributaries
of the two rivers. ‘It is fed only by rain of a rather seasonal and whimsical nature, serving really as a catchment area.
Most of the water drains into either of the two rivers, but the tributaries, as such, don’t run through here. Between the
seasons and the ferocity of the rain, farming has always been near impossible. The solution to the problem is not a difficult
one, as you’ve seen.’ He nodded to the mill-pond outside. ‘Reservoirs can be built to trap water and there’s plenty of water
in the Ganga that can be diverted through canals. This hurts no one.’

‘So you built these canals?’

‘No, we didn’t, Panchali. I certainly lack the skill to build these machines. They’ve been there a long time. But it was prohibited
to use them. The machines, the canals, all of it was made by the Wrights of long ago. We could only hope to repair some of
the better ones, and clean up the canals and reservoirs. My father thought that given his old friendship he could convince
yours to do what was right by
the people. But Dhrupad’s hatred of anything even remotely linked to the Firewrights was beyond all reason …’

‘So this is what it was all about?’ Panchali frowned. ‘What I heard in Kampilya was that your father asked mine for half the
kingdom!’

Asvattama grunted disdainfully. ‘He did, to tell you the truth. He did say to Dhrupad that if he lacked the courage to do
what was needed for his citizens he should hand Northern Panchala over to its people, who would then determine their own future.
And, yes, my father did presume that his friendship with yours gave him the liberty to advise him on his duties. If this offends
you I …’

‘It doesn’t offend me,’ Panchali was firm. ‘It doesn’t offend me at all. Please continue.’

Asvattama drew in a breath. ‘Once Dhrupad refused, we had no choice but to seek help from the Kurus – both in terms of legitimizing
the use of these old Wright creations as well as military help. My father’s students – the Kuru princes – led the war against
Panchala. It wasn’t easy to defeat the Panchala forces, especially your brother Satrajit’s men, but it was done.’ He hesitated,
then gently added, ‘Your husband and his brothers, the five sons of Pandu, managed to take your father prisoner. Partha, I
remember was the one who … Anyway, your father was, of course, set free, but I imagine it dented his pride quite a bit. He
tried negotiating with the Kurus for many years, asking Bhisma to order my father to return Northern Panchala to him. But
it was of no use. That’s when he took to the forests and conducted a great sacrifice, after which he came back to Kampilya
with you and your brother. I hope he finds some poetic justice now in seeing you married into the same house that defeated
him …’

Panchali gritted her teeth to keep herself from cursing out loud.
Govinda must have known. He knew it, and he used me
.

‘And Shikandin?’ she asked.

Asvattama considered her yet again, wondering whether her ignorance was just pretence. He apparently decided it was not, because
he went on, ‘Your brother was a young man when this war happened. He’d have been … seventeen or eighteen, I suppose. Why,
I
was hardly your age at the time. In any case, Shikandin knew well
what the situation was in Northern Panchala. He tried hard to get Dhrupad to change his mind, but failed. Finally, he refused
to fight, hoping that his actions, his shame, would make your father relent. But all it did was bring Shikandin dishonour.
Trust me, at that young age your brother was a much more capable ruler than your father will ever be. Even today I hear that
Satrajit pretends to follow your father’s instructions, but he really takes his orders from Shikandin. Those canals out there?
Those fields, those people? But for your brother’s actions they wouldn’t be there.’

Panchali felt proud and moved at the declaration, but also a little bewildered. ‘They do you as much credit,’ she offered
sincerely.

Asvattama indulged in a cold smirk. ‘No, Mahamatra,’ he declared, with a shake of his head. ‘I’m not half as principled as
your brother. Unlike him, I found it easier to trade in my beliefs. Or, perhaps, that is the inevitable fate of those of my
line …’

‘I don’t understand …’

‘Everyone has their price, Panchali. Once, when Northern Panchala stood on the brink of imminent destruction, my uncles –
the Bhrgus – made their deal. Bhisma was trained by Barghava Rama Jamadagni, the fourth of that name, and knows of every weapon,
every astra there was. My father’s price, my price … Well, let’s just say that in return for what we now have, my father has
shared even the secret of the terrible Bramha-weapon with his best students among the Kuru princes. And I …? King I may be,
but most of my actions are the result of the Vyasa’s orders. I’m not a Wright, Panchali, but I
was
trained to use their weapons. For all the Vyasa goes on about the Firewright menace, he has no complaint with their knowledge
– as long as it remains in the hands of those
he
trusts and it serves
his
purposes.’

‘Firewright knowledge? Does that mean you – you can actually …?’

Asvattama smiled at her question. He murmured a few words and held up his right hand in a fist. Then, in a quick, smooth move,
he flicked his hand over and opened his fist. A drop-like tongue of flame burned steadily at the centre of his palm as if
he was the very source of the fire.

Panchali stared, speechless. Asvattama laughed softly. ‘So you’ve never seen this before?’

‘No,’ she said in a hushed whisper. ‘I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never … How do you do that? Or is it a secret? I mean, is
it really magic?’

‘Do you believe in magic?’

Panchali resolutely shook her head. ‘No,’ she said, ‘not in this sense of the word. The method you use may be a secret and
not easily understood, but it’s not inexplicable in reasonable terms, is it?’

‘It can be very easily explained and understood. As for magic, I’ve heard that the Wrights of the ancient past were capable
of using subtle energies, the power of their finite minds, and that Wrights before them could tap into the energy of the Universe,
the very source of the life that flows through us all. But they weren’t magicians. They were inventors, scientists who were
more interested in applying their knowledge for the benefit of others. They say that the first Angirasa was none other than
Agni, Fire himself – a composite of light and flame, knowledge and action – both are equal principles of the primeval waters.
Only by combining the two can human beings aspire to the Truth.’

Asvattama flicked his hand once more, making the flame appear, and then just as quickly turned his hand over to make it disappear.

Panchali asked, in an awed whisper, ‘Do you believe it? Do you believe that the ancient Wrights had such powers?’

‘I believe that divinity and science are not opposites,’ Asvattama replied. ‘Somewhere in the vastness beyond human comprehension
the two merge. A lot that seems supernatural to us then becomes real, but that doesn’t make it any less rational. What I do
find unbelievable is the sheer apathy of people, their blind ignorance, and their aversion to understanding why or how something
works. Over time, and as knowledge is lost, the simplest of mechanisms are transformed into magic, and either feared or revered.’

A pleasant quiet followed his words. Panchali could hear the far-away bustle of the world around them, as men and oxen tilled
and ploughed the land. Closer still, the sound of horses in the stables, the soft pounding of the pestle punctuated by the
gurgling flow of
water and the occasional call of a bird or insect, lazy and languorous in the shimmering heat of the day. The calm rhythm
of life was reassuring and Panchali felt her body instinctively relax. It only served to heighten the eddy of questions in
her mind, the whirlwind of realization and answers that in turn birthed new questions. Finally, as the debate in her mind
came again and again to rest on the one thing she still could not bring herself to accept, she said out loud, ‘It doesn’t
make sense! Why? Why would my father refuse to use the canals just because they’re built by the Firewrights? Why would any
reasonable person throw away the power to do what is right and good, for his people? Why would he …?’ she trailed off, unable
to say the words.