Govinda (The Aryavarta Chronicles) (18 page)

Asvattama understood. He said, ‘Why? Because he had no choice.’

‘No choice?’ Panchali bristled. ‘The sovereign of Panchala had no choice?’

‘Not if he is sovereign by the will of another. Have you heard of Ugrayudha?’

‘The usurper? But of course! My great-grandfather ousted him from the Panchala throne and reclaimed it.’

‘Usurper? Ugrayudha was the legitimate ruler of Panchala! He was your great-grandfather’s cousin, his uncle’s son.’

‘What!’

‘Perhaps, I’d better tell this story, too, in its entirety,’ Asvattama said. ‘It is said that when King Shantanu of the Kurus
died, King Ugrayudha of Panchala openly declared his lust for the widowed queen, Satya, and asked for her to be sent to him.
Bhisma, then a young man, took offence to this. He marched against Ugrayudha, killed him and installed your great-grandfather
on the throne. Your line owes its rule to Bhisma. Specifically, to Bhisma’s campaigns against the Firewrights.’

‘And my father would let his own people die for that reason alone? Never!’

‘It’s not so simple, Panchali. One thing led to another. After Ugrayudha’s death, his son, Kshemya, fled to Kashi. It took
many
years, but Bhisma eventually got him too. You’ve heard, haven’t you, the tale of how Bhisma nearly razed Kashi to the ground
when he brought back the three princesses of Kashi to marry Vichitravirya? Kashi – the famed stronghold of the Firewrights.
Don’t you see a pattern? These wars weren’t fought for women and their honour alone. They were wars against the Wrights. Just
as your family owes its allegiance to Bhisma, he in turn has pleadged loyalty to DwaipayanaVyasa and the Firstborn. When the
Firstborn decided to get rid of the Firewrights once and for all Bhisma gladly marched against them, and your father emptied
his country’s coffers to send men and money to support Bhisma’s campaigns. Northern Panchala paid the greatest price, for
we were left neither with money nor with the means to survive.’

Panchali frowned, looking for the least inconsistency in Asvattama’s narrative, anything she could use to escape the inevitable
conclusions that formed in her mind. She finally found one. ‘I see what you mean … but weren’t there
two
princesses of Kashi? One the mother of Dharma’s father and the other who bore King Dhritarastra?’

This time, Asvattama was visibly reluctant to go on. Eventually, he cleared his throat and said, ‘There was a third. Amba.
Like many in history, she paid a heavy price for her defiance. She refused to marry Vichitravirya and came to Panchala, seeking
justice against the man who had taken her and her sisters from Kashi by force. It was a really long time ago, though. Your
father had been king only a few years. Obviously, he turned her away …’

‘What happened to her?’

‘No one really knows. Your brother – Shikandin – is familiar enough with these stories. Perhaps you ought to ask him … A long
time ago, your father used to send him out on raids against villages suspected of harbouring Firewrights. Ask him, sometime,
what used to happen on these raids; the stories they used to tell before they were burnt alive. Ask him what horrors he’d
seen and heard of before he finally stood up to your father.’

Panchali felt sick.
The Firewrights were hunted down, relentlessly
.
In my own country. By my own kin. And, most important, at the cost of my people’s well-being
.

She finally understood, though a part of her had always known, why Shikandin held their father and even their grandfather
in quiet contempt, why he remained a defiant and stubborn rebel though he lacked nothing by way of a sense of filial duty.
Reaching out for the small urn on the table before her, she took a long drink of water, letting the cool sensation soothe
her from the inside. The canals were there, as were the water wheels, she reminded herself. A part of her wanted to believe
that the Firewrights too remained, just as their creations did. She wanted to believe that Ghora had not been the last, if
only to deny the guilt of knowing that her kind, her kin, had destroyed his people.

‘Why didn’t anyone do anything?’ she burst out, fists clenched in anger. ‘Did no one care? How could they all just watch while
such horrors came to pass? By Rudra, is there no honour left in our blood that we …’

‘We’d better leave.’ Asvattama was terse. Without waiting for Panchali’s response, he moved to the doorway and gave instructions
to prepare their horses. He turned back to her, and said, ‘I’ll wait outside. Whenever you’re ready …’

Panchali seethed in silence for a moment. Then she stood up, straightened her robes, and walked out of the small room to join
Asvattama.

He was gazing at the water-mechanism. Without looking at her, he said, softly, ‘You ought to be careful, Panchali. It’s best
you don’t speak of this conversation once you return home to Hastina – I mean never. It wouldn’t do to upset the Kurus.’

‘I meant no offence …’

As though he had not heard her, Asvattama casually went on, ‘Dharma is no less faithful to Dwaipayana than Bhisma is. He wouldn’t
tolerate the least interest in, leave alone sympathy for, the Wrights.’

‘You don’t really like the Firstborn, do you?’

‘I like the prospect of grovelling before Jarasandha even less – a fear that would have been completely unnecessary if the
Firewrights
had still been around. And such is the irony of life that our destinies are often forged by those whom we’d rather forget
– as with you and the Kurus. You don’t know what a critical role the Wrights of old have played in bringing you to Hastina.
Dwaipayana may well have orchestrated your wedding, but it is Wright-craft that defined your fate …’

‘You don’t mean …?’

Asvattama was non-committal, but his eyes said much. ‘Come,’ he instructed with an air of finality. ‘It’s time we got you
home.’

PARTHA WATCHED THE SUN AS IT DROPPED INTO THE SEA
, silenced by the magnificence that lay before him. The mountains gently sloped into a fair stretch of grassland with alternating
bogs of marsh and sand, leading ultimately to a gem-flecked stretch of blue promise. The untamed sea fell, relentless, against
a harsh, rocky coast, each defying the other in playful battle. In the middle of the foaming waters, connected by a series
of foam-covered shoals, rose a mighty rock edifice. Waves beat relentlessly against the stone, and were broken into white
foam, churned into golden spray.

From the core of the rock, a city rose, floating between the sky and sea. Towering white spires made of crystal caught the
sun, dispersing its rays in a medley of fire and colour that could be seen all the way to Gomanta, where Partha now stood.
At night, the city would reflect the soft light of the moon, like a pearl that tossed on the waves of the ocean. Sometimes,
he had heard, it would be lit by thousands of small lamps, creating a carpet of stars on the sea to rival the natural spectacle
in the sky.

Dwaraka. This was where his tormented journey had brought him.

When Partha had left Hastina two months ago he had headed eastward, wandering as his fancy took him till he had reached the
farthest nations of Aryavarta, the lands close to the city of Pragjya. Every day, though, even as he had urged his horse on,
he had looked
back with longing to the west. Finally, he had begun retracing his steps. But instead of passing through the lands of the
Panchalas and returning to Hastina, he had ridden southwards through Dasarna and Vidharbha. Crossing the fertile regions fed
by the River Charmanvati and its tributaries in the kingdom of Avanti, he had made good speed over the dry land that followed,
to Anartta. Only as he began ascending the Raivata mountains, towards the peak known as Gomanta, had he admitted to himself
where he was headed, where it was he had wanted to go since the day he had left home. Now here he was, and the dream that
was Dwaraka was right before him.

Partha was amazed, as most people were, at the first glimpse of the citadel on the sea – its size, its prosperity and, most
notably, its cheer. Colourful banners decorated the tallest towers and the gates were flung wide open in welcome. Two huge
flares burned day and night, visible across many leagues both landward and towards the sea. The flames marked the gate to
the port of Dwaraka and its adjoining harbour, which housed the Anartta and Yadu naval forces. Under the protection of this
navy, many distant foreign countries sought to trade with Aryavarta. But, at all times, watchful eyes carefully judged whether
an approaching fleet came to trade or to invade.

Despite its splendour the city was no compromise as a fort. The shoals connecting the island to the mainland had been identified
and used to construct a great bridge and three other smaller ones. The main bridge comprised many guardrooms and turrets,
all of which stored arms and flammables. Sharp, spiked gates were discreetly set into ornamented archways at different points
along the bridge, and a complex mechanism of gears and chains operated the gates from within the fort. Before the bridge reached
the main gate to the city it ran over a unique moat of weapons set into the seabed along the circumference of the island.
Iron spears and lances lay covered by the sea, their pointed heads awaiting the unsuspecting invader.

The walls around the city were made of a combination of rock and crystal, for strategic as well as aesthetic purposes – they
provided no hold for grappling hooks or ladders, particularly in case of an attack from the sea. The main gate, set into the
wall, was a veritable tunnel
and gave the impression that the wall ran over fifteen feet deep. In fact, the wall was more of a trench within which catapults
and other armaments were concealed – though the elegant walkways and coloured shrubs set on top of the wall could well mislead
enemies into thinking that the city was designed as an abode of pleasure, lacking completely in customary defences.

But few cities in Aryavarta were better prepared for war. Smaller walls of similar construction at the outer wall had been
placed at various points within the city, splitting off the lower levels that housed the mercantile and trading activities
from the higher residential and administrative zones. In case the fort was breached, it was always possible to retreat to
another level of the city and continue to defend it from there. For all these measures, though, Partha had heard, Dwaraka,
the many-gated, welcomed every living being into its fold. None was denied refuge, irrespective of his origin. In Dwaraka,
every life was worthy of honour and respect.

Spellbound, he entered the crystal city on foot, leading his horse in by the reins. He had to see Govinda. He had to understand
what sort of a man could build a nation like this one. He had to know what sort of a man could resist a woman like Panchali.

The guards at the gate watched the visitor with a practised eye, evaluating his fine horse and the mark on his shoulder left
by his bow, which lay wrapped and concealed in a bundle of cloth. Partha tried to behave as any well-intentioned newcomer
to the island city would. He did not have to try hard. Despite his weariness, he could not help but gape at the sparkling
towers, gem-studded pillars and smooth marble terraces of Dwaraka’s magnificent edifices, at its order, prosperity and splendour.
His esteem for Govinda and Balabadra grew immensely.

Not wanting to make his presence widely know, Partha did not enquire the way to Govinda’s residence, nor did he send any message.
He made his way to the largest, most magnificent-looking building on the island, convinced that it must be the palace of the
rulers of this great city. There were no guards to stop him here, nor attendants to guide him. He walked in through a gateless
archway to find himself
in a garden that housed the rarest and most spellbinding of trees and flowers. Some, he knew, had to have come from outside
Aryavarta and were heard of only in legend or read about in travellers’ accounts. He walked slowly, conscious of the gravel
crunching underfoot with every step. Only when he paused to tether his horse to a beam set in the ground for that very purpose
did he realize that the pathway was covered, not with gravel, but with an unbelievable assortment of gemstones.

Spurred on by his astonishment, Partha strode quickly to the massive marble doors of the building. Here, too, there were no
guards or attendants. He sounded the small brass gong that hung from a low pillar nearby, but there was no answer, nor was
any person to be seen. Realizing that the building had many entrances, he walked around it trying to open some of the doors.
He also tried sounding the bells that were placed on the other three sides of the building. Still there was no reply. Finally,
he saw a small wooden door, which appeared to be ajar, set almost at one corner of the edifice. Readying himself for the inevitable
explanations he would have to give for his trespass, he let himself in.

The building was no palace, no residence even, but a single hall of mammoth proportions. Its interiors were a simple, crystalline
white, and the starkness gave it a dignity that no opulence could have afforded.

‘What place is this?’ Partha whispered in wonder. ‘Who lives here?’

‘The people’s dreams live here, my friend,’ a voice answered. ‘Freedom, dignity, hope – it is home to these noble beings.
We call this place “Sudharma” – the hall of justice.’

Partha turned around to face the speaker. ‘Govinda!’

‘Yes, indeed! I was told that a rather handsome young archer had come into the city. I suspected it might be you and concluded
as much the moment I heard a strange restlessness had fallen over all the young women of Dwaraka,’ he said, coming up to grip
Partha’s arm in a gesture of greeting. ‘This is a most unexpected but very pleasant surprise, Partha.’

‘It’s good to see you too, Govinda …’

The two men stood looking at each other for a while, with all the awkwardness of acquaintances who knew little of each other.
Govinda then laughed at his own omission and warmly invited Partha home.

It came as a yet another revelation to Partha that ‘home’ was hardly the gargantuan palace he had expected. Govinda’s residence
was immaculate and spacious, but hardly a contrast to other residences in Dwaraka. The concession granted to him, if any,
was that he occupied one of the highest levels of the multi-tiered city, and every vista from the house commanded the most
spectacular views of the ocean around them.

After he had seen to his horse, Partha was led to a comfortable room. Tired, he stumbled to the bed, and just about managed
to remove his sword and put it safely aside. Lying back on the soft, comfortable sheets, he gradually grew aware of the soothing,
rhythmic splash of the sea against rocks. Lulled by the sound, Partha fell into a dreamless, wholesome sleep. He slept through
the night and most of the next day, and woke to a glorious sunset and the sounds of evening life around him. Stirring, he
forced himself out of his bed and walked over to the large window on his left, which looked out over the city. Below, people
went about their routine chores in the colourful medley that was common to large cities. Occasionally, laughter or song rose
with the breeze, a tangy sea-wind.

Eventually, Partha turned away from the window to look at the room around him, wondering about a bath and clean clothes. As
he stood, hesitant, there was a gentle knock at the door, which was then pushed open slightly. Two stunning women came in
on seeing him awake. Partha silently waited, confused. The women wore fine jewellery and clothing, far too opulent for them
to be slaves or even attendants. Courtesans, perhaps, he wondered, though they came in carrying what seemed to be silk robes.
He immediately dismissed the notion. No courtesan he knew would lift even a feather with her own hands.

‘Did you sleep well?’ the first of the two asked conversationally, as they nodded in greeting.

Partha marked that they did not bow to him deferentially, as he was accustomed to, though they lacked nothing in politeness
or courtesy. ‘I did, thank you,’ he replied, still a little curious.

The women smiled pleasantly in return and made their way about the room with simple efficiency. The first pushed open a smaller
door that Partha had not noticed, to reveal a small, sparkling bathing chamber. A pool was set into the marble floor, and
the clear water gave off steam from the hot rocks that had been dropped into it. Rose petals and fragrant oils floated invitingly
on its surface.

The second woman gestured towards the room, also pointing out that clean robes of a fine silk had been placed on an ivory
pedestal near the pool, ready for his use. Partha stepped into the chamber, wondering if the ladies meant to do more than
just guide him there.
That settles that
, he thought to himself as they did not follow him in.

Well rested and refreshed, Partha meandered downstairs in search of Govinda. He stepped into a large dining hall to find that
celebrations and jubilant merriment had already begun.

‘Aah! There he is!’ A red-eyed Balabadra cried, and rising from his seat at the head of a long wooden table came forward to
greet him.

‘Slept well, I trust?’ a gentler voice said. ‘I hope Sunanda did not wake you up too soon?’

‘No, she didn’t, Govinda,’ Partha answered, as he was guided to a seat of honour at the table. Around them, busy in their
revelry, were many young warriors, some whom he knew by face and others by reputation. All of them came up to him in ones
and twos to welcome him or to introduce themselves. Yuyudhana and Kritavarman, both of whom Partha had met on many other occasions,
promptly pulled up chairs next to his, jovially evicting the former occupants with feigned disdain.

The banquet was well underway, when Partha leaned over and asked Govinda in a low whisper, ‘Err … Forgive me for being discourteous,
but I fear that I may make a terrible mistake if I don’t clarify …’

‘Hmm?’

‘Sunanda … is she … what … who is she?’

‘Why do you ask?’ Govinda queried, his expression inscrutable.

‘I’m sorry if I offend you, but …’ Partha hesitated, choosing his words carefully, ‘it’s usually not this difficult to understand
whether such an attractive woman is sent just to wait on a guest, or …’ Irked at being placed in such a position, he brusquely
pointed out, ‘To be honest, Govinda, I’m not used to asking this. I’d have already had my way with her but for the fact that
this is your realm and that I have the greatest respect for you.’

Govinda laughed and genially slapped Partha on the back. ‘My realm …’ he softly repeated. ‘This is Dwaraka, my friend,’ he
declared with pride. ‘Here every life deserves respect. By our laws, if a man forces himself on a woman, whether she be his
wife, a courtesan, a prostitute, anyone … the penalty may even be death.’

After that exchange, Partha did not find the banquet so pleasant anymore. He made his excuses after a decent interval, claiming
that he was tired. As he strolled up to his allotted room, the pleasant sound of laughter came floating on the wind. He paused,
looking around from the open corridor. He saw a woman in the courtyard below, exchanging some joke or casual banter with some
others. It was not difficult to guess her identity, so clear was her resemblance to Balabadra.

So this was Subadra, Govinda’s beloved younger sister.

Partha’s first reaction was one of shock, even censure. No woman of Hastina’s royal household would ever be seen this way,
laughing openly, bantering with men, even if they be cousins or brothers. He continued to stare at her, enraged almost, when
she suddenly looked up at him. Without hesitation, Subadra inclined her head in a polite greeting and went back to her conversation.
Partha continued to stare for a while longer and then turned on his heel and headed into his room. Never had a woman been
so unaffected by his presence. Most of them blushed, bashfully averted their gaze, or did something brazen, if not modest.
Except, of course, Panchali – and now Subadra.