Govinda (The Aryavarta Chronicles) (2 page)

THERE WAS NOTHING BUT THE BLINDING, BLAZING SUN. THEY
moved slowly, every step forward an overwhelming effort as weariness overcame their will to live. The brightness was beyond
bearing; all they could see was an endless golden shimmer.

The young woman smirked, bitter.
Perhaps we’re already dead, and in Indra’s heaven
.

But then there were the vultures. The intense haze made it easier to ignore the scavengers, but once in a while she spotted
a lone bird perched either on a dead tree or on some debris, watching them keenly. It took her some time to realize that it
was the same creature following them, moving as they moved.

It’s waiting for us to die
.

She calmly met the vulture’s gaze. The bird no longer inspired fear or revulsion, not since she had come to terms with all
that had happened.

We brought this upon ourselves. We deserve this for trusting that scum, those godless magicians … A curse on the head of every
Firewright!

Firewrights. The old order of scholar–seers had promised a great revolution, a time when man and his harvest would depend
on the fickle gods less and his own will more. The river’s course, they said, could be made to move, to feed the lands, turn
the most barren earth into verdant bounty. It would be, they had promised, an era of unrivalled prosperity for the whole empire
of Aryavarta. An age when humans would defy the might of the gods.

We deserve this for our blasphemy
.

The lands the two travellers crossed had once been seasonal but fertile. Now, they lay fallow and the earth had splintered
in patterns
of horror. The vast river had slowed to a trickle, the skies had turned stark and cloudless and the furrows on the land had
deepened further till it had all become the same – one endless desert, with neither a drop of water below nor a cloud above.

Tears welled up, unbidden, and as her vision blurred she stumbled. The man walking behind her rushed forward to help. ‘Princess!’

She waved him back.
Princess! Hah!
She, Satya, was the daughter of the mighty Emperor of Aryavarta, a woman destined to be a queen. And now it had come to this.
She was nothing more than a refugee. Like the rest of her people, the few who still lived, who were now trying to flee the
forsaken land that had once been their bountiful home.

The man passed her the small waterskin that hung from his shoulder. She took it with a grateful smile and drew a careful sip.
The water had to last them all the way till their destination, an insignificant village of fishermen far enough across the
desert to remain blissfully unaffected by their tragedy. It was the one place that her father believed she could be safe.
Perhaps he had hoped that under the care of his old friend she could somehow begin a new life.

The princess made a solemn promise to herself, renewing it as she had every day for what had been a short while, though it
now felt like years: She would live. And she would have her revenge. The need to destroy those who had destroyed everything
she had ever held dear – her people, her home, her very belief in human goodness – burned in the pit of her stomach. She closed
her eyes and savoured the feeling, letting it fuel her tired limbs.

That night, she and her guard made camp under the stars. They needed protection neither from the cold nor from wild beasts.
Nothing had survived the drought. The princess wrapped herself up in her tattered cloak and lay down, while the guard sat
a few feet away, keeping watch. She slept, and dreamt she was running across endless green fields, laughing and playing, while
a great river gurgled along at her side wherever she went.

The next morning she woke to see the guard keeled over. With a sigh, she went closer, knowing exactly what she would find.
He had died without a whimper. The princess suspected that he had not let a drop of water pass his lips for over three days,
saving it all for her.

You won’t be forgotten, my friend
. She picked up the dead man’s waterskin and resumed her journey.

The vulture would now be her only companion. She looked out for him eagerly, as if he were a friend. She did not dare sleep
that night and kept moving, using the stars to guide her. It felt warmer in the dark than it had during the day. Sometime
during the moonlit night, the water ran out. She could not see the vulture in the darkness, but knew he was waiting. She pulled
out her knife and resolved to walk as far as she could before using it on herself.

A little before dawn, the moon set. In the ghostly light, she heard the sudden flutter of wings and panicked. It was only
for a moment and she quickly pulled her wits together, but it was enough to make her lose her footing. She stumbled and fell,
bruising her knees on sharp pebbles. Despite her terror, she recognized the irony of the situation – she had fallen on the
dry bed of what had once been a strong, swift river. The rocky shoals that had dotted the river’s course had become dark islands
in a sea of white sand. For an instant, she imagined she heard the gurgling of water. Then darkness took her.

The princess stirred at the soothing touch of a cool, wet cloth on her lips. She heard someone calling to her, but the voice
was vague and distant. With great effort she opened her eyes and realized that it was sometime in the afternoon. A stranger
– a young man – was looking down at her with concern. He was tall and hardy, his long, matted hair was pulled back into a
coil, and he wore simple, ochre robes.

A sage!
Disgust welled up in her, and instinctively she pushed him away.

The man looked surprised, but yielded with grace. He held out his palms in a conciliatory gesture and took a few steps back
to perch on a rock.

Slowly, she sat up, her eyes on him all the while.

‘I won’t hurt you,’ he assured her in a kind, sincere voice. ‘Don’t worry.’

She did not look convinced.

He glanced around, uncertain, wondering how best to handle the young woman. At length he said, for a momentary lack of imagination,
‘I’m Parashara, the son of Shakti in the line of the great Elder Vasishta. What’s your name?’

She stared at him, incredulous. ‘A Firstborn?’

He laughed. ‘Yes, that’s what they call us. Our ancestor was the first son of the Creator, and our order has carried the title
ever since.’

‘What … what are you doing here?’

He pointed upwards. ‘I saw the vultures swoop in, one after another. I … I suppose I wanted to make sure that their quarry
was really dead … not … You know what I mean.’

‘Thank Rudra!’ the princess exclaimed. As an afterthought she added, ‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome. Now, if you’ll tell me who you are and where you are from, I can see you safely home.’

She thought quickly. ‘I’m Chief Dasha’s daughter.’

‘Dasha? Of the fishermen?’

She nodded, and waited for the inevitable question as to how she had come to be here. To her astonishment, Parashara accepted
her averred identity without demur.

He said, ‘We’re not very far from your village. But you’re tired and it’s only another two hours to sunset. I suggest you
eat such food as I have with me, and then sleep and get your strength back. We can leave in the morning.’

Though wary and suspicious, the princess agreed. She tried to stay awake, but eventually drifted off. Faint but seductive
tendrils of hope flashed through her jumbled dreams.

The next morning they set out westward. Parashara headed in a different direction from the one the princess had been taking
so far, but she followed him without question. Soon, jagged blue peaks
came up on the horizon, low but running on unbroken as far as one could see.

‘But …’ she started to protest.

‘Don’t you know the way to your own country?’ Parashara teased. ‘There’s a small path that leads up one of the cliffs. It’s
not easy, but it’ll get us out of this damned desert,’ he hissed out the last few words with venom. As if needing to vent
his anger he continued, ‘Those meddling Firewrights; heretics, the lot of them! The river Saraswati hides from Indra’s wrath
while the people of these lands pay the price …’

‘I take it you don’t like the Firewrights?’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Then we have something in common.’

Parashara’s voice was a restrained sneer. ‘Whatever have the Firewrights done to you?’

The princess gave a slow, firm shake of her head. ‘Whatever they did here, to the people of this land, it was wrong. No one
with a conscience can dispute that.’

‘In that case, I won’t.’

By afternoon, they were nearly at the base of the cliffs. Already the air was cooler, and the princess found herself laughing
with relief. Parashara guided her with familiarity, occasionally pointing out some marker which he used to find his way. They
rested for a short while at the foot of the cliffs and then began their upward climb. The narrow path, if it could be called
that, was nothing more than a precarious series of outcrops and ledges that formed a stairway of sorts. But the sheer relief
of leaving the desert behind gave the princess strength.

It was still light when they reached a tiny stream that flowed out from a small fissure in the ground, but the two decided
they had walked enough for the day. They drank of the clear, cool water to their hearts’ content. Parashara quickly doused
himself from head to toe and left the princess to bathe in private while he stepped away to pray and meditate, assuring her
he would remain within calling distance if she needed him.

By the time he returned, she had picked a few fruits and berries from the surrounding trees to make a sparse meal.

‘We should be there by noon, tomorrow,’ he said as they ate.

She did not reply, lost in thoughts of the future. The rest of their meal was quiet.

Soon after, he settled her into a thick, soft patch of grass that made for a wonderful bed and stretched himself out some
distance away. He was lost in pleasant contemplation of the night sky, gazing at the stars as they emerged one by one, when
he heard the soft rustle of leaves. He turned to see the young woman walking towards him and greeted her with a confused look.
She knelt next to him, her eyes bashful, and placed a gentle hand on his chest to stop him from getting up.

A smile played on the scholar’s lips, but he seemed to reconsider. He shook his head, his eyes shadowed by regret. ‘There’s
nothing I can offer you, my dear. Like my father before me, I’m sworn to my order, to the Firstborn, and now, after all that
has happened, the rest of my life will be devoted to just one thing – the fall of the Firewrights. There’s no room for a woman
– or a family – in my life.’

Her eyes mirrored his sadness. ‘We share a common goal and that has already tied our destinies together. Still …’

She made to stand, but Parashara reached out and grabbed her wrist. Tilting his head back, he looked up at the stars. ‘Destiny
is a dangerous master,’ he softly told her, his eyes fixed on the sky. ‘It’ll bind us beyond just this one night, for better
or worse …’ He turned to her, meeting her piercing gaze. ‘Bear me a son, conceived in the fire of our common hatred. A son
who shall destroy the Firewrights, shatter their sect and uproot it from its foundations. Let that be what we share.’

The princess nodded. Both of them remained still for a while, unsure of themselves. Then, as though they were of one mind,
they moved closer.

It was nearly noon, a few days later, when they arrived at Chief Dasha’s village on the River Yamuna. The princess burst into
tears at
the sight of the wide expanse of flowing water, the mighty currents a memory of all that she had once loved and had now lost,
not swept away by the tides of time but slowly dried and shrivelled by human ambition. She cried for what her home had once
been and could never be again, for all that was irrevocably gone.

Parashara placed a consoling arm around her. ‘Our son will avenge you, Princess.’

She looked up at him, surprised.

‘I’ve known who you are all along,’ he said. ‘But when I speak of you in future – and believe me I will – I’ll refer only
to Chief Dasha’s daughter, the beautiful fisherwoman who moved me to desire … Goodbye, my dear.’

The princess never saw Parashara again. Not when her son was born, not even when he was sent away to his father to study and
to learn of the great destiny that awaited him. She held on to no memory, nor to any regret, but an excited, uneasy hope simmered
constantly in the depths of her heart.

It would take decades, but she would have her revenge.

THE TALL MAN SHOOK HIS HEAD. HIS EYES WERE COLD, BRUTALLY
calm, as he told his companion, ‘We both know that this is how it must be. The Secret Keeper must die for another to take
his place. That is the law.’

The two men considered each other in silence, all emotions suspended in the face of inevitability. A sharp knife flashed in
the dark, its metal cutting through skin and flesh in a single, deep thrust. A bloodcurdling scream of pain ripped through
the silent night, desecrating the tranquil haze of fragrance from the night-jasmine trees that surrounded the small cluster
of huts not too far away and stunning the inhabitants out of their sleep.

The first to tear out of his modest hutment was a young scholar. Almost immediately, he saw the prone figure at the edge of
the woods. Calling to others for help, he ran towards the fallen man.

‘Oh Varuna!’ the scholar exclaimed as he took in the scene before him.

The victim was old and shrivelled with age. He wore the ochre robes of an ascetic, but they were worn and tattered. A grizzly
white beard covered most of the man’s face; his hair was matted, and messy to match. The shining blade that had pierced right
through his feeble, emaciated chest was not a long one, but then the old man was as thin as a parchment. Blood pooled on the
ground, dripping off the tip of the blade that emerged from his back.

‘Who did this to you?’ the scholar urged.

‘… doesn’t matter …’ the old man gasped. He closed his eyes and drew a pained breath, willing his body to hold on to mortal
existence
for just a little longer, till his work here was done. When he opened his eyes again, an irrepressible light shone in them.

A hum of frenzied activity slowly enveloped the two hunched figures as the other residents of the huts milled around, holding
torches and braziers. The man looked at the gathered crowd, but gave up as his vision blurred and then darkened altogether.

‘Dwaipayana. Dwaipayana, the Vyasa …’ he wheezed.

‘This is his hermitage. But the Vyasa isn’t here. I … I’m Suka, his son …’

The injured man tried to focus on the speaker, but failed. With great effort, he raised his right hand and placed it on the
scholar’s head in a gesture of blessing. ‘Tell your father,’ he said in a trembling voice, ‘for so long we have been sworn
enemies, and now there’s no time to set right the past.’

He paused and gestured feebly at the anxious crowd. At a nod from the young scholar the residents of the hermitage moved a
respectful distance away. The scholar then raised the old man’s head and placed it in his lap.

The dying man spoke again, but this time his voice was surprisingly strong. ‘We, the line of Agni Angiras, were born of Fire.
Firewrights, they call us. Ours was the charge to purify and renew Aryavarta, the land of the noble. But the fire of change
has failed and my failure haunts us all. When the Age of Kali dawns, the world as we know it will come to an end. The end
is the beginning, and the beginning is hope …’ His strength ebbed, and he descended into a rasping cough.

‘Acharya, please,’ the scholar tried to calm him. But there was more to come.

‘You’re the Vyasa’s son? His heir?’ the old man asked.

The scholar nodded.

‘You’ll be Vyasa after your father?’

Again, he nodded.

The old man laughed softly. ‘Who remains, then, to be Secret Keeper after me? But that is no longer
my
burden. There are no secrets left in my keeping, not any more. Tell your father that the
Firstborn have won … Tell him that I, Ghora Angirasa, died here. Tell him that it’s over.’

The young scholar was frantic. ‘In Varuna’s name, Acharya …’

The Firewright’s tone was suddenly consoling and his eyes held neither confusion nor uncertainty. ‘May the Fire burn bright
within you, my son. Be at peace, for I go happy, to the timeless future that awaits me. I leave Aryavarta in good hands.’
No longer was he aware of the man cradling his head, or the crowd standing around them. Instead, he gazed into the distance.
His very being glowed with peace. ‘Narayana …’ he called out. Then he closed his eyes and smiled for the last time as a mortal
being.

Birds began to twitter softly in the woods surrounding the hermitage. Soon, the sun would rise.